Chapter Text
Popcorn.
Animals.
Lights.
The overabundance of various scents and sounds and sights of the Big Top and the surrounding areas were enough to make anyone overwhelmed.
At first, Bruce Wayne was just anyone to partake in those scents and sounds and sights.
At first, at least.
It took over two seconds for the crowd to register that something wasn’t right. Two seconds for the entirety of the Big Top’s audience to realize and rationalize that the ropes had snapped and the two adult trapeze artists were no longer flying through the air but falling towards the ground. No longer soaring outwards but tumbling down.
Two seconds for the screams to start.
When their bodies smacked onto the sawdust covered ground underneath, the rope dangling by a few threads, the screams intensified. Agonizing wails, blood-curdling shouts, and frightened gasps filled the air and reverberated through their souls. However, while everyone else was busy with one eye at the now bloodied and broken bodies that lay frozen and flat against the Earth and the other eye towards the nearest exit, one man’s attention was elsewhere.Bruce Wayne couldn’t take his eyes off the boy.
Their son.
The youngest of the Flying Graysons aerial trio was still up on the platform, high above. He had just finished his part of their magnificent and death-defying (for a moment) routine and had stepped aside for his parents to take center stage. Why the rope hadn’t snapped earlier was anyone’s guess, but the Detective in him figured that perhaps his elementary-age weight just wasn’t enough for gravity to take hold and fray the rope to break.
As Bruce watched the boy, observed him from his seat while the hustle and bustle of screaming audience members clambered for any kind of safe exit amidst the chaos, he saw the emotions explode.
Upon first reaction, he remained frozen... mouth gaped wide, eyes like scared saucers, body as still and entranced as ever. Now, his cries carried out above everyone. He screamed. His small shaking hand held outstretched towards the ground as if he could will his parents awake with his mind. In fact, the loud crowd was drowned out by the painful torment bursting out of the child; at least, in Bruce's ears.
He sympathized with him more than ever.
He knew what it felt like. Knew what the boy was going through. Watching a body die on screen was one thing but to witness it right in front of you… and to have those bodies be family… your parents... was a whole other experience entirely.
And to know (later on, when things finally had settled down) that there was nothing you could do about it… well… it was torture.
Soon enough, what seemed like ages of bellowing and hollering, the little boy (Bruce couldn't remember his name for the life of him) rushed frantically towards the ladder and half-climbed half-slid down the steps. When his feet hit the circus floor, he stumbled and fumbled haphazardly towards his parents, attempting everything in his power to reach them; however, near the last second before he was able to accomplish his goal he was snagged and picked up in one fell swoop by the resident strongman, scooped up in his arms. The boy’s spindly legs kicked and kicked as he tried to get out of his bulging grip. His flailing arms, his scratching and clawing fingers, his waterfall tears, and his screeching and– oh, the sounds that came out of that little boy’s body… the horrible, gut-wrenching, agonizingly depressed sounds– futile attempts to protest and get to his mother and father tore at Bruce’s heart. Wayne watched as the strongman, and soon others, manhandled the brokenhearted boy away from the bloody scene that was only growing more grotesque by the minute as they lay on display for the world to see.
Ironically, true performers to the end.
At least some of the crowd started to disperse and run away, herding and waddling towards the exits to remove themselves from the horrific situation. Others, however, Mr. Wayne noted, tried to stay and gawk, pointing fingers up and down as if they were sleuths and detectives themselves trying to figure out what happened. Some even, to his disgust, even had the selfish and ignorant gall to mention a refund to the ringleader that remained behind.
Mr. Haly’s whip spoke for him.
Outside, amidst the chaos inside, Bruce could hear the young child protesting and screaming vehemently, like a wild animal chained up looking to get loose. The billionaire found himself beginning to walk towards the outside world, discovering it difficult to maneuver around the crowd that squawked and honked like trapped geese: annoyingly apathetic on their migration home. Granted, he knew he shouldn't intervene with the personal and private trauma between the boy and his circus family, but he couldn’t help it… Pushing his way through the ignorant crowd, Bruce hit the fresh nighttime air that offered no respite and comfort and peered around, but found no trace of sight or sound of the young orphan.
