Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Damian’s body was warm as he pulled him into his lap, uniform slick with blood, but it had stopped pumping out when his heart stopped beating. Dick’s own injuries continued to pulse, but he couldn’t feel them over the agony of looking down at the boy in his arms, even if he had surpassed Dick’s height at the age of sixteen, he was still his boy. The last of his family. 

Dick cried out, uncaring if it brought their enemies back upon them, as far as he could see there was carnage on all sides, no survivors in sight, and with his own wounds, he would succumb soon enough. Cradling Damian close, he wept for all they had lost under the orange smog of the sky. Nuclear weapons hadn’t made a dent against their opposition, only forced them to reckon with radiation on top of it. 

Through the carnage came a figure cloaked in shadow, she appeared to move through the bodies rather than step on top of them. Even standing at seven or eight feet tall she was far too humanoid to be a foe, they had long since abandoned their ruse of playing at humanity. She wore a cloak that appeared to dissipate and knit together like threads of smoke, the gossamer threads like the grey of a new dawn. Under the hood, he could only just make out her eyes, a clouded sky blue, pupils, and her gaze unending. 

She stopped before him, their eyes meeting through his tears. There was no empathy in her gaze, only his own agony reflected back at him, though her hand was light as a soft breeze as she tipped his chin up. 

“Please,” Dick said, even though he didn’t know what he was asking for: release, mercy, death. 

“You long to go back,” she said, though he mouth didn’t move, the air vibrated around him.

“Yes.” 

“For a different outcome.”

Dick nearly choked on the word, “Yes.”

“I can make it so. I can give you the gift of foresight, but I warn you, it comes at great sacrifice as it does for anyone else who it is bestowed upon.” 

“Sacrifice?”

“All your pains.” Her thumb ghosted over the scar cutting through his brow. “You will not escape them. In the endeavor of change, you may even feel them multiplied.”

“Will it spare them?”

“The people you love?”

“Yes.”

“It will be your burden alone,” she said. “There are some agonies that are woven into the fabric of the universe, but you may be able to undo certain stitches to allow those you cherish a new fate.”

“And I’ll be with them?”

“Yes.” 

“I’ll have a chance to… to stop this?”

“Yes.”

“Will I… will I remember?” Dick cradled Damian’s body close to his chest.

“Enough to weave a new fate.”

Dick met her gaze and could see the dawn of a new timeline in her eyes. “What do I have to do?”

“Give me your hand.”

Dick forced himself to pry one hand free from Damian, taking her barely corporeal hand in his own blood slick palm. 

Dick woke up feeling like his soul had been slammed back into his body. Once when he was five, he went up before the net had been set up out of pure unearned confidence. He had fallen, but even when he had been plummeting towards the ground it felt like his soul had still been standing on the tightrope until he connected with the hard packed dirt below, fracturing several ribs, and unable to get air into his lungs for agonizing second after second. 

Disoriented, Dick stared up at the concrete ceiling as his eyes adjusted to the dim light coming from the hall, shadows shifting as the night watch strolled through the halls. In the bunk below him, he could hear his roommate snoring even over the sound of his own harsh breathing. A twinge ran through him at the thought that his parents might have felt the same slam when they hit the ground, or perhaps the fall killed them so instantaneously their souls had still been lingering on the trapeze above. Dick didn’t know how many seconds their death lasted, all he had seen was them hitting the ground before strong arms had wrapped around him, and forced his face into his shoulder, telling him not to look. 

Dick had seen the impact, had heard the sound of their bones cracking over the screams of the crowd and the music he had heard a thousand times, but when his cue to join them in the air played, his face had been buried in a stranger’s jacket, breathing in expensive cologne that clashed with the smell of fried food and sugar in the circus air. The arms had lifted him up and away, one arm around his waist, holding his leg to keep him pinned to his chest, the other on the back of his head to keep him from catching another glimpse. Dick’s screams muted in the expensive fabric of his suit jacket, fists beating against the stranger’s chest to no avail, until he had fell still when the music stopped and the cold night air pricked at the back of his neck. 

The stranger had sat with him in the back of an ambulance that hadn’t bothered to run the sirens, keeping the shock blanket over the shoulders of his flimsy costume while the police tried to goad him into speaking. If Dick had glanced up, he might have registered that it was Bruce Wayne sitting beside him, but he hadn’t. He had only looked at his chalk stained hands as though if he looked away, the chalk might turned to dried blood. It might have been less of a shock when Bruce Wayne came to visit him in juvenile hall a week after CPS had dumped him there. A glimpse at his case file had told Dick that his caseworker's notes had decided that she didn’t want to waste an open group home spot on an unadoptable case when another kid would have a better shot. Between his lack of education as a “carnie” and the general opinion of “gypsies” and his lingering accent, he didn’t stand a chance of finding his forever home, he might as well have been a mangy old black cat awaiting euthanasia in the eyes of Gotham’s social services. 

The previous day when the guards led him to a private room, Dick had thought that one of the members of the circus must have come to visit him, at the very least to say goodbye if they weren’t there to rescue him. Two weeks in to his juvie stay any thoughts about how his friends, his family surely wouldn’t let him rot after his parents died had slipped away. Instead, it was Bruce Wayne wearing a solemn expression.

“Richard.”

“Dick.”

Bruce’s eyebrows raised fractionally. 

“That’s what I’m called,” Dick said, fidgeting with the sleeves of his jumpsuit. “I know here it’s funny, but it’s my name, even if it makes you laugh.”

“I’m not known for laughing often.”

“Lucky me.”

“My name is Bruce Wayne.” 

“What do you want, Mr. Wayne?” 

“I spoke with your case worker about getting you transferred to a group home, but she said there wasn’t any space.” 

“Not for a gypsy thief like me, you mean,” Dick said.

“You’re a child,” Bruce said. “And you haven’t done anything wrong, this is not the place for you.” 

It will be, Dick thought. After I’m through with whoever messed with our rig; those wires were fresh, there’s no way they simply snapped.

“There is no place for me.” 

“There’s space at my manor.”

Dick’s eyes widened. “You’re joking.”

“I’ve put in my papers for a fostering license, though it may take some time for it to be approved, but once it is, I would like you to come live at the manor with me.”

“Why?”

“Because I can,” Bruce said simply, before showing the slightest hint of hesitance. “If you’re amenable.”

“Amenable?”

“Agreeable,” Bruce said. “If… if you would like to, that is.”

“…do you have hot water at this manor?”

Dick could have sworn Bruce’s lips turned up ever so slightly. “Yes.” 

“Then I’m amiable.”

“Amenable.”

“Amenable.”

Dick turned the conversation over in his mind, he wasn’t a fool, he knew that his best case scenario was that Bruce would take him on for the media attention, another good deed under the Wayne name, another bump in his stock prices. The fall of the Flying Graysons was highly publicized, billionaire Bruce Wayne adopting the poor, little orphaned gypsy boy would do wonders for his image. Dick's worst case scenario was more along the lines of what the other boys whispered when the rumor that Bruce Wayne had taken a liking to him spread through the detention center. His first night at the center had taught him several quick lessons as to what it meant to be the small fish in a big pond and that there were worse things hands could do than beat. Three of the boys had cornered him, forcing him onto his knees, but he bit down until he tasted blood, and they hadn’t tried again. A few of the guards had offered him favors here and there that he had steadfastly refused, but by the way the other boys avoided them, he knew what the guards expected in return for their favors.  

In the back of his mind, a thought nagged at him, but he couldn’t grasp it. Like his belt loop had gotten stuck on a door handle, but he couldn’t pull free to find where he was caught. All it said was, remember, but he didn’t know what. It was like trying to catch the lingering wisps of his dream, but they slipped through his fingers like fog. Torn between trying to fall back asleep to remember what he had lost and the fear of what he might see kept him awake the remainder of the night. 

“Rise and shine.” A baton smacked against the bars and Dick’s stomach sank at the sound of that particular voice. “Up and at ‘em, gyp.”

Taggert was by far his least favorite of the guards, he had only waited five days into Dick’s stay to give him a second strip search claiming he had smuggled contraband somehow. Dick could tell by the look on his face as he searched him that it was only a power play. Climbing down from his bunk after making his bed, he and his roommate fell into line to be marched to breakfast. 

Gus, his seventeen year old bunk mate, and him had an understanding which was mainly to sit together in silence for all meals and trade books once they finished their own while waiting for another chance at the library. Neither of them asked what the other was in for, rumor was that Gus killed his neighbor's dog, but by the cigarette burns on his dark skin, Dick had a feeling Gus was probably another old cat waiting to age out of the system with nowhere else to place him. Gus was also willing to tell him the definition of slang he heard in the yard or words in the English books he had never come across before. Dick taught him a few swears in other languages in exchange.

In the yard, Dick walked laps around the chain link fence. It wouldn’t be difficult to climb, even with the barbed wire at the top, he was confident he could get past. It was only the watch tower that was in the way, the guards would catch him too quickly on the other side if they spotted him. It was an open sprint across the concrete to the parking lot and even if he somehow learned to hot wire a car and actually drive it they would just close the gates on him. 

“Let the daydream go,” Gus said. “We’ve all had it and it’ll only get you hurt.”

“I’m looking at nine years not nine months,” Dick said.

“You can’t go over,” Gus said, before moving off to join the basketball game. 

Dick frowned at the chain link fence, fingers itching to climb, to get a higher vantage point, but he had to bide his time. In the laundry room, he contemplated slamming his arm in the washing machine. A hospital would certainly be easier to escape, but he doubted he could take down a murderer one handed. 

“Hey.”

A hand grabbed his arm, yanking him from his station. 

“You gonna work, or you just gonna daydream about running off to the circus?” Taggert sneered.

“You’re in my way.”

Taggert slammed his baton into his stomach. “Don’t back talk.”

Dick took slow shallow breaths to try to steady himself, blinking back tears because the only thing worse in the center than a gypsy brat was a crybaby. 

“What even were you, huh?” Taggert twisted his arm behind his back at a painful angle. “A contortionist?”

Dick ground his teeth. “An acrobat.”

“Yeah? How far do you bend before you break, circus freak?” Taggert kept twisting, fingers digging into his arm.

Dick wasn’t sure what would happen first: his shoulder dislocating or his arm breaking but he could feel one or both approaching in a matter of seconds.

“Grayson,” another guard shouted from outside the laundry room. “Visitor.”

Taggert released him and he almost fell forwards, but forced himself to walk slowly towards his unintentional savior rather than flee like he wanted to. His arm ached, red marks on his skin, but he let it hang by his side rather than hold it close to his body like a wounded bird. Bruce Wayne was waiting in the visitor’s room, standing by the far wall, holding a brown paper bag.

“You musta hit the lottery kid,” the guard muttered before raising his voice. “One hour.”

Bruce didn’t look pleased, but gestured for Dick to sit. Dick slid into the seat on the far side of the table, hands resting in his lap, and toes skimming the floor, yet to hit his growth spurt that his daj promised was coming. 

“Your medical files said you didn’t have any allergies,” Bruce said as though that explained the take out bag he set down before him.

“…I don’t.”

Bruce gave the milkshake another nudge towards him and Dick wrapped his hands around it, but didn’t take a sip, feeling the plastic sweat against his palms, slick as blood. 

“The food is for you as well,” Bruce said. “I’ve already eaten. I didn’t know what you might prefer, but it felt hard to go wrong with a classic.”

Dick slowly unraveled the top of the bag to find two burgers, one with cheese, one without, fries, onion rings, and an assortment of condiments packets. 

“I didn’t think outside food was allowed.”

“I bribed them,” Bruce said.

Dick let out a startled snort at the honesty. “Is this a bribe too?”

“If it is, it’s a poor one. There will be better food at the manor,” Bruce said. “Honestly, Alfred would likely be displeased that I’m feeding you fast food, but when I was younger, on particularly bad days, he would bring me take out as a treat.”

“Alfred?”

“My butler.”

“…right,” Dick said slowly.

“And the man who raised me.”

Dick turned the fries over, feeling the salt against his fingers, but once he took a bite, he couldn’t stop himself from eating as quickly as he could, the primal fear of it being taken away from him overcoming him.

“Slow down.”

Dick stilled, all too aware of the ketchup smeared on his cheek, the half demolished burger in his hands, and the entire lack of upperclass manners he was displaying in front of the man who claimed to be trying to foster him.

“If you eat too fast, you’ll throw up,” Bruce said.

Dick chewed slower becoming aware of the slight cramping in his stomach, so he set the burger down to make himself slightly more presentable.

“Even backwards this is better than what they serve here,” Dick said.

Bruce’s lips twitched up, only for a second, but they did.

Dick played with the straw of the mostly empty milkshake, eyes flicking up to his face, then away. “You don’t talk a lot, do you, Mr. Wayne?”

“I’ve never been accused of that, no,” he said. “…and you can call me Bruce.”

“I have some manners,” Dick said, wiping ketchup from his cheek, and trying for a smile. “My daj and dat said it’s good to respect your elders.”

Bruce looked mildly offended. “I’m twenty-four.” 

“That’s more than twice my age, old man.” A grin blossomed on Dick’s face, not entirely sure where the confidence was coming from, but he had always had a good gauge of social interactions, what was charmingly cheeky versus what was over the line. 

“Brat,” Bruce said, but sure enough, Dick could have sworn there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

Dick grinned around straw, cup rattling as he polished off his milkshake. “I’ll have you know, I’ve been told I’m a charming young man.”

“Mm.”

Dick’s smile slipped and fell away, feeling wrong footed smiling in a world where his parents no longer lived. Like happiness should have died right beside them with the same horrible snap. Chewing on his straw, he looked at the man sitting across from him. His clothes were expensive and obviously tailored, but there was a scar on his chin, the concealer half rubbed away, and he hadn’t bothered to cover the scars on his knuckles, contrasting with his expensive watch and cashmere sweater. Somehow, Dick knew Bruce Wayne's hands were thick with callouses, but he couldn’t say why or from what, and he was certain there were dozens more scars hidden away under those hundred dollar clothes. 

“What happened to your arm?” 

Dick glanced down at the forming bruise; it looked distinctly like a handprint. “Knocked it against my bunk this morning.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “That so?”

“Yep.” 

“If someone in here is hurting you—“

“What? You’ll bribe them to stop?”

“If you give me a name.”

“It was another kid.” 

“Big bruises for a kid.”

“Big kid.”

“Dick, I know you don’t believe me, but I can help.” 

Dick looked down at his hands.

“Hour’s up,” the guard said.

Bruce’s jaw ticked. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Dick blinked. “Am I allowed to have visitors that many days in a row?”

“I’ll make it happen.”

Dick could feel a little flutter of hope in his chest, but he squashed it before it could take flight. It was only a hatchling, not ready to test its wings. No, Dick would let that be plan B, plan A remained.

Chapter Text

Dick ran down he hall, leaping over the railing to catch the chandelier, crystal chiming as it swung. Its weight was too bulky to be like the arc of a trapeze, but the swing was familiar as walking. 

“Dick!” Bruce skidded to a stop a few feet away.

“Bruce, look!” Dick hung from his knees to smile upside down at him. 

“Alfred,” Bruce said, looking pale.

“A ladder right away, sir,” Alfred said. 

“Chum.” Bruce said, holding his hands out. “Please come down from there.”

“I’m not gonna fall, B.”

“Dick, please.”

“Catch!” 

Dick flipped off of the chandelier and into Bruce’s arms, who let out a little grunt at the impact, but caught him easily. 

“The chandelier is not meant for that, chum. We’ll get you something else to play on, okay?” 

“Promise?”

“Promise.” 

Waking up from the dream felt like tearing cobwebs from his eyes. His body felt too small, his skull too crowded to keep thoughts from slipping out of his ears, and the dream fell away as he tried to get reoriented, nearly falling out of his bunk when he thought his legs would be longer than they were. Moving through the day, he made a trade of his lunch for another kid’s toothbrush. In a game of poker, he won a pack of gum, careful not to win too many hands and make himself an enemy rather than a mild irritation. Popping a piece into his mouth, he chewed as he meandered back to his cell. Glancing both ways, he squished the gum into the lock, pulling it out carefully. Once it hardened, he would have a mold for what he needed to file the toothbrush into, but for now, he tucked it carefully into his pocket. 

“Grayson.”

Dick jumped, turning to find one of the guards standing behind him, his heart going a mile an hour.

“Visitor.” 

Dick’s knees went weak with relief, following him down the hall, and to the visitor’s room where Bruce was waiting.

“Give the guards burgers?” Dick asked.

“And milkshakes,” Bruce said dryly. 

Dick’s lips curled up. 

“I have been trying to sort out your paperwork, but it looks like there’s a discrepancy between your birth certificate, and your passport. There’s a two year difference between your birth year on your birth certificate from Germany and your passport which says you were born in Romania.”

Dick tensed.

“Care to inform me of your actual birthday?”

“My parents are good people.”

“I didn’t say they weren’t,” Bruce said. “Only that I’d like to know when your birthday is.” 

Dick hesitated, the lie coming easier to his tongue with practice, but he couldn’t find a reason to. There would be no Olympics at sixteen… or fourteen depending on the paperwork, there was only vengeance for his parents, who would never be there in the stands to cheer him on, to teach him. 

“I was born in Germany,” Dick said. “It must have… it must have been a mistake.”

“So you’re nine,” Bruce said, his voice softer, sadder.

“Almost ten.” Dick squared his shoulders, lifting his chin.

Bruce’s lips ticked up. “Practically voting age.”

Dick scowled. 

“I’ll file your German birth certificate, then,” Bruce said. “I was also looking for your schooling records, but I haven’t been able to find any.”

“My parents taught me.” Dick fiddled with his sleeves. “They taught me math, and writing, and languages, and history of all the cities we toured.” 

Bruce nodded. “Are there any other documents I should collect? Medical records?”

Dick gave a slight shake of his head. He had been to a few doctor’s in his life, but the records would be scattered around the world. Without any records to go on, Dick had been given a dozen vaccines upon arrival at the center, despite telling them he had been given shots before. Both of his arms had ached for days from smallpox, tetanus, malaria, HPV, flu, and more. 

Silence settled between them and Dick kicked his feet in the empty space under the table. 

“Were you really raised by your butler?” Dick blurted out.

Bruce blinked. “Yes. My parents were killed when I was around your age and he took care of me.”

“Did they get the man who hurt them?”

“He’s in jail.” 

Dick nodded. “The police said… the police said it was an accident, but I know the lines were cut. I know it.”

Bruce’s eyes widened slightly.

“I checked them myself,” Dick said, meeting his eyes. “I know that doesn’t count for much with grown ups, but I know what I saw, and they weren’t nicked or frayed, they wouldn’t— I know.” 

Bruce was quiet for a long minute, tapping his fingers against the table. “Do you have any reason to believe someone would want to hurt your parents?”

Dick hesitated. 

“Your word counts with me,” Bruce said. 

“There was a man, who wanted the circus to give him money for protection, but he said it like… like it was protection against him,” Dick said. “Mr. Haly wouldn’t pay, and the man said… he said we would pay one way or another.” 

Bruce’s brows knit together. “And you told the police this.”

“The police won’t look.”

“I’ll ask them to look again.”

Dick looked up. “You believe me?”

“I believe that you deserve answers one way or another and a thorough investigation.” 

“I know what I saw.”

Bruce didn’t say anything, but it didn’t feel like a dismissal.

“…do you buy your way out of most problems, Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce gave him a look somewhere between incredulous and amused. “That’s not usually my intention, but it certainly is a privilege that I’m afforded in many cases.” 

Dick swung his legs. “If I had a lot of money I would buy a holiday and make one day of the year be cereal day, where everyone gets free cereal for every meal.” 

Bruce laughed slightly. “That’s not a bad idea. I’ve never tried to buy a holiday before.” 

“What holiday would you make?” 

“I don’t know.”

“Think then.”

“Uh, national… coffee day?”

“Boo! Boring!” 

The hour went quick with Dick trying to think up more and more absurd ways he would spend money if he was a billionaire. It felt like talking about a genie’s wish, before he left Bruce promised he would both try to think of a better holiday and talk to his friend in the police force. Dick whittled at the plastic of toothbrush throughout the day, but it felt less and less appealing than plan B. That childish hope that the police would help, would listen, would get the bad guy for him, but jail… jail wasn’t enough. Three meals, a place to sleep, and another day of breathing air when his parents couldn’t was more than Tony Zucco deserved. 

Dick climbed out the window of a bedroom that looked like it came from the cover of a designer magazine—

Crouching on a rooftop, he could see Anthony Zucco below—

A shadow with a cape snapping behind him, the figure of Batman looming over him—

Dick woke with only the fragments of the dream and no real timeline, but the pieces felt important, like scraps of a baby blanket that he was reluctant to part with. Reaching over, he pulled the whittled toothbrush from between his bed frame and the wall. There was a chance that if he tried to escape and failed, Bruce might decide he was more trouble than he was worth, and not go through with the fostering processes, risking his plan B. It would be far easier to escape from Wayne manor. Besides, Bruce said he would be back tomorrow, and Dick could gather more information. 

“Go,” a little voice in the back of his mind whispered. “Go.” 

Climbing out of bed, Dick double checked that his roommate was asleep before slipping his hands through the bars, and fitting the toothbrush into the lock. A twist opened the door and he stepped out into the hall, patrols only happened every half hour which meant he had fifteen minutes before he would be screwed. Instead of going for the yard and the fence, he went down, down past the laundry room, to the basement after picking the lock, and found a drainage pipe. It would have been too small for any of the other inmates, but Dick slithered through for what felt like miles before he tumbled out into the sewer. 

“Ew,” Dick complained, shaking himself off once he got to his feet, and following the checkered squares of light from the grates overhead.

Climbing up, it took a few tries to push the grate open, and crawl out onto the street. Straightening up, he paused to take in the view of Gotham at night, the few lights that were on felt muted by the gloom, casting grey and blue shadow of the rest of the city, and distant pedestrians looked more like moving shadows. With buildings towering over him, he felt like an ant in a field of grass, wandering the streets aimlessly with only the hope of finding a breadcrumb. 

After a few random turns, he slipped into an alley, climbing up on a dumpster, and jumping for the fire escape. Scaling the fire escape up onto the roof, he looked down at the city, wind rifling through his clothes like a clumsy pickpocket. The city sprawled around him, just as large as before, though he no longer felt like an ant, but a bird flying over it, looking for his prey. Standing on the edge of the rooftop, he looked at the people passing below, looking for a hint of a trail.

The back of his neck prickled, goosebumps raising on his arms, and he knew there was someone behind him. As he turned, he got a flicker of an image of a man dressed in black, cape snapping in the wind, and face hidden behind a cowl, but when he blinked he found a slender woman dressed in black and gold, the veins in her face raised and black around her dark eyes.

“Richard Grayson, the Court of Owls is expecting you,” she said with a voice like stone scraping against rock.

Chapter Text

Through blurry eyes, Talon watched the shadows down the hall, attuned to the telltale sounds of fist meeting flesh, but no sound escaped except for one man’s labored breathing. Unlike Talon, the other owls had learned long ago not to screech, or, more accurately, they no longer felt the need to, no matter the injury they endured. Talon knew that in three days when he was put on ice, he would no longer feel, but he wondered if that extended to his nerve endings. Even with the pain lancing through him, the thought of unending numbness made his stomach churn.

There was something familiar about the gait of the shadow that approached the doorway. Not an owl. A bat, Talon’s mind supplied, though he was very large for a bat it was the word that came to mind when the shadow stepped into the room, masked eyes meeting Talon’s own yellowed ones. The modifications to Talon’s body had been excruciating, wings bursting forth from his back and lights turning bright and blinding without any healing factor to dull the pain. That modification wouldn’t come until hours before he was put under ice to insure that his body stayed exactly in its prime condition until they decided to take their new weapon off the shelf. To ensure that all the agony he endured to craft him made him razor sharp before he was quenched in the ice. 

“Dick,” a low voice called.

The word buzzed in his ear like a fly and his head twitched at the sound of it. The bat moved forwards slowly, reaching for the cuffs. Talon almost skittered back, but an odd note of bergamot under the salt of sweat and the iron tang of blood made him still. 

“I’m going to bring you somewhere safe,” the Bat said. “Do you understand me?”

Talon stared up at him, but pain made him feel as though he were looking at him through a gauzy curtain. The Bat checked the cuffs, but rather than undo the lock, he broke the iron chain over them, and hefted Talon over his shoulder. It made his injuries flare, but Talon kept his scream trapped behind his teeth as he was taught to, though his vision threatened to go dark like a flashlight running out of battery. The Bat carried him out of the dark room, wings still bound to his back, and wrists locked together, chain clinking with every step. In the halls he caught glimpses of the bound bodies of other owls, bloody, but he couldn’t tell if they were dead or alive. Alive might have been a stretch to classify the talons on any day. 

The Bat’s left foot came down heavier than his right and Talon could smell the blood on him, though with the dark fabric it was near impossible to tell where the site of the injury was. Injuries, Talon guessed, the other owls would not have gone down easily, though with the way several of the hallways were crumbling and tasted of ash, he could guess there had been explosives and distractions to keep the fighting mainly one to one. Clever. 

Talon breathed in the smell of bergamot and watched the Court disappear behind him. The jet ride was more of a blur than anything else as Talon tried not to succumb to the pain of his injuries in the turbulent air, though he did briefly black out in the transfer from the plane to a cave where the Bat finally deemed it fit to reach for his bindings.

“I’m going to remove these,” the Bat said. “Do not attack me. I don’t want you to aggravate your injuries.”

Talon watched him through hazy eyes as he broke the cuffs, abrasions and bruises ringing the delicate bones underneath the iron shackles. Moving his wrists apart sent agony so swift and fierce through his muscles that his vision went black for a few terrifying seconds. 

“Breathe, easy, easy,” the Bat murmured, gently moving each wrist apart and down to his sides to rest. 

Talon’s vision shifted and swayed as he tried to focus once again on the Bat before him. Next went the bands around his wings, the shift in weight making every bloody lash on his back scream and he was certain he let slip a ragged noise.

“Easy—“

Talon snarled as the Bat dared to touch the bloody and bent feathers.

“—okay,” the Bat held up his hands in his line of sight. “I have to clean you up. It’s going to hurt, but I’m not doing it to hurt you. I’m doing it to help you, do you understand?”

Talon’s exhaustion hit him swift and strong, his eyes glazing over with tears he knew better than to let fall as he sat still through the pain of having bloody feathers cleaned and straightened, stray antiseptic rolling down the lashes on his back as though they were weeping on his behalf. His wings twitched a few times beyond his control, but the Bat didn’t reprimand him, perhaps he was waiting until he had finished his task to dole out punishment. By the time the Bat started cleaning up the massacre of his back, tremors had set into his body against his best efforts, the pain, exhaustion, and fear he was supposed to be trained out of was inescapable.

“I’m almost done, almost, Dick. I’m sorry, I know it hurts, thank you for sitting still.” 

Once the lashes were cleaned and bandaged, the Bat checked for other injuries, spreading something cold over his bruises and abrasions before reaching for an IV rig. A burst of adrenaline allowed Talon just enough strength to kick the Bat away, scrambling off the cot, and using his battered wings and bloody claws to help him climb up the rough hewn side of the cave to an alcove.

“Hey,” the Bat said, rising slowly to his feet, and standing below him. “Come down, you’ll hurt yourself.”

Talon bared his fangs, his whole body trembling at the thought of the electrum entering his blood stream, and being put in the ice to await his next mission. He could feel every beat of his heart as though it was begging for its life, screaming, wailing, and kicking its legs to ask to keep beating another day. 

“Dick,” the Bats voice soften. “I’m not going to hurt you, please come down.”

His hands were stretched upwards toward him even though he would never reach Talon’s alcove. Talon tried to get further back, but the rock crumbled under his claws, and he wobbled in his little perch. 

“Dick, please come down.”

Talon’s vision blurred, his hold loosening as unconsciousness threatened to take him. The last thing he saw was the Bat’s outstretched hands as he slipped into darkness, barely registering the fact that he had a far softer landing than the cave floor would have been. 

Waking slow, he breathed in the scent of bergamot, blood, sweat, and the salt of skin and tears. He was stretched out on a cot, no matter how soft it still pressed unforgivingly into his injuries. Sitting on the edge of the cot was the familiar form of the Bat, but he had shed his costume, leaving him in a thinner under layer, and his face bare. There was a needle in his arm. Talon reached to yank it out, but his reflexes were slower than he anticipated and the Bat caught both of his wrists in one hand, pressing them down to the cot.

“Easy,” the Bat said. “It’s just saline, antibiotics, vitamins, and painkillers.”

Talon struggled pathetically.

“Dick, look, hey, look, it’s clear, look at the tube, it’s clear.” 

The fluid going into his veins was clear and Talon reluctantly settled down.

“Do you… do you remember me?”

Talon stared up at him.

“No?”

Talon tensed at the unhappiness in his tone.

“It’s okay, that’s okay, we’ll work on it. I’m Bruce Wayne, I’m— I was going to foster you before the Court kidnapped you.”

Talon’s confusion must have shown on his face, there was no before the Court, there was only being honed, shelved, and used. 

“Do you know what your name is?” 

Talons didn’t have names.

“You’re name is Richard Grayson, but you go by Dick, and I’ve been looking for you for almost a year now. I’m sorry it took me so long to find you, I promise, I was looking.” 

Talon only stared.

“You’re ten years old, but you turn eleven next week. If you’re up to it, I’m sure Alfred would be happy to make you anything you would like for dinner, if you’re not… we’ll celebrate some other time.”

Talon traced the lines of his face with his eyes for a familiarity, but if there was one, it felt shrouded, as though it were covered with a heavy blanket. He gave a dull flinch when the Bat’s other hand reached for his face, but all he did was brush his matted hair back off of his forehead.

“You’re safe, Dick,” the Bat said softly. “Welcome home.”

Talon fell asleep once more.

Chapter Text

Talon wasn’t entirely sure what was happening. The water he had been placed in was warm, so very warm, and a thick layer of bubbles laid on top like frothed milk, tickling his shoulders as he shifted. Tucking his knees into his vulnerable stomach had seemed sensible as did drawing his wings in, but it felt odd to have partially submerged feathers and they kept stirring without his permission and making the water lap dangerously at the edge of the tub. The Bat, Master Bruce, knelt beside the tub, holding a wet cloth.

“Alright, let’s get you cleaned up.” Bruce took his face in one big hand and Talon knew all it would take was a sharp jerk and he could snap his neck, he could feel the power in his grip, but Bruce gently wiped sweat and grime from his face.

Talon’s eye half closed as the cloth slid high on his cheekbone, staring at Bruce as he cleaned him up. He couldn’t see exactly the purpose of the exercise, but the Court at times had their own rituals that were not born of necessity, but tradition. Perhaps the cleansing was preparing him. Talon’s wings fluttered before he forced them to still, he had been cleaned before the wings had come, but it had been with harsh chemicals that burned his nose. The soap smelled like lavender. The cloth slid down to his delicate throat and Talon twisted to sink his teeth into Bruce’s wrist before he could think twice about it.

Bruce winced, inhaling through his teeth. “Let go.”

Talon did not want to. It was pitiful leverage, but he was certain as soon as he let go he would have to face the consequences of his actions. Bruce’s fingers carded through his hair and Talon braced himself for the yank, but all he got was a soft tug.

“Let go,” Bruce said, firm, but gentle. “I know you’re scared, but I am not going to hurt you. I just want to get you cleaned up, okay?”

Bruce gave him a little shake and Talon loosened his bite enough to be pulled away, his brain swimming with Bruce’s words. The deception didn’t make sense, Talon did not have the Bat at enough of a disadvantage for him to need to lie his way out of the situation. Bruce could have simply pried him free. It may have been bloody, yes, but survivable. Talon tensed as that large hand held his jaw again, bracing against the unknown more than the pain he was anticipating, but Bruce just held his face up and out of the way as he washed his neck and shoulders. Letting go, Bruce reached for his hands, scrubbing down to the golden talons of his nails.

Talon couldn’t help the little confused chirp he let out. Bruce’s eyes widened, but Talon couldn’t read displeasure on him, only mere surprise. The additional vocal cords had been an unpleasant sensation and baffling in their necessity as Talon was not permitted to speak, but he found that the little nest of owls he had come across enjoyed chattering with him. Talon chirped again and surprise settled into a little smile.

“I don’t know what that means,” Bruce said. “But I like hearing your voice again.” 

Talon stared at him as he took his other hand and gave it the same treatment until the gold claws shone like polished jewelry. Tucking his hands back under the water, Talon decided to enjoy the warmth while he had it. One of the worst punishments was the cold room. He would not be frozen completely until he completed his training and transformation, but in the cold room, they would let his temperature drop low enough that they had to shock his heart into beating again. Told him that if he wasn’t strong enough, it wouldn’t start again. He wouldn’t be forged into a weapon like the talons who emerged from the ice with black veins and still hearts, he would only be dead. 

Talon cupped the bubbles between his hands, watching them slip through his fingers, and pop in the air. Bruce maneuvered him gently to make sure he got him entirely clean, draining and refilling the water once it turned a faint brown. With a noise of displeasure, Talon shrouded himself with his wings as he waited for the fresh water to cover him once more. Bruce looked faintly amused as Talon tentatively peeked out from his feathers to make a few chirps in askance of the warmth again. With the tub refilled, Bruce filled a cup with water, guiding Talon’s head back. Tempted to resist, Talon made a displeased sound at baring his throat, but Bruce just laid his palm over his forehead, blocking the water from his eyes as he rinsed his matted hair. 

Shampoo got worked aggressively into his roots and Talon couldn’t help the way his eyes fell shut, making a low sound not unlike a purr though it was more of a mockery of a bird grinding its beak in contentment. Rinsing the shampoo out, Bruce painstakingly detangled the knots in his hair, and even the little pricks of pain as it tugged at his scalp felt far worth it to be clean again. Conditioner went on next, slick as oil, as Bruce continued to try to wrangle his thick hair. Tentatively, Talon cupped the bubbles in his hand again, making a little chittering noise to get Bruce’s attention to show him the handful.

“You like the bubbles?”

Talon didn’t exactly know how to ask him why he was being cleaned besides showing him the handful again. 

“Yeah,” Bruce said softly, thumb rubbing the nape of his neck. “I bet it feels nice to be clean again, huh?”

Talon let the bubbles slip from his fingers, fluttering his wings before forcing them to settle down again. Bruce washed the conditioner from his hair before reaching for the feathers, or he tried, but Talon snapped his wings in tight.

“I know,” Bruce said. “You don’t like your wings touched, but I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

Talon bared his fangs at him in a bold display of defiance when his master could so easily hurt him.

“You’ll feel better once they’re clean, chum.” 

Talon snapped at him, but wasn’t quite brave enough to bite again when Bruce straightened out one wing to wash. One bite might not have gotten him punished, but he knew there had to be a line with his tolerant new master. Talons were not supposed to make the same mistake twice, and… and Bruce was gentle with the wings, working away old blood and dirt. Talon still made a pitiful sound as he touched a sensitive pinfeather.

“Easy, easy,” Bruce laid his large hand between his wings, warm against his cold skin. 

Talon realized he was shaking even though he wasn’t cold for once. 

“Almost done, chum, you’re doing so well,” Bruce murmured. 

Draining the water again, Bruce lifted him up out of the tub, wrapping him in a big soft towel, patting him dry. Setting him on the bath mat, Bruce picked up a contraption, and Talon prepared to flee as it was aimed at his head, but rather than a bullet it just blew hot air at him. With a curious chirp, he turned his face into the warmth. Bruce laughed, gently redirecting him to dry his hair and then his wings. Chittering happily, Talon spread his wings wide to be buffeted by the warm air until they were fluffy and dry. 

“Stay here,” Bruce ordered, stepping out of the tiled room. 

Pulling one warm wing in close, Talon set about straightening the feathers. A few pinfeathers got their sheaths tugged loose onto the floor, the new feathers oil black and silky soft.

“Hey.”

Talon tensed at the sharp tone as Bruce knelt down, pulling his hands away from the wings, and holding them tight in his own.

“Don’t pull out your feathers. Did you hurt yourself?” Bruce examined his wings. “Are you bleeding?”

Talon tilted his head to one side. Bruce started checking over the feathers and it clicked. Weapons couldn’t be hurt, but they could be damaged. His master wanted to make sure he was in decent condition and as master didn’t have wings, he thought Talon was damaging his property. Talon tried to make a reassuring noise, directing Bruce’s hand to a pinfeather and demonstrating how to pull the loose sheath free. He crooned again, a little, See? It’s okay, I didn’t damage your property. Bruce’s shoulders relaxed.

“That doesn’t… that doesn’t hurt you?”

Talon resumed his little grooming, but he appeared to have gotten most of the feathers. 

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Bruce said. “I was just… I didn’t understand.”

Talon settled his wings against his back, staring up at him. 

“Let’s get you dressed.” Bruce picked up the bundle of clothes he had dropped. “I… I had bought these awhile back, but they look like they should still fit.”

There didn’t appear to be anything ceremonial about the clothes Bruce dressed him in, soft cotton pants and a t-shirt with a red S on it. One gold claw traced the design, waiting for the meaning to click in his mind, but it didn’t come.

“You said he was your favorite,” Bruce said.

Talon looked up at him.

“I was a little offended in all honesty,” Bruce said dryly, but he didn’t sound offended, more amused.

Bruce held tight to his hand as he led him out of the bathroom. It was Talon’s first real look at the manor, his master had kept him in the cave for three days tending to his injuries, and explaining his new situation. Bruce told him he had a life before the Court though not in great detail, told him that he was going to stay with his new master at the manor, and that he was undergoing ‘deprogramming’ from the ‘brainwashing’ the Court of Owls did to him. Talon was relatively certain this meant unlearning all of the rules he had paid the price to learn in blood and he wasn’t so keen on letting them go. For the moment, he had decided to simply overlay Bruce’s new rules over his old programming to please him.

“Dick.” Bruce brought him to a dining room, where an old man was standing. “This is Alfred, he’s a friend, and he’s going to help take care of you.” 

Talon stared at the older man.

“Hello, Master Dick—“

Talon flinched at the title, nearly knocking back into Bruce’s legs. It was a nightmare to think that he could be thought on the same levels as the masters of the Court, that he could deal out such cruelty, such apathy as to create weapons.

“Easy, easy,” Bruce said softly, steadying him. 

Talon made a distressed sound. Was this what Bruce had taken him in for? To craft a new generation of Talons now that he had destroyed the old Court of Owls? To make his own army?

“Hey,” Bruce said firmly. “Let go.”

Talon looked down to realize he had latched onto Bruce’s arm in a tight grip, but he couldn’t force his fingers to let go. Making a mournful sound, Talon thought about the last time his instincts had let his raptor grip take over, and how his master had broken every finger in his hand to force him to let go. He could see blood beading up under his talons and he made another little distress sound, reaching for his own hand to break the first finger before his master could, but he froze as the older man approached.

“I don’t believe he can, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. “Some raptors have a reflex, where once their talons have caught their prey, it closes like a trap, and will not let go. It appears as though his instincts flare up with his distress, yes?”

Bruce grimaced. “Yeah.”

“We will simply have to wait until Master Dick—“

Talon flinched again, eyes shut tight. 

“Oh,” Alfred said. “Is it his name?”

“No, no, I think…” Bruce said. “I think we’ll have to forgo formalities for awhile, Alfred, in the Court there’s Masters and Grandmasters running the place.”

“I see,” Alfred said, letting out a little sigh. “I suppose, I can set aside propriety for the moment.” 

“I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Priorities, M— Mr. Wayne,” Alfred said. “Dick’s comfort comes first and foremost of course.”

“Bruce will do, Alfred.”

“Mm.”

Gentle fingers carded through his hair and Talon risked opening his eyes to look up at Bruce.

“Is it okay if we sit down, chum?”

Talon blinked at him. Bruce eased himself down to the floor, rearranging him so that he sat in his lap, Bruce’s arm more comfortably arranged in Talon’s unbreakable grip, elbow resting on his own knee. Talon made a pitiful sound as he looked at the blood welling up under his freshly cleaned talons.

“It’s okay, chum.” Bruce stroked his hair. “I know you’re not trying to hurt me, just take a few deep breaths for me. No one’s going to hurt you here, everything’s okay.” 

Talon tried to follow his instructions, taking precisely three mechanical deep breaths, but his grip didn’t loosen. 

“It’s okay,” Bruce said. “We’ll sit here as long as we need to.” 

And they did. Bruce didn’t say much else, just held him close to his chest, his body heat felt like sitting by a furnace, and Talon couldn’t help the way his wings relaxed, allowing him to lean back a little into that warmth. Alfred puttered about, but he never came particularly close to them, and Dick liked that he could hear him move through the house, so unlike the silence of the Court. With his eyes half closed, Talon almost didn’t realize that his grip had loosened until Bruce eased his arm free.

“That’s it, there we go.”

Talon sat up straighter as Alfred approached, but all he did was quickly disinfect Bruce’s arm and wind gauze around the five point marks. They looked shallow, but the sight still made Talon’s stomach turn.

“Very good, M- Dick,” Alfred said. “I expect you are quite hungry if you both will move to the dining room, I have dinner ready.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce said.

Talon let himself be steered fully into the dining room and sat at the long table. Alfred set food before himself and Bruce, filling their glasses with water. Talon kept his hands in his lap even though his stomach rumbled. Bruce ate three bites before setting his fork down with a frown. 

“Is there something else you would rather eat, Dick?” 

Talon kept his gaze down on his hands, afraid if he so much as looked at the food his restraint might snap.

“Dick?”

Talon held himself so still he was shaking, wings tucked in tight to his body.

“I would really like it if you would eat something.” 

Talon slipped off of his chair to kneel on the ground. It was a long minute before Bruce reached for his plate and set it on the polished wood floor before him. Talon tore into the food, only slowing as Bruce’s chair shifted back and the man sat on the ground opposite him, his own plate resting on his knee.

“We’ve got a long way to go, huh?” Bruce said, sounding sad, but he didn’t take Talon’s food away, only started eating his own.

Talon curled over his plate, wings giving him extra shelter as he scarfed it down until his stomach began to cramp, and he forced himself to slow before he threw it up. He had done it before and it had only left him more hollow than he felt before feeding. As he sat up, Alfred approached, crouching down to wipe his hands and face clean with a white cloth. 

“I think the usefulness of cutlery may be an important lesson, Mr. Wayne.” 

“I’ll add it to the list,” Bruce said wryly. 

“Did you have enough to eat, Dick?” Alfred asked. 

Talon blinked up at him. 

“I suppose I will take that as a yes for the moment,” Alfred said. “Perhaps it is time for bed, then?”

Bruce rose to his feet, setting their plates aside. “Come on, Dick.”

Talon rose slowly, following Bruce out of the dining hall, and back up the stairs. He was ushered into a bedroom with a full sized bed tucked in the corner, impeccably made with matching bedspread, a little stuffed animal sat on the pillows. An elephant. Talon’s gaze lingered on it for far too long before he checked the rest of the room, a window seeing out into the courtyard, a desk with a lamp sitting on top, a closet full of clothes roughly his size, a bureau likely to hold the same, and… and a poster on the wall. Stepping closer, his fingers reached for the figures depicted swinging off the trapeze, but the sight of his golden claws had him withdrawing. 

“This is your room,” Bruce said. “Mine is all the way at the end of the hallway, if you need anything, come to me, okay?”

Talon blinked at him.

“Goodnight, Dick.”

Talon watched him go, closing the door, but when Talon tentatively checked it a few minutes later, he found he hadn’t been locked in. With a little more daring, he found the window opened as well. Leaving it open, he stood by the sill drinking in the night air for a long few minutes before making a more thorough check of the room. Picking up the elephant, he held its snout to his nose, staring into its glassy eyes.

Zitka.

Talon blinked, unsure of where the name had come from, but he felt sure of it in his gut. The open window made the room cold, but Talon couldn’t bring himself to disturb the bed, so he sat on the ground by it, letting the edge of the comforter settle on his shoulders like a cape. As his eyes grew heavy, he curled up on the floor, tucking himself under the bed, and sheltering himself with his wings. 

A knock woke him, and Alfred’s voice came to him through the wood. “Good morning, Dick. If you would get dressed, breakfast is prepared downstairs.”

Talon curled up smaller as the door opened a crack, then further. Shiny shoes passed him, taking a turn about the room, and stopping by the open window. 

“Dick? Oh my…” Alfred made a quick retreat.

Bare feet appeared in his room next. “Out the window?”

“He does have wings, Master Bruce.”

“I should have nailed them shut, dammit,” Bruce said, sounding frustrated. “His bed is untouched, he could have been gone for hours.”

“He may not have gone far,” Alfred said. “I’ll check the manor first, you should survey the grounds look for signs of where he may have gone. If there’s a young winged man running around Gotham, it’s certain we will hear of it soon.” 

Bruce made a sound of frustration. “I only just found him and I lost him before it’s even been a week.” 

“You will find him again, sir.” 

Talon couldn’t help his little chirp, remembering how it made his master happy the day prior when he sounded so upset now. 

“Dick?” The bare feet came closer until Bruce peered under the bed, looking relieved. “Dick, what are you doing under here?”

Talon blinked at him. 

Bruce sighed. “You scared me, I thought you might have run off.”

Talon knew better than that, all talons did, there was nowhere to run that their masters could not find them. 

“Can you come out from under there?”

Talon wiggled out from under the bed, Zitka safe within his arms as he knelt on the floor before Bruce. 

“Can you get dressed and come down for breakfast?”

Talon didn’t fully understand the instructions seeing as he was already wearing clothes, but Alfred pulled another set of clothes out of his closet and set them on top of the bureau. 

“Get dressed and then come down to the dining room, okay?” Bruce said again.

Talon nodded slowly, knowing it was the right move when Bruce looked relieved, following Alfred out of the room, and closing the door after him. Putting on the clothes that had been set out for him, Talon followed the same route as the night before to where the smell of baked bread and butter called to him. There were two plates of fluffy pancakes sitting at the table as well as a glass of milk beside his and a cup of bitter coffee by Bruce’s seat. Talon sat when directed, eyes averted from the food.

“Dick, you can eat sitting at the table.” 

Talon didn’t move.

Bruce glanced at Alfred, looking lost.

“Perhaps, for the moment, you may forgo dining at the table and eat in the sitting room,” Alfred said.

