A/N: I've been gone because of tendinitis. Here's a little interlude! :)
The young seven-year-old looks adoringly into the eyes of his mother and father, who sit across from one another at their small table. They hold hands, speaking rapidly in accented English, perhaps a prayer. Richard waits impatiently as they stop talking, digging in. He bounces happily, humming as he eats. And eats. His mother and father chuckle at him and ruffle his hair, his mother quietly reprimanding him to use his manners. Richard nods and slows down, no longer looking like a starving kid.
Mary and John Grayson run the Grayson Trapeze Arts, a new invention that's still with its dangers. Richard watches in fascination as they swing from a bar high above, their bodies contorting around it. Never once have they fallen, only perhaps in practice, and that's when the bar is low. Sometimes, they put on shows to display to the bourgeois of society, a celebration of culture and the Victorian era.
Richard practices with them, too, on the low-hanging trapeze bar. He's fallen and broken his wrist before, and he still remembers how much it hurt. Nonetheless, when Richard "flies" with his parents, he feels truly alive. He giggles in the air, and when he's finally on the ground, he nurses his sore abs.
Back to the present, he continues to eat his mother's cooking, excited to witness their high-flying performance.
Later that same night, that same seven-year-old stands over the still bodies of his parents.
Screams meet the boy's ears, but he hardly hears them. Richard wonders, faintly, why his parents are so still. Why they're on the ground, when they should be in the air. Why they aren't flying. Why did they fall?
Why do we fall?
Richard vaguely feels himself being pulled away by a big man in a large coat. He stumbles away, and the last he sees of his mother and father are coats being zipped over them. He's lead away from the Grayson Trapeze Arts building, lead to a carriage. He's never been in a carriage before.
Somehow, he doesn't quite register the ride.
He's taken to a manor. It's dark and in the woods, imposing and scary. The big man in the large coat helps Richard out of the carriage and solemnly marches him to the door of the manor. Richard doesn't know what's happening. Why can't he go back to his mother and father?
(Richard doesn't know this, but a certain member of the bourgeois in the crowd had watched him, and had taken immediate action.)
"This is your new home," the big man says, clapping Richard on the back so hard that the boy stumbles forward. "It's home to Bruce Wayne, a rather prevalent figure in today's media."
Richard isn't good at interpreting social situations, but he can tell that the big man doesn't like Bruce Wayne. Richard's face screws up. He decides that if the big man doesn't like Bruce Wayne, then he doesn't like Bruce Wayne, either. That being said, he also doesn't like the big man. He just wants his parents back. They fell, but when they fall, they always get back up. They get back up with a smile and some laughter, nursing a bruised limb or two.
The door swings open, and Richard is ushered inside. There's a kindly butler, a man with graying hair and a funny accent. Richard decides that he immediately likes this man, even when he dismisses the big man. The butler introduces himself as Alfred Pennyworth, but Richard refers to him as Agent A. Because that's much cooler, and much simpler to pronounce.
"Come to the kitchen young master," Alfred says, a leathery hand gently pressing Richard's back, leading him through the grand entrance hall. "Luckily for you, I've just prepared a batch of my famous chocolate cookies."
Richard's eyes go wide upon seeing the cookies. Unlike the pastries he sees in the bakery down the street sometimes, they're warm and soft on the outside, chocolatey and gooey on the inside. Richard quickly demolishes many, forgetting, briefly, of his night.
Minutes pass in contented silence, broken only by the clock ticking on the wall.
Swallowing, Richard finally gathers the courage. "Where's Mr. Bruce Wayne?" he asks Alfred, whose face suddenly sharpens. Richard wonders what he did wrong.
"Master Bruce is out," Alfred responds smoothly. "But I'm sure he'll return in the morning. For now, however, I'll show you to your quarters, Master Richard."
Richard frowns. "That sounds so fancy, Agent A," he says childishly. Imitating Alfred's British accent, he mocks, "'Master Richard.'"
Alfred's frown matches Richard's own. "Agent A…?" he mutters, perplexed. He moves on with a shake of his head. "If not Master Richard, then perhaps, a nickname?"
Richard thinks long and hard. Agent R would be a ripoff of Agent A. What does Richard shorten to?
He goes to bed in his new, large bed, thinking about a nickname for himself. He tosses and turns on the foreign mattress, not liking how many covers there are. It's nothing like his small cot back at Grayson Trapeze Arts. He then sits up, his eyes wide. Grayson Trapeze Arts!
He quickly leaves his room and races down the hallway, running down the stairs. He nearly barrels into Alfred, who stands at the bottom of the staircase with a candle in hand. The unflappable butler simply raises an eyebrow, waiting for Richard to proceed.
"My…" Richard trails off. "The Grayson Trapeze Arts. The building. The…mother and father…"
They fell, they fell, they fell.
Why do we fall?
They didn't stand up to offer him a reassuring smile. They didn't stop the big man with the large coat from taking him away. They didn't move when the coats were zipped over their sightless eyes, they didn't get up and proclaim that everything was all right. They didn't move when Richard implored them to, they weren't breathing.
His parents are dead.
They fell, they fell, they fell.
Richard's shoulders shake suddenly.
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
Richard's knees tremble, and he's on the floor, staring unseeingly at the ruby red carpet. Alfred has put the candle down, and Richard feels arms being wrapped around him, pulling him in. The butler is surprisingly warm. At first, Richard tries to fight the embrace, struggling and crying out piteously. Eventually, he settles into it, sobbing into Alfred's shirt.
