Chapter Text
" We didn't heal the right way. We just kept moving sideways — and maybe that's enough. "
If there were a sound capable of capturing the essence of life beneath a circus tent, it would be that of dozens—perhaps hundreds—of breaths held in unison. A silent sound, yet one that vibrated in the air, heavy with anticipation and a touch of fear.
Down below, the audience kept their eyes fixed on the center of the arena, their attention split between wonder and a subtle anxiety that made fingers knot together in their laps. High above, between heights and danger, the acrobats floated on thin threads of courage disguised as silks and trapezes.
Delilah knew she was at the center of it all. Not because she was vain (though she was, just a little), but because she could feel the eyes on her like a warm beam of light—a mixture of awe, curiosity, and perhaps an unconscious fear of watching her fall.
It was one of those grand nights. The tent seemed to breathe with her, the soft music spilling from the speakers, and the long ruby-red silks hung from the top like promises. She climbed with the confidence of someone who had done it a thousand times—yet with a heart pounding as if it were the first.
Every movement she made was precise, elegant, almost liquid. Her body glided between the folds of the fabric, immersed in a silent dance against gravity. It was so perfectly choreographed it might have looked easy. It wasn’t. But it was beautiful. Almost ethereal.
Then came the final spin. The controlled fall. The acceleration of the world around her.
She landed barefoot on the padded platform, the fabric still wrapped around her like an extension of herself. She bowed with a perfect smile—the one she practiced more than any other trick, because the audience loved to be rewarded with a smile after a near-death moment.
The applause came in waves—vibrant, grateful—as if the crowd, too, had survived alongside her.
Delilah simply smiled a little more, even with her lungs begging for air.
It was just another night like any other—or at least, it should have been. And maybe it would have been, if not for that uncomfortable twinge that jabbed at Delilah deep inside, in the kind of place she usually ignored with sheer willpower and glitter.
She smiled, waved to the crowd, and bowed with the poised grace of someone who had trained until the muscle behind her smile ached. But deep down… there was something. A tightness. A disquieting whisper telling her that something was out of place.
Paranoia, of course. That’s what Jacques would say—and had said, more than once. “You’re seeing ghosts, Delilah.” And he always said it with that thick accent and the calm of someone who had never balanced twenty meters above the ground with nothing but a strip of fabric holding their existence together. “Nothing’s going to happen.” And usually, he was right. The show would end, the circus would pack up, life would move on.
Maybe it was just Gotham. The whole city felt like it had been built on a foundation of anxiety and smoke. The kind of place where even the air seemed heavier. Delilah hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath since stepping off the stage—until she finally inhaled deeply backstage, where the scent of makeup, sweat, and slightly burnt cotton candy was, paradoxically, comforting.
The backstage buzz wrapped around her like a warm tide. The mingled voices, the nervous laughter, the colorful costumes moving as if they had lives of their own. It was the organized chaos of the circus—and Delilah loved it. Even on the days when she doubted everything—her talent, her future, the choices that had led her here—she still loved it.
And then she saw them.
Mary and John, caught in one of those perfect, private moments, even amid the mess. Laughing quietly like the world wasn’t on the verge of turning upside down. Both wore their red, yellow, and green leotards with almost childlike pride. The makeup—applied hours earlier by Delilah’s delicate hands—still flawless. They had that rare kind of quiet presence that made everything feel less urgent.
They looked... unshakable. As if leaping into the void every day was just another Tuesday. As if loving and surviving were the same thing.
“You were glowing up there, Lila,” Mary said, with that voice that always felt like a warm blanket on a cold night. Her arm slid around Delilah’s shoulders with familiar precision—as if she knew exactly where to touch to ease the tension coiled there, in the muscles, in the thoughts, in the fears Delilah tried to bury beneath layers of makeup and self-assurance. “You were beautiful. And... light. Like a painting in motion.”
Delilah smiled, trying not to seem too affected—even though, inside, she was melting like hot caramel. Funny how such a small gesture could silence even the loudest thoughts. That strange fear—the one that had gnawed at her ribs during the performance like a whisper of bad omen—seemed, for a moment, smaller.
"Not that that’s anything new," John added, not taking his eyes off the equipment straps, but with that half-smile of his—pure warmth, no ego. He didn’t need to exaggerate, and maybe that’s why every compliment from him felt so genuine.
And for a moment—just a moment—Delilah almost believed everything was fine.
“You two are unbearably sweet. Keep this up and I might start thinking you’re normal people, instead of two of the craziest creatures ever to choose this kind of life,” she said, raising an eyebrow and offering a crooked smile. The kind of smile that came with an unwritten note: I love you, but also please don’t make me cry today.
“You’re one of us, Lila,” Mary replied, mirroring her expression—half-cynical, half-filled with a quiet faith Delilah never understood the source of.
Delilah let out a dramatic sigh and rolled her eyes.
“Exactly.”
The laughter they shared was brief, but it left a mark. One of those moments—short, but full—that, without warning, become cherished memories, the kind you tuck away deep in your mind. And one day, faced with a fragment of the past, you suddenly feel the ache of nostalgia without knowing exactly why.
