A/N Again, not an original idea. Sorry.

Richard swung his feet against the polished wood legs of he too-high chair, his arms crossed and his neck straining to see above the too-high desk. He still smelled the hair gel Alfred had insisted he put on. It smelled like old boots that'd stepped in one too many dog craps in it's lifetime. He tried to breath through his mouth.

The judge, an old man that seemed to have more skin then he needed, peered at Richard with large, misty grey eyes from over his glasses, reminding him of an old bullfrog he'd caught once. When he spoke, it was thin, twinged with exasperation. Yeah, Richard thought, like you have something better to do.

"In this case," he said, peering at the crisp white case sheet he'd looked at three hundred times. Maybe he had short memory loss, and had to keep looking at it to remind him why he was here. Maybe he forgot where he was. Maybe he thought he was somewhere in Korea or Vietnam or England or something. Maybe he'd start screaming and ranting and raving and shooting people with his mallet, and they'd drag him away and everyone would be so preoccupied with the esteemed Judge Grandpa finally losing his one last marble that they'd forget about him and let him go home. He realized that Judge Grandpa was still talking (His wits perfectly about him, he remarked bitterly). He tuned back in, "...I hearby grant Mr. Bruce Wayne full guardianship of Mr. Richard Grayson. Court dismissed." He smacked his mallet lazily at the little wooden stump, gathering the papers and striding from the room, his pointed nose held high in the air. Jerk.

Bruce smiled, thanking Rachel Dawes and the rest of his super-lawyers, shaking hands when neccessary, somehow ignoring the overwhelming boom of questions from squacking reporters. Of course, it'd be worse outside. There, they had cameras. Goodbye 20/20 eye sight, he bode silently.

Not that he wasn't happy. He was. Bruce was rich. Very publicly so. He had a staircase that was 20 feet tall, which in itself was bound to keep him busy for the remainder of his childhood. He had a pool bigger then the courthouse. He was probably rich enough to buy the courthouse. He was decent, too, not like the one emergency foster dad he was sent to, where the guy made him clean his entire crap-hole house for half a sandwich. He didn't try to get him to talk about anything, like the fat-ass social worker had tried too. He just said stuff like, "If you want to talk about, talk about it." Richard would just not answer, and they'd go about their buisness. It was something he could live with.

It was more the fact that it was very, very much not Haley's Circus. He looked over at Pop Haley, who sat in one of the back rows. He was in a suit, which was odd, and Richard, in all his years at the circus, had never seen the top of the man's head. He looked at Richard with a sad, yet reassuring smile, like, "Oh, yeah, we'll probably never see each other again, and your moving into a house that could probably eat you, but hey, you'll have a pool." Richard scowled.

No one in the circus had tried to get custody over him. They toyed around with the idea, while they thought he wasn't listening, but they never did. The circus, nor anyone in it, could afford a lawyer. Even if they did, it was pretty much useless. 90 uneducated, unfinaced circus folk, half not allowed to leave the country did not easily gain custody of an eight year old.

Pop had explained it to him, that the only family he'd ever known were just going to dump him in some foser home. He hadn't really understood until they let the police drag him away. They just stood there like statues, avoiding his eyes. It was the only time he'd ever felt like he could honselty kill someone.

His parents wouldn't have let that happen. Then again, if his parents were alive it wouldn't have happened at all.

"Hey," Rachel said, bending over and touching his shoulder, a big, eager grin on her face, "we won."

Yeah, 'cause I wasn't right here when he said it, "I heard."

"Aren't you happy? You get to live with Bruce."

Yay. "I guess."

Rachel was nice. Like Bruce, she didn't pester him about much. She was pretty, too. Like, supermodel pretty. Which he didn't mind.

Her lips fell into a half-frown, her eyes searching his like a supermarket price scanner, looking for his price. She found it.

"How about we go get some ice cream to celebrate?"

Damn it, she was good.

Richard let her lead him towards the doors, where Bruce was standing. He smiled at him, "Guess your gonna be living with me now."

Richard nodded. Maybe they thought he was retarded. "Yeah."

He could hear the noise even from inside the sound-proofed court room. A lump of dread formed at his throat. He didn't like noise, "Is there, like, another way out?"

Both Bruce and Rachel frowned at each other, catching glimpses at the door. She was assident District Attorney. He was a billionaire. They were used to it, though he couldn't see how.

