"And that's the disorienting, slightly painful, stalker zeta beam that destroys any attempts at sneaking in here unnoticed. I call her B – well, actually, never mind."
Barbara cracked a smile as she shook off the slightly nauseous feeling of just having had her molecules disassembled and reassembled. The cave was… impressive, to say the least. While it definitely looked like a cave, Barbara could see the state-of-the-art technology floating around the place, hidden among the crevices in the stone walls and the polished stone of the floor. Sure, she was probably somewhat biased seeing as she'd been waiting to see the place for a while now, but it was cool.
"This is generally where we either kick butts or get our butts kicked, depending on who we are." Artemis motioned to the expansive cavern before them. "It's also where Batman shows us stuff on screens and tells us what not to do, where we are introduced to new people, where all the arguments takes place and by the couches is where Supey watches static. So, basically this is where the majority of everything happens."
Barbara nodded, a little confused but already having learned to just take Artemis in stride. The archer proceeded to lead her through the halls of the mountain/cave place, showing her the 'food room', the 'brooding room', the 'room with the giant Atlantean toilet' (Barbara didn't even want to know about that one), the 'room with all the washing machines', the 'place where the flying morph ship lives', and the 'barracks'. Barbara smiled and nodded, taking in the sights with awe. No wonder Dick loved it here.
"And these are the vents, very handy if you're ever hiding from giant red robots."
"Huh?" Barbara snapped her head around from admiring the pool to the blonde archer at her side.
"Long story, never mind."
Confused, Barbara followed Artemis back out into the main room. It was empty, still, and, after seeing absolutely no signs of life except the mold growing on the cheese, Barbara was beginning to wonder if there even was a team of sidekicks. Or at least if they ever came to the mountain, their supposed 'headquarters'. That would explain the moldy cheese at least.
"Hey, Artemis, where is everybody?" Barbara finally asked, watching as Artemis collapsed on one of the couches in the corner by the TV.
"Umm, good question," Artemis replied, kicking her feet up on the table. "I guess Kaldur's probably in Atlantis again, M'gann and Supey are probably making out on the beach or something, Zatanna's probably… out with friends? I dunno, honestly, I don't even know what that girl does. You know any of them?"
"No." Barbara sat down in the armchair to Artemis's right. "I live in Gotham, remember? Just started the whole capes and tights gig."
"Hmm, yeah, I guess they are all pretty reclusive," Artemis agreed.
Barbara decided not to say anything to that. "Oh, hey, I thought Wally was on this team? Or did he follow in Speedy's footsteps?"
"You do know our history," Artemis smirked. "Yeah, no, he's still around. Wouldn't make it long on his own. I think he's actually visiting Di – Robin right now."
"Hmm…." Barbara reached behind her sunglasses and rubbed her eyes, her visit with Dick a few days previous still plaguing her thoughts.
"You saw him on Sunday or something, right?"
"Yeah." Barbara didn't even look up.
"How is he? Last I saw him, well… it was rough."
Barbara shrugged. Honestly, the last thing she wanted to think about was Dick but it seemed that recently, it was the only thing she could think about. Seeing his will so… nonexistent was hard. Realizing he didn't care, didn't want to get better. Was the only thing in his life Robin? No, Barbara had to remind herself that Dick had been things before Robin and that those things too were being taken away. It wasn't just his ability to dress up as a superhero and kick muggers butts that was now gone, it was his whole life, everything he'd ever known. But the defeat in his eyes….
"Is he still moping?" Artemis's voice broke Barbara from her thoughts. "I yelled at him about that last time and he threw me out… verbally. I don't think I helped any."
"He's… I don't know." Barbara sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "He was when I was there and then, well, I told him to stop, but I don't know if it did any good."
Artemis nodded.
Barbara reached into her pocket and began fingering the collapsed form of her utility belt. "I'm just so…." Barbara sighed again. "I'm just sick of this, you know? We get him back and it's like he's still just as gone! I just want things to go back to normal."
Artemis raised an eyebrow. "Barbara," she finally said. "In this world, there's no such thing as normal."
oOo
It was… weird; eerie even. Dick slowly flexed his fingers, feeling the wires along his hand contract and relax, the metal plating around his fingers gently clenching, assisting his fingers in moving. The nerve impulses in his hand, well, he could feel them, if he focused on it. His hand made a near-silent whirring sound as it moved, like a mini machine. That's what it was, though; a machine. Did that mean he was part machine now? Not fully human? It was a weird thought, one that Dick had already spent copious amounts of precious brain power mulling over without any definite results.
