Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nothing could have prepared Clark for the League’s homecoming.

The once bubbling anticipation of returning to Earth had been immediately snuffed out by the news they’d received upon docking with the Watchtower. Clark knew he should’ve known something was wrong based just on Nightwing’s sudden teleporting for Earth and the fact that Batman hadn’t made to follow him. In fact, as the rest of the League had waved of J’Onn’s warning that they weren’t to disembark until told, the way Batman had been discovered alone was terrifying. Stone still, staring off into the distance, mouth slightly parted with either shock or– or something else. Flash’s own expression, stricken with grief, was just another nail in the coffin.

Another nail in Robin’s coffin.

Clark still couldn’t believe the boy was dead. ONce Flash had managed to struggle the news from his strangled throat again, Clark had taken to space, speeding for Gotham, needing to see if this was true and needing to find Nightwing. The young man had always been close with Clark, even naming himself after one of Krypton’s stars, out of some sort of respect for Clark himself. Clark wanted to say he was anguished for the loss of Robin, but his chief concern had been Nightwing and the suffering the man was about to endure.

But as Clark had arrived in Gotham and seen the wake gathered in Robinson park, facing a somber statue of the second Robin with Nightwing collapsed and sobbing, Clark had known to keep his distance, at least for now. Nightwing didn’t need another crowd surrounding him, stifling breath. He needed to scream. That was all the young man could do. He’d needed to let it out.

Still– Clark couldn’t pretend to know what Nightwing really needed. Even he had been a little cowed by the dedication he’d seen in the couple, the strange, almost ageless maturity Nightwing and Robin faced their problems with. Clark had always felt he could learn a lot from them despite being at least twenty years older. With how rocky his relationship with Lois always was, Clark had wondered if he could have bent Nightwing’s ear for a little advice.

It had been almost insulting, a grown adult suffering through on-again-off-again, and seeing the two young Bats effortlessly gliding through romance with absolute trust, dedication, and grace. Clark had never really believed in the idea of soulmates, but… well, if he’d ever needed any evidence for the contrary, all he would’ve needed to do was look at Nightwing and Robin.

Now, though– now, Robin was gone. And Nightwing would feel that loss until the day he died.

Clark plodded through his empty apartment, eyes on the floor, heart heavy with the wake he’d seen the end of. The Leaguers that had attended had made their own exits once Nightwing’s sobs had died into whimpers, running out of tears and breath. Kid Flash had taken the break in Nightwing’s anguish to show up and whisk his friend away to somewhere more private, a mercy. Gotham’s populace hadn’t made a sound. Even when Nightwing had been brought away, the wake had stared up at that statue in solemn reverence for the dead. After all, Robin had given his life for them all. A moment of silence was the least they could give.

The silence of the wake was a dead match to the silence of Clark’s apartment in Metropolis. He and Lois were off-again, and he wouldn’t see her for another week or so, the busy woman currently on a journalistic assignment in the Kongo, investigating ecological crimes committed by off-shore companies looking to exploit the land. Clark wished he could say that he was always impressed by the work ethic of the woman, but it was the key wedge in their relationship that always seemed to drive them apart. Not that Lois wasn’t capable and had every right to investigate these things. She was one of the strongest people Clark knew. It just always really didn’t help that she would chew him out for intervening in gunfights that would otherwise take her life. Again, he knew Lois was strong, but Clark was the one who was bulletproof.

In all honesty, his relationship problems felt offensively contrived compared to what Nightwing was going through. So what he didn’t get along with his girlfriend all the time because they were both dedicated to their work? At least Lois wasn’t dead. At least he didn’t have to bury her. He should be grateful to even have these fights. Fighting meant they were both alive.

His footsteps echoed in the empty apartment, mind drifting from Nightwing to Batman. There had always been rumors and speculations surrounding Batman’s connections to his sidekicks, the intricacies of the relationship and what could field them. The way Batman had been stunned into silence– Clark had never see Batman rendered speechless, emotionless, he’d never seen Batman shut down. The man always had a plan, always had a next course of action, contingencies upon contingencies to the point of neuroticism. But the news that Robin was gone–

Dead. Not just gone. A child was dead. Clark didn’t know Robin’s age, but he did know Robin hadn’t even been a legal adult. They didn’t even know how the boy had died yet. Clark almost didn’t want to know. Death in and of itself was a tragedy. The death of a child? Clark would never be ready.

And Clark was worried about Batman, undeniably worried to the point of standing listlessly in his apartment, overcome with his thoughts and emotions. The Bat didn’t open up often, but the few conversations Clark had shared with the man had– exposed Clark to a knew side of the Dark Knight that had brought forth not only new understanding, but also a new kind of confusion. As the walls had been chipped away, bit by bit, Clark had realized the man beneath the cowl to be capable of an unending warmth. He was sure Batman’s sidekicks benefited from this side the most, and Clark was simply a new witness of the warmth, being given more and more through the years.

And with learning this new side of Batman came the confusion. Because as Clark had seen this warmth and felt it, heard it in the man’s voice when speaking of his sidekicks, seen it in the tiniest quirk of the corner of his mouth when Nightwing took charge in a role, or Robin declared a success, or simply when either of the young vigilantes had had something to be proud of, a warmth of Clark’s chest had stirred as well. Something like affection, like attachment, something he had only ever associated with Lois received a new award or being praised for her work. Something he’d associated with his lover. And that warmth emerging with Batman? Of all people?

Like Clark had said– confusing. He’d never known himself to feel such emotion towards men. Not that he saw an issue there, he’d long ago been shown by his parents that there was really nothing wrong with wanting the same sex in a partner regardless of the things people tended to hatefully spout. Clark had just never really known the inclination in himself. And if he were being truly honest, he would readily admit that this confusion was another point of contention between himself and Lois. Not that he’d told her, absolutely never. But it definitely didn’t help when they were arguing about schedules and time and work and a little voice in the back of his head pointlessly suggested that maybe Batman would be more understanding of the demands of the Justice League.

It wasn’t a productive thought, so he never entertained it further. But he couldn’t deny that the confusion emotion involved itself in far more than just arguments with Lois. Such as now, when he should be worrying about catching up with his city, and instead, he could only think about Batman, staring into nothing in utter silence, so shocked by the death of his sidekick that it had stopped the unstoppable man.

Clark could only hope that Batman would reach out to one of them, even if it wasn’t Clark himself. He hoped the man would seek comfort from someone he trusted. He hoped Batman wouldn’t suffer alone in this–

”Kal-El.”

His named suddenly spoken in the familiar, low rumble of Batman had Clark’s heart arresting in his chest. Somewhere in the world, Batman was calling out to him. Clark knew better than to try and follow that voice to where he would find the man behind the mask, he knew better than to risk Batman’s secret identity–

“I know you can hear me. I need you to find me.”

Caution thrown to the wind, Clark tore his shirt open and let his cape fly behind him, only barely having the sense to open his window rather than break through the glass in his rush to follow that voice. He didn’t care about anything else, Batman needed him.

The voice had come from Gotham City, a location he could’ve assumed from the beginning. He shot across the ocean, following the voice, not paying attention to where he ended up, assuming he’d find Batman on a skyscraper or a gargoyle or–

He came to a sudden stop at the origin of the voice and stared in stunned disbelief at Bruce Wayne, the man standing on a stone balcony on the third level of Wayne Manor, distraught. He was dressed in the underclothes of the Batman suit, the tight, black material of the thermal clinging to ever muscle, every dip, every curve. There was black smudged around his eyes. The eyes themselves, a deep blue, were red with tears.

“Clark,” Bruce Wayne– Batman– choked out. “My son is dead.”

Horror slammed into Clark with the force of a freightliner. In his head, he pictured Robin’s youthful face, the sharp grin that said he was looking for a fight, the thin body, the dark hair, and compared it to Bruce Wayne’s youngest adopted child, Jason Todd. Oh god, Bruce’s son, the child he’d chosen– Batman had lost more than a sidekick. Bruce had lost his son.

Clark didn’t even ask, dropping down and pulling Bruce into his arms, not caring the man didn’t want an embrace, not in the face of this. And when Bruce didn’t fight him– when Bruce wrapped his arms around Clark, buried his face in the bright red of the edge of the cape, and sobbed– Clark walked them into the open French doors of the man, whisking the broken man out of sight. Batman had come to Superman for help. Clark was going to do everything in his power to give Bruce what he needed.

Chapter Text

The steady, jarring staccato of Dick’s fists colliding with the Mù Rén Zhuāng echoed in the gymnasium, a ruthless assault on the wood with Dick’s hands unwrapped, bruising, skin splitting, blood staining his target. His gaze was sightless, trained straight ahead and unseeing as the monotony of his repetitive movements hollowed his mind, erasing the voices, the faces, the ache in his chest, the whisper in his ear. Again and again, he split his skin on the wood. Again and again, he lost himself to the monotony. Again and again, Dick forced himself further from his body.

Jason was dead. Had been for about a week now. Dick couldn’t recall anything after staggering to the mud in front of Jason’s memorial, could only remember waking up in his room in the manor and abandoning it immediately for Jason’s. The door had been unlocked, as Jason had started to do the more at home he’d felt in the Manor. The mini fridge, once stocked full to assure Jason he wouldn’t go hungry between meals, was empty at Jason’s out of Jason’s own design. Evidence of progress, proof that he’d finally started to see the mansion and the people within as home.

And now Jason was dead.

The thought came with a noticeably brutal punch, pain shooting up Dick’s arm, sharp and alarming, and only then did Dick’s relentless assault stall. He shuffled back, shaking out his right hand, the one that had flinched and crumbled, the first part of him to fail. He scowled at the dummy, then down at the hand, resenting it for failing to outlast the need to dissociate. Piece of crap. Now he was going to have to favor it during the next op.

That anger burned, twisting his his stomach, self-disgust waging with grief and rage, a familiar cocktail by now. He yanked himself away from the dummy with his teeth grinding, iron on his tongue. He was heaving for breath, body pushed well beyond its limit, but didn’t care, didn’t even pause for water. The blood dripped from his fingertips, a trail left behind his resentful retreat from the training dummy. He could’ve kept going. He should keep going. But if Dick broke his wrist, the team would notice. And the last thing he wanted right now was for his team to notice anything.

He retreated for the bathrooms, letting the hot water pour over his busted knuckles, grimacing at the sting but refusing to pull away. Detachment told him he should’ve wrapped his hands, but Dick didn’t care. He wanted to hurt, just a little. He wanted to feel the pain. He wanted the punishment.

“Nightwing?”

Dick stiffened, the radio in his ear startling him. He wore the thing so often, it was sometimes hard to remember it was always in, especially recently. Dick intended on learning how to sleep with it. He was going to be announced as the team leader any day now, by Kaldur. He needed to be available.

Still– Gar was calling for him. And Gar still wasn’t cleared for any solo assignments, and he hadn’t been sent with anyone today. That could only mean it wasn’t for the team. And Dick had half a mind to ignore the kid.

But then his mind supplied a memory, Jason smiling, relaxing back in a chair in the kitchen, Gar a tiny capuchin, hanging off Jason’s neck with his fuzzy tail, so at ease, so warm–

Dick pulled his hands from the water and shook them dry, tapping his earpiece. “Gar– I’m here.”

“Hi, Mister Nightwing.”

Dick’s chest tugged with a new kind of ache. Everyone had been treating Dick with kid gloves, but Gar especially seemed almost scared of him. That was why Dick answered. He didn’t want the kid to be scared of him, not after losing his older brother.

“Hi, Gar,” Dick replied softly, regretfully, upset with himself for having considered ignoring the poor boy.

“Uhm… I don’t know how to say this.”

Dick’s lips pursed. “Just say it.”

“But if you’re mad at me…”

Dick cursed softly, too quiet for the mic to pick him up. “I’m not– I’m not mad at you, Gar. I’m not mad at anyone.” He was only upset with himself. “It’s okay, kid. What is it?”

“It’s the lasagna Robin made.” The title had Dick shutting his head, but then he registered what Gar had said, and his brow furrowed. “It was in the freezer but someone took it out and it’s thawed out and it’s about to go bad. Everyone didn’t want to eat it cause it’s the last thing he’s made us, but I– wouldn’t it be worse if it spoiled? So I was gonna eat it, but I– I-I wouldn’t ever want to eat the last of his lasagna without you. I feel like that would be so mean. Do you– do you wanna come eat with me? Please?”

Dick’s eyes were burning. He blinked furiously, trying to banish the tears. He had every intention to march his miserable ass upstairs and eat the last thing Jason ever made, there was no doubt in his mind that he would. He also refused to cry in front of anyone else.

“Give me a minute, Gar. I’ll be right there.”

“You’ll come? Really?” He could hear a smile on the kid’s green face. How Gar could smile with Jason dead was beyond him. “Okay. See you soon.”

Dick grimaced and muted his side. He lifted his head and caught a glimpse of his reflection, the bags under his eyes and the sallowness of his skin. If Jay were alive now, Dick wondered if the other would still find him attractive, looking the way he did. Split open, bleeding on the concrete, hollowed out. He wondered if Jason would still cup his cheeks and fuss about Dick’s beauty like he used to. He wondered if Jason would even want him at all like this.

Dick tore himself away from the reflection and found the first aid kit, wrapping his hands. At least that way, no one would be able to suspect self-neglect. Getting dressed was quick, tugging on whatever he’d brought with him, not caring for presentation. The sunglasses perched on his nose felt heavy, thinking of the Christmas Jason had slipped these into his hand. He trudged upstairs and to the kitchen, fighting back a grimace at the sight of Gar chewing on his lower lip as he struggled to figure out how to fit the large glass casserole tray into the microwave.

“I’ve got it,” he interrupted gently, taking the tray and lowering it into the oven. His gaze skated over the lasagna itself. It was Jason’s own recipe, completely vegan so everyone could partake, no meat and cheese made from oatmilk or something else crazy. Dick had been surprised by how good it had tasted. He sets the oven to quick heat, Bruce’s tech ensuring that the meal would be completely reheated in a minute rather than half an hour. Dick leaned against the table, staring listlessly into the tinted glass of the oven. He thought again of his Little Wing, bustling around this kitchen, saving meals from certain disaster and whipping up the most incredible of entrees with breezy confidence.

“Mister Nightwing?”

Dick made himself blink back tears again and slightly tiled his head to Gar, grateful for the sunglasses. “Yeah?”

Garfield bit his lip again, watching Dick with uncertainty. “I– I miss him.”

Dick couldn’t respond, throat seizing with a sob that he barely kept down. He’d cried his soul out those first three days before returning to the mountain. He shouldn’t have much left. Dick shuddered a breath and looked away. “Me too.”

They were silent again for another moment, watching the seconds tick by. Gar cleared his throat, and Dick readied himself for another painful statement. “Do you think– Are you gonna be okay?”

How? How would that happen? How could Dick ever possibly be okay again? The ground had suddenly opened up and claimed his Little Wing like the jaws of a monster swallowing Jason whole. Gotham had killed Jason, remorseless. How could Dick be okay? How could he ever be anything but only half a person now that Jason was buried beneath, never to be seen again, all because Jason was a hero no matter what the world had put him through? How could Dick be okay now that Gotham had finally succeeded in its sixteen year merciless pursuit to kill Jason Todd?

But Gar didn’t need to hear that. He didn’t need to know that. He was a kid and he’d already lost so much. Dick was dying, but he wasn’t cruel. “I will be.” It was a lie. But Garfield didn’t need to know that. Not until he was a little older. “Hey– did you invite anyone else?” When the kid made a noise of confusion, Dick nodded to the cooking food. “Little Wing made this for everyone. We were his team. And the team– the team saw Robin as family. They should be here too.”

