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The glass window reflected the grief in the boy’s eyes, making it impossible to ignore. Richard Grayson had been doing his best to be cheerful as Bruce took him on a tour of Wayne Manor, ultimately leading him to his new room. Now that he had a moment to quietly observe the view of the Atlantic Ocean, he couldn’t contain his sorrow anymore. Bruce knew the look all too well, and made a choice to be there for Dick, as Alfred had been there for him. Hopefully, he would be up to the task, because the boy clearly needed someone who cared.
“I hope you like it,” Bruce said after a cough to get Dick’s attention. “This was my old room when I was about your age.”
“Huh?” Dick answered, startled out of his contemplation. “Oh, yeah, it’s great. Wonderful, actually, Mister Wayne. I think it’s almost bigger than the whole trailer we were living in.” His volume decreased as he mentioned his old home, and Bruce guessed that Dick would gladly exchange life in a mansion just to be back in his cramped trailer with his parents still alive and well.
Bruce approached Dick, and placed a hand between his shoulder blades.
“You know Dick, you aren’t in the circus anymore,” Bruce began cautiously. “You don’t have to perform for me. It’s okay to be upset about your parents.”
“Yeah,” Dick sniffled, and Bruce watched the glass so he could see the boy’s expression. He was sniffling, but fought back any real tears. “I just... I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I figured I’d be going to a Boy’s Home or something after the accident. This is way more than I could have imagined.”
“Dick, you can appreciate your blessings and still mourn what you’ve lost,” Bruce assured him, placing both hands on Dick’s shoulders now. “When my parents died, everyone said I’d be alright because I had all of my money, my manor, and my butler. All of that is true, and I know I’m lucky. But it didn’t change the fact that I was a ten year old boy who saw my mother and father gunned down in front of me. I was the furthest thing from alright.”
As Bruce shared what they had in common, Dick’s defenses started to crumble. He began to cry, and Bruce turned him around and wrapped him up in a powerful hug. Instinctively, Dick leaned against him and buried his face in Bruce’s shoulder, wetting his turtleneck with his tears.
“There you go,” he encouraged. “Let it out.”
“I really miss them,” Dick sobbed. “It isn’t fair! They didn’t do anything wrong, and now they’re gone forever. I should have done something.”
“No, it isn’t fair. But there’s nothing you could have done, and you can’t blame yourself,” Bruce told Dick with equal firmness and compassion. He had plenty of experience with what to tell a child in this situation, having heard the same things from Alfred and his therapists many times over. “I’m sure that’s not what your parents would want for you.”
“What can I do then?” Dick asked, anger joining the sorrow in his voice.
“You can remember them, and honor them by making the best of your circumstances. Living the best life that you can,” Bruce suggested. “And you can rely on me. I’m a pretty good shoulder to lean on; I know exactly what you’re going through.”
“Well, sure, Mister Wayne,” Dick answered with pained sarcasm. “That’s nice and all. But what about after they catch the guy? You told Commissioner Gordon this was only a temporary arrangement to protect me.”
Bruce frowned slightly, and ran his fingers through Dick’s hair. While it was true that Bruce had taken Dick in to protect him from any revenge Tony Zucco might take on a material witness, it was more appropriate to say the circumstances were what allowed him to do so. While Bruce had never intended to have children, he couldn’t help seeing a kindred spirit in this lost boy.
“Well, it can certainly be temporary if you want it to be,” he allowed. “I’m not going to force you to live with me. But the more I learn, and the more I see of you, the more I think that you should stay.”
“What?” Dick asked, sounding dumbstruck by the idea. “Stay here?”
“I’m thinking so,” Bruce reiterated. “You don’t have any living relatives. Most of the folks at your circus would be glad to take you in, but I don’t think they can provide the kind of life for you that I can. And not just because I’m wealthy and have a stable home instead of a traveling circus. I see a lot of you in me, Dick. It’s in your eyes. I don’t want you to have to grow up without someone who can empathize with what you’ve gone through.”
Dick looked sideways, and eventually pulled himself out of Bruce’s grip.
“I don’t know, Mister Wayne,” he admitted, wrapping his arms around himself for comfort. “Can I think about it?”
“Of course you can,” Bruce assured him. “Take all the time you need. Feel free to make yourself at home until you’ve made your decision. Just be down around six o’clock for dinner. I know Alfred’s been baking lasagna for hours and he’ll be cross if we make him wait.”
“Okay,” Dick agreed. Bruce patted him on the back, then left the room to give him some privacy. He didn’t want to come across as hovering like a vulture.
Once Bruce was out of the room, Dick threw himself on the king sized mattress and cried until he was too tired to stay awake. The young man hadn't slept well the last few nights, nightmares of the accident haunting and waking him. But this time, it was not the screams of the Flying Grayson falling to their death that pulled Dick from his slumber. Instead it was the persistent knocking on the bedroom door.
