Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

By the time the social worker arrives, a bag has already been packed for Dick.

His worn blue backpack is pressed hastily into his hands by Ksenia, one of the horseback riders. The straps pull tight when he takes it, heavy with whatever the other circus members were able to pack, and his fingers find the bumps of his mother’s stitch work from where he tore the strap last year.

He doesn’t speak as the social worker leads him to the car, past the police and the crying faces of the family his parents chose for him. The grief in his chest is so broad he doesn’t know how to even look at it, like trying to draw the shape of a coastline while the waves pass over his head.

“Is that really necessary?”

It’s the voice of the man who held him that cuts through the waves, the man whose coat is still draped around his shoulders. Dick’s head jerks up, taking in the furrow in the man’s brow as he looks ahead of them. For the first time, he processes that the car they’re walking towards is a police car.

The social worker flashes a tight smile. “It’s a safety precaution,” she tells him, gaze skating right past Dick.

The man still looks uncertain, but he doesn’t stop her. She opens the back door of the police car, giving Dick an expression that’s probably meant to be sympathetic, but only feels impatient when he doesn’t climb straight in.

He looks back, hugging his backpack to his chest. The circus tent is painted in red and blue flashing lights.

It doesn’t look like the home he knows.

“I…” he croaks. “Will I…?”

And the man crouches, blue eyes meeting his. “Hey,” he says quietly. “You’ll be safe.” He seems to hesitate a moment, and then continues, “It… won’t be this night forever.”

His gaze is solemn and honest, and Dick clings to it like a liferaft.

The social worker’s hand touches his shoulder, steering him into the car. The door shuts behind him, muting the buzzing murmur of people and activity. Through the window, the world becomes a glass-cut stone with the circus at the center, blue and red and shifting shapes.

The car begins to move, and the stone slowly turns, until the big striped tent and the man watching them pull away are illuminated no more.

By the time he realizes the man’s coat is still wrapped around his shoulders, his home is long behind him.

***

The building they arrive at stands in stark contrast to the brightness of the circus tent they left. It’s a grim, dismal building, surrounded by a fence with coils of razor wire lining the top.

The police officer driving lets him out, and he stares up at the smoggy night sky as the social worker impatiently herds him inside, hugging his backpack against his chest. The processing room they take him to is no better than the outside, fluorescent lighting beating down and making the backs of his eyes ache.

“Put your bag on the belt,” the officer tells him disinterestedly, gesturing to the x-ray machine. “And put anything metal you’ve got on you in the bin.”

He draws the bag slowly away from his chest, his mother’s stitches brushing across his fingers as he forces them to unlock.

The space it leaves behind is cold.

On the other side of the metal detector, he’s handed a stack of clothes, the fabric the same gray as the outside brick of the detention center, and pointed towards what appears to be a small changing room off the side of the main processing area.

He looks back at his backpack, which has passed through the X-ray by now. “Couldn’t I just wear some of my own clothes?” he asks quietly. “I… I’m pretty sure someone packed some for me.”

The officer just gives him a tired look. “It’s procedure,” he says in a bored tone. “Your possessions are going to be put in storage unless and until we can find somewhere else to put you.”

Anxiety flares in his stomach, and he tries to make eye contact with the social worker, desperately hoping she might step in, or at least offer some reassurance.

She doesn’t even look at him, busy typing something out on her phone.

His shoulders slump, and he accepts the clothes, silently proceeding into the changing room.

When he returns, half-drowning in the scratchy fabric of the too-large uniform they’ve given him, his bag is sitting in a scuffed cardboard box. The police officer takes his brightly-colored trapeze outfit and the coat the man from the circus left him from his hands, dropping them carelessly in the box with it.

Dick can barely bring himself to look at it, the sight of his parents still on the ground in their matching outfits painted across the back of his eyelids every time he blinks.

He allows himself to be led out of the processing room and deeper into the bleak building that will end up being his home until the day that Bruce Wayne is able to finally claim him as his ward, and he doesn’t let himself look back at the box as he goes.

He won’t see anything in it again.

***

Bruce Wayne comes for him.

