Several weeks later:

Bruce, as he had said he would, had installed a trapeze in the gym. Dick had ignored everything else in there for an entire week. He had even stopped practicing Batman's training exercise. But that didn't mean he had forgotten it.

It was a normal Friday afternoon. Bruce always tried to leave work early on Fridays but that didn't usually happen. Dick knew this and, therefore, wasn't expecting the man to arrive at Wayne Manor only half an hour after Dick got home from school.

There was no grinning face waiting for him and Bruce was disappointed. But he knew where his ward would be so, after handing his briefcase and jacket to Alfred, Bruce headed for the gym. When he arrived at the door, he flattened himself against the wall and carefully peered around the corner.

The man was expecting to see the boy flying. So, he was surprised when he saw Dick practicing his fighting skills on the mats. His movements looked better than the last time Bruce had worked with him, and the man was proud.

But then Bruce realized why Dick looked so much better – he was doing Batman's training exercise. The one that Bruce had specifically instructed his ward not to do.

Pulling his head back, Bruce took a deep breath. He didn't want to spoil a Friday, so he decided an irritated lecture would be better than an angry confrontation.

"Dick," he said firmly as he strode around the corner.

The nine-year-old whipped his head around, eyes wide and startled like a deer in the headlights.

"I remember telling you not to do that," Bruce declared.

"No," Dick quickly countered, "you told me not to record or watch you. And I'm not doing either of those."

Bruce glanced at the TV and realized it was off. Dick was right on both counts – the man had said 'record' and 'watch' and the boy was obeying those instructions.

"I have it memorized," Dick confessed after a moment of silence.

"What?!"

It was one of Batman's harder routines, one that had taken several months to create and perfect. But Dick, it seemed, had learned it in less than a month!

"I didn't have to create it, I just copied it," the boy stated. "And I'm not that good at it."

Dick, apparently, could still read Bruce like a book. The man schooled his features into less of a 'how did you do it so quickly when it took me so long' expression and attempted to frown. His ward was much better than 'not that good' but he was supposed to be upset, not impressed.

"I don't really understand the kick sequence in the middle," Dick continued. "I won't practice it anymore if you don't want me to."

The nine-year-old's voice was both apologetic and disappointed.

"The only reason I've always declined to teach you offense is because you'll never need it," Bruce explained. "Unless you intend to go around starting…"

He trailed off at the look on the boy's face. Realizing what he had just said, Bruce tried to recover.

"I know you would never do that, though."

Dick was looking at him dubiously, one eyebrow raised cynically.

"I didn't mean…I shouldn't have said that," the man acknowledged with a sigh.

With a smirk, Dick replied, "It was a long time ago. I'm over it."

Mostly. I guess. Of course. It's fine.

To a nine-year-old, Bruce supposed, seven months could be considered a 'long time ago'. Although it had been very traumatic so perhaps the boy was just putting on a brave face.

"What's Halloween?" Dick asked, abruptly changing the subject.

"It's a holiday. People put on costumes and go to parties," Bruce responded with a touch of exasperation.

"And what's trick or treat?"

"You've really never heard of Halloween or trick-or-treating?" the man asked in disbelief.

Dick shook his head, so Bruce continued.

"Kids, in their costumes, go around to different houses and ask for treats."

"What's the 'trick' part?" Dick asked, confusion dancing through the words.

"There's not really a 'trick'. It's just what the kids say."

"So…what's the point?"

"I don't…to give kids an excuse to ask for candy?"

"From strangers?!"

"Well, usually kids stay in their neighborhoods, so they aren't exactly strangers. Most of the time, anyway."

"Okay, let me get this straight. People put on costumes and go to parties while their kids put on costumes and go around asking for treats but not doing anything tricky and everyone just gives them candy anyway."

"Um…yes," Bruce stated. "Is this something you want to do?"

Secretly, the man really hoped his ward would say no. But he wasn't going to deny the boy the option of trying it. Dick, however, was staring at him in disbelief.

"Why?!" the nine-year-old exclaimed.

"Well, most kids like it. They get free candy."

"Can't they get free candy from their parents?"

"Good point. So, you don't want to do it?"

Shaking his head, Dick replied, "It seems like a waste of time. There are so many other, better things I could be doing."

"Dinner time, sirs," Alfred stated from the doorway.

By the time dinner was over, Dick had already forgotten the conversation.

Several weeks later:

"Alfred, what's Thanksgiving?"

"You've never celebrated that holiday, Master Dick?" Alfred asked, slightly shocked at the revelation.

"No, I just know we have three days off of school."

"Well, young sir, it is a day for expressing gratitude."

"For something specific?"

"No, Master Dick, it can be for anything."

"Okay, thanks," the boy responded before turning away, a thoughtful look on his young face.

"Bruce, do you do Thanksgiving?" Dick asked after dinner that night.

"Um…not really. It's always been just Alfred and I so there's never really been…"

"Because you guys already know you're thankful for each other," Dick interrupted softly, almost as if he were talking to himself.

"And we're thankful for you," Bruce immediately added.

