Dick was kneeling down, gripping the steel sponge and scrubbing at the dirty tiles. His knuckles were beginning to turn white and his cheeks were tinged pink with exhaustion. He’d already worked on the kitchen floors for over five hours this week. And it was only Wednesday. He paused and looked up as his stepfather, Bruce Wayne walked into the room.

“You’re still not done yet? I knew I should’ve left you at that damned circus…” his ‘father’ muttered, spouting the large drag from his cigar down into the young man’s face.

Dick recoiled slightly, wafting the smoke away with his hand. “I’m sorry, sir… but Jason and Damian keep spilling things on the floor and—”

“Stop making excuses and just do what I tell you. You can’t blame your brothers for everything.” Bruce snarled, glowering at him. Nothing Dick said held any value to him, and it never would. “I’m taking your brothers to the ball. But the time I come back, this floor better shine. Or else you’ll sleep with the horses again.” He threatened with a sadistic grin.

Dick’s eyes widened in fear and anxiety at the thought of sleeping in those cold and flea-ridden stables. The last time he did, he had to use hay as a makeshift blanket. Wasn’t a good idea. He frantically nodded in obedience. “Y-Yes, okay… I’ll… I’ll have it done, sir.” He weakly picked the steel sponge back up into his scarred hands, marred from years of mistreatment and unnecessary labour.

The minute he heard the front door to the manor shut, he burst into tears. His body was wrecked with sobs and his face sunk down into his knees. He’d already worked thought of the better days. Before the incident. Before he’d been forced to toil every single day as a servant. Back when he was still young, doing cartwheels and leaping on the trapeze. But he’s eighteen now. Everything’s changed.

Then again, what could he even do?