Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As soon as he closes the lid of the little burner phone, he slips back into character.

A sultry voice. A wide, sharp smile. Narrowed dark eyes hidden behind sunglasses, long acrylic nails that tap along the table like the sharp clacks of typewriter keys.

Emilia Novak isn’t based on anyone he knows, not like his better covers, but she’s good at convincing men to give themselves obnoxiously loud pep talks in front of the mirror, and she’s very good at convincing them to wear the bugged ties she’s bought to their next meeting with the mob boss who’s been threatening his angry clients so he doesn’t have to.

Emilia Novak never existed. She looks nothing like Richard Grayson, whose face has been plastered all over the papers since he was ten years old.

That’s good. It keeps them away from him, away from the Waynes, if the news ever got out.

“Hm,” Emilia Novak says, as a soft chime announces that the transaction is in progress. Within a few hours, the money will have made its way from this man’s accounts to those he’s already scammed before, with none the wiser.

Dick will be taking a cut, of course. It’s one of the Rules.

Never use the money-from-home on a job.

He pulls off Emilia’s long auburn wig, takes out the breast forms in a closet, and swaps clothes in bathroom, careful to never be seen by the cameras. By the time the men come back out again, he’s made his transformation from elegant, posh Emilia to a bumbling intern from the Midwest whose definition of 'city' six months ago had been anything above ten thousand people.

He slips out the doors, completely unnoticed, and takes a detour.

The contacts still itch against his eyes.

Emilia Novak is long peeled away from his skin. He takes the effort to peel Jimmy Burnside away, too, shaking off the Midwestern accent for a carefully-neutral American that he’s spent so long mimicking that it’s practically natural at this point. Along with the accent goes the contact lenses, which make a soft pink as they drop back into their case.

“I’m on my way,” he hums into a much more appropriate-looking phone for the heir to the Wayne family fortune, careful to steel his expression into something warm and nonthreatening as he steps onto the subway.

“I’m sorry, Dick,” says Barbara on the other end of the line. “I kept it out of the news for as long as I could.”

Dick takes a moment, and lets the mask slip. Numb, he thinks, is probably better than the way he feels, cut raw and open and bleeding, and he carefully, slowly arranges his face in response. He’s a performer. He knows exactly what is expected of him.

What Dick wants to do is cry and screech and wail, but that will have to wait until he’s back home.

In a soundproofed room, preferably. Maybe he’ll head back to Headquarters, instead. He can’t risk any of the kids hearing him, after all.

If it’s on the news soon enough, it means they’ve failed.

Bruce hadn’t told Dick about the job he’s been working. It’s finals season for Tim, which means Babs is their only hacker and either Dick or Cass need to play double duty and climb through vents, so the extra missing pair of hands- their mastermind and hitter, to boot- should have been something Dick was warned about weeks in advance.

Up until everything had gone wrong, the only thing Dick had even gotten snippets of was that this job was of the decidedly supernatural variety, some kind of reverse-Indiana-Jones gig. Which, rude- B knows Dick loves returning things to where they came from. It’s his favorite type of job.

Then, of course, everything had gone wrong.

They’d temporarily lost contact with Bruce, for long enough to find out that the simple-seeming artifact return had been turned on its head by fucking Intergang, that Bruce had gone ‘fuck it’ and shown up as Brucie Wayne, and that Brucie Wayne was now a hostage.

Dick still seethes at the thought. The Bat, who’s brought down countless corporations, countless mob organizations, and has returned hard-earned livelihoods and priceless life and hope back into the hands of hundreds upon hundreds of people, lost in a simple hostage trade.

Lost. What a funny word.

They don’t have any confirmation yet. And, well, at least he's here.

Not like-

Dick grits his teeth, and tightens his hand around the pole as he sways against gravity.

Tim doesn’t know yet, probably. His little brother- only halfway won in a hard-fought court case, but not adopted yet- is going to have his life upended into the air again unless Dick can argue in favor of his foster license fiercely enough.

Fuck, why is he compartmentalizing like this? What’s wrong with him?

His dad is dead. Again. Dick’s hand squeezes tighter around the upright pole in the middle of the subway. He lurches off at the next stop, incautious and with a lack of care, elbowing a tall, broad man so hard he hits the side of the subway car on the way out. It doesn’t matter.

The Parity headquarters are technically threefold. Well, more accurately, the Parity headquarters are wherever Barbara is, and Barbara Gordon, better known as the hacker, thief, and occasional vigilante Oracle has three preferred haunts: the headquarters building itself, well-loved with excellent wheelchair accommodations, the Cave, a mass of exercise equipment and old trophies that Bruce haunts- had haunted- like a mournful old ghost, and the Clocktower, which is both of their favorites. It’s the only one with a view. It’s the Cave that Dick heads to now. It’s not exactly the best choice, given that Headquarters has better soundproofing and the Clocktower gives him more roof access, but there are soundproofed rooms, down in the Cave, where he can scream and cry and yell for as long as he needs to.

On the street, heading towards the ever-long stream of taxis, he bumps into something heavy and solid- a young man, he thinks, but Dick doesn’t quite take note of his long face or the streak of white that curls into the air. He’s too busy moving.

By the time he makes it to the Cave, chest heaving, his anger has reached a fever pitch.

The heavy concrete-walled room on the edge of the Cave is soundproofed to everyone except the real bats, who can still likely hear him, even past the thick walls and thicker mesh keeping them away from the human denizens. Safe behind the door of the Screaming Room, Dick screams until he can’t anymore, digging his hands into his hair and wailing like a lost child, like he hasn’t since he was ten years old with the sight of his parents on the ground, limp like dolls, burned into the back of his eyelids.

By the time he digs himself out of the panic room, he’s calmed, some, heartbeat elevated but steady. He hasn’t torn out any of his hair, thankfully, and the skin on his hands is surprisingly still intact, despite slamming his fists against the concrete walls repeatedly. In fact, had it not been for the redness in his eyes or the tear-tracks he quickly wipes away with his shirt, one might assume that nothing had happened to Dick Grayson at all.

He switches his comm back on, the familiar buzz of Barbara on the other end of the line a grounding wire, vital when it feels like he’s going to surge right out of his skin.

“You cooled down enough to talk to the kids?” Babs asks, voice perfectly clinical. Dick wonders if she has some kind of audio bug in the Screaming Room. He really hopes she doesn’t. It would be awful if she’d had to hear any of that.

“Yeah, I think I’ll be good for a while,” he says, voice even. “Tim’s last day of exams was today, yeah?”

“I would assume so, given it’s a Friday,” Babs replies dryly. Dick snorts.

“I’ll swing by and pick him up,” he says. “He gets out in- fuck! Where’d the time go?”

Dick swings by the bowl in the mudroom to grab the keys. A pale hand reaches out to grab him before he makes it out of the door.

“Alfred,” he says in realization, everything-is-fine face dropping in favor of grief and concern. “We have to pick up Tim.”

