Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Agent A, status on Mayor Mitchell?” There’s a gruff voice that’s mostly drowned out beneath the sound of 700 horsepower engine speeding through the foggy night.  The sleek, black vehicle weaves through traffic, chasing down a classic, cherry-red Cadillac.  The sleek, oil-shade car makes a sharp left turn, and starts to catch up somewhat easily to the inferior.

Through the other line, there’s a swift response.  “The camera footage shows that he’s still at the coordinates you’ve located, Master Bruce,” a curt, English accented voice speaks through the comms system.  There’s a weariness in his tone, as there always is when Bruce is out.  “The GCPD is certainly taking their sweet time responding to your anonymous tip…”

The bat rolls his eyes, “As they do…” and a gloved hand pushes in a silver button, as the car maintains its speed of just over 100 mph.  “Likely the Maroni’s, I doubt they’d be short a few bucks if it meant staying out of a prison cell,” he remarks, opening the hatch once the bat-mobile lined up.  He swerves and makes a jump into the vehicle, boot colliding with the tinted windows and smashing them in.  The goons let out a short shout in surprise- as many would when shattered glass is nearly 130 kg of pure muscle crashes through the front window and clocks them in the jaw.

He can’t exactly hear what’s happening on the other side of the call, because he’s pulling the car to a screeching halt, tires grinding against the ground with intense force and tearing up the never-quite-paved-enough street.  The luxury car nearly rolls, but just tips enough to scrape the side-view mirrors before ka-thump-ing back to an upright position. 

Police sirens.  A flash of colours.

That’s the Batman’s signal to get out.  The location is just a block away, he can probably make it on foot.

He shoves the door open and makes a mad dash for the nearby warehouse to the West border of the city. There’s a distinct shout of the commissioner; “Hold your fire!” To some degree, it’s owed to Gordon that the ‘relentless pursuit’ of the vigilante is… well… relenting.

Heavy combat boots slam against the cracked concrete at a rapid pace, and anyone in sight steps back, maybe murmuring about the myth of the Bat. Bruce couldn’t care less about his reputation, not when there’s a borderline gang war between the two most prolific crime-families in Gotham about to break out. He cares about that, because that gets civilians involved, innocent people. And people like Mayor Mitchell, who aligned himself with the Falcone’s, despite wanting to ‘rehabilitate criminals.’

Ha.

When the bat gets to the warehouse’s steel door, he gives a quick check to the tracker. No criminal would put a hostage close to the door. He sticks three squibs’ (bat-shaped, for branding purposes) on the hinges of the door and moves back, using his cape to cover up to his eyes. 

Hiss…. Hisss… hisss… POP! POP! POP!

The door flies open and down in the direction of Bruce, and it’s not even a moment later before he’s rushing inside and ducking to avoid a rapid gunfire.  His costume is mostly bullet-proof, but even that’s imperfect. It’s less risky to not get hit. He sweeps the leg of one, who manages to take down the blinds on his way down, hitting his head simply hard enough to be disoriented and dizzy; and the curtains tangle around his body as he twists.

Bruce pushes forward and finds the mayor with a burlap sack over his head, crouched in a corner uncomfortably. Shit.
Shit!

SHIT!!
He might be too- wait.

A finger twitch. A slight movement of his wrist- colour in his slightly blood-crusted fingertips.

He crouches beside the hostage mayor and starts to tug at his restraints, keeping the head cover on- because that’s not particularly important right now (and if he’s honest, he’s just a little pissed off that he’d even TRY to get in with the Falcones…).  There are more footsteps, and a quick glance around the room reveals no windows, just the door that was busted down.

With his left hand, he tugs the mayor up by his collar- there’s a yelp of protest, and Bruce gives a small shh! hiss in return.  With his right hand, he reaches into the fourth compartment of his utility belt, pulls out three shiny, silver cartridges, and slams them on the ground between himself and the goons; creating a smokescreen and hauling the hostage out.  It’s hard, because he’s halfway between dragging and assisting the victim, who keeps stumbling over his own feet. 

The smoke follows him only a few meters before sticking behind, and there are already cops on the scene, having followed the chase with a small delay. 

Bruce gently shoves the hostage into the arms of Officer Bullock.

“Here.  Mayor Mitchell.  Didn’t see any other hostages,” his answer is gruff, and before the cop can ask questions, Batman stalks away.  The Police Captain is too busy coordinating the apprehending of the criminals to care about Bruce’s departure. 

It’s a few hours later and after an efficient shower, that Bruce sinks down into a crushed velvet loveseat at his abode.  The news plays- the same stories from this morning, give or take a couple- and speaks about the Mayor’s response.  Mostly how scared he was.  Bruce doesn’t doubt it, but a frown crosses over his features.  The Maroni’s probably wouldn’t stop until he was gone.  Resigned, moved away, or otherwise… indisposed.

“It’s like they never learn, Alfred,” he grumbles miserably, trying not to sound petulant as his butler fixes him a plate of the dinner he missed- the third one this week. 

An exhausted hum from the older man.  Not much more. 

Bruce can tell that he’s a little more than a little peeved at how much time Bruce’s nighttime hobby has taken up.  It’s about the reaction anyone would have if the boy they raised began to dress up as a bat and ‘punch mentally ill folk.’  Though there was far more to it than that.

Alfred was, inevitably, lonely.  Wayne Manor was desolate except for the small glimpses of life.  The gardens that Alfred tended to, the clean and somewhat bright ballroom, the hanging plants in the kitchen, the garlic he grew on the kitchen counter, beside the basil, other small herbs, and a small vine of campari tomatoes in the kitchen's windowsill.  

“Oh, I do wish you would take a break from all this stress, Master Bruce…” the older man sighs and brings the plate in front of the master of the household. 

Bruce takes the pot roast with a small murmured ‘thanks.’  “I do have a break,” he argues.  “I’m going to the c-“

“-To the circus, yes, yes… I mean more than just a simple night off, Master Bruce.  More than that aloof persona you put on.  Take up a hobby- a real hobby.  Something you enjoy.  Like, oh….”

