This was inspired by an advice column in which a mother wondered how to keep people from cutting her off from her children when out in public. The solution – hold hands! I also think children on public transportation are so cute, so I added that as well.

The usual disclaimers apply.

Holding Hands

Dick Grayson's childish eyes widened as he gazed about him at all the food and festive decorations filling the entrance hall of the Gotham City Museum of Art. Today was the Saturday afternoon launch of a special exhibit of Impressionist paintings. Naturally, the Wayne Foundation was paying for the exhibit, which meant that Bruce was the museum's guest of honor that day. Bruce, Dick, and a couple hundred other movers and shakers of Gotham would get to preview the exhibit before it opened to the public on Monday.

Even though he was only a kid, Dick was actually excited to be there (although he would have been rather more excited if Alfred hadn't insisted he wear a suit). He would get to spend the entire afternoon eating delicious food (especially the desserts), as well as see some pretty fancy paintings. Although Dick didn't yet have a fine appreciate of art, he thought Impressionist paintings were pretty cool. Plus, he remembered that his Dad had really liked Monet, Manet, Cezanne, and such, so he felt obligated to go and see the paintings. In fact, if his memory served him right, he had seen a few of these paintings before in London at The National Gallery. He had visited there once with his dad. Maybe seeing these paintings would give him a momentary connection with his dad again.

Thoughts like that made Dick feel a bit sad, though, so he decided to focus his attention on the giant ice sculpture, which seemed to be of a man's face. However, the man was missing an ear, which puzzled Dick. He would have to ask Bruce about that.

As if on cue, Bruce appeared beside Dick at that moment. "Dick, I need to go talk to the museum curator, okay?"

Dick nodded obediently and allowed Bruce to shepherd him towards another part of the hall. When they came to an out-of-the-way bench, Bruce plunked Dick down on it and told him, "Wait right there. I'll be back in a minute." Then he hurried off before Dick could ask him about the earless ice sculpture.

With a slightly-irritated sigh, Dick settled in to wait. And wait and wait and wait. Growing increasingly annoyed at his guardian, Dick let his mind wander.

Dick Grayson was five years old, and it was his first time in London with the circus. The particular Tuesday in question was the first free day the circus performers had gotten since their arrival, and all of the Graysons were eager to get out and about in central London. Mary wanted to be glamorous and go window-shopping (and maybe, just maybe, do a little actually shopping) at some of the city's famous department stores – Harrods, Selfridges, Liberty, and Fortnum and Mason. John, on the other hand, was much less inclined to shop, and was particularly grateful that he could use Dick as an escape. No one wanted to take a five-year-old boy shopping all day. So the family decided to split up for a few hours, with Mary going shopping and John and Dick heading out to a few of London's free museums.

Since the circus was camped quite a way from the center of town, Dick and John had a long subway ride ahead of them. While Dick was content to gaze in wonder at the train car for a time, he soon became bored.

"Daddy, where are we? Why is it so dark?"

When John explained they were traveling in a tunnel underground, Dick then wanted to know, "Why are we underground?"

John answered as best as he could, but that only prompted Dick to ask more questions.

"Why is the train so loud?"

"Why is it so hot down here?"

"What language are those people speaking?" Dick pointed at some fellow travelers.

With a sigh, John pulled a pocket-sized map of the Underground system out of his pocket. He waved it in front of Dick's face.

"Look at this Dick. Do you want to see where we're going?"

Enraptured by the brightly-colored lines running across the page, Dick reached for the map, while excitedly shouting, "Yes!"

John handed Dick the map. "We're on the brown line. See?" He pointed to the brown line.

"What's it called?" Dick asked.

"It's called the Bakerloo Line." John peered down at the map and pointed at a station. "We're going here."

"What's it called?"

"You can read it," John encouraged. Mary was teaching Dick how to read.

Dick held the map up close to his face and squinted. "Ch, ch, ch... char..."

"Chair," John corrected gently, realizing tube stop names weren't the easiest things for youngsters to read.

"Chair-ing cr, cr, cross. Charing Cross!" Dick was delighted with himself, beaming up at his father.

John ruffled Dick's hair. "Good boy. Now follow the path we're taking to get there."

Dick obediently traced his finger along the brown line.

"Now where does the red line take you?" John asked, smiling as Dick eagerly turned his attention to the small map and began tracing the red line with his finger.

For the next several minutes, Dick was completely absorbed with the map, tracing the different colored lines over and over again with his finger. There were so many lines! And they went so far! He was quite impressed with the colorful map.

