Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The lights are too bright, too hot. Dick is trying to keep smiling and waving at the crowd, but he feels like he’s about to be sick. He had laughed when Nick said heights made him feel sick to his stomach, and part of Dick wonders if this is the universe punishing him for his insensitivity (because his mom’s punishment apparently hadn’t been enough). He needs to sit down, as much as that goes against every performance bone in his body.

He looks to his parents, who are still in the middle of the opening sequence. He tries to signal to them that something is wrong, but that’s when his knees give out and his body decides that he needs to immediately empty his stomach. 

"Dick!” he hears his mom’s panicked voice call. 

He looks up, and for a second, he sees her falling, his dad right beside her. Then the crowd is shouting, the world is spinning, and Dick—he’s shaking, muscles out of control as they tense and relax in quick succession, forcing him to crash against the platform in a heap. His head hurts more than he thought was possible, feels like it’s about to shatter into a million pieces.

The world blurs as Dick slips in and out of consciousness, but he tries to fight it, tries to figure out what’s happening. During a winning moment, he tries to push himself up, but his arms won’t cooperate, too weak after the shaking fit, the possible seizure. He thinks he might puke again, but his head is swimming too much to figure out how serious the threat is. And through it all, the spotlight is still burning into his skin, making sure everyone can see him.

If he’s dying, this has to be the worst timing.

Pressure builds in his chest and something scratches against his throat, forcing him to cough. Warm, thick liquid leaks over his tongue, leaving behind a metallic taste. The coughs keep coming, but each one sends knives through his chest and makes breathing that much harder. He needs to get off this platform and find his parents. He needs to be away from the noise and the crowd and in his bed. He wants to lie in his mom’s lap while his dad rubs his back. He wants them to hold his hands and run their fingers through his hair. He wants to pass out, to die, whatever it takes for this to stop.

The platform vibrates, indicating that someone is climbing up the ladder. Dick looks toward them hoping for someone familiar, but Dick doesn’t recognize the man, and he’s not quite sure that he isn’t a hallucination.

Their eyes meet for a brief moment, and the man/hallucination says, “Hold on, I’m going to help you. I’m going to fix this.” And with that, he tears his gaze away from Dick and rummages around before pulling a small bag out from somewhere Dick’s swimming vision can’t see. He watches with curiosity and confusion as the bag is torn apart and lit on fire.

Dick gasps, suddenly able to breathe, and the man—not hallucination, definitely not a hallucination—helps him sit up.

“Are you alright?” he asks, voice firm and solid.

“What was that?” Dick asks, rubbing his chest where it had ached only seconds ago. He pushes out of the man’s hold, tries to look over the edge of the platform. “Where—”

“Don’t look.” 

The man tugs him back, tucks Dick’s face into his shoulder and away from the floor. But it’s too late, he’s seen something he’ll never be able to unsee.

“No!” Dick is screaming before he can fully process his parents’ twisted, broken bodies and the pool of blood they’re lying in. He can’t stop screaming, can barely register that he’s screaming. He needs to get to them. He tries to fight against arms that are too strong. “No, please! No!”

The arms just get tighter. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

There are some things, Dick learns, that can’t be fixed.

Dick is busy pretending to be asleep when there’s a knock on his door followed by someone calling his name. He’s been doing that all day—pretending to sleep. According to the nurses, he hasn’t been doing an overly convincing job, but they’re understanding and don’t bother him much, so Dick decides to pretend a little longer and remains silent.

“Richard?” the nurse calls again as she pushes the door open. “I have someone here who would like to speak to you.”

Despite all logic telling him otherwise, Dick looks up expecting to see Haly, the owner of the circus and the man who is practically family. His social worker had explained that Haly—or anyone else from the circus, for the matter—wouldn’t be allowed to visit because he hadn’t been named as Dick’s legal guardian in his parents’ will. No one had. Between that and the murder investigation, Dick isn’t allowed any visitors for the time being.

And this isn’t a visitor now. But Dick recognizes that this is the man from last night, the one who made everything stop.

“Hi, Richard. I don’t know if you remember me from last night, but I’m Detective Malone,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

Dick sits up, hesitantly says, “I’m okay.” And he is—at least physically. His symptoms stopped shortly after Malone showed up last night. Despite this, the doctors insisted on running about a million tests. None of them had any answers, though; all of Dick’s scans and blood tests came back normal, showing no indication that anything bad had happened. The doctors are saying that he and his parents were probably poisoned with something that either didn’t leave a trace or metabolized quickly. Luckily, in Dick’s case, it didn't leave any long-term damage either. 

The same could technically be true for his parents; after all, it had been the fall, not the poison, that had killed them. 

Dick briefly glances over at the corner of the room where the nurse is exiting before flicking his gaze back to Malone, who's looking at him with a serious expression.

“What you went through last night,” Malone begins, “is something no one should ever have to experience. I’m going to find the people responsible for this, I promise you.”

Dick nods.

“I would like to ask you a few questions, to help with the investigation. But if you’re not feeling up to it, I can come back another time.”

“I’m fine,” Dick tells him. He’d already spoken to another detective last night, and he’d said someone else would be stopping by in the next day or two. Dick had been preparing himself for this, and this time he isn’t going to let a detective brush him off for being “too emotional.” 

Malone grunts in acknowledgment. “Do you know anyone who might want to hurt your family?”

“Well, not my family exactly, but Tony Zucco threatened Haly earlier this week,” Dick explains. “ And he was snooping around the stage yesterday before the show.”

“Hnn.”

Fearing Malone isn’t taking him seriously either, Dick adds, “The name might be fake, but I saw his face. I could describe him, or point him out.”

Malone shakes his head. “No, that’s his real name. Zucco’s been on the GCPD’s radar for a while; he’s a mob boss, and he’s been gaining traction recently.”

“Oh.” Dick’s eyebrows furrow. “Your partner didn’t seem to care last night.”

“You already told someone about this?”

“Uh-huh.”

“None of it was in the case file,” Malone murmurs.

Dick holds the hospital blanket in tight fists. “That’s bad, right?” That means no one cares about catching Zucco, that someone’s covering for him.

“I'll take care of it.”

“Right.” Despite Zucco’s name not being in Dick’s file, Malone doesn’t exactly seem surprised by Dick’s accusation. Neither did the last detective. He had simply decided that Dick had seen Zucco on the news and was mixing things up because of his trauma. “Did you know about Zucco? When you showed up at the circus last night?”

Malone’s jaw tenses then relaxes. Controlled. “Yes. I didn't know that he was targeting your family, but I had reason to believe he might target the circus. I was there in case Zucco tried anything.”

“And the bag,” Dick presses. “What was that?”

“A calling card,” Malone explains. “He’s left them at other crime scenes.” 

Dick looks at Malone, carefully examining his face and posture. Last night, he'd hunted for the bag instead of checking on Dick, but Malone doesn't seem like the type of person to look for a calling card before trying to help a would-be victim. He seems like the kind of person who would rather save someone's life than catch the bad guy and gain whatever semblance of glory comes with it. And as soon as the bag was destroyed, Dick could breathe again. That couldn't have been a coincidence.

The bag, then, is important, but Malone isn’t going to tell him why. 

Dick is released from the hospital the following afternoon. His social worker drops him off at a group home for boys with a promise to return the following morning to take Dick to his parents' funeral. It’s hard to imagine that his parents had talked about going to a museum today.

The group home is overcrowded and understaffed. It’s supposed to be for teenagers, but the whole system is overcrowded and understaffed, so even though Dick just turned twelve a few weeks ago, he’s sent to stay here. And despite being the youngest boy here by at least two years, no one gives Dick a second glance. He’s happy for the inattention, though. They let him sleep and pretend to sleep until the funeral.

His social worker, Fiona, shows up bright and early the next morning with an itchy black suit and a chocolate chip bagel. Dick takes the items and thanks her, but the suit makes his skin crawl and he's not hungry in the slightest. His mood makes everything taste rotten, but he picks at the bagel on the way to the cemetery to be polite.

"Would you like me to sit with you?" Fiona asks when they arrive. 

Dick shakes his head, staring blankly at the rows of chairs leading up to the two dark, closed caskets. He thinks he's going to be sick.

"Dick!" Haly calls, quickly wrapping his arms around Dick in a tight hug once he's close enough. "We were so worried." After a tight squeeze, Haly pulls him back, holding Dick at arm’s length. "You're alright, aren't you?"

Dick nods again, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

"Let's sit down. Would you like to say a few words during the service?" Haly asks.

He probably should, but the idea makes him dizzy. He shakes his head again and leans into Haly's side.

"That's fine, son. Perfectly understandable. Thank you . . ."

"Fiona," she supplies, shaking Haly's hand. 

"Thank you for bringing him, Fiona."

Dick sits right next to Haly during the service, leaning against him more often than not. He feels like he's not really there, though. He struggles to take everything in and process the weight of it. It feels like a dream, or like he’s an outside observer, unaffected by the upsetting nature of the event. Some people are crying, and he wonders if he should be crying too. They’re his parents, after all, he should be sad. And he is, he knows he is, but it’s like his emotions have been shoved in a locker and he’s forgotten the combination.

When they cover his parents with dirt, he can't help but wonder passively if he should be down there with them.

After the service ends, Dick is surprised when Detective Malone walks up to him to offer condolences and ask how he’s settling. Dick doesn’t know how to respond, and he can’t remember what he says once the words leave his mouth. Malone takes the hint, leaving Dick with his business card before he leaves.

Dick proceeds to crumple said card in his fist during an argument that, in retrospect, is more of a tantrum when Fiona insists that he has to return to the group home instead of the circus with Haly. 

A haze seems to fall over him, and hours later, Dick finds himself lying in his bunk at the group home, trying to smooth out the wrinkled business card and memorize it just to do something. He has another card somewhere that the first detective gave him. The number on that card has the GCPD's number with an extension, but Malone's number is completely different. No extension, different area code. It might be a personal number, but should he really be giving out a private number? One time Dick had asked Haly why he had two phones, and the man had explained the importance of having a separate business line.

Dick thinks back to the weird incident with the bag. Malone had brushed it off as a calling card, but that would mean evidence, and he shouldn't have burned police evidence, not if he wanted to catch Zucco. It's possible that he was intentionally tampering with evidence, but Malone doesn’t seem like the type, and—as weird as it sounds—Dick is convinced that burning the bag is what saved him.

Still, despite Malone's seemingly good intentions, he's hiding something. He probably doesn't work for the GCPD either. There's a media room down the hall with a computer that might help Dick make sense of things. 

Decision made, Dick sits up and shoves the card in his pocket. If he wants answers, he's going to need to find them himself.

Assuming Dick hasn’t completely lost his mind and the internet hasn’t led him entirely astray, that bag Malone burned was a hex bag. His family was hexed by Tony Zucco, and Tony Zucco is a witch. And Detective Malone might actually be a witch hunter, not a detective. At the very least, he’s not a detective for the GCPD, and there’s a good chance his real name isn't even Malone.

All it took to figure this out was a few days of online research and a couple of unapproved trips to the library. While Dick knew Malone had been hiding something, at no point had he actually been prepared for this. And now, tense and jittery, he has a sense of responsibility. Because if Zucco isn't stopped, he's going to hurt more people. Dick can't stand by and let that happen, he just can’t. 

That’s why exactly one week after his parents’ deaths, Dick finds himself inside of a phone booth near Don’s Bakery, the place where Zucco and his coven will supposedly be meeting tonight. Dick came across the tip by chance: A kid—Jason something—was spying on Dick at the library and saw that he was looking into Zucco. According to Jason, Don’s Bakery sometimes closes early because the Zucco brothers have decided it’s the perfect place to hold their meetings. He found out tonight would be one of those nights because the owner said he wouldn’t be giving out unsold baked goods at closing time, something that only happens when he doesn’t have access to his own shop.

When one of Zucco’s brothers arrives, it confirms the tip. Time to call in back-up.

Dick slides his coins into the slot, and though he’s already memorized the number, he pulls out the small card and scans it as he types in the number. The phone rings twice.

“Who is this?”

“Is this Detective Malone?” Dick asks, even though he knows it is.

“Richard?”

“I’ll explain later, but I know you're a witch hunter and I found Zucco.” Dick looks up when he hears a car rumble past him. It parks, and out steps Zucco himself. “He just pulled up in front of Don’s Bakery. He’s having a meeting with the others.” Dick really hopes he’s right about this; he’s not sure how he could live this down if he’s wrong about the witch hunter thing.

“I—where are you?” Malone asks.

“In the phone booth across the street.”

“I’m a few minutes away. Stay. Put.”

With that, Malone hangs up, and Dick finds himself staring at the phone. He shrugs and puts the phone back on the receiver. Then, having no intention of listening to Malone, he exits the booth and crosses the street, hoping to find a window that will let him see what’s happening at this meeting.

Unfortunately for him, Zucco and his coven aren’t complete idiots and they don’t hold their meeting in front of any windows. Malone shows up while Dick is finishing up his second check.

“I told you to stay put.” Even his voice sounds like it’s glaring.

Dick casually turns to face the man, not letting the authoritative tone faze him. “Yeah, but you hung up before I could tell you I wouldn’t be doing that.”

Malone pinches the bridge of his nose. “Richard—” 

Dick sighs dramatically. “Are we going to go in there and stop them, or is this going to be a thing?”

“You’re a brave kid,” Malone says, placing a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “And I know you think you can handle this, but witches are dangerous.”

Dick crosses his arms over his chest and rolls his eyes. No duh, like he hadn’t noticed when one killed his parents and tried to kill him. “Wow, and here I thought you weren’t a real detective. Is Malone your real name too?”

“I—no.” He says it like a confession, like he’s ashamed of being caught in his lie. “My real name is Bruce.” 

“Mine is still Richard,” Dick says, flashing a sarcastic smile. “But since you were honest with me, you can call me Dick. That’s what everyone back home calls me.”

“Dick, I need you to trust me and wait in my car while I take care of this.”

“I’m going in there.” Dick starts walking toward the entrance, but Bruce grabs his arm to stop him. Dick glares at him and pulls at his arm. “Let go of me,” he hisses, “I need to do this.” Zucco has to pay, and Dick’s not letting him hurt anyone else tonight.

Bruce sighs, eyes scanning Dick’s determined face. “Fine.” Bruce lets go of Dick’s arm. “But stay close to me, and if anything happens, you run. Understood?”

Dick forces a smile and salutes. “Sure thing, boss.”

“Here.” Bruce rummages in his pocket for a moment, then pulls out three small, round items. “These are smoke pellets. If you need to create a distraction or get away, throw them on the ground and it will create a cloud of smoke.”

Dick takes them, looking at one carefully, and nods. He puts them in his pocket and follows Bruce inside.

“So. How do we stop them?” Dick whispers as they make their way down a set of stairs that leads to the bakery’s basement. Dick has done some research on stopping witches, but he’s not sure how accurate any of it was, and nothing he found gave a specific method. “Can you take away their powers?”

“Shh,” Bruce hushes, holding his hand out to stop Dick in his tracks.

Dick can’t see anything, but he hears the voices of Zucco and his three brothers.

“Wait here.”

Dick crouches down and crawls behind a box closer to the group. He can’t see where Bruce disappears to, but soon he sees a smoke pellet go off and hears the Zucco brothers scream.

Bruce works quickly and efficiently. By the time the smoke clears, two of the four brothers are on the ground in handcuffs. Well, sort of handcuffs. They’re thicker than they should be, and they look almost medieval. 

Zucco chants something in a foreign language, and suddenly Dick is ducking to dodge a blast. Zucco flips through a thick, tattered book, probably looking for another spell to cast. Someone needs to stop him, but Bruce is too distracted to do anything about it because the other brother is coming at him with a knife.

Dick bites his lip as he thinks through his options. He needs to help, but a smoke pellet is only going to get him so far. He needs something to fight with, something heavy, or something he can throw. He looks around, hoping for cookie cutters or baking pans, or—yes, a mini-fridge!

Dick crawls toward the fridge and opens it as quietly as he can, pulling out as many water bottles and soda cans as he can carry to use as ammunition. He chucks his smoke pellet as far as he can throw it, and it lands close enough to Zucco that the man starts coughing when it goes off. Dick charges in, and when he’s close enough to get a clear shot, he throws one can at the brother Bruce is fighting and another one at Zucco. 

Dick keeps throwing bottles at Zucco, who has his hands up in defense as he looks around wildly for the attacker. With him thoroughly distracted, Dick sneaks closer and swipes his legs, pulling the book out of Zucco’s grasp when he crashes to the ground. 

A quick glance tells him that Bruce managed to get the third brother down, and he’s currently putting him in cuffs. Dick keeps his eye on Zucco while he quickly collects some of the bottles and cans that rolled back toward him, readying himself for round two.

“You!” Zucco hisses as he pulls a gun out of his belt and aims it straight at Dick. “Give me the book!”

“Drop the gun,” Bruce growls.

Zucco glances at him, smiles. “I don’t think I will. This punk stole my book and assaulted me. On top of that, he’s been spreading a nasty rumor that I’m responsible for that accident at the circus. We can’t have that, can we boys?”

“No, it’s bad for business,” the one brother says while the other two nod in agreement.

Bruce steps forward, and Zucco fires the gun. The bullet hits the ceiling right above Dick, and he reflexively covers his head with his arms as pieces of plaster fall down. It isn’t clear if it was a warning shot or if Zucco’s aim is that bad.

“Take another step and I’ll shoot him,” Zucco says. 

Dick swallows. 

“Eh,” Zucco says, shrugging. “Or maybe I’ll shoot him anyway. This kid’s on my nerves, and really, he should already be dead.”

Bruce is running toward Zucco and knocks him to the ground right as the gun goes off. But before Dick can dive for cover, an invisible force knocks him to the ground and a bright light forces his eyes shut. 

A voice booms, “Anthony Zucco!”

Dick opens his eyes and pushes himself up to see a man dressed in a white suit and black cloak, his face covered by a white mask that reminds Dick of an owl. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Zucco snaps, shaking in fear and raising his fists. The gun is notably absent, but Dick doesn’t know where it went.

“I am the Grandmaster of the Court of Owls.”

“The wh—”

The Grandmaster snaps his fingers, and Zucco’s mouth shuts. “You have made multiple attempts on the Gray Son’s life, and that has consequences.”

Bruce is right next to Dick now, blocking him and trying to pull them both backward.

The Grandmaster floats about a foot off the ground, and then Zucco’s head jerks sideways with a sickening snap. 

Dick can’t stop the scream that echoes from his throat.

The Grandmaster turns toward him, circles him. Before he can realize what’s happening, Dick is separated from Bruce and standing, but he can’t remember doing it. Maybe he didn’t.

“Ah, Gray Son, yes, you will make a fine talon once you’re of age. Do not worry, this mortal’s pathetic attempts on your life never would have worked. You have the protection of the Court. And the hunter, it seems.”

Dick can’t breathe, can’t speak, but magic isn’t the cause. This is pure terror.   

“We will meet again soon.”  

Another snap and the Grandmaster vanishes. 

Zucco’s brothers are yelling, and Bruce runs over and crouches down to check Zucco’s pulse which can’t possibly still be there. Zucco is dead. Another corpse that Dick can’t look away from, this time killed on his behalf. 

“He’s dead,” Bruce announces solemnly. He stands, turns to the surviving brothers. “Tell me how you got your powers.”

“We don’t have any. It was just Tony. He, he made a deal—with a demon.”

Bruce grunts. “The GCPD will pick you up. They already have warrants for your arrest.”

Dick blinks, and then Bruce is kneeling in front of him. Bruce asks, “Can you walk?”

Yes, Dick wants to say. But he must go too long without answering because Bruce picks him up and carries him out of the basement, and Dick is still staring at where the Grandmaster vanished.

Bruce places Dick in the passenger seat of his car. Dick feels numb, shell-shocked. Caught in a nightmare that can’t possibly be his life. 

