“Home”

A boy was missing.

With so many murderers and killers and perverts in Gotham City, the boy was probably dead already if not scarred for life. To be honest, the case wasn’t much different from hundreds of others the Batman saw in the many years since he began his crusade. That changed with four words.

“Richard John Grayson-Wright,” Gordon said. “Fourteen, blue eyes, black hair, slim build.”

Batman’s jaw tightened. “The boy from the Flying Grayson murder case six years ago.”

The detective to Gordon’s left nodded, his hands stuck in his pockets to hide their trembling. “Yes, my son. He’s been missing since this morning. I know that I can’t legally register him as missing for another eight hours, but…”

Studying the man with narrowed eyes, Batman made note of the thick muscles under the trench coat and dress shirt. The kind face was betrayed by the dark eyes, and when one hand peeked out of a pocket, splotchy brown scabs decorated his knuckles.

“What do you know?” Batman demanded.

The raucous tone in his voice perked up Gordon’s eyebrow, but Wright did nothing more than run a distraught hand through his short brown hair. “As far as I knew, everything was fine last night. We picked up dinner at Burger King, watched 24, and then went to sleep. When I went to wake him up this morning, he was missing.”

Batman accepted the folder from Gordon. “He didn’t say something unusual? Do something unusual, no matter how minute?”

Wright’s thumb scrapped across his stubble like sandpaper and shook his head. “Nothing that I know of. Look, Batman, I know it’s not much to go on, but Richie’s a good kid. A great kid. More importantly, he’s my kid. Please…anything you can do…”

Batman snapped shut the folder and thrust it back into Gordon’s hand. “I’ll look into it.”

Without another word, he turned and leapt off the rooftop of the police headquarters. He threw a line and swung a few levels down before landing on a windowsill.

Richard Grayson.

Even with his eyes open, he still saw the trapeze artists fall, still heard the resounding cracks as bones crushed under flesh, still saw the distraught boy who was left to pick up the pieces.

Now this?

Time was of the essence. He and Gordon were already farther behind than they should have been, and opening the window, he entered and waited until the door opened less than a minute later.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Gordon didn’t even jump and walked past the Dark Knight to flip on a desk lamp. “I don’t know how much you’ve kept up, but the boy was adopted by the policeman who took him home that night.”

“Wright made detective two years ago.”

A loud sigh. “Well, to be honest, something’s always been wrong about Wright. His wife disappeared similarly less than a week after his advancement. She was later found in an alley, apparently a victim of a botched robbery.” Gordon shrugged. “After that happened, the boy seemed to come here after school on a daily basis. Wright didn’t seem to trust him at home.”

“Abuse,” Batman concluded.

Gordon nodded and lit a cigarette. “How’d you figure?”

“His knuckles were scabbed, like he’d hit something repeatedly. Fitness experts tape their hands to prevent injury. His trembling—it wasn’t from fear but from anger, and if there really were no signs of a struggle, then the boy most likely ran away.”

“The cause of Wright’s anger,” Gordon agreed. “The boy was always a little jumpy, especially around Wright. Never saw the kid longer than a minute alone and never got him to open up about anything…damn city.” He took in a drag. “Just when I think I can quit these, a case like this comes along.”

“But it’s worse than a simple game of hide and seek,” Batman wondered out loud as he retracted to the window.

Coughing in mid-drag, Gordon croaked out, “Always is in Gotham.”

“The glock in Wright’s holster—It’s not department issued.”

Gordon froze. “You think the kid took it?”

Batman gave one rigid nod. “The real question is: What does he plan to do with it?”

The knowledge weighed on both their minds and stole any words from the two men before Batman ducked under the blinds. “I’ll find him.”

“If you can. Richie didn’t come with Wright to work this past week. Makes me think he’s been gone longer than we want.”

“If he’s lucky, then he’s out of Gotham—for good.”

