A/N: As a reminder, italics are usually used to represent thoughts to oneself, but are sometimes used for emphasis. Thanks for continuing to read! :)
The Batcave:
"Alfred," Batman growled as the butler walked into the Batcave, "Sanderson put him in the detention center. There is no doubt, because those three words popped out immediately after I input 'Jeff Sanderson' and 'Dick Grayson'."
"Good heavens, Master Batman," Alfred replied, shock in his eyes. "Why on earth would he take the boy there, sir?"
"No room," Batman instantly responded angrily. "You can't just put an orphan on the streets, so if you don't have room you throw him in the DETENTION CENTER!"
The last two words thundered around the Batcave, and were punctuated by a black-gloved fist slamming itself onto the nearest table.
"I'm going to see him," Batman declared, rage flashing in his eyes. "First he gets put in that hole and today he didn't even get to say goodbye. Then, I'm going to see Sanderson. There has to be a way to fix this."
"Might I suggest you change first, sir?" Alfred asked quietly, attempting to calm the man down. "It would be…unusual…for Batman to visit a random child in the detention center. You aren't even supposed to know he's there, sir."
"Neither is Bruce Wayne!" Batman exclaimed, not at all calming down.
"True, sir, but Bruce was at the funeral and Commissioner Gordon told him the name of the child's social worker. Perhaps Bruce decided to find out why the boy wasn't at his parents' funeral, sir, especially since you arranged and paid for it."
That fact calmed him slightly, and Batman nodded thoughtfully. After a short pause, the hero nearly sprinted to his Batpole and shot himself up to Wayne Manor. Alfred sighed as he headed for the service elevator. Hopefully, Bruce would wait for the butler to drive him there. It would be, again, unusual for the millionaire to arrive at the detention center without being driven there in the limo. But the man was impulsive, so Alfred increased his speed.
The detention center – forty minutes later:
Dick was awake, and had been for about half an hour. The rest of the teens being herded into their cells had woken him up. Surprisingly, Sam had left him alone. The block was almost completely silent – one of their own was now in the morgue instead of the infirmary.
The pain in his body convinced the nine-year-old to stay still. He remembered why his nose hurt, but had no idea why it was so hard to breathe, nor could he figure out why and how someone was stabbing a sharp knife into his wrist. Especially since there was nobody in his cell with him. Also, why wouldn't it move when he told it to? But attempting to move it made the pain worse, so he had stopped trying after only a few times.
A guard, the same one who had taken Dick to his cell earlier, suddenly appeared outside his cell door.
"You have a visitor," the man said, "and I'm here to collect you. Pull yourself together, I'll give you two minutes before opening this door."
Sam jumped to his feet, his eyes dark with anger. In a low, dangerous voice he promised, "If you say anything about the games we play here, I will make sure your visitor knows you are responsible for Chuck's…" Sam swallowed hard in an attempt to hide his emotions before continuing, "…death."
Dick's bruised eyes widened. Chuck was dead? When had that happened? And how had he, Dick, been involved? And why didn't he remember?
Another guard appeared and had a quiet conversation with the first one, who then left. Sam, who had turned around when the second guard had stopped by Dick's cell, went over to the bars to talk to him.
"Make him feel guilty so he won't talk," the teen whispered to his uncle. "Whoever is visiting him needs to think he's the one causing all the trouble."
"Course, Sammy," the man answered quietly. "Doncha worry, I got you."
Turning to Dick, the guard opened the cell door and motioned for him to come out. Dick hadn't moved; he was still lying motionless on the bed.
"Come on, kid, can't keep your visitor waiting, let's go!"
Dick tried, he really did, but he couldn't find the muscles needed to sit up, much less stand and walk to the visitation room. With a giant sigh, the guard walked in and helped the nine-year-old to his feet. Dick whimpered as pain raced around his body, but a quiet 'shut up' from Sam silenced him.
The guard led him down the hall, and they stopped in front of a door marked 'Visitors'. Before the man opened the door, he leaned down so his face was even with that of Dick.
