Warning: Language . . .
It was still daylight when Bruce carried Dick up to his room. They had spent the day in Bruce's study after the boy's CT scan. He felt they had both craved the security of the familiar by the time they had gotten back to the manor, and Dick's gauze blindfold finally came off.
The boy's appetite had yet to be revived unless one set a steaming mug of broth beneath his nose, at which point he would try to gulp the entire contents down. Bruce had to constantly remind him to sip the broth if he didn't want to end up in the bathroom. In the end, however, Dick couldn't manage to take more than a half a mug before his eyes would droop, and he would snuggle up against Bruce's chest or rest his head on the man's leg and drop off for another hour of sleep. It didn't bother the man because he, too, would fall to sleep within minutes of the boy.
So far, the catnaps had been peaceful. No nightmares to plague the child or haunt Bruce. He prayed that it would continue that way, but knew that it was only exhaustion that kept the bad dreams at bay.
Opening the door to the room across from his own, Bruce threw on the light. "So, what do you think? Does it look familiar to you?"
Dick looked around the room, curiously. From his expression, nothing jumped out at him. It was strange that the boy would remember Bruce's study over the room that the child slept in, but then Dick did spend half his time sleeping in Bruce's bed after a nightmare had awoken him. The nighttime events were a common occurrence in the household, unfortunately.
A gasp brought Bruce to a halt. He glanced around, looking for whatever had caught the boy's eye. There! On the wall across from his bed was the poster Haley had given the child the night CPS had taken him away. It advertised the acrobatic act of The Flying Graysons. In it, Dick's own silhouette was featured prominently between those of his parents.
Was this it? Would he remember finally the deaths of the two most important people in his life? Bruce tightened his hold on the child, hoping to support him in his new-found grief.
"That's cool," the boy said. "Did I know them?"
Startled, Bruce pulled back to look at the boy. "What?"
He pointed at the poster.
Bruce sighed, setting Dick down on the bed. "Dick," he explained. "This is a poster of your family's act. Don't you remember me telling you that John and Mary Grayson were acrobats?"
Dick frowned, staring at the poster. "Ye-ess," he admitted slowly. "But I thought it might be someone else since there are three people in it."
He couldn't help it, Bruce's mouth dropped open. "Dick, that third person is you!"
"Seriously?" Dick looked stunned. "I was an acrobat?"
Bruce sat down next to him on the bed, the boy scrambling back a bit to make room. "Dick, you say you remember being Robin. What exactly do you remember about Robin?"
"It's my name," he said, simply. "Or it is my name when I wear a mask."
"Do you know why you wear a mask?"
Dick frowned. "Jeremy said that Batman and I would hang out together and catch bad guys and criminals. I guess we wore masks so those guys wouldn't recognize us."
Jeremy said . . . This was the second time Jeremy was referenced when it came to his knowledge of Robin. "Dick, do you remember nothing about doing those things?"
Dick finally noticed how serious Bruce became and quieted. He bit his lip nervously. Bruce almost cursed when he saw the fear return.
"Dick, tell me what you remember."
"I-I remember sawdust," he began slowly. "I remember animals. I remember crowds of people smiling and clapping. I remember sparkly costumes and . . . and . . ." his face scrunched up. He shook his head.
"And what," Bruce prompted.
"I remember a pretty lady baking in a tiny kitchen. And a man with a . . . He had hair on his lip," Dick laid a finger across his upper lip.
"A moustache," Bruce supplied.
"A moustache," Dick repeated. "He was swinging on a bar."
"A trapeze," Bruce murmured.
"And him telling me to jump; that he would always be there to catch me if I fell." Dick looked down at his hands in his lap. He sucked in a shaky breath, and closed his eyes tight.
"What else do you remember?"
Dick shook his head violently, and then after a moment, he seemed to relax, his breathing calmed. "I remember you in the study working . . . At your desk."
Bruce frowned. He remembered nothing else about his family and the circus?
"I remember Alfred standing in a big kitchen making cookies. And you reading the paper at the breakfast table . . . And you sitting on this bed beside me, reading me a book," Dick was talking a bit faster now.
"I remember . . . You walking through the front door with a . . . suitcase?"
"A briefcase. I carry important papers to and from the office in it." Bruce nodded.
I remember . . . Alfred dusting. Riding in the back of a car, like the one we rode in earlier. I remember you standing at the front door wearing a fancy suit as Alfred fixed your tie . . ."
Bruce tilted his head in thought. He remembered twice as much about being here with him and Alfred than he did about the circus and his family. But he seemed to withdraw from the memories rather than being unable to remember them. And then there was the fact that he hadn't mentioned anything about Batman or being Robin in his accounting. Bruce began to think that Dick's amnesia was something more than the result of an injury. Perhaps Leslie was right in that his amnesia was related more to his emotional trauma than to his physical one.
As he watched, a tear dripped off of his face and plopped onto the back of his hand. No one moved as the droplet slid over the curve of his hand; picking up speed as the angle increased. And then . . . A soft voice whispered from that bowed head.
"Why couldn't you be my dad?"
