The Batcave:
"Why doesn't he have a tracker?!" Batman yelled at himself.
This oversight was unacceptable. Dick had been through so much at school and Batman had never even given him a communicator watch or a tracker. His ward could be lying somewhere dying, and Batman had no clues to help him find the boy's location!
The only idea he had was to go pay a visit to the Wickers. At least one of the boys was probably the last one to see Dick and Batman was going to force some answers out of that person. He was just climbing into the Batmobile when Alfred spoke.
"Master Batman!" he nearly shouted. "A Bat-camera caught Michael Wickers' car leaving the western side of the city about an hour ago!"
"Well, it's a starting point," the Caped Crusader grumbled. "Keep me updated!" he yelled as the Batmobile roared down the tunnel.
West was in the opposite direction of the Wickers' mansion but Batman was sure that if they had taken Dick west, they certainly wouldn't be bringing him back to their house.
Beep. Beep.
The hero flipped the switch that opened the Batmobile's Bat-communicator.
"His car just re-entered the city, sir."
"I'm going to assume that they left him somewhere. The way they were talking about him the other night…"
"I agree, Master Batman," the butler quickly interrupted. "I'll keep an eye on the Bat-cameras as well as the city cameras."
"I'm keeping the line open, Alfred. Tell me everything you see."
"Right now everything is quiet, sir. It is, after all, dinner time."
There was a long pause. Batman, already impatient, was becoming irritated.
"The circus grounds," Alfred suddenly murmured. "There's something moving, sir, right in the middle of the circus grounds."
"It's probably just a wild animal," Batman grumbled.
"Do wild animals lift up their torsos and then weakly drop them to the ground, sir?" Alfred asked, the words clipped with something akin to anger.
"They do if they're injured."
"Exactly, Master Batman."
"I'll check it out," the hero growled, annoyed that he was probably going all the way to the circus grounds in order to see a hurt coyote, or rabbit, or some other inconsequential being.
The circus grounds:
"Please, Batman," Dick whispered. "I'm sorry, please…"
His plea disappeared into a wheezing gasp of anguish. There was no way for Batman to know where he was. Did Bruce even know he was missing? Maybe he thought Dick was staying after school. Dick didn't even know what time it was. He thought it was getting dark but that could just be the black spots dancing across his vision making him think it was almost nightfall.
Dick decided he would have to try to get out of this himself. All he had to do was drag himself across the circus grounds, through the forest, into the city and find the nearest store or payphone. He could do that, he was strong, he could rescue himself like Batman.
With that heroic thought in mind, Dick put his hands on the ground and pushed his torso up. The fragments of bone in his knees ground into each other and scraped across his ligaments, tearing some of them apart. It was overwhelming, and the boy dropped onto his stomach, panting in pain. Now his hips were twisted, exacerbating the heavy ache in his shattered knees.
"Okay," he gasped, "now what?"
There was a familiar roar – Dick had only heard it a few times but it was very distinctive. It sounded slightly softer than it did in the enclosed Batcave but the boy knew it was the Batmobile. Somehow, and right now he didn't really care how, Batman had found him.
The sound stopped and Dick heard the 'slam' of a door. Next, boots crunching over dried weeds and gravel. Then, the quiet swish of a hero's cape. A bright beam lit up the sky and then swirled its way around the area.
The light suddenly stopped, right on his body, and a surprised voice shouted, "DICK?!"
Batman arrived at the circus grounds and climbed out of the Batmobile. This was going to be a waste of precious time but it would satisfy Alfred. He strode across crunchy gravel and dying weeds as he took out his Bat-flashlight. Stopping, he flipped the switch to on and turned in a slow circle, sweeping the area with both the beam and his eyes.
There was the lump that Alfred had seen, right in the middle of the circle where the big tent had been situated. Batman held the light steady on the lump and continued walking. Two pale arms, a head of dark hair and a pain-filled expression.
"DICK?!" Batman yelled in astonishment.
