Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter stared at the man in front of him in utter bemusement.

To be fair, Timothy Drake-Wayne hadn’t been at all what Peter had expected at any point in their interaction. While Peter tried not to form expectations in general, there were certain patterns you got used to while working in the White Collar Division. Spoiled rich kids and arrogant businessmen were a dime a dozen and Peter had learned to balance an open and professional mind with realism.

Realism that had maybe gained a sarcastic tone the longer Neal had stayed in the office.

Peter had gone into his meeting hoping for an intelligent contact who’d risen to his rather lofty position in Wayne Enterprises through sheer force of will and sound decisions, but prepared for a pampered socialite who’d coasted through on daddy’s coattails.

What he got, however, was a ferociously smart young man that was absolutely livid about the underhanded dealings of one his people. Peter was admittedly impressed.

Rarely, if ever, had a meeting gone so smoothly. Timothy Drake-Wayne had come to the table prepared with paper trails, video footage, and a ten page plan on how to smooth over repercussions so that the regular employees of their New York office would barely feel a thing, despite their funds beings so poorly and insidiously mismanaged.

Peter was a little less impressed with the dark shadows under Drake-Wayne’s eyes, and the way his hand kept reaching for the obnoxiously large portable coffee mug that had been empty for at least an hour. He’d almost offered to get the kid some more, particularly since Neal had replaced all the mediocre FBI coffee with something Peter feared to question in case it disappeared, but then he’d seen the slight shake to the kid’s hand. More caffeine was probably not the answer.

Muffins might be. Peter had started bringing El’s muffins to work ever since Peter had realized Neal mainly used lunch and coffee breaks as an excuse to get out of the office. The man was actually terrible at eating regularly, breakfast in particular, and tended to look all sad (as in slightly and only if you looked past the mask) if Peter brought it up. So he brought muffins instead.

The meeting was just wrapping up, which was good, since Peter could possibly offer the kid a muffin, and also because he could see the back of Neal’s head bent over another origami bird. It had been hard to count from his office and the focus that Drake-Wayne had demanded through sheer force of his own, but Peter was pretty sure that was the fifth one this morning.

So much for the mortgage-fraud cases Peter had left for the CI. He’d only managed to keep Neal out of the meeting by scheduling it an hour earlier than their normal start time, which Drake-Wayne had been fast to agree to (a fact that surprised Peter less now that he’d seen the vindictive pleasure the young man took in nailing the duplicitous board member to the wall), and promising Neal the meeting would be worse than mortgage fraud.

He’d feel bad for lying, except Neal had recently landed Peter three hours of extra paperwork with his most recent stunt involving a third story window, a wait staff’s jacket, and an emerald the size of Peter’s fist. The fact that it should have been six hours and Neal’s smirk had been just a moment too late and shade to tired wasn’t a factor at all.

“Thank you, Agent Burke.”

Peter had to hold back a snort even as he shook Drake-Wayne’s strong and callused hand. “Please don’t. That was one of the easiest and least stressful meetings about dirty-dealings I’ve ever had. I was prepared for at least four rounds of denial.”

Drake-Wayne gave a light smirk. “Fawcett was clever, but I’m better. It didn’t take much poking around to find the trail. He only got away with it because I’ve been so distracted lately.”

Peter must have given some sort of look along with his pause as he tried to figure out if now was the time to offer one of El’s cranberry muffins, because Drake-Wayne continued as if Peter had asked a question.

“I’ve been working on another project this last year or two that has required a fair bit of my time.” He hesitated, before rubbing the skin under one eye. “It’s personal, and has taken up a rather lot of my thoughts, even when I’m supposed to be focused on other things.”

“Oh, I get that.” Peter watched Neal get up to place a paper pelican on Jones’s desk. “Believe me, I do.”

“Yes, well, I’ll have to keep a better eye-“ Drake-Wayne froze so suddenly that Peter found himself reaching out in worry before he even registered the movement. The kid’s body was suddenly tense enough to be strung up with puppet wires.

He took a shaky breath, the kind that rattled through his lungs and sounded like funeral bells, before spinning around and pressing both hands to his eyes.

“Fuck. Fuck,” he muttered.

With wide and red eyes he turned back to Peter, angling his body so that anyone in the bull pen wouldn’t be able to get a clear sight-line but Drake-Wayne could still watch as Neal laughingly dodged Diana swatting his head with a file and danced back to his seat.

“Who is that?” Drake-Wayne’s tone was flat and at complete odds with his posture.

“Neal Caffrey,” Perter replied, calm and perhaps a bit colder than he had been a moment before. “My CI. If he has been involved in an incident with Wayne Enterprises in anyway-“

“Caffrey? Wait, CI? He’s a criminal? For what? And how long?”

Peter frowned. Drake -Wayne was sounded almost manic, and Peter was, possibly, a little protective of Neal after everything they’d been through. On the other hand, it wasn’t like the answer to those questions was hard to find.

And there was something about Drake-Wayne’s eyes. They were just a shade away from desperate. A shade perhaps more closely related to beseeching. Either way, this was the first time all morning the Peter thought Drake-Wayne looked young.

“Neal specializes in forgery and theft, particularly of art. He has been, however, a great help to the White Collar Division for some time now.”

Drake-Wayne let out a laugh that was almost a sob. “Art. Oh my god. Of course it was art. And a do-gooder criminal. What a golden boy.” The kid reached for his phone without even looking at Peter.

Peter raised an eyebrow as Drake-Wayne raised his phone and started talking before the other person could even say a word.

“Jay. Jay, it’s him, it’s fucking him.” He paused, listening. “Yes, I’m fucking sure. No, I didn’t run any tests. He’s here! As in, where I am! This wasn’t planned. I, no. No. Listen.”

There was more noise from the other end of the phone, definitely some more swearing, but Peter couldn’t make anything else out.

Drake-Wayne let out another strangled noise, which silenced the other person more effectively than anything else had. “Because I know that stance and that laugh and those stupid paper birds! Because even as criminal he’s helping people. Because art! He’s an art thief and forger.”

There was silence for a moment, before Peter heard a quiet yet perfectly articulate “fuck” from the phone.

“I know. I’m disappointed in myself. It would have been logical to check the art world. That’s just the kind of sentimental action he would take. Hm. What do you think I’m going to do?”

Drake-Wayne turned slightly to stare again at Neal, before his spine straightened and his shoulders shifted back. “I’m going to throw away my pride, my professionalism, and my dignity by resorting to my big brother’s favourite weapon. Even though it has been only ever used against me.”

Peter blinked and Drake-Wayne smirked. It was a dangerous smirk. “Exactly. Though it is not my usual method of attack and I’m not entirely sure of my efficiency. Please hurry with the ultimate weapon. Yes, the New York FBI, White Collar Division. See you as soon as possible.”

