A/N: Thanks for reviewing, JessicaRae95! :)
The next day:
Pete arrived at the orphanage at three o'clock in the afternoon. He spoke to Dave and checked on two of his own cases while the director went to get Dick. When Dave brought the nine-year-old down to the lobby, Pete led him to the cafeteria for a chat.
"Dick, do you remember Mr. Wayne?" Pete asked as they sat down on one of the benches.
The boy nodded slightly, which encouraged Pete.
"Well, Mr. Wayne has decided to become your legal guardian. Do you know what that means?"
This time Dick shook his head, so Pete continued.
"Mr. Wayne is going to take care of you. You are going to live in his house, he'll give you what you need – food, clothes, a bed, among other things – and you'll begin to go to school. He has a butler, do you know what that is?"
Dick shook his head again, but Pete decided to move on.
"I'm sure Mr. Wayne will explain everything to you when you arrive. I'm going to take you over there, and I'll stay with you until you feel comfortable with me leaving. Both Mr. Wayne and his butler are very nice men, and I'm confident that they'll take good care of you. So, you're about to have a new family."
Pete smiled at him, hoping the last sentence would bring a bit of light into the boy's emotionless eyes. Dick merely nodded again, and Pete's smile faded slightly. He hadn't expected the nine-year-old to be jumping for joy, but he had thought that knowing he had a new family would at least bring a small smile to Dick's face.
"Okay, well, let's go. Do you have anything you need to get before we leave? Anybody you want to say goodbye to?"
A quick shake of the head, so Pete stood up and motioned for Dick to do the same. The nine-year-old obediently stood up, and immediately felt like a flaming needle was slicing up his right shin. Pete didn't notice the small grimace, nor did he hear the quiet hiss of pain that slid through the boy's lips.
Five minutes later, they were in Pete's car, on their way to Wayne Manor. The man glanced in the rearview mirror several times, hoping to see some kind of emotion on the boy's face. He never did, because Dick good at keeping his expression carefully neutral.
Dick was doing his best to hold back the gasps of pain that tried to escape from his mouth at every bump in the road. Both his shin and his head were complaining about the rough movements, but the nine-year-old kept his mouth shut and bit his tongue. The taste of his own blood grounded him, and he pushed the pain to the back of his mind.
Pete pulled up to the front door of Wayne Manor six minutes early. He thought about waiting, but then the door opened and Bruce Wayne himself walked out.
"Out we go, Dick, Mr. Wayne is here to greet you. Remember, I'll stay as long as you need me to. I want you to feel comfortable before I leave you here."
With a short nod, Dick opened his door and climbed out. Bruce, who was watching the boy carefully, immediately noticed that he was favoring his right leg. The next thing he noticed was the lack of a cast on the left wrist. Batman knew a wrist that had been broken like Dick's had couldn't properly heal in two weeks. Why, then, was the boy's wrist free?
"Pete, who took the cast off?" Bruce asked as he led them inside.
"What cast?"
"Dick had a cast on his left wrist. What happened to it?"
Pete glanced down at Dick's wrist before answering.
"I don't know, Bruce, maybe Dave took it off. I'll ask him about it."
Bruce nodded and turned his attention back to Dick. The nine-year-old was standing stock still, staring at the large foyer in awe. It was the first emotion Pete had seen on the boy's face since he had picked Dick up from the detention center.
Both men watched as the nine-year-old's gaze went from the marble floor to the elegant crystal chandelier high above their heads. Pete saw a half-grin, but Bruce saw the grief that passed like a shadow through Dick's eyes.
"Do you want me to show you around?" Bruce asked.
Dick responded by chewing on his bottom lip and looking around at the many doors. Batman instantly knew why, so Bruce changed the offer.
"How about if we go sit down in the living room. We can get to know each other a little better in there. Does that sound okay?"
This time it was relief that flitted through the light-blue eyes. Relief that he wouldn't have to walk around a huge house while trying to hide the fact that his shin felt like it was on fire.
The nine-year-old nodded, so Bruce led them to the living room. Bruce sat on the couch, and Pete chose a chair near the fireplace. Dick stood at the entrance, hesitation on his face.
"Where would you like to sit?" Bruce asked. "Your choice."
Dick shook his head and remained standing. Batman internally growled; Sam still had a bit of control over the boy.
"Here's the deal," Bruce began gently. "You can sit down whenever you want, wherever you want, at any time. You don't have to ask or wait to be told. You can make your own choices here. Do you understand?"
Dick nodded and took a small step forward with his right leg. Bruce didn't miss the hiss of pain, although Pete did again, and the millionaire wasn't surprised when the boy chose the nearest chair.