Dick ran his good hand over the hard brace covering the metal plating, fingering the small joints at the wrist and the straps holding it to his arm. Leslie said it was to stabilize his wrist; apparently the metal and circuits were only for movement and not for keeping his hand attached to his arm. Not literally, but Leslie said his bones in his wrist were weak (Dick seriously wondered how he had any bones left – wouldn't they have gotten severed along with his hand? Not something he liked to think about) and the brace would help support them.
Dick wasn't nearly as uncomfortable with his hand as he had been when he'd first been introduced to the new addition to the extremity. He'd already tried living with only one hand (he considered himself ambidextrous to a fair degree) and it wasn't all it was cracked up to be (if it was cracked up to be anything more than near impossible). If Leslie hadn't performed her 'experimental' (Dick didn't like that word) surgery, Bruce said that the only other options were to amputate his hand completely or leave it alone and let it become dead. Either way, he'd be left with only one and, after living that way for a few weeks, Dick was appreciative, if nothing else, of having two. Even if one was only half functional and creepy. Eerie. Unnatural.
Dick no longer had any feeling in his hand or fingers as the metal plating covered the entire thing and that was something he wasn't happy about. Or even mildly okay with. Holding things was ten times harder and typing (on a keyboard) was hard. Touch screens were impossible. He now texted with one hand. He could still feel that he was holding something because he could feel the resistance against his muscles, but any texture was lost to him.
Even so, he was… okay with it. Maybe okay wasn't the right word. He would rather have this than the alternative. Dick stood up straight, keeping his grip on the banister as he steadied himself for the rest of his climb up the stairs. His leg had started hurting halfway up and Dick had been forced to stop and rest. It was frustrating and infuriating and Ace was probably really annoyed. He started climbing again, consistently knocking his leg against the stairs as he failed to lift his bad knee high enough to clear them.
"Dick, come here."
Dick froze, his grip on the banister tightening. Next to him, Ace's ears perked up as the dog's head shot to face his first master. Dick winced as he berated himself for being so freaking loud. Slowly he turned to face Bruce, the man's upper half sticking out of his study, his face stern. Dick gritted his teeth and slowly made his way down the staircase, his knee protesting at every bend. He could tell Bruce was watching his every move and he fought to keep his face impassive, not wanting to give away any signs of weakness to his guardian. Finally, though, he couldn't take the pain and slowness any longer and hopped the remaining few steps of the stairs on his good leg.
As he made his way over to Bruce, Ace dogging his every footstep, he could feel the older man's eyes boring into his brain. Bruce didn't say anything, however, and simply motioned for Dick to go into the study. Dick gave his guardian a quick glance before slipping past him through the door and taking a seat in one of the chairs. Ace collapsed next to him, curling up into a ball at Dick's feet. Dick watched as Bruce made his way to the other chair, the man still not saying a word until he was seated facing Dick, his elbows resting on the mahogany desk and his fingers steepled against his mouth.
"So," he finally said, his expression unreadable. "What was that on the stairs?"
Dick resisted the urge to squirm under the unwavering half-glare of Bruce Wayne and instead rested his left elbow on the arm of the chair and let his head drop into his hand, attempting to display an air of nonchalance. "What?" He asked, propping his bad leg up on the footstool in front of him.
"Dick, you know what I'm talking about," Bruce sighed, letting his hands fall away and sitting back in his chair. "The hopping thing."
"What about it?"
"Dick, it's not helping your recovery. You need to practice walking up and down the steps. That's the only way your leg is going to get stronger. If you don't think you're ready for that, we'll move you downstairs."
Dick groaned, burying his face in his hand. "You're still threatening me with that?"
"I'm not threatening you, Dick."
Dick rolled his eyes.
Bruce sighed again, bringing up a hand to rub at his eyes. "What am I going to do with you? They told me the teenage years would be tough, but…."
Dick cracked a small smile, just enough to let Bruce know he got the joke.
"But seriously, Dick, work on the stairs, please?'
"That's not why you wanted to talk to me," Dick said, changing the subject.
"There are a few things." Bruce opened a drawer in his desk and drew out two folders.
Dick winced, seeing Leslie's name on one of them. Bruce had actually been… surprisingly helpful the past weeks, and Dick even found he enjoyed spending time with his guardian as he was recovering, but when it came to Leslie… Bruce followed the straight and narrow. And man was that woman straight and narrow. Dick felt that no matter what he did, he wasn't doing it right. Too fast, too slow, too much, too little. She was always sending Bruce reports, telling him to make sure Dick did this, ate this, slept like this, on and on and on.
