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Chapter Text

Madame Emmaline Obas lived in a dim carriage full of magic.

Her room had always given Dick the heebie-jeebies, even as he had become more familiar with it. Hanging from the door was a little burlap bag full of spices that she kept for warding off demons. One wall was covered completely with astrology charts, maps of the palm, and her vast collection of crystals. Along the other was a bookshelf, lined with old tomes whose titles were almost completely worn off their spines, jars of feathers and bones, and an old bird skull whose eyes seemed to follow Dick throughout the room.

But she made the best tea, and she had the best gossip, and his parents insisted he visit her caravan at least once a week so she didn’t get ‘too lonely.’

She kept incense burning in her caravan twenty-four/seven, and it clogged the small space to the point he always sneezed when he first stepped inside. But the warm cup of chai in his hands was cutting through the cloying scent, and Dick took a deep breath of the steam.

Madame Obas was packing her ‘bag of tricks,’ so she called, in preparation for her appointments tonight. When she rolled the heavy crystal ball into her bag, Dick started to nudge the wooden case of tarot cards toward her, but hesitated before he touched. He had heard her during her appointments enough times to know not to touch them.

She saw his hand pause, and scooped the case into her bag herself. “Don’t worry about these, chouchou,” she laughed. “These are for show.”

Dick wrapped his hands tighter around his chipped teacup. “You mean you can’t really tell the future?”

She shook her head as she sat across from him. “Not with that, I can’t. The art is much more subtle, but people pay for a show.”

Dick kicked his feet under the table. His toes almost brushed the floor; he’d had a growth spurt recently. “So how do you do it? Will you teach me?”

She looked him up and down. Hummed. Sat back in her chair. “Maybe one day, when you’re older.”

“Aw, come on. Please?” He looked around the room, and his eyes landed on the books. “Can I teach myself? With those?”

She snapped her fingers in front of his face to get his attention back—she was like that. “Nah-ah.” She pointed a finger, and Dick almost went cross-eyed bringing it into focus. “Those books are very dangerous. You never touch them. Understand me?”

Dick nodded, stunned by the sudden change in tone. He set the teacup down before he could spill it on Madame’s great-grandmother’s tapestry, draped over the table like a table cloth. “I understand. No touching.”

She watched him with narrowed eyes, and when she didn’t find what she was looking for, sat back again. “Something is troubling you.”

Dick had become very good at performing, but he wasn’t good enough yet to hide his feeling from his circus family. “No?”

“It wasn’t a question.” She smiled warmly. “Drink your tea. Tell Auntie Obas what’s wrong.”

Dick wrinkled his nose; Madame Obas never told him to call her ‘Auntie’ unless she thought there was gossip to get out of him. (She had been prying about the possibility of a younger sibling, and he had been assuring her she would be the first to know besides his mom.)

Nevertheless, she looked sincere, and Dick knew he wasn’t getting out without spilling. “I wasn’t eavesdropping—”

“Ha!” She laughed. “I’m sure you weren’t, mon chouchou.”

Dick cracked a smile at the nickname. “I wasn’t! I was refilling the cooler with ice, but I overheard someone talking to Haley.” He shifted uncomfortably. When words didn’t come easily to him, he took another sip of the tea. “I think they were talking about me?”

Madame Obas stilled. Her mouth drew into a thin line. “Really?”

He took another sip of his tea before answering. “They were talking about how old I was. They said it was ‘time’. . . . It sounded like they were sending me away.”

Madame’s brow crinkled, “Why would they do that?”

Dick shrugged. “Something about training.”

Madame sighed. “Ah, yes, John and Mary had the same issue. Men from schools come, looking for new star students.” She reached across the table to smooth a hand through his hair. “You do not need to worry, dear. You’re not going anywhere.”

He was out of tea, and out of excuses not to speak. “Madame Obas, would you read my future?”

She stilled, eyebrows raised a moment. Then tilted her head to the side. Hummed again, but this time it was deeper. “Give me your hands.”

Dick immediately shifted so his hands rested on the table palms-up. She scooped his hands in hers, and her eyes closed in concentration.

“What are you—”

“Shhh,” she hissed, one eye cracking open. “I am listening.”

“Sorry.”

Her eye slipped shut again, and Dick closed his eyes, too.

It was quiet.

Then it was soundless.

The normal sounds of her caravan, the circus, and even the city beyond faded away. Blood pounded in his ears, and he could hear it speeding up. He fought not to twitch in response, afraid of disturbing the silence.

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter as it stretched on for what felt like eternity.

Something freezing cold brushed across his shoulders. It was sudden, as though someone had swiped an ice cube under his shirt. He jolted at the feeling, eyes flying open.

Madame Obas’ face was inches away, bloodshot eyes boring into his. He tried to pull back, but her hands tightened. As he watched, her skin began to pale.

Dick stared, heart jackhammering in his chest. Her hands squeezed even tighter, and it felt like she was grinding the bones of his hands together.

He gasped.

The sound was enough to break the spell, and she dropped his hands.

Dick blinked as sound filtered back into existence from outside the caravan. His head felt . . . cloudy.

Madame Obas stood abruptly. Her chair clattered to the floor behind her.

“Madame?” Dick asked, confused as she whisked away his tea cup and picked up her bag of tricks.

She started pulling on her shoes to leave, and that’s when Dick panicked and grabbed the hem of her robes. “Auntie? What did you see?”

She paused. She shut her eyes, and took a deep breath before turning to him. “You have great trials ahead, but love will save you.”

Dick let go of the robes. “Does that mean I have to leave?”

Madame ushered him out the door. “I must go to my tent, and I cannot trust you won’t wreck my room while I am gone, so yes, you must leave.”

Dick let out a frustrated huff. “Please. You know what I mean.”

She followed him out and shut the door behind her. “I cannot predict the future so precisely, chouchou. And I am late for my first appointment.”

Dick watched as she hurried away. Madame Obas had honed her skill; she had told his parents he would be a boy, and had told Pop Haley when staying in town would bring in huge crowds. She could predict when the hottest days would bring rain and when the camp’s cook would accidentally burn the food. She brought good, uplifting news to the people who visited her tent.

The only time she was vague when she knew something was wrong.

It could only mean she had seen something terrible.

And Dick would do whatever he could to stop it.

He waited until forty-five minutes to the show, when he knew everyone would be on set. Quietly, knowing he only had so much time before his parents began to look for him, he made his way back inside the carriage.

If he thought her carriage was creepy before, it was infinitely more terrifying with only the dim moonlight filtering through the windows to illuminate its interior. He sneezed, as customary, when he stepped across the threshold. The heavy wooden door swung shut behind him, and he couldn’t help feeling like he had stepped into a tomb.

He ran a hand along the wall until he found the lamp in the corner, and with a yank the warm yellow light cast eerie shadows across the walls. Dick cringed into the wall a moment. It hit him suddenly that Madame’s carriage was full of magic only she knew how to control. He eyed the bird skull on the bookshelf across from himself like he was afraid its jaw would hinge open and give him away.