Garfield nodded. Dick didn’t see him call for anyone or say anything or text, but almost immediately, people filtered into the kitchen, quiet, remorseful, like Dick would expect from a funeral party. Even those who weren’t posted in the Mountain today, Wally walking like a normal person into the room with his head high, eyes on Dick, so god damn worried that it made him feel sick– but he couldn’t blame Wally for it. If Artemis had been murdered, Dick would’ve been distraight for his best friend. It was hard. It wasn’t Wally’s fault.

“It’s the lasagna, isn’t it?” M’Gann asked, her voice shaky like she was about to cry.

“Best damn vegan crap I’ve ever had,” Raquel lamented. “Only Robin could make me think a dish without meat is somehow a meal. I don’t care what his file said. Kid had superpowers.”

“He really did,” Kaldur agreed, but for entirely different reasons– a reason everyone knew, but couldn’t speak. It took a hero to die the way Robin had. There was progress on converting the lower grotto into a memorial for Jay. They knew what had been given and what kind of courage it had taken.

Dick didn’t talk to any of them as the oven dinged softly and he took out the platter with a rag. Setting it on the table, a nod in Wally’s direction gave the speedster permission, and the last of the lasagna was cut into even portions in the span of a blink. Everyone seemed to understand the gravity of this moment, even if it would’ve seemed absurd to an outsider.

It wasn’t like this was about good food or bad food. Jason had used cooking as a way to be useful, a way to connect. He’d always smiled his widest when watching people enjoy his cooking. It was something Jason could do that was so far removed from the violence of his life that it had made him feel human– as he’d told Dick, during one of the many nights they’d laid awake together and just talked until their voices gave out. This wasn’t about the taste or texture or the calories. This was about the last time they’d be able to eat something Jason made for the sole purpose of serving those he called his family. And they would never, ever be able to enjoy that ever again.

He sat and grabbed one of the forks Artemis had piled up in the center of the table. The table itself was big enough to fit the whole team. Gar slid into the seat at Dick’s left, and Wally took the seat on the right. Heads hung low as everyone followed Dick’s lead, able to respect how much more this weighed on him than anyone else. They all loved Jason in their own way, and they were all grieving. They also knew Dick was one breath away from shattering on the floor.

Dick was the first to put his fork in the layers of pasta and sauce and alternative cheese, staring at the portion on his fork. He remembered watching Jay lay the stiff slices and then tomato sauce that Jason had just shoved a spoonful of into Dick’s mouth, saying that if Dick had time to kiss his neck and distract him, Dick also had time to make sure there was enough salt. Dick had complained, said that it was perfect, why did Jason even bother? Now he’d give anything to go back and taste every damn thing Jason had ever made, one spoon at a time.

He grimaced and forced himself to take the first bite. Chewing slowly, the taste wasn’t as good, thanks to having been frozen and thawing and reheating. It would never be perfect again. It just had to be good enough.

“I can’t believe that the last thing we ever get to eat from Robin is lasagna.” Zatanna was definitely complaining, but she was also crying. Huge tears were rolling down her cheeks, splashing into the plate, adding even more salt to Jason’s perfectly seasoned meal. “I hate lasagna. This is just the worst.”

“If you waste a single bite, I’m dropping you,” Artemis stated firmly.

“And I would let you,” Zatanna whimpered before she sobbed, dropping her fork to put her face in her hands. “Oh my god, this is awful.”

Dick had to shut his eyes, or he’d choke on one of his next bites. Watching his friends suffer, knowing how much Jason would hate knowing he’d hurt them all– it wasn’t fair. Zatanna was right. This was all just so awful.

“I fucking hate this,” Conner grit out.

“Robin would be grateful to us for not wasting food,” Kaldur said, almost monotone. He was detaching himself from everything. He was hurting so badly. They were all hurting, but Kaldur– Dick would never forget the desolation he’d seen in Kaldur’s face when they’d arrived Earthside. Kaldur had been the one there when Jason had been shot, and he’d been minutes away when Jason had been killed. Dick knew the Atlantean would never forgive himself. And despite everything, Dick wished Kaldur would. He didn’t deserve the guilt. Jason had done what he’d had to do. There had been no way to avoid it, except hindsight. Kaldur had done all he could. He didn’t deserve to suffer.

"Is it always going to be like this?" Gar's question to Dick's left was just gut wrenching. "When I drank my mom's lemonade for the last time, I threw it up." The green boy poked at his food, not because he didn't like it, but likely because he didn't want it to be over. "Is everyone gonna die like this?"

"No," M'Gann swore. "No, Gar. We'll do all we can to come back to you."

Dick knew where she was coming from, but did she really have to lie like that? She couldn't make that promise. None of them could. They were heroes. Maybe not at Jason's level, but they all had something they were willing to die for. None of them could promise that they'd come back. None of them were going to live forever.

As Dick lost himself in his sympathy, he looked down at his plate and realized he was suddenly on his last bite. It was just a mushy mess of sauce and cheese, no pasta left. It was already on his fork, halfway up from his plate, ready. Dick stared at it in mounting horror. He’d almost– this was the last time he’d ever eat Jason’s cooking, and he’d almost taken the last bite without a thought. Dick shuddered and shifted in his seat, readying himself. He stared at the portion and felt distantly stupid, because it was food, it was just food, but it was Jason’s food, it was the last of Jason’s food, Dick would never enjoy a midnight snack thrown together by Jason’s skilful hands, he would never taste test another of Jason’s attempts at emulating Alfred’s recipes, he’d never even have coffee from Jason again, oh god, oh god, this was it--

Dick suddenly couldn’t breathe. There were no tears left, he swore there weren’t, but he couldn’t breathe like he was sobbing along with Zatanna. There was a pressure atop his chest, the weight of the world crushing his diaphragm. Dick’s shaking hand dropped the form, the last bite smearing across the plate, but Dick could barely see it as his vision started to go white at the edges. Unable to get air, Dick fumbled out of the seat, barely staying upright as he called on the person he trusted most, a strangled call for, “Wally–”

In a blink and a rush of everything, Dick was suddenly in his room, his best friend lowering him onto the bed, grief and worry and anxiety written across his face. Dick looked blearily up at the other through his sunglasses and cursed the unfairness of it all, how he couldn’t be honest with the person who was always there for him, how he had to worry about his identity even as his world fell apart.

“One sec,” Wally said, and Dick blinked to Wally’s disappearance. The speedster was right, it would be one second, maybe less, and god, Dick didn’t care anymore, he didn’t want to hide, not from Wally, not after everything, so in the split second he had, Dick pulled off his sunglasses and forced the air back into his lungs. At least however his best friend reacted would distract him, if only for a moment.

Wally was back in the room and, for the first time in Dick’s life, he rendered the every-moving man completely stare. Wally stared at his face, eyes darting across features, cataloguing, identifying, understanding–

“Holy shit,” Wally said, quiet, shocked. “Robin was using your real name the whole time.”

Laughter burst from Dick without permission, sharp and painful, feeling like it split his throat in two. He shook his head, eyes burning, but there were no tears left. It was just his body going through the motions now. It was just the grief refusing to relent. “Dickiebird, dickhead– he wasn’t super creative with the insults.”

“Dick Grayson.” Wally’s face somehow crumbled further. “Don’t– don’t tell me. Robin is… was…”

“Jason Todd.”

The name rung hollow in the room. There was nothing else to be said. Nightwing had lost his lover. Dick Grayson had lost his family.

“Batman,” Wally murmured. “Or– Bruce Wayne. His kid. Is he…”

“No.”

Bruce wasn’t okay. Dick didn’t think he’d ever be okay again. He didn’t think he would either.

The bed sunk with new weight, Wally sitting beside him. “I’m so sorry, man,” he whispered, his arm going around Dick. “I’m just so sorry.”

Dick leaned into him, shut his eyes, and told himself that even if he wouldn’t ever be okay, at least he wouldn’t be alone.

Chapter Text

Dick held his breath as he approached Batman and Superman. With everyone returned and the trial reportedly a success, it had resulted in what felt like days of a full debrief, the absent-Leaguers being filled in on the invasion, and the ones who had remained Earthside absorbing the trial’s proceedings with thinly veiled frustration. It was strange to think justice could be corrupted in all corners of the galaxy. He could only hope, with the right guidance, that there would be hope for Earth.

After all the talking had finished, Leaguers and members of the Team alike had cleared out of the Main Hall of the Watchtower, but Dick remained, knowing he needed a whole ‘nother level of debriefing to complete. As Bruce had left, he’d been absent for the reveal of Dick’s operation with Kaldur. That would be a hell of a conversation on its own, and one Dick would prefer to have away from all other parties, just in case Bruce decided he needed to give Dick a talking to.

Dick watched Bruce tilt his head forward, into the warmth of Superman. And the way Clark’s gaze softened– Dick’s own chest ached at the obvious intimacy of the moment he was witnessing, uninvited. He remembered being like that, stealing Jason away. He remembered being just like Clark, reading all the minute clues and body language from another person who was loath to admit they wanted to be touched. Jason and Bruce– they really were father and son. And Dick had once been Clark, revelling in the few times that Jason would welcome and even request a gentle hand, just as Clark was reveling in Bruce seeking out his closeness, however guarded the gesture was.

Then Clark looked over Bruce’s head to Dick and gave him a smile and a nod. He murmured something to Bruce before Bruce gave a nod of his own and Clark left the Hall, giving them space. Dick sucked in a breath and readied himself.

“I’m– glad you’re back.”

There was a pause before Bruce turned around. Even with the cowl, Dick read the slightest bit of surprise in the tension of Bruce’s jawline. He knew why. He just didn’t really want to think about it.

“Got pretty hairy without all of you,” Dick went on, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. “And Gotham will be glad to have you home. Not that patrols haven’t been quiet enough on the good days, but– you know. She always misses her favorite knight.”

Bruce lifted his chin. “You’ve been patrolling Gotham?”

Ah, crap. He’d forgotten that was a relatively new thing. “Here and there,” he said, ignoring the unsaid question. “Been a good gig, getting to stretch my legs instead of being stuck behind the desk.” He needed to talk to Bruce about– other options. “It’s nice being back, though I don’t think she missed me very much.”

Bruce continued to study him as he asked, “As Nightwing? Or as Dick Grayson?”

“Nightwing.” He wasn’t ready to be Dick Grayson anytime soon. The idea that he would be attending balls and galas and facing the cameras again– he’d rather just roll over and die. When Jay had been adopted, the reporters had been ruthless enough to accuse the boy of murdering his own mother. Dick couldn’t imagine the sick things he’d be asked in the aftermath of Jason’s “disappearance”.

“I’m glad you’re back.”

Bruce echoing what Dick had said only moments ago felt a little dizzying. They stared at each other, still a good five feet apart. Ever since Jay’s death, there had been this– this wall between them. Dick and Bruce had never learned how to process grief, not the right way. How could misery love company when everything they’d known about mourning necessitated being alone? But Dick was unlearning that bad habit, day by day. And he knew Bruce could unlearn it with him.

Dick took a step forward, then another. He kept his expression clean and broke eye contact, making it seem as natural as possible as he entered Bruce’s space, familiar despite how long it had been. “Tim did well,” he said, continuing the idea that he was just providing more information. “So did Babs. They handled Gotham just fine on their own. But it stopped sitting right with me pretty quick.”

“Gotham demands attention.”

Thank god, he wasn’t going to pick Dick apart. Dick wasn’t sure he’d last the conversation if Bruce had tried that. “She sure is.” He couldn’t deny in a fondness in his chest with his words. Gotham was a problem, but she was good, deep down. Jason had been proof of it. “But like I said– we’re glad you’re back.”

“Are you?”

Well, shit, Dick had spoken too soon. He let his eyes be drawn back to Bruce and forced himself to be brave. He’d initiated this, after all. He’d known where it could lead. Bruce wasn’t the kind of guy to let things go without explanation or discussion. He wouldn’t be Batman if he showed anyone that kind of mercy.

“I– I am.” The words were like knives in his throat, but they were true. “You didn’t make it easy, you know. And when I went to the cave again– his uniform.” Dick’s hands started to tremble. He slipped one into his belt, finding the smooth stone within, taking it into his palm and drawing it out. Bruce’s sharp eyes went to the worry stone, but he didn’t comment as Dick rubbed slow circles into the center with his thumb. “He has so many memorials, Bruce. But we never even got to bury him. Are we overcompensating? Jay would hate every single one of them, and yet we just keep making more.”

“I doubt he’d begrudge your need to remember him.”

“Don’t act like I wanted any of them,” Dick replied too quickly, too harshly. “The only reason I’m not losing it over losing the mountain is because his memorial down there was too cold. I kept meaning to install warmer lights, but there are too many damn codes for that building. And the one in Gotham is just a reminder of how we can never dig him out, a reminder of the domino dying. The uniform you put up would offend him, he’s always been so weird about clothes. And the gauntlet would really piss him off–”

“Because he never saw any value in his failure.”

Bruce finishing the thought cinched something tight in Dick’s chest. He managed a tiny smile, relieved to know Bruce was still stuck in the past like him. Not that he could have been. Bruce was worse with death than even Dick.

“I’m glad you have Tim,” Dick said. “But do you miss Jason?”

Bruce’s eyes were quietly devastated. “Every waking moment.”

Dick nodded, looking away. “... Me too.”

There was silence. Then the air shifted, Bruce taking a step closer. Their shoulders almost touched. They were facing the windows together, staring out into space. The endless stretch of the universe was the same endlessness that had lost them Jason. If they’d just stayed home– but Dick couldn’t keep thinking like that. He was trying to improve. He was trying to live again, as Jay would want. He was trying to talk.

“We’ll see him again someday.”

Beside him, Bruce shifted again, and Dick could tell he was being studied, silently. “You never used to believe in the afterlife.”

“I gotta believe,” Dick replied. “If I don’t have that– if I don’t tell myself that I’ll be with him in death– then I have nothing.”

“I know.”

Dick didn’t doubt it.

“You’ve done well, Dick. I’m proud of you.”

Dick’s smile twisted a little. “Please. Everyone was captured at least once. Blue Beetle was overtaken by the Reach and turned on us. I only barely kept anyone from dying. You and I both know you’re lying.”

“You faced impossible odds and did your best,” Bruce said. “Maybe it got close, but no one did perish. You outlasted the invaders. We are en route to saving the world.” Bruce paused. “Your plan with Kaldur– it was good. I would’ve made the same call.”

Now that-- that felt good. Bruce admitting he would also send Kaldur undercover despite all that had gone wrong? Dick couldn't deny his chest warmed with the compliment. “We need more information on the Light and the Untitled,” Dick said, doubling down on the plan. “Kaldur was able to get into the inner circle. He was able to split them apart from the inside. But even more interesting, he found important intel about the Untitled.”

Bruce frowned. “Is it urgent?”

“Not yet,” Dick hedged. They barely knew anything, really. “But we do know that there’s discourse within the Light about pursuing the Untitled. Savage thinks its dangerous, something about meddling in things they can’t hope to contain. And if Savage is saying that…”

“Then we can assume the Untitled are far more of a threat than just being prophets of disaster.”

Dick nodded. “Kaldur says they mentioned a site. Like, an archeological site. Kinda like the one for the Beetle technology, but– older. Somewhere that held information that has Savage seeing the Untitled as too much of a risk. We don’t know where it is, but I’ll find it.”

He felt Bruce’s eyes on him– then he felt Bruce’s hand on his shoulder. “I know you will. Good work. Both of you.”

Dick gusted a breath. “Thanks, Bruce. Let’s hope I keep up it up.”

“I know you will.” Bruce repeating himself– he meant it. They both suddenly heard a soft ping in their ears, and Bruce tensed. “I must go.”

