Note: So...I guess I'm back. Life is still crappy, and everything is building to a crescendo, but I figured since I have it, I'll give it to you. This was written a loooooong time ago, but I wasn't sure if I liked it. Things change, people change, stories change, etc. So...yeah, here it is. Name changes (Bruce/Batman) are intentional.
Also, please disregard the author's note at the beginning of the previous chapter. Thanks.
Two days later – Gotham Elementary:
He was in fifth grade but he was still the smallest one in his class, which meant that the sixth graders were almost giants. Dick took a deep breath as he walked onto the playground. The ten-year-old had decided that he needed an injury – one serious enough to warrant the services of Alfred in the Batcave, but not serious enough to have to go visit Dr. Thompkins.
That meant no broken bones and no concussions. Bruce would probably freak out if Dick got another concussion. He would probably encase the boy in a plastic bubble whenever he went outside. So, no concussions allowed.
Blood would work; just enough for the nurse to call Wayne Manor. Alfred had a stash of Dick's blood type in the Batcave, which meant they would have to go down there if he lost enough blood. But how was he going to not allow anyone to stop the blood?
As he watched the small group of "I'm tougher than anybody" sixth grade boys, a thought entered Dick's mind. He didn't need to go to the nurse. An injury on his torso, under his shirt were nobody could see, would do just fine. Taking the bus home, accidentally hitting his torso on a seat, carrying his backpack on the injured side – all excellent ways to allow him to lose enough blood to need a transfusion.
This is stupid.
How else am I going to get into the Batcave?
Continue to practice patience.
I'm tired of that.
It's only been a week and a half since I've been banned. Give him time, like Alfred said.
The more time he gets, the less time I'll be out patrolling with him!
"Shut up," Dick muttered to himself, effectively stopping the internal debate.
If he was going to do it, he needed to do it now. The bell to go back to class was about to ring. Staying on the playground after being injured would be risky, but it was the only way to do it. Hiding the injury would be difficult, but last year he had hidden a bloody head for an entire school day. He could easily hide a bloody torso covered by a shirt. As long as the blood didn't soak through it too quickly.
So, the ten-year-old took another deep breath and strode toward the group of boys. As he passed, he "accidentally" brushed against the biggest boy, who was also the leader of the group. The boy, Jimmy, whipped around to see who had dared to touch him.
"Grayson, stop," he commanded.
Dick raised his eyebrows, surprised that the boy knew his name. Slowly, he turned to face the group, focusing on Jimmy's face with a slight glare.
"You hit me," Jimmy stated.
Shrugging, Dick replied, "Accidentally."
"Apologize, now," the older boy demanded.
"Sorry, oh great one," Dick replied sarcastically.
Jimmy frowned. Nobody had ever spoken to him like this. He had always been the biggest, tallest and toughest his whole life. And here was a tiny fifth grader, disrespecting him in front of his friends!
"You think you're a big shot? You think just because Brucie-boy got rid of Dirk, he's gonna get rid of me, too? You got no right to go around acting like you own the place, Grayson. You're so small you're not even a pebble under my shoe."
Dick rolled his eyes and said, "Like I haven't heard that before. And Dirk moved because his brother went to jail."
"His brother went to jail because of you," Jimmy growled, clenching his hands into fists. "And stop back talking me!"
"No," Dick responded calmly, "his brother went to jail because he shattered my kneecaps with a tire iron. Did you not know that?"
The ten-year-old smirked and waited for the first hit. But Jimmy just stared at him, dumbfounded. He couldn't grasp the fact that Dick was baiting him, so he wasn't taking the bait. Dick's smirk became a look of surprise. Was Jimmy really that stupid?
"Did you forget how to speak?" Dick asked. "Are you not smart enough to remember how?"
Jimmy growled again and raised a fist. Dick didn't even flinch.
"Jimmy, got a teacher coming," one of the boys said quietly.
Dick internally growled at the effect those words had on Jimmy. The older boy's arm dropped and he smiled at Dick.
"You wanna play soccer with us?" he asked.
"What's going on, kids?" the teacher, Mrs. Sorngray, asked.
"Just inviting Grayson to a game of soccer," Jimmy replied, looking at the woman with a grin. "He's got skills, so I've heard anyway."
"Okay, have fun," Mrs. Sorngray replied before walking away.
"This isn't over, Grayson," Jimmy grumbled. "You and me, after school behind the far backstop."
"I ride the bus," Dick retorted. "What do you think will happen to you if I don't get on the bus?"
