A/N: This story starts slower than my other ones so sorry if it gets boring. I have to set the scene and develop relationships. There will be more action soon, I promise!

Dick/Robin's "usual" birthday is not in the summer so I'm using Burt Ward's birthday (July 6) because it fits the timeline. :)

Chapter 2:

All of the other teenagers had disappeared by the time Dick crested the short incline. A quick feeling of relief washed over him. The complete absence of people gave him the chance to memorize the layout of the camp without anybody staring at him like he was stupid.

There was a brick building directly in front of him, closest to the hill that he had just ascended, with a big sign that said "Welcome to Vista Peak". Peering through the open doors, Dick saw the office of the camp director and decided that this building was the main one.

There was another short hill on his right side and, upon turning that way, he discovered that it led down to the log cabins. He studied their arrangement: one large one surrounded by seven smaller ones. Each of the smaller ones had a gold number on the door but they were too far away for Dick to see. There was a cluster of something on either side of the bigger cabin and he squinted. They didn't look familiar but then he saw the attachment raised above each one – shower stalls. He shook his head in dismay. At least they have doors instead of just curtains.

Deciding to investigate the cabins first, he turned south and began walking down the hill. His stomach reprimanded him for wandering toward the cabins instead of finding the cafeteria, however, so he changed his course and walked up another hill that led behind the main building.

There was a long, rectangular structure in the distance and Dick assumed it to be the cafeteria. Strolling in that direction, he passed a volleyball court, a flagpole displaying the camp flag, a second flagpole with the American flag and a basketball court. About twenty yards east of those was a huge oval that he hoped was a track – running was one of his favorite activities.

The thirteen-year-old rookie camper sighed softly as he continued toward the rectangular building, pulling his hands out of his pockets so he wouldn't look like a scared little kid when he entered. He noticed a big circle of black rocks surrounded by flattened logs and wondered how often they were going to have a campfire. A small smile of anticipation sauntered through his blue eyes when he thought of burned marshmallows and melting squares of chocolate in graham cracker sandwiches.

Dick stopped just outside the open door of the cafeteria and tried to gather his courage. What he really wanted to do was turn around, board the bus and go back to Wayne Manor. Get a grip; you're Robin and you're scared of walking into a room filled with kids your age?! Why was it that Robin could take on Gotham City's worst criminals but Dick Grayson couldn't take on his peers? That was a stupid question because the answer was obvious: they weren't really his peers. They were all from affluent families and he was just a kid from the circus whose rich guardian had, for some unfathomable reason, decided that this experience would be good for his young ward.

Taking a deep breath, Dick allowed the aroma of juicy grilled hamburgers to permeate his previously abused sense of smell. He lifted his chin and strode confidently into the warm cafeteria. Feeling confident and looking confident were two different things and, in all actuality, Dick was neither. But nobody was paying attention to him anyway; most of the other teens were already sitting down and chatting or eating.

There were six long, rectangular tables – each one covered with brightly colored cloth and accompanied by an equally long but surprisingly drab-looking brown bench on either side. The swirls of colors reminded Dick of the big tent where all the members of his circus family would gather to eat after a performance. His breathing hitched slightly and a small lump arose in his throat but he quickly shoved the feelings away. He was here to "have fun" and "make friends", according to Bruce, and crying was not the best way to go about doing either of those two things. There was one particular tablecloth that caught Dick's eye: a solid red one with splashes of yellow darting around winding streams of light blue. A slight grin crept onto his face as he thought of his bright Robin-suit and Bruce's less colorful Bat-suit.

"What would you like, young man?" Dick was startled out of his thoughts when he heard the slightly nasal tone of the head chef and turned over his right shoulder. The vaguely familiar dark-blue eyes of John were looking at him expectantly and Dick was not prepared for the sight before him. The man was standing by a large silver rolling cart filled with trays of food: a pile of hamburgers with a slice of thick bacon wrapped around the middle of each one, bowls of creamy white soup with wedges of tender meat floating lazily on top, puffy baked potatoes draped in orange cheese, wild brown rice with slivers of a variety of colorful vegetables, velvety cheesecake with both strawberries and raspberries on the side and chocolate cake smothered in chocolate syrup then layered with chocolate chips and whipped cream.

