Gotham Children's Services, Morning
The institutional beige walls of Gotham Children's Services had seen generations of the city's lost children pass through, their stories as varied as they were heartbreaking. But even by Gotham standards, the small figure sitting alone in the interview room represented an unusual tragedy.
Dick Grayson sat perfectly still, his posture a product of years of acrobatic training. His eyes, red-rimmed from crying but now dry and unnervingly alert, tracked every movement in the hallway beyond the room's glass panel. He wore borrowed clothes—a gray sweatshirt and jeans that hung loose on his athletic frame—and had refused all offers of toys, books, or drawing materials.
He was waiting, though for what, even he couldn't articulate.
The events of the previous night replayed in his mind with merciless clarity. One moment, he'd been on the platform watching his parents begin their routine—his father's powerful form cutting through the air with the precision that had made the Flying Graysons famous, his mother preparing to join him in their aerial dance. The next moment, that sickening crack—the sound that had somehow cut through the music and applause. A sound Dick knew he would remember for the rest of his life.
The cable had snapped. His mother's trapeze had lurched. And then...
Dick squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could block out the memory. But it played on against the darkness of his eyelids—his parents falling, their bodies twisting in that futile attempt to control their descent. His mother's eyes finding his in that eternal moment—love and terror and desperate apology all at once.
Then the impact. That terrible, final thud that Dick had felt in his bones.
He'd been frozen on the platform, his safety line the only thing that had kept him from following his parents into the abyss. The crowd had erupted in chaos—screams, shouts, people rushing toward exits while others pushed forward for a better view of the horror.
Dick didn't remember climbing down the ladder. One moment he'd been on the platform, the next he was pushing through the crowd. Someone had tried to hold him back, but he'd broken free, slipping between bodies with the same agility that had made him a star performer.
When he'd reached his parents, medical personnel were already there, but their movements lacked urgency. Dick had understood what that meant, even as his mind refused to accept it. They weren't rushing, weren't calling for stretchers or ambulances, because there was nothing to be done.
"Mom? Dad?" His voice had sounded strange to his own ears—small, broken.
He'd fallen to his knees between them, afraid to touch, afraid to confirm what he already knew. His father had lain face up, eyes open but unseeing, limbs at unnatural angles. His mother had landed partially on her side, one arm outstretched as if still reaching for her husband.
Dick had touched his mother's hand. It had still been warm.
He'd collapsed across his parents' bodies, his small frame shaking with grief. Around him, the chaos had continued—people shouting, sirens approaching, camera flashes adding a macabre strobe effect to the scene.
He hadn't noticed the dark figure that had descended silently from above. Not until a gentle hand touched his shoulder had Dick become aware of another presence. He'd looked up through tear-filled eyes to see Batman kneeling beside him, the fearsome cowl somehow less frightening up close.
"Richard," Batman had said, his voice gentler than the rumors suggested it could be. "You shouldn't see this. Come with me."
Dick had stared at him, recognition slowly dawning through his grief. "Batman? My parents—they—the cable—"
"I know," Batman had replied, his voice carrying an unexpected understanding. "I was trying to stop it."
That revelation had penetrated Dick's shock. "Then it wasn't an accident?"
"No," Batman had confirmed. "It wasn't."
Dick's gaze had darted toward the exit where he'd last seen the white-haired man. "There was a man—with white hair and an eye patch. He was watching, and he didn't—he knew—"
"Deathstroke," Batman had named him.
An officer had arrived then, and Batman had instructed him to take care of Dick, emphasizing the need for protective custody.
Before Batman could leave, Dick had reached out, catching the edge of his cape. "Batman?"
The Dark Knight had paused, looking back at the small hand gripping the armored material.
"Make him pay," Dick had whispered, his young voice suddenly hard with conviction. "Please."
Batman had nodded once, a solemn vow without words. Then he'd fired his grapnel upward and vanished into the shadows, leaving Dick alone among strangers.
The police officer had knelt awkwardly beside Dick. "Son, we need to get you out of here. Come with me, okay?"
Dick had barely heard him. His eyes had remained fixed on his parents' bodies as paramedics covered them with sheets. The white fabric had bloomed with red where it touched his father's head, his mother's side. Final confirmation of what his heart already knew.
They were gone. Forever.
