Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It starts the way all troublesome things in his life usually start. It starts with Dick at home staring at files and a call from Alfred, which is really to say it starts with a call from Bruce. Dick stares at his phone as it rings. It's rude, he knows, to let poor Alfred sit there waiting, but he's tired and he just saw everyone a couple of days ago for Sunday dinner, which means this is a business call. He's already had a few close encounters on his own patrols, and he's sore as hell, but he knows Bruce, knows the man wouldn't be asking unless it really was important. 

Dick takes a breath and clicks accept before the ringing stops. "Hey, Alf, what's up?"

From the other line, there's a small huff of air, so small and quiet you wouldn't think anything of it unless you knew the man. To Bruce and his children, though this small noise reads fond.

"Master Dick how are you, my boy?" His voice sounds light, which means that Bruce might need help, but he's not in any danger, good.

"I'm all good, just trying to get some work done before I need to suit up for the night. Did you need anything?" He knows that with Alfred calling him so close to patrol that Bruce probably wants him to head over to roam Gotham's roofs for the night, but hey, a man can hope.

"Hmm and dinner master Dick?" His voice goes slightly stern but Dick has known the man long enough to hear the slight playful tilt to his reprimand. It's funny, he thinks, as a child, when he'd first been taken in by Bruce, he'd hated it. Dick was a Performer if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was how to get a reaction. Then his parents had been killed, and he'd been taken to this big empty home away from the colorful tent and the deafening cheers and the outcasts that had been his family. Alfred then had been jarring, he wasn't used to it, where he can now look back and see the man's blunt words and smooth pristinely structured sentences for the fond indulgence they were, little Dick Grayson only saw a cold man in a very cold home.

Dick knows better now, not only has he gotten better at reading the man he'd also been there when there truly was nothing in his words, when Alfred would try to make his words warm to mask the empty feeling they all felt in their chest. When the man stood right beside him, and yet there was a Bruce-shaped void between them. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts before responding.

"Yep, ordered some takeout earlier. Anyway, you totally dodged my question-not that I mind, I love chatting with you. But seriously, did you need anything?"

"I truly wish you'd eat more nutritious meals, my boy," He sighs, then, soft and tired

"Yes, although I do also enjoy our talks quite a bit, I'm afraid I do have ulterior motives with this call. Master Bruce wishes for your presence at the manor tonight." And there it is, hopes and dreams crushed, just like that. Oh well, he knew it was a lost cause from the beginning. Doesn't mean he has to like it.

He sighs just to make it known he's not entirely happy. "Alright, I'll be over as soon as I can."

"very well Master Dick I look forward to seeing you and be safe on the way over."

"You got it, Alf, see ya." He ends the call and sinks into his chair, dragging a hand down his face.

He looks forlornly at his pile of files and paperwork. If he wants to make it to Gotham before patrol, he's going to have to leave now, which means he'll have to finish everything tomorrow when he'd been planning to relax, great.

***

By the time he's pulling into the cave Dick has grudgingly started to look forward to his visit. Bruce calling him in means he's also calling the others, and though he saw them all only a few days ago, he's still excited.

As he parks his bike, he looks around. He arrived a little early, so he's not surprised to see that the only one down there is Bruce.

The man is typing away at the bat computer and only looks up when Dick gets close enough to see that he's writing some kind of report on whoever's file he's on. When their eyes meet Bruce offers him a small soft smile, and it's stupid to be so pleased with such a small thing but Dick can't help but beam back.

"Heya B, what's up?" he hops up to sit on the desk while he talks, Bruce lets him. It makes him feel like a kid again. Like it's still just him and B against the world, and really, he's smiling so much he must look like an idiot, but Bruce doesn't comment on it just turns his monitor towards Dick, and starts speaking in that warm quiet voice that no one who hasn't lived with the man would believe him capable of.

"An unidentified magic user has been roaming Gotham's streets at night." Ugh magic, he hates magic, it always makes things harder.

Almost all non-magical heroes struggle against magic, but there's a certain danger they face as humans. When you are not an alien or a goddess, when you don't have meta genes or are the result of some failed science experiment, when all you are is flesh and bones and you go out night after night fighting creatures and psychos 100 times stronger than you every fight is a fight for your life. That had actually been one of the reasons he and Roy had grown to be so close, they were so painfully human in a team filled with beings who could lift mountains, command the seas, and outrun light. All that is to say, that as humans, they can't afford to be struck by some unknown spell mid-fight. If Superman gets hit by a spell and is distracted, sure, he might leave with a big bruise, but they'd be leaving in body bags. 

Dick looks at Bruce, who stares at the footage of the magician as it plays on the monitor. He's got the slight furrow in his brow he gets when he's losing at Monopoly, like he can't fathom he's being beaten at something he normally prevails at.

Dick nudges his foot against his leg to grab his attention, Bruce's eyes leave the screen to meet his eyes once again. The smile which had disappeared at the mention of the magic user returns to Dick's face as he tilts his head and teases.

"B, there's been a magic user running around your city, and you just let him? Tsk Tsk the shame! The Batman of my youth would have never let such a thing be." he puts on a slightly accented voice at the end resembling that of a medieval lord. He's playing it up, sure, but he is a little weirded out. Batman just letting some guy run around Gotham, dishing out spells is seriously unheard of. Is B okay?

He got what he thought was a small hit to the head during Sunday's patrol, but maybe they were wrong and he's had a concussion this entire time. It's when he's seriously considering the pros and cons of doing another concussion check that Bruce rolls his eyes and one corner of his mouth ticks up just slightly.

"I didn't just let him do anything; he's been targeting low-level goons, which is why he hadn't popped up on our radar. But last night, a civilian was hit and has been in a spell-induced coma since then."

As he speaks, his eyes drift back to the screen. After a few clicks, footage is pulled up of the magic user again, this time, however, he's mid-conversation with a woman, and after what looks to be an argument, she is hit with a bright white light before she collapses.

The man on screen stays where he is for a couple of seconds, almost as if shocked, before he snaps out of it and runs away into the night.

DIck blows out a long breath of air "only in Gotham." he means to mumble it to himself but B hears him anyway, he even huffs a little. That's as good as anyone gets these days to make the man laugh; it's not the full belly laughs he could weasel out of him when he was younger, but hey, he'll take what he can get.

With that Bruce goes back to typing his report and Dick sits there on the desk like he used to, lingering for a couple more seconds.

He checks the time and sees that he's still got about 30 minutes before patrol, so he hops off the desk and starts walking towards the supply closet.

"Hey B, do you have smoke pellets stocked up I need a refill." he doesn't tell Bruce that he's been running low on all his supplies lately, he's already restocked most things before sunday's patrol but they were low on the pellets and he still had a few so he left them alone. Now, though he's in desperate need, he never even realised how much he uses them till this week. He's dramatic, sue him, he just loves to make a grand escape.

Without looking over his shoulder, Bruce calls out, "We just got some. I don't think Alfred has had the time to sort them yet, but they should be in the closet."

"Great thanks!" It's as he's practically skipping towards the supply closet that Bruce speaks again.

"Dick" He stops and turns to face the man, he's still sitting at the desk but he looks at Dick, really looks. And Dick doesn't know any word that would describe the look in his eyes. It's not exactly sad, more like nostalgia twisted around something unspoken. like when a scent drags you back to childhood, but you can't place the memory. It slips just out of reach.

"Thank you for coming" Dick blinks a couple times before his smile softens from the excited grin that was pulling his face earlier in something smaller, warmer. Really, Bruce is such a softie. 

"Of course, B. I'll always come when you call." Bruce smiles again, and there's something so fond in the look that it almost knocks the wind out of him. Like, for a second, Bruce isn't just seeing the man Dick has become; he's seeing the boy he used to be, too.

"I know" and with that Bruce goes back to typing and Dick continues on to restock his supplies.

Chapter Text

With his suit all stocked up Dick heads back out to the cave.

He hears them before he sees them. Tim and Damian are huddled around Bruce, staring at the batcomputer. Their heads perk up when they hear him.

Tim offers him a smile and a small wave. Dick returns the gesture, taking the opportunity to glance him over. The kid looks good—he's not slouching, and his eyes aren't drooping. That means he's been sleeping. Good. Tim's a great kid, he's dedicated to the job, to Bruce, to his friends. Maybe too dedicated. Dick worries about him sometimes. He knows what it's like to give everything for the sake of others—to push yourself past the edge because you think you have to. Tim's the same way. He'll skip meals, lose sleep, bury whatever he's feeling, as long as he thinks the work needs him. That kind of loyalty is admirable. It's also dangerous.

"Richard." A younger voice calls out, sharp and demanding. Dick shifts his gaze from Tim to Damian, lips twitching at the boy's familiar intensity.

"Hey Dami, looking serious—what's up?" He makes his way over to where Damian is standing tall, head raised proudly. It makes something fond rise in his chest—god, he loves this kid. He reaches down and ruffles Damian's hair, and the kid lets him for a few seconds before swatting his hand away. He glares up at Dick as he runs his hands through his hair.

"TT, anyone would seem serious in the wake of your childishness, Richard." Once his hair is back in its natural order, his eyes ease up the glare slightly.

"I was not aware you would be joining us tonight," he trails off, voice quieter now, he glances down as if reconsidering his words.

"You...did not inform me." When he looks back up, there's a flicker of something uncertain in his expression—something self-conscious and a little lost. Dick can't help but be reminded of that young boy who first arrived at manor with a scowl protecting the lost look in his eyes and a katana clutched in his hands like it was a lifeline. He feels a quiet swell of pride for how far Damiain has come, but it's tangled with something heavier. The protectiveness never really goes away, and the guilt? That's just a part of the job. Part of loving someone who's been through too much. 

"I only got Alfred's call a bit ago, sorry," he says, softening his voice in genuine apology. 

Dami seems to accept that answer, the tension slowly releasing from his shoulders. He lifts his head with a haughty air and sniffs before speaking.

