Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There are few things, Dick thinks, that are more unpleasant than waking up feeling like he’d been stuffed into a sausage skin three times too small for his body to actually fit in, but this is definitely not unfamiliar territory.

Sometimes, he thinks that if he hadn’t accepted Bruce’s offer, maybe he’d be less likely to be thrown through an alternate dimension simply because he was trying to save Jaybird from getting killed.

Again.

With a groan, Dick rolls out of bed, surprised to land on the floor without a wobble. Running a hand through his hair, Dick looks down at himself. Yep. Limbs intact… if a bit hidden by too big clothes. Maybe slightly too small for Bruce or Jay, but he couldn’t fit in Tim’s clothes, even at midget-size.

Looking up, Dick takes a moment to assess where he is. He’s not Tim - whose memory had always been terrifyingly exceptional - or Jason, whose childhood had often relied on his memory to avoid getting jumped - so it takes him a moment.

Bunk beds, he thinks. Eight in a room for sixteen kids, half of which were empty already despite the late hour. They’re slightly rusted, the top bunk wobbling dangerously on one as a breeze blows through a cracked window pane. An orphanage. He’d been to so many in his youth after his parents died that they’d all blurred together, but he recognized this one.

The last one he’d been to before he’d been picked up by Bruce, in fact. Dick takes a moment, looks back down at his hands.

Time travel.

Time. Travel.

Dick takes a deep breath. If he opens his mouth to swear, he’s not going to stop until someone fucking knocks him out.

Nine years old. Nine fucking years old and whatever son of a bitch that dropped him here couldn’t have put him at least a few months earlier? Crossing his legs, he forces himself to calm down.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Five repetitions later, and Dick is slightly calmer, though his hands tremble with the force of his emotions. He knows that he can do… incredible damage. Immense damage, even. One wrong move and Dick Grayson could completely mangle the timelines forever. Hell, he could possibly just disappear in a space-time anomaly if he wasn’t careful, or if he trusted the wrong people.

Including Bruce. Biting his lower lip, Dick looked up at the bunk he was residing under with a slight scowl.

He remembered how weird Bruce was in the early years. Staying out late, spending all of his time patrolling until he collapsed, his first fight with Supes… Rolling into the pillow, Dick groans quietly. He did not want to be there for that. Bruce’s paranoia and his own volatile temper had been enough, thanks. He thinks back to all the things he’s learned, to everything that’s been done, and makes a decision.

Back to fucking bed with him. He’d sleep, wake up at dawn or whenever, and then he’d check out what year it was and what kind of mess he was looking at.

Morning dawns cold, wet, and miserable.

Of course, it’s Gotham, so Dick just bundles up in an extra-large jacket and asks Matron Marie if he can go to the library for school stuff. Matron squints down at him, but after a long stare-off, she relents and snaps a band around his wrist, the lurid orange color notating his destination, name, and age.

Dick thinks, judging by her glare, she’s hoping he gets kidnapped.

“Thanks Matron,” he mumbles to her, and her expression slides into surprise. Oh. Right. He’d never thanked anyone for anything, not even B when he’d been nine. He’d just been a dick. His lips twitch slightly at the unintended joke, and he quickly rushes out before she can check him for a fever.

Gotham doesn’t look too different, Dick thinks, for being another reality. He’d been hoping for hover cars or something, at least. Drat. None of the fun shit. He’s quick to make his way to the library, can feel how people judge him for his too-worn, too-big clothes, and when some guys look like they’re ready to get a bit grabby, he narrows his eyes in a glare. He’s a small kid, slim and underfed, so he expects them to be more amused by his attitude.

Instead, they back off. Dick doesn’t want to think about what he probably looks like for them to actually back off, so he doesn’t and rushes inside the library instead. It’s warm inside, and he untenses, sighing in relief as the heat slides over his body, easing the cold and wet sensation over his skin. He instinctively looks for Barb, but nearly smacks his face with a hand. Stupid - she was probably at best twelve, if he was still nine. Sloppy of him. Shaking his head, he checks to see what the computer situation is looking like.

They still looked like obsolete bricks, and he’s pretty sure someone’s using a damn Nokia phone, so that definitely put him somewhere in the mid-90’s. Iphone was a halcyon dream and he doubted Android had even become a thing yet.

Heh. Made tech easy to crack. He finds a nice, secluded corner, and quickly hops into a computer the moment it’s free, little more than a bored glance being sent his way to show interest in his activities.

If it had been Bruce, he’d have swanned over in a hot second. Dick cracks his fingers and gets to work, quickly figuring out exactly what kind of tech he was dealing with.

(Tim might have been the gadgeteer genius, but Dick was Bruce Wayne’s first protegé. He’d known damn well how to hack, and he’d kept up with the times in the Titans. Seriously. Cyborg had been part of the Titans, why had he been the better hacker?)

It doesn’t take him long to get what he’s after, and after scrambling his trail and leading it - somewhat conveniently - to a warehouse he knew Joker had been camping out around when he was a kid, Dick abandons the computer and skips over to the front desk.

“Hi!” He greets, pulls all his charm up front, and the librarian gives him an amused look.

“I know that look,” Estelle says, and he beams brighter. “What trouble are you looking for?”

“I’m looking for a history book,” he says straight-faced. “For stuff going on in the last twenty years. Travelling in a circus doesn’t make for a consistent education,” Dick deadpanned at her. The woman snorts, but her fingers flip through the cards efficiently, and Dick decides, the moment he’s able to, he’s going to bribe Bruce into upgrading the library.

Ugh.

Catalogues.

“Aisle 14, nonfiction section. It should be called a Modern History of Gotham and the Effects on US Politics by Jones Esther,” Estelle says, grinning at him. “If your little legs can reach that high.” He wrinkles his nose at her and bolts off, refusing to dignify her with a response.

Adults.

The adult wrinkles his nose again, and wonders if his child’s body is already affecting his mind. He hopes not, because he couldn’t afford his childish temper to get the better of him. Carefully, he eases the book from the shelf and finds somewhere secluded to read. He has half a mind to just sneak up to the rafters and keep reading after dark, but he needs to pretend that he’s a kid for one more day. Judging by the date on the computer - if the computer’s anything accurate to what he remembers, he has at least one more day before Bruce notices him and then tries to adopt him.

It’d be easy, he thinks, to tell Bruce everything and trust him to handle it. But… He bites his lip as he thinks about Jason, about the hushed, almost apologetic way Jason had confessed about why Bruce had thrown him out, the way Tim had looked, constantly riding his exhaustion to its limits.

Dick was tired of everyone paying for B’s issues. He knew B had been trying, but even Dick had limits.

“Sorry B,” Dick mumbles, trying to ignore how the words felt like a betrayal. “I’ll show up for you soon. Just hold on a little longer.”

He knew Tim wasn’t anywhere near B’s radar, being barely old enough to walk, but Jay… maybe he’d find a way to get Jay out of his unworthy parents’ arms and into B’s.

Least he could do, to make up for living up to his nickname the first time around. Burying his nose into his book, Dick shoves all of his stray thoughts away, instead digging in deeper to make sure he wasn’t going to accidentally start some kind of world war.

That’d be inconvenient.

Dick stayed a whole week at the orphanage. He wasn’t idle, of course, but he knew how this kind of stuff worked from previous attempts to run away.. If he was acting strange and then someone looked into it, someone would follow up, and while he doubted it would be Bruce, he knew damn well it would be trouble. Steadying his breathing, Dick makes sure to take a look around the other boys, all of them sleeping fitfully on their bunks.

He has a narrow chance of escape - even a week wasn’t enough to make Dick as good as he used to be with his body - some of the more acrobatic flips he used to do were easier, of course, given that he was now way more flexible, but that was only a minor thing in comparison to his lack of height. He’d have to be careful scaling buildings. He’d stolen enough cash to pay for any news he needed, but he was hopefully not going to need it.

A quiet, guilty squirm fills his insides, and he looks away from the sleeping boys, closing his eyes. Bruce… Bruce needed him.

(The quieter, wiser part of him that had insisted he leave for Blüdhaven reminded him that Bruce needed a therapist. Maybe a few years would give him the ability to do that. But he wouldn’t hold his breath.)

Hopping out of the window, Dick carefully eases it back into place and takes off into the night. From what he remembered, the Court of Owls had a base both here and in Blüdhaven; but he wasn’t going anywhere near Bane’s main hub until he was a lot better trained and more capable of holding himself in a fight.

The Court is about as well-guarded as he remembers, that is to say very, so he cautiously sneaks in, silently slipping through the cracks in their tightly wound security. One thing he could say was that his small size made it much harder to see him, and he’d made sure to buy some good, soft-soled sneakers meant for climbing in his size so they wouldn’t squeak.

It’s ironic, he thinks with a dry smile, that all of B’s boys would eventually end up getting trained by assassins.

Shame it took him this long to get there. (No, Deathstroke didn’t count.)

He manages to make it undetected into what he recalls being the council room, tucks his feet in and pretends to be a statue with the gargoyles as the assembly files in, filling the room to the brim with silent, masked strangers. Some he recognizes from memory - others he thinks are from the old guard, dead before Dick had ever any reason to touch them. Their beaked masks are pointed and sharp, metal gleaming in the light. He knows it’s just for vanity’s sake, the collection of elders settling down as someone is set in front of them. Dick doesn’t quite peer out at them, but he is curious - he can see a mask of the person he thinks is his great-grandfather (however loosely the term applied to the man who tried to convert and kill him.)

“Seal the chamber,” someone says, and Dick can hear how it grinds tightly shut, two burly guards - enhanced Talon agents - standing in place.

Could he take them? He weighs his options silently, looking down as they stare at the quivering man in the centre, and then palms the knife in his hand. He didn’t want to kill anyone, not in the slightest, but he wasn’t going to get a better chance than this, and he’d always been a bit… flexible on the no-kill rule.

He’d killed the Joker, after all, and he’d damn near killed Tony.

“Agent. You kneel before us, accused of treason,” The one with the most impressive mask speaks first. “You attempted to secret your son away from us, to take the child to our enemies in the League of Assassins.” Dick’s brow bounces upwards, and he pays more attention. Both of them sucked, but in his opinion, the League did suck slightly less, if only because they didn’t lobotomize their soldiers into being impossible tanks.

But that was probably because they used the Pit instead.

A little bit of irritation crawls over his skin at the reminder of Jason, once-blue eyes green and glittering with madness when his temper took hold. He listens to the proceedings with half an ear, waiting for an opening and checking around himself while he tries to make sure he’s not yet been caught.

Tuning back in, Dick can see the woman cowering in terror as the vote is cast overwhelmingly in favor of her execution, and Dick frowns again, feels a little uncomfortable at the fact that he was actually actively thinking about this.

He’d killed the Joker because that son of a bitch had deserved it, but he hadn’t ever touched an innocent.

And then the reminder of where he was slaps him in the face.

Some people were innocent here, surely. The kids, definitely. But the adults were a different story. The only adults that stayed human were those whose intelligence was too valuable to keep over converting them into a modified super-soldier like Deathstroke. She was probably as valuable an agent as his great-grandfather, if not more so, if she’d been on active duty and not stuck in stasis.

His conscience would definitely still bother him, but if he wanted an in, there wasn’t a better chance.

Dick grabs his knife, waits for them to sentence her to death, and jumps down to do the deed himself.

William watches in silence, bored out of his mind. He knew how this rigmarole would end. It was painfully obvious what the result would be, but the Court was always meticulous, always took the time to try and hold a trial, especially for a true Talon, one who had shed their meagre mortality for the greatness of Barbatos’ blessing.

He’s expecting something simple. An axe to the neck, or perhaps a knife to the forehead.

He’s not expecting a small black blur to dive from above the rafters - and what a security breach that is - and bury a knife through her neck with all the brutal efficiency of a monster. The little figure is faster than anyone in the room, the blade jerking to a side and making her drop limply to the floor. Blood pools on the ground, but it’s a clean cut, straight through her spinal cord, which would take precious time to fix, and would leave a nice blank spot in her memory when she was revived for future use. Nobody dares move, even the elders stunned to silence as the boy - and it is a boy, tiny slip of a thing - removes his knife and cleans it on her uniform. He picks her corpse up by the scruff of her neck, and drags it, slow and careful, until he’s climbing the steps.

Heading for him. William keeps still, watching as the body thumps against the steps in a slow, steady tread of bloody feet, the knife in his other hand as he draws as close to level with William as he can. The boy presents him with the kill, dropping her at his feet.

Brilliant blue eyes fixate on him, and the boy’s head tilts, birdlike.

“It’s not polite to make your blood wait for you,” the boy says evenly. William feels a cold chill crawl up his spine as the boy stares at him. “It’s been months since mother and father fell.” William kneels down, tilts that soft skin up, his tan skin glowing faintly in the light of the torches illuminating them. There is no warmth in his eyes, a small mouth set in a slight frown. He is not amused, his own flesh and blood, and had sought him, had come to him with a body as a warning.

Already, he had shown his gift, his ability to enter their stronghold’s most protected space without being caught, and the boy would likely only grow more skillful. William cups the boy’s face and caresses away a splatter of blood that had caught on such cherubic features.

He was… He was perfect.

“That is my sin alone, little grandchild of mine,” He murmurs, wondering how much Haly’s had told this boy, how much he had spent of his life in the circus working to meet his great-grandfather.

He was a blessing that William would not turn down, not when he thought all his blood had perished or been snatched up by the unworthy. Blue eyes fixate on his hand, but the boy does not bite, untensing slowly as he registers no danger.

Clever boy.

His grandson was a true agent of the Court. Quiet and focused - uncannily so, eyes staring over the rim of his drink to watch a spar below him, soft mouth pursed into a calculating frown.

“My Grayson,” William says, and the child turns from the spar to watch him too, head tilting to a side. “Do you desire to fight?” He asks, and an unsettling blue fixates on him.

“Foolish question,” the boy says evenly, turning back to his food. He’d proven himself already, and so the choicest bits of beef had already been served to him, along with a mouthwatering plate of butter-roasted vegetables and succulent potatoes. The boy wrinkles his nose at the meal, and William reaches out to pet the top of his head. Richard lets him, before shaking his head and refusing him.

“Does the food not satisfy you?” He asks, and the boy gives him an unimpressed look.

“This is a meal for spoiled elites, not a meal for an athlete.” William’s brow rises. “And if you say that I am not an athlete, grandfather, I will stab you. This is a meal for the sedentary. Fix it.” The boy stands up abruptly and abandons his plate, looking visibly displeased by the whole thing. William looks at the food, and then stands up to follow.

“What would you eat, then, my child?” He asks, little Grayson already heading for the training grounds with an intent expression on his pretty face.

“Light vegetables, boiled,” The boy says evenly. “Salads, fresh. Lean protein, not that fatty… thing you were trying to ruin my body with. I had enough of poorly-made food destroying my well-maintained diet while in the orphanage, thank you,” Richard says icily, and William chuckles at his grandson’s temper.

“Of course my little Grayson,” William says, amused. Figures the boy would be so particular, if he had been aiming for the Court to be his to serve. It was no surprise the boy was so offended that the Court had insulted him. “Where do you wish to go?” Richard arches an amused brow at him, and then snorts.

“I’m not so foolish as to not know my way around, grandfather,” Richard says pointedly. “I know where the training room is, and I’ve made do with sub-par equipment for long enough. I fully intend on dealing with my lack of supplies.” William bites back the words he wishes to say, allows a faint smile to curl his lips and draws back. How entertaining this child was, cold and calculating beyond even the greatest Talon’s hopes, already primed for a life here.

“Will you take flexibility training?” He asks, and the boy glances back at him. “I haven’t seen your range of motion for myself, my grandson, but surely you have higher than average skill.”

“I am not perfect,” The boy says a bit icily, spearing him with a glare. “Why stop when I can be more?” William smiles wickedly at the boy, a shiver of delight running up his spine at the perfect answer. It was almost too perfect, but William had been assigned to take care of this boy specifically regardless since he’d dropped a kill at the Talon’s feet. He’d made it personal with that action, and William did so love to take his time and train a successor that would be worth the time of day. The two walk together to the weapons room, and once inside, the boy makes a beeline for the slimmer escrima sticks and shorter blades. He twists them this way and that, almost as though he was greeting an old friend.

Skillful, but it was clear he was more familiar with the smaller sticks than the blades, and he tucks the blades back, looks at him with a slightly challenging stare.

“Difficult to kill someone with those,” William notes.

“A snapped neck is the same no matter who does it,” The boy notes quietly. “And I’d be surprised to see someone survive a crushed windpipe.”

So he had killed with a weapon before. William notes that, wonders who could have been his unlucky target, and reaches out to pat the top of the boy’s head. Blue eyes flash in warning, and he backs off this time, has a feeling the boy was less amused with him now for some unknown reason. The boy was a vindictive little thing, wild and vicious and yet - perfectly in control. It was such a complex weave of emotions and concepts for a boy William hadn’t known for more than twenty-four hours.

“You are a particularly demanding child, for one of the Court,” William notes, and Richard’s blue eyes narrow into a glare.

“You’re also a bit too alive for a dead man,” The boy spits back sharply, the words pricking at his annoyance. Clearly the boy was unhappy. “You are too - too indulgent,” Richard says at last, angry and trembling as he looks at William at last. “Is this all it takes to impress the Court? Any properly trained Talon can do as I did and yet -” The boy cuts himself off, and scowls deeper. “Pathetic,” Richard hisses angrily, and William blinks as he realises the boy’s thought processes.

“You think us soft,” he muses, and angry eyes glitter at him.

“I think this is despicable. Treating me as though I’m some kind of prodigal child, stepping lightly around me - I came to become what father had once told me of. To be the blade of Gotham, and here we are, pathetically dancing around the subject of my ascension to the Court. I didn’t come to look pretty, I came to be trained.”

He’s angry, a temper on him that lesser men might have found amusing. William knew it was anything but. The boy was bone-deep angry, his expectations having been demolished by their decision to ease him into the life of a Talon.

“It was decided by the court to allow you to relax, to ease into routine,” William says after a moment. Cold blue glared at him.

“If I wanted to be coddled like a child, I’d not have come here at all. Either make me useful or I will leave,” Richard spits, shaking with anger. William’s brow quirks up, surprised.

“Who do you wish to kill?” He wonders, and Richard stiffens. Right on the money, then. For all his skill, he was still a child, so easy to read.

“It’s none of your concern,” The boy says stiffly, arms crossing as he looks away. “I’m going to train, if nobody is willing to train me.” William’s fingers reach out to grasp the back of an oversized shirt instead. The boy breaks his grip, but stops at William’s expression.

