Title: In Another Land Part Seven

Author: Simon

Pairing: Dick

Rating: PG-13

Summary: An AU look at what might have happened if Bruce hadn't taken Dick in.

Warnings: None

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes.

Thank you, Jim.

In Another Land

Part Seven

It had been four months since Dick's court date and so far he was following all the rules. He was in class when he was supposed to be, his grades were better and he was home at curfew time.

He spent Saturdays on a road crew picking up garbage and two days a week after school he went to the community center to teach the gymnastics classes he'd been assigned for his community service fulfillment.

He took a bus to the precinct house after school one day to personally apologize to the officer he'd hit during the arrest and to thank the man for not pressing charges. They ended up talking for almost ninety minutes and shook hands when Dick had to go home. It turned out the cop was a pretty good guy.

His color was better than it was when he was doing the drugs almost every day; he seemed healthier overall than he was in the months after Andy's death. He also seemed determined to make a change and said yes when a couple of his old friends called one night after dinner—the first invitation he'd had in months, asking if he could come out for a pick up game of basketball down at the park. Bonnie drove him over and watched him play with almost his old grace and ability. He was laughing when he scored a basket and he actually looked happy for the first time in too long. She began to think that the worst might be behind them—or at least to begin to hope it might be.

One morning he came down to breakfast wearing one of Andy's old blue button down shirts instead of his usual black tee. It was a small thing, but it was a turning point. It was almost as if her son was back.

Or perhaps he simply had nothing else to wear, but Bonnie chose to see it as a sign.

No, it wasn't all good. There were days when he'd complain about having to do the fucking community service or work along side the highway where his friends could see him. He hated all the homework he had to do after spending hours teaching clumsy kids how to do cartwheels and round offs. He hated his parole officer on sight and it seemed mutual.

The other thing that raised red flags was that he mocked the drug program he'd been enrolled in, saying the counselors were idiots who didn't know what they were talking about. They were clueless do-gooders trying to rack up some kind of brownie points or something. He would leave the sessions angry and refuse to talk to her about them. The reports to Bonnie were that he was uncooperative and antagonistic, bordering on belligerent.

He also refused to have anything to do with the school counselors, insisting they were morons. He ignored every attempt they made to help him catch up in his classes and said he could do it himself.

Though they were only sporadic church goers, Dick now refused to set foot inside of Saint Catherine's. His only comment being, "I think God's done enough for me, thanks."

Bonnie tried to talk to him in depth about how he was feeling and what was really going on, but he simply refused, saying everything was fine and that he could handle it. She shouldn't worry. Besides, as soon as he'd worked off his sentence, he could start working jobs again for money. He'd be able to help her with the expenses and she could relax a little. He swore he would, she should just leave him alone—he was doing just fine.

Sometimes Dick thought that half of the crap the judge had assigned him to do was just to keep him off the streets. There was the fucking highway cleaning, the community service, the drug counseling, school, the curfew which made it hard to get everything done and all of his usual chores on top of most of Andy's—Christ. Okay, he'd broken the stupid law and all, fine, but it wasn't like he'd killed anyone for God's sake.

It was starting to get to him.

Then there was the damn parole officer who assumed that Dick was a jackass spoiled kid doing drugs for kicks because he was bored. Did this jerk ever bother to read case files? Did he ever bother to ask why Dick did the things he had? Hell no. Why would he do a stupid thing like that? Every time they met they came close to butting heads and it was only a threat from the asshole PO that one more smart crack and Dick'd be cooling his heels in Juvie for the night that made him back down.

School sucked, too. His old friends wouldn't give him the time of day and that couple of hours shooting hoops was a fluke. He overheard a couple of the guys talking, not knowing he was close enough to hear. They had been basically forced into it by their parents. "You boys used to be such good friends and that poor thing has enough to deal with without you all walking away from him as well. You call him, do you hear me?" "He's an asshole now." "You know what he's been through with his father being killed the way he was—I heard that when he was brought into the hospital, well, it was just awful." "Yeah, but he's turned into such a jerk." "You know, being a little compassionate wouldn't hurt you." It had been a one shot deal and when he got another call a couple of days later, he made an excuse not to go. A few more calls came in, but after a little while, they stopped.

It was fine. Fuck 'em.

And the way Bonnie looked at him—like she was waiting for him to walk into the kitchen with powder on his nose or a needle hanging out of his arm.