“Yeah. See you later, Bruce.” As his guardian released his shoulder and left, Dick ducked his head and wished he could keep going, but– it was good that he’d been able to say Jason’s name at all. Practice was what would bring him closer to his goal, and being close to Bruce again was worth it. After all– Dick would rather die himself than let there be a future that didn’t know his Little Wing’s sacrifice.

Chapter Text

“Look, Conner,” Tim Drake began, his expression solemn like the statue of the second Robin Conner had seen just last night. “I know you’re going through a lot, and I know it’s selfish of me to do this, but I know you need honesty more than anything else right now.” The younger vigilante turned to face him fully, the pair sitting on the couch in the warehouse, a rare moment of quiet with the others out on minor deployments, Robin and Superboy staying behind to hold down the fort. The television was playing a cartoon in Japanese with subtitles that went by too quickly for Conner to understand the plot. Tim was wearing jeans and a crewneck instead of his uniform, sunglasses perched on his nose.

“Conner,” Tim said again. He said Conner’s name a lot. “I have feelings for you. They’re romantic in nature, and I want to be closer to you. I’m fine with being friends. But I want to be more than that to you, and will always want that. And I’m sorry that these feelings won’t go away.”

Conner stared at him as two girls on the screen that were wearing tighter outfits than Batgirl’s started screaming and fawning over some guy with hearts coming out of their eyes. The show was reflecting off of Tim’s sunglasses, allowing Conner to watch it even if he wasn’t looking at the screen, whether he wanted to watch or not.

Conner felt his eyebrow twitch as the loud volume, piercing shrieks, and Tim’s words effectively overwhelmed him in all but a single second. He didn’t know what to say. He had a feeling whatever he did say wouldn’t be what Tim wanted to hear. He wished that Tim were like M’Gann, where she could just read his thoughts to understand what was going on in his head. But he was also very, very grateful that Tim was nothing like M’Gann.

“Okay.”

That probably wasn’t right. But instead of getting mad, Tim relaxed, and there was relief in his expression. Ever since Bart Allen had revealed the identities of the Bats, Tim had been more relaxed about being in civvies, and less concerned about whether or not his sunglasses were perfectly angled at all times. Nightwing— Dick Grayson, actually— still wore the domino wherever he went.

“I’m glad you’re not upset,” Tim said with a grin, leaning back against the couch again after urgently sitting forward to say his little spiel. Conner was still deaf to the actual meaning of the words. There was a lot going on right now, especially with M’Gann about to go behind enemy lines, Nightwing working on a plot to bring the Martian into Black Manta’s corner so she could fix her mistake. Conner had barely started to accept that Kaldur hadn’t betrayed them. They’d only barely gotten all their people back. Conner was a little behind on everything right now.

“Do you want me to put on something else?” Tim asked, pulling Conner from his sluggish thoughts. He was tired. Nightwing had helped him confront M’Gann only last night, and they’d spent the morning ensuring her capture-slash-surrender would go over smoothly. Conner didn’t want to form a single coherent thought if he didn’t have to. “I forgot subtitles are hard for you sometimes. Sorry. I can turn them off.”

“How will you watch your show?”

Tim shrugged. “I can speak Japanese.”

And just like that, the subtitles were gone. Conner officially had no clue what was happening in the show anymore, but he didn’t have to try and keep up either. Somehow, being completely disconnected from the narrative made it easier to understand.

/ / /

The warehouse could be crowded, and the kitchen felt tiny in comparison to the one that had been in Mount Justice. Conner didn’t like cooking in the warehouse, constantly reminded of the only home he’d ever known, now lost, all in the name of the relentless pursuit of defeating their enemies. Sometimes, the reminder was so painful that Conner would just skip a meal.

Tim Drake, despite being part-time in Gotham and not even officially living in the warehouse unlike Nightwing, noticed Conner’s issues almost immediately.

“Bad morning?” Tim asked him after silently appearing at Conner’s shoulder while Conner stood in front of the tiny kitchen and considered if even a pot of coffee was worth it. “C’mon— I know a bagel place down the street.” He didn’t grab Conner by the shirt or insist, but he did walk away with purposefully loud steps, and that was enough to convince. Conner turned away from that tiny, shitty kitchen and followed Tim out the lift gate into the guts of Blüdhaven.

Blüdhaven itself was another problem entirely. It was a rowdy city, loud and chaotic, especially in comparison to the small town vibes of Happy Harbor. People back there had lived up to the name of their home town. People in Blüdhaven were the same— they were practically always out for blood. But Tim didn’t seemed cowed by the blaring horns, the people yelling, the glares they’d get just from walking too closely to someone down the sidewalk. Tim almost seemed familiar with this place.

“Do you know the area well?” Conner asked curiously, his hands in the pockets of the denim jacket M’Gann had gotten him last year for their anniversary. The city was chilly this early spring morning.

“This is technically Nightwing’s turf.”

Really?

“I thought he was in Gotham with all of you.”

Tim grimaced, his sunglasses pinching the bridge of his nose, the short black hair reflecting the occasional ray of sunlight when it managed to peak through the ocean clouds. “He— doesn’t like Gotham very much anymore. It’s hard for him to be there.”

Oh. “Because of Jason.”

Tim gusted a breath and nodded. “Because of Jason.”

“It’s weird to know his name.” When Tim glanced to him in surprise, Conner thought over what he’d said just to make sure, and still stood by it. “I only knew him as Robin. But it was a hard adjustment, because Nightwing was Robin too, and now you’re Robin. Jason was probably one of the people I was closest to on the whole team, next to M’Gann and Kaldur. But I never even knew his name. Not until two years after he was gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Conner said. “I know it now.” He smiled a bit. “It’s a good name for him. I guess I never really thought about it, but remembering him and how he was, Jason fits.” Tim only looked more confused. “Well, you know my name, right? Conner? It means ‘lover of wolves’, and I would probably punch a hole in everything I see if something happened to Wolf. Did you know Jason means healer?”

Tim’s mouth quirked in something close to a smile. “You think it fit him?”

“You don’t?”

“I never met him.”

Conner stalled, having forgotten that. “Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Tim said with a shrug. That was one thing Conner liked about him. He didn’t get upset or frustrated or even patronizing when Conner got things wrong. “I’d like to hear about him. No one back home can talk about him. Hurts too much, I think. Nightwing can't even say his name.” Tim paused for a second. “You think he’s a healer?”

“A fixer,” Conner clarified. “Which is kinda the same thing, at least to me. He was always trying to fix things, make them how they were before. Relationships, vehicles, places and people. If he saw something was wrong or how it shouldn't be, he wanted to fix it. And he’d get annoyed if he couldn’t.”

Tim’s smile became a little sad. “I guess a healer is pretty good name for him.”

“It is,” Conner agreed.

They were quiet for a moment as they continued to walk, concrete cracked beneath their feet, weeds growing valiantly towards the sun, like Conner would. He enjoyed the warmth on his skin whenever he could get it. His powers weren’t powered by the sun exactly the same as Clark’s, but sometimes it felt pretty close.

“My name means honoring god.”

Conner frowned, glancing to the other. Tim was only an inch or so shorter than himself. “I didn’t know you were religious.”

“I’m not,” Tim scoffed. “But not everyone gets the perfect name.” Then the other stopped and pulled open a door by the worn metal handle, a bell jingling their arrival. Conner looked up at the storefront, seeing a bagel with a face and hands giving two thumbs up. He hadn’t been paying attention. “Have you ever had lox?”

Conner hadn’t, and when he shook his head, Tim only looked excited. “Awesome,” the boy said. “I like when I get to introduce you to new things.”

A warmth built in Conner’s chest when Tim said that. He didn’t think anything about it and just followed him inside.

/ / /

M’Gann was gone. She’d been sent in, was now one of the undercover agents, and Conner felt a strange anxiety about it. He found himself pacing when he wasn’t immediately occupied by a task, found himself enjoying small things less and less. He couldn’t be pacified by remaining on standby, awaiting further orders or deployment. Even if there was no emergency, he suddenly needed to keep moving. M’Gann was down there, under the ocean, with their enemies. Conner couldn’t breathe underwater. He could hold his breath for a couple hours and the depths would be unable to crush him, but he couldn’t breathe underwater.

The restlessness and uselessness left him off kilter and uneasy. There wasn’t room in the warehouse to work on Sphere or any other mechanical pursuit. And lately, whenever he did get his hands greasy, it came with a heaviness that he hadn’t experienced in a while. There was a kind of heartache in realizing he needed a specific tool, and knowing the person he’d trusted to actually know what he was talking about was gone. Jason had been dead for two years now. Sometimes these emotions just snuck up on Conner from nowhere.

He missed his friend.

“Hey.”

Conner stalled as Tim Drake was suddenly in front of him, his brow knit upwards with concern. Conner wondered what color the guy’s eyes were underneath his sunglasses. Even though he now knew the identity of the third Robin, he still hadn’t actually seen his eyes. “Hey,” he replied, wondering why Tim looked worried. He wasn’t supposed to be going to a fight, right? Tim was just wearing a t-shirt and jeans. His arms were a lot bigger than most people expected from a guy as slight as Tim Drake. And his collar bone was really sharp too. He was pale, and there was something delicate about the line of his throat, the bob of the Adam’s Apple, that made Conner’s fingertips twitch. “What’s wrong?”

“I was gonna ask you that,” Tim said. “You’ve been wearing holes in the floor with your pacing.”

Conner actually turned around and looked, wondering if Tim wasn’t being facetious. His ears burned when he realized there were not actually holes, and looked back to the other. To Conner’s relief, Tim wasn’t smirking at him like it was funny Conner had fallen for it. He just looked the same amount of worried as before. Tim was a nice guy like that.

“You wanna talk about it?” Tim offered.

Conner grimaced. He’d talked about M’Gann with Tim plenty. He didn’t want to annoy Tim by being unable to talk about anything else.

“Is it… her?”

Conner squinted, suspicious. Jason Todd had had that wall in his head and everyone had thrown the second Robin being psychic around the table as a possibility. But sometimes, Nightwing seemed pretty psychic too. Tim was showing a sign of psychic-ness right now. Was it the Batman training? Were people from Gotham just really, really good at reading people?

“I’m sure she’s going to be safe, Conner. She’s an incredible fighter, especially against the right people.”

Conner squinted further. “Shouldn’t you hate her?”

Tim frowned. “I mean, I don’t like her, of course. What she tried to do to your memories is a step too far. But I can’t say I hate her. Why? Do you want me to hate her?”

“Shouldn’t you hate her because you like me?”

Tim stalled, literally just kinda stopped moving, his expression washed clean, the epitome of stunned stupid. Conner didn’t move either, expecting an answer. Tim had confessed, hadn’t he? About a week ago, and Conner hadn’t thought much of it since, but shouldn’t Tim hate M’Gann because he was jealous? Not that M’Gann and Conner were together anymore either, just— he’d seen the movies. Tim should be trying to fight M’Gann or something.

“I don’t know how to respond to that.”

Conner frowned to match Tim. “So do you not like me anymore?”

“What? No!” The sudden way Tim raised his voice along with the redness across his cheeks assured Conner that he meant it. “I do, Conner, my feelings for you haven’t gone anywhere, I just— M’Gann is your ex, and she’s my teammate. And she’s done some bad things, but she’s gotta be a good person, I know it. I don’t hate her.”

“Why not?” Conner pressed. “She’s the thing between you and me.”

Tim’s brow furrowed. “Is she?”

It was Conner’s turn to stall. He tried to think it over. Tim had confessed, and Conner hadn’t done anything about it. That was because of M’Gann, right? Except Tim had a point. M’Gann was his ex. So why did nothing come of the confession?

When he and M’Gann had gotten together, it had been mutual attraction. That was how it had worked for Artemis and Wally. Also Nightwing and Jason. They’d both had feelings for one another and had communicated it and ended up romantically involved.

Tim had confessed his feelings. And Conner— had done nothing.

“Hey,” Tim beckoned again, gentle, careful. “Look, you’re going through a lot right now. I didn’t mean to make things worse.” Conner watched Tim try to smile. “I’m glad you believed me, though.”

“Of course I did,” Conner said. “You wouldn’t lie to me.”

Tim’s breath caught. Conner only heard it thanks to the super hearing. It was a strange reaction that Conner almost thought he understood. His eyes were drawn down, to Tim’s lips, where that breath had shuddered and snagged. He remembered how much M’Gann had liked to try different lip glosses on her human form. Tim didn’t look like he wore anything on his lips. Conner wondered how different it would feel to kiss a guy with nothing on his lips compared to a girl who enjoyed experimenting with makeup.

“Are you okay, Conner?”

The innocent question interrupted a thought Conner hadn’t wanted to be interrupted. He shook his head. “I need to find Nightwing.”

“Oh.” Tim sounded disappointed. Why would he? Except, why wouldn’t he? If Tim liked him, why wouldn’t he be upset Conner was trying to see someone else? Except Tim had said he didn’t hate M’Gann. What could it be, then? Was it because Nightwing was a guy too? Conner wasn’t like that.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Conner said, pulling out his phone. He felt bad. The idea of leaving Tim disappointed didn’t sit well with him, but he had to figure something else out first. A quick text and he was out the door to find Dick. This was important.

/ / /

“Conner,” Nightwing greeted, perched atop the corner of a building in an alleyway of Bludhaven, in his vigilante uniform as always. It was dusk, the night approaching, and Conner knew he’d been smart to cut the conversation with Tim short, because there was no way Gotham wouldn’t need the third Robin tonight. Conner took a step back as Nightwing dropped two stories with barely a flip or a turn. He remembered when the first Robin had been all cartwheels and show-stopping displays of agility. Ever since Jason had died, it seemed like Nightwing found little to no joy in performing anymore.

“Got your text,” Nightwing said with a smile that Conner could only describe as supportive. “You don’t have to worry. M’Gann made it in alright, and Artemis says that they’ve been able to buy time. Once we get the all-clear about Kaldur, we can get her back out.” Nightwing paused, as if waiting or Conner to cheer. “Or— you came for something else?”

“M’Gann and I broke up,” Conner reminded Nightwing. “I know she’s capable.” Tim had been right, she could take care of herself. “If anything, I should be relieved she’s gone. Shouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know,” Nightwing hedged. “Even if you know what she did was wrong, you still loved her.”

“Yeah,” Conner confirmed. “But not anymore.” He paused. “How did you know you liked guys?”

Nightwing stared through him for a second. Then he blew out a sigh and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning his back against the grimy brick wall behind him. “I knew I liked guys when I caught feelings for a guy. It’s as simple as that. The way I felt for Zatanna was the same way I felt for another boy later on. Catching feelings is the easy part. It’s being able to accept yourself and what you feel that makes it hard.”

That sounded only halfway right. “I don’t think I’d care if I had feelings for a guy,” he murmured, his gaze going to the floor as he tried to piece together his thoughts. “I just— don’t even really know what that ‘feeling’ feels like.”

“It might feel like it did with M’Gann.”

“And if I don’t remember what that felt like?”

Nightwing frowned, pushing off the wall. There was concern in the line of his mouth. “Conner, do you mean you don’t remember how you fell for her? Or that you don’t think you fell for her at all?”

“I know I fell for her,” Conner said firmly. “M’Gann was special. She made me feel safe, and didn’t make me feel stupid for not knowing how things worked. She made it easy, too. I didn’t have to talk about scary things, I didn’t have to say them out loud. I just thought them. And if I couldn’t even articulate in my head, she could feel the emotions too.”

“She made things pretty simple for you,” Nightwing said with another one of those small smiles. “Sounds like she was exactly what you needed back then.”

“But she’s not that anymore.” Conner shook his head. “So then, say a guy made me feel all those things too. Made me feel safe, didn’t judge me for not knowing certain things, and cared enough about me to try and figure out what I was trying to say when I couldn’t say it. Does that mean I have feelings for them like I did her?”

