Chapter Text
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DAY 0: A Murder
Dick's world ends with the snap of a rope.
Strong arms wrestle him to the ground.
“Don’t look. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Just don’t look.”
Dick looks.
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DAY 1: An Orphan
“Can I help you, sir?” The young woman at the front desk smiles warmly, apparently unaffected by the chaotic bustle of the police station behind her.
Alfred smiles back and leans heavily on his cane- appearing like a harmless old man can only help in this situation. “I’d like to speak with Richard Grayson, please. I was told he’s being held here until his social worker arrives.”
“Grayson?” Her smile melts away, eyes going a little cold. “May I see your press pass?”
That’s… unsettling. “I’m not a reporter. I’m a representative from the Wayne Foundation. We like to check up on children about to be put into the system,” he explains.
“Oh, I see.” The woman’s frosty exterior melts a little. “Let me ring Detective Gordon, he’s the lead on this case. And I’ll need your ID to print a visitor pass,” she adds, extending one perfectly manicured hand.
Alfred gives her what she needs and takes a seat, carefully ignoring the dark deja vu surrounding the whole situation. He knows that the Batman is probably crawling through Gotham's underbelly as he sits here and he hopes that Bruce isn’t taking out the no doubt open wound of his own loss on some unsuspecting dropheads.
“Mister Pennyworth?”
Alfred looks up to find a weary Jim Gordon leaning against the lobby doorway.
"Yes. Hello, Detective." Alfred rises to shake the man’s hand. "Mister Wayne has expressed an interest in Richard Grayson’s welfare. I was hoping I could speak with the boy.”
Gordon smiles the sad smile of the truly desperate. "You can try but he’s not being very responsive right now. Not that I blame him, the poor kid.”
“Indeed. Do you have any details on what’s going to happen next?” Alfred follows Gordon through the winding halls of the precinct, eyes scanning the surroundings with interest.
Once they’re safely tucked into an elevator, Gordon seems to deflate a little. “It's not great. He doesn't have any living relatives outside of a Bulgarian prison and nobody from the circus has any legal right to take custody of the boy. And even if they did, we're… worried for his safety. He's the only eye witness to an apparent double homicide, he needs to be under witness protection for the time being."
Alfred nods to show he's listening but Gordon seems lost in thought.
"Which means we have to find somewhere that has the adequate security measures and is a qualified foster home. Plus," he adds, rubbing a hand over his face, "he's not a U.S. citizen. We don't have any paperwork. No passport, no visa, no documents of any kind."
Alfred frowns. "What's that mean?"
"It means he won't be leaving Gotham any time soon,” he explains, clearly aching for the boy. “He’s almost my daughter’s age. I can’t even begin to imagine her alone like this.”
The elevator dings. Alfred gestures for Gordon to go first. "What's the next step? Mister Wayne has offered to pay any legal fees or housing costs that may arise, if that helps."
Gordon grimaces. “I don't think this is the type of problem that you can throw money at. Not that it isn't very generous of Mister Wayne to offer, of course," he tacks on, nervous the way people always are when they're worried they might have offended one of the Waynes.
"He's particularly invested in Mister Grayson's case, as I'm sure you can imagine," Alfred says, hopefully putting the man at ease. "We'll help in any way that we can."
They come to a stop in front of a nondescript door. "Well, he's in here. We're monitoring audio and visual for his safety but he hasn’t said a word since we brought him in. He hasn't had anything to eat or drink either. If you can persuade him, it'd be much appreciated."
Alfred nods and Gordon nods back, visibly replacing his worried expression with something more neutral before opening the door.
Inside, a young man is seated on a low couch. An unopened bottle of apple juice and bag of pretzels sit in front of him. He's wearing a gymnastics uniform, bright reds and greens at odds with the neutral tones of the room, with a scratchy blanket pooled around his waist like someone tried to drape it over his shoulders and he hasn't bothered to hang on. His face doesn't look like he's been crying. Instead, he has the slack jawed look of someone in shock, eyes staring forward dully even as two unfamiliar adults enter the room
"Richard?" Gordon pitches his voice soft. "Richard, this is Mister Pennyworth. He'd like to speak with you for a while."
No reaction.
"Richard, do you mind if he stays?"
A slight shake of the head.
"Alright. Just yell or stick your head into the hallway if you need anything, okay?"
Nothing.
Both Alfred and Gordon wait a beat before the detective sighs and lets himself out.
"Richard, my name is Alfred Pennyworth. I'm the personal butler to Mister Bruce Wayne. Do you know who that is?" He asks, careful to keep his tone of voice the same as he would if he were talking to an adult.
