Title: In Another Land Part Eight
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.
Note: Now, I did research both cocaine addiction and various treatment facilities by going on line and asking friends who are ER nurses and deal with such thing, but I'm neither an addict, recovering or otherwise, nor a medical person. I was told, by several people who work with such things daily, that the failure rate for beating cocaine addiction is somewhere around 85, but it can be done. The details are as close as I could get them without having been through it myself, and any mistakes are entirely mine. Thanks to both Cheryl and Gabe for the medical help.
And I promise that things do get a bit more cheerful eventually.
In Another Land
Part EightDick was in Sergei's gym. He'd been back for almost two months now, he taught the girls up to the twelve and thirteen-year-olds through the level eight classes and he helped with all the boys' classes at all levels. It was after four on a Saturday and he was just finished with his class. There was a meet next week with a rival gymnastics academy and the girls were trying to work out the kinks in their routines.
They all had crushes on Dick. So did a few of the mothers, all finding him not only too cute for words, but better at the moves than anyone else in the place, including Sergei. Combining that with his patience and his humor and he was the subject of a lot of giggles and blushes.
Yes, they'd heard about his recent troubles, but after all—with all that poor boy had been through. He was still a wonder with the girls though, and that was the truth. He even still mowed lawns and things to help his poor mother with some of the bills. He was a darling, really.
Amanda, one of the ten-year-olds with a major crush, had just handed him an invitation to her birthday party next week. He thanked her and said it sounded like fun, but he had to work. Kissing her on the cheek, he wished her a happy birthday and smiled at the blush and the giggles from her friends across the room.
When they were all gone and he had the place to himself, Dick chalked up his hands and started on the high bar. No spotter, no judge, no audience, no groupies. Not really doing any set routine, just doing one skill after another, the giant swings melting into stalters and release moves which he caught easily, repeating, moving, turning, reversing with one hand then two then back to one hand again. Swinging around and around, over and under, feeling the air on his body and the friction on his hands, finally gaining the speed and momentum to try the dismount, the quad.
He used to be able to do it so easily back at Haley's. It was fun; he'd get the speed of the swing to throw him out and up, he'd tuck as tightly as he could and spin fast, straighten out and his father's hands would always be there. Dad would smile down at him, tell him how good that was and he'd be back on the platform, landing like nothing.
He made the giant swings around the high bar, over and over, gaining the speed. Almost at the top, with his feet pointing at the ceiling he released, tucked his now longer legs as tight as he could and spun, eyes closed against the blur. Judging where he was he straightened out, landed, floor shaking with the drop, arms raised and stumbled, landing hard on his knees, the force driving him forward onto all fours.
"Fuck."
"You shouldn't try that without extra mats. You know better than that."
"I'm fine, Sergei." He turned over so he was just sitting where he'd landed. Sergei came over to join him.
"The students like you. You work well with them."
Dick looked at him. This wasn't like Sergei, he never offered compliments. In fact, Dick had occasionally wondered if he was a little jealous that the kids liked him better. He just shrugged. "I like most of them, too."
"Which is why I'm sorry that I have to let you go." He pulled something out of his pocket, showing it to Dick, but not handing it over. It was a small vial of coke. "I don't want this in my gym. If you bring it in here, I don't want you here. You go. Now, please."
"Sergei..."
"When you stop this, you come back. Until then, you stay away." Sergei stood up and walked into his office, closing the door. Having no real choice, Dick gathered his things, pulled his jeans on over his shorts and left.
Walking the two miles home, Dick was angry. Who the fuck was Sergei to tell him what he could and couldn't do? He was still the best gymnast in the state, damnit, no matter what anyone said. He almost landed a Goddamned quad this afternoon and there were only three people in the world who could do that, including him, and the other two were in the old eastern block and neither of them were gymnasts—they were circus performers. And he was better with the younger kids than Sergei was, too. They liked him better; they worked better for him, trained harder because they wanted to please Dick, not because they were afraid of Sergei's fucking insults with his twenty-five year old medal.
No one gave a rat's ass. That was the problem. He'd been through a lot, more than anyone he knew and no one ever cut him any slack. His parents were murdered in front of him, his adoptive father died, his mother was in shock for—hell, she was still in shock about it. He'd been an honor student, he'd won the Junior Championship his first attempt and all anyone ever saw were the problems, never the good stuff. His grades were back up again, he was working, making money again—or he had been until half an hour ago.
So he still used now and then. Christ. Big deal.It wasn't like he couldn't stop whenever he wanted.
He could.
Anytime.
He'd been clean the whole time he was waiting out his sentence—and wasn't that a pain in the ass. It wasn't like he'd killed anyone...
...Except Andy.
He'd killed Andy.
If Andy hadn't been hurrying home to get to the stupid party, he might have seen the truck in time, he might not have been on the road then, and he might have—not been killed.
Now Bonnie was screwed. Left with no husband, not enough money and—him.
Walking into the house, he found the note on the counter. Bonnie was out doing errands, would he please put the chicken in the oven at five?