“Please don’t say I need to settle down-“

“Just a date? A real one.  A woman who you might see again after meeting her for the first and only time…” Alfred mutters that last part bitterly.  He isn’t terribly old-fashioned, he just believes that hookup culture isn’t healthy for anyone.  Especially not an emotionally unavailable recluse.

Bruce rolls his eyes, “You know I can’t drag any poor woman into this.”

“I also know that I invited Ms. Vale to accompany you to the circus tomorrow night.”

“You- did what??”

“I gave her my ticket.”

“The ticket was for YOU.”

“And now it is for Vicki.” The butler can’t help the victorious smirk that crosses his features.  “Eat up, now.  Big day tomorrow, Master Bruce.”

“Ugh.”

Chapter Text

It was, in fact, a big day.

The day itself wasn’t horrid, though Bruce woke up with an ache in his limbs, and a pounding in his head.  Even though ‘Batman’ has a nearly invincible aura about him, Bruce still had to suffer the consequences of a late night filled with running, and kicking in windows, doors, and pulling a grown man several yards like a gothic quarterback. 

Alfred makes sure that Bruce takes a few Tylenol before doing anything; draws a bath for him, heats the towel, and prepares necessary meals so that his ward doesn’t starve.  Just as he always has done.  Just as he always intends to do.

“It won’t be so bad, Master Bruce,” the butler reassures the young man. 

“Mhm.”

“You’ve gotten along swimmingly with Ms. Vale in the past,” he insists.

“Yep.”

“I mean truly, you should be looking forward to a night off,” he lint rolls the sweater, cleansing it of fluff.

“Sure.”

“…”

“…”

“Do not brush me off!”

“Sorry, Alfred.”

At 7:15, they pick up Vicki.  Post-dinner, because the last thing Bruce had the energy for was idle small-talk, and lame jokes along the lines of ‘get a load of this economy, huh?’ which just came off as tacky and out-of-touch coming from his mouth, being a billionaire and all.  In his defense, Vicki also decided upon the time, since she had work that day and wanted to freshen up.  Phew.

Bruce stands in the living room and tugs down the sleeves of his dark grey, cable-knit sweater.  It’s early September, dipping into the warm, windy days, and chilly nights once the sun lays below the silhouette of the industrial cityscape.  The hair gel is a little tacky along his hairline, still drying, though not visible even to the closest viewer.  If he raises an eyebrow it feels prominent when his forehead crinkles.  *Eugh.*

The sweater, at least, is more comfortable.  It’s been washed, and dried, and scented with an expensive cologne that Alfred saw in a magazine at the supermarket.  The pair migrate quickly outside, and then once more into the Mercedes Benz, the loyal butler in the front, and Bruce in the back, sitting lazily and staring out the window.  Dread builds in his gut, the first second-date he’s been on in a while, if it could be called that. 
“You’re positive that there isn’t some last-minute emergency, or breakdown that could happen within the next ten minutes?” Bruce sighs, resting his elbow on the sleek black interior of the vehicle’s door. 

“Of course I’m positive,” he bristles.  Bruce meets his narrowed eyes in the rear-view mirror before glancing out the window, away.  Despite the eye contact being broken, Alfred continues.  “I cannot believe you… wishing something harmful upon Ms. Vale to get out of a night out with her. Honestly, Master Bruce…” He trails off into a grumble near the end, no doubt questioning the audacity of his billionaire.

“Not harmful,” Bruce is quick to amend.  “Maybe just… she loses an article.  Has to stay home and rewrite it.”  It was, he knew, a selfish thought.  Vicki had been working hard lately, as had he, both struggling with an increased workload due to Gotham’s newest wave of crime in the city.  He stays out to actually fight it off, and her work is cut out for her in reporting; between the penguin, and the bubbling gang war between Falcones and Maronis that was about to break loose, a faint string of murders loosely connected by red thread. 

Alfred tsk’s in a manner that isn’t remotely comforting.

But, as luck would have it, Vicki was available.
“Thank-you for picking me up,” she thanks both the driver and Bruce, whom she awkwardly gives a side-hug- like a cousin that one hasn’t seen in several years.  “I appreciate it.”

To this, Bruce slaps that lovable, charming grin on his face.  “It’s no problem, Vicki,” his voice is smooth as butter, honeyed as if he weren’t practically begging for a flat tire, or something of the sort.  “I’ve been looking forward to tonight.  Work has been so busy lately- oh, I’m sure I’m preaching to the choir.”  As he glances out of his window, the skyline of Gotham’s downtown begins to recede, slowly as the moon shimmers just behind the tall buildings.  There’s a light chill, some civilians walking by with cigarettes or a sweater to keep them warm.  A few bars have their stringed fairy lights decorating a little patio, rooftop and otherwise.  Tangled with some oak and cedar planks to box in the patrons so they don’t wander elsewhere.  Faint romantic music plays- though Bruce has always found Jazz comforting and sweet.

A polite, mutual, stilted laugh between them.

By the time Alfred drops them both off, the lull has risen into a friendly conversation.  Nothing deep, or particularly interesting; all about how its construction season, and so nice to finally have a day off.

“Must be hard being a businessowner,” Vicki responds, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, showing off the silver dangly earring.  Bruce passes her a large bag of popcorn as he hands the concession stand employee a crisp twenty dollar bill- not looking back for the change.

He carries two large sodas in his arms, offering a mostly relaxed smile.  “You’re telling me… I’m seriously considering giving my second-in-command a more integral role,” he considers, because certainly, Lucius Fox is qualified.  “In any case, I’m sure that you’re far busier than I am.  Crime always seems to increase this time of year.  And with the recent sprees and Blackgate breakouts, I guess you’ve been on your toes?” he raises an inquisitive eyebrow and follows close behind the journalist. 

“Boy, have I,” she confirms and steps to the actual circus tent, climbing a few stairs until she reaches the fourth row of seats, and she shuffles into the center section before taking a seat.  Bruce slips in right beside her, placing a drink into a cupholder attached to the seats.  They resemble movie theatre seats, although it’s evident in the connectors between them that they fold up to transport.  After all, the circus travels across the United States this Spring.  “You know,” Vicki started.  “I have been trying to get on the phone with Chief Prosecutor Dent, but even he’s too busy for an interview,” she clicks her tongue with disappointment.  “He’s really trying to nail the Maroni’s with some fraud charges so the cops can dig deeper. But the evidence keeps getting mucky.”

