Warnings: Death fic. Language. You're warned so leave me alone.

That Same Week. Aged Twenty-three

Please note: Forget canon.

Path A

"You coming into the office this morning with me?"

Dick looked up from the morning paper. He'd spent the night at the manor after showing up for Alfred's birthday dinner yesterday. It was just easier than driving back to the Haven when he was that tired. "The office?"

"You know—that big place I go to every day?"

Bruce being sarcastic? Or maybe that was a joke. It was hard to tell. "To do what?"

"See how it works. C'mon, Dick, if you're going to be taking over one of these days you really should have at least a small clue."

Jesus. "…I guess so."

"Your enthusiasm is impressive."

"Well, Christ—it's not like it's really up my alley or anything; I'm a cop, remember? I was raised in a traveling circus and then I was Robin. It's not like I have a MBA."

"You could get one, you know."

And birds could fly out of my butt, too. "I could, but I really think you should name Lucius in charge in the event of your death and I could be a silent partner or something."

"A silent partner who would risk having the company being stolen out from under you if you didn't understand the way it works. In addition to that, you have over thirty thousand employees depending on you for their paychecks and benefits. You have a major obligation to them and their families and it would be nice if you kept that in mind."

"I know all that—I just completely stink at this, Bruce. Office jobs aren't my thing."

"Suck it up." He sipped his coffee—imported, from his own plantation, of course. "Get dressed, the car will be leaving in twenty minutes."

"Bruce, you're not getting this. I'm a cop. I like being a cop and I like being Nightwing. I contribute with both and I like that. It works for me. I don't want to do this thing with your company. I can't put it any plainer than that."

"The car leaved in eighteen minutes. Get ready."

Cripes.

Dressed suitably, he walked through the corridors of power he used to run through when he was nine. They seemed bigger then, now they just seemed serious and boring. He greeted the secretaries he'd known when he was a kid. He let them hug him and kiss his cheeks. He was smiling and cheerful and in most cases genuinely happy to see everyone he met. He was glad to hear tat Cindy's son's broken leg had mended and that Stan's wife was better after her surgery. Bruce walked him through several of the departments he'd have to deal with when and if he took over—legal, mergers, investments, charitable review, R&D and a few of the others. He had the uncomfortable of being the crown prince being paraded before his future subjects and hated it. And he was relieved when they got to Lucius' office so he could relax a little.

"If I didn't know you better, I'd offer you a stiff drink."

"If you offered, I'd probably take you up on it."

Bruce gave Dick a dirty look which Dick knew he'd have to answer for later—embarrassing him in front Lucius or something like that was a serious breech for Bruce but, hell—he didn't want to be here, he was happy as a cop and why couldn't Bruce see he had his own life and would like to live it, thank you very much. He didn't want to run a major international corporation. First of all he knew he'd completely suck at it and secondly he flat out didn't want to do it even if he turned out to be fabulous at the job.

He wanted to be a cop—and Nightwing. He liked being a cop and Nightwing. This was what was working for him and…

Fine. He'd do it. He'd simply tell Bruce that this wasn't going to happen and he should get himself a new boy. It wasn't like this would be the first time they'd disagreed about something, wouldn't be the last and maybe this would help things in the long run. And it wasn't like Bruce had a problem replacing his Robins when it suited him. Maybe Tim would be better at the job, anyway. He was smart, he was more inclined to thinking in the box and he'd probably be great at it.

There, problem solved. If he were stuck in an office all day it would kill him, it really would. Tim could do this and he'd go home, back to his own life.

"So, let's have Janice order some lunch and we can discuss what we have to over something to eat. Does that sound good for you two?" Lucius was trying. You had to give the man credit, he was seriously trying here.

"Sure, sounds good. Sandwiches are fine, nothing fancy." Bruce was being accommodating today.

He nodded and went to the outer office, rather than using the phone. He was probably happy to get away from the knife thick tension between the other two for a few minutes. He left the door ajar; it had to be an accident since Lucius would never do that on purpose.

"I gather you don't want to go through with this?"