Bruce’s eyes widened slightly. “Eat in the sitting room for anything aside from tea?”

Alfred’s lips flattened out into a line. “Only under these extreme circumstances, once Dick is more accustom to eating a table, we shall take steps towards instilling proper manners.” 

Bruce looked amused, but picked up both of their plates. “C’mon, Dick.”

Talon followed him from the dining room to a lounge where the plates were set on a lower table. After a moments deliberation, Bruce sat on the floor, patting the space beside him. Talon lowered himself down slowly, the plate tantalizingly close to his face.

“Let’s have breakfast.” Bruce started eating.

Tentatively, Talon reached for his own plate, but his hand didn’t get knocked away. Snatching a pancake, he retreated a little, curling under the shelter of his wings to scarf it down, and lick the butter from his fingertips. Peeking out from his wings, Bruce hadn’t reacted, cutting into his own pancakes. Inching close again, Talon stole a second pancake, eating it in the same manner as the first. He managed to clear his plate and drink all of his milk, feeling so full he imagined it was what a pig felt like being fattened up for the slaughter, lethargic as his body tried to process the food, especially as he was fed again only a few hours later, and again before bed— all the meals taken in the sitting room with Bruce. 

With coaxing over the next few weeks, Talon managed to eat sitting right next to the coffee table, eventually with a fork, then sitting in one of the armchairs, but it still took nearly a month before he managed to take more than a few bites while sitting at the imposing dining table, so they often had breakfast in the sitting room. 

The first week, Bruce stayed with him throughout the days, after breakfast he would draw a little blood and bring Talon down to the cave while he ran it through a machine and tapped at his computer. While he worked, Talon was allowed to practice his skills in the training area, but the knifes he was given access to were blunted. After lunch, they went to Bruce’s study where he did work for his company and Talon was encouraged to practice reading, writing, and speaking if he could. 

Reading failed to keep his attention for more than short spans as did writing, but one of Bruce’s company sheets with numbers was far more interesting and he spent three hours learning what ‘statistics' were, sitting on the edge of his desk while Bruce showed him algorithms on his computer. The next day he was given a big book full of math problems which he worked through like the riddles that Byo the clown used to tell him.

Byo. 

Talon’s pencil paused on the paper, trying to dredge up more than a blurry image of someone wearing white face paint with a red nose and a loud laugh. His old masters told him that anything before had been erased. 

“Dick?” Bruce asked.

Talon let out a frustrated exhale through his nose, picking up the pad of paper that Bruce asked he write if he needed anything on. So far, Talon had only asked if he was allowed to leave to find a bathroom which he was informed he did not have to ask and could do so whenever he felt the need and if he could have water, which, again, he was allowed to fetch for himself whenever he so pleased. Sketching out a shape of a man and the vague memories of Byo, Talon turned the paper towards Bruce.

Bruce’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “…a clown?”

Talon tapped his forehead, then the paper.

“You remember a clown,” Bruce said, sounding more interested.

Talon nodded, writing Byo underneath the paper.

“Byo,” Bruce said. “Yeah, he was the clown in the circus troop you were part of.”

Talon’s wings ruffled and settled as he shifted from his perch on Bruce’s desk. 

“Do you remember anything else?”

Talon set the paper aside.

“It will come back to you,” Bruce said, returning his attention to his work. 

After dinner, Bruce brought him back to the sitting room, picking up a book. “I… one of the ways children learn language is through reading aloud, I don’t… I don’t have much practice, but I thought it might help.”

Talon blinked at him. 

Clearing his throat, Bruce began to read, and it quickly became a habit. Talon was no more inclined to speaking, but he did chitter and chirp at the exciting parts of the story and Bruce got more practiced, more expressive with each night and Talon mimicked that even without words. Though he continued to read to him in the evenings, after a weeks time, Bruce had to return to Wayne Enterprises, and Talon saw far less of him. It didn’t help that every night he went out as the Bat after seeing Talon off to bed. 

Talon could not yet be convinced to sleep in his bed and much to Alfred’s displeasure ended up taking the pillows and blankets into the foot of the closet to burrow down to sleep. He had also stolen one of Bruce’s soft cashmere sweaters to add to his nest, though the scent of his bergamot cologne was quickly fading from the fabric and he thought he might have to steal another to replace it. Nestled up in the blankets, he still kept his window open, breathing in the night air with the taste of freedom.

Alfred did not mind being shadowed as he went about his work in the manor, Talon was not to clean, but he was expected to keep tidy. Clothes were to stay in the closet or drawers when clean and put in the proper basket when dirty. Dishes may be left on the table or brought to the kitchen, but used napkins had to sit either on the plate or be thrown in the trash. Talon’s clothes were to be suitable to the current temperature and appropriate time of day, no pajamas worn to breakfast or put on until after dinner, his teeth were to be brushed after meals, and he was to shower once a day, either in the morning or the evening, not midday. Talon appreciated the simplicity in which Alfred laid out the rules for him and reminded him to follow them without more than a gentle scolding. Like Bruce, Alfred was more of a quiet soul, but he didn’t mind Talon’s chattering even if it wasn’t words.

It was three weeks before Talon gathered the courage to bring his notebook to Bruce with only one word written. Out. Bruce looked at it with a slight furrow to his brow and Talon’s hands shook. 

“Out?”

Talon pointed to himself, to the open window, and back to the notepad.

Bruce’s expression softened. “You want to go outside.”

Talon nodded stiffly. 

Bruce leaned back in his chair. “I’ll tell you what, after dinner, we can go outside, okay?”

Talon blinked at him in surprise. Thrumming with excitement, he barely focused on his dinner, legs kicking from where they dangled from the chair until Bruce finished, and he hopped to his feet.

Bruce smiled. “Alright, c’mon, get some shoes on.”

Talon scrambled for his sneakers, following Bruce out of the manor into the courtyard. The night sky stretched overhead, the stars muted by the city lights in the distance, but they were both beautiful in Talon’s eyes. Bruce walked slowly through the grass, but Talon couldn’t resist taking his shoes off to feel it beneath his feet, doing a cartwheel to feel the soft ground under his hands. Wings flapping, he ran in circles around the space, climbed a tree, jumped out of it, did half a gymnastics routine in the free space and earned a little applause. As he wore himself out, he laid down in the grass, spreading his wings wide, fingers curled in the ground, staring up at the sky.

“I should have taken you outside sooner, huh, chum?” Bruce said down nearby, close enough to touch, but his hands stayed in his lap. “I’m… I’m working on something to help you get back out into the world, but I only have bits and pieces of the notes of what they did to you. I don’t know how to turn it back and it’s not safe for you to go out like this.” 

Talon chirped at him. Bruce gave him a sliver of a smile, but Talon had long since learned that his face wasn’t particularly expressive, hints were to be taken as statements and statements as exclamations. Holding up a handful of grass, Talon chattered at him, not saying anything in particular aside from look, look at the outside, look at the world, look at the freedom he held in his hand. Bruce hummed in return.

A new part of their routine formed, before Bruce left to be the Bat, he took him outside to wear himself out under the night sky until Alfred came to collect him for bed, gently chiding him for grass stains and dirty feet. 

Two months in, Talon awoke to harsh voices on the stairs. Creeping out into the hallway, he watched as Alfred attempted to help Bruce up the stairs who was breathing heavily, bandages wrapped around his torso, and his skin pale. Talon could taste blood in the air. Hurt. Bruce had been hurt as the Bat. It was a long trek to his bedroom and though neither man appeared to notice, Talon hovered close by. 

The next night he snuck down the cave to see the Bat.

“Dick? What are you doing up?” Bruce asked, cowl not yet on, but in costume. “You should be in bed.”

‘Help’ Talon signed.

Bruce’s attention focused on him. “You need help?”

Talon shook his head, signing ‘help’ again, and pointing at Bruce.

“…you want to help me?”

Stepping closer, tentatively, Talon gently tapped where the injury was hidden away under his costume. ‘Hurt. Me. Help. Help. Bat.’

“I’m fine, chum, go back to bed.”

Talon shook his head. ‘Me. Help. Bat. Go. Out. Help. Bat.’

It took a few more rearranging of the little sign he had learned for them to understand one another.

“You’re not coming out with me,” Bruce said firmly. “What I do is dangerous.”

Talon finger spelled dangerous and pointed to himself, crossing his arms, and lifting his chin defiantly. There was no point in Bruce having a perfectly good weapon on hand if he wasn’t going to use it.

“No,” Bruce said. “And that’s final.” 

Talon bared his fangs at him.

“Dick, go back to bed, now.”

Talon fell into fighting stance. 

“Now, Dick.” 

Talon didn’t back down, even though his disobedience made him shake. Bruce let out a frustrated noise and Talon braced himself for a blow, but his big hand just curled around the back of his neck and marched him up and out of the Cave and back to his room.

“Stay here. I will see you in the morning.” 

Talon waited for the footsteps to fade, then climbed out the window. It was easy to shadow the Bat, though he had some difficulty keeping up with the moving vehicle until he hitched a ride on the top of a nearby truck and ended up hopping from vehicle to vehicle until they reached the city and he could travel by rooftop. Despite his fear of what his punishment would be for such blatant disobedience, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it because he refused to lose his new master who had been so kind to him. 

Especially when the Bat was off his game. 

Talon watched his first few skirmishes, but he moved slower, took more hits which landed harder as he was already injured. It was only when the Bat busted into a warehouse that he was overwhelmed by eight men at once, dodging bullets and punches in equal measure while Talon watched restlessly from the window. A bullet nicked his shoulder and he staggered back, the men took him to the floor. Talon jumped from the window, diving into the fray. The first four men went down easy and when he turned for the others, the Bat had already laid them out, but his fury was evident in the lines of his body, chest heaving as he caught his breath.

“Home. Now.” The Batman growled.

Talon felt the order reverberate through his bones and was quick to follow him back to the Batmobile, head down, hands clasped behind his back, claws slick with blood. The ride was silent and Talon bit down hard on his tongue to keep from making any pitiful sounds in the face of his impending punishment. The Bat stormed out of the Batmobile and Talon followed meekly.

“I told you explicitly to stay home,” Bruce snarled.

Talon’s heart kicked at his ribs like a horse in a burning barn, eyes fixed on the ground, hands locked behind his back. 

“You cannot do that again, do you understand me? When I say stay home, you stay home!”

Talon’s knees hit the floor of the cave with a dull thud, wings drooping, and hands braced on the floor in preparation for the whip. It had been his former master’s favorite form of conditioning, and he was certain he had finally done something to warrant it from his new master. Above him he heard the Bat take a deep breath through his nose, then force it out slowly.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Dick,” the Bat said, his voice quieter, but still evidently displeased.

‘Me. No. Listen. P-U-N-I-S-H.” 

The Bat sighed again, then he was sitting down on the floor before him, criss-crossed. 

“Look at me.”

Talon’s lip wobbled as he lifted his eyes, but he found himself looking at Bruce, the Batman cowl pushed off, leaving his face bare, a little pale, and sweat glistening on his skin.

“I am not going to hurt you,” Bruce said. “I will never hurt you for disobeying me.”

Talon’s hands hesitated before signing ‘how learn?’. 

Bruch was quiet. “When I made a bad decision, the consequences I faced typically depended on what I had done. If I was unkind to others, Alfred brought me to the soup kitchen six weeks in a row. If I got into fights at school, Alfred had me sit in court so I could understand that if I were less privileged my consequences for a fist fight could be six months in jail if not for my lawyers. If I swore, Alfred would speak to me only French for a week.”

Talon tilted his head to the side.

“Never mind,” Bruce said, scrubbing at his face. “The point is, the punishment has to fit the crime, so why didn’t you listen?”

Talon stared at him. No one had ever asked him ‘why’ only punished him for whatever action he had taken that they disapproved of. He lifted his hands. Put them down. Lifted again.

‘Scared’ Talon signed slow. ‘Scared. Lose. You.’

Bruce’s shoulders relaxed somewhat. “That’s why I need you to stay home, Dick. What I do is dangerous, and you could get really hurt. I don’t want to lose you either.”

Talon curled and uncurled his claws, trying to pull the right words out of the air to make his argument. 

“Dick—“

Talon signed ‘wait’ in a sharp motion, startling both of them with the action, but rather than yell again Bruce just nodded.

‘Me. Weapon. Use.’

“You’re not a weapon, Dick, and I won’t treat you like one.”

Talon let out a frustrated noise. ‘Me. Made. Weapon. Bad. You. Make. Me. Good. Use. Weapon. Help. People.’

“You’re a child,” Bruce said. “You’re not a weapon, the people who hurt you were bad people.”

Talon’s feathers fluffed up in agitation, but he grabbed a piece of paper, leaving bloody fingerprints on it as he started to write. ‘They made me to hurt others, but I want to use what they made me to help, to do good, otherwise I’m just broken.’ 

“You’re not broken.”

‘Then let me be good. Let me protect you. Help others. Let me make something good out of what I’ve become.’ 

Bruce was quiet.

Talon held his breath.

“It’s late. Go to bed, Dick.”

‘You. Too.’ Dick signed.

Bruce rose with a grimace, holding his side. “Fine. Me too.”

Talon got to his feet, but he noticed Bruce tucked the piece of paper into one of his pockets after he shed his suit, and they made their way up the stairs. 

It took three more occasions of sneaking out (and saving Batman’s ass) before Bruce was convinced under the condition that first Talon got training to operate non-lethally. Talon liked training, it was far more enjoyable than the Court’s, it felt more like dancing, more like fuzzy memories of acrobatics routine, as he learned to fight to protect, not to hurt, not to maim, not to kill. Bruce showed him a prototype outfit, all black with some kevlar built in.

Talon shook his head.

“No?” Bruce asked.

‘Ugly’ Talon informed him gravely.

Bruce looked dumbstruck by the statement and Talon’s lips turned up into a smile.

“Alright, chum, let’s see your design then.”

Talon spent three days designing his own suit, vague recollections of another costume in the back of his mind as he drew a leotard in green, yellow, and red, with modifications for his wings. It looked nothing like the black and gold of the talons. Proudly he handed Bruce the drawing who looked down at it, up at him, down at it.

“…this is what you want?”

Talon nodded.

Bruce sighed, pinching his nose, but the next week he showed him the leotard as well as green boots and yellow gloves. Talon made a curious sound at the gloves, but let Bruce fit them onto his hands, padding on the fingertips around his claws.

“Your claws could really hurt someone, even if you’re careful, so we’re taking precautions,” Bruce said.

Talon curled and uncurled his fingers, feeling a tad more vulnerable, but it was a small price to pay. The rest of the uniform was perfect, allowing him flexibility to really fly as he sprang around the cave. Bruce watched him with a hint of a smile on his face, even though he looked somewhat resigned.

“You’ll need a name.”

Talon paused, tilting his head to the side, and somewhere in the back of his mind, a warm voice called his name, not Dick, or Richard, or Grayson, or Talon, but—

“Robin,” Talon said.

Bruce’s eyes widened slightly, but he nodded. 

Chapter Text

When the Justice League first formed, Bruce had no intention of making friends, but even Batman wasn’t immune to the bond that formed between people after countless shared battles, even if he did continuously update his contingency plans. Previously he could count the number of people he considered friends he had on one hand, and now it was up to two without even counting Alfred or Dick. Clark and Diana even knew his identity, that was more due to a mission gone wrong than a choice, but neither had abused the privilege or even let on to the other members that they might know what it was. 

“We’ll cover the rest next meeting,” Bruce said after three hours of going over new protocols and the others let out sighs of relief, rising from their chairs.

“You have been lenient tonight, my friend,” Diana said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps you are finally warming up to us after all.”

“Hn.”

“It’s his little sidekick, softening him up,” Barry said, elbowing his side.

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Sidekick?”

“Yeah, KF is like obsessed, he only hit the streets a few months ago, but there aren’t a lot of superheroes KF’s age, so, he’s excited, especially ‘cause he’s another meta,” Barry said.

“What happened to your no metas in Gotham rule?” Clark asked, crossing his arms.

“Robin is not a meta,” Bruce said.

“Are you telling me those wings are mechanical?” Barry asked. “Because, honestly, that’s also pretty cool.” 

Bruce just glowered in his direction.

“KF is only twelve, yes? How did you find such a young warrior?” Diana asked Bruce.

Bruce answered with silence, walking for the zeta tube.

“Hey, you should bring him to a JL meeting.” Barry circled him twice before he could reach his escape like a cat underfoot. “I’ve been thinking of bringing KF. They could have a little playdate!”

Bruce glowered.

“Think about it!” Barry said before disappearing off to Central City.

Clark put his arm in front of Bruce’s escape. “…so when do we get to meet him?”

Diana raised one perfect eyebrow, looking as though she had already won the impending argument. 

“Not today,” Bruce said, side stepping and taking the zeta back to Gotham. 

Returning to the Cave, he half expected to see Dick still training as he left him, but the Cave was empty. Changing out of his suit, he made his way out of the Cave, and down the hall in time to watch Dick leap over the banister. Bruce's heart nearly stopped in his chest, running down the stairs as though he could beat Dick's free fall to the floor, but Dick had caught himself on the chandelier, swaying overhead. Bruce could have sworn he could feel the grey hairs growing in because while Dick had wings, flying would be a generous term for what he could do. 

“Dick, come down.”

Dick peered down at him, blinking those golden eyes at him. The lack of immediate reaction on the one hand reassured Bruce that the steps they were taking to reverse the Court’s programming was effective, but it wasn’t exactly helpful in the current situation.

“The chandelier is not built to hold a person’s weight, you could fall.”

Blink-blink.

Bruce sighed. “It could break.”

Dick’s eyes flicked around before landing on him again and signing ‘catch’. It was all the warning Bruce was afforded before Dick dismounted the chandelier with a little flip, and Bruce caught him with an oof. Almost immediately, those claws hooked in his shirt, making it impossible to put him down without tearing the fabric, and he was already chittering away at him, nose knocking against his jaw when Bruce wasn’t quick to respond. With a sigh, Bruce hefted him up to sit more easily in his arms as he walked for the kitchen. For how skittish the kid had been when he first came to him, Bruce never could have anticipated how tactile he would turn out to be. On bad days, he wouldn’t let Bruce within six feet, but on good days, he quite literally clung to him. 

“No more jumping onto the chandelier, okay?”

Dick sighed, dropping his chin onto his shoulder. Carrying him into the kitchen, Bruce started making them tea, impeded by the fact that he was one handed. 

“What do you want for a snack?” Bruce asked.

Dick made grabby hands at the cereal tucked away on a high cabinet in a futile effort to keep him from ruining all his meals with it.

“Say please.”

Dick chirped at him, face bright and expectant, and Bruce found himself stifling a smile.

“Good enough.” Bruce grabbed it with his free hand.

Dick cooed his thank you as he snatched it from his hands, digging his hand into the box, and eating it by the fistful.

Bruce sighed. “This is why Alfred accuses me of ruining your appetite.”

Dick grinned at him. Bruce had to switch arms half way through the process, but he didn’t try to put Dick down. The combination of the Court’s brainwashing and trauma made it somewhat like taking care of a fussy toddler and a grieving teenager all wrapped up into one. He could admit he hadn’t known what he was getting into when he decided to foster Dick all those months ago, but he had certainly been given a crash course. Taking the tea (and cereal) to the living room, he settled down on the couch, where Dick was content to cozy up beside him rather than on top of him.

“Alright,” Bruce picked up their book, flipping to the chapter they left off on. “Start us off.”

Dick leaned in close enough to see the page, eyes flicking along the words, but his throat clicked as he swallowed. At first, Bruce would just coax him into reading the first word of the chapter, but they had eventually graduated to a sentence, a few of them if Dick could manage. His voice still came out rusty as he worked his way through the sentence, slow, and halting. At the period, he pulled back to tuck himself into the corner of the couch, and Bruce picked up where he left off. As he read, Dick inched closer again like he needed to be in the story to be absorbed in the plot, and by the end of the chapter, his head had dropped onto Bruce’s shoulder as he dozed off. 

Setting the book aside, Bruce moved gingerly to pick him up, earning a little sleepy complaint and a ruffle of his feathers, but he didn’t wake further as Bruce carried him up to bed. Most of the bedding had been shoved in the closet, but Alfred continuously remade the bed with fresh linens incase Dick changed his mind about proper sleeping arrangements. Even though Bruce knew by morning Dick would be back in the closet by morning, he set him on the bed, and pulled the covers over him.

“Goodnight, chum.” 

Going down to the Cave, Bruce looked at the files he had on Dick; blood samples, MRIs of his wings, his second vocal cords, eye exams. He had taken what information he could salvage from the Court of Owls, but it was scarce, and Bruce only had three years pre-med under his belt to look at it with. Dick's physiology shouldn’t have been feasible, but aside from some scarring on his heart from being revived several times, healed over fractures, and malnourishment, Dick was in good condition. Even his wings appeared to be in good shape from what he could tell from his research on birds though he couldn’t match them exactly to one bird or another, the feathers almost unnaturally blank, like an oilspill. 

Amputating the wings would require a proper surgeon and it would be entirely experimental, not to mention risky with the way both his circulatory system and his nervous system had been rewired to account for them. It would have felt no less traumatic than losing an arm. His eyes could be concealed with contacts and the extra vocal cords would be unnoticeable without an MRI (and Bruce couldn’t stand the thought of not being able to hear him chirp and chatter at him if they were removed) which left the wings as the only real impediment to Dick being able to rejoin society. All of the books he had read on raising kids, raising traumatized kids, and proper language development, had said socialization was necessary and Bruce didn’t think he and Alfred quite made the cut. 

Bruce thought briefly of the little redheaded speedster Barry let tag along with the Flash on occasion. He was roughly Dick’s age, if not a year or two older, but it would be a risk letting anyone meet Dick. They wouldn’t be able to connect him to Bruce Wayne, but the heroes might recognize the signs that he was from the Court of Owls, and he wasn’t sure they would entirely understand the grey area of the situation. Without any electrum in his blood, Bruce doubted Dick had been assigned any missions since his training and transformation was incomplete, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if part of his training had been to kill or torture people the Court had brought back to their strong hold. Bruce hadn’t asked. 

Massaging his temples, Bruce realized that what Dick most likely needed even more than a friend his age was a therapist, but those were in short supply in the vigilante community. 

Making his way back upstairs, he checked in on Dick, who had moved to his nest in the foot of his closet as well as change into his Superman themed pajamas. It had only taken a few news reports for his enthusiasm for the superhero to return and while Bruce had grumbled about it, he also bought him more merchandise. Pulling out his phone, Bruce sent a message before heading to bed. 

Clark came over to the manor a little after dinner the next night dressed in his civilian identity.

“Mr. Kent,” Alfred said, tone almost verging on warm as he welcomed him. “I do hope you’re here for leisure and not business.”

“No,” Clark smiled. “I’m here to meet Bruce’s new friend.”

Alfred’s eyes widened slightly. “I see.”

“This way,” Bruce said. 

Clark followed him down the hall towards the sitting room.

“I assume you know sign language,” Bruce said.

Clark blinked. “I do, I didn’t know you did.”

“Some.” Bruce led him into the study, where Dick had perched himself on one of the bookcases. “Dick, this is my friend Clark Kent, Clark, this is my ward, Richard Grayson.”

Bruce watched Clark process the fact the kid Bruce had spent a year looking for was now a half-complete human experiment staring down at him with yellow eyes, but all he did was give him a warm smile.

“Hello, it’s nice to meet you.” Clark signed as he spoke.

Dick tilted his head to the side, looking at him as though he were a complicated math problem. Clark’s eyes flicked over him, and Bruce knew that he had given him a once over with his x-ray vision. Dick’s eyes went wide, mouth dropping open, pointing a finger towards him.

“Superman!”

Clark startled, looking at Bruce.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “And why do you think that?” 

Dick signed. ‘Bruce no have friends. Batman have friends.” 

Clark burst out laughing and Bruce tilted his head back to look at the ceiling as though he would find some patience hiding up in the light fixtures.

“You’re very observant,” Clark said, still smiling. “I think it’s a safe bet to say you’re Robin.”

Dick puffed out his chest, looking proud, and Bruce stifled a smile of his own.

“Are you going to come down and say hello?”

Dick flipped off the top shelf landing on the ground and after a moments hesitation offered his hand to shake. Clark shook, not commenting on the golden claws on each fingertip. Looking up at him with a starstruck expression, Dick was quick to start signing questions to his favorite superhero about different battles and abilities which Clark kept up with as best he could. 

“Slow down,” Bruce said.

Dick pouted.

A glance out the window told him dark had set in. “Come on, let’s go outside for you to burn off some of that energy before bed.” 

“Patrol,” Dick said.

“Not tonight.”

Dick huffed, but didn’t argue as he followed Bruce out to the courtyard, starting in on a complicated gymnastics routine which Clark clapped politely for. 

“So that’s Dick Grayson,” Clark said.

“Mm.”

“You could have let me meet Robin without telling me that,” Clark said.

“You would have figured it out eventually,” Bruce said, mildly. “You are an investigative reporter last I checked."

Clark only looked amused. “Usually you enjoy watching me flounder for a few weeks while I do. What do you need, Bruce?” 

“I’ve hit a wall trying to find a way to reverse what the Court has done to him.” 

Clark looked out at him. “He seems happy enough this way.”

“He won’t be,” Bruce said. “When he’s older and he wants more freedom and he can only leave the manor grounds wearing a mask. When he can’t go to school or make friends or go on a date.”

Clark looked sympathetic. “You know, Flash might have some luck at STAR labs, they’re more used to dealing with, uh, genetic abnormalities.” 

“Hn.”

“But you know that.”

Bruce glowered.

“Bruce,” Clark said. “Don’t you think you’re being overly paranoid? You know you can trust Flash, you’ve fought countless battles together.”

“…he’s an ally.”

“He’s your friend.”

Bruce refused to acknowledge that statement.

“You can trust him with this, you can trust him with Dick.” 

“Hn.”

“And you know that, that’s why you called me to talk you into it,” Clark said with a knowing smile. 

Bruce didn’t deign that with a response either, though the conversation was quickly interrupted by Dick bouncing over to them, or more specifically to Clark. Dick chirped at him, holding his hands up.

“Uh,” Clark said, glancing at Bruce.

“He wants you to pick him up,” Bruce said.

Dick chirped again.

“Please,” Bruce added.

Clark blinked. “Oh, sure, here.”

Clark picked him up with ease and Dick flapped his wings, chattering at him as he made a throwing gesture.

“You… you want me to throw you?”

Dick chittered in excitement, wings fluttering.

Bruce sighed. “Not too hard, he can’t actually fly all that well. He has a hard time getting off the ground so he likes jumping from heights to glide a little.”

“Or getting thrown,” Clark said with a little amusement.

“Mm.”

“You throw your kid around?” Clark laughed.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t start, I’ve already heard it from Alfred.”

Clark grinned. “Alright, kiddo, ready?”

Dick chittered at him. Clark tossed him lightly and Dick snapped out his wings to slow his descent, though they weren’t strong enough to climb higher. Clark caught him. Dick chittered excitedly.

“Again?”

Chitter.

Clark threw him a little higher. A little higher each time Dick goaded him on with excited chirps and a few flips when he got enough air, tucking his wings in tight for more rotations and snapping them out to slow his fall into Clark’s hands. It was a sight to see, if Barry did manage to undo the Court’s work, Bruce would be sad not to see it again.

“Alright, ready for this?” Clark asked.

Dick nodded. Clark lifted off the ground, throwing Dick more sideways than up, and letting him glide before flying down to catch him only to toss him again. Dick glided and spun, letting out a delighted laugh as he truly looked like he was flying. Eventually Bruce stepped up as it grew late, holding out his arms and catching Dick when he glided to him with a little oomph.

“Time for bed.”

Dick pouted, rag-dolling over his shoulder, and Bruce let out an amused huff.

“Say goodbye.”

Dick sighed thank you and then waved sadly at Clark who smiled as he bid him goodnight. Bruce carried Dick up to his bed, setting him down on the comforter as he yawned.

“Tire yourself out?”

Dick nodded, wiping at his heavy eyes.

“Maybe I should have Clark come over more often,” Bruce said wryly.

Eyes half closed Dick nodded, but sighed ‘you catch better’. Bruce’s throat tightened clicking as he swallowed, and found himself tucking Dick under the covers to buy himself time to respond.

“Goodnight, chum.”

Dick cooed back, eyes sliding shut.

Bruce had edited the documents he had to disguise as much of Dick’s identity and his own as he could before compiling them onto a hard drive, and bringing them to the next JL meeting. Though he had discovered the identities of the other members of the League before its formation as part of his contingency plans, he was careful not to address any of the League by name who had yet to actually disclose their identity. 

“Flash.” 

Barry glanced over with surprise as he looked away from his conversation. “Hey, Bats, what can I do for you?”

Bruce inclined his head, Barry followed him out into a vacant hallway, rocking on his toes when Bruce didn’t immediately start speaking.

“You know if you murder me there’s witnesses, right?” Barry joked.

“Hn.”

“…very reassuring.”

“I have… a case, that STAR labs might be more equipped to handle.”

“Oh, sure, let’s see it.”

“It’s very sensitive information.”

“You know I’ve saved the world a couple times before, right?”

Bruce gave him a look that Dick had taken to calling his ‘Bat glare’. Dick had also named the Batmobile, the Batcave, the Batcomputer, and so on and so forth. 

“Okay, sensitive, got it, I will take good care of it, I promise.” Barry crossed his heart.

Bruce reluctantly handed over the drive. It was only two hours later when his JL communicator pinged and suddenly Barry’s voice was babbling in his ear.

“So this is Robin, right?” Barry said.

“Hn.”

“And you’re trying to reverse the modifications that have been made to him?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Barry asked. “As far as I can see there’s no harm in the wings, or the eyes, or the talons, or the extra vocal cords, which are actually really cool—“

“As he is, he cannot be in public.”

“…oh.” 

“Solutions?”

“None yet, but I’ll get on this right away, I’ll have to tell my other team members, one of them is the best bio-chemist I’ve ever met, if anyone can figure this out, it’s her.”

“…fine.”

“And Robin will have to come into STAR Labs for a scan, no offense to your tech, but ours is pretty sweet.”

Bruce ground his teeth. “Fine.”

Dick was excited to leave Gotham, fingers curled in the edge of Bruce’s cape as they took a zeta to Central City, and stepped out into STAR Labs. Bruce couldn’t help a little bit of pride that despite his excitement Dick first scanned their surroundings for threats, the same way Bruce had. There was a young woman in a lab coat, who must have been Dr. Caitlin Snow, Bruce had gone through all of her records to make sure she was qualified. A man about her age in a graphic t-shirt who dropped his wrench upon seeing them, Francisco Ramone, the engineer of STAR Labs according to Bruce’s research. Barry in costume, and Kid Flash, aka twelve year old Wally West, beside him staring at them with wide eyes.

“Oh my god,” the engineer said. “That’s Batman. Batman is in our lab, holy shi—“

“Cisco,” Caitlin hissed before smiling at them. “Hi, it’s an honor to meet you, I’m Dr. Caitlin Snow, and this is Cisco.” 

Kid Flash bounced up to them, sticking out his hand. “And I’m Kid Flash. You must be Robin, I’ve been following you ever since you first appeared, but you’re not really in a lot of news articles, I guess you’re pretty sneaky, and woah… your wings are so much cooler in person!”

Dick was looking at him with wide eyes as he took in the rapid fire information, looking down at his hand, he shook slowly, but Wally shook with enough enthusiasm to move his whole arm. He was a couple inches taller than Dick, a year older, and with a shock of red hair. 

Wally did not release his hand, tugging him away from Bruce’s side. “Flash says you have to have a scan, but don’t worry! It doesn’t hurt or anything! You just have to hold still for a second and then he said we can hang out while Batman and he do all the boring work. I mean, I like engineering, but genetics is so boring. I thought maybe you could teach me how to do a flip!”

Dick’s overwhelmed look slipped away, a shy smile on his face as he detangled his hand, and did a standing back tuck on the spot.

“Woah,” Wally said, looking at him with awe. 

Dick spread his wings as he took a theatrical bow and Bruce smothered a snort as the others clapped. 

“Here, over here.” Wally took Dick's hands again, paying no mind to the sharp talons as he led him over to the circle. “Stand there and stay still for like sixty seconds and then I’ll show you all the cool spots here.”

Barry gave Bruce an amused look that said ‘kids, am I right?’ but Bruce elected to pretend as though he hadn’t seen. 

“Alright, ready?” Cisco asked.

Dick snapped off a little salute before holding his arms out to the sides and planting his feet. Scanners ran over him from head to toe and every angle, and Bruce stepped up to see image it brought up on the computer screens. Caitlin startled slightly at his presence, but stepped aside so he could see better. 

“Alright, Robin, you’re all set. I dig the costume, kid, very colorful,” Cisco said.

Dick puffed out his chest, preening under the praise, and signed his ‘thank you’. 

Wally tilted his head to one side. “Do you not talk? Oh shoot, are you deaf? I only know like hello and my name in sign language.”

“Robin’s not deaf,” Bruce said, but didn’t elaborate further despite the curious glances the other adults were giving him.

“…you just don’t talk?” Wally asked.

Dick made a so-so gesture. 

“…you don’t talk today?” Wally tried again.

Dick nodded with a little smile. 

“That’s cool, my uncle says I can talk enough for five people, and that’s saying a lot because his wife says he’s a total chatterbox…” Wally babbled, taking Dick’s hand again to lead him off. 

Bruce tensed.

“Relax, Batman,” Barry said. “The lab is on lockdown, no one’s coming in or out, and anything dangerous is locked up tight, the only thing they really have access to is the training room and the kitchen.”

“And you can monitor them here if you’re like a helicopter parent,” Cisco brought up the security camera feeds.

Wally was clearly still babbling on, waving both hands enthusiastically to aid his story. 

“Wait, is Robin your kid?” Barry asked.

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

“…not that it would be any of my business, I just, um, didn’t really get a dad vibe from you…”

Caitlin coughed politely, and Barry stopped talking. She examined the scans, comparing them to the notes Bruce had already sent over.

“Hm. Amputation’s not an option.”

“Amputation! No! I would kill to be able to fly!” Cisco said.

“I just said it wasn’t an option. It would be traumatic and far too experimental,” Caitlin said, glancing up at Bruce. “Which I’m assuming you already knew.”

Bruce grunted. 

“What about, like, a harness or something?” Cisco asked. “Like something that can bind them down and hide them under a jacket?”

Caitlin made a face. “Would you like to walk around with your arms duct taped to your sides?”

Cisco held up his hands. “Just brainstorming here.”

“What about shape shifting?” Barry asked. “Is there a way to splice his DNA with another meta’s so he can shift?”

Caitlin grimaced, but didn’t deny it. “It’s… not impossible, but it would be experimental and we would need a voluntary sample from a meta, and we don’t know many friendly ones.”

“We’ve got contacts,” Barry said. “I’ll reach out to some people.”

“Have you considered… magic?” Cisco asked.

Barry sighed and hung his head.

Bruce gave him an unimpressed look.

“Hey! Come on, I mean, there’s got to be like a glamor or magical disguise out there, right?” Cisco said.

“I can run some simulations on possible genetic modifications, but I’ll need some DNA.” Caitlin said apologetically.

Bruce produced a vial of blood from one of his pockets, earning wide eyed looks from the other three.

“Do you… do you just keep a vial of Robin’s blood on you?” Cisco asked, looking queasy.

Caitlin’s smile was a little uneasy, but she took the vial. Bruce had expected the request and while Dick was slightly more tolerant now, his fear of needles remained deeply ingrained. Bruce was mildly ashamed to admit he had bribed him with doughnuts. Four doughnuts to be precise, Dick drove a hard bargain. Bruce glanced over at the screen to watch Wally and Dick compete in an obstacle course they had set up, tripping and shoving one another until they both ended up in a heap on the ground, laughing. 

Caitlin ran several simulations, but when it became clear that no immediate solution was going to present itself, Barry paged for Wally and Dick to return to the lab.

“We’ll keep working,” Caitlin promised. “We’re going to find a solution, it just might take some time.”

“Hn.”

Wally skidded to a stop before them, Dick riding piggyback, and looking windswept from the speed of the travel. 

“Time to go, Robin,” Bruce said.

Reluctantly, Dick detangled himself, and Wally deflated. 

“Can we hang out again soon?” Wally asked. “Please? Please, please, please—“

Dick’s fingers curled around the edge of Bruce’s cape, looking up at him with big eyes. “Please?”

Bruce caved. “Fine.”

Wally cheered, pumping his fist, and Dick grinned. Barry gave Bruce a knowing smirk that he summarily ignored.

“We’re leaving,” Bruce said.

Dick tucked himself under his cape as they stepped into the zeta tube, waving a little goodbye to the others before they disappeared. All throughout patrol, Bruce heard (or read sign) about KF. KF could do this, KF could run this fast, KF fought a meta made of slime. Internally, Bruce groaned at the fact that he was going to have to set up another playdate with the kid, which meant more time getting his own ear talked of by Barry. Once they were back in the cave, Dick paused, gloves and mask off, but otherwise still in costume, fiddling with a bent feather on his wing.

“I…” Dick swallowed once twice. “Is it bad that I like my wings? I know they were made to be used for evil.”

Bruce’s chest constricted. “No, it’s not bad, Robin, they are a part of you now, and they are what you make them.” 

“I don’t want…” Dick’s feathers ruffled up and settled. “I don’t want to be remade again. It really hurt last time.”

Bruce crouched down so they were eye level. “We are not considering surgery.”

Dick looked up at him doubtfully. 

“We are not going to cut off something that is a part of you, we’re just trying to find a way for you to rejoin society, to go to school, to have friends.”

“KF said he would be my friend,” Dick said. “And he said my eyes are cool.”

Bruce couldn’t quite bring himself to agree that they were ‘cool’ knowing how the modifications came about, but he could appreciate KF’s sentiment. “You can have more than one friend, Robin.”

“…but not like this?” 

Bruce thought for a long moment. “Not without putting yourself in danger, no.” 

Dick nodded slowly, digesting his words, and signed a little okay.

“Okay,” Bruce said, straightening up. “Go to bed now. It’s late.”

Dick gave him a sarcastic little salute, changing the rest of the way out of his costume, and jogging up the stairs. Dropping down into the (Bat)chair, Bruce massaged his temples, and contemplated if there were any parallels to discussing extreme body modifications with his ward to dilemmas his own parents had faced raising him.

Chapter Text

Gordon made his way into the office, sipping his second coffee of the day, his first sadly forgotten on the bathroom sink counter when he got ready that morning and bustled Barbara off to school. 

“Hey, Cap, did you hear about Batman’s new partner?” Montoya asked.

Gordon paused several steps away from his office. “…the Dark Knight works alone.”

“Partner might be a stretch, rumor has it, it’s more of a… pet,” Montoya said.

“It?” Gordon repeated. 

“It’s some sort of creature. Rumor says it’s a Gargoyle brought to life, as silent as the Bat himself, but dressed in bright colors.” 

Gordon mourned the fact that he couldn’t put whiskey in his coffee at eight in the morning. The uptick of Montoya’s lips told Gordon that she caught the gist of the thought by the look on his face and without any trace of sympathy she handed him a file to add to what looked like a new serial killer in Gotham. Working through the evidence, he ended up on the roof for a smoke break. Unsurprised when the hair on the back of his neck rose.

“Captain Gordon.”

Snubbing out his cigarette, Gordon turned to find Batman standing a handful of feet away his cape around him like he was dripping with the shadows of the night. There was a second, smaller shadow crouching on the edge of the rooftop, but if Gordon hadn’t taken his smoke break on this very roof for nearing two decades now, he wouldn’t have noticed. Like a gargoyle, the new figure appeared to be shrouded by dark wings, only the vague shape of him visible, and yellow eyes peering out at him. Goosebumps raised on Gordon’s arms and he thought Batman’s new pet may have been more terrifying than the Dark Knight himself. 

“There’s been another murder,” Batman said.

“I don’t suppose you have any leads on that you would like to share with me,” Gordon said.

Batman said nothing, face entirely unreadable under his cowl. 

Gordon sighed. “What do you need?”

“There was blood at the crime scene.”

“…and you need a sample.”

Batman said nothing.

Gordon sighed. “I’ll see what I can do, but you know, we’ve got our own forensic scientists, right?”

Batman disappeared with a sweep of his cape and the gargoyle was gone in the same motion. Taking a small sample of the vial their own lab had analyzed (and ordering every test in the book on the remaining blood), Gordon signaled as it was nearing midnight. The Batman landed before him, a ripple to his cape as it settled around his legs.

“You’re going to tell me what you’re testing this sample for if you want me to hand it over,” Gordon said.

“You already have,” Batman said.

Gordon’s hand went to his jacket pocket, but it was empty, and he caught a glimpse of red, green, and yellow disappearing under Batman’s cape as he leapt from the rooftop. 

“How the…” Gordon muttered. 

As his headache set in, Gordon decided it was far past time to go home, make sure his daughter was actually asleep, and get some shut eye himself. Seeing as when he returned to work the next morning, there hadn’t been any gift wrapped criminals, he supposed Batman had as unproductive a night as he did. The serial killer hadn’t.

By five pm, they got word another young woman had gone missing, and the police were scrambling to find her; the killer had never kept a victim for longer than twelve hours before they found a body. Following a tip, Gordon arrived on the scene what must have been minutes after Batman, there had clearly been a fight, the killer nowhere to be found, but the victim was alive. She had been cut free of her bindings, a yellow cape draped around her shoulders that the paramedics replaced with a shock blanket as they guided her to the ambulance. 

Gordon turned the fabric over in his hands, and the whistle of a bird caught his attention. Or a damn good mimic. There were a few drops of blood on the floor in the opposite direction of where the victim had been led, and he followed it out of the warehouse towards an alley. If not for a slightly shifting of the shadows, he wouldn’t have looked up, but there on the fire escape was a small figure mostly hidden by black wings that mascaraded as shadows. A little blood glistened on the edge of the lowest rung of the fire escape. 

“I think I have something of yours,” Gordon said.

Yellow eyes peered down at him and Gordon held up the cape for him to see. A yellow gloved hand appeared from behind the wings, there were at least two stories between their hands. The gargoyle appeared to realize this, hand dropping down onto the grates between them. 

“Are you hurt?” Gordon asked. “If you come down, we have some medics that could take a look at you.”

“No, thank you,” the voice was barely audible, but softer, higher, than Gordon had been expecting of the creature. 

“Where’s Batman?”

The creature didn’t deign to answer.

“Don’t move.” 

Gordon fetched a few bandages from the medics, not knowing the extent of the damages or even how to take care of Batman’s new companion if he wasn’t human, but he still felt relieved to find the shadow still there when he returned. 

“If you come a little closer, I can bandage you up myself,” Gordon said.

There was a faint rustle of feathers then the figure slipped down to the closest platform, still mostly out of sight, but he extended a leg through the bars. It looked like the leg of any child if not for the bright green pixie boot and the deep gash along his calf that must have kept him from pursuit of the killer alongside Batman. Padding the wound with gauze, Gordon wrapped bandages around it, though he anticipated it would need stitches. If the rest of the creature looked just as human it was impossible for Gordon to tell with how it was bathed in shadow and covered by dark wings. As soon as Gordon was finished, he tucked his leg back up, and melted into the shadows.

“Why don’t I wait with you until the Bat returns? I assume he’s got the situation well in hand.”

There was no answer, but a few minutes later his radio crackled with the report that the killer had been found unconscious and zip-tied a few blocks away. A minute more and the shadows on the other end of the alley shifted. Gordon held up the cape and Batman stepped out to take it, tucking it away into his utility belt. 

“Your sidekick’s got a pretty deep gash on his leg, might need stitches,” 

“Partner,” Batman corrected in unison with a little voice from above.

Gordon’s lips ticked up. The wings unfurled, revealing a flash of red, yellow, and green as it flipped off of the fire escape and into Batman’s waiting arms, who turned with a snap of his cape before Gordon could truly see his partner. Though he couldn’t help asking after him the next time he found Batman standing on his rooftop, cape wrapped around him completely. 

“How’s your partner doing?”

Batman’s cloak shifted ever so slightly by his feet. “Do you have any leads on Killer Croc?” 

“I thought the great Batman worked alone in his unending quest for vengeance,” Gordon said dryly.

There was what might have been a little laugh from under the cape, but Batman’s face remained as stoney as ever. Gordon raised an eyebrow. With a sigh, Batman moved his cape to reveal what looked for the most part to be a child of around ten or eleven sitting on his steel toed boots with a set of dark wings tucked in tight to his back. He wore a leotard of green, red, and yellow accents including his cape and gloves, bright green pixie boots, and a black mask to top it off.

“Go on,” Batman said, sounding mildly exasperated.

The boy signed ‘thank you’, giving him a bright smile.

“Does your partner have a name?” Gordon asked.

The boy rolled to his feet, popping up, hands on his hips, and chest puffed out. “I am Robin.” 

“It’s nice to meet you Robin,” Gordon said. “How are you healing up?”

Robin wiggled his leg to show him it was fine… and then did a backflip to really prove it. Batman looked mildly exasperated and for a moment Gordon likened it to the look on his own face when Barbara got into a debate with the local librarian about mis-shelving a science fiction book in the fantasy section. 

“Killer Croc,” Batman repeated. 

Gordon told him what little the police did know about the recently escaped Arkham inmate and when he turned away to light his cigarette both Batman and Robin had disappeared into the night without so much as a sound. The thought that perhaps Robin was a sentient gargoyle brought to life Pinocchio style briefly crossed his mind, but with Gotham it could be any number of factors of how Batman acquired his new partner. At least one of them had manners. 

Chapter Text

Bruce woke at the sound of his door creaking open to find Dick standing uncertainly in the doorway in his pajamas, holding Zitka in his arms, wings crowded close to his shoulders, yellow eyes glowing in the low light. 

“Nightmare?” Bruce asked; the clock on his nightstand read a little after four in the morning.

Dick nodded.

“C’mere.” 

Dick climbed into bed beside him, settling down with his face tucked into Bruce’s chest, talons poking into his t-shirt, and wings ruffling behind him as he settled down. One he stilled, Bruce settled his own arm over him, heavy with sleep, and eyes mostly shut. 

“You want to tell me about it?” Bruce asked. 

