Taking a deep breath, Dick stepped onto the stage and straightened his stance. He hadn't even begun the hard part yet, but beads of sweat had already started collecting around his brow and hairline.

It must have been the lights overhead, nearly blinding him. They burned so brightly he could see speckles of dust floating in the air.

It definitely wasn't his nerves. He had stepped onto this stage dozens of times before. In front of hundreds of people. Now, it was just him and his teacher sitting alone somewhere in the auditorium.

The melody from the piano recording swelled with each leap and twirl. His heart beat in tandem each time his feet made contact with the stage.

Dick knew somewhere in the gaping darkness off-stage that the other ballet dancers were watching him. He had been in their place not too long ago, studying every movement, every mistake they made.

He blamed Bruce for picking up that annoying trait of his.

But he couldn't fault him too much if this rigorous audition ended up paying off.

Before long, the recording came to a finish and the rest of the lights in the auditorium flicked on. His teacher, Mrs. Torsky, stood up from one of the middle rows with an unreadable look on her face.

Oh, shoot. Was it really that bad?

"Thank you, Mr. Grayson. That will be all." Her words echoed through the theater and straight into Dick's pounding heart.

"Thank you." With a quick bow, Dick hurried off the stage with what little dignity he had left.

Why didn't he stick with gymnastics? Oh, that's right. Bruce quickly pulled him out of it after walking in on him and his coach after practice. Dick had just finished an intense routine and his coach was praising him for it, saying things like how he was his best student and how far he would go. Too focused on gulping his water, he didn't notice how his coach drew closer. Nor how his coach's free hand started to trail from his shoulder down to his back.

That's when the doors swung open and Bruce stormed in, startling the both of them.
That was the last time Dick ever stepped foot in that gym. And now that he thought about it, that was the last time he ever saw his coach.

Before he could ponder it any further, Dick was pulled from his thoughts by the other dancers swarming him.

"That was amazing!" one of the younger dancers cried. "You got the part for sure!"

Dick chuckled. "We'll see."

"You're the best dancer here! There's no way you won't be the Cavalier!"

"Thank you, but anything can happen until the announcement is made." And Dick meant that. Yes, he knew he was one of the more talented dancers, but after that performance, he couldn't be so sure he had it in the bag.

"Everyone! Please come back on stage!" Mrs. Torsky was a small woman, but you wouldn't know it from her voice. It could ring out as far up as the rafters. Dick was sure of it.

The soft thuds of several ballet slippers could be heard as everyone rushed back on stage. Dick took his place towards the front, near the edge of the stage, and waited.

What could this possibly be about?

It didn't take long for Mrs. Torsky to answer that question.

"After watching this past week's auditions, I decided to do something I have never done before in the twenty-five years I have been teaching here." Her stern gaze met each of her students'. "I have decided not to postpone the results until the next practice. In a few minutes, you all will know your parts for the Nutcracker."

There was an audible gasp in the theater. The dancers all glanced at each other in disbelief, whispering if they had heard her correctly. But Mrs. Torsky quickly silenced them with a clearing of her throat.

"As I was saying, I don't need any more time to decide." She glanced down at her clipboard. "Let's start with the part of Clara..."

The list of names all faded into the background for Dick. There was only one name he needed to hear and when it was finally called, Dick took in a deep breath. He hadn't realized how shallow his breathing had become until Mrs. Torsky announced Dick Grayson would be performing as the Cavalier.

"No surprise there," the prima ballerina, Christine, muttered.

"Oh, c'mon. You know you want me as your partner. Who else is going to hold you up with that big head of yours?" Dick flashed her grin, knowing she was only teasing. Her playful eye-roll confirmed it.

After everyone's role was announced, Mrs. Torsky dismissed them for the day. Dick was one of the last ones remaining, but as he made his way toward the exit, his instructor stopped him.

"Mr. Grayson, a word, please." She gestured him over towards the stage.

"Sure." He readjusted his bag over his shoulder and headed towards her.