Right, Bruce could roll his eyes.  As if they’d throw their extra income away. As if they aren’t practically hired by the gang to keep them out of important police files, and to keep evidence damaged, destroyed, or otherwise unusable.

But Bruce isn’t supposed to be a skeptic.  “Oh wow.  They’ve been doing bad stuff?” he cocks his head in faux curiosity.

“Long story,” is the response he gets.  The Mafia is intimately known for those who dig, but there’s no surface level evidence as of right now.  And thus, Bruce is ‘oblivious.’

More Gothamites shuffle in, filling the surprisingly stable stands quickly as the speakers are tested and a funky, if slightly crunchy audio, plays through about eight speakers set up.  It’s a catchy, familiar circus theme that likely hasn’t been changed since it’s composition in 1897.  About ninety-five years ago. 

Obviously, as of 1992, the audio quality isn’t fantastic.  Even the most high-quality sound systems sound nowhere near as good as it sounds in real life.  There are speakers set up around the whole tent; thick wire cables that look more like black matte vines meet up and trail behind a flap in another tent, behind a large colourful curtain.  Much like the Wizard of Oz, Bruce could only imagine what sort of setup lay behind the mysterious flap- but alas, a small sign in front of the dusty cover reads: [ELECTRICAL HAZARD- STAY OUT!!!] which just about quells that mystery, he thinks.  It isn’t more advanced than the home theatre’s system that he has set up in the manor. He’s certain of that.  And far less complex than the one in the batcave.

Though.  It’s a good thing that not everyone has the same tech that he does.  He shivers to think of what would happen in the wrong hands.

His eyes catch on movement at the other flap of the tent, where two large men step out and keep their heads ducked.  Jumpsuits reminiscent of a mechanic, though without nametags, adorn their forms as they each hold a metal toolbox and walk swifter than what would be expected.  Bruce can’t get a particularly good look at their faces, though he leans forwards slightly.  One of the men has rough stubble adorning his jaw and chin, grey and black- he seems to be about forty or fifty, somewhere middle-aged based upon the greys and his posture.  The other seems to be younger, his jumpsuit is unbuttoned enough to show off a clean wifebeater beneath the ashy blue shaded uniform.  A pack of Marlboro cigarettes pokes out of his pocket as he walks.  The older’s deep brown eyes shifts to where Bruce is staring in a non-subtle manner, near the front row.  His thick eyebrows furrow as he continues walking, and his lips pull into a frown.  He grabs the younger’s bicep and walks slightly faster. 

Suspicious, Bruce sits up and braces himself to stand before- no.  No, it’s fine.  Show’s going to start soon.  I’m far too paranoid, it’s my night off.  They have security here, officers trained in this sort of thing.  They have to be certified to come in without a ticket.

“I’m excited,” Vicki scoots slightly closer to him in her seat.  Breaking him from his stupor.  “I haven’t been to the circus since I was a little girl, they don’t come through Gotham often, they have better luck in Rural New York or Metropolis,” she speaks to him, her eyes flitting up to his through thick eyelashes, accentuated with mascara that doesn’t seem cheap (though admittedly, he doesn’t know an awful lot about that…).

“I haven’t been since I was a boy, too,” he admits.  Since before my parents…
He gathers himself.  “Though, I’ll have a hard time keeping my eyes on the sights when I have a far better view beside me,” he moves his hand to gently boop her on the nose as she rolls her eyes with a little snort.  It was very corny.  “Sorry,” he apologizes lightly, for laying it on thick.  “You’re just too cute.”

She lays gently against his side.  Just a little.  More cozily than romantic-like.  “Just watch the show, lover-boy,” she teases.  “I’m excited for the headliner act,” her eyes sort of sparkle as the lights dim and the lighting shifts, floodlights highlight the ring, and moving lights begin to dance around the crowd and the ring.  “It’s supposed to height-en your senses.  Whatever that means.”  That was, in fact, what the poster read. 

“Maybe a man on stilts!” Bruce dimly suggests while collecting a small handful of popcorn, his drink placed in the cupholder on the arm-rest.

“…More likely an aerial act,” Vicki gently corrects, “But maybe.”

Unfortunately it was Bruce’s own Achilles’ heel that he seemed to get along best with intelligent women.  Of course, his persona fooled around just about anyone, and the typical women he took up and away with him for the press to see were the sort who wouldn’t ask any questions in the dark, who wouldn’t even think about why his skin wasn’t smooth, and why he had so much callous on this hands.  The sorts of women he would never see again, and who weren’t exactly detectives. The women who never had to be on guard, or watch their backs.

But the sort he really liked, the sort who seemed to dig into his subconscious and take root, were the ones he was attracted to.  The ones with intelligent eyes, who weren’t afraid to call him when he was particularly caught up in business or being an ass.  Or the ones like… like Talia? His mind supplies, causing an almost visceral shudder to go through his body at the memory of her. How she cornered him after he had a particularly rough sparring match with the league, patched him up and… other kind acts to soothe the trainee.  Very kind acts.

He blinks away the thought and offers his date some popcorn, which she takes gratefully. 

“I’m just,” she starts with a little sigh.  “I just feel that my life is dedicated to the city and the news… I’m really, really glad you asked me out,” she looks to him through thick eyelashes, sweetly but not fully unguarded, just relaxed.  “No expectations, just… a night off.”

A night off, he muses.  He tries to reduce the number of times he goes out in a week, but something always finds a way to happen.  And even if he tries to, he can’t sleep at night knowing that there are always people dying.  Every night, there’s a plan, or a robbery, or an assault or murder that he could stop if he would be there.  He can feel his racing heart at night, thinking about people in shelters with nowhere to go by morning; crying children begging for parents that are forced to work night jobs or are off willingly, on a bender or gambling or at a bar… how could he possibly sleep, knowing that there were dozens of children in Gotham who had their worlds torn apart when the two most important people in their young life are ripped away from them. 