“Not necessarily,” Nightwing hedged with a bit of a wince. “There’s an extra layer to it. Someone could make you feel all that and just be a friend. But if someone makes you feel all that, and makes you want them, then it’s probably a lot closer to what you had with M’Gann.”

“Want them,” Conner repeated. “That’s what I’m struggling with.”

“If you don’t want a guy, Conner, then it’s probably just companionship you feel.”

“How does wanting another boy even work?” Conner pressed now that they were finally on the topic he wanted them to be. “How do two guys even be together anyways?” That was why he’d needed Nightwing. He knew Clark had something going on with Batman, but Clark wasn’t here right now. Nightwing was the only other person he knew who was into guys. “I get feeling connected with another guy, it’s how I feel with Kaldur. But there’s that extra layer you were talking about that makes me wonder if what I’m feeling right now is different. But I can’t figure out if I’m even feeling that if I don’t know what it looks like.”

Nightwing hesitated. “Do you mean, like— kissing?”

“I know you can kiss anyone with a mouth,” Conner huffed, feeling a little impatient. “It’s what’s after that. With M’Gann, she had plenty of Hollywood films that showed enough, and then she was just filled in the blanks. But this other guy isn’t psychic, so I don’t think he can help me the same way, and I don’t even know what it would look like.”

Nightwing didn’t answer for a long time. He almost looked like he wanted to run. “… Jason and I never got that far.”

What? “Really?” Conner was bewildered. “But you and him were even more attached at the hip than M’Gann and I. Hell, more than Artemis and Wally. You and Jason were practically magnetized to each other.” Jason had loved Nightwing. Conner knew that for a fact. Jason never said it out loud, but he said just about everything else, and he never shied away from talking about Nightwing when he and Conner had been working on vehicles together. Hilariously, Conner had learned more about Nightwing and the guy under the mask from Jason Todd than he had in the nearly four years he’d worked with Nightwing on his own.

“And Jason went through a lot of terrible, awful things,” Nightwing responded quietly. “A lot of terrible, awful things that made us careful about that aspect of the relationship. He died before we got that far, Conner. I’m sorry. I won’t be much help.”

Conner honestly doubted that. Nightwing had been in a relationship for nearly two years with a boy he’d been head over heels for. Conner didn’t believe that Nightwing hadn’t at least explored what it would look like if they got that far. But Conner also knew that the chance of Nightwing wanting to talk about something that was obviously a sore spot was zero to none. And as much as Conner wanted answers, he didn’t want to hurt his friend even more.

“So, I need the feelings, but also the want.” Conner nodded, wondering if this was enough to go off of on his own. “If I’ve got those, then I’m probably into guys.”

“Sure,” Nightwing said. He looked paler than normal. Conner knew Nightwing didn’t like to talk about Jason. “The thing about wanting, Conner— I'll try to describe it. A lot of that can come with the feeling of lacking self control around that person. Sometimes it took everything in me to not drag Jay away somewhere quiet and be alone with him for days on end.” There was a shaky smile from the other, and Conner felt bad. “It’s not the same for everyone, but I have a feeling it’ll be similar for you. So if that’s all, I—“

He was already turning around, but Conner called out, “Dick,” and stopped the other vigilante dead in his tracks. He didn’t turn back around to lay into Conner for the civilian name when still in uniform in public. Conner had really messed him up with that question, hadn’t he?

“Jason talked about you a lot,” Conner said softly, remembering the countless conversations, the way Jason would just go on and on and on, sometimes talking about patrol the night before, sometimes complaining about how people criticized Nightwing, sometimes just lamenting his own issues and how he worried he wasn’t enough. But most often of all, Jason would talk about how much he looked up to and loved and adored Nightwing. “I’m sorry you never got to know him like that.” The intimate moments he’d shared with M’Gann were still precious to him despite how things had ended between them. Despite how things had ended between them and how Conner knew he would never want to go back to her, he also never wanted to forget the countless ways M’Gann had trusted him with her body. “I know he wanted it too.”

That was what made Nightwing’s confession that he and Jason hadn’t been intimate all the more shocking. The amount of times Conner had laughed at Jason just losing his mind over Nightwing’s ass in his uniform were too many to count. Conner knew Jason had wanted Nightwing, viciously, relentlessly. And yet it had never happened because Jason had been fucked up by bad people and Nightwing had loved him too much to push him too far.

“He trusted you,” Conner promised. “He never once thought he couldn’t trust you. And I know he wanted to be with you more than anything.”

Nightwing laughed bitterly, sounding almost like the laugh itself had been gutted from his chest. It wasn’t how Conner had expected him to react but what did Conner really know about the loss Nightwing had experienced? Conner could barely get under a car without yearning for Jason’s voice to come from above, complaining about Conner’s refusal to use a creeper. And Conner hadn’t even wanted to kiss the guy.

“Maybe one day, I’ll get the chance.”

Nightwing was talking about dying. Conner didn’t need to be a normal person to know that.

“Thanks, Superboy,” Nightwing said. “For what it’s worth? I’m glad Jay was someone you trusted, because I know he trusted you too.”

Conner nodded, ready to move now that he knew this was up to himself, his intuition, and his judgement. No one was going to be able to hold his hand. There weren’t Hollywood movies to give him a playbook. It was just himself, alone in his head, figuring out if Tim Drake could somehow be the same person to him as M’Gann had once been.

What the fuck was he going to do?

/ / /

“Do you need an extra hand around Metropolis?”

The offer came out of left field, Conner hoisting the scraps of killer robots over his shoulders, tasked with cleaning up. Lex Luthor was claiming innocence about the sudden onslaught of express manufactured bots that had assaulted STAR Labs in Philadelphia. The heaviest hitters from the team had quickly been deployed, and Conner had been inexplicably excited to be assigned to Gamma team with Tim.

Despite being unable to define the excitement, it quickly became apparent how well he worked with the third Robin. It wasn’t often that he worked hand in hand with Tim, and most of the time, Tim sectioned himself off with the quicker, quieter, and also more intelligent vigilantes. Not often did Tim get paired with a walking boulder breaker like Conner. The guy’s fortitude was with strategy and giving direction. He was a born leader, from what Conner had gathered. And he seemed like he liked the idea of leading a lot more than Nightwing did these days. Maybe Tim would tag Nightwing out and give him a break.

Anyways, Tim was surprisingly good at working with Conner, just as good as he was at working with Wonder Girl, or Beast Boy, or Blue Beatle. It reminded Conner a lot of Jason, who had led him so easily through the nuclear power plant and directed him with confidence. Was it a Bat thing, being able to bring out the best of any vigilante they fought alongside and utilize another person’s specific skillset with expertise? Conner hoped so. It gave him faith for the future.

Tim did well. Conner hadn’t once thought he was being given the wrong call, ignoring the main assault in favor of going after the power supply of the leading brain of the robotic droves and decimating the entire army with one fatal blow to their leader, at Conner’s hand, directed by Tim. Here they were now, coming down from the high of combat, the strongest tasked with clearing the debris. And Tim Drake waltzed up to him with a bruise across his neck the size of Conner’s palm, offering—

“What?”

Tim smiled at him, looking exhausted. But there was a patience to the smile as well. He knew Conner had worked just as hard and knew that Conner hadn’t failed to pay attention, but just had a lot going on.

“Superman’s been gone for a while,” he said. “Do you need someone to help with patrol today? I don’t see you getting much support in Metropolis, and with Lex having his hand in this whether he admits to it or not… Just wanted to offer.”

Conner readjusted the upper body robot carcass that was hanging over his shoulder. He felt something liquid slide down his chest, and looked down with a sharp, “Fuck!” to see motor oil staining the red El as black as the rest of the t-shirt.

“God dammit,” he grumbled, dumping the carcass and yanking his shirt off, glaring at the stain. “I’m gonna have to go by the warehouse, pick up my spare.” He shook his head. “All that effort of wearing a spare shirt when I’m working on Sphere, and the oil still manages to get me.” He glanced back over at Tim, about to apologize for interrupting him, but stopping when he saw that Tim’s face suddenly matched his uniform. Conner blinked slowly. And then, out of sheer curiosity, he paid attention to Tim’s heartbeat.

It was beating faster than a rabbit’s.

“L-let me get you a spare,” Tim said, backing away, a hand coming up to cover his mouth, likely trying to hide more of his reaction. “I’ll be right back, sorry!”

Conner watched the guy literally flee. “Huh.”

/ / /

What did it even mean to have feelings for someone? Conner thought he knew once. He could define it through M’Gann and the way she made him happy. How she never let him feel alone and was always so genuine in her concern for him. But that had only been M’Gann, and a lot of it had stemmed from her psychic and empath abilities. Of course she was good at knowing how he was feeling, she could literally read his mind.

It would be different for a regular person, Conner realized that now. They wouldn’t be able to just magically know what he was feeling and thinking. They wouldn’t be able to sort through his thoughts and make sense of the tumultuous whirlwind they found. Conner would have to learn how to talk instead of think and wait for M’Gann to read him. Honestly, since breaking up with M’Gann, he’d been working on the talking thing quite a bit more. But he didn’t know if he’d ever perfect.

He had a feeling most normal people hadn’t really perfected the talking thing either.

The other thing was— Conner knew he’d loved M’Gann. But he couldn’t ever, ever recall his heart beating out of his chest when he saw M’Gann in various states of dress and undress like Tim’s had pounded when he’d seen Conner take his shirt off. M’Gann had gotten flustered the first couple times she’d seen Conner unclothed, but nothing like what had just happened with Tim. The way Tim had looked at him— the way Tim’s entire body had reacted, the way Tim had been literally unable to deny the physiological response Conner had witnessed. That was the wanting part, wasn’t it. The part Nightwing had been talking about.

Conner kinda liked it. Because when he’d once been an open book to M’Gann, Tim was an open book to Conner. The shoe was on the other foot, so to speak. Conner liked being able to read Tim. He liked feeling like he had some kind of foothold. He liked knowing he wasn’t helplessly struggling to figure out if Tim had even meant it when he’d confessed. The evidence had been right there before his eyes. And even better? He could see it again.

/ / /

The next time he was alone with Tim, he knew he had to be sneaky. It didn’t make a lot of sense to Conner why he was doing this, but he was going to do it. And he didn’t know why he was going to do it anyways, he just—

Something Nightwing had mentioned. He’d said that it wasn’t a choice to really want someone, it was just what happened. That wanting someone could mean that self control was hard to come by. Conner couldn’t remember ever feeling like his self control was lacking when he looked upon M’Gann, whether they were being intimate or not. But this thing where he wanted to strip his shirt and listen to Tim’s heart hammer out of his chest? Conner couldn’t explain it. And he definitely knew he didn’t have control over it.

So when they were deployed in the middle of the ocean, working to arrest a band of pirates with souped up abilities from taking a cruise liner hostage, and wishing they had two Atlanteans instead of one, Conner went the extra mile. A woman had fallen overboard in her panicked fleeing of some burning flares thrown onto the deck by the pirates below. The waters were calm, she could probably swim, and it wasn’t like anyone was gonna die. Most of the pirates were already in cuffs, just a few stragglers desperately trying to escape and lick their wounds. Hardly a reason to be overtly cautious, which was why, before diving after the woman, who coincidentally had fallen because she’d tried to pull herself from Tim’s grip a little too hard so Tim also happened to be right next to him, Conner yanked his shirt off, gave Tim a nod with a lot of eye contact, and dove from the ship into the salty deep to save the woman’s life.

Tim’s heartbeat went wild.

Conner was grinning as he scooped the woman up in his arms and pulled himself onto a passing pirate craft, ignoring the screams of fear and instead jumping high from the boat, to bring the woman back onto the cruise liner. Tim met him and immediately scolded the woman, keeping his head ducked so he could hide the fierce blush overcoming his entire face.

This— this was fun.

/ / /

“Hey,” Tim said a couple days later, passing by Conner, heading out of the showers that were in the back of the warehouse.

“Hey,” Conner replied, thinking quickly and pulling off his shirt. He watched Tim go bright red and quickly turn away. The reaction was so consistent, it was almost thrilling. Conner smirked to himself as he slipped into the steamy bathroom, and heard Tim trip, then curse loudly.

/ / /

“Dude, Hatsune Miku exists in the future,” Bart Allen explained to a rather frustrated Tim Drake. “We know what anime is.”

“Akira isn’t just an anime,” Tim insisted with a passion to his voice that Conner didn’t get to hear often, especially not about normal stuff. Tim’s passionate voice always came out when he was arguing the validity of his tactical discussions, or when he was piecing together a puzzle of information. It was nice to hear him talk about something mundane and get this excited. “To call it something as simple as an anime is a disservice to its legacy. And to say you knowing who Hatsune Miku is is somehow comparable to Akira’s lasting effects on animation is literally insane.”

Bart looked to Conner with a long-suffering draw to his face. Then he grinned like a loon and mimed pulling at the bottom of his shirt. Conner hummed softly, not really getting what he wanted.

“Akira deals with heavy themes in excess and depth that Hatsune Miku just sings about for three minutes before singing about rain and ghosts immediately after,” Tim went on. Conner remembered seeing Jason get into a tirade like this years ago, but Jason had been arguing with M’Gann about some book called North and South and how it wasn’t comparable to the Pride and Prejudice movie, nor the book, because the former was about industrial versus agricultural society rather than the social dynamics of the upper class. Conner remembered that argument vividly because it was the first time he’d seen M’Gann know less about an Earth movie than someone else. “Economic disparity driving otherwise good individuals to drastic measures for the sake of survival with apocalyptic themes meant to punish those desperate actions isn’t the same as a girl with piggy-tails waving a god damn leek—”

Bart was desperately miming the lifting thing, and Conner jumped as he caught on. “Oh,” he said, before reaching down and tugging off his shirt. Tim shut up, eyes going huge, and Bart threw his hands up in relief.

“Thank god!” the speedster cried out as Tim quickly yanked his gaze away from Conner. “Dude, you are a life saver.”

“What are you talking about?” Tim demanded with his eyes firmly fixed on the wall ahead. Then, “Wait, Conner, are you doing this on purpose?”

“I thought Akira was a book,” Conner said, now shirtless as he lounged against the couch.

“Wait, no, dude, we just got him to shut up!”

“A book— Conner, it’s called manga, and the separation of the two different medias is vital because they tell entirely different stories—”

Bart groaned, tipping his head back in defeat, slumping into the couch as Tim started again. Conner was happy to sit back and listen, and if Tim ever accidentally raised his voice just a bit too much to disturb the people watching a movie in the other corner of the warehouse? Conner just flexed his pecs a little to bring Tim’s attention elsewhere for a moment.

/ / /

“Are you trying to torture him?”

The question from Nightwing was a little unexpected, but then again, Conner had just done his thing again where he pulled his shirt off to get Tim’s heart to patter rabbit fast. They had the warehouse cleared out as much as possible, making room for combat practice, everyone paired off. Conner had chose to strip right before his own match. Something about hearing the evidence of Tim’s attraction to him had fired Conner up, and allowed him to win his match against Wonder Girl, at the end of which he’d promptly tugged his shirt back on.

He should probably tell Nightwing that. “It helped me win,” he said with a shrug as he watched Garf and Bumblebee face off. It wasn’t really that entertaining to watch a mini-person with wings fight a literal bug. Conner was leaning against the wall with Nightwing now beside him. There wasn’t much to observe when they could barely see the fighting parties, so it wasn’t like Nightwing would have much to critique. “His heart does this thing where it goes really fast when I do that. It helps fire me up.”

Nightwing stared at him, slack jawed.

Conner frowned. “What?”

“You—“ Nightwing cut himself off. Conner almost thought he was speechless. It took the other a second to collect his thoughts before he tried again. “Conner, I understand that you’re figuring these things out, but maybe have some mercy on the kid. You said his heart goes crazy. Have you considered it’s embarrassing for him?”