Y'think? "…No, Bruce, I don't. I'm sorry, I mean I really am after everything you've done for me and I know this is what you want and you've sort of been planning on this, but it's not…"

There was something going on out there, raised voices about something, which was unusual. Bruce liked his offices quiet, professional and he frowned at the breech. The voices got louder and he exchanged a glance with Dick who shrugged; he didn't know what it was, either but his inner alarms were going off. This wasn't right.

"The son of a bitch did it. He didn't have to but he went ahead and—Goddamnit, I just want to talk to him for two minutes. Two fucking minutes. C'mon, he owes me that much."

Lucius' voice, calm, trying sooth. "Let's you and me sit down and discuss about this. I'm sure we can do something which will…"

"I want to see Wayne. Wayne. Two minutes. I mean it. I came all the way in from Connecticut and he can frigging well spare me two fucking minutes after—he fired me! Do you understand that? I lost my damn job because of him. My family—do you realize I have to sell my house? My wife was crying this morning—that bastard owes me two damn Goddamn minutes…"

"Please, just come on into my office, tell me exactly what…"

The door was pushed violently open, slamming against the wall as the man burst through, Lucius and security right behind him. Bruce was standing, half sitting on the front of his mahogany desk, looking at the man. Dick was a few feet away, off to the side by the window.

"You wanted to speak with me?"

"You fired me."

Bruce had no idea who the man was. He'd never seen him, never met him. "What happened?"

"You thought I was stealing office supplies—a damn stapler, for Chrissake—a damn stapler! I had it in my briefcase to borrow. I was just borrowing it. I swear. I was going to bring it back but fucking security said I was stealing and…my wife was crying. You made my wife cry. You're a bastard, you know that?"

"I'm sure we can discuss this, would you care to sit down? If everyone would leave us alone for a few minutes I'm sure we can work this out. Please have a seat." His voice was soothing, calm and not working on the man.

"She was crying. Do you understand that?"

"Would the rest of you please leave us alone, if you don't mind? Dick? You, too."

"She never cries. Never. Even when her mother had cancer, she never cried but you made her cry."

"I'm sorry that happened. Let's talk about it privately, all right?"

"He's your son, isn't he?"

"Dick, could you please wait in the other room for us?"

Dick started to move, not even getting to take the first step, but his eyes were on Bruce when he should have been watching the man. He made a mistake and so did Bruce who was looking back, silently asking him to get out and let him handle this.

Neither of them saw until it was too late to react, even for them. The three bullets hit Dick point blank.

The man was disarmed in quick seconds, but two bullets hit Dick square in the heart. He had died almost instantly.

It turned out it was a plastic gun, the kind that doesn't show up on a metal detector and that he'd bought in on the street somewhere. Bruce, of course, had been his original target, but when he'd seen Dick, he'd realized that this would hurt Bruce more. The death of his son was something he'd never recover from, never forgive himself for and never get over.

And he was right.

Path B

The conversation with Amy at Brunch had really pissed him off. Where did she come off criticizing him? What right did she have to pass some damn value judgment on how he'd chosen to live his life? And for what? Because he decided, he realized that he had an obligation to his parents? That he could help them and did so? Because of him they had reasonable financial security. They'd probably never lose another house after he'd paid off the mortgage on the one he'd gotten them down and it was even down in Venice so they could still be with their friends. They had health insurance through the union he picked up the tab for. They could come and go as they pleased and do whatever they wanted.

They were set.

Sure, Amy had agreed, sneering, that they had all that crap—as she'd put it. They had a house and all that stuff he'd decided was so important for them and in exchange they were reduced to a small act on a damn cruise ship, just one step above dinner theater, for God's sake. They were headliners! They should still be playing the Garden and touring and vagabonding from gig to gig like they'd done for all those years e was growing up with them.

How had he missed the bottom line?—that was what she kept asking him. How he it gone right past him that what they wanted was to keep doing what they were doing and his deciding to go to college and break up the act was what had pulled the rug out from under them.

So what was she saying? That he should have not gone to school? He shouldn't have busted his butt for six years getting his degrees, working inhuman hours, going for a getting a job that paid him enough to take care of them, so they would be able to finally relax a little?

And who asked him to?

