A/N: Thanks for reviewing, Lasers in the Sky and JessicaRae95! :)
Wayne Enterprises – three hours earlier:
Bruce Wayne was thinking. He fingers were steepled together and he was gazing across his office, seeing nothing except the grief-filled face of a nine-year-old boy.
The man still didn't understand why he was drawn to the newly-orphaned child. Alfred had mentioned the same thought that had entered Bruce's mind: the fact that the boy, just like Bruce, had watched his own parents die. But Bruce didn't believe that something so small, although supremely traumatizing, could make him feel such a strong connection.
The phone on his desk began ringing, startling him out of his semi-trance. Shaking his head, the millionaire picked it up. Before he could say a greeting, Alfred was talking.
"Master Bruce, the bodies of the boy's parents are being buried in the paupers' graveyard tomorrow. I know you have been thinking about him, sir, so I thought you might want to know."
"The paupers' graveyard?!" Bruce exclaimed. "Why the heck would…"
The man paused, and his butler confirmed his thought.
"The circus has left, Master Bruce. It is as if The Flying Graysons never existed. They left this morning, and the bodies of John and Mary Grayson are still in the morgue, sir. Gotham City is not going to pay for a funeral, Master Bruce."
Bruce was stunned into silence. The circus had left the bodies of their greatest act, and the very-alive boy that belonged to them, in an unknown city. 'As if the Flying Graysons never existed'.
Never existed.
The words echoed in his ears. The brilliant performers, who had graced audiences around the world with their presence, were to be forgotten in an old graveyard on the edge of Gotham City.
"I'll take care of it," Bruce suddenly stated. "They don't belong there, I'll give them a proper funeral. They have a son who will be in attendance, he shouldn't have to see them buried in a place like that."
On the other end of the phone, Alfred quietly sighed in relief. He had guessed, correctly, that the millionaire would decide to take that path, but one could never be sure with Bruce Wayne.
"I shall make the arrangements, sir," the butler responded.
"Thank you, Alfred."
"Of course, Master Bruce. Where do you want it to take place, sir?"
Silence. Alfred, used to waiting for his charge to make decisions, patiently remained quiet.
"I…" Bruce began, pausing again to re-think his decision.
"Do you think…"
The younger man didn't know how to say it. He was internally arguing with himself, but couldn't bring himself to actually say it.
Alfred, easily understanding the younger man's struggle, quietly stated, "I think your parents would be very proud of your decision, sir."
Silence again, and again the old butler waited patiently. He could practically hear the argument in the younger man's head.
"Okay," Bruce finally breathed quietly. "We'll bury them in the Wayne plot."
"I shall make the arrangements, sir," the butler repeated.
After hanging up, Bruce once again steepled his fingers and began staring at nothing. Was this really a good idea? He didn't even know the boy or his parents! Was he really going to bury them next to his own parents?
Yes.
The one word solidified his decision. Turning his attention to some paperwork on his desk, Bruce allowed the thought of a funeral to slide to the back of his mind.
The detention center – present time:
Dick didn't move when the bell rang and the doors swung open. Surprisingly, Sam and Chuck and everyone else left him alone. When the 'clang' of metal hitting metal assaulted his ears, Dick allowed his eyes to flutter open. The pain in his head was exacerbated by the fire on his face.
Dimly, Dick wondered if he should have gone to the nurse. But the guard would have taken him there if it was necessary. That's what the boy assumed, anyway. So, it must not be that bad. Painful, but not bad enough for a visit to the nurse.
The sound of whistling caused the nine-year-old to carefully lift his head. His neck protested the movement, so he laid it back on the flat excuse for a pillow. Even the one in his circus trailer had been better than this.
A guard strolled past his cell, and Dick thought about saying something. But for some reason, he couldn't open his mouth, and he was too tired to try to get some words out anyway. His stomach suddenly cramped up and Dick muttered a weak 'wait', but the man was already gone.
How many meals had he missed? Dick couldn't remember if he had eaten today, the concussion still hindering his ability to think clearly. He did, however, remember his loss. If that was the "game" they were going to play every day, the nine-year-old realized he was going to have to teach himself how to fight. Or, at the very least, learn from all his upcoming losses. Because there was no way he was going to win for a while, especially since it was Chuck he was "playing" against.
Slowly, Dick pushed himself up to sitting. He gently touched his nose and immediately regretted the action. The tiniest touch sent shockwaves through his already pounding head, so he decided to never do that again.
He was slightly happy to discover that his ribs didn't really hurt anymore. Carefully, he lifted his shirt and was not surprised to see a dark bruise covering the majority of his torso. Dick thought about touching it, but instantly tossed the thought away. If it didn't hurt, he was going to leave it alone.
Another guard walked by, and this time the soft sound of Dick's 'wait' was loud enough to be heard. The man turned toward the cell and peered in. The fading beams of the sun were slanting through the bar-covered window. Dick was swathed in shadows, but the guard could see his silhouette.
A muttered swear word flew out of his mouth, and thirty seconds later the door to Dick's cell swung open.
"What the he…"
The guard stopped himself, curbing his language for the sake of the child in front of him.
"What happened to you?!" he demanded, making Dick flinch.
"I…"
That was the only word Dick could get out, pain shooting through the bones in his face when he opened his mouth.
"You're the meal kid, aren't you? The one always starting fights in the cafeteria. I've heard about you, is that why you're here instead of in the rec hall?"
"No," Dick mumbled.
