Chapter Text
1
It started simple, for Bruce. With the love of one human being to another. Love unearned, love given freely, for no other deed but being. The love of humanity as a concept and of a specific person as a part of that bigger idea. It didn't always come easily, but Bruce had been practicing this skill for a while now: by taking care of the downtrodden and scorned, by suppressing back his rage in favor of justice, by holding out a helping hand despite repeated rejections.
So when he saw a boy's life shatter in the bright circle of the spotlight, turning away was unimaginable. It wasn't even a choice. It was fate.
Loving Richard was as easy as breathing. When the boy wailed, when he wept silently, when he needed to be held, when he needed time alone, even when he kicked and screamed and hissed how he never wanted to see Bruce again, it was still easy.
He reminded Bruce so much of himself, in those moments. Of being alone in those maze-like halls that feel colder than a grave, the only other person in some faraway corner, statuesque and unreachable. Bruce remembered feeling out of place, a living being among the portraits of the dead. He remembered desiring to be one of them. He still did. It was still a struggle to wake up from the red warmth of his mother's hands and into the chill grey morning and not dream of joining her, but it's been getting easier too, now that he had someone to wake up for. And so he took the days filled with screaming and yelling and weeping and punching and storming out of the room, and he sat there and tried his best to be reachable and to reach out, just in case Richard fell down the same dark bottomless pit, he would be there to catch him.
2
It didn't come to Dick as easily, though. There was no more love to give in his soul, all of it stored away in motionless hearts, seeping away into the sand of the scene. "There will never be any love again," said a stray thought as he leaned into the car's window, sparse streetlights smearing by. "This city doesn't deserve any."
In these musings he didn't notice that the ride stopped and was startled when the door opened and the british guy helped him out of the car. The Wayne Manor loomed over him like an open maw of a cave, in all its stony, spooky grandeur. A few months ago he might have gotten scared, reminded of all the grimdark stories the kids at the circus used to share long past their bed time. Now, they were just stories, and the imposing mass of the manor only made him roll his eyes.
Rich people. Speaking of.
Wayne put his warm hand on Dick’s shoulder and gave him a somewhat uncertain smile. "Care for a little excursion?"
There was nothing he wanted to do less, but he silently nodded anyway. The man's smile widened a bit and he steered Dick up into the manor while the british guy took care of his modest luggage.
Wayne led him through doors upon doors, showing him the yellow sunroom and the green lounge, and the red study, but all Dick saw was grey, grey, grey. The man would point out some item or painting and say something inane, his voice a white noise at the back of Dick's mind. Finally, he stopped in front of one door.
"And this will be your room."
Dick took a look inside. It was a big, well furnished room with slate colored walls. The room looked straight from a page of a magazine, picture perfect and hollow. His eyes wandered over the monotone grey carpet and immaculately made bed and he missed his old starry blanket so much he felt like crying right there and then, when suddenly he saw it. His Zitka plushie, tucked by the pillow. He thought it was lost in the whole fostering mess.
"We can change the room to your preferences, if you don't like it." Wayne said from the doorframe. "I also took the liberty and placed some of your circus belongings into the wardrobe here."
He opened the closet to showcase, and Dick saw the corner of the starry blanket peaking out.
"Feel free to organize things however you like. And just, you know," Bruce gestured around awkwardly. "Get comfortable."
Dick gave him a nod and a quiet "thank you", and Bruce gave him that unsure smile again.
"My room is three doors down the hall, and my study is the next one over. In case you need me. So, um. I will leave you to it."
Dick nodded again, and watched the man shuffle out the door.
It continued like this, with Wayne hovering around, trying to maintain the golden balance between distance and pestering, and constantly slipping into one or the other. Wayne would offer to help with the homework which he didn't need; or to buy him new stuff he didn't want. The man would come and sit quietly near him in the library, turning the silence awkward; or volunteer to drive him to school instead of Alfred, chattering on and boring him to death; or try and offer a semblance of a comforting side hug that Dick would shrug off. This stilted kindness annoyed Dick. It felt like pity. It made him angry. What did this rich asshole even know? Like, in general?
Not that Dick actually cared about the guy's intellect or anything. His nepobaby of a guardian could disappear tomorrow and he wouldn't move a finger. Not when there were more pressing matters to settle. He didn't concern himself with where the man spent his nights, or what's up with the wistful looks he gave the family portrait in his study when he thought no one was looking. Not at all.
But, he must admit, if there was one good thing about staying in the guy's care, it's the Manor and its long polished halls that were created to be run and slid through, its ancient oaks with perfectly climbable branches, its many balustrades to balance on, and, of course, the true pearls of this granite oyster - the chandeliers. This is the closest he had to circus equipment there. The feeling of air swishing by was the one thing that made him feel his parents' presence when everything else only reminded him of their aching absence.
