Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The streets got colder again. Logically, Dick knew knew it had to happen and there was nothing one could do against nature’s forces. But somehow, it felt personal, like the bitter wind had singled him out. His dingy hiding hole barely kept the weather at bay. He’d patched the crumbling concrete walls with layers of scavenged cardboard, but it didn’t make a difference. Cement held onto the cold like a grudge and winter wasn’t exactly a season of generosity. People didn’t throw out blankets when they needed them most.

He hadn’t planned for what came after the escape. Honestly, he hadn’t expected to escape at all. The only thing that had mattered was getting out . But freedom, he realized too late, wasn’t the same as safety. It was so obvious in hindsight. Before, there had been his parents. Then the Court had taken over, shaping him, sharpening him, molding him into something he never wanted to become. Now, there was just… him. Alone. Cold. Wet. Surviving in the shadows of Gotham, scavenging for scraps in a city that devoured the weak. He remembered complaining to his parents about the circus being in Gotham. The noise, the smells, the grime. That felt like a lifetime ago. Maybe it was.

A loud crash jolted him from his thoughts. Huddled inside a clothing donation bin, he tensed. Yes, it was stealing, but… he couldn’t afford anything in a charity shop and they’d only send him to an orphanage if he asked for help and that was simply not an option. Peeking over the rim, he spotted a group of teens jacking up a car nearby. Tires were easy to move in Gotham’s underworld. Good for trade, good for favors. But that wasn’t his game. Dick didn’t have tools, and more importantly, he didn’t have the connections.

If he’d been in one of the gangs, maybe he’d have joined in. But he wasn’t. For now, he stuck mostly to other runaways, kids his age or younger, just trying to survive.

As winter approached, most of them vanished indoors. The ones with homes stayed there, the cold being harsh enough to reunite them with their families, no matter had bad the terms had been when they had left. Dick didn’t mind the solitude. Companionship had its moments, sure, but it was easier not to get too attached. People disappeared easily in this city. Sometimes, he had to vanish too, go completely underground, disappear for weeks at a time. Especially when they were hunting.

Creatures that prowled the nights.

He could still feel them, like phantoms in the dark, when they searched every alley, every crawlspace, every broken vent, moving with the shadows. They didn’t speak. They didn’t breathe. They moved like death given form. Silent. Relentless. Masks gleaming under the moonlight. Once upon a time, he had trained beside them. Had once been meant to become one of them. Unfortunately for them, he had been the prodigy. Their most promising weapon. Didn’t even need to be turned yet for that to ring true. He wasn’t moving with the shadows of the city, he learned to become the shadow.

He slipped out of the bin, boots landing softly in half-frozen slush. The teenagers down the street were laughing, their voices bouncing off the stained walls. Dick understood. Thise stolen tires meant food for a few weeks. Fair trade in this city. 

Without a sound, he turned down the alley, vaulted a chain-link fence, and climbed up onto the fire escape. His movements were as fluid as the smog the city was covered in. The young boy made his way across the rooftops with practiced ease. Two oversized coats were tucked under one arm, his latest haul from the bin. Too big to wear, but thick enough to serve as blankets.

The flat rooftops were treacherous,slick with ice and scattered debris, this part of the city to easily maneuver them regardless. His breath fogged the air, his fingers ached with cold, but he moved with the grace of the acrobat he still was. The ache was just background noise. Muscle memory carried him. One thing that had carried him through the years was the knowledge that he was meant to fly. No robin could ever thrive in a cage.

Yet, every bird had to land sometimes.

And all he wanted right now  was a few hours of sleep. To bury himself under layers and pretend the world didn’t exist. If only he could go into hibernation. Just sleep through the whole winter and forget.

A soft sigh escaped as he cleared a particularly wide gap between roofs. Below him, the city muttered and stirred. Gotham never slept. Dick didn't know the last time he felt truly rested either.

