Chapter Text
Damian’s body was warm as he pulled him into his lap, uniform slick with blood, but it had stopped pumping out when his heart stopped beating. Dick’s own injuries continued to pulse, but he couldn’t feel them over the agony of looking down at the boy in his arms, even if he had surpassed Dick’s height at the age of sixteen, he was still his boy. The last of his family.
Dick cried out, uncaring if it brought their enemies back upon them, as far as he could see there was carnage on all sides, no survivors in sight, and with his own wounds, he would succumb soon enough. Cradling Damian close, he wept for all they had lost under the orange smog of the sky. Nuclear weapons hadn’t made a dent against their opposition, only forced them to reckon with radiation on top of it.
Through the carnage came a figure cloaked in shadow, she appeared to move through the bodies rather than step on top of them. Even standing at seven or eight feet tall she was far too humanoid to be a foe, they had long since abandoned their ruse of playing at humanity. She wore a cloak that appeared to dissipate and knit together like threads of smoke, the gossamer threads like the grey of a new dawn. Under the hood, he could only just make out her eyes, a clouded sky blue, pupils, and her gaze unending.
She stopped before him, their eyes meeting through his tears. There was no empathy in her gaze, only his own agony reflected back at him, though her hand was light as a soft breeze as she tipped his chin up.
“Please,” Dick said, even though he didn’t know what he was asking for: release, mercy, death.
“You long to go back,” she said, though he mouth didn’t move, the air vibrated around him.
“Yes.”
“For a different outcome.”
Dick nearly choked on the word, “Yes.”
“I can make it so. I can give you the gift of foresight, but I warn you, it comes at great sacrifice as it does for anyone else who it is bestowed upon.”
“Sacrifice?”
“All your pains.” Her thumb ghosted over the scar cutting through his brow. “You will not escape them. In the endeavor of change, you may even feel them multiplied.”
“Will it spare them?”
“The people you love?”
“Yes.”
“It will be your burden alone,” she said. “There are some agonies that are woven into the fabric of the universe, but you may be able to undo certain stitches to allow those you cherish a new fate.”
“And I’ll be with them?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have a chance to… to stop this?”
“Yes.”
“Will I… will I remember?” Dick cradled Damian’s body close to his chest.
“Enough to weave a new fate.”
Dick met her gaze and could see the dawn of a new timeline in her eyes. “What do I have to do?”
“Give me your hand.”
Dick forced himself to pry one hand free from Damian, taking her barely corporeal hand in his own blood slick palm.
Dick woke up feeling like his soul had been slammed back into his body. Once when he was five, he went up before the net had been set up out of pure unearned confidence. He had fallen, but even when he had been plummeting towards the ground it felt like his soul had still been standing on the tightrope until he connected with the hard packed dirt below, fracturing several ribs, and unable to get air into his lungs for agonizing second after second.
Disoriented, Dick stared up at the concrete ceiling as his eyes adjusted to the dim light coming from the hall, shadows shifting as the night watch strolled through the halls. In the bunk below him, he could hear his roommate snoring even over the sound of his own harsh breathing. A twinge ran through him at the thought that his parents might have felt the same slam when they hit the ground, or perhaps the fall killed them so instantaneously their souls had still been lingering on the trapeze above. Dick didn’t know how many seconds their death lasted, all he had seen was them hitting the ground before strong arms had wrapped around him, and forced his face into his shoulder, telling him not to look.
Dick had seen the impact, had heard the sound of their bones cracking over the screams of the crowd and the music he had heard a thousand times, but when his cue to join them in the air played, his face had been buried in a stranger’s jacket, breathing in expensive cologne that clashed with the smell of fried food and sugar in the circus air. The arms had lifted him up and away, one arm around his waist, holding his leg to keep him pinned to his chest, the other on the back of his head to keep him from catching another glimpse. Dick’s screams muted in the expensive fabric of his suit jacket, fists beating against the stranger’s chest to no avail, until he had fell still when the music stopped and the cold night air pricked at the back of his neck.
The stranger had sat with him in the back of an ambulance that hadn’t bothered to run the sirens, keeping the shock blanket over the shoulders of his flimsy costume while the police tried to goad him into speaking. If Dick had glanced up, he might have registered that it was Bruce Wayne sitting beside him, but he hadn’t. He had only looked at his chalk stained hands as though if he looked away, the chalk might turned to dried blood. It might have been less of a shock when Bruce Wayne came to visit him in juvenile hall a week after CPS had dumped him there. A glimpse at his case file had told Dick that his caseworker's notes had decided that she didn’t want to waste an open group home spot on an unadoptable case when another kid would have a better shot. Between his lack of education as a “carnie” and the general opinion of “gypsies” and his lingering accent, he didn’t stand a chance of finding his forever home, he might as well have been a mangy old black cat awaiting euthanasia in the eyes of Gotham’s social services.
