Chapter Text
ch 1
A year after Bruce Wayne's first official press conference, and things are better.
Still not how it could be, how it should be. The drug trade is still running through the underground, Roman Sionis and Ozwald Cobblepot having taken advantage of the power vacuum that Falcone left following his arrest and death. Poverty continues to run rampant and wealth inequality has continued to plague the poorer districts of Gotham, and with that poverty comes more and more crime. It still feeds into itself, an ever-churning cog of corruption and exploitation. Gotham still eats herself alive.
However, as Alfred would tell Bruce, "It's not all doom and gloom."
Bruce's work over the last year has had some effect. He's financed countless local charities, soup kitchens and shelters, worked directly with recovery teams in and out of the suit. He's made paces to restore Wayne Enterprises to its place as a peoples company, and in the process he's had to tear down what the board left in their wake.
They never tell you how much of a pain in the ass it is to go through that much paperwork, nor how long it really takes. Certainly nobody told Bruce when he naively set his sights upon his family's company.
A good half of his time nowadays is spent on Wayne enterprises. Any bit of spare time in between daily tasks and nightly ongoings as the Bat is spent on paperwork and planning.
Doesn't mean he likes it, though.
(He really, really doesn't like it.)
But its neccessary if he wants to do better by Gotham, by the memory of his parents. Thankfully, he's not so alone in it. Lucius Fox has become invaluable to the operations of Wayne Enterprises and its overhaul, and Bruce genuinely doesn't think that he could've gotten as far as he could without him. He could even be a good friend in the future.
For now, he's an excellent mentor and business partner.
On the Bat's side of the timetable, things have only changed a little.
His reputation has grown, for one.
People trust him and fear him in turn, now more than ever. His actions during the Riddler Crisis, as Gothamites had taken to calling it, had seemingly proved his intentions with the City and for the greater populace at large.
It'd also branded him as even more of a threat to Gotham's underbelly. More of a target, a priority enemy instead of a simple nuisance.
Nowadays, he's got more eyes on him than ever.
It makes his skin crawl.
People talk about Bruce now. Both as Bruce Wayne and as the Batman. You can't go very far in the Gotham social media space without either of his names being mentioned, at least by proxy.
posts about his newest appearance as Bruce Wayne. Stories about the Bat helping out in some way or another, or a goon thanking some god that they hadn't bit it while facing the Demon of Gotham.
On the other hand, it gives Bruce a bit of leverage. No matter how he hates being known at all, it has its pros.
Bruce Wayne now has a reputation for being a well-meaning albeit shy CEO and philanthropist trying to make up for his years of inaction- which is as close to the truth as he can get. He can leverage his genuine intention, his name, his money, to facilitate change above board.
The Bat's reputation is that of a creature born of darkness and pain, but also of a softer sort when it comes to victims. He's silent, strikes fast and hard, his voice the growl of engines in the night, and his mercy only given to those who deserve it. As the Bat, his leverage comes from both the trust and fear people have in him, to bully his way into change from the underside.
It's funny, almost. They've given the Bat a new nickname- The Dark Knight.
The Prince and the Knight. Almost sounds like a fairy tail.
Sure as hell didn't feel like it.
What irony, that the Prince would pick up the Knight's sword willingly.
It's October, again. Not quite Halloween, but close enough to put Bruce on edge. He's fidgety nowadays, and on more than one occasion he's been startled to the point of snapping more pens in half than he'd like to admit.
It's the 8 AM on the 19nth of October when Alfred finds Bruce in his fathers study.
He leans on his cane more heavily, and rainy days hit harder for him, but Bruce provided nothing but the best for his old friend, and he's recovered well as a result.
(and perhaps it motivated him to open up a medical wing of the Wayne Foundation.)
Bruce was at the point in his paperwork where he would gladly take any distraction, and the tea cart Alfred pushed to the side of the desk seemed to be a perfect one.
Alfred sat down across from him, eyeing the paperwork with mild, polite disinterest.
"More from Lucius, Master Wayne?"
Bruce sets down his pen, and lets himself sink into the back of his fathers chair with a sigh. He takes the cup of tea when it's handed to him, savoring the warmth that emenates from the porcelain.
