6-6-14
Thanks so much for all the support, guys! You wouldn't believe how awesome it is to find your inbox bursting with follows and favorites :) And a review!
Okay, so there's a couple things I want to clear up before you read this chapter, so bear with me here: I honestly have not read very many of the Batman comics, and have relied on cartoons and other people's fanfiction for things like character origins. As a result, I have very mixed reviews on what happened to Dick after his parents died, and before he was brought into Wayne Manor. A couple fics put the poor boy in the Juvenile Detention Center, and that one kinda stood out to me. So that's the one I'm using.
Also, I don't mean to make Dick out as a crybaby. I'll say that right now. But no matter how strong we know our little bird is, I believe that it would take a little while before he springs back after watching his parents plummet to their deaths. Just want to make that clear!
Sorry for the long author's note! And just in case you were wondering, yes, I did change the summary a little bit to better fit the story.
Now, here's the official chapter one!
1.
One week later...
Gotham City
April 21, 17:45 EDT
Dick sat on the counter in the mansion's vast kitchen, swinging his legs gently as he absentmindedly crunched on an apple, watching Alfred cook dinner.
Dick liked the old butler. He always found time to play with Dick, telling him stories about the troublesome boy that had grown up to be Bruce Wayne, always having a plate of fresh-baked cookies and a glass of milk waiting for him when he came home from school. Alfred made the best cookies.
"Alfred?" he called, cocking his head to the side as something occurred to him.
"Yes, Master Richard?" the butler asked, his quaint British accent causing Dick to giggle quietly.
"Stop calling me that," he protested. "My name's Dick. And I'm not a master."
"Whatever you say, Master Dick," the butler replied, amusement glittering in his eyes.
Dick wrinkled his nose at the old butler, knowing that no amount of arguing on his part would change Alfred's mind. "Fine. I was just wondering where Bruce went last night."
Alfred tensed for a moment, then relaxed just as quickly. But not before Dick caught his mistake. "What do you mean, Master Dick?" Dick could hear the slight wariness in the butler's tone, and his curiosity was instantly piqued.
"I woke up to hear footsteps in the hallway," Dick said, which was only half true. He had been woken up by one of his frequent nightmares and heard the footsteps, but he wasn't about to tell Alfred that.
Alfred considered his question, thinking carefully about his answer. "Master Bruce has trouble sleeping," he said finally. "He often gets up and walks around to calm himself down again." Not entirely a lie.
Alfred turned back to the pot simmering over the stove, clearly indicating that this conversation was over.
Dick cocked his head to the side, studying the spotless back of Alfred's suit. Alfred's answer had only served to increase his suspicion that Bruce was hiding something. During the short time Dick had lived here, he had all ready noticed a lot of strange things that he couldn't account for: Bruce showing up downstairs in the mornings with mysterious bruises and other injuries, the way he seemed to disappear for hours on end even though Dick had never seen him leave the house, and the strict training schedule the man kept in the gym. Now Dick had mysterious late night walks to add to his list. An idea began to flicker in the back of his mind, but before he could pursue it, an irritated harrumph came from across the kitchen.
Dick looked up curiously to see Alfred standing on a bar stool, his arm stretched high over his head as he tried to reach a large bag of flour on a high shelf. However, despite his best efforts, the butler's hand scrabbled uselessly almost a full six inches below his target. The butler sighed in frustration, climbing from his perch and wiping a hand over his brow.
"I knew I shouldn't have asked Master Bruce to place the extra flour up there," Alfred huffed. He turned to Dick, an apologetic look on his face. "I'm sorry, Master Dick, but the cookies will have to wait until Master Bruce returns."
Dick considered the offending bag of flour as Alfred walked off, muttering something about searching the pantry. His eyes cast around the kitchen, taking in the bar stool, the shelf on which the flour rested, and the tall fridge just to the right of the shelf. He really wanted those cookies.
Dick waited until Alfred had disappeared into the massive pantry on the other side of the room, then lowered himself carefully off of the island, throwing his apple core into the trash can. He backed up a few steps, mentally planning his route. He took a deep breath, wiping his hands on his jeans.
Then he shot forward, taking the ten steps toward the bar stool as fast as he could. He launched himself into the air, doing a back handspring off of the seat and flipping upright in the air, latching his fingers onto the top of the fridge. He clambered on top, waiting just long enough to make sure the fridge wouldn't fall over before running across it and leaping across the five foot gap between him and the shelf. He landed on the narrow piece of wood, which was just wide enough for him to stand with his feet together and six inches to spare. He snatched the bag of flour, grinning in triumph; until he realized that there was no way he could drag a twenty-five pound bag of flour down to the ground. Wait a second...
He started in shock. He glanced over the edge, gasping in horror as he realized he was now fifteen feet in the air. His knees began to shake, and he fell to a crouch, too terrified to remain standing. He lurched forward, clutching at the bag of flour like a lifeline. The bag of flour didn't appreciate that.
It listed forward, and he screeched in terror as it pitched over the edge, taking Dick with it.
Everything seemed to go in slow motion. This was it. He was going to smash into the ground and die just like his parents. He briefly wondered if it would hurt, and if so, how long he would live. He hoped Alfred would appreciate the flour.
Suddenly, Dick heard a shout of surprise, a rush of footsteps, and he landed hard on something warm and rough, the air whooshing out of him. Spots danced before his eyes, and he gasped as he struggled to regain his breath. He dimly heard a loud thud off to his right, followed by the feeling of dust settling over him, filling his all ready fatigued lungs. He began to hack and cough, struggling to get the offending stuff out of his air passages. Whatever he had landed on moved, and something pressed a cloth to his mouth and nose to shield them from the dust. When the spots faded and he could breathe again, he found himself staring up at the concerned and very white face of Bruce Wayne.