“My Grayson,” William kneels down to meet the boy’s eyes. “Let us outfit you in better clothing first.” Keen eyes stare at him, before he sighs and nods.

“Fine,” Richard concedes in ill grace, tiny fingers plucking at his shirt, and he settles a hand against the boy’s spine. What an angry child. A true, proud child of William’s. He could see how much of a handful this boy would be for anyone else.

His boy.

Richard’s hands press against his face, and unseen by William, a slow, dangerous smile curls his lips up.

Too easy.

Dick spits out blood, wiping his hand over the back of his mouth with a grimace. Another cocktail of drugs to make him better. Despite his best attempts otherwise, Dick’s mouth is stained with the taste of copper, but he simply grits his teeth and stands up on shaky feet.

William is watching him, a golden-gauntleted hand glimmering with their razored points. He’s been in full Talon gear since he’d started training Dick, and the boy would admit that in full, the regalia was definitely an impressive sight. Black and brassy gold with a little splash of red accents… Put the red to blue and he’d want it. A huff, and he looks at the downed body, the boy staring at his latest opponent.

Dick had never really questioned the no-kill rule, the abhorrence that Bruce had felt for it was enough of a tell to ensure he avoided it, even if he was a little… flexible about it.

(Dead Joker, anyone?)

But now, with dozens of bodies on his hands, staring at his latest victim, Dick wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel. Was he supposed to be upset? Angry?

Damn this child’s body. He felt things so strongly now, so viscerally. His temper still took him by surprise, still made life difficult, and he twitches slightly, looks away from the body as it cools down in full. A sigh, and he taps his fingers to his cheek to wake himself, looking at his great-grandfather.

Richard Cobb. William had insisted on it, but Dick wasn’t happy. The only last name he wanted to change to was Wayne, if that. He’d remembered how Bruce had sat him down, awkwardly tried to tell him he had the right to choose what name he picked, that he was okay to stay a Grayson, if he wanted to.

Dick had stayed a Grayson, but now, he wanted to be a Wayne.

“Acceptable, Richard,” William says, and he hates how his body reacts to the praise, forcing down a blush and smile. He doesn’t want this man’s approval, he doesn’t want this man’s acceptance.

He was here to put the Court down before it could do more damage, before they could seize too much of Gotham and turn back the years of good work that Bruce had already poured into the city.

But the child who had always begged for validation from the self-styled Dark Knight was still there, still craved every little good job and you did well from his grandfather.

It’d never been something he’d gotten over. Even after he’d left for Blüdhaven, had founded the Teen Titans, had become part of the Justice League, had been Slade’s main rival…

That craving for validation had still existed, and in the end, he’d found himself craving it, pained and desperate for something like praise, even before he was caught up in whatever sent him here.

God. He follows after William without bothering to memorise the route - he knows this place already like the back of his hand - still thinking about them. He hoped Jay wasn’t being reamed for whatever happened to him - it was bad enough that he kept getting the short end of the fucking stick after Joker had blown him up.

Closing his eyes, Dick takes a deep breath in.

Well. Time to face the vipers. Rather than entering the training room, Dick hangs back, stretches himself out as he waits for whatever new experiment they were planning on for him. They liked to think they were being clever, but Dick didn’t particularly care what they thought. He knew roughly what they did given that he’d read their rigorous experiments from top to bottom, but he was an anomaly. He’d started as part of Haly’s, not part of the Court, so they’d had to rearrange his training to compensate for the difference in his combat style.

He wasn’t a brute, he didn’t favour their more brutal methods. He took after Bruce in many ways, preferring the shadows and subtle manipulation over outright combat. A good fight was one he didn’t have to get his hands dirty with.

With a soft sigh, Dick looks up at William when the man exits, the man’s body looser and more relaxed when he exits than when he’d entered.

“You’ve been recognized,” William says, smiling wider. “They’ve accepted you as ours. It will take some time to tailor your enhancements, but our training will be as it always has been. Once the enhancements are ready, they will call for you.”

Dick arches an unimpressed brow. “If they try to take any part of my brain out of my body I will destroy them,” Dick drawls, and William’s lips twitch slightly.

“You sound so sure they will try,” William says, ruffling his hair. Dick shakes his head, puffs his cheeks out in a display of childishness that makes William laugh to see it.

“I’m not saying they won’t… but I want them to be aware that I’ll know if they try.” William laughs at him again, but nudges him along with a warm smile.

“You’re cute, my Grayson,” William says fondly, and Dick’s brow twitches.

“I am not cute, grandfather,” Dick says, irritated by his amusement. William ruffles his hair again, and he ducks, scowling.

“I have only just come into your life. Allow an old man to feel nostalgic.”

Dick shoots him a murderous look, but all William does is laugh at him.

Dick stares up at the ceiling and briefly, he wonders if he could get the name of the sadist that injected him with the cocktail of drugs for the day. He’d carefully tracked the days - it’d been six months since he’d joined them, and as William had promised, he had been trained, his days filled with working himself to the bone, beaten and starved and forced to work in inhumane conditions, with inhumane experiments filled in whenever he didn’t have a broken bone or a dislocated part of his body.

Dick had thought he was flexible, but after six months of this, Dick could fold himself like a goddamn pretzel in a wheelie-bin and still have room to stretch.

Total plus.

Less so was their attempts to control his mind, make him compliant and subservient to the Court’s will. The first time they tried, he had broken one of their operator’s arms.

The second got a scalpel to the throat.

And the third had been very nearly lobotomized with his own tools.

They’d stopped after that., but Dick didn’t want to let his guard down.

He couldn’t be sure that he still hadn’t been modified - they were good for a damn good reason - but at least, Dick knew his brain was still in one piece.

A knock, and Dick palms a slim knife into his hands, ready to throw it as fast as his fingers could move.

“Enter,” he says, still shaking a little from whatever had been injected into his body. William pokes his head in, and he relaxes minutely, grip softening around the knife, though he holds it close regardless. His grandfather eyes his tightly clutched knife with amusement.

“Are you stable?” William asks, and Dick stands up, slips his feet into the soft-soled shoes of his uniform.

“Enough,” Dick says with a shrug, hiding his wince with practised ease. “Who requested me?” He asks, and William gives him a look.

“You should rest. A weapon is not at its best if it is damaged.” William chides.

“It’s fine,” Dick dismisses. “I’ll be fine once I’m moving.” And as he bounces slightly in place, Dick knows it’s true, and can already feel the pain easing away from his tense shoulders and the stiffness of his back. William eyes him, and Dick wonders, a bit more amused, why he was feeling so fond of this man when - as far as he remembered - the man had always been a Talon first, had tried to kill Bruce, and even him, with Luthor’s information when he’d refused to become a Talon in his first lifetime.

Another crooked smirk, and he gestures lightly, suggesting they get moving. William rolls his eyes, but lets him duck under his arm and get moving, the boy bobbing lightly up and down as he heads towards the councilroom.

William catches up to him, and he looks up, wondering if he’ll be taller in this lifetime, or if he’d go back to his comfortable 5’10” height.

He didn’t mind being shorter than B and Jay, honest.

… Okay, he did a little bit.

A whole ass ton, don’t kid yourself, Grayson , Dick chides himself, the teen following behind his grandfather dutifully.

He recognizes the figure waiting in the hall. The lean silhouette of Deathstroke isn’t one Dick would ever forget, not after the man had all but offered him his mantle. Dick was considerably too young for Deathstroke to be here for anything regarding Blüdhaven, and god only knew how old his kids were here. A slow blink, and he looks up at the man properly, waits expectantly.

“... in private, if you’d be so kind,” Wilson finishes, his eyes sliding over William to rest on Dick. “You want my partner to be this kid?” He sounds mildly unimpressed, and Dick wonders what kind of job they were taking that he’d need to have a kid tagging along.

“Is this a school, daycare, or juvie that we’re infiltrating?” Dick says, frowning at the Talon member who is standing at the desk. Deathstroke’s head tilts - surprise, he’d bet. Or amusement. Deathstroke wasn’t the type to let age fool him.

“Gotham’s Home for Troubled Youth, specifically,” The agent says without missing a beat, a quiet praise of his intuition.

“I’m a little young for their usual attendees, since they take pre-teens and older,” Dick says, unimpressed. “Normally a kid my age would be stuffed in Arkham Hospital in max security if I did something to warrant that place.” Deathstroke is watching him with a wary sort of caution, amusement and surprise in the lines of his body.

“We should go into a secure office,” the agent suggests, and Dick shrugs, already walking towards the room he liked most when he was assigned to work.

“My office?” He asks, and the agent huffs.

“You’re being arrogant again.”

“Yeah, and you’re wasting time,” he says blithely. “My office.” Deathstroke huffs a laugh behind him, and the four of them enter. It’s an abandoned aviary, the once-empty nesting holes full of miniature computers, their unending whirring noises a good mask for any eavesdropping devices and a wicked bit of programming he’d done to keep everything confidential. He takes the folder from the unresisting agent’s hands, quickly flipping through it all to memorise the details. They’re being hired by -

“I hope you understand that Lexcorp is likely going to lose a lot of stock in the next week,” Dick notes aloud. “So we’re going to have to get in, grab this mystery package, and get out to be paid in less than three days.”

Even with the whir of technology, Dick could swear he’d hear a pin drop if he let one go now.

“How do you know that?” Deathstroke kneels down to meet him face to face, and Dick arches a brow, smiles slowly in a way that he knows makes him look dangerous, even with his youthful profile. Leaning in, he speaks, just low enough for them to hear.

“Believe me, Mr. Wilson, I’m not as stupid as any child you’ve had the misfortune of dealing with. I keep track of the investments in my Court’s city.” Pulling back, Dick relishes in the stunned silence of the mercenary, offers the folder back. “If I were you, it’d be smarter to take it for yourself and sell it to the highest bidder. Lexcorp’s market shares are about to drop with the new Wayne Enterprises’ release of some of their more… lucrative hardware, and Lexcorp’s software is going to be out of date. Q1 reveals are next week.”

He remembered this. He remembered how Bruce had damn near killed himself setting it up, and a light hack to Wayne Enterprises (including a convenient little marker to make it look like the Gotham Lexcorp address) had been enough to confirm it was in progress to release this week. Lexcorp had nothing nearly as good in the works yet, so he’d bet good money they’d go down in value for at least a few months.

He wished he was there for B, right now. B had always taken comfort in hugging him when he was working late nights, and Dick missed someone he trusted to hug without getting stabbed in the back. He so, so missed it.

Not enough to stop his goal of putting the Court down like the rabid animals they were, but enough. Maybe he could look for Jason. Baby Jay was only five, right now, but he’d already dropped off of the radar, and casual canvassing hadn’t yet let him find the boy. He could sweep in, be his little brother’s hero, and keep him safe at the same time. Win-win. Tuning in, Dick looks up at the 

“The Court does not -” Dick rolls his eyes.

“Quit while you’re ahead. Lexcorp will send someone to the Home, and the Bat’ll send them packing. If they don’t realise they’re going to get stiffed out of the money, then it sucks to be them.” He eyes the folder. “Save it. We’d lose more money and my anonymity than we can afford.” Done with the conversation, Dick opens the door and disappears into the halls, knowing William will probably lecture him for exposing their internal workings, but he’s not of a mind to care.

Seeing Deathstroke was…

Jarring.

He’d always thought of the Court as a more self-isolated thing, strictly tied to the city of Gotham and their weird-ass god Barbatos than any loyalty to any outside influences. It was why he’d operated so strictly in this location. He didn’t like the idea that his information was wrong - because if they weren’t as self-isolated as he thought, he was going to be very fucking annoyed.

He fucking hated cultists.

Lost in his thoughts, he can’t help but respond to instinct when an unknown hand touches him.

Dislocate the hand, twist, engage the blade hidden in your wrist holster up and under the tender bit of the armpit to the artery -

“Fucking hell kid, are you just rabid?” Deathstroke’s voice keeps him from following through, and the child blinks away his instinctive reaction, stares down at the mercenary he’d seized so roughly, before he frowns, grip tightening briefly on both hand and arm. The blade under his chin tickles slightly, and he gives it a pointed look.

The knife retreats.

“Don’t approach me like that next time. I don’t like being touched,” Dick says in irritation, letting him go. He’d almost gotten him and it was a shame he’d been stopped. He’d looked forward to causing at least a little damage. He owed Deathstroke for hurting Jericho and Grant and Rose.

“You’re a feral rabbit, kid,” Deathstroke says, amused. Dick pulls a face at him.

“I have a name,” He says icily. “It’s Richard.” The mercenary holds his hands up, before wincing as his dislocated wrist pops back into place.

“Sorry, sorry, Richard,” Deathstroke says, his mask hiding the smirk on his punchable face. “Mind if we walk?” he asks, and Dick considers him.

“If you try to harm me, I’ll take off both of your hands,” the boy says at last. “I’m not in the mood to play games.” Deathstroke hums, but sticks his hands pliantly in his pockets.

“Better?” He asks, and Dick snorts.

“No.” He starts walking anyway. Slade'll follow.

Slade regards the lithe boy as the two walk side to side, and wonders if it’s arrogance or just confidence that fills this little killer. He’d heard through the grapevine, of course, about the Court of Owls having picked up a dangerous new member, but he’d just thought it was them blowing smoke.

This kid, Richard, was a whole lot more dangerous than he’d expected from intel. His eyes were an odd mix. Some of his eyes were blue, some were yellow, with very little green in between the two. Part of the experimentation they were doing? Slade felt… uncomfortable, actually, with the idea that they’d taken a child and were experimenting on him the same way he’d been experimented on.

Not that it hadn’t done him some good - the boy was already unnaturally fast, and with keen eyes and a sharp, razored wit that he couldn’t imagine on his own kids.

God bless Joey and Grant, but the boys were kids and dumb as bricks aside. They were normal kids. This Richard was many things, but normal was so far from one of them it was almost comical.

“How old are you, kid?” He asks, and Richard glances at him. It’s unnerving to see a look that would have been more fit on Adeline’s face on a child’s. They step out into open air, and after a quick sweep, he determines they’re alone.

“Ten years old. Or thereabouts,” He says indifferently, and something twists in Slade’s gut. Ten. What the hell kind of person did that to a kid? Slade knew he was wired differently, knew he could look at his own kids and feel indifferent about them, but even so, he’d never imagine putting a kid through this willingly.

“Bit young to be a killer for hire,” He says instead, gets another unreadable glance.

“Says the man with children,” Richard says mildly, and his hackles rise. He’d worked hard to keep his kids out of the spotlight, especially with how fucking nasty people could get when they thought themselves wronged. He was a shitty father, but not that shitty.

“How do you know about them?” He asks, a bit chilled. Those not-blue, not-yellow eyes look at him.

“I keep track of all the threats who come into my city,” Richard says simply. The boy reaches up, pulling him down until Slade falls to his knees, just close enough for him to whisper. “I know you have two boys, and an illegitimate girl named Rose. They average about eight years old, and Grant is an ungrateful pest, while Joseph bears the brunt of Adeline’s abuse alone. Your daughter Rose is still with her mother, though she’d prefer to literally be anywhere else.” Ice sluices down his spine, and he is stopped by the boy’s grip on his shirt. “The Court is lazy, but I don’t know if they are aware of the same things I am. I’ve done my research away from the Court’s walls as my information is one of my greatest assets and makes me a valuable tool - too valuable to end up like those who become nothing more than a mindless weapon.”

The tight knot in his stomach loosens.

“Are you sure you’re a kid?” He asks, and Richard laughs. It should be - it is - a beautiful sound, but the sound of it in this context is chilling.

“Sometimes I wonder,” Richard says, and isn’t that a fucking omen? “If you wish to take some advice from me, I would highly recommend you get your younger son out of there before your wife kills him.” A malicious smile, and the boy lets go. He’s too stunned to move an inch, torn between pulling away and dragging the kid closer to demand some fucking answers.

Slade is not a religious man, nor is he in any way easily alarmed - but what the fuck was this kid? He’d kept his family as tightly under wraps as he could, let alone his daughter - how the hell did this kid know -

“What do you want from me?” He asks, stomach twisting as the boy watches on with amusement.

“That’s for me to know, and you to find out,” Richard says, a wicked grin on his pretty face. He hops back a step, and tilts his head. “And just so you know, people don’t tend to think mercenaries would bring a kid to their job.”

That’s… true.

“I’m hardly equipped to be a parent.”

“Neither is 50% of this planet. And yet they have children anyways,” he points out. “Besides. Your eldest is already a failure. Might as well move on to the next one.” Richard shrugs, smiling widely.

Slade stares. “Are you… okay, kid?” He decides on asking, and Richard looks at him with all of the amusement a boy his age should not reasonably fucking posess.

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not,” Richard says. “It’s not your problem right now. Consider this… a downpayment.”

“For what?” He wonders, and Richard’s smile widens.

“You’ll know, soon enough.”

God help him.

Dick isn’t surprised when his grandfather finds him, a moue of disappointment on the man’s face.

“You know of that man?” William wonders, and Dick hums.

“Yes.” When he offers no other answer, his grandfather’s eyes crinkle into a smile that doesn’t touch his lips.

“Will you explain how you know that man?”

“No.” Dick looks up, and his grandfather does laugh then. “It’s not my fault the Court doesn’t have intel.” His grandfather draws near, and he tenses slightly when William sits next to him, only to relax when the man does little more than throw an arm over his shoulder.

“I wonder - do you get your cleverness from your mother, or your father?” He wonders aloud, and Dick leans against his shoulder with a soft smile.

“Father would joke I got his curiosity, and mother’s silver tongue,” he says, eyes closing slightly as he leans into the touch. A talon-gauntleted hand strokes through his hair, sharp points skimming gently over the boy’s scalp and making him sigh happily. The soft strokes of the talons through his hair reminds him of an old, distant memory, from when Bruce had first started taking care of him, a hazy fever that had seen the man fussing incredibly over Dick’s frail self. The gentle drag of the sharp points reminds him of fingernails, and he gently pushes up into the touch, a needy cat in the face of affection.

“I can see both applying to you, little owlet,” William teases, and Dick hums sleepily. Now that he was alone, Dick could feel the pain coming back, smothering his body as he let himself rest. Of course, he’d never tell William that he was right, instead laying his head down in the man’s lap while William tends to him.

William and Alfred were pretty alike, Dick thinks, allowing himself to relax, even as he keeps the knife in his hands just in case. He likes William. He really likes William.

But William is a Talon first, well before he ever will be Dick’s grandfather. The boy lets his eyes close, and he feigns sleep, his breath dropping slowly as he waits - always waiting to see where his loyalty lies.

