Merry Christmas! This will be a multi-chapter short story (maybe 4 chapters in all), set after "The Cowl" and before "Father and Sons". It is the new #7 in the "Young Dick Grayson" series. Because this is the first Christmas for 8-year-old Dick after the death of his parents and the first in the manor, it might require a few tissues on the part of the reader to get through.
Warning: Some Language . . .
Bruce entered the kitchen to find Dick already sitting at the table, a plate of fried eggs, toast, and bacon quickly being devoured in front of him. The man had been wracking his considerable brain for over a week now and he still had no answer to the conundrum facing him. Lucius had given his advice yesterday. Unhelpfully, in Bruce's opinion.
Ask him, the man had told him and so here Bruce was. The dread that this time of year usually dredged up was battling it out with an unfamiliar rush of excitement.
Wayne Manor hadn't celebrated Christmas in last fifteen years. Not a hall had been decked nor an ornament hung in all that time. Eleven-year-old Bruce had refused to celebrate the holiday alone and that decision had remained in effect ever since. As an adult, he had found it necessary to attend his company's Christmas party each year, albeit for only the twenty minutes it took for him to officially begin the party with a short speech to his employees.
After Batman had entered the scene, Bruce would grit his teeth and attend one society party during the holiday for an hour or so, just long enough to ensure that everyone in attendance had seen him inappropriately smashed on eggnog. He would leave again with much fanfare, usually with one, or sometimes two, women on either arm and proceed to allow them to help him forget why this time of year was so unwelcome.
Girding himself, Bruce smiled as he made for the coffee. The unfamiliar facial expression wasn't quite as forced as it was normally. Just ask him still ringing in his ears, Bruce turned toward his ward with determination.
Just because Christmas stirred up painful memories for the man didn't necessarily mean that it would for an eight-year-old boy. It was the first time the boy had faced it without his parents, true enough, but Dick has proven to be a resilient child, much more so than Bruce had been when in his situation. Ever since the breakthrough Bruce had made with him, the manor rang with smiles and laughter. Certainly, the boy would appreciate a happy Christmas to ease the pain celebrating without his parents would likely bring.
Dick was not Bruce, after all . . .
"Christmas is coming up soon, Dickiebird," Bruce sat across the breakfast table from the boy with his cup of coffee. "Is there anything in particular that you want this year?"
Dick's fork clattered harshly against the porcelain plate, startling both Bruce and Alfred who had been eavesdropping as he readied the master's plate. Dick stared at his remaining food with an unreadable expression, although it didn't stay unreadable for long. Pain flashed across the boy's face followed closely by determination.
"I don't want no Christmas," Dick whispered without looking up.
"I'm sorry?" Bruce thought he misheard the child. Where was his bright and happy child this morning?
"I said, I don't want no Christmas," Dick yelled through clenched teeth.
Shoving back from the table, he didn't wait to be excused but ran out of the room. The sounds of pounding feet as they ran up the stairs were loud in the silence the boy had left behind him.
"Oh dear," Alfred said, his shoulders slumping slightly. Sliding the eggs on the plate, Alfred carried Bruce's breakfast over to him. "I really wish you would have waited to ask him until after the boy had cleared his plate," Alfred complained, softly. "I do not like him to miss meals."
Indeed, Dick had only recently been declared within the lower range of a healthy weight for a child of his age and stature by Leslie after losing so much due to his grief. The boy's inability to eat had so upset the man that Bruce had been forced to add another twenty minutes to his workout to burn off the excess treats the older man had been keeping on hand. Alfred had resorted to baking as a way to tease the child into partaking a few extra calories throughout the course of the day. Anything that disrupted the boy's appetite tended to throw Alfred into a tizzy.
"Slightly less than half," Bruce noted, unhappily. He hadn't intended to upset the boy and, unfortunately, they had discovered that upsetting the boy usually translated into loss of appetite.
"Better than he would manage when he first came to us," Alfred agreed. "But not nearly as much as he needs."
Bruce set down his coffee and looked back at the older man. "I guess not much will be changing around here, after all," he sighed.
"I'm afraid I beg to differ, sir." Alfred set the boy's dirty plate in the sink with an annoyed clatter. "I refuse to allow Master Richard to miss Christmas. You will simply have to shore up your resolve and make it happen."