*^*^*

The boy’s room was cleaner than most children’s Dick’s age with the desk all but organized and nothing littering the floor. The boy’s closet was filled mostly with non-designer dregs and nothing illegal in the pockets. His magazines only consisted of automobiles and comic books, not even one Playboy. His garbage held no addresses for Batman to track, and other than torn out pages of a math notebook, it was a dead end.

Once Batman had thoroughly went through everything of substance, he stood in the middle of the room and looked about the boy’s compartmentalized existence. He was a circus brat, a carnie kid, yet there wasn’t one piece of evidence to prove that fact. If Batman hadn’t known the boy at all, he would have sworn he was nothing more than a cop’s son, born and bred in Gotham.

But he wasn’t. If the boy was scared and hopeless and fearing for his life, just where would he go? Where would Bruce had gone at Dick’s age?

Batman narrowed his eyes again. He had nothing about his past life. Either Wright didn’t want the boy to remember his parents or the boy had taken everything with him, planning to leave. And if he had, he would have wanted to go some place safe, some place familiar.

He turned to leave—and stopped. The Dark Knight’s eyes narrowed onto a certain piece of wood along the baseboard, its color slighter brighter than the rest. With a knife, Batman pried the piece of wood from the floor and revealed a small hiding spot. Inside were stuffed a ratty and torn up edition of the Gotham Gazette with a small story cut out.

“Boy Wonder” was the headline, followed by the teaser: “Circus Acrobat talks about a life of showbiz and how to avoid coulrophobia.”

Batman closed his eyes. Summer Gleason should have known better. Her copywriter should have known better. Didn’t they even realize what they did?

“What do you mean, you lost the boy?”

Batman lifted his head as a muffled voice replied too low for him to here, followed by a slap across the face.

“You were supposed to keep an eye on him until the boss decided what to do with him!” Another slap. “How the hell did you lose a fourteen-year-old kid?”

The oof! sounded loud enough even for Batman to hear it upstairs, but the shattering of glass and the breaking of furniture truly urged him to the stop of the stairs.

“Oh, you’re sorry. Oh, he’s sorry, boys. Yeah, I’d sure like to hear you say that to the boss. I’m sure he’d get a riot out of that.”

Batman’s hands curled into fists as he recognized the Narrows’ accent in the heavy voice and the Blackgate chortle.

Tony Zucco.

*^*^*

The Funtown Pier out on Gotham Harbor was once the premiere family fun attraction in the city. During the Depression, it closed down and remained a shell of its once paramount glory. Batman lifted his binoculars to see the rusted scenery but no signs of life.

Zucco was a lowlife, one of the worst types of scum on the planet, but he sure could sing like a canary when thrown from a twenty-story building.

The thought only crossed his mind for a second that this could, in fact, be a trap, but the safety of the boy was more important.

The boy who had unwittingly been placed in harm’s way by the police.

On Batman’s watch.

Before he even finished the thought, Batman threw a line and swung toward the roof of the Funhouse. Sure enough, the mirrored room would have a glass ceiling, and he let go of the rope to crash through the glass and drop the sixty or so feet to the ground.

A macabre, maniacal laughter bounced on the multiple mirrors surrounding the Dark Knight. His eyes narrowed, and his reached under his cape

“Well, look who decided to drop in unannounced! You know, you really should have called first. I would have put out a spread—or at least spread someone about the funhouse for you to find. Our own little scavenger hunt.”

Batman glanced from one mirror to the other, searching for any indication of an escape. “Where’s the boy?”

“Oh, he’s enjoying himself, even though he doesn’t get the joke.”

Before him, a mirror reflected a young boy, his blue eyes wide with fright, his hands slapped against his pale cheeks. His mouth was contorted in a twisted, Joker smile, laughing hysterically from a dose of gas.

Batman had less than ninety seconds before the boy laughed himself to a heart attack.