And just like that Bruce's heart broke.
He reached for the boy and the same time Dick launched himself at him. He held the boy as he sobbed against his shoulder; rocking him, and murmuring softly words meant to comfort.
"You came for me," he sobbed harder. It was difficult to understand him, but once Bruce did, the words became etched in his heart. "You found me when I needed you! You beat up those bad guys, and took me away from them . . . You brought me home . . . You kept me safe!"
Dick hugged Bruce with a desperate strength that was surprising when one considered his condition. He held on like he was never letting go. Bruce held him close, one hand reaching up to cup his head in its large palm as he continued to rock the child.
"It was you who was there to catch me when I fell . . ." He cried. "You saved me! He didn't!"
More than anything, Bruce didn't want to speak. He didn't want to tell him, but he didn't have a choice. He couldn't let Dick think that his parents didn't love him enough to come for him when he was hurt and scared.
"He would have come for you, Dick, if he could have," Bruce told him. "If he'd been able to, he would have caught you."
Dick looked up at Bruce right then; those lovely blue eyes so full of pain. "But he didn't," he said, sadly. "He couldn't . . . He couldn't because he couldn't even save himself! He couldn't even save Mom! He couldn't catch anyone because he fell! He's dead, and he won't ever be there to catch me again!"
So he did remember. Bruce tugged him tight against his chest. "I'm sorry, Dick. But it wasn't his fault. There was nothing he could do. Nothing anyone could do . . ."
"You could have . . ." came a watery voice; soft again as the violence of his earlier declarations receded.
"I . . . I should have, I know, chum." Pain lanced through his heart at that tiny accusation like a bullet.
"If you fell . . ." the voice continued. "If it had been you who fell, you could have caught yourself. You would have been able to save yourself, and probably Mom, too! You wouldn't have left me . . . You would have still been able to be there to catch me when I needed you."
Thin arms tightened their hold on him, as Bruce began to understand. It hadn't been an accusation, but a comparison . . .
"I want you to be my dad."
For the second time in twenty-four hours, Dick had managed to render him speechless.
Bruce didn't think the first time Robin had called him Dad when he was still inside that cage he had remembered that his first family had perished. No, he had still been too confused, and going on the faulty speculations that Jeremy Cantor had given him.
This revelation had obviously come later. He had never said a word about remembering it though, but had kept it to himself as he pondered the implications left by that long-ago tragedy. But somewhere along the line the blame in his mind had shifted. He wasn't thinking that Zucco had taken his parents away, or that Batman should have somehow been there to save them. Instead, he was blaming his father for not being able to save himself and because of that inability; he had left his young son at the uncertain mercies of an uncaring world.
"Ah, Dick," he said to him. "There is nothing I'd like more . . . But Gotham's courts . . ."
Dick pulled back, interrupting him. "Good," he grinned, wiping at the tear tracks on his cheeks with the back of one hand. "It's settled, then . . . Dad!"
"What?"
Bruce had gotten lost somewhere. When had it been settled? The courts had refused his original petition for adoption because of his marital status, or rather because of his lack of one. The best he could hope for was the judge allowing him to remain the boy's permanent guardian. He, of course, just discovered that the guardianship wasn't enough for him either, but he didn't want to get the boy's hopes up only to have them crushed under Gotham's Child Protective Services figurative boot heel.
"What," Dick repeated, happily. "I want you to be my dad, and you said you wanted for me to be your son . . ." The smile faltered, and doubt entered those blue, blue eyes. "Didn't you mean that?"
Bruce hated that uncertain flicker of fear that he spotted. "Of course, I did," and it was true. "But it is Gotham's court system and Child Protective Services that have the final say in it. They aren't thrilled even that I am your guardian. They think you should be placed with a family that has both a father and a mother."
Dick frowned, and Bruce instantly missed that glimpse of happiness he had been given. "Could they take me away?"
"No!" Bruce answered instantly, and then groaned. "I mean, technically yes. But not unless it can be proven that I am unfit."
Dick tilted his head at that. "I don't get it. How can they do that?"
"They would need to prove I was abusing you or that you were being neglected, which," he sighed, "is pretty much the same thing."
"Then there is nothing to worry about," Dick smiled.
It warmed his heart to see. "Except if word got out about your injuries. Leslie put it forward that you were in an accident while riding your quad bike. But if anyone got a good look at that hand print on your chest and all those bruises . . . CPS would have you out of here in a heartbeat. And that is but another reason we wear masks. Can you imagine what would happen if people knew we were Batman and Robin? I would be behind bars for more than being a vigilante."
"But you being Batman should make me the safest kid in the world!"
Bruce shook his head. "That I allow you to be Robin at all would say otherwise. Dick, there are child endangerment laws that I ignore every time I let you put on your mask. If people knew . . . Well, it would be a witch hunt. And, to tell the truth, I have no defense against it."
Dick was incensed on his behalf. "But you've trained me! You've shown me how to protect myself and be safe out there!"
"For the most part, chum, but let's not forget the past week. I train you and give you rules to follow to help you be safer, but it doesn't make you safe." Bruce waved a hand that encompassed all of Dick's body. "Case in point."
