A/N: Thanks for reviewing, JessicaRae95 and hueningplushie! :)
One month later:
Dick was healing. His body was back to full health, but his emotions were still fragile. It frustrated Bruce – the fact that it had been so easy to go downhill at the detention center, but that the climb back up was slow and difficult.
Batman's discussion with Jeff had gone well, from the hero's point of view. The man had landed in the hospital, but the arm had only been fractured and the leg was a clean break and the concussion was mild. Batman was actually quite proud of himself for holding back. Then he had talked to Victoria, who happened to be terrified of bats, so that had worked out well for him, also.
Bruce was nervous about tonight. He had finally accepted an invitation to a large party, after a month of being mostly unavailable. And he was taking Dick with him. It would be a first for Dick, and the man couldn't help but worry.
"It does not do to dwell on 'what ifs', sir," Alfred commented.
All three of them were in the living room, where the butler was making last minute adjustments to Dick's tie while simultaneously watching Bruce pace a hole in the floor.
"Everything will be fine," Bruce said, stopping mid-pace to look at the nine-year-old. "People will be fawning over you," he finished with a slight grin.
"What does that mean?" Dick asked, beginning to nervously chew his bottom lip.
"It means, young sir, that everyone will think you are adorable."
"But…I'm not."
"You most certainly are, Master Dick!"
Alfred finished the tie and laid a wrinkled hand on top of the boy's head.
"There will not be a woman there who can resist your charm, young sir," the butler stated with a reassuring smile. "As Master Bruce said, everything will be fine."
"Okay," Dick replied quietly.
"Ready, kiddo?" Bruce asked.
"I guess."
"We don't have to stay the entire time, and you don't even have to leave my side. If you feel uncomfortable, tell me and I'll take care of it. Okay?"
Dick nodded as he slipped his small hand into the much larger one of his guardian.
"Okay," Bruce breathed quietly.
They went out the front door, where Alfred was patiently waiting. Into the car they went, and twenty-two minutes later they were climbing out.
"Bruce!"
The millionaire looked up when a booming voice called his name. An older gentleman was standing by an open door at the top of a long staircase.
"Dick, that's Mr. Haskins," Bruce said quietly. "He's our host."
"Okay," the boy whispered back.
"Daniel, thank you for inviting me tonight!" Bruce replied, slipping on a casual grin as he led Dick up the stairs.
"You've been unavailable for so long that I'm calling this your re-debut into society," the man stated with a chuckle.
They were at the top of the stairs, and Bruce let go of Dick's hand in order to shake the hand of their host.
"Molly has been looking forward to meeting your young ward," Daniel stated. "She's going to fall in love with him."
He glanced down at Dick and gave him a wink. The nine-year-old shyly smiled, half hiding behind Bruce and too nervous to say anything.
"Well, let's not keep her waiting then!" Bruce responded.
Daniel led them inside, where the hostess was mingling. She was in the middle of a very large crowd of adults, and Dick noticed that there were no other children present. Molly saw them enter, so she excused herself and came to greet the new arrivals.
"Bruce," she simpered, "it's so good to finally see you again! And who is this young and handsome gentleman?"
"Molly, this is Dick Grayson. Dick, this is Mrs. Haskins."
Dick was frozen, terror turning the blood in his veins to ice. Molly Haskins looked like the female version of the head guard at the detention center, and Dick wanted nothing to do with her.
"Say hello, kiddo," Bruce whispered, giving the boy a little nudge.
All three adults stared at the nine-year-old, waiting for him to respond. After thirty seconds of silence, Bruce decided to do it for him.
"He's quite shy, he's only been here for a month and a half. It might take him a while to get used to all the new people. Thank you so much for including him on the invitation."
"Of course, I understand. It must be so hard for the poor dear, losing everything in one night. Was it so hard, sweetheart?" she cooed.
The question was directed at Dick, who stared at her as if she had just grown another head.
"Molly," Bruce said quietly, "I would prefer he not be reminded of the tragedy, especially since this is all a new experience for him."
"Of course, Bruce, of course. Please excuse me, I have a party to host."
She smiled down at the nine-year-old, then turned around and continued to mingle.
Bruce had let go of Dick's hand when he had greeted Molly. He felt the small hand slide back into his grasp. The boy was trembling, and Bruce thought about leaving. But Molly hadn't meant any harm, and they had only just arrived. Squeezing the small hand, Bruce led the boy to a group of people.
They spent almost an hour mingling, and the new faces were all blurring together for Dick. Most people smiled at him when they were introduced. Those who didn't either ignored him or gave him a quick, haughty glance.
