Note: Thanks for the review, usagipoints! :)

Trigger Warning! Not-very-graphic physical abuse and a little verbal/emotional abuse in this chapter.

Office of Greg Makov – eight o'clock:

Greg had just arrived in his office. He needed to organize his notes – both paper and mental – that he had recorded during these last few days before his appointment with Bruce Wayne.

Clark Kent and Dr. Leslie Thompkins were both reputable professionals and Greg trusted them. Kent had made some very good points and one of them stood out to Greg like a lighthouse in a storm – why would Bruce Wayne jeopardize his own happiness by giving his ward a harsh punishment? If the millionaire was happy, that meant he cared about the boy. And if he cared about the boy, there was no logical reason for him to shoot Dick. Therefore, Bruce Wayne was telling the truth about Dick's kidnapping. Which meant that Bruce had not shot Dick.

Alfred had been very informative while giving Greg a tour of Wayne Manor. The social worker had been surprised when the butler had specifically pointed out that Dick's room was right next door to that of Bruce. Greg had assumed that the 'selfish playboy' – as Susan had called Bruce – would want his own space and not want to be bothered while sleeping. But if the boy had nightmares, as a stunned Bruce had mentioned the other night, then that same 'selfish' man would be woken up every time. So, clearly, Bruce either cared about Dick or was such a deep sleeper that a child screaming in fear didn't even wake him up. Greg was leaning toward the former.

It was obvious that Bruce would be able to help Dick with certain emotions. Greg knew the millionaire's backstory, as did everyone else in Gotham City, and Dick's was a near-perfect match. But, did Bruce allow his anger at what had happened to him affect how he treated Dick? Emotional stability was important for a ten-year-old boy, and Greg wasn't quite sure where to put Bruce on that scale. Yet.

Finally, Greg had to admit, he had walked into this situation with a lot of preconceptions. It hadn't been his fault, he had just been going off of Susan's notes at the beginning, but the fact that Dick wasn't at Wayne Manor was his fault. The man also had to admit to himself that if he had gone to the house of a regular family and heard them yelling at each other, he would not have jumped to the conclusion that the kids weren't safe with their parents. As Clark, Bruce, and even Dick had said: everyone has arguments. And, as Greg well knew from his personal experiences, sometimes arguments can become loud.

Sighing, Greg thought about his interview with Dick. The way the boy's gaze had flicked toward Matilda before he replied to the statement about her cuddling; the 'sir' coming out of his mouth almost every time he said something; the lack of hesitation when answering questions, except that one time at the end when he and Dick were alone on the porch.

And the emotions that were bursting out of those expressive eyes. Greg had pondered that expression during the long drive back to his office and decided that his interpretation was correct. Determination, desperation and, at the very last moment of his interview, fear. But the man could come up with no logical reason why. The Dunstons had been taking Greg's cases for years and no other child had ever seemed afraid.

Dick was only ten, though, so maybe that was part of it. The Dunstons were used to teenagers, not ten-year-old boys, and hadn't raised any of their own kids. Maybe they weren't as confident in their abilities to take care of a younger child and their uncertainty was rubbing off on the boy. Or, perhaps they had been frustrated about something he hadn't understood just because he wasn't a teenager. But Greg was positive that Jasper and Matilda would never harm even a hair on the head of any child Greg placed with them. They were nice people and he had no evidence of any wrongdoing on their part. So, logically, Dick was scared because he was ten and didn't know them very well yet.

But…desperate?

Greg put that back in the file cabinet in his mind. It was time to go see Bruce Wayne and take a look at the video of the alleged slap.

He arrived at Wayne Manor at exactly ten o'clock. Alfred opened the door before Greg had a chance to ring the bell.

"Good morning, Mr. Makov," the butler said pleasantly. "Master Bruce is waiting for you in the gym. The video is ready to play in the study but he wants to show you a few things first."

"Good morning to you, Mr. Pennyworth. Lead the way, please."

"If you would like, you may call me Alfred, Mr. Makov."

"Only if you call me Greg," the man stated with a grin.

"Very well," the butler replied with an inaudible sigh. "Follow me, please."

