This is the long-awaited sequel to my story Becoming Robin! I highly recommend you read that fic first.

The title for this fic is a work in progress, so if you have any suggestions, I'd be glad to hear them.

Disclaimer: Big surprise, I don't own any DC characters or storylines. A section of the end of this chapter, however, draws from Robin: Year One.

Warnings: As in the first fic, there will potentially be descriptions of self-harm in this story.

"Richard. John. Grayson."

"Bruce. Thomas. Wayne." Dick ground his teeth and growled the words back. He was sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair outside the principal's office. Bruce had just come out from talking with Principal Henry, a man who had never liked Dick and was always looking for ways to ruin the sixteen-year-old.

Dick had known, even before Bruce had walked in and glared at him before going to talk with the principal, that Bruce wasn't going to give Dick the benefit of the doubt for this one. No, because in Bruce's mind, it was always Dick's fault. He couldn't possibly have a good reason for beating the living shit out of three older boys despite the fact that he hadn't gotten into one fight since Bruce had told him no when he was eight. Of course, that had never stopped the bullies from pulling shit with him, but so long as Dick didn't fight back—didn't fucking defend himself––Bruce was a-okay with whatever happened to Dick.

Dick snarled out loud at the thought, startling the tall, blond girl next to him. Oh, right. That's the other part Bruce was going to ream him for when they were in private. The man would no doubt believe that Dick had managed to rope the girl into this, some paranoid idea taking ahold of his guardian's head.

"Mr. Wayne," Artemis started, "really, the fight wasn't Dick's fault. I saw those boys––"

"Thank you for assistance, Miss Crock," Bruce interrupted abruptly, not giving her a chance to finish. "Richard. Car. Now. We'll talk about this at home."

Dick didn't move from the uncomfortable seat. He merely crossed his arms, slouched back, and returned Bruce's hostile glare. "Well, that seems unlikely," he snarked back. "We haven't talked about anything in months. Unless you count our screaming matches as talking. I don't think going 'home' is going to change that." Not like the Manor could be considered home. Not anymore.

"Car. Now," Bruce bit out.

Dick's scowl deepened impossibly further as he hauled himself up from the chair. He refused to even look at Bruce as he passed the man on his way out the office door. "This car ride is going to be sooo much fun," Dick mocked, unable to resist the urge to claim the last word just to know he had made the vein above Bruce's left eyebrow throb.

As expected, the trip was tense, angry, and silent. Dick seethed in the passenger's seat, knowing that Bruce would never think Dick had had a good enough reason for fighting. Hell, he probably believes whatever crap Principal Halfwit-Henry came up with about the fight, even though he knows that principal has had it out for me since I started at GA.

Dick and Bruce had been growing apart for months, a cold space taking up residence between them. They were supposed to be keeping it 'private.' Fat lot of good that did them. "Problems in the Playboy Prince's Palace?" had been the cover story in this morning's tabloids along with pictures from last night's gala—another thing that had Dick on edge—of Dick and Bruce rigidly glaring at each other amongst the sea of Gotham's 'elite.' Even the utterly blind press could see the rift between father and son. It's been a long time since I've thought of him as a father. Now it's just Batman.

Dick resisted the urge to tap his foot in impatience at a particularly long red light. He wanted to get this all over with so he could go to his room, put on his headphones, and play his music so loud the rest of this fucked-up world ceased to exist. That was, as long as Bruce didn't take away his tech as part of whatever punishment the man was currently coming up with. He'd already taken Robin away from Dick after the teen had been shot in the shoulder by the Joker just over a month ago. (Never mind the fact that Dick was saving Bruce's life when it happened.) Bruce insisted that Robin was permanently retired. Dick disagreed.

Finally done with the waiting and the rigid silence, Dick started abruptly, "I know you said we'd talk about this at home, but since the Manor hasn't been any kind of home in months, I figure this is as good a place as any. So why don't you start on your 'disappointment spiel' while I ignore you until we get to the punishment part. Because we both know nothing I say is going to make a difference to you anyway."

Dick watched Bruce's hands tighten on the wheel. "You put three kids in the hospital, Richard."

"At least it wasn't the morgue," Dick muttered. Six words, and Bruce's impassive mask snapped. Wow, a new record, Dick thought with some semblance of satisfaction. It quickly disappeared when Bruce's reply whipped out at him.

