Wayne Manor, Afternoon
The massive oak doors of Wayne Manor swung open to reveal Alfred Pennyworth standing at perfect attention, his expression the practiced blend of professional decorum and genuine welcome that had greeted visitors to the Wayne estate for decades.
"Master Bruce," he greeted, then turned his attention to the small figure beside his employer. "And you must be Master Richard. Welcome to Wayne Manor. I am Alfred Pennyworth, the butler."
Dick looked up at the imposing facade of the manor, then at the equally imposing Englishman before him. "Um, hi," he managed. "It's just Dick, though. Nobody calls me Richard except when I'm in trouble."
A ghost of a smile touched Alfred's lips. "Very well, Master Dick. I've prepared lunch in the conservatory, if you're hungry after your journey."
Bruce placed a gentle hand on Dick's shoulder. "Alfred's been with the family since before I was born. He pretty much runs the place, so whatever he says goes."
Alfred's eyebrow rose a fraction. "How refreshing to hear you acknowledge that fact, sir. Perhaps you might consider actually following my advice more frequently?"
The gentle jab drew a surprised glance from Dick, who seemed equally startled by Bruce's soft chuckle in response. The dynamic between the two men was clearly more complex than master and servant, something closer to family despite the formal address.
"I'll take your bags to your room," Alfred continued, reaching for the small duffel that contained Dick's few belongings—mostly clothes donated by various officers at GCPD after the circus tragedy. "Lunch will be served in fifteen minutes, which should give Master Bruce time to show you the ground floor."
As Alfred disappeared up the grand staircase, Dick took in the foyer with wide eyes. Marble floors, soaring ceilings, antique furniture that probably cost more than the entire circus made in a year—it was like stepping into another world.
"It's a lot to take in," Bruce acknowledged, watching Dick's reaction. "This place felt like a museum to me when I first came back after years away."
Dick nodded, still looking around. "It's just... I grew up in a trailer. The biggest building I've ever lived in was the big top, and that came down every few weeks when we moved to a new city."
"It takes some getting used to," Bruce agreed. "Come on, I'll show you around a bit before lunch. The east wing has the music room, library, and study. The west wing has the dining room, kitchen, and conservatory."
As they walked, Bruce pointed out various rooms, keeping his commentary brief and giving Dick space to process. The boy remained mostly silent, asking occasional questions but largely absorbed in taking in his new surroundings.
They reached a long hallway lined with portraits—generations of Waynes staring down from ornate frames. Bruce slowed as they approached one particular painting, showing a handsome couple with a young boy between them. The man stood tall and confident, the woman elegant and kind-eyed, the boy—perhaps eight or nine—smiling with unguarded happiness.
"My parents," Bruce said quietly. "Thomas and Martha Wayne. This was painted about a year before they died."
Dick studied the portrait carefully. "You look happy."
"I was," Bruce confirmed. "They were... extraordinary people. Brilliant, kind, dedicated to making Gotham better in ways that went far beyond charity galas and tax-deductible donations. My father was a doctor who insisted on working shifts at the free clinic in the Narrows. My mother established literacy programs in Gotham's worst neighborhoods."
"What happened to them?" Dick asked, though Gordon had already told him the basic facts. Something in his expression suggested he needed to hear it from Bruce himself.
Bruce's gaze remained fixed on the portrait. "We were leaving a movie theater in Park Row—an area now known as Crime Alley. A mugger stepped out of the shadows, demanded my mother's pearls, my father's wallet. When my father tried to reason with him..." He paused, the memory still vivid despite the decades that had passed. "Two shots. My father first, then my mother. They died instantly."
Dick absorbed this in silence. Then, hesitantly: "Did they ever catch him? The mugger?"
"No." The single word carried years of frustration and unresolved grief. "The case officially remains open, but after all this time..." Bruce shook his head. "It's part of why I fund Batman's operations. To try to ensure that other families get the justice mine never did."
The connection between their experiences hung in the air, unspoken but palpable. After a moment, Dick asked in a small voice, "Do you think Batman will catch Deathstroke?"
Bruce turned from the portrait to look directly at Dick. "I know he will. However long it takes."
The certainty in his voice seemed to comfort Dick, who nodded once, accepting the assurance.
"Now," Bruce said, deliberately lightening his tone, "we should head to the conservatory before Alfred comes looking for us. Trust me, you don't want to keep him waiting when food is involved."
The conservatory proved to be a glass-enclosed room filled with plants and natural light, offering views of the manor's expansive gardens. A small table had been set for lunch, the fare simple but appealing—sandwiches, fruit, and what appeared to be homemade potato chips.
"Alfred figured you might prefer something familiar for your first meal here," Bruce explained as they took their seats. "Though he's capable of producing pretty much anything you might want."
