Dick's eyes widened when he found himself in the back seat of a police car, his hands cuffed in front of him. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and reopened them, hoping it was a dream or hallucination. But the scene didn't change, and he was suddenly very concerned.

The teenager didn't remember anything after meeting the school photographer in the parking lot of the Gotham Antiquities Museum. And he didn't remember why he had met him there in the first place.

"…Wayne?"

The man in the front seat was speaking to him, and Dick had no idea what he had said. Apparently the police officer knew that, because he said it again.

"What are you going to tell Mr. Wayne?"

"What? I don't…what's going on?" Dick asked, confusion dancing through the words.

"You broke into the museum, attempted to steal an ancient artifact, got caught, and resisted arrest. Any of that ring a bell?" the officer said snidely.

"I…WHAT?" Dick exclaimed.

"Save your 'I'm so innocent' crap for the judge," Luke growled. "Tonight you get to sleep in a jail cell, unless your guardian can come bail you out at two in the morning."

"I…don't understand," Dick admitted, the confusion filling the words instead of just dancing through them.

"What don't you understand about it?" Luke exclaimed. "You got caught trying to steal something!"

"But I wouldn't…"

"Yeah, you're Dick freaking Grayson, perfect kid of a millionaire, never done anything wrong in your life, right?" the man stated sarcastically.

"I…"

"Just shut up," Luke retorted.

Dick snapped his mouth shut and closed his eyes, attempting to force his brain to remember anything about his time between the parking lot and this moment. Everything was covered in a thick, gray fog; he couldn't see any faces or hear any voices.

"I'm in trouble," he whispered, a touch of fear in the tone.

"Yep," the officer replied simply.

Wayne Manor – 2:08 AM:

The quiet ringing of the Manor phone didn't faze Alfred, because he was currently using the headphones on the Bat-Morse Code machine, deciphering a message from the elder of his two charges.

Police Headquarters:

"Nobody's answering," the desk sergeant stated as he hung up the phone.

"Guess he's spending the night in a cell," the processing officer said with a nonchalant shrug.

The latter man had photographed and fingerprinted Dick before cleaning up the blood on his knuckles. He hadn't done a very thorough job, though. A couple of swipes with a napkin and a bandaid on each knuckle was good enough for him.

Dick had already known that nobody was going to answer the phone, because Batman was probably on patrol which meant Alfred would be occupied in the Batcave.

"I think we've got one empty cell," the sergeant replied.

"Do I have to put him in an empty one?" the processing officer asked with a somewhat nasty grin. "Can't he go in with the drunks?"

"Don't be an idiot," the sergeant replied shortly before beginning to fill out some paperwork.

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Wayne might sue if we put a minor in a tank full of drunk adults."

With that, the processing officer escorted sixteen-year-old Dick Grayson down the hall toward the door that led to the in-house cells. The sergeant had been correct – there was one empty cell. It was next to the "tank" full of drunks, but at least Dick wouldn't be in with them.

"It's just a holding cell," the officer stated as he nudged the boy into the small square of evenly-spaced bars. "Nothing special, even for a rich kid like you."

Dick hadn't said a word since giving the desk sergeant the phone number of Wayne Manor. The cell door clanged shut behind him and he shuddered. Glancing around, he understood why the officer had said "nothing special." There was no furniture, only a hole in the floor. He knew what it was for, so he turned away from it and sat down on the floor to think.

He was accused of attempted robbery and resisting arrest. Why would he try to rob the Gotham Antiquities Museum? And why, after being stupid enough to do that, would he resist arrest? Something was missing – a giant piece of a confusing puzzle – and Dick had no idea what it could be. Maybe vocalizing his thinking would jog his memory.

"Okay," he whispered, "last thing I remember. Meeting the school photographer in the parking lot of the museum. How did I get there? Why would I meet up with a random person in the middle of the night? Why didn't I tell anyone? Why would I try to steal something?!"

All the questions were giving him a headache. He had no answers to any of them. A final question popped into his head, one that was going to lay heavily on his mind until morning.

"What am I going to tell Bruce?"

The Batcave – 3:47:

The Batmobile coasted into the Batcave and rolled to a stop. Batman stepped out and immediately removed his cowl. The night had been warm, and his uniform was not conducive to keeping him cool.

"May I suggest you take a shower, sir?"

Bruce glanced over at his faithful butler and gave him a quick nod. He was returning later than normal, but a shower was definitely needed.