"I know we talked about this briefly, but I wanted to ask if you had given any more consideration to the Bolshoi Ballet Academy? They're having auditions for their summer program in New York in January and I believe it would be an incredible opportunity. You've demonstrated exceptional talent in such a short amount of time, especially for being trained so late in life. I firmly believe you could study under them."

Dick felt his mouth waver between a frown and a smile at her words. While he was deeply touched, he knew there was an unmovable obstacle in his way. And it wasn't his age or lack of training.

That object was his adopted father.

"Thank you. You don't know how much that means to me," he said, not wanting to seem ungrateful. "I have considered it and I really would love to audition. I have fallen in love with ballet and I could see myself doing this for the rest of my life."

A rare smile appeared on Mrs. Torsky's face. "I have no doubt you could be one of the best ballet dancers in America. It is in your blood, after all."

He laughed. That was true. Being part Russian did mean ballet was in his blood.

Too caught up in the excitement at the prospect, Dick's words escaped his mouth before his brain could process them. "Okay, you're right. I'll do it!"

"I will give you all the information next time we meet. I'm sure your father will be incredibly proud. Not only because he's a big supporter of the arts, but his mother was as well..."

At the mention of Bruce, Dick's smile faltered, and whatever Mrs. Torsky said afterward went in through one ear and out the other. He still hadn't asked Bruce about this, much less even brought it up to him. The one and only time Dick had mentioned he didn't want to go to college, that conversation was instantly shut down.

He could only imagine what awaited him when he revealed he wanted to turn his passion into his career.

And he figured it would be better for him if he had that conversation sooner rather than later.

By the time he and Mrs. Torsky finished talking, dusk had fallen over Gotham and the streetlights burned bright in each corner. It was late November, which meant there was more color than usual due to the red and green lights lining every tree and building. More people were out and about, shopping bags in one hand and a warm cup of coffee in the other.

Sure, Gotham was still dark and dreary, but this time of year was one of the rare times the city wasn't its depressing self.

As much as Dick enjoyed Christmas, he wasn't feeling very cheerful at the moment. He was practically dragging his feet toward the black Cadillac parked in front. Even his dance bag felt like it was full of bricks.

"Master Richard," the driver greeted as Dick opened the door. "I'm guessing it was a tough audition?"

"No. I got the part." Dick tossed the bag onto the backseat before climbing in. "But remember how I told you my instructor wanted me to audition for the Bolshoi Ballet Academy?"

Alfred nodded, which Dick took as a signal to continue. "So she brought it up again... and... I told her I would do it."

In all the seven years Dick had known Alfred, the man had rarely shown his emotions on his face. Maybe it was from living in Gotham too long or maybe the British were just a stoic bunch, Dick didn't know. But what he did know was he was screwed when he saw Alfred's eyes widen in surprise.

"Well, there's no doubt you have the talent to audition with them. Even Master Bruce would have to admit that." Alfred started the car and put it into drive.

"Ha, you underestimate his stubbornness then," Dick scoffed, tracing his finger along the frosted glass. "He might admit I have the talent, but not enough of it to do it professionally. You and I both know how he is. All logic and cold, hard facts. He'll ask what my backup plan is. What happens if things don't work out with the Bolshoi Ballet? Or ballet altogether?"

"Professional ballet is extremely competitive. He just wants to make sure you have other options. Life is already challenging, which you don't need me to remind you." Alfred peered at him through the rearview mirror. "He doesn't want you to struggle any more than you have to."

Dick sighed, unable to return Alfred's soft gaze. As usual, the old man was right. Dick knew why Bruce was being a control freak, but that didn't mean he had to like it. "Well, I'm still going to audition. So how do I break this to him?"

"You—"

"Should make him his favorite meal and tell him over dinner? That's a great idea!"

Alfred shook his head. "No. What I was going to say was that you should explain why you want to pursue ballet professionally and work out some sort of compromise."

Dick went back to staring out the window. But it wasn't like there was much to stare at anyway. Once they left the eyesore that was Gotham, it was nothing but dense forest for miles.

