Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Over the years, circuses have lost their spark.

Dick would know— he’d literally grown up in one. Back then, the circus was a symphony of effort and artistry. Weeks, sometimes months, were spent perfecting routines. Performances were designed to dazzle, to inspire awe, no matter the country or culture of the audience. The comedy sketches weren’t just filler— they were genuinely funny, capable of drawing laughter even from the most reluctant parent dragged along by an excited child. Every act had a rhythm, a purpose, and above all, passion. The performers took pride in their craft, and the audience responded in kind, feeding off the energy, cheering and clapping until their hands were raw and their throats sore. 

Now? Now they were dull. Predictable routines recycled ad nauseam. Costumes that looked like they were bought in bulk from a clearance rack. Tents and stages slapped together with the barest effort to resemble grandeur. The magic, the joy—the soul of it all—had been replaced with a singular, glaring goal: profit. No one cared if the audience laughed, gasped, or even paid attention, so long as they paid their entrance fees.

But recently, whispers of something different had started making waves in Gotham: a circus gaining a reputation for being... well, different.

Dick’s curiosity was piqued. He hadn’t planned to go, at first. But the memories of his youth, of what the circus used to mean, stirred within him. Before he knew it, he’d wrangled (read: blackmailed) together as much of the family as he could to go see it. Which, wasn’t a whole lot considering quite a few were out of state currently, but it was enough to make him smile.

“Why must I come along? I do not see the point,” Damian groused, arms folded tightly across his chest as the group approached the circus grounds. Despite his protests, he made no move to make a stealthy exit.

“You’re coming because it’ll be good for you,” Dick said, ruffling Damian’s hair just to annoy him. Damian promptly swatted his hand away, glaring daggers at his adoptive brother.

“You don’t even know if it’ll be good,” Tim chimed in, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “What if this thing is as boring as all the other ones you’ve complained about?”

“Then we’ll all get funnel cake and call it a night,” Stephanie said brightly, making it clear where her true excitement lay. “I’m in it for the food, anyway.”

Dick pouted. “You didn’t have to say the quiet part out loud!” 

“Don’t underestimate funnel cake,” Duke added with a smirk. “It might be the only thing saving this trip if the show’s a flop.”

Dick rolled his eyes, but his grin didn’t waver. “You’re all so cynical. Just... trust me, okay? I have a feeling about this one.”

Sure, a lot of the decorations seemed cheap thus far, but Dick can’t blame them. They’re clearly low budget, with only two shows a week, versus the seven to ten a week Dick was used to. The difference was the genuine passion and excitement in the eyes of the performers. And they were just doing pre-show stunts on the street to rouse excitement! 

Tim hummed thoughtfully. “This place has been gaining rapid popularity,” he said, the subtle edge in his tone making it clear he was already analyzing every detail. Dick saw his fingers twitch as if to take a picture. 

Dick glanced over at him but didn’t comment. He recognized that tone— Tim was in detective mode, quietly piecing together threads no one else could see yet. He did, however, take the opportunity at his siblings' distraction to subtly herd them in the direction of the tents, eager to get a good front-row seat. Damian noticed, but he didn’t do much more than roll his eyes.

Steph, however, rolled her eyes dramatically. At Tim, not Dick. “Can you just enjoy one thing without looking for a criminal conspiracy, Tim?”

Tim matched her with a roll of his own eyes, the two slipping into a bickering match that’d put an old married couple to shame if they weren’t so aggressively gay. Meanwhile, Dick let his attention wander to the stage, studying the equipment with the practiced eye of someone who’d lived this life.

Suspended high above was the trapeze rig, its bars wrapped in worn leather, the steel cables taut and secured to thick iron frames. The safety net below, while a little faded, looked sturdy enough to do its job. Not brand-new, but serviceable.

To one side, a highwire stretched across a dizzying height, its slim cable shimmering faintly under the tent lights. The rigging showed some signs of age— slightly dulled bolts and scuffed counterweights—but nothing that made Dick worry. It would hold, even if the daredevil walking it would need nerves of steel.

A teeterboard sat center stage on the ground, its spring mechanism ready to launch performers into flips and vaults. Nearby, a stack of brightly painted crates and barrels hinted at comedic skits. Clowns would probably tumble over them with exaggerated flair, while a sturdy seesaw-like prop suggested slapstick gags involving plenty of unintentional (and intentional) falls.

The whole setup had a charming scrappiness to it. The equipment could use a little TLC, sure, but Dick had no doubt it would hold up under pressure. He could tell the performers had put their trust in it, and that meant something.

For a moment, Dick felt a flicker of nostalgia. The way the crew moved, the crisp efficiency with which they handled the gear— it reminded him of home, of the way his parents had always treated the stage with reverence, as though it were sacred ground.

“Do you see how high that wire is?” Duke muttered, his voice tinged with a mix of awe and apprehension as he followed Dick’s gaze.

“I see it,” Dick replied softly, his heart tightening. He couldn’t help but wonder who had the guts to walk that cable, let alone pull off any stunts on it. He’d definitely have to stick around and chat them up, maybe have a little friendly competition. 

“Awe, man,” Duke sighed, visibly disappointed. “Guess we weren’t excited enough.”

Turns out “early” wasn’t early enough because the seating area was packed. The whole first three rows were aggressively claimed, forcing the group to settle for seats in the middle of the fourth row.

Steph and Duke promptly excused themselves to grab popcorn—or, more accurately, for Steph to scout for funnel cake. Dick had to respect the consistency.

Damian glanced at Dick, then at Tim with a withering look. “Drake, cease your ramblings. They sour my mood.”

Tim blinked, clearly taken aback. “Wait, just me? Steph was talking way more!”

Steph, who had been halfway out of earshot, whirled around with mock offense. “Excuse me? I wasn’t the one turning this into an episode of ‘True Crime: Circus Edition.’” 

