Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night Dick’s parents are killed, Bruce Wayne is in the audience. Dick has words still ringing in his mind - protection money, a low growl - but he swings through the air and tries to forget, like his parents said to. He poses for a photo with a little kid, smile crooked, and does a quadruple backflip that has the kid beaming. He watches as his parents take flight.

He watches as the high wire snaps.

He watches as they fall.

He watches as they land on the parents of the little boy.

He stands, still, shocked, frozen, as the screaming starts.

Bruce Wayne is talking to some officers. Dick is sitting on the street, next to Timmy.

“Mama an’ Papa gone?” Tim says, and his eyes are round, his fingers pulling at Dick’s sleeve.

Dick reaches over, ruffles his hair. “Yeah, Timmy. Mine too.”

“When see them again?”

Dick swallows. His heart aches, twists. The tips of his fingers feel numb. “We won’t be able to see them again. Not for a long time.”

Timmy frowns. His lower lip trembles, precarious, and Dick leans forward, mouth working before he’s got time to catch up with it, words falling out of his mouth: “Do you want to see me do a quadruple back flip, again? When you’re older, I can teach it to you.”

Timmy rubs at his eyes, then nods. When Dick starts to stand, Tim clutches at the edges of his shirt, unwilling to let go, so Dick sits back down, again. The ground is cold under him.

“Maybe later,” Dick says. “Do you want to hear a story?” It’s easier, focusing on Timmy. He can almost ignore the storm brewing in his gut, the glass shards in his throat.

Tim nods. “Stowy.”

“Once upon a time…” And now Dick’s thinking of his Mom, and his chest is aching, and he can see that terrible snap in his mind, and it’s hard to breathe.

“Stowy?” Tim says, poking a finger into Dick’s cheek.

Dick drags in a breath. “Once upon a time, there was a little bear, and he lived in a forest. And one day, the little bear went to the river, and -”

He looks up. Bruce Wayne is there.

Tim pokes his cheek again.

“Mr Wayne,” Dick says, standing. “I’m - I’m Dick Grayson. That’s Tim Drake,” Dick says. “He's three.”

Tim clutches at Dick's shirt.

Bruce Wayne sighs. “Alright,” he says. “Let’s go home.”

“Home?” Dick says.

“I’ve been appointed your guardian. You’ll be my wards.” Bruce hesitates, for a moment, before continuing. “I’ll work out what happened, today, so don’t worry about it.”

Don’t worry about it? Dick bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from scowling. They’re his parents who died, who were murdered. His.

Bruce is still talking. “- know how you’re feeling -”

Dick knows, of course, that Bruce was orphaned around the same age Dick is now, but Bruce can’t know what Dick is feeling, because -

Because Bruce isn’t him. Because Bruce never saw his parents falling, and falling, and shattering on the ground, never heard that dull thud, that sickening crunch.

Bruce seems to realise Dick isn’t in a talkative mood. He stops talking; they get to his fancy car, and he lets them both in.

“Car,” Timmy whispers.

Dick reaches over, ruffles his hair, buckles him into the seat. “Sure is, buddy.”

“Where we going?” Tim tries to crane his neck to look out the window. ”We go home?”

Dick swallows. “We’re going to Mr Bruce Wayne’s house, Timmy. He’s going to take care of us, from now on.”

Timmy frowns. He doesn’t seem to really understand, but he burrows himself into Dick’s shoulder. He’s warm, but Dick feels the sort of coffin-cold he can’t dispel.

Wayne Manor is huge.

Dick steps into it and sucks in a breath. He stares at the chandeliers and thinks of swooping off of them, of swinging to the ground. Frames dot the walls, hazy orange in the glow of the lamps; in the corner, near the couches, a fireplace crackles.

A man walks over, dressed in a suit, back straight. “Master Bruce,” he greets.

Dick can feel Tim’s hands, pulling at the back of his shirt.

“Alfred,” Bruce says. “This is Richard Grayson,” Bruce says. “And this is Timothy Drake. Our neighbour, I believe. Their parents were…” Bruce glances at Tim. “They’re like me,” he says, more quietly, and Alfred nods. “Tim, Richard; This is Alfred Pennyworth.”

Alfred turns to Dick, face warm, kind, eyes crinkling. “Why don’t I get you two a cup of hot chocolate before we retire for the night?”

Dick nods. Behind him, Tim presses his head to Dick’s back, whispering a “Yes, pwease.”

Alfred’s hot chocolate is warm, sweet, and for a moment Dick feels like he’s in a dream.

(But he’s not. His parents are dead, and he’s in a cold, wide mansion owned by the richest man in Gotham, and he’s almost all alone.)

“Sleep here? Timmy says, eyes round and wet, and Dick doesn't have the heart to say no. He draws Tim into a tight hug, draws in breath after breath, presses his chin to Tim's ruffled hair while Tim nudges at his shoulder

It helps, but Dick sleeps fitfully. He dreams of crashing to the ground, of his parents, cold and unmoving, hears that sickening crunch, over and over and over, feels the suffocating darkness of the night around him.

He thinks he hears a rustling nose, late at night, Timmy's pattering footsteps, but when he wakes Tim is still there, sleeping, beside him.

He hugs Timmy to his chest, hands trembling, and closes his eyes again.

They go down for breakfast, an hour later. Dick carries Tim down, and Tim clutches at his shirt collar, pulling it.

Alfred is there, setting out plates. Bruce isn't.

“Hi, Alfred. Where’s Mr Wayne?” Dick says.

“Master Bruce is out,” Alfred says, and shifts a plates with pancakes to Dick

Dick pours some syrup over the top, then a little more. It's honey-sweet, when he takes a bite. (He's always had a sweet tooth.)

Tim stabs his pancake with his fork, then tears a chunk out. His hands are unsteady, and little flecks of pancake flick into the table, but he looks up and smiles, shy and small, after. “I did it!”

Dick's lips tilt up. He reaches over, ruffles Tim's hair. Alfred walks over, steps silent, and cleans the table, face mild as ever.

“You did a good job, Master Timothy,” Alfred says. Timmy beams.

(Dick thinks, for a second - how starved for attention is this kid, that he's grinning so hard at simple praise, that he can pout his own cereal with hardly a mess?)

Dick stares at the table, eyes prickling, brown blurring. He wants his parents back. He wants to hear his father's laugh and his mother's voice, wants to feel their arms around him, warm and comforting.

But he'll never get that again.

“Master Richard -”

Dick looks up. “Dick. Please. Richard sounds stuffy.”

Maybe he's imagining it, but he thinks Alfred's lips quirk up. “Master Dick. You're a growing boy; you need your nutrients.”

Dick takes another bite. The syrup is warm down his throat.

“Now,” Alfred says. “Any requests for supper?”

Dick fiddles with his sleeve. “Pancakes?”

Alfred's voice is soft. “Perhaps tomorrow morning; one cannot eat breakfast for dinner. I'll make some Crab-stuffed mushrooms for tonight. How does that sound?”

Dick nods. Alfred hands Timmy a serviette, reminds Dick to eat with his mouth closed.

His pillows are soft, and the pancakes are warm, and Alfred’s kind, but what he really wants is his parents. What he really wants is to find the monster that murdered them.

I’ll work out what happened, Bruce had said, but Dick doesn’t really trust him. He remembers what he heard: the threat, the anger, the violence.

Timmy follows him around after breakfast, toddling behind him. Dick does a triple cartwheel in the lounge, and Timmy claps. Dick juggles three cricket balls he finds, and Timmy crawls forward and tries to take one. Dick does a handstand, the carpet soft under his palms, and Timmy tries to copy him, tumbling over.

“‘Speshully for me?” Tim says, at one point, and Dick’s mouth goes dry and his heart twists and all he can do is nod. (He had promised that, hadn’t he? Before his very world crumbled in front of his eyes.)

Dick wakes early in the morning, mouth dry, heart thumping in his chest. He rubs at his eyes, sits up. Timmy is fast asleep, next to him.

“Hi, Alfred,” he mumbles, yawns.

“You look tired, young sir. Are you quite sure you got enough sleep?”

Dick shrugs. “It’ll be dawn soon. What’re you doing up?”

Alfred’s lips ghost upwards. “Why, preparing breakfast, of course. Would you like to help?”

Dick nods, resists the urge to fidget. There’s a creak of a door, and then Bruce Wayne walks through.

“Morning, Mr Wayne,” Dick says.

Bruce glances at him. His eyes are soft, careful, closed. “Morning. Please - call me Bruce.”

Call me Bruce. Dick helps Alfred stir the pancake batter, and watches Bruce work his way through papers.

“I’m afraid Alfred won’t let me cook,” Bruce says, when Dick glances over for the fourth time.

“I’d rather not have my kitchen burnt down again, Master Bruce.”

Dick smiles, staring at the batter. (It feels wrong to smile, with everything so awful, but his parents would want him to be happy, wouldn’t they?)

The days pass. Dick does cartwheels across rooms and stops when Alfred’s sighs get too worried. He follows Timmy through rooms, carries him on his shoulders, lets Tim shove his toy camera into his face and almost pokes out his eye no less than five times.

He watches the World Series on the television when Bruce is at work and Alfred’s cleaning, and his heart squeezes in his chest. He could be there, right now, watching baseball. With his parents. With the tickets his father bought. His gut swoops, and his eyes prick, and his heart clenches.

He’s not.

He turns the television off, turns to Timmy. “D’you want to look around, Timmy?”

Timmy nods, grinning toothily.

They start with the kitchen; say hi to Alfred, who greets them back, and tells Dick to tuck in his shirt. They move to the lounge - stare at Bruce’s pictures with his parents (smiling, and young, which is strange to see, but then Dick starts thinking of their parents, and Tim starts asking where his Mama and Papa went to, so they move away). They peek in Bruce’s office, but all that’s there is papers and more papers. Dick shuffles through a few; finds, strangely, a time of death for Bruce’s parents (22:27) in one of the stacks. He looks for his own parents, but he supposes he already knows that, and it’s making his head start to hurt.

“Let’s go to the garden,” Dick says, instead, and fishes Timmy’s toy camera from out of his pocket. “Here.”

Timmy starts fiddling with it, trying to take photos of Dick. Dick smiles, even as his chest aches.

Dick does a handstand on the clock wall. (It sounds strange, but then; this is an old manor. Sometimes he hears the floorboards creaking, at night. Sometimes he hears the sound of wind in his ear. Sometimes he wakes at midnight, cold and terrified, but nothing’s wrong except the obvious.)

Timmy tries to copy him, but falls down, instead. His lower lip starts to tremble, and his eyes go round and teary, and Dick bounces over and gives him a hug.

“You’re okay,” he whispers, and tries to mean it. (Even if they aren’t.)

They have dinner. Dick starts talking about the triple-cartwheel he did (to Bruce’s increasing bewilderment and Alfred’s resigned horror), and Timmy chimes in here and there about touching the ceiling, falling into the floor, (“Which hurted!”), and trying to do roly-polys. He’s still quiet, for a three-year-old Dick knows to be bubbly, curious, but Dick supposes these things take time. (It’s not like he’s been the same, after.)

Bruce is more reticent than usual, though. The lines of his face are hard, and his shoulders are tense, and when he talks, it’s in shorter sentences than Dick is used to.

“Master Bruce can be stubborn,” Alfred announces, winking at Dick. “But fortunately we have chocolate pudding for dessert.”

Dick brightens at that. Tim makes a small, happy noise.

He’s woken up to a poke to his gut. Dick groans, tries to turn over, but the poking is incessant.

“What?” he says, cracks his eyes open.

“Dick,” Timmy whispers. “Dick, wake up!”

He sits up, rubs at his eyes. “Did you have a nightmare, again?”

Timmy tugs at his hands.

Dick stands. “Timmy,” he starts, but Tim is dragging him forward. Towards the…clock tower?

“Look,” Timmy says, and Dick looks, tilts his head, frowns. (Hollow, he remembers. An old manor, or - something else?) Taps the walls a few times, hears the hollow ring.

“Huh.” Dick says. He rises to his tippy-toes. “Do you think…?” He stares at the clock, at the hands. (There's no dust, but the clock arms shine in the low moonlight.) Presses one of the arms - and it moves, clicking, whirring.

What’s important to Bruce? Bruce, whose parents died. Bruce, whose only smiling photo was taken months before his parents died. Bruce, who leaves rooms in the manor unchanged from how they were twenty years ago.

Dick ticks the clock to 10:27.

There’s a click. A whirr. The low sound of gears clicking, of movement.

And then - and then -

It swings open.

Dick ruffles Tim’s hair. “Good eye, buddy,” he says. Bounces on his feet, because this is exciting, and not-allowed, but when has that stopped him?

“Oh, wow,” Dick breathes, when he sees a cave: ceiling high and curved, walls black.

Timmy drags him to a spot behind a shelf. Waits, for a moment. Dick jiggles his leg. “What’re we waiting for, Tim?”

There’s a creak, a groan, and -

“Look,” Timmy whispers. “Bwuse.”

Dick looks. The figure steps into view, cape fluttering around him. “That’s not Bruce, Timmy, that’s Bat-”

And then he stops.

Because Batman - Batman walks the same way Bruce does when he’s stressed, coiled and sharp. Batman has the same stocky, large build as Bruce. I’ll work out what happened today, Bruce had said, but he had meant as Batman, not as himself.

“Bruce is Batman,” Dick breathes.

Timmy nods.

Dick ruffles his hair. “You’re a smart one, Timmy.”

Tim nods, again, sucks at his thumb.

Dick draws in a breath. If Bruce is Batman, then maybe he can help? Maybe he can work out what happened to his parents, too?

Dick hoists Tim onto his shoulders, and steps out.

Batman’s cloak swirls around him. His eyes are dagger-sharp.

Dick clear his throat. “I want to help,” Dick says, and Bruce stops, stares at him. “I want to help with Batman.”

Bruce stares some more.

“Please?” Dick tries.

Bruce sighs. Loudly. “Look, I - I have to talk to Bruce.”

“But you’re Bruce.”

Bruce clears his throat. “No, I -”

“You are. You walk like Bruce, you look like Bruce, you talk like Bruce! So - so let me help. Train me. Please.”

Bruce’s cape flutters around his ankles. “I’ll talk to Alfred,” he says, finally, and disappears back into the shadows.

(Dick won’t admit it’s cool in front of Timmy - he tells Tim they should go to bed, instead - but on the inside, his heart is pounding, and he can’t stop the grin from spreading across his face.)

(If Bruce is Batman, then maybe they can get justice for their parents. Maybe he won’t be so lonely, anymore.)

Chapter Text

To Alfred’s palpable disappointment, Bruce agrees to Dick’s help over breakfast the next morning.

Dick just about jumps out of his chair. “Really?”

“Don’t get too excited. You’ll need training, first.”

“Of course,” Dick echoes. “But I can help you? I can…” work out who killed my parents, he doesn’t say, but Bruce must understand.

Timmy tugs at his sleeve. “Syrup pwease?”

Dick leans over, starts to tilt the syrup, but Timmy shakes his head, no.

“I do it,” he says, and Dick hands him the syrup. Timmy tips it upside down, squeezes, staring intently at his cut-up pancakes, and Dick the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Timmy puts the syrup down again, nodding to himself.

“I train too?” Tim asks, just as Dick’s taken a bite of his pancakes. He almost chokes on it, forces himself to swallow, then draws in a breath.

“When you get older.” He ruffles Tim’s hair, pauses. “Maybe.”

Alfred looks distinctly concerned. Bruce sighs, and eats his pancakes.

“It might give him a purpose,” Bruce is saying, quietly, to Alfred. “It might give him an outlet for his grief. He needs that. I needed that, back then. It’ll give him…he can expel his darkness before it bleeds into his heart. And as much as I would like him to be safe, and find a family in us, and not have brought all this up in the first place - he did. He asked me, Alfred. How could I say no, when he asked? When he’s grieving so?”

Dick doesn’t wait to hear the answer. He runs back up to his room, and gives Timmy piggyback ride after piggyback ride until his feet ache.

Dick follows behind Bruce to the gym in the Batcave, as he’s decided to call it), bouncing on his feet.

Bruce stares at Dick, then stares at the equipment around him. “Why don’t you start with pull-ups,” he says, and Dick steps over.

He trains. It’s less fun than he thought - less fun than his parents, and the circus, and swinging from hoop to hoop, and cartwheeling across the floor - but when they’re done, and his arms ache, and his legs tremble, he feels better. He feels like he can take on anything. He feels like he can get justice.

Sometimes Timmy follows behind him, ghost-like, footsteps quiet, and Dick has to bite back a grin when Bruce looks over, and sees Timmy, and sighs, and says: “Alright, Tim, why don’t you - go and do jumping jacks?”

(Timmy doesn’t, of course. He tails Dick and runs around the room and occasionally sits and rolls the barbells back and forth.)

Dick thinks of his parents, sometimes, when he does a flip, when he soars through the air, and it tastes bitter and soft on his tongue.

The Gala’s a lot, if Dick is being honest. The crowd is huge; jewels shimmer and sparkle under the gold haze of the chandelier; the chatter is loud, cacophonous, and Dick feels very small, at the top of the staircase.

Bruce glances down at them. His expression seems to soften. “I know it’s a lot, but it’s only one night. You’ll be alright. And Alfred and I will always be in sight.” He places a hand on Dick’s shoulder, gentle.

Dick wants his parents back. He wants their strength, their support, their arms, always there to catch him. He wants their easy laughs and sparkling eyes and promises they never broke.

Dick draws in a breath, glances at Bruce, face stony and kind; looks down at Timmy, ruffles his hair - he’s bravely pinching the fabric of Dick’s pants between his fingers - and nods. “Alright,” Dick says. “Let’s go down.”

Dick tries to offer Tim his hand, but Tim shakes his head no. “I walk down,” he says, but keeps clutching Dick’s pants.

Timmy walks down - slowly, slowly, step by step. Dick follows, now and then glancing up at Bruce to catch the soft expression in his eyes, the hint of warmth.

“Here,” Bruce says, and fixes the back of Dick’s blazer collar, fingers quick and careful. “It was sticking up.” (Dick wonders how many times Alfred’s done that for a newly-orphaned Bruce, then pushes the thought out of his mind, lets himself be grounded by Timmy’s insistent tugging and Bruce’s solid presence behind him.)

“These are my new wards,” Bruce says. A hush falls around the room. “Richard Grayson and Timothy Drake.” Bruce smiles. It’s different, calculated, calm, genial. “I’ll leave you all to mingle,” he finishes, with a broad gesture and a gleam in his eyes.

Bruce walks away, turns to Dick. “You’ll be alright, buddy?”

Dick nods. He’s not sure if he feels alright, in this unfamiliar crowd, this pressing heat, the unending noise, but he’s got to be - for Timmy, at least. (And it’s not like he’s not used to performing, not used to being in front of a crowd. But this - this feels different. Without his parents, without the warmth of their arms.)

Bruce squeezes his shoulders. “Come find me when you need me,” he says. “Don’t hesitate. Or find Alfred.”

Dick nods. “Okay.”

Bruce draws in a breath, loosens his shoulders. “I’ll be nearby,” he says, and walks off.

Dick feels very, very small. (He’s only eleven, he wants to say. He doesn’t know the first thing about Galas, or black-tie suits, or high society speeches.)

Timmy tugs at Dick’s pants leg. Dick breathes, leans down.

“Dickie,” Tim whispers into Dick’s ear, “Why’s his hat weird?”

Dick opens his mouth. Closes it. Fights back a grin. “Um. People have their own fashion sense,” he says. “Like how Alfred likes wearing his suits, but Bruce likes wearing different ones. And how you don’t like that teal sweater-” Timmy’s lips pinch together - “-but you like the red-and-purple one.”

Timmy nods, grabs Dick’s hand. “We go around room,” he says. Dick’s heart jumps to his throat, looking at that crowd. But Timmy tugs his hand, and Dick’s lips twitch into a smile, and he finds himself nodding.

They talk, here and there: Dick greets people, and asks their names - A Miss Sharpe, a Mr Bradley, a reporter with sharp, kind eyes Dick doesn’t catch the name of, a few others who keep remarking how well-behaved they are, how polite, they are, and Dick finds his cheeks starting to hurt, his feet starting to ache. This curiosity, this pity, these words - he’s not used to it.

He looks around, tries to spot a familiar face. Bruce is talking, surrounded by people - Dick can just about catch a travel…numbers…business, Bruce’s smile large and strange - so Dick inches forward, dodging a reporter with rimmed glasses; a couple with curious eyes; a sharp-eyed journalist with her hand curled around a camera; and finally finds himself in front of someone who looks faintly familiar.

“You alright, boys?” The man says.

Dick nods. Timmy nods, too. Dick doesn’t think he looks convincing. The room is loud, and crowded, and he’s not used to being part of crowds like this. He’s used to chaos he can control.

“I’m Timothy Drake,” Timmy says, stumbling over his name.

The man’s eyes crinkle. “It’s nice to meet you, Timothy Drake. I’m Jim Gordon. Commissioner Gordon.”

Dick’s stomach squeezes. Of course. He was there the night their parents died. The questions burn at the back of Dick’s throat: he wants to ask how the case is going, wants to ask if he’s found the killer, but the words don’t come.

“- help solve crimes,” Commissioner Gordon’s saying.

Timmy considers this, forehead furrowing. “Like Batman?”

“No, not like Batman,” Commissioner Gordon looks like he’s holding back a laugh. “Batman’s a vigilante. I’m a detective. Now, he more or less abides by the law - which I appreciate - but we’re not the same.”

Timmy nods, like he understands.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sir,” Dick says, and the Commissioner’s lips tilt up.

“You too, son,” he says, and shakes Dick’s hands, and shakes Timmy’s, too, when Timmy stretches out his palm, face expectant, then walks away, hands in his pockets.

Bruce appears.

Dick doesn’t startle - he’s used to Bruce appearing like the sun striking a shadow - but his feet tilt up, like he’s trying to give flight. (Like he can again, now, here.)

“Well, that’s Jim,” Bruce says. (Dick doesn’t think he’ll ever call Commissioner Gordon Jim.) Bruce lowers his voice. “He’s a good man. If you need any help, you can go to him.”

“Alright,” Dick says. “Thanks, Bruce.”

Bruce stares at them for a second. “It looks like I’m getting called over,” he says, finally, a wry smile gracing his lips. “Alfred’s just over there, if you’d like to talk to him.”

“Alfwed!” Timmy says, and starts towards Alfred. “Good ebening, Alfred.”

Alfred smiles down at them. Dick finds himself inching closer, without meaning to. “Good evening, Timothy. And what have we been up to, young sirs?”

“I talked to Commishen Gordon,” Timmy announces. “An’ the lady with the red hat, and the man with the hair.”

Dick translates. “Miss Sharpe and Mr Bradley.”

