A/N: So, yeah, I realize that its been nearly a year, and not the month I'd originally said, but here's number three of the crazy six overly-troped fics that seemed like a good idea when I was exhausted and hated life because I worked four months of sixty-plus hour, graveyard work weeks. This one directly follows "Paved with Good Intentions," but all you really need to know is that Artemis has been getting algebra help from Dick just about every Thursday after she rescued him from some bullies at Gotham Academy. I apologize for the delay, but the pivotal scene was lost and I had to rewrite it, and was never entirely happy with the rewrite. These six stories did help me realize that I love writing an outsider's perspective on the Dynamic Duo, so that's going to happen often. I hope you enjoy.

Pocket Change and Pearls

Samantha Carmichael hated high society functions. She was nothing more than an ambulatory table to these snobs. Three more semesters. Who knew what she was actually going to do with a bachelors degree in history, but it had to be better than catering. She wove through the elegant women dripping in jewels and men in tuxedos hovering around the priceless pieces of modern art, the tray of champagne glasses balanced in a way that only came with far too much practice. Every so often, a bubbling flute would be plucked from the shiny tray, the person connected to the offending hand not even sparing her a glance, much less a "thank you."

Snippets of random conversations all melded together. "Did you hear about that new condo they're building in the old arts district?" "Oh, this old thing?" "He almost never comes out anymore! Says he wants to set a good example for that orphan he took in."

"Come now, Brucie!" A loud blonde woman snatched a glass from Samantha's tray. "You can't tell me this group, The Vigil? doesn't have a legitimate argument! I mean, those in the Justice League have super powers. Some aren't even human! They should answer to someone; who watches the watchers and all that."

"I think whomever they are weren't around to see what it was like before Batman came to Gotham." The black haired "Brucie" gently placed an empty glass on Samantha's tray, looked her squarely in the eye and said, "Thank you," before turning back to the blonde. "If it were up to them, there would be no Justice League."

Bruce Wayne, the richest man there had been the only person to acknowledge her. Well, it was something.

After a few more rounds of the main hall, her tray was empty. A quick trip to the kitchen reloaded her trey, water goblets, this time. She had barely left the kitchen when she spotted Bruce Wayne's ward sitting in front of a painting in one of the small side exhibits, alone. She knew it was Richard Grayson, not because she recognized him, but because there was no one else under twenty-one at the gala. The boy was furiously scribbling into a notebook, glancing up at the painting, and every so often checking his phone.

She carefully made her way to him, "Water, sir?" She asked softly.

He looked up to her and smiled tiredly, "Sure, thanks. That'd be nice."

She held out the tray and he took one, gulping half the contents in one go. She smiled, and was walking away when Bruce Wayne approached.

"There you are," the boy's guardian said.

Richard laughed, "Finally got away from Vickie, huh? Who has the unfortunate pleasure of getting stuck with her now?"

"That's not very polite, Dick." After a few moments of the boy's questioning stare, the billionaire continued, "Lucius promised to give her a scoop of some new WayneTech projects."

Richard snickered, "You'll owe him big tomorrow."

"I know," Wayne relented. And Samantha couldn't help her silent snicker. "What are you doing?"

The boy sighed, "Report for art history. Mrs. Gample said we could get some extra credit if we picked a piece from the new exhibit. It's the only class I don't have an A in. Thought I'd get a jump on it."

There was pride in Wayne's eyes as he knelt down to his ward's eye level. "I think I've been "seen" enough. How about we get out of here and grab something to eat that Alfred would disapprove of? We haven't spent much time together lately, I'm sure there's a diner or something around here."

The boy's eyes lit up, "Really? Can I have chicken fried steak and pie and everything?"

"I think I can manage that."

The boy whooped as Bruce Wayne looked around. "The, uh..." She faltered when he looked at her and she felt ashamed for eavesdropping, but continued, "the back exit is that way. And Stacie's is only two blocks from here, down Trenton Avenue. You can see the sign from outside."

That charming smile grew wider, "Thank you." He turned to his ward, "Come on, Dick."

They headed toward the back exit she'd specified and the boy turned back with a "Yeah, thanks miss!" And disappeared.

The blonde woman who had been speaking to Bruce Wayne earlier walked up to Samantha. "Hey! Where did Bruce go?"

"I don't know, miss." Samantha smiled at the woman's petulant frown.

He was Bruce tonight. All bright smiles and insipid charm that was expected.

