A/N: Thanks for the review, Vintage! :)
Three hours later:
The bell rang for dinner, and the screeching sound awakened Dick. Sam glared at the boy as he walked by, and the nine-year-old didn't even try to get up. The hunger cramp in his stomach was nothing compared to the rest of the pain in his young body.
Maybe Tank would come for him. Tank was nice, and Tank knew about his nose. Maybe he would come to make sure his nose was healing. Was it healing? Dick wasn't sure, because it still felt like it was on fire. So did his wrist, but the boy couldn't remember why.
A face popped into his mind, replacing the image of Tank. It was the visitor – Mr. Wayne? – and Dick wondered, again, why he had come to visit a nobody orphan. The man had seemed concerned about something, but Dick couldn't wrap his head around the idea that maybe that concern involved him.
Mr. Wayne had said he was going to come back tomorrow. How far away, the nine-year-old wondered, was tomorrow? But, the man probably wouldn't come back. Dick had told the man that all the trouble, all his injuries, were his own fault. Why would Mr. Wayne come see a criminal again?
With a quiet sigh, Dick closed his eyes again. Attempting to fall asleep seemed like a better idea than increasing his headache by thinking.
Tank was livid. The guards had brought another boy into the infirmary only fifteen minutes after the nurse had finished cleaning the area where Chuck had taken his last breath. That meant all three beds were occupied again, which meant that Tank couldn't bring Dick in for a check-up.
Now it was dinner time, and the teenagers were probably making sure that the younger boy had another chance to "play" the game. Tank picked up the phone in his office and dialed the number belonging to the warden's secretary.
"Lissa," he said before she could even say a word, "I really need your help down here."
"What can I do for you, Tank?" the woman replied with a sigh. "I hope this isn't about that boy again. Like I told you before, there's nothing I can do. At least, not until tomorrow when the warden gets here. Besides, you have a bed now that the teen died earlier, right? Keep the kid with you, like we talked about. It's five, Tank, I'm about to leave."
Tank was stunned at her indifference. A nine-year-old was in trouble and she was talking about leaving!
"Tank?"
Startled out of his thoughts, Tank did the only thing he could think of: begged.
"Please, Lissa, there has to be something you can do! I have another kid now, I don't have an empty bed, but you have to get him out of there! He's going to die, Lissa!"
"I doubt it's that bad, Tank," Lissa replied, rolling her eyes. "Just because you had one death today, doesn't mean you'll have another. I know it must be very traumatizing…"
"You have no idea," Tank practically snarled. "The boy is not going to survive the week if he stays in the teenage block. Please, we have to help him. Come on, Lissa, please!"
"I'm sorry, Tank, but rules are rules. And the rules say that nobody can leave without the warden's signature."
"Let him sleep in your office," the nurse suggested. "Just for tonight."
"Are you kidding?!" Lissa almost shouted. "Do you know how much trouble I would be in if someone found an inmate sleeping in my office?!"
"And how much trouble would you be in if a kid who shouldn't even be in here dies?" Tank asked quietly.
"Keeping kids from dying is your job, Tank," the woman snapped before slamming the phone down.
Tank listened to the dial tone in disbelief. Why wasn't anybody else willing to help a nine-year-old orphan who wasn't even supposed to be here?
Wayne Manor:
"You should have seen him, Alfred," Bruce growled. "His face, his wrist, his ribs, his…his eyes, Alfred. His eyes are so expressive, and I saw so many emotions there. Sorrow, fear – no, terror – confusion, and sometimes nothing at all!"
"Did you talk to the warden, Master Bruce?" Alfred replied, shocked at the report the younger man was giving him.
"He was gone for the day," Bruce snapped, although the butler knew the anger wasn't directed at him. "And, apparently, nothing can be done without his signature."
"What, sir, are you planning on doing with the boy once you get him out?"
Bruce hadn't thought about that, he had just wanted to take the nine-year-old away from the dangerous situation.
"I…don't know," he admitted.
There was a long pause as both men thought this over.
"Technically, Mr. Sanderson has custody, Master Bruce," Alfred finally commented.
"And he's not doing anything about this!" Bruce yelled in response.
"Perhaps, sir, you should call him. You did, after all, pay for the funeral young Master Grayson missed because of Mr. Sanderson."
Bruce nodded and strode to his study. Three times he dialed the social worker's number, and three times it went straight to voicemail. Frustrated, the millionaire decided to leave a message.
"Mr. Sanderson," he growled, then paused, realizing that Bruce Wayne wouldn't be growling at a social worker.
