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When Bruce went to the circus that night he was not planning to take in a child.
Actually, he hadn't even planned to stay the length of the performance. It wasn't anything against the circus really. Prior to this strongly encouraged outing he had looked up the Flying Graysons. The few clips of their performances he was able to track down had been impressive to say the very least. Even the couple's young son, Richard, was highly skilled. Especially considering his age. Bruce was just— busy. His mind occupied with a million other things. Ever since his return to Gotham he had resolved to take a more intentional role in Wayne Enterprises. Unfortunately this meant a lot of things that exhausted Bruce. Long mind-numbing meetings, social niceties for people Bruce didn't care for. Or about. Despite Lucius Fox's every support, Bruce still left the office feeling antsy and irritable.
Ever present parts that would have been there regardless, like the itching paranoia that lodged itself under his skin.
No, it wasn't anything about the circus. Still Bruce was hyper-aware that the last time he had attended anything remotely like this, not counting his own ballet performances, it hadn't ended well.
When it came to the Wayne family, evening outings rarely go as they were strictly planned.
For example, Bruce was now sitting on the wooden steps outside a trailer with a nine year old boy plastered to his side, and completely refusing to let him go.
Why was it that things never went the way he planned?
Bruce studied the tapestry half-haphazardly hung up above his head. Someone had wound twinkling star-shaped string lights around wooden beams. They blinked in and out of slight in restless repetition. It was a nice atmosphere, if not slightly broken by the flashing emergency lights in Bruce's peripheral vision and the anxious panic the fairgrounds had fallen into.
Richard shifts and tucks himself closer to Bruce as the sound of crunching gravel comes closer. Bruce shifts his arm and beings running his fingertips over Richard's back in slow circles, a pattern moving in time with the stars overhead.
Gordon crunches into frame, which settles Bruce's somewhat frayed nerves. With another cop this could have been… ugly to say the least.
Bruce been hearing Edward Nashton's words in his head for the past twenty minutes. He's promised himself he would do better. And yet— now he feels stuck, scrambling internally for options.
The boy had seen it all. The boy had watched the blood pool in the beaten sand below. Bruce remembers the reflection of street lamps. The lights had distorted the colours. Black and yellow. Not red. The only red he could remember vividly from that night had stained his hands and clothing.
Gordon clears his throat and Bruce's gaze snaps to his face. There is a woman on his side, peering at Bruce though her angled glasses. She taps a pen out of tune with the lights.
"Mr. Wayne?" She prompts, as if she's just double checking.
Bruce glances from her to Gordon and back to her. She follows his gaze and lifts and eyebrow, and Bruce realizes she's actually expecting an answer, not just asking it for the sake of it. His nod is curt, but seems to be good enough for her.
"My name is Sara Roberts. I'm a social worker. You may be familiar with Captain James Gordon with the GCPD, as he worked the… "Riddler" case last October. Though he's gotten a promotion since then."
Gordon clears his throat again, as if trying to move the conversation along. Bruce glances on at him, taking note of the way he's chewing at the end of his cigar. An expensive nervous tick. Obviously Bruce wasn't the only one not expecting anything to happen at the circus.
"Congratulations." Bruce says flatly.
Gordon sighs and rubs at his face. "We're actually meaning to talk about the kid, Mr. Wayne."
Bruce nods.
The silence that comes next is long, like they're expecting him to say something. Finally Bruce settles on—
"I assumed." he rasps, his voice strangely raw considering that between the two of them sitting, the one who should have screamed himself raw was currently sleeping on Bruce.
"Right. Well, we're going to place Richard in temporary foster care." Sara shifts her papers around as she speaks.
Something in Bruce twists; but he pushes it down. He doesn't have time to examine that at the moment.
"I've called a home for an emergency placement, and they're expecting us. So- if you will."
Bruce nods, pulling himself from Richard and moving away. "Right. Of course."
Sara crouches before Bruce and shakes Richard awake with a gentle hand. "Hello Richard," she says, when he blinks his eyes open. "My name is Sara Roberts. I'm a social worker."
Bruce's stomach twists at the confusion that flickers across Richard's face. Bruce can see the moment he remembers what happens. His small body shutters.
"Oh," he says, his voice hollow like a tree eaten inside out.
Sara smiles empathetically. "We're going to take you to an emergency foster home for tonight, okay?" She says. "And tomorrow, we'll sort everything else out. It's going to be okay."
