Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The fairgrounds were so close to the shore that Dick could taste the salty air on his tongue.

The trailer’s window was open as high as it would go—only about halfway, since it broke last summer and Tata swore that he was handy enough to fix it—and he was folded through it, as far as he could without tumbling out. The ocean breeze was wailing. It blew his hair into his eyes, and Dick shoved it back with one hand and kept it there. 

A roustabout—Ezekiel, he was new this season—cursed as the canvas of a tent got thrown off its poles with a powerful gust. Dick giggled, and the man’s head jerked toward him, sheepish. “Shit! Sorry kiddo, didn’t see you there.” He wrangled the tent back into some sort of tent-shape, and drove a spike into the ground with the heel of his boot. “You’re gonna fall out of that window ass over tea kettle someday, Dick.”

“Not possible,” said Mama, she snuck up behind him! He tried to pull his shoulders back into the trailer, but she caught him and tickled his unprotected belly. “This window doesn’t open far enough for him to fall through–look how he’s wedged in there!” She ignored his shrieks of glee, and took his instinctive kicks and struggling like a brick wall.

“Just how I designed it.” Tata walked up, smiling broadly. He was carrying spikes and rope in his thick arms, and a bag of toys for the vendors in his back. “Have mercy on the little bird, Marygirl!” 

Tsking, Mama relented, and Dick slipped back into the trailer, hopping past her and her clever fingers to the door. “Tata!” he called, flying to his dat’s side. “I can help! Let me carry something!” 

Tata hummed. His eyebrows and thick, black mustache twisted. “My robin is getting big now, isn’t he?”

“Very big.”

He grinned and dropped the coil of heavy, thick rope into Dick’s arms. “Not such a little bird anymore.” He started walking off—Dick stuck himself close up against his side—and Mama called goodbye to them.

“How long until the grounds are ready, Tata?” The camp was buzzing, everyone bustling someplace, grabbing things and pulling ropes. It reminded Dick of a beehive, with the bees crawling over one another and humming together so the hive looked like it was alive. 

“Hm. Early afternoon, maybe? Things are going fast today, I think everyone’s excited to be back in Gotham.”

Dick frowned. “Not Mama.”

His tata looked down at him, surprised, but before he could say anything, Joey the clown was clapping him on the shoulder. “How’re the stars of the show, huh? Ready to fly tonight, Dick?”

“I’m always ready to fly,” said Dick. Joey was balancing a pair of stilts under one arm; Dick tilted his head. “You aren’t going to be a clown tonight, Joey?” Joey barked out a laugh, and walked away, shaking his head. Tata chuckled and bumped his hip against Dick’s shoulder. “What?”

“Do you remember the last time we came to Gotham, Dickie?”

Dick looked over his shoulder at the rest of the island. The air was gray, the buildings were tall and bleak, but there was color too–the city seemed to have a secret that it was daring him to find. “Not very much.”

“That makes sense, you were only a chick back then.” He ignored Dick’s indignant huff. “About four years ago, a very bad man did a lot of bad things here, and he did it dressed as a clown. The natives are terrified of them.”

“That’s terrible!” Dick looked around for Joey; he wanted to give him a hug. “Clowns are supposed to make people happy.”

They finally reached the big top. Tata handed off his spikes and bag to a roustabout, and he reached for Dick’s rope. “Is that why we haven’t been back? Because Gotham makes the clowns sad?”

Tata said a bad word in their special language, but he was smiling one of those sad smiles, and reached a strong arm down to him. Dick planted his foot in the meaty palm of his tata’s hand, and clambered up and over his shoulders, nestling there comfortably. “I wish that were why, little robin. Something terrible happened three years ago, and a lot of people died.” Dick dug his nose into his tata’s floppy black hair—they both needed a haircut, Mama’d been saying it for weeks. “They needed time to rebuild.”

Neither his tata or mama were very tall—you couldn’t be, to fly the way they did—but Dick loved how far he could see, perched on his shoulders. All the tents were popping up like flowers across the midway and streamers strung between colorful booths, and there were even a few rides this year! The gray, cold city already looked a little brighter. “We’re going to cheer them up again, right Tata?”

“My little robin could cheer up anyone, couldn’t he?” Tata pulled him from his shoulders under one arm, and rubbed his fist into his hair.

Dick groaned, and struggled in vain against his iron grip. The trailer! Mama was hanging out the door, watching them come close again with a wicked smile. “Mama!”

“What, you run away and expect me to save you?” She tutted, “We suffer the consequences of our actions, mon oiseau.”

Tata stepped up to the door, and held Dick to his chest while he leaned in to Mama. “Oh no,” Dick whined; he was squished between them as Mama pulled Tata in with a hand behind his head. “I can’t breathe.”

Mama laughed, muffled, and pulled away. “Bring him inside, mon chéri, we need to talk about tonight.”

Obediently, Dick let himself get tossed weightlessly onto the bed, rolling the way he’d been taught. Tata started to fiddle with the window again, and Mama climbed onto the bed with him. She buried her fingers in his hair, arranging it even though they wouldn’t need to get ready for hours and hours yet.

Her smile was warm, but the corners of her eyes were drawn tight. They had been since the boat had arrived in Gotham. 

“Why don’t you like it here, Mama? I thought you were from here.”

Her sigh was shaky. “That means I know it too well. Now listen. I don’t want you helping the pitchmen and pitchgirls tonight before the show, alright? Gotham is not a nice place. Neither are its people. You stay here.”

“But you’ve taught me–”

“Little robin, the things I teach you are only for an emergency. Do you understand me?” Even though her words were severe, her tone was not. Tata stopped pretending to be able to fix the window, and just leaned against it, watching them. Dick’s eyes shifted between the two of them, and he nodded. Mama hummed and pulled Dick in, pressing her lips to his forehead. “It’s always better to hide our talents. Then no one expects them.”

Dick was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry you’re scared here, Daj.”

“Don’t you worry about me, Dickie.” She stood up, and the line of her shoulders that had been slowly rising to her ears settled again. Her posture was always so perfect, even when they weren’t performing. So was Tata’s, but he also always seemed so careful—it was like that perfect-ness was just natural to her. Dick wanted to be just like her. “Now, do you want to brush Mama’s hair while I fix that hole in your costume? It takes much longer to pretty me up than you boys.”

Sure enough, her copper hair was tangled and frizzed from a long day of tent-raising. “Of course, Mama.”

Satisfaction bloomed in Dick’s chest as he managed a perfect flip, catching Tata’s wrists and dismounting with a flourish. The crowd roared. Dick had flown in cities around the world, but the Flying Graysons hadn’t been able to come to Gotham for years—it felt like the whole entire city was squeezed under one tent. Their applause was so loud, it felt like it could push him off of the platform.

“Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for our newest member!”

Dick waved enthusiastically, and began the long climb down the ladder.

“Unfortunately we have to say goodbye for now, because here it comes folks! The main event!” The house held their breath. “The Flying Graysons will now perform…without a net!” 

The crowd’s roar faded as Dick slipped out of the tent into the clown alley, but just barely. He normally loved to watch them fly just the two of them, but he’d been cooped up all day. Dick stretched and somersaulted, landing on his back and looking up at the starless sky. A city so big it blocked out all the other lights in the sky…

A shadow flitted out of the corner of Dick’s eye, and he sat up.

The tent flap fluttered.

His eyes narrowed. Dick slipped back into the tent, and sure enough, a man had walked in. He was moving quietly, but quickly, and there was something in his hands.

“Hey!” Dick yelled, the sound almost drowned out by the crowd. The man startled and turned, and their eyes met for one moment; then he was off. He was running to the other side of the tent, away from one wire and towards another… Dick froze. His heart, his hands went numb.

“Now folks, these two are trained professionals with more than a decade’s experience. Do not try this at home.”

Dick tore off—it was too late to stop him, but if he could just warn them.

“Stop, please stop!” he screamed. “Don’t let them go, you can’t–”

He was almost in the center of the ring when his mama shrieked.

Two bodies fell, one after the other, and cracked and crunched on the ground.

Chapter Text

that morning

-

“Don’t give the biotech grant to Langford.”

Lucius set down his chopsticks and chewed thoughtfully. The restaurant was bustling with its lunch rush, but as usual, its mostly Chinese-speaking clientele couldn’t care less about the businessmen holed up in the corner table with the rickety seats. “Any particular reason, or am I just gonna have to trust you?”

Bruce hummed and went back to his lunch. His chair rocked a bit with each bite—last time they’d come, he’d had Lucius distract their server while he’d covertly tightened the screws on the chairs; he was frustrated, and Lucius was extremely amused, that the fix hadn’t even lasted a week. 

“Remind me why we come here again?”

“The soup dumplings.” Lucius reached across the table and fished the last bite of pork from Bruce’s bowl. “And the fact that this is the only restaurant within two miles that has a table away from any windows.”

“These wheat noodles are–”

“I warned you off the zhajiangmian, you stubborn bastard. This place is divine, but their cumian has the texture of shoelaces.”

A woman passing by hiked her toddler further up her hip, and hit Bruce upside the head with her purse in the process. He stiffened. “Langford published an article two years ago about cloning’s potential military advantages.”

“Well yeah, but–”

“I don’t want him anywhere near DNA replication.”

“He comes so highly recommended, Bruce.”

“I don’t trust his ethics.”

Lucius shook his head. “Fine, you’re right. I guess we’ll go with the rookie. Was that everything?” He tapped the side of his glass. The man was drinking soda—a testament to his comfort in Bruce’s presence, and total lack of respect for Bruce’s health advice. “I told you about Jean’s project with the–”

“We run with it. But don’t let Jean anywhere near it. If he gets his hands in nitrile tubing he’ll turn it into a fuel line project again, and Wayne Automotive’s already swamped as it is.”

Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned back in his unsteady chair. “You’re telling me. I can’t get Mandal to go home most evenings. We need to give that woman a raise. And an extended vacation.”

“She’s got one in about two months.”

“When have you ever talked to her about that? Mandal barely tells me when she’s sick, I can’t see her just–”

“She’s seven months pregnant, Lucius.” A gaggle of Gotham Academy students piled through the door, and Bruce took that as his cue to leave. He stood and buttoned his jacket. “You still have my business card from last time, right? Use that and give it to Joan when you get back to the office.”

“I’ll be damned.” Lucius was scrolling through Mandal’s Instagram. “How’d I miss that?”

Bruce chose not to respond. He gave the group of filming teens a small wave, and slipped out the door before they could explode into excited giggles.

Phone cameras pointed—most covertly, some blatant—his direction for all three blocks back to the tower. It was extremely useful. 

About a year after the flooding, when rebuilding finally seemed to be making progress, and the Signal wasn’t lighting up the sky twice a day, it had become apparent that to maintain his secret identity, he would have to draw lines between the Bat and Bruce Wayne.

It helped that he’d started taking an active interest in his parents’ charities. His slow re-introduction to Gotham society had begun with Police Balls and charity auctions and benefits, forcing himself to be sociable and generally making a stumbling fool of himself. He’d dance poorly, give awkward compliments, and sit listening to batty old socialites rant for hours, nodding with a meaningful expression.

He’d expected public contempt for his buffoonery—and contempt there was, among the upper-crust that didn’t have daughters of marriageable age—but overall public perception had been mostly…fond? One of the younger executive leads had approached him about hiring a social media manager. Bruce had looked at her for a moment. “I’m not on social media.” She had laughed, and said “I mean, you don’t have an account…” and by then Bruce had walked away, unsure of how else to get out of this.

Despite how uncomfortable he was with the attention, it achieved the intended effect. No one in their right mind would accuse bumbling, stuttering Bruce Wayne of being the Bat.

One effect that he had hoped his public act would have was being ousted from duties at Wayne Enterprises.

That had not happened.

His phone buzzed. The luxury of having both a secretary and a personal assistant meant most numbers were blocked on his personal phone, so he didn’t even need to check to know it was Alfred. 

“Yes?” He deftly avoided the few paparazzi that had taken permanent residence on the steps of the Tower. Sheila at the front desk and the bevy of rotating security guards sunnily wished him a good afternoon; he tried to smile at them.

“Bruce, the orphanage just rang.”

“Are they low on funding again? I told Sharon to send the check two weeks ago.” He entered the elevator.

“No, no, Mrs. Siemens was effusive as ever. This was… Do you remember the entertainment fund you allotted her two months ago?”

Bruce did. The Thomas and Martha Wayne had only just reopened its doors in January—since the building had finally stopped experiencing unexpected complications, and Director Siemens’ business acumen was keeping the children cared for well under budget, he had recently signed a document re-allotting whatever funds were left over from the previous month to be put towards something enriching or entertaining for the children. It had been difficult for the board to argue with, though he could feel their barely-restrained frustration. “Don’t tell me Dobbs is going after it.”

“Not yet,” Alfred’s disapproval was just as powerful over the phone. His tone lightened considerably. “No, the children are apparently attending the C. C. Haly and Norton Bros. Circus tomorrow.”

Bruce hummed, his attention slipping. The elevator dinged, and he stepped out, making a beeline for his office as several hungry project managers circled waiting for the right moment to pounce and beg for funding.

“Bruce?”

“Sorry, what?”

“Mrs. Siemens asked if you would consider joining them.”

He had almost made it to his office when he stopped in his tracks. “What?” Andrews was headed his way, God, he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t seen him, they’d made eye contact, this was a nightmare. 

“Are you actually listening?”

“No, I am, but—shit.” He lowered his phone from his ear, and gave Andrews a wave. “Did you need to see me?”

There were a lot of things about Andrews that were greasy. How did his smile manage to be one of them? “That’d be great, Bruce, I’d only need a moment of your time.”

Bruce smiled and nodded him in as he opened his office door. Once Andrews passed him, the smile instantly dropped, and he held the phone back up. “The answer is no.”

“I gave you the wrong impression,” Alfred said, his tone flat. “I’ve already told her you would go.”

“You–” Bruce couldn’t scowl, because Andrews had already made himself comfortable, sitting down across from Bruce’s desk with a foot resting casually on one knee. It was torturous. He shed his jacket, and threw it over the back of his desk chair. “Why.”

“For one thing, it will be excellent for your image.” Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “For another, the children have been asking for another visit from you, and she thought this would be the perfect middle ground.”

The memory of the screeches (of joy?), two children clinging to each leg, and the five separate stories being told at once made him shiver–Mrs. Siemens had looked on, wincing in sympathy, and the press had eaten it up. “Okay. Fine.”

“Fantastic. Tomorrow, 7 pm.”

“Only if I can skip out on the charity gala in a few months.”

“We’ll discuss that later.” Bruce could hear Alfred’s amusement. “Have a wonderful afternoon.” He hung up.

“Lady troubles?”

Right. Andrews. 

Bruce’s laugh was hollow and fake even by his standards. “Sure.” The smile dropped too quickly. He tried to play it off as interest. “What did you need, Andrews?”

Andrews leaned forward. “Ah, well, I just wanted to check in. I know you just got out of a lunch meeting with Lucius. Did he happen to mention any of the new hires we’re considering for biotech research? 

“Huh, not sure.” Bruce smiles and rubs the back of his neck, reveling in the way Andrews’s expression freezes. “I think so? He suggested we go with the rookie girl, and that sounded like a smart idea to me.”

God, Andrews was easy to read. The man stood and said “Well, that’s all I needed to know! Thank you for your time, Mr. Wayne,” and stomped as pleasantly as possible out of the office. It soothed the wound of Alfred’s insubordination.

Finally alone, Bruce slumped into his chair. Being a relatively-functional member of society was exhausting.

Never again. 

Bruce fended off the fourth attempt to tug on his hair. A preteen girl with her hair shorn hadn’t stopped glaring at him since he had sat down. He kept throwing his security detail pleading looks, and he wasn’t even getting much sympathy. The show had barely started, and he had already bought peanuts and popcorn for every child within arm’s reach, despite his repeated redirection to Director Siemens, who seemed to be relaxing and enjoying the show.

Never again.

The only things keeping him here were the prospect of seeing the Flying Graysons, who had begun performing after Bruce's circus-going days had ended, and the security detail, who were actually traitorous agents of Alfred’s will.

“Did you know elephants are afraid of bees?” The boy with a missing canine tooth said, surly, as the elephants began parading through the ring.

“How do you know?” said a girl with twin braids, crossing her arms.

“Yeah, did you ask one?”

“I know elephants, okay?” the boy growled.

“No you don’t.”

“It’s true,” Bruce mumbled, and was filled with regret as 20 pairs of eyes were on him in an instant. “Some… African farmers use beehives to keep them off their land.”

“That’s stupid,” the glaring girl said, and refused to elaborate. 

Never again.

Luckily, Bruce’s allure faded over the next half hour, when it became clear that he was just another boring adult, and that he wouldn’t buy them any more snacks. Director Siemens wandered over, checking up on the children, taking a headcount. “Thank you again for doing this, Mr. Wayne. The children really appreciate it.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. She laughed sheepishly, and Bruce might have said something, but the announcer caught his attention, the crowd began to roar in anticipation, and behind her, Bruce watched as the Graysons launched freely into the air.

The Bat’s style was very rooted—heavy, and persistent—and this…

The three of them moved like they were uninhibited by gravity, moving with a slow, otherworldly grace. The smallest one tumbled and flipped and was that a kid? Despite the general horror of the evening, Bruce was intrigued.

One of the youngest of the children tugged on Director Siemens’s sleeve, and said “Miss, I gotta go.”

She had also been caught up in the performance. She blinked and looked down at the boy, saying, “Oh, of course Jonah. Take my hand.”

The boy frowned, and pointed at Bruce. “Wanna go with him.”

The two of them were directly in Bruce’s line of sight. He tried to keep track of the performance, to little avail. Maybe he could use some of this?

Were they about to perform without a net?

The little argument continued, until the boy finally gave in, and he and Director Siemens finally began shuffling away. One of the children was trying to gain Bruce’s attention, but the little boy, the performers’ son, had slipped back into the tent. He stood there for a moment, tiny and stiff, before bolting for the center of the ring—Bruce thought he heard him screaming over the crowd’s applause, and…

The rippling snap was the only warning, and Bruce’s hands flew over the eyes of the two children next to him.

The Graysons fell, missing their tiny, tiny son by only a few feet. 

They fell right in front of his eyes.

Chapter Text

Bruce had his security detail usher the shell-shocked children from the tent moments after the tragedy, before the crowd had even started screaming. He instructed Kelley to find the director and get them all back to the bus as quickly as possible.

And he stayed.

The boy was draped over his parents mangled bodies, almost frighteningly still. His small fingers clutched the fabric of the man’s costume, while the other combed through the woman’s stained hair.

The ringmaster stumbled into the tent. He looked ill, his expression a mask of horror. While the audience was fleeing the tent in barely-contained hysteria, the other performers were slowly gathering in the ring, leaning on one another sobbing.

Bruce had somehow ended up over the stage barrier and in the ring, had been pulled in against his will by the grieving child. He wasn’t still, Bruce had been mistaken–the boy was trembling, violently.

Emergency services finally arrived in a hurricane of gurneys and shouted orders and firefighters approaching the bodies, setting their heavy hands on the boy’s shaking shoulders.

The boy shrieked.

The noise was guttural, like it was ripped out of him. He shrugged the hands off of him, clinging to the corpses. Bruce couldn’t see the boy’s face, only the agonized curve of his back and his greased hair falling out of its tight style.

“No,” the boy moaned, “I won’t let you.”

The air was punched from Bruce’s lungs. He knew those words. Please, don’t take them away, you can’t…

“Kiddo–” a paramedic knelt next to him and began prying his fingers from the fabric, untwisting them from his mother’s hair.

He snarled, and twisted his wrist wickedly, jerking himself from the paramedic’s hold.

“Hey!” an officer yelled, shoving his way through lion tamers and pitchmen and straggling audience-members. Another paramedic wrapped herself around the boy’s torso from behind, restraining his arms.

“Let him go!” a woman wailed. Her exaggerated stage make-up was melting from her face—she staggered toward them.

The boy didn’t need her help. Almost as soon as he had been restrained, he had pulled himself up, contorted his back until calves wrapped around the back of the paramedic’s neck. Her grip loosened in shock, and he pulled himself fully onto her shoulders, and tumbled to the ground.

“Shit—stop him!”

He moved like liquid, slipping through hands and legs, and feinting towards the front of the tent—he used the confusion to slip back across the ring, and out a small tent flap in the back.

It was like Bruce had been chained where he was, and now he could move again.

Something about the boy called out to him—the urge to follow after him was blinding. If there had been foul play…

Foul play. An entire half hour’s exhibition and not a single technical issue; the net is removed, and the Graysons suddenly plummet? 

The boy wouldn’t be difficult to track, not in his state, in the soft dirt of the fairgrounds. Bruce briskly stalked to where the wires had been secured, iron spikes driven deep into the ground. He traced the limp wire to where it had snapped.

Not frayed, then, and no rust. Completely clean. 

Cut.

And before the Graysons had fallen, their son had flown into the middle of the ring, shouting something, flailing and terrified.

Bruce left the tent. 

The boy wasn’t as easy to find as he’d expected. Just as he’d thought, the boy’s bare feet had made distinct impressions in the earth, but mere feet away from the tent, they just stopped. He paused, took in his surroundings. A fortune-teller’s tent was nearby, but there was a light inside. There were still vendors milling about, trying to salvage their goods, so he couldn’t have ducked into one of the booths. But, looking closer at the booths where the footprints stopped, he noticed a dangling line of rope, and streaks of mud that lead to the roof.

Clever.

He glanced behind him, and followed the boy’s trail. A couple of the booths were far enough apart that even Bruce had to expend some effort jumping between them–he knew the boy was talented, but still.

The tracks ended near the cages. Bruce’s eyebrows furrowed.

He relaxed when he found where they ended. It wasn’t the lions.

The elephants were large enough that each had a cage to themselves, pillowed on mountains of hay. The animals were not happy. They shifted one foot to another, trunks reaching restlessly, even trumpeting—except for one. It was curled in on itself, its head was bent in on itself, and its trunk was wrapped around…

The door to the cage was unlocked. Bruce slipped in—slowly, carefully. The elephant’s wide, intelligent eyes stared him down, but he didn’t make any sudden movements, and eventually it huffed, long lashes fluttering closed again. Its tiny charge was wrapped in its trunk, and blanketed by one ear.

Were the other animals nervous because they could sense the tragedy, or was the murderer in one of their cages, waiting to finish the job?

He’d gotten so soft. Wasn’t that supposed to happen after decades, not five years? 

When he fully entered the cage, he could see the boy’s face. He was staring at Bruce, probably had been since he’d heard the creak of the cage’s hinges. 

“You followed me,” the boy said, though it came out more of a croak.

Bruce shoved his hands into his coat pockets, and nodded.

His eyes were hollow, gutted, but the boy looked Bruce up and down. “You’re creepy,” he finally said.

Bruce nodded. “I can leave, if you’re scared.” Bruce wouldn’t, not really—he would leave the cage, find a high vantage point, and watch to make sure nothing happened to the kid before the police finally found him. But he didn’t need to know that.

The boy shifted to look at him. The elephant huffed. “You’re creepy, not scary.” His eyes narrowed, appraising. “I could kick your ass.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

“And you’re skinny.”

Fair.

After a moment, the boy’s eyes glazed over. “It wasn’t you. I saw…” he trailed off.

Convinced he wasn’t terrifying the traumatized child, Bruce sat in the hay.

The boy leaned his head back, resting it against the elephant’s side. Helpless tears built up in the corners of his eyes, and flowed every time he blinked. Bruce didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t leave. If the kid died now it would be his fault. But the thought of trying to comfort him somehow was…paralyzing.

“I tried to stop it.” It felt like an eternity passed. Bruce’s stomach twisted. “If I’d been faster–”

“Don’t do that.” The words were wrenched out of him, completely involuntary and thick with emotion.

“But it’s true.”

This conversation was terrifyingly familiar. 

He had been so tired, it was the latest he’d ever been allowed to stay out, so Father had picked him up and taken them through the backdoor; he called it a shortcut and grinned conspiratorially. Mother had been frightened, so Father had held her hand. Bruce had chattered, recounting the movie's story and swinging his play sword, and maybe if he hadn’t been so loud, they wouldn’t have bled out in that alley.

Bruce pulled from Alfred’s side of the script. “Do you think they’d want you to feel that way?”

“You don’t know what they would want,” the boy hisses. “You don’t know them.”

Fuck, he was bad at this. Taking a second to regroup, Bruce finally said, “Did they want you to be happy?”

The kid’s little sob is answer enough.

“It’s okay to be sad they’re gone. And you can be angry at the one who took them away. But your parents wouldn’t want you to carry that guilt. Not if they loved you.” And yes, he felt like the world’s biggest hypocrite.

The boy’s eyes narrowed. “You think someone killed them.”

What?

“What?”

“You said the one who took them away. You think someone killed them.”

Damn, this kid was clever.

“You said you saw who did it,” Bruce pointed out. The boy hummed and leaned his head back again. Still crying his eyes out and maybe in shock, and the kid had actually managed to put up an intellectual fight.

“You know…” Bruce was going to fuck this up, but he had to try, the police might start accusing the circus of hiding the boy if he didn’t turn up soon. “If you told the police what you saw, they could use it to catch them.”

The kid flinched, and curled tighter into the elephant. It shifted, and petted his arm with the end of its trunk. “I’ll have to go with them, won’t I.” 

It wasn’t safe here. It might have even been another member of the circus who… “Yes.”

Hugging himself, the boy sat up. “Okay. I’ll talk to the police.” He tried to wipe his face clean with the polyester sleeve of his white (really, white? The knees and wrists and streaks across the middle were stained with blood) costume. Bruce almost reached out to rub a streak of mud off his cheek, and froze. What? “Will you come with me?”

“I–” Bruce stiffened, but the kid’s eyes were turned on him again. They were a shade of blue that was startling, given his darker skin, and so wide and tearful. The kid looked at him like he was a lifeline.

Fuck.

“Sure.”

Bruce stood up, and brushed hay, and possibly manure, off his coat—briefly he remembered that Alfred would probably kill him for ruining the Armani. 

The boy was slow and unsteady as he rose to his feet. The elephant trumpeted in annoyance; its trunk tried to pull him back down again. He ran his hand up the length of the elephant’s trunk, until it was between its eyes, rubbing gentle circles. The boy pressed his lips there, and rested his forehead for a moment. “Love you, Elinore.”

Bruce swallowed, and looked away.

“You’re gonna need to hold my hand.” The boy had appeared next to him without making a sound–Bruce almost jumped. He didn’t wait for Bruce to respond to slot his tiny hand into his–they were so small, but calloused, and his grip was iron-hard. “I think I might run away.”

Bruce nodded. Their hands were hanging between them. The boy was so small, Bruce couldn’t stand completely straight. Stiffly, he lead them out of the cage in the direction of the big top.

“What’s your name?” The boy’s voice trembled. He clutched Bruce’s hand until both their knuckles went white.

“Bruce.” He could see flashlights in the distance, the beams were scanning the entire length of the midway. Was no one seriously checking the residents’ side–where the kid lived? “What’s yours?”

Before he could respond, someone cried "Richard!”

It was the ringmaster. He was frantic—his eyes were red and manic, his hair was sticking up at odd angles, his hat was nowhere to be seen. He fell to his knees in front of them, holding out his arms.

“Pop Haly,” The boy breathed. Richard. He let go of Bruce’s hand, and flung himself into the man’s arms.

“My boy.” Haly clutched Richard to him, burying a hand into the hair on the back of the boy’s head. He stood, and the boy’s small body went with him almost weightlessly. “Thank you so much for finding him,” he said as he rose, “We truly can’t thank you enou–”

When the man saw who had found Richard, he paused, slack-jawed. “Mr. Wayne.” Richard looked back at him, tilting his head.

“Yes.” Bruce faltered. “I thought… I wanted to make sure that he…”

“I have something I need to tell the police,” Richard said, quietly. Bruce slumped, gratefully. This kid…

Haly’s eyes watered. “Okay. Okay, my boy. I’ll take you to them.” He held Richard’s head to the crook of his neck. “Thank you, Mr. Wayne.”

“Yes.” Bruce cast another look at the shivering boy, nodded at Haly, and walked away. He would have denied it to his dying breath, but as he left, his ears strained, and he thought he heard a small voice say thank you.

It wasn’t a good night to come across the Bat.

The Bat was finally getting used to his role as protector and hero, but tonight, the specter of Vengeance tinted his vision red. 

He perched on a rooftop across from a townhouse that a group of thieves had been casing for two hours. They were amateurish, parked in a white van only a block away. One of them was pretending to be a garbageman. At midnight. 

Blood had dried brown on his knuckles, flaking and peeling away. 

It wasn’t his.

“Bruce.” Alfred’s voice was shaky over the comm.

He’d been waiting. “You heard.”

“That poor little boy.”

He growled. “They were murdered.”

A beat of silence. “Will the Bat be taking up their case?”

Would he?

He realized that it hadn’t ever been a question. He was going to access the boy’s—Richard’s—statement, look into the circus' connections, and…

“Yes.”

Chapter Text

The only light was the dim yellow street lights streaking by. Dick was grateful. His skin was itchy and patches of his suit were drying stiff. If he could look down and see his costume…

Dick was grateful.

“Five minutes,” said the man driving the car. His name was Mr. Seymour. The government had sent him to take Dick somewhere, away from his circus family, since someone had killed his mama and tata. “Just five more minutes.”