Clearing his throat, he continued, "This is Bruce Wayne. I was at the funeral of Dick Grayson this morning, and I didn't see him. I was just wondering why he wasn't there. I know I don't have a connection to the boy, but I did pay for the funeral and hoped he would have been able to attend. If you would call me back, I would appreciate it."
Bruce couldn't go any further without the anger coming through in his tone, so he slammed the phone down. To his surprise, it instantly began ringing. Snatching it up again, he answered, "Bruce Wayne."
"Hello, Mr. Wayne? This is Marjorie, Mr. Sanderson's secretary. Due to a family emergency, all of his calls are being routed to his office, to me. I saw your number and I'm sorry I missed your call. Is there something I can do for you?"
Bruce didn't immediately answer. Missing the funeral of one of his charge's parents was, unfortunately, understandable if Jeff had a family emergency. But shouldn't he have given the responsibility to another social worker?
"Mr. Wayne?"
Shaking his head, the millionaire said, "Thank you for responding so quickly. I'm calling about one of Mr. Sanderson's kids, Dick Grayson."
"I am not allowed to discuss a child's case with anyone who is not listed in the case file," Marjorie interrupted. "I would remember, Mr. Wayne, if I had seen your name on that list."
"I'm not asking for specifics, Marjorie," Bruce replied. "I would just like to know why…"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne, I cannot help you," she stated firmly.
"You don't even know what I'm asking!" Bruce declared somewhat heatedly.
This time it was the woman who didn't immediately answer. The man had made a valid point, but she was only a secretary. She didn't have access to details in a case file, anyway.
"Marjorie," Bruce began, correctly assuming that she was considering his point, "I just want to know why he didn't attend the funeral today."
"Let me look at Mr. Sanderson's calendar," she finally acquiesced. With a quick glance down at her desk, she continued, "I have 'funeral, ten o'clock' written down for him. But, as I said, he did have a family emergency."
Taking a deep breath so that he wouldn't yell at the woman, Bruce asked, "Then why didn't he let someone else know? Isn't there someone who could have taken the boy there?"
"I am not privy to Mr. Sanderson's thoughts, Mr. Wayne, but I'm sure an emergency in his own family took precedence over a child he hardly knows. Perhaps in his hurry to attend to his family, he simply neglected to find someone else."
Simply neglected.
Bruce quietly snarled. It was Jeff's job to take care of the kids in his files, but he had 'simply neglected' to take care of Dick Grayson.
"I have one more question, Marjorie."
"I don't know if I have the answer," she replied with a sigh, "but go ahead."
Why on earth does a rich man like Bruce Wayne want to discuss the case of a new orphan that nobody even knows?
The thought raced through the woman's head, and a lightbulb popped on. Mr. Wayne was attempting to get some good publicity by pretending to care about a penniless child.
"Why is Dick in the detention center?"
Marjorie widened her eyes in shock. Jeff had put the kid in the detention center? She hadn't known that, and her boss usually told her where he placed his kids.
"I…don't know, Mr. Wayne. Again, I'm not privy to…"
"He must tell you something about the kids in his charge!" Bruce exclaimed, frustration evident in his voice. "You're his secretary!"
"I'm aware of my job description, Mr. Wayne," Marjorie responded coolly. "It doesn't include knowing everything about every child he handles."
Anger was blossoming in the woman's chest. This man wanted to use a new orphan to build himself up in the public eye, and there was no way she was going to help him do that.
"And I'm sorry," she snapped, "but even if I knew I wouldn't tell you!"
With that, Marjorie slammed the phone down, proud of herself for standing up to the very influential man while also protecting a young child.
Bruce was dumbfounded as he listened to the dial tone buzzing in his ear. The secretary's tone had become sharp so quickly. Had he said something wrong? He repeated the entire conversation to himself, but the only thing he could think of that might have upset her was his exclamation about her being a secretary.
"By the look on your face, Master Bruce, the conversation did not go well."
"Sanderson had a family emergency," the millionaire replied as he put down the phone, "and 'simply neglected' to find someone else to take Dick to the funeral."
"I have been doing some research, sir. There are many rules, and a lot of paperwork, but it is possible for you to become the legal guardian of a child in the system, Master Bruce."
"Guardian?" Bruce murmured, almost to himself.
"Yes, Master Bruce. The state will do a background check, and a social worker will do several house visits, and you must go through a lot of red tape, but it is possible."
"How long would it take?" Bruce asked.
"That depends on how quickly the paperwork is processed, sir, and how soon the visits can be scheduled, and many other things."
