#i also have a very wonderful conversation in mind for a fanfic in the wot show verse

[oh-no-bummer]

Will this energy and frustration toward life and academic stuff finally bring me to erupt and write Siuraine Fanfiction? Who knows, not me that is certain. Time will tell, the wheel weaves as the wheel wills.

[ambiengrey]

Mentally, I was like, someone write me a fic where Bruce didn’t become Batman, he became a doctor like his father instead. He still meets all the Batkids, but just under different circumstances. I am not qualified to write doctor things, but I got to thinking about what said circumstances might be, and I didn’t want it all to just be, kid got a broken limb must go to the hosital, gets treated by Bruce ~boring~ So, I’m doing this thing this week, where I’m trying to practice writing every day, and to make it even more challenging because I hate my face, I also decided I would double my word count from the previous day’s...every day. The problem with this, is that I’m really bad at short stories, and also really bad at having ideas. Especially, apparently, for original writing. So I’ve fallen back into writing some old fanfic ideas. Except for today, when I had the above mentioned *new* fanfic idea.

Disclaimer: I am not a doctor or psychiatrist and should not be writing doctor or psychiatrist characters. I am also not ten years old, and have not been ten for over a decade, and contrary to popular belief, working with ten year olds, has not prepared me to accurately portray ten year olds in fiction. Don’t judge me too harshly. I’ve mentally developed an entire back-story for Bruce, but details may be fuzzy in the actual piece. I reached the word count goal even though the story is not finished. In my head, I’m imagining one chapter per batkid’s first encounter with Bruce, but this encounter is not even over yet. It’s 4am and I should be sleeping. Will I be adding more to this? Potentially, though I’m sure it will be wildly inaccurate medically speaking, so everyone just be prepared for that. If I *do* add more to it, I’ll probably post it to AO3 rather than here. If I can come up with a title.

[I know I haven’t been on tumblr in literal Years, but didn’t there used to be the option of adding a line between paragraphs? did I dream that? is it still there? am I not seeing it? wot]

Bruce entered the room somewhat hesitantly. Richard Grayson was already seated in the armchair. He sat upright, with his hands clasped in his lap, literally twiddling his thumbs. He looked up, visibly swallowing, eyes wide as saucers, when Bruce came in.

Bruce smiled as disarmingly as he could. He cleared his throat, shutting the door tightly and crossing the floor, intensely aware of Richard’s eyes on him. The boy watched him sit down on the couch opposite, but waited no longer for Bruce to either collect himself or start the conversation. He shifted in his seat, leaning forward; demanding Bruce’s full attention. “They said I have to talk to you,” he started, shaking his head slightly. “But I don’t really need to – I’m fine.” He nodded once, firmly. “Honest.”

Bruce’s smile had slipped, a pensive expression replacing it as he eyed the child. He was nearly tempted to lean back in his seat, put a hand to his chin and squint intently at the ten year old as though he were an x-ray or a test result in need of careful examination. Bruce caught himself at the thought. It wouldn’t do. At best, he’d scare off the boy, at worse, Richard would think he wasn’t taking him seriously, and he didn’t want to be there any more than Richard supposedly did. ‘Supposedly,’ because, Bruce suspected, the boy very much wanted to speak to someone, he just didn’t know who to speak to. As far as Richard was concerned, he had no family left. The adults presently in his life were there by necessity, as the law dictated, and not because they cared for him or wanted to help him (even if some of them did). He did not trust them and could not make himself vulnerable in front of them by confiding his true feelings, or letting this carefully cultivated mask, slip.

Bruce had done much the same thing after—

His parents.

Only, he’d had Alfred, in addition. The mask was easy to slip on when he needed to go to school or return to a life of functions and public appearances. He still wore it even now, decades later; for work, social functions, interviews—the list went on. It was nearly without burden to wear, because, it could always come off. Richard, however, did not have an ‘Alfred’ or a home, anymore, where he could remove the mask and be himself for a little while without fearing the scrutiny of others, or his own frailty.

“Hm.” Bruce took a moment to shift into a more comfortable position, and gather his thoughts in the process. He hadn’t needed to be a psychiatrist in such a long time that he doubted for a moment where to begin in approaching this situation. “That’s good,” he said agreeably. “I was asked to speak with you, because Miss Lance is concerned about your well-being.”

“Well, she doesn’t need to be,” Richard replied, his movements still indicative of nervousness, but…also impatience. “Like I said, I’m fine. So I don’t need to be here. Sorry for wasting your time.” He looked about ready to jump out of his seat and bolt from the room, but…not, Bruce thought, because he was afraid of the conversation. He didn’t want to be confronted with his feelings, but, there was more to his eagerness to leave.

“It’s only an hour,” Bruce dismissed. “And, Miss Lance is a good friend I don’t mind doing a favour for. Not to mention, she cares very deeply for the children under her charge. You’re lucky to have her.”

Richard’s shoulders seemed to drop slightly. He huffed with impatience, but responded as meekly as he had been, “Yeah. She’s been real nice.” He paused briefly, before continuing more keenly, as though a new approach had made itself known to him in the moment. “Which is why I don’t want to be wasting her time. I should go.”