“An’ I was polite and talked well,” Tim says. He starts bouncing on his feet, then stills, squeezing Dick’s hand. Dick’s heart twists. (What has Tim learnt, to stop himself from moving, to say he was polite and talked well, to know how to act at a Gala like this?)

“That’s very good work, Timothy.” Alfred smiles, but his eyes are sharp, assessing. “Why don’t you both help me pack up these canapes?”

Dick lets out a breath, rolls his shoulders. “That would be nice. Thanks, Alfred.”

“We all need breaks, Master Dick,” Alfred says, and Dick rolls up his sleeves and grabs the tongs.

“I help too,” Timmy says, and, peering at Dick, rolls up his sleeves.

If Dick could guess, he’d say Alfred’s eyes sparkle.

After, just as Dick’s about to fall asleep, he hears a shifting noise, the crumple of a blanket between small fists. “Dickie, what’s a debective?”

Dick presses his face into his pillow.

They go shopping. Bruce brings out his Mercedes - Dick won’t admit it, but he gasps when he sees it, just as Timmy says, like Mama’s car! - and they get in. The seats are plush brown, and Dick buckles Timmy into his carseat, then settles in.

Bruce is in his woollen blazer Timmy likes pulling at; Dick and Timmy are in jumpers Alfred knitted (“We can’t have either of you getting cold now, can we?”). Dick runs his fingers through the fabric - soft, and warm, strangely reminiscent of his mother’s hugs (but that makes his eyes sting, so he tries to push the thought away).

Dick rests his head against the car seat, clears his throat. “Will people stare?”

“Not here, they won’t. Don’t worry,” Bruce says.

Timmy pipes up. “Where’s Alfred? Why is he there?”

“He’s making cookies,” Bruce says.

Dick leans over, ruffles Timmy’s hair. Timmy pats Dick’s hand, grins up at him.

Dick’s heart twists. He’s only here, only needing to do this, because -

Because his parents are dead. Because their parents are dead.

Bruce turns at the next street. “It’ll take a little while. We’re heading to Metropolis.” He says the word with distaste.

“You don’t like Metropolis?”

“Too many bright lights, too many polished buildings. Makes it hard to get a proper grip.”

Hard to get a proper grip? “When you’re…” Dick lowers his voice. “Batman?”

Bruce’s chuckles. “You don’t have to whisper; the car’s soundproof. Sometimes Superman -”

“Superman!” Dick exclaims. “You know Superman?” He’s just about bouncing in his seat.

Next to him, Timmy claps. “Supaman!”

“It’s not that exciting,” Bruce says. “He’s younger than me, you know. And he’s - well - regardless, he asks me to look after Metropolis, now and then, and he looks after Gotham for the night.”

“Can I meet Superman?” Dick says.

Bruce sighs. “Maybe later, bud.” He turns again.

“Do you have a lot of cars?”

Bruce chuckles. “Some. I’ll teach you in a few years.”

“Timmy too,” Tim says.

Dick laughs, ruffles his hair. Timmy tries to bat his hand away. “Yeah, Timmy too. In a few more years.”

They lapse into silence. Dick watches as the buildings give way to bridges, as the clouds track their way across the sky.

Timmy pokes Dick’s shoulder, then whispers, “Who’s Supaman? Bwuce no like him?”

Dick bites back a laugh.

“Dickie, building!” Timmy announces, then stares at Dick like he’s expecting something. He points at the shopping mall.

“Sure is, Timmy,” Dick says. “Good job.” Timmy nods to himself, drops his hand.

“Alfred would say it’s rude to point,” Bruce says, but his voice is even. Timmy stares up at him. Dick opens his mouth to speak, but - “Of course, Alfred isn’t here right now.” He bends down, ruffles Timmy’s hair. “Let’s head inside.”

It’s crowded, people milling here and there, the clacking of footsteps, the chimes of opening doors.

“Why don’t we get some toys, first?” Bruce looks a little out of his element.

Timmy bounces on his feet, squeezes Dick’s hand. “Yes, pwease.”

They head to the toy shop. Dick dodges a group of running kids; lets Timmy lead him forward, and forward; until finally they stand in front of a set of soft toys.

“You want one of these, Timmy?”

Timmy nods, then points at the bat. “Bat?”

Dick reaches up, grabs it, hands it over. Timmy clutches it to his chest, a smile breaking out across his face. “I like bat,” he says.

“What did you - a bat?” Bruce’s brows furrow. “Are you sure, Tim?”

Timmy stares up at Bruce, eyes round and wide. (Dick knows how hard it is to say no to Timmy, when he’s staring like this.) “I choose bat,” Timmy says, quietly. “Pwease?”

Bruce hesitates, then sighs, a smile inching across his lips. “Alright.” They walk up to the counter; Bruce pays; then hands the bat to Timmy.

“Speshul bat,” Timmy says, hugging it.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything, Dick?”

Dick hesitates. He glances at the hula-hoop in the corner, the bright green lamp near it, then looks away, gut twisting. “Not yet,” he says, quietly. (He can’t. Not when it’ll remind him of his parents. Not when he’ll think of their voices, their absence, every time.)

Bruce sighs. “Alright. We’ll come back later.”

“Even though you don’t like Metropolis?”

Bruce’s lips quirk up. “I like it fine enough as Bruce Wayne,” he says, voice dry, and Dick finds himself grinning

With his right hand, Timmy holds the bat; with the other, he tugs at Dick’s sleeve, then Bruce’s coat. “Alfwed said to get clothes.”

So they go to get clothes.

“That’d look good on Timmy,” Dick says, pointing to a red-and-yellow striped jumper. Then, another, with green stars: “He likes red and green, doesn’t he?” Dick glances down. “What d’you think, Timmy?”

“Chwistmas,” Timmy says, tugging at the green jumper. He pulls the other, then nods. “I choose jumpers.”

Dick places them into the shopping cart.

“How about this?” Bruce says, holding up a long pair of blue jeans.

“For me?” Dick says. “Yeah, alright.” He runs his fingers over the fabric. (His parents, stitching up his torn clothes.)

“And this,” Bruce says, handing Dick a soft, cobalt-blue shirt.

Dick’s throat feels tight. “Alright.” His eyes catch on a red shirt, a green pair of pants. He looks away, eyes stinging.

“I’ll grab some more,” Bruce says, quietly.

“Nothing ugly,” Dick finds himself saying. “And nothing - nothing - “ Nothing that would remind me. Not yet.

He doesn’t need to say the words. Bruce nods.

The shirts aren’t all bad: Bruce has gotten two in white; one in black; a few plain, smaller ones for Timmy as well.

“I show Mama bat when she come back,” Timmy says, quietly. “She like him.”

Dick’s heart lurches in his chest. He looks away, blinking hard, fingers curling into fists. And then there’s a hand, warm, steadying, on his shoulder.

“He doesn’t -” Dick’s voice catches.

“I know,” Bruce says. “I know.” And he does. (Isn’t that the worst part?) Dick leans into Bruce’s touch, watches Timmy climb into the car, clutching the bat to his chest.

“I’m okay,” he says, even if he doesn’t feel like it. But he has to be, right now. For Timmy.

Some nights, he dreams of falling. Swooping through the air, the wind rushing over his skin, the ground closer and closer and closer.

Then he wakes up, in those soft covers, in that dark room, and his heart feels like it’s being crushed.

They head to the garden. Alfred’s busy, cooking a three-course meal for dinner, and Bruce is doing work (Dick isn’t sure if it’s Batman-solving-crimes work, or Charity-organisation work, and he hasn’t asked).

Timmy runs after Dick, then stops, crouches. Dick moves next to him, biting back a sigh. (Timmy’s curious, he reminds himself. It’s normal for three-year-olds to stop and stare and ask about everything. He’s pretty sure, anyway; that’s what all those new how-to-parent-your-toddler books in Bruce’s library say.)

Timmy’s staring at a moth. “Why the bug not moving?”

Dick swallows. “It’s dead, Timmy. Sometimes - sometimes things die when they get old.” His throat closes up. Sometimes things die even when they’re not. “It means it won’t come back.”

Timmy stares up at Dick, eyes round, wet. “Not coming back?”

“Not anymore, Timmy,” Dick says, and leads them away. Timmy’s frowning, staring at the ground. Dick’s chest feels tight.

Timmy whispers to him after dinner. “Is Alfred gonna die here? An’ no come back?”

Dick winces. Maybe his explanation hadn’t been the best. “He’s old, Timmy, not…” But he can’t promise that, he supposes. Everyone dies.

“But things die when they’re old!”

“Well, Alfred’s not - that old,” Dick says, finally. “He’s only, like, fifty or sixty or something. His body’s still working fine. People - people die when their hearts stop working.” He’s not sure how to explain this to a toddler. Hell, some days he’s not sure how to stomach the truth himself: that his parents are dead, that he’s never seeing them again, that he’s never hearing their voices or their laughs or their songs again.

Tim considers this. “Mama and Papa got into an accident?”

Dick swallows. “And their hearts stopped working. Just like my parents, too, Timmy.”

Timmy presses his forehead into Dick’s chest. “We see again?” His voice is muffled.

Dick doesn’t answer. His throat feels like it’s closed up, and his eyes are stinging, prickling. He rubs Timmy’s back, instead.

June arrives, and with it, the heat: warm winds battering the windows; the sun harsh and unrelenting; the clouds above looming, ominous. But inside, somehow, Dick still feels cold: the rooms too large and drafty, the heat sliding off the walls. Dick starts sitting in front of the fireplace before he trains, curled up with a book, Alfred’s radio playing songs in the background, Timmy half-asleep. Sometimes, when his mind feels too loud, his limbs too long, he’ll do cartwheels and backflips on the rug, the fireplace warm at his side, careful not to break anything.

“Dick,” Bruce says one evening, while Timmy is napping on the couch and Dick is paging through a comic book, yawning. “You can attend school in September, if you’d like. Make some friends your age. You don’t have to be…” like me, he doesn’t say, but Dick understands. Bruce was lonely, when his parents died. Lonely, and grieving, and maybe he didn’t have an Alfred who was quite so warm, quite so prepared. And he certainly didn’t have a Timothy Drake.

Dick glances at Timmy, curled up at his side, fast asleep. “I’m alright for now,” he says. “Maybe next year? And I can just do school online, this year. Or Alfred can teach me. Or you can teach me.”

Bruce chuckles, ruffles Dick’s hair. “Alright. We’ll leave the teaching to Alfred, maybe. I’ll ask again next year.”

By mid-June, Dick is feeling restless. He’s been training for a whole month. He wants to get out there, wants to find whoever murdered his parents, wants to put a face to those threats.

“Dick?”

“Yeah, Bruce?”

“I’d like to take you somewhere.”

Dick tilts his head. “Where?”

Bruce sighs. His fingers are loose around the flowers he’s holding. “Every June, I visit the alleyway where my parents were…taken from me. I thought you might want to come along.”

Dick draws in a breath. “Why?”

Bruce falls silent for some time. “I think it would help,” he says, finally.

Dick stares at his fingers, at the stitching in the couch. “Okay.”

Bruce drives them out to Crime Alley. “It used to be called Park Row,” he says. “It changed after my parents died.”

Dick nods.

“I lay flowers every year.”

“Does it help?” Dick finds himself asking.

Bruce falls silent. “I don’t know,” he says, quietly. “It reminds me of why I do what I do, though. Why I don’t kill. Why I keep going.”

That’s - well. Dick gets it. It’s why he wants to help Bruce out, isn’t it? To solve his parents murder; to make a difference; to bring some sort of hope, when all else feels so dark.

To make his parents proud.

But the way Bruce says it - solemn, and sad, and resigned - has Dick’s stomach churning.

They stand in the alleyway. Dick inches closer to Bruce, to his long coat, his warmth.

Bruce lays the flowers down. Closes his eyes. Dick starts doing the same thing, but all he sees are his parents laughing, his mother pinching his cheeks, his father’s hand on his shoulder; and then falling, and falling, and falling, so he opens his eyes again.

Dick stares at the flowers, at the wall - grey-stained, green-moulded.

“Would you like to visit your parents, Dick?” Bruce’s voice is soft. “They’re at Gotham Cemetery.”

Dick swallows. Does he?

Some mornings he wakes up and there’s a blissful half-second where his parents are still alive. Some nights he goes to sleep and he dreams of Haly’s, of laughter, of warmth. Some evenings he eats Alfred’s dinner and if he closes his eyes he can pretend he’s home again. With his parents.

If he sees their graves, it’ll be real. It’ll be unchangeable. It’ll be solid in a way it isn’t, not just yet.

He wants to cling to those moments for just a bit longer. Just until he can bear it a bit better. Just until the grief won’t crush him, won’t gut him, won’t carve him hollow.

“Not yet.”

June passes in an unusual whirl of frigid air and falling leaves; July arrives, and with it, Timmy’s fourth birthday.

Dick sneaks out of bed early in the morning, careful not to wake Timmy, and walks downstairs. Bruce has gotten Tim a new, red-green jumper, alongside a purple shirt; Alfred’s knitted a forest-green scarf with birds patterned along the hems, and a set of mittens with bats on the back; and Dick’s chosen out a toy car set.

“Master Dick,” Alfred says, when he spots Dick.

Dick rubs at his eyes. “You’re making a cake?”

“It’s for after lunch,” Alfred says. “We’ll be having pizza for dinner.”

Dick brightens. “With pineapples, right? Since Timmy and I both like -”

“Yes, with pineapples, Master Dick,” Alfred’s voice is warm, amused.

“I’ll go check on the presents,” Dick says, heading to the guest room. He thinks he hears Alfred chuckle, behind him.

“What are you doing, Dickie?”

Dick freezes, closes the closet door. “You’ll find out soon,” he says, walking over, ruffling Timmy’s hair. “Want to see what Alfred’s up to?”

Timmy nods, bats Dick’s hand away.

“I can do it,” Timmy says, staring at the cake knife.

Bruce makes a noise in the back of his throat.

“I’m afraid I would like some help,” Alfred says, holding the knife. “Why don’t you put your hand on top of mine, Master Tim?”

Timmy considers this. “Okay,” he says, and curls his hand over Alfred’s.

They cut out a slice, then slide it out.

Alfred slides it onto a plate, then cuts another three slices and repeats.

“I get the first slice ‘cause it’s my birthday,” Timmy says, seriously, and Dick bites his lip to keep from smiling.

Alfred hands him a plate and a fork, then does the same for Bruce and Dick.

They eat. It’s warm, rich, and Dick finds his eyes stinging. It’s different to what his parents used to make, but there’s warmth, and love, and care, and the reminder has his chest squeezing.

Timmy sits on the rug, back against the couch. Alfred is sitting on a chair, and Bruce is on the couch, behind them - having unsuccessfully tried to usher Alfred there - and Dick is next to Tim.

Dick grabs his present. “Open this one first,” he says, and hands Timmy the present.

Timmy tries to peel the tape off, then sighs, and rips the wrapping paper.

“It’s a car!” He says. “Like Bruce’s. But this one’s nicer.” Bruce coughs, behind them. “Thanks, Dickie,” Timmy beams at Dick, and Dick feels his heart melt.

Dick passes the other presents to him.

Timmy brightens at the jumper and shirt, saying a, “Thank you, Bwuce,” and hugs the scarf to his chest - “It’s got bats, Dickie, like Mr Bat!” - and puts the mittens on.

Alfred gathers the wrapping paper and steps out, and Bruce squeezes Tim’s shoulder, says he’ll be back in a second.

Timmy stares at his presents, sighs. “Mama an’ Papa awen’t coming back?”

Dick swallows. “They’re dead, Timmy.” His voice is soft. “It means - yeah, it means they’re not coming back. They’re bodies stopped working. Like my parents.”

Timmy rolls a car across the floor. “I miss them.”

Dick lets out a breath. “Me, too.”

“D’you want a hug?”

Dick huffs a laugh, but his heart warms. “Yeah, Timmy,” he says. “Alright.”

And Timmy hugs him, and Dick hugs him back, and for a moment, Dick feels a little less alone.

Chapter Text

The familiar heat of Summer comes, and Dick finds himself wandering around the mansion, limbs heavy, hazy. Timmy puts his mittens and scarves and jumpers right at the back of his wardrobe. “They’re for Winter,” he informs Dick, but Dick still finds him drawing them out and curling around them before bed.

Alfred - somehow - still wears his usual suit-and-bowtie; Bruce switches to black polo tops that Timmy keeps scrunching his nose at (“You’re makin’ it too obvious you’re Batman, Bwuce!” Dick always bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself laughing at Tim’s furrowed brow, Bruce’s bewildered stare.)

Outside, the air is still smoggy, that familiar grey haze shadowing the skyline; the clouds still hang low and heavy; but the biting winds have been replaced by gusts of heat that have Dick rushing to get back inside for one of Alfred’s lemonades.

Dick trains, still, with the low hum and rattle of the air-conditioner in the background; Timmy racing around the room with his toy camera and toy bat, to Bruce’s great alarm (“I’m trying to watch Dick lift those weights, Tim, so please-”). Alfred starts giving him homework - (“An education is important,”) - maths and english and science and, at Bruce’s request, the beginnings of what Alfred calls espionage and Bruce calls “languages, and learning how to disguise yourself - you never know what you’ll find important, Dick, when you’re out there”. (Dick’s more excited for that last part than the others, but knowing Bruce, he’ll find a way to make it harder than it needs to be.)

“Will I be ready, soon?” Dick asks him, one evening.

“It’s only been a few months,” Bruce says, patting his shoulder. “You can never be too prepared, Dick.”

(It feels far longer for him, when there’s a burn, low and terrible, in his stomach, a clawing at his throat, a sting behind his eyes, the shadow of a memory - that fall, that twist in his chest, that low crunch - that haunts his every moment. He knows you can never be too prepared. But don’t things go wrong, regardless?)

Dick wakes to a wailing noise.

He startles, pushing himself to sit before he’s more than half-awake, and finds himself staring at a sobbing Tim.

“Timmy?” He tries. His voice croaks. He shifts closer to Timmy, draws him into a hug. “Hey, buddy, what’s wrong?”

Timmy curls closer to him, mumbles something Dick can’t catch, wipes his nose on Dick’s pajamas.

“Timmy?” Dick tries again. (Maybe he should get Alfred. But Tim clings even harder, fingers curling into Dick’s shirt, and Dick finds he can’t bring himself to move.)

“Mama an’ Papa,” Tim says, muffled, teary, against Dick’s shirt. “Went bye-bye. And - and -” he starts sobbing harder, and Dick’s chest twists, and he curls himself around Tim, throat swollen, heart squeezing. (Sometimes he wakes up with an ache in his chest, eyes prickling, pillow soft, that terrible reminder that he will never see his parents again. Never get to hug them again, never get to talk to them again, never get to make them smile or hear them laugh.)

“You have Mr. Bat, Timmy? You want to hug him, too?”

Timmy nods. Dick’s shirt is wet.

“Alright,” Dick says, leans over, drags Mr. Bat into Timmy’s hands. Timmy clutches at Mr. Bat with one hand and Dick’s shirt with the other. “You’ve got me now, though, you know that? Me and Bruce and Alfred. We won’t leave you.”

Timmy sniffles, nods. Dick draws him closer.

Timmy isn’t there when Dick wakes up. Dick jumps to his feet, mutters a word he wouldn’t say in front of his parents under his breath, and tears out of their bedroom. (Could he have had another nightmare and run off?)

Where, where, where? Timmy likes exploring - maybe outside? But it’s too warm; he’d want to stay inside. The library? Maybe - he likes the couch - but he tends to only go there when he’s following Dick.

Oh. The Batcave. Of course.

Dick rushes there, feet quick, racing down the corridor, slipping into the cave.

He looks, and looks, and looks, and -

“Timmy,” the word gusts out of him. His shoulders drop. The words are on the tip of his tongue - you can’t just run off like that - but then Timmy looks over, and smiles, and Dick sighs. (He’s a baby; of course he’s curious.)

Dick walks over. Timmy’s colouring something in with a crayon.

“What’re you up to, Tim?”

“Colowing,” Timmy says, then picks the dumbbell up and thrusts it at Dick. Dick’s heart just about falls out of his chest - it looks heavier than Tim is. “Look!”

“It looks nice,” Dick says, taking it from Tim. “I like the pink,” he offers.

Timmy bounces on his feet. “It’s a dowphin. And that one’s a lion, like Simba, and that one’s Mr. Bat, and there’s you!” He points at two blobs of red and green. “You’re fwying in the air, Dickie, next to Batman.”

Dick swallows, blinks back the sting of his eyes. “It’s nice, Timmy. Thanks.” His lips quirk up. “You gave me a scare,” he says, ruffling Timmy’s hair. “I don’t think Bruce will be too happy you’ve come here alone, either. And I don’t think he’ll be happy you’ve coloured his weights.”

“Bwuce will adjust,” Timmy says. (Like Alfred, Dick thinks, and has to stop himself from laughing.) “An’ you were asleep!”

“I know, but next time wake me up.”

Timmy scrunches his nose up, but nods.

“Alright,” Dickie says, guiding Timmy forward. “Let’s go help Alfred with lunch.”

Timmy scrunches up his nose. “He won’t let us.”

“We’ll convince him.”

Timmy makes a disbelieving noise. It sounds too old to be coming from a four-year-old. Dick bites back his chuckle, the twist in his gut.

“We’ll take some photos in the garden, if he says no,” Dick continues.

Timmy reaches over, squeezes Dick’s hand. “Okay, but I get to go first.”

Bruce gets that faraway look in his eyes, again. Dick asks Alfred about it before dinner: “It’s just one of his cases; it’s a…difficult one.”

Dick shifts from foot to foot. There’s still a burn in his gut he can’t quite displace, an ache in his head he can’t dispel. “Can I help?”

Alfred shakes his head, no. “I’m afraid not, for this one.”

“Well, I’ll set the table, at least.”

Alfred sighs that sigh of his when he doesn’t want anyone doing the job that’s supposed to be his (like when Timmy tries to serve everyone, or Dick tries to help cut the vegetables), but he doesn’t stop Dick from getting the plates out of the drawer.

It’s nice, feeling useful again. Feeling a part of something, again. (Even though the last time he was part of something ended with death and blood and the crack of bones that still hollows out his ears most nights.)

He asks Bruce over dinner, through Timmy tugging at his sleeve. “Alfred said you had a case.”

Bruce makes a noise of acknowledgement.

“And that I can’t help.”

Bruce nods.

“Well, then -”

“I’m working with Gordon,” Bruce says. It stings, even if maybe it shouldn’t, even if Dick knows he’s only eleven. But he’s been training, and he’s ready, or almost, and he can help, and he doesn’t like Bruce coming home bleaker and bleaker, and he doesn’t like feeling helpless.

