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Gotham was a regular stop, which seemed strange after all the unpleasant things that tended to happen there.  But, no matter what, every October Haley’s Circus would come to town, set up for a night, then leave the next morning.  They certainly never stayed longer than necessary, as if stopping was less of a choice and more of an unwelcome duty.  Duty to whom, Dick never really knew.

They’d come in earlier than normal so most of the set-up was done before the unseasonable heat of a lingering summer became too unbearable.  Dick was back in the trailer he’d shared with his parents ever since birth.  It was a bit crowded now with three adults, but they made do just fine.  Family always stayed close and if that meant tripping over each other, then that was just fine.  The heat had done him in, so, with only mild coaxing from his dad that Dick would be fine on his own to just rest and didn’t need Mary fussing over him, his parents were off to visit and sympathize with everyone else about the weather.

Dick lay sprawled out on the pull-out couch, half-tempted to just slide to the floor in case it was a half-degree cooler.  His one concession to decency in what could be a very busy camp was a stretched-out dance belt.  Between the heat and the migraine it was causing, Dick was about ready to try clawing his way out of his bare skin for some sort of relief.  He’d just managed to set up a sheet/pillow combo that blocked out the light from the window enough to make his head stop throbbing so much when someone knocked on the door.

“Nnnno….  Go away."

But they wouldn't.

Dick growled and flopped over, glaring at the door as if he could will them to walk away.  A few more seconds of silence passed before the knock returned.  "What do you want?"

"My name's Bruce Wayne.  I was told this is the Graysons' trailer."

The name registered some kind of recognition, but it wasn't clear enough to really know.  "Come in."

Tall.  That's the first thing Dick noticed when the stranger entered the trailer.  Of course, his angle on the couch and the compactness of the trailer itself certainly aided the effect, but just by a quick once-over, he was big.

Dick stretched and watched him, the heat overriding his instinct to stand and give a polite greeting.  "I'm Dick Grayson.  Is there something I can help you with?"  It was subtle, but he noticed the way the stranger looked him over, disguising it with a glance around the trailer.  "Like what you see?"

"You have a very nice arrangement.  It's quite...welcoming."

"It's hot as Hell," Dick replied, all niceness buried under ridiculous heat.  "Can I help you?"

"I just wanted to see you.  I come to every show when you're in town."  The man hesitated for the briefest of moments.  "I was there that night."

Dick cocked his head unsure what he meant.  "That night...?"

It came back to him in a rush.  The nightmare he'd had the night of the show, the way he cried and begged for them to put the net up, even though the whole performance was billed without it, but he just felt, he just knew it had to be up that night.  The way the show had gone better than ever, everything running smoothly.  The embarrassment he felt on the platform for throwing such a tantrum about the net when everything was going fine.  The terror in his parents' eyes as they watched him plummet with the bar.  The shock of pain as he hit the net wrong, his collarbone fracturing on impact.  The screams of the crowd.  The ambulance.  The hospital, where everything was a blur.  The few and far-between moments of lucidity with his mother standing over him, his father talking to Pop Haley and some strange man, the stranger looking over at him with concern, an odd severity for someone so young.

"You....  You were in the hospital room with me."

The man nodded.  "I paid for your treatment."

Dick nodded, finally sitting up.  "What'd you say your name was?"

"Bruce.  Bruce Wayne."

Dick shook the offered hand, looking Bruce over more thoroughly.  Handsome, a young-looking mid-thirties, well-dressed.  Rich.  Well, he'd have to be to have paid for all that.  "Thanks.  That was...really generous of you."

Bruce's eyes drifted to his collarbone.  "How's it healed?"

"Fine."  Dick rubbed it unconsciously.  "It got fixed up right."

"I--"  Bruce smiled gently.  "I'm glad."

Dick smiled.  The heat was feeling less oppressive with the nice company, but he couldn't imagine how Bruce could stand the button-up and slacks he was wearing.  Gothamites were crazy.