"TT I have no need for useless apologies, Richard, I care not where you go." but Dick knows him well enough to catch the pleased twinge to his eyes and it makes him smile.

The growl of a motorcycle engine fills the cave before Dick can respond—Jasons here, right on time.

His brother rockets in, a blur of red and black. He swerves hard to the left, aiming for the empty spot next to Dick's bike. He parks haphazardly—and if he were anyone else, the momentum alone would have resulted in both their bikes being smashed. But it's not just anyone. It's Jason. So the bikes don't touch—just barely.

He hops off his bike and removes his helmet on his way to where they're all standing. It's such a small thing, but it softens something in Dicks chest. A year ago today, he was only allowed glimpses of his brother's face. The helmet had served as a kind of barrier—like if no one could see the hurt, then it wasn't really there. Dick's eyes roam over Jason's face, he looks much the same as he did on Sunday—save for the domino and the slight furrow of his brow. Is he annoyed?

Actually, now that he's looking for it, Jason seems aggravated—more than his usual working-with-Bruce scowl he puts up for show. Jason nods at them in greeting, then zeros in on Bruce and starts talking. 

"Did you know there's some freak magician out there in your city free-roaming and zapping all my people?" his voice rumbles out not unlike that hot-shot ride of his—fast, mad, and reckless.

Bruce, for all intents and purposes, simply pauses in his typing, looks at Jason, and raises a single eyebrow. He opens his mouth, hesitates for a moment, and then says, with a tone that's as awkwardly neutral as he can manage, "Jason, what did you think I called you here for?" 

He goes back and types the last few sentences of his report while Jason processes.

It's a 50/50, Dick thinks, on whether Jasons going to take it badly from Bruce when he gets like this. Really, it's ridiculous that two grown men can't find the ability to just say, " I’m sorry," "I love you."  

Thankfully, Jason doesn't say anything more—just moves over to stand beside Dick. When he stays quiet, Dick bumps him lightly with his shoulder to get his attention. Jason tilts his head down slightly to glance at him—and really, how unfair is that? Little siblings ought to know better than to grow taller than their elders.

"Your people are getting zapped?" Dick echos, fishing for more information on their wayward magician.

Jason huffs a short breath through his nose before replying.

"My goons are getting zapped. If it were just any low life-scum I hired for the numbers or something, then I wouldn't give a fuck. But..." he looks away, then continues.

"But the goons that got attacked yesterday, they were good guys, just trying to find a way to support their families with one of the only people that'll hire them in this shit hole of a city. They were just doing inventory on one of our warehouses—nothing that should've gotten them hurt like that,"

As he finishes, his eyes harden—anger settling in them like acid, corrosive and deadly. His arms are crossed, and he's gripping them so tightly he might actually leave bruises. He's not really paying attention to anything anymore, lost in his head. Dick knows he's probably blaming himself—Jason was always good at that, the self blame.

"Hey Jay," he calls out softly. Bruce and the kids are still deep in discussion by the screen. None of them would judge Jason, but he's got that bad habit they all inherited from Bruce—the one that stops them from ever asking for help. And Jason? he would just get embarrassed if the others noticed him out of it like this. And an embarrassed Jason is an angry Jason. So Dick places a hand on his shoulder and instantly his eyes snap to meet Dicks own.

Ha. Take that trauma. Nothing beats bat-training. 

"We'll fix it Jay, you know we will."

Jason slowly unwinds, his arms lower, and he gives him a little half-smile.

"If you say so, Goldie."

The moment lingers—quiet, steady.

Dick gives Jason's shoulder a brief squeeze before taking a slight step towards Bruce "Are the others coming?"

Bruce doesn't look up from the screen."Cass and Stephanie are currently working with Duke on a separate case, It'll just be us tonight."

Then, finally, he turns from the screen to address them all.

"I called you here to help capture the rogue magic user who's been spotted causing damage these past few days," he signals to the screen, where a map of Gotham is projected, part of the map has been circled in red.

“Last night, CCTV footage captured an unknown assailant attacking a civilian and then fleeing the scene. Several people called the GCPD, reporting a loud bang. When officers arrived, they found the victim unconscious.

“She was taken to Gotham Memorial for treatment and is currently in what appears to be a medically induced coma. She’s been identified as a twenty-year-old Lisa Peterson.

“After looking into it, I found a few similar cases across Gotham over the past few days—but those victims were henchmen, goons, gang members. Lisa Peterson doesn’t fit that pattern. She’s a student at GCU, lives in the dorms, and works part-time on campus as a library assistant. She was on her way home after a night out with friends."

Jason stiffens slightly at the mention of previous victims. While Tim frowns slightly, already pulling up her student records on his tablet. Bruce doesn't pay any attention to either of them and continues talking, trusting them all to keep up.

“She’s an outlier, which makes her a lead.

“The footage shows them talking—what started as a conversation escalates into an argument. After the attack, the assailant lingers. He knew her, I don’t believe he meant to hurt her. I’ve asked Gordon to keep her hospitalization quiet. But if he was still in the area, he likely saw the ambulance.

“If this was an accident... he’ll feel guilty. He’ll come back.”

He turns back to the console and clicks something; a few dots appear within the red circle.

"We'll divide up and cover key locations. Robin and I will return to the scene of the crime."

Damian straightens the moment Bruce meets his eye, giving a sharp nod.

"Red Hood will keep watch over the hospital."

Jason grunts his agreement.

"Nightwing and Red Robin will head to GCU—see if he tries to make contact at her dorm."

Dick's eyes meet Tim's, and the two share an excited smile.

This whole situation sucks, but it's been so long since it was just him and Tim on patrol. He's looking forward to it. 

***

Gotham is cold and heavy tonight, like she's holding her breath. 

Dick runs across the rooftops, Tim keeping pace beside him, as they make their way to GCU. For once, he lets himself enjoy the harsh bite of Gotham's air.

He loves Blüdhaven—really, he does. It's the home he carved out for himself. He took that broken city and proved it could heal. But Gotham...

He practically grew up in these smog-soaked streets. There's a rhythm here, a weight he understands. Running through Gotham feels like slipping back into an old skin.  

It's when he sees GCU in the distance that he turns to Tim with a teasing smile. "Betcha I get there first!" Dick challenges, his grin wide. Before Tim even has time to respond, Dick jumps, grappling off the roof and racing toward their destination.

He doesn't see Tim's reaction, but he definitely hears it—Tim shouts from behind, and the familiar clang of a grapple gun going off sounds into the night. Wind whips past Dick as he leaps from roof to roof, his heart racing. His grin only widens—the GCU building is so close now, just a few more rooftops to go.

Of course, that's when something wraps around his ankles, and suddenly he's face-first on the cold roof.

Dick looks down at his feet and can't help the laugh that bubbles out of his throat—Tim the little brat had used his bolo line on him. 

Tim seizes the opportunity, rushing past him and making it to their meeting place.

Dick quickly untangles himself and joins Tim, who's standing looking smug on the GCU boys' dorm roof. He makes a show of pouting when he lands.

"You cheated," he sulks.

Tim's smiling brightly, and panting from their race, but he rolls his eyes with a playful smirk.

"You totally cheated first." He moves as he finishes talking, towards the edge of the roof. He crouches down and pulls out his pair of ocular lenses—straight back to business. Dick huffs out a fond breath before pulling out his pair and crouching down besides Tim.

On the boys' dorm roof, they have the perfect vantage point—cloaked in shadows with clear views of the rooftop and ground-floor exits, as well as Lisa's dorm window.

Time passes like that: quiet, calm, easy. Dick can't help but steal small glances at Tim every now and then.

He's grown. It's weird—with Jason, Dick didn't get a chance to watch him grow up. He was there, then he wasn't, then he was back, but bigger, older. Damian has changed a bit physically but he's still a couple of years away from any noticeable shifts.

But Tim—Tim's all grown up now. Dick knew it was coming, of course, but it's one thing to know the seasons are changing, and another to wake up one day to find all the leaves have fallen, leaving nothing but a blanket of white on the porch.

Tim is still staring at the building, razor-focus, and Dick feels a rush of affection. Despite the years, despite the growth, Tim's still that little kid inside—the one who knocked on Dick's door all those years ago, with smart eyes beyond his years and a stubborn determination that wouldn't take no for an answer.

Dick suddenly wishes Tim hadn't chosen to add the cowl to his suit—it looks great, don't get him wrong, but right now, he'd love nothing more than to ruffle his hair.

Tim's body tenses, just slightly, and he leans forward a fraction—he's seen something. Dick immediately turns back toward the building and lifts his lenses. 

At first, nothing seems out of place. But they've both been trained by the best. They notice it—the way the shadows on the rooftop of the twin buildings' roof shift a little too much for the wind.

"You think that's our guy?" Dick asks, still staring at the unnatural shadow.

“It's gotta be. I'm calling Batman in.”

As Tim starts explaining the situation over comms, the shadow begins to move slowly, steadily, gliding across the roof toward the door.

Dick rises from his crouch, planting one foot on the edge of the roof, ready to grapple over—but there's a snag on his arm.

He glances back. Tim grabbed him. He’s off comms now, which means he must’ve already called Bruce while Dick was distracted. Dick meets his eyes, silently asking for an explanation. Without letting go, Tim speaks—his voice steady, too steady.

“Wait for B, Nightwing. We still don’t know anything about this guy. It’s too big a risk to go in blind.”

He’s calm in that way he gets when he’s actually worried, but trying not to show it.

Dick looks back at the roof. The shadow’s nearly at the door. They can’t afford to wait.

“I get it,” he says, bending slightly, holding Tim’s gaze through their masks. “But by the time B gets here, we’ll have lost him. I’m going after him. Stay here and wait for Bruce, alright?”

Tim’s grip tightens briefly. But he’s smart—he knows this is the only play they’ve got. Dick’s proven right when that grip loosens.

The poor kid looks anxious. Dick can’t help himself, cowl or not—he reaches out and ruffles Tim’s hair through the fabric. It earns him a squawk and a shove.

