For the sixth year in a row, the Symphony smelled like his mother.

The first time he'd noticed it he had stopped cold, his eyes going wide as he inhaled the mélange he had thought he'd lost forever some nine months earlier. Bruce, assuming that he was overwhelmed by the size of the concert hall, which was truly impressive when viewed from the opera boxes, had bent down to say a few kind, quiet words to help him adjust. Although it had been his usual habit to tell the billionaire everything even then, Dick hadn't shared the true reason for his hesitation. Bruce would have understood, of course, but he had feared that the strange magic that had brought his mother back to him for a few short hours would be dispelled if he spoke about it.

Despite his age, he still carried that belief in the pit of his soul. It was absurd to think such a thing, his logical mind protested, but his heart always won out in the end. He knew that what he smelled each season was simply the combination of a hundred different perfumes wafting off of the fragranced ladies in the audience below, but somehow the mixture always equaled his mother. This year was no different than the previous ones had been in that respect, and as he sank into his seat beside Bruce he hoped fervently that that would never change.

They had arrived just in time – they were always just in time, because Alfred knew how much his elder charge hated having to schmooze at this particular event and therefore made a concerted effort to curtail the excess time in their schedule – and the hubbub under his feet was dying away along with the lights. Reminded that tonight was tied to the billionaire's mother more so than to his own, he glanced to his left. Bruce appeared to be riveted to the conductor's progress across the stage, but his wooden applause and the faint lines that had appeared at the corners of his eyes told Dick the truth. The man was in pain, and it was no wonder.

The Gotham Symphony Orchestra had been Martha Wayne's pet project even before her marriage. A proficient player of several instruments, she had received a dedicated music room at the Manor as a wedding gift from her husband. Over the decade of life that remained for her following her trip down the aisle she had made music her philanthropic focus. The exquisite interior of the concert hall in which her son and prodigal grandson sat had been financed largely by her; her name graced two scholarships at the Symphony's feeder school, the Gotham Academy of Fine Arts; and the program she had funded to introduce inner-city children to opera and classical music was the reason that there were several rows of at-risk young people in the audience tonight.

Most beloved of all of the Symphony's programs had been, for her, the Christmas concert. Bruce had explained once that it was the only event on the city's music calendar that he hadn't minded going to as a child, and that this was the reason he had continued to attend the program every year since Martha's death a quarter of a century earlier. He didn't particularly care about the songs themselves – he'd inherited the Wayne ear for music, which was to say none at all – but he knew they had given his mother great joy. She had wanted him to love the orchestra, but he had loved her and that was enough.

When Dick had first heard all of that several years before, he had been struck by the similarity in taste between Martha Wayne and Mary Grayson. His own mother had not, of course, been able to fund great renovations or established an educational legacy for future generations, but that was a difference of circumstance rather than of interest. Mary's flute had been one of the few things she'd carried away from her college dorm when she ran off to join the circus; she had cooked and cleaned her tiny trailer to old recordings of La Boheme and Carmen so often that Dick knew most of the words to this day; and she had once burst into tears upon receiving an early Christmas gift from her husband of much-scrimped-for tickets to one of the London Philharmonic's holiday programs.

He still remembered the evening they had gone out to the show. He had been five, and England had been the last country on the circus' European tour. John, having no interest in seeing the orchestra himself but appreciative of Mary's drive to give their child as rich an education as possible, had secretly saved for almost a year in order to afford two mid-level seats and the Underground fare across the city. Every moment of that performance – his mother's radiance in her dark, flattering dress, the excitement of seeing all of the instruments he had only ever heard be played before, the booms and clashes and sudden upticks in tempo that had poured adrenalin into his young veins – was recalled each year by his attendance at this one. Between that and the sweet smell in the air, he could almost believe that she was sitting right next to him now.

He glanced at Bruce again. Would Martha have leaned forward in her seat as Mary had done, he wondered? It had seemed as if she couldn't possibly be near enough to the action on the stage, and was stretching to close at least some small fraction of the gap. He supposed that Martha might not have felt that same need, since she could have hobnobbed with the musicians as she pleased before or after the show. Still, it was nice to imagine them inhabiting this high viewpoint together, two aficionadas offering one another the same sort of familiar companionship that their sons shared. It wouldn't have mattered that they were from two different worlds, Dick thought determinedly; they would have been united by music, and anything could spring from a mutual passion like that.