Twenty minutes later, he was climbing the stairs in the Manor, heading for a cool room and a comfortable bed. He stopped by Dick's room, but all was quiet so he continued on. Bruce was so tired that he failed to notice the slim ray of light peeking through the bottom of the teenager's door.

Police Headquarters – 6AM:

Dick spent the night staring through the metal bars and trying to ignore the jibes of his drunk neighbors.

"Why's a rish kid li' you gotta rob a musheum?" slurred a man from the next cell. "Don't got bucks fo' yer nex' shot of wha'ev druggie you on?"

"Wayne's not gonna be happy witch you," stated another.

"Waz yur drug a choice?"

"Shut up," Dick mumbled without turning his head.

"Hey, he just told us to shut up!" a surprisingly coherent man shouted.

"Kiddie nees a lesson," sang the first drunk.

Closing his eyes, Dick began – for the fourteenth time – searching his memory, hoping to discover some kind of sensible explanation for his foolish actions of the previous night. But he came up with the same answer he had continually come up with: nothing.

It didn't help that a thick fog was hovering around the edges of his brain, creating a circle that was continually threatening to spread across his mind. And the ever-growing headache wasn't helping, either.

Wayne Manor:

Alfred was surprised to hear the phone ring at such an early hour. Bruce Wayne was an important man, but nobody had ever called before seven.

"Wayne Manor."

"This is Sergeant O'Toole, Gotham City Police. Is Bruce Wayne available?"

The police for…Bruce Wayne? Alfred was momentarily stunned but recovered quickly.

"Yes, he is, please hold for a moment."

Alfred placed the receiver on the table and went to the dining room, where Bruce was rifling through the morning paper.

"Master Bruce, there is a Sergeant O'Toole on the phone for you."

"For…me?" Bruce asked in surprise. "For Bruce Wayne?"

"Yes, sir," Alfred responded. "Your name is Bruce Wayne, if I remember correctly."

Bruce grinned slightly as he stood up. Shaking his head in amusement, the man walked to the hallway and picked up the phone.

"Bruce Wayne speaking."

"Mr. Wayne, this is Sergeant O'Toole with the Gotham City Police Department. We have someone who would like to speak to you."

"Okay," Bruce replied, his voice slightly bewildered.

"Bruce?"

Dick's voice sounded so timid and tiny as it came through the speaker. Bruce's forehead furrowed in confusion. Why was Dick at police headquarters at six in the morning?

"Dick, what…"

"Can you, um, come get me? Please?"

"Of course, I'll be there in half an hour."

"Thanks."

The word was whispered and then the sergeant began speaking again. Something about bail and time but Bruce wasn't really paying attention.

"Yes, yes, I understand," he said impatiently. "I'll be there in half an hour."

He hung up the phone and yelled for Alfred, who immediately entered the hallway.

"Dick's at headquarters, we have to go get him."

"Police headquarters, Master Bruce?!" Alfred exclaimed. "Why on earth is he…"

"I don't know," the younger man interrupted, "let's just go."

"Of course, sir. I'll fetch the car."

Bruce took the stairs two at a time, threw on the first suit he saw, and raced back down the stairs. He walked out the front door just as Alfred stopped the limo. Holding up a hand to an exiting Alfred, Bruce opened his own door and climbed inside.

"Let's go," he demanded, although his tone was more worried than angry.

They rode in silence for almost five minutes before Bruce decided to speak.

"He was home last night, right?"

"As far as I know, sir," Alfred replied. "When I went down to the Batcave, he was working on his schoolwork in his room. That was at ten-thirty, Master Bruce."

"So how did he go from his room at ten-thirty to police headquarters at six the next morning?"

"I'm sure I don't know, sir."

"We should have looked at the cameras before we left. Maybe he was kidnapped and escaped. That's probably it. What else could it be?"

Alfred remained quiet, knowing Bruce was thinking out loud and not expecting answers.

"But why did he sound so timid? And why did O'Toole, the desk sergeant, call instead of the commissioner?"

Twenty-five minutes later, Alfred stopped the car at the entrance to police headquarters.

"Would you like me to come in with you, sir?" he asked.

"No," Bruce replied, already closing his door and heading for the stairs.

He walked into the familiar lobby and glanced around. Everything looked the way it usually did, except for the small figure sitting on the bench near the door where criminals went to get booked. Dick was hunched over, his hands in his lap and his head down. Bruce started to go that way but was stopped in his tracks.

"Mr. Wayne, I just need you to sign some papers."

