Work Text:
Dick doesn’t like the school nurse’s office. It’s always so cold in there, and it smells that specific way that only doctor’s offices and hospitals can really smell—pungent and sterile in a way that makes his head start to ache after about ten minutes or so.
Now though, he would give anything to be back in the nurse’s office, sitting on the sticky, plastic-wrapped cot while Nurse Atkins carefully cleaned and pressed bandaids to his scraped knees, getting him to gently bend his wrist to test for injuries. A sharp pang stabs up his arm at the moment, but Dick holds his tongue, only shrugging when the nurse asks if it hurts to move.
It does hurt, but is it really bad in comparison to what’s going on inside his chest and in his head? Does it really compare to the way he feels like he’s shriveling up inside?
He wishes he were still there, fingers grasping tightly at the edge of the cot’s thin mattress, ducking his head to avoid the sneers and glares from the other boys across the room, kept separate from Dick by a desk and several feet of space. Nurse Atkins had handed them each a lollipop for being such good patients, but she didn’t even look at Dick again.
He would give anything to be there instead of here, in Principal Walters’s office, waiting for the hammer to drop. Waiting for Bruce.
There’s a part of him that really wants Bruce. Really, really wants him. Bruce, who pulled him out of the Detention Center, introduced him to Alfred and Dr. Leslie and Barbara, his own room and a house that’s so big that it’s often really overwhelming. Bruce, who is kind of super awkward about hugs sometimes but still gives really good ones when Dick manages to wheedle them out of him. Bruce, who’s so big and so powerful and really seems like he could do just about anything he puts his mind to. He wants Bruce to fix this. He wants Bruce to look at him and really see him and to believe him.
He wants someone, anyone, to just believe him.
He didn’t attack those boys. They attacked him, and it’s not even the first time, even if it doesn’t usually escalate like this. Usually they stick to insults and taunts, words that hurt so much more than his stinging knees, throbbing cheek, and burning wrist.
It wasn’t his fault, but no one cares about that.
But the other part of him feels so nauseous at the thought of Bruce walking in here. Because Principal Walters is going to tell him all about how Dick is angry and violent, irredeemable and not worthy of this school or this city or Bruce’s generosity. And Bruce is going to look at him with so much disappointment in his eyes, anger pinching at his mouth, head shaking in disgust as he thinks about how fast he can get Dick out of his home.
He bites down hard on his lower lip, a bad habit that his parents would certainly scold him for. They’re not here right now though—that’s kind of the whole problem. If they were, Dick wouldn’t be here at all. He wouldn’t even be in school. He could still be homeschooled, taught by his parents and the knife thrower and one of the clowns, where no one would look at him and see something dirty or stupid or worthless.
He wants to bounce his freshly-bandaged knees—a nervous habit—but the chair he’s seated in is too tall for his feet to reach the floor. They swing absently instead, making him feel even more lost and untethered. His lip is starting to hurt; he should probably stop before he starts to taste blood.
Then the door swings open, and Dick suddenly, desperately, wants to disappear. He wants to sink into the chair, through the floor, wants to vanish. He thinks he might actually get sick, head spinning around and around.
It’s not Bruce that walks in, which doesn’t make sense—they said they were calling whoever was in charge of him. That meant his guardian, that meant Bruce.
But that’s not Bruce. That’s his social worker. His social worker.
His vision goes blurry instantly, tears making his eyes feel hot. He wants Bruce so much, but what he wants doesn’t matter. It’s already over. Bruce is already done with him. They probably called and told Bruce he got into a fight and Bruce immediately handed him back over to CPS. Dick had tried so hard to be a good kid so Bruce wouldn’t send him away, and now he’s going to go back to the Detention Center all because three older, bigger boys decided to push him around in the courtyard after recess.
His second social worker—not the one who dropped him in the Detention Center and never saw him again—is a woman named Janine Peters. She’s nicer than his first social worker, but not really by much. At least she let him stay with Bruce, even if she never seemed thrilled about it.
And now she’s here, at Dick’s school. Instead of Bruce. Because Bruce is sending him away. He got into a fight and now Bruce doesn’t want him anymore. He didn’t even come to hear Dick’s side of the story. He’s not even going to bother to say goodbye.
