Late Night
The Rooftops of Gotham
Rain lashed against Batman's cape as he moved across Gotham's skyline, each leap between buildings carrying the controlled fury of a man operating beyond the limits of exhaustion. The night had already claimed three lives—Councilman Grogan, whose blood was still drying on the marble floor of the Wayne Foundation gala, and John Grayson, whose broken body lay beside his wife's at the morgue. Two separate crime scenes. Two assassinations orchestrated by the same hand.
And one child, now orphaned, who had watched it all happen.
Batman landed on a water tower overlooking the docks, his gauntleted hand gripping the railing with enough force to bend the metal. The pain in his ribs from his encounter with Deadshot was a distant concern, pushed aside by the more immediate agony of failure. He'd been too late. Again. Just as he'd been too late in Crime Alley all those years ago.
"Alfred," he growled into his comm, "any sign of Deathstroke?"
"Nothing concrete, sir," Alfred's voice replied, the usual British composure strained with concern. "I've been monitoring police bands and security cameras throughout the city. He seems to have vanished after the... incident at the circus."
Batman's jaw tightened beneath the cowl. Professional assassins didn't "vanish"—they escaped along preplanned routes to secured locations. Deathstroke was out there, somewhere in Gotham, perhaps already moving to his next target.
"What about the other assassins Deadshot mentioned?"
"No confirmed sightings yet. Though there was an unusual disturbance at the Robinson Park nature preserve—several motion sensors triggered with no apparent cause. Could be nothing, could be someone scouting the terrain."
Batman filed that information away for later. Seven assassins. Seven targets. A week-long campaign designed to systematically dismantle the case against Carmine Falcone piece by piece, with Batman's capture as the ultimate prize.
"And the boy?" he asked, his voice softening almost imperceptibly.
There was a brief pause on the line. "Master Richard is currently at Gotham Children's Services. According to their records, he has no known living relatives. Commissioner Gordon arranged for protective custody, but the system is already moving to process him for foster placement."
Foster placement. The words stirred something dark in Batman's memory—his own brush with the system in those confused days after his parents' murders, before Alfred had secured guardianship. The cold efficiency of it all, the well-meaning but overworked social workers, the forms that reduced a child's shattered life to checkboxes and signatures.
"Sir, if I may..." Alfred hesitated, which was unusual enough to draw Batman's full attention. "The boy identified Deathstroke. That makes him both a witness and a potential target, despite Lawton's claim that the contract specified his survival."
"Alberto Falcone might change his mind if he learns the boy can identify his assassin," Batman agreed, already seeing where Alfred was heading.
"Precisely. The boy needs protection beyond what the system can provide. Somewhere secure, with resources to ensure his safety."
Batman stared out over Gotham Harbor, the rain forming rivulets down his cowl like tears the man beneath would never allow himself to shed. The image of Richard Grayson kneeling between his parents' bodies flashed unbidden in his mind—the small shoulders shaking with grief, the confused rage in those young eyes. He'd seen that same rage in his own reflection for years after Crime Alley.
"Wayne Manor," he said finally.
"Sir?" Alfred sounded genuinely surprised, though whether at the suggestion itself or Batman's directness was unclear.
"Bruce Wayne has the resources and security to protect him. It would be temporary—just until we neutralize the threat. Official fostering through the Wayne Foundation."
There was a longer pause this time, and Batman could almost see Alfred weighing his words carefully. "While I agree the young man needs protection, are you certain bringing him into the manor is... prudent? Given your nighttime activities?"
"I'll be careful."
"It's not just secrecy I'm concerned about, sir. A child who has just experienced such profound trauma requires stability, emotional support—"
"I can provide security," Batman cut him off. "That's what he needs most right now."
Alfred's sigh was audible even through the comm system. "As you wish, sir. I'll begin making the necessary arrangements. Mr. Fox has already offered the Foundation's legal team to expedite matters."
Batman ended the call and fired his grapnel toward the next building. The rain was coming down harder now, reducing visibility and making each landing treacherous. Like the city itself, trying to wash away the blood that had been spilled tonight while preparing for whatever tomorrow would bring.
He'd failed to save the Graysons. He would not fail their son.
