As Bruce had predicted would be the case, Alfred came back into the den to announce lunch just as he was affixing his final signature to the adoption application. "…May I offer a piece of advice, sir?" the butler asked as the billionaire prepared to wake the boy.

"What is it?" he asked, pausing.

"Don't tell Master Dick about this," he shook the clipboard he'd taken back, "until it's official. He has quite enough to process already, and if there are delays it will only disappoint him."

"…Yeah," Bruce nodded. "You, ah…you have a point there." Besides, I don't want to scare him away, and if he thinks I'm trying to take his parents' place I may do exactly that. He's been frightened enough for one week, I think. "…Anything else?"

"Nothing that can't be said in his hearing, other than that I'll drop these forms off at CPS on Monday."

"…I don't know if he should go there with you, Alfred. I really hate to drag him back into the lion's den like that." It's not the Center, but they may have taken him into the office briefly. Even if they didn't, what if the Randall woman is hanging around? She's the last person he needs to see right now.

"I suppose I could drop him off for a short visit with you at your office, if you've time to watch him. It shouldn't be for more than an hour."

"That…should work," Bruce nodded hesitantly. "My lunch hour's open, I think; if you can bring him by around twelve, I'll order something in." Maybe that will help him feel less overwhelmed, if we just stay in my office with the door shut. He'll probably love the view, if nothing else.

"Very good, sir."

Dick gave a mewling little yawn, stretched, and opened his eyes just then to find both men watching him. "…Hi," he whispered, a little color rising into his cheeks as his gaze shifted from one to the other.

"Hey, kiddo. Are you hungry?" the billionaire asked.

"Yes," he nodded. He looked back at Alfred. "…Bruce says you've never made a bad meal. Is that true?"

"I think never might be a bit of an exaggeration, Master Dick – I've certainly had my fair share of mistimed entrees and fallen soufflés – but if I do say so myself I have some skill in the kitchen. Hopefully you'll agree after you try the chicken noodle soup I have waiting for you."

"Are…" he trailed off for a moment. Is it rude of me to ask about grilled cheese? I don't want to be rude. But I do really want grilled cheese. "Are we having grilled cheese with it? It's…it's okay if we're not," he said quickly. "I'm just curious."

"I'd be ashamed to serve you chicken noodle soup without grilled cheese, young sir," the butler replied with mock gravity.

A tiny smile flitted across the child's face. "Oh, good. I like grilled cheese."

"We need to take pictures of your eye before we eat," Bruce informed him. "So we can send them to CPS for your file."

"…So they don't try and blame it on you?"

"Right. So they don't try and blame it on me or Alfred."

"I'd tell anyone who asked who really did it," Dick offered. "Like, a judge, or whoever."

"…Thanks, kiddo. I appreciate that," he said quietly, patting his elbow. "But we still need to take the pictures, okay? The more evidence we have on file, the better."

"Okay," he agreed. If it will help you, I don't mind.

The photography session went quickly. Sensing that the boy's comfort upon waking had been tied to physical contact, Bruce picked him up before they entered the hallway. Maybe this will help him adjust to the rest of the house. The dining room shouldn't be as bad as the living room was for him, he decided. He's already eaten in there once, after all. He carefully chose the same chair that the child had occupied that morning at breakfast and set him down in it. "…Is this okay?" he asked, staying bent over.

Dick glanced around a little uncertainly. …I was in here earlier, and I didn't break anything. So long as I'm careful, it should be okay. "Are you going to sit across from me again?" he asked. Where I can see you?

"You bet. That's where I normally sit." Shortly after he'd been left parentless, Alfred had tried to get him to shift over into the head chair, but he'd wanted nothing to do with it. He'd refused to eat if he was so much as asked to occupy what he still thought of as his father's seat, and eventually the butler had given up, conceding that his charge's physical wellbeing was more important than a minor detail of domestic tradition. Bruce had defended that victory – one of only a few he could truly claim over the Englishman – ever since, retaining his childhood place at the table in all instances short of formal dinner parties.

