#bruce truly has no idea what normal children ate like

[spacedace]

Bruce is grateful for the fact that Damian has made friends, he is.

He's happy that his son has met children his own age at school and befriended them. That he is growing from that prickly, unhappy, scarred child he'd first been when he'd come to live with Bruce. That his friends are even normal kids - baring Jon, who is still normal enough despite being the son of Superman and occasionally a super hero himself - with no links to anything strange or dangerous or illegal.

"Oh, sup B."

He just wished that his son's friends were also just a little less...feral.

"Hello Elle."

Elle Nightingale gave him a little wave with the lemon she was holding - or as best as she could considering the space she was working with - and smiled cheekily at him. Bruce felt a headache budding behind his eyes.

"I thought Alfred banned you from the kitchen?" She shifted a bit, nudging a bottle of milk - farm fresh, courtesy of the Kents, passed along via Jon as thanks for looking after him for the weekend. Bruce wished he'd had the foresight to expect that Jonathan Kent staying over for the weekend would mean that Elle, her cousin Billy and their friend BL - the children refused to say the girl’s real name, likely to spite Damian, and thr initials had been a compromise to calling her Box Lunch - would take it as them being permitted to stay over for so long as well. Damian had just given Bruce a an unimpressed look when he'd expressed his surprise at the sudden influx of twelve year olds in his home. As if Bruce was disappointing him at being so foolish as to think his entire pack of hellhounds wouldn't be invading enmass.

"Just getting a snack." He assured her, not wanting her to being the wrath of Alfred down upon his head. The hellions liked doing that, for some reason. "I don't suppose you could tell me what exactly you're doing in my fridge." Bruce tried, looking at the girl curled up in what should have been a deeply uncomfortable position between a few shelves of the large appliance.

Elle grinned. Her canines looked a little too sharp in the odd light of the fridge. Bruce really had to stop thinking of his sons friends as demonic hellions, he was starting to impose impossible features on them when he was sleep deprived.

"We're playing hide and seek." She made direct, unblinking eye contact with him as she brought the whole lemon to her mouth and took a bite out of it like it was an apple. "It’s Day's turn to seek." She added, lemon juice dripping down her chin as she swallowed her bite, rind and all.

Well at least she was getting enough vitimin C.

"Right." He nodded, deciding that it wasn't cowardice that led him not wanting to get involved. No, it was just...good parenting. Letting the kids be kids. It was a sleepover, and Damian was actually playing a game! That was something to be encouraged! Bruce wasn't fleeing from this particular group of children's brand of chaos at all. "...could you hand me one of the fruit cups Alfred made earlier?"

Elle obliged on the condition Bruce didn't tell Damian about her hiding spot and returned to happily eating her...whole lemon...as he shut the fridge door on her.

As he returned to his office he glanced out one of the manor's large windows long enough to see Billy stick his head out from the top of the twelve foot tall topiaries out on the front lawn, checking to see if Damian was about. Bruce shook his head, kids and their ability to climb impossible structures never ceased to amaze him. Billy should be careful not to keep trying to peak for Damian though, he was going to end up getting found that way.

[bluegarners]

The Call

Later in life, he’ll understand it was the void that spoke to him. Right now though, it screams in Dick’s ears.

When he was younger, maybe between the age of five or six, he heard it. The particular wording wasn’t exactly correct, he never actually heard anything, there was no sound or noise to hear, but he understood it.

It was a call. A command. And whenever it surfaced, it was loud and it was in his face until he listened and did whatever it asked of him.

When he first heard it, he was with his parents, practicing for their next performance. It was normal and peaceful. But when he mounted the bars and was reaching out to grasp the swinging rope before him, it spoke and tugged gently.

Stop.

At the time, he hadn’t known what it was. It was soft, quiet even, but it had startled him enough to the point where his grip slackened, and he was falling. The feel of air rushing past you, whistling in your ear like a taunt as the world laughed; the first time you feel it, you never forget it.

He was lucky. It was only a practice and the safety net had caught him before gravity had had its way with him. His parents had been frantic, leaping down to help him and reassure themselves. It had been scary seeing a Grayson fall. Graysons flew, toyed with the idea of plummeting like it was merely a myth. To see one shot down, so suddenly, so quickly, and so young, it was horrifying.

Dick did not perform that night.

When his parents died, flashes of red, yellow, and green, it whispered again. It tickled against his ears, brushed against his hair, as he looked down at the brokenness of their bodies, displayed and framed with pools of black against the sawdust. 

Follow.

It had only been a whisper, just a breath, and he had dismissed it. The shrieks of the crowd below, the shouts of the ringmaster demanding for everyone to remain calm, his fellow performers stock still like statues. It was easy to dismiss a whisper when there was chaos. When the police came and the sirens ceased their wailing, everything was silent and weightless, like the world had forgotten what noise was.

