Title: Advice
Author: Simon
Characters: Robin (Dick Grayson), a little Commissioner Gordon and some Alfred, too. Oh, and an OC.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Robin is called in to help talk to a newly orphaned boy
Warnings: Angst o'rama
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.
Note: This is an idea I've been kicking around for a while—how Dick/Robin might be used by the system to help other kids who've lost their parents. I have a gut feeling he'd be pretty resistant to it since I gather that even in canon, his time in the system wasn't too great.
Advice
"Well, I was just hoping you might be willing to say something to the boy, that's all."
"But I'm not really…"
"Son—please. His parents were just killed and, well, he may listen to you. Just hear what he has to say, let him talk to you, tell you what he's going through, tell him what you've dealt with and how it's turned out. It may help him."
"Commissioner, I'm not really the right person for this."
"I know that you were in the Child Services system for a couple of months, you've been through it. Please, just try—as a favor to me?" Jim Gordon put his hand on Robin's shoulder, going for some kind of connection with the young man. He didn't know the boy personally all that well, at least not beyond the basic courtesies at social events they'd both been forced to at the same time, but he knew Robin was an intelligent youngster and a compassionate one as well. If anyone had a chance of getting through to the frightened child in the next room, the young hero might have the best shot. Besides, although Gordon didn't know the details (though he had his suspicions), he'd gotten hints that Robin came from some kind of broken home himself—he should understand what the poor kid was feeling.
"But my experience with the system pretty much sucked, if you want to get down to it. I don't have much good to say about it and if this kid is going into the child services maze—Christ, you probably don't want me to go over what I went through with them." The use of language in front of the Commissioner of police was proof enough of upsetting the subject was to the boy.
"Look, Robin…please. I'm asking you as a personal favor to me. This kid—he's hanging on by his fingertips right now and he won't talk to any of the regulars. He's going to shut down and if that happens we may lose him. He may be able to relate to you as another kid—don't look at me like that, c'mon, you know what I mean here." Commissioner Gordon glanced over at the closed office door the boy was behind, probably in shock or tears or both. "Please, son." Every time he'd seen the boy he'd been upbeat, enthusiastic, having a good time, even in the middle of a shootout—this was one of the few times in all the years he'd known Robin he'd seen him completely serious without a smile or joke in him.
"I'd really rather not…"
"How old are you now, son? Fifteen, sixteen?" Robin nodded. "You remember how you felt when you were the one in that room yourself, don't you?" Gordon might not know all the details of his life, but he had picked up enough to know he was orphaned and that his parents had died violently. The boy looked at the floor. This was emotional blackmail and he resented it—and he didn't want to talk to some kid who'd just seen his parents get killed, even if it was in a car wreck instead of a murder. They were dead either way and the kid in the next room knew—or was beginning to understand that his life wasn't ever going back to the way it had been this morning when he got out of bed.
Besides, it was too close to home.
"You have all kinds of social workers and counselors—call one of them."
"I will if I have to but I think that you'd do more good than they would right now. For starters, you're another kid who's been around this block…" Gordon stopped for a moment when he saw the look Robin shot him—if he'd ever thought the kid was just a cipher who did what he was told by Batman without a lot of thought on his own part, he realized in that moment the kid made his own decisions. "His parents died around eight last night. He slept in the hospital under observation and now he's here…and I think you might be able to get though to him."
God, he didn't want to do this. "Because I made the cover of People magazine last week?"
"That's part of it, sure. He knows who you are, or at least he thinks that he does. You're not a complete stranger to him. And besides, if he sees that you got through this and turned out the way you have, well maybe he'll think that there's a light at the end of the tunnel for him as well."
Christ, he didn't want to do this. It was too close to home. But if Bruce found out he'd refused…
If Bruce found out he'd refused to help there'd be hell to pay. "…I'll talk to him, but have some backup in case it doesn't work, alright?"
"Yes, of course—and thank you. This might well make the difference for him."
Right, yeah, sure it would. The kid was probably in shock and wouldn't remember anything tomorrow or next week, other than the blood. "What's his name and how old is he?"
"Michael—Mikey—Johnston. He's twelve. His family lived up in Westchester in one of the commuting towns up there and I think his father was in the accounting department of Wayne Enterprises. His mother was an elementary school teacher up near where they lived."
