A/N: Thanks for reviewing, JessicaRae95! :)
Later that day:
Pete made good on his word to go see Dick. He arrived at the detention center at three o'clock, and was taken to the visitation room at 3:15. Fifteen minutes later, Dick Grayson walked into the room.
There was a small and completely unexpected snafu in Batman's plan to force Pete to release the nine-year-old. Dick didn't look like an abused, starved, neglected kid. He had no visible bruises, and the only noticeable injury was the small cast covering his left wrist. He walked with a slight limp, but his pants covered the bandage wrapped around his right shin.
"Dick Grayson?" Pete asked, and received a nod in return. "Come here and sit down. We need to talk."
His tone was neither harsh nor friendly, it was completely neutral. Dick didn't know what to make of this new person, but he slowly walked to the table and sat down across from the man.
"How long have you been in here, Dick?"
The nine-year-old shrugged. Two days, a week, a year? He had no idea. Pete didn't know anything about the situation, so he took the shrug as indifference. He decided to give the boy something easier.
"How old are you?"
"Nine," Dick whispered.
"How have you been treated here? Has anybody done anything to harm you?"
Pete's questions were greeted with almost three minutes of complete silence. Dick was trying to decide whether or not it was safe to admit anything. Fear won out, and the boy shook his head.
"So, nobody has harmed you in any way? Why is there a cast on your wrist?"
"I fell," Dick instantly responded.
The response was too immediate for Pete's liking. He had almost thirty years of experience in DCS, and 'I fell' was the excuse that most kids used when he would ask about injuries. Which meant there was more to this case than he had originally thought when Dick had entered the room.
"Have you met Bruce Wayne?" Pete asked, deciding to move in a different direction.
Dick furrowed his brow, trying to decide if this man was friend or foe. If he admitted to meeting Mr. Wayne, would he be in trouble?
"It's a yes or no question," Pete stated. "You're not in any trouble right now, okay? I'm just here to check on you."
Right now.
The two words echoed in Dick's mind. Right now he wasn't in trouble, but he would be if he answered something incorrectly or said something bad about somebody. Friend or foe, yes or no, with Mr. Wayne or against him? What would Sam want him to say?
"I…don't know," the nine-year-old replied.
The hesitation was too long; Pete immediately knew the boy was lying. The big question was, why would he lie about whether or not he had met someone?
"I think you do know. I'm trying to help you, Dick. Please tell me the truth."
Another person trying to 'help' him. The word made him shut down, and he dropped his eyes to the floor. Pete, who was used to waiting for young children to gather enough courage to tell him something, patiently stayed silent.
Five minutes passed, then ten. The DCS director was determined to find out what was going on, so he didn't do or say anything. Dick was fidgeting, picking at his pants with his right hand, looking up and glancing around the room before dropping his eyes again, and thinking about trying to run out the door. But he was pretty sure Tank was right outside that door, so attempting to run away from this new man wouldn't accomplish anything.
After fifteen and a half minutes, Dick couldn't take it anymore.
"Yes," he whispered, so softly that Pete almost didn't hear it.
"Thank you for being honest," Pete replied gently. "Can you tell me what you and Mr. Wayne talked about?"
Dick looked up and stared into Pete's dark-chocolate eyes, searching for some kind of sign that he could trust this man at least a little bit. There was no anger, so the nine-year-old decided to answer.
"He said he wants to help."
Pete nodded and waited expectantly for more.
"Um, he asked a bunch of questions about the game."
"What game?"
"I don't want to get in trouble again."
"Did you get in trouble when you told Mr. Wayne about the game?"
A slight nod, and Pete put a check mark in the 'no' column in his mind. If Bruce got mad at the boy for telling him about a game, Bruce shouldn't become his foster parent.
"With Sam," Dick suddenly clarified quietly.
Sam?
"I'm confused," the man said. "Who did you get in trouble with when you told Mr. Wayne about the game?"
Dropping his eyes to the floor again, Dick whispered, "Sam."
Pete raised his eyebrows in surprise, and erased the check mark.
"Will you tell me about Sam?"
Dick vehemently shook his head, so Pete moved on.
"You won't get in trouble for telling me about the game. Nobody is going to know you told me, because nobody is in this room with us. What we talk about is between you and I."
