Rollerparty: apparently I've been thinking too much, also. Dick Grayson is my favorite - whether he's Robin or Nightwing - and yet I'm so mean to him! Seems kind of backwards, doesn't it?
Several weeks later:
Dick was sitting by the window in the den, staring out at the pouring rain. Apparently, Bruce and Alfred didn't celebrate Christmas, either. There was no tree, not even a small one like his parents had always put up in their trailer. No bright lights or cheery decorations adorned any part of the mansion, inside or outside.
But Dick wasn't going to say anything. He had already messed up Thanksgiving; he wasn't going to ruin his favorite holiday by asking the men about it.
He could, however, give them each a present. The nine-year-old was almost finished with the one for Bruce and suddenly realized that he would have to work quickly in order to finish Alfred's gift in time.
Turning away from the window, Dick raced to his room and continued to work.
Dick hadn't gone into the gym for several days, Bruce had noticed. And he seemed distracted when Bruce saw him which, of late, was not very often. The man wondered if something was happening at school again.
Batman had reviewed the tapes from the Bat-camera in Dick's classroom but everything had both looked and sounded normal. Nobody was insulting or mocking the boy and the lessons all consisted of grade-appropriate material.
So, the Caped Crusader had checked the tapes from the school's cameras, also. Sound was weak and somewhat fuzzy so he couldn't hear if things were being said in passing or during lunch. But Dick would tell him, right?
Christmas was two days away and Dick was panicking. He still hadn't finished Alfred's present, even though he had stayed in his room for three days straight. He came out for meals, of course, but immediately returned to his room after eating.
Dick had noticed the concerned looks that both Bruce and Alfred were constantly sending his way. He felt bad because he knew they were worried that something horrible was going on. But he had pretty much promised to tell them if anything was happening so there was really no need for them to be concerned.
There was a quiet knock on his door.
"Dick?"
It was Bruce, and he sounded troubled.
"Dick, I'm coming in."
The nine-year-old quickly shoved everything under his bed. His bedroom door slowly began to open and Dick jumped to his feet.
"We need to talk, chum," Bruce stated in a no-nonsense voice. "Something is going on and you promised to let us know..."
"Nothing is going on, Bruce," Dick interrupted nervously.
"Is it school again?" the man asked with a sigh.
"No, everything's fine, really! School's fine, home is fine, everything is fine!"
"Then why are you basically hiding from us?" Bruce demanded, although his voice was full of concern – outlined with frustration – instead of anger. "We've hardly seen you this week! What aren't you telling me?!"
"I'm not hiding, I…can you just wait a few days?"
"No," the man replied firmly. "We're doing this now. Whatever it is, now is the time to get it off your chest."
"Please!" the boy practically begged. "Just give me a couple of days and then you'll understand! It's nothing bad, I promise!"
Bruce huffed, annoyed, but decided to ride it out.
"A 'couple' is two, chum. You have two days and then we'll revisit this conversation."
Turning around, the man left, barely hearing the relieved "Thank you" from his young ward. He was perplexed by the boy's strange behavior. At least it would be over in two days.
Christmas morning – 4:00:
"Christmas, Alfred!" Batman yelled as he jumped out of the Batmobile.
The Caped Crusader had just returned from patrol, where he had seen hundreds of people going to and leaving from various parties throughout the city. How, he wondered, had he not realized the significance of the bright lights scattered around every neighborhood?! Lights he had been seeing for over a month!
"Good heavens, Master Batman, you're right!" Alfred exclaimed. "And we've done nothing for the boy!"
Glancing at his Bat-watch, the hero groaned, "Four o'clock Christmas morning. What are we going to do?"
"Apologize profusely and ask for a second chance, sir."
"No wonder he's been so distant these past couple of weeks. Why hasn't he said anything about it?!"
"Well, perhaps he doesn't want a repeat of what occurred at Thanksgiving, Master Batman. Or, since we have neither said nor done anything regarding Christmas, perhaps he thinks we don't celebrate it, sir."
Removing his cowl, Bruce dropped onto the nearest chair and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. How could he have been so stupid? He should have known, especially since he had been seeing obvious signs – lights, decorations, crowds of people – during every nightly patrol.
