“Catcher”
Chapter Two: Welcome
Home, Richard al Ghul!
The ride
home to
Batman missed that single move more than he would ever admit.
Once more,
the Dark Knight was reminded how much the boy beside changed. As Dick became
reacquainted with
The car maneuvered through the tight bridges into the Batcave, and Bruce cast one more sideways glance at the boy. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought Dick held his breath and was beginning to turn a nice shade of blue.
The car came to a screeching halt, and without delay, Batman hit a button to open the roof.
“Master Bruce, has the Apocalypse occurred?” Alfred asked as he walked from the computer area toward the car. “Nonetheless, welcome home, sir. Have you heard any news about—Master Richard!”
Even as he climbed out of the car, Batman made a point of glancing over his shoulder to see the boy’s reaction. Dick didn’t quite smile, per se, but as he flicked his back and vaulted his feet over the edge, his lips twitched just a smidge.
“Hey, Alfred,” he said lowly.
The older man wouldn’t take that as a proper greeting and wrapped his arms about the younger man, pushing the still shorter man’s face into his shoulder. Dick never returned the hug openly, but he reached enough to grant the surrogate grandfather some comfort. The boy’s posture obviously changed. Where he once slouched with shoulders pointing forward, he now stood straighter, so much so that Batman thought the boy’s back must have hurt.
Dick didn’t show it, especially once Alfred released him and took the boy by his cheeks. “I most assuredly know Master Bruce will not have let you know, but you have been sorely missed in this house, Richard. Welcome home.”
“Thank you,” Dick replied, equally as low as before.
“Are you all right? You are unharmed, are you not, young sir?” As the questions rambled, one in particular took Batman’s attention. “What has kept you from these dreary quarters?”
“Talia’s father kidnapped him and held him captive until he joined Ra’s’s insane crusade as his heir. Tonight Dick attempted to kill the Teen Titans.”
Dick’s back straightened even more so, if that were possible. “You make it sound as if I betrayed you.”
Batman narrowed his eyes but continued to stare the computer screen. “You became an ally of one of my worst enemies, if not the greatest among them.”
“Betrayal infers that the first party was loyal to the second party as well.”
Halting before his chair, Batman glared over his shoulder. “You do not know of what you speak.”
“Likewise.”
As the boy finally met his stoic gaze with his own embittered one, Batman recognized the tactic—annoy to the point where Bruce would not deal with him.
Talia was right. This boy wasn’t the same one who left, but no matter, Dick would lose. Batman was stubborn enough to wait until the boy gave in.
Luckily, Alfred placed a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “Come along, Master Richard. You have obviously been famished for the last three years, and we certainly must put back on some of your lost weight. Marshmallow spread with peanut butter, sir?”
The smile persisted but had yet to overtake the boy’s face. “Whatever spread you have must be out-of-date, Alfred.”
“We have peanuts,” Batman growled, “and sprite.”
“The boy will have no such thing, and do you truly hold such little faith in me, young sir?” Alfred slapped Dick warmly on the back and led him up the stairs. “I brought a new batch the day the old one went out. I knew it was only a matter of time before it would be used.”
The Dark Knight felt Dick’s hard eyes practically melting the Kevlar off his back before lithe footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Alfred’s voice lowered in volume. “I’ll bring your snack to your room while you shower, Master Richard, and we must certainly find you a change of clothes…”
As the clock scraped against the floor, Batman let out a long exhale and pulled the cowl from his head. Even as the relief dropped him to his chair, anxiety wrapped a knot in his stomach.
His son was alive. That much was certain. Everything else, he told himself, would work itself out.
Everything else was just details.
He just wished he believed that.
*^*^*
Alfred put Dick up in the guestroom just next to Bruce’s quarters, and he urged the boy to shower while the valet hunted down some clothes, hopefully in Dick’s size. Unfortunately, the boy had outgrown all his former articles, and whatever clothes they had for Bruce when the Master was Dick’s age had been given to the Salvation Army. Never in Alfred’s wildest conjectures had he believed Bruce would take responsibility for a child, and so once the Master grew out of his clothes, Alfred donated them.
With a sigh, Alfred collected a pair of Bruce’s silk pajamas from the man’s closet. They would be at least three sizes too big for Master Dick, but they would do for the moment. Anything to get the boy out of the suit he’d obtained from that immoral immortal.
Humming to himself—he rarely did that anymore, but with the masters home—Alfred entered Dick’s room, placing down the tray of sandwiches on the nightstand before heading toward the bathroom. The door was shut, which was something of a bell or whistle as it was, but locked as well? The one thing both of his masters had learned was modesty was never mentioned when it came to the duties of the valet. Alfred helped the masters change clothes like mothers changed diapers.
The ordeal of the last three years probably instilled some new fear, justified no doubt, but still Alfred draped the pajamas over his forearm, snatched a paperclip from the desk drawer, and jimmied the lock open.
“Master Dick, I took the liberty of finding you—”
“What the—Hey!” the boy shrieked behind the glass door of the shower and instantly seized a towel off the rack to cover his chest more than his bottom. “What the hell are you doing in here? Get out!”
Alfred didn’t avert his eyes. “You never were so bold in the past, Master Richard.”