He announced it as an almost done deal—he'd been scouted by recruiters, they'd offered him some hotshit scholarship and he'd be an idiot to not take it. Of course they'd agreed, of course they'd supported him. Idiot—didn't he understand they'd tanked their careers so he could do what they thought he wanted? He'd tanked his circus career to make sure they'd be taken care of. What was this? The damn Gift of the Magi?

"So", Amy had said a bit too snidely, "let's review. You did what you didn't want to, put your life on a track in a job you're making the best of but don't really like to take care of your parents who were just fine and happy doing what they were doing all along. Smart move, Dick."

"That's simplistic. There's more to it than that."

"Sure, whatever you say." There was an angry silence. "And you dumped me along with the circus."

"That's not true." Yes it was, and he knew it.

"And you have some trophy girlfriend you don't like who probably makes perfect small talk and can cook dinner while she's finalizing some multi-million dollar deal."

"…She can't cook." Amy hadn't answered or even cracked a smile. "I'll see you after the show tomorrow, okay?" He looked upset. "Friends?"

"You know it, but you're being such an ass, Dick. You really are."

So the rest of the day was pretty much shit as far as work was concerned. Dick went in and pretended to be doing his job but really spent the time thinking about what Amy had said.

Was he really that stupid? For Chrissake, he was just trying to do what was right by his parents. He'd tried to protect them, make sure they'd be okay and if that meant he left performing, or traded it for gymnastics, hell—he was willing, more than willing to do that in a heartbeat. It wasn't like they'd ever complained, like they'd ever really wondered why he was making the choices he was. In fact, they'd supported what he was doing, insisting he not rejoin the act as often as he could have done. They'd been proud when he'd gone to Ohio, going on and on about how he was the first one in the family to get a degree, how smart he was, how he was using his brain for more than thinking up a new move or routine or lighting cue.

And it was all bull.

Sure, sure, he'd like college. He'd had friends, he'd fit in just fine, his grades were good and he'd won a ton of medals for the team. That had been great. He'd made money with the stupid modeling, too and no one complained about that. Okay, that had just been a part time thing and nothing to lose any sleep over if he lost a job to someone else. It hadn't really mattered beyond being a part time job and the money it could bring in, but he could have worked part time in the campus bookstore and he'd have been fine with that, too.

His job. His real job, the one with Wayne that was grooming him to become Lucius Fox in a decade or two so he could help Wayne's idiot son not run the family business into the ground. He liked what he did—he was good at it, anyway. He made a lot of money, he was well treated and people seemed to like him there but—oh damn, people had liked him all his life so while that was nice, it wasn't anything new.

The hell with this. "Linda? I'm going down to the gym for a while." His secretary nodded, barely looking up and went on with her typing.

Changed into shorts and a tee, his old grips in place, he chalked up and went over to the high bar. That was one of the really nice perks about working at Wayne—the gym was huge, fully equipped and state of the art. Evidently the boss had a thing about fitness and wanted to help his employees be in decent health.

The place was almost empty and he was glad to see it. He wasn't in the mood for small talk. Taking a hop, he grabbed the bar and started the familiar swings that would give him the momentum to begin the giants. It felt good, the air going past him, the gym spinning around him as he moved around and around and around the bar. Even with the grips he could feel the burning in his hands where the old calluses he'd had since he was eight years old had been. The last year or so they'd worn away, replaced with new skin, pink and soft and he hated it. He loved his calluses.

He changed grips, going around backwards, then tried a simple stalter, then two more. Three more giant swings and he wound up for a release. He nailed the flyaway; catching himself and moving smoothly back to the giants. His hands were hurting—he'd been away too long and so he started the swings which would give him the speed for a dismount. He knew better than to try the quad after all this time away, but he turned the double perfectly—thank God for muscle memory, landing in a stick, feet together, knees slightly bent to absorb the shock of landing, arms up.

Jesus that felt good!

"Not bad."

Startled, he turned towards the voice. "Mr. Wayne, I didn't know you were here. Sorry…"

"Don't be silly, the gym is here to be used. You were all-American in college, right? Ohio State, national champion in—was it the high bar two years running?"

"High bar and vault, one year in parallel bars."

Wayne nodded. "My son is a gymnast, not in your league, but decent." He moved over to the pommel horse. "Spot me?"

