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Everyone is cheering. Everyone is clapping. Everyone is—bloody?
Falling.
They’re falling.
Dick can’t scream. They’re falling and he can’t ask for help. He can’t extend his weak arms forward to catch them.
He’s falling, too. He’s falling. The air evaporates his tears from his eyes with a woosh, a sound that he normally loves, but everything is too hot and burning right now—
He closes his eyes, trying to preserve the smiling image of his parents and not of the bloody one—
He waits, and he waits for the impact—
He doesn’t fall. He recoils in confusion. He lands like a soft feather on the ground and opens his eyes involuntarily. The lights are too bright, blinding him, but he can see the expression on his mom and dad’s faces anyway.
Smiling, with their mouths wide open. Smiling, with blood pouring out from their cheeks. Smiling, with bones sticking out. Smiling, with gray eyes and smiling, with—
Dick wakes up with a scream, his pajamas sticking to his body with sweat.
(Is it the same way the blood stuck to his parents’ bodies?)
He tries to throw the blanket off but it tangles around his body. It feels familiar but wrong—like a trapeze rope choking him around his throat, like his mother’s arms wrapping around his torso but squeezing too much, as if trying to yank him into the world of dead to be by their side again—
He thinks he sees blood from his peripheral vision but it's just—it’s just the lamp. He jumps out of his skin when his door opens, but it’s just Alfred, the butler.
Dick’s still not used to the idea of a butler. He wonders, does a butler have anything to do with butter? The man, he thinks, doesn’t like him very much. He’s silent and cold but his meals are the opposite.
Why is the elderly here anyway?
The lights get turned on, and Dick asks himself if the previous state of darkness is bleeding into his vision, because it’s a tad harder to see with all the gray/black spots.
“Master Richard.” Alfred says as he approaches the younger. He sits near the bed and works on getting him out of the blanket and Dick knows he isn’t helping with the way he’s squirming like a worm but he needs to move, to rattle his body just to let the air keep flowing in and out.
“Just breathe with me, lad.” the older says as he puts a light hand on his chest. His chest is moving too fast and he’s trying to slow it down but it just moves faster and faster—
“You can’t slow down by trying to speed up the process, young man.” Alfred warns and breathes through his nose after. Dick follows him as best as he can, and it gets better somewhat, but it still hurts. He doesn’t know if it’s from the memory or from whatever this thing is, though.
He can’t find it in himself to speak when he’s breathing normally again (he doesn’t think he has breathed normally since the day they died) and stares at the sheet. Alfred gives him a glass of water (where did he get that from?) which the kid drinks hungrily. Or thirstily?
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and takes a last big heave of air before saying, “Where’s Bruce?”
“Master Bruce is working tonight. He has had an awful lot of paperwork left for him.” Alfred answers swiftly.
Dick doesn’t really buy that but he nods anyway. He still doesn’t know who Bruce Wayne actually is and why he took Dick in. He’s grateful, of course, but sometimes he’d rather be by his parents’ grave.
He just knows that Bruce lost his mom and dad, too, and that’s why he’s an expert at calming him down after whatever-this-things are. Dick doesn’t know what they are, just that he feels terrified and unable to breathe with his head throbbing when they’re happening.
What he doesn’t understand though is why Bruce is always somewhere else. Always busy, bla bla bla. Why doesn’t he talk while eating? Why doesn’t he watch any movies? Why is he so…awkward? Why did he take Dick in, if he’s not even going to be here?
Or is Dick just a temporary guest here? Just a prized possession to show off?
(Is he just a thing to be appreciated in the stage light? Is he just standing in the auction house, without his parents here to cover his eyes from the price?)[1]
If the situation is like that…well, he would be a bit sad but it'd be the best for everyone. It would be easier to find Tony Zucco without Bruce or Alfred hovering near. He thinks it’d be easier slipping through their watch if they were right up next to him than if they were staying close but not beside him because at least then he wouldn’t have to predict where they might appear next.
(Alfred just recently caught him trying to sneak out of the manor the other day, when he’d tried to follow the lead he’d gotten on Zucco’s whereabouts.)
Alfred takes the glass from his hands once it’s emptied and puts it on the nightstand. Dick watches him quietly, too tired to even squint his eyes to see better in the dark. He continues to observe as if in a trance, his gaze fixed on the older man’s hands.
It hurts. His chest hurts. His chest hurts and he doesn’t even have to put up a hand to feel his heartbeat. It’s too loud and too forceful, as if it wants to tear through his ribcage.
(Then a complete set of Graysons would be buried underground.)