"Tell Wayne you're getting a ride from a friend."
"Yeah, that's going to work again," Dick replied, sarcasm dripping from his tone. "You do know that the last time I 'got a ride from a friend' I ended up in the hospital, right?"
Jimmy glared and Dick stated, "Oh, I forgot. You don't know that story."
"Everyone knows that story," Jimmy declared sharply.
"Well, you're staring at me like you've never heard it before. Is it hard for you to remember things that have nothing to do with you? Are you really that self-absorbed?"
"Watch your mouth, Grayson, and you better hope you have someone to watch your back. You're on the black list now."
"Oh, I'm so scared," the ten-year-old commented, rolling his eyes again.
"Good," Jimmy said with a nod. "You should be."
"Do you have any idea what sarcasm is?" Dick asked, his voice condescending.
Another one of Jimmy's friends whispered in his ear.
"Do you want to die?" Jimmy snapped. "Cuz I don't have a problem with that. The world could do without a tiny insect like you."
"Are you trying to threaten me?" Dick retorted evenly. "Because if you are, it's not working. You're not at all scary."
"If Mrs. Sorngray wasn't here…"
"She's not," Dick said with a shrug.
Jimmy's mouth turned up in a feral grin when one of his friends nodded. Just then, the bell rang. Both boys growled in disappointment when the principal walked onto the playground and began rounding the kids up and shooing them to class.
"We're not done," Jimmy snarled.
"Far backstop, tomorrow after lunch," Dick snarled right back.
With a short nod, Jimmy turned and walked away. Dick released a quiet sigh of both disappointment and relief. He wasn't looking forward to any injuries, but it was the only way he could think of to get back into the Batcave.
Later that day:
"Dick, what are you thinking about?"
Startled out of his thoughts about how to receive a bloody injury, Dick intelligently responded, "Nothing."
"I said your name five times and you didn't answer. You're obviously thinking about something. Trouble at school?"
"No, no," the ten-year-old replied quickly.
Perhaps it was a little too quickly, Dick realized as he watched Bruce's eyes narrow in either anger or concern.
"What's going on, Dick?" Bruce asked in a no-nonsense voice.
Oh, nothing, just trying to figure out a way to get beat up so I can return to the Batcave that I'm banned from.
Dick internally grinned at the thought. Apparently, it wasn't as internal as he intended.
"You look like the cat that caught the canary," Bruce said suspiciously. "What's going on?"
"Ummmm, I had some trouble with a science test. I'm going over the answers, trying to find what I missed."
"A science test," Bruce echoed, suspicion still filling his voice.
"Yes," Dick nodded emphatically.
"Why are you lying to me, chum?"
"What?!"
"Have I ever told you how expressive your eyes are, Dick? You've lived here for over a year and a half. Do you think I can't read your eyes? Why are you lying?"
Well, you know, I just don't want you to know that I'm trying to goad one of the biggest kids in sixth grade into a fight so I can get injured and have to go to the Batcave.
"Is someone bothering you?" Bruce asked, slightly concerned that Dick hadn't answered his question.
More like I'm bothering someone else.
"No," Dick responded.
The ten-year-old had no idea what to say. Bruce could read him like a book, apparently, so he couldn't just lie. Especially since he hated lying to the man. Sighing, Dick decided to tell a partial truth.
"This kid and I got into an argument today but it was no big deal. We got over it and he invited me to play soccer with his group of friends."
"Did you? Play soccer with them?"
"No, the bell rang to go back to class."
"Then what's the problem? Why are you so preoccupied with it?"
"Bruce, I don't really know how to play soccer!" Dick exclaimed truthfully. "What if I'm horrible at it and they make fun of me?"
That did actually worry Dick a little bit, but he hadn't expected it to come out.
"Everybody thinks I'm this great athlete but really I'm only good at tumbling and running! I've never played baseball, or football, and I've only played soccer one time in my entire life!"
"Dick," Bruce said with a small grin, "you don't have to be great at everything."
"But everybody thinks I already am! Lots of people say I would make a good running back but I don't even know what that is!"
"Well, haven't you played some of these sports in PE?"
"We've never played a real game, with rules and scoring and stuff."
"Do you want to learn some things about soccer, so you aren't so nervous tomorrow if they ask you to play again?"
"Okay," Dick nodded, completely forgetting about the fact that he was supposed to fight Jimmy behind the far backstop after lunch tomorrow.