Eyebrows rising at the obstinacy in his butler's voice, Bruce sputtered. "But you heard him. Obviously facing Christmas without his parents is too difficult for Dick to handle this year. Forcing it on him would only be cruel. I've never known you to be cruel before, Alfred."
"It is not cruelty but experience I speak from, Master Bruce," Alfred told him. "I allowed you to avoid Christmas that first year, thinking I was being understanding and patient, however, what I really did was allow you to continue avoiding your grief."
Bruce frowned. "I was not avoiding my grief, I can assure you. In fact, I'm faced with it each and every day."
"Yes, indeed," Alfred continued undaunted, "and look how you have turned out."
Bruce choked on his eggs and reached quickly for his coffee. He turned an offended gaze toward his majordomo is disbelief.
"How is that?" he asked, strangled. "You speak as though I'm some sort of person . . ."
"Who dresses up as a bat and spends his evening thrashing villains and reprobates? You are merely proving my point, sir," Alfred responded dryly.
"And what point is that?" Bruce wiped his mouth with his napkin. "That I somehow lost my sanity because I found Christmas unbearable without my parents there to celebrate it with me?"
"Your words, not mine." Alfred wiped the counter with his usual efficiency. He folded the towel carefully and looked at his charge. "Master Bruce, you have not truly faced that grief but continue to avoid it by turning your considerable attention to routing every criminal that steps a toe across the line."
Seeing his charge open his mouth to defend himself, Alfred raised a hand and continued. "It is a worthy aspiration, sir, one that I applaud, and I count myself fortunate in being able to help you accomplish it . . . but it is not a healthy pursuit for a young boy to have, burying his grief the way you have."
"You keep saying I have not grieved but I disagree, old man!" Bruce burst out, his temper rising.
"The way you have gone about it, however, sir, is not healthy," Alfred insisted.
"Says who?" Bruce asked, scowling.
"The fact that you have not moved past it says it all. You have allowed your grief to define you. You have not permitted yourself a life beyond this obsession, this quest for vengeance."
"Justice!" Bruce snapped. "Mine is a quest for justice!"
Alfred's shoulders slumped. Had he made different decisions all those years ago, Master Bruce wouldn't have found it necessary to risk life and limb on a nightly basis. He might have, even now, found love and a family. The young man he had struggled to raise was still just as stubborn and bull-headed as he ever was, and Alfred knew that his opportunity to put a stop to such a foolhardy quest had long since passed.
But it was not too late for this child. Richard Grayson would have a different outcome. This boy would learn how to live and love as Bruce never had. Perhaps God was giving him a second chance to rectify his mistakes this time around and that would start with one of the first ones he had made by allowing Christmas to lay forgotten and unobserved. And if, by helping this young boy, Alfred could simultaneously help Master Bruce . . .
Alfred stepped close to his elder charge and laid a hand on the young man's shoulder.
"Bruce," he said, watching as the younger man's attention was snagged. "No matter what that child claims that he wants, I guarantee you that if Christmas morning arrives and there is no tree up and no stockings hung, it will ruin Christmas for him forever. It will only encourage him to continue to hide from his grief."
Pain flashed in those deep, dark, midnight-blue eyes and then was gone. Had Alfred not been looking for it, he might have missed it entirely.
"You worry that he will turn out like me, don't you?" Bruce accused softly.
"Are you happy, Bruce? Can you look me in the eye and tell me that part of your life has been fulfilled?" Alfred asked.
The younger man stared at him for a long moment before closing his eyes. "You've made your point, old man," he muttered. Bruce looked at him again. "And you believe that forcing Dick to have a Christmas will change that outcome?"
"It is a start." Alfred let his hand drop away. "There isn't much time, however. You must determine what it is that the boy needs and give it to him."
Master Bruce looked back at him incredulously. "How do I do that when he won't talk about it?"
Alfred tsked. "Hardly a Gordian knot when tackled by the world's greatest detective, I would think. How hard can it be for you to discover what it is that a newly-orphaned boy might want for Christmas?"
"I worded that incorrectly," Master Bruce admitted. "I know what he wants but it is impossible, Alfred. I'd give my fortune to give him back his parents. You know that."
"Of course, but perhaps the boy might be willing to accept the next best thing?"
The frown between the master's eyes was no longer one of anger but the one that he would wear when confronted by a particularly troublesome riddle. Although, this time with the Prince of Puns still in Arkham, there was only the happiness of one small boy that hung in the balance.