Alfred led the social worker down the hall and into the gym. Bruce was sitting on the same bench Susan had been sitting on when she had interviewed Dick.

He stood up and held out his hand when Greg walked in. Greg reciprocated and Bruce motioned to the bench.

"Have a seat, Greg, so I can show you something."

Nodding, the man sat down where Dick had been sitting on that day. Bruce walked to his left and pointed up at the ceiling.

"You see that?" he asked.

Greg squinted his eyes and searched the corner. There was some sort of tiny, black object situated on the wall but Greg had no idea what it was.

"It's a camera," Bruce answered the unasked question after seeing the confusion on the other man's face.

"Okay," Greg commented.

"It's always on and when the tape is full it is immediately, and automatically, transferred to a server. I won't go into all the technical details. I just need you to know that there is no way for anybody to alter the date or time of any video that comes out of that camera. Or any other camera in my house."

"Okay," the social worker repeated.

"Susan was sitting right here," Bruce explained as he sat down, "and Dick was sitting right where you are now. I just want you to know the layout, so you don't have to try to figure out the location of everything when you watch the video."

Greg nodded then asked, "Is Dick working on that with you?"

He was pointing to Alfred's half-painted mural on the wall.

"He…was," Bruce replied softly.

"Does he enjoy painting?"

"Yes, but it's not something he would choose to do on his own. He would rather read a book or play a game or do something involving a lot of movement," the millionaire replied with a slight grin. "But Alfred drew it so we were painting it. Together."

"Hmmm," Greg murmured thoughtfully. "May I see the video now?"

"Of course, this way," Bruce responded as he stood up. "How is Dick?"

"He seems to be doing fine. I talked to him with the family and I talked to him alone. He is uninjured and had no problem answering questions. I can tell by your face that you are worried about that."

Bruce was surprised that Greg had noticed his expression of apprehension.

"How well do you know this family, Greg?"

"I've been working with them for many years. And I've never had any problems with any of the children that have been placed there. You have no reason to worry, Bruce. They are kind people and would never hurt him."

"You're absolutely sure?"

"Yes," Greg replied firmly. "Absolutely."

Bruce nodded again and led Greg into his study. There were two chairs set up in front of the TV and Bruce offered one to Greg before sitting down himself. He really didn't want to watch this again but he also didn't really have a choice.

Alfred pressed 'play' and the interview began. Greg listened carefully and disbelief began growing in his chest. Dick had been telling the truth; Susan was deliberately trying to turn around everything the boy was saying. She was attempting to trip him up and paint Bruce in a very bad light.

"It's my responsibility to get on the bus!"

"So he's neglected to teach you responsibility, then."

How could she do that to a ten-year-old child?! Greg was growing more incredulous with every word. Susan was one of the best social workers he had ever known, yet here she was confusing the poor boy because of a personal grudge.

And then it happened. Susan said something about selfishness but that flew out of Greg's mind when he saw what happened next.

Dick yelled, "He's not selfish and you're bringing your personal feelings into what is supposed to be a conversation about how I'm doing! You don't even care about me!"

And Susan, without hesitation, had slapped him so hard it had whipped the boy's chin over his shoulder. It was the type of slap a woman should use on someone who was attacking her, not someone who was mad because of the way she was questioning him! And most certainly not a ten-year-old child!

Bruce had jumped to his feet and was pacing with his jaw clenched but Greg didn't even notice. Now he was listening to one of his colleagues commanding one of her children to keep quiet about what had just happened.

The video stopped and Greg sat frozen in horror. He finally noticed the agitated pacing of the man beside him and completely understood why. If someone had slapped his child like that, Greg would have done more than just pace.

"I would like to see what happens next," he said quietly, his voice slightly shaky.

Alfred glanced at Bruce, who nodded and sat back down. Greg watched Bruce storm into the room and demand that Susan leave and take herself off the case. He noticed the other man's eyes give Dick a once-over before he began speaking to the woman. Bruce had checked on Dick first; the boy had been his first priority. Any doubts about the millionaire fled when Greg watched him sit down and carefully examine the small cheek that was now red. There was no way that this man, now gently holding the boy in his arms, was a danger to that very boy.

