Chapter Text
Last night had been a jarring, soul shattering moment for Bruce. He hadn't expected the evening, meant for a night of simple entertainment, to plummet into such a harrowing tragedy. The memory replayed in his mind like a broken reel: the vibrant, joyful performance; the sudden snap; the collective gasp of the crowd.
Poor little Tim, thankfully, had been shielded from the direct horror of the fall, tucked safely in Bruce's arms and chest. But the Graysons... the vibrant, aerialists, stars of the show, weren't so lucky. Bruce watched, paralyzed, as the figures of John and Mary Grayson plummeted, a sickeningly swift descent that ended in a sickening thud. Their son, the young Robin, standing on the platform above, had seen it all.
Bruce stared, unseeing, at the far wall in his expansive, usually comforting kitchen. He couldn't shake that feeling, an insistent, nearly frantic urge that he needed to have the pup near him, under his protection. It must be his lone omega, stirring fiercely after years of dormancy, but it felt like an overwhelming, physical ache, a desperate longing to have the little boy back in his arms, safe and secure.
He didn't know if the child had been relocated safely, to a nurturing environment, or if he'd simply been added to the ever growing, next set of broken and abandoned children that Gotham's system churned through. The thought made his stomach clench.
Bruce pushed the spiraling worries to the back of his head for later, forcing himself to focus as the mechanism of his toaster clunked, signalling his toast was ready.
He had finally convinced Alfred to rest, the loyal butler having spent the morning sniffling and sneezing, a persistent cold clinging to him even as he attempted to clean the mansion. Spreading a generous layer of sugar free guava jam onto the warm bread, Bruce sat at the polished granite island. The chairs, upholstered in a soft, dark leather, were surprisingly comfortable; he made a mental note to sit here more often. He scrolled on his phone silently, the news of the accident splashed across every major media outlet.
Luckily, no video footage had been taken; the arena cameras had been shut off as fast as the tragic scene had started. At least the little boy's acute trauma wasn't permanently recorded for public consumption.
In this brief moment of quiet contemplation, amidst the comfortable silence of his home, Bruce’s investigative mind began to whir. He decided he needed to find out exactly what happened, beyond the official story of a frayed rope. The image of the snapped cable, specifically, bothered him. Why had the rope looked like it had been forcefully cut, then deliberately altered to appear worn out? Why would anyone target the Graysons, beloved entertainers who brought joy to so many? His heart panged with a chilling array of possibilities, none of them good.
..
Night fell upon Gotham, draping her in a cloak of deep indigo. The streets, though not wet, were bitten by a really cold, dry wind that seemed to strip the heat from everything it touched. The air dried Batman's lips, already taut with grim determination, as he patrolled the city's labyrinthine canyons. There was always a strange, almost meditative calm when he ran at night, soaring above the rooftops, feeling free and weightless, a silent guardian.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, his body was restless, a vibrant, uncomfortable hum beneath his skin. This was stupid. He'd never been like this before, not truly. He'd witnessed multiple deaths in Gotham, some undeserving, some accidental, and even some grim acts of vengeance. But this murder, this calculated act against the Graysons, was cold and cruel in a way that resonated too deeply. It left behind not just a crime, but a raw, broken, and utterly lonely child.
Bruce had found out earlier that day, through discreet channels, that Dick had indeed been moved to an orphanage – the exact orphanage in Bristol. He felt a wave of relief that his location was known, yet a concurrent pang of hurt and helplessness at the fact that the boy was left to the system at all.
Patrol was short and unusually quiet tonight, the city seemingly holding its breath, making the vigilante's shift end earlier than expected. Batman, a shadow within shadows, dropped silently into a secluded alleyway. He quickly mounted his bike, which he had left hidden amongst the refuse and deep shadows, and took off. He couldn't resist the overwhelming urge to go see the boy.
The trip to Bristol was long, the highway a ribbon of black under a starless sky, but it was quiet, allowing his thoughts to churn unchecked. An hour later, he stood across the street, a silent sentinel, staring at the orphanage. The building was tall, its Victorian architecture casting an eery, almost forbidding silhouette against the night sky.
During the day, he knew it felt lively, with the distant echoes of children running around, their caregivers yelling and playing along. But at night... At night, it transformed into a chilling ghost, a looming, silent structure that towered over the other, more modest buildings. Bruce found his way up onto the side of the building, a silent, agile ascent, and peered in through each grimy window.
