A/N: I own nothing except the idea and the writing that goes with it. As always, italics are usually used for thoughts to oneself, but are sometimes used for emphasis. Thanks for reading! :)
Nine-year-old Dick Grayson stared at the floor. It was tile, dirty and scuffed, never replaced by a department whose last priority was fixing a floor. His mind was numb, his face expressionless. He didn't remember how he had arrived here – wherever 'here' was – or recognize the voices discussing something over his head.
Blood, he remembered the blood. And the stark contrast of white bones lying at weird angles across brown skin. But the thing he remembered most – the main thing he saw in the horrible image seared into his brain – was the lack of light in their eyes. Two pairs of eyes, one as blue as the sky on a clear day and the other a soft brown with flecks of pale green that appeared blue in bright sunlight.
Dick would never see those eyes again, he realized as the shock of what he had just witnessed faded slightly. Lifting his head, he saw a tall man with white hair on his right. There was a counter in front of him, and the man was talking to somebody on the other side. Sometimes Dick hated being short; this was one of those times.
"Orphanage…foster care…weekend…place…"
Those were the only words Dick heard, the others jumbling around in his mind as a fierce headache began pounding against his skull. The man was suddenly crouching by Dick, startling the boy.
"Do you know who you are?" the man asked, his tone gentle.
Dick nodded but didn't speak.
"Can you tell me your name?"
The words were frozen on his tongue, so he remained silent.
"Okay," the man said with a soft sigh, "do you know where you are? Why you're here?"
No, Dick didn't. Yes, but he didn't want to remember. As if he could forget. The image was burning a hole in his brain, causing a matching one to develop in his heart. Unbidden tears filled his eyes, and he saw sympathy in the eyes of the man.
"I assume that means you remember," he said quietly. "In case you don't know, you're at Police Headquarters. I'm Commissioner Gordon, and I'm going to stay with you until Mr. Sanderson gets here. He's your social worker, do you know what that means?"
Dick knew the words, but had never heard the two put together. So, he shook his head.
The commissioner hated doing this. He had done this many years ago, when he was a detective and the orphan was an eight-year-old whose parents had been shot right in front of him. Luckily that boy, Bruce Wayne, had a butler who was immediately granted guardianship. This young orphan had nobody, and now Jim Gordon had to tell him that.
How do you tell a nine-year-old that the only family he has ever known had easily released him into the custody of the Gotham City Department of Child Services? How was he going to tell the boy that the owner of the circus didn't want him because he was no longer useful? He couldn't fly on a trapeze by himself, and the other two members of The Flying Graysons were now dead.
"Well," he softly cleared his throat and tried to prepare himself for the fear he knew he would see in the boy's eyes. "Mr. Sanderson is going to take care of you, find a place for you to stay and eventually a home with a family."
Hopefully.
Commissioner Gordon left that thought unspoken. DCS was overwhelmed with cases, and there weren't enough people willing to foster children. This young boy might be stuck in an orphanage until he graduated from high school.
"I…have a family."
The whispered words were nearly inaudible, and they were the first words the boy had spoken since the commissioner had taken his hand and led him away from the terrible scene.
"Dick, I'm not sure how to explain this," Gordon said honestly. "Your parents…"
"Dead," the boy whispered, anguish filling the tone. "But…the, um, I…"
Dick trailed off because he was suddenly very confused, and a little nervous. Why wasn't he with the other members of the circus? Why was he here, with a strange man who was talking about another strange man?
Commissioner Gordon internally sighed. Frustration built in his chest, directed at the arrogant circus owner who had declared the boy useless. A nine-year-old who had grown up in that circus, moving around, never laying down roots because of that circus. The boy whose parents had just died because of the owner's unwillingness to accept security help from the GCPD.
But Dick had already figured it out.
"They…don't want me?" he asked, betrayal joining the anguish in his tone. "They…they left me?"
Honesty was always the best policy to Jim Gordon. There was no point in sugarcoating things, especially since the intelligent Dick already knew. He searched his mind for a way to phrase it gently.
"The circus owner decided to let you live here."
"Because I have nothing to give. I'm…useless because I'm not a soloist."
The quiet tone was outlined with defeat, and the feeling in the commissioner's chest changed from frustration to anger. Neither the man nor the boy noticed the dark-haired man who had just entered the lobby.
"Commissioner, I assume this is the boy?"
Jeff Sanderson held out his hand as Commissioner Gordon stood up. They shook hands, and Jeff knelt down in front of Dick.
"You get to come with me tonight," he stated, his voice firm but not harsh.
The man's tone was not full of compassion – that wasn't his strong suit – but he wasn't rude to the nine-year-old. His new charge, after all, had just lost his entire world.
Standing up, he grabbed Dick's hand, nodded to the commissioner, and led the boy out the door into the dark night. They walked across the full parking lot and, upon reaching his car, Jeff opened the back door and motioned the boy inside.
Reluctantly, nine-year-old Dick Grayson climbed in and buckled the seat belt. He stared at the tall building of Police Headquarters as Jeff started the car.