—
Wayne Manor, Pre-Dawn
Bruce Wayne stood in the doorway of the manor's east wing guest room, watching as Alfred meticulously prepared the space for its unexpected occupant. Fresh linens on the four-poster bed, curtains drawn back to reveal the first hint of dawn breaking over the manor grounds, a small selection of books placed on the nightstand that might appeal to a ten-year-old boy. The butler moved with practiced efficiency, transforming the sterile guest quarters into something that might provide comfort to a child whose world had just shattered.
Bruce had removed the cowl and upper armor but still wore the tactical pants and compression shirt of the Batsuit. Blood—some of it his own, some belonging to Deadshot—had dried in dark patches across the material. His hair was matted with sweat, his eyes hollow with exhaustion and something deeper. The night's failures weighed on him with physical force—Councilman Grogan dead, the Graysons murdered before his eyes, their son left orphaned just as he had been all those years ago.
"You should get some rest, sir," Alfred said without turning around, somehow sensing Bruce's presence despite his silent approach. "It's been a rather eventful evening."
"I need to keep looking for Deathstroke."
"Even Batman requires sleep, Master Bruce. Especially before taking on the responsibility of a traumatized child." Alfred adjusted a pillow with precise movements. "The boy will need stability, consistency—neither of which you can provide if you're operating on willpower and caffeine alone."
Bruce stepped into the room, his movements betraying the accumulated injuries of the night—the limp from a blow to his knee during the confrontation with Deadshot, the stiffness in his left shoulder where a bullet had grazed the armor plates, the careful way he held his torso to minimize the pain from bruised ribs.
"I'm not 'taking on' anything," he said, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears. "This is temporary protection, nothing more."
Alfred smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from the comforter, his movements precise despite the early hour. "Of course, sir. Merely a convenient safe house for a material witness. I'm sure that's exactly how young Master Richard will perceive the situation." He glanced up, meeting Bruce's gaze directly. "Children, in my experience, are remarkably adept at distinguishing between genuine commitment and provisional accommodation."
The sarcasm wasn't lost on Bruce, but he chose to ignore it. He moved to the antique desk in the corner, activating a small computer terminal concealed within its wooden facade. "I need to check with Gordon. See what arrangements have been made for the boy at Children's Services."
"Before you do," Alfred said, his tone shifting to something more serious, "perhaps we should discuss the practical implications of bringing a child into this household. The manor's security protocols will need adjustment. Areas of the house will require restricted access. Your nocturnal activities will demand more... creative explanations."
"I've already updated the cave's security systems," Bruce replied, fingers moving across the keyboard as he bypassed the usual startup protocols. "Biometric locks, separate access codes. As for explanations—" he paused, considering. "Bruce Wayne, playboy philanthropist, has taken a sudden interest in the welfare of a traumatized orphan. The tabloids will have a field day, but it's consistent enough with the public persona."
"And when young Master Richard asks why you return at dawn with injuries that conveniently match those sustained by Batman the previous evening?"
Bruce's typing paused. "That's unlikely to happen."
"Is it?" Alfred raised an eyebrow, abandoning his preparations to face Bruce fully. "The boy is observant, intelligent, and actively seeking to make sense of a world suddenly thrown into chaos. You don't think he'll notice the peculiarities of your schedule? The unexplained absences? The injuries you'll inevitably struggle to conceal given the proximity of shared living quarters?"
Bruce resumed typing, though with less certainty. "Gordon's working through the legal channels now. He'll bring the boy here this morning. We can assess the situation then."
"And what exactly do you intend to tell him? About why Gotham's most notorious bachelor playboy has suddenly decided to open his home to an orphaned circus performer?" Alfred crossed the room, standing beside the desk. "The press will be relentless. The board members will question your judgment. The socialites will manufacture a dozen unsavory explanations. Are you prepared for that level of scrutiny?"
Bruce activated the secured communication channel, the screen shifting to an encrypted interface that would connect directly to Gordon's private line. "They already scrutinize everything I do. This won't be any different."
"It will be entirely different," Alfred corrected. "Taking in a child—even temporarily—invites a level of public and private examination that goes beyond your usual philanthropic gestures. People will want to know why. They'll dig, they'll speculate, they'll watch both of you with unprecedented attention."
Bruce's jaw tightened, but he didn't dispute the assessment. After entering the necessary authentication codes, he turned away from the terminal, moving instead to the window. The eastern sky had lightened further, the approaching dawn illuminating the manor grounds that had been his childhood sanctuary and then his prison of grief after that night in Crime Alley.
