Title: In Another Land Part Three
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 NineDick was sixteen now, a six-footer and a senior in high school. Young for his class, yes, but he had always been ahead of the other kids—there was a reason why his grades were as good as they usually were. He really was that smart.
Hazelton had happened over part of summer break and after returning home he'd laid low, regrouping and trying to just get himself settled. He mowed the usual lawns and did the usual pickup jobs around the neighborhood, but other than that he basically just read a lot of books and taken long walks and bike rides.
And he stayed clean.
He was serious about it this time. Hazelton had taken his bullshit about being able to stop anytime he wanted and thrown it back in his face with some facts he didn't like hearing but which, in the end, were accepted as an ugly truth he'd have to learn to live with, one way or another. Or not live with it, if he kept it up.
Being a teacher, his mother had most of the summer off to be with him and they spent a lot of time trying to reconnect with one another. He always felt tremendous guilt about the problems and worry he'd caused her and that guilt would never completely go away, but they could talk honestly now, and that was huge compared to what they'd just been through.
Not knowing what reception he'd get, he avoided his old friends, the ones he let fall away the last couple of years but he missed them and he missed the companionship they'd had, the easy camaraderie. He tried to steel himself to being alone this year until he built it up enough in his mind so that it was what he expected and could project the façade of not caring.
He was wrong.
The transition back to the daily school grind was surprisingly easy—much more so than his bravado would have led anyone to think. He had been nervous, frightened to death.
The first morning of classes he walked back in through the front doors and saw a group of his old friends standing in the hallway, the ones who had shunned him and cut him off a year and two years ago—the ones he needed to be there for him—when he saw them give him a long silent look, he thought it would be a case of same old, same old.
Then Christian had nodded and said, "How you doin', Dick? You okay now?"
"Yeah, I'm good. How 'bout you?"
"Right as rain. You hear we're starting Phys Ed with a gymnastics unit today?"
"No shit?"
"None. See you there." Dick started past the others when Phil touched his arm. "Good to see you back, man." He smiled and started away. "Hey, what lunch do you have this year?"
"Second."
"See you there."
No one said anything about his problems, other than to welcome him back or tell him he was looking better than the last time they'd seen him and it was a good thing. The girls, especially the ones who might not have really noticed him too much a couple of years ago, suddenly knew what the fuss about Dick Grayson was for. He was smart, tall, built and had that black hair and those blue eyes that could make your heart stop. And that smile—God, that smile. Couple all that with his back story of not only being one of the top gymnasts in the country and being an orphan who helped his mother pay the bills—and that whole thing about the slide into drugs after his second father's death and you had a package that made the young ladies either want to mother him or bed him, or both—maybe at the same time.
If he managed to keep it together, this should be a good year.
Maybe.
In his first class of the first day of his senior year the teacher taking the role got to his name, "Porter? Good to see you back, Dick." A few of the kids started clapping, the rest of the class joined in and he knew it would probably be alright.
Probably.
He went back to the gym a few days after his return from Hazelton in mid-August and Sergei threw his arms around him, welcoming him like a long lost son. That first day back, after the initial greeting, Sergei left him alone in the empty gym to go at his own pace. Starting with a gentle warm up consisting mostly of some yoga stretching, he moved up to a jog around the large room for half an hour—just a nice slow pace designed to reacquaint his muscles with the idea of doing something other than sitting and walking and pushing a lawn mower.
From there he started some floor moves, nothing too strenuous, just a dozen or so tumbling passes which built as he got more and more into it and some connecting moves—really just more of the warm-up, really.
Then he went over to his gym bag—Sergei was watching him through the window in his office while pretending to do paperwork—and pulled something out. Worried about what it might be, Sergei started to get up but it was just a set of grips. Dick got them on, adjusted the fit and chalked up.
High bar, always his favorite and the closest to the trapeze he could get in gymnastics. He stood under the bar for a moment, centering himself, picturing the moves. Jumping up he began with the precise movements he'd been practicing almost all his life. His muscles remembered how to move, remembered the timing and the subtle shifts of balance and speed that made his movements exceptional to watch. Other gymnasts performed tricks and skills they'd learned, Dick moved as though he was born to it naturally, the movements flowing from one to another almost organically.
The final set of giant swings were designed to give him the momentum and the speed, the height, he released, tucked and turned, landing the triple without a bobble.
In two weeks, he promised himself, he'd have his quad back—and he'd stick it. Most coaches thought he was too tall, inches taller than the other top men, but he could still pull the moves. He could and he'd prove it. He was over sixteen now, according to the rules he would compete with the senior men—he'd compete and he'd win. He would.
Sergei saw the stuck dismount; saw the look on Dick's face. "You think you'll be ready for the Regional meet after the New Year? You have your routines set by then? You compete against the senior men, now—you know that. You're too old for the juniors and you waste your time there anyway. You be ready?"