Chuckling, Dick turns and fires his grapple, launching toward the girls’ dorm roof. A second later, he’s slipping through the door, hot on the suspect’s trail.

Chapter Text

The door shuts softly behind him, and darkness swallows him whole. His senses snap to attention—every nerve on high alert. He descends the stairwell with quiet precision, each step light but deliberate, heading for the third floor—Lisa's dorm.

He pauses when he reaches the door leading into the hallway, then carefully cracks it open just a sliver—and internally curses. The hallway is lit. Too exposed. The moment their suspect steps inside, he'll have to move fast, make it to Lisa's dorm before he's spotted. It's a public space—too many eyes, too many variables. One civilian casualty is already more than enough.

That's when he hears it—the telltale sound of a door opening, then shutting. He's moving immediately. The less time spent in this hallway, the better. Not just to avoid outside interference, but because their guy is going to realize fast that Lisa isn't home. Dick's on a short, fast-moving timer—he needs to get in before Mr.Magician can get out.

He reaches Lisa's door and swings it open. Instinct takes over—reflexes honed by years of patrols, training, and near-misses. He lashes out with a swift kick, his boot connecting hard—catching the figure just as they reached for the handle. The force sends them sprawling. Dick steps inside, shuts the door, locks it in one smooth motion, and turns to face the gasping body on the floor.

In the dark apartment, moonlight spills through the window, casting pale light over the man still sprawled on the floor, gasping for breath. Dick finally gets a clear look at him. He's young, early twenties—about Tim's age—and if the wide, pained look in his eyes, and the way he's still just lying there, are anything to go by, he's definitely new to this.

"Hey," Dick calls out.

The kid's eyes snap to him—and somehow, they get even wider. More afraid. He scrambles to get up, slips, and crashes back down. Finally, he just props himself up on his elbows, staring at Dick as he sputters.

"Wh—what, what are you...?"

As he stammers, Dick chances a glance at the window. He knows exactly where to look—and sure enough, he can just barely make out Tim in the distance. Still alone. No backup.

He doesn’t know if he should be grateful for the chance to talk to the kid one-on-one—before the much more fear-inducing Bats inevitably show up—or annoyed that calming down an inexperienced, volatile magic user has fallen entirely to him.

He decides to be grateful.

Internally sighing Dick crouches down on one knee and looks the kid in the eyes—he's still coiled tight, ready to jump up at the first chance of danger, but he makes himself appear relaxed.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and even. “You’re okay. I need you to breathe. I hit you pretty hard earlier.”

He lets out a small, self-deprecating laugh, trying to ease the tension wound through the kid’s frame. It works—barely—but it’s something, so he keeps going.

“Sorry about that, by the way. Didn’t mean to send you flying like that.” It’s a lie, but a useful one.

The kid's still catching his breath, blinking like he can’t quite believe any of this is real. The fear softens into confusion.

“It’s, uh… It’s uh, okay? I mean, yeah. Totally bro. You—you got me confused with someone else, that’s all. Happens all the time. You’re good.”

Dick lets him ramble. It’s kind of cute, honestly. The kid’s a terrible liar—but he’s trying. And Dick can respect that. The trail of injured people he left behind? That, Dick can’t forgive quite so easily.

He offers a small smile—the smile—his patented Nightwing grin, tilting his head just enough to stay friendly without losing the upper hand.

“I never said you were the wrong guy.”

The kid freezes. The words stop. His body stills—but the fear doesn’t spike again. He’s tense, yeah, but not panicked. Dick still counts that as progress.

“You’re the magician who’s been casting spells on all those innocent people.” His voice doesn’t rise, doesn’t accuse—but the weight behind it is impossible to miss.

The reaction is instantaneous.

The kid’s eyes widen—not in fear this time, but in righteous anger. He shoves himself up from the floor and gets to his feet. Dick rises slowly, never breaking eye contact, tracking his movements as the kid starts to pace, fists clenched tight and thunder written all over his face.

“Innocent? Ha! Those guys weren’t innocent!” he spits. “They were murderers! Or working for the psychos that run this city! If you ask me, I did the world a favor.”

By the time he finishes, he’s facing Dick again—hunched, panting, and looking just a little unhinged.

Dick thinks of Jason. Thinks of the way he talked about his men. Thinks about every person who got dealt a crap hand and had to claw their way through the dirt just to survive. He wants, more than anything, to pull this kid aside and help him understand why this—this path, this justification—isn’t the way.

But the kid’s angry. Dangerous. And Dick knows exactly what to say to cut through it all.

“Lisa Peterson.”

Just like that, the kid loses all steam. He sways slightly, face gone deathly pale, and starts stepping backward as he stammers:

“Th-that wasn’t—I didn’t—that was an accident!”

His back hits the window with a soft thud. Dick opens his mouth to respond, but his eyes flick instinctively to where he knows Tim’s been watching—Batman’s landing. Backup’s here.

Not good.

He just needs a few more minutes. The kid is close, too close to calming down—but Lady Luck has never been on Dick’s side. Because thats when the kid notices Dick’s attention shift to the window instead of him—

Dick watches unable to stop him.The kid turns just in time to see Batman grapple over the ledge.

He absolutely. Freaks.

“Oh my God. Batman’s coming—oh God. Oh God. ”

Dick steps in fast, moving to block the dorm door just as the kid lunges forward. His eyes are blown wide. His chest heaves, and his voice is shaking.

“Move, move,  man—I don’t want to hurt you!”

Dick doesn’t budge. He keeps his tone low, steady.

“I can’t do that. I’m sorry.”

“JUST MOVE! PLEASE!”

They both hear it—the heavy slam of the rooftop door. The kid panics. He throws both hands forward toward Dick.

“I SAID MOVE!”

A blinding flash of white light erupts from his palms—and hits Dick square in the chest. The kid uses the opportunity to rush out of the dorm.

And suddenly, Dick can’t breathe.

He drops to his knees. His lungs won’t expand. His mouth opens, closes—useless.

Of course, that’s when Bruce barrels in.

He’s on his knees beside Dick in a second—fast, hard, and probably murdering his joints doing it. If Dick had any air, he might’ve laughed.

Instead, he just stares up helplessly as Bruce’s gloved hand goes to the back of his neck, tilting his face to look him in the eye.

“Nightwing. Chum. What’s wrong?”

The grit in his voice cuts through the noise—rough, the way it gets when he’s worried.

Dick is worried too. His vision’s blurring at the edges.

But he raises one hand, and Bruce zeroes in instantly. Dick signs—quick and simple, the shorthand they came up with all those years ago, when Robin was just starting out and Batman was still learning how to work in a team—when Dick had to teach him how:

No.
Air.

Bruce doesn’t miss a beat. In one fluid motion, he slides a hand under Dick’s back, braces a fist to his abdomen, and executes some weird, sideways Heimlich maneuver that looks like it came out of a League handbook.

Whatever it is—it works.

Dick chokes on a breath and gasps in sweet, painful, glorious air.

Tim stands just behind Bruce, his expression tight with guilt. Dick sighs internally—he’s going to have to fix that later. Let Tim know he didn’t fail him by letting him go in alone.

Next to Tim, Damian stands like a soldier, back straight, eyes sharp—but Dick catches the subtle clench of his fists, like he's gripping the hilt of a phantom katana. He’s stressed.

At the open door, Jason comes back into view, movements sharp, swearing under his breath something about how “the slippery bastard got away.” He’s pacing. Worried.

And then there’s Bruce. Still kneeling beside him, one hand steady at the back of his neck. Grounding.

Dick can't help himself. He smiles, tilts his head slightly, and murmurs:

“Well. The gang’s all here, huh?”

Just like that, the heavy tension in the room begins to ease. Tim rolls his eyes, Damian lets out a familiar “Tt.” 

Bruce squeezes the back of Dick’s neck once before pulling away, rising to his feet. He lets out that low, gruff sound that’s supposed to be comforting— the one they’ve all told him doesn’t work, but he keeps doing it anyway.

“Report,” he growls.

Dick groans exaggeratedly as he pushes himself up.

“Nothing much, B. Red and I were staking out the building. We saw the guy go in—didn’t want to lose him, so Red stayed behind and I followed. Got into the dorm and, yeah, the kid was terrified, so I tried to calm him down—and it was working. Until he saw you through the window. Freaked, tried to bolt, I blocked the door, he zapped me. Knocked the wind out of me, then he ran. That’s all.”

He finishes with a casual shrug.

Bruce sighs. “I’ll need a formal report later. For now, we’re heading back to the Cave. We need to make sure the spell didn’t have any lingering effects.”

Dick salutes half-heartedly. “Yes, sir.”

He follows the group as they make their way back into the night.

****

Back in the Cave, Dick’s all cleaned up and changed, hopping up onto the examination table to let Alfred draw his blood for tests.

“Truly, Master Dick, I understand the importance of capturing a criminal,” Alfred says, swabbing his arm.

“However, that does not mean putting yourself directly in harm’s way. One would think, after all this time, you would have developed some sense of self-preservation.”

Dick winces. Nothing makes you regret your life choices quite like an Alfred lecture. He waits until the needle’s out before responding.

“Sorry, Alf—but this was our best shot. I had to take it. You know that.” He softens his words at the end, and when Alfred remains stoic, he adds with a teasing grin,

“Besides, the spell just knocked the wind outta me. No harm done. Not like the time B got turned into a genie.”

Alfred’s eyes lighten slightly, and the corner of his mouth twitches in that small way that means he’s laughing—his voice dry and posh when he replies:

“That, my boy, is not an incident I believe anyone is capable of ‘topping.’ Now, take this sample to Master Tim at the computer, so we can confirm you won’t soon find your way into my kettle.”

Dick chuckles, accepting the vials and heading for the door.

“No promises, Alf.”

Just like Alfred said, Tim is seated at the computer, typing away, still in his Red Robin suit—probably finishing up his report on the night. He sticks out a hand in Dick’s direction, palm open, without even looking over or pausing his typing.