The lights dim and the music increases in volume.  The idle chatter of the audience quiets down to a low hush, like a whistle in the trees.  The lights stop roaming around to light up the audience, and instead focus upon a spotlight in the center of the ring, and a large man (in both stature and spirit) emerges from behind a tent flap and gives a deep bow.

“Ladies and Gentleman!  Paying Customers of all ages!” a little giggle from a few of the customers in question.  “Over the last ten months, we have been training rigorously to bring you a show so spectacular, so magnificent, that you’ll need to hold onto your hats,” his voice rises as he speaks, higher and higher, his large top hat threatening to tip off the back of his head, and even his bushy moustache can’t hide his lip as he speaks louder, and more excited.  “Lest they’ll be BLOWN AWAY!” he jumps surprisingly high for how objectively out-of-shape he appears, and when his feet touch down, four flames shoot up about six feet in  large gust, and indeed, a few hats fly off of some people’s heads.  Some audience members scramble to grab them, Vicki catches a Gotham Knights baseball cap and leans forwards to hand it to the small child in front of her with a smile.  The owner of the hat.

“Here you go, sweetheart,” she practically coos.

The little girl giggles, “Thank-you, Miss!”

Ah, see?  That’s why we could never work.  She wants children.  I notoriously don’t.  It would be cruel, anyways, if I never came home one night.  It would be hard enough on Alfred, but a child and wife?  I’m not so selfish. He reminds himself.  Not that he needed the reminder.  He’s not one to crave domestic bliss.  (…definitely not.). Certainly, it would be out of character, a definite flaw in his identity.  Something that one of the myriad of opponents could exploit.

After a slight bristle in the crowd as everyone settles, Bruce brings his hands together in applause for the introduction, followed by the rest of the audience.  The ringmaster bows thankfully in his red coat, which looks almost reminiscent of the British army uniform during the American revolution in the 1700’s.  “For our first act,” he projects his voice loudly when the applause begins to first wane after the initial burst.  “A man of the night- oh, not like that,” he scoffs, obviously miswording the speech on purpose for slight shock for parents and adults.  It gets a few giggles.  “A man who lurks the street at night, moving as quietly as the wind that gusts through the city streets… who slinks around the shadows and slithers as a snake in the grass.  With electricity in his fingertips and fire in his palms, who trained under ancient sorcerers across the globe, introducing! The Magical, Marvelous Mr. Midnight!”

In a puff of smoke that plumes out at the bottom, the Ringmaster is replaced by a man in regal purple, a cloak that drapes from his lean shoulders like a steep waterfall, pinned together at his chest with a slightly abrasive ruby broach.  It’s chunky and tacky in a way that just… somehow works for him.  Perhaps most mysteriously, the tophat atop the magicians head is the very same as the one on the ringmaster.  Bruce can smell the ignition and salt of the smoke-bomb, similar to that of which he uses, in the beta testing days.  Before he realized that he should use a bit more sodium bicarbonate to quicken the effect and scent. 
The smoke-bomb is a classic touch. 

The crowd erupts in applause, “That was incredible!”” Vicki claps along with the crowd and leans up to speak into Bruce’s ear.  “The transition was so smooth- so fast!  It was just like-“

“Like magic?” Bruce teases the reporter, slowing the speed of his applause.

“…Yes.”

“I wonder why,” a gentle shoulder nudge, playful, light.

The caricature of a magician wanders the grounds, eyebrows raising as he scopes out the place.  “I”, he starts loudly.  “am Midnight…” it’s corny.  Ohhhh god, it’s corny.  But it isn’t for analysts or critics.  It’s not cirque du soleil, it’s Haley’s Travelling Circus.  And how the audience oooh’s at the introduction, the fun comes from losing oneself in the entertainment.  “And you are in for a treat.”  His accent is faintly Austrian, and he’s clean-shaven as to accentuate his facial features. His almost elasticey, long face with angular cheekbones and sharp jawline. 

He starts off his section with a levitation trick, involving a translucent string and a pencil- he balances his gold wedding band on a pencil and it move slowly down, before it stills and moves up the pencil, twirling around the eraser (since it was upside down), and it spins off and away.  The pencil didn’t move, and had Bruce not been aware of this trick prior to this, it might’ve stumped him.  …For A few minutes.  The thumb of the magician moved slightly, and Bruce was staring. 
As a kid, Bruce loved magic tricks.  His parents would buy him books on simple tricks, and kits for him to delight in using.  It wasn’t the performance of these that truly ensnared him- but the feeling of being let in on a secret that hardly anyone else knew.  Despite not having a terribly large group of friends, his father was friends with a magician named Zatara.  His daughter, Zatanna shared a passion with Bruce, and showed him a few things.  Mostly simple coin tricks, or disappearing with smoke and mirrors.  Even one of levitation, which was really just standing on one foot and keeping the weight distribution just so… an illusionist trick more than anything.  Even now, Bruce occasionally kept up with Penn and Teller.

This trick gets a round of applause, before he gulps in an overly exaggerated manner- like a cartoon character realizing that they aren’t on solid ground- and tugs at his collar.  A handkerchief sticks out of his breast pocket and he brings it to his face, blowing his nose and flapping the piece of fabric once, before showing off the shiny band on his left hand, atop his white gloves.  Another round of cheering. 

“He’s good,” Vicki whispers to him.

“I thought I saw him throw that ring…” Bruce remarks- despite how it was quite obviously a duplicate ring rucked away in his sleeve or glove.  He doesn’t quite know the details of the quick change, but it’s nonetheless evident that it happened. 

…Maybe not to the civilians in the crowd- which is sort of the point.  He feels himself getting sucked into the energy, rather than the loud whispers of his mind that nitpick each trick and slight-of-hand. 

He does a few more tricks of the sort, with an air of comedic timing that only adds to the mystique.  A bunny that gets lost in the hat and a few doves fly out instead; which is a trick in misdirection and is easier to pull off, due to surprise.  The bunny had likely been placed elsewhere, and not in the hat.  There’s another trick of his, and he starts a small fire in his hands, flicking his wrists, it spreads around the ring in a circle rather quickly, in a WOOOOSH!

