Archive of Our Own ^beta

Gotham was changing.

It had taken months for the city to resemble anything to what it once was, water finally drained (for the most part) and buildings covered in scaffolding as the people of Gotham repaired the damage. Under the new leadership of the mayor, and surprisingly, the growing positivity with Batman, change was quickly implemented to get things moving again. Gotham could not survive a financial breakdown as it did a physical one, and so shops and business and general life had to continue.

Flowers ordained the streets in large waves of colour, along with waterproof photos of lost and missing family and friends, a stark difference in the usual grey darkness of the Gotham streets. Loved ones had died, and so had strangers, and yet Gotham had a new air of behaviour when tackling their losses.

An anger, deep in their bones at having been victim to some petty criminals' nefarious schemes.

Never again, the streets whisper as people open their shop windows and children colour the streets with chalk, never again will we drown.

Bruce knows it is inevitable however, in the metaphorical sense (he really hopes this was the last flood they would actually experience, but he's not holding his breath). People, especially those in Gotham, do not undergo change so drastic after one disaster. Though, there is an inkling of bemusement that Bruce — Batman — feels, knowing all it took was a city-wide catastrophe for the people to wake up and see the issue, even if it is only a few citizens that would continue to change.

It is not only the people who have come out of this disaster differently, for now Bruce's work is doubled. Batman is needed more than ever, and the power Batman has is more powerful than it was before. Not everyone had to be there to believe that Batman cut the cord and plunged into potentially electrified water to save those stuck under the collapsed stage. Word travels fast, and his reputation has preceded him.

This however, does not stop criminals from testing their luck. Now that the threat of Batman is tangibl, now that he is human, there are some who think if they are quiet enough they can escape undetected. After all, a man can only do so much in a night, and he can only be at one place at a time.

But Batman is ready this time.

And so is Bruce Wayne.

It is not often that Bruce has to put on the suit of his family and not the vigilante, silk tie weighing more than the kevlar and cape, palms sweaty. He is not nervous to attend these meetings on how to restore the city, and he is not nervous to stand in front of a crowd and awkwardly announce the rebuilding of shelters, schools, hospitals and orphanages as top priority — but it is daunting to do so without the cowl. His fists do not aid in service when being introduced to investors and accountants, and his grunting and growling will not deter reporters and paparazzi.

But Gotham had drowned once before, and with it, so did the old Bruce Wayne. If he has learnt anything from the Riddler, it is that careful planning, preventatives and responsibility is just as powerful as grappling hooks and bullet proof armour. Gotham needed the remaining Wayne heir just as much as it needed it's Dark Knight (a ridiculous nickname, really, but the press were never the most creative) —

But as a result, Bruce is left exhausted. Batman is needed, and so is Wayne. Bruce is left floundering around on the thin line that separates the two.

So really, with how bizarre his life has become, he should not be all that surprised when Gordon invites Batman to the circus.

"What." Bruce grumbles, coming out more like a statement than a question.

"It is the first big event since the flood," Gordon continues, looking like he is not pleased by this idea anymore than Bruce is, "They're using it as an unofficial 'reopening' of the city," he frowns as he sticks up his fingers to mime the quotation marks, "And as the guy who kind of saved everyone, the mayor wants you to be there."

"I can't stress enough how much of a terrible idea this is," Bruce grunts, surprising himself with how many words come out at once, "It is too soon for public events."

Gordon shrugs, "And I would agree, but she's not changing her mind. I told her you wouldn't come, she wanted me to ask anyway."

"No." Bruce states firmly, turning to leave. How would that even work? Batman just shows up and sits in the crowd of children and reporters? The imaginary sight is already shaping to be Bruce's next sleep paralysis nightmare.

He hears a sigh, "Yeah well. Lots of high profile people will turn up, so there will be a lot of security, if that makes it any better."

Batman pauses, and suddenly, he is reminded of the dozens or so unanswered emails he will have to tend to once he finishes patrol. If what Gordon is saying is true, and given his philanthropic arrangements with the mayor and her cause, it is safe to assume he will be invited. Batman can afford to not show up, but Bruce Wayne…

"Goodnight," Batman grumbles as he jumps off the roof of the building. The sooner he finishes his patrol, the sooner he can tell Alfred about how faking Bruce Wayne's death and living secluded from society under fake identities is still a rather appealing option.