Lifting his head, Dick again stared in Pete's eyes.
"We play until Sam says someone wins."
"How do you play?"
"It's just a game."
"Right, I understand that. If it's a fun game, I would like to teach it to my kids. So…"
"NO!" Dick shouted, surprising both himself and Pete.
"It's not a fun game, is it?" Pete asked.
The intelligent man already understood what 'playing the game' actually meant, but he needed to hear it from the boy.
"No," Dick admitted, his voice much softer.
"Dick, I need to know…"
"I can't tell you, I'll get in trouble. Sam says the game is only for kids and we're not supposed to tell adults because you won't understand."
"But I can't help you if you won't tell me anything."
"Why do you want to help me?"
Dick's tone was suspicious, and Pete wondered how often people in here had said they were helping him only to turn around and hurt him. The boy was displaying all the classic symptoms of abuse: excuses for injuries, not wanting to talk, being worried about getting in trouble, pausing to think before every answer just in case it was a trick question that would get him in trouble.
"Dick, was Mr. Wayne nice to you?"
"I don't think he did anything bad."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't remember if he did anything bad," Dick explained.
"Why don't you remember?"
Dick shut down again, because he wasn't supposed to say anything bad about Sam. And answering that question would lead to questions about Sam, questions that couldn't be answered without saying something wrong.
Pete recognized the reaction, so he decided to move on again.
"Do you remember Mr. Sanderson?"
Dick squeezed his eyes shut, trying to find a picture of the man that went with the name. Nothing came, so he opened his eyes and shook his head.
"He's your social worker – well, he was until he had a family emergency – and he's the one that…"
"He didn't take me to their funeral," Dick interrupted quietly.
Pete watched a single tear thread its way down Dick's cheek, and wondered why Jeff hadn't allowed to boy to say goodbye to whomever 'they' were. There were protocols in place, Jeff should have told somebody to take the nine-year-old to the funeral since he couldn't do it himself.
"I'm sorry, Dick," Pete stated sincerely. "I'm sorry you didn't get the chance…"
"I don't have a family anymore," the boy said miserably, his eyes on the floor again. "It was just us, and now they're dead and there's nobody else."
"Richard John Grayson, age nine, parents died at the circus a little over a week ago."
Batman's short explanation raced through Pete's mind, as did Victoria's snide comment. She had said 'performers' with a tone unmistakably full of disgust.
"The boy is in the detention center because Jeff felt he should be there."
"We don't have room for a thief."
Pete sighed. Apparently, he needed to sit down and have a lengthy chat with both his most experienced case manager and his newest one. Obviously, Dick had done nothing wrong. There was no plausible reason for him to be in the detention center. Orphanages were usually overflowing, and a child couldn't be placed with a family the day after being collected by DCS, but there were protocols in place. Pete had never had anyone put a newly-orphaned child – or any child, for that matter – straight into the detention center.
"Dick, I'm going to get you out of here," Pete said, making an executive decision. "I don't think we have any beds, but I can certainly find you a sleeping bag and put you on the floor in one of our orphanages. I'm going to go fill out some paperwork, and then I'll come back and get you."
Without waiting for a response, Pete stood up and walked to the door leading to the lobby. He waited for the door to open, then he looked over his shoulder. Dick was folded in on himself, his small body trembling with what Pete knew were silent sobs. Of pain, or relief, or both?
"I'm coming back for you, I'm not allowing you to stay here another night. Give me an hour or two, okay?"
There was no reaction from the nine-year-old, so Pete walked through the door. Never had he wanted to fill out release paperwork more than he did right now.
"Uh, sir," the guard at the desk said as Pete signed the checkout form. "You can't get anyone out of here without the warden's approval, and he's in California with his family."
"Screw the warden," Pete stated pleasantly. "The boy is my responsibility, he is not supposed to be in here, the warden has no jurisdiction over his case. I'll be back in an hour or two, please have him ready to go."
Pete left the guard standing open-mouthed in surprise, and headed for his car.
The Batcave:
Batman had spent the entire day watching the video feed from the visitation room in the detention center. He was attempting to refuse to hope, but Pete had said he would go check on Dick. The hero was doing some research when he heard a familiar voice. Quickly, he strode to the viewing machine and turned up the volume.