The man could move, particularly when you considered that he was in his mid thirties—he was strong, fast and had fair balance as well. Dick thought his flairs could have used some amplitude, but all in all, acceptable. He bobbled the landing, stumbling a little but not falling because Dick caught him. "You were from a circus family, right?"

"How did you know that?"

"It's my business to know who's working for me, especially when they make VP at twenty-three." He glanced over at the wall clock. "Aren't you joining me for dinner? I'd like to talk with you about some ideas I have."

"Yes, sir, you and Mr. Fox."

"Lucius had to see his daughter's school play. Join me and we can kick some ideas around."

"Um, of course, sir."

"You have a better offer?" He had that look like he'd take your spleen out just to see what your reaction would be if you gave him the wrong answer. Oh, screw it.

"I promised an old friend I'd see the circus tonight; she works the show but I'd be honored if you'd join me and we could talk there, if you'd like—sir."

He seemed almost amused. "The circus." He actually smiled. "I haven't been to a circus in twenty-five years. I'd love to."

Bruce watched Dick out of the corner of his eye as they enjoyed the show. He's suggested, perhaps unfairly, that they could use his skybox and knew Dick felt obligated to agree, removed from the action though it was. They could talk easier there, with less interference.

The show started on time, the house seemed like it was a good one, or so Dick said, and the show, the performers were on that night. It was a kick to be there.

The boy was having a good time, clearly, but it was as though he was sitting in his living room seeing family home movies. He was having fun, but he seemed wistful as well and that was an interesting thing to see in a kid as hungry as Grayson was. Bruce had been hesitant about taking him into senior management when he'd met him, though not so much because of his age; because he seemed almost too ruthless when it came to business. The kid was polite, well spoken and obviously intelligent but he was a shark and maybe too much so for Bruce's comfort. He wanted his people to play hard, but play fair. Hell, it was his name on the contracts, his name in the news and he hated having to apologize for some kid's screw ups done in his name.

This was a new side of the kid and Bruce liked it. He was happy, easy, relaxed and flat out having fun. He told Bruce stories about traveling with his parents, about the towns they'd stop at, the home schooling. He talked about being a carnie, a target for the townies, about living in a traveling village filled with friends and family and how much he'd loved it. He even told Bruce stories about the little house down in Florida where they used to winter. Oh, sure, he'd bought his parents a new one down there which was bigger and nicer than the one they'd had, but he still missed the old shack.

They had hot dogs Bruce knew he'd be tasting at least till tomorrow, funnel cakes and split a cone of cotton candy. They laughed at the clowns, smiled at the animal acts, with Dick assuring him that the animals, at least in the show he'd worked, were well treated if for no other reason than they wouldn't perform if they weren't and it was easier to work with a reasonably content animal than an abused one.

About two thirds of the way through the show Bruce realized, with a bit of surprise, that he was having a good time. This was the kind of thing he never did with his own son; never had, never would. The boy was too much like his mother for anything like this; he was too serious to unbend for something this frivolous or corny. He preferred to spend his time either reading or hanging out at the club in an effort to make sure he was with the right people, ones he could understand with no effort and who fit easily into his preconceptions.

He couldn't tell the boy about his nighttime things, either. Everyone in the house, except Alfred, thought that he was just an insomniac, that he took long walks to help him sleep, that he was on the computer till all hours. They didn't know about the cave under the Manor or that he was…well, they just didn't know. His wife assumed he had a mistress, his son was just glad he wasn't around.

"Your hands are bleeding."

"It's okay—the bars today, I might have overdone a little."

Bruce went over to the wet bar, pulling the first aid kid out from underneath. He found the antiseptic, some bandages and some antibiotics. He liked this kid, he liked him a lot and he had potential—an incredible amount of potential both to Wayne Enterprises and to Bruce personally.

"You know, if you'd be interested, I may have a proposition for you, some extra projects I work on by myself. I've been thinking lately that I might take on a partner and you may be who I've been looking for." He sipped his water. "I'd been hoping my son would join me, but he doesn't seem to be the right person for this. You may well be."

"What kind of projects? Things for the company?" He had Dick's attention, the boy was practically boring a hole in him.

"Personal projects I do on my own, not through the company."

"You mean like on weekends or evenings? That kind of thing or are you talking about a leave of absence or something?"