Haly's travelling circus set to stop in Gotham!

Bruce glares at the newspaper headline over his coffee mug as if it has personally offended him. There's a picture of the front of the circus, people dressed in leotards and feathers holding hoops and ropes, standing in impossibly bendy positions, bright smiles. It's a classic we're not a scary clown circus! sort of photo, and Bruce can't help but scoff. There is no way these people are that happy. Their faces look like they've done nothing but smile since the day they were born.

Through his glaring he doesn't realise Alfred is watching him out of the corner of his eye with a bemused expression, angling the paper so Bruce can read it too, "Fancy a trip to the circus, Bruce?"

"God, I wish I didn't," Bruce grumbles, taking another sip of the scalding, too-milky coffee (Alfred is still technically on bedrest, and Bruce and his coffee machine have a very complicated relationship), "I've been invited to the opening Friday night."

Alfred raises a brow, "By who?"

"Gotham." He answers simply, grabbing his bowl of fruits and sulking away in the direction of the cave as Alfred responds with a knowing 'ah.'

Multiple bad things happen right after each other, and it would be depressingly funny if Bruce didn't feel the overwhelming urge to cry for the first time in years. 

He had arrived at the circus at around six on the Friday, and was greeted with an onslaught of cameras and bright lights. The shouting only grew as Bruce calmed his trembling heart and offered one curt wave and a tightlipped smile to the sea of reporters, eyes almost watering if not for the camera eye-contacts he'd put in on instinct. 

It's no surprise that there is very obviously more press than what would have been expected last year, and Bruce is unperturbed to notice that some of the reporters aren't even from Gotham. Bruce Wayne's sudden sociability and tolerance of the press where he used to simply ignore their existence entirely excited them to no degree. This is the first major public event, a reopening as both Gordon and the Mayor had unofficially told him in their persuasions, and so Bruce Wayne couldn't show up looking like he'd rather jump off the Wayne Tower.

Speaking of, Gordon is the one to greet him by the entrance, smiling kindly. He's standing next to the man who's holding a clipboard and signing off names. Bruce smiles awkwardly when the man simply waves him off, nodding while crossing his name without even asking who Bruce was.

Mildly embarrassed when the clicking of the cameras definitely surges for a moment that follows, Bruce makes great effort to smile at Gordon, who's grinning with poorly hidden amusement, with a little less discomfort on his face.

Gordon doesn't know who he is without the Batman-suit on — but perhaps subconsciously, he is not treated any differently than he is when he's dressed like Batman. There's no overly-invasive befriending, or treating him as if he were an actual Prince, and not just some rich guy with an equally as rich last name.

Gordon calls him silly names on accident like chum when they run into each other at the City Hall, and he doesn't make a comment when he catches Bruce drinking orange juice instead of champagne at fundraising events. Gordon is a friend to Batman (whether Batman wants to admit it or not), and an… acquaintance to Bruce Wayne. They even had biscuits together once (a peace offering to the GCPD, the press had said, Bruce just wanted to make sure Gordon was just as much of an ally to Bruce Wayne as he was to Batman. So what if the bribery was in the form of baked treats. He wasn't going to donate any of his money to rebuilding the police force, so biscuits are as much as they'll be getting).

"Mr. Wayne," Gordon greets heartily, stepping out of the way, "Glad you made it, I almost thought you wouldn't show up."

Bruce's smile is a little more genuine, "Bruce is just fine," He bites the inside of his cheek, "Congrats on the promotion, Commissioner." He adds as an afterthought. He'd said the same as Batman, but that was about six weeks ago now, so this shouldn't be too suspicious. 

"Thank you, Mr. Wayne," he chuckles, and Bruce is reminded of Alfred's hard-headed politeness for a moment, "Enjoy the show. Security will be close by to your section, so don't worry about anything tonight."

