Fix You

What is Normal?

Taking a small sip from the glass of water in front of him, Bruce let his thoughts wander as the screen on his computer continued to assail his eyes with the blinding light of business. A hundred and one things were begging for his attention and none were receiving it; it was a stressful morning for everyone. Bruce hadn't been able to concentrate from the moment he entered the office and the lack of concentration wasn't showing any signs of becoming less lacking. In all honestly, the lack of concentration had probably been around much longer, though well-disguised and less intrusive. That all changed about two days ago; it had been progressively getting worse since then.

Alfred had insisted on dropping Dick off at school as Bruce had had an unavoidable (or so it was claimed) meeting far too early in the morning for any civilized human being. It involved the CEO of a large company in Japan who was trying to negotiate in efforts to merge with Wayne Enterprises and was just about the last thing Bruce was interested in. However, duty called (Alfred's words) and so the butler had taken Dick to his first day back in school and Bruce had been silently freaking out ever since.

He'd never considered himself to be the paranoid, overprotective parent type (okay, he was overprotective and extremely paranoid, but that was different, of course, right?), but here he was, sitting in his office, imagining all the worst case scenarios and calculating how long it would take to disable the alarms at Gotham Academy and sneak in and pull Dick out. Starting from the time he left his office, about seventeen minutes if the traffic cooperated.

In short, he was antsy. And it was not okay. Bruce Wayne wasn't antsy. Batman especially wasn't antsy. He was calm, cool, and collected; a suave playboy millionaire with no concept of time or responsibility (though was steadily progressing in that department due to the addition of his young ward) who could play hooky with the best of them and not bat an eye. He was a calculated machine, operating on kale and protein alone, working systematically and unwaveringly to take down all that was poisoning the city. He was powerful, strong, fearless, bold; he wasn't antsy.

But this was a whole new scenario. His emotions had gone through so much over the past months that they were little more than frayed nerve endings that spasmed at the slightest hint of neurotic stimulation. Dick, his ward, practically his son, had been through so much over the past months that Bruce had slowly felt what little semblance of a heart he possessed ripped repeatedly to shreds as again and again, bad news reared its ugly head. He'd just gotten Dick back – really back; back enough that Bruce felt like the boy was really there and real – and now he was being carefully peeled away from him again.

Dick could take care of himself, Bruce knew that. He'd trained the boy well and the fourteen-year-old was mature and wise beyond his years. But that was then and this was now. As Bruce felt the strain on his own emotions and sanity, he could only imagine the hell Dick's had gone through. The boy had had everything stripped away from him, only after being kidnapped for over a month, subjected to unknown tortures. Now he was being awkwardly forced back into the cookie cutter that was everyday life, only he'd been pulled and twisted so many ways that trying to fit back in was like trying to force a snowman into a reindeer shape. It didn't really work.

And it wasn't just his mind either, but his body too. Bruce had seen the damage – heck, he still saw the damage every day; how was he supposed to expect a boy who'd suffered so much to go back to eight to three days of lectures, gym class (of course he had a pass for that), and worst of all, teenagers? Watching Dick struggle to do simple things like button up his shirt or walk down stairs, Bruce had felt his little, shriveled heart clenching in pain and sympathy. And then rebellion that his oversized brain would think it a good idea to send the boy back to school.

But he had anyway. Even with a shattered knee and a semi-robotic arm, Bruce had asked the kid to go be normal for the day. Of course Dick had never been normal, and that was fine, good even, but now…. And then there were his eyes. Leslie said there was nothing they could do. Glasses did little and Dick complained more of distorted letters and objects than too-small print. Leslie said that he would have to learn to overcome the challenges; she gave him vision exercises to do but Bruce knew Dick didn't do any of them. Leslie said it was a good idea for him to go back to school, but Bruce was beginning to have his doubts about Leslie.