Note: Trigger warning - non-graphic descriptions of child abuse (mostly bruises).
Three months later:
To almost everyone, the fact that young Dick Grayson was still in the household of millionaire Bruce Wayne was shocking. To Alfred, however, it was a blessing. Despite everything that had happened to him, Dick was almost always cheerful. He had brought light into the lives of one man who lived in the dark and another who had difficulty bringing the first man out of the shadows.
The boy didn't know it, of course, but Batman wasn't as harsh when taking down criminals and villains now. Instead of beating them to a pulp and telling Commissioner Gordon when they were ready for pickup, he would merely knock them out and, sometimes, haul them down to Headquarters himself.
Dick was an easy-going child who loved to make people laugh. He was smart and witty and very, very active. There wasn't a room on the ground floor that didn't have an 'assigned' trick – one that the nine-year-old had to do every time he entered that specific room.
Bruce had been forced to snatch the boy out of the air several times: the day he climbed on the chandelier, got stuck and flipped down anyway; the night he tried to use the stair bannister as a ski jump; and the morning he had tumbled through the hall in socks, slipped because he couldn't get traction, and under-rotated his double backflip so badly that he would have crushed his face on the white marble of the floor. Just yesterday Dick had decided that the ladder in the library was unnecessary, climbed his way up the shelves like a monkey, lost his footing and nearly cracked his head open on the ladder that he should have used in the first place.
Of course, there were good days and bad days. Mondays were always bad – they had died on a Monday. Fridays were always good – the day Bruce had been granted legal guardianship was a Friday. But nights, those were a different story.
Batman would come home from patrol and, a quick shower later, Bruce would exit the study and walk up the stairs. Every night he tip-toed past Dick's door and into his own room, hoping his ward would be asleep. But every night, like clockwork, the nine-year-old would start screaming in terror. The man would either just be falling asleep or just climbing into bed when the screams began. He always instantly jumped out of bed and raced to the room next door, gathering the child in his arms and patiently waiting for the nightmare to stop and the boy to calm down.
There were nights when Dick would be able to go back to sleep but most nights were spent sitting on his guardian's lap, trembling and crying softly. Every night the boy would apologize for waking up the millionaire, and every night the man would reply that there was no need to apologize for something the child couldn't control.
Bruce usually fell asleep sitting on a chair in his young ward's room. Dick never noticed, or at least he never said anything about it. He was too busy curling into the man's chest and holding on to his shirt as if his very life depended on it.
That was how Alfred found them almost every morning. Dick would lift his head, his light-blue eyes weary and tear tracks evident on his small cheeks. Bruce, feeling the movement, would immediately open his eyes, which looked just as tired as the ones of the child sitting on his lap.
Alfred was concerned about both of them. Bruce was going to get sick if he kept pushing himself like this – head of Wayne Enterprises with a multitude of meetings every day, Batman patrolling Gotham City until one or two in the morning and then having to sleep in a chair so his young ward would feel safe. And Dick, going to school with the whites of his eyes streaked with red lines and so tired that Bruce had received several notes about the boy not paying attention in class.
But the nine-year-old wasn't having any trouble keeping up. He was extremely intelligent and usually understood whatever he was being taught the first time it was explained to him. The notes were, therefore, just informational. Every message was accompanied by a post script: not affecting his work, his behavior or his classmates.
His favorite time of day was after school and before dinner. The bus would drop him off at Wayne Manor and Dick would race up the long walk and burst through the front door. Alfred, polite butler that he was, always stood at the entrance to greet the boy. His reward was an enthusiastic hug and an immediate earful of everything that had happened during the day.
Dick would quickly do his homework then go directly to the newly furnished room beside the workout gym. Bruce had set up an acrobat's dream house. There was a high bar, two tumble tracks – one with a foam pit for trying new tricks – a climbing rope that went twenty feet in the air and a set of rings. The man had thought about putting in a trapeze but decided to wait until the boy asked for one.
