Robin: Beginnings - Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

Nightmares, Frightmares, Nothing Scares Me

I do find ways to amuse myself until dinner. At the Home, I couldn’t really do anything except hide from the older boys and hang around the younger boys. At the circus, much of my time was spent working, practicing, and spending time with my family. I don’t want to be alone, but I realize I haven’t ever really been alone before. It’s strange. 

So until dinner, I run through the halls, launching into handsprings and seeing how many I can do in a row. I slide down the banisters, shoot hoops in my room, and rummage through the clothes. I change into jeans, a plain white T-shirt, and a baggy blue sweatshirt that makes my eyes look even brighter and bluer. Raya would be proud, but I raise my eyebrows in the mirror. Either it’s a coincidence, or Mr. Wayne— er, Bruce, really was paying attention when we first met. 

I run into Alfred a couple of times, once in the portrait hall dusting, polishing the vases on the fireplace mantel, and once in the kitchen preparing dinner. He seems to be everywhere at once. Maybe he has a secret Butler’s maze that winds through the Manor? Either way, the look he gives me as I slide on my socks through the portrait hall, skating along the shiny hardwood, is a look I’ll never forget. It’s fondness, plain and simple. A look Dad would give me when I did something funny. Or like Mom’d give when I did something cute. 

I know he’s worked for Mr. Wayne for a long time, but how long’s it been since a kid’s been here, messing up all his hard work? How long’s it been since a kid’s laughter has echoed in these halls?

And I do laugh. I laugh because I’m away from the Home. I laugh because I need to. If I don’t laugh, if I don’t smile, it hurts all over again. So I laugh as I collapse onto one of the hundreds of couches, bouncing up and down on the plush cushions, looking up at a large painted portrait of a family of three. There’re a lot of paintings in this Manor, from the old Waynes glaring down at me from portrait hall or strangers that could be friends, other families, or just random people. 

But this one’s special. The man looks like Bruce but older, his temples sporting gray hair like Dad’s did. The woman’s beaming and beautiful, a string of pearls around her neck, delicate hands resting on the shoulders of a boy, not much younger than I am. His hair is dark, his features practically perfect. Steely eyes look out at me from under black eyebrows. But those eyes are sparkling, filled to the brim with joy.

This can’t be Bruce… But it has to be. Underneath the portrait, a small placard reads ‘Thomas, Martha, and Bruce Wayne’ I turn onto my stomach, staring up at the picture. Raya never said anything about Bruce’s family. Why aren’t they here? Did they just leave Bruce the Manor? Did they retire to a private island? Or are they—

“Thomas and Martha.” Alfred’s next to me, holding a feather duster, an apron covering his three-piece. Honestly, how does he get around this place so fast? I glance at him, but he still gazes at the picture. His voice is clipped as usual, but his eyes have such a melancholy look that I know. He knew the Waynes and knew them well. What happened to them? Where are they now? “Bless their souls.”

Alfred shakes his head but doesn’t say anything else. So, they're dead, then?

I sit up, hugging my knees. I’m sure Bruce won’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who talks about anything more than parties and shallow stuff like that, at least in front of people. I’m sure he cares a little enough to take me in. 

But… was it because he thought I needed a home? Some place safe to live? Or just because he could? 

Alfred straightens and clears his throat. “Yes, well. It is time for dinner, Master Dick. Chop, chop.”

The Wayne Manor Banquet Hall fits not one, not two, but three full-sized crystal chandeliers. The hand-crafted table could seat my entire trope, which makes sense because Wayne Manor hosts many parties and charity benefits, at least that’s what Alfred tells me. I can imagine it teaming with people, eating, laughing, dressed in fancy suits and dresses, and clinking their glasses together. 

But when I walk in now and sit down at the end of the table where Alfred has set a china plate and real silverware, like forks, spoons, and knives made of actual silver, the hall stands empty, my chair’s squeaks echoing again and again. There’s a place set and ready next to mine, but no one sits in the chair. 

I look from the seat back to Alfred. “Is… is he coming?” I don’t know what to think. Part of me tries to reason that a billionaire like Bruce Wayne has a multi-billion company to run. The other part of me insists that he’s not here… because he doesn’t care. He just took me in so I could have a place to stay. But maybe he’s like the elderly professor in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, a nice man who gets wrapped up in his work and would want to spend time with me if he could only get away from his office. 