“Yeah, because you’re too busy planning how to steal funnel cake from children,” Tim shot back, crossing his arms. Damian’s eyebrow twitched. Dick wondered why peace was but a mere illusion. 

“Oh, please,” Steph quipped. “You’d be the kid I steal it from, Drake.”

Before Tim could come up with a retort, and Damian became a convicted felon, the lights dimmed, cutting their bickering short. A hush fell over the crowd as the familiar low hum of a drumroll began to build.

The ringmaster strode into the center of the stage, clad in a dazzling coat of crimson and gold that shimmered under the spotlight. If you looked any closer than that, you’d see how tacky and cheap it was. His booming voice carried effortlessly across the tent.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! Welcome to a night of wonder, daring, and delight!” the ringmaster announced, his voice ringing through the tent as the steady drumroll built the tension. “Prepare yourselves for the extraordinary, the astonishing, the absolutely unbelievable! The show begins... now!”

The drumroll reached its peak, and with a dramatic flourish, the spotlight swept upward to reveal the first performer perched high above the stage. A man in a sparkling gold costume waved grandly to the crowd before swinging onto the trapeze. The audience clapped politely as he performed a few rudimentary tricks— basic flips and graceful swings that showcased control but lacked flair.

Two more performers joined him, each clad in similar glittering costumes. They moved with confidence, transitioning through formations and passing between trapezes, but the moves were predictable and lacked the edge Dick was hoping to see. Certainly, nothing that would make this rinky-dink circus as popular as it got so quickly. 

Tim leaned toward Dick, his tone flat. “You dragged us here for this?”

“Underwhelming,” Damian muttered, his expression neutral but his tone sharp.

Dick didn’t respond immediately, though he couldn’t disagree. The tricks were technically fine— safe, practiced, polished— but there was no spark, no passion. No magic. He resigned to going home disappointed and also to the inevitable flaming via siblings. 

But then, just as one of the performers finished an awkward landing on the platform, the ringmaster’s voice boomed again.

“And now, prepare yourselves for the prodigy of the skies, the one and only Amazing Arach-Kid!”

The spotlight shifted upward again, revealing a much smaller figure poised on a separate platform, high above the others. It was a boy— young and wiry, dressed in sleek crimson and black, his face obscured by a half-mask (not dissimilar to their domino masks, actually) that glimmered faintly in the light. For a moment, the crowd was silent, uncertain what to expect.

Without warning, the boy leaped.

The gasp from the audience was audible as the kid— Arach-Kid?— launched himself into a dramatic triple flip, his body twisting gracefully through the air before he caught the trapeze with flawless precision. The crowd erupted into applause, the energy in the tent shifting instantly.

He didn’t stop there. Swinging with a force that sent his trapeze soaring higher than any of the others had dared, he released at the peak of his arc and spun into a double somersault. Instead of catching the next trapeze, he landed neatly in the arms of one of the adult performers, who looked genuinely startled by the boy’s precision. He grinned, waving excitedly at the audience as they roared with applause. 

From there, the routine transformed. Arach-Kid became the centerpiece of the act, seamlessly incorporating daring flips, twists, and transitions between trapezes. He was passed between the adults with perfect timing, their previous mediocrity eclipsed by his sheer skill and energy.

“Whoa,” Duke murmured, leaning forward in his seat. “He’s... good.”

“Who is that kid?” Tim asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

“Better than the rest of them combined,” Damian said bluntly, though his tone carried the faintest hint of approval.

The boy ended his routine with a jaw-dropping quadruple somersault, catching the final trapeze one-handed and hanging upside down with effortless control. Gasps and cheers erupted from the audience, their applause thunderous as he let himself swing for a moment, letting the crowd bask in his daring. Then, with a fluid motion, he swung back, releasing the trapeze bar for one final flourish.

Dick leaned forward, his breath catching as the kid’s body twisted into the unmistakable maneuver— the signature move of the Flying Graysons.

The crowd roared as he executed the technique perfectly, his form flawless, his timing impeccable. He landed with a clean dismount, arms raised triumphantly, and offered the crowd a playful bow before darting off to the wings. Even with the stage empty, shouts and applause echoed for a long time after the boy left. 

For a moment, Dick couldn’t move. His stomach churned as memories of his parents on that same trapeze flooded his mind. No one else knew that move. No one could. His parents had created it, and Dick had learned it from them. It was their legacy— his legacy.

So how, in the name of all that made sense, did this random kid just pull it off perfectly?

The lights shifted again, smoothly transitioning to the next act: a somewhat clumsy but undeniably entertaining tightrope routine. One performer started with a wobbling walk, arms flailing for comedic effect. Another joined, balancing precariously with a broomstick for support. The final performer added a unicycle to the mix, pedaling shakily across the thin wire as the audience laughed and clapped in delight.

It was… objectively funny.

But Dick barely noticed. His good mood had evaporated, replaced by a heavy knot of unease in his chest. At this point, they must have a hive mind with how they immediately filed out of the tent without a single word exchanged. 

“That was—” Tim started, breaking the tense silence.

“Dick,” Steph interrupted, her voice low, “did he just—?”

“That was your move,” Tim finished firmly, his eyes locked on Dick’s.

“It’s not possible,” Duke added, glancing at the now-empty trapeze rig. “Right? It’s your family’s thing. There’s no way some random kid from Gotham knows it.”

“I am more concerned with how he knows it,” Damian said, his voice cutting. His eyes darted to Dick. “This is your domain, Richard. You must have answers.”

Dick didn’t respond right away. He couldn’t. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his breathing shallow. In disbelief, he muttered, “I don’t.”

Steph frowned. “Okay, well... what do we do? Do we just ignore the fact that some kid pulled off your impossible secret family move?”

“No,” Dick said sharply, his voice colder than any of them expected. “We don’t ignore it. We find out who he is, how he learned it, and what the hell is going on.”