The revving of several engines can be heard, before several motorcycle riders on bikes come out, quickly, with heavy-looking buckets of water at their sides, and they begin pouring the water onto the flames- causing smoke to replace the fire and engulf the ring, and a few clowns pull a large fan and blow a majority of the smoke away for the safety of the crowd.  The bikers ride around in circles again, and again- and one swoops up the magician onto the back of her bike, before the dozen bikes slow to a stop and the magician stands, producing a bouquet of roses from his sleeve and hand it to Bruce with a smile and a flourish. 

“For you, Mister Wayne!” the magician grins.  The spotlight moves into the crowd to shine a light on Bruce, famous Gotham philanthropist for most arts and humanities funding in Gotham City- in all of New Jersey, really. 

“Oh!” he takes the bouquet.  “Thank-you!” and he waves jovially as people clap respectfully, cheering for either him or the trick, since the bouquet was far too large to fit into such a small sleeve. The spotlight stays on Bruce for a few seconds too long, as the ringmaster chimes in to thank Bruce for his generous contribution to the arts (and for donating to Haley’s circus by paying far too much for a ticket).  Bruce looks to Vicki when the light moves, and offers the bouquet once the Harley Davidson rides off again. 
She takes them and places them on her lap.

By the time all of the smoke has cleared, there’s a few ramps along the large ring, and the magician was gone from sight. The first motorcycle accelerates and jumps off the ramp, leading to a round of applause.  The other flip across the ramps- one after another, going further and further than the last.  If one stands, the next handstands on the bike.  When there’s a handstand the next does a flip.  It goes on for a while, bikes flipping and zooming around quickly.  Dust and sand is disturbed and creates a sort of smokescreen effect in the ring, hardly even settling before the next trick, and the next, to the point in which it cannot be possible for the drivers to tell where they’re about to land.  Nonetheless, they do land properly, and each time is just as much a relief as the last.

By the time they ride off, the dust only settles when their engines die down.

“And at last!” the ringmaster emerges from the back flaps of the tent, after a moment of rest and likely a honeyed tea from the sounds of his voice, “Our headliner act!

“Hailing from the sky, bound by no human limits unlike you and me,” The man announces, “from no mountain, nor valley…” a low rumble in his throat- and the sound system goes into a lower treble and bass, it rumbles the amplifiers, a little. “Nor cave, or pond; not anything we mere mortals could comprehend.  Some say this family would soar, high in the sky!  When a poacher clipped their wings!  So now, they grace Haley’s circus with their act, showing off their contortions!   Their aerobics!  Their… flight.  Good friends of the show!  Introducing, the Flying Graysons!” the lights go up and a small nuclear family is atop two tall poles, little ledges on either of them.  They wave- the audience applauses.  The youngest of the three; a boy who looks just shy of prepubescence looks like he belongs up there. They lock eyes; but Bruce knows that technique of looking somewhere in the audience.  Even the most practiced performer needs somewhere to put his eyes.  The kid can’t see him.  “AND, they will be preforming their death-defying flight without the safety of a net!”   A collective gasp.  Vicki grasps Bruce’s arm just below his bicep.

And the music shifts.  Something whimsical, something light.  Flutes begin to cut through the silence.  The detective’s mind flits to the worst- but it always does.  It’s a character flaw for Bruce, even though its his intuition that saves him, most days.

 The woman steps off of the platform with an arm raised- catching onto the handlebar and winging to the middle, her husband pushing the other bar towards her in time for her to catch, swinging off onto the other bar.  The crowd cheers and her arms are steady, as if she’s done this a thousand times before.  Her hair is pinned away from her face with little pink bobbypins, though her hair blows with the breeze created with her movement in an almost transfixing manner.  Soft curls layer across her toned shoulders as she swings, from one to the other, gaining momentum.  She turns upside down and holds the position, legs and feet pointed straight up.  She seems to preen under the gasps and applause.   

The three are all dressed in matching colours; red, yellow, and green tights, like production of Peter Pan.  Though the youngest member doesn’t exactly look like a lost boy, he looks like he belongs right there.  He stands perfectly still, as if waiting in line, knowing that he isn’t the focus of the show right now.  His mother gains momentum back and forth, before the older man- his father, takes the other bar and steps off the platform just as his mother steps onto hers.  His hands catch the bar and he does a few tricks, orienting himself and twisting almost impossibly; doing a quick flip before the backs of his knees catch onto the other bar.  The audience roars with applause.  He stays like that for a while, before reaching one hand to the bar and stretching, hanging upside down between to bars, a hand on one, his other on the other- a leg hooked around each.  Hanging upside down as if it were a comfortable bed beneath him, and not forty feet in the air. 

Damn it, that sinking pit in Bruce’s gut is still there.  He’s swept away by the show, but he can hardly focus on anything other than the thickness in his throat and the churning in his gut.  The show is fantastic.  It’s nerve-clenching and beautiful; everything it should be.  Everyone else is happy, everyone else can get over the danger- even with bated breath, nobody can take their eyes off of the colourful pops of human wonder as the acrobats twist and turn in the air, jumping, tricking, flipping. 
His heart lurches with each one, but his nearly trembling hands reach out to hold Vicki’s.  Intertwining their fingers together like lace.

The man disconnects from one bar and his wife takes it and begins to swing as well, each on their own bar.  They do individual tricks, meeting in the middle for a kiss about five times in a row.  The woman steps up onto the bar, her steady feet where her hands once held on, and swung back and forth.  There’s a look of utter trust on their features, devotion to their craft and each other- their family.  They almost look like one of the families on a Christmas card, or maybe a commercial.  The son has a perfect mix of his father and mother; nearly fifty/fifty.  Soft curls like his mom, though not as tight as hers, his face looks like his dad’s from this angle, a similar nose and jawline. 

