Chapter Text
Nine-year-old Dick Grayson stared at the floor. It was tile, dirty and scuffed, never replaced by a department whose last priority was fixing a floor. His mind was numb, his face expressionless. He didn't remember how he had arrived here – wherever 'here' was – or recognize the voices discussing something over his head.
Blood, he remembered the blood. And the stark contrast of white bones lying at weird angles across brown skin. But the thing he remembered most – the main thing he saw in the horrible image seared into his brain – was the lack of light in their eyes. Two pairs of eyes, one as blue as the sky on a clear day and the other a soft brown with flecks of pale green that appeared blue in bright sunlight.
Dick would never see those eyes again, he realized as the shock of what he had just witnessed faded slightly. Lifting his head, he saw a tall man with white hair on his right. There was a counter in front of him, and the man was talking to somebody on the other side. Sometimes Dick hated being short; this was one of those times.
"Orphanage…foster care…weekend…place…"
Those were the only words Dick heard, the others jumbling around in his mind as a fierce headache began pounding against his skull. The man was suddenly crouching by Dick, startling the boy.
"Do you know who you are?" the man asked, his tone gentle.
Dick nodded but didn't speak.
"Can you tell me your name?"
The words were frozen on his tongue, so he remained silent.
"Okay," the man said with a soft sigh, "do you know where you are? Why you're here?"
No, Dick didn't. Yes, but he didn't want to remember. As if he could forget. The image was burning a hole in his brain, causing a matching one to develop in his heart. Unbidden tears filled his eyes, and he saw sympathy in the eyes of the man.
"I assume that means you remember," he said quietly. "In case you don't know, you're at Police Headquarters. I'm Commissioner Gordon, and I'm going to stay with you until Mr. Sanderson gets here. He's your social worker, do you know what that means?"
Dick knew the words, but had never heard the two put together. So, he shook his head.
The commissioner hated doing this. He had done this many years ago, when he was a detective and the orphan was an eight-year-old whose parents had been shot right in front of him. Luckily that boy, Bruce Wayne, had a butler who was immediately granted guardianship. This young orphan had nobody, and now Jim Gordon had to tell him that.
How do you tell a nine-year-old that the only family he has ever known had easily released him into the custody of the Gotham City Department of Child Services? How was he going to tell the boy that the owner of the circus didn't want him because he was no longer useful? He couldn't fly on a trapeze by himself, and the other two members of The Flying Graysons were now dead.
"Well," he softly cleared his throat and tried to prepare himself for the fear he knew he would see in the boy's eyes. "Mr. Sanderson is going to take care of you, find a place for you to stay and eventually a home with a family."
Hopefully.
Commissioner Gordon left that thought unspoken. DCS was overwhelmed with cases, and there weren't enough people willing to foster children. This young boy might be stuck in an orphanage until he graduated from high school.
"I…have a family."
The whispered words were nearly inaudible, and they were the first words the boy had spoken since the commissioner had taken his hand and led him away from the terrible scene.
"Dick, I'm not sure how to explain this," Gordon said honestly. "Your parents…"
"Dead," the boy whispered, anguish filling the tone. "But…the, um, I…"
Dick trailed off because he was suddenly very confused, and a little nervous. Why wasn't he with the other members of the circus? Why was he here, with a strange man who was talking about another strange man?
Commissioner Gordon internally sighed. Frustration built in his chest, directed at the arrogant circus owner who had declared the boy useless. A nine-year-old who had grown up in that circus, moving around, never laying down roots because of that circus. The boy whose parents had just died because of the owner's unwillingness to accept security help from the GCPD.
But Dick had already figured it out.
"They…don't want me?" he asked, betrayal joining the anguish in his tone. "They…they left me?"
Honesty was always the best policy to Jim Gordon. There was no point in sugarcoating things, especially since the intelligent Dick already knew. He searched his mind for a way to phrase it gently.
"The circus owner decided to let you live here."
"Because I have nothing to give. I'm…useless because I'm not a soloist."
The quiet tone was outlined with defeat, and the feeling in the commissioner's chest changed from frustration to anger. Neither the man nor the boy noticed the dark-haired man who had just entered the lobby.
"Commissioner, I assume this is the boy?"
Jeff Sanderson held out his hand as Commissioner Gordon stood up. They shook hands, and Jeff knelt down in front of Dick.
"You get to come with me tonight," he stated, his voice firm but not harsh.
The man's tone was not full of compassion – that wasn't his strong suit – but he wasn't rude to the nine-year-old. His new charge, after all, had just lost his entire world.
Standing up, he grabbed Dick's hand, nodded to the commissioner, and led the boy out the door into the dark night. They walked across the full parking lot and, upon reaching his car, Jeff opened the back door and motioned the boy inside.
Reluctantly, nine-year-old Dick Grayson climbed in and buckled the seat belt. He stared at the tall building of Police Headquarters as Jeff started the car.
"I'm sorry to have to do this," Sanderson began, "but I don't have any room anywhere right now. The only place I can take you is the detention center, but it won't be for very long. As soon as a bed opens up somewhere else, you'll be out of there. Do you understand?"
Dick had no idea what a 'detention center' was, but the white-haired man trusted this dark-haired man, and Dick slightly trusted the white-haired man, so the boy nodded then laid his head against the back of the seat.
"We have about an hour drive, so you can take a nap if you want."
Dick nodded again, although he knew sleep wouldn't come. But, he closed his eyes anyway as the car sped away from headquarters into the darkness of the night.
Unbeknownst to any of the involved parties, a man dressed all in black was standing on the roof of that very building. Strong arms were folded across an equally strong chest, and his dark-blue eyes were narrowed in thought. The car was heading north, and there were no orphanages to the north. Perhaps the social worker was taking the young boy to his house, or already had a family lined up for tonight.
Batman didn't know why he felt the need to make sure the boy was safe. The hero had never felt this way about any other orphan he had encountered, or any other child taken into the vast labyrinth that was 'the system'.
Murder.
The thought raced to the forefront of his mind, but the man wasn't convinced. Just because they had both seen their own parents killed, didn't mean he should feel such a strong connection to the boy. Other kids' parents had been murdered – although none of them had witnessed it – and Batman had felt only sympathy. But he was drawn to this boy, Dick Grayson.
Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, the hero jumped off the building, using his cape to glide down so he landed softly on the ground. He strode around to the back and climbed into the Batmobile, resisting the strong urge to follow Jeff Sanderson's car. The boy would undoubtedly be safe in whatever house the social worker was taking him to, so finding the killer was Batman's first priority.
One hour later:
Sanderson pulled up to the front gate of the detention center and rolled down his window. The guard stepped forward, but he was used to the face of this man so he waved him through after opening the gate.
Another troubled kid, another normal night in Gotham City.
The guard was saddened by the thought, but there was nothing he could do about it so he went back to reading his book.
Dick wasn't asleep, as he had known he wouldn't be, so he was able to see the gray cement blocks of the hideous building as the car drove past toward the visitor parking lot. It looked ghostly in the sliver of light the moon had decided to bestow upon it, and the nine-year-old was suddenly nervous again. The car stopped and the social worker appeared at the door. Dick climbed out and the man grabbed his hand again.
Black bars, spaced only a few inches apart, ran vertically down the clear, glass door. Sanderson pushed what looked like a doorbell and sounded like a game show buzzer. The door opened automatically, and Jeff led the boy inside.
Weak, fluorescent beams were the only lights shining in the lobby. Sanderson stopped at the counter, dropped Dick's hand, and picked up some paperwork.
"You can sit over there," the man said, flicking his head toward a bench to their right while keeping his eyes on the form he was filling out.
Dick trudged over to the bench and sat down. Putting his elbows on his knees, he placed his head in his hands and tried to rub away the headache that was still there. A noise assaulted his ears, and he lifted his head.
"Get your fricking hands off me!"
A large boy, Dick estimated he was around fifteen, was being manhandled down the hall by a larger man. The teen's arms were somehow restrained behind his back, and he was stumbling toward a door at the other end of the hall. His face was contorted in anger, and the words coming out of his mouth were no longer appropriate for Dick's young ears.
"Dick, come here, please," Jeff lightly commanded.
Dick complied as the teenager was finally shoved through the far door, his loud voice fading as he disappeared.
"Here's the deal," Sanderson began. "The only place they have is a cell on the fourth floor. This is only going to be for a night or two, okay? I'm going to get you out of here as soon as I can."
Panic began gnawing on the edges of his brain as Dick realized that this was a jail. A jail for kids, but still a jail. He was about to be locked in a cage, like a monkey in a circus, and the man was going to leave him there!
"Please, I…I haven't done anything wrong," he whispered fearfully.
"I know, kid," the man replied with a sigh, "but I have nowhere else to put you. I'm sorry, but you'll have to deal with this for a couple of days. I'll let the guards know to watch out for you…"
Jeff was cut off by the piercing beeping of his cell phone. He looked at the number and immediately answered. Most of the talking was done on the other end, so Dick had no idea what had happened. But the man's voice was suddenly worried.
"I'll be right there!" he exclaimed, concern racing through the words.
Shoving his phone back in his pocket, Sanderson motioned toward Dick with a clear look of fear. The guard on the other side of the counter nodded.
"Whatever it is, it's obviously urgent," he said. "Just go, I'll take care of this!"
Sanderson practically ran through the door leading outside as the guard walked around the counter. He crouched in front of Dick and stared into his grief-filled eyes.
"I'll tell everyone to look out for you, kid," he stated sympathetically. "You obviously don't belong here, but I'll do my best for you."
Taking the nine-year-old by the hand, the guard led him down the long hall where the teenager had just disappeared.
Chapter 2
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, usagipoints! :)
Chapter Text
There was only one empty cell on the fourth floor. Five minutes later, it was no longer empty. Nine-year-old Dick Grayson, an orphan whose family had fallen to their deaths only three hours before, was led inside and left there, the 'clang' of the cell door shutting and locking making him shudder.
The cells were all connected, and Dick was between the cells of two teenagers. He recognized one of them, and his fear turned into full-blown panic. The fifteen-year-old was bigger than he had looked back when Dick was being checked in, and the boy on the other side was just as big.
"What's your deal, kid?" the first boy asked as he wrapped his hands around the bars connecting his cell to that of Dick.
He had dark, unkempt hair and dark-brown eyes that appeared black in the dim lights of the cell block. There was a hint of danger in those hooded eyes, and Dick couldn't pull enough air into his lungs to even try to answer.
Shrugging, the teen continued, "I'm Sam, and you should answer me. Or, I can teach you a lesson in respect, and then you answer me. Your first choice in here, and probably your last. Now, tell me your name and why you're here so you don't have to learn that lesson."
Dick was frozen, the panic reducing his thought process to ashes. He couldn't think of any words, and he was on the verge of hyperventilation.
"Kid," Sam warned dangerously, "I told you to tell me your name."
"Dick," the nine-year-old whispered, the single word full of terror.
"And you're here because…"
"I…I don't…I didn't…the guy, he said…"
Rolling his eyes at the stammered phrases, Sam said, "Let me guess, you're totally innocent. You didn't do anything wrong. This is all a mistake."
Dick nodded, and Sam burst out laughing.
"Isn't that what we all say, Chuck?" he guffawed, glancing over Dick's head at the teen in the other cell.
Chuck had fiery-red hair and eyes the color of emeralds. He chuckled derisively as Dick turned towards him.
"Yep, 'swaht e'ryone says. Ain't we all! Whadya do, Dickie-boy? Better answa or Imma beat your…"
"Chuck, shut it," Sam commanded, and the other teen closed his mouth.
"Go to sleep, boys!" a loud voice demanded from the other end of the row. "Lights out and I don't want to hear a peep from any of you!"
"Nighty-night, kid," Sam stated softly. "Good luck sleeping, Chuck over there snores."
With one last chuckle, both teens went to their respective beds and laid down. Dick was still frozen in place, standing in the middle of his tiny cell with his back to the door. His small body was trembling and thoughts were chasing each other around in his brain.
I'm going to die. I'm going to get beat up and then I'm going to die. Why am I here? What did I do? Do I deserve to be in jail?!
That last one confused him. Dick was sure he hadn't done anything wrong, but the man had put him in jail so maybe he had accidentally done something horrible.
In the cell to Dick's right, Sam grumbled something and rolled over onto his stomach. Chuck, on the left, began snoring softly. Dick decided he should probably try to get some sleep, so he slowly walked to the bed and stared down at it.
A thin excuse for a mattress with a flat pillow on one end and a folded blanket on the other. Dick picked up the blanket and immediately hoped the nights in here would be warm. The blanket was scratchy and thin, and the boy didn't want it anywhere near him. Tossing it onto the floor, Dick sat on the bed. He thought about lying down, but there were some images becoming fresh in his mind again. Instead of sleeping, Dick allowed the silent tears to slide down his cheeks, and the realization that he was all alone began cementing itself in his brain. No parents, no circus members, no friends, nobody who would even care if he was left in here forever.
"Maybe it's better to die," he whispered shakily. "Maybe…"
"Shut it, kid, or I'll do it for you in the morning," Sam growled, and Dick immediately 'shut it'.
The next morning:
Dick had stayed awake the entire night. He had closed his eyes once, but that had brought an instant nightmare, one where he watched his parents fall and crash over and over. So, he had forced his eyes to remain open by pacing in the tiny cell and even carefully slapping himself a few times.
The nine-year-old's eyes were puffy, the whites streaked with red lines. He had a large headache, from both the almost-never-ending tears and the stress of his situation. His nose was red, the result of the fabric of his shirt being swiped against it all night.
Sunlight slowly slid through the bars in the small window in each cell, and had flooded every corner by six in the morning. Looking around, Dick wondered how everyone was still asleep when the sun was so bright and the warbling sounds of awakening birds were so loud.
After another half hour, Sam and Chuck began stirring. Dick went to the wall under the window and sat down with his back against it, making himself as small as possible and hoping the teenagers had forgotten about him. Much to his dismay, they hadn't.
"Mornin' Dickie-boy," Chuck muttered as he sat up and stretched. "Ya hungry?"
Dick stayed silent, so Sam added, "Chuck asked you a question, kid. It's best that you answer; he's my number two."
"Yeah," Dick whispered, so quietly that the teens almost didn't hear him.
"Good boy," Sam said with a grin, sounding like he was congratulating a pet who had just accomplished a trick. "But you need to talk a little louder, I don't want to have to strain my ears to hear you."
"O…kay," Dick replied, his voice increasing by less than a decibel.
Shaking his head, Sam glanced at Chuck then returned his gaze to the younger boy.
"Louder," he commanded sharply.
"Okay," Dick responded in what could almost be described as a normal conversational volume.
"Thas better," Chuck said with a short laugh.
Suddenly, the cell doors swung open. The hall was now flooded with teenage boys. Dick stayed where he was, his body trembling and the tears threatening to begin anew.
"Breakfast," Sam stated as he stopped in front of Dick's cell.
The nine-year-old didn't move, so Sam shrugged, just as he had last night.
"These doors are going to close in thirty seconds, so if you want breakfast you best get yourself up."
But he was blocking the door, and Dick didn't want to be anywhere near him.
"Suit yourself."
Sam stepped back just in time for the door to swing shut, the lock clicking into place automatically.
"See ya lata, Dickie-boy," Chuck said with a feral grin. "Lookin' firwood ta yard time."
The teens ambled away and soon the hall was filled with silence. Dick slowly stood up and walked to the door of his cell. Grabbing the bars, he gently shook it. Nothing happened, and Dick sighed. He should have gone out, even though Sam had been waiting. His last meal had been yesterday at lunch, and his stomach was growling at him.
Dick stood at the door for ten minutes, his head leaning against the cold bars and his eyes closed. A guard strode down the hallway, walking right by and then stopping. Backing up, the man looked at the scene in astonishment. A young kid was locked in a cell in the teenage block.
"Hey, let's get you out of there," the guard said, startling a nearly-asleep Dick into awareness.
The man already had his keys out and was searching for the correct one. Ten seconds later, he inserted it into the lock and opened the cell door. Dick toppled forward and would have landed on his head if the guard hadn't been standing right in front of him.
"I've got you," he said, his strong arms wrapping themselves around the boy's upper back. "Why aren't you at breakfast? And why are you up here? I know everyone in my block, and I've never seen you. What's your name?"
The questions were overwhelming his tired mind. Dick couldn't find the words to answer any of them. The guard swept the boy into his arms. Instead of heading for the cafeteria, he turned around and strode toward the infirmary. It took him only five minutes to get there, and he laid Dick down on the first bed.
"What do we have here?" the nurse asked, his booming voice cheery but outlined with a tinge of resignation.
"Found him locked in, couldn't answer simple questions, and almost hit the ground when I unlocked his cell door," the guard replied. "You got this, Tank? I'm supposed to be at breakfast."
"Yeah, no problem, he's a little one, isn't he."
The nurse's voice faded at the end as he began talking to himself. The guard took his leave and Tank started to examine his newest patient.
"Get any sleep last night, kid?" he asked Dick, who was struggling to keep his eyes open. "Last time you ate, do you remember?"
The trembling of the boy's body hadn't escaped Tank's attention, and he had immediately – and correctly – assumed lack of food.
"Just going to start you on fluids, you'll be fine after half an hour or so."
Dick was practically asleep, and didn't even acknowledge the words.
"Maybe two or three hours, then," Tank murmured as he slid a needle into Dick's elbow and hooked him up to the bag full of liquid nutrients. "I'll let you sleep for a bit, but you can't stay in here all day."
Turning away, the nurse walked to the next bed, his attention shifting from the simple problem of not eating to the more complex one of a stab wound.
The Batcave:
"Where have you been, sir, I've been worried sick!"
The concerned voice of his faithful butler snapped Batman out of his thoughts as he climbed out of the Batmobile. He hadn't checked in after watching the boy, and had caused Alfred an unnecessary amount of worry.
With a sigh that Alfred understood to be an apology, the hero replied, "There was an accident – a murder – at the circus. Gotham City has a new orphan, and he saw the entire thing. His parents fell, Alfred. They fell from thirty feet in the air, and the kid watched it happen."
Regret was dripping from Batman's voice, and Alfred gasped in dismay.
"The poor child," the latter man murmured, and the former nodded in agreement.
"Dick Grayson. Acrobat, aerialist, and now orphan. He's nine, and everyone he has ever known is gone. I heard Gordon tell him that the circus owner just gave him up, and the boy is intelligent enough to understand that he's no longer useful to that man."
"Good heavens, sir!" Alfred exclaimed quietly. "His entire world…"
"Is completely gone forever," Batman interrupted heatedly, although the butler knew the anger was not directed at him.
Striding over to the Batcomputer, he put in some information and impatiently waited for an answer. It took only fifteen seconds.
"The…detention center?!" he shouted in disbelief.
"Sir, criminal activity at the detention center…"
"No, that's not it," the younger man interrupted. "Dick was taken north, and the only thing north is the detention center!"
"There are some lovely houses on the way there, sir," Alfred commented. "Perhaps he was taken to one of those families."
"Good point," Batman responded, slightly calming down. "There's no way a social worker would put a brand-new orphan into the detention center when he's done nothing wrong."
"I'm sure the social worker has emergency families lined up for just such an occasion, sir. Bruce Wayne has a meeting in an hour, so you might want to change and go upstairs."
Nodding, Batman strode to his Bat-pole and shot himself up to the Manor. Alfred glanced at the Batcomputer, then turned toward the tunnel that led to the service elevator.
"The detention center, Master Bruce?" he murmured. "Surely nobody could be that cruel, especially to a young boy who is obviously not a delinquent. However, if there's no room…no, I'm sure they have emergency families."
Chapter 3
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, UkieS! :)
Chapter Text
The detention center – one hour later:
Tank had, with some regret, woken Dick up after only half an hour. There had been a fight, and the nurse had needed the bed. A different guard had collected Dick. The man had been surprised that Dick wasn't wearing the official detention center uniform, so he had taken the boy to change before walking him back to his cell. Dick was exhausted, physically and emotionally, and had easily fallen asleep on the thin mattress. But it didn't last long.
"Whya sleepin', Dickie-boy?" Chuck yelled as he was forced into his cell.
"Shut up, Chuck, he's probably dreaming of food," Sam said with a loud laugh.
The noises woke the boy up, and he groggily opened his eyes. His bed was against the bars adjoining him to Sam's cell, and the teen suddenly slammed his hands against those bars. Dick yelped in surprise and tumbled off the bed, causing both boys to begin laughing again.
"Aincha hungry?" Chuck asked, his loud voice echoing through Dick's cell and down the entire block.
Dick shook his head, and Sam narrowed his eyes.
"Don't lie to me, kid," he snarled.
"I'm…" Dick whispered but stopped to fix his mistake. "…I'm not," he said louder. "I went to the nur…"
"Awwww, wittle Dickie-boy went ta tha nurse," Chuck said, his voice cooing as if he were talking to a baby.
"Tank," Sam muttered, turning away and folding his arms across his chest.
He was silent for several minutes, and Dick thought about climbing back on his bed and lying down. But then Sam was yelling out into the hallway, and two big guards suddenly materialized in front of his cell. There was a quiet conversation, and it made Dick nervous.
One of the guards nodded after several minutes, and the other took out his walkie-talkie. They walked away in opposite directions, and Sam turned back to Dick.
"That's taken care of," he stated with a nasty grin. "You won't be missing any more meals, understand?"
His voice was low and dangerous, and Dick backed away while nodding vigorously. The nine-year-old backed right into the knuckles of Chuck, whose fingers were wrapped around the bars adjoining their cells.
"Tha heck offa me!" the teen yelled angrily. "Gonna pay fer that, Dickie-boy."
"I'm sorry!" Dick exclaimed quietly. "I didn't mean…"
"Imma show ya sorry later," Chuck snarled, and Dick had no doubts about what that meant.
The nine-year-old went to the back wall and sat down, just as he had last night. Hoping the two teenagers would leave him alone if he ignored them, Dick pulled his legs into his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and rested his chin on his knees.
Ignoring his obvious attempt to ignore them, the older boys spent the next hour and a half regaling Dick with very detailed stories about every violent thing that had ever happened since they had been there. Sam was obviously the leader of the teens, and Chuck was just as obviously his second-in-command. And, apparently, they had no qualms about taking down 'any guy, any time'.
By the time the boys were done storytelling, Dick was terrified out of his mind and knew for sure that he was going to die in this forsaken place. He was also convinced that he deserved to be here, because according to Sam, "You only get sent here if you've done something really bad. And you're here. Criminals on the inside, normal people on the outside. There are no mistakes made in Gotham City – everyone is where they're supposed to be."
Dick, of course, had no experience with Gotham City. He had been here for exactly a week. Six days had been spent on the circus grounds, and he was spending his seventh in jail. Because he deserved it. The nine-year-old didn't know what he had done wrong, but Sam was smart and knew all about Gotham City, which meant everything he said about the place was unequivocally true.
"You know," Sam continued congenially, "you're lucky you didn't get taken down by Batman. Now there's someone you never want to meet in a dark alley. Or anywhere at all. You're lucky it was the commish that caught you, cuz Batman would've brought you here in worse condition. He doesn't like criminals, even kid ones."
"Bat…man?" the boy asked quietly.
"Yeah, big guy, dresses like a bat, goes around beating people up, hates criminals. You've never heard of him?"
"Um, I'm not from, uh, here," Dick replied.
"Not from Gotham City? How long you been here, kid?"
"Um…" Dick had to pause and think.
Everything that had happened before last night was somewhat of a blur. How long had the circus been in this place? Two weeks, a month, one day? No, longer than a day because Dick had performed several times. Trying to remember was making his head hurt, and causing still-fresh wounds in his heart to tear open.
"Maybe, um, a week or two?"
"Ya don know how long ya been here?" Chuck asked, disbelief in his voice.
"Okay, kid, what's your backstory? What did you do in one week to make it into this place?" Sam demanded.
"I don't know," Dick answered miserably. "I performed and they died and now I'm here and I don't know why and I'm scared and my head hurts and I just want to go back to the circus."
"The circus?!" both boys yelled.
"You're from a fricking circus!" Sam exclaimed, howling with laughter.
"Who died, Dickie-boy?" Chuck asked. "Whodya kill?"
"No…I didn't…they fell…"
Dick couldn't take it any longer. The tears spilled out of his eyes and he dropped his forehead onto his knees. He wasn't supposed to be here; he was supposed to be with the circus, with his parents. Sam and Chuck started a loud conversation with the other boys in the cell block, and soon everyone knew that Dick had killed someone in a circus.
"So that's why you're up here instead of down with the kiddies," Sam stated. "Murder is too rough for the little ones down there. Congratulations, kid, you're in the big leagues."
"I didn't kill anyone," Dick whispered sadly, too softly for anybody to hear him.
Questions about his alleged crime began flying into his ears: how did he do it, when did he do it, why did he do it, who had he killed, how had he been caught, had he seen Batman, and other inane questions that he couldn't answer even if he wanted to.
The cacophony of loud voices in conversation assaulted his ears until lunch time. A bell rang, cell doors swung open, and the boys all gathered around the opening of Dick's cell. Dick was trying to ignore all of it, but suddenly his left bicep was encased in a tight grip and he was being roughly yanked off the ground.
"I told you you're not missing any more meals, kid," Sam growled in Dick's ear.
Switching his grip to the younger boy's wrist, the teenager practically dragged him out of his cell and down the hall. They arrived at the cafeteria five minutes later, and Sam kept Dick right beside him in the food line. Then he led the nine-year-old to a table in the center of the room and shoved him down onto the bench.
To Dick's surprise, the food both looked and smelled good. He had assumed that prison cafeteria food would be just like it was in the one movie he had seen: gray, mushy, and inedible. But the hamburger was juicy, and the broccoli looked crisp, and the glass was sweating from the ice melting in the water.
Dick put his hands out to pick up the burger, and was immediately smacked on the side of his head. That was followed by a shoulder shoving into his chest, and he fell backwards off the bench. His head hit the floor and the world began spinning.
Sam appeared above him and snarled, "Just cuz you're here doesn't mean you get to eat."
A guard was suddenly beside him, helping him up.
"We don't start fights in the cafeteria, kid," the man growled.
Dick's eyes widened when the guard pulled the boy's arms behind his back and snapped a pair of cold handcuffs around his wrists.
"But I…"
"Shut up, kid, I know what I saw. We. Don't. Start. Fights. Got it?"
"Yes, sir," Dick responded, glancing at the smirking Sam before dropping his head.
The nine-year-old was taken outside, where his handcuffs were released. His stomach growled loudly, and the guard sighed in irritation.
"You wouldn't be feeling that way if you had just eaten lunch like a good little inmate."
Dick had no reply, so the guard strolled away. Sighing, the boy looked at his surroundings. There were two basketball courts and a few tables with benches around them. The ground was dirt, except the parts covered by weeds, and a tall cement wall encircled the entire yard.
A lone basketball sat under one of the net-less hoops, so Dick walked over and picked it up. He bounced it a couple of times and then took a shot. It 'clanged' off the rim and fell right back into his hands. Dick wasn't surprised, he had never been good at the sport, so he dropped the ball and walked to one of the tables. Miserably, he dropped onto one of the benches, wishing he was inside eating.
Twelve minutes later, the door opened and almost twenty teenage boys spilled into the yard. Sam and Chuck glanced around then made a beeline for Dick. The former teen cleared his throat loudly, and the nine-year-old looked up into a face that was dark with anger.
"Stand up," Sam commanded.
Dick didn't immediately comply, so Chuck grabbed his arms, jerked him to his feet, then wrapped one arm around his chest. The nine-year-old's arms were pinned; there was no way to escape Chuck's strong grasp.
Sam bent down to Dick's level and roughly grabbed his chin.
"When I tell you to do something, you do it," Sam said angrily, squeezing the small chin tightly before suddenly letting go.
Dick, trembling with fear again, nodded.
Chuck released the boy and Sam stood up.
"Ten jumping jacks," Sam demanded, and Dick quickly complied.
"Ten pushups."
The list of exercises continued, and Dick was becoming tired. But there was no way he was going to refuse to do something. Chuck, standing on Sam's left, was continually examining his own fist, as if making sure it was ready to fly into Dick's face at any moment.
The bell rang – yard time was over – and Dick dropped to his knees, exhausted.
"Lez go, Dickie-boy," Chuck growled, sending a sharp kick into Dick's fragile ribs.
Gasping, the nine-year-old curled into himself, but was immediately yanked to his feet.
"Ah said, lez go!" Chuck almost yelled, giving a Dick a rough shove in the back.
Wrapping an arm around his mid-section, the boy stumbled forward. Tears welled up in Dick's light-blue eyes, but he refused to allow them to fall. Chuck had made fun of him for being taken to the nurse; the nine-year-old wasn't going to allow them that satisfaction again.
Eight minutes later, all the boys were settled in their cells. Sam and Chuck ignored Dick, who had immediately gone to his "favorite" place against the back wall. Their conversation made no impact on his tired brain, so he leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.
Suddenly, a loud bell pierced the air and the cell doors swung open. Dick opened his weary eyes as the swarm of teenagers tumbled out of their cells. Without realizing it, the boy had slept for the four hours that came between the end of yard time and the beginning of dinner.
Chuck was already in front of him, giving Dick no time to react before being yanked to his feet again. Ten minutes later, they were all in the cafeteria, where the events at lunch were repeated. Dick found himself out in the yard again, his stomach cramping from the lack of food and his head pounding from the stress.
The nine-year-old licked his dry lips, but it didn't help because his entire mouth was also dry. When the door to the cafeteria opened, Dick fled to what he hoped was a good hiding spot: behind the only tree in the yard. Which, of course, made it a horrible hiding spot because there was nowhere else to hide.
"You're a fricking idiot," Sam snapped as he and Chuck materialized beside the boy. "You really think you can hide from us?"
"Um…yes? No, I meant no!" Dick whispered.
"Speak up!" Sam nearly shouted. Instantly changing his tone, he said casually, "Let's play a game. Come on out and I'll teach you how to play."
Dick didn't have a choice, Chuck had already pulled him out from the shade of the tree into the heat of the setting sun.
"We're going to play a game that will help you become stronger," Sam explained. "It doesn't really have a name, or a bunch of rules, but here are the basics. Chuck gets a turn first, then you repeat what he does. We continue until someone wins. Understand?"
"Um, how does someone win?" Dick whispered, then immediately tried again.
He repeated his question, a little louder, and Sam burst out laughing.
"When I say someone wins," he replied with a shrug of his broad shoulders.
Chuck bent his knees and raised his fists. Dick's eyes widened as he realized what 'game' they were about to play.
"I…don't want to play," he stated, his voice the loudest it had been since he had been thrown into the detention center.
"You don't have a choice, kid," Sam responded with a chuckle, "so you might want to get ready."
Chuck, without warning, threw a beefy fist toward Dick's face. Instinct kicked in, instinct honed in him since the day he had almost been kicked by a circus horse. The nine-year-old ducked, and Chuck's fist flew harmlessly over Dick's head.
Sam chuckled again then said, "Your turn."
Dick didn't know how to fight. He had never been in a fight in his life. Nothing in the circus had prepared him for this moment. But, according to Sam, he didn't have a choice.
Raising his small fists in the air, the nine-year-old took a step forward and swung his right arm as hard as he could. His hand bounced off of Chuck's abs and suddenly Dick was flat on his back. Chuck had immediately retaliated, throwing a quick uppercut into the boy's jaw, snapping Dick's head back and sending him to the ground.
The world was spinning and Dick decided he was going to throw up. Sam's double head loomed over him and some words floated out of the teenager's mouth. The nine-year-old had no idea what Sam was saying; the ocean rushing in his ears was drowning out all other sounds.
"…turn."
A word made it in, and Dick quietly groaned. Apparently, it was his turn. He slowly rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself onto his hands and knees. The world began whirling faster, and the boy heaved. There was nothing to come out – he hadn't eaten for an entire day – but he was still left gasping for air.
"Le…boy."
That was Chuck, and he sounded irritated.
Carefully, Dick pushed himself to his feet, but couldn't find the strength to stand all the way up. So, Sam helped him. Putting a large hand on the back of the nine-year-old's head, the teenager grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled. Dick gasped again, this time from the pain, but at least he was up and ready to take his turn.
There were two Chucks, and Dick didn't know which one to go for. He tried to think of a way out of the situation, but his thoughts were muddled and unhelpful. Chuck shifted his weight, and the younger boy saw a small opportunity.
The teenager was no longer in a defensive position. He was standing tall, arms folded across his chest and boredom written all over his face. The other teenagers had all gathered around, surprised that the tiny boy was standing up again and eager to watch Chuck in action.
Dick surprised them all again. He stumbled forward and went for the knees. That's how the short man from the crowd had done it to the strongman back in the circus. But Dick's strength wasn't even close to the small amount of power the short man had possessed. His shoulder gently assaulted Chuck's knee, and he bounced off the kneecap of the older boy.
Everyone burst into laughter and waited for Chuck to end the fight. But Dick had grabbed the teenager's leg and, as he fell backward after bouncing off the bone, Chuck's knee came with him. This time it was Chuck that stumbled forward, but he was too strong to let a little stumble affect him. However, Dick had just made him look like a fool by forcing him to take a step, and Chuck didn't like looking like a fool.
Dick was sitting on the ground, holding onto the teenager's leg as if his life depended on it. Chuck easily ripped his leg out of the grasp of the younger boy and used the momentum to throw a nose-shattering kick into the nine-year-old's face.
Blood shot out of Dick's nose and the pain allowed him to fall into the bliss of unconsciousness as he was slammed onto his back again. Mumbling in disappointment, the other teenagers dispersed as Sam declared Chuck the winner.
Leaving the boy lying on the ground, the two teenagers ambled away to the basketball court. Fifteen minutes later, the bell rang and everyone headed for the door. The guard who had taken Dick out of the cafeteria strode over when Dick didn't move.
"Come on, kid, time to go in."
The dried blood on the nine-year-old's broken nose didn't escape his notice, nor did the fact that the boy wasn't even conscious. But, the guard was Sam's uncle, so he really didn't care. Signing in irritation, he scooped Dick up and strode back into the detention center.
Dick was tossed back into consciousness by the movement. Slowly, he opened his eyes, only to squeeze them shut again. The weak lights in the hallway were like brilliant beams of sun to his concussed brain, and his nose felt like it was on fire.
The nine-year-old had no idea where he was, or why he was in so much pain. It all came back when he was laid on something that was as hard as a rock and he heard the 'clang' of a door. Fighting, losing, pain in his stomach and face and back and neck and…
He tried to stop thinking, because thinking hurt. But one thought burst through the confusion of his mind: he wasn't with the nurse. That thought was immediately confirmed.
The metal bars next to him shuddered when Sam slammed his hands against them.
"You lost, kid," Sam sneered. "But don't worry, we can play again tomorrow. Fun game, right?"
Dick was too exhausted in every way to even turn his head. Keeping his eyes closed, he hoped Sam would think he was dead…or something.
"Heyya, Dickie-boy, a' leas' ya tried. G'luck tamaraw."
Chuck laughed from the other side of Dick's cell. The noise made the boy shudder, and Sam glanced at the other teenager with a grin.
"I know you're awake, kid," Sam snarled. "You best open your eyes before I decide to reach through these bars and teach you a new lesson."
Dick, terrified – and getting used to the feeling – slowly forced his eyes open. The usually bright-blue circles were dulled by the pain dancing around his face and head.
"There we go, that wasn't so hard," Sam stated gently. "Now, sit up."
The teen's tone had instantly changed from calm to commanding. Dick realized he had no idea how to sit up. The fact that he had muscles in his stomach and back that would do it for him had escaped into the fuzziness of the clouds floating in his mind.
"Sit. The. Frick. Up!"
The boy didn't move, and Sam's hands were too large to follow through on his threat to reach through the bars. Muttering something unintelligible, the teenager stepped away from the bars and sat down on his bed.
"See ya at brekfist, Dickie-boy!" Chuck crowed with glee.
As he closed his eyes again, Dick's mind filled with despair. He really was going to die in this forsaken place. Get beat up, wish he was dead, then die.
Chapter 4
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, UkieS! :)
Chapter Text
Wayne Enterprises – three hours earlier:
Bruce Wayne was thinking. He fingers were steepled together and he was gazing across his office, seeing nothing except the grief-filled face of a nine-year-old boy.
The man still didn't understand why he was drawn to the newly-orphaned child. Alfred had mentioned the same thought that had entered Bruce's mind: the fact that the boy, just like Bruce, had watched his own parents die. But Bruce didn't believe that something so small, although supremely traumatizing, could make him feel such a strong connection.
The phone on his desk began ringing, startling him out of his semi-trance. Shaking his head, the millionaire picked it up. Before he could say a greeting, Alfred was talking.
"Master Bruce, the bodies of the boy's parents are being buried in the paupers' graveyard tomorrow. I know you have been thinking about him, sir, so I thought you might want to know."
"The paupers' graveyard?!" Bruce exclaimed. "Why the heck would…"
The man paused, and his butler confirmed his thought.
"The circus has left, Master Bruce. It is as if The Flying Graysons never existed. They left this morning, and the bodies of John and Mary Grayson are still in the morgue, sir. Gotham City is not going to pay for a funeral, Master Bruce."
Bruce was stunned into silence. The circus had left the bodies of their greatest act, and the very-alive boy that belonged to them, in an unknown city. 'As if the Flying Graysons never existed'.
Never existed.
The words echoed in his ears. The brilliant performers, who had graced audiences around the world with their presence, were to be forgotten in an old graveyard on the edge of Gotham City.
"I'll take care of it," Bruce suddenly stated. "They don't belong there, I'll give them a proper funeral. They have a son who will be in attendance, he shouldn't have to see them buried in a place like that."
On the other end of the phone, Alfred quietly sighed in relief. He had guessed, correctly, that the millionaire would decide to take that path, but one could never be sure with Bruce Wayne.
"I shall make the arrangements, sir," the butler responded.
"Thank you, Alfred."
"Of course, Master Bruce. Where do you want it to take place, sir?"
Silence. Alfred, used to waiting for his charge to make decisions, patiently remained quiet.
"I…" Bruce began, pausing again to re-think his decision.
"Do you think…"
The younger man didn't know how to say it. He was internally arguing with himself, but couldn't bring himself to actually say it.
Alfred, easily understanding the younger man's struggle, quietly stated, "I think your parents would be very proud of your decision, sir."
Silence again, and again the old butler waited patiently. He could practically hear the argument in the younger man's head.
"Okay," Bruce finally breathed quietly. "We'll bury them in the Wayne plot."
"I shall make the arrangements, sir," the butler repeated.
After hanging up, Bruce once again steepled his fingers and began staring at nothing. Was this really a good idea? He didn't even know the boy or his parents! Was he really going to bury them next to his own parents?
Yes.
The one word solidified his decision. Turning his attention to some paperwork on his desk, Bruce allowed the thought of a funeral to slide to the back of his mind.
The detention center – present time:
Dick didn't move when the bell rang and the doors swung open. Surprisingly, Sam and Chuck and everyone else left him alone. When the 'clang' of metal hitting metal assaulted his ears, Dick allowed his eyes to flutter open. The pain in his head was exacerbated by the fire on his face.
Dimly, Dick wondered if he should have gone to the nurse. But the guard would have taken him there if it was necessary. That's what the boy assumed, anyway. So, it must not be that bad. Painful, but not bad enough for a visit to the nurse.
The sound of whistling caused the nine-year-old to carefully lift his head. His neck protested the movement, so he laid it back on the flat excuse for a pillow. Even the one in his circus trailer had been better than this.
A guard strolled past his cell, and Dick thought about saying something. But for some reason, he couldn't open his mouth, and he was too tired to try to get some words out anyway. His stomach suddenly cramped up and Dick muttered a weak 'wait', but the man was already gone.
How many meals had he missed? Dick couldn't remember if he had eaten today, the concussion still hindering his ability to think clearly. He did, however, remember his loss. If that was the "game" they were going to play every day, the nine-year-old realized he was going to have to teach himself how to fight. Or, at the very least, learn from all his upcoming losses. Because there was no way he was going to win for a while, especially since it was Chuck he was "playing" against.
Slowly, Dick pushed himself up to sitting. He gently touched his nose and immediately regretted the action. The tiniest touch sent shockwaves through his already pounding head, so he decided to never do that again.
He was slightly happy to discover that his ribs didn't really hurt anymore. Carefully, he lifted his shirt and was not surprised to see a dark bruise covering the majority of his torso. Dick thought about touching it, but instantly tossed the thought away. If it didn't hurt, he was going to leave it alone.
Another guard walked by, and this time the soft sound of Dick's 'wait' was loud enough to be heard. The man turned toward the cell and peered in. The fading beams of the sun were slanting through the bar-covered window. Dick was swathed in shadows, but the guard could see his silhouette.
A muttered swear word flew out of his mouth, and thirty seconds later the door to Dick's cell swung open.
"What the he…"
The guard stopped himself, curbing his language for the sake of the child in front of him.
"What happened to you?!" he demanded, making Dick flinch.
"I…"
That was the only word Dick could get out, pain shooting through the bones in his face when he opened his mouth.
"You're the meal kid, aren't you? The one always starting fights in the cafeteria. I've heard about you, is that why you're here instead of in the rec hall?"
"No," Dick mumbled.
"Well, you sure look like you've been in a fight. Come on, I'll take you to see Tank."
The name burst through Dick's cloudy brain like a ray of sunshine. Tank could help, Tank would get rid of the pain. If only he could remember how to stand up.
"Let's go!" the guard impatiently demanded. "Geez, you're really out of it, aren't you?"
The man was bending over, staring into Dick's eyes and allowing some concern to float through his own.
"You're pretty small for a teen," he commented as he stood up.
Dick didn't respond, so the guard put his hands under the boy's armpits and easily lifted him off the bed. Already knowing that the boy probably wouldn't be able to hold his own weight, the man chose to carry him. Dick allowed his head to rest on the man's shoulder, and ten minutes later he was sitting on a bed in the infirmary with Tank shining a bright penlight into his eyes.
"Concussion," Tank murmured as the guard left the room, "probably a broken nose, contusions around the eyes. How does your head feel?"
Dick stared at him, thinking about what Sam and Chuck would say about him being with the nurse again.
"Is fine," the nine-year-old whispered. "'M fine."
Sighing, Tank sat down on the nearest chair.
"Who was it?" he asked quietly. "This is the second time I've seen you today. You can tell me what happened, I'm here to help."
Dick just stared at him, refusing to show what he now believed to be weakness. Only babies went to the nurse, according to Chuck. And Dick was nine!
"Okay," Tank said with another sigh, "what's your name?"
"Dick," the boy mumbled.
"Okay, Dick, here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to put some ice on those eyes, then clean and bandage your nose. Then I'm going to check your torso, because you've been favoring your right side. You probably didn't even know that, though, because you've got what I'm pretty sure is a severe concussion. How old are you, Dick?"
"Um…" Dick had to think for a moment, even though he had just told himself in his head.
"Having a hard time remembering?" Tank asked gently.
"No, nine, 'm nine."
Tank's eyes widened slightly, shock racing through them.
"If you're nine, why the heck are you in the teenage block?!" he nearly shouted.
The loud noise made Dick wince, and Tank quickly apologized.
"I have another thing to do now, Dick. After I fix you up, I'm going to talk to the warden. You shouldn't be in the teenage block. We'll get this figured out, okay?"
"'M fine," the nine-year-old repeated.
"Yeah," Tank replied as he stood up, "I can see that you're perfectly fine. Now, just lay back for me and I'll get you taken care of."
Obediently, Dick relaxed as Tank lowered him onto his back. A cold cloth was placed across his bruised eyes, making him shiver but also bringing some sweet relief to the fire still racing around his face.
But then Tank started working on Dick's nose, and the boy nearly rolled off the bed in an effort to get away from the touch.
"I know it hurts, Dick, but I have to do this. Just relax for me, okay?"
Tears of pain leaked out of his covered eyes, but he mumbled a defeated 'k' and tried to prepare himself for the agony. But then he didn't have a choice, because Tank gave him a shot and Dick slipped into oblivion.
The warden's office – 30 minutes later:
"Why is a nine-year-old in the teenage block?!" Tank demanded as he burst through the closed door of the warden's office.
Two surprised faces looked in his direction. Jeff Sanderson grimaced and the warden jumped to his feet.
"Jeff, you put him in the teenage block?!" the latter man yelled.
"It was the only space you had!" the other man retorted. "And it's more space than I had anywhere!"
"The kid took a good beating and you're saying he's not even supposed to be here?!" Tank shouted. "You're a social worker, and he's your charge!"
It wasn't a question. Tank was intelligent and had already put two and two together.
"I'm keeping him in the infirmary," the nurse stated authoritatively. "I'm not sending him back with the teenagers."
Nodding in agreement, the warden said, "As long as you have space, you keep him."
"Anyway," Jeff stated, "I'll be picking him up around nine o'clock tomorrow. The funeral is at ten."
"Funeral?!" Tank nearly roared. "He has to go to a funeral with a broken nose, bruised ribs, two black eyes, so exhausted that his body is one continuous tremble…"
Jeff swore, and Tank glared at him.
"That's what happens when you put a vulnerable child in with teenagers who actually deserve to be here!"
"Do what you can for him, Tank. We'll have him ready for you tomorrow, Jeff."
Waving his hand in dismissal, the warden dropped onto his chair. Jeff nodded, Tank glared some more, and both men left the room.
The Batcave – midnight:
Batman turned to the Batcomputer when he heard a familiar 'ding'. Striding over to the machine, he picked up the card and stared at it. Maybe something was wrong with the Batcomputer. Maybe it was tired, or something was worn through, or…anything but this.
At that very moment, Alfred entered the Batcave. Batman was standing stock still, glaring at the small, white card in his hand. The butler sighed, someone must have escaped.
"The detention center again," Batman growled. "This is the second time in two nights that it says the detention center."
"I'm sorry, sir?"
"I put his name in again, just like I did last night. Same answer as yesterday: detention center. He's in the detention center!"
"Master Batman, are you sure that a social worker would put a newly-orphaned boy in such a horrid place?"
"Yes!" Batman yelled. "If there's no space, he's not just going to leave the boy on the streets! Although that would probably be safer for him than the detention center!"
"Perhaps you should pay a visit to the center, sir," Alfred suggested wisely.
With a short nod of agreement, the Caped Crusader nearly sprinted to the Batmobile. Five minutes later it was roaring out of the Batcave, its occupant feeling concern for a child and still not understanding why.
Chapter 5
Notes:
Sorry for the loooong wait; sometimes life happens. Thanks for sticking around and being patient.
Chapter Text
The detention center:
Tank had been forced to let Dick go. There had been another fight, and all three boys were severely injured, even more so than Dick. There were only three beds, so a guard had taken the still-sleeping Dick back to his cell and laid him on the thin mattress.
Fortunately for the young boy, everyone else had also been asleep. Not even the 'clang' of the cell door closing had caused anyone to stir. For the first time in two nights, Dick slept peacefully through the night.
The next morning:
The loud sound of the bell woke him up. Dick groggily opened his eyes, only to see the angry face of Sam leaning over him.
"Breakfast, kid," he snarled. "Now, or you'll wish you were dead."
Dick already wished he was dead, but he reluctantly got to his feet.
"You look so cute with that tiny bandage on your nose," the teenager declared, "but you don't need it."
Grabbing the strips of gauze crossing the nine-year-old's nose, Sam ripped them off. Several tears of pain burst from his eyes, causing Sam to chuckle.
"Let's go, time to eat," he declared, taking Dick's arm and – again – practically dragging him to the cafeteria.
This time, Dick was allowed to eat. There was no shoving, or slapping, or accusations of starting fights. Just blissful oatmeal with chunks of something Dick didn't recognize but didn't even care.
When the door to the yard was opened, all the kids shuffled out, and Dick wondered why the teens were so subdued.
"It's your fault," Sam snapped in Dick's ear, startling him. "Chuck was off his game because of you."
For the first time, Dick noticed Chuck's absence. Unbeknownst to him, Chuck was one of the boys in the infirmary, currently unconscious and going downhill fast.
"If he dies, it's on you," Sam snarled. "The third person you've killed in three days. How does it feel to be a serial killer?"
Dick's eyes widened. He hadn't even known about the fight! How was it his fault?!
"Ready to play?" Sam snapped again, startling Dick back to the present. "This is Frankie," he motioned to the short teen next to him, "and he's your opponent. He's your size, let's see if you can actually win."
Frankie, although short, was exceptionally strong. Dick stared at him, fear again consuming his mind. The teenager's muscles had muscles, and the nine-year-old knew he was going to lose again.
"I'll even let you go first," Sam growled.
Dick was frozen in place, hoping that he would die soon so he could be freed from this horrific "game", but also hoping that he wouldn't die because he wanted to live.
Frankie grumbled impatiently and Sam shrugged. The shorter teen took that to mean he could start, so he did. His iron fist slammed into Dick's chest, forcing the breath to flee from the boy's lungs and knocking him back a full six feet. Dick landed on his back again, gasping, silently pleading for oxygen and feeling like he was never going to breathe again.
But suddenly he could, and Sam was shouting at him, and the other boys were throwing insults and accusations at him. Somehow, Dick forced himself to stand up. It was, after all, his turn. He was going to at least try to get himself out of this, because he was a Flying Grayson. Flying Graysons never quit, they never give up just because they're scared.
With that thought giving him a surge of adrenaline, Dick ran toward Frankie and threw himself as hard as he could into the teenager's chest. Frankie hadn't been expecting it, and he stumbled back. His left foot slid out from under him when he hit a slippery patch of grass, and he fell to the ground.
Dick grinned slightly, but it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Frankie was already back on his feet and advancing. The nine-year-old was relatively sure that the teen was going to use his fist again, and Dick was intelligent enough to realize that there would be some sort of movement before the small but strong fist would swing toward him.
Unlike Chuck, Frankie was intelligent. And very experienced. He internally laughed when he saw the younger boy carefully watching his fists. A fake was just part of a turn, so a fake was what the kid was going to get.
Frankie made an obvious movement, swinging his right arm behind him as if he was going to throw that fist into Dick's face. The nine-year-old stepped to his right, out of reach of Frankie's right arm, and directly into the teen's left fist. The rock-hard fist slammed into the side of Dick's head, and the younger boy dropped like a sack of potatoes, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
Sam cleared his throat, so Frankie took another turn. He went on one knee and slammed his fist onto Dick's chest over and over until he heard the loud 'crack'. Frankie stood up, but Sam cleared his throat again. After all, Dick had thrown Chuck off his game yesterday by making him stumble. The boy needed to be taught a lesson.
Frankie looked at Sam in surprise, then shrugged. It was his job to win fights, not to determine when he had won. The teen stared down at the boy for thirty seconds, trying to decide how to finish him. He had already broken a rib and made the kid's obvious concussion worse. Sam wanted more, so Frankie had to think of something more.
His mind made up, Frankie knelt down again. In one swift, efficient movement, he grabbed Dick's left wrist and twisted it, snapping the bone in half. Dick didn't stir, a testament to Frankie's left hook, so the teen dropped the arm and stood up again.
"Drag him behind that tree and you're the winner," Sam stated softly.
All the other boys were completely silent. Sam had never continued a fight after someone was knocked out. The winner was immediately declared and the loser left for a guard to find. But Frankie had continued at Sam's instruction, and now he was shoving the boy's small legs into the shadows behind the skinny tree. The crown of the tree was large, and Dick's body conveniently fit in the shade of the plethora of leafy branches.
Wayne Enterprises:
Batman had gone to the detention center last night, but had left almost as soon as he had arrived. Riddler had escaped from the State Pen, and catching that villain before he could go on a giggle-filled crime spree had taken priority.
Besides, Bruce Wayne reflected as he sat in one of the most boring meetings of his professional life, Dick probably wasn't even in the detention center. Only an idiot would put an innocent child in a place like that, and social workers usually weren't idiots.
Usually.
The word echoed in his brain, but Bruce shrugged it off. It was his paranoia, that's all it was. Batman recognized that he was often paranoid, although why he was feeling that way about an orphan still didn't make sense.
It was almost nine-thirty, and Bruce was impatient. He wanted to be at the funeral early, to…be there for the kid or something?...but this meeting was lasting longer than anticipated. Finally, the man had enough.
"I'm sorry, gentlemen, but you'll have to excuse me. I have a…"
Why was 'family event' the first thing that had come to his mind?
"…previous engagement," the millionaire finished lamely.
A chorus of "I understand" and "of course" and other farewells followed him as he strode quickly out of the room.
Jeff Sanderson had forgotten about his newest charge. The family emergency that had caused him to leave Dick with a guard at check-in had worsened. Dick, therefore, was a tiny memory in the back of Jeff's brain. And that fact that he was supposed to take the young orphan to his parents' funeral had slipped completely from his mind.
The detention center:
The warden had called Jeff's phone when the man hadn't arrived at the pre-arranged time of nine o'clock. Jeff hadn't answered, but the warden wasn't concerned. Perhaps the social worker had his phone on vibrate and didn't hear it. Perhaps he heard it but was driving and chose not to pick it up. Perhaps the funeral had been postponed. Whatever it was, the warden was certain that Jeff Sanderson knew what he was doing.
Assuming Dick was still with Tank, and not wanting to tangle with the nurse again regarding the boy, the warden pulled out a file and began filling out some paperwork. When Jeff arrived, he would send word to Tank, who would bring the boy to the lobby.
Ten o'clock came and went. Dick, still lying unconscious in the fading shade of the leafy tree, had no idea that he had just missed the funeral of his only relatives. Most of the guards didn't notice his absence, and the one who did deliberately ignored it.
Sam spent an hour staring at the two empty cells next to him, his emotions alternating between anger at the boy and concern for his second-in-command. Not a single second of the fight that had landed Chuck in the infirmary was Dick's fault, and Sam knew that. But he needed someone to blame, and the new kid made a good scapegoat.
The Wayne Family burial plot – 10:10:
Commissioner James Gordon arrived at the site of the funeral, embarrassed by his tardiness. He was surprised when he joined Bruce Wayne and the preacher, because there was no little boy or social worker.
"Bruce, this is…"
"Where is he, Jim?" Bruce interrupted quietly.
"I don't know, that's Jeff Sanderson's job. I don't even know where the boy is living right now."
The millionaire glanced around, hoping that a car would pull up, or a pair of people would be walking his way. But the area was empty except for the three of them and Alfred.
"Mr. Wayne," the preacher said apologetically, "I have another funeral at eleven, on the other side of town. It's almost a quarter after ten, do you mind if I begin?"
Yes, I mind. The child that belongs to these two people is not here, and he should be here. Why isn't he here?
Alfred discreetly cleared his throat, and Bruce looked over at him. The old man's eyes were sympathetic, but he nodded slightly. Bruce glanced at his watch – 10:14. The 'other side of town' was nearly thirty minutes away with good traffic, and traffic was rarely good.
"Jim?" Bruce questioned softly.
Commissioner Gordon nodded, so Bruce took the advice of the older men.
"Go ahead," the millionaire murmured.
The service took only ten minutes – the preacher was in a hurry and nobody knew enough about John and Mary Grayson to say anything. As the caskets were lowered into the ground, Bruce saw himself as an eight-year-old, watching his parents being laid to rest. It hadn't given him closure, but at least he had been able to say goodbye. Nine-year-old Dick Grayson had just missed that chance. The last image he would have of his parents was going to be their mangled bodies lying on the dirt of the circus floor.
"Where is he?" Bruce demanded as he climbed into the car.
"I'm sure I don't know, sir," Alfred replied. "But we do know that his social worker is Jeff Sanderson. I'm quite certain that Batman can find information on the boy's whereabouts, Master Bruce."
Seven minutes later they arrived at Wayne Manor, and four minutes after that Batman was inputting the names 'Dick Grayson' and 'Jeff Sanderson' into the Batcomputer. Thirty seconds after that, the familiar 'ding' signaled the arrival of a card.
Batman picked it up, took one glance, and angrily crumpled it into a ball. Apparently, Jeff Sanderson was an idiot.
The detention center – noon:
The bell rang for lunch and all of the teens ate quickly. Yard time began early, because everyone had finished within fifteen minutes. When the door opened, every teenager ran to the tree, where the broken body of Dick Grayson was still lying on the ground. The leafy shade had moved to the other side of the tree, and the nine-year-old's skin had a pink tint.
"Come on, boys, go play," a guard said as he strode toward the group.
The teens scattered and the man was surprised to see a small body on the ground. It was the fight-starting kid, the guard realized as he bent over the boy.
"Great," he mumbled sarcastically, "just great. He starts fights but can't finish them."
Growling, the guard carefully picked up the limp form of the nine-year-old. He saw the broken nose, the bruised eyes, and heard the slight wheeze in Dick's breathing. But, he knew Tank had taken care of those yesterday. The kid had probably just taken a good punch right before the guard had broken up the group.
The man started walking while those thoughts bounced around in his brain. Since Tank had seen all of this, maybe the kid didn't need to be taken to the infirmary. It was, after all, on the far side of the detention complex.
Deciding that the boy could just sleep it off, the guard took Dick to his small cell instead. He carefully laid the nine-year-old on the bed, then left after closing and locking the door. The kid would be fine, Tank didn't need to re-evaluate what he had already evaluated yesterday. Tank would probably be grateful, since the nurse had his hands full with yesterday's fight.
Chapter 6
Notes:
As a reminder, italics are usually used to represent thoughts to oneself, but are sometimes used for emphasis. Thanks for reading! :)
Chapter Text
The Batcave:
"Alfred," Batman growled as the butler walked into the Batcave, "Sanderson put him in the detention center. There is no doubt, because those three words popped out immediately after I input 'Jeff Sanderson' and 'Dick Grayson'."
"Good heavens, Master Batman," Alfred replied, shock in his eyes. "Why on earth would he take the boy there, sir?"
"No room," Batman instantly responded angrily. "You can't just put an orphan on the streets, so if you don't have room you throw him in the DETENTION CENTER!"
The last two words thundered around the Batcave, and were punctuated by a black-gloved fist slamming itself onto the nearest table.
"I'm going to see him," Batman declared, rage flashing in his eyes. "First he gets put in that hole and today he didn't even get to say goodbye. Then, I'm going to see Sanderson. There has to be a way to fix this."
"Might I suggest you change first, sir?" Alfred asked quietly, attempting to calm the man down. "It would be…unusual…for Batman to visit a random child in the detention center. You aren't even supposed to know he's there, sir."
"Neither is Bruce Wayne!" Batman exclaimed, not at all calming down.
"True, sir, but Bruce was at the funeral and Commissioner Gordon told him the name of the child's social worker. Perhaps Bruce decided to find out why the boy wasn't at his parents' funeral, sir, especially since you arranged and paid for it."
That fact calmed him slightly, and Batman nodded thoughtfully. After a short pause, the hero nearly sprinted to his Batpole and shot himself up to Wayne Manor. Alfred sighed as he headed for the service elevator. Hopefully, Bruce would wait for the butler to drive him there. It would be, again, unusual for the millionaire to arrive at the detention center without being driven there in the limo. But the man was impulsive, so Alfred increased his speed.
The detention center – forty minutes later:
Dick was awake, and had been for about half an hour. The rest of the teens being herded into their cells had woken him up. Surprisingly, Sam had left him alone. The block was almost completely silent – one of their own was now in the morgue instead of the infirmary.
The pain in his body convinced the nine-year-old to stay still. He remembered why his nose hurt, but had no idea why it was so hard to breathe, nor could he figure out why and how someone was stabbing a sharp knife into his wrist. Especially since there was nobody in his cell with him. Also, why wouldn't it move when he told it to? But attempting to move it made the pain worse, so he had stopped trying after only a few times.
A guard, the same one who had taken Dick to his cell earlier, suddenly appeared outside his cell door.
"You have a visitor," the man said, "and I'm here to collect you. Pull yourself together, I'll give you two minutes before opening this door."
Sam jumped to his feet, his eyes dark with anger. In a low, dangerous voice he promised, "If you say anything about the games we play here, I will make sure your visitor knows you are responsible for Chuck's…" Sam swallowed hard in an attempt to hide his emotions before continuing, "…death."
Dick's bruised eyes widened. Chuck was dead? When had that happened? And how had he, Dick, been involved? And why didn't he remember?
Another guard appeared and had a quiet conversation with the first one, who then left. Sam, who had turned around when the second guard had stopped by Dick's cell, went over to the bars to talk to him.
"Make him feel guilty so he won't talk," the teen whispered to his uncle. "Whoever is visiting him needs to think he's the one causing all the trouble."
"Course, Sammy," the man answered quietly. "Doncha worry, I got you."
Turning to Dick, the guard opened the cell door and motioned for him to come out. Dick hadn't moved; he was still lying motionless on the bed.
"Come on, kid, can't keep your visitor waiting, let's go!"
Dick tried, he really did, but he couldn't find the muscles needed to sit up, much less stand and walk to the visitation room. With a giant sigh, the guard walked in and helped the nine-year-old to his feet. Dick whimpered as pain raced around his body, but a quiet 'shut up' from Sam silenced him.
The guard led him down the hall, and they stopped in front of a door marked 'Visitors'. Before the man opened the door, he leaned down so his face was even with that of Dick.
"If I hear you say a single word against Sam, or anybody else, I'm going to tell Mr. Wayne the entire story. How you start fights, and bully other kids, and killed Chuck. The entire thing, understand?"
Dick was confused. Who was 'Mr. Wayne' and why would he come visit a random nine-year-old in the detention center? And why was this guard going to tell 'Mr. Wayne' a bunch of lies if Dick said anything bad about anybody? And why would 'Mr. Wayne' even care?
"Do you understand?!" the guard whispered fiercely, and Dick immediately nodded.
With a satisfied grin, the man opened the door and gave Dick a gentle nudge.
"Here he is, Mr. Wayne," the guard said before turning around and leaving the room.
'Mr. Wayne' was sitting at one of the three tables in the small room. He had dark, well-styled hair, and dark-blue eyes clouded with some emotion that Dick didn't recognize. His suit looked both expensive and brand-new, and there were no wrinkles or signs of wear. This man, Dick concluded correctly, was wealthy. He was also a complete stranger; Dick was sure he had never seen him before. Why was this wealthy stranger here to visit Dick?
Bruce Wayne had been sitting at a short, round table in a small room for almost twenty minutes. Why was it taking so long to find the boy? He was in jail, it wasn't like he could run away, or find a place to hide.
The door on the far side of the room opened, and Dick Grayson was forced to enter. What Dick considered a gentle nudge was a far cry from what Bruce considered to be a shove.
"Here he is, Mr. Wayne," the guard said.
Bruce stared at the young orphan in disbelief. This pale, bruised, and trembling child bore no resemblance to the elegant circus performer Bruce had seen only two nights ago. His dark hair obviously hadn't been combed recently, and the always-observant Batman noticed the dirt clinging onto most of the strands. His arms were tinted, as if he had spent too much time in the sun. His uniform – and why on earth was he wearing a detention center uniform? – was wrinkled and dirty. But the worst thing was the boy's face.
His nose had obviously been broken, and there were purple bruises encircling each eye. Those light-blue eyes that had sparkled with joy and excitement the first time Bruce had seen them were dim, and devoid of emotion.
Dick was standing by the wall, and Bruce noticed him favoring his right side, although he doubted the boy was doing it on purpose. His quiet breathing had a hitch, and his left wrist was hanging at an odd angle. Bruce knew exactly how a wrist would come to look like that because Batman had used the technique more than once: a swift twist from a strong arm.
Anger – no, rage – began filling the man's body. Batman yelled at Bruce to demand details from the boy, to interrogate him until he found out what had happened. But Bruce was smart enough to know that yelling at Dick would hurt the situation more than help it. He needed to stay calm, try to get the nine-year-old to trust him. Dick needed to tell the story when he was ready, not when a furious hero commanded him to do so.
