Note: As always, thanks for the comment, Rollerparty! :)
The next week:
"Field day is tomorrow, Bruce. Are you coming?"
"Of course, chum!"
"Good, because at the end, the top two in each event get to compete against a teacher! If I win tumbling, I'm asking for Mr. Mack!" Dick finished excitedly.
"If?" Bruce asked with raised eyebrows.
"It's the last event," Dick explained. "Anything could happen. I could get hurt going over the hurdles or something!"
"How many events are you in?"
Dick thought for a moment and then proudly declared, "Fifty-yard dash, hurdles, long jump, mile run, tumbling and discus."
With astonishment in his voice, Bruce asked, "Are there any events you're not in?!"
"Of course!" Dick exclaimed, shaking his head in exasperation. "Hula hoop and jump rope!"
"Right, of course," Bruce responded in amusement. "How do they decide who competes in each event?"
"The PE teachers choose. There are seven or eight in each running event, only six in discus and like fifteen in hula hoop and jump rope. I don't know about tumbling. I'm kind of nervous about discus; I don't know why they chose me. And sometimes I hit the hurdles so that one worries me, too."
"I'm sure you'll be fine, chum. Just do your best."
The next day:
It was sunny but cool, the perfect weather for an elementary school field day. Dick woke up with a slight fever, but didn't feel sick enough to tell Bruce or Alfred and have to miss field day. So, off they all went to school. Dick was sweating by the time they arrived so he quickly left the men and found a spot to stretch.
"Bruce?"
The millionaire turned toward the surprised voice. It belonged to James Perkins, father of one of the best basketball players in the city. Max, the boy, had almost single-handedly carried Gotham to the state championship, where they had lost by one point on a ticky-tack foul call.
"What are you doing here?"
"Dick is competing in several events," Bruce replied. "I'm here to support him, of course."
"He is?"
Somehow the level of surprise in the man's voice increased. Bruce internally growled. James knew nothing about Dick and Max had obviously downplayed the boy's abilities.
"Yes," Bruce stated stiffly. "Six, in fact."
"Oh, well, they must be taking more this year," James commented foolishly.
"What makes you say that?" Bruce demanded, his jaw clenched in anger.
"Max says Dick is kind of…well, awkward," James responded, either ignoring or completely missing the irritation in Bruce's voice. "Well, good luck!" he stated with a shrug before walking away.
The tension radiating from Bruce was palpable and the resentment in his eyes was obvious. Why couldn't people just see what Dick was capable of before passing judgement?
"Ignore him, Master Bruce," Alfred said calmly. "He doesn't know Master Dick, sir, and his son is, apparently, an idiot."
Bruce grinned and relaxed as he sat down. He looked over to where Dick was sitting. Something wasn't right, he instantly recognized that fact. The boy was sitting in a stretching position but rubbing his temples and wiping the sweat off his glistening forehead.
"He shouldn't be sweating yet, he hasn't done anything," Bruce murmured.
"Did you say something, Master Bruce?"
Ignoring his butler's question, the millionaire stood up, intending to go check on the nine-year-old. But, at that exact moment, Principal Maizer announced that field day had officially started. The discus competitors were called up first. Bruce watched his ward's body sway minutely when he got up to join the other athletes.
"Down in front!" someone yelled and Alfred gently pulled his charge down.
Dick was up first and his throw was weak. Some of the parents quietly snickered but immediately stopped upon receiving a withering glare from Bruce Wayne. Dick finished last in that event and the disappointment was evident on his face. Field day wasn't starting out the way he had envisioned. Max, of course, won the event.
The mile run was next and Dick barely made it across the finish line in fifth place. He kept shaking his head and rolling his shoulders, as if trying to rid himself of some sort of ache.
"Something is wrong, sir," Alfred whispered in his ear.
Nodding, Bruce stood up again and made his way out of the spectator area. Jump rope was next so Dick was resting in the shade of a big oak tree. He was leaning against the trunk with his eyes closed.
"Dick," Bruce said softly as he crouched down in front of the boy. "What's going on?"
The nine-year-old opened his eyes and mumbled, "I'm bad at throwing and long distance running."
He looked rather pale so Bruce touched his forehead and immediately frowned.
"You're burning up, chum!" he exclaimed quietly. "We need to get you home."
"No, please, I have to beat Max at something! I beat him in PE every time but he always says he's not trying his best. I brought some medicine, I'll be fine!"
