Concerned

Part 4

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It had been almost a week since the shit had hit the fan, as Dick thought of it. His ribs hurt less and the scrape across his back was healing. He got up and ate breakfast, he went to school in a police car and every few day some new social worker or child psychologist would call him out of class to ask him more questions. How many frigging times could he say he'd slipped?

Jesus.

The other students in school had heard the rumors and he was the topic du jour in the lunchroom and the study hall.

The latest issue of the Inquirer had hit the stands and while his name was not printed-what with him being a minor and all-Bruce was given full coverage and anyone with half a brain could figure it out without much effort, especially in the area they lived in. A call to the rag's managing editor from Kevin Rooney-Mr. Hotshit Family Lawyer-had convinced the man of the wisdom of protecting Dick's identity and made it clear that the boy was not fodder for their mill or they'd slam back-hard. Since it involved a minor and a possible custody trial, the editor saw the man's point. Neither Dick's picture nor his name appeared.

It was all they could do and it hadn't made much difference. Within hours of the article being printed other media picked up the story and it was-Christ-everywhere. On the entertainment shows, on the local news, on the Internet.

Kids in school either pretended to ignore him while staring at Dick behind their books or bluntly came up and asked him if it was true while assuming that being Bruce's boy toy was the price of his living with a billionaire and catching the perks. There was even a spirited debate in ethics class about who would do what for enough money. Luckily Dick wasn't in that particular section-he'd heard about it, of course. On Tuesday he was sent to the vice-principal's office for flipping the football player who asked him if he missed all the 'comforts of home'. He was told not to let it happen again and was let off with a warning.

When he was driven back to the Weidman's after school he would go up to the room they were letting him use, close the door and stay there until the next morning. He'd come out when no one else was in the kitchen to get himself food and would take it up to his room, eating the apple or the bag of cookies or the piece of cheese while IM-ing his friends. They were his link to sanity.

He was angry and frustrated and when Leslie Thompkins saw him for a follow up to check his injuries, she prescribed him anti-depressants that he didn't take. He thanked her, sarcastically, for letting the fucking DYFS office have his medical records and wouldn't listen when she tried to explain that there was nothing she could do to prevent it-the clinic could have been shut down if she hadn't cooperated with the authorities.

The doctor suggested to Olivia Clarke that she might consider withdrawing Dick from school for the time being, the boy was under a tremendous amount of stress. She was concerned about him. Olivia thanked her for her suggestion, but thought that what he needed was the security of his regular schedule and familiar surroundings. He would stay where he was.

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Bruce had attempted to soldier on with his usual round of meetings and his day-to-day work, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on mergers and IPO's. His professional mask was in danger of slipping.

The Bat had only flown a couple of times in the last week and, while things on that front were quiet, he knew he should do more but kept finding himself going down to the cave to get ready and ending up sitting at the computer researching child abuse.

The second night it happened he went into the gym and stood under the high bar Dick had hurt himself on. The chalk was still sitting on the edge of the mat and Dick's handgrips were there as well, left where he'd dropped them. Picking them up he noticed that there was some dried blood stained into the leather. That happened with Dick sometimes. He'd work so long and so hard that he'd sometimes tear a callus and his hands would bleed but he'd ignore the pain and the blood and just keep going. That was the way Dick worked-pushing himself too long, too hard, always thinking he could do better, never thinking he was doing well enough.

He hadn't been down there in almost two weeks and he noticed the smears on the mat where Dick had made an effort to wipe up the blood, with only partial success. It was still there if you looked.

Christ.

If the kid had just told him, if he had said something, if Bruce had been there to spot him, if he wasn't such a damn good gymnast, if he didn't keep trying to prove himself, if he'd trusted Bruce enough to tell him, if he had stuck to the moves he was sure of instead of trying to impress, if Bruce had been paying more attention…

If, if, if.

The quiet voice came from behind him. "You know this accomplishes nothing."

"Alfred, this is my fault. We might lose him and even if we don't I can't begin to think about the damage this is doing to him."

The older man nodded. "Come with me, you have to eat."

"I'm not…"

"Come with me."

They went over to the elevator and he ended up sitting at the kitchen table where Alfred had set out a sandwich and a glass of beer. There was a cup of Alfred's favorite tea over on the counter.

"Sit down and eat that, making yourself ill won't help."

Bruce did as he was told, he knew better than to try to buck the tide of Alfred.

"Any news? Have the lawyers found anything, has the social agency said anything?"

"Just maneuvering at this point. That article in the tabloid caused DYFS to draw back a little. I think that they're starting to see how big this can of worms actually is. I had Kevin make sure that Dick's name is protected, but that's a hollow victory, at best. His name was already leaked before we got the gag order."

"And of course he's been in the media as your ward for years now anyway. Closing the barn after the horse has escaped, as it were."

"Yes."

