Chapter Text
In the corner of the dimly lit room, an 8-year-old boy sat quietly on a plush, dark leather couch, his small frame nearly swallowed by the cushions. His eyes darted around the room, taking in the opulent decor.
They had been stuck in an awkward silence for the last half hour or so when Bruce heard the soft, familiar sound of footsteps approaching, their gentle rhythm breaking the quiet atmosphere. Alfred appeared with a polished silver tray in hand. The tray gleamed under the soft glow of the chandelier above, and Bruce could see an assortment of ripe, colorful fruits artfully arranged and cut into bite-sized pieces.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred says, his voice steady and calm as he stood to Bruce's right, “I have completed preparing Master Richard’s room. I believe it would be most beneficial for both of you if you could show him around the manor yourself.”
He nods slowly in agreement. It made sense, after all, he was the guardian now. Yet, he felt a pang of uncertainty. Richard had hardly uttered more than a couple of words since arriving at the manor that morning, accompanied by a visibly anxious social worker who had expressed her concerns with furrowed brows and a troubled gaze. Perhaps her worries were justified, after all, Bruce was at best ill-equipped to deal with a child this age, much less one who had experienced so much in such a short time.
The decision to take Richard in had been motivated more by a surge of emotion than by careful consideration, and now he was starting to feel the weight of that choice. What had he really been thinking? Bruce Wayne, famously averse to commitment, adopts a newly orphaned child—what could possibly go wrong?
Alfred leans forward slightly, his eyes gleaming with a mix of concern and wisdom as he gestures for Bruce to come closer. "I believe the one thing he needs right now is reassurance that you’re here for him, Master Bruce. Let him know he isn’t alone. The rest will work itself out." With careful precision, he extends the silver tray he’s holding, guiding Bruce’s attention towards Richard, who sits hunched and withdrawn, still as quiet as a mouse.
In moments like this, Bruce is in awe of Alfred's innate ability to read his mind and say exactly what he needs to hear. "Thank you," Bruce murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.
Across the room, Richard watches through the tall window, his gaze drifting outside as he becomes lost in thought. He idly fidgets with the collar of his polo shirt, the fabric faintly rustling in the quiet room.
Bruce remembers hearing that meeting children at their eye level can help them feel less intimidated, so that's precisely what he does. He takes a deep breath and lowers himself beside the couch. As he settles down, the boy’s attention shifts back towards him, momentarily breaking the spell of his internal musings. Bruce studies Richard’s face closely, his expression is hard to read, but Bruce tries anyway.
“Hey there, chum,” Bruce says softly, a gentle smile breaking through the seriousness of the moment. He gestures towards the lush garden outside the window with a nod of his chin. “Seen anything interesting out there?” For a moment, Richard's eyes flicker towards the garden, but he shakes his head in response.
“Ah, well… I have it on good authority that we have a family of birds living on one of the trees,” Bruce continues.
And that seems to finally catch Richard’s attention. “Really?” His deep blue eyes lift to meet Bruce's gaze.
Bruce nods in affirmation, then extends the tray decorated with freshly sliced fruit towards Richard, the sunlight glinting off the polished surface. "I'll tell you what… once we finish our snack, we can take a look around the manor, maybe look for those birds, how does that sound, huh?” He pops a slice of juicy apple into his mouth, savoring its crisp sweetness.
Richard's tiny hands, delicate and cautious, reach for a slice with the careful grace of a child asking for permission. Bruce misreads the boy's hesitation as a dislike for the fruit. “You don’t like apples, Richard? If you prefer something else, I can always ask Alfred to bring you whatever you want—”
Before Bruce can finish his nervous ramble, he’s cut off by Richard’s quiet voice. “It’s Dick.”
The name barely registers at first, but as Bruce processes the words, a faint smile breaks through his serious demeanor. “Is that what you like to be called?” he asks gently. Dick responds with a small, determined nod, the corners of his mouth lifting into a shy smile.
“Very well, Dick. What do you think about starting with the garden?”
At this, the kid perks up, and the energy in the room immediately feels lighter.
In the end, it took Bruce a full thirty minutes to realize that Dick wasn’t genuinely quiet, he was simply a touch shy around unfamiliar faces. But as soon as Dick began to shed his nerves, he was practically bouncing off the walls with energy and mindless chatter.
As they entered his spacious new room, Dick's eyes lit up with excitement. He quickly made a beeline for the grand king-sized bed in the center of the room. The bed, with its plush mattress and elegantly draped navy-blue comforter, looked like something straight out of an interior design magazine, but it was decidedly not very childlike.
For the past several days, Bruce had been mulling over the thought that the manor might not be the warmest or most inviting environment for a child, especially one that was not used to it. Everything had happened so quickly that they hadn't had time to prepare a proper room or order a properly sized bed. But if Dick’s reaction is anything to go by, this might have been a blessing in disguise.
“Mister Wayne! This is the biggest bed I have ever seen!” Dick all but shrieked, “Can I please please please jump on it?”
As Bruce stands in the doorway, he briefly considers that it might be wise to say no, after all, Dick could easily lose his balance and fall, potentially injuring himself. However, this is the first time Dick has asked him for something, and denying him this small moment of joy feels almost like a betrayal.
In that moment, Bruce realizes just how helpless he feels when it comes to anything Dick might desire.
“Only if you take off your shoes first,” he says, leaning against the doorway. “And you can call me Bruce if you want.”
The words barely escape his lips when Dick's shoes are already flung to the side, right before he leaps onto the bed, a wide grin spreading across his face. As he bounces up and down, the neatly made bed that Alfred had painstakingly arranged just moments ago becomes a wrinkled mess in seconds.
Bruce's mind drifts back to a time when he was around Dick’s age, possibly even younger, long before Gotham had tainted him and stolen his childhood innocence. He recalls doing the same thing in his parents’ bedroom, which is now his own.
It was his father who had coaxed him into it, and Bruce remembers feeling somewhat apprehensive. What would happen if Alfred—or worse, his mother—found out? Surely, they would receive a scolding for the ages. "Don’t worry, I won’t tell if you don’t," Thomas had assured him.
In the end, they did get caught when the bed frame cracked loudly, echoing throughout the second floor of the manor, accompanied by their uncontrollable laughter at the absurdity of the situation.
Now, he considers that one of his fondest memories.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s why Bruce clumsily takes off his dress shoes and joins Dick, just as his father had done with him.