Dick approached the setup with a deeply reverent posture, stepping lightly as if the bars were an animal he might frighten with his footfalls. The apparatus in front of him was just like the one he had trained on, day after day, for two years before he'd been allowed to begin practicing on the actual trapeze. They'd all used the unevens, sometimes just for fun, other times because they were only camping for one night and it wasn't worth putting up the big top when there wasn't a show to be given. Despite the obvious difference in age between the circus' set and the one he approached now, the bars' very presence riled up a strange sense of satisfaction and belonging in his gut. …Bruce bought these for me, he mused. I guess he might want to use them, too, but…wouldn't he have already had a set, in that case? Besides, he doesn't look like an acrobat. And he doesn't move like one, either. No, I think…I think these wouldn't be here if I wasn't here, too.
"It looks like Alfred anticipated you."
The boy turned to find that the man he'd been ruminating about had entered the gym behind him. "…Huh?"
Bruce pointed to a set of garments that lay on the weight bench. "He left you workout clothes."
"Oh! I hope they're shorts," he frowned slightly as he moved to examine the articles. "…Good. Pants hurt on the bars. They rub against the backs of your knees," he explained as he changed hastily. "It's way better to just have bare skin there." Picking up a pair of fingerless leather gloves, he considered them. "…We never used grips," he confessed. "Dad…he always said that generations of Graysons did just fine without them, so he wouldn't use them. He taught mom without them, and then…then he taught me. Is it…is it okay if I don't use them?" he asked nervously. "I understand if it's a safety thing for CPS, but…I might not be as smooth with them on, since I'm not used to them."
The billionaire shook his head slowly. "I want to see your best show, Dick," he said gravely. "If you're not used to using grips, and you feel like you'll be safe up there without them, then I'm not going to force you. Besides, I don't see CPS around anywhere in here."
"Me, neither," the child smiled back. "Which is good, because they'd probably try to stop me, and…well, I don't like it when people interrupt my routine."
"So you still have a routine you've practiced recently, then?"
"Uh-huh," he nodded, now circling the bars and checking the frames and wires holding it all up. "It's got some of the kind of stuff I do…did…in our normal trapeze show, expect for the quad. I can't do that from the bars because I don't get enough height to guarantee time to complete it and land correctly."
"Then don't risk it."
"I won't. It would be really stupid if I broke something the very first time I used the most amazing birthday present ever." He paused. "…That is what this is, isn't it?"
"To be honest, I didn't know that your birthday was coming up when I had Alfred order them," Bruce confessed. "But if you want to think of them as a birthday present, that's fine with me. So long as you like them."
Dick had finished his examination and retreated a number of steps to where a small stand held tape and powder. Giving his hands a liberal application of the latter, he shot his guardian a giddy look. "Let's find out if I do." With that, he pelted towards his new toy.
The man prepared to tell him to stop, step back, and do some warm ups before he tried his usual display after two weeks without practice. Before a sound could leave his throat, however, a pair of compact palms hit the bottom horizontal and propelled their owner towards the upper courtesy of a handspring. After that, the billionaire's amazement was so great that he simply couldn't speak, his mouth hanging open of its own accord as he watched.
He was flying, and it was ecstasy. His hands and feet tapped and gripped the wood, changing his swing direction and orientation with flawless ease. The moves flared back to life without needing to be thought of, muscle memory sparking along his limbs and guiding him automatically through every flip, tuck, and release. No swing was empty, no motion wasted; his body was ferrofluid, chasing an invisible magnet through the air. For a moment, nothing mattered other than the pursuit; the gym, Bruce, even his parents all faded away. His eyes had been vaguely monitoring the bar positions, but now that he had them locked in his mind there was no need to let the bright lights of the room interfere with his nirvana. His lids slipped shut.
…I'll never be half as smooth as he is, Bruce shook his head and scrubbed a hand over his gaping lips.
Several of those moves could easily be modified into kicks. If, say, he were to swing in on a grapple line, Batman, equally floored and proving incapable of hiding the fact, suggested.
Yeah. Like that one, he noted. …Hey! No. I'm not getting sucked into that, goddamn it. Just…let me enjoy the show.
It was over much too soon. Dick let his eyes open again as he went into a handstand on the lower bar, measuring the exact distance to the higher rod that was his destination. As his body fell back towards the earth, he snapped his feet around to the wood between his hands. He stayed bent double through half a rotation, and then straightened back out, letting go completely in the instant that his figure was rigidly perpendicular to the floor. The release sent him sailing backwards head first beneath the upper bar, which he grabbed and used to accelerate his momentum. Loosening his fingers for the final time, he rocketed upwards, hit the apex of his climb, and then somersaulted three times before his feet hit the mat. One slipped slightly, and the less than perfect dismount drew a mighty frown across his face.
