Hooray, long chapter! Well, as long as I can make it in my current state of lethargy.

Dick is eleven years old and quite rowdy. This ficlet is based on a true story (message: do not let your younger brother fight crime in the bathroom).

Author's note: If your younger sibling, baby-bat, tiny creature, etc. receives a head injury, PLEASE have that injury checked out by a professional.

Disclaimer: I don't own Batmaaaaaan.

Needed for Injury

Bruce was out on a late call to the office the night Dick played vigilante in the tub. Dick had a spacious bathroom all to himself, which meant that there was plenty of room for him to cause havoc while the door was locked and Alfred couldn't stop him. After he'd eaten his supper, Dick had gone right up to the bathroom, filled the tub, turned on the shower, and proceeded to fight crime as only young children are wont to do.

"Do be careful," Alfred had said when he heard Dick splashing about in the tub. "Master Bruce will be cross if you drown yourself." A puddle of water had started to leak from the crack under the door, courtesy of the plastic water gun Dick had procured from Wally. As Alfred sighed and continued down the hall, he heard the young sidekick yell,

"Take that, Penguin!" And there came another splash.

"Dear me," Alfred sighed again. He would have to find more towels.

Dick scooped up a handful of suds from the bathwater and flung them into the air while mimicking a plane with his mouth. Before the bubbles floated back into the tub, Dick squirted water from the toy pistol at them, splattering them against the wall. With a whoop, he climbed onto the rim of the tub and wrestled himself up onto the shower curtain pole with every intention of flipping off.

Even though Dick was still underweight for his age, he was unfortunately too heavy for the pole to support him. With a cracking sound, the pole was pulled from the wall, sending Dick crashing back into the tub with little more than a startled yelp. His head smacked against the still-running faucet, and for a few minutes, he sat in the water wondering why his sight was blurred.

A no-nonsense knock interrupted his recovery.

"If you're finished researching Murphy's Law, Master Dick, I have your bedtime snack ready and Master Bruce will be home within the half-hour," Alfred said patiently from the other side of the door. Dick groaned and touched the side of his head where he bumped it, sharply inhaling at the sudden sting. He drew his fingers back and found blood, but he was used to getting knocked over the head while traipsing about in Gotham as Robin. Deciding that there was nothing to get antsy over, Dick climbed out of the tub at Alfred's insistence and reached for a towel.

Alfred was downstairs again by the time Dick was dressed and in his room. Out of habit, the young Grayson left his hair wet and had his towel draped around his shoulders. He stood next to his nightstand, shoving toasted bread and jam in his mouth while trying his best to stay awake. He felt so tired, not to mention that his eyes were beginning to blur around the edges. There was no time for him to sleep yet, though; Bruce had wanted him to go through the police files in the Batcave and pull out any outdated information.

With his hair still dripping down into the collar of his shirt – and why was it still so wet? – Dick sauntered into the Batcave and seated himself at the computer console. He worked diligently for a few minutes, but eventually found that his head began to ache, and his stomach churned with the toast he was digesting. Closing his eyes, Dick groaned and rubbed at his temples. Maybe he'd hit his head harder than he thought.

Suddenly, his stomach twisted with a bought of vertigo, and Dick barely managed to stumble over to the trashcan before he emptied his stomach. As he retched into the bin, he felt the water in his hair slide down his cheek and drip in with his vomit. Oh, wait. Not water. Blood. Damn, he was still bleeding?

Panic gripped Dick by the chest. He moaned into the garbage and started to stand, but he slumped back to his knees.

Oh, God. Oh, damn. Damndamndamn. He didn't know what to do; usually Alfred was in charge of these injury things, or even Bruce. Where was Bruce? Dick blearily looked over at the entrance to the Batcave, but the door was still tightly shut.

"Bruce?" he called uneasily, making the attempt to stand again. He managed a suitable crouch, which became some semblance of a crawl as he moved towards the stairs. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark, blurred form. "Bruce. Thank goodness," he breathed, slowly shuffling over to the glass case that held Batman's cape. He leaned against the sheet of material, half-imagining and half-believing that Bruce was there to fix him up.

"My head hurts. I hit it on the tub," he whined into the cape, clutching it with both hands. There was a sudden clank as the hook holding up the cape snapped under Dick's grip, sending him to the floor for the second time that night. With a soft, unmanly whimper at the twinge of agony in his head, Dick curled into the pile of Batman's cape and decided it would be best to never move evereverever again. The blood was still running over his cheek, now soiling the dark material under him.

He didn't realize that he'd fallen asleep until he felt a large, warm palm brush over his cheek. Thinking he was being attacked, Dick cried out and kicked one of his legs, connecting with nothing. A sympathetic sigh was his answer.

"Care to explain why there's blood in your bathroom?" Bruce asked flatly, wrapping his cape around his young ward and lifting him from the floor. Dick moaned and tried to lift a hand to touch his head.

"Was fightin' the Pe'guin," the boy replied in a mumble. Bruce lowered him into a chair and proceeded to press the edge of his cape to Dick's head to staunch the bleeding. It had already begun to slow, fortunately.

"For all this trouble, I hope you won," Bruce deadpanned, examining the boy's head. There was a cut and a lump, enough to cause concern. Maybe the boy suffered some nausea, vomiting and pain, but who didn't suffer injuries like that as a city's hero? At least Dick had mustered the courtesy to puke in the garbage can.

The entrance to the Batcave opened for Alfred, who brought a tray of bandages and a bowl of ice over to the billionaire.

"Long night, sirs?" the butler said dryly. Bruce gave Alfred a half-assed frown, but accepted a bottle of antiseptic. "I suppose I will have to repair the shower curtain in the morning."

"I'm sure Dick can take care of it after a quick trip to Gotham Medical," Bruce said, tilting the boy's head back so the wound was visible. Dick gritted his teeth when the sterile cloth touched his cut. Bruce smiled, "I hope you learned a lesson today?"

"I'm too fat," Dick muttered.

Oh, you're not fat, Dickie-poo. Please review, everyone!