Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There were two bodies on the ground and Bruce couldn’t stop staring at them. He stood at the edge of the scene, letting the GCPD forensics team do their work before he approached to do his. He could not tear his gaze away from the corpses, however, and he knew his severe stance was unnerving the cops around him. 

They were always unnerved by him. Less so after the flood, but still. He couldn’t find it within himself to care at the moment. Officer Martinez was not so subtly staring at him from the other side of the circus tent, standing behind Gordon as the new commissioner spoke with the ringmaster. The man had, inexplicably, taken to approaching Batman whenever they were in the same place, chatting at the man as he investigated. Even more inexplicable was Bruce’s quiet acceptance of this obviously annoying habit. But he preferred it to suspicious looks and disapproving grumbles. He didn’t trust the man, not like Gordon, but he didn’t entirely distrust him either. 

The few circus performers still scattered around the tend didn’t spare him a second glance. Maybe they were too distraught over the death of their colleagues, maybe they were just too used to freaks in costumes. 

Gordon approached him then, Officer Martinez left behind hoarding out the last civilians, and sighed. “They say their kid saw the whole thing. He was up there about to jump when the lines fell.” He said. 

Bruce knew that. He’d seen the whole thing too. 

He couldn’t say that, obviously, so instead he said, “Sabotage.”

“You really think so?” Gordon asked him, brows furrowed. He wasn’t surprised by the statement, he suspected that himself. Early that day they had received a call by a ten year old boy at the circus complaining about some ‘ugly, mean men in suits’ and then the boy’s parents turned up dead from an act they had performed hundreds of times a couple hours later? Years of experience had taught Gordon not to believe in coincidences. 

Batman only grunted in reaffirmation. 

Gordon hummed. “Okay, my guys are packing up now. I’ll go talk to the kid and let you do your thing.” He lightly patted the man in the back, fingers brushing against his cape. As always, Batman tensed under his touch. But he didn’t move ten feet away this time. Progress.

“Richard.” Bruce said quietly. 

“What?”

“His name. Richard.” Bruce repeated. 

Gordon blinked. “Ah. Thank you.” He said and turned away. 

Batman waited until the forensics had stopped staring at him and finally headed out before he moved. But he didn’t head to the bodies, instead he climbed on the ladder adjacent to the platform post where the ropes had been connected. He hadn’t seen them disconnect, he’d been too busy staring at the boy on the opposite platform. Richard. Richard Grayson. 

He’d intercepted the boy’s call earlier, but had been too busy chasing Firefly (a deceptively cute name) through the Narrows to follow up on it. But still, he’d decided to attend the circus that night to investigate. Or ‘look for clues’ as Alfred had so amusedly put it. Well, he’d found one. 

The bolts securely attaching the ropes to the platform had been removed, but their imprint could be seen, the metal beneath them less rusted that the surrounding area. It was a simple, yet deadly plot. 

Whoever had orchestrated the assassination was probably present in the audience to make sure it went through as planned. Maybe they had sat near Bruce. He’d been so blind, so stupid. And now a child had lost his parents. 

He had to be better. This couldn’t happen again. 

Richard had, understandably, not said much when Gordon approached him. Bruce himself hadn’t spoken for three months after his parents’ murder. Really, he hadn’t spoken much at all since that night. It annoyed Alfred sometimes, less now than then. Bruce knew it did. He didn’t blame him. Bruce annoyed himself. He felt powerless, weak, every time the words he wanted–no, needed –to say got stuck in his throat and people looked at him with irritation, or worse pity . So he didn’t judge Richard for not saying much now. He would not judge him if he never said much ever again. He was older than Bruce had been when he’d lost his parents, that much was true, but Bruce doubted there was ever an age where seeing your parents die in front of you didn’t severely affect a person.