So, naturally, he was swinging on it like on a proper trapeze, 14 feet above the polished marble floors, not heeding Alfred's past warnings in the slightest. He was caught by the butler once before, and scolded for recklessness. But the chandeliers were made out of metal - british guy called it "brass" - so really, what could happen? He swung his legs up, and between his arms, hooking his knees onto one of the chandeliers' arms, making the construction tilt.
"Richard?" He heard a worried voice from somewhere below him. He unclenched his hands, holding on only by his legs, and looked onto Bruce's upside down face.
"Weren't you supposed to be at the meeting?" he said by way of greeting.
"I'm back early. Richard, what are you doing?" Bruce wasn't looking at him now, but somewhere above with a frown on his face.
"Isn't it obvious?"
Wayne ignored the snippy tone.
"How did you get up there?"
"Jumped from there," he gestured to the balustrade of the second floor.
"Richard, this is dangerous. It's not meant to hold your weight."
"Ohmygosh, nothing will happen to your stupid chandelier." Dick rolled his eyes. "The chain is metal, my weight can't break it." Then he muttered quietly, "And you would be able to afford another one anyway."
Bruce somehow heard him and turned to look in his eyes, his face taking on a more carefully neutral mask. "I don't care about the chandelier. And it's not just the chain, Richard. It's-" as he was saying that, they both heard a sound coming from the ceiling, and Dick felt a small jolt that prompted him to look up, "- the screws."
Then, he felt weightless.
He watched as the base of the lamp detached, but all he could see was the moment the rope of the trapeze snapped. Time stopped, as the crystals glistened with yellow, red, and green, and his leg got stuck in between two metal arms, no time to tuck and roll, he was going to fall on his head, he was going to break his neck, he could already hear the crunch, just like then, just like-
The hit didn't come and it didn't come and it still wasn't coming, and the only sound he heard was the blood rushing through his veins. He didn't notice when he closed his eyes. He was afraid to open them. He didn't feel any pain, but he knew that doesn't always mean nothing's wrong. He felt something warm like blood, and he didn't want to look, he really didn't want to look.
"It's okay," was whispered gently into his hair. "You are alright. You are fine."
Dick didn't believe him. He shook his head. In response, he felt a hand on his back that was stroking him in circles, squeezing his shoulder lightly, his face tucked further into something soft. He finally heard panicked panting and realized it was his own.
"You are okay. Does anywhere hurt?"
He shook his head again.
"You are alright. I caught you. I caught you, chum. I got you. You will be fine."
He cracked open one eye and more felt than saw Bruce's broad chest, warm like blood, his shoulder and arm holding him squarely, the broken chandelier leaning onto Bruce from behind. He squeezed his eyes shut again for a moment, before gingerly taking a peek at his lower half. Everything seemed okay, though his ankle was still stuck. He tried moving it, and there was some slight pain, but it didn't feel like there was a break. His shoulders sagged slightly in the grip, slowly catching his breath.
"Let's get your leg out of this."
Bruce shifted to help, but hissed suddenly when moving his shoulder. Dick looked up, in panic, and only now noticed that the right side of the man's face was covered in blood from a cut at his temple. He reached out carefully to touch near the wound. It cut through the hairline and straight to the brow. "Blows to the head are very dangerous," his tati used to teach, "especially to the temples. It can even be deadly. So we always protect our heads, alright?" Dick's lip started to quiver against his own will.
Bruce seemed lost.
"Shh, it's okay. It's okay, I'm fine. Just a few bruises."
Bruce hugged Dick tighter, but nothing could stop the tears now. The reality of what just happened had crashed upon his entire small body with all the weight of the colorful tent ceiling, and he clutched at Bruce's black turtleneck and sniveled into the expensive cashemere. One of his hands found the man's back, and the fabric there was warm - like blood. Bruce kept stroking him, trying to calm him down.
"Just a scratch. I'm okay."
He felt so stupid, and guilty, and scared, and he never wanted Bruce to see him again, he should really give Dick up to the foster care, what a stupid idea it was, he should have listened, oh god he could have died, they both could have died, just like his parents, he almost killed them like he killed his parents-
"Hey hey hey!" Bruce pushed him away so that he could look him in the eyes. "No one would have died. I wouldn't let that happen. It's just an accident, not your fault."
Dick could barely see the man's face from behind the sheen of tears. He could barely breathe enough to form words.
"I-I've almost-t killed us b-both. Wh-what if y-you didn't reach me in time-"
He was interrupted by Bruce squeezing his shoulders a little harder.
"I will always reach you, chum. I promise."
And, for the first time, Dick believed him.