His destination finally appeared through the gloom. An abandoned, half-collapsed building wedged between two newer towers. Nearly impossible to access from ground level. Which was the point. The harder to reach, the safer he was. At least from more common threats on the street.

Next summer, he told himself, he’d find a way to leave. Go south. Somewhere warm. Somewhere quiet . But even as the thought formed, he knew it could very well be futile. The Court’s reach was long. And the further he went from Gotham, the harder it would be to keep track of them and their information. To bring them down. One day. No one else was going to do it.

Just thinking about it made his head hurt as he flew in through an open window into his makeshift nest.

Cardboard-covered walls greeted him, dull and familiar, along with a pile of clothes on the floor. His bed. Sure, people threw mattresses out from time to time, but carrying one over the roofs of Gotham and stuffing it through a much smaller window didn’t exactly constitute as stealth. He checked the coats. Moth-eaten, but clean. No fleas. Good enough. He tossed them onto the pile and peeled off his damp outer layers.

It… wasn’t perfect. 

Sure, Dick had been an odd child, even before everything. He thought, for a moment, of the trailer. Back when things were simple. Always sneaking naps on the floor, right next to his bed. Mama used to scold him, telling him he’d mess up his back.

He remembered laughing.

He remembered being happy.

It was different now. The floor wasn’t a choice anymore. It was just all that was left.

He curled into the pile of clothes, coats draped over him, and let the cold seep in, bone-deep as it always was.

Tomorrow, he’d scavenge again. Tomorrow, he’d survive another day. Tomorrow, he'd laugh in the face of adversity again.

Chapter Text

The darkness felt heavier. Disturbances rippled almost like an invisible line through the late night fog, coiling around the streets like a warning. Gotham never truly slept, but there were moments it went still, as if the whole city was lying in wait. That stillness had just broken.

It was the kind of night you were better off staying indoors. Yet, Dick Grayson was starving, and hunger always won out over caution. His stomach twisted painfully, a constant, gnawing reminder that his last real meal had been days ago. Rational thinking had long since taken a backseat. He knew the Talons were out there. He could feel them in the corners of the dark, crawling through the shadows. 

But there were dumpsters behind restaurants, and restaurants meant scraps. Enough to keep going. Barely.

And tonight, he was desperate.

Dick wasn’t an idiot. He knew the sounds a Talon made when it flew above the city. As he wandered the back alleys of closed restaurants, he knew what was coming.

He’d kicked a pipe loose from a rusted drain earlier. Crude, but sturdy. Long-range.

“Alright,” he muttered, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “Mama didn’t raise a quitter.”

__

The sharp clank of metal meeting metal pulled Bruce out of his silent patrol routine. Not an unusual sound in the city, but still a fight that had progressed too far not to intervene.

By the time he reached the scene, the alley below was already chaos. Dumpsters with dents, covered in blood splatters and trash bags torn and littered around everywhere.

A masked man stood beneath a broken fire escape, still as stone. He was staring upward. Following the gaze, for a moment he noticed nothing odd, before something moved. A blur, fast and small, dropping from the shadows above like a bolt of shadow. A kid. At first, the shape was impossible to track, too quick to be real. The boy kicked out, striking the man mid-chest, but the blow was caught. The man moved to slam him into the wall- Bruce’s breath caught for a moment- but the boy spun through it, turning the throw into a flip, one hand clutching the pipe. He used the momentum to arc upward and strike the man under the chin in what should’ve been a skull-rattling hit.

He knew he had to drop in soon, even if the boy proved himself to be capable. This was more than survival. Not only was a child going up against a grown man, he was going up against a grown man that simply shook off a steel pipe to the head. His eyes narrowed in thought of how to interfere. After another watchful moment, the man lunged and Bruce moved. Smoke pellet, grappling line and similar as the boy had done, he landed on the assailant. With far superior weight and the element of surprise, the body underneath him crumpled.