John, on the other hand, was just grateful for a few moments of peace.

As the train pulled away from the Piccadilly Circus stop, John turned to Dick. "Okay, Dickie, we're the next stop. Now it's going to be crowded so make sure you hold my hand."

Dick made a pouty face, immediately crossed his arms, and tucked his little hands up in his armpits. "I don't wanna hold hands."

"But you don't want to get lost, do you?"

"I won't get lost. I'm not a baby."

"Well, I might get lost. Will you hold my hand, Dickie, and make sure I don't get lost?" John made a sad face, complete with puppy-dog eyes.

Dick giggled at his father's silly expression. "Okay, Daddy. I," he pointed at himself, "will look out for you," he finished, pointing at his father.

John just smiled, glad his "reasoning" had placated the child. At that moment, the train started to slow down, then entered the station. "Time to go," John announced, standing up.

Dick scooted to the edge of his seat so that his feet touched the ground. He then slid off and grasped his father's hand. The two walked to the door, their natural grace keeping them perfectly balanced even as the train lurched to a halt.

As a crisp, pre-recorded British voice reminded passengers to "mind the gap," John swung his small son over the empty space between the door of the train and the platform. "Wheee," Dick said delightedly. Even though he was used to much more adventurous swinging, he was still a child and could still delight in the simple things.

With a firm hold on Dick's hand, John maneuvered through the crowds to the escalator, out the barriers, and up into the sunlight of Trafalgar Square.

"Wooooow," Dick breathed as he beheld the giant lions, gurgling fountains, and towering column of Lord Admiral Nelson.

"Impressive, isn't it?" John commented, as he nudged Dick away from the Tube Station entrance and towards the National Gallery.

Turning Dick around, so that he faced away from the museum, John pointed out the street called Whitehall. "And at the end of this road is Parliament, which is sort of like Congress. Do you remember Congress, Dickie?" Dick had been to Washington, D.C. twice before, but John wasn't sure the boy remembered.

Dick wasn't really paying attention, though. He was tugging his father towards the fountains, where several pigeons were sitting, placidly eating out of tourists' hands.

"And down there, through that arch," John pointed at a fancy arch to the right of Whitehall, "is the queen's house."

That caught Dick's attention. Queens were much more interesting than Congress – he knew his fairly tales! "Can we go see her?" Dick asked eagerly.

John laughed and ruffled Dick's hair. "No, she's busy right now."

"Oooh." Dick looked a trifle disappointed. "Maybe next time, Daddy?"

John just laughed again. "Sure, Dickie, next time."

Turning back around, John began to stroll towards the museum, while Dick kept his eyes fixed on the pigeons. His father was telling him something about the museum, but he wasn't listening. He really wanted to feed those birds, just like he fed the animals at the circus.

As they worked their way through the throngs of photo-snapping tourists, John noticed that his shoelace had come untied. Moving out of the flow of traffic, he dropped Dick's hand. "Now don't run off, Dickie; Daddy just needs to tie his shoe."

Dick nodded but his mind was elsewhere. As his father bent down to tie his shoe, a group of people moved away from a cluster of pigeons – but the pigeons stayed put, squawking for someone else to come feed them. Dick was drawn like a sailor to a siren, and he darted off. He hadn't gotten very far, though, when a strong hand enclosed his.

"Richard, I thought I told you to hold my hand and not run off," John said sternly.

Dick looked down at his shoes. He hated to disappoint daddy. "I just wanted to see the birdies," he said softly.

"Well we can see the birds together," John stated, scooping Dick up and placing him on the rim of the fountain next to the pigeons. Although a few flew away, startled by the sudden intrusion, several welcomed the newcomer as a potential source of food. John pulled a small packet of sunflower seeds from his pocket, opened them, and gave them to Dick. "Here, give them these."

Dick giggled delightedly as he spent the next few minutes throwing sunflower seeds at the none-too-shy pigeons. When all the seeds were gone, John asked if Dick was ready to visit the art museum.

"Uh-huh," Dick nodded, dusting off his hands.

"Will you be a good boy and hold my hand?"

Dick frowned and crossed his arms obstinately. "Daddy, I'm not a baby!"

"Of course not. But you could still get lost, so we need to hold hands."

Dick shook his head. "No, holding hands is for babies."

"Aww, is that what you think? That holding hands is for babies?"

Dick very solemnly nodded yes.