When Richard still doesn't respond, Alfred crouches so that he's eye level with the boy, ignoring the brutal flair of pain in his bad knee. "Richard, my employer is a very wealthy man. He sent me to offer his financial assistance. Do you know what that means?" A blink, a stuttered nod. Progress. "Alright. He's asked for your permission to buy your parents' trailer and gear from Mister Haly. We can keep it safe in a warehouse until you're settled enough to retake possession of your property. Is that acceptable?'
Of course, Bruce offered no such thing. He was far too busy suiting up to chase down a guilty culprit to think of such practical matters. But it's obvious in the wobble of Richard's lip that he's desperate for this piece of structure that Alfred is offering.
And then, finally, the boy speaks. “Yes. Yes, please. I- I want our stuff."
His voice is scratchy, either from crying or from his twelve hour silence, and he sounds impossibly young. His accent is implacable, no doubt the product of a life spent traveling the globe. His tone is… blank.
Alfred nods seriously. "Of course. I'll see to it personally."
"How will I get it back?" Richard asks, blinking dull eyes once, twice as if trying to center himself.
Hm. Good point, Alfred supposes- if one is unfamiliar with the intricacies of contacting a reclusive billionaire's butler.
He tugs his wallet out of his waistcoat and fishes out a business card. "You can contact me at either of those numbers, that email, or that PO box. Is that sufficient?"
Quicker than his eye can track, a tiny hand snags the business card, tucking it into the sleeve of his leotard.
Before Alfred can think of anything else to say, the door bursts open to reveal a frazzled looking woman in crumpled business wear. She's got one of those suitcase sized purses slung over her shoulder and an armful of paperwork clutched to her chest.
"Richard?" She asks, looking nervously towards Alfred before she plasters on a brittle smile and narrows in on the boy. "Richard Grayson?"
Any progress that Alfred has made flies out the window. Panicked eyes dart to him in clear distress.
Well, he knows that look.
He pushes himself to his feet and smiles. "Hello, Miss…?"
"Miss Lopez," the woman answers, shifting her heavy load.
Alfred gestures for her to have a seat at the table. "Miss Lopez. I'm Alfred Pennyworth, from the Wayne Foundation. Am I correct in assuming you're from social services?" He asks, pulling out a seat for her.
"Oh. From the- That is, yes. I'm, uh, I'm Richard's case worker." The boy visibly twitches and she redirects her attention. "Hello, Richard. Are you al- um, How are you feeling?"
Alfred almost winces but, instead of withdrawing again or lashing out, Richard does something much, much more distressing.
Right in front of Alfred, the boy transforms into someone totally different. His posture shifts, from despondent slackness to a sort of tense hunch, making him look far younger and in much more distress. His expression loses the blankness of shock as his bottom lip wobbles and his eyes well up with big, fat tears.
“I wanna go home,” he cries out. “Please, I just wanna go home!”
Miss Lopez gasps and rushes forward, pulling tissues out of her bag and dabbing at the tears that are pouring down the kid’s face. She starts asking him questions, about relatives and family friends, and Richard answers in blubbers, all about ‘Pop Haly’ and dead grandparents and-
And all Alfred can think about is the fact that Richard’s accent, previously vaguely European, is now distinctly Latino influenced… Just like Miss Lopez’s, who is holding the boy against her side and whispering in rapid fire Spanish that Richard responds to in kind.
That’s… something.
Alfred waits a minute but when it’s obvious that he’s no longer needed, he excuses himself without further comment.
He has to renew his foster care license, after all, and the sooner the better.
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DAY 2: A Nice Place
Miss Lopez is nice enough, Dick decides.
Much more importantly, however, she’s embarrassingly easy to read. After an hour in her company, Dick has already identified all of her tells and soft spots and exploits them mercilessly. He’d feel bad, normally, but he’s had a bad few days, so. Oh well.
He speaks to her in Spanish (Mama always says nobody can resist their mother tongue) and whimpers but doesn’t cry (she sighed in annoyance the one time he really cried) and, most importantly, he refuses to eat.
“Come on, Richard, have a bite,” she all but begs, looking over her shoulder where he’s holding a bag of fast food in the backseat.
He pouts. “I don’t feel good.”
“You have to eat, mijo,” she says gently. “Just one nugget?”
Dick shakes his head. “I miss my mama’s food,” he whimpers. (Mama isn't much of a cook but that’s not what this is about.)
