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It starts out on a dark night, like it always does. In the same place where life-changing events always seem to happen to him too; always in that same spot of darkness in the heart of Gotham’s depravity.
(You’d think he would know by now to stay away from there, but Bruce Wayne is nothing if not a stubborn fool.)
“You do know whose car that is, right?”
The kid jumps at the sound of his voice, the voice that’s sent a hundred other criminals twice this boy’s size running to the other side of the city to get away from the Bat.
But instead of running, the kid turns to look at him, the wrench in his hand gripped loosely, the expression on his face unabashed despite having been caught red-handed. Quickly, Bruce takes in the kid’s appearance; catalogues the scruffy appearance, the tension in his thin shoulders, the hungry gauntness of his young face.
He can’t be any older than six and he shouldn’t be out here at this time of night, alone, and especially not jacking the hubcaps off of Batman’s infamous car.
“You do know you’re parked in Crime Alley, right?” the kid replies, jutting his little chin out defiantly.
Bruce is taken aback for a moment. He’s not quite sure how to respond. The plan had been to carry on with the rest of patrol after the kid had run off at the sight of the car’s owner, but the kid’s reaction is braver than Bruce had anticipated, if not stupider.
Finally, he settles on asking, “Why are you stealing from Batman?”
The kid shrugs. “Any idiot that leaves a beauty like this in this shithole deserves to be jacked.”
And then the kid moves, fast and quiet, his wrench gleaming under the streetlights as he swings it at Batman’s face, and Bruce catches it midway with one hand and grabs the kid’s collar with another, mostly out of reflex. To his credit, the kid doesn’t look surprised at being stopped, although he’s scowling with a resigned sort of frustration.
“Go on then, beat up a kid,” he taunts, almost half-heartedly. “Just like all the other bullies at GCPD do.”
Bruce studies him then, takes the time to inspect the minute details of stress on the kid’s face up close. His bravado is admirable, but he’s still just a kid.
Bruce can tell he’s afraid, even though he’s doing an impressively good job of hiding it. Bruce makes a mental note to get Gordon to sign his men up for a refresher on empathy training before releasing the kid’s collar.
The kid’s strong, for someone so malnourished, and fast. A little angrier than Bruce is used to in children, but with a little attention, a lot of food, and heaping amounts of Alfred’s influence, well maybe-
“Are you hungry?” Bruce finds himself asking.
He should’ve expected the suspicious narrowing of eyes in answer to his question, but Bruce takes it in stride, gesturing over at his car.
“There’s space for one more.”
---
A couple of weeks ago, Roman’s lawyer and financial advisor had told him that a revamping of his image would do his legitimate businesses some good, especially now with the market the way it is. After all, look at how Wayne Enterprises’ stock values had shot up after Wayne had taken in that street rat, Peter Todd or whatever.
Roman doesn’t give a shit what Wayne does, or even if Roman’s legal businesses aren’t raking in as much dough as the rich bastard’s. That’s what his drugs are for, after all. But he also knows it’s asking for trouble with the IRS if he doesn’t get the numbers back up, and he’s run enough businesses to the ground to remember why he’d hired the advisor in the first place.
So fine, he’d start… revamping.
Roman had - reluctantly - donated to some ridiculous charities and showed up to every one of Wayne’s pretentious galas. He’d smiled, shook hands, kissed some political guests’ babies.
(And when he’d returned to his office, he would put his mask back on and continue with business as usual, striking the fear of god in the hearts of his people and setting strict examples.)
In the middle of it all, Zucco had owed him money, but it wasn’t so much that Roman couldn’t give him a second chance.
They had been in the middle of negotiating the terms of this second chance when Roman’s advisor had barged in with the news that Roman’s efforts at PR had had little effect so far.
“Three weeks!” the man had cried out. “Not even three percent! Do you have any idea how much Wayne’s ward got him? Fifty-two! At this point, you might as well try getting an orphan of your own!”
Zucco, strapped to a chair, bleeding from his mouth, one eye blacked out, had looked up and seen the opportunity.
“I might have an orphan for ya, boss,” he’d said.
And that was how Roman had ended up going to Haly’s Circus one night with Tiffany hanging off of his arm.
If anyone were to ask Roman, the Flying Graysons look and sound like a bunch of faggot immigrants to him. Fortunately for Roman’s advisor, no one quite asks Roman Sionis what he thinks of them.
No, they’re all too busy gawking with awe as they watch grown adults dressed in tights swing from bar to bar, tossing each other through the air like a goddamn human salad, blissfully unaware that they’re about to fall to their deaths at any moment now.
And then it does happen, just like Zucco had promised, and reporters do ask Roman what he thinks of the tragic incident. Roman plays the part of disturbed, upper-class white privilege well, and the media laps it up greedily when he expresses concern over the fate of the sole survivor of the Graysons.
It’s only a week later before he’s signing the papers, and Roman grudgingly goes to the orphanage to pick up the boy himself.
“It would look good, Mr Sionis,” his advisor had gushed. “Very good. Roman Sionis, orphaned millionaire, walking up the steps of the boys’ home to save a fellow orphan. Even Bruce Wayne didn’t do that. And everyone knows about what happened to the Graysons.”
“You’re sure this is going to help?”
“Confident, sir.”
“And what do I do with the boy after?”
“... Do, sir?”
“Do I kick him out to the curb or what?”
“Oh well, of course not. You’d have to raise him. Or- or hire someone to? You don’t need to treat him like a son, just pretend to do it. For a couple of years, at most.”
“Hmm.”
“Trust me, sir. This time next year, you’ll be a household name in Gotham.”
“I already am.”
“Without the notoriety, of course.”
“You better fucking pray you’re right.”
“Of- of course, sir.”
“What’s the brat’s name, anyway?”
“Richard, sir. Richard John Grayson. Sionis now, once you’ve signed the release forms at the Boys’ Home. I’ve been told he answers to Dick.”
“Hah. You don’t say…”