Dick Grayson remembered landing feet first on the sand. His descent from the trapeze platform had nearly been a free fall, his hands barely holding the ladder. He had made a desperate dash toward his parents and he remembered thinking 'They need me!' His progress had been cut short by a burly pair of arms holding him back. He remembered believing he would die if he didn't escape. He remembered screaming and the feeling of a mustache bristling against his ear. He remembered that kind voice of a friend begging him not to look.

He would look now. He had to.

. . .

Dick sat perched on a metal table swinging his legs back and forth beneath it. The table made a fun squeaky noise as he did so. Some fifty feet away his schoolwork lay abandoned on the two seats of the open Batmobile. He had spent the previous hour and a half there hunched over his assignments, humming quietly to himself. Now, with those completed, he idly watched Bruce Wayne work and provided the Batcave with an unbroken rhythm of metallic squeaking.

The shrill sound was rapidly making headway into Bruce's concentration. Squeak by squeak he was becoming aware of the inadvertent siege that Dick had set against the walls of his focus.

Along with the onset of training in a variety of skills, Bruce had been allowing Dick to be in the Batcave with him while he worked. It could be a bit distracting and sometimes even a little annoying but Alfred's insistence that the boy needed a friend was never far from his thoughts. He knew what that was like just as he had at the circus not too long ago. He hadn't watched after the trapeze rope snapped. Instead his eyes had sought the platform where a boy watched helplessly and screamed. Even across the din and collective gasp of horror, Bruce had heard that scream like it was coming from inside of him.

"Bruce," Dick's voice piped up, finally breaching the fortress. The typing stopped and eyes unpeeled from the screens. Bruce's frown of concentration melted back into a mild expression and he looked over.

"What does hemorrhage mean?" Dick asked, legs still swinging.

Bruce considered him for a moment and the boy hesitated, almost as if resisting the urge to look away. "Bleeding." He answered. "More or less."

Dick nodded thoughtfully.

"Why do you ask?"

In response, Bruce received a look akin to a deer in headlights. He almost chuckled but something felt wrong. "Dick?"

His legged stopped swinging, cutting off the squeaky beat. The voices of bats high above took its place. "I-… I read it." He looked down.

Alfred's words in the back of his mind propelled Bruce out of his chair. He walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "You know you can tell me what's bothering you." He even offered a small smile. "If you want to."

Slowly, a guilt ridden expression lifted to face him. "I picked the lock on your desk upstairs. It was in the medical report on my parents." A few stray tears leaked out and rolled down his cheeks.

Bruce felt a stab. For starters he should have returned the file to Gordon's office weeks ago. But Zucco's escape made the case open ended and so he'd kept it. Thinking of his young friend, he'd been careful to lock it up in a desk drawer. But he hadn't thought to forbid it, hadn't even mentioned its existence. He should've realized a grieving, fierce little person might find his way to it eventually. On top of that, the precipitating event had clearly been the fact that Bruce had recently taught the boy to pick locks. Very recently.

He sighed a bit too deeply.

"I'm sorry!" Dick looked down at his feet again. "I only saw part of it. I put it back."

"It's ok." Bruce assured him. "You're not in trouble, Dick."

The boy looked back up at him. "But I broke into your stuff!"

Bruce shook his head, dismissing the protest. "If you needed to see it, I understand. Believe me." A memory came to mind of an obsessed young Bruce cornering Alfred with a barrage of highly pointed questions regarding bullet calibers and ballistics. That had been a boy who, like the one in front of him now, needed to know.

Bruce walked back to the computer and slumped down into his chair. Dick remained on the little table, palms planted at his sides. He watched Bruce with a look of subdued curiosity.

"I think maybe," Bruce began, a sort of resignation in his voice. "I was trying to protect you by locking up the file, but…" his words trailed off and he didn't pursue them. Dick nodded but didn't say anything. The vast emptiness of the cave rushed in to fill the silence between them.

Bruce finally stood up, a thought occurring to him. "Would you like me to go over the file with you?"

Dick's eyes widened. "You'd do that?"

Bruce nodded solemnly.

The ten year old hopped off the table. "Right now?"