After an hour or so, the nine-year-old would end up in the living room, sitting on the royal-blue chair that had the best view of the front door. Sometimes it was ten minutes, sometimes almost an hour, but eventually Bruce Wayne would walk through that door. The first place his eyes would go was that chair. The first thing he almost always saw was the giant grin on his ward's face and then a little blur would suddenly be throwing itself into his arms.
Bruce never said anything, but coming home was now his favorite time of the day. Even on Mondays, the sad days, Dick would be grinning when his guardian entered the house. And that grin, that brilliant, trusting, youthful smile, would make the millionaire forget whatever troubles the day had thrust upon his shoulders – for a little while, anyway.
Then, on a seemingly normal Thursday, something happened. Dick came home from school and entered the house with his head down. The usually-enthusiastic hug was a quick squeeze. He dropped his backpack and immediately went to his favorite chair in the living room. The nine-year-old pulled his legs into his chest, wrapped his arms around them and rested his forehead on top of his knees. Alfred, deciding that the boy needed some time to himself, left an afternoon snack on the small table by the chair and retired to the kitchen to prepare dinner.
Bruce came home late that night and found him still sitting there. Dick had stayed in the chair, almost completely still, for nearly four hours. Alfred had done everything he could think of to no avail. The child didn't eat the snack, refused to respond to anything and didn't even acknowledge the fact that his homework had been placed on the living room table. It was untouched and that in itself was concerning. He was very studious and demanded perfection from himself. Not doing homework right away was, in Dick's eyes, an extreme lack of perfection.
"Hey, chum, what's wrong?"
Crouching in front of the boy, Bruce lightly touched a small but strong arm and attempted to see his ward's face. Dick flinched but didn't pull away. They stayed that way for several minutes and Bruce began to feel impatience rising in his chest. His grip on the boy's arm unintentionally tightened and Dick instantly lifted his head.
A sigh of relief flew out of the man's mouth but the relief faded into anger when he discovered the reason for Dick's self-imposed exile. A large, purple bruise surrounded the boy's left eye and there was a thin line of dried blood just under his eyebrow on the same side.
"Who did this to you?" Bruce growled and Dick shrugged, a touch of fear in his eyes.
"Name, Dick, I need a name," he declared, a little more gently.
The nine-year-old shook his head and his eyes began flitting around the room, landing everywhere except the dark-blue circles of his guardian.
"I can't help you if I don't know what's going on," Bruce stated softly.
"I'll get in trouble," Dick replied quietly, finally looking into the man's eyes.
"Why would you get in trouble?"
Dick shrugged again and dropped his forehead back onto his knees.
"Did someone threaten you? Did the person say something worse would happen if you told anybody?"
A small nod affirmed the question and Bruce's face grew dark with anger. Someone had not only hit his boy, that person had also demanded secrecy by threatening the nine-year-old.
"Who?!" Bruce suddenly shouted and Dick flinched before raising his head.
"I can't…please don't make me," he whispered as tears welled up in his eyes.
"I won't let you get hurt," the man almost growled again. "I'll take care of it, kiddo."
"He said…he would…kill you. Just like my parents!" the boy exclaimed softly as the tears began streaming down his cheeks. "I can't…I don't want you…"
Bruce clenched his jaw in fury. If he could just get the name, Batman would be able to visit the kid – and his parents, of course – in order to straighten this out.
"Who, Dick? I need the name."
"Please…" the boy pleaded. "I promised! I can't break a promise!"
"You can if the promise was made under duress, kiddo. And I assure you, that promise was definitely made under duress."
"He was so mad," the nine-year-old said quietly. "I didn't do…all I did was answer the question! Then his face turned red and he told me to see him after class. I didn't mean it, I swear! I was just pointing out a fact that he had missed. Bruce, I swear I wasn't trying to embarrass or humiliate him!"
"This was a…a teacher?!" Bruce exclaimed in disbelief.