"…Okay," the boy nodded bravely. A hand brushed his hair for just an instant, and then the man had gone, moving around the table and seating himself right as Alfred appeared bearing two bowls. "…This smells so good," he complimented as one was set in front of him.

"Thank you, Master Dick. I'll return in just a moment with your sandwiches." He wrestled down his eyebrow as the boy picked up his spoon and took a bite. "Napkin on your lap, if you please, young sir," he corrected gently before leaving to fetch the rest of the meal.

Blushing, he did as he'd been told. "…I didn't know I was supposed to do that," he said in a low voice.

"It's okay," Bruce told him. "I still forget half the time. But don't tell him that. Keep it a secret."

"…Won't he know anyway, though?"

The billionaire nearly snorted soup. If you were any quicker, kiddo, I'd think I needed to compare your DNA to Flash's. "You didn't waste any time figuring him out, did you?" he smirked.

"Well…you said he takes care of the house, and the people in it, right?"

"Right. He does." Where is this going?

"And…it's a really, really big house. And you're…you know…I mean, you must do a lot of things. At least, it always sounded to me like rich people either do a lot of different stuff, or they don't do anything, and I don't think you're the kind who doesn't do anything. So that means Alfred's really, really busy all the time, if he's keeping up with the house and you. And when you're as busy as he must be, I guess figure the best way to not forget something is to kind of just know what's going on all the time." He shrugged. "I dunno. It was just something I was thinking about."

Bruce gaped, his spoon frozen an inch above the rim of his bowl. You've spent twenty four hours here, most of them asleep and the rest uncertain and frightened, but you've already deduced one of the cruxes of Alfred's character, he marveled. No wonder that CPS wench doesn't like you; you probably scared her out of her socks. Now I really want to see those academic test results.

"…Did I freak you out?" Dick asked in a small voice. "I wasn't trying to. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," he shook his head. "You didn't do anything wrong. I'm just…impressed," he admitted.

"Why?" he frowned slightly.

"What you just said isn't something most people would think about."

"…Should I not think about things like that? I…I don't want to offend anybody."

"You're not offending anyone. And don't stop thinking about things like that. It's a good skill to have." I shouldn't be surprised, given what you said this morning about the math test you took. Deduction and math skills often go hand in hand. Still, though…wow.

When Alfred reappeared, now bearing a plate of sandwiches, he caught the conspiratorial look that was sent from his elder charge to his younger. Secret-sharing already? Excellent. "Thank you for placing your napkin properly, Master Dick," he said, setting down the tray. "Now, would you prefer cheddar, swiss, or pepperjack cheese on your sandwich? I've made all three."

"…You can make them with more than one kind?" he whispered, a trace of disbelief in his voice. …I never thought about that before. Mom always used the same kind of cheese… A momentary memory of her, standing over the narrow two-burner stove on a rainy day and flipping a sandwich as her husband leaned around her to snatch his work gloves off the bed, blinked across the back of his eyes. The pair exchanged a happy smile, a loving kiss, and then vanished.

"Indeed you can, young sir," the butler, unaware of his thoughts, nearly grinned at the boy's delight.

After a moment of turmoil from the vision, Dick's curiosity as to what other kinds of cheese would taste like on a sandwich came back to the fore. "Um…could I try all of them?" he requested slowly. "Only I don't know if I can eat that much…"

"I could cut a third from each kind, if you like. Then you can sample all three without overloading yourself."

He tore his eyes away from the stack of perfectly toasted bread and turned them to the man leaning over him. "…You'd do that?"

"Certainly. I could even be convinced to cut the crusts off, if that's how you're used to having your sandwiches."

"I usually eat the crusts, but…it would be easier if I didn't have to tear them off before I dipped them in the soup." He thought for a moment. "Could you cut them off, but leave them on the plate? Like off to the side?"

"Of course. I'm glad to hear that you like the crust; it's the best part of the bread for you, you know." Regaining his full height and moving to take three sandwiches back to the kitchen for further preparation, Alfred found Bruce staring at him. "…Did you need something, Master Wayne?"