Drake-Wayne tucked his phone into his pocket and tugged the sleeves of his jacket into position before turning back to Peter.

“Thank you for your time this morning. Wayne Enterprises will be in touch. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go smother my big brother with enough physical affection and positive attention that he finds it impossible to run for at least an hour.”

He then turned to march down out of Peter’s office and down the stairs. It took a good thirty seconds for Peter to fully absorb the words and follow.

Chapter Text

Dick sighed and looked at his flamingo. He was rather proud of the flamingo and its ability to stand with perfect posture, but its origins were concerning.

The bird had started out as a robin. All the origami animals this morning had started out as robins until several folds in, when Dick had caught the shape trying to form and began hastily refolding. The robins weren’t of particular surprise to him, in some ways, since it was one of those days where the birds seemed closer to the surface, more muscle and tissue than blood and bone.

Neal was a persona in that Dick didn’t want to be found, but he could never completely discard his feathers. Wouldn’t want to, really. Besides, the best personas always had a least a shade of truth in them.

And Neal had an entire palette.

Dick as Neal could still laugh and tease and smile and flirt. Could be intelligent and charismatic and talk to people, as he’d always enjoyed doing. Could be alert and wary and watch the exits, as he’d never be able to stop doing.

And the art. The art was easier than he’d expected, easier than ten-year old Dick would have believed when he was still trying to slip into high society and stumbling more often then little him would care to admit. The art was maybe a quiet ‘fuck you’ to all the mocking, casual cruelty of people who though the circus freak could never truly fit (and Dick might not belong, but damnit, Neal fit).

The art was also a homing beacon, a place to return to and feel safe. He’d always been good at art, at the sketches of crime scenes and suspects that occasionally required perfect recall, but it wasn’t until art turned out to be one of the only reliable and non-violent outlets Damian actually enjoyed that art became special (Damian was Dick’s Robin).

Dick’s hands stuttered slightly and he choose a new fold that would lead to a pelican. Dick smoothed a thin line out with the pad of his thumb, slow and careful, and folded his nightmares away one by one into the wings of the bird in front of him.

There had been a lot of nightmares recently, and Dick wasn’t really sure why. There hadn’t been a triggering case or a news story that hit closer to home (or a news story about home). The long nights were beginning to show, too, in the shadows under his eyes that he couldn’t quite make-up away and the tightness to his stance that he couldn’t quite hide.

Peter had started bringing him tea and cut fruit with El’s muffins in the morning. Jones had started bringing him extra coffee throughout the day. Diana didn’t bring him anything at all, except more paperwork, but had become more willing to chat and indulge Neal for a few minutes each time she dropped the work off at his desk.

They knew, even if they didn’t know why.

Dick didn’t know why. Didn’t know why bodies of his friends and loved ones littered his dreams, even the people he hadn’t seen in years. Especially the people he hadn’t seen in years (Jason kept getting buried, Tim kept disappearing, Damian kept falling, falling, falling into sickeningly green water). Didn’t know why Bruce’s voice kept echoing, clanging around in his head as a soundtrack to each and every hit he’d taken when bringing down the Spyral.

Except, that wasn’t accurate, exactly. It was the events before and after the Spyral that clung to his mind and his nightmares. His brothers’ anger and betrayal. Bruce’s words, even more so than the strike to Dick’s cheekbone.

But it hadn’t been Bruce who’d said those words, had it? It had been Batman, and Dick might respect the Batman, but he didn’t love the vigilante. The Batman wasn’t Dick’s father. Fathers didn’t extort their children, didn’t emotionally manipulate them, didn’t strike them outside of spars. (They did, but that was the kind of thing Nightwing had tried to prevent. They did, but that was the kind of thing Dick would never do to Damian, not that those things were the same at all).

So the dreams and the memories and the nightmares clung, and Dick clung to Neal in return, clung so hard his knuckles constantly ached.

He wondered, sometimes, usually when holding a blanket with white knuckles while Satchmo pressed into his leg and the quiet voices of El and Peter in their kitchen, what Peter would think if he knew at least half of the crimes that made of Neal’s repertoire hadn’t actually happened, or hadn’t been him at all. What he’d believe if he knew the other half were accumulated on behalf of the Justice League, Batman, or as favours for Catwoman.

Selina had been the one to figure out that the acrobat and adrenaline junkie in Dick didn’t quite mind playing thief, if it was a Robin Hood kind of thief. That he liked the test of skill and stealth without the ever-present threat of extreme violence. That, every once in a while, the Golden Boy needed a break.

Selina was probably the only one who could find him, now, without extreme difficulty, but she was also the only one Dick knew wouldn’t do a damn thing with the information, except maybe invite him on her next heist.

He missed the flying and fighting and freedom of both vigilantism and thievery (he missed his brothers and his Baby Bird like a an anchor the weighed him down and down and down), but he was helping people again and that was usually enough to settle the nightmares.

And he had Jones and Diana and Mozzie and Peter and El, now (he didn’t have to save them to be loved, just had to do his job and be useful and have their backs and Dick was good at that). He had them, even if they never knew how many extra hits he took, how many extra steps he took, how many extra nights he spent using skills he wasn’t supposed to have to make sure they kept breathing right next to him.

Dick took a breath, felt it shake through him in a way that was just slightly off from normal, and ignored the concerned look shared between Diana and Jones. Instead, he tucked the remnants of angry words into the beak of his pelican and stood with a smile.

The pelican went to Jones, because Dick knew, even if he probably shouldn’t, that the man had a small collection of Dick’s best origami on his apartment shelf. As the man studied the bird, Dick turned to Diana and raised an eyebrow.

“Any idea when bossman will be out?”

“What, bored of mortgage fraud already?” Diana asked, smirk playing about her lips.

“Yes,” answered Dick, flatly. “Come on, Peter’s kept me in the dark about this meeting and it’s big shot. Surely something exciting is coming our way?”

Jones looked up from the pelican. “Wait, Peter told you to keep out of this meeting and you listened?”

“I do that! Occasionally.” It had nothing to do with Peter’s soft eyes and quiet sentiments that maybe Neal could get more sleep, just a bit, and the velvet insinuation that, though Neal needed the sleep, the choice was still Neal’s.

“Damn.” Diana shrugged when the two men looked to her. “We’ve been kept dark, too. Though you might be useful for once, Caffrey.”

“You wanted to use me for gossip?” Dick grinned. “Diana! I’m honoured. I’ll do better next time, I promise.”

She snorted as she walked away, but there was a smile lurking at the corner of her lips so Dick counted it a win. Dick threw out a cheerful grin to Jones, who laughed, which was another win, before sauntering back to his desk.