Dick picked up half a sandwich, studying it before taking a tentative bite. "It's good," he said, sounding almost surprised. "My mom used to..." He trailed off, the memory clearly painful.
"Used to what?" Bruce asked gently.
Dick swallowed hard. "She used to cut the crusts off. Said they were a waste of good bread. My dad always teased her about it." His eyes grew distant. "They used to tease each other all the time. Little jokes that didn't make sense to anyone else. Inside jokes, I guess."
"You miss them," Bruce said simply. Not a question, just acknowledgment.
Dick nodded, blinking rapidly. "It doesn't feel real yet. Like they're just... somewhere else. On tour without me or something." He set down the sandwich, appetite apparently gone. "I keep thinking I'll hear my dad calling me 'little Robin' again."
"Robin?" Bruce asked.
A faint smile touched Dick's lips for the first time since his arrival. "My mom gave me that nickname when I was really little. Said I reminded her of a robin when I was learning to fly on the trapeze—small and bright and always ready to take wing." The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. "She'd call me her 'little Robin' before every performance. For luck."
Bruce nodded, understanding the weight such memories carried. "These things... the nicknames, the traditions, the little moments that seemed ordinary at the time... they become precious afterward. Anchors to who they were. Who you were with them."
Dick looked up, a flicker of surprise in his expression. "Yeah. Exactly." He studied Bruce with renewed interest. "Most people just say stuff like 'they're in a better place' or 'time heals all wounds.' That's garbage."
"Complete garbage," Bruce agreed, his tone so matter-of-fact that it startled a brief, genuine laugh from Dick. "Time doesn't heal wounds like ours. It just teaches us to carry them differently."
Alfred entered with a pitcher of lemonade, his timing impeccable as always. "Refreshments, sirs. And perhaps Master Dick would like to see his room after lunch? I've taken the liberty of unpacking his things."
"Thanks, Alfred," Dick said, the formality of "Master" still clearly uncomfortable but the gratitude genuine. He turned back to Bruce. "So what happens now? With the investigation, I mean?"
Bruce sipped his lemonade, considering how much to share. "Batman is tracking Deathstroke and the other assassins Deadshot mentioned. The challenge is that they're professionals—they know how to disappear between contracts."
"Deadshot? That's the guy who killed Councilman Grogan?"
Bruce nodded, impressed by the boy's recall. The details had only been mentioned briefly during the discussions at Child Services.
"Seven assassins total," Bruce continued, keeping his explanation at a level that balanced honesty with age-appropriateness. "Each with a specific target connected to the case against Carmine Falcone. A week-long campaign designed to systematically dismantle the prosecution's case."
Dick's eyes narrowed slightly. "And my dad was the first target? Because of what he knew about... Project Rebirth, Gordon called it?"
Again, Bruce was struck by the boy's sharp recall and ability to connect information. "Yes. Your father had evidence of unauthorized experiments—evidence that could implicate both the Falcones and a high-ranking government official named Alexander Pierce."
Dick pushed his plate away, his expression hardening into something that looked disconcertingly adult on his young face. "I want to help find him. Deathstroke. I saw him, I could identify him."
"You already have helped by providing that description," Bruce said carefully. "But Deathstroke is one of the most dangerous men in the world, Dick. Even Batman approaches him with extreme caution."
"I'm not afraid."
"That's precisely what concerns me," Bruce replied evenly. "Fear, in the right measure, keeps us alive. It sharpens our senses, heightens our awareness." He leaned forward slightly. "The man who killed your parents isn't just physically dangerous—he's methodical, calculating. He's been doing this for years, and he's still free because he's careful."
Dick absorbed this, his expression suggesting he was filing the information away rather than accepting defeat. "Fine. But I still want updates. Real ones. No sugarcoating."
Bruce considered the request. The boy had already witnessed horrors most adults never experienced. Sheltering him from the reality of the investigation seemed both futile and potentially counterproductive.
"You'll get updates," he agreed. "Though there may be details I withhold—not to protect you from the truth, but to protect you physically. Some information could put you in additional danger if you had it."
This compromise seemed to satisfy Dick, who nodded once before pushing back from the table. "Can I see my room now? I'm kind of tired."
"Of course," Bruce said, recognizing the emotional exhaustion beneath the simple request. "Alfred will show you the way. I need to make a few calls regarding the Foundation's legal work on your temporary guardianship."
As Alfred led Dick from the conservatory, Bruce watched them go, struck by how small the boy looked beneath the manor's soaring ceilings. The weight of what he'd just taken on—responsibility for a traumatized child with a dangerous assassin potentially still targeting him—settled on Bruce's shoulders.
But beneath that weight was another feeling, one he hadn't anticipated: a sense of rightness. As if, perhaps, this was exactly where Dick Grayson needed to be. Where they both needed to be.