The hero raced across the rest of the ground dividing him from his ward. Dick was lying on his stomach but only his left hip was on the ground. He was twisted and, from the soft moans Batman could hear, extremely injured.
"Dick," the Caped Crusader whispered as he crouched down beside him.
Weary, light-blue eyes stared up at him. Tears were sliding down his pale cheeks and he was alternating panting and gasping.
"What happened, chum?"
"Dirk," the boy mumbled. "I'm sorry…"
He trailed off as pain rippled through his knees.
"Later," Batman commanded softly. "What hurts?"
"Tire…iron…knees."
There was a wheeze between each word of the incomplete sentence. Batman understood exactly what his ward meant. Turning the Bat-flashlight toward the boy's knees, the Caped Crusader stared in shock at a pair of mangled kneecaps. The older brother had done exactly what he had said: shattered Dick's kneecaps. With a tire iron!
"Sorry," the nine-year-old mumbled again. "Miss bus. My fault."
"No, Dick, this isn't your fault," Batman replied gently, moving his eyes back to his ward's face.
Dick was going into shock. His eyes had glazed over, he was trembling, and he was muttering something about trials and tricks and a hero.
Batman unclipped his cape and laid it on the ground. Then he pulled out his can of Bat-sleep and sprayed it in the boy's face. Dick's expression immediately relaxed as his eyes slipped closed. The Caped Crusader carefully untwisted the boy and wrapped his cape around the small body.
Gently picking up the small cocoon, Batman turned around and headed back to the Batmobile. Those knees were going to require surgery, he could tell even though he had only seen them with the beam of a Bat-flashlight.
"A tire iron," he growled. "What kind of person does this to a child?"
There was one thing Batman knew for sure: the older Wickers boy wasn't going to enjoy his impending visit from the Caped Crusader.
Eight hours later:
Bruce Wayne was pacing. Batman had reluctantly taken Dick to the hospital before finding a place to change. It wouldn't look good if the boy, with completely shattered kneecaps, was brought in by his guardian. People would automatically jump to the conclusion that he had done it and Susan Jameson would immediately be all over him. Even after almost four months, she was still trying to take Dick away.
Alfred had to answer the phone at Wayne Manor when the hospital called to talk to his guardian. Batman had seen to it that Dick was safely in a bed in the ER before making a rather lame excuse to leave. He had sprinted to the Batmobile and picked up the Batphone extension. The butler was connecting the Batphone in the Batcave with the Manor's phone and anxiously waiting for Batman to become Bruce, over the phone, anyway.
The call had taken exactly eighty-seven seconds. Bruce had quickly agreed to rush to the hospital after impatiently listening to the long-winded ER doctor's explanation. Alfred, as soon as the call was over, had hung up without saying a word. He had then grabbed a pair of Bruce Wayne's clothes and practically run to the garage. Within ten minutes, the long limo was parked near the Batmobile and Batman was in the back, changing. They sent the Batmobile home remotely and hurried to the hospital.
The doctor had been surprised at the speed but was even more surprised when Bruce signed everything without even reading it. The millionaire was a businessman and the doctor assumed he would go over the paperwork with a fine-toothed comb, or at least glance at some of the words.
But Bruce knew the quicker Dick got into the operating room, the better it would be for his damaged knees. So now here he was, eight hours after Batman had dropped Dick off at the hospital, pacing while waiting for his ward to wake up.
The doctor had told him that the surgery had gone well, on both knees. It had been difficult at first. Some dirt had pushed its way into the space where a bone had torn through the skin on his left knee. But the doctors had been able to stave off the threatening infection after a tense forty-five minutes. Once that had been taken care of, the rest was relatively easy. It had taken a long time; Bruce felt like he had been here for days instead of hours.
Both of Dick's legs would be in casts for six weeks and then an additional three months of physical therapy. But, he was going to be fine. Physically, at least.
"He's awake, Mr. Wayne."
The doctor's deep voice startled Bruce out of his thoughts. He followed the man – who, to Bruce, was traveling at the rate of a snail – down a long hall to Dick's room. With a wave of his hand, the doctor invited Bruce in.