But at least he’s out of the basement, and the car is taking him even further away.

“What was that thing?” Dick hears himself ask.

Bruce’s eyes flick toward him, then back to the road. “Some kind of god, most likely.”

“And it knows who I am.” It’s been watching me, it wants me.

“Yes.”

Dick leans forward until he hits his knees, then he clutches his head with his hands. He thinks he’s going to be sick. “This can’t be real.”

The car stops. A hand on his shoulder, firm and warm. Grounding. 

“Dick, look at me.” Dick turns his head to look at Bruce. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you. I will do everything I can to stop this creature and keep you safe.” 

“How?” How can anyone fight a god?

“First we need to get you out of Gotham. Next, we need to learn everything we can about the Grandmaster and the Court of Owls.”

Dick sits up and stares off into the middle distance. “And how do we do that?”

“I have a friend in Colorado, John Jones. He’s a psychic that might be able to help. But first, we need to pick up some supplies.

They drive just outside of Gotham’s city limits and keep going until they reach a gate. Bruce doesn’t get out of the car or even roll down his window to speak into the intercom; just waits. Eventually, the gate swings open, and Bruce drives until he reaches a giant mansion. Dick’s eyes go wide as he takes in its vast size, but he refrains from commenting on it.

“Master Bruce!” a man calls in greeting as the two step out of the car.

“Alfred.”

The man, Alfred, pulls Bruce into a hug. When he pulls back, he says, “You missed dinner, but I saved you some leftovers.”

“Thank you.” Bruce motions for Dick to come closer. “Dick, this is Alfred. He took care of me when I was young. Alfred, this is Dick. I’ve been working on his case.”

“Hi, Alfred,” Dick says, shaking the man’s outstretched hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Alfred smiles warmly. “Hello, Master Dick. It’s nice to meet you as well. Are you hungry?”

Dick shakes his head. “No, I’m fine.” He doesn’t remember the last time he ate, but he thinks he’ll throw up if he tries to eat anything.

Alfred’s eyes flick to Bruce’s, and Dick turns his head in time to see Bruce offer a quick nod.

“Very well. Shall we head inside?” 

Dick follows Alfred into the house, Bruce walking close behind them.

“Will you be staying the night?” Alfred asks.

“Yes,” Bruce pipes up, “but we’ll be leaving first thing tomorrow.”

Alfred sniffs sharply at that. Confused, Dick looks back at Bruce, and for a second, he’s amused when he sees an almost pleading expression on the man’s face.

“Al,” Bruce starts, and Dick can just tell he’s one step away from groveling.

“No, by all means.” Alfred turns to face Bruce with the kind of forced, deceptive calm people display when they’re actually furious. It’s a look Dick has seen on his mom a few times, one that shows up when he makes her especially mad. The older man does it well, too; it makes Dick want to apologize on the spot, even though he hasn’t done anything wrong. “Continue to traipse across the country, coming and going as you see fit. Don’t feel the need to hold yourself to your own word—I certainly haven’t felt inclined to do so in years.”

“The trip is time-sensitive,” Bruce explains. “I was planning on staying longer this time, but this is more important. I’ll be back in a few weeks.”

Alfred says, “Perhaps this is a conversation for another time.”

Bruce glances at Dick, then back to Alfred. “I need to take care of something. Can he stay with you for a few hours?”

“Of course,” Alfred says, sounding genuine as the fury leaves his voice and posture.

Bruce squats down to Dick’s level. With a gentle voice, he asks, “Is there anything you need? I could go to the group home and pick up your things while I’m out.”

“Nothing at the group home is mine. All of my stuff is in my family's trailer,” Dick explains. He’d had his costume with him because he’d worn it to the hospital, but he didn’t take it with him. It was covered in blood, and the material isn’t exactly easy to clean. Besides, it’s not like he’ll be needing it now. Not for a while, anyway.

“That’s not a problem. I can pick up your things from there.”

“Really?” Dick asks, and Bruce nods. So Dick tells him where to find the trailer and his things, and Bruce promises to bring back a duffel bag full of Dick’s clothes and some pictures.

With that, Bruce leaves. Dick helps Alfred make up a room and tries to sleep, wondering if Bruce will come back or if he secretly plans to leave Dick with Alfred permanently. He doesn’t like the thought of staying here, of being lied to like that, but whatever emotion he has about it, it feels quiet. Numb. He’s been feeling numb a lot lately.

The room he’s in doesn’t have a clock, but he guesses a few hours pass before he hears footsteps going down the hall. Dick perks up and crawls out of bed. He can hear voices, Bruce and Alfred arguing in hushed tones.

Dick creeps out of the bedroom and down the hall, ducking behind the banister and straining his ears to listen to the quiet argument at the bottom of the stairs:

“And after that?” Alfred asks. “I can’t imagine the legal system will allow you to simply return a kidnapped child.”

“I’m not kidnapping him, I’m protecting him,” Bruce hisses.

“Why of course, I’m sure that is exactly how Commissioner Gordon will see it. Have you at all considered what will happen when an amber alert goes out? And Zucco’s brothers—they saw you! They saw you with the boy. You will be made a suspect.”

“I can work things out with Gordon.”

There’s a pause.

“Alfred,” Bruce says, pleads. “I’m going to be okay.”

“If you are suspected, you won’t be able to come back here.”

“I know.”

“But if you would just take the boy back to the group home,” Alfred argues, “I could obtain custody and foster him. I could—”

“It’s not safe for him here.”

“I could keep him safe, both of you.”

Bruce says, “No, no you can’t. There will be a trial, and the Zuccos will target him, especially after what happened to their brother. It’s too dangerous. He needs to come with me.”

“But if you explained this to Commissioner Gordon, he could offer the boy protection.”

“Not the kind Dick needs.”

There’s another period of silence, and Dick almost steps out of his hiding place just to end it.

“Alfred, we need to go. There’s no way around it.”

“I . . . I know. I know. But I wish you didn’t have to. I wish you could come home.”

“You know I can’t.”

Alfred laughs a short chuckle. “Yes, I suppose I know that as well.” Alfred clears his throat. “Well, I suppose you and the young lad should get going. I’m sure you have a long drive ahead of you.”

Panic sweeps over Dick, and he sprints back to the bedroom. He’s still trying to slow his breathing under the covers when he hears a knock on his door.

“Dick?” Bruce calls as the door creaks open. “It’s time to go.”

Twenty minutes later, the two of them have packed up their stuff, said goodbye to Alfred, and are driving toward the freeway in stony silence.

Dick had been upset when he realized that the circus would be leaving without him in a few days. He had seriously considered sneaking into someone’s trailer the morning the circus was set to leave for their next destination, but now Dick will be too far away for that to happen. According to Bruce, it will take three days just to get to Colorado. Even if they come back to Gotham—the odds of which are beyond slim to none—the circus will be long gone.

This is where he needs to be—at least for now—but it’s not where he wants to be. It’s better than the group home, though, and Bruce is accommodating of Dick’s desire for silence. Dick doesn’t need to pretend to be asleep to be left alone.

But as thankful as he is for the respite, on day two of their trip, the silence gets to him.

Dick peels his forehead off of the window and looks over at Bruce. His eyes are on the road, but Dick has seen how he peers at him through the rearview mirror every so often. He seems concerned, but distant. Or maybe just patient, letting Dick take the lead.

“So,” Dick starts. Bruce’s eyes flick to him in the mirror, and he hums to indicate that he heard him. “How do you know this psychic?”

Bruce says, “I met him on a case a couple of years ago.”

“Is he a hunter too?”

“Sometimes, but he also consults on more complicated cases,” Bruce explains. 

Dick nods absently and stares out the window for a minute. There’s a sign for a rest area in a few miles. They’ve only been driving for two hours, but Dick is already itching to stretch his legs. He wants to ask if they can make an early stop. Instead, he asks, “Why do you think he’d know about a god in Gotham?” 

“I don’t.”

Dick and Bruce look at each other in the rearview mirror, and Dick furrows his eyebrows at him.

“I want him to perform a psychic reading on you,” Bruce explains. “It will be able to tell us if this god has placed a mark on you.”

“A mark?” Dick asks.

"Yes, one that could let the Court track you, and possibly also deter other supernatural forces from interfering. Depending on how you were brought to the Court's attention, the mark might also act as a type of binding spell."

Binding. Dick nods, swallows. "Like a contract?"

Bruce grunts affirmatively. "If any of those three possibilities are present, John will be able to sense it.”

“And get rid of it?" 

Bruce pulls the car over, and Dick sits up a little straighter when he turns to face him with steely eyes.

"If the Court is who I think they are, John's powers won't be strong enough to break one of their marks.”

"So they'll still be able to collect me whenever they want?" Dick asks, anger and fear rising in his throat.

Bruce exhales. "Stopping that from happening will be our next step. But first we need to determine what we’re dealing with. It could take months to find a solution, but I won't let anything bad happen to you, I promise."

Dick scowls. "Liar. You already did."

Bruce's lips tug into a grim expression. "I know. I’m sorry."

Dick's eyes feel hot and his bottom lip trembles. He quickly turns his head away from Bruce and tries to control his breathing, determined not to cry.

"If you want to talk—"

"I'm fine," Dick lies, voice quavering.

"Okay." Bruce's shirt rubs against the seat as he turns around. "I lost my parents when I was around your age. I know how much you must be hurting."

Dick sniffles once, but says nothing.

After another moment, Bruce starts the car and they keep driving.

A few hours later, the tension in the car dissipates and they stop for dinner. Bruce orders pizza and salads and they eat them at a nearby park. Bruce offers to drive through the night so they can get to Colorado a little faster, but Dick declines, arguing that he'd rather not have Bruce's body become resistant to caffeine and fall asleep at the wheel.  

Bruce chuckles a little, and Dick smiles. He eats two slices of pizza and all of his salad. It's the most he's eaten in one sitting since the accident, and it seems to ease some of the tension in Bruce's shoulders.

They drive for a few more hours before stopping at a motel. That night, Dick dreams of blood on his tongue and his parents falling, of being left behind. He dreams of being taken away by the Grandmaster, of being kept in a coffin. 

He wakes up with a start, wildly looking around the room for his captor. But it’s just him and Bruce.

Bruce is looking at him, the glow of his laptop illuminating his face. “Would you like some water?”

Dick nods. Bruce turns on the lamp and closes his laptop. He fetches a water bottle and hands it to Dick. Dick takes a few sips of the cold beverage, rolling the cap back and forth along his thumb and index finger.

“Thanks,” he says when he’s done. He wonders if he’d been making noise in his sleep, if he’d woken Bruce up. “What were you working on?”

“Research on the Court.”

“Oh. Find anything?”

“Nothing concrete yet.” A beat passes. “Are you going to be able to go back to sleep?”

Dick’s skin is buzzing and he wants to go for a run. He hasn’t run in over a week, and it feels like all of that energy has suddenly built up inside of him, threatening to explode. He says, “Probably not.”

“If we leave now, we can make it to John’s house by dinner.”

Dick nods in agreement. The two of them pack up their things and drive for an hour before coming across a 24-hour diner. They stop and get a booth by a window. Bruce drinks about three cups of coffee, and Dick picks at a piece of toast and plate of eggs. Bruce doesn’t say anything about Dick’s absent appetite, simply pays the check and leaves a generous tip when he realizes Dick won’t be eating anything else.

Bruce asks Dick to navigate the rest of the way. He doesn’t seem to need the help, though; he’s probably just trying to keep Dick occupied, distracted. 

It works. Dick likes navigating, and he’s good with a map. His dad kept one in their dressing room, and he would mark all of the cities on their tour schedule for that season with pins. Blue for small cities, red for big cities, and a single black pin for Gotham. His dad said that Gotham had a different pin because it was special, had a hunger about it. One that needed to be fed by the biggest, riskiest stunts. 

Now that black pin feels like it had been a symbol of danger all along. An omen. Dick wonders if the Court has stuck him with a black pin too.

It’s a little before five when they pull into John’s driveway, and it’s a little after six when they leave.

Like the funeral, Dick has trouble recalling the meeting once it’s over. Another out-of-body experience. But he remembers the important things. 

John confirms that Dick is tied to the Court, marked by the Grandmaster himself. He says that before Dick was even born, he’d been promised to them as a sacrifice, destined to become a talon. They don’t know what exactly that entails yet, but it’s nothing good: unless something changes, Dick is going to go dark side. 

The only good news is that the Court isn’t tracking him, not really. They could if they wanted to, of course, and they certainly will if they sense that his life is in danger, but they’re respectful. Patient. They’ll leave Dick alone until it’s time for them to collect him.

It doesn’t make Dick feel any better.

“We’ll find a way to remove the mark,” Bruce says, again, as they wait for the traffic light to turn green. “We’ll fix this.”

“And if we can’t?” Dick asks.

“We will. And until then, we’ll hide. Make sure they can’t find you.”

“How?” How can anyone hide from a god?

“I’ll make inquiries.”

Dick can’t help but laugh a little at that. 

Bruce’s determined expression doesn’t change. “For now, we’re going to drive to a motel. You’re going to eat something, and then sleep.”

“And tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow I’m going to teach you how to defend yourself,” Bruce says.

In that moment, Dick realizes that Bruce will help him in a way no one else can. He understands that Dick can’t wait on the sidelines while other people solve his problems for him; he understands that there are things Dick will need to do on his own. 

When Dick doesn’t vocalize his thoughts, Bruce continues. “You need to understand that this case will take time, but I promise you, we will figure this out. Together.”

“Okay,” Dick says. “I trust you.”

When Dick met Bruce that night at the circus, one of the first things Bruce said was, “I’m going to help you. I’m going to fix this.” The words come back to him in the car, and Dick understands now that they weren’t just words of comfort to an almost-dying kid, they were a promise. And Dick knows that Bruce is the type of person who keeps their promises.

Chapter Text

Six months later . . .

“Dick.”

“Mm,” Dick mumbles, burying his face deeper into his pillow and turning away from the hand shaking his shoulder.

“Wake up. It’s time to go.”

Dick lifts his head and blinks up at Bruce. He’d said he was planning to burn bones tonight, and he must’ve followed through because now he smells like smoke and his cheek is smeared with dried blood.

Dick glances at the clock on the motel’s nightstand: four twenty-seven. “It’s early,” he whines, dropping his head back down and covering it with his pillow.

“Kent called. There’s a lead in Kansas.”

That statement alone is enough to make Dick feel wide awake and kick him into action. Twenty minutes later, the two of them have their stuff packed up and they’re driving toward the freeway in stony silence.

The Kansas lead, as Dick will come to call it, is a big deal on principle. Dick has been hunting and traveling with Bruce for six months, and this is the first time Dick has ever seen Bruce look so sure. They’ve done research, they’ve made calls, they've even made a few road trips. But this is the first time they’ve gone anywhere knowing they’ll find something. Dick isn’t sure whether he should be hopeful or terrified. 

He plays it safe and goes with both.

Times like this make it nearly impossible to avoid reflecting on how he got into this life. Sometimes it still feels like this is some twisted dream, like one day he’ll wake up and everything will be back to normal. He’ll be at home in his trailer with his parents a few feet away from him, and monsters will return to existing only in nightmares and fiction. But he knows that’s stupid. Zucco has taken his family away from him, and the Court of Owls has taken away all hope of having a normal life. The Court has possibly taken away his future altogether.

“Which exit?” Bruce asks, pulling Dick out of his thoughts.

Dick knows that Bruce already knows which exit it is, but he straightens out the map and checks anyway, just in case their exit miraculously changed (it didn’t). He glances up and catches a glimpse of a freeway sign. “Oh. Next one.” He didn’t realize they were so close.

Glancing at the clock, Dick realizes they’ve been driving for nearly five hours. Dick vaguely remembers stopping at some point—to get gas and stretch their legs—but he doesn’t know how long ago that had been. The sun had been in the later process of rising, slightly hidden by fog, and the grass had been covered in a layer of cool morning dew. The fog is gone now, but Dick can’t remember when that left either.

“Hmm.” Bruce puts on his turn indicator and checks his mirrors before merging into the far right lane.

"What if it's a trap?" Dick asks.

“We’re prepared for that.”

“But do you think it’s a trap?” 

Bruce looks at him with an expression that’s close to reassuring. “Unlikely, but we can handle it if it is.”

Fifteen minutes later, Bruce pulls into a long gravel driveway, stopping in front of a barn.

Bruce takes the keys out of the ignition, fixing Dick with a look when he makes a grab for the door handle. “Wait in the car.”

Dick rolls his eyes and steps out of the car, slamming the door a little harder than necessary. He jogs around the car to stand next to Bruce, grinning up at him when he catches the deep frown.

“Hnn,” Bruce murmurs, but doesn’t protest. 

Dick follows him back around the car to the trunk, and Bruce pulls out the typical demon supplies: a spray bottle full of holy water and a book full of passages that can be used in exorcisms or spiritual cleanses. Bruce takes both items and Dick closes the trunk for him, then they head toward the barn.

As they approach, a man Dick recognizes from a picture as Clark Kent exits the barn. “The demon’s in here,” he says, then does a double take when he sees Dick. “Who’s the kid?”

Bruce ignores the question. “Don’t come in until we’re finished,” he growls as he brushes past Clark. 

Dick offers a small wave to the man as he follows Bruce inside.

In the center of the barn, the demon is chained to a chair inside of a devil’s trap. Dick has only come face-to-face with a demon one other time, but he knows Bruce has fought dozens. There’s nothing to be worried about.

When the demon sees Bruce and Dick, his eyes go black and he laughs cruelly. “Well, well, well,” he starts. “I’ve run into a few talons from my time in Gotham, but you—you’re special. Aren’t you?”

Faster than Dick’s eyes can track, Bruce lifts his spray bottle and squirts a bit of holy water at the demon, making him hiss.

Bruce growls, “Don’t talk to him.”

“Like you aren’t curious,” the demon sneers. “Don’t you want to know what you’re traveling with?”

“Tell me what you know about the Court of Owls.”

“I know they’ve marked your kid here.” The demon stretches his legs out, casually crossing his feet at his ankles. “I also know they’re probably reading his mind to spy on you and your little crusade. Hey, do you think the Court will make him kill you when the time comes?”

Dick’s heart pounds in his chest and his mouth feels dry. Demons lie, demons lie, demons lie.

Bruce sprays the demon with a second round of holy water. 

“Can’t take a joke? Or are you just afraid that I’m confirming what you already fear?” the demon asks, voice turning sharp and dangerous. “Look, whether you like it or not, small transformations have already started. He could put a knife through your chest any day now, if the Court would let him.”

Demons lie, demons lie, demons lie.

Bruce goes in with the holy water again, and this time the demon screams. 

“Tell me what you know about the Court of Owls,” Bruce repeats.

“Alright! Alright.” He pants for a second. “The Owls are a bunch of old gods. They’ve been in Gotham since day one. They control everything—they’re why Gotham prospers, why it’s so corrupt.”

“And their talons?”

“They’re supposed to be the Court’s foot soldiers, but they mostly use them as assassins these days,” the demon says. “They’re trained to kill anything and everything.”

“Are they human?” Bruce asks.

“They used to be. I don’t know what the Owls do to them, but they aren’t human afterward,” the demon explains. “They turn them into disturbing little creatures.”

“Are all of the talons marked ahead of time?”

The demon tilts his head from side to side, thinking. “Eh, I think a few volunteer willingly. Most are promised, though, like this one.”

“Promised in exchange for what?” Bruce asks, stepping into the circle to lean over the back of the chair.

“Ask Haly.” A cruel smile appears on his face as he looks directly at Dick. 

Dick clenches his jaw, but other than that, doesn’t react. Demons lie, demons lie, demons lie.

“If he’s like Gotham’s elite, probably money. Maybe to keep that poor little circus going.”

Bruce doesn't seem to react to the comment. “Gotham’s elite are part of this?”

The demon frowns as Bruce once again draws his attention. “Like you don’t already know.”