“Have you heard?” the old butler asks, voice a dry rasp. Dick understands immediately. The last time he’d seen this face on Alfred was a few months after they’d buried Jason, when they’d first heard of Tim’s little exploits into exposing evil on high. It had been, for all of them, their first major loss in years. Bruce and Alfred’s wounds had been older, though reopened all the same, and even Dick’s own parents had been nearly ten years gone. None of them had been prepared for it- how could they have been?

In the tender, bruised way of a child who’s lost too much grown into a man who’s lost more- a man who lives a dangerous life, always on the precarious ledge of the grift- Dick had, to a degree, been expecting this. Alfred, who has buried two dear friends and a grandson, and now faces the same for a man he’s cared for as a son for thirty-odd years now, almost certainly hadn’t.

“I have,” Dick says smoothly. “And there will be time to grieve later, but I need to pick up Tim now. Better for… better for it to be all of us together, no?”

“Of course,” Alfred agrees, straightening. The pained vulnerability vanishes in the light of near-unshakable professionalism.

On his way to the high school, Dick pings the lawyers.

They’re going to need them.

As soon as he spots Tim, Dick knows that he’s heard the news. His younger brother’s face has taken on a decidedly ashy, deathlike pallor, and he walks stiffly to the car, as if rigor mortis has set in to living limbs. Admittedly, Dick has seen that one before. They do live in Gotham, after all.

The poor kid looks like he’s about to puke as he slides into the passenger seat. Dick clucks his tongue soothingly and reaches out with his free hand, brushing the hair away from Tim’s eyes. His little brother leans into the touch, collapsing bonelessly against Dick’s side, only impeded by the gearstick jabbing into his ribs.

The sobs aren’t quite muffled enough by the rain pattering across the windshield. Dick pulls away from the school, and then pulls over, heaving his younger brother into his arms enough to hug him properly. He hums soothingly, rubbing circles into his brother’s back like he’s just woken up from a nightmare. Dick wishes this was a nightmare. Then, maybe, things would be different when he wakes up.

By the time they make it back to the Manor’s gates, Cass and Kate have already called more than once, and, as they make it into the garage, Selina’s motorcycle gleams from where it’s haphazardly leaning next to the back door.

Dick wishes the rain had soaked through his jacket, when he’d gone to pick up Tim earlier. Perhaps then he’d be chilled enough to be numb, heartbeat slowing in the dive response common to all mammals, breathing even, conserving air. He’d be calm, at least- real, genuine calm, not the paper-think mask he stretches over his face in an artless attempt to keep everyone else from splintering.

“So,” Kate says, voice quiet and raw- she’s a hitter, like Bruce is. Had been. She’s not as used to hiding things under layers and layers of paper mache emotions as Dick is. Therefore, what she says next isn’t much of a surprise.

“What are we going to do about Intergang?”

Dick weighs his options in an instant. He can either reprimand her for speaking of such things when they’re still grieving, or he can offer solutions. Kate cuts him off in a millisecond.

“Cut the grift, Dick. We don’t need hand-holding.”

Dick flushes, for once completely involuntary. “I wasn’t trying to,” he says, voice carefully even. “We’re all upset. I don’t feel like yelling.”

Kate’s eyes narrow.

“We still have clients who need us,” Tim points out quietly. Cass, who has recused herself from the discussion, appears to agree with him, though the tightness in her hands as she clings to the side of one of the bouldering walls seems to leave that up for debate.

“We are still not entirely sure as to what happened yet,” Alfred offers, eyes flickering hesitantly between his three grandchildren.

“Fine,” Kate growls, “But I’m going to go looking for your father.”

How is that not manipulative? Dick wants to wail, How is it that you’d get away with saying something like that? Is it because it’s meant to hurt? It’s not- Dick slams down hard on that treacherous train of thought before it can lead anywhere close to the word fair. He already knows things aren’t fair. If they were fair, he would never have lost as much family as he has already.

“That’s hardly fair, Katie ,” a smooth voice purrs, dangerously sharp. “I know you hitters don’t tend to keep a close eye on your words, but do try to stay more aware of your bite. That was downright hurtful.”

Selina stalks past Alfred to stand next to Tim. For the most part, both are the picture of elegant stoicism, but for both, their trembling hands betray their distress.

Dick slips over by his brother, and is surprised to not feel the telltale bump of a lift. Something flashes in the corner of his eye, and Dick resists the urge to snort. Tim passes him his wallet with a soft, shaky smile.

“You’re getting better at that,” he murmurs, so low that he’d be surprised if anyone other than Tim can hear it. The spark of delight below the gloom is obvious.

Despite his skill in the athletic side of the field, Dick’s never really understood this part of thievery. He’s always been drawn more firmly to the meticulous costuming and ever-reaching smiles of the grifter, a performer down to his bones. He can fly with the best of them, and he can execute a lift with skill, Bruce had drilled him on that much, but he doesn’t have the same sticky fingers as Tim. Jason didn’t, either. Jason had been a fantastic pickpocket, one of the best Dick had ever met save Selina herself, able to read and return a person’s wallet in practically the time it would take Dick to blink, but that was training and necessity, not the sticky-fingered talent of a bored little boy who decided that magic wasn’t his favorite party trick.

He turns his attention back to Kate, whose expression has gone from hard and angry to soft and remorseful. Dick releases just a hint of the tension he’s holding in his shoulders. He should have known she didn’t mean it.

“I’m going to keep looking,” she says. “Take care of the kids. I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.”

He nods. It won’t do any good to say anything right now. Kate regards him curiously, for a moment, before she lets out a deep sigh, crossing the space between them in moments.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” she continues, reluctance obvious on her face. Dick resists the urge to stiffen and back away, instead tilting his head, offering a tense smile.

“Don’t start,” she chides. “We both know that’s fake as hell, makes you look like a Raggedy Ann.”

“I’d like to think my acting is better than that,” he decides to say after a moment. Kate snorts.

“I know you, brat. Come here.”

The hug is awkward, but it’s something, and Dick relaxes into it all the same. Kate pulls away after a moment, snagging her bag on the way. Selina waits by the door, overly tense, and slinks out after her.

There’s a moment of deeply awkward silence, but Cass breaks it before he has the chance to.

“We need a job.”

Dick startles and stiffens like a cat caught off-guard, eyes wide as he takes in the situation. His sister has moved across half the Cave in what seems like an instant, once more standing on the ground now that their more distant family has left. Dick feels bad considering Aunt Kate and Selina that way, but it’s true.

“I must caution-” Alfred starts, but Babs cuts him off, voice echoing through the Cave.

“You’re right, Cass,” she points out. “At the very least, Dick and I are going to have to run a few jobs to keep suspicion off our backs in regards to timing. Neither you or Tim need to- or should-  be involved.”

“I am eighteen,” Cass bites back. “You can’t stop me.”

“Ha! I remember thinking I was all grown up at that age,” Dick hums, “all ready to go out and do jobs on my own. I… was not. Not really, at least.”

Cass raises a single eyebrow.