Dick drops the vials into his hand and flops into the chair next to him as Tim begins testing the blood.

He watches quietly while Tim runs the analysis. When it’s done, Tim turns back to the big screen to finish his report while they wait on results.

“Hey, Timmy, you okay?”

Tim hums, noncommittal, one hand still typing—but the other is clenched tight around the mouse.

Before he can think about it, Dick reaches over and places a hand over his. The motion stills Tim’s fingers.

“Hey,” he says softly, “talk to me, Timmy. What’s going on in that big brain of yours?”

He keeps his voice light, gentle—he’s pretty sure he knows what’s eating Tim. Same thing as always when someone gets hurt: guilt. The kind that burrows deep and makes itself home.

Tim finally turns to him, eyes wide and incredulous. “This isn’t a joke, Dick. You could’ve been seriously hurt. You chose to go off alone, and we don’t even know what that spell did to you! Maybe it’ll be a coma, like Lisa! Or—or maybe you’ll turn into a frog, or die, or—”

His words stumble, then stop altogether.

Dick’s chest tightens. Same old Tim—carrying the world on his shoulders like it’s his job. He gently grabs Tim’s other hand, holding them both between his own, and meets his eyes.

“Timmy, come on. Stop. The spell probably didn’t do anything—and even if it did , it's not your fault. What happens to me? That's on me. Got it?”

Tim opens his mouth to protest, but Dick jumps in before he can.

“Nope. You said it yourself—I went off on my own. That was my call. You couldn’t have stopped me even if you wanted to. I was very determined.” He lets a smile curl onto his face. “And don’t say it like it’s a bad thing. When I turn into a frog, you can feed me mealworms every morning.”

The joke lands. Tim gives him a reluctant smile—small, but real—then scrunches his face.

“Are you kidding? I’m dumping your slimy ass off at the first pet store I can find.”

Dick gasps, horrified, and throws an arm around Tim’s shoulders, dragging him close so he can rub their faces together obnoxiously.

“Nooo, Timmers, you can’t! You have to keep me ! Give me a fancy little enclosure and feed me only the finest bugs the Wayne Industries card can buy!”

Tim snorts and shoves him away—but the tension in his shoulders has eased.

Then the computer dings—the test results are in.

Without missing a beat, Tim pulls the results up on screen and scans them for a few seconds. Then he slumps back in his chair, shoulders sagging with relief.

Dick lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Oh thank god—he’s not actually dying today.

That’s the moment Bruce comes down the stairs, tablet in hand. His hair is still damp from his earlier shower, but his focus is locked on the screen. When he finally looks up, his eyes meet Dick’s.

“I contacted Zatanna. She’ll be here tomorrow afternoon to check for any aftereffects.”

Dick nods. Bruce’s gaze shifts over to Tim.

“What are the results?”

When Tim tells him the good news, Bruce’s shoulders lower a fraction. Then he gets a good look at Tim slouched in his chair, and his eyes soften—just a bit—before he speaks again, slower this time.

“Go shower, Tim. You’ve got an important meeting tomorrow.”

Tim’s eyes widen slightly—ha. Kid totally forgot. Dick does not envy him, that’s for sure. Tim hops up and heads off toward the showers, with a little pep in his step that makes Dick smile.

Bruce walks over, sets the tablet down, and takes Tim’s place. He doesn’t touch the computer—just turns toward Dick and stares.

Dick raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. Sometimes Bruce gets like this—he’s the type that has to see to believe. So Dick sits there and patiently lets him catalog every inch of his face. When Bruce doesn’t find anything, he finally opens his mouth and asks, quietly:

“No adverse reactions? Nothing at all?”

Dick rolls his eyes, fond and exasperated. Seriously—they already grilled him the entire way back. For whatever reason, no one ever wants to just take his word that he’s completely okay.

“Yes, B. I promise, I feel completely fine.”

Bruce studies him for a second longer, then nods and turns toward the screen.

Dick gets up and decides to grab something to snack on before bed. Usually he’d be back home by now, but with the whole “mystery spell” situation, he’s staying the night—which is fine by him.

The manor might not be home anymore, but he’ll always love these antique halls. He grew up running through them, after all.

He’s not alone when he enters the kitchen—Jason’s there, towel still slung around his neck. He’s in a tank top and sweats, which means he’s staying the night.

Which is, well… Dick’s not gonna lie, it’s pretty fucking weird. Jason doesn’t usually stay over unless he has to.

Dick heads over to the kitchen island and drops onto one of the stools, watching Jason. He’s in the middle of scooping oatmeal into a bowl, and when he notices Dick come in, he grabs a second bowl without a word and starts plating another portion.

Dick can’t help smiling as Jason brings both bowls over. It looks great—warm, with fresh berries and a little syrup on top. He’s ready to dig in, but just to be difficult, he playfully sulks.

“I wanted cereal.”

Jason’s lip twitches—that look he gets when he’s weighing whether to laugh or smack you. He ends up doing neither, just hands Dick a spoon and digs into his own bowl.

Dick follows suit. It’s good. Really good. Warm and sweet, the berries adding just enough tartness—it’s definitely better than cereal.

He glances at Jason between bites and finds the other already watching him. When Jason doesn’t say anything, Dick tilts his head, questioning.

Jason swallows his bite first—because they were all raised better than that by Alfred—then says,

“You sure you’re feeling alright?”

And seriously? Dick should be offended no one is wiling to belive him. But he’s not. He just feels fond. Still, he makes a show of sighing dramatically.

“Yes, Jay. I’m A-OK. Like, super good.”

Jason finishes his bowl and waits for Dick to clear his before grabbing both dishes and heading to the sink. As he starts washing up, he calls over his shoulder, voice quiet.

“Just checking, Dickhead. You don’t have the best track record with this kinda thing.”

Dick huffs and walks over to join him. He rests a hand on Jason’s shoulder. Jason tenses—just for a second—then keeps scrubbing. So Dick keeps going, voice soft.

“I promise. If anything comes up, you’ll be the first I tell. Okay?”

Just like that, Jason relaxes a little under his palm—well, as much as Jason ever relaxes. He glances over his shoulder, meets Dick’s eyes, and smiles—small and crooked. It makes him look younger. Like the kid who used to steal all the old leather jackets out of Dick’s closet.

“Alright, alright. Go to bed, Dickhead.”

Then he flicks some dishwater at him.

Dick squawks and pulls back, dodging the second flick. Jason chuckles, and Dick mock-glares as he retreats toward the door. He pauses slightly before leaving.

"Night, Jay."

With that, he steps into the hallway—and is immediately greeted by Damian. It takes all his training not to jump like a startled cat. Jesus.

“Dami, what did we say about hiding in the shadows and lurking?” he scolds lightly.

Damian looks down a little and mumbles, “Only on patrol.”

Dick nods and places a hand between Damian’s shoulders as they begin the short walk toward their rooms. He glances down at the kid—he definitely wants to talk about something, but clearly doesn’t know how to start. So when they reach the hallway where their rooms are, Dick stops them and turns to face him.

Damian looks up—and yep, something’s definitely wrong. He’s got the full Bruce Brow going on.

“Hey, Dami. What’s up?”

Damian’s expression shifts from hesitant to determined in an instant.

“You will inform me if you are unwell, correct?”

And oh my god. Dick seriously can’t take this anymore. How many times is he going to have to say he’s fine? They’re a family of detectives—shouldn’t they be able to tell he’s okay?

He kneels down, gently grabs Damian’s shoulders, and looks him in the eye—just to make sure the message really sticks.

“I’m okay. I promise. The spell just caught me off guard, the blood results came back clean, and Zatanna will be here tomorrow to check for any lingering magic. You don’t need to worry, okay?”

He wasn’t sure what reaction to expect, but it definitely wasn’t Damian rolling his eyes and making a “tt” sound.

“I know that, Richard. You have already said as much. And you would not lie to me.”

Dick nods, slightly confused. Then why are they having this conversation?

But Damian breaks eye contact and looks down at the floor.

“You would not lie,” he continues quietly, “but you would withhold information. I do not want that. I wish for you to inform me the moment you feel unwell.”

He looks up again, gaze sharp, and grabs Dick’s elbows tightly.

“Todd, Duke, Drake, and Stephanie are all imbeciles. I am aware of this and understand your hesitance to inform them of such things. Even Father, Pennyworth, and Cassandra can be... suffocating, which may lead you to keep things from them.”

His tone softens, though his grip doesn’t.

“However, I am not like them. I am trustworthy. And I aim never to stifle you.”

His eyes, which had gained a wild glint, begin to soften. He meets Dick’s gaze fully, expression open and earnest in a way he shows to no one else.

“Richard... I am your Robin. We, alone, are the best together. Do not keep such things from me. When I first arrived, you asked me to let go of my preconceived notions and trust you. Now, I’m asking the same from you.”

Dick’s heart just about gives out. He pulls Damian into a hug, arms wrapping tight around the kid. When he feels Damian relax against him, he places a kiss on the side of his forehead before speaking.

"I trust you—I promise, Dami, I do. But I won’t always be able to tell you everything."

Damian jerks away at that, eyes hardening as he looks to the side. Dick doesn’t let him slip away—he places a steady hand on his shoulder, then gently lifts Damian’s chin so their eyes meet again.

"Hey. No—listen to me. I won’t be able to tell you everything, not because I don’t trust you, but because... as amazingly talented, strong, and reliable as you are, you're still a kid. I’m the adult here, Dami. It’s my job to protect you where I can."

He holds his gaze, firm but warm.

"But don’t you ever take that to mean I don’t trust you. I trust you with my life, Damian. I have for a long time now."

Damian seems to consider that for a few seconds, gaze sharp and thoughtful. Then he gives a single nod and turns toward his bedroom door.

“I can’t say I agree with your logic. However, I was aware from the beginning that you are a soft-hearted fool, so I will forgive you.”

He pauses, then adds, more gently, “Goodnight, Richard. Sleep well.”