Tossing the explosives, the mirrors shattered about him, and he pushed forward when the path out became clear. Weaving between the halls, he kept throwing explosives until he reached double doors, at which time he broke gas bombs against the ground. As he emerged from the cloud, he flung batarangs at the clown guards. Bullets ricocheted at his feet and about his cape until the batarangs disarmed the guards, and with swift kicks, he stood alone before a monitor showing the Joker and his disappointed exterior.

“Well, you are just no fun.”

“WHERE IS HE?”

Joker raspberried at the screen. “Hey, I’m an educator here! This boy should be in Arkham rather than me.”

Another explosive took out the monitor before Batman dropped his heat vision lenses and zeroed in on the energy signatures on the second level. He switched instantly to night vision and hurried over the cockeyed moving conveyer belts, careful not to step on the purple arrows. He flipped over the glass floor, which usually had a metal beam underneath, though Batman could see spikes waiting to catch him. He flicked on his heat sensing lenses again and moved under the prone figure and threw up a plastic explosive.

The roof gave way, and Batman ducked the chunks of concrete but dove forward to catch the jean-cladded teen. The boy’s twisted laughter mixed with huffing weaves as his body began to give out, and Batman made a point to catch the boy’s frightened eyes. He knew another person, especially in a mask, brought more fear to him, but he hoped the boy would understand.

“It’s going to be okay,” Batman promised as he reached inside his belt for a tranquilizer. As he dropped to his knees, still cradling the boy, he pulled the cover off the needle with his teeth. Lifting the needle gun, he placed it against Dick’s arm—

“No team teaching!”

A hard object knocked Batman’s cowl, and grunting, the Dark Knight dropped the boy. A kick to the chin sent Batman tumbling away from Grayson, his back slamming hard against a laughing clown. His vision swirled in the darkened room, though he caught splotches of red and black and purple.

“You just can’t let me have a little fun, can you? You just have to ruin everything! Well, not this time! HARL-EEE! Mind giving our student-teacher his pink slip!”

“No problem, Mr. J!”

Batman grunted when a kick slammed into the side of his face and a punch followed, but his mind and eyes snapped to focus when he heard the dying wheezes of the boy. He glared under Harley’s leg to see the smile fade from Grayson’s lips. His chest contractions slowed, and his eyes slipped shut.

Another innocent lost to the insanity of Gotham criminals.

Clenching his teeth until blood washed over his tongue, Batman snatched Harley’s foot when it came at him again, and with a violent twist, he stole a resounding crack and an agonized shriek from the girl. As she rocketed to the ground, he backhanded her into unconsciousness and then pitched forward toward the clown crouching down at the corpse, poking and prodding the boy.

“You make me sick!” Batman growled, punching the clown in the face. He felt his knuckles crack the cheek. “You killed that boy’s parents.”

“Ugh! They needed to lighten up!”

Batman kicked him against the wall. “You arranged for him to be in a home where he would be beaten.”

“Slapstick.”

A punch, a backhand, and a heel strike. “Then when he found out and came to bring you to justice, you tortured him. And for what?” Batman’s bloodied gloves contorted about Joker’s neck, causing him to cough and choke. “All because he didn’t have a fear of clowns.”

“And now he does!” the maniacal clown croaked. “Get it? Get it!”

The scary part: Batman did.

“Or at least he should,” Batman disagreed, “but not for long.”

He squeezed until the Joker clawed at his hands, imploring for the life he deprived of Grayson; begged for air, the same air he stole from Grayson; and Batman—Batman laughed.

“…Mister…?” a weak voice pleaded, exhausted beyond belief, but it halted Batman in his insane rage. “…you—you don’t kill, do you?”

Batman’s hands loosened about the Joker’s neck until they simply held the clown’s collar, and the Dark Knight glanced over his shoulder to see the boy. Grayson, alive but barely, looked at him with those glistening eyes of innocence, encircled by black lines of exhaustion. Lying upon the ground, the boy couldn’t even stand or sit, but in his hand he held the needle gun, which had held the tranquilizer. He had administered the antidote himself.