William looks down at him, the clawed hand still stroking the dark hair of the boy he’d thought forever lost to him. A brush, and he tucks a lock of hair behind an ear.

Logically, William knew he should be furious. He is a Talon, and his own progeny has embarrassed the Court, has shown a reserve of cunning and intuition that should have been kept behind closed doors. He should have kept their disputes inside the halls, away from outsiders and away from any would divide the Court.

So why then, did he feel such pride? This burning sensation of joy at the boy’s fierce independence, the way he looked so intensely at it all, folding the fabric of the world to his very whims? He watched the boy as he had maimed the doctors of the Court, how he had defended his own sovereign mind, and rather than reprimands, he had wanted to praise the child that lay in his lap now. Carefully, he lifts the boy into his arms, standing so he can move the blanket aside and tuck him beneath the sheets. Lowering his burden, William allows the little boy to cling for a moment before he sets the boy down, soft fingers wrapped tight around their knife.

Even now, seeing how the boy distrusted him was not a cause for concern, sparked that same flame of pride for his grandson, the best of his line. He’s a perfect example of what a Talon should be. He is cold, calculating, twists strings around himself in a way that belies his age, as though he had lived decades and decades in his body and not mere years and months.

He stays with his grandson, runs his gauntlet through dark strands until the first rays of sun peek through the window of his room.

“How proud of you I am, my little Grayson, precious owlet mine,” William says softly, one last touch of his claws to hair, before he lets himself let go and leave. His grandson would never accept the Court’s control. The boy valued himself too much to sacrifice for the greater good of the Court, which meant he would have a choice to make, and a grandson whose life hung in the balance of his usefulness and his rebellion.

It wasn’t a hard choice to make, in the end. Once the boy was truly asleep, he leaned in to press a kiss to the boy’s hair, humming a lullaby as he watched over his little owlet.

Until his grandson made his choice, William would watch and wait.

It’s late. The bitter April air bites at Dick’s skin even through the thick cloak, and he wonders if he’s hypothermic already, or if the modifications were already in place, keeping him warm. He shakes his head, ignores his idle thoughts. He could wonder about his impending hypothermia later. He had a more important target to find.

Jason.

He’d failed Jason so fucking badly in the last lifetime. Letting him get kicked out because of a rule he’d not even really failed to uphold, watching how he’d let the pit devour him whole…

Dick doesn’t shiver, but it’s only because he’s already well past that level of cold. He hates how he thinks of the icy, indifferent eyes of his brother, the gun that had been shoved in his face more than once just because of who and what he’d been, because he’d chosen Bruce over the boy that had been his successor -

Dick grits his teeth slightly, eyes fixated on Willis Todd as the man slinks out of his apartment.

Luck had favoured him. Nearly ten months had passed since Dick had been picked up by the Court, and he’d finally caught a whisper of Dent’s operations, the name Willis Todd catching his ear. He wanted to make the man suffer, but that would wait. Jason was his priority. Jason, who was probably nearing five or six years old now. Jason, who had been such an indulgent child, who had loved to read, to indulge in his books, who had hidden his precious copy of Pride and Prejudice under his bed, locked in a special box because it had been the first gift he’d ever gotten.

Fuck. Who the hell deserved a kid like Jay? None of them, that was for fucking sure. He slinks after Willis Todd, keeps himself well-hidden in the shadows of the overcast city streets. He didn’t have to bother, really. Willis Todd was human-normal, a pathetic human being and a shitty father. Dick could have been firing a gun behind the man and he’d not have noticed.

He watches as the people around Willis cower, the women cringing if he so much as glances in their direction, and Dick scowls at the useless body.

C’mon, dammit. Hurry up so I can rescue Jaybird, you sack of shit. Dick thinks. It’s quiet and empty, the time-displaced child watching him with a scowl as he drunkenly weaves through the streets. He had a limited time to get Jay, sneak him into Bruce’s Batmobile, and sneak away, dammit. Bruce kept a sporadic schedule, in the early days, and he knew some of the major events, but no way in hell was he putting a kid in Riddler or Joker’s sights just to get him to Bruce. He drops down between two alleyways when Willis enters a small apartment, and quickly, he darts across the empty street as fast as his enhanced body would let him to catch the edge of the door, slipping inside in the next moment before the gate can alert Willis (and the tired-looking bodyguard) of their unwelcome visitor. The place is old enough to still have the old concrete and steel beams criss-crossing over the concrete walkways to keep them stable, and he jumps up to land on one, perching precariously on them as he leaned over the inebriated man’s head.

Tch. Pathetic, Dick thinks acidly to himself. He could have done better when he was actually nine. He waits patiently, checking the little clock posted on the wall. It was getting close to half past 3AM, and he knew Bruce stopped by Crime Alley for about fifteen minutes at around 4AM.

If he was wrong on his timing, getting Jaybird to B’s would be… inconvenient. He didn’t want to drug Jay, or let anyone have a say in this, so if he absolutely had to, he’d get as creative as he had to so he didn’t leave Jay with any bad memories. Before he can shake himself free of that, the door of the Todd’s apartment opens, and he can see a coal-dark head of curly hair poke out before the boy scurries free. He peers down at baby Jay, seeing how the boy was half-drowning in a coat that was twice his size, tiny fists clenched into the fabric. Looking more closely, he can see a bright red mark on a cheekbone, the puffy swell of one bruised eye, and the way the little boy trembled.

That ungrateful son of a bitch, Dick thinks acidly, as little Jay hides under the staircase, tiny hands covering his neck and vulnerable head as he squeezes himself into the smallest safe space he could find.

I’m going to kill you, Willis Todd, his thoughts are furious, rage hazing his vision as the boy he’d failed so many times tried his best to protect himself from that unworthy -

Jason is squeezed tight in his corner, shaking slightly. He’d kept his no-good Pops off of Ma earlier, but he was really angry right now. The kind of anger that only came from when his Pops was working with Two-Face. He’d probably gotten jerked around with the promise of a good payday, and now that Two-Face wasn’t coughing up, he’d probably come to beat him and Mom for not getting him money again.

He expects the door to slam open. He knows Pops is coming with the belt, especially now that he’d gone and run like a coward, instead of taking it like a man. The door slams open, and he shrinks back, terrified. Through the steps, he can see the drunken figure of his father, his face red and a belt in one hand.

“Where the hell did you go you shitty -” Pops stops when Mom stumbles into his arm, clutching it for dear life as though she could protect him.

“Willis, no!” His mom begs, only for the sound of a hand striking flesh to make Jason flinch. She falls to the ground, and Jason knows she’ll be spending hours tonight icing it only to cover it up with makeup that wouldn’t cover it at all when she went to work at the diner.

“Shut up you fucking whore!” He snaps, and he can hear the heavy tread of feet. “That brat’s been disrespectful one too many times -” A dark blur drops from the ceiling, and Jason watches the black blur knock his father down and out, the strange body having dropped like a bird from the rafters.

Or like the Bat.

Hope fills him, and he peers between the steps a little more interestedly. He’d heard about the Bat, about how he’d started cleaning up Gotham. What he was doing though, sending someone here? Some small-time thug couldn’t be worth it, right?

“Willis?” His mom says softly, and Jason can’t help how much that hurts. He was right here, Mom. Couldn’t she just think about him first? “What did you -” The sweep of an arm, and she silences. The black figure that approaches him is too small, too young-looking to be the big bad Batman, and he stares at the kid that looks at him from under the hood of his black cloak. Gold and blue eyes peek out from the gloom, and Jason can’t help but stare, mesmerised.

One hand is covered in gold metal plates that end in super-sharp points, the ends dripping a little with blood, but the hand the boy extends to him is free of blood and doesn’t have the weird gold thing on it.

“Come with me,” the boy says evenly. “I’ll protect you.” Jason’s hand almost reaches out, and he pauses.

“What about Mom?” He asks, and those weird gold and blue eyes stare at him.

“What do you want done with her?” He wonders, and Jason shivers at the cold, calculating way the person under the hood says that. He looks through the steps again, where his mom sits, shaking. She’s a mess, and something in him breaks a little at the sight of her, so frightened and terrified of him.

Of little Jason Todd.

“Will you protect Mom too?”

“Jason!” Mom protests, and the hooded stranger watches him. “He’s a complete -” The head turns, and whatever look he gives her makes the woman go silent. The stranger’s hand comes up to cup his bruised cheek, and he shivers at the tingles of pain it sends all over his body.

“Why should I?” The boy asks. “She let him hurt you.”

“She’s my mom,” Jason protests, and the strange boy stares at him for a moment longer.

“You want to protect her?” He asks, head tilting to a side, and Jason nods vigorously, only stopping when he becomes dizzy. Those eyes look at the woman again, before the figure huffs.

“Only if I can take you somewhere safe first. You’re the one I came to protect.” The stranger says without blinking.

Protect… him? What had Jason ever done for this weirdo?

“But you’ll protect her?” He presses. The figure looks at him, and the golden hand wipes itself off on something under the black cloak before patting the top of his head.

“If you want,” the strange figure says. Jason looks through the steps again, and then back at the stranger.

“Okay,” he says, swallowing nervously. “Okay.” The blue and gold eyes crinkle slightly in a smile.

“Good boy, Jaybird.” The hand ruffles his head again, and that’s the last thing he remembers.

“You can’t just take my son!” Catherine Todd blurts out when Jason slumps, wobbling to her feet as Dick hefts his unconcious Jaybird into his arms, the boy’s head pillowing against his shoulder. He looks at the clock. Four minutes to 4AM.

“He’s not even biologically yours,” Dick says indifferently, and Catherine freezes. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to make sure he gets somewhere safe. You are going to sit here and wait until I get back. When I get back, I am going to take you somewhere Willis Todd will never look for you. If you’re good, I’ll let Jason know where you are. If you aren’t…” he lets the threat hang in the air, and Catherine swallows nervously.

“He’s not your son,” she says weakly, but she’s faltering. A glance. Two minutes.

“I don’t care. I’ll love him more than you ever could.”

It’s telling that she doesn’t answer beyond a slump of her shoulders, the adult in a child’s body disappearing up the stairs. In his arms, Jason slumbers on, and he holds the boy tight.

“You’re going to be okay, Jaybird. I’ve got you. You and B will get along great,” he whispers, ascending up to the third floor so he could hop out and land on top of the nearby convenience store.

As he carries Jason, Dick clutches him tight.

The Joker would touch Jay over Dick’s dead fucking body, which meant Joker had to die.

That was fine. Dick didn’t have any morals left anyways.

When Bruce returned to the Batmobile, it was to a sleeping boy in his passenger seat, a thick blanket tucked around his small body and a note.

His name is Jason Todd. Adopt Jason please. Before his father destroys him.

It’s not signed.

Chapter Text

Bruce isn’t sure what he’s supposed to be doing. After Bruce had checked him over for injuries, blood, and trackers, he’d asked the kid for his name and gotten Jason. Now, Jason was fiddling with his fingers, looking a little anxious.

“Are you hungry Jaylad?” Bruce asks him, and intelligent blue eyes gleam at him.

“Starving,” the boy whispers. “Super hungry.” Well, that answered the question. He offers one of his extra protein bars - chocolate flavoured, of course - and Jason accepts it, opens the bar with a crinkle of aluminium.

“I’ll get you some actual food when I get us back to the house,” Bruce says, and the child nods against his chest, curls tighter as he nibbles on his protein bar. The drive is quiet, the two of them really not sure of what to say. He’d already gently questioned the boy about who had dropped him off, and the question hadn’t really been much of a lead.

A kid. Maybe ten, maybe younger. His hood hid his face, and his eyes were a weird mix of blue and yellow, Bruce notes. The eyes aren’t that usual for this part of town, so it wouldn’t be quite so hard to find… if he knew anything else about the kid.

“... Mr. Bat?” Jason asks, holding the empty wrapper in a hand. Bruce looks down, and the boy looks a little awkward. “Where do I…?” He holds up the wrapper, and Bruce smiles a little, slows down in the tunnel leading home and pulls off the cowl.

Blue eyes go wide.

“My name’s Bruce, kiddo,” He says with a faint smile. “And let me -” He takes the wrapper from unresisting fingers and tucking the wrapper into the disposal for later. “... You okay?” He asks, faintly amused.

“You’re Bruce Wayne,” the boy gasps, and he can’t help his amused smile when the boy stares admiringly up at him.

“Sometimes I’m Mr. Bat,” he says, eyes dancing, and Jason blushes a vivid cherry red. God. Children were so adorable. Chuckling, he starts driving again. “Let’s go home.”

Jason nods against his chest. And then, “Will you be looking for my rescuer?” he asks shyly. Bruce gives a soft hum.

“I think so. He seems a bit young to be out on his own. I think we’ll have some work to do to find him.” Jason looks up at him admiringly, before snuggling closer.

“Okay, Mr. Bat,” he says sleepily, eyes closing as he relaxes. The rest of the ride home is quiet, and Bruce glances down to see the boy snoring quietly against his chest, obviously tuckered out. Poor kid. He shifts the boy to one side as he parks, and cautiously, he opens the door, carrying his precious burden in an arm.

Alfred is waiting for him, brows rising up incredulously at the sight of Jason.

“Master Bruce?” He wonders, and Bruce gives him an awkward smile. “Might I ask who this little one is?”

“This is Jason. He’ll be staying with us for a little while.” Forever, if the note’s implications were true, but for now, he’d do his research first. He’d vaguely remembered a Todd from somewhere, but he had no idea what he would do if the man’s father was as abusive as the note implied.

For Bruce, a man who had grown up with loving parents - and then who had Alfred - the idea of a parent abusing their child was an inexcusable smear on their character. He bounces Jason lightly when the little boy whines sleepily into his chest, eyes cracking open at the light of the Cave.

“Five more minutes, Mr. Bat…” Jason mumbles, and Bruce muffles a chuckle behind a hand. Alfred’s lips twitch, and Bruce lowers his burden until the boy is standing, face pressed against his thigh. “Mmmrgh,” He whines sleepily. Bruce laughs a bit, ruffles dark hair.

“Up and at ‘em, Jason,” he says with a softer smile. “We’re at my house.” That does it. The boy’s eyes crack open, and he clings to Bruce’s cloak even as he peers around sleepily, one hand coming to his eyes. Bruce takes pity on the boy and kneels down, turning him to face Alfred. “This is Alfred. He’s the best cook I’ve ever met.” Jason blinks up at the butler, who smiles at him warmly, and he beams shyly, offering a hand.

“Nice ta’meetcha,” the boy mumbles sleepily, and Alfred gives Bruce an amused look over the boy’s head, before he accepts his small hand.

… Six year olds weren’t supposed to be this tiny, right?

“It’s my pleasure, Young Master Jason,” Alfred says kindly. “Would you like something to eat?” He says, and the boy brightens some.

“Can I have oatmeal?” He asks innocently, and Alfred smiles warmly. “Oatmeal with some fruit?” The hopefulness in his voice makes Bruce’s jaw tighten slightly. A kid his age shouldn’t have been happy with something so simple. He allows Alfred to lead the boy away, and when Jason looks back at him, he smiles.

“I’m going to get changed, okay?” He says with a smile. “I’ll get cleaned up and eat breakfast with you. Alfred, can you please make the same thing for me?” Alfred smiles at him warmly, approval in his face.

“I would be delighted, Master Bruce. Come along now, Young Master Jason. We’ll make sure to have the best oatmeal you’ve ever had.”

The moment the two are gone, Bruce gives in and bangs his head against the side door of the Batmobile.

Fucking God.

William finds Dick nursing a hot cup of tea, and the Talon’s brow shoots up to his hairline.

“My little owlet, is all well?” He asks. Dick shivers slightly in answer.

“I’m okay,” he says after a moment. “Cold night is all.” And it was. After he’d dropped off Jaybird, Dick had gone in search of Joker. The man had yet to truly go after Harley, and his first two years, as Dick remembered them, had been filled with the petty feud he’d had with Riddler, the two working to outdo one another.

“Your search was successful?” William says next, fetching a bowl of fresh fruit for him to eat along with a bowl of oatmeal. Dick accepts both without complaint.

“For my first objective, yes,” he confirms. “The second will require a more delicate touch.” He wondered. Would it be cruel of him to trap the Joker the way he’d tried to trap B? If he tied the man to a bomb and took a video? Broadcast it after the fact to show what happened to monsters like him? Dick nibbles on a slice of apple, and William, after serving them both, gives him a fond look.

“What do you need, my little owlet?” William asks, and Dick gives him an unamused look. In response, William ruffles his hair. It was already a mess, but it plumps up under the teasing tousling, and reminds him of why William had started calling him that in the first place.

“Bleh,” Dick says, sticking his tongue out at his grandfather, who chuckles richly at him, the two eating their meals in silence as Dick considers. “... I want to make a spectacle out of the second objective. I… am tired of this Joker person upsetting my plans.” A carefully crafted half-truth. Joker was the lynchpin for some of the worst of the city’s disorganised crime, the threats of his Joker Venom having allowed Scarecrow to develop his fear gas in secret.

Destroying the Joker would ruin any chance of his ability to predict future events, but did Dick care?

… Just a little. William hums.

“It is the Court’s opinion that he is of use as an asset.”

“An asset implies that we can trust him to act in the Court’s interests. If he was to find out about us, he would use us to experiment on. I wouldn’t trust him with a thirty-nine and a half foot pole.” William eyes him, and the boy gives him a crooked smile.

“You know him more intimately than the Court does.”

“To him, total anarchy is his greatest desire,” Dick says dispassionately. “Allies and loyalty mean nothing. He will use those around himself, destroy all they hold dear, and then laugh when they go mad, only to manipulate them again so that they blame their ails on another.” William hums, his talon-gauntleted hand stroking Dick’s hair. He can’t help but calm down, the action a soothing caress to the already stressed adult.

He was an adult, but sometimes, he could feel himself lapsing, thinking of himself as a child. It wasn’t like he didn’t understand why he was feeling like that, but it was just… so fucking inconveinent when it happened. He allows William to pamper him for a few more minutes, before pulling back and digging in.

“Owlet mine.” William says when he’s scraped his bowl clean, a sharp claw tracing his throat. Dick does not freeze, watches him curiously as the man indulges in his favourite form of affection. “You know that I am here for you, yes?” He asks, and the boy gives him a warm smile.

“I do, Grandfather.” It was easier to trust him, easier to feel attached to this man, this deadly weapon of a man who had been alive for so long, stasis or not, to witness how he cared for those he loved had been twisted to the Court and Haly’s. William’s claw-tip catches his chin again, tilting him to a side.

“Whatever you seek, my talons shall be ready.” It’s a forgotten line on their nursery rhyme- a good one - and Dick’s breath catches in his throat. Loyalty. Given to the worthy.