“You know she's right,” Tim says. “We can’t do anything about Bruce. We can do something. There was this potential client recently, um, Adam Burke? He’s known for art authentication. See, we didn’t really have the time to take him on, ‘cause we were busy with the Mathis job, but.”

Four sets of eyes flicker to Tim, and he falls as silent as the grave.

Dick weighs his options. He wants Tim and Cass to be safe, obviously. Even running around on the rooftops of Gotham in body armor- the usual method of keeping their little winged critters away from a job- is safer than their more intricate jobs, especially when considering they’d be working as a skeleton crew. But Tim does have a point. They can’t control what happened with Bruce, but they can work together to help other people.

Babs is about to crack- at least, she’ll crack to Cass. He won’t win in a direct vote, and while as of half an hour ago he does have custody over Tim, he can’t pull the whole ‘because I said so’ with three other adults. This is the last chance he has to mitigate the risk.

“When I say you tap out, you tap out,” he instructs, voice final. Tim and Cass turn to him with matching looks of surprise, with just the barest hint of delight.

Dick knows how people grieve. He knows that both of these two have gone right from the initial shock and terror straight into denial. It doesn’t matter. They need a distraction regardless.

“Nothing in-person, either, and we take at least a week until Babs and I can get the job set up. And no roping in Stephanie, either, she still thinks we’re normal vigilantes and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Babs coughs in a way that sounds oddly like doubt that.

Dick knows this is the best way to throw them off of planning a con- get enough planning time ahead of things for the new reality to sink in, and giving them enough time to tap out when they’ll need it. The seeming concession will keep them from going and concocting a con behind his back.

… Or so he thinks.

“Actually,” Tim says, “Um.”

Dick tilts his head to the side.

“Go ahead. You have the floor,” Barbara says, wheeling out of the way. Tim grabs a remote from the center table cautiously, and clicks a button. The projector screens on the walls spark to life.

“I kind of already planned a con. Yesterday,” he admits. “I know I’m not supposed to do any planning by myself, but I wanted to try. And it’s nothing complex, just a distraction for a smash-and-grab-and-swap, but there’s this genuine Holstein that this family got out of Austria in the 1930s. When they did. And it was a gift, from the artist to the family, and three days after Burke authenticated it, a bunch of guys in suits show up on their front door trying to buy it for infinitely less than it’s worth. Anyways, they trace back to this guy, James Ochre.”

Tim turns, as if to ask if they’re all still listening. Dick nods. Tim clicks the powerpoint again, showing a middle-aged man with clearly dyed brown hair and a deep-seated look of calculation behind his dark eyes. He’s not surprised. Dick knows the Gotham mob types when he sees them.

“He’s got a reputation for liking expensive works of art, and a reputation for, if underpaying the original owners doesn’t work, just straight up stealing the pieces. Now, the thing about Holstein paintings is that the canvases are small, and it’s pretty hard to set them up with any proximity alarms, to boot. I’ve got scans of the gallery room. He’s hosting some kind of society event a couple days from now- I was thinking a quick, clean heist with whatever we can get, and then seeing about distributing the pieces to their original owners, but I’m stuck on how to make sure Ochre can’t hurt the family Burke is so worried about anymore.”

“Kick up a fuss,” Barbara offers immediately. “You said there’s an event? Something medium-sized, enough to upset the guests enough to call the cops, should be able to do it. Best case scenario, someone jumps the gun after realizing Ochre’s suspicious. Worst case scenario, Central cops are just as corrupt as Gotham’s, but we’ve still got plenty of artwork heading back into the right hands, and Ochre knows something’s up. Of course, the worst case scenario still isn’t acceptable. Who do we know in the Central police department that we could shove towards the first response?”

“Would have to be a pretty specific combination,” Dick points out, “And I’m not so sure about involving the police in the first place. Given this guy’s resources, I think it’s better to target any prospective mob buddies. Is he hosting any?”

“Nobody we know,” Tim says, standing up taller- he must have been expecting them to say that-, “But there are a few.”

“Pit them against each other,” Alfred says, easy as that.

It sounds so simple on paper- make the organized crime guys take each other out, kick everything up into a fever pitch until the fight spills out loud and angry enough for arrests to be made, which would lead any half-decent detective to the gallery full of stolen art less than three walls away from the event. Dick bets that if he tried, he could slam into the wall hard enough to bust through the drywall- people overestimate the strength and thickness of modern construction. And, to that end…

“Has he stolen any art from any of his mob contacts?” Dick asks, mostly spitballing, but the light in Tim’s eyes suggests that he’s stepped exactly where his younger brother was desperately hoping to find him. Dick’s energy matches Tim’s in brightness and magnitude as he watches his younger brother take to the floor in earnest, a wide smile crossing his face.

“You see, there’s this eighteenth-century Spanish coin…”

Dick has forgotten how much he hates being on a con with Tim and Cass when he can’t have eyes on either of them. The comms are good, more than good- they’re the nice jaw-vibration sensors that Babs has been slowly introducing them to over the course of the last few months- but Dick is used to grifts being him or Bruce when the kids are present, so that the other can keep a close eye on the brats. He’s not used to nobody having their backs.

Central City society events are, surprisingly, somehow even more stuck-up than Gotham events, which is ridiculous considering how over-the-top Gotham high society is. Had it not been for the fact that this entire party is at least twenty five percent mobster by weight, Dick might have fallen asleep already. He’s playing a man about a decade his senior, with warm hazel eyes and a jovial smile, but not enough bite to his grin to keep people interested. His job, today, is to fade into the background. To be a shit-stirrer, if he must, but never the center of attention.

Dick likes not being the center of attention. It’s a little difficult for him to do his job if all eyes in the room are pointed at him.

James Ochre, surprisingly, is actually present. He’s even more unnerving in person, all too-sharp smiles and narrowed eyes, glancing around the room suspiciously. There’s something almost familiar about the man that he can’t quite place, but it makes him want to call off the job immediately.

Over the comms, Dick can hear the faint acknowledgement from Tim as he lowers himself from the room’s skylight. The paintings are easy enough- while they’re valuable, they’re not rigged with many alarms. Cass is spotting him- Dick will focus more on getting information from Ochre.

“You’re a new face,” the man says, in a Gotham-tinged accent that Dick can’t quite place- one that deeply bothers him. Michael would chuckle lowly and rub the back of his head.

“Suppose I am,” he says after doing so, careful to add in a twinge of Chicago to his accent. Ochre tilts his head in acknowledgement.

“Heard you have quite the collection,” Dick offers. “I was wondering if you’d be interested in displaying any of it? I have a phenomenal gallery.”

There’s a twitch of interest from a few of the other guests. Business talk must excite them.

“I’m afraid not,” Ochre says, voice low, twisting at his fingers uncomfortably. “I’m rather… attached to all of my current pieces.”

“That’s understandable,” Dick hums. “Heard through the grapevine that you have quite the unusual galleon on your hands-”

“Son of a bitch!” one of the mobsters snarls, stalking over to them. “Don’t listen to this motherfucker, he stole that coin from me.”