…Holy fucking shit. For a long moment, all Bruce could do was blink. Then he stumbled to the boy, feeling like a complete klutz as he nearly tripped on the edge of the protective padding laid down beneath the performance area, and dropped to his knees. "…Dick, that was one of the most amazing things I have ever seen," he whispered with total sincerity.
"Thanks," he blushed, looking unconvinced. "But…it was just a routine. And I screwed up the landing."
"I could never do what you just did," the man insisted.
"You're Batman," he replied quizzically. "You can do…you know…whatever you want."
"Not that," he negated, leaving no room for further questioning as he pulled him into a hug. "That…you…wow."
"…I really like my present, Bruce," he changed the subject, wrapping his arms around his neck. "Thank you."
"I'm glad, kiddo," he breathed back. "Just promise me you'll keep practicing, okay? Don't stop doing that just because you don't have a trapeze or an audience anymore."
"I won't. It's the only way I can fly. And I have to fly," the boy said desperately. "I missed it so much."
"I know. But now you can." …Just let it be enough. Please, let it be enough.
"I see you've gotten to work already, then, young sir?" They turned to find Alfred standing just inside the doorway. "…I suppose I'm too late for the show, at least from the look of things."
"…No," Dick said, pulling away. "I'll do it again. Maybe I can stick my landing. And I felt like my feet were sloppy during my Shaposhnikova. That was the move right before I dismounted," he told Bruce, who looked confused.
"Oh. Okay. Yeah, show Alfred." …I thought it all looked perfect, but I guess you'd know what it felt like better than I do. I've certainly never done a…a whatever you called it.
"…You won't get bored? I was going to do the same routine."
"Chum, I will never get bored of watching you do this. You're that good."
He shrugged. "…Dad was way better," he said quietly, then pulled away and headed for the other side of the apparatus. "Ready when you are."
Bruce joined the butler, who had advanced to the edge of the mat. "Don't take your eyes off of him," he advised.
"I hadn't planned on doing so, sir. Ready, Master Dick," he called out. Less than a minute later he, too, was gaping.
"…That was cleaner," the child said as he walked towards them. "I thought, at least. I don't know, what did you think?"
The adults exchanged a look. "…May I ask you a question, young sir?" the Englishman ventured, still looking a bit overwhelmed.
"Sure, Alfred."
"Is there anything, to your knowledge, at which you are not inordinately skilled?"
The billionaire gave a sharp laugh. "No shit. Kidding," he corrected quickly. "No kidding."
"I'm not good at lots of things," he answered modestly.
"Like realizing how good you are at so many things?" Bruce teased. "I'm not kidding, Dick, that was amazing. It really was."
"Indeed," the butler conceded. On top of your academic skills and the basic morality and polite attitude that you seem to possess, there's this talent, as well. I shouldn't be surprised that you managed to pluck a veritable boy wonder out of the kaleidoscope of available children in this city, Bruce, and yet here I stand amazed.
"…Do I have time to do it again?" he asked, assuming that the older man had come to fetch them to eat. "There's something new I want to try. A…modification," he tried out the word.
"I've prepared a light luncheon to hold you until the banquet tonight," Alfred revealed. "But…I suppose it won't cool completely in the time it will take you to repeat your feat." Yes, do it again, child. By all means.
Flashing a grin that outshone the fluorescents overhead, the youth cartwheeled back to his start point and ran through his set once more. This time he added an extra transition, lengthening the performance by a few seconds.
"…I didn't think it could get any better," Bruce murmured.
"No, nor did I," the butler replied in kind as his younger charge landed. "That was even more impressive, Master Dick," he complimented. "Well done."
"You're going to have to show that to Leslie the next time she comes over," the billionaire crossed his arms. She'll probably manage to both love it and wish that there was some way you could wear a helmet, he thought wryly.
"Yes, I'm sure Dr. Thompkins will be delighted. Now then, come along and get changed so you can eat."
"Can't…can't I eat in this?" he hesitated. "You know, so I can come back when I'm done?" There was almost a whine in his tone. It's been so long…I just want to stay up there all day long, he begged silently.
"What about all those video games we need to try out?" Bruce countered. "They aren't going to play themselves."
"…That's true," his brows drew down pensively. But…I have bars now. Who needs video games when they have bars? Still…he spent so much money on all of that stuff…
"You can't eat and then come immediately back here, in any case. You need to let your food settle," Alfred ruled. "They'll still be here in the morning, I assure you."
"The morning?" I have to wait that long?!
