Chapter Text
Taking in Dick Grayson was a no-brainer for Bruce. After hearing how the boy was sent to a juvenile detention centre instead of an orphanage, after hearing how they wouldn’t provide any medical help to the boy, after seeing what Grayson saw that night at the circus–Bruce couldn’t in his heart of hearts let that boy live the life Gotham was ready to doom him to. He knew what a life could be like after witnessing something so horrific, he knew what it did to him.
Bruce had held the blood of his parents in his hands, scooping it up childishly in some stupid attempt to keep it where it belonged, and he watched as Dick did the same. A shaking boy with a jacket or a blanket on top of him, as if he wanted anything other than his parents’ warm hold back.
Dick didn’t deserve that.
Not when there was so much in his eyes. So much love–for his parents, for being an acrobat, for being who he was. Nobody would take him, not as quickly as they needed to. He’d suffer for years in juvie before being released out into the world, into a city known for chewing people up and spitting them out.
He knew that night that his mission had to change. When the officer involved calmly told him that due to Dick’s age and lack of additional carers, he’d just go to juvie, Bruce knew that the problem was so much bigger than he could have possibly imagined.
Who could have known that the coastal city of Gotham had enough problems to fill the country?
It had been two days since the incident, Bruce had just returned from patrol and Alfred sat in wait. Bruce’s overgrown and uncared for hair fell over his face when he removed his cowl, he pushed it back and sighed.
Since he had returned–from his journeys or from the dead, that was up to everyone else to decide–Bruce had only eyes for his mission. Not for cutting his hair or remembering to bathe every night, the habit had eluded him after years abroad, barely knowing when his next meal would show up, let alone an opportunity to shower. Bruce didn’t care for anything other than Vengeance, justice at times, vengeance mainly.
Not that Alfred was surprised. The boy (man now, he had to correct himself a million times over) he had raised from the age of eight onwards was focused solely on his family. They were all he ever had eyes for. Maybe Alfred never truly let him grow up. Maybe Bruce was forever destined to be the eight year old who needed to be reminded to eat and sleep because otherwise he’d cry and cry and he’d beg in his prayers for that evil man to kill him too.
“Alfred, how do I become a foster parent–ASAP?”
-
In the week and a day since the incident at Haly’s circus, Dick had changed.
The seven year old was almost unrecognisable. Despite being naturally slim that night (probably from all of the acrobatics he did) this boy was emaciated. Sunken in wasn’t the correct way to describe how his skin draped over his body but there was nothing better in the English language to put it into perspective.
Alfred had to excuse himself several times, mind racing at the thought of having to endure another traumatised young boy with an eating problem. He was contractually obligated to whatever Bruce needed but Alfred did not think he could endure it all a second time.
Dick looked up at Bruce with skeptical eyes. Bruce knew them. He had used them himself on countless people before.
“I have heard of you–you’re the prince,” Dick said, his voice covered with the accents of countless cities and countries. Disregarding Batman, Bruce decided in that moment that his years of travelling the world and picking up as many languages was all worth it. He gave Dick a soft smile.
“It’s an honorary title, Chum,” he said, going down onto one knee so he could meet Dick at eye-level. His mind did not reflect his soft tone and expression. Internally, he was wondering what an idiot he was for calling a kid ‘chum’, what was he–born in 1940?
To every bit of Bruce’s surprise, Dick gave the smallest huff of a laugh.
“You hungry, kiddo?”
“Call me Chum again, I don’t like kiddo.” Dick murmured. Bruce nodded.
“You hungry, Chum?” the man corrected. Dick took this as his turn to nod, “Do you know something? I won a cooking competition in France–I hear you’ve been?”
Dick furrowed his brows, “No way that you won,” he said, crossing his arms. He had spent a lot of time in Europe, France especially. A country that puts food on such a high pedestal, a rich boy who had probably never stepped foot in a kitchen and a cooking competition did not sound plausible and Dick did not appreciate liars. Bruce gave a teasing grin. “Prouve-le alors,” Dick demanded. (“prove it then”)
“D’accord,” Bruce responded easily. (“okay”)
Dick sat in the kitchen with Bruce for nearly three hours, watching the 23 year old cook coq au vin. Occasionally, Dick offered some commentary, noting that his mother would put love in his food to make it taste good and that his family of the circus could make it better than Bruce.
“I don’t doubt it, Dick,” Bruce said.
“Bruce?” Dick asked after a moderately long bout of silence.
“Yes, chum?” Bruce said, the nickname becoming only increasingly more affectionate every time it left his lips.
“Will the mouse come to America for my tooth when it falls? Does he know that I am here now?”
Bruce racked his brain for a long moment, trying to make sense of what Dick asked him before he finally remembered about the lack of a tooth fairy in most European countries but instead a little mouse who does the same job. He couldn’t help but smile to himself.
“Well, yes, Dick. I sent him a letter to let him know.”
Dick nodded, satisfied.
“Thank you.”
(timeskip about 8 months)
Dick had gotten comfortable in the manor.
Well, that was one way to put it.
Bruce was sure from the way the manor was made and decorated that not one person within his lineage ever had an ounce of comparable energy and tenacity that the little Birdie had. Anything and everything climbable had to be reinforced and many pieces of china were discarded. The rest of the family’s most precious valuables went into storage whilst Alfred stocked up on plastic dishware and cutlery. Any amount of guilt on Dick’s face was rectified with a ‘I know you didn’t mean it, Chum. I’m not angry, I just want you to be careful, when things break they can hurt’ which earned him a ‘Yeah, sorry, B… Come tree climbing with me?’
Bruce–the most emotionally fallible man to children ever–agreed every time without hesitation.
However, there were times where Dick had begun to get suspicious and frankly concerned for Bruce.