"If I hear you say a single word against Sam, or anybody else, I'm going to tell Mr. Wayne the entire story. How you start fights, and bully other kids, and killed Chuck. The entire thing, understand?"
Dick was confused. Who was 'Mr. Wayne' and why would he come visit a random nine-year-old in the detention center? And why was this guard going to tell 'Mr. Wayne' a bunch of lies if Dick said anything bad about anybody? And why would 'Mr. Wayne' even care?
"Do you understand?!" the guard whispered fiercely, and Dick immediately nodded.
With a satisfied grin, the man opened the door and gave Dick a gentle nudge.
"Here he is, Mr. Wayne," the guard said before turning around and leaving the room.
'Mr. Wayne' was sitting at one of the three tables in the small room. He had dark, well-styled hair, and dark-blue eyes clouded with some emotion that Dick didn't recognize. His suit looked both expensive and brand-new, and there were no wrinkles or signs of wear. This man, Dick concluded correctly, was wealthy. He was also a complete stranger; Dick was sure he had never seen him before. Why was this wealthy stranger here to visit Dick?
Bruce Wayne had been sitting at a short, round table in a small room for almost twenty minutes. Why was it taking so long to find the boy? He was in jail, it wasn't like he could run away, or find a place to hide.
The door on the far side of the room opened, and Dick Grayson was forced to enter. What Dick considered a gentle nudge was a far cry from what Bruce considered to be a shove.
"Here he is, Mr. Wayne," the guard said.
Bruce stared at the young orphan in disbelief. This pale, bruised, and trembling child bore no resemblance to the elegant circus performer Bruce had seen only two nights ago. His dark hair obviously hadn't been combed recently, and the always-observant Batman noticed the dirt clinging onto most of the strands. His arms were tinted, as if he had spent too much time in the sun. His uniform – and why on earth was he wearing a detention center uniform? – was wrinkled and dirty. But the worst thing was the boy's face.
His nose had obviously been broken, and there were purple bruises encircling each eye. Those light-blue eyes that had sparkled with joy and excitement the first time Bruce had seen them were dim, and devoid of emotion.
Dick was standing by the wall, and Bruce noticed him favoring his right side, although he doubted the boy was doing it on purpose. His quiet breathing had a hitch, and his left wrist was hanging at an odd angle. Bruce knew exactly how a wrist would come to look like that because Batman had used the technique more than once: a swift twist from a strong arm.
Anger – no, rage – began filling the man's body. Batman yelled at Bruce to demand details from the boy, to interrogate him until he found out what had happened. But Bruce was smart enough to know that yelling at Dick would hurt the situation more than help it. He needed to stay calm, try to get the nine-year-old to trust him. Dick needed to tell the story when he was ready, not when a furious hero commanded him to do so.
Where those calming realizations had come from, Bruce didn't know. Batman was still demanding answers, but Bruce shut the hero down. For now, anyway.
"Hi, Dick," Bruce said, watching the boy's face carefully. "I'm Bruce Wayne. Do you want to come sit down?"
The nine-year-old's eyes, Bruce realized, were very expressive. Several different emotions raced through them, completely replacing the nothingness that had been there only eight seconds ago. Fear was the most prominent one, but that was understandable. Dick had become an orphan less than three days ago, had been thrown into a place where no innocent child should ever be, and now a complete stranger was talking to him.
Dick didn't move or speak, but Bruce was willing to patiently wait. He probably looked very intimidating, and Dick was only nine. Patience wasn't his strong suit, but for some reason Bruce felt comfortable waiting for this child.
After five full minutes of silence, Dick whispered, "Why are you here?"
The question didn't surprise Bruce. It was one he had asked himself seventeen times on the way to the detention center from Wayne Manor. Why did he feel such a strong urge to protect the boy?
Sighing, he replied honestly, "I was at the funeral, and wondered why you weren't there. So, I came to check on you."
The bruised eyes widened and filled with grief. Tears collected on the lower lids and Dick didn't try to stop them from spilling over and sliding down his cheeks.
"The fu…it was to…today?" he asked, his tone full of both shock and sorrow. "Why didn't…why wasn't…why didn't he take me? The man, why didn't he take me?!"