God, training for a senior meet as an elite? Four hours a day minimum in the gym on top of school and his regular chores and helping Bonnie and...
"I don't know, it's a lot of training and I really have to work in school this year and..."
"Every year I have this same talk with you. You can be the best in the world if you try—you can be second or third if you don't try as hard. Is a waste for you not to go. You go, you win, you get scholarship and your mother doesn't have to pay for your school—you are going to university, no?"
"I don't know. I'd like to, sure, but—there's a lot going on now. Look, Sergei, can I let you know in a few days or something?"
"You let me know, but you still have a class to teach in twenty minutes. The level five girls."
"I'm working here again?"
"You're working here again."
"Hey, Sergei? If I compete, I'd like to use my old name. Can I register under Grayson? I think my parents would have liked that."
In early October Dick was studying in the school library when Phil sat next to him. "You coming to Sarah's party on Saturday?"
Crap, something else he hadn't been invited to. "I wasn't planning on it."
"She wants you there, man, she likes you."
Which is why she didn't say anything to him. Right. "I've got things to do."
"Hey, Dick, look—she wants you there. We all want you there, okay? It's not a set up or anything like that. We all know the shit you've been through and we just want you there, alright? Come to her house, around eight?"
Long shot at best. "I'll see, maybe."
Around seven thirty on Saturday Christian stopped over at Dick's house on his way to Sarah's. Phil had told him the truth, the group really did want him there. "You ready? C'mon."
"I'm gonna pass..."
"The hell you are. Get your ass off that couch and put your shoes on. You're going to the fucking party."
Bonnie was in the kitchen, hearing what they were saying and came to the door. "Why don't you go? You haven't been out with your old friends in months—you'll have a good time."
He looked at her doubtfully. "I'm pretty tired and..." And he was scared to death.
"Honey—go to the party. Christian was nice enough to come all the way over here to get you and you know you'll have fun." She gave him a smile. "Go on." Besides, she knew these kids. They were straight and while she knew that there'd probably be some drinking, she doubted that there would be hard drugs—not that she wanted him drinking, either.
Resigned, Dick went up to his room to get a clean shirt and find his sneakers. While he was gone Bonnie took a moment, "Christian? Thank you for coming over to get him, my Lord, he hasn't been out just for fun in so long—you'll make sure nothing bad happens, won't you?" He started to say something. "You know what I mean. Please? Call me if ..." She saw the look on his face. "What am I saying? You know better than to do any of those things. Just—thank you."
When they walked into the party, Sarah took Dick's hand and led him to the momentarily empty kitchen. "Christian told me that he was going to make you come here tonight but it's okay. Everyone really wanted you here and, God, don't worry about anything, alright?"
This was wearing thin. "I'm not a complete basket case, okay? I think I can handle this—back off." It came out sharper than he'd intended and he was immediately contrite. "Sorry—it's just that everyone has been treating me with kid gloves, they're all afraid to talk to me or say the wrong thing because I might go find a dealer. It's just me, alright? And I'm fine."
She hugged him in response and he hugged her back. In fact she was one of the dozens of girls in the school with a crush on Dick and she was actually glad to see him walk through her door. He was so brave, after everything that had happened and she'd love to...she'd love to, well, everything.
"Jesus, get a room, will you?"
So much for mood, they broke apart. Dick simply went back out to the living room where most of the others were, found himself a place on the large recliner and made himself comfortable, glass of ginger ale in hand. Sarah followed a few minutes later and took the space at the end down by his feet, using his legs as armrests. Taking his shoes off, he used his toes to tickle her and they went back and forth for a while until she had moved up against him to simply use him as a full body support, his arms around her and hers resting on top of his.
The party—well, really more just a bunch of kids hanging out and watching movies and eating junk food and talking than an actual party—went on for a couple of hours. Sarah and Dick just sort of lay there, talking and making comments about the film, generally being left pretty much alone by the other—other from the looks and asides which they mostly ignored. After his second soda Dick made his way to the bathroom, only slightly surprised when Alex walked in with him.
"I was wondering when you were going to make your move."
Shit, he didn't need this. "Excuse me?"
Alex took the small vial out of his pocket. "C'mon. I'll share. You can pay me back in kind next time."
"No, thanks."
"C'mon, Dick, I don't mind—help yourself."
"I just wanted to take a leak, you mind leaving?
"Since when do you turn down a high?"
Christ. Idiot. "Since I got busted twice and spent over two months in rehab—fuck off, Alex."
"You're telling me you're really clean? Bullshit." Jesus. Dick took the vial of coke, tossed it in the toilet and flushed. "You Asshole! You owe me—that was mine, jackass, you owe me."
"Yeah, whatever. I'd like a little privacy if you don't mind." When he left the bathroom, Dick noticed Alex going out the front door—looking extremely pissed.