He received another small nod and abruptly stood up. A teacher had assaulted a nine-year-old boy and nobody knew about it?!
"I swear, Bruce, I didn't mean it! Please believe me!"
"Of course I believe you, kiddo! What makes you think I wouldn't?"
"He said I'm a troublemaker, that I'm only here so you can show how great you are. How you're so charitable to take…take in a…a circus freak and that soon you…you won't want me anymore!"
The words were mumbled and difficult to understand. Dick was sobbing. He didn't want to believe it but…what if the man was right? What if Bruce was getting tired of him?
Bruce was crouching in front of him again.
"Dick, I will never make you leave. You aren't a freak or a troublemaker. You're one of the best things that has ever happened to me and I will always want you to stay. Okay?"
The light-blue eyes carefully examined the dark-blue ones, searching for any hint of a lie or half-truth. There was kindness but Dick could see a ring of darkness in his guardian's expression.
"Are you…mad at…at me?" he asked timidly as he swiped a hand across his bruised cheek.
"Of course not, kiddo. But I need to know who did this."
"But what if…he's so big, Bruce!"
"Dick," the millionaire began, "Batman is a personal friend of mine. I'm pretty sure I can convince him to work this out."
The boy's eyes widened in amazement.
"You're friends with Batman!"
Bruce nodded and chuckled quietly when he saw a giant smile erupt on his ward's face.
If he only knew.
"But what if he's stronger than even Batman?! You haven't seen him, Bruce, he's like a bodybuilder or something!"
There was a great deal of fear in Dick's voice and the smile had disappeared. Bruce inaudibly sighed. He really wanted to kill whoever had done this to his boy but, obviously, that was out of the question.
"Have you ever heard of Batman losing a fight, kiddo?"
"Well, no, but I haven't been here for very long. He probably used to lose a lot, when he was just starting, don't you think?"
"No," Bruce replied, slightly offended but also amused. "I've known him for longer than you've been alive. Yes, he's been in some trouble, but he always comes out on top."
"Always?" the boy stated, his tone outlined with skepticism.
"Always," the man replied firmly. "No matter the villain or criminal, Batman always comes out on top. Just give me a name and you won't have to worry about the te…"
Bruce paused then decided not to group the man into a field of hard-working educators.
"The criminal," he finished.
There was complete silence for several minutes as Dick mulled over everything in his mind. A seed of doubt was still flourishing, convincing him that if he told Bruce the name of the man who had hit him, his guardian would die.
"Dick," Bruce prodded gently. "Please tell me, chum."
The boy took a deep breath and the man tensed with anticipation.
"Mr., um, no…I…no!"
"Come on, Dick, you can say it. Nothing is going to happen to me; Batman will take care of it. We can't let this happen again."
More silence, broken only by some quiet sniffles and an even quieter grunt of what Bruce could only describe as disbelief.
"Dick," he stated loudly as he thought of something. "Tell me everything. Has this happened before? Am I only finding out because he gave you a black eye?"
The boy refused to look him in the eye again and the rage boiling in Bruce's blood increased.
"How long? How long, Dick?!"
The second sentence was shouted and the nine-year-old hid his face again.
"Master Bruce?! What's going on?"
Alfred rushed into the room, causing Dick to lift his head. The butler gasped in both astonishment and dismay. From the words he had just heard, somebody had assaulted the boy more than just this once. But Dick had never shown any signs of distress or pain.
"I don't know," the child whispered guiltily. "A month?"
Bruce squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. This man had been hitting Dick for a month and the boy had somehow kept everything to himself!
Bruce opened his eyes and Dick suddenly stood up. It was his turn to take a deep breath and neither man missed the tiny wince.
"Please don't be mad at me," he begged before lifting his shirt.
The boy's entire torso was full of bruises, some fading away, some obviously new. Bruce noticed a rib moving every time Dick took a breath and again wondered how his ward had been able to hide this.