He went up to his room, intending to shower since he left the gym without taking the time, what with being thrown out and fired and all. He probably reeked, in fact. He toed off his sneakers, took his shirt off, shucked his jeans and was about to go across the hall to the bathroom when he thought—well, no, actually he didn't think. He got the glass vial from between his mattress and bedsprings, opened the top, took a couple of snorts and then took a couple more.
Oh, what the hell.
He finished the bottle and felt better than he had all day. Come to think of it he felt great.
The shower would feel great—better than great. It would feel fabulous, terrific, amazing, all that hot water, all that steam and the soap—that would smell so damn good and he'd be clean and...
He stepped into the spray and, Jesus, it felt incredible. It was hitting the top of his head, running down his face and then down his back. He could feel it streaming down his chest, down past his crotch, which was also feeling pretty good, now that he thought about it. It was running in streams and ripples down his legs, swirling around his feet, splashing, dripping. The drops were hanging off his nose, forming patterns on his arms and his hands that he would change with a flick of his wrists.
He'd never felt so good in his life.
Never.
Screw Sergei.
Screw all those jackasses he used to hang around with who were now too damn good to be seen with him.
The water, God the water felt good. He'd never known how damn good a shower could feel before, he'd just never noticed it—it was astonishing.
Losers. All the people he used to spend time with, all the time he wasted in a gym and for what? So that he could have some total stranger hang some stupid medal around his neck? And then what? He'd bring it home and put it in some drawer because it was rude or uncool to show it to anyone because that would be bragging. Wouldn't want that, now.
He loved this shower, in fact, he never really wanted to get out of the shower, but he couldn't just stand here. He needed to move, to run or do back flips or climb a tree like he used to do when he was like ten years old.
He didn't want to just stand here, he wanted to—something. He wanted to...
He turned off the water, pushed open the glass door and took the towel off the hook, starting to dry himself off but too impatient to bother. He had to go, he had to move. Back in his room, naked and still dripping wet he needed to get some clean clothes on so he could get outside to run.
His heart was pounding, he was hot, and his hands were trembling a little—like he had the shakes or something.
He pulled on a clean pair of sweats and was looking for a tee shirt; opening a drawer, when he pulled a little too hard and the thing fell out of its tracks, landing on his bare foot.
"Mother fucker."
Grabbing the drawer by the knob he threw it across the small room. It hit the wall, spilling clothes and making a hole in the plasterboard.
He was breathing hard, sweating and he was hot, like he was running a fever. His heart—he could feel it beating too hard and too fast and he was shaking all over. Shit.
"Dick?"
What was he doing? Getting dressed, of course. Right.
"Dick? Honey, did something fall? Are you alright?"
This wasn't good. He stood entranced as he saw his legs start to shake and then his arms.
"Dick? Oh my God." Bonnie grabbed the handset from his phone, punching in 911. "It's my son, I need an ambulance...I think he's overdosed...probably cocaine...please...he's having a convulsion."
Dick was administered Valium to calm him and counteract the paranoia. It helped slow his heart rate and lower his blood pressure. He was given Tylenol for the fever and a cooling blanket was wrapped around him. When he became delirious he had to be restrained. He began vomiting.
A cardiologist was brought in to make sure he was in good hands in case he went into cardiac arrest.
Bonnie sat in the small ER cubicle, out of the way and hoping—just hoping.
After seven hours he was admitted as an in-patient and removed to a semi-private room.
"Mrs. Porter? I'm Dr. Penn; I'm on staff here in the substance abuse clinic. You are aware that Richard is a cocaine abuser, aren't you?"
She nodded. "He was arrested for a drug buy almost a year and a half ago, but he's been clean since then. I mean, until just recently. He was passing the tests twice a week all that time and—he was doing so well."
"The failure rate for kicking coke is over eighty percent, Mrs. Porter, you have to understand that it may take a number of tries before it takes and, to be honest, he may never kick it."
"But he can beat it, can't he? It's possible, isn't it? He's so strong when he wants to be and he's..."
"If he wants to, that will help certainly, but there aren't any guarantees. You need to realize that. I think the best thing, as soon as he's up to it, would be a residential program. I can explain several of the better ones to you."
They spoke for an hour while Dick slept next to them. At the end of the talk Bonnie had made her decision. No matter what it cost, she'd send Dick to the best rehab she could find. Penn recommended Hazelton and after doing some checking, she agreed. Her insurance wouldn't cover it and there was little money available for what Hazelton termed 'scholarships'. After the initial evaluation, the preliminary thoughts were that he should expect to be admitted to their Adolescent and Young Adult treatment program in Center City, Minnesota, and should plan on being there at least two months. He would keep up with his academics—as did all the school aged patients—by attending tutorials run by the local school system. The costs would run about twenty five thousand a month, not including transportation.
Dick, ashamed at what had happened, both with the OD and with being fired by Sergei, agreed to any treatment his mother and doctors thought would have a chance of being successful.
He was released from the local hospital the next week after the worst of the withdrawal symptoms have eased a bit—the nausea, the irritability, the mood swings and lack of appetite and boarded a plane to Minnesota that evening. Bonnie went with him, taking two personal days from her job to do so.