Alfred sighs, pulling a small phone from his suit pocket, dialing, and putting the phone to his ear, even as he ladles a generous serving of soup into the bowl sitting on my plate. “Master Bruce?” Alfred sounds like he’s talking to a child, not a grown man who’s actually his boss. His tone’s sharp, stern. “Yes, dinner is ready. Yes… I understand— no, no. It’s just—” Alfred gives me a knowing look. My heart buzzes with warmth. At least Alfred cares, “Master Dick is asking for you.”

It feels weird having someone pass on my wishes to another person as if I can command a situation, as if my words actually have power. I can just see it now, Raya standing, waiting in the huge front room, gazing nervously at the swooping stairways and vaulted ceilings. Then, Alfred would come to the top of the stairs and motion towards the hall leading to my bedroom. “Master Dick is asking for you.” He’d say.

I smile into my creamy soup, which I find out is the first part of a three-course meal. Alfred still speaks on the phone as he grates fresh cheese into the soup, stopping when I hold up a hand. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it, no matter how cool it might be. “No, no, Master Bruce. I know your work is important.” Alfred makes no effort to hide the barb in his words. “But, if I may be so bold, this is his first night.”

I finish the soup, savoring every creamy, spicy bite. After the slop the GCHB served, this is pure paradise. Next up on the menu’s a plate full of salad. I don’t usually like veggies, but right now, I’ll eat anything and everything that’s put in front of me, as long as it’s not brown and mushy. 

Alfred’s off the phone, handing me the ‘salad fork,’ which honestly looks like every other fork lined next to my plate. Okay, what person came up with all of these things? Why can’t eating just be kept to a fork, spoon, knife, and fingers?

“He is on his way.” Alfred raises an eyebrow as I pick up a tomato and pop it into my mouth, crunching down. “He will be with us shortly.”

I chew hard. I don’t know why, but for some reason, I wanted Bruce to come because he wanted to, not because Alfred forced him. Speaking of which, what’s Alfred to Bruce anyway? I thought he was a butler, not some kind of father figure. Which begs the question: Where are Bruce’s parents? Are they dead? But if his parents raised him, then why—?

Bruce slips into the banquet hall, his T-shirt covered in what looks like grease, his eyes drooping. What’s he been doing all day? Working in his hundred-car garage? My stomach twists into knots. Maybe he doesn’t care about me.

Bruce sits beside me, giving me a small smile before Alfred serves his soup. There’s silence in the banquet hall save for the clinking of china and chewing. I try not to stare, but I do. 

Finally, the worst thing happens. “So… Dick, what do you think about the Manor?” Bruce’s looking right at me, his eyes still sagging but sharper than ever. Is he really expecting me to answer that? How can I answer that? What should I say? ‘Well, gosh, Mr. Wayne, the Manor’s really nice, and I have all this stuff, but where were you all day? You know I’m a lonely orphan and could really use a hug right about now?’

I can’t say that, so I go for something else. “Yeah!” I grin as I stuff some romaine leaves into my mouth, crunching down on the crispy lettuce. “I never thought a house could be this big! Gosh, my whole circus could fit in just this room!” I swallow before gazing around the echoing space again, then turn back to Bruce. “What do you do with all this space?”

“Let it sit, mostly.” Bruce’s smile is genuine again like he’s really trying. “I host parties, but most of the time, it’s just Alfred and me.”

“And… the women?” I don’t know why I ask. In fact, my cheeks burn so much I could fry the strange dish Alfred sets in front of me. All that stuff is just gossip that Raya twitters on about. 

Bruce chokes on his salad, slamming a hand against his sternum as Alfred snorts. Well, that was something. “Well… no. No, of course not.” Bruce rubs the back of his neck. “I take them out on dates. Or they come for the parties. I never—” He narrows his eyes at me, assessing my smile. He really is different from what the press makes him out to be. They see him as one thing. Well, a couple of things. A spoiled billionaire who’s arrogant shows off at charities and always gets what he wants. 

But the way I see it, he’s just a mystery. He’s not shallow… at least, I don’t think he is. And he’s not arrogant, at least not on purpose. I don’t even know what kind of man sits across from me. Is he nice or selfish? Is he smart or simple? Does he like parties or not?

“Well,” Bruce sets his hands gently on the sides of his plate, “There won't be any guests for a while.” He leans over to me, his eyes hard. “There won’t be any reporters, charities, or any… other people. Not yet. But Dick—” Bruce tries to catch my eyes, and I let him. I know he’s being serious now, “There will be rumors. Don’t listen to them. You are the son of John and Mary Grayson, understand?”