Modesty tainted the boy’s face red. “I locked my door for a reason! You ever think of that?”
“Perhaps to ward off vagrants? I do not know, but you needn’t worry about their presence here.”
Dick said nothing, but Alfred took the hint, dropping the pajamas to the rack near the sink. “I do not wish you discomfort, Master Richard, and thus, I will adhere to your desires. However, I do hope that in the future, you will once more feel comfortable in my and Master Bruce’s presences.”
Leaving the door open a crack, Alfred waited to once more hear the water against the titled floor before shaking his head and heading toward the cave. Like he expected, he found Bruce draped in shadows, running over flight plans and cargo records dating back three years.
“The betrayal was not his,” Alfred declared, setting down a cup of tea and a scone. “You believe it to be your own.”
Bruce never looked away from the screen. “Not now, Alfred.”
“Going over should’ve’s and might’ve’s won’t change what is, Bruce,” Alfred declared as he placed a gentle hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “We must deal with the situation as it stands.”
“And do what you suggest I do?” Bruce whirled in his chair; his anger resonated in his voice. “He hasn’t spoken two words to me since he came back other than to tell me I’m not his father and to let him go.”
“These things take time and patience,” Alfred said gently before letting out a deep sigh, “but please realize that what occurred was not your fault.”
“Ra’s wouldn’t have gone after Dick if not for me.”
“Be that as it may, you cannot take responsibility for the actions of another, especially one who is as devious and manipulative as Ra’s al Ghul.”
Bruce whirled in his chair to hit Alfred’s hand off. “Dick…was hurt, far worse than I ever thought possible. I should’ve been there to stop it. I should’ve—”
“The boy is strong, Bruce, stronger than you realize, else he wouldn’t have survived whatever torture Mister al Ghul and his League concocted.”
“Torture?” Bruce echoed. It wasn’t the word that caught him off guard, rather its introduction into the conversation.
Alfred nodded. “I thought you’d like to know the boy now locks his bathroom door. There must be a reason for that.”
Bruce’s fists clenched, and he cursed under his breath. “They won’t get away with this, Alfred. I won’t let them.”
“Of that, sir, I have no doubt.”
*^*^*
Alfred didn’t shut the door, Dick noticed, but the teen restarted his shower anyway. Amidst the heat of the water pelting his skin and the aroma of the juniper, Dick felt transported back in time to when he lived here, before Talia, before Ra’s, before White Ghost, before…
He pressed his forehead against the cold tiles and allowed the heat to soothe his aching muscles and contour the scars on his back and chest. It was only a matter of time before his legs gave out, and he collapsed to the floor, his back against the farthest wall, but his body still close enough to receive the clamor of raindrops. He banged his head back against the tiles and closed his eyes.
The macabre words wafted into his ears as if his father crouched next to him. You have dishonored the Detective. Once he hears of your transgression, he will no longer want you at his side. He will no longer wish to save you. Accept it. You are mine now.
The water twisted with his tears, and Dick choked back his sobs. Now wasn’t the time to break down. Now wasn’t the time to let Alfred or God forbid Bruce hear. It was only a matter of time before Bruce would tire of him anyway, and then none of this would matter. He’d be home with his catcher, and the status quo would prevail.
His legs
eventually returned to him, and Dick exited the shower to change into Bruce’s PJs. A soft smile curved his lips at the sight of
marshmallow and peanut butter sandwiches, and he took them upon the windowsill
as he watched the comforting lights of the
Eventually, the sandwiches
disappeared, but sleep refused to take him. He had a mission, as much as he
hated to admit it, and he patted through the corridors of Wayne Manor, only his
toes peeking out under Bruce’s bottoms. He checked to make sure Alfred was in
the kitchen preparing Bruce a late night meal before continuing into the Batcave. Sure enough, Bruce was already gone and back in
Dick paused at the very bottom of the steps, his darkened eyes absorbing the familiar sights of the computer base, where many a night he fell asleep after patrol; the training area, where Bruce taught him how to survive; and the trophy area, where he and Bruce kept souvenirs from their battles.
He was home.
No, Dick chastised himself. He couldn’t be home. This could never be home again, and Ra’s would see to that if Bruce didn’t first.
Taking out his flashdrive, Dick headed to the computer. He quickly found the files he needed and downloaded them before snapping on the cap and hiding it in the mass of silk. A bloodcurdling shriek startled the boy until his widened eyes retraced its bounces on the wall and reached the origin. A small, black animal hung upside down on a stalactite, watching him with judgmental scorn.
Dick collapsed back into Bruce’s chair, his head back against the shoulder area where his head reached.
Life sucked, plan and simple.
The teet, teet, teet of a communicator went off, and Dick leaned forward to see Alfred had answered the call upstairs. Bruce must have needed help with a case or something. He really shouldn’t listen. It was improper, as Alfred would say, but then again, Alfred’s voice hadn’t been the one in his head the last three years.
Blowing out a long sigh, Dick clicked open the communication.
“—safe downstairs in the Batcave, Master Bruce. I believe he had a case of anxiety and decided for more secure surroundings, if not more comfortable.”
How had Alfred—never mind. There was no point in trying to outsmart Mr. Pennyworth. It just wasn’t done.
