Chapter Text
Dick is eight years old, and has been learning the ropes for nearly just as long. He's worked since he could walk and talk— not the trapeze, of course, but there's never a shortage of work around the circus, and Dick is a quick study.
He learns to flip on the ground, and then in someone's arms, and then in the air with a net, and then without the net.
He learns to fall, how to twist to protect his head and neck, how to tuck and land and roll.
He learns that there are some risks that aren't worth the reward.
Dick is not a stranger to what sits outside "normal". He's been a part of Haly's Circus since birth— what is as natural as breathing for him is seen as unusual to outsiders.
Dick is far from the only child raised within the circus, but he's the only one that's been there his whole life. A lot of performers that come through never stay long— not everyone is a natural performer born for the spotlight, and while some are more than happy to help behind the scenes, others decide the life is not for them.
The Larousse family enrolled their children in school for the winter and never came back on the next May, and when the Singh patriarch passed, the rest of the family decided it was time to plant roots. Haly's would always welcome them back if they ever decided to return, of course, but Dick has grown to recognise the signs that mean someone is leaving.
But for every farewell there is always another hello, and Haly's will welcome anybody who needs a home.
"My parents thought I was a boy," Kitty tells Dick one night, as she's fixing diamantés to her cheek. "They said I would never be anything else."
She makes eye contact with Dick in the mirror, and a smile crinkles at the corners of her eyes. "When I am up there, twisted up in silks, dancing for the crowd, I feel I am the prettiest girl in the world."
Then her smile blossoms wider, and she lets out a little laugh. "But I give myself too much credit," she says. "Nobody can compare to Mary Grayson when she flies."
Kitty's been with them for a few seasons now— long enough that Dick's memory of her joining is hazy; like seen through a layer of film grain. Dick is still not tall enough to reach the return bar, so Kitty climbs the trap with the Flying Graysons to help run board.
"Are you ready, boy?" Dad's voice calls from the other side of the dressing area, and Dick starts, casting a glance down at himself. He's in his leotard, sure, but he hasn't put on the rest of his ensemble, cape and boots missing.
Kitty smiles at Dick in the mirror. "Go," she says.
"Kushti bok," Dick replies, and scurries off to his family.
Dick is eight years old, and sometimes when his dad calls him "boy" his nose scrunches up and his tummy flips strangely. He ignores it for the most part— he will always be his mami's little boy, and when she calls him that, he doesn't get the same feeling. He does prefer her calling him little robin though. She always says it with a laugh in her voice and a gleam in her eye.
He finds himself wondering.
Haly's Circus has always been a sanctuary, of sorts. Kitty is far from the only one who's found a home with them, a family of like-minded souls. Dick has grown up surrounded by those that exist outside of binaries, by those who have found a place where they can be true to themselves without judgement and fear.
The thoughts don't leave, is the thing. He finds himself watching Kitty on the aerial silks, watching the way she smiles like she was born for it. He finds himself watching the way that the stagehands move out of the spotlight, a man brushing his fingertips over his husband's as they work the ropes together. He finds himself watching Nanners the clown with interest, the way that they style their facepaint and clothes to be half masculine, half feminine, split evenly down the middle.
He doesn't worry about it too much, of course. He's eight years old, and he doesn't have any intention of going anywhere. The Graysons have been a part of the circus for as long as its been running, even before it bore the name Haly's, and will continue to be for years to come. Dick was born in the family caravan, and his father before him, and his father before him. As long as Haly's Circus is home to people of all walks of life, then he's never going to be an outsider.
It doesn't stop Dick from being scared of the concept of being different.
Dick crawls up onto his parent's bed that night, once they've all showered and washed the makeup off, changed into plain clothes and shed the sequins and glitter. There's no spotlight here, aside from the lamp beside the bed, bright enough to light the pages of the storybook in Mami's hands.
"I don't think I'm a boy."
He blurts it out within a single exhale, hoping the speed will make it easier, but all it manages to do is make Dad's eyebrows hike up and Mami's voice to give out mid-sentence, calloused fingers dropping the corner of the page she had been thumbing. Dick shrinks a little into himself, gripping the hem of his pyjama shirt.
"I… um."
Mami gently closes the book, setting it down. "What makes you feel this way?" she asks gently. It's not accusatory, not definitive— simply a question.
Dick worries the hem a little more before he speaks. "Kitty was telling me that she grew up as a boy," he says. There's a hesitance to it coming out his mouth, halting and awkward, but judging by his parents' faces, they already knew. "And it… I didn't realise that it was something you could choose."
"Is that all?" Dick's dad says, and he has to fight his shoulders from rising. There isn't any coldness to Dad's tone, even if there's a hard line to his mouth.
Dick doesn't know how to answer. He spends several minutes trying to get his thoughts into some semblance of an order, try to work his emotions, but nothing comes to him, wringing at his shirt hem all the while. "…I don't think I want to talk about it anymore tonight," he says meekly, sinking into Mami's side.
She brushes the hair out of his eyes. "Alright, my little Robin," she says. "It can wait for as long as you need."
"I don't like it, Marie," Dick's dad says. "That Kitty isn't one of us— she's—"
"Gadji or not, she is one of us," Mami cuts in. "And ever since you brother's injury made him retire, we've needed the help for our act."