Bruce answered that by walking toward to the elevator. His companion followed him like a flash of lightning. When the doors closed he looked down at the young man leaning against the paneling. "It won't be easy." He said. "And it's ok if we need to close it up."

Dick set his jaw. "I won't need to." He said, his young voice tight with determination. Bruce said nothing in reply. If the boy had already opened the file then he had already seen the pictures too. And it could not get worse than what he'd witnessed under the big top.

A few minutes later Bruce sat down at his desk in the study. Dick hoisted himself up on top of it, heels thumping softly against the wood. He watched as the drawer was unlocked. Without ceremony, Bruce placed the file on the desk and opened it. The pictures were first. Dick reacted like a statue to the broken bodies of both his parents.

"Are you alright?" Bruce checked.

Dick gave a sharp, quick nod, his lips pursed into a short line. Bruce knew the child blamed himself. He also knew that if he had had access to his parent's police report as a boy, he would have looked too. In that moment a small part of him almost felt jealous. He turned the page, feeling certain that Dick would have stared at those images, punishing himself with them for as long as was allowed.

Bruce began to read aloud from the file. He went over a part about the rope, fibers that were clearly cut and the ones that tore. He read through quotes from witnesses and officers at the scene. Dick didn't say a word or ask any questions. He just kept his eyes intently on the papers and listened. When Tony Zucco's face in black and white glared up them, Bruce thought Dick might say something. He didn't, but the set of his jaw did tighten a little. When Bruce got to the medical details Dick seemed to lose his anger, like it made him too sad to want to fight. As Bruce listed out the bones broken in the fall, Dick bowed his head. In a quiet voice just above a whisper he asked Bruce what vertebrae were. Bruce told him. Then he asked him to show him where they were. Bruce reached up and, one by one, touched his index finger to three different places along the back of Dick's neck and uppermost spine. He held off reading again, giving Dick the space to take in that information.

When Bruce resumed he reached the words that started this whole thing. 'Subarachnoid hemorrhage' were spoken carefully, slowly. Dick finally looked up from the file and met his eyes. Wordlessly he begged him for the translation Bruce did not want to give. He didn't look away from the child when told him "Their brains bled from how hard they hit the ground." It wasn't technical, but it's all he needed to understand.

Dick looked at him, brow furrowing in a fight against his emotions. Then he covered his face and began to cry. All Bruce could do was place a hand on his knee and listen to his pain. With his other hand he reverently closed the file and returned it to the drawer. Dick wept like the kid he was, hiccuping sobs and wailing cries. Over and over again he dragged the sleeve of his sweater across his face in a vain effort to dry it. All the while Bruce sat with him, not moving. He just kept that grounding hand on his knee. Alfred appeared silently in the doorway and Bruce met his eyes. He assured him with a nod that everything was alright. The butler took a beat to confirm that for himself then returned the nod with a pained look and disappeared back into the hall.

Eventually the sobbing faded and after all the tears and sniffling had given way to steady breaths, Dick pulled his legs up onto the desk. He tucked them under himself cross legged and took a deep breath. Bruce, now sitting back slightly, both his hands resting on his legs, just watched him. The boy fixed his gaze on the window, beyond which dusk had only just fallen. He took a few more deep breaths and let each one out long and slow. For a while they sat in silence, Bruce getting lost in thought while Dick just stared out and breathed. Eventually Bruce felt a light tug on his sleeve and his attention snapped back.

"Bruce," Dick said, still looking out the window. "I won't ever look at that again."

Bruce nodded, recognizing that resolute tone already so familiar to him. "I'll make sure it gets back to Gordon's file cabinet."

Dick's eyes met his. "Thanks."

"Of course." Bruce said and meant it.

There was a short pause and then, all of the sudden, a little gleam came to Dick's still reddened eye. He straightened up slightly. "Are you gonna sneak it back in?" He asked, his excitement like a butterfly emerging from a dull chrysalis.

"Um, yes." Bruce said, eyeing him.

"As Batman?"

"Yes."

"Can I come?"

A wide grin spread across Bruce's face. He couldn't help it. "No." He said with a laugh.

Dick frowned slightly but was not deterred. "Soon?" He asked, his smile returning in full force.

"We'll see."