He scooted over and patted the sofa-bed, smiling a little brighter when Bruce sat down.  "So, you've come to every show.  Are they good?"

There it was.  On every local channel, in every paper, on every celebrity buzz site.  Gotham's biggest scandal in the last five years.

And Dick was loving every minute of it.

He lounged on the soft sheets of the huge bed in the master bedroom.  Heh, the master's bedroom.  "They're not using that awful picture of you," he called towards the bathroom, waving vaguely at the TV.  "I guess everyone's got hold of the good picture now."

Ah, the picture.  A series of pictures, really.  The moment of discovery.  The first, the back of Bruce Wayne with some pretty young thing wrapped around him.  The second, a slightly blurred profile of Bruce Wayne and a clearer image of his definitely male companion.  The third (and best, in Dick's opinion) showed Bruce Wayne pulling away from his half-dressed, eighteen-year-old ex-ward while said ward grinned like a particularly ravenous Cheshire cat.

Dick squirmed happily on the bed, watching the news program with puckish glee.  "Bruuuuuuuce!  You're missing the best part!  They're debating whether it was totally illegal or just a sign of the immoral times in which we live."

Bruce didn't respond.

Each moment passing made Dick angrier and pout more.  It wasn't fair for Bruce to stay so quiet.  Reveling in scandal wasn't fun when you were alone.  Finally, after stewing for just a little longer, Dick stormed to the bathroom.  "Bruce!"

It wasn't like Bruce was in the shower and couldn't hear him (there was no water running and, besides, they'd just come out of one), and it wasn't like the toilet was so far away that he couldn't have said something back.  Whatever.  It wasn't like Dick hadn't seen plenty of Bruce already.  With a huff, he flung open the door.

Bruce was standing at the bathroom counter, still naked, just staring at himself in the mirror.  He looked...dark.  Haunted.  Conflicted.  Numb.  "Bruce," Dick repeated, unable to hide the whine in his voice.  "What are you doing in here?"

Bruce shook his head, never taking his eyes off the mirror.  "I'm so sorry, Dick.  I never should have--"

"Don't."  Dick glared at him, his muscles tensing in preparation for a fight.  "I'm an adult.  I can do who I want."

"No."  Bruce finally turned to face him, looking just above Dick's left eyebrow as if trying to avoid seeing Dick's naked body.  He didn't seem to want to avoid it an hour ago.  "Dick, what I did to you was wrong.  I should never have let myself get that way.  I shouldn't have--"

"Well, you did.  You don't see me complaining, do you?"

"When I said I had feelings for you, I meant--"

"Yeah, you showed me those pretty well."

"I didn't mean I loved you like that--"

"Well then, you're an awfully good actor."

"Dick, I want to adopt you!"

Dick stared, every fiber of his being frozen where he stood.  By the time he could work his mind to focus on something other than the terrible silence in the room, Bruce had already turned back to the mirror.

"--just leaves Gotham to ponder the question:  Is this a true romance, one of those bizarre twists of fate, or some sort of sick fantasy?"

"I'm not a strong man, Dick.  I'm not good.  You were so willing, so offering, I just--  I couldn't say no.  Not to you."

He couldn't breathe.  All this time, all Dick had wanted was for them to be together.  He didn't want a father, he'd had one.  He and Bruce were so perfect together.  Bruce was so...

"I won't ask you to forgive me, Dick.  What I did was inexcusable."

Cruel.

"Did you ever love me like that, Bruce?  Would you ever learn to?"

"You were my ward, Dick.  I wanted you to be more.  But not like that.  Not like--"

"Not like last night?"  Dick took a step forward, anger shaking his body.  "Not like this morning?"  Another step.  "Not like an hour ago?"  Another step.  "You seemed to like it when you grabbed my ass."  Bruce took a step back as Dick came forward.  "When you shoved your cock down my throat."  Steps.  "When you fucked me."