Bruce pushed the thought aside. This was temporary protection, nothing more. The boy needed security, and Wayne Manor could provide it. Anything beyond that was complication neither of them needed.
With that firm reminder, Bruce headed toward his study. Batman had work to do.
—
The East Wing Guest Room, Late Afternoon
Dick Grayson stood at the window of his new room, watching rain streak the glass in patterns that reminded him of tear tracks. The room was bigger than the entire trailer his family had lived in—with a four-poster bed, antique furniture, and its own attached bathroom—but it felt confining in ways he couldn't articulate.
He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, trying to sort through the chaos in his mind. It had been just over twenty-four hours since his parents fell. Twenty-four hours since his entire world had ended. And now here he was, in a billionaire's mansion, surrounded by luxury and safety that felt like a bizarre dream compared to the nightmare of last night.
A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
"Come in," he called, turning from the window.
Alfred entered, carrying a tray with a mug of something steaming. "I thought perhaps some hot chocolate might be welcome on such a dreary afternoon," he said, setting the tray on the bedside table. "My own recipe. I used to make it for Master Bruce when he had trouble sleeping."
Dick approached the tray, eyeing the mug cautiously. "Thanks," he said, picking it up and taking a small sip. The rich chocolate flavor was nothing like the powdered mix his mom would make on cold nights at the circus. This was deeper, more complex, with hints of something spicy he couldn't identify.
"Cinnamon and a touch of cayenne," Alfred explained, noting his expression. "An old family recipe."
Dick took another sip, finding comfort in the warmth if not entirely in the unfamiliar taste. "It's good."
Alfred nodded, accepting the lukewarm praise with grace. "Is the room to your liking? I can make adjustments if you prefer different accommodations."
Dick glanced around at the opulent furnishings. "It's fine. Just... big."
"The manor takes some getting used to," Alfred acknowledged. "When Master Bruce first returned after his years abroad, he actually slept on the floor of his bedroom for several nights. Said the bed felt too soft after sleeping on temple stones."
This unexpected detail about his mysterious host caught Dick's attention. "Temple stones? Where was he?"
Alfred's expression suggested he might have revealed more than intended. "Master Bruce traveled extensively after university. Seeking... perspective, I suppose you might say. Some of that time was spent in monasteries in Tibet and other remote locations."
"Huh." Dick filed this information away, adding it to his growing mental dossier on Bruce Wayne. The man was proving more complex than the tabloid playboy he'd vaguely heard about even in the insulated world of the circus. "He seems to understand. About losing parents, I mean. Not just saying he does, but actually getting it."
"Yes," Alfred agreed quietly. "I'm afraid he understands that particular pain all too well." He straightened, his posture returning to its more formal bearing. "Master Bruce asked me to inform you that he's been called to an unexpected meeting in the city. He apologizes for his absence and promises to return before dinner."
Dick nodded, unsurprised. Billionaires probably had important meetings all the time. "That's fine. I kind of want to be alone anyway."
"Of course." Alfred moved toward the door, then paused. "If I may make a suggestion, Master Dick? The library is just down the hall to your left. Books have a way of providing company without demands, when solitude becomes too heavy."
With a small nod of acknowledgment, Alfred departed, leaving Dick alone with his thoughts once more. For several minutes, he remained by the window, watching the rain intensify as afternoon edged toward evening. The hot chocolate cooled in his hands, forgotten.
Eventually, restlessness drove him from the room. The manor's silent hallways felt oppressive, too large and too empty simultaneously. He wandered aimlessly at first, then remembered Alfred's suggestion about the library.
The room, when he found it, was like something from a movie set—two stories of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, with rolling ladders to reach the highest volumes. A massive fireplace dominated one wall, while comfortable leather chairs created reading nooks throughout the space.
Dick moved along the shelves, trailing his fingers over leather-bound spines that probably cost more than most of the books he'd ever owned combined. He'd always been a reader—one of the few circus kids who'd actually enjoyed the homeschool lessons his mom had insisted on between performances. Books had been his window into worlds beyond the circus, a way to understand the places they visited beyond the limited view from the fairgrounds.
His attention caught on a volume about birds of prey, and he pulled it from the shelf almost without thinking. The heavy book contained detailed illustrations of hawks, falcons, and—he flipped to the appropriate section—robins. The small red-breasted birds looked nothing like acrobats, but he understood why his mother had seen the connection. There was a freedom in their movement, a joy in their flight that resonated with his own experience on the trapeze.
"I thought I might find you here."
The voice startled him badly. Dick whirled, the book clutched to his chest like a shield, to find Bruce standing in the doorway. He hadn't heard the man approach—something that unnerved him given his usually acute awareness of his surroundings, a necessity when living in close quarters with giant elephants and temperamental tigers.