Not that he hadn't been tempted. He was plenty tempted everyday, but so far...

Besides, he had to pass those tests a couple of times a week and more if anyone suspected anything. What a pain in the ass. He could tell that his mother thought it was just a matter of time before it happened and he knew she was just waiting for the fucking shoe to drop.

That might have been the thing that pissed him off the most—the fact that everyone seemed to assume that he was going to fail, that he was going to start using again. They had no idea. None.

Sure he wanted to. It would be the easiest thing in the world to score, but he was determined not to.

Not this time. He used to be able to do anything he wanted—throw a triple? Easy. Get straight A's? No problem. Be the center of a large group of friends? Walk in the park.

He could do that again.

He could and he would, if everyone would just cut him some slack.

He knew that most people had written him off as a screw up, but he'd prove them wrong.

He would.

Christ.

Sometimes late at night, Dick would have a sort of waking dream—maybe it was a sort of day dream—about what his life would have been like if his parents, his real parents, hadn't been killed.

The three of them—hey, maybe his Mom would have had another kid by now and he'd have a brother (he somehow never thought that he'd have a sister) to teach how to fly. They could all hang out with the rest of the performers and the roustabouts and the grips. They would all eat together and travel from city to city—they'd all be friends and they'd all know that was where they were supposed to be and what they were supposed to do. No problems, no questions and no worrying about what they'd do today or where they were supposed to be. They would know. They'd have a matinee or maybe two then, after the dinner break, they'd have an evening show. After that they'd hang out with the others for a while, just shooting the shit, then go back to their trailer together—it would have been great. It was what he'd been born to do and—God—he missed it.

But then he'd hear the alarm go off and be confused for a few seconds before he remembered that wasn't what he was living anymore. He would open his eyes and see his small room and he'd remember.

He'd get up and shower and go through the motions again.

So most days would go by with almost no contact between Dick and anyone in the school beyond the most basic exchanges until one morning about eight months after the arrest.

"Hey, Grayson, did you get the math homework last night?"

It was Christian, one of his former friends and they were both in the library for study hall. He nodded and kept reading, assuming that it was just another dig.

"Well, can I look at it? I got lost on the fourth problem."

Dick gave him a suspicious look. "You want to see my work? What the fuck for?"

"Because you're the best math student in the class."

Doubtful, and half expecting that he wouldn't get it back; he slid the sheet across the table.

"What did you do here?" Christian was staring at the paper.

"It's the tangent, not the radius. You have to substitute—yeah, right. You have to make that change and that gives you the answer."

"What about in the seventh problem? It's different..."

"It's just the reverse."

He was nodding; he got it now that he could see what Dick had done in the assignment. He handed Dick back his work. "...Why did you do it? Shit, you were the smartest kid in the school. Why did you screw up so bad? I mean, I know about your Dad and all, but—shit, you were the one everyone wanted to be. Fuck me, you were who I wanted to be." It was said softly, the way a friend would ask another friend and Dick responded to a degree.

"...Pain management, I guess. It's, when Andy was killed...it was..." He trailed off.

"It was what?"

"He was rushing home to see me and..."

"And so it was your fault?"

Dick half shrugged, half nodded.

"That's bullshit, man. He got killed because some guy was over the line, you didn't have anything to do with that." Dick was staring at the math paper. "Hey, Dick—you're tougher than this. You can do anything—God, you amazed me."

He heard a half snort of disbelief from Dick.

"No, I mean it, dude. You were high honor roll, you worked like two jobs and you still won that hot shit gymnastics meet. You were ranked, what? Number one in the country for our age? That's impressive stuff."

"Christian...it's, I'm not—I mean, that was last year."

"Yeah, I know, but we were really good friends, y'know? I—miss hanging out with you."

Dick was looking at Christian, trying to gauge what he'd just said. There were a few beats. "I miss a lot of things."

"Call me, okay? And I'll call you."

The bell for the next period sounded but Dick nodded, "Okay" before they went to their next classes.

"Christian? Was that Dick leaving just now?"

"We're working on a project for history."

"When's it due?"

"Monday. Why?"

"I'd rather you didn't spend time with him if you can avoid it."

"We're friends, Mom."

"I know that, but I think that it would be better if you spent time with your other friends."

"He's a bad influence?"

"...I think you can do better."

"But..."