He leaves the detention center in a polished back car, driven by a butler with kind eyes who opens the door for him and his new guardian to climb in, and he stares out the window and wonders what his life is supposed to look like now.

“I know this must be overwhelming for you,” Bruce says uncertainly. “But we’re going to - ”

“Did you get my bag?” Dick cuts in, not caring if he sounds ungrateful as he stares out the window. His voice is rough; he’s barely spoken at all this past week.

There’s a pause. “No,” he admits quietly, a frustrated edge to his tone, but it doesn’t seem to be directed towards Dick. “I tried to, but I was told that they were unable to find it in storage. My attorney is handling your custody, I’ll have her go in this week and try again, see if perhaps someone is able to remember where they put it.”

Dick looks down at the gray clothes he’s still dressed in. “Please,” he says quietly, trying not to reveal the bitterness he feels over having to plead for this man, who thinks he can just take him home like a dog from the shelter, to let him keep the only possessions he has left of his home.

But if he can get back even so much as a single photo of his parents, it will be worth it.

Bruce lets out a soft breath. “I’ll do my best,” he says solemnly, a weight behind every word, and Dick believes that much.

***

His best isn’t enough. It’s three days later when Bruce sits him down, and tells him regretfully, pain clear in his eyes, that his bag and the clothes he was brought in with couldn’t be found.

Dick doesn’t question how he knows at the time, though some months later he’ll realize that Bruce is so confident because he searched for them himself in the nights after his new ward came to the Manor.

Now, he bites his tongue. He doesn’t lash out at Bruce the way a part of him wishes he could. He thinks back to the dreary gray building full of hopeless, angry children, and knows things could be much worse.

He’s living in a mansion, with a guardian who for all his frequent awkwardness, seems genuinely upset that he was unable to give him back the few scraps of his family he still had.

But it’s also bitterly clear that Bruce doesn’t get it.

This manor is as much a mausoleum as it is a home. There are whole wings and rooms full of his heritage, left to dust and loneliness.

Dick thinks about this one morning, standing in one of the many hallways and bouncing a small rubber ball he found steadily against the polished floors as he looks up at the paintings of Waynes long gone that line the walls.

He smacks the ball precisely against the base of the wall, catching it effortlessly with the opposite hand without even tearing his eyes away from the painting he’s studying. It’s an older woman, her dark streaked with gray hair done up elegantly to frame her regal face. Her familiar blue eyes gaze at him from the oil paint that’s probably held her for a century or more, cool and assessing, and he’s sure he can almost feel her disdain for him across the generations between them. The steady rhythm of the ball grows sharper as he whips the ball at the wall.

He thinks of his mother’s eyes, brown and warm and expressive, the laugh lines that crinkled at their edges.

What color were they exactly?

Were they the same shade as his own, or were they darker, rich soil to his hazel?

The ball stings every time it returns to his hand.

The laugh lines are already blurred by memory, the precise shape of his parents' expressions warping at the edges like an old photograph.

How long before their faces are lost to him forever? How long before the language that connected him to them slips away from his tongue, forgotten with the sounds of their voices?

How long before he knows the faces of Bruce’s family better than his own?

The ball slams into the painting.

He doesn’t catch it as it bounces away down the hallway, just stares in muted horror at the hole torn in the canvas, the rip slashing across the entire lower half of the painted face like a morbid grin.

The dull sound of the ball rolling comes to an abrupt stop, and he turns his head, heart dropping from his stomach straight through the floor when he meets Alfred’s gaze.

“Mister Pennyworth,” he chokes out. “I’m - I didn’t mean to - I’m sorry -”

The elderly butler looks from the ball in his hand to the ripped painting, one eyebrow raised. Dick swallows convulsively, throat tightening as it sets in that he’s just cost himself every blessing that the rest of those kids in the detention hall would have killed for.

He prays Bruce will at least send him to another foster home. If he gets sent straight back to the detention hall, he thinks he’ll die.

“Your aim is either impeccable or quite atrocious, dear boy,” Alfred says, coming to stand beside him, observing the painting.

Dick feels frozen. “I’m sorry,” he repeats uselessly, voice shaking, knowing it does nothing to fix the painting that he’s well aware is probably worth more than everything his parents ever owned put together.