"Comin', 'm comin'," he assured, still very groggy as he slumped across the enormous room to open the door. "Mister Alfred?"
"Master Dick," Alfred answered with a quick bow. "I was told that my lasagna would not go to waste, and yet it is on your plate getting colder by the minute."
"Sorry, I fell asleep," Dick answered, rubbing his eyes. "I guess I've been sort of exhausted lately."
"Ah, that is understandable, Master Dick," Alfred allowed, giving him a look that was full of both affection and sympathy. "Still, I really must insist that you come out and have a proper meal before you sleep all day. I'll reheat everything for you."
Dick followed Alfred back to the dining room - he would have likely gotten lost without him. When they arrived, Alfred directed Dick to his chair, then picked up the plate that had been waiting for him. Sitting across from him was Bruce, who seemed to be thoroughly engrossed in the Gotham Gazette. Judging by the impressively furrowed brow, he couldn’t be reading any good news.
"I'll be back shortly with your food at a more acceptable temperature," Alfred promised Dick, squeezing his shoulder. "In the meantime, the peaches are just as good cold."
Dick's stomach growled, and he immediately followed Alfred's advice. He took notice that these peaches appeared to be cut by hand, and weren't just stray cans hanging out in Alfred's pantry. Dick started scarfing them down as soon as Alfred's back was turned; he didn’t want to seem rude in front of someone who exhibited such impressive manners at all times. But he doubted that Bruce would mind so much.
Mister Wayne peeked over his paper at the voracious boy, and chuckled to himself. He set the paper down and rested his cheek against his fist, watching on with amusement. “Perhaps you should have eaten before you took a nap, hmm?”
“Yhmebbe,” Dick answered, his mouth still full of fruit. The sight of Bruce’s warm smile made Dick feel a little more normal; it was a reminder that there was still joy to be found in the world. Perhaps, with enough time, he would be happy again.
But this hope was instantly dashed as soon as Dick took a look at the headline of the newspaper: “Zucco Looking To Skip Town.” He recognized the name immediately; the thug had loudly proclaimed that he wasn’t somebody to mess with when he was trying to extort Mister Haley for “protection money”. When the head of the circus didn’t budge, Zucco retaliated by sabotaging the high-risk trapeze act of the Flying Graysons; Dick and his parents. So talented were they that they did their stunts without the aid of a net, which proved to be fatal when the ruined trapeze bar had to support the weight of two adults. The horror of that moment would stick with everyone in the audience, but none more so than Dick. He would never forget it, nor would he forget the man responsible.
The furrowed eyebrows and gnashing teeth clued Bruce into Dick’s mood. He rolled up the newspaper and removed it from the table.
“Don’t worry, son,” he told Dick, reaching out to place his hand on top of the boy’s. “Lieutenant Gordon is obsessed with this case, and he always gets his man. Zucco will pay for what he did. The best thing for you to do is not to worry about it.”
Dick wanted to believe Bruce; there was so much conviction in the man’s voice that Dick felt as if Bruce would apprehend Zucco himself if presented the opportunity. But his anger and sorrow won out in the end, and he crossed his arms so that Bruce couldn’t reach him.
“Well, he better,” Dick grumbled. “If Zucco gets away, I’ll never forgive Gordon or anyone else.”
He was close to storming out, but when Alfred arrived with the promised lasagna, Dick was glued to his seat. Even vengeance couldn’t dull the aroma of perfectly baked pasta and homemade sauce, and Dick was too hungry to deny food when it was presented to him. Still, it was a quiet meal, as the boy rebuffed any attempts to make conversation with him. Every time his fork stabbed through a bite, he imagined it piercing Zucco’s heart.
“May I be excused?” Dick asked bitterly once he had eaten everything there was to eat, including the asparagus spears (Alfred knew how to make even those appealing.) But without a suitable distraction, Dick knew he wasn’t going to be sociable. He needed an outlet for his anger.
“I suppose so,” Bruce allowed.
Alfred came over to retrieve Dick’s dishes and silverware, but before he could reach for them Dick had assembled them into a pile and made his way toward the kitchen. Alfred looked so rumpled that Bruce couldn’t help laughing.
“I can’t tell if you’re grateful or insulted,” he jabbed.
“A bit of both, I think,” Alfred admitted, before straightening his features. “You seem to be in an amicable mood this evening, sir. I can’t recall the last time I saw you so merry.”
Bruce sighed thoughtfully. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. I guess it feels good to take care of someone. Like I’m making a difference.”
“I completely understand the feeling, Master Bruce,” Alfred responded with earnest affection. The two men exchanged knowing looks and continued to eat their food. “Will you be going out on patrol again tonight?”