Bruce could tell Dick was getting tired, so he allowed the boy to sit down on a soft couch while he went to get them something to drink. A tall, slim woman in a glittering, silver dress promptly sat down next to the nine-year-old.
"Hi," she said simply.
"Hi," Dick replied, the word almost inaudible.
"You really are adorable," the woman stated, giving him a dazzling smile. "I think I should like to keep you when Bruce finally decides to take the next step."
Dick had no idea what that meant, so he remained quiet.
"I do have a few questions," she continued, shifting sideways so she could wrap an arm around him.
The nine-year-old flinched, but if the woman noticed she didn't care. Her arm slipped all the way across his shoulders and her hand ended up on his left bicep.
"So, have you stolen anything yet?"
Dick's eyes widened, and he quickly shook his head. He glanced around the room, searching for rescue in the form of Bruce, but the man was nowhere to be seen at the moment.
"When you do, make sure it's something ugly. I don't want any of the good pieces missing when I get there. Next question, I heard you were in the detention center right after your parents died. So, what did you do that made your social worker put you in there?"
The boy remained silent, and the woman squeezed his arm just a tiny bit.
"Obviously, Bruce got you out. That's a pretty big thing, getting a delinquent out of the center. What do you owe him?"
The squeeze was a little harder this time, so Dick decided to answer.
"Nothing," he said softly.
The woman gave a quiet, tinkling laugh.
"Come now, there's no reason to lie. How are you repaying him?"
"I…he said…"
Dick trailed off, his now-panicked mind causing his thoughts to jumble together.
"He said…" the woman prompted.
When he didn't answer again, the woman decided a to take a different approach. Tipping her drink, she spilled the liquid on both of them, then gasped loudly. A few people near them turned around at the sound.
"Silly me, I made a mess," she stated to the onlookers. "If Bruce returns, will you let him know that I'm cleaning us up?" she asked the crowd sweetly.
There were some nods and a 'yes' as the people returned to their conversations.
"Okay, kid, let's go clean up."
She slipped her arm off his shoulders and grabbed his right hand. Standing up, she pulled him to his feet and led him away from the crowd.
"Bathroom is around the corner," she stated conversationally. "Lots of privacy, so you can feel more comfortable talking to me."
Dick tried to turn back, but the woman was deceptively strong. Tightening her grip on his hand, she roughly pulled him into a hallway and around a corner.
"Now, tell me what you did to get thrown into the center," she demanded.
"Nothing," Dick answered, fear in his voice.
Dropping his hand, she slapped him and snarled, "Don't lie to me. I know how to get the truth out of people."
"I swear," the nine-year-old responded, holding back the tears that had sprung up from the pain of the hit.
"I heard you were put on the fourth floor. That's a bad place for a little guy like you. It must have been something awful. Nobody gets thrown in the center for 'doing nothing'. Did you kill someone? Or two someones?"
It was the detention center all over again, someone accusing him of killing his own parents and telling him that Gotham City didn't make mistakes.
"No, I didn't do…"
"Stop lying," she snarled as she slapped him again, cutting off his reply. "We can stand here for as long as we need to, because it will take a while for me to 'clean you up' after 'accidentally' spilling my drink on you."
Silence, so she slapped him one more time.
"Answer me, you little brat," she snapped. "What are you doing for Bruce that makes him want to keep you? Cleaning, cooking, or something else altogether?"
Dick shook his head, and a tear slipped down his cheek. He quickly wiped it away and forced the other ones to recede.
"Here, take a sip of this, it will help you feel more comfortable to answer my questions."
She took a small bottle out of her purse and grabbed the boy's chin with her left hand. The face of Sam floated through his mind, a memory of a threat while being held by the chin.
"Open your mouth," she demanded, and he obediently did as he was told.
The whiskey left a trail of fire as it slid down his throat, and Dick began coughing.
"Shut up," the woman commanded, even as she poured some more into his system.
The room began to spin, and Dick wanted to throw up. But this was something that was important to Bruce, so vomiting on the woman was not an option. He didn't know how to answer her questions, though, because she thought he was lying even though he was telling the truth. And he couldn't really think straight anymore anyway.
Black dots appeared on the edges of his vision, and the last thing he saw before closing his eyes was a flash of black at the edge of the corner. Dick slid to the ground, his head connecting with the top of the woman's shoe as she stumbled back.
There was no nine-year-old sitting on the couch when Bruce returned. He put the drinks on a side table and searched the room with his eyes. Daniel Haskins spotted him standing there alone, and went quickly to his side.
"What's going on, Bruce?" the man asked, noticing the concern in his visitor's eyes.
"I don't know where Dick is, do you see him anywhere?" Bruce responded, the concern also manifesting itself in his voice.
