Bruce arrived home nine minutes after the bus left. He drove up the long driveway toward the garage without noticing the tiny lump in the grass. Alfred greeted him as he entered and mentioned something about a late bus, but Bruce was too preoccupied to listen.

"Master Bruce!" Alfred suddenly shouted.

"Hm?"

The younger man was standing at the bottom of the stairs, trying to decide whether he would find Dick in his room or the gym.

"I said, several times, that the bus is very late today and that I'm somewhat worried about Master Dick. I also asked if you happened to see the bus and you haven't answered, which is why I felt it necessary to raise my voice, sir."

"It's…late?"

"Yes, Master Bruce," Alfred replied with a long-suffering sigh. "As I have already told you five times. Did you or did you not see the bus, sir?"

"No, I didn't see the bus. How late is 'very late'?"

"Almost twelve minutes now, Master Bruce."

"That's 'very late'?"

"The bus from Gotham Elementary School arrives at exactly three-fifteen in the afternoon five days a week, sir. It is now almost three-thirty. So yes, Master Bruce, it is 'very' late today."

Bruce opened the door and scrutinized the large lawn and long driveway. He immediately noticed and recognized Dick's backpack, which meant the small lump next to it was probably Dick.

"Now what happened?!" he exclaimed.

Alfred came to the door as Bruce sprinted across the lawn, just as he had done the Monday after Dick had been shot. He dropped to his knees beside the ten-year-old and the first thing he saw was the bruised jaw. That led his eyes to the shape of a hand on the boy's throat. Growling, Bruce gently placed his hand on Dick's back.

"Hey, chum, you with me?" he asked loudly.

His hand felt wet so Bruce pulled it away, only to discover it was now light pink. Bruce carefully lifted the t-shirt and grimaced at the sight. It was only a small cut, but it was fairly deep and already infected. The edges were jagged, as if a tiny knife had been pushed in and yanked out.

"Wake up, Dick!" Bruce demanded as he gathered the boy into his arms and headed for the Manor.

Alfred had already opened the door to the service elevator. He closed the front door after Bruce entered and then joined his charges for the short ride down to the Batcave.

"Master Dick is unusually pale," Alfred commented as Bruce laid him down on a table.

"And he has several colorful bruises," Bruce added angrily, grabbing a pair of scissors and quickly cutting away Dick's shirt.

"A knife, sir?" Alfred questioned as he examined the small wound.

"Have you ever seen a knife that small?"

"No, Master Bruce, has Batman?"

"No. Transfusion?"

Alfred nodded and Bruce sighed. They set everything up and soon a thin stream of blood was entering the small body. This was all too familiar to them both, and it produced the picture of a nine-year-old with a head wound he had received from Jerkins.

"How did it become infected so quickly?" Bruce asked as he sat down on a nearby chair.

"I don't know, sir. He was fine when he left this morning. If it happened during the day, surely someone would have noticed the blood and sent him to the nurse."

"So it happened on the bus?"

"I don't think he would have lost this much blood if it had happened so recently, Master Bruce. Perhaps he decided it was too small to worry about and so he hid it."

"That was a great idea," Bruce stated sarcastically.

"We won't know until he tells us, sir, so perhaps you should save your judgement for after you hear the story."

Bruce had been staring at Dick's throat but glanced up when Alfred said that, surprised at the sharpness of his tone.

"You are glaring at him, Master Bruce," the butler said by way of explanation. "I know it is just concern but waking up to that expression will undoubtedly cause Master Dick to assume you are mad at him."

"I'm mad at whatever happened," Bruce snapped.

"Of course you are, sir, but if Master Dick wakes up only to see the Bat-glare…"

"You're right," the younger man admitted with a sigh.

Dick stirred and his eyelids lifted just enough for the light-blue to peek through. They dropped, squeezed into themselves and then opened all the way up.

"What happened?" Batman growled.

Alfred sighed and shook his head.

"Um, how do you feel?" Bruce asked, changing his tone.

"Headache, sore throat, back hur…I'm in the Batcave!"

Dick's tone was both excited and apprehensive. For some reason he had made it here, which was exciting, but Bruce was glaring at him.

"Do you want me to, uh, leave?" Dick asked.

Bruce shook his head in disbelief then started chuckling.