Sure, it was weird, perhaps even disturbing, but he needed to know. He needed to know that the Dick was safe and sound, that this place wasn't another hell.
Each child's face that his keen eye crossed paths with, silhouetted in the dim, dormitory lights, was always wrong. Their features weren't Dick's; the little shock of black hair was always wrong, too pale, too tall, too young. An icy tendril of fear began to coil in his gut.
'Where are you?' Batman thought to himself, a silent, desperate plea.
A shadow on the roof suddenly caught his eye, an unexpected ripple in the darkness. It wasn't his own. He took a cautious step back, his instincts flaring, then quietly scaled the last few feet onto the orphanage roof. His heart, which had been a tight knot of anxiety, gave a soft pang of relief as his body, surprisingly, relaxed.
In the far corner, a small figure sat, knees pulled tightly up to his chest, arms wrapped around them, staring out into the Gotham lit distance with eyes that held an unnerving emptiness. They were so blue, challenging the vastness of the ocean in their depth and sorrow. Dick…
Batman let his usual quiet ways of stalking shadows falter, deliberately making a soft sound, catching the boy's attention.
The child gasped, a small, choked sound. "Batman?!"
The call was quiet, a mixture of shock and disbelief. The child looked confused and scared, as if he were fighting a sudden onslaught of his own swirling emotions. Batman shed his cape, letting it fall slightly behind him, stepping fully out of the deeper shadows as he walked towards the boy, making himself less a specter and more a tangible presence. The boy shut his eyes tightly at the approach, bracing himself. Batman simply sat down next to him, not saying a word, allowing his presence to be felt without pressure.
"Dick?" he finally spoke, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, softer than usual.
The boy's eyes snapped open, and he snapped his head towards the sound, his gaze wide and startled. Batman knew him? Of course he did, everyone did after last night, the media had ensured that.
Batman stared at the eyes of a child who had lost it all, a mirror reflecting his own profound, childhood grief. He looks just like him, a lonely, broken boy.
Batman stretched out a clawed, gloved hand, its movements surprisingly gentle, and softly twirled some strands of the boy's dark hair. Dick subtly flinched, a tiny tremor, but didn't pull away.
The hand then ran down, feather light, onto the boy's face and gently cupped his cheek, lifting his chin to meet the unblinking white lenses of Batman's cowl.
The boy stared, unmoving, as Batman, with the utmost tenderness, lifted him into his arms. There was no protest, no yelling, no panicked squirming – just a calm, almost desperate, embrace. Dick buried his face into Batman's shoulder, his smaller arms tentatively wrapping around the vigilante's neck.
"How's your first day so far?" The vigilante asked, his voice still low, meant to soothe the boy's nerves rather than demand an answer.
Dick took a long moment, processing the question, before looking up at the Bat's cowl. He spoke in a small, melancholic voice, "It was pretty boring. I'm really lonely here, and there's not much to do. Some kids are too gentle; they don't play like I'm used to. And I... I really just want to go see my parents."
Batman's heart broke at the raw, honest confession. He tightened his embrace, pulling the boy closer, as he heard a small sniffle turn into a quiet sob against his shoulder. He closed his eyes, holding the child as if he were the most precious, fragile thing in the world. He didn't offer empty platitudes, just his silent, unwavering presence.
He let Dick cry, murmuring soft, unintelligible assurances into the boy's hair, rubbing a soothing circle on his back. He focused on the warmth of the small body against his, on the steady beat of his own heart, hoping to transmit a sense of safety, of comfort, of home. He held him until the sobs subsided, replaced by the quiet, shuddering breaths of a child utterly exhausted by grief.
"You should get to bed, Dick. I don't think they allow late sleeping here," Batman chuckled, a strained, quiet sound meant to lighten the heavy atmosphere.
"Richard."
Batman paused his gentle chuckle, looking down at the child who had just corrected him.
"My name is Richard, Mr. Batman," Dick confessed, his voice a little stronger now as he finally sat up, wiping lingering tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.
"And you're right, sadly sleeping in isn't permitted, even for those of us who would love to."
Batman stood up, a towering figure even in his subdued state, and followed the child back to the open window where he had climbed out from, helping him gently back inside.
"I'll come see you again," Batman promised, his voice firm, unwavering. "That way you won't be lonely, Richard."
Dick smiled, a small, tentative curve of his lips, and held out a small pinky finger.