Still, the boy had useful information and Bruce needed it if the men responsible for the deaths of the Flying Graysons were ever to be caught. So, Bruce needed to talk with him somehow. Gain his trust. He didn’t dare approach him at the funeral, which he'd paid for. It had been held a mere two days after the murder (the bodies had been released quickly. The cause of death was clear and Gotham morgues didn’t have space to spare), knowing better than most how emotionally distressing that would be. He wasn’t that tactless. At the funeral of Thomas and Martha Wayne, dozens of people had approached him with the apparent intention of holding long conversations with the silent eight year old. They spoke about his parents, mostly, or about the company. Alfred had had to basically bat them away from him and Bruce had eventually ran away to hide behind a crypt. 

The other circus performer’s weren’t much help. Although the ringleader, C.C. Haly, was the owner of the circus (Aptly named: Haly’s Circus) it turned out that John Grayson had been the business manager. He had requested to speak with Haley after the show concerning a ‘meeting of some kind, I don’t know, I was busy! I didn’t mean to blow him off…’ but never got the chance. One of the dancers mentioned that Mary had seemed shaken, but apparently she’d been the only one to notice it. And Richard? Well, he’d told no one of what he saw or the phone call he’d made to the police. 

Concerning that phone call, the men that had arrived at the circus had been turned away by the performers and had, much to Bruce’s annoyance and Gordon’s fury, quickly given up and left. Bruce didn’t blame the performers for their wariness, they probably had some bad history with the police. Most people did. And circuses were famous for their close-knit, distrustful nature. 

It had been eight days since the murder and he had nothing. 

Bruce heard the lift door screech open behind him and said, “I need to talk to Richard Grayson.” 

Alfred paused behind him, “Good morning, Master Bruce.” He said in response. 

Bruce blinked. It was morning already? 

Alfred spoke again. “That’s the poor boy, isn’t it? Dreadful thing.” He deposited a tray next to Bruce with a sandwich and a cup of blueberries. 

Bruce took a berry. 

“I’m unsure if having the Batman pay the boy a visit is wise, however. He’s not exactly…child-friendly.”

Bruce took another berry. “No. I will talk to him as myself.”

Alfred raised his eyebrows, “Oh? And how do you intend to do that?”

“By bringing him here. As my ward.” Bruce said. 

His guardian gaped at him. “I’m sorry?”

Bruce took yet another berry. “He’s in danger. He saw the men responsible. He’ll be safe here.” He murmured. He didn’t face Alfred and forcibly kept his gaze focused on the file he had open on the computer screen in front of him. 

Alfred, for his part, didn’t know what to say. Bruce wasn’t wrong, the boy was in danger and would no doubt become a target soon. But taking him in as a ward? Bruce? With a ward? Bruce with a child, period? Alfred would sooner have expected Gotham City to break in half and reveal an abyss underneath than his charge taking in a charge of his own. And, rather guiltily, he questioned the man’s ability to properly take in a child. He barely took care of himself. 

Another berry in hand, Bruce stepped away from the computer and resisted the urge to reach up and rub the exhaustion away from his eyes. “I will go speak with Gordon today.” He said. “And maybe a lawyer would be good.” To figure out how to make Bruce Richard’s legal guardian and all that. He knew it was possible, he just didn’t know how. Yes, definitely a lawyer. 

Alfred chortled, “Yes, I think it rather would.” Dear god, this would not end well. “I’ll get one from the company straight away.”

Bruce hummed in thanks and grabbed the cup of berries before heading towards the lift, the sandwich left untouched. Alfred stared after him and sighed. 

No, this would not end well.

Good news: an extremely flabbergasted and probably underpaid Wayne Enterprises lawyer had concluded that yes, Bruce could apply for legal guardianship of one Richard Grayson. It would ordinarily be a long, tedious process, but it could be shortened significantly if Bruce dared to throw his name and money around a bit. That the system could be so easily manipulated would usually anger Bruce, but he could let it go this one time if it helped him get the kid. 