In all the years Alfred had known Bruce, and he'd known him all his life, he had never seen the dejection he was witnessing with this. Losing the boy, knowing that Dick was suffering, was making Bruce bleed.

"You know that you couldn't love that young man more if your life depended on it. And Dick knows it as well. My goodness, when he came to you he was as traumatized as a child could be-and rightly so. You're the only reason he came out of that shell he'd gone into."

"I felt sorry for him and I saw myself in him-you know that Alfred, our two stories paralleled one another so closely that how could I not help him?"

"You've been a father to the lad, you did everything you could to encourage him to grow into the quite outstanding youngster he is and in a few years he'll become a formidable man as well. He'll have you to thank for that, sir. You're being much too hard on yourself-if it weren't for the training you've given him, he wouldn't be able to withstand what he's enduring now. He'll be all the stronger for it."

Bruce gave a half laugh. "That which does not kill me makes me stronger?"

"I suppose so, yes."

Bruce watched Alfred as he moved a round the kitchen, straightening this, putting away that, wiping down the already spotless counter. "You miss him as much as I do. I'm sorry that you're having to deal with this, too."

He didn't pause in his wiping. "We'll come through it, you'll see, sir." A moment. "You think we may not?"

Bruce have a half shrug, hardly a characteristic move "I was reading over the evidence that will be presented to the hearing judge next week" Bruce saw the questioning look. "To determine if there's enough evidence to warrant a case. The best we can hope for is dismissal, but it's not going to happen. The evidence, the implications of neglect and potential abuse, endangerment and all of that and I-." He looked at Alfred. "I think that the charges have some merit."

"Balderdash."

He smiled, that was just so-Alfred. "Think about it, though; I certainly have been. I have been neglectful. I did forget or blow off a lot of his school things over the years-the assemblies, the parent days, that teacher conference I sent you to cover for me…"

"You were called off by the Justice League to defend the planet. I'd hardly equate the two. You love that child and you have for years. That's plain for anyone to see."

"You're not a ten year old boy and you're not a judge. I did move him in here, 'the big house on the hill with always locked gates' and you know as well as I do that he has almost no civilian friends. When was the last time he had a friend over who wasn't in the business? I don't mean the Titans; I'm talking about some kid in his math class or something. A kid he just goes to the movies with or hangs out in him room with? It's been along time."

"Now really, if he wanted regular friends, he could surely have them."

"Could he? With all the secrets around here? Kids are sensitive to that sort of thing and I sure as hell drilled it into him."

"You have good reason to do so. There's so much at stake…"

"Enough so that he gave up any sort of normal life? And that's something else I hadn't realized-Jesus, I didn't notice! Have you ever looked through his list of injuries since he's become Robin? It's as long as your arm; broken bones, concussions, he's been grazed by bullets, almost hung, strangled, gassed-the list goes on and on."

"Well, yes, but…" Alfred moved his teacup-never a mug-to the table. "You ignore the fact that his live has never been what one could call 'normal'. Raised in a traveling circus and only half educated when the time allowed. I'll grant that his parents did the best they could for him, but…"

"But nothing. Screw nothing. I have endangered him, constantly. I have. It's a miracle that he hasn't been killed and what the hell for? My ego? To prove that I can do what I do even with a child tagging along? To make sure that the legacy can continue when I'm out of the picture?"

"Bruce, you're being entirely too hard on yourself. Really you are. I've never seen a man look after a child the way you've looked after Master Dick and he adores you for it."

"Come on, Alfred. He was a homeless orphan when he came here, he wanted revenge and an outlet for his anger and I gave him exactly what he wanted. I put him right in the line of fire of every psychopath in the country."

"And he has thrived on it. Good Lord, look at the young man he's become-self-reliant, independent, skilled, intelligent, confidant. He's marvelous and he has you to thank for that."

Bruce refused to believe what Alfred was saying. "Have you ever met his grandfather? I mean his real one, the one who lives in Romania?"

Alfred shook his head, "I've never had the pleasure."

"I did. About a year after Dick first came here I made a side trip while I was in Germany and I've been in touch with him ever since. Dick doesn't know."

The old man sat at the kitchen table. Bruce had been in contact with Dick's family? If the boy found out he was bound to view it as the rankest of betrayals. "How could you not tell Dick?"

"Because his grandfather thought that he would be better off with me and asked me to keep him. It was all I could do to get him to agree to yearly visits for Dick. The real problem-what I didn't realize-was that because Dick had been living here that long and the guardianship papers were finalized at that point made him an outcast to his people. He would have been shunned. As far as they're concerned, he's no longer a Rom. In a way, he's been defiled through contact with me."

"I can't believe that they would turn their backs on a child like that."

