Author's Note: Published May 1st, 2017. Follows on from previous chapter, Dick's POV. Set one month on from the mass poisoning. The fifteen-year-old freshman is having an off-day at school. People are telling him things he doesn't want to hear. Bruce is laid up after recent events involving Killer Croc. As usual, when Dick is having a bad day, he goes to Bruce to get it back on the right track.

Long one.

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Report 4

Bad Day

I see a bad day coming before the world does. It sounds really pretentious, I know, but I do. I got out of bed, put my feet on the floor and knew it was going to be a rough morning. Fridays are the usual suspects for my bad days. It's no secret that, if I've been patrolling the night before, the chances of me being able to focus or concentrate on school and surprise pop quizzes are almost zero. Yesterday I was awake until half-three in the morning. I got less than four hours' sleep. And it's not the big guy keeping me out until all hours on some massive crime-fighting kick. He can't anyway. After subduing Killer Croc, pretty much with nothing but his freaking fists, Bruce is laid up for at least a week with half-a-dozen torn ligaments, muscles and just the general hellish amount of bruising that goes with boxing a human dinosaur. I picked up the slack because it should've been me in bed this week. The big man saved me from getting my ribs snapped like matchsticks by Croc and probably the massive internal bleeding that would've followed shortly after. So, an all-nighter is the least I can do.

Alfie says I look tired at breakfast. I think I nod but I'm not sure. He asks if my French teacher is planning another pop quiz this morning. I think I shrug and say 'probably'. I think breakfast starts on exactly the right sour note for a real bad day. Alfie drives me to school. The second I walk into a classroom, I get pop quizzed to death all morning. French is the worst though.

I get seven out of thirty on verb conjugation. Mrs Alexander isn't impressed. I don't really care. That pretty much sums up my day. I go through the motions in English, where I score something like nine out of twenty on classifying verbs, biology, where I confuse the functions of the liver and kidneys, and even in gym. In one basketball game, I miss six three-pointers I normally make my signature shot. I also miss half my shots from the free-throw line, like an amateur. So, my team ends up on the wrong-end of a four-game losing streak. I still don't care. Lunch comes around slower than I want it to. Today's sloppy joe day in the cafeteria but I just pick at the bun.

"Dick?" I look up and find Howie Finke staring at me from across the table. He's frowning, which makes the freckles on his forehead look like one big dot. Normally it makes me smile. Not today. I sigh.

"Yeah?"

"You alright, man? You've been like a zombie all morning."

"Yeah, I'm just coming off my crack high is all. Once I get another hit, I'll be chipper again." Howie grins at this.

"At least you're not a total killjoy today. What's the real reason you're so spaced?"

"I just slept funny. Only got a few hours. There's only an afternoon to go though. I can tough out what, like two more hours?"

"Yeah, sure. We still on for the weekend?" I promised to go bowling this Saturday. I promised to take Melissa Whelks along too. Even though today is a bad one, tomorrow will be better. For one thing, I'll be awake and well-rested. Better than that though, I'll have Melissa to impress, which always kicks me into showboating mode. I nod my head.

"Of course. Melissa's needs to know how much better I am than everyone else." For some strange reason, Howie's grin gets wider instead of smaller in the wake of that put-down. He shrugs.

"I know something she won't want to see though."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"That huge zit growing dead-centre of your left cheek." He says tapping his own cheek to show me where to feel, "Looks almost cancerous." I feel around, but it doesn't take long to find it. It's huge. Now I get what all the smiles were about today. Alfie was smiling at breakfast and in the car ride to school. I thought he was just happy Bruce was too banged up to do anything stupid. But it was the zit, the one I must've been wearing since I got up. No wonder all the girls were giggling at me in English and the guys all had really smug grins in gym, even the ones on my own team. I sigh. Bad day.

"Any others about to stage a jail break, Howie?" I ask, hoping this isn't the advance party for a full-blown attack on my face. He shakes his head.

"One's enough on you. You're the only teenage boy I know who makes zits look like some weird disease. Everyone else gets them, except you. Or so we all thought. Turns out you are human after all." I am confused about one thing, given the current state of my face, though. I don't bother trying to hide it. Everyone who wants, or needs, to has already seen it by now anyway. And yet that still begs the question I ask next.

"Why hasn't anybody made a witty remark yet? It's been there all day and no-one's even pointed at me. Hell, if it was you, I'd jump straight on the ribbing bandwagon." That wipes the smile off his face. He clears his throat.