He glanced up to Peter’s window and stared momentarily at the back of the head of Peter’s guest, but really didn’t have a great angle for snooping. Dick wasn’t against being obvious and passing off delivering Peter coffee as an altruistic gesture, but he was tired. And Peter was pretty easy to get information out of, lately.

It was also maybe time to actually work on those files, and not just because he’d run out of office supply request forms to fold and wasn’t quite brazen enough to use actual FBI documents as the base for his paper flock.

He’d made it almost all the way through the first page of a file before Peter’s door slammed open, drawing attention from most of the bull pen. Dick’s was a beat behind, which turned out to be a significant error.

Not as bad as his next error, though. When Dick saw Tim stalking down the stairs he did something he hadn’t done since he was eight; he froze. He froze long enough to realize that Tim’s attention was locked onto Dick, long enough to realize most of the office had realized Tim’s attention was locked onto Dick.

He also unfroze by flicking his eyes to the door, which was stupid on so very many levels. Dick knew how far away the door was. Dick knew what pieces of furniture were between his desk and the door. Dick knew how many people were between him and the door at any given time.

Tim knew Dick had looked.

In the instant it took Dick to look back, Tim had hit the bottom of the stairs and broken into a full out sprint. Dick’s training finally kicked in and he shifted his stance just in time for Tim to throw himself bodily at Dick.

Just in time didn’t mean he stopped Tim, but rather that he caught the smaller boy and braced his head as the two of them were thrown down and into Dick’s desk.

Dick couldn’t decide wether to be touched or enraged that several agents, including Diana, had drawn their weapons; it was sweet they cared but they needed to get their guns away from his baby brother right damn now. Thankfully, Peter was a wonderful human being and promptly ordered everyone down with an odd look on his face.

Dick figured that was fair, and let his head be dragged back down by cool and trembling hands.

“You idiot. You absolute idiot. You-wait, no. That’s not how this was supposed to go. Though you are an idiot, just so you know.”

“Hi, Timmie,” Dick managed.

Time scowled at him. “Hi? Hi? Really?!” He slid his hand from Dick’s face to wrap around his neck and settled more firmly over Dick’s legs. “You’re an idiot. I’m mad at you, like, so mad. And also really fucking happy. Do you have any idea how stupid you are? I’ve developed at least six entirely new programs and none of them could find you! What the hell, Big Bird?”

Dick flinched at the name, which Tim caught because he was literally sitting on Dick’s lap and wrapping him in a truly impressive hug. Dick thought it was a hug at least. It might have been a restraint.

Tim tightened his arms at the flinch, but loosened them at Dick’s next words.

“You looked for me?”

“Of course I fucking looked for you! You never stopped looking for me even though I literally told you I didn’t want to be found! Why wouldn’t I look for you?”

Dick opened his mouth only to get palm slapped over it.

“Don’t answer that,” Tim said. “I see the flaw in my own question and also know you were about to spout nonsense. We really need to work on your self-worth.” He glared a passable Batglare when Dick shifted. “Not self-esteem or confidence, worth. There’s a difference. I know there’s a difference because you taught me there was.”

There was a pause where they continued to stare at each other, Tim’s hand over Dick’s mouth, before Tim removed the hand to press the base of his palm into one red eye. “Shit, shit! This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.” Tim’s breaths were uneven, ragged. “I had, I had a list. A list of things I needed to say. If I let go to grab my phone and get the list, will you please not try to get away?”

Dick couldn’t imagine trying to get away at the moment, but, as Tim’s breaths continued to shake and rattle, Dick also thought there was also something way more important to deal with.

“Timmie, hey, Timmie, I’m here.” Dick buried one hand in Tim’s hair, carding through the uneven length that meant he’d forgotten to get it cut recently. “You caught me, I’m here. Just breathe, kid, follow me and breathe.” With calm movements, Dick caught Tim’s hand and brought it to Dick’s chest and they slowly got Tim’s breathing back to something that didn’t worry Dick as badly.

It took longer than he liked, but eventually Tim was back to glaring at him half-heartedly. 

“You’re such a big brother. I love you so much. Oh, hey, that was number one on the list. I love you. Even if you’re an idiot. I’m also mad at you, because I was fucking worried, damnit, but I don’t think that was number two. It could be, I suppose. Let’s make it number two. Number three. Um, right, number three.”

Tim sat up. He sat up, but reached out to wrap both hands around Dick’s wrists. There were tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I should have never have said those things to you. Any of it, really, but especially that bit about you not caring, cause, wow, that was stupid and wrong and mean. B should also never have done- should never have said those things either. And yeah, I was mad and you definitely screwed up a bit, but, oh my god, so did we, and I’m so so sorry, Dick.”

Dick’s heart stopped, and he had some experience in the feeling. He wasn’t sure if it was what Tim seemed to be implying he knew about Dick’s last altercation with Bruce, or the fact that his baby brother promptly burst into tears after speaking.

That tears ending up being the deciding factor. The moment Tim burst into sobs, Dick shifted his knees so Tim fell closer and then managed to scoop the kid up so he could properly sit in Dick’s lap and let Dick hold him close.

The shock on the agents’ faces would have been amusing, particularly Hughes, who looked nothing short of flabbergasted. But Dick was too busy murmuring platitudes to really pay attention (this was his brother, too thin and too light but here).

By the time Tim’s sobs had slowed and Dick was brushing tears off his brother’s cheeks, Peter and Dianna had shooed most of the watching agents away. Oh, they were still getting looks, very pointed looks on the part of Hughes, but the only people directly standing around them belong to Dick’s team.

He sighed, and felt Tim’s head thunk heavily into his collar bone. With a growing frown, Dick thought back to movie nights and long cases and a myriad of other times when Tim had dropped his head in just that way.

Careful fingers brushed over Tim’s chin and under his bangs and forced red-rimmed eyes to meet Dick’s while shaking hands didn’t remove themselves from Dick’s shirt.

Tim had always been one of the least emotionally repressed of their messed up family, but that really didn’t mean much. This level of upset was uncharacteristic, even if Dick’s disappearance had hurt Tim badly (which wasn’t something Dick had expected, after the pervasive cold shoulder that defined their relationship after he’d faked his continued death, but maybe fit the growing evidence).

“Timmie,” Dick said firmly, falling back into his big brother voice without a jot of effort and drawing surprised looks from Diana and Jones. “When was the last time you slept?”

Tim blinked at him, then snorted wetly. “I literally imply that I saw the fucking video of your fight with B, which I know you know means I saw all the fucking video, and you want to ask when I last slept?”