Dick pulled a Children's Tylenol chewable out of his pocket and popped it in his mouth. Long jump was announced and the boy stood up.
"No," Bruce said firmly.
"Please?" Dick begged. "I'll skip long jump so the medicine can start working!"
"You still have hurdles, the fifty-yard dash, and tumbling!" Bruce exclaimed.
"Hula hoop is in between the first two and I can tumble in my sleep!"
Bruce, against his better judgement, decided to agree on one condition.
"If you feel even a little bit dizzy, you're done. I trust you, Dick, so give me your word."
"I promise if I start to feel dizzy I'll be done."
Sighing, Bruce ruffled his ward's sweaty hair and said, "Good luck. And remember your promise."
Dick beamed at him then walked away. Long jump was nearly over; Dick had been scratched from the event.
"Hurdles," Principal Maizer announced.
Max was already at the starting line, fresh off his long jump victory.
"I'm not holding back this time," he taunted as Dick lined up beside him.
"Neither am I," Dick replied with a shrug.
The whistle blew and the boys took off. It was instantly a race between Dick and Max. Dick was ahead by one hurdle when his back leg crashed into it. Max's father yelled in delight as his son made it over cleanly. To everyone's surprise – including Bruce and Alfred – Dick tucked into a forward roll, popped up and continued running. Max, expecting an easy victory, pulled up slightly to save himself for the next event. Dick blazed past him and won by a full two yards.
Turning around, Dick stuck his hand out, expecting Max to be a good sport and shake it. Max, however, completely ignored the gesture and walked away. Bruce, seeing the scowls on the faces of both the father and the son, grinned.
"Master Bruce," Alfred chided, "a young boy with a fever should not even be out there and you should not be a sore winner."
"I smiled, Alfred! Dick won so I smiled!"
"I know that gleam in your eyes, Master Bruce. You are already thinking about how you are going to put Mr. Perkins in his place, sir. You would do well to remember that Master Dick has but one victory, while Max has three."
Bruce grumbled something indistinguishable. Conversation over, they turned back to the competition, where the athletes were lining up for the fifty-yard dash.
Having seen many of the same competitors in the hurdles, most people already knew who would take the top two spots. The only question was who would win.
It turned out to be no contest. Dick both started and ended in first place. Max wasn't even close. The PE teacher keeping time raised his eyebrows in disbelief when Dick crossed the finish line.
Bruce's grin grew and Alfred nearly rolled his eyes. Max had still come out on top, having already won three events prior to his lapse in judgement on the hurdles. Both Bruce and Alfred were surprised when Dick lined up behind none other than Max for the tumbling competition. Was there anything Max couldn't do?
As it turned out, yes. The PE teachers had been desperate for competitors in this event. They had Max in because he was one of their best athletes and nobody else could do more than a cartwheel. Max had a pretty solid standing back handspring, so into the competition he went.
Bruce quietly chuckled when he saw Max do his one trick. He half-hoped Dick would show off with some kind of complicated pass. But, he knew that his ward wasn't one to show off. So, Dick's simple round-off, back handspring, back layout didn't really surprise him. That was probably something Dick had learned when he was three or four, although Bruce was sure that nobody else knew that fact.
Then it was teachers against the top two students in each event. Everyone, including the younger competitors, knew the teachers were going to win. Dick, surprising every single person watching, almost beat the man running the fifty-yard dash. He lost by a stride, his much shorter legs betraying him at the end.
"I knew he was fast but not that fast!" Bruce commented.
"Indeed, Master Bruce," Alfred agreed.
Max flat-out refused to compete in the tumbling contest. When Mr. Mack stepped up, Bruce narrowed his eyes. This was going to be interesting.
The man had the lean but firm build of an acrobat. And he didn't disappoint. Bruce actually wasn't sure if Dick would be able to beat the pass: round-off, back handspring, full twisting whip, two more back handsprings and a triple twisting layout.
People had been gasping with each new trick thrown out. By the time Mr. Mack was finished, Dick was staring at him in admiration.
Bruce was suddenly nervous but wasn't sure why. It was just a friendly competition at an elementary school field day. Dick had a fever, so Bruce decided he was worried about the boy getting hurt.
Dick took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He had assumed Mr. Mack was good but hadn't expected him to be amazing. Tossing his planned tumbling pass out of his mind, the nine-year-old quickly came up with a new one and opened his eyes. He took one more deep breath and then began running.