"Dick," Pete began, "do you want me to stay? Like Mr. Wayne said, you can make your own choices."
Pete had no idea why Bruce had said that, and he immediately decided to take the millionaire's advice to watch the recordings from the detention center.
There was a long stretch of silence. Both men allowed it to continue until finally, after almost five minutes, Dick shrugged.
That's a long time for a non-answer.
Bruce didn't know if it was because Dick had to figure out how to put the words in order so they would make sense, or if he really couldn't decide on his own.
Pete glanced at Bruce, who was watching the nine-year-old intently. The man looked relaxed, leaning back against the couch with his arms stretched across the top, but Pete could see tension. He didn't know if Bruce was irritated or concerned, and that bothered him.
"It's okay if you don't know what you want," Bruce stated softly. "You have a lot of time to figure things out. There is no pressure here, okay?"
Dick nodded, and Pete relaxed. The director was no longer worried, because it was obvious that the tension was not anger.
"Well, Dick, I'm going to leave you here with Mr. Wayne unless you specifically ask me to stay."
The nine-year-old looked from Bruce to Pete and back to Bruce. Two pairs of blue eyes connected, and the man decided to take the lead.
"Pete, I think we're going to be fine," he stated, shooting a quick glance at the director. "Would you…"
"I'll show myself out then," Pete interrupted. "I'll have Miss Valentia check on you in a few days, Dick. Have a good night, Bruce."
Pete left the living room and thirty seconds later the front door shut behind him.
"What hurts, kiddo?" Bruce asked.
He watched the boy's body language intensely, hoping to glean clues from Dick's movements. Bruce was almost positive that the nine-year-old was going to say he was fine. But Bruce was wrong. Dick didn't even open his mouth.
"Dick, I can't help with the pain if I don't know what hurts. I'm relatively certain that your right leg is bothering you. Since your left wrist is no longer supported by a cast, I'm going to venture a guess that your wrist is also hurting."
Dick looked down at his left wrist, which was carefully situated on his left leg in the optimum stationary position. He glanced up at Bruce, then dropped his eyes to the floor and nodded.
"Your leg or your wrist or both?"
Another stretch of silence, this one a little shorter than the last, and then a single word slid out of almost-closed lips.
"Both," Dick whispered.
"Okay, is there anything else that hurts?"
No response, and Bruce hated not being able to see the expressive eyes.
"Kiddo, I need you to look at me. I only want to help you."
"Nobody helps," the nine-year-old mumbled, keeping his eyes on the floor.
"That's not true. Tank helped you…"
Bruce immediately stopped speaking when Dick shuddered.
Don't talk about the detention center, idiot.
The millionaire berated himself in his head before deciding to follow Dick's lead.
"You're right, not many people in Gotham City are helpful. But there are some. For example, I want to help you feel better. But I can't do that if I don't know everything that's going on. Does anything else hurt?"
"What will I owe you?" Dick muttered.
Owe me?!
"What do you mean?"
"If someone helps me, I have to owe them something."
There was no doubt in his voice, and Bruce wondered who had given Dick that idea. Sam, probably, and maybe a guard or two. Batman wanted to begin interrogating, but Bruce stayed calm.
"You won't owe me anything, kiddo. That's not how it works. I want to help you just to help you, not to try to get something from you."
Lifting his head, Dick stared into Bruce's eyes and said, "I'm fine."
The millionaire searched the light-blue eyes, and saw the shadow of pain flitting around in the background. He went through the filing cabinet in his memory, looking for anything else that could be causing Dick pain.
"Do you have a headache?" he asked, remembering the concussion.
Dick's eyes widened slightly, so Bruce continued.
"I think your torso might be throbbing a little bit. You had a broken rib or two."
The boy's eyes grew even wider, and surprise filled them. However, he remained silent. Bruce decided to try a different tact, although he didn't want to bring up the detention center again. But if that was the only way to get some kind of reaction out of the nine-year-old, he was going to have to do it.
"Do you remember us having some conversations almost two weeks ago?"
Dick squeezed his eyes shut, something that Bruce would soon learn he did when searching hard for a memory, then shook his head and reopened his eyes.
"Do you want to remember, or would you rather try to forget everything about that place?"
Tears suddenly filled Dick's eyes, and he allowed them to spill over his lids without even trying to stop them. Bruce went from his place on the couch over to the chair Dick was sitting on in less than three seconds. He crouched down and, without thinking, reached out to pull the boy into his arms. Dick violently flinched, and Bruce immediately withdrew his arms.
