Chapter Text
An eight year old kid witnessed his parents death, and couldn’t speak word of it. He saw the ropes get cut, they didn’t snap. He climbed to the ground and ran to their bodies but cops pulled him away, he tried pulling away but they were stronger. He tried swatting at them to let him go. Next thing he knew they were grabbing at him, dragging him away.
He wouldn’t get any of his belongings, just the clothes on his back, and even then he was still in his performing outfit. He didn’t fully realize until he saw everyone else that spelled his doom, he was forced to change into a new uniform, in front of guards in case he was hiding anything, the new clothes irritated him and kept him constantly aware of all the extra space between his skin and the fabric and every vulnerable part of him everyone could still see. The kids there were cruel. It was loud, and somehow both so bright and far too dim. A constant buzzing in air made him want to scream.
The stronger kids stole his food and pushed him out of his bed. They pushed him around and called him names, he doubted they even knew his actual name. If he ever spoke or made any sound it spelled trouble. The cruelty lessened if he got quiet, it was hard at first, he wanted to defend himself, but every time he did it only got so much worse. But he needed to survive somehow.
***
Bruce Wayne had officially attended the Haly’s International Circus the day tragedy fell. Unoficially, Batman knew the only Witness was a child who was part of the show, high enough to see foul play, but a kid who hadn’t spoken about the incident.
It was as Batman he learned about the kid. He couldn’t find a birth record, possibly having been born outside a hospital, and if he was traveling his entire life it wasn’t entirely strange. Next, whenever they traveled he used a different legal name, fitting to wherever they traveled. These last few weeks were his first time in the states, his mother was Romani, his father was Italian British. He began performing in front of a crowd when he was five years old.
His Romani name meant Robin, like the springtime bird. His name for America was Richard. Before the incident, the family had been using the father’s British side’s last name, Greyson.
“Richard Greyson, what did you see?”
He kept searching on the computer until he saw the kid was taken to a Juvie facility for assaulting an officer the night of his parent’s deaths. Poor kid probably hadn’t even had a chance to grieve. And from what he saw, he didn’t hurt anyone.
He connected to the facility’s security, finding only shadows moving around, but not a physical kid. Kid was smart enough to know where the cameras were, but didn’t take his shadows into account. That was enough for Batman.
Cowl on, he set off in an intense rain storm, hopefully the kid had found shelter. He went to the facility and followed the shadowed patterns, finding a small corner on the roof, how the kid managed to climb up was beyond him, even for a circus performer.
There was an overlap in the roof, giving him a little shade, and he was away from any cameras. He’d been lying down, curled into the corner of the wall with the rain pouring down at him. Cradled by hard cement.
He was fast asleep, and shivering. Since the incident he looked thinner, exhausted, and the ill fitted uniform did nothing to hide his bruises, he coudln’t imagine what was actually covered.
Batman approached, and as his shadow passed over the kid, he began to stir. The little energy he had helped him open his eyes, seeing the looming figure he jolted back, hugging his knees, eyes wide, but entirely silent.
“It’s alright” He’d been holding a bag of fast food, and held out the bag. “You seem hungry, here.”
The kid quickly looked down at the bag and then back at the bat. He didn’t reach out, he looked terrified.
“You’re not in trouble, I just want to help.” Then he considered, his family traveled a lot, the boy might’ve known some English, but it wasn’t his first language, it’d be at least his fifth language. He tried repeating in Italian. He didn’t know Romani, and was fairly certain it was a closed practice. It seemed to work, noticing a hint of recognition in the kid’s eyes.
Batman sat beside him, crossing his legs, and opened the bag, taking out a container of fries, and ate one. He offered to Richard next, who hesitantly took a small one, taking his time slowly eating it.
He took out two hamburgers, handed one to the kid, and with his own began to unwrap and took a bite. Richard followed what the bat did, and took a bite. He felt overwhelmed, it was so much. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, and realizing he won’t be punished for eating, devoured the entire thing and most of the fries.
Batman sighed in relief, this was progress. “Hey, kid. Can I check if you have a fever? I’ll just put my hand on your forehead, just since it’s been raining I want to make sure.”
But he looked nervous at that. So Batman just nodded. “Alright, I don’t have to. How about this?”
He took out a thermometer, and said if he wants to put it under his own tongue, they don’t even have to touch. He agreed to that. There was a fever, but it wasn’t horrible yet.
“Alright, you should get inside. It’s warmer there. Let me see if a friend of mine can help, you might be able to stay there after a few days.”
Batman needed the kid to tell him what happened. What he didn’t anticipate was that Bruce would need the kid to be okay. That fear, that hurt, he knew it all too well. And he didn’t know at what point in that interaction he had the thought, “I can’t let him turn into me.”
***
Kids are strange. They don’t always have filters, they’re durable and yet so fragile. They see everything and yet miss so much. But they’re also not as indestructible as they think.