"Estimate."
With a soft sigh, Alfred admitted, "At least a month, Master Bruce."
Bruce slammed his hand on the table so hard that the phone rattled.
"He won't last a month, Alfred! It's only been two days and he's already a mess!"
"Then, if you are going to do this, I suggest you get started right away, sir. I do, however, advise you to take some time to consider your decision. If you decide to take him into your home, Master Bruce, I have one request."
Alfred paused, and Bruce waved his hand impatiently, silently telling his butler to continue.
"Deciding that you can't handle having a child in the house after becoming his legal guardian will shatter the poor boy all over again. Therefore, I request that you do not put him back into the system, sir."
"Why would I do that?!" Bruce exclaimed, anger woven through the words.
"A child is a big responsibility, Master Bruce. Young Master Grayson will be fragile for a while. He lost his entire world – parents, the only home he's ever known, the ability to perform, everything – in one night. Losing everything again will break him, sir. You must be sure this is something you can handle."
"I am an adult, Alfred," Bruce grumbled.
"Yes, Master Bruce, I am aware of that fact. However, you are an adult who also happens to have a – shall I say – unusual night life. The question is not whether or not Bruce Wayne, the millionaire, can take care of a child. Rather, it is can both Bruce Wayne the 'playboy' and Batman the vigilante hero be around enough to even interact with the boy. That is something you must carefully take into consideration, sir."
Nodding in understanding, Bruce replied, "It is a big decision."
"One that should be considered carefully, sir," the butler agreed.
"But," Bruce continued, "he doesn't have much time, Alfred. If I don't decide now, it might be too late for him. He will not survive a month. He might not even survive the week!"
"Then I suggest, Master Bruce, that you start thinking now."
With a polite nod, Alfred left the study. Bruce shut the door and turned back to his desk, intending to sit down. Changing his mind, he began to pace.
A child is a big responsibility. Can I be around enough to be his guardian? I can't put it all on Alfred. But I'm Batman! And I'm Bruce Wayne, millionaire 'playboy'. Will I even be considered fit to be his guardian? Maybe a bed in an orphanage will open up soon. But maybe it won't and he'll be stuck in the detention center for longer. Maybe Sanderson will forget about him. Maybe he'll die in there, and nobody will care except Tank, and Alfred, and…
Me.
The detention center – the next morning:
Dick hadn't moved since Sam had left him lying on the ground in his cell. His face hurt, his throat hurt, his ribs hurt, his wrist hurt, and it was difficult to breathe. All of those, combined with the stress of his situation, had convinced him that moving was not an option. He should lie on the ground and waste away; that's what Sam probably wanted anyway. And it would be so much easier than thinking about asking someone for help. Nobody would help, because nobody cared. Except Tank, maybe. But the nurse was just a tiny thought in the back of Dick's mind, because nobody would take him to see Tank so it was useless to dwell on it.
Mr. Wayne. The man had said he would come back, but he had probably changed his mind. Dick was a horrible person, a criminal for some reason that he couldn't remember, and a rich guy wouldn't want to be associated with a criminal. So that man, also, had been relegated to the back of Dick's mind.
The nine-year-old hadn't even opened his eyes. What was the point of doing that? He knew he wasn't going to eat – Sam had practically said that last night – so Dick had decided to do nothing.
But the breakfast bell rang, and Sam was leaning over him and 'helping' him up. Dick opened his eyes and mumbled something in protest, but the teenager ignored the sound and threw the boy over his shoulder.
"Time to eat, kid," the older boy said. "Can't have you wasting away in here."
The jostling of his ribs almost caused Dick to cry out in pain. But he would be yelling in Sam's ear, and the younger boy doubted that the teen would enjoy that. So, he bit his tongue instead, ignoring the metallic taste of his own blood and forcing away the tears that were threatening to fall.
Sam unceremoniously plopped Dick down on a bench, and the nine-year-old curled into himself to try to ease the pain in his torso. Resting his forehead on the tabletop, Dick wrapped his right arm around his ribs. He didn't hear Sam telling him to sit up and eat, he didn't notice the tray of breakfast that Sam had set beside him, and he ignored the warning bell in his brain that was too loud for him to dismiss.
Suddenly, Dick's head was yanked off the table. Sam had grabbed a clump of hair and was now pulling it down, forcing Dick's neck back and giving him a great view of the ceiling.
"When I tell you to do something, you obey," the teenager snarled. "That was one of your first lessons. Did you forget, kid? Do I already need to reteach that lesson?"