Bruce sprays him with more holy water. “Explain.”

The demon sputters, then tilts his head back, hissing in pain. When he tilts his head forward again, he says, “Some of them are Owls, or descendants of Owls, but most are just loyal servants. They have partnerships, and some are scouts for talons and future partners who would be willing to provide sacrifices.”

“How do you know this?”

“I used to work in Gotham,” the demon replies. “It’s why I also know the Court wouldn’t have wasted their time getting rid of your parents.” The demon pauses, laughing. “It’s cute, your little conspiracy, but pathetic .”

Bruce ignores the dig like it never happened. “Did you work with them?”

“Nah, they don’t work with demons,” the demon says with an indifferent shrug. “Just kiddies and other weak humans. Easier to manipulate.”

“We’re finished here.” Bruce takes a step back.

“No, wait! There’s more.”

“We have all the information we need.” Bruce turns to Dick, hand outstretched to offer him the book. “Are you ready?”

Dick hadn’t been expecting to perform the exorcism, but he can’t say he’s surprised by Bruce’s decision. Without any hesitation, he nods and steps forward, taking the book from Bruce. 

The demon looks panicked now, leaning as far away from Dick as the chair will allow. “You’re seriously going to get rid of me but let that ticking time bomb stick around? You know, soon enough, he’s going to be way more dangerous than I ever could be. If you actually cared about protecting people, you’d kill him before he gets the chance to kill you and everyone you love.”

Bruce’s posture shifts to something dangerous. “I said we’re finished here,” Bruce growls. “Dick?”

Dick opens the book still in his hands and flips to the page with the passage for the exorcism, one that he memorized a few weeks ago under Bruce’s guidance. Dick begins reciting the exorcism as the demon succumbs to spitting colorful threats. Dick ignores them and manages to get through it without pause. Soon the demon is expelled as something resembling a cloud of thick, dark smoke. Left behind is Adam, a college kid who’s been trapped with that thing for almost a month. 

Bruce checks him over and calls an ambulance, even though he seems mostly okay. 

With that they leave the barn.

“Get in the car,” Bruce says, tossing the keys to Dick.

Dick catches them and quickly walks toward the car, waving goodbye to Clark as he goes. The man waves back this time, though he still seems a little confused by his presence.

Clark turns back to Bruce, asking, “What was all that about? And who’s the kid?”

Dick shuts himself in the car before he can hear Bruce’s answer, if there is one. Whatever discussion they have, it’s short. Soon Clark is nodding and rubbing his hand over his mouth. He places a hand on Bruce’s shoulder for a moment, murmuring something before going inside the barn.

Bruce gets in the car. “Good work tonight.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

They don’t talk about what happened—what the demon said—and they won’t until the morning. In the meantime, Bruce buys Dick a milkshake from a nearby diner. Dick drinks it slowly, trying to ignore how his mood makes it taste rotten, trying to tell himself that everything will be fine, that demons lie.

Dick can always tell when Bruce has recently spoken to Alfred. In the first few months, the days after a phone call always meant that Bruce would push extra vegetables onto Dick’s plate, insist that Dick needs to sit in the backseat instead of riding shotgun, and make him go to bed before midnight. Dick thought it was funny at first, Bruce trying to be a responsible caretaker or whatever, but he would go along with it anyway, just to make Bruce happy. Luckily, it never lasted more than a few days, and phone calls with Alfed weren’t overly frequent. They’re still infrequent, and Bruce still goes into Guardian Mode afterward, but it’s not as intense. Dick doesn’t have to joke about buying himself a car seat anymore.

But even when Bruce isn’t being hyper-vigilant about Dick’s safety or nutrient needs, he does a good job of taking care of Dick. He makes sure Dick’s fed and rested, and to make sure he doesn’t fall behind academically, Bruce gives Dick a steady supply of lessons, readings, and assignments. And yeah, Dick may be exposed to a few more hazards than he used to be, but Bruce never lets Dick work on a case unless he’s had proper training first. And the training Bruce puts him through is thorough; they spend hours each week going over lore and practicing defensive maneuvers, and Bruce likes to give him “pop quizzes” that can take the form of anything from hypothetical questions to sneak attacks.

Bruce also does a good job of just being there for Dick. He might look like a brick wall, but when it comes to helping people, especially Dick, he’s empathetic and understanding. He’s someone Dick can confide in, someone he knows won’t judge him for his nightmares. On top of that, he’s quickly become one of Dick’s best friends. 

It’s a weird dynamic when Dick thinks about it; depending on the hour, Bruce can feel like his friend, brother, mentor, or even something close to a parental figure. Other times, still, the man eludes him and still feels like a stranger. 

Dick can tell Bruce doesn’t quite know where they stand either. And unlike Dick, Bruce now has to grapple with the fact that, at the end of the day, he’s technically responsible for Dick. It’s something Bruce seems hesitant to accept or act on at times; he’s afraid to overstep in his guardian role, but he also recognizes that he has to provide a certain level of structure and guidance. Bruce is still working on finding the right balance, and he’s also trying to figure out how much authority he has over Dick in general. There’s a push and pull there, something both of them will have to figure out together. 

At the very least, Bruce knows that while Dick needs some supervision, he isn’t a little kid. Dick made that much obvious with his work on the Zucco case, and Bruce has never doubted Dick’s ability to handle himself since. As a result, there’s a mutual respect and understanding between them.

Of course, these facts make it all the more shocking when Bruce says that he’ll be working on the Court of Owls case alone for the time being. 

“But that’s not fair,” Dick protests.

“This isn’t up for debate.” Bruce has also never shut him down like that, not immediately anyway.

Dick’s face falters, but he tries to hide it. He grips the back of the chair in front of him hard enough to make his knuckles turn white. “The Court is after me . You can’t just keep me in the dark.”

“You are tied to the Court,” Bruce says, voice low and conspiratorial. “We can’t ignore that risk any longer, and we need to take precautions until I can find a way to block the mark’s psychic properties.”

“But John said—”

“The circumstances have changed.”

The demon’s words echo in Dick’s head: They’re probably reading his mind to spy on you. Small transformations have already started. He could put a knife through your chest any day now. He swallows, thinks, demons lie, demons lie, demons lie.

“Fine.” He pushes himself away from the chair, making it smack against the table and wobble before settling. 

Bruce rises from his chair silently, and meets Dick’s eyes with an authoritative firmness. “I’ll be back before dinner. Do your schoolwork, and make sure to eat something.”

Dick flops onto the bed face first, mumbles, “Whatever.”

“Dick . . .” 

Bruce is still learning when to push Dick to talk and when to give him space, and he’s not exactly the best with words. Usually Dick helps him out, meets him halfway, tries to keep things from getting too tense and gloomy. Today, however, is not one of those days.

“Just leave me alone.” 

Bruce sighs, and then Dick hears the door open and shut as Bruce leaves. When Dick hears the car pull out, he sits up and pulls his knees to his chest. He catches his reflection in the window and stares at it for a moment too long. He doesn't look evil, he thinks, just scared.

He wonders if Bruce will send him away. Or, worse, if he’ll k—no. Don’t think about worst-case scenarios. 

After an hour of moping around, Dick decides he can’t take it any longer. He needs to move, do something, get out of this suffocating motel. 

He grabs his jacket and starts running the second he’s out of the parking lot.

Having lost track of time, Dick doesn’t get back to the motel until a little after seven. It’s not that late, but now that it’s October, it’s already starting to get dark. To make matters worse, the familiar black 1990 Mitsubishi Galant is parked out front too, telling him that Bruce is back. Dick wonders what kind of warzone he’s about to walk into, how angry Bruce will be.

Pushing the key into the lock, Dick thinks about what he should say. Should he apologize immediately, explain that he just needed some air and the time got away from him? Or should he pretend not to care, explain that where Dick goes and when isn’t really Bruce’s business? On the one hand, Bruce isn’t his parent so it’s not like Dick owes him an explanation. But on the other hand, it’s Bruce, and he’s been taking care of Dick and he’s like Dick’s—well, he’s Bruce .

Dick opens the door and holds his breath.

“Where were you?” Bruce growls. 

“I went for a run,” Dick says defensively. He mimics Bruce’s posture, crossing his arms over his chest and furrowing his eyebrows so deeply that his eyes start to squint. “Is that okay? Or am I too much of a risk to leave the motel by myself too?”

“I had no idea where you were,” Bruce continues, seemingly ignoring Dick’s comment. “I’ve spent the past hour trying to determine if you were kidnapped or hurt, or if you had simply run away.”

Dick can picture it, Bruce trying to figure out the best next move, who he should call first, if he should call the police. Something close to guilt burrows itself in Dick’s stomach. “Well—I’m fine. And I have nowhere else to go, so.” The statement could be hurtful, but there’s no heat behind Dick’s words.

Bruce sighs and his face relaxes somewhat. He looks like he’s about to say something comforting, but then something catches Bruce’s eye that makes his face twist into a concerned expression. He moves toward Dick, hand reaching out to grab the shoulder of his jacket. “What’s this?”

“Oh.” Dick turns his head to look at the torn fabric. “Some kids were beating up another kid, so I broke it up. One of them had a knife, must’ve nicked my jacket.”

Bruce inspects it a little closer, checking for blood or an injury that isn’t there. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m not completely useless, you know,” Dick says lightly. He’d known a few moves even before Bruce started teaching Dick self-defense. Plus he’s great at creating or being a distraction, and he’s fast —if he can’t take someone hand-to-hand, he can at least annoy them enough to make himself the target and then outrun them.

Bruce is still looking at him, so Dick sighs and pulls away from Bruce. “No, Bruce, I’m not hurt. I’m fine.”

“Hnn.”

Dick takes a seat at the table. There’s an untouched bag of take-out sitting there that’s long gone cold, and next to it is something that could be considered Bruce’s attempt at reparations, or a peace offering: a volume of Spider-Man. One of the older kids at the circus had been really into comics and used to let Dick read them sometimes. His favorites had always been Spider-Man. He’d mentioned this to Bruce in passing a few weeks ago, and Dick had been pretty sure Bruce had only been half listening to him at the time. He wonders when he’ll stop being surprised at how much Bruce actually pays attention, how many small details he remembers. 

Dick asks, “Did you find whatever you were looking for?” 

“Nothing definitive yet. I’ve made some calls.” Bruce sits down next to him. 

“And you’re still not going to let me help? Or tell me what you’re looking for?”

“I will, Dick, I promise. I just need to rule something out first.”

Dick bites his lower lip. “You . . . You think the demon was telling the truth, then?”

Bruce is quiet for a moment. Eventually, he asks, “About which part?”

The part about Dick essentially being a sleeper agent for the Court, the part about Dick having already gone through changes, the part about Haly selling Dick to the Owls, the part about Dick stabbing Bruce in the chest. He decides to start with the least scary part. “The part about the Court using me to spy on us.”

Bruce goes quiet again as he thinks over Dick’s question. “The Court has already shown us that they are capable of finding you when you are in danger. John couldn’t find an active mind link for psychic communication, but the mark may allow for such a link to be activated during selected situations.”

“Like a tripped alarm system,” Dick reasons.

“Yes,” Bruce agrees. “Until now, I had made the assumption that threats to your life were the only situation that would trigger it, but we need to learn more about the link and how much it tells the Court.”

Dick pictures Bruce simply cutting the mark out of Dick’s brain, but he knows it wouldn’t be that easy; the mark isn’t physical. “What do you think the demon meant by me already going through changes?”

“Demons lie,” Bruce says.

“Yeah, but sometimes liars tell the truth. And we have to check everything out, right?” Dick argues.

“I’ve made some calls.”

Meaning: Bruce isn’t going to tell Dick what he thinks that means. He wonders if this is confirmation that Bruce will consider Dick to be a threat until proven otherwise. He wonders if Bruce thought he’d gone rogue when he returned to the motel and found that Dick was missing.

“In the meantime, you need to learn how to prevent psychics and supernatural beings from reading your mind. Even if it is not an issue now, it will be in the future.”

“Okay.” Back at the barn, he’d known the demon was probably reading his mind to some extent, but it isn’t until now that he realizes how much that could have, might have, ruined the interrogation. “And how do I do that?”

Bruce leans further over the table and lowers his voice. “I want you to work with John. He said he would be willing to meet us and practice with you. This is not an easy skill to learn, but it’s necessary.”

“Do you know how to do it?” Dick thinks about how the demon knew things about Bruce’s parents and their death. 

“Yes,” Bruce says simply, and Dick wonders if Bruce let the demon read his mind to distract him from Dick. 

“When can we start? How long will it take to learn?” 

“We’ll start as soon as possible. It will take months if not years to master this skill, but that said, John should be able to help you build a strong enough base within a few weeks.” After a moment, Bruce adds, “Given your circumstances, it’s something you will have to practice and attend to daily, but I can help you with that.”

Not knowing what else to say, Dick says, “Okay.” He has a feeling that this will be harder than mastering the quadruple flip.

“I have a safe house in Colorado that’s close to John’s home. It will be more private,” Bruce says. “We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

Dick nods in acknowledgment, and then they switch gears and start reheating the Chinese food. 

Since joining Bruce on his crusade, Dick’s eaten out a lot more regularly than he used to. As a result, he’s learned which foods reheat best, and Chinese is actually one of the better ones. Dick even likes their fried foods like spring rolls post-microwave. Bruce tries to keep eating out to a minimum, but it can’t be avoided altogether, so Bruce has found ways to make it more balanced. This usually means adding frozen vegetables and fresh fruit and avoiding the fried menu items. But sometimes Bruce makes exceptions, and tonight Dick gets to eat two microwaved spring rolls.

After dinner, Dick flips through the comic book Bruce bought him for a while before getting ready for bed. When he gets out of the bathroom, Bruce has turned all of the lights off aside from a lamp that used to be on the nightstand. Bruce has moved it to the table, where he has several books open along with a notebook.

Dick crosses the room and bumps against Bruce’s shoulder. “Next time I go for a run and you’re not around, I’ll leave a note.”

“That would be appreciated,” Bruce replies, running a highlighter over one of the lines in his notebook.

“And I’m sorry, for worrying you earlier.”

Bruce’s hand pauses, then he drops the highlighter and raises his hand to squeeze Dick’s shoulder. “I know, chum. Get some sleep.”

Dick hums and heads to bed. He tries to sleep, he really does, but nightmares wake him up several times throughout the night. They’re not particularly bad or vivid, and he can’t really remember them once he realizes he’s awake. They’re mostly just confusing, and annoying for interrupting his sleep.

During one of his impromptu waking periods, he realizes the light is on when it had been off the time before. Then he hears Bruce’s voice:

“I’m telling you everything you need to know, Clark,” Bruce says, voice firm and final. A beat passes, and Clark must say something that Bruce doesn’t like because his next response is a growl. “Are you going to help me or not?”

Dick wishes he could open his eyes and see Bruce’s face, but he knows that will be enough to give himself away. On the one hand, he understands Bruce’s concerns and why he wants Dick to take a break from all things Owls related. But on the other hand, Dick is desperate for any kind of news, and if it was really that important to keep out of Dick’s earshot, Bruce would have taken the phone call to the car. 

Bruce huffs. “The target is safe and they’re being monitored,” Bruce says in a monotone, like he’s said this exact phrase too many times before. “They are not presenting any new symptoms, but I still need to know if there’s a way to confirm the demon’s claim that changes are taking place.”

The floor creaks as Bruce paces back and forth, listening to Clark. 

“Have there been reports of any reliable biological markers?” Bruce asks. He hums in response to Clark’s answer, then there’s the sound of a pen scratching against paper. “No, I’ve never run across a Barry Allen before. Can he be trusted?” Bruce pauses as he waits for Clark’s reply. “Alright. Give him this number and have him call me in two days. Is there anything else?”

Clark says something that makes Bruce sigh, and Dick can just tell he’s rubbing his hand over his eyes in frustration, annoyance. “Clark, stop asking. Sharing as few details as possible is necessary for his safety, not to mention yours.” Bruce pauses, and Dick feels eyes on his back. “He’s fine. Sleeping.” Another pause. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Bruce must hang up because he doesn’t say anything after that. 

Soon, the lamp goes out and Bruce’s footsteps sound across the room as he walks back to the beds. But because he’s a big softie, he first pulls Dick’s covers back over his shoulders and runs a hand through Dick’s hair before finally lying down in his own bed and falling asleep.

Dick, however, does not sleep. He tosses and turns and tries desperately to sleep, but it doesn’t come. This is not a new issue; even on nights without nightmares, he sometimes finds it difficult to sleep. He tries until the sun rises, and then he gives up. He reads the rest of his comic book and does his homework until Bruce eventually wakes up.

A fun fact about Bruce: He’s not a morning person—at all. He’ll say things like We’re leaving first thing in the morning , and while on the rare occasion that does mean leaving close to sunrise, more often than not it means leaving around ten, sometimes even as late as eleven. Today, Bruce wakes up around ten and they check out of the motel thirty minutes later. 

Before they leave town, Bruce takes out some cash from an ATM and they return their library books. 

Around this time, Dick’s post-sleepless night random burst of energy has started to wear off. Bruce “not a morning person” Wayne is somehow still less energized than Dick, and he’s only speaking in one-word sentences and grunts between sips of coffee. He’d made a pot before leaving and poured it into the X Files travel mug Dick had bought him as a joke.

“Does coffee work?” Dick asks him. 

Bruce takes another sip, says, “Somewhat.”

“Maybe you should try sleeping more. I read somewhere that people who get enough sleep are less tired,” Dick teases.

“Brat.” 

Dick cracks a grin. Reaching for the mug, which is momentarily sitting in the cupholder, he asks, “Can I try some?”

“If you’re tired, you should sleep.”

“I’m fine,” Dick groans in pseudo-annoyance. “‘Sides, who would make sure you didn’t get us lost?”

“You are aware that I have navigated on my own and survived.”

“Yeah, barely ,” Dick says, cracking another grin. “Hey, maybe you should just let me drive? That way you could sleep in the back, and we could stop blowing all of our funds on coffee.”

With a straight face, Bruce says, “I didn’t realize you were tall enough to reach the pedals.”

“Hey!” Dick shouts in mock protest. “I may be short, but I’m not that short.”

Bruce chuckles, and Dick ducks his head and tries to suppress a smile.

After a minute, Dick says, “So—coffee?”

“Go ahead, but you won’t like it.”

Dick takes a sip, and Bruce is right: despite its pleasant smell, coffee is just hot, bitter water. But to avoid giving Bruce that satisfaction, he takes another sip and says, “It’s alright.” The second sip isn’t as bad, but he probably won’t start drinking it unless he’s desperate. It would probably taste better—maybe even good, maybe even worth drinking—with some milk and sugar. His parents hadn’t been huge coffee drinkers, but when they did drink it, Dick remembers them adding milk and sugar.

Bruce doesn’t say anything, just takes his coffee back. After a long sip, he sets it back down. “You had trouble sleeping last night.” It’s an observation, not a question. Bruce probably also knows that Dick heard his phone call last night because Bruce .

Dick shrugs and watches the road. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Has the insomnia been getting worse?”

“I don’t know, maybe.” It has been, but Dick can handle it. And Bruce said that sleep disturbances are common after loss. After trauma. It will get better, though, Dick keeps telling himself that it will get better.

“We’ll be in Colorado for a few weeks. Being able to follow a regular sleep schedule should help,” Bruce says.

Bruce is starting to sound like a broken record player, telling Dick how important routine is for treating sleep difficulties. Their lifestyle doesn’t exactly lend itself to consistency, but Dick’s been trying his best. Honestly, though, a few sleepless nights every so often isn’t a big deal. If that’s the trade-off for doing this, he’s more than okay with it.

“Some people have also found melatonin to be helpful.”

Dick rolls his eyes. “You better be a doctor or something with all this medical advice you’re handing out. Can I see your medical license, mister?” Another fun fact about Bruce: He used to be in medical school, as in he dropped out of medical school. Dick is never going to forget this detail, and he plans to bring it up at every given opportunity. 