Even if Dick wasn’t in a perpetual state of worry about his brothers and their self-sustaining habits (that moving across the country and not physically seeing them hadn’t mitigated one damn bit), he wouldn’t want to talk about the video.

Dick had expected Bruce to delete the cave surveillance footage, to be honest, but didn’t it just figure the paranoid bastard didn’t want to get rid of something that might be related to a case in even the vaguest sense of the concept. Also, Tim was right. Dick hadn’t known exactly which video Tim had found, but it didn’t really matter. If the kid-detective had found one, he’d found them all.

So no, Dick didn’t want to talk about the tapes. Not one bit.

He didn’t exactly think he get out of talking about them, but he certainly wasn’t going to do it on the floor in front of his office desk in the FBI.

Also, his brother was too damn light. Dick raised an Eyebrow of Judgement, which wasn’t a Batglare, but was still a long-standing successful part of his big brother repertoire.

Time could resist it fully-rested, but as things stood, he folded like he was being presented with the combined sad-face of the Superfamily. Tim pouted, and likely would have crossed his arms if he was willing to separate himself from Dick’s personal space.

Dick almost missed what his brother was actually, saying, because it had been far too long since he’d seen that expression and his brother was really damn cute.

“Fine. I don’t remember. Tuesday? Monday? Oh don’t judge me,” Time bulldozed right over Dick’s attempt to point out that it was Friday. “When was the last time you had something for breakfast that wasn’t sugary cereal?”

“This morning. Peter’s wife makes fantastic muffins.”

And that was a great idea. Dick looked up to meet Peter’s gaze, and was momentarily taken aback by the sheer emotion there. Which, right. Dick might have gotten very drunk during their last amnesty night and mentioned his brothers once or twice. Or maybe rather more than that.

Dick was Bat-trained, so it’s not like he gave out identifying details or anything that could be used to track any one of them. Just told stories. Like the time he showed Jason to drive a motorcycle or accidentally set the kitchen on fire with Tim or spent a hour discussing drawing techniques for cat eyes with Damian. (The fact that he’d loved them and protected them and failed them and missed them so much it hurt to breathe).

So Peter understood, and like a good agent who wanted to know more and like a better best friend who already knew more than he’d ever admit, Peter didn’t hesitate a beat.

“There’s more muffins in my office.” Peter didn’t offer to get them, not when his office had a capacity limit and a closable door.

“Perfect,” Dick said, not giving Tim any time to protest before shifting them slightly and then rocking them both into a standing position. Tim squawked as his arms tightened around Dick’s neck, breath quickly drawn in to protest that he wasn’t a kid or could walk or something very similar.

He didn’t though, just paused a moment before tightening his own arms and wrapping his legs around Dick’s waist. “This is stupid. There are more efficient ways of doing this.”

With a hum, Dick positioned his arms more carefully and walked off towards the stairs. “Good thing you never outgrew me, then.”

When he didn’t falter at the steps, he heard a quiet “whoah” from someone he suspected was Jones. Peter didn’t comment as he fell into step with Dick, but he did side eye Dick a bit. Some explanations about Dick’s workout routine would probably need to be given; the FBI clearly hadn’t expected their CI to be able to lift an adult male, small though Tim was, with such little trouble.

(Dick hadn’t let himself go, not when movement was freedom and possibly the only thing between Mozzie or Peter and a bullet.)

He settled Tim on the couch in Peter’s office then settled himself right next to him when Tim didn’t let go. Peter handed over a muffin to each of them, staring Dick down when he tried to hand his off to Tim as well.

Diana and Jones didn’t so much stay outside as guard the door.

Tim looked up to Peter as he ate the muffin slowly, analyzing him as intently as any villain. Peter, to his credit, didn’t so much as twitch. Tim folded the little wrapper for the muffin up in careful triangles before tossing it in the waste bin, and then looked out of the corner of his eye at Dick, who nodded.

“Peter’s my handler, but also my friend. A good one.” The best, really.

Tim breathed out through his nose, but nodded back. “Okay.” He turned on the couch to fully face Dick again, both hands digging into Dick’s no longer perfectly pressed sleeves.

“I found the video. The one after, after and before.” After Dick had died. Before the Spyral. There were oceans in Tim’s eyes. “He hit you.”

Peter flinched, this time, even as Dick didn’t. Tim tightened his grip when Dick opened his mouth.

“He hit you, and you’re about to defend him,” Tim said, deliberately cutting Dick off.

Dick sighed, freeing one arm to run a hand through his hair. Tim just latched both hands onto the other arm. “He wouldn’t have done that to you.”

“No, he wouldn’t have. Jay, I’m not so sure.”

They were both silent at that, for a long indiscernible moment that reminded Dick of a tightrope, even though he’d be much more comfortable there.

Tim sighed again, eyes sliding shut as if they didn’t want to see this next reaction, but opening right back again because he always needed to see all the clues. And Dick had been the one to teach him there were never more clues than in a face.

“We also found the letters.”

Dick blinked, head slipping to the side, studying Tim’s face. “What letters?”

“Well, Demon Brat found the letters. At the penthouse.”

Dick’s stomach roiled at the mention of Damian (his baby that Bruce wouldn’t let Dick see), but he stomped it down with ruthless, practiced efficiency. And then he remembered the letters he left at the penthouse and felt the blood drain from his face.

He must have lost colour at an alarming rate, because he heard Peter step forward even as Dick refused to look up from his own trembling hands.

They weren’t letters, exactly, at least in the sense that he’d never planned to send them. The first was to Tim, in that time when Dick was Batman (never as good as the original) and Damian was angry (terrified) and Tim was gone (in danger, too far and too angry for Dick to reach).

It had been cathartic, so he’d written one to Jason. And Bruce. And Babs and Alfred and Steph and Cass and Damian. And then he hadn’t written just one. He was never going to send them, not when they’d turned into confessionals and apologies and laments without filters and pretty words and the Golden Boy smile.

But he also couldn’t bring himself to destroy them. Not when they were the most honest he could remember being. Not when destroying them felt like destroying the fragile truths that held his bones together.

They’d been hidden well in the penthouse, had to be, from when Damian and Alfred lived there with him. But things changed (always, constantly, no matter what he did) and he’d forgotten them or been distracted or thought they’d been moved. He supposed it didn’t really matter.

“That was sloppy,” Dick muttered.

“Little bit, yeah,” Tim answered, putting a fragile smile into his words and enough pressure into his grip to ensure Dick was going to bruise.

Peter and Tim gave Dick a moment, would probably have given him longer, except there was a loud bang and a series of shouts that had both Tim and Dick whipping their heads to the door.

“Oh good. Phase Two.” Tim beamed, with only the edges showing blades and rust.