“The Joker broke out of Arkham and planted bombs all over town, but half of them were fakes ’n we didn’t know which was which so we had to try to disable them all, but we couldn’t,” Dick mumbled into his shirt.

Bruce frowned, expecting the dream to come in the form of his parents deaths, or his time at the hands of the Court, or even one of their previous missions, but as of so far, he had managed more or less to keep Robin from interacting with the more dangerous of his rogues. Bruce hummed, smoothing his hand down his back, and Dick cozied down into his chest with a sleepy little chirrup. Falling back asleep, he woke up around nine with one of Dick’s wings over his shoulders, feathers ticking his face. Trying to nudge it out of the way made Dick slit his eyes open like a particularly unhappy cat, but he resettled his wings, burying his face in the bedding with a quiet complaint.

“That’s how I feel before coffee too,” Bruce muttered.

Dick’s lips turned up, clearly attempting to stifle a laugh.

“C’mon.” Bruce hefted him up and out of bed, earning a squeak, and then a laugh. “Go on, get dressed before Alfred thinks we’ve decided to sleep the whole day away.” 

Dick scampered off, leaving Bruce to assess the aches and pains of the previous night’s patrol as he got ready for the day, and made his way downstairs. With the coming of December, Alfred had decorated the manor in its usual silver and gold splendor, though a clumsier hand had clearly wrapped cheap tinsel around the stair banisters. In the sitting room, Dick had settled into the corner of the couch, plate in his lap, and wings protectively around him, but not quite hiding him as he ate breakfast. Bruce settled down on the other end, his own plate sitting on the coffee table along with a steaming mug.

“Thank you, Alfred.”

“Certainly, sir.” 

The radio played softly, filling the air with Frank Sinatra’s version of Silent Night. 

Dick tilted his head to the side. “Why are they singing about a baby?”

“They’re singing about the birth of Jesus Christ.”

Dick chewed slowly, signing, ‘why talk about like chicken’? 

“…what?”

Dick signed, ‘tender and mild like chicken, like dinner’. 

Bruce stifled a smile. “I don’t know, chum.” 

Dick’s eyes went wide. “They didn’t eat Jesus, did they?”

Bruce opened and closed his mouth as he thought about communion. “Uh, only symbolically.”

Dick frowned, opening his mouth to ask another question.

“In church, they give out bread to symbolize the body of Jesus as part of a prayer,” Bruce said in drastic simplification before the conversation could devolve further into either religion or cannibalism. 

Dick tilted his head to the side thoughtfully before saying, “I like churches.” 

Bruce raised an eyebrow. 

‘Pretty windows,’ Dick signed, continuing on to chatter about his favorite buildings in Gotham between bites of food, signing with sticky fingers. 

“Master Dick,” Alfred sighed. “May I remind you of the use of utensils, once again?”

Dick blinked at him, licking syrup from his fingers.

“If you would be so kind, please wash your hands so I do not have to wipe every sticky surface of this manor,” Alfred said, taking the dishes.

Dick hopped up to his feet, making his way out of his room, with his sticky hands held out up and out of the way like he was surrendering. Bruce’s lips quirked up, watching him go. 

“I’ve invited Ms. Prince and Mr. Kent for Christmas dinner,” Alfred said.

Bruce stared at him. “…what.”

“You will, of course, be celebrating the holiday this year now that Master Dick has come to stay with us, won’t you, sir?” Alfred said, and it sounded like a threat.

“…is that why you decorated the manor?”

“Master Dick quite enjoyed helping me with the tinsel.”

Bruce stifled a smile at the thought of the silver streamers wrapped along just about every railing Dick had managed to find.

“As they are the only acquaintances of yours both aware of your ward and your identity, it seemed most fitting, though you could always extend the invite to Mr. Allen and his charge when you see them this evening,” Alfred said.

“I’m certain they all have their own families they would prefer to spend Christmas with, Alfred,” Bruce said.

“Mr. Kent and Ms. Prince have already accepted the invitation and I believe Mr. Kent may even bring one of Mrs. Kent’s county-fair winning blueberry pies with him,” Alfred said, sounding more than a little smug. 

Bruce sighed, watching him carry the dishes off, knowing that there was no chance he would be able to rescind the invitations without offending Alfred’s sense of propriety. Aside from Alfred putting up the decorations on the first of December every year and attending a charity ball or two, Bruce hadn’t celebrated Christmas since he dropped out of Princeton. Over the years, Alfred had given him not-so-subtle encouragement for him to have company for the holidays and Bruce often responded by gifting him tickets to Shakespeare productions, operas, and first class tickets to London and back.

Bruce rose to his feet, moving towards the manor doors. “I’ll have to go out for an hour or two, Alfred.”

Alfred’s approval was subtle, but Bruce saw it none the less. “I shall entertain Master Dick for the afternoon, not to worry, sir.”

Bundling up against Gotham’s winter air, Bruce took the Porsche to drive through the winding streets as he turned over what to buy a twelve year old for Christmas. Parking the car, he decided to look at frosted over shop windows on foot, collar turned up against the cold. Stepping in and out of toy shops, he looked through shelves of action figures, stuffed animals, and board games without anything particularly catching his eyes.

A cluttered little shop with a fat cat dozing in the window caught his eye, and he slipped inside. Behind the counter, a little old lady was reading an Agatha Christie novel. Each item had its own sticker price tag, but they were barely organized, the shelves packed so close together only one person could walk through at a time. Weaving through the shelves, old Grey Ghost merchandise caught his eyes. It was achingly similar to the ones his parents bought him, that he kept safely tucked away in the attic, though the DVDs stayed stacked under the TV. After hard patrols, sometime he sat down and rewatched an episode or two. 

Plans for renovations for Alfred’s least favorite ballroom began taking place in his head while he perused the shelves for books on escapology and all the gadgets that Harry Houdini might desire… and with a deep sigh, he picked up soft sweater with Superman’s crest on the chest of it. He ended up leaving with two full brown-paper bags in his arms, entering the manor through the Cave so he could sneak them into his own bedroom undetected before leaving again to come through the front door.   

The sound of laughter brought Bruce into the kitchen which looked like a bombsight if the fallout were flour. Dick stood at the center, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he tried to cut shapes into the flattened dough on the counter while Alfred mixed icing. His clothes had been spared most of the disaster, but Dick had batter smudged on his cheek and flour dusting his wings. 

“Bruce!” Dick’s wings fluffed up upon seeing him, flour falling from the feathers like snow, and catching Bruce’s wrist with one hand to drag him into the fray. “We’re making cookies!” 

“I can see that,” Bruce said. 

“Master Dick has deemed cookie cutters unnecessary and has decided to cut his own shapes,” Alfred informed him.

“Mm.” Bruce looked at the undistinguishable blobs sitting on the cookie sheet. 

Dick smiled brightly at him, pushing a lump of dough in his direction. With a sigh, Bruce rolled up his sleeves, and started rolling it out. For as skilled a hand he was at tinkering with his own gear, he found carving out shapes and transferring them to the sheet was rather difficult. Dick convinced him to sit on the floor beside him so they could watch the cookies bake through the oven door as Alfred did his best to clean around them. Waiting for them to cool mostly consisted of Alfred smacking Dick’s hands away from the too-hot baking sheet and Bruce only managed to buy them a little time by setting him on the counter and giving him one of the icing mixers to lick clean, feet kicking. 

Icing the cookies made even more of a mess than baking them did, colorful sugar smeared all over the counters as Dick iced his cookies with the utmost concentration and Bruce mostly went for coverage. Bruce caught a glimpse of what likely was supposed to be cookie Superman and scowled, earning an amused look from Alfred. With the cookies finished, Dick cleaned up the frosting once promised that he could have one of the cookies after lunch. 

“I assume you’ve found something suitable,” Alfred asked as he cleaned up lunch and Dick had scampered off to put on his costume so they could go to STAR Labs. 

“It’s under my bed,” Bruce said.

“Very good, sir, I’ll have it wrapped,” Alfred said. 

“Thank you, Alfred.” 

Dick had already donned his costume by the time he joined him in the Cave, holding a little Tupperware container, and rocking on his toes by the zeta tube. Changing into his own suit, Bruce keyed in Central City, and they stepped through. The laboratory had been entirely decked out in Christmas decorations and Cisco was wearing a sweater decorated with reindeers. Kid Flash came zooming over as they stepped out.

“Hi,” Dick said.

Wally smiled, signing back with clumsy hands. ‘Happy. See. You.’

Dick absolutely beamed at him. 

“Will you show me that flip again?” Wally asked.

“You’re close, you’ll get it,” Dick said with confidence.

“Scans first,” Caitlin said apologetically.

“Yes, ma’am,” Dick said with a smile that turned shy as he handed Wally the container. “For you. All of you.”

Wally blinked, opening it to find a messy cookie version of Kid Flash, and grinned. “Oh my god! That’s me! Wait, can I eat this, or is that like cannibalism?”

Dick laughed a little, moving to stand in the right spot, wings out, and arms spread for Caitlin to run her scan. He fidgeted a little as she took his blood pressure and shone a light into his eyes, but Wally kept him well entertained with his babbling, grabbing his hand to steal him away once Caitlin gave her okay. 

“Any progress?” Bruce asked.

“None so far,” Caitlin said apologetically. “I’ve been running simulations and in theory, if we had a meta with shape shifting capabilities we could try to splice their DNA, but so far we haven’t run across anyone who fits the bill.”

“Is there a synthetic alternative?” Bruce asked.

Caitlin chewed on the inside of her cheek. “I could try, but I would need tissue samples.”

Bruce knew they could read the disapproval radiating off of him.

“We can hold off until after the holidays for that,” Barry said. “It doesn’t feel very Christmassy to take skin samples.”

“It’d be Christmassy if we could figure out a solution,” Cisco said. “Hear me out, man.”

“No magic, Cisco,” Barry said with no small amount of exasperation.

“We’ll wait,” Bruce said, unable to stomach the thought of asking Dick to subject himself to the testing when he spent the afternoon watching him laugh over the wonky cookies they had made. 

“Got any Christmas plans, Batman?” Barry asked. “Wait, do you celebrate Christmas? Hanukkah? Kwanza? None of the above?” 

Bruce stared at him. 

Cisco gasped, holding up a sugar cookie that may have been a batarang. “Robin made Bat-themed cookies!”

Team Flash crowded around the container to look at the cookies and it was more difficult than Bruce had imagined to keep his face straight as they picked up various superhero themed cookies. On the monitors, he watched Dick walk Wally through a back flip, a little impressed that Dick actually managed to spot him considering Wally had at least three inches on him and maybe twenty pounds. Bruce looked over Caitlin’s research as she ran her tests on the newest samples, but was unable to come up with any new solutions.

“Look, it’s you!” Barry held up a black blob with two distinct points that likely were supposed to be Batman’s cowl. 

Bruce couldn’t help his smile.

“Oh my god,” Cisco said. “Batman’s smiling, it really is Christmas!”

Caitlin stifled a laugh. Taking the cookie from a star-stuck looking Barry, Bruce bit the head off, then summoned Dick. Moving towards the zeta, Bruce keyed in their destination back to Gotham.

Wally caught Dick’s arm before he could join him. “Wait, here, this is for you.”

Dick blinked as Wally handed him a little keychain, a laminated simplistic drawing of Robin in red, green, and yellow with his wings spread, only about two inches, and clearly homemade. 

“I thought, um, well, Batman has merch in stores, so I thought you might like your own.” 

Dick’s eyes were huge as he looked down at the little keychain. 

“Merry Christmas, Robin,” Wally said. 

Dick hugged him, earning a startled noise, but Wally figured out how to get his arms under his wings to hug him back. Pulling back, Dick signed his thank you and Wally pinked a little. 

“It’s no big deal, I mean, you taught me how to do a backflip and that’s way cooler than some keychain.”

Dick finger spelled, ‘C-O-O-L-E-S-T’, holding up the keychain to indicate his meaning.

Wally went almost as red as his hair. 

‘Merry Christmas,’ Dick signed to the room at large before joining Bruce in the zeta tube. As they stepped out into the Cave, Dick frowned down at the keychain.

“What?” Bruce asked.

‘No have keys’ Dick signed.

Bruce blinked. “Huh. You know… I don’t have keys either.” 

Alfred always let him into the manor and all of the car keys were kept on labeled hooks in the garage. 

Dick laughed a little. “Maybe Alfred will get you some for Christmas.”

Bruce tussled Dick’s hair, moving to the computer. “I’ll handle patrol myself tonight. If you ask nicely, Alfred might even make you hot chocolate.” 

Dick frowned slightly, but left him at the computer. There was always an uptick in crimes during the holidays, and Bruce looked for patterns in the earlier police arrests to indicate if anything larger was happening that night. As he prepared to leave for patrol, Dick returned, holding out a file.

“What’s this?” Bruce asked.

“A case,” Dick said. “KF said there is a man in red who breaks into people’s houses on the twenty-fourth and by the research it appears to be true.”

Bruce’s brain stalled out as he opened the file to find in depth research on Santa Claus. “Uh.”

“Tonight will be the only night we can catch him,” Dick said. “I’ve planned a stakeout strategy.” 

Bruce looked inside the folder to find a tactical plan worthy of a SWAT write up. A tactical plan for stopping Santa Claus. What Dick remembered about general society before his time at the Court appeared to return more easily than personal memories, he could read and write without issue, but sometimes certain social norms escaped him, and he had forgotten common pop culture for the most part. Asking what his favorite movie was had gotten a blank expression the first time Bruce had tried, and frustrated tears the second time when Dick couldn’t bring it to mind. He hadn’t tried a third time, but they had watched several Disney movies over the past few months. 

Bruce had no idea if the Graysons had ever told Dick that Santa wasn’t real, but he certainly wasn’t equipped to be the person who did. He wasn’t entirely prepared to explain that Santa wasn’t an immortal meta with extreme speed and stealth capabilities that they had to take down to protect the privacy and security of the citizens of Gotham either, so he said nothing as Dick donned his costume, and hopped into the passenger side of the Batmobile. 

Batman and Robin set up a stakeout for Santa. 

Of course with the uptick of crime, they ended up moving to stop robberies, drunken fistfights, and other shenanigans, but they spent a decent amount of time sitting on one of the tallest rooftops in Gotham with a telescope and two thermoses of hot chocolate provided by Alfred. For all Dick had created a gungho strategy for the take down of Santa, he looked rather content to sit side by side with him on the roof, Bruce’s cape over his shoulders as they looked up for the sightings of the sleigh overhead. 

“…you don’t believe in Santa,” Bruce said.

Dick looked at him with wide eyes. “Santa isn’t real?” 

Bruce tensed. Dick’s lips twitched up ever so slightly.

“Robin.” Bruce glowered. “It’s irresponsible to falsify a mission when there are other cases that we could be dedicating our attention to.”

Dick fidgeted with his gloves, shoulders curled in, then signed, ‘No leave you alone on Christmas’. 

Bruce’s eyes widened slightly, then he cleared his throat. “…I suppose there have been sightings over the years, it doesn’t hurt to confirm that the citizens of Gotham’s privacy is protected.”

Dick brightened, smiling up at the sky as they kept up their watch. Around three in the morning, Dick fell asleep on his shoulder, curled up under his cape. Picking him up with one arm, Bruce grappled them back to the Batmobile, and carried him up to bed once they reached the manor. Falling into his own bed, he only got a few hours before a small figure crashed on top of him, and he groaned.

“It’s Christmas,” Dick said, sitting on his stomach, and smiling down at him.

Bruce pulled a pillow over his face. “It’ll be Christmas in another three hours.”

Dick laughed, hitting him lightly with another pillow. “Alfred made breakfast.”

Bruce moved the pillow to glare at him.

‘And coffee,’ Dick signed with a smile.

Bruce sighed, rolling to his feet, and grabbing Dick to toss him over his shoulder when he got underfoot, fluttering around his room like a little moth. Dick chirruped, clearly quite content to be slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, though Bruce almost got a mouthful of feathers when he readjusted his wings. In the sitting room were piles of pastries on the coffee table and Dick wiggled free of his hold to snatch up a cinnamon roll, cozying down in the corner of the couch as he ate. Alfred handed him a cup of coffee.

“Thank you,” Bruce said, settling down to sip at it as he ate a danish, the fire crackling before them. 

Dick chittered happily in between bites of cinnamon pastry, tearing off a big piece to offer Alfred as he passed, who politely declined, but couldn’t quite stifle his smile at the offer. As usual, Dick ate quick, but little, cleaning icing from his golden talons with a napkin and dutifully sipping the protein smoothie Alfred gave him more often than not. 

“Do you want your presents now, chum?” Bruce asked.

Dick looked at him with wide eyes. “Presents?” 

Bruce nodded towards the tree and Dick looked over at the packages with surprise written on his face. 

“There’s a couple with your name on it,” Bruce said.

Untucking his legs slowly, Dick tiptoed over to find Alfred’s perfectly wrapped boxes and neat handwriting on the tags. Sitting down criss-cross on the floor, Dick glanced back at him, not tearing in until Bruce gave him a little nod. Dick’s eyes lit up as he revealed Harry Houdini’s books, several gadgets, and a Superman sweatshirt. 

“Santa must have bought that one,” Bruce said mildly.

Dick giggled, opening the last present to reveal the blueprints Bruce had made for acrobatic apparatus to be installed in the ballroom, looking up at him curiously.

“They’re renovation plans for the ballroom,” Bruce said, turning his mug around in his hands. “I thought I would install trapeze and a few other apparatus. So you don’t get rusty.”

Dick’s eyes went huge, signing, ‘fly?’. 

“Fly,” Bruce agreed.

Dick abandoned his presents and wrapping paper to throw his arms around his neck. Bruce startled slightly, but curled his own arm around him, cradling the back of his head as he bumped his nose against his jaw and made that odd chittering noise of contentment. Pulling back he signed 'thank you'. Signing back ‘your welcome’, Bruce brushed his dark hair out of his eyes in the same motion. Stepping back, Dick reached around behind the tree to pick up two more packages. Tentatively, Dick held out his own clumsily wrapped presents for both of them. 

“In the circus,” Dick said tentatively. “We made our own presents, no buying allowed.”

“Thank you, Master Dick,” Alfred said. “It’s very kind of you to think of us, if unnecessary.”

Alfred pulled apart the wrapping apart without tearing even a corner, revealing a handkerchief, the fabric clearly part of one of the earlier designs for Robin’s cape, a paler yellow with the edges clearly hemmed by hand and ATCP embroidered in one corner with wobbly stitches. The corners of Alfred’s mouth tightened and his voice came out with that careful cadence of restrained emotion.

“Thank you.” 

Dick cooed back, clearly pleased with the reaction he had earned. Bruce tore the edge of his, oddly wrapped due to the cylindrical shape, and he found a mason jar refilled with a homemade ointment. A little sticky-note in Dick’s hand writing had the contents labeled down to the drop; a base of coconut oil and beeswax with several drops of frankincense, myrrh, and ginger oils.

“It’s for your hands,” Dick said, signing ‘achy hands’. “Acrobats recipe. It’s anti-inflammatory.” 

If it were anyone else, it might have wounded Bruce's pride to have a weakness, even one as small as aching hands, pointed out, but the fact that it was Dick sharing a recipe that came from his family, whose hands ached from death defying stunts made it feel like it was no more a weakness than admitting to putting on sunblock on a bright day. A warm day turned to sunburn, punching bad guys left one with aching hands. His knuckles were bruised and scarred over from nights of hard patrol, but Dick leaned into his calloused palm when he couldn’t help reaching out to hold his face in his hand for lack of a better means to communicate the warmth his ribs were trying and failing to contain in his chest. 

Bruce signed 'thank you'. 

Alfred spent the majority of the day cleaning the manor in preparation for their guests as though he didn’t keep it up to military standards of perfection on a daily basis, but left the game room mostly untouched as Bruce taught Dick how to play chess. For a child who could hardly sit through a movie, Dick was far more invested in the game than Bruce had anticipated, learning the rules quickly, and putting his whole focus into trying to build a strategy. Bruce never let him win, but he did let a few of Dick’s pieces linger on the board longer than he could have to allow him to try different moves. 

‘Again’ Dick signed after losing for the fifteenth time. 

Bruce checked his watch. “We’ll play again another time. The guest should be arriving soon.”

Dick made a displeased noise in the back of his throat, but started packing up the pieces regardless, and Bruce stifled a smile as he put the board back up on the game shelf, most of them having gone untouched for nearly a decade before Dick came to the manor. Making their way downstairs to the sitting room, Bruce heard the distant sound of Alfred opening the front door. 

Clark stepped inside wearing blue jeans that had definitely been worn on the Kents farm once or twice and a button down closer to his size than his mild mannered reporter persona typically wore, hair unstyled, and no glasses perched on his nose. Alfred had relieved Clark of both his coat and his mother’s blueberry pie at the door. 

“Clark,” Bruce nodded to him. 

Clark put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Merry Christmas, Bruce.” 

“Hm.” Bruce sipped his whiskey. 

“Hi,” Dick chirped.

“Hi, Dick.” Clark smiled down at him. “What do you have there?”

Dick held up a wobbly cookie version of Superman. 

Clark lit up. “Oh, wow, is that for me?”

Dick chirruped his yes and Clark graciously accepted the cookie. 

“It looks great, buddy.”

Dick beamed. 

Bruce hid his scowl behind another sip of whiskey, but by the amused look Clark gave him, he saw it. Clark smirked as he took a bite of the cookie with a resounding snap. Bruce glowered, but they both turned their attention as Alfred announced Diana’s arrival. She had come in a stunning red velvet dress, with a slit on either side that Bruce knew was more for ease of movement than stylistic choice. 

“Diana.” Bruce dipped his head to her.

“Hello friends,” Diana smiled at them, then looked down. “And new friend.”

“Hi,” Dick said with an entirely reasonable amount of awe.

“What a fine young warrior,” Diana said, picking him up with ease, and holding him up high to admire.

Dick preened under the attention, wings fanning out as though showing off, and she smiled.

“I can tell you will be quite mighty,” Diana said.

Dick’s thank you was a little shyer, face a little pink, but clearly pleased. She set him on her hip as though he was a toddler, but he didn’t appear to mind, clearly trying to be careful with his claws as he held onto her shoulder. With her free hand she accepted the cookie Wonder Woman Dick offered her with the appropriate amount of praise, and once she had eaten it, took Bruce’s drink from his hands to wash it down. 

“Now, tell me of your battles thus far, little one, we shall trade stories.” 

Dick started with sign, little chirps and whistles dramatizing his gestures, and eventually he spoke as he enthusiastically regaled them with the adventures of Batman and Robin. Including a few more embarrassing ones that Bruce could have done without sharing.

“One of your villains is called the Condiment King?” Clark asked with poorly concealed amusement.

“Yes,” Bruce bit out.

“And he just… attacks you with condiments?” Clark tried not to laugh.

“Yes,” Bruce ground out.

“And you’ve… you’ve lost to this man?” 

“Don’t you fight someone whose powers are that of a common household appliance?” Bruce asked, with one raised eyebrow.

Clark pinked slightly. “Microwave Man is more dangerous than he sounds.”

Bruce smirked. “Who will you lose to next, Man of Steel? Toaster Boy?” 

“I’d like to see you take on Microwave Man,” Clark said.

“I’ll bring a fork,” Bruce said dryly.

Diana bit back a laugh.

“If you all are done grandstanding, dinner is prepared,” Alfred said.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Clark said with a smile. 

Diana put her hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “You will eat with us, won’t you?”

On occasion, Dick could convince Alfred to join them for meals, but for the most part he declined.

“I have other matters to attend to, thank you, Ms. Prince.” Alfred dipped his head.

Diana sighed slightly, but gave him a smile. 

“You’ll join us for pie though, won’t you, Alfred?” Clark asked. “I have to report back to ma if you liked it or not.”

Alfred faltered.

Dick cooed at him, giving him puppy eyes that should have been somewhat disconcerting with the yellow tint, but all it made Bruce think of was a little owlet. It also was enough to make Alfred agree to join them for pie and coffee after they had polished off the meal. Despite Dick’s best efforts to stay awake, he fell asleep in Bruce’s lap as the adults sipped coffee and whiskey and Alfred attempted to coax the Kent’s pie recipe from Clark. Dick stirred, wings rustling, and eyebrows furrowed, but he settled down when Bruce carded his fingers through his hair.

“He does not sleep well?” Diana asked.

“Dreams,” Bruce said simply.

Diana hummed her understanding.

“Perhaps Master Dick should retire to his own room so we don’t disturb him further,” Alfred said.

Bruce hummed, setting his glass on the coffee table, and gently picking Dick up who made a little sleepy protest deep in his throat, not necessarily a human noise, but a familiar one by now. 

“Off to bed,” Bruce said.

“M’no,” Dick mumbled, even as he tucked his face into Bruce’s sweater.

Bruce bit back a smile. “Say goodnight, chum.”

Dick trilled softly and both Diana and Clark said their own goodnights, clearly charmed. Carrying him up to bed, Bruce tucked him into bed as much as he could without disturbing the nest of blankets Dick kept carefully arranged. Though it was more of a feat to unhook Dick’s claws from his sweater, which latched onto his blankets instead.

“Goodnight, Dick.” Bruce brushed his hair out of his face. “Merry Christmas.” 

Returning to the sitting room, they made it through another round of drinks before his guests made their excuses, and headed for the door. Diana put a hand on Bruce’s arm, smiling down at him. 

“I’m happy for you.”

“For me?” 

“For the light you have found.”

Bruce’s throat tightened. “Merry Christmas, Diana.”

Diana pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Merry Christmas, Bruce.” 

Clark patted his shoulder before following her towards the door and Bruce nursed the tail of his whiskey by the fire with Alfred sitting silently across from him.

“I think I’ll have to resort to subterfuge to acquire Mrs. Kent’s recipe,” Alfred said.

Bruce couldn’t help the laugh that tore out of him and Alfred graced him with a sliver of a smile over his own tea cup. 

“Should I lend you the Batsuit?” Bruce asked.

“Let’s not take to extremes, Master Bruce,” Alfred said.

“No, Alfred, of course not.” Bruce gave a slight shake of his head. 

Three days later the Joker broke out of Arkham and Batman learned what it was like to be forced to split from Robin so they could try to disarm all of the bombs in time. Like a bomb dog, Dick appeared to have an intrinsic sense of which bombs to run to first. They disarmed eighteen out of twenty-eight, Bruce arriving on the scene of nineteen on Robin’s heels just in time to watch the counter hit zero, but it never went off. The rest were fakes. 

Chapter Text

“B?” Dick asked, tugging off his gloves after patrol.

Bruce made a sound of acknowledgement from the computer where he was typing up patrol notes. The words stuck in his throat as Dick looked at his claws and Bruce glanced over at him, one eyebrow raised. 

‘I want know about my parents’ Dick signed. 

Bruce’s eyes widened slightly.

“You said… you said I would remember. I don’t.”

“You have to give it time, Dick,” Bruce said. “The Court of Owls had you for a long time.”

‘If no remember?’ Dick fought to keep his hands steady.

“Give it time, Dick,” Bruce said. “Trying to force the memories will only overwhelm you.”

Dick chewed on the inside of his cheek.

“Go on up to bed,” Bruce said, giving his hair a gentle tussle before pushing him along towards the stairs.

Making his way up the stairs, Dick laid in bed until he heard the familiar creak of the floorboard by Bruce’s room. On nights when Bruce’s patrolled alone, Dick would hear it in the early hours of morning, but when they patrolled together it was usually only an hour or two after he had gone to bed himself. Slipping out of his room, Dick snuck into Bruce’s study, and down to the Cave on silent feet. 

Logging into the Batcomputer, Dick searched for Mary and John Grayson, finding newspaper headlines of ‘Tragedy Striking at Haly’s Circus, Flying Graysons Fall to Their Death’s’, reports of a trapeze accident, and a snapped wire. Bruce had collected their mismatched medical records, including… including their autopsy report, but there were no photos. Just a diagram of a vague human body with pen marks ticking off broken bones and internal injuries from the fall. The lack of photos told Dick that Bruce had anticipated this very move, if not tonight, then at a later date. 

The Bat would have the autopsy photos. 

Dick didn’t bother to dig deeper to find where he had put them on the computer, likely in encrypted files. Instead he watched videos of the Flying Graysons, fingers skimming the screen as they flipped from trapeze to trapeze in grainy video clips on the internet. It felt like looking at a funhouse mirror as a small figure joined them in the later videos and he wrapped his wings around himself like a blanket, knees drawn up to his chest. 

“I don’t remember,” Dick whispered, fingers brushing blurry faces. “I don’t remember you.”

Dick pressed replay on the video. At some point or another, he must have fallen asleep, but he woke to the sound of the door to the Cave opening, and he quickly clicked out of the video. Pulling up a blank file, he typed up the first thoughts he had about the previous night's patrol as footsteps descended the staircase, but he was surprised to find it was Alfred and not Bruce the appeared at the bottom.

“Master Dick, just when I thought you were the well behaved one in this manor,” Alfred said.

Dick signed ‘sorry’.

“None of that, let’s get a proper start to the day now, shall we?” Alfred summoned, holding out his hand.

Dick knew he was far too old for it, but he took Alfred’s hand regardless, letting himself be led up the stairs, and into the kitchen. Directing him to the sink, Alfred had him wash up, and then handed him a bowl of batter and a wooden spoon. It was only five forty-five in the morning and by the smell of it they were making pancakes, even though it would be a miracle to wake Bruce up before eight. Alfred liked to listen to classical music as he cooked on an old antique radio sitting on the window sill. 

Mary sang while she cooked, skirt swaying as she moved with it, and if she liked the song enough John might abandon his own task to spin her around the kitchen. 

Alfred eased the bowl from his hands, holding it with one hand, and wiping a tear from Dick’s face with his handkerchief with another, tucking it right back into his own pocket. 

“No pajamas at breakfast,” Dick said, listening to the first pancake sizzle on the griddle. 

“I can make an exception, this once,” Alfred said. 

Dick blinked at him. 

“Now, there’s a package of chocolate chips on the top shelf, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Dick had to climb up onto the counter to fetch them, holding them out in offering. Alfred directed him to the bubbling pancakes, making a little star out of the chocolate chips in one before flipping it over to cook. Dick put a smiley face in the next one. One with stern eyebrows. Two points like a Batman cowl. Out of the corner of his eye, he could have almost sworn he saw Alfred’s lips turn up. As the stack grew, Alfred popped the plate in the oven for them to keep, making two cups of tea. Peppermint.

Curling his hands around the mug, Dick breathed it in. His talons clicked against the porcelain; all the mugs in the manor were from a matching black set like a high end restaurant, but he could still feel the heat against his palms. Taking a sip, it soothed his throat even if he didn’t care particularly for the taste. Bruce smelled like bergamot cologne, the Bat like kevlar and motor oil (and sweat and blood after patrol), and Alfred of peppermint tea, lemon cleaner, and mothballs. 

Outside the snow fell in slow fat flakes, sticking to the ground, and building on the window sill like too many coats of paint. It was quiet in the kitchen, but Alfred had switched the radio over to a news station, and they listened to reports of events all over the world. Dick smiled into his mug to hear of Superman providing aid to earthquake efforts and the rumors of a glimpse of Aquaman moving rubble after a hurricane had nearly devastated a small coastal town.  

Bruce shuffled in early, also in his pajamas, and eyes heavy with sleep. “Alfred, have you seen—“

“We’re having an early morning it seems, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, nodding in Dick’s direction.

Bruce hummed as his eyes found Dick, accepting the cup of coffee Alfred poured for him, and taking a sip. Looking out the window, he looked contemplative as he watched the snow pile up along the manor grounds. 

“I expect it will be a snow day for the two of you,” Alfred said, plating the pancakes, and setting them on a tray. “Or snow night, if you will.” 

Bruce hummed into his coffee. 

“There is a severe weather warning and over a foot of snow is anticipated as well as potential blackouts,” Alfred said, carrying the tray to the sitting room, and starting a fire in the hearth. “Any criminal out tonight will be caught by frostbite before the police.”

“I think you may be right, Alfred,” Bruce said, taking a seat with a sigh.

“A shocking turn of events, sir,” Alfred said dryly.

Bruce let out an amused exhale. Signing a thank you to Alfred, Dick settled on the carpet close to the fire with his plate in his lap, tearing the pancakes into little pieces as he watched the dry logs crackle and pop. There was a fire-breather at the circus who went by the name of Zaz, but a few of the older performers called him ‘the beardless dragon’ due to the fact that he had caught his goatee on fire once before shaving it off, and now had a scar on his chin. 

“What is a snow day?” Dick asked. 

Bruce paused mid-sip. “…I suppose you would never have one, being homeschooled.”

Dick blinked at him. 

“A snow day is when classes canceled due to severe weather,” Bruce said. “When I was young, the first snow of Gotham every year, I would wake up early to watch the TV to see if my school would appear on the list of those who had cancelled classes.”

‘Why?’ Dick signed.

“Wouldn’t you rather stay home and watch movies than do school work?” Bruce asked.

Dick hardly remembered doing school work, all he really recalled from the circus were flashes of faces, the music, the smell of popcorn in the air, and the familiar thump of the bar against his palms after a release move.

“…can we have a snow day?” Dick asked.

Bruce looked out at the window. “Well. I suppose it would be irresponsible to drive to Wayne Enterprises in this weather.”

Dick smiled. “You can pick one of the movies.”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth turned up. “Just one?”

Dick tilted his head to the side as though weighing his option before holding up two fingers.

“How generous,” Bruce said dryly. 

Gathering up his dishes, Dick brought them to the kitchen, and started to wash them.

“Master Dick,” Alfred began to chide.

‘Snow day,’ Dick signed with one soapy hand. ‘You no work.’

Alfred’s eyes widened. “Is that so.”

Dick nodded. ‘Watch movies together.’

Alfred’s lips turned up, a familiar not quite smile that Bruce appeared to have picked up from him. “I suppose I’m amenable. I don’t know what else I might do with a day off.”

Dick smiled at him. 

It wasn’t often they actually watched movies in the in home theater, the screen taking up most of the wall, and two rows of seats facing it. The first a plush red velvet couch that could easily seat eight, with longer cushions bookending each end, and a second row with two separate oversized loveseats that could fit two or three each. There were little lantern-like light fixtures on the burgundy and gold embellished walls to provide low lighting without detracting from the screen ahead, a popcorn machine in the corner, and a case of VCR tapes like a bookshelf in the back of the room. Dick flit up to the case, looking over the names, but none felt particularly familiar, and he ended up sitting on the ground reading through the summaries. A handful of the titles were in French. Bruce’s fingers brushed several titles before sliding one and two out of place, and setting them by the VCR to wait their turn. Setting a few tapes on top of Bruce’s selections, Dick tugged Alfred over to the shelves. 

"You pick three," Dick said.

“Three?” Bruce said, mildly indignant. “Why does he get three?”

‘Makes good pancakes,” Dick signed.

“…unfailing logic,” Bruce said. 

Alfred stifled a smile, plucking three choices from the shelves, and adding them to the pile before popping one of them into the player. They settled onto the large couch at the front of the theater and Dick rearranged pillows and blankets into a little nest in the corner of the couch. Bruce sat nearby, ankle resting on his knee, an arm on the back of the couch, and a case file open on his lap. Alfred just past him, sitting up straight, a saucer balanced on his knee, and teacup in hand, eyes on the screen as Much Ado About Nothing played. Dick signed a little with Bruce to detangle the intricacies of Shakespeare, but he mostly understood who was in love with who, and he couldn’t argue with a happy ending, even if Hero appeared to get the short end of the stick. 

‘I would not marry Claudio.’ Dick signed.

Bruce looked mildly amused. “No?”

Dick shook his head, signing, ‘Jerk.’

“He did not act very gentlemanly towards young Hero, did he?” Alfred said.

Dick shook his head vehemently. “Why would you marry someone who yelled at you in front of all your family instead of talking to you?” 

“Perhaps she has a great wealth of forgiveness,” Alfred said. 

Dick chittered unhappily and the pair exchanged an amused look as they put in a second movie. Neither protested his commentary throughout the day, though it mostly consisted of chirps and chitters, and a few dramatic hand signs when he felt he needed to express himself more poignantly. They had a brief intermission for lunch which Alfred did make, but allowed Dick to help with, and acquiesced to eat beside them at the table. To digest Dick ran laps around the manor, jumping from Bruce approved heights to glide on his wings before settling back down on the couch. 

Alfred busied his hands with darning several sets of clothes, the slits cut into Dick’s t-shirts to account for his wings got properly hemmed like button holes, and the little claw pokes in several of Bruce’s sweaters were stitched shut. Bruce flipped through case files, but his eyes did flick up to the screen or over to Dick’s hands rather than his usual focused stare at the Batcomputer. Rising during a slow scene, Dick fiddled with the popcorn maker.

“Ah, allow me Master Dick, it can be somewhat complicated— oh.” 

Dick easily set up the popper, listening to the familiar ping of the kernels against the metal, and maneuvering the hot metal to transfer the popcorn into another bowl to shake with salt and butter until the smell flooded the theater. 

“Why, you’re an old hand I see,” Alfred said.

Dick offered the bowl to him and Alfred took a handful before making their way back to their seats. It was an idle picking more than a snack for Dick, more content with the scent of butter and salt than the taste, after all, popcorn was for the audience, not the performers. Bruce ate several handfuls… and fell asleep with his hand still in the bowl. 

Dick stifled a laugh and Alfred flattened out his smile into a thin line, pausing the movie, and summoning Dick with a crook of his fingers. Sneaking out of the theater, Dick shut the door lightly behind him to leave the Dark Knight snoozing in the home theater as they made their way towards the kitchen. Alfred put on the kettle, making them both a cup of tea.

“I suppose we can’t blame him, he didn’t arise quite early this morning,” Alfred said dryly. “A whooping eight am.” 

Dick bit back a smile, accepting the mug of hot chocolate he was handed. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t dozed off yourself, Master Dick.” 

Dick flattened both palms against the ceramic, savoring the warmth of the mug. “…I have dreams.”

“Oh?”

Dick sipped his hot chocolate as he tried to explain that at times it felt as though his dreams paralleled reality. That on occasion he felt like he caught glimpses of dreams in between blinks in the waking world. That sometimes he woke feeling like he was bleeding out of old wounds only to find his skin smooth where the scars should be. That if he saw his reflection out of the corner of his eye, sometimes he saw a man in his late twenties, wearing black and blue, and battered like a toy that had been handed down to one too many generations.  

Bruce shuffled into the kitchen, wiping sleep from his eyes. “I see I’ve missed intermission.”

“Not dinner if I’ll be allowed to make it,” Alfred said. 

Bruce hummed, eyes falling shut as he stretched his arms over his head, spine cracking with the movement. 

Hushed whispers between Mr. Haly and a man who called himself Tony Zucco, promising protection while naming himself as the threat to be wary. New wires, checked by Dick’s own hands, his mother’s, his father's, before they ever climbed the podium. The feel of the bar under his hands, the snap of the wire was lost under the familiar sound of the music, but the impact of their bodies on the ground was like a gunshot—

The mug slipped through Dick’s fingers, shattering on the ground. “My parents.” 

“Dick?” Bruce asked. 

Dick turned on him, eyes wet with tears he hadn’t shed the night before. “You let me believe they died in an accident!” 

Bruce tensed. “Dick…”

“Tony Zucco—“ Dick hissed the name between his teeth.

“Is in jail,” Bruce said, his voice calm, calm, calm. “I caught him while I was looking for you.”

‘Jail.’ Dick signed viciously, talons raking through the air. ‘He breathes.’ 

“Dick,” Bruce reached for him.

Dick knocked his hands away, claws raking along his arm, and blood welled up in their wake. Bruce grimaced, pulling back as it dripped onto the tiles to mingle with spilled tea and broken porcelain. 

“Master Dick,” Alfred’s voice raised in reprimand.

Bruce held up a hand to halt him. “Dick, I—“

‘He breathes,” Dick signed. ‘You lie.’

Bruce’s brows lowered into a line, lips down turned, but Dick’s didn’t wait to hear whatever he had to say next. Turning on his heel, he made his way up the stairs, to his room, and slammed the door. A lock wouldn’t keep out the Bat, but it may slow him down. Climbing out the window, he scaled the side of the house under the cover of the dark winter sky, the sun having set hours before. 

Anger kept him warm as he clung to the side of the outside of the manor wall to keep from leaving footprints until he could enter through one of the outer entrances to the Cave. His socked feet left wet footprints on the cold stone floor, but his steps were silent and the evidence would soon evaporate. Dick logged into the computer, bringing up the files on Tony Zucco. Incarcerated a year and a half ago, only months after Dick’s attempted escape from juvenile detention which he remembered with more clarity than his time at Haly’s, and due to Zucco's model inmate status he was getting a compassionate release to visit his mother on her deathbed in the hospital in… less than an hour. 

Dick reached for his usual suitcase, only to drop his hand before his claws could stain the bright colors of Robin. Instead, he grabbed the prototype suit of all black from where it had been abandoned with other first tries at various bat-gadgets. Changing quickly, he tucked his clothes in its place, and headed out for the night as snow stuck to the sidewalks. With the approach of winter, the sun set earlier and earlier every night, and the cover of dark allowed Dick to leap from rooftop to roof top undetected, moving for Gotham General where he lurked, watching the side exits.

It was easy to be a model inmate when one had no plans of serving out their sentence, sick mother or not, it was too good of an opportunity to pass up. Zucco slipped out the side door of the hospital not even twenty minutes later, unaccompanied by the guards, and in civilian clothes. Collar turned up, Zucco smiled to himself before walking quickly towards Crime Alley. Dick followed him silently, watching him pass under each flickering streetlight. 

Zucco slipped into the alley and Dick perched on the edge of the rooftop, muscles tense, and ready to dive down as Zucco moved towards the shadows that would conceal them for what came next. A street or two away there was a shout. A kid by the sound of it.

“Get off! Let go of me!” 

Zucco stepped just below him in the alley, all Dick had to do was drop down on top of him, and he would have him. Turning on his heel, he leapt off the roof, following the sound of a struggle. One of the Joker’s goons was trying to drag a boy around his age into a rundown warehouse, the kid struggling and kicking to no avail. They hauled him into the warehouse and Dick glided down to perch on one of the partially boarded up windows. Dead center were stacks and stacks of TNT; the Joker was already laughing. 

“Get off of me! What do you want you fucking clown!”

“You? Nothing really, you’re just, hm, live bait. The Bats apparently has a soft spot for the kiddos and you were just easy to grab.” Joker grinned.

The kid bit the goon who let out a yelp and nearly dropped him, but goon2 helped him keep a hold, and they dragged him over towards a chair. Dick reached for his ear, only to remember his comm wasn’t there, he had left without it. Cursing himself, he slipped through the window, crawling along the rafters of the warehouse as the goons tied the kid up like a birthday present and left him by the foot of the TNT which was done up in wrapping papers.

“It’s your lucky day, kid, this is your birthday party!”

“It’s not my freaking birthday!”

“Oh hoo, no, it’s your birthday party because you won’t live to see another!” Joker cackled. 

The kid squirmed, but he was tied up tight, and the Joker started the count on the clock. Two minutes. Dick didn’t have time to come up with better plan than winging it. Diving down, he took one goon down with a kick to the head, and started on the other once his feet hit the ground. The goons were quick work, clearly not particularly trained, but it bought the Joker time to grab the remote for the bomb.

“Two birds with one stone!” Joker crowed, moving towards the exit. “Maybe it’s my birthday!” 

There were ten seconds on the clock. Rushing to the boy’s side, Dick didn’t waste time trying to untie the ropes, ripping off his glove to slice them with his claws. The goons were running for the door, not paying them any mind, but it was too far to follow them out. Throwing the boy over his shoulder, Dick used his grappling gun to hook back through the window, yanking them up off the ground. The bomb blew, sending them flying through it, and Dick only just managed to throw his wings out to slow their descent, but they landed hard in the alley. Sheltering the boy with his wings, glass buried itself in his skin, and cut up his back, adrenaline thrumming through him.

Joker. Warehouse. Bomb. 

It was in a blur that he got the boy out of the alley, there were more goons waiting outside the warehouse, clearly a trap for the Batman, and it took everything in him to lose them, running circles around the city until the boy dragged him into an abandoned clock tower to lay low, tucking them away on the dilapidated third level. Even out of the wind for the most part, it was freezing, and the cold started to settle into his bones now that they were done running. It felt like the gears in his brain were grinding, leaving him with instincts rather than rational thoughts. 

“Did we lose them?” The kid asked, still panting.

Dick checked the boarded up windows, but he couldn’t see signs of anything aside from the thick snowfall. With his injuries and the fatigue in his muscles, there was no chance he could risk taking them out of the tower when they wouldn’t be able to outrun anyone that might be looking for them. Gathering scraps of fabric, old tarps, and blankets from the remains of other homeless people who may have camped here, Dick piled them in the corner to try to ward off some of the cold. 

“Hey, you’re bleeding, stop, hey—“ 

Dick knew he was running on old instincts, but it didn’t stop him from curling his wings around the kid to shelter him from the cold creeping into their makeshift safe house. The kid was distantly familiar, but Dick couldn’t say why, only that he had to keep him safe. The kid appeared to have similar thoughts because he was adamant about picking the glass out of his bloody feathers. Dick made a displeased sound low in his throat at the foreign feeling.

“I know, I know, probably hurts like a bitch…” It was a little strange to hear the rough way the kid talked at what Dick could guess was somewhere around 10 or 11.

With more intention, Dick tried to coo at the kid who looked a little upset when his hands came away bloody from Dick’s wings. The kid blinked at him. Cooing again, Dick tried to herd him back into the warmth of the nest he had built. It was all scraps of clothes and newspapers, but even the little insulation helped against the Gotham winter and it would keep their body heat from being leached out into the cold floor of the clock tower. 

“I have to clean you up first,” the kid knocked his wings lightly away.

Dick made a disgruntled noise, but let the kid continue to pick shrapnel from his wings and skin.

“Can you speak?” The kid asked. “If you can’t, I suppose that’s a bit of a dumb question, huh?”

Dick clicked his tongue at him, a little chattering noise.

“I’ll take that as a no,” the kid said. “But it seems like you understand me a bit. I’m, uh, I’m Jason. Is it dumb to tell you my name if you can’t call me by it?”

Jason.