Suddenly, sirens wailed in the distance… Multiple police cars and emergency engines were spotted coming through the gates. Bruce hadn’t realized enough time had passed for them to be able to make it to the grounds: he must have been stuck in the sea of people longer than he thought.
As the first responders and law enforcement drove closer, Bruce was inadvertently stuck between the very real present and his own traumatized past, reliving and remembering the senses of the alley: the juxtaposition of his parents’ couture outfits contrasting the grimy and dingy aura of their final resting place, the scattered pearls gleaming in the streetlights, the feel of the wet pavement on his knees as he knelt next to their bodies, the metallic smell of the blood blending in with the lingering plume of gun smoke, the sounds of overturning trash cans as critters scurried about, the whine of the sirens as they neared…
Blood.
Pearls.
Sirens.
Scents... sights... sounds...
Before he could dive down a dark path of childhood trauma and empathetic disassociation, Bruce was brought back to the present when he heard another familiar sound. Looking up off to the side, he witnessed the boy racing through the camp, diving through and pivoting around taller legs and oblivious onlookers who were struggling to find their way home while grumbling about the cancelled performance. The young child must have slipped away from his circus friends who were keeping him confined and secure.
Then the boy changed direction… toward him.
His too-bright red face was laced with alligator tears that were too big for his stature.
Torn between allowing the boy near his parents and keeping him as far away from the nightmare-inducing future memories as possible, Bruce took too long to make his move and the child darted past him... right into the arms of an officer… and a second. And while the young child struggled and screeched and kicked and wriggled around in their grasp, Bruce watched with amazement as the traumatized boy took matters into his own hands.
One officer hollered as he was brutally kicked in the shin, effectively relinquishing his grip on the boy in tights… The other cried out as he shook and cradled his now bloody hand that had swiftly been bitten.
Bruce observed as the free boy took off, screaming and crying, racing back into the tent. Now, the billionaire was positive he wouldn’t have been able to hold him anyway. Granted, he was fairly effective at wrangling and detaining criminals and thugs on a nightly basis, but there was something raw about the determination and grit in the young valiant.
He took off and followed.
Not too far behind were the rest of the circus folk: the strongman, Mr. Haly, the bearded lady, the snake wrangler, all calling his name, doing everything they could to keep him safe.
Dick. His name was Dick.
Following the cries and screams from poor Dick as he bellowed and called out for his mom and dad, Bruce continued into the tent after him in any kind of desire to help out, whether that be to pull the child away from the bloody bodies… or keep everyone else from interrupting another mourning orphan.
As soon as he neared the center ring, trailing after the visceral screams, the billionaire witnessed as two more police officers were holding back the boy yet again, this time more securely than the other two. However, when Dick saw his parents again, the cries became more desperate, more heartachingly animalistic… He began to hyperventilate, babbling inaudible words of pain, his spit flying everywhere, sweat mixing with tears.
The poster child of true emotional agony.
Bruce couldn’t stand it… but he couldn’t look away, either.
Here was another little boy, similar in age to when he experienced a similar change in fate, ripped away from his parents from an act of either pure malicious intent to murder or a strange and freak accident.
It gutted him something fierce.
Soon enough, Dick was once again carried off again by the strongman and now Haly, trying to soothe him back, but he was too distraught to listen, let alone hear them outright…
Rightfully so, Bruce reasoned. He just witnessed his parents’ murders, for God’s sake.
“He did it! He did this!”
Wait... What?
Immediately, eyes of great importance, both circus family and law enforcement, whipped back to the boy’s outburst… including Bruce’s.
Bruce frowned, his mouth slightly agape as he tried to reason what Dick was saying and what he meant by that.
He did this? Who? Who did this? This is new...
Police Lieutenant James Gordon stared at the boy who was being taken away, hearing his words the same as everyone else in the vicinity… and rushed after, shouting for his officers to bring the boy to him.