But after a few seconds, nothing had moved, save the swaying chain he had used to turn on the lamp.

Dick took a deep breath and headed for the bookshelf.

He had never looked closely at the old tomes, beyond noticing many of them were written in languages he didn’t know. He set his sights on the most-worn one. It had a title in Latin.

It was cold to the touch. He pulled it from the shelf and a fine cloud of dust floated after it. He sneezed again, and set the book down on the small table in the corner.

It was thicker than the others, and the pages had dark splotches where they had been thumbed through many times before. Dick traced the gold letters embossed on the dark cover with one finger.

Madame’s warning floated through his mind.

But he didn’t want to leave.

He opened the book.

Immediately, the shadows around him shifted. Dick’s head snapped up at the movement, and he watched with growing horror as he traced the movement’s origin back to the lamp, which had begun to sway back and forth. The air got thicker, denser. Just like he had experienced with Madame Obas, the sounds from outside, and then inside, the carriage were sucked away, until Dick was left listening only to his own harsh breathing.

He jumped when some invisible force pressed his palms into the table on either side of the book. The pages continued to turn by themselves. In the flipped pages Dick caught illustrations of monsters, old chants in dead languages, what looked like a recipe written in blood. His fingers curled into fists, but he was unable to lift them.

As quickly as it all started, it stopped. The book flipped one more page and stilled. Dick stared down at the pages, unable to make sense of the language but uncomfortably aware of the painted eyes that seemed to stare back at him.

The room was plunged into darkness.

Dick’s breath was ragged in his ears. He thought, with a shudder, that he would be able to see his breath in the sudden chill of the room.

The pressure on his hands didn’t release.

Dick audibly gasped when he felt ice across his shoulders in a sensation similar to his experience earlier. Except this time, the cold reached from his fingertips to his heart, and it lingered on his skin like a burn.

And then the book started glowing.

More specifically, the eyes did.

Instead of sclera, the eyes glowed a fiery red. Dick froze in terror when they swerved down and looked directly at him. The slit pupils dilated to twice their normal size.

And then the pages around the book warped, as though they had become putty. Two points pressed against the pages from the other side, and then they broke through with a horrible loud ripping sound.

Dick shrank back from the giant horns that rose out of the pages. They framed the glowing eyes, and as they continued to rise the eyes rose with them, along with a coal-black face and body. Dick had to crane his neck to see the full height of the figure, who shook the entire caravan when it jumped down from the table. A billow of smoke rose from the pages next, making Dick’s eyes water, and they coalesced behind the figure’s back into twin bat wings.

“YOU ARE SMALL.”

The voice came from nowhere and everywhere, reverberating in Dick’s chest and ears. It was deep, and dark, and gravelly, as though it had been drawn up from the murky depths of some underground volcano.

Dick shivered. The pressure on his hands let up suddenly, and he stumbled backward until he landed in the rickety old chair.

The figure’s mouth stretched into what may have been a smile. Row upon row of long, sharp teeth glittered in the glow from his eyes, the only source of light in the room. “YOUNG AND FOOLISH.”

“Who—what are you?” Dick squeaked.

The figure huffed, and smoke billowed out of the place where nostrils should have been. “YOU SUMMONED ME WITHOUT EVEN KNOWING MY NAME?” It leaned forward, boxing Dick into the chair with arms that smelled like ash, its wings extended behind it to block out the rest of the caravan. When it laughed, its breath—if that was what it was—was freezing against Dick’s face.

“MY NAME IS—” he bared his teeth and a piercing tone clicked out, almost too high for Dick to hear. He clapped his hands over his ears until it stopped. “BUT MORTALS CALL ME THE BAT.”

This had not been one of Dick’s better ideas.

It was leaning into him still, and this close, he could see the sharp slope of a slightly elongated face, ending abruptly in a hole where the nostrils were supposed to be. It reminded him of the animal skull he had found in an owl pellet once.

He wetted his lips. He didn’t know what to say.

“WHY HAVE YOU SUMMONED ME, CHILD?”

Dick bit the inside of his cheek. His hands shook, so he clamped them down on his legs. “I want. . . I want a favor.”

The Bat finally leaned back, giving Dick the room he needed to breath properly again. It chuckled darkly. “I DO NOT GIVE FAVORS TO MORTALS.”

“A deal!” Dick shouted, louder than he meant. He lowered his voice into something more confident-sounding. “A deal, then.”

The Bat paused. Crossed his arms. “WHAT IS IT YOU WISH FOR?”

Dick’s heart hammered away. This was it. “I don’t want to leave the circus.” No; he knew better. Phrasing was everything. He may want to leave one day; settle down if he met someone. “No—I don’t want to go with the people who spoke to Pop Haley.”

The Bat tilted its head to the side, the movement exaggerated by its pointed ears. “I COULD DO THAT. WHAT WILL YOU OFFER IN RETURN?”

Dick swallowed. “I—I don’t know. My soul?”

Smoke rolled out of The Bat’s mouth as he talked. “WHAT WOULD I DO WITH THAT?” He turned around, taking the light from his eyes with him. Walked toward the book again. “THANK YOU FOR FREEING ME, LITTLE ONE, BUT IF YOU HAVE NOTHING TO OFFER ME, THERE IS NO DEAL.”

“Please!” Dick whispered. He reached a hand out, and it wafted through the smoke-wing. “Please, help me!” He thought of Madame Obas’s face when she didn’t tell him the bad news. He couldn’t live through that. He couldn’t think of anything worse than being ripped away from his family.

The Bat ignored him, heading toward the door.

“I’d give anything!”

The Bat stopped.

Its head twisted back around slowly, the light in its eyes shining brighter than before. It cast an eerie red hue over the interior of the caravan. “ANYTHING?”

No. Absolutely not. Dick stood up from the chair, even though his legs threatened to buckle under the weight of what he was doing. “Yes. Anything. Name the price.”

The Bat turned around fully. “SMALL ONE, YOU ARE A BRAVE FOOL. I ACCEPT.”

“You—what?!”

It beat its wings, and in a blink of an eye, cold breath and smoke billowed down Dick’s shoulder from behind. Black-tipped talons gripped his wrists, rooting him in place when he instinctively tried to jump away. That cold seeped into him where the hands touched him, following the burning path up his arms again. But this time it dug fingers into his heart, deeper than before, stealing Dick’s breath with the burn.

He choked on a scream.

The hands released, suddenly. “IT IS DONE. I WILL FIND YOU WHEN I NEED TO.”

There were tears in Dick’s eyes, but he didn’t know if they were from the pain or the smoke. He whirled around to face The Bat. “What do you—?”

The Bat flapped his wings, and disintegrated into ash and smoke.