Dick thinks he might cry. Instead, he closes his eyes to the burning sensation of his tears and nuzzles against the claws, a thank you expressed quietly.

“Even against the gods?” He asks, and William’s claws skim over his nose.

“Against all who might stop you, owlet.” Dick hums softly, and lets himself hope.

“Thank you, grandfather,” Dick says softly, a smile curling his lips. William lightly scratches the top of his head again, and Dick practically melts into William’s touch. After what felt like an eternity, Dick pulls free, and coyly, he says, “How long, Grandfather? Before I am a true Talon?” William’s eyes crinkle up in amusement, the older of them looking at Dick with an assessing gaze.

“I would say another six months,” William admits. “You have acclimated to your enhancements faster than most, but there are still lessons that the Court can still teach you, before you are a full Talon.”

“Such as, grandfather?” He asks sweetly, presses forward against the hand cupping his cheek. A clawed hand sweeps over the skin, the edge skimming below his eye.

“The Liar’s Palace, for one. A most useful skill for long-term undercover work.” Dick’s eyes flash slightly, and a smile crosses his lips.

“I look forward to learning it, Grandfather.” He excuses himself after a moment, and William lets him go, the boy indulging in his own childish whim to hug the man briefly around the waist before scampering off with the dishes to place them in the kitchen.

The Liar’s Palace. A mental barricade with which he could construct any identity, sink himself into it completely, and then any lies and truths within that palace would be undetectable - even to the Lasso of Truth.

A most useful skill indeed. He slips past the security with all of his experience, and with a happy sigh, takes a relaxed seat in the back of the small church that the Court hid their entryway with. On the other side of the wall, he could hear the sounds of midnight Mass, a soothing thing to calm himself down with as he considers his next steps. He would have ample time to dispose of the Joker, but that didn’t mean he was allowed to be lazy. Deathstroke, Deadshot, Ivy and Harley, Selina, Bane, Talia…

He scowls at the thought of Talia, before thinking about Damian. Dami, little, precious Dami. Would the boy even be born if he interfered? Would the child that he had called his Robin from the days he’d been Batman even exist?

Perhaps it was a selfish wish, to leave things in place until Damian was conceived, and yet… Dick stretches himself out, goes through his basic routine while he listens to the murmur of the crowd on the other side of the wall, calculating each and every avenue. No. No it would not be enough. He could deal with the others. He could kill Ra’s so Tim would never have to bear the stain of his attention, but to kill Talia? For all her faults (and she had many), Talia had loved Bruce in her own way, the woman having chosen to immortalise her love in a reasonably dubious way, but still genuinely heartfelt. Clicking his tongue, Dick moves to the more pressing matters at hand.

There were too many Rogues that had yet to become monsters, either by the Joker’s machinations, or by circumstances out of their control. He might have been a monster by his own choice, but Dick did not believe in the idea of killing someone simply because of what they could do. It was one of the things he and Bruce still shared. He wouldn’t condemn them.

However…

“Jay? Jay, are you in?” Dick calls, knocking on the door of the apartment. He’d left Blüdhaven early that morning to come to Gotham after Jason had invited him, worried after his stubborn little brother in the way only he could - and he did. After Bruce had thrown Jay out, the boy he’d once considered his stubborn idiot sibling had died, and a more spiteful, angry version had taken his place, the man turning his back on them over and over as though coldly reminding them of their loyalty to Bruce, and how they had abandoned him.

No matter what, that had hurt. Dick had fought for months to be able to get Jason just to accept his number, to get his brother to trust him again, and Jason’s cold shoulder had lasted almost two years, before he’d begrudgingly tucked the paper away after his short stint with Kori and Roy, his old friends on the Titans having appealed to Jason’s better nature.

The sound of heavy footsteps wakes him from the idle daydreams, and he looks at the door when it opens, the eldest Robin flinging his arms around Jason’s neck in a hug.

“Get off!” Jason says, audible annoyance and alarm. But despite his complaints, Jason had allowed himself to tow the smaller man inside the apartment and even accepted the hug, hands tight around his back as he clung; the tsundere. Dick buries his head into Jason’s shoulder happily.

“Jaybird!” He says happily, pulls back to cup Jason’s face in his palms. “It’s been ages!” he bubbles the words with a grin, and Jason rolls his eyes so hard that the man is surprised they don’t just roll out.

“Yeah yeah, maniac,” Jason complains, but there’s the slightest twitch of his lips, the faintest spark of amusement. Dick feels his phone buzz, and he looks at it, pulling back to let Jay get his space.

Where are you? The text from Bruce reads, and he rolls his eyes, annoyed.

I’m busy, B, he sends back with a slight scowl curling his lips. Irritated, he presses the buttons a little harder than normal.

You’re at Jason’s apartment.

Thanks for the privacy violation. Buzz off B, I’m busy, Dick sends back a bit more vehemently. Jason is watching him with a sarcastic smirk on his lips as he watches.

“Damn, is B already pissed at you?” Jason says, amused. “New record.”

“He can go fuck a porcupine for all I care,” Dick says, annoyed. “The only time I’ll accept orders is when I’m on the job with him.” Jason looks at him with even more amusement, and when he looks up, the adult offers him a beer. “Are you even legal?” He wonders, but accepts the bottle anyway.

“Who the fuck cares? This is Gotham, Dickiebird,” Jason says dryly, flops into a seat. Dick concedes the point with a tilt of his bottle.

“Fair enough. What’s up?”

“What? I need to want something to talk to you?” Jason’s voice has a slight edge to it, and Dick gives him a faint look.

“Nobody calls me for much else since I’m up in Blüdhaven most days,” Dick says mildly in return, and Jason has the grace to look slightly chagrined.

“Sorry…” He mutters around the rim of his beer bottle. “No… I don’t need anything. Just…” He looks away. “Heard you killed the Joker.”

Ah. There we were. The meat of the matter.

“Mmm. So I did.” Dick takes a swig, and hums appreciatively. Underage or not, Jaybird knew how to pick quality brews. “Ask away Jay.”

“Why?” Jason asks, when the silence drags out. Dick hums, tips the bottle back to his lips.

“Do you want the logical reason, or the emotional one?” Dick muses. Jason looks at him sidelong; returns his gaze to the bottle.

“Hell. Both,” Jason says, and Dick laughs. It’s not a happy sound.

“Joker was two weeks away from killing Lois Lane, for one. I heard about it, and knew that if Joker succeeded, whatever Supes would do wouldn’t be pretty, not when half his sanity relies on her knowing what and who he is and her not caring.” Dick ticks off the points with his free hand. “Two, Joker had already proven he couldn’t be reformed - Harley Quinn was considered top of her class, the best psychologist bar none, and look at what he did to her. That should have been enough. Third, his Joker Venom was a bioterrorism weapon.” Here he glances at Jason, who is watching him with darkly hooded eyes, unsurprised by the logical arguments. “I could keep going. But honestly… Those were the excuses I gave B. I only bothered to kill him because he hurt you.”

“Yeah? Why wait until after the Replacement almost died?” Jason says, a biting edge to his tone.

“Because it was my fucking responsibility, that’s why.” Dick bites out, fingers squeezing the neck of his beer bottle tight. “Because I fucked up, I didn’t get to Joker in time, I was in another motherfucking city and he was going to kill -” Dick stops. “Everyone thinks I did it for Tim. And maybe it’s good that they think that.” He was quiet. “But the only thing that I could see was you, Jay. You, telling me I let this happen, that I let another Robin die again.”

Jason is silent when he pauses, and Dick takes another swig. “I get it - we didn’t get along at first, so maybe me being upset is a bit hypocritical. I was pissed when B brought you on, put you in my family’s colours without even fucking asking. It was mine - my family mantle, my family legacy, and that son of a bitch didn’t even think to ask.” Dick sighs. “I took it out on you, and after you died, nothing I did would stop me from remembering that. I always wanted to take it back, apologise, and you know what? I couldn’t. Because you were dead, and the man that killed you was still alive and walking the streets and apologising wasn’t going to do shit to the way I treated you.” A bitter laugh. “Pathetic, huh? Joker even laughed at me for it. He fucking laughed about how he killed you and I… I lost it. Bruce thought it was letting him win, by killing him.”

“Was it?”

“Yeah. Kinda. But Joker was a zero-sum game to begin with,” Dick admits. “He lives, yay for him. He dies, he gets what he wants. I would have loved it if he’d never come back. And then Bruce brought him back. Like the fucking asshole he was.”

Looking up, Dick chances a glance. Jason’s expression is… soft. Understanding, almost.

“Here’s to Bruce fucking over his Robins,” Jason says, a sly smirk on his lips replacing the soft expression. Dick laughs, and brings their bottles together for a toast.

“Ain’t that the motherfucking truth.”

Dick is brought back to awareness by the whisper of booted feet, the hint of threat dragging him from his memories as he flips to his feet and brings a weapon to bear.

Something gleams in his eyesight, and Dick doesn’t even think, twisting his body out of the way and lifting a leg to kick the hollow of a knee, the man buckling even as he rolls forward, small hand coming to grab a helmet and bring a knife up to -

“Fuck’s sake kid!”

Slade. Again.

Whoops.

Dick pulls the knife from Slade’s throat and steps back, feeling a little sheepish.

“I clearly need to improve my awareness,” Dick says. When he’d shown Slade this balcony, he should have expected the man would use it to enter as he pleased. After all, the Court held some of the finest weapons a mercenary of his calibre could ever dream of.

“No fucking shit, kid,” Slade says, wheezing slightly. “Are you like this to every adult or am I just special?”

“You’re the first who hasn’t wanted to kill me aside from my mentor. So not really,” Dick says dryly. Slade shoots him a slightly unamused look for that one.

“... I took your advice.” It doesn’t take long for Dick to recall their conversation. It’d been almost a month since they’d last spoken face to face, so Dick merely hums in answer, knows it’s one of his quirks that had driven Slade fucking batty.

“Which one?”

“Both. Here.” Slade gives him a thick stack of bills, and the boy gives him an arch look, even though he accepts it. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. Good informants don’t come cheap, and the Justice League was willing to pay top-dollar for what was in the box to get it off the streets. Consider it a cut.”

“A cut, or an incentive?” He asks. Slade laughs, shakes his head.

“Both, I guess.” Slade leans against the wall, and Dick copies him on the other side. “I can’t stay long - just wanted to thank you for the advice. Brought my kid with me - maybe if you’re lucky, you and he can meet.”

“I’d be honoured,” Dick says sincerely, and Slade gives him an amused look. It’s hard to see from behind the mask, but Dick knows his mentor pretty well, even with the years of difference. “How are the other two?” Slade gives him a much sharper look for that, and he snorts.

“The girl’s with her mother. I relocated them somewhere cosy up in New York - got a standing invite to visit with my kid whenever. The other one was a lost cause - ran away before I got there.” Dick shrugs.

“Shame.” He says. He hadn’t known Grant very well in the last timeline, but here he might be a problem, especially if he came after Joseph and Slade. Speaking of problems…

“How did you find out, anyways?” Slade asks, and Dick gives a slightly slanted grin.

“You pay child support, and your daughter Rose Worth has you listed as her father on her birth certificate and also is classed as a possible metahuman.” He shrugs. “Like I said, I keep track of all threats to my city.” Slade watches him with interest, before chuckling and shaking his head.

“You’re something else kiddo.”

“Richard.”

“Kiddo,” Slade fires back with a smirk. “You aren’t even old enough to ride on a roller-coaster unsupervised.”

“I could get on without being seen,” he says straight-faced, knowing it’s not the answer Slade’s expecting. Slade snorts violently at him for that one.

“Classic wise guy, huh?” He chuckles, and Dick smirks.

“There’s very little about me that’s classic beyond my name,” Dick says, and Slade laughs at him outright, standing up.

“Alright then,” Slade says with a smirk. “I’ll be in town for a few weeks, finding a place for me and my boy. If you’re half the detective you act like, I’m sure you’ll be stopping by to visit.” Slade leaves him then, and Dick decides that he too, should get a night on the town.

He’s got a couple hundred grand to spend, after all, and Dick wasn’t giving shit to the Court.

William watches after Richard as keenly as a grandfather ought to. Sweet little owlet, William thinks fondly, already creating such a legacy for himself. He follows behind, taking note of his mistakes and ensuring none follow behind them both. He was so very, very young, filled with his reckless youth. Granted, he was very skilled for his age, but even a child as clever as his owlet could still make mistakes.

It doesn’t take long for his owlet to notice him, even with William being subtle. His grandson looks up at him, and he smiles.

Five minutes faster than the last time he’d followed behind his owlet. A vast improvement. Dropping down, William can see how his grandson looks up at him, a combination of suspicion and curiosity.

“I have gotten lucky tonight,” the man teases, hefting the boy up to his hip. “Capturing my little owlet before he could escape.” Richard looks amused by him, which is always a good sign. Idly, William procures a cloak for his owlet from beneath his own, tucks it around the boy with a smile.

“Mmm. Better you than the Bat, tonight,” the boy says, before showing him his prize. Money. A hefty amount. William chuckles at the sight. So the man his owlet showed such fondness of was a man of his integrity. Good. It would make for a convenient hiding place, if his owlet had not already decided upon a location with which to become part of Gotham’s rich tapestry.

“What do you desire, my little owlet?” William asks, and Richard’s nose wrinkles adorably.

“A bank account, if possible. Under Richard Cobb.” He says the last bit a bit shyly, and William’s heart fills nearly to bursting, an understated joy in him as he pulls the boy closer to hug his precious owlet.

His grandson was a dangerous thing to William’s heart, all clever words and bright eyes, a wickedness to his actions that made him so proud.

“Come, little owlet. I know just the bank,” he promises, lowering his youthful burden and the two disappearing among the streets. Of course, they wouldn’t transfer just the cash as it was, in full. Bills were traded and exchanged in various stores, broken into smaller change and rubber-banded, just in case they had tracking numbers folded within their notes. It would, most certainly, put anyone who tried to follow the paper trails in a most delightful tizzy.

Then, just after midnight, the two of them enter the Gotham National Bank. The floors are empty of any visitors, both of them making their way quietly through the large, spacious hall, flitting between security guards and shadowy darkness like fish in a stream. William’s favourite teller is on tonight, the bubbly redheaded woman counting cash and humming sweetly.

“It’s late - oh!” She squeaks at the sight of Richard, his precious owlet staring at her with a cold, scrutinising gaze. He was such a sharp weapon when he wanted to be, his sweetness hidden behind his vindictive smile. William traces his claw-tips through the thick black hair, his owlet relaxing at the gentle, chiding little hair pet.

“My grandson is a very wary little thing. Please do not mind him.” His owlet nuzzles against William’s thigh, his untaloned hand clutching at William’s pant leg as he looks up at William.

He is a portrait, half hidden in his grandfather’s heavy winter cloak, shivering from the mid-April chill, dark hair and glimmering blue and yellow eyes. He retains some of his childhood fat, cheeks round and mouth pressed into a small pout that only a child could truly make. When the woman looks at him more curiously, he hides his face, the picture of adorable shyness. Almost predictably, his owlet turns her fear into motherly cooing, the woman smiling at him as though he was only four years old and not ten.

I fear I will have to beat the ladies off of my grandchild with a stick, William thinks in amusement as his grandson tucks his talon into a pocket before showing the woman his prize.

“Help? Please?” He allows his eyes to go round as coins, a cute pout curling his lips as he looks at her, and the woman practically swoons at his face.

Perhaps I should invest in a shotgun.

His owlet is looking up at him with an expectant gaze, and chuckling, he steps forward. How precious, his owlet, using his looks to his advantage.

“Perhaps we should find ourselves with somewhere to hide, little owlet,” he says, when they’re out and away from the bank. The boy blinks innocently up at him, but he knows that look. He’s seen the slyness of it before. “Owlet?”

“I have housing arrangements,” the boy promises, and William’s brow rises.

“You do, eh?” William teases, and his owlet puffs his cheeks out, adorable indignance.

“Yes. I have just the place,” the boy insists. William leans in to listen to his owlet’s ambitious plans, and laughs in spite of himself.

Audacity, cleverness, and wickedness in spades.

That’s his boy.

A wet, chilly winter melted into a wetter spring, the skies of Gotham lighting up with the light of the Batman, as the war between Joker and Riddler intensified, the two men viciously fighting for the position of top dog in the city.

Dick had been but a tiny little thing at the time, but he’d obsessed over the notes when he’d become Robin, sure that one of the men had been involved with his parents’ deaths. (Ironic, that he wasn’t.)

But for now, Dick plans. He plots. He schemes. Riddler has a very clear-cut modus operandi, one that he had to make sure he didn’t deviate from, if he wanted to kill the Joker. So in between experiments, he plans. Between lessons of death and murder, espionage and coercion, Dick draws conclusions, ideas, skills from them.

He learns how to mimic voices from the best, copies the Joker and Riddler until their voices echo in his head in the most disturbing of ways, and then.

Only then, can he enact his first part of his plans.

It’s not difficult to murder some of Joker’s goons in their territory. Harder, really, to make it look like Riddler’s boys did the job, those punchy little question mark brands dotting every bit of bruised, spare skin.

(It’s fine. They deserved it, really.)

Joker, in the vernacular, loses his shit, all but tearing across the carefully neutral lines of territory to orchestrate his revenge, dragging all manner of mob families into the mix.

Cobblepot, of course, is not thrilled with his lounge being ground zero. Deathstroke, on the other hand, thinks it’s hilarious. Roman Sionis gets dragged in out of pure luck, and Dick had been very pleased.

(One less person to harm his Jaybird, one less person to hurt what he loves).

The League was operating on subtlety and caution, making moves in the background, but even they cannot ignore Joker's retaliatory strike - his goons misdirected by Dick copying his voice and his mannerisms - and getting poisoned with Joker Venom.

He needed them to be walking in circles, needed B to be distracted and busy so he could deal with all of the worst problems.

But all of that paled right now in comparison to Tim. His itty bitty tiny Tim.

He wasn’t even four yet, and here he was, left alone for long stretches of time, no adult, no fucking caretaker. William glances at him sidelong whenever he goes to the affluent neighbourhood, his cloak often left behind with the little boy and Dick himself dripping wet.

Already, Tim was comfortable with his taloned hand caressing the little boy’s scalp, the sharp scratch of nails that he would press up into, the same as Dick did for William. He adored his little Timmie, his precious baby bird, second only to Damian in his list of favourite cuddle bugs.

What a pre cious thing, Dick thinks, practically cooing over his bitty Tim when he arrives. It’s only a few days before Dick’s last injection, and he can feel how close he is. His eyesight was keener, his body faster, the world moved so slowly upon one axis and soon.

