Author's Note: Sorry for the slow update, but we're both on holiday, which makes things difficult. In the meantime, enjoy this. The response to this story has picked up nicely, so I won't be changing the category or anything like that.
Chapter 7
Dick didn't say a word to Alfred as they drove back to the waiting Manor. Part of him wanted to, it wanted to speak a mile a minute, about everything and anything, just to distract himself and make him feel like he was a normal kid after all.
Maybe he could get the butler to be his friend, he could get the old man to laugh, to talk back to him like a cheerful cabdriver instead of the stern and professional chauffeur-slash-babysitter he usually was. Then when they got back to Wayne Manor, his parents would rush out to greet him, his mother would sweep him up into her strong arms and he would smell her sweet perfume of soap and chalk, and then they'd all go on the road again, like they used to. His world would be filled with bright colours and applause, and he would soon forget about Wayne Manor and the men who lived there, as if it had never darkened his horizon.
But that was just a part of him, the part left over from when he was five years old and the luckiest kid in the whole wide world, eating popcorn and cotton candy everyday and getting spoiled by the strongman who would lift Dick above his head with one hand, or the ringmaster whose tall hat dropped down around Dick's ears and made him giggle. The rest of him knew better. The rest of him was older, too old. It knew the world didn't work that way. Alfred would never laugh at anything Dick had to say, his parents were dead and they were never coming back, and he would never be free of Wayne Manor.
Dick had long since stopped rebelling against his fate. He didn't ask the world why him?, he didn't bother trying to reason or petition or resist. Things were the way they were and that was that. Sometimes bad things happen and there doesn't have to be a reason for it. Crying and grieving did not return what was lost or undo what had been done, so it was better to just let it happen, and make the most of what was left when it was over.
That was what he would be doing now. So the magazine had exposed his secrets, telling everyone that he was a circus orphan living with the richest man in Gotham, he would just have to endure it, just as he would endure Bruce. What else could he do?
Alfred opened the car door for Dick once they reached Wayne Manor. The butler escorted him all the way to the study in the West wing where the master of the house was waiting for him, leaving no possibility of escape.
He knocked on the heavy wooden door, not having said a single word to Dick since they had left the school. Dick's stomach was in his throat and his heart was at his feet. He was dreading this with a physical fear, while at the same time being afraid to feel anything. He had known that it would be this room he would be brought to, but it still made him sick. Deep inside him, he could still hear the primeval urge to run - As if Alfred could catch you - but he scolded it harshly for being foolish. He couldn't escape Bruce Wayne, not in this house, not in this city, hadn't he realised that by now?
Hold still, he told himself, Just hold still. Endure it. It was easier that way, less bruises.
"Come in," spoke Bruce from inside, his low voice sounding harsh and snappish. Alfred opened the door and motioned Dick through, then pulled the door closed after him so that he was alone in the darkened room with Bruce.
The study, the forbidden room that was a gateway to Dick's worst nightmares, pressed down on the boy instantly. Dick stared into the distance, refusing to focus on anything. He couldn't bear to see the broken silver lamp that had been moved to sit against the wall, out of the way but not removed. He was careful not to shift his weight too much, so as not to feel the sandy crunch of broken glass ground into the carpet. He kept his breathing shallow, knowing that if he didn't he would be able to smell the palette of bodily fluids that saturated the rug and smudged the furniture. The muted colours of the room made this all a little easier.
This room was the den of the darkest side of the Wayne son and heir. No one else came in here, except to satisfy its master. Alfred stayed away, leaving the room out of his cleaning regime. Those were his orders, but Dick bet he was grateful as well. Even Alfred must regret this particular secret of the Wayne household.
Bruce was sitting behind the desk, the revolving chair turned to the side so that he could look out of the window behind him at the verdant branches that kept the light from penetrating the room. Dick wanted to cross his arms and curl up on himself, but he forced himself to keep his hands behind his back, his fingers twisting together ceaselessly. His shoulders still hunched, however, and as he hung his head, he looked out from under his brow at his guardian. The only indication he could see of how Bruce felt was the one long finger that tapped the desk impatiently and the angry muscle that twitched in his jaw.