Great. Nodding he went over to the closed door and knocked gently. Receiving no answer, Robin pushed the door opened and let himself in, closing it behind him. The boy was sitting in a wooden desk chair, looking out the window and staring, probably, at nothing.
Robin wasn't sure what to do. He hesitated then quietly sat in another chair on the other side of the desk. The boy glanced at him but gave no reaction other than to turn his eyes back out the window and his view of the parking lot below.
They sat in silence for a couple of minutes then, "Mikey—do you mind if I'm here?"
No answer.
"I won't stay if you'd rather not. I'll leave if you want me to."
No answer.
Robin waited a couple of minutes then slowly stood up and crossed back to the door. He was just reaching for the knob when he heard, "You can stay."
Sitting back down, Robin and the boy looked at one another. Mikey's eyes were red from crying and though he seemed to have stopped; there were still tears on his face. He was large for his age, as large as Robin was now and heavier built. He might have played football if he'd wanted to, probably as a linebacker or something.
"How come they sent you in here? Because you're a kid, too?
"I guess so—and because my parents were killed when I was a couple of years younger than you are now."
Mikey looked at him with something approaching interest. Almost. "…So we're supposed to become best friends or something?"
"I doubt it, but I guess they thought that maybe you could relate to me better than to one of the counselors."
" Are you a social worker?"
"No, I'm not a social worker, just a kid who does stuff."
"…Yeah, whatever—so how come they think you can do jack shit to help with anything?"
Robin remembered the anger, the knowledge that nothing would ever make things right again and resenting the balls of anyone who thought that they could somehow make him feel better, put a band-aide on it or chase away the bad dreams. Gordon had been right. He knew about this, he remembered too well and that was why he hadn't wanted to do this.
Whether he could do anything to help this kid was another question.
"Probably because I went through sort of the same thing—my parents were killed when I was eight, three days before my ninth birthday and I was dumped in the system like I guess you're about to be." Mikey actually focused on Robin when he said that. "How come you're not going to stay with relatives? That's what they usually try to do."
"My father was an only child and his parents are dead and my Mom's family are in Europe for the holidays; London, I think." A shaky breath; "We were supposed to go with them for some big family reunion but my Dad had to work and so we just went skiing upstate instead. We were almost home when…shit… I guess the cops are having trouble finding out what hotel my aunts and grandparents are in." Another shaky breath was followed by several more. "I read that book that came out about you last year—the one that was unauthorized? It didn't say anything about your parents being dead. How were they killed; another car wreck? And how come you didn't end up with relatives?"
"They were murdered. My family didn't have a lot of money and I didn't have any relatives who could afford to take me in—either that or they were too busy to be bothered."
"That sucks." He stopped, probably not knowing what to say next—then he found his voice again. "Did you catch the people who did it—who killed your parents?"
"Months later, but yes." Robin paused himself; he rarely spoke about this—hardly ever, in fact. "I still have nightmares about watching them die. I still see them lying there."
"You think I'll…you know."
"Do I think you'll ever be able to not think about it? No. It doesn't work that way. You never forget and it always hurts so much you don't think you can stand it, but eventually you realize that you still have to get up every morning and you still have to go to school and eat dinner and brush you teeth and all of that shit—and you learn to deal with it. You never forget them, but eventually it doesn't hurt as much all the time."
Mikey stared at the desk blotter. "How long does it take? Months? Years?"
Robin knew there was no point in lying. "A long time."
Mikey was silent for a long while—maybe ten full minutes before he spoke again. "That book—it seemed pretty dumb—made you sound like a boy scout or something but my friends and I were talking; we figure that you and the rest of the Titans can do pretty much whatever you want, you know? Like what's going to happen if you screw up or cut school or something; you're gonna get grounded? How lame is that?"
Robin gave a half smile at that—most people had no idea at how short the leash he was on actually was. "I have to keep my grades up and my room clean, take out the garbage; the usual. I was pretty lucky that someone sort of took an interest and let me move in. It got me out of the foster care system. And that book was complete crap."
"So what happens to me now?" Mikey was suddenly scared, real scared and looked like he might start crying again.