The intermission had come while he was busy contemplating his mother and Bruce's, and now it was time to put on his game face. The billionaire had already dressed his expression for the crowds that would be waiting in the atrium, wiping the hurt from his eyes and plastering on a pleasant smile that only those closest to him would know was an utter fake. Dick leaned against him for a second, relaying comfort, and a brief spark came into the man's gaze. "…You ready, chum?"

"Are you?"

"Mm…as ready I ever am for this, I suppose."

"So not at all?"

Bruce looked down at him, then reached out to briefly squeeze his fingers. "Keep that to yourself, kiddo," he whispered. "…Let's go."

Dick imagined that the social interaction that was required by such a public event as this one wouldn't have been nearly so distasteful to his guardian had Martha not been so intimately involved with the Symphony. For all that two and a half decades had passed since her untimely demise, there were still a number of members of the orchestra and its governing board who remembered her vividly. He had never been able to discern why so many of them seemed to think it was necessary to remind Bruce of their acquaintance with his family every time they saw him at the holiday concert, but remind him they did. He knew they were well-meaning for the most part, but the insensitivity of their conversation still made him mad on his mentor's behalf. Wasn't it enough emotional hardship that the man came each season and sat in the box dedicated to his dead mother? Did her old friends really have to circle him like vultures, too?

Bruce had had a great deal of practice at juggling the repetitive comments that accompanied this evening, however, and Dick was still busy marveling at the skill with which he hid his true feelings when the intermission ended. Dropping back into his seat for the second half of the show, he was suddenly exhausted. Only his nose, which tingled as a freshly applied wave of perfume rose once more to form the lingering wake of Mary Grayson, felt truly awake. He wished that the smell could manifest into a figure, something that could come home with them and tuck him in for the night. He wanted her to kneel beside his bed as she had done on so many old December nights, to kneel and sing him to sleep with the Christmas carols that the orchestra below was swinging in and out of with such ease.

He drifted in and out of a light doze, never falling far enough into slumber for anyone peering up at them to be able to tell what was going on. Many people closed their eyes in order to better hear the nuances of grand pieces of music, and he had no qualms about using that as his excuse if anyone brought the subject up later. Besides, he was listening, albeit distantly. Violins and oboes filled his hazy dreams, in which he escorted his silk-and-diamond clad mother up the steps into this very box. She was ecstatic, and the glow of her high mood elevated her beauty to a height above that of all the ladies of Gotham combined. The entire audience craned their necks to see her, and other rich spectators leaned dangerously over the edges of their balconies or peered through their opera glasses to catch a glimpse of the angel in Bruce Wayne's seat. Mary blushed, waved for a moment like the natural show-woman she was, and then turned to him with an ethereal smile. Her gloved hand reached out, and for an instant he felt his mother's touch again.

"…Ready to go, chum?" Bruce's voice interrupted. The fingers on Dick's arm thickened, and Mary's satin caress bled away into a heavier, manlier one. The music was over for another year, and once again it was too soon, too sudden, too unexpected…

"Sure," he whispered, his voice coming out hoarse.

"…Are you okay?"

There was a note of concern in the billionaire's tone, and Dick forced himself to grin in order to dispel it. "Yeah," he managed more normally. "Just…a really good concert, that's all. Better…better than last year's, I think."

"Do you? Good." Bruce examined him for the space of a blink. The slight tilt of his head suggested that the man knew that something of note had just occurred, but he didn't ask and Dick didn't volunteer any information. He couldn't; she had been so close, so real, and if he spoke of it now and it never happened again there would be no forgiving himself. "…Let's go, then. Alfred will be waiting."

"Okay. I'm ready."

He wasn't, but they headed for the door anyway. Just before he stepped out into the pine-scented corridor, Dick turned his head as if to look back. A final whiff of perfume filled his sinuses, and he held his breath as long as he could, savoring it. Bye, mom, he thought as he slowly let the air back out. …I'll see you here next year.

Author's Note: Did this story make me cry a little while I was writing it? Yes, yes it did. But tomorrow we'll have a fun little romp with a young Dick, so stay tuned!