When the social worker told him that he could not continue traveling with the circus and was instead to remain in Gotham, be “placed” in an orphanage like he was some object, some discarded thing that needed to be relocated, he was angry. He was upset. He was baffled. He was ten.

In those few months he spent with the other dozens of “placed” children, Dick Grayson was a lot of things, but none of them what he wanted to be. There was an endless buzz deep within his bones, a steady thrum in his head that would not dissipate no matter how many nights he snuck out or how many purse snatchers and petty thieves he beat with his fists. The kids he roomed with, ate with, shared a bathroom with, knew he was a circus freak. That he was some weirdo who could perform tricks on command like a dog. That the people who he had once called family were all thousands of miles away from Gotham and buried in some nameless cemetery with plain gravestones.

One day, as he lay in his rotted mattress, the nagging, ceaseless, ever present urge to flee covering his entire being, another social worker came by and told him he was going to be taken away by Bruce Wayne. That the man had offered, in a generous and beautiful display of sympathy and desire to help, to take the ten year old in as his ward. That he better behave and thank the man when he came to pick him up and smile for the cameras when they flashed in his face.

Dick was confused. He was desperate. He was grateful to be rescued from the looming and smelly walls. Mostly, though, he was indifferent.

Arriving at the Wayne Mansion was overwhelming and scary. It was absurdly large, immaculately clean, and much too empty. Most of his first week getting “settled”, because that’s what you have to do when you relocate and get removed, you must settle for what you have, was spent with the singular butler. Dick found it impressive that the older man was in charge of maintaining every detail in the massive home, but he soon saw reason for it.

Bruce was never there. He was always working, always away, and too busy to properly help “settle” his new ward, of which he had yet to explain. Why? Why him? Why this random orphaned boy out of the other hundreds of more pitiable kids?

Alfred tried his best to explain it to him, that Bruce saw himself in Dick because they had both become orphaned at such a young age, and god, didn’t that sting? To be reminded in such a stark manner? To be told his sole purpose in occupying space in the Wayne household was because of a mutual trauma?

And then one night, it makes sense. He discovers the secret to Bruce Wayne and his near constant absence. And he wants in.

When it comes time, after three days of convincing, a week of searching and preparing, and two days staking out, Dick is ready. The mask he wears hides his eyes, hides the fury, the hatred, the absolute glee he feels as his fist drives into the man who took everything from him. Over and over again, and he thinks he’s smiling when he pauses for a moment to truly look into the bloody and disfigured face he’s beating. 

Do it.

It had been months since he’d last heard it, last felt it, but he thinks he’s ready to listen. No more startling, no more ignoring. In fact, he might even embrace it. 

There’s a batarang in his hand before he’s even processed it all, reeling back his arm to deliver the final blow, to avenge his parents, avenge the life that could’ve been his but was instead snatched from underneath him all because of some stupid money. Some fucking paper bills. 

Do it.

“Robin, that’s enough.”

The weapon falls out of his grasp as if he’d been burned by it, getting up and off the unconscious man. The gloves he’s wearing are dripping, his skin hot from the red that splatters his front. Beneath the dock lighting, it almost looks black.

It begins yelling at him, pushing against his mind for every step he takes away from the misshapen body tied to the lamp post. It goes away eventually, its screams fading away into the background as days pass by. The endless thrum in him stops, the buzzing static in his bones melting away as he realizes how tired he is. 

How awfully tired and done he is.

He holes himself in his much too large room, coming out only to eat and prove he is alive. For two weeks, he keeps the same routine. He tells nothing of his thoughts from that night, nor wishes to. Alfred attempts to keep him company, assuring the ten year old that he has someone to talk to, but his lips are sealed and his head is wailing.

Finally, he emerges, and after awkward greetings, apologies, and long suffering sighs, he gets to work. Training under the Batman, becoming yet another symbol to Gotham in the form of a bird his mother loved, it keeps his head on straight. For the first time in a long time, Dick is strangely optimistic and happy.

Alfred tells him that his smiles brighten both his and Bruce’s day, even if the latter says nothing of it. He learns that Bruce, even out of the cowl and under the name Wayne, is still a very stoic and quiet man, even cold at times. But Dick reminds himself that by letting him become Robin, by letting him work by his side and live in his home, this was the billionaire’s way of showing he cared. On the good days, when Dick could get the reserved man to smile or even chuckle a tiny bit, he was a ball of light and energy, doubling down on his efforts to keep Alfred and Bruce happy with him.