"Only you, Richard John Grayson, would be willing to leave the Batcave while receiving a blood transfusion for an already-infected wound in your back because you think I don't want you in here at all."

"Um, you banned me, Bruce. Why would I think any differently?"

"Circumstances have…changed, Dick."

"Because I can't have a transfusion upstairs, I get it."

"No…no, let's talk about what happened first. We need to know what was pushed into your back so we can figure out why it's already infected."

"I don't know."

Both men looked at him dubiously.

"Seriously, I don't know how it happened!"

"Then start at the beginning and we'll figure it out, chum."

And so he did. Dick told them everything, starting with the verbal argument yesterday and ending with him leaning up against the fence when Jimmy and his friends walked away. He left out the fact that he was trying to get himself injured enough that he would be taken to the Batcave.

"Was it a wire fence, Master Dick?" Alfred inquired.

Dick nodded and Alfred turned to a cupboard behind him.

"You think he poked himself on the fence, Alfred?" Bruce asked. The butler nodded and the younger man stated, "I agree."

There was a short pause and then Bruce asked, "Why were you trying to goad someone into a fight, Dick?"

"I don't know," the boy mumbled.

"I disagree, Master Dick," Alfred stated as he swiftly gave Dick a tetanus shot.

"Ouch!" Dick exclaimed.

"I'm sorry, young sir, would you rather become sick and have to go to the hospital?"

Both Bruce and Dick gaped at Alfred. His tone was almost sarcastic and his voice held a tinge of frustration. The three of them stared at each other for several seconds before the always-perceptive butler decided to continue.

"It is your fault you are here, Master Dick. And," he looked at Bruce, "it is your fault that he felt he needed to go to such lengths, Master Bruce."

"What?" the younger man asked, completely lost.

"Master Dick, please stop me when I say something incorrect. You were upset because you were banned from the Batcave. You wanted to be down here so badly that you decided to get yourself injured. Seriously enough that you would need medical attention, but not serious enough to have to go see Dr. Thompkins."

Dick stayed silent and Bruce stared at him in astonishment.

"You were trying to get injured?!" the man suddenly exclaimed.

The ten-year-old still remained silent, but guilt flooded his eyes. Bruce stood up and slammed his hand on the nearest counter, startling everyone.

"Did you actually think that I would lift the ban if you tricked me into bringing you down here?!" he shouted.

"I didn't expect you to lift the ban," Dick whispered. "I just wanted to come down."

Bruce threw his arms in the air and stalked away. Dick looked at Alfred, who raised an eyebrow at him before beginning to clean the area.

"I'm sorry," the boy said softly. When nobody acknowledged the quiet words, Dick yelled, "I'M SORRY!"

Batman whirled around and glared at the ten-year-old. He stormed back over to where Dick was now sitting up. Folding his arms across his chest, he waited.

Nobody spoke; nobody even moved. Alfred was waiting for an explosion, Dick was waiting for what he knew would be a terrible consequence, and Bruce was waiting for Batman to calm down. Alfred's words – think before you speak – were echoing in his head.

It was Dick who finally broke the silence. He slid off the medical table and didn't even notice when the IV needle ripped itself out of his left arm. The ten-year-old ignored the red liquid leaking from his arm and back as he took a deep breath.

"It was stupid of me and I'm sorry."

Bruce nearly rolled his eyes. Stupid idea, yes, stupid kid, no.

"Master Dick, I need to clean and bandage the wound in your back. And now the small hole in your arm, also."

Ignoring the butler, Dick continued, "I'll never come down here; I'll never even speak of Batman again. I'll even stop training in the gym. Anything that has to do with crime-fighting, I'll throw it out of my head. You're right – I don't belong here and I never did. Thank you for helping me understand that.

I don't deserve you or anything you've done for me. But I'll do my best to make it up to you. I'll keep my head down at school, I'll stay in at recess to avoid Jimmy, and I'll take my lunch to the library. He never goes there. I won't do anything else that will give you an opportunity to be upset with me. Or disappointed in me. And I don't need to learn about football or baseball or soccer or anything. You were right – I'm done."