Robin shrugged a little—a habit Alfred was trying to break him of, so far without success. "You'll be assigned a case worker and I'll make sure you get one of the good ones. After that they try to find you a temporary foster home to stay in until they can get a hold of your real family—after that it depends on if they'll take you in or adopt you or something. Are you close to them?"
"Yeah, they're pretty nice. I guess I'll be alright with them. I mean…"
Robin nodded. He knew, you were never really 'alright' with it. They could be the greatest people in the world, but they weren't your parents, no matter who they were.
He knew that.
Without warning the boy crumbled, wracking sobs started, his arms were resting on his knees and he was doubled over, out of control. Robin crossed over and, feeling self-conscious, put his arms around the boy.
"I was in the back seat listening to my ipod, we were almost home and my parents were just talking about normal stuff—how there wasn't anything in the fridge to eat and they should order in dinner and maybe they should call London in the morning to see if everyone was alright and having a good time and then my Dad was talking about how maybe next year we could all get together out in Aspen or Vail or Deer Valley or someplace and then the car started skidding on—I think the police said we hit black ice—and Mom screamed and Dad said 'Shit' and then we hit this big fucking tree. Then the horn started and it just kept going and I could see Dad was sort of lying across the seat half on Mom and I could see some of his brains were on the side of his head because it was broken and there was all this blood and Mom was sort of moaning but when I tried to talk to her I don't think she heard me and then some car stopped and the people tried to help—they called 911 and then the cops and the ambulances got there and—shit…I mean, after that it was—fuck…it was…" The sobbing was heavier now, the words indecipherable. His shoulders were heaving and his nose was running and his fingers were going to leave bruises on Robin's back and shoulders and upper arms.
The crying went on for a long time; all the fear and anger, all the loss and pain came out; finally finding at least a temporary outlet with someone who could begin to understand some small part of what he was going through and would deal with everyday of his life. Robin knew that—despite what the stupid doctors and nurses and caseworkers and police told him—it wasn't alright and he wasn't going to be fine. Nothing would ever be the same and no matter how good his aunts and uncles and grandparents were to him, nothing would ever be the same for him again.
Robin understood this and didn't offer easy platitudes about how time would heal and the pain would fade. He knew better than that.
He'd been through it and he knew how much it hurt and how much all the well meaning strangers and friends didn't know crap about what he was going through.
The crying lasted a long time, finally, finally slowing to quiet aguish and silence, the boy's arms still around Robin, his head still pressed against the older boy's chest. The only sounds were Mikey's clogged breathing and the desk clock ticking too loudly.
"I miss my parents. I want my parents."
"I know."
"There was so much blood—was there a lot of blood when your parents died?"
Robin's memories, the ones he tried his best most of his life to keep at bay came back. The sights, the smells, the sounds of the night his parents were killed and his world was destroyed came back with a strength he hadn't felt in years—at least not when he was awake and he heard himself telling the part of the story he'd kept to himself since it happened. "Not that much, there was some. Most of it soaked into the ground but the thing I'll never get out of my mind was my mother looking at me—my Dad was dead by then. His neck and back were broken and his skull was fractured so he died a lot faster than she did. She was lying on the ground and I was standing maybe three feet away. She was looking at me so I went closer, kneeling beside her and I think she tried to say something but she couldn't—then her eyes were still on me but they'd sort of just—you know how doll's eyes look? Like they're not real, opaque, glassy? I realized that she couldn't see anything. Then the cops pulled me away. That was the last time I saw either of them." He stopped. "Shit—I've never told that to anyone."
The boy looked up at Robin. "Did you have any brothers or sisters?"
"No."
"And none of your relatives would take you in so you ended up alone—and you put it all into being Robin, is that it?"
"Yeah, pretty much. Then I guess I got good at it so…" That shrug again. "It's what I do now."
"I have a brother." Mikey's voice was quiet, still unsteady from the crying. "I do. I have a brother but Patrick is up in Canada at McGill. He was going meet us for the skiing but he has this paper due and he—Jesus, he doesn't know. No one told him what's happened."
"Do the cops know about him? They'll probably call his school and he'll be told."
"I don't know…God, he can't just hear from some phone call or something. He can't." Mikey looked up at Robin. "Would you tell him? I think he'd take it better from you."