All at once, sound and light filtered back into the caravan. Dick gasped in the suddenness of it, resulting in a lungful of dust. Coughing and gagging on the putrid taste, he staggered out the door and down the steps of the caravan.

He left the door open to let the smoke filter out. After the show, before final bows, he snuck away to put the book away and return the furniture to normal. There was no sign of anything happening.

No sign but the page missing eyes.

Chapter Text

“Robin!” a familiar voice sing-songed.

Dick looked across the tent, where his mom watched him with raised eyebrows.

“You know you aren’t supposed to be working without a spotter.”

He couldn’t hide anything from her.

With a coy shrug, he swung around from his perch on the trapeze bar so he swung upside down a few feet over her head. “I’m not doing anything too bad.”

She hummed in disapproval, but she couldn’t hide her smile when she raised her arms and Dick could reach down far enough to grip her wrists in a catcher’s hold. “Just because you’re getting bigger doesn’t mean you get to ignore the rules.” She squeezed Dick’s wrists softly. “Your dad and I don’t practice alone, either. Safety always—”

“Safety always comes first,” Dick chirped. “I know, I know.”

She beamed up at him a moment, and then her face fell into something more serious. “Is everything okay, Dick?”

Dick let go of her hands in favor of swaying back and forth gently. “Yeah.” He used the momentum to help him sit up on the trapeze. “I’m fine.”

It was a lie, of course.

The Bat haunted his thoughts. Dick was jumpier than usual; he couldn’t be sure whether that flash in the corner of his vision was a camera or the Bat’s eyes, if the smell of smoke was from the campfire or the Bat’s wings. Worst of all was the cold—no matter how close to the radiator, how many layers he wore, how hard he worked at the trapeze, there was a wedge of ice in his chest, centered over his heart.

But he hadn’t seen the Bat in a month, and he was beginning to wonder if it was all just a fever dream.

Instead, he focused on the more immediate threat of being shipped away for “training,” whatever that meant. He figured that, if he could prove that he could work hard and train well enough here on his own, they wouldn’t need to send him away. He had control of this situation; he was fine.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

His dad strolled through the flap on the other side of the tent, and when he spotted Dick a grin split his face. “There you are!” He stood under the trapeze with his arms outstretched.

Without a second thought, Dick dropped from the bar into his arms.

His dad squeezed him into a hug before setting him down to his feet. “Are you nervous?”

Dick bobbed his head side to side. “A bit. Yeah.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you nervous?” his dad laughed.

 It was a familiar exchange, and Dick felt his frame of mind settle with the routine. “Dinner’s ready?”

“It’s cooling as we speak. We were just missing you.”

The night’s meal was one of Dick’s favorites; something his parents had made up in their early days with the circus. They ate it only on special occasions.

But it wasn’t anybody’s birthday, and it wasn’t a holiday. So when Dick walked through the doors and the smell of warm tomatoes and gravy hit him, his cheer was immediately dampened. “What’s the news?”

His parents exchanged a look. “Why don’t we start eating, and then we can talk about it?”

Dick’s stomach flipped.

He pulled on a baggy sweater—one that used to belong to his dad—and sat. The spicy tomatoes were like ash in his mouth.

His parents watched him eat, and each managed to take their own bite or two, before his dad cleared his throat. “We’ve noticed that you’ve been working hard, son.”

The spoon in Dick’s hand felt too heavy. He set it on the table. Shrugged, half-defensively. “Are you mad at me?”

“No, no,” his dad said.

His mom chimed in. “You’ve had a growth spurt recently, too.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners. “We think it’s time to talk about—”

“I don’t want to leave!” Dick blurted out.

His mom startled. “Dick. . . “

Dick couldn’t interpret her expression. Was it sad? Angry? “Please. . . please don’t send me away.”

“Why would we do that?” his dad asked.

“I heard Haley, and he was talking to somebody about taking me for training—”

“Oh, sweetie,” his mom interrupted. “You aren’t going anywhere.”

His heart lifted. “I’m not?”

“That man had no business with the circus or our family. Haley had Boomer and Kaj escort him off the premises.”

He was safe. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Even as he felt a large weight lift off his chest, he hesitated. “Then. . . what did you want to talk about?”

His parents clasped hands across the table. “We were wondering how you felt about helping us with the routine for the next show. You could work your quadruple flip into it.”

Dick’s mouth gaped. Sure, he had performed with his parents before, but he had never been in that position, to help choreograph it. Plus, “The next show? That’s Gotham.”

They beamed at him. “Biggest crowds of the season.”

“Seriously?”

“Absolutely.”

Food forgotten, Dick stood, knocking his chair backward to the floor. He ran around the table to pull each of his parents into a hug. “Yes. Yes. Thank you thank you thank you!”

“You deserve it,” his mom said. “You’ve been working so hard.”

“And this means that you’ll have more responsibility before the shows, too,” his dad added. “Checking the equipment, making sure there’s enough chalk in the bin—

“I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.” He stepped back, puffing his chest out. “I’m a Flying Grayson.”

His mom pulled him in and pressed a kiss into his sweaty forehead. “That, you are.”

He didn’t know what went wrong.

His fingers and toes still thrummed with the residual excitement of performing. He had just landed his quadruple flip, to the sound of thunderous applause. And when he turned on the stand to take his bow, there was an awful snap!

He was numb.

He knew that, any second now, it would sink in. Like pulling your fingers back from a hot stovetop and waiting for the sting to catch up.

Someone pulled him up from his knees—when had he fallen?—and ushered him backward. Someone else, brown trench coat, got in front of him, obscuring his view of their. . .

their. . . .

It hit him, and it felt like getting hit by the train.

A high-pitched keen was his only warning before he dropped out of the hands holding him up, onto all fours. He sobbed so hard he couldn’t breathe.

“Get him out of here,” someone said. Hands hooked under his arms and lifted him again.

This time Dick kicked his feet. “No. No! You have to let me see them!”

They kept dragging him away, and paramedics rushed past him, toward the center of the circus ring where they had landed. And they hadn’t moved since then.

“Mom!” Dick wailed. “Dad!”

He was passed to another set of arms, bigger and steadier. They whisked him out the opening of the tent into the cool night air.

In the crowd outside, he thought he caught a glimpse of glowing eyes. But just as quickly, the tears blurred his vision.

He was set in the back of an ambulance, and someone wrapped a foil blanket around him and handed him an oxygen mask.

Dick sucked in air as well as he could, but he coughed on the tears that made their way down the back of his throat. The man who had carried him there stayed, hovering outside the door, facing the tent and the crowds flooding away from the grounds. Keeping him from bolting.

One of the medics came back and retrieved two big, black bags.

“Hey, Richard.”

Dick startled awake from a fitful sleep. He turned his head toward the unfamiliar voice, and his cheek peeled off the cracked vinyl cover of the chair he had been using as a pillow for the last several hours.

There wasn’t anywhere else to go, they said. Not that late at night. Not for an orphan.