Needing and wanting to know where this new shift in interest was going to lead, Bruce attempted to follow after the boy and Gordon, but only made it so far: after only a few steps he was held back by a pair of meaty hands belonging to the resident corrupt drunkard on the police force.
“Whoa, this is a crime scene, Wayne, you’se gotta stay back. Official police business, you know this.”
Officer Harvey Bullock was Bruce Wayne’s least favorite cop… and that doubled for Batman.
Urged and coaxed into remaining back with the threat of police action, Bruce knew he wasn’t able to reason his way through with a good enough justification to be there...
Batman, on the other hand…
But no, he was not Batman. He was Bruce. A billionaire philanthropist playboy who was simply part of the crowd. Someone who was told to just “go home already”.
I’m not going anywhere.
Instead of arguing with Bullock’s demands, Bruce couldn’t help but walk away, watching helplessly and frustrated as the boy was led (manhandled) off to the side of the Big Top, his cries and bellows echoing through the campus.
What did Dick mean? He did it? Who was he? What happened that we don't know?
If the boy knew something, this could either be a very good thing or a very bad thing. Bruce knew what happened to material witnesses in these kinds of situations. And if this really truly was one of those 'situations’, then it could go very badly. Dick seemed to have seen something, or knew something…
Dammit…
Batman-senses on high alert.
Another hour went by, and unsurprisingly, Bruce still did not leave. Wandering around the area, in and out of the Big Top, he did his best to avoid capture and further chew-outs on his unnecessary and technically illegal involvement as he perused the landscape for clues. After all, if there was anything unusual about this situation, anything Batman could help with, he could do his best to look for it… But he found nothing. As far as he knew, or as far as he was paying attention to, the lead up to the main event was as normal as could be.
Yet apparently not, according to young Dick Grayson.
What did you see? Who did you see? And more importantly, why do you think someone did this?
Soon he found himself back under the Big Top. As stealthy and inconspicuous as Bruce could be, he tiptoed through the boxes and equipment on his way around the outer rings. Yet when his eyes lifted over towards the opposite side he paused as his eyes fell on the young boy, sitting stoically on one of the benches, surrounded by uniformed officers and a few circus performers. Bruce wasn't sure if he should be furious or understanding that they kept the boy inside the area where his parents had fallen, wanting to remove him from the situation entirely and yet needing the boy to get the proper amount of mourning and closure he never experienced ate at him. Carefully, he crept closer within earshot of the crowd.
Dick was still visibly upset, but he was no longer the thrashing angry mite from earlier. Now, his tear-stained face was trained straight ahead, disassociating like nobody’s business. He was staring off into space, as if all of his energized agony had dissipated and left him hollow and empty. But no, he wasn’t just staring off into space, Bruce observed: he was staring at where his parents fell… the unoccupied space where the bodies have been removed, still stained with their blood into the dirt and straw. He stared as if they were still there.
Gordon stood up from beside the frozen and catatonic child, running a weary hand across his five o'clock shadow, pinching the bridge of his nose. Bruce saw the opportunity to walk up to the officer as he took a few steps away from the people. Keeping a watchful eye out for anyone that could stop him, Wayne walked over to take advantage. However, just as he neared in the shadows, out of sight of everyone who wasn’t bothering to pay attention anyway, Bruce overheard as Gordon started talking to another officer about calling in a sketch artist before that officer eventually took his leave to do just that.
Interesting... a sketch artist?
Bruce knew what that meant. He knew...
Time to make his move.
“Do you have a lead?”
Jim Gordon startled and swore under his breath, spinning around to see a well-dressed and dapper man, late-twenties, and sorely out of place from either the law enforcement crowd or the traveling performers.
“Mr. Wayne? What the hell are you still doing here?”
Taking a few steps closer, nodding his head towards the boy with a solemn face, he directed his reason back to the Lieutenant.
