"Good afternoon, Master Wayne," Alfred nodded as Bruce walked in from the driveway.

"Hey, Alfred." The door shut behind him, and he stood for a moment to listen to the house. When the pitter-patter of eager footsteps didn't reach his ears, he frowned. "...Where's kiddo?"

"You've preempted my news, sir. The young master is upstairs in his bed with what he claims is a rather nasty stomach ache."

"Ooh," the billionaire moaned in commiseration. "Is he throwing up?"

"No, although he really did seem to be experiencing a great deal of discomfort. The only thing I can imagine it being is a virus of some sort, since I've fed him nothing unusual and he says he performed certain bathroom tasks only this morning."

"...Huh. That's not exactly what I was hoping to come home to, to be honest."

"I didn't imagine that it was, sir. Nevertheless, your arrival is certain to brighten his mood. In fact-"

"...Bruce?" a miserable little whisper fell from the upper landing. The summoned man looked up to find a pale, pointed face peeking out between the banister's uprights, and his sympathy deepened.

"Right here, chum. Let me kick my shoes off and I'll come straight up, okay? Just a sec."

"Okay..."

"I'll take your briefcase and jacket, sir," Alfred offered immediately.

"Good," he nodded, handing them over. In the interest of time he didn't bother to bend over and untie his shoes, but simply pried them off and left them where they fell. "On my way," he called as he began to climb the stairs. "...Hey, there," his voice softened as he knelt beside the crouching child. "I heard you're feeling kind of sick. What's up?"

"M'stomach hurts," a pout came back. "I missed you..."

"Yeah? I missed you, too. I'll tell you what, though," he leaned closer, "now that I'm home I'll sit next to you and read to you, if you want. It might help take your mind off of your stomach. What do you think?"

A sniffle sounded, and Bruce almost winced under the tear-filled gaze that was turned up to him. "...'Th-th-three Musketeers'?" he queried.

"You bet, Dicky-bird. Anything you want."

"Okay..."

"Good. Do you want to walk back to your room, or-" Before he could finish the question, Dick had unwrapped his arms from around his midsection and stretched them forward in a silent request to be carried. "I guess that answers that," he smiled, sweeping him up carefully. "Now, back to bed we go."

As he carried him down the hall, he couldn't help but worry. For his son to want carried was one thing, but for him to stay stiff once he'd been lifted was something else. Frowning, he carted him into his room and set him down atop the already-mussed quilt. "You're sure it's just your stomach?" he asked, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "Your muscles are all locked up."

"I just didn't want it to h-hurt." The child hiccupped, then moaned in pain. "Ooowwwiee...Bruuuce..."

"Hush, baby. Hush," he pulled him close again. "You're okay. You want to lay down?"

"...I dunno..."

"Let's try it, huh? We'll get you laying down," he tilted the tensed body backward until he found the pillow, "and tucked in," the blanket came up to the quivering chin, "and then we'll rejoin the Musketeers."

"Mmph..."

"Just try to relax," he murmured as he bent to retrieve their latest adventure from the nightstand. They had decided a few weeks earlier that it was easiest for Dick to read one book on his own and save another to be worked through at bedtime. Otherwise the boy tore in two or three days through stories that would have lasted weeks if they'd been taken at the rate of a chapter a night, and Bruce was left feeling like he'd missed out. "Here we go..." Please let this work, he pleaded silently, and began to read. "'In the meantime, the forty pistoles of King Louis XIII, like all other things of this world, after having had a beginning had an end...'"

He went on for a spell, letting Alexandre Dumas explain the hungry plight of the Musketeers and the sudden appeal for their aid that was made by a citizen whose wife had been abducted. The crime, at least, seemed to catch the ill child's interest, and his uncomfortable shifting calmed. "'And who is the person whom you suspect?'" D'Artagnan was just inquiring when a knock at the door interrupted. Cutting off, he shook his head, shot Dick an apologetic look, and turned. "Alfred? What's up?"

"I beg your pardon, sir, but I'm afraid I must impose long enough to ask Master Dick a question." Stepping further into the room, he peered down at his unwell charge with such a furrow in his brow that Bruce felt his concern spike anew. "...Young sir, I happened to be putting away the car just now, and I noted something odd. Do you know what it was?"

"Um...what was it?" Dick answered, licking his lips.

"The front tire of your bicycle is flat, and the rim is slightly bent, as well. Have you any idea how that might have happened?" The butler's tone was gentle, but there was an edge beneath the velvet that warned he wouldn't stand for a lie. "It must have occurred this morning, since you said you were going out to ride your bike a bit after breakfast."

"I...uh..." It hadn't seemed possible for the boy to grow any paler, but he managed it as he lay under the gazes of his caretakers. His lower lip vanished between his teeth, and his freshly-dried eyes grew moist again. "'M sorry..."