Soon. He would be able to put down the Court, put the Joker and Riddler ten metres below the sewer system, and only then would he be satisfied. He picks his pretty baby bird up, and Tim settles down at his touch.

“I’m going to give you the best family ever,” Dick says softly, using his taloned hand to lightly scratch at Tim’s head, the boy greedily pushing up into the touch. God what a cutie, Dick thinks fondly. “You’ll be okay, right Timmy?” He says softly. “If I take you away from here? You can take all the photos you want, be as cute as your heart desires…” He coos quiet praise to the four year old, Tim staring up at him admiringly the whole time.

“Won’t be alone again?” He asks hopefully, and Dick’s fingers lightly scratch over the top of his skull.

“No, baby bird, never. You’ll have the best family ever,” he promises softly. Tim smiles blissfully, snuggles closer. “Get some rest. I’m going to drop you off.” Tim obediently falls quiet, tucks himself close as Dick carries the boy.

Tch. Tim was even lighter than Jaybird. This was fucking unacceptable.

Hopping from the balcony is easy. Making his way to Wayne Manor though…

That was fun. The security was way worse than he remembered, and he makes notes to politely leave some security suggestions for B, knowing he’ll take the advice to his paranoid heart.

Jay’s room is just as he remembers it, chock full of books and a box half-hidden under the bed. Pride and Prejudice, he’d bet. Slipping in, he can see a little flashlight under the covers and he stifles a fond little grin.

Never change, Jaybird, he thinks with amusement. Bouncing a sleepy Timmy on his hip, Dick whistles.

The boy pops up so fast he would bet little Jaybird got dizzy. The boy shakes his head, fluffy curls going everywhere, before looking around wildly.

“Who -” He cuts himself off at the sight of Dick, knows the boy will remember him. “It’s you!” He gasps, and Dick smiles softly.

“Shhh,” He says, pressing his finger to his lips. “Special arrival,” he says fondly, lowers Tim down next to Jason. The boy looks at Tim, then at him.

“He’s our neighbour,” Jason says, bemused, and Dick lovingly runs his talons through Jaybird’s hair. Like Tim, Jason presses into the touch, associating the act with comfort.

“His parents are never home,” Dick says quietly, and he can see Jason’s eyes widen in shock and angry disbelief. “He’s lonely. Could use a good big brother to take care of him.”

“What about you?” Jason says, though he visibly preens at being called a good big brother. Ah Jay, his praise-starved little boy.

“His parents need to be punished, and I think the Bat would be very interested in learning about it,” he whispers, and Jason’s eyes light up in agreement. “Don’t tell him I was here. I’ll surprise him myself,” Dick whispers conspiratorially, and Jason grins.

“Do it where I can get a recording, and you have a deal,” Jason says, holding his pinky finger out.

Awww. So precious. The two of them hook their pinkies together, and Dick even does a little handshake, before letting go and planting a kiss to Jason’s forehead.

“Good boy,” he praises warmly, and Jason blushes. “I’ll see you soon.”

Well. He’d see them soon if the Court didn’t ruin his plans.

Dick hops up to the windowsill, and allows himself a single, lingering look over his shoulder. Jason gives him a big smile, and Dick smiles back, bobbing his head before jumping out of the window. He makes sure Jason isn’t following him before he sneaks through another window to find Bruce’s office.

Bruce was going to love this. (Give him a heart attack. But shhh. Dick was perfectly okay with that. Consider it revenge for the other Bruce’s douchebaggery.)

Bruce comes in tired. It’s been a hectic mess, constant wars waged over the criminal underground of Gotham, with Joker and Riddler at the centre, both of them battling bitterly to come out on top. It was enough that he almost missed the neatly-printed binder sitting at the desk of his Batcomputer.

(Jason named it Batcomputer. God, why was his new kid so fucking cute.)

The binder was… sheesh. Thick. Did Jaylad do this instead of sleeping?

He freezes at the sight of unfamiliar handwriting.

To the Bat of Gotham,

Thank you for protecting Jaybird. He is very happy, safe, and well-loved here. I knew it would be the best place for him. I have provided you with all my security measures, both expected and experimental, in hopes that you will find them useful.

Please take care of these precious treasures. They deserve so much better than they have been given.

The note was unsigned. Bruce sits heavily upon his seat, expression twisted in worry and paranoid alarm. The idea that someone was here, in his house, with his Jaylad and Alfred was almost enough to make his heart give out. Shivering, Bruce stands up and moves to check his second security system. He’d never told anyone about this one, a secret he’d kept even from Alfred.

However, his hopes were dashed when he pulled the door open and found a note stuck to the computer of his secret surveillance.

Sorry.

The work is really good, but I knew it was there. I added some more subtle designs in the binder for you.

Bruce slumps to the floor, but only the very genuine care he could feel from the note keeps him from being any more terrified than he already was. Checking the cameras, he can see that Jaylad was fine but… A small head is tucked against Jason’s chest, the boy himself fast asleep while the other child stirred sleepily against Jason.

Did… did his mystery stalker have an adoption fetish? Cautiously, the man closes up and strips down, changing into something more comfortable for himself than his suit. He quietly and quickly climbs up the stairs, all but ignoring his usual routine to make sure his Jaylad was okay. Entering the room, he can see Jason snoring quietly away, the small boy tucked against him. The little coal-dark head peers at him, before hiding with a squeak, and Bruce cannot help his chuckle.

The head peers over Jaylad’s shoulder curiously - hopefully. Bruce smiles encouragingly, hand reaching out to ruffle the small head of hair.

“Hi. I’m Bruce,” Bruce says warmly. “We can talk in the morning, okay? Stay warm and cosy with Jaylad now.” The little boy blinks sleepy eyes at up him, and he smiles, showing off a little gap in his teeth that Bruce is forced to bite back an awww at the sight of.

Well, whoever the mystery adoption agent was, they had picked some cute kids. He leans in to kiss the kid’s head, before doing the same with Jason. That done, he exits the room to head to bed after leaving a note for Alfred to make extra for their new kid.

Bruce was a weak fucking man. It must have been the blue eyes and the black hair. He was a total sucker for kids that reminded him of himself.

It’s going to be an interesting morning, Bruce thinks idly to himself, the detective closing the door of the room quietly.

Morning dawns hazy, quiet, and to Bruce fighting back a smile as Jaylad tries to sneak his new little brother in and out of the kitchen while he thinks Bruce is distracted with an early morning call. Bruce wraps it up, and wonders if it’d be mean to let Jaylad think he got away with it, especially since Tim clearly was aware what was going on and was giggling like a madman.

“Are we pretending not to notice?” Alfred mutters out of the corner of his mouth after he gives Bruce his morning coffee, and Bruce bites back a snort.

“I’m tempted,” Bruce says, lips twitching. “Let’s see how he acts first.”

In the end, Bruce didn’t have long to wait. A knock raps against his office door, his little Jaylad poking his head in and flashing him the cutest innocent look he could muster.

“B?” He says, all sugar. Bruce would never admit how those big, round eyes had suckered him into more afternoons at Jason’s favourite burger place than he cared to think. He can’t help but melt just a little, though.

“Yes, Jaylad?” Bruce asks, and Jason cautiously nudges the little boy in, hands on his back. The boy is muffling giggles - clearly aware that Jason had no idea Bruce already knew, but too amused to give the game up.

“This is Tim. Can he stay with us? Pleeeeease?”

Bruce eyes the boy, and then eyes Jason. A smirk stretches over his lips.

“Jaylad, I already knew he was here. I met him last night.”

A blink.

Two.

And then Jason deflates like a balloon with the air let out, makes him laugh as he gets up and walks around his desk to kneel before the little boy, his free hand ruffling his Jaylad’s hair.

“Hi there,” Bruce says with a smile. “We haven’t met properly yet. Your name is Tim, right?” He asks, and the little boy nods, hands still over his mouth. “Do you want to stay with us?”

A vigorous nod of a tiny head.

“Okay Tim. Okay. Why don’t we sit down for breakfast together, and then we can all get to know each other?”

Another shy nod, and Bruce opens his arms to pick the boy up. Tim’s head swivels around, and Jason encouragingly pushes him forward, the little boy climbing up into his arms and pressing his head into Bruce’s neck.

“Ooof - you’re light as a feather!” He exclaims playfully, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. Tim squeaks a little, before giggling at the affection, and Bruce kneels down and scoops up Jaylad too, who was looking wistfully at Tim, clearly jealous. “And let’s not forget our little Jaybird too! Both of you are just too easy to pick up!” Jason’s laughing, his small figure wriggling like a worm while Bruce hefts him up to his other hip, Tim clutching his shirt and giggling at the whole thing.

Despite the unwelcome shock of the late night visitor, Bruce’s heart felt almost impossibly full, the CEO carrying both boys down to breakfast, coffee forgotten in the quest for breakfast.

“Owlet.” William says softly. His grandson is full of hatred, eyes gleaming with such rage that it is truly breathtaking to witness.

“Why is that thing here?” Richard snarls quietly, his small figure trembling. “Who let it sully our perfect halls?”

To any listening, the rage would have seemed directed towards the creature’s trespass upon their beautiful halls. To William, who was aware of this man’s depravities, of the offence he had committed against his one and only owlet, he knew it was at the Court.

Do I fear the reckoning? It is here, surely, William thinks, settling his taloned hand over the top of Richard’s head, scratching the top of his head until he settles like an angry cat under the face of a soft brush.

“The Court has decided. The Joker has become the champion of our god.”

“Over the man who resembles our god?” Richard says, tone icy. “Over the man who has cleansed our streets of this thing’s filth?” The boy’s eyes are narrowed with his rage, and he scowls darker. “How dare they.”

His amber eyes are narrowed, but the boy forces himself to calm, his soft breath evening out and his anger throttled tightly. William kneels down.

“My little Grayson, little owlet.” The nicknames make his perfect Talon look up, their eyes glittering with tightly leashed anger, with his desire for vengeance humming in his blood. “Is it time?” He says, and those considering amber eyes watch him as though seeking his deceit.

When none is found, his owlet relaxes. “Yes. It’s time. I suspect they will wish for me to work with him.” The faintest hint of a scowl. “Fetch Deathstroke for me, grandfather. It’s time the Court learned why going against a god’s will never ends well.” William bends down dutifully and kisses the top of the boy’s head, before nodding shortly and heading out. He knows his little owlet well - the boy will defend his sovereign territory fiercely, will let no man or creature harm him, and it is heartening.

For now, William would do as his grandson bid of him, and wait.

Dick expects them to call him. He knows they will call him. Why would they not, when the Joker has already proven his depraved madness, proven himself low enough to use children against a man who never harmed a child?

At least, in this timeline.

Dick arrives as his name leaves the mouth of the guards, a silent shadow, and waits until they notice him.

Joker is the first, jumps in a comical way that he would have found funny under any other circumstance.

“Jesus Christ!” the clown says, alarmed, before he breaks out into laughter. “And I thought your weird birdies were quick! This one’s cute!” the clown cackles, reaching out to touch Dick. He doesn’t allow his disgust to show, steps back and away.

“Do not.” He says shortly, and the clown pauses.

“This one’s mouthier than your usual boys,” Joker says, fascinated. The man folds, all skinny limbs and horrendous purple suit, to meet his eyes. “You’re a pretty angry bird, aren’tcha?” Joker wonders, and Dick does not answer him, barely even acknowledges his presence.

“Is this my assignment?” He turns his head away from Joker, ignoring him with a blank expression. Out of the corner of his eye, Dick could see how his expression cracked, ugly and twisted. The Council murmurs, whether at his defiance or his icy formality, it’s not yet to be seen.

“He is our champion - the new master of Barbatos.” One says, their hooded body shifting. Discomfort. This one is not pleased by the choice, and Dick decides to kill him last, ask who approved of this leech.

W̶̛̞h̴͖͛a̸̛̙t̴͇͑ ̵̮͐g̸̫͊i̷̲͘v̸̩̓e̷͔̋s̷̥̊ ̴̉ͅt̵̞͑h̴̤̎e̴͉̋m̶̧̂ ̵̲͛t̸̡͂h̶̫͒ẹ̴̒ ̷͑͜r̵̥̓í̶̟ǧ̵͖h̴̝͆t̸̡̂?̶͉̂

“Ah.” He turns to face Joker again. It’s disgusting - every inch of his body crawls with hate as he bends the knee, folding into a perfect bow. “Forgive my rudeness, Champion,” he tells the floor, does not twitch. “I meant no disrespect.”

He does not twitch, listens keenly for the first sign of movement, and then finally, someone moves. Joker laughs, an ugly thing, his cackles echoing in the room as the man stands up, bouncing to his feet with a bright gleam in his eyes.

“You didn’t tell me he was this obedient! Up, up, little birdie!” He cackles, and Dick does so, keeps a placid smile on his face as he watches the man prance in a place he’d come to - begrudgingly - respect. The child watches as they shift, reads them despite the thick cloaks hiding them. Three out of the fifty in the parliament are dissident, and he smiles coldly. He will destroy the ones who agreed with this clown.

T̸͙̜͔̒͐̚h̵̜͜͝i̴̫͔̰͗̈́s̶̗͖̟̬͎̠̘̐̅ ̸̭͔̙̮̆́̂̄͠i̸̟̯̙̹͕͆̊͒̌̄͋̃s̴̢̼͔̯͉̫̫̉̂͠͝͝ ̸̡̺͍̤͚͙͈̇͆̏̏̾̏h̷̘̩̲͕̠̙̥͆̔ï̷̫̫̂̏͘s̴̭̖͕͇͒̉͆͛̃͊̓ ̶̤̽̈́̕c̶͔̳̼͙͋͑́̄̆͜͜͜͝ȋ̵̛̝̝̥̅͌́͜t̵̡̑̽̂̀y̶̳͚̘͂͜.̸̮̾͊

H̴̢̫̙͔͖͉̝͓̗̑̃͆͛̽̑͜Í̴͈͚̰̳͗͠S̸̺̮͈̥͍͓̝̫̙̈́̍͊̑̀̌͘͜

“He is our greatest experiment,” one agrees, and he can feel the light touch of fingers as they skim over his scalp, the touch softened by the thick cloak. He pulls away after a second, silent chiding. “His intelligence is second to none, for his age, and his weapons-gift is premier.”

Laying it on thick, weren’t they? Dick thinks sarcastically, but he doesn’t argue, watches and waits until the Joker reaches for him, ruffles his hair. He’s wary of an injection, an incoming attack of his still new Joker Venom, and he keeps himself at the ready even as he accepts the touch.

“Well, as long as he can help me with Batsy and that stupid green Riddler, I’ll take him!” Joker kneels down and looks at him, and he stares back blankly, keeps his anger at bay. He needed Joker out, he needed him to fucking leave.

“He will take excellent care of your tasks. Please allow us to speak to our agent, and he will find you tomorrow.”

“Oh? He’ll find me?” The Joker looked amused, and Dick looks at the council. A twitch of a claw, and he nods.

Ẏ̸͈̬̲͕̈́̾ͅǫ̸̛̛̥̜̭̜̤̗̣̎̿̓̀̏͗̌͜͝u̸̦̜͉͖͚̤̘͇͕̗͛̊͌̌̏̅̍́̾ ̶̱̹̰͖͔̲̺̤̖̲̤̔̈́͐̀̿̇́̾ẅ̷͕́́͐͊́i̶̥̫͕̭͖̺͛̂̿ĺ̷̰̩̗̳́͛̓̀̿̓̐͊̒̕l̴̪̖̺̺̞̳͓͂̔͐̓̇̚͘ ̵͖̹̏̏̿̈́̆͑r̴̡̹̟̼̠̋̔ǒ̸͈̜̖͌͐t̶̛̼͓̼͊͑̂͘ ̵̡̳̟̤̱̗̣̰͍̗̓̍̑͘͜ã̵̬͍̈̆͐̆͆̒͠t̷̲̞͚͖͈͈̰͕̊̊ ̶̧̲͎͎͙̞̫̖̠̺̍̐̑͛̇͊͋ͅm̶͚͚̼̀̀̋̐̓ÿ̵̩̣̔͠ ̴̛͙̭͎̦̺̥͍͍͕̇̎̉̊̅͐̄̎͂ͅͅḩ̶̼̗̪̗͕̪̯͆̇͘͜͠͝ȁ̸̛̗̺̤̻̘͙̜͇̠͈̼́̒̈̀͊̚͘n̴̺͕̺̠̣̘̤̙̂̐̃͝ͅd̷̜͉̩̣̱͊̅̈́͋s̵͕̜̮̳̺͔̲͍̓̒̋.̵̦̞͔͛̃͐̆̽̄̒̕

“Tomorrow night’s  residence will either be Warehouse #13 on Dock B of East Gotham, or the house on 25th and Elias Avenue. The Bat does not usually patrol those locations on those nights, so you will most likely be there. If not, there are a further fifteen hidden bases and one in construction under the storage house in Upper Arkham.” He dutifully rattles off.

Joker stares.

As does the council.

As the stares stretch out, he smiles, sweet like rotting sugar. “The Court pays attention to all potential Champions of our god’s will. It is only fair to protect a valuable asset, is it not?” The words feel like oil on his tongue, but the Court buys his lie, and the Joker’s lips curl up into a grin.

“Oh? Do you know where Batsy is?” Joker asks, and Dick tilts his head and wonders how much he can give away. H̴͓́o̴̻͆w̵̙͂ ̵̙̇d̵̤̃a̴͉͋r̸̮̎e̷̠̓ ̴̞̈́h̷̙͌ẻ̴̼ ̶̳̏ă̵͉s̷̈́͜k̴̙̚ ̴̢̀f̸̺̑o̵̱͋r̶͇̉ ̷̰̈́ṫ̶̙h̷̙͝e̷͍͆ ̷̙̇l̶̜̂a̷͍͌ị̴̇r̴̝̕ ̸̜͗o̷͉͠f̶̥͆ ̶̰̇h̵̬͂ì̷̘s̶̻̈́ ̴̤̋f̴̘͋à̷̫t̸̗͋ḣ̶̘ě̶͚r̸̲̆/̶̠́.

“The man known as Batman operates in a subterranean cavern beneath the sewer system. As I only operate on my own two feet, I have not yet mapped the entire expanse as it covers all of Gotham, Arkham, and leads as far as Bludhaven.” He says mildly to the man (by the loosest definition of man), and Joker snickers.

“Look at this boy! Real clever, ain’t chu?” He sounds so proud, like Bruce would be of him, and Dick smiles to hide the way he wants to rip the Joker apart with his fucking teeth.