"Finances. Projections for next quarter and how to raise them." He mutters, knowing Alfred will hear him regardless of how it's spoken into his teacup. The butler hadn't managed to break him of the habit, it's persisted since he was small.
"And I suppose you'd rather be scaring the daylights out of some poor thug on the streets than this." Alfred says blandly, and when Bruce glances up at him there's that same unimpressed, flat look he's come accustomed to.
"You know the answer to that." Bruce answers, thumbing the rough underside of the porcelain cup idly.
"Oh, it wasn't a question." Alfred answers him blithely after a sip from his own steaming cup.
Bruce only hums, closing his eyes to sip at his tea for one blissful moment, before opening them once again. His eyes wander back to his paperwork, nose scrunching unbidden.
Alfred catches it, the wrinkles at the edges of his eyes deepening and becoming more apparent as he smiles behind his tea. "I did however come up to give you more than tea."
"And criticism." Bruce adds on, attention once again caught. He tilts his head, curious.
It reminds Alfred of one of the bats that live down in the abandoned subway station. He says nothing about this, but instead slides an envelope over the table to be inspected by his ward.
"An invitation by Mayor Real delivered just this morning." Alfred informs as Bruce carefully opens it.
(He's always cautious with envelopes these days.)
"To… See the circus?" Bruce voices after a once-over. He looks up, eyebrows scrunched up like he's puzzled. "Why would she invite me of all people?"
"It sounds to me like she would like to enjoy a night out with her friend, Bruce." Alfred says, raising his eyebrow to emphasize the statement.
Bruce goes a little bit red in a way that he would vehemently deny in any future situation. Alfred sighs silently, watching Bruce duck his head to avoid his gaze and to reread the invitation once more.
He's always been a lonely boy, his Bruce. So unused to having a friend, so afraid to reach out for some kind of understanding after his parents deaths. Alfred has seen the way Bruce looks at those old photos of private school and college, back when he could hide behind dear old Harvey Dent or Oliver Queen, or when he would debate dear Harleen Quinzel or Johnathan Crane on one merit or another of psychology.
Bruce has never had a great many friends, but the few he makes he likes to keep close. He still writes all previously named, no matter how he's refused visits until recent. Mayor Real has managed to be one of the few that Bruce hasn't known for nearly a decade that have snaked their ways into Bruce's good graces, along with Police Captain James Gordon, who, by Alfred's observation, seems to be the only good cop in Gotham.
And yet despite those friends, he's still lonely. He's puzzled when invited out, as if he doesn't think his friend would think of him.
In many ways, Alfred thinks as he sinks into the back of his chair, Bruce worries him.
He's lonely. Despite his motivation to fix his city and WE, to save people, he neglects himself and he struggles when presented with anything he deems unnecessary to "the mission." His priorities are jumbled, and he leaves his own mental and physical state to suffer for the benefit of a city that wants to eat him alive.
Alfred doesn't know how long he can go on like this. He doesn't know if Bruce would be able to stop before it'd be too late.
It's all he can do to care for Bruce where Bruce won't care for himself.
(He'd already failed the boy in the first half of his life, stumbling into the shoes of a parent he was never meant to be while grieving his two best friends. But if there was anything about Alfred Pennyworth, it was that he learned.)
And if that means delivering mail from his friend, and convincing him its a good idea to take the night off for Haly's Circus, then he doesn't mind so terribly.
When-In-Gotham
gotta say. nocturnal bat demon is my fav gender
#Gotham City #Gothams Bat #The Batman
whack-fa-loddle-di-rah
[Video description: Shaky footage from a phone camera, pointed down into an alleyway from an apartment window. It's open halfway, wind whistles past the microphone just loud enough to be audible.
[There are three figures in the alleyway. One is on the ground, leaned haphazardly against the wall, arms behind their back. The two remaining figures stand parallel, one smaller, one shrouded in darkness, two ears pointedly standing from what looked to be the head. The shrouded figure could be identified by any Gothamite as the Bat.
[The smaller figure is shaking in the light of a blinking streetlamp. They flinch when the Bat steps foreward with an audible click of a boot. A whimper bounces off of the alley walls, and the Bat pauses in his movement, before slowly approaching again.