He began the same way as the tutor but the similarity ended there: round-off, back handspring, full twisting whip, one and a half twisting layout to end facing forward, front handspring, front tuck step out, round-off, back handspring into a double twisting layout.
Nobody moved and it was completely silent for several seconds after Dick landed. Everyone was leaning forward, expecting more from the boy who was obviously born to tumble. The silence unnerved the nine-year-old; he thought he had done something wrong.
Dropping his head, Dick began rubbing his temples again. Then he bent over and rested his hands on his knees, attempting to stop the trembling of his now-aching muscles and joints.
That was when the cheering began. It was also when Bruce shook himself out of his awe-induced stupor and sprinted to his ward's side. He helped Dick sit down and Alfred appeared with a bottle of water.
"That was rather impressive, Master Dick," Alfred commented softly.
Dick mumbled something unintelligible in response.
Bruce, out of the corner of his eye, noticed Mr. Mack. His face was outlined with anger even as he cheered and clapped along with everyone else.
Four teachers had formed a small circle around Bruce, Dick and Alfred. They were keeping everyone away and Bruce was grateful for the breathing space it afforded Dick.
The nine-year-old had grabbed the water bottle and taken a quick drink. He was now pouring the rest over his head, attempting to cool his body. His hands were shaking slightly and his breathing was rather shallow.
"I'm, um, ready to go home now," he whispered groggily.
"Is he okay, Mr. Wayne?"
The concerned voice of Principal Maizer broke the near-silence inside the small circle.
"He will be," Bruce replied. "He has a fever, I'm going to take him home."
"Of course," the principal agreed. "We'll have his awards for him when he returns to school. Hopefully he recovers quickly."
"Thank you," Bruce nodded as he helped Dick stand up.
As they turned to leave, the millionaire glanced at Mr. Mack one more time. The man's hands were clenched into fists and his entire body was trembling. Batman assumed, from the now-semi-murderous look on Mack's face, that he had just found the person responsible for the deaths of two-thirds of the Flying Graysons.
One week later:
Since Mr. Mack tutored all the fourth and fifth graders, Batman had decided to put a Bat-camera in every one of those classrooms. Dick was right – a lot of the kids needed support. The tutor only helped with math but he was kept busy all day. He did one-on-ones, he did small groups and sometimes he just walked around the classrooms, checking answers and correcting when necessary.
He treated everyone the same and seemed to have an endless amount of patience. Sometimes, Mr. Mack would even crouch in front of the ever-studious Dick Grayson and ask about his day, or week, or what new trick the boy was perfecting in the gym at Wayne Manor.
So, why had he seemed so angry on field day? Dick had obviously won the competition but the man didn't seem to be holding a grudge. Perhaps Batman had the wrong Mack after all.
And then, on day seven of observing the classrooms, Batman saw it. The change was so minute that he wasn't even mad at himself for not seeing it before. Every time Mr. Mack said something about tricks, or acrobatics, or the equipment in Wayne Manor, Dick's body would stiffen. He would immediately relax and his expression never changed. There were no grimaces or winces or flinches or any other signs of the boy attempting to cover some sort of pain. It was as if he didn't even notice the change in his own body when it happened.
And Batman couldn't figure it out. Mr. Mack always went down to Dick's level and his hands were always in plain sight. He couldn't do anything with his legs from his crouching position. All he ever did was talk to Dick, and his expression was always friendly.
Batman had called on the services of Alfred, who couldn't find anything, either. They had watched the tapes in real time, in slow motion, and even using a magnifying glass. But they always saw the same thing: nothing.
So, Batman decided to go to the source – well, the source who was affected by it. Wednesdays were early release at school and, this time, for Bruce Wayne as well.
"How are you feeling, chum?" Bruce asked when he found Dick taking a break in the gym.
"Good!" Dick exclaimed. Then he tilted his head, looked at Bruce suspiciously, and asked, "Why?"
"Are you having trouble in any subject?" the man inquired casually, ignoring Dick's question. "Science, English, math?"
"Bruce, why would you think I'm having trouble in math?"
Now the boy's tone was wary, as if he was expecting some sort of outburst.
"Are you mad about something?" he continued. "Upset, frustrated, furious…anything?"
"No, kiddo, just checking in. That's something I'm supposed to do, right?"
The questions and answers were too flippant for Dick's liking. Bruce had never 'checked in' at a seemingly random time. Only when he was worried or suspicious. Obviously, something was bothering him.