The woman lets go of her bar and flips, her husband catching her ankles with his hands since he’s upside down.  They maneuver together like a well-oiled machine, moving as a singular unit as opposed to two people.  He crunches his abs and helps flip her up onto the other bar, as she grasps on successfully.  People cheer; because certainly the man is lean, but he cannot possibly be light, and she seems to hold on without much strife at all.  Bruce cheers, himself.  It is impressive.  She uses just one hand as she blows kisses to the circular crowd around the tent, her husband strikes a one-handed pose, still holding onto her ankles.  But they balance the weight, as if telepathically letting each other know which side they should each distribute weight upon.  Through the cheers, there’s a faint creak that Bruce is certain he can hear.  It’s quiet and he can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from beyond up, but his gaze flits up quickly. 

Nobody even hesitates.  Nobody else acknowledges the sound, and he doubts if the performers heard it at all.  They’re professionals, he reminds himself.  The show doesn’t even slow, as the pair twist and turn together, gaining momentum quicker and quicker.  Back and forth, going up higher and higher, and they swap positions again so that the man is carrying her, his legs hanging from the rod.  The young boy shifts from one leg to the other, standing at the edge.   They sway higher, curving their spines and posture to arch upwards. 
The bar raises higher with each swing, and the woman reaches out, stretching far to reach her son, arms outstretched- just barely reaching his feet; still swinging upwards before

SNAP!

The rope tears in two.

 This isn’t part of the act- how could it be?  Not when two thirds of the act are screaming helplessly- not when they’re falling down, down down several feet, all too quick and slow at once.  He’s frozen to his seat- and it’s all too quiet even beyond the rushing of blood through his ear, to not hear the sickening thud and crunch when they each fall onto the dirt.

And it falls deadly silent.  Until the boy screams.  Horror, terror.  Complete and utter misery as he looks down, eyes locked on his parents’ motionless bodies.  It was over quickly, at the very least.

And the child screams.

He screams, because what else is there to do?  The breath was stolen from his lungs the very moment that it happened, and when he got his voice back, it was everything he had.  He doubles over and sobs loud, pained as some workers begin to usher out customers. 

Vicki tugs on Bruce’s jacket and he shakes his head.  “Go,” he whispers.  “I’ll stay.”

He doesn’t look over, and he can’t feel her absence, but he knows she’s out of her seat and gone.  Even if she didn’t, he wouldn’t care.  He wouldn’t be aware.  He’s zeroed in on the boy staring down, straight down, at the mass of broken bones and tangled limbs; something he should never have seen.  Crimson stains the dirt in thick pools around the couple.

A sharp gunshot.  Then another.

His mother’s string of pristine pearls snaps, and the precious necklace comes apart, each porcelain bulb splitting from the string.  Bruce didn’t know it at the time, but the necklace was a fake.  Real pearl jewelry had each pearl secured with a knot at each side.  She wore the fake so that she and her family wouldn’t be targeted.  Unfortunately, many criminals couldn’t be bothered to check the difference. 

There were two bodies on the ground, and the criminal hesitates- his hand shakes as he aims the firearm at the small boy, who’s trembling and crying- eyes so watery that he can’t even see the hooded man’s features.  He can’t place if that’s a moustache or a shadow, if his eyes have really big pupils or really small irises, a sharp jawline or if his double chin recedes into his hood.  The crook hesitates before snagging a wallet  and a small handful of pearls, rushing out of the alley and taking a sharp turn. 

The boy falls to his knees and his hands are on his dad’s chest, pushing and pawing at him as if to rouse the man, before he scrambles to hold his mom’s hand.  There’s no rain and no wind, just a stale, stagnant air that he can’t even feel, nothing to remind him that he’s alive except for the pounding of his heart against his ribcage and the twisting in his lungs, which seem to constrict hard and the air doesn’t even want t move, even as his diaphragm rises and falls in rapid succession, forcing airflow anyhow.  As if the sympathetic nervous system decided that breathing was necessary, even through this.

It takes a few minutes before anyone arrives, the police are called quickly, although it feels like a choking purgatory, like the feel of being held underwater and pulled up right before you lose consciousness.  It feels like your organs are jumped and scrambled up, like your stomach is where your esophagus should be, that your kidneys have taken the place of your lungs and the lungs have shrunk about two thirds their typical size.  His hands are coated in blood but they feel too numb and shaky for him to even register the crimson.

When the police arrive, Alfred is with them.  Their butler that was on the brink of an early retirement at his ambiguous early middle-age.  They lock eyes for a moment, and the look of sympathy was almost worse than the initial shot; but the Englishman had a stiff upper lip, and he would never cry in front of Bruce, even if his employers- his friends, his surrogate, financially incentivised family laid dead on the floor of a shitty alley in a shitty part of Gotham. 

He meets the boys’ watery blue eyes, rimmed with tears.

There’s an orphan.

There’s a child.

Alfred knows he can’t be a bystander anymore.

Bruce looks up to the boy, who takes his eyes off the scene just long enough to meet Bruce’s own, and the lights are down enough for him to actually see. 

Firefighters begin to help him down, and he doesn’t have the wherewithal to do anything except follow instructions.  The Commissioner draped his jacket atop the boy and wraps an arm around his shoulder, leading him to sit. 

The boy looks to the floor, his fingers wrapping delicately around the jacket as he half-listens to the breathing instructions of Jim. 

He doesn’t meet his eyes for the rest of the night.

But there’s an orphan.

There’s a child.

Bruce knows that he cannot be a bystander anymore.

Chapter Text

As it turns out, the GCPD would rather have a child under the roof of a billionaire than in the foster care system, or with the police. 

Bruce met the commissioner at the station in downtown Gotham; aptly named precinct number one.  He came as himself, and with all the gentleness the situation required. He sat and answered questions from a psychologist they phoned in, answering carefully and half-honestly.  His reputation wasn’t exactly one of being responsible but he managed to sneak through.

“Have you ever looked after a child before?”
“Not in this capacity, no… but I’ve visited orphanages before, and my butler raised me after my parents passed.  He would never allow me to do anything irresponsible with a child in my care.”

“I don’t think I need to ask about your financial status.  But why, exactly, do you want to take him in?  Even if temporarily, what makes this kid more special than the other hundreds of orphans in the city?”
“Because… I saw when his parents went. I couldn’t just let him be whisked away and put in a strange place all alone.  I just want to help however I can, and if that means giving him a place to stay until we can find the rest of his family, then that’s what I’ll do.  If I could take in every orphan in the city, I would.  But… I can’t. And this case was very close to my heart.”