"I haven't seen him since I met you at the front door," Daniel replied.
A man standing in a small circle turned around.
"Louisa spilled a drink on him and took him to the bathroom to clean him up," the guy stated before turning back to his group.
"Oh, good," Daniel said. "The bathroom is down that hall," he pointed to his left, "and around the corner. I'll leave you to it."
"Thank you," Bruce murmured, the concern growing.
'Louisa' could only mean Louisa Nasterson, a local reporter whose articles were all about the dirty side of Gotham City. Not the criminal element sort of dirty, though. That job belonged to the crime reporter. Louisa enjoyed the gossip, and when she targeted someone she didn't give up until she had pulled some sort of skeleton out of the person's closet. And now she had Dick.
Bruce strode quickly down the hall. As he came to the corner, he heard a woman's voice mumble something that sounded like 'shut up'. He rounded the corner just as Dick melted to the ground. The man tried to pull Louisa out of the way, but he saw the boy's head hit the top of her shoe as if she had kicked him.
"Let me go!" Louisa yelled before turning to see her attacker.
Her face reddened and she swallowed hard when she saw the ferocious glare that was coming from the dark-blue eyes of Bruce Wayne. He had immediately dropped her arm after pulling her back, so she practically ran around the corner and back to the party.
"Dick," Bruce said loudly as he knelt down next to the boy.
The distinct smell of whiskey hit his nose like a smoke bomb. Batman wanted to go after the woman, and Bruce had to focus hard on the boy to prevent that from happening.
"Wake up, kiddo. Geez, you're going to have one heck of a headache tomorrow."
There was no response, not even a groan or a flinch, so Bruce scooped the nine-year-old up and strode back the way he had come.
"…and then he assaulted me!"
Bruce heard Louisa's shrill voice, and the fury in his veins boiled hotter. Batman yelled at him to put the boy on the couch and take her down. But he was currently Bruce Wayne, and neither Batman nor Bruce Wayne would 'take down' a woman who was not a villainess.
"There he is, look at the kid, what did he do?"
The comments and questions were murmured, but Bruce heard them.
"Daniel," Bruce said as he stopped in the middle of the room, "I think you need to know something. That woman," Bruce spat the word in disgust, "just poured whiskey down my boy's throat. She made a child drink so much alcohol that he passed out. Now, if you'll excuse me – or even if you don't – I'm taking Dick home."
The man strode past the surprised guests, who then turned to Louisa. She had just accused Bruce Wayne of assaulting her, but the fact that an unconscious kid was in the man's arms while she looked perfectly fine caused most people to assume she was lying.
"Miss Nasterson, please leave my house," Daniel said quietly. "And don't come back. Ever," he added. "And I would advise you to stay away from Bruce Wayne and his youthful ward."
Louisa stood stock still, not believing what she was hearing. They were supposed to believe her, especially since Bruce had such a playboy reputation. But they were all on his side, even though they didn't know the sordid details of his ward's life. She didn't have any details, either, but she was sure she would find something soon.
"You'll regret this," she said. "I know things about the kid, things that Bruce will never want published. You'll be begging me to come back, but don't expect me to accept your invitation."
"Leave!" Daniel commanded.
Molly was suddenly by her side. She gently grabbed Louisa's arm and led her away from the ballroom.
"Molly, you have to beli…"
"Get out of my house," Molly replied firmly, letting go of her arm and pointing at the door that was ten yards away. "You chose to go after the wrong person this time. You are a disgrace to your profession."
"Molly!" Louisa gasped. "Bruce assaulted me! I was trying to help the kid after he told me all these awful things…"
"Get. Out."
The women stared at each other, a silent standoff that neither wanted to break first.
"Or, I can call the police," Molly finally commented. "I'm sure Commissioner Gordon would love to hear about you making a child drunk!"
Holding up her hands, Louisa backed away then turned and fled out the door.
Bruce stomped down the stairs toward the driveway. His entire body was trembling with fury, and if he didn't have an unconscious nine-year-old in his arms he might have turned around and gone right back inside.
But then he didn't have to, because Louisa Nasterson came stomping down the steps a few minutes later. Bruce had just laid Dick on the seat in the limo and was preparing to climb in himself. The 'click click' of her high heels made him pause and look back.
"Sir," Alfred warned.
Ignoring the wisdom of his butler, Bruce met Louisa at the bottom of the stairs.
"Why?" he demanded, his quiet voice full of anger.
"Why what?" she retorted snarkily.
"Why are you going after a nine-year-old orphan?!"
"He was in the detention center, there has to be a reason. No social worker would put an orphan in the detention center without a reason!"