Where those calming realizations had come from, Bruce didn't know. Batman was still demanding answers, but Bruce shut the hero down. For now, anyway.
"Hi, Dick," Bruce said, watching the boy's face carefully. "I'm Bruce Wayne. Do you want to come sit down?"
The nine-year-old's eyes, Bruce realized, were very expressive. Several different emotions raced through them, completely replacing the nothingness that had been there only eight seconds ago. Fear was the most prominent one, but that was understandable. Dick had become an orphan less than three days ago, had been thrown into a place where no innocent child should ever be, and now a complete stranger was talking to him.
Dick didn't move or speak, but Bruce was willing to patiently wait. He probably looked very intimidating, and Dick was only nine. Patience wasn't his strong suit, but for some reason Bruce felt comfortable waiting for this child.
After five full minutes of silence, Dick whispered, "Why are you here?"
The question didn't surprise Bruce. It was one he had asked himself seventeen times on the way to the detention center from Wayne Manor. Why did he feel such a strong urge to protect the boy?
Sighing, he replied honestly, "I was at the funeral, and wondered why you weren't there. So, I came to check on you."
The bruised eyes widened and filled with grief. Tears collected on the lower lids and Dick didn't try to stop them from spilling over and sliding down his cheeks.
"The fu…it was to…today?" he asked, his tone full of both shock and sorrow. "Why didn't…why wasn't…why didn't he take me? The man, why didn't he take me?!"
The last question was louder than the others, although it was barely more than a whisper. And Bruce had no answer, because he hadn't taken the time to try to find Jeff Sanderson, because he had been too busy looking for Dick so he could check on him. And it was a very good thing he had come to check on the boy.
"I'm sorry, Dick," the man replied gently, "I don't know where Mr. Sanderson is, and I don't know why he didn't take you to the funeral."
"I…I didn't get to say goodbye," Dick stammered softly, dropping his head as small sobs began shaking his equally-small body.
Bruce was torn. For some reason, he wanted to jump up, stride over, and pick the boy up without caring if his suit jacket ended up having tear stains on it. But, he was a stranger with no connection to the nine-year-old. He was also Batman – the unemotional vigilante who wasn't supposed to care about a kid like this.
Silence filled the room again, and again Bruce waited. Unlike the last one, this silence was awkward to him. Bruce didn't know how to react to Dick's emotions, and Dick was lost in his own mind.
"Um, do you want to come sit down?" Bruce finally asked.
Without looking up, Dick trudged to the table and slowly sat down. Bruce didn't miss the hiss of pain that escaped, nor did he fail to notice the clump of hair that was matted to the boy's head by what was obviously dried blood.
"Dick, what happened?"
The nine-year-old glanced up then immediately dropped his eyes again.
"I understand if you don't want to tell me, I'm just a stranger and we've never met, but I also want to help you. And I can't do that if you won't tell me what happened."
This boy Sam likes to play games and I've lost both times I've played.
That's what Dick wanted to say, and then he wanted to dive into the details, but the guard's words and Sam's promise rang in his ears. This man, Bruce, probably wouldn't care anyway. He was a rich guy, and Dick was a nobody orphan.
"I can wait until you're ready, kiddo."
Bruce didn't know why a nickname had popped out, but he chose to focus on Dick's body language instead of trying to figure that out.
Dick was slumping into himself, and his forehead was almost touching the top of the table. Silent sobs were wracking his slim body again, and Bruce wanted to gather him into his arms. But why did Bruce Wayne want to hold a crying, nine-year-old boy?
"It's me," Dick finally stated, his voice so quiet that Bruce just barely caught the words.
"What's you?" the man asked.
"I'm the…I did something horrible at the circus, so they put me in here. It's where I deserve to be, that's what he said."
"Who?" Bruce demanded loudly, startling the boy. "Who said you deserve to be here? Was it Sanderson? That son of…"
"I'm sorry!"
Dick's exclamation was quiet, but it made Bruce realize that he was standing up and looming over the boy. The nine-year-old's tear-soaked eyes were wide with fear and his right arm was wrapped around his torso. Bruce quickly sat down and hoped his outburst wouldn't cause Dick to withdraw into himself.
"You don't need to apologize," Bruce said, his voice somehow calm. "I should not have been so…demonstrative. Whatever you want to tell me, go ahead."
"I told you that I did something horrible."
There was a long pause, and it was becoming very difficult for Bruce to patiently wait.
"What did you do?" the man asked when he couldn't take the silence any longer.
"I…don't know," Dick responded with a heavy sigh. "But my parents died – you know that, you went to their funeral, I'm such an idiot."
Another pause. Bruce was about to tell him that he wasn't an idiot, but Dick continued so the man shut his mouth.
"I must have done some…something. He said Gotham City doesn't make mistakes, and this is where I'm supposed to be because I did something horrible."
Under the table, Bruce Wayne clenched his hands into fists. If Sanderson was telling Dick Grayson that he deserved to be here, the man was going to pay a heavy price very soon.
"And then…yesterday, or maybe today? Um, I…I killed…"
Dick shut his mouth, closed his eyes, and burst into silent sobs again. Bruce was taken aback. There was no way this nine-year-old had killed anyone, so why had he started to confess that?
"I doubt you killed anyone, Dick," Bruce responded, his voice even. "Let's forget that for now. You're in pretty bad shape. Can you tell me what happened?"
"I start the fights, it's always me," the boy immediately whispered, opening his eyes again. "Nobody else does anything, I start everything, it's always my fault."
Bruce shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and re-opened them.
"We'll talk about whose fault it is later, but first I need to know how hurt you are."
"Why?" Dick asked, lifting his head and searching the dark-blue eyes of the man across from him.
"Because if you're hurt, I want to try to help you fix it."
All of it.
That thought, and all the emotions that came with it, was shoved away into the back of Bruce's mind. Something to ponder on later, for now he just needed to know how hurt Dick was physically.
"I'm fine."
A short laugh of derision burst out of the man's mouth, and the boy glared at him then dropped his eyes.
"You are not fine, kiddo," Bruce declared.
And why had he used that nickname again?
"Let's play a game," he suggested.
Kids like games, right?
"I'll explain, you stop me when I say something wrong."
"I…don't like games."
The words were nearly inaudible but the terror in the young voice was unmistakable. Bruce decided to continue the conversation but mentally filed away the short sentence. Another thing to ponder later.
"You've been here for two days."
No response, because Dick didn't know how long he had been here.
"You haven't been able to sleep much."
A slight nod of the head.
"You hit your head on the sidewalk."
Dick looked up at him quizzically, then dropped his head again.
"Okay, you didn't hit your head on the sidewalk. Why, then, is there dried blood on the side of your head?"
Lifting his right hand, Dick gingerly touched the side of his head, wincing when he hit the tender spot.
"I, uh, got hit in the head."
Bruce opened his mouth, but Dick quickly continued.
"With a basketball," he clarified.
"Hmmmm, okay," Bruce responded. "You ran into a tree and your nose hit the trunk hard enough to break it."
"To break the trunk?" Dick replied, glancing up with a tiny smirk.
Bruce allowed a slight grin to race across his face.
"Your nose," the man clarified, much as the boy had only a few seconds before. "But I don't think that's correct. It was a foot, you threw your face at somebody's foot."
"Chuck."
The word sounded more like a breath, and Dick slapped his right hand across his mouth.
"Okay, so somebody doesn't want you to talk," Bruce observed.
The door suddenly opened and the guard poked his head in.
"Five minutes, Mr. Wayne."
Dick lifted his head, and Bruce didn't miss the obvious dread in the light-blue eyes.
"I'm fine, okay?" he said, his voice trembling. "Thanks for checking on me, and for going to…"
Dick paused, shook his head, then grimaced and grabbed it with his right hand. He couldn't remember the word he wanted, and it was both frustrating and embarrassing.
"Um, for going to their…um, their, uh…"
"Funeral," Bruce supplied.
"Yeah," Dick whispered. "For that. But I'm fine, okay? I deserve to be here, and I…"
Bruce held up his hand, and the boy flinched.
"You don't deserve to be here. What happened at the circus was not your fault, and there is no reason you should even be in here."
"But…"
"No, there is no but. You. Should. Not. Be. Here."
"Sam said Gotham City doesn't make mistakes. He's lived here his whole life, like fifteen years or something! He knows a lot more about it than I do."
Sam.
Another thing to file away, but at least he had a name. Two names, if he had interpreted the word 'chuck' correctly.
"Dick, am I older than the other kids you've met in here?"
"Of course!" Dick exclaimed quietly. "You're not a kid!"
"I have also lived here my entire life, which is longer than any of the kids here. Gotham City does make mistakes, and this is one of them. This is not where you are supposed to be, you don't deserve to be here, you've done nothing wrong."
The door opened again and the guard walked to the table.
"Time to go, kid."
"I'm coming back, Dick," Bruce stated as the guard wrapped his beefy hand around the slim arm of the nine-year-old and pulled him up to standing. "I'll talk to you soon."
"I'm fine, Mr. Wayne," Dick replied, his voice strong but his tone outlined with fear.
The guard turned him around and pulled him through the door, slamming it shut behind them. Bruce, while evaluating all the other physical injuries – and some of the mental – had completely forgotten about the wrist that had been hiding under the table. Deciding to have a chat with whomever ran the infirmary, the man stood up and quickly strode out of the room.
Chapter 7
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, leafbracer, XPsypher, AmaraRae, and Mooloodoom!
Chapter Text
Twenty-five minutes later:
Bruce had been in the lobby for what seemed like hours. The guard at the desk had called the infirmary and talked to the nurse. Apparently, the man had explained, Tank had his hands full but would be happy to talk to Mr. Wayne when he had a chance. If the millionaire didn't mind waiting, of course.
The image of Dick Grayson's battered face wouldn't leave his mind, so Bruce had said he had no problem with waiting. Two questions reverberated around his brain. First, did the nurse, Tank, know about this? Second, if he did, why hadn't he done anything?
"Mr. Wayne?"
Bruce was pulled out of his thoughts by an authoritative voice. He raised his head and instantly understood why the man was called 'Tank'. He was around six feet and well-built with what was all muscle. How had this man come to be the nurse in the infirmary in the detention center?
Tank introduced himself and held out his hand as Bruce stood up. The millionaire reciprocated, and the nurse asked if he wanted to talk here in or his office.
"It's a sensitive matter, so your office is preferable."
Nodding, Tank led the way through a few locked doors and up a set of stairs. They walked through the infirmary and Bruce raised his eyebrows. There were three beds: two occupied by injured teenagers, and the third stripped of bedding and surrounded by blood.
"Looks like you've had a busy day," Bruce commented as they entered Tank's office and he closed the door.
With a sigh, the nurse replied, "You have no idea how busy these last two days have been. A beating, a stabbing, and two fights – the second leaving those two out there in near-comas and the other participant dead."
"Wow," Bruce said quietly, realizing that maybe Tank hadn't had time to see a boy with 'just' a broken nose and wrist.
"But, I'm sure you're not here to talk about that, Mr. Wayne. How can I help you?"
"You can call me Bruce, and you're correct. I'm here about a younger boy, Dick Grayson."
Sighing again, Tank stated, "Bruce, you probably know that I'm not supposed to give out specific medical information."
"I've already seen him, Tank. It's not like you'll be telling me anything I don't know."
Shaking his head, the nurse replied, "I can't tell you, but if you want you can tell me."
"Okay," the millionaire acquiesced. "Feel free to stop me anytime. He has injured ribs on the right side, a broken nose, bruises around both eyes, and probably hasn't had a shower or combed his hair since he arrived here."
Tank was unintentionally confirming everything by nodding, so Bruce continued.
"His eyes are clear, but he has a probable concussion, he's both pale and slightly sunburned, he has a broken wrist…"
"What?!" Tank nearly shouted, standing up so quickly that he knocked his chair over.
"To which part?" Bruce asked.
Picking up his chair and sitting down again, Tank angrily responded, "I've seen everything except the broken wrist and the sunburn. I fixed up his nose, he's pale because he's tired and – I don't know this for sure, though – hungry. His bottom two ribs on the right side are bruised, but his breathing was okay so I didn't wrap them up."
Holding up his hand, Bruce replied, "When did you see him?"
"Yesterday, twice. The first time he couldn't even keep his eyes open and he was shaking from, probably, lack of food or water. The second time is when I iced his eyes and patched up his nose."
"Why didn't you bandage his nose?" Bruce asked, a tinge of anger outlining his voice.
With a look of surprise, Tank replied, "I did."
"I just saw him, Tank. He has no bandages, a hitch in his breathing, a broken left wrist, and I think his ribs are more than bruised."
"Dang it," Tank muttered. Slamming his hands on the table, he nearly shouted, "I haven't seen him today! If it's that bad, why didn't the fricking guards bring him in?! I need to talk to the warden," he stated, his voice slightly calmer. "Again."
"Again?" Bruce asked curiously.
"Dick came to me from the fourth floor. I may have yelled at the warden and, conveniently, the boy's social worker yesterday evening."
"What wrong with the fourth floor?" Bruce inquired, narrowing his eyes.
"It's the teenage block!" Tank exclaimed. "Dick's social worker put a nine-year-old in the teenage block!"
This time it was Bruce who knocked his chair over when he jumped to his feet.
"Why the heck did he put him there?!"
"He said it was the only cell we had." Standing up, Tank asked, "Do you want to come with me to talk to the warden? You've got a lot of clout in this city, it might help."
Bruce was already at the door and turning the handle.
"That's exactly where I'm headed," he responded, more than a tinge of anger in his voice now.
"I just have one question," Tank said as they strode through the infirmary. "I'm assuming you have no connection to the boy. So, why are you here?"
"I paid for his parents' funeral…"
"Plural," Tank muttered, then added sarcastically, "fantastic."
With a quizzical glance at the nurse, Bruce continued, "He wasn't there, so I came to check on him."
Tank stopped and his expression darkened.
"Did you just say he wasn't there?" the man asked, his even voice belying his anger.
"Unless he was hiding behind a tree," Bruce responded.
"Son of a fricking biscuit eater," Tank growled. "Sanderson said he was going to pick him up at nine. Are you telling me the guy forgot to take a new orphan to his parents' funeral?!"
Bruce's anger now bordered on fury, and he was struggling to keep Batman away.
"I don't know if he forgot or just didn't want to go," he growled right back. "I just know that Dick wasn't there."
Both men knew the anger being displayed wasn't directed at each other, but they were also having trouble continuing to have a discussion without it turning into a shouting match.
Taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm down, Tank suggested, "Let's save the yelling for the warden. We're almost there, the next right and two doors down."
Nodding, Bruce motioned for the nurse to lead the way. It took the men only two minutes to reach the outer office, where the warden's secretary was on the phone.
Tank strode right past her, intending to burst through the door like he had before. To his consternation, it was locked.
The secretary, who had just hung up the phone, stated, "The warden has left for the day. He has a family appointment."
"Is there a way to get a boy out of this place without the warden here?!" Bruce demanded, making no attempt to hide his anger.
"No, sir," the woman replied. "You need his signature."
Turning away from the secretary, Bruce almost punched the wall in frustration. Quickly catching himself, he turned back and growled, "What time will he get here tomorrow morning."
"I don't like your tone, sir," the woman replied. "He will get here when he arrives. Good day to you both."
Turning her attention to the computer in front of her, the secretary began typing.
"Lissa, we've got a nine-year-old in the teenage block and he's not doing so well," Tank said placatingly.
"Tank," she sighed, "you know there is nothing I can do about it. Keep him with you, if you're so worried about him."
"I will, as soon as I can get a bed free. Yesterday was…bad, Lissa, it was really bad."
"I heard one died," she said quietly.
This time it was Tank who sighed as he dropped onto the nearest chair.
"Chuck," he replied softly.
Bruce, who had begun pacing, stopped.
"Did you say 'Chuck'?" he asked. "When I talked to Dick, he said something about Chuck."
Tank shook his head and said, "Then he probably played a game with Chuck. We need guards who care, Lissa, you have to tell the warden."
I don't like games.
Dick's words echoed in Bruce's head.
"What kind of game?" the millionaire asked. "Tank," he demanded when the man didn't immediately answer, "what kind of game?"
"It's like a fight club, from what I can gather," the nurse replied. "The boys take turns until someone can't get up. I've tried talking to the warden…"
"So have I," Lissa interrupted.
Shooting her a skeptical glance, Tank turned to Bruce and continued, "The warden says he has competent guards who can take care of things. He said I should do my job and let the guards do their jobs. The guards aren't the ones who get to handle the results of the 'games', though. I can see that they aren't doing their jobs."
Bruce was surprised, but realized that he shouldn't be. They were juvenile delinquents in what was basically jail. Of course there would be a fight club.
"An innocent nine-year-old wouldn't just decide to participate," Bruce commented.
"Enter Chuck," Tank responded, "and probably Sam."
"Dick mentioned his name, also. You have that empty bed now, Tank. You can keep him there until his social worker finds another situation."
"Yeah, as long as that bed stays empty. I need to see him again anyway, take care of that wrist and everything else that's wrong with him."
"I'm coming back tomorrow," Bruce declared.
Shrugging, Tank replied, "Fine with me, but I don't run the place."
"Thank you for your help, Tank," the millionaire said, holding out his hand.
Tank stood up, reciprocated, and they want their separate ways.
Dick, meanwhile, was back in his cell. He had a new bruise on his left cheek, courtesy of Sam's uncle. The guard had seen the boy slap his hand across his own mouth, which he knew meant the kid had said something bad about somebody. So, he had done his own slap across Dick's face.
Unfortunately, Sam was also in Dick's cell. His uncle had told him what had happened, and Sam needed to know exactly what the nine-year-old had told Bruce Wayne. So, he was currently holding Dick against the back wall, his left arm across the boy's throat and his right hand planted on the wall for leverage.
Black spots were dancing through Dick's vision. Sam's head was blurry, and Dick could feel his airway closing. He had known he was going to die in here, and now he knew how. Dick had tried to struggle at first, but that had earned him a punch in the solar plexus.
"Answer me you fricking idiot," Sam demanded. "What did you tell him?!"
Dick couldn't answer even if he wanted to. He couldn't pull in enough air to form words, and he didn't even remember what he had said.
Sam suddenly released Dick's throat, and the latter boy dropped to his hands and knees, gasping for air.
"What. Did. You. Say?!"
"I…I don't…'mem'er."
It was a struggle to get the words out through the pain in both his throat and his ribs.
"Don't lie to me, kid," Sam snarled. "What did you tell him?!"
"That, uh, everything, um, fine?"
Dick really couldn't remember, so he was saying what he assumed Sam wanted to hear.
"You're asking me what you said," the teenager commented.
The younger boy remained silent, so Sam threw a kick into Dick's ribs. It folded Dick in half, and now he was lying on his side with his arms wrapped around his torso and his eyes squeezed shut.
Sam knelt down and rolled Dick onto his back. Grabbing the left wrist, the teen squeezed and waited for a reaction. He wasn't disappointed.
Dick's eyes flew open and he screamed. Sam slapped his hand over the nine-year-old's mouth, just as Dick had done to himself earlier, effectively cutting off the piercing sound.
"This is what happens when you disobey," the teenager snapped. "And now you get to stay here for the rest of the day. I'll let everyone know that you talked, and they will all want to play the game with you tomorrow. And I'm going to make sure that every bed in the sick bay is full until I decide you have learned your lesson. Tank's not getting his hands on you for a while. So, you just lay here and think about what you've done."
Dropping the boy's arm, Sam stood up and moved to Dick's bed. He snatched the flat pillow and shoved it through the bars connecting his cell to that of Dick. Then he grabbed the thin mattress and took it with him to the cell door.
Sam's uncle was just outside the locked door, watching the exchange. The guard unlocked the door, and Sam strode through. Dick listened to the familiar 'clang' and 'click', then closed his eyes and followed a purple dragon into a black ocean.
Chapter 8
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, leafbracer, AmaraRae, and usagipoints! :)
Chapter Text
Three hours later:
The bell rang for dinner, and the screeching sound awakened Dick. Sam glared at the boy as he walked by, and the nine-year-old didn't even try to get up. The hunger cramp in his stomach was nothing compared to the rest of the pain in his young body.
Maybe Tank would come for him. Tank was nice, and Tank knew about his nose. Maybe he would come to make sure his nose was healing. Was it healing? Dick wasn't sure, because it still felt like it was on fire. So did his wrist, but the boy couldn't remember why.
A face popped into his mind, replacing the image of Tank. It was the visitor – Mr. Wayne? – and Dick wondered, again, why he had come to visit a nobody orphan. The man had seemed concerned about something, but Dick couldn't wrap his head around the idea that maybe that concern involved him.
Mr. Wayne had said he was going to come back tomorrow. How far away, the nine-year-old wondered, was tomorrow? But, the man probably wouldn't come back. Dick had told the man that all the trouble, all his injuries, were his own fault. Why would Mr. Wayne come see a criminal again?
With a quiet sigh, Dick closed his eyes again. Attempting to fall asleep seemed like a better idea than increasing his headache by thinking.
Tank was livid. The guards had brought another boy into the infirmary only fifteen minutes after the nurse had finished cleaning the area where Chuck had taken his last breath. That meant all three beds were occupied again, which meant that Tank couldn't bring Dick in for a check-up.
Now it was dinner time, and the teenagers were probably making sure that the younger boy had another chance to "play" the game. Tank picked up the phone in his office and dialed the number belonging to the warden's secretary.
"Lissa," he said before she could even say a word, "I really need your help down here."
"What can I do for you, Tank?" the woman replied with a sigh. "I hope this isn't about that boy again. Like I told you before, there's nothing I can do. At least, not until tomorrow when the warden gets here. Besides, you have a bed now that the teen died earlier, right? Keep the kid with you, like we talked about. It's five, Tank, I'm about to leave."
Tank was stunned at her indifference. A nine-year-old was in trouble and she was talking about leaving!
"Tank?"
Startled out of his thoughts, Tank did the only thing he could think of: begged.
"Please, Lissa, there has to be something you can do! I have another kid now, I don't have an empty bed, but you have to get him out of there! He's going to die, Lissa!"
"I doubt it's that bad, Tank," Lissa replied, rolling her eyes. "Just because you had one death today, doesn't mean you'll have another. I know it must be very traumatizing…"
"You have no idea," Tank practically snarled. "The boy is not going to survive the week if he stays in the teenage block. Please, we have to help him. Come on, Lissa, please!"
"I'm sorry, Tank, but rules are rules. And the rules say that nobody can leave without the warden's signature."
"Let him sleep in your office," the nurse suggested. "Just for tonight."
"Are you kidding?!" Lissa almost shouted. "Do you know how much trouble I would be in if someone found an inmate sleeping in my office?!"
"And how much trouble would you be in if a kid who shouldn't even be in here dies?" Tank asked quietly.
"Keeping kids from dying is your job, Tank," the woman snapped before slamming the phone down.
Tank listened to the dial tone in disbelief. Why wasn't anybody else willing to help a nine-year-old orphan who wasn't even supposed to be here?
Wayne Manor:
"You should have seen him, Alfred," Bruce growled. "His face, his wrist, his ribs, his…his eyes, Alfred. His eyes are so expressive, and I saw so many emotions there. Sorrow, fear – no, terror – confusion, and sometimes nothing at all!"
"Did you talk to the warden, Master Bruce?" Alfred replied, shocked at the report the younger man was giving him.
"He was gone for the day," Bruce snapped, although the butler knew the anger wasn't directed at him. "And, apparently, nothing can be done without his signature."
"What, sir, are you planning on doing with the boy once you get him out?"
Bruce hadn't thought about that, he had just wanted to take the nine-year-old away from the dangerous situation.
"I…don't know," he admitted.
There was a long pause as both men thought this over.
"Technically, Mr. Sanderson has custody, Master Bruce," Alfred finally commented.
"And he's not doing anything about this!" Bruce yelled in response.
"Perhaps, sir, you should call him. You did, after all, pay for the funeral young Master Grayson missed because of Mr. Sanderson."
Bruce nodded and strode to his study. Three times he dialed the social worker's number, and three times it went straight to voicemail. Frustrated, the millionaire decided to leave a message.
"Mr. Sanderson," he growled, then paused, realizing that Bruce Wayne wouldn't be growling at a social worker.
Clearing his throat, he continued, "This is Bruce Wayne. I was at the funeral of Dick Grayson's parents this morning, and I didn't see him. I was just wondering why he wasn't there. I know I don't have a connection to the boy, but I did pay for the funeral and hoped he would have been able to attend. If you would call me back, I would appreciate it."
Bruce couldn't go any further without the anger coming through in his tone, so he slammed the phone down. To his surprise, it instantly began ringing. Snatching it up again, he answered, "Bruce Wayne."
"Hello, Mr. Wayne? This is Marjorie, Mr. Sanderson's secretary. Due to a family emergency, all of his calls are being routed to his office, to me. I saw your number and I'm sorry I missed your call. Is there something I can do for you?"
Bruce didn't immediately answer. Missing the funeral of one of his charge's parents was, unfortunately, understandable if Jeff had a family emergency. But shouldn't he have given the responsibility to another social worker?
"Mr. Wayne?"
Shaking his head, the millionaire said, "Thank you for responding so quickly. I'm calling about one of Mr. Sanderson's kids, Dick Grayson."
"I am not allowed to discuss a child's case with anyone who is not listed in the case file," Marjorie interrupted. "I would remember, Mr. Wayne, if I had seen your name on that list."
"I'm not asking for specifics, Marjorie," Bruce replied. "I would just like to know why…"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne, I cannot help you," she stated firmly.
"You don't even know what I'm asking!" Bruce declared somewhat heatedly.
This time it was the woman who didn't immediately answer. The man had made a valid point, but she was only a secretary. She didn't have access to details in a case file, anyway.
"Marjorie," Bruce began, correctly assuming that she was considering his point, "I just want to know why he didn't attend the funeral today."
"Let me look at Mr. Sanderson's calendar," she finally acquiesced. With a quick glance down at her desk, she continued, "I have 'funeral, ten o'clock' written down for him. But, as I said, he did have a family emergency."
Taking a deep breath so that he wouldn't yell at the woman, Bruce asked, "Then why didn't he let someone else know? Isn't there someone who could have taken the boy there?"
"I am not privy to Mr. Sanderson's thoughts, Mr. Wayne, but I'm sure an emergency in his own family took precedence over a child he hardly knows. Perhaps in his hurry to attend to his family, he simply neglected to find someone else."
Simply neglected.
Bruce quietly snarled. It was Jeff's job to take care of the kids in his files, but he had 'simply neglected' to take care of Dick Grayson.
"I have one more question, Marjorie."
"I don't know if I have the answer," she replied with a sigh, "but go ahead."
Why on earth does a rich man like Bruce Wayne want to discuss the case of a new orphan that nobody even knows?
The thought raced through the woman's head, and a lightbulb popped on. Mr. Wayne was attempting to get some good publicity by pretending to care about a penniless child.
"Why is Dick in the detention center?"
Marjorie widened her eyes in shock. Jeff had put the kid in the detention center? She hadn't known that, and her boss usually told her where he placed his kids.
"I…don't know, Mr. Wayne. Again, I'm not privy to…"
"He must tell you something about the kids in his charge!" Bruce exclaimed, frustration evident in his voice. "You're his secretary!"
"I'm aware of my job description, Mr. Wayne," Marjorie responded coolly. "It doesn't include knowing everything about every child he handles."
Anger was blossoming in the woman's chest. This man wanted to use a new orphan to build himself up in the public eye, and there was no way she was going to help him do that.
"And I'm sorry," she snapped, "but even if I knew I wouldn't tell you!"
With that, Marjorie slammed the phone down, proud of herself for standing up to the very influential man while also protecting a young child.
Bruce was dumbfounded as he listened to the dial tone buzzing in his ear. The secretary's tone had become sharp so quickly. Had he said something wrong? He repeated the entire conversation to himself, but the only thing he could think of that might have upset her was his exclamation about her being a secretary.
"By the look on your face, Master Bruce, the conversation did not go well."
"Sanderson had a family emergency," the millionaire replied as he put down the phone, "and 'simply neglected' to find someone else to take Dick to the funeral."
"I have been doing some research, sir. There are many rules, and a lot of paperwork, but it is possible for you to become the legal guardian of a child in the system, Master Bruce."
"Guardian?" Bruce murmured, almost to himself.
"Yes, Master Bruce. The state will do a background check, and a social worker will do several house visits, and you must go through a lot of red tape, but it is possible."
"How long would it take?" Bruce asked.
"That depends on how quickly the paperwork is processed, sir, and how soon the visits can be scheduled, and many other things."
"Estimate."
With a soft sigh, Alfred admitted, "At least a month, Master Bruce."
Bruce slammed his hand on the table so hard that the phone rattled.
"He won't last a month, Alfred! It's only been two days and he's already a mess!"
"Then, if you are going to do this, I suggest you get started right away, sir. I do, however, advise you to take some time to consider your decision. If you decide to take him into your home, Master Bruce, I have one request."
Alfred paused, and Bruce waved his hand impatiently, silently telling his butler to continue.
"Deciding that you can't handle having a child in the house after becoming his legal guardian will shatter the poor boy all over again. Therefore, I request that you do not put him back into the system, sir."
"Why would I do that?!" Bruce exclaimed, anger woven through the words.
"A child is a big responsibility, Master Bruce. Young Master Grayson will be fragile for a while. He lost his entire world – parents, the only home he's ever known, the ability to perform, everything – in one night. Losing everything again will break him, sir. You must be sure this is something you can handle."
"I am an adult, Alfred," Bruce grumbled.
"Yes, Master Bruce, I am aware of that fact. However, you are an adult who also happens to have a – shall I say – unusual night life. The question is not whether or not Bruce Wayne, the millionaire, can take care of a child. Rather, it is can both Bruce Wayne the 'playboy' and Batman the vigilante hero be around enough to even interact with the boy. That is something you must carefully take into consideration, sir."
Nodding in understanding, Bruce replied, "It is a big decision."
"One that should be considered carefully, sir," the butler agreed.
"But," Bruce continued, "he doesn't have much time, Alfred. If I don't decide now, it might be too late for him. He will not survive a month. He might not even survive the week!"
"Then I suggest, Master Bruce, that you start thinking now."
With a polite nod, Alfred left the study. Bruce shut the door and turned back to his desk, intending to sit down. Changing his mind, he began to pace.
A child is a big responsibility. Can I be around enough to be his guardian? I can't put it all on Alfred. But I'm Batman! And I'm Bruce Wayne, millionaire 'playboy'. Will I even be considered fit to be his guardian? Maybe a bed in an orphanage will open up soon. But maybe it won't and he'll be stuck in the detention center for longer. Maybe Sanderson will forget about him. Maybe he'll die in there, and nobody will care except Tank, and Alfred, and…
Me.
The detention center – the next morning:
Dick hadn't moved since Sam had left him lying on the ground in his cell. His face hurt, his throat hurt, his ribs hurt, his wrist hurt, and it was difficult to breathe. All of those, combined with the stress of his situation, had convinced him that moving was not an option. He should lie on the ground and waste away; that's what Sam probably wanted anyway. And it would be so much easier than thinking about asking someone for help. Nobody would help, because nobody cared. Except Tank, maybe. But the nurse was just a tiny thought in the back of Dick's mind, because nobody would take him to see Tank so it was useless to dwell on it.
Mr. Wayne. The man had said he would come back, but he had probably changed his mind. Dick was a horrible person, a criminal for some reason that he couldn't remember, and a rich guy wouldn't want to be associated with a criminal. So that man, also, had been relegated to the back of Dick's mind.
The nine-year-old hadn't even opened his eyes. What was the point of doing that? He knew he wasn't going to eat – Sam had practically said that last night – so Dick had decided to do nothing.
But the breakfast bell rang, and Sam was leaning over him and 'helping' him up. Dick opened his eyes and mumbled something in protest, but the teenager ignored the sound and threw the boy over his shoulder.
"Time to eat, kid," the older boy said. "Can't have you wasting away in here."
The jostling of his ribs almost caused Dick to cry out in pain. But he would be yelling in Sam's ear, and the younger boy doubted that the teen would enjoy that. So, he bit his tongue instead, ignoring the metallic taste of his own blood and forcing away the tears that were threatening to fall.
Sam unceremoniously plopped Dick down on a bench, and the nine-year-old curled into himself to try to ease the pain in his torso. Resting his forehead on the tabletop, Dick wrapped his right arm around his ribs. He didn't hear Sam telling him to sit up and eat, he didn't notice the tray of breakfast that Sam had set beside him, and he ignored the warning bell in his brain that was too loud for him to dismiss.
Suddenly, Dick's head was yanked off the table. Sam had grabbed a clump of hair and was now pulling it down, forcing Dick's neck back and giving him a great view of the ceiling.
"When I tell you to do something, you obey," the teenager snarled. "That was one of your first lessons. Did you forget, kid? Do I already need to reteach that lesson?"
"N…o," Dick croaked, his voice hoarse from the position of his neck.
"Good," Sam said as he slammed Dick's forehead down on the table and released his hair. "So, eat."
Dick slowly lifted his head and watched the cafeteria spin around him. The tray of food was directly in front of him, and the nine-year-old understood the word 'eat'. He lazily gathered the spoon in his shaking right hand and attempted to lift a scoop of oatmeal into his mouth. For some reason that he couldn't understand, he kept missing his mouth. And, for some other reason that he couldn't understand, red strings kept sliding down his nose.
"Gotta be more careful, Sam."
A tall, skinny teenager sitting across from them whispered the advice. Nick was now second-in-command, and he intended to keep it that way. But Sam might get thrown in solitary if he continued beating on the small kid, and Sam in solitary meant that Josh's group would be in control of the yard. And if a guard came over and saw the small snakes of blood on the kid's forehead, Sam could get in trouble. Even if he was the head guard's nephew.
"Take it easy in here, okay? Save your anger for outside."
"Fine," Sam grumbled, grabbing Dick's hand and roughly guiding it to the boy's mouth.
After four force-fed bites, Dick's stomach decided to revolt. The world was still spinning and everything he had just eaten was suddenly coming up and out of him.
"What the…" Sam yelled as he slid away from the younger boy. "Why're you throwing up on me, kid?!"
A guard came over to see what the commotion was about, and he sighed when he saw what had happened. He really hated it when kids threw up, because he was usually the one who had to clean it. That fact distracted him from the sight of the blood on the small forehead, and Nick was relieved.
"Come on, kid," the guard growled. "Let's go see Tank."
Wrapping a beefy hand around Dick's right bicep, the man pulled the boy up to standing and waited for him to start walking.
"I said come on!" he said loudly when Dick didn't move.
Grumbling something unintelligible, the guard scooped the boy up and strode away from the table.
"Tank's got no room."
The head guard intercepted the one carrying Dick and stopped him in his tracks.
"Well, what am I supposed to do with him then?" the latter man asked.
"I'll take care of him, you go clean up the table."
Without waiting for a reply, Sam's uncle took Dick out of the other man's arms. Turning around, he ambled out of the cafeteria and toward the bathroom.
"Gotta get you cleaned up," he muttered as he put the nine-year-old down on the floor under a shower head. "Just in case Mr. Wayne really does come again, can't have him thinking something's going on."
Dick didn't respond, but the guard didn't care. He turned on the knob as far as it went. Cold water shot out of the shower head and Dick's entire body was immediately soaked. The guard turned it off and grabbed a towel from a nearby cabinet.
Reluctantly, the man knelt down and began wiping away the mixture of water, blood, and dirt. Dick stared at him and wondered why they were on a carousel together.
"Hey, Wayne's here again," someone yelled down the hall. "Ten bucks says he wants to see the kid."
Sam's uncle widened his eyes in surprise. It was only breakfast time but Bruce Wayne was already here!
"Get up, kid, we gotta dry you off."
Dick wrinkled his forehead in confusion, and the guard sighed. Sometimes his nephew didn't make the smartest decisions. But what was done was done, so the man helped Dick stand up and did his best to dry the boy off.
"Ron, duya know were tha new kid at?"
A short, fat guard poked his head in the bathroom.
"Oh, ya got 'im. Pufect, Imma take 'im ta see Mr. Weyn."
"I'll take him, Wally," Ron replied. "Just helping him clean up first."
With a nod of agreement, Wally left.
Ron tossed the towel away and put his hand under Dick's chin. Lifting the boy's head, he snapped his fingers until Dick's light-blue eyes finally focused on his own.
"Mr. Wayne's here to see you again. Same rules as last time, you talk and you'll regret it. Understand?"
Dick furrowed his brow and tried to make sense of the words. They were stumbling over each other in his brain, and he couldn't figure out the correct combination.
"You don't understand, do you," the man commented, searching the boy's eyes. "You probably don't even remember what happened ten minutes ago. Well, least you can't tell Mr. Wayne anything."
With that, Ron put his hand on Dick's back and guided him toward the door. The one step they had to get over to leave the bathroom was Dick's undoing. He tripped on it and crashed hard to the floor.
"Wally," Ron yelled as he knelt down for the second time in five minutes.
"Yah boss?"
Glancing up, Ron commanded, "Tell Mr. Wayne that Grayson is taking a shower. Do not, under any circumstances, tell him that you saw the kid lying on the floor. Understand?"
"Yah boss," Wally replied before racing away.
Chapter 9
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, Mooloodoom, usagipoints, leafbracer, and Toki_isdone! :)
Chapter Text
Bruce glanced at his watch for the sixteenth time – 7:38. It had been exactly twenty-three minutes and – he glanced again – forty seconds since he had been deposited in the small room designated for visitors. He had arrived at the detention center at precisely seven o'clock, hoping breakfast would be over and Dick would be brought to him right away.
To his consternation, breakfast didn't even start until seven. So now here he was, almost forty minutes later, wondering why it was taking Dick so long to eat. Especially since the guards knew that Bruce Wayne was waiting to speak to the boy.
"Uh, Mr. Weyn, sir?"
Bruce automatically stood up when the door opened, expecting to see a child entering with the guard, but no child appeared.
"Where is Dick Grayson?" Bruce demanded. "I've been waiting in here for over twenty minutes!"
"Showa," the guard mumbled, quickly exiting the room and slamming the door shut.
Bruce slowly sat down. He was angry and frustrated, but at least Dick was able to take a shower. But what if the water was too hot? Or too cold? Or…
"Stop," he whispered to himself.
You have to make a decision sometime. Preferably soon.
It's a big decision, I have to think about the pros and cons, I have to look at it from all possible angles.
The sooner you start the sooner he'll get out.
What if it doesn't work out? What if we both hate it?
"Stop," the millionaire repeated quietly.
But the discussion in his head raged on while he waited. Bruce had nothing else to do, so working on making a decision was a good use of the time.
There was a sound outside the door, and Bruce glanced at his watch again – 8:01. The door slowly opened and nine-year-old Dick Grayson slid through the small opening. As soon as he was in, the door shut.
Dick was staring at the ground, so Bruce quietly observed him. His hair was wet, but he had just taken a shower so that was to be expected. His clothes were also wet, which was unexpected because he should have dried off before getting dressed again. The boy's arms were folded tightly across his chest, and Bruce made note of the fact that the broken left wrist was being supported by hiding under the right arm. Briefly, he wondered why Tank hadn't taken care of that yet.
"Hi, Dick," Bruce said softly. "I told you I would come back and here I am. Do you want to come sit down?"
The nine-year-old didn't respond, he didn't even acknowledge the fact that Bruce had spoken. He was like a statue; the only reason Bruce knew the boy was alive was because of the quiet wheeze that was his breathing.
"Dick, I'm here to help, okay? Can we talk, like we did yesterday?"
The boy remained quiet and unmoving. Bruce didn't know what to do. Should he stand up and go over there or should he wait, like he had yesterday?
"Um, will you at least look at me, kiddo?"
Again, why was he using a nickname with a child he barely knew? That question raced out of his mind when Dick slowly lifted his head.
The broken nose and bruised eyes he had expected, and probably something more recent. But Bruce had not anticipated seeing so many new injuries. He narrowed his eyes, anger already boiling in his veins. A bruise on the boy's left cheek, a dark ring around his throat, and a cut on his forehead that was lightly bleeding.
Whipping out his handkerchief, Bruce stood up and strode to the boy. Kneeling down in front of him, the man offered the material as he looked into the light-blue eyes. Eyes that were darting around and slightly glazed.
"Son of a fricking biscuit eater," the millionaire muttered, echoing Tank's words. "Your probable concussion is now a severe one. Fantastic," he ended sarcastically.
Dick hadn't taken the handkerchief, so Bruce took the initiative.
"You have some blood on your forehead, so I'm just going to clean it up, okay? I'm just going to use this to wipe away the blood."
Dick didn't answer, and Bruce wondered if the boy even knew there was someone right in front of him. He slowly raised his right hand and carefully patted the small forehead with his white handkerchief. Gently, he held it against the injury to completely stop the bleeding.
"Do you know who you are?" Bruce asked, removing the now-light-pink handkerchief.
No response.
"Do you know where you are?"
Silence, and the man quietly sighed.
"Do you even know I'm here?"
He received a tiny nod in response to that question.
Slightly encouraged, Bruce continued, "Can you tell me what happened?"
This time it was a tiny shake of the head.
"Someone doesn't want you to talk," he muttered, frustration evident in his voice.
"Idonno."
The quiet words slid into each other, and Bruce became very concerned.
"You forgot what happened?"
Another tiny nod.
"Okay, what's the last thing you remember?"
"You."
"No, before right now. What's the last thing you remember before you came in here?"
"Brrrr…fssssst."
"Breakfast?"
"Yesssss."
"Okay, what happened at breakfast?"
"Donno."
"Can you tell me something specific? What did you eat, who did you sit by, something like that?"
"No."
"No because you don't remember, or no because Sam or a guard or whomever it is doesn't want you to tell me anything?"
"Don…memer."
Dick was struggling to get even those short answers out, and that – combined with the fact that almost every word was slurred – made Bruce want to yank the door open and demand that the guard take him to see the teenagers in order to interrogate them. And then to the warden's secretary to shake a smidge of compassion into her body. And then to the warden himself, who would later be receiving a visit from Batman. A very angry visit.
But, instead, the man closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He needed to remain calm, for the sake of a terrified, injured, nine-year-old child. Bruce counted to ten, then reopened his eyes.
"Dick, I need you to look at me."
"Am."
"No, I need you to look into my eyes and count to five without looking away. Will you do that for me?"
"Why?"
"Because I'm trying to help you. Please just trust me."
"Don trusssssss any…bawdy."
"That's fair," Bruce responded. "I probably wouldn't either, if I was in your situation. But will you at least try to trust me?"
Dick dropped his head again. Bruce raised his hand, intending to gently cup the boy's chin and lift his head back up. That was a mistake, he realized, when Dick flinched and tried to step away. The nine-year-old tripped on himself and fell sideways.
Bruce threw his arms out, but Dick had already fixed the situation. He was, after all, an acrobat. His world was spinning, so adding another spin by doing a forward roll didn't mess anything up. He ended up on the other side of the still-closed door, his back against the wall and his eyes squeezed shut.
Bruce watched in amazement as Dick turned the fall into a forward roll and stood right back up. He wasn't surprised when he saw the boy's eyes closed, correctly assuming that Dick was attempting to stop himself from throwing up.
"I'm going to talk to Tank," Bruce stated as he stood up. "Why don't you come sit down at one of these tables, and I'll go find Tank. Do you know who Tank is?"
Dick opened his eyes, and Bruce saw a flash of hope race through them.
"Nrsssssssss."
"You're right, Tank is the nurse. Do you need some help walking over…"
The door suddenly burst open, startling Dick and surprising Bruce.
"Warden's calling a practice lockdown, Mr. Wayne. I gotta take the kid back to his cell."
Without giving Bruce a chance to respond, the guard grabbed Dick and practically shoved him through the door before slamming it shut.
Bruce stood stock still, a million thoughts swirling through his mind. To Batman, it was not a coincidence that the guard had appeared right after Bruce had mentioned Tank – the only person he had met so far that had shown any concern for Dick.
"If this is a practice lockdown," he said after almost two minutes, "why isn't there a siren going off? Why haven't I heard the heavy sound of automatic bolts instead of just the quiet click of regular locks?"
Turning around, Bruce strode to the door on the opposite side of the room and knocked, ready to be let out. The door was buzzed open, and he stepped out.
"Does the warden not use a siren or automatic bolts during a practice lockdown?" the millionaire asked conversationally as a guard began checking him out.
The guard looked up, his eyebrows raised in surprise.
"A practice lockdown?" he asked, a tinge of disbelief in his tone. "We've never done a practice lockdown, so I have no idea."
Bruce raised his eyebrows, also, and inquired, "How long have you been here?"
"Almost twenty years," the guard replied.
"Have you ever had training for one?"
"A lockdown? Yeah, of course. But I've never even heard the words 'practice' and 'lockdown' used in the same sentence. What makes you think that's what's going on, Mr. Wayne?"
"The boy I was visiting, Dick Grayson, was taken back to his cell less than ten minutes after he arrived. I was told that the warden had called a practice lockdown."
Shaking his head, the guard offered to call the warden to find out what was going on. Bruce nodded and leaned against the counter, indicating his intention to stay and find out.
"Lissa," the guard began after only a moment of silence, "is Bra, uh, Warden Wiskin holding a practice lockdown?"
He waited, then replied, "That's what I said, too."
Another pause, then, "Mr. Wayne is here to visit a kid and was told that the kid had to go back to his cell because of a practice lockdown. Has he ever even brought the idea up to you or anybody that you know of?"
The pause was a little longer this time, then, "For two weeks?! We have somebody to step up?"
Bruce clenched his jaw, hoping that his guess regarding that statement was incorrect.
"Okay, I don't know but I'll let him know. Thanks."
The guard hung up the phone and stated, "Lissa asked me to tell you this: the warden is gone for at least two weeks – she said his son is in the hospital in California – and the interim warden doesn't have the authority to sign a kid out of here so please don't come to her office and start yelling at her and please especially don't ask Tank to go see her."
His guess had been correct, and Bruce immediately wanted to sprint to her office and start yelling at her. But she had no control over the situation, so he took a deep breath and silently counted to ten.
"Not really any of my business, Mr. Wayne, but are you trying to get Grayson out of here for a day or so? Like a vacation or something?"
Bruce shook his head and straightened up. He wanted to slam his hands on the counter and yell at the guard, but he knew that the man had no control over the situation, either.
"He doesn't belong in here," Bruce nearly growled. "He's innocent."
The guard chuckled and asked, "Did he tell you that? Because that's what all our kids say – they're innocent, they've done nothing wrong, or they made a mistake that should have only ended in a suspension or community service or something like that."
Shaking his head again, the millionaire practically snarled, "His social worker put him in here because he had nowhere else to put him. No room in any orphanage, no emergency family to take him for a few days, nowhere. He's not supposed to be here!"
The last sentence was yelled, and the guard was taken aback. An inkling of a memory popped into his head: there was a kid whose family had died. But Ron, a guard in the teenage block, said the kid had killed them.
"But even if he killed them, he shouldn't be in the teenage block," the man murmured to himself.
"WHAT?!" Bruce exploded. "You think he killed his own parents?!"
"I heard it from a good source," the guard said defensively. "Why do you even care, Mr. Wayne? Are you related to him or something?"
Bruce was shaking with anger and didn't trust himself to respond. Instead, he turned around and stalked toward the door leading to the outside world, a place where a certain nine-year-old boy should be residing but was not. Because he was locked in a cage, after having done nothing wrong, and was paying the price.
Swearing under his breath, the millionaire strode out of the detention center to the Wayne family limo, where Alfred was patiently waiting. The butler immediately noticed the storm brewing on his charge's face, so he quickly climbed out and opened the back door of the vehicle. He needed to get Bruce away from the place, because Batman was probably planning on turning around and going right back inside. And Bruce was struggling to keep Batman inside so that his identity wouldn't be compromised.
Bruce climbed in and Alfred instantly shut the door and swiftly returned to his side. Entering the already-running car, the butler shifted and pushed hard on the accelerator. The limo shot out of the parking lot and three minutes later they were on the road that led directly to Wayne Manor.
"They're saying he killed his own parents," Bruce finally commented after almost ten minutes. "They're telling him he deserves to be there, and somebody is threatening him if he talks to me about anything that's happening. He needs to get out, and it needs to be done now."
The all-knowing butler immediately deduced the meaning of his charge's last sentence.
"Master Bruce, I know you are angry…"
"I'm a lot more than just angry, Alfred!" the millionaire yelled.
"I know, sir," Alfred continued calmly, "but Batman cannot go and steal the boy away."
"Why not?!" Bruce demanded furiously.
"Because then he becomes a fugitive, Master Bruce. Even though he is innocent, breaking out of what is essentially jail makes him a criminal."
"How is he a fugitive if he's innocent?! He's not running away to escape a deserved punishment, he's doing it to save his life!"
"The Gotham City Police Department will not see it that way, sir. They are bound by law to follow the rules of the Department of Child Services, which give social workers some leeway when placing children who are in their care."
"Even in they're placed in the da…ng jail for kids?! How is that right?!"
"As you know, Master Bruce, I have been doing research. The only thing that may help Master Grayson is the fact that there is no precedent. I have not found any indication of this happening before."
"I have 'clout', as Tank said, with the police and the mayor. Maybe Bruce Wayne's clout is enough to get Dick out of there."
"That is a much better idea than allowing Batman to help a young boy escape. Especially since Batman has no connection to the boy, while Bruce Wayne has a small one."
They were approaching Wayne Manor, and Bruce made a decision.
"Turn the car around, Alfred. I need to speak to the commissioner in person."
With a slight nod of both approval and relief, the old butler turned the car around and began the fourteen mile drive to Police Headquarters.
The detention center:
Dick didn't know what a practice lockdown was, or even a regular lockdown. All he knew at the moment was pain, a feeling that he decided he would have for the rest of his life. There was nothing but pain, there hadn't been since the night his parents had died, and there never would be, the nine-year-old was convinced of that.
Sam was right, Dick deserved to be here. He deserved the pain, he had killed his own parents. Dick didn't know how, he couldn't remember much about that night – or even things that had happened since then – but Dick decided that Sam was always right.
The boy was back in his cell, sitting on the floor and watching the world spin around him. Sam was talking to him, lecturing him about making better choices by obeying, but the words were spinning even faster than the world and Dick couldn't catch up to them.
"Ssssssorry," the nine-year-old finally mumbled.
Sam stopped speaking, surprised that the boy had actually said something.
"For what?" the teen demanded loudly.
"Donno, buyou al'ys ite."
"Good boy," Sam responded approvingly. "You're learning. I'll let you skip the game, just for today, because you finally admitted it. You can eat lunch and dinner, everyone will leave you alone when I tell them to. Now, what did you tell Wayne?"
"N'ding. Ssssssep don trusssss."
Sam was now impressed.
"Okay, kid, you did a good job. Take a little nap; I'll wake you up for lunch."
"K," was the only thing Dick got out before melting to the floor and closing his eyes.
Three hours later, the bell rang for lunch. Sam did everything he could to wake Dick up – yelling in his face, shaking him, slapping him – but the boy didn't respond.
"Piece of crap," Sam whispered, a little worried about having to go to solitary for knocking the kid unconscious. "Wake up, kid," he said a little louder. "Come on, it's time to eat."
Dick didn't even flinch, so Sam left him lying on the ground and went to the cafeteria. Soon, word spread that the new kid was probably dead in his cell, causing one of the guards to go verify the rumor.
He wasn't dead, the man determined as he crouched beside the boy. His breathing was slow, as was his pulse, but the guard decided that he was just really tired and needed sleep. However, he didn't want to get in trouble, so the man stood up and headed for the infirmary. Tank would know what to do.
Chapter 10
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, leafbracer, Mooloodoom, and Toki_isdone! Your comments inspire me to continue writing. :)
Chapter Text
Police Headquarters:
"Jim, he's going to die in there! I've seen his bruises!"
"Bruce, there's nothing I can do!"
The two men had been almost yelling at each other for over five minutes. It was a conversation that was going in circles, and Commissioner Gordon was running out of patience. Bruce Wayne was influential, yes, but the commissioner had no power to do anything about the situation. And, he reflected silently, the millionaire's monetary resources were also useless in this matter. That fact, he knew, was the reason Bruce was in his office.
What he didn't know was the why. Why was Bruce Wayne – a busy CEO by day and popular socialite by night – so interested in Richard Grayson? Was it because he had paid for the funeral and the boy hadn't shown up? Jim Gordon couldn't think of any other plausible reason, which frustrated him even more than he had become when Bruce had stared his tirade thirty seconds after walking into the commissioner's office.
"Sanderson put him there, he has to stay there until Sanderson gives the okay!" Commissioner Gordon finally shouted.
Having had enough of this never-ending conversation, the commissioner forcefully shoved his chair away from his desk. He stood up and glared at the younger man, fully prepared to bodily escort Bruce out of his office if this continued.
"Sanderson is not available!" Bruce shouted back.
"I want to help, Bruce, but there is not a darn thing I can do about it!"
Idiot. Coward.
Bruce wanted to tell the commissioner how he really felt, but deep down he knew that the man's hands were figuratively tied. The law was the law, and the Commissioner of the Gotham City Police couldn't break the law. Even for an innocent orphan.
"He can stay with me until Sanderson is done handling his family emergency."
The millionaire had lowered his voice, changing his tactic from yelling in anger to asking for a compromise. His voice was still hard – he couldn't hold back the tone caused by the fury boiling in his blood – but shouting hadn't accomplished anything.
"Bruce, I can't do that, either," Jim stated evenly, attempting to calm both himself and the millionaire. "You know that, I'm sure. I can't take him out of where he was placed without the approval of his social worker. And, since he's in the detention center, I also need approval from the warden."
"This is bullcrap," Bruce muttered, anger rising to the surface again. "How is it right for a kid who has done nothing wrong to have to stay in the detention center?!" he demanded, his voice nearing its previous volume.
Sighing, the commissioner quietly admitted, "It's not."
"THEN DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!" Bruce exploded, slamming his hands on the commissioner's desk.
"Go talk to the mayor, Bruce. I can't do anything, you know that, and you need to leave before something happens that we both regret."
"Are you threatening me, Jim?!"
"No, I'm stating a fact."
Batman yelled at Bruce to attack, but the millionaire just barely held himself in check. Grumbling insults at everybody, the man left the room and the commissioner's tense body relaxed. Hopefully the mayor could do something, because Bruce was right: young Dick Grayson was probably going to die if he stayed in that place.
But, again, why did Bruce even care? The millionaire had never come to the commissioner about a new orphan, so why had it happened with this one? Had any other child been placed straight into the detention center? Was there a precedent for Grayson's unfortunate situation?
Jim decided to find out, so he pulled his chair back to his desk and sat down. Picking up the phone, he dialed the number of the Gotham City Department of Child Services. It rang several times, and then the commissioner was robotically asked to leave a message. He wanted to talk to the administrator directly, so he replaced the phone and leaned back in his chair, thoughts swirling around in his mind.
The why was bothering him. Was it really just the funeral? How had Bruce even known that the parents were to be buried in the paupers' graveyard? Another 'why' popped up. Why on earth had the man decided to bury an orphan's family on his own plot, next to his own parents? An orphan he didn't even know?
Jim reflected on the situation. It was the fourth night that the circus had been in town. Grayson had been performing, but he wasn't part of the finale. Equipment had broken – the commissioner still didn't know how or why – and the boy had seen his parents fall. They had died right in front….
The puzzle pieces connected. Bruce and Richard had a common thread woven into the tapestry of their lives: they had both watched their parents die. Different circumstances, of course, but it was a connection. A strong enough one to cause a millionaire to be invested in the life of a penniless nine-year-old, though? Strong enough to come to the commissioner, and now probably the mayor, about the new orphan being in danger?
If that was it, the funeral made sense. And, since the boy hadn't been at the funeral, it made sense that Bruce would try to find out why. That wouldn't be hard for an influential man with a lot of resources at his disposal. Any decent person would then recognize that the kid was in a dangerous situation, especially if something had happened during his time in the detention center.
Jim knew without a doubt that Bruce had visited Richard, and had noticed something was off because he had "seen his bruises". How else would the millionaire have decided that the boy was going to die if he stayed in there? Picking up the phone again, the commissioner waited for the robotic instructions, then left a message.
"This is Commissioner Gordon with GCPD. Mr. Sanderson placed a new orphan, Richard Grayson, in the detention center, presumably because he had no other place to put him. It is my belief that the boy is in danger, and the situation should be investigated immediately. Please take my advice into consideration. Thank you."
Hanging up the phone, the man sighed. He had no jurisdiction, there was no reason for anybody to listen to his advice and begin an investigation. But maybe, just maybe, it would at least cause someone to visit the boy.
The detention center:
Tank was sprinting. Dick Grayson was unresponsive, and Tank wanted to kill every single guard in the place. But the nine-year-old needed him more, so the anger was pulsing in the back of his mind for now.
Dick's cell door was open, and his limp body had been moved onto the bed. A bed, Tank noticed, that had no mattress or pillow.
The nurse was not a swearing person, but he couldn't stop the word that flew out of his mouth when he knelt down to examine the nine-year-old. He began taking inventory, guessing at some things but pretty sure his guesses were correct.
"Needs stitches on his forehead, probable severe concussion, broken nose, somebody slapped him hard on that cheek. Somebody strangled him – that's just what he needs with broken ribs. Slow pulse, oxygen level has to be way below normal, no regular breathing. Left wrist looks like a clean break. Okay, Dick, I need you to wake up."
Tank gently probed the small torso, swearing again when he felt three irregular bumps.
"At least move for me, kid. Give me a flinch or a tiny gasp, or some kind of response. Don't you dare die on me, Dick Grayson," he finished loudly, anger outlining his voice.
Dick was floating in his mind. Darkness surrounded him, thick, suffocating darkness that was threatening to swallow him whole. It was keeping him free from pain, and Dick decided that being alone in the blackest corner of space was better than being consumed by pain.
A loud noise assaulted his subconscious, and the nine-year-old was startled. He was enjoying being alone in the dark, even though it was one of his worst fears, and he vaguely associated noise with pain. Dick looked around, searching for the source of the sound, but there was only darkness.
He thought about calling out to see if anybody was there, but the thought of someone being there terrified him. Several bright faces lit up the darkness around him, disappearing almost as soon as they appeared.
Dick's parents suddenly materialized out of nowhere. They asked him why he had killed them, and he had no answer because he didn't remember killing them. The name 'Sam' floated across the dark sky, and Dick's parents assured him that Sam was correct. Whatever Sam said was law, and Dick should always obey.
A single tear fell from his right eye as his parents slowly faded away. A voice whispered his name, asking him to respond. But Dick didn't know what the words meant, and the voice didn't belong to Sam. He was only supposed to listen to Sam.
Sam was always right.
Tank had carried Dick back to the infirmary. All three beds were still full; there was still no place to put him.
"No space, that's happening to you a lot lately," the nurse muttered.
The man entered his office and, caring more about a child than paperwork, shoved everything off his desk and laid Dick down on the hard surface. Grabbing a penlight out of his pocket, the nurse bent over the boy and lifted an eyelid. It took several seconds for the light-blue circle to appear, and Tank was dismayed by the unbroken clouds in the eye.
"I know you're still in there, Dick," he stated loudly, lowering the boy's eyelid. "I really need you to give me something to work with here. Just the twitch of a finger, okay? Can you do that for me?"
No response, no twitch, and Tank stood up. The nurse grabbed the phone book off the floor and carefully placed it under Dick's head. It wasn't a pillow, but at least his injured head wasn't lying on a completely hard surface anymore.
Running a hand through his hair, the man sighed, the quiet sound filled with sorrow. He would not let this innocent child die, but he didn't have a lot of resources at his disposal. Dick was either already in a coma or on his way there, and Tank couldn't stop that from happening.
"Please, kid, you need to wake up. Don't let them win, don't give Sam the satisfaction of hearing that you're in a coma. Come on, Dick, move for me!"
A single tear slid out of Dick's right eye, leaving a clear trail through a purple bruise.
"Okay, that's a response," Tank stated. "Kind of. Give me something else now."
No movement, and the nurse dropped his head. He immediately lifted it as an idea burst into his brain. Bruce Wayne was interested in the boy, and Bruce Wayne had good connections. Maybe the millionaire could get Dick out of a detention center infirmary and into a hospital.
Tank crouched down and snatched the phone off the floor. He dialed a familiar number, then waited for an answer, trying not to get his hopes too high.
"Warden…"
"Lissa," Tank interrupted, "the boy we talked about, Dick Grayson. He's in a coma, or nearly there, and I can't do anything about it. Can the warden sign off on…"
"The warden is not here, Tank. His son is in the hospital in Calif…"
"Then whoever is in charge!" Tank exclaimed. "Dick needs to go to a hospital, who's in charge right now and can they sign him out for medical reasons?!"
"Tank," Lissa said with a sigh, "I don't know why you have such an interest in this boy. But you are good at your job, and you've taken care of other kids in near-comas, and I'm sure you can do the same with this one."
"Lissa, you don't understand! I have no beds, no resources, no help, no…"
"Tank, just do your job. I can't help, the warden can't help, and the person in charge is not authorized to let anyone out for any reason. It's your job to take care of injured kids, so take care of him."
Tank listened to the buzz of the dial tone in disbelief. She didn't even care! He stood up and glanced around the room, searching for the phone book.
"Where the heck…"
Rolling his eyes, he turned back to his desk. Gently, he lifted Dick's head and removed the phone book. With one arm he shrugged off his white coat, folded it up, and slid it under the boy's head. It still wasn't a pillow, but it was better than a phone book.
Flipping through the book, Tank finally found the number he was looking for. Dropping to a crouch again, he picked up the phone and dialed. The phone rang once, twice, three times and then Tank was robotically asked to leave a message.
"Mr. Wayne, this is Tank, from the detention center. I'm calling to talk to you…"
Suddenly, the lights went off and the phone went dead. Tank heard the banging sound of metal doors slamming shut and the loud 'clunk' of multiple bolts. A siren began blaring, and Tank sighed. Total lockdown, someone was trying to escape.
The word 'wayne' penetrated Dick's brain. It was tossed away as soon as it entered, but it stamped itself on the boy's memory before disappearing. A loud, screeching noise began assaulting his ears, and Dick flinched.
The flinch did not go unnoticed. Tank already had his flashlight on and was about to go check on the kids in the infirmary. Then Dick flinched, and the three other boys were momentarily forgotten.
"There we go, kid, keep going!" the man nearly yelled. "Come on back to me, Dick, let me see your eyes. Open your eyes and I'll get to work on the pain you'll be coming back to."
Nothing else happened, and Tank scowled.
"Dick, if you do not come back to me right now I will be forced to set your wrist without the help of medicine. Which means you will feel every bit of bone grinding together, and it will be more painful than it needs to be. I can't give you medicine if you're not even awake, so open your dang eyes."
The nine-year-old didn't react, so Tank slammed his hands on either side of the boy's torso. His desk shook, and Dick's eyes shot open. They immediately closed, but Tank refused to accept that. Grabbing the flashlight that he had dropped on a chair, he turned the bright beam toward the slack face of the young boy.
"I dare you to do that again, kid," Tank snapped. "And I'm going to keep them open when you do. Come on, do it."
Tank wasn't angry, but he was frustrated. How many times had he tried to get help for this particular child, only to be practically ignored because people didn't care?! The only one who had seemed concerned about Dick was Bruce Wayne, and his only connection to the kid was a funeral!
After another five minutes of waiting, Tank sighed and left to check on the others. He did, after all, have to make sure the escapee – whoever it was – wasn't in the infirmary.
The mayor's office:
"HE. IS. GOING. TO. DIE. IN. THERE!"
Bruce was roaring at the mayor, who was sitting in his chair and slightly trembling. Bruce Wayne was an extremely important and influential man, but the mayor was not the warden of the detention center. Nor was he a random orphan's social worker. He had no control over the situation, even if that random orphan was about to die.