Chapter Text

The commotion outside of Peter’s office only grew, which, honestly, Dick rather expected. Dick resisted closing his eyes by breathing in time with the sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs. When Jason’s large frame finally filled the doorway, he was bracketed by an exasperated Diana and a cautious Jones.

Dick was already standing, which meant Tim was too since he hadn’t let go of Dick’s hand. Or his arm. Tim was really giving his best impression of an octopus and Dick couldn’t bring himself to protest (he maybe loved it, just a little).

“Dickface.”

“Jaybird.” Dick didn’t know if he should step forward or not.

Jason slid his eyes over the agents in the room, assessing, before returning to Tim and the way he was firmly wrapped around his brother’s arm. “Good work, Replacement.”

Tim just nodded, firmly.

Opening his mouth to speak, though what exactly he was planning to say Dick certainly had no idea, Dick was interrupted by a large calloused hand.

“Shut up, Dickie.”

The agents and Peter in particular bristled, but Dick waved them off with his free hand. Jason’s tone was quiet and serious, contained in a way that he very rarely was, even before the Pit.

“I’ve been wanting to say this to you for years, and I just, I need you to listen.”

Dick nodded, still unable to speak past the warm weight on his lower face. He wondered if Jason could feel the tremble in Dick’s bones, but then realized that was a stupid question.

Jason let out a breath that wasn’t shaky but was certainly a shade of relieved. “Alright. Okay.” He slid the hand around to the back of Dick’s neck, placing just the slightest bit of pressure to guide Dick’s head upwards and squarely meet Jason’s gaze. “It counts.”

Dick felt his muscles tense at the acknowledgement of his death, brief as it had been. Jason clearly felt the motion because his tightened his grip before continuing.

“It wasn’t fake because it still happened. It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t months or weeks or days. It counts. And fucking hell, you should have told us but I get why you didn’t and also B was a fucking asshole who took advantage and- crap.”

Jason closed slightly glowing eyes and lowered his forehead to press into Dick’s. “This isn’t about B. I’ll trash talk him later. Just. You’re stupid but not entirely useless and being the big brother is hard and not my job.”

Jason slid his hands down to just below Dicks shoulders in what Dick imagined Jay would never admit doubled as a check for injuries. Then he shook Dick firmly.

“It’s not my job. I. Don’t. Want. It.”

Dick smiled. He was literally incapable of doing anything else. He wasn’t exactly sure what kind of smile he was giving, but Jason’s expression did something odd before he reached out and wrapped two massive arms around Dick’s neck and dragged him into an equally large chest.

“One. You get one of these, Dickhead.”

Dick was too busy to reply, since Jason had, contrary to popular perception, always given really great hugs. They were just a touch possessive with the conscious edge of knowing there might not be another. They were all-encompassing.

Burrowing deeper and letting Jason’s burning warmth sear into his skin, Dick let out a little hum of contentment. The noise was little, he was sure, but Jason and probably Tim caught the sound anyways.

“You’re such an embarrassment.” But the arms tightened so Dick felt completely justified in wrapping his own arms around Jason’s waist and slipping his hands under the ever-present leather jacket.

“So we’re just going to let our conman get smothered by the man who looks like he could murder a bear with his hands alone?” Diana asked.

“That’s the conman’s super power.” Tim threw out before Dick could decide if he wanted to surface long enough to speak. Tim had released Dick’s arm to allow for the hug, but had resorted to holding onto the edge of Dick’s severely rumpled suit jacket. “Dick can hug the murder out of almost anyone.”

Jason made a sound at the back of his throat and raised one arm to point at Diana. Dick whined loud enough that he could feel the stares of the entire room, but the arm returned to drape along his shoulders so the stares didn’t matter.

“For fucks sake, Dickie, really?”

Dick rested his chin on Jason’s chest to look up at his brother through slitted eyes. “You said one. It’s not over yet.”

“Fucking fine. But that,“ he nodded over to Diana by the door, “is exactly my point. Murder, I can do. Intimidating a racist teacher who doesn’t understand the meaning of trauma response? Sure. Scaring off a socialite who doesn’t know the meaning of ‘no’ and is rapidly entering stalker territory? Got it. Drawing attention and taking hits so the squirts are safe? Absolutely. Waging a war of strategy, attrition, and pranks against friends and family going through a particularly bad bout of stupidity? Count me fucking in. Emotions and talking through shit? Nope. No. Absolutely not.”

“You say that like you’ve ever won a prank war against me,” Dick mumbled into Jason’s shirt.

Jones and Tim chuckled, Jones’s sounding a little more surprised and little more apologetic. Tim’s was brief so he could cut Jason’s, surely scathing, response off. “Jay’s right, though. He’s really bad at emotions and shit.”

Dick could feel Jason’s glare in the tensing of muscle and heard the shifting of fabric that meant Tim was holding his hands up. “I mean, I appreciate the attempt, I really do. Much better than before, ten out of ten, solid improvement. But, yeah, we all suck at emotions in general and healthy communication in particular.”

Dick sighed, but stepped slightly out of the hug for a return of the eyebrow of judgement. “I literally ran away instead of talking things through and you think I’m better?”

Tim blinked. “Okay, but you tried, first. Once we’d calmed down and gotten out of our own heads, we did realize that. And you know. Many of your attempts were caught on video.”

Dick narrowed his eyes and watched Tim resist the urge to step back.

“Is there a giant cork board somewhere with all the details of my disappearance and the events leading up to it decked out in coloured string and cards?”

“No!”

“Not anymore,” Jason muttered, and deflected Tim’s betrayed look by stepping away from Dick and officially ending the hug. Dick pouted instead of whining again but allowed the retreat. He hadn’t seen Jason in years, but could still read his Little Wing, and Jason was reaching the end of the affection he could take in public.

Dick was also sure that there would be a spar at some point in their future. The near future when Tim or the FBI wasn’t watching.

Jason was Dick’s little brother, but he hadn’t raised Jason to the same extent as the others. Dick hadn’t reacted the best either, when he was young and insecure and Jason was Dick’s replacement. They’d gotten better, both before Jason’s death and after, the kind of better that only very hard work and complete dedication can make happen, but that wasn’t exactly reached by healthy communication.

Jason spoke in shades of violence, which was a language everyone seemed to forget Dick was more than capable of using. Their fights were brutal and sharp and allowed Jason to let go of the Lazarus Pit rage and Dick to let go of the Golden Child control. They fought under cloudy skies on broken rooftops and crumbling buildings by trading too-heavy blows that never crossed a set of rules only the two of them would ever know.

Dick missed those evenings, missed how they’d end up back to back, heaving for breath, just sitting in dirt and darkness together. He saw the same shade to Jason’s eyes now that he did on those nights, before Dick had fucked up and the Spyral and Bruce had changed everything. The bright poison green faded deep at the edges of Jay’s eyes, slumbering eddies instead of ripples recently disturbed.

