Of course Dick's chapter(s) get away from me. If I actually continued until his "meeting" section was finished, this chapter would be about twice as long, and I decided it needed to be broken up. The others should be shorter, but I guess this is a lot of Bruce's firsts, too, so is taking a bit longer. Anyway, this one is more them adjusting to one another. Influenced by a few comics, the Batman: The Animated Series, and The Batman.

"But we keep a-comin'. We're the people that live. They can't wipe us out. They can't lick us. And we'll go on forever, Pa... 'cause... we're the people."
—Grapes of Wrath (film), 1940

April 5, 1940

There were few times Bruce Wayne felt like a product of his overprivileged environment. Often, he knew just how lucky he had been to have been born into money, to be raised into wealth and opportunity. People certainly told him enough. There was nothing the world couldn't give him and there was nothing of the world he couldn't afford.

Except, apparently, a speedy processing of his foster care paperwork.

"You'd think after every dime I have put into that place—" he muttered for what had to be the dozenth time in less than a day. Alfred had just nodded along, aware of his master's growing anxiety over the child he intended to care for. After Bruce had set his mind to it, which took all of five minutes, the trusty butler knew all too well that the new resident was inevitable.

And, in spite of the circumstances, he couldn't be more pleased.

A pang of guilt stung Alfred's chest at the mere thought of being glad in any way after the child had suffered so much pain and loss, but he could not help but have hope that the boy would provide much-needed solace for his own wayward charge.

"I am sure the boys' home is working as fast as it can, Master Bruce."

"If that were the case, this would have been settled three days ago," he returned.

Alfred breathed in, his lungs preparing for the familiar sigh that came with one of Bruce's tirades, when the doorbell rang. Like a child anticipating a Christmas present, Bruce's attention shifted to the door and he had to keep himself from running full-speed and answering it himself.

At nearly thirty, the man just had to show a bit of decorum. So Alfred consistently reminded him, anyway.

He showed enough to allow the butler to answer the door, revealing a frazzled-looking social worker and a rather shy, rather small boy.

"Mr…?" the social worker started.

"Pennyworth. You request Master Wayne, I presume?"

"Of course," she said.

Before she could process the stress of approaching the multimillion-dollar house, the multibillion-dollar playboy approached the door, giving a gracious nod toward Alfred.

"Thank you," he said before turning his attention to the social worker and, more acutely, her companion.

"Mr. Wayne, my name is Rita Bohmer. I have been working young Richard Grayson's case since his parents—"

"Since the incident," Bruce interrupted, watching as Dick cringed in anticipation of that horrible word: died.

"Yes, yes of course," she said hurriedly.

Bruce waved it off, though grit his teeth slightly at the undue pain the boy was already being put through. Adding to it with careless remarks was the last thing the child needed, he was sure. He would know.

Still, he managed to put on a pleasant expression and wave the pair inside. "Please, come on in. We can discuss this further in the parlor."

Dick took a step inside, holding his modest suitcase tightly. Everything, from the columns, to the chandeliers, to the hardwood floors, looked a thousand times as nice as anything he had ever laid eyes on. The circus trailer, while by no means a hovel, was no more than half the size of Wayne Manor's foyer. Perhaps that was why he hadn't been allowed to stay with the circus after his parent's had passed and Haley's Circus had to move towns. Dick shook off the thought, shoving it into the deepest corner of his mind and steeled himself against crying. He couldn't cry anymore.

"Dick?" he suddenly heard, the kind voice of his new foster parent carrying through the marble archway. "Everything okay?"

"Yes, sir," he muttered, shuffling past the ornate paintings that littered the hallway toward the parlor and ducking into the room.

Bruce gave him a supportive smile and offered him a seat in the largest, softest chair he could find. Before he even had to ask, Alfred set out milk and cookies for the boy, offering Miss Bohmer some tea.