“I was in the audience. Couldn’t leave after this… I do apologize for eavesdropping, but I heard you speaking about a sketch artist. Is there a suspect? Any leads that could help him?”
Not them... Him.
At first Gordon blinked at the abrupt redirection from his presence here and realized the man was speaking about the boy. Sparing one look back to the still entranced child, he cleared his throat and turned back to the billionaire with an exhausted snort.
“Other than the fact that the boy says he saw someone interrogate and threaten Haly over the past few days, you mean?”
“Are you serious? That means the boy…”
Gordon nodded as Wayne lit up, shoving his hands in his pocket, “Yeah, we got a material witness on our hands…”
Shit.
The ramifications of being a material witness in Gotham swirled around Bruce’s mind as he watched Gordon’s mind trail off. He lifted his head and tried to pose a question.
“What was the man’s name?”
The police Lieutenant considered not even telling him. After all, he had every right to refuse. Here was this billionaire playboy, all of twenty-six years old, with no police business whatsoever, asking questions about a live investigation that may result in a murder categorization… Furthermore, knowing that the man in front of him also witnessed his own parents’ murder without ever knowing the name of said killer, he sighed heavily as he opened his mouth.
And gave him nothing.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne, but I can’t give you that information. Private police matter, you understand.”
Bruce narrowed his eyes without any heat, hoping that he was going to get something before the officer switched directions and sealed away the information. He tried a new way to get insight.
“He’s from Gotham?”
Again, Gordon hesitated, but this time, he gave into his better judgment. He nodded.
“So… If you know the culprit’s name, and if the boy is able to name him, why do you need a sketch artist?”
The red-haired officer lit a cigarette, took a long puff, and blew out slowly, mostly to get his nerves in check. He cleared his throat, gave one long look at the boy, and then glanced back towards Wayne.
“Protocol. Double checking the name matches with the boy’s recall. Plus, then we can send out a warrant for his arrest, plastering the posters all over town. We did the same with you, if you remember. Maybe, maybe not.”
Truth was, Bruce knew all that. He knew the reason. Not just because of his own recollection from his own parents’ murder (how could he ever forget), but from his nighttime escapades. But he couldn’t play detective in front of another detective; it would give too much away.
However, another thought popped into his head. One a bit more pressing, surprisingly, than finding the supposed murderer:
“What about the boy? Does he have anyone?”
Gordon exhaled again, this time his all-business exterior shaking off for a more sympathetic frown. He shook his head and shrugged.
“No… No other family. Yeah, sure, the circus folk here are pretty much like his family, but no blood that we know of. Some of them want to take him in, but honestly I’d be too worried Zu-... this guy would come after him. Material witnesses don’t last long in this town.”
Bruce knew.
He was a material witness in his parents’ murder but he didn’t see any recognizable features and was unable to be of any productive assistance when his own sketch artist visited. He had no idea the man’s identity: Crime Alley’s shadows shrouded his bandana-covered face. Plus, it didn’t help that it was deemed a “simple mugging gone wrong” and that he was a boy of privilege that was gifted a rich life and a live-in butler with a safe house. So no, despite material witnesses not having a batch of good luck in Gotham, Bruce Wayne was one of the fortunate ones.
This time?
Who knew what this man was involved in: it could be mob-related. In this town, it was a sure bet. And his name supposedly started with a Z, at least from what Gordon nearly let slip. He'd have to check his databases... Bruce cleared his throat and gestured towards the boy who was still sitting and staring unblinking at the ground, the look of a kid who didn’t want to be around anyone... except his parents.
“So… now what?”
“We have a placement at an orphanage we’re going to have to set him up in. After that? Who knows… Foster care? Ward of the state? If no one claims him he’ll stay in there and just age out, I guess. It happens to a lot of kids, unfortunately.”
Bruce knew that, too.
He also knew that was not where a kid who just witnessed trauma like this should be.
But where could he go?
