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Circus Boy (ch3)

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Robbinville was the kind of place Gotham forgot to finish.

Too far from Blüdhaven to benefit from its attempts at urban renewal, too close to the Bowery and Crime Alley to escape the grime that clung to everything. But to Dick, it was perfect—close enough to patrol routes, far enough for plausible deniability. Plus, Robbinville finally had something other than the chemical invested waters of the harbor.

The circus sat on a half-paved lot between a scrapyard and an abandoned rail line, a splash of color against the soot-stained skyline. From a distance, it looked almost cheerful—painted tents, faded posters, a string of flickering bulbs spelling out Charlie's Circus. Up close, the gloss didn’t hold. The canvas was patched in places, the banners sun-bleached and fraying at the edges. Still, there was life here. Music crackled through tinny speakers, performers practiced in the open air, and somewhere, the smell of popcorn valiantly tried to mask diesel and rust.

“Mr. Grayson! A pleasure!”

Dick turned to see a short, round man waddling toward him, decked out in a plum-colored suit that looked expensive but somehow greasy at the same time. Every finger glittered with rings; his watch looked like it could pay off a mortgage—or a mob debt. His smile was wide, practiced, and nowhere near his eyes.

“Charlie Delmar,” the man said, thrusting out a hand. “Ringmaster, manager, entrepreneur. Welcome to my humble enterprise.” The man certainly had a knack for flair.

“Glad to be here,” Dick said, shaking his hand firmly and resisting the urge to wipe his palm afterward. “You’ve got quite the operation.”

“Ahh, we make do! Not quite the glory days of Haly’s, hmm?” Charlie said, laughing too loudly. “But we keep the crowds happy, the lights bright, and the money moving.”

Dick subtly wiped his hand on his pants.

“Those are the big three,” Dick agreed with the tilt of his head, eyes flicking around. The place wasn’t falling apart, but it carried that same patchwork energy he’d seen in small-town shows—held together by willpower, duct tape, and underpaid labor.

Charlie led him through the lot, gesturing grandly at everything as if he owned a small empire instead of a mid-tier carnival. “We’ve got trapeze, animal acts, fire shows, acrobatics—oh, and our little prodigy, of course. The one that caught your eye!”

“Arach-Kid?” Dick asked, his tone carefully casual.

“The one and only!” Charlie’s grin sharpened. “Crowds love him. Best draw we’ve had in years. You won’t believe the fuss he put up about his stage name having a hyphen.”

“Stage name pride,” Dick said mildly. “I get it.”

Charlie’s laugh boomed again, and he waved toward one of the smaller tents. “My acrobrats are rehearsing now. Go say hello! You two will get along great—gymnast to gymnast, legend to legacy.” Charlie smiled, but it came off more condescending than happy.

Dick pushed the tent flap aside.

The main tent was buzzing when Dick walked in—music spilling from a crackling speaker, ropes swinging overhead, performers mid-rehearsal. The four adult acrobats from the previous show moved across the rig with practiced efficiency, calling out to one another in clipped, professional bursts.

He’d barely taken two steps before they noticed him.

“Wait—hold up, is that—”

“Holy hell, it’s Dick Grayson!”

The reaction was instantaneous. The group practically descended on him, a flurry of handshakes, greetings, and thinly veiled awe. Dick smiled politely through the swarm, fielding questions about training techniques, his old routines, about the Haly’s days, then apologizing for bringing it up and beating the dead horse that is his dead parents.

He was used to the attention, but something about it felt a little… performative. The smiles were too wide, the enthusiasm a little too desperate.

“Monsiuer Grayson, it’s an honor,” one of them said, grasping his arm with both hands.

“Please,” Dick said lightly. “Just Dick.”

“Oh, we couldn’t!” another said, practically simpering. “You’re a legend.”

“Tagedy what happened to your parents, our condolences.”

They laughed, loud and hollow. Dick gave a practiced grin, but his instincts prickled. They were friendly enough—but it was the plastic kind of friendliness people didn’t mean.

