Author's Note: Let's ramp things up a bit, shall we, gentle readers?
Dick was completely done with waking up in pain. His stomach hurt, his head and especially his sutured lip were pounding, and the spot in his arm where the IV went in itched like crazy. He opened his eyes with a soft moan and looked around hopefully, only to be disappointed in the same way he had been at every awakening since his surgery. No Bruce. No Alfred. No anybody.
He had asked the nurses about it every time he'd been lucid enough when they came around to take his vitals. At first he had thought that maybe the men were coming around when he was sleeping, that he was just missing them, but as time had passed he'd realized his error. The staff was no help, refusing to tell him anything more than that why he was in the hospital, that no one had come by to see him, and that they didn't know of anyone trying to get in touch with him. Casting one last, depressed glance about, he sighed and let his head drop back against the pillows.
So shunning it is, I guess, he thought. I can't really blame him. He doesn't have time to deal with a partner who's going to blow up an organ every time they're asked to face danger. He had been thinking about the very last passage he'd read at home a lot over the past four days. On Tuesday, during the first hours of semi-rational thought he'd had in forty-eight hours, he had almost decided that he was crazy for thinking Bruce would no longer want him because of a case of appendicitis. As two more days had dragged on with no word, however, he had slowly reconstructed his conclusion, basing it this time on the evidence at hand instead of on his emotions, just the way Bruce had taught him to.
Maybe, he had posited last night, maybe appendicitis is like a warning sign. No one knows for sure what the appendix does, at least that's what Bruce said when I was memorizing all that fricking Latin for his anatomy lessons. So maybe it's kind of like your adrenal gland, only instead of adrenaline your appendix synthesizes all the chemicals that make you brave and then ships them out to different parts of the body. If it gets messed up or just can't do it any more, it self-destructs to let you know that hey, I'm done making you capable of responding well in a crisis. And that's your sign that you should stop putting yourself in situations where you need to be brave, because your appendix isn't going to be there to back you up. If you keep going into the same things you did before, you'll go chicken, and unless someone or something else comes along and saves you, you'll end up hurt or dead. Maybe it's kind of like super sensitive diabetics if they don't have their insulin, only nobody's figured out a way to inject yourself with courage.
By the time Thursday rolled around and he'd slept on the idea, it felt perfectly logical. He remembered a kid he'd gone to school with a few years earlier who had been just like all the other boys until the summer he had to have his appendix out. When classes had started up again, he was a completely different person, gangly, acne-prone, and awkward. He had quickly become a scapegoat, teased and bullied by the same people he'd been friends with a few months before. He never stood up for himself, becoming sadder looking with each passing day, until his parents had pulled him out to homeschool him because they feared he would try to commit suicide. It all correlates, Dick had sighed upon recalling that other boy. I just wish mine hadn't gone out so soon. I thought Batman and Robin would be a team longer. I wanted us to be a team forever, but…he needs a partner who won't get him killed in a moment of weakness. I want to help, but I don't want him to get hurt because of me. Because of my cowardice.
Still, he had hoped that Bruce would at least come by to tell him personally that he couldn't be Robin since he was doomed to be a wincing, shrinking pansy for the rest of his life. He saw those qualities in everything he did since his appendix went. Each time Dr. Montoya came by to check on him, he wanted to curl up and squirm away from the awful feeling of her fingers prodding his abdomen. When his muscles felt sore, he was afraid to move, knowing it would cause new pain to erupt. He wasn't supposed to get out of bed, so several times a day a nurse would bring him a pan to do his business in; that was so horrifying that he wouldn't have been able to do anything had he not scared himself with the knowledge that they would force a catheter on him if he didn't produce enough. To top it all off, yesterday one of them had offered to bring him a magazine, and he had refused, not because he wasn't bored out of his mind but because he missed Bruce terribly and knew that he'd start crying if he read anything about him or, god forbid, glimpsed a shot of his face. Even National Geographic might set him off; the way his luck had been running lately, it would probably be running some huge cover story on bats.
Thinking about his situation made him wish he lived in feudal Japan like Mitsuse Genbei so that he'd at least have the option of committing seppuku. Maybe he could have convinced Bruce to be his second and chop his head off, so that the act could serve as an apology for turning into a coward before he'd even gotten to be much help out on patrol. All that time he wasted training me. No wonder he's stayed away. I wish at least Alfred would come. Maybe Bruce asked him not to. Or maybe he's ashamed of me, too. A single tear slid down his cheek, but the sound of approaching footsteps stoppered those that had been preparing to follow it.