Alfred turned back to cleaning up the breakfast dishes as Master Bruce wandered out of the kitchen deep in thought. Alfred smiled, satisfied that for the first time in fifteen years, Christmas would return once again to Wayne Manor, satisfied that he had made the first step to making certain amends.
"Do you plan to be up all night?"
Bruce looked up from the computer screen where he sat in uniform but with his cowl shoved back. "I'm running the program again. I need to discover where Zucco is hiding, Alfred. I'm hoping that it will give me the most likely locations based upon the man's known history and the few clues that I've managed to uncover."
Alfred blinked in surprise. Batman had already completed his patrol an hour ago and it was already two in the morning.
"Did you find something?"
Bruce slumped in his chair. "Nothing definitive. But I thought to check at the top three sites the computer gives me."
"Surely, you're not thinking to go back out tonight, are you?" the older man inquired.
"Christmas is less than a week away, Alfred. If I hope to give Dick Zucco all tied up and ready to be hauled off to jail by then, I will need to devote all my time to it, every waking second," he growled.
"Sir, when I suggested you give Dick what he needs most, I was not referring to the man who murdered his parents."
Bruce glanced up from where he started at the data. "You said to give him what a newly-orphaned boy would want. I remember wanting the man who had taken my parents away from me found and placed in jail more than anything else in the world." He breathed out slowly through flaring nostrils, his eyes narrowing. "I still do."
This was what had spurred him onto the path to becoming Batman, in fact. The police cold case had laid on Bruce's heart during those intervening years and, even now, still drove him to don the cowl every night. His intent was to roust the criminals from their shadows and prevent another tragedy such as his to occur ever again. He had failed with Dick . . . The least he could do was find the man who had taken the boy's parents from him and ensure that this child found the justice that had been denied Bruce.
"Yes, I'm sure that Master Richard would like that very much," Alfred agreed, "but there is something else that he needs far more than justice under the tree this year." He waited to ensure that Bruce's attention was riveted. "While his tragedy does, indeed, mirror yours, there are distinct differences as well. What gave you comfort, Master Bruce, during those few times that you allowed it?"
Bruce frowned as he turned over his butler's words in his mind. "But Zucco . . ."
". . . will be there the day after Christmas as well," Alfred told him. "If he hasn't fled the area yet, I doubt he will before then. Don't you agree?"
"He hasn't fled," Bruce said. "I'm positive that he is still in the area but has gone to ground."
"Then I would think comfort would take precedence in this one instance," Alfred told him as the butler turned to make his way back to the steps leading up to the manor.
Bruce stared after the man for a long time, even after Alfred disappeared behind the heavy door that stood between the manor and the cave. His eyes saw not the rough-hewn steps or the limestone walls, however. His eyes were turned inward as he thought back on the comfort of a child long since lost.
Bruce set down his suitcase by the front door and draped his overcoat on top of it. He made his way to the kitchen, uncertain of what his welcome would be after he announced his plans. He had learned a valuable lesson from the day before, however, and that was to keep those plans to himself until after Dick had finished eating.
The boy had eaten poorly for lunch as well yesterday, although by dinner his funk had eased enough that he had almost cleared his plate. Whether Dick had avoided him for most of the day or Bruce had done so, he wasn't sure. Whichever way it was, the two had not seen one another except during meal times. Bruce shoved away the guilt over the unhappiness that his absence would cause over the course of the next couple of days. The end result, he told himself, was all that mattered.
He just hoped like hell that Alfred knew what he was talking about.
"Good morning," Bruce greeted them with more cheer than he felt.
"Good morning, Master Bruce," Alfred chimed in merrily.
Dick looked up cautiously. "Morning," he spoke after swallowing a mouthful of pancakes.
Bruce ruffled the dark hair. His hand calmed the bedhead to an almost neat look . . . almost. It made Bruce smirk. In the time, Dick had been with them, Alfred had not been able to tame the child's hair into a suitable style. The butler had purchased more hair products in the last six weeks than he had for Bruce in the past year. Eventually, after Zucco had been caught, tried, and put behind bars, Bruce would take the boy to his barber and let Samuel have a go at it. In the meantime, Alfred would trim Dick's hair and continue in his attempts to mold it into some semblance of order.
"So, what are your plans for the day, Dick?" Bruce asked as Alfred set a plateful of pancakes in front of him.
Dick's eyes flew up to Alfred. "Alfred is teaching me algebra and then I'm learning about Mesotamia, I think."