Alfred sighs, surveying the damage. “This was Master Wayne’s great aunt Matilda,” he says, and Dick swallows again. “From the tales that the late Mrs. Wayne used to tell of her, it is entirely possible that this is more than she ever smiled in life.”

Dick’s head snaps up in shock, baffled at the twinkle of mirth in the butler’s eye. “I - what?”

“It’s true,” he says solemnly. “Mrs. Wayne was always quite gracious towards those she disliked, but as I recall when she heard that Miss Matilda had passed on, her response was, ah, ‘good riddance’.”

He looks down, meeting Dick’s wide eyes. He raises an eyebrow, though his expression is more curious than judgemental. “Now I don’t believe I’ve shared that particular tale with you before now, so I would be quite fascinated to hear what began your apparent rivalry with her, as it would seem rather one-sided.”

Dick flushes, crossing one arm across his chest to hold the other one. “I really didn’t mean to,” he mumbles. “I mean, I didn’t know I was gonna do it until it was too late. I wasn’t thinking about it.”

“Temper can take the reins from the best of us, once in a while. You’ll need to mind that,” he responds, though not unkindly. “Though I suspect this was not a fully spontaneous fit of rage.”

The question goes unspoken, and Dick doesn’t dare pretend he doesn’t hear it. “I don’t have any photos of my parents,” he says in a quiet voice. He tries to continue, to explain himself, but the words don’t come.

But Alfred doesn’t ask him for anything else. “I am most sorry, Master Dick,” he says solemnly. “I… regret that I will never have the opportunity to meet them.”

Dick looks down at his feet. “Yeah,” he croaks softly. “You’re really not mad at me?”

The butler lets out a small sigh, but not a frustrated one. “In the future, I would prefer you refrain from taking out your understandable frustration on the antiques, but no, dear boy, I’m not angry with you.”

He holds out the ball to Dick, who takes it with cautious awe. “And…what about Bruce?”

Alfred sniffs. “If Master Bruce gets it in his head to be upset, you may ask him if he remembers why he is not allowed spray paint within the walls of the manor, and why the original hardwood floor had to be replaced in the west sitting room,” he says primly.

Dick’s eyes light up. “Okay,” he agrees readily, already fully intending to wheedle out that story regardless of Bruce’s reaction.

Alfred grants him a small smile. “Now. Why don’t you come join me for some afternoon tea, and if you are comfortable doing so, tell me about your parents?”

Immediately, anxiety loops itself around his throat and squeezes, grief flaring painful and sharp at the very thought of trying to summon those memories and share them, to try and box them into words to hand them over to someone who was never there.

Alfred must see some of it on his face, because his expression softens, and for the first time he kneels to look him in the eye. “That is an invitation, Master Dick, not an order,” he tells him gently. “And there is no shame in refusing it.”

Dick looks down at the ball in his hands, fingernails splitting the rubber where they dig into it. “But I should, shouldn’t I?” he murmurs. “I should talk about them.”

Alfred hums. “There is no right or wrong way to handle such a loss,” he replies, just as quietly. “It can help, I believe, to share the grief with those willing to bear it. A memory is a heavy thing to carry alone. But you do not need to speak of your parents to honor them. You do so every day, through your words and actions.”

He sniffles. “I’m scared I’m going to forget them,” he whispers.

For a long moment, Alfred is silent, and Dick chews on his lip, trying to fight back the tears he can feel rising. “Do you know I have quite forgotten how Mr. Wayne took his eggs?” he says abruptly.

Dick looks up in surprise, frowning, and Alfred nods before continuing. “He could be quite particular about them, I recall that much. I remember he didn’t like pepper in them, because Mrs. Wayne used to tease him about his… reluctance to enjoy spices. But I cannot for the life of me seem to recall whether he preferred them poached, or in the form of an omelette.”

“That’s not a big deal,” Dick offers uncertainly. “I mean, I bet you remember lots of more important stuff,” he adds hastily, trying not to sound dismissive.

Thankfully, Alfred tips his head in acknowledgement. “I do,” he agrees. “I remember a great many things. But I have forgotten things too, and I expect as time goes on, more of them will slip away from me, and it’s entirely possible that I won’t even notice they’re gone. My memories of them will simply be… less.”