"I got a call from one of my lawyers today," said Bruce, his voice stiff but controlled, and Dick watched his finger stop tapping and scrape briefly across the surface of the desk as the hand curled into a fist. "Apparently, his wife is a big fan of the tabloids, and he thought I should know about this."
He sent a copy of Gotham Gossip skidding across the surface of the desk towards Dick with a slap. The boy flinched. The bubblegum-pink cover felt like an accusation.
Silence poured into the space between them like cement burying a man alive. When Dick still didn't respond, Bruce roused himself from his dark thoughts, and turned slowly to face him. Dick looked away, unable to meet his eyes. He felt guilty, despite having done nothing wrong. But he didn't know what the intimidating figure across the room was thinking. He could blame Dick for practicing in the garden, and making himself an easy target for a greedy photographer. The News Ninja probably would have got his picture eventually, if he was determined enough, but for the mysterious adopted son of the Wayne house to be caught swinging from tree branches just made it that much worse.
"Do you know what that is?" Bruce asked, impossible to read. Dick nodded tentatively.
Bruce's eyes flashed with fire, but then he composed himself. He leant back in his chair again and looked at the magazine cover, his black eyebrows cinching together with angry disapproval. Dick stood, waiting across the room as the billionaire simmered.
"They're going to regret this," he said, so quietly that Dick pretended not to hear as he was sure that the words weren't meant for him.
Then Bruce looked up at his ward as if he had only just realised he was there. "Why are standing over there? Come closer, sit down" he ordered harshly. Dick hastened to fill the lonely chair opposite him on the other side of the desk, sweating nervously, fiddling with his cuffs in his lap.
"Did you have any part in this?" he demanded suddenly, his sharp eyes drilling into the boy, looking angry enough to do some damage.
Dick shook his head frantically, "N-no," he stuttered, missing his voice at first. It would be very bad for him indeed if Bruce believed that he had helped with the publishing of his identity. But the man appeared satisfied, relaxing slightly and glancing down at the magazine again.
"Of course not," he muttered, "You're a good boy." He flipped open the pages with his fingertips as if they were infectious. "No, it was that damn woman… and this, this News Ninja," he added with contempt, his mouth twisting down in a sneer as if he tasted something bitter.
Dick had never heard him say anything even close to swearing before, and took it as an indication of just how enraged his guardian must be. He would almost have felt sorry for the pair, if it wasn't for the suspicion that very soon, he too would despise and curse them for what they had done.
Dick could have predicted that Bruce would react that way. His guardian never blamed him for anything. Nothing was ever his fault, anything he did wrong was just the product of the trauma of watching his mother and father plummet to their deaths before his very eyes. Anybody would lash out at that, Dick was not to blame. In protecting Dick from the outside world, and giving him the best of everything, Bruce included keeping him from any negative feeling. Bruce wanted him to be happy, to salve the bleeding gash of his parents' loss, and so nothing Dick did had any consequence or effect. Whether he was good or bad, he was treated the same. It was always somebody else's fault, and that was what scared Dick. His actions could cause real difficulties for others if Bruce saw it that way, and there was nothing he could do to change his guardian's mind.
Bruce's eyes lingered on the gymnastic photographs that accompanied the article and Dick felt a shudder flow over his skin.
"Is it too late to keep this from reaching the school?" Bruce asked suddenly, startling Dick as he looked at him again. The orphan nodded again, and Bruce grunted in disapproval. "How did they react?" he asked.
Dick cleared his throat as he thought of the best way to phrase it. "They seem pleased, they think I'm one of them now," he said.
Bruce looked at him strangely, "You are one of them, Dick," he replied. Dick felt pinned down, trapped. He wasn't going to contest Bruce Wayne's ownership of him, it was a waste of time.