Dick opened his eyes, returning to the sterile interview room. The memory of last night—only twelve hours ago, though it felt like a lifetime—was still raw, an open wound that pulsed with each heartbeat. He'd spent the night in what they called "temporary housing" at GCPD—basically a cot in a room adjacent to the break room, officers passing by periodically to check on him.
He hadn't slept. How could he? Every time he closed his eyes, he saw them falling. Heard that crack. Felt that impact.
The social workers had arrived early this morning—Ms. Chen and others whose names he couldn't remember. They'd brought these borrowed clothes and driven him here, to this building with its institutional smell and uncomfortable chairs. They'd asked questions he couldn't answer, offered comfort he couldn't accept.
They'd said things like "safe space" and "processing trauma" and "support network." Words that washed over Dick without meaning, white noise against the roaring in his ears—the sound of his world collapsing.
He'd stopped responding after a while. What was the point? Nothing they said could bring his parents back. Nothing they offered could fill the void that had opened inside him—a chasm so vast and deep he felt he might fall into it and never stop falling.
But he didn't fall. He sat, and he watched, and he waited.
For what, he couldn't say. Maybe for his mind to accept what his heart already knew. Maybe for the nightmare to end. Maybe for the pain to become bearable.
Or maybe, though he wouldn't admit it even to himself, he was waiting for that man with the white hair and eye patch. The man Batman had called Deathstroke. The man who had known what was going to happen. The man who had winked at him, as if sharing a secret.
Dick's hands curled into fists on the table. One thought had crystallized through the fog of grief and shock—he would recognize that man anywhere. Would remember that face, that eye, for the rest of his life. And someday, somehow, he would make him pay for what he'd done.
Outside the room, Commissioner James Gordon spoke in hushed tones with Sarah Chen, the overworked social worker assigned to Dick's case.
"He hasn't spoken since we brought him in," Chen explained, glancing through the glass at her young charge. "Not a word. The trauma specialist says it's not unusual after what he witnessed, but..."
"But?" Gordon prompted.
Chen hesitated. "There's something... different about him. Most children in his situation are lost, confused. He's watching. Processing. Like he's storing everything away for later use." She shook her head. "I've been doing this job for fifteen years, Commissioner. I've never seen a child this composed after something so horrific."
Gordon nodded, understanding completely. He'd seen the same focused awareness in another child, decades earlier, standing in the rain outside a movie theater while his parents' blood washed into the storm drains of Crime Alley.
"You know, you see a lot in this job," Gordon said softly. "A lot of heartbreak, a lot of suffering. But I'll never forget taking a witness statement from an eight-year-old boy who'd just seen his parents gunned down." He glanced toward the interview room. "Same look in his eyes that I see in this boy now. Not just shock or grief, but something... harder. Determination, maybe. Or the beginning of it."
Chen followed his gaze, studying Dick with renewed interest. "You were there that night? When the Waynes were killed?"
"Fresh out of Chicago," Gordon confirmed. "One of my first major cases. Thomas and Martha Wayne gunned down in front of their son. The kind of thing that changes a city and definitely changes a child." His expression darkened with the memory. "Bruce Wayne stood there in the alley, wouldn't let go of his mother's hand. Wouldn't speak a word to anyone except to give the description of the shooter. And his eyes exactly like that boy's now. Taking everything in. Missing nothing."
"Any family?" he asked Chen, though he already knew the answer.
"None that we can locate. The circus owner—Haly—says the Graysons were self-contained. No known relatives. They'd been with the circus since before the boy was born."
"And the protective custody?"
Chen sighed, frustration evident in her expression. "We've done what we can, but our resources are limited. We have a guard posted, but if someone really wanted to get to him..."
She didn't need to finish the thought. Gotham Children's Services was underfunded and overcrowded, like most city institutions. Security consisted of an elderly guard and outdated cameras. If one of Falcone's assassins targeted the boy, there would be little to stop them.
"That's why I reached out to the Wayne Foundation," Gordon said, checking his watch. "Bruce Wayne has offered temporary emergency fostering while we sort out a more permanent arrangement."
Chen's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Bruce Wayne? The billionaire playboy? With all due respect, Commissioner, is that really appropriate? The man's hardly known for his stability or child-friendly lifestyle."