The boy would be pulled aside by Alfred in the morning just before breakfast to hear the same spiel.
‘You go easy on Master Bruce, okay Master Richard? There will be no jumping on him or waking him without my authorisation until I tell you it is okay. Do you understand?”
Dick would huff (of course he would, Bruce was a walking jungle gym and would catch him no matter what. He was what every acrobat dreamed of having as a companion) but give a begrudging nod. Alfred would return the nod, ruffle Dick’s hair with a ‘There’s a good chap’ and lead him into the kitchen for breakfast, Bruce often sitting there, staring dazed at a plate of scrambled eggs and looking half dead. Days like those made Dick realise exactly why Bruce needed Alfred.
The young man would never dare tell his ward to limit himself. He’d rather lose his own spine than have Dick hesitate to jump on him with the joy it brought the boy. If Alfred hadn’t made sure Dick didn’t do exactly that, it wouldn’t really be surprising if Bruce did lose his spine.
More often than not, Dick would find his guardian with lacerations and scratches and healing stitches, all of them with vague answers that frustrated the boy.
One night, when Dick had gotten thirsty in bed and stumbled down to the kitchen for some juice (don’t tell Alfred he would sneak sugary juices at night) he found the butler and his guardian arguing. But more important than that, Alfred was stitching Bruce up. A nasty sight for a nine year old. Dick broke down into tears that moment.
“Oh Chum, no need to cry!” Bruce quickly said, trying to pull down his vest to hide what was going on. Alfred couldn’t let him, of course, he needed to finish stitching him up, “I’m sorry, hey, go over to- to the other side of the table, you won’t see it then.”
Dick didn’t listen, running up to Bruce and wrapping his arms around the man’s neck.
“Don’t die, B, please,” he pleaded, snot and tears making Bruce’s neck damp.
“I’m okay, promise,” Bruce murmured, shifting his head slightly to lay a kiss on Dick’s ear, “I’m going to ask something very brave of you, okay?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Dick nodded.
“I want you and Alfred to go to the movie room and pick out a film for us all to watch, a really nice one. Can you do that for me, Chum?”
Alfred furrowed his brows, “Master Bru–” He cut himself off, seeing the glare that Bruce gave. Thankfully, he was aware that despite the difficulties, Bruce could stitch himself up, and it was nearly done anyways.
The butler sighed and stood, discarding his plastic gloves, “Come along, Master Dick.”
The boy pulled away from his spot on Bruce’s shoulder, meeting Bruce’s eyes.
“You won’t go, B?”
Bruce shook his head.
“Never, Dick.”
-
That following morning, Dick woke up in Bruce’s bed. The boy jolted up, a flash of lightning as Bruce would call him when they would race, and shoved the duvet off of the bed.
“Urgh..? Dickie, what are you doing, ‘s cold?” Bruce grumbled, hands flailing blindly to find the blanket.
Dick had already found what he was looking for, a huge bandage across Bruce’s abdomen, speckled with darkened and dried blood and taped down with the duct-tape Alfred kept in the kitchen instead of any sort of medical grade equipment.
With a frown and teary eyes, he grabbed onto Bruce’s arm and shook the man awake.
“Okay, yep, I’m up, sweetheart, wha’sit?” Bruce said with a yawn as he shuffled upwards, eyes still closed. Dick huffed, leaning forward and prying the man’s eyes open. Bruce couldn’t help but chuckle, placing a quick kiss on the boy’s nose before frowning, realising that Dick was crying.
“Stop lyin’ to me, B!” Dick shouted, voice hoarse.
“Hey, come on, Chum, I don’t know what’s going on,” Bruce said, cupping the boy’s face in his hands and using his thumb to wipe away stray tears, “Give me a deep breath, Dick, please.”
“You’re lying to me! You’re a liar, B!” Dick just continued, “Mama hates liars!
Bruce furrowed his brows together. Sure, he had learned to easily pass a foggy mind in the morning but this was just confusing. Dick didn’t have nightmares that ever warranted an anger like this, fear and sadness, yes, but this was not anything of the sort.
“Come here, I’m sorry, baby, but I need more information to help you,” he said softly, rubbing Dick’s back to comfort the boy.
“Y’lying, Tati, ‘bout getting hurt! You told me not to lie about that but you are anyways!”
Memories of the previous night flooded Bruce, so much so that he couldn’t even begin to recognise what Dick had called him.
Instead, he hugged the boy close.
“Okay, I’ll show you the truth. No more secrets from me, Dickie.”
3 months later
Alfred put down the phone with a sigh as he stood up.
“Well, I’d suggest making yourself scarce, Master Richard. Master Bruce will be arriving any moment soon, I’ll be upstairs. When I or Master Bruce check in an hour, it would do you good to be fast asleep.”
Dick shook his head.
“No thanks, gonna wait for B. He said I don’t have-ta go to school tomorrow parce que he wants to keep an eye on my leg.”
Alfred held his tongue, knowing it was a direct order from Bruce to not correct Dick. In its entirety, it was Bruce’s responsibility. The butler couldn’t understand why, no matter how hard he tried. Bruce was too soft with the boy, it was as if the young man wanted an unruly child in his family’s home.
Still, Bruce didn’t budge on things related to Dick, and Alfred left it at that.
It was almost fifteen minutes later when the Batmobile entered the cave and Bruce exited. Dick–who had made himself very comfortable in the chair to Bruce’s computer–’s face crumpled when he saw a sleeping child on Batman’s hip as the vigilante exited the car.
“Dick, you are supposed to be in bed–” Bruce began scolding before shutting himself up, Dick’s face breaking his heart–”Chum, what are you crying for? Are you hurt? Come show me–”
“You don’t love me anymore?” the young acrobat squeaked out.