Because if they grew tired of him, or his presence no longer brought joy, what would they do with him? Under a legal obligation and public image, Bruce couldn’t get rid of him so soon, but there were worse things. Like taking Robin away. Taking his only connection, his only outlet, away. Letting the buzz and the ache return.

The day he debuted officially as Batman’s sidekick, his new partner, Robin, was one of the happiest days Dick thinks he’s ever had. It’s a slow night, a slow patrol, but it’s amazing. Everything he could have ever dreamed of. When they come to rest, perched on some high rise skyscraper looking over the dingy city, Dick breathes in the smog and smiles. Next to him, Batman stands, silent and brooding, but even Robin knows that he is satisfied as well. Below them, down, down, down below, there is the city life. The homeless, the hookers, the drug dealers, the thieves, the ordinary civilians. From where they perch, the people look like ants. So tiny and minuscule. 

He’s seen this view before. Seen it in his trial runs through the city. Seen it from lower buildings. The air is thinner and just that amount colder, the wind is whistling in his ears, brushing against his hair, laughing. Taunting.

The longer he stares downward, the longer his eyes remain trained on the perhaps only dozen people below, the longer he allows the call to beckon him, the harder his heart beats. The louder the wind screams in his ears. 

You never forget it after the first time.

Jump.

It’s the first time it has echoed so loudly, so demandingly. 

Batman turns his head to stare at the boy, watching as his feet shuffle and his back hunches. There’s a strong gust, powerful enough to make his cape billow wildly, and suddenly, Robin is leaping.

Robin is plummeting.

There are no second thoughts as he fires his grapple hook, jumping down after the boy who falls so serenely. The wind bites at his face, Gotham is cold tonight, and as he yanks at the boy’s arm, securing him stiffly to his side, Batman feels his stomach churn. He hadn’t thought of this outcome.

Later, when they return to the Manor, Dick goes straight to his room, shutting the door and locking it. Bruce stays in the cave, troubled, unsure, and mildly terrified. 

“I was just playing around, B. It was no big deal.”

“What you just did was reckless and unnecessary.”

“I was gonna catch myself.”

“Were you?”

Bruce still isn’t sure what exactly had happened. The boy hadn’t shown any alarming tendencies before. Red flags all but absent. Even after consulting Alfred, both adults were stumped. Dick was happy, right?

What bothered him the most was that Robin hadn’t even reached for his grapple. There was no fear. No thrill. Nothing in his actions or posture or face that would indicate he jumped for the fun of it.

He leaped and did nothing. 

He just fell.

Dick gets “suspended” for three weeks after. Bruce never said anything, never implied a suspension or anything of the sort, but Dick knew. He stays in the Manor with Alfred, goes to school, and is quite normal. He never attended a proper school whilst traveling with the circus, and he can’t say he likes the atmosphere.

He knows he’s been forgiven when Bruce joins them for dinner, asking what he’d learned that day and investing actual thought into the conversation. When they go out for patrol, and god, does it feel good to be out again, Robin stays close to Batman and Batman keeps an eye on Robin. All goes well and nothing big happens. It’s a good night.

As time passes on, and Gotham finally learns of their new hero, all thoughts of Robin’s leap vanish. Even the villains note how chipper the smaller vigilante is beside the ever dark and stoic Bat. There are always comments about his age, speculations on why a child would be strung along for the ride. Batman ignores them and Robin sticks out his tongue. Simple.

Months pass and Dick realizes that Batman doesn’t do holidays. Bruce Wayne hosts galas and attends them, but Batman does not. When Christmas Eve arrives, and with it the seventh gala of the month, Dick tries his best to remain collected. As Bruce Wayne’s ward, he has to maintain an image, but there is an empty feeling inside when Christmas morning comes and there is no real festive cheer. A simple breakfast and a normal day accompany it, and even Christmas dinner is no more than a nice ham and some plum pudding. 

Dick cries that night. He’s never missed his parents more.

Spring arrives, and so does March 20th. Honestly, Dick hadn’t been paying attention, a small part of him perhaps even ignoring the date existed, but he’s forced to reckon with it when Alfred delivers him breakfast in bed and a small card that reads Happy Birthday.

He is eleven now. It is his first birthday, ever, where he has not been woken up by a hug pile and loud, borderline obnoxious singing from his parents. When Alfred leaves to let Dick get dressed, because “I’m taking you out shopping for a nice suit; Master Bruce has a pleasant dinner planned,” , he takes extra long in the shower, begging the hot water to do something about the numbness that’s closing in. He does not cry, he’s promised himself not to do that anymore, but he feels hollow.

Dick isn’t sure he likes his birthday anymore. It doesn’t feel the same. Not with the lavish presents, the fancy food, the primness of other rich people wishing him well and congratulations.

He wants his parents. 

He wants them to smother him and take too many pictures. 