"It's okay, kiddo, I'm not going to hurt you. And I won't ever let that happen again," Bruce assured him softly. "I'm going to keep you safe, nobody will ever be able to do anything like that to you ever again. I promise."
It was a promise he wouldn't be able to keep, but Batman had no way of knowing that one day this young child would be fighting crime by his side.
The tears had stopped, but now Dick was trembling. Bruce felt something crack in his chest. He wanted to scoop the boy up and shield him from the world. But Dick was fragile, and terrified, and in pain.
"It's okay, you're safe," Bruce whispered.
There was no reaction from the nine-year-old, so Bruce decided to sit down and wait. He sat on the floor, right in front of Dick, and waited.
Bruce heard movement and looked up, only to see Alfred watching them from the doorway. The older man's face was full of sympathy, and compassion was swirling around in his kind eyes.
"Is there any way I can help you, Master Bruce?" the butler asked softly.
"We're just trying to get to know each other," the younger man responded.
"It's dinner time, sir. Would you and Master Dick prefer to eat here or in the dining room?"
Alfred never allowed food in the living room, but he considered this to be a special circumstance.
"Are you hungry, Dick?" Bruce asked.
Dick shook his head, but Bruce wasn't going to allow the boy to miss any meals.
"I killed Chuck, I don't deserve food."
The scene was still fresh in the man's mind.
"Well, even though you're not hungry, I need you to at least try to eat a little something. You're a growing boy, and you need nourishment."
His voice was firm, and Alfred quietly cleared his throat. Bruce understood the meaning, but Dick needed to know that starvation was not an option.
"You don't have to eat a lot, but you do need to eat."
The nine-year-old grimaced but pushed himself to his feet. Neither man missed the hitch in Dick's breathing when he stood up.
"We need to get you checked by a doctor," Bruce commented. "It hurts to move your leg and your wrist, correct? And it's hard to breathe, and thinking hurts."
Dick glanced from Bruce to Alfred and back. He started chewing on his bottom lip, something that the men would soon learn meant he was nervous, and slowly nodded.
"Shall I call Dr. Thompkins, sir?"
"Yes, Alfred, I think so," Bruce replied with a glance up at his butler. "I'll try to get some food in him while we're waiting for her."
Turning his gaze back to Dick, the millionaire said, "You still have a choice, Dick. You can sit back down and eat something in here, or we can go to the dining room and eat at the table. The dining room is on the other side of the front door."
Dick looked around at the elegant furniture and spotless floor. There was no way he was going to eat in here, not when there was a chance that he would spill something and make a mess. So, he took a tentative step toward Bruce and then turned so he was facing the front door.
The man stood up, slightly surprised that Dick would prefer to walk to the other side of the house. He had thought the nine-year-old would want to skip putting himself in more pain.
"Okay, follow me. Do you need help?"
Dick looked at him quizzically, then shook his head.
"If someone helps me, I have to owe them something."
The sentence echoed in the man's mind, and he internally sighed. Of course Dick wouldn't want help. He already thought he owed Bruce something, he wouldn't want to put himself in deeper debt.
"You don't owe me anything," Bruce gently reminded as he led the way into the foyer. "And you never will."
No response, and Bruce glanced back. The boy was carefully limping his way across the entrance, determination on his face even while pain danced in his eyes. Five minutes later, Bruce was showing him where to sit, and he heard a quiet sigh of relief when Dick sat down.
Alfred had already contacted Leslie Thompkins, and she was on her way. The butler brought two plates of food and set them on the table. Both men watched as Dick's eyes grew wide with astonishment. He probably hadn't eaten this well in the orphanage, and Bruce knew for a fact that he hadn't eaten this well in the detention center. Bruce wondered how long it had been since Dick had had a decent meal.
The nine-year-old stared at the food, and his stomach growled. Bruce hid a grin and hoped that feeling would encourage the boy to eat more than 'a little something'.
Dick stared at the two forks, trying to see a difference so he could figure out which one to use. Bruce noticed the dilemma, and saw the teaching moment. Sometime in the future, Dick would be going to parties and galas with Bruce. Now was as good a time as any to teach him what to use and when.
"The smaller fork is for the salad, which we're not having tonight so you don't need it," the man commented. "You use the other one for everything else."
Dick nodded and picked up the slightly bigger fork. Now he was staring at the chunks of meat on his plate and wondering if he would get in trouble for beginning to eat. Was he supposed to wait for the man to start eating, or wait for the man to finish before he began? Or could he just eat?
"Go ahead and eat, Dick," Bruce answered the unspoken questions that he could see in Dick's expression.