Bruce sighs. “Don’t worry. Just focus on your training, alright?”

Dick nods, picks at his food. Bruce is right - Dick knows he’s right - but that doesn’t mean his stomach isn’t swimming, his blood isn’t boiling.

“Maybe when you’re older…” Bruce trails off, glances at Alfred. Dick can’t quite parse the look, but he can guess: we hope you won’t need to do this, when you’re older.

But crime is crime; crime has always lurked in Gotham, and it always will. Doesn’t Dick know that better than most?

He hears the news, of course. Dead bodies (“A Plague Across Gotham!”); Batman on the news, later and later, (“What will Batman Do about This Scourge of Serial Killers?”); that sickly scent of fear in the air. Alfred closes the windows a bit harder each night; Bruce comes home later and later, when he’s patrolling; on the TV, Jim Gordon looks tired.

They catch Bruce watching a documentary on crime alley - A History of Gotham Crime, 1625-1900, the title reads. His expression is familiar - brow scrunched, serious, focused.

“What’s that?” Timmy says, walking forward before Dick can stop him.

Bruce stops, glances over, stops the TV. “It’s a documentary,” he says. “It’s an old one. You can watch something else, if you’d…” Timmy climbs onto the couch and settles in next to him.

Timmy looks at Dick, face expectant. Dick sits next to Timmy.

“This is fine,” Dick says.

“We can watch this,” Timmy says.

Bruce’s gaze moves from Dick to Timmy. He sighs, scratches at his ear. “Well, alright.”

He presses play. We now move on to Bludhaven, where in…

“Is this for that case of yours?” Dick says. “‘Cause I heard on the news people are getting killed.”

Bruce nods.

“And this looks kind of familiar,” Dick continues. ….would not ever get to go back home again, because he was brutally murdered in his own office, stabbed thirteen times, after getting the riddle wrong…

Bruce sighs, again, pauses the TV. Timmy makes a small noise of complaint. “It is, but I don’t want you involved in this case, Dick. It’s dangerous.”

“Well, if it’s dangerous for me, then it’s dangerous for you, too.” His voice is mullish, frustrated, hurt, he knows. Timmy leans over, pats his arm.

“Issok, Dick,” Timmy whispers.

“I’m an adult,” Bruce says. “It’s different.”

…stated that he was only enacting justice, but those who truly…

“But your murderer is using riddles, too!” At Bruce’s raised eyebrow, he says: “I watch the news, you know. And Alfred plays the radio in the living room. ”

“I know he’s using riddles, Dick,” Bruce says. “I’m about to catch him.”

Dick sighs, leans back on the couch. “Who is it?”

“You’ll see once I catch him.”

Dick presses his lips together, then glances at Timmy, still patting his arm. “I’m alright, Timmy,” he says. “Let’s just watch the show.”

Bruce presses play. Timmy points at the screen - a pan of Park Row - and says, “What’s that?” and Bruce’s lips press together, but he explains, anyway.

Dick thinks of his parents, falling and falling and falling.

–

A week later, Batman catches The Riddler in the middle of his own trap.

Dick presses his ear to the kitchen wall, long after he’s meant to be asleep.

“Sir,” Alfred says, voice low, muffled. “You might want a stronger suit.”

Bruce huffs a noise that sounds almost like a laugh. “It might be time to add more kevlar, yes.”

The wall is slowly warming against Dick’s ear. He slips back to bed, curls up next to Timmy. (They’re okay, he tells himself. They’re okay.)

Dick trains, and trains, and trains some more. June passes in a whirl: sparring with Bruce; learning espionage from Alfred; teaching Timmy how to do a roly-poly in the grass outside; and long, long dinners with steaming food and Bruce’s occasional, awkward reticence and Alfred’s formality (“No elbows on the table, boys,”) and Timmy’s chatter; the ceiling lights low and yellow; that feeling of home and loss and grief and comfort curling in his gut, over and over.

August arrives. The weather starts cooling, burning sun melting to a more tolerable warmth. Timmy starts asking to go on walks so he can crunch every leaf he passes by (which isn’t all that many, yet). Alfred starts telling them both to wear cardigans - “Or at least a light jumper,” - and Dick starts cracking their bedroom window open so he can feel the warm Summer air on his face and pretend his feet aren’t on the ground.

(In another home, Stephanie Brown turns five and sneaks out to see if her father has come home yet. He hasn’t.)

September encroaches, and Dick thinks of starting school - all those new faces, all those new kids - and his stomach squirms. He’s not ready, not yet. Even if it would be nice to be friends with someone his own age - and Timmy’s great, but most of Dick’s time is spent ushering Timmy away from the cave, or the knives, or Bruce's office, and playing cars, or tea, when Dick wants to do a quadruple backflip in the corridor without knocking over one of Alfred’s vases (but that would make him a bad role model, so he won’t, because he just knows Timmy would want to copy him), or go off the grounds and stare at buildings and plan and plan and plan for when he’s finally ready to fly.

And he wants to stay here, just for a little longer. Wants to sit on the couch, and train with Bruce, and do homework on his desk while Timmy runs around and tugs his arm until Dick stands up and plays with him. Wants to ignore the burning, terrible ache in his chest whenever he thinks about his parents. Wants to stay inside, where he won’t be asked questions about Bruce, or his parents, or why he can do a backflip, or why he’s living at Wayne Manor with billionaire-playboy Bruce Wayne.

“I’ll go to school next year,” he tells Alfred, before dinner. “Is that alright?”

“Of course, Master Dick.” Alfred’s voice is warm.

(In another part of the city, Jason Todd turns seven and pries the tires off a car for the first time.)

“Am I ready yet?” He asks Bruce, again; the third time in three days. (“Soon,” Bruce said the last two times, but Dick doesn’t know how soon soon really is.)

Bruce sighs. “In a couple of weeks.” Dick bounces on his feet. “But,” Bruce adds, voice firm, “You can’t go out on your own. You’ll only be patrolling with me, and you can’t run off, and we’ll need to scope everything out, and -”

“I will, I will,” his voice is quick, his lips tilting up, his heart racing in his chest. Finally. There’s a weightlessness in his stomach, a warmth in his chest. “I’ll stick to you like a glove. I won’t do anything stupid, I swear.”

Bruce’s lips press together like he’s trying to stop from smiling. “Alright. You’ve promised, now, so don’t go breaking it. Show me that roundhouse kick, again.”

Dick can’t keep himself from grinning. A couple of weeks. That’s hardly any time, not when he’s waited months, not when he’ll finally feel the wind under his feet again, when he’ll finally get the chance to catch the person who killed his parents, not when he’ll finally get some semblance of justice, some ability to help.

Dick sinks into the couch. The library is quiet - only the whistle of wind outside, the distant rattle of Alfred’s radio, the low clack of footsteps from the kitchen. He finds himself reaching for green, yellow, red, without meaning to, heart twisting in his chest, that dull ache of longing prickling at his eyes.

Timmy shifts, next to him, starts to stretch. “What are you doin’, Dickie?” Timmy yawns, rubs at his eyes. “I falled asleep an’ I dweamed I was a shawk.”

"Is that ‘cause of that documentary you watched with Bruce yesterday?"

Timmy nods. "I went swoosh-swoosh-swoosh in the water like the real shawk and ate some fishies an' then I woke up." He shuffles closer, stares at Dick's notepad. “What's that?”

Dick shifts on the couch. “I’m drawing.” He tilts the notepad towards Timmy.

Timmy peers closer, then points. “It’s you! You look gween. I like green but I like pink more, but you're supposed to be gween.”

Dick snorts. “Thanks, Timmy.”

Timmy burrows into Dick's side. “May we read that book about Cwime Alley?”

Dick's lips turn up. (Alfred's been trying to teach Timmy manners, clearly - it's may, not can, Master Tim.) “Sure,” Dick stands up, takes A Brief History of Park Row (Visual Guide) from the shelves, and plops back down on the couch.

Timmy claps as Dick opens the book. Dick smiles, starts reading.

He brings the drawing to Alfred a week later, just before tea-time.

“Hey, Alfred? I drew something,” Dick says, holds up the notepad. “It’s for - it’s for when I patrol with Bruce.”

Alfred turns from where he’s watching the muffins bake, and his eyes go soft.

“Mom used to call me her Little Robin,” Dick says, quietly. “I think it would work. Batman and Robin.” He glances up at Alfred. “It’s a proper sketch, too. It’s, uh…” like what I used to wear back home, he doesn’t say, but Alfred understands, anyway.

Alfred takes the drawing. “I will see what I can do,” he says, and tucks the sketch into his pocket. “Now, let me bring the muffins out. You can have the first one before Timothy wakes.” There’s an almost teasing glint in his eyes.

Dick bounces on his feet. “Thanks, Alfred.”

“Dickie,” Timmy whispers. Dick forces his eyes open. “Dickie, I wanna go down to the cave.”

“Now?” Dick croaks. He checks the clock - 4:14. “It’s early. It’s not even five.”

“Now, now, now,” Timmy echoes. “Pwease?” He shuffles out of the bed, grabs his colouring book and crayons from his bedside drawer.

Dick sighs. He pushes down the annoyance bubbling in his gut. But he can’t say no, not when Timmy makes those eyes at him, round and pleading.

“Alright. Let’s go.” He takes his notebook from next to him. It’s not cold, at least, the heat still lingering in the room, so it’s not that hard to drag himself out of bed and grasp Timmy’s hand and walk them both to the clock.

He glances at Bruce’s room, along the way, then pushes the thought from his mind. Bruce is probably sleeping; Dick doesn’t want to disturb him. He moves the hands into the right places, watches as it swings open, and walks inside.

“I’m gonna draw everyone,” Timmy announces. "’Cause yesterday Alfwed and I went to the park but it was hot and I saw a doggy!" He peers at Dick. "You had doggies?"

Dick scratches at his neck. It's too early for this. “We had an elephant. Zitka.” His gut twists, but he's too tired to feel anything stronger than that pulse of grief low in his chest.

“What are you gonna draw, Dickie?”

Dick stifles a yawn. The haze of sleep still clings to him. “I dunno, Tim,” he says. “I’ll think of something.”

“Okay,” Timmy says, and sits down in the middle of the room. Dick flicks the switch, and the lights flicker on, bathing them in white.

Dick glances at the dumbbells, then looks away: if he starts using them, Timmy will want to, as well.

“Give me a colour,” he says, and shuffles next to Tim.

Timmy stares at his crayons for a few minutes. “Green,” he says, and hands it to Dick. “Here you go, Dickie.”

“Thanks, Timmy,” he says, brings out his notebook, starts sketching. His fingers draw before he can stop it: green grass, Zitka, trumpeting; Sando, pretending Dick was stronger than him; Palmer, juggling; his parents, carrying him on their shoulders, strolling through the grass.

Timmy peers over. “Zitka,” he says, pointing. “And Dickie’s Mama and Papa. And that’s you.”

“Yeah,” Dick’s voice feels rough. “Yeah, that’s right. How about you?”

Timmy brings his book up, smiling. “It’s me and Alfie and the doggies, and here’s you and Bruce and here’s my Mama and my Papa, and that’s from when I was a grown-up.”

Dick’s heart twists. “It’s nice,” he says, then points at himself. “I look pretty cool, huh?”

Timmy nods. “But not as cool as me,” he says, face serious, and Dick laughs.

September comes, and with it, another gala. Bruce pulls a face when Alfred mentions it - this one is important, Sir; your presence is needed - so unexpectedly childlike Dick finds himself laughing.

“Really, sir, you should set a better example for the children,” Alfred says, and Bruce sighs, murmurs an apology.

“It’s alright,” Dick says, cheery. “Do I have to wear a tie again?”

Alfred nods. “Yes, Master Dick.”

Dick groans, sliding down his chair, and Timmy copies him. Bruce sends him a faintly sympathetic look.

“I believe Commissioner Gordon will be there with his daughter,” Alfred says. “And a few others are bringing their children. You might make some friends.”

Dick perks up, at that. It’s been ages since he’s been around people his own age - even at Haly’s, there were a few others around his age, like Raya and Zane. He glances at Timmy. “You might make some friends, too, Timmy,” he says, ruffles his hair.

“I thought we were friends,” Timmy says, a pout starting to form on his lips.

“We are,” Dick says, and can’t help the chuckle in his voice. “I mean - other friends. Friends your own age.”

Timmy scrunches up his nose. Dick smiles, straightens his back before Alfred can say anything, and keeps eating his cereal.

–

It’s evening. Dick stifles a yawn, combs his hair, shrugs on his blazer. He glances at Timmy, wrapping his tie around his neck. Dick moves to help, but Timmy shakes his head.

“I can do it myself,” Timmy says, and starts tugging at the tie. It’s still wonky, and Timmy frowns at it, moves it left and right, before sighing and nodding. Dick bites down the urge to smile.

“You wanna help with mine?” Dick says, taking his tie from the bedside table, placing it around his neck, under his collar.

Timmy grins. “Yeah!”

“Like how Alfred said, remember?” He says, and Timmy nods, face turning serious.

"I remember," Timmy says.

–

They step into the hallway. Dick’s shoulders drop. There’s a lot of people here, sure, but there are no eyes on them, not this time. At least, not as many.

He spots Bruce in the crowd, with that strange, charming grin he only gives for the papers, surrounded by people; Commissioner Gordon stands in the corner, talking to a woman with black hair holding a camera; a man with glasses hovers near her, taking pictures of the hors d’oeuvres; next to him, a teenage girl sitting at the table types on her computer.

Dick walks over to Commissioner Gordon, then hovers nearby the man with the glasses. Someone clears their throat, and Dick turns, and it’s that girl with red hair.

“You’re Richard, right? Bruce Wayne’s new ward.” She offers her hand to shake; Dick shakes it.

“It’s Dick,” he says, quietly. Her lips quirk up.

“And you must be Timmy.” She places her computer on the table, bends down, shakes Timmy’s hand.

“I’m Barbara Gordon. Babs. I’m hacking my school’s website,” she continues, sitting back on her chair. “Wanna see?”

Dick nods, steps closer. "It looks cool," he offers, even though he's not too sure what she's typing, and she grins.

“Me too,” Timmy says, and Dick drags a seat over so Timmy can sit.

“It’s just for fun,” she says. “I got bored, you know? Well - maybe not. You live with Bruce Wayne, after all.” She types some more, then turns the computer towards him. Dick doesn’t understand anything, but nods when she says, “Their security isn’t that good. It’s got a lot of flaws, so it’s easy to get in. See? Anyway, Dad and Bruce have been talking a lot, so I’ve been trying to listen in, but it’s harder than I thought.”

“Nor can I," Dick says, pulling a face, and her lips quirk up. "Your Dad’s over there, right? It doesn't look like Bruce and Commissioner Gordon will talk today, though.”

Barbara laughs. “Yeah, Lois Lane is trying to ask him about Batman. I mean, I reckon she should focus on Superman - he’s the one in Metropolis, isn’t he?” There’s a crash, and Dick looks over, sees the man with glasses with wine on his jacket.

“Are you alright?” He calls, and the man flushes, nods.

“That’s Clark Kent,” Barbara whispers to him. “He works with Lois Lane.”

“You know a lot of people,” Dick says. "I don't really know anyone."

Barbara snorts. “Thanks. Not really, though. You just need to pay attention. They're on the news, sometimes. Or in the papers. Or in places like this.” She nods at the room. "It takes practise, that's all. And you haven't been here that long, have you?"

Like Bruce and Batman: the same stature, the same heavy, sharp walk, the same low, gravelled voice.

“Yeah,” Dick says. Then: “D’you like Batman?” The words come out before he can stop them, and he winces, after. (If Barbara wasn't suspicious before, then now she would be.) "I mean, you said he works with your Dad, and all?"

She shoots him an odd look. “I don’t know. He’s fine, I guess. Does his job. Dad isn’t always that happy with him, but they get along most of the time.” Her voice lowers. “Don’t tell anyone, but sometimes I follow him around.”

“Batman?” Dick whispers back. (His heart skips a beat. When he’s Robin - if Babara works it out, because how could she not - that could make things difficult.)

She grins. “Yeah. Anyway, look,” she turns her computer to both of them. “What d’you want to write?”

Timmy pipes up. “I like dowphins and bears,” he says. “And Dickie likes elephants. Maybe you can write that!”

Dick flushes, his stomach twisting. “We had an elephant at the - at Haly’s. She was sweet. We were friends. We are friends.” Because Zitka is still there, even if Dick doesn't know the next time he'll see her.

Barbara looks amused. “I see. I’ll write that, then.”

“Not my name,” Dick says, quickly. Timmy pouts, and Dick reaches over, ruffles his hair. “It’s a school website, Timmy. I’m starting school next year - I want them to like me.”

“Don’t worry,” Babara says. “I’ll change it back before Monday morning. And they’ll like you. You seem like a good kid.”

Dick presses the heel of his shoe into the floor. (Dad’s voice, in his ears: you’re a good kid. Mom, calling him her little Robin: what a wonderful boy I have.) “I guess. Thanks.”

“You want to see anything else?”

Timmy claps. “Cwime alley, please!”

She presses her lips together, but Dick can see her eyes are light. “Crime alley?”

“We watched this documentary,” Dick starts.

Barbara chuckles. “It’s alright. Sure, I can get that up.”

Timmy shifts closer. Dick squeezes his shoulder. The video plays: Park Row: Crime or Punishment? Timmy stares at the screen. Dick scratches at his forehead.

“I was really into scorpions when I was four, according to Dad,” Barbara says, voice low. “So compared to that, this is probably better.”

Dick’s lips quirk up. “We had this lion at Haly’s, Gunther. Mom used to say I would always sneak off and try to say hi to him as a kid, and Dad and her would be panicking, trying to find me.” It’s warm, the memory. Warm and terrible and hot in his stomach.

Timmy points at the screen. “Look, Dick, it’s Bwuce when he was your age!”

Dick looks. Little Bruce Wayne, going home from the cinema with his parents…At least Bruce understands, he thinks. At least he’s not alone in this grief.

“I think I want to see my parents,” Dick says.

Bruce looks up from where he’s reading the newspaper. Dick catches the edge of the title: Bruce Wayne stuns in new…

“We can go now, if you’d like.”

Dick nods. “Can I take some flowers first, though?”

“Of course.”

“Okay,” Dick says. His stomach squirms, twists. But he’s ready, he thinks.

–

He places the flower at their graves.

“Hi, Mom,” he whispers. “Hi, Dad. I…I miss you. I’m okay, though. Bruce Wayne took me in. I know they all say he’s a playboy, but he’s pretty nice. And Alfred’s great, even though he’s a stickler for manners. And Timmy’s pretty cute, too.” He pauses. “I’m going to be Robin, Mom, Dad. Your Robin. I’m…” his voice cracks. (His mother, calling him her Robin, his father - I’ll take you to the game, this weekend.) “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about what I heard. I’m sorry I…I’m sorry we couldn’t go to the game.” His vision blurs. “I miss you.” His throat aches. Warm tears spill down his cheeks, and he wipes at them. “I miss you.” He stays like that for a while, crouched, throat aching, rubbing at his eyes.

“Here,” Bruce says, takes a tissue from his pocket. “It’s alright. It’s healthy, you know.”

“I know,” Dick mumbles, blows his nose. Bruce pats his back, then takes a photo from his pocket. “It’s the photo you took at Haly’s. I had it recovered.”

Dick takes it, fingers trembling. “Thanks, Bruce,” he says, and his heart feels loud in his chest. He traces his parents with his thumb. His mother’s warm hugs, his father carrying him on his shoulders, that safety, that hope.

–

He finds Tim on the couch, sits down next to him.

“Here,” Dick says, fishing the photo out of his pocket. “That’s my parents, and that’s yours. That’s you, and me, see?”

“There’s no Bruce and Alfwed,” Timmy says, then presses his nose closer to the photo. “I remember this. You said you’d do it speshully for me!”

Dick swallows. “That’s right, Timmy.”

“And then your parents falled and Mama and Papa were gone, too?”

Dick clears his throat. His heart twists in his chest. “Yeah, Timmy. That’s right.”

Timmy shuffles closer, presses his shoulder to Dick’s. “I miss them.”

“Me, too.”

There’s the low sound of footsteps, and then Alfred’s there. “I’ve made some cookies. They’re on the kitchen counter. They’re still warm.”

“Cookies!” Timmy exclaims, then stands, starts tugging Dick to his feet. Dick draws in a breath, tucks the photo back into his pocket, and follows Timmy to the kitchen.

(He misses his parents - of course he does. But he’s got a family here, too. Even if it wasn't the one he thought he’d have.)

Dick stares at the buildings, heart in his throat. He knows them. He’s spent weeks - months - studying them, practising falling, practising swinging through the air with the grappling hooks.

“Alright,” he breathes, and starts to climb. Bruce will catch him if he falls, he knows that. (But he’s not going to fall.)

And he swings. And for a moment, he’s wondrously weightless, suspended in air, wind at his feet, a delighted shout caught in his throat. He swings, again, turns back to Bruce. “I’m doing it!” He yells, and Bruce nods. Dick thinks he can see an almost-pleased smile playing on his lips.

It feels almost like Haly’s, again. But the moon is bright, and the air is cold, and he’s swinging off buildings, not bathed in the warm light of the circus, his parents beside him. He shakes the thought from his head, swallows, swings again, feels that familiar weightless joy, arcing through the air.

He freezes at the sound of quiet sobbing. Drops down, a practised fall. Glances at Bruce, who nods, then creeps closer and closer, until the figure comes into view.

That’s a -

That’s a toddler. His stomach swoops. She looks younger than Timmy, and he’s only four.

“Hey,” he says, crouches next to the girl. “You okay?”

The girl cries harder, saying something Dick can’t quite discern.

“You got lost?” He guesses, and the girl sniffles, nods. “You think you can take my hand, first?” He offers her his hand until the girl, wiping at her nose, takes it. “I’ve got a really important job for you. You can’t let go of my hand until you get home, alright?”

She nods. “Powtant,” she echoes.

“Do you know where your house is?”

She shakes her head, no. “Went to pawk, then gets ice-cweam, then Mummy gone,” she says, and starts crying again, rubbing at her eyes.

“Did you walk to the park?”

She nods. “Holded Mummy’s hand.”

Near the park, he mouths to Bruce.

“Are you in a house or an apartment?”

She stares at him, confused. (Of course, he tells himself. She’s a toddler.)

“I mean, do you have lots of neighbours, or are they a little far away?”

“Susie have three kitties,” she says. “An’ Barthomemew make cake an’ I eat for tea.”

Apartment? he mouths, but Bruce is already searching.

“You wanna say hi to Batman?”

“Mr. Matban?” She says. Dick stifles a laugh. “Where?”