It had been only three minutes since the millionaire had stalked into the mayor's office. His first sentence had stated the fact that a newly-orphaned circus kid – Rick something or other – was in the detention center. Everything after that was the ranting of an angry Bruce Wayne, and Mayor Linseed could barely understand most of the angry words being thrown at him. But the last sentence had penetrated the mayor's brain, and he decided to finally respond, although the man he was going to respond to probably wasn't going to like what he was about to say.
Holding up his hand, and surprised that the gesture stopped the ranting, Mayor Linseed said, "Bruce, I'm not Warden Wiskin or Jeff Sanderson. They are the only two people who can do anything about…"
"YOU'RE THE MAYOR!" Bruce retorted fiercely.
"I'm the mayor of just Gotham City," the other man replied. "The detention center is out of my jurisdiction, and I am reluctant to tangle with DCS. They will tell me the same thing I'm telling you. Unless he has given the case file to someone else, Jeff Sanderson is the only person who can move the boy. But you already know all of that, I'm sure."
"Reluctant," Bruce repeated, disbelief in his tone. "You're reluctant to 'tangle' with DCS. Shouldn't the mayor have some influence over something in that department?!"
Mayor Linseed picked up the phone and dialed the number of DCS. The millionaire was right about one thing. Maybe he could convince the director to give the kid's case file to someone else.
"Pete, hi, Mayor Linseed here. I have a small problem…"
"SMALL?!" Bruce exploded.
The mayor shook his head and covered the ear that wasn't pressed against the phone.
"There's a boy, a new orphan, one of Jeff's kids."
A short pause, and then the mayor resumed speaking.
"Yes, so I've heard. Do you know anything…oh, wow…hmmm, that's rough…I see…understandable…of course I will. What are you doing with Jeff's cases, then?"
Bruce was standing stock still, arms folded across his chest, and glaring at the mayor.
"No, no problems," Mayor Linseed continued. "I just heard that something was wrong and wanted to make sure the kids were going to be taken care of in his absence."
You wanted to make sure?
Bruce internally growled, correctly guessing that if he hadn't come to the mayor's office the man wouldn't even know about Jeff's kids.
"Okay, do you mind telling me who…I see, of course you can't discuss them. I just need to know the name of the case manager."
Another short pause. Bruce dropped his arms and clenched his hands into fists, trying to stave off the slew of angry words that were threatening to burst out of him.
"A new one, Rick…"
"Dick Grayson," Bruce immediately corrected, failing to hold back the ire in his tone.
"I meant Dick. Dick Grayson. No, no I don't need any details of his case."
Bruce began to pace. Not being able to hear the other end of the conversation was extremely frustrating.
"Really?" the mayor asked, surprise in his voice. "She's so new…no, of course not, that's not at all what I meant! I'm sure you hire the best people you can find. No offense intended, Pete. Okay, thank you, goodbye."
Mayor Linseed uncovered his ear and hung up the phone. Bruce stopped pacing and waited expectantly for a name.
"All of Jeff's kids have a new case manager now. Ri…um…Dick's social worker is Victoria Valentia. She's new, but Pete personally interviews all of the applicants before hiring anyone. I'm sure he's in good hands."
With a sharp nod, Bruce spun around and strode out of the mayor's office. The man breathed a sigh of relief and closed his eyes. Bruce Wayne could be very intimidating when he needed to be, and apparently the kid meant something to him. What that could be, the mayor had no idea. He was just glad the millionaire was gone.
Gotham City Department of Child Services:
Victoria Valentia looked up when Marjorie walked into her office.
"Jeff is out for an undetermined amount of time so I'm spreading his cases around. This one is for you."
Placing a thin file on the woman's desk, the secretary turned around and left.
"At least it's small," Victoria mumbled as she picked it up and opened it.
"Richard John Grayson, age nine, orphaned four days ago, parents died in an accident at the circus – poor boy – placed in the detention center…"
Victoria stopped, surprise filling her eyes. Why was a new orphan in the detention center after his parents had died in an accident? She put the file down, leaving it open, and turned to her computer.
"Circus accident this week," she murmured as she typed in the search bar.
She didn't have to wait long for the results. The first one was from the Gotham City Gazette, so she clicked on it.
"The Flying Graysons, famous for their elegant performances on the trapeze, died while performing their finale. The duo have never used a net for that portion of their routine, and tonight was no different. That proved to be their downfall…"
Victoria rolled her eyes at the play on words.
"…when the wires connecting their equipment to the rafters of the circus tent suddenly ripped apart. John and Mary Grayson plummeted to their deaths while their son, Richard, watched from the trapeze platform thirty feet in the air. Richard was part of the act, but not part of the finale, which ultimately saved his life."
The woman stopped reading as she realized something. Richard hadn't been in the audience, as she had first assumed. He was a performer, in a circus of all places. Victoria wrinkled her nose and thought about trying to pass the boy off to someone else. Then she realized another thing. Jeff had put him in the detention center. That had seemed weird to her at first, but now everything was becoming understandable.
Richard was a member of a traveling circus, which Victoria believed was full of filthy wanderers who cleaned up well for a performance. The boy must have done something wrong, because Jeff wouldn't put an innocent child in the detention center. What the kid had done wrong she couldn't fathom, but it didn't really matter because Jeff was a veteran and knew what he was doing when he placed his kids.
The fact that she had never heard of any social worker putting a new kid straight into the detention center didn't even cross her mind. Victoria trusted Jeff, and she had her own cases to worry about, so she closed Dick's file and slid it under the tall pile on her desk. Jeff could take care of him when he returned.
Chapter 11
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, leafbracer, Mooloodoom, Toki_isdone, and usagipoints! And thanks to everyone for being patient! :)
Chapter Text
Wayne Manor – thirty minutes later:
Bruce was on the phone, impatiently waiting for someone at the detention center to answer. After three rings, he received a robotic announcement:
"The detention center is in complete lockdown. Please try again at a later time."
Apparently it was a looped recording, because the announcement began anew. Bruce hung up the phone and ran a hand through his hair. Complete lockdown. Every kid stuck in their cells, every door bolted shut, every window automatically shuttered with metal blinds that rolled down into position. If anything else had happened to Dick, he was probably close to being dead. In his cell, where nobody would even think about helping him for the duration of the lockdown. Or, he was dead already. There was no way he could survive another beating.
Batman was now in the Batcave, and his eyes narrowed in anger when he remembered the fake practice lockdown. Someone who had some power had wanted Dick away from Bruce. If Dick wasn't there, he couldn't talk. If he couldn't talk, nobody would get in trouble.
As soon as Dick was out of that hole, Batman was going to tear the place apart in order to find the corruption. And he was going to interrogate every single guard and every single teenager. Especially 'Sam'. Tank had said Chuck was dead, so Sam was Batman's main suspect.
Sam would be last, the hero decided. He would take everyone else, one by one, and he wouldn't send them back to their cells. Sam could sit in his cell and imagine everyone telling Batman everything. The teenager would be terrified when Batman finally called for him, and the Caped Crusader intended to take advantage of that fear.
There would be no mercy. Sam would fold as soon as Batman asked about the alleged fight club. The man was sure at least one teen would tell him something, so he would have details that would bury Sam.
Batman didn't know what he would do after that. He knew what he wanted to do, but putting a fifteen-year-old in a body cast wouldn't sit well with anyone, especially Alfred.
The Bat-phone began beeping, and Batman snatched it up.
"Yes, Commissioner?"
"Batman, I thought you should know that the detention center…"
"Is in complete lockdown," Batman finished with a growl.
"Of course you already knew," Commissioner Gordon stated. "Do you also know why?"
Frowning, the hero replied, "No."
The commissioner was surprised, but he forged ahead.
"Warden Wiskin is out of town, and somebody decided that locking everything down would be a better idea than hoping that nobody would escape while the warden is gone."
"WHAT?" Batman exploded, shock in his voice.
"Only the warden has the code to unlock everything. I've been trying to reach him, Mayor Linseed has been trying to reach him, and his secretary has been trying to reach him. We have had no luck, but we will of course continue to try."
"Are you telling me," Batman demanded angrily, "that all of those kids are completely trapped in their cells until whenever somebody can get the code from the warden, who is out of town?!"
"Unfortunately, yes," the commissioner replied. "The head guard can get through some doors in case a lockdown ever lasts longer than half a day. They do need to feed and water the kids…"
"We are not talking about animals, Commissioner," Batman growled, thinking only of Dick.
"That is not how I meant it to sound, Batman," the commissioner replied defensively. "But at least the head guard can get food and water to all of them. I called because there is a teenager who has had regular correspondence with the Riddler."
"Sam."
It was a statement, not a question.
"No, Batman, his name is Corrin and he's seventeen. He'll be eighteen next month, which means he will be released."
Batman didn't respond. Next month didn't matter to him right now. Not even the Riddler mattered right now. What mattered was the fact that a nine-year-old boy was going to be dead by the end of the day, if he wasn't already.
"Batman?"
"Get that code, Commissioner, I'm going to the detention center."
Without waiting for a response, Batman slammed the phone down.
"Sir, not even Batman can get into the detention center during a total lockdown. You made sure of that when Joker's protégé escaped four months ago."
"I know," Batman replied, the anger replaced by a trace of concern. "Nobody can get in or out without the warden's code. And the warden is the only one who knows that I helped him improve security. He would never give the code to somebody else. Unless the warden answers somebody soon, those kids aren't going anywhere for a while."
"Young Master Grayson, sir?" Alfred inquired.
"I'll be surprised if he survives the night," Batman whispered.
The detention center – midnight:
Tank had tried for two straight hours to get Dick to respond without success. He had given up an hour ago, exhaustion and stress overtaking his mind and body. The man knew he couldn't do anything else to help the boy until the lockdown was over. At least nobody could get in, at least he could keep the nine-year-old safe. With that thought in mind, Tank sat on his chair and fell into a restless slumber.
Twenty minutes later, the quiet 'snap' of a key and nearly inaudible 'scrape' of a door caused Tank to stir. But he immediately fell back into his restless state, and the dark shape of Head Guard Ron silently slid into the infirmary and straight into Tank's office. His size belied his ability to be stealthy; he made it to Tank's desk and the motionless silhouette of Dick Grayson without making a sound.
Slowly, Ron slid his arms under the limp body and lifted it up. Turning around, he just as silently crept out the door. The infirmary door had automatically closed and locked, so Ron had to shift Dick in order to get his key into the lock. The motion caused a soft moan to exit the boy's mouth, so Ron turned the key and exited the infirmary as quickly as he could.
Ten minutes later, he was laying the boy on the floor in Sam's cell. The teenager acknowledged his uncle with a nod then crouched down by the nine-year-old.
"Kid, wake up," he said softly, although his tone was full of a mixture of anger and fear. "I am not going into solitary because of you. So wake the frick up."
To Sam's surprise, Dick's eyes fluttered, then opened. A quiet gasp flew from his mouth, and he began to shiver.
"Good job, kid, just keep obeying me, got it?"
"Al'ys zite," Dick mumbled.
"Yep," Sam responded with a grin, "I'm always right."
The jostling movement of being lifted and carried awakened Dick's senses. He moaned softly as the guard carried him out the door. When he felt something hard and cold against his back, his senses carried him back into consciousness, and he awoke with a shiver.
Sam, he recognized the face that was looming above him. His mouth was moving, but Dick didn't even try to work out what the teenager was saying. There was no point, because the nine-year-old only needed to remember one thing.
"Al'ys zite," he mumbled, and was relieved when Sam grinned.
The teen said something else and then his face disappeared. Dick began to panic, because he was supposed to be obeying Sam. How could he obey if he couldn't see him?!
Suddenly Sam was back, and Dick's near-hyperventilation breathing returned to its wheezing state. He received a pat on the head, which calmed him down. Sam disappeared again, but Dick wasn't worried this time. All he had to do was wait for instructions. He would lay on this cold, hard surface for as long as Sam wanted him to, then he would do whatever he was told to do.
Because Sam was always right.
The only thing Batman could do when he arrived at the detention center was sit in the Batmobile and stare at the block of cement where his nine-year-old was dying.
He's not mine.
Mine. Why had he used that word? Dick Grayson didn't belong to him, the boy didn't belong to anybody. Neither Batman nor Bruce Wayne had any sort of claim to him. Neither the hero nor the millionaire could even get to Dick, much less take him out of the place. So why was Dick Grayson now 'mine'?
Why hadn't Batman insisted on keeping the code to end a lockdown? It wasn't like he was going to turn evil and release all the dangerous juveniles onto the streets of Gotham City. He was Batman, paranoid, always-had-to-be-in-control Batman. Why had he forced himself to forget the six digits that would unbolt all the hall doors, unblock the windows, and allow the guards to make their rounds again?
The fact that he had no answer to that question made him feel like an idiot. Maybe he should take the Bat-jet and fly to California. That might be quicker than waiting for the warden to answer a phone call.
The Batphone extension began beeping. His mind was only on one thing, but he answered anyway.
"Sir, you have a message from someone at the detention center named 'Tank'."
"He's the nurse in the infirmary. Play it," the hero demanded.
Mr. Wayne, this is Tank, from the detention center. I'm calling to talk to you…
"Why did you stop it?" Batman nearly yelled.
"I didn't, sir, that's the end," Alfred responded evenly.
"Call him back and patch me through," the hero commanded.
"Sir," Alfred said with an inaudible sigh, "the only answer we will receive is an announcement that the detention center is in lockdown."
Batman had forgotten about his earlier attempts at contacting someone in the detention center. No calls in or out, which is probably why the message had been cut off so abruptly.
It was obvious to Batman that Tank had called to talk to him about Dick. There was no other plausible reason for the nurse to want to speak to Bruce Wayne. Which meant Tank had probably seen Dick, which meant the nine-year-old was finally receiving some help.
"Master Batman?"
The hero realized that Alfred had been patiently waiting for almost a minute, while Batman himself had been lost in thought.
"Tank is taking care of Dick, he's the only one who cares about the boy. That call tells me that Dick is with Tank, which tells me that he is safe. For now, at least. There's nothing I can do here, I'm on my way back."
Hanging up the phone, the Caped Crusader shifted the idling Batmobile into 'drive' and headed for the Batcave.
Three days later:
The lockdown had lasted for almost seventy hours. That was how long it had taken to get the code from the warden, who had been reluctant at first but had eventually been persuaded to end the lockdown.
Ron, as the head guard, was the only person able to go anywhere. Therefore, he was the one who had to trudge back and forth from the cafeteria to all the cells twice each day. By the time the lockdown was over, he was exhausted.
Tank, after waking up and seeing an empty desk, had pounded on the infirmary door for over an hour. Ron had stayed away from that end of the complex, not wanting to hear the noise and probable threats being shouted from the other side of the door.
Sam had been playing nurse to Dick, but nothing he did could reset a broken wrist, or fix three broken ribs, or make the boy's concussed brain focus on something for more than a minute. But the bruises were fading, and the teenager had cleaned off all the blood on Dick's head, and the nine-year-old could talk without sounding like a croaking frog. That, to Sam, was good enough. As long as Dick could move and talk, Sam wouldn't get thrown into solitary.
And, to Sam's satisfaction, Dick agreed with everything he said. When the teenager had said that Dick had killed Chuck, the boy had profusely apologized and promised to do better. He had even declared that he would lose his next three games on purpose, to honor Chuck's memory.
Sam had almost burst out laughing at that, because there was no way Dick would ever come close to winning a game. Not in the near future, at least. But a loyal nine-year-old was a nine-year-old who would never tell Mr. Wayne anything that could affect Sam's well-being. So, Sam had graciously accepted Dick's offer to lose, after which Dick had thanked him for being so generous.
The fifteen-year-old had never felt so powerful. He and his buddies had been in charge of the yard for almost a year, but nobody had ever completely agreed with everything Sam did or said. Sam had the same power that was reserved for dictators and tyrants, although he only had one little follower. The feeling was addicting, and Sam decided that Dick was never going to leave his side. Not willingly, at least.
He still wasn't quite sure why a nine-year-old was in the teenage block in the detention center, but he also didn't really care anymore. Why the boy was there didn't matter as much as how long he was going to stay. And, if Sam had anything to say about it, the how long would be until Sam was released at eighteen.
When the door to the infirmary popped open, Tank immediately headed for the teenage block. He was surprised to see Dick sitting on his bed in his cell with no new injuries. In fact, the boy looked almost fully healed. The bruises around his eyes were nearly gone, the dark ring around his neck was much lighter, and his wheezing was better than it had been when Tank had found him unresponsive three and a half days ago.
A guard opened the cell door, and Tank strode in and crouched in front of the boy.
"How are you feeling, Dick?" he asked.
"Fine," the nine-year-old replied.
"I need to check your torso and take a look at your wrist. You okay with that?"
Dick hesitated, and Tank didn't miss the questioning glance he threw at Sam before nodding in response.
"Your wrist is broken, do you know how that happened?"
Dick shook his head, and Tank knew he wasn't going to receive any honest answers if they stayed in the cell.
"My supplies are in the infirmary. I need you to come with me so I can reset the bone and wrap your ribs."
Tank stood up and watched Dick glance at Sam again before answering.
"Okay."
One word answers and silent responses that were always preceded by a glance at the teenager in the cell next to him. Tank was worried, and hoped he could pull some truth out of Dick once they were alone in the infirmary.
Ten minutes later, Dick was sitting on the only empty bed while Tank gathered supplies. The two comatose teens were still there, but the third injured boy had been able to go back to his cell when the lockdown had ended.
"So," the man began conversationally as he picked up Dick's left arm, "do you remember what happened to this?"
He held up the limp wrist, watching as Dick grimaced and then clenched his jaw.
"No," the boy answered truthfully, and Tank wasn't surprised.
"How many games have you played, Dick?"
"What kind of games?" the nine-year-old inquired, his voice trembling noticeably.
"You know, the one you played with Chuck that landed you in here with a broken nose."
"I didn't mean to kill him."
Tank was dumbfounded. He knew for a fact that Dick hadn't been anywhere near the fight that had ended Chuck's life.
"You had nothing to do with it," the nurse stated.
He waited for a response, but Dick merely shrugged. Shaking his head, Tank laid the small arm down and probed the boy's torso.
"I'm going to wrap your ribs – three of them are broken – and then I'm going to reset your wrist. It's going to hurt," he warned, "but I can give you a shot if you want."
Dick thought for a moment, then decided that he deserved the pain because he had killed Chuck. That would make Sam happy, and Dick's purpose in life was to make Sam happy.
"No shot," he said.
Tank raised his eyebrows, but nodded and began wrapping the nine-year-old's torso. It took him less than two minutes, and then he turned his attention to the wrist.
"Are you sure you don't want a shot?" he asked, searching Dick's eyes for any sign of doubt or fear. "You won't feel it when I fix the bone."
Both doubt and fear were filling the boy's eyes, but he remained firm in his decision.
"No shot," he repeated.
"You're making a mistake," Tank commented. "This is really going to hurt. I'm going to have to straighten your wrist, then manipulate it around, then splint it into the correct position."
"That's, um, a lot to do," Dick whispered, the fear in his eyes manifesting itself in his voice.
"Yep," Tank agreed, "so I recommend that you take the shot. Last chance, Dick."
Dick's resolve wavered. Maybe Sam didn't have to know about the shot, maybe he could keep that part to himself. Little details like that probably wouldn't matter, right?
"I won't tell anybody that you agreed to get a shot," Tank stated. "Not even Sam."
A hint of relief raced through Dick's eyes, and Tank wanted to grab the boy's shoulders and shake some sense into him. It was now obvious that the nine-year-old was completely under Sam's control, and it had happened in less than a week.
"Dick," he said as he began preparing the shot, "don't let any kids in here tell you what to do. You are your own person, and you can make your own decisions. I know that you aren't even supposed to be here."
"Gotham City doesn't make mistakes," Dick immediately replied. "He is always right."
"Son of a fricking biscuit eater," Tank muttered. "Dick, 'he' is not always right. Nobody is ever 'always' right."
"He is," Dick said stubbornly.
"We'll take about this after you wake up."
Tank slid the needle into the crook of the nine-year-old's left elbow and waited for him to fall asleep.
"The warden and I are going to have a long talk about Sam when he gets back," Tank mumbled to himself.
Chapter 12
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, usagipoints! :)
Chapter Text
Later that day:
Tank had tried to talk some sense into Dick, but the boy had stayed firm. In his eyes, Sam was – and always would be – right. Everything the teen said or did was always going to be right, and Dick wasn't going to make him mad.
A younger kid had thrown up at lunch, so Tank had again been forced to send Dick back to his cell. He wished he had access to the video cameras in the teenage block, but he was 'only' the nurse. Tank had thought about calling the warden himself, but knew Lissa wouldn't even consider giving him the man's number.
And so Dick was back in his cell, sitting on the ground facing Sam. He had a cast on his left wrist and his ribs were well-wrapped. Breathing was still difficult, as was thinking. But the nine-year-old didn't care about that, because Sam would do all the thinking for him.
"Your next game is after dinner tonight, surprise opponent," Sam stated. "Using the cast as a weapon is not allowed, and you promised you would lose the next three anyway."
Dick had to concentrate hard to figure out the meaning of the sentences. It took him several minutes, but once he had made sense of them he nodded.
"I want you to play for a while, to show me your loyalty," the teenager continued. "Don't drop down and lose after your opponent's first turn."
Patiently, Sam waited for Dick to put the words in order and understand what they meant. He could be patient; after all, the boy was going to do whatever he was told to do.
"How long?" Dick quietly asked.
"At least three turns," Sam replied. "If you go down before that, it doesn't count."
After almost a minute, Dick nodded again.
The dinner bell suddenly rang, and all the cell doors popped open. Dick slowly got to his feet and joined Sam in the hall. He was still somewhat dizzy, and the edges of his vision were slightly fuzzy, but he followed his leader into the cafeteria and sat down at a table.
Sam brought one tray of food to the table. Dick took that to mean they were going to share, so he reached for a carrot. The teenager grabbed the nine-year-old's chin and turned his head so he could look into the blue eyes.
"Did I say you could eat?" he asked darkly.
Dick managed to get the word 'no' through his closed mouth.
"You don't eat until you lose the three games. After all, you killed Chuck. You don't deserve to eat until you have honored his memory. Got it?" Sam finished with a snarl.
Again it took almost a minute for Dick to figure out the meaning, but once he did he mumbled out a 'yes'.
Sam let go of the boy's chin and began to eat. Dick stared longingly at the food, but he understood why he wasn't eating. Chuck had been Sam's right-hand man, and Dick had killed him. The nine-year-old didn't remember how he had killed Chuck – or his own parents – but Sam was always right. Sam didn't make mistakes.
Bruce Wayne was in the visiting area for the third time in one week. He had heard the dinner bell, so he assumed that he would be waiting for at least half an hour. The guards would have Dick eat before being brought to visit someone, especially when that someone was Bruce Wayne.
To his surprise, Dick entered the room only ten minutes after the bell. Not surprisingly, the nine-year-old stood by the door with his back against the wall, the same position he was in every time he stepped – or was shoved – into the visiting room.
Bruce eyed him critically. The bruises encircling his eyes were gone, the one around his throat was nearly invisible, and his left wrist was encased in the white plaster of a cast. Dick's breathing was still an unhealthy sound, but the man suspected at least one broken rib so he wasn't surprised. Tank had obviously been able to fix him up, and Bruce was relieved.
"Hi, Dick, do you remember me?"
The fact that Dick had a severe concussion had not escaped Bruce's memory. There was nothing Tank could do about that except wait, so Bruce had decided to test the boy's brain.
"No," the nine-year-old replied quietly.
"I'm Bruce, and I'm here to see how you're doing."
"I'm fine."
The boy's words were clipped, making him sound like he was deeming this visit an inconvenience.
"How is your head? Any headaches, dizziness, spots in your vision?"
There was a pause, then Dick asked, "Are you a doctor?"
"No, but I do have some medical knowledge."
Another pause, this one shorter, and then, "I'm fine, Sam helped me."
A lightbulb clicked on – Batman was, after all, the World's Greatest Detective.
"Does Sam help you a lot?"
"Everything."
"Does Sam tell you what to do?"
"He's always right."
Batman internally growled at this new piece of knowledge.
"Do you ever think for yourself?" Bruce snapped.
"Why should I?"
"Because you are not a slave," the man stated angrily.
His anger was not directed at Dick, but he couldn't keep it out of his voice.
"Thinking hurts, so Sam does it for me."
That piece of truth, the fact that trying to think while dealing with a severe concussion would cause a headache, calmed him slightly. Bruce inaudibly sighed and changed tactics.
"Is it hard for you to concentrate?" he asked.
The pause was much longer this time, almost a minute, so Bruce tried again.
"Is it hard to focus?"
"On what?" came the immediate reply.
Ignoring the question, the millionaire continued, "Is it hard to see?"
"No."
Bruce recognized that the smaller the words and sentence, the quicker Dick was able to answer.
"Do you see spots?"
"No."
"Is anything blurry?"
A pause, so Bruce changed it to, "Is anything fuzzy?"
"Sometimes," Dick answered with a tiny shrug.
"Come sit down, kiddo," Bruce lightly commanded, ignoring the fact that, again, a nickname had popped out.
Dick hesitated, his eyes both thoughtful and laced with pain. Hating himself for doing it, Bruce changed tactics again.
"Sam wants you to do what I ask."
That made the boy's decision easy, so he immediately walked to the table and sat down.
Bruce clenched his jaw and his eyes grew dark with anger. Sam had complete control over this innocent child, and Dick didn't even know it. The teenager had given the boy a beating and then taken advantage of his inability to think clearly because of that beating.
Take a breath, test his memory.
Batman didn't want to back down, didn't want to take a breath and test Dick's memory. But Bruce needed to know the extent of the damage.
"What did you have for dinner just now?" the millionaire asked.
"Nothing," Dick replied.
Hoping he had heard incorrectly, Bruce echoed, "Nothing?"
"I killed Chuck, I don't deserve food," the boy replied with a shrug.
"You don't deser…"
Bruce couldn't continue. Shoving his chair away from the table, he stood up and strode to the door. He pushed the buzzer and, as the door automatically opened, threw a quick glance in Dick's direction.
"I will be back. And I will get you out of here."
"Why?"
Bruce couldn't answer because Batman was about to fly into a rage. His body trembling with fury, the man strode out the door and glared at the guard who was ready to check him out.
"Tell me," he growled, "do you make it a habit of allowing teenagers to exert control over other kids and forcing said kids to skip meals?"
"Sorry?" the guard replied, real surprise in his tone. "I really don't know what you're talking about. I'm just the guard who checks people in and out of the visiting area."
"There is no rotation?"
"No, Mr. Wayne, of course not. Every guard has their own section, mine is here."
"So what goes on inside the blocks doesn't matter to you," Bruce nearly snarled.
"I was hired to check people in and out, that's it."
Bruce grabbed the pen the guard handed him and signed on the check-out line. He was so furious that the pen ripped through the paper. Turning around, the man stalked away, knowing the guard was probably glaring at him as he left.
"Not my job," the guard muttered when the millionaire was out of sight.
Dick was still sitting at the small table, confusion dancing on his face. The man had left so quickly, and the boy didn't know what he was supposed to be doing. He decided to just sit and wait, because trying to figure out what to do brought back the pounding headache.
Ten minutes later, Ron came in to take Dick back to his cell. The guard was surprised at the lack of a millionaire in the room, but he shrugged it off. Mr. Wayne probably didn't care anymore, because Ron knew that Dick wouldn't give anything away. His loyalty belonged to Sam; he wouldn't do anything to jeopardize that relationship. Which meant he wouldn't say anything bad about the teenager, which meant Bruce Wayne would have no reason to suspect that anything was amiss.
Grinning, Ron pulled the boy up to his feet and led him out the door. He didn't know why the millionaire had such an interest in this nobody kid, but he assumed that the interest would now fade away since Dick would stay quiet.
Ten minutes later, Dick was in the yard with the rest of the teenagers, standing in front of Sam and listening to instructions. He understood that he was going to lose this game, and that he needed to stay up for at least three turns. The cast was forbidden, and Dick knew he would have to keep it behind his back to keep himself from automatically using it.
A new boy, Carl, was introduced to the nine-year-old. Carl was thirteen, about the same size as Dick, and was nowhere near as strong as Frankie. If Sam hadn't instructed him to lose, Dick knew he would have been able to win this time. Or at least come close to winning.
Sam had decided to go with an easy opponent for Dick's first loss. The nine-year-old was capable of staying upright for a while with Carl – maybe even winning – so Sam told him to stay up for at least ten rounds. Dick had, of course, easily agreed.
Carl went first, his small fist connecting softly with Dick's left cheek. Dick's retaliation was just as gentle, and Sam chuckled. The small fist of the thirteen-year-old landed on the nine-year-old's right shoulder, so Dick carefully pushed his fist against Carl's collarbone.
For Carl, this fight was a breath of fresh air. He had been playing for almost two months, and had lost every single game. But he had always gone down quickly, saving himself from further damage by sacrificing his pride. Slightly encouraged by the soft retaliations of the younger boy, Carl decided to use his feet.
Back when he was in elementary school, Carl had won every single footrace in field day. His legs were strong, so the kick he threw into Dick's stomach made the nine-year-old's eyes widen as pain burst through his torso. But it was only round three, so Dick refused to allow himself to ease the pain by bending over. Instead, he tapped his fist on Carl's shoulder.
Carl grinned; he was going to win his first game! He threw another kick into Dick's solar plexus, and this time the nine-year-old couldn't stop himself from curving his torso in and releasing a gasp of pain.
"Kid."
The angry comment came from Sam, so Dick immediately stood up and lightly pushed his fist into Carl's stomach. Carl raced around so he was behind Dick and kicked him in the lower back. It was a lucky shot, hitting the kidney of the younger boy and forcing him to drop to his hands and knees.
Sam growled, but Dick couldn't move. He was gasping in pain, and had forgotten what round they were on. Was he allowed to be done yet?
"That's five," Sam suddenly snarled.
The sound gave the nine-year-old motivation. He slowly stood up and turned around. Carl was waiting, so Dick took a step forward and gently kicked him on the shin. Grimacing at the slight spike of pain, the thirteen-year-old repeated the action on Dick's leg. His kick was much more forceful, but not hard enough to leave anything more than a bruise. With a matching grimace, Dick tapped Carl on the shoulder again.
Carl went high this time, swinging his small fist toward Dick's head. Instinct kicked in, just as it had in his first fight, and Dick ducked. He threw a quick uppercut into Carl's chin as he stood up. The nine-year-old still didn't know how to fight, but Chuck had left some painful reminders of reacting to hits. His uppercut was weak but effective, knocking Carl back several feet and almost causing him to fall.
"Stop," Sam commanded, so Dick dropped his arm and stood still. "No more turns, you're done. Carl, three turns in a row."
Dick nodded and waited for Carl to regain his balance. Carl grinned at his good fortune and advanced toward the younger boy. The thirteen-year-old had learned something from this fight, so he kicked Dick in the solar plexus again then ran behind him and shoved his foot onto Dick's lower back.
The moves left Dick on his hands and knees again, his eyes squeezed shut and gasping in pain. This time, Carl's foot landed on the back of his head, and Dick collapsed completely. He wasn't knocked out, but he got a mouthful of dirt and the beginnings of another headache.
"Carl wins," Sam declared, and Carl shouted in delight as he celebrated his first win.
Dick breathed a sigh of relief. He had lost, as he had promised, but this loss had not been as bad as his previous ones. Maybe Sam would allow him to play Carl again tomorrow.
"Stand up, kid," Sam demanded. "Your next game starts in five minutes."
Surprise filled his eyes as Dick obediently stood up. He had lost, he wasn't supposed to play again. But, he realized, he hadn't been knocked out. And, of course, Sam was always right. If Sam said play again, Dick would play again.
"You're playing Frankie," Sam stated. "Three rounds, you gotta stay up for three rounds otherwise it doesn't count."
Dick nodded and began rubbing his lower back with his right hand. Hopefully, Frankie would stay away from his torso. But Frankie was standing ten yards away and watching the younger boy attempting to lessen the obvious pain in his back. Grinning, he decided to focus all of his hits on the vulnerable torso.
The Batcave:
Batman had been researching Dick's new case manager, Victoria Valentia. There was not much to go on: age twenty-six, recent graduate of the University of Nevada-Las Vegas, one year of experience, and a caseload of fourteen kids. Fifteen, now, since Dick had been added to her pile. She lived alone, but was dating a rich socialite from a different city.
"She seems fine, sir, although a little young," Alfred remarked.
"Sanderson seemed 'fine', too," Batman grumbled.
The butler, although he could have reminded Batman of no open beds anywhere and a family emergency, let that comment go. He, too, was upset with Jeff Sanderson, who had 'simply neglected' to find someone else to take Dick to the funeral of his parents.
"She didn't know anything about him," the Caped Crusader murmured as he stared at the search history from her computer. "I need to see Dick's paper file. Sanderson has to have more information than what she read in the Gazette. I'm going to DCS tonight."
"I wholeheartedly agree, Master Batman," Alfred replied.
"Alfred, he's broken. That teenager, Sam," Batman spit the name out in disgust, "has broken him. Dick doesn't think for himself, he only does what Sam tells him to do."
"Sam told him to talk to you, sir?"
"No," Batman stated, then hesitated. "Well, yes, in a way."
Alfred raised his eyebrows and waited for an explanation.
"He wouldn't come sit down, so I told him…" Batman paused again.
After almost thirty seconds of silence, Alfred gently prompted, "You told him…"
With a heavy sigh full of regret, the hero admitted, "I told him Sam wanted him to do what I told him to do."
"Master Batman!" the old butler exclaimed reprovingly.
"I know," the younger man snapped, "but the conversation was going nowhere. So then I asked him what he had eaten for dinner, to test his memory."
"And…" Alfred prompted again, after another twenty-three seconds of silence.
"Nothing."
"What?!" the butler exclaimed again, aghast at the thought of a growing boy not eating dinner.
"He said he had killed Chuck, so he didn't deserve food. I left, Alfred, I couldn't continue without something drastic happening."
"Understandable, sir," Alfred responded, regaining his proper composure in an attempt to calm his charge. "You cannot return as Batman, sir. Bruce Wayne must go through the proper channels in order to release young Master Grayson from…"
"Death," Batman finished. "In order to save him from death. Physical, emotional, mental, and any other kind of death you can think of."
"Have you made a decision, sir?"
Batman remained silent. He had been thinking about it for what felt like every minute of every day. But he couldn't decide. Batman wanted to rescue Dick, but Bruce was hesitant. What if it everything went wrong? What if everyone hated it?
Conversely, Bruce wanted to protect Dick, but Batman was unsure about his ability to protect both Gotham City and a young child. And what if Dick found out that Bruce Wayne and Batman were the same person? What nine-year-old could keep a secret like that?!
"Sir?"
Batman shook himself out of his thoughts, realizing that Alfred had been patiently waiting for him to answer.
"I don't know," the hero finally confessed quietly.
Calmly, Alfred responded, "I advise you to make a final decision soon, sir. Especially since Master Grayson is already loyal to a dangerous teenager. It will be hard to break him out of that, but it will be even harder the longer he stays there. Be that as it may, I am not trying to tell you what to do, Master Batman."
"I know," Batman growled, annoyed with himself because of his indecisiveness. "What if I do become his guardian, but he hates it here? Or what if he finds out that I'm Batman? No child could keep that quiet! What if I'm too busy all the time, and everything falls on you?"
"Sir, everything you have just mentioned is a negative. Have you given any thought to the positives?"
"Like what?!" Batman exclaimed.
"Master Batman, if you can't think of any positives, then you have already made your decision," Alfred stated wisely.
"But…" Batman began.
After nearly a minute of silence, Alfred decided to move on from the conversation. Picking up his duster, the butler began cleaning the Bat-computer.
But…what?
Batman didn't know 'what', but the thought of leaving Dick in the detention center, practically sentencing him to death, caused something to constrict in the man's chest.
What if we get along well? What if we actually like each other?
In his mind, Batman could see the dazzling grin of Dick Grayson, the aerialist. But the image immediately switched to that of Dick Grayson, the detention center inmate. That Dick Grayson didn't have any kind of grin, and it reminded Batman of his eight-year-old self.
"What if I can help him?" the man unintentionally asked the air around him.
"That, sir, is a very good question. I feel confident that your similar background is part of why you are drawn to him," Alfred answered. "Dinner will be ready in an hour, sir."
With that, Alfred turned around and headed for the service elevator. Both Batman and Bruce needed time to think, because the butler was fairly certain that his charge hadn't yet made a final decision.
The detention center:
Dick had stayed up for three rounds with Frankie, but just barely. He had accidentally used his casted arm to defend himself in round two, and that had resulted in a fourth turn for Frankie. The nine-year-old had been taken out by the strong left hook again, and was now being carried to his cell by Ron.
The head guard plopped the boy down on the hard bed and left the cell. Sam stood quietly by the bars between their cells, waiting for Dick to wake up. It would be seven hours later, early in the morning while Sam was asleep, before that time would come.
Chapter 13
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, leafbracer and usagipoints! :)
Chapter Text
Gotham City Department of Social Services – midnight:
Batman was currently in the office of one Victoria Valentia, sitting on her chair and sifting through her case files. There were teenagers and babies and one toddler, but no nine-year-old boy. Until he got to the end of her pile.
She had put him on the bottom, he was her last priority. Batman growled as he flipped open the folder titled 'Richard John Grayson'. There was a succinct, one-page description of what had happened, a quick note about his placement, and nothing else. Victoria had probably received more information from her search than she had from Jeff Sanderson.
Batman lifted the page and found a sticky note. Apparently, Victoria had been in a hurry, because it was more scribbling than writing, and the hero had to study it carefully in order to decipher it.
"Circus performer," he softly read, "not audience. Detention center, why, what horrible thing did he do besides being in a circus. Ask Jeff? Priority – zero, kid's in there for a reason."
The Caped Crusader slapped the file shut, he had read enough. Victoria obviously wasn't going to do anything to help the nine-year-old because, in her eyes, circus performers weren't "good enough" to receive help.
"In there for a reason," Batman softly snapped irritably, "besides being in a circus."
Angrily, the man restacked her files, tempted to put Dick's on top of the tall pile. A different thought entered his mind. Putting the thin file smack in the middle of her desk, Batman grabbed a sticky note and scribbled,
"Check your sources, check your orphanages, check your 'emergency' foster families"
With a sigh, he removed the note and slid Dick's file underneath the pile. Nobody could know that somebody had broken into the office, so everything had to be returned to its original place. Or…close enough. Carefully, he slid the bottom half of Dick's file out into the open, where she would easily see it and be reminded of her new charge.
The detention center – 6:30 in the morning:
Sam woke up to the sight of a young face staring at him through the bars of his cell.
"Stop staring," he grumbled, and was pleased when Dick turned around and walked to the other side of his small cell.
Sitting up, the teen suddenly noticed something that he thought he probably should have seen a day or so ago. The younger boy's body was shaking, like he was shivering even though it wasn't cold. Sam narrowed his eyes in thought, then realized that he hadn't allowed Dick to eat since the lockdown had ended.
"One more game and then you'll have proved your loyalty," Sam stated.
Dick didn't turn around, but he nodded and began pacing the short length of his cell. He looked like a caged lion, and Sam briefly wondered if the boy was still his.
"Come here, kid," he demanded.
Immediately, Dick whipped himself around and returned to Sam's side of his cell.
"You hungry?" Sam asked.
Dick nodded.
"You want to eat breakfast?"
This time the nine-year-old shook his head.
"Three times," he stated, his voice also trembling noticeably.
"Good boy," Sam replied with a grin. "Your last game to honor Chuck is after breakfast. You stay here until the guard comes to get you."
Dick nodded again and sat down on his bed. Two minutes later the cell doors opened and the teenagers headed for the cafeteria. Five minutes after that, Ron came to collect Dick. Taking him outside, the guard gave him the basketball and told him to start shooting until he made five baskets in a row.
"I don't…"
"Are you disobeying?!" Ron exclaimed angrily.
Shaking his head, Dick turned to the netless hoop and began throwing the basketball at it over and over. Rarely did he make even one, much less any in a row. It didn't help that he could only shoot one-handed. By the time all the teens were in the yard, Dick had been shooting for almost an hour with only a few short breaks. His torso was aching, his right arm was tired, and he was exhausted.
Sam, who was leaning against the tree and engulfed in shade, finally called the boy over. Dick slowly made his way to the older boy, stopping several times on the way to catch his breath. He was not sweating – there was not enough moisture in his body to allow that – and the fact slightly concerned Sam, who knew some things about dehydration and starvation.
"Ready for your final loss?" the teen asked.
Dick was bent over, his right arm wrapped around his torso and his lungs trying to pull in air that seemed to be nonexistent.
"Ye," he managed to reply in between gasps.
"Stand up, your opponent is here."
Closing his eyes, Dick wished for Carl. Opening his eyes, he straightened up and was surprised to see nobody but Sam.
"You look surprised," the teen stated, anger swirling around in his eyes. "Did you really think you wouldn't have to play me? New rules: no retaliation, no letting yourself get knocked out, stay up until I win. Got it?" he snarled.
Dick felt the familiar feeling of terror wash over his trembling body. Sam was always right, and Dick knew what was coming. Sam was mad, and it was Dick's fault. Dick deserved this…right?
A thought flashed through his mind, followed by a vaguely familiar face. He wasn't supposed to be here, that's what whomever the face belonged to had told him. But Sam was never wrong, so the face had to be the one who was wrong.
Confusion began dancing in his eyes as different thoughts began chasing each other around in his mind. The face…he was nice, he had tried to help. Maybe. But that would make Sam wrong, which was wrong because Sam was never wrong. Was he?
A large fist slamming into two of his broken ribs made the conflicting thoughts fly out of Dick's head. Automatically, the nine-year-old curved into himself, attempting to lessen the pain and protect his torso. That earned him a sharp kick to his right shin. He didn't hear the slight crack, but he did feel the spike of fire that shot up his leg.
"Stand. The. Frick. Up."
That was Sam's voice, and Sam was never…
Never what? Dick couldn't remember. But Sam was obviously furious, so Dick forced himself to straighten up. Because he had to obey Sam…right? What was he supposed to be doing?
A flat hand hitting his broken nose reminded him. Chuck – no, Sam – was teaching him a lesson, and Dick was supposed to stay standing up.
I'm trying to help you.
That voice belonged to the slightly familiar face that again presented itself in his mind. Why did the face want to help him?
The series of punches that flew around his torso shattered Dick's will to obey. He dropped to his hands and knees, the pain overcoming the knowledge that he was trying to stay standing up for some reason.
Sam growled, furious that Dick was being disobedient. A tiny thought in the back of his mind warned him that the boy couldn't take any more hits, but Sam didn't care so he shoved the thought away.
But Dick was, literally, saved by the bell. Yard time was over and Sam didn't have a chance to do any more damage. The teenager stalked away, leaving the nine-year-old on his hands and knees gasping for air.
"Come on, kid, let's go see Tank."
Marcus, the very first guard Dick had met at the beginning of his incarceration, was crouching in front of the boy. The man cupped the small chin and gently lifted Dick's head.
"Dang, you're a mess," he commented quietly as his gaze landed on the fresh blood dripping from Dick's nose. "Can you walk for me?"
"Yeah," Dick answered, then proceeded to lower himself onto his stomach.
"Nope," Marcus stated, "wrong way. Forget about walking."
Without waiting for a response, the strong guard scooped Dick off the ground and strode toward the other end of the complex. Twelve minutes later, he walked into the infirmary. To his surprise, every single bed was empty.
"Is this good or bad?" Marcus asked as Tank walked out of his office.
"Depends on who you are," the nurse replied. "If you're in Josh's gang, it's bad. But if Sam is your leader, it's good."
"They're both dead," Marcus stated softly.
With a heavy sigh, Tank nodded. Three deaths in one week, it was a new record. Plus a nine-year-old who would probably be dead soon.
"No rest for the weary," Marcus said apologetically as he laid Dick down on the nearest bed. "Pretty sure you've seen him before…"
Tank glanced at the bed with a grimace.
"Too many times," he retorted. "But at least now I have room."
Marcus didn't know any details, but he had heard one of the kids talking to the head guard about keeping the sick bay full. An inkling of an idea popped into his brain.
"Say, Tank, how long has your place been full?"
"Off and on for over a week," Tank responded. "Mostly on, especially since the first time I saw this one."
"Something's going on…" Marcus muttered.
"Say again?"
"A few days ago, I heard Sam tell Ron – head guard Ron – that the 'sick bay' had to be full. It was a few hours after that big fight, the one that put three boys in comas."
"Sam, of course it's Sam," Tank snarled. "I think Sam might be coming down with the flu, Marcus, you should bring him to me when you have a chance."
"Sure thing, Tank," the guard acknowledged with a nod. "And I'll make sure he comes alone, just in case he's contagious."
"Good idea. Maybe after dinner, so Dick here can get some shut eye first. He's in deep water, Marcus, and barely staying afloat. He's nine, and he thinks Sam is always right. For a while it was touch and go physically – he almost died in my office – but now I'm losing him mentally. And he's not even supposed to be here!"
"This is Sanderson's kid?! It was supposed to be for a night or two at the most!"
"How do you know him?"
"I checked him in. Jeff got an emergency call and had to leave so I checked him in and took him to the teenage block. It was the only cell we had, but I told Ron to keep an eye on him and that he should be moved as soon as something opened up. I've had a bed open on the second floor for almost four days now!"
"Piece of fricking crap," Tank growled. "You mean he could have been out of there before the lockdown?!"
Marcus thought for a moment, working out the timing, then nodded. Tank shook his head as he began examining Dick.
"I'm going to have a chat with Ron," Marcus stated, anger wrapped around the words, "and don't be surprised if one of us comes in here needing your services later today. This is a sh…"
The guard paused, glanced at the nine-year-old, and then finished, "…crappy situation."
"You can say that again," Tank murmured as he shined a penlight in Dick's eyes.
Marcus left, and Tank began his examination in earnest. Nose again, but that would just take time. He gently probed Dick's torso and decided to re-wrap the ribs. Cast was still intact, so the wrist was stable. There was a large bump on the boy's right shin. Tank gently pushed on it, and was rewarded with a pain-filled murmur from the exhausted nine-year-old.
"I don't think it's broken, Dick, but I can't be sure without an x-ray. I'm going to try to get you out of here again, but don't get your hopes up."
Dick mumbled something and then closed his eyes, slipping into the healing depths of unconsciousness.
Tank stepped into his office and picked up the phone. He took a deep breath, then dialed the familiar number.
"Warden…"
"Hi, Lissa, it's Tank," he began calmly.
"No, I can't get anyone checked out of here. No, the interim warden can't sign off on even a medical release. No, some kid inmate is not going to spend the night in my office," the woman immediately snapped. "If you're so keen on harping to someone about that boy – because I'm assuming it's the boy you want to talk about – then you should just harp to the warden. His number is 581-369-2470. He's not going to be happy if you call, since his son is in the hospital, but I'm washing my hands of that darn boy."
There was a short pause and then she continued in a much calmer voice, "Now, if you're calling about anything other than that boy, what can I do for you?"
"You already gave me what I need," Tank replied then slammed the receiver down so hard that the phone rattled.
Two minutes later, a phone in the pocket of a man in California began vibrating.
Mercy General Hospital – Sacramento, California:
Warden Brandon Wiskin ignored the vibration in his back pocket. That was easy to do, since he was currently standing against a wall with Batman in his face. The Caped Crusader had arrived less than five minutes ago, fresh from a sleepless night and four hours on the Bat-jet. And the hero was obviously furious, although the warden wasn't quite sure why. Especially since the hero hadn't said a word yet. Batman was just standing there, glaring.
"Are you going to answer that?" Batman finally demanded.
The warden shook his head, indicating that Batman had his full attention and there would be no interruptions.
"There is a boy – Dick Grayson."
The warden immediately recognized the name, and a lightning bolt of relief shot through his chest. This wasn't about him allowing the detention center to remain in lockdown, it was about an orphan who had stayed there for only two or three days.
"Jeff Sanderson is in charge of him. The kid probably isn't even in the center anymore."
"You should just shut up and listen," Batman growled.
This time the warden nodded, so the hero continued.
"He has been in there for a week, in the teenage block. He has been beaten, starved, and neglected for the entire time. He is your responsibility, he should not be in there, and I know you know that fact. I need you to sign this," Batman shoved a paper in the man's face, "so he can be released."
Brandon's eyes widened in shock as he listened. The young kid had spent a week in the teenage block?! He took the paper and began reading. It was the normal form that the warden signed every time a kid was released, but this time he couldn't sign it.
"Have you cleared this with Jeff Sanderson? Because if he says no, I have to say no."
"I haven't found him yet," the hero admitted angrily. "Family emergency…"
"Wait," Brandon interrupted. "You do know that his 'family' consists of three cats and a parakeet, right? He's had something going on with a pet for a week?!"
"Three cats," Batman snarled, "and a parakeet?! He doesn't have a wife, girlfriend, kids, siblings…"
"Only child, wife died two years ago, no kids, don't know about a girlfriend. Have you gone to his house?"
"That is the first place I looked," Batman snapped, the implied 'do you think I'm an idiot' hanging darkly in the air.
Shaking his head, the warden replied, "Not Jeff's house, his cats' grandmother's house."
"Why would I…how do you even know…what are you talking about?!"
Brandon was surprised. He had heard of the Batcave and its infamous machinery that knew everything. But Batman didn't know about Jeff's cats' maternal grandmother's country cottage?
Flipping the paper over, the warden pulled a pen from his pocket and wrote down an address.
"Try looking there. If you find him and get him to sign his form, I'll sign mine. I know the kid shouldn't be there, but my hands are tied without his signature."
Batman snatched the paper, glanced at the address, shoved the paper back into the Brandon's hands, then turned around and strode away without a word. Another four hours on the Bat-jet and then he could begin the process of getting Dick out by finding the missing social worker. And if Sanderson didn't want to talk to Bruce Wayne about it, Batman was going to step in and 'help'.
I will be back. And I will get you out of here.
Bruce Wayne's words echoed in his head. A promise, even though he hadn't actually used the word. Batman doubted that Dick currently had the mental capacity to catch the implication, though. But the lack of understanding meant that the boy wouldn't say anything to Sam, so the teenager wouldn't have any idea of what was coming.
"Hang on, kiddo," the hero said as he prepared the Bat-jet for takeoff. "Batman always keeps his promises."
Chapter 14
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, DebbieF, leafbracer, and usagipoints! :)
Chapter Text
The detention center – after lunch:
Marcus walked up behind Sam just as the bell rang to end yard time.
"You feeling okay, Sam? You look a little pale," he commented.
"What?" Sam snapped. "I'm fine, leave me alone."
"No, I think you need to see Tank. Your face is getting red now. You feeling hot, like you're getting a fever?"
"No, go away."
Marcus none-too-gently grabbed the teen's right bicep and pulled him away from the door leading to the cells.
"I could…"
"Have me fired, have me reprimanded, beat me up," Marcus interrupted. "I've heard it all, Sam, so just come along quietly. You really are looking sick."
Ron had not come out to yard time, so there was nobody to stop Marcus from dragging Sam to see Tank. The nurse had moved Dick to the third bed, farthest away from the door to the infirmary, and put up a make-shift partition.
Marcus pushed Sam in ahead of him, then stepped in and closed the door. Tank nodded at the first bed, indicating that Sam should sit down. The teenager folded his arms defensively across his chest and glared at the nurse. So, the strong Marcus manhandled the boy onto the bed then strapped him down.
"I'm not sick!" Sam shouted. "You're both going to get in trouble for this!"
"Yes, you are," Tank stated gruffly. "Sick in the head. You beat up a nine-year-old boy then took advantage of his inability to think clearly. You forced loyalty upon him; he has no idea what he's doing."
"I didn't force him to do anything!" Sam yelled, struggling to get out of the restraints. "Do you know who my uncle is?!"
"You have one friend with some power, congratulations," Tank snapped sarcastically. "Dick Grayson has Bruce Wayne in his corner. You ever heard of Bruce Wayne?"
"The kid is my friend! Just because he hangs around me all the time, doesn't mean I've forced him to do anything! And Wayne's been here like two times, he's not in his corner," Sam finished derisively.
"How many times has Dick played 'the game', Sam?" the nurse practically snarled.
Sam was not surprised that the fight club was not a secret. At least one person would have told the nurse how he had broken his nose, or why he had a bloody head wound, or whatever injury that kid had received as a result of losing a game. But that didn't mean he had to admit anything.
Schooling his expression into one of indifference, Sam replied, "I don't know what you're talking about."
Marcus, a guard on the second floor, knew nothing about the games the teens played. However, he was intelligent and was easily following the conversation. Anger was boiling in his blood, the type of anger directed at an injustice. A fury strong enough to rival that of Batman.
Clearing his throat to get Tank's attention, Marcus nodded toward the door.
Going to find Ron.
Tank understood the look in Marcus' eyes. The guard was going hunting, and his prey had no idea what was coming. Tank dipped his head in acknowledgement.
Give me an hour.
Marcus caught the meaning conveyed in the other man's eyes. With another nod, the guard turned around and strode out the door.
"Just you and me, kid," Tank commented casually. "Anything you want to tell me before he gets back? Bruce Wayne might want to talk to you, does that sound like a good idea? I doubt your uncle could save you from the reach of that man's connections."
"Why does he give a crap about the kid?" Sam growled. "He's a nobody orphan who killed his parents."
Tank laughed, then realized that the teenager was serious.
"You actually think a nine-year-old child could kill both of his parents without anybody stopping him?" the nurse asked incredulously. "Are you really that stupid?"
"I'm not stupid!" Sam shouted. "He's the one that told me. So he's a liar and a killer."
"If he lied about that," Tank responded reasonably, "then he's not a killer."
"He killed Ch…"
"Don't say it."
Sam's mouth snapped shut, the dangerous tone in Tank's voice causing a feeling of fear to wash over him.
"We both know he had nothing to do with Chuck's death. I know you're in charge of the yard, and I know you force other kids to participate in your little fight club, but I didn't know you were dumb enough to involve a nine-year-old boy who has a powerful connection."
"If Wayne is so powerful, why is Grayson still here?" Sam muttered, almost to himself.
Tank knew the answer, because he had been involved in social work before coming to the detention center. It would take at least a month for Bruce Wayne to become a foster parent. A month full of paperwork and house visits and red tape and more paperwork. Tank wasn't sure, but Wayne had seemed like he cared enough to want to foster Dick. Maybe even enough to become the boy's legal guardian.
There were too few foster families in Gotham City. The bad ones were ruled out immediately and most of the good ones didn't want to do it. Middle class families who could use the extra money they would receive for fostering a child were the only ones left. And those families were like revolving doors: take in a kid until they got tired of him, then send him back and get a new one.
And Tank had personally never heard of anyone agreeing to foster an orphan. There were no parents who might try to get an orphan back, so the chances of having to keep the kid were much higher. Rarely did someone in Gotham City want to add a child permanently to their home, so orphans rarely left the orphanages they were placed in.
Instead of replying, Tank slipped his fingers behind Sam's ears. Easily finding the pressure points, the nurse quickly put the teenager to sleep. Turning away, he went behind the partition and checked on Dick. The boy was still fast asleep, a new bandage over his nose and his ribs freshly wrapped.
The bump on the shin concerned Tank. It was obviously either fractured or broken, but an x-ray was needed. That was one of the many machines Tank didn't have. Time to call the warden again, he decided. Maybe the man would pick up this time.
It had taken ten minutes for Marcus to find Ron, who was looking for his nephew. Ron knew that Marcus was the guard who had taken Dick to see the nurse on his first day, so when he saw the younger man he decided to ask.
"Marcus, you seen Sam today? He didn't return to his cell after yard time."
"Sam wasn't feeling too well, so I took him to Tank," Marcus explained. "Looked to me like he had a fever."
Ron was immediately suspicious. Sam hadn't looked sick in the cafeteria. However, the head guard thought that maybe his nephew was faking illness to go see how Dick was doing. His suspicion vanished, but not for long.
"You know I've had a bed open for a couple of days," Marcus commented. "Why isn't the Grayson kid in my block?"
Ron had no answer. He couldn't say anything about Sam wanting the boy to stay, because the head guard shouldn't be doing what an inmate wanted him to do.
"Didn't know about the bed," he lied, thinking quickly.
"You didn't know," Marcus responded, his tone full of disbelief. "You're the only one who could go anywhere during the lockdown. You just happened to miss the fact that there is an empty cell on the second floor?"
Another question he couldn't answer, because it was an indisputable fact. The one person who had to take food and water to every kid would immediately notice an empty cell. He couldn't think quickly enough to respond.
"How are you feeling?" Marcus inquired. "You're starting to look a little sick yourself. Need to see Tank?"
"You son of…"
Ron's insult was interrupted by a strong fist flying into his face. Blood spurted out of his now-broken nose, and his hands flew to his face, leaving him with no way to retaliate. So, Marcus threw another fist into the head guard's solar plexus. Ron dropped to his knees, gasping for the air that wouldn't come to him.
Crouching down beside him, Marcus stated, "Now you know how a nine-year-old boy felt on his first day in a place where he didn't even belong. You need to see Tank, or should I let you take care of this on your own?"
He received a pained mumble in response, which he took to be a dismissal.
"Tank can help with that," Marcus stated. "Just like you allowed him to help Dick Grayson. Might be a few days, the sick bay is probably going to be full."
Ron recognized the scenario, because it was the exact one he had used on the young boy. Marcus knew, and Tank knew, and both men were stronger than him. Better to find a way to patch this up himself, the head guard decided. So he stayed motionless on his knees and waited for the younger guard to leave.
Five minutes later, the man's footsteps faded and Ron lifted his head. He wasn't going to retaliate against Marcus, nor would he try anything with Tank. When the idiotic nine-year-old was taken to a cell on the second floor, Ron was going to find a way to take his anger out on the kid. Dick Grayson had started it all, so it would end with the boy. The fact that it was actually Sam who had started everything didn't even cross his mind.
The Batcave – five hours later:
Batman had immediately gone to the address the warden had given him. The house had been completely devoid of life: no people or animals anywhere. In addition to the cottage, the hero had checked the small orchard and the even smaller barn. He had even gone through the cupboards, looking for any sign of recent occupation. They had all been empty. Not even any crumbs for the non-existent rats to devour.
"Three cats and a parakeet," Batman grumbled at the Batcomputer.
The hero was impatient. He had put the information into the machine one minute ago, and he hadn't received a response.
"Sir, that is very vague information. Perhaps you should do something…"
"There's nothing else to do!" Batman interrupted heatedly.
Unruffled, Alfred continued, "You could spend the time making a deci…"
"I'm getting him out," the younger man interrupted again. "Bruce Wayne will go through the proper channels, but Batman will take more drastic measures."
"Master Batman," the butler said with a sigh, "please tell me that you are not considering breaking him out."
"I'm going to find Sanderson and convince him to get the boy out," Batman responded angrily. "What kind of family emergency takes a week when it's only pets?!" he nearly yelled. "And why wasn't he at the cats' grandma's house, or whatever that place is called?!"
The familiar 'ding' of the Batcomputer diverted his attention from the conversation. Turning away from Alfred, Batman picked up the card. It was an address, similar to the one given to him by Warden Wiskin. But the street was different, and Batman frowned in displeasure. He didn't care whether or not it was an accident on the warden's part, he only cared about finding the stupid social worker.
Without a word to Alfred, the Caped Crusader strode to the Batmobile, climbed in, and took off down the tunnel. The butler was used to such exits, so he merely picked up the abandoned card that had fallen to the floor and placed it back in the output tray.
Thirty minutes later, Batman was knocking on the door of the new address. A tiny old woman, as creaky as the door she slowly opened, stared up at the man with no recognition in her steely gray eyes.
Ignoring the look, the hero stated, "I'm looking for Jeff Sanderson."
The woman shook her head and began closing the door. Batman slammed his hand onto the cracked wood, effectively preventing her from shutting it.
"Out my house," she croaked, her gravelly voice surprisingly strong.
"Do you know Jeff Sanderson?" Batman demanded.
"Who wansa know?" she snapped.
"Miss Langsta, who is at…"
Jeff Sanderson appeared, and the hero shoved the door all the way open. The old woman stumbled back and would have fallen to the floor if the social worker hadn't been right behind her.
"Batman?" he asked, astonishment in his voice. "Why are you here, I've done nothing wrong!"
"Richard Grayson."
"Who?"
The hero's hands clenched into fists and his eyes narrowed in anger.
"Your newest case," he growled.
"Oh, the circus kid," Jeff replied as he helped the old woman sit down on a lumpy couch. "What do you want with him?"
"He is stuck…"
"Did they give him to someone else yet?" the social worker interrupted.
"Someone else?!" Batman roared. "What family emergency has kept you from checking on him?!"
"Family emergency? Oh, yeah, I forgot that's the one I used."
"The one you used," Batman stated, hoping he was interpreting the sentence wrong but knowing he wasn't. "It was a made-up excuse."
"I wouldn't have to do it if I didn't get all the crappy cases! He's from a freaking circus. Luckily, I had no place to put him except the detention center. Why does this even matter to you? One less criminal you'll have to take off the streets later."
"CRAPPY…LUCKILY…CRIMINAL?!" Batman exploded, the words echoing around the small house and flying outside the open door. "He is an innocent CHILD!"
"Sheesh, you don't have to yell at me," Jeff replied indifferently. "I know he's a child, that's why I put him there instead of…"
"You should stop talking," Batman interrupted, his voice low and his tone dangerous.
Jeff raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders.
"He has done nothing wrong, he has been beaten, starved, neglected, he missed his parents' funeral."
"Oh, forgot about that, probably should have passed him off sooner. That's a shame."
"A shame," Batman echoed, disbelief in his voice.
"Again, why does it even matter to you? It's not like he's someone important; he's a nobody orphan from a circus."
Jeff wrinkled his nose in disgust when he said the last word, much as Victoria Valentia had done while researching her newest case.
Batman couldn't hold himself back any longer. Grabbing the man's shoulders, the Caped Crusader pushed him back until they hit a wall. Leaning down to Jeff's level, he directed his darkest Bat-glare into the man's eyes, which were now outlined with fear.
"Release him," Batman growled. "Sign your paperwork so the warden can sign his paperwork so the boy can be released. HE. IS. NINE."
"Released, um, to where?" Jeff mumbled. "Nobody will, uh, want him. He's not worth the trouble he'll cause someone. You, um, want him on the streets?"
"Not worth…"
Batman couldn't continue. He wanted to beat the crap out of the man, but Alfred would definitely frown on that. Just like he couldn't beat the crap out of Sam. How he was holding himself back from doing anything but glaring, the hero had no idea.
"Bruce. Wayne."
Jeff burst out laughing, causing Batman to squeeze the man's arms tighter and move his face an inch closer. Their noses were almost touching now, and the social worker instantly stopped laughing.
"You think that busy millionaire will want to take in a circus freak?!"
"Just do it," the hero snapped.
"If they've given him to someone else, which hopefully they have, I can't. He's not my problem anymore."
"You have a phone."
It was not a question. Jeff, who was becoming more fearful by the second, nodded. Batman dropped the man's arms and Sanderson knew what to do. He pulled out his phone.
"Call Victoria Valentia and tell her to release Richard Grayson to Bruce Wayne," the hero demanded.
Sighing, Jeff began sifting through his contacts list.
"I don't know why you think Wayne will actually accept the kid. Besides, there's a protocol in place: paperwork, house visits…"
"And you will quickly push that protocol through and deem Bruce Wayne fit to be the boy's guardian."