The nine-year-old stabbed a piece of meat with his fork and put it in his mouth. His eyes widened more than they had before, and Bruce chuckled. Alfred was a fantastic cook, and steak was probably a new experience for Dick.
Bruce began eating. He had so much to say, so many things to ask, but he wanted Dick to eat more than he wanted answers. And many of his questions would probably be answered when Leslie arrived anyway.
Twenty minutes later, they were back in the living room. Dick went back to the chair and Bruce sat on the couch. The doorbell rang, and Alfred admitted Leslie into the house.
"Dick, this is Dr. Thompkins," Bruce said as Leslie joined them. "She's going to try to stop whatever pain you're feeling. Do you think you can tell her what she needs to know?"
The nine-year-old gave the woman a quick glance then dropped his eyes to the ground and shrugged. Leslie looked at Bruce, questions in her eyes, but the man didn't respond.
"Hi, Dick," she said as she sat on the couch near Bruce. "How are you feeling?"
Dick stayed silent, his eyes on the floor. Leslie instantly took a different approach.
"Okay, Dick, I'm going to start at the top. I'll say a body part, you nod if that part of your body hurts."
No response, so she just jumped in.
"Does your head hurt?"
A pause, and then a short nod.
"Your eyes? Ears? Nose?"
She received a nod with the last one, and was not surprised. She could tell from where she was sitting that his nose had recently been broken.
"Neck? Shoulders? Arms? Wrists?"
Another nod, and she took a moment to study his wrists. They both looked okay, but she did notice the way the left one was resting on his leg.
"Broken left wrist?" she whispered to Bruce, who nodded.
"Okay, Dick, how about your ribs?"
A definite nod, and she even received a quick glance.
"Does it hurt to breathe?"
No response, so she moved on.
"Stomach? Back? Legs?"
Dick nodded at the last word, and Leslie glanced at Bruce. He shook his head; he didn't know why the boy's legs were hurting.
"What part of your leg is hurting, Dick?" she asked.
The nine-year-old began chewing on his bottom lip again, and Bruce was worried that soon he would chew right through it.
"Can I take a look at the leg that hurts?"
Dick lifted his head, indecision plain in his eyes. He stared at Bruce and waited. The man stared back, not understanding.
"Sam wants you to do what I ask."
"Son of a fricking biscuit eater," the man whispered, so quiet that it was nearly inaudible.
It was his fault, he never should have said that to a terrified nine-year-old who was under someone's control. Now Dick was probably assuming that he had to wait for Bruce to give the okay, just like he had done with Sam.
"She just wants to help, Dick. You can show her."
And I'm not going to make every little decision for you.
That was one of the first things Bruce was going to do – teach Dick how to make his own decisions. He wouldn't be surprised if the boy had forgotten how.
Slowly, Dick began pulling up his right pant leg. The injury was visible almost immediately. His shin was purple and black and there was a large bump. Leslie was suddenly beside him, crouched on the floor with her hands hovering over the wound.
"Dick, I need to touch this so I know how bad it is. Are you okay with that?"
The boy glanced at Bruce again, who nodded without thinking and then began berating himself a second time. Dick looked down at Leslie and gave a slight nod. She watched his eyes squeeze shut and heard the gasp that meant he was now holding his breath.
"This might hurt, I'm sorry," she stated as she carefully probed the area.
Dick immediately flinched and his entire body went rigid. His eyes flew open and he began rapidly wheezing.
"I'm sorry," Leslie said again, even as she continued to examine the injury with gentle fingers.
"Bruce, I need an x-ray of this. It's either a bad fracture or a broken bone. Either way, he shouldn't be walking around on it. Dick, how long has your leg been hurting?" she asked as she took her hands away and went back to the couch.
The nine-year-old was gasping, and his eyes were squeezed shut again. His entire body was trembling, and he didn't even hear the question.
"Dick," Leslie repeated a little louder, "how long has your leg been hurting?"
Now it was Bruce who was crouched beside the chair.
"Slow down, kiddo, breathe with me. Listen. Breathe in and out, nice and slow. Do it with me."
Dick tried but failed to match his breathing with that of Bruce, so the man threw caution out the window in favor of keeping the boy alive.
The millionaire picked up Dick's right hand and placed it against his own chest. He began taking slow, deliberate breaths. It was easier for Dick to match it when he could feel it, and soon his breathing was also slow and deliberate.
Bruce let go of the small hand, but it stayed on his chest. Dick's eyes were open, the light-blue circles full of pain but outlined with curiosity. He was staring at his own hand as it rose and fell with the rhythm of the man's breathing.