"Mesopotamia," Alfred corrected, gently.
Bruce looked up in surprise. "Algebra? Mesopotamia? That's a little advanced, is it not?"
Alfred smiled at the boy in question. "Master Richard is quite advanced in his studies, you'll find, sir. His mother did quite a remarkable job teaching him."
"Is that so?" Bruce asked Dick.
Dick shrugged as he concentrated on cutting his pancake without sending his breakfast off of his plate and onto the floor. "I guess so. I don't really know. She just taught me every morning after our workout and breakfast. Then, after lunch, we would practice our routine before the natives started arriving."
Alfred made a face but didn't bother reminding the boy not to revert back to circus lingo. It was early days yet. Plenty of time to work on his speech.
"We might consider having him tested once that foul gentleman has been placed within the prison system, sir," Alfred said. "He seems much further along than what I would expect from a normal third grade education."
Dick frowned, offended. "Normal? I'm not normal?" he asked around a mouthful of pancake.
"Master Richard, please refrain yourself from speaking with your mouth full," Alfred told him. "No one needs to be treated to the sight of you masticating your breakfast."
Swallowing, Dick repeated his question. "I'm not normal?"
"Indeed not," Alfred said. "You seem to be well advanced beyond what the average education a child your age has received." At the serious expression that remained on the child's face, the butler clarified. "You are further along in your studies."
"Oh," Dick murmured but the frown remained.
"You are smarter than your peers, Dick," Bruce stepped in to assure him. "That's a good thing."
A smile emerged. "Oh!" the boy chirped happily. "That's okay, then." A large forkful of pancake disappeared into his mouth promptly after that.
Bruce took a large bite next and choked. He wiped his mouth quickly with his napkin as he swallowed hastily. He took a drink of coffee. "Alfred, I was under the impression that these were pancakes," he complained. At Dick, he asked, "How are yours?"
"Mine are really good," Dick announced after he took a drink of his milk. "What's wrong with yours?"
"I'm not certain," Bruce muttered dryly. He eyed his innocent-looking butler who was looking entirely pleased with himself. Bruce was immediately suspicious. "Alfred?"
"Pancakes and syrup are quite high in carbohydrates, as you know," the elder man began. "As one ages, one must keep in mind one's blood pressure and glucose levels."
"Alfred, I have years yet before I reach thirty!" Bruce exclaimed. "The labs from my last physical were excellent, my blood pressure was well within norm, and my glucose levels were quite reasonable."
"And I intend to see that they stay that way," Alfred insisted. "One cannot be too careful and what with all that extra stress that you place on yourself . . ."
"I think I'm good for it, man!" Bruce growled. "At least, give me some decent syrup to hide the taste."
"Oh no, Master Bruce. I hardly think . . ." Alfred started to say before he was rudely interrupted.
"Get me the syrup!"
Alfred harrumphed but retreated to the counter and returned with the proper syrup. Bruce didn't bother with manners as he snatched the bottle from the other man's hand. He poured a generous helping, ignoring the face Alfred made in disapproval.
"Quit trying to push this carboard on me," Bruce grumped. "From now on, you will serve me whatever he is having." He pointed a hard finger at the child sitting across from him. "I'm tired of going to work hungry."
Alfred sighed. "When one has a sedentary job . . ."
Bruce glared at him, incredulously. "Given the nature of my extracurricular activities, I hardly think I'm in danger of getting fat!"
When Bruce noticed the wide-eyed boy sitting across from him, Dick was staring at the two of them with alarm.
"Dick, what's the matter?" he asked him.
"Nothing," Dick said quickly. He dipped his head and pushed back from the table. "May I be excused?"
There was still pancake on his plate but he had eaten most of it. Bruce sighed. It was likely the best he could hope for. The boy's appetite was so finicky, coming and going with no real regularity.
"Before you go," Bruce began, "I need to tell you something."
If anything, Dick's eyes got bigger. The child sagged back onto his chair as he waited.
"I'm going to be leaving for a short trip," he told the boy.
Dick straightened up in his chair as quickly as he had slumped. "B-But it's almost Christmas!"
Interesting . . . He hadn't wanted a Christmas yesterday. Alfred appears to have been correct in his summation of the situation.
Bruce held up a hand to forestall any more interruptions. "I know, Dick, but I promise you that I'll be back before then. It's only for a couple of days but I need to go now. The sooner I leave, the sooner I can return." He watched the child's reaction. "You understand?"
