A/N: Gracias por comentar, Haro kzoids! :)


"Bruce?"

The quiet word startled the millionaire out of his nightmare. He realized that his head was resting on Dick's bed, and wondered when he had fallen asleep. A slight pressure on his hand made him lift his head.

Dick's blue eyes were open, and Bruce felt like he had never seen anything brighter. But the shimmering circles were rimmed with fear, and Dick was nervously chewing his bottom lip.

"Are you…okay?" the boy asked, his voice trembling slightly.

"Now that you're awake I am," the man replied as he sat up, allowing a genuine smile to manifest itself on his face. "How are you feeling?"

"You were crying," Dick replied, ignoring the question. "Why?"

"No, I wasn't," Bruce responded, choosing to assume that Dick meant he had been crying ten seconds ago.

"You were," Dick insisted. "It's okay to cry when you have a nightmare. Is that why you came into my room?"

"Dick, do you know where we are?"

"In my room."

"In Wayne Manor?"

"Um…does Wayne Manor have a bunch of machines and wires that look like they belong in a hospital?"

"No."

"Then I'm going to say that we're in a hospital."

"Do you know why?"

"No."

The answer was immediate and emphatic. Bruce was quiet for a moment, trying to decide whether or not to tell the boy.

"Should I want to know why?" Dick asked.

"Well…"

Bruce paused for another moment, then decided to go with a half-truth.

"You received a head injury which led to a concussion which led to you not wanting to wake up for a while."

"Oh. Was it my fault?"

"No, what could you have possibly done that would have made this your fault?"

"So I didn't do any tricks anywhere in the Manor?"

"Dick, why are you asking that question? Should I be worried about what tricks you're going to do in Wayne Manor?"

"Um, no, just…"

There was a long pause, so Bruce took over.

"What are you – or were you – planning on doing, kiddo?"

Silence. Dick's left hand was still covered by Bruce's hand, so it was his right hand that began picking at an edge of the blanket. The boy was suddenly very interested in that edge.

"Dick."

It was a tone that Dick would soon become accustomed to obeying. The warning tone that meant the man knew he was hiding something. Somehow, Bruce made that single word sound like an entire paragraph describing why he wanted Dick to tell him everything.

"The chandelier looks fun," the nine-year-old whispered. "I…miss flying."

A single tear slid down each cheek. Bruce heard the heartache in the confession, and wished he could turn the clock back to the time before The Flying Graysons had died. It would mean he wouldn't have Dick in his life, but at least the boy would be happy.

"I'm sorry, chum."

"For what?"

"For everything bad that has happened to you."

"But none of it is your fault, so you don't have to apologize."

"I'm not saying…"

"I'm sorry for ruining another party," Dick interrupted.

"What are you talking about?"

"I remember. There were guys with guns, and I didn't stay under the table. I ruined it for you, just like the last party when we had to leave early."

"No, Dick, that's…no. You had no choice, you were taken. You didn't stay under the table because a much stronger man grabbed you off the floor. There was nothing you could have done about that."

"But I…"

"No, Dick. It was not your fault, just like the last one was not your fault."

Bruce would later realize that taking the blame was Dick's default reaction when something bad happened. And no matter how hard he looked, the man would never be able to find the reason for that.

"Who is Tony Zucco?"

Bruce was taken aback at both the question and the abrupt change of subject.

"He's the man that paid someone to take you from the party."

"Why?"

There was no way that Bruce was going to tell Dick about Tony Zucco's involvement in the deaths of The Flying Graysons. So, he told another half-truth, this one a little more vague than the last one.

"I'm not really sure."

False – he did know why Zucco had paid to have the boy kidnapped. True – he wasn't sure why Zucco had killed Dick's parents.

Dick stared at him expectantly, but Bruce didn't elaborate.

The boy yawned then asked, "When can we go home?"

"Well, first I need to get a nurse in here to check you out."

The dream was fresh in his mind. Bruce wasn't going to take any chances, even though he knew that what had happened in his nightmare probably wouldn't actually happen in a place like Gotham City. A place where kids in a detention center were allowed to take control over younger kids. A place where the orphanages were so full that kids had to sleep on the floor. A place where a social worker could put a new orphan in the detention center just because he didn't like the child's background.

"Good evening, Master Dick."

Alfred's tone was warm, like the sun was shining through his voice into the sterile room. He was standing by the door, a gentle smile on his face.

"Master Bruce, the nurse is on her way. Perhaps you should step back."

Bruce was reluctant to let go of the small hand that was tightly squeezing his own. But he knew the nurse would need room to work, so he gently put Dick's hand down. Standing up, he moved the chair out of the way just as the nurse walked in.

"Well, hello, sleepy head," she said with a smile. "I was hoping you would wake up before the end of my shift. How are you feeling?"

"Um, fine," Dick answered shyly.

"Does your head hurt, sweetie?"

"A little," the nine-year-old whispered.

"Do you feel like throwing up?"

"No."

"How old are you?" the nurse inquired as she picked up a clipboard on the table beside her and began writing.

"Nine."

"Do you know who these people are?" she asked, motioning to the men in the room.

"Yes. You don't?"

Dick sounded surprised; he thought everyone knew Bruce Wayne.

The nurse laughed, a soft, tinkling sound, and winked at him.

"Of course I do, sweetie. I'm just checking your brain."

"Oh. Um, that's Bruce," Dick pointed to the millionaire, "and that's Alfred."

"Good," the nurse murmured. "Where were you born?"

"Europe."

The nurse raised her eyes from the clipboard, surprised.

"He was in Haly's Circus," Bruce quickly explained.

"Oh, you're the kid whose parents died."