"I can't, Victoria…"
"Is new and will do what you say, since the case came from you. You have two days. If Richard Grayson is not out of the detention center in two days, my next visit will not be as pleasant as this one."
Whirling around, the hero strode out of the house. Jeff Sanderson sighed in relief and dropped onto the nearest chair.
"Kid should stay there," he mumbled as he dialed Victoria's number. "Not my problem anymore."
"You have reached the office of Victoria Valentia. She is unavailable at the moment, so please leave a message. Thank you!"
"Vic, it's Jeff Sanderson. I heard you got my new kid, Grayson. Batman wants him released to Bruce Wayne immediately. It's up to you, though. I put the kid in there for a reason. He's gonna grow up to be a criminal, no doubt about that. Better to already have him in jail before he can do something horrible. My advice – leave him there. Again, though, up to you. Good luck."
"Two days, sats what Batty said. You ain' gonna survive he come back."
"He's not going to do anything, Miss Langsta. I've committed no crime, he can't do anything without getting in trouble."
The old woman thought for a moment, then nodded. Jeff couldn't wrap his head around the fact that a playboy millionaire like Bruce Wayne might consider taking in the nobody orphan, so he tossed the conversation out of his head.
Good riddance.
Office of Victoria Valentia:
Victoria had been on the phone when Jeff had called. She listened to his message right after ending her call, and her eyes widened in shock. Batman wanted the circus kid out of the detention center?!
"He's just going to grow up to be a criminal," the social worker quietly repeated Jeff's words. "And why on earth would Bruce Wayne decide to help a circus kid?"
Victoria opened a drawer on the right side of her desk and pulled out a form. She hesitated, staring at it for almost minute before deciding to put it back. The kid would be off her plate if she filled it out and signed it, but she couldn't in good conscious put a soon-to-be criminal on the already crime-filled streets of Gotham City.
"You'll thank me later, Batman," she stated, closing the drawer and relegating the matter to the back of her mind.
Chapter 15
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, Mooloodoom, usagipoints, DebbieF, leafbracer, and SenseiGrace! :) And thanks to everyone for being patient with me!
Chapter Text
Two days later:
Tank had allowed Sam to go back to his cell. The infirmary had remained empty, so Dick was still under Tank's watchful eye. Marcus had the open cell on the second floor, but the nurse was determined to keep the nine-year-old with him for as long as possible.
The warden had answered Tank's call, but hadn't been able to do anything about the situation. Only the warden could sign the paperwork for any type of release; the interim warden didn't have that authority. Warden Wiskin wasn't sure how long he would be gone, but he assured Tank that he would check on the boy as soon as he returned to work.
Every time Dick woke up, the first thing he did was ask about Sam. Where was Sam, did Sam need Dick to do anything, was Sam okay, and on and on. Tank always changed the subject, but somehow Dick would redirect the conversation back to Sam at least once.
Tank was currently sitting at his desk with his office door open, filling out some paperwork. Dick, whose bed was in Tank's direct line of sight, abruptly sat up. The nurse jumped to his feet and strode quickly to the boy's side.
"Good morning, Dick."
"Has Sam had breakfast? He might need me to bring him breakfast. You said he was sick. Is he still sick?"
"He's fine, how are you feeling?"
"Are you sure? I thought…"
"Yes," Tank said with a frustrated sigh. "How are you feeling, Dick?"
"That doesn't matter…"
"No, Sam doesn't matter. Do your ribs hurt? How does your nose feel?"
Dick's mouth dropped open in shock at the nurse's words. Sam didn't matter?! Obviously the man didn't care, which meant that Sam probably wouldn't want Dick to talk to him. So Dick shut his mouth and folded his arms across his chest, sending a slight glare into the eyes of the nurse.
"This entire situation is ridiculous," Tank muttered as he unfolded Dick's arms and probed his ribs.
The boy's breathing was better, but there was still a slight wheeze. He didn't flinch when Tank gently pressed on his ribs, which was much better than his reaction yesterday – a yelp and almost falling off the bed while trying to get away from the touch.
Tank saw the agony that flashed through the boy's expressive eyes, though. He also didn't miss the fact that Dick was holding his breath during the entire examination. Dick was trying to be strong. The nurse knew the nine-year-old was intelligent, and probably thought that appearing strong and healthy would convince Tank to send him back to Sam.
Tank glared at the bruised shin, wishing he had an x-ray machine. It was definitely fractured, at the very least, but he couldn't do anything about it without knowing the extent of the injury.
"Okay, Dick, I need you to get up and walk for me."
The light-blue eyes widened in dismay, and the boy hesitated.
"Your leg hurts," Tank commented.
Dick just stared at him, fear flitting around the dismay. But, to Tank's surprise, the nine-year-old turned his body so his legs were hanging over the side of the bed. Tank watched a drop of blood appear on Dick's lip as the boy bit down hard, trying to distract himself from the pain in his leg by making something else hurt.
"Let me help you get down," Tank suggested.
Dick ignored him, carefully sliding himself over the edge of the bed and landing lightly on his feet. Clenching his jaw, the nine-year-old put all of his weight on his left leg and took a step with his right foot. A step that wasn't really a step, because his foot didn't even touch the ground.
"Dick," Tank sighed, "I'm not an idiot. And I'm not going to make the injury worse by having you walk on it."
"I have to get back to Sam. You don't understand, Sam needs me to do stuff for him."
Dick's voice was sullen, but there was a pleading tone. The dot of blood from his lip dribbled down his chin when he spoke. He swiped the back of his right hand across his face, and when he saw the smear of red, he burst into tears.
"Hey, it's okay," Tank said softly, gently picking him up and sitting him on the bed again. "You're going to be okay, but you have to forget about Sam."
"I can't, I can't, I killed Chuck and he hates me and I have to do…"
"Dick, you did not kill Chuck!" Tank almost shouted. "Get that idiotic piece of misinformation out of your stubborn little head! Sam is not good for you! He's using you, and everything he has done has not been for your benefit. You're not going back. Ever!"
"Please," Dick begged, "please, I need him. Nobody else cares, everyone is mean, I need him! You don't understand!"
"I care," Tank replied softly. "Marcus cares, and Bruce Wayne cares. Do you remember Mr. Wayne?"
Tears were streaming down Dick's face, but he was quiet as he tried to picture the man in his mind. There was that slightly-familiar floating face that was always saying he wanted to help. Maybe that was Mr. Wayne?
"Help?" Dick asked quietly, his voice trembling.
"Yes," Tank responded, "we want to help you. Dick, you are not supposed to be in this place. You just lost your family – your entire world, really – and Sanderson should not have even brought you here. 'No room' is not an excuse for putting you in jail and leaving you here. I'm trying to get you out, and Mr. Wayne is trying to help with that."
I hope he is, anyway.
Tank had no real confirmation of that from Bruce, but his gut told him that the millionaire wasn't just checking on the boy once in a while. The nurse was fairly certain that Bruce wanted to get Dick out, and Tank really hoped it was going to happen soon.
"Sam is my family now," Dick stated, dropping his gaze to the ground. "I don't have anyone, only Sam knows me."
Tank, for what felt like the hundredth time in less than a week, wanted to grab the small shoulders and shake some sense into the young mind. He had no idea how to correct Dick's line of thinking; the boy was brainwashed into believing everything Sam said.
"Do you remember anything about this past week?" the nurse asked. "Besides the fact that Sam 'needs' you," he amended.
Maybe his concussion had caused Dick to forget the beatings he had taken at Sam's direction. Perhaps he didn't even know he had almost died because of those beatings.
Lifting his head, Dick stated, "I played games, and I always lost because I'm not good at the games."
Tank sighed and replied, "You were in one-sided fights, not playing games. Sam had people beat you up so that you would comply with whatever he said. He used terror to brainwash you…"
"I'm not brainwashed," Dick responded with another glare.
"Do you even know what that means?"
The nine-year-old hesitated, then lied, "Yes."
Tank looked at him skeptically, causing Dick to drop his head again.
"Um, no," the boy whispered. "But Sam is always right."
"That right there, what you just said, proves that you are brainwashed. Nobody is always right, Dick. In fact, Sam is rarely right."
The comment caused Dick to snap his head up.
"Sam is always right," he retorted.
"Dick, I'm fairly intelligent, and I know that you are not an idiot. Sam controls people with fear. How often have you felt scared this week?"
The question hung in the air for almost a minute. Tank studied the expressive eyes, waiting for any sign that Dick remembered something about his first day or so in the center. It didn't take long; fear and confusion immediately rushed through the light-blue circles as silence filled the room.
Finally, the boy whispered, "I, um…a lot. Everybody hates me, but Sam said I did something terrible and deserve to be here."
Tank almost turned around and punched the wall. He had no idea how he was able to restrain himself, because the fact that Dick thought he deserved to be here caused fury to fill his entire body. Instead, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and silently counted to ten.
"I'm sorry," Dick said when Tank internally said five. "Do you hate me, too?"
The nurse shook his head but couldn't yet trust himself to speak. Reaching the number ten, he slowly opened his eyes. Dick was staring at him, despair etched on his young face.
"There are at least three people who don't hate you. Myself, the guard who checked you in – Marcus – and Mr. Wayne."
"Oh," Dick replied softly, dropping his head again.
With another frustrated sigh, Tank stated, "You only know five people, and three of us want to help you."
"I killed…"
He paused when Tank sucked in a sharp breath.
"No, not Chuck," he said quickly, lifting his head. "Wherever I was before this, I killed someone and the guy put me here."
"You were in a circus, and you did not kill anyone. Your parents died in an accident, and your idiotic social worker thought it would be a good idea to put you here."
"So…he hates me, too?"
The phone in Tank's office rang, saving him from launching into a speech about how he felt about Jeff Sanderson. Holding up a finger, he turned around, strode to his office, and picked up the phone.
"Bruce Wayne wants to see the kid again."
Hope rushed through his chest and Tank's sigh was full of relief this time.
"I'll bring him over myself. We're in the middle of an important conversation and I need to calm him down, so give us five minutes."
The guard on the other end of the phone hummed in agreement and hung up. Tank replaced the receiver and, turning around, was greeted with the sight of an empty bed. Dick was gone, probably on his way to try to find Sam.
"Idiot," Tank growled.
He didn't mean it – Dick was obviously intelligent – but the nine-year-old was stubborn, and the nurse was both frustrated and angry. Wishing he really could just shake some sense into the boy's brain, Tank strode out the door to search for him.
Dick waited until Tank picked up the phone before making his escape. Clenching his jaw, the nine-year-old slid off the bed. His right leg buckled, but he forced the pain away by chomping down on his tongue. Ignoring the taste of his own blood, Dick half-hopped to the door of the infirmary.
Glancing back at the nurse, and finding him still on the phone, Dick quietly opened the door and limped into the hallway. If he could find the guard who hated him, he would be taken back to Sam – where he was supposed to be at all times.
Bruce Wayne was impatient. He had arrived less than five minutes ago, and the guard had immediately picked up the phone to notify…someone. Bruce was hoping the guard would say Dick was no longer in the detention center. But that tiny flame of hope was extinguished when the guard hung up the phone.
"Tank'll bring him here in about five minutes, Mr. Wayne. You wanna go in?"
Giving a short nod, Bruce strode to the door separating the lobby from the visitors room. The guard buzzed it open, and the millionaire walked straight to his 'usual' table. Tank had Dick, that was good. However, did that mean that Dick had taken a beating again?
Three minutes later, Bruce began drumming his fingers on the table and checking his watch every ten seconds. Five minutes after that, the man stood up and started pacing. Where were they?
Dick was currently in a bathroom, sitting under a sink and leaning against the cool tile of the wall. His entire body was dripping with sweat, and the pain in his leg was almost overwhelming. He had nearly passed out twice while roaming the hallways. The edges of his vision were dark, and the room kept swimming in and out of focus.
"Sam," he whispered.
That word was keeping him awake. He had to find Sam, because Sam would know how to fix whatever was wrong with Dick. Sam was perfect, and always right, and Dick owed him everything.
The door to the bathroom opened, and Dick wearily raised his head. Whomever had come in was just a blob of colors.
"Well, look who we have here."
Ron's voice sounded different, but Dick didn't really care. He recognized it, and knew that this man could take him to Sam.
"Sam," the boy whispered again.
"Yeah, we'll go see Sam in a little while. You and I have some things to work out first."
Ron bent down, grabbed Dick's left arm, and yanked him out from under the sink. The nine-year-old grunted in pain, but willingly stood up when Ron pulled on his arm.
"Walk," Ron demanded.
Dick tried, but his right leg buckled as soon as he moved it.
Ron gave him a shove, and Dick tumbled to the ground. His left arm landed first, the cast on his wrist sending a loud 'crack' echoing around the bathroom as a small crevice appeared in the middle. The head guard grumbled something, then bent down again and scooped the boy into his arms.
"Let's have a chat, somewhere in a place nobody will think to look."
Grinning, Ron headed for the teenage block. Lunch had just begun, and nobody would be in that block for at least an hour. Dick stared up at him for a moment, then closed his eyes and allowed the pain to pull him into darkness.
Chapter 16
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, usagipoints and Jayjay! :)
Chapter Text
Tank didn't know it was lunch time in the teenage block. So the nurse was walking through the east door, looking for Dick, at the same time that Ron brought the unconscious boy through the west door. They saw each other immediately, and the head guard made an instant – and idiotic – decision.
Ron laid Dick on the floor and shoved him into the nearest cell. Pulling out his standard issue nightstick, he lumbered toward the nurse. He was bigger but not stronger, so he was hoping his weapon would negate the advantage Tank had.
As soon as he saw the nine-year-old in Ron's arms, Tank began sprinting. He didn't have a child to put in a cell, so he had a full head of steam before the guard had even started to run.
Ron held his nightstick in the air as he ran, ready to swing it at Tank's head. The nurse, however, wasn't an idiot. He went low, driving his shoulder into the guard's solar plexus and knocking the wind out of him. Ignoring the sound of Ron's head hitting the floor, Tank continued down the hall. Thirty seconds later, Dick was in his arms and he was stepping over the guard on his way back to the infirmary.
"Dick, Mr. Wayne is here, I need you to wake up."
To Tank's surprise, Dick obliged. Light-blue eyes instantly appeared, and Tank was dismayed to see the clouds floating through them.
"Did you hit your head, Dick?"
The nine-year-old thought for a moment, then shook his head.
"Did you fall? Your cast is looking a little worse for wear at the moment."
"Yeah," Dick whispered.
"Well, let's get that fixed and then I'll take you to see Mr. Wayne. Sound good?"
Dick shrugged, and Tank sighed.
They had just arrived at the infirmary, so the nurse placed Dick on the bed the boy had recently vacated.
"Stay here, I need to get some supplies. Do I need to strap you down?"
Tank's voice was firm, and fear flitted across Dick's face. He shook his head and laid down.
"Don't go to sleep, either," Tank lightly commanded. "I don't know how your head is doing, and I don't want you going into a coma."
This time Dick nodded. The nurse went to the far side of the room, gathering supplies to fix the cast and wrap the shin. It took him only five minutes, then he began the process of removing the cast.
"Tank, have you seen our mutual friend?"
The nurse glanced up at the sound of Marcus' voice.
"If you went searching for him, you might find him in the teenage block," Tank answered with a slight grin.
"Do you need any help?" Marcus asked, motioning toward Dick.
Shaking his head, Tank replied, "No, just going to fix him up before taking him to the visiting area. Bruce Wayne is back."
"You want me to have a chat with Wayne?" Marcus asked, wanting to help the only man who cared about this particular child. "I don't know him, but it's what, his third or fourth time visiting this kid?"
"Go right ahead," Tank replied. "I need some time to fix Dick up, so you can keep Wayne busy while I finish. Thanks."
Nodding, Marcus turned around and left the infirmary. He gathered his thoughts as he walked, reviewing everything he knew and deciding how to present it to Bruce Wayne. All of his thoughts went out the window as soon as he walked into the room. The well-connected millionaire could be very intimidating when he wanted to be, and Bruce Wayne was extremely irritated with every guard in the detention center.
"Where is he?" Bruce demanded angrily as he stopped pacing and folded his arms across his broad chest.
"Grayson is with Tank right now, and Tank'll bring him as soon as he's done fixing him up."
"What happened this time?" Bruce growled.
"I don't know what Tank's working on, but Grayson has been in the infirmary for the last day or so. He looked okay..."
"He looked 'okay'. Do you care about anything that goes on in this place? Nobody else seems to, least of all the guards."
The last word was full of disgust, and Marcus folded his arms defensively across his chest.
"Yes," he ground out through clenched teeth, "I care. I'm the one that took him to Tank the first time, I'm the one that had a chat with Ron…"
"Who is Ron?" the millionaire interrupted. "Your tone makes it sound like it was more than just a conversation."
"Ron is the head guard," Marcus answered gruffly, "and whether or not it was just a conversation is none of your business."
"I'm on Dick Grayson's side," Bruce replied, anger still filling his tone. "If you did something to help him, I'm not going to ask about it. But if you are one of the guards who…"
"I am not one of them!" Marcus burst out. "Tank and I, we try to help. If you only knew how many…forget it."
The guard sighed and dropped onto the nearest chair.
"I checked him in…"
"You took him to the teenage block!" Bruce yelled, dropping his arms and clenching his hands into fists.
"I took him to the only spot we had, he's not even supposed to be here!" Marcus shouted back. "I told Ron to look out for him, I didn't tell him to let Grayson become a toy for his nephew to play with!"
"Let me get this straight," Bruce growled as he, too, sat down. "Ron is the head guard, and his nephew is an inmate in the teenage block. Does his nephew happen to be named Sam?"
Marcus nodded and stated, "I guess there's a fight club – I'm on the second floor so I don't know everything that happens in the teenage block. But from what I've heard, Grayson was on the losing end of several fights. I've had a cell open on the second floor for a few days. Ron should have moved Grayson down there, he was the only one who could go anywhere during the lockdown and he knew I had space."
"Why, exactly, didn't Ron move him?" Bruce snapped.
"You'd have to ask him, but my guess is that Sam wants to keep Grayson by his side. Tank knows more about this than I do, but from what I've gathered it seems that Sam has control over the kid both mentally and physically. I heard Grayson tell Tank that Sam is always right. I may or may not have accidentally broken Ron's nose when I asked him about the situation."
"That's what I've gathered as well," the millionaire responded, his voice much calmer. "Dick has refused to tell me anything that's happened…"
"With all due respect, Mr. Wayne, you are a stranger and he is only nine."
"I'm aware," Bruce almost snapped. "The last time I talked to him, he wouldn't even do anything until I told him that Sam wanted him to do what I asked."
"What?!" Marcus snarled. "You son…"
"I didn't want to," Bruce quickly interrupted, "but I needed to know how he was doing."
"Why?" Marcus asked, genuinely curious.
"I…don't know," Bruce confessed.
He was saved from further explanation when the door opened. Tank strode in with Dick nestled snugly in his arms.
"We're going to have to hold him," Tank said, the statement directed at Marcus, "because he already tried to run away twice. Hello, Bruce."
"I need to be with Sam!" Dick suddenly burst out.
Tank sighed, shook his head, and sat down at the same table as Bruce. He wrapped his arms around Dick's torso, pinning the boy's arms to his sides.
"Dick, this is Bruce Wayne. You've met him before, two or three times, and he wants to help you. All three of us are just trying to help you, okay?"
"Sam helps me," Dick said sullenly.
"How does Sam help you, Dick?" Bruce asked, attempting to keep his voice calm.
"He teaches me and lets me do stuff for him."
"What has he taught you?"
"How to play the game, and when to eat, and where to sleep. Important stuff like that."
"Those last two are important," Bruce agreed. "But Sam shouldn't be in control of things like that. Isn't there a schedule?"
The question was directed at Marcus, who nodded.
"All Dick has to do is follow everyone else to meals when the bell rings. And every cell has a bed; where to sleep should be obvious. Unless he's an idiot, which he clearly is not."
"How do you play 'the game', Dick?" Bruce asked, returning his attention to the boy.
"You play against one person, and you win when Sam says you win," he answered.
"That's very vague," Bruce commented. "How do you win?"
"When the other kid doesn't get up," Dick replied.
The nine-year-old's tone was full of disbelief, as if all three men should have known this and were idiots for asking.
Bruce was furious, but at least now he knew why Dick had black eyes and a broken wrist and a severe concussion and broken ribs and whatever else the boy had gone through.
Somehow, he was able to keep his voice calm as he asked, "Have you ever won the game?"
Dick dropped his gaze to the table and mumbled, "No."
There was a tinge of shame in his voice, but it was mixed with pride.
"I could have won against Carl, but Sam told me to lose because I killed…"
Dick slammed his mouth shut, glanced up at Tank, then dropped his eyes again.
"You did not kill Chuck," Tank snapped. "Or your parents," he added.
Bruce closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Dick still believed he was a murderer. The man wanted to yell at the guard to go get Sam, but Bruce Wayne wouldn't be interrogating a teenager. Batman, however, would be paying a visit to several people tonight.
Opening his eyes, the millionaire asked, "Why do you think you killed Chuck?"
Tank glared at the man, but allowed the question to hang in the air.
"Because I made him stumble and then he didn't win the next time he played the game," the nine-year-old muttered. "Then he died."
"You…"
Bruce was at a loss for words. Making a teenager stumble in a fight led to his death? How on earth had Sam convinced him of that?
"Dick," Tank finally said softly, "you had nothing to do with it. Chuck and a couple of other kids got in a fight later, and they all paid the price for it. You weren't even in the yard!"
The last sentence was much louder, and Bruce watched Tank's face darken in anger. But then the nurse took a deep breath, and his tense body relaxed slightly.
"Sam is always right," Dick stated stubbornly. "He said I did it, and he's always right."
"Sam is a son of a fricking biscuit eater!" Tank nearly yelled.
Dick, still trapped in the strong arms of the nurse, began trembling.
"Sorry," Tank mumbled, although he wasn't at all sorry.
"Dick, I really need to know how to play the game," Bruce interjected. "What do you actually do?"
"Um, Sam might not want me to tell you that. He said the game is just for kids and that adults wouldn't understand."
"What if we bring Sam in here? Then you'll know if it's okay with him," Bruce suggested.
Both Tank and Marcus stared at the millionaire incredulously.
"I don't know if that's…"
"We can talk to him, too," Bruce stated, interrupting Tank's statement with a look that said he had a plan.
"Marcus, go find Sam," Tank directed. "If you see Ron, tell him that Sam has an important visitor, but not who it is or who else is in here."
The guard turned his gaze to Tank, disbelief still in his eyes. Tank flicked his eyes to Bruce, and Marcus understood. He had no idea what kind of plan would involve bringing the teen who had control over the kid into the same room, but Tank apparently trusted Bruce Wayne. Marcus stood up and went to find Sam.
"Marcus seems like a competent man," Bruce commented.
"Best guard we have," Tank agreed. "He should be in the teenage block; there would probably be a lot less fighting going on."
"We don't fight," Dick stated, "we play games."
"Because most games end up with a kid on the ground beaten halfway to death," Tank answered, sarcasm filling every word.
"No, just ours," Dick replied without thinking.
The men looked at each other, and a slight grin slid across both faces. They finally had their first real answer.
The teenagers had just finished lunch, and Sam was currently supervising a game between Carl and Frankie. The former had just fallen to the ground, and he quickly closed his eyes and went limp.
Shrugging, Sam said, "Frankie is the winner."
The two boys walked away in separate directions. Marcus suddenly materialized beside Sam and placed a hand on the teen's back.
"You have a visitor, and he really wants to see you."
"A visitor?" Sam asked incredulously. "I never have visitors!"
"He asked for you," Marcus said with a shrug. "Let's go."
Sam was suspicious, and he glanced around the yard.
"Ron is currently occupied, which is why I came to collect you."
Either taking care of some injuries or unconscious, courtesy of Tank's strength.
The thought brought a smile to the face of the guard, an expression that Sam didn't miss.
"What's going on?" the teenager snapped.
"Why do you think something is going on?"
"You're smiling."
"Is that unusual with you teenagers? Good thing I'm not on your floor, because I smile a lot. Life is pretty good. But it's probably not good for you, so not smiling makes sense."
"Shut up," Sam muttered as he turned toward the complex and began walking.
Six minutes later, they were standing in front of the visiting room door.
"You can't go in with me, that's the rule," Sam said snarkily.
"Never said I was," Marcus replied, grinning as he opened the door and allowed the teen to enter. "Enjoy your visit."
Marcus closed the door and leaned against the wall, fully expecting Sam to try to run right back out once he saw who was in the room.
Sam was snarling in the direction of Marcus, so he had no idea who was there until he turned around. His eyes widened when he saw the scene: Dick was sitting at a table, picking at the wood, and Bruce Wayne was right beside him. Tank was casually standing in a corner, partly hidden by the lack of light in the area.
"Sam?" Bruce inquired.
The teenager nodded as Dick raised his head.
Jumping to his feet, the nine-year-old said, "I've been trying to get to you, they wouldn't let me go, I really tried!"
Sam held up his hand, and Dick immediately dropped back onto the chair.
Bruce kept his expression neutral, but his eyes darkened with anger. Sam hadn't said anything, but Dick had automatically reacted as if he had been given a command. Complete control, and Batman wanted to take the kid down immediately.
Wait for tonight.
Bruce appeased Batman with the thought, and the millionaire motioned to Sam. The teenager slowly walked to the table, moved a chair back far enough that Bruce couldn't reach him without standing up, and sat down.
"What do you want?" Sam asked.
"I just have some questions."
Dick frantically shook his head and almost yelled, "I didn't say anything, I promise!"
"Shut up," Sam commanded, and Dick dropped his eyes to the floor.
Bruce almost slammed his hands on the table, but knew he needed to remain calm. Instead, he folded his hands and rested them on the creaky wood.
"How are you feeling today?" the millionaire inquired, his voice casual. "I heard you were sick."
"I'm fine, not that it's any of your business," Sam snapped. "What do you want?"
"As I said, I just have a few questions. Are you willing to answer?"
The thinly-veiled implied threat hung in the air, and Sam swallowed tightly.
"Yeah," he replied sullenly, glaring into Bruce's eyes.
"How old are you?"
Bruce had decided to start easy.
"Fifteen."
"Do you have friends in here, are you being treated okay?"
"Yeah and yeah," the teen muttered.
"Do you like to play games?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"The type of game. Don't like board games."
"What about video games?"
"Sure," Sam answered with a shrug.
"Action games?"
"Whatever."
Bruce raised his eyebrows at the vague answer, and Sam tried to amend his answer.
"Action games are better than girlie games."
"Like what?"
"I don't know, I don't play girlie games!"
"I didn't tell them anything, I promise," Dick whispered, keeping his eyes on the ground.
"Are you my friend, kid?" Sam snarled, causing the nine-year-old to lift his head.
"Yes."
"Then what are you doing over there? Friends support each other, and this guy is asking me questions."
"Sorry," Dick said softly, immediately standing up and limping around the table.
"No," Bruce snapped, "you don't get to command him to do something. He is not your toy, or your little lemming, or your slave."
Bruce took a deep breath, then looked at the younger boy and said, "Dick, you're limping. Did something happen to your leg?"
"I'm fine," Dick answered, forcing himself to stand with his weight on both legs.
Everyone heard the quiet 'crack' in the silent room, but Dick clenched his jaw and curled his hands into fists.
"I'm fine," he repeated, trying but failing to keep the pain out of his voice.
"You're not," Bruce observed.
"Sit down," Sam commanded, and Dick dropped onto the nearest chair with a soft sigh of relief.
"Why're you talking to this guy, kid?" the teen demanded.
"I don't know, sorry."
"He doesn't care about you, he's just trying to trip you up and make you say things that aren't true."
Bruce almost jumped to his feet and almost allowed Batman to fly at the teenager.
Tonight.
Ignoring the expression of dejection on Dick's face, and the fact that the boy was guiltily slumping into himself, Bruce sent a dark glare into the pride-filled eyes of Sam.
"I will ask you only one more time. What kind of games do you like to play?"
Silence filled the room until Dick couldn't take it anymore.
"I…told them we play games," he whispered.
"You what?!" Sam yelled, jumping to his feet.
Before anyone could react, Sam slammed his fist into Dick's head. The nine-year-old tumbled off the chair, his head hitting the ground with a 'thunk'. Bruce shoved his chair away from the table and pulled the teenager off the limp body of the boy, but not before Sam smashed his fist into Dick's broken ribs.
"You're an idiot, kid, you hear me?!" Sam exploded. "A fricking idiot who needs to be taught another lesson!"
Dick was already unconscious. Bruce was holding the struggling teen, and almost tossed him across the room at the words. Both Tank and Marcus were suddenly by his side, the guard wrestling Sam to the ground and the nurse pushing the millionaire away from the scene.
"You won't get Dick out of here if you do something like that," Tank advised, his voice firm enough to burst through the rage in Bruce's mind.
His body was trembling with fury, but Bruce gave a short nod and forced himself to sit down on the nearest chair.
"He's mine, Wayne!" Sam mumbled through the arm across his face. "Even if you take him, he'll always be mine!"
"Get him out of here," Tank snapped.
Marcus had already slapped handcuffs on the teen's wrists. Pulling him to his feet, the guard shoved Sam toward the door.
"You'll pay for this!" Sam yelled over his shoulder, right before Marcus slammed the door shut.
Tank was kneeling on the floor next to Dick, examining him and making a list aloud.
"Leg probably more than fractured, ribs back to where they were – dang it, they were healing so well – most likely a new concussion, this is fantastic," the nurse finished sarcastically.
"His leg is fractured, too?!" Bruce almost yelled.
"I don't know," Tank replied, frustration filling his voice, "because I don't have an x-ray machine. And the dang warden isn't here, and the interim warden doesn't have the authority to release anybody for any reason, and…"
"Can't the warden give permission to whoever is in charge right now?!"
"Not verbally, has to be in writing. I have to get Dick to the infirmary."
Scooping the unconscious boy into his arms, Tank strode out the door. Bruce dropped his head into his hands. This last assault was his fault. He had hoped the sight of Sam would cause Dick to confess, which it had, but he hadn't expected Sam to retaliate so swiftly and violently in front of an adult.
"Any new injury is on me," he whispered, wishing he had been quicker. "I have to get him out. Tonight."
Keeping that thought in mind, Bruce stood up and waited to be buzzed out.
"I hope you're not thinking about breaking him out, Mr. Wayne," the guard who pressed the button stated. "Everything in here is recorded, so you pretty much just confessed. That kid is not worth going to jail, if you don't mind me saying."
"I do mind," Bruce snapped as he marched out the door. "Idiot," he muttered to himself. "Of course everything is recorded."
Chapter 17
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, leafbracer, usagipoints, and Mooloodoom! :)
Chapter Text
Ron was sitting on a chair in the cafeteria, wincing every time another guard touched the tender spot on the back of his head.
"Sorry, but I gotta clean off the blood before I can cover it up. How'd you get this anyway?"
Not wanting to admit his defeat at the hands of a nurse, Ron replied, "Slipped."
Shaking his head, the other guard let the simple answer go. Ron was, after all, the head guard, and it wasn't the younger man's job to ask for more details.
"There you go," he said as he finished taping a small piece of gauze over the injury. "Anything else you need?"
Ron gingerly touched his ribs, but decided he could let them heal on their own. Nobody needed to know he had lost a fight, two if you counted the confrontation with Marcus.
The other guard didn't miss the soft hiss of pain that flew out of Ron's mouth as his hand moved to his torso. But, again, he let it go. If Ron didn't want to say anything, he wasn't going to ask about it.
He began cleaning the table and putting the medical supplies away.
"Tank was too busy for you?" the younger man asked conversationally. "Heard there's been a lot of fights lately."
Without answering, Ron stood up and walked away.
"Or was it Tank that got ahold of you?" he muttered when Ron was out of earshot.
Eleven o'clock that night:
Marcus was ready to leave. He signed his name on the time sheet, said goodbye to the guard at the registration desk, and turned around. At the same time, Batman strode into the lobby.
"Security check," the hero growled, not giving either guard a chance to say anything.
"Um, it's not on the calendar," the guard behind the desk said timidly.
Marcus glanced at the man with a look of incredulity before resting his gaze on Batman.
"This place has been needing a checkup for a while," Marcus stated. "Feel free to talk to anyone you want for however long you want."
"But, Ron…"
"Is currently off-duty and probably asleep in the basement," Marcus interrupted. "All of his cronies – I'm sorry, fellow 'guards' – are probably with him. As the highest-ranking guard still awake, I'm giving Batman permission, although he doesn't really need it."
"You don't know…"
"Luke, I know the routine of almost every guard in this place. You've been here for two months, you know practically nothing. So just shut your mouth and let Batman do what he needs to do. For starters, give him a badge."
"I can't just give a random person a badge!" Luke exclaimed. "A visitor pass, yeah, but not a badge!"
"Batman is not a 'random person'," Marcus practically snarled. "Give him a badge."
"Ron won't like it," Luke warned as he punched a few buttons on the machine next to him.
"Blame it on me. Ron and I have some things to chat about anyway."
Batman internally chuckled, doubting that their future conversation was going to have a lot of talking. The hero was glad he had met Marcus, and glad the man was good at his job. Marcus was going to get high marks if Batman decided to send a report to the warden. And it was more than obvious that the guard could handle himself.
Luke gave something to Marcus, who handed it to Batman. It was a security badge with almost complete clearance.
"Only the head guard has complete clearance," Marcus explained. "We don't have the capability to give that to anyone. Would if I could."
Batman accepted the badge with a short nod. When he was done with this place, Marcus would either be the head guard or on his way to a better job somewhere else. Because Batman was going to convince Ron and his buddies to leave, or he was going to shut the detention center down. Warden Wiskin was either going to thank him for taking out the trash or hate him for putting him out of a job.
"I can stay and show you around, if you want," Marcus offered.
"I can find my way around," Batman responded gruffly.
With a nod, Marcus turned toward the door.
"Guards sleep here?" the Caped Crusader suddenly inquired.
Marcus stopped, waiting for Luke to answer. The latter guard just shrugged, and the former turned back with a sigh.
"Most of us, no," he replied. "A handful, most of them on floors four and five, for some reason decide to stay. Basement has a few beds and other necessities, and they usually go down there around ten. Probably playing cards, or figuring out how to make kids' lives as miserable as possible, or some other stupid thing," Marcus finished angrily.
"Floors four and five…"
"Teenagers," Luke interrupted, earning himself a Bat-glare.
"Good place to start," Marcus advised. "That's where we have the most trouble. Thing is, Ron's got a nephew on the fourth floor, and the kid pretty much runs the place. Not scared of anything, thinks nobody can touch him because his uncle is the head guard."
"That does sound like a good place to start," Batman responded with another nod. "Thank you for your help."
"You sure you don't want me to stay?"
"I can find my way around," the hero repeated.
This time it was Marcus who nodded again.
"Good luck," he said, then turned around and left.
"You…" Luke began, but Batman was already gone.
Sam was awakened by the sound of metal bars clanging against each other. He groggily opened his eyes, wondering why he hadn't heard the bell.
"Get up," a rough voice growled.
The teenager realized why he hadn't heard the bell: it was still dark, it wasn't time for breakfast. But, somehow, Batman was standing at the entrance to his cell. He was swathed in shadows, making his appearance even more intimidating than it already was to the fifteen-year-old.
"What, uh, why are you here?" Sam asked.
"Security check. Get. Up."
Sam sat up and slowly made his way to standing. Nervously, he began shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He was not used to not being in control, and the anticipation of the unknown was making him uneasy.
"You're in charge of the fight club."
It was a comment, and Sam realized that Batman had no doubt that it was a fact. He remained silent, not wanting to antagonize the man.
"How many kids have been severely injured because of your little club?"
"You, uh, you got the wrong guy," Sam answered, biting his lip in order to stop the trembling.
"I don't like liars," Batman stated, folding his arms across his chest. "Do you want to try again?"
"No?" Sam replied weakly.
Batman moved so quickly that Sam didn't have time to react. The teenager was suddenly facing the wall with his arms behind his back. His wrists were smashed together in one of Batman's fists, and two seconds later the front of his torso was being shoved against the wall.
"Talk," Batman commanded, grabbing a clump of the boy's hair and turning his head to the left.
"A'out wha?" Sam mumbled through the half of his mouth that wasn't kissing the cold wall.
"Why do you make kids fight and call it a 'game'? Let's start with that one."
"I don' know wha…"
"Don't lie to me," Batman warned.
Pulling Sam's head away from the wall, Batman gently slammed it against the cement. It was hard enough to give him a headache, but not hard enough to knock him out. Alfred was not going to be happy with him but, Batman rationalized, at least he wasn't beating the kid to a pulp.
"A'use," Sam tried to yell. "He'p!"
Batman chuckled darkly.
"You would know what abuse is, you do it every day. This," Batman gently repeated his earlier action, "is not abuse. It's a reminder that you should tell the truth, and tell me everything."
"I don' do anyt'ing," Sam tried to retort.
"What happened to Chuck?" Batman snarled.
Releasing the teenager's wrists, the hero whirled him around so his back was against the wall. He put one large hand on either side of Sam's face, and waited.
Sam's eyes widened in fear when he saw the Bat-glare. His thoughts began running in circles, but one jumped to the forefront of his mind.
"Grayson did it!" he exclaimed. "New kid, something Grayson. Wanted to prove himself so he picked a fight with Chuck! The kid killed my best friend!"
"That's the story you're going with?!" Batman asked incredulously.
"Not a story, it's true," Sam mumbled.
"Tell me about Grayson," the Caped Crusader demanded.
"New kid, came in a week or so ago, killed someone in the circus so they put him up here. He's like ten or something, but he can fight like his life depends on it."
"Really," Batman commented, leaning down so his face was two inches away from that of Sam. "Is that why he has a broken nose, and broken ribs, and a broken wrist, and a fractured leg, and a concussion?"
"We're, um, not talking about the same person. I don't know anybody like that."
"Should we take a trip to the infirmary? You look a little pale."
Stop toying with him.
Alfred's voice raced through his mind, but Batman ignored it. He was enjoying watching the teenager squirm in fear.
"No, uh, I'm okay," the boy replied.
And then he did something stupid. Something so idiotic that Batman nearly burst out laughing. Sam's arms were free, so he clenched his hands and shoved the resulting fists into the stomach of the Caped Crusader. Batman didn't even flinch, so Sam tried again. This time, however, the hero grabbed the teenager's arms, lifted him up, and tossed him onto the bed.
Sam's head hit the bars of his cell, and he saw double for a moment.
"You gonna re…uh…regret that," the teenager stuttered. "D'you know who my unkie is? You in biiiiiiiig trouble."
"I'm going to go have a chat with your uncle," Batman snapped. "We'll talk again later."
Leaving that dark promise hanging in the air, the Caped Crusader strode out the cell door. Slamming it shut, he used his badge to lock it. Then, he headed for the basement.
The basement – 30 minutes later:
Batman was annoyed. The way to the basement had a few twists and turns, and the Caped Crusader's excellent sense of direction had failed him twice. But then he heard voices, and saw a light at the end of the hallway he had just entered.
This is going to be fun.
The door was half-closed, and Batman suddenly couldn't decide whether to listen or just burst through. Maybe he could get some incriminating evidence if he listened, but the hero really wanted to take Ron down and ask questions later. What he heard stopped him in his tracks.
"Kid still thinks he killed Chuck."
"Dude, kid wasn't even in the yard! Why'd Sam do that?"
"Have you seen how he acts now? He worships Sammy, does anything Sammy tells him, won't even eat unless given permission! Last couple of days he's lost three fights on purpose to prove his loyalty and to show he was sorry for killing Chuck."
Batman didn't recognize any of the three voices, but the only guard he had ever met – besides the ones who checked Bruce Wayne in and out – was Marcus. The hero's hands were in tight fists, his jaw was clenched, and his blood was boiling with fury. But, for some reason that he didn't understand, he decided to wait.
"Sammy's been careful. Grayson's lost every fight, bad enough that he's too scared to tell anyone about it."
"Nobody's said or done anything?!"
The voice had a tinge of disbelief skirting through it, as if it was the first time the man was hearing about it.
"Marcus," the first voice snarled. "And Tank."
"Yeah, Tank's been yelling at people again. And Wayne's been here three or four times, wanting to talk to the kid every time. Sammy and me, we made sure Grayson won't talk to anyone, especially Wayne."
Batman was relatively sure that the last voice belonged to Ron. What other guard would call the teenager 'Sammy'? He thought about bursting through the door, but then he heard something he would never forget.
"Wanna know what really happened?"
"With what?"
"Chucky-boy."
"He got in a fight and died, didn't he? Open and shut."
"Nope. Chuck was getting on Sammy's nerves. Always getting mad if the kid he was fighting didn't go down right away. Sammy was getting worried that Chucky-boy might try to take over the yard. Kid was too dumb to do that, but Sammy wanted security."
"Did you…?"
"Heck no, I'm not stupid! Those three boys got in a violent fight. Might've helped them along a little bit, but I didn't kill them."
"How?!"
"Quick little snap to the head with this bad boy on the way to Tank. Other two weren't supposed to die, but I guess the fight was a little more violent than I thought. But I got evidence against Grayson if anybody ever decides to examine the bodies."
"You killed an inmate and framed a kid?!" one of the voices whisper-yelled.
"No, Grayson killed him. Took some blood from Grayson when he was lying on the floor and smeared it all over Chucky's head. Might've mixed with his, but there's of enough of Grayson's to show he did it. Nobody's gonna doubt it – his word against mine and I'm the head guard. 'Sides, he thinks he did it anyway."
The Caped Crusader didn't want to hear anymore. He had enough to put Ron away for life, and he was tired of listening to the man. Slamming his left hand on the door, Batman shoved it all the way open and strode into the room.
All three guards jumped to their feet. Two backed away, but one stood his ground, nightstick in hand.
"What're you doing here?" the man asked, trying to keep his tone cordial.
"Ron."
It was a comment, not a question, so Ron nodded.
"Head guard Ron."
The man nodded again.
"Security check."
"Is that on the calendar? I don't remember…"
"Surprise," Batman said sharply. "I need to talk to Ron," he stated, glancing at the two other guards.
"Sure, okay, yeah, of course," the other two guards agreed, quickly making their way to the wide open door.
"Close the door," Batman growled over his shoulder, and the door slammed shut.
Ron licked his lips nervously and tightened his grip on the nightstick.
"How can I help you, Batman?"
"You have a fight club, and your nephew runs it."
"The kids play a game, and sometimes someone gets hurt, but it's not a fight club," Ron denied.
"I've heard the rules of this 'game'. It's a fight club."
Ron had nothing to say. Batman was right – they both knew it – and Ron couldn't think of a way around the statement.
"What is so special about Dick Grayson?" the hero asked after almost a minute of silence. "What does Sam want with him?"
Ron shook his head and replied, "I don't like what you're implying. Grayson is Sammy's friend, that's all. Kid looks up to him, wants to be like him, doesn't want to leave his side."
"I imagine that is getting annoying for Sam," Batman said sarcastically.
"So, what about this security check?" Ron asked nervously, attempting to steer the conversation in a safer direction.
"I'm doing it right now," Batman growled. "Sam will back off, you will move Dick Grayson to the second floor, and you will not allow Sam to have any contact with him."
"I'm the head guard," Ron snapped. "I decide who goes where and what inmates are allowed to interact and…"
He was interrupted by Batman's fist flying toward his face. It was a quick uppercut, one that Ron hadn't even seen coming, and he stumbled. The man's feet hooked themselves together, tripping him, and he landed flat on his back.
"Breathe, idiot," Batman snarled, knowing that the wind had been knocked out of the other man.
"I will tell you one more time. Until Dick Grayson is removed from this place, he will be on the second floor. Neither you nor Sam will have any more contact with him. That is not a request."
Ron carefully made his way up to his feet. This was the third time in less than three days that he had been laid out, and he was fed up with it. However, he chose the wrong man to retaliate against – he would have had more luck against Marcus or Tank.
The man swung his nightstick as hard as he could, aiming for Batman's head. The Caped Crusader lifted his arm, easily blocking the blow, and threw a powerful jab at the side of Ron's head. It snapped the guard's chin over his shoulder, but he was able to grasp Batman's arm and stay on his feet, although he was already swaying and seeing double.
"I wonder if you can handle as many injuries as your nephew's little minions have given Dick," Batman mused.
Grabbing Ron's other wrist, Batman twisted it sharply and was rewarded with a loud 'crack' and a cry of pain.
"That's one," he stated nonchalantly. "You have at least a mild concussion by now, so I might let you get away with that."
Whipping the man around, Batman shoved him forward until his head smacked against the wall.
"That's two. Bruce Wayne has been very informative. How lucky for you that he has been visiting young Dick Grayson."
Swinging Ron around to face him again, Batman threw a small jab into each of the guard's eyes.
"Three and four. From the way your nose looks, I think you've already been given number five. One more. For now."
His voice was matter-of-fact, and the guard wanted to cry from both the pain and the fear of the unknown.
"Pl…ple…pl's stooooop," Ron mumbled.
"Did Sam give that option to Dick? Did you try to stop any of it when he was getting the CRAP BEAT OUT OF HIM?!" Batman finally exploded. "He missed his parents' funeral because of your nephew!"
"No, San'sn, soooosh wok'r. No' Sssssssammy flat."
"Sanderson played a part, don't worry your idiotic little brain about what he has coming to him. But 'Sammy' stood there and watched while Dick got the CRAP beat out of him!"
He punctuated the thunderous words with another uppercut. Letting go of the man, he allowed Ron to stumble back and hit the wall. The guard slid to the ground, a pile of flesh not three feet away from the imposing form of the Caped Crusader.
"Sam. Will. Not. See. The. Boy. Again."
With that, Batman whirled around and stalked out the door. The other two guards were standing just outside, and they quickly looked the other way as Batman strode by.
"Take care of him or don't, I have nothing more to say to any of you," the hero snapped, not stopping the length of his stride.
He was out of sight two minutes later, and both guards sighed in relief. They turned toward the door and slowly walked inside. Batman had been loud and had sounded furious. So, the fact that Ron was unconscious against the far wall was not at all surprising.
"How much do you think he heard?" the shorter of the two asked.
"Enough for this," the other man answered, motioning toward their fallen colleague.
"Yeah, but he was talking about Grayson more than Chuck. Why does he care about that kid?"
"No idea. Let's just clean this mess up. Think he wants to go see Tank?" the taller guard asked with a smirk.
"Dude, nobody wants to see Tank, not the way he is right now, anyway. Heard he's been storming around the place, angry as a hornet."
"All you gotta do is take kids to him when they're injured. Don't wait, just take them. Gotta stay on Tank's good side in case something like this," he motioned to Ron again, "happens to you."
"Yeah," the shorter guard responded quietly, surveying the scene with a tint of fear in his eyes. "Stay on everyone's good side."
The other man laughed.
"That's impossible. There are too many sides here for you to stay on all the good ones. Come on, let's clean him up."
Chapter 18
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, Mooloodoom, usagipoints, leafbracer, and HamDan! :) Sorry for the long wait, life happens.
Chapter Text
The next morning – Gotham City DCS:
Batman strode into Victoria Valentia's office without sparing a glance at anyone else. He was there for one reason only – to convince the woman to hand Dick Grayson over to Bruce Wayne. It was past the two day mark he had threatened Sanderson with, but he was going to start with Victoria before hunting down Jeff. That man was going to receive as pleasant a visit as Ron had last night.
Victoria was on the phone, but she immediately said goodbye and hung up when the Caped Crusader marched into her office and closed the door. She stared at him, both shock and awe in her eyes.
"Um, Batman, hi, um…"
The woman paused and cleared her throat.
"How can I help you, Batman?" she asked professionally.
"You can start by taking out a form I know you have in your desk, writing the name Richard Grayson on the top, adding the name Bruce Wayne in the necessary area, and signing your name at the bottom."
"I don't know…"
"Don't play games with me!" Batman demanded sharply. "Open your drawer and get out the paper that will get Richard Grayson out of the detention center!"
"I'm sorry, who is Richard Grayson?"
"I know Sanderson called you. Do you want to see the less-patient side of me, or are you going to get out that form?"
"Oh, are you talking about Jeff's circus kid?"
She sounded genuinely surprised, as if she had completely forgotten about him.
"Yes," Batman ground out. "Richard. Grayson."
"I did talk to Jeff, and he gave me some valuable advice about circus people. Why would you want a criminally-minded, nobody kid to be released from where he should be?"
"Crimi…"
Batman paused, attempting to silence the rage that was about to burst out of him.
"He is an innocent child, a nine-year-old boy who just lost his entire world," the man growled through clenched teeth. "He should not be in the detention center. Get. Him. Out."
When the woman hesitated, Batman slammed his hands on Victoria's desk and thundered, "NOW!"
"I'm…are you sure?" she asked timidly, her voice shaking slightly. "Jeff said he's just going to become a criminal, don't you want him off the streets?"
"He won't be on the streets, because you are going to place him with Bruce Wayne."
Victoria had very little knowledge of Bruce Wayne. She knew he was very rich, and a very eligible bachelor, and that he hosted galas almost every month. So why would he want a kid?
"I doubt Mr. Wayne will agree to that. He's a very powerful and busy man, he doesn't have time for a circus kid who will probably just steal everything he can get his hands on."
"What do you know about Dick?" Batman retorted. "Have you even seen him yet? You're his case manager, aren't you supposed to visit him and check on his welfare?"
"He's Jeff's kid, I'm just holding the file until he comes back. I don't need to go see him, because Jeff put him there for a reason, and I trust Jeff."
"You are a ridiculous person," Batman snapped. "You've made a judgement based on an opinion, without even checking things out for yourself. I can make it very difficult for you to keep your job."
"I doubt you have that kind of clout," Victoria stated, the words dripping with disbelief. "You're like a police officer, more like an illegal police officer."
She raised her eyebrows and stared straight into his eyes, daring him to refute her words.
"You have no idea what you're talking about," Batman growled. "I am a duly deputized agent of the law, and I have connections that can make your exit possible. Either release Dick Grayson, or go find a job somewhere else. You won't be needed in Gotham City anymore. Get out the form."
"Well, first I have to check with Mr. Wayne," she replied, her tone haughty. "If he doesn't want the kid, he'll have to stay where he's at. Mr. Wayne is probably not home, it's only ten o'clock. I'll call him this afternoon."
"You will call him NOW," Batman commanded.
"You may have connections, but you can't tell me how to do my job," the woman replied. "I have an appointment with a foster family, to check on the welfare of one of my kids, in half an hour. Dick Grayson can wait."
Batman snatched her phone, picked up the receiver and dialed a familiar number.
"Gotham City Department of Child Services, this is Pete."
"Pete, this is Batman. I have a situation I need you to resolve. Get yourself to Victoria's office, I'll meet you there."
He slammed the phone down, and Victoria's eyes widened in surprise. She had no idea why Batman would have the phone number of the office of the director of DCS memorized, and it suddenly made her very nervous.
"If you want to keep your job, you should get out the form," the Caped Crusader advised angrily. "Pete and I have a very good relationship."
Two minutes later, Pete walked into the office. He glanced from the face of Batman to that of Victoria and back again.
"What do you need, Batman?" he asked. "I assumed this was an ordinary checkup but from the looks on your faces I think I've misjudged the situation."
"He wants me to put a criminal back on the streets!" Victoria exclaimed quickly.
Scowling, Batman stated, "Dick Grayson is not a criminal, and he hasn't even been on the streets yet. He's been on the circus grounds and in the detention center. Gotham City has given him a very warm welcome," the Caped Crusader finished sarcastically.
"I'm confused, will one of you please start from the beginning?" Pete asked.
Victoria opened her mouth to reply, but the dark glare Batman sent her caused her to immediately close her mouth.
"Richard John Grayson, age nine, parents died at the circus a little over a week ago."
"Performers," Victoria whispered, thinly-veiled disgust filling the word.
Pete glanced at her quizzically before turning his attention back to Batman.
"His case was given to Jeff Sanderson, who immediately put Dick in the detention center. The boy has been beaten, starved, and generally ignored. There are only two people in that place who care about what happens to him."
"How do you know all of this?" Pete asked, astonishment in his voice.
"I happen to know that Bruce Wayne has visited the boy several times."
"Why?"
"The boy's parents died, Wayne gave them a proper funeral instead of allowing them to be buried in the pauper's graveyard. Dick wasn't in attendance. Bruce wanted to know why, so he found out where Sanderson had put Dick and went to check on him."
"The detention center has a nurse…"
"A nurse with very few resources and even less help," Batman snapped.
"I suppose I should talk to Bruce about this, find out exactly what he saw and what he knows. I'll have to contact the warden first, talk to some guards, the nurse obviously…"
"Victoria," Batman sent a scathing glance at her while interrupting Pete's new to-do list, "is very reluctant to do anything about this situation. She hasn't even been to see him."
Pete let his gaze land on Victoria, whose cheeks were slightly flushed.
"Did Jeff pass him off to you?"
"Family emergency," she muttered, "and I just haven't had time to see another kid. I have my own cases, and Jeff knows what he's doing. The boy is in the detention center because Jeff felt he should be there."
"Excuses," Batman growled. "You've had several days to go see Dick. I doubt every hour of those days has been full."
"What do you want from me, Batman?" Pete asked.
"Dick Grayson needs to be released from that hole before he is beaten to death."
"Well, I'll have to check our orphanages and families, see who has room…"
"We don't have room for a thief," Victoria mumbled.
"YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW HIM!" Batman exploded. "YOU HAVEN'T EVEN SEEN HIM!"
"Okay, calm down, we can figure this out."
Batman took a deep breath, but fury filled his voice when he began speaking again.
"Release him to Bruce Wayne."
"Bruce Wayne has not been vetted, Batman!" Pete exclaimed. "I can't just give a kid to someone who hasn't been vetted!"
"But you can put a kid in the detention center for no reason at all," the hero retorted.
"Here's what I can do. I'll go see the boy myself, then I'll talk to Bruce. Don't be surprised, though, if Wayne doesn't want the kid. He's a very busy man, both professionally and socially."
"I tried to tell him that," Victoria stated snidely.
"If Bruce does agree," Pete continued, quieting his employee with a sharp look, "then I'll start the paperwork. There is a protocol that has to be followed, Batman. Like I said, I can't just give a kid away when the prospective foster family hasn't been thoroughly checked out. Paperwork, house visits, etc."
"Pete, Dick Grayson won't last another day in that place. Do you really want his death on your head?"
Leaving those dark words hanging in the air, Batman whirled around and strode out of Victoria's office.
The detention center:
Dick was awake, but Tank was concerned. The boy hadn't said a word since he had been attacked by Sam in the visitor room. He had woken up shortly after that and Tank had put the nine-year-old through the gauntlet of another complete check-up. Dick had been completely silent the entire time. His sleep had been restless, so his eyes were tired and bloodshot. But Tank could practically see thoughts swirling around in those expressive eyes.
Dick knew why Sam was mad at him: he had told people that they played games. What he didn't understand was why Sam had chosen that particular moment to take a turn without giving any warning. The nine-year-old had never played a game without being told that his opponent was taking a turn first. And Sam never had anyone play when there were adults around. So, why this time?
The angry face of Bruce Wayne floated through his mind. But the man's face hadn't been angry until Sam had entered the room. He had seemed more…concerned? That was the only word Dick could think of to describe the man's expression, but he had no idea why a rich guy would be concerned about a nobody orphan. Therefore, concern was either the wrong word, or Mr. Wayne was concerned about Tank. But Tank could take care of himself, so Mr. Wayne didn't need to worry about him.
"I will get you out of here."
The short sentence had sounded almost like a promise. It hadn't penetrated his severely concussed mind in the moment, but that sentence had cemented itself in Dick's brain. He couldn't remember anything else about that conversation. But he had been evaluating that sentence for the past hour, trying to decipher the meaning without having to ask for help.
Because asking for help was the last thing Dick was going to do. Everyone who had said they were 'helping' him had done something that had hurt him, so there was no point in asking – or expecting – help. Sam, Tank, the guard, even Mr. Wayne. The nine-year-old couldn't exactly remember what Mr. Wayne had done that had hurt Dick, but the man was probably just like everyone else.
There were only two people who had never hurt him, and they were both dead. And it was his fault, according to Sam. But Dick didn't know whether or not to believe Sam anymore. He remembered thinking – knowing – that Sam was always right, but Sam had just played the game in front of adults, which Sam had said they should never do.
"Nobody is ever always right."
Tank had said that, but Dick hadn't believed him at the time. Now, however, he was leaning toward changing his mind. Everybody makes mistakes, his mom had often told him that. He trusted his parents more than he trusted anybody he had met in this place, so now it was obvious to him that Sam had been wrong at some point.
There were two things that Dick really hoped Sam had been wrong about: his parents' death, and Chuck's death. The nine-year-old had what felt like a lead ball of guilt sitting on his heart, and yesterday he had actually wished that it would crush the already-broken organ. Then at least he wouldn't have to be lying here, giving himself a headache while trying to think. It had been so much easier when Sam had thought of everything for him.
"You did not kill Chuck. Or your parents."
"Gotham City doesn't make mistakes."
"Gotham City does make mistakes, and this is one of them. This is not where you are supposed to be, you don't deserve to be here, you've done nothing wrong."
Everything was so confusing now. Yesterday, everything had been clear. Sam was right, no matter what. But Tank and Mr. Wayne were constantly disagreeing with Sam, which meant they were wrong. But adults were smarter than kids – everyone Dick had ever met knew that – so they couldn't be wrong all the time. Which meant that sometimes Sam was wrong. But that didn't seem right, because Sam knew everything about everything. Except Mr. Wayne was older, so he had more experience with things like knowing right from wrong.
Dick squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to turn off his brain. The confusion was exacerbating the headache that had accompanied the thinking, so he just needed to stop thinking.
"Because if you're hurt, I want to try to help you fix it."
Why? That was a question that had constantly been pricking his brain ever since the first time he had seen the rich guy with the concerned face. Why would a guy like that want to help a nobody kid like Dick Grayson?
People didn't help people just to help them, there was always something wanted in return. Dick had learned that in the circus, when one of the clowns had helped him out of a tangled net and then stated that Dick 'owed him one'. If someone did something nice, you owed them. That was a fact. Therefore, if Mr. Wayne was being nice and helping Dick fix whatever it was that needed fixing, the nine-year-old was going to owe him something.
What needed fixing, though? And how could Mr. Wayne help when he didn't even live in the same place as Dick? And, for the hundredth time, why would he want to?
Chapter 19
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, leafbracer, usagipoints, HamDan, and Reader! :)
Chapter Text
Later that day:
Pete made good on his word to go see Dick. He arrived at the detention center at three o'clock, and was taken to the visitation room at 3:15. Fifteen minutes later, Dick Grayson walked into the room.
There was a small and completely unexpected snafu in Batman's plan to force Pete to release the nine-year-old. Dick didn't look like an abused, starved, neglected kid. He had no visible bruises, and the only noticeable injury was the small cast covering his left wrist. He walked with a slight limp, but his pants covered the bandage wrapped around his right shin.
"Dick Grayson?" Pete asked, and received a nod in return. "Come here and sit down. We need to talk."
His tone was neither harsh nor friendly, it was completely neutral. Dick didn't know what to make of this new person, but he slowly walked to the table and sat down across from the man.
"How long have you been in here, Dick?"
The nine-year-old shrugged. Two days, a week, a year? He had no idea. Pete didn't know anything about the situation, so he took the shrug as indifference. He decided to give the boy something easier.
"How old are you?"
"Nine," Dick whispered.
"How have you been treated here? Has anybody done anything to harm you?"
Pete's questions were greeted with almost three minutes of complete silence. Dick was trying to decide whether or not it was safe to admit anything. Fear won out, and the boy shook his head.
"So, nobody has harmed you in any way? Why is there a cast on your wrist?"
"I fell," Dick instantly responded.
The response was too immediate for Pete's liking. He had almost thirty years of experience in DCS, and 'I fell' was the excuse that most kids used when he would ask about injuries. Which meant there was more to this case than he had originally thought when Dick had entered the room.
"Have you met Bruce Wayne?" Pete asked, deciding to move in a different direction.
Dick furrowed his brow, trying to decide if this man was friend or foe. If he admitted to meeting Mr. Wayne, would he be in trouble?
"It's a yes or no question," Pete stated. "You're not in any trouble right now, okay? I'm just here to check on you."
Right now.
The two words echoed in Dick's mind. Right now he wasn't in trouble, but he would be if he answered something incorrectly or said something bad about somebody. Friend or foe, yes or no, with Mr. Wayne or against him? What would Sam want him to say?
"I…don't know," the nine-year-old replied.
The hesitation was too long; Pete immediately knew the boy was lying. The big question was, why would he lie about whether or not he had met someone?
"I think you do know. I'm trying to help you, Dick. Please tell me the truth."
Another person trying to 'help' him. The word made him shut down, and he dropped his eyes to the floor. Pete, who was used to waiting for young children to gather enough courage to tell him something, patiently stayed silent.
Five minutes passed, then ten. The DCS director was determined to find out what was going on, so he didn't do or say anything. Dick was fidgeting, picking at his pants with his right hand, looking up and glancing around the room before dropping his eyes again, and thinking about trying to run out the door. But he was pretty sure Tank was right outside that door, so attempting to run away from this new man wouldn't accomplish anything.
After fifteen and a half minutes, Dick couldn't take it anymore.
"Yes," he whispered, so softly that Pete almost didn't hear it.
"Thank you for being honest," Pete replied gently. "Can you tell me what you and Mr. Wayne talked about?"
Dick looked up and stared into Pete's dark-chocolate eyes, searching for some kind of sign that he could trust this man at least a little bit. There was no anger, so the nine-year-old decided to answer.
"He said he wants to help."
Pete nodded and waited expectantly for more.
"Um, he asked a bunch of questions about the game."
"What game?"
"I don't want to get in trouble again."
"Did you get in trouble when you told Mr. Wayne about the game?"
A slight nod, and Pete put a check mark in the 'no' column in his mind. If Bruce got mad at the boy for telling him about a game, Bruce shouldn't become his foster parent.
"With Sam," Dick suddenly clarified quietly.
Sam?
"I'm confused," the man said. "Who did you get in trouble with when you told Mr. Wayne about the game?"
Dropping his eyes to the floor again, Dick whispered, "Sam."
Pete raised his eyebrows in surprise, and erased the check mark.
"Will you tell me about Sam?"
Dick vehemently shook his head, so Pete moved on.
"You won't get in trouble for telling me about the game. Nobody is going to know you told me, because nobody is in this room with us. What we talk about is between you and I."
Lifting his head, Dick again stared in Pete's eyes.
"We play until Sam says someone wins."
"How do you play?"
"It's just a game."
"Right, I understand that. If it's a fun game, I would like to teach it to my kids. So…"
"NO!" Dick shouted, surprising both himself and Pete.
"It's not a fun game, is it?" Pete asked.
The intelligent man already understood what 'playing the game' actually meant, but he needed to hear it from the boy.
"No," Dick admitted, his voice much softer.
"Dick, I need to know…"
"I can't tell you, I'll get in trouble. Sam says the game is only for kids and we're not supposed to tell adults because you won't understand."
"But I can't help you if you won't tell me anything."
"Why do you want to help me?"
Dick's tone was suspicious, and Pete wondered how often people in here had said they were helping him only to turn around and hurt him. The boy was displaying all the classic symptoms of abuse: excuses for injuries, not wanting to talk, being worried about getting in trouble, pausing to think before every answer just in case it was a trick question that would get him in trouble.
"Dick, was Mr. Wayne nice to you?"
"I don't think he did anything bad."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't remember if he did anything bad," Dick explained.
"Why don't you remember?"
Dick shut down again, because he wasn't supposed to say anything bad about Sam. And answering that question would lead to questions about Sam, questions that couldn't be answered without saying something wrong.