“Good,” Batman’s growl grounded over the unit. “I have a lead on the Jameson Case. Contact Barbara and see what she can dig up on the judge.”
“Very good, Master Bruce, and might I suggest an open frequency tonight?”
Open? What did Alfred…?
Batman hesitated for a moment as if he considered the request before his crisp voice snapped across the frequency. “Understood. Inform Barbara of the situation.”
“Very good, sir.”
“She’ll need to know that the case
began with the robbery on
With an angelic yawn, Dick curled up in Bruce’s chair and laid his head upon the armrest. In the relative sanctuary of the Batcave and blanketed by the reassuring voices of his youth, he drifted off to sleep.
*^*^*
Jeans. God, when was the last time he wore jeans? If Father saw him, Ra’s would surely send him off to a session with White Ghost…or would have if White Ghost wasn’t…
He pushed the thought away.
Standing in the three-way mirror with jeans, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket, Dick looked back at Alfred in the reflection. “These are adequate.”
“Not favorable to your style, young sir?” the valet asked, an assortment of clothes folded over one arm, while the rest littered a nearby dressing room.
Dick shrugged and shed the jacket. “They are to my liking if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Then why are they simply adequate, sir?”
Sitting down in his dressing room, Dick pulled on his new sneakers as Alfred cut off the tags, so Dick would not have to walk about the store in Bruce’s sweatpants and sweatshirt. “My father would not approve of them, Alfred. He believes one must always dress in the manner in which he conducts business.”
“Your father?” Alfred echoed.
Dick nodded factually. “Yes, Ra’s al Ghul.”
Alfred let out a short sigh and placed a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “Master Richard, please tell me you know that is not the truth. Your father was an aerial—”
“There is no point of dwelling in the past, Alfred,” Dick said easily as he ignored the pants thrown in the corner and allowed Alfred to tend to them. “My future is all that matters. It would do you and Bruce well to realize this.”
“Master Dick, may I ask you a rather blunt question?”
Leaning against the doorframe, Dick glanced at the cashier not too far away, her face flushed, her eyes beginning to tear. “Yes.”
“If you believe your return, as short-lived as it may be, to be nothing more than a diversion from your current path, why stay? Why didn’t you just leave when Master Bruce’s or my, ahem, back is turned?”
Dick shrugged as he did so often.
“Perhaps your visit here was more planned than you would want Master Bruce or I to believe?”
Keeping his eyes trained on the cashier, Dick now saw the costumer in front of the counter, a smooth man dressed in a leather jacket with slacks and a dress shirt. Of course, the best thieves dressed as such because looks were deceiving. Most people wouldn’t believe a businessman would rob a store, like most people wouldn’t believe he—in jeans, a T-shirt, and a jacket—would one day rule the world.
Alfred finished picking up the clothes and folding them neatly as if he’d never asked the question, but Dick knew his silence spoke louder than words. So did his actions when the thief finally took off, and the cashier screamed, “He stole the money from my register!”
A worrisome expression enveloped Alfred’s face. “Do be careful, Master Richard.”
Dick stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Why?”
“Aren’t you going to stop the thief?”
“That’s Bruce’s mission, Alfred, one which I no longer share with him.” With that, Dick weaved in between the carousels of clothes. “I’ll meet you at the car.”
*^*^*
The
Then again, Wal-Mart always knew how to get people so maybe Target.
He ignored the sirens as they became louder and finished counting his loot. No one knew which car he took, and no one had followed him out of the store. He would have no problem as long as he didn’t leave his car and enter the mall again.
Well, three hundred and seventy-five dollars would just have to do. If he knocked over two more stores, maybe he could make rent this month.
As he sat up, Jack jumped in his chair. A teenage boy, no older than seventeen, leaned against his car just before the side-view mirror. Without looking at him, the boy tapped on the window.
Jack eyed him warily and slowly rolled down the glass. “Kid, off the Chevy.”
The boy never even glanced at him. “It’s not nice to rob people. I hear it’s even against the law.”
“Yeah, well—” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his gun, the same one he used to extort the money from the cashier. “—what do you think they say about murder, huh? Probably nothing ‘cause no one will ever know.”
The boy laughed dryly, and the sound resembled paper scratching wood. It disturbed Jack. “You really don’t know who my father is because he knows everything.”
The boy was quicker than he looked, and before Jack could pull the trigger, the boy had snapped his trigger finger. The pain was intense, searing up his hand but not as potent as the elbow that connected with his jaw.
*^*^*
Not too far away and leaning against his own Mercedes, an albino with long white hair and sharp, abysmal eyes pulled his trench coat closer to his body. He watched as the boy pulled out a sticky note and put it on the man’s forehead. Then, the boy took off toward the mall entrance once more, and so did the albino.
*^*^*
Alfred dragged the bags upon bags of new clothing out of the store entrance, and he almost dropped the whole lot at the startling address.
“Do you need help, Alfred?”
Glancing behind him, the young master sipped a Jamba Juice and came forward. He didn’t quite smile like he used to, but his lips formed a quasi-grin. Alfred allowed him to alleviate a substantial number of the bags, all the while the boy never losing grip on his cup.