"Yeah, and you have, at least four times in the last semester." Oh yeah. Right. I got a big mouth. Howie's got enough going on with his face without me drawing attention to it like PT Barnum every time he has an outbreak. Shoes' on the other foot now though, huh? I shrug.

"Hey, I'm sorry, Howie. You know I've never meant anything I said to in a bad way. You're one of my best friends."

"It's cool, man. Pain's never more than skin-deep with me anyway. To answer your question though, the reason nobody's taken any shots across the bow is because you're kind of, I don't know…really popular around here?"

"So, it isn't because my dad is a billionaire and could crush anybody in this whole city like an ant if he felt like it?"

"Okay, maybe it's a little bit of that too, but it's mostly because you're too well liked." I blink when he stresses the word 'liked'. Like he did popular before. He means something else, but doesn't want to say it. That's something of a speciality from Howie. He wants to insinuate something without admitting to stirring the pot. It's pretty smart, but I need to know what the hell he means: I'm too tired for subtlety.

"So, it's not because I'm popular and liked, is it, Howie? Why are people not making fun of me to my face? Tell me?"

"They're scared of you, Dick. After what you did to Mickey Flannigan that time he talked smack about Bruce Wayne…people don't want to get the same treatment." I frown in disbelief at this. Yeah, Mickey made some smartass remarks about my relationship with the big guy, and yes, I hit him for it. It was one moment of weakness. I got suspended for two weeks, got chewed out by Bruce, and served out my punishment. I haven't even come close to doing anything that stupid since. I shake my head.

"Nah. People aren't afraid of me, Howie. You're just…pulling my leg with this crap, aren't you? But his face says he isn't having me on here. He means it. I still have a hard time believing this is a serious thing though. I try to make him see it from my side. "Come on, man, I'm a freshman: I weigh like a buck-fifty and barely top five-seven. I do all my homework, I play all the sports, I pay all my dues. Nobody's afraid of me. Not at this school."

"No, they weren't before you sent Mickey to the hospital with broken jaw and broken ribs. And I mean like, you hit him four times in about a second. Anybody called you out on anything, they'd be dead on the ground before they could blink. And Mickey was a lot bigger than you."

"Okay, first thing's first, right, he didn't go to the hospital. Okay? No hospital trip. Not a broken jaw, a fractured jaw, different thing altogether. Next, didn't break his ribs, I fractured two of them…"

"Fractured and broken ribs are the same thing, Dick. Cracked, fractured and broken are all the same thing when it comes to ribs. My mom's an EMT. She knows."

"Well whatever, yeah? You're making me out to be some sort of ninja warrior or something. I just got mad and flashed. It was a one-time thing. Kids get in fights here every day and end up looking a lot worse than Mickey did."

"Yeah, but those fights last a lot longer than a second. I heard even Harry Fields is nervous around you."

"Okay, now I know you're talking out your ass, Howie." Harry Fields is a senior and the school's varsity quarterback. He's six-four, nearly two-hundred-and-thirty pounds and built like an NFL pro already. His locker is three doors down from mine. Sometimes he says hello to me. He knows my name, like most people on that locker row, because of the Bruce connection. The very idea that a guy like that is afraid of me is laughable. I mean sure, on the streets I knock down guys his size several times a night and hardly ever come off second-best, but he doesn't know that. To him, I'm just some ex-circus acrobat with a sweet skyhook. Howie's not budging on this one though. He shrugs.

"Don't believe me? Ask him."

I slouch back in my chair and fold my arms. "No. I'm not going to embarrass myself by asking a senior if he's a little shy around me. Then everyone would brand me a crackpot."

"Trust me, nobody thinks you're a crackpot. They all just think you're not someone to mess with."

"Or rib apparently. You know what? I'm done with lunch." I say getting to my feet with the tray. As with all bad days, as soon as I stand up, the tray gets upended onto my sweater and suddenly I'm staring down at sloppy joe as it drips onto my pants too. I don't want to look up because I know who I'll find gazing back. But I know I have to, just to move things along. Sure enough, it's Harry Fields and another three of the school's first team. Harry looks really tense. That's when I notice the cafeteria's gone deathly quiet. Everyone is staring at me. Everyone is tense, just like Harry. This can't be happening. Howie isn't joshing me at all on this one.

"I'm…I'm sorry about that, Dick." Harry says. I nod my head.

"Yeah, I can see that, Harry. It's cool, man. Just an accident, right?" He nods back, looking a little less tense about the situation.

"Yeah, of course. Christ…big spot you got there."