Conner frowned deeper. “No. I guess I hadn’t.”

“Guys can be embarrassed the same as girls,” Nightwing told him with patience that reminded Conner of Tim. “It’s sometimes hard to see someone you’ve got a crush on playing around with you like that. Especially if you’ve confessed to the guy despite him not liking you back.”

“Who said I didn’t like him?”

Nightwing shook his head. “He’s your friend, Conner. But you don’t like him. Not like Tim likes you.”

Conner didn’t know what to say to that. Nightwing clapped him on the shoulder. “Just cut my little brother some slack, big guy. He’s got a lot on his plate—”

“If I did like him back the way he likes me, would it be okay for me to take off my shirt?”

Nightwing sputtered over his words. “What are you— I-I mean—”

“It would, wouldn’t it,” Conner figured out on his own. “Jason was always talking about doing things to rile you up. He planned it out and everything.” And Jason was one of the most romantic people Conner had ever known. This was so strange, but it made sense. He had a lot to figure out. “Thanks, Dick. I’ll see you later.” He pushed off the wall and left the warehouse, in a bit of a rush. He needed to think. And he had just the place to go for some quiet.

/ / /

A couple weeks ago, Tim had brought Conner here. Conner’s original trepidation in tagging along had stemmed from a deeply seeded ideal that most of the Justice League, and therefore the team, had. Gotham was Batman’s business. Showing up in Gotham, whether as a working vigilante or not, was grounds for reprimand.

Tim had made it pretty clear, though, that Batman wouldn’t be upset with Conner visiting Jason. He’d explained that there was a difference between encroaching on Batman’s territory to shove his nose where it didn’t belong, and paying his respects. Especially now, with Jason’s memorial demolished in the remains of Mount Justice, Batman would never deny anyone their right to see Jason.

And Conner had to admit, he liked this memorial better than the one the League had put together with the simple, cold projector and faceless walls surrounding. Maybe the tall, stone statue depicted Jason a little sterner than Conner remembered, but there were always flowers at Jason’s feet and at the base of the pedestal, and there were always photos and candles and little gifts. Maybe this statue was a bit colder than the real Jason Todd, but he was never neglected. And Conner preferred knowing one of his closest friends was always remembered now that he was gone. It made the absence a little easier.

“The sprockets on almost all the bikes for the Team are ridiculously rusted,” Conner told Jason’s frowning face. “And Kid Flash rides his bike way too hard, so the suspension is pretty much shot already. You’d think a speedster would prefer to just use his feet.” Conner was wearing the House of El on his shirt so he could technically say he was in uniform. He wasn’t some random talking to a dead vigilante. He was talking to his partner. “Wish you were around. Could use the extra set of hands. You always did love fixing their messes.”

Jason didn’t answer, but he wasn’t supposed to, nor did he need to. Conner knew what he’d say. He’d tell Conner that Conner could handle it just fine on his own. Then he’d tap Conner’s arm, and call him hot stuff. Jason always seemed to know Conner’s abilities better than Conner himself— and not just in the field.

“I needed to ask you something,” Conner murmured, standing in front of Jason and looking up. That was probably the strangest part about all of his. Jason wasn’t supposed to be taller. “Your successor— who I really think you’d like— has feelings for me. And I’m just trying to figure out what it means when I like how his heart beats fast every time he sees me without a shirt.”

It sounded silly when he said it out loud like that.

“You better not laugh at me,” Conner grumbled, because he knew Jason would definitely laugh at him. “It’s not something I’ve ever had to worry about before. Miss Martian watched so many movies growing up, all of her romantic understanding comes from Earth girls. But guys are different. I think.”

Were they different? Guys liked gifts, right? Jason and Dick had gotten each other gifts, and Clark sometimes worried about what to get Bruce for events because rich guys were the hardest people to buy for.

And Nightwing had loved all the romantic stuff Jason knew. Conner remembered catching Nightwing studying a farmer’s almanac on the language of flowers once he’d learned Jason knew all of the meanings off the top of his head. Conner also remembered the one time Clark had received chocolate covered strawberries from an unknown suitor at the Daily Planet, and the way Clark had struggled to keep his feet on the ground, lifting off and floating around unconsciously to match the light in his chest at receiving the gesture.

There were differences with sex, Conner knew that now, but the differences were mainly superficial. He’d browsed around on the internet after Garf had shown him how to use a private browser, and Conner’s initial hesitation at seeing another guy’s penis had quickly proven not to be much of an issue at all. He had one, after all. Sure, everyone’s looked different, which made Conner stand out just a bit because being Clark’s clone probably meant his was also a direct copy of Clark’s, but— there wasn’t really any initial revulsion at seeing stranger’s junk.

His research into sex had just proven he would need to buy lubrication. He’d initially thought that to be the same thing he used for vehicles, but had quickly realized his mistake after a couple more clicks around, skimming the conversations of men who really, really liked being with other men. He knew he’d have to figure things out a little further, maybe get used to the idea of taking his time with preparation, but it wasn’t the end of the world.

Standing here, thinking it through, Conner tried to find some big deal-breaker thing that made being with a guy different from being with a girl. Fundamentally, he had a feeling that any difference there could be would be down to the person, and not what was in their pants. And if Conner didn’t mind the physical differences, then what was really such a big deal between the two?

“… Are guys actually not that different?”

Jason frowned down at him, silently waiting for Conner to realize his mistake. Conner huffed. “Don’t be a jerk.” Jason was right, though. Conner had taken way too long to think that through. And on that thought—

“Hey— do you think I like him back?”

He remembered when he’d initially begun dating M’Gann, how he’d loved to see her blush, always thrilled in her shy giggles, and had enjoyed surprising her, learning about her, exploring how she worked and understanding her. Conner already knew Tim well. They were partners in combat and in the Team, they fought alongside each other and didn’t have to think twice in the heat of the moment if the other would be there for them. And even more than that, Conner couldn’t deny that he had fun teasing the other guy. He liked the attention it got him. He liked knowing Tim was watching him, always. And when he tried to think about getting that attention from anyone else, something unpleasant turned in his stomach. That was his answer, wasn’t it? If he didn’t like the idea of anyone else’s heart beat pounding into the stratosphere just from looking at his bare skin, then didn’t that mean Tim was special? Didn’t that mean Conner, to some extent, liked him too?

“I like him back,” Conner told Jason, nodding slowly. “That’s it, right? Even if it’s not to the same level, I like him more than anyone else right now.” He wouldn’t want Nightwing’s heart doing that thing. Nor Wally’s, nor Kaldur’s. Jason, maybe, because it would be cool to know Jason thought Conner was cool, but no one else.

“Huh.” He had a feeling he liked Tim back. He wasn’t absolutely solid in the idea, but he had a feeling. And it was a feeling more than he’d realized before.

“Thanks, Robin,” Conner said, not finding it strange at all to call Jason the same thing he called Tim. It was just a title, after all. Nightwing certainly wasn’t Robin anymore, but Jason and Tim were, and Conner was okay with it. “I’ll see you later—”

The ground suddenly shook with the force of an explosion, Conner cursing and quickly turning around, arms up as he braced against a minor shockwave. He lowered his arms to the sight of Robbins Bridge practically teetering on a knife’s edge. Someone had blown on a hole in the road on the right side, and while the support cables were still holding on strong, the right guard rail and a good fifteen feet of road crashed into the ocean below.

“Right,” Conner said, digging his heels in before leaping high, easily spanning the distance with a single bound. He smashed into the ground just before the bridge stretched from the land, leaning in with the momentum and sprinting forward, darting between vehicles to reach the minivan that had narrowly avoided pitching off into the depths below, but was tipping further forward by the second. Conner could easily narrow his hearing in on the three screaming children inside and the father at the wheel, desperately slamming his foot on the gas with the van in reverse. Conner reached the van just as the back wheels started to tip off the ground, grabbing the rear bumper and gently pulling the wheels back to the asphalt, grabbing the handle of the lift door and just tearing the whole thing off so he could address those within.

“Everyone, stay buckled!” he shouted before he dragged the van further back, then hoisted it up and over his head, holding it up and turning around. He could see everyone else fleeing off the bridge, practically falling out of their cars in their panic. He walked calmly with the van held aloft and gently lowered it to the ground once he was back on land. The three little kids scrambled out of the van and— directly into him?

“Thank you, Superman!” the oldest sobbed, a little boy with tight braids in rows across his head. His little arms looped around Conner’s neck, clinging tight. “Where’s your cape?”

Conner meant to answer, but he heard the most insane cackling, and turned around to see a helicopter hovering lower, the cabin doors open with one side facing the mangled bridge, and the what looked like one of Joker’s lot hanging out of the side with a souped-up rocket launcher on his shoulder, aimed for the bridge. Two more figures moved around behind, possibly reloading the weapon. Conner scowled and ran back towards the bridge, intending to bring the assholes down, when another helicopter swung up into view, Conner’s eyes going wide as he registered the projectile shooting for him a second too late.

The explosive hit right at his feet, Conner barely having time to tuck all his limbs in. Heat overwhelmed him, scorching his thoughts, concrete smashing into his body and pummeling the air from his lungs, and his gut leaped into his throat with the sensation of free fall. He readied himself to hit the water, already thinking of where the support legs were for the bridge, knowing he just needed to swim to one to launch himself back up—

Something collided with him, and Conner’s eyes flew open to find himself in Robin’s arms, Tim Drake holding him tight to his side as the grapnel swung them both beneath the bridge and up onto the road again. Conner almost stumbled with the sudden change in motion, but Tim kept his arm tight around Conner’s waist to ensure he didn’t fall. “You alright, Superboy?”

“Why’d you do that?”

The question wasn’t what Conner had meant to say.

“What?” Tim looked just as confused by the question as Conner was. He glanced back to where Batgirl was swooping gracefully through one of the helicopters, kicking one of the armed Joker thugs out of the craft, hanging the brute by the ankle with one of her wires as she soared on to the next. They both knew she had this handled.

“I could’ve survived that, easy,” Conner replied, taking his own steps towards the chaos, knowing his efforts were best spent ensuring all civilians had escaped the perimeter, and whisking those who hadn’t to safety. “It wouldn’t have killed me!” he shouted to be heard as the distance grew.

“Just because you’d survive doesn't mean it wouldn’t hurt!” Tim shouted back. And then Robin was diving off the bridge, his line thrown for the helicopter Batgirl had divested of its gunner, flying up to take out the pilot.

With Tim’s words ringing in his ears, Conner felt his own cheeks burn. And it wasn’t from the fires.

/ / /

“Are you sure I’m allowed here?” Conner asked as he was walked into the Batcave by Batgirl, who he now knew to be Barbara Gordon. That was one identity he had a feeling none of the others would be able to piece together. Wally had explained it as dominos falling for Batman’s identity once they’d known Dick’s, but Batgirl had remained an enigma. Conner had a feeling that was out of skill and intention. She’d always kinda intimidated him. Especially now that she was walking him through the Batcave like it belonged to her.

“You came through when Gotham needed it most,” Barbara told him with a bright smile tossed over her shoulder. She was still dressed out in the full Batgirl garb, her cape sweeping behind her, reminding Dick of Superman. “I’m not as scary as the Big Bat.” Conner begged to differ. “I’m grateful, and you need a shower. You’re lucky you clothes didn’t get singed off. Would’ve had to arrest you for public indecency.”

It was a joke, but Conner was pretty sure she’d do it if he’d actually had his clothes burned off and he’d exposed his butt to the citizens of Gotham City.

“The shower’s down there,” she said as she walked him through the cave, which Conner was sure was super impressive, he just— he’d seen so many impressive things since coming to life, they all just ran together at this time. To be honest, the cave itself was more dreary than cool, in his opinion. He could hear water dripping from all corners that hurt his ears. The overhead lights were too bright to compensate for the huge shadows cast by the natural formation of the underground. There were big screens and big vehicles and big—

“Is this where Wally got the idea to get souvenirs?” He asked as he stared at a giant penny.

“Yes,” Barbara snorted. “Don’t tell him I told you that. He wants all the newbies to think it’s his original idea.”

“Garf bought it.” It had felt like a legacy left behind by Wally when he’d retired. It really turned out that he was just a huge Batman fanboy. Probably. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to change the subject.”

“It’s okay,” she assured him with another one of her really nice smiles. “C’mon.” She walked him away from the main area where that ridiculously large computer was, heading down a stone corridor that had rooms branching off to the sides, looking like an infirmary on the left, and a dressing out room for combat on the right. Further down was a closer door that Barbara toed open. “There’s spare clothes in there, just general stuff. Feel free to steal some for yourself. I think you and Dick are pretty close in size, at least at the hips.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Depends on who’s looking.” She winked at him and patted his shoulder, heading back down the way she’d come. Conner frowned at her back, but pushed through the doors, only then noticing the sound of a shower running. It had been overshadowed by all the mechanical, technological, and natural sounds of the cave. Conner only realized now that there was someone already in here. And as he focused further, zeroing in on the heartbeat, he recognized it as Tim.

Conner’s face flushed. His own heartbeat quickened. He couldn’t stop thinking about what Tim had said. He couldn't stop thinking about how much Tim cared about him as an individual rather than a superhero and a bad boy and an archetype. He couldn't stop thinking about how Tim saw him as a person.

“Shit, Babs, sorry!” came Tim’s call, echoing loudly off tile. “I promise I didn’t take all the hot water, just let me grab my stuff!”

This bathroom itself was rather large, with a front room that had individual lockers on either sides of the walls, a detached, thick wall in the center with openings on the left and right, and the large shower presumably hidden behind that. As Tim spoke, his head peaked around the corner, and whatever he was going to say next stopped in his throat. So did Conner’s own words, because, for the first time ever, Conner saw Tim Drake’s eyes.

They were a pale blue. Conner likened them to the way snow looked at night, when the moon’s light reflected off the untouched hills of ice. Conner had only ever seen that shade of blue when staying with Clark’s mother over Christmas. He couldn’t believe that same color had been in front of him this entire color, in Tim’s eyes.

“Conner,” Tim said, stepping further into view, revealing a bare, toned chest, muscles rippling, one bicep jumping as Tim held up a towel around his waist. “I— hey. Babs let you in?”

Conner meant to answer, he really, really did. But his eyes were drawn instead to Tim’s chest, the dusky color of his nipples, down the ridge of his firm abdomen, the inward curve of his waist. And as his eyes took it all in, he became painfully aware of beet red face, and the heat that was slowly encroaching down his neck, down his body, further and further and further—

“Conner?” Tim asked, sounding unsure. There was no way he couldn’t see what was happening, but he was a good person, and he wasn’t psychic. He couldn’t read Conner’s mind. He couldn’t tell what Conner wanted without anything being said. Tim was human. Tim needed him to communicate.

“Fuck it.”

Conner strode forward, lacking self control as he took Tim’s face in his hands, ducking down just enough to kiss the other, knowing all the way down to the bones that he actually, finally, and truly felt the same as Tim felt for him.

Chapter Text

The first time Slade saw Ra’s Al Ghul beat Smoke’s head in, he’d almost betrayed his own contract and shot Ra’s dead on the spot out of pure reflex.

It had been without warning. Brutal didn’t even come close to describing it. Smoke had been standing at Slade’s side, job well done, and then the next second Ra’s had called the ninja forward so he could smash his staff across the side of the ninja’s skull. The kid had collapsed. Ra’s hadn’t stopped. Even with the ninja boneless on the floor, the heavy, wooden staff had been slammed into the kid’s head, over and over and over, until half the skull was a mess of blood and bone, and the mask the kid wore was stained red rather than black.