"Well, you sure look like you've been in a fight. Come on, I'll take you to see Tank."
The name burst through Dick's cloudy brain like a ray of sunshine. Tank could help, Tank would get rid of the pain. If only he could remember how to stand up.
"Let's go!" the guard impatiently demanded. "Geez, you're really out of it, aren't you?"
The man was bending over, staring into Dick's eyes and allowing some concern to float through his own.
"You're pretty small for a teen," he commented as he stood up.
Dick didn't respond, so the guard put his hands under the boy's armpits and easily lifted him off the bed. Already knowing that the boy probably wouldn't be able to hold his own weight, the man chose to carry him. Dick allowed his head to rest on the man's shoulder, and ten minutes later he was sitting on a bed in the infirmary with Tank shining a bright penlight into his eyes.
"Concussion," Tank murmured as the guard left the room, "probably a broken nose, contusions around the eyes. How does your head feel?"
Dick stared at him, thinking about what Sam and Chuck would say about him being with the nurse again.
"Is fine," the nine-year-old whispered. "'M fine."
Sighing, Tank sat down on the nearest chair.
"Who was it?" he asked quietly. "This is the second time I've seen you today. You can tell me what happened, I'm here to help."
Dick just stared at him, refusing to show what he now believed to be weakness. Only babies went to the nurse, according to Chuck. And Dick was nine!
"Okay," Tank said with another sigh, "what's your name?"
"Dick," the boy mumbled.
"Okay, Dick, here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to put some ice on those eyes, then clean and bandage your nose. Then I'm going to check your torso, because you've been favoring your right side. You probably didn't even know that, though, because you've got what I'm pretty sure is a severe concussion. How old are you, Dick?"
"Um…" Dick had to think for a moment, even though he had just told himself in his head.
"Having a hard time remembering?" Tank asked gently.
"No, nine, 'm nine."
Tank's eyes widened slightly, shock racing through them.
"If you're nine, why the heck are you in the teenage block?!" he nearly shouted.
The loud noise made Dick wince, and Tank quickly apologized.
"I have another thing to do now, Dick. After I fix you up, I'm going to talk to the warden. You shouldn't be in the teenage block. We'll get this figured out, okay?"
"'M fine," the nine-year-old repeated.
"Yeah," Tank replied as he stood up, "I can see that you're perfectly fine. Now, just lay back for me and I'll get you taken care of."
Obediently, Dick relaxed as Tank lowered him onto his back. A cold cloth was placed across his bruised eyes, making him shiver but also bringing some sweet relief to the fire still racing around his face.
But then Tank started working on Dick's nose, and the boy nearly rolled off the bed in an effort to get away from the touch.
"I know it hurts, Dick, but I have to do this. Just relax for me, okay?"
Tears of pain leaked out of his covered eyes, but he mumbled a defeated 'k' and tried to prepare himself for the agony. But then he didn't have a choice, because Tank gave him a shot and Dick slipped into oblivion.
The warden's office – 30 minutes later:
"Why is a nine-year-old in the teenage block?!" Tank demanded as he burst through the closed door of the warden's office.
Two surprised faces looked in his direction. Jeff Sanderson grimaced and the warden jumped to his feet.
"Jeff, you put him in the teenage block?!" the latter man yelled.
"It was the only space you had!" the other man retorted. "And it's more space than I had anywhere!"
"The kid took a good beating and you're saying he's not even supposed to be here?!" Tank shouted. "You're a social worker, and he's your charge!"
It wasn't a question. Tank was intelligent and had already put two and two together.
"I'm keeping him in the infirmary," the nurse stated authoritatively. "I'm not sending him back with the teenagers."
Nodding in agreement, the warden said, "As long as you have space, you keep him."
"Anyway," Jeff stated, "I'll be picking him up around nine o'clock tomorrow. The funeral is at ten."
"Funeral?!" Tank nearly roared. "He has to go to a funeral with a broken nose, bruised ribs, two black eyes, so exhausted that his body is one continuous tremble…"
Jeff swore, and Tank glared at him.
"That's what happens when you put a vulnerable child in with teenagers who actually deserve to be here!"
"Do what you can for him, Tank. We'll have him ready for you tomorrow, Jeff."
Waving his hand in dismissal, the warden dropped onto his chair. Jeff nodded, Tank glared some more, and both men left the room.
The Batcave – midnight:
Batman turned to the Batcomputer when he heard a familiar 'ding'. Striding over to the machine, he picked up the card and stared at it. Maybe something was wrong with the Batcomputer. Maybe it was tired, or something was worn through, or…anything but this.
At that very moment, Alfred entered the Batcave. Batman was standing stock still, glaring at the small, white card in his hand. The butler sighed, someone must have escaped.
"The detention center again," Batman growled. "This is the second time in two nights that it says the detention center."
"I'm sorry, sir?"
"I put his name in again, just like I did last night. Same answer as yesterday: detention center. He's in the detention center!"
"Master Batman, are you sure that a social worker would put a newly-orphaned boy in such a horrid place?"
"Yes!" Batman yelled. "If there's no space, he's not just going to leave the boy on the streets! Although that would probably be safer for him than the detention center!"
"Perhaps you should pay a visit to the center, sir," Alfred suggested wisely.
With a short nod of agreement, the Caped Crusader nearly sprinted to the Batmobile. Five minutes later it was roaring out of the Batcave, its occupant feeling concern for a child and still not understanding why.