Alfred stopped the tape again and Greg glanced sideways at Bruce. The millionaire was slouched in his chair, an elbow on the arm of the chair and his forehead resting on his hand. It had obviously been difficult for Bruce to watch and, again, Greg completely understood why.

"It seems that, um, some things have been taken out of context," Greg stated softly.

"You think?" Bruce mumbled sarcastically.

Alfred quietly cleared his throat and the millionaire immediately sat up.

"I'm sorry," Bruce said, "I shouldn't have said that."

"There is no reason for you to apologize, Bruce. I've done almost everything wrong, all because a woman who was holding a grudge gave me some notes. I hadn't seen anything for myself but I used those notes as an excuse to rip him away from everything. To rip him away from you. And you, Alfred," he added, glancing at the butler.

"If anyone needs to apologize," Greg continued, "it should be me. I'll close this case when I get back to the office and Dick will be home later today."

"Home?" Bruce asked, disbelief in his voice.

"This is his home, Bruce. You are his parent, in every important way, and I'm deeply sorry about everything both you and he have gone through because of me."

"Mr. Makov, are you saying that we have no reason to worry about Master Dick being taken away?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying, Mr. Pennyworth. He belongs with you two, that's obvious. So, if you'll excuse me, I'll go close a case and retrieve a little boy who has been grieving for you."

"Thank you, Greg," Bruce whispered, looking as stunned as he had the night Greg had taken Dick away. "You don't know…I can't express…I'm…"

"I get it, Bruce. After speaking with Clark Kent, Dr. Thompkins, both of you, Dick, and watching this horrifying video, I finally get it. Dick will be home for dinner."

"Thank you," the millionaire whispered again.

Alfred walked Greg to the door and whispered his own gratitude as the man walked away. Turning back with a slight grin, Greg nodded.

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Pennyworth."

A small smile graced the butler's face and, with a polite nod, he replied, "Mr. Makov."

Office of Greg Makov:

As soon as he returned to his office, Greg called Lisa in and began explaining the situation. She took notes as he talked, gasped when he described the video, and almost cried for the boy she had been holding only five days ago. The boy who was undoubtedly completely traumatized again.

It took the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon for Greg to get everything squared away. At three o'clock, he signed his name on the last piece of paper. With a sigh of both regret and relief, Greg closed the thick file of Richard John Grayson and returned it to his filing cabinet.

Greg sat at his desk for a moment, reviewing everything he had seen and heard. As he himself had said, he had done everything wrong from the very beginning. And a ten-year-old boy had paid for Greg's mistakes.

Shaking his head, the man pushed away from his desk and stood up. Since he wouldn't be returning to his office – it would be almost six o'clock before he dropped Dick off – he grabbed his briefcase and walked out the door. It was time to take Dick Grayson home.

The Dunston's house – five hours earlier:

Jasper and Matilda, after eating breakfast, had decided to go to a movie. They didn't have to go through the family room to get to the car, so the fact that a child was sleeping on their couch didn't even cross their minds.

The rumbling of the old engine woke Dick up. It took him over five minutes to remember where he was. Then it took another five to convince himself that he should get up. When he tried, however, his body refused. The loss of blood had taken its toll. Jasper and Matilda had stopped the blood and covered the injury with several bandaids but that had been the extent of their care.

Finally, he forced himself to move. Sitting up took every ounce of energy he had. Dick knew he needed fluids. He had learned that from Alfred – lots of blood loss meant a transfusion, a fairly small amount of blood loss meant fluids and rest. The boy decided he had done enough resting, although he didn't know how long he had been out.

Standing up made him dizzy and he felt his heart beat speed up. He wondered if that was bad. Dick had to keep one hand on the wall to keep from falling over as he made his way to the kitchen. The only liquid was tap water, and it tasted like dirt.

Getting that one glass had taken all of his energy, and Dick just barely made it to the kitchen table before his legs gave out. He suddenly realized that nobody was home – either they had forgotten him again or just didn't care enough to take him wherever they had gone.

Dick had a decision to make: stay awake and try to get some more fluids in his body, or lay down and go to sleep. He chose the latter. But the floor was not conducive to getting a restful nap, and the couch was somewhat lumpy. So, his foggy brain not even attempting to think of the consequences, the ten-year-old made his way to the Dunston's room. He slowly climbed in their bed, snuggled into the blanket, and promptly fell asleep.