"First," Bruce said, resting his hands on the folders. "Have you been eating?"
"Yes," Dick answered quickly, subconsciously pulling up his sweatpants. It was hard to wear jeans with the large brace on his knee (a new, slightly smaller one that allowed his knee to bend, but still large enough to eat a bear), not to mention none of his pants fit anymore. He'd tried one pair with a belt, but ended up having to cinch it so tight it bunched up the waist of the jeans and was extremely uncomfortable. So he stuck to sweatpants and cinched the strings as tight as he could.
"That's not what Ace's oatmeal shaped barf said," Bruce retorted and Dick made a face as Ace perked up at his name. "Do you feed him everything Alfred makes you?"
"No…."
"Dick, I just…." Bruce's face was creased as he shook his head. "I don't understand why you won't eat. You're sick, I'm sure even you can see that. You need food, Dick."
Dick scowled, hunching down in his chair. "I've already told," he muttered. "Whenever I eat, I feel sick."
"Sick like what?"
"Like I'm gonna puke."
"Have you ever?"
"Yeah, yesterday, when Alfred made me eat those eggs." Dick shuddered at the memory.
Bruce leaned forward and rested his chin on his fists. "I'll tell Leslie about it, but Dick, the reality is, you have to eat or I'll have no choice but to put you back on the feeding tube."
"Fine, do it. I'd rather that than have to eat."
"Dick…."
Dick felt a twinge of pity looking at Bruce's pained face, but couldn't bring himself to say anything. What he'd told Bruce was the truth: food made him sick and he'd do anything not to have to deal with it. He already felt pain twenty four seven, his lungs sometimes burned if he got out of breath, his vision was one big rave, pulsating constantly, he didn't need to deal with nausea and puking too.
After a long while, Bruce finally spoke again. "School. You need to get back in soon or else we have to figure something else out."
"No!"
"Dick…."
"No!" Dick felt his panic rising for reasons he couldn't quite place. He was suddenly terrified at the thought of school, of the long, white halls, the chemistry labs, teachers, adults, voices, bright lights. Dick felt his breathing pick up as his heart starting racing faster. He tried to calm down, to use the techniques Leslie gave him, to reconcile his mind with what was real and what wasn't. He was here, in Bruce's office; there were no bright lights, no lab coats, no needles. But school… school was a different story. There was no Bruce at school, only kids, lots of kids, and teachers. Teachers with needles and lab coats and bright lights….
Dick coughed a bit as his breathing became erratic and out of the corner of his eye he saw Bruce get to his feet, alarmed, and rush around the desk to Dick's side.
"Dick, Dick, what's wrong?"
Bright lights, voices, singing. There was singing, eerie, high-pitched tunes echoing off the white walls. The walls, splattered in dried blood. The hands, touching, feeling, crawling, tickling. The voice, whispering words of secrecy and deceit. Dick closed his eyes, trying to escape to the void. He couldn't be here, not when the pain came. He couldn't take it anymore. He had to escape. Just focus on the darkness, get away, away from the voice and the hands and the touching and the singing. Focus on the dark, focus on the dark, focus on the –
"Richard John Grayson, look at me!"
Dick's eyes flew open and he found himself staring into familiar blue ones. One of Bruce's hands rested on his shoulder and the other on his face. Dick gasped, trying to calm down his breathing, trying to focus on the hand on his face and his arm. "It's not real, it's not real, it's not real…."
"Dick?"
Dick coughed and gasped, reaching up his left hand to grasp Bruce's arm, his right making its own feeble attempt to which Bruce gently held the damaged hand.
"Just breathe, Dick, just breathe. In and out. It's not real."
"It's not real, it's not real," «It's not real, it's not real….»
Finally Dick got his breathing under control and Bruce slowly lowered his arms. Dick's left hand remained grasping the sleeve of Bruce's right arm and the man made no move to extricate himself. Instead he crouched down in front of Dick as Ace worriedly shoved his nose under the boy's other arm. Dick took a deep breath and let his bad hand run slowly over Ace's neck, the feeling of the dog's fur lost to the metal-encased appendage.
"Are you okay now?"
Dick nodded, knowing what Bruce really meant was 'are you here now?'.
"I – I can't do it," he finally whispered, looking down in shame and wanting nothing more than to bury his face in Bruce's shirt.
"What?" Bruce asked, trying to peer under Dick's head to his face.
"I – I don't want to go back to school."