The previous day when the guards led him to a private room, Dick had thought that one of the members of the circus must have come to visit him, at the very least to say goodbye if they weren’t there to rescue him. Two weeks in to his juvie stay any thoughts about how his friends, his family surely wouldn’t let him rot after his parents died had slipped away. Instead, it was Bruce Wayne wearing a solemn expression.
“Richard.”
“Dick.”
Bruce’s eyebrows raised fractionally.
“That’s what I’m called,” Dick said, fidgeting with the sleeves of his jumpsuit. “I know here it’s funny, but it’s my name, even if it makes you laugh.”
“I’m not known for laughing often.”
“Lucky me.”
“My name is Bruce Wayne.”
“What do you want, Mr. Wayne?”
“I spoke with your case worker about getting you transferred to a group home, but she said there wasn’t any space.”
“Not for a gypsy thief like me, you mean,” Dick said.
“You’re a child,” Bruce said. “And you haven’t done anything wrong, this is not the place for you.”
It will be, Dick thought. After I’m through with whoever messed with our rig; those wires were fresh, there’s no way they simply snapped.
“There is no place for me.”
“There’s space at my manor.”
Dick’s eyes widened. “You’re joking.”
“I’ve put in my papers for a fostering license, though it may take some time for it to be approved, but once it is, I would like you to come live at the manor with me.”
“Why?”
“Because I can,” Bruce said simply, before showing the slightest hint of hesitance. “If you’re amenable.”
“Amenable?”
“Agreeable,” Bruce said. “If… if you would like to, that is.”
“…do you have hot water at this manor?”
Dick could have sworn Bruce’s lips turned up ever so slightly. “Yes.”
“Then I’m amiable.”
“Amenable.”
“Amenable.”
Dick turned the conversation over in his mind, he wasn’t a fool, he knew that his best case scenario was that Bruce would take him on for the media attention, another good deed under the Wayne name, another bump in his stock prices. The fall of the Flying Graysons was highly publicized, billionaire Bruce Wayne adopting the poor, little orphaned gypsy boy would do wonders for his image. Dick's worst case scenario was more along the lines of what the other boys whispered when the rumor that Bruce Wayne had taken a liking to him spread through the detention center. His first night at the center had taught him several quick lessons as to what it meant to be the small fish in a big pond and that there were worse things hands could do than beat. Three of the boys had cornered him, forcing him onto his knees, but he bit down until he tasted blood, and they hadn’t tried again. A few of the guards had offered him favors here and there that he had steadfastly refused, but by the way the other boys avoided them, he knew what the guards expected in return for their favors.
In the back of his mind, a thought nagged at him, but he couldn’t grasp it. Like his belt loop had gotten stuck on a door handle, but he couldn’t pull free to find where he was caught. All it said was, remember, but he didn’t know what. It was like trying to catch the lingering wisps of his dream, but they slipped through his fingers like fog. Torn between trying to fall back asleep to remember what he had lost and the fear of what he might see kept him awake the remainder of the night.
“Rise and shine.” A baton smacked against the bars and Dick’s stomach sank at the sound of that particular voice. “Up and at ‘em, gyp.”
Taggert was by far his least favorite of the guards, he had only waited five days into Dick’s stay to give him a second strip search claiming he had smuggled contraband somehow. Dick could tell by the look on his face as he searched him that it was only a power play. Climbing down from his bunk after making his bed, he and his roommate fell into line to be marched to breakfast.
Gus, his seventeen year old bunk mate, and him had an understanding which was mainly to sit together in silence for all meals and trade books once they finished their own while waiting for another chance at the library. Neither of them asked what the other was in for, rumor was that Gus killed his neighbor's dog, but by the cigarette burns on his dark skin, Dick had a feeling Gus was probably another old cat waiting to age out of the system with nowhere else to place him. Gus was also willing to tell him the definition of slang he heard in the yard or words in the English books he had never come across before. Dick taught him a few swears in other languages in exchange.
In the yard, Dick walked laps around the chain link fence. It wouldn’t be difficult to climb, even with the barbed wire at the top, he was confident he could get past. It was only the watch tower that was in the way, the guards would catch him too quickly on the other side if they spotted him. It was an open sprint across the concrete to the parking lot and even if he somehow learned to hot wire a car and actually drive it they would just close the gates on him.
“Let the daydream go,” Gus said. “We’ve all had it and it’ll only get you hurt.”
“I’m looking at nine years not nine months,” Dick said.
“You can’t go over,” Gus said, before moving off to join the basketball game.
Dick frowned at the chain link fence, fingers itching to climb, to get a higher vantage point, but he had to bide his time. In the laundry room, he contemplated slamming his arm in the washing machine. A hospital would certainly be easier to escape, but he doubted he could take down a murderer one handed.
“Hey.”
A hand grabbed his arm, yanking him from his station.
“You gonna work, or you just gonna daydream about running off to the circus?” Taggert sneered.
“You’re in my way.”
Taggert slammed his baton into his stomach. “Don’t back talk.”
Dick took slow shallow breaths to try to steady himself, blinking back tears because the only thing worse in the center than a gypsy brat was a crybaby.
