Chapter Text
Rick couldn’t pinpoint when it all started.
It was just that- DuBois was going to be locked away for lifetimes more, he couldn’t exactly check up on his daughter. And, although the two’s relationship had seemed to have mended a little after the events of Corto Maltese, Rick knew it was still shaky ground for the both of them.
So he did it for DuBois, keeping track of Tyla’s trial and making sure she went somewhere good - the system was broken and still being put to use - after she finished a short stint in juvie. Somewhere safe, while the kid completed her community service for the city and got her act together.
It helped that Rick had access to government databases. He could background check every person she came in contact with.
He’d met Tyla for the first time right before her trial. Walked up to her, introduced himself, and saw some of DuBois’ kindness, looking back at him in those brown eyes. She’d looked so scared, dressed in clothes too formal for a kid her age, nice fabric fraying at the edges.
With the threats Waller had made, Rick couldn’t blame her for being scared.
But they’d saved Corto Maltese - saved the world, really - and that had to count for something. Waller couldn’t make threats like that, not now, not when DuBois had done everything asked of him and more.
“Tyla Dubois?” Rick had asked, the girl looking up quickly, her attorney stepping close. They’d been in the hall of the courthouse, awaiting permission to enter. “I work with your dad.”
He’d seen the way her eyes had gone wide, flickering over him and behind, as if looking for the tell-tale signs of a villain, a goon squad of guards at the corner. He’d worn his military uniform for a reason, dress blues pressed and clean, and Tyla had noticed that moments later.
“You’re the- you’re that colonel, the one that almost died.” It hadn’t been quiet, really, when Rick had been pulled from the rubble and flown to the nearest hospital. He hadn’t been surprised she knew him.
“Yeah,” Rick had said, and he’d suppressed the urge to stick his hands in his pockets, rock back on his heels. The attorney had been leveling an impressive glare, ice cold and sharp, but he’s been around Amanda Waller for years. She would have to do better than that. “I just- I wanted to pass somethin’ along. He wishes you good luck for this, says to be good.”
DuBois had never actually said those words to Rick, hadn’t asked him to pass anything along. DuBois trusted next to nobody, barely opening up to the team, and he didn’t blame him. But even for his failings as a father, it was easy to tell how much the guy cared about his kid, with every protective mention of her, every little anecdote leading back to her.
Tyla had looked surprised, for a second, and Rick had had to shove down the urge to wrap her in a hug. Where that was coming from, he didn’t know -- he barely knew the kid.
“Thank you,” she’d said, and she’d sounded so earnest. He’d almost stayed, even if it was only to wait on her in the hallway and make sure she was alright after the ruling- but his team had a mission, he was running point over the comms, and he was expected back at base in a few hours.
And somehow it kept going from there. Rick kept an eye on her school records, on reports from counselors and administration, and made sure the family she’d been temporarily placed with was treating her well.
They weren’t.
Tyla’s social worker was one of the good ones in Gotham -- Rick had made sure of that. He pulled rank, contacting the man’s boss’ boss, calling the woman early one morning, and made it clear how deep in shit she’d be if Tyla disappeared.
He wished he could do that for all the kids with odds stacked against them, but hinting at power only went so far.
So the kid’s social worker was good. He pulled her from the home she was first placed with, slapped the shitty foster parents with red flags and a police report, and placed her in another one. And another, and another, and another.
Rick kept tabs on it all, as Tyla was moved between houses and families. It wasn’t the social worker’s fault - he’d have been gone, dead and gone, if it had been purposeful - the system was rigged against the very people who worked in it.
And, well, the thing was -
There was another solution. Why force a teenager to go from bad situation to bad situation, when Rick had somewhere else for her to go? It would be so much easier this way, stress on both sides would drop, and Tyla would be safe.
Rick told himself that as he called up the right people, that that was the only reason why he was doing this, and nearly had himself convinced it was a sane idea by the time there was a knock on his door, the following morning.
He’d spent the morning - he’d woken at five exactly, years of military training ingrained in his brain - cleaning his house, getting the guest room and spare bathroom put together, and restocking his fridge. Living alone, he kept the house nice enough that it was a place to crash between missions. Frozen meals, bulk boxes of power bars, and a crock pot he’d used exactly once -- that was what usually filled his kitchen.
A teenager needed to eat well. Fruits, vegetables, the whole food pyramid. Rick would have to get used to that again, with who stood on the other side of the door.
He saw the moment she recognized him, her eyes going wide, hand tightening on the fraying strap of her duffle bag, as the social worker smiled and stuck out a hand.
“Good morning, Mr. Flag. I’m Mr. Reynolds, Tyla’s case manager.” The man’s hand was sweaty when Rick shook it, and he resisted saying I know as he greeted the social worker in turn.
“Rick Flag, pleasure to meet ya,” he said, before stepping aside and gesturing them in. The entry hall opened into his living room, a couch and two armchairs positioned in front of a tv, a low table between them all. The three of them sat there, each as uncomfortable as the other, it seemed.
Mr. Reynolds was brief and to the point, giving Rick paperwork to sign - he had to do it in person, he’d checked, having someone he didn’t know in his house made him twitchy - and explaining every clause, as Rick methodically gave his signature and extra information on every blank line. It took a grand total of ten minutes, ten minutes too long while Tyla sat there, still and silent, in her chair, before Rick escorted the social worker out.
The man would be back, Rick knew, in a week’s time, to check up on Tyla. The teen had her social worker’s information on her phone, a direct line of communication to get her help if she needed it. That was how she’d been removed from a couple of the previous placements -- a misspelled text, sent in the dead of night.
The door swung shut with a click, the deadbolt slid into place, and Rick turned to face the kid in his living room.