"Mostly evenings. Look, I'd rather not discuss it here. What do you say we get together on this tomorrow? I'll call down to your office when I'm ready to leave and you can follow me to my place, have dinner and go over what I want. Would that be all right for you?"

Crap, he was starting to consider maybe taking a leave from Wane Corp. so he could go back to the circus, maybe get the old Flying Grayson act up and running again if his parents would be interested. He wanted to get back to what he'd been doing before. He loved flying. He missed flying. Of course, it couldn't hurt to hear what the man had to say, could it?—never burn bridges and all of that, right? "Tomorrow would be great. I'll look forward to it—thank you."

"Good." The performers were coming out for curtain call, Dick looking thoughtful and sad as the applause swelled along with the music, the rings cleared and the house lights came up.

"I promised Amy I'd go backstage after, would you like to come? I mean if you have the time, that is." It was important to give him an out of he wanted to leave, wouldn't want to assume or anything.

"I'd enjoy that, if I wouldn't be intruding."

Dick just smiled and shook his head. "That was over between us years ago, don't worry about it."

"God, only you would bring Bruce Wayne backstage and laugh when he steps in elephant shit. Do you still have a job?" Amy was on the phone, Dick was in his office and it was three days later. The show had moved to Metropolis and they were back to the point of being able to enjoy each other without arguing—at least for now. Yes, okay, they'd played what they called their command performance at his place before she left, but it was more two old friends than anything else and they both knew it. It was good. They were good.

"Not only do I still have a job, but he wants me to do some special assignments working directly with him. He even had me out to his house last night to talk it over."

"Nice house?"

"The dozen or so rooms I actually saw weren't bad. The food was decent, his wife is a society stiff, his kid is a smart ass monster and the butler looks like crypt keeper."

"And…?"

"And it sounds interesting. I think I may do it."

"…I thought you were talking about maybe taking some time to tour again. No?"

"I'd like to, but…" His voice trailed off a little. "Maybe over the holidays or something, but not full time."

"Is this something you really want to do or is the money too good to turn down?" She sounded annoyed and that annoyed Dick. The silence got a little awkward.

"Look, I have a meeting in a couple of minutes, Amy. I'll call you soon, okay?"

"Dick…"

"Gotta go. Bye, Aim."

Yes, he was annoyed. Yes, the money was good, but the job itself—being Bruce's right hand man, his partner in special projects. Working right with him, being listened to by someone like him—damn. And the stuff he was talking about; anti-crime applications of Wayne technology, working hand in hand with the JLA to create special weapons and tools, custom software. God, it sounded amazing. He might even get to meet some of the members—God!—meeting Superman, wouldn't that be a kick in the ass? 'Hey, Supes, how's it hanging'. 'GL—long time no see, man, whatcha been up to?' 'Wonder Woman, hey, have I told you how hot you look in that costume tonight?'

Plus he'd be doing some seriously good work, really helping people, being one of the good guys.

Oh, yeah. Way cool.

One Year Later

After a year of working with Bruce Wayne on his 'special' project, Dick was completely in on the secret. In fact he was in, way over his head in, on a whole big bunch of great big secrets. And he was impatient. He couldn't tell anyone, of course, and his parents were wondering what Wayne had him doing that he had such trouble getting away for a week here and there. Amy just thought he'd become a corporate pod and his girlfriend had packed her overnight bag with the stuff she'd left at his place and found someone she could count on for dinner and a show more than once every two months.

He didn't care. He wanted to do this.

"I tell you, I'm ready. More than ready. I've been ready for months now and you know it."

"I know you've worked hard and I know you think you are, but you still need some more work on the patience angle."

"C'mon, Bruce. I've been busting my butt for a damn year now, you said so yourself and you also said this is a minor case. It's just a small time protection racket. All I have to do is go in, scare the crap out of the bad guys and hope it takes, right? And if it doesn't then we try again tomorrow. My grandmother could do this."