“Tagedy what happened to your parents, our condolences.”

Dick almost actively rolled his eyes, but played along. Thanking them, moving on, keeping the conversation going.

“Kid! You’re late again!” A man Charlie had been talking to called out.

A teenager ducked inside, jogging across the floor and looking like he’d been halfway through an apology before he even got there. “Sorry! Sorry, Ms. Sandy asked me to—uh—”

No one was listening, still buzzing around Dick.

The acrobats never even paused to pay attention to the kid, who looked very familiar. On the tip of Dick’s tongue, he swears.

The teen slowed to an awkward stop near the rig, looking pretty unimpressed as he shed his outside layers to reveal his, decidedly, homemade unitard. It hung loose at the wrists, clearly homemade, bright in a way that reminded Dick of Superman. Red, blue with a little flair of black web pattern stitched in, the kind of detail only someone meticulous (or sentimental) would bother with.

He said something Dick couldn’t hear over the sound of the other acrobats and rolled his eyes, starting to quietly prep.

“Don’t worry about them,” Charlie’s voice rang from behind, syrupy-slick. “They’re just starstruck, Mr. Grayson. Happens all the time.”

“It won’t distract them from their work, right?” Charlie’s voice wasn’t mean, per se, but sharp and a pretty plain way of telling them to stop causing a ruckus and get back to work.

“Sorry Charlie, we’ll get on it.” One of the men called, thankfully leading the way back to practice. The kid stood up to follow after, but they brushed right past him.

“Excellent. Keep it that way.” Charlie’s grin was all teeth. “I want our guest to see why Charlie’s Circus is worth every penny of his time.”

The boy—maybe thirteen, fifteen tops—stood near the rig, chalking his hands. Now, it’s a bit of an intuitive leap, but Dick had dealt with much the same attitude from older acrobats jealous of his talent. So chances are…

“Hey,” Dick called. “You must be the famous Arach-Kid.”

The boy turned, startled. His brown eyes wide, like he didn’t expect Dick to actually address him. He straightened, trying to play it cool. “That’s what they call me,” he said. His voice cracked just a little. “But, uh—yeah. That’s me. I tried for Spider-Man, but it didn’t stick.” There was a lilt of humor, like an inside joke.

Dick offered a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure you’ll grow into it.” the kid shrugged, clearly still bummed.

“Grayson, Dick Grayson,” Dick said, giving a mock bow and a grin. “At your service,” that got a small, genuine laugh from the boy—bright and unguarded.

Then a side eye. “You sure you ain’t a scammer?” He leaned forward, eyeing Dick up and down. “Like, Flying Grayson Dick Grayson? For suresies?”

Dick’s irritation eased a little, despite himself. It was hard to stay mad when faced with a wiry teenager in glasses too big, a gap in his two front teeth, and the funniest attempt at sizing Dick up he’s ever gotten.

“Last I checked.” He tipped his imaginary cowboy hat.

The teen squinted at him, staring for a couple seconds longer before he seemed to believe Dick, eyes lighting up in wonder.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen someone recognize his name, and certainly won’t be the last, but it was one of the few times associating the “Flying Grayson” part didn’t come without awkward condolences or whispered mentions of tragedy. Just awe. Plain earnest awe. Once he got past the skepticism, of course.

Peter tried to recover, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wow. Uh. Yeah. Sorry. I just—your form’s, like, legendary. I’ve seen videos. A lot of them. Probably too many, actually. That sounded creepy, didn’t it?” He ducked his head, “Sorry, I’m Peter.” Peter wiped his hands, but hesitated on whether he should actually shake hands or not.

Dick met him half way, amused.

“Little bit,” Dick said, grinning. “But my brothers’ worse, so I’ll allow it.”

Peter laughed awkwardly, still avoiding direct eye contact. “Cool. Uh. Thanks. So, are you really here to—like, work here? Or is this one of those, uh, publicity things?” He blinked. “No offense.”