“—ter Richard?”
Dick turns his head slowly to face the man—or, well, the direction he thinks is the correct one. He doesn’t—can’t—bother to correct him. He doesn’t like being addressed as Richard, but it probably doesn’t matter now—he won’t be here for much longer anyways.
“Do you want something?” Alfred asks. “Tea, maybe? It’ll help you sleep better.”
“Don’t wanna sleep.” Dick replies in a mumble.
The elder sighs. Dick doesn’t know what he did wrong to warrant a reaction like that.
“Is there at least anything that I can help you with?”
You can help me find Zucco, Dick doesn’t say.
“No, thank you.” he responds instead. “Goodnight, Mr. Pennyworth.”
The butler doesn’t speak for a moment before getting up and answering with his own farewell, saying to just call him if there was anything he wanted. Dick knows he won’t take up on the offer, but it’s a nice thought.
“Master Bruce.”
“Alfred.” Bruce acknowledges, stepping out of his Batmobile and taking off his cowl. He frowns when Alfred doesn’t respond as he usually would, and when he turns, he’s surprised by the stern expression on the other’s face.
“What’s wrong?” Bruce asks, his mind coming up with worse and worse situations to be able to make Alfred this tense.
“Oh, nothing’s wrong, sir.”
Bruce raises a brow questioningly, settling on his chair in front of The Computer, ready to write up the report.
“It’s just there is a young grieving boy upstairs yearning for someone to understand him.”
Bruce freezes momentarily—just as short as a breath taken, but still frozen—and sighs. “I know, but I’m trying to find Zucco for his own good, to—”
“While that is very thoughtful of you, sir,” Alfred interrupts, in a way that he never would. “His own good requires you to be present for him, not Batman.”
“Alfred—”
“He is losing sleep.” the older cuts in, his brows furrowed in worry. Bruce has never seen such an intense and open expression on the butler’s face for a long time. “He’s performing worse in school and he keeps spacing out. I suggest you get yourself on the right track.”
Bruce rubs a hand over his temple, trying to formulate his vague thoughts and ideas into words. “I’m not equipped to deal with Dick, Alfred. I don’t know how to meet his needs.” he admits, unclasping his cape and holding it tightly.
Alfred raises a brow, unimpressed. “Then I recommend you figure a way out. Goodnight, Master Bruce.”
Bruce’s eyes silently trail after the disappearing silhouette of Alfred, the words punching his shut lips from the inside, begging to come out.
The next day, they’re all munching quietly in the quiet hours of the morning. Bruce doesn’t get why waking up this early is necessary, but at least he has his coffee.
He glances at Dick and sees him stabbing his omelet but not eating it, his hair covering his face. It reminds Bruce of his teenage years. Dear god, he doesn’t want to think about those times and his style.
He puts his newspaper on the table and clears his throat, forming a new dialogue in his head and trying to predict where it will go. Alfred’s words from last night still ring in his ears, like a particular part of a song put on loop, blocking him from playing the rest of the song in his head.
“Good morning.” he says, albeit awkwardly.
Dick lifts his head and frowns, replying with, “Morning?”
“Yes, it’s morning.” Bruce confirms confusedly.
“I meant good morning?” Dick’s frown has become more pronounced, his massacre of the poor omelet coming to a stop.
“Oh.” Bruce mutters, facepalming himself in his mind. Eloquently, he continues with, “how are you doing?”
“Perfect! and you?”
Bruce didn’t predict the conversation going this way. He thought Dick would say that he was fine with a shrug or another obvious lie but this is just…too happy of a response.
He’s performing.
Bruce narrows his eyes and takes a small sip of his coffee. “I’m fine, thank you.” Even with his board members, the small-talks are less generic and awkward than this.
He prays to the only god he knows—to Alfred—to give him a solid piece of wisdom before he cracks before this child.
“How have you slept?”
Dick raises his eyebrows and smiles politely, not shying away from eye contact. “Wonderfully.”
Bruce looks for signs of lies, but he doesn’t know the kid enough to recognise any of his tells. Yet.
“Hn.”
He also notices Dick eating the omelet and chewing for a long time now that he’s realized he’s got Bruce’s attention on him. Interesting. He wonders how he acts in front of Alfred when they’re alone.
“It’s a…beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
Dick glances at the window. The sun hasn’t even risen up yet. Just what is this guy doing? “It’s very pretty.”
The both of them sit in silence after that disastrous attempt at striking up a conversation. Bruce tries to get himself ready for the next steps. “They say it’s going to rain today.”
The steps were wonderfully executed—literally, as in, it’s a mess.