He’s never going to see Alfred again or get his stuff from his room—Zitka and his costume and his poster and the single, crumpled picture he has of his parents. Maybe they’ll be nice enough to pack it up for him. Alfred might do that, but it’s only going to rot in some garbage bag in storage at the Center. He won’t be able to have any of it with him in his cell.
“Ah, Ms. Peters,” Mr. Walters says when she strides in, sparing Dick a glance that screams irritation and disappointment. “Thank you for coming. I know you’re very busy.”
“I am,” she replies. “So what seems to be the problem here? What exactly has Richard done now?”
The world fades into a dull roar rushing in his ears as his principal lists off all of Dick’s “crimes.” He knows how it looks—like he’s violent and thoughtless, living up to everything his first social worker and the people at the Detention Center said about him. His parents would be so disappointed in what he's gotten himself into.
It wasn’t his fault, but the argument would only fall on deaf ears. As it is, he barely believes his own denials anymore. He doesn’t belong here, and he never did.
And now Bruce knows that too. He already knows that Dick doesn’t belong, and he’s sending him away.
He crosses and uncrosses his ankles, ignoring the way it makes his bandaged knees sting. His chest keeps aching and aching, pressure building inside of him that makes him want to scream just to try and get it out. He can’t bring himself to open his mouth at all though. His lips stay firmly glued closed, jaw locked shut as if there’s some physical force holding it there. It’s like suffocating from the inside out, even as his chest rises and falls rapidly.
The world spins around him, dipping in and out of focus. If Bruce were here, maybe he’d grab his shoulders, force him to focus, make everything okay. Or maybe he would sneer down at Dick, let Ms. Peters drag him away, happy to be rid of him for good.
“I’ll have to get him in with the counselor,” he hears Ms. Peters sigh. “Really, I thought after his time in the Center—”
Dick’s heart hurts so much. He knows, logically, that a broken heart isn’t a real thing, but there’s a first time for everything. But he just keeps shattering and shattering, every time he tries to piece himself back together. He can’t do it again, not alone.
He doesn’t want to be all alone again. Please, anything but that. He just wants to stay with Bruce. He just wants a second chance. Or maybe this is his third or fourth, he doesn’t even know anymore. All he knows is that he’s desperate to stay, no matter what. He’ll be better this time. He’ll be good.
Please, please, please
There’s a quick, solid knock on the office door, one Dick swears he recognizes, but maybe it’s just in his head. He wants Bruce to forgive him, to come rescue him, so badly that now he’s imagining things. Great.
“Mr. Wayne,” Mr. Walters says, sounding surprised. “Hello. What are you—”
Dick looks up so fast it makes him dizzy. Bruce is standing in the doorway, surveying the office with a deep frown. Somehow it’s even worse. Dick doesn’t actually want to say goodbye, he realizes. It’s going to be so much worse to see that disappointment on Bruce’s face.
“I called him,” Mr. Johnson, the school’s vice principal, says. He smiles gently at Dick, but he still can’t bring himself to relax even a fraction. “I thought Richard might be more comfortable with him here. Mr. Wayne is his guardian, after all.”
“Mr. Walters, Ms. Peters.” Bruce seems taken aback by his social worker’s presence. “What are you doing here? Is something… Is something wrong?”
“Well, I suppose that’s something we’ll have to discuss, Mr. Wayne,” she says, pushing her glasses up on her nose with a sharp sniff. “It seems as though Richard is not really improving the way that we had hoped. We may need to reevaluate his care going forward.”
Bruce blinks, looking shocked. “Is there something wrong with the way I—” He trails off when his gaze meets Dick’s. In an instant his face turns stony, bordering on furious, and Dick immediately ducks his head to avoid it.
Bruce quickly crosses the room to Dick and crouches down beside his chair, hand gently coming up to turn his chin and inspect the bruise that surely colors his cheekbone. His fingers ghost over the swelling, not enough to hurt. Dick wants nothing more than to lean into the gentle and comforting touch, but instead holds himself as still as possible.
“What on earth happened?” Bruce growls, and Dick can’t help his flinch, trying to shrink in on himself. But when he dares to glance over at Bruce, he’s startled to realize that his guardian is glaring at Principal Walters, not at Dick.