The world seems bleak, now. Colorless. There's a great gaping hole in Richard's chest, one that no bandages can fix. He clutches onto Alfred like a lifeline, his only lifeline in this suddenly hostile world. The trees are bare, people who were once simple passerby are now hostile strangers, and he's on his own. His parents aren't here. They'll never be here, again.
Alfred rubs circles into Richard's back. They stay there for quite some time until Richard has cried himself to sleep.
The next months pass in a blur, eventually turning into years. Bruce is always "out," sparing little time for his new ward. Richard—or Dick, now—doesn't mind it, as he has Alfred to pester. He's schooled by Alfred, and receives meals from the butler. Occasionally, Dick can rope the butler into a game of chess or checkers, but usually Alfred dominates at those, prompting Dick to give up and leave in frustration.
At ten years old, on a whim, Dick sneaks out of the manor, intending to head into town. He walks the long forest path, kicking up leaves as he goes. Fall is soon on the horizon, but it's still warm and sunny. He continues past the manor gates until he reaches the town, where he wanders through it.
Eventually, by chance, he comes to a stop in front of a brick building.
There's a logo on it, now. Voltaire Inc., it says.
Dick feels that empty feeling in his chest again. The Grayson Trapeze Arts are no more.
He stands there for what seems like eternity until his thoughts are interrupted by some passerby. He turns, bewildered, as two kids walk by him. He watches the girl, noticing her hands. Or the lack of her hands. She only has bandaged stumps. He can't help but stare as they turn and move out of his sight.
He decides that's more than enough for one day.
He returns to the manor to meet a harried Alfred and a grumpy Bruce. Dick crosses his arms and juts out his chin as Bruce tries to reprimand him, but Dick doesn't care. Bruce is too absent a figure in Dick's life for the boy to truly care.
Dick leaves the next day.
He's determined to start the Grayson Trapeze Arts again. He's hired at a mine, where he spends hours a day sitting in the dark next to a small door, listening intently for the scraping of carts coming up, pushed by other children. He supposes he's lucky, being so small that he's assigned this duty. Still, the endless darkness is getting to him.
He's paid very little, and in the end, he's forced to return to the manor, unable to live off the paycheck he earns. Bruce is uncaring as always, but his face turns a beet red when he yells at Dick, and the boy is surprised. Maybe Bruce did care a little bit—but not enough to show it. Bruce is always away, constantly pursuing more business opportunities. Being the CEO of Wayne Enterprises…
Dick gets an idea.
He goes to Bruce in his office, begging him to buy the Voltaire Inc. building. Bruce refuses.
Dick steals the money.
He feels bad about it, mostly because of Alfred's teachings, but he takes the money, anyways, determined to fulfill his parents' legacy. He tries to bargain with Voltaire Inc., but they're adamant, refusing to give their building up, even to Bruce Wayne's ward. Dick tries every angle he can with the manager of the building, but eventually he's booted to the curb with a "better luck next time, kid." A fire burns in Dick's stomach as he storms off in a hurry, rage consuming his insides. That building belonged to his parents. They built their legacies there, and it's all being destroyed by Voltaire Inc.
He returns back to the manor, despondent. Alfred reprimands him at first (and Dick feels genuinely bad), but eventually consoles Dick when he realizes what his intent had been. Dick walks slowly to his room that night, unaware that Alfred makes his way towards Bruce's study at the same time.
The following week, Wayne Enterprises announces that it's buying the entirety of Voltaire Inc.
Dick doesn't know what to think. He sits at the table, his fork dragging through his salad sluggishly.
The chair scrapes the floor beside him. He doesn't look up.
"Alfred told me you wanted the building back," Bruce says, his voice low and rhythmic. "You wanted to reinstate the Grayson Trapeze Arts."
Dick just numbly pokes at the greenery on his plate, still refusing to look up. He hears a sigh.
"I know I've been…distant," Bruce says as Dick huffs disbelievingly. "But hear me out when I say this. It wasn't my original intent to be like this to you. I was there, the night of their final performance."
Their final performance. His parents. Dick sets his fork down.
"I watched them. They flew, Richard," Bruce presses on gently, but he seems firm at the same time. How does he manage that? "They flew, until their wings couldn't fly any longer. Richard, look at me."
Dick jerks his gaze to meet Bruce's, his hands trembling. He's glad he had set his fork down when he had, otherwise it would have clattered to the floor. He bites his lip to keep the pent-up emotion inside from emerging. He stares at Bruce's face, his stupid, angular face, hating the way those steel blue eyes soften in concern, hating the way his mouth is twisted downwards in a slight frown.
"I hate you," Dick says vehemently and quietly.
"I know," Bruce replies, and Dick can see a flash of sadness in his eyes. A fierce triumphant satisfaction seizes Dick, but it's soon replaced with shame. Is this what his mother and father raised him to be?
"I'm sorry," Dick mutters.
Bruce seems to pause a beat. "I know," he finally says. "I bought Voltaire Inc., and I've moved their headquarters to a different building. I've also arranged for the Grayson Trapeze Arts to be restored. Everything will be covered, Richard."
Dick nods along. He knows that Bruce is a businessman all around, and he isn't good at emotions. He's not very good at people, in general. And Dick understands this, at the young age of ten. He understands that, in his own way, Bruce is trying to reach out to Dick, and the only way he knows how is through this. And Dick can't be happier. He thinks about the trapeze.
He's never done it before, not without his parents.
"Why do we fall?" Dick asks, a terribly insightful question for a ten-year-old to be asking. His voice is hollow, his tone absent. He looks Bruce straight in the eye, the emotion-wracked boy vanished. Instead, he seems to have a new resolve, a new determination.
Bruce answers simply.
"So we can learn to pick ourselves up."
