Bruce was sitting in his office at Wayne Enterprises, diligently going over the latest quarterly reports, when his cell phone rang. It was Hailey. Her voice, usually so composed, held a tremor of distress.

“Bruce,” she began, “Commissioner Gordon just brought a young boy in. His backpack says ‘Richie’. He’s just 5 years old. His parents were killed in a car accident a few hours ago. He’s not talking.”

Without a second thought, Bruce pushed away from his desk. “On my way.”

He arrived at the shelter a short time later, his presence immediately calming the tense atmosphere.

He found Richard sitting quietly in a corner, small and withdrawn, with Hailey and Gordon observing from a respectful distance. Bruce approached the boy slowly, then knelt in front of him, bringing himself to Richard’s eye level. He spoke softly, his voice gentle and comforting, words indistinguishable but clearly meant to soothe.

Everyone in the room gave them space, holding their breath, wondering if the traumatized child would respond.

To everyone’s profound surprise, the boy suddenly wrapped his small arms around Bruce’s neck, clinging to him tightly, and finally, mercifully, began crying.

Bruce held him tightly, pressing the small, trembling body against his chest. He knew this pain, this unbearable, sudden vacuum of loss.

He had lived it himself, a lifetime ago, a child orphaned and adrift in a world suddenly stripped of its anchor. In the young boy’s shuddering sobs, Bruce heard echoes of his own past, understanding full well the silent, searing agony the little boy was feeling.

When Richard’s sobs had quieted to shaky breaths, Gordon approached, his face etched with a familiar weariness. He silently handed Bruce two plastic-encased driver’s licenses. Bruce’s gaze fell on the names: John and Mary Grayson.

Bruce nodded, his gaze lingering on the licenses for a moment before he handed them back to Gordon. He then turned to the small boy, his voice gentle.

“Richie,” he said, “would you like to see something special?”

The boy, still sniffling, wiped his face with the back of his hand and nodded slowly, his eyes wide with a fragile curiosity.

Bruce took Richie’s hand and led him out to the waiting Bentley, where Alfred stood by the open door.

“Take us to the other garage, Alfred,” Bruce requested, a subtle emphasis.

Alfred nodded, a knowing smile playing on his lips, and about twenty minutes later, the luxurious car was descended into the hidden, dark entrance of the Batcave.

When the Bentley finally came to a stop in the heart of the cavern, Bruce turned to Richie, a slight, reassuring smile on his face.

“Richie, can you keep a secret?”

Richie nodded again, his gaze darting around the dimly lit space.

They got out of the Bentley, and as Richie’s eyes landed on the sleek, powerful lines of the Batmobile, perfectly illuminated in a dramatic spotlight, his jaw dropped. He looked at Bruce, then at the awe-inspiring vehicle, and then back at Bruce, a wide, genuine smile finally breaking through his grief-stricken face.

“Would you like to sit in it?” Bruce asked, a hint of amusement in his voice as he watched Richie’s awestruck reaction.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Richie dashed towards the sleek, black vehicle. Bruce remotely opened the canopy, and the interior lights glowed invitingly. Richie tried to scramble in, but his small size betrayed him; he couldn’t quite reach.

Bruce chuckled softly, then easily lifted the boy and helped him into the driver’s seat. Once settled, Richie’s eyes were wide with wonder as Bruce began pointing to various controls and displays. He told Richie all about what they did, explaining the functions of the buttons, the screens, and the steering yoke, his voice filled with a warmth rarely heard inside the Batcave.

Alfred watched from a distance, a soft, knowing smile gracing his lips. The sight of Bruce, usually so guarded, so burdened, engaging with the boy with such genuine warmth was a rare and welcome moment.

Richie, his face now alight with a wonder that momentarily eclipsed his grief, turned to Bruce, his small voice barely a whisper, yet clear as a bell. These were his first words since the accident earlier that day.

“Are you really him? Really Batman?”

Bruce met his gaze, a gentle smile touching his lips. He leaned in, conspiratorially.

“That, Richie, is our secret. Yours and mine. But what do you say? Would you like to learn how to keep Gotham safe with me?”

“You really mean it? I can help you beat up bad guys?” Richie’s eyes, still glistening with unshed tears, were now wide with an almost incandescent hope.

Bruce chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound that filled the quiet of the Batcave. He tousled Richie’s hair gently.

“Well, Richie, it’s a bit more complicated than just ‘beating up bad guys.’ Sometimes it’s about outsmarting them, sometimes it’s about helping people who are in trouble. And sometimes,” he added, a playful glint in his eye, “it’s about making sure Alfred doesn’t have to clean up all my messes. But yes, you can absolutely help me keep Gotham safe.”

And so, Bruce began a full-blown tour of all things Batman.

He showed Richie the gleaming rows of specialized vehicles beyond the Batmobile, explaining their unique capabilities.

He led him to the advanced forensic lab, detailing how he analyzed evidence, the infirmary, and then to his work station with the vast wall of monitors, explaining how he tracked criminals and gathered intelligence. Richie’s eyes, wide with amazement, followed every gesture, absorbing every word.

Finally, Bruce brought him to a section of the cave he and Alfred only opened—the vault where his suits were kept.

The various iterations of the Bat Suit stood in silent, powerful display, each a testament to years of fighting crime.

He explained the different materials, the functions of the gadgets embedded within them, and how each suit was designed for a specific purpose.

Richie listened, completely engrossed, the earlier tears of grief now replaced by pure, unadulterated wonder.

Bruce reached inside a small black box on one of the shelves, pulling out a sleek, discreet watch with a small bat on its face. He then knelt down, bringing himself to Richie’s eye level, and carefully fastened the watch around the boy’s slender wrist.