"…Well, if you're already cutting crusts off…you could just do all of them," he suggested.

You can't be serious. At your age, you want me to remove the edges from your sandwiches? Good lord… He shook his head wearily and picked up the entire plate he'd just brought in. "Very well, sirs. I'll return shortly."

When he was gone, a little giggle came from Dick's side of the table. "What're you laughing at?" Bruce's lip twitched at the sound.

"He didn't look very happy with you."

"He probably wasn't. But I don't like crusts on my sandwiches."

"…Can I have your crusts, then?"

"You actually like that part?" he peered at him.

"Yeah. I like how chewy the bread is."

"…Okay," he conceded. "Go for it, then." Keeps me from having to eat them.

They ate more or less in silence once the grilled cheese came back. "What's the verdict?" Bruce inquired, sitting back in his chair and setting his napkin on the table when he was finished.

The boy wrinkled his nose. "I can't decide which one I like best. They're all good."

"…Do you think you might like to see a couple more rooms while you think about it? They won't be like the living room," he promised as Dick's face grew wary. "It's just my study and my bedroom. I'd like you to know where you can normally find me when I'm home."

"…Oh." That is important, in case I need you to make the nightmares go away. "I can try," he offered bravely.

"Good," he nodded, pleased. "…All done?"

"Yes," he nodded, hopping down off of his chair. "Where should we put our dishes?"

"Just leave them. Alfred will get them."

"…Oh. Okay." Once he stepped off of the rug that ran beneath the table, the coolness of the marble soaked into his feet. Brr…the hole! Glancing down, he found it plainly visible, the end of one toe sticking out. He quickly squinched his foot up, trying to tuck it back out of sight before Bruce could spot it.

"…I hate it when that happens."

He looked up. "When what happens?" he asked, swallowing hard and hoping the man hadn't noticed his struggle. Please don't have seen. Please. I don't normally go around with holes in my socks, I just didn't know…

"When I have a sock blow out like that."

Dick bit his lip. "…You're not mad about it?"

Bruce frowned. "Why would I be mad that you have a hole in your sock? Everyone gets those."

"Yeah, but…" But you probably have like eighty million pairs to replace yours with. I think I only have, like, one. And I don't want you to feel like you have to spend your money on me right off…maybe I can buy some more with the money Pop gave me.

The billionaire knelt in front of the boy. "…Is this another 'you're rich and I'm a circus kid' moments?" he asked frankly. We've got to get you past this, or you're never going to relax.

"Um…yes," he ducked his head, eyes growing hot.

"Hey," Bruce tilted his chin back up. "Dick, I-" he paused, glancing around to be sure they were alone before he continued. "-I don't give a damn about that. Or about a hole in your sock. Remember what I said at your parents'…on Thursday?" he corrected himself just in time. "I don't care how much money someone has, kiddo. That doesn't make them a good or a bad person. The only thing that bothers me about you having a hole in your sock is whether or not it's making your feet cold, because you're still getting over being sick. Understand?"

"Yes," he answered, throwing himself forward and wrapping his arms around the man's neck. I don't know why he thinks he isn't a warm person, he puzzled as arms squeezed him tight for a moment. Because he's awfully nice to me. "Thank you," he whispered.

"…It's nothing, kiddo. Just the truth. Now," he pushed him back a step. "Ready to go see a couple more places?"

"Sure," he nodded. "I'll try not to get scared this time."

"You think it might be a little easier after our talk just now?" Please say yes, I don't know what else to do or say to make you believe that money is nothing but a tool to me.

"I…I think so." He did feel better now that Bruce had made it clear that his lack of wealth wasn't something he would be judged by. I think part of me already knew that, but…then I saw the way he lives. How did he grow up in such a fancy place? I still don't really get that…

Glancing down at the child as they approached the hallway, the billionaire realized that he was likely to step on him with as close as he was sticking. "Here," he stuck out his hand. …I have no idea where that urge came from, he frowned internally as thin fingers inserted themselves into his palm. But I'm okay with it. The back of his mind stayed uncharacteristically quiet, something for which he was grateful when they stepped into the wide foyer and the boy's steps quickened. Okay, so the entryway bugs him. I guess that's understandable; I've always wondered what would happen to that chandelier if we had an earthquake… Thinking about it now, he shivered and livened his own pace.