They were going very fast. Mr. Seymour was in a hurry.

(He’d been in such a hurry that he hadn’t even let Dick find shoes to put on.)

Buildings were passing that were taller than Dick had ever seen in his life. He craned his neck up against the window, trying to see the top, but they just went up and up, getting lost in the low, dark clouds. They passed under bridges that were beautiful, like the ones in Prague and Pont-Neuf, but they were crumbling. A statue of an angel stood on a street corner. His arms were reaching out for something, and one of them was broken.

When they turned the corner, the wheels skittered, and the momentum jerked Dick’s head into the window.

“Close,” the man whispered. When the yellow light lit them, his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

“Mr. Seymour,” Dick said, slowly. “Where are we going, sir?”

They were coming to the edge of town, now, like where the fairgrounds were, but very far away from there. Dick could see the tops of the buildings, now. They were less beautiful, though, like gray boxes stacked next to each other, the same height and only a few windows.

The first place they had gone had been gorgeous. It had frightened Dick a little; he hadn’t ever been inside someplace that big in his life, unless museums counted.

The director lady looked like she wanted to cry. “Oh honey,” she said, and turned to Mr. Seymour. She brought a hand up to her heart. “I’m so sorry, we just don’t have any room.” Her hair was falling out of its bun, and her eyes were bloodshot.

“Fuck.” Mr. Seymour’s head leaned back. “Finally.”

They slowed down, and came up to a large metal gate. When they stopped, someone shone a blinding flashlight into the car, and Dick had to cover his eyes. He’d been in the car, in the dark, for a very long time. Mr. Seymour held something up to the man with the flashlight, saying “I have clearance.”

Finally, the flashlight went away—Dick’s vision was dancing with spots—and the chain link fence squealed as the gate opened.

The building in front of them was short and long and flat, and it was lit up by row after row of bright, white spotlights.

“Mr. Seymour.” Dick’s swollen eyes were filling with tears again; they burned. His chest was tight, and his breaths were coming quicker. “What is this place?” He wanted to hug somebody. He wanted somebody to hug him.

“Please, kid,” Mr. Seymour said, and he sounded out of breath too, “please just be quiet. Just be quiet.”

He pulled the car up to the front of the building, and jerked it to a stop. He hadn’t even turned it off before he was jumping out and pulling Dick’s door open. Mr. Seymour jerked Dick out of the car by the wrist. His grip was just a little too tight.

He walked them to the sliding doors. Two men were standing there—they were guards—and Mr. Seymour had to show them something again. They let them pass. The doors slowly rolled open, and they were in an entryway, with an empty desk and a couple of chairs and pale, sickly lights.

Dick bared down his heels, and clawed at Mr. Seymour’s tight grip on his wrist. He didn’t want a government man to be angry at him, but Dick felt like his head was going to fly apart if he took another step into this crazy place. 

“Hey–” Mr. Seymour rounded on him, and his face morphed for the first time from terrified to furious. Dick didn’t flinch. He looked into the man’s watery eyes and bared his teeth.

“Seymour?”

The new voice made Mr. Seymour whirl around, deeper into a pale green hallway. “Dr. Solomon.” Mr. Seymour was sweating, and even paler than before. “What are you… doing here so late? Where’s Jennifer?”

Dr. Solomon was wearing pale blue scrubs, with a paper cap covering her hair. She took the cap off, and sighed. Her eyes were barely open. “The boy in 256K had a severe case of bacterial pneumonia. Which would have been less severe if someone had informed me sooner.” Her face tightened. “What are you doing here, Seymour?”

“I need to go to an orphanage,” Dick said, and the woman’s dark eyes snapped to him. Her expression softened. Dick wanted to be angry at her for that, but right now he really wanted someone to look at him like that (like the man from before, Bruce—Pop Haly had called him Mr. Wayne): like things might be okay.

“You’re the boy from the circus.” Dr. Solomon turned back to the man holding Dick’s wrist, and she took a step forward. “Seymour, what the hell is he doing here?”

Mr. Seymour seemed to shrink. “A CPS facility in Newtown burnt down just a few hours ago,” he said, very quickly. “I was going to set the boy up at the Wayne Orphanage, but when we got there, every bed was full. It’s the same with every facility in Gotham—we’re inundated!”

“There you are.” Another lady rounded a corner and rushed straight up to them. She was thin and graying. “You said you’d be coming in the South entrance.”

“Deere, did you know about this?”

“The boy from 107B was released this afternoon, so we have an open bed.” The lady stopped in front of the doctor and looked at her coldly. “This is Center business, Solomon. Have a good night.” She took the wrist that Mr. Seymour was holding, and tried to pull Dick down the hallway.

“Is this even legal?” Dr. Solomon blocked the lady’s path. 

“Of course it’s legal,” she snapped back. “Your patient’s in recovery, Solomon. I think you need to leave.” She shoved the doctor out of her way, and shouted over her shoulder, “Start filling out paperwork, Seymour.”

They walked for a long time. Dick lagged behind her as he took in every single detail—the turns they took, the colors of the halls and little signs on the doors. She finally unlocked a door (107B, like she’d said), and pushed him firmly but gently inside. 

“I’ll be along with a uniform shortly so we can get you out of that… thing.” 

The room was really dark. Dick knew that he could run away. He remembered the path to the door, they’d only passed one guard on the way, it would be easy to slip out. But what would he do after that? If this is what was happening when he hadn’t done anything wrong—even though guilt was twisting around his stomach like thick ropes—what would happen if he disobeyed?

“Okay,” he said. Dick let himself imagine sweeping the woman’s stick-thin legs out from underneath her and tearing back down the hall. And instead he stood there, perfectly-still, as she slid the door shut.

A lock slid in place as soon as the door clicked closed.

Dick leaned his back against the door, and tried to adjust his eyes to the pitch black.

The only interesting thing in the room was a bunk bed. A boy sat on top of it. He was tall, and hunched over, like he wanted to look smaller than he was. He looked a few years older than Dick.

They watched one another for a long time. Dick kept his back to the door, and all of his muscles tensed, like a coiled spring. It was a few minutes before the other boy sighed, and shifted to lay down. He was still facing Dick—still watching.

“What did you do?” the boy whispered.

“Nothing,” Dick said, way too quickly. He still wasn’t breathing right. His arms wrapped around his chest. “My parents d… My parents god killed tonight, and there isn’t any room anywhere else.”

“Oh,” said the other boy. Dick instinctively looked around the room for any other exits. There was a window, but the glass looked very thick, and there were bars on the outside, too small for him to fit through. “You know you’re in juvie, right?”

Dick’s back slid down the door until he was curled up on the ground. “Yeah. I know.”

“That’s sad. What’s your name?”

“Dick. What’s yours?”

“Brody. I stole some stuff.” Brody wrapped himself tighter in his blankets. “But I’m leaving in two weeks. My grandma’s picking me up and we’re going to a park with roller coasters.”

“That sounds really nice.”

Neither of the boys moved until the door flew open again and Dick fell on his back. The lady seemed sorry that he fell, and helped him stand up before giving him new clothes. Her eyes went cold again before she left.

Dick put the clothes on as fast as he could, peeling the ruined costume off and shoving it deep under the bed—he didn’t ever want to see it again, not stained like that—and he didn’t even mind that the pants were too big. He climbed into the bottom bunk, and looked up at the slats holding up Brody’s bed.

He hadn’t ever been more tired in his life, not even after long training days where Mama wouldn’t let him take a break until he did a somersault right, or stopped bending his wrist a funny way changing directions on the trapeze. His eyes hurt from crying. But all he wanted was the trailer. He wanted his little bed that Tata had made, the one that went where the ironing board used to go, and folded up during the day. He wanted windows that only opened halfway, that let in warm summer wind and elephant trumpets and tiger snarls.

He wanted Mama and Tata in their bed, tangled up together, but with just enough space between them for Dick if he had a bad dream.

All of his dreams were going to be bad, now. And there wasn’t anyone to climb in bed with. No one could kiss him on the forehead and put their cold hand on his neck and tell him everything was alright.

Dick fell asleep a few times that night, but only when his eyes couldn’t stay open anymore.

Morning came very slowly. It was the beginning of summer (they’d only performed twice before coming here, some of the roustabouts didn’t even know how to tie a good knot yet), so the light came fast and early.

Dick was curled into a tight ball on top of the covers and shivering when a bell rang. Immediately, he heard Brody shift above him, throwing his long legs over the side of the bed.

“You should get up,” the other boy said. “They’re gonna open the doors in a minute, and we’ve gotta go to breakfast.”

Dick didn’t move. “I’m not hungry.” The last thing he’d eaten had been Mama’s sarma; they’d gathered in the kitchenette and eaten standing because they’d had show prep to do. Mama had dropped some on her costume and stained it, and Tata had tsked while he spotted it out.

Thinking about eating without them made his stomach turn and his tongue go numb.

“You’ve gotta come anyway,” Brody said, hunching like he had last night, and keeping a wary eye on the door. The lock made a soft click. “You’ll get in trouble.”

Dick stiffly uncurled. He’d only just managed to stand up when the door opened, and a guard with a kind face motioned them out of the room. It’d be good to see what the rest of the building looked like. 

(Some silly part of him was still planning an escape, even if he knew it wouldn’t do any good. He felt like he could hear Mama whispering to him as he trailed along in a line of other boys, to remember every corner and look for marks on the walls, to make a map in his head. He could also hear Mama telling him to kick the guard between the legs and claw at his face, so, he decided to ignore her for now.)

They came to a massive room that a sign called the mess hall. The line flowed right into the line for food, so Dick slipped out, making his way to a table at the farthest corner of the room. He watched the other boys, scanning for dangerous ones and troublemakers. After a few minutes, he decided he was probably one of the youngest boys here. The smallest boys all looked at least twelve, and Dick’s tenth birthday was nine months away.

When he had turned nine, they’d been in Nice for a spring season, performing on the weekends. Mama had taken him to the Musée Matisse, and they’d spent hours and hours there, barely talking, standing very still—something both of them usually hated. When they’d gotten back, they’d all gone flying together, Tata had cooked stuffed peppers and brewed chao, and they’d clambered up on top of the trailer to watch the stars. Dick had drifted off to sleep there, tucked between them, warm even in the spring night air.

They’d never have a day like that again. Dick didn’t want any more birthdays. Not without stuffed peppers and Mama teaching a new, dangerous trick, and Tata taking him to visit Elinore. 

“What’s the matter, Brody? Got something you wanna say?”

Dick blinked, and looked for the tall boy in the busy hall. He wasn’t very far, curled in on himself even more than before—a tray was spilled at his feet.

“N-no, I don’t, I’m s-sorry–”

A shorter but broader boy sniggered, and grabbed Brody’s shoulder—he shoved him down, and Brody went to his knees in a pool of spilled cereal. “Maybe you should clean up your mess.” A circle was forming around them, but there was a loud argument on the other side of the hall that was distracting the guards. 

Dick didn’t realize he was on his feet and stalking towards them until he was pushing past the gathering boys, using his smaller size to slip through.

Brody was stammering, raising his hands to protect his face, and the other boy was grinning. He reached out a hand and twisted it in Brody’s hair.

“Leave him alone!” 

As soon as Dick yelled, the boy let Brody go, and the guards’ attention turned their way. Dick just had to hold out until they got over here. Piece of cake.

“The fuck are you?” the boy snarled. Dick stepped in front of the boy on the floor. This guy was a lot bigger than him. He also made his fists with his thumb inside, like an idiot.

Dick couldn’t help but grin.

“Wait a second, you’re that kid from TV.” It was like someone had poured ice down the back of Dick’s oversized shirt. The boy’s face twisted. “Yeah, the circus kid. I thought you guys were supposed to be good at that trapeze shit.”

Dick’s hands balled up into fists—with his thumbs on the outside, like Mama had taught him.

The boy sensed weakness, and pounced. “Is that why you’re here?”

“Shut. Up.” The guards were almost there, pushing and shoving the crowd around them, but Dick was shaking, his ears were roaring.

“What, did you push them or something? Jesus, what a fre–”

Dick lunged. His heel crunched into the side of the boy’s knee, sending him sprawling. The entire hall descended into instant chaos, screaming and shouting, but none of them stepped in—they probably wanted to see the boy show Dick who was boss, he thought very distantly. But Dick couldn’t stop—he could barely think before , hadn’t slept or eaten, and now he was just emptied out. The older boy roared and swung out blindly. It was so easy to catch his fist and twist.

Massive hands ripped Dick away from the boy. Finally the guards got over here. They were shouting angry things, he was probably in so much trouble, but Dick couldn’t really care. The boy scrambled to his feet. His eyes were scared.

The guards were pulling him away, out of the hall. “Don’t,” Dick said. His eyes never left the other boy’s. “Don’t.”

Two guards held his arms so tight it hurt and marched him back to his room. They threw him in without saying a word, and slammed the door. 

Dick climbed into his bed, hurting and hungry and so, so tired, and cried.

They didn’t let Dick leave the room for lunch, for dinner, or for breakfast the next day. Someone opened the door, slid food in on a tray, and closed it again. Even though the thought of food still made him sick, the awful emptiness in his stomach made him take the trays up onto his bed every time, and poke at the food until he at least managed a bite or two.

Brody only came back to the room when it was dark, and climbed right into his bed. Dick wished he’d at least say something.

He felt terrible about it, but he was exhausted, and he’d cried so much, the thing he felt most was boredom. He couldn’t move, couldn’t run, couldn’t fly—he also didn’t want to. Dick was bored out of his mind, but the thought of moving from his bed was also terrible.

An hour after they slid breakfast into his room, the guard with a kind face came in with black pants, a white shirt, and shoes. He said he was sorry, that it was short notice and these were some other boy’s from when he was brought in, so they probably wouldn’t fit very well, did he need a larger pair of shoes? Dick was so confused.

The guard left him to change, and once he’d finished, the guard came back in, and started leading him down the hall. Dick still had this path memorized—they were going to the door.

Mr. Seymour was there, less sweaty and pale today. He smiled very weakly, and asked Dick if he was alright, which was the closest Dick came to really laughing since two days ago. He led him back out to his car. He went much slower this time. Dick pressed himself up to the window again. He hadn’t been able to see the city in the day before. It looked less sad—less like it was crumbling apart.

“I’m sorry none of your… circus friends will be able to attend, I really am, but the police really need them all to stay in one place for the investigation.”

Dick was too tired to try to figure out what that meant.

He managed to close his eyes for a few moments on the trip—he only woke up when the car rolled to a stop, and his head fell forward. It was more than he’d managed the past two nights.

They were in a cemetery. 

A priest spoke for a long time, but Dick didn’t hear a word that he said. It probably would have made Mama groan and roll her eyes, and Tata would have listened tearfully, jabbing Mama with an elbow when her sighs got too loud.

It hurt. Of course it hurt. He hadn’t stopped crying since he got out of the car. But Dick was also so happy that he got to see them again before they got put in the ground. Inside of these shiny black boxes he could imagine that they were exactly the same, sleeping peacefully, instead of twisted and broken like the last time he’d seen them.

He wondered where these boxes had come from. Mama and Tata had talked, sometimes, about being old and dying. They were going to live in a tiny hut in Moustiers-Sainte-Marie when they were old and Dick had found someone else to fly with—Mama had traveled there when she was younger, it was how she’d learned French. When they died, Dick was supposed to burn the hut down with them inside. “We can’t afford those fancy boxes,” Tata had laughed. “Just set the place ablaze,” Mama had said. She gestured dramatically. “It’ll be like natural cremation.”

Dick walked up to the boxes while the priest was still talking. He pressed a hand to each one, and said goodbye and I love you, once in Tata’s special language, and once in French—not Mama’s mother tongue, but her favorite. He pressed a wet kiss to them both, and walked away, back to the car.

“R-Richard!” Mr. Seymour laid his hand on Dick’s shoulder. Dick shook it off, gently, and kept going. “It isn’t finished yet!”

“I am,” Dick said.

The priest stopped talking, and Mr. Seymour, mumbling, followed after him.

When they got to the car, Dick turned and looked Mr. Seymour in the eye, studying every twitch and movement. “Are you going to take me back there?” he asked.

Mr. Seymour’s eyes were wide, and his shoulders rose to his jaw. “All of the homes are still overflowing,” he said slowly, “we might need to send even more to detention centers for–”

Dick opened the door and climbed in. He didn’t say another word to Mr. Seymour. 

He went back to his room, escorted by a guard, and didn’t even try to escape once. When the door closed behind him, he staggered to his bed. His eyes were sliding shut before he landed on his pillow. He managed to sleep half the night before he ripped the blankets off with a shriek, shaking from the nightmare. 

It was just getting dark. Brody had just come back to their room, when the door opened, and a totally unfamiliar person smiled at him. “Richard,” she said, “there you are.”

Her hair was pulled into a very tight ponytail, and she wore a very fancy suit, like that Mr. Wayne. Her smile was sharp.

“Who are you?” Dick didn’t get up, even though that was really rude. He just wanted to be able to sleep.

“I’m your social worker, Richard,” she said. She sounded like the honey that Tata used to drip into his tea: slow, and very, very sweet. “I’ve come to get you out of here.”

“My social worker is Mr. Seymour.” Dick sat up, twisting the blankets between his hands.

The woman’s smile tightened. “Yes, such a terrible thing, leaving you in juvenile detention for so long. Trust me. You won’t ever see that man again.”

Dick’s skin prickled with goosebumps.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Let’s go!” She stepped out of the doorway, and held out a hand to him. Her nails were long, red as blood, and they came to sharp points—like talons. Her eyes were annoyed, but also empty, like her face was a mask that Dick could reach out and take off, and something else would be underneath.

Mama whispered to him frantically in the back of his mind, and this time, Dick decided to listen. He threw the blanket at the woman’s face, and ran.

Chapter Text

Gordon flicked on the signal. The doctored spotlight sputtered to life and projected the silhouette of the Bat onto the low, drizzling clouds.

“I want to see Richard Grayson’s witness statement.”

“Jesus,” said Gordon, startling and wheeling around to where the Bat was emerging from the shadows. “You know, when I have a heart attack one day, you’re paying my fucking medical bills.”

Gordon didn’t know it, but Bruce had set a fund aside a few months ago for that exact purpose. Just in case.

When it was clear he wouldn’t respond, Gordon sighed. “What’d you say you wanted again?”

“Richard Grayson’s witness statement.”

“You taking an interest?” Gordon crossed his arms.

“It ties into another case.” A blatant lie. But Bruce Wayne had been at the circus. He had his suspicions, but until they were confirmed, the Bat couldn’t seem too interested.

Gordon’s eyes narrowed. “Uh huh.” The Bat didn’t move. “Shit. Fine. Come with me.”

Following Gordon into the precinct always felt tense after that close call three years ago. 

When they’d reached his office, Gordon pulled a video up on his desktop. The grainy security camera footage showed Richard, curled up in a chair with his knees to his chest. A woman’s voice asked, “Did you get a good look at the man, Richard?”

The boy nodded, slowly. “He looked at me. I saw his eyes.”

Richard’s voice quavered as he recalled the events of the murder, but none of his tears spilled over. The strength of that little boy… The Bat decided that he didn’t need to see any more. “Is there a written report?”

Gordon tore his sad eyes away from the video, and said “What? Yes. Right here.”

Most of the information in the file was useless, but tucked near the back was a police sketch, based on Richard’s description.

The Bat didn’t need facial recognition for this one. 

He was gone by the time Gordon turned around. The Commissioner sighed. “I miss when he didn’t know how to fucking teleport.”

The job was insultingly blatant, an attempt at arson and insurance fraud that would only pass notice with a corrupt detective and an insurance agency willing to look the other way. The Bat was disappointed in Sal for falling into bed with the mob, he’d held the grocer’s for fifteen years without any problems. 

He had an ear-piece that was keyed into the police dispatch, and at that very moment there were both a grand theft auto and assault and battery further into the Narrows that needed his attention, but a man with a cleft chin and dark eyes that were too far apart was playing lookout in front of Sal’s Grocery.

He dropped next to Jaime Martin, and let the cape billow menacingly around him (he’d been working with the material recently so it would be more billowing, which seemed to be a success).

Jaime stumbled back, wheezing, “Oh shi–”

The Bat grabbed his forearm. He kept the man from falling on his ass. He also squeezed.

“Fuck man,” Jaime whined, “don’t you got better shit to be doing tonight? The signal’s on!”

He twisted.

“It’s just a little fire!”

“Where is Axel.”

The man stopped his sniveling, and blanched. “Axel? I– We ain’t talked in months, man, had a throw-down ‘bout splitting Mom’s hospice bills. What’d the stupid bastard do?”

The Bat let go—Jaime went sprawling, but he didn’t complain, just picked himself up again, shaking, and gestured for them to move deeper into the alley.

“Seriously, Bats,” Jaime said, “It’ll be a fuckin’ relief to work off the favor you did me with Marsha. What’d Axel do?”

The Graysons had fallen, splattered on the ground, and Richard had fallen on them moments later, gripping his father’s cheap spandex costume and petting his mother’s hair. “Who’s Axel been running with?” he growled.

“Man I just told you, we ain’t talked in months!” Jaime was gripping his hair, and sending nervous glances towards Sal’s back doors. They were starting to smoke. The arsonists would be emerging any second. “All I know is he’s been running more Drops than anyone since Falcone got ganked, but he ain’t been seeing a cent.”

The power vacuum created by Falcone’s assassination had been instantly filled by Penguin, but the lower level operations had been in shambles. Most of Falcone’s supporters either thought they should have taken his place, or were his loyal followers even in death. When the heads had finally stopped rolling, the winners immediately went to ground. It had been years, and the Bat still didn’t have a total handle on Penguin’s inner circle. Luckily, Drops production had grinded to a complete halt with the flood, and since then there were only two labs fully operational. 

The men in charge of both of them were fucking idiots, so the Bat didn’t have any trouble leaving them there, for now. But it was becoming obvious that one of them had to be responsible for the Graysons’ murder. When he found out which one that was, they were going behind bars, power vacuum and more competent replacements be damned.

“Did he smell more like sewage or salt?”

Jaime’s expression was totally blank. There was a commotion inside Sal’s, and the distant whine of sirens.

The Bat stepped forward. “Sewage, or salt?”

“The bastard’s always smelled terrible, Bats, I don’t know what the fuck you want from me!” Jaime backed against the alley wall, holding his hands in front of his face. 

The leather of the Bat’s gloves creaked.

“Fuckin’– He was always comin’ from the docks, if that’s what you mean! The subway line’s been down from that end’a town since the flood, and he’s been bitchin’ about it for a year. He showed up late to Marsha’s fifth birthday party—said it was cuz a boat ran aground into his warehouse, but I know he was just too cheap to pay for a cab.”

Skelton was operating out of the sewers. Zucco was down at the docks. And if Axel had done a hit for Zucco, he was already dead. 

One step forward, two steps back. Why had Zucco called a hit on aerialists that hadn’t been to Gotham since before the flood?

The door to Sal’s slammed open, and black smoke billowed out. Two muscled thugs emerged, choking, in time for five patrol cars and a fire engine to screech around the corner. 

Deeper into the alley, Jaime wouldn’t be seen unless someone drew attention to him—if he was smart enough to get the hell out in time. Marsha was starting up preschool in the fall.

The Bat melted into the night.

When the cowl came off and Bruce stumbled into his bedroom with the early summer sunrise, the black Tom Ford was hanging on the back of his door in a dry cleaning bag. Bruce snorted. Subtle. He’d been planning on going anyway.

He managed a few hours of troubled sleep (wide blue eyes brimming with tears, the sand of the ring shifting to wet cobblestone, twisted and mangled limbs turning into round after round emptied into starched evening-wear, and a broken strand of pearls) before being ripped awake by a screeching alarm.

Bruce slapped at his bedside with a growl, shutting the alarm off after two attempts. “Alfred!”

Predictably, there wasn’t a response.

He rolled out of bed, but didn't put on the suit. When he emerged from his room, Alfred was at his customary spot at the round oak table, reading the paper next to a tray of scones. 

“Dory’s been by,” Bruce noted.

Alfred spared him a long glance over his reading glasses. “You aren’t going?” His eyes fell to the tray as Bruce snagged a scone. “And don’t sound so certain. I could have decided to bake this morning.”

Bruce snorted as he bit into the scone. Alfred cooked–well enough that he refused to hire a personal chef, even after all these years—but he couldn’t bake for shit. Which they both knew.

“You didn’t answer my question.” 

His cycling jacket and a baseball cap were definitely not what the man had so subtly laid out for him the night before. “I’m going.” He ignored Alfred’s raised eyebrow. “Bruce Wayne would draw too much attention.”

“Leaving ‘stalking’ as the obvious next option.”

“I need to watch him,” Bruce said, heat coloring his tone against his will. Alfred didn’t disagree. Why was he feeling so defensive? “Even if they don’t decide to finish the job, the kid’s a witness. He’s a liability.”

Alfred didn’t respond. He did look up from his paper, though, straight into Bruce’s eyes and searching for something. He tried not to feel fifteen years old. Alfred turned the page, and sighed. “The service starts in fifteen minutes.”

Bruce headed to the elevator. “Tell Dory I said thanks for the scones.”

“Insolent brat.”

Bruce leaned against his ‘cycle and watched the tiny figure across the street, so small in front of the pair of sleek black coffins.

He’d made Joan handle all of the arrangements, which she’d done without batting an eye—though she’d been a little concerningly unsurprised at the request—but Bruce wished in hindsight that he’d made himself give a little input on the coffins. From what he’d seen of the Graysons, “modern” and “sleek” were things he doubted they’d ever willingly associated themselves with.

The only three other attendees towered over Richard: that sweaty social worker, the priest, and a cemetery attendant. He hadn’t felt rage against Gotham’s finest in months like he’d felt when he’d been informed by a quivering secretary that none of C.C. Haly’s group would be allowed to leave the fairgrounds for the funeral.

When he’d put his parents in the ground, Bruce hadn’t even wanted to be there. He couldn’t remember the other attendees. He wondered if Richard felt the same, or if he felt the other circus members’ absence.

The boy stepped forward suddenly, and leaned down to each coffin. He was moving stiffly. Was he getting any sleep? Bruce doubted it. Were the other children accepting him? Was Director Siemens looking out for him like he’d had Joan ask her to? She’d accepted the security detail he’d sent without much comment. That was unlike her.

Richard turned away from the service, while the priest was clearly still talking, and walked away, towards the social worker’s parked car. At least the director had managed to find him something black to wear, even though the pants looked like they were about to slip off his tiny waist, and the sleeves were too long. Bruce should have thought to send him clothes. The fact that the pants were clearly navy and not black bothered him more than it should have.

The social worker stumbled after Richard, and Bruce slipped on his helmet. He didn’t turn over the engine on his ‘cycle until they were both in the car.

The absence of officers at the fairgrounds was irritating—as usual, as media attention was moving on, focusing mostly on the Newtown orphanage fire, so was the police’s. On the other hand, it seemed they were finally letting circus members leave. While most of the circus remained exactly how it’d been the night of the Graysons’ murder, the residential area was almost cleaned out, and straggling vendors and performers were milling around quietly, packing up their acts.

Haly’s trailer wasn’t difficult to find. It was one of the only ones left. A light shone inside, and through the window on the door, the ringleader’s silhouette was slumped over a table, bottle in hand.

The Bat didn’t knock. The door swung open with a telltale squeak, and Haly groaned. “Not now, Reveca.” The thud of the Bat’s boots on linoleum flooring made Haly turn his head and crack open an eye. “You. Of course you’re here.” Haly had been crying. He might still be.

“What did Zucco want from the Graysons?”

As expected, that roused the man from his stupor. "How did you..?" Haly pressed the meat of his palms into his eyes, and propped his elbows on the table. “Nothing,” he groaned. “I never thought… I thought, if he’d lash out, it’d be at me, not the performers. Never Mary and John—oh God, Johnnie–”

“He approached you.”

Haly sobbed, lost in his grief.

The Bat growled. “What did he want.

“Protection money,” Haly moaned.

“Look at me, Haly.” The Bat loomed, frustration mounting. “Zucco killed the Grayson’s because you wouldn’t pay protection money?” Haly looked up, blearily.

“It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”

“Because you refused to pay.”

“Yes, because I… Because I wouldn’t pay.”

The guilt was eating Haly alive, but it clearly wasn’t enough to stop him from lying.

It made sense for Zucco to kill off the Graysons. Their family had built up such a reputation, they’d pull in crowds no matter their destination. Getting them out of the picture was more effective than targeting Haly himself would have ever been. But beside that vague motivation, the rest of the details of the case made no sense. Why spare Richard? 

He hadn’t heard anything from the security detail at the orphanage, no suspicious persons in or out, though apparently they were overflowing with kids displaced by the Newtown fire. He’d have to double-check that the director had enough funding for the extra load—especially food. Richard was tiny enough before he–

“I actually prepare for these things, you know,” said Lucius, and Bruce jerked, nearly overturning his bowl. “I made a file. Do you want to see the file?” He held up the file.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, Lucius.”

Lucius leaned forward. His expression flickered between amusement and giddy curiosity. “I’m getting pretty used to you ignoring me, but never unconsciously. Penny for your thoughts?”

Bruce sighed. He picked at his bowl. He’d gone back to soup dumplings after those godawful noodles last time. The bowl was pulled out of his reach, and Bruce glared. Lucius only looked more delighted. He blamed it on the low blood sugar when he finally relented. “There’s this kid…”

“I’m saying this as your friend: You’re a rich white man. Please don’t start sentences that way.”