“Just there,” DIck says, pointing. “But it might be hard to see him, ‘cause he blends into the night to surprise evil people.”

Her nose scrunches. “Me no evil.”

“Well, maybe he’s just shy.”

She pokes his chest with her other hand. “Who you?”

“I’m Robin,” Dick says, standing. “I’m Batman’s right hand man.”

“Wobin,” she echoes, then presses closer to him. “Cold.”

“You want my special cape?”

She sniffles, but perks up. “Speshul?”

“Here,” Dick says, takes off his cape, wraps it around her shoulders.

She clutches the cape with her other hand. “Pwetty.”

“Who’re you?”

“Luchy,” she says. “Mummy call me Lulu.”

“Found her,” Bruce murmurs. “Apartment complex 5b - near the park - has an old man called Bartholemew Miller, and a girl named Lucy Park who lives with her mother, Chloe Park, according to Jim.” Commissioner Gordon, he tells himself.

“Let's get you home, hey?”

The girl nods. “T’ank yous,” she says, and Dick squeezes her hand.

“You’re welcome.”

Dick’s heart feels sad and warm, all at once. He draws in a breath, lets it out. The sky is black and glittering, above, like that night all those months ago. There’s still a pit of grief, low and rocky in his stomach, but it’s easier to breathe around it, now.

His parents would be proud, he thinks.

Chapter Text

Autumn turns the ground orange-brown with leaves, the wind warm and bright, the manor drafty.

Tim and Dick start taking walks, Alfred or Bruce tailing behind them, Timmy stomping on leaves - “Look, Dickie, the leaves are crunchy!” - Dick walking over a few of his own, revelling in the crunch. (He’d had a childhood, sure - long days reading to Zitka, fingers clutching the bar until they were blistered, carried around on his father’s shoulders, his mother reading him stories at night - but he was spinning and jumping and backflipping by the age of five. Haly’s didn’t leave a whole lot of time for carefree play like this, not when there were performances to be perfected.)

Timmy starts saying knock-knock jokes, after seeing them on the TV, over and over, until Dick’s a little annoyed but never says it, because seeing Timmy giggle has the annoyance melting away - (“Knock-knock!”

“Who’s there?”

“Ah!”

“Ah-who?”

“A were-wolf!”)

Dick goes on patrols some nights, with Bruce, and Timmy mutters: “I want to go too,”before each patrol.

“When you’re older,” Dick says. “Like my age.”

Timmy scrunches his nose. “But that’s ages away.”

Dick pokes his nose. “Exactly.”

Dick thinks of the silence that stretches through the night, of that heaviness in his gut. (Maybe there’s a part of him that hopes Tim won’t.)

–

They’re reading on the couch, and Dick is sketching the bronze hue of the leaves outside, Timmy says, “If I may,” and Dick presses his lips together to stop himself from laughing. “Why is Batman Batman?”

Dick hesitates. How is he supposed to explain this? “Well, you know, Tim, after Bruce’s parents–”

“Nuh-uh, I mean why isn’t he Catman, or Coolman, or something? Is Bwuce just bad at naming things?”

Dick bites the inside of his cheek. “I dunno, buddy,” he says. “You’ll have to ask Bruce.”

So Timmy does ask a slightly confused Bruce, who ends up saying, “Well, I a bat flew through my window shortly after my parents passed, and I took it as a sign. I suppose the name just caught on.”

Timmy hums, and accepts it, then pats Bruce’s leg, and says: “It could have been wowse,” very solemnly.

(Is it so bad that Dick starts to laugh? That he laughs harder, when Bruce frowns at him?)

“Here,” Bruce hands him a card at the lounge room table. “Sign.”

Dick pulls back from his maths problems and looks at the card. “What is - it’s Barbara’s birthday?”

Bruce nods, ever so slightly.

Dick peers at the Happy Birthday from the Wayne family Bruce has scrawled at the top. “I’m not really a Wayne,” he says, awkwardly.

“You can sign with Grayson,” Bruce says, voice a touch gentle.

So Dick does. Have a great birthday, Barbara, he writes. Thanks for hanging out with me at the Gala. Dick Grayson. He’s struck by the faint memory of signing cards at Haly’s: slipping into a hidden spot, pen behind his ear, scribbling out a fond few sentences in that near-dark before anyone could spot him. This is different: the solid table beneath him, Bruce next to him, silent; the lights bright above.

“Whash that?” Timmy says. Dick looks over: he’s munching on a white-chocolate-and-raisin cookie.

“It’s a card for Barbara, Tim,” Dick says, passing the card over. “You want to sign?”

Timmy nods. “I want to write on the card too, pwease?”

Dick bites back a laugh. He glances at Bruce, who seems to be staring at the cookie instead of Timmy. “Here,” Dick says, passes the pen over, too.

Timmy writes something Dick can just about decipher (Hapee birf dae Barbra)

“You got anymore of those cookies, Timmy?” Dick says, poking Timmy’s hand.

Timmy nods, then shakes his head, drawing his cookie closer to him. “This one’sh mine. But Alfred made some more.”

“I brought some cookies,” Alfred’s voice rings. Dick can’t be sure, but Bruce seems to brighten. “Your favourite, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, and lays the plate down.

He spots Timmy’s and Dick’s writing on the card. “I am sure Miss Gordon will be pleased,” he says, voice warm, and Dick smiles.

They hear the crash of glass, first. Dick swings himself over, spots where the sound is coming from - a window busted at an electronics shop; a man lugging a TV outside, the price tag still attached.

Dick jumps behind him, quiet as he can, readies himself for a fight, but the man is frozen. Dick looks up: Bruce is in front of him. The man stares at Batman. He drops the TV. It smashes to the ground, pieces scattering with the broken glass of the window.

“Um,” the guy says, trying to back away, then realising Dick is behind him. “Er - look, man, I just – I know these people, and they’ve already got enough, and I was just going to sell it, and they can get the money back on insurance, and –”

“Do you need help?”

He stares at Bruce, blankly. “Help?” he echoes.

Bruce nods.

The guy shifts from foot to foot. “I mean - I have a kid, you know? I gotta -”

“I hear these people are hiring,” Bruce says, handing him a card. Dick peers at it. Wayne Enterprises. “Don’t let me see you out here again.”

“Y-yes, sir,” the guy says, stepping back. “Um. Thanks.”

Dick stares at Bruce, for a few moments, as he sends a message. His heart feels warm. Bruce looks scary, like this, half in shadow, cape billowing behind him, looming over the streets, but Dick knows he’s almost anything but. (He’s kind. He’s taken Dick and Timmy in without any argument. He’s helping people. He’s - fixing things. Maybe Dick can, too. Maybe he can be a force for hope, for kindness, for goodness, too.)

“Come on,” Bruce says, and swings away. “We’re meeting Jim nearby.”

–

“Er - hi, Mr - Commissioner,” Dick says, then stops. (Does Commissioner Gordon even know Dick is Robin? Does he even know Bruce is Batman? He should have done a better job changing his voice, his mannerisms, like Bruce does.) He lowers his voice. “How are you?”

Commissioner Gordon’s lips tilt up, but his eyes are serious.

“I’m doing well,” Commissioner Gordon says. “Is Batman around?”

Dick nods. Bruce slips into view, out from the shadows.

“Commissioner Gordon,” he greets. “As you can see, we are on patrol.”

Commissioner Gordon nods. His gaze lands on Dick, lingers, and his lips pull down, before he raises his gaze to Bruce’s. “Just making sure you’re all keeping safe. Especially with all the crime that’s been going on.”

“Of course,” Bruce says. His voice is still that familiar Batman growl.

Commissioner Gordon speaks.“We’ve had reports of theft at the Gallery. And…” his voice drops, but Dick hears, anyway. “We’ve had a murder in The Bowery. A - well known politician.”

Bruce nods. “Thank you,” he says, then gestures to Dick. “Come.”

Dick hops behind him.

“So you’re going to investigate? Can I come?”

Bruce sighs. “I’ll think about it.”

(Which means no, Dick thinks, and his gut burns in frustration. Bruce has already taken him on as Robin. When will he let Dick help him?)

Dick swings from building to building. His shadow stretches out behind him, grey in the moonlight. The air is cool, carrying the scent of damp leaves. Bruce looms behind him, shadow-like, melting into the darkness of the almost-night.

(Maybe if he proves himself, Bruce will let him help him. Maybe if he proves himself, he can solve his parents’ murder.)

Dick stops at the glint of glass in the moonlight. Drops down, inches closer. He tilts his head: a window broken; inside, necklaces and jewels scattered around the floor, the counter.

He stares at the ground. There’s something there - a letter, a sign. He picks it up.

“It’s not a riddle,” he says. “It’s a - a photo? There’s a shadow in it, too.” He peers at the photo: a street - in Gotham, but he can’t tell which one - the sun high, above (midday? Past?) and the shadow stretching out across the gravel.

Bruce plucks it from Dick’s hands. “Looks like it’s 3pm, based on the lighting,” he says. “And the shadow is…about a metre. So we’re looking at someone around six foot, maybe a little under.”

“You can tell all that?” Dick blurts. He leans over, stares at the photo. “Do you know where it is, too?”

Bruce shakes his head, no. “The Riddler hasn’t gotten out,” Bruce says. “This is someone else. A copycat.” He sighs. “We’re being taunted.”

“Taunted?” Dick echoes.

“Stay behind me.”

“I will,” Dick says, but he peers around as Bruce opens the door, slips inside. There’s no footsteps, and the glass has broken inwards and outwards - which maybe meant the person left the same way they came in? Jewels are scattered everywhere, but Dick can’t tell if anything’s been stolen. (Maybe they’re just trying to send a message?)

“It’s not Selina, at least,” Bruce murmurs. “She wouldn’t target a family-owned jeweler.”

“Is it someone new?”

Bruce sighs, again. “Looks like it. Alright. I’ll get Jim know, but I doubt he’ll get around to it. He’s got enough on his plate, as it is.” Bruce brings out his card, and scribbles something onto it. “They can come here for insurance,” he says, dropping the card onto the desk. Bruce peers around for a few long minutes, staring, thinking, then turns.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go home. It’s late, and you have to spar early tomorrow.”

“I’m coming,” Dick says, following. He gives one last glance at the jeweller’s - someone new? - then races into the night.

He wakes early the next morning, and slips out before Timmy wakes up. He’s going to make sure Bruce lets him do more, tonight. He’s going to show Bruce he isn’t afraid of hard work, or bruises, or any of that. He’s going to show Bruce he’s capable.

He finds Bruce at the Batcave, climbs his way up one of the staircases and onto the platform above. (It’s strange, behind so high up, again. Strange, and familiar, and aching.)

“It’s not easy being a performer, you know,” he says. Bruce looks up from where he’s working. “I used to practise ‘til my hands were blistered and my legs were cramping, and I’d just work through it, ‘cause the show needed me to. My parents needed me to.”

Bruce makes a noise of acknowledgement, sighs.

“I can take a few hits, Bruce,” he continues. “You can trust me. I'm not just any kid.”

“Dick,” Bruce says, slowly. “I understand. I do. And I trust you - you wouldn’t be out there with me if I didn’t–”

“I thought I was only out there because you thought it was an outlet for me,” Dick says.

Bruce coughs. “Still, you wouldn’t be with me if I didn’t trust you. But you’re eleven, Dick.”

“I’m almost twelve,” he mutters. “And, anyway, that didn’t–”

“You’re eleven. You don't need to be able to take hits . Trust me.”

Dick sighs. Stretches his arms over his head. (It’s like Bruce, to be so…) “Okay.”

“What’re you doing, Timmy?”

Dick crouches next to him in the garden.

“Lookin’ for roly-polys,” Timmy says.

“The little pill bugs?” Dick brushes the ground.

Timmy nods. “They’re cute. And Bwuce an’ me watched a documentary that showed how they curled up.”

“Well, alright,” Dick starts digging in the ground. “I’ll look too.”

“‘Kay,” Timmy says. “But you got to be careful, because they’re weally shy.”

Dick’s lips quirk up. “I’ll be careful. I’m always careful.”

“No, you’re not, Dickie. You spilled your tea last week.”

Dick ruffles Timmy’s hair, then pokes his cheek, streaking it with dirt. Timmy whines, bats his hand away - I don’t want to get the dirt on me, Dickie!

“Look,” Dick says, pointing.

“You found them!” Timmy says, and stares at it, eyes wide.

Dick picks one up - gently, carefully, and drops it into Tim’s hand.

“Hold it gently, Timmy,” Dick says, and Timmy nods, brow furrowed.

“Hi, little roly poly,” Timmy whispers. The roly poly crawls over Timmy’s palm, then curls into a ball. “It feels funny,” he says, smiling up at Dick. Dick’s heart squeezes.

“You wanna find one for me, buddy?”

Timmy nods. “Bye-bye, roly poly! Let’s say hi to your friends,” he says, gently shaking the roly poly onto the ground, and peering at the others.

Dick freezes at the quiet sound of crying, drops into the street.

“Hey,” he says. The sobbing trails off. Dick steps closer: it’s a toddler, sniffling, face red.

“I’m Robin,” he says. “What’s your name?”

The toddler mumbles something Dick doesn’t quite catch. Dick inches closer. He feels Bruce behind him, presence warm.

“Who is?” The kid says.

“I’m Robin, and that’s Batman,” Dick says.

“Catman,” the toddler says. Dick’s lips can’t help but turn upward.

Bruce crouches. “Yeah?”

“I want cat but Dada say no.” He wipes at his face. “So I wun away!” He starts sobbing, rubbing at his eyes. “An’ then I gots losht an’–”

“You’re okay now,” Dick says, crouching. “You’re with us. We’ll help you get back home. Okay?”

The toddler wipes at his nose. “’Kay.”

Bruce hands him a tissue, and the kid stares at Bruce. Bruce sighs, puts the tissue to the kid’s nose, and the kid blows.

“T’aks you,” the kid says. The toddler reaches over, grasps Bruce’s cape. “Fin’ Dada now.”

“Alright,” Dick says, standing. He offers the toddler his hand; the kid hesitates, then grasps it, one hand still clutching Bruce’s cape. “Let’s go find your Dada.”

It’s nights like these when Dick misses his Dad. He pushes the ache in his chest away, smiles down at the toddler.

Dick stares at the leaves. (Sometimes when he thinks too hard all he sees in them are his parents, falling to their deaths, crumpling in front of his eyes, that scream caught in his throat.)

“Let’s go, Dickie,” Timmy says, tugging at his arm. He points at the park. Alfred says something behind them, drowned by the wind - probably it’s rude to point - and Dick lets Tim pull him forward.

Dick watches as Timmy rolls down the slide; sits with him in the sandpit and starts making a sandcastle as well, until Timmy gets bored and wanders off. He feels a little old for all this, after everything. After becoming Robin, after seeing his parents…

Timmy starts talking to a few other kids. Dick takes a step back, then another. They’re all around Timmy’s age - five or six - and their parents are nearby, eyes tracking them, and Dick feels - small.

He wants his parents back. He wants his friends back. He wants Haly’s back.

He moves next to Alfred.

“He’s making friends,” Dick says, and his throat feels raw. “It’s good. I’m glad.”

Alfred places his hand on Dick’s shoulder. “Your time will come too, young sir. You’re a sociable boy.”

Dick flushes. “Thanks, Alfred.”

“Come play tag, Dickie!” Timmy calls.

“You’ve been summoned, it seems,” Alfred says, and Dick barks a laugh.

“Guess I have,” he says, and runs up to Timmy.

October arrives with chilling gusts of wind and the crackle of Alfred’s radio in the kitchen. Their patrols get colder, and Bruce starts talking about putting thermal heating in Dick’s suit - I should have thought of it earlier. Alfred starts making soup for dinner, with warm, soft dinner rolls, and sometimes Dick smells the honeyed scent of sweet bread in the afternoons. Timmy takes out his scarf and jumpers, again, and Dick tries not to laugh too hard when he sees him all bundled up - it’s impowtant to be warm, Dickie! His fingers still ache with the cold, and his lungs burn, and sometimes he thinks of Haly’s, of those long Summers, of those winters spent with his parents, but then Timmy calls him over or Bruce takes them outside or Alfred lets him sprinkle the cupcakes and it soothes the burn in his chest, just a little.

“–killed in Gotham Heights today, with their faces–” Dick inches closer to the radio, but Alfred turns it off before he can catch any more. Dick pulls a face

“Perhaps a little early for such news,” Alfred says, voice dry, when he notices the look on Dick’s face. “And a little serious for present company.” There’s a clatter, a patter of footsteps, and then Timmy comes into view, holding Mr Bat in one hand and his toy car in the other, trailed by Bruce, book in one hand, phone in the other.

“I am making chamomile tea,” Alfred brings out the kettle, the cups. “Would you like a cup?”

Dick nods. (He can’t say no to Alfred’s tea - warm, and sweet, and home-like.) “Yes, please.”

“Pwease,” Timmy echoes, climbing onto the chair next to Dick.

Bruce hands the book he’s holding to Dick - “You should read it; it’ll be useful,” - then starts walking back to his office.

“No tea, Master Bruce?” Alfred says, and Bruce sighs.

“Not today, I’m afraid. I have to – manage something,”

“Is it that Bowery - thing?” Dick says, glancing at Timmy, who’s making vroom vroom noises and moving the car back and forth on the table.

“Master Bruce has a fundraiser coming up,” Alfred says.

Dick scrunches up his nose. “I thought he didn’t like handling those.”

“This one seems important,” Alfred says, and hands Dick the cup of tea.

Dick sighs, twines his fingers around the cup. If a politician was killed, then maybe Bruce is trying to work out who killed them? Bruce runs in those sorts of circles, after all, doesn’t he? (And why aren’t his parents important?)

“Dickie?” Timmy says. “What’s that?” He points at the tea.

“It’s chamomile tea,” Dick says, turning the page of his book. (How to Read People: A Guide.) “It helps you relax, or something.”

“How does it work from inside you?”

Dick pauses. “Er, I guess it…” he glances at Alfred, who’s slightly smiling. “It has stuff in it that helps you relax.”

Timmy nods, then goes back to running his car up and down the table.

Dick takes a sip. It’s warm, down his throat. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s home.

Bruce swings in front, then drops down, silent, keeps walking.

Dick follows.

“The window’s broken,” Dick says. “Like last time. There’s no clue, though.”

Bruce works the door open, steps inside, then stops. Bruce pushes him back, behind him, but Dick catches a glimpse, anyway.

His stomach lurches. That’s a - a person. On the floor. Covered in blood.

“Stay here,” Bruce says, and rushes forward, checks the man’s pulse, then presses a hand to his chest. “Jim,” Bruce speaks into his phone. “I’ve got an injured man here. You should come.” Bruce glances around, frowns, picks up something from the floor and slips it into a plastic bag. A hair tie?

“Jim’s coming,” Bruce says. “He’s still got a pulse, but it’s thready.”

Dick swallows. (Falling, that terrible crack, that overwhelming numbness–)

“He’ll be okay,” Bruce says. “I’m putting pressure on his wounds. It’ll be fine.”

Dick nods. His head feels like cotton. He walks over to the window, peers through, tries to sift through his thoughts, push away the memory of falling, and falling, and blood, sticky on his hands. (Glass inside and out, like last time. But no clue.)

–

Jim comes with an ambulance, and they load the man in. Jim nods his thanks, then leaves.

The street is quiet, after. Dick’s voice echoes when he speaks. “Is it that person from The Bowery?”

Bruce falls silent for a moment. Dick looks over. “That’s someone else,” he says, quietly.

“Oh.” Dick stares at the space where the man was lying. “The police aren’t solving it?”

“Jim is trying his best, with the people he can trust.” And some of them are corrupt, Bruce doesn’t have to say. “I’m just helping out. I don’t always…” he sighs. “It’s why I’ve been donating to Arkham and the prison.”

“You don’t like guns, right? But Commissioner Gordon uses guns.”

Bruce stills. “Yes,” he says, and starts walking. “He does. But that’s why I don’t. It’s why I - we - do what we do. To protect people, when the system is failing them. No one needs to feel the sort of grief we’ve felt.”

Dick nods, walks a little faster. “B?”

Bruce makes a noise of acknowledgement.

“Are you closer to solving my parents’ murder?”

Bruce stops, turns, stares at Dick. Dick thinks his eyes look soft, even with the mask, even in the shadows. “I’m solving it, Dick. Of course I am. I know - I know.”

And Dick supposes he does. He saw his parents killed in front of him too, after all, didn’t he?

“Dickie, I can’t get out,” Timmy says, pouting.

Dick yawns, sits up in bed. “Can’t get what?”

“Outside!”

“Well, let me go over,” he says, shrugs on his slippers. (It's probably for the best, he thinks. Timmy's four, and he's smart, and he likes running places.)

Dick bites his lip to keep from smiling. Bruce and Alfred have put a latch at the top of the door to stop Timmy from opening it.

“Well, look,” Dick points at the latch. “That’s why.”

“Can’t you make it go away?”

“I think you’ll have to ask Alfred, Timmy. He’ll have a special key for it.”

“Special key,” Timmy echoes, then sighs, sounding far older than his age. Dick bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling.

“Come on,” Dick says, taking Timmy’s hand. “We’ll go ask.”

“But it’s cold outside. Mama always says you can't go outside when it's too cold 'cause then your toes will freeze off.” Dick's heart twists, low and fierce.

Dick keeps his voice gentle, tries not to show the ache. "D’you want to go to the library instead?”

Timmy considers Dick’s words for a few minutes, then nods. “May we read the book about Cwime Alley?”

Dick smiles, ruffles Timmy’s hair with his other hand, heart warming. Thinks of sinking into the couch, and pointing at the pictures, and the low, steady hum of the fireplace. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

Chapter Text

The end of October arrives, and Dick starts spotting skull stickers on store windows and carved pumpkins on doorsteps and kids running around in masks. He keeps candy in his pockets, just in case he runs into any kids on patrol - and sometimes for himself, when Bruce is droning on about something or other and it’s midnight and Dick’s feet are aching and his eyes are drooping. (But even on those nights, he’s got enough practice, enough years of reflex after reflex, to keep himself steady and light and sprightly. He knows that much.) Alfred decides to bake some cookies, and Timmy insists on them being in the shape of Jack O’ Lanterns, (“’cause it’s Halloween!”)

Dick finds himself glancing around while on patrol in the late evenings, eyes landing on kids carving a pumpkin with their parents, or chewing candy, or playing tag, then drags his gaze away, ignoring the ache in his chest, the pang in his gut. He’s too old for all that, he tells himself. He’s Robin.

Bruce comes home one evening with a sack of pumpkins, and Dick spends the rest of the night carving a smile into one and stopping Timmy from cutting himself (“but I wanna carve too, Dickie! I’m four!”) while Alfred makes pumpkin soup with the leftovers. The knife is cold in his hands, the floor hard under his feet, but the Manor lights are warm and orange, Alfred’s radio crackling in the background, the scent of pumpkin soup and cinnamon soft, wafting through the rooms.