Tim’s brow furrowed. “Do you think someone’s trying to get your attention? Like, deliberately?”

Dick shook his head, though his face betrayed his uncertainty. “I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, it’s... it’s possible, but...” He exhaled through his nose, frustrated. “I need answers. This isn’t something you just pick up on YouTube.”

The group left the small but packed circus, their earlier excitement replaced by a shared tension. The cool night air did little to clear their heads as they walked in a tight huddle, glancing over their shoulders as if the boy would materialize out of the crowd.

“Something’s not right,” Tim said, breaking the silence.

“Obviously,” Damian muttered.

“I mean it,” Tim snapped. “Moves like that— you don’t just do them. It takes years to learn without a teacher.” He glanced at Dick. “You’re sure no one outside your family knew it? Like, absolutely sure?”

“Positive,” Dick said firmly. “The only people who knew it are gone. Except me.” His voice dropped as he added, “Or at least, they’re supposed to be.”

The group exchanged uneasy looks, about both the situation and Dick’s reaction to it. It takes quite a bit to rattle him, so to see him, well, rattled was weird. Beyond weird. It was downright wrong. 

“Either way,” Duke said cautiously, “we’re going to figure this out. Right?”

“Oh, we will,” Dick said, his voice grim. “We don’t leave things like this unanswered.”

As they disappeared into the Gotham night, paranoia settled over them like a second skin. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t going to stay a mystery for long. 

Chapter Text

It really was only fair that Dick was in a foul mood after seeing the quadruple somersault—his family’s technique—used in a rinky-dink circus by an unknown performer.
The ride back home was awkward.

Dick wasn’t furious, not like after a fight with Bruce. There were no shouts, no accusations, no sharp-edged glares. But his silence was far worse. He sat stiffly in his seat, arms crossed, jaw locked so tight Tim half-expected to hear his teeth crack. His expression was unreadable, but the tension radiating off him was suffocating.

Duke, watching from the passenger seat, figured this had to be one of the worst moods he’d ever seen Dick in. Not the exasperated, fondly annoyed kind. Not the Bruce-is-being-impossible-again kind. No—this was different. Duke hadn’t been around long, but he’d never seen Dick so… unsettled. He looked like he was ready to deck the first person who spoke.

No one dared test the theory.

When they made it back to the Cave, Dick headed straight for the Batcomputer, pulling up every mention of Charlie’s Circus he could find. Tim was already beside him, fingers flying across the keys, but Dick barely seemed to notice.

Stephanie hovered awkwardly for a moment before muttering something about needing a snack and wandering off. Duke, wise enough not to get caught in the storm brewing, made a strategic escape for patrol duty—the perks of being the only daytime hero.

That left Damian and Tim.

The only sounds were the low hum of the Batcomputer and the occasional frustrated huff from Dick as he scrolled through articles, files, old footage—anything that might offer a clue. Every so often, he muttered under his breath, words too low to catch.

After twenty minutes of thick silence, Tim tried.
“You know,” he said, casual but careful, “if you talk it out, it might help us figure this out faster.”

No response.

Tim waited, then sighed when Dick didn’t even blink. “Okay, or you could just keep brooding dramatically. That works too.”

Still nothing.

Damian, who had been watching from the shadows, finally spoke. “He is too consumed by his emotions to think rationally,” he observed, arms crossed. “It is unwise.”

Tim snorted. “Yeah, thanks, Dr. Phil. That helps.”

Damian ignored him. He stepped closer to Dick, scrutinizing him like a scientist studying an unstable chemical. He opened his mouth—probably to say something cutting—but after a beat, he shut it again. The tension in Dick’s posture was warning enough.

Tim tried once more, gentler. “Dick.”

Nothing.

“…Dick.”

No answer.

Tim rubbed his temples and gave up. He and Damian exchanged a silent agreement: Leave him be.

The clicking of keys filled the cave. The glow from the monitor cast hard light across Dick’s face, throwing the storm in his eyes into sharp relief.

Dick stared at the screen, jaw set, eyes burning from hours of searching. His fury hadn’t faded, but with the Cave finally empty, he had the space to think.
He leaned back in his chair and exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face.

Someone had learned the quadruple somersault—and taught it to a kid.
There was no way a child figured that out alone.

It had taken Dick years of grueling training under his parents, and it had taken his parents a decade to develop. The balance, timing, and instinct required were nearly inhuman. You didn’t just stumble into that kind of perfection.

So how did this boy know it?

Was Dick crazy for being pissed that the last physical link to his parents—the move that was supposed to belong to them, to him—wasn’t his anymore? Not just metaphorically stolen, but literally?

He opened another search window, diving deeper into mentions of “The Amazing Arach-Kid.” The results were frustratingly shallow—cheap local coverage, carnival blogs, a few clips on social media recorded from the audience. No name. No interviews. No background. Just a mask and a tagline: The Amazing Arach-Kid On The Rise.

“C’mon,” Dick muttered, running facial recognition through every available filter. Nothing. Whoever this kid was, he either didn’t exist outside the circus, which was already a terrible sign, or facial recognition couldn’t find a good match because of the mask. 

And that was the problem.

He rubbed his temples. Nothing could ever be simple.

He could ignore it. Pretend it didn’t bother him. Let Bruce, or Tim, or anyone else deal with it. But deep down, Dick knew he wouldn’t sleep until he had an answer. Which was a problem everyone in the family had, not just Dick! 

Then an idea struck—reckless, but bound to be effective.

He opened an app he hasn’t even glanced at in a year; his Wayne mail. Avoiding the unopened spam mail with grace and dignity, Dick began typing an email. 

To: [email protected]
Subject: Potential Collaboration — Dick Grayson

Hello,

My name is Dick Grayson. You might recognize it—former performer, Flying Graysons, Haly’s Circus. I recently attended one of your shows and was impressed by the aerial routines, particularly your young performer, “The Amazing Arach-Kid.”