Slade hadn’t been able to talk. Shock had kept him from speaking out. There had been no reason for the sudden cruelty. The ninja had done well on the op. He’d killed the mark, he’d slit the fucking asshole’s throat open and walked away. There was no good reason for the violence inflicted upon him. Slade’s stomach was churning. The ninja he’d worked with for almost a year now was suddenly dead.

“I do hate this part,” Ra’s sighed, waving a hand, more of his goon’s shuffling forward to push the twitching body of the ninja into the whirling green Lazarus Pit behind him. “What currency would you prefer your payment in this time, Mister Wilson?”

He couldn’t answer. He watched the kid sink into the green, succumbing to the malicious depths. Slade didn’t know too much about how the Lazarus Pits worked, but he did know the kid would be alive again in the next couple minutes. He struggled to understand what he’d just witnessed. He struggled with so much of it. Smoke’s brains were smeared across the stone floor. What the–

“What the fuck.”

Ra’s narrowed his eyes. “It is not your contract to involve yourself. What currency would you prefer?”

Slade had to literally shake himself away from the shit he’d just witnessed. He finally tore his eyes from the pit, the way Smoke’s blood was lifting to the surface. Slade fought his gag reflex for the first time in decades. “S-K Won.”

Ra’s’s previous anger smoothed over with a sinister smile. “It will be done, Mister Wilson. Thank you again for your impeccable work, as always.”

Slade turned away before he did something stupid. What he’d just seen– what the fuck had that been? What kind of monster– Jesus fucking Christ. Slade had seen death. He’d even watched close friends die. He’d seen horrible, sickening, despicable things committed by the worst fucking people, and sometimes even by himself. But that right there? The way the ninja had just walked up to Ra’s, so trusting, only to be beaten to a pulp and kicked into the fucking Pit? That was going to keep him up tonight. That was going to fuck him up for a long time.

And then two weeks later, Slade was sent out for the Light again on Ra’s word, and Smoke was at his side, like it hadn’t even happened.

/ / /

The Light was a beast of repetition. A culmination of prayers for an apocalypse, fueled by a team of psychopaths who would happily tear one another apart to rule the earth, and fuck all the rest. Blood and violence, mashed together, teeth tearing through flesh. Hatred for all that was gluttonous, wasteful, insatiable. A false presentation of preservation and protection to hide the monster beneath, gnashing its fangs, eager to eat the world and its children alive.

Paid good fucking money, too.

There was a fine line Slade Wilson had drawn decades ago between acceptable and unacceptable when it came to his work as a merc. He wasn’t stupid enough to call it morality, wouldn’t bother with labels like right and wrong. He damn well knew his shit was wrong, full stop, all the way. But acceptable? It depended.

For example, he would kill a child. Wouldn’t like it, wouldn’t sit well, but money was money, work was work, and his reputation needed to precede him if he wanted to continue to be known as the best of the best. There wasn’t room for innocence in this world. There wasn’t time for coddling. If a kid was in the way, or even the target, then– boom. One shot. That was all it would take, and he’d sleep at night.

Torturing said child, on the other hand? Unacceptable.

Slade had this personal belief that a person could be kind in the way they killed. He didn’t have a line for his victims, but he had a code for how he treated them. He didn’t want the child to suffer. He didn’t want to hear screaming, crying, begging. Best case scenario? He’d slip into the room, put a bullet in the thing while it slept, and be on his way. Kid wouldn’t know what hit it, literally. Worst case? He’d ask the child to turn around, tell a lie that he was letting the thing go, and then pull the trigger. But he did not do suffering. He did not do torture. He did not do pain. Not for kids. Not once.

Not every person Slade had worked alongside felt the same. And that was fine. He’d curl his lip in disgust behind his mask, call them out for the piece of shit they were, but war was war, and he’d seen plenty of war. He wasn’t in control. He was a pawn, and a well paid one, at that. He couldn’t always make things go the way he wanted. No one could. So he called them sickos, spat in their food, and went on his way.

From those interactions came a list of people he tolerated over others when working. Black Manta had proven to be a fair employer, though Slade absolutely judged the fuck outta him for his blind spot concerning Kaldur. Look where family brought the guy, in the end. Betrayed, humiliated, and hurt. Maybe Black Manta would think twice about his own lines in the sand after that fiasco. But even with the guy’s fuck-ups, Slade had respected his work ethic, dedication, and iron fist. Guy fought tooth and nail for the loyalty of his soldiers, and he’d apparently earned it. Slade had to give him that.

Shame about Kaldur’Ahm too, honestly. Asshole had been a damn good soldier. And Slade would be lying if the triple-crossing bullshit hadn’t at least distantly impressed him.

Another person Slade had to give a hand to was Deadshot. Not because he was better than Slade, of course, and he had his own blindspot for a child in his life, but Slade could respect the man’s efficiency, track record, and his quiet. Too many psychos forgot how to shut the fuck up. There was value in silence, there was purpose in silence, but above all else? Silence was golden. Shut the fuck up.

That was probably the main– and possibly only– reason he liked Deadshot, to be fair. And was on of many reasons why Slade preferred working the red hooded ninja above all others.

Ra’s Al Ghul called him the ninja. When Talia wanted him, she called him Hadi. Slade called him Smoke. Quiet kid, Slade hadn’t heard him speak a word in months, moved like he wasn’t even real half the time, and come hell on earth, could he take a beating. Didn’t matter the terrain, the environment, didn’t matter the weather, the guy always had his hood up and kept going. He’d originally called the kid Smoke because when they’d first started working together, Ra’s talked the guy’s abilities up so sky high that Slade had figured he was blowing smoke up Slade’s ass, hence the name. But seeing the kid work in person? God damn.

Slade could write a fucking paper about how great the ninja was to work with. Thing was? Slade wasn’t absolutely certain the kid would be able to understand said paper.

Something was off about Smoke. And it wasn’t just the talking. Sometimes, after a couple months away from Ra’s’s bullshit, his favorite ninja would be– different. He wouldn’t be able to move like he had before. Still a professional, still a killer, but not all there. And sometimes he’d act like he didn’t know Slade. Sometimes he’d forget things he should know about working with Deathstroke. And it was just a little fucking weird. But Slade didn’t mind. Smoke did his job and didn’t say shit. Slade respected him for it. Slade liked him for it. He liked Smoke.

So when he’d seen Ra’s brutalize the guy and toss him into the Lazarus Pit, he’d known there was a lot more to the kid than he knew about. Because from there, Slade had quickly realized what he’d witnessed was not the first time it had happened. The way Smoke would sometimes act like he didn’t know Slade anymore– jesus, did Ra’s just beat the kid into oblivion and start over with the Pit?

What a waste.

The kid was good, Smoke was skilled and he didn’t hesitate. That was one of the most important parts about killing people. Being able to take a life didn’t make a good killer. Not hesitating did. And here Ra’s was, putting Smoke down like a dog for whatever god damn reason he made up.

Worst part? Smoke either didn’t know it was happening, on account of being bludgeoned to death and then drowned, or just– didn’t think to fight back.

Slade had just praised loyalty, but he despised loyalty in the same breath. When the loyalty was given to the wrong person, it became a weakness, or worse.

Ra’s didn’t deserve a soldier like Smoke. He didn’t deserve to claim the successes of Smoke’s kills. Ra’s didn’t deserve to just use the kid if he was going to smear Smoke’s brains across the rock. And all for what? Tripping up once or twice? It would be Ra’s’s fault, he was hard resetting the ninja and acting like the kid would be perfect each time. Piece of shit. Piece of scum. Slade liked very few people, disliked just about everyone, but after catching on to Ra’s’s monstrosity, Slade could say he hated the bastard. If Slade weren’t a professional who understood the power of his reputation? He’d put Ra’s down himself, and for good.

Sadly, that wasn’t in the cards. He had a job to do.

/ / /

“You do remember how to hot wire a car, don’t you?”

His biting comment was met with silence as Smoke quietly picked the lock of a four door sedan from a bygone era, crouched out of the light cast by the nearby stoplight, whereas Slade didn’t give a shit and was leaning against said car in full glow of the light, watching the other work. The lock quietly snicked, success achieved. Smoke pulled open the door and slipped inside, reaching beneath the steering wheel.

“Just feels like a waste, don’t you think?” he asked the kid. “You can use any car in this lot for a getaway, and you go with the one older than you?”

The ninja ignored him, a spark lighting up from below, and then the engine purred to life. Smoke ducked inside the car and quickly curled his knees to his chest, lifting himself over the center console, obediently sliding into the passenger seat. Slade had been surprised the first time Smoke had let him drive. He’d seemed like the kind of yahoo that preferred to do donuts in the parking lot when considering his swift brutality on the job. Color Slade distantly amused by the kid letting him drive instead. Almost like he was used to being a sidekick. Good choice.

He got behind the wheel and pulled away from the grimy apartment complex in the middle of ballsack nowhere, Russia. Well, Novochernorechensky in the Kozulsky District of Krasnoyarsk Krai, Russia. The stone block building they were leaving behind was due to having its guts burned out in the next ten minutes, once the fire from their mark’s apartment spread. Smoke had had a heart, so the fire alarm was also–

Behind them, a shrill ringing suddenly blared to life and began to immediately shrink into the distance as they got further away. “You know we didn’t have to set that off. The Light wants no trace.”

‘Detected smoke’

That was another thing– Smoke couldn’t piss him off by talking too much because Smoke, for whatever reason, couldn’t speak. Or mostly chose not to, American sign language being his chief means of communication. Slade didn’t give a shit. Even if he was fresh out of the Pit and couldn’t talk, Smoke still didn’t sign all that often. He was a man of few words, and Slade respected him for it.

“Like those detectors have been inspected in the past decade.” Worked out in their favor. The sprinkler system had been visibly rusted shut. Whatever the fuck he and the ninja had just burnt back there was as good as ashes. Another job well done. Time to get paid.

As he drove steadily into the unlit roads of wherever the fuck Russia, he glanced to the kid next to him. He wondered if the guy would remember Slade next time they met. Slade’s eyes were drawn to the cranium, where he could remember the dull crack of bone beaking as Ra’s had beat him into bloody slush. “You know– you should consider a career change. Get the hell away from all the stuffy ninja shit. Could make some real money.”

Get some distance between the kid and the piece of shit that was destroying him, piece by piece, with a fucking smile on his fucked up face. “I’d give you a hand– for a fee.” Get Smoke the fuck away from Ra’s and see how good of a killer the kid could really be if given the chance to survive longer then a few months at a time.

The ninja didn’t respond for a second. Then the left hand moved again. Crazy, what repeated traumatic head injury would do. Smoke was right handed, but Ra’s had him so fucked up that he had to start using the left to communicate.

‘B-R-A-T’

“The little shit would be fine without you.” Ra’s’s worst kept secret, his snot nosed grandson. Slade fought the urge to roll his eyes. Smoke was too attached to the useless fucker. Slade didn’t hurt kids, but he sure as hell didn’t let them cling to him like Smoke allowed Talia’s spawn to. “He’s basically the prince of an oil money conglomerate. His life is set with or without you. You’re better off actually using your abilities for your own gain rather than the gain of someone else.”

He didn’t know why he cared so much, he just knew the shit Smoke was going through wasn’t acceptable. He tried not to think of how deadly the kid could’ve been by now if Ra’s hadn’t kept sweeping the kid’s legs out from under him. Poor little shit probably would’ve been able to talk by now too.

“Don’t let others become excuses for your own cowardice,” he grumbled as put a hand up to shield his face from view as a firetruck blared past them, lights flashing. “You know damn well you should leave all those fuckers in the dust, but you don’t. One day, you’re gonna realize I’m right. And then you’ll come crawling back to me begging help when I already offered it in this piece of shit car.”

The kid didn’t respond for a second. Then that hand was up again. Pointer finger and thumb together, the other three up, the hand thrust slightly forward. ‘Okay.’

“You fucker,” Slade spat. “Fucking idiot. A waste.”

He didn’t feeling a thing. He didn’t let it piss him off. He didn’t give a shit.

/ / /

The first thing Slade asked Smoke whenever they worked together was, “Do you remember me?” Not that he cared. He just wanted to know what kind of day he was going to have.

/ / /

Slade stalked from the door, stepping over the bleeding corpse of a man that had gotten in the way of the wrong asshole’s money. One benefit of the Light was the surplus in opportunities, and the straight forward simplicity of said opportunities. Other people looking to hire him had ulterior motives and sometimes they even had hearts. Take out this one guy, but please don’t kill him, he’s not bad, he’s family, what the fuck ever that meant. The Light just pointed and Slade took the shot. Easy.

He put his foot down on the side of another body and cursed sharply as his heel slid through the blood. Fuckers and the way they bled. Annoying. He kicked the arm of the piece of shit out of his way, heading through the large conference room with glass walls that faced out into the glittering skyline of London at near midnight. The Gherkin had never looked uglier, showcasing all these stupid pictures and adverts and messages, a constant, rotating display of too-bright color right outside the windows of these floor-to-ceiling windows.

Hell of a distraction, though. Really great cover.

There was a scuffle, and then a woman was shoved through the door, skidding on her knees. She caught sight of her dead friends and started crying, hands going up as she trembled, her brown hair a frazzled mess around her face. Lower lip trembling, waterworks flowing, and her pursuer stalking in behind her, blade reflecting the city lights. “You got that one, Smoke?”

“Yes.”

It was a rare gig with a talking Smoke, and Slade wouldn’t admit that he enjoyed the stilted, gravely, one-word responses he would get from the kid. Right to the point, just how he liked it. “Finish up. The ride out is–”

The woman shrieked, suddenly darting forward like she thought she could run. Slade cursed and stepped out of the way as she sprinted for the opposite end of the room. In a blink, Smoke was suddenly in front of Slade, and the little shit had his gun. Slade hadn’t even felt the kid’s hand on his hip, he was stupid good. The gun was up and the shot was taken, the woman taking a bullet directly through the back of her skull, exiting from between her eyes. She hit the floor like a bag of rocks, dead.

Slade actually whistled at the sight. “Didn’t know you were such a good shot. Should trade that sword for something a little more responsive.” Slade liked a good sword now and then, but someone who had a hand as steady as the ninja’s needed to be exploited. He approached the woman as she hit the ground, nudging her with his toe, letting his HUD read for her pulse. Smoke had put her down with one shot. He really was being wasted with Ra’s. “Let’s clean up. I’ve already brought the cameras down. I’m not interested in being around when the janitor finds out he’s gonna be billing overtime—”

“What have I done?”

The words were gravelly, a hundred different levels of fucked up, and it was a full fucking sentence. Slade couldn’t recall ever hearing a full fucking sentence from Smoke in the whole year and a half he’d been working with the kid. He almost gave himself whiplash with how abruptly he turned back to his partner and saw the way the kid was trembling.

“No, no, no,” Smoke choked out, staggering away from the corpse as the Gherkin showed some allergy commercial, a woman and daughter running with the blue sky above them. “No, no, I promised I’d never do this, I promised I’d never be like him, I-I-I can’t—“

“Smoke,” Slade called out firmly, a hand going up between himself and the kid that was starting to hunch forward like he was in physical pain, agony emanating from somewhere in his diaphragm. “Hey, asshole, just calm down.”

“Oh god,” Smoke choked out. His throat sounded so fucked up that Slade wondered if he was bleeding internally. “I— I have to tell Batman.” Motherfucker, what? “What have I done? I need t-to tell Batman.” The kid was shaking. His head whipped about, then the body swayed. “Nightwing,” the ruined voiced choked out. “Where are you? Please, I— Nightwing, I’m sorry, please—”

“The fuck are you going on about?” Slade demanded, stomping to the kid, not even caring his his boot crushed the hand of the dead woman, nor did he miss how Smoke’s body seemed to cringe inward on itself with the sound of the bones snapping. “Batman? What the fuck do you know about Batman? What the hell is going on with you?”