Bruce looked at him, "We could go through that door," he jutted his chin towards a dark wooden swinging door beside the judges seat, "but that's where the convicted get carted off."

Great. Walk of Shame or permenent claustrophobia?

"Let's go that way." Richard concluded, deciding to brave the hungry reporters. They'd probably bite his head off, but he didn't want to see where killers go for their time-outs.

A little mini-forcefeild was created around him, Bruce and Rachel closest to him. The super-lawyers gathered around, all hyped up to answer questions about their extreme lawyer skills.

Rachel shoved the doors open and hustled him through the crowd. He heard people call his name. Rachel's name. Bruce's name. Alot of Bruce's name.

"We're not answering any questions." Rachel practically barked at the frenzy, pushing him faster. He almost stumbled over his shiny dress shoes that didn't fit right, Bruce grabbing his shoulder. His hands were big. And strong. They could probably crush his little eight year old bones if he squeezed hard enough. It was unsettling.

When they got outside, their was a limo parked right in front of the sidewalk. Long, black and glinting off the afternoon sun, it didn't seem right against the gritty, urban streets of South Gotham. He'd seen limos before, when the circus had preformed for the higher-ups. He'd only been in one for the first time last month when he was first brought to Wayne Manor. Honest to God, he didn't get why people bothered having houses when they had those.

Bruce opened the door swiftly, Rachel shoving him in. He landed on the sqeeking leather seats, quickly sliding to the farther end as Rachela and Bruce escaped the frenzy. He had flashbacks of War of the Worlds when the desperate humans starting clawing at the only working car in the world, trampling at each other and ripping the glass apart with their bare hands like starving animals.

Once they were a good two blocks from the crazed reporters, Richard asked, "Why am I so interesting?"

"Because you're with me." answered Bruce, peering out the window.

"Why are you so interesting?"

Bruce chuckled, "Good question."

They stayed in the car while Rachel strode into the store and ice cream, because, luck would have it, a miniture crowd had assembled around the car like inside held the meaning of life.

"Is it always like this?" Richard asked.

"Only if I do something interesting."

"Like what?"

Bruce's lips twitched, as though he were thinking of some inside joke, "Oh, they always find something."

Rachel came back, looking flustered, and gave Bruce and Richard two medium sized cups with little plastic spoons stuck inside, "Jesus, you'd think they had somewhere to be."

Bruce looked inside his cup and smiled, "I don't like strawberry."

Rachel glared at him, "Eat it or you can walk."

"It's my car."

She breathed out, picking at her own ice cream without much interest. Richard shoved a spoonful in his mouth, ignoring the icy wave flooding the inside of his skull.

"So, like, it's gonna be like that alot?" he asked, no real purpose in mind. He looked down at his cup.

There was a pause. "For a while." Rachel answered.

"How long's 'a while?'"

"Until someone else does something interesting." Bruce answered.

"Bruce." Rachel hissed. Apparently, Richard couldn't be exposed to such bluntness. He was only eight years old. He was a delicate flower.

"Like what?" he asked, wondering if there was anyone who meant anything other then Bruce Wayne in the entire city.

Bruce chuckled again, "Robbery, bribes, murder. You know. Alot more interesting then a billionaire adopting an orphan."

Richard cringed at the word orphan. He leaned forward, "Murder?"

"Bruce!" Rachel chided, her voice harsh. She turned to him, "You don't have to worry about that, Richard."

He didn't have to deal with murder. Yeah. Okay. Let's say his parents because their cords snapped when they went bungy jumping in Aspen.

Rachel realized this apprently, catching herself and shaking her head, "No, I mean...Your going to be fine. You don't have to worry about anything. We'll handle it."

Handle what? Was there anything forementioned that needed to be handled? Richard decided to drop it.

The car pulled up to that house. Tall. Menicing. Looming. Glaring down at the shambled city with a twisted elegence, mocking those below, reminding them of everything they didn't have. It would, without question, give him nightmares.

Welcome home, Richard.

A/N I wasn't sure where to post this, because it can be any sort of Batman section. I'll just put it in Nightwing, bacause I haven't posted anything up their yet.

By the way, I don't own anything DC produced, nor do I own Rachel Dawes, she is property of Christopher Nolan. I own Bullfrog Judge. Thats it.