The words were full of guilt and outlined with sadness. Dick didn't wait for a reaction; he turned around and raced to the service elevator, leaving a scattered trail of red dots behind him. Bruce and Alfred were shocked into silence. A tidal wave of regret had just rushed out of Dick's mouth and thundered around the Batcave, leaving a pile of devastation in its wake. And they had no idea what to do about it.

"I was going to let him back in," Bruce finally whispered, a touch of guilt outlining the words. "I tried to tell him this morning but he left so quickly."

"He's going to withdraw into himself, sir," Alfred stated quietly.

"He doesn't have anything to 'make up' for!" Bruce said, his voice a little louder. "You're right, Alfred, he's not going to care anymore. About anything!"

"Except making you happy, Master Bruce. He's not going to ask anything of you and his every move – every word – will be what he thinks you want him to do or say."

"How did this happen? Just because of the Batcave?!"

"Think about what he has been through, Master Bruce. All the trauma – his parents, Mr. Jerkins, Oliver Williams, deciding whether or not to shoot Mr. Mack, being ripped away from us, Jasper and Matilda, Scarecrow, fighting three of them, killing one of them by accident, and – after all that – being yelled at by his hero and banished from the one place he feels useful."

"This was the last straw," Bruce murmured.

"He can't handle anymore, sir. He is only ten. I think, Master Bruce, that when he said 'I'm done', he meant he is done trying. Master Dick is too tired, emotionally, to continue being Master Dick."

"You think he's spiraling down into depression or something like that, Alfred?"

"I think he has been pretending to be his normal self for at least this last week, sir. I don't think he is depressed, he is just tired of doing his best to impress you only to be knocked down again and again."

"You think this is my fault?!" Bruce half-exclaimed.

"I think we are all at fault, Master Bruce."

"Well, what do we do now?"

"I have no idea, sir. But Master Dick still has an infected, bloody wound on his back that needs immediate attention. And I don't think he received enough blood to get any farther than the stairs."

Bruce nodded in understanding and used the quickest way to get up to the Manor – his Batpole. He strode out of the study and discovered that Alfred had been correct. Dick was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, holding his head in his hands.

As he sat down beside him, Bruce said softly, "You need more blood, chum, and Alfred needs to patch up your back."

"I'm tired, Bruce," the ten-year-old admitted quietly.

"Well, that happens when you lose a lot of blood."

"No, I'm tired of not being good enough. And I don't know how to get better. I don't know how to become good enough. The only time I've ever been good enough was when I was in the circus. I could do something nobody else could do and now I'm just…nothing. There's nothing special about me; I'm just an orphaned aerialist."

"Dick, you could never be 'not good enough'. Being able to do a quadruple backflip is special, yes, but so is just being Dick Grayson. You are an amazing person, with a bright light inside of you that I never want to see extinguished. You're better than good enough at so many things."

"I'm sorry I kept trying to prove myself. I'm sorry I disobeyed and tried to help."

"You were doing what your heart told you to do, chum, and that's important. I admit that you were helpful both times you came out as Robin. I'm just worried about your safety; I don't want to ever lose you."

"I could have lost you," the boy whispered. "I can't do that again."

A single tear dropped onto the marble floor and Bruce ran a hand through his own hair. How was he going to work this out?

"Dick, you are one of the strongest people I have ever met, and I know a lot of people. Even if Bruce or Batman didn't return, you would be able to carry on."

A sob escaped as Dick said, "Why would you say something like that? Do you think I could just pick up the pieces of my shattered heart and fix it, like the doctor did to my shattered knees? I can't imagine living a life without you, and I don't want to! Why did you say that?!"

"I'm…sorry?" Bruce replied, confused as to why those two sentences had upset the boy so much.

"How would you feel if I said, 'even if Dick never returned'?" Dick asked, lifting his head.

And then Bruce understood. He couldn't imagine a life without this amazing ten-year-old boy and, like Dick had said, he didn't want to. Bruce had nothing to say, so he wrapped his arm around his ward – his son – and pulled him into a sort of side hug.

Shaking his head, Dick pushed away.

"I can't do it, Bruce, I can't keep giving my heart away. All anybody ever does is stomp on it and I can't keep picking it up and shoving it back in like nothing happened."