Dick couldn’t make his vocal cords ring with the name, but he could make another pleased chattering sound at the introduction. Jason almost smiled at him, a sliver of a thing.

“Yeah, birdie, it’s nice to meet you too.”

Jason fussed over his injuries, but there wasn’t a lot to do seeing as neither of them had any medical supplies and the wings weren’t exactly something that could be wrapped. Dick crowded Jason into the nest, covering him with his wings even though they were still tacky with blood, it was the most warmth he could offer him in the snow storm. Jason shivered, cozying closer, and tucking his cold nose into Dick’s throat. He felt his questions more than he heard them.

“Were you always like this?” 

Dick ruffled his feathers then gave a slow shake of his head, knowing Jason could feel his chin sweeping back and forth over his matted hair. 

“Do you have a name?”

Dick made an inconclusive noise, Talon wasn’t his name, but it was how he had been addressed. His current master called him Dick, told him it was short for Richard Grayson. Hazy memories of a warm voice called him Robin.

“Suppose you couldn’t really tell me it anyway, huh?” Jason murmured. 

Dick thought for a moment then carefully, so carefully traced an R on Jason’s back with one claw.

“R?”

Dick nodded.

“Okay, then. Oh, hey, do you like would-you-rather questions?”

They played a somewhat one sided game of would-you-rather though Dick almost smiled once or twice at the absurd scenarios Jason came up with, tapping once for the first option, and twice for the second. Jason argued passionately with every few choices even though Dick couldn’t argue back through more than an amused look or raised eyebrow. 

It was on day three of the storm they were disturbed. Dick had heard the Jason’s stomach rumble, but he had been assured that he had gone longer without eating, and the cold would get them before hunger did in the blizzard outside, so they stayed put. It was only when Jason grew lethargic and slow to wake that Dick started running through second options in his head. A shadow melted from the walls and Dick bared his teeth in a snarl, covering Jason with his body, but it was only the Bat. Upon seeing him, Bruce crossed the room with enough urgency for his cape to snap behind him.

“I have been looking for you for—“ Bruce paused upon seeing Jason under his wings. “Dick, did you… did you kidnap a child?”

Dick made a low sound.

Bruce sighed. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

‘Come.’ Dick signed.

“You can’t just—“

‘Come.’ Dick signed with more agitation. ‘Mine. Come.’

“He’s not yours,” Bruce said. “He probably has a family that’s missing him.”

‘Mine. Protect. Mine.’

Bruce scrubbed a hand over his face. “Okay, alright, we can… we can argue about this back at the Cave. He needs medical treatment anyways… hopefully that’ll hold off any kidnapping charges, dear lord…”

Dick tried and failed to pick up the child, almost toppling over, but Bruce managed to grab him, putting one of them over each shoulder. Dick made an unhappy chittering noise, but tucked his injured wings in and out of the way. Bruce let him curl up around Jason in the back of the Batmobile as he drove, but once they were in the Cave, he separated them.

Dick snarled.

“Alfred’s going to clean him up and get him warm again,” Bruce said. “You can see him, he’s just over there.”

Dick kept his eyes on Jason as he was changed out of his ratty clothes into warm sweats after a perfunctory swipe of wet wipes to get rid of any grime that might be concealing injuries. Bruce cut away Dick’s own tattered clothes, soothing him when he grumbled about it being unstuck from dried blood. Alfred hooked Jason up to an IV which made Dick twitch, but the fluid was clear. 

Bruce wrapped him up on a blanket as Alfred made his way over with medical supplies. Dick couldn’t help his surprised noise as Bruce pulled him into his lap, warm against his back in only his undershirt, and rubbing roughly at Dick’s arms and legs to get the blood flowing again. Dick chattered unhappily at Alfred as he extended one of his bloody wings.

“Oh my,” Alfred sighed as he took in the matted feathers.

“How bad’s the damage?” Bruce asked.

“The cold helped stifle the blood loss it seems, but it will be awhile until Master Dick may fly again so to speak.”

“He’s back to nonverbal,” Bruce said. “Barely using sign either."

“It’s likely the stress, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. “He’s running off his survival instincts, I believe he will be more verbose once he’s calmed down.”

“Survival instincts, huh?” Bruce rubbed the warmth into Dick's hands again. “Is that what we call kidnapping a child?”

Dick pulled one of his hands free again to sign, ‘mine’.

Bruce sighed. “Yeah, chum, I heard you the first three times.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. Bruce just gave a slight shake of his head and he refocused on the task at hand. Pulling out a particularly mangled feather made Dick snap his wings close and hiss at Alfred. Alfred reached out and Dick snapped his teeth at him, kept out of biting range by the strong arms pinning him to the sturdy chest at his back.

“Hey,” Bruce said firmly, crossing his arms over Dick’s chest to keep his wrists pinned to his own cold skin.

Dick bit him. Bruce grimaced, but didn’t release him, giving Alfred a nod, who extended his wing once more despite Dick’s muffled snarl.

“If I leave your injuries, it is likely they will worsen, but I hope you do not think I’m blind to your discomfort, Master Dick.” Alfred said.

Release his bite, Dick chittered at him to express his displeasure, but Alfred’s lips curled up ever so slightly. 

“Still quite talkative, aren’t you?” Alfred said, stroking gently over the curve of his wing before moving onto the other.

Bruce held him firmly, but neither he nor Alfred tried to quiet him when he expressed his distinct displeasure over having his wings manhandled and tended to. Alfred made quicker work of the clotted cuts on his skin. Bruce bundled him up in soft cotton clothes once he was bandaged, but didn’t stop holding him. Dick couldn’t help but lean into the warmth after two unbearably cold nights. Bruce rested his chin on his head, murmuring soothingly to him as Alfred fixed him up with his own IV of warm saline and various vitamins and nutrients.

At some point, he slept, though he only realized it once he woke still basking in the warmth of another body. His face was tucked into Bruce’s chest, breathing in his fabric softener and fading cologne, but only one of Bruce’s hands rested on his back, the other tapping away at the keyboard behind Dick. Shifting up, Dick peered over Bruce's shoulder to find Jason still asleep on the cot in the cave, but his lips were no longer blue and he wasn’t shivering. 

“B.”

“Hey, chum, you a little more with me?”

Dick made a snuffling nose, tucking his face into his shoulder, ruffling his feathers with a wince.

“Zucco?"

“Back behind bars and we will be talking about that once you’re capable.”

Dick made a disgruntled sound. “Jason?”

“Jason Todd,” Bruce said. “He’s eleven, goes to Gotham public school, sixth grade, his dad’s in jail and his step-mother is in rehab. He’s living at a foster home right now, though they haven’t reported him missing despite his three day absence.”

“…keep?” Dick asked more tentatively.

Bruce was quiet.

“Have space.”

“I can’t just adopt any kid I’d like, chum. Not with the life we lead and not with you. You wouldn’t be safe.”

“Protected me,” Dick said. “Protected him. Protected me.”

Bruce made an indecisive sound. 

“Already seen me.” Dick nudged his cold nose into Bruce’s jaw. “Can’t take back. Safer here. With us.”

“Hm.”

Dick couldn’t keep arguing because a low groan had him scrambling up and over Bruce’s shoulder to dart over to Jason’s bedside as his eyes opened.

“Wha—“

“Safe,” Dick said.

Jason’s eyes widened. “You can speak.”

Dick made a so-so kind of gesture, patting Jason down to check for any injuries but he was warm and his heart was beating steadily so he felt justified in climbing right on top of him, earning a little oomph.

“Fuck, your hands are cold. Where the hell did you bri— is that Bruce Wayne?” Jason tried to sit up, but Dick was heavy on top of him and kept him down.

Dick chittered at Jason, whose eyes were huge as Bruce rose from behind the computer to make his way over to the pair of them. There were little pinpricks in his shirt from Dick’s scramble, but no blood, so he didn’t feel particularly bad about it. 

“Mr. Wayne—“ Jason opened and closed his mouth, but his arms circled protectively around Dick. “What do you want with us?”

“Dick brought you here because you needed help, you were bordering on hypothermia when I found you two.”

“Who?” Jason asked with no small amount of judgement in his voice.

“Dick,” Bruce said. “…the kid you have your arms around.”

“Like hell, he told me his name started with an R. Just because you’re rich and ‘cause he can’t talk doesn’t mean you can take advantage of him!”

Bruce’s eyebrows raised slightly, but Dick didn’t think it was in disapproval. 

“Dick is short for Richard, Richard Grayson, and he’s my ward.”

“Your ward? What is this? Victorian England?”

Bruce’s lips ticked up slightly. 

“Besides, if he’s your kid then why doesn’t the press know about him?” Jason lifted his chin.

“That’s a bit of a long story.”

Jason’s stubborn expression didn’t subside in the slightest. 

Bruce sighed. “I was preparing to foster him when he got kidnapped, by the time I found him again he had… undergone changes.”

“The wings?”

Bruce nodded slightly. “I didn’t want to alert the authorities in case… they didn’t react well to his… condition, which is the same reason it isn’t in the media.”

“You can’t just keep him locked up here because he’s different! There’s plenty of funny looking people out there that don’t mean they don’t deserve to live their lives.”

“Gotham doesn’t have a history of being kind to those who are other,” Bruce said. “But, you’re not wrong, we’ve been in contact with an ally of mine to try to find a way to help Dick go back out in the world again.”

Jason grumbled, but seemed somewhat satisfied with this answer, especially because Dick was cooing up at him and nudging his nose against the underside of his jaw.

“For Dick’s protection, it would be best if you didn’t share this information with anyone,” Bruce said.

“Don’t got no one to tell,” Jason mumbled, petting at the curve of Dick’s wings

“You’re in the foster system,” Bruce said.

“How do you know that?”

“I have a friend in the GCPD who sent me your file.”

Jason scowled. “That’s none of your business.”

“I still have my foster license,” Bruce said. “And there’s plenty of space in the manor, not to mention you and Dick already appear to get along.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying, Mr. Wayne?”

“I’d like to foster you. If you’re amenable.”

Jason stared at him for a long minute. “You’re messing with me.”

“No,” Bruce said. “I have the resources and it’s clear that your foster home is inadequate if they didn’t report you missing after three days—“

“Five,” Jason mumbled. “I ran away five days ago.”

Bruce’s teeth clicked together. “All the more reason.”

“I don’t need your charity.”

Bruce said nothing.

“People don’t just go around taking in street rats so what do you want? Good press?”

“Same reason I took Dick in. I want to give you somewhere safe to stay, safer than an abandoned clock tower at the very least.”

“…you’re just gonna throw me out after you get sick of me.”

An unease built in Dick’s stomach at the words “throw out” and he fluffed up his wings in agitation. Jason’s arms tightened around him.

“I’m not in the business of false promises. If you would like to stay, I will start on the paper work in the morning, if not I’ll call CPS after breakfast. For now, it’s time you both went to bed.”

Dick protested as Bruce lifted him up off of Jason, but took to his perch on his shoulder with practiced ease. Jason rose slowly, following them up into the manor. Alfred was waiting.

“Young Master Todd, it’s good to see you on your feet. I’ve prepared the guest bedroom, but I think it might be best to send the boys off to bed with full stomachs.”

Bruce hummed his agreement, redirecting their journey to the kitchen where two mugs of warm milk were waiting alongside bowls of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches cut into triangles. Jason’s stomach growled loud enough for the whole kitchen to hear it.

“Please help yourself, Master Todd.”

“Jason,” he said, sticking his hand out. “I’m Jason.”

“Alfred Pennyworth.” Alfred shook with an amused look. “Please help yourself.”

Jason dug in the the hunger of a rabid wolf. Dick climbed down onto the counter, got a disapproving look, and sat on a barstool instead, curling and uncurling his hands around the warm mug. Cheeks pudged out with food, Jason looked at Dick inquisitively, holding out his half eaten sandwich. Taking the offering with careful fingers, Dick took small bites, his stomach cramping like it wanted to deny the food entry. Jason had no such qualms, devouring the sandwiches, soup, and only slowing down when he reached the cookies Alfred set out after he had cleaned his plate. There was milk on his upper lip and Dick ducked his head to hide his smile as Alfred wiped it away with a napkin in one well practiced move.

“Now, I think it’s far past time for bed, hm?” 

Alfred herded them both up the stairs, ushering Jason into the guest room, then Dick into his own. With some coaxing, Dick had moved his nest from the foot of the closet onto his bed, but he still curled up right in the corner, pillows lining the wall so he could tuck himself right up against it. The sound of the door opening had him opening his eyes a sliver to find Jason illuminated by the dim hall light. Slipping inside, Jason closed the door, and climbed up into his bed. Dick made room and Jason joined him in his nest, his back to him, watching the door.

“Just had to make sure,” Jason murmured. 

Dick made a confused noise.

“Most rich assholes… well, they’re not taking kids in out of the good of their heart.”

Dick draped his wing over him, tucking him under his chin, and making a reassuring noise.

“I’ll stay just to make sure. Just for tonight. To protect you.”

Dick dozed off with him under his wing.

Waking up to Alfred’s knock, Dick found himself tangled up in Jason, who was snoring in his face. The door opened and Alfred looked amused, but not surprised by Jason’s presence in the room.

“Shall I be getting the two of you bunk beds?” Alfred asked wryly. 

Dick’s lips quirked up, but put a finger over his lips.

“Breakfast is prepared, I trust you’ll wake Master Jason?” Alfred asked at a lower volume.

Dick nodded, waiting for Alfred to close the door before giving Jason a little shake. 

Jason groaned, turning his face back into his pillow. “G’way.”

“Wake up,” Dick said.

“Mlergh.”

“…breakfast.”

“I’m up.” 

Dick laughed, climbing over him to get out of bed, and Jason shoved at him, nearly sending him flat on his face. In retaliation, Dick grabbed his ankles and dragged him out from the blankets while he kicked and cursed. Giving Jason a pair of his clothes, they dressed and headed down to the dining room though Jason took his time marveling over the opulence of the place. There was a full spread for breakfast.

“Woah,” Jason said, taking a seat right beside Dick, and digging in after a quick thank you for Alfred.

Dick picked at his own breakfast.

“Dick,” Bruce said, giving his plate a meaningful look.

“I’m not hungry,” Dick said.

Jason’s chewing slowed, talking with his mouthful. “So you can like, actually speak?”

“Depends.” Dick played with a strawberry. “Sometimes… sometimes my brain is somewhere else.”

“Like bird brain?” Jason asked after swallowing.

Dick’s lips curled up.

“Dick has selective mutism,” Bruce said, more clinically, an edge of a reprimand to his voice. “Sometimes it’s hard for him to speak, so we’ve learned sign language, but even when he’s not up for talking he’s still… expressive.”

“Ms. Mystique called me a chatterbox,” Dick said, then held perfectly still as he blinked away the scrap of a memory; he could barely picture the fortune teller's face.

“Ms. Mystique?” Jason asked.

“Master Jason, please swallow your food before you speak,” Alfred said.

Jason reddened, swallowing his mouthful. 

“I grew up in the circus,” Dick said, turning his fork over in his hands. “I don’t… I don’t remember most of it.”

“Why not?” Jason said. “Did you get, like, amnesia or something?"

“Mmhm, just like a soap opera.”

Jason snorted, returning his attention to shoveling in mouthfuls of food, only speaking again once he had cleared his plate, wiping his face on the back of his hand. “So… you two are Batman and Robin.”

Bruce tensed, but didn’t deny it.

“Woah,” Jason said, looking a little awestruck before clearing his throat. “Guess that’s cool or whatever.”

Dick grinned.

“Suppose I coulda put that together, with the wings ’n all, but I thought the whole thing about you flying was a myth, so…”

“I flew before the wings,” Dick said.

Jason frowned at him, but his mouth was too full to say anything.

“Eat,” Bruce nudged him.

Dick pouted, flopping down dramatically on the table. Jason threw a strawberry at him, but he caught it before it could smack his face, and bit it, chewing morosely.

“Head off the table, Master Dick,” Alfred said. 

Dick straightened up automatically, then relaxed his posture again, eating another strawberry in small bites. Bruce let him have breakfast as a reprieve, or maybe he just felt like he needed to be caffeinated for the following conversation. Through some silent exchange, Alfred led Jason off to the library which he was ecstatic to learn was quite extensive, and Dick followed Bruce to the study. Bruce leaned against his desk, arms crossed rather than sit down. Dick’s feather fluffed up, then smoothed out, crossing his arms to keep him from folding them at the small of his back. 

“I—“ Dick’s voice cracked. “I didn’t hurt him. Zucco.”

“I know,” Bruce said. “When I caught him, he didn’t even recall any sign of you.”

“I still—“ Dick’s jaw worked as he chewed on the words. “I want him dead, but I don’t— I don’t want to be that. I don’t want to be what they made me.”

“You’re not,” Bruce said.

“But I almost—“ Dick’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I really, really wanted to. I would have. I was looking down at him and I was going to.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I heard Jason shouting,” Dick said.

“So you chose to save him over getting revenge for your parents?”

Dick fidgeted. 

“Do you think a weapon would do that?”

Dick shrugged. 

Bruce took a deep breath. “After what happened to my parents, I wanted to do the same, I showed up to Joe Chill's parole hearing with a gun.”

Dick’s eyes snapped up to him.

“But I didn’t,” Bruce said. “Because I knew my parents would be disappointed to me. They spent their time trying to make Gotham a better place, and killing that man? That would just be one more death, one more injustice because no man should get to decide whether another lives or dies.” 

“Zucco decided.”

“And that was wrong, killing him doesn’t make it right.” 

Dick’s claws dug into his arms. “What’s my punishment?”

“You’re not going out as Robin until I know that you can keep your anger here, and not out there where it can hurt other people.”

Dick flinched slightly, but he nodded. 

“I’m proud of you.” Bruce put his hand on his head, tussling his hair. “For making the right choice.”

“The problem is,” Dick told his shoes. “That I can’t remember if my parents would be proud and I’ll never have the chance to make more memories if mine don’t come back.”

Bruce didn’t say anything, but he pulled him in for a hug, and let Dick tuck his face into his cashmere sweater and breathe him in, even though his claws were likely pricking through the expensive fabric as he held on tight to him. 

Chapter Text

Bruce had the paperwork to foster Jason within a week along with a copy of his scarce medical records (though what he had showed signs of physical abuse at the hands of his father), an arrest record for shoplifting, and school transcripts filled with decent grades, his highest being in English. Alfred had made up Jason’s room, bought him an array of clothes, toiletries, and asked after any dietary needs. With all the necessities out of the way, Bruce found himself somewhat at a loss as to what to do with the eleven year old aside from keep him from copying Dick’s death defying stunts around the manor. Compared to having to teach Dick how to speak, eat at the dinner table, and not flinch at the titles Alfred used, Jason appeared rather self sufficient… and pretty uninterested in Bruce Wayne. 

Bruce smiled at the sound of two sets of footsteps clattering down the hall, laughter echoing up to his study, followed by Alfred’s scolding for playing tag indoors, and twin apologies. Stepping out into the hall, a small figure collided with his leg, falling back onto the carpeted floor. Jason looked up at him with wide eyes, holding perfectly still on the floor, not even breathing. Bruce reached out to help him up, but Jason flinched hard.

Bruce learned three things very quickly. Jason didn’t see Bruce as uninteresting but as the necessary evil to have shelter, food, and a loving big brother. Jason had only his own father as a measuring stick and wasn’t expecting any different treatment at Bruce’s hands. And lastly, as Dick slid between them in one quick move, wings fluffed out to block Jason from Bruce’s vision entirely, that Dick was willing to protect Jason from anything and everything, even Bruce himself. 

Jason scrambled to his feet, fingers curling in the back of Dick’s shirt. “S-sorry, Mr. Wayne, I wasn’t looking where I was going. It won’t happen again.” 

“Bruce,” Bruce said firmly.

Dick’s feathers fluffed up, Bruce was often thankful for how expressive his wings were, especially before talking was on the table, but it made his chest ache a little to see the clear sign of distress when he had been laughing like a kid only seconds before.

“It’s my fault,” Dick said. “Alfred told— told us not to run inside, but I— it’s not dark yet.”

“Alfred just doesn’t want you running in the halls because you could get hurt,” Bruce said, gentling his voice. 

Dick fidgeted.

“We won’t,” Jason said, tugging Dick back a few steps. “We won’t run in the halls anymore.” 

Bruce glanced at the window, but even in winter it would still be at least another hour before it got dark enough for him to feel comfortable letting Dick outside. 

“Why don’t you play tag in the ballroom?” Bruce said. “It’s mostly cleared out and, uh, you shouldn’t run into any obstacles there.”

Dick’s lips twitched up slightly, wings settling somewhat, signing, ‘you, brick wall’. Bruce snorted, giving a little shake of his head. Jason gave Dick another insistent tug, and Dick herded him back down the stairs towards the ballroom. 

“No chandeliers!” Bruce called at them at the last moment, concern spiking through him like the start of a migraine. 

Making his way down the stairs, Bruce found Alfred in the kitchen meal prepping for future meals. 

“He’s afraid of me, Alfred.”

“Yes, I imagine so,” Alfred said. 

“I didn’t…” Bruce sighed. “I didn’t notice, with Dick it was so… pronounced.”

“Their situations, while at times may mirror each other, were quite different. The Court were not Master Dick’s parents, or guardians, they were his captors, whom you rescued him from, even if at first he did not trust your intentions.”

Bruce frowned. “I took Jason from an unsafe situation as well.” 

“Master Jason came to us from abusive parents. Though they may have done a poor job of it, they were still the people he depended on to give him a home, food, clothes, and care, even if they also hurt him. He likely has good memories he associates with his parents, so even if you are kind to him, that does not give him any assurances you will not harm him later.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“Spend time with him, Master Bruce, let him know you for your character not only what you can provide.”

“Hn.”

“Perhaps consider joining them outside tonight rather than simply watching?”

“…you think I should play tag?” Bruce said slowly; he hadn’t even played tag when he was their age.

Alfred’s lips quirked up. “Do you not think you could keep up, sir?”

Bruce huffed. 

Though Dick had a severe dislike of the cold to the point of wearing two sets of gloves, three sets of socks, and as many sweaters as he could pile on, he did enjoy that the sun set earlier, bundled up enough to look like the Pillsbury Doughboy and bouncing in anticipation by the back door. Jason gave Bruce a wide berth as he opened the door for the pair of them, following them out into the snow. Despite the clothes Alfred had bought, Jason still appeared to prefer the ratty ones he had shown up in and what had been sent over by the foster home, which hadn’t been much. The snow had been falling all day, blanketing the entire yard, and making the manor look like a gingerbread house.

“Woah,” Jason said, looking at the winter wonderland, lit only by the glow of the house. 

Dick ruffled his wings and drew them in tight with a little shiver, tucking his nose into his scarf. 

“Too cold, chum?” Bruce asked.

Dick picked up a handful of snow, rolling it into a little clump in his gloved hand, and gave a slight shake of his head. The action gave Bruce an idea. Living in the city, snow turned to slush within the hour under tire tracks and step after step of snow boots, grey matter in the gutter, nothing like the pristine white blanketing Wayne manor. 

“Jason.”

Jason stilled, turning to look at him.

“Have you ever made a snowman?”

Jason shook his head. “Didn’t really have a backyard like this… or a backyard at all.” 

“Let’s make one,” Bruce said. 

Dick blinked at him. Bruce showed them both how to roll snowballs bigger and bigger until he found himself sweating as the pair cheered for him to make his bigger! Bigger! The snowman they made was nearly Bruce’s own height and Bruce had to pick Dick up to let him stick stones into its face, making it frown and with stern eyebrows and sticking two little twigs in its head. 

“What are those?” Bruce asked, setting him down with a frown. “Antenna?”

Jason snickered. “I think it’s Batman.”

Dick grinned. With a small handful of snow, Bruce tussled Dick’s hair playfully earning a little gasp and an outraged look. Biting back a smile, he returned his attention to adding arms to the snowman. Snowbat? A snowball hit Bruce in the chest and he startled, turning to find Dick grinning, holding a second one at the ready, beside him Jason had gone still and wide eyed. Bruce raised an eyebrow only to get the second snowball in the face.  

“I hope you understand…” Bruce slowly picked up a handful of snow. “That this means war.”

Dick squeaked, grabbing Jason’s arm and yanking him along, but he still got a snowball to the back before he pulled them behind a tree. Bruce took the temporary reprieve to stock up and by the look of it the pair were doing the same, Jason peeking out at him from around the tree. Bruce threw one at him, landing close, but not hitting him. Letting out a yelp, Jason ducked behind the tree again. Dick came out, throwing three rapid fire before jumping for cover, but Jason’s first retaliation was tentative. Bruce let a few of his own miss Jason, but he showed Dick no such mercy, he was a trained vigilante after all. 

As the battle progressed, Jason grew more bold, the pair weaving between the edge of the trees for cover until Bruce chased them out into the open and then it was a scramble to get a snowball together before Bruce could catch them. Grabbing Dick, Bruce yanked him right off his feet, getting a couple solid whacks from his wings in the process, but Dick’s struggle and little protests were mostly for show. Jason came to his rescue with a snowball to Bruce’s face, giving Dick the chance to wiggle free. With his newfound freedom, Dick grabbed Bruce’s ankle, yanking him off his feet.

Bruce let out an undignified noise as his back hit the snow, finding himself looking up at the night sky for a second before both Dick and Jason, dumped armfuls of snow over him. Bruce couldn’t help the laugh it startled out of him, pushing snow from his face as Dick grinned down at him, Jason’s smile a little more tentative, but it grew bolder with a high five from Dick. Who then shivered so hard he sent a little flurry of snow from his feathers. 

“Alright.” Bruce sat up with a sigh. “Inside. Alfred will tear me a new one if I get either of you sick.”

Dick offered his hand and Bruce took it to humor him, biting back a smile at how Dick’s wings flapped as he leaned back to try to yank him up to his feet, but it was mostly Bruce’s own volition. It was habit, from Dick, to reach out to tussle Jason’s hair, and though the boy flinched, he didn’t pull away from his hand, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“Come on,” Bruce said, more gently. “Inside.”

Jason let the five foot bubble of personal space ease to three as they made their way inside, Alfred waiting with towels and a gentle scolding at the state they were in, but he gave Bruce a little approving nod when the boys weren’t looking. Dick looked a little miserable standing there in wet clothes, holding a fluffy towel tight to him, but Jason didn’t appear to care as much, wiping his running nose on his sleeve to Alfred’s displeasure.

“If you will go put on some dry clothes, young masters, some hot chocolate may be in order to help warm you back up.”

Dick perked up, taking Jason’s hand, and tugging him along.

“Perhaps even for you as well, Master Bruce.”

Bruce smiled a little. “Thank you, Alfred.”

Changing into dry clothes, Bruce started a fire in the sitting room. Dick appeared first, wings curled around himself in spite of the big cozy sweater he had donned, and shivering slightly. Bruce wrapped a blanket around him, giving his shoulder a squeeze and Dick settled down on the ground before the fireplace to thaw. Jason appeared wearing the ratty red zip-up he was so fond of and threadbare jeans, hesitating at the seating choices before joining Dick on the floor. Alfred handed each of them, Bruce included, a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

“Dinner shall be ready in an hour.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce said, Jason echoed the sentiment, and Dick signed the same.  

As he warmed up, Dick became more verbal, first with pleased little chirps as he spread his wings before the fire, the feathers looking a little extra fluffy as they dried then actually chattering away with Jason, starting a heated would you rather game that Bruce listened to with amusement. It was a little startling to watch Dick stretch his wings out when Jason started to straighten some of the feathers, but it made something unbearably fond settle in his chest as he watched the concentration in Jason’s furrowed brow at the task, tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth. 

“If you had legs for fingers people would love you at the circus!” Dick protested.

“If you had legs for fingers you wouldn’t be able to pick anything up ever, idiot,” Jason said, his hands still gentle on his wings.

“But you could literally walk on your hands! Oh, you can pull that one out, it’s loose,” Dick said.

“Is it gonna hurt?” Jason asked.

“No, it’ll come right out.”

Jason frowned, but gave it a tug, looking at the little feather in his fingers. Dick made that odd grinding noise that Bruce thought of as a purr. 

“Weird.”

“It’s a pin feather, it’s like, uh, the protective coating of a baby feather until it’s ready to come off.” 

“Still feels like I’m yanking out your feathers.”

Dick laughed. 

After dinner, Bruce picked up their book from the shelf, settling down on the couch, and holding it out. Dick took it a little reluctantly, sitting down, and finding their place. Jason hovered by the edge of the room, his own book in hand, a little frown on his face.

“Half a page,” Dick said.

“Three pages,” Bruce said.

“You don’t want to hear me butcher three pages of The Velveteen Rabbit,” Dick said.

“You don’t butcher it,” Bruce said. “Go on.”

Dick groaned.

“You can’t read for yourself?” Jason asked.

“It for speech practice,” Bruce said.

“There ain’t nothing wrong with how he talks,” Jason defended, the same fire that he had shown in that first night in the Cave. “He might even talk more than you do!”

Bruce almost smiled. “Not everyone knows sign, and I want to make sure that Dick can communicate when he needs or want to, so the practice is good.” 

Jason scowled, but didn’t say anything further, sitting down in the farthest chair from them with his own book. Dick stumbled his way through three pages before handing it over and Bruce picked up where he left off. As he closed the book, Jason quickly looked back down to his own page, and Bruce stifled a smile. 

Dick bounced to his feet. “Patrol?”

“It’s going to be cold,” Bruce said.

“I won’t be cold! I’ll be kicking butt!” Dick mimed a spinning kick, nearly taking out one of the lamps.

“No martial arts outside of the gym,” Bruce reminded him.

Dick deflated a little. “Sorry.”

“Just trying to save the lives of a few lamps and vases,” Bruce said.

Dick’s lips turned up. “You’re a real hero, Batman.”

“Go change.” 

Dick snapped off a salute, bouncing out of the room, darting back in to bid Jason goodnight, and running off again. Bruce sighed, setting the book back on the shelf, and following at a slower pace.

“Goodnight, Jaylad.” 

“…night.” 

Dick was already dressed once he reached the Cave, tugging on his gloves.

“Dick,” Bruce asked after a moments thought. “Do you know why Jason won’t wear the clothes Alfred bought him?”

Dick gave him a grave look and signed ‘ugly’. 

Bruce blinked at him, unsure if it was a joke.

Dick’s lips turned up slightly, hands hovering as he thought about his next words. ‘Clothes are…’ Dick made Alfred’s name sign.

“The clothes are like Alfred?”

“Not kid clothes,” Dick said gently, signing ‘like small you’, ‘small business man’. 

“Hn.” Bruce felt like he would have a migraine if he had to go into a clothes store and figure out what ‘kid clothes’ meant, and it must have shown on his face. 

“Take him shopping,” Dick said, making the final checks to his suit and equipment. 

“Shopping,” Bruce said with disdain.

“Batman’s new enemy,” Dick said, signing with a flourish, ‘the mall!’

Bruce elected to ignore this and Dick’s snickering in favor of getting dressed for patrol. 

It was a few days before Bruce figured out how to tackle the shopping problem. 

“I’m taking you shopping.”

Jason looked up from the book he was reading, tucked into the corner of the library. “What.”

“Clothes.”

Jason stared at him before narrowing his eyes. “…what’s wrong with my clothes?”

“I have been… informed that Alfred and I might not be reliable sources as to what children your age are wearing these days.”

Jason smirked. “Dick told you you’re out of touch, huh? That’s gotta sting comin’ from a kid you nabbed from a cult.”

Bruce grimaced, both at the reference to the Court, and to the insult. 

Jason closed his book, rising to his feet. “Can I drive?”

“No.”

“…can I pick what car we take?” 

“Hn.”

“Sick.”

Jason tried to talk him into taking one of the sport’s cars, but most of them weren’t prepared for Gotham's January snow, so he settled for a BMW, talking about what each part of the car would go for in a chop shop. Bruce wondered if he should be mildly worried that his collection was going to be liquidated, but he couldn’t say it wasn’t interesting to hear, especially seeing as Jason knew enough to open his own mechanic shop. 

Bruce had attempted for casual, but as they stepped into the shopping center, he realized a cashmere sweater and ironed dress pants might not have been the first choice of most working class men his age. Wearing sunglasses and a leather jacket with the collar upturned, he did his best to aim for incognito without his usual playboy demeanor to go along with the Bruce Wayne look. Jason had his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his hoodie appearing similarly uncomfortable looking at the shops.

“Ugh. People,” Jason said.

Bruce hummed his agreement. 

“Let’s make this quick,” Jason said. 

Bruce followed him into one of the stores, but after walking in circles for a few minutes without Jason picking anything off the shelves, he drew up short.

“…s’there a thrift store ‘round here?” Jason asked, looking uncomfortable. “This shit is all more expensive than anything I need.”

A glance at a t-shirt told Bruce it was a quarter of the price of what was currently hanging in Jason’s closet, but perhaps that was part of the problem. 

“Don’t mind the cost,” Bruce said. “Pick whatever you like.”

“No,” Jason said. “I don’t wanna owe you shit.”

“Jason, I’m your guardian, you won’t owe me anything for providing you with clothes you like.”

Jason scowled, arms crossed tight over his chest. “You don’t gotta pretend, I know you only took me in ‘cause Dick likes me for whatever reason.”

Bruce stilled. 

“S’fine, okay? Could be worse fucking reasons, I get a bed, ’n food, ’n all that outta it, so it’s fine, but I don’t need any of this shit. I don’t wanna owe you nothing.”

“Do you remember our conversation when you first woke up at the manor?” 

“You mean when I thought you had kidnapped me?”

“The first thing you did was to defend Dick, you stood up for him where many people wouldn’t,” Bruce said. “It’s not unfair to say that part of why I took you in was that Dick liked you, but that’s because I could see what he saw in you.” 

“What do you see?”

Strength. Resolve. Determination. Spirit. Intelligence. Wit.

“Kindness,” Bruce said.

Jason’s eyes widened.

“And I find that can be a rare trait at times in this city.” 

“Oh.” Jason scuffed his sneaker against the floor. 

“I would rather have you wear clothes you like, especially ones that will keep you warm. Don’t look at the cost, just pick.”

Jason squirmed a little, but nodded. His picks were still rather basic, bare necessities, but Bruce figured if he could at least get an idea for what Jason would like, he could always buy more similar items in the future. Jason’s eyes lingered on a hoodie with Wonder Woman’s symbol on it, but he didn’t grab it. Bruce wondered if it was too much to ask for at least one of his kids to like Batman best, but grabbed it when Jason wasn’t looking all the same. Jason had a brief staring contest with a row of stuffed animals before snatching an owl that looked like it had come off the factory line a little misput together. 

With his arms full of bags, Bruce followed Jason out of the store, who was heading for the exit, but paused when they walked passed a bookstore. Bruce didn’t pause, redirecting to walk right in even with two full shopping bags already. Jason may have bought more books than clothes, but he was already nose deep in Pride and Prejudice by the time they reached the car, barely looking up for the whole ride back to the manor. Alfred relieved them of their bags at the front door.

“Oh, wait.” Jason grabbed the wonky stuffed animal. “Thanks.”

“Certainly.” 

Bruce followed Jason deeper into the manor, who looked like he was on a mission, finding Dick walking on his hands through the sitting room, wings tucked in tight to his body. Though he dropped down to his feet upon seeing Jason, greeting him with a smile, and a little chirp. 

“Here.” Jason shoved the stuffed animal at him. “Looked like you.”

Bruce wasn’t sure he would want to be told possibly the ugliest stuffed owl in the world looked like him, but Dick only beamed, holding the owl to his chest, and positively cooing at Jason in thank you. Jason tried to mimic the sound and Dick looked delighted, cooing at him again and again until the pair were almost matched in sound. Bruce momentarily thought he might be having a coronary event at the sight.

“They’re quite the pair, aren’t they, Alfred?” Bruce said as he returned.

“Yes, sir, indeed.”

Chapter Text

Running from roof top to roof top was flying in Dick’s opinion, flipping over gaps with a laugh, and snapping out his wings if he needed them to carry him a few extra feet. Beside him, Bruce used his grappling hook over the longer spaces, occasionally catching Dick around the waist if the jump was too far even with his wings. Dick may not have been able to leave the manor outside of their patrols, but the city was beautiful from his vantage point. Even as they cleaned up the streets, the warm glow of people with their lights on surrounded him, and voices faded in and out from open windows keeping them company. 

“Head for the top floor,” Bruce said. “I’m going in through the bottom, we’ll meet in the middle, recon only.”

“Yes, sir.” Dick calculated his landing midair, twisting and tucking his wings in to dive through an open window.

Rolling to his feet, Dick stayed low as he took in his new surroundings. The laboratory had been abandoned several months back, but there had been a rumor that someone had taken up residence around the same time a new drug had been hitting the streets. The drug had two effects that they could see. When working correctly, it smoothed skin, dropped fat, and made hair glossy and soft, when working incorrectly it lead to bloating and tumors so severe the person became unrecognizable and died of their malformations. The whispers on the streets called the supplier Dr. Plastic.

Most of the tables and equipment had plastic tarps over them, a layer of dust on top, particles floating in the air, but not enough for Dick's feet to leave prints as he picked his way through the top floor. Checking each of the rooms, he looked for any signs of use: files, opened chemicals, newer machinery. 

“Top floor clear.” Dick pressed his finger against his comm. “Heading down to the next level.” 

Bruce grunted his acknowledgment. 

The next floor was much the same…. and the next… and the next. 

“B,” Dick said quietly, in the stairwell. “I don’t think there’s—“

The taste of smoke caught on his tongue and distantly he could hear panicked squeaks. 

“Hold that thought.” 

Taking the last few stairs quickly, Dick found the source of the fire in a room lined with cages of lab animals. There were cats with sleek soft fur that looked like they would be bought for thousands each. Rats so mutated their bloated bodies kept their feet from touching the floor. In the last cage, there was a dog with six eyes and no mouth. A bottle of sanitizer had been spilled across the table, flames blue at the edges, but the room was otherwise empty.

Dick cooed at the animals as he found a blanket to smother the flames with, trying to calm their panic as he batted it out, the room was otherwise empty, but there was a sheath of notes spilling onto the floor. 

“Robin, report.” 

“Fire on the sixth floor, there’s lab animals, and notes,” Dick said. “Looks like someone left in a hurry.” 

“Any sign?”

“No,” Dick said, but the word felt thick in his mouth.

It was only as he looked around at the chemicals that he realized there was an open bottle of nitrogen based fuel, it wasn’t smoke he was inhaling, it was nitrogen gas… and the vents had all been taped over. Several of the rats had gone still in their cages and the dog was laying down on the floor. The animals would die if he didn’t get them out in time. With clumsy fingers he opened the cages, gathering mutated mice and rats into his arms. A needle sunk into his neck. Dick fumbled to try to put the animals down without hurting them, kicking out the knee of the man who had pressed close behind him, but the damage was already done. The room was only a blur around him and even his wings couldn’t help him keep his balance. In his watercolor vision he saw a man wearing a gas mask in blurred triplicate as he collapsed to the floor.

“Aren’t you a fine specimen,” Dr. Plastic said, thick through the mask. 

Dick’s eyes slid closed, lips parted on the letter B.

Waking up under bright white lights, Talon held completely still, waiting for whatever modification his masters— Robin. “Robin” aka Dick Grayson woke up under bright white lights because he didn’t belong to the Court anymore, he belonged to Bruce, to Alfred, to Jason, to Wally, to Clark, to the people who carried him up to bed when he fell asleep watching movies, to the people who never told him to shut up, to the people who told him his eyes were so cool. Dick Grayson woke up tied down to a table not unlike one in a vet’s office, but he looked to be in a basement of sorts. Neither his mask nor his costume had been removed, but his ankles, wrists, neck, and even his wings had been thoroughly tied down, and there was an IV running saline into his veins. Opening his mouth, Dick tried to call for Batman on the off chance his comm was still in, but no sound came out. 

Frustrated tears pricked his eyes, but he forced himself to systematically check each of his restraints, and taking slow calm breaths even when he found them all secure. It took him a few moments before he realized the beeping was the too quick tempo of his own heart on a monitor. With practice, he managed to bring it back down to a slower pace. It jumped again with the sound of footsteps and a man in a white coat, face mask, and thinning black hair leaned over him. 

“You are a fine, fine specimen.” 

Gloved fingers trailed along his wings and they ruffled as though trying to shake off the touch.

“Transforming the abominations of the world into the beautiful is… well, I consider it a righteous obligation of mine. We have an evolutionary prerogative to reject what is other, what we don’t understand, to protect ourselves. All of this campaigning to accept the differences in the world, when all we really want is to fit in, to be beautiful.”

Dick wanted to say something biting, to bid for time, to get more information on the villain, but his vocal cords refused to string together any syllables, only making a soft choking noise.

“Don’t worry.” Gloved fingers brushed his cheek. “I will make you beautiful.”

Dick’s struggle increased tenfold as Dr. Plastic fetched a needle, filling a syringe with a faintly blue substance, and fitting the tip into the tube of the IV. Trying to dislodge the IV was of no use and his hands were spaced too far apart to dislocate his thumb to try slip his cuffs. All Dick managed to do was bloody his wrists and ankles as blue ran down the clear tube and slipped into his veins. It felt like menthol. Burning was the only way to describe the sensation, but it dripped into his veins like melting ice. It was a different type of pain. 

Blood, bruises, broken bones was a familiar agony. Even his modifications had been flesh and bone, rebuilding his body with scalpels and stitches, but none of it had crawled under his skin like the drugs pumping through his veins. Hadn’t clawed at his skin like it wanted to get out. Hadn’t felt like it was rearranging his body, pulling pieces of him inside to feast on. Glancing down, he saw his skin moving, bulging, and sinking in. He closed his eyes before he could throw up. 

Dick wanted to beg. Talon told him to tuck himself away in the back of his mind and wait for the pain to end. Robin told him to think. Muscles bulged and shrank, bones shifted and ground against one another, and tendons stretched— Dick slipped one cuff as his hand rearranged itself, waited several agonizing seconds for the other. Reaching for the band by his wings he found they had shrank enough to free him and in one sharp move he sat up, and lashed out. Except there were no claws on his hand to take the scientists eye out, just fingernails which only left faint pink marks in its wake. 

Leaping back, Dr. Plastic reached for another needle, uncapping it with his teeth, and Dick took the distraction to force his feet free from the cuffs. Throwing himself off the table, he just missed having the needle sunk into his arm, but his legs wouldn’t hold him as he tried to rise. Grabbing the nearest weapon, Dick threw it through doubled vision, but his training didn’t fail him, pinning the villain to the wall with the knife sunk through his wrist into the wall behind him. Dr. Plastic cried out, but he couldn’t pull himself free without butchering himself further. 

Crawling into the corner, Dick made himself small, shaking fingers pressing against his comm, but he couldn’t make any sound louder than his own harsh breathing. Dimly he was aware of the buzz of someone’s voice in his ear, but it wasn’t until the door slammed open that he knew Bruce had come for him. Even without opening his eyes. 

Dick’s breathing caught in his chest as he was lifted up into strong arms, but he didn’t open his eyes to see what expression might have been under the Batman cowl. All he managed to do was tuck his face into Bruce’s shoulder in spite of the rough texture of his kevlar, any further movement making his body scream. As Bruce carried him towards the door, the taste of blood in the air reminded him of what he had done, and he forced his fingers to try to sign ‘sorry’ before the pain knocked him out. 

Voices roused him, but Dick’s eyelids felt too heavy to open. There was a dull full body ache, but nothing near the excruciating pain he had been in before. He was dimly aware of a faint beeping of a hospital monitor and tape over the inside of his elbow that told him there was an IV, but the voices were familiar. 

“Jason, let him sleep.”

“All he’s been doing is sleeping!”

“His body needs to rest.”

“It’s been three days!” 

There was a very familiar sigh in response. Opening his eyes slowly, Dick blinked up at the ceiling before rolling his head to look out at the rest of the Batcave. Bruce was sitting at the computer, Jason spinning in idle circles pouting in the chair beside him, but he lit up as their eyes met. Abandoning the chair, he bounced over to him. 

“You’re awake! Oh shit, you have blue eyes?”

Dick frowned, blinking at him, and reaching up to rub at his eyes only to realize his claws were gone. Heart rate spiking on the monitor, he reached desperately for his shoulder only to come up empty of even a single feather. 

“Easy, easy, chum.” Bruce made his way over, gently pulling his hand away from his shoulder.

Dick looked up at him with wide eyes, clumsily signing ‘gone’. 

“Temporarily,” Bruce said. “Dr. Plastic made it so the effects of his drug would wear off in about a week so he would have repeat customers, but yes, they’re gone right now.”

Dick just stared down at his own hands. 

“Here, look.” Jason held up a mirror.

Dick stared at his own face, golden eyes replaced with a bright blue. Like his mother’s. Like his father’s. Like Bruce’s. Dick’s fingers skimmed his face like he was brushing away an imaginary tear as he looked into his own eyes. 

“Freaky, right?” Jason set the mirror aside.

Dick almost laughed, managing a weak smile, and a little nod. 

“Jason, go tell Alfred that Dick’s awake.”

“Fine.” Jason got to his feet. “You ever hear of the word please? I thought rich people were supposed to have manners.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “If you wouldn’t mind, Jason.”

Jason smirked, going up the stairs, and disappearing. Bruce sat down on the edge of Dick’s cot. Dick drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself. 

“I’m sorry,” Dick said, quiet, but his voice appeared to have returned to him. 

Bruce frowned.

“I hurt that man,” Dick said, looking at his knees.

“He will need surgery to fix the tendons in his wrist, but you reacted accordingly in the situation.”

Dick blinked looking up. “But I’m not allowed to use knives.” 

“You had the opportunity to kill him, and you didn’t, even under those extreme circumstances. You did good.” Bruce pushed his hair back from his eyes. 

Dick leaned into the touch.

“We’re not splitting up on patrol again,” Bruce said.

“Yeah.” Dick managed a weak smile. “What would you do without me?”

“Hn.” 

Bruce said nothing for a long minute, then, “I’ve sent samples of the drug over to STAR Labs to see if there’s anything viable in it.”

“To fix me.”

“So that you can go out into the world again, not only as Robin.”

Dick fiddled with the outside seam of his sweat pants. “It… it hurt.”

“Dick, look at me.”

Dick managed to lift his eyes.