He blinked eyes itchy and swollen from crying too much. The nice police officer—no, detective, from before was standing by his makeshift bed.

“I’d like to introduce you to someone.”

For the first time in his life, Dick didn’t feel like talking. He nodded.

Another man, wearing a nice black suit that looked out of place in the grimy police office, stepped around the doorway. He was tall, taller than his dad had been, and maybe broader too.

At the reminder of his dad, he felt a lump in his throat that he had to clear away.

“This is Mister Wayne. He has offered to let you stay at his house until we have this all sorted out.”

Mr. Wayne kneeled down next to his chair, and Dick had the odd thought he was ruining his suit pants. “Hello, Richard.”

Dick licked his dry lips. It would be rude not to respond. “Hi.”

“You’ve had quite the night,” Mr. Wayne said.

Dick shut his eyes, and a few more tears silently slipped down his cheeks.

Mr. Wayne hushed him. “I have an extra room at my house, a bed of your own you can sleep in for the next few days. Is that something you would like to do?”

Dick shook his head. “I want to go home.”

Mr. Wayne and the detective made eye contact. The detective shook his head. “I’m so sorry, but you can’t go back yet. We aren’t sure it’s safe for you.”

He had heard it dozens of times in the last few hours, but it still hurt to hear it. His face crumpled, and he turned toward the chair to muffle his cries.

“Is it okay if I touch you?” Mr. Wayne asked.

Dick soundlessly nodded, and a large hand landed on his shoulder. Mr. Wayne’s thumb rubbed tiny circles into his back. The weight of it was grounding.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but everything is going to be okay. Just a little different, for a while.” He smiled down at Dick, and it was the first time an adult had looked at him with anything other than pity.

It was just. Kind.

Dick needed it. He took a shuddering breath, but his voice still cracked when he said, “Okay.”

Mr. Wayne gave him his jacket to wear, because Dick was still wearing his costume. His car was waiting just outside, a sleek black thing like Dick had seen in the movies.

After Dick had gotten settled in, the hot air blasting, he came to his manners. “Thank you, Mr. Wayne.”

“Bruce.”

“Huh?”

“Call me Bruce.” Bruce’s hands flexed on the steering wheel. “If you want.”

Dick nodded. “Okay.”

A day passed in a blur of interviews and statements.

A week passed in anxious silence. Dick waited by the phone for any news from Mr. Gordon.

Mr. Wayne took him to his parents’ funeral. Paid for it, too.

Dick didn’t realize Bruce was also an orphan until the paparazzi caught them outside the front gates on the way home from shopping for clothes.

After another week, Pop Haley visited. Dick was excited until he saw the bag in his hands; photos and toys and his mom’s jewelry. The circus had to leave.

“What do you mean? What about the investigation?”

Pop looked like he had aged ten years in the last two weeks. “Sorry, son. It doesn’t look like foul play. Just faulty equipment.”

“Then why can’t I go with you?”

“Times are changing. They don’t believe. . . you’re better off here, Dickie.”

The words stung.

Pop apologized as he left.

Dick didn’t leave his bedroom for days afterward. He didn’t speak to anybody, and he rebelled when they tried to come into his room. He just wanted to be alone.

Bruce sat outside his door the whole time. He worked on things for his job—shuffling papers and making phone calls in a hushed tone, but other times he read books out loud, or hummed soft melodies, or just sat in silence.

Finally, on the third night, after Dick had had another unsuccessful attempt at sleeping through a nightmare, he cracked the door open.

Bruce was ready for him.

Without speaking, Dick climbed into his lap and buried his face in his shoulder. Fat tears ran down his face. He was tired of crying, of the never-ending heartache. But as Bruce wrapped his arms around him, his sobs petered into something manageable. Then stopped.

Bruce didn’t let go, even when Dick’s eyelids got heavy and his fingers went slack in his nightshirt.

It was the best he had slept in weeks.

“Good morning, Bruce.”

“’Mornin’, Richard.”

Bruce always looked frazzled in the mornings; sleep lines on his face, hair a mess. His eyes didn’t open all the way until his third cup of coffee.

Dick regarded him over his plate of scrambled eggs. “Dick.”

Bruce’s posture improved substantially, and he looked to Alfred.

The butler raised one eyebrow.

Bruce cleared his throat. “Richard, you shouldn’t use that kind of—”

“No. Call me Dick.”

Bruce froze.

Dick stared hard into his eggs. He played with the hem of the oversized sweatshirt he wore. “Please? It’s what my—it’s my nickname.”

“Of course.” When Dick spared a glance up, Bruce was wearing that small, dopey, genuine smile. Without needing to be asked, he passed him the ketchup, (they both ignored Alfred’s mustache twitching.)

“Good morning, Dick.”

“SMALL ONE.”

Dick startled awake. The cold felt like it was going to burn a hole in his chest, and Dick reflexively rubbed it in a futile attempt to keep it warm. “Hello?”

“I AM READY TO COLLECT.”

Dread filled Dick’s lungs. He shot upright, and there it was.

The Bat loomed over the foot of his bed, glowing eyes casting a sickly light over his bedroom.

He had forgotten.

“N-no. I don’t owe you anything. You didn’t—”

The cold in his chest turned sharp, and he cut himself off with a gasp.

“I UPHELD MY END OF THE BARGAIN.” The Bat flared its wings of smoke, reached out a clawed hand, and traced a talon under Dick’s chin. “I WISH TO COLLECT.”

He had forgotten to do his research, to figure out how to get out of it. Time had passed so quickly over the last six months, yet he felt like it had been years since he last saw the demon.

Dick turned his face away, dislodging the hand. He was older, now. Different. He wouldn’t be scared.

He scooted out of his (comically large) bed so he could stand. He felt more confident that way.

The Bat watched it all with thinly-veiled amusement.

“What do you want?”

“MY FORM CANNOT STAY LONG ON THIS EARTH.” The Bat began to circle him. “I REQUIRE. . . NOURISHMENT.”

“Like food?” Dick clenched his shaking hands into fists. Did demons eat humans? “What do you eat?”

“I AM NOT BOUND BY THE SAME LAWS THAT GOVERN YOUR RACE. WHAT I NEED IS SOMETHING YOUR KIND TAKE FOR GRANTED.”

Dick shut his eyes. “What is it?”

The Bat stopped behind him, and Dick jumped when those claws wrapped around his wrists. Freezing breath puffed down his shoulders. “I REQUIRE A CORPOREAL FORM.”

Dick opened his eyes. “You want. . . to possess me?”

“NO.” Dick resisted the urge to spin around and face the demon. “BUT IT IS SIMILAR.”

The talons traced that now-familiar path from his hands to his heart. The cold flared under the touch. “THE BONDS HAVE ALREADY BEEN MADE.”

The Bat hissed, and the ice pressed in so sharply Dick fell to his knees.