"Hmmm," the boy murmured in what the man thought might be agreement.

Dick turned around and walked away, heading up the stairs to his room. The thoughtful look returned, the wheels in his intelligent mind whirring away.

The next morning:

"I'm ready!" Dick declared as he walked into the dining room.

"For what?" Bruce murmured, his eyes on the newspaper.

The nine-year-old stood next to his guardian's chair and patiently waited. After nearly a minute of silence, Bruce lowered the paper and looked at his ward quizzically.

"I don't know exactly when Thanksgiving is," Dick began, "so I'm doing it today. If that's okay with you," he added.

"Ummm…"

"I'm thankful for you and Alfred and Batman and this house and a healthy body and the gym and food and school and my friends and the State Pen and doctors and…"

Dick paused to take a breath. Bruce opened his mouth to reply but the boy was already speaking again.

"…and my time in the circus even though it ended badly and my parents," here Dick quickly swiped a small drop of moisture off his cheek, "and the trapeze you added and the blue chair in the living room and that you have a job…"

He paused to breathe again so Bruce jumped in.

"Wait, chum, stop for a minute."

"But…I'm not done," Dick stated, both surprise and confusion in his tone.

"You don't have to stand in front of me and list everything you're thankful for."

"I should have waited for Alfred!" the boy exclaimed.

"No, that's not what I meant."

"But…Alfred said it's a day for expressing gratitude! Am I doing it wrong? Should I write it instead? Am I supposed to give you a card?!"

Dick's flustered voice was anxious and he was shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"There's nothing 'wrong' with it but expressing gratitude doesn't mean you have to tell me every single thing you're grateful for."

"Then what am I supposed to do?"

"There's not a…well, most people get together with their families and have a big dinner."

"And that's it?!" Dick nearly shouted incredulously. "How is doing that expressing gratitude?!"

"It's also symbolic of the feast that the Pilgrims and…"

"Wait, I learned about that, but my teacher didn't say anything about Thanksgiving while we were learning it!"

"Really?" Bruce asked, a touch of surprise in his voice. "That's sometimes referred to as the first Thanksgiving."

"You guys have some weird holidays," the boy mumbled.

Bruce waited but Dick didn't continue. The silence was slightly awkward and the man needed to fill it.

"Why are you grateful for the State Pen?"

"Because that's where they are locked up!"

"Oh, of course," Bruce quickly agreed.

Even though Jerkins was able to escape during a riot.

That was Batman's thought, but he didn't voice it.

"So, when is Thanksgiving?" Dick asked.

"Tomorrow," Bruce replied with a slight grin.

"Okay."

The nine-year-old walked to his spot and sat down. Not another word was spoken as both man and boy began eating their food.

Later that night:

Batman had just returned from a short patrol. Nobody had been out so he had decided to go home. After showering, thanking Alfred, and checking on Dick, the millionaire went to bed.

The clinking of metal against metal woke him up. Bruce looked at his clock – 3AM. What would be making that sound at three in the morning?

Slipping out of bed, Bruce stealthily made his way downstairs. The kitchen light was on but there was no logical reason for Alfred to be in there this early. He crept to the door, pushed it open slightly and peeked inside.

Dick was sitting on the floor in front of the oven, staring intently at the appliance. There was a towel on the floor in front of him and his hands were moving rapidly above it. Doing what, Bruce had no idea, so he decided to find out.

"What are you doing, chum?" he asked as he strode through the door.

Dick yelped in surprise and Bruce immediately noticed the drops of red that began dripping from the boy's hands onto the towel.

Assuming it was blood, the man quickly covered the distance between himself and Dick. He grabbed a towel on the way there and then knelt down by the boy. Gently grabbing his ward's left arm, Bruce turned it so Dick's palm was facing up. The entire hand was a light, crimson color.

"It's just strawberry juice, Bruce," Dick stated with a tiny roll of his eyes. "I'm making…I mean, you said people had a big dinner so I wanted to do that for you and Alfred. Obviously, I can't make a giant feast so I'm just baking some little pies. Do you like cherry pie or strawberry pie or apple pie? Or, if you don't like any of those, I can make a different one," he added, uncertainty in his voice.

It was then that Bruce noticed the rest of the kitchen. Flour covered every countertop, the sink was full of all sorts of baking odds and ends, the egg container sitting on the table was empty and long strings of green apple peels were draped over the garbage can like the tentacles of an octopus.

"Dick," he sighed, "it's great that you want to do this but why at three in the morning?"

"It's the only time I can use the kitchen without Alfred noticing. I can't really bake him a surprise pie if he's standing here watching, can I?"

His voice sounded slightly exasperated, as if Bruce should have already known that and was foolish for asking the question.

"Of course not, kiddo," the man sighed again.

"Um, they're done so can you please let go of my arm before they burn?"

Bruce had been holding Dick's left arm during the entire explanation. He quickly let go and Dick grabbed the oven mitts that were on the floor right next to him. Standing up, the boy opened the oven and expertly extracted three small pies. Every crust was lightly browned to perfection and the delicious smell of homemade baking began wafting through the kitchen.