Delilah held a deep affection for both of them. For Mary. For John. They were the foundation of her life at Haly’s Circus. She knew everyone there, of course—but they were different. Special. When she first arrived, nineteen years old with a messy world on her shoulders, it was Mary and John who made her feel, for the first time, like she belonged. They were the first to reach out, the first to show her there was a place for her—a safe corner where she could, finally, find a little peace.
Mary and John had made her feel at home, when Linda Gray had insisted that Mr. Haly take in one more performer—despite his complaints that they were already “full.” Back then, Delilah had been lost. Caught up in trouble, searching for direction in a place where she never seemed to fit. She was angry—at the world, at people, at every failed expectation. It had been a grey time, without color. She buried it all: the pain, the rage, the disappointment.
And there, at Haly’s Circus, she learned how to turn that chaos inside her into something beautiful. Art took over her life. Not just in the performances—where she discovered a part of herself among the heights and the pirouettes—but in the body painting, the makeup, the costumes, the choreography. It wasn’t an easy life, far from it. The circus had its hardships like any place, and the days weren’t always bright and joyful. It wasn’t a fairy tale. But every time they stepped onto the stage, it was as if they managed to create a little bit of magic. And that, in itself, was worth everything. Because in the end, the smile of a child—enchanted and awestruck—was worth more than words could ever say.
Their laughter still lingered in the air—light, warm, almost tangible—when the sound of hurried footsteps broke the calm of the moment. Delilah didn’t even have time to turn her head before she was hit by a small ball of energy named Richard Grayson.
“Dee!” Dick’s voice, loud and full of excitement, burst into the space, shattering the evening’s softness with his unmistakable presence.
The impact was small but effective. His thin arms wrapped around her waist with the kind of confidence born from habit and the sincere affection of someone who hadn’t yet realized how cruel the world could be toward gestures like that.
Delilah bent slightly, gathering the boy in her arms, her fingers slipping into the dark chaos of his hair.
“Little bird,” she murmured against his temple, smiling without meaning to. The nickname was old, intimate. One of those small traditions that form without anyone noticing. “Already causing trouble?”
Dick pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his gaze sparkling in that specific way only children still convinced the world was made of promises and trapezes could manage.
“No! I swear! I just came to see you before Mom and Dad’s act. They said I could,” he said, breathless from all the running, with a smile that stretched across half his face. “Did you know we trained all week? Dad said I’ll be joining them in the grand finale soon. He even promised that if I don’t miss the timing, we can try the new move.”
Delilah arched an eyebrow, then shot a sharp look at John over the top of Dick’s head.
“The new move? Seriously?”
John raised his hands in mock surrender.
“Easy, Lila. Only if everything’s perfect. No risks.”
“No risks in the circus. Right.” She sighed but didn’t press the issue. Deep down, she knew they knew what they were doing. She just couldn’t quiet that part of her brain that kept screaming how fragile it all was. How it only took one misstep.
Mary stepped in, gently taking one of Dick’s hands and giving it a tender squeeze.
“He’s ready. And you know it.”
“I know,” Delilah replied, though part of her was shouting the opposite.
Dick smiled at her with squinted eyes, the kind of smile that belonged on a postcard.
“You’re gonna watch, right? When I finally perform?”
The question came with the urgency of a whispered promise, and Delilah felt her heart tighten in that sweet way—like an overfilled balloon, ready to burst.
“I’ll be right there,” she said, nodding toward the little spot she always chose at the edge of the arena. It was the only place where she could see them up close... and still remember to breathe. “And I’ll be the loudest one cheering when you finish.”
Dick laughed—a wide, unrestrained laugh, completely free—and the sound hit her like early morning sunlight spilling through a window. It had that silly, overwhelming power to make her chest feel too big for the rest of her body.
“You always yell the loudest,” he accused, as if sharing a funny little secret.
“But not louder than you,” she shot back, and before he could react, her fingers were already tickling his ribs.
Dick squealed with laughter, trying to wriggle away, stumbling backward with his arms flailing like he was about to take flight.
Mary and John watched them from across the hallway. The smiles on their faces said everything: fondness, tenderness, that quiet kind of love that comes from shared time and the certainty that love is always there—has always been. The bond between Delilah and Dick was obvious. Sometimes he called her “Aunt Dee,” with the solemn charm of an eight-year-old who took his loyalties very seriously. And she, in turn, felt a kind of devotion to him that ached in her bones—an instinctive, fierce protectiveness, as if Dick were made of something too delicate for this world.
Then the music outside changed. That familiar sequence of notes that scraped at Delilah’s nerves every time she heard it. The Flying Graysons were up next.
John let out a quiet sigh, like someone tucking something away in their chest, and rested a hand on his son’s shoulder for just a moment longer.
“It’s time.”
Dick stopped laughing, as if the sound of the music had pushed back some hidden seriousness he kept tucked away in a secret place. Delilah felt her own face settle back into neutrality, as if a blanket had been pulled over it again, hiding any trace of laughter.