Dick backpedals a handful of steps.

“Tim,” he hisses under his breath, “Now would be a good time to get the hell out of there.”

The heavy goon next to Ochre releases his hand. There’s an odd stain covering it, when he does, and Ochre’s wrist is pale from loss of circulation. Dick pretends to down another glass of champagne. Worst comes to worst, the Brucie Wayne is always an easy out.

“Tim,” Dick hisses on the other end of the comms, “Now would be a good time to get the hell out of there.”

Tim would like to, thank you very much, but Cass is currently preoccupied with the metric ton of League assassins on the rooftop, probably here for the same necklace Tim is currently swinging like a pendulum in front of.

It’s an old, heavy thing, probably from the sixteenth century judging by the style- he thinks it’s something he’s seen before on old portraits of Queen Elizabeth I, actually, which would place them firmly in the middle of the sixteenth century, maybe the late fifteenth if the pieces he’s thinking of are much older than the painting. The necklace is a mix of massive green jewels, set in gold, interspersed with diamonds and pearls- even without considering the material from which it’s made, this piece has to be worth, with historical value, well over a million dollars. It’s perfectly preserved. Tim wonders whose collection of crown jewels this one was stolen from.

Then again, there are also the materials to consider. Tim knows, from the faint glow cast in the low light, that these are no ordinary stones. Tim also knows, from years of heists just like this one, that there’s only one material that glows like this that wouldn’t be in the thickest of lead containers. This necklace, nearly five hundred years old and perfectly preserved, is the lure for the League assassins on the rooftop. There’s no way it can’t be.

The glowing green gems, which had once had their place of pride around the necks of queens, shine with a menacing light.

Tim hasn't spent the last near decade and a half of his life living under a rock. He knows Kryptonite when he sees it.

Dick hisses for him to make his escape again, but Tim pauses. If he leaves, that leaves a cruel man in possession of a rock that can kill Superman- millions of dollars worth of it, too. Tim scans the podium the necklace is placed on with care. There’s already a handful of paintings in his bag, including the Holstein, but… this shouldn’t hurt, right? There aren’t any alarms. Gingerly, he reaches out with gloved hand, tugging at the chain end of the necklace. It’s heavy- that’s the first thing he notices. It’s around five pounds, at least- not the heaviest he’s lifted, by necklace standards, but pretty close to it.

He doesn’t notice the quick blink of a laser as he tugs on the rope to pull himself up.

Above him, Cass stands victorious over a pile of groaning ninjas.

“You will be fine later,” she scoffs.

There’s a whine from the pile, and she rolls her eyes.

A crack from the opposite rooftop gathers her attention, bullet digging into the roof beside her. Cass pulls out a grappling gun, and prepares go go to work.

“My apologies,” Ochre says, holding up his oddly-pale hands, “Something’s come up that requires my attention.”

Dick’s blood goes cold.

He waits a few moments, so as not to be suspicious, and excuses himself, quiet as a mouse. There aren’t any security cameras- Dick supposes that’s a good thing. He doesn’t move as fast as Ochre- he can’t, in the man’s own house. The looking-for-the-bathroom excuse will only work for so long. He makes a mental note- the kids aren’t allowed on cons without more adult supervision, now. This is throwing Dick off his game by far too much.

There’s a whimper through the comms, and Dick moves faster.

“Oh, what’s this?” says a harsh, scratchy voice. “Is the Big Bird listening in? Oh, you’ve given me such a fantastic gift, Michael. I’ve so missed playing with your lovely little Robins.”

Dick freezes.

Something on the other end of the comm snaps, and so does he- launching into motion like a loosened spring, Dick slams through the door with the force of an oncoming train. The man in the middle of the room looks perfectly ordinary, but as he holds Tim with one meaty hand, he raises the other to smear at his face.

It’s makeup. Underneath the perfectly ordinary skin tone is a stark, corpse-like white.

James Ochre.

J. Ochre.

Joker.

He’s such an idiot. How didn’t he put it together?

By the time his brain has processed this new information, he’s approached most of the way. His eyes must be wild, he thinks to himself- he certainly feels half-feral, his hands trembling, his lip curled up into an inhuman snarl of fear and rage.

“Of course it’s you,” Joker rasps. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Where’s your father, little bird? Gone to join your other brother?”

There’s a glass case, about a foot away from his hand. Dick’s eyes flicker to it. There’s nothing here that can be used as a weapon, but maybe, maybe…

“You know, neither of them have been screamers,” Joker purrs, staring at Tim with something hateful in his eyes. “This one isn’t- he’s always been quiet- but the last one wasn’t, either. It really is no fun. I wonder, will you scream? If I kill this one in front of you? I heard you screamed for Jason. I’m sorry I never got to hear it.”

There’s a crash, and a flash of pain goes up Dick’s arm. He doesn’t care. The Joker’s eyes go wild, and his mouth opens as if to laugh.

The air doesn’t make it in time.

It takes only an instant, only a half-second, half a step, half a thought. Dick’s not even sure if he’s all the way aware for it. The important things are these:

Joker’s hand loosens, dropping Tim, who swings away like a pendulum, spinning aimlessly through the room.

Dick takes a step back from his work, hissing as his ruined palms make themselves known.

And, as Dick stalks over to his brother, reaching up with the child’s grappling-gun and his uninjured hand to fire into the air, a corpse slumps over like an abandoned marionette, wine-red eyes lifeless in the dark.

A single piece of glass, as wide and as long as a human hand, gleams from where it rests buried in the corpse’s jugular.

Wally doesn’t know how they missed this. Reacting late to a murder is one thing- even with a city that holds two (well, three, but Jay’s retired) of the Fastest Men Alive can’t catch everything. But the ID is pretty obvious, with the dye leaching out of his hair and the makeup smeared over his face- it’s Joker, the CCPD is sure of it, and Wally can’t find it in himself to argue.

… But what is Joker, a notorious mass-murderer from Gotham, where even the vigilantes stoop to more traditional forms of crime, doing in Central City?

“There’s a couple of pieces missing,” Barry hums. It’s just them, no Jay- he’s handling the rescues, tonight. He may be (mostly) retired, but he still loves helping, and none of them can fault him for it.

“What kind of pieces?”

“Over a hundred carats of Kryptonite kind of pieces,” Barry whispers to him. “Look at this. Would have been right here. Couple of paintings missing, too.”

“Is anyone else a little weirded out that there’s two of them?” one of the officers hisses in the background.

“The redhead’s the younger Flash, you can tell by the freckles,” another- a detective, this time- whispers back. “Used to be Kid Flash, the one in the yellow costume, about ten years ago.”

Wally waves politely. The detective snorts.

This is gruesome, that much is obvious. Joker’s collapsed backwards, the force of whatever hit he received enough to send a full grown man toppling to the ground. The glass piece is buried at least halfway through his neck- a feat of strength that suggests whoever they’re looking for attacked in more of a panic than anything premeditated. There’s a series of drops culminating in a pool near the middle of the room, where a rope swings from the open skylight. The killer probably left through there, but…

“We’ve got a blood sample,” he says. “This isn’t Joker’s.”