“Until they are certain they have found a version that will not harm you, we won’t use it, I will not give you something that would hurt you,” Bruce said, expression serious as stone.

Dick chewed on the inside of his cheek. 

“I promise.”

Dick fiddled with the blankets. 

“C’mon, let’s get you something to eat,” Bruce said.

Rising to his feet, Dick grimaced at the ache lingering in his body. Holding the blanket tight around his shoulders, he half wished it was Batman beside him instead so he could tuck himself under the safety of his cape as they made their way up the stairs and into the manor. According to the clock on the stove it was well past midnight, but Alfred had prepared soup and grilled cheese which Jason was wolfing down.

Alfred’s eyes widened slightly. “Master Dick, it is good to see you up and about again.”

Dick signed, ‘thank you’. 

Alfred offered his soup to him in a mug which was likely a good call because the thought of sitting down at the table made Dick's stomach turn. Instead he tucked himself into the corner of the room, sipping at the soup with the reassuring press of the walls against his back. Holding up the half empty mug, he waited for Bruce’s nod of approval before setting it in the sink, and heading for the stairs. Jason fell into step beside him, slipping a napkin-bundle into his hand as they parted for their rooms. In his own room, Dick found it was one of the grilled cheese sandwiches, and somehow it was easier to eat in the safety of the space between his bed and the nightstand than it was in the kitchen where there had been plenty of food available to him. 

Climbing into his bed, Dick burrowed down into the safety of his nest, but he couldn’t help fighting the exhaustion weighing down his eyelids, feeling woefully under protected from the night’s nightmares without his wings and fangs.

Unlike most of the apocalypse movies Dick had enjoyed before, it wasn’t electricity that had been cut first, but the running water. Stores had stopped carrying bottled water due to the first lady’s ‘free water’ campaign, bottled water replaced with water fountains in public spaces. After the water supply was cut, they quickly found living off of the Coca-Cola still on the shelves wasn’t sustainable. In hindsight, it was an ingenious move forcing people to crowd closer to potable bodies of water, even if they could stock up for a time, they would always have to return for more. All the K’vaks had to do was wait. 

It had only taken Batman three days to re-outfit their rebreathers to recycle water and Bruce Wayne had handed out water purifiers in the streets even though Alfred had told him the endeavor was foolhardy when anyone and everyone could be an enemy. 

When they had no way to test for it. 

The ‘it’ was indescribable, it wasn’t electricity, or DNA, or neurons firing. It was what the K’vaks called ‘humanity's will’ and they were using it like batteries. For every battery they stocked the person was replaced with a clone who was indistinguishable in every testable way except, of course, they didn’t have 'the will'. Which meant the K’vaks couldn’t make their own energy source through cloning, only harvest it from humanity. 

Bruce Wayne had stood on a podium backed by the scattered few officers of the Gotham police, the low level politicians that remained, and the living members of the Falcone family. The citizens of Gotham had gathered around their prince, no microphone necessary as he gave a final address to the people of Gotham with the little information they had on the K’vaks and what he could offer them: water filters, non-perishable food for at least a final few meals, and a glimmer of hope that they all stood together. 

It had been televised.

Bruce had stepped back in the manor, let Tim run every pointless test on him possible, and answered all of Dick’s questions with enough ease to smooth ruffled feathers. It would still be two years before Dick got what his remaining allies called ‘the instinct’, able to tell the difference between one of their own, and one of the clones. It was as close to a test as they got. 

It also meant it was Dick’s hand that ended the imposter wearing his father’s face.

Dick gasped awake, wings flaring around him, talons tearing into the blankets like shredding a poor rabbit’s underbelly, and eyes flicking around the room. The shadows of his room loomed, but didn’t lunge out at him, nor did any foe they may have been harboring. Climbing out of bed, he crept down the dark hall, turning the handle of Bruce’s bedroom door, slowly to keep it from making a noise as he opened it. Through the little light slipping through the curtains, he could make out the Bruce’s form under his silk sheets, but Dick couldn’t tell if he was breathing. Moving closer on light feet, he paused at the edge of the bed, hands curled close to his chest as though afraid he might— 

“Dick?” 

Dick couldn’t stifle the distressed noise in the back of his throat.

Bruce’s eyes slid the rest of the way open, flicking over him to take in his appearance. “Are you hurt?”

Dick shook his head quickly, raising his hand, but he faltered before signing ‘dream’, the word ‘memory’ waiting at his finger tips. Bruce reached out, and Dick’s hand curled tight around his arm, letting him pull him into the bed beside him. Bruce’s free hand carded through his hair, wrist pressing briefly against his forehead before his hand slid down to check around the base of his wings, seeming somewhat satisfied when he found no sign of true injury.

“Woke up like this?” Bruce asked, voice low, and Dick was curled close enough to feel the reassuring rumble of his words.

Dick nodded, pressing his face into his chest, breathing in the lingering bergamot cologne, leather, and motor oil. It settled him enough to tuck his wings in close to his body, but he couldn’t loosen his grip on Bruce’s arm yet. Bruce hummed, taking a slow deep breaths that Dick copied automatically until he could let go of Bruce's arm. 

“That’s it,” Bruce murmured, chin resting on his head, and arm loose around his waist. 

Dick made an unhappy noise in the back of his throat, but let himself be soothed by Bruce’s answering hum, hand sliding up and down his back. His eyes slid closed again to the sound of Bruce’s slow and steady heart beat.

Chapter Text

It was several weeks before STAR Labs managed to find a version of Dr. Plastic's serum that met Bruce’s standards —thanks impartial to the sacrifices of the mutated animals Dick had attempted to rescue, a piece of information Bruce would share with the kid over his dead body— and he ended up stepping out of the zeta tube with Dick hidden away under his cape. His fingers were curled tight in the edge, gold talons pricking the fabric, and eyes only just peering out at the others.

“Hey, Robin,” Caitlin said warmly. “I’m sure Batman has already explained the details to you, but do you have any questions for me?”

Dick gave a slow shake of his head.

“Okay, we’re going to put a little clip on your finger to monitor your heart rate, and then I’m going to give you the injection. You’re only going to feel a slight pinch, and that’s all, okay?” 

Dick nodded, following Bruce over to the medical station, but staying tucked into his side as Caitlin got everything set up. She fiddled a little with the clip on account of the claws, but managed to make it work, Dick’s quick heart beat echoing through the room. Bruce put his hand on his shoulder and squeezed. 

“Can I have your arm?” Caitlin asked.

Dick didn’t leave the safety of his cape, but squared his shoulders and extended his arm to her, chin up, even if he had his eyes fixed on the far wall. It broke Bruce’s heart a little to watch, but it also cemented the fact that this twelve year old might have been the bravest person he had ever met. Caitlin cleaned off the inside of his elbow.

“Okay, little pinch, three, two, one…” Caitlin slowly pressed down the stopper, and though Dick’s whole body shook, he didn’t flinch away, just tightened his grip on Bruce’s cape. “…and all set.”

She discarded the needle, pressing gauze over the wound, and reaching for her box of bandaids. Superhero bandaids that was. 

“What kind do you want? I think we might have a Batman one,” Caitlin said, holding up a few options. 

Dick pointed to the Superman one and Bruce let out a sigh while Barry snickered. 

“Great choice,” Caitlin said, biting back a smile, and taping down the bandaid. “You did really well, Robin. We’re just going to monitor your vitals for an hour just incase, okay?” 

Dick nodded, his heart was still going a mile an hour, but Bruce reluctantly lifted him out of the safety of his cape to set him on the table. Those gold eyes were huge, claws still curled in the edges of his cape, wings drawn in close. Bruce produced the world’s ugliest owl stuffed animal from his utility belt and held it out as a peace offering which was quickly taken and held close to his chest. The claws shrank into his fingers as he clutched at the stuffed animal, and the gold bled from his eyes leaving blue irises in their place. Dick’s feathers ruffled, but he kept them folded tight to his back where they appeared to slowly shrink and melt into his shoulder blades. 

“Any pain?” Caitlin asked gently, checking his eyes.

Dick gave a little shake of his head, blinking at the light in his face. Caitlin checked his hands and back as well, which had pink marks like old scars by each shoulder blade, but he shook his head when she asked if they hurt. She coaxed Dick into a scan where she reported no anomalies aside from his second set of vocal cords and there appeared to be extra nerves and blood vessels tucked under his shoulder blades, like the wings were dormant, rather than gone. 

“Does it hurt?” Bruce asked.

“No,” Dick said quietly, curling and uncurling his fingers around the owl. “How long will it last?”

“We estimate around a week,” Caitlin said. “We’re going to let this first dose wear off normally, check in, make sure everything’s okay, then adjust you to a regular dose.”

“We’re hoping that we can keep the dose minimal, so that with some practice you’ll be able to shift back and forth on your own,” Cisco said.

Dick looked down at his hands.

“Not yet,” Bruce said firmly. “First we see how you react to the medication, then we can practice.”

Dick pouted slightly, but nodded. As the hour passed, he became more verbal, especially when Cisco started telling him about some of the villains The Flash had come up against and their technology. Cisco even let him look through some of his equations and blueprints and try to work out some of the mathematical equations, all of the scientists looking on fondly as he stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, and scratched away at his notepad. Dick circled his answer and held it out.

“Alright, let’s see— that’s correct,” Cisco blinked. 

Bruce smirked.

“Really?” Dick rocked on his toes, a smile on his face.

“Where did you learn this?” Cisco asked. 

“I like math,” Dick said, spinning around in circles in his chair. “There’s not a lot to do since B won’t let me research cases by myself and I’m not as much of a reader as J— I mean, I don’t like reading that much. It’s hard to sit still, y’know?”

“So… you taught yourself math?” Cisco asked with no small amount of admiration.

“I have work books,” Dick said. “You just have to, like, read the instructions, and then do it yourself.”

“You’re one smart cookie, you know that?” Caitlin said.

Dick preened. 

An alarm blared and Dick jumped to his feet, light on his toes, knees bent, hands raised into fists, yellow eyes scanning, and wings bursting forth from his back. The beat of his heart had spiked on the monitors at the first blare, red light flashing through the room until Cisco hit another button silencing it. The Flash zoomed off down the hallway.

“What’s the threat?” Bruce demanded.

“It’s already handled,” Caitlin assured. “There was a slight malfunction in our bridge, one of the coolants stopped functioning, but Barry’s already handled it.”

Barry slid back into the room, pushing his cowl down. “All cells are secure, all prisoners accounted for, systems look good?”

“All good,” Cisco said, flipping through the monitors. 

Dick didn’t relax from his fighting stance until Bruce gave him a nod, hands lowering, wings folding in close, but his heart monitor was still going a mile an hour. Caitlin made her way over, frowning at the shift, checking his yellowed eyes and taking his blood pressure.

“Is it okay if I take a blood sample?” Caitlin asked.

Dick’s heart rate jumped again, but Bruce put a hand on his shoulder, and he nodded. His arm curled around Bruce’s leg, talons unable to prick through the kevlar of his uniform, and Bruce draped his cape around his shoulders. Dick tucked his face into Bruce’s side, heart picking up as Caitlin drew three vials of blood and smoothed another bandaid down.

“There, all set.” Caitlin said, starting to run her tests. “My working theory is that the adrenaline is what triggered the transition, but we need to see if the serum is still in your system.” 

Dick nodded. Bruce smoothed his fingers through his hair, trying to settle him. With the ghosts of his transformation at the hands of the Court weighing on his mind, Bruce wasn’t surprised by his behavior, even if Robin could take on Gotham’s Rouges without a second thought, today he was the nine year old the Court had taken and twisted. Hidden mostly under the safety of his cape, the slowing beep of the heart monitor told Bruce more about his lowering anxiety than his face, the prick of talons disappearing as it steadied out. 

Dick made a confused little chirp, pushing his cape off his shoulders to blink up at him with blue eyes, talons retracted, the pink scars on his back visible through the slits of his uniform with no sign of his wings. His heart rate was slow and steady on the monitor.

“Huh,” Cisco said.

“The serum is still in his system, no signs of a decrease, more like the adrenaline temporarily blocked its effects, and now that it’s worn off…” Caitlin gestured. 

“That could be difficult in your line of work…” Cisco said.

Dick tensed up.

“Training,” Bruce said simply.

Dick’s shoulders relaxed. They stayed another hour to ensure there weren’t any other symptoms to be monitored after shifting between forms, but Dick didn’t report any pain, not even an ache from the shift, so they left through the zeta tubes. 

“You’re a real boy again!” Jason joked, helping Alfred set the dinner table.

Dick punched him very, very lightly in the shoulder. Jason punched him back, not nearly as lightly, but if Dick cared, he had plenty of time to dodge, so Bruce settled down at the head of the table without comment.

“If Dick’s all pretty again, that means he’s gonna go to school with me, right?” Jason asked half way through the meal.

Jason had exams scheduled for placement at Gotham Academy with the intention of joining the school year after February break had finished, but Bruce had yet to do more than dust off the old documents he had lined up to foster Dick seeing as he was still technically a missing persons. 

Dick wrinkled his nose.  “Do I have to?”

“That conversation is premature,” Bruce said. “Dick cannot attend school until we’re certain he has full control over his appearance… and I will need legal custody.”

Jason gasped. “You are a kidnapper!” 

Dick snickered. Bruce’s eye twitched as the pair debated kidnapping techniques for the rest of dinner and argued over which one of them was more kidnap-able. Jason said he had more street smarts whereas Dick would fall for a ruse, but Dick argued that he was a capable vigilante and even if he did fall for a ruse, he was only playing along to get the bad guy. 

Despite the fact that Bruce and Dick had already had a near three hour long discussion before the injection as to whether or not he could keep up his duties as Robin with an experimental serum in his system, Dick still tried to convince Bruce to let him come out on patrol with him that night… and every night after. Bruce found his loophole by training Dick to the point of exhaustion to learn to keep from shifting no matter what circumstances he was in. It felt a little brutal, but Dick was determined to be able to continue his duties as Robin whether that was in shift or out.  

The first week, Bruce took a blood sample every night and an MRI, but they turned to a weekly basis when Dick went to collect his shots, though every needle required a bribe. At the three week mark, Bruce walked Dick into the lab under the promise of no needles, only a scan just to be extra sure there weren’t any signs of tumors or growths, but he still had a small bribe waiting in the form of one Wally West, Kid Flash, standing on the other side of the zeta.

“KF,” Dick said brightly, bouncing over to him. 

Wally gasped, grabbing Dick’s shoulders as he looked him over. “Where are your wings?”

“Hidden,” Dick said, chin up, and preening under the attention.

“But not gone though, right?”

“Just for the moment.”

“Oh, cool, does that mean we can hang out outside of the costumes then?” Wally perked up.

“No,” Bruce said before Dick could answer. “Robin has an identity to protect.”

Wally pouted for a second before perking up, grabbing Dick’s face. “Oh my gosh. Your eyes are blue!” 

Bruce made a note to change his mask to have whiteout lenses, so no one would see if his eyes changed from blue to gold. 

Dick smiled. “I know. A lot better, right?”

“I like the gold too,” Wally said a little shyly.

Dick pinked slightly. 

Bruce briefly thought to look up how old most people were when they got their first crush and if he needed to give Barry’s nephew a very, very stern talk. Barry was watching the scene with a poorly disguised smile and his coworkers weren’t doing any better.

“Here, c’mon, let’s get your scan done, so you two baby heroes can catch up,” Cisco said.

“We’re not babies!” Wally protested.

Dick settled onto the platform, arms and legs spread, holding still for the blue scanner to run over him from head to toe. 

“All set,” Cisco said.

The words had barely left his mouth before Wally had caught Dick’s hand, and yanked him down the hall. Bruce narrowed his eyes at the speedster’s back, a shovel talk beginning to write itself in the back of his mind.

“The scans look good,” Caitlin said. “There’s no signs of any tumors or growths.”

“Hn.”

Caitlin turned to face him. “I would give you the all clear.”

“We’re still managing his adrenaline spikes in training. He’s not clear for patrol,” Bruce said.

Caitlin smiled slightly. “I meant an all clear for an outing as a civilian.”

Bruce stilled. 

“You could start small,” Caitlin said. “Just take him out for lunch, or a movie, or something easy and low stress to help him adjust to being back in the real world.”

Bruce nodded. 

Barry bit back a smile. “I’m having a little difficulty picturing the Dark Knight at some kiddie movie. Are you a popcorn kinda guy? Twizzlers?”

Bruce glowered. 

Barry snapped his fingers. “Skittles. Definitely.” 

Bruce thought briefly about summoning Robin and disappearing back to Gotham, but a glance at the monitor showed Dick was doing a decent job of competing against Wally’s babble with his own while they sparred, though it could really only be considered play fighting, and reconsidered. 

“It’s good to see them be kids, huh?” Barry said, his tone softening.

“Hn.”

“We should get them together more often,” Barry said.

“I have other commitments to attend to.”

“No sweat,” Cisco said. “You can always drop him off here for a bit, you can call it joint training or something while you handle bat business."

Bruce’s chest tightened at the thought of leaving Dick in a city miles away from Gotham.

“…or not.” Cisco shrank under his gaze.

“Bring him to the JL meetings,” Barry said. “I’ll bring KF, the others can bring their tag-alongs too, we can have a little sidekick daycare going on.”

“Partner,” Bruce corrected automatically. 

Dick did not appreciate the diminutive connotation of ‘sidekick’ and seeing as ‘partner’ was a vast upgrade from ‘weapon’ Bruce had it well instilled in his brain. 

“What do you say, Batman?” Barry said.

“I will… take it under advisement.”

“That’s a yes, I’m taking that as a yes.” Barry said.

“I didn’t—“

“Too late, I’ve already messaged the others to bring their side kicks to the one of the next meetings.” 

Bruce glowered. 

It was almost an hour before Bruce’s patience wore thin with Barry’s chatter and he summoned Dick back to his side to return to Gotham. Wally signed a clumsy ‘see you soon’ as they stepped into the zeta tube, earning a bright smile from Dick before they disappeared.

“So… can I go on patrol, yet?” Dick asked as they stepped into the cave.

“Can you shift automatically?”

“I can go out like this!” Dick said. “I don’t need the wings to go out as Robin and last time my adrenaline spiked I only had the eyes! Everything else was fine! No wings! No talons!” 

“That was under the stress of the Cave,” Bruce said. “In the field we come across far more unpredictable stressors, you have to have this mastered before we go out there.”

Dick scowled.

“Tell me why.”

“Unnecessary risks are stupid.”

“And?”

Dick signed, ‘no one wants to die stupid’ with a sigh. “But I can do it!”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, pointing towards the mats. Dick perked up at a chance to prove himself and to his credit, he didn’t shift at all during that night’s training, though he did fall asleep during his supposed meditation. Scooping him up off the mats, Bruce carried him up out of the Cave, bringing him to bed. Dick’s fingers curled loosely in his sweater as he went to set him down, making a little sleepy complaint. It would have been harder to detangle him if he still had his talons, Bruce had plenty of shirts poked with holes, but as it was, he managed to set him down in his little nest of blankets. 

“Sleep.” Bruce stroked his hair when he stirred and Dick reluctantly settled down. 

Slipping out of Dick’s room, he opened Jason’s door a sliver, just enough to see he was fast asleep, book resting on his chest, but Bruce knew the boy startled awake at even a footstep into his room, so he left him be. Making his way downstairs, he found Alfred in the kitchen making two cups of tea. On occasion, Bruce wondered if Alfred was psychic or perhaps even omnipresent as the man set a cup before him, delicately sipping his own. 

“Dr. Snow said I can take Dick on an… outing.”

“Oh?”

Bruce turned his tea cup around in his hands. “He… he hasn’t been in the real world since he was nine.” 

“You have doubts about how he will behave on this excursion?”

Bruce gave a slight shake of his head. “I’m afraid he will find it… lacking.”

Alfred’s lips ticked up. “You’re afraid Master Dick will not enjoy your outing.”

Bruce’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t deny it. 

“You could take Master Jason with you.”

Bruce made a noncommittal sound.

“Although, it may be beneficial for you and Master Dick to spend some time together, like you had before adding Master Jason to the home dynamic, for the young master’s benefit, of course.”

“Of course,” Bruce said, far too used to the fact that he was as transparent as glass when it came to Alfred. 

“Perhaps a trip to the winter festival may be of interest to Master Dick.”

Bruce’s shoulders relaxed. “Hm.”

Alfred nodded. “I shall request Master Jason’s assistance in making chocolate chip cookies tomorrow afternoon while you take Master Dick on an excursion.”

“Thank you, Alfred.”

Alfred nodded once. 

Bruce took a half day from WE, returning to the manor a little after one.

“The young masters have already had lunch, Master Jason is in the library as per usual, and Master Dick is training in the ballroom.” Alfred informed him as he took his coat.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. Alfred led him to the ball room where Dick had made a makeshift tightrope out of bed linens, balancing on one foot on the wobbly surface, blindfolded, and with a tennis ball server aimed at him. It was set to random, but all Dick appeared to be doing was let the tennis balls hit him and try not to topple over. One surprised him, hitting him in the stomach with an oomph, and though his arms windmilled for a moment before regaining his balance, his wings made no appearance.

“He calls it meditating,” Alfred said dryly.

Bruce stifled a smile. “Thank you, Alfred.”

Alfred nodded, taking his leave. Stepping into the room, Bruce turned the machine off, and Dick pulled his blindfold off at the sound of the beep. 

“B! You’re home early.”

Bruce was expecting it when Dick launched himself at him, catching him with an oomph, mirrored by Dick’s little laugh. He then bent backwards over Bruce’s arm like his spine was made of cooked spaghetti, braced his hands on one of Bruce’s knees, and flipped over onto his feet. 

“We’re going out, dress warmly.”

Dick blinked. “We… we are?”

“Mm.” 

Dick’s eyes widened, then he turned and sprinted towards the stairs. Bruce bit back a laugh watching him re-emerge minutes later, trying to put on his boots, another sweater, and his jacket all at the same time. Bruce straightened out his coat while Dick put on his gloves, tucking the ends of his scarf in the way his mother used to for him before doing up the buttons. Dick fussed with his hair before pulling on his hat.

“Ready?”

Dick nodded, shoulders squared as they stepped out the front door. His eyes tipped up towards the grey afternoon sky as they walked to the car Bruce had left parked by the gates, looking around at the manor grounds under daylight in awe. Climbing in the passenger seat of the car, Dick’s nose stayed pressed to the window for the whole drive, marveling at the city, at the people, and the stores.

“It’s beautiful,” Dick said.

Bruce wasn’t sure Gotham had been beautiful to him since he was eight, despite the love he held for it, but he was glad that it still was in someone else’s eyes, even if he couldn’t see it anymore. Perhaps Robin’s purpose wasn’t to be the light to his dark, but to see the light where he saw shadows. The winter fair was crowded, street vendors of all kinds packed in tight and their wares spilling over from their booths. Dick’s eyes went huge, fingers curling into the hem of Bruce’s coat.

“Woah.”

Bruce followed Dick through the crowd as he flit from booth to booth until a food cart run by an elderly Polish man caught his eye and he bounced up to it with a smile. The man’s frown was etched into the wrinkles of his face, lips already down turned as they approached. 

“Dzień dory,” Dick said, his accent clumsy, but the frown lines softened somewhat in surprise.

“Nie jesteś Polakiem,” the man said.

Dick shook his head, gloved fingers tapping, held up before him in the way he did sometimes when he was looking for the right sign. “Je… hm… Ja z Germany?”

Dick wrinkled his nose at his own clumsy attempt, but the man looked amused. “Du kommst aus Deutschland?”

Dick looked a little brighter now that they had switched from Polish to German. “Ich bin in Deutschland geboren, but, um… Ich habe einen Romanian passport?” 

The man raised an eyebrow. “Was bist du?”

Dick puffed out his chest. “Ich komme aus dem Zirkus.” 

The man laughed. “Ah, well, that tells all, boy. I’m Bazyli. Your name?”

“Dick Grayson, sir.”

“And you know I’m Polakiem, how?”

“Paczki,” Dick said. “It smells like paczki and, um, ruch... rush…”

“Ruchanki.”

Dick brightened. “Yes!”

“They have fried dough here. Not the same.”

Dick shook his head in agreement. 

“Would you like one?” Bruce asked.

Bazyli gave him a disinterested once over. “Dieses her, nitcht aus dem Zirkus, no?”

Dick laughed. “No, but I think he has a flare for the dramatics anyways.”

Bazyli snorted. “What you want?”

Bruce gave Dick a little nod and he stumbled his way through his requests for two paczki in Polish and Bazyli handed them over in a greasy white paper bag, that Dick stretched up on his toes a little to reach, unbearably small for a boy of twelve. Bruce paid, putting the change in the tip jar and a little extra. 

“Dziękuję!” Dick opened up the bag, immediately handing one of the pastries to Bruce, who accepted what mostly looked like a doughnut to him. 

“Chłopaczek.”

Dick turned back to Bazyli who dropped several little wrapped candies into his hand, earning another bright thank you, that Bazyli waved off, and Dick jogged back to Bruce’s side. 

“What are they?” Bruce asked.

“Krówki? I think? They’re like fudge?” Dick tilted his head to the side, taking a thoughtful bite of his doughnut, tucking the candies into his pocket. “I was small when we were in Poland, not part of the act yet I don’t think.”

“But you remember?”

Dick made a sort of inconclusive gesture. “I remember the words. Please and thank you, mostly, my mom and dad said that after hello they were the most important words to know of any language. I don’t… I don’t remember them teaching me though…”

Bruce hummed. “What languages do you know?”

Dick wrinkled his nose. “Define know?”

Bruce’s lips turned upwards. “That you can hold a conversation in.”

“Romani, Italian, English, some German, some Spanish, a little Arabic, that one’s hard, um, ASL now, and then please and thank you’s in a couple more. We toured a lot of places. I think the food was my favorite part.”

Bruce took a bite of his own doughnut. “I can see why.” 

Dick gave him a little smile. They finished their pastries in silence as they moved through the crowd, but Dick perked up as he spotted the carousel, dragging Bruce over, and refusing to get on unless Bruce also did. Bruce felt remarkably silly sitting on a black steed, but another parent gave him a commiserating look from a pink unicorn and he supposed it could have been worse. It was worth it to watch Dick’s expression of pure joy as he went around and around on his own blue horse. Bruce did end up buying a nice pair of custom leather gloves for Alfred, his old brown leather ones beginning to show their years and Dick requested a red scarf on behalf of Jason. 

Bruce bought them both hot cider when Dick began to shiver and he curled his hands around it, breathing in the steam, and cutting off a little chirp with a cough. Dick winced, stealing a glance at Bruce out of the corner of his eye.

“It’s a practice run,” Bruce said. “You’re allowed one mistake… just one though.”

Dick gave him a little smile. “What mistake? I didn’t hear anything. Maybe there was a bird or something.”

“Hm.”

Dick cozied up against Bruce’s side with a little shiver, sipping his cider. 

“We can leave if you’re cold.”

“I’m not cold.” Dick said, nose pink, and eyes bright. 

“Okay.”

Bruce waited until Dick was really shivering to steer him back towards the car. Despite his protests, Dick gratefully put his hands up to the heaters once Bruce turned on the engine. As soon as they got back to the manor, he kicked off his boots and shed his layers, running right for the kitchen, where the smell of cookies were wafting. They were sitting on the cooling wrack where Alfred was defending them from Jason’s attempted thievery. Dick’s arms wound around Jason, tucking his cold nose behind Jason’s ear, and earning a squawk of protest. 

“You’re freaking freezing!” Jason tried to push him off.

Dick slipped the krówki into Jason’s pocket in one subtle move before pulling away. Jason didn’t outwardly react, but he tucked his hand into his pocket a minute later to check what he had been given, a slight up tick to the corner of his mouth. 

“Those smell good.” Dick leaned in towards the cookies.

“And they will taste just as good after dinner,” Alfred said pointedly.

Dick pouted, but didn’t protest. 

“C’mon, let’s go.” Jason tugged on Dick’s sleeve. “I want a rematch.”

“Is it a rematch if you kick my butt at video games?”

Jason smirked. “Call it a chance at redemption.”

Dick snorted, put let himself be tugged out of the room.

“You’re going to let them get away with that?” Bruce asked with amusement.

“My eyesight must not be as good as it once was,” Alfred said mildly as though he hadn’t spotted Dick slipping Jason sweets before dinner. 

“Or perhaps you’re getting soft.” Bruce reached for a cookie.

Alfred smacked a spoon against the back of his hand without even looking over.

“…or not,” Bruce muttered.

Chapter Text

Dick pulled on the pieces of his new suit, the body of the leotard was the same (sans the slits to account for his wings), but he now had a yellow cape attached to the shoulders, thinner gloves, and a mask with white-blocked eyes just incase his control slipped. The green boots were the same. A tumbling combination across the floor of the Cave proved it up to standard, cape short enough not to get caught under his hands or feet, but reassuring as it settled across his back as his wings would have been.

“Satisfied?” Bruce asked, pulling on the cowl, and becoming the Batman. 

“Ready for duty, sir.” Dick gave him a snappy salute.

Bruce let out an unamused huff, but unlocked the Batmobile, and they both climbed inside.

“Remember—“

‘Calm,’ Dick signed, taking an exaggerated deep breath, and blowing it out slow.

“Hm.” Bruce pulled out of the cave. 

Dick drummed his fingers on the dashboard, listening to the crackle of the police scanner. As it lit up with a robbery, Dick was practically halfway out the Batmobile before it skidded to a stop. By the time Batman caught up, he had one of the robbers on the ground and was rolling under a punch from the second before bringing him down with a roundhouse kick. The man groaned, but he hadn’t even hit him hard enough to knock him unconscious as he zip-tied him and his friend.

“Stealing’s bad, guys.” Dick patted one robber the shoulder. “And you’re bad at it, time for another career, I think.” 

“You could stand to be less enthusiastic,” Bruce said as they stepped away.

“And you could be more.” Dick pulled out his grappling gun. “Think you can keep up? I’m already ahead two.”

“This isn’t a competition,” Bruce said, even as he pulled his grappling gun free.

“Why?” Dick grinned. “Because you’re losing?”

Bruce made a low sound. Dick shot off his grappling gun, Bruce only half a second later, and they took to the roofs. Even without his wings, it still felt like flying as he flipped across rooftops, and dropped down into alleys to stop muggings, assaults, and other crimes. Despite his teasing, he didn’t keep track of who caught who because Batman and Robin were first and foremost a team, and their fighting style was adapted to two. 

The Bat-signal went up after a few hours and they grappled over to the GCPD. Gordon awaited them on the rooftop, startling as Batman swept up behind him, and Robin settled just on his right.

“Do you have to do that?” Gordon asked.

“You called,” Bruce growled.

Gordon sighed. “We got word on the street that there might be a bank robbery tonight, but we don’t have any details, just a couple whispers on the streets from money launderers."

“Hn.”

“Do you know which bank?” DIck asked. 

Gordon looked over, his eyes widening slightly. “…new look?”

Dick put his hands on his hips, tilting his chin up with a smile. “Aw, thanks for noticing, Cap. B never notices when I get a haircut.”

Bruce gave him his patented Bat-glare.

Gordon cleared his throat. “No, I don’t know which bank he might hit, but I know which ones have the least amount of night security.” 

They circled out from the GCPD, watching the banks, and listening for whispers below. Ice blocked the windows and doors of the bank, sealing them out of the scene.

“Mr. Freeze,” Bruce growled. 

“Aw, man, I hate this guy,” Dick complained. 

Pulling a window breaker from his belt, Dick punched out the glass, and swung down into the floor of the bank, Bruce entering from the opposite side. The foyer was empty, but there was frost on every surface, making their footsteps crunch where their approach to the vault would otherwise be dead silent. The door was slightly ajar, but there wasn’t a sound from inside. Dick stepped inside to find lock boxes pulled out of their shelves and hanging empty. Dick shivered, goosebumps raised on his arms from the low temperature inside the vault, every surface coated in ice. Footsteps crunched behind him.

“He’s gone,” Bruce growled.

Batman stepped inside the vault and Mr. Freeze slammed the door behind them, a cold bomb hissing as the ammonium nitrate reacted with the water and began to pull the heat from the room. The temperatures had dropped so swiftly, Batman and Robin’s feet had begun to freeze to the floor, allowing Mr. Freeze the time to escape with the jewels—

A hard kick to Bruce’s chest sent him flying out of the room before Mr. Freeze slammed the vault door shut, the cold bomb landing at Dick’s feet with a hiss. Through the thick steel door, Dick couldn’t hear what he presumed was a battle between Batman and Mr. Freeze, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to open the vault from the inside. Touching the bomb itself would be enough to give him severe frostbite. Tearing off his cape, he tossed it over the bomb which immediately turned it brittle and stiff, but it gave him enough time to put space between himself and the bomb before his feet froze to the floor. Ice crept up his ankles, crawling along his calves. 

Taking slow, deep breaths, he signed calm to himself with stiff fingers even though he could feel an itch at his shoulder blades as his wings begged to come out and wrap around him. To offer the little protection they did when he was at the hands of the Court being tested by ice rather than fire. His whole body shivered, trying to bring warmth to his muscles as his breath clouded before him and the condensation threatened to turn to ice on his lips. Tucking his hands under his armpits to preserve his fingertips, he closed his eyes, leaving his focus on keeping his own body under control. Step one was always don’t panic. 

The vault door hissed as it opened.

“Robin!”

Dick opened his eyes, the ice had climbed up to his hips, but it stopped as Bruce kicked the device far out of the vault. Past him, Dick could see Mr. Freeze slumped over, wrists and ankles bound, jewels spilled around him like an arterial spray. Sweeping through the room, Bruce cracked the ice incasing him before sweeping him up into his arms, the sound of his footsteps like boots on broken glass as he marched out of the bank. The shivers wracking through Dick’s body were violent, pressing closer in the attempt to feel the warmth of Bruce’s body through layers of armor. 

In one motion, Bruce set him in the passenger side of the Batmobile and pulled his cape free to drape around him. Knees drawn to his chest, Dick wrapped the cape tight around himself even though the cold clung to his own body rather than an outside sources. The warmth from the heaters stung his skin like the prick of needles, and he turned away from the vents as Bruce sped back towards the manor. 

Alfred awaited them, making quick work of exchanging the Robin suit for sweats and wrapping him up in a blanket, but it did little to quell the shivers running through him. Bruce striped out of the Bat-suit lifting him into his lap, but the warmth was past overwhelming compared to the cold of his bones. Dick whimpered, squirming in his arms. 

“I know, I know, but we’ve got to get you warmed up.” Bruce rubbed his arms. 

Dick shivered miserably in his arms, forcing his stiff fingers to sign, ’No feathers’. 

Bruce let out a deep breath, chin resting on his head. “No feathers, you did good.”

Jason appeared at the top of the stairs, in his pajamas. “What’s with the cuddle puddle?"

“Mr. Freeze,” Bruce said. “And you were supposed to be in bed hours ago."

Jason made his way down the stairs, joining him on the cot, and cozying up beside him. “You kick his ass?"

Dick mimed a few punches.

“Hell yeah.” Jason pressed their shoulders together, making a low sound in his throat.

Dick trilled back, bumping his nose against his jaw.

“Gah! Cold!” Jason shoved his face away.

Dick grinned.

Between the two of them, Dick warmed up rather quickly, but he still went to bed under eight extra blankets to try to chase away any lingering touch of the cold, but the blankets didn’t protect him from the dreams. 

Superman was the first to fall. 

It was likely the K’vaks had taken over Lex Luthor they used his cloning technology to better imitate the metas, aliens, and magic users. Batman figured it out first. Three months too late, he called a meeting of the founders of the Justice League to the Watchtower, then put it on lock down. By the time Tim managed to hack into the zeta tube, the battle was over, Batman kneeling among the carnage, blood seeping through his fingers where he held his side, cowl cracked, and his cape pooled around him. 

The Flash had broken every bone in his body until even his healing factor hadn’t been able to keep him alive, Green Lantern’s hand cut from his wrist with laser vision and then his head, Black Canary’s throat crushed in one bruising hand, Green Arrow’s arm torn clean from his shoulder, and Aquaman… Aquaman had already been taken from them months before without notice. Wonder Woman was MIA. 

It was hard to tell who had died at the imposter’s hand and who Bruce had enacted his contingency plans on. If the heroes Batman had taken down had truly been foes or friends when there was no way to tell the difference. Or if the League thought Batman was compromised and tried to take him down. Dick half-carried Bruce from the Watchtower while Jason set detonators around the Cave and Tim furiously downloaded encrypted files from their computer. 

“We’re burned in sixty, let’s go,” Stephanie said, throwing the last of her gear into the Batmobile. 

“Damian, take the wheel,” Dick said. “Try to keep it steady, I’m doing a little back seat surgery. Steph come give me a hand. Tim, Jason, take the bikes, bring up our rear, we may need them for a quicker escape later.”

“Base 13?” Damian asked, starting the engine.

“Yeah, Steph, see if you can’t get the others on the radio,” Dick said.

“It’ll be compromised,” Stephanie said.

“I know, but we have to warn them,” Dick said. “No details, tell them… tell them we’ve lost the Watchtower and we’ve lost… we’ve lost the first generation.” 

Stephanie glanced back at Bruce but he hadn’t reacted even when Dick started to strip him out of his armor. She clicked the message out in morse code over their radio lines, again, and again until Dick needed a second hand for stitches and resetting Bruce’s dislocated shoulder. By the time they reached the safe house, Bruce was nearly catatonic, sitting silently as the handful of surviving heroes looked to their once fearless leader for orders. 

Dick called their attention. “From a strategic standpoint we’re losing numbers, and we can’t afford to delay the battle further even though I know they were not numbers, they were mentors, friends, family. We do not have the time to mourn, but we have the time to avenge them if we act quickly.”

The younger heroes met his gaze with steel in their own, the older ones looked away. Either way, they were all silent as Dick laid out his plan for an attack. The K’vaks were operating primarily out of Lex Luthor’s headquarters, their ship hovering above it. Dick broke them down into teams for an aerial and ground strike even though in the back of his mind was the lingering fear that any of the faces in the room may not have been a friend, he laid all his cards on the table.

With the rising dawn, the heroes pulled on their armor. Dick checked Damian’s gear without complaint, then Tim’s, then Stephanie’s, and even Jason held still for him before returning the favor. Dick squeezed his shoulder before moving to Bruce, who was putting on his damaged armor in mechanical movements.

“It’s not over,” Dick said.

Bruce’s face was unreadable under the cowl. 

“I’ll see you on the other side, partner.” 

Breaching Lex Luther’s tower went according to plan, but even with Batman’s contingency plans, the theoretical could never prepare them for fighting clones of the ones they had lost. Superman led the charge, Wonder Woman by his side, and copies of familiar faces. The clones bled red, their blood mingling with their own fallen strewn across the remains of Metropolis until at the end of the day Dick couldn’t be sure if the bodies they were burying were their friends or foe. 

“Sound off,” Dick said in the wake of silence following the battle, standing over the body of Kori.

Only a handful of answers came to him. In the distance he could see Bruce kneeling over Superman’s clone, head bowed. Jason called back, reporting a severely injured Roy along with him. Tim called back, listing the bodies he had identified, and the ones he was missing from his sector: Kon, Bart, and Cassie. Stephanie didn’t call. Damian didn’t call.

Moving through the bodies, Dick checked for pulses as he went, but once he spotted the familiar uniform, kneeling in the wreckage, he sprinted for him. Damian had both his hands pressed tight over a wound in Stephanie’s stomach, but her eyes were glassy, and chest still. 

“God, Steph…” Dick knelt down.

“I tried… I tried…” Damian didn’t move his hands. “She… there was… I was too late… I was too late…” 

Dick closed her eyes, gently pushing Damian’s hands away, and lifting her up. 

“Spoiler’s down,” Dick said, trying not to let his voice waver. “Look through your sector for survivors and bring our… our dead to Metropolis park. We’ll bury them together.”

“We’ve shut down the cloning facility, but the K’vaks aren’t finished,” Tim said, his voice thick. “We shouldn’t stay out.”

“We’ll bury our dead,” Dick said, carrying Stephanie away from the carnage. 

The ring of his alarm made the dream dissipate like smoke, but Dick still had to blink tears out of the corners of his eyes. 

Dick fussed over his hair, readjusting his starched clothes, for once actually wearing one of the button downs and slacks hanging in his closet rather than the jeans and t-shirts both he and Jason preferred. Stepping out of his room, he found Jason had chosen the same, looking horribly uncomfortable in the crisp-ironed clothes, and his curls frizzy like he had run a comb through them one too many times.

“Ready?” Dick asked.

“Keep your mouth shut and everything will be fine,” Jason said. “CPS are vultures.”

Dick took his hand. “Hey, look on the bright side, the system being broken means if it goes wrong, Bruce can pay the right people to get us back.”

Jason stared at him for a long moment. “That’s the most fucked up version of optimism I’ve ever heard. Can’t you just say everything’s gonna be fine like a normal person?”

Dick smiled brightly. “Everything’s going to be fine, little wing!”

Jason’s lips ticked up before he forced them down into a scowl. “Yeah, whatever, let’s get this over with.”

Dick’s stomach churned as they headed down the stairs to wait in what Dick supposed was the acquaintances sitting room, different from the one used for breakfast when he first came to the manor, the one they read books together in, and had tea with Clark in, it was so pristine it looked like the glossy cover of a home magazine. Even so, Alfred was fluffing a perfectly fluffed pillow. Neither of them sat, both tensing up as they heard the unfamiliar voice of a woman followed by Bruce’s baritone. 

‘Calm.’ Dick sighed to himself, hand low, taking a deep breath to accompany it.

A woman wearing an ugly tan wool suit walked into the room, thin rectangular glasses perched on her nose, and her hair tied up and out of her face, but a few pieces had fallen loose like she had spent the morning running from place to place.

“Dick, Jason, this is Ms. Sorell, she’s been assigned to your case,” Bruce introduced. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Sorell.” Dick flashed her a bright smile, extending his hand. “I’m Dick Grayson.”

Her eyebrows raised slightly, but she shook his hand, and Jason’s when he followed suit.

“Would you like a tour?” Bruce asked.

“No, I would like to speak to the boys first.” Ms. Sorell sat down in the armchair, not sparing Bruce a second glance. “In private if you don’t mind.”

Bruce’s jaw tensed, but he smoothed it out into a smile. “Of course, I’ll be just in the other room.”

“I’ll prepare some tea,” Alfred said.

“I don’t drink tea,” Ms. Sorell said.

Alfred’s impeccable demeanor didn’t shift in the slightest. “Coffee then, ma’am.”

Ms. Sorell looked to the two of them. “Sit.”

Dick’s own smile strained and he could feel Jason’s biting retort of ‘what am I a dog?’ through the look on his face alone, so he forced himself to sit and hoped he would follow suit. Jason sat down heavily, feet planted on the floor, and fingers curled into the knees of his pants. A social worker had already come by for a home inspection before Jason had been granted ‘emergency placement’ with Bruce Wayne, but it had been a short visit, and Dick had been hidden away in the Cave for the duration.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” Ms. Sorell opened her folder. “Now, Richard, you were originally placed in the center three years ago, but you ran away three weeks into your stay?”

“Yeah,” Dick said, shifting on the couch. 

“Why did you run away?” Ms. Sorell asked.

“…because it was a detention center?” Dick said tentatively, not entirely understanding the question.

“You had food, clothes, a warm bed, certainly that’s preferable to living on the street?” Ms. Sorell challenged. 

Dick’s shoulders curled in slightly. “The guards were mean.”

“And it was a temporary placement, as I understand it, Mr. Wayne had visited you several times, and offered to foster you. Why would you run away then and now willingly stay in his custody?”

“I thought he was lying,” Dick said, signing, ‘no think he wanted me’. 

“Answer verbally, Richard.”

Dick’s throat clicked as he swallowed. 

“Hey,” Jason said. “Talking’s hard for him sometimes, isn’t that in your fancy file?”

“He was talking perfectly fine a moment ago,” Ms. Sorell said. “Richard?”

“I didn’t.” Dick curled and uncurled his fingers into the cushions, the words catching on in his throat like burrs. “I didn’t think Bruce actually wanted me, so I ran away.”

“And you lived on the streets for three years?” Ms. Sorell arched an eyebrow.

Dick nodded. 

“I find it hard to believe you managed to survive on the streets by yourself at the age of nine,” Ms. Sorell said.

“Take a walk down Park Row sometime then,” Jason said. “You’ll see plenty of kids our age without anyone else to take care of them, they figure out how to survive pretty quick. It’s that or die.” 

“Jason,” Ms. Sorell said. “Please wait your turn, I would like Richard to answer his own questions.”

Jason ground his teeth, but Dick squeezed his arm to tell him it was okay. 

“How did you survive?” Ms. Sorell asked.

“I found food in dumpsters, turned in cans for money, slept under the bridge with the other homeless kids, or abandoned properties if I could find them and it was really cold,” Dick said. 

“And how did you find your way back to Mr. Wayne?” 

“Bruce hired a private investigator to look for me. He found Jason and I during a blizzard and took us in and got us warm so we didn’t get sick.”

“That was nearly a month before he declared knowing your whereabouts,” Ms. Sorell said. “Why would he ask to foster Jason and not you?”

“Oh, well, since Bruce had already planned on fostering me, I think he was a little confused on the process. I don’t know that he knew that he had to go back to social services again, but he told the police, so they would close the missing persons. You can ask Captain Gordon.” 

Bruce had already met with Gordon before contacting social services to tell them he had found Dick. By the sound of it, Bruce Wayne was becoming nearly as migraine inducing as the Batman, but Gordon had agreed to help smooth it over. 

Ms. Sorell gave him a long look. “Richard, you know that lying to me could get both you and Mr. Wayne in trouble, right?”

Dick frowned. “I don’t understand. Did I misunderstand your question?”

“I find it difficult to believe that Mr. Wayne simply stumbled upon you and Jason after three years and then failed to notify social services immediately. I find it far more believable that Mr. Wayne may have helped break you out of the detention center and then only decided to notify social services recently as it was becoming more difficult to hide your presence in his life when he decided to take in Jason.” 

“That… sounds like one of those conspiracy theories they sell in those magazines that want to know who B is dating,” Dick said, pretending as though he was biting back a laugh.

“More like how the government is hiding aliens,” Jason muttered.