Bruce’s appetite was gone. 

Some of his illness at the thought must have shown, because Lucius immediately winced. “God, I’m sorry, bad joke. What’s this about a kid?”

“No, you’re right.” Bruce leaned back into his rickety chair. “I should… I don’t even know why…”

“Is this about that boy from the circus? God, I wanted to tell you how sorry I am. I can’t believe you had to go through that.”

The insistent buzzing in Bruce’s pocket was the excuse he was desperately looking for to pull the ripcord on this conversation. He answered his phone with a curt, “Alfred.”

“Are you somewhere that you can watch the news?”

“No, I’m in a meeting. What–?”

“Richard’s social worker is dead.”

Chapter Text

The route to the Manor was still second-nature. The Stingray roared around each winding curve and the cracking pavement outside of town, and Bruce’s grip on the wheel and gear shift were loose. His mind was racing. None of the extra security had noticed anything out of the ordinary, he’d gotten a hold of them as soon as he’d gotten off the phone with Alfred.

He took the turn into the Manor’s half-mile drive, and pulled through the wrought-iron gate—they knew he was coming. The reconstructed building was nearly-identical to how he remembered it, an eight-year-old who didn’t understand why they had to leave his childhood home for a penthouse that was at the top of a terrifying skyscraper. He came here as little as he could.

Shifting into neutral, he threw the parking brake, and stormed through the double-doors. 

(A pathetic part of him still expected Mother to call from her library, Father to lean from his office and tell him some odd and disturbing medical trivia.)

The children were moving from what used to be the ballroom—it had been transformed into a dining hall—chattering and flowing around him without a care. He didn’t see Richard among them, but he could have already gone to his room. The kid might not even have an appetite, so soon after. He hadn’t. 

Director Siemens was at the top of the stairs, a toddler on her hip. Her eyes widened when she caught sight of him, and she rushed down. “Mr. Wayne!” She sounded breathless. The little girl clinging to her shoved her face into the woman’s shoulder to avoid eye contact with him. It was the effect he was used to having on children. “They told me you’d be coming by. I’m sorry it’s so hectic, the lunch hour is always controlled insanity.” She pushed a lock of hair behind an ear, and grimaced. “Is there a budget cut coming? I know we were under last year, but the extra funding is still integral, especially with medical bills and–”

“Where is Richard Grayson?”

The woman looked like she’d been slapped. “Richard? Mr Wayne…”

There was a vice pressing the air from his lungs. “Is he…” God, they’d already gotten to him. He knew he should have checked in this morning. This was his fucking fault.

“...and some of the rooms are still under construction, so it’s not as though we’re at full capacity under normal circumstances.” Bruce’s attention slowly faded back to the director’s words. She was talking quickly, looking slightly desperate, but he was suddenly suspicious. There wasn’t any police presence. The children seemed to be behaving completely normally, if their excited shrieking was anything to judge by. The director didn’t seem grieved, only concerned.

“Director,” Bruce gritted out. “Where is Richard?”

She stuttered, and held the little girl a little closer. “Like I said Mr. Wayne, we were devastated that we couldn’t hold the boy, but we received the surplus from Newtown just hours before he arrived, and there just wasn’t any room.”

“He wasn’t even here?”

“He was taken to another CPS center,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry, if I’d known that was the purpose for your visit, I would have told you right away.” All the extra security, Bruce’s slight peace of mind, and the boy had never even been here. “Are you..?” She brightened slightly. “Are you thinking of taking him in?”

Bruce turned around, and walked back out the doors, only catching a couple of children underfoot. He pulled up Alfred’s number. They needed to find Richard, and fucking fast.

They might already be too late.

“I just don’t understand it,” Alfred sighed. “It’s as though the boy completely disappears after his social worker’s initial filed report. There’s nothing.” He took off his glasses, and leaned over Bruce’s hunched back, looking at the monitor he’d been staring at for an hour. “Are you sure he isn’t–”

“I saw him yesterday,” Bruce gritted out, and tried to ignore the helpless panic. “He isn’t… I have to believe.”

Alfred put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. His tense muscles rejected the touch, but the part of him that felt like it was about to fly apart secretly didn’t want him to stop. “Then we’ll find him. Are foster homes yielding anything?”

“Nothing. He’s not in any of the CPS facilities, foster homes, or group homes. I even widened my radius to Newtown and Blüdhaven.” He rubbed his eyes. “They’re all overrun from that fire.”

“And the only man who might possibly know where Richard is was fished out of Gotham River this afternoon.”

Bruce pulled up the report on Adrian Seymour. Tentatively ruled a suicide, the man drowned the night before, hours after Bruce had seen him drive Richard away. The fact that Richard had been allowed to attend the funeral made him believe that, at least for now, he was somewhere relatively official. If he’d just followed them.

“I’ve gotta see the apartment.”

“You might want to wait at least a few hours.” There hadn’t been signs of a struggle, so the man’s apartment wouldn’t be too hot, but it would still be crawling with forensics, given his connection to the Grayson case. Even Alfred didn’t sound fully convinced.

“I’m going.”

Walking into an active crime scene investigation as the Bat never failed to set him on edge, but every second he waited was another second that Richard might not have.

The police force trusted him a little more these days, since Gordon took over as Commissioner, but eyes still followed him as soon as he stepped in from the fire escape. 

The apartment also didn’t show any signs of a struggle. Crime scene photographers subtly followed him as he analyzed the bedspread, framed photos, and rifled through the papers on the man’s desk. Anything with even a hint of Richard’s whereabouts. Of course, he was interested in who killed him, since it obviously tied into the murder case, but making sure that the boy was alive was top of his priorities. 

“I feel like I haven’t seen you during the day since that psycho clown got out again.” The Bat glimpsed at now-Detective Martinez out of the corner of his eye. The detective was still intimidated by him, but the effect was woefully less than it’d been three years ago. 

Martinez sidled up, and looked over the Bat’s shoulder at the desk. “You know, I almost took my sister’s kids to the circus that night. Gonna thank God for that flat tire for the rest of my life. She woulda killed me.” There was nothing. Official CPS paperwork, but all for Seymour’s other cases—conspicuously, none for Richard’s. “Did you know the kid is missing now?” The Bat tried to hide the way he bristled at the casual mention of the boy. “I don’t even know how that happens.”

The bedroom seemed to be a complete dead end. He even checked underneath the mattress. The only thing he hadn’t turned out were the man’s pockets.

The Bat paused. 

He turned to Martinez—he noted with grim satisfaction that the man still flinched, at least. “Did the body have a wallet?”

“No.” Martinez grimaced. “The guy was in sweatpants and a silk robe, he was pretty settled in for the night.”

The Bat thought back to the day before, looking on at the Graysons’ little funeral. It had been late morning, but even though the social worker had been in black, his dress hadn’t been formal enough to warrant going home to change before getting back to the office.

A wallet wasn’t lying around the apartment in some obvious place, but the man had been agitated and pale—probably not thinking straight. 

Rifling through the man’s drawers, a black pair of slacks was crumpled at the top, shoved in carelessly and thoroughly wrinkled. In the back left pocket was a fat leather wallet.

A flurry of shutters clicking went off behind him as the Bat opened the wallet and pulled out every card and identification. Most were work and CPS facility IDs, credit cards, and punch cards for coffee shops around the main CPS offices, but one identification caught his eye. A thin, flimsily laminated card, giving Adrian Seymour limited official access to Alpena Youth Corrections Facility.

“This case is so fucked up,” Martinez lamented.

The Bat handed the card to a woman with gloves, and stalked towards the window, grateful that Adrian Seymour was already good and dead.

Juvie. They put a nine-year-old who had just witnessed the traumatic deaths of both of his parents in fucking juvie.

He’d managed to tell Alfred something when he’d swung by to drop off the suit—as much as he’d love to burst in and start dealing out justice, his insistent involvement in the Grayson case was suspicious enough as it was.

Bruce Wayne stalked into the detention center, and up to the front desk, where a very young woman subtly took a picture of him with her phone.

He slapped a fistful of forms on her desk, and said “Your facility is holding a child on behalf of Gotham CPS. I’m here to get him out.”

The girl stammered. “I don’t… We aren’t an orphanage, Mr. Wayne, did you– were you–”

“I want you to sign each of those forms,” he said, with very forced calm, “and tell me where I can find Richard Grayson.”

“I’m just a volunteer,” the girl wheezed. She looked near tears. She was also still filming. That’d be a PR issue to deal with later. 

“Alright Claire, all done.” Bruce gave half his attention to the woman walking up behind him. She was in scrubs, pulling gloves off of her hands. “Chad is completely fine. I could have cleared him from the home office, but it’s fine. Sign me—Bruce Wayne?”

Bruce turned. This woman looked exhausted, and extremely annoyed, but also seemed to have half a brain. “Where is Richard Grayson?”

She froze, her frustration melting away to cautious suspicion and…relief? “Are you trying to get him out of here?”

“Is he alright?”

“Dr. Solomon,” the girl behind the desk chimed in, “I really don’t know what’s going on.”

Dr. Solomon’s eyes narrowed. “That boy needs time to heal. Are you really going to give him that?”

Bruce tried not to think about the implication that he was here to adopt the boy. He just needed to get Richard somewhere safe, and it had become pretty clear over the past few days that he might be the only person able to accomplish that, until his parents’ killers were brought to justice. “I just want to keep him safe.”

The doctor softened. She glanced at the forms on the desk, and back up at Bruce. He wanted to scream that they didn’t have time for this, but this was also the first person he’d encountered who seemed to give a damn about Richard’s well-being.

“He’s in room 107B,” she said, finally, with a sigh, “down that hall. Just, get him out of here.”

Bruce was off before she’d finished talking.

The halls were a disgusting shade of light green, lit by sickly pale fluorescents. He followed the hall, walking past guards who seemed to completely ignore him and cells—God, Richard had been in a cell this entire time, Bruce was going to carry this guilt with him for a very long time—when he turned a corner, and he rammed into a tiny body that fell hard to the ground.

Richard scrambled away. His eyes were wild, fearful but also determined. His back hit the wall and bolted to his feet, starting to run again—and then his eyes actually met Bruce’s. He stopped, and slumped.

“Mr. Wayne.” The boy reached for him.

Bruce almost reached back, until a woman rounded the corner where Richard had emerged. 

She was snarling. Richard launched himself from the wall, and placed himself in front of Bruce, his shoulders raised and his hands balled up into fists. Bruce felt like something had reached its way around his heart and squeezed.

The woman’s face went still, and she slipped back around the corner, out of sight.

He wanted to follow. He should have followed her, she was obviously integral to the case, but Richard was still in danger here, and instead of hiding behind the new adult like he should have, the boy was putting himself at risk. Bruce needed to get him out of here. Now.

“Richard.” He put his hand very, very lightly on the boy’s shoulder. He turned, and met Bruce’s eyes. “Are you alright?”

The boy’s wide eyes were brimmed with tears. “Why are you here, Mr. Wayne?”

That was a damn good question. Someday Bruce might know the answer. “I’d like to take you somewhere safe. If that’s okay with you.”

Richard laughed, but the sound quickly dissolved into a sob, and both of the boy’s hands gripped Bruce’s. “Please.” 

It ripped him apart. Just a little.

Keeping an eye where the woman had disappeared, Bruce started leading Richard back down the hall, but he ended up following as the boy tugged him along down the long, sickly halls. At the main entrance, the doctor and the girl behind the desk watched like hawks.

The forms. 

Bruce stopped, even as Richard tried to pull him towards the doors, saying no, no, don’t stop now. “Who do I need to talk to, to–”

“I’ll make sure the director signs these,” Dr. Solomon said, smiling gently.

He gave in to Richard’s pulling, and rushed out the door.

The Stingray was still running. Bruce opened the passenger door, and Richard scrambled in. When he was seated, he frowned. “Where’s the seat belt?” Bruce grimaced. What the fuck was he doing?

“This car is from before they were required,” he said. “I’ll…be really careful.”

The boy grinned.

Bruce slipped into the driver’s seat. “Richard,” and he honestly had no idea where this sentence was going, “I know I’m not– I’m not the best person for this, but I just want you to be safe–”

Richard put his hand over Bruce’s on the gear shift. “Can we talk about it when we’re away from here?” he asked.

God, of course. Bruce nodded stiffly, and the engine roared as they rocketed away from the detention center. The boy’s eyes widened as he sunk into his seat. His hand pressed against the door to feel the vibration, and his lips curled into a tiny smile. Bruce suddenly wanted to show him the other car, and immediately cursed himself for even considering it.

Bruce had no idea what he was doing. All he knew was that he was fucked.

Chapter Text

Leaning back into his seat, Dick had an awful thought. “I shouldn’t have left Brody.” He hugged his arms around his chest. Now that he thought about it, he was miserable with guilt. “That was a terrible thing to do.”

“Brody?”

Dick bit his lip and didn’t look at Mr. Wayne. He didn’t want to see, in case he got angry. “He was in the bed on top of mine. He’s really nice. He’s going with his grandma to a park with roller coasters, and I left him with her.” His voice was wobbling and his chest ached.

“Oh,” said Mr. Wayne. “Richard, no, I’m sure he’s okay. You didn’t leave him.”

“I did though. There was something wrong about her, and I ran away and left Brody behind.”

“Richard,” Mr. Wayne said, and paused. He didn’t sound angry. Dick turned to look at him. “I don’t… think she would do anything to Brody. I’ll call tomorrow to make sure, but you don’t need to worry.”

Dick felt a little comforted. His guilt was mostly overcome by curiosity. He wouldn’t ask now, because it kind of sounded like even saying that much almost hurt Mr. Wayne, but he put that thought away to ask later.

“Mr. Wayne–”

“You should call me Bruce.” Dick looked at Bruce for a second. His eyes were on the road, which was a good thing, but every muscle in his body was tense, even the ones in his face. Mama would have told him to stop that, it’d make him tired and slow. 

He was angry, but only a little bit now, and Dick knew it wasn’t at him. Even if he hadn’t sat with him that night, told him it wasn’t his fault and held his hand,  Dick would trust this man. He seemed more scared of Dick than Dick was of him. But names had power. 

Bruce offered his name, the one he liked, and Dick didn’t offer his. “Bruce,” he said instead, “where are we going?”

“The circus.”

Dick was reeling, leaning back in the big fancy seat of this big fancy car. He wasn’t overjoyed—honestly, feeling anything was too hard right now, he was so tired—but the thought of seeing his circus family again lifted a weight off his chest he hadn’t even known was there. Dick had kind of thought he’d never see them again.

“Thank you,” Dick said, looking down at his hands. “I miss them a lot.”

“A lot of them have left town,” said Bruce. “The police are finally saying they can leave.” He looked at Dick sadly out of the corner of his eye. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it makes sense. We don’t really like the police much. They’ll come back together when Haly’s moves again.” 

It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. Never this… horrible, but it felt like they were always getting into some sort of trouble. When that happened, people would sneak out of town, little by little, taking bits of equipment with them, and they’d all reunite in the next city. 

When he’d been little, Dick had loved when that happened. He and Mama and Tata would wake up very late in the night and be very quiet while they packed everything away. Tata would make him warm chao and sing him quiet songs while Mama would drive. Dick was bigger now. Now he remembered how Tata’s voice was shivery and his arms wrapped around him a little too tight, and how Mama’s face was completely blank. He’d had to take off his shoes to sneak around, which he normally wasn’t allowed to do, because of all the dangerous stuff that might be on the ground, at a–

Dick looked at his bare feet. The lady who had given him his uniform had given him shoes—they were too big, but they were still shoes, even if he had to kind of shuffle to keep them on, and it was a little gross to wear shoes without socks—but he hadn’t had time to put them on before he’d had to run away from the creepy lady.

“Bruce,” Dick said, watching to make sure it was really alright that he called him by his name–Bruce relaxed a little bit when he did, so Dick decided it must really be okay. “Do you have any, um. Shoes?”

Bruce just kind of scrunched up his face in a way that said what?, and if he weren’t so tired, Dick might have laughed.

“My m…” It was really hard to talk about them. “My mama said I shouldn’t walk around the circus without shoes. It’s not smart.”

“You don’t have–” 

And that was how they pulled up, in Bruce’s very fancy car, to an old gas station in the middle of the night. Someone was still inside, leaning against the counter and scrolling on their phone. 

“Do you want something to eat?” Bruce asked, while they were still in the car. Dick shook his head in a very hard no, Bruce said, “Okay,” and they went inside. 

When the rusty door swung open and the bell jingled, their eyes flicked up for a moment, they mumbled, “Hey,” and went back to ignoring them.

Bruce was very stiff, but Dick was starting to think maybe he was always like that. He stood near the door, pretending to look at the newspapers and magazines, but really he was watching as Dick wandered around the store. If it were someone else, Dick would probably have been annoyed, but Bruce wasn’t watching suspiciously, he just seemed worried.

Dick loved gas stations. The lights were always pale and kind of creepy, and the snacks were really expensive but Tata always let him get something, and they always had the weirdest things. 

After a few minutes, Dick was drawn to a cardboard standee near the front counter. It was black and yellow, with a weird, round and pointy symbol. There were sunglasses and phone cords and wallets and stickers and shoes!

They weren’t really shoes—they were pieces of foam, with flimsy pieces of plastic that strapped them to your feet. Dick hadn’t ever worn flip-flops before, but he’d seen locals wear them before. They looked super uncomfortable. The sole was black, the straps were yellow, and that weird symbol was printed on the sole, in a slightly different shade of yellow. 

Dick loved them.

“You a big Batman fan?” The clerk was looking at him with a tiny bit of interest, now. The bags under their eyes were super dark. 

“What’s Batman?”

Bruce coughed, and stepped up to the counter. “Will those fit you?”

Dick slipped the shoes off of the rack, and shoved one on his foot. “I think so.” He took them off, and watched Bruce as he slid them onto the counter. “Is it okay if you buy them? I don’t have any money.” He made sure to check the price. $11.99. It sounded like a lot.

Bruce already had his wallet out, pulling out a black card. He tried to hand it to the clerk, but they were actually paying attention to them now, and when Bruce got close, they froze, and looked kind of dazed.

“You’re Bruce Wayne.”

The smile that Bruce tried to twist onto his face was weak. “Yep.” He was still holding out a card.

The clerk looked down at Dick again. “You have a kid?” Dick wiggled his fingers at them, and tried to smile too. 

“How much was that again,” said Bruce, a little too loud, “twelve dollars?”

Blinking, the clerk took his card, scanned the shoes, and swiped it. Dick told himself to remember, twelve dollars, twelve dollars. A gray machine spat out a receipt, but the clerk forgot to give it to Bruce. They held out his card, and said, “Can I… get a picture–?”

“Have a good night.” Bruce reached for Dick’s hand (he didn’t grab or twist and squeeze, he held his larger hand out and waited for Dick to take it), picked up the shoes, and when Dick’s fingers wrapped around his, they hurried out of the gas station. 

When they were at the car, and Dick was sitting down in the passenger seat, Bruce stood next to him in the open door. He ripped plastic ties away from the shoes, pulling them apart, and handed them to Dick one-by-one. 

“You’re famous,” Dick said, watching Bruce as he put on one of the flip-flops.

Bruce looked at him, searching Dick’s expression, and nodded.

“The gas station person is taking pictures of you.” Bruce stood up to his full height, and looked over the car and at the clerk. Dick couldn’t see his face, but it must have been pretty scary, because the clerk immediately shrunk away again.

Bruce leaned back down again, and handed him the second shoe. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

“What for?”

Bruce shrugged. He stood up again, closed Dick’s door, and walked to the other side of the car. When he’d sat down and closed his door, he said, “It can be a little overwhelming.”

Overwhelming. English was so weird. “It’s not your fault people are weird about stuff like that.” Bruce wasn’t even at a fancy red carpet or anything, and two people had taken pictures of him in the last hour. And he clearly hated it. Dick felt a little like he’d felt in the hallway at the center, when the lady had been coming for them and he’d stepped in front of Bruce and held out his hands.

Bruce didn’t say anything to that, just started the car again and pulled out onto the road again. 

There were so many things he wanted to ask him, and so many things he wanted to talk about—Mama used to call him a motor-mouth, which used to make his nose wrinkle—but he was just so tired. He hadn’t slept without a nightmare since he’d gone to the center. He’d barely slept at the center. And there was a hollow, aching feeling in his belly, even though he didn’t want to eat at all.

Dick tried to focus on something else. He looked down at his new shoes, and remembered the weird symbol that was hidden by his feet. “What’s Batman?”

Bruce blinked a couple of times. “What?”

“When I was looking at these shoes the gas station person asked if I liked Batman,” Dick explained, patiently. Bruce was probably tired too. It was getting really late.

“Oh.” Bruce breathed in deep. “Batman is… He stops criminals.”

Dick’s eyes widened. “Like a superhero?”

Bruce winced a little. Maybe he was being too loud? He’d try to be a little quieter, but this was very exciting news. “Kind of. He protects people in Gotham. Or. He tries to.”

“Wow.” Dick leaned his head back against the seat, shocked. He wiggled his toes in his shoes. “Like Spiderman.”

The noise Bruce made kind of sounded like a laugh? Wow, he needed practice.

For the rest of the ride, Dick made Bruce tell him things about Batman (Bruce said he was actually called “The Bat,” people on social media got the name wrong all the time and it was starting to stick) even though it was like pulling teeth. He was kind of scary, he wore all black, with a black cape and pointed ears, and he’d helped a lot of people after the flood Gotham had a few years ago. 

Dick thought he sounded amazing, but it didn’t seem like Bruce was a fan. He chalked that up to him being an adult. He had three comic books, all Spiderman, and Mama and Tata hadn’t read them either.

As soon as he could see the circus in the distance, the excitement leeched from his body. He was happy to see Pop Haly again, but being there without them sounded… Dick wasn’t really sure how it sounded. 

Impossible, maybe.

The car pulled up to Pop Haly’s trailer (Dick wondered for a little bit how Bruce knew where it was), and the door to the trailer opened, and as soon as the car stopped rolling, he was off like a shot. 

He knocked into Pop Haly so hard he staggered. “Kiddo,” he breathed, pressing a hand to the back of Dick’s head. “What are you doing here?”

“Mr. Wayne saved me,” Dick said, muffled by Pop’s shirt. “I missed you.”

“God kid, I’ve missed you too,” the older man said, and he kind of sounded like he was crying. Dick didn’t want to see him cry. “Hey.” Pop put his hands on Dick’s shoulders, and pushed him gently away from where Dick was wrapped around his middle, “Let me see you.” 

Dick looked up into his eyes, and, sure enough, he was crying, which obviously made Dick tear up too.

“You’re not sleeping,” Pop said, sadly.

“Neither are you.” Pop looked kind of terrible. 

The man huffed, and lifted him off the ground into another hug. Nobody had held him since before it happened. Dick wasn’t a baby, he could do a quadruple somersault, but he felt so awful. Being held helped.

“I’m so sorry, kid,” Pop Haly mumbled, over and over. “So, so sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Dick said.

Pop stiffened. He pulled Dick off of him, and set him on the ground again. His eyes were very serious, now. “Dick,” he said, “you have to go.”

“No, Pop,” Dick said, and managed a tiny smile. “Mr. Wayne got me out of there. He signed some stuff, and took me away from the center. He said I don’t ever have to go back.” Bruce was standing about five feet away, his hands in his coat pockets. It was starting to drizzle, and he kind of looked silly, all wet and awkward.

Haly frowned. “The center? It– Dick, no. It isn’t safe for you here. You need to get your things, I saved most of it from the cops,  and then–”

Dick pulled away. “No. I’m– Bruce saved me, and he took me back. I can stay now.”

Bruce stepped forward, slowly and carefully. “Richard, it isn’t safe here for you.”

Whipping around, Dick watched Bruce’s face, and the tight, careful line of his shoulders. “You didn’t take me here to stay,” he breathed. “You want me to come with you. You–” He’s so sad he feels like he could choke on it, and so angry. “We came here to say goodbye.”

“It isn’t safe for you here,” Pop Haly said, and reached out a hand.

“No!” Dick yelled, slapping the hand away from him, and, looking back at Bruce one more time, he ran.

Pop Haly yelled after him—tried to follow for a few seconds. Bruce didn’t.

Mama and Tata’s bed hadn’t ever felt big before. He remembered being really little, and sleeping with them, and they’d always had to snuggle in very close, so Mama wouldn’t roll off in the middle of the night, and so Tata wouldn’t be able to steal too much of the blankets. 

The bed had a thin top sheet, and a crocheted blanket that Tata’s daj had made, for his wedding. She had spun the yarn herself, and dyed it blue and white and yellow, and crocheted together little flowers and leaves. Dick traced one of the flowers with his fingers, as he stared at the ceiling. He’d met her, but he didn’t remember it. He’d been a little baby. Tata had the picture, somewhere special. 

The blanket on his little bed was also crocheted. It was made from bright red store-bought yarn, and it had holes and patches and clumsy stitching. Mama had insisted on making him a blanket. She was terrible at crafts.

Dick grabbed the blankets in one hand, and pulled them over himself, huddling in a small ball.

That last night, Mama had had a nightmare. Dick didn’t know because she’d woken him up—when he had nightmares he kicked and yelled and cried into his pillow, but when Mama had nightmares she just laid very still and shuddered. Tata had been the one to wake him up. He’d been leaning over Mama, whispering things to make her feel better, and Dick had woken slowly, crawled into their bed half awake and nestled between the two of them.

Mama had pet her fingers through his hair. Her fingers shook. 

“See that, Marygirl?” Tata had said, pressing a kiss to her forehead—Dick had been too sleepy to complain. “Both your boys, right here. We’re alright. You’re alright.”

Mama’s eyes were so empty when she got like that, it always scared him a little. She stuttered, “If that–”

“It won’t ever happen,” Tata had said, sternly. “You won’t let it.”

Mama had breathed in deep, and let it out again, slow and steady. “I won’t,” she said, and then they’d fallen asleep. Or at least, he and Tata had. Mama probably stayed awake for another few hours, watching them.

And then, less than a day later, she’d died. They’d both died. 

He’d thought coming back to the trailer would make him feel better. Home was supposed to make you feel better when you’re sad. But it wasn’t home anymore. Not without them.

The trailer door squeaked open. Dick didn’t have to look to know who it was.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” Dick said. His voice was raspy.

“Don’t apologize,” Bruce said. Dick peaked a look at him over his shoulder. He was so tall, taller than his mama and tata, and he kind of had to hunch under the low ceiling. It was a little silly.

Dick sat up, keeping the blankets wrapped around him. “You can sit,” he said, and pointed with his chin at the bench at the table. 

Bruce sat. He looked around, at the half-open window and the scarves stapled to the ceiling and the pictures tacked over every inch of the walls. “It’s beautiful,” he said. Bruce was rich and famous, his house was probably massive and he probably could open and close his windows all the way, and one of the burners on his stove probably wasn’t tilted to one side, and he probably had a bathroom with a bathtub. But when he said that, Dick believed him.

He looked over to where Dick was sitting, on the bed. “Did you sleep there? With them?”

Dick slowly shook his head. After a moment, he crawled out of the bed, and over to the wall where his clever bed was hidden. He pulled it down, propped it up, and climbed on. It was right next to the table. Bruce stood again, looking it over—he reached out a hand, and tested how sturdy it was. 

“That’s very smart,” he said. 

Dick nodded, proud. “It was the only thing Tata ever built that worked. He was bad with tools.” Bruce smiled a very tiny, but real, smile. Nothing like the other smiles he’d tried to use tonight, with the girl at the center, and the gas station clerk. Dick waited until Bruce looked at him again, in the eyes, and said, “I don’t want to leave the circus.”

“I know,” Bruce said. He sat down again.

“But I have to.”

Bruce’s eyes searched Dick’s face, but he didn’t know what they were looking for. 

“The person who killed my parents,” Dick continued, as steadily as he could, “They… They want to get me too. That’s why that lady was there, tonight.” 

“You don’t have to live with me,” Bruce said, unconvincingly. “I could find you a foster home, assign you security until the police find them.

“But you want to look after me.”

Bruce breathed in, long and unsteady, and looked away.

Dick flopped back onto his bed. He looked up at the ceiling for a moment. It was cold. He could feel the wet air from the rain outside sinking into his skin. “Okay,” he whispered. 

“Richard, you don’t have to–”

“I’m coming with you.” Dick propped himself up on one elbow, and glared. “I like you, Bruce. I trust you. If I have to leave the circus, I don’t want to go anywhere else.” He sat up fully. “Okay?”

Bruce relaxed a little, and shook his head, with that little out-of-practice smile. “Okay.”

“What about this one?” Bruce held up a yellow sweatshirt with green lettering that he got while they were touring Australia last year. It looked so silly with Bruce holding it up—bright yellow against his serious face and long black coat.

“Yeah, okay.” Bruce put it into the bag. 

There were only a few suitcases and boxes that Dick could use to bring his things, and for such a small trailer, they had a lot of things. But Bruce had promised that this was just the stuff he needed right away, or the stuff that was the most special to him. He would send someone else tomorrow to pack up the rest of their things and bring them to Bruce’s house.

Dick was taking down special pictures. A picture of him and Tata smiling on Torensluis bridge in Amsterdam. A picture of Mama the time she tried to cook American hamburgers and set the trailer on fire, laughing with soot stains all over her face. The picture Mama and Tata took the night his tata proposed. 