"I don't want you getting sucked into his problems."

"Mom..."

"I mean it. I want you to stay away from him."

He had lost most of his school friends because he'd gotten the reputation of being 'bad' and Dick was tired of being alone. He tried to seize the olive branch he'd been handed by Christian. They talked in school now and sometimes they did things together.

A couple of weeks after they reconnected, Dick dialed Christian's number but was told he couldn't talk because he had to finish his homework. The next day in school Dick tried again in study hall, but he said he had to work on his French assignment.

One last effort, another call, was again rebuffed and he stopped trying.

Another six months went by like this. He spent all his free time alone; usually reading in his room and that seemed to help his grades. The community service hours were fulfilled as well as the work program, thank God. He still had the fucking drug counseling and the fucking parole officer to deal with, but they were minor annoyances he could largely ignore.

He was now sixteen and the sentence would be finished with soon.

The problems weren't solved, though, just waiting to surface.

One night Dick was out after eight, not coming in until eight thirty. Bonnie told him he couldn't do this, that he was in violation of the judge's orders. He shrugged and pushed past her up to his room. His attitude was getting bad again and she was afraid that one day soon he'd fail one of his drug tests. She wasn't sure what happened to ruin his determination to turn himself around, but something had occurred—or maybe it was just the accumulation of everything. She was afraid that he was like a pressure cooker and he was about to explode. Desperate to help him, she didn't know how anymore, berating herself for being a bad parent and accomplishing nothing she could see which was useful to either of them.

Two weeks after that he was out in the backyard around one in the morning, sitting in the old Adirondack chair with one of Andy's old sweaters around him when he heard the soft rustle of fabric and footsteps behind him. "I'm not out, Mom, I'm just in the yard."

"I think that technically you're supposed to be inside after eight." Bonnie sat in the chair next to him, willing him to talk to her. "Honey, it's...Are there problems?"

"It's fine."

"...I heard from the counselor this afternoon. He said you were almost an hour late."

"The bus was messed up—there's construction by the bridge. I told him that."

"He told me that he thinks you may still be struggling with everything that's happened this last year."

No shit. "I'm fine, Mom, I was just late. I tested clean, didn't I?"

"You know how proud I am of you for that."

Of course she was. "Mom, I'm fine. I'll just be glad when this is over."

They both would be.

"He's afraid that you may start using again."

"I'm not."

Maybe. There were ways around the testing and they all knew that. But she thought he'd been trying so hard.

"The fourteen months will be up in a few weeks. Then we'll be back to normal—you can go back to your own schedule and you know Sergei wants you back in the gym, even if it's just to teach the younger kids. Alfred called to know when you'll be able to go back there to help out. You'll have college to think about and..."

"Can we not talk about this right now, please?"

"Dick, honey..."

"I know you're worried about me, but I'm alright. My grades are fine and I'm not using. I won't even have a record when this is over—everything's fine." There was silence for a couple of minutes then, "...I miss Dad. I wish...you know. I wish none of this had happened."

So did Bonnie. She hadn't told him that they were probably going to have to sell the house. She avoided saying anything while they were in the middle of everything and she tried desperately to hold onto it to give Dick some small degree of stability but she knew that it would have to go on the market in the next few months. Dick would probably have to change schools for his senior year and she was afraid of his reaction. Of course, it might end up being for the best; maybe it would give him a chance for a new start where his background wasn't public knowledge.

She knew that Mr. Wayne told her to call if she needed anything, but she simply couldn't. The man was a virtual stranger and he'd done enough—more than enough when you came down to it. Besides, someone in his position must have people coming up to him every day with their hands out.

She simply couldn't ask him for help.

Three weeks later Dick was discharged from the court ordered probation, given a clean bill of health from the drug center, given a 'satisfactory' rating from his PO and declared done with his punishment. His debt to society was paid in full. He had agreed to help Sergei with the beginners' classes in exchange for advanced coaching and he was to start helping out back at Wayne Manor the next weekend. He and his mother celebrated by going out to dinner at the decent Italian restaurant in town where, by coincidence, a couple of his old friends were having a birthday dinner for Christian. He, of course, hadn't been invited and after perfunctory greetings, they ignored each other.

Unknown to Bonnie, later that night Dick slipped out around midnight.

Two days later Bonnie found a vial of cocaine in his underwear drawer.

TBC

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