Dick looks at him, studying the lines of his weathered face. “Does that ever make you feel bad?” he asks in a hushed voice. “Like… like if you loved them more, you’d remember them?”

“Sometimes,” he admits quietly.

His heart sinks. “So… what do you do?”

The butler smiles, and this time there’s none of his earlier amusement, just gentle warmth. “Well, Master Dick, that’s quite simple,” he replies. “I love the family they left behind.”

And with that, he stands up, leaving Dick staring up at him. “And I do believe I have already told you that you are free to call me Alfred. Mister Pennyworth is reserved for guests in this household, not family.”

Dick’s face warms, but the anxiety has almost completely uncoiled itself from around his lungs, and he follows the butler out of the hallway and towards the kitchen, where he busily sets to assembling the materials for tea. Dick pauses in the doorway, still feeling off-kilter at the lack of punishment for the painting.

Then Alfred sets two tea cups on the tray, and Dick obeys the clear indication to sit down and wait.

Soon, the butler joins him with a small spread of scones and cookies and a pot of tea, and they both settle into a quiet but peaceful meal.

A few minutes later, and the warmth of the tea feels like it’s soaked into his very bones, and it gives him the strength to take a deep breath and say, “My mama loved ginger tea.”

He senses Alfred’s full attention on him immediately, but his expression betrays only mild curiosity, and it strengthens Dick’s courage. “My tata liked it too, but he liked to put so much honey in it that my mama would always get mad at him for messing up the flavor.”

Alfred gives him a small, gentle smile. “Your mother sounds like she had very distinguished taste.”

“Yeah,” he says, returning the smile, though it feels somewhat weak and wavering on his own face. He cradles his tea cup in his palms. “She used to be super dramatic about it. She’d always say she wasn’t going to share it with him anymore because he would just ruin it. But she, um. She kept buying honey.”

His voice gives out at the very end, and he can’t seem to call it back. He feels raw, like the words he’s just presented have been flayed from some deep piece of him, but… he doesn’t think it’s an entirely bad feeling.

Alfred’s gaze is understanding. “She must have loved him very much,” he murmurs, and Dick nods, swallowing thickly.

They finish their tea, and when they’re done he helps Alfred make another round of scones, and they don’t say another word about Dick’s parents. Slowly, the scraped-raw feeling inside him becomes bearable again.

That night, he dreams of flying, his parents' laughter ringing in his ears.

Chapter Text

Dick wedges the door to his Bludhaven apartment closed in its uneven door frame with his shoulder, grunting as it makes last night’s stab wound in his side flare dully. He’s given up on his landlord ever fixing the frame.

He immediately beelines to the couch, crossing the tiny living room in a few steps and sinking into it with a much more appreciative groan.

There’s a water stain on the ceiling above him, and he studies it idly. It’s taken on a distinctly guitarish shape. Last month it was more of a ukulele.

If the ceiling collapses on him, he can probably sue the landlord and win, he decides. He wouldn’t even feel bad about it, the place is a slum and deserves to be sued. He wouldn’t even feel bad about letting Bruce pay for fancy lawyers.

He shoves away the thought of Bruce, too exhausted to deal with the grief and bitterness that always rises to the surface these days when he thinks about his guardian for too long. It’s not the same as the anger and frustration he used to feel, back before Ja -

Before.

Before, it was the hot and bright flare of a thrown stone, the betrayal and lingering ache of every one of their blow-out fights.

They don’t fight anymore.

Now, it’s just clipped and hollow words, the sharp bruising of wrapping your fist around a pumice stone and squeezing.

He should really get up and go change out of his uniform, he thinks as he stares at the guitar. His pants are still splattered with vomit from one of the drunks they brought in. He should change the dressing on his side before he ends up with an infection. Again. He should go to bed and try to get a couple hours sleep before he needs to patrol.

There’s always so much he should do.

His eyes drift shut. Just a moment, he tells himself. Just for a moment.

***

Someone is knocking at the door.

He’s alert in seconds, blinking away the grittiness from his eyes. He takes in the way the light outside has gone from dusk to night, grabbing a knife off the kitchen counter as he silently pads over to check the peephole.