"No thank you," she uttered before turning to Bruce. "I feel it necessary to remind you, Mr. Wayne, that this foster care situation is… out of the ordinary. Typically, the state prefers that there be a properly married couple to care for a child, as it is our belief that such a home will provide a stable environment in which to properly grow. However, due to certain circumstances…"

His money, Bruce wagered. That, or the boy's lack of family or any knowledge of his ancestry altogether. Either way, Bruce pushed aside these thoughts and forced himself to maintain a smile.

"I am truly grateful for the opportunity. Alfred and I are pleased to provide a stable home for Richard, and I welcome any questions regarding our intentions for his upbringing. Do you have any concerns?"

"Well, there are certain… issues with your marital status, or—"

"Lack thereof?" he asked, causing Miss Bohmer to blush. "More specifically, regarding my, uh… black book. I assure you, from this moment, Richard comes first."

And that, with some help from the sheer amount of money behind his name, seemed to be that. Though there were promises of unscheduled visits from the department and advice on how best to care for the boy, Bruce knew there was little anyone was going to do unless any real legal issues arose. Even then it was a gamble. Though his financial standing had not quite afforded him the quick processing he had desired, he knew after seeing the look on he social worker's face that it more than paid for his privacy.

If he didn't know then, he certainly did after she discreetly passed him her number.

He shuddered for a moment to think if he had been wealthy and ill-equipped to care for the boy. Squaring his jaw, he promised himself to provide for him in much the same way he had been cared for. Dick Grayson would want for nothing, would be healthy, and would be well-educated.

Most of all, his parents would be avenged.

In fact, once Dick was settled with a new room, a quick tour, and a timetable for mealtimes, that is exactly where Bruce's focus shifted. Dick Grayson would not turn out like he had. Not if he had anything to say about it.

Dick had liked Bruce. As much as one could like a stranger, anyway. Weeks later, a stranger is exactly what he stayed. Though Dick had no illusions about the man pretending to play father, he had to admit he had expected the billionaire to be a little more… present.

If he saw his new guardian at all, it was typically during dinner. Bruce left early in the morning for work, was gone until at least seven in the evening, and practically disappeared from existence after ten. Though Dick figured this had always been Bruce's schedule, he couldn't help but wonder if he was being avoided.

For a little while, Dick tried as hard as he could to be the model foster child. He was clean, quiet, obedient of mealtimes and what he felt would be his bedtime, and kept his crying silent and to himself. Still, six weeks after joining Wayne Manor, nothing had changed.

The longest he had ever heard his guardian speak was when he was eavesdropping. Bruce had arrived home from somewhere (likely a lady friend's home… he was eight, not stupid) and looked like he had been run over by a truck. If Dick hadn't known the circus had moved on, he would have believe Bruce went on a date with the Shelly the Strong Woman.

"I'm doing the best I can," he ground out.

Alfred let out an exasperated sigh from the kitchen as the kettle began to whistle. "For whom? Doing what, Master Bruce?"

"Getting answers. I'm not going to stop until I get them, and I'll be damned if you wouldn't be happy about this on some level. He's not going to turn out like me. You should at least appreciate that."

Dick would have stumbled back if he hadn't been firmly sitting on the staircase. Wouldn't turn out like him? Maybe that was why Bruce didn't like him. The master of the house was a rich, charismatic businessman, and Dick was nothing more than a circus freak. Maybe Bruce had finally come to that realization. Though, why Alfred would be happy about this was beyond him. Still, his guardian's words were plain as day. Maybe the answers he needed were how to get Dick back into the foster care system without ruining his reputation.

Alfred, on the other hand, seemed to have an entirely different reaction to Bruce's words. Though he could have been hallucinating in his bleary-eyed exhaustion, Dick was sure the butler had gone unnaturally red.

"Sir, if you tell me one more time how much I appreciate your neglect, I will take that car and run you over with it, so help me God."

Bruce balked, staring for a moment before clearing his throat, attempting to regain some sense of composure. "I didn't mean it like that. I just meant—"

"I know what you meant, Master Wayne. Do not repeat it."

Dick stared in awe of the butler handing his employer's ass to him. Then, once again the cloud of depression settled over him, though at least the edges were a little lighter. If anything, Alfred liked him.