"Wayne's public persona doesn't tell the whole story," Gordon replied, choosing his words carefully. "He funds a significant portion of Batman's operations in Gotham. The manor has security systems that rival GCPD headquarters. And more importantly..." He glanced toward the interview room, where Dick continued his silent vigil. "Wayne lost his own parents to violence when he was about Dick's age. He understands what the boy's going through."
Inside the interview room, Dick continued his silent vigil, unaware of the discussion determining his fate. His thoughts had drifted to his parents again—not to their deaths this time, but to their lives. To his mother's laugh, bright and clear as a bell. To his father's strong hands, always there to catch him when he flew. To their trailer in the circus, small but filled with love and stories and the smells of his mother's cooking.
Home. A concept that had been so simple yesterday morning and now seemed impossibly complex. Where was home when the people who defined it were gone?
He thought of his father's words from their last conversation: "Home isn't a place, son. It's people. And as long as we're together—you, me, and your mother—we're home."
But they weren't together anymore. And Dick Grayson was suddenly, irrevocably, homeless.
What would happen to him now? The circus had been his whole world, the only life he'd known. The other performers were like extended family, but they weren't actually family. They couldn't take him in—the lifestyle wasn't conducive to raising a child without parents who were part of the troupe.
Would he end up in an orphanage? A foster home? The thought filled him with a dread almost as powerful as his grief. Strangers who couldn't possibly understand what he'd lost, what he'd seen. People who would look at him with pity or, worse, indifference.
Dick's attention was drawn to movement in the hallway. Through the glass panel, he could see Commissioner Gordon speaking with Ms. Chen. Their expressions were serious, concerned. They were talking about him, deciding his future without him.
Another figure approached them—a tall man in an expensive suit. Even through the glass and his grief-fogged mind, Dick recognized him immediately. Bruce Wayne. The billionaire whose face appeared regularly in Gotham's newspapers and on television. The man who owned half the city, according to his father's occasional comments.
What was he doing here? Dick's analytical mind, temporarily distracted from grief by curiosity, searched for a connection. The Wayne Foundation sponsored various charitable causes, including children's services. Perhaps this was a routine visit that happened to coincide with Dick's presence.
But there was something in the way Gordon greeted Wayne, something in their body language that suggested this wasn't coincidental. They were discussing something specific—discussing him.
Dick watched as Ms. Chen's expression shifted from professional skepticism to reluctant consideration. Whatever Wayne was saying seemed to be persuasive. The billionaire glanced toward the interview room, his gaze momentarily meeting Dick's through the glass. There was something in that look—something unexpectedly familiar, though Dick couldn't place why.
Before Chen could respond, the building's front doors opened, and Bruce Wayne entered, looking every inch the polished billionaire despite the early hour. Tailored suit, not a hair out of place, his public smile firmly fixed as he approached.
"Commissioner Gordon," Bruce greeted, extending his hand with just the right mixture of solemnity and determination. "Ms. Chen, I presume? Bruce Wayne. Thank you for accepting my offer on such short notice."
Chen seemed momentarily flustered by the full force of Bruce Wayne's carefully cultivated charisma. "Mr. Wayne, while we appreciate the Foundation's interest, I have some concerns about—"
"About my suitability as a guardian?" Bruce finished for her, his smile fading into something more genuine—and therefore more disarming. "Perfectly understandable. My public reputation isn't exactly... paternal. But I assure you, the manor is secure, Alfred Pennyworth has extensive experience with traumatized children—he raised me, after all—and the Wayne Foundation has already assembled a team of child psychologists specifically trained in trauma recovery."
Dick could hear their conversation now, albeit faintly. Guardian? Manor? Were they discussing placing him with Wayne? The idea seemed absurd. Why would a billionaire playboy want to take in an orphaned circus performer?
Bruce glanced toward the interview room, his expression softening further. "And most importantly, I know what that boy is feeling right now. The confusion. The rage. The desperate need to make sense of something that will never make sense."
The words sent a jolt through Dick. How could Wayne possibly know what he was feeling? The presumption almost made him angry—until he remembered something his father had once told him about the Wayne family. About how Bruce Wayne had watched his parents gunned down when he was a child.
