Chapter Text
The Flying Graysons fell.
Dick Grayson’s feet and knees were glistening with his parents' blood; it crusted into his fingernails and palms and turned the bright red, yellow, and green of his family black. Dick Grayson had clawed and fought and screamed for Bruce Wayne to let him go. To be let out of Bruce’s arms, to be with his parents' mangled bodies lying under the frayed ropes. Dick Grayson had bit and scratched and begged in broken English to see his parents but Bruce held Dick’s small head against his collarbone knowing the damage was done.
Dick cried so hard he gave up his fight and slumped into the arms holding him up.
Gordon had the bodies covered and the boy was picked up by a paramedic and taken outside the striped tent. Sirens, screams, tears, chatter and silence blared into Bruce’s skull the second the boy was taken from his arms. Gordon had helped him up and taken him outside.
“Gunna need another suit Mr. Wayne.” the commissioner had said. He was trying to get Bruce talking. Bruce looked down and saw patches of red. Patches of blood from the Grayson boy’s hands stained onto his crisp white dress shirt. Bruce did up his jacket.
He walked past an ambulance, walked past two covered trolleys.
He passed a police car. GCPD written across the side in bold. Inside there was a child wrapped in a silver blanket, staring forward- unseeing. Bruce stopped when they reached the car, he moved as if to hold the boy’s hand (the one that was gripping his small bony knees, white knuckled and bloody.)
Alfred had driven Bruce home only to turn around and go back for the boy. To find him at the GCPD and to keep him safe.
Bruce spent the next three weeks in his own fight for Richard John Grayson, desperately trying to get him out of whatever wildly unfit system Dick had been discarded into. Bruce got his way, he was momentarily glad that Gotham’s care system was so willing to be bribed. By the end of that same month he had brought home the last flying Grayson.
Accompanied by a black bin bag with the last of his belongings Dick Grayson had stepped foot into Wayne Manor. Had been shown to his room. Had cried and cried and cried.
. · *
Dick was angry and scared and lonely and grieving and energetic and loud, bright and… and small. So, so small. Bruce Wayne hadn’t properly noticed how small Dick Grayson was until the boy was curled up, back against Bruce’s chest and his little fist completely enclosed inside Bruce’s calloused hand.
Bruce had woken up to the sound of small feet against the cold wooden floors outside his room. The little footsteps stopped outside the door and through the crack between the door and the bedroom carpet Bruce could see a shadow. Bruce counted- Dick stood there for two minutes.
“Chum?” Bruce said softly to the shut door.
The shadow didn’t move.
Bruce got out of bed. He padded over to the door and stood in front of it, hand hovering over the doorknob.
“Dick?” He tried again.
He opened the door and saw his ward wrapped in a quilt, griping a stuffed toy elephant. His dark hair was sticking up on one side of his head and there were little fluffy curls laying against his forehead. The kind of fluff that chicks have.
Bruce knelt down to Dick’s level. He mumbled something to Bruce. “What was that chum?” Bruce asked. Still quiet and gentle.
“Can I stay?” Dick said a bit louder. “With you. Tonight.” He didn’t look at Bruce. “Please?”
“Dickie,” Bruce was so aware of the rise of the boys shoulders as he inhaled, the way one leg of his pyjama bottoms was scrunched up to his knee, the threadbare ear of the elephant from being chewed and the kind of tired and lost that had worked its way into Dick’s body that shouldn’t look normal on someone so tiny. “You can stay.” Bruce said extending an arm, “you don’t need to ask chum, the door is always open.” Bruce put his hand over one of Dick’s.
Dick Grayson flung himself at Bruce, his arms not reaching around Bruce’s torso.
He was picked up and held in the same way he had been months ago. This time it was gentle, no clawing or yelling, just little hands tracing shapes onto arms keeping him safe. No quiet from shock, but quiet from much needed sleep. Little breaths and small feet moving back and forth against the bedsheets reminding Bruce he wasn’t alone. He hoped that the dull hum of his heart on his wards back was doing the same for him.