The social worker sighs in defeat and throws the car into park outside of a nice looking house on a nice looking street, with nice cars in the driveway and nice flowers in the garden.
“Well, we’re here. What do you think?” She asks, unbuckling her seatbelt.
He hates it. “It looks… nice,” he says, making his tone cautiously optimistic.
(Mama always says that people love an optimist.)
“That’s the spirit,” Miss Lopez encourages and helps him out of the car.
She’s still carrying her stupidly big bag, overflowing with prepackaged snacks and baby toys, and Dick wonders if she has anything actually useful in there. All he has with him is a plastic bag with his leotard and his beam shoes in it and that’s not going to be very helpful for his plans later.
It doesn’t matter, Dick thinks as he follows Miss Lopez up the driveway to the front door. I won’t be here long.
Miss Lopez rings the doorbell and he breathes.
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DAY 3: A Bed
Dick gives himself one day.
One day where he lays in the bed and stares at the ceiling, willing the tears to come.
He’s able to make himself fake cry, when Ashley comes to check on him. She seems to expect it, after all.
But when it’s just him, all he feels is hate.
So, he decides to focus his energy towards something better, like tracking down and murdering Tony Zucco.
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DAY 4: A Broken Mirror
Dick’s ‘foster mom’ is a nice lady. She has a pretty smile and wears soft sweaters and flowery perfume.
She’s also kinda stupid.
“I’m sorry I broke it,” Dick wails, tears springing easily to his eyes. “I didn’t mean it!”
Ashley pats his back consolingly. “Don’t cry, Richard, it was just an accident.”
“Please don’t kick me out!” He continues sobbing.
He’s seated on his bedroom floor, surrounded by shattered glass that used to be a mirror. Ashley is hovering over him, trying to figure out the best way to get the barefoot child out of the disaster zone so that she can clean up the mess.
She doesn’t notice the missing shard, of course, or the duct tape and screwdriver he liberates from the junk drawer.
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DAY 5: A Cellmate
According to the public records that Dick can access from Ashley’s tablet (Papa always says access to the internet is the first thing you should establish at a new camp), Tony Zucco had a cellmate the last time he was incarcerated.
So Dick runs a quick search and pulls up the man’s court records and, from there, his address. Then he finds a grainy selfie of the two men on Facebook. They’re drinking out of a brown bag on a fire escape and from the images Dick can find on Google Earth, it’s the same building listed on his parole paperwork.
It looks like a shitty part of town but Dick isn’t dissuaded.
He doesn’t have anything to lose.
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DAY 6: A Funeral
Miss Lopez picks Dick up for his parents’ funeral with a pair of black pants and a gray dress shirt in a shopping bag, tags still attached.
She got the pants on sale, he notes dully.
He's told that Mister Haly is paying for the funeral.
He wonders if he used the money he got from Mister Pennyworth’s boss for selling the Grayson’s trailer.
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DAY 7: A Bike
The next night, Dick sneaks out of the bedroom window of Ashley’s nice house, steals the neighbor’s nice bike, and pedals halfway across Gotham before he’s picked up by a tired looking cop.
“You really scared your foster mom, kid,” the man says, trying to fit the stolen bike into the back of his cruiser.
Dick very carefully doesn’t fidget with the makeshift knife in his sleeve even though the broken glass is starting to bite into his skin. (Papa always says that an athlete needs to know the difference between constructive pain and destructive pain.)
“I’m sorry, sir,” he wails. “I just wanted to visit Mama and Papa’s grave.”
The cop might as well melt into a pile of mush. “Aw, geez, kid. Hey, wanna get some ice cream on the way back? I’ll let you ride in the front and everything.”
“Okay,” Dick agrees tearfully.
Amatuer.
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DAY 8: A Shithole
“Miss Ashley is worried that you don’t feel safe at her home anymore,” Miss Lopez explains.
(She’s lying. Mama taught him how to see lies years ago.)
Dick plays along anyways. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make her mad.”
(He doesn’t care.)
“It’s okay, Richard, no one is mad.” She smiles weakly. “We’re just going to try a different home. They have another boy your age, won’t that be fun?”
It turns out that the other home is a total shithole that smells like cat piss. Dick’s ‘foster brother’ is an angry thirteen year old who smells like cigarette smoke.
That’s fine, though. It’ll be way easier to break out of a bedroom where the locks already don’t work and it’s only a few blocks from the apartment building.
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DAY 9: A Good Samaritan
The first night at his second foster home, he only makes it a block when he sneaks out.