“Wait—wait!” Dick gasped out. His fingers shook as he grabbed at his own chest, as though he could rip the source of the cold away. It surged, and Dick was sure that his heart must be too cold to beat; it felt like a stone weighing his body down.

The world went quiet.

Dick snapped his head up at the sudden stillness. The cold was. . . gone.

No, that wasn’t right.

It was there, it was everywhere, no longer isolated to his chest. Everything burned with cold, like he had plunged into the icy winter waters of Gotham harbor. But it was also distant. There was a glass wall separating what he knew he should feel from what he really felt.

It was liberating.

It was terrifying.

“What is this?” Dick asked out loud.

“I am here,” he responded, to himself.

Dick clapped a hand over his mouth in surprise.

Even as he did it, a wide smile spread across his face. “You are a small one, but you will grow. This form will be useful.”

“Stop it,” Dick whispered, when he had control of his mouth again.

“I am in charge now,” he replied. Dick’s voice couldn’t reach the low pitches The Bat was used to; even trying was making his throat ache.

Dick had a moment of rising panic, but as soon as it welled up it was pressed down again.

“Do not be afraid. There are men who trade their lives for this kind of power.”

“Power?”

“I have information. I was there.” Dick was forcefully thrust into the midst of his own memories. Flashes of the smell of popcorn, the feel of the Zitka’s tough skin under his fingers. His parents’ faces.

The trapeze wire, snapping.

Despair.

“I can tell you what happened.”

“Nothing happened. It was faulty equipment.” Equipment Dick was supposed to check before the show.

“It was not your fault.”

Dick had heard it plenty of times, from the counselor Bruce had taken him to. And from Bruce himself, who had pulled him into a hug over their midnight bowls of forbidden ice cream when he had confessed his own guilt in his parents’ deaths.

Bruce was in the bedroom across the hallway. He would know what to do.

“There was a stranger at the circus.”

Dick’s thoughts pulled away from Bruce.

“He sabotaged the equipment before the show.”

Dick froze. Mr. Gordon had said—

“He did not care about your parents. They were tools to hurt your leader.”

“Pop?” Dick’s brows furrowed. “Why would anybody want to hurt Pop?”

“He did not give you to them.”

If he weren’t already cold, Dick would have felt his blood freeze at the words. As it was, he felt like the world was crashing in around himself.

One man killed his parents and ripped him away from everyone and everything he had ever loved. And all over training.

“He is there, in the city called Gotham.”

Dick didn’t know whether it was the demon or himself that walked to the nearest window and drew the curtain aside. Gotham glittered on the horizon, and the cool fog rising off the river cast a haze around the city. So close.

“Would you like to know his name?”

He didn’t reply, but he didn’t need to. The Bat knew.

His own voice was unfamiliar in his ears. “Would you like to make him pay?” It was a tone that suggested glee in vengeance, and it scared Dick that it was what he felt, too.

He licked his lips. “The police gave up. We don’t have any evidence.”

Dick smiled, and it was a bad feeling, all wrong, showing too many teeth. “You forget so quickly, Small One.

“Now you have ME.”

Chapter Text

The alley smelled like urine, stale beer, and old sweat. It rose with the steam off the dirty pavement, and Dick was thankful for the black bandana he wore around his mouth and nose. The night was hot and humid, but it didn’t bother him as much as it may have, once upon a time.

He was cold. That didn’t bother him, either.

A noise caught his attention, from the end of the alley. He rolled his weight into the balls of his feet and waited for the shuffling to get closer.

It was his target. A large-framed man, wearing a button-up that probably used to be nice, nursing the red glow of a cigarette between his fingers. He didn’t look up, didn’t see Dick perched on the fire escape two stories above him.

Not that he would see him, either way. Dick had learned he was practically invisible; the darkness gathered around him like a cloak. It made this part of his mission much easier.

He waited until the man passed him before sliding down the ladder and flipping over the edge of the lowest platform. The man didn’t notice him; Dick’s feet were silent on the pavement. He wouldn’t be noticed until he wanted to be.

He crept up behind the man, and only hesitated long enough to adjust his black hood so it covered his hair before he tapped the man on the shoulder.

He took glee in the way he jumped.

“What the fuck?”

“You’re Buzzard?” It wasn’t really a question, and they both knew it.

Miles “Buzzard” McKie’s eyes trailed up and down Dick’s form, sizing him up. “Who’s asking?”

So far, this was going much more easily than the last few interviews had. “Where is Zucco?”

Buzzard’s eyes narrowed. “Scram, brat.” As he turned, he lifted his cigarette to his lips again.

Dick plucked it from his fingers before it reached his mouth. “I asked you a question. Don’t make me repeat it.”

Now the man looked angry. “That’s cute. Go away before I make you regret wasting my time.”

Without an ounce of hesitation or guilt, Dick shouldered the man in the gut with strength he shouldn’t have, successfully pushing his back into the grimy brick wall. Before he could react past a startled noise, Dick had pulled his blade from his hoodie pocket.

It was one of Alfred’s butcher knives, polished to perfection. It looked so nice against the man’s neck. His grip tightened, and he pushed in just enough for the sharp tip to draw a small bead of blood out.

He licked his lips.

“Wait!”

Buzzard was breathing hard, the shock paving the way for adrenaline. He held up a hand, as though to push Dick away, and Dick casually slid the blade a centimeter to the right, this time slicing a shallow red ribbon along the length of his neck.

“You were saying?”

Buzzard’s eyes flit across what was exposed of his face, down to the hand holding the knife steady against his neck. “What are you?”

“I’m looking for Zucco.” Dick’s mouth spread into that smile showing too many teeth. It was hidden beneath the bandana, but by the way Buzzard’s eyes widened he was sure the impression was enough. “Tell me, and you won’t have to find out.”

Buzzard was taking too long to answer. Dick pressed the knife in harder, and the man’s breath caught.

“I don’t know! I don’t know, he’s been laying low, I haven’t seen him.”

Dick’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lying.”

“I swear! I swear, I’m not.” Buzzard gulped, and it made the knife cut deeper.

Dick’s hand wavered at the feeling, before he abruptly couldn’t feel it anymore.

“Tell me where Zucco is,” he said, but this time the words weren’t his own. “Or I will kill you.”

He watched his hand press deeper, slowly, steadily.

“G-Gainsley! He’s got family in Gainsley! He might be there!”

“More specific.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know—no! He’s always talking about a deli, within a block of his place. Schwartzmann’s, or something!”

Dick’s hand stopped its relentless press, and he and Buzzard held a long eye contact.

“Kill him,” Dick hissed.

Buzzard tensed at the words.

Dick was curious how sharp the blade was, how hard he would have to push to make it slice all the way through the tendons and the bone. He longed for the familiar feeling of blood spraying across his face again, the salty human taste on his tongue—

Dick pulled back, revulsion rolling through his stomach. “Go,” he said, voice back to normal.

Buzzard wasted no time, tripping over glass bottles on his way out.