“You went to the orphanage today, right?” Dick asks Bruce, after. Timmy’s in bed, and Alfred is knitting next to his radio, and Bruce is checking his grappling hook, to Alfred’s sighs.

Bruce nods.

“Did you…I mean, was it…?” He could’ve ended up there, too, he knows, if Bruce hadn’t taken him in. And he knows what Gotham does to kids like him and Timmy.

“I’m keeping an eye on things,” Bruce says. “They did insist I take some pumpkin, after…” he clears his throat. “Well, the older children needed a proper recreational room, so that’s getting funded now. And they had grown the pumpkins themselves. I couldn’t say no.”

“‘Course not,” Dick says, and grins, just a little, ignores the low, uncomfortable twinge in his gut.

–

Dick peers outside on Halloween, watching the yellow glow of Bruce’s pumpkin on the doorstep, bright in the late evening. “Do we have to patrol?”

“I will,” Bruce says. “You can go trick or treating. Don’t worry about it.”

“Do we have a lot of neighbours?” Dick says.

Bruce glances at Timmy, eating an apple at the kitchen table and talking about dinosaurs to Alfred, then looks away. “No. Davenport is our closest. We can drive into the city. I’ll need to for patrol, regardless.”

“Davenport’s the guy you play golf with sometimes, isn’t he?”

Bruce sighs. “He is. And Alfred sometimes plays tennis with him, with rather more success.”

Dick bites back a smile. Bruce doesn’t care for all that - "highfalutin machinations,” as Alfred had once put it, voice dry - but he tries his best to keep up his image as Bruce Wayne, playboy-billionaire-philanthropist with more interest in golf than his business.

–

“Come on,” Dick says, after dinner, patting Timmy’s head. “You ready?”

Dick is dressed - rather ingeniously, he thinks - as Batman, and Tim is dressed as a ghost (“like the one that’s supposed to be haunting Crime Alley!”), a white bedsheet over his head. “Yup!” Timmy says, and Dick can see his smile even under the bedsheet. Timmy shakes his basket. “Will we get a lot of candy? Can I eat it all tonight?”

“Well, I hope so. And maybe we can’t eat all of it,” Dick says, grins. “But a whole lot, I bet.”

“Hows come we can’t eat all the candy?”

“‘Cause it’ll make us sick. And, I dunno - maybe Alfred wants to bake with some of it.”

“Like make cookies? Can we eat cookies? Can we make gummy worm cookies?”

“Maybe later. Come on, let’s head downstairs,” he says, and Timmy holds the sleeve of Dick’s jumper as they walk down to the lounge, where Bruce is sitting, reading a newspaper. He turns, stands, when he sees them.

“It’s…” Bruce starts.

“You said yourself that other kids will be dressed up like Batman,” Dick says, quickly, before Bruce can say anything else.

Bruce’s lips tilt up. “I did.”

The pillowcase-cape swishes behind him as he walks. “I won’t feel cold, or anything.”

“Take another cape with you, just in case,” Bruce says. “Alfred will insist upon it, I’m afraid,” he says, voice a little dry. “And I was going to say - I like the costume.”

“Well, alright.”

There’s the low clap-clap-clap of footsteps, and Alfred steps into view. His eyes are warm. “What do we have here?”

“I’m a ghost!” Timmy announces. “I’m Captain Jon Loger-kissed!”

“Logerquist?” Bruce says, then coughs, at Timmy’s frown. “I - er - that’s very impressive, Tim.”

Timmy nods.

“I’m Batman,” Dick says. (Which would maybe be more impressive if the real Batman wasn’t right in front of him, but…)

“A very accurate costume, young Dick,” Alfred says, and Dick laughs.

Bruce looks at Alfred, then at Dick. “Not that accurate,” he says, but his voice is light.

“Dickie needs eye makeup,” Tim says. “An’ the boots.”

“Thank you, Tim,” Bruce says, crouching, but Dick can see the sparkle in his eyes. Then, more gently, Bruce says: “You’ve done a good job with the mask, Dick. And using the pillowcase as a cape was smart.” Dick presses his lips together to stop from smiling too widely, but his heart warms.

He turns to Tim. “And you look like a very convincing ghost.”

Timmy beams, eyes crinkling. Dick can tell, even under the cutouts of the bedsheet.

“We’ll drive into the town, first,” Bruce says, standing. “I’ll drop you off nearby. Let Alfred or me know if you run into any issues - I’ll be there.”

“Okay,” Dick says. “We will.”

Bruce pauses. “I’ll be fine, tonight,” he says, more quietly, stare firm. You don’t need to come and help me.

“Alright,” Dick says. He’s got to look after Timmy, anyway.

–

“Bye,” Dick calls, as Bruce drives off. He turns to Timmy. “You ready?”

Timmy bounds off to the first house, and Dick follows. He catches sight of a few other kids his age, walking in groups, chatting about their candy, and looks away, ignores the pang in his chest. He fiddles with the strap on the mask, then stops next to Timmy.

“Trick or Tweat!” Timmy calls, and Dick echoes him, more quietly. He feels a little old to be saying trick or treat, to be honest; he’s eleven, but sometimes he doesn’t feel it. Not after - not after everything.

The door opens, and an elderly woman steps out, holding a bucket of treats.

“Ah, you’re those young Wayne boys, aren’t you? I saw you on the news.”

“Er - yes, Ma’am,” Dick says. (Grayson, he thinks, but doesn’t correct her. His mouth feels dry.)

“And polite, too! And, gosh, aren’t you a cute little ghost. Well, here,” she takes some candy in her hand and drops it into Dick’s bucket, then Tim’s. “Take some candy. And tell that Bruce Wayne we’ve missed him at the youth shelter. All the teenagers keep asking about him, you know.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Dick says.

She sighs, reaches over, squeezes Dick’s shoulder. (And he knows she’s just trying to be kind, trying to be supportive, trying to be understanding, but it feels a little uncomfortable, a little he’s pitiful. Like they both are.) “Off you go, then, boys. You have fun and stay safe, do you hear me?” She offers Dick a warm smile, and he finds himself returning it.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Dick says, again, more softly, and walks away.

Timmy’s already reaching into his bucket to organise his candy.

“You can do that later, Timmy,” Dick says, laughing a little. “They’ll just get messed up again.”

Timmy shakes his head, no, keeps sorting them.

“Trick or Treats!” Timmy says, when they stop at the next house, and a man opens the door.

“Uh – treat?” He says, and Timmy nods, bouncing on his heels.

“Here you go,” the man behind him says, carrying a plate of skull-shaped cookies. “Nice costumes, boys. A ghost, right? And…Batman?” At least the costume’s recognizable, Dick thinks.

“Captain Jon Loger-kist!” Timmy says. Both men’s lips tilt up, like they’re going to laugh.

“Well, that sure is cool,” the first man says, and Timmy beams.

“Yes, sir,” Dick says. “Batman.”

The second man hands them a cookie each. “You don’t need to call me sir. I’m not that old, am I?” His voice is light. “Well, maybe to you, I am. I dunno.”

“Not really,” Dick says. “Thanks,” Dick says, takes it, hands one to Timmy. It’s warm in his hand, comforting, smelling faintly like Alfred’s chocolate-chip cookies, except Alfred doesn’t put quite so many chocolate pieces in. And, more than that, it’s -

The first time he made chocolate chip cookies with his parents, he had put half the bag in, by accident. It was more a chocolate chunk with cookie bits, by the end. And it had looked a little like this - a little more burnt, a little less sweet, but similar, all the same.

“Have fun,” the first man says.

“Thanks you,” Timmy says.

Dick swallows. “Thanks,” he says, again, and the men smile at him as he walks away, but his throat feels raw. Timmy in front of him, munching on his cookie.

“- Nice they’re doing this, now. Nothing like this when I was that age,” he can hear the man saying, behind him.

“You should eat it, Dickie,” Timmy says. “Before it gets cold.”

“I will,” Dick says, but he wants to hold onto that warmth for just a bit longer.

The next house doesn’t answer, so Timmy bounds over to the one after that. Dick eats his cookie.

“Oh, there’s no one there,” the woman who answers says, when Dick asks. “The owner passed away a few months back - sweet old man.” She brings out her bucket of hard candy. “My Nana made these herself,” she says. “So they’re extra-special.” Dick takes a few pieces and hands some to Timmy.

“I wanna do it,” Timmy says, and the woman laughs, hands the bucket to Timmy.

“My niece is the same,” she says.

Timmy takes a few pieces. “Thank you!”

“You’re very welcome,” she says. “My neighbours on that side have some cotton candy that’s going quick, so you might want to head over.”

“- look a little familiar,” he hears the woman murmur, behind them, but then Timmy’s running over, and Dick has to rush to follow him, dodging past parents and children.

“Let’s hold hands,” he says, once he’s caught up to Timmy.

Timmy stares up at him. “You're scared?”

“Yeah,” Dick says, offering Timmy his hand.

Timmy nods, very seriously. “I’ll protect you, Dickie. Don’t worry! I’m the ghost of a Captain, so he’s super-duper powerful.”

Dickie bites back his smile. “Thanks, Timmy.”

He readjusts his candy bucket, takes Timmy’s hand. Sometimes his Dad would sneak him candy after an act - “Just a little pick-me-up,” he’d say, with a wink. “Since you’ve done so well.”

“Trick or Treat!” Timmy says, at the next house.

“One second!” A woman says, and then the door opens.

“Kids,” the woman says, and Dick can guess it’s a different one to the one who talked before. “Sorry. My fiancée’s just getting the cotton candy ready. It’ll be here soon, though.”

A few moments pass, and then another woman appears, holding bags of cotton candy. She clears her throat. “I come bearing treats,” she says, and Timmy smiles.

Dick takes the one that’s offered, and then Timmy reaches up and takes his, too. “I like pink,” he says.

“Me, too,” the woman says. “Good choice.” She turns to Dick. “Batman, right?”

Dick nods. “Yeah.”

She smiles. “Cool costume.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Dick says, placing the cotton candy into his bucket. Timmy echoes him. ("Ma'am?" He hears her say, after. "God, I'm not that old, am I?" And her fiancée, after: "You look beautiful, don't worry. He's probably just trying to be polite.")

Timmy pulls on his sleeve. “I’m coming, Timmy,” he says, as the women close their door, and they keep walking, house after house after house. An old lady gives Dick a whole armful of chocolate bars - “You seem like a sweet boy, darling,” - and a middle-aged man gives them packets of gummy worms - “My kids don’t like them, so…” - and a university student hands out lollipops with his younger sister - “You can take a few more, kid!” - and Dick’s chest feels warm, bu the end of it. The street is full of chatter and the sweet smell of sugar. The lights are bright, casting the streets with orange. Dick can feel his shoulders start to drop.

“Will my Mama an’ Dada be back ‘cause it’s Halloween?” Timmy says.

Dick swallows, gut dropping. “No, it - it doesn’t work like that, Timmy.”

Timmy’s face falls, scrunching up. “Why not?”

Dick glances over - parents dressed up alongside their children; groups of kids his age squabbling over candy; the smoggy smell of the air; the flicker of streetlamps. “It just…”

“But they have parents,” Timmy says, pointing. “And it’s Halloween! It’s special, so they gotta come back! And I wanna show them all of my candy!”

“I - they’re not coming back, Timmy. I already–” there’s something like frustration building in his gut, low and insistent and heavy, ash on his tongue.

Timmy tugs on Dick’s jumper sleeve, insistent. “But Mama said! She said we’ll go out and have fun on Halloween and I’ll be a ghost an’ she and Dada will be their - themselves in the suits and she promised!”

Dick swallows. His throat feels raw. “I know,” he says.”It’s - hard. So did…so did mine, but we can’t, Timmy. Why don’t we sort the candy?”

“But I don’t wanna. I want my Mama!”

“Come on. I bet I’ve got more sour gummies than you,” Dick says, trying to sound cajoling when all he feels like doing is crying.

“Nu-uh,” Timmy mumbles, wipes at his eyes, sniffles. “I gots more.”

They sit on the side of the street and sort the candy, and Timmy starts brightening, again, even if Dick doesn’t.

There’s a low murmur through the crowd of people, and Dick looks up. “Bruce,” he says, and stands. Timmy follows, carefully taking his candy bucket, and they walk over where Bruce has parked his car. ("Fancy car," he hears someone say, behind him. "Yeah, that's Bruce Wayne - you know, the billionaire?")

“Hey, Bruce,” he says, and, without thinking, buries his face into Bruce’s chest. He knows people are watching, but...

“Dick–” Bruce starts, then stops, moves his arms around Dick’s shoulders. “Are you…?”

“I’m okay,” Dick says, muffled. His throat feels tight. “I’m okay.”

“Me, too!” Timmy says, and Dick can feel him cling onto Bruce’s leg. “I want a hug!”

Dick barks out a laugh despite himself, shifts back, wipes at his eyes. Bruce’s arms are warm, and so is Timmy, pressed against his leg. “Alright, Timmy. That sounds good.”

November passes in a flurry of patrols and biting winds. “I can help,” Dick finds himself saying, over and over, even as Bruce pushes him back when he jumps into a fight, or whispers in hushed tones to Jim about clues and dead men, or straightens his cape at the end of each night.

“I know,” Bruce says, but Dick can’t stop the growing restlessness in his gut, the squeeze of his heart, the pound of his head. Bruce isn’t letting him in. (And what more can Dick see, that he hasn’t already? He’s already seen - he’s already seen -)

December arrives before Dick knows it. Timmy starts stars on the window; Dick stares out the kitchen window at night and watches snow fall; Alfred starts making hot chocolate in the mornings; Bruce patrols, and Dick follows, and his suit is warm against the bitter cold (“I’m glad the heating pads are working,” Bruce says); Dick and Tim walk outside, boots crunching over the snow (“We should get a Ch’istmas tree too, Dickie!”); Bruce buys a fancy Christmas tree (to Alfred’s fond amusement and Dick’s wide eyes and Timmy’s cheers) and hauls it up himself, and they start hanging items on it - a bauble here, a star there, those fairy lights Timmy had taken from the basement and insisted on putting on the tree (“It’ll make it look nice!”) a photo of Dick’s parents, a photo of Bruce’s - until it sparkles even in the low light of day, under the grey sky.

And Dick realises, halfway through the month, that he needs to buy presents.

“What d’you think?” He asks Timmy, in the shopping mall. Alfred had dropped them off and told them he’d be back by eleven; his eyes had sparkled, just a little, so Dick has no doubt that he’s already guessed what they’re doing.

“This tie?” Timmy says, pointing to one with stars on it. He clutches Mr. Bat to his chest.

“He’s already got a lot of ties,” Dick says. “I mean, I guess we could make him a photobook - with his parents, you know? - but…” They don’t have any pictures. He could ask Alfred, he supposes, or snoop around in Bruce’s study. But he doesn’t know if that would be pressing on a raw nerve, like it sometimes feels like for Dick. “Maybe a jumper? Or a watch?”

“This one’s got bats on it,” Timmy says, pulling on the hem.

“Don’t stretch it, Timmy.”

“I’m not!”

Dick runs his hand over the fabric. It’s soft, knitted. Rust-coloured with black bats patterned over it. “Alright. Let’s get this.” He drops it into the shopping basket.

Timmy bounces on his heels, pokes the jumper with Mr. Bat’s wing.

“We should get something for Alfred, too,” Dick says. “Maybe a mug?” Alfred likes making tea, he knows. “Or a teapot?”

Timmy noses at Mr. Bat’s ear. “I think Alfred likes teapots,” he says. “’Cause he makes the silver one at breakfast and he always pours it from super up high.”

Dick bites back his grin. “Alright. Let's head to that section. It’s a level up, right?”

Timmy holds his sleeve as they walk. “Why does Alfred like tea?”

“Well, they help you relax,” Dick says. “And he’s British, and Bruce said British people like tea, so…”

Tim nods. “Alfred’s stressed?”

“Well - I don’t - maybe?” Dick says. “I mean, Bruce is - you know.” He can’t really talk here, he knows, not with all the cameras around. Tim mouths something into Mr. Bat’s ear. “And I saw Alfred move some of the vases around back when we started doing cartwheels.”

“But we’re careful!” Timmy says. “And I didn’t do any!”

“You’ll learn, Timmy, don’t worry. It took me a little while, too. And - yeah, but - they’re pretty fragile, aren’t they? But, I mean, I don’t think he’s having the tea because he’s stressed,” Dick continues. “He offers Bruce tea a lot, doesn’t he?”

“Bwuce is stressed,” Timmy mumbles.

Dick sighs, then chuckles. “Maybe a little. But that’s why we’re getting them gifts, right?”

Timmy stares at the shopping cart, then nods. “He’ll like it,” he says, very firmly, and Dick’s lips tilt up. Timmy turns, runs towards the plates and crockery.

“Careful, Ti–”

“I am!” Timmy calls back. Dick looks up: a parent with their toddler sends him an amused, understanding look, and Dick looks away, heat crawling up his neck.

He knows Bruce has tried to keep them out of the papers as much as he can, so people don’t recognise them, but…do they see Tim and Dick and think they’re brothers? He’s…well, he doesn’t know what he is, to Timmy, to Bruce, to Alfred. Timmy had a family before, and so did Dick. And maybe they’re making their own family, now, making a new home for themselves, but–

He can’t say it’s the same, is it? A year ago, he had his parents. A year ago, they’d never met. A year ago, he didn’t have this crushing emptiness clawing at his insides, this tide of grief, pulling him under over and over again.

“Dickie!” Timmy calls, and Dick breaks out of his thoughts, jogs to join him.

He cares for Timmy, even if they’ve known each-other for less than a year. His heart warms, full, whenever Timmy smiles, or hugs him, or tugs at his sleeve, or asks him question after question after question. His heart warms when Alfred gives him tea, or makes his lobster thermidor, or asks him how his day’s been, or tells him to keep his elbows off the table. His heart warms whenever Bruce squeezes his shoulder, or tells him he’s done well, or quizzes him on history, or shares that understanding stare - I know what it’s like; how can I help?

“This one?” Timmy says, pointing at a cream teapot, patterned with flowers. “Alfred’s a gen-tel-man, so he likes flowers,” Timmy says, matter-of-fact.

“Yeah,” Dick says, picks it up gingerly, puts it into the shopping cart. “Good pick, Timmy,” he adds, and ruffles Timmy's hair.

Timmy beams. And things are okay.

“We used to do an extra show on Christmas,” he tells Bruce, on patrol one night.

Bruce hums in acknowledgement.

I miss my parents, he doesn’t say. I want them back.

“Are you going to visit Haly’s again?”

Bruce falls silent, for a moment. “Not for a show, Dick,” he says, voice soft.

“Then you’re still looking into it,” Dick says. “Right?”

“Of course. You don’t need to worry about that, Dick.”

“You’ll tell me when you find them, right?”

Bruce doesn’t answer. Dick supposes that’s answer enough. His stomach squeezes.

–

Dick raises the binoculars. Bruce has asked him to keep an eye on a penthouse while he goes and “checks something out”, so Dick is perched on a rooftop and staring into an empty kitchen. Bruce had mentioned something about embezzlement, and Dick knows a few billionaires who could fit the bill - Veronica Cale, Maxwell Lord, Roman Sionis - though he doesn’t think any of them live here - but Bruce didn’t mention anything else, and there’s no one inside, so Dick supposes he’s just waiting until someone eventually comes. (That, or until Bruce comes back from wherever he is.)

But until then - as Bruce would say - he’s assessing the situation.

The walls aren’t scaleable, exactly - clear, glassy windows covering each side - but there are balconies on each floor, so he could maybe use those with his grappling hook to get inside, if he really needed to. The street below is quiet, with just the low hum of the occasional passing car, the soft rustle of falling snow, the buildings around it high-rise - some corporate, some residential, all unquestionably rich - quiet enough that any ruckus would be unusual, but busy enough that it wouldn’t be unexpected.

Dick brings Alfred’s sandwich out of his pocket and starts eating. Bruce had slipped off when they’d seen the Batsignal, so maybe Commissioner Gordon had signalled him to come? And he’d told Dick - very specifically - not to follow, so it’s not like Dick can just rush off and find him. (Especially not when Bruce has given him a job to do. If he wants Bruce to trust him, then he needs to show Bruce he’s dependable, right? That’s what his parents used to say.)

Dick stretches, hops onto the parapet, and starts walking, one foot in front of the other. He can balance himself easily enough, but it’s still fun watching the swoop of ground far below him, the wind ruffling his hair, the sky stretched out above him.

“You took ages,” he says, as Bruce drops into view.

Bruce sighs. “It’s a long fall from up here.”

“It’s fine,” Dick says. “It’s pretty stable.” He jumps down, anyway. “What were you doing?”

“Just checking something,” Bruce says.

Checking what? He wants to ask, but doesn’t. “Alright,” he says. “The penthouse is still empty.”

Bruce nods. “That’s fine.”

“I know you were just trying to distract me–”

“I wasn’t,” Bruce says. “I’m keeping an eye on the people who live here. A lot of them are involved in…well, criminal activities.”

“Yeah, but still. Can’t you just tell me–”

“I was talking to Jim,” he says. “And two of his officers. Montoya and Bullock. They’re good.”

Good like not-corrupt, Dick guesses. “Are they helping you with the case? The Bowery one?”

“Yes.”

“And the other one? With the clues?”

Bruce sighs. “I think we can work on that one by ourselves, for now.”

“’Cause they use guns?”

“That’s part of it.” He sighs. “Dick, taking a life, it…changes you. No one deserves to lose someone they care about. Not like…not in the way I did. Not in the way you did. That extends to everyone. And I don't think this case is quite so large that it needs to be solved by the GCPD just yet.”

“I know,” Dick murmurs. “I know.” (Knees on the floor, staring blankly, that dull thrum in his head, that cotton-like horror.) “I ate Alfred’s sandwich,” Dick says, because his thoughts are getting a bit too loud, a bit too choking, in the darkness of night.

“Good,” Bruce says. “You need to keep up your energy.” Bruce reaches over, pats his shoulder, a little awkwardly. (Which he doesn’t usually do when he’s Batman, but maybe he can see the way Dick’s stomach is churning, even behind his mask.) “Come on. It’ll be sunrise soon. We’ll do another pass, keep an eye out for any signals, then go home.”

“Alright.” Dick follows behind. Bruce’s cape billows behind him, and Dick gets the urge to hold on and not let go.