He wants to laugh and complain when his face gets shoved into a slice of cake. 

He wants to hold them tightly and tell them he loves them.

Instead, Dick says thank you and smiles brightly.

 Later that night, when they’re back in the Manor, safe from the flashing cameras and intrusive questions,

“What’s it like to be the ward of a billionaire?”

“What were birthdays like in the circus?”

“Is it hard adjusting to normal life?”

Dick climbs out of his window and sits on the roof. Even as far away from the city as they are, light pollution steals the stars away. The sky is cloudy, the moon hidden, and Dick has never felt so small. So alone. The world is vast, larger than even he can stretch his imagination, and somewhere out there, Haly’s Circus was traveling, performing.

They must be thinking of him, right? At least one of them must remember him. He grew up in the circus, grew up around “strange” people, people he called family. He loved them, so they had to have loved him back, right? At least, once in a while, be thinking of him.

Or maybe. Maybe, he was just another act. Another stage performance. Dazzling, flashy, and brief. Time ran out, the clock struck twelve, and the show was over. Curtains close, they say goodbye, and that’s it. 

The Graysons were never supposed to be permanent.

He teeters, four stories above the ground below, and breathes. Balancing at the tip of some outdated and strangely well fit spike, Dick feels the wind come and brush against his face. Is this what he’ll always think of when the air gets cold? Of cheering crowds and brightly colored outfits? The cheers turning into screams of horror, sawdust becoming saturated with a red so black it looks like some blank and open void?

Fly.

I’m scared to, he thinks. The horizon ahead of him is endless, boundless, but the ground beneath him, just barely sixty feet away, is so close. An abrupt stop.

Fly.

When he tries to breathe in again, his lungs spasm and a short and quiet hiccup escapes instead. For the first time, Dick is scared of flying. Scared of what will happen if he falls. Scared that there will be nothing waiting for him except something cold and hard, left in another unmarked graveyard. 

Scared that no one will care if he falls.

But, it keeps telling him to go. To jump. To leap. To take flight. It’s loud and annoying and it won’t leave him alone.

He shuffles a bit, keeping his eyes fixed on the Gotham city lights. They become blurry, too obscured in his tears, and that scares him even more to think that if he falls, he won’t have the comfort of light to guide him. 

Fly.

The suit he wore to dinner is starchy against his skin, the feel of pressed fabric and metal buttons stark. He feels out of place, even by himself where no is to judge him except the sky and the open air. The jacket is too thick, too warm, and he thinks that if he were to take it off, peel back the heavy layer and throw it away, he thinks he might actually be able to do it.

Actually fly.

“Dick?”

Fly.

The breeze plays with his hair, untied shoelaces and unkempt tie fluttering. They tease him in their effortless play. How tangibly wonderful must it be to play with the wind, forgetting gravity altogether?

There’s a shadow behind him, the moon peeking out and casting a soft glow upon the moor. It’s a heavy but solid presence, the shadow that stands behind him, and somehow, he can feel the concern emanating off of them. Sometimes, he forgets that Bruce is still fairly young. Only twenty six. 

Fly.

“I’m scared,” Dick says aloud, still teetering, still balancing, still deciding. Still only eleven himself.

Fly.

“What are you scared of?”

It’s genuine, nothing mocking or patronizing, but Dick struggles to come up with an answer. Bruce is close behind him, maybe only a few feet away, tense and ready to make a grab for him. Ready to leap and snatch him out of the air again. 

Fly.

Dick wishes it would shut up. Wishes the thing would go away, out of his mind, away from his head. It always sounds so nice when he’s by himself, when there’s no one else around, and it's just whispering into his ear. Speaking of reassurance and comfort. When there are others, when more people arrive, it gets so angry. So loud. Demanding. He doesn’t like it. He hates it. It never leaves him alone.

He wants it to die. He wants it to shrivel up and never come back. He wants to…

“I’m scared of flying,” Dick finally answers, stumbling away from the edge and back onto the roof. “I don’t want to fly. I don’t want- I can’t fly anymore.”

Bruce’s arms wrap around him, secure and tight and grounding. They hold him in place, even as the wind still laughs in his ear, whisking away leaves and letting them drift gently as if to say, This is what you’re missing out on.

“That’s okay,” Bruce rumbles, voice deep and perhaps somber. “You don’t have to fly if you don’t want to.”

Fly.

“I don’t. I don’t want to.”

And Bruce nods like he understands what Dick is talking about, like he understands the sudden fright of flight. Maybe he does. Maybe he doesn’t and is merely humoring Dick. It doesn’t matter much though, the security of his hold enough to stabilize and keep him attached to the roof. 

Enough to make him stop shaking out of fear of accidentally flying.

Enough to quell the screams.