I’m currently exploring opportunities to reconnect with my circus roots and would love to discuss a short-term collaboration or workshop with your performers. My experience with trapeze and aerial acrobatics could bring valuable exposure and training opportunities to your team—and, of course, generate good press for your troupe.

Please let me know if you’re interested.

—Dick Grayson

 

He hit send before his siblings could argue, or worse; tag along. 

—+—

“Tell me you didn’t actually do that,” Tim said flatly from behind him.

Dick didn’t even turn around. “They’ll respond.”

“Dick,” Tim tried again, stepping closer, “you’re not actually planning to join the circus, right? You can just—investigate it like a normal person? From the outside?” Everyone collectively snorted at the irony of Tim being the one to say that. 

Dick’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You forget I am the circus.”

Tim groaned, muttering something under his breath about terrible ideas and concussions. “You realize this sounds insane, right? You’re going undercover as yourself.” Ok, so maybe he had a point there. 

“It’s called infiltration through celebrity branding,” Dick said, mock-innocent. “They’d be idiots to turn down a Grayson. I can learn more from the inside than we ever could by surveillance.”

Damian appeared from the shadows, arms crossed. “Todd owes me twenty dollars. I told him you’d do something reckless within forty-eight hours.”

Dick ignored him, and the fact someone had already told Jason and placed bets, his gaze locked on the monitor. “If they take the bait, I’ll go in as a consultant. A week, maybe two.”

“Then I’m going with you,” Tim said immediately. “Someone has to keep you from doing something—”

“—fun?” Dick offered.

“—stupid.”

Before Dick could argue, a soft ping echoed from the computer.

New message.

From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Potential Collaboration — Dick Grayson

Mr. Grayson,

We would be honored and overjoyed to host you. Your legacy speaks for itself, and our troupe would greatly benefit from your expertise. At your earliest convenience, we are ready to incorporate you into our troupes routine as a consultant, and possibly more. 

We look forward to your visit.

—Charles “Charlie” Duvall
Ringmaster, Charlie’s Circus

Tim frowned. “That was fast.”

“Too fast,” Damian said, narrowing his eyes. “They’re hiding something.”

Dick’s gaze sharpened, that grim spark of satisfaction flickering to life. “Good. That means I’m right.”

“Oh, now I’m allowed to be suspicious,” Tim muttered, throwing up his hands. “‘No, Tim, stop being so skeptical all the time, just enjoy the circus,’ you said.” He rolled his eyes, indignant, as if he were the one whose family legacy had been stolen by a middle schooler.

Duke ripped open a bag of chips, crunching thoughtfully. “To be fair, that did happen.”

“Don’t say that too loud,” Stephanie said, snagging a handful of chips as she passed. “His head might actually pop off.”

Tim snatched the bag from her in retaliation. “Hey!”

“Sharing is caring, Timothy,” she teased, plucking one last chip before he could pull it away.

Duke sighed, tossing his hands up. “Unbelievable. Can’t even have snacks in peace around here.”

Through all of it, Dick just stood there—silent, unreadable—clearly somewhere else in his head. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and started gathering his gear.

“Wait, hold on,” Stephanie said, watching him. “Do… we get to tag along?” Her grin was already mischievous. “Because, you know, support, and also maybe free funnel cake.”

Dick turned, expression flat as the Batcave floor. He looked at Steph. Then at Duke. Then at Tim. Finally, his eyes landed on Damian, who puffed out his chest like he was about to be knighted.

Dick sighed. “No. Absolutely not.”

Steph gasped dramatically. “Wow. Shot down faster than Damian’s social life.”

“I will end you,” Damian said darkly, though distinctly lacking a real threat.

Tim folded his arms. “I’m still coming,” he said, tone firm. “Someone has to make sure you don’t get yourself blacklisted from the entire entertainment industry.”

“You’re assuming they’d dare,” Dick said dryly.

“They would if they’re smart,” Duke muttered.

Steph grinned. “Then they’re definitely not.”

Dick groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You guys are not helping.”

“Wasn’t trying to,” Tim said, tone far too casual for someone willingly breathing the same air as a stressed-out Dick Grayson.

Dick rolled his eyes. “If you’re so eager to help, then do me a favor—tell B for me, yeah?”

The room froze.

Duke blinked. “Wait. Tell him?”

Before Dick could confirm, Duke bolted. “Not it!” he yelled over his shoulder, vanishing up the stairs in record time.

Stephanie scrambled after him. “Nope, same! I value my peace of mind!”

Their footsteps echoed up the metal stairs, growing fainter until the Cave was quiet again—save for the low hum of the Batcomputer and Dick’s unimpressed sigh.

Tim crossed his arms. “Cowards.”

Damian tilted his head. “They are wise to fear Father’s reaction.”

Tim side-eyed him. “You volunteering, then?”

“I am not foolish,” Damian said primly.

Dick snorted, shoulders loosening just a fraction. “Glad to see I’m not the only one avoiding Bruce tonight.”

Tim smirked. “Oh, he’s gonna find out anyway.”

“Yeah,” Dick said, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. “But by the time he does, I’ll already be on my way.”

Damian raised an eyebrow. “To infiltrate a potentially criminal circus under your legal name?”

Dick shrugged, lips quirking in that reckless, too-bright way that meant trouble. “What can I say? Old habits die hard.”

Tim stared, largely unimpressed. What old habits? They had hundreds of undercover and fake identities! Dick was just a sour puss and salty he’s getting shown up by a tween. 

Dick’s smile twitched.

Tim blinked. “...Oops. Did I say that out loud?”

“Go take a nap, Timmers,” Dick said flatly.

Chapter Text

Robbinville was the kind of place Gotham forgot to finish.