Something like panic flickers across Richard's face. His small fingers dig into Bruce's knee, causing him to wince. "Why can't I just stay here..? Or-" he swallows thickly and looks up at Bruce. He looks scared and Bruce suddenly feels five seconds away from snatching him up and taking him home to the Tower. God— he sounds like the evil kings in fairy-tells locking up their daughters.
Bruce doesn't really hear the rest of what the social worker said. His mind fixated on Richards expression. Bruce can hear himself saying "It'll be okay." When Richard protests being taken away from Bruce but it doesn't feel like it's coming from him. It's loud an obtrusive, a presence too large for Bruce's body and Bruce can't remember actively deciding to speak. It hurts, his throat still raw from screaming.
The circus had been crowded. One night left in Gotham and it's citizens where taking full advantage of the rest of it's time there. Bruce had edged around the crowd, lingering in shadows as much as he possibly could while staying natural.
The tickets had been gifted after he had donated to… something. Bruce had told Alfred to pass them along.
"You could use the night off," was the only counterargument Alfred had offered, mildly like he himself wasn't that committed to the idea. Bruce had just sighed.
The theatre had been empty. A midnight showing of Zorro in a small arts theatre in Park Row? The only other people in the theatre were film buffs with insomnia or too much time on their hands. Bruce had leaned his head on his Mother's shoulder throughout the film.
His Father had been busy. Busier then usual. Bruce had barely seen him for weeks. He knew why, but that didn't stop him from missing him. He's been overjoyed when his Father offered the idea. Zorro. In a theatre.
The show was nice, but Bruce was antsy. He wished, more the once that where was some opening in the tent for him to see the skyline. He's hoping to see the signal, he knows. God if there are clowns he's going to just leave.
Bruce refocuses when the performance shifts to it's title show. The Flying Graysons. A young voice in the rafters narrators his parents movements— and then. The flash of a smaller body and Richard Grayson joins his parents in the air.
The movie was as excellent as it had ever been, and Bruce stumbles out of the theatre, full of youthful energy. He'd been thrusting his arm up, Zorro figure from Christmas past forward like it was a fencing sword. "Watch the street." His mother had called after him. Bruce had shifted and allowed himself to be guided into the alleyway; still focused on the fantasy the movie had created in his mind.
The Graysons did fly. Their son was sitting on the side of the ring now, his neck craned up on his parents. The speed and confidence at which they moved was incredible. They were blurs. Shapes of colour, red, yellow, and green that shifted and stretched like a young animator's first work. Their movements set a tempo as they twisted through the air. And then something snapped.
The screaming was immediate. Bruce had never screamed like that before in his entire life. Maybe the flash of the gun had startled him but he was screaming before his father hit the ground. Before he knew what was even happening. He didn't stop when he did. His mother had pushed him behind her before she had fallen too and by the time Bruce stopped screaming their bodies where cold and their killer was long gone.
Don't let him see the bodies. Bruce was halfway to the boy before he had even decided to move. Don't let that be the last time he sees them. He held the boy in his arms while he screamed, hiding his head in his chest as he watched the bloodstains sink into the sand. Even after the bodies were covered, he could see it. Creeping toward him.
"Bruce?"
"Mmm?" Bruce shifted, turning his gaze from the backseat window. Alfred was looking at him through the rear-view mirror, his brow furrowed.
"Are you alright?" The question is somewhat hesitant, like someone testing the Jenga brick before pulling it from the tower. Bruce doesn't blame him, he's unsure of the new balance of their relationship too but after everything that happened with the Riddler, he was trying to listen better.
"Yeah," Bruce says, distractedly. "I just keep thinking about—"
Nashton's description of his time in the orphanage has haunted him the entire drive home. Bruce has seen the bodies of people who died from the cold. He's seen rat-bitten fingers. He's seen hollow, hungry eyes.
"I wish I could have done more." He says instead.
"You did plenty." Alfred said.
"You did more," Bruce argues, finally meeting Alfred's eyes through the mirrors.
Alfred looks back to the road. "That was different."
"Was it?"
"It was in the will," Alfred says, and his voice is clipped.
Bruce looks outside the window again. It started raining after the social worker left, and now the lights are all smeared through the glass. "Yeah. But you still fought for me."
After his parents had died, his Uncle had tried to take Bruce from Alfred. He'd said that because he was family he would be a better place for Bruce to be raised in. And, because of his experience in mental health, when Bruce lost his mind, he would be surrounded by experts ready to help him.