They were met at the airport by a representative from Hazelton, greeted, and he and his mother were taken to the fifteen-acre lakeside campus. The ages of the patients ran from fourteen to twenty-six. Dick would share a room. Bonnie was given a chance to look around, then politely and firmly informed that they would take it from here.
Dick hugged her, close to tears, promising that he'd make a success of it and she wasn't to worry about him. He'd be home soon and he'd be better, she'd see. She would, she'd be proud of him.
She was driven back to the airport for her return flight.
For the next two months she had little contact with her son, but the reports she received were good. He was making a real effort and the progress was encouraging.
She was falling behind on the house payments and she sold the pickup truck Andy had used. The idea was to save it for Dick when he got his license in a few months, but the seven thousand dollars she got was needed. She knew there was no choice, but she'd been putting it off as long as she could and then made another decision.
Calling a neighbor who worked for one of the local realtors, she listed the house. In the current market and with the location they had, it was put on the market for three-fifty—even with the kitchen in the shape it was and those old bathrooms. With any luck they'd get something close to her asking price. Bonnie knew that the area they lived in was too expensive for them to consider staying in now and set about looking for a new place twenty or thirty miles away from the school she worked for. It would mean Dick would have to change schools in his senior year—assuming he was ready to go back to school in the fall, but it simply couldn't be helped. In fact, it might be for the best for him to make a new start.
She didn't expect the call she received the second day after the place was put on the market.
"Bon? Sweetie? You're not going to believe the offer I just got not five minutes ago. You're simply not going to believe it!"
"Annie?"
"A lawyer called from one of those big development companies that are always looking for properties in the area—you know you have that big back yard and those woods? Well since they're also putting in bids for the houses on both sides of you, they think they might be able to do something with it all and they're offering three-twenty-five, but the thing is—you're not going to believe this—the thing is the man said since they're not ready to build for at least two years, if you wanted, you could stay in the house and pay rent. In fact, he said it would be six hundred dollars a month, utilities included because they want someone there to keep an eye on the place for them so no vandals or squatters get in. Can you believe it?"
"Who are these people? Are they crazy? They could get three times that much."
"I know, but they don't seem to care, they just want the place to be taken care of for now—doesn't it sound perfect? You wouldn't have to move yet and Dick can finish school—it's just perfect!"
"Well, I...What's the name of the company? Are they anyone we know?"
"It's something named 'Tri-County Development Corporation'. I don't know, I've never heard of them, but they check out just fine—a triple-A rating across the board. Do you want to think about it? I'm telling you, though, it's the best offer you'll be getting, hon."
"I, ah—yes, take it, but make double sure about being able to stay and the rental price, will you? That sounds too good to be true."
"I'll get it in writing and dot all the i's, sweetie. You know me."
Three months later the sale of the house had it's closing. Nothing would change, in a practical sense, for a while. She and Dick could stay in the house with all their belongings for another two years.
While she was waiting out the house closing and amid all the bureaucracy that entailed, Dick was released from Hazelton. She had flown to Minnesota to get him and the meetings with the counselors and doctors were encouraging. He was looking better, his attitude seemed to be good and he appeared determined to make her proud and to prove that he'd turned a corner. He told her that as soon as they got home he wanted to talk to Sergei about starting at the gym again and when she asked—as tactfully as she could—if he wanted to think about changing schools, he said there was no reason; enough of the kids at school had been through something like it to make it a non event when one returned to class. He might as well stay where he was.
A couple of months after he got back home he happened to see a notation in the checkbook for six hundred dollars for Tri-County Dev. Corp. Wondering what that was, he looked in the phone book, but couldn't find a local listing. Next he went on-line and bingo.
"Tri-County Development Corporation, a division of Wayne Enterprises"Dick just shook his head. Christ.
In the executive suites of Wayne Corp, Lucius Fox and his boss were having one of their countless meetings. "I still don't understand why you're wasting money on a couple of small residential properties like this—what on earth are you thinking about doing with them? The Manor getting too big for you?"
Bruce didn't crack a smile. "I want the zoning board's permission to put a drug treatment facility there. There's a local need and it's not being filled."
"...Why the interest?"
"Why not?"
That was all the answer he'd get and he knew it. Bruce was a cold bastard and there was no way around it. "Alright, fine. I'll get legal started on it. It's going to take a while, though. You know there's always neighborhood resistance to something like this."
Bruce gave him one of his looks. "Get it passed. I want to break ground in two years."
When Lucius went back to his own office, Bruce pulled the file out of his briefcase again. Leslie had been helpful in getting the records sent over and he'd be sure to thank her. Maybe a new ultra sound machine would be appropriate. Both the medical doctors and the psychologists at Hazelton had given Dick a clean bill of heath and a good prognosis, but with the usual warnings. The kid needed his self-esteem built up. He needed some successes and probably a few new friends—the right kind of friends.
Maybe going back to the gym was the way. Maybe.
Maybe there was a different direction that might work.
TBC
10/13/04
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