Bruce had so much to say to that, but he held himself in check.
"Perhaps," he snapped, "you should check your sources before you judge someone, especially a child. Be careful where you go poking around, Louisa."
"Is that a threat, Bruce?"
"I would call it a warning. You're not worth threatening."
Whirling around, he strode to the limo and climbed inside. Louisa stared after him, anger smoldering in her eyes.
"My sources are usually impeccable," she whispered as she watched the butler climb in and prepare to drive away. "Just wait, Bruce Wayne, I'll get the story. And all your money won't be able to stop me from printing it."
In the limo, Bruce was staring down at the face of his ward. It was flushed and the boy's breathing was unusually slow.
"Master Bruce, why is there an unconscious nine-year-old in this vehicle?" Alfred practically demanded. "What on earth happened in there?!"
"Nasterson poured whiskey down his throat. I don't know how much…"
"We're going to the hospital, sir. I'm not taking any chances with his life," the butler uncharacteristically interrupted.
Bruce was taken aback by Alfred's tone, but he nodded in agreement. Then he noticed something unusual. Dick's face was flushed, but only on one cheek. The rest of his face was slightly pale.
The man flicked on the overhead light and moved a little closer. The shape of a hand was clearly visible on the nine-year-old's cheek, and the millionaire almost turned around and punched the door. Batman wanted to leap out of the car and go find the woman.
"Sir, do not move. We are going to the hospital and you are staying with Master Dick. Nobody is going after Miss Nasterson unless it is the police."
Alfred's voice was firm, and his tone demanded compliance. Batman unwillingly retreated, and Bruce again had to force himself to stay focused on the boy. A thought occurred to him, and he was suddenly very nervous.
"Alfred, what if they think I did that?" he asked, apprehension filling his voice.
"Did what, sir?"
"He has a dark-red mark in the shape of a hand on his cheek."
"Master Bruce," the butler replied calmly, "there are several reasons why that won't happen. Please raise your hand as if you were going to slap him…"
"Alfred!" the younger man exclaimed.
"Sir, I said 'as if'," the older man stated with a sigh.
Bruce slowly raised his hand and held it near Dick's red cheek.
"Now, sir, measure your hand against the mark on his face. Do they match, Master Bruce?"
"No," the millionaire immediately responded. "My hand is much bigger."
"That is reason number one, sir. Reason number two is an assumption, but I have no doubt you will confirm it, especially after the way Miss Nasterson stormed out of the Haskins' residence. Were there any witnesses, Master Bruce?"
"Not exactly," Bruce answered, causing Alfred to raise his eyebrows as he glanced in the rearview mirror.
The full story came out, from Bruce's point of view, and it left Alfred slightly troubled.
"How long were you gone, sir? How much time passed from when you left the party to when you returned with Master Dick?"
"Three minutes, four at the most. The guy told me where they had gone, I walked down the hall and turned the corner, I tried to pull her out of the way so Dick wouldn't fall on her, I attempted to wake him up, then I picked him up and walked back."
"Did you have anything in your hands, Master Bruce?"
"No, I put our drinks on a side table. It was just two tumblers of club soda. Whiskey wasn't even one of the drink options, so she must have had it with her."
"Master Bruce, I think you should call Commissioner Gordon, for several reasons. Not the least of which is the fact that he needs to check her purse before she can clean it out."
Dick stirred, and a tiny mumble exited his mouth.
"Sh, kiddo, it's okay," Bruce whispered as he brushed some hair off the boy's forehead.
At the same time, he picked up the car phone and dialed the direct number to the office of the commissioner of the police.
"Commissioner Gordon."
The man sounded tired, but Bruce needed proof.
"Jim, this is Bruce Wayne. I have a problem."
"What can I do for you, Bruce?"
"Louisa Nasterson just forced Dick to drink whiskey. We were at the Haskins' house, but now we're on our way to the hospital."
"She what?!" Commissioner Gordon exclaimed, the exhaustion fleeing from his voice.
"The thing is," Bruce continued, attempting to remain calm, "there was no whiskey at the party. She must have had it with her, but if she cleans out her purse…"
"I'll send Chief O'Hara to her office and I'll go to her house," Jim immediately responded. "If she's innocent, she won't mind if we take a look. I'll let you know what I find."
"Thank you, Jim," Bruce said to a dial tone.
The commissioner had hung up before the millionaire had even had the chance to reply.
At that very moment, Alfred slowed down and pulled to a stop at Gotham General's emergency room entrance. Bruce was already sliding out before the butler was out of the car.
"It's fine, Alfred, go park," the millionaire said as he picked Dick up and cradled him to his broad chest.