Smoke lifted his head, the piercing red lights fixating on him, and for a moment? Slade almost thought he could see someone’s eye in there.

The Gherkin’s advert rotated, and suddenly the conference room was drowning in overbearing, stomach-turning green light. Smoke’s entire body suddenly snapped upright, his head turned towards the light. Slade literally watched that green piece the kid back together, his limbs twitching out from the hunched cowering back to the confident, tall stance of a warrior.

“What the fuck,” Slade deadpanned as Smoke became the red hooded ninja again as the green faded back to blue, the woman and child laughing as they blew out a dandelion. “Uh— you back, kid?”

The hand came up. Finger and thumb together, the other three up, and pushed out.

‘Okay’

“Right,” Slade responded with as much skepticism he could possible put into the word. “You wanna tell me what the hell that was?”

The ninja shook his head. Jesus. Did he even remember it? That was— that had felt insane,, Slade felt like he’d literally witnessed Smoke lose his fucking mind, only for the green to push him back together, or maybe— maybe it was the other way around. Maybe Smoke had had a moment of sanity, recollecting himself, piecing together the brain that Ra’s had smashed into the ground hell knew how many times. Maybe whoever had just been here was the real Smoke, and that green had ripped it right away again. Come to think of it? That green? Pretty damn close to the pit.

“Jesus,” Slade hissed to himself. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” He was glad the green had shoved it all back in. Slade didn’t know what the fuck he would’ve had to do if Smoke had suddenly gotten his memories back. He didn’t want to consider it.

“Just— keep your shit together,” he spat to hide the fact that he had no fucking clue what had just happened and that genuinely freaked him the fuck out. “And don’t mention a damn thing to that demon, got it?” Smoke just nodded, and Slade turned away, shaking his head. Fuck this.

/ / /

Of fucking course one of the best partners Slade had ever had would’ve been trained by the Big Bat himself. It made sense. That level of skill in someone that he was pretty damn certain was barely of age, if even of age at all, would have to have been trained by one of the most formidable opponents Slade had ever faced. It was the only surmisable way that Smoke could hold a candle to him. Of-fucking-course Smoke would have to be trained by Batman to keep up.

Question was, who the fuck was under Smoke’s mask? It couldn’t be one of the other Gotham freaks. There were three now, right? A third Robin, the blonde named Spoiler, and Nightwing. Batgirl had been AWOL for who even bothered to count how long. Slade’s money was on that daughter of Lady Shiva, reportedly knocking Batgirl down bad. Batman had lost two of his minions, one being that second Robin who had done a pretty good job against his first deployed clone, and the other being Batgirl. Smoke obviously wasn’t dead, and he obviously didn’t have the sinful curves of Batgirl.

Who the hell could Smoke be? Maybe a failed vigilante? Someone Batman had trained to be another Robin, possibly, or another Bat-adjacent psycho with an equally corny name. But there was no way Batman would let one of his losers go, right? Even if they were a failure, he wouldn’t just let them leave. The secrets Smoke had to know— jesus. Jesus.

Maybe— maybe that was why Ra’s Al Ghul had the kid. Smoke knew something about the Bat. Maybe Smoke even knew the Bat. And Smoke wasn’t talking, so Ra’s beat him to death, over and over and fucking over, hoping to whittle the kid down into nothing until Ra’s got what he want.

That— jesus. Talk about fucked up.

… It wasn’t his business. He couldn’t do anything about it. What Ra’s did to Smoke wasn’t his business. He was a professional. He had a reputation to uphold. It wasn’t his fucking business.

/ / /

They were observing a target, some fucker that was going to have their skull blown open by the end of the night. Slade was letting Smoke have his fun with the scope, but was watching the kid’s view with his own monitor clutched held in one hands. Perks of the digital world. And that perk was what allowed Slade to notice when the kid’s steady sweep stalled over a random nobody, standing innocuously beneath a streetlight, waiting for the crosswalk to turn green.

The kid didn’t move on.

“The fuck are you looking at?”

Smoke paused. Then, his left hand came up, the fingers moving across the alphabet.

‘M-O-N-S-T-E-R’

Slade frowned, peering back at the image before him. “Looks normal to me, asshole.” He glanced back over for the response.

‘G-O-O-D’

Slade shook his head as he fought the urge to roll his eyes like a teenager. “You’re such a freak, Smoke.” He couldn’t deny that the drawling nature of his voice was dangerously close to fondness.

/ / /

“Fucking Deadshot,” Slade grit out from his vantage point, hurriedly reloading his rifle, the yanked of the bolt followed by the clink of the shot lining up a relief. “Fucking Floyd.” This was the “fun” part of his job, when the guy he’d been hired to kill had hired someone to protect him that could really give Slade a run for his money— like Floyd fucking Lawton, probably the only guy with a better range score average than himself.

Luckily, he had Smoke. The benefit of working a job for Ra’s, even if Slade couldn’t stomach being in the man’s presence. The past couple weeks, he’d found himself waking up with the sound of a blunt object colliding with bone in his ears, and resented himself for the weakness. He was a professional. It wasn’t his business. He had more important things to focus on.

The window to his right shattered.

Yeah— like that.

“He spotted us.” Slade ground out a curse. He was trying to follow the target, the asshole in the middle of a speech in the streets below.

The assassination was supposed to be public, with Ra’s wanting to incite some fear in the general populace that was trying to vote in the guy who was trying to squeeze one of Ra’s’s shell companies out of the profit margin of the country’s cocoa exports. No one was a good guy in this scenario, the bastard Slade was assigned to take out was happy to allow child labor to ensure the workers felt like they were contributing more to their local economy than the global.

The asshole’s arms were all over the place as he yelled for change, yelled for pride, yelled for allegiance, all that bullshit. A crowd was below, the entire block shut down for this rally that was being hosted. The amount of money that would be made from this guy being elected absolutely vindicated how much Deadshot charged. Floyd had the balls to charge nearly as many zeroes as Slade did.

“Smoke,” Slade hissed as he lined up his shot. “You gonna do something about that shithead or—“

Glass shattered again, this time overhead, Slade barely keeping himself from flinching. Honestly, what the fuck could the kid even do? He was supposed to be watching the apartment door for their exit once Slade made the shot. They were posted in a crummy studio apartment that overlooked the city blocks below and they had no way to magically cross the street and do something about the guy who had his sights on them. They wouldn’t be able to spot Deadshot’s vantage point, the guy was too good, they were sitting ducks.

“I need to take this fucking shot,” he grit out, his finger on the trigger, the sights lining up. That fucker’s speech was going to end any second now and he didn’t want to think about what Ra’s would do to Smoke if they failed—

More shards of glass rained down upon him, Slade’s fingers curled— and the orator’s head exploded in a spray of pink, the body collapsing across the podium it’d once stood in front of as the crowd below became an immediate clusterfuck of panic. Slade shot up from his prone position, breaking down his rifle, knowing Deadshot was going to take this as personally as a heart attack and that they needed to leave.

“How’s the exit?”

“Clear.”

Slade nodded to the stilted response. There were rare moments that had Slade glad when Smoke’s throat functioned, and this was one of them. His rifle sorted, Slade pushing himself to his feet, and watching as Smoke turned from the door and sprinted for him. Immediate adrenaline slammed through Slade, his hand going for the knife at his waist, instincts insisting he was being betrayed—

Smoke was sprinting, grabbing Slade, yanking him away from the windows—

Blood sprayed, and Smoke dropped like a stone. Slade immediately wrapped his arms around the limp frame and hit the deck, crawling across the ground for cover behind the kitchen counter. “Shit, shit,” Slade hissed, Smoke limp across his lap as Slade’s head whipped around with his hand pressed across the kid’s body, trying to find—

Wait, where was the bullet—

Slade’s attention shot down to the kid in his arms, something inside him going still at the sight of the bullet hole piercing right through the center of the visor.

Smoke was dead.

That—

Something flipped painfully in Slade’s chest and he cursed it with every fiber of his being.

Smoke was a person, Smoke was a kid, but Slade had a reputation to uphold, why was this fucking him up? The fucker had taken a bullet for Slade, who the fuck did that for a killer like Slade? What the fuck had Smoke been thinking? He’d been running at Slade to take the bullet, what a fucking idiot—

Slade didn’t realize he was moving until the visor, with its structure obliterated by the bullet that had not only shot through the front, but gone right out the back of the head, slid. Slade frozen as a sightless blue eye was revealed to him.

Slade needed to leave. He needed to get the fuck out of here. And he knew that it would be a mercy to leave the kid behind. He had to, didn’t he? Ra’s would just bring him back, wouldn’t even have to bludgeon the kid this time, leaving Smoke behind would be the kindest fucking thing Slade could do, possibly the kindest thing he’d ever do in his life. He should— he should leave the kid. He should just let him stay dead, free of the torturous cycle of the Pit and Ra’s’s cruelty. He should leave him.

Slade’s breath caught as his hand moved without permission, pushing the visor all the way up— and then drawing the mask down.

Pale skin. Chapped lips. Angular features. Blue eyes like something out of a cheesy romance novel, now glazed over and sightless. The black hair Slade knew well seemed fitting of a fairytale description with how starkly it contrasted against the kid’s fading complexion. There was bad scarring at his left hairline, where the black hair showed roots that were ghostly white. Scarring from having his skull caved in god knew how many times by now.

It took a second— and then the face clicked.

Jason Todd. Adopted son of Bruce Wayne. Missing for about three years now. The only reason Slade recognized this face was from the bullshit fuckup by Scarecrow with the cloning plans. No one had really figured out how the Justice League had caught on early about the DNA thing. The kid Scarecrow had reported getting one of his men arrested had been the only clue— Jason Todd, newly adopted son of Bruce Wayne.

Jason Todd, who talked about Batman. Jason Todd, who had been trained by Batman too. Jason Todd, who was dead in his arms. Jason Todd, who supposedly died beneath Gotham City as the second Robin.

Okay.

Bruce Wayne was Batman. That would probably make that other adopted son the first Robin, right? If Wayne’s second kid was the second Robin, then the first kid was the first. Richard Grayson was now Nightwing.

Realizing all of this, Slade knew now that Ra’s knew who Batman was. He was the one putting the kid through the endless cycle of life and death, there was no possible way he couldn’t have seen the kid’s face and put this all together. Then Ra’s wanted something else from Smoke— from Jason Todd. And he was doing everything he could to keep Jason Todd from remembering he was Jason Todd, though for what purpose, Slade didn’t know.

Slade should leave him behind and let him stay dead.

But now Slade knew that this was Jason Todd—

The way the kid had called out to Batman those months ago—

And the way Batman had acted ever since Robin had died—

Slade didn’t fully understand the magnitude of what he’d stumbled upon, but— but if there was a chance that Bruce Wayne could be someone important enough to Smoke, then maybe there was hope Smoke could be broken from this cycle. If Bruce Wayne turned out to not be a shit father, maybe he’d care enough to rescue his kid.

… Slade should leave him behind and let him stay dead. But Slade was not going to do that. Not if there was a chance Batman was able to save the kid.

Slade was a professional. He had a reputation. It wasn’t his business. He shouldn’t care.

Batman, though. Batman could care.

Slade hoisted Smoke over his back after fixing the visor and mask, and told himself he should be happy. Job well done, right? The target was dead. He didn’t let himself think about the weight across his back, Jason Todd’s limp body, thinking about the family that likely mourned him, thinking about how Batman had become just a little more ruthless since losing his kid.

Slade was a professional. He had a reputation to uphold.

It wasn’t his fucking business.

That’s what he repeated to himself as he saved Smoke’s body— it wasn’t his business. At the very least? He’d barter a pay raise from Ra’s Al Ghul for saving his precious born-again Robin. And he’d look the other way for whatever the hell happened next.

This was Batman’s problem now. Hopefully the fucker would catch up.

/ / /

Probably a month later, Slade accepted a bounty from Ra’s against his better judgement. The first thing he asked Smoke when he saw the kid magically alive was, “Do you remember?”

Smoke stared through him. Slade hoped he didn’t remember. If he did, it would mean the kid could possibly remember dying every time before. If Smoke remembered him, it meant he knew he was caught in an endless, hellish loop. If he remembered, then he knew there was no hope.

Smoke stared through him and signed a single word.

‘Yes’

/ / /

“If I were a better person, I’d take you the fuck away from here, Smoke,” Slade said, his bloodied hands clenching a wheel tight. They’d just cut their way through guerrilla warfare militia, just a bunch of fucking idiots trying to reclaim their home, their humanity, and save themselves from the snapping whip of Ra’s’s countless money grabs, this one deep within South America, locals forced into the mines and dying in droves. Fighting back was human nature. Winning, though. That was never a guarantee.

Smoke had been steady at his side. Well— Slade should probably refer to him by his real name, shouldn’t he? Jason Todd had been steady at his side. Magically recovered from the fatal headshot from a few weeks ago. Stone cold. Steady. Throat wasn’t working yet. Body could function just fine, though, so send the kid into the jungle and make him slaughter people just fighting for their survival. Slade never let that shit get to him because he had a reputation to uphold. But Jason Todd probably didn’t give a damn about reputations. If he even was Jason Todd anymore after all the fucked up shit Ra’s Al Ghul had done to him.

“If I were a better person, I’d pick your ass up and make sure Ra’s never found you again. If I were a better person, I’d save you. But I’m a bad fucking person, do you understand me? I’m a murderer. And so are you. I won’t save you. I won’t save anyone.” He had a reputation to uphold. “I’ll kill anyone I’m paid to. Even you. You hear me, kid? I’m not gonna save you. I’ll put a fucking bullet in you for a grand if that’s what I have to do. So don’t kid yourself.”

Smoke stared straight ahead. When Slade was finally done, the kid held his hand up to his chest, the ring and thumb touching to make a circle, the other three fingers up. The hand pushed away from Smoke’s chest.

‘Okay.’

/ / /

Slade watched in horror as Smoke just fucking stared into Dick Grayson instead of killing the guy despite knowing damn well Ra’s was going to smash his skull in the second they got back to Infinity Island. And then—

“Gray… son…”

Shit, shit, shit, Smoke had only just been revived by the pit a few days ago yet he was already remembering, this was not the time.

Slade kicked the stall door open, their exit behind him, the vent cover still leaned against the wall to the side. He unholstered his Glock and held it up, shoving it against Grayson’s temple, not able to give a single shit that he was about to bring the wrath of the Bat down on him, only hearing the pounding of his own heart harmonizing with the smear of Smoke’s brains across stone—

Smoke smacked the gun from Slade’s grip, relieving him of the firearm and wielding it himself. Slade cursed how damn good the kid was with guns. He cursed himself even more for not even being able to put up a fight when it came to Smoke. “You fucking idiot,” he snapped, pleading for Smoke to think this through. “No witnesses!” It was Grayson, it was some guy Smoke had once known, that didn’t mean it was someone worth dying over—

Smoke stalked out of the bathroom just to fire three shots into the air, clearing out the party beyond them. There went all possibility of a clean getaway, and no chance that Slade could lie to Ra’s about how this went down. Fuck. Fuck.

Smoke turned away without another glance to Grayson, returning to their exit.

“You know what he’s going to do to you now,” Slade hissed in Smoke’s as they both slipped back into the bathroom stall, crawling into the vent. “After you just started to get it back!”

Smoke didn’t say anything as he shot through the vent with familiar grace and speed. And as Slade followed him, he realized he’d probably been barking up the wrong tree, thinking Batman was Smoke’s only hope. What he’d just seen back there—

He remembered rumors. Mostly spread by Gotham’s worst, things he didn’t really believe thanks to the mouths that uttered them, but seeing what he did now—

“You better hope Nightwing’s a better man than me,” Slade spat venomously at Smoke’s back. “Because he’s the only person on this fucking planet that’ll be able to save you now!”