Dick was as non-responsive as usual, but Pete waited. Batman was impressed with the man's ability to be patient. Most people would have become upset with the nine-year-old, or tried to force answers out of him, but Pete just waited.
Batman instantly knew when Pete deduced what was really going on. The man's body language changed from 'checking on a child' relaxed to 'child in danger' tense. Batman wanted to race around the Batcave like a sugar-filled kid when Pete said he was taking Dick out of the detention center. But the part he liked the most was at the end.
"Screw the warden."
All he needed to do now was find a way to speed up the vetting process. Dick Grayson needed a bed, not a sleeping bag on a floor. That was, of course, preferable to his current sleeping arrangement, but the boy should be in a bed.
The Manor phone rang, and somehow Alfred was already there and answering.
"One moment, sir."
Alfred held out the phone, and Batman took off his cowl.
"Bruce Wayne."
"Mr. Wayne, this is Pete Cadovitch, director of the Gotham City Department of Child Services. I have a somewhat unusual question for you."
Grinning, Bruce replied, "You can call me Bruce, and ask away."
"Call me Pete," the other man agreed. "How do you feel about children?"
"I've met good ones and bad ones. Why?"
"Well, I have a nine-year-old, newly-orphaned boy – Richard Grayson. Batman seems to think that you would be willing to take him in for a short while. I understand you took care of the funeral for his parents."
"I did, yes. The Flying Graysons needed a better resting place than the paupers' graveyard. Are you asking me to take him in, or just letting me know that Batman thinks I should?"
"There are many things that have to happen before I could ask you to take him – paperwork, house visits, more paperwork – but I thought I would at least ask how you feel about it before beginning the approval process. I know you're a very busy man, and I don't blame you if you don't want another responsibility on your shoulders."
Bruce was almost bouncing with joy. Finally, finally, something good was happening. There was a tap on his shoulder, and he looked at his butler.
"It would not do to appear eager, sir," Alfred advised quietly.
Nodding, Bruce responded, "Pete, you can start the approval process, but I do need some time to think about this. Taking in a child is not really something I have considered doing before."
Alfred raised an eyebrow at the lie, and Bruce glanced at him with an apologetic half-shrug. He could have stopped after saying he needed time to make a decision, but the last sentence had naturally flowed out of his mouth.
"Of course, Bruce," Pete answered. "The process takes a few weeks, so you have time to think about it."
"Pete, I visited Dick several times in the detention center. He was a bruised and broken mess every time. Do you know how he's doing?"
"I actually just left there. He doesn't look like a bruised and broken mess."
"Did he tell you anything about what's happened to him?"
"How much do you know about him, Bruce?"
"Like I said, I've been to see him several times. Everything in the visitation room is recorded, as you probably know. If you watch the tapes, you'll find out that I know quite a bit. I would strongly advise you to watch the tapes."
"Why did you visit him?"
"He wasn't at his parents' funeral, so I decided to find out why," Bruce answered simply.
There was a long pause, and Bruce was suddenly worried. Had he said something wrong, was Pete already regretting asking him about taking Dick in?
"Well, I'll start the paperwork. Thank you for your time, Bruce."
Pete hung up before Bruce could reply. Slowly, the man replaced the receiver.
"Is something wrong, Master Bruce?"
"I…don't know. He was very quiet near the end, as if he was rethinking his decision."
"I'm sure he has a lot going on, sir. I doubt he is questioning his own judgement. He seems to be a very capable and intelligent man, Master Bruce."
"You're probably right."
Bruce paused, then suddenly grabbed a stack of papers and threw them in the air.
"Dick will be out of the detention center before bedtime tonight!" he yelled.
Alfred smiled when he saw his charge's dark-blue eyes light up with a tinge of what could be described as happiness. Bruce was more invested in Richard Grayson than even Alfred had known. Now all they had to do was make sure millionaire Bruce Wayne was deemed fit to be a legal guardian.
That was the part Alfred was sure about. Bruce wanted to be more than 'just' a foster parent, although that was good on its own. But the butler could tell that Bruce wanted Dick Grayson to have some stability, because Bruce understood what it was like to watch your family die.
"What if I can help him?"
Alfred watched Bruce gathering the papers he had scattered everywhere, and answered the younger man's question in his mind.
You can, Master Bruce.