Too far from Blüdhaven to benefit from its attempts at urban renewal, too close to the Bowery and Crime Alley to escape the grime that clung to everything. But to Dick, it was perfect—close enough to patrol routes, far enough for plausible deniability. Plus, Robbinville finally had something other than the chemical invested waters of the harbor. 

The circus sat on a half-paved lot between a scrapyard and an abandoned rail line, a splash of color against the soot-stained skyline. From a distance, it looked almost cheerful—painted tents, faded posters, a string of flickering bulbs spelling out Charlie's Circus. Up close, the gloss didn’t hold. The canvas was patched in places, the banners sun-bleached and fraying at the edges. Still, there was life here. Music crackled through tinny speakers, performers practiced in the open air, and somewhere, the smell of popcorn valiantly tried to mask diesel and rust.

“Mr. Grayson! A pleasure!”

Dick turned to see a short, round man waddling toward him, decked out in a plum-colored suit that looked expensive but somehow greasy at the same time. Every finger glittered with rings; his watch looked like it could pay off a mortgage. His smile was wide, practiced, and nowhere near his eyes.

“Charlie Delmar,” the man said, thrusting out a hand. “Ringmaster, manager, entrepreneur. Welcome to my humble enterprise.” The man certainly had a knack for flair. 

“Glad to be here,” Dick said, shaking his hand firmly and resisting the urge to wipe his palm afterward. “You’ve got quite the operation.”

“Ahh, we make do! Not quite the glory days of Haly’s, hmm?” Charlie said, laughing too loudly. “But we keep the crowds happy, the lights bright, and the money moving.”

Dick subtly wiped his hand on his pants. 

“Those are the big three,” Dick agreed with the tilt of his head, eyes flicking around. The place wasn’t falling apart, but it carried that same patchwork energy he’d seen in small-town shows—held together by willpower, duct tape, and underpaid labor.

Charlie led him through the lot, gesturing grandly at everything as if he owned a small empire instead of a mid-tier carnival. “We’ve got trapeze, animal acts, fire shows, acrobatics—oh, and our little prodigy, of course. The one that caught your eye!”

“Arach-Kid?” Dick asked, his tone carefully casual.

“The one and only!” Charlie’s grin sharpened. “Crowds love him. Best draw we’ve had in years. You won’t believe the fuss he put up about his stage name having a hyphen.”

“Stage name pride,” Dick said mildly. “I get it.”

Charlie’s laugh boomed again, and he waved toward one of the smaller tents. “My acrobrats are rehearsing now. Go say hello! You two will get along great—gymnast to gymnast, legend to legacy.” Charlie smiled, but it came off more condescending than happy. 

Dick pushed the tent flap aside.

The main tent was buzzing when Dick walked in—music spilling from a crackling speaker, ropes swinging overhead, performers mid-rehearsal. The four adult acrobats from the previous show moved across the rig with practiced efficiency, calling out to one another in clipped, professional bursts.

He’d barely taken two steps before they noticed him.

“Wait—hold up, is that—”

“Holy hell, it’s Dick Grayson!”

The reaction was instantaneous. The group practically descended on him, a flurry of handshakes, greetings, and thinly veiled awe. Dick smiled politely through the swarm, fielding questions about training techniques, his old routines, about the Haly’s days, then apologizing for bringing it up and beating the dead horse that is his dead parents. 

He was used to the attention, but something about it felt a little… performative. The smiles were too wide, the enthusiasm a little too desperate.

“Monsieur Grayson, it’s an honor,” one of them said, grasping his arm with both hands.

“Please,” Dick said lightly. “Just Dick.” 

“Oh, we couldn’t!” another said, practically simpering. “You’re a legend.” 

They laughed, loud and hollow. Dick gave a practiced grin, but his instincts prickled. They were friendly enough—but it was the plastic kind of friendliness people didn’t mean. 

“Tragedy what happened to your parents, our condolences.” 

Dick almost actively rolled his eyes, but played along. Thanking them, moving on, keeping the conversation going. 

“Kid! You’re late again!” A man Charlie had been talking to called out.

A teenager ducked inside, jogging across the floor and looking like he’d been halfway through an apology before he even got there. “Sorry! Sorry, Ms. Sandy asked me to—uh—”

No one was listening, still buzzing around Dick. 

The acrobats never even paused to pay attention to the kid, who looked very familiar. On the tip of Dick’s tongue, he swears. 

The teen slowed to an awkward stop near the rig, looking pretty unimpressed as he shed his outside layers to reveal his, decidedly, homemade unitard. It hung loose at the wrists, clearly homemade, bright in a way that reminded Dick of Superman. Red, blue with a little flair of black web pattern stitched in, the kind of detail only someone meticulous (or sentimental) would bother with.

He said something Dick couldn’t hear over the sound of the other acrobats and rolled his eyes, starting to quietly prep. 

“Don’t worry about them,” Charlie’s voice rang from behind, syrupy-slick. “They’re just starstruck, Mr. Grayson. Happens all the time.” 

“It won’t distract them from their work, right?” Charlie’s voice wasn’t mean, per se, but sharp and a pretty plain way of telling them to stop causing a ruckus and get back to work. 

“Sorry Charlie, we’ll get on it.” One of the men called, thankfully leading the way back to practice. The kid stood up to follow after, but they brushed right past him. 

“Excellent. Keep it that way.” Charlie’s grin was all teeth. “I want our guest to see why Charlie’s Circus is worth every penny of his time.”

The boy—maybe thirteen, fifteen tops—stood near the rig, chalking his hands. Now, it’s a bit of an intuitive leap, but Dick had dealt with much the same attitude from older acrobats jealous of his talent. So chances are…

“Hey,” Dick called. “You must be the famous Arach-Kid.”

The boy turned, startled. His brown eyes wide, like he didn’t expect Dick to actually address him. He straightened, trying to play it cool. “That’s what they call me,” he said. His voice cracked just a little. “But, uh—yeah. That’s me. I tried for Spider-Man, but it didn’t stick.” There was a lilt of humor, like an inside joke.