In the blink of an eye, Bruce felt an intense force pulling his cape as the man grabbed it to throw him off. A well-timed roll took most of the force, landing him next to the boy. The boy, maybe twelve, maybe younger, stood next to him, breathing hard, pipe still clenched in his hand. He was rail-thin beneath layers of tattered clothes, face smeared with grime and blood, but his stance was defensive, balanced. He clearly had training.

“Someone didn’t watch the Incredibles , huh,” came a low murmur from his side.

Training. Technique. And serious nerve.

Bruce’s gaze flicked to the attacker, still groaning on the pavement, while the boy’s attention seemed to be split between Bruce and the assailant, defiant eyes glowing in the dim alley light. Might as well try and ask.

“You know what we are fighting,” he asked in a dark, commanding tone. Giving him no choice but to answer.

The boy was silent at first. His eyes flicked to the man on the ground then back to the cowl, trying to decide if he was a threat or temporary ally. Then gave a single nod.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “I know.”

Another nod, this one toward the crumpled man groaning on the ground. “It doesn’t stay down.”

As if on cue, the man shifted, spine cracking unnaturally as he rolled to one knee. A moment later, his full weight was back on his feet. The only sign of the steel pipe to the face was a small, dark smear around his mouth. Said pipe was quick to fly past Bruce and straight towards the man’s goggles. He blocked it easily, despite the bones still rearranging themselves.

“You guys were never fans of slapstick,” the boy groaned.

Meanwhile the man had drawn a curved blade from his coat, moving with a mechanical precision, efficient, eerie. Deadly. Without a second wasted, he was covering the distance with unnatural speed, leaping towards the boy. Bruce barely had time to intercept the strike, grabbing the outstretched hand as the knife made a small cut in the boy’s ragged sweater. Too close. But also still getting closer with the pure strength that this… man? creature? could muster. The boy had enough wits to jump back, given the opportunity and Bruce finally had the room to spin the creature and slam it into a wall with a sickening crunch.

The boy tumbled backwards to create some space between him and the creature, a lead Bruce was quick to follow on.

“Can we make it stay down?” Bruce asked, catching his breath, eyes on the boy.

“Sure,” the kid said, not missing a beat. “We either freeze him solid or turn his brain into soup.”

Bruce blinked. “Excuse me?”

“We either freeze him solid,” the kid repeated, unfazed, “Or turn his brain into soup.”

Bruce frowned. “I don’t kill.”

The boy gave a sharp, breathless laugh. “Yeah... don’t worry about that, I don’t think you can kill it.”

The thing twitched again. Bones that should’ve been shattered were… reforming. Fast. That certainly gave credit to some astounding regenerative powers. Still. A brain injury was not something that could be inflicted on a whim. It would be his cross to bear should the boy be wrong. Freezing it was the play then.

Thank Ivy and her damn carnivorous vines. He’d started carrying cryo vials after his third run-in with sentient plants. Only one on him, though. He reached for the vial, but before he could act, something tugged at his cape. The boy had vaulted up onto his shoulders.

“Kid—!”

Too late.

 With an impressive jump, he landed on the creature’s hand, but quickly scrambled to his back and with force that almost seemed vicious, stabbed a bat-shaped throwing knife into its neck with brutal precision.

The creature howled and the child vaulted off, barely escaping a clawed hand.

Bruce didn’t hesitate. He hurled the cryo vial.

The impact exploded in a cloud of freezing vapor. The creature stiffened, staggered, then collapsed mid-scream. Finally still.

Watching it suspiciously until he was reasonably sure it wouldn’t get up again in the next few minutes,  he tapped his comms, sending the signal for secure meta-containment.

Afterwards he focused back on the boy, who was leaning against the alley wall, pipe discarded, chest heaving. Just how long had the fight been going? Bruce could see dark blotches staining his clothes, but was unsure whose blood it was. 

“That was far too reckless,” Bruce said flatly. “What if I didn’t have something to incapacitate it with?” 