“I’m afraid you can’t,” Bruce said mildly. “Miss Lance had another appointment; she had to leave. She’ll be back when our hour is up.” Bruce smiled at the boy, whose timid demeanor had slowly crumbled into one of barely concealed annoyance.

“I’ll just wait for her downstairs, then,” Richard said, holding Bruce’s gaze with a much steadier look than when Bruce had arrived.

Bruce kept his smile as serene as possible, “That’s not how it works, Richard,” he said gently.

“Dick.”

Bruce recoiled, not having expected such a candid delivery of something so inappropriate. “Excuse me?” he asked, much more sternly than he’d spoken thus far.

It was Richard’s turn to look taken aback. “I mean – me – it’s, I’m—er—” he fumbled, flustered, and looked away as he cleared his throat to answer properly, “That’s just, what people call me. It’s ‘Dick,’ not…‘Richard.’”

“Ah,” Bruce said, enlightened. “I see. Miss Lance didn’t mention…”

“She insists on calling me ‘Richard,’” he said, crossing his arms, posture slumping.

“Well, if you insist,” Bruce said. “I’ll call you ‘Dick.’”

Dick glanced at him; nodded. “Okay.”

“Until Miss Lance gets back, you and I may as well chat a little,” Bruce continued. “To pass the time.”

Dick sighed, resigned to his fate, apparently. He leaned back in the armchair, eyes on the wall. “Sure.”

“Miss Lance has been treating you well?” Bruce began.

Dick eyed him, and nodded.

“The other staff…caretakers at the orphanage,” Bruce continued slowly. “They’ve taken good care of you?”

Dick nodded again, shrugging with one shoulder. “Yeah, sure. I…have a bed, and food. It’s fine.”

“What about the other boys? Have you made any friends yet?”

Dick frowned at the floor, his crossed arms pressing tighter to his chest, “They’re fine,” he lied.

“Hm,” Bruce was frowning himself, his thoughts already turning toward how he might confront Miss Lance and the orphanage Director – about visiting the institution, perhaps, so as to observe Dick’s social circumstances firsthand before stepping any further— Absently, Bruce shook his head free of the thought. He was getting carried away again. “I…” he began, in an effort to get himself back on track, but he didn’t actually know what to say even as he started speaking. He looked over at Dick, the boy watching him with a guarded, squint-eyed expression. “I’m sorry,” Bruce said. “I was just thinking of…” He shifted, and started over, “I used to speak to children all the time. It was my job. Children like you and I, sometimes,” he gestured between them, allowing himself to be as honest as possible. “Who…lost their families without warning, without…being able to do anything about it—”

“I didn’t lose my family,” Dick cut in, the young boy’s tone almost…scathing. Bruce had meant to steer the conversation into a specific direction, meaning to coax Dick into confiding in him the specifics of his relationships with the other boys at the orphanage, but, Dick had derailed his entire scheme with this interruption. “We weren’t in a crowd and I let go of their hands and couldn’t see them anymore.” Bruce’s head was clearer than it had been when he’d started on his tangent. Though thoughts of his own parents, his own loss, crept at the fringes of his mind, they were kept at bay by the need to listen to this young boy, whose loss was much more present, much more potent and all-consuming, even as he claimed fineness.

“Then?” Bruce prodded, when Dick’s gaze shifted from him almost abruptly, and affixed once more to the wall instead. As though the mask had shifted to reveal some bare skin for a moment, and the boy was determined to cover it once more as though nothing had happened. “What do you call it?” Bruce paused for a reply, but added, when none was immediately forthcoming, “What happened to your family, Dick?”

The boy pulled his legs up toward his chest, shoes on the seat cushion. He sunk impossibly lower into the chair. “They…” he began quietly, just when Bruce assumed there’d be no answer after all, “Were taken from me.”

“Hm,” Bruce said, which prompted Dick’s gaze back toward him.

“You don’t believe me either,” the boy accused with a glare.

“That’s not what I said,” Bruce replied quickly. “I’m only wondering what exactly you mean by that. ‘Taken’ from you? Your parents fall, Dick,” he said gently, “Was an accident.”

Dick clicked his tongue and looked resentfully away again, “No. It wasn’t.”

He said no more, and, for a moment, Bruce allowed the silence to linger. “If this is true, Dick…what you’re suggesting is – your parents were murdered.” Dick made no reply and didn’t look over to Bruce either. The boy was keeping his guard up. This was the moment, Bruce thought. This was the way to win Dick’s confidence and trust. Every adult he’d confided in with this belief had rejected him. Ascribed his suspicions to the insurmountable grief of a small child not mature enough to navigate it sensibly, thereby desperately needing an explanation that made his parents death seem less random, leading him to invent a fantasy with a villain some hero could fight against as in a cartoon or comic book, to help him cope. An all-consuming idea he’d started to believe in so passionately, the reality was no longer a palpable option for him and anyone who could not agree, was not on his side.

This is why Miss Lance had wanted Bruce to see Dick. This was the trouble he was having. Why he wasn’t allowing himself to be supported by the new people in his life. Why he refused to adjust to his present circumstances. His parents’ death had gone unavenged. He believed there was justice to be paid, but no one would pay it.

Bruce…could relate.