“Do you mind if I call someone, Richard?” Bruce’s voice cut through Dick’s rush of memories. Dick shook his head. He pulled out his phone, while Dick kept sorting through photos.

The phone only rang once before the other person picked up. “Alfred,” Bruce said. “Yeah, I found him. We’ll be there soon.” The other person said something, and Bruce huffed. “Yeah, I know, I’m sorry.” 

Dick was extremely curious.

After a long pause, Bruce said “Alright.” He almost hung up, and then winced, like he remembered something. “Bye,” he said, and then he hung up.

“Who’s Alfred?” Dick asked, almost immediately.

“He’s my…” Bruce paused. “He’s my butler.”

“Wow,” Dick drew out the word until it had at least fifteen ‘o’s. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Bruce tossed a pair of pajama pants at Dick’s head—obviously he dodged out of the way. “You two are gonna get along.”

Dick was putting his pajama pants into his backpack, with all the other things he needed for the night. “Do you really think so?”

Bruce snorted. “I know so.”

Dick didn’t totally believe him. But he did feel a little better.

They finished packing in half an hour, making sure to get everything Dick would need that night and the next day, until the rest of his things arrived—he snuck his stuffed elephant into his backpack while Bruce was turned around, closing a suitcase. 

Saying goodbye to the trailer was a little hard, but like he’d realized, it wasn’t really home without them. Saying goodbye to Pop Haly was harder, but he promised they’d see each other every year, when the circus came back to Gotham. The hardest was Elinore.

Elinore was very sad. 

Tata used to say that elephants knew when their friends died, and they grieved. Dick put both of his hands on her big face, held her close, and grieved with her, for a little bit. He introduced her to Bruce—the man stood stock still while Elinore wrapped her trunk around his arm and trumpeted—and told her he had to go. 

Her big, smart eyes said goodbye, and her trunk gave his cheek little kisses, wiping away his salty tears. She followed him to the edge of the cage, and held her trunk out through the bars until he was out of reach. 

Stuffing two suitcases and his backpack into Bruce’s fancy rich person car was hard, but they managed it after a while—Dick ended up sitting on one, while his feet rested on the other, and he held his backpack in his lap.

To get to Bruce’s house, they drove into the middle of the city, further in than Dick had ever been. The buildings got even taller, and bright, light-up signs flickered in amazing colors, though he couldn’t see what they said because of the rain.

What he could see were really big, white letters, spelling out WAYNE on one of the biggest skyscrapers he’d ever seen. “Bruce..?”

Bruce winced. “Yeah.”

So he was that kind of rich.

They pulled up to a little alley, and when Bruce pressed a button, the ground opened, and made a little ramp. There were a few other cars parked in this super secret place, and an elevator. Dick folded his arms and looked at Bruce. “Is this your garage?”

“Yeah.”

When they were parked, Bruce turned to Dick—he looked really worried. “I know this is probably a lot. I’m sorry. If it’s too much, I can–”

“It’s okay, Bruce.” Dick didn’t want him to be worried. He wanted to touch him, on the hand or on the shoulder, like Tata used to when he was upset. But he stopped. He reminded himself that Bruce was just doing all of this because he didn’t want Dick to get killed—not because he… “It’s a little crazy, you’re like James Bond or something—“ Bruce snorted, “—but I’m okay.”

Reassured, Bruce got out of the car.

Dick took a moment, with his eyes closed and the steady breaths Mama taught him, and he followed.

Chapter Text

The elevator had so many buttons that Dick couldn’t reach the ones on top even on his tiptoes. Bruce had made the doors open with a key, and said he lived at the top of the building. Dick wondered if there were even stairs in this place; it would probably take an hour to climb them all.

He watched as the number at the top of the elevator ticked up and up, and tried really hard not to sway on his feet. So much had happened today, and now that the excitement and fear was fading away, the exhaustion of several days without much sleep was catching up to him, kicking and screaming. Dick caught his eyelids drooping, and pinched the meat of his palm, like Tata used to do when he was really tired.

Bruce was standing just a step away. It was really tempting to just lean against him and shut his eyes, but Bruce wouldn’t like that.

“Alfred should have a room ready for you,” Bruce said, like he’d noticed Dick struggling, even though he’d been really careful not to show it. “You have something to sleep in?”

Yes, the massive yellow “Budapest” shirt that he’d stolen from Mama a long time ago (who’d stolen it from Tata). Dick nodded, and suppressed a yawn.

“Good. I’ll have people bring the rest of your things in the morning, and you can–” Before he could finish, the elevator dinged, and the doors rolled open. 

Dick’s exhaustion flew away, if only for a moment. His eyes widened. “This is where you live?"

Bruce didn’t smile, but the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Come on,” he said, and stepped off the elevator. “I thought Alfred might… But I can show you around a little.” He turned back to Dick. “If you… wanted?”

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the soaring staircase and thick iron chandelier. Dick stood there for so long that the elevator door started to close—Bruce pushed them back aside, and held a hand in front of the door to keep them closed.

“Richard,” he said, “are you okay?”

Dick’s eyes flickered to him, and back to the massive space in front of him. Finally, he steeled himself, put his shoulders back, and stepped off of the elevator. 

The noise his gas station Batman shoes made on the dark wood floors felt like the loudest sound he’d ever heard. Bruce didn’t lead him anywhere, just walked beside him and watched. He knew Bruce was a good guy, but it felt like he was in a museum, and one of the men with suits and ear pieces was following him around, waiting for him to break something and take him to jail—take him back to jail.

He went up a small flight of stairs—after looking to Bruce for permission—and came to a crossroads, with the long, tall stairs to his right, an open arch into a dark room in front of him, and a hall to his left. Bruce still wasn’t telling him what to do, and Dick was a little terrified of making the wrong choice, so he didn’t make one.

Instead, he moved over to a painting that had caught his eye. It was nestled in at the bottom of the steps, and it was real, Dick could see the little marks of a paintbrush when he got close enough. The painting was of a man and a lady. She was sitting down, with her hand on one shoulder, and he stood behind her, a hand resting on top of hers. The man looked like a lot of rich men Dick had seen, but the lady’s eyes were very familiar.

“Bruce, you’re back,” said a voice from the top of the stairs. Dick jerked away from the fancy painting, and rushed back to Bruce’s side, hiding behind him just a little bit. “And I suppose you must be Richard.” 

The man coming down the stairs was in a nice suit, with a black vest and the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up past the elbows. He was mostly gray, like Pop Haly, and he leaned on a cane, but his arms and shoulders looked strong, and he stood completely straight.

“Richard,” Bruce said, “This is Alfred. I told you about him.” 

The butler. Yeah right. Dick didn’t believe this man was just a butler for a second, but he didn’t look angry or stern. He stepped out from behind Bruce, and held out his left hand, so Mr. Alfred could shake it without letting go of his cane. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

Behind him Bruce made a little noise. Before Dick could turn around, Mr. Alfred took his hand, and shook it firmly. “I’m happy to meet you, Richard,” he said. “I know it’s late, but our housekeeper made cookies, and she forgot that Bruce doesn’t like chocolate. Would you like one?”

Dick’s stomach was so empty it twisted and ached, and he was so, so tired. “Is that allowed?”

“Of course it is,” Mr. Alfred said, instantly. “Here, follow me.” He started walking down the hallway to the left, and Dick really wanted to follow him, but Bruce didn’t move, and Mr. Alfred seemed nice but he couldn’t be alone with someone he just met, not after– “Bruce,” Mr. Alfred called over his shoulder, without even looking. 

Bruce winced, and he followed.

Mr. Alfred turned on lights as he went, which helped this big place feel a little less scary. “I’ve just finished setting up a room for you upstairs. I’ll show you the way there when you’ve finished. When you wake up in the morning, you can come and find me here.” At the end of the hall, past a swinging door, was the biggest kitchen Dick had ever seen.

“Do you cook too, Mr. Alfred?”

The older man smiled and pulled a tupperware from a high cabinet. “You can call me Alfred, Richard. Or Mr. Pennyworth, I suppose. But I’d prefer just Alfred. And yes, usually.”

“Pennyworth,” Dick breathed. Mr. Alfred—just Alfred, he needed to remember—pulled a cookie from the tupperware, and gestured to the giant counter in the middle of the room. There were high stools tucked underneath it. Dick took the hint and climbed onto one. “That’s the best last name ever.”

“That’s nice of you to say,” said Alfred, and he smiled with his eyes, just like Bruce. He handed over the cookie. Dick took it in both hands, and gaped for a moment.

“This is the biggest cookie I’ve ever seen in my entire life.” He held it up to his face. “It’s the size of my entire head.” Then he started, and blushed. “Thank you.” Geez, he was so tired he was forgetting manners, in front of the fancy butler in a vest and tie.

“I’ll have to give Dory your compliments,” Alfred said, and turned to the gigantic metal fridge.

Taking that as permission, Dick bit into the cookie, and moaned.

Bruce leaned his hip against the counter. “Good?”

“The best,” said Dick, covering his mouth while he talked and chewed. “Are you sure you don’t want one?”

Bruce shook his head. “I don’t eat very many sweet things.”

Dick’s eyes widened. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“You’re telling me you do?” Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have some acrobat’s diet?”

Dick thought about the way Tata’s eyes lit up whenever they passed a candy store, and the way Mama would hide toffee around the trailer and the camp so that he and Tata wouldn’t eat any of her stash, and the scoops and scoops of sugar that both of them would put in cups of chao. He shrugged. The cookie didn’t taste as good anymore.

Bruce’s face tightened, but before he could say anything, Alfred came back, and put a cup of milk in front of Dick. “Here,” he said, “that’s the only way to eat a cookie like Dory’s.”

That was true. Dick set the cookie down, and took a sip of milk, starting to feel a little better, even though his eyelids were getting droopy again. “Did you want a cookie, Alfred?”

Alfred blinked a couple of times, and then actually, really smiled. “It’s a little late for me,” he said, “but maybe tomorrow you and I could share one.”

Dick leaned his head on one hand, and put the cookie down so he could pick away little chunks to eat. “We’ll have to make something that Bruce can eat, too,” he said, and paused so he could yawn. “Then he won’t be left out.” Gravity was slowly, slowly pulling his head toward the counter. Dick gave up, and pillowed his head on his arm.

Somewhere down the hall, a phone started ringing.

“I’ll be right back,” said Alfred, and gave Bruce a significant look. “Finish your cookie, Richard.” He started off to the kitchen door.

“Yes, sir,” Dick mumbled, even though lifting even one more bite to his mouth felt like the hardest thing in the world.

“You never called me sir.”

Dick turned his head a little, and looked at Bruce out of one eye. “Mr. Alfred is fancy, Bruce.”

“So I’m not fancy?”

“No,” Dick snorted.

“My name’s on the building.” Bruce crossed his arms and tried to look important or something. It didn’t work very well, but probably only because Dick knew him.

“Your last name.”

“What am I then?”

Dick hummed, and his eyes slipped closed. “Sad, mostly,” he tried to say, but it only came out in a whisper. Everything was so heavy , and this counter was the most comfortable place he had ever laid down in his life.

There was a sound above him, muffled, like he was underwater. Dick ignored it, and finally gave in to sleep.

He woke again with warm arms around him, one holding up his legs and the other around his back. His arms were draped around sturdy shoulders. Sighing, he burrowed his nose into the shoulder, and squeezed his eyes shut—why were there lights on?

It was only a couple of moments before his mind woke up too, and Dick had to try really hard not to stiffen. Bruce was carrying him.

It felt really nice.

Dick knew that he couldn’t get too attached to Bruce—he was only taking care of him until it wasn’t dangerous anymore, until the person trying to hurt him got caught—but it was hard when he was so silly and awkward and nice . He decided not to think about it, and kept his eyes closed, enjoying the feeling while it lasted. Dick missed touching people.

He heard the sound of a door creaking open, and the lights were finally gone.

“Alfred,” Bruce whispered, and the sound rumbled in his chest, “Can you–?”

“Bruce,” Alfred whispered, a little exasperated. “Just lay him down.”

Bruce huffed, and after taking a few steps, leaned down to put Dick down on something soft and fuzzy and much more comfortable than the counter. He was smart enough not to try and keep Bruce from pulling away, even if the loss of warmth left him cold and a little sad.

“He’s lost weight I don’t suspect he could’ve stood to lose,” Alfred said, lowly. 

“I tried to make him finish eating.” Bruce wasn’t as good at talking quietly as Alfred, it came out more like a growl. “He was exhausted.”

“I’m not surprised. I remember how little sleep you got for months, after.”

“I hope that stops here.”

“It probably won’t, for a while.”

“Yeah.”

There were a few minutes of silence, and Dick almost fell asleep for real.

“He can’t sleep like that.” Dick stiffened a little. Was he not supposed to sleep here? But then why had Bruce put him down?

“What do you mean?”

“In those,” Bruce gritted out. “The uniform.”

“The Center,” Alfred’s quiet voice sounded the hardest Dick had heard it.

“I should go get his things. He shouldn’t wear that any longer.” There was a hum, and then Bruce said, slowly, “Is the furnace on?”

“It’s summer, Bruce.”

“...It just might be nice, to…”

“Oh for–” Someone shifted. “Go get his things, Bruce.”

Bruce huffed, but Dick could hear him stalk away.

Dick waited patiently for Alfred to leave after him, but he didn’t. He waited for a moment, and then sat next to Dick on the bed, and a lamp clicked on.

“Are you comfortable enough?”

Dick seized up in terror, and cautiously opened his eyes. Sure enough, Alfred was looking right at him, and he couldn’t read his expression at all. “I’m sorry for spying,” he said, hating how much his voice shook.

“I was actually impressed,” Alfred said, and he softened. “Not many people can trick Bruce.”

Dick sat up, his heart lurching. “I wasn’t trying to trick him, honest,” he said, “I was just…” He wasn’t really sure why he’d needed to listen to them, but he had —when he’d realized they were talking about him, any possibility of falling asleep had washed away, and he’d laid there, almost breathless.

“It’s alright, Richard,” said Alfred, and pressed a hand to Dick’s shoulder. “I’m not upset with you.” Dick looked up at him, to gauge if he was telling the truth, and it sure seemed like it. “I want you to know,” Alfred began—his eyes were serious, but not angry or upset—“that you can trust us to tell you anything you need to know. That’s a promise.”

Dick didn’t hate crying, but he’d done it so much in the last week that as soon as he felt tears in his eyes, he pushed them away. He felt safe with Bruce, and Bruce trusted Alfred—Dick wanted to trust him too. “Okay,” he said. “Thank you, Alfred.”

Seeming satisfied, Alfred drew his hand back. “Yes. Well.” It reminded him a lot of Bruce. Dick had to try very hard not to smile. “Would you…like to take off your shoes?”

Surprised, Dick looked at his feet, and this time he did laugh. “Bruce isn’t very good at tucking people in.” 

“He hasn’t had much practice.”

Dick didn’t really know what to say to that. He slipped off the flip flops, and handed them to Alfred, who made a very funny expression when he saw them. “They’re Batman,” Dick said, and Alfred hummed an affirmative. “Can I–!” he reached for the shoes as Alfred started to stand back up. “Can I keep them please? I know they aren’t very fancy, but…I like them,” he finished lamely.

“Of course you can,” said Alfred, and again, Dick really couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He wondered if anyone could. “I’ll just go put them in the shoe closet.” They really weren’t very nice, and he was sure Alfred was offended that they were even allowed into this fancy place, but Dick was really, really grateful he got to keep them. He wanted them to be a reminder of tonight, later. When Bruce sent him somewhere else.

“Thank you,” Dick said, “I don’t know where that is.”

“Will you be alright if I leave you for a few minutes?” Alfred asked. “I can stay, if you would like.”

Even with all the excitement, Dick was too tired to really care very much about being left alone in a new place. He trusted Bruce, and Bruce trusted Alfred, so he would be okay. “I’ll be alright,” he said, firmly. He smooshed some pillows up against the headboard, and leaned back against them. He wasn’t going to fall asleep before Bruce came back, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be comfy.

Alfred lingered in the doorway. He looked a little silly, carrying Dick’s flip flops. “I’m glad to meet you, Richard,” he said, finally.

Nestled against the pillows, Dick had to hold back his yawn with an iron will. “I’m glad to meet you too, Alfred.”

“Sleep well,” Alfred said, and slipped out of the doorway, even though Dick wasn’t going to fall asleep.

But the bed was probably the comfiest he’d ever laid in, and the blankets were heavy and so warm, and even with the lamplight still shining in his eyes, he was asleep in minutes.

Chapter Text

The nightmare was different this time. (Birds gliding and swooping together until their wings crumple up and they fall and fall and fall. Mama’s voice asks why and Tata says his name so sad and angry) The mound of pillows he was curled up on was wet, but he hadn’t woken up screaming. Dick clutched Zitka to his chest and shuddered until the tears stopped. He was glad he hadn’t screamed; Bruce seemed so tired, he didn’t want to wake him up. 

He wrapped a hand around Zitka’s trunk, and held her under his chin. Dick hadn’t slept with her in a very long time because he wasn’t a baby anymore, but he needed something to touch and hold, and she still smelled like them. He wished there was a way to freeze that smell—make sure it never faded away. One of Mama’s shirts and Tata’s cracked leather gloves were in the bottom of his backpack. Dick wondered if Mr. Alfred knew how to lock things away so they never lost their smell.

Thinking about Mr. Alfred made the tight fluttering in his chest feel a tiny bit better. Unwinding himself from a very soft blanket, Dick slipped off of the massive bed, and crept to the window and its heavy, drawn curtains. 

It wasn’t really dark outside—not the way he was used to—because of the giant buildings all around them, with flashing signs and bright windows, but it was definitely still really early. 

There was a little seat under the window, with a velvety cushion. Dick sat on it, curling his legs up under him, and ran his hand over the strange fabric while he thought. 

No one would be awake yet, so he couldn’t go find someone to talk to, or get a pat on the head or a hand on his shoulder. The thought of going back to sleep made him shudder—he didn’t want to see twisted legs and arms bending too many ways and blood oozing over dark skin. And leaving the room was out of the question. Mr. Alfred had given him a funny look when he’d gotten too close to that painting. What if they saw him and thought he was stealing ?

So, he was stuck in his room—this room, not his room. He didn’t actually know whose room this was supposed to be.

A little flag hung on the wall that said Knights in big, white letters. The covers on the bed were white and gray, and the pillows were mostly black. 

There was a fireplace on the other side of the room. 

Dick huffed. Bruce was so rich. He wondered if this crazy place had a dumbwaiter, like the old houses he and… that he used to visit. 

But the fireplace had picture frames on it.

Without really thinking about it, Dick bounced off of the window-seat and over to the fireplace.

It was too tall.

So he grabbed the fancy rolling chair from the desk and pulled it over, very slowly and carefully so he wouldn’t wake up Bruce and Alfred. He flicked on the small lamp next to the bed, and clambered on top of the chair.

There were three pictures. In one, a fancy man and a fancy lady stood side-by-side, each with one hand on the shoulders of a boy, standing in front of them. The boy had sandy hair, and even though he was standing perfectly, and he wore a little fancy bow-tie, his hands were fidgeting a little, and his smile was awkward. 

Dick put his elbows on the mantle and laid his head on his crossed arms. That was Bruce. Nobody else could be that bad at smiling. 

In another picture, Bruce—and it was so weird, seeing a boy that looked even younger than him and comparing it with the somber, giant man who’d rescued him—was holding a baseball bat over his shoulder and he had on one of those weird helmets. The front of his pinstriped uniform read Squires .

Mr. Alfred was in the last picture. He was asleep, passed out on a couch in a sea of wrapping paper and wearing a terrible green sweater over his fancy-man suit. Bruce was curled up in his lap, even littler than the other pictures. His sweater was even uglier, with sparkly Christmas lights knitted into it.

Dick looked at that last picture for a really long time. That cold, fluttery feeling in his chest was gone, now. He felt really warm, even though he kind of also ached.

This had been Bruce’s room.

Sitting down in the chair, Dick looked around the room, and felt a little sadder this time. There wasn’t anything fun or soft or colorful in here. Was that just a rich people thing, or was that a Bruce thing?

But then his eyes skittered and landed on something amazing . A tall bookshelf was up against one wall, and it was stuffed completely full.

The chair spun as Dick abandoned it and bounded over to the books. He and Tata used to go to libraries in every town they went to. Some of them were gigantic and cold, white with big glass windows, and they were good because he was there with his tata and there were books. They’d tried to arrange themselves comfortably on weird-shaped couches and read for hours and hours and hours. But his favorites were the old libraries: the ones that looked like they were about to fall down, that didn’t have any windows and didn’t have any of their shelves in order, that only had books whose spines were cracked and whose pages were yellow.

There weren’t a lot of those nice books on Bruce’s shelves, but he did find one. It was on the very bottom shelf, laying on top of the books that stood in a neat little row. It didn’t even have a spine—Dick could see where the pages were sewn and glued together.

Dick pulled it from the shelf, and made a choked little sound. It was French . A little boy stood on a tiny planet, and next to him it said Le Petit Prince , in curving yellow letters.

Mama didn’t love to read, but she loved French.

For a second Dick stood there, holding the book very carefully and gently. He was still so worried that Bruce or Mr. Alfred would think he was stealing, but it was still dark outside, and if he didn’t do something until they woke up he’d probably start jumping and flipping around and break one of Bruce’s nice things. 

Dick memorized exactly where the book had been on the shelf, and climbed back onto the bed. He wrapped himself in the blanket again, burrowing in until only his eyes and hands weren’t wrapped up, and gently opened the book to its first page.

“ Lorsque j'avais six ans j'ai vu, une fois, une magnifique image, dans un livre sur la Forêt Vierge qui s'appelait "Histoires Vécues"...”

The prince lay in the grass and wept because his rose had lied to him, and Mr. Alfred opened the bedroom door.

“Good morning, Richard. May I come in?”

Dick jumped, and wanted to hide the book, but he knew, somehow, that Alfred would know about it anyway. So he memorized his page number and closed the book, setting it down on the nightstand. 

“Sure. Good morning M… Alfred.” Dick caught himself and blushed. “I’m sorry about the book, I just couldn’t sleep.”

Alfred walked into the room, and tilted his head to read the title of the book. “Are you enjoying it?”

“I think I am,” Dick said slowly. “It makes me sad. But a good kind of sad.” He unwrapped himself from his blanket nest. “Is it time for breakfast?”

“If you’re at an acceptable stopping point.”

Dick threw his legs over the side of the bed, and stopped. “Will… Will Bruce be there?”

Alfred’s eyes were warm and a little sad. “Bruce left early for work, unfortunately.”

“Oh.” Dick had really been looking forward to seeing him, he’d been working himself up to giving Bruce an actual hug today. “Will you be with me?”

“Of course, Richard.” Alfred turned, and began walking out into the hall. “Now follow me; we need to get you something to eat.”

Dick followed obediently, measuring his pace as he followed the older man. Alfred was slower, even though his limp was barely noticeable. Dick didn’t bounce or somersault or touch anything, and he tried to be as quiet as possible.

“What do you think you would like?” Alfred asked as they walked. 

“Geez,” Dick said. His mind was completely empty all of a sudden. “Do you have any eggs? I know you said you do the cooking, but I can make my own, if you want a break. My m…” Dick caught himself. He really couldn’t be quiet even for two seconds, could he? He picked at the skin around his fingernails. “If you want.”

Alfred gave him a funny look over his shoulder. “Maybe we should wait to try that until you’re more familiar with our kitchen.” Duh, of course. Dick was normally so good at getting people to like him—he’d wonder what had happened to him, but it was a little obvious. Would he ever get anyone to like him again? “I wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Dick said, quickly. Alfred tensed a little bit, but before he could say anything else, they were in the kitchen.

There was a stovetop in the middle of the big counter he’d fallen asleep at last night. Alfred stepped over to it, and pulled out a frying pan. “Why don’t you sit. I’ll fix you some eggs.”

Dick crawled up onto a stool without comment. He watched Alfred get a dish out of the fridge with eggs all standing up in their own little section. They probably got their eggs right from a farm. 

He remembered the chickens that Bernie the roustabout had brought on the road one year. They had laid eggs for the first couple of months, and the fresh ones had been amazing, but the hens got stressed out with the constant moving, and got sick. No one really tried after that.

“How do you like your eggs cooked, Richard?”

Snapping back to the kitchen, Dick shrugged. His stomach tightened, thinking about the circus. It would be a really long time before he saw any of them again. “However you make them, sir. But I’m not so hungry anymore.”

Alfred hummed and nodded. “How about some tea, then?”

Dick was conflicted. He really didn’t want to keep saying no, because that definitely wasn’t going to get Alfred to like him, but he also probably made gross, weak, English tea. Tata always made a face when Mama tried to bring it into the trailer, and threw it away when she wasn’t looking. “Yeah, okay. Do you have peppermint?”

“It’s the only kind Bruce will stomach,” said Alfred, with a twinkle in his eye. The butler pulled a kettle out of a cabinet, and started filling it, and Dick was trying really hard to sit still and act good but it was really hard. 

“Can I help you?” Dick asked, even though Alfred had turned him down just a minute ago. He hated sitting still without something to do.

Surprisingly, Alfred said yes, and gestured him to the cabinet with the tea. Dick was over there in a flash. He had to climb up onto the counter to reach the cabinet, but that was fun. There were so many kinds of tea, Dick was worried he wouldn’t be able to find the right one. Each was in a fancy jar, with its name written in chalk on a little black square, little leaves and flowers and seeds all jumbled up together. But then he saw a box that said Peppermint in big letters, with little paper tea bags inside. He giggled, and grabbed one.

“Bruce doesn’t like tea, does he.” Dick let himself do a little flourish when he hopped off the counter, and even though it didn’t look like Alfred was watching, he knew he was somehow.

“Hates it,” Alfred agreed. “But he pretends, on occasion. For my sake, most likely.”

Now Dick was really grateful he hadn’t said what Tata thought about English tea.

While the kettle was boiling, Alfred pulled out a plain white tea cup, and reached very far back into a secret-looking drawer to pull out a black mug with the Batman symbol on it.

Dick gasped. “Like my shoes.” Alfred set it in front of him. “Thank you.”

“Maybe we can get you a poster for your room,” Alfred said.

Dick settled back onto his stool, and frowned. “It’s my room?” But Bruce hadn’t even taken any of his old things out of it! “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Alfred leaned against the counter, and settled his cane against it. He had very stern eyes and scars on his face, but he was also very gentle and nice, so Dick liked him. “You’re very welcome here, Richard. I hope you begin to see that.”

Dick looked down at his cup and tugged on the tea bag. Even though Alfred’s face was completely impossible to read, and that was a little scary, he definitely sounded very sure.

Alfred took a little metal ball out of a drawer, with a handle like scissors, and went to the tea cabinet. When he came back, the ball was full of tea leaves, and he put it in his white teacup.

“I was ready to give a long explanation this morning, but you’re a very clever boy,” Alfred said, “I believe you might have worked most of it out yourself.” The kettle squealed, and he took it off, pouring water into Dick’s Batman mug. “The man who put you in that place–”

“Jail?” Dick interrupted, before he could stop himself. He shrunk a little, but Alfred didn’t look mad.

“If you like. The man who put you there had no right to. You know that?” Dick nodded. “And you know that Bruce would have rescued you from there without any other reason.”

Well. Dick didn’t know that, really. But he knew that Bruce was really nice, even though he pretended not to be. So he nodded again, trying to be quiet and good.

“There was another reason, though,” Alfred said, putting down the kettle again. “Have you worked it out?”

Dick wondered if Bruce had told Alfred about the scary lady. Bruce seemed to trust him a lot , since Alfred was the only person Dick had ever heard him talk to normally. Still looking down at the brown clouds swirling from his teabag, Dick said, “There are people who want to hurt me, like they hurt my parents. And Bruce wants to keep me safe.”

“He does,” Alfred said. “There are very few people in the world you would be safer with.”

Even though Alfred said it like it was just a fact, Dick felt warm. He hid a smile with a sip of tea. “I believe you.”

“I’m glad.” Alfred leaned forward across the counter, and the lines around his eyes crinkled. “And I’m glad you understand how important it is that you stay here.” The lines smoothed. “I don’t mean to frighten you, boy. But if you don’t start eating, your social worker will think Bruce isn’t taking care of you.”

“They’ll take me away?”

Alfred tilted his head, sighing. “They would try.”

Dick’s fingers went white on the mug. “Bruce wouldn’t let them. And then he’d get in trouble.”

After giving Dick another funny look, Alfred stepped back from the counter, and over to the eggs again. “It isn’t your job to worry about that—your only job is to eat. So: how do you take your eggs?”

“...Can you make it really soft?”

“The yolk?”

“And the white part too. If you don’t mind.” Alfred’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t seem mad, only a little grossed out. “They’re good that way!”

“...I’ll take your word for it.”

When Dick was eating his eggs, and Alfred was drinking his tea, he finally got up the courage to ask something again. He’d been so quiet and still while Alfred had cooked, so Dick really hoped he wouldn’t mind. 

They had taken their breakfast into another room, off of the kitchen. It was small, but filled with plants and flowers and little trees, and the walls and ceiling were made of glass . Dick was perched on a tall wicker chair that was a little too big for him, so he was sitting on his feet.

He could see the whole city, all around them, even through the rain, but all Dick could focus on was the cane hooked over the arm of Alfred’s chair.