Bruce hit the wall, staring down at Dick cautiously.  "Dick...  I don't know what came over me that I--"

Dick grinned ferally.  "I do, Bruce."  He trailed a hand down Bruce's chest.  "You're wicked.  And you're lonely.  And you're sick.  And you're broken."  He flung his arms around Bruce's neck.  "And you know I'm just as wicked and lonely and sick and broken as you."  He nibbled Bruce's ear.  "And you know it's all your fault."

Bruce's large hands pawed at him, pulling Dick closer even as he moaned for him to get away.  Dick just smiled.  "Why don't you take me to bed, Daddy?  I think you could use some rest...."

"It's so tragic to lose one's family so young," Martha Wayne cooed over her roast lamb, stealing her first glance of the evening at the small boy on her right.  "I mean, I suppose it's no wonder he's so...sullen."  She whispered her last word, as if it was some great secret, as if he wasn't barely five feet from her.

"No need to lower your voice, dear," Thomas said, wiping the crimson droplets of wine from his moustache.  "It's not as though he'll understand you."

"I got him to say something today," Bruce chimed in airily, cracking off a slice of bread with an audible snap.  "I found him watching television in the parlour on some awful news station and I asked him if he knew what he was watching, and I swear he said 'news'.  Or something that sounded like 'news' at any rate."

Martha simpered at the boy and passed him the small bowl of redcurrant jelly as a reward.  "Aw, the sweet boy is learning!"

Dick sat silently watching each of them in turn; it was better than trying to force down more of their food, too rich, too decadent.  He never had much appetite anymore anyway.

He kept watching as the subject changed to various friends, more vain and flighty people like themselves, people they understood.  They didn't try to include him in conversation anymore, just talked to him like he was deaf when they wanted him to do something.  Poor little orphan boy who only spoke "Gypsy."

It was surprisingly easy to convince people you couldn't speak their language.  Whenever slipped and reacted to something, it was simple to play it off as a cough, or a bit of moodiness, or a misunderstanding.  A simple insult in Romanes phrased like a question and the Waynes thought nothing of it, except how sweet it was he was trying to join them.

He hated the mother, Dick had decided one night after a party where she had shown him off like some prized pet.  She kept telling him to call her "Auntie Martha," as though she was family like the kind who'd told him stories and sang to him and taught him to dance.

He hated the father, but he had for a while, ever since the man had first sat him down and told him Dick would have to make some kind of effort to communicate with them, to learn English.  Of course, they couldn't be bothered learning to speak to Dick in his native tongue, no.  That would take work.  But that was fine, he realized later.  He didn't want them sullying the one connection he still had to his family.

He hated the son, the stupid, brainless, spoiled brat.  Never did a day's work in his life, never suffered through worse than a hangover after one of his nearly constant parties, but he'd tell Dick to "lighten up," to "relax," to "stop looking so gloomy all the time, kiddo!"  "I guess we're brothers now," he'd said one day after finding Dick out in the gardens, hiding from the cackling of too many empty words.  "That means you can't keep running away from me."

Bastard.  They weren't "brothers."  They weren't "family."  Dick wasn't anything more than a charity write-off, something to present to the world as kind and show off to friends as a trinket--"Oh, you know, Martha, we really must take in a child like yours.  What a gentle life you give him now!"--but not something to think about as living, as human, as one of them.

It wasn't until the third or fourth time Bruce had called his name that Dick focused again, his large eyes snapping up to the man across the table with a jolt.

"Dick...the table...."

Dick followed the man's gaze to his left hand, still clutching his fork, the tines embedded in the varnished wood.  He opened his hand and the fork wobbled just slightly, taking just a hair too long to fall, bringing up small splinters with it.  Dick looked back as his plate, then stood, not making eye contact with any of them, and headed up to his room.

Once alone, he smiled, a cold viciousness building inside him.  He'd never be part of their family, but he could damage it little by little.  In his own small way, he could hurt them the way they were hurting him, chipping away at their beautiful façade until their ugly true selves were revealed to the world and then he'd be taken away, taken to a good family with love and happiness and no more false smiles.