"That is your problem right there! You have no control. You don't take anything seriously. You treat everything like it's just a game to you, and there are no rules. Then you go and make a cluster-fuck out of every situation on or off the field. This is why Robin's been retired!"

Despite expecting harsh words from Bruce, Dick hadn't prepared himself for this. The fact that his mentor thought so little of him, thought that he just some disaster waiting to happen at every step…

It ripped Dick apart.

And of course, the only logical solution was to rip into Bruce right back.

"What do I need control for when you manipulate every part of my existence! If you're just going to tell me when and where and how to do everything, what do I need to even think for? You micromanage everything in your life, even me and the League"—Dick could see Bruce grind his teeth against correcting him ("the League and me," Richard), the overbearing jerk, which was exactly why Dick had phrased it that way—"and someday you're going to micromanage all of us right out of your life. Then you can sit alone in your Cave, and everything will be perfectly controlled again."

It was a strike directly at Bruce's heart—the most vulnerable and heavily guarded part, but Dick knew his way through all of Bruce's defenses. Part of Dick––the part that remembered how Bruce had found Dick, beaten and shattered, and carefully put him back together again––filled with shame and regret as soon as the words left his mouth. A bigger part of him, though, could only think of the recent nights, weeks, months he had stood in front of his bathroom mirror, desperately trying to convince himself not to grab for the blade again. But he had (mostly) broken that habit, and he'd suffered through too many relapses to go through it again now. Now, when he didn't know what—if any—support he'd be able to drag out of Bruce.

The rest of the ride passed in angry (simmering, boiling, seething) silence. Dick stared out the window and tried to ignore the occasional creaking of the steering wheel under Bruce's too firm grip.

If the Manor hadn't become as much of a prison as a home within the last year, Dick would have felt relief at seeing it growing larger as they approached. Instead, Dick just felt resigned and angry. Because he felt lost. Because he didn't have a home anymore. Because this whatever-it-was was all he had left. Because not even Alfred was going to be able to fix what Bruce and Dick had broken somewhere along the line.

Because he didn't even know why. He was just resigned and angry and confused and sad and hurt.

Before the car even stopped in the large garage, Dick was pulling the child lock up and jumping out, his backpack slouched off one shoulder. As Dick's hand grabbed the door that would take him into the house and away from this painful tension, Bruce spoke. "You're grounded until further notice. That means no tech, no friends, and no Mount Justice."

Dick froze, every muscle stilled. He wanted to spin around and scream, "You can't do that! You can't!" He wanted to argue it with Bruce. He wanted to cry out that Robin and Richard were two different people, that Robin couldn't be punished because Richard had fucked up again. He wanted Bruce to see reason.

Dick did none of those things. After a long, still moment, he turned the doorknob and continued into the mansion, Bruce's words uncontested and unacknowledged. He wouldn't care what I have to say, anyway.

"I want your phone in the kitchen and all other technology outside your door."

Alfred was cleaning countertops in the kitchen when Dick stormed through the room, not even looking at Alfred as he passed with shoulders hunched in, expression stormy, backpack hanging haphazardly from one arm, and school uniform in disarray. He exited through the door on the opposite side of the kitchen from the garage-side entrance, slamming his phone down on the counter at the last second. Alfred's eyes caught on the blood that splattered Dick's right sleeve, and he easily surmised what had happened today.

"Good afternoon, Master Richard," he spoke, loud enough for Dick to hear before the door slammed shut between them.

Alfred continued to wipe down the counters, waiting for his other charge to work up the will to enter the kitchen. When Bruce had still not managed it after two minutes had passed, Alfred raised his voice, "I hope you're not planning to find another way into the house just to avoid me, Master Bruce." After so many years, Alfred could hear Bruce silently cursing in his head. From upstairs, he heard a bedroom door open and slam shut. The noise was echoed by an all too familiar throb of pain in the old man's heart.

Seconds later, Bruce entered the kitchen. The impeccable suit and carefully controlled movements would have made him an exact contrast to Dick's entrance and swift exit if it weren't for the equally frustrated, resigned, angry expression that also consumed the younger man's features.

