Thanks, Callypse, the review is much appreciated. And yes, I wrote the poem myself, but it took a couple of tries and help from my friend/editor (frienditor?) Riolutae.

To make things less confusing, I'd like to point out that when told from Dick's perspective, I use 3rd person limited POV, past tense. For Batman it's first person, present tense. You probably already noticed, and I'm sorry it's so confusing, but I thought I'd clear things up.

Dick had never seen such a big house before in his life. Wait, no, manor. That's what they kept calling it, and he had to start thinking of it like that. It made sense. No houses were that big—manors, on the other hand…

As he followed Bruce Wayne up the stairs, he could hardly keep track of all his thoughts. Twenty-four hours ago, he'd been eating dinner with his parents, and Raya, and Madame Vestri. Now his parents were dead, and he didn't know if he'd ever be seeing Raya again.

On top of that, he was going to live with billionaire Bruce Wayne, who had taken an interest in him because his own parents had died when he was eight. Not that Dick wasn't grateful… but he honestly didn't think that Bruce Wayne really gave squat about him.

The only thing holding Dick together was that one thought, that one driving passion—he was going to find the people who did this, and he was going to make them pay. Wayne could help him do that.

Even though he knew that Wayne was really, really rich, he was surprised when the door was opened by a man in a suit. Wayne introduced him as his butler, Alfred.

Dick said the only thing to pop into his head. "That's cool. I've never had a butler before."

"I'm sure you'll find it most helpful," said Alfred.

Wayne took him up the stairs and into a bedroom. Dick was, again, astounded. He'd lived in a trailer with his parents all his life. He could easily have parked the trailer into the space being given to him now, and still had room to fit a second.

He looked around at the room's furnishings. It was all wood, all polished, all probably antique. The rug was woven with some kind of vine motif. There were two glass doors at the end of the room that led onto a balcony. He couldn't even appreciate that his bed hangings were blue because he'd never seen so huge a bed before.

He was only vaguely listening as Wayne talked to him, but he did look up at the mention of finding him a school. Dick had never been to school. His parents had taught him everything he knew, and that was everything he'd needed to know.

But as Wayne wound down, Dick voiced the only thing that he could clearly think about. "So when are we going to start figuring out who killed my parents?"

After Wayne had explained things to him and left, he was really stunned. Wayne had contact with Batman? If he really went through on that, they'd be able to figure out who killed his parents in no time at all. But still, he thought, looking down at the crumpled piece of paper that Wayne had handed him… he might as well get a head start.

Taking it over to the desk by the window and flattening it out, he reread the poem.

The scene is set, the spotlights lit,

the actors running center stage

but since they wouldn't play their parts

they'll have to face the playwrights' rage.

The jesters choose a tragedy

to earn the encore from the town

but for the birds who defied our court

it's certainly a long way down.

So the first lines were talking about the plan to kill his parents. The scene was 'set', meaning that the plan was already in motion. His parents had to be the actors, their deaths being the tragedy and the playwrights' rage.

But what was this about not playing their parts? And what court did they belong to?

"Master Grayson?"

"Oh," he said, turning around to see Alfred. "Hi."

Alfred set down his tray on the bed. "I've brought some hot cocoa, sir, to take away the chill of the night and today's tragic events. I'd like you to know that I am deeply sorry for your loss. And you must understand that Master Bruce shares the sentiment. He simply seems to lack the warmest of personalities."

"Thanks, Alfred." Dick didn't know what else to say.

"You know," Alfred continued, handing him one of the mugs and pulling up a chair. "Master Bruce doesn't have the most experience involving social interactions in general, let alone the needs of a child. If there's anything you require, young sir, be sure to inform me."

"I will, Alfred. Do you have any kids?"

Alfred laughed. "I have raised Master Bruce since he was a young boy, and so you could say that he was my first child. Still… I do have my own son. His name is Jackson."

"But… you live here, don't you? Does he?"

"Ah, no, sir. The thing is…" Alfred looked uncomfortable. "He lived with his mother for the longest time. And she lived far from here. I met her in the service and she didn't wish to leave… but you don't want to hear my life story. She died five years ago, and I decided to have Jackson stay down in the city with some friends."

Dick was curious. Having never met many butlers before, he was surprised and happy to see that Alfred did not play the role of a servant, but that of an assistant. And he seemed to genuinely care. So it was easy for Dick to warm up to him quickly.

"Why? Didn't Wayne let him live up here?"

"He did offer me that option, but I made an executive decision. I didn't want Jackson to grow up on top of a hill, away from other children and the rest of civilization. He had lost too much for me to allow him to lose his childhood. James Gordon is a close family friend. He and his wife take care of Jackson. And to be honest, Jackson and I never interacted that much over the years. Even though I can visit him whenever I'd like, this isn't that much different." Alfred set down his cup. "I'll take you down there soon and introduce you."

"Don't feel rushed, Alfred. If you think that I need to make friends, I really don't."