For a moment, he thinks there’s no one there. Then, the knock comes again, hesitant but clear, and a head of black hair steps back from the door, barely tall enough to be seen through the peephole.

Alarmed, he opens the door and meets the wide blue eyes of a pale, tiny boy, cradling a large folder in his arms and looking just as startled to see him.

“Hi,” the boy squeaks, and clears his throat. “Um. Hi, Mr. Grayson.”

“Hey,” Dick replies, discreetly checking the rest of the hallway and preparing to yank the kid inside and shut the door if he sees anything suspicious. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” the kid says quickly. “My name’s Tim. Um. Timothy Drake? We never really, uh, talked or anything, but I used to be your neighbor.”

He blinks, looking at the boy more closely. Distantly, a memory dislodges of an even tinier child with dark hair and the same big blue eyes, following an elegant woman around a gala like a shadow.

“Tim,” he says slowly, wariness fading to be replaced with confusion. “Yeah, I think I remember you.” Tim’s face brightens, more than Dick thinks is reasonable just for being remembered by an old neighbor, and it’s easy enough to pull up the gentle smile he uses when talking to kids on the street. “You’re pretty far from home. Is everything alright?”

Tim shifts anxiously, but the set of his jaw is determined. “Can I come in? I - I need to talk to you. It’s important, and I don’t think we should do it out here.”

Concern growing, he steps back from the door. “Yeah, of course, come on in.” He keeps the worry off his face, keeping his expression calm and friendly, as he does a final glance down the hallway on both sides. Once they’re both inside, he locks the door behind them.

“Can I get you a snack? I, ah, I’m kind of overdue for a trip to the store, but I know I’ve got some gatorade and some chinese food that should still be good -”

“I know you’re Nightwing,” Tim blurts out, and Dick freezes, a performer’s mask dropping over his expression.

“Oh, kiddo, I think you might be a bit confused,” he says with a small, bewildered laugh. “I’m a police officer, which is a little like a vigilante, but I’m not that big on rooftops.”

“I know you’re Nightwing,” Tim repeats steadily. “And I know you used to be Robin. I know Mr. Wayne is Batman, and I know - I know the second Robin was Jason Todd.”

He allows the amusement to drain away from his face, keeping his expression as blank as possible. “Who told you that?”

Tim shakes his head quickly. “No one, I promise. No one else knows. I - here.” He hurries over to Dick’s small, scratched-up kitchen table, setting his folder down and opening it up. Dick follows him slowly, thoughts buzzing. He shifts the papers from one side to the other - Dick sees charts, diagrams, snapshots of red and green and black outlines suspended in the night sky, what looks like a map of their patrol routes - and pulls out a photograph from the back, holding it with the obvious care of something precious.

He takes a deep breath. “When I was three, my parents took me to the circus,” he begins. “And I met a boy who promised to do a quadruple flip for me.” He holds the photo out, and Dick takes it automatically. “And when I was nine, I saw Robin do the same flip.”

Dick barely hears him as he continues, staring at the photo in his hand. “It’s… a really rare flip, actually, there’s really only a couple people in the whole world who can do it. So… it wasn’t hard to make the connection. And from there, I realized who Batman had to be. And then when you quit as Robin, and Nightwing started working just a few months later - I don’t think anyone else made the connection, but I found some videos of you fighting, and I saw your techniques were the same, so it had to be -”

“I didn’t quit,” Dick interrupts softly, still studying the smiling faces of his parents, drinking in the way his father’s hair curled, the slight gap in his mother’s teeth as she beamed. “I was fired from being Robin, I never quit.”

His mother’s eyes are the exact same shade as the grinning boy kneeling next to her, her hand resting on his shoulder.

“Oh,” Tim whispers. “I - I just assumed, I’m sorry.”

Dick drags his eyes away from the photo, realizing his vision is a little blurry as he blinks at him. “You really figured that all out from one flip?” He laughs, ignoring the way it comes out faintly choked. “That’s pretty impressive, kiddo.”

Tim, who’s hunched in on himself slightly, seems to uncurl at the praise. “I never told anyone else, I promise,” he says earnestly. “I would never tell anyone.”