"Yeah, I know."

"Right. Let me, uh, help you out."

It's five minutes later in the boys' bathroom. Harry's got his younger brother David, school track-star, to lend me some of his clothes since we're about the same size. I'm too tired to bother with modesty. Harry's leaning against the sinks while I pull my sweater over my head and find the sauce has done a number on my shirt too.

"That stuff's toxic, huh?" Harry says as I unbutton my shirt. He's standing by with David's MTV T-shirt.

"Well it's definitely not laundry detergent, that's for sure." I reply whipping off the shirt and reaching for the T-shirt. He looks surprised in handing it over.

"Jeez. I'd heard you were built, but…" He frowns. "Are those scars?" I slip the T-shirt over my body before he can get too much of an eyeful.

"A lot of accidents happen in the circus. Ever been a practice dummy for a knife thrower?"

"No."

"Don't be. Bad idea. Trust me. Got those jeans?" I ask taking off my pants. Harry tosses me a nice-looking pair of blue jeans. "These are cool. When does Davey want them back?" I say shoving them on. They fit perfectly. Harry shrugs.

"He says you can keep 'em."

"He knows my old man's the richest man in Gotham, right?" I check, stuffing my ruined clothes into an emptied rucksack to jam in my locker. Harry grins.

"Everybody knows that. Davey says it's his way of saying thank you." I frown at him. I don't know David Fields. I've never actually spoken with him either. I've raced him on the track a few times and run him really close. But that's it. Harry must see how confused I look because he smiles wider.

"Grace was right: you are kind of adorable when you don't know what people are talking about."

"Bite me."

"I hear some girls would like to do just that. Even some of the senior cheerleaders. The zit's kind of a mood-killer though…"

"Wanna get to the point, Harry? Lunch is pretty much over now." I say to cut him off before he enjoys teasing me too much. I catch a glimpse of the zit in the sink mirror behind him. It's pretty ugly viewing, I won't lie.

"Davey's best friend is Damon French. He's one of the kids that you told Bruce Wayne had been injected by that psycho chem teacher, Mr. Copery, last month. Your old man saved his and a lot of other kids' lives by getting the word out. The fact you didn't want any credit for that, the fact your dad didn't want any credit for that, people respect that. Davey's one of 'em. He wants his T-shirt back though. He's really touchy about it." Harry explains. I smile back.

"You know my friend Howie thinks you're afraid of me? Stupid, huh?" His smile suddenly gets a lot thinner. He does something between a laugh of contempt and a nervous chuckle. It's not a good sign.

"Not really. Don't get me wrong, Dick: you're a nice guy and all, but I wouldn't mess with you in a million years. What you did to that Mickey kid in the hallway…"

"Seriously? I mean, what do you think I'm going to be able to do to a guy like you? If I punched you, I'm pretty sure my hand would break on your abs." I'm trying to diffuse whatever crazy tension is going on here by being funny. But Harry isn't biting at all. His smile disappears altogether.

"You broke a kid's ribs with your bare hands, Dick. And, no offence, but you've got small hands. To break his ribs, you had to have perfect aim, power and technique. Coach Smalt tells us that all the time in football practice for tackles and long throws. I knew you were a serious athlete because of the circus stuff, but not that you got MMA credentials. That Mickey kid's like six feet and two-hundred pounds. Sure, he looks a little soft in the middle, but he's big enough to cause trouble. You had him on the deck in a second. I'm not the smartest guy in the world, but I know when to be careful." Great. I'm the tough kid, the one nobody wants to make eye contact with in case I take exception to it and lamp them. I let out a long and tired sigh of frustration.

"I don't want this reputation, Harry."

"Kinda tough luck there, Dick. You've got it. Once you've got a rep, for anything, they tend to stick until graduation."

I get through the rest of the day, somehow. I don't take in anything being said in class and just count down the minutes until final bell. Once it sounds, I get out fast. Alfie asks about my change in fashion sense and I hand him my rucksack before warning him never to let me go to school when I'm growing a second head. He just smiles sheepishly and tells me he'll never do it again. His word's always been good enough for me. So, we leave the finger-pointing at that. He asks about my day. I tell him I've had better. I ask about Bruce. He tells me he's been better. Definitely a bad day all-around then. I'm glad when we get home. I go upstairs, get into my jammies and then wander along to the big guy's room.