[The Bat's voice rumbles low and soft, soothing to the would-be victim of a mugging. He seems to be asking them if they need an escort home, and slowly the victim's shoulders slump in relief after realizing they're in no more danger. The video ends with the Bat himself pulling out an emergency shock blanket out of seemingly nowhere and wrapping it around the victim, before escorting them out of the alleyway.]
whack-fa-loddle-di-rah
Ok since this post has gone a teeny bit viral i figure i might give some context
so this is my neighbor who lives right across the street from my apartment building, and they've been getting harassed by some dude who claimed to be "a friend of the landlord" for about three weeks, and apparently tonight he decided to strike.
I was recording because A. insomnia, B. i heard some shit, C. if you go try to stop that shit physically in Gotham you fucking die.
glad the Bat stepped in, though. I got to see the little blanket he gave her too, and it was the funniest shit to see that it had a tiny embroidered bat on the corner.
#Gotham #tw stalking mention #harassment #The Batman #Gothams Bat #never thought we'd have an actual hero in this city #take that metropolis
dove-in-the-narrows
uh was anybody gonna tell me that bruce wayne just. hangs out places sometimes????
like ok i was hanging out in one of my normal haunts, a little shithole cafe that a friend of mine runs. and this dude comes in, dressed in all black, backpack on, looking a bit like a drowned rat, gotham city starter kit yk
he sits in the corner, like in the booth next to me and when he got a bit closer i had to do a full quadroupal take bc he was so fuckin familiar and I couldn't figure out where the hell i knew him from. And then when he got his coffee and took out fucking paperwork of all things that it clicked that oh my god, thats the fucking prince of the city. and he likes his coffee with too much sugar in it and no cream. oh my fucking god.
So be me. Be approaching my second day without sleep. I have too much AP Econ to get done. I see renowned recluse CEO who HAS to know what the fuck to do with AP Econ. My brain is mush, I am desperate, i am twitching from too much coffee and I can barely see straight. Do You See Where This Is Going
I approach him with the grace of a drunk baby bat. I ask him if he could help me with my classwork cuz him being a "big CEO mr. wayne sir." He blinks at me for fifteen seconds.
He scoots over in his booth silently. He shoves his paperwork into his backpack. He asks me what i've got. He helps me. I'm going insane did I just hallucinate Bruce Fucking Wayne helping me with AP Econ hw for two fucking hours???
island-of-violence
Nah he kinda just does that. He helped me get my cat out of my flooded basement back during the Flood. I didn't recognize him until he was up to his chest in floodwater and my cat was trying to separate his ear from his head.
pitorro-de-coco
He's bought mine and a few other families food directly when we were struggling. My Abuela has successfully coaxed him into dinner twice, and she's gonna keep trying as long as she lives. He's the most awkward soaking wet cat i've ever had the pleasure of shaking hands with and recieving an obscene amount of groceries from. He didn't brag about it, didn't make a big fuss, no cameras or press or nothing. just a tired dude who heard we needed help and figured he could make our lives a little bit easier. i don't know how many other families he's done this with, but it's not a small amount, from what i've heard.
threelightslit-fourthonesout
I met him at the commissioner's funeral, the one where the DA got blown to hell and back. I was talkin mad shit, about him, about the other leeches Gotham calls upper class. He didn't say shit about it, he just listened. he's got weirdly bright eyes, yk? it's the first thing i thought of before i recognized him. not sure what i'd have said if he hadn't been called away, but i saw him save a kid from that oncoming car. that's gotta count for something, but since when have we been optimistic in Gotham?
tallykilledmeok
so what i'm hearing is we're gatekeeping Bruce Wayne, right?
lost-my-rank-and-title
yeah no we need One Good Thing
#Bruce Wayne post #Gothamblr #Gotham City #i like to think he's our funny little cryptid to balance out the bat
When Bruce met Bella at his doorstep the afternoon before Halloween, he was nervous. Immaculately groomed, expertly dolled up to one Alfred Pennyworth's standard and for a semi-casual night out, but nervous.
Bella notices it in the stiffness of his posture, the non-reaction he gives as he marches up to her.
She's not quite impressed. Neither is Alfred at his back, who has decided to include himself in this particular endeavor for reasons alien to anyone but the man himself.
"You're not being sent off to war, lad, loosen up." Alfred tells him teasingly, whacking his charge's knee with his cane.