The last question was louder than the others, although it was barely more than a whisper. And Bruce had no answer, because he hadn't taken the time to try to find Jeff Sanderson, because he had been too busy looking for Dick so he could check on him. And it was a very good thing he had come to check on the boy.
"I'm sorry, Dick," the man replied gently, "I don't know where Mr. Sanderson is, and I don't know why he didn't take you to the funeral."
"I…I didn't get to say goodbye," Dick stammered softly, dropping his head as small sobs began shaking his equally-small body.
Bruce was torn. For some reason, he wanted to jump up, stride over, and pick the boy up without caring if his suit jacket ended up having tear stains on it. But, he was a stranger with no connection to the nine-year-old. He was also Batman – the unemotional vigilante who wasn't supposed to care about a kid like this.
Silence filled the room again, and again Bruce waited. Unlike the last one, this silence was awkward to him. Bruce didn't know how to react to Dick's emotions, and Dick was lost in his own mind.
"Um, do you want to come sit down?" Bruce finally asked.
Without looking up, Dick trudged to the table and slowly sat down. Bruce didn't miss the hiss of pain that escaped, nor did he fail to notice the clump of hair that was matted to the boy's head by what was obviously dried blood.
"Dick, what happened?"
The nine-year-old glanced up then immediately dropped his eyes again.
"I understand if you don't want to tell me, I'm just a stranger and we've never met, but I also want to help you. And I can't do that if you won't tell me what happened."
This boy Sam likes to play games and I've lost both times I've played.
That's what Dick wanted to say, and then he wanted to dive into the details, but the guard's words and Sam's promise rang in his ears. This man, Bruce, probably wouldn't care anyway. He was a rich guy, and Dick was a nobody orphan.
"I can wait until you're ready, kiddo."
Bruce didn't know why a nickname had popped out, but he chose to focus on Dick's body language instead of trying to figure that out.
Dick was slumping into himself, and his forehead was almost touching the top of the table. Silent sobs were wracking his slim body again, and Bruce wanted to gather him into his arms. But why did Bruce Wayne want to hold a crying, nine-year-old boy?
"It's me," Dick finally stated, his voice so quiet that Bruce just barely caught the words.
"What's you?" the man asked.
"I'm the…I did something horrible at the circus, so they put me in here. It's where I deserve to be, that's what he said."
"Who?" Bruce demanded loudly, startling the boy. "Who said you deserve to be here? Was it Sanderson? That son of…"
"I'm sorry!"
Dick's exclamation was quiet, but it made Bruce realize that he was standing up and looming over the boy. The nine-year-old's tear-soaked eyes were wide with fear and his right arm was wrapped around his torso. Bruce quickly sat down and hoped his outburst wouldn't cause Dick to withdraw into himself.
"You don't need to apologize," Bruce said, his voice somehow calm. "I should not have been so…demonstrative. Whatever you want to tell me, go ahead."
"I told you that I did something horrible."
There was a long pause, and it was becoming very difficult for Bruce to patiently wait.
"What did you do?" the man asked when he couldn't take the silence any longer.
"I…don't know," Dick responded with a heavy sigh. "But my parents died – you know that, you went to their funeral, I'm such an idiot."
Another pause. Bruce was about to tell him that he wasn't an idiot, but Dick continued so the man shut his mouth.
"I must have done some…something. He said Gotham City doesn't make mistakes, and this is where I'm supposed to be because I did something horrible."
Under the table, Bruce Wayne clenched his hands into fists. If Sanderson was telling Dick Grayson that he deserved to be here, the man was going to pay a heavy price very soon.
"And then…yesterday, or maybe today? Um, I…I killed…"
Dick shut his mouth, closed his eyes, and burst into silent sobs again. Bruce was taken aback. There was no way this nine-year-old had killed anyone, so why had he started to confess that?
"I doubt you killed anyone, Dick," Bruce responded, his voice even. "Let's forget that for now. You're in pretty bad shape. Can you tell me what happened?"