He looks back down at the photo in his hand, the bright, awestricken expression on the face of the toddler on Dick’s lap. He sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “I believe you,” he says, and means it. It’s easier this time to pull his eyes away and look back at the boy of this time sitting in front of him. “So what’s up, Tim? It sounds like you’ve known this for years. Why come all the way to Bludhaven to tell me this now?”

Tim straightens his shoulders. “Because Batman needs help,” he says certainly. “He… he hasn’t been okay since… since Robin.”

Dick takes a harsh breath. “What do you know about Robin?” he asks sharply.

“I know the Joker was spotted in Ethiopia, just a few days before Bruce Wayne went on a business trip, shortly followed by…” he hesitates. “By the reported kidnapping and death of Jason Todd.” His fingers briefly touch the edge of the folder before withdrawing, and Dick’s heart clenches at the realization that he almost certainly has some sort of evidence that he’s just decided not to show him. “I - I don’t know exactly what happened, but - there’s enough to surmise -”

“Then you can also surmise that B… he has his own ways of dealing with these things, I promise,” Dick cuts Tim off as gently as he can, unable to bear letting him continue. “Look, Jason… he was his son.” He traces the edges of the photograph, worn soft by age and handling. “And it’s only been a few months. Of course he’s not okay just yet. But he’s tough, okay?” he says earnestly, leaning forward to meet Tim’s eyes. “He’s Batman. He… he just needs some time, that’s all. You don’t need to worry about him.”

“You haven’t seen him,” Tim replies urgently. “You’re here in Bludhaven, not Gotham. But I’ve been watching him, and it’s - he’s - last week - ”

His face crumples, scared and desperate, and Dick’s stomach gives an uncomfortable twist. “Hey, it’s okay,” he says soothingly, even as dread coils heavy at the base of his spine. “Tell me what happened last week.” He can’t quite keep the order out of his voice, even knowing that he’s speaking to a frightened child.

He needs to know.

Tim takes a deep breath. Lets it out again. “Last week, he got in a fight with a couple of Penguin’s men down by the docks,” he answers at last. “He beat one of them so bad that he couldn’t get up again after Batman left.” The child-like fear has been wiped from his face, leaving only a focused intensity as he meets Dick’s gaze. “I had to call an ambulance. And this isn’t the first time he’s been too violent. He’s getting worse.”

Dick stares back at him, stricken. “He -” he stops, swallowing. “I’m really sorry you had to see that,” he says quietly. “You’re right, I didn’t realize.”

And yet, deep down, a bitter part of him recognizes that he isn’t surprised.

It’s not the first time he’s believed in Bruce and been disappointed.

Tim shrugs. “It’s not your fault,” he dismisses, quick and earnest, like he didn’t just admit to having watched his hero beat a man half to death in front of him. A note of concern pings in the back of Dick’s mind, a niggling unpleasant suspicion beginning to form as he imagines the tiny boy in front of him tucked into a filthy corner of the docks, watching, observing and unobserved in the bloody Gotham nights.

Then Tim keeps talking, and knocks that train of thought right off its tracks. “But you can fix it now! If you come back as Robin, then -”

“What?” he blurts out in shock. “I’m not coming back as Robin.”

Tim doesn’t seem even a little deterred. “No but listen, I’ve thought about it, okay? Batman needs a Robin. He’s always been better when he has a partner. Like if you go back and look at the old police records, he used to be rougher before he adopted you. I mean… it was never as bad as it is right now, but if you came back -”

“Tim, no,” he snaps.

Tim freezes, eyes wide and pleading, and Dick’s heart twists with guilt. He sighs, dragging his fingers through his hair as he tries to organize his thoughts. He really needs a shower. “I get where you’re coming from,” he tries, much more gently. “But like I said, I was fired as Robin. And even if I wasn’t, I just… I can’t.” He meets Tim’s hurt gaze. “I’m sorry, kiddo. But I’m not Robin anymore. I haven’t been for a long time.”

Tim looks down at his carefully assembled folder. His expression is carefully blank, but underneath it, Dick thinks he sees something… considering.