“Little of both,” Dick said smoothly. “I wanted to see how you do things here. Maybe learn a few tricks. Maybe teach a few.”

Peter perked up instantly, the tension fading from his shoulders. “You’d actually teach me?”

“Sure,” Dick said, crossing his arms. “Though I might have to steal that quadruple somersault back first.”

Peter flushed, flustered. “I—I didn’t mean to copy it! I swear, I just—someone showed me a recording, and asked if l could do that, and I—” He trailed off, realizing what he’d said.

Dick’s smile didn’t fade, but his mind sharpened like a blade. Someone showed him.

Not that it’s hard to get ahold of recordings of the move, but rather the fact someone expressly asked if he could do it. Nevermind how dangerous it could be to other people, messing up the quadruple somersault can end with a couple of your bones broken, with a range of severity.

“Relax, kid,” he said, easy and calm. “I’m not mad.” The hell he wasn’t.

Not at Peter, anyway.

But whoever decided to hand a teenager his family’s signature trick like it was a party trick? That was a different story entirely.

Peter hesitated, eyes darting toward the tent flap as if half-expecting Charlie to materialize from across the tent. “Good,” he said quietly. “Because I don’t think I could pull off a quadruple somersault and survive getting yelled at in the same day.”

Dick huffed a small laugh. “Yelling’s standard circus management, unfortunately. Comes with the smell of sweat and disappointment.”

“That explains so much about Charlie,” Peter muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Dick to catch.

Dick raised a brow. “You and he get along well, I take it?”

Peter barked a short laugh. “Oh, yeah. We’re besties. He yells, I nod, and everyone’s happy. It’s a real healthy work environment.”

“Sounds it,” Dick said dryly.

Peter shrugged, tugging absently at one of the fraying seams of his sleeve. “He’s… manageable. Mostly. I just keep my head down, do my sets, and try not to outshine the adults. Again.” He smirked.

Oh ho, kid’s got sass.

“You that good?” Dick asked, a teasing lilt in his voice.

Peter looked up, surprised, and then grinned, some of the tension melting away. “I mean, I didn’t die doing your move, so… probably?”

Dick snorted. “Cocky, huh?”

“Confident,” Peter corrected, dusting his hands. “If I were cocky, I’d start charging commission.”

Before Dick could answer, one of the older acrobats called out from the rig, voice dripping with false sweetness. “Hey, Arach-kid, maybe let the legend get some space, yeah? Don’t want you wasting his time.”

Peter froze for half a second, then smiled too brightly. “Wouldn’t dream of it!” he said, voice all polite cheer. He had that customer service voice down-pat.

Dick’s observed. He watched their interactions, watched Peter’s reactions. The others had gone right back to ignoring him, moving through their warm-ups like the teenager wasn’t even there. It was a well-practiced dance—acknowledge him only when you needed to remind him where he stood out of a sense of insecurities. Dick was all too familiar with that treatment.

It’s an easy remedy, once you figure it out.

Peter rolled his eyes, just a flicker of motion, and leaned in slightly. “They’re real team players,” he muttered, then louder, “I’ll, uh, start rehearsal.”

He started climbing the ladder toward the high platform, movements efficient but too careful—like someone who’d learned the hard way not to make mistakes where people were watching.

Dick watched him go, that tight knot forming again in his chest. The kid was witty, skilled, and still learning his place in this circus. It's obvious that he’s being ostracized because not only is he an outsider, but he’s become the top banana* of their troupe in, give or take, three months. (From media posts and a vague timeline Tim had made last night of when Arach-Kid started appearing. Give or take a couple weeks.)

Charlie reappeared at his elbow, all smiles and gold chains. Maybe the kid was right to be whispering, this guy was nosey. “Talented boy, isn’t he?” he said, voice oily and proud, like Peter was another shiny trophy for his shelf. “Got the reflexes of a cat, that one. And obedient, too.”

Dick kept his expression pleasant. “He’s definitely something,” he said.