They watch The Nightmare Before Christmas on the 24th, and Dick finds himself spending half the evening assuring Timmy (“No one’s kidnapped Santa Claus, Timmy, it’s just a movie, and no one will kidnap you, either, don't worry,”); Bruce says that he’ll “make sure Santa Claus is alright,” and Alfred helpfully adds that the “Manor is well-protected, Young Master Timothy,” and offers to make hot chocolate for them both.

“Yes, please!” Timmy says. “With a candy cane?”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Alfred says, then warms up the milk, stirs in the chocolate, and smoothly brings out the marshmallows, adding two each to each mug. “Here you are, young sirs.”

Timmy stares at the marshmallows bobbing in the mug, pokes one, then takes a sip.

“Thanks, Alfred,” Dick says, and takes a sip too, letting it warm him up from the inside.

–

Dick sneaks into the lounge early in the morning, after Timmy’s asleep, and brings out the presents. He places both under the tree, like he’s seen in movies, and steps back. The cashier offered to box them, but they’re not wrapped. He hovers, for a few moments, then turns, and –

Sees Bruce, taking a seat at the couch.

“Um,” he says.

Bruce puts his finger to his lips. “I’m just reading,” he whispers. “Don’t worry.” He brings out his book.

“You can’t sleep?”

“Something like that,” Bruce says. “I’ll pretend I haven’t seen you if you pretend you haven’t seen me, alright? I don’t want Alfred getting upset that I’m not sleeping well.”

“Well - alright. D’you know where the ribbons are?”

Bruce pauses. “There should be some in the library,” he says. “In one of the chest of drawers, I think.”

Dick slips into the library, takes the flashlight from behind the first bookcase. (“I like to keep one in every room,” Bruce had once said. “Just in case we have a power outage.”) He walks over to the chest of drawers, peers inside, and finds a stack of ribbons. And, below them, a notebook, edges frayed. He picks it up, reads Jan-March on the front - in what looks suspiciously like Bruce’s handwriting - then tucks it back into place again. He’ll look at it later, when he’s got time.

He picks the ribbons quickly - one red, one green - and slips back out, placing the flashlight where he left it.

“It wasn’t too tricky, was it?” Bruce says, when he’s back.

“It was alright,” Dick says, wrapping one box, then the other. He stands. The tree shines silver in the moonlight, baubles rustling, fairy lights twinkling. “Thanks, Bruce,” he says, then stops, not sure how to continue. Thanks for taking us in. Thanks for being there for me. Thanks for the tree.

Bruce nods, smiles. “Go up and sleep soon. I’m sure Alfred’s got lots planned tomorrow.”

So Dick does, curled up in his warm bed, the glow of the moon still under his eyelids.

Christmas day comes, and with it, a pale, greyish-white sky and the flurry of snow.

“It snowed pretty hard last night,” Dick says, looking out the window. The ground is a pure, stark white, almost blinding, and snow dots the sky, landing softly.

“We’ll have to see about clearing it tomorrow,” Bruce says.

“If the weather doesn’t worsen,” Alfred says, placing an omelette in front of Dick. “They’re saying we might be in for some tricky blizzards this Winter.”

“Thanks, Alfred. It doesn’t look so bad now,” Dick starts cutting his omelette.

“Things can change quickly,” Bruce says. “Heavy blizzards can be unexpected.” There’s the sound of footsteps, and then Timmy’s running down the stairs.

“Merry Ch’istmas!” He says, bouncing on his feet.

Bruce smiles, places his newspaper next to him. “Merry Christmas, Tim.”

“We got presents for you,” Timmy says, and Dick covers his mouth to stop himself laughing.

“I think they know that, Timmy,” Dick says. “D’you want to come sit? Alfred’s making omelettes.”

Timmy does. “Can I have a gummy worm in my omelette?”

“I don’t think that’d taste good,” Dick says.

“And it’s important to eat a healthy breakfast, young Timothy,” Alfred says, plating him an omelette.

“It’s got a smiley-face,” Timmy says, grinning, then takes his spoon and starts eating.

Dick smiles, takes another bite of the omelette. It’s warm, melting in his mouth.

–

Evening comes, and Tim and Dick sit on the couch. Alfred and Bruce have gone out to get cookies.

“I wanted to get them too,” Timmy says.

The door opens, and Bruce steps in, dressed as Santa. “Ho, ho, ho,” he says, voice deep, and Dick bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing.

“It’s Santa!” Timmy says, eyes wide, as Bruce approaches. Then he frowns, eyes narrowing. “It’s Bwuce! Bruce, how come you’re wearing a Santa hat?”

Bruce clears his throat, deepens his voice. “This is not Bruce, son, this is Santa.”

“Nu-uh,” Timmy says, pokes Bruce’s leg. “It’s Bruce.”

“Well - er, Santa gave me the important task of making sure all the presents are opened,” Bruce says, a little awkwardly. He glances at Alfred, then at Dick, but Alfred’s just smiling, fond, amused, holding a plate of cookies, and Dick’s trying to stop himself from laughing, so they’re no help. “He’ll be here later tonight, though,” Bruce says. “To check in. Like he was last night - see how the presents are under the tree?”

“But those two are our presents,” Tim says.

Dick pipes up. “Santa’s more of a - spirit to bring magic, Timmy. It’s about being kind and generous to the people you care about. You know, like making people happy.”

“Santa’s in all of us,” Bruce says, and Timmy frowns, a little confused, but nods, considering.

“Can I have a hat, too?”

“Sure,” Bruce says, slips the hat onto Timmy’s head. It’s too large for him, slipping down to cover his eyes, but Timmy smiles. “I’m Santa, Dickie! Look!”

Dick reaches over, pats the pom-pom. “Sure are.”

Alfred places the cookies on the table, and Dick nabs one, giving Alfred a bright smile when he looks over.

“Shall we open the presents?” Alfred says, and Timmy leaps off the couch, runs under the tree.

“I suppose that’s our answer,” Bruce says, voice dry, then stands, walks over to the tree, and brings two wrapped presents onto the table. Timmy carries one back, stumbling a little - and Dick reaches over, helps him put it onto the table, then brings the last one back, too.

“This is for you, Tim,” Bruce says, pushing one present to Tim. “And you, Dick.”

“We got some, too,” Dick says, then pauses. Bruce’s present is wider, shorter, so he pushes that one to Bruce; the other, he moves towards Alfred. “Timmy and I both - picked them out.” It’s a little awkward, he thinks. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are prickling, and the room is warm.

“We’ll open ours after,” Bruce says, and Alfred nods, behind him.

Timmy looks at Dick, then at Bruce and Alfred, and starts tearing at the wrapping. Dick’s lips quirk up.

“There's Play-Doh!” Timmy says, taking out two small tubs. He takes out a colouring book, next - Gotham: The Colouring Book, the cover reads. "Go-tham," he starts reading, slowly. "Col-colour-"

“It’s a colouring book for Gotham,” Bruce says.

Timmy beams at the book. He peers inside the box again. He fishes out the markers Bruce and Alfred must have bought for it, then holds the pink marker in one hand and the colouring book in the other. “Thanks, Bruce and Alfwed,” he says. “I like them a lot!”

Dick peels the wrapping off carefully, then opens up the box inside. A pair of black roller-skates. He stares at the wheels, then grins. (This will make him so much faster on patrol. The grappling hook is great and all, but he still has to run. And during the day, too, when he’s not Robin - maybe he can do loops in the park. It’s always fun feeling the wind whizz through his hair.)

“Well, it’s no trampoline, but…” Bruce starts.

“No,” Dick says. “I like it.” He runs his fingers over the wheels. “Can I use this on patrol?”

Bruce sighs. “No. You can use them in daylight, though. As Dick Grayson, not Robin.”

“Well, alright. I guess they might make me recognisable,” he says, and Bruce nods.

Dick peers at the box. There’s something else, beneath the paper and bubble wrap. Some sort of picture frame. He pulls it out, then stares, draws in a breath. “Oh,” he murmurs.

Bruce clears his throat. “I just thought you might appreciate it. I know I….find the portraits comforting.”

“When did you…?”

“Recently.”

“Oh,” Dick says, again.

The flyer of his parents and him stares back at him. His mother’s smile, his father’s twinkling eyes, the grin that stretched across his face, that weightless rush of air around him. He remembers the day they took it, remembers his mother fixing his hair before hand, remembers running a hand through it after - “It’ll just get messed up anyway, Mom,” - remembers his father’s hand on his back, warm, the click of the camera, the brief flash, remembers the thrill of soaring through the air.

He presses his thumbs into the picture frame. Timmy shuffles closer, places a hand on Dick’s leg. “Thanks, Bruce, Alfred,” he says, quietly.

It’s the last picture they ever took together. Just the three of them.

He hadn’t known that, then.

Dick, traces his parents' faces with his finger. “We, um, got you presents too,” he says, clears his throat.

Bruce opens his, first. He smiles when he sees the jumper. “Appropriate,” he says, dryly. “Thanks, boys,” there’s a chuckle in Bruce’s voice, a levity. “This is nice.”

“I chose it,” Timmy says, proudly. Dick pats his hat.

Alfred, next. He unwraps the teapot, then smiles. “A lovely teapot,” Alfred says, warm. “I’ll be sure to use it.”

“For making my tea,” Timmy says, and Alfred smiles, agrees.

Dick hugs the flyer with his parents to his chest. He catches Bruce’s eye, who smiles, sad and understanding and warm all at once, and smiles back.

December 31st comes before Dick realises. Next year will be the first full year without his parents, he thinks, and his gut swoops, clenches. Sometimes he feels like he’s forgetting the way the light at Haly’s used to reflect against his mother’s eyes, the way his father laughed whenever Dick would tell a joke, low and bright, the way they swung, pure and beautiful, from the trapeze.

“Holidays are tricky,” Bruce says, when he catches Dick staring into his cereal. “It gets easier. You grow around it. You…you care for other people, even if it seems impossible.” He’s talking about himself, Dick thinks. “It gets easier,” he says, again, but sometimes Dick catches Bruce looking so impossibly anguished Dick doesn’t know if it really does.

“Thanks,” Dick says.

“Here,” Bruce says, hands him a piece of candy. “Don’t tell Alfred. Or Timmy.”

Dick smiles, pops it into his mouth. “I won’t.”

–

Dick finds the candles after dinner in the library, and the matchsticks in the kitchen. He goes to his room, places them on the bedside table, next to each-other. One red-yellow, one green. They don’t smell like his parents, he knows, but at least he has their colours, their warmth.

“Happy New Year, Mom, Dad,” he says, and lights both candles.

“Dickie!” Timmy’s voice is loud from the kitchen.

“I’m coming,” he calls back.

“It’s almost midnight! It’s time to make the wishies! And Alfred said we can eat the cupcakes!”

Dick pulls his lips into a smile. “I’m alright,” he whispers. “Miss - miss you.” His throat squeezes. He draws in a breath, listens to Timmy call Dickie, again, a little more impatient, and blows the candles out.

The smoke dissipates into the air, but he can still see the faint glow of the embers in his eyes. Bye, Mom, he thinks, remembers them smiling. Bye, Dad. I’ll see you next year.

And then he walks downstairs.

Chapter Text

The first week of January passes in a flurry of snow that blankets the ground and rooftops, and harsh winds that rattle the windows. Dick spends it pressed up against the window, watching his breath fog up the pane, and drawing snowflakes onto it until Timmy wakes up, sitting in the library and reading, drinking Alfred’s hot chocolate after dinner, playing chess with Alfred and Bruce and sometimes Timmy, who doesn’t really know how to play (“The horse makes an L shape, Timmy, not a straight line,”) but has fun anyway.

Dick and Bruce get a break from patrol - “It is far too cold to go outside, sir,” Alfred insists - and even though Bruce grumbles, Dick thinks he’s secretly a little happy. The wind rattles the windows, and the sky outside is pure white, and Dick spends hours staring out the window while Timmy helps Alfred make cookies (“Why don’t I take the flour, Master Tim?”), and Bruce mentions, in passing - “Not a lot of crime, in weather like this,” - and Dick doesn’t know if he’s trying to make himself feel better, or make Dick feel better, but it works, anyway.

They’re on patrol, again, and Bruce finds a man selling drugs.

“I - uh,” the man says. The other man next to him pales, flees. “Look,” the man says, backing into the wall. “I need the money. I really need the money. So - so - ” the man reaches into his pocket, brings out a knife, but his hand trembles. “Don’t try anything. I can fight.”

Batman towers over the man, but Dick knows he’s not really going to hurt him. He’ll restrain him, make sure he’s okay, and then give him a second chance - or something like that, anyway.

Bruce disarms the man - so quickly Dick almost doesn’t catch it - then pins the man to the wall.

“Here,” Bruce brings out a WE card with his free hand. “I hear they’re hiring salespersons. Give them a call. They’ll hire you.” He releases the man, steps back.

The man takes the card, hands trembling. “Thanks,” he mutters, then pockets it, runs off.

“Most people just need a second chance,” Bruce says, after, while they’re walking. “They just need the chance to redeem themselves, that’s all. They just need the resources, and the support, and an offered hand.”

“That’s part of why you don’t kill,” Dick says. (Bruce has said this before, of course. Dick’s heard this speech more times than he can count.)

“Yes. It’s why we don’t kill. It’s why we try to help, and not hurt. It’s why we don’t work with the police–”

“‘Cause they’re too corrupt.”

Bruce makes a noise that sounds like a chuckle. “Because they kill. Because no child deserves to lose a parent.” Like us, he doesn’t say, but Dick understands, anyway. “And because they don’t always give second chances to people who need it, and they sometimes give too many to those who don’t. But, yes - some of them are corrupt, as well. Things have been getting better since Jim became Commissioner, though.”

“Why’d he become Commissioner?”

“Things happen,” Bruce says, which is his way of saying Dick isn’t going to get a straight answer out of him.

Dick sighs. “Alright.” He peers into the darkness. “I think someone’s there,” he says, and they leap into the night.

There’s a man quietly talking to two teenagers, holding a wad of cash in one hand and a white packet in the other.

“He’s dealing drugs,” Bruce murmurs, then glances at Dick. “Get behind him - quietly.” Bruce swings onto a nearby roof, and Dick follows, then drops down, into the alleyway, three shadows stretching out in front of him.

Batman jumps down, out of the shadows, and the teens scatter. The man turns, yelps, scowls. Dick is there - right there - and Bruce is a few paces away, waiting, still, cape billowing out behind him, and Dick isn’t watching when it happens. (He should have been, he knows. He should have dodged, he should have anticipated things, like Bruce always says - but he doesn’t.)

A fist smashes into his cheek, blinding, bright. He slams into the wall, sinks to his knees, blinks and blinks and blinks until the world comes into focus again.

Bruce is - there, crouched over, half-shadows. There’s a low, thwack, thwack, thwack that Dick realises is him hitting someone, over and over. A low grumble, the sharp sound crack of bones being broken.

Dick stumbles to his feet. Bruce looks up. He’s got a fist around the man’s collar. His eyes are hot and cold, sharp and dull all at once.

“Robin,” Bruce says, stilling.

“B–Batman.” Dick’s mouth feels dry. His hands are cold. “You’re - um,” he starts, and the words don’t get their way past his throat. (Blood on a patterned floor. That horror. That sickening crunch. That terrible numbness, that soul-aching grief, that first night, cold and empty and orphaned.)

Bruce reaches into the man’s pocket, takes out his wallet, looks at the man’s driver’s licence. He takes out his radio. It crackles. “Man assaulted. 11 Murphy Avenue. George Smith.” Bruce glances at the man, shakes him awake. “Go home,” he says, flat. The man shivers. “Don’t hurt anyone else.” Bruce’s voice is cold, hard. The man staggers to his feet, rushes off, not even sparing a second glance at Dick.

Bruce stands, walks towards Dick. “Are you okay?”

Dick rubs his cheek, winces. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Are you feeling dizzy?” Bruce says.

“No,” Dick says. The top of his head stings, feels a little wet, and there’s an achy pounding in his ears, but he’s not dizzy. He can walk straight. He saw everything clear enough. “I’ll be fine,” he says, instead. “I’ve had worse, B.” And maybe he hasn’t, not really - because back then, his parents were there to catch him, to tend to him, to make everything feel okay again - but he doesn’t know what else to say, with Bruce frowning like this, palms pressed flat against his thighs, shoulders forcefully dropped.

–

They walk back to the Batcave.

Bruce clears his throat. “I apologise. I…shouldn’t have–”

“It’s alright,” Dick says, pressing his toe into the floor.

“It’s not,” Bruce says. “I was being reckless. I was - more focused on vengeance than on…well, what this city needs. Hope. A future. I was - worried about you. Angry that you’d gotten hurt. I shouldn’t have let it affect my actions.”

“You got angry ‘cause he punched me,” Dick says. “That’s–um–” that’s okay, he can’t quite say, because his chest still feels shaky. “Will he be okay?”

“I scared you,” Bruce says. He’s got a weird look in his eyes Dick can’t really parse. Dick shrugs.

“I’ve called an ambulance to his house. They’ll make sure he’s alright.” Bruce says, finally. “I’ll see if I can find out who the teens are, try and…help them.” Bruce clears his throat. “I shouldn’t have hurt him like that. It won’t happen again.”

“You shouldn’t make–”

“It won’t happen again,” Bruce says, again, looking away. He sighs. “Come on. Alfred will patch you up.”

“What about–?”

“I’ll wear some gloves and head to Timmy. Alright?”

“But you’re still injured.”

Bruce’s eyes soften. He reaches over, squeezes Dick’s shoulder. “I’m an adult, Dick. I’ll be okay. I’ll let Alfred fix me up once you’ve gone to bed, okay?”

–

Alfred rolls a bandage around Dick’s elbow. “Now,” he says, slowly, mildly, “Would you tell me what happened, young sir?”

“Well, some guy punched me in the face,” DIck says. “He was selling drugs to some people, so Bruce and I stepped in - Bruce would’ve given him his job-spiel, I reckon, you know, the one where he gives the WE card - but the guy punched me, instead. So…”

“So?” Alfred’s gaze is patient.

“I dunno,” Dick says. “Bruce is injured too. He got punched, and his knuckles are all red and swollen. And - I don’t know, Alfred. He’s Bruce, but right then, he was…” Something else. Batman. “I think I scared him. The guy just came at me, you know? And my head hit the ground. So Bruce got angry, and…and he just started…” He’s repeating himself, he knows, but he doesn’t know what else to say. He’s used to getting injured - hasn’t he fallen thousands of times, in his life? - but he’s not used to this.

“That must have been difficult,” Alfred says, mildly.

“I guess. A little.” Dick stares at his shoes. “And then he got all broody ‘cause he felt guilty about it.”

“Master Bruce can be very stubborn,” Alfred says.

Dick’s lips twitch up. “Yeah.”

–

“I’m taking you off patrol,” Bruce says the next morning.

Dick’s head jerks up from his cereal. How can Bruce take it away when it’s his? When it’s all his hopes, and fears, and anger, and joy? When he’s Robin? “I’m fine, Bruce. Don’t take me off patrol. I mean, sure, I got hurt, but I - I just need more training, that’s all.”

Bruce sighs.

“And if I’m off patrol, then you should be too! It’s not like you’re–”

“You’re my responsibility, Dick. You’re a child. I’m the one who told you to stand there. It’s different.”

“No, it’s not,” Dick mutters. You don’t need to feel guilty about this, he doesn’t say.

Bruce sighs.

“Two weeks,” Dick says. “I’ll be off patrol for two weeks, and I’ll train, and–and you’re there, anyway, it’s not like I’m alone, and–”

Bruce stirs his coffee. “I’ll get Leslie - Dr Thompkins - to look at you. If she says you’re alright to keep patrolling in two weeks, then I’ll think about it. And when - if - you’re back on patrol, I want you in front of me at all times. And we’re going to be training your reflexes more. And–”

“I got it, Bruce,” Dick says, gives a little smile, feels his shoulders relax. “Thanks. I’ll - I’ll be safe, I swear.”

Bruce nods, but there’s a furrow to his brow.

Alfred comes into the room a moment later, holding Timmy’s hand.

“What’s wrong?” Timmy says.

“Nothing,” Dick says.

Timmy frowns. “You have an ouchie!” He clambers onto Dick’s lap and pokes his bandaged cheek.

Dick bites back his wince. “You need to be careful, Dickie,” Timmy says, very seriously. "You're not allowed to get hurt.”

“I’m not?”

“Nope,” Timmy says. “‘Cause you’re my Dickie, and you’re supposed to be in-vinc-able.” He grips Dick’s shoulder, then turns, stares at Bruce. “You got hurt too!”

Bruce looks up from his newspaper, a little unruffled. “Er,” he starts.

“I’m afraid, young sir,” Alfred says, smoothly stepping in, “That Master Bruce and young Dick sometimes forget the strength of others.” He pauses. “And themselves.” Bruce winces. “And they sometimes forget how to communicate, too,” he sends a sharp look in Bruce's direction. Bruce mutters something that sounds like, I’m just worried, under his breath.

“That’s silly,” Timmy says.

“Very much so.”

Dick ruffles Timmy’s hair. “Wanna look around the Manor today?”

Timmy brightens. “Can we?”

“Once you’ve had breakfast,” Alfred says.

Timmy starts pouting, face scrunching up, but Dick speaks first. “We’ve got to be strong for adventuring, right? You need breakfast to be strong.”

“Yeah,” Timmy echoes. “We got to be strong for adventurin’.” He clambers off Dick’s lap, sits on his chair. “Okay. I’ll eat breakfast, Alfred.”

“A wise decision, young sir,” Alfred says, shoots what almost seems to be a smile Dick’s direction, and starts cracking eggs into a pan.

Bruce clears his throat. “Where are you going to explore?”

“Maybe the library?” Dick says. He wants to take a better look at that notebook he found at Christmas - he hasn’t had the chance to, yet. And he knows it’s important, even if he does feel a little bad reading it. But if Bruce really wanted to keep it secret, he would keep it somewhere else, wouldn’t he? And it might have information about who killed Dick’s parents. He might find clues.

“I wanna go to the tunnels!” Timmy says.

Bruce chokes in the middle of taking a sip of coffee. “The tunnels,” he echoes. “They’re a little dark,” he says. “Maybe you can keep inside the Manor.”

Dick stifles a smile. But he guesses Bruce is right - the tunnels are dark, and slippery, and cold, and easy to get lost in, and probably have all sorts of wily traps tucked into the corners, and Timmy’s only four. “Let’s go when it’s warmer, Timmy. I bet the tunnels are all frozen up, this time of year,” he says, instead.

“Eggs, Master Timothy,” Alfred says, sliding a fried egg onto Timmy’s plate.

“It’s a smiley face!” Timmy says, poking at it. “Promise we’ll go in the Summer?”

Dick glances at Bruce.

“Well - er–” He glances at Alfred.

“If the weather permits,” Alfred says.

“Okay, Alfred,” Timmy says.