When. Bruce remembers exactly how he said it. The Arkhams had always held a firm expectation of Bruce's insanity. Recently, in piecing memories of his mother together, Bruce wonders if that was why he had never met that Uncle before he'd tried to take Bruce from Alfred. His mother had never really talked about her family or her history.
The Uncle's claim failed. Bruce only spent three weeks at his manor before being set back to the tower. It had been miserable. If he'd known how at the time, Bruce is certain he would have punched his cousin Jeremiah.
Alfred frowns. "Are you serious about this?"
"I don't know," Bruce answers. "Maybe."
He can't sleep after that. It eats at him.
Eventually he give up trying and throws the covers off, fumbling around for a tee and struggling it on. Then he grabs his laptop and migrates down the stairway and to the main room. He pads over the large carpet that covers spray-painted floors and sets himself on the table. And then he researches. For hours.
When Alfred wakes up he finds Bruce still sitting there and peers over his shoulder, silently gathering information. "You are serious about this then?" He says after a while.
Bruce pauses and glances up, and Alfred meets his gaze with a challenge. Not harsh, just present.
"Yeah," Bruce says. "I think I am."
Bruce is being stared at. Like he's a zoo animal.
It's the kind of thing he would expect if he was going this Wayne Enterprises paperwork in his office instead of at the breakfast table in the privacy of his own home. "Yes?"
Richard Grayson is sitting on the other side of the table staring at him. Eyes focused, unblinking. Like an owl.
Owls. Bruce thinks, his mind drifting. His mother used to tell him about owls. He doesn't really remember what anymore.
"Why are you here?" Richard asks, his voice a little sullen like Bruce is invading his space.
"I live here?" Bruce's eye twitches once; involuntarily.
"Yeah," Richard says. "I guess. But you're never here."
Bruce can almost feel his heartbeat stop in his chest. He would protest but Richard isn't wrong. He had been busy. He'd been bombarded with work from all sides. Wayne Enterprises. Legal paperwork. And of course, for the last three weeks he'd been working with single-minded focus on trying to find the person responsible for the murder of Richard's parents. He wouldn't let that crime go unsolved. Couldn't stand the thought of it.
"Richard—"
"No." the boy says immediately.
"What." Bruce asks flatly.
"My name is Dick." he, Dick, says. "Nobody ever calls me Richard. Never before."
"Oh," Bruce says helpfully. "I didn't— know."
"You didn't ask either," Dick mutters to himself.
Bruce opens his mouth, closes it and stares at his papers. Part of his wonders if the floor could possibly eat him up and put him out of the misery of Dick Grayson's gaze and the other idly wonders if he was ever like this with Alfred.
He probably was.
The investigation had started with a rope. Bruce had weighed it in his hands first, then slid the length along his gloved palm to examine the end. It was— weirdly uneven. While half was frayed, looked exactly like a snapped rope would the other half looked almost melted, like someone sealing the end of a ribbon with fire. Bruce runs his thumb over the melted rope.
"Notice something wrong?" Gordon asks his tone dripping in sarcasm.
"It was a murder. Who would want to kill the Graysons?"
Gordon nods. "That is the question."
"Maybe Haly knows." Bruce examines the rope, shifting where he's standing to change the lighting. It doesn't reveal anything further to him.
Gordon shrugs somewhere to the left of Bruce. "If he does, he kept it calm while we were asking him questions."
"Hnn." Bruce runs his fingers over his belt, moving over pockets before he gets to the one he wants. He swabs the rope. Maybe if he's lucky there will a lingering hint of whatever acid was used to eat through the rope. Something tangible he can track shipments of into Gotham.
He isn't lucky. At least not with the acid. When he talks to Haly he gives Bruce something, clutching onto the counter with one hand on his heart, muttering curses under his breath. Tony Zucco.
The circus stays in town for three weeks longer then it was supposed to. That's how long it takes for Bruce to find Tony Zucco.
It frustrates him to no end that it takes that long. He's slowed by exhaustion, work and frustratingly he keeping running into Dick when he goes to survey the fairgrounds.
"What do you think you're doing here?" He'd growled the first time he's seen Dick, perched up on one of the signboards.
The boy hadn't even flinched. "I'm doing your job for you."
"And that is?" Bruce raised himself up a few inches, casting a long black shadow over Dick. His blue eyes, reflecting the lights behind Bruce, only shown brighter in the shadows.
"Finding the person who killed my parents."
Bruce tilted his head. Officially, Dick had not been that his parents had been killed. It had been suggested for him to wait to go to school until the new year. He'd been holed up in the tower, "settling in."