“Brat,” Bruce says again, this time mumbling the term of endearment into his coffee. 

Dick laughs, and the topic is dropped for the rest of the drive. After a few minutes of silence, he takes control of the radio, fiddling with it for a minute until he finds a decent station. When he starts singing along, he even catches Bruce show a rare smile. That glimpse of normality is enough to make it seem like everything will be okay. For a moment, they can pretend that he’s not hiding from gods. For a moment, they can pretend they’re just a normal family going to a cabin for a vacation and nothing more.

Chapter Text

When they get to the safe house later that evening, the first thing Bruce does is call Alfred. Bruce never talks about work—about their cases—with him, and he’s never mentioned Dick’s situation either. Despite this, Dick gets the feeling that Alfred knows more than he lets on, and he’s sure Bruce gets the same feeling. But no one talks about it. Bruce keeps up the pretense that he’s working as a traveling private investigator—which isn’t technically a lie—and Alfred pretends to buy it. This way they don’t have to argue over how Bruce spends his time (well—not too much, anyway). 

After the phone call, he and Bruce search the pantry and make chili with the canned tomatoes, beans, and corn they find. It would be better if they had let it simmer longer, but they’re too hungry to wait. It’s not bad, though, and Dick has no problem cleaning his bowl.

They stick the leftover chili in the fridge and start washing the dishes while they wait for John to arrive. Dick keeps checking the clock—not even seven thirty—wondering how early is too early to call it a night. He hadn’t been able to nap at all in the car, so he’s still exhausted from his mostly sleepless night.

He starts when he hears his name. “Huh?” Dick asks, turning toward Bruce.

“You dropped your sponge,” Bruce repeats.

Dick blinks and sees that he has indeed dropped the sponge in the sink. “Oh.” He picks it up and gets back to scrubbing. “What time is John going to get here again?”

Bruce looks at the clock. “Soon. But if you’re tired, you can take a nap. We can talk first, and I’ll wake you up before he does the reading.”

“It’s fine, I can wait.” Dick’s had two, maybe three, hours of sleep in the past thirty-six hours. He’s gone longer without sleep, and he’s seen Bruce go longer without even showing signs of sleep deprivation, but for some reason, this bout of insomnia has really taken it out of Dick. Maybe it’s combining with the stress of their road trip to Kansas, and the memories and fears it brought up. “Do you ever have trouble sleeping?”

“Occasionally,” Bruce says. “It’s gotten better over the past few years.”

“That’s good.” Bruce takes the pot from him, and Dick hops up on the counter and watches him remove the stubborn bits of tomato that have baked onto the sides of the pot. “Wanna play cards or something when we’re done with this?”

They both turn their heads when they hear a knock on the door.

“Or maybe not.” Dick slides off the counter and jogs toward the door, calling, “Coming!” as he goes.

When he opens the door, John is standing there with a warm smile.

“Hello, Dick,” he says. “It is good to see you again.”

“Yeah, you too,” Dick says, smiling back. He opens the door wider and gestures for John to come in. “Bruce is in the kitchen,” he explains, leading John through the house.

They all take a seat around the kitchen table, and Bruce updates John on the situation—mainly the demon’s claims that (1) Dick is going through changes and (2) the Court can use him as a spy. Shortly after that, they move to the living room and have Dick sit on the couch while John does his reading. It makes Dick feel dizzy and tingly, but he can’t remember if that had happened last time or not. Thankfully, it’s over within a few minutes.

“They are not currently using their mark to read your mind,” John concludes. Bruce’s posture doesn’t change, but Dick visibly relaxes.

“Nothing has changed, then?” Bruce prompts.

“Not exactly,” John says. “The link has been . . . altered, to some extent. Previously, the mark only allowed for tracking, not true mind reading. But now I believe that it is strong enough to be used to read his thoughts as well. That said, it is still very weak. The task would be difficult, and Dick would be aware of their presence.”

The tension in Dick’s shoulders returns, and he has to intentionally lower them away from his ears. “Will the link keep getting stronger?” Dick asks, thinking that this mark sounds more like a growing tumor. 

“I imagine so, yes,” John says. “If this is the change the demon was referring to, I believe he was telling the truth. But luckily the changes seem to be happening at a slow rate, so we will have time to teach you how to protect yourself.

“Can you sense any other changes?” Bruce asks.

John shakes his head. “No, only the mark’s capabilities have changed.” John turns to Dick. “You are still completely yourself.”

Dick wishes he could say that he hadn’t been worried about that—that he might be turning into a monster and couldn't even tell—but there’s no point in lying to a mind reader. 

“It is good that you called me,” John says with a sense of finality. “We will begin the lessons tomorrow, after Dick has rested.”

Dick, thankfully, is able to get a full night of sleep, and the next morning he gets up around the same time as Bruce (meaning: late) and is feeling much better. That is, of course, until the training begins. Bruce and John had warned him that it would be exhausting, but it manages to be even worse than Dick had expected.

John starts their session by taking a baseline measure of how well Dick can block attempts to enter his mind. Dick is given no instruction, and John is able to easily overthrow Dick’s efforts and access his memories with ease. It’s a shock to be thrown into an old, happy memory of building sandcastles on a beach with his parents.

John gives him some tips after that and encourages him to keep trying even once a memory has been accessed. By the end of the session, Dick has improved somewhat, but at no point had he been able to block John from accessing his mind or throw him out once he’d gotten in. Bruce and John assure him that that’s normal, but it doesn’t make Dick feel any less like a failure, and he isn’t exactly looking forward to the second session planned for this evening.

They suggest that he go to his room to lie down and finish recuperating, and Dick is happy for the excuse to be alone. In addition to being completely worn out, he feels raw and vulnerable; not all of the memories John accessed had been happy.

After a late lunch, Bruce guides Dick through a meditation session. It’s not exactly Dick’s thing, but Bruce insists that improving his focus, attention, and ability to clear his mind are all necessary to successfully block someone from breaking into his brain, and Dick can’t really argue with that point. 

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asks once they’re finished.

Dick blinks, trying to figure that out. He feels like a contradiction: his mind feels more relaxed than it did before meditating, but after sitting in one place literally doing nothing for an hour, he’s feeling restless. “Okay. Just a long day, I guess.” And it’s not even three o’clock.

Bruce nods knowingly. “If it gets to be too much, or if you need a break—”

“I know, B.” Even though this is time-sensitive, Bruce would never put Dick through something he couldn’t handle; he wouldn’t want to hurt him by pushing too hard too fast. Dick lists to the side until his head rests against Bruce’s shoulder. “I’m fine, though, really. Just tired.”

“Hmm.” 

“Can I ask you something about the Court?” 

Bruce considers this. “I suppose.”

Dick twists the hem of his shirt. “Why did you think they had something to do with your parents’ deaths?”

There’s a long pause, and for a moment, Dick thinks Bruce won’t answer. But then he takes a breath and begins to speak. “I . . . the way my parents were killed, I had trouble accepting that it was a random mugging,” Bruce explains. “Afterward, I needed to find a reason for their death, some kind of meaning. The Court of Owls filled that need. I spent months investigating them, but from my research at the time, I incorrectly concluded that the Court did not exist. I was right that they had no connection to my parents’ case, however.”

“Is that how you learned about the supernatural and everything?”

Bruce’s muscles tense beneath Dick’s temple, but Dick doesn’t move. 

“No,” Bruce says, and he doesn’t say anything else for a few moments. “My investigation only involved the Court, and there were many rumors surrounding what supernatural beings, if any, made up their group. But there was no solid evidence for any of them, and the accounts I found were unreliable for various reasons. When I determined that the Court did not exist, I wrongly assumed that the other supernatural beings did not exist either.”

Dick knew that Bruce’s parents’ murder was a cold case for some time, and Dick can only imagine how painful it must have been to have no answers. How desperate and lost Bruce must have felt. Bruce doesn’t talk about his childhood often, but when he does, it almost always paints a sad picture. 

Dick asks, “How did you become a hunter then?”

“When I was in medical school, my friend was attacked by a werewolf. I haven’t stopped hunting since.”

Dick feels his eyes go wide, and he raises his head to look at Bruce. “Geez,” he breathes. “Are they okay?”

“. . . Yes, but—” Bruce shakes his head, closes his eyes. “It’s not—it’s not that simple.”

Dick wants to call Bruce out for being so cryptic, but Dick also knows how awful it is to be forced to talk about something that he’d rather keep hidden. So instead, he pushes his curiosity down and leans against Bruce’s side once more. 

“Sorry about your friend,” he says. Because no matter what happened, a werewolf attack isn’t something people just bounce back from without repercussions. 

Bruce tilts his head so that his cheek rests on top of Dick’s head. “Thank you.”

They sit there like that for a long time. At some point when Dick is half asleep, Bruce scoops him up and carries him to the couch. He sits with him and they watch Full House reruns until John calls him for their second session.

Sometime during Dick’s third mind-reading defense lesson, Bruce receives a phone call from Barry Allen, a forensic scientist who happens to also be a monster hunter. According to Bruce, he has some promising findings suggesting that demon possession temporarily changes blood composition. Barry is trying to use this to create a pill that could block possession altogether. And while this research is interesting, Bruce is more interested in his general expertise and his lab. 

Why? Because Bruce believes that since talons go through physiological changes, this will be reflected in their biology, in their blood. So, if Dick is already going through changes—changes unrelated to the mark—distinctions should already be present in his blood.

This is (potentially) good news: they might have a way to tell if Dick’s becoming a talon, and if it’s largely a biological process, they might be able to find a way to block and/or reverse it. This, Dick realizes, is the absolute best case scenario. Worst case scenario, however, is that nothing changes. But Dick is hopeful; between his new training and a potential cure, he’s starting to think that he might actually survive this. Maybe he could even go home, stay with Haly and perform again.

“When do we leave?” Dick asks. A minute ago he’d been shaky and ready to collapse, but now he’s full of adrenaline and ready to pack his bags. “How far away is he?”

Bruce raises his hand, telling Dick to slow down. “He’s currently out of town and won’t be able to meet us until next Sunday. He lives in Missouri.”

Eight days. He can wait eight days.

In the meantime, he’s kept busy with his two daily sessions with John, the series of exercises John has given him to practice on his own, daily meditation sessions with Bruce, and watching for the surprise attacks John warned him he would start doing to test Dick’s abilities. It’s a lot, and by day four, Dick is running a mild fever.

“Maybe I’m just getting a cold,” Dick says from where he’s still sitting on the couch. “People can get sick, you know. Not everything is an omen.” Sometimes bad things happen for no reason, sometimes black pins are just black pins.

“I’ve never done this kind of training with someone quite so young,” John murmurs, facing Bruce. “Perhaps it is too taxing for him.”

“I’m right here,” Dick pipes up angrily. “And I’m not that young—I’m almost thirteen!”

Bruce makes a point of looking at him, then looks back at John. “We could cut back on the intensity and frequency to give his mind more time to recover.”

“ Or we could keep doing what we’re doing. Take a wait and see approach,” Dick continues. “I mean, it’s one fever. I think I’ll be okay.”

This time when Bruce turns to face him, there’s sympathy written on his face. “This isn’t your fault.”

“I know,” Dick grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest with a huff. In reality, though, he can’t help feeling guilty, like a failure. 

“Even if you are correct and it is only a cold, it’s best not to push yourself when you are ill. This is a very delicate process,” John argues. “You are doing very well, and a short break will not erase your progress.”

Dick still can’t keep John out of his head, so he’s not sure what he means by progress. He knows it’s only been a few days, but with the Court, things could change overnight. And John has to leave in a few weeks. This is Dick’s only chance. “I want to keep going. I feel okay.”

“Dick—”

“No!” Dick shouts and slams his hands down against the couch. “I have to do this. Please . I don’t want the Owls in my head.”

Bruce and John look at each other, and then John leaves the room.

Bruce kneels in front of Dick. “I know this is difficult, but destroying yourself won’t help.”

“It’s a fever ,” Dick says. “A mild fever. I know you didn’t finish medical school, but those aren’t typically deadly.”

Bruce slowly breathes in and out before responding. “We can still meet with Barry this weekend. This won’t affect that.”

“I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about this stupid mark. Do you know what it’s like for someone to be able to read your mind whenever they want? Do you know what it's like for your presence to be a threat to everyone around you?”

“You’re not a threat,” Bruce says immediately, almost defensively.

“I am if I don’t do this.”

Bruce runs a hand over his face, sighs. “If the fever becomes severe, we stop. Clear?”

“Clear.”

And so Dick gets to keep training. 

Friday morning, Dick is able to throw John out of one of his memories and they celebrate with a movie. A few hours later, the fever is higher, but not hospital-level severe, and Dick has a headache. He agrees to skip their evening session and focus on the Missouri trip. They leave before dinner, and Dick must fall asleep in the car because next thing he knows, it’s morning and he’s waking up in a motel bed.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asks when he sees that Dick is awake.

“Better,” Dick says, and it’s the truth. The headache is gone, and the fever doesn’t seem as intense. The back of Bruce’s hand quickly confirms the latter. 

He must still be making Bruce a little nervous, though, because he fixes Dick’s breakfast and lets him eat it in bed. But it also must not be that bad because he lets Dick navigate instead of insisting he rest in the back.

On Sunday, he feels pretty much back to normal, and the remnants of fever have completely vanished. When they’re about an hour and a half away from Barry’s house, Bruce pulls into a rest stop. They’re the only ones there, and Bruce selects a spot that’s slightly obscured by bushes.

“We need a blood sample,” Bruce explains, getting out of the car, likely to fetch a blood collection kit.

Dick scrunches his nose, calling after him, “Why can’t we just do it there?”

“I don’t want him to know that it’s yours,” Bruce explains when he returns, kit in hand. “The fewer people who know about this, the safer everyone is.”

Dick’s stomach twists; he doesn’t like having to be hidden like this, as much as he understands and agrees with Bruce’s reasoning. 

“Fine.” He pulls his sweatshirt over his head so that he’s just in his t-shirt and holds his arm out, palm side up, for Bruce to take. 

Bruce wraps a tourniquet around Dick’s bicep and swabs the crook of his arm with an alcohol pad. Dick remains still and watches as Bruce pushes the needle through his skin, removes the tourniquet, and begins to fill test tube after test tube with his dark red blood. 

Once all of the tubes are filled, Bruce slides the needle out with ease. He presses a piece of gauze against Dick’s arm, then wraps it with medical tape. Dick feels slightly dizzy, though he isn’t sure if it’s the amount of blood Bruce took or simply seeing the row of blood-filled tubes. He pulls his sweatshirt back over his head and carefully pulls it down his arm so as not to disturb the bandage.

“Are you alright?” Bruce asks.

“Yeah.” There’s a slight shake to Dick’s voice.

Bruce gathers the tubes and gets out of the car. He pops the trunk, and Dick can only guess that he has some kind of storage device back there to put them in. 

When Bruce comes back, he has a juice box and pretzels for Dick. He passes it to him wordlessly, and Dick pulls the straw off of the back, tearing the plastic cover off with his teeth—“Don’t do that,” Bruce berates—and poking the straw’s tip through the foil. He takes a sip: orange.

Dick spends the rest of the drive eating pretzels and drinking his juice, doing homework, and occasionally double-checking directions for Bruce. Before they get there, Dick takes off the bandage around his arm and, because Bruce is paranoid, hides the small dot of discoloured skin with a smear of foundation. Despite this prevention measure, he’s still instructed to keep his sweatshirt on and pulled over his arm at all times. Dick rolls his eyes—“Yeah, if they saw that we were trying to hide something this small and unimportant, we’d blow our cover and then everyone would know we’re nuts.”—but promises to follow Bruce’s orders all the same.

Assured that Dick will follow his rules, the two of them finally get out of the car. It’s cold enough to wear a coat, or at least a jacket, but Dick leaves his in the car, not wanting to tote it with him. Bruce never took his off, so he’s still wearing it when they get to Barry’s porch and ring the doorbell. 

Barry doesn't answer fast enough, so Bruce starts knocking. It’s so long that Dick probably would've done the same, but he’s been entrusted with holding the container full of blood samples.

Barry answers the door with a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that, I was finishing up processing another sample.” He holds the door open and lets them pass. “I’m Barry.” He shakes Bruce’s hand. “Nice to finally meet you, I’ve heard good things.”

“Hnn. Thank you for agreeing to help.”

“Of course.” Barry smiles again, then turns toward Dick. “And who’s this? Clark didn’t mention that you had a kid.”

Bruce doesn’t confirm or deny his connection to Dick; as usual, he ignores the comment altogether. “I’d like to get started as soon as possible.”

“I’m Dick,” he says, smiling back. He gestures with his chin toward the container. “He keeps me around for free labor.”

Barry laughs at the joke, and Bruce sighs.

“Well, no need to bore you to death while we look over the samples. My nephew is actually over, so you two can play together—or hang out, I guess.” Barry turns toward the stairs, calls, “Wally!”

“Does he know?” Bruce asks quietly. “What you do.”

“Oh yeah, he found some of my notes a few months ago,” Barry says absently. With no response from upstairs, he calls again, this time louder. “Wally!”

“I said ‘what’,” a voice calls back, slightly annoyed.

“Could you come here a minute?” Barry asks.

A door opens and shuts, and then footsteps. Soon a teenager with red hair appears and makes his way down the stairs. “Hi,” he says when he sees Bruce and Dick.

“This is Bruce, I’m helping him out with a case,” Barry says, and Wally nods knowingly. “And this is Dick. Think you could keep him company while we work.”

“Sure. Wanna play Mortal Kombat?” 

Dick looks over his shoulder to check with Bruce, who gives a small nod. Dick hands Bruce the container of blood samples, and then he and Wally race off to a room down the hall where there’s a sectional and a TV with a PlayStation already plugged in.

For a few hours, Dick gets a taste of what life was like before his family was hexed. He’s able to relax and joke around in a way that’s difficult to do when he’s traveling from city to city to fight all of the secret horrors of the world. But while he’s playing video games with Wally and trading lighthearted stories, all things supernatural seem to fade to the background and the Court can’t touch him. For a few hours, Dick is a kid. 

But all good things come to an end, and soon reality is waiting to punch him in the gut. He feels like he’s walking to the gallows when Bruce collects him and brings him down to the lab to show him the results.

“We found traces of non-human DNA in some of your cells.” Bruce has always been good at getting to the point.

“Oh.” Despite being prepared for the punch, Dick is left breathless and wanting to vomit. In an instant, the happiness and normalcy Dick felt while hanging out with Wally disappears. At least no one but Bruce is here to see his reaction.

“After some further testing, we determined that there is something foreign in your blood,” Bruce continues. “Our current theory is that some kind of serum was introduced, which is working to alter your DNA.”

“They drugged me?” Dick asks, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion.

“I don’t know how it was introduced, but in a way, yes.”

Dick swallows. “Can we counteract it?”

“Allen is going to keep studying it, but that is unlikely.”

“Oh.”

“We’ll do another blood test in a month or so to measure its progress,” Bruce says. “I’m sorry I don’t have better news.”

So is Dick. “How severe are the changes?”  

“At this point, they are very minimal. Allen thinks most of the changes are enhancements. More sensitive hearing or faster speed, for example.”

Dick pulls his knees up to his chest and leans his chin against them. “Lucky me,” he mutters.

“Dick, we’ll figure something out. I promise.”

“Right.” 

While Dick is sure Bruce will keep trying, Dick also knows that there’s no guarantee that anything will work. Not the way Dick wants it to. And right now, all they know for certain is that Dick is already part talon and they have no way to stop him from turning into a complete monster.

Chapter Text

After two more weeks of intensive training, Dick is deemed psychically strong enough to continue practicing on his own and John goes home. At this point, Dick and Bruce have confirmed most of the demon’s claims, and the ones they haven’t are related to the Court’s history and influence. It’s research that can be done anywhere at any time, not something that requires immediate or complete attention. So for now, they go back on the road, back to taking cases. 

