The first thing Bruce saw when he walked in was the rock. It was tiny- particularly since Dick was sitting on the floor, but he saw it clear as day. Next, he saw the cut itself. It was a deep one, but not long like Dick's usual ones. Finally, his eyes went to Dick himself, who was regarding him with large eyes. He felt his own guilt and shame stir up as he took the small thing from his son. He exited the bathroom without a word, and went into the den.
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. He thought he'd stopped Dick's self-harming two years ago. Although he couldn't say it was surprising after his son's suicide attempt. He sat in his easy chair, full of self-doubt and loathing. He felt like the worst parent alive. How could he have let things get so out of hand? How could he have not seen this coming? He felt guilt tear at him, but was careful to not let it show on face. One thing he knew for sure: He was not a man of talk, he was a man of action.
Something had to be done.
He knew what he had to do, but he dreaded it.
Meanwhile, Dick got himself out of the shower and dried off, dreading to face his father again. He knew Bruce wasn't going to be lenient with him, and that was okay. He didn't want special treatment just because he tried to die, and knew Bruce would treat him normally. Although, he had to admit, he'd been treated more like a child in the past five days than he ever had in his entire life. The only times he'd had privacy were when he was in the bathroom and just before he fell asleep. Now he didn't even have privacy in the bathroom.
Was nothing sacred anymore?
He dressed quietly, tired and drained from a long day. He went downstairs and threw his towels in a hamper and went to find Bruce. He searched the west and south halls of the manor, looking for his father in the bedroom, the training room, and his study. He finally found him in the den. Of all the scenarios he imagined when his father saw him, this was one he couldn't have fathomed.
Bruce sat in his easy chair, shoulders hunched over as if trying to protect himself. A large hand covered his eyes, but he could see his father's body shaking. It terrified him to realize that Bruce was sobbing.
sobbing.
When Bruce removed his hand, he saw a look in his father's eyes that chilled him to the bone. It was the clearly stamped mark of failure.
Cautiously, Dick stepped forward, unsure of what to do. He wanted to go over and put a hand on Bruce's shoulder, and tell him that whatever was bothering him, he could fix it. The other part of him was overtly terrified of seeing the man he dubbed his father so... broken.
Dick put a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "Dad? What's the matter?"
Bruce jerked slightly at the sound of his son's voice. "I've been thinking, son."
Thinking? "About what?"
"About you. I love you very much son, but I think you need more help than I can give."
Dick sucked in a breath. "What are you saying?"
Bruce looked him right in the eyes. "I'm sending you to a mental hospital."