The boy cracked one eye open. “Aren’t you Batman? Pretty sure ‘plan for everything’ is your whole thing.” He wiped at his mouth. “Besides… that can’t be the only weirdo in this city with an allergy to the cold.”

With very little hesitation, he strolled over to the frozen body and casually yanked the knife from its neck using his sweater-covered hand. Then turned back to Bruce with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Can I keep the batarang?”

Bruce blinked. “What?”

 “As a souvenir. I won’t sell it.” He paused, then added with a shrug, “Probably.”

“Absolutely not. It’s a knife, no matter what ridiculous name you give it.”

“It’s a Batarang, ” the boy said, matter-of-fact. “Y’know. Half bat, half boomerang.”

Bruce gave him an exasperated look. “In what universe does a sharp throwing knife count as a boomerang?”

The boy made a loud errnk buzzer noise. “No handle. Two curves. Boomerang.”

Bruce wasn’t entirely sure how much one was supposed to argue with a child, but he wasn’t about to lose either. He stepped forward and plucked the weapon from the boy’s hand.

The kid let it go with exaggerated reluctance. “Fine. But I’m putting it on my letter to Santa.”

Bruce’s inexperience with children didn’t miraculously vanish in the span of a few moments and it showed. “Do you… even still believe in Santa?” he asked, aiming for casual, landing somewhere closer to painfully awkward.

The boy’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Wait. Are you telling me he doesn’t !?”

____

Dick had had his fun and he knew it was time to bail. The quest for food had been derailed, but hey, better that than ending up as a Talon’s newest shish kebab. But man, he’d kill for a meat skewer right about now…

Sirens began to echo faintly in the distance. He shifted, preparing to slip away, which promptly drew Batman’s attention.

“Where do you think you’re going?” The tone was firm, the kind that didn’t need to be loud to carry weight. Definitely not a tone that said you’re free to leave . Dick’s stomach sank. The post-fight rush was bleeding away, leaving only the chill and wariness. Batman didn’t know it, but he was public enemy number one to the organization that had molded Dick these past few years. The Court had raised him. Trained him. Owned him. It was hard not to want to draw a weapon on him as well. 

Instead, he shrugged, masking the tension with a grin. “I’m pretty sure even Batman falls under the stranger danger rule.” He paused, then added with a cheeky tone, “Mom always said not to talk to weird men in capes.” Half true. She’d been dead for years. But she had been strict about strangers once the applause faded and the circus lights dimmed.

Before Batman could press further, Dick offered a little wave and darted off into the shadows, hoping the Talon was dangerous enough to hold Batman’s attention a little longer.

“Bye-bye, Bat Guy!” he sang over his shoulder, voice bouncing off brick walls as he disappeared into the night. His mood was significantly lifted, now that he had survived another Talon encounter and had enough money for food. Apparently, Batman was also just a member of society and not some Gotham-born cryptid stitched together from vengeance and shadows, because otherwise he wouldn’t carry money next to his batarangs. Bat dollars. Batlers. Eh, still time to workshop it. Thinking was easier on a full stomach.

________

Though the years had passed and the nightly routine remained largely unchanged, his old heart only ever found rest once the dark Chevrolet had returned to the cave with its driver still in one piece.

“Welcome back, Master Bruce,” he greeted mildly, offering a damp towel for the younger man to wipe down.

“Thanks, Alfred,” came the automatic reply, though Bruce lingered longer than usual, his face buried in the towel like it could absorb all his stress if he just stayed there. Alfred waited, expecting him to head to the computer next to log case notes, update files, review surveillance. Instead, Bruce just sighed. Deeply. Then glanced over with the weariness of a man bested by something far more insidious than crime.

He had to do no more than lift an eyebrow for Bruce to begin.

“When,” Bruce began, voice flat with disbelief, “do children stop believing in Santa?”

Alfred blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Several minutes and one recounting of an alley encounter later, Alfred couldn’t quite hide the faint curl of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. He felt a surprising flicker of kinship toward the unknown child and their shared ability to get under Batman’s skin.