"N…o," Dick croaked, his voice hoarse from the position of his neck.
"Good," Sam said as he slammed Dick's forehead down on the table and released his hair. "So, eat."
Dick slowly lifted his head and watched the cafeteria spin around him. The tray of food was directly in front of him, and the nine-year-old understood the word 'eat'. He lazily gathered the spoon in his shaking right hand and attempted to lift a scoop of oatmeal into his mouth. For some reason that he couldn't understand, he kept missing his mouth. And, for some other reason that he couldn't understand, red strings kept sliding down his nose.
"Gotta be more careful, Sam."
A tall, skinny teenager sitting across from them whispered the advice. Nick was now second-in-command, and he intended to keep it that way. But Sam might get thrown in solitary if he continued beating on the small kid, and Sam in solitary meant that Josh's group would be in control of the yard. And if a guard came over and saw the small snakes of blood on the kid's forehead, Sam could get in trouble. Even if he was the head guard's nephew.
"Take it easy in here, okay? Save your anger for outside."
"Fine," Sam grumbled, grabbing Dick's hand and roughly guiding it to the boy's mouth.
After four force-fed bites, Dick's stomach decided to revolt. The world was still spinning and everything he had just eaten was suddenly coming up and out of him.
"What the…" Sam yelled as he slid away from the younger boy. "Why're you throwing up on me, kid?!"
A guard came over to see what the commotion was about, and he sighed when he saw what had happened. He really hated it when kids threw up, because he was usually the one who had to clean it. That fact distracted him from the sight of the blood on the small forehead, and Nick was relieved.
"Come on, kid," the guard growled. "Let's go see Tank."
Wrapping a beefy hand around Dick's right bicep, the man pulled the boy up to standing and waited for him to start walking.
"I said come one!" he said loudly when Dick didn't move.
Grumbling something unintelligible, the guard scooped the boy up and strode away from the table.
"Tank's got no room."
The head guard intercepted the one carrying Dick and stopped him in his tracks.
"Well, what am I supposed to do with him then?" the latter man asked.
"I'll take care of him, you go clean up the table."
Without waiting for a reply, Sam's uncle took Dick out of the other man's arms. Turning around, he ambled out of the cafeteria and toward the bathroom.
"Gotta get you cleaned up," he muttered as he put the nine-year-old down on the floor under a shower head. "Just in case Mr. Wayne really does come again, can't have him thinking something's going on."
Dick didn't respond, but the guard didn't care. He turned on the knob as far as it went. Cold water shot out of the shower head and Dick's entire body was immediately soaked. The guard turned it off and grabbed a towel from a nearby cabinet.
Reluctantly, the man knelt down and began wiping away the mixture of water, blood, and dirt. Dick stared at him and wondered why they were on a carousel together.
"Hey, Wayne's here again," someone yelled down the hall. "Ten bucks says he wants to see the kid."
Sam's uncle widened his eyes in surprise. It was only breakfast time but Bruce Wayne was already here!
"Get up, kid, we gotta dry you off."
Dick wrinkled his forehead in confusion, and the guard sighed. Sometimes his nephew didn't make the smartest decisions. But what was done was done, so the man helped Dick stand up and did his best to dry the boy off.
"Ron, duya know were tha new kid at?"
A short, fat guard poked his head in the bathroom.
"Oh, ya got 'im. Pufect, Imma take 'im ta see Mr. Weyn."
"I'll take him, Wally," Ron replied. "Just helping him clean up first."
With a nod of agreement, Wally left.
Ron tossed the towel away and put his hand under Dick's chin. Lifting the boy's head, he snapped his fingers until Dick's light-blue eyes finally focused on his own.
"Mr. Wayne's here to see you again. Same rules as last time, you talk and you'll regret it. Understand?"
Dick furrowed his brow and tried to make sense of the words. They were stumbling over each other in his brain, and he couldn't figure out the correct combination.
"You don't understand, do you," the man commented, searching the boy's eyes. "You probably don't even remember what happened ten minutes ago. Well, least you can't tell Mr. Wayne anything."
With that, Ron put his hand on Dick's back and guided him toward the door. The one step they had to get over to leave the bathroom was Dick's undoing. He tripped on it and crashed hard to the floor.
"Wally," Ron yelled as he knelt down for the second time in five minutes.
"Yah boss?"
Glancing up, Ron commanded, "Tell Mr. Wayne that Grayson is taking a shower. Do not, under any circumstances, tell him that you saw the kid lying on the floor. Understand?"
"Yah boss," Wally replied before racing away.