"Why not?"
Dick took a shuddering breath, not sure how to respond to the question. Why did he not want to go back to school? There were the obvious reasons that he didn't like the idea of being around his classmates now that he was… injured (disabled – he'd never admit the word to himself). Not to mention now that his vision was… crappy, he wasn't sure how he'd do in school, having to read boards and books. He hadn't even tried reading yet per Leslie's orders but the little he'd done on his phone had been proof enough it was difficult if not impossible.
But those reasons… Dick knew he could get over those reasons. The pain he felt every day… he could get over that too, he figured. No, that wasn't why the thought of school terrified. The real reason, though, that was hard to pin down. Dick only knew that the thought of being in a building, surrounded by other students and teachers, away from Bruce and Alfred and Ace for a whole day… it terrified him. But how could he explain that to Bruce without sounding like a five year old? Sure, he'd done his fair share of five year old behavior over the past two months, but he was trying to redeem himself.
"Dick?" Bruce was calling again.
"I – I don't know." And that was the truth. At the heart of the matter, Dick wasn't sure why the whole thought of school and all its accessories terrified him so much. He figured it had something to do with his post-traumatic stress and Leslie could probably lecture him about it for hours, but Dick didn't really understand his PTSD beyond the fact that it made him scared of everyday objects and bright lights. Using it as an explanation for his school-phobia made sense medically, but in Dick's mind, it wasn't enough. Bruce would probably get it, though.
"Is it about your classmates?" The man asked.
"No, not really…." Dick was glad he'd been gifted with extreme tolerance for rudeness, cruelty (towards himself), and just plain stupidity, otherwise he had no idea how he would have handled Gotham Academy.
"Does it remind you? Did the memory of school cause the flashback?" Bruce, always the detective.
Dick just nodded. He felt… weak. He'd been feeling weak for the past two months. Sure, at first he hadn't cared about anything that was going on, but he'd started trying. Sure, he knew he'd never be better, he'd never be whole again, but he still wanted to be able to walk, so he did the stupid therapy and took the dozens of pills and nothing changed. He couldn't do half the things Leslie wanted him to do and she still thought it was because he just wasn't trying. No, surprise, he was trying, he was just weak.
He was weak and afraid of everything. One glance at a needle and he'd be back in the lab, trying to pass out to escape the horror. It would take Alfred and Bruce both to bring him back to reality and sometimes, they couldn't do it. He'd pass out and wake up hours later still thinking he was in the lab. And it wasn't just needles that triggered the flashbacks. If the lights were too bright, if someone was touching him and he couldn't see the person, female voices when he couldn't see the source, singing, and the list went on. Weak. That's all he was. Weak.
"Dick? This isn't your fault." Dick was still convinced Bruce was part Martian (or full Martian), mind-reading abilities and all. "Don't blame yourself for this. For any of this."
Dick clenched his left hand tighter around his guardian's sleeve. He didn't want to hear this, not from Bruce, the strongest man Dick knew.
"Dick, are you listening to me?" Bruce's left hand reached under Dick's chin and lifted his pale face up. "I don't want you to blame yourself for this. It's not your fault."
"How is it not my fault?" Dick gasped out, refusing to meet Bruce's eye. "Everything scares me! Not to mention I suck at PT!" Dick could feel the emotions bubbling to the surface, the words gushing out before he could stop them. "Leslie tries to get me to do things and I can't do them! That's my fault, Bruce! I'm not strong enough. And I'm not strong enough to not be afraid. Even the lights scare me! I can't control the flashbacks because I'm not strong enough… not brave enough or… something." Dick refused to cry no matter how much his eyes stung and his throat constricted. It was bad enough he was ranting to Bruce about his weakness without throwing some proof of that weakness into the mix.
"No," Bruce said firmly, cutting Dick off before he could go on. "No, this is not your fault. You're not weak. You're-"
"Easy for you to say," Dick interjected, yanking his chin out of Bruce's grip. He was frustrated now, frustrated that Bruce was again seeing him break down. "You're the freaking Batman! Nothing's your fault, you're always strong enough."
To Dick's surprise, Bruce sighed. Not an annoyed sigh, or an I'm-so-done sigh, or an I-tried sigh, but an… ashamed sigh? A defeated sigh?
Dick looked up and found his guardian now looking down. "Bruce?" He asked tentatively.
"Is that really what you think of me?"
Dick was taken aback by the question and struggled for words, unsure what Bruce meant and how to respond. Finally, he managed to get out: "What do you mean?"