Pete recognized the reaction, so he decided to move on again.
"Do you remember Mr. Sanderson?"
Dick squeezed his eyes shut, trying to find a picture of the man that went with the name. Nothing came, so he opened his eyes and shook his head.
"He's your social worker – well, he was until he had a family emergency – and he's the one that…"
"He didn't take me to their funeral," Dick interrupted quietly.
Pete watched a single tear thread its way down Dick's cheek, and wondered why Jeff hadn't allowed to boy to say goodbye to whomever 'they' were. There were protocols in place, Jeff should have told somebody to take the nine-year-old to the funeral since he couldn't do it himself.
"I'm sorry, Dick," Pete stated sincerely. "I'm sorry you didn't get the chance…"
"I don't have a family anymore," the boy said miserably, his eyes on the floor again. "It was just us, and now they're dead and there's nobody else."
"Richard John Grayson, age nine, parents died at the circus a little over a week ago."
Batman's short explanation raced through Pete's mind, as did Victoria's snide comment. She had said 'performers' with a tone unmistakably full of disgust.
"The boy is in the detention center because Jeff felt he should be there."
"We don't have room for a thief."
Pete sighed. Apparently, he needed to sit down and have a lengthy chat with both his most experienced case manager and his newest one. Obviously, Dick had done nothing wrong. There was no plausible reason for him to be in the detention center. Orphanages were usually overflowing, and a child couldn't be placed with a family the day after being collected by DCS, but there were protocols in place. Pete had never had anyone put a newly-orphaned child – or any child, for that matter – straight into the detention center.
"Dick, I'm going to get you out of here," Pete said, making an executive decision. "I don't think we have any beds, but I can certainly find you a sleeping bag and put you on the floor in one of our orphanages. I'm going to go fill out some paperwork, and then I'll come back and get you."
Without waiting for a response, Pete stood up and walked to the door leading to the lobby. He waited for the door to open, then he looked over his shoulder. Dick was folded in on himself, his small body trembling with what Pete knew were silent sobs. Of pain, or relief, or both?
"I'm coming back for you, I'm not allowing you to stay here another night. Give me an hour or two, okay?"
There was no reaction from the nine-year-old, so Pete walked through the door. Never had he wanted to fill out release paperwork more than he did right now.
"Uh, sir," the guard at the desk said as Pete signed the checkout form. "You can't get anyone out of here without the warden's approval, and he's in California with his family."
"Screw the warden," Pete stated pleasantly. "The boy is my responsibility, he is not supposed to be in here, the warden has no jurisdiction over his case. I'll be back in an hour or two, please have him ready to go."
Pete left the guard standing open-mouthed in surprise, and headed for his car.
The Batcave:
Batman had spent the entire day watching the video feed from the visitation room in the detention center. He was attempting to refuse to hope, but Pete had said he would go check on Dick. The hero was doing some research when he heard a familiar voice. Quickly, he strode to the viewing machine and turned up the volume.
Dick was as non-responsive as usual, but Pete waited. Batman was impressed with the man's ability to be patient. Most people would have become upset with the nine-year-old, or tried to force answers out of him, but Pete just waited.
Batman instantly knew when Pete deduced what was really going on. The man's body language changed from 'checking on a child' relaxed to 'child in danger' tense. Batman wanted to race around the Batcave like a sugar-filled kid when Pete said he was taking Dick out of the detention center. But the part he liked the most was at the end.
"Screw the warden."
All he needed to do now was find a way to speed up the vetting process. Dick Grayson needed a bed, not a sleeping bag on a floor. That was, of course, preferable to his current sleeping arrangement, but the boy should be in a bed.
The Manor phone rang, and somehow Alfred was already there and answering.
"One moment, sir."
Alfred held out the phone, and Batman took off his cowl.
"Bruce Wayne."
"Mr. Wayne, this is Pete Cadovitch, director of the Gotham City Department of Child Services. I have a somewhat unusual question for you."
Grinning, Bruce replied, "You can call me Bruce, and ask away."
"Call me Pete," the other man agreed. "How do you feel about children?"
"I've met good ones and bad ones. Why?"
"Well, I have a nine-year-old, newly-orphaned boy – Richard Grayson. Batman seems to think that you would be willing to take him in for a short while. I understand you took care of the funeral for his parents."
"I did, yes. The Flying Graysons needed a better resting place than the paupers' graveyard. Are you asking me to take him in, or just letting me know that Batman thinks I should?"
"There are many things that have to happen before I could ask you to take him – paperwork, house visits, more paperwork – but I thought I would at least ask how you feel about it before beginning the approval process. I know you're a very busy man, and I don't blame you if you don't want another responsibility on your shoulders."
Bruce was almost bouncing with joy. Finally, finally, something good was happening. There was a tap on his shoulder, and he looked at his butler.
"It would not do to appear eager, sir," Alfred advised quietly.
Nodding, Bruce responded, "Pete, you can start the approval process, but I do need some time to think about this. Taking in a child is not really something I have considered doing before."
Alfred raised an eyebrow at the lie, and Bruce glanced at him with an apologetic half-shrug. He could have stopped after saying he needed time to make a decision, but the last sentence had naturally flowed out of his mouth.
"Of course, Bruce," Pete answered. "The process takes a few weeks, so you have time to think about it."
"Pete, I visited Dick several times in the detention center. He was a bruised and broken mess every time. Do you know how he's doing?"
"I actually just left there. He doesn't look like a bruised and broken mess."
"Did he tell you anything about what's happened to him?"
"How much do you know about him, Bruce?"
"Like I said, I've been to see him several times. Everything in the visitation room is recorded, as you probably know. If you watch the tapes, you'll find out that I know quite a bit. I would strongly advise you to watch the tapes."
"Why did you visit him?"
"He wasn't at his parents' funeral, so I decided to find out why," Bruce answered simply.
There was a long pause, and Bruce was suddenly worried. Had he said something wrong, was Pete already regretting asking him about taking Dick in?
"Well, I'll start the paperwork. Thank you for your time, Bruce."
Pete hung up before Bruce could reply. Slowly, the man replaced the receiver.
"Is something wrong, Master Bruce?"
"I…don't know. He was very quiet near the end, as if he was rethinking his decision."
"I'm sure he has a lot going on, sir. I doubt he is questioning his own judgement. He seems to be a very capable and intelligent man, Master Bruce."
"You're probably right."
Bruce paused, then suddenly grabbed a stack of papers and threw them in the air.
"Dick will be out of the detention center before bedtime tonight!" he yelled.
Alfred smiled when he saw his charge's dark-blue eyes light up with a tinge of what could be described as happiness. Bruce was more invested in Richard Grayson than even Alfred had known. Now all they had to do was make sure millionaire Bruce Wayne was deemed fit to be a legal guardian.
That was the part Alfred was sure about. Bruce wanted to be more than 'just' a foster parent, although that was good on its own. But the butler could tell that Bruce wanted Dick Grayson to have some stability, because Bruce understood what it was like to watch your family die.
"What if I can help him?"
Alfred watched Bruce gathering the papers he had scattered everywhere, and answered the younger man's question in his mind.
You can, Master Bruce.
Chapter 20
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, usagipoints, leafbracer, GreenPoodle, HamDan, Lady_Phantoms, and SnowyfootOfWindClan! :)
Chapter Text
Three hours later:
Pete came back, although a little later than he had anticipated, and was pleased to find that Dick was ready to go. He had come with nothing, so he was leaving with nothing. His clothes had been thrown away, so Pete delivered him to the orphanage in a detention center uniform.
The director, Dave, took one look at the uniform, the tousled hair, the small but noticeable limp, the general unkemptness, and the small cast. Internally, he sighed. His orphanage was overflowing, he had no space for another troublemaker.
Pete crouched down in front of Dick and said, "I think you'll be much happier here. Dave is nice, and he'll take care of you. Be good, okay? I'll have Miss Valentia come check on you soon."
With that, Pete stood up, thanked Dave for taking the nine-year-old at the last minute, and left. It was Dave's turn to crouch in front of the boy.
"I don't need any more trouble here, understand?"
Dick, who was nervously biting his bottom lip, nodded. Dave was a giant of a man – six foot six with a touch of fat beginning to take over the muscular frame. He was intimidating, but he had a soft heart. The nine-year-old couldn't see the heart, he only saw a man who slightly resembled a fear-provoking guard. Dave, however, was much bigger than Ron.
"I also don't have any beds, but I do have some extra blankets. You can have two, one for under you and one to cover you. The floor's not very comfortable, but at least you have a place to sleep. Do you have any other clothes?"
Dick shook his head.
"I'll get you some things from the leftover bin. Pretty sure we have at least one pair of pants in your size. Maybe a shirt or two. How long have you been an orphan and why were you in the detention center?"
The nine-year-old was terrified, a feeling he was still very familiar with, and wanted nothing to do with this new man. So, he dropped his eyes to the ground and shrugged.
"Are you a mute, kid, or are you just scared?"
Dick glanced up, and Dave saw the fear before the boy looked away. The director wasn't sure if the nine-year-old was scared of him, or of the orphanage, or both. Probably both, he decided when Dick remained quiet.
"Have you ever been in an orphanage?" Dave inquired.
Another shake of the head was the only response.
"Okay, kid, I need you to look at me so I can explain some things."
Dick obediently raised his head and stared straight into Dave's eyes.
"You don't make trouble for me, I don't make trouble for you. Here's my best piece of advice: stay away from the older kids. You're the new guy, and they'll want to initiate you, so keep yourself as small as possible for at least a week. Someone else will come in and their attention will shift to whoever that is, so then you'll be fine."
The nine-year-old nodded again, and Dave sighed. He hated having to warn the new kids, but it was better than allowing them to be trapped and beaten because they hadn't known what was coming.
"Come on, let's go find you a spot to sleep. I'll grab some blankets on the way. Dinner's over, but you probably already ate anyway so you can last until breakfast."
He didn't wait for an answer, so he didn't know that Dick had spent the last three hours of his time in the detention center sitting at a table in the visiting room. It was almost seven o'clock – lunch had been eight hours ago – and Dick was hungry. But, it was another feeling he was used to, so he let the comment go.
Standing up again, Dave picked up Dick's right hand and led him up a set of stairs. They entered a short hallway, and the man stopped at a cupboard. Dropping Dick's hand, he opened the cupboard and pulled out two small blankets. Then he led nine-year-old through the first door on the left and across the room to a corner.
There were sixteen small bunkbeds, and there was a kid on every single mattress. Dave spread one of the blankets on the planks of wood that made up the floor, then put the other one in Dick's arms.
"Lights out on this floor in half an hour. You can go introduce yourself if you want; the older boys are one floor up so you don't have to worry about them tonight. See you in the morning."
With that, Dave turned around and left. The other kids were all staring, and Dick tried to make himself as small as possible by sitting down and pushing his body into the corner. He covered himself with the thin blanket and attempted to disappear. After five minutes the kids got bored of watching him sit there, so they returned to their conversations and began ignoring him.
The detention center:
"He's…gone?!"
Tank was talking to the guard who checked people in and out of the visiting room. After dropping Dick off, he had been called back to the infirmary because of another fight. Two boys, both badly beaten, and his hands had been full all afternoon.
The nurse had finally been able to return to the visiting room around six, hoping Dick was still in there and had not been taken to his normal cell. Or even to dinner, where Sam would obviously get ahold of the boy again.
When he had opened the door, the room had been empty. The guard had called him over before Tank could turn around and leave, so he was currently at the man's desk.
"Yeah, some guy came and took him about fifteen minutes ago. Same guy who came to visit earlier today. Don't know where they went, but he signed the kid out for good."
"What about the warden?" Tank asked.
"That's the weird part," the guard replied. "He literally said, 'screw the warden' and then walked the kid out the door."
Tank's mouth dropped open in surprise. Who had enough clout in Gotham City to be able to say and do that?
"Was it Bruce Wayne?"
"Nope, some guy I've never seen before. Not my job to find out who."
"Yeah," Tank mumbled before turning around and leaving.
"What about his wrist and his shin and his overall general condition?" the nurse wondered aloud as he strode back to his office. "I hope he's going to a doctor before landing wherever the guy is taking him."
One week later:
The orphanage was better than the detention center, but not by much. Dick was not a problem child so he was generally ignored. It wasn't on purpose, but Dave was short on staff and had little time to deal with the kids who didn't make trouble.
Neither Dave nor Pete knew about the bump on Dick's right shin, and the nine-year-old was too scared to mention it. He also didn't mention the fact that the cast on his left wrist was falling apart, and that his ribs still hurt, and that he had a constant headache. In fact, Dick hadn't said a single word to anybody.
The older kids had, surprisingly, left him alone after only one day. They had toppled over his breakfast and eaten his lunch, but got bored when Dick didn't react. He was old news, and nobody cared about him anymore.
Bruce had asked about him, but Pete had declined to tell him anything. He was, after all, vetting the millionaire, and telling him where to find the boy would not accomplish anything. So, Bruce had something new to worry about, but at least the nine-year-old was no longer in the detention center and under the control of Sam.
Victoria had been told to check on the boy, and was very reluctant, but finally went to see him. She asked one of Dave's assistants to bring the nine-year-old to the cafeteria when she arrived at about two in the afternoon. Five minutes later, Dick was sitting across from her.
She stared at him, looking for any signs of injuries, and found nothing. There was no bruising, or blood, or bumps on his head, or anything else. He was pale and thin, but most kids living in an orphanage were pretty skinny. Victoria was pleased that she didn't have to waste her time by taking him to a doctor.
"So, how are you doing?" she asked, attempting to make herself sound genuinely interested so she wouldn't get in trouble with Pete.
Dick, whose eyes were on the table, shrugged. He didn't trust anyone, and had decided that he was never even going to think about trusting anyone for the rest of his life. There was no point, because the only people who had ever truly cared for him were his parents.
Victoria rolled her eyes, annoyed that she had to be here questioning this 'innocent child'.
"I don't know why you were allowed out of the detention center, but here you are and it's my job to check on you. Therefore, you need to answer my questions. Tell me how you are doing."
Dick glanced up, only to see an expression of anger. She didn't care, so he swung his legs over the bench and turned his back to her.
"Well, I have never had such a rude kid," Victoria stated condescendingly. "Maybe I'll send you back to the detention center and just not tell my boss."
The nine-year-old turned around to face her, and she saw a look of pure terror. Her heart surprisingly softened a little, and she decided to leave him in the orphanage.
"Okay, you can stay," she said with a long-suffering sigh. "I did my job, I checked on you, so hopefully I won't have to see you again. You can go back to whatever you were doing before I came."
Dick nodded and turned around again. As he stood up, he heard her say one more thing, in a voice so quiet that he almost missed it.
"Like probably stealing things."
Unbidden tears slowly filled his eyes as he walked away. Everyone wanted to be done with him, like he was yesterday's trash that had to be thrown away as soon as possible. Even the "concerned" man Mr. Wayne had never come to see him. This was his life now, so there was no point in hoping for anything good to happen.
Two days later – the Batcave:
"I found him!" Batman exclaimed.
The shout startled Alfred, who was just entering the Batcave with a sandwich. He nearly dropped the tray, but was a proper butler and easily recovered from the surprise.
"I'm going to assume you're talking about young Master Grayson, sir."
"Yes, he's in an orphanage not far from here. I should go see how he's doing."
The Manor phone began ringing, and Alfred promptly picked it up.
"Wayne Manor," he stated politely as Batman tore off his cowl. "Yes, please hold."
He passed the phone to Bruce and mouthed, "Mr. Cadovitch, sir."
Nodding, the younger man answered, "Bruce Wayne."
"Bruce, this is Pete. I'm wondering if you're available for a visit tomorrow. Also, and please don't feel like I'm trying to rush you, but have you made a decision regarding the boy?"
"Hi, Pete, good to hear from you. Yes, Alfred and I are both available tomorrow. What time would be best for you?"
Bruce paused, then nodded.
"Ten o'clock is fine. To answer your other question, yes, I have made a decision. I would like to be Dick's guardian, not just his foster parent. I think because of our similar childhood experience, I might be able to help him deal with the grief and pain he is undoubtedly going through.
Pete, I'm going to be completely honest with you about something. I understand that there will be times when one of your employees might need to visit. However, I will not tolerate anyone leading Dick to think that he will have to go back to the detention center, nor will I tolerate any of them talking down to him just because he was a performer in a circus. He is a nine-year-old child who needs both physical and emotional stability, neither of which he will have if he is constantly concerned about those things."
"Thank you for your honesty, Bruce. I want you to know that I had no idea that both Jeff and Victoria felt that way. I have spoken with both of them, and they are on probation. No child should be made to feel as if he is a criminal just because of his background. In fact, Victoria went to visit him a day or two ago. She said he looks fine, has no injuries, and was very polite. I'll see you tomorrow, Bruce."
Pete hung up, and Bruce did the same on his end. The millionaire stared at the phone for nearly a minute, the next to last sentence replaying in his mind several times.
"Master Bruce?" Alfred finally inquired. "Is everything okay, sir?"
"Victoria told Pete that Dick 'looks fine, has no injuries, and was very polite'. There is no way that woman would change her opinion of him in one week. When Batman was in her office, she called Dick a thief, even though she knew nothing about him except that he was in a circus. I can't – I don't – trust her judgement. I doubt he looks fine."
"Am I to assume that Batman is going to go check on him, sir?"
"Yes, tonight. If he's been beaten again by older kids, I might do something we will all regret," the younger man growled as he put his cowl back on. "If it turns me into a vigilante instead of a duly deputized agent of the law, so be it."
Alfred sighed and said, "Please do not do anything rash, sir."
Ignoring the request, Batman turned to the Batcomputer and began to research the orphanage where Dick was allegedly living.
Later that night:
The orphanage was completely dark when Batman arrived. He decided to Bat-climb his way to the second floor, where he could see an open window. Quietly, he slipped through the narrow opening and silently made his way around the room. There was a kid on every bed, and they looked to be about Dick's age. However, none of the kids even slightly resembled Dick Grayson.
Maybe he was on the wrong floor, or in the wrong section. Maybe there was another room with another set of bunkbeds and kids. Batman glanced around the room one last time. Sixteen bunkbeds, a few dressers, and a pile of blankets in a corner. No nine-year-old boy with dark hair and light-blue eyes that were always full of pain.
Batman walked through the entire orphanage – third floor, fourth floor, and back to the second – but found no sign of Dick. He went down to the first floor, but it was the lobby, kitchen, cafeteria, director's office, and staff offices. No sign of Dick in any of those places.
Frustrated, the hero went back up to the second floor. He slipped out the window and Bat-climbed his way down the wall. With one last glance at the dark building, the Caped Crusader returned to the Batmobile and drove away.
Wayne Manor – 10AM:
Pete rang the doorbell precisely at ten, and Alfred promptly opened the door.
"Good morning, Mr. Cadovitch. Master Bruce is in the living room. Please, follow me."
The butler led the man into a bright room filled with elegant furniture. Bruce stood up to greet him, they shook hands, and then both sat down on the couch.
"You have a very nice house, Bruce."
"Thank you, Pete."
"This is an official visit, so I'll need to see the entire house. I don't care if your bathroom isn't clean, or if there's a layer of dust on the mantel of the fireplace. I'm only looking for safety concerns."
Bruce glanced at the entrance to the room, where Alfred was standing with a scandalized look on his face. The millionaire internally chuckled; the butler was offended that Pete would think anything was even remotely dirty in Wayne Manor.
"Of course, Pete, I'll give you the grand tour myself. Shall we start in the kitchen?"
Standing up, Bruce led Pete out into the hallway and across the marble floor of the expansive entrance. As they walked by the study, Bruce caught Alfred's eye and discreetly flicked his head in the direction of the room. The butler immediately understood, and waited until the younger men were in the kitchen before going into the study to hide the Batphone.
The 'grand tour' took almost ninety minutes, because Pete stopped to flick on and off every light switch, turn on every faucet, and check all the outlets for any sign of overuse. When he was satisfied, the men went to the dining room, where Alfred had lunch ready.
"Well, Bruce, you have a well-kept house."
"I can't take credit for much of it, Pete. Alfred keeps things ship-shape around here."
"Thank you, Master Bruce," the butler commented politely as he retreated to the kitchen.
"I have a confession to make, Bruce."
The man paused, and the millionaire motioned for him to continue.
"I may have pushed the paperwork through a little faster than normal. This visit is actually the last thing I needed in order to release Dick into your custody. When I go back to the office, I'll sign your approval notice and we can go get Dick tomorrow."
Bruce's eyes widened in shock. Pete had said several weeks, but it hadn't even been two yet!
Pete noticed the expression and quickly backtracked.
"I'm sorry, Bruce, is it too soon? He can stay where he's at for another week or two, if that's what you need."
"No, no, it's fine," the millionaire replied quickly. "I'm just surprised at the speed."
"Yes, well, usually it takes about at least month once the process gets started. But, like I said, I pushed hard on this one. Because of everything that has happened, I feel like Dick needs stability now. He probably doesn't feel very stable in an orphanage."
Bruce hesitated, second-guessing himself again. It only lasted a moment, and then he took a deep breath.
"Okay, where do you want me to meet you tomorrow in order to pick him up?"
"I can just bring him over here if that would be easier. I know you're a busy man. Would four o'clock be okay?"
"Yes, I can be home by four tomorrow."
"Okay," Pete echoed as he stood up and prepared to leave. "Dick and I will see you tomorrow at four. You might want to buy a few things before he arrives. I know he's using clothes from the leftover bin at the orphanage because he doesn't have any of his own."
Bruce was taken aback, and his eyes widened in surprise.
"Didn't he bring any from the circus?" he asked.
"Jeff took him that night and never went back to get anything. The circus left the next day anyway. He has…" Pete held out his hands and shrugged, "…nothing."
"Good heavens!" Alfred murmured from the doorway.
"I'll see myself out," Pete stated, knowing that the other two men would need to discuss some things.
He tipped his head at the butler, shook Bruce's hand, and headed for the front door.
"Tomorrow, Alfred," Bruce said quietly. "He'll be here in time for dinner tomorrow."
The younger man paused, and the butler waited patiently.
"Am I doing the right thing?" Bruce asked, glancing at the front door then turning his gaze to Alfred.
"Sir, it is a little too late to be asking that question. However, yes, I believe you are doing the right thing, Master Bruce. I am confident that you will be able to help Master Dick in many ways. And, perhaps, he will find a way to help you as well, sir."
"He's nine, Alfred, he doesn't need to find a way to help me."
"You misunderstand me, Master Bruce. But you will begin to understand as time passes."
Maybe a child will be able to crack open that wall around your heart.
Alfred kept that thought to himself. With a polite nod, the butler went to the kitchen to begin tidying up.
Chapter 21
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, HamDan, Mooloodoom, usagipoints, and SnowyfootOfWindClan! :)
Chapter Text
The next day:
Pete arrived at the orphanage at three o'clock in the afternoon. He spoke to Dave and checked on two of his own cases while the director went to get Dick. When Dave brought the nine-year-old down to the lobby, Pete led him to the cafeteria for a chat.
"Dick, do you remember Mr. Wayne?" Pete asked as they sat down on one of the benches.
The boy nodded slightly, which encouraged Pete.
"Well, Mr. Wayne has decided to become your legal guardian. Do you know what that means?"
This time Dick shook his head, so Pete continued.
"Mr. Wayne is going to take care of you. You are going to live in his house, he'll give you what you need – food, clothes, a bed, among other things – and you'll begin to go to school. He has a butler, do you know what that is?"
Dick shook his head again, but Pete decided to move on.
"I'm sure Mr. Wayne will explain everything to you when you arrive. I'm going to take you over there, and I'll stay with you until you feel comfortable with me leaving. Both Mr. Wayne and his butler are very nice men, and I'm confident that they'll take good care of you. So, you're about to have a new family."
Pete smiled at him, hoping the last sentence would bring a bit of light into the boy's emotionless eyes. Dick merely nodded again, and Pete's smile faded slightly. He hadn't expected the nine-year-old to be jumping for joy, but he had thought that knowing he had a new family would at least bring a small smile to Dick's face.
"Okay, well, let's go. Do you have anything you need to get before we leave? Anybody you want to say goodbye to?"
A quick shake of the head, so Pete stood up and motioned for Dick to do the same. The nine-year-old obediently stood up, and immediately felt like a flaming needle was slicing up his right shin. Pete didn't notice the small grimace, nor did he hear the quiet hiss of pain that slid through the boy's lips.
Five minutes later, they were in Pete's car, on their way to Wayne Manor. The man glanced in the rearview mirror several times, hoping to see some kind of emotion on the boy's face. He never did, because Dick was good at keeping his expression carefully neutral.
Dick was doing his best to hold back the gasps of pain that tried to escape from his mouth at every bump in the road. Both his shin and his head were complaining about the rough movements, but the nine-year-old kept his mouth shut and bit his tongue. The taste of his own blood grounded him, and he pushed the pain to the back of his mind.
Pete pulled up to the front door of Wayne Manor six minutes early. He thought about waiting, but then the door opened and Bruce Wayne himself walked out.
"Out we go, Dick, Mr. Wayne is here to greet you. Remember, I'll stay as long as you need me to. I want you to feel comfortable before I leave you here."
With a short nod, Dick opened his door and climbed out. Bruce, who was watching the boy carefully, immediately noticed that he was favoring his right leg. The next thing he noticed was the lack of a cast on the left wrist. Batman knew a wrist that had been broken like Dick's had couldn't properly heal in two weeks. Why, then, was the boy's wrist free?
"Pete, who took the cast off?" Bruce asked as he led them inside.
"What cast?"
"Dick had a cast on his left wrist. What happened to it?"
Pete glanced down at Dick's wrist before answering.
"I don't know, Bruce, maybe Dave took it off. I'll ask him about it."
Bruce nodded and turned his attention back to Dick. The nine-year-old was standing stock still, staring at the large foyer in awe. It was the first emotion Pete had seen on the boy's face since he had picked Dick up from the detention center.
Both men watched as the nine-year-old's gaze went from the marble floor to the elegant crystal chandelier high above their heads. Pete saw a half-grin, but Bruce saw the grief that passed like a shadow through Dick's eyes.
"Do you want me to show you around?" Bruce asked.
Dick responded by chewing on his bottom lip and looking around at the many doors. Batman instantly knew why, so Bruce changed the offer.
"How about if we go sit down in the living room. We can get to know each other a little better in there. Does that sound okay?"
This time it was relief that flitted through the light-blue eyes. Relief that he wouldn't have to walk around a huge house while trying to hide the fact that his shin felt like it was on fire.
The nine-year-old nodded, so Bruce led them to the living room. Bruce sat on the couch, and Pete chose a chair near the fireplace. Dick stood at the entrance, hesitation on his face.
"Where would you like to sit?" Bruce asked. "Your choice."
Dick shook his head and remained standing. Batman internally growled; Sam still had a bit of control over the boy.
"Here's the deal," Bruce began gently. "You can sit down whenever you want, wherever you want, at any time. You don't have to ask or wait to be told. You can make your own choices here. Do you understand?"
Dick nodded and took a small step forward with his right leg. Bruce didn't miss the hiss of pain, although Pete did again, and the millionaire wasn't surprised when the boy chose the nearest chair.
"Dick," Pete began, "do you want me to stay? Like Mr. Wayne said, you can make your own choices."
Pete had no idea why Bruce had said that, and he immediately decided to take the millionaire's advice to watch the recordings from the detention center.
There was a long stretch of silence. Both men allowed it to continue until finally, after almost five minutes, Dick shrugged.
That's a long time for a non-answer.
Bruce didn't know if it was because Dick had to figure out how to put the words in order so they would make sense, or if he really couldn't decide on his own.
Pete glanced at Bruce, who was watching the nine-year-old intently. The man looked relaxed, leaning back against the couch with his arms stretched across the top, but Pete could see tension. He didn't know if Bruce was irritated or concerned, and that bothered him.
"It's okay if you don't know what you want," Bruce stated softly. "You have a lot of time to figure things out. There is no pressure here, okay?"
Dick nodded, and Pete relaxed. The director was no longer worried, because it was obvious that the tension was not anger.
"Well, Dick, I'm going to leave you here with Mr. Wayne unless you specifically ask me to stay."
The nine-year-old looked from Bruce to Pete and back to Bruce. Two pairs of blue eyes connected, and the man decided to take the lead.
"Pete, I think we're going to be fine," he stated, shooting a quick glance at the director. "Would you…"
"I'll show myself out then," Pete interrupted. "I'll have Miss Valentia check on you in a few days, Dick. Have a good night, Bruce."
Pete left the living room and thirty seconds later the front door shut behind him.
"What hurts, kiddo?" Bruce asked.
He watched the boy's body language intensely, hoping to glean clues from Dick's movements. Bruce was almost positive that the nine-year-old was going to say he was fine. But Bruce was wrong. Dick didn't even open his mouth.
"Dick, I can't help with the pain if I don't know what hurts. I'm relatively certain that your right leg is bothering you. Since your left wrist is no longer supported by a cast, I'm going to venture a guess that your wrist is also hurting."
Dick looked down at his left wrist, which was carefully situated on his left leg in the optimum stationary position. He glanced up at Bruce, then dropped his eyes to the floor and nodded.
"Your leg or your wrist or both?"
Another stretch of silence, this one a little shorter than the last, and then a single word slid out of almost-closed lips.
"Both," Dick whispered.
"Okay, is there anything else that hurts?"
No response, and Bruce hated not being able to see the expressive eyes.
"Kiddo, I need you to look at me. I only want to help you."
"Nobody helps," the nine-year-old mumbled, keeping his eyes on the floor.
"That's not true. Tank helped you…"
Bruce immediately stopped speaking when Dick shuddered.
Don't talk about the detention center, idiot.
The millionaire berated himself in his head before deciding to follow Dick's lead.
"You're right, not many people in Gotham City are helpful. But there are some. For example, I want to help you feel better. But I can't do that if I don't know everything that's going on. Does anything else hurt?"
"What will I owe you?" Dick muttered.
Owe me?!
"What do you mean?"
"If someone helps me, I have to owe them something."
There was no doubt in his voice, and Bruce wondered who had given Dick that idea. Sam, probably, and maybe a guard or two. Batman wanted to begin interrogating, but Bruce stayed calm.
"You won't owe me anything, kiddo. That's not how it works. I want to help you just to help you, not to try to get something from you."
Lifting his head, Dick stared into Bruce's eyes and said, "I'm fine."
The millionaire searched the light-blue eyes, and saw the shadow of pain flitting around in the background. He went through the filing cabinet in his memory, looking for anything else that could be causing Dick pain.
"Do you have a headache?" he asked, remembering the concussion.
Dick's eyes widened slightly, so Bruce continued.
"I think your torso might be throbbing a little bit. You had a broken rib or two."
The boy's eyes grew even wider, and surprise filled them. However, he remained silent. Bruce decided to try a different tact, although he didn't want to bring up the detention center again. But if that was the only way to get some kind of reaction out of the nine-year-old, he was going to have to do it.
"Do you remember us having some conversations almost two weeks ago?"
Dick squeezed his eyes shut, something that Bruce would soon learn he did when searching hard for a memory, then shook his head and reopened his eyes.
"Do you want to remember, or would you rather try to forget everything about that place?"
Tears suddenly filled Dick's eyes, and he allowed them to spill over his lids without even trying to stop them. Bruce went from his place on the couch over to the chair Dick was sitting on in less than three seconds. He crouched down and, without thinking, reached out to pull the boy into his arms. Dick violently flinched, and Bruce immediately withdrew his arms.
"It's okay, kiddo, I'm not going to hurt you. And I won't ever let that happen again," Bruce assured him softly. "I'm going to keep you safe, nobody will ever be able to do anything like that to you ever again. I promise."
It was a promise he wouldn't be able to keep, but Batman had no way of knowing that one day this young child would be fighting crime by his side.
The tears had stopped, but now Dick was trembling. Bruce felt something crack in his chest. He wanted to scoop the boy up and shield him from the world. But Dick was fragile, and terrified, and in pain.
"It's okay, you're safe," Bruce whispered.
There was no reaction from the nine-year-old, so Bruce decided to sit down and wait. He sat on the floor, right in front of Dick, and waited.
Bruce heard movement and looked up, only to see Alfred watching them from the doorway. The older man's face was full of sympathy, and compassion was swirling around in his kind eyes.
"Is there any way I can help you, Master Bruce?" the butler asked softly.
"We're just trying to get to know each other," the younger man responded.
"It's dinner time, sir. Would you and Master Dick prefer to eat here or in the dining room?"
Alfred never allowed food in the living room, but he considered this to be a special circumstance.
"Are you hungry, Dick?" Bruce asked.
Dick shook his head, but Bruce wasn't going to allow the boy to miss any meals.
"I killed Chuck, I don't deserve food."
The scene was still fresh in the man's mind.
"Well, even though you're not hungry, I need you to at least try to eat a little something. You're a growing boy, and you need nourishment."
His voice was firm, and Alfred quietly cleared his throat. Bruce understood the meaning, but Dick needed to know that starvation was not an option.
"You don't have to eat a lot, but you do need to eat."
The nine-year-old grimaced but pushed himself to his feet. Neither man missed the hitch in Dick's breathing when he stood up.
"We need to get you checked by a doctor," Bruce commented. "It hurts to move your leg and your wrist, correct? And it's hard to breathe, and thinking hurts."
Dick glanced from Bruce to Alfred and back. He started chewing on his bottom lip, something that the men would soon learn meant he was nervous, and slowly nodded.
"Shall I call Dr. Thompkins, sir?"
"Yes, Alfred, I think so," Bruce replied with a glance up at his butler. "I'll try to get some food in him while we're waiting for her."
Turning his gaze back to Dick, the millionaire said, "You still have a choice, Dick. You can sit back down and eat something in here, or we can go to the dining room and eat at the table. The dining room is on the other side of the front door."
Dick looked around at the elegant furniture and spotless floor. There was no way he was going to eat in here, not when there was a chance that he would spill something and make a mess. So, he took a tentative step toward Bruce and then turned so he was facing the front door.
The man stood up, slightly surprised that Dick would prefer to walk to the other side of the house. He had thought the nine-year-old would want to skip putting himself in more pain.
"Okay, follow me. Do you need help?"
Dick looked at him quizzically, then shook his head.
"If someone helps me, I have to owe them something."
The sentence echoed in the man's mind, and he internally sighed. Of course Dick wouldn't want help. He already thought he owed Bruce something, he wouldn't want to put himself in deeper debt.
"You don't owe me anything," Bruce gently reminded as he led the way into the foyer. "And you never will."
No response, and Bruce glanced back. The boy was carefully limping his way across the entrance, determination on his face even while pain danced in his eyes. Five minutes later, Bruce was showing him where to sit, and he heard a quiet sigh of relief when Dick sat down.
Alfred had already contacted Leslie Thompkins, and she was on her way. The butler brought two plates of food and set them on the table. Both men watched as Dick's eyes grew wide with astonishment. He probably hadn't eaten this well in the orphanage, and Bruce knew for a fact that he hadn't eaten this well in the detention center. Bruce wondered how long it had been since Dick had had a decent meal.
The nine-year-old stared at the food, and his stomach growled. Bruce hid a grin and hoped that feeling would encourage the boy to eat more than 'a little something'.
Dick stared at the two forks, trying to see a difference so he could figure out which one to use. Bruce noticed the dilemma, and saw the teaching moment. Sometime in the future, Dick would be going to parties and galas with Bruce. Now was as good a time as any to teach him what to use and when.
"The smaller fork is for the salad, which we're not having tonight so you don't need it," the man commented. "You use the other one for everything else."
Dick nodded and picked up the slightly bigger fork. Now he was staring at the chunks of meat on his plate and wondering if he would get in trouble for beginning to eat. Was he supposed to wait for the man to start eating, or wait for the man to finish before he began? Or could he just eat?
"Go ahead and eat, Dick," Bruce answered the unspoken questions that he could see in Dick's expression.
The nine-year-old stabbed a piece of meat with his fork and put it in his mouth. His eyes widened more than they had before, and Bruce chuckled. Alfred was a fantastic cook, and steak was probably a new experience for Dick.
Bruce began eating. He had so much to say, so many things to ask, but he wanted Dick to eat more than he wanted answers. And many of his questions would probably be answered when Leslie arrived anyway.
Twenty minutes later, they were back in the living room. Dick went back to the chair and Bruce sat on the couch. The doorbell rang, and Alfred admitted Leslie into the house.
"Dick, this is Dr. Thompkins," Bruce said as Leslie joined them. "She's going to try to stop whatever pain you're feeling. Do you think you can tell her what she needs to know?"
The nine-year-old gave the woman a quick glance then dropped his eyes to the ground and shrugged. Leslie looked at Bruce, questions in her eyes, but the man didn't respond.
"Hi, Dick," she said as she sat on the couch near Bruce. "How are you feeling?"
Dick stayed silent, his eyes on the floor. Leslie instantly took a different approach.
"Okay, Dick, I'm going to start at the top. I'll say a body part, you nod if that part of your body hurts."
No response, so she just jumped in.
"Does your head hurt?"
A pause, and then a short nod.
"Your eyes? Ears? Nose?"
She received a nod with the last one, and was not surprised. She could tell from where she was sitting that his nose had recently been broken.
"Neck? Shoulders? Arms? Wrists?"
Another nod, and she took a moment to study his wrists. They both looked okay, but she did notice the way the left one was resting on his leg.
"Broken left wrist?" she whispered to Bruce, who nodded.
"Okay, Dick, how about your ribs?"
A definite nod, and she even received a quick glance.
"Does it hurt to breathe?"
No response, so she moved on.
"Stomach? Back? Legs?"
Dick nodded at the last word, and Leslie glanced at Bruce. He shook his head; he didn't know why the boy's legs were hurting.
"What part of your leg is hurting, Dick?" she asked.
The nine-year-old began chewing on his bottom lip again, and Bruce was worried that soon he would chew right through it.
"Can I take a look at the leg that hurts?"
Dick lifted his head, indecision plain in his eyes. He stared at Bruce and waited. The man stared back, not understanding.
"Sam wants you to do what I ask."
"Son of a fricking biscuit eater," the man whispered, so quiet that it was nearly inaudible.
It was his fault, he never should have said that to a terrified nine-year-old who was under someone's control. Now Dick was probably assuming that he had to wait for Bruce to give the okay, just like he had done with Sam.
"She just wants to help, Dick. You can show her."
And I'm not going to make every little decision for you.
That was one of the first things Bruce was going to do – teach Dick how to make his own decisions. He wouldn't be surprised if the boy had forgotten how.
Slowly, Dick began pulling up his right pant leg. The injury was visible almost immediately. His shin was purple and black and there was a large bump. Leslie was suddenly beside him, crouched on the floor with her hands hovering over the wound.
"Dick, I need to touch this so I know how bad it is. Are you okay with that?"
The boy glanced at Bruce again, who nodded without thinking and then began berating himself a second time. Dick looked down at Leslie and gave a slight nod. She watched his eyes squeeze shut and heard the gasp that meant he was now holding his breath.
"This might hurt, I'm sorry," she stated as she carefully probed the area.
Dick immediately flinched and his entire body went rigid. His eyes flew open and he began rapidly wheezing.
"I'm sorry," Leslie said again, even as she continued to examine the injury with gentle fingers.
"Bruce, I need an x-ray of this. It's either a bad fracture or a broken bone. Either way, he shouldn't be walking around on it. Dick, how long has your leg been hurting?" she asked as she took her hands away and went back to the couch.
The nine-year-old was gasping, and his eyes were squeezed shut again. His entire body was trembling, and he didn't even hear the question.
"Dick," Leslie repeated a little louder, "how long has your leg been hurting?"
Now it was Bruce who was crouched beside the chair.
"Slow down, kiddo, breathe with me. Listen. Breathe in and out, nice and slow. Do it with me."
Dick tried but failed to match his breathing with that of Bruce, so the man threw caution out the window in favor of keeping the boy alive.
The millionaire picked up Dick's right hand and placed it against his own chest. He began taking slow, deliberate breaths. It was easier for Dick to match it when he could feel it, and soon his breathing was also slow and deliberate.
Bruce let go of the small hand, but it stayed on his chest. Dick's eyes were open, the light-blue circles full of pain but outlined with curiosity. He was staring at his own hand as it rose and fell with the rhythm of the man's breathing.
"You…have a heartbeat," the nine-year-old whispered.
Bruce wanted to chuckle at the comment, but held it back. Dick was looking at him oddly, and laughing was probably not the best way to respond to the statement.
"So do you," he said instead.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," Leslie interrupted, "but I really need to know how long your leg has been hurting."
Dick glanced at her and shrugged, then took his hand off Bruce's chest. A spot of warmth stayed over the man's heart for a moment, and Bruce smiled. He got a twitch of the boy's lips in return, the first time he had seen anything that could resemble a smile.
"Bruce, when is the last time you saw him?"
"A little over a week ago."
"Did he have this injury then?"
"He was limping, but I don't know if it was from that."
"He's been walking on a fractured leg for over a week and nobody thought to take him to a doctor?!"
"I don't know if anybody knew about it. Dick," Bruce asked as he looked into the blue eyes, "did you tell anyone about your leg?"
The boy bit his lip and shook his head.
"Why not?" Leslie asked, a tinge of frustration in her voice.
"Sorry," Dick replied softly, dropping his head again.
"Hospital, Bruce, I'll meet you there," she commanded.
Without waiting for a response, Leslie stood up, gathered her things, and headed for the front door.
Dick lifted his head and watched her go. She had sounded mad, and it was Dick's fault. Now he was going to get in trouble with Mr. Wayne.
"Okay, kiddo, I guess we're taking a trip to the hospital."
Bruce stood up and quickly realized something: he was going to have to carry Dick, who would not want to be carried. But Leslie would be very upset with him if he allowed the boy to continue walking on his injured leg.
"Dick, this is a good time for you to make a decision. You can either hop on one leg or let me carry you to the car. Dr. Thompkins doesn't want you walking with that injury."
The nine-year-old carefully stood up. He thought about hopping, but just the thought of his leg flying through the air made him slightly nauseous. But there was no way he was going to trust Mr. Wayne to carry him. Dick still didn't trust anybody, not even the man who had a heartbeat and was good at breathing.
Bruce stood still, waiting for Dick to make a choice. He wasn't going to impatiently scoop the boy up, but he also wasn't going to force a decision out of him. However, he was not going to allow him to walk. So he might have to make the decision, even though he had just told Dick to make the decision. Bruce internally sighed.
I just got him and I'm already in a conundrum.
And then Alfred appeared. Always-prepared and all-knowing Alfred had brought a wheelchair. Bruce had no idea where the older man had found it, but he was grateful for his butler's wisdom.
"Master Dick, I thought perhaps you might be more comfortable in this."
Dick practically collapsed onto the seat, and Bruce carefully situated the boy's legs. Alfred stepped away and went to get the car.
"You okay?" Bruce asked quietly.
The nine-year-old started to nod, then paused. Dick thought about the question for a full minute before deciding to tell the truth. He shook his head.
"Dr. Thompkins is very good at what she does, and she'll help you heal quickly. You can trust her."
"No," Dick whispered.
"Yes, she is. She's been my doctor for…oh."
Understanding dawned on Bruce. The 'no' was for the last sentence, as in 'no' Dick was not going to trust her. Alfred came through the front door and held it open as Bruce wheeled the nine-year-old out to the waiting limo.
Dick's eyes widened again, although neither man saw it. The car was huge! Mr. Wayne had a lot of nice things. And then a thought came into Dick's mind as he shifted himself from the chair to the seat of the car.
The nine-year-old didn't know if Mr. Wayne thought he was a thief, like Miss Valentia did. If he did, he hadn't said anything about it. Dick decided that she had probably talked to Mr. Wayne, so maybe he should reassure the man, just in case.
"I won't steal anything, Mr. Wayne," Dick stated softly as Bruce slid into the seat next to him. "I promise."
The quiet declaration made Batman want to find Jeff Sanderson and beat him to a pulp. He still hadn't had a good chat with the man, and that conversation went to the top of his priority list.
"Dick, no matter what anybody else has said, you are not a criminal. I know you won't steal anything, and you've done nothing wrong. And you can call me Bruce."
There was no response. Bruce saw the boy try to stifle a yawn. It was only seven o'clock, but the man realized that Dick probably hadn't had a good night of sleep since the tragedy that had taken everything from him.
"The hospital is about an hour away, you can go to sleep if you want."
The boy's body was tense, and Bruce doubted he would take the opportunity. Fifteen minutes into the ride, however, Dick was fast asleep, the rocking motion of the car lulling him into slumber. His head tilted sideways and landed lightly on Bruce's broad shoulder, causing the man to smile slightly.
"I'll wake you when we get there," he whispered.
Chapter 22
Notes:
As always, thanks for commenting, Mooloodoom, SnowyfootOfWindClan, HamDan, and usagipoints! :)
Chapter Text
One month later:
Dick was healing. His body was back to full health, but his emotions were still fragile. It frustrated Bruce – the fact that it had been so easy to go downhill at the detention center, but that the climb back up was slow and difficult.
Batman's discussion with Jeff had gone well, from the hero's point of view. The man had landed in the hospital, but the arm had only been fractured and the leg was a clean break and the concussion was mild. Batman was actually quite proud of himself for holding back. Then he had talked to Victoria, who happened to be terrified of bats, so that had worked out well for him, also.
Bruce was nervous about tonight. He had finally accepted an invitation to a large party, after a month of being mostly unavailable. And he was taking Dick with him. It would be a first for Dick, and the man couldn't help but worry.
"It does not do to dwell on 'what ifs', sir," Alfred commented.
All three of them were in the living room, where the butler was making last minute adjustments to Dick's tie while simultaneously watching Bruce pace a hole in the floor.
"Everything will be fine," Bruce said, stopping mid-pace to look at the nine-year-old. "People will be fawning over you," he finished with a slight grin.
"What does that mean?" Dick asked, beginning to nervously chew his bottom lip.
"It means, young sir, that everyone will think you are adorable."
"But…I'm not."
"You most certainly are, Master Dick!"
Alfred finished the tie and laid a wrinkled hand on top of the boy's head.
"There will not be a woman there who can resist your charm, young sir," the butler stated with a reassuring smile. "As Master Bruce said, everything will be fine."
"Okay," Dick replied quietly.
"Ready, kiddo?" Bruce asked.
"I guess."
"We don't have to stay the entire time, and you don't even have to leave my side. If you feel uncomfortable, tell me and I'll take care of it. Okay?"
Dick nodded as he slipped his small hand into the much larger one of his guardian.
"Okay," Bruce breathed quietly.
They went out the front door, where Alfred was patiently waiting. Into the car they went, and twenty-two minutes later they were climbing out.
"Bruce!"
The millionaire looked up when a booming voice called his name. An older gentleman was standing by an open door at the top of a long staircase.
"Dick, that's Mr. Haskins," Bruce said quietly. "He's our host."
"Okay," the boy whispered back.
"Daniel, thank you for inviting me tonight!" Bruce replied, slipping on a casual grin as he led Dick up the stairs.
"You've been unavailable for so long that I'm calling this your re-debut into society," the man stated with a chuckle.
They were at the top of the stairs, and Bruce let go of Dick's hand in order to shake the hand of their host.
"Molly has been looking forward to meeting your young ward," Daniel stated. "She's going to fall in love with him."
He glanced down at Dick and gave him a wink. The nine-year-old shyly smiled, half hiding behind Bruce and too nervous to say anything.
"Well, let's not keep her waiting then!" Bruce responded.
Daniel led them inside, where the hostess was mingling. She was in the middle of a very large crowd of adults, and Dick noticed that there were no other children present. Molly saw them enter, so she excused herself and came to greet the new arrivals.
"Bruce," she simpered, "it's so good to finally see you again! And who is this young and handsome gentleman?"
"Molly, this is Dick Grayson. Dick, this is Mrs. Haskins."
Dick was frozen, terror turning the blood in his veins to ice. Molly Haskins looked like the female version of the head guard at the detention center, and Dick wanted nothing to do with her.
"Say hello, kiddo," Bruce whispered, giving the boy a little nudge.
All three adults stared at the nine-year-old, waiting for him to respond. After thirty seconds of silence, Bruce decided to do it for him.
"He's quite shy, he's only been here for a month and a half. It might take him a while to get used to all the new people. Thank you so much for including him on the invitation."
"Of course, I understand. It must be so hard for the poor dear, losing everything in one night. Was it so hard, sweetheart?" she cooed.
The question was directed at Dick, who stared at her as if she had just grown another head.
"Molly," Bruce said quietly, "I would prefer he not be reminded of the tragedy, especially since this is all a new experience for him."
"Of course, Bruce, of course. Please excuse me, I have a party to host."
She smiled down at the nine-year-old, then turned around and continued to mingle.
Bruce had let go of Dick's hand when he had greeted Molly. He felt the small hand slide back into his grasp. The boy was trembling, and Bruce thought about leaving. But Molly hadn't meant any harm, and they had only just arrived. Squeezing the small hand, Bruce led the boy to a group of people.
They spent almost an hour mingling, and the new faces were all blurring together for Dick. Most people smiled at him when they were introduced. Those who didn't either ignored him or gave him a quick, haughty glance.
Bruce could tell Dick was getting tired, so he allowed the boy to sit down on a soft couch while he went to get them something to drink. A tall, slim woman in a glittering, silver dress promptly sat down next to the nine-year-old.
"Hi," she said simply.
"Hi," Dick replied, the word almost inaudible.
"You really are adorable," the woman stated, giving him a dazzling smile. "I think I should like to keep you when Bruce finally decides to take the next step."
Dick had no idea what that meant, so he remained quiet.
"I do have a few questions," she continued, shifting sideways so she could wrap an arm around him.
The nine-year-old flinched, but if the woman noticed she didn't care. Her arm slipped all the way across his shoulders and her hand ended up on his left bicep.
"So, have you stolen anything yet?"
Dick's eyes widened, and he quickly shook his head. He glanced around the room, searching for rescue in the form of Bruce, but the man was nowhere to be seen at the moment.
"When you do, make sure it's something ugly. I don't want any of the good pieces missing when I get there. Next question, I heard you were in the detention center right after your parents died. So, what did you do that made your social worker put you in there?"
The boy remained silent, and the woman squeezed his arm just a tiny bit.
"Obviously, Bruce got you out. That's a pretty big thing, getting a delinquent out of the center. What do you owe him?"
The squeeze was a little harder this time, so Dick decided to answer.
"Nothing," he said softly.
The woman gave a quiet, tinkling laugh.
"Come now, there's no reason to lie. How are you repaying him?"
"I…he said…"
Dick trailed off, his now-panicked mind causing his thoughts to jumble together.
"He said…" the woman prompted.
When he didn't answer again, the woman decided a to take a different approach. Tipping her drink, she spilled the liquid on both of them, then gasped loudly. A few people near them turned around at the sound.
"Silly me, I made a mess," she stated to the onlookers. "If Bruce returns, will you let him know that I'm cleaning us up?" she asked the crowd sweetly.
There were some nods and a 'yes' as the people returned to their conversations.
"Okay, kid, let's go clean up."
She slipped her arm off his shoulders and grabbed his right hand. Standing up, she pulled him to his feet and led him away from the crowd.
"Bathroom is around the corner," she stated conversationally. "Lots of privacy, so you can feel more comfortable talking to me."
Dick tried to turn back, but the woman was deceptively strong. Tightening her grip on his hand, she roughly pulled him into a hallway and around a corner.
"Now, tell me what you did to get thrown into the center," she demanded.
"Nothing," Dick answered, fear in his voice.
Dropping his hand, she slapped him and snarled, "Don't lie to me. I know how to get the truth out of people."
"I swear," the nine-year-old responded, holding back the tears that had sprung up from the pain of the hit.
"I heard you were put on the fourth floor. That's a bad place for a little guy like you. It must have been something awful. Nobody gets thrown in the center for 'doing nothing'. Did you kill someone? Or two someones?"
It was the detention center all over again, someone accusing him of killing his own parents and telling him that Gotham City didn't make mistakes.
"No, I didn't do…"
"Stop lying," she snarled as she slapped him again, cutting off his reply. "We can stand here for as long as we need to, because it will take a while for me to 'clean you up' after 'accidentally' spilling my drink on you."
Silence, so she slapped him one more time.
"Answer me, you little brat," she snapped. "What are you doing for Bruce that makes him want to keep you? Cleaning, cooking, or something else altogether?"
Dick shook his head, and a tear slipped down his cheek. He quickly wiped it away and forced the other ones to recede.
"Here, take a sip of this, it will help you feel more comfortable to answer my questions."
She took a small bottle out of her purse and grabbed the boy's chin with her left hand. The face of Sam floated through his mind, a memory of a threat while being held by the chin.
"Open your mouth," she demanded, and he obediently did as he was told.
The whiskey left a trail of fire as it slid down his throat, and Dick began coughing.
"Shut up," the woman commanded, even as she poured some more into his system.
The room began to spin, and Dick wanted to throw up. But this was something that was important to Bruce, so vomiting on the woman was not an option. He didn't know how to answer her questions, though, because she thought he was lying even though he was telling the truth. And he couldn't really think straight anymore anyway.
Black dots appeared on the edges of his vision, and the last thing he saw before closing his eyes was a flash of black at the edge of the corner. Dick slid to the ground, his head connecting with the top of the woman's shoe as she stumbled back.
There was no nine-year-old sitting on the couch when Bruce returned. He put the drinks on a side table and searched the room with his eyes. Daniel Haskins spotted him standing there alone, and went quickly to his side.
"What's going on, Bruce?" the man asked, noticing the concern in his visitor's eyes.
"I don't know where Dick is, do you see him anywhere?" Bruce responded, the concern also manifesting itself in his voice.
"I haven't seen him since I met you at the front door," Daniel replied.
A man standing in a small circle turned around.
"Louisa spilled a drink on him and took him to the bathroom to clean him up," the guy stated before turning back to his group.
"Oh, good," Daniel said. "The bathroom is down that hall," he pointed to his left, "and around the corner. I'll leave you to it."
"Thank you," Bruce murmured, the concern growing.
'Louisa' could only mean Louisa Nasterson, a local reporter whose articles were all about the dirty side of Gotham City. Not the criminal element sort of dirty, though. That job belonged to the crime reporter. Louisa enjoyed the gossip, and when she targeted someone she didn't give up until she had pulled some sort of skeleton out of the person's closet. And now she had Dick.
Bruce strode quickly down the hall. As he came to the corner, he heard a woman's voice mumble something that sounded like 'shut up'. He rounded the corner just as Dick melted to the ground. The man tried to pull Louisa out of the way, but he saw the boy's head hit the top of her shoe as if she had kicked him.
"Let me go!" Louisa yelled before turning to see her attacker.
Her face reddened and she swallowed hard when she saw the ferocious glare that was coming from the dark-blue eyes of Bruce Wayne. He had immediately dropped her arm after pulling her back, so she practically ran around the corner and back to the party.
"Dick," Bruce said loudly as he knelt down next to the boy.
The distinct smell of whiskey hit his nose like a smoke bomb. Batman wanted to go after the woman, and Bruce had to focus hard on the boy to prevent that from happening.
"Wake up, kiddo. Geez, you're going to have one heck of a headache tomorrow."
There was no response, not even a groan or a flinch, so Bruce scooped the nine-year-old up and strode back the way he had come.
"…and then he assaulted me!"
Bruce heard Louisa's shrill voice, and the fury in his veins boiled hotter. Batman yelled at him to put the boy on the couch and take her down. But he was currently Bruce Wayne, and neither Batman nor Bruce Wayne would 'take down' a woman who was not a villainess.
"There he is, look at the kid, what did he do?"
The comments and questions were murmured, but Bruce heard them.
"Daniel," Bruce said as he stopped in the middle of the room, "I think you need to know something. That woman," Bruce spat the word in disgust, "just poured whiskey down my boy's throat. She made a child drink so much alcohol that he passed out. Now, if you'll excuse me – or even if you don't – I'm taking Dick home."
The man strode past the surprised guests, who then turned to Louisa. She had just accused Bruce Wayne of assaulting her, but the fact that an unconscious kid was in the man's arms while she looked perfectly fine caused most people to assume she was lying.
"Miss Nasterson, please leave my house," Daniel said quietly. "And don't come back. Ever," he added. "And I would advise you to stay away from Bruce Wayne and his youthful ward."
Louisa stood stock still, not believing what she was hearing. They were supposed to believe her, especially since Bruce had such a playboy reputation. But they were all on his side, even though they didn't know the sordid details of his ward's life. She didn't have any details, either, but she was sure she would find something soon.
"You'll regret this," she said. "I know things about the kid, things that Bruce will never want published. You'll be begging me to come back, but don't expect me to accept your invitation."
"Leave!" Daniel commanded.
Molly was suddenly by her side. She gently grabbed Louisa's arm and led her away from the ballroom.
"Molly, you have to beli…"
"Get out of my house," Molly replied firmly, letting go of her arm and pointing at the door that was ten yards away. "You chose to go after the wrong person this time. You are a disgrace to your profession."
"Molly!" Louisa gasped. "Bruce assaulted me! I was trying to help the kid after he told me all these awful things…"
"Get. Out."
The women stared at each other, a silent standoff that neither wanted to break first.
"Or, I can call the police," Molly finally commented. "I'm sure Commissioner Gordon would love to hear about you making a child drunk!"
Holding up her hands, Louisa backed away then turned and fled out the door.
Bruce stomped down the stairs toward the driveway. His entire body was trembling with fury, and if he didn't have an unconscious nine-year-old in his arms he might have turned around and gone right back inside.
But then he didn't have to, because Louisa Nasterson came stomping down the steps a few minutes later. Bruce had just laid Dick on the seat in the limo and was preparing to climb in himself. The 'click click' of her high heels made him pause and look back.
"Sir," Alfred warned.
Ignoring the wisdom of his butler, Bruce met Louisa at the bottom of the stairs.
"Why?" he demanded, his quiet voice full of anger.
"Why what?" she retorted snarkily.
"Why are you going after a nine-year-old orphan?!"
"He was in the detention center, there has to be a reason. No social worker would put an orphan in the detention center without a reason!"
Bruce had so much to say to that, but he held himself in check.
"Perhaps," he snapped, "you should check your sources before you judge someone, especially a child. Be careful where you go poking around, Louisa."
"Is that a threat, Bruce?"
"I would call it a warning. You're not worth threatening."
Whirling around, he strode to the limo and climbed inside. Louisa stared after him, anger smoldering in her eyes.
"My sources are usually impeccable," she whispered as she watched the butler climb in and prepare to drive away. "Just wait, Bruce Wayne, I'll get the story. And all your money won't be able to stop me from printing it."
In the limo, Bruce was staring down at the face of his ward. It was flushed and the boy's breathing was unusually slow.
"Master Bruce, why is there an unconscious nine-year-old in this vehicle?" Alfred practically demanded. "What on earth happened in there?!"
"Nasterson poured whiskey down his throat. I don't know how much…"
"We're going to the hospital, sir. I'm not taking any chances with his life," the butler uncharacteristically interrupted.
Bruce was taken aback by Alfred's tone, but he nodded in agreement. Then he noticed something unusual. Dick's face was flushed, but only on one cheek. The rest of his face was slightly pale.
The man flicked on the overhead light and moved a little closer. The shape of a hand was clearly visible on the nine-year-old's cheek, and the millionaire almost turned around and punched the door. Batman wanted to leap out of the car and go find the woman.
"Sir, do not move. We are going to the hospital and you are staying with Master Dick. Nobody is going after Miss Nasterson unless it is the police."
Alfred's voice was firm, and his tone demanded compliance. Batman unwillingly retreated, and Bruce again had to force himself to stay focused on the boy. A thought occurred to him, and he was suddenly very nervous.
"Alfred, what if they think I did that?" he asked, apprehension filling his voice.
"Did what, sir?"
"He has a dark-red mark in the shape of a hand on his cheek."
"Master Bruce," the butler replied calmly, "there are several reasons why that won't happen. Please raise your hand as if you were going to slap him…"
"Alfred!" the younger man exclaimed.
"Sir, I said 'as if'," the older man stated with a sigh.
Bruce slowly raised his hand and held it near Dick's red cheek.
"Now, sir, measure your hand against the mark on his face. Do they match, Master Bruce?"
"No," the millionaire immediately responded. "My hand is much bigger."
"That is reason number one, sir. Reason number two is an assumption, but I have no doubt you will confirm it, especially after the way Miss Nasterson stormed out of the Haskins' residence. Were there any witnesses, Master Bruce?"
"Not exactly," Bruce answered, causing Alfred to raise his eyebrows as he glanced in the rearview mirror.
The full story came out, from Bruce's point of view, and it left Alfred slightly troubled.
"How long were you gone, sir? How much time passed from when you left the party to when you returned with Master Dick?"
"Three minutes, four at the most. The guy told me where they had gone, I walked down the hall and turned the corner, I tried to pull her out of the way so Dick wouldn't fall on her, I attempted to wake him up, then I picked him up and walked back."
"Did you have anything in your hands, Master Bruce?"
"No, I put our drinks on a side table. It was just two tumblers of club soda. Whiskey wasn't even one of the drink options, so she must have had it with her."
"Master Bruce, I think you should call Commissioner Gordon, for several reasons. Not the least of which is the fact that he needs to check her purse before she can clean it out."
Dick stirred, and a tiny mumble exited his mouth.
"Sh, kiddo, it's okay," Bruce whispered as he brushed some hair off the boy's forehead.
At the same time, he picked up the car phone and dialed the direct number to the office of the commissioner of the police.
"Commissioner Gordon."
The man sounded tired, but Bruce needed proof.
"Jim, this is Bruce Wayne. I have a problem."
"What can I do for you, Bruce?"
"Louisa Nasterson just forced Dick to drink whiskey. We were at the Haskins' house, but now we're on our way to the hospital."
"She what?!" Commissioner Gordon exclaimed, the exhaustion fleeing from his voice.
"The thing is," Bruce continued, attempting to remain calm, "there was no whiskey at the party. She must have had it with her, but if she cleans out her purse…"
"I'll send Chief O'Hara to her office and I'll go to her house," Jim immediately responded. "If she's innocent, she won't mind if we take a look. I'll let you know what I find."
"Thank you, Jim," Bruce said to a dial tone.
The commissioner had hung up before the millionaire had even had the chance to reply.
At that very moment, Alfred slowed down and pulled to a stop at Gotham General's emergency room entrance. Bruce was already sliding out before the butler was out of the car.
"It's fine, Alfred, go park," the millionaire said as he picked Dick up and cradled him to his broad chest.
With a polite nod, the butler returned to the driver seat and shifted out of park. Bruce slammed the back door shut with his hip, and Alfred left to find a parking spot.
The emergency room lobby was, surprisingly, empty. Bruce strode up to the desk and explained the situation. Dick was immediately taken back and put through a complete checkup. Alfred joined Bruce in the hallway a few moments later. The curtain around the cubicle was closed only halfway, so they could still see the boy while also being out of the way.
After fifteen minutes, the doctor stepped out to speak to them.
"We gave him some fluids and nutrients – his blood glucose level was a little low – but he should be fine. He'll have a good sized headache tomorrow for a while, and don't be surprised if he vomits a few times throughout the day. His body will be cleansing itself. I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne, but I have to ask this. Did you give him any alcohol? Even a small amount can be very bad for a child."
"No, of course not. We were at a party…"
"You took him to a party at nine years old?"
The doctor sounded slightly aghast, and Bruce clenched his jaw.
"His name was on the invitation," the millionaire ground out.
"One more thing, Mr. Wayne. There is a mark I'm concerned about, on his face. Did you…" the doctor paused.
This was both a delicate and dangerous question. Taking a deep breath the doctor continued, "Did you, um, hit your…" this time the pause was to glance down at his notes, "ward?"