Barry nods.

Wally doesn’t really know what kind of help either of them will be right now, but he can try.

Some half-hidden part of him wonders, though, why whoever it was that killed this man didn’t even try to clean up the evidence.

“What do you mean, it’s all gone?” Wally half-wails. This is, of course, not as the Flash- no, this is as Wally West, forensic technician, who has just been informed that half his evidence is missing.

“I’m serious,” the officer says, “All the blood samples went missing, and we went back looking for more- whole thing was cleaned up and disinfected. Someone let a janitorial crew in there, but here’s the thing- none of their names were on the list of people employed by James Ochre.”

“Did the glass go missing too?”

“Yeah,” the officer says, waving his hands wildly, “Everything is gone, I’m not kidding. Stuff we got from Joker himself is still legit, but anything that could be from the guy that killed him? Poof. We got nothing.”

“Let me see the security footage,” Wally asks, “Please? I want to know who lost my evidence.”

“Ha, you forensic guys. Course I will, we fucked your side of the investigation sideways by losing all that, might as well let you take a look so you’re not pissed at us for the next six months.”

The videotape is, as expected, grainy and absolutely useless, but there’s something…

“Do you remember that guy?” he asks the officer, who shrugs his shoulders.

“Yeah, sure, Gotham PD. Weird guy. Wanted to see the corpse for himself. Said something about winning a bet over how quick the Joker kicked it when the Bat was out of town, but honestly, he just looked relieved.”

Wally groans, scrubbing at his face.

“So you’re telling me,” he says quietly, “That someone showed up to look at the Joker’s corpse, made an appearance at the evidence refrigerator before I was granted access to the blood samples, and appeared relieved when he was able to confirm he was dead? Do you know anything about this guy?”

The officer seems to realize the mistake in a moment, sitting down with a sigh.

“Shit.”

“Yep.”

“This is the guy that killed him, isn’t it.”

“Most likely.”

“... I’ll tell the Captain.”

“You go do that.”

Wally’s eyes shift back to the screen. The man- from Gotham PD, apparently, though Wally highly doubts it- turns to avoid the camera once again. He’s careful, never letting anything see his face, but… Hm. His eyebrows are awfully dark, in comparison to his hair. Dye, probably, or maybe a wig… although if it’s dye, that probably won’t say anything, since he’d probably wear it like that normally.

“Huh,” he says, “I’m not looking forward to telling Clark about this one.”

Chapter Text

“Well, now that the swelling’s gone down enough to let me get a scan, I can confirm it’s not broken,” Leslie says, wrapping Tim’s arm back in its brace. “The cracking sound would have suggested a broken wrist, but it’s just sprained, and mildly to boot. You’re lucky. I’d say a month is long enough to keep off of it, but you’re going to need to stay out of any of your… night activities for another two weeks past that to get your strength back.”

Tim’s expression is mutinous, but Dick nods, helping him to his feet.

“Don’t think you’ll get away with not letting me take a look at those,” Leslie barks, dragging Dick’s right hand towards her, unraveling the bandages. The hand is scabbed to hell, but already healing well and quickly- Dick can tell that much.

“I disinfected it immediately after we got to the rooftop,” he says, voice low. “We were able to Zeta back pretty quickly after that.”

Zeta tubes are the worst kept secret of the Justice League. It’s still laughably easy to hack their servers, even now- one of the reasons that they don’t generally keep anyone’s identity on said servers, most likely. In any case, it was, while complicated, achievable technology- and not that hard to maintain now that they’ve made their own tweaks, either. They don’t use them often- they’re expensive to keep battery backups for- but it’s… useful, when they end up somewhere they don’t want to be.

Leslie grips his hand in her own, investigating the scabs. The worst, unfortunately, are along his palm- Dick doesn’t think they’ll scar, but it’ll be close.

“You can stop wearing the bandages, these are sealed tightly,” she instructs. “Try to avoid using this hand for the next few days. Otherwise, flex your fingers for me?”

She instructs him on the pattern, and taps his skin to test his nerve endings. Satisfied that the glass hasn’t done any nerve damage, she allows him to remove his arm from her grasp.

“You’ll have some minimal scarring for the next few months, but as long as you take care of them, they shouldn’t be permanent,” she hums. Dick nods, pulling his hand back to his chest, poking carefully at the scabs.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” he reassures her. “We aren’t planning to head out any time in the next few months.”

Tim’s wince is visible. Dick resists the urge to frown and acknowledge that he’d seen the expression. That’s the face of someone who’s been planning to seek out clients that they can take on with even more of a skeleton crew than they already have.

“Good,” Leslie says, with a finality to her nod. Dick rises, a perfect measure of elegance, and gently shoulder-checks Tim as he walks past, just firmly enough to barely jostle him. The meaning is clear- we need to talk later, but you’re not in trouble. Dick’s gotten very good with the specificity of those recently. Tim follows him reluctantly, wide eyes darting around the room. Dick hums, and crushes the kid to his chest in a one-armed hug.

Tim squeaks.

“So,” Dick says after a moment, “I need you to know that I’m not mad.”

“Are you sure?” Tim asks. “It was a pretty stupid thing for me to have done.”

“Not really,” Dick replies. “I still need to figure out how to get that necklace to the Justice League, for the record, but you were right to go for it- we just hadn’t planned for it to be a part of the collection. In all hindsight, everything else about the collection was probably a smokescreen for it.”

Tim’s eyes sparkle with delight at the praise. Dick isn’t done, however, and he knows his brother isn’t going to be happy with him by the end of this.

“You’re also grounded.”

“What?” Tim hisses, “I thought you said I did well!”

“You did. However, you also could have died, and you’re a child that I’m legally responsible for, Tim. I know you’ve been thinking about approaching clients. We’re not doing that until I say so. No night business.”

Tim’s eyes sparkle with mischief, and Dick sighs.

“And no Robin on the streets, either.”

“Why?” Tim squeaks. “It’s literally just a sprained wrist! Leslie already said I was fine!”

“You won’t be if you try to use a grapple with it!” calls the doctor from the other side of the Cave. Tim huffs, doing his best to cross his arms when one of them is in a brace. Dick inclines his head in her direction, and Tim grumbles, head down. There’s something else there, though, beyond the annoyance. He’s relieved and feeling guilty because of it, Dick notes, as he reshuffles his perspective on exactly what’s happening here.

“Tim,” says Dick, taking a seat and pulling his brother down with him. “I am worried about you, because you’re my brother and I love you. I need you to understand that I will always be worried about you, no matter how competent or brave you are. And when the Joker grabbed you… it scared me, kiddo. I was terrified I’d lose you.”

“So you killed him,” Tim replies, shifting so that his good arm is rested against Dick’s chest and his head is up against Dick’s shoulder.

“... Yeah. For you, and for Jason, too.”

Tim’s wide blue eyes blink up at him, and his brother presses closer.