Ms. Sorell flushed slightly. “Richard, if Mr. Wayne broke you out of the detention center and hid you away from society for nefarious purposes—“

“Nefarious?” Dick asked, tilting his head to the side as though he didn’t understand the implication. “What do you mean by nefarious purposes?” 

“If Mr. Wayne had ulterior motives for adopting you and keeping you hidden—“

“Bruce isn’t sexually abusing us,” Jason said bluntly. 

Ms. Sorell’s eyes widened, clearly taken aback. “There were rumors at the detention center—“

Dick stiffened. “Those rumors were started because the other kids were jealous that I might have been getting out of there and they weren’t. They wanted to scare me.” 

Ms. Sorell pursed her lips. 

“Bruce has been nothing but good to us. And, honestly, I resent the insinuation that the only reason he would want to foster me, or Jason, was for those purposes. Are you saying that… that people wouldn’t want to foster us? Is there something wrong with us?” Dick blinked hard a few times, bringing tears up to his eyes.

Ms. Sorell went entirely still. “I…”

“Yeah,” Jason said, crossing his arms. “Are we not adoption material?” 

Ms. Sorell clicked her teeth together. “No. Of course that’s not what I meant. Let’s… let’s move on.”

Alfred stepped into the room with coffee and tea, Bruce following with his own cup, standing by the fireplace as Ms. Sorell asked them about how they liked living at the manor, what they ate, what they thought about attending school, and how they spent their recreational time. Bruce only spoke a few times to clarify his intentions of having them tested to attend Gotham Academy and that he had his own physician give them a physical assessment and inform him of their dietary needs after years of malnutrition. 

“Let’s see your rooms.” Ms. Sorell closed her folder.

Making their way up the stairs, Dick felt a certain dread about letting her into his personal space, but he forced himself to open the door, and step back as she made her way inside. She looked at the clothes in the closet, went through his bureau drawers, and even poked at his bed which made him grind his teeth.

“You don’t make you bed in the mornings?” Ms. Sorell asked, looking at his nest of blankets and pillows.

“I like it this way,” Dick said.

“Hm.” 

Jason watched her poke through his room from the doorway, scowling as she looked over the books stacked by his bed, and crossing his arms tight when she questioned why he had kept his rattier clothes alongside his new ones.

“Because they’re mine,” Jason said through gritted teeth.

“Hm.”

Alfred gave her the rest of the tour of the manor, showing her the kitchen, the various living spaces, and the ballroom turned playroom that was more suited for acrobatics than tag.

“As you can see, Ms. Sorell, we are more than equipped to care for both Master Dick and Master Jason,” Alfred said, leading her neatly to the door to finish it off.

“There will be a follow up appointment in six months,” Ms. Sorell said.

“Of course,” Alfred said, holding out her coat.

Pulling it on, she gave Bruce one last distrustful look before stepping out the front door with her folder held tight to her chest. 

“Bitch,” Jason said.

“Language,” Bruce said.

“We do not use such language, Master Jason,” Alfred said. “Certainly not any with derogatory intentions, no matter how… displeasing we may find someone’s company.”

“What if I called her an asshole?” Jason asked.

Bruce sighed. 

“What? It was a genuine question!”

Dick laughed, leaning against Jason’s shoulder. “I think we passed.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Jason leaned back. 

“You did well.” Bruce put a hand on Dick’s head to tussle his hair, and squeezed Jason’s shoulder. “Perhaps well enough for hot chocolate?”

“I’ve already prepared three mugs in the kitchen, sir,” Alfred said.

Bruce’s lips quirked up. “Thank you, Alfred.”

Chapter Text

Over the years after the JL was formed, Clark had been to Wayne manor a handful of times, but every time he drove through the iron-wrought gates and had Alfred take his coat he felt every bit like a boy from small town Kansas who budgeted his groceries down the dime on his reporter’s salary. 

“Clark,” Bruce said, warm wasn’t exactly the word for the greeting, but there was a certain lack of Batman’s authority in his tone that Clark took it warmly all the same. 

Out of the cowl, it always startled Clark somewhat to see how young Bruce looked, even without the usual concealer of Bruce Wayne’s persona to cover his battle won scars or the dark circles under his eyes from years of sleepless nights. Only twenty-seven, dark hair brushed back out of his face (never a day overdue for a haircut thanks to Alfred), he was dressed in slacks and turtleneck sweater that likely cost more than Clark’s rent. His heart was its usual steady drum and a little more distantly, Clark could hear two fainter beats. 

“I will bring the boys to the sitting room along with some tea,” Alfred said, Clark’s elbow-patched suit coat over his arm.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce said, moving through the foyer.

Clark fell into step with him. “How are the boys? I hear the jump from one to two kids is a lot.”

Bruce gave him an unimpressed look at the teasing remark. Looking up at the sound of the two heartbeats getting closer, Clark only heard one set of feet coming down the carpeted hallway before Dick’s bright face appeared at the top of the stairs. 

“Clark!”

Dick leapt over the railing, catching the chandelier with the ease of an acrobat with years of experience, but Clark heard Bruce’s heart rate jump through the roof, his whole body going tense beside him. It was easy to catch Dick as he flipped off the chandelier and Clark’s heart squeezed as Dick wrapped his arms around his neck to give him a hug. 

“Hey, Dick,” Clark said warmly.

“Dick,” Bruce said, his heart still going sixty miles an hour. “We’ve talked about using the stairs.”

Dick pouted at Bruce over Clark’s shoulder, as limp as a rag doll in his hands to further the effects. 

“Go easy on him,” Clark said quietly. “His heart’s going like a rabbit.”

Dick looked a little abashed, signing an apology to Bruce. By the base of the stairs, stood a boy only a year or two younger than Dick, watching Clark through wary eyes. Metropolis didn’t have as high of a transient population as Gotham, but the way the boy held himself was familiar to alley cats Clark had seen, hissing at him like he might take the boloney sandwich they had snagged from a dumpster. The socks, jeans, and t-shirt he wore were clearly new, but he had a ratty red hoodie pulled over, the cuffs clearly recently stitched up with Alfred’s steady hand, and a patch sewn into one elbow. 

“You must be Jason.” Clark easily shifted Dick to one arm to extend his hand. 

Jason stayed standing at the base of the stairs. “Yeah, and you are?”

“This is Bruce’s friend, Clark,” Dick said, wiggling free of his hold to rejoin Jason. 

Jason frowned. “I thought Alfred was Bruce’s only friend.”

Clark bit back a laugh and Bruce let out a long suffering sigh. 

“I’m a reporter,” Clark said. “I’m going to write a story about you two coming to stay at Wayne manor.”

Jason wrinkled his nose. “Why? That’s a boring ass story.”

“Language,” Bruce said.

“Bruce is a prominent figure in Gotham, a lot of people are interested in his personal life,” Clark said. 

Jason looked at him through narrowed eyes. “You’re not from Gotham, are you?”

“I’m from Metropolis.”

Jason gave him a disgusted look. “Ew.”

Dick elbowed him. “Be nice. You want Clark to write good things about you, don’t you?”

Jason glowered, arms crossed tight over his chest. 

“Come on,” Bruce said, leading all three of them to the sitting room.

Clark settled in one of the armchairs, notepad open on his lap, and holding his teacup with one hand. Even with decades of practice reigning in his strength, holding fine china in the Wayne manor made him feel like a bull in an antique shop. Bruce looked somewhat comical himself holding a teacup in his catcher’s mitt hands, leaning against the wall by the fireplace while the boys settled in on the couch. Dick tucked his feet up under him, holding the tea cup with both hands, but not drinking it. Jason wedged himself into the corner, arms crossed tight, and feet planted on the floor. 

“What is it like living at Wayne manor?” Clark asked.

“It’s great,” Dick said brightly. “We’re very grateful to Bruce for taking us in.” 

It sounded scripted, but by Bruce’s slight wince it wasn’t his lines that Dick was repeating. Clark wouldn’t be surprised if Dick had read some of the rumors starting to circle in the papers or on the internet and was trying to say exactly the right soundbite to counteract them. 

“Jason?” Clark asked.

“It’s fine,” Jason said.

Dick gave him an expectant look.

“…food’s good,” Jason said.

“I’ve had Alfred’s cooking before,” Clark said, taking the opening, as minimal as it was. “And I think it’s probably second only to my mom’s own cooking.”

“Not that you’re biased,” Bruce said mildly.

“No, of course not, and neither are you.” Clark tossed him a smile.

Bruce gave him a disgruntled look. “I don’t have to be biased to know Alfred’s a good cook.” 

“Then why’d he ask for my ma’s pie recipe?” Clark smirked. 

Bruce huffed. 

“What kind of pie?” Jason asked. 

“Blueberry,” Clark said. “I don’t make it quite as well as she does, but I’ve certainly had plenty of practice. Do you like to cook?”

Jason shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“Jay’s a great cook,” Dick said. “He and Alfred made chocolate chip cookies last week.” 

Jason pinked. “It’s not like it was hard… unless you’re Bruce whose been banned from the kitchen since before I was even born.”

Bruce glowered, but it lacked the weight of his usual Bat-glare.

Clark gave him an amused look. “Oh? Why’s that?”

“He set fire to the cabinets,” Dick said conspiratorially. “Twice.”

“Yeah, so now he’s gotta be supervised,” Jason smirked. 

“Twice is only… a coincidence,” Bruce said dismissively, waving his hand. “I can cook fine.”

“An experiment we will not be attempting again, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, moving through the space to refill teacups, batting Dick’s hand away from the sugar cubes when he tried to eat one plain, and sweeping out of the room again.

Bruce glared after him, but wisely did not argue. 

The interview went easier from there, Clark working his way towards his actual questions in roundabout ways to get around Dick’s practiced answers and Jason’s standoff behavior. It lead to about two whole hours of talking, mainly about the books Jason had read in the library and the acrobatic equipment Bruce had installed for Dick, but he managed to get plenty of usable quotes about both of the boys for the article, though he wasn’t sure there were words to describe the change in Bruce’s demeanor just by being in the same room as his boys. 

Bruce didn’t smile per say, but the corners of his mouth ticked up as he watched Jason rant about Jane Austin, and he caught Dick by the ankle when he got up from the couch to walk on his hands after trying and failing to sit still for more than thirty minutes straight. Dangling Dick by one leg earned a squeak from the kid and Bruce had idly swung him like the arm of a grandfather clock to the delight of the little acrobat. If Clark hadn’t known better, he would have thought the boys had grown up together their whole lives watching Dick’s restlessness infect Jason at the hour mark, who reached over to try to knock him off his hands every time he got close enough to the couch like their own game of cat and mouse. 

“Mr. Kent,” Alfred said. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

“Ah, no, thank you, Alfred.” Clark closed his notebook. “I have to get back to the city, I have work in the morning.”

Alfred nodded. “Master Dick, Master Jason, please go wash up for dinner in that case.” 

“Bye, Clark!” Dick darted in to give him another quick hug before slapping Jason’s arm. “Tag!”

“What! Hey!” Jason chased after him. 

Alfred only sighed, following at a more sedated pace.

Bruce’s eyes were soft as he watched them go, posture loose and relaxed in a way Clark had never seen.

“Fatherhood looks good on you, Bruce.”

“I’m not their father.”

“Not yet, maybe, but you love them.”

Bruce looked off to the side, his expression unreadable.

“And they clearly love you.”

“Hn.”

“Congrats, B, really.” Clark squeezed his shoulder. 

“Thank you,” Bruce said, quiet, but genuine in a way Clark had rarely heard. 

“I’ll send you the quotes before I hand the article over to my editor.”

“No need,” Bruce said.

Clark blinked in surprise —Bruce Wayne was notorious for not agreeing to an interview without the caveat of knowing what quotes were being used— then smiled. “And my mom wants you to know that you and the boys are welcome to stop by for dinner at anytime.”

Bruce’s eyes widened slightly, taken off guard. “Ah.”

Clark laughed. “I’ll show myself out.”

Bruce nodded, but his eyes followed him out of the sitting room. Clark fetched his coat from the closet, shrugging it on, but a hand on his sleeve made him turn, startled to be snuck up on. Dick’s blue eyes met his, but there was no smile on his face, and his expression reminded Clark of children he had rescued from natural disasters. Aged beyond their years by what they had witnessed, what they had lived through.

“They’ll come for you first."

Clark stilled. “I… I’m sorry?” 

“Don’t let them get you,” Dick said seriously. 

Clark opened and closed his mouth, unable to speak past the unease slithering along his spine, and tightening around his neck like a lasso.

“Dick!” Jason called distantly.

Dick blinked, letting go of his arm, and smiling up at him. “See you later, Clark."

By the time Clark could find the right questions to ask, Dick was already scampering off down the hall to rejoin his brother. Lingering with his hand on the doorknob, Clark listened to the four steady heartbeats in the house for a moment before stepping out into the cold air to pretend the goosebumps on his skin were from the weather alone. 

Chapter Text

“Alfred, hey, here.” Dick set the bottle of antibiotics on the nightstand. “We found the right ones, finally.” 

“That’s quite all right, Master Dick,” Alfred said. 

“You’re not alright, you have an infected gunshot wound,” Jason said. “Take the damn antibiotics.”

It had only taken a few weeks after the press conference for desperate citizens of Gotham to try to ransack the manor armed with hunting rifles. Only Alfred had been home, who had met each with his shotgun, but a lucky shot had caught his shoulder. It was further bad luck that Alfred was allergic to penicillin which was what they kept stocked on account that the ones coming home with injuries were typically anyone but Alfred and his immune system wasn’t quite strong enough to fight off an infection without a little help anymore. 

“I’m afraid it would be a waste of resources.” Alfred set down his empty tea cup. 

“Alfred,” Bruce ground his name out. “We’re not having this conversation again.”

“No, Master Bruce, we are not. I would not like to die being dragged all over God’s green earth once our water supply runs out and I certainly would not like to be turned into a battery to spend my last few years. So I have decided to remain.”

Tim snatched up the tea cup, sniffing it, and going pale. “Alfred, what did you do?”

“It has been an honor to have a hand in raising each and every one of you and I would like you to allow me the dignity of dying in comfort.”

“You fool,” Damian said. “I demand you tell me what you have taken so we may acquire the antidote.”

Alfred smiled slightly. “I never thought I would meet a more willful child than Master Bruce and yet I believe fate found him a match in each of you.”

Bruce’s jaw worked. “Alfred, I… I accept your resignation.”

Alfred smiled. “Thank you, my boy.”

Stephanie put a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob.

Dick’s eyes blurred with tears. “You didn’t give us time to plan your retirement party.”

“Ah, I’m afraid I’m not overly fond of goodbyes.”

“Then do not leave us,” Damian said, fingers curled into fists.

“Never, Master Damian.” Alfred neatened a wayward strand of hair. 

“Alf…” Jason’s voice broke, fingers curling and uncurling.

“Now,” Alfred said, straightening out the bedcovers. “I would prefer if it was a good long while until I saw you all again, even if I shall miss you. So if you would keep that in mind in your future endeavors, I would appreciate it.”

“Promise,” Tim managed to get the word out before bursting into tears, tucking his face into Stephanie’s shoulder.

Bruce took one of Alfred’s hands in his own, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Thank you, old friend.” 

“It’s been an honor, my dear boy,” Alfred’s voice wavered slightly, reaching out to hold Bruce’s hand with his free hand. “An absolute honor.”

The uniform Alfred had left hanging in his closet had been ironed to the point that Dick could smell the lingering heat of the iron as he pulled it on piece by piece. A muted blue button down, crisply ironed, a navy sweater, and charcoal grey trousers starched stiff as cardboard as well as a matching jacket. The tie was checkered blue, navy, and grey; Dick knew knots, but he doubted a clove hitch would suit the look of the Gotham elite. Stuffing the tie into his pocket, he made his way out of his room, and down the stairs. Jason was already at the table, wolfing down pancakes, the buttons of his shirt sleeves undone, his jacket over the back of his chair, and Alfred holding his tie. 

Alfred sighed. “Master Dick, where is your tie?”

"Tie? What tie?” Dick asked innocently.

Jason snorted. 

Alfred’s lips turned down, holding out his hand. With a sigh, Dick handed over his tie, permitting himself to be wrangled like a dog with a leash before taking his seat, picking at his own pancakes. Jason got the same perfect Windsor knot treatment, trying to keep eating while Alfred tightened it. While Alfred fussed over Jason’s appearance, Dick tugged his own tie a little looser.

“This is stupid,” Jason said. “I don’t understand why we couldn’t just go to public school.”

“Gotham Academy is quite prestigious and will offer you with far more opportunities in your future than public school.” Alfred straightened up, then sighed. “Master Dick.” 

Dick tried for an innocent look, but it slipped away as Alfred tightened his tie.

“I don’t like it,” Dick said quietly.

Alfred’s fingers stilled for half a second before resuming his task. “This will be your first introduction to society, it is important to meet them with poise and grace, Master Dick.”

“No amount of poise ’n grace is gonna change how those rich brats look at us,” Jason said.

“And acting exactly as they expect you to will?” Alfred asked coolly.

Jason scowled, stabbing at his breakfast. Bruce appeared, half dressed himself for a day at the office, tie loose around his throat, and eyes mostly closed as he inhaled his cup of coffee.

“Honestly,” Alfred muttered to himself, fixing Bruce’s tie and collar in quick practiced motions. “How you manage to put two different socks every morning astounds me.”

Bruce blinked down at his socks which were two different shades of black. “Hm.” 

“…can I have coffee?” Dick asked.

“No,” Bruce said.

“The day you imbibe in caffeine, Master Dick, not even your quick little friend may keep up with you,” Alfred said.

Dick’s lips quirked up. 

“I can’t believe you’ve met two members of the Justice League and I’ve met none,” Jason huffed.

Before taking the placement tests for Gotham academy, Dick had returned to STAR labs to get an implant in his arm of the serum, and Jason had lost the argument with Bruce to come with them and meet the Flash for himself. It hadn’t helped that Robin had also joined Batman and Superman on a team up and though Jason had met Clark Kent, Bruce said that if he wanted to know any of the Justice League’s identities, Jason would have to do the detective work himself, so Dick kept his own lips sealed.

Dick nudged his foot against Jason’s knee. “You’ve met a member of the Justice League.”

Jason blinked, looking at Bruce, then wrinkled his nose. “Him? He doesn’t count. He can’t even match his socks!”

Dick couldn’t help his laugh at the mildly offended look on Bruce’s face and the smile Alfred was trying desperately to smother. 

“Even I can match my socks, B,” Dick teased.

“Can you eat your breakfast?” Bruce said wryly.

Dick groaned, tearing his pancakes into smaller and smaller pieces, ignoring the disproving look Alfred gave him for forgoing silverware.

“I don’t get you.” Jason shook his head. “Alfred’s cooking’s the best, ’n you’d live off cereal if you could.”

Dick perked up. “Can I—“

“No. You need a real breakfast before school,” Alfred said. 

Dick’s shoulders slumped, but he ate a third of the pancakes in bits and pieces, and all of the protein smoothie Alfred handed him. Jason used to have one with practically every meal until he got to a decent weight and grew an inch. Dick still got smoothies on a relatively frequent basis when he couldn’t bring himself to eat a full meal sitting at the table. 

Alfred cleared the dishes. “If you will gather your belongings, I shall drive you to school now, young sirs.” 

“Thanks, Alfred,” Jason said, grabbing his bag and jacket.

Dick polished off the last of his smoothie, rising to his feet, but Bruce waved him over with two fingers. Stepping up before him, Dick’s feet braced shoulder width apart, but he held his hands up before him rather than folded behind his back. 

‘Calm. I know.’ Dick signed.

“Hn.” 

‘You more nervous than me.’ 

“I can call the principal and get you an interpreter—“

Dick reached over to steal his coffee cup from the table and Bruce unfolded his arms to stop him, leaving him entirely vulnerable for a hug. Winding his arms around Bruce's neck, earned a startled noise, but Dick just hugged him a little tighter to make up for it.

“Don’t worry, B.” Dick gave him a smile as he pulled back. “It’ll give you wrinkles, old man.”

Bruce’s eyes were a little wide so Dick took the opening to actually steal a sip of coffee before grabbing his bag, and heading for the front door.

“Have a good day at work!” Dick tossed over his shoulder. 

Jason was by the door trying to talk Alfred into driving them in the Porsche which he steadfastly declined, opening the door to a black Bentley for them to climb inside of before getting behind the wheel. Alfred wore driving gloves, played classic music low on the radio, and kept both hands on the wheel as Gotham city rolled past them. Jason had a book open in his lap, but Dick kept his eyes out the window, fingers light on the cold glass like he could touch the buildings around them. It felt oddly familiar, like looking through old photos, even though he had rarely seen the city during the daylight. 

Gotham Academy fit the architecture of old Gotham, tall narrow windows set into the brickwork, and arched doorways by the entrance of the heavy wooden front doors. Climbing out of the back of Bentley, they joined the other uniformed children making their way into the building, lockers lining the walls where kids were crowded in twos and threes with their friends as they put their books away. 

“Hey.” Dick caught the strap of Jason’s backpack. “You know your locker?”

Jason waved his hand in his face, his locker number and combination written on his palm. 

“You have—“

“Go, fuck off.” Jason shoved him away. “Having my big brother hover around me all day’ll just make me look like a loser.” 

Dick couldn’t help his smile, but held up his hands in surrender, and let Jason make his way towards the other sixth graders while Dick looked for his own locker in the eighth grade section. A few people’s eyes lingered as he walked past, nudging their friends, and trading whispers. Finding his locker, he put in the combination without a second thought, unloading his books, and double checking his class schedule. Making his way towards Algebra II, he found it mostly full, though the teacher had yet to arrive.

“You lost, shrimp?” One of the boys called, earning a few laughs.

A girl elbowed him. “That’s Bruce Wayne’s ward, he took him in for, like, charity or something.” 

It felt like Alfred was in his ear as Dick tilted his chin up and didn’t give them a second look as he picked one of the empty seats near the middle of the classroom; the back was for slackers, the front was for teacher’s pets, here was a middle ground. A redhead sat in the seat beside him, and he was hit with deja vu as her green eyes flicked over him. 

Dick held the flap of the tent open for Barbara to wheel through the opening, the trapeze already set up hours before, but he made all of the checks again, as well as triple checking the harness he had set up for Barbara. 

“Ready?”

“Ready.” 

It had been years since Dick had flown with anyone aside from himself, but Barbara’s laughter as they cut through the air seemed to fill the entire tent even without an audience to cheer them on. Her green eyes bright and alive as he taught her a few release moves, the feel of their hands clasping mid-air familiar if bittersweet. 

Dick blinked it away, fixing his attention on the board as the teacher stepped up to the desk and started roll call. 

Barbara Gordon. 

“Richard Grayson.”

“Here.” 

A few people were watching him curiously, but he relaxed his shoulders, leaning back in his chair, and fixed his eyes on the board as he spun his pen between his fingers. The concepts they went over he was more than familiar with even though he had been placed in ninth grade math, so rather than take notes, he filled the graph paper of his notebook with doodles and his thoughts on what the Penguin might be up to, written in code of course, incase anyone nosy was looking over his shoulder. 

“Mr. Grayson? Care to answer the question or is your notebook more interesting than our class?”

A few people snickered.

Dick looked up at the board. “X equals six.” 

Mr. Jacobs opened and closed his mouth. “…that’s correct.”

Dick returned his attention back to his notebook. Mr. Jacobs called him back after the bell rang and Dick paused by his desk as the other students filtered out the door.

“I thought this might keep you from getting bored in class,” Mr. Jacobs said coolly, holding out a thick stack of papers.

Dick flipped through them, but they were only tenth grade Geometry. “…do you have any Trig?”

“Don’t get smart with me.” 

“I thought that’s why we’re here,” Dick said with wide eyed innocence. “To get smarter.”

Mr. Jacobs’s jaw twitched. “You’ll be late to your next class. Go.”

Dick tucked the papers away, walking towards the door.

“And I want those done by the end of the week!” 

“Sir, yes, sir.” Dick tossed over his shoulder, slipping out into the hallway. 

Trying to sit through an hour and a half of English rivaled the agony of the all-night stakeout Bruce had taken him on the previous week, but at least there he could look out at the city and whisper made up stories about the people walking below to try to make the Bat laugh. Knee bouncing under his desk, Dick only managed to listen for the first twenty minutes before doing his tenth grade Geometry under his desk just for anything to do with his hands. As the bell rang, Dick despaired at the thought that he had four more classes to sit through, and looked longingly out the window of his History class. By the gate around the track field, Dick spotted a man with a long distance camera crouching down. Paparazzi. 

Dick sighed. “Perfect.” 

Ten minutes into the teacher droning on about the American Revolution, a balled up piece of paper hit him in the back of the head. Dick glanced over to find a stocky boy, blonde, and with blue eyes smirking at him. Jeffery Dallas according to the attendance sheet. 

“Shouldn’t you be paying attention, A-rab? Learning the right side of history and not what they taught you in terrorist school,” Jeffery said, a few of his friends snickering.

“Should’t you? Clearly you didn’t pay attention in World History if you think someone’s a terrorist just because of their ethnicity.”

Jeffrey scowled.

“And I’m Romani,” Dick said mildly. “If you’re going to be a racist, at least get your micro-aggressions right, dude.” 

One of Jeffrey’s friends snorted, then quickly pretended it was a sneeze as Jeffrey turned his glare on him. Dick turned his eyes back to the board, but another piece of paper hit him in the side of his head, and he turned with a raised eyebrow. 

“You’re dead, gypsy,” Jeffrey said.

Dick smiled. “See? That’s better, glad to know you take criticism well.”

Jeffrey gaped at him, turning red as his friends failed to hide their amusement. Another piece of paper hit Dick in the back of the head a few minutes later, but Dick didn’t pay it any mind. Or the next one. Or the kick to his chair. It was a little harder to ignore Jeffrey grabbing his collar in the hallway and shoving him up against the lockers as other students headed off to lunch. His little entourage, Henry Miller, Michael Jones, and Joshua Packard crowded close behind him, looking as eager for blood as ring side fans at a cage match.

“I’m going to kick your ass,” Jeffrey snarled.

Dick sighed. “Not very bright, are you?” 

Jeffrey’s fist raised.

“Yeah, go on, hit me in this nice public hallway and get another suspension slapped on your record. I bet your daddy will love that, right? He’s, uh, he’s in marketing, right? Just got a deal to market WE’s latest phone, right?”

Jeffrey faltered.

“That’ll be fun, sitting in the principals office, you, me, your dad, and Bruce Wayne…”

Jeffrey shoved him before letting go. “Whatever. You’re not worth it.”

“Jeff,” Henry started up.

“Let’s go,” Jeffrey snapped, the others following in an awkward retreat.

Dick slammed his fist against the lockers once they were out of sight, Jeffrey’s words mingling with the echoes of guards from the center he only half remembered. Shaking out his hand, he signed ‘calm’ to himself, forcibly relaxing his shoulders before he walked into the cafeteria. As he went through the line, he surveyed the prospective tables to look for open seats, but with the school year being half over already, the cliques had been solidified. A lot of them looked like they had been friends for years. Lunch tray in hand, Dick straightened his shoulders, trying to drum up the confidence he had touring with the circus, and making a friend at every show.

There was a table off to the side, close to the doors, with three open seats at their table. One of the girls had an earbud in, idly nodding along to what the boy beside her was saying, another boy frantically doing his homework, food forgotten. 

“You dropped a negative on number sixteen,” Dick said as he stepped closer.

The boy glanced up at him, down at his paper, cursed, and rewrote it.

“Mind if I sit?” Dick asked, sliding into a seat next to him as the others gave half hearted agreement. 

The boy finished his paper with a sigh, jamming it into his overflowing backpack. “Thanks, man, I’m Elias.”

Dick opened his mouth to introduce himself, but the girl beat him to it, pulling out her earbud.

“You’re Wayne’s ward, right?” She asked. “Richard Grayson?”

“Like the flying Graysons, the one’s who—“ The boy beside her cut himself off quickly, but not quite quick enough.

“Looks like I don’t have to introduce myself then.” Dick tossed up a smile. “And you guys are…?”

“Lucy.”

“Ravi.”

“Nice to meet you,” Dick said, picking at his lunch to keep his hands busy, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to stomach any of it in front of an audience.

“I read a story about you in the paper,” Ravi said. “Did you really live on the streets for three years?” 

Dick raised an eyebrow. “You read the newspaper?”

Ravi rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I ready a post online about a newspaper—“

Elias snickered.

Dick laughed. “About me? Wow, I’m flattered, I feel like a celebrity.” 

Ravi ducked his head.

“I mean, Bruce Wayne basically is a celebrity,” Lucy said. “So, I suppose you’re a celebrity by association.”

Dick gave a little shake of his head. “Anyone who wants to read about Bruce Wayne needs something better to do with their time. I mean, seriously, like, there’s actual superheroes they could be writing about, not some random rich guy. Have you guys seen the most recent footage of Superman?”

“Of him fighting Livewire?” Elias asked. “Yeah, man, cool as hell.”

Dick managed to keep the conversation away from himself with relative ease once they latched onto the superhero conversation, it was an appealing topic to most thirteen year olds, and it got him through lunch without any incident. Trying to sit still for the last three classes of the day made clawing his skin off sound like a fun activity and he was out of the room before the final bell finished ringing, heading for his locker. A flash of red hair caught his attention as he finished packing up, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“Hey.” Dick stepped up to her locker. “You’re Barbara Gordon, right? Captain Gordon’s daughter?”

“Yeah, and he takes his gun home with him, so you should quit staring at me in class,” Barbara said without looking away from the books she was tucking into her bag. 

Dick’s face flushed. “No, I wasn’t… you just look really familiar. I thought we might have met before.”

Barbara glanced over at him. “I don’t think so.” 

“Then I guess it’s nice to meet you, Barbara Gordon,” Dick grinned, stepping away.

Barbara’s lips ticked up. “I don’t think I’ve decided if it’s nice to meet you yet.”

“Keep me posted!” Dick called over his shoulder, heading for the front doors. 

Jason was waiting by the gates, a bruise forming on his jaw, but he didn’t look too put out. 

“What happened to your face?” Dick asked.

“Made a friend,” Jason said.

Dick glanced over his shoulder at where Barbara was speaking with a couple of her friends. “Yeah… I think I did too.”

Chapter Text

Dick sighed as he saw the insult painted on his locker, turning the combination, and opening it to find his books untouched at the very least.

“Assholes,” Barbara said.

“Could be worse,” Dick said. “Could be shaving cream.”

Barbara snorted. “Very optimistic of you.”

Dick flashed her a bright smile. “Thanks, I try.” 

Barbara shook her head, but fell into step with him on their way to class, trading stories about their weekends, though Dick omitted his adventures in taking down the Penguin, and offered a tale over having Alfred try to beat Shakespeare into his skull instead.

“I like Othello,” Barbara said.

“That’s because you’re genius who understands it, not like the rest of us plebs.” 

“You can use words like plebs in regular conversation, but don't understand Shakespeare?” Barbara asked.

“According to my last pop quiz? Yeah, absolutely.” 

Barbara shook her head. “How far the newest star of the mathletes has fallen.”

“You should join.” 

“Pass. I’m more than happy where I am in the school newspaper room thank you very much.”

“What if I told you that you would get to spend an extra three hours a week with me?” Dick wiggled his eyebrows.

“I would tell you that’s not exactly a selling point.” 

“Ouch,” Dick said, still smiling. “You wanna catch that horror movie this weekend?” 

“I do if you buy me popcorn.”

“Deal.” 

Befriending Barbara had made school near-tolerable, but it didn’t stop Dick from trying to quell the boredom of classes with doodles in the back of his notebook. A lot of the faces he drew felt familiar, but he could never place them. It was similar to how he felt waking up from a rough dream the night before.

“Who’s that?” Barbara asked, leaning over his shoulder. 

Dick looked down at a sketch of a girl with long curly hair, big eyes, and bright smile. “I don’t know. I don’t really pay attention when I’m drawing, it’s just to keep my hands occupied.” 

“She’s pretty,” Barbara said.

“Yeah,” Dick said, looking down at the drawing before closing the notebook. “Too bad I made her up.” 

“Even if you didn’t she’d be out of your league,” Barbara said.

Dick pretended to swoon. “Your words like a knife to my heart, Babs.” 

They spent their lunch break listening to music while Dick tried and failed to keep Barbara from eating the croutons from his salad. Mathletes kept him after school for another hour and Jason never appeared to mind waiting in the library or playing pick up outside with a couple of rich brats he deemed ‘okay-ish’ before Alfred came to pick them up. Checking the library first, Dick made his way outside onto the courts to look for Jason. A reporter was sticking a camera in his face, hand shoved through the chain links to grab Jason by his tie. 

Dick sprinted over. “Hey, let go of him!” 

“We’re just talking—“

Dick jammed a pen into the lens of his camera, shattering the delicate glass, and the reporter reeled back as though personally injured. “My camera! I’ll sue!”

“Try it,” Dick said, shoving Jason behind him to get in his face. “See how kindly a judge takes to some creep videotaping kids on the playground.”

“That’s not— I wasn’t—“

Dick turned his back, giving Jason a nudge.

“I had it,” Jason said.

“Yeah, well, I figured you would break a lot more than his camera.” 

Jason snorted. “He woulda deserved it.”

“More trouble than he’s worth,” Dick said, steering Jason towards the gates.

“I should have you arrested! For damaged property! Is that what you went to juvie for in the first place?” The paparazzi shouted, rounding the gates, and waving his busted camera.

Dick ground his teeth, keeping his back turned as he walked for Alfred’s car. 

“Or was it stealing like your thieving parents?” 

Dick turned on his heel, fingers curled into fists. “My parents were world class acrobats.”

“Dick, c’mon, he’s not worth it.” Jason tugged on his sleeve. 

“You’re going back behind bars anyways, obviously Wayne’s attempt to rehabilitate street brats like you two was unsuccessful.” The man sneered at Jason. “I wouldn’t expect the apple to fall far from the tree—“

Dick lurched forwards, but Alfred’s arm barred his way, keeping the space between him and the paparazzi. Tensing up, Dick realized they had amassed quite the audience, but Alfred had his disapproving look fixed on the reporter. 

“Don Keller, was it? I do believe you got fired for using unsubstantiated evidence and tangling the Herald up in a defamation case. Is this what your life has resorted to? Harassing children?” 

Keller shifted his weight. “The Wayne brat broke my camera.”

“Is that so?” Alfred said coolly. “And if you turned in this evidence of destruction of property to the police, the film on it of course wouldn’t be breaking any laws on the privacy afforded to minors, would it?” 

Keller opened and closed his mouth. 

Alfred plucked the camera from his hand. “I suggest you chase your next dollar elsewhere, Mr. Keller.” 

Keller’s jaw worked, but turned on his heel. Tucking the camera under his arm, Alfred opened the door to the back seat and Dick ducked his head as he got inside. Jason glared out the window as Alfred slid into the front seat, Dick curled and uncurled his fingers, shoving down the meditation tricks waiting at the tips of his fingers, not ready to let go of the white hot ire in his bones. 

“I presume Mr. Keller started this incident?” Alfred asked. 

Dick’s nails bit into his palms. “He grabbed Jason.” 

Jason scowled. 

Alfred hummed. “And I presume there were witnesses to your side of these events?”

“Does it matter?” Dick bit out.

“I’m afraid it does,” Alfred said. “In the matter of optics, it’s better to lose a fight than to take the blame for starting one.”

“What if everyone knows they started it?” Jason asked.

Alfred tapped his fingers against the wheel. “After Master Bruce’s parents died, he got into quite a number of fights himself. It felt like I was picking him up from the principal’s office every other day.”

“Seriously?” Jason asked.

“He would not tolerate a bad word towards either of his parents, or even an implied slight on the wrong day,” Alfred said. “There was talk of expulsion."

“Let me guess, a donation smoothed that idea over,” Jason said.

“No,” Alfred said. “Every day of his suspension, Master Bruce and I sat in juvenile court where children his age were sentenced with destruction of property, assault and battery, and a lot more than a suspension until he understood that if he had even a penny less than the other children he would be facing the same charges for his playground broken noses and bloody knuckles."

Dick blinked hard. “Really?”

“It’s a difficult lesson to teach to a child who inherited such wealth so young, that the privilege he held was a responsibility to hold himself accountable when it would be all too easy to escape his own consequences, when there was no one to hold him to a certain standard when justice can be bought in our society."

“…so you’re saying we shouldn’t punch assholes because we have access to B’s money?” Jason asked.

“He’s saying we have to hold ourselves to a higher standard,” Dick said. “Like how the bad guys don’t have to hold their punches in the field, but we do because otherwise we could really hurt someone.” 

“Precisely, Master Dick."

“I still think he deserved to get socked one,” Jason said quietly. 

Dick bit back a smile, signing ‘me too’. 

Alfred appeared content to let them off with a warning over the incident which Dick was extra thankful for seeing as Barry had finally convinced Bruce to let all the sidekicks come to the Watchtower to meet one another during a standard meeting. 

“Come on, come on, come on.” Dick bounced on his toes.

“Remember,” Bruce said.

“No names, no identifying information, no shifting,” Dick said. 

Bruce grunted, but typed in the code for the Watchtower into the zeta. Dick sprang out of the tube, marveling at the other zeta tubes lining the walls, barely waiting for Bruce to step out after him to flit out of the room. It was a sleek, simplistic white design, but all of it looked like something that might belong in a Star Trek episode. Bruce followed at a slower pace, keeping him moving in the right direction, but didn’t stop him from peeking into adjoining rooms, a training hall, armory, laboratory, medical wing, and finally into a meeting room. 

The other members of the JL were talking among themselves, their proteges hovering nearby, looking at the founders with star-struck looks. Wally brightened when their eyes met, leaving Barry’s side to greet him with a hug that Dick returned in full.

“Long time no see!” Wally said, signing along clumsily.

“Right back at you.” Dick bumped their shoulders. “I saw you in the news.”

Wally rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah, it was just a little fire.”

‘Badass,’ Dick signed.

Wally ducked his head.

Dick turned to the other proteges. “Hi, I’m Robin.”

“Wonder Girl.” 

Dick shook her hand, noting how firm her grip was, unlike Clark who tried to be gentle, Diana rarely had the same fears about her strength and her protege, Donna Troy, appeared to feel similarly. Dick tucked away a thought to ask about Amazonian training practices.

“Aqualad.” Garth. 

“Arsenal.” Roy Harper. 

The deja vu that rolled over Dick as they each introduced themselves felt like sinking down into a warm bath. 

“We thought we might do a little joint training,” Roy said, but there was a glint in his eyes. “It’s not often I find people who might be able to keep up with me. Might being the key word.” 

“Hundred bucks Arsenal bests your little sidekick, Bats,” Oliver said, hand on Roy’s shoulder.

Bruce’s jaw ticked. “I didn’t bring Robin here to compete in a battle royale to satisfy your skills as a mentor, Green Arrow.” 

“So you agree then?” Oliver grinned. “My protege would come out on top.”

“It’s just training, B,” Dick said, putting on his best smile. “There’s nothing wrong with a little healthy competition.” 

“Oh no,” Wally said quietly.

“I agree,” Donna said, sizing up Garth.

“Nothing wrong with a test of skills,” Garth said. “…for everyone’s self improvement of course.”

“Exactly,” Dick said. “We can leave all that ego stroking to the adults.” 

Several founding members spluttered, but it earned him a few amused looks from the other proteges. 

“To the training room?” Barry said, sounding somewhat resigned. 

Dick bumped his shoulder against Wally’s. “You’re not going to hold it against me when I kick your butt, right?”

“Dream on, Rob.”

Dick grinned. “There’s that healthy competition.”

“I hate you,” Wally said. “If I get my butt whooped in front of all the founders of the Justice League—“

“Don’t lose then,” Dick said.

Wally yanked on his hair, long enough now that it didn’t fit Gotham Academy’s dress code (or Alfred’s approval), and Dick batted him away with a laugh. 

In the center of the training hall was a painted ring that Donna took no time stepping into, Garth standing across from her. Dick waited impatiently for a turn as the enhanced proteges tried their hand against one another’s strengths. Stepping into the ring after Donna sent Wally flying, earned a few concerned looks.

“I’m unsure if it is wise to pair an Amazon against a human, even a fine warrior as yourself, Robin,” Diana said.

“Seconded,” Arthur said. 

“He’ll be fine,” Barry said. “Trust me.” 

Bruce’s lips ticked up, inclining his head to give Dick the go ahead, and he threw himself across the ring at Donna, catching her off guard, though only for a moment. It was as though they were dancing, but only Dick could hear the music. Each step felt familiar to him, but his own moves tripped her up. A new partner in an old routine. She feigned a left hook, but he side stepped the real right jab with ease, using her momentum to send her flying out of the ring. Rolling to her feet, she rubbed at the back of her head.

“How did you know I was going to do that?” Donna asked. “Are you telepath?” 

“Just well trained,” Dick said. 

“We’ve thought that about the Bat a time or two ourselves,” Barry said, elbowing him.

Bruce gave him a displeased look. “It’s called being aware of my surroundings, a lesson you could benefit from… and your sidekick I’m sure.”

Oliver snickered.

“Hey!” Barry protested. “I have great situational awareness! So does Kid Flash. Go on, show them.”

Wally stepped into the ring, cracking his knuckles. “No hard feelings, right, Rob?”

Dick grinned. “Only hard hits.”

Wally swallowed audibly. Anticipating what a speedster would do was far more important than trying to keep him in sight, Wally was only a blur, but that didn’t mean Dick couldn’t land a hit or dodge a retaliation if he thought faster, and Wally was predictable. Knocking his legs out from under him, Dick wrapped his legs around his neck, pinning his arm in the same go.

The armlock was far more typical of a wrestling move than any of the martial arts or boxing techniques Batman preferred. Most of his moves were focused on dealing damage rather than grappling— when handling multiple opponents at a time, knocking one out was a far more effective strategy than a pin. Wally tapped out, face turning red from lack of oxygen, and Dick released him. 

“Holy cow,” Wally coughed, sitting up. “Where were you hiding that trick? You’ve never used that in a spar before.” 

Dick helped him to his feet, laughing slightly as he signed, ‘new’. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Bruce assessing him, the weight of his gaze heavy on his shoulders. Looking down at his hands, Dick tried to remember learning the move, but it was only a muscle memory. Rolling out his wrists, he flashed a smile at the others.

“Who’s next?”  

With each win, the weight of Bruce’s gaze grew heavier on his shoulders, sharp looks more cutting as he dodged moves before they happened and blocked hits with a familiar ease. The same ease with which Batman and Robin sparred after years of training. 

Roy notched an arrow, stepping into the ring. Dodging arrows, Dick moved into closer range, rolling under swings of his bow, and landing a few hits of his own. It was instinct to lean back from a right hook, but Dick forced himself to stay in place, letting it knock him to the ground. Using the opening, Roy took him down to the mats. Dick put on a good show, but let himself get pinned. 

“Good match,” Dick said, tapping out even though there were half a dozen ways to escape his hold waiting at the tips of his fingers. 

Roy didn’t let him up. “You’re holding back!” 

Dick twisted out of the way of Roy’s next hit, fist slamming against the mats where his head had been.

“What? You don’t think I can take it! You’re just as human as I am! Come on! Give me a fight!” Roy raised his fist.

Oliver pulled Roy off of him. “Enough. That’s enough.”

“He’s not giving it his all!” Roy said.

Dick rolled to his feet. “Neither were you. Technically."

Roy bared his teeth, opening his mouth.

“No one here is because we’re heroes. Going all out means someone could get really hurt. Your arrows are blunted. Wonder Girl pulled her punches so she didn’t break your jaw. Aqualad could freeze the water in your body. KF could phase his hand through your ribcage.”

Roy’s jaw worked. 

“Besides.” Dick smiled. “It’s just a friendly competition, I figured maiming was off the table.”

Roy scoffed, turning away. 

“Can you actually freeze the water in someone’s body?” Wally asked.

“For obvious reasons, I’ve never tried,” Garth said mildly. 

“Right, right, that’s probably, uh, for the best,” Wally said. 

Garth looked faintly amused. 

“You should focus more on endurance in your matches,” Dick said, glancing over. “You’ve got more stamina than the rest of us, you can outlast your opponents, draw the fight out instead of trying to end it.” 

Garth hummed, looking thoughtful.

Dick turned to Donna. “You have great control over the damage you cause, but you have to remember that you’re not invincible, the damage you take adds up too.” 

Donna tilted her head slightly in consideration.

“KF.”

“My surroundings, I know, but it’s all so… fast,” Wally said, signing the last word.

“So slow down,” Dick said simply. “You half speed is still faster than the rest of us full speed.”

Wally opened and closed his mouth. “That’s… huh.” 

“Any more unsolicited advice you want to hand out since you’re so perfect?” Roy asked.

Dick bristled. “We’re here to train. You can’t get better if you don’t know what you’re doing wrong.”

“And what about what you’re doing wrong?” Roy asked.

Dick loked over at Bruce.

“You didn’t distribute your weight evenly after your last kick, it left you open to Roy’s tackle. You hesitated before your own blow giving him another opening since it caused you to drop your hand which could be fatal in the field. You’re hero, the people you’re fighting aren’t. You have to remember that, Robin.”

Dick nodded.

“Yeesh, don’t sugar coat it for him,” Wally said.

Bruce turned the weight of the Bat-glare on him, and Wally cowered behind Dick’s shoulder. 

Dick turned back to Roy. “Looking forward to our rematch so you better bring your A-game, huh?”

Roy’s fingers uncurled. “I will if you do.” 

“Deal.” 

Clark flew into the room. “Hey, you know those aliens Green Lantern took that technology from? They are invading Coast City right now. All hands on deck.” 

“Let’s go,” Donna said.

“No, this is a Justice League level threat, you all are children, you have not been trained for this,” Diana said.

“But—“ Wally started.

“Wonder Woman is right,” Barry said. “Another time, kiddo.”

Wally pouted.

“B,” Dick started. 

Bruce gave him a sharp look. “No. Stay here and don’t—“

“Don’t touch anything, even if it’s a big red button with ‘push me’ on it, I know, Batman.” Dick signed along as he spoke to emphasize his exasperation better.

“Same goes for all of you,” Bruce growled. “You touch one wrong button and you could put the whole satellite out of orbit, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Roy gave him a sarcastic salute. 