"That's not fair!"
"That's not the issue. Life isn't safe, and exposing you to the criminal elements on an almost nightly basis is not making it any safer for you."
"What are you trying to say," Dick asked; his eyes huge in his face. "That I can't be Robin anymore?"
Bruce looked at him seriously. "Do you even still want to be Robin anymore? That should be the question you should be asking. I don't even know how much you remember of it."
"I . . . I remember . . . enough," Dick muttered, looking down again.
Bruce sighed, scooting the boy the rest of the way off of his lap and back onto the bed. He stood up. "Look, this isn't even something we should be discussing on your first night home. As of right now, being Robin is a non-issue until you've had a chance to recover."
He picked the boy up, and carried him to the adjoining bathroom to brush his teeth. Dick usually managed his own nighttime ritual on his own, or if he needed help, Alfred was on hand. But Bruce had a feeling that he would be in Dick's back pocket for a while; following him around until this ice that hadn't left his veins in almost a week's time finally melted.
The boy's weakness was pressed upon him once more when Dick couldn't manage to untwist the cap on his toothpaste by himself. He was swaying on the counter next to his sink. Bruce gave the lid a little turn, grunting as if it were difficult for him as well, and gave it back to him. Just the act of brushing his teeth, exhausted the boy, particularly after that painful crying jag earlier.
Bruce helped him wash the tear stains from his face, and then tried to wipe off some of the toothpaste drips than dotted his pajama top. He grunted in disgust as he looked at the now soaked top. He had only made it worse.
"Come on," Bruce said, sweeping the giggling child off of the counter and into his room. "Let's get you changed into some fresh pajamas. You can't sleep in something wet."
He set Dick on the bed, and moved to his dresser; pulling random drawers open until he found the one he was looking for. Bruce pursed his lips as he looked at the Superman logo pajamas lying on top of the pile in a place of honor. He still wanted to strangle Alfred for buying them for him. But they were Dick's favorite pajamas . . . He almost wished he wasn't so paranoid, so he could buy Dick Batman pajamas instead. They had them in the stores. He secretary had showed him a pair that she had bought her nephew for his birthday during her lunch hour.
He shook the thought away. The boy would freeze in his wet clothes while he contemplated how to strangle a two hundred and sixty pound alien without the aid of kryptonite. He snatched up the pajamas, and shook them out.
A huge gasp had him swinging around, looking for the threat; Dick's pajamas hanging loosely in one hand.
Dick's eyes were enormous; filled with stark terror, and staring . . . Staring . . . At what? He looked down at the innocent blue and red pajamas with Superman's logo all over them, and back up at Dick just as he screamed. And screamed. And screamed again.
"DICK!" Bruce dropped the clothes and leapt for the boy. He caught him by his shoulders and gaped in horror at the pain and sheer terror on Dick's face. The boy's eyes fought to focus on his, pleading with Bruce to not let him fall . . .
His hands were clawing at his pajama top – No! At his chest! The screams stopped only to be replaced with rapid-fire gasps as the boy began hyperventilating. He fell back onto the bed, seizing up; his body rigid!
"ALFRED," he roared, just as the butler came bursting through the door.
"Alfred, oh, God, help me," He begged. "I think we just found the second trigger!"
Dick's eyes rolled back into his head as he lost consciousness, and collapsed.
"NO! SHIT!" Bruce cursed. "NO, DAMN IT!"
Alfred checked the boy's pulse in his wrist. After a few seconds, he reached for the pulse in his neck, before finally laying his head over the boy's chest. He yanked the boy up and laid him on the floor.
"He's going into cardiac arrest. His heart is merely fluttering; not capable of pushing blood throughout the body," Alfred explained as he ripped the pajama top open. "BRUCE! I need you to start CPR on him right now!"
Bruce, still stunned at the suddenness and speed of the attack, groped desperately in an effort to follow the elder man's instructions. Had this been a physical attack by an armed thug, he wouldn't have blinked before leaping into action, but this! This left him feeling shocked and helpless.
He placed his hand on top of the hated hand print and started chest compressions. He glanced up as the butler pushed his way to his feet and ran toward the door.
"Wait! Where are you going? Alfred!"
Alfred didn't pause, but yelled over his shoulder. "To the Batcave! I need the AED from the medical bay, and the epinephrine. It's the boy's only hope!"
Bruce paused to adjust Dick's head to open an airway. He pinched Dick's nostrils, and breathed for him – once, then twice! Back to the compressions . . . One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand . . . Until he reached thirty. Then it was back to his head. Open the airway, breathe, breathe, repeat the chest compressions.
"Come on, Dick! Come on! I swear to you that I won't let you fall, but you can't give up! You can't let that bastard win . . . Please! Don't leave me," Bruce begged.
Breathe, breathe, repeat . . .
Breathe, breathe, repeat . . .
Reactions? Come on, give me your honest opinions . . . Another chapter is on the way, I promise. Check in later tonight for the second part to this cliffhanger. Just how many times can he go through this, you have to wonder? Thank God, it's fiction!