“Now this is our secret, Richie,” Bruce said, his voice soft but firm. “This is a very special watch. If you ever need me, no matter what, just push this button right here three times. And I’ll be there.”

“Promise?” Richie asked, his voice barely a whisper, his gaze fixed on the watch, then on Bruce’s face.

“I promise,” Bruce affirmed, his eyes warm and sincere. He then extended his hand, a small smile playing on his lips. “I’ll even pinky swear.”

He held up his little finger, waiting.

Richie ignored Bruce’s extended pinky. Instead, he wrapped his small arms around Bruce’s neck once again and hugging him as hard as he could, a silent, powerful affirmation of trust and a promise exchanged without words.

***

Bruce brought Richie back to the shelter, his small hand still clutching the special watch firmly around his wrist.

The boy, his eyes still wide with the magic of the Batcave, looked up at Bruce. Another tight hug, a wordless reaffirmation of their newfound connection, before Bruce gently disengaged and stepped back.

As he walked towards the waiting Bentley, his mind was already racing, the recent pain of Kelley Johnson’s truth fueling a new, fierce determination.

“Alfred,” he said, his voice low and urgent, “please get my attorney on the phone as soon as you can.”

Alfred, ever efficient, simply nodded. He closed Bruce’s car door, then slid behind the wheel. Without a word, he picked up the secure car phone and began dialing. In moments, he motioned for Bruce to pick up the extension.

“Mr. Dent is on the line, Master Bruce,” Alfred announced quietly.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce replied, bringing the phone to his ear, his gaze fixed on the shelter, a place that now held a new, very personal significance.

“Bruce, what do I owe the pleasure?” Harvey Dent’s familiar voice, crisp and professional, came through the phone.

“Harvey, I need a favor. A significant one,” Bruce replied, his tone serious. He paused, gathering his thoughts before recounting the somber details of the afternoon. “Commissioner Gordon brought a young boy to the shelter today. His name is Richard Grayson. His parents, John and Mary Grayson, were killed in a car accident just hours ago. He’s just five years old, and… he’s now completely alone. No known living relatives have been identified.”

Bruce took a breath, the implications heavy. “What do I need to do, Harvey? What’s the fastest, most straightforward path to make him my ward? I want to take him in, bring him here, give him a home, give him a life.”

Harvey paused after hearing his best friend’s plan and the concern in his voice. Then, a light chuckle came through the line, a familiar sound that cut through the somber topic. “Billionaire playboy going to play house now, Bruce?”

Bruce let out a genuine laugh, a rare sound born of shared history and understanding.

“Something like that,” he admitted, the humor a brief respite from the weight he carried.

“Alright, Bruce, serious hat on now,” Harvey said, his tone shifting to professional gravity. “Given he’s an orphan with no immediate family identified, you’re looking at a petition for guardianship. It’s pretty straightforward, but it’ll involve some legal hoops. We’ll need to file the petition with the family court. There will be a background check, of course, home visits by social services to assess suitability, and potentially a court hearing where a judge will make the final decision in the child’s best interest. It’s a public record process, so it will inevitably draw some media attention, especially given it’s you, Bruce Wayne, taking in a child.”

He continued, laying out the steps. “We’ll need to submit affidavits, get character references, and clearly demonstrate your financial stability and capacity to provide a nurturing environment. I’ll draft all the necessary paperwork immediately. It might take a few weeks, possibly a couple of months, depending on court schedules and how quickly social services can complete their assessment. But it’s certainly doable.”

“Good,” Bruce stated, his voice firm. “Whatever it takes. The cost doesn’t matter. Just get it done. And done fast.”

“Bruce, one more thing,” Harvey added, a note of careful counsel in his voice. “For the court’s consideration, and frankly, for public perception, it would look a lot better if you… cut back on the care-free lifestyle. The late-night parties, the rotating arm candy, the tabloids. A more stable, family-oriented image would go a long way in convincing everyone you’re serious about this.”

“Got it,” Bruce replied immediately, without hesitation. His only concern was for Richie, not the carefully constructed facade of the billionaire playboy and womanizer he had maintained for so long. That image, once a useful shield, now felt like a trivial inconvenience in the face of what truly mattered.

Bruce hung up the phone, the city’s distant hum a backdrop to the sudden quiet in the Bentley. He watched the world pass by his window, a blur of Gotham’s familiar streets. The weight of his decision settled upon him.

“Alfred,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, the question hanging in the air, tinged with a vulnerability he rarely showed. “Am I doing the right thing?”

He was Batman, a nocturnal guardian, a relentless force against chaos. He was a businessman, a titan of industry. He was not… a father. Yet, something deep inside him, a pull at his heart, drew him inextricably to the small, grieving boy.

Alfred, his gaze steady on the road ahead, spoke with the calm certainty of a man who had witnessed Bruce’s entire life unfold.

“Master Bruce, you are a man who has built his life around a solemn vow to protect the innocent. You have dedicated every fiber of your being to ensuring no child in Gotham suffers as you did. This young man, Richard, is an innocent. He is suffering. To offer him solace, a home, and a future where he can heal and thrive… how could that not be the right thing?” He paused, a gentle smile touching his lips.

“You may not have ‘father’ on your resume, sir, but you possess a heart capable of profound love and an unwavering sense of responsibility. Sometimes, the right path chooses us, not the other way around. And I daresay, Master Bruce, this path feels very much like destiny.”

Bruce offered a slight smile and a subtle nod, the weight on his shoulders easing, if only fractionally, under Alfred’s unwavering wisdom.

“Thank you, Alfred.”

© Copyright 2025 J.R. Geiger. All rights reserved.