They were halfway through the mall before Alfred asked, “Sir? I was under the impression we were to reunite at the car.”
“Car?” Dick said before slurping loudly and tossing the empty cup into the garbage. “Right. Well, I figured you might need some help.”
“That is very kind of you, young sir, and so very much like you before this current fiasco. Might I ask why you had a change of heart?”
Dick said nothing—which Alfred loathed most about this situation—but the valet noticed the glimpses Dick gave to the passing windows as they left the mall. The boy thought he was being watched, and either he or Alfred was in danger.
With the boy being the heir to a demon, Alfred didn’t doubt it in the least.
*^*^*
A wind gust tore through the manor like a cyclone, but Dick never even glanced from his window as his door opened and slammed shut. A thoroughly exhausted Wally West shucked his book bag onto Dick’s empty bed before diverting to the boy’s desk, where a sandwich laid untouched.
“Dudewhat’sup?Youdoinganythingrightnow?It’salongwayfromBlueValley.MindifIhave yoursandwich?”
Dick remained silent even after Wally finished his food and zipped to his side. “Hey, you okay?”
Dressed in a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans, Dick held his knees to his chest and continued to watch the waves crest upon the shores from his windowsill. “No.”
“You wanna talk about it?” Wally asked, leaping onto the bed stomach down and opening his math book. He stopped suddenly; his head jerked up. “Y—You’re not…You’re not going to try to kill me again, are you? Uncle Barry said—”
Dick’s voice remained monotone. “Wally, if I was going to kill you, do you really believe you would still be alive?”
Wally paused and let a smile perk up on his face. “I told Barry you really didn’t want to kill us, and he said you said something about—”
“Wally, why are you here?”
A shrug. “My parents are fighting again, y’know like I-shut-my-door-and-I-still-hear-every-word-they-say fighting, and I’ve been on Aunt Iris’s couch the last week. So, I thought since you’re my best friend, maybe…”
Dick broke from the waves to glare his unemotional blue eyes into the tearing green. Unable to speak while looking into those eyes, he retreated to the window.
“You’re not my best friend. Not anymore.”
The bed creaked with the sudden shift in weight, and a strong breeze waved his clothes. “You don’t mean that.”
Dick closed his eyes. “My best friend would have caught me that night. He would have been there for me, and if not, he would have found me.”
Hurt tainted Wally’s voice. “Hey, I tried, but the Bat—You know he was the one who disbanded the Teen Titans! He convinced Flash, G.A., Wonder Woman, and Aquaman that we were more of liability and put ourselves in danger, so how the hell were we supposed to catch—”
“Then don’t expect me to catch you.”
Whatever else Wally would have said was lost as a whirlwind of energy tore through the room, taking the books, the glass of milk, and the speedster.
Dick let out a small sigh and continued to stare out the window. He didn’t move the rest of the night.
*^*^*
As the car
Bruce drove today—the red Ferrari—parked outside the Manor’s front door, Dick
narrowed his eyes from his higher ground. A Volvo followed, but who would Bruce
bring home? His former guardian hadn’t entertained any visitors in the month
since Dick’s return for no other reason than no one was supposed to know he had
come back to
Well, this would certainly be an eventful night.
Tightening the strap of his riding helmet, Dick pressed the heels of his calf-high boots into Sawdust’s flanks and brought her to a gallop as he crossed the manor’s lawn. Bruce—or more likely Alfred—would be pissed, but a few crisp bills to the gardeners would fix the problem.
As the dark-skinned man exited the Volvo, Dick recognized him immediately, though it took Lucius Fox a few seconds to make-out Dick in his riding shirt, pants, and helmet.
“Dick? Is that you?” the older man gasped.
The horse’s shoes clapped against the paved driveway, and Dick allowed his usual half-smile to cross his features. “Hello, Mr. Fox. How are you?”
“How am I? Who cares? How are you?” Lucius flashed Bruce a bitter scowl. “Why didn’t you tell me you found him? I thought the boy was still—”
“Dick was returned to me a little more than a month ago, Lucius,” Bruce said, his usual playboy voice darkening to almost resemble the Bat’s. “He has been through…an ordeal, to say the least. He was kidnapped by one of my more immoral enemies.”
Dick almost snorted. Immortal was more like it.
The boy unconsciously brought the horse back a half-step, and when she protested, Dick began to massage Sawdust’s mane.
“Kidnapped? Enemies? Bruce, I should have known about this. We should have gotten the lawyers—Did you even contact the police?”
Dick knew that answer to be a “no.”
“They are keeping it quiet, Lucius, so as not to alarm those who may still be after Dick.”
For the second time in mere moments, it was hard for Dick not to snort. That was almost as big of an understatement as Bruce not being an easy person to know.
“I still should have been informed, Bruce. Besides any personal attachment to this case, if any legal matters are to come of this, we will need the backing of the company,” Lucius replied, walking forward to pat Dick’s knee. “Enough of that. How are you holding up, Dick? It must have been traumatic, being kidnapped and held for three years. Just who did it?”
Dick
averted his eyes. Bruce and he hadn’t even come up with a cover story. “It
was…some of those protestors in
Lucius’s face immediately tightened with regret. “Of course, say nothing more.”