Bella laughs, and Bruce gives the older man a look reminiscent of a disgruntled cat. The corners of his mouth twitch with belated humor, though, and he does end up relaxing under his coat, so it turns out alright in the end. Bella pats his shoulderblade with mock consolation at what she phrases as him "pouting."
"I don't pout." he protests lamely as they step into the car Alfred has bullied him into letting him drive.
Bella stares at him for a long moment. She raises an eyebrow, and gestures pointedly at his face. "Really? Then what is it you call that thing your face is doing?" she asks slyly, mouth tugging up into that genuine, slightly crooked grin.
Bruce, just to be contrary, pulls his face into a scowl, bearing his teeth and narrowing his eyes. All Bella does in response is snort a laugh, tilting her face towards the front seat. "Mr. Pennyworth, has he always looked quite so adorable when irritated?"
"Oh since he was barely a third my height, Ms. Real." Bruce's traitor of a butler confides solemnly. Bruce sees his grin in the rearview.
It continues like this for the rest of the ride to the outskirts of Gotham where Haly's Circus has set up to perform. Bruce pretends to not be having a good time while Alfred and Bella laugh at him for it.
The sun's nearly fully set by the time they're out of the car and walking toward the tent, casting the tents and the performers in the glory of a Gotham sunset that could only be achieved by the stupid amount of air pollution that currently has a vice-grip on Bruce's city.
There's a moment where Bruce halts and just looks at the horizon line of Gotham. He breathes in, and even though they're so far from the city proper he can still taste the smog that's second nature to anyone born in that city. Light bounces off the skyscrapers and tumbles playfully into the west-facing window-panes. If he were above the city he could see it illuminating the last of the day-crowd coming home from work, and some eager opportunists taking advantage of the time before the Bat comes out to play.
But tonight he's not, at the behest of his friends. Instead he's looking in from outside, and he can see how Gotham shines so stubbornly when faced with the dying light of day. He can almost feel the pulse of the city, he can almost watch her breathe.
Gotham herself is so stubborn, her children no different. Bruce would know, really. There were many reasons why he's been named "Gotham's favorite son."
He's pulled out of his reverie by a very small but very solid force colliding with him and nearly rendering him a lump on the dirt.
And okay, he's a little ashamed that he stumbles, but he rebalances, catching the force from where its slammed shockingly solidly into his front. He curses under his breath, looking down to see two wide, very very blue eyes looking back up at him.
Oh. Oh its a kid.
A kid with a head of black hair that shines blue in the fading light, who could almost be Bruce's little doppelganger if not for his skintone being a few crucial shades darker and richer, his eyes being too deep blue, and the brightly colored unitard he's wrapped in.
They stand there like that for a second, Bruce's hands on the kids shoulders and the kid looking at him.
Then the voice of an unmistakably panicked parent was heard above the murmuring crowd, something in accented French that Bruce could barely make out over the sharp tones.
Bruce looks up, spotting a man who looks remarkably like the child who nearly ran him straight over, wearing the same colors, and who also seems to be the one frantically shouting in french.
Bruce looked down to the kid. The kid looked back up at him with a sheepish smile.
"Your father is looking for you, kid." he remarks drily.
The kid whines, tipping backwards to the point where if Bruce wasn't holding his shoulders he would've just fallen back on his ass. "I wanted to see the sunset!" his accent was nearly unplaceable, his english stilted enough to make it clear that it wasn't one of the kid's first language's.
"Well. Now you've seen it." Bruce says, abruptly spinning the kid around to face his fast-approaching father. "And now you must listen to your dad."
The boy wilts visibly as his dad storms toward them, and Bruce can't help but think he's grateful to not be on the other side of that worry-ire. He's seen it on Alfred's face countless times, and it never gets easier to bear.
He pushes the kid forward gently, prompting him to trudge towards his father, who takes his shoulders in his hands like Bruce did, and proceeded to scold his sheepish and unrepentant child.
Bruce gets a smile from him, a nod and a quick accented "thank you," before they're ushered under the tent.
Bruce, when he finds Alfred, Bella and (surprisingly) Harvey waiting for him inside at their seats, feels warm in a distant, almost empty way. Like he does whenever he sees a father and son.