"Of. Course. Not. A guest at the party was trying to force answers out of him and used two different techniques – slapping and whiskey."
"How do you know it was whiskey, Mr. Wayne?"
Bruce stared at him for a moment, disbelief radiating from his eyes.
"Doctor…" Bruce glanced at the tag on the man's lab coat, "…Wu, is there a problem with your nose?"
"No, why?" the doctor responded, confusion in his voice.
"Do you not recognize the smell of whiskey?"
"Not all of us are socialites, Mr. Wayne."
"That is not what I asked, Dr. Wu."
"I have never smelled it," the doctor admitted, "so no, I don't recognize it."
"Well, now you know what it smells like," Bruce almost snapped.
Dr. Wu swiftly changed directions, more than a little nervous about the millionaire's tone.
"You can take him home when all the liquids are in his system. Give it about an hour. I'll let the nurse know to check you out."
The doctor quickly walked away. Bruce and Alfred stepped inside the cubicle and closed the curtain.
"I shouldn't have left him," Bruce stated after three minutes of silently staring down at the nine-year-old.
"You had no way of knowing, Master Bruce," Alfred replied.
"B'sss?"
The men watched Dick struggle against his eyelids. Ever so slowly they inched upward, until finally the light-blue was visible. His pupils were dilated and his eyes were bloodshot.
"Hey, kiddo," Bruce said softly. "How are you feeling?"
"Gross," Dick replied.
"Gross?" Bruce echoed.
"Something gross in my mouth."
"Well, you did get quite drunk."
"Master Bruce!" Alfred quietly exclaimed.
"What does that mean?" Dick asked, his forehead furrowing in confusion.
"Um, alcohol, kiddo. Someone…"
"I'm sorry, Bruce, I just…she told me to and she had my chin and I'm supposed to obey and everyone is always right!"
"Whoa, chum, slow down! I'm not mad at you, you're not in trouble. This was not your fault and…"
Bruce paused as something sunk in. He lifted his right hand and gently tilted Dick's head up. A light bruise was forming on the boy's lower jawline, and the millionaire quietly growled. He added another thing to Batman's "why to take down Louisa Nasterson" list.
"Nobody is always right, Master Dick," Alfred stated gently, knowing that Bruce was lost in his own thoughts.
"Can we go home?" the nine-year-old whispered.
"Sir," Alfred prodded when Bruce didn't respond.
"Hm, what? Oh, we can go when the bag is empty," the millionaire answered vaguely, waving his hand in the general direction of the half-full bag of liquid nutrients.
"When will that be?"
"Sir!" Alfred prodded again, a little more firmly.
"What?"
"Master Dick needs some answers, sir."
"What was the question?"
"When can we go home?"
Bruce glanced at the bag of liquids, then replied, "In about half an hour."
"Can I go to sleep?"
"Of course, chum, I'll be right here when you wake up."
Bruce had no idea that he would say that many more times throughout his young ward's life. Nor did he know that this nine-year-old child was slowly filling the edges of a large, dark hole in his heart. And he had no way of knowing that this fragile boy would soon grow into a strong young hero.
Alfred watched Bruce slowly brush his hand across Dick's forehead in one long, smooth stroke. And the very perceptive butler smiled.
Chapter 23
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, HamDan, Mooloodoom, usagipoints, SnowyfootOfWindClan, and DebbieF! :)
This one's a shortie, mostly because the next part didn't flow well with it. I'm going to continue, but I don't think Dick will become Robin in this story. Then again, who knows where the muse might take me? Thanks for reading! :)
Chapter Text
The next morning:
Dick woke up with a pounding headache. Bruce, as he had said he would be, was right by his side. The man was fast asleep, and Dick felt bad that he had spent the night in a chair. It was Dick's fault, so waking Bruce up was not an option. No matter how bad his head hurt, or how nauseous he felt.
The boy slowly slid out of bed, doing his best to stay silent. His stomach revolted when he stood up, so he gave up on silence and ran to the bathroom. Closing the door as quietly as he could while doing it quickly, Dick knelt down and waited for the inevitable event.
The 'slam' of the door was the thing that awakened Bruce. He pushed himself out of his cramped slouch and looked at the bed. Dick was gone, but obviously in the bathroom. Why else would the bathroom door have slammed shut?
Bruce waited for the boy to finish. It was taking unusually long, so the man stood up and walked over to the door. He lightly knocked and waited for a reply.
"Dick, you okay?" he asked when he received no response.
Silence greeted the question, so he put his ear to the door. What he heard made him open the door and go to the boy's side. Dick was resting his head on the side of the bathtub. His face was pale, he was trembling, and his arms were wrapped across his stomach.
"Don' f'l good," he mumbled.
"I bet," Bruce commented as he knelt down next to the nine-year-old. "Did you throw up?"
"No," Dick whispered. "Don' wanna."
"I know it's not the most fun thing in the world, but it might help."
"Hateit."
"So do I, kiddo, but sometimes we have to do hard things in order to feel better."
"Wha' happen?"
Bruce sighed and tried to figure out how to say it in a child-friendly way.
"A woman gave you something to drink and it didn't agree with you," was what he landed on.
"Yeah," Dick breathed.
There was a pause, and then he added, "Sorry you had to leave."
"You have nothing to be sorry about, Dick. That was not your fault. At all."
Dick answered by leaning over the toilet and expelling the poison that was still in his stomach. When it was over, he slumped back against the tub again.
"Sorry," he said again.
"Dick, no part of this situation – including that – is your fault. You don't need to apologize. Do you want to go back to bed?"
"Yeah."
"Does your head hurt?" Bruce asked as he helped the boy up and led him out of the bathroom.
"Yeah," Dick repeated. "Lot."
"I'll have Alfred get some medicine for that. You can go back to sleep, or you can read a book, or draw a picture, or something else entirely. Does any of that sound good?"
"Will you…"
Dick stopped, thought for a moment, then continued, "Never mind."
"You can ask me anything, kiddo. How are you going to find out the answer if you don't ask?"
The nine-year-old shrugged and grimaced.
"I'll go get that medicine, you decide whether or not you want to ask me something."
Bruce situated the boy in the large bed then went to find Alfred.
He's not going to want to read to you.
But he's nice.
He doesn't want to read to a boy who made a mess out of his life last night.
He said it wasn't my fault.
He was looking forward to the party and you ruined it for him.
I didn't mean to.
But you did.
She made me.
You let her.
The internal argument raged on in Dick's mind until Bruce came back with the medicine. He saw the nine-year-old's glum expression, and hoped the boy had thought of something to do besides sitting there and thinking this was his fault.
"So, did you make a decision?"
Dick glanced at Bruce, then dropped his eyes to the blanket and started picking at one of the edges. The man watched him take a deep breath and hoped the boy was gathering enough courage to ask whatever it was he wanted to know.
"Willyoureadabooktome?"
It was one long word, but Bruce deciphered it.
"Sure, kiddo, what do you want to read?"
Dick's mouth dropped open in shock, and Bruce chuckled.
"Like I said, you won't find out the answer unless you ask," he stated with a grin. "What do you want me to read?"
"Do you have Tom Sawyer?" Dick asked somewhat shyly.
"I think so. You take this medicine, and I'll go look for Tom Sawyer. Deal?"
Dick nodded, so Bruce gave him the medicine and headed for the library downstairs.
"Alfred, do we have Tom Sawyer?" the man called as he strode past the kitchen.
"West bookcase, third shelf, seventh book from the left," Alfred instantly responded.
Bruce was only slightly astonished when he found the book in that exact location. Returning to the bedroom, he found Dick lying down and thought he was asleep.
"Well, another time then," the man whispered.
"Why?"
"I thought you were asleep, kiddo."
"Resting my eyes."
"Have you ever read this book, Dick?"
"My dad was in the middle of it…"
"Oh."
Bruce didn't know what to say to that.
"Will you start from the beginning?"
"Of course."
Bruce opened the book and began reading. The soothing sound of his baritone voice slowly lulled Dick to sleep. Thirty minutes after he had begun reading, Bruce closed the book and placed it on the bedside table.
He sat there for a moment, staring at the tousled hair and peaceful face of the child he had rescued from the detention center. Bruce suddenly realized how far they had come in just one month. Dick had gone from silent, to monosyllabic answers, to complete sentences, and now to asking for things he wanted.
The nine-year-old still sometimes automatically flinched at a raised hand, and usually agreed with whatever Alfred or Bruce would say even if he had a different opinion. Making decisions was still hard, and if a door happened to slam shut it elicited a quiet yelp of fear.
But he was much more stable – physically and emotionally – than he had been one short month ago. Nobody was accusing him of killing anyone, and nobody was blaming him for everything. There were times, however, when Bruce could tell that Dick was blaming himself. Having to leave the party early, for example.
That thought led him to an image of Louisa Nasterson. Batman wanted to go to her house, scare her half to death, drag her to Police Headquarters by the hair, and deposit her in a cell full of drunken idiots. Bruce was just going to press charges – furnishing alcohol to a minor. It was a misdemeanor, so it would probably end up being a fine, but the entire population of Gotham City would know what she had done. She would probably be fired.
With that happy thought in mind, Bruce stood up. He adjusted the covers around his ward's sleeping form, then left the room. His first stop was going to be the study, where he would call Commissioner Gordon to inform him that Bruce Wayne was fully prepared to try to send Louisa Nasterson to jail.
Several hours later, just after two o'clock, Dick came stumbling down the stairs. Bruce had been about to go check on him, so when the boy tripped on the last two steps, the man was already there to catch him.
"How's your head, kiddo?" he asked as they sat on the bottom stair.
"Better."
"And your stomach?"
"Doesn't hurt at all."
"Good. Are you hungry?"
Dick shook his head, then unexpectedly wrapped his arms around Bruce's neck. He twisted his way into the man's lap and laid his small head on the strong chest. Bruce was startled, and hesitated briefly. Then he carefully laid his arms across Dick's back in a sort-of hug.
They sat there for several minutes. Bruce didn't know that Dick was tactile, so he had no idea that this was a part of the nine-year-old's emotional healing process. Dick listened to the man's heartbeat, and for the first time in a little over a month he felt…safe.
Chapter 24
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, usagipoints, HamDan, and SnowyfootOfWindClan! :)
Chapter Text
It was a gradual process, but Dick slowly began emerging from his shell. Luckily, it was summertime, so he was saved from the probable trauma of meeting new kids and adults. He seemed to be slightly happy most of the time, and Bruce had learned to expect an enormous, albeit reserved, hug whenever he came through the front door.
But Alfred had noticed something. A dark anger, simmering just below the surface. Similar to the one he had seen in a young Bruce Wayne. And it worried him. Dick was passionate, about everything, and the longer the anger simmered the more volatile it would be when it finally exploded out of him.
The butler didn't know how Bruce wasn't seeing the obvious emotion. He had mentioned it to the younger man twice, and Bruce had observed the boy more carefully for a day or two. But Batman was so used to the darkness that he hadn't noticed anything unusual.
A passionate child's emotions cannot be bottled up for long. A small explosion occurred on a Tuesday, after a dinner that was late because Bruce had been in a meeting for longer than he had anticipated. It was a mild temper tantrum, but it would lead to something else entirely. Something that Bruce had vowed would never happen.
The man arrived home tired. Batman had no clues as to the identity of whomever had killed two-thirds of The Flying Graysons, and it was frustrating him because finding that person had become a priority. That, coupled with the fact that the meeting had been one of the most argumentative of his life, left him in a foul mood.
So now there they were, sitting in the living room, the man reading the business section of the newspaper and the boy bored out of his mind.
"Dick, stop kicking the couch," Bruce said wearily.
"I'm not kicking the couch."
"Then what on earth is that thumping noise?"
"I'm kicking the table."
Bruce lowered the paper and raised his eyebrows at the boy's audacity.
"Then stop kicking the table."
"I'm bored."
"Find something to do."
"There's nothing to do."
"Dick, there is an entire mansion filled with rooms of…things! We have a library, you can start there!"
His voice was loud, and the harsh tone startled the boy. It came from exhaustion and frustration, not anger, but Dick had not yet learned to recognize the difference. He reacted, the simmering emotions finally rising to the surface.
"I've read all the books!" he yelled.
"So read them again! Or go to the gym! Just get out of here so I can read the paper in peace."
Bruce hadn't meant it like it had sounded, but Dick didn't know that. All he heard was that the man wanted him to leave.
"Fine, I'll leave," he muttered, standing up and stomping out of the room.
Dick's words were dripping with anger, but Bruce ignored the warning bell that softly sounded in his mind. The man rolled his eyes at the dramatic exit, then sighed and went back to reading the paper. A few minutes later he heard a quiet 'click', but it didn't faze him as he studied the latest numbers in the stock market.
Half an hour later, Alfred entered the room.
"Master Bruce, where is Master Dick?" he inquired.
Bruce glanced up and was surprised when he saw concern on his butler's face.
"He's probably in the library or the gym."
"Sir, I have checked the library, the gym, the kitchen, his bedroom, your bedroom, all three of the downstairs bathrooms, and the den."
Bruce nearly jumped to his feet.
"He's lost?!"
"What was your argument about, sir?"
"What argument?"
"You and Master Dick were speaking quite loudly to each other almost an hour ago, sir."
"We were?"
Bruce had to think for a moment before continuing.
"Oh, he was bored and complaining so I told him to go find something to do. Then he stomped out of the room."
"Perhaps you should check some cameras, Master Bruce," Alfred said quietly. "I'll continue the search here, while you look down there."
Nodding, Bruce strode quickly to his study. Two minutes later he was down in the Batcave. He turned on the Bat-camera Viewing Machine and rewound to the previous hour. There Dick was, stomping out of the living room and up the stairs. A moment later he re-entered the foyer, a bag slung over his back.
The 'click' he had heard pushed itself to the forefront of Batman's mind. He watched in disbelief as Dick quietly opened the door and walked out. Batman quickly switched to the Bat-camera outside the front door. Dick came into view, took a quick peek behind him, then began to run.
He ran the length of the front lawn, then disappeared from view as he turned the corner near the front gate.
Why on earth is he…
The words he had said echoed in his brain: Just get out of here. Dick had taken them literally. Batman realized they had never had a 'real' argument, and he hadn't thought this one counted. But, apparently, the nine-year-old thought it did. Which meant Bruce had probably sounded angry.
Batman sprinted to the Batmobile and climbed inside. Since he was roaring out of the tunnel, he failed to notice the boy come back into view, head down and dragging the bag on the ground. He also didn't see Dick walk around the back of the house, nor did he see the nine-year-old begin climbing up a pipe.
Dick was on the peak of the roof, his gaze alternating between the moon and the distant lights of Gotham City. He had started to run away, but had realized the stupidity of the idea the moment he had turned the corner and saw the locked gate. Bruce was the first person to actually care about him since his parents had died. Why was he running away from that?
The nine-year-old had no fear of heights – he had, after all, been flying in the air from the time he was three. It was a place the men wouldn't think to look for him for a while, and it was a quiet place to think. So, he had climbed to the top of the roof and begun thinking.
A while later, Dick didn't know how long it had been, he heard a loud roaring sound. Like a powerful car, or the crash of the water at the end of a long waterfall. He scanned the surrounding area, and then jumped to his feet.
The black car speeding down the road could only belong to one person. Dick had seen the Batmobile on TV. It had a very distinct size and shape, and the boy had no doubt that he was watching the Batmobile drive away from Wayne Manor. Why had Batman been visiting Bruce, and why had Bruce kept it a secret, and where had Batman been hiding while Dick was in the house?!
Dick took a step forward, trying to keep the vehicle in view as it raced away. His foot slipped, and he stumbled back. He quickly engaged his abdominal muscles and straightened himself out. Trembling, he sat down again. Pulling his legs into his chest, Dick wrapped his arms around them and put his chin on his knees.
He had almost fallen. Dick wasn't scared of heights, but he was terrified of falling. There was no net, nobody was down there, nobody would have caught him. He would have died just like his parents. Dick didn't want to die, so he slowed down his breathing and counted to one hundred. Feeling a bit calmer, the nine-year-old scooted to the edge of the roof and began the long climb down.
When Dick got to the ground, he decided to go the back way. He had never been to the very back of Wayne Manor, it had never even crossed his mind. Why would he go back there when he had an entire front lawn in which to play? But the Batmobile had come from back there, and Dick was a curious child.
He followed a dirt path that, twenty minutes later, led to a dirt road. There was a sign with two rows of words. The top one said Gotham City, and the bottom 14 Miles. So, Wayne Manor was fourteen miles away from Gotham City. Interesting, but not relevant to finding out why the Batmobile had been here.
And Dick knew the Batmobile had been here. Big tire tracks, as plain as day in the bright moonlight. Bruce Wayne didn't own any vehicles with big tires.
Turning around, Dick noticed an odd-looking bush. Or maybe it was a tree. It was tilted slightly, unlike the other shrubbery surrounding it. And the leaves were moving, even though the night was calm. There was no breeze, not even a tiny one, so the leaves should be as still as the ones on all the other bushes and trees. But they were moving.
A voice in his head told Dick to turn around, to go back up the hill and around to the front door and inside the Manor. But his natural curiosity overpowered the voice, and the nine-year-old moved closer.
He crept slowly and silently toward the unusual bush. Dick made it to the hill, and pressed himself flat against the rocky side. Pausing, he listened. There were no sounds, so he carefully slid against the hillside until he was right next to the bush. He put his finger out to touch it, and discovered that it was wood covered with leaves.
It swung gently when he pushed it, and he stared up into the darkness. There was some kind of wire stretching across the top. So the wood was not growing out of the hill, it was attached to the hill. Taking a deep breath, Dick lifted the slats just enough to slide his body through the opening. He stopped again and listened, but heard nothing except the tiny squeaks of some kind of animal. Probably a mouse.
Dick found himself in a long, dark tunnel. He had a bit of moonlight from behind him, and there was a dim light on the other end of the tunnel. But the middle was completely dark. The nine-year-old thought again about turning back, but he really wanted to know why there was a light at the end of a long tunnel right underneath Wayne Manor. Did Bruce know it was here?
The boy was scared of being alone in the dark. He was fine if there were people around, even if it was just one person. But this dark tunnel was long, and he was by himself. Dick decided to run. It would get him to the other side faster, and if anyone or anything was waiting in the dark, it wouldn't be fast enough to jump out and catch him. Whatever was in there would have to chase him, and Dick knew he was fast.
So he took a deep breath and ran. He sprinted, driving his feet into the ground and pushing off hard, pumping his arms rapidly, and attempting to remain calm enough to remember how to breathe. It took him twelve seconds to reach the other end.
Batman had circled the entire area around Wayne Manor. Dick couldn't have gone far on foot, especially since the front gate was locked. But he hadn't found even a trace of the boy. So, he turned back and headed for the Batcave, intending to hack into some city cameras while also watching the Bat-cameras.
The faux shrub automatically rose when the Batmobile approached, and Batman slowed down. He coasted into the long tunnel, and suddenly had to slam on the brakes. A person was standing at the mouth of the tunnel entrance, a small person with dark hair. Batman immediately knew who it was, and he almost let out a string of swear words.
Dick had found the Batcave.
Chapter 25
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, usagipoints, HamDan, and SnowyfootOfWindClan! :)
Chapter Text
Dick turned around when he heard the squeal of the brakes. His eyes widened in shock when the Batmobile screeched to a stop only four yards away from him. Somehow the nine-year-old's eyes grew even wider when Batman himself climbed out of the vehicle. The man approached, and the boy backed away. Straight into the heart of the Batcave.
Batman, who never panicked, was panicking slightly. He had vowed that this secret would never be discovered by the boy, but now here they were. And the Caped Crusader had no idea how to handle the situation.
"Do you…live under Wayne Manor?" Dick asked timidly as he continued backing away.
Batman almost laughed, but thought better of it. Maybe he should allow the boy to accept that explanation. It meant the most important part of the secret – his identity – would remain a secret. Bruce didn't want to lie to his ward, but Batman was leaning toward choosing to do so. Then the choice was taken away.
"Master Batman," Alfred began as he walked around the corner of the tunnel, "did…"
The butler froze. Batman was stalking toward him, but it was the suddenly-motionless mess of dark hair that was holding Alfred's attention.
The hero continued to advance, but Dick stopped. He slowly turned around, the shock in his eyes manifesting itself all over the rest of his face. Dick gaped at Alfred as if he had never seen him before.
"Sir," Alfred said, keeping his eyes on the nine-year-old, "you do not need to do that."
Dick turned around in time to see a can of Bat-nesia stop in front of his face. Batman's finger was on the button that would send a soft mist into Dick's mind, erasing everything he had just seen. The hero had another choice to make, and he wondered why Alfred had advised him not to use the spray.
"I won't say anything!" Dick exclaimed softly, a touch of fear in his voice.
The nine-year-old had no idea what Bat-nesia was, but Alfred's tone was firm and unyielding. That was very concerning to Dick, and the faded-but-still-familiar feeling of terror crept into his mind.
Batman was frustrated by his indecisiveness. Why was he hesitating? Dick wasn't supposed to know about this place, and Batman was wasting his chance to take that knowledge away from the boy.
"Please, I promise!" Dick whispered.
It was the sound of complete terror in the nine-year-old's voice that allowed Batman to make his decision. With a sigh, he put down the spray and took off his cowl.
"It's just me, kiddo," Bruce said quietly, going down on one knee in order to become less threatening. "You're too smart for your own good. You weren't supposed to find this place."
"I'm sorry."
Bruce ran a hand through his sweaty hair and sighed again. Alfred joined them a moment later.
"Why were you running away, Master Dick?" the butler asked calmly.
"Because I was mad," the boy answered truthfully. "But, shouldn't we be talking about the fact that Bruce Wayne is BATMAN?!"
Alfred somehow kept his expression neutral, although he wanted to laugh out loud at the boy's obvious excitement. Bruce's lips twitched, but he immediately composed himself.
"Is that why you were always asking me how I was and what I was doing and everything else when I was there?"
'There', of course, was the detention center. Dick hated even thinking about that abysmal place, but the knowledge that Batman had been visiting him and nobody had known was thrilling.
"Yes, kiddo, I had to know how bad it was. You looked like crap the first time I saw you, and it only got worse."
"Why did you get me out of there if you didn't want me to discover…"
Dick paused and motioned to the enormous cavern with both arms.
"…this?" he ended.
"Because you were going to die if I left you there."
Alfred gasped quietly and Dick's eyes widened again.
"No I wasn't," he denied. "I was learning how to play the game, I would have started winning, and then I would have been okay."
Bruce stared at him skeptically. Dick stared right back, certain that he was right. He was, however, becoming more uncertain with every second that passed.
"Sam would have liked me more when I started winning," he stated with not even a hint of confidence in his voice. "Right?"
"Dick," Bruce stated with another sigh, "Sam was using you. He used fear to control you. He forced you to do something you had probably never done and were not prepared to do."
"The game," Dick said quietly.
"Yes, and because you had no experience you nearly died. Several times. There was a point, you probably don't remember it, when I was talking to you and you didn't even realize I was right in front of you. That was because you had the…"
…crap beat out of you.
Bruce paused, reconsidered his words, then continued, "Uh, you were injured in a violent fight. And you are so, so young, kiddo. You had just been through the most traumatic experience of your life, and you were thrown into the detention after doing nothing wrong, and a teenager decided to make you his lemming."
"What does that mean?" Dick asked, confusion in his tone.
"It means he wanted you to do whatever he told you to do, without question. So, he used any means necessary to get you to that point. He allowed you to get beat up, he denied you food and sleep, and he blamed you for things you didn't – couldn't – do."
"Sam is always right," the nine-year-old murmured.
"That's exactly what I mean. Sam," Bruce spit the name in disgust, "wanted you to believe that, and for a while you did. Dick, at one point you thought you had killed a kid, just because Sam said so."
"Gotham City…does make mistakes?"
"A lot of them," Bruce stated, anger filling his tone. "And Jeff Sanderson putting you in the detention center just because of your background was a giant one."
"Thanks for saving me," Dick whispered.
Without warning, the nine-year-old threw himself in the man's arms. He wrapped his limbs around Bruce's torso, and the man felt the boy trembling.
"I will always rescue you, kiddo," Bruce promised gently. "No matter what it is, no matter where it happens, I will always come for you. Don't ever give up on me, and I will never give up on you. No. Matter. What."
"Okay," Dick replied softly, his voice trembling almost as much as his body.
Bruce had no idea that he would often restate that promise to both Dick Grayson and Robin – who didn't even exist yet. All he knew now was that this vulnerable, nine-year-old orphan had found a way to close a tiny part of the giant hole in his heart that had been opened by the death of his own parents. He didn't feel comfortable saying it aloud, and was pretty sure Dick wouldn't want to hear it anyway, so the man voiced the thought in his mind.
I think I might love you, kiddo.
Dick wasn't ready to say what he was thinking. It was too soon – it had been less than two months since his parents had died. The boy was very passionate, and keeping emotions inside was not something he was good at. It would, in fact, be both a help and a hinderance in his upcoming choice of lifestyle. But he hid the emotion for now, completely certain that Bruce wouldn't want to hear it anyway.
I love you.
Alfred, who never missed a thing when it came to Bruce and could easily read Dick's eyes, internally began to dance with joy. Dick was going to lead Bruce out of the darkness, at least a little bit, and Bruce was going to show Dick how to continue living when the two most important people in his life were gone.
What if I can help him?
Batman's questioning thought slid through Alfred's mind.
You can, sir, and he will help you even though you think you don't need it.
The butler glanced around the Batcave before allowing his gaze to settle on Bruce, who was now standing up. Dick was draped across and around the man's torso like an octopus, and Alfred chuckled quietly. The eyes of the men connected in a silent conversation.
How do we keep this a secret now?
Ask Master Dick, sir.
Bruce stared at Alfred incredulously before turning his head slightly.
"Kiddo," he whispered into the boy's ear, "this has to stay a secret. Nobody can ever know that I'm Batman, because that would put you and Alfred in a lot of danger. Can you keep it a secret for me?"
Dick lifted his head and nodded in response.
"I'm good at secrets," he stated confidently. "I have a lot of them, but I can't tell you any because then they wouldn't be secrets."
Bruce raised his eyebrows and suddenly became very concerned.
"Are any of these secrets dangerous?"
Dick looked at him quizzically.
"I mean, is anybody going to get hurt if you keep it a secret?"
The boy turned his head away and stayed silent.
"Dick?"
"No, that one isn't a secret anymore," the nine-year-old whispered sadly.
"It is to me," Bruce replied, his concern growing.
"I…didn't tell anyone. He told me not to tell anyone, so I didn't."
"Can you start from the beginning?"
"The man with the black hair. He said he would kill me if I told anyone."
"Told anyone what?"
Dick pondered the question for a moment, then continued.
"I guess since it's over he won't need to kill me."
Bruce waited until he couldn't anymore.
"Dick, I need the whole story."
"I didn't know, Bruce, I swear! If I had told somebody, maybe they would still be here! But I didn't, and now they're gone."
"Are you talking about…" Bruce paused, not wanting to say it.
"My parents," the boy answered, turning his head back so he was looking straight into Bruce's eyes. "The man with the black hair did something, and I didn't tell anyone, and now they're dead. Sam was right, it really is my fault."
"No, Dick," Bruce instantly retorted, "it is not your fault. You were scared, the guy had just threatened you! What did he do?" he almost snarled.
"Master Bruce," Alfred cautioned softly.
Bruce glanced at his butler, anger burning in his eyes. Alfred held up one hand, and the younger man took a deep breath. He could practically hear the older man's voice in his head.
Your tone, sir.
"I knew he wasn't supposed to be there, so I was going to tell someone. But he got mad, and told me to shut up, and then he had a gun."
Bruce almost dropped the boy to the ground at that revelation. Carefully, he set Dick on his feet, put his cowl on, and crouched in front of the nine-year-old.
"I need to know exactly what he looked like, and every single thing that you saw," Batman stated.
"Um, why?" Dick asked, his voice trembling again.
"Because I have been looking for that man for almost two months. He and I need to have a conversation."
"What are you going to talk about?"
"It's just a saying, Dick. I'm going to take him to Commissioner Gordon and get him locked up."
After we have a violent conversation.
"Um, okay. He wasn't as tall as you. His hair was black, but there were streaks of gray on each side above his ears. I don't know what color his eyes were, because it was dark. But his face was kind of shaped like a square and he was really fat."
Batman stood up and strode to the Batcomputer. Dick stayed where he was, then his curiosity got the best of him. Turning around, he followed the hero to the big machine.
"What's this?" he asked.
Batman ignored him, too engrossed in entering the description Dick had given him, so Alfred stepped in.
"It is called the Batcomputer, Master Dick."
"What does it do?"
"Everything," Batman answered gruffly.
Dick took a step back, right into the gentle arms of the butler.
"It is best not to disturb him when he is working, Master Dick," Alfred said softly. "Batman and Bruce Wayne are very different people."
"Okay, sorry," the boy whispered.
"Sir, I am taking Master Dick upstairs. It is nearly bedtime."
Batman grunted in acknowledgement as he turned to sift through the Well-Known Criminals File. Dick had said the criminal's face was shaped like a square – which indicated angles – but had also said the guy was really fat. The description rang a tiny bell in the back of his mind, and Batman knew he would recognize the man when he saw him.
And, ten minutes later, he was right. The Batcomputer had spit out the name Falcone, the mob boss that Batman knew quite well, but Falcone was not fat. One of his enforcers, however, was an obese chain-smoker, and Batman had just discovered his name.
"Tony Zucco," the Caped Crusader growled, "it's time for us to meet."
Chapter 26
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, HamDan, usagipoints, and SnowyfootofWindClan! :)
Chapter Text
A mansion on the outskirts of Gotham City:
"You told me the kid would stay in the center!"
"Bruce Wayne is a very influential man."
"He saw me, we had a frigging conversation!"
"I doubt he remembers you, a lot has happened since then."
"Look at me, you moron! Do I look forgettable?!"
Jeff Sanderson gave Tony Zucco a once-over, then shook his head. The black hair with distinct white stripes over each ear, the sharp angles of his cheekbones paired with his thick neck, the flabby stomach that caused him to have to readjust his pants every time he moved. No, Tony Zucco was not easily forgettable.
"What do you want me to do about it?!" Jeff demanded, exasperation in his voice. "Grayson's not my problem anymore, Wayne asked for Pete personally!"
"The kid is my problem, which makes him your problem," Tony growled menacingly. "He saw my face, he heard my voice, I threatened to kill him! And now he's free as a robin, just waiting for a chance to identify me."
"Tony," Jeff said placatingly, "he's nine, and he's scared. He watched his parents fall to their death, then he got the crap beaten out of him for a week, and now he lives in a big lonely house with a busy millionaire and a 'prim and proper' butler. The boy probably hasn't said more than two words to anyone, much less a police officer."
"Batman," Zucco snapped, "will find a way to get him to talk."
"Grayson doesn't even know who Batman is! I talked to Ron the day after I put the kid in the detention center. His nephew was in the cell next to Grayson, and apparently they had a good chat. Ron told me that the kid had never even heard of Batman."
"That doesn't mean Batman doesn't know about him. Batman is not going to take me down because of some kid. Find a way to bring him to me and I'll take care of the rest."
"I don't have access to him anymore. There's nothing I can do."
"Social workers make house visits, so go to Wayne's house."
"Tony, you don't get it. Pete is the kid's case manager. I. Don't. Have. Access."
"Then find a way to get access, or you'll take the kid's place in the harbor."
Jeff glared into Zucco's beady eyes. He didn't doubt the man's words, but he had no way of getting to Dick Grayson.
"What do you want me to do, Tony, kidnap him?! I'm not going to jail for you."
"Not you personally, but I'm sure you can find someone to do the job."
"Not someone cheap," Jeff grumbled.
"He's a frigging kid, it shouldn't be that hard!"
"A kid who lives in Wayne Manor! Have you seen the security at that place?! Cameras, sound sensors, probably lasers, who knows what else! Maybe even landmines!"
"Don't be a moron," Zucco retorted. "Wayne doesn't have landmines strewn across his front lawn. I'll give you the dough if you can find someone competent enough to get it done quickly and quietly."
"How much?"
"It's my freedom we're talking about, Sanderson!" Tony responded sharply. "Start at a hundred thousand."
Jeff gaped at him for a moment. One hundred thousand dollars to kidnap a nine-year-old who probably didn't even remember meeting the mobster. An idea began forming in his mind, and he internally chuckled at the thought.
"Okay, I'll put out some feelers."
"Do more than just 'put out feelers', Sanderson! I want this done immediately. As in yesterday! I want the kid in my possession in two days, or it's you I'm carving up and tossing into the harbor."
"Two days?! I have to find a guy first! And then what about planning time, and prep work, and whatever else he has to do? Wayne Manor is like a fort!"
"Fine, four days. One day to hire someone, one day for him to gather intel and plan, one day to get whatever supplies he needs, and one day to do it. Four days, Jeff, or it's lights out for you."
Tony Zucco flicked his hand toward the door. Jeff Sanderson took the hint and strode quickly out of the room.
Haskins Hall:
Daniel and Molly were just sitting down to eat dinner when the doorbell rang. A few moments later, the visitor was brought to the dining room by the butler.
"Ronald James Marshalls, where have you been for the last month?" Molly demanded.
Ron grinned and joined them at the table.
"Been busy," he said with a shrug of his shoulders.
Busy healing from a meeting with Batman.
He kept that thought to himself. His sister didn't need to know that he had taken a beatdown from a vigilante at a place where he was supposed to be in charge.
"How's my Sam?" Molly asked with a sigh.
"He's fine, Mollykins. I keep an eye out for him and I keep him out of trouble."
"Has his attitude changed at all?" Daniel asked, not bothering to hide his disdain for his brother-in-law.
"Daniel, he's our son," Molly whispered.
"I'm aware of that, Molly," the man retorted. "He's also the boy that got skunk drunk and attempted to rob a grocery store using a banana as a weapon. Followed by a fight with the kid who is supposed to be his best friend, which turned into a ten-person brawl."
"He's getting better," Ron replied, trying to avoid the lecture he could hear coming from the man of the house. "Sam's not been in a fight for a couple of weeks now."
"Oh, good," Molly replied, clasping her hands together. "So he'll be out soon?"
"Um…"
Ron didn't know what to tell his sister. Should he tell her that Sam was under investigation for organizing and leading a fight club? Probably not. Should he tell her that the warden, after finding out the results of that investigation, would most likely want to keep Sam until he was eighteen? Probably not that, either.
"I, uh, don't really have any knowledge about when kids are let out. It's just my job to keep them in."
Molly sighed and picked up her fork.
"Well, let's eat and we can talk about this later."
The men grunted in agreement as they dug in.
Three nights later:
The gala was at Wayne Manor this time. Bruce had decided that Dick would be more comfortable at home than at a stranger's house. And Bruce could keep a better eye on all of the guests since he would know exactly where everyone was most of the time. He also wasn't going to allow Dick out of his sight. This party was going to go much better than the last one.
Mingling was over and everyone was seated in anticipation of a three-course meal. The waiters were bustling around, setting plates of steaming food in front of each guest. Bruce was feeling good – Dick had talked to people and was now sitting directly next to him with excitement on his young face. And then the lights went out.
Bruce jumped to his feet and almost raced away to become Batman. But then he felt a small, trembling hand grasp his wrist, and he slowly sat back down. Pulling the boy onto his lap, the man wrapped his arms around the skinny torso and whispered that it was going to be okay. Commissioner Gordon was there, and the man was very competent. Dick didn't know what 'competent' meant, but he felt secure in Bruce's tight grip.
Ladies were squealing and men were demanding that the lights be turned back on, but Bruce decided to wait it out. It was an unfortunate decision, he discovered, when the lights were turned on and he saw the entire catering staff surrounding the guests. Every exit was blocked and every waiter had a gun.
"Go under the table, kiddo," Bruce whispered as he slowly slid Dick off his lap.
Dick did as he was told, tucking himself into a small ball and moving as close to the center as possible. He was completely covered by the long, cream-colored tablecloth.
"What is the meaning of this?" Bruce demanded as he stood up.
"I'd be very careful if I were you, Wayne," one of the men said, leveling his gun at the millionaire's chest.
"You do know that one of my guests is the commissioner of the Gotham City Police Department."
It was a comment, intended to invoke at least a little bit of surprise and inject a small shot of nervousness into the thieves' brains. But it didn't.
"Of course, but cell phone service has been disabled. Even Wayne Manor has a weakness."
Bruce made a mental note to work on the Manor's radio-wave-blocking-Bat-blocker when this was over.
"What do you want?"
"What every thief wants. Do I really need to run down the list? Jewels, wallets, anything expensive, precious valuables, etc. Ladies and gentlemen, all contributions will now be accepted."
The obvious leader of the group grinned as his fellow thieves began walking around with open burlap sacks. Bruce saw an opportunity when a man approached his table.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Wayne," the leader warned. "Clenching your hands into fists is an obvious tell. Besides, you don't want us to start shooting the place up, right? That would really be bad publicity, wouldn't it?"
Bruce internally berated himself for failing to notice the man's professionalism. He relaxed his hands and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. Dropping it, and his watch, into the sack, he slowly sat down.
It took several minutes for the thieves to collect everything, and when they were done they surrounded the group of socialites again.
"Now, I need everyone to stand up and go over by the west wall. If you don't know your directions, it's the one with all the windows," the leader said condescendingly.
It's easy to be condescending when you're the one with the gun.
Bruce grumbled to himself as he and all of his guests stood up and began moving.
Please stay under the table.
The millionaire was pretty sure that the men had probably forgotten about Dick. They were focused on the jewels and wallets and other shiny things. He was hoping that they were all going to back out the east doors and sprint to their getaway cars or vans or whatever they had brought with them. And that's what they began to do. Except for the leader and one other man.
"Mr. Wayne," the leader said reprovingly, "I said all of your precious valuables. Or, is this one not precious enough?"
The man was at Bruce's table, and the millionaire sucked in a breath of fear. Maybe the guy saw a bracelet, or chain, or some other bauble. His hopes were dashed when the leader flipped up the tablecloth.
"Don't even think…" Bruce began, anger shooting through the words.
He was immediately interrupted by the sight of a gun pointing straight at Dick's temple. The other man knelt down and easily pulled the small boy out from his hiding place. Gathering him into his arms, the thief began backing away toward the east doors.
"Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Wayne, honored guests," the leader chuckled, his gun still aimed at Dick's head. "We most definitely got what we came for, and more. Now, if you'll excuse me…"
The men turned and ran out the open door. Bruce immediately sprinted after them, but their head start and numbers advantage proved to be too much. He arrived outside just in time to see a dark-colored van racing down the long driveway, its red taillights fading away as it turned the corner.
Bruce turned around and was greeted by the sight of Commissioner Gordon.
"I used your hall phone, and I mobilized everyone," the older man stated quickly. "Can you give me a description of any vehicle?"
"Dark color, panel van, and that's it," Bruce answered, frustration in his voice.
Fear was flooding his veins, and he needed to be Batman. He needed everyone to leave so he could look at Bat-cameras and hack into city cameras and find his…ward. Why had his first thought been 'son'?
Shaking the question away, he raced back into the Manor. Alfred was standing just inside the door, attempting to retain his proper butler manner. But his face was pale and his wrinkled hands were trembling slightly.
"Bruce," Commissioner Gordon had followed the millionaire back into the house, "I need to question everyone. This is going to be a long night, I'm afraid."
Every moment spent watching the commissioner talking to every single person meant another moment for the kidnappers to take Dick farther away. But there was no way to become Batman when thirty-three socialites were milling around and waiting to be questioned by the commissioner of the police department!
Commissioner Gordon was directing everyone back into the dining room, and he motioned for Bruce to join them. The millionaire hesitated, but Alfred's firm grip on his shoulder convinced Bruce to follow everyone else. A frustrated Batman yelled at Bruce to shake his butler's hand off and race to the study, but both the hero and the millionaire knew that his identity would immediately be compromised.
Never give up on me and I will never give up on you.
The promise he had made to Dick in the Batcave flashed through his mind. Bruce took a deep breath and strode back to his chair in the dining room.
I will find you, kiddo.
A mansion on the outskirts of Gotham City:
Dick had been knocked unconscious when his head had hit the side of the van when he had been roughly tossed inside. He was still in that state when he was picked up and delivered to the living room currently occupied by one Tony Zucco.
"Put him on the other couch and leave," the mobster commanded. "Except you."
He pointed at the leader, who shrugged and settled himself on an empty chair right next to the couch where Dick was now lying.
"What happened?" Tony demanded.
"Joey got a little rough when he put the kid in the van," the other man responded with another shrug. "You got my money?"
"Sanderson told me he gave it to you yesterday," Zucco growled.
"Then he lied. I don't have my money, you don't get the kid."
"Scotty!" Tony yelled.
A tall, skinny, white-haired man rushed into the room.
"Open the safe and get a hundred. Then send Davis out to find Sanderson. Nobody crosses Tony Zucco and gets away with it."
Scotty bobbed his head once then rushed out as quickly as he had entered.
"Safe's upstairs, so we have a few minutes," Tony explained. "Were you followed?"
"We were gone before anyone even came outside. Black and whites probably didn't even know about us until fifteen minutes later, when cell service was turned back on. Easy as pie, probably the easiest job I've ever done. What makes this kid worth a hundred thou?"
"He met me."
That was all the explanation the other man needed, so he merely nodded in response.
Scotty suddenly appeared, holding a black duffle bag. Zucco motioned to the guy on the chair, and the man tossed the duffle bag in that direction. The thief caught it, opened it, quickly figured out the stacks of bills, then closed it and nodded again.
"Wake him up," Tony commanded.
"He'll do that on his own in an hour or two," the other man replied, anger in his tone.
Tony Zucco was powerful, but the leader of the gang of thieves was not easily intimidated. He was also a professional, and had dealt with many mobsters of higher standing than this fat enforcer.
"You don't want to talk to him before he dies?"
Zucco sounded surprised. He always made sure the people who crossed him knew what was happening before it happened. Which meant they always had a conversation, which Tony thought the leader of the gang would want to do.
"Are you kidding?"
Tony shook his head, and the thief began laughing. This mob minion was an idiot.
"You're going to kill him, so why would I want to talk to him? It's not like he's going to be around to identify me."
The man stood up and walked out the door. Five seconds later, Tony heard the front door click open then slam shut. Dick stirred at the sound, and Zucco began the hard job of getting his large frame off the couch. He needed to be ready for their conversation.
Five hours later – the Batcave:
Four and a half hours. That's how long it had taken for the commissioner to question everyone, and for everyone to get out of the house. Four and a half hours of head start that the kidnappers had received because Bruce couldn't get to the Batcave.
Batman had been staring at camera screens for the last thirty minutes, but he was getting nowhere. The van had just…disappeared. He had no leads, no place to start, and no ideas of where anybody would want to take Dick.
"Sir, if I may…" Alfred paused politely.
Batman tore his attention away from the Bat-camera Viewing Machine and gave his butler a quick nod.
"Who would want or need Dick Grayson out of the way, sir?"
"Ron. Jeff Sanderson. Victoria Valentia, the warden's secretary, Sam, anyone in the detention center except Tank and Marcus. Any criminal looking for an easy ransom."
"Very true, Master Batman. However, who would have the resources to hire a group of people to kidnap a nine-year-old orphan?"
"How do you know they were hired? They could just be a random group of thieves and kidnappers."
"A 'random' group that just happened to replace the entire catering staff on the night of your party, sir?"
Batman thought about that for a moment, then ran a weary hand down his face.
"I don't know, Alfred, just tell me if you have an idea."
"That's all it is, sir, merely an idea. But Master Dick has both seen and spoken to a very rich man who probably had a hand in killing the young master's parents. Sir."
"Tony Zucco?"
"Again, sir, it is merely an idea."
"No, Alfred, you're a genius! Zucco needs Dick out of the way and has plenty of resources to get it done. And they're going to take Dick straight to him, Tony will want to do it himself, to finish the job. The last of The Flying Graysons…"
"Please do not finish that sentence, Master Batman. Please just go find Master Dick."
Batman was already at the Well-Known Criminals File.
"Time to convince Falcone to tell me where Zucco is hiding out," he murmured as he began flipping through a manila folder.
Chapter 27
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, SnowyfootOfWindClan, usagipoints, HamDan, JackHawksmoor, and leafbracer! :)
Chapter Text
A mansion on the outskirts of Gotham City:
The first thing Dick saw when he woke up was something he had thought he would never see again. A familiar face, one that haunted his dreams and turned them into nightmares. Tony Zucco, although Dick didn't know that was the man's name, was looming over him, completely covering the boy in his large shadow.
"Good evening," Zucco said, his voice cordial. "You sure took your sweet time waking up. It's been almost five hours."
Dick stayed silent, the dormant feeling of terror erupting in his mind and sending spikes of fear down his entire body.
"Do you remember me?" Tony asked.
Dick just barely understood the question, and he had no answer. The terror was consuming his thoughts. Words were bouncing around in his mind, refusing to come together to form a coherent sentence.
"Do. You. Remember. Me?"
The man was angry. He had a scowl on his face and his tone was dark, darker than Sam's had been on Dick's first night in the detention center. Dick thought about shaking his head, but his parents had instilled a sense of honesty in him. So, he nodded, even though he knew that was probably the wrong answer.
"I knew Sanderson was wrong, I knew you wouldn't forget something as scary as me. Am I scary to you, kid?"
Dick's nod was much more forceful, and Zucco burst into laughter.
"You should be scared. Sit up."
The nine-year-old quickly obeyed, and Tony sat down right beside him.
"Here's what we're going to do. I'm going to give you a present, then we're going to take a ride to Gotham Harbor. When we get there, I'm going to let you go swimming. Have you ever gone swimming before?"
Dick slowly nodded. He had learned to swim when he was a toddler, but he hadn't had a lot of practice. The nine-year-old wouldn't call himself a strong swimmer, and his aching head told him that it probably wasn't a good idea right now. But at least the man hadn't said anything about beating him up or shooting him. Maybe he could escape by swimming away.
"Scotty," Zucco yelled, "bring the kid a present."
Thirty seconds later, a man who slightly resembled Alfred rushed into the room. He was holding a brightly-wrapped, rectangular-shaped present. The old man placed it on Dick's lap, then turned around and almost ran out the door.
It was heavy. Dick had never received a present from a stranger, unless you counted the clothes Bruce had bought for him on his first day in Wayne Manor.
"Go ahead and open it," Tony demanded, trying and failing to keep his voice pleasant.
Dick slowly pulled away the wrapping paper, only to find a dark-red brick. He had no idea why the man would think a brick was a present, but his parents had also instilled manners.
"Thank you," the nine-year-old whispered, a slight tinge of confusion in his voice.
Zucco burst out laughing again, then yelled a different name. A man appeared in front of Dick, startling him, and efficiently wrapped a thick rope around Dick's wrists and the brick. When he was done, the heavy brick was immobile in his hands, and it made Dick very nervous.
"Alright, Grayson," Tony sneered, "are you ready to go swimming?"
Dick didn't have time to answer, because the man in front of him swooped him up and carried him outside. He placed the boy in the back of a car and belted him in, then moved back so Zucco could climb in beside the nine-year-old.
"Gotham Harbor, Scotty," Tony commanded, and the car rumbled to life.
Twenty minutes earlier:
Falcone was not a loyal man when it came to his disposable minions. Batman was holding a Bat-a-rang to the man's throat, and the mobster was ready to talk.
"Where does Tony Zucco live?" the Caped Crusader growled.
"Stromwell Estate, south of Gotham City. Tony is Arnold Stromwell's nephew, and that's where he's currently hiding."
"Why is he hiding?"
"You'll have to…uh…ask him," Falcone replied, gasping slightly when the Bat-a-rang shifted positions. "I don't know what he did, but he's been wound up pretty tight recently."
"The Flying Graysons."
"What? What is a flying gray son?"
"Not what," Batman snapped, "who. The trio of aerialists from Haly's Circus. The adults were killed…"
"Oh, yeah, I…uh…remember hearing that. There's a kid, right?"
"Was it Zucco? Did you order him to do it?"
"What?! Why would I want to kill a family of circus performers? If Tony did something to them, he was…uh…doing it on his own."
Removing the Bat-a-rang from the mobster's throat, Batman stepped back and turned around. He strode away, pausing at the door to glance back and give one last remark.
"You better not be lying to me, Falcone."
Then he was gone.
Present time:
Batman parked the Batmobile half a mile away from the back of Stromwell Estate. He quietly approached on foot, wary of tripwires and lookouts with weapons. The hero made it all the way to the back door without seeing anyone or anything.
A door slammed – it had the distinct sound of metal on metal – near the front of the house. Batman raced around the side of the mansion just in time to see Tony Zucco climb into the backseat of a Lincoln town car. Just before the mobster closed the door, Batman caught a glimpse of a small head of dark, unruly hair.
Tony Zucco had Dick Grayson, and they were in a car, and Batman was half a mile away from the Batmobile, and he was on the wrong side of the house.
Son of a fricking biscuit eater.
The car rumbled to life as the Caped Crusader flipped open a utility belt pocket on his left hip. Out came a tiny Bat-a-rang with a small, red button. Batman pushed the button and threw the weapon, hoping he had predicted correctly.
He had, of course he had. The car turned west and the Bat-a-rang neatly sliced through the metal of the trunk and came to a stop on the worn carpet. The red light began blinking, and Batman's watch began beeping right along with it.
It was a new gadget – the mini Bat-a-rang with a tracker – and it was Batman's first time trying it out in the field. So far it was working, but Batman didn't know the range. So, as the Lincoln lumbered down the long driveway, the hero sprinted around the house and headed for the Batmobile.
Twenty minutes later:
Dick was standing near the edge of the creaky, wooden pier. Tony Zucco was right next to him, staring across the gently rippling water at the distant lights of Gotham City.
"She's beautiful in the dark," the man commented. "You're welcome."
"For what?" Dick whispered timidly, the feeling of terror still racing up and down his body.
"For letting you see her one last time," Zucco replied. "Bright lights were the last things your parents saw, thought I'd let you go out the same way."
The man glanced down at the boy, who was staring at the dark water.
"Look at the lights, kid," he commanded.
Dick did as he was told, and Zucco put a heavy hand on the nine-year-old's shoulder.
"If you see your parents on the other side, tell them I said hi," the mobster said.
Dick glanced up at him, both fear and confusion in his eyes. Tony was staring down at him with a nasty grin, and the confusion disappeared as the boy finally realized what was about to happen.
"Bye-bye, last of The Flying Graysons."
Tony gave Dick a hard shove, causing him to stumble forward. The boy tried to keep his balance, but the heaviness of the brick combined with gravity to pull him to the ground. He landed on his hips, his torso hanging over the edge of the pier as the water lapped against the brick tied to his wrists.
"Scotty!" Zucco yelled, frustration evident in his tone.
A pair of arms grabbed Dick's ankles and yanked backwards. Scotty pulled the boy to his feet, then gave him a much harder shove than Tony had. This time Dick stumbled completely off the end, and Zucco watched in satisfaction as the brick immediately took the boy below the soft waves.
Dick looked up at the man – who was glaring down at him, calling him "the last of The Flying Graysons" – and realized that he was about to die. He was about to fall, just like his parents. And, just like his parents, nobody would be there to catch him.
The nine-year-old stumbled forward as the fat man pushed him toward the water. Engaging his abs, just as he had done on the roof of Wayne Manor when he had discovered Batman's secret, Dick attempted to right himself before falling off the edge of the dock. It worked, but just barely. He landed on his stomach with his arms reaching for the dark water below him.
The man yelled something, and Dick felt a pair of hands wrap themselves around his ankles. He was yanked back, and he felt slices of pain as the wood of the dock scraped across his torso.
Suddenly he was on his feet again. The push was a shove this time, and the nine-year-old couldn't stop himself. He tumbled over the edge, and the black water slapped him in the face. Dick didn't have time to take any sort of breath before the heavy brick pulled him into the darkness. He couldn't see. Dick was alone in the dark, and this time he couldn't sprint through it. The cold water laughed as it danced around him, and Dick closed his eyes.
"Never give up on me and I will never give up on you."
Batman's promise rang in his ears, but Batman didn't even know where Dick was. And no matter how hard he tried, the boy had no chance of reaching the surface on his own. He was falling, and the ground gently cradled him as the brick finally reached the bottom of the dirty river.
For the first – and what would be the only – time in his life, Dick Grayson gave up.
The Batmobile screeched to a stop just as Scotty yanked Dick to his feet. Batman jumped out of the vehicle and began sprinting. He watched in horror as Dick fell over the edge, and vowed right then that if the boy died Zucco would join him.
With that dark thought in mind, the Caped Crusader delivered a brutal jab to the left side of Tony's head as he ran past, knocking the mobster out cold. He took out Scotty with a ferocious right hook, then dove into the cold water.
It was completely dark in the depths of Gotham Harbor. Batman was swimming straight down, his arms waving around like a windmill as he fruitlessly tried to blindly find Dick. Reversing directions, the hero swam back up and grabbed a pole to support himself while he searched through his utility belt.
It was on the right hip, and Batman was extremely thankful that he had just replaced the batteries. Flicking the 'on' switch, the Caped Crusader pointed the water-proof-Bat-flashlight down and took a deep breath. Then he dove again.
He saw the boy immediately, all the way at the bottom of the harbor on Batman's left side – which is why he hadn't been able to blindly find him. It was only about twelve feet deep, but Dick had sunk fast because of the brick. Batman estimated that he had been underwater for almost three minutes. Not long for the man, but Dick probably hadn't had the benefit of taking a big breath before falling in. And he most certainly had smaller lungs.
When he reached the spot where the nine-year-old had come to rest, he grimaced. The brick had lodged itself into a space right under one of the poles holding up the pier. It was stuck, the pressure of the water not allowing Batman any angle of good leverage.
He planted the water-proof-Bat-flashlight in the sand and whipped open another pocket on his utility belt. Batman sifted through the tools – Bat-laster, Bat-pick, Bat-tweezers, and then finally the Bat-knife. The hero made quick work of the rope attaching the brick to Dick's wrists, then wrapped his right arm across Dick's torso, grabbed the Bat-flashlight with his left hand, and kicked hard toward the surface.
Batman's head popped out of the water and he took a gasping breath. Dick was limp, his arms and head hanging over the hero's arm like a dead fish. Grabbing a small chunk of hair, Batman pulled the boy's head up and laid it on his own shoulder. He angled himself toward a spot of beach, and began swimming.
It took him longer than he wanted, but he finally made it to the pebbly grime of the beach. Batman was exhausted, but Dick was dead. Or nearly there, which gave the hero a shot of adrenaline. He began CPR, and was rewarded after only three cycles.
Dirty water spewed out of the nine-year-old's mouth, his eyes popped open then slammed shut, and his entire body shuddered. Batman thought about forcing him awake, but Dick was breathing on his own so the hero chose to get him out of the cold night air.
He scooped the shivering boy up and forced his exhausted muscles to make their way to the Batmobile. Batman placed Dick on the passenger seat and buckled his Bat-belt. Then he wearily made his way to the other side and climbed in. After calling Commissioner Gordon to tell him about the trash on the pier, Batman opened the Bat-communicator.
"Please tell me you found him, sir."
Alfred's voice was trembling slightly.
"I've got him, and he's alive. He nearly drowned, and he's asleep right now, so we're on our way. ETA fifteen minutes, we're at Gotham Harbor."
"I shall have everything prepared, Master Batman."
Batman could hear the unspoken 'thank heavens' as he said, "Batman out."
"Okay, kiddo," the hero said as the Batmobile roared to life, "it's time to wake up."
The Caped Crusader kept up a steady stream of conversation as he drove home, attempting to awaken Dick, or at least get some kind of reaction out of him. It didn't work, and he was extremely frustrated when he finally parked.
Retrieving Dick from the passenger side, Batman quickly strode to the medical area and put him in the capable hands of Alfred.
"Go take a shower, sir, I will take care of Master Dick."
"But I…"
"Do you want Master Dick to wake up to the sight of you as a water monster, sir? You have the stench of Gotham Harbor and you are covered in…whatever is in there. Please go take a shower. Sir," the butler added, his eyes filled with disapproval.
Batman acquiesced, and Alfred began peeling off Dick's clothes.
"These are all going into the furnace," he murmured as he stripped each soaking wet item off the small body.
The butler expertly gave the boy a quick, thorough, sponge bath, then covered him with a thick towel. Alfred noticed chafing on Dick's wrists, saw several dark bruises on his arms, and sighed at the amount of splinters he was going to have to pull out of the boy's torso.
"I am sorry, Master Dick," he said softly as he turned away and opened a drawer. "This is going to hurt, young sir, and I'm glad you're not awake."
Alfred turned back to Dick with a long pair of tweezers, then began working on the splinters. He was almost finished when Bruce Wayne entered the area, his hair still dripping from the shower.
"Master Bruce, if you would be so kind as to gently hold his arms…"
Alfred paused and waited for the younger man to obey.
"Why?"
"Sir," the butler replied with a quiet, long-suffering sigh, "I am about to pull a rather large splinter out of his stomach, and I would prefer he not thrash about if he wakes up while I'm doing so."
Bruce glanced at Dick's torso, and his eyes widened. Alfred had said 'rather large', but Bruce would have called it enormous. The millionaire began mentally sending threatening messages to Tony Zucco as he placed his hands on the boy's arms.
But Dick didn't wake up. He stayed asleep through the splinter-pulling, the medicating and wrapping of his wrists, and the cold feeling of ice as Alfred placed several small packets on his arms.
"He's still breathing, right?" Bruce asked, although he knew it was a stupid question.
The evidence was right in front of him: Dick's chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm without any wheezing or rasping sounds.
"Yes, Master Bruce," Alfred replied for the fourth time, "Master Dick is still breathing. He went through a great deal of physical trauma tonight, sir, and I won't be surprised if he sleeps most of the day tomorrow, also."
Alfred glanced at his watch, then amended his comment.
"Most of the rest of today, sir."
Bruce glanced at his watch and was surprised to see the time: 2:23. Dick had been kidnapped at dinner, which had been around eight, had been with Zucco for close to five hours, thrown in the harbor, rescued, bathed, and treated medically, and it was still early in the morning.
"Did Zucco do anything? Before the harbor, I mean?" Bruce asked, trepidation in his voice.
If the mobster had tortured Dick, Batman was going to have a very long, very violent conversation with the man.
"I don't believe so, sir. I only found the injuries on his wrists and arms, along with the splinters, of course. There is a small bump on his head, but nothing to be concerned about."
Alfred would have been more than just concerned if he had known that Dick had been unconscious for nearly five hours because of that small bump. The butler would, in fact, be frantically attempting to wake the boy up if that knowledge was in his possession. But he didn't have that knowledge, so he again reassured Bruce that the boy was going to be fine.
Dick had been hearing a humming noise for what seemed like forever. It hadn't stopped since he had felt himself breathe air instead of water, and he wanted to find out what it was. But his eyelids were so heavy, and the gray mist floating in his mind was too stubborn to be dismissed.
So, the nine-year-old just listened. It wasn't a scary sound; Dick felt safe with it buzzing all around him. Since he couldn't see it, he wanted to reach out and try to blindly find it. But he discovered that his arms were just as heavy as his eyelids, and they refused to budge.
Cold air suddenly assaulted his senses, and then something soft slid over his entire body. Soft, but also wet, which a bit uncomfortable. But the cold soon dissipated when something heavy and dry was laid across his lower body. It warmed him, and Dick's sense of security increased.
The security vanished when he felt a sharp, tugging pain in his stomach. Dick wanted to get up and run away, but his muscles ignored the half-hearted commands from his exhausted mind. He had no choice, he was forced to accept the pain.
Dick would later realize that everything he had recently gone through – the detention center, almost dying in the depths of Gotham Harbor, and the feeling of needles being yanked out of his stomach – had infinitely increased his tolerance of pain. It would serve him well in the future, but the current agony in his body made him want to give up again.
The humming, which had become a comforting background noise, suddenly stopped. Dick's sense of security decreased again, and his brain yelled at him to flee. But still his muscles ignored the command. Unwillingly, the nine-year-old remained completely motionless.
Chapter 28
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, leafbracer, Wendolynn, SnowyfootOfWindClan, usagipoints, and HamDan! :) Your comments motivate me to continue writing.
Chapter Text
"Bruce, why is this boy still here?! If it's been two days, he should be in a hospital!"
Leslie Thompkins couldn't believe that she was standing in Dick Grayson's bedroom in Wayne Manor. The boy hadn't moved or made a sound in two days, but the man had chosen not to take him to a hospital!
"How am I going to explain…"
"For heaven's sake, Bruce, he was kidnapped!" Leslie nearly yelled. "That should be explanation enough for anybody!"
"I wanted to see what you thought first. I would rather stay away from hospitals, for obvious reasons. The media has been camping out across the street ever since Dick was taken. They don't need any more ammunition for the rumors they've already spread around."
"You are unbelievable, Bruce Wayne. You're worried about what the media will think about you? What you should be worried about is the health of this boy you're supposed to be caring for!"
"No," Bruce nearly snapped, "I'm worried about what they'll start saying about him if they find out his condition. I've had the media on my back for my entire life, I don't give a rat's…"
"Sir," Alfred stated reprovingly.
"I don't care what they say about me," Bruce finished angrily.
"So you think that hiding him away, hiding the fact that he's been unresponsive for two days, is going to make his life easier when he does wake up?!" Leslie demanded heatedly. "What can those vultures dream up that's worse than this situation right here?! He was kidnapped, people won't be surprised that's he's injured. But the longer you keep him here, the less chance there is of his survival. And if 'the media' finds out that he died because you didn't take him to…"
"HE IS NOT GOING TO DIE!" Bruce thundered.
"Bruce," Leslie said, her voice deadly calm, "Dick Grayson is not a hero. He has not spent however many years training his body how to accept and work through pain. He is a nine-year-old boy who needs better care than what you can give here. No offense, Alfred."
"None taken, Dr. Thompkins," Alfred replied formally.
The butler was actually relieved. Alfred had been attempting to persuade Bruce to take the boy to Gotham General for the last day and a half. When Dick hadn't woken up after eight hours, the butler had become very concerned. Bruce had ignored his butler's advice, choosing to keep Dick safe in his own home. So, Alfred had finally called in reinforcements, and Leslie Thompkins was being very persuasive.
"There's nothing I can do for him," Leslie finally said. "His vitals are strong but I don't have any helpful scanning machines like they do in hospitals."
Anger flooded the single, emphasized word, and Bruce internally growled.
"Alfred, get the limo ready," the millionaire commanded. "We're going to Gotham General."
With a polite nod, and an internal sigh of relief, the faithful butler left the room.
"I'll meet you there," Leslie practically snarled. "I want an update from someone who actually knows what they're doing."
"Leslie…" Bruce began.
"Shut up," the doctor snapped before whirling around and marching out the door.
Bruce stared after her, shock in his eyes. Leslie Thompkins had just told Batman to shut up. His gaze moved to the motionless form of his ward, and he realized that he had been very stupid. Batman could control his pain and force his way back to consciousness, usually, but nine-year-old Dick Grayson was not Batman.
"Son of a fricking biscuit eater," Bruce muttered as he slid his arms under Dick's limp body. "Why does Alfred always have to be right? And why don't I ever listen to him?"
With those thoughts bouncing around in his mind, the millionaire strode out the door and down the stairs with Dick tucked securely in his arms.
The comforting humming had entered a never-ending cycle – coming and going but never staying for long. Dick felt safe when it was near, and immediately wanted to escape the silence when it was gone. But no matter how hard he tried, his brain couldn't get his muscles to obey any of its commands.
Sometimes pictures would accompany the humming: a tall man with blue eyes, or a yellow bird with a red breast swinging on a silver branch, or two people running away that Dick couldn't catch no matter how fast he ran, and other randoms images that made no sense. Dick wanted to try to make sense of them, but they were continually changing. By the time he figured out what an image was depicting, it was gone and another was taking its place.