Bruce's section is the embarrassingly well guarded VIP section, already filled with Gotham's elites dressed far too extravagantly given the floor is hay and dirt. Around them sit the general citizens of Gotham who were lucky enough to buy tickets that weren't already reserved for invitees only. Some of them gawk at him, eyes wide and whispering to their neighbours, but the excitement is quickly replaced with awe at the circus when the music suddenly starts to get louder.

People are being told to sit down for the upcoming show when Bruce sadly eyes a ladies dress getting dirty at the bottom as he is guided to his seat, unsurprisingly, right beside the Mayor. The lights dim as he takes his seat.

Mayor Reál gives him a warm smile that he's become accustomed to over their dozens of meetings, but doesn't make an effort to drag him into her hushed conversation with the man beside her. The Mayor quickly realised that Bruce's unwillingness to talk was less of a her issue and more of a general social awkwardness, and he is grateful for acceptance of this fact. He doesn't mean to be rude, but sometimes it's easier.

He really is trying to be the Bruce Wayne that helps keep the city afloat during the day. It will just take some time (Alfred had told him so, and that's enough).

"Little friends and big friends and friends shaped like stars," a youthful voice calls out as the crowd of children sitting in front of Bruce — children from the newly reopened, restored and very well funded, Wayne Orphanage — giggles at the greeting, their voice reverberating throughout the entire tent. It's the sort of voice that seems so animated, straight out of a children's cartoon, bright and sunny and familiar. There's a slight accent, but not one Bruce can pinpoint to anywhere specific.

Bruce can't help the small smile that overtakes him when the voice giggles along with the children, still out of their view, "I'm the smallest Grayson, and I'm your mysterious ringleader for the evening! I can't wait to meet you all at the end! Are you ready for the best night of your lives?"

And it was the best night of his life, if Bruce was allowed to be so cruelly optimistic.

One by one the performances began, narrated by the giggling and bubbly voice that felt as though it was sitting right beside Bruce's heart, guiding them through each act. The unabashed happiness of the children sitting in front of him is infectious, and whenever they turn around after a particularly spectacular performance, Bruce can't help but nod along with them and encourage the excitement.

It had been his requirement, after all, that all the children from the orphanage attend the reopening of a city. These children are not only the future of Gotham, but also the ones who hold the most rights to calling it their home. Many of these children had slept on Gotham's streets, travelled between dozens of houses, hidden in places that are unknown even to Batman.

And they are all so small. Tiny things against the grand scheme of the world, so young and yet already so accustomed to grief and pain (Bruce knows it better than most).

So, Bruce Wayne sits behind a crowd of children at the circus, listening to their amazed gasps and disbelieving laughter when a woman manages to fit into the tiniest box he's ever seen, or when a pair of twins dance around in perfect synchronisation, colourful ribbons coming out of their fingertips. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't just as amazed by the performances.

It seems like the show is nearing its end far too soon, since the drums that have been patiently beating in the background begin to play louder. Everyone holds their breath, lights and fake smoke filling the circus tent and transporting them all to another world, filled with glitter in the air and popcorn trees.

"And now," the young voice returns, louder and echoing right into Bruce's chest, "For the grand finale — The Flying Graysons!"

There's a pop of confetti and sparkling pieces of colourful tissue paper, and the spotlights go from circling around them to pointing all the way up to the beams that reach to the top of the tent.

Everyone had been so distracted with the spectacles down on the ground that no one had noticed the perches up there, and when they finally did, Bruce's eyes widened in amazement along with the crowd's gasps. Up by one of the beams, so high up the children stand up to lean their heads back, stands three people in matching white and gold leotards.

"Hello everyone!" The boy greets with a large and animated wave down to the ground, striking blue eyes twinkling with the lights, "Have you all enjoyed the show?"

Everyone replies with a humoured chorus of 'yes!', and the boy's grin only grows tenfold at the enthusiasm. The two standing beside him, that are obviously his parents, if the brown skin and black hair isn't telling, smile along beautifully. They wave at everyone, and if Bruce was feeling a little younger, he might have waved back.

(He wishes he did. Even if they couldn't see him from all the way up there, Bruce wished so fiercely that he had waved to John and Mary Grayson.)

The boy claps his hands together, and his parents grab hold of the handle bars above them, ready to go, "Now let the real show begin!"