"Holding hands isn't for babies. It's for people who love each other – like daddies and their boys." When Dick only looked slightly less skeptical, John continued. "And people who are buddies, who are there for each other through thick and thin. People who are partners; who are a team."

Dick perked up on the word "team." "Like you and me and mommy when we're on the trapeze?"

"Exactly!" John boomed enthusiastically, overjoyed he was finally getting through to Dick. He made a forlorn face. "Don't you want people to know that we're a team?"

"Yes!" Dick practically shouted. "You're my team! My daddy!"

"Well, then, you better hold my hand so that everyone knows it." John held his hand out to his son. "Shall we?"

Dick tightly grabbed his father's hand, calling out "whee" as John swung him down from the edge of the fountain.

"So this means we're partners, huh?" Dick asked, gesturing at his small hand, which was tightly enclosed in his father's.

John smiled down at his son as they started to climb the steps to the National Gallery. "Yes, but it also means something even better. It means we're family."

"Sorry about that, Dick," Bruce apologized quickly as he reappeared.

"It's okay," Dick said, hopping down from the bench on which he had been stationed. "Let's go. I want some cake and punch!"

Bruce cracked a small, indulgent smile. "Sure thing, chum. But it's crowded out there, so give me your hand. I don't want you getting lost."

Dick's defenses were up immediately. He was eight for crying out loud!

Crossing his arms and attempting a Bat-glare, Dick hissed, "I'm not a baby."

Confused, Bruce replied, "I never said you were. But there's a lot of people out there; you could get lost."

"I won't get lost."

Bruce started to panic a little on the inside, although he kept up his remarkably calm exterior. He really didn't appreciate Dick pulling a stunt like this right now, though. Maybe eight was a little old for holding hands (not that he would know), but he couldn't afford to have the kid get lost. Not when there were dozens of reporters at the museum, all of whom would eagerly jump all over any hint that he was an inadequate parent.

"Well, I need you to keep me from getting lost," Bruce lamely attempted.

Dick grinned slightly – only to quickly suppress it. "You won't get lost. Everyone knows you."

Bruce couldn't argue with that. Time to try a different tactic. "Well, I still need you to hold my hand." Maybe just asserting his parental authority would work?

Dick shook his head. "No. Holding hands is for babies. And I'm eight."

Ahh, so that was the crux of the matter. Dick didn't want to look like a little kid.

So Bruce just needed to point out to Dick that plenty of people held hands. "Okay, what's a good example," Bruce mused. Unfortunately, all he could come up with were romantic examples and that was most certainly not going to work. And the whole time Dick was standing there, arms cross, defiance written all over his face. "Oh, boy," Bruce mentally sighed.

"Dick all kinds of people hold hands. It isn't just for babies. It's for ... everyone," he finished lamely.

"Like who?" Dick demanded.

"Like..." "Think, Bruce, think!" he internally berated himself. "Like partners."

For a moment, Bruce silently cursed. "You were not supposed to bring up romantic relationships!" he mentally scolded himself. But then he noticed that a change had come over Dick. The boy had considerably brightened.

"Partners?" he asked hopefully.

Imagining that Dick was thinking of Batman and Robin, Bruce nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, partners, teammates, guys who have each other's backs."

Dick was smiling. Now where had he heard words like that before? "Must be a Dad thing," he mused. A Dad Thing. And surely eight wasn't too old to stop holding hands with your daddy? Quickly deciding that you weren't too old to hold hands with your dad until you were at least nine, Dick uncrossed his arms and held out his hand.

"Family?" he queried hopefully.

Bruce reached out and took Dick's hand. He gave it a squeeze while simultaneously ruffling the boy's hair. "Family," he confirmed. "Always."

Dick favored Bruce with a big grin.

"Let's go!" he said, adjusting his grip on Bruce's hand and pulling his guardian/second father towards the opening gala. "I really want some cake!"

With a smile of relief, Bruce allowed himself to be dragged towards the food table. "All right, let's get some cake."

After enjoying the refreshments, Bruce (still holding Dick's hand) worked his way through the crowd, socializing with all the people Bruce Wayne, billionaire philanthropist, needed to be seen socializing with. And although Dick found it a bit boring, he always felt a rush of happiness whenever Bruce would lovingly smile down at him and affectionately introduce him to yet another socialite. He was part of a family again.

Maybe holding hands wasn't so bad after all.

I hope that wasn't too terribly swell. Anyway, I'll leave this story "in progress" in case I feel inspired to add any more fluffy tales.