“Okay,” he whispers after a long pause. He closes his folder, picking it up and holding it against his chest. “Thank you for taking the time to listen to me,” he says formally, standing up. Dick stands too, frowning in confusion. “I apologize for bothering you.”

“Wait, kid -”

Tim looks at him, reserved but attentive, and Dick lets out a breath through his nose, looking down at the photo in his hand. “Why do you care so much anyway?” he finally asks.

Tim chews his lip, cheeks tinging pink. He’s silent for long enough that Dick almost tells him he doesn’t need to answer, but just as he opens his mouth the boy speaks.

“I know that you don’t know me,” he says softly. “I don’t blame you if you think I’m just a weird kid with a camera. Maybe I am. But… I was nine when I first saw Robin.” He raises his head, bangs framing his solemn blue eyes. “And you and Batman - you were out there, every night, helping people just because you could. And then it was Jason instead of you, but it was still Batman and Robin, and it… it was like magic.”

A yellow cape flits in the corner of Dick’s vision, and he hears the bright laughter of another little boy brush past him, ringing in the shabby apartment with the declaration that Robin gives me magic!

“I know you don’t really know me,” Tim repeats. “But - I know Batman and Robin mattered to Jason. I know Gotham mattered to him, and now… now he’s gone.”

He sniffs harshly and scrubs at his nose with the too-long sleeve of his hoodie. “So they have to still matter to someone, right?” his tone is the fiercest it’s been all night, and still cracks at the end on a plea. “Because he can’t keep them safe anymore.”

It is a shock to the system every time to learn that most losses do not announce themselves before they leave, and goodbye is a gift never guaranteed.

It is perhaps a deeper shock to learn that most things lost come knocking once again with another face.

Dick thinks perhaps this is what it means to see a ghost.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “He really loved them, didn’t he?”

He turns the photograph over in his fingers. “Do your parents know you’re here?” he asks.

Tim shakes his head. “They’re out of the country on a dig, they don’t get back until next month.”

Dick nods once, turning the seed of suspicion in his head over and rooting it firmly. “Okay,” he says easily. “Why don’t you stay here for the night? I don’t want you traveling back to Gotham by yourself at night.”

“Are - are you sure?” Tim says, tilting his head and frowning hesitantly.

Dick smiles. “Yeah, of course I’m sure. And then tomorrow, if you want, I’ll give you a ride back into Gotham, and I’ll take you to go meet Bruce.”

Tim’s eyes go very wide, darting briefly to the door like he’s considering bolting for it. “Oh - oh no, that’s okay, I can actually just take the late bus home actually, there’s a stop not that far from home -”

“You’re not in any trouble!” Dick adds hastily, seeing the way he clutches the folder to his chest like a shield. “He’s going to want to meet you, I promise. And possibly go over how you figured out our patrol routes. But he’s not going to be mad at you, I swear on… on Robin.”

Because if he is I’m going to sabotage the buckle on every single utility belt he owns, he silently vows.

As Dick somewhat grimly expected, Tim relaxes a bit at the reassurance, though he still looks wary. “But… why?”

Dick gives him another soft smile. “Because you’re a really smart kid, Tim,” he replies. “And like I said, he’s gonna wanna meet you. Besides, I think he and I need to talk anyway.” He strokes a thumb across the back of the photograph. “I’m, um. I’m really glad you came to talk to me,” he says, and means it.

The last of the wariness melts from Tim’s posture, and his cheeks turn faintly pink again as he soaks up the praise like a flower in the sun.

Dick looks down at the photo, the novelty of seeing his parents’ faces for the first time since he was a child still a warm spark in his chest. “Can I hold onto this?” he asks. “Just until I can make some copies for myself,” he adds, seeing Tim’s hesitation, and relief washes over him when the boy nods.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “Now go ahead and sit back down, I’ll heat you up some of that Chinese food.”

Tim obeys, slowly setting his folder down at the end of the table. “Thank you, Mr. Grayson,” he says politely.

Dick grins at him. “You can call me Dick, kiddo, it’s okay.”

He gets a small, hesitant smile in return. “Thanks, Dick.”

In the faded photograph, which Dick tucks reverently into a drawer, a boy holds his little brother and beams.