"It was my fault. I didn't look into the Gypsy's customs and so I made it impossible for him to return to his own family. It was my own stupidity and arrogance…"

"But, Good Lord, might not his grandfather have simply been correct? Might he not be better off here, with all the advantages-the education, the experiences he's had, the security you've provided? Surely that's all been a great gain for him. When he first got here he required remedial classes to catch up to his peers in school. His academics were far inferior to where he is now."

"For what they're worth, but the things he's lost; his family, his culture, the life his parents were bringing him up to live-he was happy then and he belonged. I destroyed that. And I put him in danger. Even without the Robin thing, he's still in danger just by virtue of being my ward. The kidnapping threats come in all the time. And the rumors he's had to endure, the insinuations…"

They lapsed into silence hat stretched on for several minutes, both caught up in his own thoughts.

"He's happy now with you, with us, and he belongs here." Alfred sighed. "I do miss him so. This house is entirely too quiet without him here."

Bruce studied the other man and smiled. "I thought the music made you crazy and the mess drove you to distraction."

"It does." He sipped the Earl Grey. "And I miss it."

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At the Steadwell Academy the office secretary had finally admitted to being the one who had told the tabloid about the problem with the Grayson boy. Well, no, she didn't have anything against Mr. Wayne or anything, but everyone had to understand-she was a single parent and they'd offered her almost fifty thousand dollars. What else was she supposed to do? She hadn't meant to cause a problem, really she hadn't, but that was a lot of money and she just took the opportunity that God had given her. She had been praying for a miracle but then had read that passage about God helping those who help themselves and she had seen it as a sign.

After she was fired without references she took the school password and hacked the boy's records. The bidding war began in earnest.

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Dick was headed out the kitchen door when Tom Weidman turned on the kitchen light. He'd heard the kid walking around, knew he was up to something. "It's two in the morning, where do you think you're going?"

"For a walk."

"Back to bed, please."

"Fuck off." Dick started out the door.

Tom put his hand on he boy's arm, surprised at the strength there. "You get your ass back inside here. I've had about as much of your crap as I'm going to take." Dick gave him one of his glares. He was good at it when he tried and he wanted Weidman to lay off, big time.

"Then go back to bed yourself and you won't have to deal with it."

"Who are you meeting? Wayne?"

"I'm going for a walk, I said that. Now fuck off. I said that, too."

"While you're in this house you're our responsibility. I know-not that you've made any secret of the fact-you'd rather be back home. I know that you're angry and that's unfortunate, but that's the hand you just got dealt. We have bent over backwards to make you comfortable and you've done everything you can to be rude and obnoxious to me and my family and I'm fed up with your pissy attitude, do you hear me?"

"Like a bell."

"Now what were you going to do out there? You do drugs?"

"…Yeah, that's it. I'm going to meet some friends so we can get high. Asshole."

"Dick, stick a damn sock in it."

"I don't do drugs, OK? I'm just going for a damn walk."

"I'll go with you."

"Go to hell. I want to take a walk and I want you to leave me the fuck alone. You think I don't know you're the one who made the report to the principal and got this whole mess started? You don't know what you've done, you have no fucking idea. Bruce never touched me, you jackass. He loved me and I love him-he's the only father, he's the only damn family I had left and you screwed it up."

Jerking his arm loose, he slammed out the door, down the back steps and across the small backyard. Tom went out the door after him and managed, just barely, to keep the kid in sight. The boy could move when he wanted to.

Jesus, he knew the kid was upset and hurting and angry. He did, he understood that, but he was impossible to deal with. The kid was sullen, rude, refused to engage in anything or anyone. He was uncommunicative and since he was a long sight smarter than either Tom or Nancy, made mincemeat of them if they challenged him-and he'd admitted that Wayne had hit him at least once, He couldn't see that he needed to be protected, he was too caught up in it to see that he was in danger if he stayed where he was.

The only time he'd managed pleasant was the afternoon Amber was practicing her cheerleading routine in the back yard and Dick had shown her the right way to do a standing back tuck and a few other basic moves as well. The two kids had gotten into a small friendly competition of gymnastics moves and Dick had blown her away, he was obviously far and away out of her league-but somehow had done it without hurting her feelings. In fact, watching out the window Tom acknowledged that the kid was really good. Damn good. He was good enough that Tom almost started to believe that he really could have been hurt trying an impossible move on the high bar.

He was moving so easily that afternoon they had forgotten and it was Nancy who had yelled at them all for allowing Dick to do those things with broken ribs. Instead of being angry, Dick had laughed and said he worked hurt all the time, it was just part of the game.

Thinking back, Tom wondered what game Dick was referring to.