“No,” Bruce said darkly. He folded his hands so that his fingers interlocked, and stared at the wall with grim purpose. “My sole focus is on finding Tony Zucco before he runs out of Gotham. I won’t let Dick down.”
“I understand, Sir, but maybe it might be better for Young Master Dick if you stayed home?” Alfred suggested. “The boy just lost his parents; he shouldn’t be left alone.”
“You’ll be here,” Bruce dismissed. “You can take care of him better than I can... and Batman can catch Zucco a hell of a lot faster than the Gotham Police.”
While the adults debated the merits of Bruce’s single-minded mission, Dick Grayson wandered the halls of Wayne Manor with a similar kind of tunnel vision. He recalled that at one point on the tour they had passed a home gym that had not only weights and a treadmill, but a human-shaped punching bag. Dick wasn’t much of a fighter, but he could still take his aggression out on that without causing any trouble. He found the gym easy enough, and worked up a sweat by punching and kicking the dummy in every spot that he could.
Unfortunately, this exercise didn’t do anything to temper his fury. Dick rarely had good reason to be so angry and sad at the same time, and had never developed a good coping strategy for it. Violence only made the feelings more intense, with Dick hitting harder and harder. Adrenaline and his gymnastic background inspired Dick to leap up and kick at the dummy’s head, backflipping off of him and landing perfectly on his feet, unharmed. His inanimate opponent wasn’t so lucky; the head was rolling around the weight room, leaving a trail of stuffing in its wake.
“Oh, screw you,” Dick snapped, punting the head across the room, clattering into the weight set and knocking several round discs to the floor. “Tony Zucco, if I ever find you, you’ll be sorry!”
The clanging of metal alerted Bruce and Alfred that not all was well. Wayne Manor had always been so dreadfully quiet that any sound tended to be noticed, and this cacophony was impossible to ignore. They both set off in the direction of the noise, hoping that some horrible disaster had not befallen their young ward.
Unaware that anyone was looking for him, Dick left the gym and started to explore the nearby rooms. Bruce had passed by most of them on the way to his old bedroom, and Dick couldn’t blame him; the mansion was full of mostly uninteresting and clearly unused rooms. The only sign that anybody occupied the library or the billiards room was the complete lack of dust gathering in them. Alfred clearly stayed busy. Dick left a trail of opened doors behind him as he looked for something to occupy his attention.
He finally found it when he entered a room that looked like it had been stolen from the Gotham Museum. Glass cases held paintings of Gotham Park and Gotham Harbor, and one of a stately couple with a young child - Dick had to assume it was Bruce’s parents, or perhaps even their parents. Far more interesting was a collection of sabres; each with a plaque detailing their history in a different American War. Next to the swords was the only open display case; this one had a number of guns, ranging from military issue muskets from the Civil War to a tommy gun from the Great Depression. But what caught Dick’s eye most was a Colt 1851 Revolver that reportedly belonged to a bounty hunter named Jonah Hex.
While the last Grayson was busy exploring Gotham’s history, Bruce and Alfred had split up to try to find him, with Alfred exploring the west wing and Bruce the east, intending to meet in the middle with Dick in tow. It was Alfred who found him first, and the sight of an eleven year old brandishing a pistol scared the living daylights out of him.
"Young Master Dick, put that down, and be careful!" the butler instructed, fanning his hands in a downward motion to calm the boy down.
"Oh, come off it, Jeeves," Dick snapped, rolling his eyes. "This thing's so ancient it probably wouldn't fire even if it was loaded!"
The preteen did not heed Alfred's warning. Instead, he pointed the gun directly at the man, aiming for his heart and picturing his parents' murderer in Alfred's place. "Man, if Zucco was here right now... blam!"
This sentence was all that Bruce heard as he made his way into a room he hadn’t visited in years, and had nearly forgotten about. The troubling words and the sight of Dick pointing a gun at Alfred put Bruce right on edge; he couldn't bear to imagine someone gunning down the only father he had left.
"Richard Grayson, put that back where it was now, and don't ever touch it again!" Bruce scolded fiercely, his voice automatically going into the deep baritone that he used to intimate the superstitious and cowardly criminals of Gotham.
That was enough to startle Dick back to reality, and he quickly placed the revolver back in its place on the display case. He took a few steps back to try and get away from Bruce, and hid his hands behind his back in shame.
"I'm sorry, Mister Wayne!" Dick assured him in a stutter that reminded Bruce that the boy was still very much a child.
"Not as sorry as you're gonna be," Bruce growled, grabbing the boy's shoulders and pulling him close so that he could lift him up under his arm. Parental instinct that Bruce didn't even know he possessed took over; as soon as his chubby bottom was in view, he started to deliver sharp, forceful smacks. "Guns are not toys, Dick. You could hurt yourself and others!"