Charlie clapped him on the back, too hard to be friendly. “You’ll see what I mean during rehearsal. Maybe he’ll even do that trick of yours, hmm? If he’s not too tired, of course.”

Dick hummed, caught between wanting to see it and the wrongness of someone not a Grayson performing it. “Right. Can’t wait.”

As Charlie waddled back off to sit in his, frankly, ostentatious chair. It was like he wanted to simultaneously micro manage everything, without actually managing. He just stuck around to brag and order people around, while accomplishing zero work in the end.

Dick glanced back up at the rig.

And something about that made Dick’s stomach twist.

Because brilliance like that, in a place like this, under someone like Charlie Delmar? It rarely ended well.

The acrobats—four adults and one kid—moved like a machine missing a few bolts. Their timing was good, but there was a stiffness to it, a lack of trust between them that any trained eye could see. Or any eye, really, if there were no flashing lights, fog machines and expectations skewing your view.

Dick tilted his head, subtly checking his phone for information Tim had compiled on the other members Dick would be spending the most time with. Tim had taken it on himself to briefly look into everyone at the circus, maybe sorta illegally.

Jean-Luc Moreau, the ringleader of the acro team, was a wiry man in his late thirties with a permanent sneer and the kind of arrogance that comes from having just enough talent to think you’re irreplaceable. His voice carried a heavy French accent, the kind that made every insult sound like poetry if you didn’t speak the language. His jet-black hair was slicked back, a little too much oil glinting under the lights. He was someone who picked on those weaker than himself, and sucked up to anyone with power.

Beside him, Malcolm Reeves was his opposite in every way—taller, broader, older. In his forties, his power came from steadiness rather than flash. His dark skin gleamed with sweat under the stage lights, and his movements were careful, efficient, and practiced. He had the whole dark and mysterious thing going for him.

Then there was Deborah Boone, also in her thirties, uptight and bitter. She used to be a contortionist for horror movies. She hadn’t done anything very notable, acrobat wise and personal life wise.

The youngest, Sasha Dean, in her early twenties. Her timing was off—a half-second late on every catch, a beat too long on every release. She had the energy, but not the instincts, and it showed.

And then there was Peter.

The kid had the natural rhythm of a born aerialist—graceful, elastic, alive in motion. Dick’s only critique was a lack of proper form; it was clear Peter was self taught. If his reflexes were any slower, some of his flips and tricks would end with a not-so-fun trip to the hospital.

His red-and-blue unitard flashed like a spark as he swung from the trapeze, settling into position between Jean-Luc and Deborah. He was smaller, lighter—the flier of the group—and clearly used to being tossed, caught, and flung across the rig like he was weightless.

Jean-Luc barked out a series of cues, slipping between English and French as the group began their routine.

Deborah took the first swing, her legs slicing the air as she flipped forward into Malcolm’s grip. A smooth exchange. Then Jean-Luc climbed up to the next platform, balancing effortlessly before leaping outward, twisting twice before catching Deborah’s wrists.

Peter stood ready on the far platform, waiting for his mark. When he jumped, it was with the easy confidence of someone who trusted the air to hold him. His legs extended, spine straight, eyes locked on his catcher.

Jean-Luc caught him, but the moment they reconnected, Dick saw it—the faint shift of weight, the subtle twist of wrist that turned a secure hold into a near-drop.

Peter slipped, managing to hook one leg around the bar just in time to save himself.

“Mon dieu, kid, focus!” Jean-Luc barked, shaking his head as if Peter had fumbled. “You have to stay tight! You’re too loose!”

Peter’s face flushed red. “Sorry,” he said automatically, breathless. “Won’t happen again.”

Jean-Luc muttered something in French that definitely wasn’t complimentary.

They reset. Again, Peter launched—another solid takeoff, another near-miss as Jean-Luc let the timing slip by a heartbeat before catching him. It was deliberate. Subtle, but deliberate.

Dick’s eyes narrowed.