Only one picture appeared during the silence: a fat man laughing at him. Dick had no idea why he was laughing, but the boy hated the very sight of him. And the man never disappeared until the humming came back.
Several reporters jumped up when the Wayne limo slowly rolled out of the gates of Wayne Manor. They immediately ran toward the vehicle, yelling at their cameramen to start filming. The darkly tinted windows were rolled up, and nobody knew if Bruce Wayne was even in the limo, but that didn't stop them from banging on the door and yelling questions.
"How is your ward doing? Why haven't you spoken about his kidnapping? Who took him and why? How does all of this make you feel? Is the boy actually dead, is that why you're hiding from us?!"
Inside the vehicle, Bruce clenched his jaw and did his best to push the anger away. This was exactly what he had known was going to happen, and it was why he had chosen to keep Dick at home. But he knew that both Alfred and Leslie were right: Dick needed more help than even the Batcave could give him. Two days was a long time to be unconscious when the only injury the men had seen was a small bump on his head.
Alfred had surmised that the bump had not come from Dick's trip into Gotham Harbor. The butler believed it had happened much earlier than that, maybe even when the kidnappers had forced him into the van. He was also relatively certain that Dick had spent the majority of his time with Tony Zucco in the same state he was in now – unconsciousness.
"Master Bruce!"
Alfred's louder-than-normal voice pulled Bruce out of his musings.
"You don't have to yell at me," the millionaire grumbled. "What?"
"Sir, that was the fifth time I had said your name. Would you prefer that I lose the reporters before arriving at the hospital, or are you planning on answering some questions after Master Dick is taken inside?"
"Lose them," Bruce immediately replied. "Go all the way to Gotham Central instead, if you have to."
"Master Bruce," Alfred said with a quiet sigh, "nobody is going to blame you for taking young Master Dick to a hospital two days after he was kidnapped. There is no need for us to go to Gotham Central…"
"I know you're capable of losing them," Bruce snapped.
"That is not at all what I was going to say, sir," Alfred responded calmly. "There is no need for us to go to Gotham Central, because we are at Gotham General. Sir," Alfred finished, a tinge of disapproval in his tone.
"Oh," Bruce replied lamely.
Leslie Thompkins was already there, waiting with another doctor, two nurses, and a gurney. She pulled the back door open before Alfred had even exited the vehicle. Bruce nodded at her politely as he climbed out then reached back inside. This time he came out with a small bundle in his arms. A nurse appeared by his side, and Dick was suddenly on the gurney being wheeled away.
Bruce was left standing by the limo, he empty arms still cradled and his dark-blue eyes full of concern.
"Sir," Alfred said quietly, "I'm going to park."
Bruce nodded, shut the back door, and stepped away from the car. Dropping his arms, he took a deep breath and strode toward the emergency room entrance. There was no sign of Dick when he walked inside, and the man almost began to panic.
"Mr. Wayne, he's already been taken back."
A soft voice came from his left, and Bruce turned around. The woman at the reception desk was looking at him with a sympathetic smile.
"I'm sure he's going to be fine. Both Dr. Thompkins and Dr. Wu are extremely competent. He's in good hands, Mr. Wayne."
Bruce nodded and dropped onto the nearest chair. Why did the second doctor's name sound familiar?
"Not all of us are socialites, Mr. Wayne."
"The one who thought I got Dick drunk," Bruce breathed, his body automatically tensing at the memory.
"I assume he is already back there, sir."
Alfred sat down on the chair right next to the millionaire, who nodded. Placing his elbows on his knees, Bruce dropped his head into his hands. He should have brought Dick here right away. If the boy died, Bruce would never forgive himself.
"Master Dick is being well taken care of, sir," Alfred stated, placing a reassuring hand on the younger man's shoulder.
Bruce didn't want to say it out loud, because then it would become a reality. But he knew there was a real chance that Dick, for the third or fourth time in his young life, was going to die.
"What if he doesn't make it?" Bruce finally whispered.
Alfred clearly heard the fear skating through the words. The butler had known that Dick was going to worm his way into Bruce's heart, he just hadn't expected it to happen so quickly. And Alfred didn't want to know what would happen if the stitches Dick had carefully placed in the man's heart were suddenly ripped apart with his death.
"We must have faith, Master Bruce," Alfred replied quietly. "Dr. Thompkins is a very competent doctor. She knows what she's doing, as you well know, Master Bruce."
"Yeah," Bruce whispered.
Alfred saw the tiny drop of clear liquid that landed on the tile, but he chose not to comment on it. Closing his eyes, the butler sent a silent prayer toward the ceiling, for both of his boys.
"Remember that circus accident a while back?"
"Yes."
"This is the boy that survived. Rumor where I live is that Tony Zucco had the parents killed and thought the kid would die with them. But he didn't, so Zucco had him kidnapped but then Batman rescued him."
The two nurses were whispering to each other as they were hooking Dick up to various monitoring machines.
"Do you think Zucco will come after him here?"
The younger nurse's voice was full of fear.
"No," the older woman said. "That would be stupid, and Tony Zucco isn't stupid."
"How do you know?"
"How else could he have killed the parents and kidnapped the kid? A stupid person wouldn't be able to do that!"
"I guess you're right."
"Of course I'm right. Go get Dr. Wu, tell him the boy is ready."
The younger nurse walked away, and the older one stared down at the boy.
"I don't know why Tony Zucco wanted your parents dead, but you're a witness. He'll try again, I just hope he doesn't try it here."
With that, the nurse turned away and went to check on her other patients.
Two words had made it through the gray mist in Dick's mind: Tony Zucco. The two words stamped themselves on his brain, leaving a dark imprint. The yellow bird that had been swinging on a silver branch gently landed on the 'Z' and began hopping around. Dick had no idea what that meant, but the image would stay with him for a long time.
After putting Dick through a battery of tests – blood tests, CTs, MRIs, and EEGs – the doctors determined that the nine-year-old was in a coma due to acute head trauma. They didn't know exactly how it had happened, and neither did Bruce, but they assured him that Dick would be fine. And then the doctor said something that caused Bruce to drop onto the nearest chair in the empty waiting room, both disbelief and fear sprinting through his chest.
"As long as he wakes up within a few days."
"How long is a 'few days', Dr. Wu?" Alfred inquired when Bruce didn't respond.
"Three to five. The longer it takes, though, the less chance there is of complete recovery. I'm sorry, but there's nothing else we can do. We just have to wait."
"Thank you, doctor, and please give our regards to Dr. Thompkins," Alfred replied.
"She wasn't very happy with Mr. Wayne. Is there a reason…"
"That's between her and I," Bruce interrupted, his voice tinged with anger.
Dr. Wu nodded and quickly took his leave.
"Master Bruce, please follow me. We are going to Master Dick's room, sir."
Alfred gave his charge a gentle nudge on the shoulder to get him up, then guided Bruce through a set of double doors that led to a bank of elevators.
"As long as he wakes up within a few days," Bruce repeated the doctor's words softly.
"We must have faith, Master Bruce," Alfred responded as they stepped into an elevator.
"She's right, you were right," the younger man mumbled. "I should have brought him here immediately."
Alfred remained silent, allowing Bruce to register the fact that he had made a mistake.
"I'll never forgive myself."
"Don't think like that, sir. Master Dick has gone through a lot worse than a bump on the head. He is strong."
"What if he's not strong enough?" Bruce whispered, despair in his voice.
"We'll cross that bridge if we come to it, Master Bruce. For now, just believe in him."
They arrived at Dick's room, and Bruce hesitated just outside the door.
"I can't," he suddenly stated.
"Yes, you can, sir," Alfred replied gently. "Master Dick is your ward, and he needs you. I'll wait out here, Master Bruce."
The butler gave the younger man another gentle nudge, so Bruce opened the door and walked into the room. It was as bad as he had imagined.
Dick had a plethora of wires attached to various parts of his body. He was pale and still. The only reason Bruce knew he was alive was the steady beep of the heart monitor.
Bruce walked over to him and sat down on the chair near the bed.
"I am so sorry, kiddo. I shouldn't have left you under the table, and I should have found you sooner, and I should have brought you here two days ago. I promised I would always be there for you, and I wasn't."
For one of the few times in his life, Bruce Wayne allowed the tears to slide down his cheeks. He loved this boy, this nine-year-old who had been through so much in his young life. Dick Grayson was his son, not just his ward, and the thought of losing this bright light that had shown him the way out of the darkness tore the man's heart into pieces.
"Just wake up for me. Please."
Chapter 29
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, SnowyfootOfWindClan, leafbracer, HamDan, and usagipoints! :)
Chapter Text
Kiddo.
Another word traveled through the mist and appeared by the still-hopping bird. It was accompanied by the humming, and Dick felt safe again. The word had chased the fat man away, and relief rushed through the boy's motionless body.
Please.
The word danced across his mind and disappeared into the darkness surrounding his brain. 'Kiddo' followed, and the humming stopped. Which meant the fat guy came back. Dick wanted to yell for help, but who would come to help him? Not the two people that were always just beyond his reach, and not the tall man with the steady, piercing gaze. Only the humming ever came to help him, and the periods of silence were longer than the humming.
Dick tried to ignore the fat man by staring at the imprinted words – Tony Zucco. The little bird, which Dick had decided was a robin, had begun hopping back and forth across the entirety of the two words. It left little prints in its wake, prints that disappeared as quickly as they appeared.
For some reason, the nine-year-old felt that those words were important, as was the fact that the robin was dancing on top of the letters. But he couldn't figure out why. It was like he was missing pieces of a puzzle, pieces that he could see floating on the edges of his mind. He couldn't get to them, and the fact that his muscles were still ignoring him was very frustrating.
Bruce had never seen the boy so still. Dick Grayson was active, and athletic, and a fireball of energy. The nine-year-old had come out of his shell, in the presence of Bruce and Alfred, and was always moving. But now he was just lying there, and the millionaire felt death hovering around the edges of the room.
Bruce had seen people die before. Not just his parents; Batman had failed to save several people over the years. And the moments before they took their last breath felt exactly like the moment he was in now. Shadows appearing as the blackness of death began to overpower the brightness of life. Quiet hitches in the person's breathing rhythm as their lungs began to give up. An irregular beat of the heart every once in a while as it attempted to compensate for the lungs.
"He's dying," the man whispered.
There was no counter to his comment, because the only other person in the room was the near-lifeless boy on the bed.
Bruce was sitting on the edge of the hard, plastic chair next to Dick's bed. He was hunched over, his forehead resting on his fisted hands that were clutching the heavy blanket covering the nine-year-old.
"Don't give up, kiddo. You've made it through worse than this. You stayed alive in the detention center when you should have died several times. Please just wake up. Just open your eyes, that's all you have to do right now. You don't have to talk, or eat, or even move. Just open your eyes and show me how strong you are. Please."
But Dick didn't move, and Bruce felt the darkness move closer.
"I've only known you for a few months, but you're more important to me than all of Gotham City. Be strong, don't give up, I…"
Bruce paused, choked back a sob, and sat up.
"I need you."
Don't give up.
Dick wondered what that meant as he gratefully listened to the soft humming. Or was it "give up don't"? Or "up don't give"? None of the combinations made sense, and the nine-year-old suddenly felt like an idiot. The three words wouldn't be prancing around if they didn't mean something, but Dick was too stupid to understand them. Another thing to join the cloud of frustrating things hovering over his mind.
He felt something warm land heavily on some part of his body. It turned into fire, and Dick flinched. The humming grew louder and it made the nine-year-old nervous. It had never done that before. Dick tried to turn around and run, but his muscles still refused to obey.
Bruce was not a touchy-feely man. The only thing he ever did was shake hands. He had never hugged Alfred, not even when he had been a grieving boy, and he had never been the one to initiate a hug given to Dick. But he was making an exception, because he was grasping at straws, because his boy was going to die and he was trying everything he could think of to get him back.
So, the millionaire carefully covered Dick's pale hand with his much bigger one. He slid his fingers underneath the slackened palm, and gently squeezed. At first he thought it was his imagination, tricking him into thinking that everything was going to be okay. But when he released and then squeezed again, he realized that it was not just his imagination. Because Dick flinched.
"Dick?" he asked quietly.
Nothing else happened, but Bruce wasn't about to give up.
"Dick, wake up!" he commanded loudly. "You flinched, I know you can hear me! Open your eyes and do it now!"
"Master Bruce!"
Alfred suddenly appeared beside the millionaire and placed a firm hand on the younger man's shoulder.
"Why on earth are you yelling at him, sir?" the butler indignantly asked quietly. "We are in a hospital!"
Then Dick moved his head.
"That's why!" Bruce answered, his voice not quite as loud. "I know he can hear me, so I'm telling him what he needs to do."
"Master Dick, please continue to wake up while I go get a nurse."
Alfred rushed out of the room as Bruce stood up. Reaching over the small body, Bruce grabbed the boy's other hand and squeezed. The action produced another flinch, this one not confined to just his hand. Dick's entire arm shuddered, and Bruce allowed a slight grin to flash across his face.
"Good, Dick, you're doing well. Now we know you can move your limbs, so now I just need you to open your eyes. You can do it, I believe in you. I thought you might not be strong enough, but I think you're stronger than this. You're stronger than a concussion, you've beaten it before, so just show me."
The heart monitor exploded in a frenzy as Dick's brain commanded him to open his eyes. His breathing quickened, causing another machine to burst to life. Loud beeps began echoing around the room, and suddenly a nurse was on the other side of the bed.
"What did you do, Mr. Wayne?" she demanded angrily.
"I…he's waking up!" Bruce exclaimed.
"If his body continues reacting like this, he's going to have a heart attack. Get out of here!" she yelled as she pulled a pager out of her pocket.
"Dr. Wu, please report to ICU immediately. Code White."
The automated voice blared through the speakers in the hallway, and Bruce covered his ears as he exited the room.
"I didn't…what happened?" Bruce asked in the general direction of Alfred.
"I do not have experience with comatose patients, sir, so I have no idea."
Dr. Wu suddenly raced past them and entered Dick's room. Three more people joined him from the other end of the hallway. The last person shut the door, forcing Bruce and Alfred to step back.
"Mr. Wayne, Mr. Pennyworth, you can wait in the chairs over there."
The nurse at the desk pointed to a row of chairs against the wall about ten yards away. Bruce felt like he had been sent to the principal's office as he obediently walked over and sat down.
"What's a code white?" he inquired.
Alfred shook his head, so Bruce stood up and returned to the nurse's desk.
"What's a code white?" he repeated.
"If you'll excuse me, Mr. Wayne, I'm very busy," she snapped.
Turning away from him, she picked up the phone and dialed a number. Bruce stood his ground, so the nurse sent him a glare as she began talking.
"This is Wendy at Gotham General. I need to speak to Pete, please."
Bruce furrowed his brow, then decided that there had to be more than one 'Pete' in Gotham City. It was ridiculous to assume that a nurse was calling the director of the Department of Child Services.
"Hi, Pete, it's Wendy. I have a case here, a code white when the guardian was alone in the room with the patient."
His eyes widened in shock as Bruce realized that the nurse was implying that he had done something to his ward. And he was absolutely certain that she was talking to Pete from DCS, because why else would she use the term 'guardian'?
"Grayson, Richard John. Guardian is Bruce Wayne. No, we don't, because it's illegal."
Bruce hated only being able to hear one end of any conversation, but especially this one. What couldn't the hospital do or have because it was illegal?
"You probably won't be surprised by this, but he's right here. Would you like to talk to him?"
The nurse held the phone up and said, "It's for you, Mr. Wayne."
Bruce carefully took the phone from her.
"Pete, this is Bruce Wayne."
"What did you do, Bruce?" Pete asked, his voice calm.
"Dick is in a coma, I took his hand, he flinched, so I thought he was waking up. I was just trying to help him wake up, I didn't…"
"Okay, but what did you do?"
"I raised my voice so he could hear me. I told him to open his eyes."
"Bruce, did the doctor tell you to attempt to wake Dick up?"
"No, but…"
"Did the doctor give you any instructions as to what you should do if Dick seemed like he was coming around?"
"He said to call the nurse," Bruce admitted.
"And did you?"
"I…no, I tried to wake him up. But Alfred went right away to get the nurse."
"Bruce, are you a doctor?"
"No," the millionaire nearly snapped.
"Do you think you know better than the doctor?"
"No, but…"
"Then why did you refuse to follow the doctor's direct instructions to you?"
"I didn't refuse!" Bruce exclaimed. "Alfred went to get the nurse, right away!"
"Was that before or after you 'raised' your voice?"
"After, but…"
"Bruce, you just sent your ward into the children's version of a code blue. Was Alfred in the room with you when Dick appeared to be starting to wake up?"
"No. Pete, what are you saying?"
"I'll be blunt, because you deserve to know what you've just gotten yourself into. Dick, your ward, was in a coma but alive. You, the guardian, were alone in the room with him. You 'raise your voice' and suddenly he's on the verge of a heart attack. I'm sorry, Bruce, but you are now under investigation."
"Investigation for what?!" Bruce demanded loudly.
"Endangering your ward, for starters."
"What?! Pete, you can't…this isn't…I was trying to help him!"
"We can talk about the situation in more detail when I come to your house tomorrow morning. If you want to continue to be Dick Grayson's guardian, I suggest you make yourself available for the entire day. As of this moment, you are no longer permitted to have any contact with the boy, pending the results of the investigation. Please give the phone back to Wendy, and I'll see you tomorrow."
Pete went silent, and Bruce slowly handed the phone back to the nurse. He turned around and walked back to where Alfred was still seated. Numbly, the millionaire sat down.
"What's wrong, sir?" the butler inquired, noticing the disbelief in the blue eyes.
"I'm under investigation, Alfred. DCS thinks I'm endangering my ward. All I did was try to wake him up!"
Alfred's eyes mirrored the emotion in those of his charge, and shock filled his body.
"They think I did something to him."
"I was right outside the door, Master Bruce. The curtain was open, you were sitting on a chair holding Master Dick's hand. The only mistake you made was raising your voice."
"Pete said I didn't follow the doctor's direct instructions."
"I followed them ten seconds after I heard you yell at Master Dick, sir. You will be exonerated, because you have done nothing wrong."
"Code white is the kids' version of code blue. I killed him."
"Master Bruce, you did not kill him…."
"I killed him."
Chapter 30
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, leafbracer, HamDan, usagipoints, Wendolynn, and SnowyfootOfWindClan! :)
Chapter Text
"Bruce?"
The quiet word startled the millionaire out of his nightmare. He realized that his head was resting on Dick's bed, and wondered when he had fallen asleep. A slight pressure on his hand made him lift his head.
Dick's blue eyes were open, and Bruce felt like he had never seen anything brighter. But the shimmering circles were rimmed with fear, and Dick was nervously chewing his bottom lip.
"Are you…okay?" the boy asked, his voice trembling slightly.
"Now that you're awake I am," the man replied as he sat up, allowing a genuine smile to manifest itself on his face. "How are you feeling?"
"You were crying," Dick replied, ignoring the question. "Why?"
"No, I wasn't," Bruce responded, choosing to assume that Dick meant he had been crying ten seconds ago.
"You were," Dick insisted. "It's okay to cry when you have a nightmare. Is that why you came into my room?"
"Dick, do you know where we are?"
"In my room."
"In Wayne Manor?"
"Um…does Wayne Manor have a bunch of machines and wires that look like they belong in a hospital?"
"No."
"Then I'm going to say that we're in a hospital."
"Do you know why?"
"No."
The answer was immediate and emphatic. Bruce was quiet for a moment, trying to decide whether or not to tell the boy.
"Should I want to know why?" Dick asked.
"Well…"
Bruce paused for another moment, then decided to go with a half-truth.
"You received a head injury which led to a concussion which led to you not wanting to wake up for a while."
"Oh. Was it my fault?"
"No, what could you have possibly done that would have made this your fault?"
"So I didn't do any tricks anywhere in the Manor?"
"Dick, why are you asking that question? Should I be worried about what tricks you're going to do in Wayne Manor?"
"Um, no, just…"
There was a long pause, so Bruce took over.
"What are you – or were you – planning on doing, kiddo?"
Silence. Dick's left hand was still covered by Bruce's hand, so it was his right hand that began picking at an edge of the blanket. The boy was suddenly very interested in that edge.
"Dick."
It was a tone that Dick would soon become accustomed to obeying. The warning tone that meant the man knew he was hiding something. Somehow, Bruce made that single word sound like an entire paragraph describing why he wanted Dick to tell him everything.
"The chandelier looks fun," the nine-year-old whispered. "I…miss flying."
A single tear slid down each cheek. Bruce heard the heartache in the confession, and wished he could turn the clock back to the time before The Flying Graysons had died. It would mean he wouldn't have Dick in his life, but at least the boy would be happy.
"I'm sorry, chum."
"For what?"
"For everything bad that has happened to you."
"But none of it is your fault, so you don't have to apologize."
"I'm not saying…"
"I'm sorry for ruining another party," Dick interrupted.
"What are you talking about?"
"I remember. There were guys with guns, and I didn't stay under the table. I ruined it for you, just like the last party when we had to leave early."
"No, Dick, that's…no. You had no choice, you were taken. You didn't stay under the table because a much stronger man grabbed you off the floor. There was nothing you could have done about that."
"But I…"
"No, Dick. It was not your fault, just like the last one was not your fault."
Bruce would later realize that taking the blame was Dick's default reaction when something bad happened. And no matter how hard he looked, the man would never be able to find the reason for that.
"Who is Tony Zucco?"
Bruce was taken aback at both the question and the abrupt change of subject.
"He's the man that paid someone to take you from the party."
"Why?"
There was no way that Bruce was going to tell Dick about Tony Zucco's involvement in the deaths of The Flying Graysons. So, he told another half-truth, this one a little more vague than the last one.
"I'm not really sure."
False – he did know why Zucco had paid to have the boy kidnapped. True – he wasn't sure why Zucco had killed Dick's parents.
Dick stared at him expectantly, but Bruce didn't elaborate.
The boy yawned then asked, "When can we go home?"
"Well, first I need to get a nurse in here to check you out."
The dream was fresh in his mind. Bruce wasn't going to take any chances, even though he knew that what had happened in his nightmare probably wouldn't actually happen in a place like Gotham City. A place where kids in a detention center were allowed to take control over younger kids. A place where the orphanages were so full that kids had to sleep on the floor. A place where a social worker could put a new orphan in the detention center just because he didn't like the child's background.
"Good evening, Master Dick."
Alfred's tone was warm, like the sun was shining through his voice into the sterile room. He was standing by the door, a gentle smile on his face.
"Master Bruce, the nurse is on her way. Perhaps you should step back."
Bruce was reluctant to let go of the small hand that was tightly squeezing his own. But he knew the nurse would need room to work, so he gently put Dick's hand down. Standing up, he moved the chair out of the way just as the nurse walked in.
"Well, hello, sleepy head," she said with a smile. "I was hoping you would wake up before the end of my shift. How are you feeling?"
"Um, fine," Dick answered shyly.
"Does your head hurt, sweetie?"
"A little," the nine-year-old whispered.
"Do you feel like throwing up?"
"No."
"How old are you?" the nurse inquired as she picked up a clipboard on the table beside her and began writing.
"Nine."
"Do you know who these people are?" she asked, motioning to the men in the room.
"Yes. You don't?"
Dick sounded surprised; he thought everyone knew Bruce Wayne.
The nurse laughed, a soft, tinkling sound, and winked at him.
"Of course I do, sweetie. I'm just checking your brain."
"Oh. Um, that's Bruce," Dick pointed to the millionaire, "and that's Alfred."
"Good," the nurse murmured. "Where were you born?"
"Europe."
The nurse raised her eyes from the clipboard, surprised.
"He was in a traveling circus," Bruce quickly explained.
"Oh, you're the kid whose parents died."
Unbidden tears filled Dick's eyes, and Bruce wanted to slap the woman for bringing up such a painful, and recent, memory.
"Sweetie, it's okay," she stated when she saw the boy's expression. "Bad things happen to everybody. I know it's hard, but soon it will be much better. I'll go get the doctor."
With another smile, the nurse turned around and left, taking the clipboard with her.
"Will it really get better?" Dick mumbled.
"No," Bruce answered truthfully. "It will eventually be easier to deal with, but it will never be gone."
"My heart hurts," the nine-year-old whispered.
"Is it hard to breathe?" Bruce immediately asked, a tinge of panic in his voice. "Does your arm hurt? What about your chest? Alfred, get the doctor!"
"Master Bruce," the butler said calmly, "I believe he's talking emotionally, not physically."
"Oh."
Bruce didn't know what else to say, so he moved the chair back to its previous position and sat down.
"I'm sorry."
The millionaire sighed.
"For what, kiddo? You have done nothing wrong."
"I made you worried."
"No, I mean, yes, I was worried, but it wasn't your fault. You didn't kidnap yourself, and you didn't give yourself a bump on the head, and you didn't force yourself to not wake up for two and a half days, so there is no reason for you to apologize."
"I've been asleep for two…"
Dick's exclamation was interrupted when Dr. Wu entered the room.
"Hi, Dick. I don't know if you remember me from the last time we met. I'm Dr. Wu."
"The last time?" Dick inquired softly.
"You were brought here earlier this year, when you became dru…"
"Dr. Wu," Alfred interrupted firmly, "please begin your examination."
Dr. Wu stared at the butler in surprise. The white-haired, old man had always been silent in the background. But he had just interrupted a doctor who had been introducing himself to a patient!
Alfred stared back, one eyebrow arched. It was as if he was daring the doctor to continue that line of conversation. Dr. Wu didn't want to accept that dare, not from Bruce Wayne's butler, anyway.
"Well, Dick, how old are you?"
"Nine."
"Do you know where you are?"
"A hospital."
"Which one?"
"Um…"
Dick had no idea how many hospitals there were in Gotham City. Nor did he know the name of even one of them. But his intelligent mind provided an answer.
"The one in Gotham City."
"There are several, Dick. Which one?"
"Dr. Wu," Alfred stated, "Master Dick has been in Gotham City less than a year. Almost three months of that time was spent in a detention center and then an orphanage. He was unconscious when he was brought in here. How, exactly, do you expect him to know which hospital?"
Alfred's voice was incredulous, and Dr. Wu instantly felt like an idiot. Of course the child wouldn't know which hospital he was in! Mumbling something unintelligible, the doctor moved on.
"Who are these…"
"Bruce and Alfred," Dick instantly responded.
Now I know why you were put in the detention center. Rudest kid I've ever seen.
Dr. Wu allowed those thoughts to permeate his brain as he began looking at monitors and checking vitals. After a very thorough ten minutes of examination, he stepped back and looked at the two men.
"You can take him home. Don't let him go to sleep for another three or four hours, just in case, and bring him back if he doesn't wake up tomorrow."
"Thank you, Dr. Wu," Alfred responded, knowing Bruce was ignoring them in favor of getting Dick ready to leave.
"Mr. Wayne, may I have a moment with you?" the doctor asked. "Outside?"
Bruce looked at him in surprise, then glanced at Alfred. The butler nodded, so Bruce stood up and followed Dr. Wu out the door.
"Is something wrong, doctor?"
"Has your ward always been a know-it-all, Mr. Wayne?"
"Excuse me?!" Bruce questioned, surprised at the thinly-veiled anger in the other man's tone.
"He rudely interrupted me, giving me an answer without hearing the full question. Kids who think they know everything are bound to get themselves in trouble."
"Were you asking him who was in the room with him? Because if you were, your nurse already asked that. Since you had asked him two of the same questions she had, I assume he guessed you were going to continue that way. Which you were, if that was your question."
Dr. Wu remained silent.
"Was that your question, Dr. Wu?" Bruce asked, a tinge of anger now in his tone.
"Yes, but I didn't know…"
"Perhaps you and your nurses should work on your communication skills before you decide to accuse a nine-year-old of trying to show you up."
With that, Bruce turned around and went back in the room, leaving the doctor standing stock still with his mouth open in shock.
"Is everything alright, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked when he saw a storm brewing on the younger man's face.
"Yes," Bruce nearly growled. "Let's go home."
"Of course, sir. Master Dick, do you need any assistance?"
"I'm kinda tired."
"You can't go to sleep," Bruce instantly stated.
"No, not that kind of tired."
"Here we are, Master Dick."
Alfred had a wheelchair open and ready to receive an occupant.
"Will you carry me?" Dick asked timidly, not daring to even look at Bruce for fear of seeing rejection.
"Of course," Bruce said, lifting the boy off the bed.
Dick wrapped all four limbs around Bruce's torso and laid his head on the man's shoulder. Alfred followed them out the door, and was surprised to see Dr. Wu blocking their path.
"Discharged patients must be taken out in wheelchairs. Hospital policy."
The doctor's voice was firm and unyielding, so Bruce gave him a Bat-glare. If Dick wanted to be carried out, Bruce was going to carry him out.
"Thank you for your help, Dr. Wu," Alfred said, slipping himself between the two other men. "I think we'll be fine."
"Just because you're a millionaire, doesn't mean your kid gets special treatment," the doctor replied angrily. "He's not even your real kid!"
Bruce's entire body tensed up, and Alfred suddenly shoved him down the hall.
"Good day, Dr. Wu," the butler said without glancing back.
Chapter 31
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, JackHawksmoor, HamDan, usagipoints, and leafbracer!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The detention center:
"Your mom said Dick's fitting in just fine with Wayne," Ron whispered through the thick, solid, steel door in the isolation wing. "There's only one school a kid like that is going to. You can't go there, I can't go there, nobody in here can go there. He's out of your reach, Sammy."
"Nobody in here can go there," Sam echoed his uncle's words. "But I don't need anyone in here, because I already have someone out there. He's reformed, and he's going back to school. Gotham Academy is K-12, Ron."
"Who's your guy?" the guard asked.
"You can ask Dick when he's thrown back in here," Sam said, both malice and glee in his tone. "School starts soon, I'll give him two weeks at most."
Ron grunted and walked away. He had no idea who had been released, and no way to find out. The man had been demoted to almost rookie guard level, which meant he had no access to anything useful. To his consternation, Marcus was now head guard. And Marcus was keeping a watchful eye on Ron.
One week later:
Millionaire and ward were in the hallway of stately Wayne Manor, staring at each other as if they would never meet again.
"What if nobody likes me?"
"You're very likable, chum. It might take a day or two, but you'll find some friends."
"What if they make fun of me?"
"Then you tell me about it, and I'll take care of it."
Bruce nearly growled his answer, the thought of random kids harassing his boy making his blood boil.
"I'm…not like them, Bruce. I'm just an orphan from a circus. I've been in a detention center. They're going to think I'm a bad person."
The millionaire clenched his jaw as he crouched down to check Dick's backpack one last time. All of the necessary school supplies were there, thanks to Alfred's attention to detail.
"You are not a bad person, kiddo. I doubt anybody even knows that you were in the detention center. And being there wasn't your fault anyway. If anybody makes fun of you, or calls you names, or bullies you in any way, tell me immediately. Understand?"
"Yeah," Dick replied softly, his eyes on the ground.
Bruce put his hand under the nine-year-old's chin and gently lifted it up. He waited until Dick was looking into his eyes, then he grinned.
"You are an amazing person, Dick Grayson. Don't let anybody ever tell you otherwise. And we're personal friends of Batman, right? If Bruce Wayne can't take care of something, Batman certainly can."
Dick gave him a tiny grin, then threw his arms around the man's neck.
"Thanks," he whispered. "I'll be fine, right? Everything will be fine."
"Exactly," Bruce answered, wrapping one arm around the boy's back.
He briefly squeezed his child, then extracted himself from the hug.
"You need to get going, you don't want to be late on the first day of school."
Dick stepped back and nodded as Bruce stood up. The millionaire ruffled the boy's hair as he picked up the backpack.
"Bruce!" Dick exclaimed, running his hands through his hair in an attempt to fix whatever the man had done.
"Master Dick, we need to leave," Alfred stated as he politely held the front door open.
"I'll be home as soon as I can so you can tell me all about it. Have a good day, chum."
"You, too!" Dick replied as he walked out the door.
Please let him have a good day.
"He will be fine, Master Bruce," Alfred stated as he, too, walked out the door.
"Yeah," Bruce responded to the empty hallway.
Turning around, the man strode to his study to gather some paperwork. It wouldn't take long for Alfred to drop the boy off at school and return home, so Bruce needed to be ready to leave.
Ten minutes later:
"See you after school," Dick said as he stepped out of the limo.
His tone was both nervous and excited. It was his first day of going to a 'real' school, one with other kids and actual teachers and classrooms where you had to sit at a desk.
"Have a good day, Master Dick," Alfred replied with a smile.
Dick walked toward the front door as Alfred shifted the vehicle into drive.
Please let him have a good day.
The butler unknowingly echoed Bruce's thoughts as he drove away from the school.
Several students had already noticed the new kid. They knew only a few things about him, things they had either been told by their parents or overhead while eavesdropping on adult conversations.
"He's the orphan from that circus," one kid whispered as they walked toward the nine-year-old. "Remember when those people died?"
"My mom said he was in the detention center for a while, but she didn't tell me why," another kid stated. "Wonder what he did."
"Dang, that's a bad place!" a third kid said from the back of the group. "My cousin went there. He got out last week, and he told me all about it."
"How old is he? What's his name? Why is he here?"
"He lives with Bruce Wayne, duh!" a fourth kid exclaimed. "Why else would a circus freak be here? And look how tiny he is, he's probably in second grade."
"Just because he's from a circus, doesn't mean he's a freak!" a girl stated angrily. "My dad said he's nine and in fourth grade, and you know my dad knows what he's talking about."
"My dad said all circus people are gypsies and thieves. Wonder what he'll try to steal first."
The last statement made it into Dick's ears as he stopped and watched the large group of kids walk toward him. He took a deep breath and did his best to let the comment go, not wanting to start off his day by getting into an argument.
"Hi, new kid, what's your name?" a big sixth-grader asked as he approached the much smaller boy.
"Dick Grayson."
"You're the kid from the circus, right? You live with Wayne now, right?" the obvious leader of the group asked.
"Yes, to both," Dick replied.
The nine-year-old had never been around this many non-circus kids – other than his time in the detention center – and he was becoming more nervous by the second.
"I'm Charlie, sixth grade class president. Nice to meet you."
Dick's tense shoulders relaxed slightly at the friendly words and tone of voice.
"Nice to meet you, too," he replied.
"Bell's about to ring, good luck on your first day," Charlie said as he turned toward the building.
The rest of the group turned with him, and Dick was left behind. He hurried to catch up, and walked inside just as the bell rang. Children of all ages began scurrying toward their respective classrooms. Dick had no idea where he was supposed to go, or what he was supposed to do when he got there.
"I'm Barbara."
A girl walked up to him – the same one who had defended him earlier, although he didn't know it. Dick stared at her, shell-shocked by the noise and crowds rushing around him.
"Um, Barbara Gordon," she said, grabbing his motionless hand and shaking it. "My dad knows your da…um…Mr. Wayne. My dad says he's really nice."
Dick nodded, firmly reciprocating the handshake, but couldn't find any words.
"Are you lost?" she asked nervously, dropping his hand.
Barbara wasn't sure why the boy wasn't answering her. It was weird, but it was also his first day at a new school.
Dick nodded again, and she smiled.
"Fourth grade, right?"
She received another nod, so she grabbed his hand again.
"You're probably in my class, come on."
"Uh, thanks," Dick finally said.
She gave him a brilliant smile, and a small grin raced across his face. They walked into room number twelve, and Barbara took him straight to the teacher.
"This is Ms. Cooper, she's really nice, I had her last year."
"Good morning, Barbara," the woman said with a smile. "You must be Richard Grayson," she stated with a glance at Dick.
The nine-year-old nodded. He thought it would be rude to ask her to call him 'Dick' instead of 'Richard', so he let that comment go, also. She was short and slightly round, with orange hair swept behind her head except for the row of bangs curled over her forehead.
"Welcome to class, Richard. You can have a seat over there."
She pointed to an empty desk in the second row. Dick glanced at Barbara, who gave him another smile before heading for an empty desk on the other side of the room. The boy went to his new spot, took off his backpack, and sat down.
"Hello, my dear sweet children, and welcome to fourth grade!" the woman stated cheerily. "We are going to have so much fun this year! Before we get into that fun, though, we need to go over the rules."
The next half hour was spent listening to Ms. Cooper drone on about her expectations for the students. Dick did his best to pay attention, but there were so many basic things that he didn't know. Things the other kids had learned in kindergarten, things the teacher had glossed over because she assumed that everybody – including Dick – knew them. By the time she was done, Dick was confused and overwhelmed and couldn't remember a single thing she had said.
"We're going to start with a pre-test," Ms. Cooper announced, "so I can see how much you remember. Summer is a long time to forget things," she said with a smile. "There is a math workbook in your desk. Please get it out and open it to page one. You also need a pencil, of course," she said with a quiet laugh.
Ms. Cooper waited until everyone was ready before continuing her instructions.
"Now, I don't expect you to know everything. Some of the questions are about things we will be learning this year. Just do your best to answer all of the questions. Be sure to show your work so I know how you arrived at your answer. You will have plenty of time to complete this, so don't worry about not finishing. There is no need to rush. Go ahead and start."
Dick looked down at the first page. There were five basic addition problems, things he had learned from his parents. He began to work.
One hour later:
Dick had finished the entire workbook, but was keeping it open and pretending to work. Nobody else was done, and he didn't want to be the only kid sitting there doing nothing. Ms. Cooper was suddenly beside him.
"Richard," she whispered, "if you're done you can turn it in. You don't have to sit here staring at the same page while moving your pencil around."
The nine-year-old looked up at her. She was smiling, and he felt foolish. Of course a teacher would know he was done, teachers probably knew everything!
"Sorry," he whispered back as he closed the thin book.
"No need to apologize, sweetheart," she cooed as she picked it up and returned to her desk.
Two minutes later she was back, a slight frown on her face.
"Richard, why didn't you show any of your work?"
"I, um, don't know what you mean," Dick answered truthfully.
"Don't lie to me, Richard. You need to show your work for every problem. Did you just go through and guess?"
"No, I just…what does…um, I don't know…"
"Sweetie, just spit it out," she said with a quiet chuckle. "I'm here to help."
Dick was embarrassed. Everyone else probably knew what 'show your work' meant, and she was going to think he was an idiot.
"Idon'tknowwhathatmeans," he blurted softly.
"I didn't catch that, honey, please repeat it a little slower."
"I…I don't know what you mean."
"Which part?"
"How do I show work?" he finally asked.
She stared at him in disbelief, but quickly shook it off.
"I just need you to write down how you figured out the answer to each problem."
"All of them?" he asked, both surprise and disappointment in his voice.
"Of course. You should have learned how to show your work in kindergarten! What school did you go to before you came here? You must not have had very good teachers."
Dick's entire body tensed. His parents had been his teachers, along with one of the horse trainers who had been on his way to medical school before changing his mind.
"I didn't go to school, my family taught me," he said defensively.
"Oh, well, that does explain things," she replied, almost to herself. "Go through the problems and show me how you got your answers."
Ms. Cooper walked away, and Dick dejectedly opened the workbook. How could he show how he got his answers if he had done them all in his head?
Half an hour later he was stuck on page three. Everyone else had turned in their pre-tests, and they were getting restless.
"Okay, children, out to recess. Richard, stay here and finish so we can move on when recess is over."
"Dummy," one kid whispered as he walked by.
A couple of other kids laughed, and Dick clenched his jaw in anger. He was not dumb, he had finished before all of them! But because the teacher didn't like how he had done it, he had to miss recess – whatever that was.
"Oh dear, you're only on page three?!" Ms. Cooper exclaimed as she walked up to his desk. "I know I said you don't have to worry about rushing, so I'm going to stop you when the kids come back from recess. You can stay after school to finish. I'll call Mr. Wayne right now. Keep working, dear."
Dick internally sighed and continued to try to figure out how to show her that multiplying fractions was easy for him.
Ms. Cooper sat down at her desk and called the front office. She explained the situation, and the secretary – Marcia – said she would call Bruce Wayne and let him know. Marcia wasn't surprised that the kid from the circus didn't know how to do math.
Notes:
Yes, Ms. Cooper is a nod to Mrs. Harriet Cooper from 1966. :-)
Chapter 32
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, usagipoints, leafbracer, DebbieF, and SnowyfootOfWindClan! :)
Also, I apologize for the looooooooooooooooong delay between chapters thirty and thirty-one. Thanks for being patient.
Chapter Text
Wayne Enterprises – 45 minutes later:
Bruce Wayne strode out of the conference room and down the hall to his office. His secretary handed him three messages. One was from Gotham Academy, asking him to please call the office. The millionaire's mind began racing, trying to figure out why the school was calling on Dick's first day.
It won't do to dwell on what-ifs, sir.
Alfred's wise voice entered his head as Bruce sat down at his desk. Taking a deep breath, he picked up his phone and dialed the number on the paper in front of him.
"Gotham Academy, this is Marcia. How may I help you?"
"Marcia, this is Bruce Wayne. I received a message to call you?"
"Hello, Mr. Wayne, thank you for getting back to me."
Although you sure took your sweet time.
It was obvious that Mr. Wayne wasn't very concerned about his ward since it had been almost an hour since she had called him, but Marcia pushed the thought away and continued.
"Richard Grayson has had some trouble in class today."
Trouble?
Dick was the last person Bruce would pick to be in 'trouble'.
"What kind of trouble?" the millionaire asked.
"Apparently, he refused to do the pre-test that the teacher was giving. She has given him a detention after school so she can try to persuade him to do it."
That wasn't exactly true – Ms. Cooper hadn't used the word 'detention' – but Marcia ignored that fact. It was basically the same thing.
"A…detention?"
Bruce was both incredulous and upset. What kind of teacher gives a kid a detention on his first day of school?! Also, when had Gotham Academy's teachers decided that it would be appropriate to give the kids pre-tests on the first day of school?!
"Yes, he must have been quite belligerent about it. Ms. Cooper kept him in at recess but had no success. The detention is for an hour, but if she can get him to start right away it shouldn't take that long."
Unless he's an idiot.
Marcia had no knowledge of how long the teacher wanted the kid to stay after school, but an hour sounded good.
Bruce had no idea what to say. He could see himself as a belligerent eight-year-old, and remembered Alfred mentioning something about Dick maybe having some anger issues. Perhaps his emotions had bubbled over when he was confronted by the teacher upon refusing to do the pre-test.
"Mr. Wayne?"
"Thank you for letting me know, I'll pick him up at the appropriate time."
Bruce hung up without saying goodbye, then steepled his fingers and glared at the wall. He had two questions. First, why had Dick refused to do the pre-test? Second, what had the teacher said or done to cause the boy to get angry enough to receive a detention?
The millionaire had some experience with detention, but never on the first day of school. And it was Dick's first time in an actual school setting. And, he realized as he went over the conversation in his head, the nine-year-old had also missed recess.
"What a great way to start a new school year," the man mumbled sarcastically. "Why on earth would you refuse to listen to a teacher? There has to be something else. Did some kids make fun of you, so you were already upset? Did this lady – Ms. Cooper? – start off by assuming the worst of you, like so many other adults in your young life?"
He wouldn't have the answers to those questions until he was actually able to talk to Dick, so Bruce tried to push them to the back of his mind. It didn't work; the fact that the boy had a detention on the first day of school raced around every other thought all day.
Gotham Academy:
Recess was over. As the other kids were filing back into the classroom, Ms. Cooper collected Dick's math workbook and put it on her desk for later. Barbara stopped by the nine-year-old's desk.
"Did you finish?" she asked quietly.
Dick didn't know how to answer the question. Yes, he had finished before everyone else. But, technically, no, because he hadn't done it how the teacher had wanted him to do it. Since he was going to have to stay after school, he decided to go with the latter answer.
"No, I have to stay after school."
"On the first day?!" Barbara exclaimed softly.
Dick shrugged as Ms. Cooper called the class to attention. Barbara quickly went to her desk and sat down.
"Reading, dear children, is next. I need to know your vocabulary level and comprehension skills. Again, some of these answers you might not know, and that's okay. Do your best, but don't rush through. I have placed the workbook in your desks. Go ahead and start."
Dick flew through the test again, although not as quickly as he had in math. There were several questions that he had no idea how to answer, but he always stopped and tried to figure it out instead of just guessing. He was neither first nor last to turn it in – he was in the middle of the pack. Ms. Cooper didn't return it to him, and the boy was relieved.
After everyone was finished, Ms. Cooper led them to the gym for PE. Dick didn't know what that was, either, so Barbara explained it as they walked. She was surprised that he didn't know – it was something they had been doing since kindergarten – but she didn't comment on his lack of knowledge. The boy was excited by her explanation, and he was eager to try new sports and play games. However, the first day of PE was spent on rules and expectations. It was disappointing, and Dick was even more disappointed to learn that they wouldn't go to PE again until Thursday – three whole days away.
The kids were tired and bored when they returned from PE, so Ms. Cooper gave them what she called a 'brain break'. They played a variety of different games for almost half an hour, and then she sent them off to lunch.
Gotham Academy was a K-12 school, and the younger grades went to lunch first. The school was also very exclusive – there were only about eleven hundred students total – so there was plenty of room in the cafeteria for all of the kids from kindergarten through fifth grade.
As the younger kids were filing out, the middle grades began filing in. They were all teenagers, and Dick was suddenly worried. Teenagers were scary – his only experience with them had been in the detention center.
"Do we ever do things with them?" Dick whispered to Barbara, flicking his head toward the large group.
The girl laughed, then realized that the boy was serious.
"No," she replied. "They're too old to interact with us. I've heard that some kids our age have been pushed around by them, but those are just rumors so I don't know for sure."
Barbara saw the look of apprehension on Dick's face, and wondered if he had had some bad experiences with teenagers when he had been in the circus. The girl was curious about the boy's background, but she decided not to ask him about it since he was trying to get acclimated to a new school.
The fear filling his body dissipated somewhat, and Dick was relieved. He wouldn't have to worry about beatings or tauntings or anything like that. Unless Sam was here. But Sam was still in the detention center, right? Dick decided to ask Bruce about that when he got home.
"Okay, sweeties, last test for today," Ms. Cooper said when they were all seated.
The kids groaned, and the teacher sighed.
"I know it's not fun, but tomorrow we can get into the fun stuff. I have to know where everyone is at in their knowledge of these things. I'm sorry, dear ones, but this is what we have to do. The rest of the week will be much better, I promise."
A boy in the front row raised his hand, and Ms. Cooper gestured to him.
"We all know this stuff except the new kid. Can't we just skip the next one?"
Some of the kids giggled, and one burst out laughing. Dick's face grew red as almost everyone in the room glanced over at him. Humiliation filled his body, and anger bubbled up around it again.
"Stanley Marshall, that is no way to treat someone, especially someone who is new to our school," Ms. Cooper said sternly. "I will not tolerate any more of that."
"Stan," the boy replied. "Just Stan."
With a quick nod of acknowledgment, the teacher asked them to get out the social studies workbooks she had put in their desks. Ms. Cooper went through the same instructions she had with the other two pre-tests, then told them to get started.
Dick had no idea what 'social studies' meant. He was frustrated and angry and wanted to get up and punch Stan in the face for calling him out. The nine-year-old realized, as he glanced at the other boy, that Stan was the one who had called him a 'dummy' when they had been doing math. Maybe he would have to teach the boy a lesson.
The thought surprised him, because he didn't know where it had come from. He had never wanted to punch anyone, except when he had been commanded to by Sam. All the anger in his body faded, and shame took its place. His parents would have been so disappointed in him. Bruce was going to be so disappointed in him.
Dick decided not to tell the man. Bruce went to work every day and was very busy. He didn't need to know that his ward's emotions had been all over the place today. It didn't matter that he had been embarrassed, and the nine-year-old was sure he could control the anger and frustration. And the last thing Dick wanted to do was disappoint the man who had taken a chance on him.
So, the boy looked down at the pre-test and immediately realized that he knew nothing about American history. Gotham City was the first American city he had been in – that he could remember – and he barely knew anything about the place he had been living in for six months, much less the entire country!
The first half of the workbook was filled with questions about some kind of revolution and random names of men who had fought in what was called a 'civil war'. He thought about skipping all of those questions, but decided that maybe he would get some of them right if he just guessed.
So, Dick guessed his way through four pages, then found himself embroiled in the names of states and sections of the country. The nine-year-old knew his directions – north, east, south, and west – but had never heard of Montana or Wisconsin or Arizona or most of the other states. In fact, he realized, he had only ever heard about New York and California. There were fifty outlined states on the map, and he couldn't even pinpoint the two he had heard of. Luckily, geography only lasted for two pages.
World history was next, and Dick was relieved. He knew much more about Europe and Asia than he did about the 'western' side of the world. Unfortunately, those questions only took up two pages, and then he was done.
Dick closed his book and looked up. Only one other person was still working, and the boy knew he was going to get some more taunts before the day was over. But the kid still working was Stan, so maybe he would keep his mouth shut.
When Stan turned his book in five minutes later, the entire class cheered. Dick figured that everyone else had probably passed all of their pre-tests, and he had failed at least one. It was another thing he didn't know: pre-tests were used to measure knowledge and did not count as a grade. All he knew was that Bruce was going to be annoyed that he had to pick Dick up late and upset when he found out that Dick had failed the social studies pre-test.
The day that had started out so well when Charlie had welcomed him to school had turned out to be pretty crappy. But, again, Dick decided to keep all of that to himself. He would tell Bruce the good parts, and embellish them enough that the bad parts could be glossed over or skipped altogether.
That was lying, though. Dick was appalled at himself for thinking that it was okay to lie to his guardian. The man who had taken him in, and provided for him, and was nice to him! Bruce was Batman, and Dick was going to lie to him?!
The ringing of the bell pulled him out of his thoughts. What it was for, Dick had no idea, so he stood up with the rest of the class.
"Dick, sweetie, you can sit down," Ms. Cooper said as the other students began gathering their things. "I'll bring your math pre-test to you when everyone has left."
Some of the kids laughed again as Dick slowly sat down. Apparently, that was the bell to end the school day, and Dick had to stay after school. The room was empty thirty seconds later, and Ms. Cooper sat down at the desk directly in front of him.
"Okay, Dick, I need to know exactly how much you know. I really need you to show me how you arrived at your answers, otherwise I think you're just guessing. You can stay as long as you need to, so don't worry about rushing. The secretary in the office has already talked to your guardian, so he knows to pick you up late. Here you go."
The teacher put the workbook on his desk, stood up, and returned to her desk. Dick sighed and opened the book to page four, where he had stopped when the kids had returned from recess. Whatever that was.
Ms. Cooper observed the boy for several minutes. He would often stop and just stare at the page, his pencil still and his brow furrowed in what she thought was confusion. She wondered if he had been given an entrance exam. If he hadn't, she was going to think about recommending it. But first, she decided to look through his other pre-tests.
His reading test had most of the correct answers. The ones he missed were parts of what they would be learning this year. She nodded in satisfaction; perhaps he was just bad at math. It was a subject many kids struggled with, but at least everyone else had shown their work. Then she opened his social studies workbook.
"Oh, dear," she murmured, glancing up to make sure the boy hadn't heard.
George Washington had been a great leader in the revolution, and it was something a first grader would have learned, so why had Richard put Abraham Lincoln? Most of the answers were wrong on the first few pages, so maybe the boy was also bad at remembering history. Perhaps he was better at geography.
No, no he wasn't. Arizona was not Maine, and California was not Nebraska, and New York was not Montana. The boy didn't even know where New Jersey was, and that's where he was living! A headache began pounding on the edges of her brain. Some parents were not cut out to be teachers, and Richard's parents obviously should not have home-schooled him.
With a quiet sigh, she turned the page to world history. To her surprise, every single answer was correct. A thought popped into her head. Richard had been in a traveling circus. How many times had that circus come to America? It made complete sense now. His parents would obviously teach him about the countries he was in while they were there. Perhaps he had been too young when they had performed in the United States, or perhaps Gotham City was their first trip to this country.
Ms. Cooper was relieved – the boy didn't need remediation, he just hadn't learned about a place he had never visited! The woman decided to send him to Mr. Johnson, one of the eighth grade social studies teachers, during reading time. If Dick was smart, he could catch up quickly.
She glanced up again. Dick was staring at the page and twirling his pencil. Perhaps he wasn't that smart. Ms. Cooper hadn't heard any pages turning, so the poor boy was still on page four. An average student who would need a lot of help in math. American history was not as important as math, so maybe she would have her aide work with him in math instead of sending him to Mr. Johnson.
One hour later:
Bruce arrived at Gotham Academy and strode into the front office. Marcia directed him to the correct room, and he walked in the door expecting to see Dick ready to go. To his surprise, the boy was bent over what Bruce assumed was the pre-test. His pencil wasn't moving, so he obviously wasn't working.
Moving his gaze away from the nine-year-old, Bruce decided to talk to the teacher first. The woman stood up as he approached and held out her hand. Bruce reciprocated, and Ms. Cooper motioned him to the other side of the room. They sat down at a small table, and the woman began quietly talking.
"I'm sorry I had to keep Richard after school, Mr. Wayne."
Holding up his hand, Bruce interrupted angrily, "Why did you give him a detention on the first day of school?!"
"A detention?" the woman asked, surprise in both her voice and on her face. "This is not a detention, Mr. Wayne, I'm simply giving him more time to finish his math pre-test."
"Finish?" Bruce echoed. "What happened, why didn't he start and finish with the rest of the class? Dick is not one to ignore direct instructions."
"Mr. Wayne, I think we're on different pages," Ms. Cooper replied. "Richard did start with the other students, he actually finished before everyone else."
"The secretary told me he refused to even start!" Bruce exclaimed loudly.
"Oh, dear, I'm afraid there has been some kind of misunderstanding. Richard had no trouble starting, and finished quickly. However, he didn't show any of his work. I specifically asked the students to show their work so I would know where each student is in their understanding of the concepts. He has not finished, even after staying in at recess and having," the woman glanced at her watch, "an hour after school. Has Richard always had trouble with math?"
"I…don't know," Bruce admitted. "This is his first time in a normal school setting. In case you're not aware, he was in a traveling circus for the first nine years of his life, so he has not had formal schooling."
"Yes, I realized that when I went over his social studies pre-test. Mr. Wayne…"
"Bruce," the man interrupted.
"Mr. Wayne," Ms. Cooper repeated firmly, "Richard knows nothing about American history or geography. However, he is well-versed in the history of the eastern continents. My assumption is that his parents taught him about the places they were in – Europe and Asia. Perhaps they had not yet traveled to America."
"What are you going to do about that?" Bruce inquired.
"Well, I was going to send him to another teacher during reading time…"
"You're taking away reading? He loves to read!"
"His reading pre-test showed that, as well. Therefore, he does not need the practice that I'm sure many of the students need. Which is why I would like him to learn history and geography during that time. Unless he needs more help in math."
Bruce looked back at the nine-year-old and said, "Dick, come here, please."
Dick obeyed, and the man saw the apprehension on the boy's face. Why was he worried about Bruce wanting to talk to him?
"Are you having a hard time with math, kiddo?" Bruce asked when Dick arrived at the table.
The boy shook his head, paused, then shrugged.
"What does that mean? Why don't you bring your book over here so I can look at it."
"Mr. Wayne," Ms. Cooper began as Dick went to get the workbook, "it is not appropriate for you to be looking at his answers."
Bruce looked at her for a moment, his head tilted in thought.
"Ms. Cooper," he finally stated, "I will not be telling him the answers, I merely want to see if he answered any of them correctly."
The teacher didn't want to get into an argument with Bruce Wayne, so she dipped her head and allowed Dick to give his guardian the workbook.
Bruce flipped through the pages, and his confusion turned into anger. Every single question he looked at had the correct answer. Why on earth had Dick been forced to stay after school when there were no wrong answers?!
"Mr. Wayne, I can see that you are upset. Please allow me to clarify. As I looked through the pages, I did notice that his answers are correct."
"All of them?" Bruce nearly growled.
"The ones that I looked through, yes," the woman replied. "However, Richard did not show any of his work, as I stated before. I don't know what strategies he has learned, so I don't know what to teach him."
"Why," Bruce snapped, unable to hold back the anger, "does it matter what strategy he uses as long as he gets the correct answer?!"
Ms. Cooper was taken aback at the tone.
"In order to continue his education in math, there are certain strategies he needs to know and understand. As I said, I don't know what strategies…"
"Dick," Bruce interrupted, looking up at the boy, "how did you figure out these answers?"
The nine-year-old dropped his head, assuming the anger was directed at him, and shrugged. He had known Bruce was going to be disappointed, but he hadn't known that the man would also be angry.
"Answer me, Dick," the millionaire commanded.
"There is no reason to be so rude, Mr. Wayne!" Ms. Cooper exclaimed.
Realization dawned, and Bruce attempted to calm down.
"Kiddo, I'm not mad at you. I just need to know how you figured out the answers. Did you use any strategies that your teacher needs to know about?"
The emphasized word was growled out, and Bruce took a deep breath. Anger was not going to convince Dick to answer him.
"I just…did them," the boy finally answered quietly, his eyes still on the ground. "But I don't know how to write it on the paper because I did them in my head. Sorry."
Ms. Cooper stared at Dick in astonishment, and Bruce almost laughed out loud.
"You figured all of these out in your head?" he asked, a tinge of amazement in his voice.
"That's impossible," Ms. Cooper stated firmly, her quiet voice filled with disbelief. "You must have guessed on some of them!"
Dick shook his head, not daring to look up for fear of seeing skepticism on the face of his guardian. The man wasn't going to trust him after this, because apparently – according to the teacher – he wasn't supposed to be able to do the problems in his head.
"And that's why he can't show his work," Bruce declared, turning back to the woman. "He doesn't know how he figures it out, he can just do it. Are we done here?"
Ms. Cooper was still in a slight state of shock. She had never had a student who could do math in his head. How could a kid who had never been to a 'real' school be smart enough to do that?!
"Are we done here?" Bruce repeated, again almost laughing at the look on her face.
"Um, yes, I suppose we are. I would like to test him again in the near future…"
"Why?!" Bruce demanded, the anger back in his voice. "He just told you how he did the problems, and every answer is correct! Why does he have to be tested again? Just because he's a math whiz and you can't handle that?"
"Mr. Wayne," Ms. Cooper said, surprised at the fury in the man's voice, "I cannot be sure that he figured out everything in his head. Richard could have had lucky guesses on some of them. I would like one of the fifth grade teachers to give him a test, just to see how far his knowledge reaches. Random guesses on the fifth grade test would be much easier to spot. The end-of-the-school-year fifth grade test."
Bruce looked at Dick again. His neck and ears were red, and the man could hear the quiet sniffles. The man was embarrassing the boy, and the anger Bruce felt was now directed at himself.
"I think," the millionaire said quietly, "that we should ask Dick about it."
"I'll take the test," the nine-year-old instantly whispered. "I'm sorry for all the trouble."
"There is no reason to apologize, chum. You did nothing wrong here, it was a really big misunderstanding."
Bruce hated all the apologizing. Dick was always blaming himself for every little thing that went wrong in his life, and sometimes even the things that went wrong in Bruce's life. In the man's opinion, the boy was way too young to be thinking that way. How he was going to change that line of thinking, though, Bruce had no idea.
Chapter 33
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, Wendolynn and leafbracer! :)
Chapter Text
Dick stayed silent on the way home, his eyes on his hands clasped tightly on his lap. He had caused enough trouble for Bruce today. The nine-year-old could feel the man's gaze on him, and knew that he was probably getting a glare. Hopefully it wasn't a Bat-glare, because that was one of the scariest facial expressions Dick had ever seen.
Bruce was staring at Dick, not even a hint of a glare in his eyes. He was wondering what else had gone wrong for his boy on the first day of school. Should he ask? They had just worked their way through a giant misunderstanding together, maybe he could get Dick to open up to him if he just asked some general questions.
"Besides the pre-test debacle, how was school?" the man finally asked.
Dick shrugged, then quietly asked, "What's a debacle?"
"A big problem."
"Oh."
The nine-year-old sounded so sad, as if the weight of the world was on his young shoulders. Bruce didn't know how to handle that emotion – his sorrow had always been overpowered by anger – but he forged on.
"Did you have fun at recess?"
Idiot!
Bruce instantly berated himself. Both the secretary and the teacher had told him that Dick had been kept in at recess!
"I…don't know what that is," Dick replied softly. "I had to work on math."
Bruce clenched his jaw as the anger resurfaced. Closing his eyes, he counted to ten. It didn't help.
"That was an idiotic mistake on her part," the millionaire growled as he opened his eyes. "She should have talked to you first."
"Sorry," Dick mumbled.
"STOP APOLOGIZING!" Bruce yelled.
The shouted words echoed around the back seat of the car. Dick shuddered, Bruce noticed, and the anger turned inwards again.
"I should not have yelled, chum, I'm sorry."
"It's fine," Dick answered with another shrug.
"What else happened today, Dick? I can tell that something's bothering you, and I'm pretty sure it's more than just a misunderstanding about a pre-test."
"Nothing, I'm fine."
"You're not."
"PE sounds like fun," Dick said, attempting to change the subject. "We only went over rules today, but I like sports."
Bruce knew that was true, but he also knew about redirection, and he wasn't going to allow that to happen.
"I think you'll really like it because you're so active," he agreed with a grin. "But," he continued, the grin fading, "what happened that's making you sound so sad? Were other kids mean to you?"
"I'm fine," Dick repeated, struggling to force some cheer into his voice. "Charlie was nice. He's the sixth grade class president."
Bruce sighed. Apparently, this was going to be like pulling teeth, as the saying went.
"And Barbara. She helped me find my class. We're in the same class. She told me about PE, and at lunch she…"
Dick paused for exactly two seconds, then continued, "At lunch she sat at the same table as me."
It was true, they had been at the same table. Barbara, however, had been surrounded by her friends, and Dick doubted she had noticed him eating at the other end of the table by himself. Bruce didn't need to know that she had relieved Dick's fear about the teenagers, because Bruce didn't need to know that Dick was scared of teenagers. It was a dumb fear, and having dumb fears meant he was weak. The only thing worse than having Bruce disappointed in him, was having Bruce think he was weak.
"Barbara Gordon?" Bruce asked. "She's the commissioner's daughter, did you know that? She seems nice."
Dick nodded but didn't elaborate.
"Did you get to meet anyone else in your class?"
"Stan," the boy mumbled, then instantly yelled at himself in his head, knowing that Bruce would probably want details.
"Was he as nice as Charlie?"
The pause was too long, and Bruce knew the boy was lying when he nodded again. He decided to dig deeper.
"What did you guys talk about? Do you have anything in common?"
"We're both bad at social studies."
"Dick, you're not bad at social studies," Bruce immediately countered. "You just haven't had the chance to learn about America. What else did you guys talk about?"
The nine-year-old had no answer to that question. Stan had called him a dummy, and Dick had become angry enough to want to punch him, but he wasn't going to admit any of that to his guardian. So, the boy shrugged again. He wasn't really lying, he rationalized, because he and Stan hadn't actually 'talked' about anything else.
"Dick, the false cheer isn't working," Bruce commented, a hint of frustration in his tone. "I can see that something is bothering you, but I can't help if you don't talk to me about it."
"I'm fine," Dick repeated for the third time.
"You are not fine," Bruce stated decisively. "I don't want to push you on this, but if it's something bad I need to know. We don't keep secrets, right? Ever since you…"
Bruce glanced at the driver, remembering that it was the Wayne Enterprises car they were in, and changed the end of the sentence.
"Ever since you told me about that man, we said we wouldn't keep secrets from each other," he reminded the nine-year-old.
"I'm not keeping…"
"You're lying, chum."