“He deserves it,” Batman whispered.

“Yes, he does, and I wanted to,” Dick agreed, struggling to reach inside his jacket. He extracted a gun—Wright’s gun—before dropping his head to his outstretched arm. “But it’s not our place.”

There was one thing Wright got right. The boy was the best there was.

Sickening laughter sounded from the bloodied being in his hands, and to Batman’s dismay, he saw the boy tremble.

“I still win…” the Joker jingled, and with his nerves short, Batman pounded with all his might into the Joker’s nose. Blood spurted from the clown’s nostrils, but after he slammed into the wall and subsequently the ground, he remained unmoving.

When Batman turned, he found the boy the same way.

*^*^*

He flinched. Even though silence greeted him in consciousness, even though he had yet to open his eyes, even though he just felt a presence standing over him, Dick flinched, knowing what the next motion to entail.

Pain. Nothing but pain, like the last six years have been.

“I most assuredly mean you no harm, Master Richard. You needn’t worry here.”

If the English accent wasn’t enough of a shock, then the title slapped him across the face.

“Master Richard?” Who the hell talked like that?

Dick’s eyes shot open, and even though the overhead light at first blinded him, his eyes eventually adjusted. When they did so, an older, balding man with a gentle face of a grandfather and the loving smile of friend would have soothed him at one time in his life. He had learned to become wary of those openly friendly. They seemed to give the greatest harm. At least, the Joker did, not that he suspected anything else.

He immediately sat upward, his hands moving to pull his sweat shirt sleeves closer to his body, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t wearing his sweatshirt. Instead, silk pajamas three times bigger than his body hung off him, and the only part of his clothing that actually fit was a white tanktop that hugged his torso.

“I would not advise simply sitting there, Master Richard. In this damp cave, you might catch cold,” the Englishman said.

Dick flinched again when the man reached past his body and brought up the warm blanket, draping it over his shoulders. Wrapping it tightly, the man smiled gently.

“You must be hungry, lad. Do you like pancakes?”

The man wore a suit with a bow-tie like he was heading off toward a banquet.

But they were in a cave.

And not just any cave but a big-ass cave.

Dick’s breath caught in his chest as his eyes lifted and encompassed the entire cave—or how far he could actually see. Immediately surrounding them was a medical facility, complete with monitors and equipment, while across a wide chasm a large computer complete with a movie theatre-sized monitor rose into the heavens.

His mind reeled. Just where was he? What happened to the funhouse and the Joker? Where were Batman and the police? Hell, were they even in Gotham? And what about—

“Who are you?” he practically demanded, though his voice never rose above a whisper.

The man arched his shoulders slightly but never fell to a bow. “You may call me Alfred, and you must be famished. Breakfast, young sir?”

Breakfast? Depending on who was making it and why he was making it and—and—He brought his legs up onto the table and drew them to his chest before wrapping the blanket about his shoulders, successfully cutting himself off from the man.

“Young sir, I’ll make you anything you want. Now, what is it you desire?” Alfred asked again. “Eggs, pancakes, waffles? Perhaps you wish for dinner. I have been told my macaroni and cheese is rather delectable.”

“Home.”

Alfred leaned forward. “Pardon me?”

The words slipped through his mouth before he realized it. “I wanna go home.”

“That’s no longer possible.”

Instead of his head shooting up, Dick sunk further into his shell, his eyes ever so slowly turning toward the abrasive voice of his savior. The Batman came forward with his cape’s tail clutched in his hands. When he met Dick’s eyes, the boy went numb as if held by some unknown force. He only seemed to breathe again when Batman turned to the elderly man.

“Buttermilk.”

“Very good, sir.”

As Alfred began toward the large windy stairs leading upward, Dick murmured, “I like buckwheat.”

Alfred turned with a tender smile and nodded. “I believe we have the ingredients necessary. I shall start immediately.”

Then he left, leaving Dick alone with the Dark Knight.

“Richie—”

“It’s Dick.”