Bruce smirks at that as the rest of the crowd grow excited. The boy is definitely quite the performer, and he can't be any older than the little children sat in front of him.

The excitement was worth it, because the moment the two acrobats jump off the perch, the woman hanging on by her knees, and down they come to the netless stage, a rush of adrenaline runs through Bruce's blood. The crowd collectively hold their breaths, but almost like the two possess wings on their feet, they're flying back up.

The man lets go of his own handle, and everyone leans forward in horrified anticipation, before the woman reaches out and grabs his wrist, locking them together. The crowd cheers, the children in front of Bruce jumping around and holding on to each other in amazement as the Flying Graysons, truly do, soar.

They've got matching grins, their tanned skin complimented well with the golden trims on their costumes. The boy at the perch laughs boisterously, and although Bruce is certain he's probably performed this same show a dozen times across the country, his laughter is not any less genuine. His happiness to watch his parents is infectious, and Bruce can't help the grin that grows on his face.

"This is only just the beginning!" The boy cries in glee, grabbing hold of his own handle and gearing up to take off, "Now get ready for —"

He never gets to finish.

There's a painfully loud and sickening snap. Like a large elastic band had popped across the speakers, and although not everyone is fast enough to react to it, Bruce is certain everyone hears it (For a moment, just a moment, his heart leaps out of his chest, because it sounds like a bullet).

He reacts first. Bruce's grin falls and he reaches forward on instinct — body moving to shield the children on the front row before his mind can catch up with what's about to happen — pulling back an armful of children.

The boy reacts next. He freezes. He watches.

The crowd is still cheering when The Flying Graysons fall. It happens too fast for them to realise.

Then the screaming begins.

"Hey there," Jim says, palms sweaty when he sits beside the trembling boy, "I brought you some hot chocolate."

The boy doesn't move. If not for the way his body is racking itself every second, Jim would've thought the boy had stopped breathing all together, skin becoming grey like stone. He grimaces at his own cruel comparison, given the situation.

He's been an officer for a couple years now, and while this isn't the first time he's had to handle a case like this, it hasn't become any easier. He imagines it never will. The higher ups are still scrambling around out there, sending cops around the block to find the perpetrator, gather evidence; and while they don't mean to, the little boy has found himself pushed into the break room. Alone.

His (last and only) remaining guardian is on the way here, from what Jim's been told. But with such a high profile situation, many of the roads have been shut for a detailed sweep. He can only hope they'll make it through in the next hour or two.

Jim sighs and tries again, leaning forward just a little, lowering his voice so the boy can hear him, "Chum, you need to warm up a little. Here," he knocks the warm styrofoam cup against the boy's hand, "Freshly brewed from a paper packet and the kettle. Doesn't get any better than this, kid."

The boy twitches. Jim doesn't move. He holds the cup up and steady, waiting patiently.

After a long moment, the boy unclasps his hands, and Jim sees the red indents from where his nails had been digging into his palms, but he takes the cup and holds it close to his chest, "Thank you."

His blanket starts to slip off his shoulders, so Jim reaches out slowly and deliberately, making sure the boy can see his hands, to wrap it around him a little tighter. The boy lets him, staring down into the cup in a daze, "Don't mention it. If you need me, just call for Officer Gordon, alright?"

He wipes some invisible dust off his trousers, just so he has something to do with his hands, and starts to stand up when he hears a tiny whisper call him back. Jim peers down at the boy.

"I'm Bruce," he introduces as he looks up, eyes blue, but not as bright as they looked in the papers.

Jim pats him on the shoulder gently, wondering if there would be anyone left in the country who didn't know little Bruce by tomorrow morning — wondering what this moment in time would lead to in the future for the boy, who had lost and gained so much in one night, "Drink your hot chocolate, Bruce."

The tower is quiet. It always is. Though, not for its usual reasons.

Bruce isn't much of a talker as it stands, even when he is left with nothing but himself and the ceiling to floor glass windows that look out to all of Gotham. Sometimes he'll hum to himself, inconsequential little noises that come from the back of his throat that he can't quite control when he's not wearing the cowl. He's more of a senseless movements kind of guy, tapping his fingers and waving his hands to fill the silence.