"I'm afraid so. By the time you've eaten and played one of your new games for an hour or so, it will be about time for you to begin getting dressed for the banquet."
"…Crud." I don't even care about the banquet now, not with these waiting for me. He'd made a deal, though, and he wasn't going to go back on it. Promises are important, he thought firmly, recalling one of the earliest life lessons his father had taught him. "Okay," he semi-huffed, then made his way to where he'd left his clothes piled on the floor.
"I'd say that was a winning idea, Master Wayne," Alfred congratulated. "He seems quite enamored."
"…Can you get a second set? Maybe with a third bar that we can set, low, on the other side of the high bar?"
"For downstairs, I assume?"
"Yes. And rings, too."
"We have those around here somewhere, and it shouldn't be too difficult to procure another set of bars. I'll search for them once I've gotten the pair of you on your way, and see to it that things are rearranged below to make room."
"Good." They were silent for a moment as Dick threw one last wistful look at his gift and headed towards them. "I want to encourage him in this."
"You ought to, sir. He has a remarkable talent; it would be a shame to see it go to waste. "
Yeah. It would be, he sighed. …Shit.
Their late lunch was a quiet affair, the child sulking a little about not being able to go to the gym again before the next day, the man stewing unhappily about the underlying meaning of what he'd just witnessed. It wasn't until they settled down on the couch in front of the opening screen for Katamari that either of them smiled again. "…This game is kind of weird," the youth giggled a minute later as he bumped into an object he wasn't quite big enough to pick up yet. "But it's also kind of cool."
Even the billionaire had to admit that he was diverted. They switched the controller back and forth between levels, and before long their katamaris were big enough that picking up people and farm animals became common practice. Watching mooing digital cows roll past on the screen was amusing, to say the least, and the time that passed before Dick's tuxedo was delivered seemed to be over in a flash.
"…Well, young sir," the butler smiled delightedly as he finished helping the besuited boy dress a short while thereafter. "I am glad you chose this particular ensemble. I was hoping you would. It matches your eyes remarkably well."
"I hate this tie," he answered, tugging at it.
"Join the club, chum," Bruce entered the bedroom clad in his own eveningwear. "And you can't loosen them, either, or they don't look right." The corner of his mouth turned up. "It looks even better than it did in the store," he commented.
"Tailoring will work such miracles, Master Wayne," Alfred noted. "How is your own fitting of late, by the way?"
"Same as always. Miserably."
"Hmm…" He circled him critically. "…Nonsense. It fits very well. You simply don't like to wear it, is all."
"All in all, I'd rather go downstairs and put on the cowl, yes," he snarked.
"…Bruce?" Dick asked, reminded of the other end of the deal by the mention of Batman's headgear.
"Yeah, kiddo?"
"I get to design Robin's costume, right? After…after the banquet tonight?"
"…Right," he answered grudgingly. "Just like we discussed."
"But…do you just have stuff laying around that I can use, or…?"
"You and I will collaborate, Master Dick," the butler promised as he hustled them out of the room and towards the stairs. "For now, you've an event to get to. Are you sure you don't want driven, sir?" he asked for a final time.
"No, we'll drive ourselves. There's no reason to expose all three of us to the paparazzi. They're going to be swarming anyway, and if word got out that Dick will be there tonight…well, let's just hope that didn't happen. We'll take the green Maserati."
"…You want to take a convertible to an event where you anticipate high press attendance?" Alfred arched an eyebrow.
"They're going to take our picture anyway. And Dick's probably never been in a convertible, have you?"
"…Is that one of those cars that the roof comes off of?"
"Yes."
"No, but they look really, really cool."
"Well, there you go. Besides, it's decidedly un-Brucie to show up to anything in a sober-looking vehicle after six PM," he rolled his eyes in annoyance.
"Just ensure that it's quite obvious that you are sober when you climb back behind the wheel," the butler cautioned.
"…'Brucie'?" the boy repeated with a little chortle. "What…?"
"It's a bit of a long story, chum, but it is important. I'll explain in the car. Are you ready to go?"
"I…" Suddenly the foyer they were standing in seemed warm and inviting, at least in comparison to the bevy of photographers and strangers that he knew were waiting to claw at him somewhere downtown. "I guess I have to be, don't I?"
"It helps, but the first time is always hell." Seeing that he wasn't helping, he bent down to the child's level. "Which is why I'll be there with you. Stick close, and everything will be just fine. Okay?"
"…Okay," he smiled softly. "I'll stick with you."
"Good." He stood, then offered his hand when it remained obvious that the youth was nervous. "All right, Dicky. It's time for your society debut." He paused. "Let's go knock the cashmere socks off of some snobs."