Batman stepped forward, his back completely straight. “Your father calls you ‘Richie.’”

Dick averted his eyes and tightened the blanket about his shoulders. “He’s not my father.”

The Dark Knight took a deep breath. “Understood.”

“So…” Dick fidgeted under his blanket before venturing to meet the older man’s eyes. “…what’s going to happen now?”

“Tomorrow morning, I’ll take you to the police.”

“What!” Panic surged through Dick, and his head jerked up. “I—I can’t go back. I won’t go back.”

“Then what do you plan to do? Live on the streets? You didn’t survive a week.”

Dick buried his face in his knees as the real night terrors replayed in his mind. He didn’t care what the Urban Legend said. He would never go back.

Of course, the Dark Knight would probably never let him stay here…wherever here was.

A firm hand dropped onto his shoulder, and it shocked Dick that he didn’t flinch. “Zucco sung to me, but he will not admit that he murdered your parents to the police. The only way for them to see justice is for you to testify.”

“What about Wright’s e-mails? I found them, and they—”

“I went back to the house afterward. Your computer is gone, and when I accessed the account from here, the letters were deleted. You are the only key linking your parents’ murder to Joker. Even now, you still have the gas in your blood. If we can get you to police headquarters in time for a blood test, it can be taken as physical evidence.”

“What makes you think if they destroyed everything linking him, they won’t destroy me, too? Wasn’t that the original idea of putting me in Wright’s custody?”

For a moment, silence overtook the Dark Knight, and Dick leaned back, believing a hit to be forthcoming. It never came, though, as the Batman drew his cape closed. “That was a transgression against you, one that will not happen again.”

“And you can guarantee that? The police are the ones who put me with Wright to begin with, and he is a cop. They’ll just—”

“Gordon is a good cop. He will help you.”

“Or he’ll—”

Batman’s hand hardened upon Dick’s shoulder. “Wright will never touch you again. That I can promise.”

Anger twisted Dick’s face, and he threw off his blanket to stand. “You promise? How the hell can you make a promise like that? You’re nothing more than an urban legend, and once you leave, the cops will do what they want. They’ll cover their tracks, and even if they don’t give me back to Wright, they’ll just shove me in another foster house where Wright or Zucco’s people come to finish the job.

“All you did was prolong the inevitable. That’s what you’ve done countless times. You catch the crooks, sure, but you don’t see them through the justice system. And tomorrow, you’ll just wash your hands of me.”

His eyes drifted downward, and he retreated to the bed, pulling the blanket back around his shoulders.

Two strong hands grabbed his shoulders, granting him a warmth he hadn’t felt in six years.

The Dark Knight, the bane of Gotham’s underworld, gave him comfort.

Why’d the man even care?

Batman brushed the boy’s hair back from his forehead. “Rest today. Worry about tomorrow then. At least for the moment, you are safe.”

Without another word, the Batman left, marching up the same stairs the butler had.

Dick wasn’t sure what happened to the Englishman, who never returned. Instead, Dick climbed back onto the bed and pulled the covers about his body, shivering and sniffling at what tomorrow would bring. He wasn’t sure when he exactly fell asleep, only that when he awoke, he was on a couch and back in his ratty jeans and sweatshirt. Still, an elderly man greeted him, but this time, with a mustache and a thick head of hair.
“Hey, Richie. Good to see you, son.”

Gordon—holding a package of buckwheat pancakes.

*^*^*

“Aah, he won’t talk,” Gordon commiserated almost ten hours later, his words sullen. From behind two-way glass, he and his visitor watched the boy at the table. “It’s like he’s afraid of us or something.”

“Well, can you blame him, Jim? The boy’s foster father was one of your men. He probably thinks you’ll cover for Wright.” Bruce Wayne sipped the cop-made coffee and mused mildly how he wished it to be a vanilla latte. Police coffee, though strong, was not gourmet, and the best drink he could offer he needed to keep warm in a thermos. His secret weapon. “Why don’t you let me have a chat with him? Maybe I can convince him to say something.”