It was a decision he regretted two hours later, when Jasper came home and found the boy in his bed. He had dropped Matilda off at her friend's house for lunch and was looking forward to some alone time. But there was a child in his bed, a child that was very defiant and rude. A child that hadn't applied whatever lessons had managed to penetrate the boy's thick skull and idiotic brain.

"GET OUT!" the man thundered, startling Dick into awareness.

When the boy didn't move, Jasper threw the blanket off and grabbed the small arms. He manhandled Dick out of the room and down the basement stairs. The ten-year-old didn't stand a chance against the bony – and deceptively strong – fists. His brain was too full of clouds and his body refused to react.

Dick was against the far wall, by the bookcase. He was too out of it to hear the 'crack' that came from his collarbone, or the louder one that burst from his ribs. At that one, however, his face went pale. Jasper stopped, a little shocked at himself, and Dick slid into a pile of flesh at the man's feet.

"Dang it," the man muttered.

Scooping the boy into his arms, Jasper went up the stairs and, for the third time in as many days, laid an unconscious ten-year-old on the couch.

"At least I missed his face," Jasper growled.

The bruises on the boy's torso would fade before the two weeks were up. There was nothing he could do about the probably broken bones. He certainly wasn't going to take the boy to the hospital.

Shrugging his shoulders, Jasper went into the kitchen and made himself some lunch. Matilda came home an hour later and Jasper told her what had happened.

"I don't know how one person can be so disrespectful and rude!" she exclaimed. "Does he think he owns the house now?!"

The loud exclamation woke Dick up. He immediately felt the flames licking his torso and the grinding of bones in his ribs and shoulder.

"He…lp," he groaned softly, forgetting that he was in the house of the man who had done this to him.

"Well, it's about time you woke up," Jasper stated as the adults walked into the room.

"What on earth made you think that you could sleep in our bed?!" Matilda demanded.

"I don' fe…eeeeel good," Dick slurred.

"Come on, sit up," the woman snapped. "You obviously need to continue your lessons on manners."

Jasper grabbed the boy's arms and yanked him up to sitting, causing Dick to scream in pain.

"Shut up," the man growled as he sat down beside Dick on the couch.

"Now Dick," Matilda began, "I'm going to give you a scenario and you tell me how you should answer."

He caught the words 'Dick…scenario…answer' but didn't know what they meant. Dick knew she had said more than just those three words, but the rest of her sentence was made up of garbled sounds.

Matilda was continuing to talk and Dick had no idea what he was supposed to do or say. So, he guessed.

"Yes, ma'am," he mumbled. "Yes, sir. Yes, ma'am, yes sir."

He continued repeating the phrases. Matilda shook her head, threw her arms in the air, and plopped down on Dick's other side. Grabbing his chin, she turned his head toward her and snapped her fingers. It took over ten seconds, but Dick was finally able to focus on her face.

"Circus trash," she stated. "That's what you are, right? No manners, no respect, no obedience, or anything else that civilized people have. You're just a piece of circus trash."

The words burst through the clouds in his mind and unbidden tears began sliding down Dick's cheeks. Bruce Wayne was a tiny dot of memory in the back of his mind, the only thing the ten-year-old could focus on was the present. So, he didn't remember that the only people who thought he was trash were the two sitting beside him.

"That's what you are, right?" Matilda demanded.

Dick was sure that wasn't right but…what if it was? What if he really was just a piece of trash that nobody cared about? They had forgotten about him and they were the only people he knew. Which meant that everybody knew it, which meant he needed to accept it.

"Yes, ma'am," the boy answered softly.

"Then say it," Jasper challenged.

"I'm circus trash, sir," Dick said, his voice quiet and trembling.

"Now go to your room and stay there," the man commanded.

"Yes, sir."

His body was on fire and his vision was full of black spots. But, somehow, Dick made it to his room. He collapsed as soon as he entered. Leaning against the wall, he closed his eyes and tried to block out the pain. The ache in his ribs, the throbbing in his shoulder, and the cutting words that had just sliced his heart in half.