Why would I not understand that? That makes no sense. What kind of rumors? Why would people— I stop, a half-eaten enigma sitting in my mouth as I realize what he’s saying. “Wait… they’d think that you’re my… my dad?” I point at him, trying to keep the horror from my face. It doesn’t work. Bruce laughs. Laughs, but without humor. 

“Something like that.” He waves Alfred over so he can fill Bruce’s plate with the strange, melting, delicious things I’m eating. “There will be a lot of rumors and gossip. The media is relentless. Don’t let them get to you, Dick. Almost everything they say is a lie.”

I want to duck under the table, hide. He’s right. The news likes to sniff out the most scandalous things, which most of the time aren’t even true, like that one rumor about my family. I don’t remember what it was about exactly, but boy, did my parents have a field day yelling at all those nosy reporters. 

So instead of hiding, I laugh. My laugh’s very different from Bruce’s. Mine’s full of good humor, but it echoes off the walls creepily as if someone’s waiting to jump out at us from the shadows. Bruce gives me a thoughtful smile before we go back to eating our food in silence. 

After all, what should we talk about? All he knows about me are my days at the circus and my time at the Home, which I don’t want to talk about. And all I know about him is apparently a show he puts on for the cameras. The man sitting in front of me is not the man I expect. How much of what I’ve seen is real?

So I turn to Alfred instead, pointing to the unidentified food on my plate. “What’re these things?” I ask through bulging cheeks.

“Do not speak with your mouth full, Master Dick.” Alfred whisks dishes off the table, loading them onto a small cart. “And those ‘things’ as you call them are crab-stuffed mushrooms.”

I want to let the mushroom-crab-thingy drop back onto my plate, but strangely enough, the flavor still explodes in my mouth, leaving me wanting more as I swallow. Maybe it’s because of the slop, or maybe I always liked crab and mushrooms, but I just didn’t know it. Or maybe, I’m already turning into a rich person who likes all the weird stuff like snails and fish eggs. Who knows? I don’t complain. I scarf down the rest of the ‘rich people’ food, licking my lips when I’m finished. 

Bruce eats slower, looking down at his phone every now and then, typing frantically on the screen. I wonder who he’s talking to, what he’s doing. But I don’t ask. I still don’t know where I stand between us. Am I just, what did Ms. Corvi call me? His ward? What does that even mean? Does that mean I’m just living at his house and eating his food?

Or is he… is he more like a father? I want to ask. I want to ask so bad I have to stuff my mouth full of chocolate mousse to keep my tongue from flapping. The last thing I want to do is scare this elusive billionaire away my first night at his house. 

I’m not even halfway through the desert before Bruce stands quickly, pushing his chair away from the table. “Alfred, I have to go to work something—” he pauses and looks right at me. But he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown. He looks at me evenly as if whatever it is is all my fault. But that can’t be right, so I look closer. Behind that strange expression, I see protectiveness. A fierce protectiveness. Who is this guy? “Something came up.”

I want to say something, anything. 'Thank you, see you later?’ But no. I keep my mouth shut. “See you… soon, Dick.” It’s not even a ‘see you tomorrow’ or ‘goodnight.’

Just ‘see you soon.’ But I smile, my grin stained with chocolate. “See you later, Bruce!”

He nods but doesn’t smile back as he exits the banquet hall, running towards something and away from me. I sigh and stare down at my mousse. My eyes sting, but I shake my head. I can’t, I won’t, be angry. I should be grateful to be here, away from the Home, off the streets, with a full belly and a huge house-sized bedroom all to myself. But there it is. Who wants to live in a stuffy, old manor house all alone? No wonder Bruce’s gone all the time. 

I thank Alfred and slip out too, heading back to my room. I don’t want to look around anymore, and though I don’t want to be alone, I’m not about to ask Alfred if he wants to spend time together. Or if I can hug him. I can just see that eyebrow raising, that mouth thinning into a frown. So I hide in my room, fingers jamming against the game controller until I can’t hold my eyes open anymore. 

I slip into pj’s which I think might actually be silk, the pocket even embroidered with my initials, RG. I’m too tired to do more than brush my teeth in my bathroom, my reflection blinking back at me, its hair all over the place. What am I going to do with it now that Mom’s gone? Maybe I can talk Alfred into shaving it off for me, but then again, he seems like the kind of person who would disapprove of that.  