A few more questions involving how Bruce deals with stress, what he plans to do with work (double-checking that he won’t just abandon this child in his house), and then signing a verbal contract that he won’t, in fact, kidnap this child and will give him back to any family of his that they find if they prove to be mentally well enough and willing to take care of him.

Bruce meets the kid at the precinct, after Officer Jones returns from the circus with a suitcase full of all of the child’s belongings.  In two little suitcases, everything he has left in the world.  They don’t give him his parents’ belongings yet, since those are all considered evidence as of right now, and must be investigated since foul play is more than likely. 
“I’d like to offer my place, for somewhere to stay.  It’s a big house, and I have a butler who used to be a world class chef,” it doesn’t come across as a brag, or even like he’s trying to impress the eight-year-old.  Moreso, just… I’m sorry.  As if Bruce’s willingness to take him in were a small consolation prize.  “Of course, you don’t have to.  But I figured it’ll be better than staying in a foster home or a police station.”

The kid has tired, bloodshot eyes.  He’s just stopped crying now, but there’s a plastic water bottle in his hands, Poland Spring, and it’s half sipped.  There’s a heavy trauma-blanket over his shoulders and he’s hunched in on himself.  He hasn’t left the officers side.  He’s still in his dazzlingly bright costume, red and green and yellow, though it only succeeds in making him look small, like a frail birdie with a broken wing.  He’d got that exhausted look in his eyes that still shine with immeasurable grief that the words don’t quite reach.  The officer is gentle when speaking to the boy and explaining it, in slight juvenile terms; “Mr. Wayne is a nice man, it’ll be like staying at a sleepover but you get different rooms.  Just until we can find someone closer to your family,” he explains.  “Though it’s your choice.  If you don’t feel comfortable for any reason with it then tell us, we can fix it.”

Instead of whispering in the officer’s ear or hiding shyly behind his legs, he just shakes his little head. “I’ll stay,” he shifts his weight between each foot, as if trying to move but his feet are made from dense concrete. 

And that was that.

After a long car ride home, and a more tedious tour of the disgustingly abundant manor, and an impossibly long silence where Bruce searched for just what to say:  Alfred ended up taking on most of the comforting.  After all, it was his second go-around at this.  His tasks self-imposed upon him included: preparing a room, showing Dick to his room, making a small serving of dinner, some of his beloved hot chocolate, discovering that the young boy wouldn’t eat, giving the boy some potato chips with reluctance, watching in horror and only slight relief as he crunches the greasy snack, and cleaning up the crumbs.  Bruce overheard bedtime- Alfred telling Dick that despite the circumstances, he was very welcome in the manor and everything in it was available to him, since he’d be a guest of honour.

While it wasn’t exactly true due to the large, cavernous, OFF-LIMITS abode in the basement, it was a nice sentiment.  As Bruce searched for what to say, the silence eroded the window of opportunity to grow closer, the distance between them is now like a canyon.  …Perhaps that’s better, Bruce decides.  The less he knows, the safer he is.  My job is to be a host until they find an aunt or uncle or grandparent or… something.  Literally anything is better than me of all men.
…Alright, a pervert would be worse.  And so would a narcissist.

So would a psychopath.

So would a murderer.

Much the same to a hypothetical human trafficker.

Bruce decides to stop thinking about it before he realizes that a business major would be a better suit for the child than he is. 

In the morning, the child is awake and at the kitchen table, unsure of what, exactly, there is to admire in this barren space. 
“Master Bruce,” he remembers Alfred telling him, “You really ought to furnish the place… how on earth will you manage to impress a potential lover or platonic company under these dreary drapes?”

The billionaire cringes.  His response had been, “I suppose I’ll just never have company.”  Bad. Plan.

“…” he came up with something to say last night, around one in the morning while he was hunched over the overworked keys of the work-in-project computer he was setting up in the Batcave, working on a case with some… unknown zodiac killer wannabe.  Except instead of zodiac symbolism, the criminal just used question marks.  They left riddles around, which were sort of fun, if not annoying with how frequent they became. 

“…Did you sleep well?” the man asks, feeling suddenly as though his voice, forcefully softened, was too abrasive.

The boy shifts.  “I s’pose,” there’s only so well that a kid can sleep after seeing his parents pass. 

That’s an okay enough answer.  It was a dumb question anyways, Bruce didn’t sleep for weeks after his own incident- and what reason would Dick have for being honest with a literal stranger who’s never said more than a sentence to him?
“I’m glad the chips didn’t keep you up,” he lightly responds.

“I like chips,” Dick answers. 

“Me too.” Bruce reaches for the metaphorical olive branch.  “Do you like anything other than potato chips?”

“…Not particularly,” the young kid admits, though it’s in that childish manner where it most certainly isn’t true.  Like lying to a babysitter.

The vigilante raises his eyebrows.  “Goodness.  I suppose I’ll have to invest in more, then…” he hums in consideration. “Do you think we could transition you into something like tostadas?  They’re crunchy,” he suggests, faux-fretting.

The child thinks for a long, pregnant moment.  Bruce isn’t sure he knows what a tostada is.  “Maybe.  I also like pancakes.  They aren’t crunchy.”

Good enough for him!  That’s a whole conversation under the belt.

The days after that had been filled with much of the same.  Small sentences and little answers that hadn’t ranged very far yet.  Their topics of conversation had reached such groundbreaking subjects as: potato chips, black pants, the depressing lack of furnishing, and how much Dick admired the chandeliers.

Not boring, exactly.  No, quite the opposite. Alfred insists upon the talks- upon letting him come to Bruce like an alley-cat, almost, and while Dick seems to want to talk more, it’s like pulling teeth to get a response that’s longer than a breath.  Still, there’s no point in pushing.  Bruce remembers how utterly helpless he was as a youth, snapping at Alfred as if his parent’s murder were his fault, refusing to eat and sleep, and hiding in dark small spaces.  Despite how he was petrified of the dark at that age.