"Promise?"
Batman smiled, a rare, soft expression that only his cowl saw, at the lure of such innocent trust. He returned the pinky, linking it with his own large, gloved one.
"I promise. I'll do anything you want."
Dick's smile widened, a flicker of his old mischief returning. "Tell Mr. Bruce Wayne to come see me again. Since he's mega important, and you are too, you must be friends, so tell him."
And with that, Dick fully slipped inside, closed the window with a soft click, and waved cheerfully to Batman before disappearing from view.
…
The crimson lined windows of the orphanage's dormitory reflected a sliver of Gotham's sprawling neon, a fractured mirror to the city he protected. Batman stood, a silhouette against the artificial dawn, watching the distant hum of life before he melted into the shadows and ascended to the rooftop. The biting wind carried the faint scent of rain, a familiar comfort that grounded him after a night that, while mercifully short on intense skirmishes, had been emotionally taxing. The visit to Richard at the orphanage, a brief, silent exchange of comfort, had been enough to soothe the restless thrum of his omega, a deep seated instinct that yearned for the warmth of family, the security of a den. The manor, a fortress of solitude yet also a beacon of belonging, wasn’t too far from the orphanage. He was going to end patrol here, the promise of his own bed a potent lure.
He coasted the Bat Cycle onto the hidden landing platform, the powerful engine purring to a silent stop. With a sigh that felt heavier than the Kevlar and weighted utility belt, he dismounted, his muscles aching with a fatigue that belied the brevity of his patrol. Tonight's drain wasn't physical; it was the lingering echo of his heart, which had raced with a frantic, protective beat when he’d finally been able to hold Richard again.
The small, warm body in his arms, the scent of innocence and slight fear, had quieted the louder, more tumultuous parts of his soul, even as it stirred a profound, aching yearning.
His shower was a short, sharp blast of hot water, washing away the grime and the residual tension of the cowl. He moved through the motions of his nightly ritual, perhaps skipping a few steps of his elaborate skincare regime – a small, rebellious act no one would ever know about. Wrapped in a plush robe, he stood near the giant, velvet curtains of his bedroom, gazing out at the far off twinkling constellations of Gotham’s sprawling cities.
Despite the opulent warmth of the room, the vastness of the manor, a profound loneliness settled over him like a shroud. He had Alfred, yes, the steadfast anchor of his life, but still, a deep, primal emptiness resonated within his core, a silent howl for a true pack.
As if Titus, his loyal Great Dane, could hear the unspoken melancholy in his thoughts, Bruce noted the jet black spot on his king sized bed shift, followed by a soft, questioning whine. Bruce's lips softened into a rare, genuine smile. He clicked his tongue once, a familiar signal, and Titus barked in immediate response, tail thumping a rhythmic cadence against the mattress.
The smile lingered, a small, fragile thing, but then his attention was snatched away, the fragile peace shattered by a sound that vibrated through the very bones of the manor. A boom. A sonic boom.
Titus, suddenly alert, let out a deep, guttural howl, his hackles rising. Bruce, already moving, strode closer to the huge windows overlooking the sprawling grounds. Outside, near the dark line of the surrounding forest, a figure stood, momentarily swaying like a tree caught in a hurricane, before collapsing heavily to the ground. Superman.
Bruce stared, his mind racing, instantly assessing, cataloging. His gaze swept the perimeter, searching for any other individuals, any other threats. No one. Just the familiar, impossible form of the Man of Steel, unmoving.
Bruce ran, the elegant lines of his robe a blur, through his vast bedroom, down the silent, polished halls of the manor, Titus a swift, dark shadow right behind him. The thud of his bare feet on the marble floor echoed in the pre-dawn quiet, a frantic counterpoint to the thumping of his own heart.
He skidded to a halt at his back door, a moment of primal hesitation. Leaving the sanctity of the manor, exposing his unarmored self, felt instinctively wrong. But Titus, ever the impatient creature, nudged him forcefully with his wet nose, pushing Bruce out the door. He stumbled onto the dew kissed grass, the cold seeping into his bare feet, but slowly, cautiously, he approached the fallen hero, who remained a crumpled heap on the ground.
Bruce’s eyes scanned the area once more, a quick, practiced sweep, before he knelt beside the inert form. The iconic blue and red suit was somewhat torn, ragged edges where fabric had been stressed past its limits. And on Superman's face, a smear of dark, dried blood. A cold knot twisted in Bruce’s stomach. Was it his?