"...Dicky, we don't know what you're sorry for," Bruce peered down at him. "What happened?"

"I..." A sob escaped, followed by a yelp. "I didn't mean to break it, honest I didn't! I didn't, Bruce, I-"

"Hush," he shook his head. "I know you didn't mean to break it." The idea hadn't crossed his mind. The child might have been hesitant when he'd been given the bicycle two months before, but he'd taken to it quickly. According to Alfred he'd ridden it almost every day since mastering it, and more than once the billionaire had passed time on the front steps watching him pedal back and forth happily. "I'm not worried about the bike, we can get that fixed. I just want to know what happened."

"I...I just...I just had a...a crash," a sigh answered finally.

"A crash?"

"Uh-huh."

"How did that happen?"

"I f-found some stuff near where I keep my bike. Some boards and stuff. And...well, did you know that if you ride up a hill really...really fast...you can sort of fly for a second off the top of it?"

"Yeees," he drew out, beginning to sense where the explanation was leading. It was difficult to push a bike up a hill at high speed, he recalled, and he suspected that the boy would have gone looking for other methods of catching air before long. "Were you trying to replicate that by building a ramp?"

"Um...yes. It worked really good," Dick swore. "But it got kind of boring doing it on flat ground, so...so I put the ramp at the bottom of the little hill behind the garage. You know the one?"

"I do. Go on." Right where the building pad ends, he quailed. That' s so steep…

"Well...I put it there, and I started to go down towards it, but...it made me go really fast. Too fast. I...I got scared," he confessed, looking away, "and I...I braked. But I went off the ramp anyway, and...and the wheel got all crunched. I didn't mean it, I didn't, I just got scared, and I didn't want to tell you because I didn't want you to think I did it on p-p-purpose...!"

"Okay," Bruce soothed, his mouth working. "Okay, kiddo. It's okay. I know you didn't do it on purpose. I know. Hush." Turning, he met Alfred's troubled gaze. "...Does that make sense with the damage you found?"

"It does indeed, but as you said I am not worried about the bicycle. Master Dick, tell me; could there be any special reason why you came in complaining about your stomach hurting not too terribly long after you went outside to play?"

The boy's face crumbled anew, and Bruce felt his own stomach sink. "...You didn't get hurt, did you?"

"It's not...I mean...it just hurts from the handlebars, but...I'm okay. It just hurts. That's all."

The mattress shifted as Alfred sat. "I'm afraid I have to look at your stomach, young sir," he intoned.

"But it hurts..."

"That's why I must look at it."

"Bruce-"

"Not a chance, chum," he cut off the plea for amnesty. "You've got to let him look. We have to make sure you didn't do any damage to your organs." Ruptured stomachs, busted spleens, and bruised intestines all danced behind his eyes in a macabre spectacle of internal injury, and it took all he had to hold back a shudder. The logical part of him knew that none of those things were likely – the boy was clearly in pain, but major problems like the ones he was envisioning would have left him screaming on the ground until Alfred found him – but he fretted nonetheless. "It's okay, I won't go anywhere. I'll stay right here. Just be a brave little bird and let Alfred look."

"...Okay..."

"Very good," the butler nodded as he pulled back the covers. "Hmm," he breathed a moment later when a mass of bruising was unveiled.

Oh, baby, Bruce wanted to cry. No wonder you're so needy this afternoon. That must hurt like a bitch. Even if there was no harm done beneath the florid purple and black welt running an inch above his son's navel, the area was going to be tight and sensitive for days. "Why didn't you say something, Dicky?" he moaned as Alfred began to prod around the injury.

"I...I didn't want you to be mad about the bike. I know it was expensive, Bruce, and I – owie! – I broke it. And...and I was thinking about CPS. They'll be mad if they find out, so I...I thought if you didn't know about it, and then they found it first somehow, you wouldn't have to – owowow! – lie and they couldn't...couldn't blame you."

...Margine Randall, I will curse your name until the day I die for putting thoughts like that into his head, the billionaire fumed. "Okay," he blew a breath out between pursed lips, trying to bring himself back under control. "Okay. I understand why you were worried about CPS, but we probably would have gotten in more trouble for not knowing. Especially," he glanced nervously towards Alfred, "if there's anything other than a big bruise. As for the bike, we'll get it fixed. I know you didn't do it on purpose. Sometimes things happen, and it's just an accident. You shouldn't have been going off of ramps without permission and supervision, but...we hadn't technically told you not to before, so I can't really say you broke the rules. Just think about things before you do them from now on, and ask one of us before you start anything that might end in you getting hurt, okay? I know this thing up here works," he tapped the child's forehead with one finger, "so put it to use next time."

"...Okay. I'm sorry, Bruce, honest. Ow!"