"I just want to get this figured out. I'm close. I've identified the acid used to eat through the ropes, I've found the factory, and all I need to do is pin Zucco to the crime."

Okay, that time Dick really did stumble backward. Zucco? Acid? Ropes?

"And how much longer before you inform the young master about these discoveries?"

"When it's finished and he can go on to a normal life."

So, he really was after solving the crime, being a hero, and sending Dick on to a new life somewhere. The boy's head was swimming with the new information as he ran upstairs and into his room, careful not to close the door too loudly and give himself away.

Fine. Bruce didn't want him? He just wanted credit for helping the police with some poor, circus kid's loss before tossing him away? Fair enough. Dick would beat him to it.

Now, all of Dick's free time was spent finding everything he could on whoever this Zucco was and where to find him. If Bruce Wayne wasn't even going to pretend to care about him, he shouldn't take the credit for solving his parents' murder. His parents deserved better than that.

Of course, the task was easier said than done. Wherever Bruce kept his piling information, it wasn't anywhere Dick could find. It occurred to the boy that his guardian could keep it in his office at work, so he gave up on that errand and took on a new approach.

For days the young acrobat took up residence in the library, occasionally stealing into Bruce's study to borrow the phone book, a map of the city, or whatever other useful information he could find. Each time Alfred passed him in the hallway, Dick was careful to look like he was doing nothing more than playing pretend. Normal eight-year-olds pretended to be businessmen sometimes, right?

Though the butler didn't initially seem thrilled with him looking over the directory or map, Dick figured a few swings on the chandelier may help get him off of his back and grateful for other pastimes. It just happened that the chandelier had the added bonus of providing just an ounce of fun in an otherwise melancholic existence. For now, anyway.

Dick could feel himself getting close to finding whoever this Zucco was. What he'd do when he finally got to him, he didn't know, but for now his only mission was to locate him. The mission was the only thing that mattered.

Alfred had insisted. That was the only reason the two of them found themselves in the living room, the butler damn determined to have his two charges spend quality time together. Dick sighed and pretended not to know what Bruce thought of him. Bruce leaned back, glancing at the clock and pretending he wasn't just an hour or so away from capturing the thug who had caused his ward's loss. It seemed fitting for the two actors to spend their time together listening to other actors.

"On tonight's episode of 'The Adventures of Superman,'" blared the radio.

Immediately Bruce looked up. "Not that. Change it to anything but that," he told Dick.

His ward sighed and turned the knob on the radio, passing by stations almost faster than Bruce could process them. Finally, a familiar theme song rang throughout the room and Dick settled back down into his chair.

"The Green Hornet! He hunts the biggest of all game—public enemies that try to destroy our America. With his faithful valet, Kato, Britt Reid, daring young publisher, matches wits with racketeers and saboteurs. Risking his life that criminals and enemy spies will feel the weight of the law by the sting of the Green Hornet. Ride with Britt Reid in the thrilling adventure, 'The Corpse That Wasn't There.' The Green Hornet strikes again!"*

Bruce couldn't help but smile at Dick's choice, relaxing back into his chair and allowing the crime-fighting duo battle the seedy underbelly of their fair city. He looked up to see even Alfred hiding a small smile, surely seeing something in himself in the faithful and quietly dangerous Kato.

Not a few minutes into the show he noticed Dick getting antsy as he listened, his posture changing, shifting with each action scene. Bruce marveled a bit at the boy's reflexes, at how wide-eyed he got with each passing moment.

"Get 'em!" the boy shouted at one point, forgetting himself in the sea of radio waves. Finally, when the Green Hornet subdued his attackers, he outright flipped out of the chair.

"Yes!" he exclaimed, bouncing back up with a handspring. "Take that! Score for the good guys!"