“As clever as the Court needs,” he says softly, smiling the whole time. He watches and listens as they talk briefly, hears them plan how they will break the city of their incorruptible Dark Knight, and he waits. He wants to know everything, and finally, the doors close behind the Joker’s swaggering frame, the door shutting behind him.

He can only think one thing:

H̶̡̨̛̙̬̮͖̜͈̉̅́̋̓͜ǒ̶̫̬͚̺̓̀͊̂̀͝w̷̢̫̳̜͋͊͗͋̎̏́ ̶̰̈́͑̊͝ḍ̵̢̫̖̟̪͖͎̔̍͌̒̾̃̌͝ą̸̨̹̺̜̦͔̑̂̀́̑r̷̛̘͔̞̿͑͋͑͗͊ë̶̢͚̹́̒̈́͆͠ ̸̡̛̱̦̺̲͛̀̾̍̃̚t̵̢̨͙̘̖̫̟̳͈̆̇͑̓͂̃́̚h̴̖̻̤̫͔̱͌͆̄̕͝͠ė̵̝̩̤̭͑̀̒͆̈͗̾̍ỵ̵̳̻̙̹̘͖͓̋̓́̊

“Seal the doors,” one says, and Dick watches dispassionately, obediently walks to the centre dais. “Talon.” He straightens, his taloned hand coming to his chest and amber eyes blinking up at the leader, the man standing with his hood pulled up.

“I see all, Council,” he says dutifully. “What do you wish for me to hunt?”

“Aid the Joker in his war and return to us when you are done with a sample of his Venom. It may have further uses in training other lesser Talons.” Dick’s stomach flips in disgust, but he nods and smiles, stretches his claws out. He has only a handful of knives, his taloned gauntlet, and the anger of his soul.

He supposes there’d be a joke about this somewhere. H̴̩̉̚o̵̞̻̜̔̉̚ẅ̷̦̲́ ̶̺͍̈d̵͍͐̂a̷̦̔͝r̵̹̃̕ḛ̵̱̈́̀ ̷̻̙̱̇̄t̴̯̱͆͜h̷͔͆́̑e̷͖͍͂y̵̫͙͉͐̉.

One time traveller, a Court of Owls, and four hundred birds sitting in an aviary… Well. Until there was only one.

“I understand,” Dick says softly; smiles.

And then he moves.

Drip.                                   Drip                                           Drip                                                                 D̸̤͕͊̆̇̾̌͑̀́͗̏̌̊̋̄͠r̸̫̯̝̲͉̼̍̿̀į̴̩͔͔̫̣͖̠͙͚̺̺̜̯̃̽̓̄̅́̀͛̑̆̔̕ͅp̸̯͉̤̀̈́͌͑̈̈͐͑̚

                                  D̷̹̲̒̇̍͝ṛ̸͛̀̑̃i̸̱̼̱̋̀̓p̵͓̗̍̏͘.                                                Drip                     Drip                                                                            Drip

D̶̨̛͍̗̻͈͇̭̜̺̻̥͎̣̰͕̗̏̓͆̓̿̈́̀̔̿̌͂͒̋͋͂̈́̔̅̄̐̒̕͘͠r̸̢̪̗̖̜̼̥͈̪͚̂̔̈̀̋̍̎̅̌͑̽̃̎̑̏́̿̄̈͋̇̏̕į̴̳̭͚̫̲̝͋͘͜p̸̤͔̖̠̦̝̤͖̭͇͇̤̭̘͓̃̇́̾͌̓͗̆̔́̅̏̔̕͘͝.                                                                Drip

Drip.                                   Drip.

By the time Slade and William arrive at the Court, the place is a fucking massacre. Blood paints the walls red and varying shades of brown, the bodies of Talons strewn everywhere. Their corpses lay sprawled over the once clean and neat tiles, impaled to walls, and even collapsed on the rafters.

No Talon was spared the wrath of whoever had carved their trail here, and Slade warily drew his sword, aware that William was doing the same next to him. William nudges a body, and Slade takes a closer look.

“Beheaded. Whoever did this knows of our regeneration,” William says, frowning. And god wasn’t that fucking chilling? Hundreds of headless corpses, their blood still flowing down the steps in a river as they painted the stairs, their footsteps splashing in it as they travel further underground.

“Where are the heads?” Slade mutters, and William looks at him, before looking down at the corpse next to his feet. William makes a little ‘tch’ of worry.

“They may have been taken to the incinerator. It’s at the bottom.”

“What, a pit of lava?” Slade mutters as they pass another corpse. This one was even more badly mauled, as though ravaged by an animal; thick gashes left unhealed, as though his healing factor had failed halfway.

“Just a high powered incinerator,” William says with a slightly disdainful sniff. Slade feels it’s well within his rights to be dramatic, especially when they pass another corpse, the body sprawled out and pinned up like a butterfly. The knives are long and wicked, pinned through each limb as though the Talon was a butterfly.

“Sheesh. Graphic.” William winces agreement, the most emotion he’s seen from this particular Talon so far. “So… where is your kid?”

“He was still here,” William says, eyes flashing slightly in alarm. “If he is hurt -” Slade allows the man to take the lead, the sound of their feet splashing against the ground and sending blood splattering everywhere. Slade glances around, and a faint prickle of worry dances over his spine. He didn’t know Richard well, but he’d admit, the kid had grown on him. They’d rarely crossed paths, but the few times he’d been around he’d been good with Joseph, which he’d much appreciated on the rare days he couldn’t take his kid with him on his various trips.

If the Joker really had torn through this place, he was going to have to figure out how to take him down, Batman be fucking -

Drip.

He skids to a stop behind William, staring at the corpse-pile as it was stacked up high, a slim figure holding yet another corpse in its grasp. The body turns, and he stares in stunned surprise.

Richard stares at him, a bright smear of blood over his cheek, copious amounts fresh and dried all over his body, hair plastered to his face, and a deranged gleam of golden eyes staring sightlessly at them as though they were threats.

“Owlet,” William breathes, and Richard looks at them both, before tossing the body into the incinerator and pulling the lever. Fire roars up from the incinerator, the body dissolving in the heat of the flames.

“I couldn’t let them live,” He says tonelessly. “I couldn’t let them get their hands on Joker’s Venom.” Slade grimaces at the idea. He’d had the bad luck to have helped Hugo Strange in dissecting a Talon while it was still alive. That had turned him off working with the Court outside of Richard ever again in the future, but adding Joker’s janky-ass venom into the mix?

Hell, he’d have done the goddamn same, but fucking faster.

“You’re injured,” William notes, and Richard looks down.

“Was,” he corrects, staring at the gash in his uniform. He looks up at Slade. “How much does it cost to dispose of the Riddler and Joker tonight?” He asks, and Slade tilts his head to a side, hand reaching out to cup under a tiny chin. He rubs blood off of his face, watches how Richard lets him without question.

“I want half your armoury, and I’ll consider the rest a public service.” Richard stares at him blankly, and then turns to William.

“Grandfather? You are the oldest surviving Talon now. Do you agree to the terms?” William’s lips curl up slightly into a smile, his gold-gauntleted hand scratching the top of his grandchild’s head gently.

“Of course, Owlet. If it makes you happy.” Richard’s head tilts slightly to a side, and he smiles, a curl of sinuous pleasure.

“Good.” Slade stares at those eyes, the cold, cruel smile, and he shivers.

He did not want this kid as an enemy. Richard grabs another body, and Slade, getting the hint, picks one up himself.

He was in for a long fucking night. The child tosses body after body in, the blood drying on the walls as they burn all of the Court to ashes. It’s early morning when they stop, the first rays of false dawn peeking through when he grabs the last few bodies.

“The armoury is this way,” The boy says dully, and he glances over Richard, the child swaying on his feet.

“How about we all clean up first? If I come home to my kid covered in blood he’s going to flip his shit.” Richard blinks, looks around himself, and then sighs.

“Yes. I will show you to a clean shower while I clean up the mess I made,” Richard offers indifferently, and William stops him with a touch of his gold-clawed hand over the boy’s dark and blood-crusted hair.

“Owlet. Go bathe. I will clean the Aviary.” William stares at the bloodied place, and Slade winces on his behalf.

“We can clean it up together and then wash up after. I’m helping you clean up the mess they made - this isn’t the first time I’ve scrubbed a place clean.” Both of them look at him, then at the mess.

“If you desire to assist, we would gladly welcome you.”

“For an appropriate fee,” Richard adds quietly, and Slade looks at them both. He thinks briefly, of his daughter, how he was now part of her life. And then, he thinks of Joseph, of his son and how Richard’s advice had kept his kid from being a mute for the rest of his life.

“No. No cost,” Slade says, and he’s surprised by how right that felt.

It’s nearly noon by the time William is able to convince his sweet owlet to take a nap, everything cleaned and a spare uniform located and dressed over his little charge’s body, a safety net he clung to in the face of upending the life he’d come to know for decades.

He’d had to pick his battles, and ousting his little owlet from where William is carrying him on a hip is one too many for an already long night. Richard’s head is pillowed on his shoulder, the boy fast asleep and secure against his side while Deathstroke observed the many weapons that he was now allowed to take.

“Does your boy apprentice under you?” Deathstroke asks curiously, and William chuckles.

“Richard has always been skilled in weapons handling - he needed no mentor but his own wits.” He tilts his head back out, as though reminding him of the bloodbath they had witnessed not even hours prior. Deathstroke grimaces in agreement, but takes the small sword anyways, clearly intending to offer it to the boy regardless. William assists him as best as he can, but when he reaches for the talon gauntlets, he clicks his tongue. Surprised, Deathstroke looks at him.

“I would not recommend touching that, mercenary. Your healing factor is on par to our own, but it is not a tool meant to be used lightly,” William says evenly. “And I suspect my owlet will wish to have spares.” Deathstroke accepts his reasoning, the man moving on. His owlet is tucked tightly against his shoulder, silent as the dead, and he shifts his grandson, runs his talon hand through the soft black hair, the boy pressing into it tenderly as he was always fond of doing when awake.

“Do you have any idea what kind of plan we’ve got for killing Joker and Riddler?” Deathstroke asks, once his things are assembled.

“Richard wishes to make it look to those on the outside and within that they killed one another. To tidy up loose ends. He’ll be able to inform you as to the particulars when he is awake. For now, I would suggest you leave. Tend to any owlets of your own, and return in the evening, so we can all be rested and ready for our reckoning. Gotham will not be the same when we are done.” Deathstroke snorts agreement, and he takes a handful of weapons, bobbing his head in a shallow bow before disappearing without further ado.

“Oh my sweet owlet,” William sighs. “I cannot say you allow life to be boring, sweet boy. I wonder whose empire you will crush when you become an adult.”

Chapter Text

When Dick wakes up, he’s alone. Only the quiet murmur of voices and the fading sunlight of the Gotham daylight is visible. He allows himself to relax some, eyes blinking at the ceiling. It’s a pristine white, a vast difference from when he’d slaughtered all of the Court’s Talons for their egregious actions. Even now, he could feel the phantom sensation of blood under his fingernails, the dry, caked flakes that had been peeled off in the hottest shower he’d been able to stand, and he lightly steps down from his bed, landing without even a thump to announce himself.

The quiet murmurs have not stopped, and he draws closer, curious.

“... What are you going to do, after Riddler and Joker are done?” Slade’s voice is curious, and William hums.

“There are many Courts around the world. We have had no contact with the original for decades, so I will seek out other branches, see if they are in need of cleansing just as my owlet has done. My owlet has ties here in this city, and I will not begrudge him the right to live a life without war. But if what happened here comes out to the Parliament of Owls in Europe, they will hunt my owlet down. I have no intentions of allowing them to harm him, and if I must take the rest of my unnatural life to eliminate them so my owlet can enjoy what is left of his childhood, then so be it.”

Dick gives a mirthless smile. What childhood? The distant memories of his childhood were nothing anymore, his youth spent chasing after Batman to keep him out of danger, arguing with Bruce about his paranoid ways, being a parent to Dami before he’d even become thirty…

Dick’s childhood had died in blood and gunfire, and he regrets - in so many ways - his childhood. He wishes he’d let Bruce talk him out of becoming Robin, that he’d let himself be a kid, even if he was a bit of a weird one.

Maybe he’d take up gymnastics again. Learn silks and dance in them like his mother did, during her solo performances, the same way she’d roll them both up in them so he could use her as a hammock. He waits a little, before opening the door silently and slipping over to the table.

He makes it to the table before either notice, and he hides a smile when both men jump slightly in their seats.

“Owlet!” William says, surprised, and he allows a smile to curl his lips. William’s talon scratches over the top of his head in praise, and he accepts it happily, tucks his feet under himself to see better.

… He hated being small.

“Grandfather,” He says happily, before cooling off and looking at Slade. “Deathstroke.” Slade tilts his head in greeting. “I’m sorry I slept so long.” Slade shrugs, shoulders rolling.

“It’s fine. I had to check on my kid. Had to make sure he got to school and back okay,” Slade shrugs, and Dick smiles slightly. Fatherhood was good on Slade. He knew the man was capable and an exceptional caretaker, and it was a shame, he thinks, that it took getting thrown into the past to help Slade get the life he’d denied himself before. He’d slowly been devolving from the strong, proud man Dick had been trained into an abusive wreck, but it was good to see he was okay.

If not, well… Dick had rescued kids from abusive situations before. He’d keep an eye on the situation.. A gauntlet is placed before him, and he accepts it, feels the secure weight of the frame around his fingers and sighs happily.

“You’ll have to figure out how to disguise that if you want any chance at a normal life,” Slade says mildly, and Dick smiles slightly.

“I know. I’ll be able to handle it just fine, Deathstroke. I’ve got an idea for it.” Less an idea and more a concept, but Dick knew he’d figure it out eventually. “Thank you, though,” He says softly, and Deathstroke eyes him, before smiling wryly.

“You’re weird, kid.” Dick shrugs his shoulders with a carefree little smirk at Deathstroke’s obvious response, and he chuckles slightly.

“You have no idea.” Sobering, the child (adult) hops to his feet. “I have some work about how to deal with Riddler and Joker. Especially since he’s expecting my arrival as his new minion. I can get in very easily to most of his warehouses but one. The Joker Venom is pungent in that one,” he says, heaving the binder up and over, the two regarding the thick binder with amusement.

“Don’t miss much, huh kid?” He wonders, and Dick shrugs. He opens the binder up, and points to the table of contents.

“I wouldn’t have survived last night if I had,” he says quietly. “I protect my city, no matter the cost.” Deathstroke hums his placid-sound agreement, the man looking at the binder and the section with his name with intrigue.

“Huh. What’s an Ikon suit?” Deathstroke asks, and Dick looks at his grandfather, who gets the memo.

“It is a suit of armour we acquired some months ago,” the Talon says. “There were some attempts to alter the size to fit an already existing Talon, but the suit is surprisingly resistant. It was suggested to be offered to you in exchange for a job as none of us will be of the correct fit, nor would Richard when he achieved full growth.”

“You can predict stuff like that?” he says, mildly impressed. Dick shrugs slightly again.

“The Court of Gotham didn’t particularly like to waste expenses on resizing armour. I’ll know exactly how tall I’ll be regardless of outside factors.” Slade looks at them curiously, before shrugging, deciding it was not his problem, and resumes reading.

“Damn,” Slade says, when he’s done, and Dick looks at him expectantly. “You’ll be dealing with Joker?” Dick allows his smile to stretch, unsettlingly wide, and he nods.

“Yes. I’ll be dealing with him permanently.” The boy promises, and Slade eyes him, before a smirk curls his lips.

“Make it hurt.”

Dick’s eyes glitter meanly with glee, and the boy hops out of his chair again, before heading to the fridge. “Oh, I intend to,” He says with a bright beam. “It’s been a long, long time since I’ve been able to hurt someone like this.” His breakfast found, the boy offers them both his findings. Slade declines, having eaten with his son, but William eats with him, the three sharing a companionable silence.

Tonight, Dick thinks savagely as he digs into his meal. Tonight, the Joker would become an urban legend. Once they are all done eating, Dick hops off to clean, removes his gauntlet and scrubs the dishes clean before setting them on top of the dryer.

“What will happen to the base once we leave?” Deathstroke wonders, and Dick hums.

“Too many people know where it is. I’ll seal the traditional entrances for any places worth keeping, and then establish a backdoor to the armoury and the technological aspects.” Dick says evenly. He’d have a lot of work to do, once this city was firmly under B’s control. “After that, I know that the Court has some hidden safehouses. I’ll move things over at my own pace and then get you your armoury kitted out.” Here Dick smiles slyly. “For services rendered, of course.” Slade snorts.

“Sure, sure. So, double murder at midnight?” He asks, referencing Dick’s notes, and Dick grins.

“Might as well die as they lived - a pain in the ass to the Bat,” Dick quips, and Slade snorts aloud, biting back a reluctant grin.

“Kid after my own heart,” Slade quips slyly, standing up and grabbing the binder. “I’ll keep this with me - better it’s in my hands than yours kid. You can at least plead out.” Dick smiles wryly, knows that’s true enough. “I’ll handle Riddler. You be careful out there Richard.”

“I will. Thank you,” he says with a smile, slips his gauntlet on and watches as Deathstroke leaves, the man gearing up in his old suit for the last time. Once they were alone, Dick turned to look at William.

“Grandfather.” He says the word with a quiet curiosity, the man looking at him with fond indulgence. “Did you mean it? That you would spend what was left of your life hunting down the Court?” William bends a knee to be level with Dick’s face, his claws coming out to gently scratch over his scalp the way he always did to assure Dick, the boy pushing his head up into the clawed touch.

“Yes, my little owlet. You are my greatest pride and joy, my finest gift, little Talon. I have already taken so much from you, and I can only wish a quieter, happier life for you, my owlet.” The adult loosens some at the admission, a shy smile curling his lips.

“I love you too, Grandfather,” the boy says to him, and the man gives him a fonder look, standing up to receive a hug from Dick, as the boy flings his arms around the man’s waist to hug him, before ruffling dark hair, the light drag of talons over the top of a head making him puddle happily against the warm hold of his grandfather’s grasp.

He would miss William, when he returned to Bruce’s side.

“You’ll visit?” He says, all but demanding the man answer.

“Of course, little owlet,” William says indulgently. “Every year, if you wish.”

“Seasonally,” Dick insists, and his grandfather laughs. “I mean it! If you don’t, then I’ll hunt you down, even if I have to cross the globe to do it!” He says fiercely, and William’s laughter rings in the small room.

“Yes, my owlet. I will find you, just as you will find me,” he promises, hefting him up to hug properly, the boy relaxing even further.