There’s a girl crying, a boy yelling-
Dick chases the teenager off with his improvised knife and helps the girl up, not commenting on the way she’s scratching at her pockmarked skin.
“Thanks, squirt,” she says. “Do you… need help? Can I call your parents or something?”
Dick goes back to the foster house, sneaks back in through the window, and cries into his pillow until his ‘foster brother’ throws a book at him.
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DAY 10: An Apartment
Dick makes it to the apartment building the next night but the lobby door is locked and there’s no doorman for Dick to sniffle at pathetically.
He could try climbing -he’s climbed that high before- but he doesn’t have the right shoes for it, just the slippery soled sneakers that Miss Lopez gave him. He doubts he’d make it even halfway before slipping and splattering against the filthy sidewalk.
(Papa always says to never start a trick you can’t finish.)
(Papa always says a falling gymnast is a failed gymnast.)
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DAY 11: A Phone Call
Bruce has spent every night since the Graysons were murdered chasing down Tony Zucco.
He's made zero progress and he's so disgusted with himself, he can hardly choke down the nutrition shake that Alfred threatened to waterboard him with.
As far as Bruce can tell, he just… disappeared.
Regardless, Batman is going to stop him. It's the least that Bruce can do for Richard Grayson. Another orphan that Gotham wants to chew up and spit out, until he's so broken that he's nothing but an empty shell.
So.
"Tell me what you know," Batman growls, quiet in the way criminals seem to find so unnerving.
They're a loud bunch, criminals.
Said criminal, a moron who was Zucco's cellmate a few years ago, whimpers and thrashes. "I don't know, man! Please just let me go! I don't know anything!“
"You're lying," Batman hisses in anger and punches him again, smirking when the man's nose gives way with a crack.
The whimpering tapers off until it's just blubbering and then nothing but unconscious breathing. Batman drops him with a sigh, stopping only to zip tie his hands to his apartment radiator.
What a waste of his time-
Creak.
Batman freezes, melting into the shadows out of instinct more than any sort of training. He peeks around the corner, ready for- for…
For anything but that.
Crawling in through the seventh story apartment window is a young Richard Grayson, dark jeans and black hoodie the only thing separating him from the glittering Gotham backdrop of flickering street lamps and red and blue sirens. He pads across the creaky floor on silent feet and stops only when he sees the unconscious resident.
The boy mutters something in an unfamiliar language but it's clearly a swear.
Bruce, never one to waste a dramatic entrance, steps forward a foot. "It's a little late to be out of bed, Richard Grayson," he whispers, voice still as loud as a gunshot in the silence.
"Câcat!" To his credit, when the kid jumps three feet in the air, he lands without a sound. Even more impressively, he doesn't have any other reaction besides for dropping a hand almost imperceptibly into his pocket- a weapon? "Holy fuck. You're Batman."
He cocks his head to the side, trying to get a clearer shot with his contacts. "Yes. How’d you scale seven flights of an exposed building?”
"I’m good at climbing,” the boy says dismissively. “You know my name. Why?" Chin tilted back, eyes a bright splash of anger in the dark- Richard is more confident in this moment than Bruce Wayne has ever been in his entire life.
Instead of answering, Batman nudges the man between them with his boot. "I know it's not a coincidence that you're here. What was your plan?" He's burning with curiosity.
"I- I was going to make him tell me where Tony Zucco is. I know he killed my parents and the last person he associated with was this piece of shit." Richard sounds angry. Fascinating. "What'd you do? He’s not dead, is he?"
"I don't kill people, Richard."
"Stop saying my fucking name unless you tell me how you know it."
Bold.
"Your face has been in the news a lot lately. I've been trying to solve your case."
The kid seems to crumple. "...why? The police obviously don't give a shit."
"That's not true. It's not exactly police procedure to discuss the details of a double homicide with the couple’s orphaned eleven year old." Bruce almost winces -that wasn't good socializing- but Batman doesn't care about those types of things so, for now, neither does Bruce.
Richard doesn't seem to care either. "First I'm going to catch him and then I'm going to kill him. And if you think anything is going to stop me, you're not as smart as they say," he spits out.
Bruce almost laughs, if only in disbelief. Who is this kid?
Instead, he pages Gordon with the address. There's usually an officer patrolling this block. "Listen, kid-"
"Dick."
"Excuse me?"
"My name." God, Bruce feels like he's looking in a mirror. For all that the boy doesn't look anything like an eleven year old Bruce Wayne, that burning rage is achingly familiar. "Nobody in this stupid fucking city might care about me, but I have a name and it's not Richard," he spits like a swear. "It's Dick. Dick Grayson."