“Take a walk in the garden,” the butler greets Bruce before good-morning.  He’s scrubbing a few dishes, breakfast had clearly been made already. 

The other’s eyebrows furrow.  “…Hello to you too?”

“Don’t give me that now, Master Bruce.  You never greet me.  He’s in the garden, go gather him while I make breakfast.”

The man doesn’t need more than that.  He’s a grown man and still getting scolded, it was best to cut his losses.  He strides in his black trousers easily, his long legs carrying him quickly through the kitchen and down the stairs of the patio out to the lush, green grass of the estate, as the floral scent of Alfred’s greatest pride fills his nose.  They’re just finished blooming in the early September, it was a warm season so far in the autumn, warm winds from the Atlantic blowing into New Jersey.

After walking by the dahlias, hydrangeas, marigolds and snapdragons, the rose bushes and daffodils… the crisp air makes the flowers shudder, but they stand proud, regardless.  When Bruce finds him, the child is on one of the old stone statues that littered along the sides of the garden.  He’s on a lion, it’s supposed to represent bravery and staying courageous, it was commissioned by Thomas Wayne, Bruce’s father.  Bruce just thinks it looks neat.

“Be careful,” The man frets at the child.  Please don’t fall, he watches the acrobat stand on one leg atop the mostly flat head of the stone animal. 

The child hardly acknowledges him.  “I will be,” he leans over the edge and looks straight down.  He doesn’t seem even a little afraid. 

It's clear that Bruce won’t get much attention from him.  He’s too busy looking at the vast scenery- which, to be fair, is gawk-worthy.  But Bruce moves to a statue beside it: another commission, this time, it’s a horse.  It’s a struggle to climb onto it, but Bruce is a fellow climber.  Between the steep, sharp mountains of Nanda Parbat, the dusty winds strong enough to knock a grown man off his feet, and the upper body strength actually required to grapple onto rooftops and pull himself up, the many-creviced horse is not an issue whatsoever.  The kid does glance over, a twinge of surprise because Bruce is agile for a man as bulky as he is.  But it seems, it is not noteworthy enough to comment on.

“Nice view?” Bruce pesters.

“Yes,” he acknowledges, because from the gardens, you could see the Atlantic Ocean beyond the outskirts of Gotham, right on the New Jersey coast.  The sun was half-risen, already starting to slow its journey to the center of the sky at this time of year.  Despite what people from the Midwest and Coast city said, Gotham could be very pretty.  It just… mostly isn’t.  But it’s better than Blüdhaven, thus, a win is a win.

The purple and orange reflects in the young boy’s eyes as he stares far out.  The clouds surround the sky with loops and curls.  Like wispy cotton candy and soft served swirls- maybe Bruce was a little hungry- so soft that it gave the man a childish wish to feel it.  Though he knows it’s merely humidity and precipitation less dense than the air around it.  It would just feel wet.  Not pleasant.

The older man swallows back the thick bile that rises upon seeing him so distraught, so much heartbreaking vulnerability written in his eyes.  “You know,” he starts, trying his best to sound stronger than he was.  Even if it was over a decade ago, even if it had been a whole twelve years since the twenty-one year old had lost his parents, the grief never really went away.  Or maybe he had never processed it correctly.  It was always the quiet moments that it struck him.  The moments where he thinks maybe he’s alright, his mind has to prove him wrong.  “I lost my parents… when I was your age,” it comes out quietly, steady but no less heartfelt.  He feels that hollow, numb part of his chest begin to ache again, nearly as bad as the time he suffered getting a clay brick thrown at his chest.

The acrobat is quiet, merely shifting on his stone.  “I’m sorry,” he apologizes, not in apology but rather in acknowledgement.  “I didn’t know that.” Hell, it’s not like he asked Bruce about his parents.  It’s not like the kid wanted anything to do with any reminders of parents at the moment, he probably wouldn’t for a few months- years, even.  “That sucks.”

What. An. Understatement.

“It never stops sucking,” Bruce answers far too honestly.  He winces at the kid sniffling, hunching a little in misery.  You dumb shit, Bruce.  “I mean-“ he stammers in attempt to amend his words.  “It gets easier, but you always miss them.  The loss never stops, but you- you learn to live with it.  To honour them in your actions and your words.  With who you’ll grow up to be.”

He doesn’t stop his miserable little curling in on himself. 

“I want to be here for you,” the older man sighs, his mind lingers too long on when you grow up because god dammnit.  This child will grow up.  He promises. He has to.  “In any way that I can.  Even if your stay with me is… short,” Bruce accepts.  “I promise, I understand what it’s like to be orphaned.  Especially when it happens right in front of you.  If you need a psychiatrist, or… or ice cream or something,” as if the two were equivalent.  “I can provide that.  Or if you want to speak to someone who can listen, I promise that I don’t usually talk this much.”

“…Thank-you.”

And Dick meant that.

“…What do you mean he needs to go to school?” Bruce asks Alfred a few days later, drinking his coffee in the kitchen.  Dick, the he in question, sits on the counter, much to Afred’s chagrin, kicking his feet as he eats a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for breakfast.  Again, much to Alfred’s reluctance.  “I had tutors and I turned out just fun.”

Dick nods in agreement while the butler nearly cracks the fancy dining plate he was washing.  His eye twitches and he turns away.  “Master Bruce.”

Bruce realizes that he dresses up as a giant Bat three nights a week.  “…Point taken,” he takes another sip, if just to keep himself from grumbling rudely. 

“I haven’t been inside a school… house before.”  The boy chimes in.  “I would be okay with tutors.”

That doesn’t assure the billionaire, or Alfred.
“My point seems to have been only strengthened.  Master Dick,” although he’s just a temporary guest, the title comes easily to the orphan.  “You need social interaction with children your own age.  It’s healthy.”

He considers.  “It would be kinda cool,” he admits.  “Like the Breakfast Club.”

“Yes,” Bruce answers, at the very same time-

“NO,” Alfred corrects.  “You won’t be in high-school for another few years, and in any case, you’d best not get detention.”

“Rats,” the kid murmurs. 

“I’ll look into nearby schools,” Bruce amends.