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It truly was just bad luck that he fell.
Dick had been attempting to fling himself around the self-made obstacle course without touching his feet to the ground, and it was going splendidly, for the most part. He'd done a handstand on a pile of boxes to start, flipped onto a high bar, and was trying to somersault off it onto the handle of a barbell when the stupid round weights rolled. He wasn't able to shift his balance in time, and wound up landing hard on the mat of the training room floor, right wrist pinned beneath him.
Pain shot up his arm in an instant, sharp and electric. Dick bit back a silent scream, holding his wrist as he staggered back to his feet. He'd messed up. He'd messed up so badly. If Bruce found out about this, he was going to be in so much trouble. Dick wasn't supposed to enter the Batcave alone, he wasn't supposed to rearrange the training room, and he absolutely was not supposed to test out his skills without Bruce or Alfred there watching. This was not good.
It wasn't broken. Dick could cling to that, at least. Sprained? Probably. But he could move it, a little, and it was only slightly swollen too. He could hide it. He had to hide it.
"Lunch is ready, Master Dick!" he heard above him, and Dick's heart pounded, making his wrist throb with every beat. Damn it. He couldn't be caught in the Cave, or he'd have no hope of getting away with it. As long as he could pretend his wrist wasn't on fire, maybe nobody else would notice either. He shoved everything back to its spot—one-handed—and scrambled for the stairs.
Dick slid into his seat just as Alfred set down a tray of turkey sandwiches. Which was lucky, all things considered: he could eat them one-handed. Hiding his hurt wrist under the table, Dick picked up a sandwich with his left hand, trying to act as casual as he could about it. Doing so felt awkward—he'd always eaten with his right; it was what came naturally to him—but now even thinking about moving his right wrist felt like torture. Dick decided that if Bruce noticed, he'd claim that he was practicing his left's coordination in the so-very-unlikely event his right was ever injured.
But Bruce seemed not to notice at all. He didn't bring it up, at least, and spoke to Dick normally. Asking if he had finished his homework for the weekend (he had; Dick had done it the moment he got home on Friday), what his plans were for the rest of the day (play games and continue to hide his wrist), and if he wanted to help Alfred bake brownies later (if Alfred wanted him to). It was business as usual.
Unfortunately, his suggestion at the end of lunch as Alfred cleared away their plates was also typical. "How about," Bruce said, pushing his chair back as he stood up, "you and I go down to the Cave for some training? Just an hour or two, and then I'll let you get back to your games."
Dick's heart sank. Of course. He was stuck, now—he'd already told Bruce how he'd finished everything for school, and since he wasn't supposed to have already trained, he couldn't claim he was tired either. The only way to get through without confessing what he'd done, or that he was hurt, was to… suck it up and act like nothing was wrong.
His wrist was only sprained. He could keep going through that. Dick had gotten worse injuries in the field before, and sure, there he had the benefit of adrenaline to dull the pain in the moment and Leslie or Alfred to help when he got home, but what difference did that make, really? It didn't need a splint. He just needed to rest it. Perhaps after training he could claim he twinged it and then play it off as if the injury had just happened. All he had to do was pretend like it was fine until then. Easy.
They headed to the Batcave, Dick being sure to hide his wrist underneath the sleeve of his jacket. It had turned slightly red, which Bruce would surely pick up on if he saw, so Dick had to make sure he wouldn't. Keeping something from the world's greatest detective wasn't exactly easy.
Still, Bruce hadn't said anything by the time they reached the training room. He wanted Dick to start with something simple, so Dick demonstrated a few flips. Ones that were all leg, because Dick got to choose his moves. No wrist involvement whatsoever.
"Good," Bruce said. "A cartwheel, next?"
No! Dick wanted to refuse—there was no way he'd be able to keep his weight off his wrist in a cartwheel, nor was it a plausible scenario for him to get injured in. But he was in too deep now. Swallowing his reluctance, Dick took a deep breath, and lined himself up.
Here went nothing.
The moment his wrist touched the ground, it buckled beneath him. Dick almost thought he heard a snap as he smashed into the floor. He managed to turn his fall into a roll, but it was too late to stop his wrist from exploding with white-hot agony, somehow worse than before. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he couldn't hold back a whimper. He lay on his back on the floor, arm cradled to his chest.
Bruce was kneeling by his side in an instant. "Dick! What happened?"
He couldn't tell the truth. "I-I don't know," Dick replied, eyes squeezed shut. It hurt. It hurt so much so much so much so—
"Okay, chum." Bruce gently took his wrist, inspecting it. He brushed a thumb over where it was swelling the worst. "This is broken."
Dick opened his eyes at that. "What?" It hadn't been broken earlier; he'd been so sure about that.
"Yes. And in hindsight, I don't think it was in the best shape before your attempt at a cartwheel, either."
"I don't—"
"Using your left hand at lunch? Avoiding certain tricks when we started training? I had hoped you were practicing at ambidextrousness, but now I suspect you already knew it was injured. Explain."
His voice wasn't cold, but it was firm, and Dick suddenly felt very small. "I’m sorry," he said, tears leaking down his cheeks. "I was training earlier, without you, and accidentally fell. It was only sprained then. I didn't think it was that bad. Please don't bench me. I didn't mean to get hurt. I really didn't."
Bruce sighed. "I know you didn't mean to get hurt, chum. Nobody does." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay. I’m not going to punish you. You made a mistake, and I think you learned your lesson to always have someone with you during training. …But I am going to have to take you off of patrol for a while."
"But you just said!" Dick sat up, eyes wide. "You just said you weren't gonna punish me!"
"This is not a punishment, Dick, you broke your wrist!" Bruce stood, helping Dick to his feet as well. "It may have started as a sprain, but I've seen enough injuries to know what's broken or not. Hiding it and then attempting to use it instead of coming clean to me only made it worse. I cannot send you out in the field like this." He took another look at Dick's arm. "I don't think it's the worst fracture ever, but I'm going to take you for x-rays just in case. You might need to be out for two months."
Two months. It took all Dick had not to cry harder. "I’m sorry," he blubbered, "I really didn't mean to make it worse, I didn't."
"I know." Bruce's voice was gentle again. "But you did, and you can't undo the consequences of that." He turned towards the door. "Now. Let's get you to Leslie's so she can splint it and tell you how long until you can go back on patrol."
"I’m sorry," Dick said again, wiping away his tears with his good arm. He didn't know what else to do.
"Dick." Bruce looked at him, an almost guilty expression on his face. "You're not in trouble. We can still do some training while you heal, just nothing physical. How about we use this time to work on your Spanish? If you master Castilian, we can even move on to Galician and Catalan.”
Dick nodded, breath shuddering as he tried to calm himself down. "O-okay."
"And after Leslie sets your wrist, do you want to get some ice cream on the way home?"
It was an obvious attempt at distraction, but Dick was grateful for it anyway. "Mint chocolate chip?"
"Whatever you want." Bruce smiled. "As long as you promise you won't train alone again."
"I promise." Dick followed him out of the training room. "So does that mean I get more ice cream if I break another bone?"
"Don't even think about it."