Bruce loosened his tie the moment they stepped through the doors of the museum. It was a cool night, and the sky was pleasantly clear. It would make that night's patrol more comfortable than most.

Dick gave a suffering sigh, "Finally! I thought I was gonna go crazy. So sick of being chalant."

Bruce raised an eyebrow, the only outward reaction he generally gave when he was amused by something his ward said, "And here I was going to reward you for being such a perfect gentleman tonight."

Dick pinched his thumb and forefinger together and drew them across his lips, "Forget I said anything."

The catering woman had been correct, not that he'd needed the directions. He made sure all of his maps were up to date and memorized. A bright neon sign with a plate and fork that read "Stacie's Diner," was just a short walk down the road. No need to bother Alfred with bringing the car. "Are you going to your club's meeting this weekend?" He asked conversationally, using the established code words.

"I want to. If nothing big comes up," Dick replied, "I haven't been in a couple weeks. Wally was bugging me about it tonight."

Batman and Robin had been quite busy over the last month, none of the major players, but a large drug bust and a weapons smuggling operation that had necessitated the duo. The teens had previously been enjoying frequent weekends together, weather they had a mission or not. "I'll try to make sure nothing pressing comes up."

"Thanks."

They were less than a block away from the diner, when a man stepped out of an alley. The glint of polished nickel plating unmistakable. "Gimme you're wallet," the hooded man slurred.

Bruce cautiously lifted his arm in a gesture that, had he been in uniform, would have shielded Dick behind his bullet resistant cape and carefully guided the boy behind him. Once he was sure Dick was no longer in the gun's path, he raised his hands in surrender. "Please, I don't want any trouble," he had long since lost his fear of guns, but added enough emotion in his voice to play the victim he was supposed to be. Dick played along and Bruce slowly reached into his pocket, withdrawing the wallet. "Here."

The man shook the gun recklessly, "Watch, too!"

"Of course," he said, unlatching the accessory. He held them out and the man snatched them, but remained standing in front of them. "You have what you want. There's no need for any-"

The sound of the shot left a ringing in his ears. The pain in his side left him gasping, but he stayed on his feet. The man was gone, running back through the alley he'd came from. Bruce pressed a hand to his left side, and it came away bloody, but it was just a graze. It most likely wouldn't even require sutures. He turned to make sure Dick was all right and froze.

For nearly twenty seconds any and all training he had subjected himself to from the time he was a child left him. For nearly twenty whole seconds he couldn't breathe. He was eight years old again, paralyzed with fear and confusion.

Black suit. White dress shirt. Both stained with red, red, blood. Seeping through a hole in the upper left chest.

His father had bleed out before the paramedics had arrived.

He was on his knees and didn't know if he'd moved or fell, his hands pressing tightly against the wound. Dick's head lolled and he whimpered.

Bruce was yelling, was he yelling?

Phone!

He hadn't had a cellular phone twenty-six years ago! Now he did!

He ripped the phone from his pocket, blood slick fingers smearing the screen as he dialed nine-one-one.

He needed to stop panicking. He was better than this. He knew better than this. Assess the situation. Calm, he needed to be calm and rational.

Three rings. Four...Why wasn't anyone answering?!

An emergency dispatcher finally answered. He didn't know what he'd said. Help? There'd been a shooting? Dick was dying?

Dick's breathing became more and more harsh. The stain on his suit growing despite Bruce's hands trying desperately to hold all of that red back.

Sirens wailed but he saw nothing except the heavy lidded blue eyes of the boy who had been with him for nearly six years. "Look at me, Dick!" Batman ordered and the boy tried. He was trying to say something. "It's ok, Dick," this came out broken, was he crying? "It's okay. Breathe. Help is coming."

Then there were people surrounding him. Two men were trying to pull him away, "No!" He yelled struggling, trying clumsily to reapply pressure to his son's, son's wound. But the paramedics were already calling out to each other, ripping at the already ruined suit and doing what they needed.

Someone was yelling at him, but his stare was fixated on the boy who had grown to mean so much in his life. 'Not like this,' he begged, 'not again. Not like THIS.' He was better than this. He knew better than this! What was he doing?!

Someone shook him, tearing his eyes away from Dick's small form. The two men who had pulled him off of Dick, one was in a suit, probably from the museum gala, the other was in a GCPD uniform. He didn't like the look in both their eyes. It was the same look in the officer's eyes from that night. Dick wasn't dead. Dick couldn't die. Not like this.