"Smells good," Bruce mumbled, dreaming of pies and impressed with a certain child who could create something so perfect.

Then he opened his eyes. It didn't smell good, it smelled like…

"Sir, something is burning!"

Alfred's voice faded. He had knocked on Bruce's door, nearly yelling as he did so, then rushed away. Some part of the Manor was on fire!

Bruce, who could move much faster than his older butler, reached the bottom of the stairs before Alfred. The kitchen light was on, just as it had been in his dream.

"Dick!" he yelled as he ran through the kitchen door.

Alfred was right behind Bruce. Upon entering the kitchen, he froze and stared at his domain in shock.

There was flour everywhere, a thin layer coating almost everything like new-fallen snow. A broken egg lay on the floor by the table, the yolk sliding away like slow-moving, yellow lava. The oven door was open and Dick was right beside it, staring mournfully at a black lump that might have been a pie.

"Master Dick," Alfred stated, quickly regaining his wits, "we must get that out immediately! Move out of the way, please, young sir."

Bruce already had the oven mitts and was gently pushing his ward to the side. Carefully, the man grabbed the offending object, pulled it out and set it on top of the stove.

"Master Dick," Alfred began sternly, "why on earth are you in here, by yourself…"

"A surprise for Thanksgiving?" Bruce interrupted as he closed the oven door.

"How did you know?" Dick gasped in surprise.

The men got their first good look at the boy. He, too, was covered in flour, the layer on his face broken only by the tear tracks weaving their way through the blanket of white. A small piece of eggshell was stuck in his dark bangs. His left hand was wrapped in a towel, the ends held together by a clothespin.

"Dick," Bruce began in a calm tone that was outlined in irritation.

"Before you lecture him, Master Bruce, maybe we should check his hand."

With a quick nod, Bruce knelt in front of his ward and gently unwrapped the towel. The boy's index finger was leaking blood from a short but fairly deep cut.

"Good heavens, Master Dick," Alfred commented with a nearly inaudible sigh.

"I'm sorry," Dick replied, his voice full of sorrow and his bottom lip trembling.

"What happened, kiddo?"

"I was peeling the apples and the knife slipped," the boy admitted quietly. "I thought the towel would stop it."

"How do you feel?" Bruce demanded, although his voice was still calm. "Dizzy at all? Confused, tired?"

"I'm fine, Bruce, it's only a little bit."

"A 'little bit' can add up quickly, chum. How long has it been bleeding?"

"Well, I started making the pie maybe…I don't know. It takes twenty-five minutes to bake and the apples took a long time to peel. I cut myself when I was almost done so maybe half an hour?"

"Master Dick, the pie itself has been baking longer than half an hour. I would say it happened around forty-five minutes ago, Master Bruce."

Alfred retrieved a small piece of gauze and some medical tape from a nearby drawer. He handed the supplies to Bruce, who quickly wrapped the boy's finger. The younger man opened his mouth but Alfred laid a firm hand on his shoulder.

"I think, sir, that bed is the best place for him to be right now."

Nodding in agreement, Bruce stood up and grabbed Dick's uninjured hand. The pair quietly left the kitchen but, instead of immediately heading upstairs, Bruce directed his ward to the bathroom that was right across the hall.

"We have to clean you up first," the man stated, picking the eggshell out of the boy's hair with a slight grin.

Twenty minutes later, a freshly-cleaned Dick Grayson was settled in bed.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"We'll talk about it in the morning, chum. Go to sleep."

Dick obeyed and Bruce left. Alfred was slowly climbing the stairs, weariness etched on his weathered features.

"Never in my life have I ever cleaned a mess as big as that one, Master Bruce," he commented softly. "Not even when you tried your hand at cooking."

"You should have let me help, Alfred!"

"The young master needed you more than I, sir. Please tell me you didn't lecture him."

"No, I told him we would discuss it tomorrow."

"Try to be gentle, Master Bruce," Alfred advised. "His confidence in both himself and his place here is undoubtably shaken. Again."

The last word was accompanied by a sigh of resignation.

"Why? It's not like he burned down the house. It was a pie!"

"A pie, sir, that was supposed to show how much he cares for us," the butler stated wisely. "He is nine years old and an orphaned ward, sir, who is still trying to find his place. It has been less than a year, Master Bruce, since you took him into your care."

"But he seems well-adjusted," Bruce countered, although his voice was full of uncertainty.

"Master Bruce," Alfred began sternly, "during his first month here he was told nearly every day that you would soon tire of him. By an adult, sir! He has been tormented by his peers, attacked by an athlete he admired, kidnapped by his abusive teacher and then beaten by both that man and a professional! If you were in his place, would you feel well-adjusted to a city that has treated you so horribly for most of your time there?! Sir."

"I…guess not."

"I suggest you think about that, Master Bruce, before you talk to him tomorrow. Good night, sir."

"Night," Bruce mumbled as they went their separate ways.

"Eight months," the man grumbled as he climbed into bed. "All of that has happened in only eight months. Gotham City at its finest," he ended with a sigh.