Gordon watched the exchange with interest. He'd worked with Bruce Wayne in both his identities for years, though he maintained the polite fiction that he wasn't fully aware of the connection. He'd seen Wayne deploy his considerable charm when needed, but this was different. There was an authenticity beneath the polished exterior that Gordon rarely witnessed in Bruce's public persona.
Chen seemed to sense it too. "The placement would be temporary," she said, still cautious but clearly reconsidering. "And subject to regular welfare checks."
"Of course," Bruce agreed immediately. "Wayne Manor's doors will be open to your team at any time. Richard's well-being is the priority here."
"It's Dick," Gordon corrected gently. "He prefers to be called Dick. His parents called him that."
Something flickered across Bruce's face—a brief shadow of deeper understanding—before he nodded. "Dick, then."
Inside the interview room, Dick processed this new development. Bruce Wayne—the man his parents had pointed out in newspaper photographs, the billionaire whose charity galas sometimes made national news—wanted to take him in? It made no sense. Wayne had a reputation as a playboy, not a family man. What possible interest could he have in an orphaned child from the circus?
And yet, there was something about the way Wayne had spoken about understanding his feelings. If Wayne had really lost his parents to violence at a similar age, perhaps there was some genuine empathy behind the offer.
Or perhaps it was just publicity. The cynical thought surfaced before Dick could suppress it. Wayne takes in traumatized circus orphan—the headlines practically wrote themselves. Good publicity for the Foundation, for Wayne Enterprises.
Chen consulted her tablet, scrolling through documents with practiced efficiency. "The paperwork is mostly complete. The judge was... unusually accommodating." She glanced at Wayne with newfound understanding. "I assume the Wayne Foundation's legal team had something to do with that?"
Bruce offered an apologetic smile. "They're very thorough. And given the circumstances—the potential ongoing threat to Dick's safety—time seemed of the essence."
"Indeed." Chen tucked the tablet under her arm. "Well, if you'll both excuse me, I need to speak with Richard—Dick—and explain the situation. It's important that transitions like this are handled delicately."
As she moved toward the interview room, Bruce called after her. "If you don't mind, I'd like to speak with him first."
Chen hesitated, professional caution warring with the practical reality that Bruce Wayne's influence had already cleared bureaucratic hurdles that would normally take weeks.
"It might be better if I introduce you, explain who you are and why he's being placed with you."
"He knows who I am," Bruce said quietly. "And I'd rather he hears directly from me why I'm offering my home. No intermediaries. Just honesty."
Dick appreciated that approach, despite his skepticism. If Wayne was going to take him in—even temporarily—Dick wanted to hear his reasons directly, not filtered through well-meaning social workers. He'd had enough of people talking about him rather than to him.
Gordon stepped in. "I think that's a good idea, Sarah. Let them talk man to man, so to speak."
After another moment's hesitation, Chen nodded reluctantly. "Five minutes, then I need to complete the formal process."
Dick straightened in his chair as Bruce approached the door. Whatever Wayne's motives were, Dick would assess them for himself. His father had always taught him to look people in the eye, to trust his instincts about character. Those lessons seemed more important now than ever.
The door opened, and Bruce Wayne entered the room. Dick's first impression was of controlled power—the man moved with a grace unexpected in someone his size, each step precise and measured. His public persona projected casual charm, but up close, there was something more disciplined in his movements, something that belied the playboy image.
Bruce took the chair across from Dick, leaving the small table between them as a buffer. For a long moment, neither spoke, each taking the measure of the other with greater precision than most adults could manage.
"Your name is Richard John Grayson," Bruce began finally. "Born to John and Mary Grayson, the Flying Graysons of Haly's Circus. You've been performing with them since you were six, though you've been training since you could walk. You're known for a triple somersault that most adult acrobats can't manage."
Dick's eyes narrowed slightly, the first real reaction he'd shown since Bruce entered. "You did research," he said, his voice raspy from disuse but surprisingly steady.
"Yes." Bruce didn't bother denying it or explaining how he'd acquired the information during the night's investigation. "I wanted to understand who you are, beyond what happened last night."
Dick appreciated the honesty, though it didn't answer his fundamental question—why was Wayne here? What did he want with an orphaned circus performer?
Dick looked down at his hands, which had curled into fists on the table. "They're dead," he said flatly. "Mom and Dad. They're dead and I saw it happen and I couldn't do anything."