“Mr. Alfred–”

“Just Alfred, thank you.”

“Sorry.” Dick winced.

“Don’t be, boy.” Alfred didn’t even look up from his newspaper. He probably wasn’t angry. “It’s just what I’m used to.”

“Okay.” Dick started over. “Alfred, I’m sorry if this is rude, but why do you need a cane?”

Alfred glanced at him over his glasses. “I am an old man, Richard.”

“Not very old,” Dick said around a bite of eggs. “And you look really strong.” The man lowered the newspaper, and just looked at him for a few moments. Dick smiled, a little weakly. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t a nice question.”

“It isn’t a very pleasant story,” Alfred admitted. “But I’ll tell it someday, if you like.”

Someday. Dick really hoped he got to stay long enough to hear it.

“I have a question of my own,” Alfred said. 

Dick took the last bite of his eggs, and put down his fork, so he wouldn’t have to reach the table anymore. He twisted his legs into a more comfortable position. “Shoot.”

Alfred’s lips quirked, very quickly—Dick couldn’t help but feel a little victorious. “How are you enjoying Le Petit Prince? You said it made you sad?”

“Not really sad,” Dick said. “It’s like…when you get a letter from someone really far away, or when I think about my mama and tata. It feels nice, and it’s good, but it hurts.” He stopped and swallowed.

“We can find other books,” Alfred said, slowly. “If this one is—if you’d rather.”

Dick leaned his head on his hand. “I think I’d like to finish this one first. But will Bruce be okay with that? I kind of stole his book.”

“I know he will.” Alfred took off his glasses. “Would you...like to see the library?”

“The library?” Dick looked down at his pajamas. “I can’t go anywhere until I get dressed. Will Bruce be mad if we leave somewhere?”

Alfred stood and didn’t answer. “Come, Richard,” he said—so he went.

They went through the kitchen, down the long hall, up the stairs, and after two more turns and a massive pair of wooden doors… 

“Holy guacamole,” Dick breathed.

Bruce had a library in his house . The room wasn’t very big, but it was tall—there was a staircase that moved on wheels, and if you rolled it all the way to one end, you could climb to a second level, with even more shelves, and a fluffy wingback chair, and a really old stained glass lamp.

Alfred said things about it—Dick only heard that he had to go do some butler-y things—and Dick just let himself get lost.

He didn’t know if he’d ever be allowed to read any of these books. They all were really old, and not a single one was missing its spine, or had dog-eared corners, or yellow pages.

There were three stacks just for books in French. There were seven for weird books about atoms and fancy Latin-Greek medicine words. And there were twelve for books in Latin.

Even though Dick was pretty sure Alfred said he could touch them, he didn’t want to. Just in case. But there was a giant desk carved out of a red wood in the middle of the room, and it had a pad of paper and some fancy pens. Dick took a piece of paper and a pen (memorizing where it was first, so he could put it back perfectly), and went around writing down all the names and titles he recognized, the ones he didn’t and wanted to read, and the ones that he wanted to ask Alfred about. 

At first his letters were pretty big, because both he and Mama weren’t really good at handwriting, but the more he wrote, the tinier they had to get, until his hands were cramped and the words were squished into one another.

By the time Alfred came back, there was only a tiny square left at the bottom of the page.

“Did you find anything?”

Dick turned around, and showed Alfred his paper. “So many, Alfred.”

Alfred laughed, and it kind of sounded surprised. (Dick wasn’t just determined to make Bruce practice smiling, now.)

“I’m almost sorry to pull you away.”

Dick bit his lip. “Did you need me? I’m sorry, I just really like libraries.

“It’s time for lunch,” Alfred said, and looked at him meaningfully.

All of a sudden Dick remembered that he was still wearing pajamas. “I’m sorry,” he blurted, “I forgot, I’ll go change, I–”

He tried to rush past Alfred, but he was stopped by a really strong hand on his shoulder. “I’m not angry,” Alfred said. He carefully let go of Dick’s shoulder as soon as he stopped running. Dick was not going to do anything embarrassing like ask for a hug (especially since Alfred seemed even more allergic to that stuff than Bruce, somehow). “Bruce asked if you would like to meet him for lunch.”

Breakfast with the cool butler who definitely used to be a superhero or something—and Dick hadn’t even done anything bad or rude—a private library that he got to look at all by himself, and lunch with Bruce ? 

As he bounded down the hall to get dressed, Dick let himself do a couple little flips, as a treat (otherwise he felt like his heart would explode).

Chapter Text

“I just…” said Ferdinand, smoothing out the lines at his temple with a thumb and forefinger. “Did you even consider the paperwork?”

The family services lawyers exploded into a flurry of rustling papers and swishing blazers. “Mr. Ferdinand,” one said, “this isn’t just about paperwork , this is about a child.” The rest of the team murmured their agreement, with disapproving scowls and the occasional heartless bastard for emphasis. Ferdinand wasn’t even looking at them, just staring at Bruce while his hovering intern plopped an Alka-Seltzer in his cup of water.

Bruce’s office was at a maximum capacity per the building’s fire safety code, and every person crammed into it besides himself was a lawyer. They’d begged him to come to the spacious meeting room two floors down, but Bruce knew the firestorm of questions that awaited as soon as he left this room.

His office had an elevator that led directly up to the penthouse—he refused to leave the relative safety of either of those places.

So the office that he’d always thought was unnecessarily big was overflowing with Ferdinand and his team—his personal lawyer since he’d been old enough to legally need one for his frequent brushes with the law as a rebellious teen—the family services team he’d asked Ferdinand to assemble yesterday—their record was excellent, but they were…very passionate about their jobs—and the four Wayne Enterprises lawyers stuffed onto the uncomfortable couch in the corner, whose only contributions so far had been scribbling on legal pads and covering their mouths as they whispered in each others’ ears.

There were about sixteen Wayne Enterprises lawyers proper, but when Bruce had refused to move to the meeting room, they’d been forced to send delegates.

The family services team was turning on Ferdinand, and Bruce probably needed to take control of the situation. “Is GCPS going to be an issue?” He was barely audible over the righteous indignation and pained groans.

One of the more subdued family services lawyers turned to him and elbowed an associate in the ribs. “I’m so sorry, what was that, Mr. Wayne?” The room quieted to a dull roar.

“I know the way I took Richard from the Center was…abrupt,” Bruce said. “Is GCPS taking issue with it?”

“There’s nothing they don’t take issue with, Mr. Wayne,” one of them replied.

One of the more passionate ones offered him a wet smile. “But you don’t have anything to worry about. After hearing Richard’s story, they won’t have a leg to stand on.”

Ferdinand seemed to be regaining his sanity. He sipped some of his fizzy water and said, “And how about the case we talked about bringing against the city? That clause that children can be held in detention centers if CPS facilities are full is…”

“Reprehensible, we know. And we’ve been looking for a case to strike it from the books for about six years,” said one of the family services lawyers—Jamison? They’d all introduced themselves at some point, but they all kind of blended into one indignant entity. “We think this’ll work. As long as we don’t implicate the Center where Richard was held.”

“Why the hell not?” Bruce growled.

“They’ve been very careful to claim that Richard’s circumstance was the result of individual bad actors, and wasn’t sanctioned by any Center administration.”

Ferdinand scoffed. “There’s no paper trail?”

“Well it’s only been a few days, so the subpoena hasn’t gone through,” Jamison sank into one of Bruce’s leather armchairs, “but most likely no. Our contact on the force tells us that the theory is that the social worker and the Center employee were working together to slip Richard under the radar, but they don’t really have a motivation yet. Besides trafficking, of course.”

Bruce knew it wasn’t a simple trafficking case, that Richard had probably been isolated for something even more nefarious, but just hearing the theory had him gritting his teeth so tightly it hurt.

Someone kicked Jamison’s ankle, and he jolted, turning to Bruce sheepishly. “I’m sorry, that was…uncalled for.”

Another of them leaned forward in her chair and smiled. “I have to say though, Mr. Wayne, it’s so good to see you taking an interest.”

“When Mr. Ferdinand contacted us yesterday, he had us draft a temporary guardianship form because of the urgent situation, but have you had time to reconsider your other options? There’s permanent guardianship…”

“Adoption…”

Bruce’s face was stony. “This is just to keep Richard safe until his parents’ killer is found.” The man who’d cut their wires hadn’t been anything but a weapon—Batman was going to find the one who’d pulled the trigger. His phone pinged, but he couldn’t give it a thought, not with five sympathetic faces trying to convince him to make the worst possible decision for Richard.

He couldn’t lie to himself well enough to deny that he liked the kid, but he was a little bright spot, beaming wherever he went. It’d only be a matter of time before Bruce killed that light.

“Of course, of course. You just do seem to be connecting with the boy.”

“Connection is what he needs most, right now.”

Ferdinand slapped his portfolio closed, downing the last of the seltzer water. “Mr. Wayne’s made his decision, your job is to keep GCPS off his ass when we implicate them in the civil case.”

The family services team read the finality in his tone and deflated, rustling their own papers together. “Of course, of course,” they murmured.

Jamison stood and reached to shake Bruce’s hand. “We’ll keep you informed, Mr. Wayne. Let us know if there’s anything else we can do.” 

One by one, lawyers started streaming out of the room, and Bruce’s office got closer to adhering to the fire code. A crush of curious employees were huddled just outside the open door, trying to peek inside, trying to get any information about the kid from the lawyers and openly theorizing who the mother was (never mind that Bruce would have been seventeen).

The four Wayne Enterprises lawyers slipped out without a sound, which let Bruce know what they thought about this stunt.

Ferdinand stopped in front of his desk, the intern fussing about a lunch meeting they had in five minutes. “Why’d you do this to me, kid.” It wasn’t really a question. 

“He wasn’t safe,” Bruce answered anyway.

He sighed. “This better be the cutest kid I’ve ever seen.”

Bruce didn’t know how to answer that. That wasn’t really something that could be measured objectively, and he was kind of…biased…

“Jesus,” the lawyer moaned, “you’re already gone on him. Alright, we’re really doing this. If I have to have one more meeting with these family services bozos, I’m expecting a six-figure holiday bonus.”

“Have a good afternoon, Mr. Wayne!” said the intern, now shoving Ferdinand out the door.

Ferdinand twisted to shout “Maybe an island!” before the door slammed in his face.

Bruce leaned back and closed his eyes.

God. That’d been too many people.

His phone pinged again, and he finally checked it.

Oh.

Typing out a response, he ventured over to his office door, and steeled himself before opening it just enough to lean his head out. The crowd hadn’t really dissipated, and sure enough, Joan was on the front lines, beating off curious businesspeople with nothing but an address book that he hadn’t ever seen her use in these two years. 

“Don’t you leeches have jobs?” she was shrieking—they must be very curious, no one ever usually dared face her wrath.

“Joan,” he called, trying not to catch too much attention and completely failing. The group pushed even closer. Several of them had their phones out—he noted to have Joan move them to new departments in the next few weeks.

As soon as he spoke, Joan wheeled around, and her terrifying scowl didn’t melt away like it normally did. “What are you doing out here?” she said, and stomped towards him.

Bruce ducked back into his office, barely out of the way when Joan stalked in. 

“You have a phone, Bruce!” she said, shooing him into an armchair, “Use it!”

Bruce let her move him where she liked, trying valiantly not to look chastened. “Do you need help out there? I can call security.”

“Oh please dear, have you seen the entrances? They’re the ones who need help, not me.”

He noted that. They might need a police presence if the paparazzi got any worse this afternoon.

“Now,” she said, settling across from him, not one gray hair out of place as she pulled out a little notepad. “What did you need so urgently?”

“Could you have someone bring up two servings of whatever they’ve got in the café today?” He usually got lunch from the building’s café; he’d asked Alfred to have a hand in hiring the kitchen staff and they’d had food critics come by more than once. 

Joan raised an eyebrow. “Two?”

Bruce tried not to react. “Richard is coming down in a few minutes.”

There was a sudden gleam in her eyes, and Bruce knew she desperately wanted to meet him, but she didn’t ask, and that was why she was the best. 

He wanted to let Richard adjust to his new environment before shoving new people at him. It was bad enough the CPS doctor was going to have to come by tomorrow.

“Two it is,” she said. “Any dietary concerns?”

“I…don’t know.” He should know that. Why hadn’t he asked—would a nine-year-old even know? He mentally added an allergist to his list of appointments Richard needed. He could just be eating a snack and collapse , and Bruce had EpiPens but they were downstairs with the…night supplies, and Richard would die, right there in front of him.

“Bruce,” Joan said, patting his hand, “it’s fine. I’ll place the order right now.” 

She left the office, and Bruce was left, with his head in his hands. The Bat needed to find the Grayson’s killer before Bruce fucked the kid up beyond repair. Because he was going to fuck him up. Kids, especially grieving kids, needed someone stable to hold onto, who wasn’t constantly terrified of them and remembered to ask if they had any fatal food allergies.

The elevator dinged at the far end of the room, and Bruce shot up, smoothing his suit jacket and carefully schooling his expression. 

The doors rolled open, and Richard shot through, Alfred staying behind in the elevator. 

“Hi Bruce!” The boy ran up to him, rocking on his heels and his eyes flickering around the room. “How’s work? Are you doing important business things? It’s okay if you can’t talk about it, but I won’t tell anybody!”

“Hi, Richard.” The kid was practically vibrating with either excitement or pent-up energy. He wouldn’t be able to today, but they’d need to get him outdoor stimulation tomorrow. “Hi, Alfred.”

“You two have fun,” the older man said, teasingly.

“You’re not…staying?”

“I have a few errands to run,” Alfred said, “I thought I would get them out of the way while Richard was with you.”

“That’s a great idea, Alfred!” Richard said. “Have fun shopping!” He waved Alfred goodbye as the doors rolled shut (the older man patently ignoring the look of murder Bruce shot his way) and turned back to Bruce. “What do you even do, Bruce?”

 “It’s mostly been lawyers today.”

“Oh, gross.”

“Pretty much.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Richard took his hand and pulled him over to a chair.

Bruce dutifully sat, and said, “Well, we were mostly talking about you,” while Richard climbed into the chair opposite him.

The boy paused, his smile fading. “Are you in trouble because of me?”

“No,” Bruce said, looking around frantically for Alfred because he was already fucking this up, but he’d already gone. “We’re making sure no one can take you away. Because you’re safe here.”

Richard seemed appeased, but the little line on his forehead told Bruce that he sensed he wasn’t being told everything—and the urge to tell him everything was incredibly, incredibly dangerous. “We’re also suing the City so what happened to you won’t happen to anyone else.”

Richard’s eyes widened. “That sounds like a big deal.”

“That shouldn’t happen, Richard,” Bruce said, and tried to school the growl out of his voice. “No innocent kid should be sent to a detention center because there isn’t enough room.” God, just thinking about ice in his veins when Richard had just…disappeared from the system. And he’d been looking for the kid. How many kids had been shunted off into detention centers because they were inconvenient in the years since that law had been passed? It’d been around almost as long as Bruce had been alive, and he’d never even known. 

“Are you gonna have to go talk in court?” Richard asked.

“Probably. But it won’t get to that point for years, I’m sure. In the meantime we’re going to add another wing to the orphanage and keep it empty, just for cases like this.” Bruce realized that this probably wasn’t what a kid wanted to talk about, even though Richard looked interested, with his legs crossed underneath him and his head tilted, those dark eyes watching him and seeing too much—this kid was so dangerous. “...Did you like your room?”

A smile flickered over Richard’s mouth, and even though it was gone in a second, the amusement made his eyes dance. “Yeah, I did. Thank you for giving me your room.”

It’d probably been ridiculous to assume the boy wouldn’t notice.

“I hope it wasn’t too dusty. I haven’t been in there for probably ten years.”

“I think dust is afraid of Alfred.” 

Bruce laughed, surprising even himself. 

Richard giggled at him, and slid from his chair and over to the floor-to-ceiling windows with bouncing steps. “Wow,” he said, and stood as close as he could without touching the glass.

Bruce got up to follow him. He wasn’t sure what to expect with the boy and heights. Richard had practically been raised on the trapeze, he’d already told story after story about it, but there was always the chance that something as traumatic as what he’d experienced…

The boy was quiet for a long moment. His normally-expressive face was still. The only movement was his eyes, scanning the skyscrapers surrounding them, and finally the streets, hundreds of feet below.

He was next to the boy, almost instinctively putting a hand on his tiny shoulder—keeping his touch so light, because his bones felt like a bird’s under his destructive hands. “Are you okay?”

Richard blinked and looked up at him. He searched Bruce’s face for a moment, and whatever he found there made him say, “Oh. Yeah. I’m not afraid. I was just thinking.” He turned back to the window. “Were you afraid? When you were little?”

Bruce needed a moment to recover. “Um. No. We didn’t move here until I was older.”

“Have you only ever lived two places?” Richard didn’t turn from watching the ants bustling below, but his curiosity was clear. Bruce hadn’t ever thought about how strange that would probably be to him—to someone who’d spent his entire little life hopping from continent to continent.

“I have.”

“Where were you before?”

“Do you remember the orphanage that you went to, with that…man?”

Richard looked up at him again, nodding.

“That’s where I grew up. My parents donated it.”

A small smile swept across the boy’s face. “That was really nice of them.”

Bruce tried to ignore the way his chest tightened. “They were nice people.”

Richard’s chest rose and fell in a sigh, and his eyes looked through Bruce, into the aching heart of him. He leaned into Bruce’s side, and wrapped his tiny arms around his middle. “It’s alright,” he said. 

Bruce had no idea what to do. He just left his arm on Richard’s shoulder and hoped it was enough. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been hugged.

“Hey Bruce?” He managed a small affirmative grunt. “You can call me Dick. If you want.”

…What.

Bruce blinked. Then he remembered that “Tati’s” first language was almost definitely not English. 

“Okay, Dick.”

The arms around him tightened, and they stayed like that until Joan knocked on the door a few minutes later.

Chapter Text

The woman who walked into Bruce’s office stomped her really tall heels with so much force that Dick almost got up and stopped her from getting any closer, just in case she had a camera…or a gun. 

Her hair was super long, and super blonde—like, as blonde as the people he’d seen in Norway —and her loose white shirt kind of billowed like a cape as she stalked up to Bruce’s desk.

“Bruce,” she hissed through her perfect teeth, “ when are you going to start consulting me on things like this?” and slammed down an open laptop.

Bruce winced and shrank into his seat, but he kind of did that whenever anybody talked to him, so Dick decided the lady wasn’t a threat for now. He went back to moving the pieces on Bruce’s boring modern chess board into little patterns, but he watched carefully out of the corner of his eye.

“Mackenzie…”

“I had to find out on Twitter , Bruce. I had to find out on Twitter .” The lady leaned over her laptop and clacked her long nails on the desk in a long, sharp line.

Bruce winced a little and looked over at Dick, like he wasn’t sure he should be here for this. Which convinced Dick even more that he needed to stay. “That bad, huh?”

“I could have had photographers planted at every single angle,” she fumed, running her hand through her hair and messing it up a little. Dick got the impression that she didn’t do that a lot. “Or, God forbid, had a statement ready to give to the flock of paparazzi lined up all the way down 13th—”

“ Mackenzie .” Bruce stood up, and his eyebrows were furrowed, and his voice was kind of rough and angry. Dick hadn’t ever seen him do that before. “He isn’t some publicity stunt.”

Mackenzie’s shoulders sloped a little, and she collapsed into one of the cushy chairs. “Do you have any idea how bad this looks?”

Bruce sat down too, and he sighed. “Yeah.”

“You basically walked in and stole him.”

“I know. Is it really that bad?”

Dick was kind of curious about the paparazzi she mentioned. He snuck carefully over to one of the massive windows, and sure enough, hundreds of tiny people were skittering like ants around on the sidewalks outside the steps of the Tower.

Mackenzie sighed a really long and really loud sigh, and said, “Lucky for you, I’m damn good at my job. The Gazette was already making some… allegations , but I had Harry smack them with a slander case and they took it down in five minutes—”

“It’s libel.”

“Huh?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “It’s only slander if it’s spoken. If it’s written, it’s libel.”

She snorted and looked at her fingernails. “Well guess they’re as dumb as me—plus their hit count’s been low lately, I doubt it even got screenshotted.” She put her hand down, sighed again really dramatically, and her eyes were so angry Dick imagined they were gonna burn right through Bruce’s head, like Cyclops from his comics.

“You know what the worst thing is?”

Bruce grunted, leaning back in his chair.

“The worst thing—” she pinched her nose, like Tati used to do when Dick and Mami used to get too excited about something, “—is that the Internet fucking loves it.”

Bruce blinks a couple times, like she suddenly spoke a different language. (Dick felt bad for assuming Bruce only spoke English but like…look at him.) 

Mackenzie tapped at her phone a few times, and held it up in front of Bruce’s face. A weird robot-lady voice said “ Guys I think Bruce Wayne has a kid?” “Did you read the comments?” Mackenzie kept her phone in front of Bruce and scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled, watching him the entire time.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “They’re really…okay with it?” 

“You’re the easiest client I’ve ever had—”

“I’m your only client Mackenzie,” Bruce snorted.

“That’s not true!”

“You were selling diet pills on Instagram before I hired you.”

Mackenzie nodded a couple times and winced, but picked up steam again. “You’re the easiest client I’ve ever had, and I still feel like I’m going to have an aneurysm about every three days. Why?”

“...What’re you asking?”

“I don’t even know anymore. It’s my job to predict trends and keep you likable. I don’t think I’ve done my job the entire time you’ve employed me. Did you read the comments?”

Bruce shrugged. “You smooth things over when I say stupid things on red carpets.”

“But even that’s somehow endearing. Add in that fucking angel-baby, and they’re rolling over at your feet, Bruce. Did you read the comments?”

Bruce leaned back really far in his chair and smiled at Dick and said, “Hear that, Dick? You’re gonna be famous.”

Dick could tell Bruce was making it into a joke because he was worried Dick would freak out. Dick crosses his arms. “I’m already famous, Bruce.”

Mackenzie whipped around to look at Dick and made a “meep” sound. “You’re…” Yeah, she definitely didn’t know Dick was here. “Wait. Dick ?” Her eyebrows furrowed, and she turned back to Bruce.

Bouncing up to her, Dick held out his hand and said, “Hi Mrs. Mackenzie! My name is Richard. I like your shirt. Can I touch it?”

She nodded, blinking way more than normal people do, and held out an arm for Dick to feel. (Sure enough, the material was really, really soft. Dick wanted to like Mackenzie. Anyone who wore shirts this nice couldn’t be secretly bad.)

“It’s nice to meet you, Richard.” She recovered really quickly, Dick was kind of impressed. She smiled in that fake way adults do and said “What’s he got you doing? Sorting files?”

Dick shrugged. Alfred had left a really long list on the counter this morning with doctors and helplines and some fancy government agency and said he was going hunting. Bruce had looked like he couldn’t tell if he was dreaming or not, and said “With…guns?” And when Alfred had said yes, Bruce had said, “You’ve never been hunting before.” And Alfred had said “Exactly, my boy. Time to see what all the fuss is about,” and he’d walked out the door in his fancy butler suit. 

(That was the first time Dick had ever seen Alfred lie. He didn’t even know that was allowed .)

So Bruce had promised they’d go do something fun in the afternoon—Dick hoped it would be outside because he hadn’t seen the sky in days and it was starting to make him antsy—but first he had to go get yelled at.

Dick had been ready to punch some people. So honestly, this meeting was going much better than he’d expected.

“I’ll just…” Mackenzie turned to Bruce, blinked a few more times, and said, “What was I talking about?”

“You were being a little mean,” said Dick, because it was true, “but that’s okay, because Bruce was kind of mean to you when he didn’t tell you about me. He promises not to do it again. Right Bruce?”

Bruce nodded very seriously, even though Dick could tell his eyes were laughing.

“Well I…” Mackenzie stopped and shook herself. “Wait. No. You’re not getting out of this that easily. You’ve got to make this up to me, Wayne.”

Bruce sighed and gestured for her to go on.

Now Mackenzie’s eyes gleamed kind of wickedly. If she’d looked like that when she’d walked in, Dick definitely would’ve had to take her down. “You’re coming to the Drakes’ charity auction. Nope, nope!” She held up a hand when Bruce started to groan. “Those are my terms. Take’em or leave’em.”

Bruce put his elbows on his desk and his head in his hands. “...Fine.”

She squealed, tapped something on her keyboard lightning-fast, and slammed her laptop shut. “Pleasure doing business with you, Bruce.” Mackenzie stood, and held her hand out to Dick. (She didn’t even lean down like lots of grown-ups did! Dick decided this lady was weird and kind of crazy, but acceptable.) “And it was very nice to meet you, Richard.”

“You too, Mrs. Mackenzie.” Dick shook her hand, and tried not to poke himself on her razor-sharp nails. 

Nodding to herself, Mackenzie flounced out of the room. Dick climbed up into the chair she’d been sitting in, and said brightly, “So! What’s a charity auction?”

Bruce groaned, and put on his sunglasses.

Chapter Text

Bruce was finishing up some paperwork about a business contract and Dick was watching the fancy clock without any number above the door very patiently, waiting for the little hand to hit the third notch, because Bruce had promised that at 3 o’clock they were gonna do something.

No amount of tricky convincing and mind games had gotten him to say what they were doing. Dick was grudgingly impressed. 

While Bruce read things really carefully and signed papers every ten minutes, Dick was building a city out of all of the big clips and sticky notes and fancy portfolios in Bruce’s desk. 

The office had a big magnetic board hidden off behind the door that had all of the things Bruce needed to do, like “gv joan raise”, “tell plastics r&d to gt thr heads out of thr asses”, and a list of names and things that looked like a list of presents for Alfred? Anyway, those were held up by little brass magnets, and so those were his people. The paper clips were their cars, the big clips were buses, and the sticky notes were all the different buildings. 

(When Bruce had pulled the massive contract from a file cabinet and slapped the fat folder onto his desk, Dick had instantly wanted to help him with it, and Bruce had kind of smiled and said he could. About two minutes later, Dick had been so bored his eyes were unfocusing and the words on the pages were going all swimmy, so he’d quietly given the papers back to Bruce and pillaged his drawers for office supplies, and ignored Bruce’s sympathetic pat on the shoulder at his defeat.)

His little cityscape was set up near the wall of windows, and every once in a while Dick would get up and check to see if his layout was accurate. It was a little hard with how tall some of these buildings were (skyscraper was such a good word, it was one of his favorites now) but he did his best.

Even though he tried really hard—because when he was sad then Bruce got all tense and he didn’t really want to deal with that right now—it was pretty much impossible not to think of Mama right then.

He remembered Tata bringing home maps whenever they traveled somewhere they’d never been before, scrunching them up in his big hands and making Mama mad because she had to go through and smooth them out again with the side of a butter knife. She had stared and stared at those maps, with little lines between her eyebrows, and when Dick had asked her why, she’d said she was burning the picture into her mind, so they could always find their way.

Dick hadn’t been outside of Bruce’s Tower once since he’d been brought here, more than a week and a half ago. He needed to be able to find his way. Just in case.

At least he’d found all the exits from Bruce’s penthouse. A couple of them even seemed pretty easy to break through without setting off alarms.

Dick jumped when Bruce rolled his chair away from his desk and stood up. He knocked over a couple of his buildings and threw a couple magnet-people. Bruce tilted his head, and the corners of his eyes crinkled.

“You ready to go?” 

He hadn’t just kept his promise—Bruce had finished early. Dick craned his neck over to look out of the window wall one last time, and sure enough, the massive swarm of paparazzi hadn’t gotten any smaller. Grinning in a way he really hoped wasn’t suspicious, Dick nodded and grabbed one of Bruce’s hands. 

“You have people bring you your cars, right? Rich people in movies have that.” Dick hadn’t seen a lot of movies, but that was definitely something he remembered.

“I do…” Bruce said, slowly. 

“Can you ask them to bring your car to the front door? I want to go out the front way!”

Bruce stopped, and Dick kind of jerked against his full weight—Bruce didn’t seem very big at all in his black suits, but he really was. “No.”

Dick had been expecting this. He laughed a little and said “But Bruce, I’ve never seen the rest of your Tower! Alfred told me there was a big glass staircase, and a really fancy chandelier. I really want to see the chandelier. And I think the glass stairs will feel like you’re flying!”

Bruce’s eyebrows were scrunched together, and his mouth was twisted up. “Dick, no.”

Dick looked up at him for a few seconds, then he let all his breath out in a sigh and curled his shoulders in. “Okay. That’s fine,” he said, and sniffed a couple times.

While they walked to the front door, Dick skipped ahead, listening as Bruce whispered directions at him between frantic phone calls. He felt a little bad for putting Bruce to all this trouble, but it was for a really, really good reason. 

They had to leave Bruce’s office and go to a different elevator to get to the front door, which meant they had to walk through an entire room of fancy offices with glass walls, and pass Ms. Joan, who introduced herself and shook Dick’s hand and slipped him a piece of Andes chocolate while Bruce was grumbling at his phone. Everyone in their offices had stopped what they were doing and stared as they walked by. It was definitely a little weird, but only because Dick wasn’t really doing anything very impressive for them to be staring at. So he made sure to wave at each one and grin, and maybe throw in a cartwheel every once in a while, so it didn’t feel so weird.

“Bruckheimer, I want security on the front pavilion, now,” Bruce grouched at someone as they stepped into the elevator—the poor guy had stiffened up as soon as he saw Bruce coming, and he’d flinched and said Rightawaysir before the elevator doors slid closed. Into his phone, Bruce said, “There should’ve been a police presence out there the moment they started circling like vultures.”