He tries to imagine what his mom and dad would say, if they were in this particular situation, but he comes up short with ideas. His memories of them are see-through and unclear. He sighs. Maybe he should prepare a better plan next time.
“Oh, sorry, I have to go. Thanks for reminding me it’s going to rain, I totally picked out the wrong clothes, sorry.” Dick gets up and basically dashes for the door—while also walking at a normal tempo for a kid his age, Bruce doesn’t know how he does it—and leaves Bruce alone without even being able to think of a reply.
A minute later, Alfred comes by and shoots a pointed look at the abandoned seat. “I did not mean talking about the weather when I said you should be there for him, sir.” he says, raising his eyebrow, unamused.
Bruce sighs in defeat and downs his coffee.
Bruce is tired. He hates corporate life and signing away every single sheet of paper. The Batman part of him tells him to read each document carefully, to see if there’s anything he normally won’t agree for, but he ignores it. He may be signing a pact with the devil and he wouldn’t even know. Honestly, he can’t even bring himself to care.
He pities the employees who actually do work and get stuff done.
He’s about to head to his study until he comes face to face with Alfred in the hallway (definitely a coincidence) and grumbles as he turns the other way when he sees the look the older is giving him.
He stands in front of Dick’s door as still as a statue and tries to knock—but he can’t. He remains still for a few more minutes before retiring to his own room, not delusional enough to wait for sleep to greet him.
He needs to find Zucco before his clues go cold. For Dick’s and Gotham’s own good. Crime never stops. But neither does a child’s grief.
Just then, he hears little telltales of footsteps, pausing for a minute or two before resuming their journey and fading away into the distance. Bruce frowns, opens his door and peeks a little into Dick’s room—it’s empty and quiet, just as he predicted.
He closes the door gently. He goes through different rooms until he finds Dick in the living room, his head resting on his knees—drawn up to his chest—, staring with empty eyes at the television.
He gets reminded of the boy who once used to put a pillow between his stomach and his legs, sitting in front of the fireplace, imagining burning the memories of that night.
“Can I join you?” Bruce asks. Dick turns his head almost robotically slowly and shrugs. Bruce takes this as his answer (hopefully he interpreted it right) and sits next to him, looking at the childish show playing. He doesn’t think Dick’s really watching it, though.
“You know, it’s not really healthy to be exposed to blue light this late.”
Dick scoffs.
Bruce clears his throat. That was not a good start. “Do you want…water?” Water is good, right? Helps hydrate the body.
“‘M not thirsty.” the younger mumbles with the hoarsest of voices Bruce has ever heard.
Bruce doesn’t offer up more after that. He lets both of them stew in silence—well, there’s the TV playing still, but he doubts either of them registers it— and collect their thoughts.
But that’s not really a good decision, is it? He remembers the more it was just him and the void, the more ingrained the image of his parents’ corpses had become. Silence is as deadly as it is relaxing.
He glances around the room until his gaze lands on the latest newspaper of Gotham Gazette on the coffee table. He picks it up, staring at the cryptic crossword, smiling the smallest of smiles as he remembers his father teaching him how to do it.
Pity that no one reads newspapers these days.
He takes a look at Dick, then at the TV before grabbing the remote and turning it off. Dick turns to look at him as if he’s offended.
“Have you ever done a crossword before?”
“They’re boring.”
Now it’s Bruce’s turn to look offended as he prepares a storm of replies defending the entertaining qualities of a crossword in his head, but then he remembers he’s dealing with a child here.
“Not if you do them the right way.” He reaches for the nearby pencil and taps on the first clue across. “You just have to know there are clues inside the clues—and which ones they are.”
Dick doesn’t seem too interested.
“I think Alfred hid his cookies in the back of the top right shelf. Will you get them for me? It’ll be more fun.”
Dick looks at him skeptically and goes to the kitchen without another word.
Bruce hopes that Alfred won’t be mad that his cookies are gone (or more likely, disappointed from Bruce’s attempts to comfort a child). Shortly later, the kid comes back literally with his hand in the cookie jar.
Oh dear, Bruce has already screwed up the kid’s messed-up sleep schedule by giving him cookies. Dick sits close to him but not really by his side, naturally (Bruce doesn’t understand why he’s disappointed by this).
“Do you know any techniques?”
“Why are you asking me? I thought you knew this stuff.”
“I do.” Bruce answers seriously. “I just want to know what you know.”
“Zero.” Dick says and forms a zero that looks like an O with his hand, melting into a weird pose that hurts Bruce’s spine just from looking at him. He seems completely uninterested.