"Bruce," the suited man said, "are you hurt?"

Bruce ignored the man and turned back to Dick. The paramedics were loading the gurney into the back of the ambulance. He stepped forward to climb in as well, but a hand on his arm stopped him. He pulled away and snarled angrily at the pitying eyes of the officer, "I'll drive you," he wrenched his arm away to step into the ambulance, but the paramedics were already slamming the doors. He allowed to officer to lead him away.

—

::CLICK::

"-and we're zainy to the max!"

::CLICK::

"We can only give this deal to the first fifteen call-"

::CLICK::

"Please, Dean. If we want to stop-"

::CLICK::

"Bruce Wayne was shot in an attempt-"

::CLICK::

"Wait!" Artemis yelled at Conner, "Go back!"

Superboy sighed and switched the channel back to the news.

"-said that while the billionaire seemed to only have mild injuries, his ward, Richard Grayson, is reported as being in critical condition."

"Oh," M'Gann said softy, "that poor kid. I've seen pictures of them. All of the girls at school talk about how rich and handsome Bruce Wayne is."

Artemis was shaking as the news continued, changing to an on location anchor, "That's right Annie, earlier this evening, after leaving the opening gala of the new exhibit at Gotham's Museum of Modern Art, Bruce Wayne and his ward, Richard Grayson, were shot in a botched mugging."

The camera changed to an image of a sobbing woman, "He said he wanted to spend time with his kid! It's my fault. I told him to go to Stacie's. All he wanted was to spend time with his kid."

Kid Flash sped into the room, a bowl of popcorn in his arms, "Did we pick a movie, yet?" He asked, his mouth full. "Hey, Artemis, what's wrong?"

"There was a shooting in Gotham," M'Gann answered softly at Artemis' silence. "Bruce Wayne and his son were shot."

"Not his son..." Artemis quietly corrected without thinking.

Wally almost dropped his bowl, "What?! Are they okay?"

"Artemis," M'Gann spoke, "are you okay?"

"He...Dick, he-he tutors me in math."

Kid Flash just stared at the archer, "What?"

"He's small. He gets picked on a lot. I stopped some bullies one time."

"Richard Grayson gets picked on?!" Wally exclaimed.

"Yeah," she furrowed her brow, "He's even smaller than Rob."

Wally opened his mouth and closed it a few times before just shaking his head.

Both turned back to the television, "...no word yet on the condition of either. Back to you, Annie."

Gotham City police officer Darryl Neman's assignment tonight was to take a statement from billionaire Bruce Wayne. Well, he hadn't known it was Bruce Wayne when he's been told to drive to Gotham General and take the statement of the man in room forty six oh three. The billionaire had told him that he and his "ward" had left the fancy art showing and were mugged. Wayne had been nicked by a bullet in the side and the kid had been shot in the chest. Poor kid was still in surgery.

The statement had been given calmly and clearly, with surprising attention to details that the officer usually had to coax out of victims. A sketch artist should arrive soon, then Darryl could leave.

The officer eyed the man on the bed. The billionaire's face was stoic. Darryl knew that everyone reacted to trauma differently, but this was maddening. How could a man just sit there calmly when his kid was in surgery for a bullet wound? Did Wayne even care? A few years ago the guy had found the kid and taken him in; everyone knew that story. The rich obviously played by a different set of rules. How else could a notorious playboy like Wayne even be given custody of a kid unless he paid for it. God, did Wayne just assume he could buy himself a new one? Darryl tried to imagine what he would look like if it was his little Shawna and couldn't. He certainly wouldn't just be sitting there.

Christ, had Wayne used the kid as a shield?!

A tall man in a suit wearing glasses walked briskly into the room. Good, he only needed to stay until the sketch was done, the sooner the better.

"I came as soon as I heard," the man in glasses said, "has there been any word?"

Wayne jumped up from the bed, a slight twitch in his face was the only sign that he'd pulled his stitches, as he practically snarled, "Clark!" It was more emotion than Darryl had seen from the billionaire in the past two hours, including when the guy had spoken about his kid getting shot. "Get out!"

Clark, obviously the man in the glasses, shook his head, "Bruce-"

Wayne cut him off, "I'll give a statement to the press when I see fit!"

Clark held up his hands, "You know full well that's not why I'm here."

Wayne was shorter, but clearly puffing out his chest trying to intimidate the other man. "I said, GET OUT."