"This isn't about the act," dad says. "Dick's impressionable. He doesn't need ideas put in his head about… about…"
"Stop worrying," Mami chides. Dick shifts just enough that he can peek through a gap in the boxes.
Dad buries his face in his hands, letting out a long slow breath as he lowers himself to sit on a box. Mami sets her hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "Would it be so wrong?" she asks quietly.
Dad looks up with a start, an almost scandalised expression on his face. "Of course not!"
Mami hums, and he takes up her hand in his own, leaning into her side. He takes another deep breath, and when he looks up, his expression is softer.
"Of course not," he says again. "But he's only eight. He doesn't need to put himself in a box so early. Whatever he chooses, I don't want him to regret it."
Mami smiles, leaning in to set her chin on top of her husband's head, letting him bury his face in her shoulder. "You always worry too much."
He gives a short laugh, more a huff than anything. "You don't worry enough," he replies. He turns his head a little so he can press a kiss to her hand, still in his. Then, he heaves a sigh, pulling back. "I suppose I should clear it up with Dick."
"I have a feeling he already knows." Mami clicks her tongue, turning towards the pile of boxes Dick is hiding behind, and he stiffens. "Little robin? You can come out."
Dick sheepishly steps out, and there's no anger on either of his parents' faces for eavesdropping. If anything, there's a layer of guilt to his dad's expression, like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't.
Neither of them move for a long moment, before Dick throws himself at his dad. He catches Dick easily, pulling him up to rest on his hip. "I'm sorry, Dick," he says. "I never meant to make you think I…"
Dick reaches up, taking each side of Dad's face in his hands, leaning in to touch their foreheads together. "It's okay," he replies. "You got scared because it's different. Like uncle Richard marrying a gorja."
Dad leans back out of Dick's touch, a little bewildered, shooting a look to Mami. "He's far too perceptive," he complains, and Mami stifles a laugh.
"Besides," Dick continues. "You got over it."
Mami doesn't manage to stifle this one. "You have your whole life, little robin," she says, reaching out to smooth his hair down. "Try as many times as you need to figure yourself out. You will always be a Flying Grayson, regardless of any other name you decide to take."
A bird in the circus tent is an omen. Mami told Dick that, once. It's why she's never called him by the nickname under the Big Top, even backstage.
A little robin doesn't fall, but his parents do.
Everything after that is simultaneously muffled and deafening. He doesn't get to feel the last warmth that Mary and John have in their bodies; he's not granted that right. He doesn't remember who pulls him off them, or even how many hands it takes. He fights against them all, kicking and scratching and biting, screaming until his throat is raw as he's dragged away from the— the corpses, they say in rough accents, before they catch sight of him and falter, replacing it with a more clinical the victims.
He doesn't want them to be clinical. He wants his parents back.
The world flashes red and blue. There's some murmuring here and there— a woman's wails sailing above it all, face buried in her gloves while several people attempt to comfort her. Wherever he looks, there are police officers taking witness statements, trying to calm the masses, settle the crowd. They're responding to the incident more than Dick is, reacting loud and frenzied, like they're greater victims for the simple act of watching on.
Dick is eight years old, and he can't even cry for his parents, not the way these strangers do.
There's blood under his fingernails, and Dick doesn't know if it's his own, his parents', or from whoever tried to drag him away, clawing and biting at them because how dare they remove him from their sides?
Later, what Dick will remember is this: a man in a suit with eyes the colour of steel and eyebags so deep they cast shadows. He isn't with the GCPD, isn't a police officer or anything like that, but when Dick asks if he's a detective, there's something in the way his lips press together before he opens his mouth to respond. Dick doesn't remember what the response is, but he remembers the way the man keeps his voice level as he tells Dick he was the same age when his own parents were killed— gunned down right in front of him.
"That's different," Dick manages to whisper, pulling the blanket that somebody wrapped around his shoulders tighter. He isn't sure when it happened, when the hands went from pulling and grabbing to soft and comforting.
The man raises an eyebrow. "Is it?" he asks, and there's a shadow behind him, not just under his eyes.
"This was just an accident," Dick says. "Without a safety net, when the rope snapped, they—"
They knew how to fall, how to twist to protect their head and neck, how to tuck and land and roll.
There's no way to protect yourself from a height like that, not when the only thing that will break your fall is the ground.
"An accident?"
Dick stares at the man, at the spark of steel in his gaze, at the set of his jaw, at the weight he carries on his shoulders that he refuses to be crushed by. "Richard," he says, "how well does Haly's Circus inspect their equipment?"
"Very," he replies, and there's roaring in his ears, like the crowd at the end of a performance, like the rush of adrenaline through his veins. "My father checked over the ropes himself."
He knew this. He knew this.
Dick doesn't pay attention to anything the man says at that, fighting through fuzzy recollections of strange men on the grounds, of his dad pulling up to his full height and telling them to leave, of hard refusals and veiled threats, a cigarette flicked and stamped out on the ground. When he'd asked Dad about them later, he'd simply said he'd hoped Dick hadn't had to see that, but it was nothing to worry about.
"Who killed them?" Dick demands, and a cold fire settles in his ribs, stoked by pure rage and grief. "You know."
"I have suspicions," the man confirms.
"Tell me."
"No."
"Tell me."
He doesn't. When he leaves, the shadows stretch out behind him long after he's gone.