Bruce moves to stand, and Alfred pins him with a look. “Sit, Master Bruce. I’d hate for all my hard work last night to become useless.”

Dick muffles his laugh into his cereal. He must not be very successful, because Bruce shoots him an injured glance, and Alfred slides a plate of eggs towards him.

“Well, you’re alright,” Dr Thompkins says with a little shine in her eyes. “You’ve got a couple of scrapes and bruises. I want you to call me right away if you get dizzy, or if you get a headache - don’t do what Bruce does and hide it.” Bruce makes a noise of protest, and Dick feels a laugh bubble up in his throat. “The bruise should fade in a couple of weeks. Let me know if it doesn’t, okay?”

Dick nods. Dr. Thompkins smiles, squeezes his shoulder. “You’re a better patient than Bruce is,” she says, voice low, and Dick laughs, this time. “Listen to Mr Pennyworth, okay? He’s a very smart man.”

“He is,” Bruce says. “Thank you, Leslie.”

Dr Thompkins lets out a sigh, nods. “I hope I won’t see you scraped up like this again, Dick,” she says. “But you can call me when you need to. I’ll come and help.” She glances at Bruce. “You, as well.”

“We will,” Bruce says, and his lips tilt up.

Dr Thompkins pats Bruce’s shoulder as she leaves, murmurs something to him Dick doesn’t catch, and walks away.

“What did she say?” Dick says.

Bruce sighs. “Something I’ve heard a lot, recently,” he says, which doesn’t tell Dick much. (That Bruce is being too reckless? That he’s not looking after himself enough? That he’s not looking after Dick enough?)

Dick is sneaking downstairs to get a glass of water when he hears voices from the study. He slips towards it, presses his ear to the door.

“Doesn't the fact that he's so upset means he's not mature enough, Alfred?”

“Well, you've already given this responsibility to the boy, Master Bruce. Taking it away now will only hurt him.”

“But it's a hurt he'll get over. If he - there are some hurts you can't, Alfred.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Talk to him.”

Bruce sighs. Dick slips off.

(He needs Robin, he thinks, heart pounding. He needs it. What will he do without it? He's grown to love the wind-chill on his cheeks, the rush of flying through the air, like back home, the safety of Bruce at his back.)

“I don’t wanna sleep,” Timmy whines, that night. “I can stay up longer, right? Please, please, please–”

“It’s late,” Dick says, yawning. “I want to sleep.” He’s been spending the last few hours sneaking glances at that chest of drawers, and reading Richard III and frowning at the notes in the margins (in Bruce’s distinctive cursive), and occasionally reading aloud Crimes in Gotham to a slightly befuddled-but-excited Timmy, and The Butterfly and the Bee, a picture book Timmy has asked Dick to read to him no less than ten times, while Timmy traces the words and the pictures.

“Come on, Timmy,” Dick says, offering Timmy his hands. “We can wake up early tomorrow and read the books again, or you can do your colouring, but–”

“But I don’t wanna sleep. I’m not sleepy! I'm the awakest!”

Dick sighs. “Let’s go say hi to Bruce,” he says, instead, ushers a scowling Timmy into the lounge room.

“We’re done reading,” Dick says, and Tim mutters a no we’re not.

Bruce looks up from his laptop, places it on the ottoman in front of him. “Alright,” he says, mildly. His eyes are heavy, but his voice is light, shoulders dropped. (He’s been looking at things for a case, maybe?) “Come sit,” he says, pats the space next to him. “I’ll put on that baking show.”

“I don’t wanna watch the baking show,” Timmy whines. “I wanna read more of Crimes in Gotham and the butterfly book and the other one with the insects!” A flash of surprise flashes over Bruce’s face, so quickly Dick almost doesn’t catch it. “Okay,” Bruce says. “Go bring them from the library, then.”

Timmy makes a noise of discontent, pouts, mutters under his breath, but walks off in the direction of the library.

Dick stifles a yawn.

“You look tired,” Bruce says.

“I know,” Dick says. “I’ll go to bed soon. I’m tired, anyway. I’ll get enough rest for tomorrow. You should, too.” Bruce gives a soft huff, a half-laugh. Dick shifts from foot to foot. “Where’s Alfred?”

“He’s fixing up our suits.”

“Oh.” Dick glances at the TV. “Can you tell him I said goodnight?”

Bruce nods. “Come sit on the sofa,” he says, and Dick sits down next to him. Bruce clears his throat. “Is something wrong?”

Dick shrugs.

Bruce hesitates. “Tim is pushing boundaries because he feels safe. It’s developmentally appropriate. He’s probably just over-exhausted. He needs to sleep, too.”

Dick sighs. “I know. I’m not - I’m not fussed about that. He’s four.”

“You pushing boundaries is also appropriate, Dick. You’re eleven. It’s a hard age, I know.” Bruce’s lips tilt up. “I was angry, then. Angry at the man who killed my parents, angry at Alfred, angry at Leslie, angry at my parents themselves, for dying. Sometimes I’m even angry now.”

Dick swallows a laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

“It’s okay to be angry, Dick, but there are healthy ways of–”

“It’s not about anger,” Dick mutters. “It’s about - it’s - you can’t just take it away from me. It’s mine. It’s from my parents. It’s - you can’t.”

Bruce’s expression doesn’t change, unfazed. “Robin?”

Dick squeezes his pinky. “Yeah.”

Bruce sighs. “Does Batman make me Bruce Wayne?”

“It’s part of you,” Dick starts, and Bruce nods.

“It is. But I’m still Bruce Wayne without it, Dick. And you’re still Dick Grayson. And if you get hurt - or worse - then…” Bruce draws in a breath, as though he’s not sure how to explain himself. “I don’t think I could survive that sort of guilt, Dick.” That sort of grief, he doesn’t say, but Dick understands, anyway. Bruce may not be his Dad, but they’re family in their own way, aren’t they?

“But I’m not hurt. Not badly, anyway,” Dick says.

“But you could be,” Bruce says, sharper, colder, and Dick sighs.

“Yeah, but you’re around, aren’t you? It’s - I mean, I’m sure my parents worried every time I was walking the tightrope, or swinging through the air. But they learnt to trust me, and I learnt to trust them. It just takes practice.”

Timmy comes back before Bruce can answer, but Bruce’s gaze is measured, thoughtful. Practice. He said he’d train Dick more, didn’t he? He said they’d practise. Maybe if Dick does well enough, Bruce will start to trust him. Bruce will let go of his worry, and misplaced guilt, and see that Dick can be Robin, too.

“I’m here!” Timmy announces, sitting on the couch, pout gone, cheeks flushed, energetic again, already having forgotten his earlier frustrations. “I got all the books, so you gotta read them now, Bruce.”

Bruce’s lips tilt up, but he presses them together. “Alright.” He takes the first one Timmy offers (Grimm’s Fables), starts reading, low and careful. (Timmy won’t stay awake for all of them, Dick reckons. Dick is half asleep himself already.)

Dick rests his head against the sofa, closes his eyes. Just for a little bit.

–

Dick wakes up to whimpering. He squints in the darkness, pushes himself up by his elbows, rubs the grogginess from his eyes. He fell asleep on the couch, he realises, with a sudden jolt. Bruce must have carried them to bed. That whimpering, again. “Timmy?” he croaks. Another small noise. “Hey, Timmy, I’m here. D’you wanna–?”

Timmy crawls into his lap, clutches at his shirt. Dick’s heart lurches in his chest. He grabs Mr. Bat from next to Timmy, moves it towards him, but Timmy shifts closer to Dick. Dick’s not sure what to do. His lungs feel too tight for his chest, and the thin haze of moonlight in the sky only serves to shine a thin slit of silver over Timmy’s hair, little comfort.

“What’s wrong?” he tries, and Timmy sobs, burying his face in Dick’s chest.

“I wan’ Mama an’ Papa, but they went into the ground.”

Dick swallows back his sob. His hands tremble, when he pats Timmy’s back. “Me, too,” he says, quietly.

He wants his parents back. And it’s childish - he knows it’s childish, when they’re not coming back - but it’s nights like these when the grief leaves him aching and cold, robbed of his voice.

“Alright,” Bruce says, a week later. Dick peers at the set-up: a punching bag, Bruce with boxing gloves and pads, a mat. The bruise on his cheek has faded to a strange mottled-green-blue, but Dr Thompkins said it’d be gone in another week.

“I already know how to fight,” Dick starts, but Bruce shakes his head.

“Not as well as you should,” he says, and Dick opens his mouth to say - something, he’s not sure - but Bruce raises a hand. “If you’re going to patrol with me, Dick, then you need to know how to fight. I know you’re quick, I know you know how to fall, I know you can give a punch - but you need to be able to do more than that. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Dick says. “I understand.”

Bruce raises his gloved hands, nods at Dick to start.

Dick punches, one-two, one-two, one-two. It’s rhythmic, the low thud-thud-thud of his gloves against Bruce’s focus pads, and something boils in his gut, thick and familiar.

And - well, hell. Maybe he’s a little angry. Maybe he’s a little more than a little angry. There’s a burning in his gut, low and fierce, and he’s punching and punching and punching, and–

“- ick. Dick!”

Dick freezes. Drops his arms. “Sorry,” he says, quietly. “I, um - sorry.”

“Focus,” Bruce says. “We’ll start again.”

Dick draws in a breath. Thud, thud, thud. He pushes down the broiling heat in his gut, the restless burn in his legs, stares at that red-padded anchor in front of him. He’s got this. He’s focused. He’s going to show Bruce he can fight, can dodge, can be trusted.

A week passes, then another.

(In another country, Cassandra Cain turns eight and does not know it.)

And - finally, finally - Dick is back on patrol. The freezing winds in his air, the warmth of his suit through the night, that joy of arcing through the air, again and again and again - it’s back. It’s freedom.

“Stick next to me,” Bruce says.

“I know. I will.” Dick inches closer to Batman’s cape, looks around.

They’re in that area where the break-in happened a couple of months ago, so maybe Bruce is looking for that Riddler-copycat, again? “We’re looking for the person who left those clues? You think they’ll strike in the same place again?”

Bruce nods. “These things tend to have a pattern. And there’s been another break-in nearby - a watch-maker’s shop, this time. Two hours ago.”

“At the same time as those diamonds went missing from the museum?”

Bruce clears his throat. “Yes.” There’s something there, but Dick won’t press - not when he’s just gotten Robin back. He’ll ask later, when Bruce trusts him more.

They sneak inside the watch-makers shop, footsteps quiet. There’s police-tape, already ripped, and a broken window, like last time. Watches are scattered across the floor, but there’s no paper clue.

Bruce frowns at the watches. Brings out a small camera, takes a few photos. “Don’t touch anything, Robin,” he says, and Dick nods.

“I know. I won’t.”

Dick glances around. No footprints, no other clues - maybe something to do with the watches, then? Dick stares at them more closely. “They’ve been arranged?”

“There’s a pattern,” Bruce says. “If you look at this - the watch was made by Ibersol. This, by Maitres de l’heure; this, by Heramese; this, by Earwing & Co, this, by–”

“I’m here,” Dick says. “They’re - they’re here?”

Bruce acts before Dick finishes speaking, drawing his cape around Dick and flinging them out of the shop.

A moment passes, and then another. Nothing happens.

“Were you expecting…?”

“Something that won’t happen,” Bruce says, after a few more long moments. He lets out a breath, but his shoulders are still stiff. “It means they’re in Gotham, I suppose. But we need to keep an eye out tonight. Make sure nothing else happens. Make sure we’re safe.”

A flash and red and blue - an arc through the sky - Dick’s heart skips a beat. He stares. That’s - that’s - “Superman!” He blurts. The earlier rush of fear-tinged adrenaline melts to excitement.

“Yes,” Bruce says.

Bruce doesn’t quite seem to understand how cool it is that Dick has just seen Superman. In the flesh. And, sure, he knows Batman knows Superman, but this means Bruce knows Superman, and it means Dick will get to know Superman.

“But that’s Superman!” He says, again, like Bruce doesn’t know. (But this is so exciting - he’s in the same city as one of his heroes.) “I mean, haven’t you seen him on the news?”

Bruce frowns. “They aren’t always saying kind things about him on the news.”

“Yeah, but still. You like him. And he’s always saving people. You said so yourself.”

“That I did.” Bruce sighs. “That I did, bud.”

“You didn’t tell me he comes to Gotham when you’re here, too, though.”

“He doesn’t usually.” Bruce sounds a little grumpy. Dick bites his lip to keep from smiling. “He once set fire to an apartment complex, you know. So it would be rebuilt better.”

“That’s kind of smart,” Dick says.

“Smart, sure. But reckless.”

“And we can’t afford recklessness. I know, B.”

“Come on,” Bruce says. “Didn’t you say you wanted to meet him, once?”

“Can I?”

“Yes. But you can’t–”

“I know. I’ll be careful. I’ll just listen. And maybe say hi.”

Bruce makes a noise of acknowledgement.

Superman lands in front of them. Dick presses his lips together to stop himself from staring like an idiot.

“It’s good to see you,” Superman says.

Bruce makes a noise of acknowledgement. “What brings you here?”

Superman grins, winks at Dick. “Just saying hi.”

“Hi, Mr Superman - sir,” Dick stammers. Bruce frowns.

“Just Superman is fine,” Superman says. He’s a little taller than Bruce, shoulders back, expression warm, friendly, strong. “It’s good to meet you, Robin. I’ve heard a lot.”

“You haven’t heard anything,” Bruce mutters.

“All good things,” Superman says, smoothly. “Well, I’ll leave you be. I’m sure you’ve got everything under control, but I'll keep an ear out.”

He flies off. Dick stares, watches as he disappears into the night.

“You don’t have to be that deferential to him, you know,” Bruce says, when they can’t see him anymore.

“Yeah,” Dick says. “I know.”

“And I’m pretty cool too, you know.”

Dick laughs. “I know." Then: "He didn't really come over just to say hi, did he?"

"No. I suspect he came over because he heard my heart rate increase. He's nosy like that."

Superman cares. Isn't that why Dick finds him so cool?

–

"Tell me your report,” Bruce says, when they’re back inside.

"Report?" Dick echoes, adjusting his collar. "Right. We looked for clues for that Riddler-knockoff but didn't find any, then we met Superman - his weakness is Kryptonite, and you've got some on your belt, just in case - and then we went back to the Batcave."

Bruce sighs, but it sounds fond. "Alright," he says. "That's good for now. I'll show you how to do a proper debrief later, okay? Look for weaknesses and strengths - how they talk, what they say, how they hold themselves. What might go wrong - what would cause them to change. What you’d do if they changed. Make contingency plans."

“Like you,” Dick says.

“Yes, like me.”

“But aren’t they your friends? Wonder Woman, and Superman, and - all of them?”

Bruce sighs. “It’s important to be objective, Dick.”

But Dick isn’t too sure if this is objective, or…a way of Bruce to keep distance from everyone else. A way to stop himself getting hurt again. And, sure, Dick gets the idea - if things go wrong, then he’d want a plan to stick too, as well - but they’re still Bruce’s friends, aren’t they? They still care about him, and he still cares about them; Dick can tell, even if Bruce won’t admit it to himself.

“Alright,” Dick says, instead of saying any of his thoughts. “I will be.”

Bruce squeezes Dick’s shoulder. Dick watches him walk off to change. He looks a little lonely, like this. (Maybe Bruce and him aren’t so different after all.)

February starts, and Dick’s canine starts getting loose. He tries not to fiddle with it on patrol, and the chill of the wind and the faint scent of snow and rain makes him keep his arms as close to his sides as he can, his hands gloved, but can’t help it at breakfast, or when reading to Timmy, or in bed, Timmy fast asleep, staring at the ceiling.

Dick moves the tooth, absent minded, at the breakfast table.

“Looks like it’ll come out soon,” Bruce says, glancing over.

“Yeah,” Dick says, pulling at it.

“You know, when I was younger, some of my friends’ parents tied a string to their tooth and tied the string to a door and slammed it shut to pull their tooth out.”

Timmy scrunches up his nose. “That sounds scary.”

Dick fiddles with his canine. “I think it’ll come out on its own.”

Bruce’s lips tilt up. “I know. I wasn’t suggesting you do that, of course. Though my father did mention it once - that particular tooth was being very stubborn. The way I cried, you would have thought he’d said to pull out all of them.”

“Yes,” Alfred says, handing Bruce his coffee. “I do remember you being quite upset. About as upset when you found the cave–”

“And father scolded me for that, didn’t he?” Bruce is smiling, though, voice light.

“Why would he scold you?” Dick says. “You were scared, weren’t you?”

Bruce’s eyes are soft, fond. “He was worried. My mother comforted me after, though.”

And Dick sort of - gets it. He even misses his parents scolding him, now, not that they did it much. He misses the way his father’s face would flush when he was mad, and the way his mother’s jaw would tick when she was angry.

“Can we explore the caves, today?” Timmy says. “I wanna see the bats. And maybe the rats, too, but they’re kind of scary, but they make Cinderella’s clothes so they can’t be that bad.”

“I think those were mice, Timmy,” Dick says, and then there’s an odd noise and an emptiness and something cold and wet drops into his hand.

“Oh.” He stares at the tooth in his palm. For a moment, he has the urge to call his parents over, to tell them he’s lost another tooth (“Look, Mom, it finally came out!) but his heart squeezes, and he sinks into the chair, because he can’t.

“The tooth fairy’s gonna give you a coin, Dickie!” Timmy stays, bouncing on his heels. Dick swallows, looks at Timmy. “When do I lose teeth? Am I gonna lose them soon too? But none of mine are wobbly. Will I get money when I lose teeth?”

“If they’re not wobbly, then they’re not ready to come out yet,” Dick says, biting back a grin. His chest aches, but he feels a little lighter. “Um - I don’t know. Are you gonna get money when you lose your teeth?” He glances at Bruce and Alfred.

“That’s what I asked,” Timmy says. “And that’s what my Mama and Papa said, and they’re smart, so they’re rightest. Does the tooth fairy steal teeth forever? Why does the tooth fairy take teeth?”

“I suspect, young sir, that the tooth fairy collects them. And your parents are quite right - Dick will find a coin under his pillow come morning.”

“Collects them for what?”

“You would have to ask them, I’m afraid. But they don’t like being caught, so it’s awfully tricky. I’ve only come close to seeing one once myself, and I am far older than you.” Alfred slides a pancake onto Dick’s plate. “For you, Master Dick,” Alfred says, eyes twinkling. He’s drawn a tooth on the pancake with maple-syrup.

“It’s not like it’s my first tooth that’s fallen out,” Dick says, but he finds himself smiling, anyway. “It’s not that special.”

“The same as Bruce,” Alfred says, dry. “My efforts, once more, go unacknowledged."

“That’s not true,” Dick protests, while Timmy giggles. “It’s a great drawing, Alfred. I appreciate it a lot. And the pancakes are as delicious as always, and–”

“Don’t let Alfred get to you,” Bruce says, looking up from his coffee. “He just wants to be complimented.”

“For once in my life, Master Bruce, because we all know how free you are with those.”

Bruce sighs. “I’ll be busy until dinnertime, so I won’t be in for tea.”

“I suppose I shall work hard at making nothing for you once again, sir?” Timmy laughs, and Dick grins, and Bruce groans.

“I want to see the tooth fairy,” Timmy informs Dick, as he takes a bite of pancake.

Dick smiles. “You try that, Timmy. But they don’t like cookies, or cars, or anything - only teeth.”

–

Dick places his cleaned tooth under his pillow, “right between yours and mine, Dickie!”, on Timmy’s insistence. When they wake, the tooth is gone, and a one-dollar coin is in its place. It’s a little faded, a little gold-green. Dick picks it up and holds it in his palm, shows it to Timmy.

Timmy frowns at the coin. “That’s one of Bruce’s!” He says, then pouts. “Is the tooth fairy like Santa and everywhere ‘cause it’s in us?”

Dick opens his mouth, closes it. (How do you answer that?) “I think the tooth fairy is - I mean, Bruce is like a messenger. Like with Christmas. Except instead of spreading joy, and spending time with family, it’s more…making you feel better about losing a tooth.”

Timmy considers this. “Do you feel better?”

Dick takes the coin, twirls it between his fingers. Feels the gap in his mouth where his old tooth used to be. The coin is warm between his fingers; Bruce must have snuck in while they were sleeping and put it under his pillow. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I do.”

Chapter Text

February starts, and Dick gets Alfred to tell him Bruce’s birthday (the 19th), but not his own (“in April, young sir, but I am a little too–”) and starts trying to work out what to get Bruce.

He makes a card, first, Timmy peering over his shoulder the whole time.

Dear Bruce, he writes. Thank you so much for being our…friend? Foster father? Not-really-father-but-person-we-care-about?

“Bruce!” Timmy says, from next to him, so Dick writes that down. Thanks so much for being our Bruce. We’re grateful to you for looking after us, and we… care about you a lot? Love you a lot? Dick writes the first one down. (Can he say he loves Bruce? He cares about him, sure - but Dick had parents he loved. Can he say the same about Bruce, when it’s not even been a year?)

“Love, Timmy and Dick,” Timmy dictates, and Dick writes it down. “I wanna write my name, though,” Timmy says, and Dick bites back a grin, hands him the pen. TIMMOTHY, he writes, and Dick’s lips tilt up (Dad’s voice in one ear - Gee, kid, your writing looks like chicken scratch), Bruce in the other (“Well, so long as it’s legible…”).

“Alright,” Dick says, hands the card to Timmy. “You wanna draw first?”

Timmy grins, runs off to get his crayons.

–

“We should get him a heater,” Timmy says. “‘Cause he’s always cold.”

Dick thinks of Bruce, always in gloves and high-necked sweaters and blazers. “I think he’s warm enough, Timmy,” instead of saying - I don’t think that’s why he wears gloves. (It’s to hide the bruises, Dick’s sure.)

“Why do people feel cold?” Timmy says.

“It’s their body’s way of telling them they need to warm up,” Dick says.

Would Bruce appreciate a photo of his parents? He gave the same to Dick, after all - but Bruce has photos of him and his parents and Alfred hanging in the lounge already. Would it just add to his grief? Maybe they can get Bruce one of those customisable mugs to drink his coffee in - but what would they write on it? World’s Best Bruce? It wouldn’t feel - right - just yet, for Dick to call him Dad, not when he lost his own less than a year ago. But Bruce is closer than a mentor, closer than a friend, more parental than a big-brother.

“Alright,” Dick says. “Let’s get him a heater.”

They’re on patrol. It’s a chilly night, the moon blurred by the haze of fog. There’s a low scuffle, a cough, and then they’re in an alleyway, and they’ve found a kid. He looks about eight or nine, in a slightly-too-big Anders Prep uniform.

Bruce crouches. “Are you alright?”