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Dick was still annoyed at himself as he jogged to the park where Clark had said he'd meet him. He was flying in from Metropolis just to talk to Dick, to help him out and that jerk, Weidman, had almost screwed it up. One didn't stand up Kal. You just didn't, especially not when he was doing you a favor. He was meeting Clark to see what ideas he had to help them. He'd already agreed to testify for Dick and Bruce and Lois said she would, too. Judges loved celebrities. Plus Clark said he'd managed to sabotage some sleazy tabloid crap that was supposed to hit the streets in a day or so. That printing press just plain up and died. What a shame. And he was going to write a rebuttal editorial for both the planet and the network news if it actually went to court.

Clark was great.

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Tom stayed in the shadows when caught up to Dick who was standing by the jungle gym in the park, talking with some man. Tall, dark haired, at first Tom thought it was Wayne, but no-it was someone else. He looked familiar, he was-no. What would Dick be doing talking to…? Was he trying to load the publicity or something? Was he passing messages to Wayne through this guy? Was he trying to fight the tabloids?

Knowing the circles Wayne moved it, it was possible that the kid would knew the man, but why would Dick be talking to Clark Kent?

The Grayson kid was playing in the major leagues here.

Son of a billionaire, indeed. He lived in a different world than the rest of the slobs on the planet.

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Privately Clark had wondered why no one had ever cited Bruce for child endangerment or neglect or something long before this. The two men had words more than once about the foolishness of allowing a child to do the things Bruce encouraged and the fact that Dick was still alive and in one piece was a testament to talent and luck-with emphasis on the latter.

If this caused Dick to hang up the mantle of being Robin, so much the better, as far as Clark was concerned. He liked the kid a lot and it scared the hell out of him to know how the boy spent his nights, the kid should be playing computer games or hanging out with his friends or something normal, not swinging from buildings while dodging bullets. Clark had been concerned about the boy for years now.

But to take him away from the home he'd lived in for the last seven years, to take him away from the people who loved him the most and who he felt safe with-that was just wrong.

Bruce was a long way from being a perfect parent, but that he loved Dick wasn't in question. Clark had seen them together too many times to not know that for as fact. He would never knowingly hurt the boy; never do anything to harm him.

Well, he did tend to forget that Dick was as young as he was, but that was almost understandable. Dick was so smart, so talented and so competent that it was easy to forget that he was a teenager and a young one at that.

Clark had seen Bruce slap Dick that one time and Clark didn't square with that even a little, but it had been an isolated incident and Bruce knew he'd be watching in case it happened again.

Seeing how distraught Dick was about this, knowing how vital his connection to Bruce was, he'd do what he had to keep them together-and so would the rest of the League. Everyone liked Dick. They'd all help him if they could.

Clark knew that teacher was still watching them from behind the tree over there. He was a good man, but he was wrong about this. He was concerned, and that was good, but it was misplaced.

One way or another, Dick had to win this one He had to. He had everything riding on it. And so did Bruce.

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Later, back in the small bed, Dick was unable to shut off his thoughts enough to sleep. Thank God tomorrow was Saturday and they'd probably let him sleep in for a change. It wasn't that he liked to just lie around, but he was flat out tired, exhausted.

Lying there he wondered again, for the thousandth time, why Bruce hadn't tried to contact him. OK, sure, there was a court order preventing that but since when had that kind of detail ever slowed down the Bat? If Bruce wanted to see him, he would, period.

The only answer was that Bruce didn't want to talk to him. He didn't and Dick didn't even blame him.

Bruce knew that he'd lied about being hurt and he was pissed. He hated when Dick worked hurt and he'd made that clear enough times that it should have sunk in but Dick had wanted to show him the new move after he had it nailed. He wanted to impress him and show him…well, he just wanted to surprise Bruce. That was all and now everything had fallen apart so fast he couldn't believe it.

And Bruce probably blamed him for the whole thing with DYFS, too-and he was right. It was his fault, all of it. If he hadn't gotten hurt than stupid Tom Weidman wouldn't have tried to play savior and the damn phone call wouldn't have been made in the first place.

Bruce wouldn't be dealing with interrogations and cops and caseworkers and the press and having to spend Christ knew how much money on fucking lawyers and-it was all his fault. All of it, every single bit of it.

If he just hadn't tried that stupid move or if he'd just managed to catch the damn bar then none of this would have happened.

God, he was such a screw up.

And he was being a prick to Nancy Weidman and Amber. He'd even been nasty to Dr. Leslie-he knew at and he felt bad about it, but-shit, all he wanted was to just go home. That's all.

He wanted to sleep in his own bed with his own stuff around and his own phone. He wanted to fly with Bruce again and see his real friends and have Alfred greet him after school with a warning to wipe his feet and hang up his jacket and then eat the cookies he's made ten minutes ago.

He was sick of being stared at in school and knowing that the paparazzi were following him. He hated that everyone thought Bruce was some kind of child molester and that he was Bruce's piece on the side.

God, Bruce had done everything for him, given him everything and saved his life in every way a person can save another person and all he was getting for it was a mess.

And it was all his fault.

The hearing was next week. He'd think of something by then.

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