“Richard was involved in an altercation earlier today,” Mr. Walters explains. “Three of our students are still in the nurse's office being treated for their own injuries. We had to call Ms. Peters as Richard’s social worker, given the nature of his actions today, especially given that this is not his first incident with us. Really, Richard is a troubled child, Mr. Wayne. He might benefit from some… personalized attention, outside of school, if you will.”
Bruce faces off against the rest of the looming adults in the room, and Dick fights the urge to shrink back from the cold fury that’s practically radiating off of him. “And why, ” he says, “would you not call me immediately? Did you not think I would want to know about what happens to the child in my care? That I wouldn’t want to be made aware that some brutish hoodlums have been hurting my kid?”
His kid, Bruce’s kid. Not CPS’s. Not the state’s. Not… not…
He’s not giving Dick up.
Dick chokes on another sob, trying to swallow down the sound with little success.
“Well,” Principal Walters fumbles, “we thought it best… I mean, given the nature of Richard’s actions… I thought it prudent—”
Bruce cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “Enough. I’d like to hear from Dick now. Dick?”
They’re all looking at him now, and Dick feels like his very soul is vibrating with the anxiety of it all. His hands tremble, wrapped around the arm of his chair. He shakes his head, mouth pinched shut. It hurts to breathe.
He can’t say anything. They’ll twist it. Whatever he says, whatever explanation he gives, they’ll take it and they’ll twist it around so it’s all his fault. It’s what they always do.
“Dickie, hey.” There’s a soft touch again against his cheek, then shifting up into his hair to brush back the strands falling across his forehead. “Look at me, kiddo. Hey.”
Unable to fight it, Dick forces his eyes open and onto Bruce. His guardian isn’t smiling, but he’s also not glaring. He’s not even really frowning. Instead, it’s something pinched and worried, but otherwise unreadable.
“What happened, chum? I can’t help unless you tell me what happened. I can’t fix it unless you talk to me.”
Fix it. That’s all he wants, isn’t it? For someone to fix all of this for him? To just be able to sink down and let someone else take care of him and know that at the end of it all, it’s somehow going to be okay?
“It wasn’t my fault,” he whispers. Even just those soft words sound deafening in his own ears. “I swear, Bruce. I didn’t—They shoved me and I fell and they… they called me trash and they kicked me. And one of them tripped over the other trying to kick me again—that’s how he hurt his arm, I swear. ” Bruce looks so angry now and Dick wants to be sick, but the words won’t stop tumbling out now, sentences tripping over each other in his desperation to just get them out. “They kept hitting me after that and—and saying all these mean things and I—I just wanted them to go away. I didn’t mean to, really. I promise. I just… I just wanted them to stop. I don’t understand why —”
His own sob cuts him off, tearing up and out of his throat. He ducks his head and suddenly he’s leaning against Bruce’s chest, burying his face in his guardians shoulder and willing everything else in the world to just go away.
Bruce rubs gentle circles against his back. “I believe you. Of course I believe you, Dickie. I’m so sorry. I’m going to make this all better, okay?”
“Mr. Wayne,” Principal Walters interrupts, “I know you must feel inclined to take his side, but the other three boys tell a very different story. All of them are star pupils with spotless records, and they all three claim that Richard attacked them first, out of the blue without provocation.”
“Really,” Bruce says, voice steely calm. “That’s what you’re going with? That Dick just randomly attacked three other boys? And how, then, did he get this bruise on his cheek?”
“Well, it’s only natural to lash out in self defense—”
“Yes, like Dick obviously did. Because three of your students ganged up on him and attacked him. Not to mention the fact that they apparently were not only using their fists but also cruel, hurtful words. Tell me, Mr. Walters, why are you so tolerant of bullying when it’s my kid that is being hurt?”
“Hang on now, Mr. Wayne. We still haven’t determined what really happened.”
“Mr. Walters,” Bruce says, getting to his feet. Dick can’t help his soft whimper at the loss of comfort. “Dick is a good kid. A great kid. He is kind and respectful and he would never, ever attack those boys without provocation. It is your own prejudice that keeps you from being able to see the truth. Did you even bother to ask Dick what happened, or did you merely jump to conclusions based on your own assumptions and the tales of three children trying to save their own skin?”