"We'll work it out with him, Master Bruce. All we can do now is go to bed and hope that he'll forgive us."
Nodding in agreement, Bruce stood up and strode to his Bat-pole. He shot himself up to the Manor and climbed the stairs. As he always did, the man quietly checked on Dick.
"Sorry, chum," he whispered, his tone full of guilt.
Moving on to his own room, Bruce climbed into bed, completely missing the small statue sitting in plain sight on his bedside table.
Three hours later:
Dick silently climbed out of bed, got dressed and crept down the stairs. The present for Alfred he placed on the kitchen counter before sneaking out the back door.
The tall, sturdy oak tree invited Dick into its branches, as it had done several times before this day. He ran and jumped, barely getting enough height to grab the lowest branch. From there it was easy. Dick swiftly climbed about halfway up before settling onto a chair-like cluster of large branches.
He was about thirty feet up and absolutely positive that nobody could hear him. Softly, he began speaking to his parents:
"Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad. I miss you…so much. I guess Bruce and Alfred don't celebrate this holiday, but I made them presents anyway. Thanks for teaching me how to make stuff out of wood. I don't have any money so your talents saved me from having nothing to give them.
They've done so much for me. Ever since you," a soft sob choked his throat and the subsequent pause was long.
"Ever since you guys…" he couldn't say it, "…um, Bruce and Alfred have always been there for me. They are amazing and I wish I could do something to make them proud. I don't know if you'd be proud of me but I'm doing my best to become someone you could be proud of. I don't know if I can get there, but I'm trying.
Don't worry about me, I'm fine. This might not be the best Christmas ever, but at least I'm here and not at the detention center. I love you guys and wish you were here with me. Merry Christmas."
The last two words were whispered and followed by a steady stream of tears.
Meanwhile, inside stately Wayne Manor:
Bruce's dreams were filled with accusatory glares from his ward. He had forgotten Christmas, of all things! His sleep was restless and he finally gave up at seven thirty.
Sitting up, he turned to climb out of bed. There was a small statue on his bedside table. He picked it up, staring at the wooden figure in awe. It was a carving of Batman, kneeling in front of a child with his hand on the small shoulder. And it was flawless.
The intricate details were amazing – fingers, hair, the twist of the hero's cape, the expression of wonder in the child's eyes, the perfectly shaped bat emblazoned across the man's chest, the sharp outlines of taut muscles, the way the child was slightly leaning into the touch. It looked as if it had been crafted by a master woodworker.
It was obviously a depiction of the moment Dick had first met Batman. And the boy had somehow made it for him without Bruce suspecting anything! Nothing bad had been happening, the nine-year-old was just creating an artistic masterpiece!
Bruce quickly got dressed and almost ran to his ward's bedroom. The door was open and the room empty. Sprinting down the stairs, he burst through the kitchen door, fully expecting to see Dick sitting at the table. Instead, it was Alfred, holding his own little statue and wiping away tears.
"Can I see yours?" Bruce asked tentatively, feeling like he was intruding on a very personal moment.
Alfred willingly held it out and Bruce switched with him. The butler's gift was just as perfectly crafted. It was Alfred, his arms encircling the body of a small child. Again Bruce was amazed by the details – the wrinkles of laughter on both faces, the look of love radiating from two pairs of eyes, the smooth lines of the butler's always-perfectly-pressed clothing, the wisps of the child's hair splayed across the man's chest, the small hands clutching Alfred's coat as if they would never let go.
"This is astonishing," Bruce murmured.
"Did you see the inscription, sir?" Alfred responded softly.
To Alfred, the most compassionate man I know. DG
"No, sir, on your carving."
They switched again and Bruce turned his upside down.
To Bruce, my hero and best friend. DG
"I don't…where did he learn how to do this?"
"He did spend almost nine years in a circus, Master Bruce," Alfred reminded gently.
Just then the subject of their conversation walked in the back door. He had obviously been crying and guilt filled the hearts of both men like a ball of solid lead. Dick noticed them and immediately began wiping the evidence off his face.