“You ran, yeah. But.” Jason ran a hand though his hair, sending it into a greater state of mess. “But. That was still handing it better than I did.”

Dick lunged forward fast enough that he saw Jones flinch and Diana’s hand reflexively drop to hover slightly over her gun. Peter didn’t flinch. Peter frowned with the familiarity of a man who had spent years watching Dick move everywhere from on a con to moments when desperation and panic and fear tugged the mask lower (lower and lower and lower to the point where, sometimes, it was the aftermath of desperation and panic and fear and the warm light of Peter’s kitchen that tugged the mask down).

When Dick’s fingers latched onto Jason’s shirt, the man followed the pull down so he was hunched over and looking straight into Dick’s eyes. “That’s not the same thing,” Dick said quietly and fiercely without a trace of Neal in his tone.

Because Dick would never let Jason minimize what he went through, not just in the Pits and the direct aftermath but in actually having an after. It had taken so much work with himself, with the Outlaws, with those damn rooftop fights to get control of the rage and it still didn’t always work.   

“I know,” Jason replied, because he did, because echoes of fists and words under dark skies had taught him that. But he also slid a hand, devastating in its gentleness, over Dick’s heart. Jason splayed open, burning fingers there, over the heart that Luther had stopped and started again. “But I don’t think you know that it’s also exactly the same.”

Jason stepped back, leaving Dick reeling with the efficiency of a man trained from very young to deal finishing blows, and threw himself down onto the couch. Tim got shoved with him, so it was Peter who grabbed Dick’s elbow and braced him with large, comforting hands.

“Neal?”

Dick snorted. “You might as well go with Dick.”

“Only if you want me to.”

Dick stepped forward slightly and rested his head on Peter’s shoulder. “I don’t know.”

“That’s fine too.”

In the background, Dick could hear his brothers and then Diana and Jones talking lowly. He wasn’t sure if they were deliberately giving him a moment to get himself together, but he was grateful all the same.

“So,” Tim pointed out, “we apparently like Peter.”

Jason hummed, jacket creaking as he leaned back. “I like lady cop. She acted like she was going to physically throw me out of the building.”

“I can still make that happen,” Diana pointed out.

Dick looked up when Peter shifted his shoulders. And that was Peter’s ‘I’ve had an important thought face.’

“Peter?” Dick made sure to use his ‘tell me or I will do something stupid’ tone. With his brothers here, there were even more options than usual. 

Peter winced and glanced to the couch before looking back to Dick. “Just, you mentioned something about three brothers?”

Dick stiffened, completely blindsided though he really fucking shouldn’t have been (except he was always not-thinking about Damian), and stepped back to look at his brothers. Both tensed, but Tim was the one who showed weakness in the fidgeting of his tired hands.

“Tim.”

“Don’t look at me! I wasn’t in charge of Phase Three!”

Dick resisted pinching his nose by merit of his body still feeling like it was submerged in ice water. “And when, exactly, is Phase Three happening?”

Jason kicked one boot over the other. “Oh, any minute now.”

“I’m actually rather surprised we had so much time for Phase Two,” Tim mused.

“Nah, that was deliberate. I gave the kid the wrong floor number so I’d get to say my part.” Jason smirked. “Kid shouldn’t have been so desperate to run ahead.”

“He’s going to kill you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Drake. I have much more important concerns than Todd.”

All the agents jumped, even Peter, and Dick was pretty certain Tim also had to supress some sort of motion. Dick turned from the direction of the couch slowly. Glacially. He took one step forward, almost involuntarily, and stood unmoored in the center of Peter’s crowded office as he met Damian’s stare.

“Richard.”

Dick could barely breathe. He certainly couldn’t say a damn thing.

Chapter Text

Damian hadn’t caused a commotion, but then again, he wouldn’t have. Not unless he wanted to.

He probably had made a fuss at whatever floor Jason had sent him to, full of attitude and certainties, but after being proved wrong and being slightly embarrassed by the mistake, Damian would have retreated and reevaluated.

And gotten more determined.

Despite all the glass and all the agents, Dick would be surprised if anyone had spotted Damian before he’d spoken at Peter’s door.

Diana and Jones both took steps to the side as if they figured that someone would run forward, which wasn’t exactly a poor thought considering how the last two reunions had gone. Neither Damian or Dick moved, however, too caught staring at each other (studying, checking, evaluating that the other was safe and healthy and alright).

This was Dick’s baby. Not quite a baby, anymore, not quite a teenager, but still a kid. Still confident and sure and strong, despite a certain strain to the eyes and almost-hunch to his posture that Dick could read as nerves and joy and too many late nights.

“I’m not angry,” Damian said, the first to break the silence.

“You literally trashed the penthouse!” Jason interjected with a waved hand before he was shushed and dragged back to the couch by a surprisingly emphatic Tim.

“Tt. My previous emotional state is irrelevant. I am not angry currently.”

Dick was just proud Damian was acknowledging he had a previous emotional state. The ‘mental and emotional health are real and valid’ conversation had been interesting to say the least.

“You can be.” Dick’s voice was whisper quiet. Silent footsteps sneaking up on a Bat quiet. “You have every right.”

Dick kept his hands clenched and tucked a this side, knuckles white with the force of holding himself back from running right over to Damian and never letting him go (Dick didn’t deserve that, not anymore).

“But I forgive you.”

A rattling breath shook through Dick’s lungs. He wrapped his arms around his own ribcage, a motion his Robin surely recognized, if the way Damian tracked the movement said anything.

Damian continued, each word precise and deliberate and sharp. “You taught me to apologize. You taught me that family forgives each other. You taught me that reasons are important. You taught me that listening is important.”

He cocked his head to the side and Dick found himself under the complete and utter focus Damian only exhibited when he was committing every aspect of situation to memory (often so he could ask questions about it later, when they were safe and alone). 

“You, Richard, taught me I was allowed to ask for things. That it was okay to want things for myself, even if I perceived the asking to be an inconvenience. Or weakness. Is that still the case?”

“Of course, baby.” The words poured out of Dick, tumbling past the horrible knotting thing in his throat. But he would never, not ever, let Damian think he couldn’t be a person. Not after the fucking months and tears and screams it had taken to get past Talia’s machinations and the League’s conditioning.

Damian nodded, as if this had been the answer he was expecting, and Dick was so proud of all his brothers and the support they had clearly shown each other while he was gone.

Then Damian tugged his sleeve back into place in an offhand and entirely unnecessary gesture that Dick had straightening his spine because this was important (he knew it was important, this whole interaction was so so important, but that was a tell his Baby Bird barely ever used and Dick would not fuck this up, not again).