When I crawl into the soft, plush bed, I let out a sigh. I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to be alone. It’s too quiet, almost like everyone has evacuated the house. Alfred’s off somewhere, and Bruce’s doing who knows what. Even Ace’s silent out on the grounds, probably patrolling the fence. 

Some people love to have it quiet when they sleep. But in the quiet, I can hear C.C. Haly’s voice announcing the Fearless Flying Graysons. I can hear the roar of the crowd and the booms of the cannons. And I can hear them calling for me, screaming my name as they fall. 

I shut my eyes tight and hold my hands over my ears, but it doesn’t help. The silence isn’t the problem, not really. 

It’s me. 

I stand on the platform, overlooking the crowd. In front of me, Dad, Mom, and Uncle Rick perform their daring feats, flipping gracefully like birds. Then C.C. Haly says something that chills my blood, turning it to ice in my veins. “Watch as these amazing acrobats dip into the dive of death! Cheer as they plummet to their demise!”

I want to scream, I want to dive after them, gosh, I’d be fine with Mom dragging me down with her again, sneering into my ear. But I have to watch, stuck in place, watching as the lines snap, as they fall. But they don’t scream this time. They laugh.

They laugh and laugh and laugh, smiling all the way down to the ground. CRACK! Now I’m down with them, my feet dyed scarlet. They’re still laughing. They’re grabbing for me. 

No, no, no, no! I scream, I kick. No! Stop it! No!

Above I hear another laugh. It’s Babs, dressed in a purple leotard, her green eyes sparkling. “I’m coming too, Dick!” She chortles, hanging onto the lines. “I want to see you and Mom again!”

NO! She drops, and I try to catch her. CRACK! They keep on laughing. They’re pulling me down now, trying to take me with them, drag me away into the laughing darkness. But I don’t want to go with them. 

“Stay away!” Hands clamp around my wrists, digging into my skin. My voice rakes my ears. “Let go!”

“I told you I would get you too, boy.” Tony Zucco leers down at me, his voice slithering through my ears. I thrash more. “Time to join your parents.”

“No!” My head snaps back and slams into something solid. 

Dad’s holding me, his dead eyes grinning. “You need to carry out the Falling Grayson legacy, son.” He says, blood leaking from his teeth. 

 I stop thrashing. Instead, I collapse into his arms, my eyes squeezing shut. But shutting my eyes doesn't work. Not with the horrible images burned into my eyelids. “MOM!” I cry. I cry as they beat me, cut me, and whisper awful things into my ears. “MOM!”

“You let me die, Dick.” She says, her hands burning my skin, her nails cutting me. “Why didn’t you catch me?”

“N—no…” I don’t want to whimper. I don’t want to cry. I want to be strong. I want to be the person the smaller kids in the Home saw. The boy that feared nothing, not even the biggest bullies. The boy who had hope, who knew that he was loved. But I’m not that boy inside. At least, not now. No, no, no. 

Coward! Coward! You lived, and they didn’t. You could have saved them, but you just stood there. Coward, coward, coward! You saw that Zucco was sneaking out of the big top and waited to tell Detective Yin when she questioned you! Too late!

“You let us die, Dick.” Mom’s words are in my ear. Their hands are clawing at me, cutting me, breaking me. “You should die too.”

“—ick!”

I thrash against the hands that hold me down, at the fingers gripping my arms and legs. No, no, no! Wake up! This isn’t real! This is only a dream!

“—ick! Dick, wake up!” I don’t know this voice. This voice that’s calm but earnest. Strong but gentle. Kind but commanding. 

“Master Dick, you are harming yourself.” Who’s that? Something splashes on my face. My eyes fly open. I’m in a huge room, the dorm of the Home. No— no—

Slowly, I catch up to reality. I’m in my room in Wayne Manor, safe in my four-poster bed. Alfred and Bruce hold my arms and legs down, an empty cup in one of Alfred’s hands. 

I stop thrashing, my face slick with sweat and water. My breaths come quick and shallow, my arms and legs shaking. Bruce and Alfred let go, with Alfred stepping back into the shadows of my room and Bruce stepping into the light of my bedside lamp. 

His hair’s mused, like he just took off a hat, his eyes tired, and is it just me, or is there a small cut on his jaw that wasn’t there before? But he looks at me with such concern that I sit up slowly. “Wh—” My voice’s thick, dry, getting stuck in my throat. My eyes are puffy, and my face rubbed raw with tears, stinging from the sweat. I try again. “What happened?” 