“... I’ll stay out of the in-person stuff until I’m healed,” Tim says, voice a low whisper. “I promise.”

“I mean, that was the expectation anyways, but okay,” Dick hums, a gentle smile crossing his face. Tim huffs, and buries his face deeper into Dick’s shoulder, hiding his eyes from view. Dick hums again, the beginning of a half-remembered lullaby forming itself in his mind, and strokes his uninjured hand through Tim’s soft dark hair.

“... and you’re not going to let Steph sub in for me, are you,” Tim grumbles against Dick’s shirt. Dick snorts.

“Even if we were deciding to tell her everything, her mother would kill me, so I will refrain.”

Tim, clearly despite himself, manages a small giggle.

The thing about their alter egos is this: they have one job, and one job only. The duty of the mantle of The Bat and the subsequent titles is, first and foremost, a codename to use- something to refer to themselves by, a calling card in case their services are needed in the future, a threat against those who would do the vulnerable harm.

The second is this: it makes it easier to deal with law enforcement if they’re seen as particularly weird vigilantes. Technically speaking, Dick supposes that’s what they are, just with theft as their crime of choice rather than aggravated assault, but no matter how many times someone tries to argue, he’ll never be able to see himself as some kind of superhero.

That premise was, understandably, muddied by Bruce’s initial forays into crime-fighting (before he’d started to realize that the root of the problem was, in fact, the people who had the power and chose to exploit it). Their gallery of Rogues can attest to that much- which is why the costumes are Kevlar and packed to the brim with weapons. Even if they almost never need to use them, Bruce would never had let Gotham suffer when he could do something about it- even if it meant punching a clown instead of stealing and redistributing millions of dollars from a corrupt CEO.

Which means, every once in a while, Dick makes an appearance in black and blue, stretched above rooftops like a squirrel between branches.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, Dick watches suspiciously as a streak of red flickers through his city, eyes narrowed, fingers gripped tightly around the edge of a rooftop.

What, he wonders, is a Flash doing in his city?

It takes about two weeks until Tim cracks, and by cracks, Dick means: brings the rest of them a case with a client too vulnerable to resist helping.

In this case, the client is twelve years old.

Normally, when presenting the rest of the team with a case they can’t help but take, either Barbara or Tim will end up being at least a little smug about it, but not now- now, there’s just wide-eyed desperation and the tender tinge of worry.

“Dylan Figueroa,” Barbara says, having taken over the briefing this time. “Twelve years old, and the heir to Figure Instruments, a semiconductor manufacturing company. Think the slightly- and that's a very narrow slightly- less impressive cousin to Texas Instruments.”

As they have all bought or held a TI calculator at least once in their lives, the entire crew nods.

“Figure Instruments is entirely private, and Dylan and his younger siblings are set to inherit equal ownership of the company when they turn eighteen. This is a problem for the man that currently controls the company in their name- their legal guardian, Tyler Burgess, who has spent the four years since the death of their parents progressively making life worse for employees of Figure Instruments, cutting pay, cutting jobs, and most recently, as Dylan has managed to uncover, misuse of pension funds.”

Dick nods. Clearly, though, there must be something else- otherwise, this would be a simple, straightforward job.

“The pay and job cuts appear to be intended to make the company ‘leaner’ to be more attractive to a potential buyout. Dylan has approached us for two reasons- the first and less immediate is that the buyout he’s courting appears to be from LexCorp. The second, more immediate reason is that upon realizing Dylan has been nosing around, Burgess has attempted to have him killed.”

Ice flows into his veins, and Dick sits up immediately, eyes wide.

“We’re going to need to call Kate in on this one,” he instructs. “We need a hitter we trust around kids, and we need one fast. Is Dylan sure that Burgess is the one that tried to have him killed?”

“Positive. Poisoning attempt. Kid’s allergic to durian. One of his siblings found him and grabbed the EpiPen in time. Burgess just sat there, watching him asphyxiate.”

“Well, that’s one thing we can use to get the kids away from him,” Dick says, more to himself than anyone else in the room. “It’s on a report?”

“Burgess tried to have it scrubbed, but yeah. Dylan’s also been seeing some pretty burly guys following him home from school the last few days,” Tim offers. “It’s why he asked for an alternative location to meet with Parity, rather than trying to go for the office.”

“Smart kid,” Dick acknowledges, and then curses.

“Forgot. Kate’s flying blind right now, we won’t be able to contact her for the next week at minimum. Fuck! We’re good, but not Kansas City Shuffle with three people on a tight schedule good.”

“I’m sure we are,” Babs points out, “But good point. We know any hitters we trust?”

Dick shakes his head.

“There’s some ex-League kid who’s taken up shop in Park Row who looks promising, I guess. Cass, do you think we need another hitter or another thief?”

His sister tilts her head curiously, blinking at the screen. “Hitter,” she says after a moment. “I can be a good thief. Tim is a good thief. You are a good thief. We have three thieves, and one hitter.”

“You’re saying you need backup more often,” Dick hums with a tilt of the head, “Since Kate doesn’t work with us all that much.”

“It would be nice,” Cass agrees.

“If we’re going off of who we need based on who we don’t have, a hitter with enough social confidence to grift if we need it is probably preferable,” Babs points out, “We just need a hitter for babysitting right now. You’re right about the Crime Alley guy, though, he is promising. Contract requirements are a little loose in the no-killing department, but otherwise…”

“Rustle up some noise that we’re looking for a steel hand in a velvet glove?” Dick asks, leaning forwards slightly. “And someone a little light on the fireworks.”

He turns to the rest of the group, hand placed firmly on the table.

“You know the drill for outside contractors. No real names on the line. No real faces. Cass, this means you’re going to Wig School with me.”

“No.”

“Aww, come on! I’ve been looking forwards to teaching you how to wear them,” Dick says, not even bothering to switch his tone for Cass. She can almost always see right through him- unless he’s gone so far into a grift that he’s having trouble distinguishing things himself, in which case, she’s still better at it than he is.

“I have as well,” Alfred interrupts, the absolute picture of elegance as he floats his way into the room. “Miss Cassandra, I take it you would not object to more unnatural shades of yellow?”

Cass’s expression turns from ever so slightly uncomfortable at the thought of spending hours trying to tell the difference between different cuts of hair to absolute delight at the idea of wearing some silly, over the top shade of yellow on a con. Dick is delighted, too. He loves the electric colors as well- mostly for the fact that they really draw attention all the way away from his face.

He has some ideas cooking in his head. They shouldn’t take too long to execute.

Two days later, Dick has his contacts in and a domino stretching across his face, a hood lazily thrown over his head and a bulletproof vest on underneath his sweatshirt. It’s Park Row. He’s not going in under-prepared.

Gotham is cold and damp, even in the heights of summer. The commitment to the gloomy bit regardless of the climate of the rest of the state is a feat Dick has still never truly been able to understand. 

Behind him, on the other side of the roof, there is a heavy thump.