"He's still sleepy and the morphine will wear off soon," the man whispered. "Here's the call button," he said quietly, pointing to a red button on a rail of the bed. "Call the nurse if he needs anything."
Bruce nodded then stood completely still, staring at the pale boy whose eyes were just beginning to open.
Noticing the millionaire's apprehensive expression, the doctor patted Bruce on the shoulder and stated, "He did well, Mr. Wayne. His body is strong. It will take time, but he will be fine."
Bruce nodded again but the doctor was already gone. The man silently walked to the side of the boy's bed. Dick's eyes, completely open now, were bloodshot and exhausted. Pain was etched on his young features.
"Hey, chum," Bruce said softly. "How are you feeling?"
"T'rd," Dick mumbled.
"You've had a rough night, kiddo, but the doctors say you did really well."
"Wha' 'pen?"
"Well," Bruce replied as he pulled a chair over and sat down, "what do you remember?"
There was a long pause as Dick searched his brain for any kind of memory.
"Circ's," he said hesitantly, "Dirk, knees…KNEES!"
The last word was almost shouted as Dick tried to sit up. Bruce jumped to his feet and put his hands on his ward's shoulders. He gently pushed the boy back down then brushed the dark hair away from the light-blue eyes.
"Whoa, kiddo, not so fast. You had surgery, the doctors fixed them, you're going to be okay," he softly assured the nine-year-old. "It will take time, but you will be fine," he stated, echoing the doctor's parting words.
Tears were streaming down Dick's cheeks. Bruce wasn't sure if it was pain or fear or something else altogether.
"Do you want me to call the nurse, kiddo?"
Shaking his head, Dick whispered, "I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault, chum. There was no way you could have prevented this."
"Let him give me a ride," the boy sighed. "Stupid."
"Who is 'him'?"
The blue eyes lit up then dimmed. One of Dick's heroes had let him down.
"Michael, the gymnast. We…"
Dick stopped, squeezed his eyes shut and tried his best to keep from breaking down. Bruce knew what he was doing, so he sat down again and patiently waited.
"So excited," Dick stated, sorrow outlining the words. "We…Mom and Dad…we watched him all the time. I wanted to be like him, wanted to have his skills."
"You are so much better than him, Dick," Bruce responded. "Let's not talk about that right now. I think we should ask the nurse for some pain medication."
"No," Dick nearly growled.
"You're obviously in pain, chum."
"I can handle it."
The nine-year-old's jaw was clenched so tightly that Bruce just barely understood the words. Shaking his head, the man reached for the call button. A small hand smacked Bruce's hand away.
"Let me do this," the boy ground out.
"Dick, there's no reason for you to be in pain."
"I'm. Fine."
The boy shut down. Anger filled his eyes and he clenched his hands into fists. He could handle the pain, he had been handling pain for over a month. This might be a little harder to deal with but he could do it.
Bruce recognized the look so he let the subject drop. Dick would tell him if it got too bad. He hoped, anyway. Of course, Dick hadn't told him about a month's worth of bruises and a fractured rib so…
"I'll tell you," Dick suddenly declared softly.
"Tell me what?"
"If it's too much. I'll let you know if I can't handle it."
Dick had read him like a book. Batman could control his expression, and that usually applied to Bruce, as well. But, apparently, not with Dick.
"You're glaring at me. That only happens when you're worried."
"I…"
"It's okay, Bruce. I know I can tell you things. But sometimes pain is good for a person. It helps us be grateful for when we don't have pain."
That left the man speechless. Sometimes Dick would come up with deep thoughts out of the blue, and this was one of those times.
"I'm sleepy. Can I go back to sleep?"
"Yes, chum, go to sleep."
"Are you…I, mean if Bat…you don't have to…"
"I'm staying, Dick. I'll be here while you sleep and I'll be here when you wake up."
With a soft sigh, the boy whispered, "Thanks."