He's still laid in bed with his head propped up on pillows. Even though Alfie explicitly said not to move, the big man is reading the paper. Judging from the stack of them next to him, he's through all the financial editions and is now working his way through world news. I knock on the door, even though its halfway open already, just to be polite. He slowly turns his head in my direction. He frowns.

"Have they changed the dress policy?" He asks. I roll my eyes.

"No. I just wanted to get into something comfier. How's the patient?"

"Fine, thank you. How was school?" He says as I round the bed and climb on top of the vacant side.

"Lousy. Really lousy." I rest my head on the spare pillow and turn my body to face him. I think he knows what I'm planning to do. His eyes stare at me in disapproval.

"If you're going to sleep, please do it in your own bed." He says as I let my eyes close and settle into the mattress. "Dick, you can't sleep here. I know what you're like." He thinks I'll end up cuddling him in my sleep, like what pretty much always happens when I get in this situation. I guess he's afraid I'll squeeze too hard and tear something else he can't afford to be without, like an arm. I stifle a yawn.

"Promise I won't. Just let me sleep here for a few hours." I half-mumble, already starting to drift off. I hear him sigh lethargically. He can't do anything about it. He could shout at me, but he won't. I'm not being a pain and I haven't done anything stupid. He knows this makes me feel better after a bad day. He knows I'll tell him all about it when I wake up.

"You can stay on one condition." He says. I yawn again.

"Name it."

"Pass me that thick copy of the New York Times." I feel around directly in front of me, find the thickest broadsheet and toss it in his general direction. I hear him roll it up. "If you get too close, I'm going to swat you with this. Okay?" He's not joking about smacking me like people do their dogs. He will. I settle even deeper and mutter my answer.

"Yeah, whatever."

I wake up and find I'm barely six-inches away from Bruce. He looks over at me. I smirk at him.

"One more millimetre in my direction and I would have. Don't look too pleased with yourself." He cautions as I lazily get onto my elbow. I yawn.

"How long was I out?"

"Four hours, fourteen minutes. I take it you did not get much sleep last night?"

"Patrol ran long." I say rubbing my face only to come away with some kind of cream on my fingers. "You been putting make-up on me, big guy?" I ask rubbing it between my thumb and forefinger.

"Alfred has kindly treated your spot problem. It should go before tomorrow morning."

"That's nice…and kind of creepy of him."

"Why did your patrol run over? Without active investigations, you should have returned home by eleven-thirty at the latest." Bruce says in that way that can only mean I've done something he doesn't like. I run a hand through my hair and shrug.

"Just…putting in the hard yards for next time."

"In future, don't. Your academic performance is of far greater importance than policing Gotham's streets. Understand?" He tells me firmly. I get where he's coming from here. I nod.

"Yeah, I hear you, big man. A long shift is the least I owe you for saving my life for the gazillionth time."

"There is no such word in the English language as 'gazillionth'. Gazillions is a word, but gazillionth isn't. And you do not 'owe' me anything but a good school report come the end of semester. That means no long shifts between now and summer. You've only got seven weeks left now. Don't ruin your averages out of some sense of guilt over my being in his bed instead of you." I roll away from him and onto my back so I can stare up at ceiling. He's right: there is no such word as 'gazillionth'. He clears his throat. "Are you ready to tell me about your day?"

"Depends. Is that the end of your lecture?"

"Hardly a lecture, Dick. Barely even a warning. Don't pout. You're too old for it." I roll my eyes.

"I'm not pouting. Girls pout; boys brood."

"You must be the exception then. Because you definitely pout when you feel you are being unfairly treated. You always have." I fold my arms even though I know it's pretty childish. He's completely right too. I do pout…like a girl. I hear him smirk. "Was your day really that bad?"

"Oh, it sucked so hard. So, after bombing all my pop quizzes and missing a million free-throws in gym, I find I have this massive zit on my face and everyone's been laughing about it behind my back. Then I find out the reason no-one's taken a pot shot at me over it is because of what I did to Mickey Flannigan. Apparently, everyone's afraid of me, scared I'll send them to the infirmary if they have a pop at me. Then Harry Fields gets me covered in my own lunch and I have to lend his brother's clothes…and then I zoned out all afternoon just thinking about how stupid everything is." It's silent afterwards for about five seconds.

"That's it?" He says incredulously. I look over at him.

"What do you mean 'that's it'? How much worse does it have to get? Alright, then I took all my clothes off, shot up a syringe of heroin, and then streaked into the teacher's lounge singing 'I'm a little teapot'. How's that? Bad enough then?" He narrows his eyes at me.