God, no. Don't ask him to do this. "That's not what would happen. His school would get the call and they'd have someone—probably a doctor or a counselor go to his dorm or whatever and tell him. They're pretty careful about things like that."
"Really?" Mikey looked hopeful, not wanting his brother to be hurt anymore than he had to be.
"I'm sure." He pulled a little away from the boy, starting to feel weird about still holding him after the crying had stopped and all. "I'm sure they can arrange for him to come here on whenever the next flight is; I'm sure he'll want to make sure that you're okay and there'll be…" Shit, he'd said too much. There would be lots of things that would need to be settled; funeral arrangements, the will would need to be read and all of that sort of thing. And they needed to sort out where the kid would be living when al the dust settled.
They were quiet for a minute or two, neither of them sure what to say until Robin asked the question. "Do you know where they have you staying tonight?"
"They said something about a temporary foster home, I think I'm being taken there pretty soon—did you ever stay in one of those? Are they okay?"
Well, no. The first one Dick Grayson had been sent to he'd woken up the second night to have the 'father' trying to climb into the bottom bunk with him and in the second one the 'mother' was drunk before lunch. Sure number three had been the charm and they'd been kind and concerned about him, but the first two had left a pretty bad taste in his mouth—the only good thing about them was that the case worker had actually listened when he'd called from payphones in tears to get help.
"Some are pretty good, some aren't and I'll make sure you get one of the good ones. I promise. The main thing to keep in mind is that your aunts or whoever will probably be on their way here as soon as they hear and your brother will be flying down from Canada in the morning, so you can hang in for one night, alright? It's just temporary; keep that in mind and you'll be fine."
He nodded slowly, yes; he could take it for one night. He could. He spoke hesitantly. "…I don't guess. Um, I mean maybe, do you think it would be possible for me to stay with you…?"
"Hey, Mikey, that wouldn't work. I'm sorry, I really am, but…it's sorta complicated."
The boy nodded, his head down. "So I guess that's pretty much it, right? You came in and gave me the score about how things work and what's going to happen and all—so now you go home and do your thing and I just, you know—whatever."
Shit. This was what Robin—Dick—hell, both of them was afraid would happen. The kid would be looking for a new best friend and he was elected and the last damn thing he wanted was to have to deal with this long term. Sure, yes, of course he felt sorry for him. Sure he wanted to help, but it wasn't like he wanted Mikey to become his next career move or anything.
What was next? Was he supposed to show up at his soccer games? Maybe he could go to his next birthday party or they could have sleepovers or something.
Look, just—just no thanks. It wasn't going to happen.
"Mikey, you're going to be okay. You really are. I know that right now it sounds like bullshit, but it isn't. You're going to get through this."
"Yeah, right."
"When my parents died I didn't have anyone. You have your brother and the rest of your family and you know that they love you and are going to take care of you as soon as they get here, right? You know that, don't you?"
"I guess. Sure. Yeah." He wasn't convinced.
"So you're already about twenty steps ahead of where I was when it happened to me and—hey, I got through it. " He paused. This was probably a load, but it was something and who knows? It could, maybe even be true.
"Could you maybe do something for me, like a favor?" Mikey was threatening tears again, he knew Robin was trying to leave and go home or someplace.
"If I can."
"When Pat gets here, would you talk to him, too?"
…Hell. "Yeah, sure I will." He saw the expression on the kid's face, not knowing what would happen next, not knowing where he was going tonight, when he'd see his family, where he'd live and when he'd have to move there. Not knowing about his parent's funerals, not knowing—anything—what school he'd go to now, what town he'd live in, when he'd be able to sleep without the nightmares. "Look, I'm going to make sure you get in with one of the good foster families tonight, but here—", he handed Mikey a business card, leaning over the desk to write something on the back. "On the front is the number where you can leave a message and I'll get it, but if something happens, the number on the back is my cell number—I usually change it pretty often, but it should be good for at least another week, okay?"
Mikey nodded. "Thanks—and thanks for, you know, thanks for this." He was retreating into himself again, but that would get better when his brother and the rest showed up, probably tomorrow.
Robin nodded in return, put his hand on the boy's shoulder the moved across the room and reached for the doorknob. "You call me if you want, okay?"
Anther nod.