Good news: an extremely flabbergasted Jim Gordon had agreed that it would be a good idea. He’d bought the not-so-fake act of a wealthy, young recluse attempting to do some good in his city being moved by the story of a boy that was suffering as he had suffered. Having to bare a part of himself to the commissioner, whom he considered a friend (not that the man would know it), had been almost physically painful and Bruce had vomited in the precinct restroom from the strain afterwards. But it worked. Bruce Wayne had made considerably more public appearances since the flood, typically at the insistence of Mayor Real with whom he’d been working closely with to create and finance a number of relief projects and other foundations. The board at Wayne Enterprises was loving him. And the city, most of it at least, was loving him too. Like they always had, since he became an orphan in front of them. Just like the Riddler had said. 

Bad news: Richard Grayson was not in an orphanage. He was in a juvenile criminal detention centre. Which made Bruce even more motivated to get him out just on principle. Gotham City gave birth to a lot of orphans, but who would be stupid enough to throw innocent, traumatized orphans in Detention Centers? Alison Lawrence, apparently. Richard Grayson’s social worker. 

Bruce couldn’t help but think of the old Wayne Manor that had become an orphanage and now lay abandoned, rotting from the inside and filled with dropheads. Something else his parents had created and he had let fall into ruins. Bruce pushed the gloomy thoughts out of his head, there would be time to fix that later. 

Lawrence would meet him at the detention centre. Gordon had insisted on having an officer drive him and who better for the job than Officer Martinez? If Bruce thought the man was chatty with Batman, he was practically word vomiting at Bruce. He had to force himself not to cover his ears. 

Martinez finally noticed how tense the man on the backseat looked after he received a flinch in response to a booming laugh. “Oh, I’m– Sorry, you’re probably not feeling up to talking right now. Horrible thing, putting an innocent kid in jail. Well, not jail, but y’know–”

“Richard.” Bruce murmured, gaze lowered. 

“Sorry?”

Bruce closed his eyes. “His name is Richard.” He said. 

“Ah, right. Of course.” Martinez carried on, “I think it's a mighty kind thing you’re doing for Richard. I’m sure you’ll do great, if I may say so, Mr. Wayne. I saw you at the funeral, Mayor Mitchell’s funeral, I mean. You saved his son. You were a hero.” He grimaced. “More than the police.” He muttered. 

What was Bruce supposed to answer that with? A thank you? That would be arrogant, wouldn’t it? A nod? Would that also be arrogant? This was precisely the reason why he hated being driven by anyone that wasn’t Alfred. Strangers, no matter how professional, always got curious about the mysterious Mr. Wayne and started conversations with him, seeking an insight into his psyche. And every time, every time , Bruce was left at a loss on how to respond and words got stuck on his throat and his eyes watered and– Shit . Bruce blinked his eyes rapidly, face turned away as subtly as possible from the front, and mentally cursed himself. 

Maybe Martinez catched a glimpse of his glassy eyes, because he finally shut up and kept quiet for the rest of the ride. Bruce was grateful for this, as it let him collect himself before the meeting. He was about to meet Richard for the first time and it wouldn’t be good to burst into tears in front of the boy. Or god forbid, the social worker. 

Alison Lawrence was as dreadful as Bruce had expected her to be. He had looked her up the moment he’d been given her name, of course, and her lacklustre record had left him less than enthused with the idea of meeting with her. For one thing, she had been late, which forced him to endure another half hour of Officer Martinez’ neverending ramblings. When she had arrived, she had been impeccably dressed, but smelling strongly of alcohol. Her hand had been sweaty when she’d taken Bruce's to shake and it had taken her far too long to let go of it. Bruce had visibly cringed and Officer Martinez, to his credit, had promptly stepped in and stolen the unfortunate hand away. 

A guard led them through the Centre as she spoke to Bruce about Richard. 

“Poor kid, huh? I’ve dealt with plenty of orphans in my time, but never met one from the circus. I’m sure that left him with his share of issues, not to mention the dead parents. Mr. Wayne, are you sure you want to take him in? Kids can be a lot of trouble, let me tell you.” She clicked her tongue. “And this one more than most. His English isn’t that good, he’s a gypsy, but I assure you he is an American citizen so at least you don’t have to worry about that. You know, Mr. Wayne, if you’re looking to get a kid there are some really good options at some of the city’s nicer orphanages–”

“No.” Bruce said firmly, louder than he usually spoke. God, the woman disgusted him. Speaking of children as if they were a product to be bought and sold. He would have to investigate into a way to have her licence removed. She had no business being around children of any kind. Once again, he felt a pang in his stomach as he realised truly how lucky he had been to be a Wayne orphan and to have had Alfred as his guardian. As his…well. 