Dick's eyes widened at the extensive display of food and he wanted to try a little bit of everything. A quick glance around the room, though, suggested to him that it would be inappropriate to take more than one main dish, one side dish and one dessert. John handed him a sturdy brown tray with silverware and a napkin folded in the shape of a delicate flower. Dick's eyes roved around the cart as he tried to make a decision. He finally chose a hamburger, the rice and a good-sized square of chocolate heaven. Three small white plates were placed on his tray and now he had to choose a drink. Water, the best thing for his active lifestyle, was unexpectedly not on the smaller beverage cart. The majority of the tall, dark-green glasses were full of choices: frosty cups of lemonade with ice clinking merrily inside, several different types of bubbly soda and the recognizably frothy surface of rich, white milk. The first would go well with the hamburger and the last would go really well with the cake. Another swift scan of the room, however, showed only one glass in front of each teenager and pitchers of water on every table. Shaking his head in slight disappointment, Dick grabbed an empty glass and placed it on his tray. He noticed the chef give him a slightly quizzical look but dismissed it from his mind as he turned around to find somewhere to sit.

Table number one, on the far side of the room, was empty but Dick didn't want to sit by himself and be more ostracized than he already was. The two tall boys from the bus were staring at him from table number three and Dick was somewhat shocked when they both smiled and motioned him over. He was confused and suspicious – they were going to be nice now? After everything they had said on the bus and all the laughing, they were actually inviting him to sit with them? Robin narrowed his eyes and tried to figure them out while Dick made his way past tables six, five and four. Quickly arriving at his intended target, he carefully set his loaded tray on top of the table and sat down across from the boys.

"Name's Walter and this is Bronte," the dark-haired one said loudly through a mouthful of cheesecake. "And you're Dick Grayson, right? Bruce Wayne's ward?"

"Nice to meet you and yes, I'm Dick Grayson," he replied with a small smile while Robin glared at the mop of curly black hair on Walter's head. Dick reached for the pitcher of water and filled his empty cup to the brim.

Bronte grinned, showing off his perfect white teeth, and attempted to look sheepish. "So, uh, we've realized that you were sitting behind us on the bus and we just wanted to apologize for what we said." There was a short pause. "And for laughing at you. It's just that we've never seen anyone go back for their bags and it was…interesting." Bronte was searching for a nicer word than the one that was in his head and that was the best he could come up with quickly.

Robin's glare was now focused on the blonde crew cut and he growled as he recognized the meaning of the distinctive pause at the end of the sentence. Dick, however, attempted to widen his grin and shrugged as if nothing had bothered him. He picked up his fork and took a bite of the rice dish. It was good, but not as good as he had expected. Maybe the head chef wasn't as accomplished as he had suggested when he had introduced himself. Dick was just starting to take another bite when a question was tossed at him. Reluctantly lowering his fork, it was past lunchtime, he turned his attention back to the taller of the two boys.

"What's it like living with Bruce Wayne?" Walter asked, his jaws now full of hamburger. Dick briefly wondered if the boy knew how to talk without spouting food across the table with every other word. Quickly pushing that thought away, he focused on answering the question instead of watching Walter shovel rice into his mouth.

"It's great!" Dick loved Wayne Manor and Alfred and, of course, fighting crime with Batman so that question immediately brought him out of his shell. "He's really nice and Alfred, that's his butler, is friendly and an amazing cook!"

"You're friends with his butler?" Bronte asked, surprised at the thought of conversing with a member of the staff.

"Well, yes, he helps me a lot and…" Dick was quickly interrupted.

"Grayson, you can't be friends with the staff!" Walter stated, shaking his head in disbelief. "How long have you been living with Wayne and how old are you? We're both fourteen," he continued, pride evident in his tone.

"I came to live with him about two years ago and I'm thirteen," Dick noticed a glance pass between the boys. "But I'll be fourteen in a month and a half," he quickly added.

"Close enough," Walter shrugged. "What's your backstory? How did you end up with the richest man in Gotham City?"

Dick's face paled, his body slumped and his eyes dropped to the cloth-covered table. The question had blindsided him and a small shudder of grief at the reminder of that horrible memory ran down his body. He felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes but he wasn't going to cry in front of the only two people who were being friendly.