He learns the names of the kid and his father from the pamphlet- Richard and John Grayson, performing with Richard's mother Mary as "The Flying Grayson's" in the penultimate performance of the evening.
They're acrobats, he learns with interest. Trapeze artists, daredevils.
Bruce never had the time to learn trapeze in his travels. He thinks he'd like to, though, it seems like it'd be useful to learn for when he's grappling through Gotham.
He greets Harvey with one of his most genuine smiles and one of his rarest hugs, sits beside his new friend and his old one as they whisper commentary and teasing jokes as the show starts with bright lights and laughter.
It'd been so long since Bruce had done anything like this. Much less with anybody else, with loved ones so close and so full of joy. A smile plants itself squarely on his face the entire time, his heart so close to being full for the first time in forever.
And then he sees the Graysons take flight with their son. He watches them fly through the air, unburdened by gravity, as if it were a suggestion.
Bruce's breath is caught in his throat as they shine, birds of a paradise he's never been privy to and maybe never will. Their grins are blinding, their eyes are wide and without fear. Every movement fluid and accounted for, neccisary and beautiful and on top of the world.
There's so much trust there, so much trust that Bruce can't even imagine. To put yourself on the wire like that with no hesitation, with only the chalk on your hands and your own love and trust that the people taking that leap with you will catch you, it's unimaginable. Almost unthinkable.
And yet here they were. Defying every single notion that Bruce had about trust and love and flight, and he's breathless for it. Never in his 25 years of his life has he been so grateful to be wrong.
It's a show he wouldn't stop to save the world.
Then they switch to a different rope.
Then they remove the net.
And Bruce watches as Mary and John Grayson fly for their finale.
And then.
Bruce sees more than hears the rope snap, but he could swear that the sound echoed in his brain regardless.
Then the Graysons are falling.
The Graysons are falling and Bruce can't breathe. He's stood up and he's leaning as far over the railing as he can and he can't breathe because he hears their bodies collide with the dirt, but he can't look because he's staring at Richard.
Richard Grayson, who was still alone on that platform.
Richard Grayson, who was staring as his parents blood pooled and soaked the soil dark.
He was hyperventilating. Bruce could see it, even from his position dozens of feet below, he can see the small boy's breathing hitch painfully.
Chaos reigns around him, but Bruce only has eyes for that little boy with big, big blue eyes that ran into him before the show, that little boy who watched his parents fall when they were supposed to be pillars of stregnth and freedom and flight.
Bruce is sprinting toward the tower leading to the platform the boy is frozen on. His brain has gone full Bat with the panic and the sight of a child in distress. He doesn't have time to reason with himself that Bruce Wayne reasonably shouldn't be seen trying to rescue a boy when the public barely think he's capable of tying his own shoes but-
But that doesn't matter right now. No, his image and the headlines that will follow don't fucking matter right now, because all that matters in this moment is little Richard Grayson with his big blue eyes and raven hair and his colors, stuck at the top of a tower he was never meant to fear because of seeing his parents fall when they were never meant to.
Bruce's parents were never meant to fall, either.
He didn't have anybody in those hours before the police found him next to his parents corpses.
He'll make sure Richard will never suffer that indignity.
He's halfway up the tower when police arrive. He doesn't look down when Gordon starts yelling at him and yelling at his people. He looks up, and he makes eye contact with the scared little boy on top of that platform.
What he sees looks more like a mirror than he would ever like to admit.
He reaches the top, and for a moment, he and Richard stare at eachother. Richard recognizes him, but there's fear there too. He's shaking.
Bruce extends a hand slowly.
"I'm sorry." he whispers, voice cracking. It's not enough, it'll never be enough.
Richard's tears don't stop. He blinks rapidly, and his sobs grow volume.
"I can get you down." Bruce tells him. Pleads. He doesn't want him to be stuck up here.
"Wh-at-" Richard croaks, "What if- What if I f-fall? What if you fall?" and it's said with so much anguish that Bruce can hardly stand it. He swallows, and it clicks drily.
"Trust me. I will never let you fall." Is what he gets out.
Richard lunges and buries himself in Bruce's arms. He wraps around Bruce's torso tight, arms slid around his neck, legs interlocking around his waist, head tucked into the hollow of his throat.