The kid, who wasn’t even his own, who’s dad was in prison and who’s mom was outta the picture, and Rick had just scooped her up and brought her to his house with barely a thought more than she needed to be safe -
Fuck, he did not think this through well enough.
“So,” began Rick, and he had no idea how to hold a conversation in a situation like this. “I’m sure you’re wondering what the hell you’re doing here.” Tyla stared levelly back at him, her poker face as good as her father’s. “Well, see -”
“If my dad asked you to do this, you can tell him to fuck off. I can take care of myself -- he hasn’t been any help before.” The words were spat with a level of venom only an angry, scared teenage girl is capable of.
There was a lot to unpack from those few sentences - she was a minor, a kid, she shouldn’t need to take care of herself - but Rick was smart enough not to comment on any of it. He’d thought DuBois and his daughter’s relationship was improving and, maybe he was right, but those sort of things didn’t happen in a nice, straight line.
Tyla was tense in her seat, all dark eyes and hard edges a kid should never have, and she only marginally relaxed when Rick raised his hands in the universal okay gesture.
“Your dad doesn’t know you’re here,” said Rick, and that might have been the wrong thing to say, for that anger turned to suspicion and he hastened to explain himself. “I was keepin’ tabs on your case, makin’ sure you were doing okay. You’ve been hurt, Tyla, and I didn’t want to see that happen. I figured- I’ve got a spare room here, I could speed-run the authentication process, and get you in a good school and safe house.”
The kid scoffed, every inch her father in the single sound, and gave him an unimpressed look. “And then you’d, what, run off to shoot people again? Stay for a week, leave for a month, and call it good? You aren’t any better than those people who had me before.”
The pain contained in those words was enough to have Rick add therapist to his mental list of prioritized things -- one for each of them, it seemed.
“No, I wouldn’t. I’m on medical leave for a while longer -” - months and months and months, painful physical therapy and nightmares leaving him shaking to his bones - “- so I’ll be around all the time. I ain’t got shit to do besides eat, sleep, and exercise, so you don’t have to worry about me bein’ gone. I thought I’d get you in one of the good schools ‘round here, get you set up with a bus card and a reliable phone, and we could make some agreements about your free time activities.”
Because there was no way in hell Rick was going to reveal to DuBois that he’d not only semi-adopted the man’s daughter, but he’d also not done enough to keep her out of juvie for a second time.
Tyla’s hard, angry expression faltered for a moment, something like hope flickering, before her walls slammed into place again and a glare was levelled in his direction. He waited for her to shoot something back, to spit in his face -
But that silent, seething anger stayed, and Rick sighed. He raised a hand to point at the stairs that led to the second level, undecorated walls on either side. “Your room’s the second on the left, the door before it is your bathroom. It ain’t real decorated, but we can figure that out later. I can- I’ll come get you for dinner.”
There was no way the teenager wanted to stay there, stuck in this horrible exchange, any longer than he did.
His thoughts were proven correct when she left with not even a glance in his direction, her glare dropping to her feet as she grabbed her bags and stalked up the stairs. Rick was just grateful she didn’t slam her bedroom door behind her.
-----
Dinner was...painful.
Tyla had fallen back into silence, picking at her plate of food, eating half before just pushing the food around. Rick couldn’t claim to be doing much better -- the meds his doctor had him on for his recovery took his appetite in the best of times, and made every bite a battle in the worst of times.
Pesto pasta and salad; that kept well enough. They’d have to finish it off in the next couple of days, but Rick didn’t see any harm to folding the first night. The kid looked up when Rick stood - chest aching, shooting pains spreading - and he refused to be unnerved by the remarkably effective mask she’d wrapped her emotions under.
“How ‘bout we just pack this all up in containers and we can eat it when we’re hungry,” said Rick, waving a hand to gesture at the entirety of the table. He kept his hand on the back of his chair, holding tight in the hopes of steadying himself. Dropping to the ground after the simple act of getting up wouldn’t prove his competence as a guardian.
With the way Tyla’s eyes locked onto his hand, he doubted he’d been successful.
Finally, the kid nodded, her chair scraping on the wood floor as she pushed back and stood with him, plate in hand. Rick led the way to the kitchen, opening a cupboard and pulling down containers and their plastic lids with one hand, the other braced on the counter. The cold of the tiles beneath his feet helped ground him.
They cleared the table well together, food stacked neatly in the fridge, and Rick held in a sigh of relief when he dropped onto the couch, slumping against the cushions. His feet settled on the cushion beside him -- the doctor had been very clear about how he could sit. Straight, good posture, ninety degree angles and all that, or legs up, leaned back at a forty-five, pillows propping himself up.
The second option usually proved to be more comfortable.
He looked up to find Tyla hovering in the doorway, one hand on the frame, and he couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortable, if she wanted to come and sit or run for the hills, damn the DuBois poker face -
“You can stay, if you want. If you wanna go to your room, that’s fine too. I’m just gonna sit here and read for a while,” said Rick, picking up a book from the coffee table for proof. He’d got back into it, now that he had time to sit and relax, without the constant threat of death by explosion hanging over his head.
To his surprise, the teen stepped further into the room. Her movements reminded Rick of a cat, cautious and slow, ready to bolt at the slightest indication of something being wrong. It was such a tense silence, and he wanted to say something, but he wasn’t the kid’s parent -
“You’re welcome to any of the books on those shelves.” He didn’t need to point for Tyla to know what he was talking about -- floor to ceiling shelves lined one side of the living room, packed with novels, magazines, and the thin spines of comics.
The second surprise of the night: “Thanks.”
He’d thought he was locked out with the silent treatment, seasoned with glares and the occasional sneer. Teenagers were real good at that sorta thing, after all, and this one in particular had plenty of reasons to put it to use.
“No problem.”