It was Alfred's turn to sigh. "Master Richard, cooking a meal won't help."

"But it'll make the news go down easier, right?" Dick clung to the back of the passenger seat and put on his best puppy dog eyes. "Please, Alfred. You can't be too mad when you've just eaten a delicious meal."

Alfred finally relented because of course he would. Dick's puppy dog eyes never failed him before, so why would they fail now? "Alright, Master Bruce's favorite meal as a child was mulligatawny soup."

"Why am I not surprised that would be his favorite meal? A dish no one has heard of and most people don't even know how to pronounce." Dick threw his hands up in the air for emphasis. "You know, most kids' favorite food would be chicken nuggets or pizza."

Alfred exchanged another glance with him through the mirror, his expression ever so slightly agreeing with the ridiculousness of it all. "I know."

The towers of the manor soon rose out of the creeping darkness like an ancient castle forgotten by time. The first time Dick had laid eyes on the estate, he was sure he was about to enter a haunted house. No one would want to willingly live in a place like that except for ghosts.

Thankfully, the inside was a lot better.

Yet, it still never failed to impress Dick that someone could live like this in this day and age. Wayne Manor belonged more in the worn pages of his history book than in 1975.

After Alfred parked the car out of many in the driveway, Dick wasted no time getting down to business. Who knew how long this soup would take? And he wanted everything to be ready as soon as Bruce walked in the door.

"Alright." Dick clapped his hands together after hopping out of the car. "So what ingredients do we need for this soup?"

"Hopefully we have all of them." Alfred retrieved Dick's forgotten bag from the backseat and followed after him. "Its origins come from South India so—"

He immediately shut his mouth once he saw Dick was no longer paying attention. The young man had made a beeline for the kitchen and was too busy rummaging through the enormous two-door pantry.

With a smile, Alfred set the dance bag off to the side. "Master Richard, we will need chicken, chicken broth, dried thyme..."

For each ingredient he listed, Dick would run and retrieve it. When he had collected all of them, he sighed in relief. The deliveryman came only once every morning, so if they had been missing something, they would have been out of luck.

After much—needed guidance from Alfred—thank goodness he was so patient—Dick had successfully made his first mulligatawny soup. It had probably taken longer than it should've, but that was because Dick kept goofing off and wanting to talk instead of cook.

"I have to say." Dick licked his lips after taking a sip of the soup. "For it being my first try, it tastes pretty good."

"Yes, I quite agree," Alfred replied, tasting it.

"It could've been a lot worse," Dick pointed out as he rinsed his spoon. "I should get an A for effort, at least."

Once he finished cleaning up, Dick plopped down at the head of the long dining table adjacent to the kitchen. "And now we wait."

So Dick waited.

And waited.

While Alfred kept an eye on the soup, Dick tapped his fingers along the cherry oak. When he wasn't staring at the giant grandfather clock, Dick would glance up at the crystal-shard chandelier hanging right above him. After a while, he got tired of sitting and took to pacing around the kitchen.

What was taking so long?

The evening grew later and later, but Bruce never arrived.

"Master Richard." Alfred's gentle voice broke the deafening silence. "You're going to run a hole into the ground."

Dick came to a sudden halt after what was probably his fiftieth lap around the kitchen. "Where is he? I know Bruce is a workaholic, but this is ridiculous. It's almost going to be ten!"

"You know he likes to work nights."

Dick didn't answer that. If he didn't know any better, he would've guessed Bruce knew what was waiting for him at home and was intentionally avoiding it.

Just when he thought he would go insane with another passing minute, the shrill sound of a phone ringing startled him.

Before Dick could rush over to answer it, Alfred beat him, like he knew that was exactly what Dick planned to do.

"Wayne Residence," he answered. "Oh, Master Bruce. Are you on your way home?"

Dick listened in from nearby. He strained to hear something from the other end, but Bruce's voice was too low to pick up anything.