“You had a nightmare.” Bruce’s cool, large hand touches mine, and I wince. When I look down, I stare. My knuckles are bloody, my wrist bruised, but not by Bruce’s hands. By my own.

“What…” I can’t finish. I’ve heard about people sleep-fighting and lashing out from their dreams, but I always thought those were just funny stories. This is something else.

“I think you were punching the headboard.” Bruce sits by my side, helping me up the rest of the way. I want to gawk as he awkwardly slides my pillow up and back, propping me against the incriminated headboard. “And you were grabbing yourself— trying to fight something off.” 

He doesn't ask what, and I’m glad. I don’t want to talk about it. I wipe my eyes frantically, my hands shaking. “Why… why do I keep having dreams like that?” I hate the way my voice trembles, the way my cheeks are slick with cold sweat. 

“Because you went through a traumatic experience, Dick.” Bruce’s heavy hands rest on my shoulders, grounding me back into reality. “You saw something that no child should ever have to see. And now you are trying to process that. However…”

I’m glad he doesn’t continue. But he makes sense. I bite my trembling lip and nod. It doesn't matter what I thought about him before. He’s here now. And that’s all that matters. Before I can think what I’m doing, I lunge into his arms, my arms around his thick, muscular chest, my head buried against his neck. I’m shaking so much I can barely hear the surprised grunt escaping his lips. 

Then the unthinkable happens. He hugs me back. His arms are strong, firm, and solid. Unmoving. They wrap around me, his huge, powerful hands rubbing my back in comforting circles. His chin rests on my head, and I let out a shaky sigh. For the first time since that night… since those lines slipped from their places… I feel safe. 

“I know what you’re feeling, Dick.” Bruce’s voice rumbles against my ear. “I lost my parents too when I was not much younger than you are. They were shot by a mugger in an alleyway. I had to watch.”

I swallow the questions building up in my throat. I just focus on taking deep, choking breaths, on the hands rubbing my back, on Bruce’s voice. “That’s something I will never forget. But I had Alfred. He raised me, kept me safe.”

So… is that why he took me? Because when he saw me up there, looking down at their dead bodies, he saw himself? I still don’t say anything. Now I’m afraid I’ll shatter this moment and lose this Bruce Wayne, the one who actually cares about me.

“That’s what I want to do for you, Dick.” Bruce’s hands stop rubbing too soon. I feel exposed when he gently sets me back, looking at me with those eyes. Those eyes now look more like a weeping rainstorm than hard steel. “I want to give you what Alfred gave me. A home. A family.”

I don’t know what to say. And what I end up saying doesn’t fit at all. “Will they ever go away? The nightmares?” I hug myself, wincing. I should’ve said thank you and given him another hug. But Bruce doesn’t seem to mind.

He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know, Dick. Give it time, and they might. But even if they don’t, Alfred and I will be here for you. We’re your family now.”

I let out a sniff and nod. “Thanks, Bruce.” I study his eyes, and my lips manage to pull into a trembling smile. “For everything.”

Bruce slips off of my bed, joining Alfred in the shadows. “Of course. Alfred will stay by your side the rest of the night if you need anything.” Bruce clears his throat and straightens his rumpled T-shirt. “Goodnight, Dick.”

I don’t get the chance to say goodnight back. He’s gone, leaving Alfred to sit in a chair pulled up to my bedside. I swallow hard. So, Bruce does care. The memory of him calling us ‘family’ sends warmth gushing through my veins. But, if he believes that, then why’s he gone?

“Don’t be angry with him, Master Dick.” Alfred smooths his slacks as I lay back down, sinking underneath the sheets. Does Alfred read minds too? I wouldn’t put it past him. “He does care and means well. He just does not know how to show it around other people. He does have that little façade to keep up.”

I nod. The billionaire façade. The shallow partygoer. The public expectation. “Is that why he goes everywhere with two girls instead of one?” 

Alfred chuckles, smoothing the wrinkles off his pants again before holding out a bandage for my knuckles. “Yes. Master Bruce is a man of many secrets, many mysteries. He is very protective of those secrets. But the more you get to know the real him, the more, I believe, you will be able to discern who the real him is. And the more he will open up to you.”

I close my eyes as Alfred wraps my bloodied hand, his fingers thin and nimble like he’s used to wrapping up wounds. The real Bruce Wayne? I didn’t even give him the time of day when Raya twittered on about him. But now I have to know.

Who is Bruce Wayne?

To be Continued...