Dick wasn’t sure how he would feel once the Court leads stopped coming and they would have to go back to how things were prior to the Kansas lead. Leaving the cabin knowing that the Court has been more or less shelved for now, Dick doesn’t feel frustrated or lost or scared or angry like he might’ve guessed he would. Instead, he just shrugs and gets on with his life. After all, what else can he really do? Yes things have changed—and mostly for the better, Dick reminds himself; having knowledge is always better than being left in the dark, even if the knowledge doesn’t necessarily bode well—but it’s funny how quickly things return to normal. How sometimes change feels like a brief, forgettable rest stop on a long car trip.

And mostly, Dick thinks he’s ready to go back to normal, happy for the distraction it offers. Because as much as he wants to stop the Court, focusing on the Court day and night without pause for weeks has been. Difficult. Perhaps a break will be good for him, give him a chance to clear his head and actually process all of the information he’s gained. All of the new fears he’s housing.

Right now, Dick’s distraction involves brushing up on werewolf lore for their current hunt. Bruce has fought them before, but this is Dick’s first werewolf case and Bruce wants him to take the lead. On the research front anyway; if Bruce gets his way, Dick won’t be within fifty feet of the werewolf. 

They’re three days into the hunt, and Dick’s spent most of that time reading. He’s just about ready to tear his hair out because of all of the conflicting information he’s read: one report claims that werewolves can be cured, while another says the only solution is to kill them. Even methods of killing differ: some claim that they can only be killed by silver, while another says that while they’re resilient and difficult to wound, they’re not truly invincible and any method can work with enough determination. 

Most of the books and articles Dick reads focus on killing them rather than merely subduing them. It feels wrong, though. Werewolves are fully human most of the time, only transforming three nights each month. It’s also hard to prove that they hurt or kill people on purpose; Dick thinks it’s very possible that they attack when they’re scared, reacting instinctively to protect themselves.  

Dick has also yet to read a personal account from a werewolf, but he’s not entirely convinced that they understand what’s happening, what they’re doing. They might not remember upon returning to their human form, or they might think they’ve been sleepwalking and experiencing very vivid nightmares. Maybe explaining that what’s been happening and what will continue to happen is real would be enough for them to recognize it when it’s happening in the future, allowing them to prevent themselves from hurting people. Like that moment when someone realizes they’re dreaming and then wakes up.

Not able to take it anymore, Dick closes his book with disgust. All the book could talk about was how to kill werewolves and why it’s important to kill them before they’ve gotten a taste for human flesh (meaning: before they’ve done anything wrong, anything to warrant an attack).

Bruce hasn’t given him much guidance yet, insisting that Dick needs to learn the basics before they can have a proper discussion. Dick decides he’s learned enough. 

“What are you going to do when you find the werewolf?” Dick asks. “Like, how are you going to stop them?”

Bruce doesn’t look up from where he’s sorting through newspaper clippings. “What tactic would you recommend?”

Dick pushes his hair back. “The so-called cures I was able to find seem iffy at best, and most of them wind up killing the werewolf anyway.” 

“Hmm. So what do you propose?”

Dick leans back in his chair with a huff. “I think you should try talking to them. In their human form.” It’s the only tactic Dick feels completely comfortable with. 

“I see. And what would you have me say?”

“Show them the evidence, tell them they need to try to control it.” 

Bruce considers this for a moment, and for a hopeful second, Dick actually thinks he’s going to share how they can teach a werewolf to control their transformations. But instead, Bruce continues with his nonsense. “How?”

Dick leans forward against the table, hands in his hair. “I don’t know.”

“How many days left until the transformations stop?” Bruce tries instead.

“Two,” Dick says, tilting his head up to rest his chin on his folded arms. “But we could stay here and watch them for the rest of their cycle, protect anyone who crosses their path in the meantime, and then take as much time as we need to try to talk to them and find a solution.”

“That is a very time-consuming method, and it does not guarantee anyone’s safety,” Bruce points out. 

Dick drops his head back against the table with a thunk. “Then what do you think we should do?”

"What other options have you come across in your research?”

Something in Dick’s gut twists. “Intentionally killing them was mentioned a lot. Most often it’s done in their werewolf form, but doing it while they’re in their human form is safer for the hunter. Silver can harm and kill them, so can Wolfsbane in a high enough dose, but I’m not sure if we’ll be able to find that. A few reports have claimed success with any method of killing, it usually just takes a more extreme injury.”

“Hnn.”

Dick looks up, glaring. “So that’s it? You’re just gonna kill them? You said we don’t kill people, that’s your rule, and werewolves seem more human than not to me.”

Bruce blinks, holding Dick’s eyes for a moment. “We don’t kill people,” Bruce agrees in a firm voice, “and I never said that I was planning to kill this werewolf.”

“But you’re not against it?”

“You need to know what all of your options are,” Bruce says. “Not every case is the same; even fighting the same monster can require different methods depending upon the circumstances.”

“I know.”

“There are some werewolves that have no trace of humanity left,” Bruce continues. “One of note turned to cannibalism even while in their so-called human form. They lived in the woods with no recollection of their past, and their family barely recognized them. It was like they had been possessed by an external evil entity.” Bruce pauses, trying to find a way to voice his thoughts. “The human had already been murdered, its body, its corpse, had been possessed. Would you argue that killing a werewolf like that would be killing a person?”

Quietly, Dick says, “No, I guess not.” 

“Situations like that are not murder; no additional life is being taken because there is nothing left. If anything, it would be more cruel to allow them to continue existing in that state.” 

A mercy killing, Dick concludes. 

“That was an extreme example. I’ve only come across one and may never come across another. Still, you need to know that it’s a possibility and how to prepare for it. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Dick says, not meeting Bruce’s stare.

Bruce goes back to his news articles and Dick huffs.

“Have you ever heard of a werewolf being cured?” Dick asks, not letting his residual anger leak into his voice. “And don’t tell me to find out myself—you’re basically a primary source, so asking you is research.”

A beat passes as Bruce considers this. Then, “I’ve never been able to verify that a true cure exists, but that doesn’t rule out that one does, or that trying cures is a waste of time.” 

“Right. But?”

Bruce sighs. “Not all werewolves will want to be cured, Dick.”

“But if they’re hurting people, is it really up to them whether or not they’re cured?” Dick can see how some might view their situation in a positive light and want to keep their new abilities, but both harmless and evil werewolves could think along those lines.

“No, I suppose not. But at what point do you force a cure?” Bruce asks. “Do you place greater weight on what could happen, or what has already happened? Should we take intentions and level of remorse into account? What if they are a first-time offender and promise to do better, should we always give them a second chance?”

It sounds like another one of Bruce’s philosophical thought experiments. 

“I don’t know,” Dick says again, voice quiet and defeated. “I just don’t think they can all be evil.” And how can he hold someone accountable for their actions if they’re not in control of them in the first place? How can he call someone evil if they don’t want to be? 

“I wouldn’t argue that all werewolves are evil either, but just like humans, not all of them are going to be good.” 

“Right, and I get that. But even the ones that seem evil—it’s not their fault, is it?” Dick asks. He feels his heart pound in his chest as he voices the question that’s been haunting him during this whole case. “Most of the werewolves I came across had no record of criminal behavior. It’s only while they’re in their werewolf form that they attack people. Doesn’t that mean that they probably don’t want to do this?” It’s instinct, or some outside force taking control. An external evil entity. “That they don’t have a choice?”

Bruce pauses for a moment, thinking. Carefully, he says, “Whether they are truly evil or in control of their actions is beside the point: if they’re hurting people, we have to intervene.”

“Is killing the only way to stop them, though?” 

“What do you think?”

Dick thinks he’s about to explode and storm off. But instead he exhales loudly, says, “No. I don’t think so. But maybe it’s necessary, in certain situations.” Situations where humanity is completely lost, where someone is beyond recognition and can’t even reach for a helping hand. Situations where the werewolf half takes over the human half and they become rabid. 

(Dick wonders if something similar happens to talons. If he’ll eventually be in that situation, and if he’ll embrace it when the time comes.)

Bruce nods, seemingly satisfied with Dick’s answer. “As a hunter, it’s your responsibility to think about these issues carefully. You need to consider how you should handle all possible scenarios before you’re in the thick of it. And not everything is straightforward; things rarely are.”

“I don’t want to kill,” Dick says. It makes him feel uncomfortable, just thinking about it. “It feels so . . . final.” So powerful, and in a bad way. It makes his skin crawl, the thought of taking a life.

“I’m not asking you to.”

“So you’ll try talking to them first?” Dick asks, leaning forward in his seat. “The werewolf?”

“That has always been my plan,” Bruce explains. “But I wanted to hear your thoughts and reasoning.”

A test to see if Dick is using his critical thinking skills, maybe a way to see if Dick’s morals have been tainted by the Court’s serum. 

“I read about a potion that can help people control themselves when they’re in their werewolf form,” Dick says. He grabs the book he thinks he read it in and begins to flip through the pages until he finds it: Wolfsbane Potion. He pushes the open book across the table toward Bruce. “Do you think it actually works?”

Bruce takes the book, and Dick watches as his eyes move back and forth over the page. “It’s possible. We won’t be able to track down all of the ingredients before tonight, but when I talk to them tomorrow, I can mention this as a possibility.”

“Have you ever heard of it before?”

“Yes. However, this passage incorrectly assumes that Wolfsbane Potion works perfectly and consistently for every person who takes it.”

“I take it that hasn’t been your experience?”

Bruce shakes his head, bookmarks the page before closing the book. “It works like any other medication; the degree it helps varies from person to person.”

From all the conflicting information Dick has read, he wonders if there are actually different forms of werewolfism. It could explain the different forms of attacks and reactions to potions, not to mention the conflicting reports of symptoms: some are docile while others are extremely hostile; some can’t remember anything after they’ve returned to their human state while others remember everything; some have less hair. This could easily indicate different severities, sure, but maybe there are distinct yet related types as well. 

“Still worth a shot though, right?” Dick asks optimistically. 

“Yes.” Bruce stands, walks toward Dick’s side of the table and rests his hand on Dick’s hair. “Good work, Dick.”

Bruce leaves at sunset with intentions for a stakeout, planning to collect some evidence of the transformation, observe, and make sure no one gets hurt. He’s mostly successful, except for the last one: at sunrise, he comes back to the motel bruised and bloody. His normally quiet steps are loud and heavy too, and Dick’s not even fully awake when he scrambles out of bed to find the first aid kit.

“Shit, Bruce,” Dick says, quickly scanning him from head to toe. Sweat gathers on his palms, and his heart beats quickly behind his chest. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Don’t swear,” Bruce scolds.

“Hypocrite. You swear all the time,” Dick says, though he knows he’s exaggerating. “And since when do you even care?” The question is redundant, but Dick knows the answer anyway: Bruce cares about these pointless, mundane nothings when he’s scared that he’s messing Dick up by letting him see stuff like this; when he gets himself cut open and thinks he can make up for letting Dick see something so traumatizing by not letting him swear or see R-rated movies for a week.

“First aid kit,” Bruce grunts, curling his arm a little closer to his chest.

“I have it, I have it,” Dick says, holding up the kit and flicking on an extra lamp. He guides Bruce to a bed and pushes him down, pressing a clean towel over Bruce’s arm, which has the biggest gash and is bleeding sluggishly. “Were you bit?” From Dick’s research, people turn into werewolves when another werewolf’s saliva comes into contact with their blood—meaning: they have to be bit to be infected. 

Bruce shakes his head. “Just a scratch.”

Okay, no bites—Dick can probably relax a little. But Bruce is still covered in blood and mud, and he seems almost dazed. He also has twigs and leaves stuck in his hair, on his shirt, telling Dick that he was probably in the woods. Maybe he fell or was pushed, dragged. “Care to elaborate? ‘Cause no offense B, but you don’t look so great. I’d guess it was more than just one little scratch.” Looking at the arm, “scratch” isn’t even an accurate term. Dick would say it’s somewhere between sliced and shredded.  

“When I tried to step back to avoid a second attack, I tripped and fell down a hill. That’s how I obtained most of my injuries,” Bruce explains. 

And judging by the amount of debris, scrapes, and cuts, the fall hadn’t been short or smooth. “Did you hit your head?”

“Hnn.”

For a moment, panic flutters in Dick’s stomach. But then he takes a breath and tries to recall everything Bruce taught him about concussions and wound cleaning. “Right. Arm first. It’ll need stitches?” 

“Hnn,” Bruce says again, eyes closed.

“Okay, big guy, just sit tight, I’ll take care of it.”

Dick fills a basin with water and grabs a few more towels before he starts to clean Bruce’s arm. Once the layer of blood and dirt is removed, the wound doesn’t actually look that bad. Not just a scratch, but definitely not shredded. It still needs stitches, though, so Dick grabs the disinfectant and applies it to the cut and surrounding skin. Bruce hisses at the sting, and Dick does his best to ignore it and begins to stitch him up. It’s daunting, holding that needle and sewing Bruce’s skin back together, but he tries to pretend it’s just a more realistic version of the silicone suture pad Bruce bought him a few months ago to practice on.

A minute later, Dick ties off the last stitch and examines his work. The stitches aren’t perfect, but Bruce won’t bleed out—they’re good enough. He wraps a bandage around them and calls it a day.

One injury taken care of, Dick brings his attention back to the possibility of a head wound. He asks Bruce questions and shines a light in his eyes and makes him follow Dick’s finger with his eyes. By the end of the evaluation, Dick concludes that Bruce has a mild concussion. He grabs an ice pack for the bump and convinces Bruce to take some ibuprofen. 

“Does anything else hurt?” Dick asks.

Bruce grunts, but whether it’s a “no” grunt or a “leave me alone” grunt, Dick can’t tell. At the very least, he takes it to mean there’s no hidden injury that will kill Bruce in the middle of the night.

Dick doesn’t pester Bruce with any more questions, simply moves on to cleaning and bandaging the smaller cuts Bruce gained from rolling down a trail covered in rocks and tree roots. Once he’s done, he turns off the lights and cleans up the motel by the early morning light creeping in through the cheap motel blinds while Bruce sleeps. 

Dick’s heating up lunch in the microwave when Bruce finally decides to get up. He’s still speaking in grunts, and Dick notices that he’s limping.

“Do you want soup?” Dick asks. 

Bruce grunts and sits down at the table. Dick places a steaming bowl in front of him along with a sleeve of crackers. 

“How are you feeling?” Dick asks. 

“Fine.” Bruce swallows a spoonful of soup. 

“You’re limping.”

“Sprained ankle. It will be fine.”

From Bruce’s tone, Dick knows better than to offer him ice or a compression wrap. 

“Thank you,” Bruce says after a few minutes of silence. “For your help last night.”

Dick grins. “‘Course. Someone’s gotta watch your back.”

Bruce clenches his jaw and says nothing. He takes another bite of soup.

Dick swirls his own soup around in his bowl, not feeling particularly hungry anymore. “I wish you would’ve let me go with you last night. Maybe then you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

“No.” 

“I’m not totally useless, you know,” Dick grumbles. “I was able to take care of you last night, wasn’t I? And I’m not even an ex-med student.”

Bruce narrows his eyes. “Werewolves are too volatile. The one I was tracking last night was twice your size; you could’ve been very easily overpowered, making you an easy target.”

“I’m not saying I had to fight it close range,” Dick says, dropping his spoon and letting it clang against the bowl. “But I could’ve been your lookout, or a distraction—”

Bruce stands so quickly that some of the soup splashes onto the table. “No.”

Dick crosses his arms, holds Bruce’s gaze. “I can help,” he insists.

“You are helping,” Bruce says.

“You barely let me go out and actually fight these things,” Dick says. “You always have some excuse, or you just straight up say that you don’t think I can handle something before you’ve even given me a chance.”

“. . .”

“I want to be a hunter,” Dick continues. “How can I learn to do that without any real experience?”

“You are getting real experience.”

“Barely. You only let me go with you maybe a third of the time.” 

“I know you’re frustrated,” Bruce begins, sitting back down in his chair, “but you’re not ready to take on every hunt. You need more training and background knowledge first. Not to mention sufficient time to recover and focus on your studies.”

Dick stares at his soup, catches a carrot with his spoon and releases it back into the bowl. “You always say that.” Bruce has other excuses too: the necessity of sleep for a growing child, the possibility that Dick could get hurt. As if any of that will matter if Bruce gets killed because no one was with him. 

“There will be other werewolves, Dick,” Bruce says. “We’ll focus on werewolf-specific defensive maneuvers so that you will be prepared for future cases.”

Dick eyes the man carefully. “And I can come with you next time?”

“Assuming it’s a single werewolf and not a pack, yes.”

“Can I get that in writing?” Dick jokes, instantly feeling more relieved. 

Bruce grunts, goes back to his soup.

Dick swallows a spoonful of his own soup, then pulls the sleeve of crackers back to his side of the table to nibble on. “You never said how things went last night. Did you catch up with the werewolf after you fell?”

“Yes.”

Dick rolls a cracker back and forth on his fingertips, the pressure causing the edges to crumble slightly. “Are they okay? Did anyone else get hurt?”

“No one else was hurt, and the werewolf is fine. I’ve confirmed that he is Duncan Milford. I watched him until he returned to his human form, and I have footage of the transformation and the attack.”

“Are you going to talk to him today?”

Bruce nods. “As soon as we clean up the car.” It must be covered in blood and mud.

Dick groans, sliding down his seat to the floor dramatically. Bruce laughs, that deep, somewhat restrained chuckle. Dick smiles, feeling like he’s won something. After a moment, he gets off the floor and grabs the cleaning supplies.

Somehow, Dick convinces Bruce to let him tag along. Bruce has been pretending to be a Park Ranger as his cover, and he introduces Dick as his nephew. As promised, Dick stays quiet during the conversation. 

Bruce starts by asking Duncan once more about the wolf attack he was in three months ago and if anything unusual has been happening since. Then Bruce takes it to the next level. He asks why Duncan looks ill, why his apartment is a mess, if Duncan knows anything about the wolf sightings over the past two nights. Still getting nothing, Bruce plays his final card and tells Duncan that some people don’t think it’s a wolf at all, but a werewolf. 

Duncan denies everything at first, tries to kick them out when Bruce shows him the video, but he comes around. The acceptance comes with a small breakdown, one plagued by fear and desperation. He tries to explain that he wasn’t in control, that he never wanted to hurt anyone. That his memory of last night is blurry and feels more like a nightmare.

Listening to it makes Dick feel nauseous. He tries to tell himself that this won’t happen to him , that Bruce won’t let things come to that, but he doesn’t actually know that. He knows nothing about his future or what kind of monster he could turn into.

Oblivious to Dick’s internal crisis, Bruce is able to focus on talking Duncan down. Duncan accepts Bruce’s offer to stay with him during his last transformation of this cycle, and Bruce tells him there are ways to manage his condition. He tells him about Wolfsbane Potion, though he warns that it doesn’t work for everyone. Bruce also puts him in contact with another werewolf, Margot. She’s more experienced and has learned how to control herself while in her werewolf form. Duncan will be staying with her and her sister, Catherine, during the next full moon. 

Dick hadn’t even heard about Margot and Catherine until now. When they get out of the apartment, it's the first thing he asks about. “The other werewolf you mentioned, Margot. Is she your friend from college?” The reason why Bruce started hunting.

“No. I met her shortly after I started hunting.” Bruce unlocks the car and they climb in. “She and her sister are both hunters.”

“Did she help your friend too?” Dick asks, buckling his seatbelt.

The casual atmosphere vanishes and turns cold. Bruce clenches his jaw, letting his key hover over the ignition. “No. He . . . he refused to accept help.”

“Oh.” Dick looks at Bruce, but the man’s eyes are directed at the windshield, unseeing. Dick hesitates, then asks, “What happened to him?”