Nevertheless, her information was useful. He hadn’t known that English was not Richard’s first language, which could further explain his difficulty talking. But it could also be that the woman was exaggerating and his English was perfectly proficient. He also hadn’t known that the Graysons were a Roma family– understanding Richard’s culture would be important to gain his trust and get him to become comfortable in Wayne Tower. Bruce himself was Jewish, on both his parents’ side, but hadn’t practised any aspect of the religion since they’d died. Alfred had, to his credit, attempted to continue his cultural education, but Bruce hadn’t been interested. 

The guard stopped outside of a clear door, which allowed Bruce to look inside. It was a cafeteria of some sort and it was empty except for a small and pale, dark-haired boy hunched over in the table farthest from the door. 

Bruce took a deep breath. Here he was. 

Richard Grayson.

Chapter Text

The boy was small, slim but well-built. He had the body of an acrobat, but the bearing of a ghost. His dark hair looked shaggy and unkempt, falling over his eyes. His back was hunched and his head was angled away from the door. He was resting his forearms on the metal table in front of him and Bruce could see his fingers fidgeting with the fabric of his jumper. The skin was broken at the knuckles.

Bruce approached slowly, grateful when Officer Martinez asked Lawrence to stay behind. He was quite tired of interacting with the woman. He garnered his strength and took a not so subtle deep breath. He couldn’t fuck this up. If he scared the kid…he'd cry. Right there in front of god and everyone. 

He took a seat in front of the boy, mirroring his position by putting his forearms on the table at a safe distance. “Hello, Richard. My name is Bruce Wayne.” Introduction done. Good. 

“Dick.”

Oh, god. He’d fucked it up already. Richard probably knew of Wayne and how utterly useless he was. Of course he was annoyed at the rich white guy just showing up after the worst experience of his life. Fuck, how could he have been so stupid? “...I’m sorry.” He whispered. 

Richard frowned up at him. “My name.” He said, “Dick.”

“Oh.” Oh. Dick was a nickname for Richard. “Sorry.” Now, he was embarrassed. Yikes. “Dick.” He repeated. “I’m sorry about your loss.” Empty words, they both knew it. Countless of people had said those words to him even after years passed from the murder. It was an easy, supposedly polite thing to say. Bruce loathed to say it, but he didn’t know what else to say after that fiasco. 

Dick blinked at him. 

He probably thought Bruce was a weirdo. Which…he was. Bruce lowered his eyes, avoiding the boy’s no doubt judgemental face. 

“You paid for my parents’ funeral.” Dick said to him, unblinking. 

“...yes.”

“Thanks.”

A moment of silence. 

“So…” Bruce started hesitantly, “How are you holding up?”

Dick’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t seem annoyed. “I’ll be fine,” he said quietly. “At least, that’s what everyone’s been telling me.”

Bruce had no idea what to say to that. Should he bring up his own experiences with that sentence? Alfred had certainly been fond of it until he realised how useless it was. 

Dick appeared to have taken his silence for disinterest. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to say anything to that.” He said quietly. 

Christ, he just kept screwing up, didn’t he? Bruce swallowed. “What happened there?” He asked, nodding at his bloody knuckles. It wasn’t hard to guess.

Dick frowned down at his hands, like he’d just noticed the damage. “Oh.” He breathed. “Uh, nothing.”

Standard answer, one very familiar to Bruce and Alfred.

“Have they given you something for the pain?” Bruce asked, more to check how Dick was being treated than because he thought Dick needed it. 

The boy blinked, looking thoroughly confused. “No? Should they?”

Bruce had no idea. He assumed yes. “At least wash it when you get the chance.” He recommended quietly. He didn't want to come on too strong. 