His excitement elicited an burst of laughter from Bruce, and for a moment Dick turned and smiled back. Then, all at once, the pair remembered themselves. Dick knew Bruce was just playing nice, much like Britt Reid was playing a criminal to take down the crime bosses. Bruce the time was winding down until his all-too-close capture of Zucco. How could he possibly enjoy the campy radio show when he had the killer of his wards' parents still loose in the city?

Finally, not a moment after the show ended, Bruce sighed and stated, "Come on, Dick. That's enough for tonight. Time for bed."

"What?" the boy asked, wide-eyed. "It's only nine."

"Right, it's nine. Time for bed."

"I never go to bed at nine."

Bruce furrowed his eyebrows, mouth curving into a slight scowl. "Well, it's a new rule. Starting tonight."

"What the heck for?!"

Both Alfred's and Bruce's shot up at that. Dick had been quiet, considerate, and completely obedient since he had first arrived. The sudden outburst was a downright shock. When they shared a glance, both confirming they hadn't imagined it, Bruce's expression grew dark.

"Richard. Bed."

Dick knew he was on thin ice. He had been lucky. People certainly told him enough. In that moment, he felt anything but. What good was a house if there was no one around to really share it with? What good was money if there was no warmth? How could he be so lucky when he had been promised a caring guardian, when he had been so willing to allow a stranger into his grieving heart, and the man never had the courtesy to be around?

Didn't even have the courtesy to tell him about Zucco.

To hell with lucky.

"Bruce. No," he replied, crossing his arms.

"I'm not kidding," Bruce snapped.

"No one saw you laughing," Dick snapped back.

And then something else snapped. The noise was sharp, ringing throughout the living room like a firecracker. Then, Dick felt a terrible, stinging burn across the side of his thigh. His hand immediately flew to the injured area, his eyes too wide with shock to even mist at the pain.

Bruce glanced at his hand for a moment, as if verifying it had caused the strike. The pink hint of his palm confirmed as much, and it took all the will of Batman to push his mixed emotions back down into his stomach.

Instead, he adopted a stony look and said, "I'm not going to tell you again."

Dick grit his teeth, narrowing his blue eyes at his assaulter before. After a heavy silence, he ground out, "No. You're not."

Before Bruce had the chance to say another word, to dole out another strike, or to even take another breath, Dick shot out of the room. Taking the stairs two at a time, he bolted into his room with a surprising speed and slammed the door.

As the weight of the last few minutes fell on him, Bruce leaned back in his chair, heaving a deep sigh and rubbing a hand over his tired face. "That went well."

"It certainly could have gone better," said Alfred.

Bruce heard a twinge of judging in his butler's voice, turning to face him. "What would you have me do? He wasn't listening. He was rude. You heard him."

"Of course, sir."

Ah, Alfred's judging voice. It was so distinctive. So annoyingly British.

"If you have something to say…" Bruce muttered.

"Simply this: perhaps before doling out the more unpleasant tasks of parenthood, you must first be present for the happier ones."

"I've been present," Bruce protested.

"In the cave. In front of your documents, brooding as you so brilliantly do, all while neglecting your young ward. You have spent no more than two hours in his presence combined since he arrived, and now the longest span of that time has been marred with your harsh rebuke."

"You think I was hard on him."

"I cannot say for sure. I do not have enough experience of you with the boy to make an accurate assessment. I merely know that the one instant of quality time has ended in a child's hurt feelings and confusion."

Bruce prickled defensively. "He can't be confused. What did he expect after acting like that?"

"Of course, sir. Because you have taken the time to express the house rules to him."

"Well…"

"And institute a proper bedtime."

"I…"

"And informed him of rewards and consequence."

"…How does it feel to always be right?" Bruce finally managed, shaking his head exhaustedly.

"It's thrilling, sir."

So, I wanted to end on Alfred snark because something is about to happen (dun, dun, dunnnn... all these 1940s radio shows are bad for the brain) and I want Bruce to stew in his wrongness for a bit. Though, okay, Dick was being a bit of a di... brat.

*Transcript from an episode of "The Green Hornet" radio show. This particular episode is from April 18, 1943 (the year pains me a bit, but cut me some slack, guys!).