Dick blinked slowly. "Did you die too?"
Dark eyes blinked at him from under the mask of white, then the man shook his head like the dogs back at the circus after a bath, sending the white dust flying everywhere.
Dick decided that it looked a lot like flour.
Footsteps echoed from the pantry, and Alfred appeared in the doorway. When he saw them, his eyes widened, his usually composed features taking on a shocked expression. "What on earth happened in here?"
Dick finally took a look at his surroundings: everything was covered in a thin veil of white dust, a big pile of the stuff on the floor with a now empty flour sack lying in the middle.
Dick glanced curiously up at Bruce, who now looked more like a ghost with the flour still covering him. "Are we all dead?"
Bruce arched an eyebrow. "No."
Dick scrunched his eyebrows together. "Then why is everything white?"
"That would be the flour," Alfred said stiffly. Then, something dawned on him. "The flour... Master Richard, did you try to retrieve the flour from the shelf?"
Dick looked up, just able to discern the outline of the shelf in the cloud of flour that hung in the air. "Yes?" he said uncertainly.
"He did," Bruce announced. "I walked in just in time to see him and the bag fall."
Only then did Dick realize that he was very much alive. He blinked owlishly at Bruce, the realization that he had come very close to falling to his death, just like his parents, sinking in.
He began to cry, tears wending trails through the flour that covered his cheeks, thick drops landing on his lap and rolling off onto the floor.
"I—I just wanted to get the flour for Alfred," he whimpered, before breaking down completely.
He had almost died. After all that effort to keep his feet on the ground, to avoid a fate like his parents', and he'd almost blown it trying to get a sack of flour.
Bruce shifted underneath him, sending another cloud of dust into the air. Both males began to cough as, once again, the flour filled their nostrils.
Alfred hurried to their sides, dragging the hacking pair to their feet and out of the kitchen, sending even more flour swirling up around them.
By the time they exited the affected room, all were coughing their lungs out and covered in a fine layer of white.
Alfred began to brush them off, Dick coughing and hiccuping between sobs.
"I'm sorry," he cried miserably. "P-please don't s-send me away."
Bruce and Alfred looked at each other, surprised.
Bruce knelt down to Dick's level, placing his hands on the small boy's shoulder's. "Now why would I do that?"
Dick sniffed, trying to stem his tears. "Because—because I made a mess. And—and Tommy said—" He stuttered to a halt, unable to voice his thoughts.
"What did Tommy say?" Bruce said gently, not having a clue who Tommy was.
"He—he said—that if I didn't behave myself, you would send me right back to the juvie," Dick mumbled. He looked up, his blue eyes reflecting such hurt Bruce felt his heart melt right through his shoes. "Please don't send me back to the juvie. The boys there...don't like me very much."
Oh. So Tommy must have been someone Dick had met during the few days he'd spent at the Juvenile Detention Center before Bruce got the guardian paperwork sorted out.
Bruce pulled the still flour-caked boy into a hug, rubbing circles on his back. "I won't send you away, Dickie. Not ever. You're staying right here with me."
Dick stared at him, wide-eyed. "You're—you're not mad?"
Bruce gave the boy a small smile. "Of course I'm mad. You just ruined my kitchen and my second best suit. But that doesn't mean I'm going to send you away."
Dick's face was a mixture of relief and confusion.
"But you want to know what matters the most?" Bruce said.
Dick looked at him curiously. "What?"
"You didn't get hurt," Bruce said.
Dick looked surprised. "Oh."
"I'll go get the broom," Alfred said, walking off like a pale specter down the hall.
Bruce and Dick remained in awkward silence for a moment, neither quite sure what to do.
"Why do we fall, Dick?" Bruce said, almost without thinking.
Dick's face scrunched up adorably as he thought about the question. "Because gravity decided it was time to come down," he announced.
Bruce's mouth quirked up in a smile as he let loose a short bark of laughter. "That's one way of thinking of it. Another—"
At that moment, Alfred returned with a broom and Bruce started, looking almost embarrassed.
The butler gave him an incredulous look, then continued on into the kitchen, broom held at the ready. "Might I suggest that you get yourself and the young master cleaned up, Master Bruce?" he called from the doorway. "Dinner should be ready within an hour, depending on how long it takes to sweep up this flour."
Bruce hauled himself to his feet, leaning down and pulling Dick up to stand beside him. "Actually, I think we'll help you, Alfred." He disappeared down the hall, returning with a dustpan and, for whatever reason, a feather duster. He passed the dustpan to Dick, placing a hand on his shoulder and guiding him toward the kitchen. "You hold the pan, and I'll sweep the flour in," Bruce ordered.
Dick nodded his understanding.
Bruce stopped just outside the doorway, taking a deep breath as he gazed into the impenetrable cloud of flour in the room beyond. "Are you ready for battle, soldier?"
Dick looked up in surprise. A grin slowly spread over his features when he saw the mischievous light dancing in Bruce's dark eyes. He stood up straight, saluting with his empty hand. "Yes, sir!"
Bruce hefted the feather duster. "Charge!"
And together, the two barreled into the flour storm.
So what did you think? Too descriptive? Too emotional? Let me know in a review! Constructive criticism is accepted and appreciated.
By the way guys, I REALLY appreciate all the follows and favorites. Really. But a review or two would be nice. Please? I love getting input on my stories! And besides, it might encourage me to write faster! *Wink wink* ;3
So the next chapter is written, but the last four aren't, so it might take a bit for the next update. However, this is promising to be a very nice, quiet weekend, so I'll probably get a lot more writing done :)
While you're waiting, you might as well check out my other stories ;)
See y'all next time!