Grabbing his briefcase, Bruce carefully shut the car door so as not to startle the horse and came forward. “Dick, Lucius is staying for dinner. I trust you’ve already finished your homework and will be at the table at seven.”
Dick shrugged.
“You did finish your homework, didn’t you?”
The horse whinnied and began to buck, but Dick held her in line with a sharp tug of her reins.
“Dick, answer the question.”
“I don’t see the point in it,” the teen grumbled.
“The point is: You are sixteen and need a high school diploma.” Bruce’s voice gained a twinge of the Bat, but it remained steadily concerned. “On top of that, Alfred has been kind enough to offer lessons until a professional tutor can be found, and you know you’re not allowed entertainment until you complete your assignments.”
“But I’m already at home, so isn’t the whole point of ‘homework’ invalid because it’s all ‘homework’?” Dick retorted, and his anger startled the horse.
With a hand on the reins and another on the horse’s neck, Bruce helped to soothe the animal before looking up at Dick, who wouldn’t meet his gaze. “We’ve discussed this, Dick.”
“No, you told me to listen to Alfred. How is that a discussion? That’s a monologue—or maybe even a line but definitely not a discussion.”
Dick knew he was giving Bruce attitude. He knew he shouldn’t, especially in front Lucius, but what did any of it matter? They were token lessons compared to those he had with his former tutor, and he wasn’t going to need any of them. God, why was he even there?
“Dick,” Bruce began again with a restrained voice, “get down to the stables and square Sawdust away, then get ready for dinner. We’ll discuss this afterwards.”
“Discuss or you talk sternly and I stare out the window?”
“Now.”
Dick rolled his eyes and guided the horse around. “Whatever.”
He took off in a fury of claps before he hit the lawn and dove down toward the stables. He knew what transpired behind him. Bruce would turn to Lucius and say some flippant remark like, “I just don’t know what’s going on in that boy’s head sometimes,” and they would head inside. Dick, of course, would do the passive aggressive thing and hang out by the stables until he was almost late for dinner. Alfred, of course, would come in the nick of time, and he would be ushered upstairs to shower, dress, and be at the table at seven. Dinner, of course, would be followed by a stern monologue, and Dick, of course, would just stare out the window.
Dick couldn’t wait—not.
He rode Sawdust—his twelfth birthday present—into the stables and brought her to a stop. Swinging down, he led the horse down the long barracks and brought her into a specific one. Grabbing two apples he stole from the bowl on the kitchen counter, he chopped them with his Swiss Army knife and placed them under the Sawdust’s nose. As she crunched the treat, he patted her mane.
“You missed me, didn’t you, girl?”
He didn’t hear the footsteps in the hay of the barrack.
“Sometimes I think you’re the only one who did—”
He didn’t hear the shifting of the gun.
“—well, except Alfred,” Dick laughed, albeit rather dryly. “Though to be honest, Sawdust, he doesn’t need one more task or chore or lost boy to look after. Bruce is enough for anyone, isn’t—”
His eyes widened as the sixth sense instilled by Bruce and honed painfully by the League of Assassins tingled, and Dick whirled at the last moment, his leg connecting with a hard object.
The blue and orange figure hardly staggered backwards. “You think I really came to fight the Heir of the Demon and didn’t wear a cup?”
In the small space, Dick hardly saw the monolith figure before he attacked, and the boy couldn’t duck to avoid the swipe of the sword. If he had, surely Sawdust would have been hit. Then again, the would-be assassin wasn’t trying to kill him and slammed the hilt of his oversized sword into Dick’s shoulder, knocking the boy into the wall. Dick’s elbows bent, and his legs sprung back to catch the assassin’s chin and knock him back.
“Who are you?” the teen demanded, his hands clenched in fists. “Why did you come here?”
“Why do you think? Both your fathers have pretty powerful friends,” the assassin said smoothly. His pirate-type mask had only one eye—workman’s comp, maybe—and he seemed to milk the motif with orange boots and a tunic.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dick dismissed.
The assassin chortled. “Oh, I think I know more than you want me to.”
Pushing
off the wall, the assassin vaulted forward, and Dick accepted his punch with a
forearm and lifted up a foot to catch the man’s stomach. The assassin caught
his ankle and threw the boy roughly into the horse. Sawdust whinnied and began
to buck, and Dick would have been crushed under one of
her hooves if the assassin hadn’t pulled him out from underneath.
“Dick?” Bruce’s voice called, and before Dick could answer, he was shoved brutally against the wall, one arm twisted behind his back, the weight of a raging hippo crushing him, a barrel of a gun forced into his skull.
“Dick? Are you in here?”
Hot breath saturated his neck as the assassin murmured, “Oh, I was hoping we wouldn’t have any company.”
With the little leeway he had, Dick forced his elbow back, and the arm upon his own tightened.
“Don’t want your Bat Daddy to get hurt, do you? Then I suggest you be quiet for this part.”
Dick bit down on the inside of his cheek as the assassin twisted his arm. He screwed shut his eyes and tasted the metallic liquid rolling over his tongue. He held back the tears as the crack resounded in the small confinement, even as the footsteps upon the opening stones on the floor of the stables halted.