For a moment, Bruce holds on just as tight, his hands coming up to hold between Richard's shoulderblades and card through his hair.
For that moment, Richard lets out a wail. Bruce's heart cracks from where it sits in his chest thundering out his fear. He can feel the tears staining his suit jacket and starched shirt. He doesn't fucking care.
Bruce starts making his way back down the tower.
The yells and conversation of the officers below filter in through the haze of his blood thundering in his ears and the heartbeat of the child clinging to him. And once they reach solid ground, they're swarmed by those same officers with the addition fo paramedics who have arrived on scene.
The paramedics tug little Richard away from him, no matter how he protests, and in their place several police officers pop up, asking him "what the hell he thought he was doing" and telling him that "he could've gotten killed like that" and other such nonsense things. Didn't they know a kid was on the line? That a kid was scared and in danger? That should've been enough to justify his actions, right?
Quite a few officers would beg to disagree.
In the end, it was Jim Gordon himself who could stand to take his (admittedly stilted and awkward) statement of the whole affair.
The whole time, he kept an eye on Richard, not looking at where the bodies of the boys parents were being investigated in the dirt.
Richard looked horrible. Wrapped in a shock blanket, his brightly colored unitard covered up, he stared down at his hanging feet. Bruce thinks he only sees him blink twice in the time that he's talking to Gordon.
When he's sure he's done, (Gordon having foregone more harsh questioning, thank god,) Bruce darts toward Richard. He dodges an incoming officer scowling, and kneels in the dirt at Richard's feet, looking up at his face.
Richards eyes snap toward his, and Bruce hurts as his face crumples once again, tears sliding down his small, round face.
Bruce reaches forward without realizing, cupping the boys face with shaking hands and wiping the tears away.
Bruce is shaking. He's not facing a rogue, there's no gun pointed at him, he's not facing head on traffic but he's shaking nonetheless. Because there's a child here that needs his help, and his hands are so scarred and there's so much blood he's spilled, and he's not soft but he's there and a child needs help goddammit.
God, Bruce wishes he remembered more of his father. More of his mother. How would they do this? God they've been gone for 13 years, and Bruce wishes he knew them more, knew them better. Maybe they would've had some lesson, some guidance on how to soothe a crying child who just lost everything and to keep his promises. Bruce would never know, but for not the first time he wishes. He wants.
His wishes are left unanswered.
And Richard Grayson is crying in front of him.
So he wipes his tears away with shaking hands. He smooths back the boys hair. He tries desperately to smile up at him.
"You're gonna be okay, Richard. It's- It's gonna be okay, I promise." Bruce swallows. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Then there's a hand on his shoulder trying to pull him away, and then Richard grabs his hand in a vice.
Before he's pulled away, the kid tells him with a cracking voice, "You can call me Dick."
And then Bruce is pulled away, and he can't resist because right now he's Bruce Wayne, and Bruce Wayne is meek and tired and wouldn't fight back, and Bruce Wayne has no right to take this child and wrap him in blankets so he can have a chance at healing.
He likes to be called Dick. That's the thing that sticks with him as he watches the officers take Dick away.
"Bruce,"
Bruce's head snaps to the call of his name. It's Harvey, Bella and Alfred at his side.
Alfred watches him with a mournful pinch of his brow. Harvey's face is set in stone in that concerned way he gets.
Why are they looking at him like that? He's not a child, hasn't been for so, so long. He's not the one who just underwent tragedy, and yet-
Alfred comes foreward, hands coming up to his face the same way Bruce had done with Dick a moment ago, and something swipes against his face and he's suddenly noticing how hot his face is, and-
"Bruce," Alfred whispers shakily, "You're crying, lad."
And Bruce crumbles.
Bruce makes up his mind before he even steps into the car at Alfred's insistance.
He applies for a foster liscence. He does his research. He takes fucking notes, because if there's anything to say about Bruce Thomas Wayne it's that he's thorough.
He keeps an eye out for Dick. Perhaps through less than legal means, but without the strategy he employs as the Bat he'd lose sight and track of the boy as soon as he was registered into the cesspit of a foster system Gotham has.
And it's a wonder that he's even going into the Gotham system anyways, with him having a whole family in the circus, but Bruce doesn't presume to know their affairs, or what should've happened, he only knows what has.