In the outer office Robin found Commissioner Gordon speaking with a secretary and waited a moment for them to finish. "Commissioner? Has he been placed for the night yet?"
"I just got a call—he's going with the counselor in a few minutes, they've found an opening with a family."
"Is it a good one? I promised him I made sure he went to good people."
"Anne told me it was the one she was hoping for, he'll be well looked after. You managed to talk with him, calm him down a little?"
Robin gave that half shrug he used a lot. "I think so—it's going to take a long time. Did you know he has a brother? Mikey wants to know if he's been told yet."
"Anne just got off the phone with the staff psychologist at the brother's college, he'll be told shortly."
"Mikey wants him down here, wants to be with his brother and it would probably be better for both of them if they're together. Can we arrange a flight down for him?"
Gordon looked at his secretary who said she'd take care of it.
Thanking the woman, Robin started to turn away. "I have to be going, I'm expected at home."
"You were a big help today, I appreciate what you did, son. Thank you."
Robin nodded. "Commissioner? Please don't ask me to do anything like that again."
Later that night Dick Grayson was up in his room doing homework when Alfred knocked and entered with a mug of hot chocolate and a piece of cake. "You were quiet at dinner this evening, Master Dick, I was concerned that something might be amiss."
Dick watched him set the tray down on the desk. "Crappy day, that's all. I'm okay."
"Language, young man."
"Sorry."
"Would you care to discuss whatever rained on your parade?"
A small smile as Dick shook his head a little.
"The master called a little while ago, he expects to return from Houston later this evening but suggests that you finish your school assignments and then retire for the night as he has some research to take of in the cave. He said he would see you in the morning."
His answer was a nod as small as was possible to still see. The older man was at the door when Dick's voice stopped him. "Hey, Alfred? When I first started living here—how long was it before I began to be normal again?"
He paused, wondering where the question had come from but knowing the boy would tell him as much as he was comfortable with. "Well, the first few weeks were quite difficult of course, as you were deeply traumatized and somewhat withdrawn with rather severe shock, but you began to come around a bit after four or five weeks, as I recall. Youngsters are amazingly resilient, thank goodness."
"But how long was it before I was, I don't know, before I was okay, though?"
Was he 'okay' even now, Alfred wondered? Of course he almost always appeared happy and at ease with everything that filled his life, but Alfred knew the lad had depths to him that were kept carefully hidden. Who really knew what the boy had bottled up inside or if he would ever let it all out to fully heal? "It seemed to me that the real turning point was when the man responsible for your troubles was convicted. Not surprisingly, that seemed to be cathartic for you."
"That was almost a year after my patents were killed. So I was messed up that long?"
"You had quite a lot to process and many changes to adjust to. A year or even more would hardly be a long time, all things considered."
Dick nodded again. Alfred was right like he usually was. "I got lucky ending up here."
Alfred gave him one of his rare smiles. "I'm gratified you feel that way, Dick. The belief is mutual. Now please finish your homework, if you would."
Alfred closed the door and made his way down to the kitchen. Obviously something had happened today to put the boy in one of his rare reflective moods; perhaps the master would be able to find something out if he asked. When he arrived home perhaps they could discuss…
No. On second thought, it would be better to let sleeping dogs lie, as it were. The lad had spent the afternoon with Commissioner Gordon after getting out of school, likely it was connected to one of those extracurricular activities in which case Batman, or Bruce Wayne would be informed in due course.
A few hours later Alfred checked Dick's room to find him sleeping peacefully. Evidently whatever had been bothering him was resolved, thank goodness. The boy quite amazed him the way he had managed to rebound after the tragedy when he was a child. Quite completely amazed him despite the occasional lapses into introspection and melancholy—the mood inevitably quickly thrown off and the wonderfully cheerful young man who brightened their day-to-day lives returned. No need to trouble the master, the storm appeared to have passed. In all likelihood, their usual cheerful lad would careen into the dining room a few minutes late for breakfast, eating too much too fast and talking a mile a minute the whole while. Things were back to normal.
Minutes afterwards he went down to the cave to serve the master the bowl of homemade soup and sandwich he had requested on his drive in from the airport. When he delivered the food Bruce looked up from the monitor screen he'd been concentrating on.
"Thank you, Alfred, everything quiet here while I was gone?"
"As always, sir."
1/6/05
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