"It would be nice if you could come home soon. Master Richard has prepared quite a surprise for you... No, it can't wait. He worked very hard on it and—" Alfred grew silent. "Very well. I understand. I will let him know." And with that, Alfred hung up the phone.

Dick didn't even need to see the grim look on the butler's face to know what that meant. Bruce wasn't coming.

"Master Richard, I'm sorry—"

"It's fine, Alfred." Dick crossed his arms and started towards the kitchen. "Let's just clean all this up."

"No, I'll clean it up. That's why I'm here. You should go and take a hot bath." Alfred placed a hand on his shoulder to stop him. "You will feel better afterward."

Dick nodded, trying not to let this upset him. "Okay, thanks."

The long trek up the stairs didn't help his mood. It just gave him more time to ruminate as he passed each stone-faced portrait hanging on the wall. They seemed to be staring at him, their stern gazes were even more severe than usual.

He imagined that's how Bruce would have looked when he finally broke the news to him. Whenever he did.

Maybe this whole preparing a meal was stupid to begin with. Dick could've put on a dinner with a show and Bruce's answer would still be the same.

Seven years living with the man and Dick knew him better than anyone besides probably Alfred.

As Dick let today's events wash away in the shower, he realized once again Alfred was right. Not only about the meal, but also that this shower was what he needed. It felt amazing for his sore muscles and the steam was relieving him of all the tension he built up.

After changing into a fresh pair of pajamas, he dragged himself to his plush bed and collapsed.

Dick must've been more exhausted than he thought because the next thing he knew, he woke up to complete darkness. It took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust and when they did, he saw it was after midnight on his clock.

That was weird. He didn't usually wake up during the night. At least not since his nightmares. But those hadn't happened since he was a child.

Something had woken him up. And it wasn't a nightmare.

As if on cue, the sound of two voices engaged in an argument downstairs caught his attention. Dick stumbled out of bed towards the opened door. Even though he couldn't make out a word, he knew it was heated, especially if he could hear them from the second floor.

From what he could tell, they were at the foot of the stairs. And it didn't take a detective to guess the voices belonged to Bruce and Alfred.

Something wasn't right though. Bruce never raised his voice towards Alfred. Sure, he could be impatient or curt with him. Even the one time Dick had overheard an argument between the two, it wasn't to this level.

What were they even arguing about?

Just as Dick was debating if he should step into the gallery, Bruce's voice drew nearer and Dick quickly shut the door.

He remained still for a few minutes, not twisting the doorknob until he was sure Bruce had passed. The sensation of his bare feet leaving the soft carpet and hitting the cold wooden floor erased any lingering traces of sleep. He was fully awake now.

The gallery was pitch black. Not even a sliver of the night sky trickled in.

Dick had walked this path to Bruce's room many times before. When he first moved to Wayne Manor and suffered from the nightmares of his parents' deaths, he would go to Bruce and they would talk it out until Dick fell asleep and somehow woke up back in his room.

Little did he know he was about to walk into a waking nightmare.

The first thing Dick noticed was the blue orbs burning through the darkness. They noticed him too and locked onto him.

But that wasn't what made Dick's throat go dry and his heart start pounding.

No, it was what he saw next.

As the two stared at each other in tense silence, the clouds had moved their shroud and moonlight came pouring into the bedroom through the window.

It was enough for Dick to see the dark red staining the front of Bruce's white shirt and mouth.

He had been frozen stiff in the doorway until that moment. But muscle memory, instinct, or maybe a combination of the two kicked in and told—no, demanded—him to run.

He did not stop until he reached his room.

Slamming the door behind him and locking it, Dick fell to the floor, unable to breathe. He clawed at his neck, each shallow breath he took sounding like a wheeze. The darkness swirled around him and he was sure he would suffocate.

It seemed to take an eternity before he could finally breathe again. The world had stopped spinning, and he moved from the fetal position he hadn't realized he had curled into. With tears brimming in his eyes, Dick sat up against the door, waiting for the inevitable knock or turn of the doorknob.

But Bruce never arrived.