And what has happened, was that Dick Grayson had entered the Gotham foster system, and immediately been singled out.
Dangerously so.
Within the week, the 10 year old has been transferred to Gotham's only juvinile detention center.
Bruce is furious. And so incredibly scared.
Dick is so small. All he can imagine is the boy who clung to him like a lifeline, who trusted him not to let him fall. He's just a baby, Bruce thinks hysterically as he stares at the transfer order with wide, glassy eyes.
The bats screech above him. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, and dials Harvey to ask for a favor for the first time in nearly a decade.
Harvey's worried for him. He can tell by the way the man is careful with his words. He tells Bruce that it "doesn't have to be his responsibility," but Bruce can't accept that. Nobody else will stick up for him. Nobody else will save him.
"Harv, I had Alfred, and I had you. This kid doesn't have anyone." He croaks through the phone desperately.
Harvey stops asking questions after that.
Despite his and Harvey's influence, despite his money, it still takes forever.
It's long enough for him to pursue his earlier hunch of the Grayson's deaths, and examine the scene not as Bruce Wayne but as Gotham's Bat.
With further examination of financial records, CCTV footage, and the crimescene itself, he can only come to one conclusion:
It's murder. Of course it's murder. CCTV footage shows John and Mary Grayson personally checking the ropes before the show.
CCTV footage also has a convenient gap, about 5 minutes before the Graysons were set to perform.
His visit to where Haly's Circus was packing up slowly garnered more peices of the puzzle, and finally a name.
Haly had been hard-pressed to reveal anything, distrustful of the man-shaped-shadow questioning, but at the appeal for justice for the Graysons, he broke wide open.
Tony Zucco.
The picture was disgustingly clear.
He'd been blackmailing Haly's for "protection" during their stay in Gotham, but when Haly refused to pay for such a rediculous thing when they'd only be on the outskirts for a week at most, he'd decided to take that payment a different way. He sabotaged the Grayson's ropes during the gap when the nearby camera's were shut off temporarily for "maintenence."
Bruce was incandescent.
He had a name. He had a motive. He had evidence of the sabotage.
But he didn't have any evidence that pointed to Zucco, unless..
There, on a piece of sharp equipment near the ropes. A shred of fabric, which at further inspection contained a few strands of hair.
Gotcha, Bruce thinks vindictively.
He tests it in the Cave, and bingo fucking bongo, it comes up belonging to one Antonio Zucco, a felon who got off easy on "good behavior," and also conveniently a prominent gang member near the outskirts that Haly's Circus settled in. Whispers say he dabbles in Drops with the Penguin, in trafficking with Black Mask, in general armed intimidation. The worst kind of jack of all trades, and one of the fuckers Bruce set out specifically to send a message to.
Apparently, Antonio did not get the message.
And then, Bruce starts hearing whispers in the underground. Of a brightly colored child stalking the streets like the wraith Bruce oftentimes comes off as, with any manor of makeshift weapon in one hand, looking for one man;
Tony Zucco.
He leaves broken bones, loose teeth, and bloody bruises in his wake. Akin to Bruce's first year as the Bat.
It's not a coincidence.
Days after Dick escapes Juvie, they report him missing. Bruce files the negligence away for later. His foster liscence has come in, and he can always deal with them later.
He has a bird to talk down.
Dick has been on the street for days when Bruce finally catches up to him.
He's surprisingly slippery, but then again Gotham is a remarkably easy city to lose someone in, even if that someone is the Bat.
Bruce catches him when he's interrogating one of Zucco's crew, a week after he's hit the streets and four days after he's been reported missing.
he's gotten close, Bruce- or, at this point, the Bat- muses with a dark amusement.
The man being interrogated looks a hairs width away from pissing himself from sheer terror. The sharp end of a rusty pipe is pressed dangerously close to his sternum while one entirely pissed Dick Grayson looms over him, snapping in his face and baring his teeth like a feral dog.
The man's leg is bent wrong at the knee.
Batman would be impressed, if it weren't for his concern for the kid.
He scoops the acrobat up off of the poor sucker, the police already on the way. He won't be moving with those injuries, but the Bat handcuffs him to a dumpster anyways. Let it not be said that he was kind to those who don't deserve it.