"I start the fights, it's always me," the boy immediately whispered, opening his eyes again. "Nobody else does anything, I start everything, it's always my fault."
Bruce shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and re-opened them.
"We'll talk about whose fault it is later, but first I need to know how hurt you are."
"Why?" Dick asked, lifting his head and searching the dark-blue eyes of the man across from him.
"Because if you're hurt, I want to try to help you fix it."
All of it.
That thought, and all the emotions that came with it, was shoved away into the back of Bruce's mind. Something to ponder on later, for now he just needed to know how hurt Dick was physically.
"I'm fine."
A short laugh of derision burst out of the man's mouth, and the boy glared at him then dropped his eyes.
"You are not fine, kiddo," Bruce declared.
And why had he used that nickname again?
"Let's play a game," he suggested.
Kids like games, right?
"I'll explain, you stop me when I say something wrong."
"I…don't like games."
The words were nearly inaudible but the terror in the young voice was unmistakable. Bruce decided to continue the conversation but mentally filed away the short sentence. Another thing to ponder later.
"You've been here for two days."
No response, because Dick didn't know how long he had been here.
"You haven't been able to sleep much."
A slight nod of the head.
"You hit your head on the sidewalk."
Dick looked up at him quizzically, then dropped his head again.
"Okay, you didn't hit your head on the sidewalk. Why, then, is there dried blood on the side of your head?"
Lifting his right hand, Dick gingerly touched the side of his head, wincing when he hit the tender spot.
"I, uh, got hit in the head."
Bruce opened his mouth, but Dick quickly continued.
"With a basketball," he clarified.
"Hmmmm, okay," Bruce responded. "You ran into a tree and your nose hit the trunk hard enough to break it."
"To break the trunk?" Dick replied, glancing up with a tiny smirk.
Bruce allowed a slight grin to race across his face.
"Your nose," the man clarified, much as the boy had only a few seconds before. "But I don't think that's correct. It was a foot, you threw your face at somebody's foot."
"Chuck."
The word sounded more like a breath, and Dick slapped his right hand across his mouth.
"Okay, so somebody doesn't want you to talk," Bruce observed.
The door suddenly opened and the guard poked his head in.
"Five minutes, Mr. Wayne."
Dick lifted his head, and Bruce didn't miss the obvious dread in the light-blue eyes.
"I'm fine, okay?" he said, his voice trembling. "Thanks for checking on me, and for going to…"
Dick paused, shook his head, then grimaced and grabbed it with his right hand. He couldn't remember the word he wanted, and it was both frustrating and embarrassing.
"Um, for going to their…um, their, uh…"
"Funeral," Bruce supplied.
"Yeah," Dick whispered. "For that. But I'm fine, okay? I deserve to be here, and I…"
Bruce held up his hand, and the boy flinched.
"You don't deserve to be here. What happened at the circus was not your fault, and there is no reason you should even be in here."
"But…"
"No, there is no but. You. Should. Not. Be. Here."
"Sam said Gotham City doesn't make mistakes. He's lived here his whole life, like fifteen years or something! He knows a lot more about it than I do."
Sam.
Another thing to file away, but at least he had a name. Two names, if he had interpreted the word 'chuck' correctly.
"Dick, am I older than the other kids you've met in here?"
"Of course!" Dick exclaimed quietly. "You're not a kid!"
"I have also lived here my entire life, which is longer than any of the kids here. Gotham City does make mistakes, and this is one of them. This is not where you are supposed to be, you don't deserve to be here, you've done nothing wrong."
The door opened again and the guard walked to the table.
"Time to go, kid."
"I'm coming back, Dick," Bruce stated as the guard wrapped his beefy hand around the slim arm of the nine-year-old and pulled him up to standing. "I'll talk to you soon."
"I'm fine, Mr. Wayne," Dick replied, his voice strong but his tone outlined with fear.
The guard turned him around and pulled him through the door, slamming it shut behind them. Bruce, while evaluating all the other physical injuries – and some of the mental – had completely forgotten about the wrist that had been hiding under the table. Deciding to have a chat with whomever ran the infirmary, the man stood up and quickly strode out of the room.