"Who…"

"My parents died, Bruce, didn't you feel like your heart was torn out of your chest when that happened to you? And then I found out that my favorite teacher was the one who killed them! I trusted him and he ripped my heart apart, too. Then I tried to help and I messed up so badly that you hated me!"

"I didn't hate…"

"You were treating me like you hated me. I wasn't surprised, because I hated knowing that what I had done made you hate me but it still hurt. I loved the idea of Robin; even when I knew that idea was idiotic, I couldn't let it go. Don't you see? I give it away too easily, and I've been paying the price. I'm tired, Bruce."

Bruce wondered if any other ten-year-old in history had ever produced as many deep thoughts as Dick did without even knowing it. He doubted many other children could understand how emotions work, much less describe them.

"What can I do to help you, chum?" the man asked gently.

"I don't know," the boy sighed.

"Last night I decided something," Bruce ventured.

Silence. Dick didn't care.

"I tried telling you this morning but you were in a hurry. I was going to lift the ban, Dick, I was willing to let you back into the Batcave."

"Going to, was, I messed that all up didn't I?" Dick whispered.

"No, you still can. You're not banned; doing that to you was a mistake on my part."

"I'm done with Batman, Bruce, did you not hear what I said down there? It's the only way to keep me safe, right?"

"Alfred said you're a big help to him."

"Doesn't matter, Bruce. He's done it on his own for a long time, he can continue to do it. He doesn't need anyone to help him."

"Will you do it if I ask you to?"

"Only if it will upset or disappoint you if I don't. That's my job, Bruce. It should have been my job the whole time but I've just been selfish. I made everything about me when you're the one who actually matters. You give me everything, and I haven't done anything to reciprocate your kindness."

"Dick, you're ten!" Bruce exclaimed. "I'm supposed to be the one giv…taking care of you! It's your job to go to school and do your best to be a good person. Which you are! There is nothing, nothing, you need to 'reciprocate'! We've had this discussion before, chum, why are you still thinking about this?"

"It was a long time ago, and so much has happened since then. I believed you back then, and I tried to do better, but then I just kept doing everything wrong. I owe you, Bruce! I've nearly been killed several times because of things I did, and even though you told me to stop I didn't listen. I killed someone and you're not making me go to jail. I. Owe. You!"

"There are some things I want to say right now, kiddo, that I'm not going to say."

"Why not?!"

"Because you need some time to think about what I am going to say. You don't need to do or say something just because you think it's what I want you to do or say. You are your own person, Dick, and you're allowed to make your own decisions."

"But I make so many bad ones," the boy mumbled.

"I don't necessarily think they are bad ones. You may have made some rash decisions that you didn't think through first."

"Like trying to get injured so I could go in the Batcave," Dick muttered.

"No, I'm pretty sure you thought about that one before you decided to do it."

"Yeah, you're right."

"And you could have…"

"Died, I know," the ten-year-old sighed.

"No, I was going to say you could have asked."

At that, Dick burst out laughing. It was a laugh of disbelief, there was no humor hidden behind it.

"Batman made it perfectly clear that I was banned, forever, but you think I should have just asked?! Do you hear how ridiculous that sounds, Bruce?!"

Now that he heard Dick say it, the man did realize how stupid that thought was. Dick knew Batman, and he would have just assumed it was a firm and final decision. Of course, Batman hadn't made it sound like there was room for compromise so Bruce could understand why the boy hadn't asked.

"I just have one last question before I give everything up," Dick suddenly stated.

"Dick," Bruce began to protest, "you don't have to give…"

The ten-year-old held up his hand and shook his head.

"Since Batman is so set against having a partner – and you're so set about me staying home – why were you thinking about Robin?"

"Batman is not set against…"

"Gosh dang it, Bruce, don't lie to me!" Dick yelled. "You don't want a partner, you've even said you don't need one! Don't try to tell me that you're not set against it."

"If I was so set against it," Batman growled, struggling to remain calm, "then why would I be thinking about it?"

"That's what I'm asking you!"

There was a long pause as Bruce tried to gather his thoughts. Dick dropped his head into his hands again, hiding the grimace of pain when his back protested the movement.

"Robin was helpful," the man finally began. "And I hate that I'm admitting that. I wouldn't have died at the movie theater, but I was less injured than I would have been because you came to help."

Dick lifted his head again and opened his mouth but this time it was Bruce who held up his hand.