Jean-Luc smiled up at him, all teeth. “You see? He needs polish, yes? But he has potential.”

“Sure looks that way,” Dick said evenly, keeping his expression neutral.

Dick narrowly missed the annoyed glare thrown his way, and the blank stare Peter directed at Jean-Luc. It was a stare Dick often saw on Jason before he decided he wanted to ruin someone’s future.

On the next go, Malcolm stepped in as the base, solid and steady. Peter arced through the air, caught Malcolm’s wrists, and this time the connection held cleanly. No wobble. No “accidental” slip.

Jean-Luc clapped sarcastically. “At last! Bravo, petit araignée!”

Peter scrunched up his nose, as though the act of Jean-Luc complimenting him was worse than purposely getting sabotaged. “Merci,” he said, dry as dust.

Deborah and Sasha took their turns, running a series of simpler passes—a few layouts, a tucked double, nothing spectacular. The whole act had that safe, repetitive feel of a troupe coasting on old routines. Which isn’t a bad thing! Dick’s own troupe had done the same, except they had, well, the Graysons. Kind of a different bracket here.

Peter’s section was the only one that made the crowd—small as it was now—hold its breath.

After pulling off the quadruple somersault last show? They’d need a whole bleachers stand for the next show, without a doubt.

When Peter dropped back to the net after another flawless double, Jean-Luc called out, “Work on your form, boy, before you make a real mess of yourself!”

Peter climbed down, rolling his shoulders, muttering just loud enough for Dick to hear, “Pretty sure the only mess around here is your form, Jean-Limp.”

Dick smothered a laugh behind his hand.

Peter smirked, having seen through Dick.

Deborah and Sasha took their turns, running a series of simpler passes—a few layouts, a tucked double, nothing spectacular. The whole act had that safe, repetitive feel of a troupe coasting on old routines.

Peter’s section was the only one that made the small crowd of onlookers hold its breath. But Dick could tell it wasn’t the act that made them uneasy. It was the way Jean-Luc handled him. The calculated little slips. The digs. The whispered blame. The kind of quiet sabotage that eats away at a performer’s confidence until they start to believe it’s their fault.

“Wonderful!” Charlie boomed like a one-man parade, clapping his hands so loudly that Sasha, mid-swing, missed her grip and landed flat on the net with a startled yelp. Oblivious—or maybe not caring. “But, ah, we need more zing, more pizzazz! You’re giving me math when I want fireworks!”

Jean-Luc blinked down from the rig, clearly irritated. “We are rehearsing the sequence, monsieur.”

“Yes, yes, and the sequence is fine,” Charlie said, waving a dismissive hand. “But no one pays to see your ‘technical perfection.’ The audience wants drama! Flips! Spins! Some—” he paused, searching for a word, “—some falls and near catches! Legacies happening right before their eyes!”

Deborah closed her eyes briefly, like she was praying for patience. Malcolm just exhaled through his nose.

Charlie turned to Dick, beaming. “You’d agree, wouldn’t you, Mr. Grayson? Showmanship over science, yes?”

Dick’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Depends on whether you like your performers alive.”

Charlie laughed far too hard at that. “Alive, yes, yes, of course—safety first!” he said, clearly not meaning it. “But! Speaking of legacies…” His grin widened like oil spreading over water. “Why don’t we end with that little Grayson number? What do you call it again? The quadruple somersault?”

The air in the tent shifted instantly.

Peter froze on the ladder, one hand gripping the rung, knuckles white. Jean-Luc shot him a sideways smirk.

Dick’s jaw tightened, but his tone stayed mild. “I see you’ve taken quite the liking to my move.”

Charlie’s eyes gleamed. “It’s quite the showstopper, Mr. Grayson. You know how the show business is.”

He clapped his hands again, loud and sharp. “Come on, Arach-Kid! Let’s see the magic! Give our guest a taste of what makes my circus worth his time.”