“Heard you were in the market for a hitter,” a smooth, mechanically altered voice rumbles. Dick turns, and cocks his head to the side. The young man is tall and broad, but there’s enough uncertainty in his voice that he mentally revises his opinion of his age- probably around twenty or so, no older. Dick straightens, hands in front and obviously not hiding anything, as he finally clicks into the mentor role.

“We might be,” he acknowledges. “I heard you were good with kids.”

The half-step back is confusion, plain and simple. The man in the red helmet cocks his head to the side.

“Heard you were the one who killed the Joker, Big Bird.”

Dick nods sharply. He’s not going to pretend he wasn’t responsible, even if the feeling of another person’s blood on his hands, as slick as oil, still makes him feel sick.

“He’d already killed one of mine and was ready to do it again. We back each other up, on my crew.”

“Not on the Bat’s, huh?” the man in the red helmet growls, stalking around Dick in a wide circle, as if penning him in. Dick resists the urge to turn around and follow him with his eyes- it’ll lose him control of the situation if he answers to that movement. Dick tips his head to the side, another half-acknowledgement. The man in the red helmet turns on a dime, knife sliding out of a sheath along his calf. The point of the blade rests against Dick’s ear.

“Don’t try any permanent damage, it makes it rather difficult to do my job,” Dick says blandly. “And put it away, regardless, we both know you’re not going to do anything.”

The instinctive swap from mentor to chastising older sibling is… a surprise, to say the least, but one that clearly works enough to make the man in the red helmet hesitate.

The man in the red helmet regards him suspiciously.

“What’s the job?”

“Client has had at least one attempt on their life in the past month. You would be providing eyes, backup. No killing required, not unless the mark’s an idiot and jumps the gun.”

The man in the red helmet slumps against the opposite wall, caution tinging his mechanical voice.

“The helmet stays on.”

“I have no problem with that,” Dick agrees, “We’ll be wearing our own masks.”

The man in the red helmet leans forwards, as if trying to study Dick in return.

“Why me?”

“You have a good reputation, when it comes to children,” Dick says with a shrug, “And you answered the ad.”

There’s an amused sort from the kid. The red helmet flashes in the low light of the surrounding billboards as he tosses a burner phone in Dick’s direction.

“I expect twenty percent of the cut,” he says. “I’ll be in touch.”

Dick makes a considering noise.

It’s not that much of a leap to discern that the current Parity team has four people (not counting Alfred, who often refuses to be involved- at least one of them needs to be mostly in the clear in case the truth serum comes a-calling). Nightwing is a rather infamous grifter- not quite to the heights of the iconic cons of Sophie Devereaux, but known and respected regardless. Robin, though an inherited title, is always an athletic, clever, sticky-fingered thief. Orphan (though she goes by Batgirl, gifted from Barbara, nowadays) is more than well respected- few people remember David Cain, but the One Who Is All? People remember her. Even if they don’t get the specific details right.

Oracle, though? Oracle, who’s only known as a shadow in the recesses of a security camera’s lens, who is so reclusive that she’s more story than a well-known hacker in truth?

… Then again, guessing that there’s a talented hacker on their staff isn’t particularly difficult. Maybe he’s giving the man in the red helmet too much credit.

“Fair enough,” Dick agrees, “Twenty percent of any profit made.”

The man in the red helmet peers at him suspiciously.

“What do you want me to call you?” he asks. “As shorthand. Can’t exactly go around on a call talking to ‘Nightwing’.”

“You’ll adjust. Night will be fine. People will assume you’re talking to someone with ‘Knight’ as a last name. We have designated codenames for the rest of the team. You’d like to go by…”

“Well, Red Hood was an attempt to piss the Joker off enough to leave him careless enough to get killed- you kind of chucked that plan in the dirt,” the kid hums. “But I’ll still answer to it regardless.”

Dick relaxes, just a fraction, but not enough to make it obvious to anyone watching. Given his pattern of behavior, he hadn’t really considered that the man in the red helmet- the Red Hood- was a Joker fanboy, but he hadn’t really wanted to rule it out, just in case. The knowledge that it was an attempt to work the man up does wonders for his nerves.

“Well then, Red,” he says, “I look forward to working with you.”

There’s a mechanized snort.

“Right back atcha, Big Bird.”

The real kicker about Dylan Figueroa is this: he's a good kid. A kind kid.

Dick’s not used to people in the eleven-to-fourteen age range being anything other than tiny, intensely frustrating monsters. Present company is not excluded- while Tim is sweet, he’s certainly tiny, and he’s definitely mind-bogglingly frustrating at times, even if Dick always thinks of that frustration in a deeply fond manner, and Jason had been-

Dick’s train of thought screeches to a halt.

Anyways: Dylan Figueroa. Incredibly bright, incredibly sweet, and incredibly worried about what will happen to his younger siblings if anything happens to him.

He is also incredibly familiar with the secret passageways in his old, well-maintained 19th century home. Dick’s reminded fiercely of Wayne Manor as he watches a mirror swing open to reveal a wide-open passageway. Dylan pulls out the bookshelf in his own room, and Dick nearly jumps at the broad figure wreathed in shadow beyond it before his eyes register the flash of red. Dylan doesn’t have the same reprieve, freezing like a deer in headlights, eyes wide and terrified. Dick takes a step forwards and shoves Red Hood with one hand, eyes narrowed.

“You’re going to give the kid a heart attack!” he hisses. “That’s one way to get out of doing your job, but still! Dylan, honey, this is the Red Hood, he’s here to protect you.”

Dylan nods, eyes wide.

“Do you want to learn how to clean a handgun?” Red Hood offers, taking one of his guns out. Dick resists the urge to coo when Dylan latches himself to his side like a limpet.

“You’re scaring him,” Dick chides.

“Well forgive me, Big Bird, but I don’t exactly have any idea of how to bond with a twelve year old,” Red Hood snarks.

“Ask him about his interests. Like a normal person. Don’t just trample all over him with your own!”

Dylan giggles. Dick peers down at him, silently asking a question with a cocked head and furrowed brows.

“I’m glad that adult brothers argue too,” he explains. “I was worried I’d lose that. With them.”

By them, Dylan likely means his two younger brothers, ages eight and ten, and his younger sister, also age ten. Dick latches on to the first part of the sentence, however.

“We’re not brothers,” he explains. He’s surprised, then, to see Red Hood jolt, taking a step back like he’s been struck, before very obviously composing himself enough to speak again.

“He’s right,” Red Hood says. “Hadn’t met me before we started working together recently. He’s just like that.”

Even through the mechanical alteration, something painful manages to make its way into Red Hood’s voice. Dick hums thoughtfully.

‘Did I know you?’ he wonders to himself. ‘In some other life, years ago, did I know you?’

He wants to say something, to ask, but Red Hood has pulled him in past the bookshelf and slammed it shut. Dick is about to ask why, in the low light creeping under the shelf, before he hears what Red Hood must have heard.

Footsteps. Heavy ones.

“Hi, Tyler,” Dylan says, voice soft and frightened. Dick wants nothing more than to reach out for him and pull him back into the safety of the darkness with them.