“Hey,” Oliver said firmly.

“I believe we are responsible enough to sit here and do nothing,” Garth said.

“Sit, stay, good boy,” Oliver tussled Roy’s hair.

Roy looked ready to stab an arrow through his ribcage. 

Dick watched them go with a sigh, then turned back to the others. “Another round?” 

An alarm blared through the base less than fifteen minutes later as Dick demonstrated (or mercilessly bullied) Wally with a complex headlock, though his hold loosened as red lights flashed. 

“What is that?” Wally asked.

“It’s a security breach,” Dick said, running towards the monitor room, and keying in the codes.

“Why do I feel like that was definitely information you were not supposed to have?” Wally asked.

Dick flicked through the monitors, the others crowded around behind him. 

“There!” Donna pointed.

Dick focused on the image of reptile-like aliens scaling the sides of the Watchtower, tearing through the seams of the panels to slither inside, the first few had even made it to the hallways.

“It was a diversion,” Garth said. “To draw the heroes away so they can infiltrate the Watchtower.”

“What do you we do?” Donna asked. “Call for our mentors?” 

Dick pulled up the image of the diversion tearing Coast City apart, the Justice League barely keeping them at bay. “They have their hands full.” 

“So we’ll handle it ourselves,” Roy said, pulling his bow from his back.

Dick flicked through the cameras. “KF, Arsenal, you are our long range fighters, I want you to pick them off quick and quiet, they’ll start with scouts to search for the technology, do not raise the alarm. Wonder Girl, Aqualad, go protect the technology, you’re our last line, no one gets past you.”

“They will not,” Donna said.

“And what about you?” Garth asked.

“I’m the distraction,” Dick said, checking his gear.

“By yourself?” Wally asked. “Shouldn’t we stick together?”

“No, we’re outnumbered, we’ll be overwhelmed immediately in a brute force attack, we have to break them into smaller groups to stand a chance,” Dick said.

“He’s not wrong,” Garth said, looking at the aliens squeezing into the tower. “We’re out of our league.”

“We must defend the Watchtower,” Donna said. “The League depends on it.”

Dick grinned. “That’s the spirit. If we win, I’ll make you all some friendship bracelets, but for now, let’s focus on kicking alien butt.” 

“And we should just listen to you?” Roy asked.

“Do you have a plan?” Dick bit back.

Roy ground his teeth.

“No? Then, yeah, let’s go with mine. Any objections say them now.” Dick waited precisely three seconds. “Let’s go then.” 

The Gobgarr moved like insects, crawling along the walls and floor alike as they skittered down the hall, spreading out in every direction like a swarm. Dick rigged trip wires a foot from the ceiling as opposed to along the floor, slapping small explosive devices here and there as he went until he ran straight into the thick of the Gobgarr. Throwing a small explosive device into the center of the herd, he took off running as it blew up behind him, Gobgarr shrieking like a back of hyenas as they scrambled after him. 

Tripwires activated as he led them away from the stolen technology and he tangled a decent amount of them in nets and bolas, but as they started to catch up he set off the detonations to keep sharp teeth from closing around his ankles. It slowed them down. It didn’t stop them.

Dick knocked them away with his staff as they caught up with him, but claws cut through his armor like butter, slicing his arm, and the Gobgarr reacted viscerally to the scent of his blood, screeching and running for him. Throwing a smoke bomb to the ground, Dick scaled the wall, and slithered into the vents. Outside he could hear them rattling along outside as they followed his scent through the vents, claws tearing into the metal before his face.

Kicking out another grate, he dropped down into a room, throwing the door closed against the swarm. Looking around he found himself in a supply closet. Grabbing two bottles he climbed back into the vents as the door burst open. Slithering through the vents, he dropped down into the hallway. Slathering his hands in the blood rolling down his arms, he streaked them along the walls, leaving an obvious trail further and further from the hidden weaponry, taking down the Gobgarr that caught up with him. 

Tying off his wound, Dick doused himself in the sharp scent of rubbing alcohol, and returned to the safety of the vents as the herd came tumbling down the hall chasing his scent. The blood trail led them to a conference room where he threw a net over the lion share of the Gobgarr. Mixing what remained of the rubbing alcohol with bleach he doused the lot of them, dropping down to close the door on them, and only taking a deep breath once he was outside.

Dick wiped sweat from his face. “Damn, I should have stolen comms first.” 

Arms wrapped around his waist, whisking him out of the way as a Gobgarr burst through the ceiling, landing where Dick stood seconds before. It was practice that had him leaning into the motion rather than twisting away, it felt more familiar than just their spars to flip out of Wally's arms and land on top of the creature, sinking a batarang into it’s back and dragging it down as he slipped down its scaled-skin. 

“Woah,” Wally said, watching with wide eyes.

Dick wiped sweat from his face, making the ‘ok’ gesture, and quirking an eyebrow.

“We picked off as many of the stragglers as we could, but a couple got through, they’re heading for Wonder Girl and Aqualad,” Wally said.

“Last line of defense?” 

“Last line.” Wally swept him up off his feet, the hallway a blur around him, until they skidded to a stop right in the thick of the fight.

Falling into fighting stance, he felt the familiar wave of deja vu roll over him with the others at his back as he fought shoulder to shoulder with Donna and Garth. Roy picked the aliens off, Wally winding through arrows and batarangs to handle threats before the Gobgarrs could overwhelm them. An exploding arrow sent Gobgarrs flying in every direction, slamming into the wall, and Wally rolled under one before it could hit him.

“Hey, Arsenal!” Dick called. “What else can those arrows do?”

Except Dick already knew the answer as Roy met his eyes, and he threw a batarang at the sprinklers overhead. Water poured out through the hall and Garth made a tearing motion until it was coming down in sheets of water, sweeping the Gobgarr away from them. Roy shot three arrows and the water turned to solid ice before them, leaving them all trapped like bees frozen in ice cubes. 

The others began to cheer, high-fiving each other. 

“Wait, wait,” Dick said. “Wally, give the place a run through, check the cameras, let’s not celebrate until we know for sure.”

“Buzzkill,” Roy said.

Wally ran off, skidding to a stop before them a few seconds later, holding up an okay sign.

“Okay, now high fives!” Dick slapped his hand against Wally’s, who swept him up into a hug with a laugh. 

Dick high fived the others, even getting a hug that cracked his back from Donna. 

“What the hell is going on here?” Batman swept down the hall, cape snapping behind him, and claw marks scoring through his armor. 

The rest of the JL was only a step behind, looking to be in much the same shape.

“Uh, training?” Wally tried.

“We defended the Watchtower.” Donna lifted her chin, stepping up beside him.

“The attack on Coast City was a distraction,” Dick said. 

“We kept your alien junk safe, you’re welcome,” Roy said.

“You were not authorized to handle a threat on this scale,” Bruce growled. 

“You should have called us,” Clark said. “You all could have been killed.”

“With all due respect, you had your hands full saving the civilians down below, and we handled the threat—“ Garth started.

“That wasn’t your call to make,” Arthur said. “You should have called us.”

“Is that what you would have done in our place?” Dick asked, chin raised. 

“You all are children,” Diana said.

“We’re heroes,” Roy said. “And we’re not going to sit on our butts when we could help, that’s what you trained us for, isn’t it?”

“We handled the threat,” Wally said. “We had it under control.”

“This is under control?” Bruce waved a hand at the damage. 

“Yes,” Dick said. “It is. We protected the technology, our injuries are minimal, and the Gobgarr are contained.” 

A Gobgarr broke through one of the ceiling vents landing between them and the rest of the JL. Green Arrow shot it through the eye before Dick could do more than pull a batarang.

“Almost all the Gobgarr are contained,” Wally said with a wince.

If looks could kill Bruce would have wiped them all out with a single look. “Robin.”

“It was a successful mission, Batman,” Dick said, bracing his feet. 

“Mission’s over,” Bruce said, turning on his heel, cape snapping behind him.

Years of being Robin told Dick that it was his cue, but instead he turned back to the other proteges.

“I was serious about those friendship bracelets.” 

It earned a poorly stifled laugh from Wally, a bright smile from Donna, a sliver of one from Garth, and even a snort from Roy. Turning, he ran to catch up with Bruce, but he knew that was only the first of many epic team ups to come. And many more arguments with Bruce.

Chapter Text

It was actually astounding how many times they could have the same argument.

“If you were dedicated to protecting Gotham you would stay here instead of running around with your friends to play hero instead of acting like one!” 

“Running around with— you absolute hypocrite, and what’s the Justice League? Your book club?” 

“What the Justice League does matters.”

“And what the Titans do doesn’t?”

Bruce’s silence echoed around them.

Dick let out a wet scoff. “You know what, Bruce? Today? Today, my team managed to save thirty lives, but yeah, none of that matters, we’re clearly just playing around because I don’t listen to every order you bark anymore.”

“You have a responsibility to Gotham—“

“And where’s your responsibility when you’re off in space? You’re just pissed that I’m not your good little soldier anymore, that I can make decisions for myself—“

“If you don’t want to be here then leave,” Bruce said, his voice cold. “I’m not keeping you.”

Dick felt his eyes flash, claws digging into his palms. 

“How do you think you can lead a team if you can’t control yourself, Robin?”

“I didn’t think I had to control myself at home,” Dick said, his eyes wet, signing his next words. 'My mistake.'

The silence was loud as he made his way up the stairs, walking right past Jason’s not so inconspicuous hiding place by the open grandfather clock. The hallway was a blur around him as he yanked his duffle bag out from under the bed, and started shoving clothes inside of it at random. 

“You’re leaving.”

“You shouldn’t eavesdrop, Jay.”

“You two have been at it like cats and dogs for weeks, it’ll blow over,” Jason said. “It always does.”

“Not this time.” Dick zipped up his bag.

“Where are you even going?’

“Titans Tower.” Dick slung it over his back, stepping out of his room. “I’m going to spend the summer there.”

“So what? That’s it? You have a fight with B and you’re just going to leave me behind?” Jason’s voice wobbled.

“I’m not… I just need… I just need some space from B. You can come visit me at the Tower, you’ll like New York—“ Dick reached out.

Jason slapped his hand away. “Fuck off, you’re an asshole. If you’re just going to turn your back on me like everyone else then I don’t want to see you again.” 

“Jay—“

“No! Just leave then! If you don’t want part of this family then go!” 

Dick watched him storm down the hall through blurred vision, flinching at the sound of his door slam. Running down the stairs, he only managed to sign ‘goodbye’ to Alfred on his way to the garage. Taking one of Bruce’s motorcycles, he sped for New York. 

One of his tires shot out a mile from the edge of the city, Tower just within sight off the coast, sending him tumbling across the asphalt, and into the waiting hands of Slade Wilson.

Who kept him for three months, until he thought of an escape plan.

Using the nanobots on himself came to him in a dream. Dick supposed a bird in the wind was better than a dead one in hand, but when he glanced over at the machine there was familiar tug in his stomach.

Not yet.

Dick hesitated.

You haven’t learned yet.

Slade taught new perspectives on judo, jujutsu, ninjutsu, karate, hapkido, boxing, and the melting pot style of the US Army including wrestling, knife fighting, short and long range rifles. Thousands of way to kill a man. Thousand and one ways to counter those tactics. 

Training didn’t end for the day until Dick learned each move with the precision of a scalpel in a surgeon’s hand which meant hours on the mats until his muscles were burning and he couldn’t think past trying to get enough space between him and Slade to be able to breathe. Slade’s arm pressed against his throat, pinning him to the mat, and no amount of leverage let Dick pry it free. Curling his fingers around Slade’s wrist, it was a near miss that his claws didn’t make an appearance, Slade's arm lifting just before Dick would have lost consciousness. 

Slade rose to his feet, taking Dick up with him when his hand refused to unlock from Slade's wrist. Taking a deep breath, Dick's free hand signed ‘calm’ to himself, but with his heart kicking like a stallion in his chest, his grip on Slade’s arm didn’t loosen in the slightest.

“Let go.”

“Muscle seized,” Dick barely managed to get the words past his teeth. 

“That’s not an affordable liability in the field.” Slade held up the button, flicking the cap open. “Let go.”

The additional spike in adrenaline only made his hand grip tighter as he fought to keep calm enough to prevent his talons from sinking into Slade's skin and his eyes blue. By his hip, Dick's free hand signed ‘calm’ to himself, again, and again, but he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs for a proper deep breath. 

“Your hand seizes up when you’re waiting for your target and you miss that two second window between ending a life and waiting another three months for a perfect opening. Or in this case, saving the lives of those little so-called heroes.” 

There was no chance of trying to talk himself into a few more seconds of Slade’s minimal patience with how his throat was closing up. In a split second decision, he grabbed his thumb and snapped it backwards, breaking his grip even though his other fingers stayed curled as he tore his hand away. There was a certain glint in Slade’s eye that could almost be mistaken for pride as he flicked the cap down and returned it to the right side of his belt. 

“Again.” 

Dick threw himself at Slade. Training with Batman had taught him how to compensate for injuries, to leave a fight with minimal damage so he could go out the next night and do it all over again. Training with Slade reminded him that the unfeeling place in the back of his mind he created during his time with the Court never went away. Fatigued muscles shook as he mirrored Slade’s movements, thumb tucked under his other fingers but the pain radiating up to his elbow didn’t effect the weight behind his hits, sweat rolling down his skin and stinging his eyes. 

Slamming the heel of his hand into Slade’s nose he felt the bone give with a sickening crunch, blood dripping onto his armor. On anyone else it would have been a fatal hit, sending bone fragments into the skull cavity only temporarily stilled the mercenary. A split second to steal the remote in Slade’s left belt pocket and tuck it away into his own belt before falling right into fighting stance.

Slade laughed lowly, blood staining his teeth. “And that’s how you kill a man, little bird.” 

In the back of his mind, part of him was screaming, but it wasn’t a voice Dick could afford to listen to, hands raised, still waiting for Slade’s retaliatory hit. It never came.

“Dismissed.” 

Dick lowered his hands.

“Set your thumb, there are no allowances for injuries in the field, compensate accordingly.” 

Considering Slade’s regenerative capabilities, Dick had his own personal medical kit, and was more than familiar with the contents. Splinting his thumb, Dick settled down on his bedroll. It should have been difficult to sleep only fifteen feet away while the mercenary sharpened his katana, but there was something faintly familiar about the sound of the wet stone on the blade. 

It was less than twelve hours later that the Titans arrived at the stronghold for an attempted rescue, even knowing their bloodstreams were full of nanobots, and the attempt was worse than futile. Even after Dick had fought them over and over again at Slade’s behest. Hurt them. A push of a button made all of them drop like flies, agony wracking through their bodies. 

“And now you get to watch your little friends lose, Renegade,” Slade said.

“No, I won’t.” 

Dick held up the button, watching Slade’s eye widen as he recognized the remote control. It gave the mercenary just enough time to throw himself out of the radius as he hit the button, nanobots infecting Dick’s body, barely able to stay upright past the pain flooding through him.

“Unless you want to ruin your legacy.” 

Slade’s thumb lifted off the button, Dick's friends trying to get their bearings again as the pain finally stopped, stumbling to their feet. 

“Until next time, little bird,” Slade said, stepping away. 

“Try never,” Roy said, arms trembling as he notched an arrow.

Slade disappeared down a tunnel. The Titans all but collapsed, save for Victor who moved to the device, rewiring it in quick motions, and picking up the remote Dick had dropped. Pressing it again, a red wave ran over them, but no pain followed. Over the few months the team had formed, they had added several new members to the team. In the moment, it felt right, like a puzzle piece slotting into place. Looking at the bruises on their skin from his own hands, it felt like he had only added to the list of people he would hurt. 

“We’re should be clean now,” Victor said. “They’re deactivated, the white blood cells will break them down.”

Dick’s knees went out from under him. 

“Woah, hey.” Wally dropped down beside him. “You okay?”

Dick signed apologies, but Kori knelt down before him, catching his hands.

“It’s okay, we understand you were trying to protect us,” Kori said, lacing their fingers. “And now it’s time to bring you home.” 

Dick thought he might cry.

“Let’s go, boy blunder.” Donna took his other hand, pulling him up to his feet.

The Titans surrounded him as they walked back to the jet and it was only seconds after it took off that Dick fell asleep with his head resting on Wally’s shoulder, who kept his gestures one handed as the others talked through every major event Dick had missed, namely celebrity breakups, new movie releases, and video games they were waiting on him to play. Donna woke him with a light hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze when the touch still manage to startle him.

“Home sweet home,” Donna said.

Wiping sleep from his eyes, Dick rose to his feet and stretched out as the jet landed on the Titans Tower. Straightening himself out, he braced a hand on the ceiling as the deck lowered, stepping off the jet to find two figures waiting for him, one in all black, the other in a ratty red hoodie and a domino mask. 

“You asshole.” Jason closed the space in two big steps, slamming into him, and burying his face in his chest, his voice cracking. “Don’t you ever do that again. Don’t you ever—“

“I missed you too.” Dick held him tight enough to bruise.

Over Jason’s shoulder, Dick looked at Batman, standing a few paces away, eyes unreadable under the cowl. 

“If you’re here to say I told you so, don’t bother, I had it handled, I’m fine—“

Bruce’s hand settled on his shoulder, squeezing. “Come home.” 

Dick’s throat went too tight to answer.

Taking the zeta tube back to Gotham, he found Alfred waiting on the other side, hands folded behind his back.

“Hey, Alfie,” Dick said, trying for a smile but he knew the exhaustion showed on his face.

One gloved hand cupped his cheek, turning him this way and that way under the light. “Oh my dear boy…”

“I’m okay,” Dick said. “I’m okay.”

“Come, Master Dick, we’ll have to get you a bath and a proper meal, I believe.” 

It was easier to ascend the stairs with Alfred leading the way, leaning most of his weight on the sink counter as Alfred drew him a bath, and asked after injuries, but Dick only shook his head. Settling down into the warm water, he let his eyes close, sinking under the surface until his lungs strained. Resurfacing, he scrubbed himself down until his skin was pink, letting his wings come out to drag his fingers through them for the first time in months, littering the white towels with black feathers, and cleaning under his claws. The water was going cold by the time there was a knock on the door. 

“I’ll be right out,” Dick said, staring at the bruises littering his legs.

It was still another minute or two before he rose, almost surprised to see the water hadn’t run red, and there wasn’t a stain of blood on his palms, not even his talons. Avoiding the mirror, Dick took a few deep breaths until the wings melded back under his skin, and he could get dressed. Making his way down the stairs, he paused in the doorway to the kitchen realizing he was wearing his pajamas. 

“Dick?” Jason asked, sitting at the table. 

‘No sleep clothes at table,’ Dick signed.

Bruce’s eyebrows raised slightly. 

Alfred picked up the tray he had been setting down on the table and walked for the sitting room instead. 

“With the late hour, I suppose we could call this one of your… breakfast exceptions.” 

Dick settled down by the foot of the couch, but couldn’t bring himself to reach for the food until Bruce had sat down and picked up his tea. Digging in with one arm curled around the plate, he almost let his wings out to cover himself completely, but a glance up at Jason’s slightly rattled expression stopped him. Instead he offered him half of his sandwich and Jason was quick to sit beside him. It was easier to eat with Jason eating off the same plate and his shoulder pressed against his. Closing his eyes, Dick breathed in the smell of Alfred’s cleaning products, fresh baked bread, lavender tea, Jason’s deodorant, and Bruce’s bergamot cologne. 

“Off to bed, chum.” 

Dick opened his eyes, blinking when he realized he might have dozed off with a sandwich still in hand. Bruce helped him up to his feet, guiding him up the stairs with a warm hand on his back. Aside from dusting, his bedroom had clearly remained just as he left it. Even his nest of blankets and pillows was undisturbed on his bed rather than neatly remade. Climbing into bed, he tucked his face into his pillow, and tried to breathe in the comfort of a familiar space.  

“You’re going to let yourself get taken,” Dick said.

Bruce stitched a shallow cut on his arm shut, likely hiding a knife or other weapon under his own skin. 

“Our numbers are limited as they are,” Dick said. “We can’t afford to lose you on an operation that we don’t have enough intel to run.”

“It’s not an operation,” Bruce said, tying off the last stitch.

“Right because you were going to leave in the middle of the night without saying goodbye to any of your kids so we couldn’t stop you.”

“No.” Bruce met his eyes. “So you wouldn’t come with me.”

Dick’s throat tightened. 

“I know you,” Bruce said. “I know your weaknesses and how the K'vaks are exploiting them by using the simple knowledge that the people you love may still be alive to get you to lead your men in an attempted rescue.” 

“And a one-man operation has a better rate of success?” 

“It’s an affordable casualty.” 

“No, it’s not,” Dick said. “We need you—“

“No,” Bruce said quietly. “You haven’t needed me for a long time, Dick.” 

Dick braced his feet. “I won’t let you go. We can’t afford any losses, especially not you, not after… not after all that we’ve been through. I still need you, I still—“

Bruce’s arms wrapped around him and Dick tucked his face into his shoulder, clutching at the back of his shirt, and breathing him in. Bruce’s hand cradled his head and he felt eight years old again, mourning the loss of his parents, not knowing that there would be more pain in the future. There was a prick to the side of his neck and he pulled back to look at Bruce with wide eyes as he tucked the syringe away.

“No,” Dick said, legs already going weak.

Bruce went down to his knees with him, holding his face in his hands. “It’s okay, chum.” 

Dick’s fingers curled loosely into the front of his shirt. “B…”

Bruce brushed his hair back from his eyes. “For all my failings, you were the antithesis to every one of them.”  

Dick fell asleep in his hands and woke up tucked into Bruce’s sleeping bag with the man himself hours and hours out of reach. Tim read what had happened right off of his face, Jason tried to follow, and Damian still had that faith that his father could do anything even in the new world order they lived in. Damian believed it right up until a clone wearing Bruce’s likeness walked into camp.

And Dick fought against the moves he had learned before he hit double digits until they were both bloody and bruised, but it was Slade’s training that helped him snap the clone’s neck.

“Dick?” Bruce asked, only half awake.

Dick climbed into his bed, settling down with his back to him, and glaring out at the room. There was a heavy pause before Bruce’s hand curled around his ribs pulling him in slowly against his chest as though the action was rusty. Blinking hard, Dick took a slow breath, even though he knew Bruce could feel the way it stuttered under his palm, letting it out slowly under some illusion of control, of calm. 

“You’re safe, chum,” Bruce said. “You’re home.”

Tears slipped from his eyes, but Dick turned his face into the sheets to breathe in familiar laundry detergent and the smell he associated with his dad to try to settle himself back down. Bruce didn’t say anything, but he took slow deep breaths that Dick could feel against his back, unconsciously mirroring until the tears slowed to a stop. 

“Did… did you think I had gone bad?” Dick asked, trying not to listen to the waver of his voice. 

Bruce was quiet. “…I only thought about bringing you home.”

Dick wiped his nose on his sleeve, not sure if it was the answer he wanted, but it might have been the one he needed to hear. The creak of a door caught both of their attention, but it was only Jason. Standing in the doorway, it was a few seconds before he straightened out his shoulders, and climbed into the kingsized bed to settle on Dick’s other side. 

Chapter Text

“Dick was my age and he was out there!” Jason argued, taped up hands balled into fists by his sides as he watched them get ready for patrol.

“Dick was trained by assassins since he was nine,” Dick sing-songed, fixing his mask into place.

“Oh don’t play the Court of Owls card.” Jason jabbed a finger at him.

“It’s not a card,” Bruce said sternly.

Jason huffed. “I just— he’s still just a person, it’s not like he’s even going out with his wings anymore, and I’ve been training!”

“I trained for years, Jay,” Dick said, a little gentler. “Honestly, I’ll be a little offended if you’ve managed to surpass me in only a few months.”

Jason looked somewhat mollified. “Oh yeah? Come join me on the mats, I’ll show you.”

Dick gave a little shake of his head, even as his stomach turned a little. The thought of fighting Jason more than a little nauseating, even if it was only for training. Bruce let Jason come to the Cave for training, especially now that he had joined the boxing team, but hadn’t questioned why Dick never offered to spar even though he would be a more suitable match for Jason’s current weight. 

“Bed. Eleven o’clock,” Bruce said.

Jason waved a dismissive hand, standing before the punching bag again as they got into the Batmobile. Sweeping through the streets they made their first patrol of Gotham at ground level with the familiar rumble of the Batmobile’s engine and the chatter of the police radio for company. Stopping a few petty thefts, they headed for higher ground, splitting up to tackle a mugging and a breaking and entering separately. Leaving the B&E tied up for the cops, Dick returned to the rooftops, but paused as he caught a glimpse of the figure below, an uncanny valley sensation moving through him like vertigo.

Blinking hard, Dick followed the well dressed man from above, but there was nothing particularly suspicious about him, all he appeared to be doing was buying flowers, likely for a wife by the look of it. Looking at the man felt like watching a clay-mation movie and it almost made Dick nauseous to hear his voice. It took a few minutes to look past the vertigo to place the man as the new mayoral candidate: Jon Mueller.

“Robin, status report.”

Dick jumped at the sound of his comm, tearing his eyes away from the likely mayor-to-be. “B&E handled.”

“Head for the docks,” Bruce said. “There’s noise of a new shipment coming in.”

“Shipment of what?” Dick asked.

“That’s what I intend to find out.” 

Dick rejoined him on a warehouse rooftop over looking the docks below. It was quiet as far as he could see, even with his Bat-noculars, and he settled in to wait, crouched down beside Bruce. A flicker of light caught the corner of Dick’s eye, and he looked over.

“Robin?” Bruce asked.

Dick scanned the rooftop, but all he caught was a flicker of a shadow far too small to be a threat, and pressed his fingers against his comm. “Mockingbird’s location?”

“Location secure, though not where he was supposed to be as of half an hour ago,” Alfred said, displeasure in his tone.

“I’m too old for a bedtime,” Jason’s voice came over the line.

Dick’s shoulders relaxed, glancing at Bruce, who was raising an eyebrow at him, not that it could be seen under the cowl. “Thought I might have seen a bird, over and out.”

“Over and out, you’re such a dork,” Jason said. 

“I’m not the one with a bedtime,” Dick said. 

“Quiet on the comms,” Bruce growled before it could escalate further.

“Oh yeah, let the golden boy get the last word,” Jason muttered.

“It’s off to bed with you now,” Alfred said.

Dick tried not to laugh at the words ‘golden boy’ as though he hadn’t been a partially feral assassin Bruce had taken to the Wayne manor and tried to re-socialize. Movement below caught both of their attention, especially as the shipment turned out to be supercharged weapons.

“We can’t let those get into the hands of the Gotham gangs,” Dick said.

“My thoughts exactly,” Bruce said, leaping off the roof. 

It was as easy as singing an old favorite song fighting back to back with Batman, disarming smugglers, and prioritizing keeping any of them for reaching for anything fancier than a regular old glock. Dick really didn’t like the strange glow of the gun-like weapons in the crates.  

Batman deflected the gun to the side, bullet burying in a crate behind him. A bright blue glow burst around them, only to be shut out by the darkness of Batman’s cape covering him. The warehouse decimated. Third degree burns along Bruce’s arm where it covered his back, second degree on Dick’s leg where the cape hadn’t quite covered him. Four dead smugglers.

“The bullet’s going to hit the crate!” Dick shouted.

There was a split second hesitation where Batman typically would have deflected, but he let the bullet hit his armor instead, forcing a grunt from him. It didn’t pierce the kevlar, but it still allowed the smuggler the opening to pistol whip him before Bruce knocked the smuggler out cold with one hard punch. Dick took down the last goon with a roundhouse kick. Catching his breath, Dick’s eyes went first to the untouched crates, then met Bruce’s eyes under the cowl.

“How did you know that was going to happen?” Bruce asked, teeth stained with blood.

“Gut instinct?” Dick tried.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Back to the Cave.”

Dick’s shoulders slumped, grappling back to the Batmobile for a silent, but mercifully short ride back to the Cave. Changing out of his costume, he sat on the edge of the medical cot, drumming his fingers as Bruce tore open an IV needling and tubing. 

“Is this really necessary?” Dick asked.

“In your recent missions with the Titans did you come into contact with dark matter?”

Dick stared at him. “You think I’m a meta? Because I have good instincts?”

“Arm.” Bruce held out the needle.

Dick hesitated.

Bruce’s voice softened somewhat. “It’ll be quick.”

Dick stuck out his arm. “I’m not a little kid, I’m not scared of needles anymore.”

Bruce tied the elastic around his bicep, warm, calloused hand curling around the back of his arm, and Dick looked away towards the bats in the distance. The smell of rubbing alcohol made his stomach churn as Bruce swabbed the inside of his elbow.

“Dark matter,” Bruce prompted.

Dick swallowed, throat clicking as the needle slid in. “Uh, no dark matter, no meteor, no exposure to new chemicals… you’ve already had me tested for a dormant metagene when I first came to you, so you know no extreme stressor could activate what I don’t have.” 

Bruce hummed. 

“And I know next you’ll have me tested for traces of magic. The Titans and I did fight a spellcaster, but I doubt they would give me… uh, what exactly are you testing for?” 

Dick turned towards him, but Bruce’s knuckles gently nudged his jaw to keep him facing towards the bats and away from the needle.

“Abnormalities,” Bruce said.

“Abnorm— great, thanks, very specific,” Dick sighed. 

Bruce released the elastic, sliding the needle out of his arm, and pressing a wad of gauze over it. Looking over, Dick pressed his own fingers to the gauze so Bruce could take the vials over to the lab equipment. 

“Any side effects from your implant?” Bruce asked.

“No.”

“Uncontrolled shifting?”

“B, I said no.”

Bruce gave him an unimpressed look.

“How could my implant help me predict what was going to happen tonight?” Dick asked with exasperation. “Can’t we just call it gut instinct and move on?” 

“No.” 

“Right, no, of course not, because you’re the Batman,” Dick lowered his voice to a rasp, earning another unamused look. “So, you have fun with your blood samples, I have school in the morning.” 

Dick hopped to his feet, but Bruce caught his arm.

“Dick.” 

Dick tensed up, looking back at him.

“You can talk to me,” Bruce said quietly. 

Don’t.

“Run your tests, B.” Dick squeezed his arm. “But I’m okay, really, it was just a gut feeling.”

Bruce frowned, but let him go, signing back automatically when Dick signed goodnight, and he carried a smile the rest of the way up to his room. Dropping down onto his bed, he stared at the ceiling, playing through the events of the night until he fell asleep.

“We can’t go back for each other,” Tim said, hand on the glass case, Kon, or what looked like him, floating inside.

“What?” Dick asked.

“We have to promise now,” Tim said. “Before we lose anyone else, that if one of us gets taken, there will be no rescue attempt.”

“Tim,” Dick said, more than aghast.

“We can’t afford to lose anymore of our numbers just because…” Tim’s voice was sharp, but there were tears in his eyes, fingers curling against the glass. “Just because they’re the people we love, it’s not fair to those of us still alive and kicking.”

“I can’t,” Dick said. “Tim, you can’t ask us—“

Tim turned his eyes on him, tears running down his face, dark circles under his eyes, and looking absolutely haunted. “I’m asking. I’m asking because if you don’t say yes, I won’t be able to stop myself from going after him.”

Dick couldn’t believe there was a world in which he wouldn’t go after his family, his friends, his allies. 

“Tim, you haven’t slept, let’s—“

“You know I’m right.”

“When aren’t you?” Dick tried to joke, but he couldn’t quite make it.

“Please,” Tim said. “How can I… how can I not go? If we might go tomorrow or the next day or the next, how am I supposed to decide who is and who isn’t worth throwing our lives away for? Where do we draw the lines?”

Dick’s throat was tight. “Tim, I… I can’t…”

“They’ll listen to you,” Tim said. “I know it’s not fair, but if you say, if you say we won’t go back, not for anyone, they’ll listen.”

Dick looked at the body of the clone that Tim had kept alive, but had carved samples from in the desperate attempt that next time they would know it was an imposter before it was too late. Picking up his radio, Dick sent out a signal, and waited for the roll call of numbers, gaps missing where their fallen and taken should have called out.

“I’m calling a vote,” Dick said, looking at Tim, at the thing pretending to be Kon. “We all have people we’ve lost, we all have people who have been taken from us, and tomorrow we’ll have more. Our numbers are dwindling, we didn’t have the strength for a full scale rescue at the start, and we don’t now. We won’t the next time one of us is taken. I’m asking… I’m asking you to vote now, to decide that everyone we’ve lost, everyone we will lose, we let go. I’m asking you… I’m asking you to let go of the thought of rescue for yourselves and the people you care about.”

The radio crackled with silence.

Dick’s voice wobbled. “All in favor?”

One by one the “ayes” came down the line and Dick closed his eyes pressing the radio to his forehead, he knew that all of them were answering for themselves, that they were saying it was okay to be let go… but he had no doubts that when the time came and it wasn’t them but their neighbor… there would be no relief from the guilt. Tim fell to his knees, hand still on the tank, hanging his head. 

In the end, Tim hadn’t been taken by the K’vaks, but by an infection that his body hadn’t been able to fight off even with their desperate attempt to find antibiotics that hadn’t been in production for over three years. 

“Hey, hey,” Dick soothed as another shiver wracked through Tim’s body. “Easy, it’s okay.”

Tim coughed wetly. Damian’s voice faltered on the page he was reading, fingers paused on the frail paper of an ancient copy of the Velveteen Rabbit. Wiping sweat from Tim’s face, Dick cleaned the blood from his cracked lips in the same go. With Tim laying back against his chest, he could feel the way every cough scraped through him, but at least Dick’s own body could ease his airways by keeping him propped up and warm. Damian’s eyes flicked down to his watch, then over to the doorway of their temporary safe house. 

“He’s not going to find any,” Tim rasped. “They haven’t made antibiotics in almost three years and everything within miles has already been ransacked.”

“He will,” Damian said firmly.

Dick’s hand instantly went for his gun at the sound of the floorboards creaking, but it was only Jason looking like he hadn’t slept in all three days he had been searching. Meeting his eyes, Dick knew before Jason even gave a slight shake of his head that he had been unsuccessful.

“The others are still looking,” Jason said quietly.

“Doesn’t matter,” Tim coughed. “I’m not delirious enough not to notice I’ve gone septic.”

“You will not speak in this defeatist manner, Timothy,” Damian said, outrage clear on his face.

Tim laughed, but it turned into an agonizing cough, Dick rubbed his sternum with his knuckles to soothe it until he settled down against his chest again.

“Easy, baby bird,” Dick murmured. 

“I will—“ Damian rose.

Tim’s hand curled loosely around his wrist. “Keep reading.” 

Damian opened the book again, his jaw working, but he couldn’t get the words out. Jason eased it from his hands, sitting down by Tim’s knee, and picking up from the top of the page. His voice was soft and low, but it rose and fell as he gave the characters different voices, though his words caught in his throat as Tim’s breathing grew sharp and audible. Jason held the cover of the book so tight, there was an audible cracking sound of the spine protesting. 

Brushing Tim’s greasy hair back from his face, Dick tucked him under his chin, trying to fold him into his chest even though he had grown up an inch or two taller than him. Dick sang softly, the way he vaguely remembered his mother doing, the way he had done to Jason the first time he had been dosed with fear toxin, to Tim when his insomnia kept him up for three days straight, to Damian after a nightmare involving Ra’s. 

In one hand, Jason clutched the book, in the other, he held Tim’s hand so tight it looked like it might break his nimble fingers. Damian settled down beside Tim, having nearly outgrown him now, it was easy for him to curl around him, warding off the cold as best he could. Dick could feel the rasp of Tim’s breathing against his skin, each tremor running through his body, each wet cough. Until he couldn’t. 

Dick pulled the knot of his tie loose again while Alfred was distracted fussing over Jason’s cleanly pressed suit. There was a certain humor to two teenagers in hundred dollar suits in Dick’s mind, it felt like paying for extra sets of doll’s clothes. The doll wouldn’t care if she wore the same dress every day and no hundred dollar tailored suit would make Dick look any less like a fourteen year old circus kid playing dress up. 

Jason had similar thought. “This is stupid.”

“The Wayne Charity gala raises thousands of dollars for children in need,” Alfred said.

“And, what? We’re the props?” Jason asked. 

“It is expected of you to be properly introduced to society more than simply in passing news articles, and the gala is a far more appropriate place for your debut than the paparazzi incident of the previous year,” Alfred said, straightening up, then sighed. “Master Dick.”

Dick tried for an innocent look, but it slipped away as Alfred reached for his tie.

“Alfred,” Dick protested. 

“It will only be for a few hours,” Alfred said, gentler. 

Dick reluctantly left the tie done up, taking a steadying breath, and straightening his shoulders. It settled a part of him as Bruce made his way down the hall, dressed in his own suit, hair brushed back, and adjusting his cufflinks. 

“Ready?” Bruce asked.

“Whatever,” Jason said.

“Dick Grayson, ward of billionaire Bruce Wayne, reporting for duty, sir.” Dick snapped off a playful salute.

Bruce gave them both an amused look, giving Dick’s hair a gentle tussle which settled him more than any pep talk could. Though as they descended the stairs, Dick half wished Bruce Wayne came with a cape too, so he could tuck himself underneath it as socialites looked at them with curiosity. Dick lifted his chin, running his tongue over his teeth before flashing a big smile, an old circus trick to keep his smile from sticking. The ringmaster used to even put vaseline on his teeth. On Bruce’s left, Jason did no such thing, scowling at the crowd staring at them. 

As soon as they were on the floor, the crowd swept in like a returning tide, and Bruce shook hands, and laughed, and smiled, and even kissed the back of a lady’s hand with a wink. Dick followed his lead, smiling up at socialites, and shaking hands when they were offered, though the hands extended to him were more out of amusement it seemed than any genuine hello. A few of the older women, though by the makeup they had caked on he thought they wouldn’t appreciate his mental categorization, grabbed at his face and tie and suit, telling him that he ‘cleaned up well’ and that he was ‘darling’ and ‘looked like a little gentleman’. Jason glared at the first one that tried to do the same, fingers curled into fists at his sides as he followed along until they reached the safety of a buffet table and he broke off. 

Dick’s stomach turned at the thought of food, letting himself be swept along by the tide until he lost Bruce in the flow of it as one man wanted to talk to him about WE’s research division, and another his charitable, and another, and another, and another. 

“Richard Grayson.”

Dick turned to find a woman with red curly hair and a shimmering silver dress approaching. She stuck her hand out before she was even within shaking distance.

“I’m Vickie Vale."

Dick shook. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Vale.” 

“I have to ask, what measures of rehabilitation is Mr. Wayne using on you?” 

Dick stared at her. “…I’m sorry?”

“Both you and Jason Todd have criminal records, though Mr. Wayne’s ball is focused on underprivileged youths, why should donors be expected to funnel money into this program without any assurance that these juvenile offenders will stay on the straight and narrow?”

“I… I don’t have a criminal record.”

“You spent time in juvenile detention, did you not?”

“Yes, but—“

“And according to my sources, Jason Todd has stolen more than what his record says he has.”

“That’s conjecture—“

“So what measures has Bruce Wayne taken to curb your behavior? Why should we call you success stories?”

“I’m not a success story, I’m a person,” Dick said, fingers curled into fists.

Vickie’s lips turned up. “Can I quote you on that?”

“No,” a familiar voice said. “You can’t and if Mr. Wayne finds out you were recording his ward without him present, I imagine you’ll find yourself a life time ban from these events.” 

Vickie’s jaw twitched. “Kent.”

“Vale.” Clark gave her a forced smile, hand extended. “Let’s have that recording device if you please.”

Vickie held out a second longer before handing it over. Clark clicked it off and deleted the recording before handing it back.

“Have a nice night, Ms. Vale,” Clark said.

She turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd.

“Thanks,” Dick said, turning to face him. “I… I practiced with Bruce, incase a reporter talked to me, but I didn’t… she was talking too fast and I couldn’t get a word out.”

“That’s what she does,” Clark said with a sympathetic smile. “She’s not interested in getting the truth, just writing the story she likes best, whatever you said she would have twisted.”

Dick squared his shoulders. “I’ll do better next time.” 

Clark smiled.

“I didn’t know you were going to be here,” Dick said.

“I didn’t know if I could make it, but Bruce always saves me a press pass for these events just incase.” 

“I’m surprised you recognized me,” Dick said, flashing him a smile. “All cleaned up and everything.”

Clark laughed a little. “Well, I had my doubts when you took the stairs instead of jumping over the railing, but I felt pretty confident it was you.” 

Dick’s face warmed, but he laughed all the same. Before he could continue the conversation his ears caught the raising of Jason’s voice and Dick turned in that direction to see Vickie Vale next to him at the buffet— Bruce appeared beside him, hand on Jason’s shoulder, a smile for Vickie, but his eyes were cold.

“…I think Ms. Vale might need the next save of the evening,” Dick said.

Clark gave his shoulder a little squeeze before making his way through the crowd. Left without anyone to talk to, Dick’s eyes flit over the crowd, trying to remember how he used to greet people coming to see him and his parents, at every show, no matter where or in what language. Except at the shows people were genuinely excited to see him, all he saw here was a sea of plastic smiles attempting to distract from hungry eyes. 

“And you must be Richard Grayson.” A woman in her thirties dipped down to look at him with a condescending smile. “You know, you do look a bit like Bruce just like the tabloids have been saying.”

Dick smiled up at her even though it felt like trying for an ambitious pose without warming up first, and offered up his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms…”

“Mrs. Saint-Claire.”

“Mrs. Saint-Claire,” Dick said. “How are you acquainted with Bruce?”

Her smile stretched further. “Well, let’s say we’re old friends. Perhaps old friends in the way your mom was, hm?”

“My circus primarily toured Europe, so I find it unlikely,” Dick said, smile pinching. 

“Ah, well, you never know, Bruce does a fair bit of traveling.”

“Are you fond of traveling?” Dick asked.

“I summer in France every year.”

“Parlez-vous français?” Dick asked.

Her eyes widened a little in surprise. “Oui. J’ai etudié le français à l’université.”

Dick spoke with her a little in French, asking about her favorite sights, and letting himself make mistakes here and there so she could correct his grammar. Traveling turned out to be a perfect conversation starter as most of the people in attendance had enough money to travel, and even if they didn’t have the interest, they liked the bragging rights of properties somewhere “foreign”. It didn’t give him a reprieve from how they viewed him.

“It’s good that you will finally be getting a proper education, you’re very lucky to be let into somewhere so prestigious as Gotham Academy, but I suppose Bruce Wayne has sway.”

“It was so… generous of Bruce Wayne to take you in. The Wayne’s have always been charitable.”

“You must be relieved to finally have a proper house and not a trailer.”

“You clean up so well, I never would have guessed you had been living on the streets for years.”

“Brucie did get you to a doctor, didn’t he? I’m sure you can catch all kinds of nasty afflictions from Crime Alley.” 

“You’re English is so good, did Bruce get you a tutor?”

Dick thought putting pushpins into his cheeks to keep his smile up might have been less painful to hear them talk about how his parents brought him up as though it were a disgrace, but he managed it until he could slip off to the edges of the room for a break. Running his eyes over the crowd, he hoped Jason was fairing better, but he knew it was unlikely. Dick’s cover story was that after he ran from the center, he ended up living on the streets where he so happened to bump into Bruce Wayne, who recognized him, and whisked both he and his friend, one Jason Todd, up off the streets like two stray kittens left out in a snowstorm. It was worse because in Jason’s case the story was close to true, at least Dick had the safety of a lie to keep the comments from hitting too close to home. 

“I hate these things.” 

Dick looked over at the young woman who slumped against the wall next to him. She couldn’t have been any older than twenty-one, though his guess was mostly based on the glass of champagne hanging from her fingers, a sleek silk dress clinging to her curves, one thin strap slipping down her shoulder, and her perfect hot-iron curls tussled, like she had run her own fingers through them one too many times during the evening. 

“I’m Liu,” she said, turning away from the crowd to look at him.

“Dick Grayson.”

Her lips curved up. “I know. You and your brother are the stars of the event tonight. I don’t know how you stand all that attention, I can barely make it through a conversation with these people. I thought the whole point of being rich was that you didn’t have to worry about money, not spend your whole evening talking about what costs what.”

Dick smiled a little. “For people who are living so comfortably, they sure do put a lot of work in to show us just how comfortable they are.”

Liu let out an amused exhale, turning that smile on him. “Your tie is crooked, did you know?”

Dick’s face warmed. “Putting up a circus tent is easier.”

Liu smiled, holding out her champagne glass. “Here, hold this.”

Dick held the glass as her hands went to his tie, but rather than fix it, she pulled it free, and undid the top button of his shirt. 

“There,” Liu said, his tie dangling from her fingers like a cat toy. “Now you look devilishly handsome, hm?”

Dick’s stomach knotted uncomfortably, though he couldn’t pinpoint why aside from the way she was smiling down at him. Dick tried to hand her the champagne flute, but she didn’t take it.

“Have a sip, we can share. It can be our little secret.” Liu winked.

Don’t. 

It felt like a sharp tug in his gut, like someone had hooked their fingers around his intestines, and yanked. 

“No, thank you,” Dick said, his hands slick and sweating against the warming glass of the flute. “I’m not old enough.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” Liu ducked down, lips brushing his ear. “Neither am I.”

One heavy hand settled on his shoulder, Eddie’s palm sweaty against his skin. Dick suddenly felt underdressed in only a tank top and pajama pants. In front of him, Liu smiled, stepping up to trail one painted nail down his chest.

“Nice pjs.” 

She snapped the waistband of his pajama pants with a smirk and behind him Eddie laughed lowly, slapping Dick's shoulder, and stepping back. Somehow that made his stomach turn worse, hearing the door click closed as he left. 

Liu stepped closer. “I hear you’re staying here for a few nights. Get into a fight with big bad Mr. Wayne?” 

“I don’t want to talk about that,” Dick said.

“Then let’s not.”

She cupped his face with one hand, nails digging into his skin, and pressing her lips against his, sticky with lipstick.

Dick looked out into the crowd, but they were tucked away in the corner, far from where the game of social climb was being played, and no one gave them a second glance. There was no way to step past Liu with the way he had tucked himself into the corner and she was crowded so close. 

“Why don’t we play hooky?” Liu asked with a smile. “I bet you know all the cool spots in this big house, where we can get away from all these fake people.”