With a polite nod, the butler returned to the driver seat and shifted out of park. Bruce slammed the back door shut with his hip, and Alfred left to find a parking spot.
The emergency room lobby was, surprisingly, empty. Bruce strode up to the desk and explained the situation. Dick was immediately taken back and put through a complete checkup. Alfred joined Bruce in the hallway a few moments later. The curtain around the cubicle was closed only halfway, so they could still see the boy while also being out of the way.
After fifteen minutes, the doctor stepped out to speak to them.
"We gave him some fluids and nutrients – his blood glucose level was a little low – but he should be fine. He'll have a good sized headache tomorrow for a while, and don't be surprised if he vomits a few times throughout the day. His body will be cleansing itself. I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne, but I have to ask this. Did you give him any alcohol? Even a small amount can be very bad for a child."
"No, of course not. We were at a party…"
"You took him to a party at nine years old?"
The doctor sounded slightly aghast, and Bruce clenched his jaw.
"His name was on the invitation," the millionaire ground out.
"One more thing, Mr. Wayne. There is a mark I'm concerned about, on his face. Did you…" the doctor paused.
This was both a delicate and dangerous question. Taking a deep breath the doctor continued, "Did you, um, hit your…" this time the pause was to glance down at his notes, "ward?"
"Of. Course. Not. A guest at the party was trying to force answers out of him and used two different techniques – slapping and whiskey."
"How do you know it was whiskey, Mr. Wayne?"
Bruce stared at him for a moment, disbelief radiating from his eyes.
"Doctor…" Bruce glanced at the tag on the man's lab coat, "…Wu, is there a problem with your nose?"
"No, why?" the doctor responded, confusion in his voice.
"Do you not recognize the smell of whiskey?"
"Not all of us are socialites, Mr. Wayne."
"That is not what I asked, Dr. Wu."
"I have never smelled it," the doctor admitted, "so no, I don't recognize it."
"Well, now you know what it smells like," Bruce almost snapped.
Dr. Wu swiftly changed directions, more than a little nervous about the millionaire's tone.
"You can take him home when all the liquids are in his system. Give it about an hour. I'll let the nurse know to check you out."
The doctor quickly walked away. Bruce and Alfred stepped inside the cubicle and closed the curtain.
"I shouldn't have left him," Bruce stated after three minutes of silently staring down at the nine-year-old.
"You had no way of knowing, Master Bruce," Alfred replied.
"B'sss?"
The men watched Dick struggle against his eyelids. Ever so slowly they inched upward, until finally the light-blue was visible. His pupils were dilated and his eyes were bloodshot.
"Hey, kiddo," Bruce said softly. "How are you feeling?"
"Gross," Dick replied.
"Gross?" Bruce echoed.
"Something gross in my mouth."
"Well, you did get quite drunk."
"Master Bruce!" Alfred quietly exclaimed.
"What does that mean?" Dick asked, his forehead furrowing in confusion.
"Um, alcohol, kiddo. Someone…"
"I'm sorry, Bruce, I just…she told me to and she had my chin and I'm supposed to obey and everyone is always right!"
"Whoa, chum, slow down! I'm not mad at you, you're not in trouble. This was not your fault and…"
Bruce paused as something sunk in. He lifted his right hand and gently tilted Dick's head up. A light bruise was forming on the boy's lower jawline, and the millionaire quietly growled. He added another thing to Batman's "why to take down Louisa Nasterson" list.
"Nobody is always right, Master Dick," Alfred stated gently, knowing that Bruce was lost in his own thoughts.
"Can we go home?" the nine-year-old whispered.
"Sir," Alfred prodded when Bruce didn't respond.
"Hm, what? Oh, we can go when the bag is empty," the millionaire answered vaguely, waving his hand in the general direction of the half-full bag of liquid nutrients.
"When will that be?"
"Sir!" Alfred prodded again, a little more firmly.
"What?"
"Master Dick needs some answers, sir."
"What was the question?"
"When can we go home?"
Bruce glanced at the bag of liquids, then replied, "In about half an hour."
"Can I go to sleep?"
"Of course, chum, I'll be right here when you wake up."
Bruce had no idea that he would say that many more times throughout his young ward's life. Nor did he know that this nine-year-old child was slowly filling the edges of a large, dark hole in his heart. And he had no way of knowing that this fragile boy would soon grow into a strong young hero.
Alfred watched Bruce slowly brush his hand across Dick's forehead in one long, smooth stroke. And the very perceptive butler smiled.
A/N: Soooo, I'm going to take a poll with this story. End here or go on? I'm not really sure right now, because I have three other ideas kicking my brain. Comment with your thoughts. Thanks for reading! :)