“He wouldn’t talk to us,” Mr. Walters says, going red in the face. “We tried to ask for his side of the story, Mr. Wayne, I assure you. But the boy wouldn’t answer us.”
“Of course not,” Bruce scoffs. “You’ve given him no reason to think you’d ever believe him. You’d already decided that he was the culprit. Why, Mr. Walters? Is it because he doesn’t come from money? Because his parents, who were good, honest, hard-working people, weren’t upper-class socialites from birth? Please, Mr. Walters. Explain it to me.”
The principal splutters weakly, but Dick can’t even find it in him to perk up at the man’s shell shocked expression. “Well—”
“I see,” Bruce says. “Now, Dick, was there anyone else around to witness what happened today?”
Dick shakes his head slightly. “No, it was just us. But it happened in the courtyard. I—I think the security cameras might have picked it up but I don’t know. I’m sorry,” he tacks on, just to be safe.
“Great,” Bruce says, clapping his hands together loudly. “So you all take a look at that while I get Dick out of here so he can be checked out by an actual doctor. I’ll be waiting for your call, Mr. Walters, while I decide whether or not I should pull Dick out of this school entirely. I’m sure there are other schools that would be more willing to recognize Dick’s intelligence and value.”
“I—Yes. Okay. Yes, I don’t know why we didn’t think to check the cameras before. If only Richard had told us—”
Bruce cuts him off with yet another glare. “With all due respect, Mr. Walters, you are an adult. It should not be up to Dick, the child, to tell you how to do your due diligence. You are the principal of this school, and it is your job to look out for your students. All of them.”
“I— Yes. Of course. I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne. We will do a more thorough investigation. We don’t take violence lightly here.”
“Me either,” Bruce says. “Glad we’re on the same page. I’ll be awaiting your call then. Come on, chum.”
A hand wraps around Dick’s shoulder, pulling him to his feet. Bruce keeps him tucked against his side, and Dick goes easily. Without really meaning to, he reaches up to grab Bruce’s jacket, holding tightly to the fabric. Bruce isn’t leaving him here. He really gets to go home. Bruce wants him to come home.
“Ms. Peters,” Bruce adds as he turns Dick towards the door, “are we good to go here?”
His social worker glances around Bruce to look at Dick, expression mostly impassive. She sighs and waves her hand absently through the air. “For now. I’ll be in contact if something of concern arises.”
“Wonderful. Oh, and thank you, Mr. Johnson, for calling me,” he says to Dick’s vice principal. “I really appreciate someone looking out for Dick.”
Dick thinks he blinks, but the next thing he knows, they’re outside in the parking lot. Time feels like jello, the air like sludge.
“How dare they,” Bruce is grumbling. Dick hopes he doesn’t expect any sort of response, because speaking sounds like the hardest thing in the world right now. He’s utterly exhausted, focusing on sticking one foot in front of the other and making it to their destination without falling flat on his face.
He blinks again and they’re at Bruce’s car, his guardian is kneeling down in front of him. Bruce takes both of his hands in his own, squeezing gently.
“Chum? Are you really okay? Talk to me, kiddo.”
“Why was my social worker there?” he asks. The words barely come out with how dry his mouth and lips feel.
Bruce glowers and Dick’s breath hitches at the obvious anger. “I don’t know. I think she’s still on file as a secondary contact, but Mr. Walters never contacted me or Alfred.” His expression smoothes out, turning to sympathy as he squeezes Dick’s hands tighter. “I’m so sorry, kiddo. I know that must have been scary. But I swear, I came as soon as they called me.”
Dick nods, feeling a sob rising up his throat again. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, tears falling fast now. “I know you’re… you’re busy and—”
“Hey, hey. No. I’m not too busy for this, Dickie. I’m not too busy for you.”
“I didn’t hit them,” Dick gasps out. “I swear, Bruce. I promise.”
“Oh, kiddo. I know. Of course you didn’t. You’re too good.” He reaches up, brushing a hand through Dick’s hair. He leans into the careful touch, not caring if it jostles his cheek a bit. “They never should have blamed you, Dickie. We really should talk about pulling you out of there, but that’s a conversation for later. After I get you to Leslie and then back home so Alfred can pump you full of hot chocolate.”