"Okay," he pushed open a door a short distance down another hall from the vestibule. "This is my study."

"…Wow," Dick commented, taking a few steps inside and turning around. "You have a lot of books." The desk was covered in paperwork; the low couch in front of the fireplace looked like it had had had many night passed on it. He must spend a lot of time in here, he thought.

"This is nothing. Wait until you see the library." …Oh, brilliant, Bruce, remind him that there are more things he hasn't seen in your already mind-boggling house.

The boy didn't seem fazed this time, though. "Wait…you have your own library?" he asked, coming close again. "Like…with more books than this?"

"Tons more books than this," Bruce nodded, taking a chance on the interest in his expression. "I go in there a lot, too, when I need a break. Do you want to see it? It's just across the hall."

"Yes, please!"

I thought you'd turn out to be a reader, but I didn't think you'd be this into a library, the billionaire thought a minute later as he watched the child circle the room, his fingertips dancing over the spines on the lower shelves. Your parents must have taken you to libraries, he determined. I can't imagine why else you'd be so comfortable in here when the living room spooked you so badly. Unless… He shifted from one foot to the other, comparing the soft, worn leather of the chairs in front of him now to the formal feel of the furniture in the other space. You were okay with the den. You got used to the dining room pretty quick, it seemed, once we'd eaten in there a couple of times. The study didn't seem to bug you, and this place has you enchanted, so…lived in spaces, is that it? A sense of…of use?

That was it, the epiphany struck him. Signs of life. You couldn't picture people living in the living room or the entryway, they're too perfect. And you're right, we don't live in those spaces, not really. They're more for the public eye, at least until Christmas. But the others…these are the rooms where our lives take place. Add on the kitchen for Alfred and the cave for me, and you've got just about everywhere we really care to spend much time when we're home. In fact, he almost laughed, we practically don't need the rest of the house, except our respective bedrooms. Although we ought to refurbish the game room…I can see that getting a fair bit of use once you've settled in a little bit, maybe made a couple of friends.

"This place is amazing."

Bruce looked down to find the boy standing directly in front of him again. "You like it?"

"Yes. It doesn't freak me out at all."

"…Do you like to read?"

He nodded. "Umm…m-mom," he managed the word, still recovering from his earlier recollection, "used to take me to libraries a lot. We almost never checked anything out, because we weren't going to be around very long and they usually won't give you a library card without an address, but…sometimes, if we were camped close to town, she and I would walk in after breakfast. And we'd go to the library, and sit and read for a long time." He closed his eyes. "Sometimes she'd read to me, and sometimes we'd just sit together and read our own books. Once we went to a library where they were having a book sale, and we…well, we were supposed to go to the grocery store after, but…we spent part of the money on books, instead. So we ate vegetable stew for, like, a week straight, but…we had books. We bought so many that mom had to redo her crates so there was room for them all. She loved books. Sometimes I think maybe she liked them more than she did trapeze…." He sniffled, not quite crying but close.

Wincing, Bruce made a quiet offer. "…You can come in here any time you want, kiddo. Check with Alfred if you want to read something you're not familiar with, but…go to town." …I don't even know what your reading level is. There might not be anything in here in your range…

"That…that means a lot to me. I kind of…I guess I kind of feel closer to her, in here. She would have liked this room." And I can come in here any time I want, he said. So…I can feel close to her whenever I want. With that realization, he gave the billionaire the first completely unforced smile he'd produced in a week. "Thank you." Maybe I'll just live in here…

The billionaire's lips curved uncontrollably upwards, forming a partner look to the one being beamed up at him. The feeling growing in his chest as tiny, underused muscles flexed in his face was foreign, having been forgotten long ago; now, finding it again, his knees shook. No, he bit back. Thank you.