"Why are you lying to me?" the nine-year-old asked.
"What?! I'm not…" Bruce trailed off, flustered.
They both knew he was; it was foolish to try to deny it.
"Why did you emphasize math? I told you last week that all I have is busy work."
"Does Mr. Mack ever tutor you?"
"Gosh no, Bruce, why would he? I'm two grades ahead and not allowed to go on!"
"Yes, of course. Does he ever talk to you?"
"You seriously think that I don't see the Bat-cameras?!" Dick asked incredulously. "That's a question you already know the answer to. Why are you suddenly fixated on Mr. Mack?"
"When he's talking to you, do you ever feel…different?"
"You're ignoring my questions."
"Just answer the question!" Bruce commanded.
"Okay, sorry!" Dick exclaimed quietly. "I don't know what kind of 'different' you mean. Sometimes when we talk about our similar acrobatic backgrounds, I get a little sad. When we talk about learning new tricks, that's exciting. Those are different."
Dick was very confused. He had no idea where his guardian was going with this line of questioning. For some reason, Bruce was intently focused on the math tutor, one of the nicest men Dick had ever met.
Bruce sighed, unsure about what he was thinking. Should he tell Dick about Mack's behavior on field day? Should he tell him that every time the tutor talked to him, there was a small but definite change in the boy's body language?
"Bruce, what's going on?" Dick asked timidly. "Am I doing something wrong? Should I not be taking up his time since he's supposed to be tutoring people who actually need help? Are you mad at me?"
Bruce sighed again before stating, "I want to show you something. Meet me downstairs."
Dick nodded and headed for the service elevator while Bruce strode to his study. He wanted to be the less emotional Batman for this conversation.
Two minutes later, they were in the Batcave, standing by the Bat-camera Receiving Machine and waiting for a tape to rewind. Batman played a ninety-second conversation between Dick and Mack, his eyes carefully watching his ward.
"We're talking about double backs," Dick stated with a shrug. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"This time I want you to watch instead of listen. Specifically, yourself."
He played it again and Dick, completely baffled, said, "I smiled."
"Okay," Batman growled, "more specifically, your torso."
"I don't see anything, Batman!"
"Look closer!" the Caped Crusader demanded.
Dick glanced at Batman when he heard the tone. Obviously, he was supposed to see something he was doing. But he didn't, and Batman was frustrated with him. And that frustrated Dick.
"Master Batman, need I remind you that it took you seven days to see it, sir?"
"See what?!" Dick shouted.
Batman growled and decided to play it in slow motion. He almost pushed his ward closer to the screen.
"Watch. Your. Torso!"
This time he is mad at me. What the heck am I looking for?!
For ten minutes they stood there, Dick staring at the screen from several different angles and occasionally sighing in frustration while Batman nearly glared at the boy. Dick began rubbing his eyes and Alfred decided to intervene.
"Sir, perhaps you should tell him what you see."
"Fine," the hero growled. "Every time he talks about anything to do with acrobatics, you stiffen as if it affects you in some way."
Dick stared at him in surprised then turned back to the machine.
"Play it again," he demanded.
He still missed it but, twelve replays and four pauses to rub his eyes later, Dick finally noticed it.
"Why can't I feel this?" he demanded, his eyes narrowed in something akin to anger. "How do I not know this is happening? And why haven't you mentioned it to me? And why is it happening?"
Dick was glaring at Batman and both men were slightly stunned with the expression. It looked like a younger version of the Bat-glare.
"I don't know, I don't know, I didn't want to…" Batman paused then quickly continued, "…worry you and I don't know."
'Worry' was a substitute for 'I don't want you to know that this man might have killed your parents', but Dick didn't need to know that.
"You didn't want to worry me?!"" Dick asked in disbelief. "Great idea, Batman. Hey, let's not tell Dick that something happens to him every time Mr. Mack talks to him!" he yelled sarcastically. "Let's allow it to continue instead of telling him so he can help us figure it out! Who cares if he is brainwashed or something, right?! Why should it matter to him?!"
"Brainwashed?" Batman murmured, realizing he hadn't even thought of that.
Throwing his arms in the air, Dick muttered, "Thanks for ignoring me," before turning around and stomping away.
"But…how?" Batman continued murmuring. "We haven't seen anything to indicate that."
"We also, sir, didn't have Bat-cameras in classrooms until after the school year had already begun."