The boy thought of how his peers had treated him that day. Most of the school was now clamouring to be his best friend. It would be easy for him to let them. It was fake and he knew it, but maybe, if he played along, they would get to know him, and get to like him for his personality. He could have real friends, kids his own age, something he hadn't really experienced in the circus. Sure, some of the other performers had kids of their own, but not many, and they weren't really the same age. Dick had always felt like he was either babysitting or being babysat. But now he had an opportunity to be popular. But could he bring himself to do it?
He had no experience with this sort of thing, he could mess it up and make a fool of himself. On the other hand, if he capitalised on his relationship with Bruce, then he doubted anyone would dare go against him. In fact, to assume the role they all wanted him to would probably be the most effective form of damage control he could employ. The only problem was, in the months that he had attended the Academy, he hadn't really noticed anyone that he liked. He couldn't say that he respected or empathised with any of his classmates. Except maybe for that one boy in the senior year, the one he'd seen in the Debate club, Richard Rawn. He seemed to be the only human at that school.
Dick remembered that he'd been invited to Frank Wilson's party on Saturday. He would have to ask Bruce. Now did not seem like a good time, but the billionaire seemed in favour of Dick integrating with his classmates. Maybe he would be open to the idea? Encourage it, even? Normally, Dick's instincts would have told him that Bruce didn't want anyone else getting too close to his ward, that he didn't want to let Dick out of the Manor and out of sight any more than he had to, but maybe this time he was wrong…
Who was he kidding? He was trapped here. Sure, he could go to parties, he could make friends, but he would be playing a role just like the others when they pretended to be his friend. He wouldn't be showing them his true self, because at this point, his self was twisted and broken and confused. He would only be pretending to be a happy fourteen year old boy who was glad to have been adopted into a lot of money. There would always be Bruce Wayne - the real Bruce, not the playboy disguise - watching from the shadows, and waiting for the time that they would be alone.
"The question is," continued the billionaire, looking down at the magazine again, "What to do now? How do we contain this? How can I regain control of the situation?" He murmured the words as if he was just thinking aloud, milling the various possibilities over in his head, not consulting with the boy in front of him.
Dick watched the dark figure of the older man pore over the magazine, almost able to hear the gears turning in his head as he formed a battle plan. However, the tightness around his guardian's eyes, and the black, compassionless cloud of fury and revenge on his brow worried him. Bruce Wayne was a powerful man. With a flex of his right hand, he could crush half of Gotham. He hardly ever used the empire his father had built for his own personal ends, but Dick felt that this would be one of those times.
Gotham Gossip would have had no idea what they had set in motion when they published their exclusive, they were presumably even quite pleased with themselves, but ultimately they would regret it. Nobody would realise where they came from, but the ripples created by the issue's splash when it hit the stands would be felt far and wide. Dick doubted the magazine would make it to another edition. Careers would be destroyed, names would be ruined, and at the end of it all, Bruce Wayne would emerge as untouchable and playful as ever.
Dick almost felt sorry for them, they were still human beings, with the right of free press. They hadn't known what they were doing when they messed with Bruce Wayne. And he felt afraid, how far was the Wayne heir prepared to go? Just how much would he let anger and revenge influence his decisions as he meted out their punishment? Dick's life would not be improved by a rampage.
He gathered his strength and found his voice. "What are you going to do?" he asked timidly.
Bruce looked at him with a jerk, as if he was surprised to hear him speak. Dick tried to keep his gaze on his face, and not flinch away. He felt small and inadequate, so powerless before the older, stronger man. Sometimes it felt as though Bruce held the power of life and death over him. But then Bruce smiled slowly, as if he found his ward's question endearing.
"Don't worry," he said. "Leave it to me, I'll take care of everything." As he spoke, he rose from his chair, and came round the desk. He stopped in front of Dick, and leant back against the wood, half-sitting, with one leg bent away from them.
"You'll see," he murmured, and he reached out with one hand to gently brush through the hair over Dick's ear. "I'll make it all go away for you."
Dick could only watch, his mouth dry and his heart running like a fugitive in his chest, as Bruce's hand held the back of his head. The man adjusted his position, and finished his thought.
"You're a good boy."