"I'm sorry," Bruce stated softly. "I wasn't thinking, I should have known."
"Known what?" the boy asked, glancing at Alfred before looking at Bruce.
"Christmas, Dick, I didn't even think about it."
"It's not a big deal," the nine-year-old said bravely with a minute shrug. "I figured you don't celebrate this holiday, just like the others. But I decided to get – well, make – you something anyway. I hope that's okay. They're not as good as the ones at the stores but I didn't want to not give you something. Sorry if I messed something up."
"Master Dick, there is nothing to be sorry about!" Alfred exclaimed quietly. "These, young sir, are just as good – if not better – than anything in the stores!"
"It's from you, chum, which makes it better."
"Well, I made a lot of mistakes but I didn't have time to start over so they look kind of sloppy. And I didn't paint them because I wasn't sure…so if you want me to do that I can."
"Dick, this is one of the most amazing things I have ever seen! It looks perfect to me, down to the tiny, last detail. Where did you learn how to do this?"
"Dad," the boy replied.
The men waited for more but Dick didn't elaborate.
"Well, Master Dick, I must say that this is the most special gift I have ever received. I shall cherish it forever, young sir."
Dick dropped his eyes to the floor, blushing at the compliment.
"I echo Alfred's words. Thank you, Dick."
The blush deepened and the men just barely heard the whispered "You're welcome".
"Can we have a second chance?" Bruce asked.
"At what?" Dick asked quizzically, lifting his head.
"Celebrating Christmas, kiddo. We didn't do anything, we didn't buy you…"
"You don't need to get me anything!" Dick interrupted loudly. "You've already given me everything I could need or want and more!"
Both men were astonished that a nine-year-old boy would refuse the offer of a present.
"But…we want to, Dick! You deserve to receive gifts!"
"Sorry, I didn't mean to try to tell you what to do."
"You don't need to apologize for stating how you feel or what you think, Master Dick."
The boy suddenly crumpled to the ground, dropped his head into his hands, and began sobbing. Bruce and Alfred glanced at each other, then Bruce went and sat down by his ward.
"Will it…will it ever…get better?" Dick asked between sobs. "I…I miss them. Does it…ever stop…hurting?"
Bruce knew the answer but didn't want to bring more pain to the heart of the grief-stricken child. However, Dick deserved to know.
"No, chum, it doesn't stop hurting," he answered softly. "But it does become easier to live with, after a while. It helps to remember the happy times."
"I'm…I tried that…today. It doesn't help…it hurts more!"
"I'm sorry, kiddo, I wish there was something I could do."
Dick suddenly threw himself onto his guardian's lap and wrapped his strong arms around the man's neck. Bruce immediately felt the tears soaking his shirt but he didn't care. He folded his arms around the small torso and whispered another apology.
"Why me? Why us?" the boy mumbled despairingly.
"I don't know," Bruce murmured, feeling helpless.
The man had never seen his ward so broken. Dick was always so cheerful, so strong. Even on the bad days he did his best to smile through the grief Bruce could see in his eyes.
It was at that moment that Batman made finding the murderer his top priority. He had always been researching and observing and listening while out on patrol but something major was almost always happening. A villain would escape, or there would be a mob war, or a new and sometimes powerful gang would begin to grow. And Batman had no clues because, on that night, Bruce Wayne had been focused on the newly-orphaned Dick Grayson.
Bruce suddenly realized that Dick had cried himself to sleep. The man slowly stood up and exited the kitchen, heading for the boy's room. As he began to carefully disentangle himself in order to lay his ward on the bed, he felt Dick's grip tighten around his neck.
"Please don't leave," the nine-year-old mumbled sleepily. "Everybody always leaves."
Dick's tear-filled plea nearly tore Bruce's heart in half. Without a second thought, he climbed into the bed and allowed the boy to cuddle up to him.
"We can get through this, chum," Bruce murmured.
He stared down at the tear-streaked face and wished he could wipe away the anguish etched on the young features. But he knew that was impossible. All he could do was find the killer and bring him to justice. And if the man arrived at Police Headquarters a little worse for wear, well…perhaps that was part of justice, this time.