The man who appeared in the doorway to his room looked familiar, but he couldn't figure out where he'd seen him before. "Hi," he said hesitantly, sincerely hoping that this wasn't a henchman of some past foe who had recognized him and come to get revenge. His stomach tightened at the thought, forcing him to gasp, and he wondered when his next round of painkillers was.
"Hello, Richard," the visitor replied, face hidden in shadow. "Mind if I come in?"
"No," he answered. He was still uneasy, but it seemed like a safe bet that someone bent enough on killing him to hunt him down in an ICU wouldn't bother with niceties like asking permission to enter. Besides, it would be a change to have a visitor who wasn't dressed in scrubs. "Have a seat."
"Thank you." Henry Erwin couldn't believe his luck. Disgusted with the stonewalling tactics that Dr. Montoya continued to deploy against him, he'd taken a chance and wandered up to the seventh floor without bothering to call her again. Upon entering the intensive care section, he'd found a single nurse on duty, half-asleep over her paperwork. She'd been so tired that she hadn't even asked his name, merely complaining about having to fill in another department's shift right after her own had ended before directing him to the proper room. Calling him back a second later, she'd asked him to do her a favor and deliver a box someone had sent over for the patient, since he was going there anyway. He'd given her his best smile and agreed, more than happy to relieve her – and Dick Grayson – of the package.
Setting it down now next to the chair he'd pulled up beside the bed, he gave the teen the same grin he'd granted the tired woman at the front desk. "So, Richard, tell me how you're feeling right now?"
"…A little confused, actually," he admitted. Something about this man's smile had put him on back on edge. "I'm sorry, but is that…is that my name written on the box you were carrying?"
Erwin could have kicked himself. Sure enough, he saw when he looked down, the kid's name was etched boldly on the top flap. "It is," he improvised quickly. "I needed copies of your medical records. They gave them to me in this box."
"…Is that why it says 'ICU' right under it? It kind of looks like an address," he pointed out, arching an eyebrow. He hated the way his voice sounded, slurred as it was from the swelling in his lip, and it certainly didn't feel good to talk, but this was getting weird.
"Those are just your records from the last few days," he lied again. "Being in ICU generates a lot of paperwork, kid. You're a bit of a hassle, you know?"
"Yeah, I kind of gathered that," Dick muttered darkly. "Look, I'm not trying to be rude or anything, but do I know you? You look really familiar."
"We've never had the pleasure," he grinned again, and Dick caught a glimpse of something sinister in his eyes. "Henry Erwin."
"Mr. Erwin, what exactly are you doing here?"
"Call me Henry."
"Henry, what exactly are you doing here? Again, not trying to be rude. Just curious."
"Aah, well, Dick – people call you Dick, right?"
"You can call me Richard." His skin was crawling. There's something about him I recognize, but from where?
Erwin stumbled for a second. He'd been warned that the kid was no dummy, but it felt like he could see right through his ruse, and that was not what he had expected. He needed the boy to be at least a little pliant, or he wouldn't get anything he could use from him. "Of course, Richard. Whatever you like. Listen, I feel like we got off on the wrong foot. Let me start over. I'm Henry Erwin." He stretched his hand out across the bed, and Dick, too well trained in etiquette by Alfred, took it, noting as he did the heavy silver ring the man wore on his middle finger. Something pinched slightly in his palm as they shook, but he wrote it off; his body had been twinging in all kinds of weird ways since he'd been stuck in bed and unable to move or exercise. "I'm with Gotham Child Protective Services. I'm here to help you" Erwin continued.
Alarm and exasperation tore through him. "CPS? Again?! You've got to be kidding me, man. Look, neither Bruce nor Alfred hit me, starve me, allow me to watch dirty movies, or let me go to bed without brushing my teeth. They don't fight, they don't do drugs, and they don't hold subversive political meetings. Is that enough for you this time around, or should I keep going?" They might not want me back, but there's no way I'm going to just sit here and let people think and say awful things about them. Especially since none of them are true.
"Whoa, now, Richard, let's not fly off the handle. I know you've had to deal with my office a lot, and I'm sure that's frustrating."
"It's more than frustrating, Mr. Erwin. It…it pisses me off." It was bizarre; he was exceptionally angry that Social Services was sticking their nose into his life again, but with every passing second he found his passion fading further and further into the background. What the hell? his bewildered mind protested in the last moment before he relaxed completely, slipping into a quietly buzzing calm.
