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“Beginnings can happen more than once, or in different ways.”
- Rachel Joyce
—
“Way to start off your career with a bang, rookie,” said the ever sarcastic voice of Detective Harvey Bullock.
Newly badged Officer Dick Grayson shot him a disapproving look, but he couldn’t disagree. He had only been on the Gotham City Police force for two weeks, assigned mainly to simple patrols like handing out tickets at overdue parking meters. But here he was at the center of his very first homicide case. Dick hadn’t even been on the clock. He had been walking home after just finishing up second shift and was dreaming about the leftover Chinese food that awaited him in his fridge. But he had decided to take a different route home. Later on, he would wonder if it had been fate that had made him take the long way through Crime Alley.
Dick would dream of the sound of that gunshot and the scream of the child that followed it, much like he dreamed of the snap of the rope and the horrible sound of his own screams. He sprinted into the alley behind the Gotham Movie Theater. There he had found a small boy who couldn’t have been more than eight. He had collapsed onto his knees as sobs wretched from his throat. In front of the boy were his parents, the very essence of their life gone from gunshot wounds as blood pooled around their dead bodies. Dick looked around for a sign of the culprit, but whoever had done this was long gone. The police academy had taught him many things about how to handle a fresh crime scene. But every textbook answer flew out the window as he watched that little boy beg for his parents to wake up. Dick was immediately at his side. He pulled the boy to his chest, turning him away from the bloody scene. Words flew out of his mouth faster than his brain could comprehend what he was saying.
“My name is Dick Grayson. I’m a police officer. I’m going to help you. I’m going to call an ambulance. Keep breathing, kiddo. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
Dick didn’t say it was going to be okay because he knew that it wasn’t. Death was inevitable, but witnessing a death like this would leave a gaping, open wound. Maybe one day it would heal, but there would still be a scar. And even scars sometimes continued to bleed.
He held the little boy tightly as the paramedics and the GCPD arrived. But as the paramedics tried to pull the boy from Dick’s arms, the boy refused to let go. They tried to ask him questions. What was his name? Did anything hurt? But he kept his face firmly buried in Dick’s shoulder.
“Hey, buddy.” Dick said as softly as the flutter of a robin’s wings. “Can you tell me your name?”
There was a soft sniffle before the boy replied. “B-Bruce. Bruce Wayne.” He hiccuped.
Everyone in Gotham knew of the Wayne family. Dick glanced at the covered bodies that he now knew to be Thomas and Martha Wayne. Bruce followed Dick’s gaze to the white cloths that were now draped over his parents. Dick gently took Bruce’s chin, turning it to face him.
“Hey, Bruce, look at me, buddy. Thank you for telling me your name. I really appreciate that. Now, can you tell me if you hurt anywhere?”
“I-I’m not hurt.”
“Okay, that’s good. But would you mind if my friends here take a closer look?” When Bruce looked hesitant, Dick gave him a reassuring smile. “If you want, I can stay right here with you the whole time. How does that sound?”
Bruce’s grip tightened on Dick’s uniform, but he gave a small nod.
Dick was still holding Bruce as Commissioner Jim Gordon and Detective Harvey Bullock approached with an older gentleman who was dressed in a perfectly pressed suit, a stricken look of grief on his mustached face. When Bruce saw him he scrambled out of Dick’s arms, running to the older man.
“Alfred!” He cried as he collapsed into the waiting arms of his family’s butler who had knelt down to hold him tightly.
Dick watched the painful scene, but he didn’t have time to linger as Detective Bullock’s large form towered over him. “All right, rookie. Start talkin’.”
—
It was four days later that Dick found himself with Detective Bullock at Wayne Manor. Dick was still technically in orientation, but he had been ordered by the Commissioner to accompany the detective to help with further questioning. The truth was that they had run out of any viable leads. Eight-year-old Bruce Wayne was the only witness to his parent’s death, and though the boy had given a short description of the perpetrator, it wasn’t enough to put a name with a face.
Dick was now standing in a room so expensively decorated that he was nearly afraid to move for fear of breaking something. Sitting on a large couch in the center of the room was Bruce Wayne. Harvey had insisted that Dick would talk to Bruce while he questioned Alfred.
“I hate kids." The detective had muttered sullenly.
Bruce looked up from where he sat reading. Deep blue eyes looked up at Dick with a mixture of familiarity and the darkness of grief–a look that Dick sometimes saw when he looked at his own reflection in the mirror. Bruce looked so small against the large pillows of the couch. Dick had the urge to hug him, but he stayed where he stood, offering a soft smile.
“Hello, Bruce. I’m not sure you remember me, but my name is–”
“Officer Grayson.” Bruce suddenly said. “You were there… that night. You stayed with me.” Bruce’s eyes lowered to the book, his fingers tightening on the pages.
Dick nodded. “That’s right.” He hesitated as he rattled through the rolodex in his mind of case questions he should be asking the boy: Can you remember any other defining details about the man who shot your parents? Is there anyone that would want to hurt them? Is there anyone who would want to hurt you? Can you tell me step by step exactly what happened that night? But instead the words that came out of Dick’s mouth were “Is it alright if I stay with you right now?” And he let out a small sigh of relief when Bruce gave a quick nod.