Alfred isn't much of a talker either unless he's in company that requires it, and Bruce usually doesn't fit into that category. Occasionally there will be some song Bruce hasn't heard in years filtering through the tower from whatever corner Alfred's decided to rearrange today, or the chattering of a radio host about recent affairs from the kitchen.

So it's usually quiet. But never silent.

However, it's been soundless ever since Bruce brought home Richard Grayson four days ago.

("Dick," the boy had whispered in the car, clutching a stuffed elephant that looked like she'd seen much better days, "Dick Grayson. Please.")

There hadn't been all that much time to address the issue of the boy's reservations in the first few days, with the stress of social workers and lawyers and investigators moving in and out of the place periodically. Unfortunately for him, Batman business and Bruce Wayne related business couldn't afford to be stopped either — so in-between all of that, Bruce had barely seen the boy at all.

From what he knew, the boy was spending a lot of the time in his room anyway, which wasn't surprising at all. Alfred brought him his meals, always with the attempt to coax him out and down to the dinner table, though it never worked.

Until now.

Most of the legal issues have been dealt with, aside from a few more papers to read (and read again, just in case) and sign and another well-being check conducted next week by their social worker, but all in all it's official.

Richard Grayson is officially Bruce Wayne's ward. Signed by the judge.

Bruce swallows thickly, "How are you finding it here?"

Dick doesn't look at him, and instead moves his vegetables around the plate with the wrong fork, "Fine."

"Good," he clears his throat, shooting a helpless look at Alfred, who's doing an awfully good job at pretending like he can't tell how painfully uncomfortable this conversation is for everyone involved. The old man decides he's very much interested in his tablet, scrolling through what looks like a blank word document reflected on his glasses. Bruce frowns.

"So," he starts, flicking at his trimmed nails, staring into the top of Dick's head since the boy is still looking down at his plate, "The school year starts soon so I was wondering if you had considered —"

"May I be excused?" He suddenly says, finally looking up.

Bruce isn't sure what surprises him more. Seeing the boy's crystal blue eyes properly for the first time since the circus, or that he's been cut off mid-sentence, "Sorry?"

"Can I go to my room?" Dick reiterates petulantly, and Bruce closes his mouth when he realises the question is directed at Alfred and not him.

The older man sighs, dropping his tablet onto the table and taking his glasses off, rubbing his eyes, "You are excused."

Dick is out of his seat before Alfred's even finished his sentence, racing down the corridor and into the living quarters without looking back. Bruce is stunned by the behaviour, and only manages to snap out of it when the sound of Dick slamming his bedroom door cuts through the quietness of the dining room.

Alfred sighs again.

Bruce looks over, confused, "We — we were talking and he —"

"You were talking at him," Alfred cuts him off this time, though it's not to be cruel, since he's smiling sadly at Bruce, "You need to talk to him."

Bruce's frown deepens, "What's the difference?"

"He is your ward, Bruce. Your responsibility now," Alfred shakes his head absently, folding his glasses neatly and placing them next to his empty teacup, "Heaven knows you're too young to be raising a ten year old —"

"Nine and a half," Bruce mumbles.

Alfred continues unperturbed, "But he's yours now. He needs to know you want that."

Something settles uncomfortably in Bruce's chest, an insatiable decay of what once was understandable. His fingers itch for a pen, to write down his million and one thoughts before they run ahead of him forever, "But I do want that."

He'd never forget the rining that pierced through his ears when the Graysons fell to their deaths right in front of him. They weren't even from Gotham and yet the place had taken their lives —

Leaving behind another orphan. Dick was just frozen up on the perch, looking down and leaning over to see his parents' corpses with wide eyes. He kept leaning forward, seemingly lost in the noise of sirens and screaming, and another performer had to climb up and carry him down before the boy fell off in shock and joined his parents at the bottom.

Bruce stood at the bottom of the ladder when they made it down, not exactly sure when he'd made the decision to get out of his seat and wait for the boy, and threw his jacket over him the minute the cameras started flashing.

Gordon was there. Gordon is a good man. Within seconds the reporters had been dragged out with enough force to scare them to not try and sneak back in, but the flashing lights and calls for Little Grayson! Little Grayson! would forever be seared into Bruce's memory.