"Sixteen villains and criminals. That's one of the biggest breakouts I've ever seen. And many of them were violent criminals. The villains were recruiting, the number of henchmen was growing, and a lot of people were going to get hurt. The men attacking me were being methodical – they knew how to make it difficult for me to take them all down quickly."

Bruce sighed before once again admitting, "Robin was helpful. It would have taken me at least five or six more minutes to defeat all of them if I hadn't had a clean-up man. If I hadn't followed you – although I didn't know it was you – into that alley, Jasper and Williams and Mack probably would have stayed on the loose for a couple of days."

"But Mr. Mack wouldn't be dead," Dick correctly pointed out.

"I'm not done, Dick, so just listen," Bruce commanded, although there was no anger behind the words.

"At least one of them would have gone to Wayne Manor. Since I was out as Batman and Alfred was in the Batcave, that someone might have been able to break in. I don't even want to think about what could have happened to you if you had been up here by yourself."

"I could have fought…"

"Dick," Bruce sighed again, "it was late and you should have been in bed. By the time you would have been awake enough to realize what was happening, you would have been kidnapped or maybe even dead."

"But I almost died as Robin so either way you would have been screwed."

Bruce shut his eyes and took a deep breath to push the frustration away.

"If you're in the Batcave with Alfred, we won't have to worry about that," he commented as he opened his eyes.

"Bruce, I'm not going down there. I'm banning myself. You were right to do it."

"No, I wasn't. I've been wrong about a lot of things, Dick, and I detest that I just said that. Alfred is the only person who will tell me when I make the wrong decisions."

"So you were unbanning me because Alfred told you to," Dick nearly snapped.

"No," Bruce countered calmly. "I came to that decision by myself. Alfred gives advice, but I make my own decisions. Just as you are allowed to make your own decisions."

"Decision made: I'm done with everything having to do with Batman. Especially the idea of Robin."

"That's the thing, Dick. Robin was an 'idea' but when you helped me those two nights, he became an asset."

"A liability," the boy corrected.

"I think 'both' would be a good word to use."

"But more of a liability."

"Only because you hadn't been training for very long. You took out three adults, chum, by yourself!"

"They were just…"

"No, they weren't all just regular people. Oliver Williams has a very long, very professional record. And you can't tell me that Dick Grayson wasn't terrified of Jasper Dunston. And Mack…"

"I know," Dick interrupted softly. "I know what he did. And yes, Dick Grayson froze. I couldn't move, couldn't even breathe. If you had been fighting on the same street, you would have quit your fight to help me. That makes me a liability."

"But you still defeated him, kiddo, making you an asset, also."

"Are you trying to convince me to become Robin?" the ten-year-old asked in surprise. "Because that's what it sounds like."

"No, I'm not," Bruce firmly replied.

"Well, you're sure saying a lot of good things about him."

"Dick, I…"

"My back hurts," the boy interrupted. "Do you think Alfred can come up here and take care of it?"

"We're not done…"

"Or I can try to do it myself, I guess. I just don't have any experience so I might be really bad at it."

"Will you give me a chance to explain?!" Bruce almost yelled.

"My head hurts, too," Dick continued, ignoring the question. "And I'm feeling kind of dizzy. And there's blood on the stairs, I'll clean that up."

"Richard John Grayson…"

"We. Are. Done. Can Alfred fix me up here or not?"

"We. Are. NOT. Done. And no, because you need more blood. We will continue this conversation in the Batcave. Let's go."

"Not going to happen, Bruce," Dick stated quietly.

"Yes, it is, because we can't do a blood transfusion up here. Therefore, you have no choice but to go downstairs. You're the one who wanted to be there so badly that you goaded a much larger kid into a fight and stabbed yourself on a fence! So we're going. NOW!"

"What about Dr. Thompkins?"

"What do you mean 'what about' her?" Bruce snapped.

"We could go see her, instead."

"Great idea," the man responded sarcastically. "Let's wait another forty-five minutes to get some blood back in your body instead of starting right now!"

"Bruce…" Dick began.

"Enough," the man commanded. "You no longer have a choice in the matter."

Swooping the ten-year-old into his arms, Bruce strode to the service elevator, stepped in, and down they went.