"Come on, then, out to the backyard. Alfred," Bruce called, "we'll be out back practicing soccer."
"Very good, Master Bruce," Alfred replied from somewhere in the house. "I shall call you in for dinner."
So out they went, Bruce stopping in the gym to grab a soccer ball – which he had forgotten about a long time ago but suddenly remembered. They stayed outside for almost an hour, kicking the ball around and going over the basics.
Bruce chuckled to himself as Dick raced around, trying to dribble the ball without losing track of it. The boy was a great athlete; he could catch on to anything if he set his mind to it. And, the man grinned, Dick would make a good – actually, a great – running back.
A picture of the Gotham High School football team jumped into Bruce's head. He could see Dick, front and center in the team picture, wearing the coveted number seven jersey. Why it was number seven, Bruce didn't know. For some reason, there was an argument every year about why so-and-so got number seven even though a different so-and-so deserved it.
"GOAL!" Dick yelled exuberantly. "But you didn't have to make it so easy! Why did you just stand there?"
"Sorry, chum, I was thinking. Try it again; I won't get distracted this time."
Bruce wasn't distracted, but Dick scored anyway. It wasn't his dribbling skills and the fake to the left hadn't worked, either. Pure speed, that's how Dick had been able to do it.
"Dick, you could be an amazing running back!" Bruce exclaimed.
Letting out a breath of frustration, the boy replied, "What the heck is a running back? And why would I be amazing?"
"Let's save football for another day," Bruce responded as he heard Alfred call for them. "Do you feel better about tomorrow? If they ask you to play soccer again?"
"Yep, thanks, Bruce!" Dick responded. "Race you to the house!"
"He's almost half as fast as the Flash," Batman murmured as he tried to catch up.
Dick, running full speed, suddenly threw himself into a tumbling pass. Bruce was sure he was going too fast to control himself, and panic suddenly raced through his chest.
And then the panic was gone, because Dick somehow slowed himself down in the air and landed softly in a half-lunging crouch. The position was familiar, and Bruce knew why. He saw an image of Dick in the Batcave, triumphant because he had confused Batman by doing a backflip over the man's head.
He could be an asset, he just needs more training.
He could also die!
Training will help prevent that.
It won't prevent bullets or knives or Joker-gas or fear gas or any other weapon!
But he can learn how to escape if I train him.
He could also DIE!
"It seems as though the debate rages on, Master Bruce," the always-perceptive Alfred whispered in his ear as the younger man walked into the house.
"It's idiotic," Bruce responded sharply. "It's not even a thought I should entertain."
"I'm not the one who prompted you to think about it, sir, so don't use that tone with me," the butler replied stiffly.
Ignoring the comment, Bruce strode to the kitchen to wash up for dinner. Dick had already done so and was sitting in the dining room. The ten-year-old's eyes widened when Bruce walked in: the man's expression was stony and his dark-blue eyes were full of storm clouds.
"Are you…okay?" Dick asked tentatively.
"Yes," Bruce replied shortly. "Let's just eat."
"Did I do something wrong?"
"Ye…no, why are you so good at tumbling?" the man asked, anger dancing in his voice.
"Um, I was in a circus, remember?" a confused Dick replied.
"How did you slow yourself down? In the air?!" Bruce almost growled.
"I have experience," the boy reminded him. "Do you want me to stop tumbling? I'll stop if you want, if you don't like it, I mean. Whatever you want, I'll do it."
The sentences rushed out of Dick's mouth, disappointment outlining every word. There was also a tinge of fear, but Bruce was so involved in the thoughts racing through his head that he didn't even recognize it.
"I don't want you to stop," the man grumbled.
"Then why are you mad at me? Was I not good enough at soccer? I'll go out and practice after dinner."
"No," Bruce huffed impatiently. "I don't care about your soccer skills."
"Oh."
Dick dropped his head. He thought they had been having fun but now Bruce didn't care so maybe he was wrong.
Bruce noticed the movement and sighed, finally recognizing how harsh he was sounding.
"I didn't mean that like it sounded," he said gruffly.
"Yeah," Dick responded softly, eyes still on the ground. "I get it, you don't have to try to explain."
"That's not…"
"I said I get it," the ten-year-old snapped, lifting his head to glare at his guardian. "Just forget about it. I'll stop whatever I'm doing that's making you mad, just tell me what it is."
"You're not doing anything wrong, Dick, it's me I'm having a problem with."