The performer holding Dick was shaking just as bad as the boy was, and when Bruce gently pried the boy away from her and into his own hands, she let him go and sank to her knees, sobbing loudly. Others joined her.

Bruce didn't. He gave Gordon a look and was quickly escorted out the back.

Pictures of him carrying Dick under his coat, pressed close to his chest, were on the front page the following morning. And not just in Gotham.

Bruce feels sick every time he is forced to see another picture in order to file a lawsuit. He can't. He can't let Dick go through the same things he —

"I want to help him," Bruce mutters helplessly, feeling lost, "I do."

Alfred smiles, reaching across the table to lay his hand over Bruce's twitching palm, "I know that. You know that. He doesn't. So show him."

"Richard," Bruce greets, mentally wincing and clearing his throat to try again, "Uh, Dick. Can I come in?"

He's half expecting the boy to give him the cold shoulder, leaving Bruce standing outside the bedroom door like a fool before he finally counts his losses and leaves him alone. Bruce wouldn't be surprised if Dick told him to get lost either. He hasn't exactly been the pinnacle of welcoming.

He tries to hide his surprise when none of that happens, and instead, the door opens just a little, bright blue eyes and a mop of messy black hair peeking out into the hallway, "Mr Wayne?"

Bruce takes a deep breath in, hoping the smile he tries to give is comforting, "Hello. I was hoping to talk to you, if that's alright."

There's a moment where Dick looks rather horrified by the implication of talking to Bruce, and his anxiety immediately filters over to Bruce — who's eyes widen, hands coming out to wave around, "It's not — nothing is wrong! I just realised we haven't really… had time to talk."

Dick's horror lessens slightly, though now he looks like he doesn't believe Bruce at all.

"Okay," the boy eventually says, opening the door a little wider.

Bruce sighs in relief, feeling oddly nervous when he takes a step forward into the room, prolonging the need to make eye contact with the bright eyed boy by turning around to shut the door behind him. Bruce Wayne has never walked into a job interview before, but he imagines this is what it feels like; though he can't be sure what role he's auditioning for.

"So," he starts, looking around, "Do you… like your room?"

The boy's room is a lot emptier than Bruce had first imagined. The bed seems ridiculously huge, even if it is the same king sized bed that's in every other room too, with one single stuffed elephant sitting on the pillow in the centre.

There's a poster of the Flying Graysons above the fireplace, though it seems duller than it probably should be. The reds and greens on the paper were greying and faded.

Maybe it was due to the atmosphere in the room, since it wasn't any less miserable.

Dick shrugs, fiddling with the sleeves of his sweater, "I guess. I've never had my own room before. It is very… cold."

"I can tell Alfred to turn the heating up in here," Bruce immediately says, grimacing when Dick looks almost embarrassed, eyes trained down on the rug in the middle of the room.

"No! No, not cold like that," he grumbles, hunching in on himself, "It is lonely, being the only one. I used to sleep next to mama and papa."

Bruce imagines knocking himself out with an inflatable hammer, "Oh. Right."

He can't remember what it was like to sleep next to his mother and father, but somehow, Bruce knows it had happened. There's phantom memories with blurry faces holding him in the darkness of the night, single lullabies and chasing away nightmares. Though, he can't tell for certain which of these are memories, and which are childish dreams.

It's been far too long without them to remember.

"Are you working late tonight again?" Dick suddenly asks, not shocking enough to make Bruce startle, but it does surprise him all the same.

He hadn't even considered that Dick would start to notice his absence after dinner. He'd only been here a few days, "I — yes."

Bruce isn't sure what to do when the boy visibly deflates, sounding disappointed when he shrugs, "Okay."

Alfred gave terrible advice. Bruce is no closer to showing that he cares than he was twelve hours ago. In fact, the man is beginning to worry his attempts at reaching out and communicating have only made this entire affair worse.

He clears his throat, cutting into the awkward silence, "Is there anything I can do to help you settle in?" Bruce asks carefully.

That was something he could do. Something practical.

