Hey everyone, snowbengal here! This is my second fanfiction about Dick Grayson and I think I'm a little obsessed with him, hahaha. I know this chapter is a little short but a longer chapter will be released very soon. This is rated T for some upcoming heavy subjects so viewer discretion is advised. If you like this story, please please please review! Reviews are how I know people like the story or whether they want to offer constructive criticism so please don't hold back. With that being said, enjoy the story!
Prologue
Early morning sunlight slanted through tall, floor-to-ceiling windows and gleamed off the expensive leather furniture and sophisticated technology that filled the otherwise stark study. Bruce Wayne sat in a swivel chair in the shadows near the southern end of the room, obsessively turning a metal batarang through his fingers. An untouched plate of eggs and sausages lay neglected on the desk before him. He paused in his intense scrutiny of the sharp weapon and spoke without turning around.
"What do you need, Alfred? I'm a little occupied at the moment." His voice was flat and without any emotion.
The English butler ignored the pointed comment and spoke in his crisp accent. "I'm sorry to disturb your weaponry inspection, but if I remembered correctly, you were going to see-"
"I have a meeting in an hour. Call up Dr. Thompkins and tell her I can't make it today." Bruce's voice was still monotone and he would not look at Alfred. But the batarang whirled faster and faster in his fingers, a clear indication of agitation from the otherwise stoic man.
"Sir." The single word was brimming with sharp reproach.
"What would you have me do Alfred? Going changes nothing." The batarang dropped to the ground and Bruce was up on his feet, his massive frame towering over the slight figure of the old butler. Despite his deceptively calm tone, Bruce's stormy blue eyes were blazing with anger and his hands curled and uncurled like steel traps.
Alfred stared back unflinchingly and after a few moments, placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "Master Bruce, I know how hard this is for you, God knows how hard this is for me." Alfred's eyes grew wet but he mastered himself and forged on. "But this is for him and you know he needs us."
Bruce's muscular shoulders slumped and all of the anger burned out, leaving nothing but a hunched over man broken by guilt and despair.
"You're right, Alfred. I failed him back then but I will never make that mistake ever again."
"Of course not, I'm certain he knows that." Alfred said with a faint smile.
"Get the car ready, Alfred."
"Yes sir."
Bruce picked up the batarang, stowed it in his pocket and strode out of the living room, his face tight and stony.
The cool hospital corridors were white and brightly lit but the faint smell of antiseptic and blood made Bruce tense. Dr. Leslie Thompkins walked in front of them, her light footsteps echoing down the hallway as she led them deeper into the medical facility. Nurses in green scrubs rushed past them, pushing gurneys of patients and conversing with one another in urgent, serious voices.
"How is he?" Alfred asked. The old butler voiced the question that Bruce couldn't bring himself to utter.
Leslie stopped and was quiet for a moment, as if carefully choosing her next words. Bruce's uneasiness rose and he fought the urge to shake the gray-haired doctor until she answered him.
"He's getting worse." Leslie said frankly. "He is unable to recognize any of the hospital personnel and doesn't respond to his surroundings anymore. We've had to sedate and restrain him on multiple occasions because of the harm he was causing himself."
Bruce walked past her before she even finished her diagnosis and disappeared down the white-tiled hallway, shouldering aside staring nurses. Alfred and Leslie stared after him in shock before they took off after him.
"Bruce, Bruce wait! I can't let you run around the hospital by yourself!" Leslie shouted after the billionaire's retreating figure.
"I think that might have been a little too blunt, Dr. Leslie." Alfred said, slightly out of breath from running.
"What? He'll have to know the truth sooner or later. There's no use babying someone like Bruce." Leslie retorted.
The two reached Bruce, who was standing stock-still and looking through a one-way window. Inside, a figure wrapped in a straitjacket lay on their side in the middle of a padded room like a broken toy. Only those familiar with Bruce would be able to see the pain that broke across his rugged face as he stared at the prone form.
"Bruce, there's still hope. We haven't tried all treatments yet." Leslie tried to comfort the large man and cautiously placed a hand on his broad shoulder. With a chill, she could remember doing the exact same gesture for a little boy who had stared unseeing at the world around him. It had been so many years ago but she could still see the expression of indescribable torment on the boy's young face. It sent shivers down her spine to see that same expression carving out deep lines and grooves on Bruce's adult face.
"I'll be a few rooms down so call me if you need anything." This was against hospital protocol but the pain in Bruce's eyes was too raw, too private for her to be witnessing.
After Leslie had left, Bruce leaned his head against the window and sighed, a long troubled sigh that left a perfect circle of fog against the cold glass.
"It'll be all right, Master Bruce. He'll come back to us one day." The butler's voice was subdued.
Bruce didn't reply to Alfred's hopeful words. He rested his hand against the window, as if wanting to reach through the glass to touch the person inside before letting his hand slide back down.