The kid nods, then hesitates. “Will you…tell anyone, if I’m not?”

“We won’t,” Bruce says, slowly. “But we’ll get you help.”

The kid pulls at the sleeves of his jacket.

“What’s your name?” Dick says, sitting down next to him.

“George.”

“It’s good to meet you.” Dick sticks out his hand.

George shakes it, slowly.

“Do you want to tell us what’s going on?” Dick says.

George shrugs. “I dunno. It’s just a bit tough at home, right now.” He picks at the skin around his thumb nail. “Sometimes my Dad gets kind of mad. Especially at Mom. But I don’t think they’re getting a divorce, or anything. I mean, I think it’s fine. It’s not - like, it’s fine. That’s what parents do.”

“Yeah,” Dick says, and Bruce sends him an indecipherable glance. “Sometimes they do yell. Especially at each-other. Sometimes they call each-other names, or…hurt each-other in other ways.”

The kid looks uncomfortable, gaze darting away.

“Do you have anyone at school you can talk to?” Bruce says.

He shrugs. “Not really. I’ve got friends, I guess. But, like, they’re good parents most of the time, really. Almost all the time. And it’s just - it’s a me problem. I just don’t like it when they fight.” The kid stands, sighs, brushes himself off.

“Do you need help getting home?” Bruce’s voice is gentle.

The kid shakes his head, no. “I’ll be alright.” He rubs at his eyes, but his hands are trembling. “Thanks, anyway.”

“We’ll walk you back home,” Bruce says.

“It’s for us more than you,” Dick says. “So don’t worry. You don’t need to talk, or anything. I can.”

“Okay,” George says, quietly. “Thank - thank you.”

“It’s alright,” Bruce says.

–

They drop the kid back home, watch as his mother comes out and drags him into a hug, then pulls him inside, face flushed.

“Do you - is he going to be okay?” He’s younger than me, Dick can’t quite say. He looked lonely, and scared, and sad. He wasn’t telling the whole truth.

Bruce sighs. “I don’t know. But he has resources, and he has us, and I can - Anders Prep has a guidance counsellor, but no school therapist. Most schools in Gotham don’t have either. I can work out funding for that. It’s - don’t worry too much about it, Dick. He’ll be alright. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Okay,” Dick says. And he knows - if Bruce says something, he’ll do it, won’t he?

There’s a flicker in the shadows, and Dick moves closer to Bruce.

“Fucking weirdo like you shouldn’t be on the streets,” the voice is sharp, flat, cold. Then: a man, gun in hand, glinting in the moonlight.

Dick inches towards Bruce’s cape. Bruce shifts in front of him. He’s not scared - he’s eleven, he knows how to fight, he’s not scared - but there’s something like adrenaline pumping in his veins.

“You should go home,” Bruce’s voice is gravelled, dangerous. Batman steps forward, closer to the man. Bruce lunges at the man, grabs his wrist.

Dick flinches, for a moment. Is Bruce going to - he won’t, right? He won’t. Not this time.

But Bruce disarms him, instead, and the gun clatters to the ground with a tinny clang. There’s the low noise of zipties, and then the man is on his knees, scowling, talking.

“Call Gordon,” Bruce says, and Dick brings out his radio, makes a quick call.

“Commisioner Gordon,” he says, when the radio is picked up.(He’s glad his voice doesn’t shake.) “We’re on - 45th street. Batman would like you to bring someone in.”

A sigh. Then: “Thanks, Robin. I’ll send Montoya.”

“He’s sending Detective Montoya,” Dick says.

Bruce nods. “We’ll stay here until she comes.”

She does, twenty minutes later, lets out a groan when she sees the man. “You again. If you’d stop bothering people, we wouldn’t be in this mess, you know. Thanks, Batman. I’ve got this. Stop scowling, asshole - just be grateful we aren’t bringing you in for assault.” She drags the man away.

Dick can feel the grin on his lips. “She called him an–”

“I know, I know. Don’t use language like that. The GCPD aren’t always good role models in terms of language.” He pauses. “And I don’t want…you know who knowing you know words like that, either. Or someone else repeating them.”

Dick laughs. “It’s alright. I knew swear words before. I’m eleven, you know.”

“I know, I know,” Bruce says, and his voice is light.

Timmy’s side of the bed is cold when Dick wakes. Dick pushes himself out of bed, heads to the Batcave, first - he’s sure Timmy would have headed there, now that it’s harder to sneak outside - creeps inside. Runs up the stairs, peers into the nooks and crannies, behind the dinosaur. Then–

There’s a low rustle. He races to the cars, peers inside each one–

Dick stares, heart pounding in his head. Oh, crap.

Timmy grins back, waves. “Look, Dickie! I’m gonna drive the Batmobile!” His voice is muffled through the glass.

Dick opens the passenger door, sits inside, swallows. Timmy’s too short to reach the accelerator and brake, at least. “Why don’t we play with your toy cars?” He says, checking the handbrake is still on. “I bet that’d be more fun.”

“But I want to drive the Batmobile like Bruce does!”

“But it’s not…you have to be at least sixteen to drive a car, Timmy.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. That’s the law.”

“Why?”

“I guess that’s when it’s safe to drive a car.”

“It’s a stupid law.”

Dick bites back a laugh. “Well, why don’t you change it once you become an adult? Come on, Alfred’s baking cookies. Don’t you want to have them when they’re warm?”

Timmy sighs, long and heavy, like Bruce sometimes does. “Fine.”

Dick lets out a long breath. Ushers Timmy forward, one hand on his back. “How did you get inside, anyway?”

Timmy beams up at Dick. “I climbed ‘cause the top was open!” He points: Dick spots a cardboard box, the top dented in, next to the car. Timmy must have dragged it over.

Smart, he thinks, and tries not to smile. “Next time, just wake me up, alright?”

Bruce’s birthday arrives. Alfred spends the morning making a cake - “Bruce is in the office,” he tells Dick and Tim, with a little wink. “So you may decorate as you like. We all know how he gets when he’s working,” Alfred’s voice is dry. Dick ties the balloons around the kitchen and lounge, gives up on stopping Timmy from throwing the streamers everywhere - (“Timmy, come on, you don’t need to put them on the couch–” “It’s for at-mosphere!”) - until Alfred clears his throat and asks Timmy to pick up whatever's on the floor, “before they trip and hurt themselves”, and Timmy whines and groans but does so.

And then it’s dinnertime, and Bruce walks out of his office, and into the lounge - where Timmy’s playing with his toy camera and Dick is finishing up a puzzle - and blinks, slow and heavy.

Dick jumps up, grabs the present and card from the table. “Come on, Timmy,” he says, and Timmy puts his cars down and leaps to his feet.

“I chose it!” Timmy says, bouncing on his heels. “Well, Alfred drove us there and Dickie found the heater part, but then I picked it out. It’s because you’re always cold, so we thought this would make you warmer.”

“Here,” Dick hands it to him. The wrapping isn’t perfect - Dick couldn’t quite remember what Alfred had said about making the corners all line up, and tying the bow - but Bruce smiles, handles it tenderly, anyway. “Happy birthday, Bruce.”

“Happy Birthday!” Timmy echoes. “How old are you? Are you super old, like thirty?”

Dick snorts.

“Thirty’s not old,” Bruce says. “And I’m not there just yet. Thank you, boys,” he says, unwrapping the present. He smiles. “A heater. And these…”

“Timmy and I drew on the side. Daffodils, and calla lilies. For - new beginnings,” Dick says, a little awkward. It had seemed a good idea at the time, but–

“It’s lovely,” Bruce says, warm, turning over the card. “Thank you.”

“I’ve made dinner. Your favourite, Master Bruce. And some cake,” Alfred says, and they head to the dinner table.

Bruce’s gaze is soft, fond. Dick’s chest is warm.

Dick slips off while Timmy’s napping. Heads to the library, finds that notebook, Bruce’s notebook, from those early days, and curls up on the couch, ignores the twinge of guilt in his gut.

If this gives him anything useful, though - if there are any clues -

Then Dick needs to read it.

Gotham is cold…streets are dangerous. I need to fix it, but how?...They run when I come. Scared. I need to become something bigger than fear itself…Cobblepot is doing something. Meeting the Falcone’s. Talking to her to work it out. Need to fix this…Something dangerous is brewing–

Dick closes the notebook. Cobblepot? Dick knows the name - it’s familiar - but where? Penguin; that’s it. He’s in Bruce’s files. Involved in illegal financial activities.

Maybe the sort to kill. Maybe the sort to want protection money. Maybe the sort–

Dick knocks on Bruce’s office door.

“Come in, Dick,” Bruce says. He sounds distracted. Dick walks in, anyway. Bruce turns, nods, murmurs a hello, Dick, turns back to his work.

“I read your notebook,” Dick says, quietly. Bruce’s expression freezes on his face. “The January to March one.”

“I see,” Bruce says, quietly. (That’s the thing about Bruce. Sometimes Dick can’t tell if he’s angry, or upset, or disappointed, and sometimes it’s clear as ice on his face.)

“I mean, I overheard that - that day that Mr. Haly owed someone some protection money, so–”

Bruce sighs. “I moved them out of the Batcave so you wouldn’t read them, Dick, not so –”

“Yeah, but if he owed money to some of the people in here, then–”

“Carmine Falcone is dead, Dick.”

“Oswald Cobblepot isn’t,” Dick says. “And - and you wrote it yourself! If people owe him money, he –”

“It’s not Cobblepot, Dick.”

“Then who is it?”

Bruce sighs.

“You asked around at Haly’s, didn’t you? I know you did. And you’re the World’s Greatest Detective, or whatever. I know you know–”

“Dick…” Bruce draws in a breath, his face tight. “If I had the choice, I wouldn’t have learnt who killed my parents.”

“So you don’t trust me.”

“I wasn’t–”

“I’m not you, Bruce.” Dick’s heart thunders in his head.

“I know,” Bruce says, quietly. “I know.”

“Then tell me.”

Bruce sighs. “I don’t even know for sure, myself, Dick. And I figure working it out for yourself is…better. Right? You know, my parents’ case is still technically unsolved.”

“You still know who killed your parents, Dick says, finally, quietly. He sighs. “Yeah. I guess it is, but…” he rubs at his eyes. “I’m going out for a walk.”

“Dick–”

“I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back by dinnertime, don’t worry.”

Dick steps outside. The air is still cool, even though it’s nearing Spring. He walks, and walks, and walks, and doesn’t reach the road. Still the Manor; the Manor grounds; the roads; the other houses, rich and tall. Sometimes he feels like every time he looks outside all he sees is opulence, sad and lonely.

He misses home, but he can’t go back. Not now, without his parents, without the things that made home home. He knows that. But even so - even so–

Is it so bad to hope?

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asks the next night, on patrol.

“Better.” Even Timmy can sense the unease between them - he keeps trying to unsuccessfully trick Dick and Bruce into talking. (“Mama said hugging is the best demedy, Dick! You should apologise for making him sad, Bruce.”) Dinner had been an awkward affair, with Dick picking at his food and Bruce off in his office, avoiding everyone.

The sky lights up with the Batsignal, and Bruce swings away, Dick behind him.

“You should stay somewhere safe,” Bruce says.

“I’m safest with you,” Dick says. I think. I hope. Bruce doesn’t respond.

–

“What’s that?” Dick says, and Bruce shifts so his body is partially blocking the scene.

“Another body.”

“Another–who is it?”

Bruce clears his throat. “Someone I know. A CEO. He’s been…he’s been making some deals with some other companies.”

The wrong sort of deals, Dick can guess. The sort of deals that make rich people richer and cheat everyone else out of hard-earned money. “Is he…he’s only killing people you know, right? Or, so far, anyway.”

Bruce nods. “We probably run in the same circles.”

“Oh.” Dick says, and his voice sounds small. Is he going to kill you, next?

“I’ll be fine,” Bruce says. “Don’t worry.” I’m Batman, he doesn’t need to say, and Dick’s lips twist up.

“Okay.”

“You know, our friend has a rifle. He’s said on more than one occasion that I may have qualms about guns, but he certainly doesn’t. And I can never manage to find them all.”

“Really? Is A - our friend–” “He was in intelligence, from what he’s told me. But who knows how true that is? And it’s all a long time ago, of course.”

“Of course,” Dick echoes. (He’s got to ask Alfred about this, of course, even though he’s sure Alfred won’t be forthcoming with any information, or whatever, but he still needs to ask.)

“But - um -”

“It’ll be fine, Robin. I’ve dealt with worse. With more obvious threats, at that, too.”

“Okay,” Dick says, finally. He inches closer. “Did you find anything?”

Bruce clears his throat. “He’s…he calls himself Black Mask. I suppose because he’s - well, anyway–”

“He’s what?”

Bruce shifts. “Come on. You don’t need to see this.”

“I’ve already seen–” Dead bodies. My parents, Dick doesn’t say.

“I know. But you don’t need to add to your nightmares, Dick. And it’s about time to wrap up patrol. Come on.”

Dick grits his teeth together. “Fine.” “I…I care for you,” Bruce says, almost inaudibly. “And I’m sorry.”

Dick sighs. “I know, Batman. I know.” Sometimes it’s hard to stay mad at Bruce, when he’s like this. It feels a bit like being mad at Timmy. “I forgive you,” Dick says, the words strange on his tongue, and Bruce lets out a breath, shoulders dropping. Dick’s stomach churns. He pushes the feeling down.

“I wanna go pick the flowers,” Timmy says.

Dick stares outside: the sun is out, shining through the open windows, dappling the manor in warm yellow. The sweet scent of jasmine and lavender floats in the air. “Alright,” Dick says. “Let’s go outside. We’ll be in the garden,” Dick calls to Alfred, and they head out.

Dick sits in the garden while Timmy jumps around, picking wild daisies and daffodils, occasionally picking up a leaf, or an insect, and dumping it in Dick’s lap - (“Oh, come on, Tim, that was a beetle!” “Nu-uh, it was a super cute–”)

Timmy makes him something resembling a flower crown, brows scrunched up in concentration, then tells Dick to wear it. “You got to, Dickie, I made it for you.”

Dick places it onto his head, careful not to break it. He’s maybe a little bit embarrassed (he’s almost twelve!) but Timmy’s beaming, jumping around, handing all his flowers to Dick - here you go, Dickie! - and Dick’s embarrassment melts away.

“You’re really pretty,” Timmy says, matter-of-fact. “Like a princess!”

Dick presses his lips together to stop himself laughing. “You aren’t going to make one for yourself?”

Timmy considers this. “Yeah. Okay, stay right there, Dickie, I got to make the bracelet, too. Don’t move!”

Dick sits. Soaks in the warm sun, the scent of fresh grass around him. It almost feels like home, or something like it - though home was everywhere, back then. If he lets his mind drift hard enough, he can almost hear Zitka’s feet thumping on the ground in the distance, his mother’s chiming laugh, his father’s footsteps, light and steady.

–

“Did you have fun?” Bruce asks, at dinnertime.

“It was good,” Dick says. “The sun was nice.”

“Lots!” Timmy says. “I jumped around and then I fought the flowers–” Dick tries not to laugh and fails, just a little “–whoosh-swoosh but then I made the crown for Dickie and he wore it and became a princess.”

“That’s…that’s really great, Timmy. I’m glad to hear it,” Bruce says, voice warm.

Timmy nods, bouncing in his chair.

I miss home, Dick thinks, with a lump in his throat. But this isn’t too bad, either. He puts another mouthful of lasagne into his mouth, lets it warm him from the inside out.

Another Gala. The suit feels weird against Dick's skin - too silky smooth - but Alfred had insisted.

Dick clears his throat, adjusts his tie. “Is Babs going to be at this one?”

“No,” Bruce says. “Commissioner Gordon isn’t, either.”

I was hoping to see them, Dick doesn’t say.

“I can do it!” Timmy says, when Alfred moves to help with his tie.

“I’m sure you can, Young Master Tim,” Alfred says. “But it doesn’t hurt to ask for help.”

Dick smiles, a little. Bruce nods at him, reaches over, loosens Dick's tie. “It'll be more comfortable, now. I remember my first few Galas, when - before. I’d be in this itchy suit, smiling at all these adults, wishing I could be playing outside.”

“Still quite the same, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, and Bruce chuckles.

“Come on, boys,” Bruce says. “Let’s head off.”

–

Dick ducks under the table, sits so he's blocked by the chairs and table cloth. Timmy follows, absently chewing Mr Bat's ear.

“We've got to be quiet,” Dick whispers. “Alright?”

Timmy nods, presses his index finger to his lips.

“There were no casualties, only minor injuries–” Dick peers out from under the table: Clark Kent and Lois Lane are talking to each-other, near the edge of the room. “I don’t think Superman has the - political awareness to be going into these places and causing strife internationally and making the sort of messes he’s making. Sure, he’s fixing some things, but these are sensitive geopolitical situations, and–”

“I mean, sure, but the guy’s trying to help people, isn’t he? He’s trying to inspire people. He’s trying to save people. There weren't any civilian casualties–”

“He destroyed three apartment complexes, Clark, I wouldn’t –”

“All those people affected have been–”

“Helped, I know. I know. I’m not trying to say he’s a bad guy, Clark - he saves lives, I know that. But he could do with a little more tact.”

“And what about Bruce Wayne? You’ve been wanting to interview him.”

She gives a little laugh. “You’re just trying to distract me. Well, Wayne’s a billionaire, isn’t he? Look at Lex Luthor. How do we know Bruce Wayne isn’t similar? And before you say anything, I know you’ve already written an article about how he adopted two kids–”

“--And he’s not Lex Luthor’s special brand of…well, you know. I don’t think Wayne is that bad. Wayne Enterprises has–”

“--Better employment practices and benefits than most corporations, I know. And he’s regularly philanthropic, but I don’t think having caution is a bad thing, especially here. You’re too nice, Clark. It won’t serve - oh, hell, he’s free. I’m going to go ask him about that urban renewal project he’s trying to fund in Park Row.”

Clark Kent murmurs something; Lois Lane gives a dry laugh.

“I’ll try and talk to Cale - you’ve been looking into her, right?”

Lois responds ("Thanks, Clark. I'll look into Sionis after I talk to Wayne, if I can catch him,") then leaves; Dick hears her shoes clacking on the floor.

Urban renewal? Dick mouths, from under the table. (Babs was right. This is pretty fun, even if it is a little cramped; he’s overhearing loads.)

“What’s that?” Timmy says, next to him, tugging on Dick’s sleeve.

“Shh,” Dick says. “It’s - making old neighbourhoods look new, I think. Fixing them up.”

Dick cranes his neck, spots Bruce.

Bruce smiles, charming, a little strange, arms slung around two others. Dick’s always a little uncomfortable when Bruce does…that. It’s weird. Dick spots Bruce’s eyes sharpening as Lois approaches, notepad and recorder in hand, footsteps quick, assured.

“Well, he’s a little new to Commissioner, but…” A voice. It doesn’t sound familiar, exactly, but it’s gravelled, low. (A smoker, maybe - one of the GCPD officers?)

“A little new?”

“Well, the old one died last year. You must have heard. Killed in some – gang-related thing. A real mess. We had to do a lot of clean-up.” A sigh. (GCPD, then.)

Dick tries to inch closer. Timmy fidgets with Dick’s blazer sleeve, wipes his nose on it.

“Timmy,” Dick says. “That’s expensive.”

“My nose is runnin',” Timmy says. “I can’t help it!”

“Alright, alright.”

Dick tries to listen more - catches something about masks, a cold, scraping voice, but then there’s the sound of footsteps - slow, confident - and he pulls back.

“Hey, there,” Clark Kent says, popping into view, crouching in front of them. Dick makes a noise in the back of his throat. (He’d thought Kent was talking to Cale - Veronica Cale, from what Dick can guess - not hanging about here, waiting to talk to them.) “Er, who are we hiding from?”

You, Dick can’t exactly say. “Some of the reporters,” he whispers back, instead. “They’re kinda nosy.”

Dick frowns at Clark Kent. Like this, he looks almost like - but, no. Timmy speaks, and Dick has to look away, anyway.

“I brought Mr. Bat with me,” Timmy says. “It’s a secret ‘cause he’s supposed to be in bed making the monsters go away.”

“He is, hey?” Mr. Kent’s voice is warm.

Mr. Kent is slouching, voice mild, a little hoarse. His clothes are secondhand, a little baggy, but Dick can guess he’s around Bruce’s height. Superman is - big, lively, a presence, in comparison. And, sure, people change, people look different - Dick does it himself, with Robin - but Superman’s Superman, and Clark Kent - with his glasses, and his eyes that look like he’s had no rest and spent too long staring at a computer - doesn’t look like him. Not yet, not quite, anyway. The thought niggles at Dick. He’ll work it out later, he reckons; he’ll see Mr. Kent again.

“Are you looking for an interview?”

Mr. Kent blinks, smiles, carefully. “Well, I won’t say no, if you offer. You’re Bruce Wayne’s ward, after all.”

Dick clenches his teeth together. Timmy tugs at Dick’s sleeve. “Well, I’m not offering.”

Mr. Kent shrugs. Keeps his smile pasted on. “Alright. I’ll see you around, kids,” he says, with a wave.

Timmy waves back. Dick scoots further under the table.

“Can we play chopsticks?” Timmy says, and Dick sighs, smiles, nods.

“Sure. But I’ll win.”

–

“Dickie, what's a corruption?”

Dick sighs, presses his face into the pillow. “Where’d you hear that?”

“From Lois Lane. She’s a journ-list. She showed me her camera ‘cause I introduced myself to her and I told her I had one too. And she was talking to the lady and she said the Mayor was doing a corruption with some guys but then she saw me and stopped and asked Mr. Bat’s name.”

“It’s…like when people who are supposed to be doing good help people doing bad things instead of people doing good things.”

“Why’d they do that”?

Dick squeezes his eyes shut. “Money,” he says, and his voice is a little rough. “I guess.” His parents falling, that hushed conversation - he shakes the thoughts away.

“Why do they like money so much?” Timmy's wide awake, still. Dick wants to bury himself under the covers and sleep.

“I dunno, Timmy. It gets you things. A house, a car, good doctors, protection when you need it–” His voice catches. “Stuff.”

“Why can’t they have that anyway?”

DIck sighs. “Why don’t you ask Bruce? He’d know.”

“‘Cause he’s Batman?” Timmy whispers.

“Yeah. And ‘cause he’s got a lot of money.” Dick yawns.

“Oh. Why’s he–”

“Let’s play the sleep game, Timmy. Whoever gets to sleep first wins, okay?”

Timmy makes a whining noise. “But I wanna–”

“I bet I can sleep before you,” DIck says, pretends to snore.

He hears Timmy giggle, his, “I’m gonna win!”, listens until Timmy falls asleep, breaths quiet and rhythmic.