Dick had always wanted children.

When he was a kid in the circus, he declared that all the younger kids were his siblings and therefore he was the one to take care of them.  When he came to Bruce, he often thought of convincing Bruce to adopt more, filling the empty Manor with kids everywhere.  When he was in college, he volunteered at a nearby day care, doing tricks to make them giggle.  With each lover, he thought more and more about really starting a family, how wonderful it would be with her, with him, with them.

When she came into his life, he blocked children from his mind.

It wasn't that he didn't want a family some day, no.  Just somehow the crossing thoughts of children and her didn't match.  Children were innocent, joyful, good things.  She was....

But he'd escaped.  Dick had broken free of her, started again with real lovers, finally moved past the memories that woke him at nights and kept him fighting long after his body told him not to.  He was loving again, connecting again, living again.  Then one day, on the rooftops of Bludhaven--

"Querido."

--he saw her.

Half his instincts told him to run, to flee before she could touch him again, but another side said no.  She was a criminal.  She needed to be put away where she couldn't hurt anyone again.  Where she couldn't hurt him again.

So he chased her.

Across rooftops and bridges, through Avalon Heights down to St. Anthonio's.  There, on the steps of the church, he sees it, the small shivering bundle in a basket.

"He's yours, Querido.  He has your eyes."

He did.

Laughter bubbled up through Dick's lips, turning into sobs as he backed away, stumbling, running, ignoring what she shouted after him.  He didn't stop running until he'd made his way home, somehow, and fallen into a heap next to his bed

He'd always hated Gotham.  For the first few years after it had happened, he begged Pop Haley to avoid it, to stay away from the city and the people that had taken his family.  But it was no good.  Gotham brought too much business, too much money for the struggling circus to take it out of the circuit.  There was nothing he could do.

They'd hired a new troupe of acrobats, nice enough, but skittish around the brooding young boy.  They billed him as "The Last Flying Grayson" and paraded him like he was royal blood.  And he hated them for it.  He would tolerate the title in every other city, force a smile and bow to the adoring fans, but not in Gotham.  Never again in Gotham.

His teenage years were angry.  Angry at the world for taking his family and, slowly, his circus.  Angry at the new troupe who flew in his place and didn't feel the ghosts of his parents.  Most of all, angry at Gotham and everything it came to represent.  He never cried in Gotham.

When he was old enough, he drowned out Gotham in liquor and beautiful people, each one a small spark of real life in such a dead city.  They existed only in the moment for loving and fucking and then they were gone again.  No one was expected to call.  No one was looking for a second whirl.  No one was interested in the past.

Until him.

"I was there, you know," Bruce said, lounging on the bed watching Dick dress.  "The night they died.  I was there.  You looked so alone.  So young."  He leaned against the headboard of his stupidly large bed.  "I almost adopted you.  Or, well, took you in, you know.  I wasn't much older than you are now.  I guess that would've made this night awkward."

And then he laughed.

Eleven years of Dick's suffering and sorrow and anger and hatred brushed off in some rich airhead playboy's idea of a joke.

Whether Wayne was sluggish from the booze and the sex, or whether years of acrobatic training had just given Dick such an advantage, he'd never know, but he knew one thing.  He would never come back to Gotham again.

When the headlines hit the news--Last Member of Gotham's First Family Found Murdered--Dick was already in the French countryside hiking his way to nowhere in particular.  He tried to forget that pompous bastard's last words.  I almost adopted you.

How different a life he would have led.  But Gotham would have won, he told himself.  The circus would have been lost forever.

He could never go back to the circus of his youth, though.  That family, that home was gone.  Among the street performances and the charms into hotels he couldn't afford, the odd jobs and the coaxed meals, he never gave a thought to the tragedy he already knew deep down.

Gotham had already won.