“Be my guest,” Gordon sighed. “I’ve tried everything, and if he doesn’t speak soon, I’m going to have no choice but to hand him back to Wright. Without evidence, all I’ve got is a hearsay case with my key witness being a person who doesn’t exist—at least on paper and in a courthouse.”

Bruce patted Gordon on the shoulder, taking out a thermos as he was buzzed inside. As he entered, Dick Grayson’s eyes hardly rose, instead deciding to watch the fascinating table. The boy wrapped within himself, one arm about his knees, another across his chest and shoulder, closing him off from the rest of the world. The various bruises upon his face and neck made him look like a Juvie-case, but his eyes, haunted and lackluster, showed his youth.

He was a baby.

“Hey, Dick. Remember me?”

Now, Dick’s perplexed eyes met Bruce’s and with slight widening, sent his mouth agape. “Y—You’re Bruce Wayne.”

Well, at least he got three words out of the kid. An improvement for sure.

“That’s what I’ve been told. Are you thirsty? My valet makes a mean cup of hot chocolate.” Unbuttoning his jacket and sitting across from Dick, Bruce unscrewed the top of the thermos and poured some of the delicious smelling liquid into the cup.

Dick averted his eyes. “Why are you here, Mr. Wayne?”

“Well, Commissioner Gordon asked me come. I—I’m sorry to bring this up, but I was there the night your parents were murdered.” His voice lowered to whisper, and he reached out to pat the boy’s knee.

The boy didn’t flinch.

“You were originally going to come with me until the police decided it might be better for you seek shelter with one of their own.”

Dick glared down at the hand until slowly, Bruce reclaimed it. “No one ever told me that.”

“Well, I don’t know how much you know about me, but my parents were killed similarly to yours.”

Dick’s eyes seeped closed, and again, he crept withdrew into himself.

“It’s…hard—for lack of a better word—to go on after something like that. It’s even harder when you’ve have the last few years you’ve had. But I can promise you, things will get better, Dick. All you have to do is talk to me.”

“About what?” Dick eyed him warily.

“Well,” Bruce offered the cup of hot chocolate again, “you can start by what you’ve been doing since you ran away a little over a week ago.”

Dick didn’t move for it. “I—I can’t.”

“Why not? I’m sure any stealing of food or drink the cops will overlook.”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“I just can’t, all right?” the boy snapped and pulled on his hood to cover his face. “Leave me alone.”

“Fair enough.” Bruce stood and re-buttoned his jacket. “After all, I guess that would be what I would want the most in the world if I was being beaten by my foster father, was afraid his colleagues would cover for him, and simply wanted to escape.” He retreated toward the door. “Just let me leave you with one piece of advice, Dick. There is always more than one solution.”

As Bruce grabbed the door handle, a buzz sounded to let him know the door unlocked, but before he even opened it, a murmured cry stopped him.

“…wait.”

Bruce turned back. “Yes?”

Dick’s eyes seemed to glow in the shadows of his hood. “You called me ‘Dick’.”

Bruce nodded. “So I did. I just remembered what you were called when introduced at the circus. I apologize if I misspoke.”

“No.” Dick shook his head and dropped one foot to the floor. “I—It’s okay. That’s what my parents used to call me.”

Bruce took a step toward the table. “My mother used to call me ‘Brucie.’ I am happy to say, though, that particular name has not become essentially well-known.”

That created a small miracle—a tiny smile upon the boy’s face. “Y—You said my foster father beat me.”

“I did.” Bruce sat down again. “I also suspect you know what happened to his wife, and the reason you’ve been coming to his work every day is so he knows you won’t runaway and tell.”

Dick hesitantly took the cup on the table, sniffed it twice, and finally took a sip. “Cinnamon?”

“I would suspect that is the secret ingredient, but my valet likes his secrets almost as much as I do.” Bruce smiled.