"I'll tell him the truth," he said after a long moment. "Or part of it. That I understand what he's going through. That Wayne Manor can offer security while we find the man who killed his parents."
"We?" Alfred raised an eyebrow. "And how will Bruce Wayne explain his involvement in hunting assassins?"
"Bruce Wayne is funding Batman's investigation through the Wayne Foundation. The same arrangement we've established publicly for years."
Alfred finally turned to face his ward, his expression softening as he took in the full measure of Bruce's physical and emotional state. The butler had served the Wayne family for decades, witnessing Bruce's transformation from a traumatized child to a driven vigilante. He recognized the signs of Bruce pushing himself beyond reasonable limits—the tightness around his eyes, the rigid control in his posture, the deliberate nature of each movement, calculated to hide the extent of his injuries.
"Sir, I feel compelled to point out that there is a significant difference between maintaining a public fiction of being Batman's financial backer and actually bringing a child into your home while maintaining that fiction. The former requires occasional press statements and fundraising galas. The latter demands consistent, day-to-day deception under intense scrutiny."
"I've managed more complicated deceptions." Bruce turned back from the window, his expression hardening into the mask he wore even without the cowl—remote, controlled, revealing nothing of the turmoil beneath.
"Yes, with socialites who see what they expect to see and colleagues who have no reason to look deeper," Alfred countered. "This boy watched his parents die, Master Bruce. Such trauma creates a particular kind of awareness—as you well know. He will be observing everything around him, seeking patterns, explanations... anything to make sense of what happened."
The terminal chimed, indicating the secure connection had been established. Bruce moved to answer it, but Alfred placed a hand on his arm—a liberty few would dare take with the Dark Knight, but one earned through years of unwavering loyalty.
"Before you speak with the Commissioner," Alfred said quietly, "consider this: are you bringing this child into your home to protect him, or to assuage your own guilt over not saving his parents?"
Bruce stiffened, the question striking closer to home than he cared to admit. "That's not fair, Alfred."
"Perhaps not," the butler acknowledged. "But it is necessary. I watched you transform your own trauma into a crusade. I've supported that crusade despite my reservations because I believe in your mission. But this boy deserves more than to become collateral damage in your war on crime."
Bruce pulled away, turning back to the terminal where Gordon's encrypted identifier flashed on the screen. "I'll keep him at arm's length. Provide the protection he needs without involving him in... any of this." He gestured vaguely, encompassing not just the Batsuit he still wore but the larger reality of his double life.
"And if he seeks more than physical protection? If he looks to you not just for safety but for guidance? For understanding? For the kind of connection that only someone who has experienced similar trauma can provide?"
Bruce's jaw tightened. The risk was real. But so was the alternative—leaving Richard Grayson to the foster system, where Alberto Falcone's reach could easily extend.
"What would you have me do, Alfred? Leave him unprotected? Ship him off to a foster home where Deathstroke could find him in hours?" The frustration in his voice was edged with something rawer—genuine concern for a child who now stood where Bruce had once stood, on the precipice between crippling grief and something darker.
"Of course not." Alfred's tone held no reproach despite Bruce's sharp response. "I merely suggest you consider the full implications. This boy is not simply a witness to be protected. He is a child who has lost everything. His needs will extend far beyond physical security."
"I know that."
"Do you, sir?" Alfred stepped closer, his concern evident. "Because I remember another young boy who lost his parents to violence. Who required more than a secure roof and financial resources. Who needed patience, understanding, and yes, love—even when he did everything in his power to reject it."
Bruce turned away, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. Memories of his own grief after his parents' murders threatened to surface—the nightmares, the rage, the desperate need for someone to make sense of senseless tragedy.
"This is different," he said firmly, though whether he was trying to convince Alfred or himself remained unclear.
"Is it?" Alfred asked quietly. "Or are you seeing in him an opportunity to save what you couldn't save in yourself?"
The question hung in the air between them, unanswered because they both knew the truth. There was something in Richard Grayson that resonated with Bruce on a level he was reluctant to examine—a reflection of his own past that stirred protective instincts at odds with his carefully maintained emotional distance.
After another moment of weighted silence, Bruce turned back to the terminal, adjusting the voice modulator to ensure that even over the encrypted line, Gordon would hear Batman, not Bruce Wayne.