Clark was ignoring Wayne's posturing, "They said Dick was critical. What happened?"

But Wayne wasn't backing down and remained silent. Clark sighed and shook his head, "If punching me in the face will help, by all means, break your hand if it will make you feel better. I'm your friend, Bruce. Lois and I love Dick just as much as you. What happened?"

Wayne looked away and sighed. The billionaire's face contorting with every emotion Darryl had expected earlier. "H-he," Wayne paused as his voice cracked ever so slightly and cleared his throat, "he was shot."

"How?"

Wayne spoke slowly, through gritted teeth, "We were walking to a diner when a man with a gun demanded my wallet. I gave it to him, he raised the gun, wanted my watch as well. I handed it over, he fired."

"Just once? The reports said you were both shot."

"It just grazed me. I didn't think-" he stopped, taking a deep breath. When Wayne had relayed the information to Darryl, the billionaire's eyes had been cold, closed off, now the officer could see the raw emotion. "I pushed him behind me. When I saw the gun, I pushed him behind me. I didn't move, I didn't try to get out of the way. He fired and I knew I was between Dick and the gun. I made sure when I saw the gun that if he fired it would hit me, not Dick."

Darryl almost gasped, Wayne hadn't said any of that in his statement. Darryl had assumed the cold tone Wayne had spoken in was indifference, as if he saw the boy as just another thing the man owned.

Wayne sat back down on the bed, his head in his hands, "I just stood there." Clark put a comforting hand on the billionaire's shoulder. A moment later, Wayne barked out a humorless laugh. "He was doing homework, at the museum. He has a B+ in art history, it's the only class he doesn't have an A in. His teacher said if he did a report on one of the pieces she'd bump it up. He works so hard, I just wanted to reward him. Chicken fried steak and pie..."

Clark smiled softly, "I'm sure Alfred wouldn't approve."

"No, but he's kept his grades up and didn't complain once about having to go to the art opening. I could see the diner. It was two blocks away. I wasn't going to have Alfred bring the car around for two blocks."

Clark sighed, "You can't blame yourself, Bruce."

"Can't I?" The billionaire snarled, "I could have done so many things differently." The anger evaporated and Wayne hung his head, wiping his face with his hand, "My parents were murdered for pocket change and pearls, my son for a wallet and watch."

"You've never called him that before."

"I promised him I wouldn't. It's why I've never officially adopted him. Not long after I first took him in, he screamed that I would never be his father, that he wouldn't let his name be changed. I told him I would never try. I've always wondered if I did the right thing. Wouldn't he have been better off with a loving family?"

Clark sighed and sat on the bed next to Wayne, "You have no idea how worried we were, when we heard you took him in. But, he told me once, that you were the only person who understood, who didn't tell him that it got easier. That he just needed time and his grief would lessen."

Wayne stared at the floor, "Everyone tells you to remember that they're always in your heart and that things will get better. To give it time. In the days and weeks and even months after, you think and dwell and it doesn't feel like it's getting better, like it hurts any less. Of course, eventually, when you think about them, the first thing you remember stops being the blood or how they looked nothing like who they were in their caskets, and you remember all of the times they hugged you or made you smile. But that does take time. When you're in it, you don't need someone to try to give you a hope of it ending that your can't even imagine. Sometimes, you just need someone to hear your pain."

Clark said nothing, only putting his hand on the billionaire's knee.

"What," Wayne's voice cracked again, "I don't know what I'll do if he...if he dies, Clark."

Darryl swallowed, guilty for his anger of the last two hours.

Clark was spared any response by a knock on the door, a serious-faced doctor entered. Wayne sprang to his feet, took one look at the man's stiff posture and took a step back, with a whispered, "No."

The doctor quickly stated that Richard Grayson was alive, but still in critical condition. The billionaire sagged, and wiped his face. Darryl couldn't see any tears, but at this point was sure they were present. The doctor continued speaking in jargon that Wayne nodded to before impatiently asking to see the boy.

The doctor led the billionaire out.

Darryl was startled when a hand landed on his shoulder; he'd been so busy watching Wayne, he'd forgotten about Clark. The man gave the officer a tight smile, "Bruce is probably going to be too busy to say bye, so I guess I'll see myself out. Have a good night, Officer," the man looked at his uniform, "Neman."

Darryl said good night, and watched Clark leave, just as another man walked up, "Hi, I'm the sketch artist."

Darryl had to tell the artist that a sketch wasn't going to happen that night.