“He’s alive,” Bruce clarifies, coming out of his daze and starting the car so Dick can turn the heat on. “He lives in Gotham, Arkham Asylum specifically. Gordon had him arrested on a murder charge two years ago, and he’s moved to an isolation unit during his transformation.”

“I’m sorry.”

“His name is Harvey. Harvey Dent,” Bruce says, as if he hadn’t even heard Dick. “Before the attack, he wanted to be a lawyer—eventually a district attorney. He’s . . . Harvey was a good friend, but he hasn’t been the same since the attack.”

Not knowing what to say, Dick repeats, “I’m sorry.”

Bruce shakes his head. “It’s . . . complicated. We’ve spoken a few times during his more lucid moments, and it’s clear that Harvey’s not completely gone, just—hidden.” Another pause. “I still believe he can be rehabilitated.”

Dick reaches his arm out to grip Bruce’s shoulder, offers a reassuring smile. “Anything’s possible.” 

Bruce still doesn’t look at him, but he does raise his hand to cover Dick’s. He squeezes it once before letting go. Dick drops his hand and lets Bruce fasten his seatbelt.

“I need to stop at the store to get more supplies for tonight,” Bruce says, changing the subject as he backs out of his parking spot. “Do you want me to drop you off at the motel first?”

“No, that’s fine. Hey, can I come with you tonight? I could keep you company on your stakeout and make sure you don’t pull your stitches.”

Bruce shoots him a look, mouth tightened into a thin line and eyes even tighter. No .

Dick smiles sheepishly. “Can’t blame a guy for trying, can you?”

The drive to the store is short, barely ten minutes. Dick grabs a cart and follows behind Bruce, not really paying attention to where they’re going. Normally, Dick would be a little more engaged. Pointing out the crazy new chip flavor, cart surfing down empty isles, convincing Bruce that November watermelon is sometimes not terrible and they should give it a chance. But today, the two of them are quiet as they trail through the grocery store isles. 

Dick slumps forward to rest his chin on the cart’s handlebar and tries not to think about how one night is responsible for turning a kind, promising lawyer into a murderer. Responsible for turning someone that Bruce considered a good friend into someone he barely recognizes. Dick wonders if Bruce can handle going through another night like that, let alone all of the days after.

When they get back to the motel, they make sandwiches and eat them while Bruce quizzes Dick on how to tell if someone is being possessed by a demon. After that, Bruce insists they do some sort of training today, and Dick twists his arm into going on a run.

They’re two miles in when Dick can’t take the silence anymore and has to voice his thoughts. “Do you think talons are like werewolves?” Dick asks.

Bruce slows down slightly. “In what sense?”

Dick stops, and Bruce stops a second later, turning to face Dick. 

Dick asks, “Do you think talons are in control of what they’re doing? Or do they lose their humanity and self-control upon transformation, like most werewolves?”

Bruce stares at him, still breathing heavily as he recovers from the run’s brisk pace. “I don’t know enough about talons to give you an answer.”

Here’s what they know about talons: They kill targets, not just random people, and they do so with the precision and skill of trained assassins. They are capable of brutal killings, but also killings that look like accidents—the method they use is dependent upon the Court’s needs. This requires some level of intention and awareness, restraint. It suggests that they’re not acting on pure instinct or self-defense but on orders. 

Here’s what they don’t know about talons: everything else. They don’t know if the talons have free will, if they’re capable of disobeying direct orders. They don’t know if they’re being coerced or threatened. They don’t know if they hate killing or love it, they don’t know if they feel period. There’s no way to tell if there’s any trace of humanity left in them or if they’re just mindless drones, foot soldiers that do the Court’s bidding and nothing else.

Dick shakes his head. “Forget it.” He runs off before Bruce can say anything, this time racing off at a sprint.

“Dick, wait!” Bruce calls. 

Dick ignores him and keeps going. He’s slightly faster than Bruce on a good day, can outrun him if he really puts his mind to it. Today, however, isn’t quite one of those days.

Bruce catches the sleeve of Dick’s jacket and tugs him backward. Dick tries to slip out of his jacket, but Bruce’s hand is around his arm before he can manage it. 

He spins Dick around. “Talk to me.”

Dick stills, looks Bruce in the eye as his mouth trembles, unable to form words.

“Dick, you need to tell me what’s wrong.”

Dick would laugh if he wasn’t so terrified, because hell, what isn’t wrong? “I don’t want to become a talon,” is what Dick finds himself saying. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“That’s not going to happen, I pro—”

“Don’t promise anything!” Dick yells, struggling against Bruce’s hold. “You can’t promise that, you have no control over what happens to me!”

Bruce releases him, drops his hands to his sides slowly. “Calm down.”

“How can I be calm?” Dick fists his hair, tugging it to its limit. “The Court’s going to take away my humanity and turn me into a monster. Maybe that demon was right, maybe you should kill me before I become completely evil.” A preemptive strike.

“You are not going to become evil,” Bruce insists, a hint of a snarl to his voice. 

Heat presses behind Dick’s eyes, and when he blinks, tears fall down his cheeks. “Liar.”

“When someone is possessed by a demon, is that individual responsible for their actions?” Bruce asks.

“No, but talons aren’t possessed.”

“Werewolves aren’t possessed either, yet you argued that they deserve the benefit of the doubt. How are talons different?”

“I don’t know, they just are.” He releases his hair, stares at his hands. 

Bruce places a hand on Dick’s shoulder, another against his face. “I believe that your fear of being used to do evil things is evidence of your goodness,” he says. He wipes Dick’s tears away with his thumb. “Even if you become a talon, you cannot be held responsible for what the Court makes you do. Do you understand?”

Dick shakes his head. “But if I hurt someone, it’s your responsibility to intervene. That’s what you said.”

“Yes. I am not sure what that intervention will look like, but I swear to you, I will do everything I can to save you if it comes to that.”

Dick thinks of Harvey, kept in an asylum, an isolation unit. He’s not sure that’s the kind of rescue he wants. “Will you kill me? If I’m gone.” Just a body possessed by an external evil entity, living only for the Court’s next order.

Bruce stiffens. “I’ll do whatever it takes to save you.”

Dick looks to the sky, trying not to cry again.

“If it’s worth anything, I don’t think being evil is something innate. I believe some semblance of choice will always remain,” Bruce explains. “And if there’s no choice, then it’s not you making the decision. In those instances, you can’t be held responsible.” Bruce pauses, and Dick looks him in the eye again. “In those instances, it wouldn’t be you . There is nothing—no supernatural force—that can make you or any person evil. Do you understand?” 

Dick nods and lets out a shaky breath as he takes in Bruce’s words. “I still don't want to be used as a weapon.”

“I know.” Bruce rubs his thumb back and forth over Dick’s cheek. “I know.”

Dick takes a step forward into Bruce’s chest, and Bruce hugs him like he’ll never let go. “I’m scared, Bruce—really scared,” he finally admits. “We already know I’m going through changes, and what if they’re turning me into something I’m not? What if there’s already something evil inside of me?”

Bruce’s arms somehow tighten even more around him. “Listen to me. Are you listening?” Dick nods against Bruce’s chest, feeling the vibration of his voice. “I don’t know what will happen. All we can do right now is take this one day at a time, and today, you are still yourself. You are Dick Grayson, and you are one of the kindest people I have ever met. Your future is not set in stone. Do not let the Court or anyone else convince you otherwise. Do you understand?”

Dick sniffles, nods again. “You’ll still watch me, though, right? Just in case they—” Dick’s voice cracks. He swallows. “You have to watch me.”

“Always,” Bruce assures.

An unexpected sob escapes Dick at that and his knees go weak. They sink to the ground, and Bruce pulls Dick into his lap, rocking him back and forth as he cries. Bruce doesn’t promise that things will be okay or that he won’t let Dick become a talon. He can’t promise those things, and Dick wouldn’t find those kinds of lies reassuring anyway. But Bruce does promise that Dick isn’t alone and that he will never stop trying to save him. He promises that he won’t let Dick go without a fight.

Chapter Text

November comes to an end without much incident, and December is the same. Dick and Bruce ring in the new year with a sense of relative stability and calm, or as close to it as two monster-hunting orphans who constantly jump from city to city can get.

Things have been better since talking to Bruce about his fears. Dick’s still not psyched about his possible future as a talon, but he tries to keep in mind that it’s only one possibility. Because Bruce is right: nothing is set in stone. Dick can still take control of his future, and in the meantime, he’s doing a lot of good. He’s helping people, and maybe he’s helping Bruce too. The man doesn’t seem quite as sad or grim as he did when they first met. He laughs more, these days.

But despite this improvement, there are still a few skeletons hiding in Dick’s closet. Well, two skeletons, really: Haly’s Circus and Haly himself. 

Dick has wanted to return to Haly’s Circus since the day he left. The strength of that desire has ebbed and flowed over the past nine months, but since the Kansas lead, it’s been relit with a new vigor. Just with a slightly different motive. 

The demon’s claim that Haly is responsible for Dick’s mark has tainted his happy memories of the circus; it’s filled him with doubt and suspicion. Instead of feeling homesickness and longing when he thinks of the circus, now he feels anger and betrayal. And instead of wanting to return for a visit, now Dick wants to return for the specific purpose of confronting Haly. He wants to find out exactly what Haly did and why, and if he ever cared about Dick. He wants to find out if his parents knew.

However, as much as Dick thinks he wants this—needs this, even——he also knows that finding closure could come at a steep price. The answers could potentially splinter the idyllic memories of his childhood even further. When he thinks about that , part of him wants to tuck the demon’s claim away and convince himself that it’s a complete lie, pretend that he never even heard it in the first place. But he can’t commit to that level of denial. 

Besides, even if he could, it would be a really dumb move. Sure, the answers might ruin the memories of his past, but not finding answers could ruin his future. After all, Haly might know when the Court will come for Dick, or details about the talon-ization process. That information could potentially help save him. 

So, there’s no way to avoid confronting Haly. They need to know if and how he’s involved, and Dick needs to know if the man regrets it. Maybe then he’ll be able to bury his ghosts and move on.

Luckily, it shouldn’t be that hard to find Haly and get this over with. Especially since Dick’s been keeping tabs on the circus on and off since he joined Bruce. He knows they dedicated all of last season’s remaining shows to the late Graysons, and he knows they hired a new trapeze act for this season. He also knows they’ll be in Nevada in February, which is only a few weeks away. He’ll need to bring it up with Bruce sometime soon—hopefully tonight after they wrap up this case—to have any chance of meeting them there.   

“Hop out,” Bruce says. “I just hit the coffin.”

“Finally,” Dick says, wiping a bead of sweat off of his forehead. They’re working a pretty straightforward ghost case, and now that they’ve found the grave, all that’s left to do is salt and burn the bones. The most difficult part of the whole case was digging through the frozen earth, followed by convincing Bruce to let him unzip his coat after working up a sweat from all the digging. 

Bruce laces his fingers together and holds his hands out in front of him, and Dick steps up on them, letting Bruce boost him high enough so he can crawl out of the grave and onto the snow-covered ground. He reaches back down to take the shovel Bruce passes him, then he starts pouring a thick ring of salt around the grave. By the time he’s done, Bruce has cleared the coffin and popped it open with the tip of his shovel. 

Once Bruce climbs out of the grave, the two of them dump salt and lighter fluid over the decaying body. When Bruce gives him the go-ahead, Dick drops the match in. The smell is terrible, but Dick tries not to think about it as he steps into a defensive stance, pulling out a handful of small, salt-filled explosives and clutching what is essentially an iron bo staff.

It’s overkill, though. This ghost appears briefly, but she only shrieks at them. She doesn’t even try to attack them or get to her body, and soon enough, she vanishes. Dick hopes she’s somewhere better now, or at least not someplace worse. 

Dick sits down in the snow, watching the body burn. He zips his coat back up and tucks his nose into the collar. After a minute, Bruce joins him.

“Do you have a new case lined up?” Dick asks. It seems like cases have been back-to-back lately. They even worked two cases simultaneously in December.

“Not yet.” Bruce pulls Dick’s hood over his head even though he’s already wearing a hat. “Is there something you would like to investigate?”

“Uh, yeah, actually,” Dick says, twisting the inner lining of his coat pocket. “I want to go talk to Haly. About the Court and, and the mark.”

“Hmm.”

“The circus is going to be in Nevada in a couple of weeks. They’re scheduled to arrive on February sixth.”

Bruce considers this, then says, “You sound like you’ve made up your mind.”

“Yeah, I think I’m ready,” Dick says. They’ve talked about it before, visiting Haly, but not usually so explicitly. They usually don’t mention Haly by name, just the fact that they need to figure out who made the agreement with the Court. Bruce knows it’s a hard subject for Dick—personal in a way that the rest of the case isn’t—so he tries to be sensitive and not bring it up unless it’s completely necessary. 

“Have you thought of a cover story?” 

Dick huffs a laugh. “I’m just a runaway, remember?” In any other case, his disappearance would have prompted an investigation for kidnapping, especially after Zucco’s brothers reported that they had seen Dick with a strange man. Somehow—probably through his connection with Commissioner Gordon—Bruce had managed to get Dick labeled as a runaway and the case was pretty much closed. “We could stick with that story and you could just pretend to be some random guy who came to see the show, or we could stick to the truth and say you took me in.”

“The latter could lower the risk of someone reporting you,” Bruce points out.

“Yeah.” Dick doesn’t think anyone would report him; they probably don’t even know that he ran away. His runaway case had surprisingly never been released to the press, even though his parents and Zucco’s deaths had been all over the news. Dick figures Bruce and Commissioner Gordon probably had more than a little something to do with that, although Dick and Bruce have never talked about it. There’s a lot that goes unsaid around here, for one reason or another. “Is that okay?”

“I suppose.”

Dick smiles and bumps into Bruce’s shoulder, letting his head rest there for a minute. “So we can go?”

“We’ll leave tomorrow after we wrap up the haunting case.” Bruce likes to check in with the victims, and he also likes to stake out a place to make sure the supernatural presence is truly gone. 

“Thanks, Bruce.”

Bruce brings a hand up and rests it on Dick’s head. “Of course, chum.”

They arrive on the fairgrounds when the tent is still being set up. Dick is grateful; everyone will probably be too busy to notice them.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Bruce asks. Again. “I could interrogate Haly by myself if that would make you feel more comfortable.”

Dick shakes his head. “I can do it.” He needs to.

Bruce grunts and Dick gets out of the car.

He feels his heartbeat rise to his throat as he walks toward the trailers, thinking about the questions he’ll ask and in what order. By the time they reach Haly’s trailer, his palms are sweaty and he feels the beginnings of nausea in his stomach.

Before he knocks, Dick says, “Let me lead.”

“Alright. I trust you.”

Dick knocks on the door, and he stops breathing when it opens and Haly appears. 

At first, the man looks confused, but then he smiles, laughing as he pulls Dick into a hug. “Dick! I’ve missed you, son.” Haly pulls him back, still smiling as he looks him over. “What are you doing all the way out here? I thought those guys in New Jersey put you in foster care.”

“Yeah, uh.” How can Haly act like everything is alright? 

“Is everything okay?” Haly asks, voice turning concerned. “Who’s this?”

Dick blinks, coming out of his stupor. “This is Bruce. I’ve been staying with him.” 

“Nice to meet you, Bruce, thanks for taking this one in. He’s a real special kid.” Haly holds his hand out to shake Bruce’s, but Bruce doesn’t take it. Haly lowers his hand and brings his attention back to Dick. “Right. So. Do you want to come in? I have some of those lemonades you used to like in the fridge.”

“I had a few questions,” Dick starts, “about the Court of Owls.”

A darkness washes over Haly’s face. Despite being surrounded by performers, Haly himself had never been good at putting on a mask. “The—I’m sorry, what?”

Dick pushes past Haly, and Bruce follows him. “We should probably talk in here.”

Haly, still slightly flabbergasted, closes the door and turns to face him. “How did you find out?”

“The Grandmaster visited me.”

“And you escaped?” Haly asks, gaping. “You’re alright?”

“He didn’t hurt me,” Dick says simply. He looks around the trailer. The Flying Graysons poster is still hanging in its frame, and a few pictures of Dick’ are still pinned on the bulletin board behind Haly’s desk. “You’ve met him before, right?” Dick asks, turning back around to look Haly in the eye. 

Haly dodges his glance, wincing. “A few times.”

“Did you know he’s going to make me a talon?” 

“Yes.” Haly covers his face with his hands as he lowers himself down to sit on the couch. “I’m sorry. When they told me—” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. There was nothing I could do.”

Dick sits down on the couch next to Haly. “How long have you known?”

“They came to your first show,” Haly says, dropping his hands from his face and keeping his eyes on the floor. “They told me after, but the way they were talking, I wouldn’t be surprised if they chose you before you were born.”

Dick had been all of five the first time he performed in a show. “Did my parents know?” he asks.

Haly shakes his head. “No, I couldn’t tell them. I couldn’t even look them in the eye for a month after the Grandmaster told me about the Court’s decision.”

It’s clear that Haly isn’t happy about the arrangement, and while it brings Dick some comfort, some reassurance, it’s not enough. “Why did you make a deal with them?” 

Haly shoots up and gives Dick a pleading look. “I didn’t. They’ve been taking performers from the circus long before I came along.”

“How long?”

Haly looks back down, scratches his head. “I’m not sure of the exact year, but it had to have started sometime in the early 1900s, when your—” Haly cuts himself off, shakes his head. “Well, the early 1900s is my best guess.”

“What else?” Dick presses, resisting the urge to shake the older man’s shoulders and force him to spit out his secrets.

He sighs. Dick waits silently for Haly to continue. “You know Haly’s Circus has been passed down for generations in my family?” Dick nods. “And your family has a long history with the circus, too.” Dick nods again. “Well, your great grandfather was the first talon from Haly’s circus. I don’t know what the exact circumstances were, just that he became a talon of his own free will.”

“My great grandfather?” Dick asks, standing from the couch. The demon had said some people offer themselves to the Court, but he can’t imagine why anyone would choose this willingly, especially someone he’s related to. “Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know. But the Court was so impressed with him that they came to Haly’s to find more like him. My great grandfather cooperated, and we’ve been tied to them ever since,” Haly explains. “He took the secret to his grave, so I don’t know why he agreed or what they offered him in return. They could’ve offered him success, good health, protection from the draft. Or maybe they threatened to curse his bloodline.”

In a way, Dick thinks, they have. “But you don’t get anything now?” Dick clarifies.

“Protection, mostly from the Court of Owls,” Haly says. “And they’ve said they’ll never let Haly’s go out of business, but that could be a threat as much as it is a promise.”

“Have you ever refused them?” Dick asks. 

“They’re gods,” Haly says, exasperated. “And anytime they sense hesitation, they’re quick to threaten me and remind me of the hecatomb.”

Dick furrows his eyebrows. “Hecatomb?”

“That’s what they call it,” Haly says. He sighs again, looks up at the ceiling. “A hecatomb can be any great sacrifice offered to a deity, but it was traditionally one hundred cattle sacrificed to Greek gods. The Court has repurposed the term. They say we owe them one hundred talons, over a period of generations.”

He wants to point out that there is no “we” in this. One man’s fear or greed is responsible for this, and Dick is paying the price.

“Do you know when they’re going to come for me?” Dick asks, deciding he’s heard enough history for now.

“I’ve seen them take people as young as eighteen and as old as twenty-five. It’s usually around twenty, though,” Haly explains. “But they said you’re supposed to be special. Things might be different.”

Haly’s words from earlier echo in his head: He’s a real special kid. Dick thinks he’s going to be sick. “Special how?”

“They don’t tell me much of anything, but I overheard them saying you’re supposed to strengthen or restore them somehow. They call you the Gray Son of Gotham.” He hides his face in his hands again, mutters, “I really shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”

“Do you know anything about the transformation process?” It’s a shot in the dark, but he needs to ask.