"I'm sorry to have to do this," Sanderson began, "but I don't have any room anywhere right now. The only place I can take you is the detention center, but it won't be for very long. As soon as a bed opens up somewhere else, you'll be out of there. Do you understand?"
Dick had no idea what a 'detention center' was, but the white-haired man trusted this dark-haired man, and Dick slightly trusted the white-haired man, so the boy nodded then laid his head against the back of the seat.
"We have about an hour drive, so you can take a nap if you want."
Dick nodded again, although he knew sleep wouldn't come. But, he closed his eyes anyway as the car sped away from headquarters into the darkness of the night.
Unbeknownst to any of the involved parties, a man dressed all in black was standing on the roof of that very building. Strong arms were folded across an equally strong chest, and his dark-blue eyes were narrowed in thought. The car was heading north, and there were no orphanages to the north. Perhaps the social worker was taking the young boy to his house, or already had a family lined up for tonight.
Batman didn't know why he felt the need to make sure the boy was safe. The hero had never felt this way about any other orphan he had encountered, or any other child taken into the vast labyrinth that was 'the system'.
Murder.
The thought raced to the forefront of his mind, but the man wasn't convinced. Just because they had both seen their own parents killed, didn't mean he should feel such a strong connection to the boy. Other kids' parents had been murdered – although none of them had witnessed it – and Batman had felt only sympathy. But he was drawn to this boy, Dick Grayson.
Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, the hero jumped off the building, using his cape to glide down so he landed softly on the ground. He strode around to the back and climbed into the Batmobile, resisting the strong urge to follow Jeff Sanderson's car. The boy would undoubtedly be safe in whatever house the social worker was taking him to, so finding the killer was Batman's first priority.
One hour later:
Sanderson pulled up to the front gate of the detention center and rolled down his window. The guard stepped forward, but he was used to the face of this man so he waved him through after opening the gate.
Another troubled kid, another normal night in Gotham City.
The guard was saddened by the thought, but there was nothing he could do about it so he went back to reading his book.
Dick wasn't asleep, as he had known he wouldn't be, so he was able to see the gray cement blocks of the hideous building as the car drove past toward the visitor parking lot. It looked ghostly in the sliver of light the moon had decided to bestow upon it, and the nine-year-old was suddenly nervous again. The car stopped and the social worker appeared at the door. Dick climbed out and the man grabbed his hand again.
Black bars, spaced only a few inches apart, ran vertically down the clear, glass door. Sanderson pushed what looked like a doorbell and sounded like a game show buzzer. The door opened automatically, and Jeff led the boy inside.
Weak, fluorescent beams were the only lights shining in the lobby. Sanderson stopped at the counter, dropped Dick's hand, and picked up some paperwork.
"You can sit over there," the man said, flicking his head toward a bench to their right while keeping his eyes on the form his was filling out.
Dick trudged over to the bench and sat down. Putting his elbows on his knees, he placed his head in his hands and tried to rub away the headache that was still there. A noise assaulted his ears, and he lifted his head.
"Get your fricking hands off me!"
A large boy, Dick estimated he was around fifteen, was being manhandled down the hall by a larger man. The teen's arms were somehow restrained behind his back, and he was stumbling toward a door at the other end of the hall. His face was contorted in anger, and the words coming out of his mouth were no longer appropriate for Dick's young ears.
"Dick, come here, please," Jeff lightly commanded.
Dick complied as the teenager was finally shoved through the far door, his loud voice fading as he disappeared.
"Here's the deal," Sanderson began. "The only place they have is a cell on the fourth floor. This is only going to be for a night or two, okay? I'm going to get you out of here as soon as I can."
Panic began gnawing on the edges of his brain as Dick realized that this was a jail. A jail for kids, but still a jail. He was about to be locked in a cage, like a monkey in a circus, and the man was going to leave him there!
"Please, I…I haven't done anything wrong," he whispered fearfully.
"I know, kid," the man replied with a sigh, "but I have nowhere else to put you. I'm sorry, but you'll have to deal with this for a couple of days. I'll let the guards know to watch out for you…"
Jeff was cut off by the piercing beeping of his cell phone. He looked at the number and immediately answered. Most of the talking was done on the other end, so Dick had no idea what had happened. But the man's voice was suddenly worried.
"I'll be right there!" he exclaimed, concern racing through the words.
Shoving his phone back in his pocket, Sanderson motioned toward Dick with a clear look of fear. The guard on the other side of the counter nodded.
"Whatever it is, it's obviously urgent," he said. "Just go, I'll take care of this!"
Sanderson practically ran through the door leading outside as the guard walked around the counter. He crouched in front of Dick and stared into his grief-filled eyes.
"I'll tell everyone to look out for you, kid," he stated sympathetically. "You obviously don't belong here, but I'll do my best for you."
Taking the nine-year-old by the hand, the guard led him down the long hall where the teenager had just disappeared.
A/N: For purposes of this story, Dick was not in Haly's Circus. Pop Haly would never just give Dick away without a second thought.