Dick, in the meanwhile, squirms and kicks and screams and curses at him during the whole affair, nailing him in the jaw once or twice and getting all sorts of body-shots in.
Still, the Bat doesn't relent. He keeps a hold of the 10 year old around his waist, and climbs up the side of the building one-handed.
Had Dick always been this skinny? He didn't remember him being this skinny. Malnutrition from living on the street for a week would be his first guess, but upon further thought it might've been from his stint in Juvie as well-
He's ripped out of his thoughts by another hit, this time to his face.
It's enough to split his lip against his front canines, a sharp throbbing pain followed by a consistent ache and a consistent warm wetness. It hurts, and that's nothing new to Bruce, but face wounds are always worse. He's sure it'll scar.
He reaches a secluded rooftop, where he knows there are no active cameras around, and finally puts Dick down.
The kid, predictably, starts cursing him up and down.
"You- you fucker, you sunovabitch I ALMOST HAD IT. I- I was so close, and you fucked it up, how fucking dare you-" Dick spews, and it's all jersey attitude. He's picked up English fluency beyond impressively, and is now using it to scream his lungs out at the Bat.
Batman takes it. He knows how it felt to be 10 and angry and invincible.
Dick curses him out in more languages than Bruce could count at the moment. Insults on his lineage, his work ethic, his suit, his methods, all of it.
Eventually, though, he runs out of steam. The insults slow to a stop, and then there's nothing but the sound of Dick's heaving breaths.
The boy slumps against the Bat's chestplate. He punches it hollowly, already bruised and broken knuckles echoing a dull thump against the kevlar and woven steel.
"I almost had him." He whispers against the Bats chest.
The Bat brings a gloved hand up to cradle the back of his neck, and he asks as softly as he dares, "What would you have done if you got him?"
But the Bat already knows the answer. He knows the answer even as Dick gives it to him without hesitation.
"I would've slit his throat." Dick seethes, a gutteral anger that Bruce feels vibrate through his chest.
"Then what?" The Bat asks simply.
Dick is silent.
"It won't make you stop hurting. Won't bring your parents back."
"Do you think I DON'T KNOW THAT?" Dick roars, tearing himself out of the Bat's hold and stumbling back into something that Bruce would vaguely label as a defensive stance.
There are tears in his eyes, and Bruce aches.
"No, no they're not coming back. An-And I know that, I'm not stupid, but he needs to pay for what he did. He needs to die, and it needs to be slow and-and painful and- he need to pay." the boy snarls, and his unitard shines in the lights of the city. Red, green and gold, dirtied by his escapades but somehow still mostly intact.
His eyes are shining with tears. They streak down his face, tracking through the grime.
"He will. He will pay, just not like that." Bruce confides.
Dick's breaths come in stutters now, his sobs shaking through his thin frame. He staring at the Bat with a wavering scowl. "He deserves it." he insists, stubborn.
"It is not your choice." Batman tries.
"He took my parents, if it's anybody's choice it should be MINE!" Dick lashes, eyes wild as he aims another hit at the Bat's face.
Bruce catches it. He kneels down to Dick, swallowing down the lump in his throat.
"Please. Please let me take care of it." He pleads, shifting to hold the boy's hand in his. "You're starving out here. You're killing yourself, is that really what your parents would want?"
Dick heaves an angry breath into the November air, it wreathes around his head like fog.
It turns into a sob halfway through. Grief resurfaces through the anger. "No."
"Let me bring you somewhere safe. then we can discuss bringing Zucco to justice." the Bat tries to compromise.
"Why would I let you bring me anywhere?"
At that, the Bat stalls.
He then does something profoundly stupid.
He tugs the cowl back, and watches as Dick's eyes go impossibly wide.
"Because I promised you, Dick." Bruce tells him. He can't help how his voice shakes without the modulator, without the security the cowl gives him.
Dick stares at him for a long minute, tears running rivers down his face. Bruce hopes he doesn't run. He's been running for the last week, Bruce doesn't know how long the boy could sustain it.
And then Dick slumps into his breastplate, and Bruce can't help but let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
"Okay." Dick tells him.
"Okay?" Bruce says.
"Okay."
Bruce takes him home, wrapped tight in the warmth of his cape.