After the door shuts behind Damian, Dick pushes himself up from the floor and sways slightly—huh, he must be more tired than he thought. He turns and heads into his room, closing the door behind him.

The closer he gets to the bed, the more he starts to realize just how exhausted he is. Every step feels heavier than the last—and God, it’s so hot.

He slithers into bed and immediately kicks the blankets off the mattress—he’s already sweating, droplets rolling down his face and soaking into the sheets. No added heat necessary.

His head hits the pillow with a dull thud, and suddenly it feels like he’s swimming in molasses. Everything is slow, sticky, and warm—and not in a good way.

His eyes slip shut against his will, and he falls asleep like that: overheated, drained, and wrong.

Chapter Text

The pain is constant, but the heat comes in sick, pulsing waves. So does the light. And the noise—the voices.

Dick wishes he could understand what they’re saying, but all he catches is the tone: worried, scared.

That part— the fear —is what finally makes him move.

He struggles to lift himself, pushing up onto his elbows—and then hands are there, firm but careful, pressing him back down.

And oh God—it’s like fire ripping through every nerve.

This is it , he thinks. Here lies Dick Grayson, trailblazer for all children foolish enough to dress up and fight evils no man ought to know.

A hand—calloused, but kind, brushes the tears from his face. He hadn’t even realized he was crying.

Dick forces his eyes open, only to shut them again as blinding light pierces through. But he opens them once more, because Dick Grayson has been a lot of things in his life—but never a quitter.

The figure leaning over him is more shadow than shape, more outline than face. But still—he knows those shoulders. Years spent fighting side by side have burned them into his memory. Drooping and stiff with exhaustion, but unmistakable.

“Bruce.”

It takes him a second to realize that garbled mess of a voice came from him, but he doesn’t get much time to wonder about it—because suddenly Bruce is there.

He’s closer now, and Dick can just barely make out his features.

His first thought is: he looks so old.

But no—that’s not right. He looks just the same as he did earlier in the cave.

Dick’s breathing starts to hitch, coming faster now. He grips Bruce’s hands tightly when the man reaches to wipe his tears again—and Dick is just. so. scared.

He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t understand.

But all he wants right now is—God—he wants his parents.

He wants his mom, and his dad, and his family at the circus.

And before he can stop it, he’s sobbing. Big, fat, stupid tears.

Bruce has his hands cupped behind Dick’s neck and back in an instant, pulling him close into his arms. It hurts, but Dick doesn’t push away—just clings back even tighter.

Eventually, when he’s been reduced to sniffles and his eyes have started to droop, Bruce drags a hand across his back in a slow, soothing rhythm. He makes that low, comforting growl of his and murmurs into Dick’s hair:

“Go to sleep, chum. Zatanna will be here soon. We’ll fix this—I promise.”

And Dick doesn’t have it in him to fight the command. He drifts off like that, tucked close and trembling, but not alone.

***

Dick wakes up alone—which, okay, he wakes up alone every day, so why his brain decided to flag that as weird today, he has no idea.

He swings his legs off the bed—and immediately eats floor.

“What the—?”

He groans and pushes himself up, staring down at his feet, which are tangled in a pair of sweatpants way too big for him. Actually… now that he’s really looking, all his clothes are huge. Which is just—super weird.

Dick scrambles back onto his feet and finally takes in his surroundings. His room... doesn’t look like his room. Not even close.

Well—okay, he recognizes the wallpaper Alfred helped him pick out a couple months ago for his birthday, but all the posters are different. Everything except the Flying Graysons one is gone. His sheets are white and boring, not the cool Superman ones he made Bruce get—partly to annoy him, and partly because Superman is, like, objectively the best.

His pants pick that moment to betray him and drop, puddling around his ankles.

He shuffles quickly to what should be his closet—and yeah, the clothes hanging inside aren’t his size either.

Okay.

He’s officially getting worried now.

What the hell is going on?

Dick grabs a belt, wraps it around the sweats, and clicks it into the smallest notch. When the pants stay up, he grins proudly—only for the expression to slip into one of annoyance when he realizes the legs still pool around his feet like cotton puddles.

Fine. Whatever.

He decides to ditch the pants entirely. The shirt’s long enough to cover everything anyway.

He opens the door into the hall—only to come face to face with someone who looks like they were about to knock.

The guy is huge. Tall, broad, muscles-for-days type. Total gym rat. Gross.

His hair looks like it couldn’t decide which way to go—like someone kept running a hand through it—and he’s got this weird white streak in the front. Is he trying to look cool? Because... no.

At first, the guy looks straight over Dick’s head, like he was expecting someone taller. Then his gaze finally drops, landing on Dick—and his eyes practically bug out of his head.

Dick has to draw on every trick he learned from his parents to keep a straight face. It’s not easy. He really wants to laugh. The guy looks like a total idiot.

After a few more seconds of stunned silence, Dick flashes the guy his sweetest smile, tilts his head just so, and slips into the voice Alfred taught him for galas and interviews—polite, earnest, and just a touch posh.

“Can I help you, sir? Oh—are you looking for Bruce? He should be down the hall, in his office.” Dick is expecting the man to nod and walk away but instead he sputters out.

“Wha—Dick?! What on earth happened to you?!”

Dick stares at the guy, confused—then glances down at himself.

Oh. Right.

“I like sleeping in just a shirt, so what?” he says defensively. “More importantly, who the hell are you? Why are you talking like you know me? I’ve never seen you before. I definitely would’ve remembered that fugly-ass hair.”

Okay, so maybe he’s a little irritated. He woke up feeling weird, his whole room was wrong, and now this random dude is standing outside his door acting like they’re best friends. Privately, Dick sends out a mental apology to Alfred—if this guy is one of Brucie’s “pals,” he’s seriously ruining the image Alfred worked so hard to build.

The stranger doesn’t even look offended—more like he’s in shock. He reaches a hand up to his hair, mumbling a quiet “Fugly?” to himself, then shakes it off and suddenly grabs Dick’s arm.

“Hey—!” Dick starts, but the guy’s already dragging him down the hall.

Dick considers fighting it. But honestly? He's already done enough damage to his image by insulting the guy’s hair, and worst-case scenario, he can totally take him down. He is Robin, after all.

They reach the dining room. The guy slams the door open so hard Dick winces—Alfred is not going to be happy about that.

The guy throws his head back and yells,

“BRUCE! Get your ass in here right now—something’s wrong with Dickface!”

Dick barely has time to roll his eyes before a blur enters the room—and okay, look. Dick’s not an idiot. He might play up the innocent, naive, 'perfect ward of Brucie Wayne' act sometimes, but he saw the signs. The same room but different decor. The oversized clothes. The stranger looking at him like a ghost walked in.

He’d started forming a theory. A wild one. One he didn’t quite believe.

But then Bruce steps into the room.

And—oh god.

He’s ancient.

His hair has flecks of white in it. There are lines on his face that definitely weren’t there yesterday. He looks tired—but not in the lonely, overworked way his Bruce always does. More like a man who’s been doing this for too long. Like someone who’s thinking about retiring.

Dick suddenly takes back every nasty thing he said about the stranger—standing here, gaping at this older Bruce, he must look a hundred times dumber. 

The only thing making him feel better is that Bruce doesn’t seem to be handling it much better. His eyes are wide—okay, wide-ish—and his mouth is slack. He honestly looks like an android mid-reboot.

Dick’s never seen Bruce like this. It’s so freaky it actually snaps him back into place.

He makes himself loosen up. Remembers the words his Daj used to whisper every night before their act: “Remember, dear—stay light. The crowd came to be amazed, to forget their troubles for a while. Give them magic, give them flight. Let fear steady you, not shake you. Use it—but never let it steal the stage.”

He lifts his chin and slowly looks around the kitchen—like he doesn't have a care in the world. Like he’s not freaking out inside because everyone here is a stranger.

Bruce is so different… can Dick even say he knows him at all?

He notes the table, the mugs, the way it’s set for five. He doesn’t let himself react to that.

He can hear the noise of someone cooking—and please let that be Alfred. Please let Alfred still be alive.

He glances back at the man with the white tuft. The guy is staring at him with an intensity that makes Dick want to look away—but he doesn’t.

Show no fear.

So he stares right back, locking eyes until the man finally gives up and looks away.

Ha.
Dick: 1.
Weird Guy: 0.

Finally, Bruce seems to return to planet Earth. He’s staring at Dick like he can’t believe what he’s seeing—and yeah, Dick gets it. He can’t believe it either.

“Dick… you’re younger…”

And oh god—he’s just so awkward.

A giggle bubbles out of Dick before he can stop it, sharp and bright. It quickly tumbles into full-blown laughter. It’s not really funny. But he knows that if he doesn’t laugh, he’ll end up crying instead.

“Yeah, no shit I’m young—and you’re, like, super old.” He says it between laughs, barely keeping his voice steady.

Bruce doesn’t look like he finds it funny. In fact, he looks kind of… alarmed.

That’s enough to sober Dick up. The laughter dies off as he takes a breath.

Bruce steps closer, crouching just slightly to meet Dick’s eyes.

“You don’t remember anything? At all?”

Dick can’t explain it—the surge of irrational anger that hits him. He tries to keep his voice steady, but he can’t stop the way it rises with every word.

“Oh, I remember plenty, Bruce. I remember coming back from patrol last night. I remember having pan-seared Chilean sea bass with lemon beurre blanc for dinner—” he says the last bit with a mocking edge, “—and I remember you being a lot more handsome. And I remember this house being a hell of a lot colder."

Bruce just blinks at him. He looks a little lost—and maybe even a bit sad. He raises a hand, then hesitates before resting it lightly on Dick’s shoulder.

Dick tries not to tense. Fails. He can tell by the way Bruce’s eyes soften even more.

“Dick… how old are you right now?”

Bruce’s hand is still there, and that makes something sour twist in Dick’s chest. He jerks out of the grip and turns away, ignoring the question completely.

Instead, he points a sharp finger at the stranger still lingering behind them.