“Dick?”
Breath exploded from Dick’s mouth in panting heaves as the pain seared through his trembling arm, but it was dull compared to what he endured at the hands of his “brother.”
“Dick, the silent treatment didn’t work when you thirteen. It’s not going to work now.”
Bruce.
“That was strike one, kid. Strike three introduces my ammunition with your brain,” the assassin hissed. “Worse yet? Strike two gets two bullets in the Bat’s chest…Robin.”
“Bruce, I don’t want to talk about it!” Dick yelled, his voice as calm as it could be under the circumstances.
The footsteps recommenced. “Tough. You were rude in front of Lucius, and I want to know why.”
The assassin’s hand simply clamping his broken arm kept Dick speaking. “There’s nothing to talk about. I just want to be left alone. Can’t you just give me that?”
“You know the answer to that already.” The footsteps came closer, and the voice grew in volume. “You’re becoming unpredictable, even more so than you were years ago, and I know you. You don’t disobey, Dick, and you don’t disrespect Alfred or me.”
The assassin’s hand left his arm before it jerked him around by the shoulder. “Send him away.”
Dick held his arm at the elbow, and it took all his strength to hold back the grimace that threatened to twist his face. As he exited the barrack, Bruce stopped just a few feet away. Out of the corner of his eye, Dick saw the assassin train the gun upon him. So, apparently he was expendable after all.
“What’s wrong?” Bruce demanded, taking a step forward, but Dick distanced himself with one step.
“Nothing,” he growled. “You wouldn’t do this to your own son. To you, I’m just property, aren’t I?”
“You know that’s not true, and it’s not going to get me to leave.”
“I just want to be left alone. Can’t you at least respect that?”
“No, not when you don’t take your studies or Alfred and me seriously.”
“Oh, get off it, Bruce. What is this?” Dick scoffed and held his arm close to his body. It helped to keep the throbbing to a minimal; thankfully, his anger toward Bruce kept him focused. “You don’t ‘talk.’ You decree orders.”
Bruce’s dark face actually became more draped in shadows, but he kept his vibrant eyes trained upon his young ward. “I know you better than anyone, no matter what you say, and Dick Grayson isn’t the spoiled brat I saw five minutes ago.”
“Yeah, well—”
“What happened to your arm?”
Dick glanced down at the bruises beginning to form, and even though it pulsated with agony, he shifted his good hand up to cover the contusion. “What is this? Twenty questions? God, back off.”
“You just said I don’t ‘talk.’ Now I need to ‘back off.’ You don’t contradict yourself. Not like this.” Bruce argued as he took a step forward. “What’s—”
“Stay back!” Dick practically shrieked, but the assassin was already in motion, moving his gun’s barrel in Bruce’s direction. “Look, you don’t have to look after me anymore. I’m no longer your ward. I’m not your son. I’m not even your partner, and I don’t want to be. So go back to your cave and hang upside down or do whatever it is you do.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed; his jaw was set. “What happened to you, Dick? What did he do to you to make you like this?”
“Nothing, just—”
The assassin’s finger twitched on the trigger.
“I will find out, Dick, one way or another, and when I do—”
“Bruce, for God’s sakes—!”
“—Ra’s will pay for what he—”
“—I don’t care for you or your
mission or
There. He’d said it. Shrieked it actually, with tears glistening in his eyes and the silence between them so deafening that Dick could hardly hear his own gasping. He sure felt it in his heart, which raced, and in arm, which thumped—both with pain.
In Bruce’s eyes, nothing changed. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just stood there, waiting. For what, Dick could only guess, but Dick needed him to leave.
If there was one thing in this life Dick needed, it was for Bruce to leave.
“This isn’t my home, and you’re not my family,” the boy muttered after a moment, even as the assassin kept focused on Bruce. “I didn’t have a family again until Ra’s and Talia took me in, and by separating them from me, all you are doing is clinging to a lost cause.
“It’s over, Bruce, and nothing you can do will change that.”
Still Bruce waited.
A blast tore threw his stable, startling Sawdust into bucking and knocking her heels into the assassin’s shoulder. He slammed into the wall unconscious and bleeding. Alfred stepped through the massive hole now in the wall, a rifle filled with only Bruce-knew-what open over his forearm.
“Please excuse the interruption, Master Richard,” Alfred said as he bent down to the assassin and began to restrain him, “but I believe it was necessary.”
“No…it’s okay, Alfred.”
Dick felt the comforting hand on his good shoulder and didn’t turn to face Bruce. Couldn’t.
“He—He knew you’re Batman, and I was Robin,” he rambled. “He knew what my father did, and—”
He hadn’t met for that to slip out, and he glanced upward to see Bruce’s eyes soften slightly. The older man simply put out his hand and furled his fingers upward. “Your arm.”
Dick shrugged and averted his eyes. “It’s fine.”
“Dick—”
“I just need to wrap it. That’s all. It’s—”
“Dick.”
Bruce decreed the order like he had so many times, but this time, Dick knew the difference, heard the difference in the man’s voice. Concern tainted his tone, and with a little sigh, Dick lifted his arm up for Bruce to take.