"What's wrong? You don't want to talk to us anymore? Come on, Grayson, we're the only ones who are actually being nice to you so…what's your backstory?" Bronte's tone was a little demanding. Dick didn't like the sound of it but he also knew that what the teenager had said was true.

"Well," his quiet voice was shaking slightly and he kept his eyes on the table, "we, I mean my family and I, were trapeze artists in a circus…" he was interrupted again.

"Trapeze? The one where you fly in the air and catch each other? That's so cool!" Bronte practically shouted and Dick looked up in surprise, the unexpected compliment causing his body to automatically straighten up with pride. "Keep going," the tall blonde urged.

"One night, during a performance, a…" Dick paused and swallowed hard, "a man with a gun somehow got into the tent while we were flying." His pause was longer this time and the two boys glanced at each other and rolled their eyes when Dick dropped his head again.

"Then what happened?" Walter's voice held a tinge of frustration and Bronte elbowed him quietly under the table. He mouthed the word "careful" and Walter rolled his eyes again.

"Um, he shot…" Dick couldn't continue because he knew the tears would fall if he did.

"He shot a bunch of people but you got away?" Walter finished, tilting his head to the right in order to look at the kid skeptically.

But Dick just sat there, not even trying to explain, and both boys sighed in annoyance.

"Come on, finish the story already!" Bronte was more than a little demanding this time.

Dick took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Speaking as quickly as he could, with his words almost blending together, he continued, "He shot the trapeze wires while my parents were flying and they fell and they died and I couldn't do anything except stand there and watch it happen!" Dick didn't realize how loud he had said it and the entire cafeteria fell silent as everyone turned to look at him. The lack of noise worried him so he opened his eyes and lifted his head, his worry turning into embarrassment when he saw nineteen pairs of teenage eyes staring at him.

Every single young camper in the room was shocked. They hadn't known the details; to them he was just a kid from the circus. Bronte looked at the boy with newfound respect and decided that what he and Walter had just been planning was no longer what he was going to do.

"I'm, uh, sorry, Dick," Bronte whispered, his eyes wide with distress. "That…I can't even…I mean, my parents…" he trailed off, horrified at the thought of losing both of his parents in such a violent manner.

Walter – who no longer cared and was sticking to the plan that had originally been Bronte's idea – nodded indifferently. "Yeah, Grayson, I didn't know. That's rough."

All of the other teens had abandoned their lunches and were gathering around table number three, phrases of sadness and sympathy coming from all around Dick. He dropped his head again, refusing to let the tears fall onto the table, and folded his arms across his chest. It was hard to keep the tears at bay, though, and he quickly ran his right hand down his face in order to wipe some moisture from the inside corners of his pain-filled eyes. There was suddenly a hand on his left shoulder and he uncharacteristically flinched.

"It's okay to cry," a soft, female voice said and there were murmurs of agreement.

Dick decided to be strong, however, and lifted his head while shoving the tears to the back of his mind. It didn't work, though, when he looked across the table and saw Bronte. The older boy was still staring at Dick with wide eyes and now had small tear tracks on both cheeks. That did it. Dick couldn't hold his back anymore so he put his elbows on the table and dropped his head into his hands. Someone sat down next to him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into an awkward half-hug. Kids all around him were sniffling and passing napkins to each other as everyone, without meaning to, visualized their own parents lying on the ground…dead. Nobody, with the exception of Walter, cared that Dick was a "circus brat" anymore. The only thing that their young teenage minds could comprehend was the fact that this thirteen-year-old boy, one of their peers, had watched his parents die a horrible death and had to deal with the memory of it every day.

"Dick," Bronte whispered in a slightly shaky voice, "I'm sorry I pushed you to tell us."

Dick shook his head and mumbled through his hands, "There was no way you could have known so there's no need to apologize."


False Face was watching through the oval window of the kitchen door. Wayne's kid had suddenly been accepted into the group and False Face didn't know why. He frowned; he wasn't used to not knowing what was going on during his own crime. This would need to be investigated immediately. There was no time now, however, because he was being called over by one of the other counselors – they had to clean up the mess that was the kitchen. He sighed in annoyance but, not wanting to cause suspicion, left the window and began to clean.


A/N: I know, super sappy ending to the chapter. I didn't like making Dick so vulnerable but I wanted the kids to know his backstory and react to it. Not my normal strong Dick/Robin but he is only thirteen and way out of his comfort zone.