“Who’s that?” His voice comes out a little terse, but Dick forgives himself for it pretty easily—there’s some weirdo in the manor that Bruce is comfortable with, and based on those plates, there’s a few more.

Bruce is silent for a beat as he meets eyes with the man. They seem to have some kind of silent conversation—just with their eyes. It fills Dick with a feeling he can’t quite pin down. Dread? Anger?

He pointedly ignores the voice in his head that whispers jealousy.

The stranger nods slightly, and Bruce sighs, running a hand down his face before he finally addresses Dick.

“This is Jason, he’s my—”

Bruce falters, just for a beat, glancing at Dick’s confused expression before continuing like nothing happened.

“We work together occasionally.”

Dick’s eyes narrow at the obvious cover-up—then his brain catches up to what Bruce actually said.

His eyebrow shoots up, eyes going wide. The way Bruce said that—he can’t mean...

“Work like work work?” he asks, voice flat with disbelief.

When Bruce nods, Dick lets out a breath that he hopes reads as accepting and not absolutely fucking bewildered.

He’s suddenly struck with a desperate hope that he’s landed in some alternate universe where Bruce's been replaced by an alien shapeshifter. That would make more sense than this.

Dick lets his gaze return to Jason. The man is standing stiff—he obviously caught Bruce's shitty cover-up. The expression on his face is angry. Not just angry—that kind of angry. The kind you make yourself feel so the hurt doesn’t eat you alive.

It makes Dick blurt out the first thought that comes to mind.

“Are you guys fucking?”

Jason sputters, and the absolute disgust on both their faces almost makes Dick smile—almost. But the growing dread in his stomach stops it before it can form.

Because if not that… then what?

It’s Jason who answers, his voice rough, incredulous.

“Are you fucking joking? No. No way. I thought you were supposed to be some kinda freaking baby Jesus detective—why the fuck would you even say that?”

Dick ignores whatever nonsense Jason is spouting—because seriously, what even is a Jesus detective? He figures the guy means to sound intimidating with all that shouting— but Dick’s been living with Bruce and Alfred for three years now. And he used to be a performer—he knows how to look past a mask.

Bruce cuts in before Dick can respond. He steps closer, drops to one knee, and makes eye contact.

Dick wants to punch him.

Seriously—he’s been running around Gotham every night fighting baddies. He might be young and small, but he is not a kid. He hasn’t been a kid since his parents fell. His Bruce knows that.

This Bruce, Dick decides, is an idiot.

“Dick, focus. I need to know how old you are right now.”

His voice is soft, but Dick knows a command when he hears one.

“Twelve.” He grits his teeth. His voice comes out sharp with anger, and neither Bruce nor Jason comments on it.

Dick hates them more for that. 

They don’t even say anything—just stare at him dumbly, wearing a watered-down version of the face people used to make when he and his parents performed.

He’s not even doing anything.

Bruce never got to see the finished show—none of them have ever seen him fly. So why are they looking at him like that?

"What about you?" He only speaks to break whatever weird spell they're under, it works. KInda. Bruce looks at, like he's actually looking at HIM this time before opening his mouth.

"huh?" He sounds stupid, his Bruce never sounds like that. Dick would never have had to explain himself back home, Batman always knows what he means.

"your age?" he says it like its the most obvious thing in the world and for Bruce Wayne it should be, honestly his alien shapshifter theory is looking more and more credible.

“Ah.” Bruce clears his throat before speaking again. “I recently turned forty.”

And oh, wow—no wonder he looks older. It’s been fifteen years.

Dick can’t help the warmth that flares up at that. All the anger and frustration is—well, not gone, but suddenly less important.

Bruce is forty. He lives at least fifteen more years.

Dick would never say it out loud, but he worries every time he gets injured enough that Bruce has to go out alone. That maybe—just maybe—this will be the time they lose him for good.

He usually mans the Batcomputer just to calm down. And from the way Alfred always joins him, Dick knows the old man has the same fear.

Dick makes his face as serious and solemn as he can manage, then pats Bruce’s back.

“Hey man, I was really harsh before. You look good for forty. I’m sure all the grannies at the senior home go crazy for that salt and pepper.”

He hears Jason laugh somewhere off to the side, but he keeps his eyes on Bruce’s face—and has to fight off the grin that threatens to break when Bruce gives him a small smile.

Ha. Take that. He’s displaced fifteen years in the future, but he still knows exactly how to make him laugh.

Bruce gets up with a quiet, “Brat.”

There’s a pointed throat-clear from the doorway leading into the kitchen, and when Dick looks over, Alfred is standing there in all his stuck-up British glory.

“Master Dick. It is good to see you are feeling well. Though you appear to have shrunk in size, I hope your appetite remains as all-consuming as I remember. Breakfast is ready.”

Same old Alfred. Dick is so dizzy with relief he could fall—instead, he hops over to the doorway and trails after the man, leaving Bruce and Jason in the other room.

“Don’t worry about me, Alf. I could eat the whole table if I wanted to. So, tell me who exactly is showing up—and how much of my delicious Alfred breakfast am I expected to give up here?” 

He’s fishing for information. Alfred knows that. But as he sets the table, he indulges him anyway.

“Well, besides yourself and Master Bruce, I presume you’ve already met Master Jason?”

When Dick nods, Alfred continues,

“You should expect two others—Master Tim and Master Damian.”

Dick doesn’t respond—just helps Alfred set the table, at least as much as Alfred will let him.

He tries not to linger on the fact that Alfred called these mystery people Master. Tries not to think about what that means.

Bruce and Jason had come in at some point. When Bruce sits down at the head of the table, Dick follows his lead and takes the spot to his right. Jason studies the seat placements a second longer before settling across the table—leaving one empty seat between him and Bruce.

As Alfred sets down the final plate, Dick hears two new voices approaching from the hall. He can’t make out what they’re saying, but one of them sounds young.

They step into the room—and immediately freeze at the sight of him.

It reminds him of Jason’s reaction earlier, and the memory is funny enough that he uses it to fake a smile.

The taller one is lanky, older but still young—late teens, maybe early twenties. He looks stressed. Mostly, though, he just looks normal. Boring.

The shorter one is a kid—about Dick’s age, maybe a year younger. And while Dick could sit here analyzing the stiff posture or the silent, measured walk… there’s really only one thing that matters:

He looks just like Bruce.

The shape of his eyes. The ridiculous eyebrows. The chin, jutting forward slightly. All Bruce.

Dick swallows the nausea that rises up in his throat—Later, he tells himself. Deal with it later.

He keeps that easy-going, too-bright smile on his face and glances between the two strangers. Neither of them have moved since stepping into the room—they’re practically picture-perfect in how still they are.

Dick flicks his eyes to Bruce 2.0, swallows down the bile again, and speaks—voice light, confident, and nonchalant.

“So which one is Tim, and which one is Damian?”

That wakes them up.

Green Bean makes his way over and takes the seat beside Dick, eyes wide like he’s seeing something from an old dream. He doesn’t stop looking at Dick, not once, and when he finally speaks, his voice is slightly high, rambling—but way less annoying than Dick was expecting.

“Uh—Tim. I mean, that’s me. I’m Tim.” He sticks out a hand.

Dick flashes him a dazzling smile and gives him a performer’s handshake—strong and wild, nothing like the stiff little thing Alfred taught him for galas.

“Great! I’m Dick, but I guess you already knew that.”

He turns toward Mini-Bruce—who, yeah, must be Damian. The kid’s glaring, and the second they make eye contact, he spins to face Bruce and all but demands:

“Father. Explain.”

Well. If Dick needed any more confirmation, there it is.

Bruce twitches an eye. Which, from experience, is as good as a wince in Bat-speak.

He didn’t want Dick to find out. At least—not like this.

Coward.

“Dick was hit by a spell, you know this.”

Well, Dick didn’t know that—but he guesses late is better than never. Thanks, Bruce.

That answer doesn’t seem to appease Damian. As he takes the seat across from Dick, he keeps his eyes locked on Bruce—and only Bruce. Seems like Bruce is bothering him just as much.

“I am aware of that, Father.”

Dick can’t help but wince internally every time he hears that word.

Father.

It’s just weird, hearing someone call Bruce that—especially someone he’s never seen before. Yeah. That’s why.

Damian continues on, either unaware or just uncaring of Dick’s discomfort.

“He claimed to be fine, and the blood tests came back clear. So why, pray tell, is he shrunk? Why does he not seem to know who we are?”

Why doesn’t he know me.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but Dick hears it anyway.

It’s kinda nice, he guesses—that Bruce’s kid cares so much about his older self.

That must mean he and Bruce are still friends. 

Okay, so Dick’s room was bare. All his decorations taken down.

so—maybe he doesn’t live here anymore. But that doesn’t mean anything.

Doesn’t mean he and Bruce aren’t Still the dynamic duo...

Still partners.

Dick's new epiphany has him feeling a little gracious, so he decides to save Bruce from his own fumbling.

"It was probably just a delayed reaction. Happens sometimes."

He takes a bite of bacon as Damian glares at him. The effect is lost after Damian’s earlier concern—now it just reminds Dick of a hissing kitten. He turns slightly toward the head of the table, addressing both Bruce and everyone else.

"So. Father, huh? You all his kids?"

Bruce is the only one who freezes. Damian gives a proud nod, Tim a more hesitant one, and Jason is staring at his pancakes like they killed his family and came to gloat. But even he eventually dips his head in confirmation.

Well. At least Jason’s earlier horror at him and Bruce makes sense now.

He studies Damian’s face for a few seconds before turning to Bruce—and even he can’t keep the grimace off his face.

"With... Talia?"

Bruce chokes on his bite and erupts into coughs. Damian looks scandalized—like he isn’t a carbon copy of both those assholes. Jason snorts. Tim chuckles.

It’s Bruce who finally speaks, drowning out Damian’s indignant “How dare—”

"Ah—no, no. That was just Damian. The others have nothing to do with Talia."

Damian huffs through his nose like that’s right, but Bruce’s words catch up with Dick and now it’s his turn to be scandalized.