“I should find Jason,” Dick said.

Liu looped his tie around his neck, but didn’t twist it in a knot, rather, giving it a little tug as she moved away from the corner, leading him like a dog. “It’ll be fun, I promise, your little brother won’t even know you’re missing.”

“The fuck I won’t.” 

Dick ducked under the tie around his throat, taking several steps back from Liu who had felt like a snapping turtle at the time, but now felt like Godzilla with Jason in range of any potential fallout, who was glaring at her, arms crossed. 

“You should watch your language,” Liu said coolly.

“Why? Who you gonna tell? Bruce Wayne?” Jason tilted his chin up.

Liu’s eye twitched slightly. 

“Let’s go find, B,” Dick said, setting aside the glass of champagne, and taking the opening to retreat.

“Don’t you want your tie?” Liu asked, dangling it between them.

Dick turned his back and kept walking, one hand on Jason’s shoulder to keep him moving ahead of him.

“What the hell was that?” Jason asked.

“Nothing,” Dick said, the lie tasted familiar on his tongue.

“Nothing? Are you serious? You looked like you were going to throw up on her shoes, what did she say to you?”

“Nothing, I—“ Dick glanced over his shoulder, and he could have sworn he could see what she looked like several years older, but he blinked and it was gone. “I don’t know, it reminded me of something.”

“Of what?” Jason asked. 

“I don’t know.” Dick looked back, but she was gone. “A dream, I think.”

“A dream?” Jason asked, giving him a weird look.

“You don’t ever get deja vu?”

“Not for weirdo rich girls.”

Dick bit back a laugh, taking his hand. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“You’re ditching? Aren’t you supposed to be the good one?”

“Temporarily!” Dick said. “I just… I think we should observe and learn from our environment before diving right in.”

“…you get sweet, I’ll get savory.”

Dick grinned. “Rendezvous at a higher vantage point.”

They split up and in his distraction of smuggling assorted deserts into expensive napkins he nearly knocked a kid over. He looked to be somewhere around nine or so, dark hair, and big blue eyes looking up at him.

“Sorry,” Dick said with a smile. “I didn’t see you down there.”

“You’re Dick Grayson.”

“I am, and you are?” Dick offered his hand.

“I saw you do a quadruple backflip,” the kid said. 

Dick blinked. “Oh. You… you were at one of the Gotham shows?”

The kid nodded. Dick opened his mouth to say something further, but the sound of a distant bird call summoned him away, and he said a quick goodbye, finding Jason up in the rafters of the ballroom so they could watch the proceedings without having to be a part of it. They made up stories for the people below, old feuds, affairs, and secret love children. Dick even managed to convince Jason not to throw food at the partygoers. Mostly. In all fairness, Dick may have “accidentally” dropped a shrimp of his own just to see if it so happened to land in a man’s breast pocket along with his handkerchief. Jason laughed so hard when it landed Dick had to grab the back of his jacket to keep him from falling. 

At some point, Bruce looked pointedly in their direction even if he couldn’t quite see them from below, and they took that as their cue to get down before he told Alfred. As it crept later in the evening, Bruce Wayne got so sufficiently drunk he nearly took the whole dessert table down, and guests took that as their sign to clear out. Most of them.

“Hang on a second,” Dick said.

Jason turned to look at him with a frown. “Where are you going?” 

Dick signed, ‘wait here, right back’, before jogging off. Making his way up to Bruce’s study as though led by a rope around his wrist, he found Liu on her knees, ear pressed to Bruce’s safe. 

“Front door is actually, uh, about two floors down,” Dick said. "Incase you got lost on your way out."

Liu startled, turning with a little smile as she rose to her feet, hands up. “You caught me, officer… any chance you know the combination?” 

“You think I would help you steal from the man who took me in?”

“Oh come on.” Liu stepped closer. “You know he’s just using you for publicity and besides, a man like that? He won’t even miss it. I was only going to take enough to keep a roof over my head for another month. I mean… you can understand that, can’t you?” 

“Yeah, I can because several of the homeless shelters in Gotham are supported by Bruce Wayne’s funding,” Dick said. 

“So what are you going to do? Tattle on me?” Liu leaned in. “And here I was thinking you were more mature than that, but it turns out you’re just a little kid."

Dick bristled. “I’m not a kid.” 

“No? Then why are you acting like one?” 

Dick’s jaw worked. 

Liu grinned. “Or are you just pulling on my pigtails?”

Dick took half a step back. “Look, you should go before Bruce catches you in his office—“

“I think I can come up with a pretty good alibi.” Liu kissed him, her lips tacky with lipstick like congealed blood.

Dick fell entirely still until those long nails slipped under the collar of his shirt and he stumbled back. The door closed behind him and he jumped, realizing Eddie had been hiding behind it the whole time, who put a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“You getting fresh with my girl, kid?”

“I— you shouldn’t—“ Dick’s words tangled up in his throat, signs at the tips of his fingers, but he doubted they would be anymore of an effective defense against the pair of them. 

“What’s the code to the safe?” Eddie asked.

Dick couldn’t tell them if he wanted to. Eddie’s fist connected with his stomach and he doubled over with the blow of it, wheezing, but otherwise didn’t make a sound. Yanking him up by the collar, Eddie met his eyes.

“The combination, kid.” 

Dick glared at him, fingers curled into fists, but using even a fraction of his training could give away his secret identity. 

“Oh, you think you’re tough, huh?” Eddie hit him again.

“Easy,” Liu said, but she didn’t look too disturbed by her boyfriend beating up a fourteen year old.

Eddie threw him to the floor, kicking him in the ribs when he tried to get up. With a gasp, Dick hauled himself up, grabbing the leg of Eddie’s jeans for balance who shook him off. 

“The numbers,” Eddie said.

“Eddie, this is taking too long,” Liu said, looking at the door. “The party’s cleared out, we need to get out of here before someone comes looking for him.” 

Eddie made a sound of frustration, hauling Dick back up to his feet to get in his face. “You tell anyone about this, you go running to daddy, and I’ll tell them you tried to force yourself on my girl. You’ll go right back to that center, you feel me?” 

Dick gave him a look so cutting the Titans told him it might as well have been the Batglare. 

“You feel me?” Eddie asked, but it carried less weight. 

“Eddie, let’s go.” Liu looked out into the hall before stepping outside. 

Eddie released him, following her out. Watching them go, Dick pulled his hands from behind his back to reveal the wallet he had nicked from Eddie’s pocket. Inside were a couple dollar bills, credit cards, and most importantly his license. Digging through Bruce’s desk drawers, he pulled out a burner cellphone, but sat on the edge of the desk to wait for his voice to return before dialing in the number.

“Captain Gordon speaking.”

“Eddie Hwang is responsible for the vandalisms and robberies being committed uptown, he runs a gang called the 21 Tigers through his dojo, and his girlfriend Liu is his lieutenant. They’re stockpiling an illegal serum to try to gain meta-human abilities and you’ll find evidence of this at 31 Marker Rd apartment 5G.”

“Who—“

Dick hung up the phone, popping out the SIM card, and snapping it in half. The wallet and ID he tucked under the charred logs in Bruce’s fireplace, hopefully to burn whenever he next decided to use it, and made his way out of the office once he was sure nothing had been taken. Heading down the stairs, he found the manor had been cleared entirely of its guests.

“Where the fuck were you?” Jason asked.

“Misplaced a cufflink,” Dick lied.

‘What on face?’ Jason signed, turning his back to Bruce and Alfred who were a few paces away. ‘Lipstick?’

Dick wiped roughly at his face, lipstick staining the white cuff of his button down, and he fought not to gag.

Jason’s eyes widened. “The weirdo from earlier—"

‘Shut up’ Dick signed sharply, eyes sliding over to Bruce.

Outrage was written across Jason’s face.

‘No important. Try steal. Stopped her. Kissed me to distract. Got away. The end.’ Dick signed quickly, watching Bruce out of the corner of his eye to make sure he didn’t see.

‘Bitch.’ Jason signed aggressively.

Dick almost laughed, but just signed, ‘the end’ again. 

“Whatever.” Jason stalked off towards the secret entrance, and Dick followed.

Changing into his uniform, Dick glanced quickly at himself in the mirror just to make sure there weren’t any lingering marks from Liu, but even just the look on his face turned his stomach, and he fought to keep down the cocktail shrimp and fancy cheese he and Jason had snacked on. There was the familiar thud of Jason’s fists against the heavy bag as he stepped out and made the final checks on his uniform.

Jason stepped away from the punching bag. “Hey, come spar with me.”

Dick’s stomach churned at the thought, but he threw up a smile. “Gotta save that energy for the bad guys.”

“Come on, one match. I’ve been training for months, I can take you.”

“Some other time, okay?” Dick looked away. 

“That’s what you always say,” Jason said, moving closer. “Stop deflecting, and just fight me.”

“Jay, c’mon, enough.” 

“Come on! Fight me!” Jason shoved him.

Dick stepped back. “I can’t.”

“What? You don’t think I’m good enough? You think I can’t hold my own?”

“Jay, if I hit you I don’t think I’ll be able to look in the mirror anymore.”

Jason stilled.

“I can’t—“ Dick’s throat got tight. ’No hurt family. Not weapon anymore.’

“You’re not going to hurt me,” Jason said. “It’s sparring.”

Dick looked down at his hands. “I fought other talons. Like me. I—“

Jason frowned.

‘Hurt them. Tore them apart. Never hurt you.’ 

“You won’t,” Jason said. “You’ve been Robin for years and you’ve never hurt any of the villains like that. You gotta let that shit go, Dick.”

“I just.” Dick shook his head. “I can’t. Not with you.”

“You train with the Titans,” Jason said.

“They’re metas, you’re—“

Jason scowled. “What? Breakable?”

“My little brother,” Dick said. 

“I’m gonna be taller than you someday.”

“You’ll still be my little brother.”

Jason sighed. “C’mon, Dick, you know it’ll help me get better, you don’t move the way the Bat does, there’s shit you can teach me that he can’t.”

“What assassins and mercenaries taught me,” Dick said bitterly, looking at his hands, curling and uncurling his fingers.

“What your parents taught you,” Jason said. 

Dick blinked.

“What being Robin taught you,” Jason said.

Dick opened his mouth, but they both looked over as Bruce made his way down into the Cave. Stepping away, Dick focused on making the checks to his uniform and gadgets while Jason dropped down into the chair by the computer with a huff. Bruce paused slightly, eyes sliding back and forth between them, their plays at nonchalance wouldn’t fool the Batman, but he didn’t have any evidence to accuse them with, so he said nothing.

“Ready?” Bruce asked.

“Sir, yes, sir.” Dick snapped off a salut.

Bruce pointed at Jason. “Go to bed.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jason waved a dismissive hand. 

In the Batmobile, Bruce gave him a look which would have been an eyebrow raise if not for the cowl, but the slight tilt to his head got the message across effectively. Dick returned with his own well-practiced innocent look that earned a sigh, and a burst of speed as the Batmobile started whipping through streets of Gotham, prowling for crime. By the police radio, it was mostly petty crime out tonight which left them to park the Batmobile and take to the rooftops, splitting up to stop muggings, assaults, and break ins.

Pausing on a rooftop after leaving the mugger cuffed to a drainpipe, Dick reached for his comm, the back of his neck prickling as he felt a pair of eyes on him. There was the soft click of a camera shutter to his left. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small figure. Gotcha. Sliding off the roof, he caught the ledge by his fingertips, and slipped through the open window of the abandoned building. Overhead he could hear the scramble of feet, and took the now vacant fire escape up. The kid was peering over the edge of the roof, camera around his neck, and back to Dick.

“Get some good photos?”

The kid startled, turning to face him with wide eyes. Tim Drake. It was the same gut feeling he had gotten when he met Jason for the first time. It wasn’t déjà vu, it was like peeling a layer of film from his eyes. 

“Robin! I— I wasn’t— I won’t give the photos to anyone, I just—“

“Let me see.”

Tim tentatively handed over the camera and Dick flipped through the photos, admiring a few long distance ones he had gotten of both Robin and Batman.

“You’ve been doing this for awhile, huh?”

Tim fidgeted. “Can I keep the photos? I had to climb a lot of stairs to get them.”

Dick laughed, handing the camera back as none of the photos caught either his or Bruce’s face. “Here you go.”

“Thank you, Mr. Grayson.” 

Dick paused. “I’m sorry?”

Tim’s eyes widened with dawning horror. “Mr. Robin. Thank you, Mr. Robin. Robin.” 

Dick sighed, pressing his comm. “B, we’ve got a bit of a situation over here.”

Tim squeaked. “Batman? You’re calling Batman here?”

“Details, Robin,” Batman growled.

“Non-emergent,” Dick said.

“Oh my god, I’m going to meet Batman! I mean, I’ve already met him technically, but not when he was Batman!” Tim looked like he might hyperventilate. “Oh no, is he going to be mad at me? I swear I didn’t tell anyone who you are!”

“Slow down, kid,” Dick said, taking an exaggerated deep breath.

Tim copied it automatically.

“How did you figure it out?” Dick asked.

“I saw you do a quadruple backflip one night when I was out taking photos and there’s only four people in the world who can do one currently,” Tim said. 

Dick winced. “B’s going to kill me.”

“Kill?” Tim turned white as a sheet. 

Dick took another deep breath, and Tim copied it.

“Batman doesn’t kill, I was exaggerating,” Dick said. “Have you told anyone?”

“No!” Tim looked horrified at the prospect. “No, I would never!”

“When did you figure this out?”

“Two years ago?”

“Two— okay, sure, because a seven year old running around Gotham at night is totally safe.”

“I’m ten,” Tim said defensively, holding his camera.

“Where are you parents?”

“Egypt?” Tim tilted his head to the side, wrinkling his nose. “I think? I don’t remember exactly, they travel a lot, they’re archeologists, they collect artifacts.” 

“How long have they been gone?”

“A month.”

“And they left you alone?” 

“They left me a list,” Tim said defensively. “I know how to take care of the artifacts, and to vacuum every Sunday, and I can make mac’n’cheese all by myself!”

“B, you hear this?” Dick asked.

Batman emerged from the shadows. “I heard.” 

Tim jumped, turning to look up at Batman with wide eyes. “Woah. Mr. Batman, sir, I… you’re wow. I’m a huge fan!” 

Batman looked down at him. “You shouldn’t be out at night. It’s not safe.”

“I’m careful! I’ll stay out of the way. You two never even saw me before tonight!”

“Hn.”

“Hey, Tim.” Dick smiled. “How would you like to see the Batcave?”

Tim fainted. 

Dick caught him before he hit the ground, scooping him up into his arms. “Whoops.”

Batman gave him an exasperated look. “We can’t kidnap another child.”

“Why not? You kidnapped me.” 

“Robin.” 

“B, you heard him, his parents haven’t been home in months, there’s no one taking care of him. Besides! It’s not even really kidnapping it can be… babysitting, until his parents are back in town.”

“Hn.” 

“I’m taking that as a yes! Race you to the Batmobile!” 

Tim woke up half way through the ride and immediately began to speculate on what every button was for, babbling throughout the whole ride, and only being struck into awed silence once they stepped into the Cave, eyes wide as saucers.

“Uh, what the fuck?” Jason asked, clearly halfway through wailing on the punching bag.

“Language,” Bruce said, pulling off the cowl.

“I got you a little brother!” Dick said brightly, picking up Tim to hold him up like Simba in the Lion King.

“What,” Jason said flatly.

“Tim figured out our secret identities,” Bruce said. “Dick decided to kidnap him.”

“Kidnap?” Tim squeaked.

“Borrow,” Dick corrected quickly, setting him down. “I thought that while your parents are out of town you could stay here.”

Tim frowned. “I can take care of myself.” 

By the narrowing of Jason’s eyes, Dick could tell he was catching on to the context of the situation.

“I know,” Dick said. “But I thought this way, you can help us on comms, instead of stalking us on rooftops.”

Tim brightened. “Really?”

“Really,” Dick said with a smile. 

Bruce gave him a look, Dick returned it with a quick sign of ‘you have better solution?’. 

“It’s late,” Bruce said. “Tim will stay in the guest room for tonight. Off to bed, all of you.” 

Jason rolled his eyes. “Whatever, old man. C’mon, kid.”

Tim’s eyes raked over the cave, asking dozens of questions as Jason led him out of the cave, and Dick took off gear. 

“Neglect is a case for CPS,” Bruce said.

“Yeah, ‘cause that works so well in Gotham,” Dick said.

“We can’t just take every mistreated child off the street at your whims,” Bruce said.

“I know,” Dick said. “Tim’s different.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

“And he knows our identities, you can’t tell me staying with us isn’t the best outcome here,” Dick said, unwilling to explain that there was a deep gut feeling that Tim belonged at the manor with them.

“Hn.” 

“That’s your ‘I don’t want to admit Dick is right’ grunt.” Dick grinned, heading for the stairs. “See you at breakfast, B!” 

Chapter Text

Tim crept out of his room and down to the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of milk. The rules in the manor were different than the ones in his parents' house. In the manor he was welcome to eat whatever was in the fridge or pantry provided it hadn’t been labeled otherwise, but not allowed to use the stove or oven without supervision. There were no artifacts to maintain, not now that Bruce had hired a keeper for the Drake estate, and Alfred kept the manor in perfect condition. After the initial shine of exploring the manor and asking as many Batman related questions as he could thinking of wore off, he found himself at a loss of what to do.

“Do?” Jason asked. “Do nothing. It’s a Saturday, do your homework or something.” 

“I did my homework on Friday,” Tim said.

“Nerd,” Jason said, flipping a page.

Dick smirked from where he sat in the window. “Yeah, he’s the nerd. Hey, Jay, what are you reading right now?”

Jason flipped him off without looking up from Jane Eyre.

“What do you usually do on the weekends?” Dick asked.

Tim shifted his weight from foot to foot. “A lot of work goes into maintaining the artifacts and artwork my parents have. I’m really good at it! And then at night I would try to get photos of Batman.” 

“You need a better hobby,” Jason said.

Dick kicked his chair. “Little wing spends most of his time either here, in the library, or in the gym.” 

“Yeah, well, Dick spends most of his time running off to hang out with his girlfriend.”

“Kori’s not—“ Dick flushed, clearing his throat. “We also have a game room and a theater if either of those sound like fun.” 

Tim frowned. “I just… isn’t there something I’m supposed to be doing?” 

Dick blinked. “Oh, you want the rules.”

Tim’s shoulders relaxed. “Yeah.” 

Jason frowned, looking up. “The rules?”

Dick scuffed his foot against the carpet. “When I first came to stay with B, I… I had trouble adjusting to a new routine.”

“Shocking, after being held captive and brainwashed,” Jason muttered.

“Brainwashed?” Tim asked.

Dick kicked Jason’s chair again. “Anyways, it helped to have a couple clear cut rules to settle into a new environment. I even made a list.” 

Tim kept the list tucked into his journal where he had noted several of his own observations. 

1. No sleep clothes at breakfast. 
2. No hanging off the chandelier.
3. No jumping off anything taller than 15ft.
4. No knives.
5. No leaving the grounds.
6. No going outside until dark.
7. Report any injury or illness.
8. Ask questions if unclear.
9. One bowl of cereal per day.
10. No patrolling without Batman.

Finishing his milk, Tim rinsed out the glass, and set it on the drying rack. Flicking off the kitchen light, he turned to find a pair of yellow eyes staring at him from the dark. With a yelp, Tim flicked the lights back on to find Dick squinting at him, one hand covering his eyes. 

“I startle you?” Dick asked, looking amused, but dark circles rimmed his eyes. 

Blue eyes. 

One of the first notes Tim had added to his ‘Dick Grayson’ section was that he had frequent nightmares. It appeared to be an open secret in the household, especially with how adept Bruce was at dodging Dick’s attempts to steal his coffee when he wasn’t looking, and Alfred more often than not handed him chamomile tea upon returning from patrol. 

“If there’s noise in my house it’s an intruder,” Tim said.

Dick laughed a little, grabbing a glass from the cabinet, and filling it with water. “The manor was pretty quiet when I first came to stay here too, not that I really livened it up, I, uh, I didn’t used to be so chatty.”

“Is that why you and Jason sign sometimes?” Tim tilted his head to the side. “I thought you learned as a way to communicate with Batman when you had to be stealthy.”

“Actually, Bruce learned for me,” Dick said. “Though it has come in handy on patrol. When I first came to the manor, I didn’t really talk. At all.”

“…because of the cult thing?”

Dick tensed up. “I should have guessed the kid who figured out Batman’s secret identity at eight would be observant, huh?”

Tim ducked his head. 

“Did you ever hear about the Court of Owls?” Dick asked.

Tim blinked. “The children’s story?”

“Turns out, not so much of a scary bedtime story and more of a cult kidnapping children to turn them into undead assassins.” 

Tim’s eyes widened.

“After… after my parents died, the Court kidnapped me, they wanted to turn me into an assassin. Batman came and shut it down the whole operation, and brought me back here.”

“…the original rumors about Robin was that he had wings.”

Dick’s lips quirked up, taking another sip of water.

“Don’t the talons have like yellow eyes and black veins and instant healing?” Tim asked. “That’s the story I heard.”

“Let’s say Batman had good timing,” Dick said.

“Is that what your nightmares are about? The Court?”

Dick blinked, lowering his cup. “Uh, no, not usually, mostly they’re just… they’re just dreams.”

Tim frowned. 

“C’mon, it’s late, off to bed for little baby birds.”

Tim puffed out his chest. “I’m not that little!” 

Dick scooped him up, tossing him over his shoulder, and Tim squeaked.

“Aha! Just as I suspected, light as a feather!” 

Tim squirmed half heartedly, but let Dick cart him up to his room, and drop him on his bed. Dick dusted off his hands like he had just taken care of a villain, tossing a goodnight over his shoulder as he closed his door. Settling down under the covers, Tim fell back to sleep. A light knock woke him in the morning; Alfred was more punctual than any alarm clock. 

On school days breakfast was eaten at the dining table, but on the weekends they ate in the sitting room. Bruce sat on one end of the couch, sipping his coffee, and looking half asleep as he flipped through the paper. Dick sat on the floor near the coffee table, tearing a croissant into tiny little pieces onto his plate. Jason occupied the armchair, digging into a pile of blueberry scones. Tim perched on the other end of the couch, picking up a scone, and holding the plate close to keep from getting any crumbs on the couch.

Dick tilted his head to read the upside down section of Bruce’s newspaper. “Hey, there’s a new horror movie out, think you can make a little meta exception?”

Bruce rustled the papers. “No.”

“I’ll go in disguise, it’s just the Titans.” Dick’s fingers crept for Bruce’s coffee cup.

Bruce smacked his hand with the rolled up paper. “Last I checked that meant metas and aliens.”

“Like Kid Flash isn’t here all the time,” Jason said.

Dick glared at him.

Bruce lowered the paper. “Is he now?”

Jason stuffed an entire scone in his mouth. 

“Not all the time,” Dick said, signing on ‘all’ for emphasis. “Sometimes he stops by after school.”

“Stops by?” Bruce’s voice lowered towards Batman’s growl.

“At the park, B, not the manor, and I always go in disguise. It’s not like the fact that I live in Gotham is novel information.”

“Hn.” 

Dick sighed, playing with his food. “I’ll check theaters in New York, call it team bonding.”

“Oh god, not more of these team bonding excuses, just ask Starfire out already,” Jason said.

Dick threw a croissant at his head, Jason caught it, and took a vicious bite out of it.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Starfire.” 

Dick flushed. “She’s just a friend.”

“Hn.” 

“Seriously.” 

Bruce narrowed his eyes, but flipped the newspaper back up. Dick flipped off Jason, who stuck his tongue out at him. Dick signed something vicious, which Jason rolled his eyes at, and signed back lazily. Tim jotted down a note in his journal to learn ASL ASAP. Dick’s phone pinged, distracting him from the argument, and he smiled as he texted back. Stretching as he rose to his feet, Dick made another grab at Bruce’s coffee, who held it out of reach, before reaching over to tussle Tim’s hair.

“I’ve got some Titans Training—“

Jason opened his mouth.

“—yes, training, not whatever you were about to say to try to get me in trouble,” Dick said, but signed something underhanded at him.

Jason rolled his eyes.

“It’s Sunday,” Bruce said, lowering his paper.

“I’ll be back before dinner,” Dick said, holding up his hand. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a boyscout,” Bruce said.

Dick grinned. “Later, old man. Bye, baby bird, little wing.”

“Bye,” Tim said. 

“Later loser,” Jason said. 

Dick paused in the doorway, eyes on Bruce’s newspaper as he lifted it again, but he looked unfocused. “It’s too early."

Bruce frowned over top of the papers. “What is?"

“Mueller.” 

The back of the paper had a photo of Jon Mueller, Gotham’s mayor, who had won the election the previous night. 

“What are you talking about?” Jason asked. “Too early for what?"

Dick blinked hard tearing his eyes away. “I… I didn’t know they had finished counting the votes. It seems early is all."

Bruce’s frown deepened, opening his mouth to reply.

“I’ll see you all later.” Dick slipped out of the room before they could ask any follow up questions.

Tim glanced at the others, but they looked equally off-put by the interaction. 

“Weirdo!” Jason called after him. 

“Jason,” Bruce scolded and like that the tense moment slipped away. 

Despite being fed a veritable feast for every meal, Tim had found that part of Jason’s routine throughout the day was frequenting the kitchen at least another three to five times. Whoever so happened to be in proximity to Jason at the time got a helping of whatever he was serving himself and with Dick out of the house and Bruce hidden away in his office, Tim had spent most of the afternoon trailing after him like a cat in an unfamiliar apartment.

“Here.” Jason slapped a sandwich down before him. 

“Thanks. Why doesn’t Bruce like Starfire?” Tim asked, picking up the sandwich.

“Because she’s alien royalty and he’s afraid that her and Dick are gonna elope and she’ll take him to outer space with her,” Jason said.

Tim blinked. “…seriously?”

“I mean, I’m exaggerating a little bit, but that’s the gist of it,” Jason said. 

“Are they even dating?” 

“If they’re not yet, they will be,” Jason said. “They’re both stupid about each other.” 

“Do you like her?”

“She’s a six foot tall alien princess who shoots fire from her hands,” Jason said. “She’s way out of his league.” 

Tim bit back a laugh.

“…if she tries to take him to space though, we’ll have a problem. It’s bad enough he spends half his time in New York now.” 

“Does it get lonely here without him?”

“I’m not lonely, fuck off.” Jason scowled. “I have friends.”

Tim kicked his feet. “I don’t.”

Jason chewed slower. “…you don’t have friends?”

Tim shook his head. “No, I mean, Joey Jones talks to me in class sometimes, but mostly I spend recess reading or working on puzzles.”

“Huh.” Jason wiped his fingers off on a napkin. “You any good at video games?”

Tim perked up. “I learn quick.”

Tim also learned swears he had never known existed in the following video game battle

“Don’t swear in front of the baby,” Dick said, dropping down between them on the couch.

“He’s ten,” Jason said dismissively. “And he’ll kick your ass if you join in.”

“Looks like he’s kicking your ass,” Dick said.

Jason scowled. “Beginner’s luck.”

Tim bit back a laugh, killing his character on screen and earning another couple of muttered curses. Dick tagged in and he played ten times worse than Jason did, but occasionally threw in moves so surprising that he won around out of sheer stupidity. 

“Motherfucker!” Jason tackled Dick off of the couch, controllers tossed aside after Dick managed to kill his character seconds before winning.

Dick laughed, wrestling with Jason in the little space in front of the TV. For a match between a trained vigilante and the light weight champion of Gotham Academy’s boxing team there was absolutely no finesse to the fight. Tim startled at the sound of an amused exhale, looking up to find Bruce standing in the doorway stifling a smile. Forcing away the smile, Bruce let out a put-upon sigh, hooking an arm around Dick to lift him off Jason. Even at fifteen, Dick was nowhere near close to catching up to Bruce’s height, toes barely brushing the top of Bruce’s shoes, hanging in his arms the way a toddler picked up a cat. 

“Save it for patrol,” Bruce said, sounding exasperated.

Dick made an odd sound in the back of his throat, stretching up to knock his nose against Bruce’s jaw before wiggling free. “Want to play a round?”

“Bruce? He’s worse than you.” Jason huffed, shoving himself to his feet, and dusting himself off. 

“One round,” Bruce said, picking up the controller. “And then dinner.”

Dick grinned, dropping down next to Tim as they all squished in on the couch to play another round. It was hard not to feel as though he belonged, wedged between Dick and the arm of the couch, dodging the elbows Dick was trying to throw as he lost terribly, and leaning over to high five Jason when he eliminated Bruce’s character and the screen declared him the winner. 

“Not bad,” Bruce said.

“Not bad? Kid wiped the floor with you,” Jason said.

Tim’s face warmed.

“Indeed,” Alfred said from the doorway. “And now your dinners are going cold.”

“Sorry, Alfred,” Dick signed along as he spoke, hopping over the back of the couch. 

Bruce tussled Tim’s hair as he followed him out of the game room, an absent motion it seemed, one he had seen Bruce do to both Jason and Dick, but it made his chest warm, and he ducked his head. Dinner came at seven on the dot in an attempt to wrangle Batman and Robin to the table before a case popped up, though it wasn’t always successful. 

On school days, Tim wasn’t allowed to stay in the Cave past nine o’clock, in bed by ten pm sharp. On the weekends, he got an extra hour, though he was collecting bargaining chips to try to get a later bedtime. Sitting at the computer, he watched Robin check all of his gear, let Batman recheck it, then circle Batman like a cat underfoot to check all of his gear in return as they walked for the Batmobile, signing as he did. Tim had picked up a handful of signs from observation, though he had to do a decent amount of googling to piece together the name signs. 

Dick signed ‘warm shadow’ slurred together when he was talking about Bruce. 

J-bird for Jason. 

Home-protect for Alfred.

Baby-bird for Tim. 

“Let me know if you need back up,” Jason said.

“Bed at eleven,” Bruce replied, voice distorted by the modifier. 

Jason scoffed, starting up one of Bruce’s training simulations. Tim watched the Batmobile race out of the Cave before turning his attention to the monitors. Keeping an eye on the alert system, Tim flicked through the files, looking for ones it seemed like he might be able to break the encryption on without the Batman noticing. Coding had been a good hobby for him, it was quiet, and all he needed was a computer and internet access, not another person. The whole Batcomputer felt like the best puzzle yet. 

A new case file turned out to be a weak link, most likely because there wasn’t any decent information yet. It was news articles on Lex Luthor, copies of shipping inventories for various chemicals and other laboratory components, and bank statements. As far as Tim could tell, there wasn’t any incriminating information, perhaps that’s why the file was so light; it was a dead end. The chemicals were interesting at least, 6-dimethylaminopurine and cycloheximide were currently being used in advances in somatic cell nuclear transfer cloning techniques according to Tim’s follow up research. 

“Hey, come here.” 

Tim looked up from the computer. “Me?”

“No, I’m talking to the damn bats. Yeah, get over here.”

Tim left the computer to join Jason on the matts. 

“You ever thrown a punch?” 

Tim shook his head.

“Put your hands up like this. Your feet like this…” Jason corrected his stance with taps of his feet and hands to nudge him in the right direction. 

“Like this?”

“Yeah, like that.” Jason held up his hands before him, palms facing Tim. “This is where you’re gonna hit. You’ve watched me do it, right?”

Tim nodded.

“Show me one.”

Tim extended his left arm to tap his hand.

“With a little weight behind it.”

Tim hit a little harder.

“Two.”

Tim brought his right arm around.

“Not like… more like this.” Jason showed him, then held his hand up.

Tim tried again.

“There you go. Alright, one, two.”

By the time the Batmobile rolled into the Cave Jason had walked him through eight basic hits, classic boxing style, and how to roll under his own slow swings and block his face. Tim looked over at the Batmobile and Jason lightly tapped him on the cheek.

“Dropped your hands.”

Tim huffed.

“Hey, c’mere, I’m showing Tim the ropes,” Jason said.

“You shouldn’t beat up children, Jay,” Dick teased.

“I’m not a child,” Tim protested.

Dick smiled, tussling his hair. “Well, you shouldn’t beat up baby birds either.”

“That’s why I’m showing him how to beat other people up,” Jason said.

Bruce gave Jason a look of reprimand as he pulled off the cowl. 

“Here, c’mon. Show Dick.” Jason pulled Dick into position before him, putting his hands up.

Dick tensed. “Jay.” 

“It’s fine,” Jason said, standing just behind him. “Timmy’s not gonna hurt you, right?”

“Promise,” Tim said.

Dick’s smile was strained, but he held up his hands. Jason called out the numbers, Tim knocking his fists against Dick’s calloused hands. Taking one of Dick’s hands, Jason had him duck under a blow despite Dick’s slightly alarmed sound, and then a dodge.

“See?” Jason said, slapping Dick’s shoulder. “Tim’s a natural. Bet he could take you in the ring no sweat.” 

Dick looked down at his hands, then gently, very gently, tussled Tim’s hair. “Keep up the good work.” 

Dick headed off to change, Jason watching him go as he untaped his hands.  

“Teaching me to fight… that was for Dick, wasn’t it?” Tim asked after a moment.

Jason looked over. “A little. It’s also ‘cause you’re crazy enough to run ‘round Gotham in the middle of the night before you’ve even hit five feet.”

Tim’s face warmed. “I was careful!”

Jason shoved his shoulder, nearly knocking him over. “Yeah, sure, I’ll believe that when you can throw a punch without breaking your wrist.” 

Tim brightened. “We’ll keep practicing?”

“Not tonight,” Bruce said, fixing them both with a look. “You were both supposed to be in bed an hour ago.” 

“Sorry,” Tim squeaked, heading for the stairs. 

Bruce squeezed his shoulder as he passed, giving him a little push on his way. “Get some sleep.”

Tim’s face warmed. “Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight, kiddo.” 

Tim felt warm the whole way up to his room.

Chapter Text

Dick stared down into the mug in his hands, coffee doing little to wake him. 

“Early to rise this morning, Master Dick?” Alfred stepped into the kitchen.

‘Dreams’, Dick signed. 

Alfred hummed, taking the coffee from his hands. “And helping yourself to Master Bruce’s coffee it appears.”

It was replaced with a cup of peppermint tea. Alfred set his radio to a classical station, filling the kitchen with its soft murmur as he started on preparations for breakfast. 

“I don’t suppose it is a matter you would like to discuss.” 

Dick shook his head.

“Very well.” Alfred set chilled biscuit dough before him and a circular cutter. “You may help me prepare breakfast then.” 

Jason more often acted as Alfred’s sous chef than any of them, but in the early days of his stay at the manor when Bruce wasn’t home for him to tail like a duckling, Alfred came up with plenty of ways to keep his hands busy. Biscuits were easy, kneading the dough, rolling it out, cutting little circles to place on the tray; it was the type of work that made Dick’s mind go quiet. 

“…do you believe in reincarnation, Alfred?” 

“I can’t say I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought, but at a snap judgement, no, I do not.”

Dick chewed on the inside of his cheek.

“May I ask what brought this topic to mind?” 

“Sometimes in my dreams there are people I’ve never met before, but they feel so… familiar.” 

“And you theorize you have met them in another life then?” 

“No…” Dick scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, wrinkling his nose as he got flour on his nose. “I just think it’d be nice to get a night where I don’t dream of anything at all.”

Alfred wiped the flour from his nose with a well-practiced swipe of his handkerchief. “Perhaps a nice cup of chamomile and a light dose of Trazodone will do the trick.”

Dick laughed. “Is that what you slip into Bruce’s tea?” 

Alfred sniffed. “Only if the occasion calls for it.”

Bruce shuffled into the kitchen as the biscuits started to golden, accepting the coffee Alfred handed him. Taking a sip, he squinted in Dick’s direction like he was a book with too fine a print.

“Insomnia,” Dick said with a dramatic sigh. “Couldn’t you give me any of your good genes?” 

“I didn’t give you any genes,” Bruce said flatly. 

Jason gasped from the doorway of the kitchen. “What? You mean we’re adopted?”

There was a little jealous twinge at the reminder of Dick’s status as ‘ward’ even as he laughed alongside Jason.

Bruce let out an exasperated noise. 

Tim popped into the kitchen, phone clutched in hand. “Who’s adopted?”

“You if you’re not careful.” Jason rubbed his knuckles over the top of his head.

Tim squirmed away. 

“You’ve got a real problem though, old man, ever tried Adoption Anonymous?” Jason took Dick’s tea from his hands, pulling a face when he found it was cold. 

“I feel like that wouldn’t bode well for our living situation if he did,” Dick said.

“Hey, I’m just trying to keep this manor from getting overcrowded,” Jason said.

Tim shrank a little.

Dick curled an arm around him, signing slow, ‘J-bird joke.’ 

‘I know’ Tim signed in careful motions, but his shoulders relaxed under Dick's arm regardless.

“As there are yet another eight bedrooms available, I do not see that happening,” Alfred said mildly. “Now, if you all would sit down rather than crowd the kitchen perhaps breakfast will be done in a more timely manner.” 

“Sorry, Alf,” Jason said.

Dick picked idly at his biscuits, tearing them in two, and pulling at their fluffy insides without any real intention. 

‘Eat’, Bruce signed. 

‘Trade.’ Dick pointed to his coffee, then mimed eating his biscuit in return. 

Bruce narrowed his eyes. 

If Dick were a little less tired he might be up to a Bat-stare-down, but as it was he only scowled, taking a bite out of the biscuit, and leaving Bruce’s coffee in peace. It was a decision he regretted when he dozed off during math class and earned a few snickers at the thud of his forehead hitting his desk.

“Hey.” Dick leaned over to whisper to Barbara as the clock ticked closer to lunch.

“What do you want, sleepyhead?” Barbara asked without looking away from the board, pencil still scratching at her paper.

“I’m thinking about ditching, you in?” 

“And ruin my shot at valedictorian? In your dreams.”

“We still on tonight?” 

“No talking,” the teacher called from the front.

‘Be there,’ Barbara signed, drawing a little square after with a smirk.

Dick gave her a little salute as a goodbye as the bell rang and he headed for the doors rather than History. Slipping out, he called the office as he walked for the bus station. Other kids may have forged their parents signatures, but he was pretty certain he was the only high schooler who could do a spot on impersonation. To be fair, he had only developed it to cover for Bruce at Wayne Enterprises on the not-so-infrequent occasions Batman got kidnapped.

The bus carried him past the borders of Gotham to a quaint, if vaguely run-down, town a few miles out. Paint chipped store signs, an ‘e’ dull on a neon OPEN sign, but people wandered in and out of shoppes without looking over their shoulder like they did in Gotham. Tucked away between a used bookstore and a closed down laundromat was Tala’s Tarot Readings, the golden paint on the window dull, and the glass blocked with thick purple curtains. A bell over the door swung as he entered, but there was no chime. Knickknacks littered crooked shelves, looking precariously close to sliding right off, crystals glinting in the windows. 

“In the back!” 

Dick tensed, glancing over at the silent bell in the door, then to the bead curtain concealing the back room. Stepping through the curtain he found a woman in her fifties, sitting in a plush purple armchair, sipping tea, another steaming cup sitting on the coffee table before a similar green chair. Tarot cards were splayed across the table before her. 

“Neat trick,” Dick said. “Motion sensors?”

Tala’s lips turned up. “A magician never reveals her secrets.” 

“I thought you were a psychic.” 

“I thought you were a believer.” Tala sipped her tea. “Otherwise you would not be sitting opposite me, no?” 

“Google didn’t have the kind of answers I was looking for.”

Tala let out an amused hum. “Draw three cards and set them before you.” 

Dick’s eyes ran over the spread, the edges of the cards worn from repeated use. One by one he set the cards on the table, still facing down, in the place of past, present, and future. Tala reached across the table to flip over his past. 

“The Ten of Swords. Reversed.”

A man laid face down, ten swords sticking out of his back.

“Even reversed it signifies an unavoidable tragedy. You have been defeated. However, with the reversal comes a chance for new beginning, you have hit bottom, the only way to go is up. That is if you are strong enough to forge a new beginning. Only you can free yourself from the cycle.” 

Dick swallowed. 

Tala flipped the next card. “Your present is the Hanged Man. Now is a time of deliberation, you need to recalculate your next steps forward very carefully, you don’t fully understand what may hang in the balance and until you do, it is best to stand still.” 

Dick curled and uncurled his fingers around the arms of the chair. 

Tala overturned his future. “The Tower. Great change is coming, you will have to abandon truths you have previously known, the old way is no longer of any use to you. You must find a new path.” 

“Any chance the cards know what this path is?” Dick asked.

Tala’s lips ticked upwards, shuffling the cards back into a stack. “Perhaps try a magic eight ball. The cards offer insight, not yes or no’s.” 

“I know, I—“

A card slipped from the deck to land before him, the Ten of Swords. Upright.

Tala’s eyes widened. “A major disaster lies ahead of you… the same disaster as before…” 

Dick stood up too quickly, chair screeching against the floor. 

“It’s so strange, it landed exactly where the future card was, as though in a loop…” 

Dick set her fee on the table. “Thank you, uh, for the insight.”

Tala tore her eyes away from the card. “Take care, child, I… I hope the cards gave you the answers you were looking for, even if not the ones you wanted.”

Dick walked quickly from the shop, catching the next bus back to Gotham, but the cards swam before his eyes until his phone pinged with a voice message from Wally. Lifting his phone to his ear, he couldn’t help his laugh as he listened to a winding ramble about how his best friend had started a fight with the football team by tripping in the cafeteria and dropping piping hot soup on the quarterback. In the back of his mind a little voice whispered about how Wally’s voice felt like an echo or perhaps like an old home movie played until the tape started to wear.

Dick clicked call, holding it to his ear.

“Dude, did you just call me? What are you? Sixty?”

Dick’s shoulders relaxed, hearing his voice in real time. “You left me a whole Tedtalk in our chat and you object to… phone calls?” 

“FaceTime like a normal person, man.” 

“Oh yeah, can’t see any problems with that.” 

“Oh. Right. Secret identity. You ever think Bats’ll ease up on that?"

“Let me check my magic eight ball… hm, outlook not so good.” 

“Keep one of those in your utility belt, do you?” 

“You don’t?”

Wally laughed. 

The stop for Gotham called out.

“I gotta go, Walls. Start eating in the library, don’t hit on anymore cheerleaders.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

Dick hung up. It had been a bit of an argument to get Bruce to allow him to find his own way back to the manor after school, but it was hard to make the argument that the streets of Gotham were unsafe when Robin spent every night patrolling them. Strolling into the manor, he found Tim sitting at the kitchen island, working on his homework as Alfred tried to distract him with various after school snacks. 

“Hey, baby bird, whatcha working on?” 

“I’m trying to track the Penguin’s money laundering,” Tim said.

Alfred made a disapproving noise.

“Um. I mean, math homework?” Tim tried again.

Alfred sighed, swiping the case files from the counter, and setting a sandwich in their place. 

Tim slumped.

Dick bit back a laugh, tussling his hair. “B home yet?”

“No, Master Bruce will meet us there,” Alfred said, handing him a smoothie. “We shall depart in half an hour to pick up Miss Barbara.” 

“Thanks.”

Signing Jason up for Gotham Academy’s Boxing team was one of Bruce’s more inspired ideas. It had helped him channel his frustration in a more productive manner, not to mention given him a couple of things in common with his classmates. It also made for a great Friday night sitting ringside with Barbara, Tim, Bruce, and Alfred. 

As they waited for Jason’s turn in the ring, Dick tossed pieces of popcorn into Barbara’s mouth when Bruce wasn’t looking, though Tim’s poorly stifled giggles at the misses likely gave away their game. Barbara kept one earbud in, though she refused to tell Dick what she was listening to. All of them jumped to their feet to cheer as Jason’s name was called, squaring up to his opponent from Gotham’s public school. Although, Alfred settled for polite clapping as though at a golfing match rather than stoop to their level of impropriety.

Jason had gotten a bit of a growth spurt and thanks to training simulations in the Batcave, he knew exactly how to use his longer reach. Even if he couldn’t use all the moves Batman had taught him in the ring, his opponent didn’t stand a chance. It wasn’t long until the referee declared him the winner, Jason raising his glove high in the air.

“Let’s go, Jason!” Dick shouted, hands cupped around his mouth. 

Jason was still grinning by the time the rest of his teammates got their turn in the ring and he could come join them by the stands. 

Dick wrapped his arms around him despite the sweat. “You were great out there!”

“Aw, get off me.” Jason shoved him off, but he was still smiling.

Bruce put a hand on his shoulder. “Well done, Jaylad.” 

Jason’s ears went red. “Yeah, thanks or whatever.”

“Very fine indeed,” Alfred said.

“I bet Mr. Wayne got you a fancy personal trainer to teach you a couple of those moves, huh?” Barbara mimed a few punches.

Jason scowled.

“Jason’s been very dedicated to his training,” Bruce said with no small amount of pride. “Though, I’ll admit, I have made all of the boys take a couple self defense classes.”

“Even you short-stack?” Barbara punched Tim’s shoulder lightly.

“I’ve grown half an inch!” Tim said.

Dick hid his smile behind a fake yawn while Barbara tried to turn her laugh into a cough.

“Master Bruce, I do believe Mrs. Walters is trying desperately to get your attention,” Alfred said mildly.

Bruce’s smile strained as he looked over at a woman in her forties making eyes at him, her son standing a few feet to the side, a bruise blooming on his jaw from a lost match. 

‘Villain of the week: the PTA!’ Dick signed with enthusiasm.

Jason snorted. 

“Behave.” Bruce tussled Dick’s hair, stepping off with Alfred just after him to make small talk with the other parents. 

Barbara frowned down at her phone, two fingers pressed to her earbud like she was working for the secret service.

“What?” Dick asked.

“Nothing. I have to go. My dad wants me home,” Barbara shoved her phone in her pocket.

“We drove you,” Dick protested.

“Yeah, I know, he’s coming to pick me up. I’ll catch up with you guys later!” Barbara jogged off.

“I think your date just fled,” Jason said.

Dick elbowed him.

Tim frowned. “I thought you liked Kori.”

“I— it’s not— Babs is just a friend. My best friend.” 

Jason smirked. “I thought Kori was your best friend.”

“Kori is— she’s also my best friend.”

“…then what’s Wally?” Tim asked.

“My other, other best friend?”