"Right," the boy replied sarcastically. "Which is why you're growling and glaring at me. Do you think I'm so stupid that I don't recognize anger that is directed at me?!"
"I said it's not you," Bruce nearly yelled. "It's Rob…"
Bruce shut his mouth and a tense silence filled the room. Dick's eyes were full of shock. Had Bruce just confessed that he was still thinking about Robin?
"So, it is me," Dick stated, surprise in his voice. "You're not mad, you're frustrated. And you're frustrated because you hate that you're thinking about Robin."
"I'm not thinking about Robin," Bruce declared irritably. "I'm trying to think of how to keep you from becoming Robin."
"I think you've already accomplished that," Dick replied curtly. "You yelled at me and banned me from the one place that I'm actually useful!"
That statement shocked Bruce and his eyes widened.
"You think you're only useful downstairs?" he asked incredulously.
"What do I do up here that is even remotely useful to you? Or Alfred? It's not like I have chores, or someone to take care of, or go to work so I can provide for the household."
"Dick, you're keeping me – keeping Batman – out of the darkness! Before you came, I didn't care how roughly I treated criminals. I didn't care if they were completely unconscious or beaten to a pulp. I didn't…"
"And now you do?" Dick interrupted skeptically. "Batman cares about how he treats villains now? Just because he has a kid at home? That's ridiculous, Bruce."
"Ridiculous or not, it's the truth!" the man stated heatedly. "I haven't left a pulp of flesh behind for the police to pick up in a long time!"
Dick shook his head disbelievingly. There was no way Batman was "gentle" because of a ten-year-old boy.
"I have to agree with Master Bruce," Alfred commented. "Batman was more of a vigilante than a crime-fighter, Master Dick, before you came into our lives. I'm sure you have heard people talk about the 'Caped Crusader'?
At Dick's nod, Alfred continued, "That nickname is relatively new, Master Dick. He used to be called the 'Dark Knight'. Batman was violent, sometimes overly so. Even some innocent citizens were afraid of him. Now, they see him as a protector, not a person to be feared. The only people who fear The Batman are villains and criminals alike."
"It's idiotic to believe that I'm the reason for that. Just because a random kid comes into his life, Batman becomes 'nice'?"
"Yes," Batman growled.
"So you're saying I'm useful because you're nice. That's just great," the ten-year-old said sarcastically. "I can make you nice, but I can't help you fight crime. Makes total sense."
"This is…"
"Ridiculous," Dick interrupted. "This entire conversation is ridiculous."
Abruptly standing up, the boy raced past the men and out of the room. They heard his light footsteps on the stairs and then the 'slam' of a door.
"That went well," Bruce mumbled.
"Perhaps, Master Bruce, you should think about what you say before you say it."
"What?! You think I did something wrong?!"
"If you were a ten-year-old boy, sir, and you had just been told that: one, your soccer skills – that you just barely learned – are unimportant; two, your tumbling appears to upset your guardian; three, the only reason you're kept around is because it makes Batman nice; and four, that same Batman is thinking about Robin, which gives you hope for a future that you know will probably never come to pass. How would you feel, Master Bruce?"
"I didn't say…"
"Would you like me to quote you, sir?" the butler uncharacteristically interrupted. "Or tell you exactly what words implied some of the things I just mentioned?"
Bruce put his elbows on the table and dropped his head into his hands.
"How do I fix this?" he whispered.
"Lift the ban, Master Bruce. He is, like I said before, a tremendous asset. Master Dick is forgiving and he will most likely dismiss this argument before he comes downstairs in the morning, but allowing him into the Batcave wouldn't hurt your chances."
Bruce lifted his head, already running through the pros and cons of giving Dick access to the Batcave.
"You have never stopped debating with yourself, Master Bruce, and you never will until you make a firm decision."
"I have made a firm decision," the younger man retorted, although there was no anger in his voice.
"Then why did you talk about Robin, sir?"
"I…don't know," Bruce sighed.
"Because you have not made a firm decision. You're going to have to do it sometime, Master Bruce. And talking about Robin is like stringing young Master Dick along, giving him a hint of hope that he knows you can tear away from him over and over."
"That's not fair, Alfred."
"I agree, sir."
"Then why are we discussing this?"
"I said I agree, Master Bruce. I agree that it's not fair…to Master Dick."
With that, the butler turned away from his charge and left the room.
"Why is this so difficult," Bruce muttered. "I already said no and the thought of a child fighting crime is ridiculous. So why can't I stop thinking about it?"