The words tasted bitter in his mouth, but saying them aloud made them real in a way he needed. His parents were dead. He had watched them die. He had been helpless to save them. These were the facts he had to face, however much they hurt.
"I know." Bruce leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to ensure their conversation remained private despite the observation window. "When I was about your age, I watched my parents die too. They were shot by a mugger outside a theater in an area called Crime Alley."
Dick looked up sharply, genuine surprise breaking through his carefully maintained composure. Despite having heard about the Wayne murders, having the man himself speak of it so directly was unexpected. "You're... you're Bruce Wayne," he said finally. "The billionaire. The one who owns half of Gotham."
"That's what they tell me," Bruce replied with a small, humorless smile. "Though it certainly didn't feel that way when I was sitting where you are now, trying to understand why my world had ended while everyone else's continued."
The boy's gaze intensified, searching Bruce's face for any sign of insincerity. Finding none, he asked bluntly, "Why are you here?"
"Because you're in danger," Bruce answered, matching Dick's directness. "The man who killed your parents—he's part of something bigger. Something connected to a criminal organization called the Falcone crime family. Your father had information, evidence that could hurt them, and they sent an assassin to silence him."
Dick absorbed this with the same unnerving composure he'd shown throughout their conversation. "The man with the white hair and eye patch. I saw him at the circus before... before it happened. He said he was doing maintenance on the equipment."
The memory surfaced with painful clarity—the stranger's cold smile, the way his single eye had seemed to measure Dick, the cryptic comments about "maintenance" and "making sure everything runs smoothly." At the time, Dick had felt uneasy but hadn't understood why. Now, the significance of those words was devastatingly clear.
Bruce nodded, filing away Dick's confirmation for Batman's investigation. "His name is Slade Wilson. He's known professionally as Deathstroke. One of the most dangerous men in the world."
"You know a lot about assassins for a rich guy," Dick observed, his perceptiveness unsettling even to someone as guarded as Bruce.
Bruce didn't flinch under the implicit question. "I fund Batman's operations in Gotham. Have for years. It gives me access to information most civilians don't have."
It was a half-truth—the cover story he and Gordon had carefully cultivated to explain Bruce Wayne's occasional involvement in matters that should be beyond a billionaire's purview. Dick seemed to consider it, weighing the explanation against some internal calculation.
"Is that why you're here? Because Batman asked you to protect me?"
"In part," Bruce acknowledged. "My home has security systems that would make it nearly impossible for someone like Deathstroke to reach you. But there's more to it than that." He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "I remember what it was like—the confusion, the anger, the feeling that no one in the world could possibly understand what I was going through. I had someone—Alfred, my butler—who gave me space to grieve, to rage, to slowly find my way back to some kind of life. I'd like to offer you the same chance."
Dick's composure cracked slightly, his lower lip trembling before he bit down on it hard. "I don't need charity."
Pride. It was something his father had instilled in him from an early age. The Flying Graysons weren't the wealthiest performers in the circus, but they were self-sufficient, proud of their art and their independence. The thought of becoming a charity case—especially for one of the wealthiest men in Gotham—felt like a betrayal of that pride.
"It isn't charity," Bruce replied firmly. "It's recognition. You and I... we're part of a club no one wants to join. The circumstances were different, but the result was the same. We watched our parents die, and nothing can ever undo that or make it right."
The boy looked away, but not before Bruce caught the sheen of tears he was fighting to control. "What's the point, then?" Dick asked, his voice barely audible. "If nothing makes it right?"
It was the question that had haunted Dick since the moment he'd knelt beside his parents' bodies. If nothing could bring them back, if nothing could undo what had happened, what was the point of anything? Why go on? Why get up each morning to face a world without them in it?
Bruce leaned closer, his own carefully maintained facade slipping to reveal something raw and honest beneath. "You learn to live with it. To carry it. And eventually, maybe, to use it—to make sure what happened to you doesn't happen to someone else."
Dick looked back at him, really seeing him now, not just the polished billionaire image but the man beneath. "Is that what you did?"
"I'm trying," Bruce answered, and in that moment, he wasn't playing a role or maintaining a cover. He was simply telling the truth. "Some days are better than others."