"Ow! Ow! But Mister Wayne, it wasn't even - oww! - loaded!" Dick protested meekly between yelps. This argument netted him another trio of slaps that made him squirm and kick helplessly.
"But it could have been!" Bruce stated plainly. "When I make a rule in this house, you obey it, son. You don't argue with me and tell me that you didn't do anything wrong. You don't play with guns. Period. End of story."
Bruce accentuated the finality of those words with four painful swats that brought Dick to tears. His ability to maintain composure was completely undone thanks to the spanking.
"Y-Yes Sir. I'm sorry! I won't do it again, I promise," Dick sobbed. He'd been prone to tears for the last couple of days, and he certainly wasn’t able to hold them in after he was punished. So far, Bruce had barely raised a hand to comfort him, yet he was already more personal in his correction than his parents usually bothered to be.
"I certainly hope not," Bruce sighed, a calm creeping into his voice to expel what was left of his fear and aggravation.
He set the boy down onto his feet in front of him, but did not release his grip entirely. Instead his hands migrated to Dick's shoulders as if to plant him firmly in place like an oak tree. When their eyes met, Bruce's fury dissipated entirely, washed away by the tearful streams decorating the child's face. Clearly, he had put the fear of God into him (or guns, at the very least), and he once again hit with the unsettling sensation of looking into a mirror.
"I'm sorry, Dick," Bruce stated softly. "You frightened me. I came in and saw that gun in your hands and I was worried about you, and about Alfred. If anything happened to either of you, I don’t think I could bear it."
Dick was silent except for a few hiccoughs, and seemed unable to decide between averting Bruce's gaze or meeting it. After a minute of contemplation, he brought his wrist to his eyes to clear away the moisture.
"I'm sorry, Mister Wayne. I got up thinking about finding Zucco and getting my revenge, and didn't think about what I was doing," he explained soberly.
Bruce's features turned as stern and grim as a gargoyle, and Dick wondered if he had said something wrong. Perhaps Bruce thought he was some violent child now, a hopelessly scarred boy who would unleash his wrath upon the world. And maybe he was right to think such a thing; right now, the only thing keeping Dick from absconding with the gun and hunting his parents' killer were the strong, steady hands pinning him down.
"Dick. I know that right now, avenging your parents feels like the solution to your problems," Bruce acknowledged. "But it isn't. First off, you're a boy who doesn't know how to fight, and Zucco wouldn't think twice about taking your life to save his. I won't allow you to put yourself in that kind of danger."
Dick answered with his own menacing scowl. He wasn’t trying to pretend to be happy and appreciative any longer, and the reflection of a young Bruce Wayne was clearer than ever. Bruce's resolve to take him in was now ironclad, but he was also coming to a conclusion that he wasn't sure he was fully comfortable with. Perhaps Dick's road to healing would mirror his own.
"At least, not without training," Bruce amended.
"Master Bruce!" Alfred interjected, though his appalled counter argument was put on hold as soon as Bruce raised a hand to block it.
"More importantly, you need to know that vengeance won't make your parents come back, and it won't fill the hole in your heart," Bruce continued. "If you take a life, it becomes easier and easier to take the next one. It's a slippery slope that takes you down a path where you become a monster like Zucco. I don't want that for you, Dick."
Dick sniffled, and stomped his foot, and pushed Bruce's hands away. He would have ran off, but the attempt was stymied by Bruce's powerful right arm catching him around the waist. This time, he pulled Dick into a deep, smothering hug.
"It's not fair!" Dick wailed. "It's not fair! I'm so angry, and s-sad, and scared. I feel so... so..."
"Helpless," Bruce added. "And alone. Like the world has become a dark shadow that will swallow you whole and never spit you back out again."
Dick stopped struggling, and nodded his head until he could bring it to rest against Bruce's shoulder.
"I know, Dick. But you are not alone. I am here, and I will be whenever you need me. And if I have my way, I'll make sure that you're not helpless, and that the darkness doesn't swallow you. You need a new direction for your life, something to give you purpose and meaning, to make sense out of the senseless violence. And while it will never take the pain away completely, there is a way to help yourself become happy again."
"What's that?" Dick asked, clasping onto Bruce's sweater.
"Helping others," Bruce answered simply. "When the world shows you cruelty, you kill it with kindness and compassion. You help those in need, and protect those that can't protect themselves. It's what has helped me to lead a more normal, well-adjusted life. Well, more well-adjusted than I thought it would be. If you will allow me to teach you, I can show you how to do it yourself."
Dick sighed, sounding much calmer than before.
"I'm sure it's easy to help people when you're a billionaire. I'm just a kid."
"Well, you're a billionaire's kid, Dick. I'm sure you can find something charitable to do with your allowance," Bruce teased, holding the boy tightly and messing up his hair. "And I do more than just provide jobs and adopt children. With enough time and dedication, I think you can help me with my other job."
"Other job?"