"I cannot un-see that image now, so, yes. You do realise that is fairly tame, don't you? Bad quiz results, a poor scoring record in basketball and a pimple. There is hardly enough to fill a post-it note, let alone anything of substance." I throw up my hands in exasperation.

"And the part where everyone's afraid to rib me in case I flip out and punch them into a coma? Is that pretty tame stuff too?"

"Considering it largely stems from truth, I would say so."

"I'm not a loose cannon, Bruce."

"No, that is the only embellishment. Otherwise it is fairly accurate to say you are the most capable combatant in that school. It is hardly surprising that, after witnessing what you did to the Flannigan boy, other students are wary of upsetting you." I hate how logical he makes this whole scenario sound. And how obvious everything seems when it explains it in that matter-of-fact voice. I sigh.

"I said I was sorry. I did my time."

"I know. I have forgiven you for the transgression. Everyone involved has put the matter behind them. However, nobody who saw you will think you have forgotten how to throw a punch. Nobody will think you were lucky to land such damaging hits." He says. I frown. Even though, technically-speaking of course, I'm a lethal weapon on the streets, I've never thought of myself as anything but nice. I keep forgetting how intense my training for this job was.

"But I'm not a bad guy. Hell, you know I'm a teddy bear. I'd try to cuddle an argument out before I even thought about hitting someone."

"You're simply going to have to try harder to convince them of that. It has only been two months since the altercation with Mickey. Time will help people forget. Perhaps, by this time next year, it will be a very distant memory. Perhaps some other incident will take its place in student consciousness. Most events of this nature only require an extended period of reflection to be completely dismissed. Do not dwell on it too much. You are still going bowling with your friends, aren't you?"

"Yeah. It's just…going to be hard, you know? They'll all be looking at me and I'll know they'll be wondering if this is the day I blow my top."

"You'll be fine. Just don't do anything to make the comparison easier for them."

"Well you'll be pleased to know that nobody's talking smack about you at school anymore. In fact, after that mass poisoning by Copery, they kind of think of you as a hero for calling Principal Weser and getting him to warn all the parents." I tell him sitting up. As usual, the big guy is indifferent to praise.

"I did not do it for the glory."

"They all know that. That's why they think you're a hero. If only they knew, huh?" I say flashing him a grin. He sighs before gingerly folding his arms.

"If they knew, I would be in Arkham for the rest of my life."

"Yeah, but I'd come visit you."

"I cannot think of anything worse: trapped in a padded cell with you." He says with a hint of a smile. I smirk.

"Funny, I can't think of anything better." He looks sceptical of this claim.

"You have a poor imagination, Dick."

"No. I've got a good one. I just love you is all. Don't get me wrong, Alfie is top-drawer and I love him too…" I lean in close, "I just love you more." Words like that used to silence him. Now he just rolls his eyes at them and expects I want something in exchange, like every other dad in the world. I think it's great. Means he's almost normal. Still glad he's not though. That would be boring. I'd rather he was laid up in bed for punching a human crocodile into submission than something ordinary like a cold.

"Is your personal crisis over now, Dick?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Then make yourself useful. Put Mask of Zorro in the player."

"Do you want me to stay?"

"I didn't swat you, did I?"

"But I was still six inches away." I challenge only for him to scoff.

"Do you really believe that you were at the requisite distance the whole time?" He asks. I already know the answer to that one. I'm a teddy bear. We both know it. I thought I slept really well. I nod in understanding.

"Not in a million years. Didn't hurt you too much, did I?"

"Just put the film on, Dick."

I put the movie in the DVD player, clear away the newspapers and then get under the duvet next to him. He really slowly hauls himself to a sitting position. He's glad I'm here. He doesn't have to say it for me to know it's how he feels. It's no fun being stuck in bed all day, even if he really does love reading endless amounts of newspapers in his pyjamas like an old man. And it's no fun for me to be sat in my room while he's stuck in bed either. I'd much rather be here with him, especially after a bad day. He puts things into perspective for me and always gives me his full attention. I know he's in a lot of pain at the minute, so it means even more than usual that he's willing to give me his time. He doesn't like people seeing him when he's weak or hurt. But he doesn't mind me anymore. That's what we call 'progress'.

"Can we have another movie and pyjama day on Sunday?" I ask half-an-hour later after Alfie's served us dinner in bed. He smiles.

"I have no plans. You don't have to keep me company though, Dick. If you want to go out with your friends, it won't hurt my feelings."

"I know I don't have to. But I'd like to anyway."

"Then I look forward to it."