Dick offered a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure you’ll grow into it.” the kid shrugged, clearly still bummed. 

“Grayson, Dick Grayson,” Dick said, giving a mock bow and a grin. “At your service,” that got a small, genuine laugh from the boy—bright and unguarded.

Then a side eye. “You sure you ain’t a scammer?” He leaned forward, eyeing Dick up and down. “Like, Flying Grayson Dick Grayson? For suresies?” 

Dick’s irritation eased a little, despite himself. It was hard to stay mad when faced with a wiry teenager in glasses too big, a gap in his two front teeth, and the funniest attempt at sizing Dick up he’s ever gotten.  

“Last I checked.” He tipped his imaginary cowboy hat. 

The teen squinted at him, staring for a couple seconds longer before he seemed to believe Dick, eyes lighting up in wonder. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen someone recognize his name, and certainly won’t be the last, but it was one of the few times associating the “Flying Grayson” part didn’t come without awkward condolences or whispered mentions of tragedy. Just awe. Plain earnest awe. Once he got past the skepticism, of course.  

Peter tried to recover, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wow. Uh. Yeah. Sorry. I just—your form’s, like, legendary. I’ve seen videos. A lot of them. Probably too many, actually. That sounded creepy, didn’t it?” He ducked his head, “Sorry, I’m Peter.” Peter wiped his hands, but hesitated on whether he should actually shake hands or not. 

Dick met him half way, amused. 

“Little bit,” Dick said, grinning. “But my brothers’ worse, so I’ll allow it.”

Peter laughed awkwardly, still avoiding direct eye contact. “Cool. Uh. Thanks. So, are you really here to—like, work here? Or is this one of those, uh, publicity things?” He blinked. “No offense.”

“Little of both,” Dick said smoothly. “I wanted to see how you do things here. Maybe learn a few tricks. Maybe teach a few.”

Peter perked up instantly, the tension fading from his shoulders. “You’d actually teach me?”

“Sure,” Dick said, crossing his arms. “Though I might have to steal that quadruple somersault back first.”

Peter flushed, flustered. “I—I didn’t mean to copy it! I swear, I just—someone showed me a recording, and asked if l could do that, and I—” He trailed off, realizing what he’d said.

Dick’s smile didn’t fade, but his mind sharpened like a blade. Someone showed him.

Not that it’s hard to get ahold of recordings of the move, but rather the fact someone expressly asked if he could do it. Nevermind how dangerous it could be to other people, messing up the quadruple somersault can end with a couple of your bones broken, with a range of severity. 

“Relax, kid,” he said, easy and calm. “I’m not mad.” The hell he wasn’t. 

Not at Peter, anyway.

But whoever decided to hand a teenager his family’s signature trick like it was a party trick? That was a different story entirely.

Peter hesitated, eyes darting toward the tent flap as if half-expecting Charlie to materialize from across the tent. “Good,” he said quietly. “Because I don’t think I could pull off a quadruple somersault and survive getting yelled at in the same day.”

Dick huffed a small laugh. “Yelling’s standard circus management, unfortunately. Comes with the smell of sweat and disappointment.”

“That explains so much about Charlie,” Peter muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Dick to catch.

Dick raised a brow. “You and he get along well, I take it?”

Peter barked a short laugh. “Oh, yeah. We’re besties. He yells, I nod, and everyone’s happy. It’s a real healthy work environment.”

“Sounds it,” Dick said dryly.

Peter shrugged, tugging absently at one of the fraying seams of his sleeve. “He’s… manageable. Mostly. I just keep my head down, do my sets, and try not to outshine the adults. Again.” He smirked. 

Oh ho, kid’s got sass. 

“You that good?” Dick asked, a teasing lilt in his voice.

Peter looked up, surprised, and then grinned, some of the tension melting away. “I mean, I didn’t die doing your move, so… probably?”

Dick snorted. “Cocky, huh?”

“Confident,” Peter corrected, dusting his hands. “If I were cocky, I’d start charging commission.”

Before Dick could answer, one of the older acrobats called out from the rig, voice dripping with false sweetness. “Hey, Arach-kid, maybe let the legend get some space, yeah? Don’t want you wasting his time.”

Peter froze for half a second, then smiled too brightly. “Wouldn’t dream of it!” he said, voice all polite cheer. He had that customer service voice down-pat. 

Dick’s observed. He watched their interactions, watched Peter’s reactions. The others had gone right back to ignoring him, moving through their warm-ups like the teenager wasn’t even there. It was a well-practiced dance—acknowledge him only when you needed to remind him where he stood out of a sense of insecurities. Dick was all too familiar with that treatment. 

It’s an easy remedy, once you figure it out. 

Peter rolled his eyes, just a flicker of motion, and leaned in slightly. “They’re real team players,” he muttered, then louder, “I’ll, uh, start rehearsal.”

He started climbing the ladder toward the high platform, movements efficient but too careful—like someone who’d learned the hard way not to make mistakes where people were watching.

Dick watched him go, that tight knot forming again in his chest. The kid was witty, skilled, and still learning his place in this circus. It's obvious that he’s being ostracized because not only is he an outsider, but he’s become the top banana* of their troupe in, give or take, three months. (From media posts and a vague timeline Tim had made last night of when Arach-Kid started appearing. Give or take a couple weeks.) 

Charlie reappeared at his elbow, all smiles and gold chains. Maybe the kid was right to be whispering, this guy was nosey. “Talented boy, isn’t he?” he said, voice oily and proud, like Peter was another shiny trophy for his shelf. “Got the reflexes of a cat, that one. And obedient, too.”

Dick kept his expression pleasant. “He’s definitely something,” he said.

Charlie clapped him on the back, too hard to be friendly. “You’ll see what I mean during rehearsal. Maybe he’ll even do that trick of yours, hmm? If he’s not too tired, of course.”