Peter hesitated, his eyes flicking from the rig to Dick. There was a crack in his exterior—a sliver of uncertainty, of guilt. “I—uh—Mr. Delmar, maybe we should—”

Charlie’s smile twitched. “Come now, Petey, aren’t we pals?

Peter swallowed hard. He nodded.

He climbed the rest of the way up, every motion tighter than before. No jokes now, no muttered words under his breath. Nothing too nice, from what Dick lip-read.

Dick stood perfectly still, eyes locked on him. Every detail, every movement—he cataloged it all.

Peter perched on the bar, breath steady. His hands flexed once, twice. Then he pushed off.

The swing started slow, controlled. His timing was sharp, but his shoulders betrayed the faintest tension—a telltale stiffness before release. Then he let go.

The world seemed to still for a heartbeat.

One flip. Perfect tuck. Two—tight rotation, no wasted motion. Three—body alignment flawless, momentum steady. Four—clean execution, bar caught dead-center.

Seeing someone else do it, up close… Dick saw it in the micro-adjustments, the instinctual awareness of air and weight and speed. Not learned, not drilled—lived. Self-taught, pure reflex, and raw genius.

He landed the dismount with the precision of a veteran and the shakiness of someone who hadn’t breathed the entire time.

The tent erupted into polite applause, Jean-Luc forced a grin, and Charlie laughed like he’d just witnessed a miracle he owned.

“Beautiful! That’s what I’m talking about!” Charlie bellowed, spreading his arms wide. “See? The people eat that up!”

Peter climbed down the ladder, biting his lip, avoiding eye contact. Dick didn’t stop watching him for a second.

Charlie was still crowing to himself, but Dick barely heard him.

Because in all his years, he’d never seen anyone outside his family make that move look like theirs.

Peter dusted chalk off his hands and shot Dick a guilty look. Probably deciding if he was angry seeing his own move performed right in his face. Studying him. And, to be fair, Dick was studying him too. Just not as blatantly as Peter. Well—blatantly to Dick, who had received formal training. Peter was actually pretty slick otherwise.

Now, Dick would’ve stepped in sooner, in regards to the blatant bullying of a kid right in front of him, but… he wanted to see Peter’s reactions first. He wasn’t here just to make friends and mess around. He’d found out someone had shown and asked Peter to perform, and he had a pretty good theory as to who. Nothing a little snooping couldn’t help with confirming or disproving.

No records, no files, no clear background. Just this wiry teenager who’d pulled off a quadruple somersault like he’d been born under the same net Dick had once fallen through.

So, yeah—Dick watched him. Closely.

He studied how Peter carried himself in the air: wary, but not afraid; confident, but never cocky. His natural instinct was insane—his sense of balance and awareness of his surroundings downright absurd. The kid was getting tossed, dropped, and flipped with barely any disorientation. He moved like someone born for the air, not trained for it.

When Jean-Luc barked, Peter didn’t flinch. When someone missed a cue, he covered it smoothly, without calling attention to it. When he fell (read: got dropped), he didn’t curse or sulk—he just got back up.

He was tenacious. And untrained.

And that’s what bothered Dick most.

Anyone could try to copy the Grayson's technique. Keyword: try. But it wasn’t something you could just mimic. You had to understand it. You had to know how it felt. The control, the rhythm, the breath before the drop. The precision. The training it took.

Countless people had tried, failed, broken bones, and even paralyzed themselves trying to learn.

But he didn’t move like someone who’d been taught. His form wasn’t perfect—it was personal. Improvised. Self-built out of observation, instinct, and sheer stubbornness. Every swing and catch was just a little too sharp, a little too fast, the kind of thing you learned by watching others and saying, I can do that, instead of being told how to.

Dick’s stomach knotted, a faint pulse of unease under his calm expression. He wasn’t angry at Peter. Not really. But he itched to know.

So for now, he’d keep watching. Studying. Seeing how Peter moved, talked, laughed, lied.

Then he’d decide whether the kid was a prodigy— or a problem.

…Was he starting to sound a little too much like Bruce?