"Gordon." The gravelly tones of the Bat filled the room as the Commissioner's tired face appeared on the screen.
"Batman." Gordon looked exhausted, lines of strain etched deeper around his eyes than usual. The night had clearly been as long for him as it had for Bruce. "I was about to contact you. We've processed the Grayson boy through initial intake at Children's Services. He's not speaking much—shock, most likely—but physically he's unharmed."
"What security measures are in place?" Batman demanded, cutting straight to his primary concern.
Gordon ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "Standard protective custody protocol. One officer posted outside the interview room, building security monitoring the entrances. It's not Fort Knox, but it's the best we can do with current resources."
"Not good enough," Batman countered. "Deathstroke is still out there, and Alberto Falcone has resources throughout the city. If he learns the boy can identify his assassin—"
"I'm aware of the risks," Gordon interrupted, fatigue making him less deferential than usual. "But my hands are tied by procedure and budget constraints. Unless you have a better suggestion?"
Batman's gaze flickered briefly to Alfred, who stood silent witness to the exchange. "I do. Bruce Wayne has offered emergency fostering through the Wayne Foundation. His estate has security systems comparable to GCPD headquarters, and his resources can ensure the boy's safety until Deathstroke is apprehended."
Gordon's eyebrows rose visibly. "Wayne? The billionaire playboy? No offense to your benefactor, Batman, but is he really appropriate guardian material for a traumatized child?"
"Wayne has experience with trauma," Batman replied, his modulated voice betraying no hint of the irony. "He lost his own parents to violence at approximately the same age."
The Commissioner considered this, weighing the unorthodox proposal against the limited alternatives. "I'd need to run it by Child Services, get emergency approval from a judge... but given the circumstances, it might be workable. Wayne's influence could expedite the process."
"Make it happen," Batman instructed, his tone leaving no room for debate. "And increase patrols around Children's Services until the transfer is complete. I don't want any opportunities for Falcone's people to reach the boy."
Gordon nodded, professional mask firmly in place despite the unusual request. "I'll contact Wayne directly to formalize the arrangement. Assuming the paperwork goes through, we should be able to transfer custody by mid-morning."
"Keep me informed," Batman concluded, terminating the connection before Gordon could ask further questions.
As the screen went dark, Bruce slumped slightly, the facade of Batman's unwavering strength momentarily giving way to human exhaustion. Alfred observed the lapse without comment, years of experience having taught him when to speak and when silence served better.
After gathering himself, Bruce turned back to his butler and oldest confidant. "I need to notify Lucius. Have him expedite the legal paperwork through Wayne Foundation channels. The fewer obstacles Gordon faces, the sooner the boy will be secure."
Alfred nodded, accepting the return to practicalities. "I'll make the call. And I'll prepare the necessary changes to the manor's security protocols—subtle but effective. Motion sensors in the hallway outside the cave entrance, perhaps. Additional encryption on the study computer."
Bruce moved toward the door, his decision made. "He arrives in three hours. I need to shower and dress. Bruce Wayne needs to look like he slept last night."
Alfred nodded. "Very well, sir. I'll ensure the public rooms are prepared for scrutiny. Ms. Chen from Children's Services will likely insist on a tour before finalizing even temporary placement."
"Good thinking." Bruce paused at the doorway. "We should reschedule the Foundation board meeting and cancel my appearance at the charity auction tonight."
"A wise precaution," Alfred agreed. "Though perhaps not the most challenging aspect of this arrangement." He hesitated, then added, "If I may, sir—children respond to authenticity far more than perfection. Master Richard doesn't need you to be a flawless guardian. He needs you to be genuinely present."
The advice hung between them, loaded with meaning that extended far beyond the immediate situation. Bruce absorbed it silently, unwilling to engage with its deeper implications but unable to dismiss it entirely.
As Bruce reached the doorway, Alfred spoke again, his voice gentler. "For what it's worth, Master Bruce, I believe your parents would approve of this decision, despite my cautions. They never turned away someone in need."
Bruce paused but didn't turn. The invocation of Thomas and Martha Wayne was Alfred's most powerful tool—one he deployed rarely and with precision. The memory of his parents remained Bruce's moral compass, even after all these years.
"It's temporary, Alfred."
"Of course, sir." Alfred returned to his preparations, knowing better than to push further. "Purely temporary."