Dick huffed at him and crossed his arms, hoping it would remind Bruce about manners. 

It didn’t. 

Finally, when they got to the first floor and the elevator dinged, Dick tugged on Bruce’s pant leg and waited for him to look down. “Can you hang up now?”

The elevator doors slid open. Someone was still talking to Bruce over the phone, it kind of sounded like a cat yowling into a tin can. As Dick stared at him, the angriness melted off of Bruce’s face. He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and hung up on the person while they were still talking.

“Bruce,” Dick said, trying to sound like Mama, “manners.”

Bruce huffed—was that a laugh? That might have been a laugh!—and stepped out of the elevator. Dick followed, and immediately had to stop again, oohing and aahing. It wasn’t the most amazing place he’d ever been to—his favorites were always the really big churches, with the ceilings that went on forever and the paintings of strange stories and people that Dick hadn’t ever heard of—but this place was Bruce’s. This was Bruce’s tower.

The skyscraper was hollow in the middle for lots and lots of floors, like somebody reached in and scooped a chunk of it out. Really high up there were a couple of bridges that went from one side to the other. 

Dick leaned over the edge of the banister when he saw the chandelier, and his mouth was probably wide open (Tata would scold him for that—Mama would throw snacks in and shout Touchdown!). He’d seen something just like this in Canada, and once in the United States too. Pieces of glass shot out at crazy angles, curling and spiraling and poofing like they were liquid, not something that would break if he touched it. Every piece was dark blue, which Dick would usually think was really boring, but the sunlight from the giant windows made it look kind of like the ocean. 

(He knew Gotham was an island—he missed the ocean so much. Dick wondered if Bruce might maybe take them there, though he didn’t remember seeing any beaches when the circus unloaded from the boat.)

Something fluttered against his shoulder, and Dick blinked and turned. It was Bruce, with his hand hovering in the air between them. When Dick snorted a little laugh, Bruce rolled his eyes, and took him by the shoulder—somehow, against all odds, Bruce was really strong. 

“You’ve… You have to stay with me,” said Bruce, and his eyes were flickering nervously to the crowd outside the big glass doors. “Okay?”

Dick nodded, but that didn’t seem to relax Bruce any. They went down the glass stairs—Dick was a little disappointed, it didn’t feel like flying at all—and when they got to the bottom, Dick took the hand from his shoulder and pulled Bruce until they were standing right under the chandelier, looking up into it.

He took turns looking up and trying to find all of the different shapes, and backing up to look at the reflection of it in the shiny white floor. 

Bruce just kind of watched him, but that was okay.

There was a big, long desk with three people all working there built into one of the walls, and a man hurried over to them from the desk and said, “Mr. Wayne, the car’s ready for you.” He was very quiet.

Before Bruce could say anything rude, Dick ducked in front of him and held out his hand. “Hi! I’m Richard Grayson. I like your pin.”

The man had a pin near the middle of his tie, with a dark, pretty jewel. “Oh,” said the man, looking down at Dick and blinking before he took his hand and shook it very, very gently. “Hello.”

“What’s your name?”

The man seemed even more surprised. “I… You…”

“His name’s Felix,” Bruce said. “Thank you, Felix.”

“Thank you,” said Felix, which was kind of silly, and then ducked away back to his desk, where two ladies immediately grabbed his arms and started whispering very loudly and giggling.

Dick hadn’t let go of Bruce’s hand, to make sure he knew he was staying close. They went up to the doors—lots of security guards were there, and Dick didn’t get to ask all of their names, but he did say hi to them and wave—and paused for a moment. It looked like police officers had finally gotten there, but the paparazzi were still crushed together almost right up to the glass. 

Bruce looked down at him. His face was very empty, but it felt like he was noticing everything about Dick, paying attention to every tiny detail. “We don’t have to do this.”

Dick didn’t look away from the crowd. “Can they see us?” Even though the walls and doors were glass, they weren’t screaming and shouting and pointing at him.

“No,” Bruce said. “This is opaque glass.”

Nodding, Dick took a moment to breathe. He’d wanted to do this. For Bruce. It was just another crowd. He looked up at Bruce, and grinned. “Let’s go.”

Bruce sighed, and tightened his hand around Dick’s as he gestured at the guards up against the doors. They slowly swung them open, Bruce and Dick stepped through, and the entire world exploded.

BruceBrucehererighthere

Doyouhaveacomment

It was so much.

Whatisyourrelationshipwith

Richardishe

Dick had always kind of enjoyed getting his picture taken, with his Mama and Tata, and being asked questions about flying and traveling around so much. This was nothing like that.

RichardRichardRichard

He couldn’t help but squint as he was kind of blinded by the flashing lights. Bruce was cursing and pulling them through the crush, growling at anyone who came too close. It was all Dick could do to keep up for a while, being tugged along by Bruce’s tight grip on his hand, and this wasn’t how it was supposed to go! He was supposed to be helping!

Dick forced himself to try to listen for full questions, to hear one person’s voice through the shouting, and to stop squinting.

They were almost there—the car was in sight, this was so bad—when Dick finally heard something clearly.

“Richard!” one reporter shouted, to the right, and Dick kind of swung that way to try to find them. “What is it like living with Mr. Wayne?”

Dick stopped, planting his feet so hard that when Bruce just kept walking, his hand slipped from his grip. Smiling, Dick said, loud enough so that the paparazzi would shut up and listen, “I love it!” A hush spread through the crowd, so they were only being kind of loud and annoying. Bruce dove back to his side, cursing a lot and grabbing Dick’s hand even tighter than before. “He’s very nice, and he lets me read his books and play with his sticky notes.”

The crowd all laughed at once. Dick’s smile widened. 

“Don’t you have any real toys?” someone shouted over the rest. 

Dick thought about that for a second, and shrugged. “I never had a lot of toys,” and the crowd awwed, because people are kind of stupid, “but I have Zitka!”

Bruce started trying to pull him away to the car again. Dick didn’t struggle against him because that’d probably look really bad, but he definitely tried to slow them down as much as he could.

Who’s Zitka, they asked, and How do you like Gotham so far, and silly questions like what his favorite food was and what grade he was in, and Dick answered them all, smiling and making them smile, until they finally got to the car, and Bruce got between him and the crowd while he climbed through the door, and slammed it behind him.

He could still hear them outside. It kind of sounded like the sounds from a zoo. 

Bruce slipped in through the other door, and told the person driving the car to drive. Well. Growled, really. He was really so rude.

“Wow,” Dick said, after he’d had a chance to catch his breath again. “That was crazy .” He turned to Bruce, who was looking straight at the headrest in front of him, like he could burn holes into it with his eyes. “Wasn’t that crazy?”

Bruce breathed very slow, and a tiny, tiny bit shaky. Dick 

“I told you to stay with me,” Bruce said—no, yelled—a hand flying up to his hair and pulling a little.

“Yeah, but it was–”

“No,” Bruce said—yelled again. “No, you can’t do that. Not again.”

Dick’s face was getting hot, and so was his chest, and there was something tight in his throat. “That’s stupid. Why are you mad? Everything was okay.”

“You could have been killed,” Bruce ground out. “You know that. That’s why you were supposed to stay with me.”

“Stop yelling,” Dick said, kind of yelling. “It was all fine. They liked me, and they’ll say nice things, and–”

“You are never doing that again,” Bruce said, looking forward again.

Dick hissed through his teeth and pulled his legs up to his chest. “You’re not my dad!”

And they were both quiet for a really long time.

They drove really far, until they came to a big, familiar place, with a fancy gate and so many kids playing out front, and Dick felt like all of the breath flew out of him all at once. They were at the orphanage. 

Bruce was so mad he was going to get rid of him.

Hot tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, until the car turned, and kept going, and Dick could breathe again. 

The road turned to dirt, they followed the curving path into the trees, and stopped where the road came to an end. There were already two cars there, big and black and with black windows. Dick could see men in the forest if he looked hard enough, trying not to be seen. Bruce definitely saw them too, and he wasn’t freaking out, so they must be his bodyguards or something. 

Dick snorted. And turned away so he could wipe his eyes without stupid Bruce knowing he got so scared (like a baby) just because they drove by the orphanage.

The car stopped, and Bruce got out. He came around and was about to open Dick’s door when Dick threw it open himself, and hopped out, avoiding being touched and standing a few feet away. Bruce sighed and leaned back into the car, and told the driver to wait for them.

And then Bruce started walking into the woods. So Dick followed. But he stayed a few feet away, and he kept his arms crossed, and he kicked clods of dirt and leaves as they went.

It wasn’t long before they found a small dirt path—small enough that Dick had to walk right next to Bruce, which was really annoying.

The forest was beautiful. There were bushes blooming in red and purple and orange, and the trees were all really green, and there were birds everywhere. Dick tried not to have too much fun, but when he looked at Bruce, he was just looking straight ahead, not even seeing anything, so Dick decided to have all the fun while Bruce stood there like an idiot.

He followed a squirrel all the way to a tree and into a big hole halfway up the trunk, and he ran ahead and pretended he was hunting Bruce with a bow and arrow (that was a really fun one), and tried to introduce himself to the bodyguards, but they kept ducking into bushes and pretending he didn’t know they were there.

Finally, Dick swallowed the hard ball in his throat enough so he could talk again. He didn’t look up at Bruce, and said “I’m not a baby.”

“I–” Bruce ran his hand over his face, and sighed. “I know.”

“I can handle stuff.”

“I know.”

Dick picked a gnarled stick up and hit trees with it as they walked, so it snapped smaller and smaller. “So why’d you get so upset?”

Bruce looked at Dick, but Dick still wasn’t looking back yet. “I was… It isn’t safe for you.”

I know, Dick wanted to say, wanted to shout and kick Bruce’s stupid fancy suit-pants and say I know, that’s why I have to stay with you, and as soon as it’s safe I’ll leave. “You were there. And lots of police.”

There was a big tree off to the side of the path, with perfect branches and big glossy leaves. Dick ran over to it and started to climb, so ready to be angry again when Bruce told him to stop.

Bruce didn’t. Bruce stayed on the ground, and his eyes followed Dick with every move he made, but he didn’t tell him to stop. Instead, he sighed, and leaned his back up against the side of the tree, and said, “I shouldn’t have yelled.”

It wasn’t I’m sorry, but Dick had to remember that Bruce didn’t know manners. 

Dick climbed higher and closed his eyes when a breeze pushed through his hair.

“I shouldn’t have yelled,” Bruce said again, and it sounded like it didn’t hurt as much that time. “I was…scared…for you. And not just because of the people who killed your parents. I remembered what it was like. For me. I remembered how much I hated it.”

Frowning, Dick climbed down a few branches, so he was just above Bruce, and hooked his knees over a branch so he could hang upside-down next to him. He crossed his arms. “You thought I’d be scared of paparazzi.”

Bruce nodded, really slowly. 

“You keep forgetting I’m famous too, Bruce,” Dick said. He was still trying to be angry, but Bruce had apologized (kind of), and it was nice that he was trying to keep Dick from being scared. “I’m not a baby. I knew what I was doing.”

“Why?” Bruce asked, and when Dick shifted on the branch to get comfortable his hand shot out to steady him. It landed on his arm, and kind of stayed there, and Dick didn’t push him off this time.

Dick tilted his head. “Why what?”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “You asked me to go out that way. I know you didn’t just want to see the chandelier.”

“It’s really pretty though Bruce, I–”

“You wanted to talk to them,” Bruce said. “Why, Dick?”

He hadn’t really wanted to talk about it. Dick lifted himself up and sat on the branch right-side up, so he didn’t have to look at Bruce while he talked. “People are talking about you, since you had to save me so fast. I wanted them to know that you’re good.”

Bruce looked at him for a long time, and Dick looked back, so he would know it was the truth. He was really, really smart, and he saw so much, but Dick thought maybe he had a hard time believing the things he saw. “Okay,” Bruce said, and it didn’t really mean anything, but it meant enough. Dick started down the path again, and Bruce kept up with him.

Dick found another tree that he had to climb, but it was really tall, and he’d have to climb the trunk a little before he got to a branch. He got ready, but then Bruce grabbed him and lifted him up, and Dick wasn’t annoyed because he wasn’t saying Dick couldn’t do it himself, he was just trying to be nice. “Why’d we come here, Bruce? Is it special?”

Bruce finished boosting him up, and Dick wrapped his arms around the branch so he could look down at him. “My family– I own this place.”

Dick blinked. “Like. The orphanage?”

Bruce hummed. “That too.”

“That too… Bruce.”

“Hm?”

“Do you… You own this forest?”

Bruce cleared his throat, didn’t look at Dick, and shrugged.

“Oh my gosh,” Dick said, and turned so he was laying on his back. He slapped his forehead. “Bruce, you’re so rich.

“Yeah.”

“Did you used to come here a lot? With your parents?” Dick hopped off the branch and fell to the ground in a roll.

Bruce nodded. “Every day. Until we moved away.”

Dick’s eyebrows scrunched up. “To the Tower?” And before Bruce could answer, Dick crossed his arms and said, “Was the Orphanage your house?”

“Yeah,” Bruce said, and he looked a little sad, but also a little impressed, and Dick could feel his cheeks get warm. “My parents gave it to charity when the Tower was built. I…wasn’t happy, then. But now I’m glad.”

“They sound nice.” Dick took Bruce’s hand and pulled him further along down the path. He was even more interested in exploring now that he knew this is where Bruce grew up. It was still so weird for him to think of someone staying in one place for so long. Bruce must know every single tree, where the berries are, where the birds like to sing and dig up worms.

Dick didn’t know any place that well. He’d been kind of worried about staying here too long (even though he knew he’d be leaving Bruce soon and never see any of these places again), but now he thought maybe he wouldn’t die of boredom. 

They walked for a little while longer, but Dick’s mind was still thinking very hard and very fast, about Bruce and Alfred and Bruce’s nice parents and how losing them had made him so sad, and how much Dick liked making him (almost) happy again, and then he started thinking about all the things that made him happy, and then he gasped and jerked Bruce’s hand.

“What?” Bruce said, really tense all of a sudden, and the bodyguards they were both ignoring took a couple steps forward. 

“Alfred isn’t here,” Dick whispered.

Bruce looked at him like he was worried Dick was going crazy. It was really funny. “Yes..?”

“Do you want to go get ice cream?” Dick tugged on Bruce’s arm again, “Please? You can get the fruit kind, since you don’t like chocolate, and I can get chocolate chip cookie dough!”

Bruce looked like he thought he should say no, but they were both really tired, and they’d forgiven each other after a fight, and that means that they need ice cream. So Dick said please over and over again until finally Bruce relented with a tired almost-smile and said, “Just…don’t tell Alfred.”

Dick shrieked “Yes!” and grabbed Bruce’s hand and pulled him back where they came on the path so fast that the bodyguards didn’t even have time to dive into the bushes and hide. 

They stepped aside and looked like they didn’t know what to do when Dick dove between them, pulling their rich fancy boss along to go buy ice cream, and Dick cackled at them. 

“Bye guys! Have a good night!”

Chapter Text

Gotham was used to rain, but not like this. Hurricane Gemma was rocketing offshoots into the entire Eastern Seaboard, far enough down the Virginian coastline that the downtown nightlife was alive, and far enough up that every drop of rain hit like a bullet, and that the night sky was bright with sheets of lightning.

The last of its pins clicking into place, the lock gave way, and the shadow of the Bat slipped through the door.

The apartment was disgusting, in the deepest part of the Narrows. The floral wallpaper was peeling from the moldy walls, mattresses were pushed end-to-end over every possible inch of the floor, and the greasy take-out boxes on the mattresses. It reeked, like sweat and decay, but the smell was also stale—like these rooms hadn’t seen fresh air in weeks.

The Bat checked the one adjoining room, nearly identical to the one before, and only realized how tightly his jaw was clenched when he heard his teeth creaking. 

This was the last one. Not just the last possible safehouse where Tony Zucco could be hiding: the last safehouse in the Penguin’s entire criminal empire. Not all of them had been empty—Gordon had been extremely annoyed with all of the arrests in the past week, asking if he was trying to start a gang war—but none had the piece of scum that he wanted.

It wasn’t just Zucco who had disappeared, either. Every one of his men. The disgusting slime must have gone to ground as soon as the hit on the Graysons had been carried out, because even the most fresh site must have been abandoned days after it happened. If not the day.

The Bat entertained the thought of grabbing some DNA from the plastic cutlery he kept cracking under his feet, but abandoned it just as quickly. He knew every single one of Zucco’s men, as of last month, had managed to track down each of their files from previous deals and stakeouts. Reading files and memorizing faces had been all he could do on the Grayson case for the better part of two weeks now.

Summer always brought out the crime—whether it was Gotham’s oppressive humidity, sudden openings in people’s schedules, or the need to feed children now that school wasn’t providing meals, this was always his least favorite time of year. Now the Bat despised it for an entirely different reason.

The signal lit the sky, pale and flickering as it was drowned out by constant lightning flashes, and the Bat cursed under his breath. 

For a moment, he considered ignoring it. Just this once.

Since he’d discovered it had been Zucco behind the Grayson case, he had made no progress. He couldn’t even be sure that Zucco had been behind the murder of that disgusting social worker. He just wanted once to be able to wake up in the morning, face the bright eyes of John and Mary’s little boy and think It’ll be alright, he’s safe now .

But the impulse lasted less than thirty seconds. If the signal was on, he was needed. He was already failing the boy every night; now more than ever, every chance he had to save someone was all that was keeping him sane.

-

“ Bruce? ”

The Bat hissed and dodged the heel digging into his side, using her moment of stupidity to grab her leg and twist her to the ground underneath him. These fucking Bonnie-and-Clyde wannabes had already killed five people on their spree, and another lay injured only feet away.

“ Bruce? Is this even on? ” 

Goddammit. “It’s on,” he ground out, and flipped her over, managing to grip both of her flailing arms in one hand and fumbling out his cuffs. 

“ Ah. I take it you’re busy ?”

“You’re looking at the camera feed ,” the Bat growled, and the guy smashed a brick into the back of his head. The Bat saw stars for a few moments, until he wheeled around and connected two solid punches into the guy’s temple, laying him out flat cold.

The girl shrieked.

“ The boy is right, you know. Your manners are abhorrent. ”

That made him freeze. The woman tried to take advantage of it and squirm out of his hold, but that wasn’t working twice; his grip was iron-tight, and she howled in rage. “You talked to him?” Dick hadn’t asked for reassurance, hadn’t asked to be held or touched in the way the Bat could see he craved, and so he’d let it go, like the absolute coward that he is.

The Bat finally cuffed her, finished cuffing her unconscious accomplice, and stalked off, just as the sirens began to round the corner.

“ I did not .” Alfred’s tone was genuinely disappointed. What was this kid doing to them? “ I’ll confess, when I left you two for the day I wasn’t expecting him to be in bed when I came back. At eight o’clock. ”

“I had to go,” said the Bat, firing his grappling gun and disappearing on top of a building before the police could arrive and ask questions too . “He seemed tired.”

“ Depressed children often do .”

Jesus, he’d thought Alfred could be suffocating before . “I’m helping him,” he said, and hated how much emotion those words carried. He crouched down to watch the arrests below, and gave himself a moment to get himself back under control. The rain stung where it connected with his bruised cheek, and he nearly cursed. “The boy is in danger. People are trying to kill him.”

“ I’d imagine some comfort from the man he idolizes would do wonders, ” Alfred said, with just a little bite, and the Bat snapped. 

“Don’t.” Dick liked him because he’d taken him out of the detention center. That hero worship would fade so, so fast. He would start to think Bruce was trying to replace his father, and the resentment would start, and that would be that. You’re not my dad echoed in his head like it had for hours and hours now, a constant accusation. The fact that those words hurt scared him even more.

Down the line, Alfred sighed, sensing the line that he’d crossed, and backed into safer territory. “ Any progress, then ?”

“None.”

“ I see. To the Penguin?”

“To the Penguin.”

-

The Bat hovered in the room that used to be Carmine Falcone’s personal lounge, making do with the small patch of stubborn shadows that the cracks of lightning couldn’t chase away. He had only been there a few minutes when the Penguin stalked into the room, his lackeys close behind. 

“I swear on my mother’s grave,” Oz fumed, pausing to pick up a cue stick. “If any one of you sons of bitches is helping hide that asshole ,” he smashed an expensive-looking statue, which honestly did more damage to the stick than the marble, “I will personally make sure you and every member of your family gets what he’s got comin’ to’im. You hear me?”

Oz had never gotten rid of the pool table—most likely as a symbol of a peaceful transition to Falcone’s loyalists—but he’d never been any good at it. Smashing things with the cue sticks was all it was good for, these days. His lieutenants cowered in the relative safety of the other side of the table, and started giving him their assurances, when the Bat decided he’d seen enough. 

“And if you even think that I’m–”

“ Oz !” one of the lackeys choked out, pointing at the Bat with a shaking finger like he was seeing a ghost. 

Oz turned to him, and the Bat was gratified that that terror still lurked in his eyes as well, even after these years. “Bats! What’s it been, three months? What can I do you for?”

Since he’d seized Falcone’s power, the Penguin had done everything he possibly could to stay on his good side. (The Bat didn’t look back on their chase fondly now, knowing how many lives had been lost to his single-mindedness, but Oz hasn’t gotten behind the wheel in years, and the fear that shoots up the man’s spine at the sight of him still filled the Bat with grim satisfaction.) He complied with every single request the Bat had of him, and he and his men didn’t get ground to dust when he cracked down on Drops every few months. It was a fragile peace, but necessary—the Bat never wanted a power vacuum like the one after Falcone’s assassination again.

“Where’s Zucco.”

Oz chortled, shocked and morbidly pleased. “Well when you find him, you tell me. That bastard made off with my entire Drops stockpile, vanished off the fuckin’ face of the fuckin’ Earth.”

Rage blinded him for a few moments, and the Bat had to consciously compose himself. He needed Oz. It wouldn’t do to beat him into the ground just because he didn’t have the information he needed. “You’re not hiding him.”

“Cross my heart!” Oz handed the cracked cue stick off to a man trying very hard not to be noticed, and his eyes glittered with interest. “What you want with him?”

“Besides cooking Drops, pimping, and racketeering?”

Oz huffed, obviously disappointed but hiding it behind a smile. “Right. ‘Course.”

And just like that, the Grayson case came to a screeching halt.

-

Throwing a soft t-shirt over his head, Bruce emerged into the penthouse, and instantly froze. 

Soft sobs echoed down the hall. Conflicting instincts screamed for Bruce to run in and fix it, and to run back to to the Cave. By now, the Bat had comforted a distressing number of crying, traumatized children. But he wasn’t in the cowl, and this wasn’t some random crying child. This was Bruce , and that was Dick .

He cast about desperately for any sign of Alfred, but there wasn’t, not even a light. Alfred was home , he’d said he was, but he’d probably fucked off as soon as he heard Bruce coming up, the manipulative bastard.

The grief in the boy’s voice…

God, he was thankful he’d taken the time to wipe off the greasepaint around his eyes. 

He followed the sound of Dick’s tears like some fucked-up siren, and didn’t let himself pause in the doorway, because he knew that if he did, he would never go in, and Dick would cry himself to sleep, alone and grieving and scared.

The boy was sobbing in Bruce’s old bed, and the sight gave him such deja vu that his head spun. The lamp on the bedside table was still on, and he could just barely see the boy, submerged under a mountain of blankets.

“Hey,” he whispered, trying to alert Dick to his presence. Bruce stepped forward, and carefully lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. Instantly, the boy shot up, and Bruce’s chest constricted painfully. “Dick.” The boy’s eyes were red-rimmed and watery and so big , and his nose was running, and his hair was sticking up at every which-way, and his arms twitched like they wanted to reach out to him but thought better of it. 

“ Bruce ,” Dick gasped, and his voice was wrecked , and something inside Bruce broke. He wrapped the boy up in his arms and pushed himself further onto the bed, until Dick was laying against his chest, soaking his thin t-shirt through with tears and snot, and Bruce was leaning back against a mountain of pillows. 

God, he was thankful he’d taken the time to wipe off the greasepaint around his eyes. 

“It was my fault,” Dick sobbed, barely intelligible. “I let them fall. I killed them.”

“ No .” Bruce absolutely refused to let that continue. “No, you didn’t.”

“I did .” Dick’s little fingers clenched in his shirt, and Bruce dug his fingers into the boy’s wild hair, like if he held him close enough, tight enough, he could shut the world out. 

“You didn’t kill them.” The sob that wrenched out of the boy sounded like it hurt , God, he was shredding his vocal chords and Bruce felt helpless and terrified. Sympathetic pain lanced through him, raced down his arms and clawed at his throat. “Dickie. A man named Tony Zucco did.

Dick wrenched back, pulling himself to eye-level with Bruce. The boy’s eyes suddenly burned with intensity, looking right into Bruce’s soul. “Tony Zucco?”

Bruce nodded, absently wiping tears from the boy’s cheeks. “You tried to stop it, remember? I saw you.”

“You saw?” That intensity was gone, just as quickly as it had come, and Dick looked genuinely confused. “Oh. You were there.” He probably hadn’t ever made that connection before. 

Dick lowered himself back onto Bruce’s chest in stuttering movements, because his entire tiny body was shaking. “I was there. I watched you run out. You tried to stop them.”

“But I couldn’t .”

“I know,” Bruce said, because that’s all he could say. This same conversation echoed in the back of his head, only with Bruce collapsed against someone, saying it was his fault, and a stern British voice telling him Absolutely not . He’d never been able to actually agree with that. He couldn’t actually argue Dick into believing it. But God, he hoped Dick would, someday.

He pulled a blanket over the two of them (the ugly red one that Dick’s mama had made), and Dick’s arms snaked around him, startling him with the strength of their grip. Don’t leave , Dick didn’t say, because he didn’t need to.

Bruce tucked the blanket around the boy’s shoulders and settled in. I’m not .

-

Dick’s acrobat strength had never been so apparent until now. Attempting to sneak away from his grasping arms was like trying to escape a killer octopus. Bruce tried to lift one of his tiny arms again, and was met with so much resistance he was sure he’d finally woken the kid up. After a moment of breathless freezing, though, Dick mumbled and buried his face even deeper into Bruce’s side, and he nearly sighed.

He desperately didn’t want the boy to wake up—not just because he was in dire need of sleep and the new social worker was pushing harder every day for the court-mandated physical, but also because he needed some time to recover from those wide, wet eyes and that quivering voice. 

Surrendering to indignity, he wriggled out of the iron band of the kid’s grip, slipping out and onto the carpet and freezing again when he made a small thud . He quickly stood, because that definitely didn’t happen, and leaned over the sleeping boy to turn off his bedside lamp. 

Dick was so tiny, even in a twin bed. Huddled in a rainbow of crocheted blankets from his trailer and Bruce’s old comforter and pillows, and curling tight around the stuffed elephant in lieu of Bruce, he almost disappeared. 

It was like he moved against his will. Bruce’s hand brushed through the boy’s hair, barely able to make it through with all the tangles, because he was terrible at this and didn’t make the kid brush his hair. He felt his heart crack , and–

That was enough of that. Bruce got a fucking grip and stepped away from the bed and out of the room, and he took a few seconds to breathe in the soothing darkness of the hallway. He immediately shut whatever that moment had been far away in the deepest corners of we-don’t-talk-about-that and headed for the great room where, sure enough, Alfred was still at the round table, glasses on and reading through some sort of charity brief. 

“Nice excuse by the way,” Bruce said, leaning a hip against the counter and crossing his arms. “How was hunting?”

Alfred didn’t look up. He sniffed and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You used a bow, right? Because I know it wasn’t a gun, with all those lectures…”

“How did it go today?” Alfred took off his glasses, and looked up expectantly. 

Bruce thought about throwing back I don’t know what you’re talking about , keeping things sarcastic and biting, but he’d been trying to be better than that. So he pulled out a chair and tried not to let… whatever he’d just experienced show on his face, and said, “Fine.”

“Did he enjoy the forest?”

“He made fun of me for owning a forest.” Bruce leaned his head on his hand and could feel a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “And he couldn’t stop climbing trees.”

Alfred nodded, his gray brows furrowing. “He needs more stimulation. He’s wasting away here.”

Bruce stiffened and sat up again. “No.”

“Bruce, you can’t hold the boy prisoner .”

“It’s for–”

“He’s already suffering enough as it is–”

“ Three people are dead !” Bruce didn’t make a habit of yelling at Alfred. He wasn’t sure what was coming over him. But his heart was racing, and he was standing up, gripping the wood of the table so hard his knuckles creaked . “Three people are dead, and he’s next. I saw the woman they sent for him, at the detention center. They tucked him away, out of sight, and tried to make him disappear.”

Alfred was quiet for a while. Bruce couldn’t quite look at him right now, his heart was in his throat and his head was too full . He started when a rough hand placed itself on his own. Alfred wrapped his hand around Bruce’s right wrist, and his thumb pressed against his racing pulse. “I saw the news.”

So he knew. How Dick had charmed and beamed and laughed and Bruce had nearly watched him die, right there on the steps of the Tower.

“All I could see was the windows around us, and the crowd. I saw him dead. When his hand… When he let go, I saw it.”

“You protected him.” Alfred retreated, the point of contact still warm against Bruce’s slowing pulse.