“Do you know why I’m here?” He asked, briefly shifting away from the table. 

Dick nodded and gestured to Lawrence with his head. “She called. Said you want to take me in?”

Bruce was surprised at the unconcerned tone. He hurried to say, “I…yes, as my ward–”

“Okay.”

Bruce choked on his words. It couldn’t be this easy. “Okay?” He asked, properly looking into Dick’s eyes. 

Dick sat up properly and nodded energetically, looking alive for the first time since Bruce had laid eyes on him. “I don’t want to be here any more.” He said matter-of-factly. 

The kid was putting on a brave face and Bruce commended him, he did it well, but that sentence alone proved that he was definitely not on his way to being alright. “Okay.” Bruce said. That was all he needed to hear. “I’m going to get you out of here. Not today, I can’t. But soon.” He promised. 

Dick’s shoulders visibly relaxed, as did Bruce’s. 

“Thanks.” Dick whispered, then louder, “Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce nodded, then turned his head to face the entrance. With a gesture, he called Lawrence over and she approached them. The pair of them tensed again as she got to their table, but neither of them made any comment. 

She started talking fast, important information probably but it’s nothing he wouldn’t hear again when he spoke with his lawyer. Bruce kept his gaze on Richard. Dick. His ward. The boy’s sweater was too big for him. Maybe he, like Bruce, found comfort in oversized clothing. Or maybe, and this was the more likely option, only had ill-fitting clothes to wear and would prefer new ones that fit him properly. Soon, it would be his responsibility to know that and much more. 

When it came time for Bruce to leave, he had to fight the urge to avoid Dick’s gaze. He felt guilty that he’d be walking away for the day and leaving him in a prison. 

“Mr. Wayne?” Dick spoke up right after Bruce stood up. His voice was quiet and he was decidedly not looking up. 

Bruce looked down at him and matched his own voice’s volume to the boy’s when he answered, “Yes, Dick?”

The kid looked up at hearing his name. His voice was more confident when he spoke again, “How long until…y’know?”

Again, Bruce was hit with a pang of guilt. He really didn’t want Dick to stay in the detention centre for a second longer, so ethics be damned, Bruce Wayne would not be afraid to throw the weight of his name and the size of his bank account to get him out as soon as possible. “I’ll come get you at the end of the week.” He said. “I promise.”

He didn’t know if Dick believed him or not, but the boy nodded at him, accepting the words. 

And with that, Bruce turned away towards the door. He hoped he would be able to keep his promise. 

Bruce wondered if Dick would hate him for not keeping his promise. He’d tried, he’d really tried to get everything together in time to pick him up at the end of the week. But even Bruce Wayne couldn’t do the impossible. He’d worked through the weekend, talking with attorneys and judges, bending the rules to their limit to get the paperwork to pass as quickly as possible. Luckily, he had the Police Commissioner backing him up.

Now it was Tuesday and he could finally go get Dick. Alfred would be driving him so that he could sit in the back with him, which Bruce wasn’t sure was a good idea but apparently would make him seem more friendly and give them a chance to talk. 

Speaking of talking…Alfred was looking over to him through the rearview mirror, a troubled look in his eyes. Bruce sighed and readjusted his sunglasses. “What is it, Alfred?” He asked with a sigh. 

Alfred didn’t pretend to misunderstand. He took a deep breath and turned his gaze back to the road before saying, “Are you sure you’ve thought this through, Bruce? Taking in the boy like this–”

“His name is Dick.”

Alfred paused. “Right. Taking in Dick like this, it’ll be hard. He’ll require attention and support and time– which you barely have for yourself, I might add. I just, I just don’t want you to regret it at some point or for the–Dick, to not receive the care he needs.” He shook his head, “I will help you, of course I will. But if you choose to go through with this, you have to understand the responsibilities that come with it.”

“He’s alone, Alfred.” Bruce said, looking at the dirty streets of Gotham as they drove past. “He’s been put in a detention centre like a criminal. I said I would get him out. I promised.” He whispered the last word. “I had you after my parents were killed. I had money. He has nothing. Except me. I can give him justice.” That was a promise he’d made to himself. 