Batman is already mentally counting down the time until an officer bursts through the door. "Alright. It's nice to meet you, Dick Grayson. Now, you should probably call someone who can vouch for you at the police station before the officer downstairs takes you in."
"Damn it. So you’re a snitch, huh?" Dick's eyes narrow but it’s more in disbelief than anger, if Bruce is reading him right.
Batman doesn't care about that. "I'm not the one who's broken out of two different foster homes four times in one week. Seven flights."
"Fine, fine, fine." Dick strides closer, apparently without fear. "Let me borrow your phone."
"...what?"
Dick makes grabby hands. "Your phone. I'm an orphan, dumbass, I don't exactly have the latest iPhone."
"....right. Six flights." Bruce frees his burner from its pouch and offers it, awkwardly ignoring the way Dick's hands look dangerously small against Batman's thick black gloves.
Without looking at him, Dick pulls a crumpled up business card from his pocket with one hand and dials the flip phone with the other, letting it ring out on speaker.
Ring. Ring. Five flights. Ring.
"-ello? What's wrong?" Alfred's voice, tinny with panic and bad reception, almost knocks Bruce on his ass.
Before he can say anything, however, Dick answers in a much different voice than he’d been using a moment ago. Where his accent had been somewhere between Russian and Turkish up until now, it flips without delay into something distinctly more western European. His tone is softer, too, with a hint of a scared quiver at the ends of his words that transform the boy standing in front of him from an angry runaway to a scared kid looking for help.
Interesting.
"Mister Pennyworth? It's Richard. Richard Grayson. From… the police station? You gave me your card and said to call if I needed anything?"
Silence.
Four flights.
"Yes, I remember you, Richard. Are you alright?" Alfred asks hesitantly, confusion slowly replacing the panic. "Whose phone is this? May I speak with him?"
Bruce clears his throat. He feels weirdly self-conscious of speaking in his ‘Batman’ voice, which he suddenly realizes Alfred has never heard before. "This is Batman. Be at precinct 712 in approximately two hours," he instructs as professionally as he can.
Three flights.
"Of course. Thank you for the assistance, Batman," is the only somewhat sarcastic response.
Dick glares at Batman and Bruce doesn't even know why this time. "Thank you, Mister Pennyworth. I'm sorry to be a bother."
"You're no bother," Alfred assures him, which obviously isn't true since it's nearly midnight. "I'll see you soon."
The phone clicks.
Two flights.
"Ask for Detective Gordon."
"What?" Dick offers back the phone.
Batman double checks the criminal's zip ties. "Detective Gordon. He's the lead on your case. Ask for him."
"Okay," Dick agrees easily. Bruce wonders if he always oscillates between defiant and compliant or if this is recent behavior. "Okay, yeah."
Last flight.
There's the sound of a heavy door slamming, booted footsteps pounding down the hallway and a utility belt clinking as the officer gets closer.
"I'm sure I'll see you again, Dick Grayson."
And then Batman slips out of the same window that Dick came in, grappling hook engaging with an electric hiss that covers up anything Dick might say in response.
His last thought as he swings away is that he doubts he could have climbed that building without gear. So how did a child do it?
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DAY 12: An Invitation
The second time Dick meets Bruce Wayne, it’s in a Gotham PD precinct.
He never wants to think about the first time ever again.
He's just been arrested for- for… Okay, so he wasn't exactly listening to the cop when he'd been talking earlier. But it was something about delinquency and trespassing and yada yada yada. The point is, it's not the best look. (Mama says first impressions are very important.)
He’s there for about two hours, in the same stupid room with the same stupid blanket as last time, when there’s a knock on the door. He braces himself, unsure of what mask he needs to pull on but ready for anything-
“Richard?” The door opens to reveal Mister Pennyworth, as impeccably dressed as last time. “May I come in?”
Dick almost sighs in relief. He hadn’t been able to get a good read on Mister Pennyworth the first time they’d met (he hadn’t really tried, Mama taught him better than this) but, when in doubt, he can always rely on the grateful, orphaned immigrant act. He pulls his arms into his sleeves, making himself seem even littler than he already is, and lets the tears well up in his eyes without falling- scared but trying to be brave.
Carefully pulling on a more refined accent (Mama loves southern France, she thinks their dialect is ‘fancy’), he jerks to his feet and gasps. “Mister Pennyworth! You came!”
“I told you I would,” the old man says simply, pushing the door all the way open.