He shakes his head. When he looks up again, there are tears in his eyes. He grabs Dick by the shoulders, says, “I’m so sorry, Dick, I never wanted any of this to happen. Especially not to you. Please, you have to forgive me.”

Dick stares at him, gaping in shock as the man pulls him closer and begins to sob.

“Forgive me.”

It’s Bruce who separates them. Dick had forgotten the man was there.

“Enough,” Bruce says. “Do you know anything that could help us undo this?”

Haly shakes his head, trying to quiet his sobs. “I wish I did. I’m sorry. I—I shouldn’t even be talking to you. You need to go.”

Bruce turns toward Dick, squeezes his shoulder. “Do you have everything you need?”

“Yeah, we can go.” 

Dick lets Bruce guide him out of the trailer without saying goodbye. When they reach the parking lot, his nausea finally gets the best of him and he throws up in the grass. 

Dick doesn’t know what he’s feeling. He’s relieved that this deal—this hecatomb—isn’t something Haly himself sought out or agreed to, that this dark secret is just something he inherited. But Dick’s also grappling with the fact that the man who has known him since the day he was born didn’t care enough about him to face his fears and stand up to the Court. Haly’s guilt over the situation doesn’t make his choice sting any less. And maybe Dick shouldn’t be mad that he wasn’t—isn’t—willing to put his life at risk, but he is, a little. 

Or maybe “mad” isn’t the right word for what he’s feeling. Abandoned, maybe, or something that’s akin to grief. Like he’s losing his family all over again. 

Despite his current state of quiet distress, Dick is glad he spoke to Haly. It gave him the closure he needed, and he can finally stop obsessing over the demon’s semi-accurate claim. (Well—not completely, but it’s a start. It’s getting better.) The circus itself, however, still takes up a lot of Dick’s headspace. He makes it a daily habit to find a computer and figure out if the Court has visited Haly based on a combination of local news articles and updates to their tour schedule. 

If the Court has paid a visit, it doesn’t look like they hurt anyone, and Dick’s just hoping it stays that way. Because as angry as he is that Haly had been planning to let the Court take Dick without saying a word to him or his parents, he still cares about the man. He doesn’t want him or anyone else from the circus to get hurt.

(And isn’t that funny? Dick wanting to protect Haly when the man had never planned on protecting Dick.)

Slowly but surely, February turns to March, and Dick realizes he’s been doing this for almost a year. He also realizes that even when they manage to stop the Court of Owls, Dick doesn’t think he’ll be able to step away from this life. Doesn’t think he’ll want to. 

It’s an interesting change. He’s liked hunting from day one, liked knowing that he’s making the world a little safer, but he’d always envisioned this as something short-term, something that would come to an end. Plus, up until recently, he’d daydreamed about defeating the Court and going back to the circus, being adopted by Haly. That’s not something he wants anymore, and part of him feels guilty about that. But.

But.

Things are different now, to say the least. And even if there was still something, or someone, for Dick at the circus, he thinks he’d feel the same way. He’s changed, and he thinks that this is where he’s supposed to be, what he’s supposed to be doing. Hunting feels as natural to him as flying on the trapeze did. 

And like with the trapeze, Dick understands that one mistake on a hunt, one accident, can be career-ending—or worse. He’s seen Bruce hurt more than a few times, even had to call him an ambulance once, but Dick himself has never had a serious injury before. He supposes it’s only a matter of time before something goes wrong.

And something does go wrong.

It happens like this. A family moves into a house, then they opt to move to a hotel one week later because the house is haunted. Bruce and Dick offer to help, and they quickly realize they’re dealing with a poltergeist. Bruce is hesitant to let Dick tag along because poltergeists can be particularly violent, and Dick argues that that’s exactly why Bruce needs back up. Dick wins.

The plan is to cleanse the house. They bring sage and one of Bruce’s recordings of a prayer blessing. They announce their presence and state their intentions, then they set off. Dick takes the first floor, and Bruce takes the second.

Everything goes smoothly up until it doesn’t.

There’s a crash upstairs, and Bruce shouts. Dick runs up to find him, following the noises of the subsequent crashes. He finds Bruce trapped in a closet, the poltergeist laughing madly as he chucks things all around the room, which is slowly but surely catching on fire.

Dick can’t get to Bruce like this, but he needs to get them both out of here. He needs to create a distraction.

And he does, just maybe a little too well. 

The poltergeist sends a wardrobe barreling toward Dick, and he doesn’t have time to completely dodge it. He’s forced over the banister, and because of his quick reflexes, he manages to grab onto the chandelier. He plans to let go and flip into a controlled fall, but before he can even swing, the chandelier comes crashing down. He’ll never know if it was the poltergeist or the old house, but either way, he screams and ends up on the ground with glass shards all over his arms and face, and few pieces get embedded in his head. 

Not good.

Bruce gets out of the closet, puts the fire out, and rushes toward Dick, who’s shaking slightly as he sits up.

“Damn it. Stay still,” Bruce orders, jumping over the last few steps to get to Dick faster.

But Dick is already halfway to his feet, trying to get up. “I’m okay.” Dick forces himself to stop shaking. He’s fine. “Where’s the poltergeist?”

“Gone for now,” Bruce says, finally reaching Dick and moving to steady him. “Sit down. You’re bleeding, and you have glass sticking out of your head.”

Dick’s vision spins, and he wobbles where he’s kneeling. He lowers himself back down, curling in on himself slightly. “I feel dizzy.” His stomach lurches, and he’s quick to slap a hand over his mouth and force vomit back down his throat. “And nauseous.”

“What hurts?” Bruce asks. “Is your neck alright?”

“Just m’head,” Dick murmurs, although his arms do sting where a few glass shards cut him. It feels superficial, though, not really worth mentioning. 

Bruce gently pulls at Dick’s hair, probably trying to get a better look at the cut. “Hospital,” he says.

“Can’t you just stitch it?” Dick asks. Then he forces a grin, teases, “I mean, you must’ve learned something about stitches and head injuries before you dropped out of med school, right?”

Bruce tightens his eyes into a glare. “Don’t argue with me. Not about this.”

Dick swallows, and the smile slides off his face. “Fine. Hospital.”

“Can you walk?”

“Not sure. Kind of dizzy.” He can barely manage sitting.

Bruce picks him up without another word and carries him to the car. He gently places Dick in the backseat and even buckles him in. Then he goes around to the front and starts driving toward the nearest hospital.

“I’m okay,” Dick says—again—when Bruce glances over at him through the mirror.

Bruce’s mouth is thin, he keeps his eyes on the road. “You fell from a chandelier.”

“And I’m okay.”

“Hnn.” Bruce’s fingers twitch on the wheel. “You were supposed to stay downstairs.”

“You screamed.” The adrenaline is wearing off and Dick’s starting to feel tired. His head pounds in time with Bruce’s blinker. “Besides, how was I supposed to get back to the motel if you died? I don’t have a driver’s license, and you said I’m not allowed to hitchhike.”

Bruce’s lips twitch upward for a millisecond, and Dick grins, beaming in the feeling of success.

When they get there, the ER isn’t very crowded, and between that and the fact that Dick’s head is covered in glass and blood, he’s taken back right away. 

The nurses are busy cleaning him up when the doctor walks in. She smiles and says, “Hi, Freddy, I’m Dr. Holland and I’m going to take care of you tonight.”

“Hi,” Dick says, not missing a beat as he responds to the fake name.

“And you must be dad,” she says, turning her smile toward Bruce.

He smiles back and waves in the way he only does when he’s undercover. 

“Alright, can you tell me what happened?” 

Dick gives her the edited version: he tried to climb up in the chandelier but it fell, and while he landed feet first, part of the chandelier hit his head on the way down. He also provides a list of symptoms: headache, nausea, dizziness, and light and sound sensitivity. 

She performs a quick neurological exam and diagnoses Dick with a mild concussion. However, due to the gash in his head, she wants to be safe and rule out any further injury. Dr. Holland sends Bruce to the waiting room and has a nurse take Dick to get a CT scan.

After the CT is finished, the nurse wheels Dick to a different room, and Bruce is nowhere to be found. 

“Alright sweetheart, the doctor will be back as soon as she looks over the scan results,” the nurse promises. “Can I get you anything while you wait? Another blanket, or a coloring book maybe?”

“Oh, no thanks, I’m okay,” Dick says. “Uh, could you get my dad though?”

She smiles reassuringly. “Sure thing. I’ll go find him.”

It only takes Bruce a few minutes to get to Dick’s new room, but Dick’s already half asleep. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Bruce whispers as he steps into the dimly lit room. 

Dick opens his eyes, reaching a hand out toward him. “Hey.”

Bruce sits down in the chair next to the bed. “Are you in any pain?” he asks.

Dick hums and closes his eyes again. “Not really. Whatever they gave me is working.”

“Good.”

Before Bruce can say anything else, the doctor knocks on the door and steps in, CT results in hand.

“Good news,” she says. “The CT scan is clear, meaning no skull fracture and no brain bleeds. You won’t need surgery, just a few staples to keep the wound closed while it heals. After that, we’ll observe you for a few hours, and as long as you keep improvising, we’ll send you home with your dad. Sound good?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Dick says.

“Perfect!” She pulls some papers off of her clipboard and hands them to Bruce. “These are just some consent forms for the procedure.”

Dick zones out as she explains the benefits and risks, only zoning back in when Bruce signs the thing and the doctor turns the lights up and lowers the bed into a horizontal position so they can get started.

Dr. Holland is very gentle and explains everything she’s going to do beforehand. She takes the bandages off of Dick’s head and cleans the area, preparing to staple the skin back together. Then she numbs him and waits a few minutes for it to kick in before she starts on the staples. It’s not so bad. He doesn’t feel much more than some pressure and a tugging sensation, but Bruce holds his hand throughout the whole procedure anyway.

“Alright, you’re all set, Freddy,” Dr. Holland says once she’s finished. “No more dangling from chandeliers, okay?”

Dick smiles sheepishly. “Promise.”

She smiles back and then goes over care instructions. Dick already knows what to do for wound care and a concussion, so he lets himself zone out again, but Bruce listens with careful attention, as if he’s hearing this stuff for the first time. As if he’s doing this for the first time. He even asks a few clarifying questions that Dick knows he already knows the answers to.

When the doctor leaves, Bruce dims the lights again, then sits back down in the chair next to Dick. Bruce takes Dick’s hand, rubbing his thumb back and forth across Dick’s knuckles in a soothing motion.

“Is the pain medication still working?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Hnn. Tell me if it starts to hurt.” Bruce runs his free hand through Dick’s hair, being careful to avoid the staples. “Is this okay?”

“Mm-hmm.” Dick lets his eyes slide closed, too relaxed now to keep them open. As much as he’d rather not be here at all, this is a much better experience than the last time he was in the hospital. He realizes then that Bruce could’ve left him here alone and gone back to deal with the poltergeist, but he hadn’t. Instead, he’d stayed, wanting to make sure Dick was okay. 

Bruce might’ve been pretending to be Dick’s dad, but he wasn’t pretending to be his family. That had been real. And it’s clear now that even though Dick lost some of his family, he’s not lacking one altogether, and maybe this is enough.

“Thanks for staying,” Dick says in his half-asleep state. “I mean, I would've understood if you went back to take care of the poltergeist, but—”

Bruce interrupts him by saying, “You’re more important.” Then he shifts and leans down to press a kiss against Dick’s forehead. “Get some rest.”

It reminds him of his parents so much that it hurts. But the action isn’t unwelcome, just unexpected. He hums, closing his eyes.

Dick doesn’t know how long Bruce stays there, clutching Dick’s hand with one hand and detangling his hair with the other, but Dick falls asleep long before he stops.

Chapter Text

Dear Haly,

I’m okay. I thought you might want to know. I can’t call you or tell you where I am, but I’m safe. B takes good care of me, and we’re still working on the you-know-what. 

I hope everyone back home is okay, and I hope the new trapeze act is settling in.

And I forgive you. 

-RJG

Dick looks at the letter, reads it several times. He stares at the I forgive you . The statement isn’t a lie, but it doesn’t feel like the whole truth either. As it’s currently written, Haly could interpret it as a sign that Dick doesn’t hold him accountable, or that Dick is willing to go back to how things were before. And that’s just not the case at all. Because what Haly did was wrong and will affect Dick for the rest of his life, and even though Dick doesn’t resent Haly anymore, he knows he can’t look at Haly the same, knows he can’t trust him. 

It’s the definition of “forgive but don’t forget,” and it’s complicated and it’s nuanced and it sucks.

Dick’s not really sure why he’s writing the letter in the first place. He’s never really agreed with the whole “forgiveness is necessary to heal” thing, and he definitely doesn’t think he needs to inform the offending party of his current feelings. So whose benefit is it for?

Sending it won’t change anything for Dick, but maybe telling Haly that he forgives him will make the man feel better. 

(And isn’t that odd? Dick wanting to do that for Haly when he was content to let Dick disappear forever without a word.)

Or maybe this is how Dick can say goodbye and offer closure—real closure—for both of them. Then again, Haly might not care, and Dick might not be ready to say goodbye. 

With a frustrated sigh, Dick crumples the letter and shoves it in the bottom of his backpack. 

Life marches on. Dick turns thirteen, and the one-year anniversary of his parents’ deaths passes a few weeks later. Neither are exactly happy occasions. 

Bruce tries to ease the hurt by distracting him with new responsibilities. He lets Dick drive on backroads and in empty lots, and he lets Dick take his first solo case. Both of them are as exhilarating for Dick as they are nerve-wracking for Bruce. 

May greets them, and even though it’s a little over a month away, Dick is counting down the days to summer break. Homeschooling under Bruce’s guidance has been okay, but it takes up a lot of time his time, and Dick’s looking forward to being able to trade his study hours for training sessions and cases. He’s hoping they can investigate some more complex jobs this summer, the ones that require more than a week’s stay.

“Who is this?” 

Dick looks up from his book to see Bruce holding a phone against his ear. He hadn’t even heard the phone ring. 

“About time,” Bruce grumbles. His face shifts from something on the neutral-to-annoyed spectrum to something serious. His lips quirk down in an almost-frown, and his eyebrows narrow in concentration. He’s bracing for something. “And?”

Dick listens as Bruce hums and grunts his way through the conversation. It’s hard to figure out what’s going on, and his jaw nearly hits the table when Bruce gives the mysterious caller the coordinates to their current location. 

Bruce hangs up and looks at Dick. “That was Diana, a . . . friend.”

“I didn’t know you had any of those,” Dick teases. 

“Brat,” Bruce mumbles, tugging on a strand of Dick’s hair on his way to the sink. “She’ll be here shortly.”

“What’s up?” Dick asks, turning in his chair to keep his eyes on Bruce. 

Bruce ignores him and starts cleaning the dishes. Dick groans and leans his forehead against the table. It’s probably related to the Court of Owls—when is it not?

Something in the air shifts, and Dick lifts his head as a snap sounds across the room. A woman dressed in gladiator gear stands in their motel room, and Bruce appears unphased.

She smiles. “Bruce, it’s good to see you.”

Dick slides out of his seat and moves to stand beside Bruce. 

“Thank you for coming,” Bruce says. He places a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “Diana, this is Dick.”

“Yes, the cursed child, marked by nefarious gods,” Diana concludes solemnly. She reaches her hand into her pocket and pulls out a golden necklace. “This is for you.”

Dick takes it, turns the circular pendant in his hand. A laurel wreath has been etched into it, and it looks old. Dick swears he can hear it hum. “What is it?”

“Put it on,” Bruce insists.

Dick does, gasping when the pendant glows and burns his chest through his shirt. He tries to pull it away, ignoring the heat that meets his fingers, but it’s stuck. The sensation only lasts for a few seconds, and it stops as suddenly as it started. The humming stops, too, he realizes.

Diana steps forward and runs her thumb over the pendant. “The binding is complete.”

“B?” Dick asks, looking toward his mentor.

“Are the effects immediate?” Bruce asks, tightening his hold on Dick’s shoulder.

“They should be,” Diana says. “But I admittedly have little knowledge of the Court of Owls. It’s possible that they are capable of counteracting the necklace’s powers.”

“Which are what?” Dick asks, touching the now-cool pendant.

Diana looks to Bruce, who grunts in approval.

“The necklace has been blessed by Soteria, the goddess of protection,” she explains. “It has cloaking properties and should keep you hidden from the Court of Owls.”

“Right.” Of course Greek gods are real, and of course they have magical pendants that can conceal people from their enemies, regardless of what mark has been placed on them. Why not? “Who are you again?”

“I am Princess Diana of Themyscira, Daughter of Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, and Zeus, the mightiest of the Gods of Olympus.”

“You’re a god,” Dick says, nearly accuses. 

“A demigod,” she corrects with a soft smile.

Dick returns his focus to the necklace. “What do you want in exchange?” None of the gods he’s heard of or had the misfortune of running into are known for giving freely. They all want something, sooner or later.

“Nothing. Bruce asked for my help, and I was happy to do what I could,” Diana explains. “Tell me, do you demand payment from everyone you help?”

“No.”

“Then why do you assume I do?”

“I—sorry.”

“It’s alright,” she says genuinely. “Bruce—my other offer?” 

Bruce takes his hand off of Dick’s shoulder and steps forward. “That won’t be necessary.”

“He might not know he’s lying,” she says quietly. “May I ask a few questions? For my own peace of mind?”

“He’s not dangerous,” Bruce nearly growls.

“Then let him tell me as much,” Diana insists. She reaches for a piece of rope attached to her skirt. It looks like a lasso, and it glows when she touches it.

“Fine.” Bruce turns back to face Dick. “Diana would like to ask you a few questions,” he explains. “The lasso will compel you to tell the truth—don’t fight it. If you lie, it will burn you. Understood?”

Dick takes a deep breath and pushes his questions and protests down. He trusts Bruce. “Understood.”

Diana steps toward him and gestures for his hand, which he gives freely. She wraps a portion of her rope around his hand. “Who are you?”

“Richard John Grayson,” Dick answers. “I used to be a trapeze artist at Haly’s Circus, but now I’m a monster hunter.”

“Are you working for the Court of Owls?”

“No.” Dick is relieved when the rope doesn’t burn him. 

“Do you plan to hurt Bruce Wayne?”

“No.” Again, Dick is relieved when the rope doesn’t burn him. 

“Do you feel safe with him?”

“Yes.”

She nods and lets the lasso slip off of Dick’s hand. He lowers it, curling his hand into a loose fist.

“That will do for now.” She wraps the lasso around itself and attaches it to her skirt. “I’m sorry to make this visit so short, but I must return to Themyscira.”

Bruce nods. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course. We’ll be in touch.”

And then she’s gone, that same something in the air shifting once more as she disappears. 

Dick twists the pendant between his fingers. The necklace Diana gave him is a useful tool, but it’s not foolproof, and there are still a lot of unknowns. And given the track record of cursed objects—or in this case, blessed objects—one of those unknowns could be a hidden cost. After doing this for a year, Dick already knows that much, but Bruce makes it a point to explicitly explain it to him anyway. 

Even before that conversation, it wouldn’t have taken a detective to tell that Bruce isn’t the biggest fan of such objects and would rather keep them as far away from him as possible—but hey, desperate times. So instead of burning the necklace and chucking it into a river, Bruce instructs Dick to keep it on him at all times. He also tells him that while these objects can be useful, and that Diana and her judgment can be trusted, they can’t trust this necklace blindly. Dick still needs to keep up with his anti-mind reading training; he needs to stay alert and aware, and they need to keep a low profile and keep moving.

And Dick knows that; he knows they’re still in danger, and he takes it seriously. But this is also a big win, and being realistic doesn’t mean he has to be a pessimist, it doesn’t mean he’s not allowed to take the good as it comes. Because, yes, they still have a group of gods after them, but they also have a good (demi)god on their side, a protection charm, and psychic training. They’re not stagnant, and they’re not helpless. Maybe they won’t be able to remove the mark, but they can deal with this. They can fight it. And that’s a good thing, a powerful thing; that’s worth something.