"You think I'm – Batman – is… strong? That he can do anything?"
"Well, not everything." Dick was really confused now. "I mean, I know you can't fly or run on water or anything like that. You're only human and all-"
"Do you really believe that?"
"Believe what?"
"That I'm human."
"Um, well…." What the heck was Bruce trying to say?
"Dick, I want you to believe that – to know that. I'm only human, if even that much. I'm not strong enough, Dick. I can't do everything. I'm weak, more than you'll ever know. I don't want you to believe that I'm always strong enough because I'm not. You are so much stronger than I'll ever be."
"I don't… get it…."
Bruce looked up at the painting on the wall, one of his great-grandparents (or so Dick thought – there were a lot of paintings of Wayne descendants scattered around the manor and Dick could never keep track which was which). "When you were gone," Bruce started. "I did things… things I'm not proud of. I wasn't strong enough to hold myself back. I nearly lost myself looking for you; nearly lost everything I stood for – that Batman stood for. I was… so weak. And I felt it. I felt my strength deserting me when I was faced with a criminal who I thought deserved punishment – even death. But who was I to judge them? I had no right but I delivered punishment anyway. I beat men to within an inch of life and only managed to stop because of you. I didn't want to bring you home to a man who had murdered people in cold blood. I knew you wouldn't want that because you are so much stronger than me…."
Dick was… flabbergasted, to say the least. He'd never heard Bruce confess like that. Ever. He didn't think the man was capable of so many consecutive words. And what he'd said… Dick didn't know how to respond. But he didn't have a chance as Bruce started talking again.
"Before you were captured I hid things from you and I'm sorry. I didn't want you to have to deal with them. You're so strong and I was blind to that fact. I'm sorry. And sorry that you don't see that strength now. Please, don't ever believe that I'm better than you in anyway; and don't ever believe that you're not good enough."
"Don't worry, Master Richard, I recorded that whole thing for future blackmail."
Dick looked up to see a smiling Alfred in the doorway. Ace immediately sprang up and was at the butler's feet in an instance, tail wagging and tongue hanging out.
Bruce got to his feet, clearing his throat and smoothing his pants. "Hello, Alfred, can I help you with anything?"
"I just heard the topic of school being discussed and thought I might add my thoughts."
Dick looked away from Alfred's face and back down to lap.
"And what might those thoughts be?"
"Well," Alfred began, absently trying to shoo Ace away. "While I'd be more than happy to pick up the homeschooling of Master Dick again, I think thought should be given to the psychological aspect of not returning to Gotham Academy. Besides the fact that it might appear suspicious in the public eye after Master Dick has apparently suffered from a ski accident." Alfred glared pointedly at Bruce after the last bit and Dick knew the butler still wasn't happy with the story Bruce had spun about Dick's absence.
Bruce cleared his throat again. "And what might those psychological aspects be?"
"Recovering involves returning to a normal lifestyle and, while by no means do I think public school is necessary for a normal lifestyle, it is part of the lifestyle Master Dick has been living up until this point. I fear that avoiding school and such aspects of his life will only be detrimental in a full recovery."
Dick scowled at the last bit. Full recovery.
"I agree," Bruce put in. "But Dick, I don't want to push you and I don't want you to think you're weak for refusing to go back."
Dick wanted to pull himself into a ball and think, but he knew his bad leg wouldn't be too accommodating in that endeavor. As much as he didn't want to, he understood what Alfred was talking about. But honestly, he wasn't sure if he wanted – or even could – go back to normal life. But maybe… maybe it was time he stopped thinking so much about himself. He'd spent so much of the past two months living on survival reflexes, doing everything for himself just in order to get by. But… he wasn't the only one who'd suffered from what had happened. After hearing Bruce's side….
"I'll do it," Dick whispered, slowly looking up to his guardian and surrogate grandfather (except Alfred was much more kick-butt than any grandfather, so maybe Dick would have to think of a new endearing term for him). "I'll do it," he repeated, a little louder and with at least a shred of confidence.
This wasn't about him anymore. He'd grown up being taught to think of others before himself and it was high time he got back into that practice. Even if he didn't want to go back to normal life, Bruce did and part of Bruce's life was Dick going to school and acting like a normal kid (to some extent). Bruce needed this and Alfred probably did too. They were affected – deeply – by what had happened to him and the least Dick could do was give them some semblance of normalcy. Some sign that he really was getting better and the trauma was fading. Give them some hope that there was life beyond all of this. And maybe Dick needed it too, deep down. After all, they were all only human – at least, almost.