Bruce sank back into the chair, and scraped a hand across his face.“I have to find Zucco. I can’t…”

Alfred’s eyes reflected some of that haunted (because that’s what they both were, what they’d always been) terror back at him.  “I know, my boy. I know.”

Chapter Text

Dick’s heart was in his throat and his head felt like it was floating from the moment his eyes flew open. His sweaty fingers twisted in the blankets. Carefully, he checked if Bruce was still there. He was gone. That was a little sad, but also Dick sighed in relief, and flopped his head back onto the pillow, staring up at the brightening ceiling.

Finally.

He’d waited so long. There was a fire inside of him, deep inside, and the more he thought the brighter it grew.

When his breaths slowed down, he sat up and ran a hand through his crazy hair.

Okay. He needed Alfred.

Dick wrapped one of the fluffy blankets around his shoulders and jumped out of bed, and he was tearing down the hallway in seconds.

When he rounded the corner into the kitchen, he blurted out “Can I have the boxes from my trailer?” without even checking to make sure Alfred was there.

Of course, he was. He was making breakfast—omelets, this time, and Dick’s traitorous stomach made grumbling and creaking noises.

Alfred blinked at Dick’s excited entrance, and said “Of course.” Dick could tell he wanted to ask why, but also that he didn’t want to make Dick cry because Bruce was already gone for work and then he’d have to give him a hug instead, so he decided not to ask. “I’ll get them from storage when we’ve finished eating.”

While they were eating, Dick bided his time, and then, when Alfred looked the most distracted and thoughtful while reading Bruce’s letters, he asked, “When is my doctor’s appointment?”

“Hm?” Alfred grunted. “Oh. Tomorrow.” 

Tomorrow. Nice.

“So we can do something today?” Dick asked, pretending it didn’t matter that much and shoveling some more omelet in his mouth.

Alfred raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t say no. Actually, he said, “I suppose.” Then, he said, “What do you have in mind?”

The library was like a glass shoebox smacked down in the middle of the giant skyscraper spears. The doors were gigantic—two times the size of Alfred, Dick made him stand next to them to check—but they looked like tiny stamps stuck on the giant flat walls. When Dick stood there for a moment, staring at the huge building and wondering if the person who built it thought it was pretty and why , Alfred asked if he wanted to go across the street for a better view. Dick kind of wanted to laugh, because it probably looked just as ugly from a little farther away, but he didn’t want to be rude, so he just shook his head and took Alfred’s hand, tugging them to the huge-tiny doors. 

Dick could barely push them open. He hadn’t ever thought glass could be so heavy. Alfred had to help.

“Holy cow,” Dick said, as soon as they stepped through. Even though the library was very, very ugly from outside, seeing rows and rows of books all crammed together always made him really happy.

“Where would you like to start?” Alfred asked.

Dick’s eyes scanned around. The inside of the library was smaller than the glass walls, so you could see into every single level. You could see a big section at the top with brown books that were falling apart, a middle part with computers and couches and a little cafe, and the ground floor was covered in flowers and trees, and murals covered every wall with fairy tales and storybook characters Tata used to read to him while Mama tried to fix whatever new thing was broken in the trailer while he was distracted and couldn’t be offended. The books on the shelves were every color in the rainbow, and the couches and tables in the middle were bright and soft-looking—Dick loved Bruce’s house, because it was beautiful in the way the museums Mama loved were beautiful, but those looked like home. 

And the Waynes’ library was enormous and amazing and there were so many things he wanted to read there, but there weren’t any fairy tales, and there weren’t any books with glossy pages and nice pictures.

Dick looked up at the computers.

“Dick?” Alfred asked, and his gray eyebrows bunched up a little. 

Dick sucked in a breath and squeezed his fingers around Alfred’s big, strong ones. “Can I… Can I look around here first?”

Alfred smiled a very confused smile and said, “Of course—” and Dick was already running off.

There were fifty books stacked up on the table next to him. Dick was pretending to look at one. His head was just too loud to even think about trying to figure out English. 

He imagined Mama sitting next to him. Her face was cold, like it got when she was angry and far away.

I’m sorry, Dick wanted to say. It was terrible. He’d chickened out. Of course Mama was mad. But a small part of him that only kept getting bigger said I don’t want to. He could just see her mouth get all tight in the corners.

Dick flipped his baseball hat backwards because having it in his face was too much—Alfred said it was so people didn’t recognize him, but Dick had thought it’d probably make more people look at him because who wears hats indoors?—and wrapped his arms around himself. The sweatshirt he was wearing was one of Bruce’s he’d pulled out of the drawers in his room. It was black and white, and it had Squires on the front, and the number Bruce used to play on the back. It helped a little bit. 

He needed to go.

There were two men in suits who were ridiculously out of place with all the fun colors and patterns in the children’s section. They were pretty bad at bodyguarding though. They were talking together and hadn’t looked up at Dick in fifteen minutes. Alfred was gone checking out fifty more books that Dick had picked out.

Dick slipped off the couch. Nobody even looked at him.

It was ridiculously easy to sneak to the elevator (the stairs were out in the open, very bad idea) and up to the second floor.

He got to a computer. It only took a few minutes, but they felt like hours—looking over his shoulder every time he heard the tiniest noise, barely breathing so he could listen. He memorized everything he found, letting it run over and over in his head.

Then, when he was finished, he went to the cafe. The teenager working there had her hair in pigtails, and she talked to Dick like he was a real person, not just a little kid, and it made him happy even though his heart felt like it was going to jump out of his throat. He put $20 in her tip jar. Just when she was handing him his order, he heard fancy shoes clicking on the floor, and the third thunk of a cane.

“Richard Grayson!” Alfred yelled, but also whispered—that was a scary skill. “Where have you– Do you have any idea–”

“I got you a tea,” Dick said, and held out the mug. “It’s oolong.”

Alfred paused, but not for long. “You can’t do that, Richard. I won’t allow it. Your guards nearly phoned the police.”

“They’re bad guards,” Dick said, smiling a little, “it wasn’t even hard.”

That didn’t make Alfred less mad, but he stopped talking now; he just stared at Dick with a tight mouth and cold eyes. (Just like Mama.)

Dick shifted on his feet and bit his lip. He really did feel bad, but then again, he’d been feeling bad all day. “I’m sorry I made you scared,” he said, and his shoulders hunched forward a little. “I just wanted to do something nice for you.”

Alfred’s angry mask cracked, and he ran a hand down his face—the other one shook on the cane, just a tiny bit, and Dick wanted to throw up, because he’d only been gone for five minutes and this happened. The older man took the mug from Dick’s hands, and Dick started to back away when a thick arm trapped him up against Alfred’s side.

Oh. This hadn’t ever happened before.

“My boy…” It was so quiet that Dick was convinced he wasn’t supposed to hear it. But he did. He had to cut at the inside of his cheek with his teeth to keep tears from spilling over, and wrapped his arms around Alfred too.

They stayed like that for a very long time. The girl behind the counter definitely took a picture.

Finally Alfred pulled away with an awkward cough, and sipped at his tea. Dick just tried to get a handle on himself.

“Have you ever had crumpets?” Alfred said, after a while.

Dick made a face and said “Nooo. We didn’t go to England a lot. Tata hated your tea.”

“Well,” Alfred said, obviously trying not to talk about that too much and make Dick sad, even though he also obviously wanted to say something. “Would you like one? There are some in the cupboard at home—freshly baked.”

“Oh!” Dick brightened. “I didn’t know Dory came by!”

“Whelp,” Alfred scoffed, and reached down to twist his ear. Dick was too happy and distracted to dodge. His chest felt like it was going to explode, and his head felt floaty. Alfred had hugged him, and he’d gotten to a computer.

He was going after Tony Zucco tonight.

-

Dick’s hands were still a little sticky from the honey. He didn’t want to wash them. He kept touching his fingertips together and pulling them apart—the tacky feeling distracted him from the burning in his eyes and the rock stuck in his throat. 

He was sitting on a little stool that Alfred said was actually for scraping off your shoes, watching the elevator and waiting for the little ding that would mean Bruce was on his way up. 

Across from him was the portrait that Dick had looked at on his first night here, with the sitting woman and the man behind her. He knew that those were Bruce’s parents now. Thomas and Martha Wayne was written in carved-out gold letters on the bottom of the picture frame. Their eyes looked sadder than they had before. 

I’m sorry, Dick thought, and screwed his fingers together tight. I have to. He’ll understand. That was a lie. But maybe if he thought it hard enough it would be true.

Tony Zucco. 

The warehouses by the southern docks. Dark eyes, dark hair, a long deep scar in his left cheek.

Tony Zucco.

Alfred’s arm wrapping around his shoulders, strong and muscly under his boring butler shirt, and Dick hadn’t ever seen him hug anyone before. When Dick had hugged him back, probably a little too hard, he’d said “Oh!” but the happy kind, and Dick had thought he’d cry right then and there and completely ruin everything. 

Dick wouldn’t ever eat breakfast with him again, while Alfred read his newspaper and letters and told him stories every once in a while about England and the places he used to travel (when he definitely wasn’t a spy) and maybe even about Bruce as a kid. 

And Bruce.

Tears stung Dick’s eyes. Bruce gave even better hugs than Alfred. Which was saying something, because Bruce’s hugs were really bad. He remembered all those weeks ago, when everything hurt and nothing mattered and a creepy man walked into the elephant cage, and sat down, and his eyes weren’t sad for him, they just understood. Even though Dick had tried to keep his heart safe and tucked away, thinking about leaving Bruce for good made him feel like it was getting ripped out all over again. 

The hot fire was still there, deep down inside him, but it was very small, now, and he kept wondering if he really had to do this. And then he’d get angrier and his face would go red and he’d think how awful and selfish he was, Mama would do this for him, he just had to stop being such a baby. 

He just needed something good—a nice memory, that made saying goodbye not so hard. 

The elevator dinged. A jolt went up Dick’s spine, and he didn’t know what to do all of a sudden. Did his stand up, or stay sitting down? What did he do with his hands? His face didn’t look normal, how did he make his face normal? He was in an awkward half-standing, half-falling-over slouch when the doors slid open, and Bruce stalked through. 

Dick fell over his feet.

He rolled and jumped back up and tried to pretend that nothing had happened. “Hi Bruce!” Dick smiled his biggest smile. “How was work? Did you yell at anybody? Alfred and I went to the library, it was awesome and super ugly and I got so many books. I don’t know where to put them all. Can I keep them in your library for now?”

He spent the entire time looking at Bruce’s eyes—he’d stopped and held out a hand when Dick fell and now he was just kind of standing there—and trying to see what was going on behind them. But it was like a wall. Nothing was coming in or out. Dick heard a tiny little bit of concern when he said, “Are you alright?” but when Dick nodded Bruce hummed and walked away.

And that’s how it was all night. Dick would say things, ask questions, tell funny jokes, and Alfred would respond, but Bruce wouldn’t. Bruce would look at something far away and hum and nod at the wrong times, and he wouldn’t even stop when Alfred kicked him under the table. 

As soon as dinner was over, Bruce stood up, walked to his office, and closed the door.

Dick sat in his chair and just looked at the closed door, feeling like he could cry and scream and break it down, and the food in his stomach churned.

“He’s had a very tiring day,” said Alfred. He was trying to make Dick feel better. Dick gave Alfred a weak smile and scraped his chair away from the table. When he’d carried his plate and glass all the way into the kitchen, he went into his room, grabbed Le Petit Prince, and sat cross-legged in front of Bruce’s study door. Alfred looked sad, but he didn’t try to stop him.

He couldn’t leave while Bruce was being a jerk. He had to say goodbye the right way. While Dick tried to read the words that swam across the yellow pages, one hand kept drifting into his pocket, to the little folded-up note there. The edges were soft now because he’d touched it so many times that day. It was supposed to be laying on his pillow by now.

But he couldn’t leave. Not yet. 

He gave up pretending to read and just stared at the closed door. It was made of a dark wood, with little branches and leaves and birds carved into it. 

Dick sat there for hours.

When his eyes finally started to slide closed even though he tried to force them open, and his head kept falling back against the wall, his fingers stopped tracing the words on the note—the words he had memorized, that had been screaming in his head all day so loud he’d been terrified someone would be able to hear them.

I love you Bruce. And I love you Alfred. I’m really sorry. I left it all crazy in here so you can pretend I got kidnapped for the news, but I promise I’m okay. I have to do this.

Love, 

Dick

Chapter Text

Two Weeks Later

His hands were getting soft.

Dick sat on Bruce’s desk in the study, because it was the only place where the door could be closed and he and the doctor lady could be left alone (besides one of the bedrooms, but apparently that wasn't allowed). Her name was Dr. Leslie. She held little instruments up to Dick’s eyes and ears and heart and asked him questions about things like his favorite movies and what he liked to eat and how he liked his room. 

It was nice. She was doing a good job of distracting Dick from all the things she was doing. But when his hands wrung together when she reached into her bag for a new little machine, all Dick could think about was his callouses. 

They were going away.

His parents had been dead for so long that his callouses were starting to fade—callouses that Dick’s had since he was four.

It had been that long since they were murdered, and the guy who did it was still out there. Dick’s jaw hurt because his teeth were clamped so tight.

“Dick, are you alright?”

He blinked and looked at Dr. Leslie. She was holding a strap with a tube and a weird bubble at the end of it. She didn’t smile—Dick was finding out that lots of people don’t smile here, how the heck did people stay for so long?—but her no-nonsense face was still kind. “Do you need me to get Alfred? It’s alright if you do."  

Get Bruce, he wanted to say. That’s who I want. But he thought about closed doors and faraway looks, and shook his head. “No, I’m okay. You can keep going.” 

Alfred had sat down with him that morning in the glass-and-plant room and told Dick all about Dr. Leslie—that she was here from the city, to make sure that Bruce was treating him alright, and that it would be best if Dick saw her alone, so Doctor Leslie could be sure Dick was telling the truth. That Dick wasn’t just saying what Bruce and Alfred wanted him to say.

Which was pretty stupid, Dick had said, laughing. Like he’d ever tell a stranger anything bad about Bruce. Especially if it'd get him taken away.

Alfred hadn’t laughed. He’d looked very serious, and set down the letter he was reading, and said, “I truly hope that isn’t true.”

Obviously it was, or Dick wouldn’t have said it. But Alfred didn’t have to know that.

Dr. Leslie wrapped the strap around Dick’s arm, crazy tight, and squeezed the little ball at the end of the tube. The strap started to puff up. “What does this do?” Dick asked. Such a wacky feeling!

“This measures your blood pressure,” said Dr. Leslie. “It’s definitely something we should monitor, now that you’re living with Bruce.” And she gave a little wink.

Dick laughed, but it hurt a little.

Dr. Leslie noticed. She tried not to let Dick know that she did, but her mouth went a little tighter while she wrote down the meaningless numbers on her little dial.

“What do you think about that?” she asked. “Living with Bruce?”

The air went out of the strap, and she took it off Dick’s arm. He snatched it back, and smiled his big show smile. “Bruce is great. He’s keeping me safe. I have lots of clothes and lots of food.”

Dick could tell that the doctor could tell he wasn’t gonna say anything else. She nodded, and started looking through her bag again. “I’m glad to hear that, Dick. You know,” and she took out a little rubber hammer, “I did this for Bruce when he was your age.”

That made Dick blink. “Really?”

“I did. Now, this’ll feel a little funny, alright?” She waited for Dick to nod, and tapped at his knee with the hammer. His foot kicked out like it didn’t belong to him. “After he lost his parents; when Alfred was becoming his guardian.” Dr. Leslie tapped his other knee. “Let me just say—you’re a much better patient than he was. And is.”

Dick picked at his softening palms, and said, “That makes sense,” and tried not to think about Bruce anymore.

Leslie looked at Dick’s face for a long time, like she was trying to read a book or something. Dick looked right back. Then she put her hammer back in her bag, and zipped it up, and said, “Well, thank you for letting me poke you and shine lights in your nose.” She helped Dick hop off of Bruce’s desk, and said, “It was nice to meet you, Dick.”

Dick shook her hand, and tried not to care when he felt her scratchy, hard skin. “Nice to meet you too, Dr. Leslie.”

She walked to the door. When Dick started to follow her, she turned around, and said, “I have some things that I need to tell Alfred. Would you be alright staying here for a few minutes?”

In here? Dick really didn’t want to, but he smiled and said “Sure,” and only flopped down on Bruce’s uncomfy desk chair and sighed when the door was completely closed again.

Dick stared at the massive desk he’d just been sitting on. It was a weirdly light wood, with only a few carvings near the top, not like the crazy stuff in the rest of the penthouse. There was a small stack of paper almost hanging over the edge of the desk. Leslie had pushed them off to the side when Dick had been climbing up. Nothing interesting. Dick had craned his neck over to look at them when Leslie had been shuffling around in her bag, and it’d just been nonsense business words.

That was basically all Bruce did, now: left for the office before Dick woke up, stayed at his office until it was almost dark outside and Dick and Alfred had already eaten, went straight to his study when he was done, and stayed there until long after Alfred shuffled Dick off to bed.

He was being ignored. That was pretty obvious. 

And like, Dick got it. He knew why Bruce took him in, and he knew this wasn’t permanent, and he knew that Bruce was a very busy man who was allergic to any kind of feelings. But Dick was so angry. Something cold was living inside Dick’s chest, wrapped tight around his heart, and he felt it there all the time, just waiting. 

Dick had wanted to leave weeks ago. But of course he had to go and care about Bruce, and want a nice goodbye before he left Dick’s life forever. And of course that’s when Bruce had to start avoiding him like the plague. 

He had so many things to keep inside his head—all the maps and street names and his stash of food and how much money his parents left him—and this one stupid thing was crowding all of them out and making him sick. Not in a way Dr. Leslie would notice. Just… never feeling good. Not feeling right.

The hands of the big grandfather clocks inched way too slow. Dick was sick of being alone with his own head (especially in the place Bruce kept holing himself away inside). He jumped off of the really uncomfortable office chair when the clock dinged a quarter past the hour and left the study on light, quiet feet.

When Dr. Leslie was done talking to Alfred, Dick stepped out of the doorway that he’d been eavesdropping in. Alfred was at the counter in the middle of the kitchen—an island was what it was called, which Dick thought was awesome and hilarious. He was leaning his side with the bad leg up against it, reading a piece of paper with his grandpa glasses.

“What did she say?” Dick asked. He put his hands in the pockets of his pants and walked over so he could lean against the counter just like Alfred. His chin only just peeked over the top. He went up on tiptoes secretly to try and see what Alfred was reading, but Alfred flipped it over and looked down at Dick over the top of his glasses.

“I think you could tell me just as well,” Alfred said. He sounded very serious—when didn’t he?—but the crinkles in the corners of his eyes gave away a smile. 

“Whoops. Busted,” Dick said. “I’m glad I’m all healthy!”

Alfred hummed and went over to the fridge. He pulled out the fancy egg-holder and looked back at Dick very pointedly. 

Dick groaned and flopped his arms across the counter. “Really? I’ve been eating so good though. You told me so!”

Alfred said “You have,” and ignited a fire in the stovetop. Dick rushed over to watch—he was still so amazed by Alfred’s fancy stove with real fire, not just a hot bit of metal. Alfred put a black pan on top of the fire, and pulled an egg out of the little glass holder. “Would you like to try?” he asked, and held out the egg. 

Dick pushed himself onto the counter and took the egg. While he cracked it on the corner of the counter, Alfred said, “I am pleased you’ve been eating well.” Dick pushed his thumb into the shell and split it into halves. The egg fell into the pan with a sizzle. The yolk split and gold smeared over the whites, but Dick glanced up at Alfred nervously, and his face hadn’t changed at all, so Dick thought it was probably okay. 

Alfred got out some spices and said, “I would just like your progress to continue.” 

Dick felt bad. He was tricking Alfred. It’d been more than a month since his parents fell, and Dick still had to choke down food. But he’d started stealing away things that wouldn’t go bad to his room—granola bars and apples and stuff—for when he went away. 

Which was supposed to be anytime now, if Bruce would just cooperate.

It had been a week since Bruce had talked to him. At least, talked to him for real. He would say “How are you?” and “Are you still hungry?” and he’d say little one-word sentences back when Dick told interesting facts or a funny story. But that wasn’t talking.

Stupid Bruce. Making Dick care about his stupid face.

Alfred put a little bit of water in an upside-down pan lid, and flipped it over the pan and covered the egg—for a minute and 45 seconds, because Dick liked his whites a bit soft.

Dick stared at his hands the entire time. So soft. What would his mama think?

Alfred was watching him, he knew. When his egg got uncovered and scooped onto a plate, Alfred watched while Dick ate, too. He tried to look as normal as possible—and then kind of freaked out when everything he did started to feel like the most unnatural thing he’d ever done.

When he was halfway through, Alfred sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Would you like to see something?” he asked.

Dick paused, a scoopful of egg halfway up to his mouth. “Uh, yeah,” he said.

“Alright,” Alfred said, and he gave a small nod—probably to himself. “Finish, and I’ll take you there.”

He probably regretted that when Dick immediately did his best impression of a vacuum. The egg was gone in thirty seconds. Dick hopped off the counter and rocked on his heels. “So? Where we going?”

Alfred was really good at rolling his eyes without actually rolling his eyes. He gave Dick a look, grabbed his cane, and started off to the elevator. “Follow me.”

Dick had never ever been on this floor before. It was right at the very bottom of the building—the last button in the entire display. Before the elevator had moved, Alfred had had to put in a special code on a screen that had just looked like part of the wall before.

There were tall metal doors before they could see what was inside. Dick couldn’t help but bounce a little bit as he watched Alfred walk up. “What is it?” Dick tried to whisper, but it just kind of came out like a strangled shout. 

“This…” Alfred paused. He wasn’t looking at Dick. His hand was tight around the handle of his cane. Dick kind of wanted to put his hand on top of Alfred’s—give it a couple comforting pats—but he was very good and kept his hands to himself. “He would never say so, but I know Bruce wanted to show you himself. And yet…” Alfred looked down at him. He looked sad . Now Dick couldn’t help but wrap his hands around the one on Alfred’s cane. 

“It’s okay,” Dick said, really quiet.

Alfred looked away, and let out a long breath. Then he went up to the door—Dick kept holding his hand, he was a little nervous now?—and punched another number into another hidden screen.

The big metal doors creaked open, and Dick gasped. He let go of Alfred’s hand and ran inside. 

It was…

A gym! 

It was a massive space, with mirrors on the walls and soft mats on the ground, and lots of machines and weights and punching bags for adults, but the thing that drew Dick over, that made his hands itch to touch, was a set of uneven bars.

“I didn’t know Bruce did uneven bars,” he said, just staring at them.

“He doesn’t.”

Dick’s eyebrows bunched up together. He turned to Alfred. “What?” He looked down at Alfred’s cane. “ You don’t…”

“Goodness, no,” Alfred laughed. He came up behind Dick, and put a light hand on his shoulder. Dick looked at them again, just remembering, aching to get up there and build back the hardness in his hands.

But. If they weren’t for Bruce, and they weren’t for Alfred…

“Did he..?” Dick’s blunt fingernails dug into his palms.

Alfred’s hand squeezed. “Yes. For you.”

Dick’s eyes went blurry and his cheeks went his. Tears spilled over, and he wiped at them furiously, turning to look at Alfred and saying, “But why?”

Alfred winced and moved his hand from Dick’s shoulder to his cheek. “Oh, my boy,” he said with a scratchy voice. “He cares for you. He does.”

An angry sound, a sound that hurt ripped from Dick’s throat, and he threw his arms around Alfred, even though he’d get his nice vest wet. “I don’t believe you,” he said. I can’t. If he cared, then why would he just throw me away?

I understood, Dick thought. I knew he was just protecting me. But then he had to make me care about him, and I’m so confused.

We both know I’m going to leave soon. Why does he keep pulling me back in?

“I don’t believe you,” Dick said, and couldn’t hear the things Alfred said back over the furious roar in his ears.

Some time later, when Dick’s run out of tears for three parents guardians adults, he’ll pull away and smile with sore eyes and say Can I? and Alfred will say Of course, and he’ll run to the bars as fast as he can. But for now, he just holds onto Alfred, and lets everything hurt for a while.

Chapter Text

The air was thick and moist. It almost hurt to breathe. Any longer and he’d have to think about redesigning the cowl.

A low voice over the comms; “Something is weighing on you.”

Batman grunted and cinched the cable tighter. The man whimpered, but couldn’t move his hands. Good.

Alfred sighed. God, were they about to talk about something? Batman straightened and looked around the dark street. The woman was long since gone. Of course, he would have preferred to hand her to the authorities to take her statement and provide the proper consultation, but judging from the deep grooves carved into the man’s face, Batman wouldn’t have been able to force her to do anything she didn’t want.

“I showed him the bars today.”

Flashing lights rounding the corner. Batman stalked off to find a convenient grapple-point. The technology was still new, and sometimes painfully imprecise.

“I decided I needed more gymnastics training for the grapples,” he said. Alfred hummed and said nothing. 

The entire city stank—a combination of dead fish from the shorelines and debris from the Narrows, rotting in the sweltering heat and permeating the dank air. This heat wave was devastating.

So many had become desperate for food, air conditioning; for weeks Gotham had been as crime-filled as the day he put on the cowl. But instead of drugs and trafficking, it’s mostly been robberies and muggings—good people driven over the edge by a system that was failing them. 

The Wayne Foundation had purchased a few failing department stores downtown and converted them into shelters as quickly as possible in response to the desperate need, but even those were full. 

Batman had been attempting to devote as much of his time as possible to the Grayson case, but since the heat wave set in, that time had reduced to almost zero. Disarming potentially lethal situations, giving the despairing other options, talking beaten-down souls from high rooftops has been his every single night.

This was what he wanted Batman to be, eventually. He wanted to be the hope that Gotham could rise from its devastation into a humane city, safe not just for those with deep pockets and their hands in the mob. It was during these times of disaster that he felt closest to accomplishing that goal.

But this disaster could not have come at a more disastrous time. 

The Grayson case has just been sitting, untouched, and it haunts Bruce’s every waking moment. He can feel Dick watching him, waiting and so heartbroken. He’d promised the boy that he would get justice. The weight of Bruce’s failure weighed heavier each day, on the slope of his shoulders and in the bags under his eyes.

He thought of Dick, hands taped up and flying, just like the night John and Mary were taken from him. Over the comm, he said, “What did he think?” There, perfect. He fired the grapple at a wide brick building with barely any windows, and rocketed to the top, only having to climb a few feet to roll over the edge and onto the roof.

“What was that?” 

Oh, real mature Alfred. “Of the bars. Did he seem…happy?” He’d seen glimpses of Dick’s happiness, in the time he’d been staying with them. The boy was always pleasant, but there were some moments when his hands couldn’t stop moving and his feet couldn’t stop bouncing and his eyes shone . 

“Of course not.”

Of course not. Of course not. Why had he even asked? Guilt sunk even deeper into his bones, and he had to stop for a moment, watching the scene below with blurry vision—the two flashing cruisers, armed officers, snapping the wire around the man’s hands and immediately replacing them with cuffs.

He’d been trying. As soon as he arrived home from the office each night, he’d been heading straight to his office and pouring over the case file and Zucco’s past files, while he shoveled down some sort of protein and water. But even waiting to help with the heat wave crisis until after dark felt selfish, so he’d suit up and head out at dusk.

This workload came with the added benefit of not having to look into Dick’s sad eyes, having lived to fail him another day. 

“Bruce…” Alfred said, and Batman hissed at the name.

“Not over comms.”

“...that boy,” Alfred continued, not skipping a beat, “misses you.”

Dick missed him?

That was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. Sure, Dick was fond of him, but their arrangement was one built from practicality. Dick would rather have his parents’ killer found than Bruce hanging around, completely useless.

“He misses his parents.”

“You can’t bring them back.”

Batman snarled. “He needs justice. I can see it in him.” He didn’t want Dick to end up like him, warped and broken when the world moved on without him. That was the last thing he wanted. Dick Grayson had so many remarkable things in his future; anyone who’d known him five minutes couldn’t help but see it. 

“I’m doing what’s right.”

“For him? Or for you?”

That…

A deep blast and the sound of shattering glass broke Batman from his reverie. He closed the comms with a firm click, and ran towards the chaos.

Bruce sat back in his office chair and resisted the urge to pull up the Grayson file. That would be unfathomably stupid, Lucius would be here any second for their weekly lunch. But he wasn’t doing anything of consequence, just signing countless air-conditioning unit order forms and the termination notices for the warehouse managers who’d refused to purchase them. 

He tapped his thumb on the stack of forms. …Okay, fine.

The tablet was in a panel in the middle of his desk; the molding on the top right drawer, an intricate W, could be twisted into a shape vaguely resembling a bat, which would pop out a thumbprint scanner, and slide open the panel.

Bruce picked up the tablet, and immediately shoved it back again when the elevator door ding ed and the door slid open. 

Dick sprinted out into the office, jumping into an armchair on wheels. It spun into the middle of the room, with the boy’s arms and chin flopped over the back. “Hi Bruce,” he said, still spinning.

“Hi,” Bruce said. “Did… Did Alfred–”

“I’m hungry,” Dick said. The spinning was slowing—Bruce was sure the wheels had dug scratches into the tile. “Can we get some food?”

Was Alfred actively conspiring against him now? “I have a meeting,” Bruce said.