If Amanda Waller dared touch his beloved grandfather, he would burn her and her stupid facility to the waterline.

Damn bitch better not touch his people or he’d burn her alive.

It’s nearly midnight when Dick arrives at Joker’s warehouse, slipping past their security and leaning casually against a pillar while he waits for Joker to notice him.

“Where is the brat?” One of the goons complains. “Joker said the kid would be here by now.” Amused, Dick watches as the goons hulk around, the men grumbling and complaining while Dick stands behind them.

God… it’d be so fucking easy to slaughter them all without warning… but it wasn’t midnight yet, he wasn’t yet ready for the bloodbath that would ensue. He needed to find out where Joker was, make sure he was there for the finale.

He wanted the clown to suffer as painfully as Dick himself had suffered, to bleed and cry and beg for a mercy that Dick had no intention of giving him. His lips curl into a slightly twisted grin as Joker enters, looks at him, and then raises a brow at the sight of the goons complaining.

(He’s never been above being petty - his Jaybird could attest to that, as could his perfect tiny Tim.)

“It’s not my fault they don’t look up,” Dick says wryly. “I’ve been here for an hour.” The security was pretty shitty, anyways, so he props his feet up on the steel beam and grins wickedly. “So? Gonna invite me down or do I have to wait for the big boss to do it?” He wonders, and Joker snorts laughter.

“God kid, you’re precious, aren’t you?” He wonders, and Dick checks the time.

Six minutes to midnight.

Six minutes to his revenge. The door slams shut behind the Joker, and he can see how the man locks it behind himself. Unseen by the clown, Dick presses his fingers against a button, allowing his grandfather to get to work. Dick hops down, using one of the men as a springboard to touch the ground noiselessly.

“Fuck!” The goon says, but Dick doesn’t particularly care, strolling closer.

“I’m hardly precious.” Here he stops, bows to Joker. “But thank you, Champion.” Straightening, he looks at the man with a slight smirk, amber eyes bright as the glare of the sun as he observes Joker.

“Champion this, Champion that - someone gonna explain to me what that is?” Joker wonders, and Dick checks his internal clock.

Three minutes.

“You are the champion of Barbatos, his agent to spread his will. How else would you have climbed from the filth of lesser men to become Gotham’s Prince of Crime?” He says sweetly, the boy wandering back towards the goons with a wide smile. Step after step, he kept Joker in his sights. “After all, who else would take his mantle?” He stretches a clawed fingertip out towards one of Joker’s lackeys, the man cringing at the sight of the golden talons. “This fool?” He wonders lightly, skimming the side of the man’s face.

Joker snickers, cackles, and then howls with laughter, hands clutched to his stomach.

“You’re some kind of fanatic, aren’tchu kid?” Joker asks curiously, and Dick smiles coldly, a cruel gleam in his eyes.

“The only god I serve deserves only the finest, Champion.”

Midnight.

Dick’s hands grasp the man’s head, and he twists his neck, snapping it neatly in two. The body drops, but he’s already on the move, shredding the rest apart with a swing of his taloned claws, each body falling apart to ribbons. He slides to a stop in front of the alarmed Joker, the man staring at him.

Dick grins, a bloody thing.

“You aren’t it.”

Joker’s scream is fucking delicious when Dick’s claws tear open his worthless throat.

In a question mark, of course. There couldn’t be any mistake of who did it, after all.

Gotham in Shock! Newspapers declare boldly early Friday morning. Double murder of Joker and Riddler!

Jason blinks sleepy eyes away from the newspaper, and looks up at him in confused concern when he sees Bruce’s face.

“B?” The boy yawns. “Are you okay?” Bruce is still staring at the newspaper, but at the sight of Jason - and Tim, who is nodding off into his eggs - the CEO resolutely folds up the paper and sets it aside.

“I’ll be okay,” Bruce promises, standing up to pick up his little Jaylad and caress the top of Jason’s head, the boy pressing against his shoulder greedily like a cat. “It was just a surprise, that’s all,” Bruce assures his eldest, the boy yawning cutely while Bruce kisses the top of his head. Tim manages to force open his eyes, and he fights back a smile.

“Too early for breakfast, boys?” He teases, and the boys stare at him together.

“But you go to work stupid early,” both of them complain as one, Jason continuing a little more boldly with the next sentence. “Can’t have breakfast with you otherwise.” He scoops Tim up into his lap too, the four year old a mess of knees and elbows as he and Jason play-fight for room on his lap. He lets them tussle until they’re comfortable, little Tim all but drowning in his big brother’s comforting grasp as Jason takes care to make sure Tim doesn’t fall. For good measure - and to help his current eldest - he props his feet up, allowing his boys to grumble against his chest with a fond, indulgent smile.

He loves his boys dearly, even little Tim, who he’s only had for a few weeks now, both boys his precious treasures. One day, he’d find the kid who had brought them to him, and he’d thank him for giving Bruce a purpose beyond just Batman, a focus on his life that he couldn’t have ever imagined anyone providing. He cuddles the boys closer, and both of them whine, but are just as eager for cuddling as he is, the little menaces they are. He chuckles, and both boys look up at him.

“Just thinking about how cute you two are,” he says, amused when both boys puff their cheeks out, looking angry.

Well, as angry as a four and a six year old could manage. Overcome with fondness, he dips his head to kiss the tops of theirs, eliciting squeaks of surprise from his boys. God, his boys were fucking cute as hell.

“I’ll start scheduling later meetings, so that way we can all eat breakfast together before you guys go to school, okay?” He says the words softly, and the children both beam up at him, bright as the sun. On the other side, Alfred looks horribly amused by all three of them, the butler helping the boys finish eating before cleaning up together, Jaylad cheerfully taking point to washing the dishes while Bruce dried and Tim clung to Jason’s jacket and whined whenever Jason ruffled his hair with a soapy hand. He kisses the top of their heads anyways, wrinkles his nose to their giggles, and bids Alfred a quiet goodbye.

“Make sure the boys get to school on time, please,” Bruce says fondly, and Alfred’s eyes dance with bright amusement, the butler doing as he’s bid to head off for his own tasks.

Today is a litany of long, boring meetings, following up on the utterly mortifying showing Lexcorp had just done with their tech division. Bruce absolutely intended on ruining that man’s life, and truth be told, he was having incredible amounts of fun doing it. It abso lutely had nothing to do with Luthor trying to screw Superman over, okay?

… Shut up, he did not feel sorry for Clark, dammit.

It’s only sheer luck that Bruce is able to make it home before ten in the evening, the man trudging in to land flat on his face in the entryway. Alfred, long used to his dramatics, simply sighs and collects his briefcase and goes off to activate the security systems - updated quite heavily since he’d gotten that binder - and leave him to his woe

The floor is nice and cold, Bruce thinks happily as he lays there, only for the sound of two tiny giggles to grace his ears. He lifts his head and raises a brow at the culprits, both boys looking only slightly sheepish at being caught.

“You should be in bed, munchkins,” Bruce says tiredly, carefully climbing to his feet. The boys rush closer, and he chuckles as they prop him up, two worried pairs of eyes staring up at him adoringly.

“But we missed you at dinner!” The boys say together, and he sighs, strips off his tie and his jacket to hang up on the coat rack where Alfred will find them later. For good measure, he undoes the top button too, before scooping up the boys. Tim squeaks in surprise, and Jason just yelps, the two scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders, before sending him twin glares.

“You boys will be why I have grey hairs at twenty six,” he tells them sternly, and the boys both giggle slightly, Jason grinning impishly up at him.

“Says Mr. Bat,” his Jaylad snickers, small hands lifting up to cup his face in both palms. “You know we’re just worried, right?” Jason says anxiously, and Bruce allows the wind to fly right out of his sails. “Especially with the news about Joker and Riddler,” he adds, and Bruce grimaces.

“I’m going to let GCPD handle it tonight,” he promises his boys, and Tim tugs lightly at his hair, making him wince. The tiny hand doesn’t leave, the boy using it to make Bruce look him in the eye.

“That’s not a lie, is it?” Tim asks shrewdly, and Bruce’s eyes soften at the question. Tim was his little worrier, always asking for confirmation, so worried about him and Jay whenever they poked their noses out of their house. Heaven forbid he end up late, because the last time he was, both he and Alfred got the scolding of their lives.

“No, Timbo. You guys can share the bed with me tonight if you’re worried about me sneaking out..” Both boys light up at his affirmation, and he smiles at their eager expressions, carrying them to the kitchen where a single bowl of hot soup sits, waiting for their exhausted patron to drink.

“Would the young sirs like some soup to drink with their father?” Alfred asks, appearing with a freshly toasted cheese sandwich. Bruce gives a relieved groan at the sight of it, lowering his precious boys into the seats closest to him before sitting himself. Both boys share a look, and scramble to climb into his lap together, making him yelp and flail a little bit, before he snorts.

“Boys, boys, I’m not going anywhere!” He protests with a laugh, while Alfred smiles at the sight. “Split the sandwich in three, if you’d please Alfred. We’ll share the soup. I did eat some at the business dinner.”

“Not much!” Tim pipes up, looking offended on his behalf. “I bet they took you to some fancy place they couldn’t afford where the food was only the size of a tablespoon!”

“If that,” Jason mutters against his shoulder unhappily, and Bruce laughs at them both.

“Boys, boys, are you rich-shaming my investors?” He teases, even as the sliced sandwich is put before them, the butler giving him an understanding look of amusement over their little heads.

“Yes.”

“Abso-freakin-lutely!” Jason chimes, smirking, and Bruce rolls his eyes at them.

“Brats. Now eat your sandwiches so I can hurry up and go to my study to check the security and we can all brush our teeth and go to bed.” The boys both heave deep, dramatic sighs, but obediently do so, settling down against his chest with twin pouts.

Bruce has to muffle another laugh at their petulant expressions.

He loves his boys so much. They finish the tomato soup and cheese sandwich without further ado, the trio bidding Alfred a good night and trooping upstairs to brush their teeth. Bruce quickly checks on the security system, and frowns slightly at the ones observing the Cave.

The bats there seemed more active than normal… After a moment, he lets it go, knowing both boys will demand to be in there with him if he dares to go to the ‘Batcave’ (god why were his kids so cute and insistent on calling everything bat-thing), and any threat down there couldn’t come up here without a biological match, so it was for the best if he didn’t. The boys are little chatterboxes as they get ready for bed, climbing over him excitedly before they finally settle down at his chiding look, Jason close to his chest and Tim sprawled over them both in a way that would be bad for his back. When Tim starts to snore, Jay and he both move him somewhere more comfortable, before they all fall asleep, Bruce keeping an arm slung over them both to keep them from whining.

Waking up finds Bruce with a mouthful of hair, Tim having wedged his itty bitty way in between a grumbling Jason’s face and Bruce’s chest, small head tucked into his neck.

“Bleh,” Bruce complains fondly, pulling free. It’s only 5AM when he checks the clock, so he tucks both boys in so they can cuddle comfortably together, and gets up.

He tiredly runs through the morning routine of brushing his teeth, washing his face, and combing his hair out, before pulling out his PDA to observe if he had any pressing engagements. It was a Saturday, so thankfully no. That done, Bruce looks at the time again.

Five fifteen. The urge to go back to his sons was strong, but the way the bats had been acting still worried him, so he cleans himself up, tucks a few knives into his waistcoat, and heads to the study to enter the Batcave.

There’s nothing out of place in his study, and he turns the chair around out of habit.

Empty. Phew, Bruce thinks, before he goes ahead to enter the elevator. The journey down is quiet, and he takes his time exiting, observing around himself as he tries to figure out exactly what he’s looking for that had disturbed the bats down here. In the elevator, he looks over the camera footage from the way down. There still wasn’t anything unusual about it aside from the disturbed bats.

Entering the cave, his feet echo over the steel flooring, the man looking up and around to see if he can find the source of the disturbance. As he approaches the computer, he expects something to happen.

What does happen, is that the wing-backed chair turns, revealing a small, almost painfully tiny frame of a boy he couldn’t help but recognize. How could he not, when he’d been chasing after the kid for ages, trying to find him, to help him.

“Hello, Bruce,” The child says with a smile. His eyes are not the same blue-gold mix of colour that both boys had described, but was instead a soft, gleaming amber.

“I -” Bruce’s mouth opens. And then closes. “Dick?” The boy’s eyes are glittering with a fondness in his youthful gaze, and the little boy - god he was so tiny what the fuck was up with kids in Gotham goddammit - uncurls on the seat.

He remembered this boy. His little acrobat, the boy he’d watched cry in silence when his parents fell, the way he’d been unable to try and offer a little comfort, the rest of the circus having huddled protectively around him and Gotham’s police having kept all spectators away.

He still remembered how the officers had ripped the little boy out of the loving arms of his circus family and tossed him in the system. Bruce thumps to the ground on his knees, unable to look away from the boy.

“Hello, Bruce,” little Dick Grayson says with a slight little smile. “You’ve been looking for me, haven’t you?” The boy slips free of the seat, and every single one of Bruce’s instincts scream at him, that the boy was dangerous, he was a weapon.

“I have,” he says softly, reaching out to touch him, Dick holding still and looking at him with an understanding - so heartbreakingly understanding - expression. His fingers cup the boy’s cheek, and Dick gives a soft sigh, tilting his head to nuzzle Bruce’s palm. “I’m so, so sorry. Life hasn’t been kind to you, has it?” He could tell - the boy’s body was lean and toned even beyond his admittedly fascinating life as a circus acrobat. His eyes were keen, his expression sharp, and even at rest, he knew the boy could probably fight him and win.

It was not a fun feeling.

“It’s okay. I’m here now,” The boy says, smiling sweetly for him. Bruce’s mouth presses into a thin line when he sees how the boy slips from his chair with the fluid grace he’d only seen from people like Selina and Talia.

“I’m still sorry. You needed me - you needed someone,” Bruce carefully pulls the boy into a hug, and Dick accepts his touch, the boy wrapping his arms tightly around Bruce’s neck as the two hug. “I take it the boys are your doing?” Bruce asks when they part, and Dick pulls back with a slightly cheeky grin on his face.

“You were lonely,” he says frankly, “and I wanted them to have a better life than what they’d been stuck with.” Bruce pulls the boy into a second, much tighter hug, the man tightly hugging the little boy against his chest. He felt so, so fragile, his heartbeat bird-quick against his skin, the boy burying his head lightly against Bruce’s throat. The level of danger practically skyrockets, the feel of the boy’s breath over his throat making him shiver. “You’re so trusting, B,” The boy says softly, and Bruce hugs the boy tighter.

“You deserve a little trust, Dick, after you brought me the boys.” Bruce says, and Dick’s grip tightens around him.

“My brothers?” Dick asks him hopefully, and Bruce pulls back, smiling wryly.

“Why them?” He wonders, and Dick shrugs slightly, a slight flush on his face.

“Because they’re cute. Because they needed you.” Here he smiles softly. “You would have rescued them on your own. I just expedited the process.” Bruce wonders if it’s okay to cry for this little boy, pulling him in for a much tighter hug, Dick taking it with good grace.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Bruce repeats.

It feels like something he’s going to say a lot for the foreseeable future. Dick laughs, a soft, wet little thing, and finally, the boy pulls back and away properly, grins shyly at him, cheeks red from holding back tears.

“Bruce,” Dick says, eyes wet with tears. “Can I stay? I like it here.”

“Oh chum,” Bruce pulls him close (not a hug, he promised) and runs a hand through thick, dark hair. “You can stay as long as you like.” He hefts the boy up to his hip, and Dick takes it with good grace, not even protesting despite the fact that Bruce knew he was around ten, and kids his age weren’t usually happy to be carried around like they were five still. Dick leans against him, eyes closing in serene pleasure, and he carries the little boy to the elevator. Once they’re heading back up, Bruce hefts him a little higher. “So, the binder?” He asks, and Dick gives a sleepy hum.

“The people that had me were paranoid,” he says matter-of-factly. “Very, very paranoid. I wanted you and my baby brothers to be safe” Here the little boy stretches his hands out, touches Bruce’s face. “I brought some extra presents too.” Bruce’s heart breaks a little more.

What kind of home did he end up in, that he felt he had to state over and over how useful he is? That he had to keep giving Bruce things? Bruce kisses the top of his head, and Dick blinks up at him, frowning in confusion at a reward he did not earn.

“Just because,” he says with a smile, and Dick beams up at him, clutches his shirt tightly. “Now. How do you want to do this? Do you want to sneak into the bed and wake them up with whatever fun thing you’ve got planned, or do you want breakfast first?” He asks. Dick thinks about it, clinging to his chest and humming happily.

“I want to surprise them,” he says with a big grin. “And then breakfast! All together.” Bruce laughs again at that, the two exiting the elevator to his study, where Alfred stands, a single brow raised as he offers a cup of hot chocolate.

“... Sir.” The flat, unimpressed tone makes Bruce bite a laugh back. “Another one?” Dick giggles a little, wiggles down to take the cup from Alfred’s hands.

“The original,” he says, grinning, and Alfred raises the other brow as the boy takes a sip of the hot chocolate, before offering it to Bruce too.

“You can have it, chum,” Bruce reassures the kid, and Dick beams, scampering off to surprise the other two. “He was the Haly’s kid,” Bruce says, and Alfred immediately blinks.

“Ah.” His smile warms to something more genuine. “Should I air out the room for him? The one you prepared when you were ready to adopt?” Alfred offers, and Bruce hums.

“I think I’ll show it to him. Maybe he’ll want to tone down the colours - he’s dealt with a lot since I last saw him,” Bruce says, and a flash of anger sparks in his heart. Most people would call him stupid, for letting this little boy into his heart. But Bruce couldn’t divorce his heart from the sight of him, curled up defensively on his chair, the boy looking at him so vulnerably, so terrified of rejection.

(Bruce was tired of seeing children terrified of him.)

Dick makes it to Bruce’s bedroom door before he sinks down on wobbly knees to the floor, and he has to clutch the hot chocolate to his chest and just cry, quiet as he was trained, impossibly loud to the now-former Talon.

This was his Bruce.

This was who died the day Jason did.

This was everything he’d lost when he’d turned nineteen. Why did it hurt so much now that it was back in his hands?

Dick cries noiselessly, the hot cup of cocoa cooling in his hands as he fights his tears, shivering and shaking and hurting. Why why why did it take going all the way back into the past and ruining his own life and body to get what he should have never let go in the first place?

He’d always treated Bruce like an older brother, rather than a much too young father, and it had shaped everything about their relationship. How they treated each other, how they worked together, and he’d thought he was okay with that. But now, having been held, having been comforted and caressed and loved like the father he knew Bruce could truly, really, actually be, Dick couldn’t help but hate himself, hate the original nine year old Dick fucking Grayson. Thinking about his parents rather than the family he could have had.