"You're right, it must have happened before I installed the Bat-cameras. But still, how?"
"Perhaps it was something that was covered by the injuries he received from his abuser, Master Batman. Something small that he didn't even notice because of his troubles with Mr. Jerkins, sir."
"Then even he wouldn't know how. Or why, or when it started."
"A very astute observation, sir," Alfred stated drily. "And now it's a pre-programmed response. How are you going to stop it?"
"I have no idea."
"Well, now I know why my thumb was always aching."
Dick had been wandering around the Bat-cave, deep in thought. His sudden appearance caught the men by surprise, as did the revelation.
"I just thought it was part of…but my hands were never, um, hit," he whispered the last word. "And everything else hurt more so…"
The nine-year-old was staring at his left thumb and moving it around.
"Does it ever hurt now? When he talks to you, I mean."
"I don't know, it's not something I pay attention to."
"How did you not notice that something was happening to your thumb?!" Batman exclaimed irritably.
"Gee, I don't know, Batman," Dick snapped sarcastically, glaring at his guardian again. "Maybe it's because I was too scared of Mr. Jerkins, or too worried about you! Or maybe it's because my torso hurt a lot so a little ache in my thumb didn't really matter! Maybe it's because I was always seeing you lying on the ground in a POOL OF YOUR OWN BLOOD!"
"Okay, chum, calm down. I didn't mean it how it sounded," Batman said softly.
"Sorry," Dick stated, a large amount of frustration in his voice. "I shouldn't have yelled at you."
"Master Dick, as we've told you before, you have no need to apologize for stating how you feel. Even if you do it a bit…louder…than normal, young sir."
"I guess I should pay attention to it, now that we know."
"We don't know for sure it that's what happened. But, yes, try to pay attention. If you don't feel anything, don't get mad at yourself. It's been going on for several months, if that's what it is, and you haven't noticed it. Don't be hard on yourself, okay?"
"Okay," Dick mumbled. "But I should have known."
"Why, Master Dick, do you think you should have known something like this?"
"Because he's always been nice. I should have known that nobody at school could ever be always nice," he sighed with a shrug. "But…why me? What did I do that made him want to brainwash, or whatever, me?"
You lived.
Batman and Alfred had the same thought, and knew it when they looked at each other.
You need to tell him, sir.
No, there's no point. And what if I'm wrong?
He deserves to know, sir.
Later. After we figure this out.
Alfred stared at Bruce skeptically, one eyebrow raised in disbelief.
I promise.
"Are you guys having a staring contest or can you read each other's minds?"
Dick was watching two pairs of eyes, neither of which had broken connection with the other. Several different emotions had flashed through them but he had no idea what it meant. When he received no immediate answer, Dick grumbled something about secrets as he turned around and headed toward the service elevator. Or, so the men thought. The boy stopped at the curve in the tunnel and listened carefully.
"Why else, sir, would he brainwash the boy? You saw his face on field day. It was his dream to grow up to be a circus performer, Master Batman. He's not, the Flying Graysons were, and their son was on his way to becoming a star. Not to mention, sir, that the same nine-year-old boy just out-tumbled him in front of a large crowd of spectators."
"So you're saying that Mr. Mack was so jealous of the Flying Graysons that he bought a gun and shot at them but hit the wires by accident and then, because Dick lived, brainwashed the boy for some unknown reason?"
"Perhaps he wasn't jealous of them specifically, sir. He might have just as easily done it to a different group of performers. It could be, Master Batman, that Haly's Circus was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Then why isn't he doing something worse? Dick didn't even realize he was in pain. And still doesn't!"
Dick dropped to his knees in astonishment. Wrapping his small arms around his torso, he began silently crying. Mr. Mack had killed his parents. Mr. Mack had killed his parents! Batman had made a good point, Dick realized as he forced himself to calm down. Why wasn't Mr. Mack – who was jealous enough of circus performers to murder them – doing something worse, something more painful, to a former circus performer?
"Perhaps, Master Batman, he is biding his time."
That was also a good point, Dick conceded. So now he had to pay attention to his thumb and Mr. Mack's body language. Bruce had been teaching him how to read people. The nine-year-old was confident that, although he was still learning, he would be able to see any sign of immediate danger.
Note: I was a gymnast for almost ten years, which is why I was able to describe the tumbling passes. If you don't know tumbling, just know that Dick's was much more complicated and required more precision. :)