"Despite your pain, young sir," Alfred announced as he tugged the blankets back into place, "I don't think you caused any internal damage. I'll see if Dr. Thompkins can stop out this evening just to be safe – it will be good to have her involved in any case, if only in case of issues with Social Services – but I believe you've merely given yourself an extremely uncomfortable contusion."

Bruce almost slumped in relief. Then he steeled himself and delivered what he was sure was going to be badly received news. "You know what that means," he squeezed his hand. "No training until Alfred says you're okay to do so."

"What about paperwork, and studying?" As he'd expected would be the case, Dick was instantly wide-eyed and begging. "I can do those with my stomach hurting."

"...No," he shook his head. "I'm sure you could physically, but there's the little issue of you having lied about an injury."

"But telling you when I'm hurt is a cave rule!"

"It's an all-the-time rule. How can we take care of you if we don't know when there's something wrong?"

"I...but...Bruce, please?"

The boy's infamous pout appeared, and he nearly wavered. Alfred cleared his throat quietly, however, and his resolved hardened despite the fact that his heart was melting under Dick's look. "No. If you had told us what happened earlier, maybe you could have done paperwork while you're recovering. Since you didn't tell us, and since you sort of lied about it on top of that, you have to deal with the penalties. I'm sorry," he cupped his cheek. "I don't like it, either. We were just starting to get into the good stuff."

"I know...I'm sorry, Bruce, honest," Dick repeated himself.

"I know you are, but the ruling stands. No cave for a week, and no training up here until Alfred says it's safe. Got it?"

A hefty sigh echoed through the room. "...Got it. I'm sorry to you too, Alfred. I didn't want to not tell you, but...you know. What I said before."

"I accept your apology, young sir. Let's just make sure that another one of this sort isn't required again in the future, hmm?"

"...Okay."

"Good." The butler patted one blanketed knee, then stood. "I'll go ahead and call Dr. Thompkins. I assume you don't mind if I hold dinner until she arrives, Master Wayne?"

"So long as she gets here before midnight, that's fine." He didn't particularly care to dine with any company other than that of the child whose hair he had resumed stroking, but Alfred would lecture him about propriety and common courtesy if he refused. Lacking the energy to withstand such a talking-to after the discovery he'd come home to, he held his tongue.

"Excellent. Young sir, you will tell one of us immediately if your pain worsens, if you begin to feel nauseous, or if you notice blood when you use the bathroom. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Alfred. I promise."

"Excellent. I'll leave you to get back to your story, then."

When the older man had gone, Dick sniffled and tried to wriggle closer to his guardian. He didn't make it far before his bruises drew a groan, which Bruce imitated sadly. "...Do you want to keep reading?" he asked. "It might help like it did before."

"I'm sleepy. Would Alfred be mad if I took a nap?"

"No, chum, I don't think he would be."

"Um..."

"Um what?"

"...Are you mad at me? Like, for...for anything?"

"No, kiddo. I'm sad that you didn't feel like you could tell us what happened, and I'm upset that you got hurt, but I'm not mad."

"And…and you're not angry about the ramp?"

"…About the ramp?" he puzzled.

"Because I…I got scared?"

"Dicky…no. I'm not angry that you got scared. You were going too fast, and you tried to save yourself; how could I be angry at you for that?"

"You promise?"

"I promise," he swore. "I'm not mad. Okay?"

"...Okay. Then...would you lay down with me? Please?"

"I want to, but I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't. You could just lay down and then I'll snuggle up. That way I can make sure it doesn't hurt." The pout reappeared. "Pretty please, Bruce? You make everything feel better."

That was a damned hard compliment to say no to, and it didn't help matters that he hadn't been inclined to refuse to begin with. Only his fear of causing more pain had held him back, but if Dick was sure... "You have to promise to tell me if I bump you on accident or anything," he warned.

"I will. I promise. Please?"

Smiling, he lay down and gestured him forward. "C'mere, troublemaker."

"Troublemaker? Yuck. I don't like that name."

"Then quit making trouble," Bruce whispered against the baby-shampoo-scented scalp that had nested itself beneath his chin. "...I'm teasing you. You're not a troublemaker. You're good, you just slip up sometimes."

"I know. I'm sooooooorry," the last word extended under a massive yawn.

"It's okay. Just go to sleep, huh?"

"Mmkay...Bruce?"

"Mm?"

"'M glad you're not mad…"

"I'm glad you're not hurt worse," he murmured back. "Now go to sleep."

Dick passed into slumber, but Bruce's eyes stayed open as he meditated on the exponential increase in the number of surprises he'd come home to since the boy had joined the household. Today's had been one of the few bad ones, and he supposed he was lucky to have the ratio he did so far, but it was still remarkable. "Surprisemaker's a better name for you," he breathed as he squeezed the figure in his arms cautiously. "...Let's just make sure the next one's a good one."

With that sentiment, he chased his son into the arms of Morpheus.