Dick had no answer, because it was true. Not telling Bruce about his day was keeping secrets, and he had told the man that he wouldn't keep any more secrets. The nine-year-old justified the action, though, because it wasn't a dangerous secret. Only dangerous secrets mattered to Batman.
"Look at me, Dick," Bruce lightly commanded.
The nine-year-old grimaced, but obeyed. He attempted to shut down his eyes, because the millionaire had often told him that his light-blue eyes were very expressive. It didn't work. Bruce saw the anger and the frustration and the embarrassment and, to his surprise, those emotions were all outlined with fear.
"Dick," the man said softly, "why are you afraid?"
The boy's eyes widened, and then he turned his head away to look out the window.
"You know I can read your eyes, chum, and all of your emotions shine through them. I understand why you are angry and frustrated, but I don't understand the fear. Let me help you, kiddo."
The nine-year-old lifted a hand and swiped it across his face, effectively erasing the evidence of his weakness. Only babies cried, Chuck had taught him that.
"Gosh dang it, Dick," the millionaire muttered. "Talk to me, kiddo," he said a little louder. "I can't help you if I don't know what I'm supposed to help with."
Silence reigned, and Bruce waited. Although impatience was threatening to burst out of him, he felt as he had in the detention center. For this child, he could wait.
Five minutes later, they were approaching Wayne Manor. Bruce couldn't take it anymore.
"Dick."
It was the same tone Dick had heard before. The one-word paragraph that had detailed reasons about why Dick should tell Bruce everything.
"Teenagers," the nine-year-old whispered as the car stopped in front of the entrance. "There are…teenagers."
Dick quickly opened the door and ran into the house. Bruce was going to think the fear was stupid, because it was. Chuck was dead, Sam was in the detention center – Dick hoped that, anyway – and he hadn't seen Frankie or Carl or anyone else he had 'played' with. It was a stupid, irrational fear, and it showed Bruce that Dick was weak.
Bruce was much slower to exit the car and enter the house. Dick was more traumatized than Bruce had realized. The very sight of teenagers terrified him, which was understandable. What the man didn't understand were the two other tones in the boy's voice. Shame, mixed with a little bit of guilt. Why?
Those emotions were keeping him deep in thought as he walked into the Manor.
"Sir, what happened? Master Dick just ran in here and straight up to his room!"
Alfred's worried voice snapped Bruce out of his pondering, and he sighed.
"I couldn't get much out of him, but it all began with a big misunderstanding about a math pre-test. His teacher, Ms. Cooper, thought he was guessing because he didn't show any work. But he did all of the problems in his head, Alfred!"
"Master Bruce, that is astonishing!" the butler exclaimed.
"I should have known," the younger man muttered.
"I'm sorry, sir, you should have known what? That he's good in math?" Alfred asked after almost a minute of silence.
"No. Gotham Academy is K-12. There are teenagers. I finally got it out of him, right before he ran in here. Dick, with good reason, is terrified of teenagers. I should have known."
"Oh, dear," Alfred murmured, the concern obvious in his voice.
"Alfred, if you had just told me you were afraid of someone or something, would you feel guilty or ashamed?"
"No, sir, of course not. But young Master Dick is not an old man," the butler stated wisely. "He does not know how to deal with emotions like I do, sir. And I do not have to worry about disappointing anyone, Master Bruce," Alfred remarked pointedly.
"You think he thinks I'm going to be disappointed in him for being scared of something? That's ridiculous, Alfred!"
"Is it, sir? Think of what he has gone through, Master Bruce. You saved him from the detention center, and the orphanage, and Miss Nasterson, and Tony Zucco. You once told me that he thought he was going to owe you something if you helped him. All you have done, sir, is help him. Master Dick does not want to be trouble for you, because he is still unsure of his place here, Master Bruce. It has only been six months, sir."
"There's no way for you to know that," Bruce retorted.
"I have been observing his body language and words, sir, not just reading his eyes. He is constantly apologizing, as if everything that goes wrong for any of us is his fault. Master Dick's shoulders are often tense, and sometimes the smiles you think are genuine are actually forced. Master Bruce, he is not only afraid of teenagers, he is also deeply afraid of disappointing you. Perhaps, sir, he thinks you will send him back if he isn't as close to perfect as possible."
"I wouldn't…that's ridiculous thinking!"
"Have you told that to Master Dick, sir? Have you ever sat him down and explained that he is safe here, and that he doesn't have to worry about something like that? Have you, Master Bruce, ever pulled him into a hug when he has been worried about something?"
"He doesn't get worried," Bruce replied.
Alfred raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
"He's not…you can tell all of that from his body language?!"
"Perhaps I should change the word, sir. Have you ever pulled him into a hug when he has been angry about something?"
"Dick doesn't get angry," Bruce stated stubbornly, folding his arms across his chest.
"Master Bruce," Alfred said incredulously, "are you so far into the darkness that you can't see his light diminish when he reacts negatively to something?!"
"He gets frustrated, but not angry," Bruce countered, real anger in his voice.
"Are you really telling me, sir, that you have never heard a tone of fury that could match your own if you were a young child or he were an adult?!"
That made Bruce pause. If Dick was angry, he was either hiding it well or Bruce was so far gone that he hadn't noticed, as Alfred had stated. Alfred was good at sensing emotions, Bruce knew he was not. And Dick's eyes showed all of his emotions, so why hadn't Bruce ever seen anger in those expressive circles?
A quiet 'creak' made both men look up. Dick appeared at the top of the stairs.
"I'm sorry," he said loudly. "I do get angry, and I shouldn't, and I'm sorry. I'll try not to do it anymore."
Alfred gasped, horrified at the child's words. Bruce gaped at the boy, completely unsure of what to say.
"Master Bruce!" the butler prompted vehemently.
"Dick, come down here. Please," Bruce added when Alfred quietly coughed.
Slowly, the nine-year-old descended the stairs. Bruce went to the bottom step and sat down, patting the spot next to him. Dick joined him, and the man suddenly twisted so that he was sitting on the floor in front of the boy.
"Dick, it is okay to get angry," he said, his dark-blue eyes locked on the lighter ones of his boy. "I get angry all the time. I've been a bad example, because I lock my anger away. You don't have to do that, kiddo, you can let your emotions out."
Alfred stared at his charge in shock. The younger man was admitting that he had issues, and was hoping to keep the boy from following that path!
"I wanted to punch him," Dick admitted quietly. "He called me a dummy, and he basically said I was stupid, and I was so mad, and I just wanted to punch him. I wanted to be like…like Chuck and not care if I hurt him."
The last sentence was choked out, as if admitting it was the last thing he was going to do before he died. Dick's face crumbled, but no tears fell.
"I don't like being angry," the nine-year-old said softly, "but I don't remember how to be happy. I'm…broken, like an old puppet that needs to be thrown away."
Dick covered his face with his hands, ashamed to admit such horrible things. Bruce had given him so much, and he had just told the man that he wasn't happy. He was supposed to be happy, wasn't he?
"Dick, I…I understand. You lost everything, and you had no reasons to be happy. It's going to take a while, maybe a long while, before you can feel happy again. And I don't blame you for it. My story…"
Bruce paused as he felt emotions well up inside him. Emotions that he had kept hidden for so long that he had forgotten how they felt.
"I can't understand everything, chum, because I didn't have as rough a time as you did. When my parents…"
The man paused again, and Dick removed his hands to stare into Bruce's eyes.
"When they, um, died, I had Alfred, and a home, and nobody beat me up just because I existed."
"Master Bruce," Alfred warned quietly.
Bruce shook his head, understanding that the butler thought he should stop but knowing that he couldn't.
"Dick, you are so much stronger than I was at your age. You're a survivor, and I don't know how you made it through the things you have experienced. Most people, myself included, would no longer have any light inside them. But you…you still do, chum. You don't just have a light, you have a bright light. One that shines through the darkness in your life, and if more people had your light the world would be a much safer place."
"I don't," Dick countered. "I get angry, that's not light."
Bruce couldn't respond, he was too busy trying to control his emotions. Alfred stepped in for him.
"Master Dick, everyone gets angry. I have been angry, especially when one of my boys has been hurt in some way. But I have a way to release it – by cleaning."
Dick glanced up at him quizzically. A short laugh burst out of him.
"You clean when you're mad?!"
"I do, young sir, but that does not mean I'm mad every time I clean," the butler clarified with a smile. "My point is, Master Dick, that I have a way to get my anger out. Right now, I don't think you do. I think we need to find a productive way to allow you to release the anger, young sir."
"Well, I wanted to punch Stan…"
Bruce growled when he heard the name, the one that Dick had said when talking about 'nice kids' at school.
"Sorry," Dick automatically said.
"No," Bruce snapped, "I'm not mad at you. Continue."
"Um, I wanted to punch him, and there are some things that I could punch downstairs, so maybe…I don't know."
"You want to use Batman's punching dummies?" Bruce asked incredulously.
"No, sorry, it was a dumb idea," Dick instantly replied.
"That's not what I meant," the man responded. "If it helps you get your anger out, you can go use them any time. In fact, I think I'll add some to the gym down the hall. Then you don't have to go all the way downstairs."
"I think that is an excellent idea, Master Bruce. And you, Master Dick, are as smart as a whip in more than just math."
"I don't know what that means," the nine-year-old said.
"It means you're really intelligent," Bruce explained with a grin.
"Oh."
There was a long stretch of silence. Both men could see Dick struggling to decide whether or not to say something else.
"Bruce, do you…um, do you think…"
Dick stopped talking, so Bruce impatiently waited patiently. Alfred observed the scene, amazed at the stillness from both of his boys. Dick was always active and Bruce…well, Bruce was never patient.
"Do you think it's dumb?" the nine-year-old finally asked.
"Do I think what's dumb, kiddo?"
"Never mind, sorry."
Not this again.
Bruce was smart enough to keep that thought to himself. He stayed quiet, knowing that Dick's internal argument had begun anew.
Just ask me, chum.
The millionaire wished he could pull things out of the boy as easily as Batman did when interrogating criminals. But Dick was not a criminal; he was a traumatized nine-year-old who didn't deserve anything that had happened to him. Bruce hadn't realized that Dick was still so fragile, the boy had seemed to be adjusting well.
Maybe Batman will pay another visit to Sam.
It was an idiotic idea, and he wasn't going to go through with it, but the knowledge that Sam still had a thread of control over Dick was infuriating.
"That I…um, that I get scared…no, it's dumb, forget it, sorry."
A lightbulb popped on in the mind of the World's Greatest Detective.
"No, I don't think it's dumb that you are afraid of a group of teenagers."
Dick looked up at him, shock in his eyes and written all over his face.
"I'm not afraid," he objected, not even an outline of confidence in his voice.
"Being scared is not a weakness, chum. It's another emotion to learn how to deal with."
"Batman's never afraid."
"That's incorrect."
"No, Batman is brave, he makes other people afraid."
"Brave is just another word for courage, Dick. And courage is not the absence of fear. It's taking action in spite of the fear. You, kiddo, are very courageous."
Dick chuckled darkly and stated, "I'm not. I didn't tell anyone about that guy because I was afraid. That's the opposite of taking action."
"You fought back in the deten…"
"Because I was forced to! That's not courage, that's obedience."
Bruce was losing ground and couldn't find a way to backtrack. Alfred, always the wiser of the two, stepped in again.
"I think what Master Bruce is trying to say, young sir, is that you didn't give up. You fought because you had to, yes, but you never gave in to the darkness that surrounded you in that horrible place. Master Dick, you have no idea how very brave you actually are, but I have no doubt that someday you will realize that it is one of your greatest qualities."
Bruce nodded at his butler in gratitude.
"Will it ever go away?" Dick asked after several more moments of silence.
"I think this is one that you can conquer, chum. It might take a while – since the first experience you had with teenagers was so bad – but we can work on it together."
"You're not…disappointed in me?"
"For being scared? Absolutely not! Like I said, everybody gets scared sometimes. Dick, are you scared of me?"
"What?!" the boy exclaimed. "Why would I be scared of you?!"
Bruce glanced back at Alfred, who nodded.
"Chum, do you know that you are safe here?"
Dick nodded.
"Do you know that I will never, ever, send you back to the detention center?"
The nine-year-old began chewing his bottom lip, the recognizable sign of being nervous.
"Your silence answers my question. Dick, I want you to listen carefully, because this is very important. Neither myself nor Alfred will ever allow you to get sent into that place again. That is a fact, no, a promise. I will keep you safe, okay?"
"But what if I do something really bad?" Dick whispered.
"Are you planning on doing something really bad?"
"No, but my mom always said that accidents happen."
"The detention center is for kids who do bad things on purpose. Accidents do happen, but accidents don't cause kids to be sent there."
"But Sam said…"
"I don't want to hear what Sam said. We've talked about this, remember? That kid used fear to control you, and that part of your life is over. And he was never right about things anyway. Now you know that Gotham City makes mistakes, and that you didn't kill anybody, and that nobody is right all the time."
"Except you."
Bruce missed the mumbled phrase, but Batman did not.
"I am not always right, chum. I've said and done a lot of wrong things in my life."
Dick didn't answer, so Bruce decided to follow Alfred's advice. Twisting around again, he sat on the step next to the nine-year-old. Without missing a beat, the man pulled the boy closer and settled him into a good snuggling position. The unexpected hug broke down the wall that Dick was trying to hide behind.
"I'm sorry," he whispered as he wrapped his limbs around Bruce's torso. "I just…I don't want to disappoint you because you're so nice to me. And you're Batman so you're brave and strong and I want to be like you but I'm not and it makes me sad and angry and I hate that I'm always angry because I used to be happy but I don't remember how and that makes me mad because I should be happy here and I try to be but it's not the same and I want to go to school but I didn't like it at all but I want to learn things and everything is just all messed up!"
Bruce opened his mouth to reply, but Alfred shook his head. The younger man recognized the wisdom in that one motion: Dick was both releasing emotions and allowing himself to be vulnerable, another milestone in his short time in Wayne Manor.
So, Bruce stayed quiet and let the boy ramble on.
Chapter 34
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, leafbracer, usagipoints, SpotSimp (VosianPrincess), and RoaringRaptor! :)
Chapter Text
Two weeks later:
Everything at school had been straightened out. Dick went to a fifth grade class for math, and took it upon himself to learn everything he could about American history outside of school. The first, and only, time Ms. Cooper had sent him to Mr. Johnson, Dick had discovered when he came back that he had missed reading. He vowed right then that he wouldn't go back to Mr. Johnson until he was in eighth grade.
Every night he studied the textbook Ms. Cooper had allowed him to take home. And every other night he had Bruce or Alfred quiz him on certain chapters. Dick answered all of the questions sprinkled throughout each chapter and took every single end-of-chapter test. He was catching up, and Ms. Cooper was no longer concerned about his intelligence level.
Bruce was amazed at Dick's dedication, and he was also extremely proud of the boy's hard work. Not only in school, but in several other areas as well. The man had added some punching dummies to the gym, and Dick would sometimes disappear in there without telling anyone why. Both Alfred and Bruce would stay out, allowing him to release his emotions without feeling like he was being judged for it.
Bruce was feeling good, but Batman currently hated himself. No matter how hard he searched, or how many people he threatened, he had no information about Zucco. Nobody had heard anything from him or seen him anywhere – or if they had they weren't talking. Not even Falcone knew where the guy was, and Falcone was his boss!
Batman knew Dick was never going to feel completely safe until Zucco was off the streets. He was aware of that fact because Bruce was often in Dick's room after patrol, calming him down from a nightmare about drowning or quietly reading to him in an effort to help the boy fall asleep. The nine-year-old hated going to sleep, and Bruce understood why.
Bruce knew there was at least one nightmare every night, even if he hadn't heard it. Sometimes, the man would wake up in the morning with a little form curled in a ball at the end of his bed. And sometimes he would just stare at the boy's face, hoping his sleep had been more peaceful in here than in his own room. More often than not, his unwavering gaze would wake Dick, who seemed to have a sixth sense about people staring at him.
The boy usually apologized, which Bruce always ignored because it wasn't necessary, and would then tuck himself against the man's side. Bruce never mentioned it, because a sappy emotion was not something he was willing to talk about, but he would always slip his arm around the lithe form and pull him a little closer. It was cheesy, but it was one of the few times when Dick's 'genuine' smile really was genuine.
It was a Thursday, just after lunch, and Bruce was reviewing some notes for his upcoming meeting.
"Mr. Wayne, the school is on the phone," his secretary said through the intercom on his desk.
Bruce frowned, getting a call from the school worried him, and picked up the phone.
"Bruce Wayne," he said.
"Mr. Wayne, this is Marcia. When you pick up your so…ward today, the principal would like to speak to you. It seems that the boy has been in a fight."
"A…what?!" Bruce exclaimed. "I'm coming now…"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne, but the school is on lockdown. I am not at liberty to give you details. We will keep all parents – and guardians, of course – informed. Again, I'm sorry to have to give you this news. Goodbye."
"LOCKDOWN?!" Bruce yelled at the dial tone.
Slamming the phone down, he immediately picked it back up and dialed the office of Commissioner Gordon.
"Jim Gordon."
"Jim, this is Bruce. Why is Gotham Academy on lockdown?!"
"How…oh, I forgot Dick is there. Apparently there was a fight, and somebody used a weapon. They don't know where the kid – whomever it was – stashed it, so they locked everything down and are searching everyone. I'm on my way there now."
"A weapon?!" Bruce exclaimed. "I'll meet you there," he growled before slamming the phone down again.
"Cancel everything," he commanded as he strode past his secretary. "And call the car."
"But, Mr. Wayne, you…"
"Everything!" he yelled as he pushed the button to call the elevator. "I don't care if I have an appointment with the president!"
"Yes, sir," the woman replied as she looked down at his calendar.
She opened her mouth to ask a question but, upon glancing up, discovered that the man was already gone.
Gotham Academy:
Dick was at lunch with all the other elementary grade students. He took a tray, received his food, and sat down at an unoccupied table, frustrated with Stan and two other boys in his class. Sitting alone usually helped him calm down, and nobody wanted to sit with him anyway so it worked out. Except Barbara, sometimes.
He sighed as he picked up his apple. The day had started out good, but had quickly gone downhill. Dick was so preoccupied with Stan that he didn't notice someone sit down across from him.
"Hi."
The kid was about Dick's height, with a build that reminded Dick of Frankie. He shuddered slightly, but attempted to cordially return the greeting.
"Hi," the nine-year-old said quietly.
"You gonna eat that?" the kid asked, pointing to Dick's tray.
"Um, yeah."
"I don't think you are," the kid replied.
The boy's hand snapped out, and suddenly Dick's tray was on the other side of the table.
"That's my lunch," Dick said angrily. "Give it back."
"I'm hungry," the boy said with a shrug.
He began stuffing food in his mouth. Dick reached across the table, intending to grab the tray, but his arm was instantly pinned to the table. The nine-year-old looked up, and real fear filled his eyes.
Nick.
Dick had a vague memory of the teenager. He had become Sam's second-in-command when Chuck had died. Which meant he didn't like Dick, because Dick had talked to Bruce, and Sam had gotten in trouble because of that.
"Let's go for a walk, kid," Nick commanded. "Nice and easy, no drawing attention to yourself, don't make this harder than it has to be."
Dick obeyed. He swung his legs over the bench and stood up. Nick let go of his arm, and the nine-year-old felt something sharp in his lower back.
"We're going to the bathroom," Nick said as he shoved whatever it was a little bit deeper.
Dick flinched, and Nick laughed.
"Sam says hi, wants you to know that he misses having you around," Nick stated casually as they walked into the boys bathroom. "Turn."
The nine-year-old did as he was told, and suddenly the sharp thing was in his stomach. Dick looked down, shock racing through his eyes when he saw blood dribbling down his legs and beginning to make a small puddle on the floor.
"Hit me," Nick commanded.
Dick looked up at him, confusion joining the fear in his eyes. Why would Nick want to get hit?
"Dumb kid," Nick mumbled.
To Dick's surprise, the teenager slammed his fist into his own face. His left eye began swelling up, and a thin strip of blood appeared across the bridge of his nose.
"Self-defense," the teen muttered with a slight grin.
A quick beating ensued, one which left Dick with a matching swollen eye and a bump on the head, and then Nick yanked the sharp thing out of the nine-year-old's stomach. Dick was in shock, too confused about the situation to do anything but sink to his knees. Nick grabbed some paper towels, knelt down, and shoved them under Dick's shirt to stop the bleeding.
"You tell anyone what happened, and next time I'll kill you."
Nick left the threat hanging in the air as he exited the bathroom. Dick didn't move, the pain in his stomach convincing him to stay still. A man came in, took one look at him, and sighed.
"Did you start it?" the man asked as he crouched in front of the nine-year-old.
"Start…?"
"Did you start the fight?"
"I…don't think so," Dick replied, furrowing his brow.
"That's not what Nick said. I'm not surprised, though, since you were in the detention center before Bruce took pity on you. Come on, we're going to the principal's office."
Dick allowed the man to pull him up to standing, but gasped in pain as he straightened up. The motion caused the open wound in his stomach to stretch, but the paper towels that the man didn't notice held the blood in check.
"Yeah, I bet your head hurts really bad. Nick's pretty strong, I don't know why you would want to start a fight with him."
The man walked him down the hall to the principal's office, where he made Dick sit on a plastic chair right outside the door. It reminded the nine-year-old of the detention center, and tears started to gather on his lower lids. But Sam had said tears were for babies, so Dick shoved them away. He stared dejectedly at the tile floor, and was reminded of another tile floor he had seen on the night that had shattered his life.
The door next to him opened, and Dick looked up. Nick came out, followed by a tall, thin man with jet-black hair. As he walked by to sit in a chair across the room, Nick sneered at the nine-year-old.
"Richard Grayson, I presume," the man commented. "Come with me, please."
Dick stood up, clenched his jaw when a lightning bolt of pain shot through his stomach, and followed the man inside the office. The nameplate on the desk read Principal Lasky. He had no idea what a 'principal' was, or what he did, but Dick was intelligent. This man was probably the head guy, the one who took care of kids who got in trouble. And Dick knew he was in trouble.
"Richard," the principal began, "why did you punch Nick in the eye?"
"I didn't," Dick replied softly. "He did it to himself."
"Lying is not going to help your case," Lasky said with a sigh, "so I'll let you try again. Why did you punch Nick in the eye?"
"I didn't," Dick repeated, "I promise."
"How long were you in the detention center, Richard?"
"I, um, I don't know."
"How do you not know?!" the principal exclaimed.
"It was all a big mistake."
"I doubt it, son. What did you do to get yourself put in the center?"
"I didn't do anything, it was a…"
"Stop lying to me!"
"I'm not, sir, I'm sorry. I promise…"
"This is serious, Richard. I need you to listen carefully, because I have one last question that will help decide your fate after this incident. Do not lie to me, young man, because lying will put you in a big pot of trouble. Understand?"
Dick nodded and mumbled, "I haven't lied to you at all."
Ignoring the comment, the principal asked, "Where did you put the weapon you used on Nick's arm?"
Dick's eyes widened. Fear returned, chasing away the anger.
"I don't…I don't have a weapon!" the nine-year-old exclaimed shakily.
"Richard, I know that both you and Nick were in the detention center. I know that Nick was in there for two months, and he has since proven to be turning over a new leaf. You, however, I know almost nothing about. It's the word of a boy who lives in my neighborhood and regrets going to the center versus an orphan from a circus who won't even admit that he belonged in the center. Which kid do you think I'm going to believe?"
Dick was speechless. His thoughts were jumbled and he couldn't form a coherent sentence. The pain in his stomach was momentarily forgotten as anger bubbled to the surface, clearing his mind.
"I didn't do anything!" the nine-year-old yelled.
"Where. Did. You. Put. The. Weapon?"
"I don't have one!"
"You don't now, but you did, and you used it on Nick. Where is it?"
"I didn't, he had it, I didn't even punch him! It was all him, and I don't know why!"
"I warned you not to lie to me, Richard."
"I want to see Bruce," Dick answered quietly as he dropped his eyes to the ground, attempting to calm down and lock the anger in a box for now.
"Well, I have no choice but to put the school in lockdown until we find your weapon. You won't be seeing Bruce for a while. Bringing a weapon to school is a serious offense, one that will probably get you sent back to the center."
Dick's head snapped up, horror filling his eyes when he heard those words.
"Please don't send me back there," he whispered, complete terror in his voice.
"It's not my choice, son," the principal replied. "But you'll make it easier on yourself if you just tell me where the weapon is."
Shaking his head, Dick mumbled, "I don't…didn't…have anything. I was just trying to eat lunch. It's Nick, he started everything. I just wanted lunch," he finished miserably.
Pushing a button on his desk, Principal Lasky said, "Marcia, the school is on lockdown starting now. Somewhere on this campus there is a weapon. Call the commissioner, please."
"Right away," Marcia replied.
"Oh, and let Bruce Wayne know that his kid was in a fight."
"Of course."
Principal Lasky pushed the button again and waited for the boy to say something.
"What's a lockdown?" Dick finally asked, his eyes still on the floor.
"Nobody in or out until that weapon is found," the principal snapped. "Get out there and sit down on your chair."
Shakily, Dick stood up and walked out the door the principal was holding open. He sat down on the chair he had previously occupied, and glared at Nick.
"Why you glaring at me, kid?" Nick asked with a glare of his own. "You started the fight, and you had the weapon. Remember what you did to me?"
The teenager held out his left forearm, which was almost completely covered by white bandages.
"What about what you did to me?" Dick growled, pushing his hand against the pain pulsing in his stomach.
"Self-defense, Grayson," Nick stated with a dark chuckle. "You got no defense. Next time you see Wayne, you're gonna be saying goodbye for a while. Sam's waiting for you."
Dick had nothing to say to that. The thought of going back to Sam was terrifying, and the thought of losing Bruce compounded that terror.
"Richard, last chance."
Principal Lasky was crouching in front of him.
"Where did you put the weapon?"
The nine-year-old shut down, his mind refusing to accept the situation. Principal Lasky sighed and stood up. He turned to Nick.
"Dick seems to think that you might know something about the weapon, Nick. Do you have anything you want to tell me?"
"Did you check…"
"Nick, I'm not going to comment on where we have and haven't looked. All I need to know is if you have any information."
"Nope, cuz I'm assuming that you've checked the obvious spots."
The principal sighed again and grabbed the phone that Marcia was now holding out.
"Commissioner, the student is not talking. What do you want from me?"
There was a pause, and then Lasky shook his head.
"According to our district bylaws, I can't divulge the identity of a student…"
Another pause, then, "Oh, well that changes things. How many? Okay, let me know."
Lasky hung up, glanced at Dick, then turned to Marcia.
"A lot of parents are waiting outside, obviously, and Grayson's guardian is there. He's finding school board members so they can have a spontaneous meeting about a particular bylaw."
"Guardian," Nick snickered quietly. "Least I have parents."
Dick didn't respond, his shocked mind forcing him to ignore everything going on around him. The name 'Bruce Wayne' didn't even penetrate his brain. And the shrill peal of the phone didn't even cause him to flinch. Principal Lasky picked it up and listened.
"Okay," he finally said. "Nick Scanty and Richard Grayson. Grayson had a weapon and he sliced Scanty's arm elbow to almost wrist. We don't know where the weapon is, which is why I put us on lockdown protocol. We don't even know what the weapon is; we don't know what we're looking for. And Grayson's not talking. All the kids are locked in their classrooms with the exception of Grayson and Scanty. They're here in the office."
The principal listened for another moment, then replied, "He can try, but the kid won't even look at me anymore. I'll put him on."
Principal Lasky placed the phone on the counter and returned to crouch in front of Dick.
"Mr. Wayne wants to talk to you, Grayson. The phone won't reach over here, so you have to come to the desk."
Dick didn't respond, he didn't even lift his head to acknowledge the words. The principal waited thirty seconds, then returned to the phone.
"Mr. Wayne? He won't…the line…I tried…will you just let me talk?!"
The principal slammed the phone back on its hook and shook his head.
"Guy thinks he can do anything just because he's rich," the man muttered.
The phone rang again, and Lasky rolled his eyes before picking it up.
"Princi…"
There was a quick pause, and then the principal continued, "I could definitely use some help. We have to search every kid and all of their things. We're a K-12 school, Commissioner, this is going to take a while. We'll take anyone you can spare."
Another pause, and then, "Do you want them coming in the front or back? The two boys, my secretary, and myself are away from all windows and doors, but I can get to the front the quickest. Give me one minute."
Lasky hung up the phone again and strode toward the front doors. The room was soon full of police officers, including Commissioner Gordon. The principal spoke quietly with him for a moment, and then the commissioner began briefing his officers, telling them where to go and what to do. He split them into partnerships, and suddenly the room was empty as the officers spread throughout the school.
"It shouldn't take too long to search every kid, every locker, and every backpack," the commissioner stated. "We'll get this figured out and then we'll talk to the boys' parents."
The principal nodded and sat down to wait.
Chapter 35
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, leafbracer! :)
Chapter Text
Bruce Wayne arrived at the school thirty seconds after Commissioner Gordon. He immediately joined the man near the front door.
"Do you have any more details, Jim?"
"No, but I'm just about to call Principal Lasky."
The commissioner picked up the portable phone given to him by a nearby officer and dialed the number of the front office.
Bruce waited impatiently while the commissioner listened to whomever was on the other end of the line.
"Who are the students?" Commissioner Gordon finally asked.
He can't reveal identities, stupid bylaw.
Bruce, as a member of the school board, had recently lobbied to have that bylaw removed for situations like this. The principal was not allowed to tell anyone – including the commissioner of the Gotham City Police – the identities of kids who were in trouble. Not even during a lockdown.
The millionaire knew how the principal was going to answer that question, so he began searching the crowd for other members of the school board. If he could call an emergency meeting because of the lockdown, maybe he could get enough votes to at least place the bylaw aside for now.
"Rounding up the school board," Bruce stated in the direction of the commissioner as he walked away.
There were seven members of the school board, and five of them were present. An emergency meeting was held and the vote to place aside that particular bylaw for this situation was unanimous. Bruce quickly returned to the commissioner's side and let him know that he was now legally allowed to find out the identities of the students. Jim Gordon picked up the phone and re-dialed the number.
"The school board has voted to place aside that bylaw for now. Who are the students?"
Commissioner Gordon listened while Bruce again waited impatiently. Closing his eyes, the latter man leaned toward the phone and focused on his hearing.
"Nick…Grayson…weapon…arm…wrist…where…protocol…weapon…Grayson's…locked…Scanty…office."
Bruce tried to make sense of the scattered words. Some kid named Nick was involved in the fight – he still didn't know if it had been an actual fight – with Dick. Somebody had a weapon, an arm and/or wrist had been injured, and Dick was locked in…candy?...in an office. Maybe. That was the only explanation Bruce could put together, and he knew he was probably way off base.
"Let me talk to Dick if he's there," the millionaire whispered.
"Bruce Wayne might be able to get more information out of Dick. Put the boy on the line," the commissioner commanded.
Bruce grabbed the phone and waited. The only sound he heard was the annoying music that indicated he was on hold. Glancing at his watch, the millionaire frowned. If Dick was with the principal, he should already be on the line. It had been almost thirty-five seconds.
Principal Lasky's voice was the next sound he heard, and Bruce didn't even let him begin to explain.
"Why am I not talking to Dick right now? He's right beside you, right? If not, where is he?" Bruce demanded, ignoring the principal's obvious attempts to reply.
Finally the frustrated principal yelled at Bruce to let him talk, but the millionaire didn't care about what the man had to say.
"Put. Dick. On."
There was a 'slam' and then Bruce was listening to a dial tone.
"Jim," the man growled, "Lasky just hung up on me without allowing me to talk to Dick."
The commissioner almost rolled his eyes as he took the phone away and, for the third time, dialed the office number. When the principal answered, Jim skipped the greeting.
"Do you need some help in there?" he asked, attempting to remain professional even though he was frustrated. "I have some officers here who can take over the search."
Commissioner Gordon knew that Gotham Academy was a K-12 school, so he wondered why the principal was wasting time telling him about it.
"I'm sending them in," Jim stated, then paused to listen. "Front is closest," he continued, then immediately hung up.
"He's lifting the lockdown?" Bruce asked, but the commissioner shook his head.
"He's accepting help from GCPD. I'll go in with them and figure this out. I have twelve very competent officers here, it shouldn't take too long."
"Are you going to call Batman? He could help with the search, maybe the kids…"
"Would be terrified if Batman began commanding them to do things," the commissioner quickly interrupted. "I think I'll keep the Caped Crusader out of this one."
Batman internally yelled at the man, hating the fact that the commissioner was probably correct in his assessment of the situation. The front door suddenly opened and Jim Gordon led his police officers into the school. Bruce wanted to follow, but knew that wouldn't help whatever situation Dick had gotten himself into. So, he began pacing.
This time it was Commissioner Gordon who crouched in front of Dick Grayson. The boy didn't lift his head to see who was there.
"Dick," Jim said softly, "I need your help. I need you to tell me what happened here. Can you do that for me?"
The nine-year-old ignored him, and the commissioner briefly considered bringing Bruce in. However, if he did that then all of the other parents would want to come in, which he obviously couldn't let happen.
"Can you at least look at me, Dick?"
He didn't receive an answer, or even some type of acknowledgement, so he stood up and strode across the room to where Nick was seated.
"What happened, Nick?"
"We were at lunch, and I got up to go to the bathroom. Grayson over there followed me, and caught me unawares. He sucker punched me, gave me this!"
Nick pointed to his swollen eye, as if the commissioner had no idea it was there.
"Then he pulled something sharp out of nowhere and sliced my arm open!"
"Was that before or after you retaliated?" the commissioner asked.
"After, because I'm stronger and he knew he was going to lose. I regret punching him back because I'm trying to do better at controlling my anger. Sorry I punched you back, Grayson."
The last sentence was louder and accompanied by a well-hidden grin.
"How's the arm, Nick?"
"The nurse said it's not deep, but he gave me a nice, long cut. She said if he had gone any further down, I could have bled to death. He practically tried to kill me!"
The exclamation broke through the silence in Dick's mind, and he suddenly stood up.
"I didn't do anything to you!" the nine-year-old yelled, his eyes burning with anger.
Commissioner Gordon immediately turned around, intending to return to the boy who was apparently ready to talk. But then an officer appeared next to the boy and gently pushed him back onto the chair. The commissioner returned his attention to Nick.
"Settle down, kid. Nobody else needs to get hurt," the officer said calmly.
Dick stared at the familiar wrinkled face of the man that had pushed him into Gotham Harbor, and he suddenly couldn't breathe. Scotty smiled as he sat down, hiding the boy from the prying eyes of the principal.
"Good job calming down," Scotty said loudly for the benefit of everyone else in the room. "Now, let's try to stay nice and calm."
Dick stared at him, fear in his eyes and lungs protesting the lack of air.
"That's right, kid, keep not breathing," Scotty whispered. "Tony sends his regards."
The name made Dick's entire body tense up, but he still couldn't remember how to pull air into his lungs. It didn't help that Scotty was now holding a wet cloth against his nose with one hand and pushing his jaw together with the other. Twelve seconds later, Dick slumped forward into Scotty's waiting arms.
"Commish, I think this one needs some air."
Commissioner Gordon turned around and saw the officer holding an unconscious Dick Grayson in his arms.
"Well you certainly can't take him outside!" Principal Lasky exclaimed.
"Officer, take him into the principal's office and open a window. Not wide open, just enough to let a breeze in," Jim stated.
Scotty the "officer" nodded, and took Dick into the other room. He laid the boy on the floor and noticed something sticking out of the bottom of his shirt. The man lifted the material and wondered why the kid was hiding a wad of paper towels under his shirt. Then he removed the wad, and what he saw made him grin.
There was a hole in the boy's stomach, small but deep. Removing the paper towels had caused the wound to begin bleeding again, although it was only some dribbles. Scotty completely removed Dick's shirt, then sat him up, propping his back against the desk of the principal. The blood slid out of the hole a little quicker, so Scotty left him there and slightly propped open a window.
"He needs to rest," the man declared as he walked out of the office and closed the door. "We should probably let him sleep until this is over."
"Are you a medic?" Principal Lasky asked.
The comment caused the commissioner to look at Scotty. He suddenly realized that he didn't recognize the officer. And he had sent all of his officers to search the school, so why was one still here?
"Officer…" the commissioner said, prompting the man to give his name.
"I'm going, sir, I just saw the boy jump up in anger and thought you might need help."
Scotty quickly left the room, but the commissioner was not convinced.
"Officer, I need you back here. I have a different assignment for you," Jim called down the hall.
But Scotty was fast, and he was already climbing out one of the back windows in the cafeteria. The old man climbed into an idling car, and Tony Zucco's driver quickly maneuvered the vehicle behind the school before speeding away.
When the officer didn't appear, the commissioner's suspicion turned into trepidation. He quickly strode to the principal's office and opened the door. The sight that greeted him was the last thing he expected to see, and he froze.
Dick Grayson was slumped against the desk, blood pooled on his lap and sliding off onto the floor.
"Get the nurse!" Jim yelled in the general direction of the principal.
It took him three long strides to get to the limp body. The commissioner took off his own jacket and pushed it hard against the boy's stomach.
"I doubt you were the one who had the weapon," he murmured. "This has been bleeding for a while, it didn't come from the man who was just here with you. Good heavens, Dick, why didn't you tell someone?"
The nurse entered the room, and she gasped as she knelt down next to the commissioner. Without a word, she dug around in her pocket and pulled out a roll of gauze.
"This will work better," she said, pushing Jim's hands out of the way and replacing his soiled jacket with some gauze. "Hold it there while I get some med tape. Push hard, please."
The woman disappeared but was back in the room within thirty seconds. She efficiently and expertly taped the gauze over the wound, then directed the commissioner to lay the boy down. Jim moved the unconscious nine-year-old away from the puddle of his own blood before following her instruction.
"What on earth…?!"
Principal Lasky was standing by the door, shock in his eyes. The shock turned into anger, and he glanced back at Nick.
"Where is it, Nick?" he snapped, marching over to where the teenager was still sitting.
"What?" Nick asked innocently.
"You know darn well 'what'. I believed you, Nick, although I couldn't understand why a small boy would want to start a fight with you. You punched yourself, didn't you."
"I…"
"That wasn't a question," the principal interrupted sharply. "Commissioner, I think we need to change directions," he stated loudly, causing the commissioner to leave Dick with the nurse in order to join the principal in front of Nick.
"You have something new to tell us?" Jim asked the teen.
"I have no doubt that whatever the weapon is, it belongs to Nick," Lasky stated, placing a heavy hand on the teen's shoulder. "Why he's framing Dick, I have no idea."
"Where's the weapon?" Commissioner Gordon demanded tersely.
"Don't know what you mean," Nick said, trying to stay with his story. "Grayson did…"
"Nothing to you," the principal interrupted. "Tell me where it is, Nick, or I will recommend that you go back to the center for the rest of your teenage years."
"I tossed it out the back window of the cafeteria," the teen admitted quietly, not wanting to return to that horrid place.
Jim Gordon was not only a very competent commissioner, he also had an excellent memory when it came to sending his officers out into the field. He took his walkie-talkie off his belt and clicked a button.
"Merrick and Jevel, search outside behind the cafeteria."
"Copy," came the answer.
Two minutes later, the commissioner was informed by Officer Merrick that a short, white stick had been found. It had been stripped of bark and whittled to a sharp point. There were brown markings on it, consistent with the look of dried blood one would find if it had been stabbed into something.
The guilty look on Nick's face confirmed everything. Principal Lasky ended the lockdown, and Commissioner Gordon strode out to inform the anxious parents.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the weapon has been found and is in GCPD's possession. Your children are out of danger, and will be released from school at the normal time. I need to talk to Mr. Wayne and Mr. Scanty, if they are here."
Bruce immediately stepped forward, as did a thick-necked, dark-haired man.
"Jim, what's going on?" Bruce inquired as they headed inside.
"Mr. Scanty, I need you to wait with Principal Lasky, please. Mr. Wayne," the commissioner said formally, hoping Bruce understood that right now he was a police officer and not a personal friend, "please follow me into the principal's office."
Bruce was kneeling next to the nurse three seconds after he and the commissioner walked into the office.
"What happened?" he growled.
"We don't have the full story yet," Jim replied, "because we need to hear Dick's side. He didn't acknowledge me when I talked to him, Mr. Wayne. I think he may have been in shock. Then he passed out and an officer…"
The commissioner paused, causing Bruce to turn his gaze from the gauze on his boy's stomach to the thoughtful face of the commissioner.
"An officer…" Bruce prompted impatiently.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne, I should not have said that. It's a small detail that needs to be discussed with my department before we tell the public."
"Jim," Bruce said, anger in his tone, "this is my son we're talking about. I deserve to know what happened."
"Like I said, Mr. Wayne, we don't have the full story yet. Do you want me to call an ambulance for Dick, or are you going to take him to the hospital yourself?"
A loud siren answered the question. Principal Lasky had taken it upon himself to call for an ambulance. It was now outside the front door, and two paramedics were entering the office.
"Ma'am, Commissioner, Mr. Wayne, we need some space to check him out," the taller of the two said. "We would appreciate it if you all could back up a little. Are you going to ride with him, Mr. Wayne?"
"Yes, of course," Bruce responded as he, Jim, and the nurse stood up and moved away from the boy's still-motionless form.
"Swollen eye left side, hematoma with contusion left side above the ear," the smaller paramedic stated. Carefully removing the gauze, she continued, "Stab wound to the abdomen, minimal loss of blood, edges moving toward infection. Nothing life-threatening. Has he ever had a head wound that has caused him to lose consciousness, Mr. Wayne?"
"Yes," Bruce said quietly. "He was kidnapped…"
"Oh, this is Dick Grayson," the woman commented. "Coma for a couple of days due to acute head trauma. Two or three weeks ago, I think."
The statements were directed at the taller paramedic, who nodded as he gently slid the boy onto the stretcher they had brought with them. Dick stirred at the movement, and the woman took out a penlight.
"Dick, hon, can you hear me?" she asked as she opened one of his eyelids and shined the light on his eye. "You're going to be okay, we're taking you to the hospital. Tell me your name, sweetheart."
The nine-year-old didn't respond, so the woman put the penlight away and nodded to the man. Together, they lifted the stretcher and took Dick to the ambulance. Bruce, as he followed them out the door, heard something he would never forget.
"Nick, you're going back to the detention center."
"But, Sam'll kill me!"
The boy sounded terrified, but Bruce didn't care. He wanted to turn around and beat the teen to a pulp for stabbing Dick, but he climbed into the back of the ambulance and grabbed the nine-year-old's hand.
This is becoming way too familiar.
"Wake up, chum," Bruce said, pushing the thought aside.
Chapter 36
Notes:
Thanks for commenting, leafbracer, DebbieF, Taliya, and 180! :)
Chapter Text
For the third time in less than two months, Dick Grayson woke up in a hospital bed. Bruce was pacing around the room, and Alfred was staring out the window.
"What did I do this time?" the boy quietly asked.
Bruce stopped pacing and turned around, surprise on his face. They had only been in the hospital for half an hour, and Dick was already awake!
"Master Dick, I highly doubt that you are the one at fault here," Alfred answered as he, too, turned toward the bed. "However, we only know one side of the story."
"What happened between you and a kid named Nick?" Bruce asked, failing miserably at his attempt to not interrogate the boy.
"Nick."
The nine-year-old closed his mouth and shook his head. He grimaced, and carefully touched a tender spot on his head.
"Nick…" Bruce prompted.
"I think I got in a fight. But I didn't start it, Bruce, I swear! I was just trying to eat lunch, and this kid came and sat down and then Nick was there!"
"I believe you, chum," Bruce assured him. "But I need to know exactly what happened."
"I don't remember everything."
"That's okay, just tell me what you do remember."
"I was getting ready to eat lunch and a kid sat down across from me. He stole my tray and I was going to take it back, but then Nick grabbed my arm…"
Dick paused again, causing Bruce to ask, "Who is Nick? How do you know him?"
"Sam."
The word was a whisper.
"What does Sam have to do with Nick?"
"When Chuck, um…when he was gone, Nick became Sam's second-in-command."
"Son of a fricking biscuit eater," Bruce muttered.
Sam'll kill me!
Nick's last statement floated through Bruce's mind. Nick had been Sam's outside man, and now the outside man was going to be back inside.
Too bad for him.
It was a sarcastic thought, Bruce really didn't care about what was going to happen to Nick. The millionaire had no doubt that the teen had been given one objective: get Dick to do something that would get him sent back to the detention center.
"Mr. Wayne, you can take him home."
The quiet voice of the young nurse pulled Bruce out of his thoughts.
"Just don't let him go running around yet," she said with a smile. "Dr. Thompkins told us you are quite capable of caring for a small wound in a young child's abdomen."
The second sentence was directed at Alfred, who almost smirked at the look of chagrin on Bruce's face.
"Well, okay, let's go," Bruce stated as he began gathering Dick's things.
"Thank you, miss," Alfred said to the nurse.
"Anytime," she replied with another smile. "Please try to keep this brave boy safe for at least a month this time. I don't want him to become a 'regular' whose breakfast order I have memorized."
She laughed – a quiet, tinkling sound – and left the room.
Half an hour later the three of them were in Wayne Manor. Dick was resting on the couch, and Bruce had just sat down in the chair across from him to read the paper.
"Bruce!" the boy suddenly cried.
"What is it, Dick, what's wrong?!" the man exclaimed, dropping the paper and jumping to his feet.
"The police officer, he wasn't really a police officer!"
Bruce sat back down when he discovered that Dick wasn't in immediate danger or a copious amount of pain.
"Which one?" the man asked calmly. "There were a lot of them in there."
"There were?"
"Yes, chum. You were pretty out of it, though, from what Commissioner Gordon told me. What about the police officer?"
"Nick, he said I tried to kill him, so I got angry…again."
The nine-year-old paused, so Bruce commented, "It's okay to be angry when someone says something like that. Maybe Batman will pay this Nick kid a visit," he mused softly.
"Then the police officer told me to calm down, but he wasn't a police officer. He was the guy…the…"
Dick stopped talking as the man's face appeared in his mind. The memory overwhelmed him, and he suddenly couldn't breathe. He felt the cloth across his nose, and the wrinkled hand on his chin, and he saw the fuzzy blob that the man's face had become right before he had passed out.
"…breathe, chum, come on!"
The frantic words of the millionaire pulled Dick back to the present. He gasped, sucking in precious oxygen in an automatic movement that he had momentarily forgotten how to do.
"Okay," Bruce said, relief evident in his voice, "you're okay."
"The guy who pushed me in the water," the nine-year-old whispered shakily.
"Tony Zucco's guy?!" Bruce exclaimed. "How in the heck did Zucco get a false police officer into a locked down school?!"
"I don't know, I'm…"
"Don't say it, Dick," the man commanded.
"Okay, so…"
"Dick."
"Um, I don't have anything to say, I guess."
"The fact that Zucco had an inside man who was able to impersonate a police officer is not – in any way, shape, or form – your fault. You had no way of knowing, so there is no need for an apology. You really need to stop apologizing for every little thing that happens, chum."
"But if it's my fault…"
"How is any part of that situation your fault?" Bruce interrupted.
Dick was stumped, because Bruce was right. There was no possible way that the nine-year-old could have known that a criminal would have an inside man on the police force.
"Um, it's not."
"Exactly!" Bruce exclaimed triumphantly. "Before you apologize about anything, I want you to ask yourself that question. Think about the situation, and ask yourself if there was any way you could have known about it or predicted it. Then you can decide whether or not it was your fault."
"Okay, sor…I mean, okay."
"Thank you, kiddo. Now, are you okay to rest by yourself? I need to go downstairs to do some research."
"Yeah, I'm kind of tired."
"You can take a nap. I'll let Alfred know what I'm doing so he can watch over you."
"He doesn't have to hover," Dick stated with a grin.
"Smart aleck," Bruce responded with a matching grin. "He'll check in on you, not hover over you."
Standing up again, Bruce walked over to the couch and grabbed the blanket hanging over the back. He carefully tucked it around his ward, then brushed a stray lock of hair away from the boy's eyes.
"Sleep well, kiddo, I'll take care of this."
Dick hummed in response, his eyes already closed. Bruce stared down at him for a moment, wondering why he was lucky enough to have this amazing child in his life. Shaking himself out of the moment, the man strode to his study, determined to find and take down Tony Zucco.
Dick opened his eyes when he heard the study door close. Batman was going to find Tony Zucco, and the nine-year-old had finally figured out the face that went with the name. Tony Zucco had killed The Flying Graysons, and Dick wasn't going to allow the guy to get away with that.
He already had a plan. Taking his anger out on punching dummies had helped him become stronger. When he had realized that, Dick had created a workout to help his entire body gain strength, not just his arms. Because Dick had decided to find the fat guy with the white stripes in his black hair. But he wouldn't be able to take the man down if he was skinny and weak.
The nine-year-old's body was already athletic and strong from his nine years of circus training. His muscles didn't grow powerful, like those of Batman. They grew long, increasing his speed while not adding unnecessary weight. All he had to do now was find Tony Zucco so he could take him down. And Batman was about to do the first part for him.
Two nights later:
Batman had heard rumors, whisperings of a weapons shipment coming into Gotham Harbor in the next few days. Several names had been tossed about, including Tony Zucco. The Caped Crusader had circled the harbor several times last night, and was preparing to go out again.
He had already checked on Dick, who was sleeping peacefully for the first time in a while. Bruce and Alfred had decided that the butler would stay in the house with Dick until Zucco had been captured. Batman wasn't going to take any chances with the boy's life.
A quick glance at the harbor camera he had hacked into showed calm waters. Adjusting his gloves, Batman climbed into the Batmobile and roared out of the tunnel. The little stowaway on the floor in the backseat stayed completely quiet, willing to patiently wait for his chance to take down the man who had shattered his life.
Gotham Harbor:
Batman parked the Batmobile and climbed out. He had half a mile to traverse from the alley where he had hidden the vehicle to the docks. It took him three minutes, and when he arrived he immediately began circling the perimeter.
Dick waited until he couldn't hear the sound of boots quietly crunching on gravel. Then he counted to sixty, just to be safe. Unfolding himself from his curled position on the floor, he stood up and climbed out of the Batmobile.
The alley was dark and quiet. Dick quickly ran toward the dim light that signaled the end of the alley. He discovered, when he stepped out of the darkness, that it was easy to choose which way to go. To his left was a row of small stores, but the view on his right was filled with tall buildings and the sounds of boats gently bumping against wooden docks. He went right.
It took Dick two minutes longer to get there due to his shorter legs. He arrived just as a large boat quietly slipped into an empty bay. The nine-year-old knew he wouldn't be able to see anything from his current vantage point, so he went up.
The short building in front of him had obviously been abandoned. A window had been shattered, and the front door was half-open. Dick chose to go through the window, which was on the side of the building, instead of putting himself in plain sight by going to the front.
A set of stairs greeted him, and he immediately sprinted up to the door that led to the roof. Kneeling down, Dick quietly crawled his way to the edge. He now had a perfect view of the large vessel, and the people moving around on the dock.
The nine-year-old couldn't make out features, but he didn't need to see the man to recognize the voice.
"There should be five crates! Why are there only four in front of me?!"
Dick remembered that tone with a clarity that scared him. Maybe he shouldn't have come. What could he do, anyway? He was a child, and the big man probably had a gun. And there were – Dick paused his thoughts in order to count – eleven other men that he could see. They probably had weapons, also.
This was a dumb idea.
Suddenly, Batman appeared from the shadows cast by the building on Dick's right. Somebody yelled a warning, and the eleven men immediately attacked. To Dick's surprise, Tony Zucco lumbered through the broken door of the dilapidated building underneath him.
Without thinking, Dick jumped to his feet and sprinted back to the access door. It hadn't closed all the way, so he was able to slip in without making a sound. Tony Zucco was staring at the long flight of stairs, debating whether or not to ascend them. Dick realized he wouldn't be able to get to the man if he went that way, so he looked around the room in search of a different way down.
The building was a warehouse that was approximately the size of a two-story house. Small, for a warehouse, but big enough that Zucco didn't see or hear the nine-year-old scooting himself across a beam in the rafters.
It was his only other option, and Dick wasn't scared of heights. He was small enough to feel secure on the thick beam, so his fear of falling was not a hinderance. If he could get to the middle, he could swing himself down to the crossbeam. It would still be a long fall, but the nine-year-old was confident that he could keep himself safe by landing on Zucco.
Batman watched the boat dock, but stayed in the shadows. He had to find out if Tony Zucco was there before confronting the criminals. The hero didn't have to wait long. Zucco's easily-recognizable, rough voice rang out through the stillness of the night. Batman didn't waste time.
Racing out of the shadows, the Caped Crusader headed straight for the mobster. He was immediately surrounded by the man's henchmen. As he began retaliating against the plethora of punches flying at and around him, Batman took notice of the fact that Zucco had retreated into a crumbling building.
It took him longer than he would have liked to take down all the men. When the last one finally fell to the ground, the Caped Crusader stalked toward the small warehouse. Batman strode straight through the door, and the scene that met him caused him to freeze in shock.
Chapter Text
Dick knew that the sound of a body, even one as small as his, landing on a steel beam would attract the attention of Zucco. He would have to be fast, so he took the time to figure out a plan. The nine-year-old could hear Batman fighting outside, but he knew it wouldn't take very long for the hero to get through the men Zucco had left out there. Dick figured he had about two minutes to plan and carry out the attack.
It was risky, and if he didn't execute it almost perfectly there was a very good chance that he would die. But this man had killed his parents, and Dick wasn't going to back down just because his plan was risky. Besides, the nine-year-old reminded himself, Bruce and Alfred had told him that he had almost died three times in the detention center. And he had almost drowned because of the man below him. If he could survive all of that, he could survive this.
So, he jumped. A good portion of his plan depended on Tony Zucco turning and taking a few steps away from the stairs. Luckily, that was exactly what the mobster did when he heard a 'thump' almost directly above him.
Zucco moved to his left, attempting to discover the source of the sound. He walked face-first into a pair of small feet. The hit made him stumble back, but he was much too heavy for it to knock him down. Retrieving his balance, Tony fumbled for the gun trapped in his back pocket. Just as he pulled it free, a ball of flesh slammed into his chest.
The second hit was much harder than the first. It knocked the wind out of the mobster, and he fell flat on his back. His beady eyes closed as the panic of not being able to breathe began to permeate his mind. Then Zucco heard the 'click' of a gun's safety mechanism, and the familiar sound made him open his eyes.
Dick landed on the crossbeam in a crouch. Immediately, he grabbed the edge in front of him and pushed to a handstand. He quickly shifted his grip to the back edge and allowed himself to begin falling.
Tony Zucco moved to his left, and Dick was proud of himself for guessing correctly. His feet hit the man's face at the end of his swing, causing a stumble but not a fall. The nine-year-old allowed himself to take a backswing to gain power, then he flew for the first time since that fateful night over six months ago.
As he swung forward, Dick kicked his feet toward the ceiling. When his body was parallel to the floor, he let go of the beam, arched his back for maximum speed, then leaned forward and threw himself into a tight front flip. Dick's body hit its target – the thick chest of Tony Zucco. The man fell down and Dick rolled over the head of black hair and immediately stood up. Turning around, the nine-year-old clenched his hands into fists and knelt down to finish the job.
A 'click' made him pause. It sounded metallic, and Dick heard footsteps behind him.
"Stand up, turn around, hands up."
Dick did as he was told. A gun was pointed straight at his chest. The man behind the gun was an experienced, cold-blooded killer. But, this time, he was just a distraction, meant to hold Dick's attention until Zucco recovered. Tony made it to his feet just as a Bat-a-rang crashed into the back of the other man's head.
Batman was frozen in shock, but not for long. His intelligent mind quickly evaluated the situation: Zucco – on the ground and incapacitated, not a threat; man pointing a gun at Dick Grayson – immediate threat. He snatched a Bat-a-rang from his utility belt and threw it perfectly. The man with the gun fell forward, his head hitting the ground with a sickening 'crunch'.
But Batman had been wrong on one small but important part of his evaluation. Tony Zucco was not incapacitated, as he had seemed to be from the hero's perspective. In fact, he was now standing up, one thick arm around Dick's throat and holding a gun to the boy's head with his other hand.
Dick's hands were latched onto Zucco's arm, pulling at the fat as he desperately tried to get air. His light-blue eyes were wide with terror, and his feet were sliding around the dust-covered cement of the floor, trying to find some kind of traction.
"If I were you, Batman, I wouldn't move," Tony sneered condescendingly. "Because if you do, the last of The Flying Graysons will join his parents in that big circus tent in the sky."
"If I were you," Batman retorted, his voice low and dangerous, "I would let the boy go so I wouldn't end up in a body cast."
"Empty threats, Batman, are not at all intimidating. I could put a bullet in his brain before you could even open a single pocket on your utility belt."
It was an accurate statement. Batman had no chance of saving Dick, and the fear of losing the boy was beginning to cloud his thoughts. The Caped Crusader had no response to Zucco's taunting words, and the terror in Dick's eyes made the hero's body tremble. He couldn't lose Dick, not after everything the boy had survived, and not like this.
"You know I'm right," Zucco observed with a chuckle, interrupting Batman's dark thoughts. "So, here's what's going to happen. I'm going to back out that exit," he flicked his head toward the door behind him, "and then I'm going to throw him in the water. Which means you'll have a choice to make: save him, or come after me."
Batman instantly made the choice. He had no idea if Dick was a good swimmer, but being tossed back into the water where he had almost drowned would certainly cause the boy to panic. And that panic would fill his body so completely that he wouldn't remember how to keep himself above water. Batman chose Dick over Zucco, and he was positive that the mobster already knew it.
"Let him go, right now, and I'll give you a head start," Batman growled, desperately hoping that the criminal would compromise.
Instead, the mobster burst into loud laughter. The movement of his flabby body in reaction to that laughter caused his arm to loosen its grip on Dick's neck, and the nine-year-old sucked in oxygen. But Zucco was laughing too loud to hear the boy's quiet gasping.
A plan formed in Dick's mind. A plan that – if it worked – would both save him and allow Batman to capture Zucco. Batman was staring at him intently; he had noticed the slight change in body positioning and was trying to figure out a way to take advantage. Dick lifted one corner of his mouth in a half-grin, and winked.
Batman narrowed his eyes, wondering why the boy was smiling where there was a very good possibility that he was about to die. The wink confused him, but he was fairly certain that Dick was about to do something that would either help him escape or get him killed. Batman really hoped it was the former.
Dick suddenly opened his mouth and bit down on Zucco's arm as hard as he could. The man spit out a swear word and yanked his arm away, causing Dick to drop to the ground. Without even pausing to line up his shot, the nine-year-old made a fist and punched straight up.
Zucco screamed in pain as the small but deceptively strong fist slammed into a place where no man ever wants to get hit. He dropped the gun and fell to his knees. Dick rolled out of the way, and Batman was by his side three seconds later.
"Him," Dick gasped, his body beginning to tremble as the realization of what had just happened flooded his system.
Batman shoved the mobster down and slapped his Bat-cuffs around the thick wrists. Then he grabbed Dick's arm, pulled him up, and practically dragged him away from the evil man.
"What were you thinking?!" the Caped Crusader demanded heatedly. "You almost died!"
"I'm a survivor," Dick answered breathlessly. "You said so yourself. I couldn't let him get away!"
"You are no match for a man like Tony Zucco," the hero said harshly, the angry tone rooted in the fear that was still filling his mind.
"But there he is," Dick countered with a small smirk.
"You got lucky," Batman snapped.
"No, I used my brain."
"We're done talking for now. I'm taking you home."
Batman called the commissioner from the Batphone extension in the Batmobile to let him know that Zucco and eleven other men needed to be picked up. After double-checking Dick's safety Bat-belt, he shifted the vehicle into drive and pressed hard on the accelerator.
The Batmobile was halfway to the Batcave before Dick had the courage to voice the thought that had popped into his head immediately following his fight with Zucco.
"I could help you."
Somehow, Batman knew exactly what that meant. He internally growled and refused to acknowledge the comment.
"You could teach me how to fight. I'm a quick learner."
The hero studiously ignored the words. His hands were clenched so tightly around the steering wheel that he was surprised it hadn't snapped in half.
"I've been working on getting stronger. And I'm fast."
Batman pushed his foot down harder on the accelerator. The quicker he got them to the Batcave, the sooner this conversation would be over.
"Just think about it. Alfred told me that sometimes you take a while to make decisions. It's okay, I can wait."
Less than a minute later, Dick was asleep. The combination of a moving vehicle and the adrenaline crash had made his already-tired body become exhausted enough to fall into a peaceful slumber.
Batman glanced over at the boy as he coasted into the tunnel. The thought of putting Dick in danger night after night terrified him. But…it was an interesting idea. And Dick was a quick learner, and he could be trained. And Bruce had noticed that the nine-year-old had gained some muscle, and the kid was really fast, which could help if he ever got in a fight….
"What am I thinking?!" the Caped Crusader exclaimed quietly, horrified that he was actually entertaining the idea of a nine-year-old crime-fighter.
Dick opened his eyes when he felt the Batmobile stop moving. He unbuckled his safety Bat-belt, then grabbed of the edges of the vehicle and jumped over the door, landing lightly on his feet.
"I've got it!" he exclaimed as Batman strode toward the Well-Known Criminals file.
Hoping this was about a different subject, Batman stopped and turned to face his ward.
"Got what?" he asked suspiciously, slightly worried about the excitement flashing in the boy's expressive eyes.
"Robin," Dick stated with a giant grin.
"It's…a bird," Batman replied, hoping that Dick was telling him that he wanted to take up birdwatching.
"I know that," the boy responded with a laugh. "It's also what…"
He paused, his face sobering and a shadow passing through his eyes. Batman stayed quiet, unsure of the emotion but knowing it had something to do with a painful memory.
Dick swallowed hard and continued softly, "It's what my mom used to call me."
The Batcave fell silent; even the bats paused their squeaking for a moment of respect.
"Anyway," Dick said, forcing a smile back onto his face, "it's a good name."
"I agree. You probably reminded her of a robin as you flew through the air."
"Yeah," the nine-year-old whispered, the shadow passing through his eyes again.
"I'm sorry, chum," Batman said gently as he took off his cowl.
Shaking his head, Dick replied, "No, wait, let me tell you why it's a good name!"
"Okay."
"Close your eyes and listen carefully. No peeking!"
Dick waited until the man's eyes were completely closed.
"Ready?" he asked.
Bruce nodded, and Dick grinned as he began backing away.
"Batman and Robin – a hero and his sidekick!" the boy crowed delightedly.
Bruce's eyes popped open, shock burning brightly in the dark-blue circles. To his surprise, Dick was already disappearing around the corner of the tunnel that led to the service elevator.
"Batman and Robin," Bruce muttered, hating that the names slid so smoothly out of his mouth. "Batman and Robin."
They fit together perfectly, and Bruce frowned.
"No, no way, absolutely not, he's nine!"
"I could help you. You could teach me how to fight."
Dick's words bounced around in his head.
"A nine-year-old cannot learn how to fight well enough to take on criminals," Bruce grumbled, attempting to ignore the fact that Dick had taken down Tony Zucco by himself.
"But there he is. I'm a quick learner."
"And you're intelligent," the millionaire stated to the empty Batcave. "Strong, too."
There was a long pause.
"Batman and Robin," Bruce mused softly.
In the tunnel, where he could hear but not be seen, the future Robin grinned.
THE END
Notes:
Wow, I can't believe I finally got to the end! Thanks for staying with me through the looooong waits between chapters. Thanks for all the comments and support. I know there are several loose ends here, sorry. Maybe I'll tie them up in a future story. Or not. I never really know what's going to come out of my mind. ;-) Thanks again for reading! :)