"Master Dick!" Alfred exclaimed sympathetically. "Why didn't you tell us?"
"Later, Alfred. I'll explain everything later," Bruce replied as Dick lowered his shirt.
But then he took it off completely and Batman almost exploded out of Bruce's body.
Finger-shaped bruises, again both new and old, were all over the boy's upper arms and shoulders. He turned around and the men stared at the large welts all over Dick's back.
"Wh…what did he use?"
Bruce's voice was strangled and he nearly choked on the words.
There was a little shrug in response and then a quiet, "Just from pushing me against the desks. He didn't use anything, like a belt or something, if that's what you mean."
"Why, young sir?"
"He just doesn't like me, I guess. I don't mean to make him mad, it just happens. I don't know what it is that I'm doing. I've tried lots of stuff: looking at him, not looking at him, answering questions, not answering questions, sitting in the back, sitting in the front, taking meticulous notes, not taking any notes at all. I don't know what I'm doing to make him so mad."
"No, Dick," Bruce nearly snarled. "This is not your fault. You're not doing anything wrong, okay?"
"Well, he said it is. He said I'm a troublemaker and troublemakers need discipline. He said since you don't give it to me, he has to. And if I tell you, he'll make me watch you die."
"Oh, my word," Alfred gasped quietly.
Bruce had gone from crouching to sitting in the chair Dick had abandoned. Gently, he grabbed Dick's right hand and pulled him onto his lap.
"It won't happen, kiddo," he stated softly but confidently. "Batman is going to take care of this, okay? I'm not going to die and this guy won't ever be able to touch you again. Can you trust me?"
He received a minute nod so he continued.
"I need you to tell me the name, Dick. Batman needs to know so that he can put this criminal in jail. Please just tell me."
The child was crying again, his head leaning against his guardian's shoulder and the tears sliding onto the man's expensive shirt.
"Mr., um, Jerkens," was the whispered response. "Sometimes, in my mind, I call him Mr. Jerkface. I'm sorry, Bruce!"
The last sentence was much louder than the others and Dick pushed away from his guardian. He walked over to the fireplace, knelt down and punched the brick as hard as he could.
"Dick!" Bruce shouted incredulously.
"I'm sorry for ruining the pillow!" the boy yelled. "The pillow broke but I can't break this!"
"The pillow, Master Dick!" Alfred exclaimed. "It was a slight tear that I mended this morning!"
Bruce was by his ward's side, cradling the hand that now had blood flowing out of its knuckles. Alfred quickly left to get supplies. He returned less than a minute later with a damp towel, a dry towel, antiseptic cream, gauze and medical tape.
"Dick, why did you…"
"Because that's how I let it out!" Dick interrupted, almost growling at his guardian. "I can't keep everything inside but I wasn't allowed to tell you so I've been punching stuff but yesterday I tore the pillow and so now I know I can't use that anymore so I'm just going to use something that I can't break!"
Dick was angry; neither Bruce nor Alfred had ever heard this tone and it surprised them. He sounded almost as angry as a younger version of Batman, although they both knew that the boy's anger couldn't even begin to reach the height of the man's fury.
Especially right now.
That thought strolled through Alfred's mind when he saw the expression on the millionaire's face. Bruce was furious, that was obvious to anyone, but only the butler could detect the rage of Batman flowing inside the man. But Bruce was being so gentle with Dick, carefully cleaning the boy's knuckles and swathing them in gauze before pulling his ward into a hug.
Alfred saw Dick wince at the pressure on his bruises and knew Bruce could feel it. The millionaire immediately pulled away and stood, pulling Dick up with him.
"You need some ice, chum," the man remarked gently. "Your entire torso needs to be taken care of and…"
"But isn't it dinner time? Alfred's food is going to get cold!"
"Are you hungry, Master Dick?"
There was a short pause and then the boy sadly whispered, "No, not really."
"Then dinner can wait," Bruce declared.