"All children need friends, Master Grayson."

"What I need," Dick said, "is to catch the people who killed my parents. After that, I don't care." He stood up. "Thank you, Alfred. I should probably get to bed." His eyes drifted to the poem still lying on the desk, and he promised himself that he'd get back to it after Alfred left.

Alfred sighed, setting both mugs back on the tray and picking it up. "Rest well, sir."

"You don't have to call me that."

Alfred looked back at him. "I daresay that I don't have to do anything, Master Grayson. What I do is what I choose to do and nothing more. I shall address you in the way that I feel you should be. Therefore, Master Grayson, sleep well."

Dick was smiling as Alfred left. Then he went back over to his desk and got back to work on the poem.

I don't even bother to look up from my screen as I hear Alfred exiting the lift that goes back up to the manor. I'm concentrating on the data that I have set out in front of me, on what happened at the circus tent. I've sent a wave over to Gordon, asking him to leave the scene alone. As Batman, of course. He seemed surprised but agreed to make sure his men didn't clean up.

I don't want to go just yet. I know that I'm doing a delicate dance here, taking this investigation with Dick in the manor. If I'm not careful, he could start to suspect. But it's done. He's here. I'll find a way.

"Is he settled in, Alfred?"

"Quite, Master Bruce. Though my attempt at a conversation that started out very well did crash and burn eventually. He has only one thing on his mind, and that's catching the people whom he believes had his parents murdered. He reminds me of someone else, in fact."

"Mm." I look over the data that I have. Not enough. There's that poem that I gave back to Dick, but I can't remember the exact wording—I need to get another look at it.

I'm getting up when Alfred lays a hand on my shoulder. "Don't forget to try and bond with him, Master Bruce. Talk with him. Be there for him. Don't forget why you took him in."

I look at him. "Alfred, I took him in because he saw his parents killed right in front of his eyes, just like I did. He didn't have any place to go, so I gave him one. I want to help him get through this, Alfred, but I didn't take him in to become his father."

"Ah, but you're forgetting the final reason, sir. The one that you probably don't even realize exists."

"Alfred, what are you trying to say?"

Alfred sets down a sandwich next to my keyboard. "You can't pretend that you're not lonely, Master Bruce."

That was enough to stop even me for a moment. "I didn't adopt that boy because I thought I needed company Alfred—"

"Maybe you don't think you did. But you have a young boy in the house; a boy who just lost his father. Think about it, Master Bruce. Think about it." A few seconds later, I hear the lift whirring back up its chute.

I decide to think about it later. In a few minutes I'm kneeling on roof tiles, cloak and cowl donned. It's time to make good on Bruce Wayne's promise.

Using my grappling hook, I'm able to find Dick's window. I can see him sitting inside on his bed, flashlight in hand, closely scrutinizing a crumpled scrap of paper. He reaches down to mark something in the notebook open on his bed, and yawns.

By the time the yawn is over, I'm on his balcony, with the doors open. "Grayson."

He looks up, and scrambles off his bed. "Batman?"

"I got a message about what happened tonight. I think it warrants an investigation."

The boy gives a surprised whistle. "Wayne's fast, I'll give him that." Then he holds out the piece of paper to me, and his notebook. "This is all I've got. It's a poem that someone threw at my head a couple minutes before the wires snapped. It'd been folded into a paper airplane. I've been looking over it, and I have some ideas as to what it means, so I wrote them all down in here." He taps the notebook. "I don't know how much it'll help—"

"It will help." I take both items. "I'll do what I can."

"Wait," he says. I have the items and I'm poised to leave, but he's holding my arm. I can't tell if he's desperate or angry, or both. "I want to help. My parents were just murdered right in front of me. You can't expect me to sit here do nothing!"

I'm about to shrug his hand off and swing away. Or tell him that I work best alone. But then, again, I think about my parents. My fervor after their deaths, searching frantically to find something larger than mugging to be responsible for their shootings. I imagine a masked knight setting out to do the job for me, but expecting me to stand by and stew until he cracked the case.

Then I shake my head. I'm being too sentimental. I flip open the notebook and tear out the page that he's written on, before tossing back the rest. "Keep thinking. I'll tell you if I find something. But for your safety, don't go back to the circus." As he catches the notebook, he looks down at it.

That's my exit.

I'm out the window and halfway to the ground when I hear him shout behind me. "Bring these people to justice, Batman!"

I know he can't hear me, but as I drop into the waiting Batmobile seat, I mutter, "I will."

Dick watched the Batman rappel to the ground, where he had his famous Batmobile waiting. The circus stopped in Gotham enough that he knew all about Batman, and what he could do. He was in awe as he watched the car screech around the manor's corner. He could hear it roaring down the drive and into the city, and wondered where it was going.

As he walked over to his bed, he was so overcome with exhaustion from the day's events that he dropped onto it and fell asleep immediately.

(Batman/related characters are property of DC Comics)