And behind him stands-
“Do you remember Mister Wayne, Richard?”
Dick almost collapses under the weight of-
Strong arms, wrestling him to the ground. “Don’t look. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Just don’t look.”
So, yeah, maybe he’s off his game a little, but the first thing that pops out of Dick’s mouth is, “you don’t look like a billionaire.”
Mister Pennyworth laughs in a distinctly British way while said billionaire makes a face that Dick would hazard to describe as a pout. “It’s early,” he mumbles, shoving his pale hands into the pouch of his hoodie.
Aw hell, Dick thinks and suddenly feels guilty. Even though he really shouldn't because it’s true. He’s dressed like a homeless person, layers of old clothes and mismatched aesthetics, and he even has a ratty backpack over his shoulders. Shouldn’t a billionaire have someone to carry his stuff for him?
They’re saved from the awkwardness by Miss Lopez, who sweeps into the room in her usual chaotic way, her stupidly big bag overflowing with all the stuff she never seems to need.
She doesn’t even acknowledge the two men already in the room. “Really, Richard? Again?” She asks, sounding so tired.
“I’m sorry,” Dick whimpers. (He’s not). “I won’t do it again, Miss Lopez, I swear!” (He will.)
He watches her deflate. “Oh, Richard. What am I supposed to do now?”
“Can’t I just go back to-”
“Please don’t bring up the circus again-”
“But it’s where I belong-”
Mister Wayne interrupts, his voice painfully quiet. (Mama says enunciation makes the difference between talking and speaking.) “I'll take him.”
…what?
Dick and Miss Lopez both freeze. She just now seems to realize that they’re not alone and Dick can pinpoint the exact moment she recognizes who’s standing in front of her.
“Oh my god. You’re- Oh my god. Hello, Mister Wayne!” She gushes, the hand not holding up her stupidly big bag reaching up to swipe at her hair.
Mister Wayne doesn’t exactly look like the type of person to judge someone for a bad hair day but even Dick feels the urge to fidget under the weirdly intense stare. He knows better, though, and keeps himself perfectly still while Miss Lopez and Mister Pennyworth start talking about things like state certified foster homes and mandatory wait periods and generous donations.
He follows along with that side of the conversation with perfect ease. People with enough money can do whatever they want and Mister Wayne has ‘more money than God’ according to the cop who brought him in. The only thing he doesn’t understand is…
“Why?” He asks when there’s a lull in the conversation.
Intense eyes lock onto him. “Hm?”
“Why are you offering to help me?” Dick asks. He knows he’s blowing his act. The optimistic orphan would never look a gift horse in the mouth. But he just doesn’t get it. “You don’t even know me.”
Mister Wayne shifts so that he’s facing Dick head on instead of Miss Lopez and Mister Pennyworth, who are looking over a thick legal document. “You don’t have to. I’ll still help in any way I can. If you'd rather try a different foster home, I'll pay for a lawyer,” he murmurs and Dick gets the impression that this is more talking than Mister Wayne has done in a long time.
To be fair, he seems harmless. Dick doubts he’s a pervert or something. There are plenty of less famous orphans he could have snatched up if all he wants is to cop a feel. And he definitely isn’t a good actor, so this has to be at least a little genuine.
When Dick doesn’t answer, Mister Wayne sighs and crouches so that they’re almost eye level. He’s very tall and Dick is very not tall, okay? And he doesn’t say any stupid shit either, like ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ or ‘how are you doing?’ that everyone else seems so insistent on. Instead, he pulls an envelope out of his backpack and offers it to Dick wordlessly..
“Um. Thanks.” Dick takes it, checking to make sure that Miss Lopez isn’t watching before opening it-
Holy fucking shit.
Mama and Papa’s faces smile back at him, a chubby cheeked Dick balancing on their shoulders in front of the Eiffel Tower.
This time, the tears in his eyes are real. “Mister Wayne…”
“I want to help, Dick,” he whispers.
There’s a long list of thoughts running through Dick’s head right now.
He’d somehow forgotten that Mister Wayne has his parent’s trailer. He wants to kiss the picture of his family, safely sealed inside of a little plastic bag. He knows that he’s going to juvie. He knows that Mister Wayne is his best chance at getting out of juvie. He knows it’ll be way easier to sneak out of some big mansion than it will be to break out of a detention center. He knows that Tony Zucco is still alive and roaming free.
But all he can think about is the fact that he’s only told one person in this god forsaken city his real name and it was Batman. So why did Bruce fucking Wayne just call him Dick?
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