With the softness of a surgeon, Bruce prodded the appendage, checking for broken bones and torn muscles until Dick bit back a hiss.
“Alfred, when you are done, call Leslie.”
“No!” Dick objected, following after his former mentor. “I’m fine. You don’t have to bother—”
“—and
“Very good, sir.”
“But Bruce, it’s just a sprain. I—”
Bruce stopped just outside of the stables and glared down at the teen. “You’re going to see Leslie,” he ordered and stormed toward the house.
Dick narrowed his eyes but didn’t open his mouth. He simply watched as Bruce treaded off but then stopped briefly. The older man turned just briefly to motion for Dick to follow, and the boy did so without question.
*^*^*
Leslie ambushed Dick at the door to the clinic, wrapping her arms around his neck in a strangle-hold and not caring about his wrist. Her sobs were so violent they wracked even his body, and he had a hard time keeping his cheeks dry. When she finally pulled away, her hands clutched his cheeks before dragging him into her hold once more.
They broke after what seemed like an eternity, and she ushered him into an examination room. After fifteen minutes and a round of X-rays, she let out a sigh and wrote on his chart. “It’s broken all right and by the looks of it, was snapped by bare hands.” She hit her pen against the top of his head. “But enough of that. We’re going to have to cast it, and whatever activities resulted in this—you stop immediately. Get it?”
Dick glared down at his knees and shrugged.
She whacked him over the head with the file. “Get it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.” She put down the folder and hit him on his good shoulder. “Now, off with the shirt. I want to cast your arm without worrying about that sleeve and maybe give you a physical. It’s been almost three years since you had one, and if this is what you’re doing with your nights and days, then I want to know what else you’ve endured.”
“…No.”
The forlorn reply shocked Leslie, who straightened her glasses. “Excuse me?”
“No.” He gathered his jacket from the chair next to the bed and attempted to pull a sleeve over his bad arm, He didn’t succeed or hold back the hiss of pain. “I’m fine. There’s no need.”
Leslie snatched the jacket back and handed it to Alfred. “Dick, honey, I just want to make sure you’re physically well.”
“Well, it’s my body, and I decide what happens to it.”
The words slipped through his mouth, again, faster than he could catch them, but he didn’t miss the worried look she sent Bruce and Alfred. In the corner his two guardians stood silent vigil, the older man folding Dick’s jacket over his forearm, the younger looking too much like Batman without the mask. Shadows cast over Bruce’s face while his arms remained crossed over his chest, like Superman’s stature. When Dick spoke, Bruce’s face hardened, even though his expression didn’t change.
Alfred chose that time to step forward. “Master Richard, perhaps it would be beneficial to—”
“No!” the boy practically shrieked. “I’m fine! What’s with you people all of a sudden?”
Another worried look. “Bruce, Alfred,” Leslie began, “perhaps Dick would feel more inclined to cooperate without an audience.”
The wording perked Dick’s head up before it ducked again. He, who grew up in a circus—He, who was born in the center ring—He, who loved to perform—was timid, reserved, but how could he not be? He didn’t want to see Bruce and Alfred’s reactions if they saw. He didn’t want to see the scars, but he had no choice. He’d lived through it all, and they were always there to remind him of the torture.
With a rigid nod, Bruce headed out of the room while Alfred took a moment to pat Dick on the shoulder. “We’ll be right outside if you need us, young sir.”
Dick nodded as well, not wanting to stay either, but he knew he had no choice. Leslie was as stubborn as Alfred. Once she made up her mind, there was no changing it.
Once the door clicked shut, Dick heard the scratching of a chair’s legs against the already scuffed floor. As Leslie took a seat to wait Dick out, the younger man stared down at his sneakers, grateful that Bruce allowed him to change out of his riding gear before coming. When he finally gathered enough strength to glance at her through his bangs, Leslie crossed her legs and granted him a tiny but tender smile.
“Dick, we’re not trying to hurt you.”
“I know,” he mumbled.
“We just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.”
Her warm hand touched his knee, keeping his eyes trained upon her warm ones. “Sweetie, you don’t truly believe that, do you?”
That snapped something within him. “How do you know if I am or not? As far as you know, my father could have made sure I had regular physicals and kept me protected from his enemies.”
“He didn’t, Dick.”
“How do you—”
“If he did, honey, you’d take off your shirt.”
Dick’s mouth, slightly open, inhaled a loud breath, and he leaned backwards. Well, she had him there, and worse yet, she knew it.
“Dick, there’s something called patient-doctor confidentiality,” Leslie continued. “If you let me treat you, nothing I see or you say will leave this room.”
“But—”
“No buts. If you don’t want Bruce or Alfred to know, then they won’t.”
Dick snorted. “Bruce won’t like that.”
“He’ll just have to deal with it,” Leslie decreed with finality as she slapped her knees. “Besides, he’ll just be happy you’re getting treated.”
The words rang true in Dick’s heart as he stared down at the gray tiles upon the floor. He didn’t know how long it took until the shaking finally stopped, and the pit in his stomach eased enough for him to grab the hem of his shirt. Slowly, as he began to lift the cloth over his stomach and chest, Leslie came to aid him in his one-arm struggle.
What she saw underneath stole the breath from her lungs and brought tears to her already watery eyes.