Smoke didn’t respond. Seemed he only had breath for Grayson.

How infuriatingly unpredictable.

/ / /

Slade watched Ra’s split Jason Todd’s skull and kick the kid’s crumbled body into the green poison. Slade had told the story of what had gone down in Wayne Tower, but he hadn't mentioned the memories returning, even if those memories were smattered across the rock now. It was the best he could do.

/ / /

“Do not kill him.”

Slade had the shot, he had the fucking shot, Smoke was down his sights, the money was practically halfway into Slade’s account. He could see the kid— he could see Smoke, possibly halfway to being Jason Todd again— at the ledge, his black and red getup a bruise against the blustering white of the snowstorm. The hulking monstrosity that was the Batjet was just beyond him, where his precious Nightwing had just disappeared into.

Smoke— the fucking idiot— had broken Nightwing out. They’d had the asshole captured and halfway to dead, waiting to see if he’d won the Meta-gene lottery, only for Smoke to break him out. Slade had seen it coming. The second he’d heard who’d been captured? He’d known how this was going to end.

Except this part.

Smoke on the other end of his scope. Sensei in his ear, demanding the nonlethal shot his master was paying for. They wanted their precious ninja back for whatever evil bullshit they were nosediving for. And they wanted Slade to provide.

He couldn’t do it.

He had to do it.

He was a professional, he had to do it, he had a reputation, he had to do it, he had to do it, he had to do it—

He— he could always kill him.

Slade could kill Jason Todd.

It would be quicker than what awaited him with Ra’s Al Ghul, it would be kinder.

He thought about how the kid never screamed, he never made a sound, despite the kid remembering it, the kid knew exactly what was going to happen to him when he went into that underground, he knew and he stood there and he didn’t let out a fucking whimper—

Take the shot, Slade. Kill Smoke. Better himself than Ra’s. Better a bullet than a bludgeoning. Better a quick pinch than the splatter of Smoke’s brains right before the kid’s own eyes as he died slowly on the floor, twitching, seizing with the head trauma, one push away from drowning in the sickeningly green depths.

Do it. Kill him.

Slade’s aim went up, from the shoulder to the head. He’d seen Smoke’s head pierced by a bullet already. What was one more time?

His finger flexed. He had to do it now. He had to kill Smoke. He had to save him from an agonizing death. He had to kill Jason Todd.

And then Smoke turned around, and Slade could swear their eyes met. Slade twitched. The crosshairs shifted back to the shoulder. Only then was the trigger pulled.

Crimson flared and Smoke went down.

Slade was a fucking coward.

“I’m sorry, kid,” Slade rasped as he pulled the bolt of his rifle to ready the next shot on reflex. “I’m so sorry.”

He had a reputation to uphold.

Chapter Text

The gong sounded from deep within the island. It resonated up through the floorboards, a deep, echoing toll that awakened birds from their slumber in the dead of night, black silhouettes purged from the trees, fleeing for the starry skies, blotting out the moon. They would come back. The gong’s moan would fade and the birds would return right to their nests. Again and again, every time the gong rang, the birds would fly away, only to return, foolish and trusting the homes they’d built despite the fear they were stricken with in the initial moment of betrayal.

He knew he was just like those stupid, stupid birds. He would keep coming back. The gong would ring, the pain would follow, he’d leave, and come right back.

He’d tried to fly away for good only yesterday. A foolish attempt at freedom. Slade Wilson had told him he would be saved. That boy, Nightwing, had come along and said the same thing, burdening himself with the responsibility. He’d watched Nightwing choke on the black fumes of the Tar and decided Nightwing had meant it.

And look where that had gotten him. Listening to the gong, knowing what was coming. Pain emanating endlessly from the bullet wound in his shoulder, medical aid denied as he’d be dead by the stroke of midnight, so why bother treating it. It would be a waste of resources on something like him. No reason in lessening the pain of a failure.

He had many names.

The one he liked most was the one he was called by the boy he held in his arms. The tiny thing was sleeping, round cheeks burrowed against his chest. The child was named Damien. It was his job to protect Damien with his life. He was always happiest when holding the child close. He was always at peace when he could feel the child’s pulse beneath his fingers. He was always alive when the child’s breath ghosted his skin.

Damien called him Hadi. Or, really, Damien’s mother wanted Damien to call him Hadi. All Damien could say right now was Di.

He liked it. But it wasn’t right.

Slade Wilson called him Smoke. He worked with countless villains, assassins, and mercenaries for his Master, the Demon’s Head, but Slade Wilson was the one who liked him the most, so he liked Slade Wilson back. Slade didn’t often yell at him. Slade didn’t treat him like he was braindead or stupid. Slade had been nice enough to carry his body back to Damien when he’d been shot. And Slade called him Smoke.

He liked that one too. But it also wasn’t right.

Nightwing– Grayson. He knew Nightwing’s name was Grayson. He could see the man without a mask. There were blue eyes, as deep as underground ice, surrounded by trembling walls, and the piercing green eyes of a beast as heat overcame everything. The blue eyes did not match the shades of red he had seen when Grayson had been contained and nearly drowned in Tar. Grayson. Nightwing. Nightwing called him many things.

Maybe, if he had made it to that jet, Nightwing would’ve given him a name too.

It still wouldn’t have been right.

In his arms, Damien rubbed his tiny face into his heart. He held Damien just a little bit tighter, always amazed by how small the child felt in his arms. He didn’t deserve to be trusted to hold him no matter how many lives he’d taken in the name of protecting the helpless little thing. A killer with hands so stained by innocent blood should never touch an innocent creature like Damien. But he did it anyway, because he was selfish, and he never wanted to let go.

“Hadi.”

His master’s daughter called to him from behind, the imposing woman standing alone in the room at his back. She was likely ensuring he’d heard the gong.

“You cannot be late.”

Why couldn’t he? He was going to die tonight all the same. It didn’t matter if he was late or not. Dead was dead.

He stared into the peaceful woods for a moment longer, listening to Damien breathe, before standing and turning to face his master’s daughter. She was watching him with grief in her eyes. He didn’t understand why she was sad. He had failed her father. She should be glad to see him suffer.

He placed Damien gently in her arms.

“I will watch over him until your return.”

It would be several days. When he first pulled himself from the Pit, he’d be little more than an animal, trembling on the ground, staring into nothing as his mind swirled with shadows and evil and fear. The first thing he saw when crawling from the pit were always the monsters, the creatures that haunted him, that whispered of the end of the world. He would only see horror for several days. He was unfit to care for Damien until those visions faded.

He placed his fingertips where his mouth was beneath the mask, and then laid the hand out, palm up.

‘Thank you’

The woman– Talia– smiled bitterly. “No, Hadi. Thank you. I shudder to think who my son will become without you.” Talia held her chin high. “Go. Get this over with.”

He bowed and then turned away, striding silently through the sparse room. It was Damien’s bedroom, a wide, open area with a large bed that the child looked impossibly tiny in when sleeping. If he was not out on his master’s order, he would be here, stationed silently, watching over Damien as the child slept. He would prefer to remain here and do so until the sun rose. But the gong had rung. It was time to leave.

Two of his master’s guards awaited him on the other side of the sliding doos to Damien’s room. They tipped narrowed their eyes at him, then one walked in front, and the other flanked at his heels. He walked between them, a solemn funeral procession formed by their three figures. As he was led down the open halls of the residential area towards the ceremonial center of the property where he would find the stairs that would lead him down into his tomb, he found his gaze wandering again to the trees, to the birds, to the night.

The forest that surrounded his master’s temple was dense and treacherous. The birds that lived overhead were smart. If they were on the forest floor, they’d be devoured in second by any manner of predators. And even then, the trees couldn’t provide perfect safety. Snakes could slither up the trunks with ease, and with utter silence. There was no such thing as safe on Infinity Island.

But the trees themselves, from the outside at least, were beautiful. And the rustle of the wind through the leaves was peaceful. And the moon. Everything was red through his visor, but he knew what the colors would be if he wasn’t wearing the visor. And he knew they were beautiful. Serene. Tranquil. If Damien couldn’t be the last thing he’d see before death, at least it would be–

A monster.

There, between the trees, at the edge of the woods, out stepped a monster. The body of a man, dressed in jeans and a sweater, the hands replaced by twisting, reaching tendrils, the face a mass of writhing flesh, thrashing tentacles that quivered in the air like a snake’s tongue searching for food. Burning yellow eyes were fixated on him. Nowhere else.

And then a woman’s body with the same twisting mutations stepped from the trees. And then another woman. And then a man. And another. And Another. And Another.

He was shoved harshly from behind, the guard spitting, “Tafadal. 'Aw sa'ajealuk.”

By the time her sentence ended, there were seven monsters standing at the edge of the forest, facing the temple, watching him. And judging by the shifting in the trees, more were to come.

He grabbed the head of the guard in front of him, yanking her back and smashing the edge of her skull into his knee, snatching the blade from her waist and slamming it into the shoulder of the guard behind him. She cried out in pain as her companion dropped to the floor unconscious, and he grabbed the long silk sash that had been tied around the unconscious one’s waist, securing it tightly around the hilt of the blade and then under the shoulder, shoving the second guard over the edge of the walkway, the guard dangling helplessly from her injury.

He ran back into Damien’s room and saw Talia holding the child close, having heard the commotion. He signed quickly with his right hand because the bullet wound in his left shoulder was too painful for him to permit using.

‘Untitled’

All color fled Talia’s face. “Take him,” she hissed, pushing Damien into his arms. “Meet me at the southeast exit. I must retrieve something before we leave.” Talia clutched his shoulder. “Protect my son.”

He nodded. There was no part of him that existed that wouldn’t protect Damien with his life. The boy stirred in his arms as he turned away and headed for the borderless veranda he’d sat at only minutes ago. Damien clutched tight, he grabbed the wooden support and quickly scaled the lower level for the roof, the kawara tiles barely creaking beneath his feather light footsteps. As he slipped across the rooftop, the curved tiles keeping his balance, a bell began to ring, further across the temple grounds. The monsters had been sighted, appearing as just normal humans to anyone else, but unkillable. There was no way for the others to fight back.

Ducra had told him there was a way to fight back. He hadn’t been allowed to meet with Ducra in several lifetimes, his master growing frustrated with his inability to comply. Ducra had known of the monsters he saw. Ducra had even named them on her own. She had shown him old drawings, carvings, depictions of battles, and predictions of the future. She’d told him the Untitled could only be killed with special blades, and that those blades belonged to someone important. And once he had finally started to learn about the things he saw, his master deprived him of Ducra. He could only be grateful in knowing she was out there, alive.

He had never learned who that person was. As he silently fled for the southeast exit to meet Talia, he hoped whoever that person was was out there somewhere and had the blades ready. The monsters terrified him.

Screams began to join the ringing of the alarm bell. And in the distance, to the north, a fire started, blazing high, quickly reaching through the roof. A hoarse cry bellowed, following by the burning red light of Ubu’s hulking weapon granted from space. And at his chest, there was a whimper.

He immediately slid to a stop and hunched down, taking refuge in a shadow cast by the tower of a smoke vent. He looked down at Damien in his arms, whose huge blue eyes darted about before landing on him. Damien sniffled, tears in his eyes. He pressed a single finger to Damien’s mouth, beckoning the child to trust him, before he pressed the first knuckle of his pointer finger into the right cheek of his mask. Damien immediately smiled back before pressing a finger to his lips.

Good boy.

He reached to the back of Damien's clothes, drawing up the hood and quickly tucking it over Damien’s head, drawing up the bottom to cover the boy’s mouth and hopefully save the child from breathing in too much smoke. Then he stood again and began to run. Below, he listened to someone die, catching a glimpse of writhing tendrils overcoming a guard. He looked away as the squirming hands pushed themselves into the eyes of the guard, blood pouring.

He’d never seen the Untitled kill before. The monsters had only been witnesses before. What had changed?

It didn’t matter. He had to get Damien out of here.

A fire lit up to the west, and he could hear Sensei shouting as well. Damien made another tiny little noise of fear, and he held the child closer, both arms wrapped tight. He could see the paifang of the southeast exit, which would lead down to the dock, the only way off the island without a boom tube. Beneath his feet, the entire temple rumbled, and he could only hope Ubu’s strange weapon was some kind of outlier in fighting the Untitled.

Fires flared at his left and right with a sudden burst of sound and intense trembling beneath his feet, the building he was atop suddenly bursting into flames. He was surrounded at all sides, but his escape was dead ahead. The heat quickly became uncomfortable. If he were alone–

“Di.”

Damien’s whimpered call had him cupping the back of Damien’s fragile skull in his hand, dropping low and sliding down the tile, reaching the end of the rooftop for him to travel across. He folded himself around Damien as he hit the ground and rolled up onto his feet, breaking into a dead sprint. He could see the paifang ahead of him, at the other side of a detached room, one with statues on the sides, guardians of the temple. He could feel heat emanating behind him, and his shadow grew stronger, flickering. He could hear creaking and snapping, the foundations of the temple behind him close to collapsing. And all the while, the fire spread.

“Hadi!”

He skidded to a halt as Talia called for him, spinning on his heel– and feeling his heart freeze as he watched the east end of the temple collapse in slow motion, crumbling into the flames that had consumed it, black smoke and embers rising into the night air. And as the temple collapsed, it pitched forward, and he watched the tall roof slump forward, into the room he was in.

Something collided with his body, instinctively tucking around Damien again as he hit the dirt and grass, shielding Damien as he rolled to a stop. HIs injured shoulder ached, but he was alive, and by someone else's design. The sound of the room fracturing and crumbling in on itself was deafening. He was starting to struggle to breathe.

He lifted his head and saw the east temple room was burning rubble, and his master’s daughter pinned halfway beneath the flame-consumed wood, limp.

He ran to her, but Talia lifted her hand, halting him in his tracks. The flames were too close, if he didn’t get to her–

“Run!” she cried out as movement beyond caught his attention, and he realized the Untitled were immune to the flames licking at their flesh. They were almost done killing everything in their path. They were looking for more to slaughter. “Hadi, my child–”

He ran to her despite her order, dropping to his knees. He held out Damien, unsure what–

“No, no, Hadi, no,” she babbled, blood bubbling from her lips. He finally realized her lower body was entirely crushed by the collapsed building. Even if he had time to get her out, she wouldn’t be able to run. And whatever damage was within would kill her before he could get her medical aid. “Hadi, please, my son– his father is Bruce Wayne, of Gotham City.” Talia smiled with tears in her eyes and blood pouring down her neck. Something inside her was broken beyond saving. “I’m so sorry. The vision my father had for you– what he put you through. I am so sorry, child. I should have done something sooner. I should have let them save you.”

She lifted a hand, and he expected her to touch Damien one last time– only for her fingertips to graze the metal of his own mask. “Hadi,” she whispered. “Young one– Nightwing. Dick Grayson. You do not remember now, but you will. Please, child. When he says he can save you, listen.”

The hand fell away. He felt himself flinch as her eyes suddenly unfocused. Against his chest, Damien whimpered and tried to twist, but he refused to let the child turn and see his mother dead. Damien didn’t need the memory.

“Vessel!”

The word was screamed in a grating, inhuman language, and he looked up to see a shambling figure approaching him, a tentacled finger squirming in his direction. He gave one last look to Talia, wondered why she’d saved him, and turned and ran. He knew where the dock was. He knew how to drive a boat. Bruce Wayne, Gotham City– he’d been there, he knew the name. Talia had told him to save Damien. Talia had told him to keep Damien safe. And Talia had told him to trust Grayson.

Finally– orders he wanted to follow. He’d almost escaped with Grayson before. He wasn’t going to waste his second chance.