Bruce, suited up for the night, privately agreed that the job was small potatoes and that Dick; or rather Nightwing as he preferred to go by when in costume, could probably handle it on his own. The kid had been working well, working hard and he had the intelligence, the athleticism, the street smarts and the basic chops to do the job. It turned out, when he'd first broached the idea to Dick, that he'd had a run in with organized crime when he was a child and stopped them. The incident, seemingly minor at the time since it was diffused, had a profound influence on Dick; making him protective of the people he cared about. All Bruce had to do was teach him how to extend that caring and compassion beyond his circle of friends and family to an entire city. It had proved surprisingly easy and Dick was an apt pupil. Bruce was confident he'd chosen his partner well and that he'd do them both proud. They'd been going out together on patrol for about two months now and Dick was aching to prove himself solo.

He just needed experience and the only way to get that was to do his job, right?

"All right. Surprise them to get them off guard. Tell them…"

"I know, okay? I know."

"I'll be watching how you do."

"Of course you will." He had this, well, the English would have called it 'cheeky' attitude. He could be beating the stuffing out of a dummy—literally—and start laughing because it was so much fun. They'd be working out or sparring and he'd crack a joke. They'd drag in at four in the morning, beat, exhausted and he'd be wanting to order pizza or Chinese. He was plain, flat out fun to be around and Bruce knew a new lease on life when he saw it.

This was going to be one of the classic team ups—"Batman and Nightwing". Excellent.

An hour later Dick, well, Nightwing was just leaving the boarded up storefront via the skylight. He'd done his level best to scare the hell out of the bad guys, had thrown the jump line, swung up and away and was feeling pretty good about how it had gone. The baddies had seemed pretty weirded out by the new vigilante and, with any luck, this or maybe one more warning would be enough to do some good.

He heard the scuff of a booted foot about twenty feet away, hidden in the shadows and knew Bruce was waiting to ask him for a report.

"It went great. Oh, man, you should have seen the looks on their faces; I think this should do the trick—"

"Or maybe not." The roof lookout threw the small grenade and ducked behind the brick chimney. Dick stared for a too long moment then spun to dive off the roof just as the blast caught him. He didn't have time or the right position to thrown the line so he tucked and tried to roll with the crash landing that didn't come.

A strong arm, like steel, was around his waist, swinging him to safety in the alley. "Batman—Jesus."

"Get in the car."

The trip back to the cave was a strained silence. Dick was sure this was it, that he'd screwed up and was about to be fired, Bruce furious with himself that he'd let Nightwing out alone before he was ready.

Neither man was happy.

With the car parked, they both showered quickly, changed and met by the main computer console. Dick dejected and expectant, Bruce angry and determined.

"You know you could have been killed tonight. You were careless, unprepared and arrogant—you thought it would be a walk in the park and…"

"I know, clean out my locker. Is this where you use the mind wipe so I can't ever spill any secrets?" He didn't even meet Bruce's eyes. Crap—he'd really wanted to do this. It was more of a rush than turning the quad and he never thought he'd find that. And he really wanted to be one of the club. He loved the costume, the attention, the feeling he was helping people and that he made a difference. He wanted to matter.

And he'd blown it.

Bruce studied him for a long couple of seconds. "This is where we talk about what additional training you need so that it never happens again."

"Excuse me?" Yeah, right. Hard assed Bruce Wayne; Batman for Chrissake giving him another chance? And pigs can fly.

"Be back here tomorrow at eight. We'll review." He turned to go up the stair to the main house.

That was it? No reaming? He wasn't fired? It was this easy—go get some rest and we'll try again tomorrow? "Bruce?"

"I told you I need a partner and you're almost there. In a month or so you'll go out solo again and you'll be fine. Now, I'm tired and I have a Board meeting in the morning I need to be awake for—you'll be there won't you?"

"I'm not on the Board."

"Right. Well. Tomorrow be at the meeting. You need to get up to speed on everything at Wayne Corp if you're going to take over for me in a decade or two."

Dick just stared at him. What was he talking about?

"My son isn't going to do it—you've met him. You have what I'm looking for, I told you that. Now, get some rest for the morning." Dick was staring at him again; it was a disconcerting habit he really should break. "What? You'd rather run away and join the circus?"

"Uh, maybe." Wayne wanted him to become Batman's partner and now he's practically handing the keys to the company over as well? It was all a bit…much.

"You know, you could just buy your own."

Dick laughed, the tension broken. "I can't afford to buy a circus."

"Yet."

Fini

1/12/06

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