Like he cared.
"Hey, I hear that you're doing gymnastics again." Vanessa was next to him. She was the current captain of the cheerleading squad at school and they really sucked; in fact they were famous for it. "My brother, Stevie? You probably know him, he's like twelve?" Yes, Dick knew him and had him in a couple of his level four boys classes three times a week. The kid couldn't walk across he room without tripping. "He says you're back at Sergei's gym and the kids all watch you. I guess Sergei says you're pretty good."
He shrugged. He never knew what to say to things like that and this wasn't what he wanted to be dealing with, anyway.
"I was thinking that maybe you could help the cheerleaders with some of our routines—you could really teach us a lot and we could totally use the help. Do you think maybe?"
"Yeah, well, thanks, but I don't have much time right now. Maybe in the spring or something if that's alright. I'm still catching up with things, you know?"
She actually went into a pout and Dick, completely not in the mood anymore to be at a party, caught Christian's eye. "I've gotta be going, see you in school on Monday."
"I'll go with you."
"It's three blocks. I'm fine—and I'm not going to get high on the way home."
"I didn't say you were."
Dick nodded, not knowing what else to say. "Yeah, whatever. Look, I've got to get to the gym early tomorrow. I'll see you Monday. And Christian? Thanks."
"Hey, that's what friends are for, man."
Walking home, Dick started out still angry about the assumptions that he'd be looking for a high and as the couple of blocks passed it grew. He was cutting through the empty lot when he heard the voice behind him.
"You want to do something useful?"
It was a dark night and there were no street lamps here. His instinct kicked in, the one about the best defense being a good offense. "What kind of useful and who the fuck are you?"
Batman stepped into a brighter area of dark, light enough to see whom he was talking to. "Tell me who your dealers were and I'll stop them."
This was not who he expected to see. This man wasn't real; he was a myth, an urban legend. That's what everyone said, anyway. Well, maybe everyone was wrong. He, somehow, managed to keep his composure and make his vice sound normal. "Why do I care? You gonna bust me again if I don't?"
The Bat just stared at him, but it was enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck.
"Tell me who they are and I'll stop them. Don't tell me and I'll stop them anyway, it will just take a little longer."
Shit, and if they find out who squealed, he'd have his legs broken or worse. These were not nice people and young or old, it didn't make any difference, they'd screw him over.
"That wouldn't be a good idea, now would it? They'd go after my mother to get at me." Of course, there was no telling what the Bat would do, either.
Another glare and silence while he was forced to think about who and what he was protecting. "I'll see to it that nothing happens to you. Give me the names and you'll both be fine. You have my word on that."
The voice was familiar, so was the build and the way he carried himself. Even what he could see of the jaw line reminded Dick of someone. "What about me?"
"No one will hurt you. I promise that."
That was it. That phrase, that tone of voice, that inflection. That was what Bruce Wayne had said the first night he'd let Dick stay at his ridiculous house. "No one will hurt you, I promise that." He didn't remember too much from that week, but he remembered that. In fact, he'd never forgotten it.
It clicked. Jesus, Bruce Wayne was...here. There was no other possibility. None. He knew it as much as he knew the sun would rise in the morning.
Christ.
"Sally Hardin. She lives over on York, the basement apartment. She and her brother supply to Crest Hill and most of the schools in Westchester."
No reaction, no acknowledgement. "You stay clean, you hear me? You don't, you'll answer to me." He was gone, just like any good urban legend would disappear into thin air.
Dick made it home a few minutes later, assuring his mother that he'd had a good time and no—don't worry, he hadn't taken anything stronger than soda. In fact, she was welcomed to test him if she wanted, no problem.
He didn't sleep that night.
Bruce Wayne was Batman. He was sure of it. Positive. Multi-billionaire Bruce Wayne, the head of an international corporation was a vigilante who swung from ropes and busted bad guys for a hobby. Bruce Wayne, his adoptive family's personal Santa Claus and money tree for the town was secretly a guy who dressed up like a six foot something bat and snuck around the shadows at night.
Suddenly Dick's being farmed out to another foster family made sense—how the hell would Wayne—okay, Batman, have been able to cope with a kid around the place? And Alfred, shit, Alfred must be Wayne's eyes and ears for stuff that Wayne would be beyond noticing. Alfred was his contact with the locals and the little people. Alfred must have been how Wayne had found out about them needing money for gymnastics and Andy needing the work and that Dick was having problems with drugs—and how the shrink lowered her prices and Sergei ended up in town and God knew what all else.
Okay, he sort of knew it had to be Alfred or someone telling Wayne about all that stuff, but shit—this was a whole different ball game.
And his company had bought the house so they could stay in it and that gave Bonnie the money to pay for his rehab.
Jesus.
Bruce Fucking Wayne was Batman.
TBC
10/14/04
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