“Then I want to stay with you.”

Dick heard the soft swear that had to be Jason and the soft intake of breath that was Peter, but Superman himself could have walked through the door and Dick would have been equally unable to tear his attention from Damian.

“I have given it due consideration,” Damian continued. “I have spent more time with Father than I did with you, which has given me ample opportunity. While I respect Father, and his work accomplishments, his performance as a- as my father have been less than satisfactory. I also find it difficult to reconcile Father’s actions towards you with the morals he espouses and the values you have taught me. His actions to several others, as well.”

His eyes flicked to Tim and Jason, and he shifted his feet slightly into a ready stance that Dick knew meant nerves.

“Drake and Todd have been surprisingly adequate in their attention and occasionally useful in their capacity as brothers, and Pennyworth has, of course, been completely competent in my physical care, but, I find myself frequently alone. Which is not a problem. Alone is my preference.”

“But alone isn’t the same as lonely,” Dick said softly. Wondering how often Damian was alone in that empty manor. How often a harsh word from Bruce sent him retreating to the comfort of his animals or how often Bruce grounded him from Robin and took his compass and purpose away.

“Perhaps,” Damian allowed. “Yes.” His small fist clenched so hard it shook and he took a deep breath of the kind he never needed to before facing a villain or jumping off a roof. “We were the best.”

“We were,” Dick answered as he always did and always believed.

Damian looked up from the ground at Dick’s answer, stare holding the kind of fear that seeped slowly into bones and sinew. “Please, Baba, let me come home.”

Dick dropped to his knees so hard they cracked against the floor, but that didn’t matter because Damian had called him dad and was finally flinging himself into Dick’s open arms.

Strong hands locked around his neck and precious weight settled against Dick’s chest. “That night on the roof, when you told me you weren’t ready to be a father,” Damian spoke into Dick’s ear in a way that he was sure echoed around the entire room. “You lied.”

Dick screwed his eyes so tight he almost saw colours. “Through my teeth. All you ever wanted was to earn B’s love and attention. I couldn’t, I would never have taken that away from you.”

Damian dug his chin into Dick’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t have to earn your father’s love.”

Eyes suddenly wide open, Dick stared at an equally wide-eyed Tim and Jason, pressed against each other on Peter’s couch.

“No, Baby Bird, you shouldn’t,” Dick managed.

“You love me,” Damian stated, quietly, into Dick’s shoulder blade.

“So so much.”

“That’s why you left. That’s why you listened to father when he ordered, when he drove you away. So that I couldn’t ask to go with you without giving Father a chance.”

Dick snorted through his tears, and leaned back to brush dark hair away from Damian’s face. “You two have very similar personalities.” At Damian’s scowl, Dick placed his fingers against the skin under Damian’s eyes. “In some ways, not so much in others. But no, baby. I would have given almost everything to be a safe place for you. To be somewhere you could have gone when you and your father clashed.”

Leaning forward, Dick rested his forehead against Damian’s. “It was sending you back, that was the problem, Little D. I couldn’t keep letting you go. I’m not- I’m not that good. I would have asked you to stay, eventually. Sooner than later, to be honest.”

Dick felt eyelashes against his cheek. “I would have said yes.”

“I know. Or at least, I was pretty sure.”

Damian clung harder for a long moment, before leaning back ever slow slightly to study the planes od Dick’s face and trace tears with a small thumb. Damian always could read Dick just as well as Dick could read him, even if the kid didn’t always know the emotion or understand the reasoning.

“There was something else. Something else that Father said or did that sent you running, something that wasn’t in the video or the letters.”

“I stopped writing the letters when B came back. Tim told me you found them.”

“Tt. It was hardly difficult.” That was a lie, Dick knew, because he’d hidden them so deep they’d fallen out of thought entirely. He was also suddenly, viscerally sure from the faintest blush on Damian’s cheeks, that the boy had at least one of the letters addressed to him tucked somewhere on his person. In his boot with one of his spare knives, perhaps.

Dick wouldn’t ask, not now, but he did run his hand through Damians curls a few more times.

Damian was also right, naturally. There was one more confrontation with Bruce, or rather, with Batman, that head sent the dominos falling all the way to a bus ride out of Gotham.

Batman was a brilliant, possessive man. He knew Damian would go with Dick, if Dick asked, and he knew Dick wanted to ask. He also knew how to tear people apart and exactly what words to say that would land just like blows.

Dick hadn’t retreated from that confrontation to the small, empty apartment he’d gotten after Spyral with glass shards in his back or a bruise that flicked against his jaw in the mirror long after the injury had healed. But the words were worse.

The words wrapped about his head and crept into his heart and when the morning had hit, Dick had been gone. Well Dick had been gone after waking to the worst hangover he’d had in years (nonconsensual drugs and fear gas notwithstanding), a twenty page plan on how to topple Bruce and the Batman from their pedestals, a phone message from Jason telling Dick to stay out of his fucking territory, and radio silence from Tim, Babs, and several others despite Dick having called. Repeatedly.

He’d frozen over a packed duffel long enough for a final moment doubt, but a message from Alfred, the most positive progress report he’d ever sent about Damian and B’s relationship, had been the last push out the door. Dick hadn’t been able to justify to himself the chance of screwing everything up even more. (He’d burned the twenty page plan detailing the destruction of the man who raised him, one sheet at a time, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t memorized it.)

Damian must have realized that Dick wasn’t going to respond. Maybe couldn’t respond, because he let go of Dick’s neck. He didn’t go far, simply stood and dragged Dick to the couch, where he shoved the older man into the newly vacated spot between Jason and Tim and proceeded to crawl into Dick’s lap.

Tim immediately returned his hand to Dick’s jacket while Jason threw an arm over their shoulders. Dick just lowered his head to rest in Damians hair and inhaled the steel and animal scent of his son.

“We’re going to need a plan.” That was Tim, ever the task master.

“We’re going to need Mozzie,” Dick replied while running his fingers through Damian’s hair and revelling in the feeling of the boy leaning into the touch.

His brothers, who’d never met Mozzie and hadn’t had time to do any proper surveillance on Dick’s life, were confused. Peter wasn’t.

“You already have a plan.” Peter smiled. The fun yet decidedly dangerous smile he usually gave right before the two of them unleashed terror on an upsetting mar- suspect.

“Of course I do.” Dick waved at Diana and Jones, trying to get them away from lurking awkwardly at the door. “Sit, or lean or whatever. You’re part of the plan.”

That was all the invitation Diana needed, hopping up on the edge of Peter’s desk. Jones hesitated longer.