Dick moved to sit next to Bruce. Far away enough to make him feel comfortable, but staying within arms reach. He glanced down at the book in Bruce’s lap. “What are you reading?”
“The Little Prince.”
Dick raised an eyebrow. That was quite an advanced book for an eight-year-old to be reading. “You must be really smart, Bruce. Not a lot of kids can read a book like that at your age.”
“I’m… not smart.”
“What makes you say that, kiddo?”
“If I was smart then we wouldn’t have left the movie early. We wouldn’t have been walking in that alley.” Bruce’s lip began to tremble . “I-if I was smart I’d be able to remember better what the man looked like…” His shoulders shook as he dropped his head. Several tears fell onto the pages dampening the words ‘It is such a mysterious place, the land of tears.’
Dick shifted to kneel in front of the crying boy. He carefully removed the book from his small, trembling hands. He had the instinct again to hold the boy, but he stayed still, his eyes reading Bruce’s behavior. When his own parents had died, Dick had craved a touch that never came. Sometimes he thought he still did. Bruce’s grief, although similar to his own, might reject touch in favor of solitude, and Dick wanted to be there for however that grief presented itself.
“Bruce, is it alright if I tell you something?” Bruce didn’t meet his eyes, but he nodded, so Dick continued, “It’s okay that you left the movie early. It’s okay that you walked down that alley that night. And it’s okay that you can’t remember exactly what that man looked like.”
Bruce’s head shot up, tear streaks staining his face. “But if I–!”
Dick shook his head. “No ifs, ands or buts about it. You can’t blame yourself for this. I won’t let you, kiddo. You’ve just been through something that no one should ever have to go through and it's painful and it hurts more than anything in the world.” His gaze softened as blue eyes met blue. “And I wish I could tell you that the grief goes away, but the truth is… It doesn’t. It will numb over time, but it will never truly go away. But it’s what we choose to do with that grief that will help us define our path going forward. It’s why I became a police officer.”
Bruce studied him quietly. “You lost someone too, didn’t you?”
Dick’s eyes widened in surprise, but he nodded. “Yeah, I… I lost my parents when I was your age.” He rested a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s okay that you’re sad. It’s okay that you’re angry. It’s okay to feel. And it’s okay to not be okay.”
And that’s when the dam broke. Fresh tears poured out of Bruce’s eyes in a torrential downpour as he launched himself into Dick’s arms, sobbing into the older man’s shoulder. “I hate him! The man that did this. I hate him so much. It hurts. It hurts so much!” The boy whimpered and Dick held him, rocking him softly, giving him the touch that Dick had been so desperate for when his own tragedy happened.
“I’m here. Let it out. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Bruce.”
They stayed like that for a long time. The afternoon sun began to set as Bruce’s cries subsided, leaving him limp and exhausted in Dick’s arms.
“Do you think you’ll catch him? The man who killed my parents?” Bruce looked up at Dick, his eyes red and puffy but filled with an earnestness as he asked the question.
Dick’s eyes softened. He was someone who believed in giving hope to those that needed it, but he was not someone who would give false hope. “I’m going to be honest with you Bruce. Gotham is a big city with a lot of bad people in it. It’s going to be really hard to find the man that killed your parents…” He felt a tightness grow in his throat. The person that had murdered his own parents was still somewhere out there and even though Dick continued to search, he knew how slim the chances were of him actually being brought to justice. “But I promise you… I’m going to do everything in my power to find the man who did this.”
Bruce watched him carefully as if he was searching Dick’s eyes for any sign of falsehood. “I believe you.” The boy said after a moment. He moved out of Dick’s arms, pulling out a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his face.
Dick managed a smile. “Good. Now, here…” he pulled out a scrap of paper and pen from his pocket, scribbling something down before handing it to Bruce. “This is my personal cell phone number. If you need anything at all, if you think of any small detail, or if you just need someone to talk to, you give me a call, okay?”
Bruce took the paper, holding it close to his chest. He looked up at Dick with a strange awe in his blue gaze. “Thank you, Officer Grayson…”
“You can just call me Dick. All my friends do.”
“Dick…” Bruce scrunched up his nose a little as he tried out the name which made Dick chuckle.
It was then that the door opened revealing Detective Bullock and Alfred.
“Okay, rookie. The commish wants us back at the precinct, pronto.” Bullock called impatiently. From his tone he had clearly not enjoyed his time with Alfred, and Dick didn’t need to be a detective to know that from the look on Alfred’s face, the butler hadn’t enjoyed it either.
“Duty calls,” Dick said with a grin as he gave Bruce’s shoulder a final squeeze. “I’ll be in touch with you soon, Bruce.” He said with a wave as he followed Harvey Bullock out of Wayne manor.
Alfred stepped into the room. “Are you all right, Master Bruce?”
The last Wayne nodded, his eyes focused on the place where Dick Grayson once stood. He moved to the window watching as the young officer was slipping into the passenger side door of the squad car. Dick’s eyes caught Bruce's gaze through the window and he flashed a bright smile, giving him a wave before disappearing. Alfred watched in amazement as a very subtle smile crossed Bruce’s lips as he quietly returned the wave. It was the first smile Alfred had witnessed since the young boy had lost his parents.
“Maybe that young officer can do Master Bruce some good.” Alfred thought to himself as they stood in silence together, watching the patrol car drive away.