"You…have a heartbeat," the nine-year-old whispered.
Bruce wanted to chuckle at the comment, but held it back. Dick was looking at him oddly, and laughing was probably not the best way to respond to the statement.
"So do you," he said instead.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," Leslie interrupted, "but I really need to know how long your leg has been hurting."
Dick glanced at her and shrugged, then took his hand off Bruce's chest. A spot of warmth stayed over the man's heart for a moment, and Bruce smiled. He got a twitch of the boy's lips in return, the first time he had seen anything that could resemble a smile.
"Bruce, when is the last time you saw him?"
"A little over a week ago."
"Did he have this injury then?"
"He was limping, but I don't know if it was from that."
"He's been walking on a fractured leg for over a week and nobody thought to take him to a doctor?!"
"I don't know if anybody knew about it. Dick," Bruce asked as he looked into the blue eyes, "did you tell anyone about your leg?"
The boy bit his lip and shook his head.
"Why not?" Leslie asked, a tinge of frustration in her voice.
"Sorry," Dick replied softly, dropping his head again.
"Hospital, Bruce, I'll meet you there," she commanded.
Without waiting for a response, Leslie stood up, gathered her things, and headed for the front door.
Dick lifted his head and watched her go. She had sounded mad, and it was Dick's fault. Now he was going to get in trouble with Mr. Wayne.
"Okay, kiddo, I guess we're taking a trip to the hospital."
Bruce stood up and quickly realized something: he was going to have to carry Dick, who would not want to be carried. But Leslie would be very upset with him if he allowed the boy to continue walking on his injured leg.
"Dick, this is a good time for you to make a decision. You can either hop on one leg or let me carry you to the car. Dr. Thompkins doesn't want you walking with that injury."
The nine-year-old carefully stood up. He thought about hopping, but just the thought of his leg flying through the air made him slightly nauseous. But there was no way he was going to trust Mr. Wayne to carry him. Dick still didn't trust anybody, not even the man who had a heartbeat and was good at breathing.
Bruce stood still, waiting for Dick to make a choice. He wasn't going to impatiently scoop the boy up, but he also wasn't going to force a decision out of him. However, he was not going to allow him to walk. So he might have to make the decision, even though he had just told Dick to make the decision. Bruce internally sighed.
I just got him and I'm already in a conundrum.
And then Alfred appeared. Always-prepared and all-knowing Alfred had brought a wheelchair. Bruce had no idea where the older man had found it, but he was grateful for his butler's wisdom.
"Master Dick, I thought perhaps you might be more comfortable in this."
Dick practically collapsed onto the seat, and Bruce carefully situated the boy's legs. Alfred stepped away and went to get the car.
"You okay?" Bruce asked quietly.
The nine-year-old started to nod, then paused. Dick thought about the question for a full minute before deciding to tell the truth. He shook his head.
"Dr. Thompkins is very good at what she does, and she'll help you heal quickly. You can trust her."
"No," Dick whispered.
"Yes, she is. She's been my doctor for…oh."
Understanding dawned on Bruce. The 'no' was for the last sentence, as in 'no' Dick was not going to trust her. Alfred came through the front door and held it open as Bruce wheeled the nine-year-old out to the waiting limo.
Dick's eyes widened again, although neither man saw it. The car was huge! Mr. Wayne had a lot of nice things. And then a thought came into Dick's mind as he shifted himself from the chair to the seat of the car.
The nine-year-old didn't know if Mr. Wayne thought he was a thief, like Miss Valentia did. If he did, he hadn't said anything about it. Dick decided that she had probably talked to Mr. Wayne, so maybe he should reassure the man, just in case.
"I won't steal anything, Mr. Wayne," Dick stated softly as Bruce slid into the seat next to him. "I promise."
The quiet declaration made Batman want to find Jeff Sanderson and beat him to a pulp. He still hadn't had a good chat with the man, and that conversation went to the top of his priority list.
"Dick, no matter what anybody else has said, you are not a criminal. I know you won't steal anything, and you've done nothing wrong. And you can call me Bruce."
There was no response. Bruce saw the boy try to stifle a yawn. It was only seven o'clock, but the man realized that Dick probably hadn't had a good night of sleep since the tragedy that had taken everything from him.
"The hospital is about an hour away, you can go to sleep if you want."
The boy's body was tense, and Bruce doubted he would take the opportunity. Fifteen minutes into the ride, however, Dick was fast asleep, the rocking motion of the car lulling him into slumber. His head tilted sideways and landed lightly on Bruce's broad shoulder, causing the man to smile slightly.
"I'll wake you when we get there," he whispered.