Dick finally stops trying to melt into the ground, slowly raising his head until his bright blue eyes are staring into Bruce's darker ones, like he was searching for a hint of ingenuity. The man itches to look away, but he doesn't — he needs to show the kid he's being serious.

"It's dark," Dick admits quietly, "I don't like the dark."

Bruce's hands twitch at his side, "I can fix that."

Bruce spends the rest of the day down in the cave, tinkering away at the workstation.

He pushes his cowl and gauntlets to the side, the latter of the two held together precariously from where Bruce was taking it apart to add a new detail in. That can wait.

Instead, Bruce is finishing up a smaller project. It's easy, compared to the rest of the objects scattered around him. Luckily, he has all the parts needed beforehand, and by dinner, it's finished.

Bruce contemplates its presentation. It isn't as… cute at the ones he'd looked up on the internet, but it was practical. It was a sturdy frame, designed to last years with minimal damage, and was efficient in power so its source wouldn't need to be replaced often. The colour even matches the royal blue of Dick's bedroom wallpaper, but it is inconspicuous enough that if the boy were to change it, it would still fit well with other designs.

It was ingenious, if Bruce says so himself. Far better than the ones the article was recommending he order online instead.

In the end, he decides to place it in a cardboard box he had lying around, sealing it with cellotape. Children were encouraged to do menial tasks like this to improve hand eye coordination (or that's what the articles say) (Bruce now realises there's probably not much more hand eye coordination he can improve when it comes to a prodigy acrobat).

He had hoped to give it to the boy at dinner. Dick doesn't show up. He doesn't come down even after Alfred goes to collect him.

The box sits in the cave that night, sealed.

The next day, Bruce is once again standing outside Dick's bedroom, back straight and fingers clenched tightly over the small box in his hands.

He doesn't even have to knock this time, since his nervous coughing must have alerted the boy inside of his presence. Dick opens the door with a frown, looking like he might have just woken up even though it's nearing supper.

Dick looks at the box in his hands, and then back at Bruce, before stepping back and letting him in again.

"I made you something," Bruce clears his throat, holding the box out. He bends down a little so the boy doesn't need to jump to grab it.

Dick just stares at him, small pudgy hands gently grasping the box and pulling it closer to his chest. It looked tiny in Bruce's palms, but Dick struggles to hold it steady, though he manages enough to pull the tape off the top and balance it with one arm to pull out the object inside.

Bruce sniffs, irrationally impatient, "It's a night light."

Dick carefully places the box down beside him, eyes never leaving the tiny blue cube in his hands. It's almost as big as his entire palm, but Bruce had made sure it wasn't heavier than a pebble of the same size.

"The buttons on the side adjust the intensity of the light," Bruce continues when he can't read Dick's face at all, the boy silently judging the gift, "It's also solar powered. So just — leave it on your window bench during the day and plug it in at night. If you — I only installed one colour option, but if you'd like more I could always…"

Bruce is rambling, he knows, but he stops short when Dick finally moves, bringing the cube closer to himself, gently running a hand over the edges in awe.

His eyes are almost twinkling when he looks up to ask in an amazed whisper, "You made this? By yourself?"

"Yes… by myself."

Bruce watches as a soft smile overtakes the boy's features, and for a moment, Dick looks his age, and not a fraying case of a once happy boy. He's giddy with excitement, letting his hesitant movements become more confident, pressing and prodding at the nightlight curiously.

"Thank you!" Dick grins, sparing one quick look of gratitude up at Bruce before he's turning away to run to the closest plug socket to try out his newest gift.

Bruce realises this is the first time he's seen the boy smile since the night in the circus.

The room had begun to darken with the setting sun filtering in through the windows, but after a few thinking hums and clicks of buttons, Bruce marvels as a gentle warm light coats the room, draping itself across the furniture. He had tested the nightlight before giving it to Dick, obviously, but hearing the boy let out an amazed gasp as he spun around the room to see it doing its job suddenly made the project all the more satisfying.

"You're welcome," Bruce whispers belatedly as he lets himself sit down on the bed, watching the boy eagerly switch between the different light settings with glee. His face warm and illuminated and smiling happily.

I hope you will like it here, Dick Grayson.