Dick hummed, caught between wanting to see it and the wrongness of someone not a Grayson performing it. “Right. Can’t wait.”

As Charlie waddled back off to sit in his, frankly, ostentatious chair. It was like he wanted to simultaneously micro manage everything, without actually managing. He just stuck around to brag and order people around, while accomplishing zero work in the end. 

Dick glanced back up at the rig. 

And something about that made Dick’s stomach twist.

Because brilliance like that, in a place like this, under someone like Charlie Delmar?
It rarely ended well.

The acrobats—four adults and one kid—moved like a machine missing a few bolts. Their timing was good, but there was a stiffness to it, a lack of trust between them that any trained eye could see. Or any eye, really, if there were no flashing lights, fog machines and expectations skewing your view. 

Dick tilted his head, subtly checking his phone for information Tim had compiled on the other members Dick would be spending the most time with. Tim had taken it on himself to briefly look into everyone at the circus, maybe sorta illegally. 

Jean-Luc Moreau, the ringleader of the acro team, was a wiry man in his late thirties with a permanent sneer and the kind of arrogance that comes from having just enough talent to think you’re irreplaceable. His voice carried a heavy French accent, the kind that made every insult sound like poetry if you didn’t speak the language. His jet-black hair was slicked back, a little too much oil glinting under the lights. He was someone who picked on those weaker than himself, and sucked up to anyone with power.  

Beside him, Malcolm Reeves was his opposite in every way—taller, broader, older. In his forties, his power came from steadiness rather than flash. His dark skin gleamed with sweat under the stage lights, and his movements were careful, efficient, and practiced. He had the whole dark and mysterious thing going for him. 

Then there was Deborah Boone, also in her thirties, uptight and bitter. She used to be a contortionist for horror movies. She hadn’t done anything very notable, acrobat wise and personal life wise. 

The youngest, Sasha Dean, in her early twenties. Her timing was off—a half-second late on every catch, a beat too long on every release. She had the energy, but not the instincts, and it showed.

And then there was Peter.

The kid had the natural rhythm of a born aerialist—graceful, elastic, alive in motion. Dick’s only critique was a lack of proper form; it was clear Peter was self taught. If his reflexes were any slower, some of his flips and tricks would end with a not-so-fun trip to the hospital. 

His red-and-blue unitard flashed like a spark as he swung from the trapeze, settling into position between Jean-Luc and Deborah. He was smaller, lighter—the flier of the group—and clearly used to being tossed, caught, and flung across the rig like he was weightless.

Jean-Luc barked out a series of cues, slipping between English and French as the group began their routine.

Deborah took the first swing, her legs slicing the air as she flipped forward into Malcolm’s grip. A smooth exchange. Then Jean-Luc climbed up to the next platform, balancing effortlessly before leaping outward, twisting twice before catching Deborah’s wrists.

Peter stood ready on the far platform, waiting for his mark. When he jumped, it was with the easy confidence of someone who trusted the air to hold him. His legs extended, spine straight, eyes locked on his catcher.

Jean-Luc caught him, but the moment they reconnected, Dick saw it—the faint shift of weight, the subtle twist of wrist that turned a secure hold into a near-drop.

Peter slipped, managing to hook one leg around the bar just in time to save himself.

“Mon dieu, kid, focus!” Jean-Luc barked, shaking his head as if Peter had fumbled. “You have to stay tight! You’re too loose!”

Peter’s face flushed red. “Sorry,” he said automatically, breathless. “Won’t happen again.”

Jean-Luc muttered something in French that definitely wasn’t complimentary. 

They reset. Again, Peter launched—another solid takeoff, another near-miss as Jean-Luc let the timing slip by a heartbeat before catching him. It was deliberate. Subtle, but deliberate.

Dick’s eyes narrowed.

Jean-Luc smiled up at him, all teeth. “You see? He needs polish, yes? But he has potential.”

“Sure looks that way,” Dick said evenly, keeping his expression neutral.

Dick narrowly missed the annoyed glare thrown his way, and the blank stare Peter directed at Jean-Luc. It was a stare Dick often saw on Jason before he decided he wanted to ruin someone’s future. 

On the next go, Malcolm stepped in as the base, solid and steady. Peter arced through the air, caught Malcolm’s wrists, and this time the connection held cleanly. No wobble. No “accidental” slip.

Jean-Luc clapped sarcastically. “At last! Bravo, petit araignée!”

Peter scrunched up his nose, as though the act of Jean-Luc complimenting him was worse than purposely getting sabotaged. “Merci,” he said, dry as dust.

Deborah and Sasha took their turns, running a series of simpler passes—a few layouts, a tucked double, nothing spectacular. The whole act had that safe, repetitive feel of a troupe coasting on old routines. Which isn’t a bad thing! Dick’s own troupe had done the same, except they had, well, the Graysons. Kind of a different bracket here. 

Peter’s section was the only one that made the crowd—small as it was now—hold its breath.

After pulling off the quadruple somersault last show? They’d need a whole bleachers stand for the next show, without a doubt. 

When Peter dropped back to the net after another flawless double, Jean-Luc called out, “Work on your form, boy, before you make a real mess of yourself!”

Peter climbed down, rolling his shoulders, muttering just loud enough for Dick to hear, “Pretty sure the only mess around here is your form, Jean-Limp.”

Dick smothered a laugh behind his hand.

Peter smirked, having seen through Dick. 

Deborah and Sasha took their turns, running a series of simpler passes—a few layouts, a tucked double, nothing spectacular. The whole act had that safe, repetitive feel of a troupe coasting on old routines.

Peter’s section was the only one that made the small crowd of onlookers hold its breath. But Dick could tell it wasn’t the act that made them uneasy. It was the way Jean-Luc handled him. The calculated little slips. The digs. The whispered blame. The kind of quiet sabotage that eats away at a performer’s confidence until they start to believe it’s their fault.