Dick took another sip before taking a long gulp. “You have a lot of secrets, Mr. Wayne?”

“ ‘Bruce,’ and let’s just say I have been known to keep a few.”

“What happened if those secrets were to be told to the wrong people, and you just don’t know who the right people are to tell them to?”

Bruce inhaled sharply before pouring more chocolate into the boy’s cup. “Life hasn’t been easy for you, has it, Dick?”

Tears shimmered in the boy’s eyes, even though he refused to meet Bruce’s gaze, and he ducked his head. “I—I just want to go home, sir.”

“Home? With Wright?”

“No.”

Bruce closed his eyes and for a moment, saw Alfred’s face, distraught and uncertain. “Can we go home?” he’d asked Alfred all those years.

He hadn’t meant Wayne Manor. He’d meant a sanctuary, a place he was safe and loved.

“You can go home,” he told Dick, once more in the present. “That I can promise.”

Dick snorted in his cup. “You can’t guarantee something like that.”

“Hell, I could guarantee you vote of the Security Council today if you wanted; that’s how rich I am. I can also guarantee that anything you say today will not leave this room. Commissioner Gordon is a good friend of mine and a better man. He’ll make sure you stay safe.”

“And why should I trust you?”

It wasn’t said with anger or frustration, simply exasperated pain and longing, distrust.

Bruce couldn’t blame the boy. “Because I’m not afraid of clowns either.”

Dick’s head shot up. His mouth opened every so slightly, and whatever words he was going to say died upon his lips. He simply sat and stared at Bruce for the longest time, uncertainty and assurance masking his eyes.

Bruce eventually leaned to whispered, “One word, Dick. All you have to say is one word, and he’ll be locked up in a tiny cell in Blackgate for the rest of his miserable existence. That’s all this would take to finish.”

“No,” Dick challenged, his voice grave. “That’s when it would all start.”

“Maybe, but I’ll be there with you every step of it.”

Dick eyed the older man warily before glancing in the thermos. Bruce watched the boy glance at his knuckles, seeing them immaculate, before stuttering. “Y—Yes.”

Bruce looked at the two-way mirror, and less than moment later, the door opened. Gordon came through. He took a seat next to Bruce and put a recorder down onto the table.

Taking a deep, shivering breath, Dick nursed the cup between his hands and slowly, began his story as he knew it.

*^*^*

“Ready?”

Standing before the exit doors of the police headquarters, Dick took the proverbial deep breath. He sent the older man a grimace. “Are you sure about this?”

Bruce nodded. “I am, but are you?”

Dick returned his gaze to the window, blinking against the bright light. “I was born in spotlight.”

Putting an arm around the boy, Bruce nodded to the policemen before him. “Welcome back then.”

The policemen pushed open the doors. “All right, all right, give them room!”

Reporters flocked about the walkway between the headquarters and the street, as the police made a small path for Bruce and Dick to walk.

“Mr. Wayne! Mr. Wayne!”

“Richie! Talk to me, babe!”

As the reporters clawed at the police arms, Bruce pulled the boy against his chest, his hand resting between Dick’s shoulder blades. Dick simply closed his eyes and allowed Bruce to guide him, like his parents had time and time before on the trapeze.

“What made you take on the boy?”

“Richie, is it true Detective Wright abused you?”

“Mr. Wayne, how will this affect your company?”

“Will you step down as CEO?”

“Richie, will you—”

After what seemed like an eternity, Dick felt a hand push his head down for him to get into a limo, but instead, Dick freed himself and looked back at the gaggle of reporters.

“For the record, it’s ‘Dick,’ okay? Not ‘Richie’!”

His overzealous grin immediately was met with snaps of cameras, and Bruce ruffled his hair before helping the boy in the car. Dick slid across the couch and looked back at Bruce, who was shaking his head and trying desperately to keep a grin from his face.

“Alfred—”

Dick’s head shot up.

“Take us home.”

The End