A/N: So, this is a short one-shot about what happened in the direct aftermath of the Grayson's fall that I wrote for my Economics class back near the end of February to this prompt: Write a short story about a choice that had significant impact.

Naturally, I wrote Batman fanfiction. I didn't publish it then because I was certain my 2am writing was crap, but then I read it back and it actually wasn't bad.

So, the original story didn't contain the part of "Curling his chin," to "at best," due to the fact it was only supposed to be 500 words, and I'd almost doubled it already, and I didn't want to confuse my teacher with too much canon.

I apologize if it's a bit OOC, as I tried to make Bruce have feelings because my teacher knows nix about Batman.

Please enjoy. :)

edit: Actually, I was wrong. Checked the document, and I finished the original at 4:28am. I must've started at 2am. So...yeah.

Bruce was lost.

Though not in the physical sense.

It had been years since his train of thought had derailed itself so completely. Over a decade since it had pulled its brake at the sight of an obstacle ahead, careening into the station and shattering the platform along with it before the brakes kicked in fully and dragged the train to a shuddering halt.

The catalyst? Death.

(Just like before.)

A stricken, raven haired boy (so like him) launched himself from the ladder, stumbling across the dirt floor of the circus tent, dropping to his knees at the edge of the rapidly expanding pool of blood; staring blankly at the shattered forms of his parents crumpled before him. Blinked. Not quite comprehending.

The boy's lips moved, sounding out a plea unheard amongst the cacophony of screams and footfalls as the audience collectively fled the tent: Mom? Dad?

Bruce wasn't aware that he'd been moving, fighting downwards against the current of panicked civilians, until he'd vaulted over the railing into the center ring, gaze having never wavered from his target.

Skidding to a halt, Bruce dropped to a knee at the boy's side. "Richard?"

No response. Transfixed by the grotesque forms that had been his parents, mouth slightly agape as silent tears wound down his cheeks.

"Richard," Bruce repeated, louder, reaching up to gently grip the child's thin shoulder and angle his body toward him.

The acrobat's head jerked up—in reaction to the touch, or his name was difficult to tell. For a split second, wide (vulnerable) blue eyes bored into him; grief-stricken, hurting, lost. Alone.

(Just like Bruce.)

Then they flickered back over Bruce's shoulder. "Hospital," the acrobat stammered, as the familiar blare of sirens rent the air coming toward them. "The doctors…the doctors can help them. Not dead. No, they can't—"

"Richard, I need you to look at me," Bruce ordered, firm. (Panicked.)

"Unconscious. Just unconscious." A hitch of breath. "They promised, they said…they said they'd always be there to catch me, they—"

"Richard."

The boy's dazed gaze darted back to Bruce. Blinked once. Glanced back. "No. No, we have to help them, we can…we can stop the bleeding t-till the doctors come and then they'll be okay."

"Richard."

Blue eyes snapped back once more.

"I need you to look at me," Bruce insisted, hearing the rapid speech of the paramedics as they descended into the center ring. "Don't look back. Eyes on me."

This time, the child obeyed. Bit his lip at the busy clamor of voices as the paramedics reached the bodies, but kept his pained blue eyes trained on Bruce.

"That's right," Bruce soothed, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the curve of the boy's shoulder in comfort. "Keep looking at me, chum."

The faint rustle of a body bag echoed at Bruce's back, and behind the shimmery layers of tears and shock, sudden clarity crept into the boy's eyes.

"Not coming back," the child whispered. "D…Dead?"

A lump grew in Bruce's throat. "Yes. They're…they're not coming back, chum."

"No," Richard breathed. Lower lip quivering, a fresh stream of tears flowing from cerulean eyes; chest heaving with a barely concealed sob. "No, they…they promised."

Bruce shook his head wordlessly; unsure what to say even as his heart twanged painfully.

A beat passed. Two.

Without warning, the child lunged forward, arms wrapping around Bruce's torso, face burying itself in his chest before Bruce could even blink.

And…Bruce hesitated. Awkwardly wrapped his arms around the boy in return, uncertain. Remembering that night over a decade ago where his role had been reversed…

A strangled choke echoed from the boy's mouth, tiny frame convulsing in a sob. Then another. And another.

"I'm so sorry," Bruce murmured, hand rising subconsciously to cup the soft raven head. "I'm so sorry, Richard."

Sorry he couldn't save them. Sorry he couldn't undo what had happened. Sorry that, even as a superhero, he couldn't do more. Sorry he couldn't protect this child from the pain he knew would be a part of him until the day he died.

All of which were the basis for Batman's very existence in the first place.

Failed. Bruce had failed. And Richard Grayson paid the price.

Curling his chin over the child's shoulder, Bruce caught sight of police commissioner Gordon as he ducked under the yellow caution tape and halted a few feet away. The commissioner's brown eyes reflected the same horror and recognition as Bruce's own probably did.

Their gazes met.

And they both knew. That no matter how similar the two situations just over a decade apart from one another were, there were so many key differences.

When Bruce's parents were murdered, he had had Alfred and a family fortune to fall back on.

Richard had nothing. More importantly, he had no one. They would never allow a traveling circus to keep custody. The young acrobat would be surrendered to the system; shoved in one of Gotham's overflowing orphanages at worst, bounced back and forth between foster homes at best.

…Unless.

Unless.

Maybe Bruce could do more. Help this child through the months (years) to come, guide him through his grief as Alfred did for Bruce so many years ago.

Almost immediately after the idea formulated itself, Bruce quashed it.

No. He couldn't. Not with Wayne Enterprises occupying his days, Brucie Wayne's appearances dabbing up his evenings, and the Batman overtaking his nights. Even without work, he was hardly a qualified parent. There was no way he could…

Thin, trembling fingers tightened into fists in the fabric of Bruce's suit coat, the child's face angling into the crook of his shoulder as his cries continued.

Instinctively, Bruce clutched him closer, only minutely aware of the snot and tears soaking into his designer shirt as his heart crumbled in his chest.

A flashing image of the boy only minutes before, laughing and carefree as he flew through the air with his parents, hardly batting an eyelash despite the enormous height and lack of safety net beneath him. Excited. Carefree. Happy.

With time, maybe that boy could come back. But not if he was left at the whim of the system, grieving and alone, stuck in one of Gotham's many orphanages that no matter Bruce's donations could barely keep their heads above water…

Bruce sucked in a breath. Exhaled slowly.

No. He might not be a qualified parent. But for the sake of this boy…for the sake of Richard…he had to try.