Hypocrite, he thinks bitterly about himself, rubs his tears away as he stands on wobbly feet to enter Bruce’s bedroom.

Entering brings him another surprise - Tim and Jason cuddled together, the older boy protectively curled around their baby bird.

“You know,” Tim, older Tim, tired and heartsore and worn out, “I would have handed the mantle back if he’d wanted. I never wanted to keep the Robin title.”

Another fucking thing the Joker owed them. He’d paid for it, paid in blood and sacrifice. Dick carefully places the hot chocolate on the table and crawls in to join them, feeling filthy and stained and dirty.

He’d killed so many people with his hands. He’d taken an entire cult and razed it to ashes, and he’d laughed while doing so. Part of him was still satisfied, was still pleased by his showing. But a much bigger part of him felt utterly, completely, absolutely filthy.

How could he claim to be a good brother after all the things he’d killed? How could he say he was kind after he’d so gleefully torn the Joker open with his own talons? His own hands?

Dick’s hands tremble as he reaches for them. He wants to hug them so badly, but everything feels awful. How dare he touch them, how dare he hold them, even if all the blood shed was on their behalf? He pulls them into his grasp, their little heartbeats abnormally loud in the stillness of the room. His own breath is audible - shut up boy, don’t be discovered - and he has to quiet it, be still and quiet in the early morning. His baby birds don’t even twitch, Jason grumbling against the top of Tim’s head, Tim squeezing tighter into Jason’s arms with a happy mumble.

He fits against them perfectly. They fit together, all three of them, and he longingly wishes for Damian to come, to be here and be one of them. But Damian wasn’t even born yet, he thinks. Precious baby Dami, the fourth bat boy. And Steph, their fiercest Robin standing up to a legacy that had tried to crush her. Cass - god, Cass would be tiny tiny, and Duke was younger than his bitty Tim, wasn’t he? Barbara - who would never again be crippled by the Joker, who would be able to choose if she wished to be Oracle - or not.

He wanted all of the best for all he loved.

And Dick wasn’t sure he was good enough for them anymore. He tugs them a little closer, and both boys merely shift sleepily, trusting and warm and here in a way he’s not been able to feel since he’d come back.

Dick falls asleep to his tears, to two warm bodies.

It’s the sight Bruce walks into his room on, his eldest crying quietly, clutching the boys to his chest as though they were the only things in the world he could touch.

He keeps himself quiet, the man joining them after a moment to stroke down thick hair. Jason mumbles into Tim’s head, and Tim gives a squeak. As though responding to their distress, his eldest tightly wraps closer, as though protecting them. He strokes Dick’s hair too, watches the boy quiver and hold on to him, small whimpers leaving his throat as Bruce assures him despite his tired nature.

Actually… Going back to bed wasn’t a bad idea after all. He looks over his shoulder, and Alfred gives him an encouraging smile, the man nodding at him with a warm look over the children.

“Go back to bed, Master Bruce. I will have breakfast ready when you and the children arrive.” Bruce smiles at the idea, and he joins them, slipping out of his waistcoat and the shoes and socks to loosely lay his arm over the boys as they all twitch closer at the warmth.

His eyes close, and Bruce basks in the warmth of having so many people to look after, drifting off himself.

Alfred watches them all with fondness, the pile of dark-haired boys reminding him of better days, of a warmer home where his charge - and the home - no longer felt so empty and lonely.

It was good to hear this house full of laughter again. Closing the door, Alfred makes his way down to the kitchen to prepare a meal for the three boys and their father.

Entering, he can feel the faintest prickle on the back of his neck, the hint that something was not right. He doesn’t deviate from his routine, fetching eggs and bacon, before twisting around with a knife to the throat of his assailant.

Razor sharp talons of some unusual creature rest against his side, their ragged edges dancing on his ribcage like a promise. Looking up, he meets vivid amber eyes, and he tenses.

“You are Alfred Pennyworth, of the Pennyworth Estate?” The voice is unfamiliar - a proper British drawl was a given, but Alfred warily regards the stranger.

If there was ever a classic beauty to define one’s older age, this man would be it. His hair is braided thick down his back, silver streaks coming from his temples. His nose is slightly crooked as though he’d broken it in a fight, and those same vivid eyes stand out against dark brows, high cheekbones, and a sharp jawline. He’s built slim, and taking the whole sight in, he strongly reminds Alfred of the little boy sleeping with Bruce.

“And if I am?” He responds in challenge, lifting his chin defiantly. The claws retreat, and he only just holds back his surprise.

“Then I apologise.” The stranger steps back, giving a little bow when Alfred lowers his weapon. “I had to make sure, I’m sure you understand the parental urge.” Alfred’s brow rises in incredulous surprise, but he doesn’t back down.

“If you’re so parental -”

“My trade is assassination,” The man says bluntly, and Alfred’s jaw clicks shut. “I think we can both agree that is not an occupation conducive to taking care of a child.” The salt-and-pepper haired gentleman gives him an exasperated look at this. “It is only due to great fortune that my great-grandson and I were able to escape the clutches of our organisation.” The man looks him over; relaxes some.

“What are you doing, if you are not joining us?” Alfred wonders, and the man’s grin is sharp as a knife.

“What else does an assassin do if they’re leaving an organisation known for their assassination?” He wonders, amused. “Put an end to them first.” His amber gaze flicks upstairs. “I will be away, but my grandson wishes to see me quarterly. I will make sure I am here for him as he needs.” The gaze flicks back to him, and Alfred watches as his confidence falters into somewhat meeker worry. “... Please take care of him. He is all I have left.” That needs no other elaboration, and Alfred nods, watches the way his concern bleeds out of his every inch.

It could be a lie. It was very likely a lie. But the way he looked, his very stance.

It seems both Master Bruce and I are getting soft, he tuts to himself.

“I will. Your name? I will have to make sure Master Bruce is aware of any visitors, as I’m sure you know.” The gold gaze settles on him, but there is no chiding.

“William Cobb. My little one is also a Cobb - he has graced me with the honour of sharing my name.” William says at last, and he nods agreement. A glance, and then the man adds, much quieter, “My grandchild prefers an athlete’s breakfast. He is not fond of bacon or heavy foods.” Alfred raises a brow, but nods his assent.

“Your little one will be well-cared for, here,” Alfred promises, and after a long, searching look, William smiles softly.

“Of that, I had no question. We will meet again, Mister Pennyworth. Perhaps on better terms, however.” With a twist of his heel, the guest vanishes from the kitchen, leaving Alfred holding an egg and a knife, and being quite unsure of what to do about it.

In the end, he whips up a light breakfast for Young Master Dick, a single whites egg omelette whipped up with some sliced avocado and a slice of lightly buttered bread. For a drink, he had mixed up a nice chocolate milkshake for the young sir, from what he recalled of Bruce’s early days when he’d still been building up his strength.

The boys both liked their bacon and eggs still, as did Master Bruce, though by necessity he also had some fresh lettuce on his plate with some tomatoes on top. Consideringly, he adds some sliced pears to all four plates, despite knowing that the youngest two wouldn’t eat them.

Alfred is aware of the boys - and their cognizance of the new addition - by two very loud, very excited squeals of joy, and Young Master Dick’s laughter as he is undoubtedly dog-piled upon by the boys, their enthused chatter echoing through the halls of the comfortable home. Alfred smiles at the noise, and finishes eating his food just in time to deposit the dishes into the sink and turn around to three excited faces.

(Two excited, and one tolerantly amused, better said)

“Alfred, Alfred!” The boys say, tugging the affectionate-looking young master between them. Young Master Dick’s eyes are dancing with warmth, clear fondness on his lips as he laughs at their eagerness. As one, the trio troops towards the table, Master Bruce arriving and looking fond, if slightly exhausted, the man rubbing his knuckles against the shell of his ear as though to erase the ringing shouts.

“I’ve met the young master already,” he tells them, and both boys pout, cheeks puffing out in childish disappointment. The eldest of his young charges is observing the breakfast line, and his eyes light up at the sight of his plate, a smile curling his lips and the boy gently tugs his little siblings to the table. He lifts them up to their seats, and both boys make faces at the sliced fruit.

“Oh, are those pears?” Young Master Dick says, sounding delighted. He plucks one off the plate and pops it into his mouth with a pleased little noise, and both boys stare at him. “Mm!” The young master says, clearly enjoying himself, and Young Masters Tim and Jason stare at the fruit like it had betrayed them.

His lips twitch up, amused by their expressions. Bruce, too, is smirking, clearly aware of how their eldest child was using his relative maturity against them. The boy is quick to dig into his breakfast, and Bruce digs in once all three are eating - with relative levels of enthusiasm - to their meal.

“Do you like the spread, Young Master Dick?” The butler asks, and the boy’s amber eyes glint in the kitchen lights.

“I do, thank you, Alfred,” he says the words softly, before heaping a bit of egg and avocado on his toast to take a bite. “Mmm!” The boy says, pleased, and both boys peer suspiciously at the avocado.

“What’s that?” Young Master Jason wonders, and Young Master Dick looks amused at him.

“It’s an avocado. You boys have had guacamole, right?” He asks, and both boys look deeply considering, before brightening. “This is the same thing, just sliced. Would you like a bite?” He offers, and the two stop inhaling their breakfast to try a small nibble, both boys climbing into his lap and being held in place as they try it out. Both of their eyes light up, and their eldest allows the boys to steal the rest of his avocado to be eaten with their bacon, though both boys offer him a slice each in return, to which he denies with a little chuckle.

Alfred, instead, offers him more avocado, and chuckles when the boys turn large eyes on him to plead for more when theirs is gone.

Breakfast is a cheery affair, both of the boys happily chirping as they inform Young Master Dick of their stay, his soft words a constant litany of praise for enjoying their childhoods so freely. Bruce, when the children are not looking, looks at him with a slight tightening of his lips, and both men know - whatever the Young Master had gone through, it was nowhere near as kind as they hoped.

And given what Alfred knew, he knew it was not in any way as kind as he could have hoped for the child.

“Young Master Tim, Young Master Jason.” When both small heads turn to face him, he informs them - kindly and gently - “Young Master Dick will need some time to pick out a room for himself. Why don’t you two go out with Master Bruce to see about some clothes for the young master?” The two look at him, and then at Bruce, who is smiling wryly at them. Then they look at their older brother, who kisses the top of their heads.

“I like blue and gold. Some black is nice too.” He tells them, and both boys brighten immediately, scrambling out of their seats to get changed. “Boys!” He calls after them, and they obediently stop. “At least show me around after we put the dishes in the sink,” he says, and both boys quickly scramble back to take his hands in theirs, obediently whirling around and washing up as Young Master Dick lightly chides them for their manners.

“Sorry Alfred!” Both of the boys say before zooming off with an amused Young Master Dick between them, hands pressed between his shoulder blades. He allows them to, but when they start trying to push him out of the room, he merely grins and leans further back, the boys squeaking as they end up underneath the lithe figure of their newest charge. Young Master Dick merely chuckles as he stands, picks up both much smaller children, and plants a kiss to each boy’s face before bringing them over to Master Bruce so the man can amusedly do the same.

“I’ll make sure they brush their teeth,” the Young Master says with an amused grin, and both boys whine and squirm in his arms.

How precious.

Master Bruce and he watch the boys tromp off with amused gazes, before they sober, alone once again.

“I must inform you of something,” Alfred says quietly, and Master Bruce straightens, worry on his face as he listens to the encounter recounted, his blue eyes looking down as he considers.

“Things have gotten much more complicated. The League of Assassins was one thing, but now this one? Talia’s uniform is nothing similar. I’ll -” here he winces, “- have to ask her.”

“It’s a question, Master Bruce, not your soul.”

“My soul might still be the cost,” Bruce mutters. Or worse.

More League interference in his damn city.

Once they’re left alone, Dick stares up at Alfred, the butler giving him a warm smile as he places fresh gloves on. He’d forgotten exactly how tall he’d found Alfred to be in his youth, and he wonders, slightly sarcastically, what that says about him.

“Young Master Dick,” The butler starts, and something about the address… bothers him.

“You can call me Richard,” he offers before he can stop the words, and he flushes slightly at the look that Alfred gives him.

“... Young Master Richard, then,” Alfred concedes, and that little niggling ball of anxiety that had been wriggling in his stomach eases, the same cadence of which his grandfather spoke his name making his shoulders drop with relief.

… Funny how he’d once hated his full name, yet the soft flick of it, the heft and love that William had used with his name was ingrained so deeply that even Alfred doing so was like a warm buzz against his heart. He smiles shyly up at Alfred, and carefully, he stretches his hand out to grasp one of Alfred’s.

In his last life, he’d been afraid to reach for Alfred’s hand, to hold it, thinking the butler would have been upset with him. Here, Alfred takes his hand readily, and he bites back a little sniffle. Seeing his left hand, bare of any gold felt a little odd, and then, he wondered.

“Alfred?” He asks quietly, and the man looks down at him, a fond smile on his lips.

“Yes, Young Master Richard?” He asks, swinging his arm a little for Dick, who grins up at him and accepts the affection.

“Do we have any gold nail polish?” He wonders aloud. Alfred’s brow rises, but he gives a wry smile.

“I’m sure I can have some of the finest brought out for you,” he says, and Dick hums.

“Thank you, Alfred,” He says quietly, and Alfred’s eyes crinkle up with his smile.

“Of course my boy,” the butler says with another fond smile, lifting the child up so he can climb the steps up. The two of them ascend quietly, Dick looking around at the home that had once been his, the boy watching the paintings curiously. He’d walked past these many times in all of the years he’d been here, but he’d never once asked about them.

So he tugs, and carefully points.

“What’s this painting?” He asks, and he watches the joy bloom on Alfred’s face as he explains. Alfred had been a patron of the arts, an actor, a painter - if it had been artistic, he had loved it. It takes them a little longer to reach his bedroom, but it’s worth it for the joy on the old butler’s face.

They stop at -

Oh.

This isn’t his room. At least, it’s not the room he’d had, in another life. This had once been Damian’s room, the Young Master’s suite, and the second largest after Bruce’s before Jason had gotten a wall knocked down to make his library in his room.

He’d not lived here in the last life. He’d seen it, the room once Bruce’s before the man had decided to take over the Master Bedroom.

He’d wanted a room with high ceilings, a place to perch up high, but Bruce had been unable to give him this room, his face pinched and closed-off.

He lifts his hand to touch the door, gaze far away and distant as he does so, a wistfulness in his expression. Was this always meant to be his room? Had Bruce planned to give him this room from the beginning in his last life? Had Bruce wanted a son, until Dick had so carelessly thrown it away by informing Bruce that he would never measure up to John Grayson? Another little, gentle touch, and he watches the door.

Stupid fucking Dick Grayson, Richard Cobb thinks, feels every bit of his new self, his new world, as it wraps around him. Finally, he screws up his courage to step inside, Alfred one step behind him.

Oh.

These colours… They reminded him so vividly of Dami’s room, back when Dami had first shown up, had - he chokes up quietly, hand coming to his mouth. Dami had pitched a fit about the colours, had painted the walls dark, rather than the beautiful shades of gold and green, the subtle, desaturated colour palette accented with little pops of red here and there. Here there was a red flower pot with a fake flower, a bookshelf with gold and green and three red books, the carpet a lush, dark green that shone the colour of the forest beneath his feet, before it melted into the cherrywood of the floor.

The brightest, boldest colours were on the bed itself - a limited edition Flying Graysons poster turned into a duvet, and Dick crumbled to his knees, hiccuped sobs leaving his throat as he cried, overwhelmed by the sight of it all.

He’d always wondered where the duvet had come from, after Bruce had broken his back, after Bruce had been recovering from Bane’s attempt to break his back. Dami had likely thrown it out, but Tim - stupid, smart, perfect Tim, the only other person living in the manor - would have probably put it in his room, hoping to bring him some sort of comfort while he’d worked himself to the bone as Batman in those dark days.

He cries, shaking as Alfred hovers worriedly around him, and he wobbles to his feet, rubbing at his eyes fiercely. He turns on his heel to slam against Alfred’s chest, hiccuped sobs breaking through his iron control despite his best efforts.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you thank you,” He sobs into Alfred’s waistcoat, feels the soft touch of the butler as he gently strokes black hair.

“No, Young Master Richard. Thank you.” The butler says, and Dick cries harder, sinking back to his knees, the older butler following him down. The two of them stay together, rocking back and forth, as Dick relishes in having his family - most of it - back together, the boy crying as tears he’d long since not allowed himself to feel fall down.

He was still afraid. He was a filthy thing, a killer in sacred halls, in the softest, most precious of places, a beautiful diamond of an untapped future.

But somehow, this single duvet told him everything was going to be okay.

He was going to be okay.

Outside, despite the bright light, a man sits, perched in such a way as to view the boy inside of a room that had always been his. The cape is a dark shroud, pointed cowl melting into the darkness of the cloak. His shadow stretched long, long, long over the ground, and he observes as this boy, this child he had brought to a world that had not held a Dick Grayson aligned once more to a proper future.

“T̸̫̓̉h̵̼̖͊͑i̸͙͌́s̷͙͐ ̶̮͔̍i̸͓̾̄s̸̻̆̕ ̸͚͗̋ÿ̸̡̫́ò̸͉̗ų̸͗̆r̴̬̔̿ ̶̲̋͝w̷͚̖̋ò̶̯̗̚r̶̳̜̐̈́ļ̷̃͠d̶̫̈́ ̶͈͓͌ņ̵̈́o̵̯̍ͅw̵̪͂,̴̩̱̆̚ ̴͔̃ͅć̷̢̑h̶̹͝ĩ̷̧̜l̴̹͂d̸̨̪̍ ̸̜̟͆͘m̵̨͒͌í̴̜̜n̶̩͑̽ë̴̥͇́.̸̭̥͊ ̸̧͓̔M̸̝̊̎a̵̙͙̒k̴̪̕ę̷͐ ̶̖̖͑g̷̩͂͘o̶̭̎͘o̵̥͘d̴̤̎̑ ̸̩̱̑́u̸̯͆̊͜s̶̰̚ĕ̵̳͓͋ ̸͈̈́o̴̗̔f̶̨͉͛̋ ̴̱̀i̴̪̊t̶̟͆̋.̶̲͗̾” The black shadow murmurs fondly.

A twitch, and massive black wings spread, the visage of a familiar bat symbol emblazoned on the morning sky lingering before the shadows melt like ice in the sun.

Barbatos looked out for its own, after all.

And what better chance than taking Nightwing away from a world that didn’t deserve him?