Bruce, of course, doesn’t openly acknowledge these things, merely hnn s when Dick points them out. The man prefers to focus on weak points and how to account for them, which Dick knows is necessary, but sometimes he worries about what that mindset does to Bruce. Of course, mentioning that only leads to arguments and Bruce threatening to stop training him. Dick will still have those arguments when he needs to, but he (usually) tries to save them as a last resort. Luckily, he’s picked up some other techniques to snap Bruce out of one of those moods, like forcing distractions on him in the form of movie nights and sparring and talking about Dick’s days at the circus.

Dick isn’t sure if it’s enough, but he’s trying, and he hopes that counts for something. He hopes that it can make up for the fact that he’s the reason Bruce gets so dark and gloomy in the first place. After all, if Dick hadn’t insisted on helping Bruce take down Zucco last year, none of them would have known about Dick’s connection to the Court. Bruce would have gone on fighting monsters in peaceful solitude, and Dick would have been living in blissful ignorance while bouncing around in the foster care system. On bad days, he’s not sure which path was the better choice, which choice would have hurt fewer people.

The crunching of gravel brings Dick out of his thoughts, and he turns his head to find Mr. Dark and Gloomy himself in the rearview mirror. Dick drops the necklace and sits up in his seat, trying to act like he hadn’t had his feet up on the dashboard a few seconds ago. 

“Alfred says hello,” Bruce says when he enters the car. They’d been packing up the car when Bruce got a phone call from Alfred. He’d sent Dick outside to finish loading the car and wait there. Dick waited so long that he needed to turn the A.C. on.

Dick asks, “What were you talking about for so long?”

“He wants to see you,” Bruce says, the corner of his mouth twitching downward. “He’s . . . concerned.”

“I’m fine.”

Bruce’s face shifts, almost asking are you? 

“I am . Besides, you're the one who hasn't gotten a full night's sleep in literal weeks. If anything, Alfred should be worried about you.”

"I never said he isn't."

Dick motions for Bruce to continue, which results in a glare.

"I'm fine," Bruce insists. He puts his seatbelt on and adjusts the vents, making sure Dick understands that this will be the end of that discussion. “I agreed that we would meet him at one of my family’s lake houses. It's an hour away from Gotham.”

“Why aren’t we just going to the manor?” Dick asks as Bruce pulls out of the parking spot and merges onto the main road. “Shouldn’t we be safe in Gotham with the necklace?”

“Hnn.”

Dick smirks. “What? Afraid your neighbor who lives, like, miles away will not only see me but also recognize me and accuse you of kidnapping?”

Bruce gives a tired sigh, and Dick laughs. 

A minute of silence passes, and Dick decides to give it another go. “Seriously, though, Bruce. What’s the point of having this thing if nothing’s gonna change?”

“We still don’t know what its limits are,” Bruce argues.

“But Diana said—”

“I know. I know what she said, chum.”

Dick bites his lip, wraps his arms around his stomach. “You’re still worried.” Bruce stills. “Should I be worried?”

“You’re safe. I will make sure you stay that way.”

“I know.” Maybe he shouldn’t want to go back to Gotham after everything, but something about it calls out to him. Many things, he supposes, but it boils down to this: what happened last year changed him, and Gotham left its own mark. It also took two of his loved ones and holds their bodies hostage. “I get why you don’t want to stay in Gotham, but could we maybe stop there for like an hour?”

“What for.”

“I want to visit them.” 

Bruce stops breathing. It’s a subtle thing, even subtler when he starts again. “I’ll consider it.”

In the end, Bruce agrees to a short cemetery visit—can't bring himself to refuse. Dick can barely remember anything about the funeral, but he somehow manages to remember exactly where his parents have been buried. He places flowers on their graves, and Bruce walks around to give Dick some privacy. 

They make it back to the car without incident, and Bruce is kind enough not to call attention to the dried tear tracks on Dick’s cheeks.

Alfred is waiting outside for them when they pull into the lake house’s driveway. It's chillingly similar to the first time Dick met Alfred, and for a moment, he feels like he’s been sent back to that night. He takes a few deep, controlled breaths, trying to expel the tension from his body.

The breathing helps, but it's not until Alfred pulls him into a tight hug that the tension fully eases.

"Have you eaten yet?" Alfred asks him, holding him at arm’s length and looking at Dick like he can’t believe he’s real, like he’s looking for some gaping wound.

"We had lunch before we went to Gotham,” Dick says easily, hoping that it will help reassure Alfred that Bruce has been taking care of him.

Instead, Alfred's soft expression tightens into a suspicious stare as his eyes move to meet Bruce's. "You were in Gotham?" 

"He was visiting his parents’ graves."

"I was under the impression that it wasn't safe for you in Gotham."

"It's not."

"Right." Alfred straightens his already straight tie. "I believe it's time you and I had a proper discussion about all of this. Master Dick—"

"Yeah, yeah," Dick grumbles, hiking his backpack higher on his shoulders as he makes his way up the porch steps and into the house. "I'm going."

Dick hasn’t stayed at this house before, so he doesn't know exactly where he's going, but he likes to explore new areas. He peaks in at the rooms and takes a small one at the end of the hallway. There’s a tree outside the window that he could probably jump to, and he could definitely make it to the roof. He tosses his backpack onto the dresser and throws himself onto the large, soft bed. He doesn’t bother to unpack; they won’t be here long.

He stares at the ceiling, wondering how long the “proper discussion” will go on. Every so often, the silence is interrupted by Bruce or Alfred’s arguing as it temporarily gets louder before dying back down. Dick honestly has no interest in eavesdropping; he’s heard this song before. It’s mostly Bruce telling Alfred that everything is under control, followed by Alfred refusing to overtly acknowledge that he knows exactly what Bruce has been doing over the past few years while also heavily implying that he knows enough and that Bruce needs to stop. This argument started long before Dick showed up, but he gets the sense that these tense conversations have picked up in frequency and intensity, now with a new section dedicated to Dick and questions about his well-being.

It's not uncommon for Bruce to end such discussions by shoving a phone against Dick's ear, offering only a terse, "Say hello to Alfred." before he disappears into whatever research or errand needs his attention.

As annoying and repetitive as it gets, Dick supposes that it's their way of showing that they care about each other. Alfred doesn’t want Bruce (or Dick) to get hurt, and he views Bruce as his responsibility, his son. And Bruce—he just doesn’t want Alfred to worry, he wants to protect him from the supernatural for as long as possible. Alfred lets him, and in turn, Bruce lets Alfred lecture him like a father lectures a disobedient child.

Another outburst comes up from the stairs and Dick slides off his bed with an exasperated sigh. He walks over to his backpack and pulls out one of his notebooks, tearing off a blank sheet of paper. He writes a quick note and sets it on the bed, then climbs out the window. He makes the jump to the tree easily.

Dick is halfway back to the cabin when he notices Bruce coming up the path. With a mischievous grin, he scales a nearby tree and hides in its leaves. When Bruce gets close enough, he jumps down in front of him with a scream.

There’s a flinch, but it’s gone in a blink, as if Dick’s brain had merely played a trick on him. But Dick knows for a fact that it didn’t. 

Dick cheers, “Ha! Got you!” 

“I was looking for you. Finding you was hardly a surprise,” Bruce insists. He puts a hand on Dick’s shoulder and turns them back down the path, heading toward the cabin once more.

“Whatever you say, old man.” 

“Hnn.”

Dick presses himself against Bruce’s side. “So. What did you and Alfred talk about?”

“. . .”

“Bruce, come on,” Dick whines, tilting his head back for dramatic effect.

“I used to walk this path when I was your age. How far did you go?”

“I found a stream and hung out there for a bit, then came back,” Dick answers. “I left a note. Like you told me to.”

“I know, chum. I tried to explain the system to Alfred, but he didn’t find it reassuring.” A pause. “If anything, I think he found my lack of concern . . . negligent.”

Dick wrinkles his nose. “I’m not a kid. I don’t need you to babysit me twenty-four seven.”

Bruce exhales. 

“Ugh, just spit it out.”

“What would you do if something happened to me?” Bruce asks. “If I died on a hunt.”

Dick rolls his eyes. “You’re not going to die.”

“Contingency plans are important. Humor me.”

Dick shrugs. “I don’t know. If the threat was still around, I’d call in backup. Clark or someone—whoever was closest.”

“And then?”

“Find Alfred and tell him what happened.” They’ve been over this before. “Ask him to meet me somewhere outside of Gotham.”

“Then what.”

“What do you mean?”

“Where would you stay long-term. Who would take care of you.”

Dick pauses. A few months ago he would have said Haly. “Alfred isn’t an option?”

“He is,” Bruce reassures. “That’s who I would want you to stay with, and he agrees.”

Dick senses hesitance. “But?”

“He doesn’t want you to have to stay hidden or lie about who you are, and it would be difficult for him to take in the previously missing Richard Grayson without some kind of legal statement granting him guardianship. He . . . essentially, he wants me to update my will.”

Bruce is giving him the bare bones of that conversation, and Dick kind of regrets not sticking around to listen in. “And doing that would require you to tell people about me. And that would raise questions.”

Dick is still labeled as a runaway, after all, and even though no one is really actively looking for him—let alone a kidnapper—he’s still in the system and on their radar. He’s seen missing child posters at bus stations, ones with his face that ask, “Have you seen me?” If Bruce had him this whole time, it would be nearly impossible for him to avoid kidnapping charges.

But if they ignore this problem and something does happen to Bruce, they’d be forcing Alfred to (1) deal with the legal nightmare that would be getting custody of Dick (and there’s no guarantee that would even work), or (2) live in hiding until Dick can legally take care of himself. 

Neither are good options, but Dick doesn’t want to see Bruce face kidnapping charges either. Maybe he should offer to go to Gordon or Barry instead. They both have kids (well—a nephew in Barry’s case); maybe it wouldn’t be too hard to convince one of them to take Dick.

Bruce grunts, pulling Dick out of his thoughts. “I have connections. If we decide to inform the authorities about you, we will probably be able to avoid excessive questions or media coverage so long as we have a strong cover story.”

“Okay. Then just tell people you saw me on one of your excursions and recognized me from the posters. Easy enough.”

They’re back at the cabin now. Alfred’s car is gone; probably running errands. Bruce still hasn’t said anything.

Dick sits down on the porch and rests his chin in his palms. “I don’t see the problem.”

“I would need to adopt you. Legally speaking, I would become your parent. I understand if you don’t want that. And I don’t mean to step into a role or title that you don’t need to be filled.”

A lump forms in Dick’s throat, and he becomes a little too aware of his heartbeat. “Would I have to change my last name?”

“No. Nothing would need to change.” Bruce sits down next to Dick. “It’s just a legal safeguard.”

“Do you want to adopt me?” It sounds childish, but the question comes out before he can think it over.

“Do you want me to?”

“I asked you first.”

“Yes. I . . . I need to know that you will be taken care of. Even after you’re eighteen.”

Dick nods, then he tilts to the side so that his head falls against Bruce’s shoulder. “You can adopt me. I don’t mind.”   

“I should be able to pull some strings and do this behind the scenes, which would allow us to avoid things like home studies or court appearances. I’ll set everything up tomorrow.” 

In other words, Dick won’t have to go back to Gotham. 

With that, Bruce stands and goes inside. Dick follows a pace behind him.

“Is that all Alfred wanted? He just called us down here so you could update your will?” Dick asks.

Bruce sits down at the table, pulling a notebook toward himself. “He wanted to check-in. And he wants to see us more regularly, every other month at the latest.” Bruce starts jotting things down in the notebook. A quick glance tells Dick they’re notes for the adoption paperwork and will.

“There’s no reason not to, right?” Dick says, taking a seat across from Bruce. “I mean, between the necklace and adoption papers, it should be safe enough to stay at your house.” They would be protected from gods and mortals alike. And, technically, Wayne manor sits right outside of Gotham, offering an extra layer of protection.

“Hnn. I’ll consider it.”

“Plus, being so close to Gotham would give us an opportunity to poke around and check-in on the Court of Owls,” Dick adds.

Bruce’s jaw clenches. “Even with the adoption papers and the necklace, we can’t stay in Gotham. It’s too dangerous.”

“I know.” But really, it’s Dick who can’t be in Gotham, not Bruce. He’ll never stop feeling guilty for keeping Bruce from his home, even if he hasn’t lived there—really lived there, as in staying for more than a few weeks at a time—in years. “But we don’t have to stay there to pop in for a few hours and investigate.”

“No.”

“You let me go today and nothing bad happened.”

Bruce is silent. 

Fine. Dick will give him time to warm up to the idea about Dick investigating in Gotham. “You can’t just ignore them, Bruce. If you don’t want to go to Gotham, fine, but we can still hit them from the outside, and maybe we can get someone else to go after them from the inside. I mean, Gordon already knows about what we do. Maybe he could help.” 

“He knows the basics, knows who to call when he suspects supernatural involvement, as well as a few self-defense measures. But I haven't informed him about the Court,” Bruce clarifies, scribbling something else in the notebook. 

“Wait—then how does Gordon think Zucco died?”

“I informed him that Zucco was killed by a rival entity who disappeared and that the demon who granted Zucco his powers was dealt with. Telling Gordon about the Court of Owls would have only been a risk.”

Bruce still wants to keep anything and everything about the Court—and especially Dick’s connection to them—as quiet as possible. Dick understands that, but Bruce is taking it to a bit of an extreme. After all, secrets will only keep them safe for so long, and their secrets could harm people. Especially if it keeps them from doing something about the Court.

“It’s not like we have to tell him I’m a talon,” Dick points out. 

Bruce is quick to deny that last part of Dick’s statement: “You’re not a talon.” Bruce stares at him, looking up from the notebook for the first time. He’s frowning.

“Not yet .” Dick ignores how Bruce’s frown deepens. Dick leans further across the table, almost conspiratorially. “Look. We can’t just wait to deal with the Court until we have a foolproof plan or I’m mark-free, and fighting them doesn’t have to be all or nothing. I mean, we’ve been spending the past year trying to figure out how to undo the mark, but maybe we should’ve spent some of that time looking into how to prevent them from marking more kids in the first place. If we can figure out how to do that, more kids get to grow up and live their own lives, and the Court will be easier to face because they’ll have fewer soldiers.”

Bruce looks at Dick with a slight tilt to his head, thinking.

After a few moments, Dick continues. “I need to do this, Bruce. I need to help.” He needs to stop obsessing over his own future and start focusing on damage control, start doing something while he still can. That's all anyone can do, he supposes, regardless of whether or not they have some mark of doom that may or may not come to fruition.

“How.” How can they stop gods?

“Well, we already ran into a demon who has come across the Court and knows how they operate—there's gotta be more,” Dick says. “And then there are people who’ve made deals with the Court, like Haly. There are plenty of potential informants that could help us figure it out."

“They could be all over the country.” Bruce turns to a new page in his notebook and starts jotting things down, and Dick can see the wheels turning in his head. “That’s a lot of ground to cover, and it will be time-consuming.”

Dick grins; Bruce is definitely on board now. “I know some friends that might be willing to help us out,” Dick says. John, Clark, Barry, and Diana have said they would, and he’s sure there are more connections out there. “We could start a network. It would keep everyone informed and organized.”

“Hnn.” Bruce starts a new page, writing “NETWORK” across the top. “I’ve been thinking that organizing a network of hunters would be useful for some time now. A combination of communication systems and archives which would allow hunters to request assistance, access information, and learn appropriate and effective techniques.”

“For a guy who prefers to work alone, it seems like you’ve given this a lot of thought,” Dick teases.

“It’s practical,” Bruce defends. “It could also be used to inform hunters about new cases, and people could claim them based on location and specialty. There have been incidents where multiple hunters have arrived to work the same case; the current system leads to a waste of resources.”

Dick is about to point out that setting up this kind of network sounds expensive, that they’ll need to pool funds and resources to get this off the ground, but then Dick remembers that Bruce is insanely rich. It’s an easy thing to forget when they’ve been bouncing from motel to motel and shopping at Goodwill for nearly a year. “How long will something like this take to set up?”

“Weeks, possibly months. Once we have a system up and running, we'll need to convince people to use it. It's pointless otherwise," Bruce says, not looking up from his notes. “We’ll start by creating a task force of people who we can trust—John, Diana, Clark, Barry. We'll focus on the Court for the time being. Once we have a solid base and the threat has been made clear, we'll move to include more general resources. Your connection to the Court, however, will not be discussed within the network under any circumstances.”

Dick nods. “Got it. But one thing: Are we ever going to tell them about me? Like Clark and Barry, or anyone else who you think should be on the task force.” He understands that they shouldn’t tell everyone or put this information online, but as of now, the only other people who know about Dick’s status are John and Diana. It’s something, but it’s not enough. It feels irresponsible to keep it this hidden. He can’t help but wonder what will happen if he goes dark side and Bruce can’t bring himself to take Dick down. If that happens, they’ll need backup, contingencies. Help.

“Only when it becomes necessary, and only with people who will keep you safe.”

It’s enough for now. 

They stay in the cabin with Alfred for two weeks. Most of that time is spent working on their network, and the rest is a glimpse at what their life could be like if they could all be together like a normal family. If they weren’t on the move constantly, chasing monsters and whatever else the universe decides to throw at them.

Alfred makes a point to spend one-on-one time with Dick, and this usually means Dick helps Alfred with the chores while Bruce is in Gotham getting legal paperwork sorted out. During this time, Dick learns that Alfred used to be an actor, and they bond over their mutual experiences as performers. Alfred and Dick also bond over ribbing Bruce, each in their own way.  

They spend afternoons playing chess, and Dick learns that Bruce only became so good at the game because he's been playing Alfred for years. Dick is already nearing Bruce’s level, and after the tips Alfred gives him, he's confident he can surpass Bruce with a little more practice. He vows that next time he sees Alfred, he'll beat him too, even if it's just once.

Their visit comes to an end on a sunny Wednesday afternoon, and something akin to homesickness tugs at Dick's stomach as they drive away, leaving a waving Alfred in their wake. 

He'd almost asked Alfred to come, but they're heading off to fight a wendigo Alfred doesn't know exists, and Dick thinks Bruce is right that it's probably better for Alfred not to know exactly how much danger they're in. Even without the supernatural factor, the never-ending road trip doesn’t seem like Alfred's style, and neither Dick nor Bruce are ready to be stationary. 

Maybe that's always what this has been about from the beginning: a need to move forward.

Twenty minutes into their drive, Dick is staring out the window and humming to the music as Bruce drives through a subdivision. When he sees a mailbox on a street corner up ahead, he sits up straight. 

“Pull over,” Dick says, reaching for his backpack. 

Bruce stops the car. “What’s wrong?”

“I just need to take care of something.” Dick digs through his bag a little longer until he finally finds the envelope he wrote so long ago. He unfolds the envelope and smooths it out, then stares at Haly’s name and P.O. box address. He knows it’s still the same; he checks it regularly, just in case.

He opens the car door and jogs to the big blue mailbox. He feels like he’s making the right call, he feels like he’s finally ready to let go and say goodbye.

He takes a deep breath and opens the slot, dropping his envelope in. He didn’t put a return address on it—even if he had a permanent address, it would be too dangerous—so he’ll never know if Haly receives the letter. But Dick hopes he will, he has a feeling he will.

Dick walks back to the car and climbs into his seat. He notices then that Bruce has been watching him the whole time. He looks sympathetic, approving, like he somehow knows what Dick just did.

After another moment, Bruce asks, “Ready?”

“Yeah. We can move on now.”

Bruce nods and pulls away from the curb. 

Dick feels lighter as they drive toward the freeway. The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of planning and preparation and finding something close to acceptance, closure—hope. 

Now that he’s no longer completely consumed by his past or possible future, he feels like he can finally live. Like he can finally move forward. It’s a nice feeling.