Alfred remained silent, waiting for Bruce to stop glowering at nothing in particular. Sure enough, three minutes later Bruce exclaimed, "He put three kids in the hospital, Alfred! What am I supposed to do with that? Never mind how wrong that alone is, but the risk! Artemis was right there. She saw the whole thing. If I've told him once, I've told him a thousand times how important it is to not to endanger his identity. He has no concept of control!"

Alfred took the time to finish the last of the counters before pulling out a mixing bowl and a cookie tray. He would need an excuse to get Master Richard to open the door for him later, and Alfred's homemade chocolate chip cookies were perfect for the job. When all the ingredients had been gathered and without turning to look at his charge, Alfred asked lightly, "How long has it been since Master Richard last got in a fight at school? Despite repeated attempts from the other children to goad him into it?"

Bruce huffed out a breath and grudgingly answered, "Eight years. But—"

"And did he have good reason for his actions then, however excessive they might have been?"

"Yes, but—"

"So is it possible he might have had good reason for his actions this time, especially considering what day it is?

Bruce's lips pulled tight—the only slip in Bruce's now ever-present mask—and Alfred, despite his many years of knowing the man, couldn't tell if it was because his charge had forgotten the date or if he had remembered and acted as he had nonetheless. Alfred honestly didn't know which one he hoped it was, considering the recent state of the family.

After a too-short moment—too short for Bruce to have honestly considered Alfred's words, too short for him to have changed his mind, too short for him not to have just moved onto the next topic, ignoring what he didn't want to hear—Bruce rallied. "It's not just today, Alfred. For months he's been impossible to deal with. Making foolish mistakes and acting overconfident. Consistently ignoring my orders and arguing with me. He's almost been killed twice in as many months, and he's damn lucky I got there before Dent or the Joker killed him." It was only because he knew what to look for that Alfred heard the slight hitch in Bruce's tone. Alfred chose not to mention that Dick had saved Bruce's life during one of those incidents. "The press is all over his every action after what he did at the last charity gala—we wanted their attention, but not that kind of attention. And we're lucky they haven't swarmed the Manor yet after today's fiasco. I don't know what to do with him!"

Alfred put down the cookie dough he would never admit to being tempted to eat directly out of the bowl and waited until he was sure Bruce was done. "For now, give him space." Alfred made sure to hold Bruce's eyes to make sure he got the message. "If you talk to him right now, it will amount to nothing but more screaming. Tonight, after you've both had time to calm down, you can try talking with him—not at him." The old butler was very firm on that one. God knew Bruce wasn't often clear on the distinction.

Dick haphazardly threw things around his closet, too upset to care about the mess he was leaving behind. Tears blurred out his vision, making it harder to find his goal.

All this shit had started when that whole thing went down with Dent in the courthouse a year ago, Dick knew. Bruce lost a friend. Batman lost an ally and gained an enemy.

And Dick lost a father.

Bruce had been obsessive about the whole thing ever since. He thought there was some kind of deeper mob connection or something. He'd finally linked it to the Russians last August, but refused to tell Dick. ("I'm trying to protect you, Robin!") The young vigilante had had to find out on his own, and then the real fighting had started. The man had been frigid towards Dick and completely unbearable with Robin ever since. The only attention he gave to Dick anymore was to criticize the young hero.

He thinks I'm incompetent.

"Well, fuck him!" Dick snarled, wiping tears from his eyes as he finally found the small duffle bag tucked away at the bottom of the closet. He hefted it out of the closet and checked the contents quickly before swinging it onto his back. I'm just as good a detective as he is! Just as good a hero!

Stepping into the bedroom, his eyes fell to the side table near the bed and the folder paper on top of it. You'll see, Bruce. You'll see.

Some hours later, Alfred knocked on the door and opened it, a plate of cookies in hand. "Master Richard…" The forced cheer fell from his voice. His eyes scanned the empty room, took in the mess of a closet, the open window…and the single note on the bedside table. Placing the cookie tray down, Alfred sat heavily on the bed and picked up the note.

Dear Bruce…

I guess it's time for me to move on. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do if I'm not allowed to help you anymore. Alfred doesn't need to worry about entertaining me and taking care of you, too. You don't want a partner. And you don't need a son. I'm sorry I failed you. I won't forget everything you've given me. Thanks for teaching me how to be strong.

-Dick

"Oh, Master Richard… Be safe…"

So, what do you think? I'll likely be updating this story biweekly (no, seriously this time!), but maybe we'll all get lucky and it will be weekly.