Dick glanced up for half a second, not long enough for Bruce to get a read on his eyes. Turning around, the millionaire walked to the desk where Sergeant O'Toole was holding a pen.

"One thousand dollars, Mr. Wayne," the man stated as Bruce accepted the pen and looked down at the form.

"WHAT?!" he exclaimed, snapping his head up and staring at the officer in shock.

"It's his first offense," the sergeant explained.

"His first offense?!" Bruce echoed, the words not making sense in his head.

"If you look here, Mr. Wayne…"

Bruce was already reading the form. The words on the page weren't making sense, either. Attempted robbery, assault, resisting arrest, drugs, broken glass. This…couldn't be about Dick.

"Is this a joke?" Bruce demanded, anger laced through the words.

"No, sir, Mr. Wayne. Luke, uh, Officer Wagner brought him back from the Gotham Antiquities Museum. It's all right there, you might want to read it."

So Bruce put the pen down and began to read. There was a statement from the museum security guard – a very detailed statement – and one from the arresting officer.

Arresting officer.

That phrase did not belong in the same sentence as 'Dick Grayson'. Bruce shook his head and continued reading.

The processing officer had filled out his report. Bruce was relieved when he read the words "empty cell" because it meant Dick had not been in the drunk tank. And then he got to the end, where it mentioned that the teenager's bail was one thousand dollars.

Bail.

Another word that didn't belong. Bruce glanced back at Dick after he finished reading. The boy was still hunched over and ignoring everything around him. What had possessed Dick to do something like this? There had to be another explanation. A villain had drugged him, or Joker had pulled a prank, or…something.

But the security guard had stated that nobody was with Dick and that the Golden Scarab was on the floor where Dick had dropped it when the guard went back to clean up the Egyptian room. No accomplice, and the ancient artifact was safe and sound.

As Bruce signed the bottom of the form and took out his checkbook, he remembered his conversation with Dick the day before. The teenager had been brusque with the millionaire, and Bruce had passed it off as pouting because of picture day. Apparently, Dick's anger was much deeper than the surface frustration of having his picture taken.

He signed the check, dropped the pen on the desk, and strode toward the bench on which Dick was sitting. An officer appeared next to the boy. He leaned down and said something. Dick straightened up, and Bruce realized why he had been hunched over.

Dicks wrists were cuffed together and there was a little chain attaching the cuffs to the arm of the bench. The officer used his key to release the boy, then roughly pulled him up just as Bruce arrived.

"Here you go, Mr. Wayne," he said, practically shoving Dick at Bruce. "He was pretty high when he came in last night, just so you know," the man said, obvious disgust in his voice. "Probably doesn't even remember anything. Kids and their drugs these days."

The officer turned away with a sigh and disappeared through the processing office door.

"Dick."

The boy was staring at the ground, his right hand massaging his left wrist where the cuffs had left a bright-red mark.

"Look at me."

Dick didn't move.

"Richard."

Still nothing, and Bruce was becoming impatient.

"Richard John Grayson, lift up your head and look at me like a man," he commanded.

Dick lifted his head. Bruce expected to see anger or defiance. But his ward's eyes were glazed and empty.

"He was pretty high when he came in last night…"

The officer's words echoed in Bruce's mind. Dick had been drugged, that had to be it. Joker, or Scarecrow, or somebody – anybody – had drugged him. But who? Nobody had been with the teenager during his attempted robbery, so it had to have happened before he entered the museum.

"Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce turned around at the sound of his name. An old man was standing before him, a frown on his wrinkled face. His back was bent with age, and a large pair of round glasses covered his eyes. The millionaire absently noticed they were almost the same color as Dick's, but these eyes were not glazed and emotionless.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. Wayne, but I have already talked to the police about it. I was taking a walk last night, right about eleven o'clock, and I saw your ward here talking to some unsavory characters. He had a chunk of money on him, sir, and he exchanged it for a little square package. I just thought I'd let you know, so as you're not surprised when the police come a-knocking."

Bruce stared at the old man, completely dumbfounded. Dick had bought drugs?! No, it couldn't be true. Dick was…Dick! But this old man with the honest eyes and sympathetic look had seen it. Allegedly seen it, yes, but if he had already told the police then they would be checking his story.

Glancing back at his ward, the millionaire wondered again what the boy had been thinking. Why had he even been out that late? He had chosen buying drugs over going out on patrol as Robin?!

"Let's go," Bruce said briskly as he turned to face Dick. "You have some explaining to do."