“Alright. Let’s look at the first across.” Dick doesn’t turn to look at the newspaper and plays with the remote. Bruce has to keep himself from sighing. “It says: ‘Decca tried change and became officially sanctioned’.”
“...I didn’t get a word of what you said.”
Shall Bruce be worried about that? Maybe he shall look more into Dick’s educational progress after all. He thought he was doing fine so far but—
Anyway. Back to the first clue.
“The thing is, you have to be selective with your words.”
“Wooooow.” Dick doesn’t even bother to sound impressed and scoffs, his hand never leaving the remote.
Bruce is burned by the sarcasm dripping from his voice.
“The word ‘change’ here means that there is an anagram in this clue. Do you know what an anagram is?”
“Yes.” Dick responds easily. “It’s like, same letters in a different order.”
Bruce nods in approval and continues to explain the rest of the clue, guiding the both of them towards the answer. He remarks that Dick’s leaning towards the paper more. His explaining comes to a halt as he realizes that the other’s right by his side now.
“Bruce? Bruuuuceee! What does accredited mean?”
“It’s the definition of the word we see at the end. So it means sanctioned. To be accredited means to be approved or authorized in this context.”
Dick doesn’t seem to acknowledge him though, as he looks at the newspaper with narrowed eyes, his mouth moving soundlessly as if he’s testing out the different words. He writes down the answer—Bruce really should be concerned for his education because that writing is not legible—and looks at Bruce as if waiting for approval. The older checks it and he turns the S into a D, which makes the child look at him questioningly.
They sit in silence for a full minute, each doing a different thing: Bruce reads the clues and keeps himself from writing them down while Dick keeps shooting looks at him from his peripheral vision.
“Is something wrong?” Bruce finds himself asking.
“Aren’t you going to explain why you changed my answer?” Dick seems, once again, offended on a personal level. As if Bruce did something. Hn.
“The verb in the clue is in the past tense, so that means the answer is going to be conjugated in the past tense as well.” Bruce explains obviously.
“That seems absurd.”
Bruce raises a brow at the statement.
“I heard Alfred saying it once when he was talking to you.” Dick elaborates. “He said you were being absurd.”
If Bruce were less of a man and instead an ordinary person not trained to hide any sign of emotion and thought, he would be blushing in embarrassment.
Thank god he’s trained for situations like this.
“Don’t listen on people’s conversations.”
“Why not?” Dick asks, unfazed.
“Because it’s rude.”
“Why?”
“Because it is.” Bruce repeats, unable to list off why some things are just socially unacceptable and are not appropriate etiquette.
“Why—”
“And,” Bruce cuts in very eloquently, “don’t use every word you learn.”
“Why, is Alfred swearing?”
“No.”
“Then why are you telling me to not repeat what he says?”
“I’m talking about in general.”
“Oh.”
“Alfred will wash your mouth with soap if he hears you swear.” Bruce warns.
“Maybe he should wash yours because it stinks.”
Bruce frowns in confusion and decides to act as if he never heard the younger and continues on with the crossword.
They spend an entire hour solving the crossword, Dick requiring him to explain the reasoning behind each clue and wanting to solve each one (he still relies on Bruce’s elaborations). The cookie jar’s emptying process has been slowed down by Dick forgetting the existence of the cookies.
Bruce notes that the child beside him has become more silent (he was absolutely not worried that all the progress has been erased for a second there) and is engaging less and less in the activity.
“You’re dozing off.” Bruce states, his tone robotic and not like his parents’.
Dick hums, his eyes half-lidded.
“You can’t even open your eyes right now.” the older says. “Come on.”
Dick grumbles unhappily from the nudging but gets up anyway. He doesn’t ask Bruce to carry him like his father used to, like a sack of potatoes. Bruce doesn’t offer (honestly, the idea doesn’t even come to his mind) but he walks him to his bedroom door and watches as Dick closes it and wishes goodnight.
Bruce stands in front of the door as still as a statue like he did an hour ago, wondering if his parents used to do this as well (of course, by no means is he a parent—but seeing that 8 year old grieving child has brought up some memories more than ever).
Just as he’s about to head to his own bedroom, what Dick’s said earlier comes to mind and he holds a hand close to his mouth to test out if his mouth really smells or not.
It has retained the mint odor of his toothpaste from when he brushed his teeth before going to sleep.
“You little—”
“Ah, Master Bruce.” Alfred comes in behind him. “Just who I was looking for. Would you have any information on the disappearance of half of the cookies that I have prepared?”
Bruce sighs and rubs his temple.