“Oh sweet! I can learn all your secrets!” Dick flopped back and sat cross-legged. By now, Bruce had guessed that this was about as close as Dick got to “sitting normally.”

“I think you–”

“Sorry I’m late– Oh! Hello,” said Lucius, as he walked through the office door at the worst possible time. “I’ve got a feeling you’re Richard Grayson.” He stripped off his blazer and held a hand out to Dick.

Dick got up and shook it. “Yep. What’s your name?”

“Lucius Fox. I’m sure you’ve never heard Bruce talk about me. That’s how you know we’re friends.”

Dick smiled—a real one, Bruce noted, not the one he’d been wearing since he’d walked off the elevator—and looked down at Lucius’ other hand. “Are you here for lunch?” Dick asked. 

Lucius held up the cafe menu he’d been holding and said, “Are you?”

And that’s how Dick ended up sitting in on one of their weekly lunch meetings. He was completely unobtrusive, of course, besides ordering an “American burger” and refusing to qualify what that meant. That hadn’t been what Bruce was worried about. Bruce was worried about Lucius. And with good reason.

“So, kiddo,” Lucius said, after they’d managed to talk business for three straight minutes, “how’ve you been handling the heat? Been doing any swimming? Bruce’s saltwater pool is disgusting, but I’d kill for it right now, I tell you what!”

Dick tilted his head. “The heat?”

Lucius’ smile froze a little. “The–? Bruce must keep you under lock and key, huh?” He laughed, and it looked like Dick was about to respond, but the door opened and Joan stepped into the office. 

“Your lunch is here, Bruce,” she said, and smiled at Dick before stepping out. A woman with purple hair came in after her, balancing Lucius’ sandwich, Bruce’s salad, and Dick’s “American burger.”

As soon as the door was closed again, Dick dropped his smile and said, “Bruce is keeping me safe, Mr. Fox.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow, and Bruce cut in. “The police suspect that the person who murdered Dick’s parents wants to finish the job.”

“Jesus.” Lucius put down his sandwich and sat back, clearly watching Dick for a sign of distress at the frank discussion of murder. “Okay. Is that why you took him in?”

Bruce nodded.

“Are they any closer to catching’em?”

Bruce did not look at Dick to see his reaction—to see the grief there and feel that guilt crush even harder. “No.”

“But that’s all,” Dick said, and smiled. He still hadn’t touched his food. “Everything will go back to normal after that.”

Bruce felt his eyes narrow. Lucius continued the conversation, telling the story of how he started a fistfight when Ferguson stole the fan from his office, but something about the way Dick said that caught his attention, and he ate his salad while lost in thought.

Everything will go back to normal.

Oh. Obviously. They both knew: as soon as the case was solved and Dick was safe, he was going to go live with someone more qualified for childcare. And of course Bruce would visit once or twice, to make sure he was settling in and making friends, but of course Dick would settle in, and of course he would make friends. So then the visits would be once a month, and then on birthdays, and then Bruce would start sending cards on the birthdays, and then Joan would start sending the cards, and…

Everything will go back to normal.

God. 

“Better eat your burger, kiddo,” Lucius said, and snapped Bruce out of whatever terrifying spiral that had been. “They’re never as good when they’re cold.”

Dick’s smile was small. “I don’t know.”

Bruce watched Lucius realize he’d stepped in something and back off. He laughed and said, “Sorry my gruesome ass beating killed your appetite.”

Dick laughed and turned to look at the clock on Bruce’s desk. “Oh, I’ve gotta go. Alfred’s taking me to the gym again!”

And just like that, he was out of the chair and into the elevator. Just like Dick never sat “normally,” he never just “walked” anywhere.

“Welp.” Lucius took the last bite of his sandwich. “I get it.”

Bruce looked at him. Get what? That everyone Dick met found themselves wrapped around his finger in a matter of seconds? Bruce thought that should have been apparent within two minutes of meeting the boy.

The purple-haired girl walked back into the office and picked up their plates. She made a little sound when she saw Dick’s untouched burger and said, “Oh no! He didn’t like it?”

Bruce smiled—nowhere near Lucius’ charisma and Dick’s charm, he was sure—and said, “He wasn’t feeling well.”

She aww ed and said she hoped he felt better and got out of the office as quickly as possible.

“Scared off another one,” Lucius snorted.

“I was trying to be nice,” Bruce said, weakly.

Lucius picked up his agenda binder, and flipped it open. “Sure, sure. Alright. How about we start with the warehouse air conditioning fiasco?” 

Bruce groaned as Lucius pulled out another stack of termination notices to file.

In the kitchen of the Wayne Enterprises Corporate Headquarters café, Anya Davis fell to the tiled floor, the plates she’d been carrying smashing and lacerating her arms and one side of her face. Her coworkers called an ambulance and she was taken to Gotham General, where she was unresponsive for three hours, and then woke, completely fine.

She’d just gotten off lunch, tying up her purple hair and telling her coworker that one of her customers hadn’t wanted their meal, so she didn’t have to walk over to the bodega in the sweltering heat.

Several MRIs and scans were done, but the cause of her collapse was never found. “These sort of things just happen sometimes,” her doctor said. “You might’ve been out in the heat too long. I’m seeing that every day, these days.”

The incident was reported, ACCIDENT, her medical bills were covered by her workplace health insurance, and the whole thing filed away by the Wayne Enterprises Junior Chief of Security (Gotham Uptown branch) without any fuss.

The kitchen was dark when Bruce went up after finishing with WE for the day. He might have been alarmed (the kitchen was never dark) but he could hear low murmurs from deeper into the penthouse.

He should have gone straight to his study and dug out Zucco’s file, but his mind had been wandering all day. He probably wouldn’t have got anything valuable done anyway. Also, he might be curious.

He followed the chatter, through the kitchen and past Alfred’s stubbornly self-appointed rooms to the conservatory. Bruce couldn’t remember the last time he’d been here—this was Alfred’s space, it had always felt too invasive, like he would be imposing.

The plants were larger now, thriving with the nearly constant light they received from the skylights and floor-to-ceiling windows. Every flat surface was crawling with them, except the table where Alfred and Dick sat.

“...and that’s a double-run for sixteen!” Dick said. 

“That was a nice try,” said Alfred, “but we both know you know the rules by now.”

“Aw beans. Fine, a double-run for eight.”

They were both bent over a thin wooden board with pegs and holes, and cards were spread over the table in little piles, face-up.

Bruce smirked. “You’re teaching him cribbage?”

Dick got up on his knees in the chair and turned around to look at him. Alfred didn’t look up. “Some people appreciate this game of wits and its storied history.”

Dick huffed and turned back around, moving his peg forward and saying “See, it’s not fair, I don’t have as many wits as you.”

Bruce stepped forward to survey the board. Dick had just moved his peg, so he was obviously silver. The boy hadn’t even made it around the first bend, and Alfred’s gold pegs were coming in to the final stretch.

“No mercy, huh, Alfred?” Bruce said. Dick said none and flopped over the arm of his chair. “Besides, this isn’t a game of wits. It’s a game of chance.”

“Hm.” Alfred picked up the cards and started shuffling. “And I win every time because..?”

Bruce shrugged. “You’re lucky.”

“Sit down, you cheeky brat,” Alfred said, with a hint of a smile. “I’ll show you luck.”

Bruce froze. “No, I have to…”

The hint of a smile faded, but Alfred kept shuffling. Bruce felt something brush his hand; Dick reached out and said, “Please?”

Everything will go back to normal.

“Fine,” Bruce said, after probably ten seconds too long. He pulled out a chair opposite Dick.

Dick whooped and moved all the pegs back to the beginning. “You’ll be the black ones in the middle because that’s your favorite.” Alfred laughed, and Bruce sent him a sharp look, but Dick didn’t seem to notice. He leaned over and put his hand up to his mouth and whispered, “If we team up I think we can beat him.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Conspiracy, Dick?”

Bruce couldn’t help but lean over the table and say, “You distract him, and I’ll move his pegs?”

Dick beamed. “Deal.” God, it was like the sun.

Alfred sniffed. And then he proceeded to completely demolish them both.

When he’d gone out with a twenty point hand, Alfred turned to Bruce and said, “A game of chance?”

Dick leaned his elbows on the table and grinned. “Guess we have to play again to prove it!”

Bruce pushed away from the table. It was 9 o’clock—so late, he’d gotten so distracted, and who knows what had happened while he was slacking off, and whatever it was was his fault—and the only light in the conservatory was the soft yellow lamp that arched from the corner and over the table. “I’ve got to go.”

Dick bit his lip. “But…” Bruce stood and walked away, even when Dick reached out for his hand.

He went straight for the study, straight for the grandfather clock, straight for the ‘basement…’

A light rustle of fabric. Bruce whipped around, and sure enough, Dick was just behind him. That was…impressive. And close. Without the loose-hanging sweatshirt, Bruce wouldn’t have heard him at all.

“Do you need something?” Bruce asked, for something to say besides a plaintive Please go to bed.

Dick crossed his arms over his chest and stared up at Bruce steadily. “You stopped talking to me.”

…Bruce could see why it looked that way. “The heat wave caused a lot of problems. I’ve been fixing them.” Not a lie. Well, he probably hasn’t been fixing anything. But he’s made things marginally better.

“Did I do something wrong?” Dick’s arms tightened around his chest, and he shifted on the balls of his feet.

“What?” It came out before Bruce could process. Dick bit his lip and his arms tightened even further and was he shaking? “You should sit down.” Bruce put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and guided him over to the massive couch his father used to take naps on. Dick was dwarfed by it. 

“Just…” Tears were welling up in Dick’s eyes. Actual pain wrenched in Bruce’s chest. “Just tell me what I did.”

Bruce sat next to him on the couch. There wasn’t an answer for that.

He could see it now, when he viewed these last weeks through the boy’s eyes. Bruce had been fighting for him, night and day, and every time he failed, he would drown in his guilt and avoid Dick’s sad eyes like the plague, because on some level he viewed them as accusatory.

But to Dick, he’d just… stopped talking to him. 

Dick didn’t know that he was the one failing to bring him justice. That was his own burden—one that Bruce was going to keep as far away from Dick as he fucking could. And Dick was a grieving child, alone in a penthouse that he couldn’t leave for his own safety, and Bruce had abandoned him.

There was a knot at the base of Bruce’s throat. 

He’d been terrified of ruining this kid, when he’d already started doing it weeks ago. He had no idea how to fix this. Maybe he should bring Alfred in here, he could…

Dick sniffed. There were tear tracks on his cheeks.

Bruce reached out and took his hand. “Nothing.”

Dick almost jumped in surprise, looking up at Bruce with such utter confusion. “What?” he said, voice thin.

“You didn’t do anything,” Bruce said, and tightened his hand around Dick’s, and God he really had no idea what he was doing here.

Dick almost collapsed against his shoulder. Bruce could tell he was trying to stop the tears, hitching his breaths and steadying his shoulders. “I’m so confused.”

Bruce rested his chin on that tiny head. His hair was so long. Was he supposed to get it cut? Where did you take kids to get a haircut?

They stayed there for who knows how long. The tears stopped, but Bruce couldn’t even think about pulling away. Probably someone more functional would have wrapped the boy up in their arms, but that just seemed… Bruce wasn’t even sure he knew how to hug someone, anyway. They sat, leaning against one another, with Bruce’s shoulders curled in front of the boy—probably some sort of learned subconscious instinct, he wasn’t going to analyze it too closely.

Bruce hoped it was enough. He hoped Dick understood.

While he was berating his complete and utter lack of parental instincts, an idea struck him. “So,” he started, “I promised Mackenzie I would go to the charity auction tomorrow. Do you… want  to come with me?”

He could feel Dick shift. Bruce pulled back so Dick could look up at him, those clever eyes searching. Bruce had no idea what he would find.

Finally, Dick said, “Yeah. Sure.”

Okay.

Bruce had been fucking things up. But maybe this could be them starting over. The hand in his barely covered Bruce’s palm. He could feel the birdlike knuckles and bones with his own cracked, brutish ones. It felt like they would crack and shatter if he squeezed too hard; so Bruce cradled the little hand carefully.

Bruce knew with bone-deep certainty that he would do anything to keep them from breaking. Might as well just accept it.

This was it! Finally. Some tears leaked out when he realized how soon this had to end. But there was a little thrill too, from the part of him that never stopped thinking about this moment.

Tomorrow, when he and Bruce got back from the charity gala, Dick would finally avenge his parents.

Chapter Text

Pins were sticking out of him in every single direction, like that way people relax that looks like the most stressful thing anyone could do to their body ever.

“I look like a porcupine,” Dick said. He barely moved his mouth while he spoke because the suit man had a needle right next to Dick’s neck, but the corner of Bruce’s mouth moved up a solid 0.5 centimeters, so Dick knew he got the message.

“More like a hedgehog,” Bruce said. Dangit, he was right.

“But a stylish hedgehog,” said the suit man, and he looked at Dick in the mirror and winked. Dick would have smiled back, but the pin was still right there, so yeah, he wasn’t gonna risk it.

-

Dick wanted to ride in the awesome tiny car that Bruce drove that night he took him home for the first time (to Bruce’s home—Dick had to stop thinking like that, it was gonna make things so much harder tonight), but Bruce said “No,” because it didn’t have a backseat for Dick to sit in and there were Rules about that sort of thing, in his soft voice that said and that’s my final answer. So it only took a few minutes of pleasepleaseplease-ing and putting his sad eyes right in Bruce’s face for Bruce to almost cave. But, just when Dick was jumping up and down in victory (sadly so hard to do in his fancy-pants suit) Alfred appeared behind them and gave them both raised eyebrows.

So they ended up with the safe option. They took the elevator down to the garage and had to use the clicker to find the car. It was still black, because obviously, but Dick still looked longingly at the car Bruce drove that night as he flopped into the backseat.

“Lift your feet,” Bruce said, and Dick did a half-hearted and stiff backward somersault (stupid suit!) as he shut the car door.

Bruce got into the driver’s seat up front and stared Dick down until he sat up and clicked a seatbelt on. Bruce didn’t ever have anyone else drive him places like Dick thought all rich people did. It made sense, if he thought about it, because Bruce liked to do everything himself. Except cook. Otherwise the tower would have probably burned down like fifty years ago.

The car backed out and slid out of a very secretive tunnel onto the rushing street. Dick watched carefully as Bruce slid in between two cars; there was the perfect amount of space, and probably for the hundredth time in his life, Dick wanted to be big enough to drive so bad he felt like he was gonna explode.

“Sorry,” Bruce said, after a few minutes. For once was barely noticing the quiet—it was so hard to look away from Gotham’s big, sad buildings. “About the suit.”

“Eh.” Dick shrugged, and tried not to be annoyed that even that was kinda hard. “It’s just a costume.”

The car beside them honked—they were kinda gonna run into him before Bruce jerked the wheel and cursed. He looked at Dick in the rearview mirror. “I guess so.”

“Why did you promise Mackenzie you would go tonight, though?”

Bruce hummed. Dick really wished he was allowed to ride in the front seat. Bruce barely talked, so Dick always had to see his face to know like, half the things he was trying to say. “Rich people spend money on art and jewelry and historical artifacts, and then that money goes to people who need it. So I try to spend a lot of money at these parties.”

Dick tilted his head. “That doesn’t really make sense. Why can’t the rich people just… give people the money?”

“They probably wouldn’t do it.”

“But why?”

“Then people wouldn’t know that they were giving their money away.”

Oh. That actually made a lot of sense, in a way that made Dick feel a little gross. Wasn’t that kind of what he was trying to do with Bruce, talking to paparazzi? Showing people that Bruce was good, so that when Dick disappeared they wouldn’t throw him in jail or something?

At least Dick didn’t have to throw a party about it.

It was pretty obvious when they were getting close to the party. There were always a lot of people on the sidewalk—Dick had noticed from up in the Tower, at least; he hadn’t gotten to actually go out and see that for himself—but they went from busy to jammed, humans squished closer than sardines in a can (a nasty thought) and kind of looking like one-eyed aliens with their phones all held up high above their heads. The building up ahead was glowing from the constant flash of cameras, and finally Bruce pulled to a stop and looked back at him.

Huh. Dick hadn’t ever been to a fancy party, but he’d been imagining something like the soaring cathedrals he and Mama used to visit, draped in colorful flags and fabric and curved lines and stained glass. This place was nice enough—Gotham actually had a lot more carvings and statues on its buildings than Dick would’ve thought—but… Man, America was so boring.

It was just a box, with columns in the front and a ceiling made out of plain glass.

“You want to leave?” Bruce asked. He was obviously looking for an excuse.

Dick shook his head. “Let’s go.”

The room was lined with stands of…whatever it was the rich people were buying, and the middle was stuffed with round tables covered in white tablecloths. There were also like, a hundred guys with sunglasses (stupid) and things in their ears standing next to all of the stands—Dick guessed that was why they weren’t being followed around by Bruce’s troupe of bodyguards.

They sat at a table in the furthest corner from the door—the tables were big enough that at least four people could’ve sat with them, but whenever anybody got too close, Bruce stared at them until they walked away. Someone got up and started talking into a microphone, but Dick couldn’t really hear them under the sound of hundreds of people mumbling to each other.

Some people were walking around, looking at the little stands, but not that many. “Don’t you have to go buy stuff?” Dick asked. He had to say it again so Bruce could hear. That was why you needed to hang fabric and stuff on the walls!

“Mackenzie’s buying for me.” Dick looked for a big blonde head of hair, but he couldn’t pick her out in the crowd.

“Is that what everyone’s doing? Having someone else buy for them?” Bruce nodded. “Then why–! Nevermind.” Rich people!

Dick sat on his knees so he could lean over and talk in Bruce’s ear. “So what are ‘you’ buying for poor people tonight?”

Bruce snorted and looked very interested in the person speaking. “The Drakes dig up their own artifacts. They sell the ones that don’t need to go to a museum.” He jerked his head over to a man and woman who looked very serious. Dick had to sit up on his knees to see them better—the tables were really high, and the chairs were really low.

And then the person speaking finished and sat down, and everyone clapped little quiet claps and barely moved their hands. Dick couldn’t help but look around with big eyes—that applause was pathetic!—and Bruce coughed into his napkin like he was hiding a laugh. Dick looked up at him. People were starting to scoot their chairs back and smooth out their boring suits and colorful, interesting dresses. Dick watched the ladies out of the corner of his eye and felt a pull in the middle of his chest. “Why don’t you let people see you laugh?”

Bruce put the napkin on the table and squeezed it before he let go. “Because people will think I’m in a good mood. They’ll want to talk to me.”

Dick propped his head up on his hand. “But you are in a good mood.” He grinned.

“Who’s fault is that, huh?” Bruce poked him in the side, and Dick fell over giggling. “I shouldn’t have brought you.”

Wow. That was like, the nicest thing Bruce had ever said out loud to him, not just with his eyes. Dick felt the bottom of his stomach drop out because he remembered he had to leave tonight. And then he felt sick, because he was going to avenge them, that shouldn’t make him feel awful like this.

Bruce was standing up now. He looked down at Dick, still flopped over in his chair, and held out a hand, and looked like he was feeling kind of sick too.

Dick shoved all his feelings except the good ones way way down inside and used the back of the chair to perfectly dismount. “Okay, let’s make it a game.” Bruce put his hand in his pocket and raised an eyebrow. And yep, people were already circling, pretending to talk to each other about important things and conveniently getting closer and closer. “Talking to people! How about we both… try to sneak in the same word! If you do it first, you get a point.”

“Bruce!” a deep voice said, about ten feet away. Bruce pretended he didn’t hear.

“Which word?” Bruce said, and he nodded his head at another person who shouted his name.

Dick crossed his arms and looked up at the boring glass ceiling. “Hmm.” He grinned. “Hedgehog.”

The smile was small, and Bruce still looked kind of sick, but Dick counted it as a win. “Deal.”

The game was vicious. Obviously Dick was making excellent impressions and talking about what a great person Bruce was who definitely shouldn’t be suspected of murder if his ward disappeared—except for the people who crouched down to talk to him and looked fake-sad when they talked about the circus and asked him “But where are you from?”—but he was also using all of his powers to get the conversation on the subject of pets. Dick had kind of thought Bruce would be bad at this, given that he hated talking to people, but it was kind of amazing to watch. Bruce was a genius, and every conversation, every boring rich person who only wanted to talk about boring rich people things ended up talking about, “Why yes, I suppose the hedgehog is an excellent metaphor for the guards which modern society requires us to build,” and “You know, it’s funny you should mention it, my daughter has a pet hedgehog!” It was kind of like watching a different person.

It was getting kind of late, and Bruce kept sending Dick glances like You sure you don’t want to leave, and Dick always shook his head just a tiny bit because the thought of leaving put that sick feeling back in his stomach and made his mouth go dry.

Bruce wasn’t drinking anything since he had to drive, but Dick was sure there had to be water somewhere at this fancy party. He caught Bruce’s eye and pointed to his throat, and only went off to look for some when he got a nod back.

He had to weave through a forest of tall legs and wait is that the kid’s before he found the table, tucked away into a far-away corner. There was one water dispenser, almost completely empty. A tiny child was standing on his tiptoes, straining so hard Dick could almost hear it to put his cup under the spout.

“Here,” Dick said, and the kid whirled around. Dick held up his hands to show he was just trying to be nice, and smiled his best smile. “Hey, I just wanna help. Can I?” He pointed at the kid’s cup.

The kid looked down at the cup in his hand, like Dick wasn’t speaking English (he unfortunately was), and back up at Dick, and slowly held out the cup.

Dick took it, filled it, and handed it back with an absent smile and a there you go as he tried to find Bruce in the crowd. Geez, why did everyone have to be so tall? The kid had walked away, and Dick was about to go climb on top of a table when–

SMASH

The entire ceiling rained down like the icicles Tata used to knock off the trailer. Even before the first piece landed, Dick’s arms were up over his eyes and he was crouched low to the ground. Each piece was like a little knife, slicing up the back of his neck and his scalp and his hands. Some definitely fell down the back of his shirt, getting stuck where it tucked into his belt, but Dick barely noticed.

Lines dropped through the new holes in the ceiling, and twelve pairs of boots crunched to the ground—Dick could see them from where he was hunkered underneath a table—and gunshots cracked in the air. People screamed.

“Down,” shouted one of the men, “and shut the fuck up!”

There wasn’t any talking after that. Those boots spread out through the room, over to the edges where the artifacts were for sale. A robbery. That made sense. But where were all those guys with the stupid sunglasses?

Dick carefully kept an eye on each of the men. His heart was constricting, like someone had reached in and squeezed. He couldn’t find Bruce anywhere, in the piles and piles of scared people laying flat on the glass-covered ground. Bruce was like, the richest rich person; he was in so much danger, and Dick couldn’t find him.

Suddenly, two steps of boots starting stomping towards him. They didn’t see him—they weren’t walking that fast—but they would in a minute. The wall behind the water table had rows and rows of long, thick curtains. Dick waited for the footsteps to stop, like they were looking for something, and he slipped behind them.

Behind the long, heavy black curtains, Dick could look down the entire row of windows, because they hung at least arm’s length away from the wall. Dick climbed into the windowsill just so no one could see his feet, and wished the floor wasn’t covered in tiny pieces of glass so he could take these stupid tight shoes off.

A tiny movement caught his eye, and Dick jumped, ready to move.

The kid wasn’t crying. He was little—really, really little—but his eyes were dry and wide (they were so big). He was hunkered up on the floor, and his tiny arms were wrapped around his tiny knees.

He wasn’t far, they were only three windows apart. Dick tried to motion for the kid to climb into the windowsill, like him, but he just stared with those big blue eyes. Boots were crunching in the shattered glass, getting way, way too close. The kid was gonna get seen! Dick motioned again, faster, a little jerky.

Looking closer, Dick could see that he was shaking. Bruce would want him to stay where it was safe.

Sorry, Bruce.

Dick lowered himself achingly slowly to the ground. There was a small space between each of the curtains. He had to pause and hold his breath to hear the footsteps over the rushing in his ears. He slipped from one curtain to another, never taking his eyes off of the kid.

The curtain was thrown open, and Dick lunged.

It had been a long time since Mama had taught him last, but he remembered everything. He used their size against them—swept their long legs out from under them to knock them flat on their backs, dodged as they ran at him to send them tumbling, used the momentum of a missed punch to lift them back and over and slam them to the ground.

They all had guns, but none of them were shooting. They were pointing their guns away, or dropping them to the ground—one came at him with a needle, swiping it through the air with a

Dick shoved it down with his elbow into the man’s own leg and pushed down the plunger.

He could hear Mama purring satisfaction in his ear.

A sharp point dug into the side of his neck, and Dick froze. “Freeze, kid,” the man growled. “Hands behind your back.” From the very corner of his eye, Dick could see the light shine off of a blade. At least it wasn’t another needle; The guy he’d injected looked dead. “Mickey, bring the fucking handcuffs, Jesus!” The knife bit harder at his neck. Dick winced.

“Yeah, yeah,” one of them said, and stomped over. “You get the goods?” said another.

The lights shut off.

“Oh shit,” said the one bringing the handcuffs.

Dick already had his hand wrapped around the flat part of the knife at his throat, but there was no need. There was sharp cry, and the knife fell to the ground. “Let’s get out of here,” one shrieked. Dick kicked the knife away, and he tried to lunge underneath a table, but something grabbed his ankle, then his arms, and suddenly he was being flown up and up and up–

It couldn’t ever be dark in this stupid city; it was bright enough that shadows were falling in the middle of the night. Dick had never seen the Batman before—not even in pictures—and so he tried to notice every little thing about him: the mask that covered his entire head, the bat on his chest just like the one on Dick’s flipflops, the way the armor across his chest and on his arms was scratched and chipped and dented in places. The only parts of the man’s face Dick could see were his mouth and eyes, but those were shadowed.

Even still, Dick could see the hard line his mouth was pressed into. He had one arm wrapped under Dick’s legs, and one across his back, and both were hard and immovable. Dick couldn’t even think about escaping.

They’d shot over to another rooftop, and it had felt like flying in a way nothing else had since the night his parents fell. Dick’s heart was singing.

The Batman had them tucked into a dark shadow behind a billboard, and Dick took his chance, jabbing his pointy elbow into a spot where two pieces of armor connected on the man’s side. He grunted, but his grip didn’t lighten even a little bit. Dick kicked and wriggled and grunted “Let me go!” The Batman grabbed Dick’s wrists in one hand and slowly put Dick down, but even once he was on the ground, those gloved hands hovered just above his arms, his face, and “Are you alright?” said the Batman, in his grumbly, soft voice.

His voice was shaking. Dick didn’t think that was normal—he looked at the mask, and he could barely see, but the eyes… “You have to take me back,” Dick said, and he started to march back to the edge of the building.

The Batman caught him up by the shoulders and snatched him back behind the billboard. “No,” he growled.

“You have to!” Dick wanted to kick and fight again but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. His chest was aching, and eyes were blurring with stupid, useless tears. “I have to get to him. They could hurt him!”

The Batman was still holding him in place with one hand, but the other was lifting Dick’s arms, checking inside his jacket, feeling around on his scalp. “The little boy is safe–”

Good, good, but “Not– Just– Let me go!”

The Batman’s grip tightened. “You’re safe here.”

Dick sobbed, and he could barely see through the swimmy tears. He pried uselessly at the Batman’s iron hand, and said “Please, please, please…” because his world was crashing down again, falling apart, and he’d never be able to put it together again, not if he lost Bruce.

The hulking shadow fell to its knees, and Dick was looking the Batman in the eye, his face cradled between thick, leather gloves. “I promise,” the Batman said, “I promise he’s alright. I promise. Stay with me.” Dick tried to blink his vision clear, because the Batman’s voice was thick and breaking, and there were little tear tracks leaving dark lines down the mask. A heavy thumb brushed back and forth across Dick’s cheek.

It didn’t make any sense.

It didn’t make any sense, except of course it did, of course it made sense, and Dick’s fingers brushed over the hard lines and ridges of the mask without him telling them to, mirroring the Batman’s. His index finger traced the sharp line of his cheekbone, and his thumb followed the curve of his eyebrow.

The Batman’s breath caught, and the soothing brush of his thumbs paused.

Dick tilted his head. “Bruce?” he said, in a cracked, hoarse whisper. The Batman didn’t move, didn’t breathe, and Dick poked at the edges of the mask and said, “Off.” His face was cold when the hands were gone—actually all of him was cold, he had to be, otherwise why would his entire body be shaking like this?—and there was clicking and creaking and the mask peeled up and back and wet hair flopped down and “Bruce.”

Bruce grunted and caught Dick when he threw himself against his armor, and held him there. “Never again,” Bruce said, “You don’t do that ever again. I can’t–” His gloved fingers twisted up in Dick’s hair.

“I’m not sorry,” Dick said, muffled against Bruce’s shoulder.

“Do you know what I–?” Bruce sounded wild, almost, and his tears were catching on the back of Dick’s blazer.

Dick tried to pull back, look at him again, but his grip was too strong again, and Dick had to slap at his hands to make him let go. Bruce didn’t really let go, just stopped using his superpowers for a second, and Dick looked into his black-smudged eyes and said, “I had to.”

Bruce made a broken noise and his head fell, and Dick laid back against his shoulder, right there in the safest spot left in the entire world. “I love you,” he murmured. Bruce wasn’t gonna say it back, Dick knew that, but only a stupid person would need him to.

Bruce was Batman. He was safe, he was alive, and he was Batman.

This changed everything.