“Wonderful!” Charlie boomed like a one-man parade, clapping his hands so loudly that Sasha, mid-swing, missed her grip and landed flat on the net with a startled yelp. Oblivious—or maybe not caring. “But, ah, we need more zing, more pizzazz! You’re giving me math when I want fireworks!”

Jean-Luc blinked down from the rig, clearly irritated. “We are rehearsing the sequence, monsieur.”

“Yes, yes, and the sequence is fine,” Charlie said, waving a dismissive hand. “But no one pays to see your ‘technical perfection.’ The audience wants drama! Flips! Spins! Some—” he paused, searching for a word, “—some falls and near catches! Legacies happening right before their eyes!”

Deborah closed her eyes briefly, like she was praying for patience. Malcolm just exhaled through his nose.

Charlie turned to Dick, beaming. “You’d agree, wouldn’t you, Mr. Grayson? Showmanship over science, yes?”

Dick’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Depends on whether you like your performers alive.”

Charlie laughed far too hard at that. “Alive, yes, yes, of course—safety first!” he said, clearly not meaning it. “But! Speaking of legacies…” His grin widened like oil spreading over water. “Why don’t we end with that little Grayson number? What do you call it again? The quadruple somersault?”

The air in the tent shifted instantly.

Peter froze on the ladder, one hand gripping the rung, knuckles white. Jean-Luc shot him a sideways smirk.

Dick’s jaw tightened, but his tone stayed mild. “I see you’ve taken quite the liking to my move.”

Charlie’s eyes gleamed. “It’s quite the showstopper, Mr. Grayson. You know how the show business is.”

He clapped his hands again, loud and sharp. “Come on, Arach-Kid! Let’s see the magic! Give our guest a taste of what makes my circus worth his time.”

Peter hesitated, his eyes flicking from the rig to Dick. There was a crack in his exterior—a sliver of uncertainty, of guilt. “I—uh—Mr. Delmar, maybe we should—”

Charlie’s smile twitched. “Come now, Petey, aren’t we pals?

Peter swallowed hard. He nodded. 

He climbed the rest of the way up, every motion tighter than before. No jokes now, no muttered words under his breath. Nothing too nice, from what Dick lip-read.  

Dick stood perfectly still, eyes locked on him. Every detail, every movement—he cataloged it all.

Peter perched on the bar, breath steady. His hands flexed once, twice. Then he pushed off.

The swing started slow, controlled. His timing was sharp, but his shoulders betrayed the faintest tension—a telltale stiffness before release. Then he let go.

The world seemed to still for a heartbeat.

One flip. Perfect tuck. Two—tight rotation, no wasted motion. Three—body alignment flawless, momentum steady. Four—clean execution, bar caught dead-center.

Seeing someone else do it, up close… Dick saw it in the micro-adjustments, the instinctual awareness of air and weight and speed. Not learned, not drilled—lived. Self-taught, pure reflex, and raw genius.

He landed the dismount with the precision of a veteran and the shakiness of someone who hadn’t breathed the entire time.

The tent erupted into polite applause, Jean-Luc forced a grin, and Charlie laughed like he’d just witnessed a miracle he owned.

“Beautiful! That’s what I’m talking about!” Charlie bellowed, spreading his arms wide. “See? The people eat that up!”

Peter climbed down the ladder, biting his lip, avoiding eye contact. Dick didn’t stop watching him for a second.

Charlie was still crowing to himself, but Dick barely heard him.

Because in all his years, he’d never seen anyone outside his family make that move look like theirs.  

Peter dusted chalk off his hands and shot Dick a guilty look. Probably deciding if he was angry seeing his own move performed right in his face. Studying him. And, to be fair, Dick was studying him too. Just not as blatantly as Peter. Well—blatantly to Dick, who had received formal training. Peter was actually pretty slick otherwise. 

Now, Dick would’ve stepped in sooner, in regards to the blatant bullying of a kid right in front of him, but… he wanted to see Peter’s reactions first. He wasn’t here just to make friends and mess around. He’d found out someone had shown and asked Peter to perform, and he had a pretty good theory as to who. Nothing a little snooping couldn’t help with confirming or disproving. 

No records, no files, no clear background. Just this wiry teenager who’d pulled off a quadruple somersault like he’d been born under the same net Dick had once fallen through. 

So, yeah—Dick watched him. Closely.

He studied how Peter carried himself in the air: wary, but not afraid; confident, but never cocky. His natural instinct was insane—his sense of balance and awareness of his surroundings downright absurd. The kid was getting tossed, dropped, and flipped with barely any disorientation. He moved like someone born for the air, not trained for it.

When Jean-Luc barked, Peter didn’t flinch. When someone missed a cue, he covered it smoothly, without calling attention to it. When he fell (read: got dropped), he didn’t curse or sulk—he just got back up.

He was tenacious. And untrained.

And that’s what bothered Dick most.

Anyone could try to copy the Grayson's technique. Keyword: try. But it wasn’t something you could just mimic. You had to understand it. You had to know how it felt. The control, the rhythm, the breath before the drop. The precision. The training it took. 

Countless people had tried, failed, broken bones, and even paralyzed themselves trying to learn. 

But he didn’t move like someone who’d been taught. His form wasn’t perfect—it was personal. Improvised. Self-built out of observation, instinct, and sheer stubbornness. Every swing and catch was just a little too sharp, a little too fast, the kind of thing you learned by watching others and saying, I can do that, instead of being told how to.

Dick’s stomach knotted, a faint pulse of unease under his calm expression. He wasn’t angry at Peter. Not really. But he itched to know. 

So for now, he’d keep watching. Studying. Seeing how Peter moved, talked, laughed, lied.

Then he’d decide whether the kid was a prodigy— or a problem.

...Was he starting to sound like Bruce?