"There, now," Erwin smiled as he watched the resentment fade from the teen's gaze. "Now that you've got that off your chest, let's have a little talk, shall we?"
"…Sure."
"I'm going to turn this recorder on. Is that all right?"
"…Sure." He clicked it on.
"Okay, Richard. Now, you're sure it's okay that I record our conversation?"
"…Sure."
"If there's anything you don't want to answer, you just say so, all right?" It all had to seem perfectly legal, just like with the other ones. He'd probably catch shit for sneaking in rather than going through Dr. Montoya, but that wouldn't be enough to have the recording dismissed. Now that the modified sedative had taken effect, he could guide their conversation easily. A little editing, if necessary, and he would have a tidy package of evidence to hand over to the court.
"…Sure."
"Tell me, Richard, how long have you lived with Bruce Wayne?" He'd found in the past that it worked best to start off easy, get their addled little brains used to answering his questions unhesitatingly before he dove into the more complex topics.
"…Six years."
"Do they feed you regularly?"
"…Yeah."
"You have your own space, a bedroom?"
"…Yeah."
"And how do you feel, living there? Do you feel welcome, wanted?"
There was a long pause. "…I used to," Dick said in a small voice.
Bingo. "You don't anymore?"
"…I don't know."
"What makes you feel less welcome at Wayne Manor, Richard?"
"…Everything's changed."
"Anything in particular?"
"…I screwed up. I broke the rules."
"What rule did you break?"
"…I'm supposed to tell him when I need to stop. I'm supposed to, but I didn't, and I got hurt."
"You're supposed to tell him when you need to stop doing what, Richard?"
"…Whatever we're doing. I'm supposed to tell him if something hurts." Erwin was getting excited; this was pure gold, although he wished the boy would go into more detail. He was tough, this one was; the other children had blabbed their hearts out at every question, but he was being conservative with the particulars. At least his emotions were clearly legitimate. At this rate I won't have to edit at all, he thought gleefully. It was a struggle to keep the pleasure out of his voice when he asked the next question.
"Are you afraid of him, Richard?"
"…I'm afraid he won't want me anymore."
"As a son, you mean?"
"…Yes. And…as a partner." Erwin was glad he wasn't doing a video recording of this interview, because his delight would have been far too obvious.
"A partner in what, Richard?"
"…So much," the boy cried out, suddenly covering his face with his hands. "…Make it stop? It hurts. I don't want to be in bed any more, Bruce. Make it stoooop…" He was holding his head now, his eyes rolling, and Erwin knew that he was starting to overcome the controlling effects of the serum. It was wearing off much faster than it had in any of the others he'd had to use it on, but then this boy had been suspicious before he'd been drugged, giving him a stronger foundation from which to launch an offensive. He needed just one more thing from him…
"One last question, Richard. Who hit you?"
"…What do you want from me?"
"Who hit you?"
"…Why do you look so familiar?" Damn. Going to have to make a cut after all, Erwin grimaced.
"Richard, who hit you?" he tried a final time.
"…I don't know! Leave me alone. Bruce…"
"Would you like me to call a nurse for you?"
"…Bruce, I'm sorry...I failed you…so useless…"
The last thing he let be recorded was the slight tone that sounded when he pressed the call button. Placing the buzzer at the now sobbing teen's side, he picked up the box, pushed his chair against the wall, and left quickly, headed for the back staircase. There was no reason to fear that the boy would say something to the nurse; the aftereffects of the sedative were an immediate deep sleep, very little memory, and a general lethargy that could go on for days after the drug was administered. By the time he felt like talking again, he probably wouldn't even recall that he'd had a visitor.
The RN who rounded the corner in response to the call had just come on shift, relieving her exhausted colleague, who had reported nothing unusual on the floor. She was startled to find Dick in such an awful state, moaning and begging his guardian's name, completely unsoothable. He'd been so cooperative and polite up to that point in spite of his illness that she could only attribute the change to intense discomfort. His chart indicated that he was due for another round of painkillers, so she didn't hesitate to give them to him before checking his stitches and taking his vitals, frowning at the high temperature he couldn't seem to shake. It was technically only a low-grade fever, but it was up a little bit from the last round, and on top of everything else his body was trying to repair it was cause for concern. By the time she had finished making her notes, her patient was unconscious again, knocked out, she assumed, by the strong cocktail of drugs she'd poured into his veins. Smiling at him softly – you're going to be a real ladykiller in a few more years, sweetie – she pulled the blankets up and turned down the lights.
She never had any idea that someone had been in the room with him less than a minute before she arrived.