"They checked the ropes!" Dick snapped. "I'm not just a stupid kid. My mother always checked the ropes before a show. She was very particular. I remember her and Mr. Haly arguing about it once. If there was even something little wrong with them she would make Mr. Haly replace it. Always."
"Hn."
"Let me help you. I know the fairgrounds better then you ever will."
"No." Bruce said. "You should go home. If Wayne notices you missing he'll start a manhunt."
"Wayne won't notice," Dick muttered darkly.
Bruce frowned, letting the moment drag a few seconds too long. "I don't want to see you here again."
Dick had scowled at him, but agreed. "You won't."
He checks Dick before going to bed that night, and is disturbed by the notion that without having stood next to him a few hours prior, he would have had no idea Dick, now sleeping quietly in bed, had been leaping the buildings of Gotham's midnight hours before.
Dick's promise held steady, Bruce didn't see him again throughout his investigation. Bruce even purposefully checked the fairgrounds a few times, going out of his way to make sure Dick hadn't returned. And yet, here crouched in Tony Zucco's office, watching the man wave his hands and talk his way out of one type of trouble and about to find his way into another Bruce spots something he was told he would never see again.
Dick Grayson, crouched on the top of one of Zucco's moving trucks. Watching him like a hawk. He's wearing his circus outfit. Bruce can see the shimmer of his yellow cape slung over his shoulder. The only new addition is the black domino mask, half-hazardously made from black felt, and held on his head by something that looks like string. Bruce is pretty sure he remembers exactly when he might have had Alfred buy him black felt when he was a child.
The man Zucco was speaking to leaves and Bruce holds his breath as Zucco hobbles over to his office door. Dick is on the other side of the parking lot. If he stays put he has no way of attracting Zucco's attention.
Dick's head disappears from the side of the moving truck. A moment later, Zucco, scraping his keys on the lock of his own office, stops and turns.
Bruce can't hear whatever Zucco was reacting too, and he also can't move without revealing that he's even here.
Damn.
Zucco reaches behind his jacket and pulls out a small pistol. He crosses the parking lot slowly, gun forward. Once he is far enough, Bruce scrambles after him.
Dick doesn't reappear on the top of any other moving trucks. Bruce can hear his voice though, echoing between the metal walls. "Did you really think you could get away with it?"
Bruce grapples to the top of the truck Dick had been on before. There is no trace of him now, so Bruce watches Zucco moves between the rows of cars instead.
He moves quickly, and it's dark. Zucco won't see him unless he wants him too.
There's the sound of giggles bouncing between vehicles and Zucco starts shouting curses.
"I'm gunna get you—" Dick says, somewhere ahead and to the right of Bruce. There's a gunshot and then more laughter. Bruce leaps between one truck to the next.
Another gunshot.
Bruce lands on the truck. He can just barely hear the gun click over the sound of his own footsteps as he keeps moving forward. He only registers Zucco's arm, gun still in hand falling over Dick's head after he jumps.
Gordon takes Zucco with a small nod. Bruce takes Dick home to the Terminal. He lays him down on the medical cot and looks him over. He seems okay, all things considered. A nasty mark on his head that would be hard to explain, but otherwise unharmed. Bruce will make sure he's not concussed when he wakes up.
Bruce strips off his cowl and leaves it on his desk, staring at Dick from the other side of the room. He wonders if it will help, now that Zucco is arrested. He wonders if it would have helped him if he'd caught the man who'd killed his parents.
In a way, Bruce had got his justice too. Falcone was dead now. Rotting with the rest of his family.
Dick stirs a little, his eyes fluttering open. Above his head the bats gossip.
Alfred had done his best with Bruce, but neither of them had been good at much other than sparring. Bruce had made his choice with Dick already. Had promised to himself he'd do better, be better, than he had before.
Maybe that meant helping Dick come to a peace with his parents' death in a way Bruce had not— could not.
"What is this place?" Dick murmurs, pushing up.
"I never thought to give it a name," Bruce turns his head to stare at his cowl. He doesn't bother with the lower register he adopts when patrolling.
"Batman," Dick sounds awed, but it fades quick.
"You shouldn't have gone out tonight. I told you not to."
"I said you wouldn't see me. You weren't supposed to."
Bruce scowls.
"Why do you care anyway?" Dick continues. "I mean, I've almost seen more of you than I have of Wayne. Why keep an eye on me?"
Bruce lets out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle. He turns to look at Dick, head tilted to the side as he considers the boy.
"Oh," Dick breathes.
"I know," Bruce says. "We have a lot to talk about."