*^*^*
The door slammed shut, and even Bruce Wayne, the Batman, jumped at the force. He stood as Leslie strode past him and only put up a hand to quiet his questions.
“Leslie—” he persisted, and the single-word address halted her. She turned on her heels, her furious eyes condemning in their glare. She came up to him, tongue-lashing and eyes burning.
“Promise me that will never happen again.”
“I never harmed him, Leslie.”
“But you let it happen!” she shrilled and lifted a hand to slap his face, but the sting never came. “You were his guardian. It was your responsibility to protect that boy, and you failed.”
Bruce’s eyes slid shut. “I know.”
“Knowing doesn’t change the facts, Bruce. Knowing doesn’t change that—that little boy went through hell because of you, and the only reason I’m not headed straight to the cops is because if I did, he’d be more scarred. But I swear to you right now, Bruce Wayne, if you do not take care of that boy this time, I will revoke my support of your claim to his guardianship, and I will make sure this doesn’t happen again. Are we clear?”
Bruce paused long enough to open his eyes and allow her to see the conviction in his soul. “Yes.”
He would die before allowing Dick to be hurt again.
Leslie understood that. “Good,” she said and turned on her heel.
Before she left the corridor, however, he called, “Leslie? What happened to him?”
The doctor never stopped. “You’re supposed a decent detective. Figure it out.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose and turned to see Alfred, but the older man had already gone to join Dick in the examination room. Bruce almost knew the older man to be the stronger of them, and with a heavy heart, he firmed his resolve toward his charge and entered as well.
Only God knew what he’d find.
*^*^*
It took only two minutes for Dick to place the bombs strategically throughout the air ducts, and with every JLA members preoccupied with Deathstroke, no one stopped him or even cared. He then detoured to the specific chamber. Only a bed, a chair, and a desk occupied to the rather bleak room and the sheets and comforter for the former were white.
Definitely not Batman’s style, so obviously his guardian never used the rooms. Dick didn’t really care. That wasn’t what made the JLA watchtower so special.
It was the view.
Sitting on the windowsill with his knees to his chest, Dick watched the Earth as it rotated below. So many times he’d fallen asleep up here while Bruce worked the morning shift. They’d come off patrol with a little less than five minutes to go before Bruce relieved a member, and Dick would beg to join him. For all his rough and distant exterior, the Batman actually had a heart and wanted company. Thus, Dick usually fell asleep in one of the chairs in the monitor womb and would awaken just in time to head for school.
Dick buried his face in his jeans. He missed those days, but as his father had said time and time again, those days were long gone. No point in dwelling on them, yet recently, it seemed like all he had were his dreams of the past.
After all, wasn’t that what he was doing now—reliving them?
The doors to the room opened with a swish, but no steps sounded. A wisp of cape alerted Dick to the identity of the newcomer, but he only lifted his head from his knees and stared down at the Earth.
“Hey,
“Hello, Dick,” the older man began and came to sit on the windowsill next to the younger man. Superman followed his gaze and smiled with a nod. “Nice view. Batman always did know which rooms had the best and must have chosen accordingly.”
“Yes.”
That wasn’t
why Superman was there, and Dick knew it. He wished he didn’t, but Superman was
Bruce’s best friend, even if the Dark Knight wouldn’t admit it. They must have
spoken about the incident before the JLA began interrogating
Superman let out that hearty sigh and leaned back against the window. “Bruce told me what happened between you two in the barn.”
Dick looked down at the cast on his left arm. Great. More stuff to explain that he couldn’t. “That Deathstroke guy threatened to shoot Bruce and told me I had to get Bruce out of there. I had no choice.”
“But you
believe that, don’t you, Dick? You really don’t care for
It wasn’t a question, just a statement, and Dick wouldn’t answer. Not if he didn’t have to.
Superman leaned to the side to catch Dick’s eyes, though the boy only looked his way for a fraction of a second before refocusing on Earth. “What happened?” Superman asked in a low murmur. “Why are you like this?”
The thin line his patience had been teetering upon broke, and Dick whirled to shoot to his feet. “Ugh! Why does everyone keep asking me that? You know, things change. People change. It’s just a part of life.”
“Maybe, but I know you, Dick.” Two massive hands clamped down upon Dick’s shoulders, and he would have lied if he said it didn’t comfort him. “I know you used to look up to Bruce as a mentor, as a friend, and yes, I will be so bold to say as a father.”
Dick knocked the hands off. “He’s not my father.”
“And neither is Ra’s.” Superman flew over Dick’s head to meet the boy’s eyes. “Tell me what you can’t tell Bruce. Tell me why you follow Ra’s when I know everything in your heart screams at you to run back to Bruce.”
The question flew out of his mouth. “You won’t tell Bruce?”
“Why couldn’t I—”
“That’s the deal. You want to know, it’s gotta be off the record.”
Superman hesitated as his face formed an emotional grimace, but he patted Dick’s shoulders a moment later. “I don’t like it but okay.”
Dick closed his eyes to hide the tears, and all he saw was the image of the bloodied dagger in his hand and the crimson pool underneath the corpse. “I killed someone, Clark. I killed someone.”
To Be Continued…