Just a bunch of memory shots from the boys and the first time they meet Bruce Wayne, not really entirely Cannon. Just a little tweaked from my brain. Hope you like it.


Gone. They were gone. He was all alone. Nobody could take him, nobody knew what to do for him. But he didn't care. He just wanted his parents back.

The little dark haired boy sat in a plush armchair bigger than himself, sitting and waiting. Sitting and thinking. They told him not to think about it. Not to remember the horror on his mothers face when she realized they were falling. The short screams of both of his parents as their lives ended suddenly on the cold hard floor below. Blood. Don't remember the blood they said. Don't think about how, something so warm and alive and full of energy suddenly disappeared, they told him. Don't think of the sickening crunch of their bodies as they hit the unforgiving ground, they insisted. Don't think about the horrid bent out of shape bones poking under their flesh.

Just don't think.

They didn't understand. He knew nobody understood. To everyone else his parents were just another set of human beings tragically lost. News. Nothing real. To him they had been his life. They had taught him how to fly. They had loved him, fed him, raised him. And it wasn't even that long. And now they were gone. As if they were never there. Maybe to the rest of the world, after this blows over, they really weren't ever there. But he knew. He knew they had been there. They had been alive, he knew they had lived before, how else could he explain the harrowing black hole in his heart.

The small ten year old gymnast felt large hot tears stream down his face. He felt that all to familier sickness. He was going to throw up. He did. In the big flower pot next to him. Somebody wasn't going to like that. The boy didn't care. He hurt. He didn't care. He wished he had been on that broken trapeze. Not for the first time either.

The buzz that overtook his life was so sudden he barely had time to catch up. When his parents had fallen, time slowed for him. Everything became a numb blur. But outside, people were moving fast, telling him what he must do, asking him so many questions, his slowed brain couldn't keep up. And they didn't stop to realize he was in shock.

They sent him here. In this rich man owned children's home. Something was going on in the background. He didn't know what. He didn't care. Adults talked to him, tried to get him to respond. Nothing. They all had the same face, they all sounded the same. They all said the same thing.

'I'm sorry for your loss'

'It will get better over time'

'You'll be ok, it will all be alright.'

They didn't understand.

He ached. His insides twisted, his hairs stood on end, his brain felt like a squishy buzzing blob. His body didn't feel like it was his. He couldn't feel his arms, legs, head.

He was painfully numb.

It would never get better. It would never go away. It would never be alright again.

He fell deeper into his numb black hole.

Footsteps. Loud ones, steady ones that seemed to be coming towards him with a purpose. He didn't notice.

Voices that sounded muffled in his blob of a brain droned past. Probably another social worker or news reporter. He didn't care.

"Yes, I am fully prepared to take the child into my custody. Here are the forms."

This voice was new. He'd never heard a voice like that before. It sounded big and warm, but had a tinge of hardness under it.

"Yes sir. He should be right over there. But I warn you, the boys been unresponsive for nearly two weeks. He's practically wasting away in there."

He knew that voice. The head of this childrens home. He never bothered to learn her name. He didn't care.

"What do you expect Ms. Gander." That voice again, "He just witnessed the death of his family, barley ten years old, and in such a horrific way too. That is bound to traumatize any child."

His heart pittered. Nobody had understood that. Well, maybe someone had said it, but they never understood it. The way that voice said it . . . it sounded like that voice understood, really, truly, understood.

"Well, yes. Um, there he is. See if he'll talk. I doubt it though." That comment made him numb again.

Footsteps. He didn't look. A large presence came up behind him. He could feel it. It was huge, shadowing, heavy.

"Hello." That voice said, it changed, dropped a notch in largeness. Gentled slightly, as if pained. The presence shrunk. The owner of that voice appeared and he couldn't help looking. The owner of that voice had shrunk to his level on the floor. The owner of that voice had a strong face, broad features and quick eyes that lay with something very, very heavy. Something that induced the boy to stare and actually wonder what it was that was hiding behind these startling eyes.

"My name is Bruce Wayne. I was there at the circus, when . . ." He trailed off, not taking his eyes off the boy, "I won't say I'm sorry." He continued, actually surprising the child, "But I will say that I understand. And I want you to be able to go through this with as much help as possible. Even if you don't want it right now."

The boy's light eyes just stared back, unblinking. He wanted to do what?

"I am here to take you home with me, as my ward, to make you see that, although it might never stop hurting, there are ways to make it better. To hurt less." The voice and eyes seemed to say so much more than his words.

"Now, all you have to do is agree. And you can come home with me."

Promise. That sounded like a promise. He sighed. The first sound he'd made aside from crying.

"Ok." First word he'd spoken in days.

That voice and those eyes seemed to fall into a sense of relief. The boy didn't understand what he was so relieved about.

"Good, and I am glad to finally see you face to face Mr.-" He cut himself off glancing at the boy, and held out his hand for a shake, the child felt like this man was playing with him, he had to already know his name. Why was he asking? He decided to humor this strange man.

"Richard John Grayson. But . . . um, most people call me Dick." He said quietly and slowly reached out his much smaller hand.

The man smiled and clasped his hand, firm, but gentle at the same time, "Nice to meet you Dick. You can call me Bruce." He gave the boy a small quirk of his otherwise stiff lips. It was a surprisingly warm quirk. It made the boy tingle.

And for the first time in what felt like years, young Dick Grayson smiled back.

"Nice to meet you too Bruce."