“Are you sure?” Jones looked over Dick amidst his brothers with a conflicted but fond expression.

“Completely.” Dick’s arms tightened around Damain, which only caused the kid to burrow deeper. “I’m happy here, happier than I’ve been in a long while.” Tim’s hand spasmed in Dick’s coat, causing the fabric to tug roughly against Dick’s skin. Dick just shifted his weight slightly to tip more into Tim.

“As happy as I could have been without my family, with thinking I had burned the connections to my family rather handily.” Jason shifted his own weight and Dick absently wondered if they looked like a leaning pile of Robin. He shook his head. “This isn’t an exchange, it’s an addition. I’m going to keep it all, thanks very much.”

Because Dick was also a possessive man and his brothers had just given him permission. If they wanted him, they were never going to lose him (he was never going to let them go).

Peter leaned back in own chair. “What do we need?”

Dick wondered if he’d ever told the man how much he appreciated how often Peter used the word ‘we.’

“Mozzie, to get the adoption paperwork-“

“You’re not forging adoption paperwork.” Peter raised an eyebrow so Dick matched it.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve had the legal paperwork filled out for years. It was one of the only things I brought with me when I left and is currently stashed in a very secure safe house. We’re also going to need Aunt Diana and a copy of my amnesty order. I didn’t bring that, oddly enough. Is this a good time to mention that several of my crimes involved dangerous materials and were done on behalf of the Justice League?”

Dick couldn’t help the grin that grew on his lips. The entire room was staring at him, even Damian. Dick placed a kiss on Damian’s hair and grinned even more sharply when Diana was the one who broke the silence.

“Aunt Diana?”

“Oh, you’ll like her. The two of you can compare all the ways you’re both badass.”

Diana grinned, but Dick’s attention was directed downward when Damian pulled at his collar. “Prince is Father’s friend.”

“Yes,” Dick acknowledged, even as he felt Jason shift beside him, “but she’s never been blind to his faults. She’s also very protective of children and was involved in my original League paperwork.”

Dick then proceeded to wrinkled his nose in a way that he hoped conveyed ‘and she also has a lasso of truth.’ It apparently worked well enough, because Tim let out a soft sound of realization.

Peter compiled the sound a moment later, but for a different realization. “The Justice League. That actually makes a lot of sense.”

Diana and Jones looked at Peter as he nodded to himself. “Really?” Asked Jones.

“What? Some of his suspected targets just didn’t make sense considering their provenance or likely pay day.”

As the FBI agent’s considered Peter’s words, clearly trying to think back through Neal’s list of alleged crimes, Peter held up his phone. “Do we also need El?”

“Absolutely,” Dick agreed. As if they could function without El.

Tim tugged on Dick’s sleeve slowly and really, his brothers were so cute. Probably a bit traumatized, but also really cute. “I didn’t think you were coming back on your own. Why have a ready plan?”

“Just because I don’t expect something to happen doesn’t mean I don’t have plans for it. I have plans for a lot of things. I’m a paranoid insomniac working a day job which leaves way too much time at night.” What without the constant vigilantism despite having the training and the leadership abilities and the constant damn worry.

“I have plans to rob every museum in New York,” Dick continued. “I have plans for alien invasions of twelve different known species and four general. I have three different zombie apocalypse plans, depending on initiation of technology, magic, or biohazard. I have a fourteen step plan to steal every donut in the city.”

Peter sighed but didn’t sound very surprised. “This throws your friendship with Mozzie into new light.”

“Yeah,” Dick admitted, “we may have bonded a bit over a conspiracy theory or two.”

“Shit.” All eyes turned to Jason. “I just realized that we’ve been focusing on the wrong thing. I mean, yeah, you ran away, but that left you alone. You’ve never been good at alone.”

Tim and Damian shared a look as Dick just shrugged. “Remember that when you meet Mozzie. He’s a lot. But he’s been there for me.”

Peter interrupted, reading off his phone. “El says you’re all invited to dinner. She also wonders if this means that she and Mozzie can start guessing which hero you used to be.”

Everyone stared again, even as Peter and Neal shared a very familiar look.

“I love your wife,” Dick said. Because of course El had put together Justice League connections with the bits and pieces Dick had revealed over the years and come up with hero.

Mozzie had probably barely helped. It went against his and Dick’s unspoken acknowledgement that yes Dick had been involved in vigilantism, yes Mozzie knew because Dick was a basket case of trauma response and hyper-vigilance and had also maybe knocked out a couple of thugs once or twice, and no they were not going to discuss it.

“She’s the best,” Peter agreed with a smile definitely on the sappier side of things.

“She is. And sure, why not?” Dick tilted his head as he spoke and felt his heart melt when Damian mirrored the motion, keeping an eye on the agents.

“Wait, really?” Asked Jones.

“I mean, yeah. I’m sure that my heroic past will come out with the whole League thing at some point, at least with you guys. Hopefully no one else. Maybe Hughes. Maybe. But I’ve already said I’m keeping you and I think the League was also looking for more trustworthy liaisons at agency level. They’re not going to find better than you.”

Dick turned to Tim for confirmation and the kid scowled. “I’m not exactly as involved as I used to be.” Dick continued to stare, because that didn’t mean that the bugs in the League computers weren’t operational. “Fine. Yes, they’re still looking for liaisons.”

“Wait, all of you?” Jones sounded incredulous.

Tim hesitated, but Jason scoffed. “Fuck no. I’m an anti-hero.”

Diana leaned forward, clearly studying Dick and adjusting her mental files on him. She then smiled, full of teeth. “Oh, I want in on this guessing game.”

“Tt.” Damian glared at her from Dick’s lap. Dick was very glad Damian didn’t seem to want to leave, because he had literal years of cuddles to catch up on. “It’s not that hard to guess. There are even multiple opportunities to be correct.”

Jason leaned in and started exchanging insults with Damain under an amused Diana’s eye, while Jones began peppering and equally amused Tim with guesses and Peter ignored them all to call his wife and talk dietary restrictions.

Dick buried his face in Damian’s hair again and breathed deep.

Maybe, maybe this time he’d get team and family both. Oh, he was sure that Tim would hack and track every electronic within a twenty foot radius of Dick, that Jason would punch him when Dick least expected it, and that Damian would cling and bristle and hover. There would need to be many conversations, and not just with Wonder Woman, the Justice League, and the court system.

Dick needed to talk to his brothers, privately, one on one, and figure out how to rebuild the relationships that had been damaged on both sides. He would need to have another amnesty night with Peter. He would need to call Alfred.

But they came for him. His brothers came and his team stayed. Surely he was allowed to be a bit possessive, now, to fight for them and with them. He knew how to fight. He was good at fighting.

This time, he would protect his home.