"Sorry," Bruce said, noting his reaction. "Didn't mean to startle you. Alfred mentioned he'd suggested the library."
Dick relaxed slightly, annoyed at himself for being caught off guard. "I thought you had a meeting in the city."
"It ended early," Bruce replied, stepping into the room. He nodded toward the book in Dick's hands. "Birds?"
Dick looked down at the volume, suddenly self-conscious. "Yeah. My mom—the robin thing, you know."
Bruce nodded, understanding without need for further explanation. "I used to spend hours in here after my parents died. Books don't ask how you're feeling or tell you everything will be okay. They just... are."
"Exactly." Dick set the book on a nearby table, studying his host with renewed interest. "Alfred said you traveled a lot. After college."
A flicker of something—surprise? caution?—crossed Bruce's face before his expression settled back into neutral territory. "I did. Almost seven years. Asia, Europe, South America... I was looking for something, though I'm not sure I could have articulated what at the time."
"Did you find it?"
The question hung in the air between them, weighted with meaning beyond the simple words. Bruce seemed to consider his answer carefully.
"I found a purpose," he said finally. "A way to channel grief into something productive. It's not the same as healing, but it's... functional."
Dick nodded, understanding this distinction better than most ten-year-olds should. "I keep thinking about him. Deathstroke. His eye, the way he looked at me after..." He swallowed hard. "I can still see him watching, not surprised, not upset. Just... satisfied. Like he'd just finished a job, not destroyed a family."
Bruce moved closer, his expression grave. "Professional killers compartmentalize. They see people as targets, not human beings with families and dreams. It's how they function."
"I don't want him to just get away with it," Dick said, his voice hardening. "I don't want my parents to be just another 'job' he completed."
"They won't be," Bruce assured him, his tone carrying absolute conviction. "Batman will find him, Dick. And Deathstroke will face justice for what he did."
Dick studied Bruce's face, searching for any sign of patronizing reassurance or empty promises. Finding none, he nodded once. "Good."
"Now," Bruce said, deliberately shifting to a lighter tone, "Alfred informs me that dinner will be served in an hour. Any requests? He's prepared to make anything you might be in the mood for."
The unexpected normality of the question caught Dick off guard. "I... I don't know. I'm not really hungry."
"You should eat something," Bruce said, not unkindly. "Even if you don't feel like it. Maintaining physical strength is important, especially when emotional reserves are depleted."
The practical approach—so different from the hovering concern of the social workers—was somehow easier to accept. Dick shrugged. "I guess pizza would be okay. If that's not too much trouble."
"Alfred makes an excellent pizza from scratch," Bruce assured him. "Though he insists on calling it 'flatbread with tomato reduction and aged dairy' to maintain his culinary dignity."
The absurdity of this drew a small, surprised laugh from Dick—his second in as many hours, which felt like some kind of record given the circumstances. "Seriously?"
"Alfred takes his culinary terminology very seriously," Bruce confirmed with mock solemnity. "I once made the mistake of calling his coq au vin 'fancy chicken stew' and was subjected to a fifteen-minute lecture on the historical significance of French braising techniques."
This ordinary moment of humor, so unexpected amid the surrounding tragedy, created a brief bubble of normalcy that Dick hadn't realized he desperately needed. The smile faded quickly, but something in him felt marginally lighter afterward.
"Pizza sounds good," he said. "Thanks."
Bruce nodded, understanding the gratitude extended beyond dinner preferences. "I'll let Alfred know. In the meantime, feel free to explore the library. The east wing is entirely at your disposal."
As Bruce turned to leave, Dick called after him. "Mr. Wayne?" When Bruce paused, Dick continued, "Are you going to look for Deathstroke tonight? I mean, not you personally, but... through Batman?"
Bruce studied him for a moment before answering. "Batman patrols every night. And yes, finding Deathstroke is his top priority right now."
Dick nodded, satisfied with this answer even as he filed away the careful phrasing for future consideration. There was something in the way Bruce spoke about Batman—a directness that suggested more than just financial support—that piqued his curiosity.
"I'll see you at dinner," Bruce said, ending the conversation before Dick could pursue that line of thought further.
After he'd gone, Dick returned to the book about birds, but his mind was elsewhere—piecing together the puzzle that was Bruce Wayne and the situation he now found himself in. Something wasn't quite adding up, but he couldn't put his finger on what.
With a sigh, he set the book aside and moved to the window, watching as darkness began to settle over the manor grounds. Somewhere out there, the man who killed his parents was preparing for his next target. The thought made his stomach clench with a mixture of fear and rage.
He hoped Batman found Deathstroke soon. Because if he didn't, Dick wasn't sure how long he could just sit safely in this mansion, waiting for justice that might never come.