He gasps, whipping his head to Bruce with wide eyes.

"Bruce, what the heck, man?! I know Alfred gave you the safe sex talk!"

The table erupts.

Jason is laughing—no, scratch that, he's full-on cackling. Damian looks... disturbed, almost. Bruce, funny enough, looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. Dick glances over when Tim places a hand on his shoulder. There’s mirth in the boy’s eyes, and he’s smiling.

“They’re not—we’re not—none of us are blood-related. Except Damian.”

Just like that, Dick’s nausea is back. He tries not to let it show on his face when he asks Tim:

“So you’re all…”

God, how pathetic is it that he can’t even say the word?

Tim doesn’t seem to mind. He just looks at Dick, full of adoration—and Dick hasn’t had anyone look at him like that in a really long time. He almost wants to ask what he did to deserve it.

But then Tim finishes the sentence for him.

“Adopted? Yeah.”

Lead. Straight into his stomach.

“Oh.”

He doesn’t know what he looks like right now. He doesn’t want to find out either. He just turns back to his plate of food—which was so good seconds ago, but now feels like a death sentence.

He feels every bite as it goes down and tries to drown out the buzzing around him—And Bruce’s stare burning into the side of his face.

*** 

After breakfast, Dick attempts to help Alfred clean up the table, only to be tutted at and gently shooed off. He knew it was a lost cause, but Alfred is the only familiar person in this place, and Dick just… he doesn’t even know.

Dick walks out into the hall. He doesn't know where he's going—just lets his feet take him, cataloging all the changes in a place he knew like the back of his hand yesterday.

There are so many pictures up—people he doesn't know, faces and smiles he's never seen. He stops at one—some sort of group photo. There are strangers in the frame, but he spots Jason, Tim, and even Damian. Damian looks like he's trying hard to seem annoyed, but his eyes are shining.

He's tucked under someone's arm—held close—and when Dick finally looks at the guy’s face, it knocks the air right out of his lungs.

His first thought is that it’s his dad. But his dad never grew his hair out like that, and the dimple’s on the wrong side.

It's only when Dick reaches up to touch his own cheek that he realizes—they match.

This. This stranger is him.

This smiling idiot, arms wrapped around Bruce’s kid, standing with the rest of them—that’s him.

Dick could pretend he was just exploring. Say he was curious. That he wanted to see more. But as his feet carry him off, faster than he means, he knows the truth.

He’s running away.

He ends up outside Bruce’s study. He used to come here all the time after his parents died. If it was empty, he’d curl up under the desk and hum himself to sleep with one of Daj’s lullabies. But if Bruce was there—if Bruce was there—he’d always let him in. No questions. He’d steer him to the couch by the desk and read aloud from whatever book he kept there—just for Dick.

And Dick would fall asleep to the low rumble of Bruce’s voice, safe under the sound of it. He’d always wake up in bed, Superman sheets tucked in tight.

He opens the door. The study is empty. He crawls beneath the desk.

It’s strange. No one’s died— but it feels like someone has cut the lines to his life—like he's falling, and has splatted down into this weird world where nothing makes sense.

And as he curls up small beneath the wood, he finds he doesn’t feel like humming at all. So instead, he searches his memory for the sound of Bruce’s voice and drifts off, chasing the echo of a story and the feeling of Superman sheets.

Chapter Text

The sound of polished shoes approaching the study wakes Dick up—Bruce is here.

He hears the door open, then the steady stride of footsteps crossing the room—confident, measured, perfect.

Bruce bends down, eyes searching under the desk until they land on Dick. Dick just gives a small wave in greeting.

Bruce’s expression softens. He reaches out a hand, and Dick takes it. Bruce helps him up from under the desk, his voice quiet as he speaks.

"Hey, Dick. Zatanna’s here to check you out—if you’re up for it."

He says it like Dick has a choice.

Dick’s eyes widen slightly with nerves—he’s been avoiding the thought of what reversing the spell might actually mean.

If it’s some sort of swap, or just time travel—fine. Great. Dick goes back home.

But if it’s an age reversal spell... then what exactly happens to him?

He glances out the window behind Bruce’s shoulder. The sun hangs high in the sky—midday, then.

When he doesn’t answer, Bruce follows his gaze toward the window. His eyes gain a flicker of understanding before turning back to Dick.

"I imagine all this must be... stressful. I told the others to give you space. Thought you might benefit from a nap."

Dick starts walking toward the door but turns back to glance at Bruce, who’s following close behind as he speaks.

“So that’s the trick, huh? One word from you and poof—gone. Wow. And they said parenting was hard.”

His voice has a mocking edge—he says it mostly to get a flinch out of the man. But Bruce is Bruce. He doesn’t flinch. Just walks past Dick, flicking him lightly on the head as he leads the way, scolding:

"Don’t be nasty."

Bruce leads them to the parlor—which, okay, weird.

Zatanna knows their identities?

So why aren’t they meeting in the cave? Alfred hates work stuff up here.

Dick glances at the grandfather clock—the entrance to the cave—then narrows his eyes at Bruce’s back.

He’s hiding something.

Dick’s stare sharpens, like he can burn through him if he tries hard enough, but Bruce doesn’t even blink. Just keeps walking.

Chapter Text

Dick stays curled up against the locked door for what feels like years. At some point, he hears footsteps approaching from down the hall, and he has to shut his eyes tightly when he realizes just who is coming to see him.

If possible, Dick tenses even more when the footsteps stop just outside the door. He can picture Bruce perfectly—how he'd have his hand raised, ready to knock, still deciding if he should. Then his eyes would gain that familiar determined gleam, and he’d go through with it.

Dick wishes he would just go away.

He holds his breath, waiting for the unwavering knock—the church bells signaling the sermon. He should know better than to think Bruce would actually listen to him.

But—

“He told you to leave him alone, Bruce.”

It takes a couple of seconds for Dick to realize he wasn’t the one who said it—and a few more to recognize the voice.

Duke.

"I just need to speak to him, Duke. I need him to understand. I never wanted to hurt him—he has to know that. I made the mistake of not talking with him before. I don't want to do that again."

Bruce sounds… well, he sounds desperate.

It's surprising to hear the man so out of control, but what really shocks Dick is how it makes his heart ache—even after everything.

Dick gives himself a private, bitter little smile.

Bruce is so greedy. Even now, he’s still reaching for the parts of Dick that are barely holding together.

When Duke speaks again, he's still calm. But this time, he speaks the way you would to a child—purposefully slow, enunciating every word.

“Okay. But this isn’t about what you need. This is about what Dick needs, and right now, Bruce? He needs you to leave him alone. You want to beg for forgiveness? Do it later—when he comes out of his own volition.”

Dick doesn’t even realize he’s been holding his breath until he hears Bruce sigh and finally turn and walk away. Duke follows after a beat, and suddenly, Dick is left gasping for air.

He slowly unravels and rises from his knees, then makes his way over to the bed. He’s so tired—though he guesses betrayal and an emotional breakdown will do that to you. He climbs onto the mattress and slips under the sheets. The second his head hits the pillow, his eyes slide shut, and he’s asleep.

Dick slumbers through the rest of the day and into the night. He only wakes up once, and that’s because Alfred knocks with dinner.

Dick doesn’t open the door. He just turns so his back faces the noise and slips back into sleep.

It’s stupid, he knows, but he can’t help feeling betrayed by Alfred’s silence. The man had known—and hadn’t warned him.

When he wakes up again, it’s 3:00 a.m., and he feels like he’s had enough sleep to last a lifetime.

That’s when Dick faces his dilemma: if he stays in the room, he’ll just start thinking about everything he found out yesterday—and drive himself straight into a psychotic break. Or, God forbid, he might start crying again.

But if he leaves, there’s a chance he’ll run into Bruce and the others.

Honestly, he’s sick of this room. It’s like everything else in this house—his, but so different it might as well not be. Like Bruce.

Dick opens the door and slips silently into the hall. Hopefully, Bruce still ends his patrols early on school nights.

He starts walking toward the kitchen—his stomach has been shrieking at him for skipping dinner. He’ll get in quick, grab a bite, then head up to the roof for some fresh air and privacy. Great.

Dick feels a little more like a person now that he has an action plan.

Just forget everything except the mission, Robin. The feeling comes after.

He approaches the kitchen’s side entrance and curses internally when he sees the door cracked open, light spilling through. As he gets closer, he hears the quiet rustle of a single person—and smells coffee.

Seriously? At three in the morning?

Dick presses his back against the wall and slides closer to the door. He peeks through the crack, squinting as his eyes adjust to the light. After a few seconds, he spots Duke in the kitchen, sitting on a stool at the island, eating what looks like cereal and occasionally sipping from a coffee mug.

Dick watches him for a minute or two. Then Duke lifts his eyes and meets Dick’s through the crack.

He’s calm—just raises an eyebrow, like he’s asking a question.

Of course, he knew.

Dick grumbles under his breath as he pushes the door open wider and slips through—no point in hiding now. He doesn’t think Duke would push him... but he’s not sure.

Plus, he’s starving.

Duke doesn’t say anything—just keeps eating, headphones in. Dick’s grateful for that; he’s not in the mood to talk.

The cereal box is still out, so Dick grabs a bowl and the milk carton, fixing up his own serving.

He sits down diagonally from Duke, and they eat in silence for a bit. Dick starts debating whether to break his flimsy vow of silence and ask why Duke is even up this late—but then Duke stands, taking his now-empty bowl with him.

He pauses on the way to the sink, hand outstretched for Dick’s bowl, which is also empty. Dick wants to argue on principle—but he also hates doing dishes, so he just hands it over.

Once Duke has washed both bowls and Dick has put away the cereal and wiped down the table, they turn to face each other… and just kind of stare?

Dick isn’t sure what’s happening. Duke is studying him—looking for something. When he seems to find it—or maybe not, who knows—he gives a small nod to himself and finally speaks.

“I’m going on patrol. Wanna come?”