"Superman?" Bruce called, his voice rough, thick with concern he rarely allowed to show.
He reached out, gently shaking the much larger man.
No response.
Oh God…
He pressed a hand to Superman's neck, searching for a pulse. It was there, a faint, thready beat under his fingers. He was breathing, shallow and uneven, but there were no signs of consciousness, no flicker of awareness in the closed eyes. Bruce huffed, a sound of frustration and dawning realization, before he braced himself, grabbing the Man of Steel's cape, his arm, whatever purchase he could get, and began dragging his body towards the imposing bulk of the manor.
Kryptonians are huge, that's common knowledge, but damn are they heavy. Even for Bruce, whose strength was legendary, it was an immense, back breaking task.
After a long set of agonizing breaks, punctuated by muttered curses to whatever cosmic entities made alien species so dense, Bruce managed to bring him indoors. He collapsed for a moment in the grand foyer, his breath about to literally leave him completely. He took one strong, desperate inhale through his nose, and in that moment of vulnerability, his senses momentarily overwhelmed, he realized with a jolt that his scent patch wasn't on. His distinctive, calming pheromones were undoubtedly filling the air around them. It didn't matter, he quickly decided, pushing the thought away. The man was out cold. He hadn't even budged when he was being rolled and dragged into the manor.
"Watch him for me, Ti," Bruce ordered, his voice still ragged.
Titus, ever keen, understood not by the words, but by the urgent hand movement Bruce had taught him. The dog positioned himself protectively by the unconscious hero, a vigilant, obsidian dot near the vibrant blue and red attire.
Bruce left and zipped, with surprising speed despite his exhaustion, to the kitchen. He kept an extra first aid kit there, meticulously stocked, a testament to his preparedness for any contingency. He walked back into the living room, the Super still utterly still on the antique couch he’d somehow maneuvered him onto.
Titus watched Bruce with intelligent eyes. Bruce patted his head, a gesture of reassurance, then sat on the plush rug near the man. He methodically grabbed the thermometer, cotton pads, a bottle of antiseptic alcohol, and even a fine thread and needle, all from the kit.
He carefully tucked the thermometer into the side of the Super's mouth, then, with surprisingly gentle hands, began cleaning up the dried blood on his chiseled face.
Bruce, his own skilled fingers guided by the impromptu lessons Alfred had insisted upon years ago (a dire necessity when patching up his own torn suits), meticulously sewed up the ripped sections of the iconic costume as much as possible, a strange act of domesticity for the Dark Knight.
Once his tasks were done, the basic first aid administered, the suit mended as best it could be, he stared at the still unconscious hero. The irony was not lost on him.
He had just argued with this man only a couple of days ago, a heated debate about jurisdiction, about staying out of his city. Now, the notorious nuisance was not only in his city but sprawled unceremoniously on his priceless antique couch, fast asleep. A grudging sigh escaped him. He got up, grabbed a crisp sheet of paper and a pen from a nearby desk, and in his precise, unmistakable script, he wrote:
I tried my best to clean you up and make you presentable, Superman. If you're hungry when you awake, feel free to grab anything out of the fridge. No issue there.
- Bruce Wayne.
He left the note stuck on the Super's forehead, a small, almost affectionate gesture, before he took his leave, ascending the grand staircase into his private wing of the house. Next to him, Titus whined low in his throat, a soft, persistent grumble, and nudged Bruce's hand, arguing with his owner about leaving the stranger. The dog, truly, was an angel when it came to Bruce, his unwavering devotion a constant source of comfort. He must not have felt comfortable with the presence of an unfamiliar scent, a stranger so deeply within their home, Bruce could tell.
Bruce deliberately released a calming waft of his pheromones into the air around them, a subtle command that immediately worked to soothe the dog's agitation.
Titus’s tail gave a tentative thump, his whines subsided. Bruce entered his bedroom and, with a decisive click, locked the door behind him. He didn’t need any more unexpected entries into his life. Especially not into his private sanctuary, his bedroom.
He crawled into his enormous bed, the cool sheets a welcome embrace. Titus, with a soft thud, jumped up and immediately settled beside him, a warm, solid weight. The dog did not leave his side, no matter what position Bruce turned or shifted into, a silent, furry guardian against the quiet desolation of the night.