The Bat didn’t wait until he was out of earshot to take over Dick’s mouth. “Such a waste, small one. You wanted to kill.”

“I know that was you.”

“It was for the best. He will tell, and you will lose your prey again.”

“I don’t want to kill him.”

“You must. Remember your parents?”

Dick closed his eyes against the barrage of images the Bat threw at him. Images of his parents’ mangled bodies, their gravestones. “Stop.”

“It is the only way.”

Dick’s mouth stayed shut, and it wasn’t his own doing. It was frustrating, but the Bat knew what he was thinking, anyway. He didn’t have to say it all out loud.

A clock, somewhere in the city, struck three. Dick melted back into the shadows, and on silent feet, returned home.

“Hey, Dick. Can we talk?”

Dick looked up from his homework. “Huh?”

Bruce was leaning into the doorway of his room, upper body inside but feet not crossing the threshold. He was odd like that; almost reverent of boundaries.

Dick smiled and set aside his homework to make room on the bed (it was Calculus, and it wasn’t due until next week, anyway.) “Yeah, sure.”

Bruce came inside with measured steps and perched on the edge of the bed. “Well. . . “

Dick rolled his eyes. “Come on, I made room. Get over here.”

Bruce smiled, and it was genuine, but tight around the edges. He had had a board meeting that morning, Dick remembered. They always stressed him out.

Bruce scoot over until he was sitting next to Dick, side resting against his bedframe. He opened his mouth, and stalled.

Dick searched his face. It didn’t look like board-meeting stress. “Is something wrong?” He could feel the beginnings of panic setting in. “Is it Alfred?” If Alfred were sick, Bruce would stay up all night watching him. He wouldn’t be able to sneak out later to look for the deli.

He didn’t know what would happen if he didn’t let the Bat take over each night. He hadn’t wanted to risk it.

Bruce silenced him with a hand on his shoulder. A thumb brushed over-long strands of hair behind Dick’s ear. Bruce took a deep breath. “You look tired.”

Dick’s knee-jerk reaction was to give a startled laugh. “Wow. Uh, thanks.”

Inside, he took a mental catalogue, pushing back the Bat to really check in on his body. And he realized his eyes felt strained, maybe a little puffy. His legs and arms hurt from climbing and running across Gotham every night. And then the cold caught him by surprise; an intense burn that stole his breath before he could stuff it all back behind the wall that separated Dick from himself.

But he was careful not to show any of that to Bruce. “Nah, I’ve been staying up a little too late doing homework.”

Bruce hummed, but his brows stayed furrowed. “How are the nightmares?” He must have been able to feel Dick’s shoulder tense under his hand, because he pressed on. “Is the new medication helping?”

Dick’s comforter was suddenly very interesting. (It was a quilt; he got it in the mail a few weeks after moving. Pop had sent it to him.) He picked at some of the stitching. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. That’s okay, she said it would take time.”

Dick smiled with no humor. “That’s what they all say about everything.”

Bruce let out a deep breath and dropped his hand in favor of leaning back against the headboard. He pulled Dick into his side. His arm was a nice weight against his shoulders, and where his fingers rested he brushed Dick’s arm softly.

“Does it ever get easier?”

The question caught Dick off guard as much as Bruce, but he realized he wanted to know.

When Bruce spoke, it was with measured words. “No. And yes.”

“That’s helpful.”

“Dick, it. . . I didn’t do what I should have. I didn’t handle it well. I didn’t talk to anybody.”

Dick made a face. Bruce still didn’t talk about it.

“But in my experience, it doesn’t ever hurt less. It just hurts less often.”

Dick turned the words over in his head. It matched up with what he saw in Bruce, with what his therapist told him. But right now Dick couldn’t see that far ahead. He wanted it to stop hurting now.

“Did you ever find out who killed your parents?”

The fingers dancing across Dick’s arm froze. Dick could feel Bruce straighten next to him; a habit he had noticed in the man.

Just when Dick thought Bruce wasn’t going to answer, Bruce whispered, “Yes.”

“You did? What did you do?”

Bruce looked the way he always did whenever speaking about his past trauma. “I did nothing.”

Dick’s mouth gaped. He could feel the Bat inside him spark with anger at the information. Where was the justice? The revenge?

“Gotham PD found him. Commissioner Gordon told me; I let them do their work. He got a bargain and pled guilty for thirty years in prison.”

 Dick scooted forward so he could face Bruce head-on. “That’s it?! He killed you parents!”

Bruce’s eyes flashed.

Dick’s mouth audibly snapped shut. He had crossed a line, and he knew it. “I—”

“Richard.” Both of Bruce’s hands framed his arms, holding tightly. “I loved my parents. I miss them every day. But I want to honor their lives, not their deaths.” His eyes were wide, searching Dick’s face for. . . something. “Do you understand?”

There was something hot boiling away in Dick’s stomach. Hatred, anger. Fear. Dick swallowed it down. “I understand.”

Bruce pulled him into a hug. “I am so thankful. . . “ his sentence trailed off, but Dick understood.

He hugged back, fiercely.

He didn’t go out that night. Nor the night after that. Bruce kept a close eye on him, and Dick was convinced it was because he didn’t trust him. So he waited, letting the routine settle until he was sure he had an opportunity.

The Bat was restless inside him, urging him to focus on what was important, instead of his homework, his friends, his food, sleep. The longer he waited, the angrier it became, and it spilled over into Dick’s mood.

Needless to say, Dick wasn’t feeling great.

His opportunity came two weeks later. Bruce had a conference call with a business in Asia that he expected to last late into the night. Bruce met him in his bedroom to wish him a goodnight, and he closed the door softly behind himself as he left.

Dick waited ten minutes before he let the Bat take over. After another two, he was gone.

It didn’t take long to find him.

Dick found Schweiser’s Deli with the next three weeks, and it only took another three days of skipping Decathalon practice to catch sight of Zucco walking the neighborhood.

It was almost too easy. Part of Dick resented how uneventful the hunt had been. He preferred it when they ran—

He shook his head.

He returned to the Manor with a bounce in his step. And dread in his heart.

Dick was getting worse.

He kept forgetting to eat; he didn’t feel hunger anymore. Not in any way that mattered, at least. It was a mere suggestion from his body, a soft knock against the wall he had erected. It was easier to ignore it.

Sleeping was unnecessary, too. He waited until Bruce had started snoring from the other room to sneak out, and he spent long hours walking the streets of the city, planning his confrontation with Zucco. He sometimes found himself outside the apartment where the man lived, staring at the lit windows and watching the family laugh.

The Bat was careful to remind him that, because of Zucco, he would never be a part of laughter like that again.

The physical things—how his eyes burned, how his stomach ached, how the bruise on his shin throbbed—were a distraction. He gladly invited the Bat to take over and keep him focused.