Suddenly, as Wayne looked over and studied the boy, he felt a familiar tug of empathy, feeling for the boy in a way he hadn’t felt for others in quite some time. Sure, as Batman he had seen families torn apart, he had seen dead bodies, and he had seen children in various precarious situations that left them discarded and unloved, but there was something about this boy. There was something about Dick Grayson that screamed at him… There was something about those hollow eyes, that sunken frown, that stiff posture, that forsaken gaze as his bright blues lingered on everything and nothing all at the same time.
And it hit him.
Tonight sure was shaping up to be an exceptional night for idea-conjuring as another one smacked him over the head… this time, the idea was too monumental, too hair-brained, and too important to let go. So, before he knew what he was doing, before he could control his mouth, Bruce spoke up.
“What if he stays with me? In the Manor. Would that suffice?”
This time, Gordon snorted as he considered the man with great sarcasm.
“No offense, Mr. Wayne, but you?”
Bruce nodded, not taking any offense. He stepped closer and clutched at his heart, his face twisting with understanding.
“I know what it’s like, Jim… I could help him.”
Gordon understood all too well. He knew the trauma the man before him suffered that echoed what had just transpired. Yet still, he debated back with all the logic and reasoning Wayne did not want to hear.
“True, but the system won’t give you a kid. Not one like him. With your reputation, no offense again, I seriously doubt it. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you can try, but it just isn’t going to work. You know how it goes… Only married couples get to adopt. You’re single, have a very lavish and carefree lifestyle, parties and whatnot… Yeah I don’t think they’d go for that.”
Bruce didn’t want to take offense, but he knew what his ‘Brucie’ persona gave to the public. They saw the socialite, the philanthropist, the elusive bachelor, the womanizer… they didn’t see what happened in the cave below. They didn’t see all the good he did, saving lives, bringing justice to a city that craved a sunny day amidst the doom and gloom. He built a reputation to keep his two lives separate. He wanted it that way, to be sure, but now? This could hinder any chances he had at possibly helping this boy. Before Bruce could say anything, two new people walked into the small gathering and approached Dick. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but thankfully he could read lips.
They were taking him away.
Instinctively, as alarm bells began to ring in his head, Dick started to panic. He started to maneuver away from them, his eyes bulging with fear as he realized with swift awareness what they were trying to do, but the two adults, one woman and two men, closed in on him. Further reading their lips, they were telling him it was “going to be okay”, that “the orphanage had a lot of boys his age and–”
Dick didn’t want to hear it. Understandably, he wanted to stay at the circus and he was sorely confused, arguing back just as much. Bruce watched, distraught, as the boy started to run away, his energy returning as he cried and protested and whined, only to run smack dab into Haly's enormous belly.
“Pop! Please! Th-they want to take me away!”
Now that, Bruce heard all too clear.
However, in the hopes of being protected and saved, the opposite took place…
Bruce watched with horror as C.C. Haly knelt down and grabbed Dick his small yet muscular shoulders… tears in his own eyes. Haly gave him a sad, blubbery smile, his lips moving and telling the poor boy it was going to be okay, but he would have to go with them.
“No, it’s not! Why do I have to go? Why can’t I stay with you?! Why do I have to go!?”
Haly said this is what has to happen… ‘I’m sorry, Dick… I’m so sorry, my boy.’
Young Grayson’s cries and screams echoed in his heart as he clung to his ringleader, to the man who, with no doubt in his own mind, had helped raise him alongside the rest of the circus under the direction of Mary and John. The man who, with no doubt in his own mind, was a grandfather figure of some sort who would sneak the small bundle of energy treats and snacks when his parents weren’t looking, who would allow him in the animal cages a little longer than need be, who would shower him with praise and accolades and brag about his accomplishments.
This was heartbreaking.
The last Bruce Wayne saw of Dick Grayson was as he was being led against his will, reluctantly walking with a grim resolve, pushed away and out of the tent, away from the circus he grew up in his entire life… and away from any family he had ever known and loved.
The last Bruce Wayne saw of Dick Grayson was the face of a young boy who had lost everything in a heartbeat.
I have to help him.