“What even were you, huh?” Taggert twisted his arm behind his back at a painful angle. “A contortionist?”
Dick ground his teeth. “An acrobat.”
“Yeah? How far do you bend before you break, circus freak?” Taggert kept twisting, fingers digging into his arm.
Dick wasn’t sure what would happen first: his shoulder dislocating or his arm breaking but he could feel one or both approaching in a matter of seconds.
“Grayson,” another guard shouted from outside the laundry room. “Visitor.”
Taggert released him and he almost fell forwards, but forced himself to walk slowly towards his unintentional savior rather than flee like he wanted to. His arm ached, red marks on his skin, but he let it hang by his side rather than hold it close to his body like a wounded bird. Bruce Wayne was waiting in the visitor’s room, standing by the far wall, holding a brown paper bag.
“You musta hit the lottery kid,” the guard muttered before raising his voice. “One hour.”
Bruce didn’t look pleased, but gestured for Dick to sit. Dick slid into the seat on the far side of the table, hands resting in his lap, and toes skimming the floor, yet to hit his growth spurt that his daj promised was coming.
“Your medical files said you didn’t have any allergies,” Bruce said as though that explained the take out bag he set down before him.
“…I don’t.”
Bruce gave the milkshake another nudge towards him and Dick wrapped his hands around it, but didn’t take a sip, feeling the plastic sweat against his palms, slick as blood.
“The food is for you as well,” Bruce said. “I’ve already eaten. I didn’t know what you might prefer, but it felt hard to go wrong with a classic.”
Dick slowly unraveled the top of the bag to find two burgers, one with cheese, one without, fries, onion rings, and an assortment of condiments packets.
“I didn’t think outside food was allowed.”
“I bribed them,” Bruce said.
Dick let out a startled snort at the honesty. “Is this a bribe too?”
“If it is, it’s a poor one. There will be better food at the manor,” Bruce said. “Honestly, Alfred would likely be displeased that I’m feeding you fast food, but when I was younger, on particularly bad days, he would bring me take out as a treat.”
“Alfred?”
“My butler.”
“…right,” Dick said slowly.
“And the man who raised me.”
Dick turned the fries over, feeling the salt against his fingers, but once he took a bite, he couldn’t stop himself from eating as quickly as he could, the primal fear of it being taken away from him overcoming him.
“Slow down.”
Dick stilled, all too aware of the ketchup smeared on his cheek, the half demolished burger in his hands, and the entire lack of upperclass manners he was displaying in front of the man who claimed to be trying to foster him.
“If you eat too fast, you’ll throw up,” Bruce said.
Dick chewed slower becoming aware of the slight cramping in his stomach, so he set the burger down to make himself slightly more presentable.
“Even backwards this is better than what they serve here,” Dick said.
Bruce’s lips twitched up, only for a second, but they did.
Dick played with the straw of the mostly empty milkshake, eyes flicking up to his face, then away. “You don’t talk a lot, do you, Mr. Wayne?”
“I’ve never been accused of that, no,” he said. “…and you can call me Bruce.”
“I have some manners,” Dick said, wiping ketchup from his cheek, and trying for a smile. “My daj and dat said it’s good to respect your elders.”
Bruce looked mildly offended. “I’m twenty-four.”
“That’s more than twice my age, old man.” A grin blossomed on Dick’s face, not entirely sure where the confidence was coming from, but he had always had a good gauge of social interactions, what was charmingly cheeky versus what was over the line.
“Brat,” Bruce said, but sure enough, Dick could have sworn there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
Dick grinned around straw, cup rattling as he polished off his milkshake. “I’ll have you know, I’ve been told I’m a charming young man.”
“Mm.”
Dick’s smile slipped and fell away, feeling wrong footed smiling in a world where his parents no longer lived. Like happiness should have died right beside them with the same horrible snap. Chewing on his straw, he looked at the man sitting across from him. His clothes were expensive and obviously tailored, but there was a scar on his chin, the concealer half rubbed away, and he hadn’t bothered to cover the scars on his knuckles, contrasting with his expensive watch and cashmere sweater. Somehow, Dick knew Bruce Wayne's hands were thick with callouses, but he couldn’t say why or from what, and he was certain there were dozens more scars hidden away under those hundred dollar clothes.
“What happened to your arm?”
Dick glanced down at the forming bruise; it looked distinctly like a handprint. “Knocked it against my bunk this morning.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “That so?”
“Yep.”
“If someone in here is hurting you—“
“What? You’ll bribe them to stop?”
“If you give me a name.”
“It was another kid.”
“Big bruises for a kid.”
“Big kid.”
“Dick, I know you don’t believe me, but I can help.”
Dick looked down at his hands.
“Hour’s up,” the guard said.
Bruce’s jaw ticked. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Dick blinked. “Am I allowed to have visitors that many days in a row?”
“I’ll make it happen.”
Dick could feel a little flutter of hope in his chest, but he squashed it before it could take flight. It was only a hatchling, not ready to test its wings. No, Dick would let that be plan B, plan A remained.