When Dick had seen Batman he was soaking in the rain and had a low fever, but it never really went away. He got back and got in trouble for sneaking out. It’d been a month since that night on the roof, during which he tried to sleep as little as possible to avoid the other kids hurting him when he couldn’t protect himself, and he’d been barely eating since the stronger kids had been pushing him away and taking it from him.
The adults turned the other way. And quickly he realized if adults had any authority in Gotham, they were either useless or dirty, either way they had no reason to stop him from getting hurt. If anyone knew he saw what happened, they’d just let the kids kill him.
He had to defend himself, had to find a way out, realizing what would happen would be the end of his family, and nobody would step in to save him. Was it all planned? He didn’t hurt the cop back then, so was all this a ploy?
The next night he had to run away for good. He snuck back to his last spot. He tried hiding, hoping batman would show up again. But it was a long night, it’d gotten colder. And the rain turned into hail. He was hungry, he was tired. So, so tired. And by the time the bat showed up on the roof, he’d been about to fall asleep.
Richard stood, and immediately collapsed.
***
Batman had taken him to a hospital away from the facility, however there was a problem. The kid had incomplete legal records, no health insurance, and was considered a criminal. Legally they had to save lives, but the corruption dug it’s claws deep. Even an eight year old child on deaths door wasn’t protected.
Batman took out cash, asked how much would be needed. The doctors didn’t really answer. So he did the only next thing he could think of. “What’s the fastest way to get him on someone’s health insurance?”
***
The next day Bruce Wayne showed up to the hospital and said a friend informed him of a kid without health insurance, and asked how much his treatment would be. He’d foster the kid, help give him a second chance.
When Batman brought an eight year old kid to the hospital, the kid was at risk of starvation and was running a fever of 106 fahrenheit (41 C). He had a broken wrist and internal bleeding which required surgery. His malnurishment almost made his heart give out. He was given a feeding tube. He was in and out of conciousness that the time blended, unable to tell how long he’s been there or when night or day was since he slept most of the time.
Bruce tried talking to him in Italian but Dick had been too tired to understand anything. He had a breathing tube that kept his jaw open, he felt frail, like a tower of cards about to collapse at the slightest motion. From his injuries and all the machines attached to him, he couldn’t move, the tubes in his mouth and nose kept him from talking and mostly couldn’t move his head at all, his whole body ached and was too weak to move.
And then he actually saw Bruce. And he remembered what he learned, every adult in gotham is either useless or corrupt. So if Bruce Wayne made sure he lived, what did he have planned for him? That terrified him even more.
After meeting Bruce he was finally allowed to get his surgery, but on the way he heard a whisper. “That’s the kid that spotted Zucco, with Wayne involved we can’t deal with him how we planned but we can still find ways to keep him quiet.”
He could barely move, and then even that was taken away. He was wheeled into a new room, much darker, new machines, new people all in masks, but not the kind that batman was in.
“Alright he’s asleep.” Except he wasn’t. He felt a sudden sharp pain like a knife in his torso, pulling and prodding inside his body, hands reaching within and moving him in ways that felt impossible. He couldn’t look to see what they were doing, and he felt every small part of it. He couldn’t say a word about it, couldn’t scream, couldn’t move his hands to push them away. And then it was over. They sewed him shut, and wheeled him back.
Bruce arrived again and Dick tried to sleep, afraid to talk to him, he couldn’t trust he wasn’t part of whatever this was. He asked if he was getting all his needed medications, if he was in any pain. A nurse assured him that Dick was sedating and not in any pain. Bruce even asked to stay one day to see him get a dose, the man saw something injected into his IV, but never looked at what it was. Dick coudln’t move, couldn’t say whatever it was sent his nerves on fire, he couldn’t run away, any desire to survive didn’t matter, he had absolutely no control.
His fever got a little better, but he still couldn’t move, he felt even weaker and slept even more, everything hurt and he felt even thinner, more fragile than before he got to the hospital. Nurses checked and prodded at his stitches and bandages, messing with the machines and he desperately wanted to know what they were doing, he assumed everything they were doing was going to kill him sooner or later.
Then one day Bruce showed up and sat at Dick’s side. He waited a very long time, didn’t speak a word. He didn’t check his phone, didn’t pull out a book to read, just watched Dick. When a nurse entered he asked what they were doing, watched them give him medicine, and asked to see all the medicine they were giving him. And then after what felt like an eternity, he felt a twitch in his hand, finally able to move.
“Could I have a moment alone with the boy? I’d like to talk to him.” It was just them.
“Have they been giving you medicine to take the pain away?” He asked in Italian.
Dick wanted to move, wanted to shake his head, anything. His finger twitched slightly, would’ve gone unnoticed to anyone except somehow this strange man.
“Alright, if they’ve been giving you medicine that helped the pain, tap my hand.” And he rested the boy’s hand on top of his own. No movement.
Bruce was silent for a moment before he spoke, “alright, I’ll get you a better doctor. You’ll be okay.”
Dick couldn’t trust a single word he said, some things were too good to be true.