Bruce could see it, he was sure. The man kept sneaking concerned glances at him over his morning cup of coffee. He stopped by his bedroom more often, and always peeked through his door before heading to bed himself. He kept asking how Dick was doing, suggesting he talk to his therapist more often.

Dick was sick of it. (He squashed the small part of himself that yearned for the attention. It wasn’t useful for his mission.) He was sick of everything.

“Dick, we need to talk about something.”

Dick didn’t look up from his book. He had been on the same page for the last thirty minutes, mind occupied by the fantasy of cornering Zucco and making him pay. “What do you want?”

Unperturbed by the flat tone, Bruce answered, “You’re grounded.”

“What?”

Bruce looked. . . angry. “That was the school. They were concerned about the D you’re making in calculus, and were wondering if it was related to missing Decathalon practice.”

Dick leaned back in his chair. “Oh.”

Bruce’s jaw twitched. “Don’t ‘oh’ me, young man. Where have you been going after school?”

Dick shrugged. “Around.” Though Bruce waited for more, Dick didn’t expand his answer.

Bruce crossed his arms. “No phone, no computer, no video games for three weeks. Alfred will drop you off and pick you up from school from now on. And you won’t be leaving this house without an adult until your grades have improved.”

Dick’s spine stiffened. “You can’t do that.”

“Watch me.”

“You can’t tell me what to do!”

“I can and I will.”

Dick stood up, forgotten book tumbling to the floor. A dark rage was flooding his system. “You’re not my dad!”

Bruce flinched.

Dick saw it, and latched on. “I’m only here because the government doesn’t believe I’m old enough to take care of myself. If I had the choice, I would have left a long time ago.”

“Dick—”

“I’m leaving.” Dick turned on his heel and stalked toward the front door. It was pouring rain, but he didn’t bother grabbing his jacket on the way out.

A hand latched around his wrist. “Dick, wait—”

Without having to think about it, Dick shoved Bruce back with his inhuman strength. The larger man went flying, landing in the floor too far away to reach him, eyes wide.

Dick paused in the door long enough to shoot a few words over his shoulder. “Don’t bother coming after me.”

It was time.

Dick’s anger wasn’t entirely new to him, but he had never felt it more intensely than this. This was all-consuming. His hands shook with pent-up energy and the need to hit something.

Zucco was a prime target.

The man had developed habits since flying low. He smoked a cigar in his bedroom each morning after his cup of coffee, he preferred the grocer on 86^th to the one on 84^th, and he spent Thursday afternoons and evenings at the bar across the street from Schweiser’s Deli.

It was Thursday, so it wasn’t hard to find him.

Dick walked with purpose, not bothering to move slowly or lightly to avoid drawing attention. No, the Bat would take care of that part of it. Though Dick fumed and stomped down the road, not one person he passed paid him a glance. (Of course, this was Gotham. People knew better than to look, here.)

It was late by the time Dick had made it to the other side of Gotham. He was thoroughly soaked, and a small part of him registered that he was shaking from the cold.

None of it mattered.

Dick searched the grubby windows for a familiar shape, and—there! There he was, Zucco, working on a glass of bourbon and game of pool. Dick watched the man lean over the table and sink the cue ball into a corner. He had been working on the bourbon a while, apparently.

Perfect.

The small crowd around the table jeered, and Zucco frowned. He swayed toward the table again, but a bouncer intervened, leading him straight out the door of the bar.

“That’s enough of you. Come back when you’re sober.”

The door shut.

Zucco swayed in place, wobbly on his feet. He flipped the bird at the door.

Dick felt a thrum under his skin, like electricity. Pure power. He curled his fingers, and the shadows grew a little darker, a little larger. Predatory.

Zucco didn’t notice.

Without Dick having to do anything, a fine tendril of shadow wrapped around the light pole at the end of the alley, masking whatever light there had been.

Zucco froze.

The drunk man turned on his heel, searching for a sign of trouble.

Dick let him search a moment before peeling away from the wall.

“Zucco.” His voice wasn’t the Bat’s, but it wasn’t his own, either. There was something sinister in it.

The larger man squint down at him. Sneered. “Fuck off, kid.”

Dick’s blood boiled. He had come all this way, he had done so much, and the man still didn’t respect him? He would show him.

He would make him fear him.

Dick’s fingers wrapped tightly around the neck of a bottle, and he smashed the body against the alley wall. Glass shattered, littering the ground with shards and Dick’s hand with little flecks of blood.

“You don’t recognize me?”

Zucco watched the hand with the bottle, still not scared but on the side of cautious. “I don’t pay attention to every rat I run into in the city, no.”

Dick grit his teeth. “You’re going to pay.” He stalked toward the man.

Zucco’s eyes widened. He must have recognized the deliverer of his fate.

“Wait a minute—” he took a step backward. When Dick didn’t slow down, he turned tail and fled.

Dick smiled with too many teeth.

The hunt had begun.

Bruce had sworn, to the citizens of Gotham, that the security measures Wayne Enterprises invented and installed all over the city would never be abused. The footage would never reach the public, the company would never view it, and law enforcement could only ever pull it with a search warrant. Bruce Wayne himself had the only key code to access the wide network of cameras, and he had made a promise to himself he would never use it.

But this was Dick.

He paced his office at the Manor, waiting for the facial recognition software to ping a result. His shoulder twinged with discomfort in the place where Dick had pushed him. It had been with too much force. He had chalked it up to anger at the time, fueling a young athlete’s reckless strength. But Bruce could feel a clear handprint-shaped bruise forming.

It didn’t take long for the system to find anything, but when Bruce hurried back to his screen to see where Dick had gotten to, he paused.

Dick wore an empty stare. It was unlike the gaze of grief, deep with sorrow. It wasn’t angry, either, or calculating. It was just cold. Unblinking, when the rain ran into his eyes from his wet hair. It made goosebumps rise on Bruce’s arms.

He zoomed out.

It didn’t make sense. Dick was too far away; some camera should have picked up a trace of him before he had made it all the way across Gotham. Especially on foot.

There was something else going on.

Bruce grabbed Dick’s jacket on his way out the door. He would need it when he got Dick back.

Dick didn’t run as fast as he could have. He didn’t mask the sound of his feet clapping against the hard ground and splashing through puddles of dirty rainwater. He didn’t hide his smile, stretching his mouth so taught his lip split, showing too many teeth.

He knew the effect it had on Zucco. He could hear the man’s heart beating, faster and faster.

Zucco turned a corner and pulled up short. A dead end.

Dick adjusted his grip on the broken bottle in his hand.

Zucco turned to face him, face pale despite his exertion. “Look, kid, I don’t know who you are, but--”

The smile slid off Dick’s face, mirth replaced with steel. “You killed my parents.”

“We can work this out!”

“You have to pay!”

“You want money? I can give you money!”

“You took everything from me!” Dick’s voice went hoarse at the words. He buried his renewed grief and let the Bat take over. “There is only one thing that will satisfy me.”