Dick can’t help his relieved chuckle. He only regrets it when the sound makes Bruce smile and squeeze his hands tighter. The motion jarrs his hurt wrist, making him hiss at the pain. He hopes Bruce won’t notice, but of course he does, face immediately returning to the stony anger from before.
“Wha— Are you hurt here too?” He raises Dick’s arm carefully, examining the limb for any injury. Now that he’s looking at it, there does seem to be some swelling.
“It’s fine,” Dick says hurriedly. “I’m fine. It doesn’t even really hurt as long as I don’t move it.”
Bruce looks so angry now that it feels like the sky is falling. His next words are more growl than speech. “Why didn’t Walters—”
“I didn’t say anything, Bruce. I’m sorry. Please… I’m sorry. I should have said something. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, I’m not mad at you, chum. You have nothing to be sorry for, I promise. I’m just…” He trails off, face pinching as he purses his lips together tightly. “Come on, I want to get you to Leslie as soon as possible.”
“You really believe me?” Dick whispers, can’t help but ask.
Bruce’s expression seems to crumple. “Of course, chum. Of course I do. Those people in there,” he jabs his finger at the school behind them, “don’t know a single thing about you. And if they’re not going to bother to get to know how incredible you are, then they’re missing out. It’s not worth it. We’ll pull you out, find somewhere else for you. You don’t deserve that, Dickie. You deserve so much better.”
Dick shatters then. He throws himself forward, wrapping his good arm around Bruce’s neck and sobbing into shoulder, uncaring of the wet spot he’s surely leaving on Bruce’s fancy shirt. “I’m sorry,” he cries, shaking. Bruce stiffens in surprise, then wraps Dick up in his arms. Dick would be content if Bruce would never let go of him ever. “I thought you were sending me away. I saw Ms. Peters and thought I was gonna have to go back to—to the Center. I thought—I thought I’d never see you again. That I wouldn’t even get to say goodbye. That you—that you hated me.”
“No,” Bruce says sharply. “No, never. You’re never going back there, chum. Never. I cannot believe they called your social worker instead of me. I’m so, so sorry.”
“I don’t want to go,” he whispers, unsure if Bruce can even hear him since his voice is so muffled against his guardian’s chest. “Please don’t make me go.”
“Never, sweetheart,” Bruce murmurs back, and Dick melts when he feels a kiss being pressed to the top of his head. “Come on, chum. Let’s get you to Leslie’s and then we’re going to pitstop at the ice cream place and get you a sundae as big as your head.”
He pulls back slightly. “But I got in a fight. You always said to just ignore people if they were bothering me and I didn’t listen. I got in a fight, Bruce.”
“You were just defending yourself, kiddo,” Bruce says, attempting to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Dick’s ear. It doesn't work, the curl slipping free almost immediately. “I’m not happy about it, but I don’t blame you. They attacked you first. I’m not going to punish you for defending yourself, especially not when what happened after was certainly punishment enough. More than enough, actually. No punishment should ever make you scared that I would send you away. I want to give you a home, Dick, as long as you’ll have it.”
“I don’t want to leave, B, I swear.”
Bruce smiles, the kind that makes the right side of his mouth twitch up higher than the left. “Well that’s good, because I don’t want you to leave either. And you know Alfred would never tolerate it.”
“Do you think,” Dick hesitates, chewing slightly on his lip until Bruce offers him a pointed frown, silently urging him to stop. “Do you think Alfred will be mad?”
“I think he’ll be furious,” Bruce says, causing Dick to stiffen, “but not at you. If he’s forgiven me for all the fights I got into back in the day, then he’ll most certainly excuse you for one you didn’t even start. Hey, Alfred thinks the world of you, chum. This does absolutely nothing to change that.”
“Promise?”
“Pinkie promise,” Bruce says, holding out his pinkie finger to prove it. He looks ridiculous, face all serious as he hooks his pinkie around Dick’s much smaller one. Rising to his feet, Bruce reaches out to cup the back of Dick’s head, keeping him close. “I’m so sorry I was late, chum."
“It’s okay,” Dick whispers back. He swipes at the drying tears still on his cheeks and smiles up at Bruce. “You came.”