Dick seemingly ignored the statement, choosing instead to stare into the bright eyes of the old man. They were familiar, but he couldn't place them. The tufts of white on the man's nearly bald head gently swayed left and right as he shook his head, as if he was disappointed with the boy.

"Kids these days," the old man murmured as he turned around and slowly walked away.

Dick narrowed his eyes, but the feeling of familiarity fled when the man's eyes disappeared from the teen's view. Without glancing back, Jervis Tetch allowed a small grin to flash across his face as he ambled out of Police Headquarters.

Bruce filed the conversation in the back of his mind. Batman would check the man's story later. Putting a large hand on Dick's lean shoulder, the millionaire led the teenager toward the front door. He was not expecting a media frenzy on the stairs, but his shocked pause was brief. Bruce Wayne was used to dealing with the press.

"Mr. Wayne, what kind of drug does your ward prefer?"

"Is your ward an addict, Mr. Wayne?"

"Has he been sneaking out or are you enabling him?"

"Is this his first time, or just the first time he's been caught?"

Bruce ignored the questions as he pressed his hand more firmly on his ward's shoulder. He glanced at the boy's face and was not surprised to see confusion. Dick had not been expecting this, either.

"Look over here, Dick!"

The last comment was yelled by a photographer for the Gotham City Gazette. Dick automatically looked over as the man called his name, and a bright light engulfed his blue eyes. He was momentarily blinded and would have tripped on the step below him if Bruce hadn't had such a firm grip on his shoulder.

Bruce glared at the photographer before turning Dick away from the camera and leading him down the stairs. But the frenzy continued.

"Where'd you get the money, Dick?"

"How long have you been doing drugs, Dick? Are you into dealing yet?"

Bruce clenched his jaw as he felt Dick's body stiffen.

"Keep walking," he commanded quietly. "You have nothing to say to them."

Another photographer suddenly popped up in front of them.

"Smile," Jervis Tetch said as an invisible ray of light shot into the boy's eyes right before the bulb of the camera flashed.

Backing away, he internally smiled in satisfaction. The ray at school had begun the hypnosis, and this ray was going to kick the boy out of it.

"What else have you been doing, Dick? Been in any fights lately? Joined a gang, perhaps."

Dick, who had instantly been relieved of the clouds in his mind, whipped his head around to glare at the woman who had just spoken. He opened his mouth, but Bruce immediately stepped in front of him.

"No comment," the man stated, hoping that would appease the crowd long enough for him to get Dick out of there.

"Yeah, because he's a guilty druggie!" a man shouted from the back of the crowd.

Bruce restrained himself from going after the man by nearly crushing Dick's shoulder in his strong grip. The boy winced and the millionaire heard a quiet grunt of pain. Quickly, he turned them around and practically shoved Dick back through the front door of Police Headquarters.

"You need some help out there, Mr. Wayne?" the sergeant at the desk inquired when they rushed inside.

"Yes," Bruce answered, not caring that having a police escort would make him look weak.

Bruce Wayne was supposed to be able to handle the press, but Bruce Wayne had never come to Police Headquarters to bail his ward out of jail. He had no idea of how to respond to the media when he didn't even have the entire story himself.

"Bruce, what's going on out there?"

Commissioner Gordon was walking toward them, his voice full of concern. He took in Dick's expression, Bruce's stiff demeanor, and the desk sergeant's apathetic shrug. The situation was immediately clear: Dick Grayson had been arrested and the media knew about it.

"O'Hara, take them out the back way," the commissioner commanded his Chief of Police. "You two," he stated, pointing to two nearby officers, "go with them as a shield."

All three officers nodded, and Chief O'Hara gestured for Bruce and Dick to follow him.

"Jim, I don't know…"

"Get the story from him, I'll get the story from the other side, and then we'll talk about it," the commissioner demanded lightly.

Bruce was surprised at the tone – nobody except Alfred had ever commanded him to do anything – but he knew the man was right. They needed the whole story from both sides, which wouldn't happen if they were stuck in Police Headquarters.

Nodding, Bruce nudged Dick in the direction of the back exit. His grip on the boy's shoulder had relaxed, but he kept his hand there just in case. In case of what, he had no idea.

A/N: I have never been arrested and I don't personally know anybody who has been arrested. Therefore, I have no idea if anything regarding bail is correct. None of the research I did was very helpful (maybe I was looking at the wrong sources?). Anyway, please just roll with it. Thanks! :)