Dick blinks. That is... not what he was expecting.

He looks at Duke, confusion written plainly across his face. “Now? It’s, like, an hour from daybreak. And even if it wasn’t—why would you want me to come with you?”

His voice wavers a little more than he meant it to at the end, but Duke just rolls his eyes with a small side smile. His hands settle on his hips.

“Yeah. I’ve got the morning shift, so I head out early.” He shrugs.

“Figured you might want to blow off some steam—get your head on straight after everything.”

Dick feels something twist in his chest—angry and miserable—at the mention of yesterday. It reminds him that he had an audience. That all of that had been witnessed. At the time, it seemed so insignificant, but now, looking into Duke’s brown eyes and knowing he saw Dick lay his fragile heart bare... it’s mortifying.

Dick considers saying no—considers going back to his room and staying there until he turns to dust and bones, just so no one could ever look at him again and pretend to know.

But in the end, the idea of a morning patrol is too tempting, even for his ever-draining pride. So he nods.

Duke smiles—a little softer this time—and leads the way out of the kitchen and toward the grandfather clock.

Duke opens the secret entrance, revealing the staircase to the Batcave. The familiar twist of anxiety curls in Dick’s stomach. Bruce hadn’t wanted him down here earlier—and yeah, that was probably because of Robin. Still, Dick can’t help but worry it’s something else, some other earth-shattering secret waiting to blow up in his face.

He doesn't think he could handle another bomb like that. Not from Bruce.

They head down the staircase, Duke still in the lead.

When they reach the cave, Dick lets his eyes wander, taking in all the little differences. There are a few obvious ones—new trophies, way more bikes, and a couple of unfamiliar cars—but what really catches his eye are the suit displays.

They have their own section now, almost like trophies themselves.

His feet move on their own, carrying him toward the cases. While Duke goes to get changed.

He spots his first Robin suit—the one from when he had no idea what he was getting into, only that he needed justice for his parents. A few other versions stand beside it, including some with tights (ew). these must all be his, the design is to similar not to be, but they seem to cut off at some point near his teens maybe?

Bruce had told him he picked up a new name—Nightwing.

Dick can’t imagine being able to move on so quickly. To let go of Robin, of that tiny piece of his parents—the only piece he had left—and be okay with that? That doesn’t sound like him at all.

Suddenly, he’s desperate to see this "Nightwing" suit. To see what his idiotic older self thought was good enough.

The moment his eyes land on it—on the sleek dark blue suit with the deep V-neck and yellow cheveron detailing—he knows.

That’s his father’s suit.

Dick stares in quiet wonder.

He places a hand on the glass, eyes fixed on the suit. It’s not really the same one, not exactly—but looking at it now, he can’t help but see his father and mother standing backstage, getting ready for a performance. Back before Dick was old enough to join them.

Maybe his older self wasn’t as okay with losing Robin as he’d thought.

Maybe he stood here just like this, staring at the nothing left behind—and decided to reach out and make something new appear.

Dick decides to head out to meet Duke—he’s going on patrol, but he doesn’t have a suit. At least, none that aren’t locked behind glass.

As he passes the cases, something shimmering catches his eye.

It’s another display. As he approaches, he notices it looks similar to his own design. For a moment, he thinks it might be his. But then that shimmer glints again, and his eyes fall to the plaque at the base of the case.

His stomach knots.

His fingers brush over the engraved words: “Jason Todd: A Good Soldier.”

It feels… strange. The words. The suit sealed away like a relic. It almost feels like mourning—Bruce’s own special kind of grief.Dick thinks of the man’s parents’ bedroom: untouched, except for a dusting each night. He thinks of the pearls—worn once, then never again—restrung and forever hanging.

He looks at the suit, at the words “A Good Soldier,” and suddenly he feels so very small. And, somehow, like the biggest person in the world.

He shakes his head, pushing the thoughts down. All the way down.

He’s seen Jason. Met him. The guy is probably upstairs, asleep in bed.

And here he is—spiraling over Bruce being sentimental? Over the man keeping suits like… like gravestones?

Yeah, no. He’s officially losing it.

Dick turns away from the case and heads back to the main area of the cave, ignoring the whisper in his head that won’t stop screaming:

Memoriam.

When he finally makes his way back, Duke is already suited up—in what might be the coolest tech suit Dick’s ever seen.

Dick pauses mid-step, actually stunned. He loves his Robin suit, sure... but damn. Looking at Duke, he suddenly feels like he didn't take full advantage of Bruce's budget when he was designing his.

Duke smiles when he notices him, eyes flicking toward the suit displays before drifting back to Dick. He’s holding a suit—dark, sleek—and it takes Dick a second to register the faint 'R' on the chest. It’s a Robin suit. Sort of.

There’s red, sure. Some yellow. A little green. But it’s all toned down, muted—swallowed by black.

It doesn’t look like Robin. Not really.

Duke holds the suit out, then hesitates just long enough to be annoying. He gives Dick a look—half-smirk, half-serious.

“This is a loan. You tear it, you owe Damian a suit. You bleed in it, you owe him a better suit.”

He waits a beat.

“Also don’t die. But that one’s just for me.”

Dick rolls his eyes dramatically, but he winces internally as he takes it—Damian, huh? He almost wants to get angry, but then he remembers what the kid had said yesterday:

“The only one given the title by the original.”

He might not have gotten a say in the others, but with Damian... he did.

Surprisingly, that makes Dick hate him a lot less.

***

Once he’s all changed and suited up, Dick meets Duke by the bikes. The older boy is leaning casually against a sleek yellow motorcycle, and Dick can’t help but let out a low, appreciative whistle.

“Considering the color, I’m guessing that one’s yours?”

He doesn’t even try to hide how impressed he is—seriously, how is this fair? Duke already has the coolest suit Dick’s ever seen, and now he’s got a bike to match?

Duke chuckles. “That obvious, huh? Yeah, she’s mine. Nothing special, but she gets the job done—and that’s good enough for me.”

Dick snorts. Nothing special, sure. It’s a bright yellow, high-tech motorcycle—what could possibly be flashier than that?

He makes a show of glancing around before raising a brow. “So, do I get one of these bad boys, or what?”

As he says it, his eyes catch on a black bike with blue detailing. Sleek, deadly, just a little dramatic.

That’s gotta be his—or… future him’s, anyway.

Duke follows his gaze and spots the black-and-blue bike. He immediately shakes his head.

“Nah. Bruce already isn’t gonna be thrilled about you coming out with me—I don’t need you crashing ’cause your legs can’t reach the pedals on top of that.”

Before Dick can protest, Duke plants a hand on his head and gently redirects him toward the yellow bike.

“You’re riding with me.”

Dick doesn’t bother hiding his grimace. So not cool.

“Great.”

Duke doesn’t respond—just swings a leg over the bike like it’s no big deal. When Dick doesn’t move, he pats the seat behind him. A little too enthusiastically, if you ask Dick.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m coming,” Dick mutters as he drags his feet.

He climbs on behind Duke, and the bike roars to life beneath them. When they speed out of the cave, the world is still wrapped in darkness—theres still time before sunrise.

Not long into the ride, they hear a woman shout. Dick grips a little tighter as Duke speeds up and veers into an alley. Ahead, an older woman is being held at gunpoint.

Duke cuts the engine and hops off. Dick follows immediately—but when he looks over, Duke hasn’t moved. He’s leaning casually against the bike, arms crossed like they’ve got all the time in the world.

Their eyes meet. Duke jerks his chin toward the mugger.

Dick grins—wild and bright.

That settles it. Duke is officially his favorite.

He bolts into the alley, jumps, pushes off the wall, and nails the guy in the head with a flying kick. The man crumples on impact. Honestly, it’s almost disappointing how easy it is.

Then the woman steps forward, calm as anything, pressing a butterscotch candy into Dick’s hand. She pinches his cheek gently before strolling off down the sidewalk.

He stares after her, rubbing his cheek, baffled—and maybe a little charmed. Then he shakes his head and lets out a small smile. Gothamites.

Dick is practically skipping as he makes his way back to Duke. The older boy just gives him a soft smile before they both climb back on the bike and continue their patrol.

They stop a few more muggings and help one very drunk college student stumble their way home before Duke turns into a quieter street and eases the bike to a stop.

He swings off and glances at Dick. “C’mon. I wanna show you something.”

They head up to the roof of one of the taller apartment buildings in the area. Once they reach the top, Duke pulls off his helmet—he’s still wearing his domino mask, but Dick can actually follow his eyes now. He likes that better.

Dick trails him to the edge, where Duke takes a seat, legs dangling over the side. After a moment, Dick joins him.

They sit like that for a while, just watching the skyline. The sun’s starting to rise, streaks of gold cutting through Gotham’s ever-present shadows. It’s quiet—almost peaceful.

Finally, Duke speaks.

"Gotham’s taken so much from all of us. She’s hurt us, over and over—but we keep coming back, because she needs us. If we left her to rot... how many more would suffer for it? How many would die, just because we couldn’t push past our own pain?"

As he talks, Dick draws his knees up to his chest. His grip tightens the longer Duke goes on, until he cuts in.

“Is that why you brought me here?” His voice is tight. “To convince me to forgive Bruce?”

He doesn't mean for it to come out bitter, but it does. He barely knows Duke, but from what he’s seen, he didn’t think the guy would push him like this.

“No.”

The answer comes quick, and firm. Dick glances over. Duke’s still staring straight ahead, out at the golden sky.

Something in Dick eases.

He looks forward again, and lets the silence settle between them.

Finally, Duke speaks again.

“My mom used to say: ‘People make mistakes—but they don’t get to decide how those mistakes made you feel. That’s yours to figure out.’”

As he talks, Duke pulls his legs in, mirroring Dick’s posture.

“So... forgive him.”

Dick’s head snaps toward him, sharp.

But Duke stands slowly, stepping onto the ledge. This time, his gaze is on Dick—not the skyline.

“Or don’t.”

He shrugs, calm and sincere.