Mary noticed. She always noticed.
“It’s going to be fine,” she said with that usual little smile. Calm. Steady. Like she just knew. Like it was impossible to imagine anything different. “We’ll be back before you know it. And then we’ll spend the rest of the night eating popcorn and cotton candy until we can’t move.”
Dick lit up at the thought, his grin already returning.
Delilah just nodded, a small, tight smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Nothing more than that.
John ruffled the boy’s hair before starting to walk off with his wife.
“While we’re up there,” he said, in a light, almost casual tone, “listen to everything Delilah tells you, Dick.”
“You got it, Dad!” the boy replied, waving enthusiastically. “Good luck!”
Mary turned back once more before leaving, her hand finding Delilah’s and holding it for a second that felt longer than it really was.
“Take care of my boy, Delilah.”
Delilah laced their fingers together, squeezing tightly, like sealing a promise through skin.
“Always, Mary.”
Delilah watched the two of them walk away, each step echoing in her chest with a familiarity that hurt—just like so many times before. The tightness stayed there, pressing at the center of her heart, but Delilah knew what to do. She pretended it wasn’t there. She hid it behind soft words she repeated to herself like a mantra: “It’s going to be fine. They know what they’re doing.”
And for the first time that night, she tried to believe it. Tried to believe that Gotham might have its shadows, but the ring was still sacred. It was still a place where dreams happened, and where no one—no one—ever fell.
But the thing about gut feelings—something she knew far too well—was that they didn’t have to be right all the time. They just had to be right once. And that night, tragically, every one of hers was.
Dick, still buzzing with that unstoppable energy only a child can have, tugged her to the corner where they could see the act more clearly. He was all smiles, full of excitement, as if the weight of the moment was just another piece of candy.
The music began to shift, growing more intense, and Delilah felt her body straighten, her muscles tightening as though the tension in the ropes stretched through her, too. She stood at the edge of the ring, arms crossed over her chest, eyes fixed on the heights above. The white lights beaming down on the trapezes nearly blinded her, and everything around seemed to shrink. There was something sublime in the way the Graysons’ music always began—soft at first, like a whisper in the wind, but with a beat that somehow ran faster than her own, like time itself grew impatient when they were about to take flight.
It was as if the entire universe had realigned itself, moving in rhythm with their bodies in the air. Something spectacular was about to happen. She could feel it. Everyone could. It was inevitable. And yet, nothing could have prepared her for what came next.
It was that moment just before the climax, that suspended note in the music, the heartbeat before the miracle.
But it wasn’t a miracle.
It was a snap. A dry, sharp sound—like the breaking of a promise. And then—a scream.
The world collapsed.
Delilah didn’t remember moving. But somehow, she was standing—hands trembling at her sides, eyes locked on the impossible scene before her. The ropes had given out. The air, once an ally to the Graysons, had abandoned them cruelly. And then, the fall. A brutal collision with the ground—sudden, merciless. The impact echoed through the arena, a sound that thundered like a muffled explosion in her chest.
Panic erupted instantly. Screams burst from the crowd like stray fireworks. People stood, ran, tripped over their own legs trying to flee something invisible, as if they could escape the horror of what they'd just witnessed.
Delilah heard none of it.
The sound around her seemed distant, muffled, as if she were underwater. All she could hear was her own heartbeat—pounding against her chest, in her ears, in her temples, like it was trying to crack her ribs open. And then, a voice. A sharp, desperate scream.
Dick.
The boy ran before she could react, his small frame darting toward the heart of the nightmare, eyes wide, mouth open in a scream that tore through the air.
It was his scream that pulled her back.
“Dick…” The name slipped from her lips like a painful whisper, and suddenly she was running—feet skidding across the arena floor, hot tears spilling down her cheeks without permission.
She reached him. Her arms wrapped around his thin body, pulling him back from what he should never have seen. He struggled. Twisted. His tiny fists pounded against her as he screamed, “Let me go, let me go,” each word stabbing into her like a shard of glass.
“Dick, please—” Her voice cracked. She held him tightly, terrified that if she let go, he would fall too—in a way that could never be undone.
She didn’t want him to see. Not more than he already had.
His fists kept striking her arms, clenched and shaking, his eyes full of tears and fury and pure, uncontainable fear. But Delilah didn’t let go. She held him to her chest like he was the only thing left in the world that made sense.
And then, slowly, he gave in.
The screams turned to sobs. The fists, to tremors. He cried, his arms finally wrapping around her in return. And while the chaos unraveled around them, while the crowd scattered in panic, there was one man who did not move.
Bruce Wayne stood among the rows of the audience. His eyes were fixed on that scene—on the boy screaming for parents who would never answer again. On the woman who held him, trying to hold together the shattered pieces of something that had broken far too violently.
Bruce couldn’t look away. Couldn’t move. He just watched. The boy calling for his parents. The woman holding him.
And the world, for both of them, that would never be the same again.