A long silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken understanding. The answer wasn't satisfying—there was no true satisfaction to be found in this situation—but it was honest. And it offered something Dick desperately needed: a path forward, however difficult, from someone who had walked it before.
Finally, Dick spoke again, his voice stronger. "This arrangement. How long?"
"Until we find Deathstroke and make sure you're no longer in danger. After that... we'll figure it out together. No decisions need to be made right now."
Dick nodded slowly, processing. "And I'd stay at your house? Wayne Manor?"
"Yes. You'd have your own room, privacy when you want it, company when you need it. Alfred makes excellent pancakes." Bruce offered a small, genuine smile. "He used to make them for me when I couldn't sleep after nightmares."
Something in Dick's expression shifted—not quite acceptance, but perhaps a willingness to consider the possibility. "The police officer—Commissioner Gordon—he said Batman is looking for the man who killed my parents."
"He is," Bruce confirmed. "And he won't stop until he finds him."
"Good." The word carried a weight beyond its single syllable—a determination that resonated with Bruce's own experience. "I want to help."
Bruce shook his head firmly. "What you need to do is stay safe. Let Batman handle Deathstroke."
"They were my parents," Dick insisted, a flash of that same fierce determination Bruce had glimpsed at the circus breaking through. "I saw the man who did it. I might remember something important."
"And if you do, you can tell me, and I'll make sure Batman gets the information," Bruce countered. "But your safety comes first. Your parents would want that."
The mention of what his parents would want struck home in a way nothing else had. Dick's shoulders slumped slightly, the fight momentarily going out of him. "I keep thinking I'll wake up," he said quietly. "That this is just a bad dream, and I'll wake up in our trailer, and Mom will be making breakfast, and Dad will be checking the rigging like he always did before a show..."
His voice broke on the last word, and finally, the tears he'd been fighting spilled over. Bruce reached across the table instinctively, his hand covering Dick's smaller one.
"I know," he said simply. "I know."
For several minutes, they sat in silence, the shared understanding of grief creating a connection neither had anticipated. Dick wiped at his tears with his free hand, embarrassed but somehow not feeling judged.
"Okay," he said finally, his voice steadier. "I'll go with you. For now."
Bruce nodded, recognizing both the acceptance and its qualification. "For now," he agreed.
Outside the interview room, Gordon and Chen watched the unlikely pair with varying degrees of surprise. "Well," Chen said finally, "I wasn't expecting that."
"Wayne's full of surprises," Gordon replied, a hint of something like pride in his voice. "Always has been."
Chen glanced at the commissioner curiously. "You seem very comfortable with this arrangement. More than I would have expected, given Wayne's reputation."
Gordon considered his response carefully. "Let's just say I've learned to look beyond reputations in this city. Bruce Wayne might surprise you with what he's capable of."
Back in the interview room, Bruce stood and extended his hand formally to Dick. "So, do we have a deal? Temporary sanctuary at Wayne Manor while Batman tracks down Deathstroke?"
Dick stood as well, his acrobat's grace evident even in this simple movement, and took Bruce's hand. His grip was stronger than Bruce had expected, his palm calloused from years on the trapeze.
"Deal," Dick agreed, then added with a directness that caught Bruce off guard: "But I want updates. Real ones. Not just 'don't worry about it, kid' stuff. I deserve to know what's happening."
Bruce studied the boy for a moment, recognizing the same stubborn determination he often saw in his own reflection. "That's fair. You'll get regular updates—the truth, as much as is appropriate for your age."
"I watched my parents fall to their deaths," Dick said flatly. "I think we're past 'appropriate for my age.'"
Bruce couldn't argue with that. With a nod of acknowledgment, he gestured toward the door. "Shall we? There's some paperwork to complete, and then we can head to the manor. Alfred will have lunch waiting."
As they moved toward the door, Dick paused, looking up at Bruce with an expression that somehow combined grief, suspicion, and desperate hope in equal measure. "Why are you really doing this, Mr. Wayne? The truth."
Bruce met his gaze directly. "Because after my parents died, everyone told me they understood, but none of them did. Not really. I swore that if I ever met someone who actually could understand—someone who'd been through what I had—I wouldn't leave them to face it alone."
It was the absolute truth, though not the whole truth. But it seemed to satisfy Dick, who nodded once, decision made.
"Okay," he said. "Let's go."