Unbidden tears filled Dick's eyes, and Bruce wanted to slap the woman for bringing up such a painful, and recent, memory.

"Sweetie, it's okay," she stated when she saw the boy's expression. "Bad things happen to everybody. I know it's hard, but soon it will be much better. I'll go get the doctor."

With another smile, the nurse turned around and left, taking the clipboard with her.

"Will it really get better?" Dick mumbled.

"No," Bruce answered truthfully. "It will eventually be easier to deal with, but it will never be gone."

"My heart hurts," the nine-year-old whispered.

"Is it hard to breathe?" Bruce immediately asked, a tinge of panic in his voice. "Does your arm hurt? What about your chest? Alfred, get the doctor!"

"Master Bruce," the butler said calmly, "I believe he's talking emotionally, not physically."

"Oh."

Bruce didn't know what else to say, so he moved the chair back to its previous position and sat down.

"I'm sorry."

The millionaire sighed.

"For what, kiddo? You have done nothing wrong."

"I made you worried."

"No, I mean, yes, I was worried, but it wasn't your fault. You didn't kidnap yourself, and you didn't give yourself a bump on the head, and you didn't force yourself to not wake up for two and a half days, so there is no reason for you to apologize."

"I've been asleep for two…"

Dick's exclamation was interrupted when Dr. Wu entered the room.

"Hi, Dick. I don't know if you remember me from the last time we met. I'm Dr. Wu."

"The last time?" Dick inquired softly.

"You were brought here earlier this year, when you became dru…"

"Dr. Wu," Alfred interrupted firmly, "please begin your examination."

Dr. Wu stared at the butler in surprise. The white-haired, old man had always been silent in the background. But he had just interrupted a doctor who had been introducing himself to a patient!

Alfred stared back, one eyebrow arched. It was as if he was daring the doctor to continue that line of conversation. Dr. Wu didn't want to accept that dare, not from Bruce Wayne's butler, anyway.

"Well, Dick, how old are you?"

"Nine."

"Do you know where you are?"

"A hospital."

"Which one?"

"Um…"

Dick had no idea how many hospitals there were in Gotham City. Nor did he know the name of even one of them. But his intelligent mind provided an answer.

"The one in Gotham City."

"There are several, Dick. Which one?"

"Dr. Wu," Alfred stated, "Master Dick has been in Gotham City less than a year. Almost three months of that time was spent in a detention center and then an orphanage. He was unconscious when he was brought in here. How, exactly, do you expect him to know which hospital?"

Alfred's voice was incredulous, and Dr. Wu instantly felt like an idiot. Of course the child wouldn't know which hospital he was in! Mumbling something unintelligible, the doctor moved on.

"Who are these…"

"Bruce and Alfred," Dick instantly responded.

Now I know why you were put in the detention center. Rudest kid I've ever seen.

Dr. Wu allowed those thoughts to permeate his brain as he began looking at monitors and checking vitals. After a very thorough ten minutes of examination, he stepped back and looked at the two men.

"You can take him home. Don't let him go to sleep for another three or four hours, just in case, and bring him back if he doesn't wake up tomorrow."

"Thank you, Dr. Wu," Alfred responded, knowing Bruce was ignoring them in favor of getting Dick ready to leave.

"Mr. Wayne, may I have a moment with you?" the doctor asked. "Outside?"

Bruce looked at him in surprise, then glanced at Alfred. The butler nodded, so Bruce stood up and followed Dr. Wu out the door.

"Is something wrong, doctor?"

"Has your ward always been a know-it-all, Mr. Wayne?"

"Excuse me?!" Bruce questioned, surprised at the thinly-veiled anger in the other man's tone.

"He rudely interrupted me, giving me an answer without hearing the full question. Kids who think they know everything are bound to get themselves in trouble."

"Were you asking him who was in the room with him? Because if you were, your nurse already asked that. Since you had asked him two of the same questions she had, I assume he guessed you were going to continue that way. Which you were, if that was your question."

Dr. Wu remained silent.

"Was that your question, Dr. Wu?" Bruce asked, a tinge of anger now in his tone.

"Yes, but I didn't know…"

"Perhaps you and your nurses should work on your communication skills before you decide to accuse a nine-year-old of trying to show you up."

With that, Bruce turned around and went back in the room, leaving the doctor standing stock still with his mouth open in shock.

"Is everything alright, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked when he saw a storm brewing on the younger man's face.

"Yes," Bruce nearly growled. "Let's go home."

"Of course, sir. Master Dick, do you need any assistance?"

"I'm kinda tired."

"You can't go to sleep," Bruce instantly stated.

"No, not that kind of tired."

"Here we are, Master Dick."

Alfred had a wheelchair open and ready to receive an occupant.

"Will you carry me?" Dick asked timidly, not daring to even look at Bruce for fear of seeing rejection.

"Of course," Bruce said, lifting the boy off the bed.

Dick wrapped all four limbs around Bruce's torso and laid his head on the man's shoulder. Alfred followed them out the door, and was surprised to see Dr. Wu blocking their path.

"Discharged patients must be taken out in wheelchairs. Hospital policy."

The doctor's voice was firm and unyielding, so Bruce gave him a Bat-glare. If Dick wanted to be carried out, Bruce was going to carry him out.

"Thank you for your help, Dr. Wu," Alfred said, slipping himself between the two other men. "I think we'll be fine."

"Just because you're a millionaire, doesn't mean your kid gets special treatment," the doctor replied angrily. "He's not even your real kid!"

Bruce's entire body tensed up, and Alfred suddenly shoved him down the hall.

"Good day, Dr. Wu," the butler said without glancing back.