He waited until Dick nodded.
"Good. Then perhaps you can walk me to the door?" Bruce wiped his mouth and set down his napkin as he stood up. He held a hand out to the boy.
"Wait! You're going now?" Dick stared at the hand in front of him. "Right now?"
"You haven't finished eating, sir," Alfred reminded him.
Bruce turned his head toward the butler but his eyes remained upon the reason for this sudden trip, the boy sitting right in front of him. "I'll catch something on the jet."
The three of them filed out of the kitchen, he noted, with an air of men walking to the gallows. He dropped a hand on Dick's shoulder and squeezed it in a gesture he hoped was reassuring. Unfortunately, the boy took one look at the suitcase already in place with Bruce's coat over top of it and stiffened.
"No!" Dick spun around and threw his arms around Bruce's waist. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" he cried. "Please, don't go!"
Bruce blinked in confusion. He didn't think the boy would be so upset by his little trip but, if Dick needed something special in order to get through this holiday and assist him in processing his grief, then this journey was necessary. He looked helplessly at Alfred.
A horn honked outside, announcing Bruce's ride to the airport.
"Alfred, would you let the driver know that I'm coming?" he asked the other man as he turned his attention back to the child clinging to him. Bruce tugged the boy's arms free, squatting down so that he could look him in the eye. "Dick, calm down, son. I'll be back by Christmas Eve, I promise. It is only a couple of days."
Dick's watery gaze met his. "I didn't mean it . . . what I said before!"
"I know, chum," Bruce tried to reassure him.
"Then, are you going because you're mad at Alfred?" Dick asked worriedly.
He thinks Alfred and I were really angry with each other, Bruce realized suddenly. Dick hadn't been at the manor long enough to understand that the banter and bits of sarcasm that often flew between the two men was always laced with mutual respect and affection.
"No! Of course, I'm not mad at Alfred," Bruce said, startled. "I'm not mad at either of you."
Bruce tugged his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the tears away with a torn heart. How different Dick was now from the boy that had first arrived two months prior. Bruce hated to leave him like this but if what Alfred had told him was anywhere close to being the truth, then he needed to go. Dick didn't understand now but hopefully he would later once Bruce had returned.
"I-It's just that everyone is leaving me!" Dick sniffled against Bruce's neck. "Mom and Dad, Uncle Jack and the circus, and . . . and now you! Why does everyone leave?"
"Sh . . . I'm not leaving you alone, Dickie," Bruce crooned to him, standing up and holding the boy in his arms. "Alfred will be here with you until I come back."
He walked with him towards the front door but was unwilling to take the boy outside, although, not simply because of the cold weather. Dick still had that damned contract out on his head and Bruce didn't want to chance the cabbie catching a glimpse of the boy. They had to be careful. If rumors got about town that there was a child at the Wayne Estate, Bruce's jet would not even get the chance to get airborne before reporters and cameras were lining the gate here. Dick's picture and his location would be all over the news should some photographer get lucky. With Batman unavailable for the next few days, Bruce refused to risk it.
Alfred reentered the foyer and Dick shivered in the sudden gust of cold air. He was not accustomed to winters this far north.
"I placed your luggage in the trunk for you," Alfred told him as he held out his arms for the boy.
Bruce transferred the reluctant child, handing Dick his now sodden handkerchief. He had another in his pocket anyway.
"Perhaps you could call after you arrive and get settled into your hotel, sir?" Alfred suggested.
"Yes, of course," Bruce agreed readily. "Did you hear that, kiddo? I'll talk to you on the phone tonight."
Dick looked at him with utter misery and Bruce felt like a heel. He reminded himself for the fifth time since he had announced his impending trip of the reasons behind it.
The ends will justify the means this time, he told himself.
"You'll be back?" Dick asked again as Bruce started to walk out the door. "You promise?"
After a hesitation, Bruce moved quickly back to Alfred and the child in his arms. He slid a hand along the back of the boy's neck and leaned his forehead against Dick's. Giving him a gentle squeeze, he met that amazing cerulean-blue gaze up close.
"I'll be back, Dickie," Bruce told him resolutely. "I promise."
REACTIONS? Poor Bruce . . . He's really out of his depth here, but he should get points for trying.
I've been thinking hard about this story for a long time . . . I'm very curious as to what you think of it. ;D More to come . . .
Btw, I missed you guys!