Alfred sighed again. “Very well, then.” He said. “As long as you’re sure.”

“I am.” Bruce answered him. What kind of man would he be if he turned back now? Billionaire Brat Bruce Wayne?

“And what about the Batman?” Alfred pointed out.

“He’s a child, Alfred. He won’t find out, we’ll just have to keep the tower clean of evidence and make sure he doesn’t find the Batcave.” It wouldn’t be hard, Bruce was sure. 

Alfred was not as convinced, but there was nothing more he could do. If the boy discovered who and what Bruce was, then they would just deal with it. What other choice did they have?

Bruce was going to vomit. He knew it. He was going to vomit right there in the piss poor lobby of the detention centre in front of everyone. The warden had gone to get Dick from the recreation room, Alfred was standing behind him chatting with the officer by the door, and he stood alone in the middle of the room shaking like a leaf. Nobody but Alfred noticed.

He was going to take in a kid. He was going to have a ward. A child. In his space, in his home, in his life. It would be the biggest change in his life since taking up the mantle and would no doubt be more difficult to get used to. What if Dick felt he was trying to replace his father? He’d only accepted Bruce because he was the less bad option– what if he hated him? Oh fuck, fuck, fuck–

“Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce’s head snapped up. The warden had come back, accompanied by Dick. He was dressed in the same clothes as when Bruce had first visited, but he held a backpack tightly against his back. His knuckles were clean and the cuts were healing. His brows raised when he saw Bruce in a shy form of excitement and took two steps toward him before halting. He looked down with red ears. 

Bruce took initiative and walked the rest of the distance. “Hey, Dick.” He said quietly, uncertain whether he was allowed to put a hand on the boy’s shoulder or not. He decided not to. 

Dick took a deep breath and looked up. “Hey, Mr. Wayne.” He said back, speaking louder than he had. 

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

Dick looked surprised at that, then pleased. He likely hadn’t expected an apology or any acknowledgement of the promise. “It’s okay. You’re here now.” His lips quirked up momentarily. 

The warden stepped forward. “Mrs. Lawrence sent over all the paperwork Mr. Wayne. We just need some final signatures and a confirmation of your contact information.” He said. 

Bruce nodded and with one final look at Dick, stepped away to follow the man to the counter. 

Alfred took the opportunity to approach Dick, who tensed at his appearance. 

Alfred offered his kindest smile and extended a hand. “Good morning, Dick. My name is Alfred Pennyworth. I’m Master Wayne’s butler.”

Dick took the hand and shook it with a surprisingly strong grip. “My name is Dick Grayson. What’s a butler?” He asked bluntly. 

“I take care of him and manage the household.” Alfred simplified. “I was Master Wayne’s guardian after his parents passed.” He explained, noticing Bruce’s head cocked in their direction to listen in. 

Dick hummed. “So, you were Mr. Wayne’s…Mr. Wayne?” He asked, frowning a bit. 

Alfred laughed softly, not wanting the boy to think he was mocking him. “That’s right. And in a way, you’re Mr. Wayne’s Mr. Wayne too.”

Dick smiled at hearing him use his wording. “Okay.” He said, “Cool.” He nodded, satisfied with the information received. 

Bruce made his way over. “It’s done.” He said, more to Alfred than to Dick. “We can go.”

The two let Dick walk out first, grateful that the press hadn’t gotten hold of the story yet. As Alfred pushed forwards once outside to hold open the doors, Dick came to a halt. 

Bruce paused too, worried. 

But Dick was smiling and practically vibrating with excitement, “ That’s your car!?”

Bruce held back a grin. He was proud of his cars. They’d taken the Bentley out for the day, Alfred’s preferred mode of transportation. In truth, Bruce preferred the Rolls-Royce. His corvette was his favourite, though (second only to Batman’s car). “One of them.” He said to Dick. 

Dick’s smile grew, if possible, and Bruce allowed a hint of his to show. 

Maybe they’d be okay.