Zucco’s eyes went wide. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Dick lunged, bottle hand forward, and tackled Zucco to the ground.

Dick pinned him, ignoring the pocketknife that sank into his leg. It didn’t even hurt. Not as much as—

“His name is Richard Grayson. You killed his parents.” The final ‘s’ strung out into a high hiss.

Zucco looked up from the knife that hadn’t done him any good. “I didn’t—it was just a job! They paid well!”

“Who did?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

Dick raised the broken bottle over Zucco’s face. He traced the outline of his eye with it. “Final answer?”

Zucco blubbered. “Please—”

“Dick!”

Dick jolted at the sound. He turned, and there was Bruce, in the mouth of the alleyway. He had an extra jacket in his hand.

“Bru—Step away. This does not concern you.”

“No, Dick—whatever you are. I’m not letting you kill him.”

Zucco reached out for Bruce. “Please, help me.”

“Dick, listen to me. You’re better than this.”

Dick’s resolve hardened. “No. I’m not.” He positioned the broken bottle over Zucco’s throat. “Last chance. Who told you to kill it’s parents?”

Zucco’s eyes bounced from the bottle, to Dick’s face, to Bruce. “I can’t—”

Dick’s hand pressed a little deeper, up into the jaw. Not fatal, just painful.

It barely came out a whisper. “The Court of Owls.”

Dick’s hand positioned the glass over his neck. This was it. The final moment, he could make Zucco pay for what he had done, could make him feel what Dick felt every day since his parents died.

Bruce stepped forward. “No!”

Dick froze.

He was crying. He could taste the salt mixed with the rain. His hand flexed on the bottle.

“Dick—Richard. Look at me. Please, look at me.”

With difficulty, Dick peeled his eyes away from Zucco’s mortified face.

Bruce was kneeling next to him, closer, hands held aloft in the universal sign of peace. “Give me the bottle.”

“No.” Dick looked back down at Zucco. “Kill him. He is nothing. He deserves it.”

Dick knew he would feel better when it was over. His parents would be avenged. The universe would be balanced again, and he would only have to worry about the Court—he wouldn’t have to worry about anything anymore.

“This isn’t what your parents would have wanted.”

Dick’s face spasmed. A flicker of sadness broke through, before being swallowed by stone emptiness. “My parents?”

Dick fought to look up again. It physically hurt, even moving his eyes away from Zucco. But when he had almost made eye contact with Bruce, he saw only blood. His parents’ mangled bodies, heard the snap of the trapeze wire—

“You parents are dead.”

Dick gasped, “Stop.”

“I won’t stop—” Bruce started.

“He was not talking to you.”

Bruce sucked in a breath. “What are you?”

“We made a deal. This is his payment.”

Bruce’s hand closed into a fist. Dick didn’t see it. Bruce didn’t care about him.

“What would it take for you to let him go?”

No, that wasn’t right, Bruce wouldn’t—

“More than you would be willing to pay.” Dick heard the screams of the audience as they fell. His eyes landed on Zucco, who watched him with unbridled fear. “He took everything from you. Kill him. Everything will feel better.”

Dick’s grip returned to the bottle, this time hard enough the glass crushed in his hand. He ignored the shards digging into his palm. He only had to press deeper. He was so close, he could smell the blood—

“I’ll do anything.”

Dick was able to wrestle control back from his hand and dropped the bottle. His palm had a large slice down the middle, bleeding freely. He lifted it to his face to examine it, before a bizarre impulse went through him, and he licked some of the fresh red blood away.

It was awful. He did it again.

Bruce swept the bottle away with a foot. “Anything. Take—” He faltered, when Dick pulled Zucco’s knife out of his leg and poised it over his own hand with an intense focus.

“Take me instead.”

Dick’s eyes snapped up in surprise. “No.”

“Take me, please. Let Dick go.”

“Bruce, you can’t—” Dick’s mouth snapped shut.

Dick’s eyes trailed up and down Bruce’s form. “You are stronger than you seem.” Another second, staring intensely at Bruce’s face. “Give me your hand.”

Dick shook his head, but he couldn’t stop his bleeding hand from closing around Bruce’s.

Something itched, down in his feet. Like a sticker, being peeled away from glass.

The barrier between himself and reality dissolved. He flinched at the renewed sting in his leg from the stab wound, the feeling of Zucco’s pulse under him. And then his head, his puffy eyes, his dry throat, his empty stomach. He was left with only the cold, a stark contrast to the warm hand that had wrapped around his.

And then the cold was sucked away, down his arm, out his fingers.

Bruce’s eyes closed in pain. He grunted.

Dick blinked. His hand relaxed in Bruce’ grip. “Bruce?”

Dick tried to pull away, but Bruce didn’t let go. Dick layered his free hand over his father’s (it was cool to the touch now.) Dick searched his face. “Please, dad.”

Bruce sucked in a deep breath and pulled on Dick’s hand.

Dick resisted, for a moment, before he recognized the hold for what it was: a hug. He allowed himself to be pulled up, off Zucco, away from the ground and the puddles. Bruce held him like he didn’t want to let go.

Dick hugged back harder.

(He didn’t see the predatory look Bruce shot toward Zucco, on the ground.)

“I brought your coat,” Bruce whispered. Dick had just enough time to register how wet and cold and miserable he felt before the fabric was layered over his back. “Let’s go home.”

Four Months Later

“No. I’m not letting you go alone.”

“Dick, we’ve been over this. It isn’t safe—”

“Exactly! You can’t go by yourself. What if you get hurt?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Dick crossed his arms. “Don’t say that. It does matter.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. Dick recognized the signs—the Bat was getting antsy again.

“Please, Bruce. Dad.” The word was enough; Bruce’s face relaxed. “It’s my fault you’re playing host to that thing. At least let me protect you.”

Bruce quirked an eyebrow up. Probably because he was wearing a special bullet-proof Kevlar weave and carried enough gadgets to make any super spy jealous.

The past few months had been rough, but with two people watching, the Bat was easier to control. Bruce let it run things at night, under strict guidelines: they only hunted criminals, and they never killed. The Bat wasn’t a fan of the ‘no-kill’ rule, but in the end, he had no teeth.

Bruce had already forgiven his parents’ murderer. There was no changing that.

“That’s a low blow, Dick. You know I don’t blame you for any of this. It way my own choice.”

Dick smirked. “That wasn’t a no.”

Bruce hummed. Dick followed him to his custom black tactical car, used to minimize the casualties of traipsing the city.

Bruce patted the passenger seat.

Dick beamed, ducking into the vehicle. “You know, since the Court has a dumb theme, you should adopt one, too.”

Bruce fired up the engine. It was a roar from the outside, but inside it only hummed. “Oh? Any suggestions?”

Dick pretended to think about it. Just long enough to make Bruce’s eyebrow raise.

Then Dick stuck his pointer finger up on either side of his head. “Batman.”