“Dylan!” Burgess replies. “Did you see the books I got you while you were in the hospital?”

“I did,” Dylan says, “Thanks for getting them for me! I haven’t had the time to read them yet, but I’ll check them out!”

He’s cheery and bright, but the sound is so obviously fake that it brings Dick’s heart into his chest. He needs to teach this child how to grift. Badly.

The footsteps fade away, back down the hall, and Dick hears the old front doors creak open and slam shut. He and Red Hood don’t move until he hears Burgess’s car roaring away.

The bookshelf creaks open. Dylan stands, trembling softly.

“Don’t worry, kid,” Red Hood offers. “I can get out there in two seconds flat. You don’t have to worry about him. I’ll follow you home, too.”

Dylan nods, collapsing back down on his bed.

“Thank you,” he whispers, to frightened to try for anything louder. Dick winces in sympathy.

“Don’t worry, kid,” he says. “We’ve already got a plan.”

Cass slinks down into the server room, highlighter-yellow wig more of a mask than even the makeup that covers her face. She doesn’t like it, that much is certain, but she’ll tolerate it, if it means a more efficient use of her time.

She flashes a carefully-crafted badge with a smile as she slinks into the main lobby. She ignores any more uncomfortable looks shot her way and the way the heels make her feet ache, then slips into a supply closet and reaches her way up into the vent.

“They’re looking the other way,” Barbara hums in her ear, gentle as ever. “Coast is clear for you.”

Cass pulls the yellow wig off in the vent, and slips down into Burgess’s office. Carefully, she inserts a flash drive.

She pulls herself back up into the vent, retrieves her disguise, and continues onwards. She takes a long, careful sweep about the Research and Design department, a bright smile faking its way across her face. This makes her deeply uncomfortable- she’s not Dick. This doesn’t come naturally to her, not like fighting does. For one blissful moment, she considers shattering the exterior window, jumping out, amd firing her grapple into the wild mess of city far beyond. And then, like a magnet has crossed under the metal in her boots, she’s brought violently back down to earth.

She needs to see this through.

As if by mistake, she stumbles at the edge of the lobby, catching a security guard’s attention just enough, like Dick has taught her. He’ll remember the yellow of her hair, at least.

“You did so well, Cass,” Dick hums in her ear. “I know it made you uncomfortable, but you pushed through, and I’m so proud of you.”

Outside on the street, Cass’s shoulders hike up. Dick is free and open with praise for her and Tim, but it still feels odd. “Thank you,” she manages as she hides her wig in her bag. There’s a soft noise of encouragement on the other end of the line, something distinctively warm and gentle.

She slips into the hustle and bustle of the city, quiet as a mouse and careful as a cat. If Burgess’s people have been watching her, they won’t find her again.

Contrary to the beliefs of his college professors, most of his fraternity, and the dear, sorely missed friends he’d built this company with, Tyler Burgess is not an idiot. He may not be as tech-savvy as Daniel and Vanessa had been, but he’s got the business acumen they’d never managed. This means that Tyler knows when shit is going down in his company. His assistant- a jumpy little man (he’s taller than Tyler, but like hell is Tyler going to acknowledge that) just as worthless as the last one- is the one who brings the issue to his attention, nervously showing in a big, burly man from their security department.

Suspicion wiggles in the back of his mind as he notes that this woman- and who dyes their hair yellow, really- is most certainly not on the list of approved building visitors.

There are many, many people who want insider access to Figure Instruments, but Tyler only has eyes for one potential offender. He pulls open the employee registry for the nearest LexCorp subsidiary- one of their security companies, they hire people in-house- and scrolls down the personnel list. If she’s listed anywhere, it’s going to be there.

With a sharp, barking laugh, he takes note of a woman halfway down the page, offset to the side as if she’s been hiding from him. The black and lemon-yellow of her hair falls in waves around her face.

“That’s her, alright,” his head of security says. Tyler nods. The phone on his desk rings. Tyler picks it up, not even bothering to check the caller ID, smug smile stretching across his face.

“Tyler Burgess speaking.”

“Ah, Mr. Burgess. Mr. Devlin will not be able to make your eleven o’clock meeting tomorrow, as he is otherwise indisposed.”

Tyler grins, wild-eyed. "Ah, you all can’t get out of it that easy! Who’s available?”

“Mr. Wright will be available,” the young woman on the other end of the line says smoothly. What was her name, again? Tyler can’t remember.

“Alright! Get me a meeting with this ‘Mr. Wright’- same place, but make it nine o’clock. Let him sweat a little.”

He ends the call with a poke to his screen that is many degrees less satisfying than slamming a flip phone closed or jamming a landline back into its rightful resting place. He spins in his chair, folding his hands together and pointing then in the direction of his assistant.

“You. You’re taking notes for me tomorrow, in the meeting.”

His assistant nods sharply, though jerkily. Tyler grins.

Yeah. Tyler Burgess isn’t as stupid as everybody once thought he was. See if Lex Luthor is able to pull the wool over his eyes- even through several layers of underlings- now. He may not be the founder, may not be some ridiculous computer genius, but he’s a hard, sharp man.

His eyes flicker to the photo of himself, Daniel, and Vanessa on the desk.

Not like them. Not soft and trusting like they'd been.

However, if they hadn’t been… they might not have left him with their children. They would have been whisked away by some far-off family- maybe that uncle of theirs, the one that keeps threatening to sue, the one that turned eighteen barely six months after their deaths over four years ago now.

Honestly, Tyler’s damn lucky that the brakes failed when they did. Everything else would have been much more obvious.

“We need a new plan of attack. Timeline’s moved up,” Dick says as he arrives at one of their Parity safehouses. He’s still deeply uncomfortable that someone completely new now knows one of their more well trafficked safehouses, but they have dozens they can rely on if need be.

“Are you sure you can’t pull it off?” Barbara asks, leaning forwards. Dick shakes his head.

“I was already cutting it close. I can create the illusion of being in two places at once, but it’s not physically possible for me to actually be there,” Dick points out, “Even Sophie Devereaux isn’t that good.”

“Wasn’t,” Cass points out- Devereaux hasn’t been active, at least not under that name, in years. Dick can feel that Tim is itching to say something on comms, but he’s already uncomfortable enough letting Red Hood into their safehouses- he’s not allowing a newcomer access to his thirteen, almost fourteen year old brother, no matter how nice or good with kids or otherwise well-mannered the hitter has been.

“We need a guy,” Babs hums, “I don’t think Batgirl or I are good enough at crossdressing- not nearly as good as you are, at least. Robin’s too young and is injured besides. Maybe Batwing?”

“Too short notice. He’s out of the country.”

“Hm. Good point. Ghost-Maker?”

“If we try telling Ghost-Maker that The Bat is out of commission, we’re dealing with Ghost-Maker for the next six months. I don’t want to try to imagine the headache that would cause for all of us- not to mention the fact that we will literally never hear the end of it.”

“Think Azrael could-”

“Did you seriously, legitimately just suggest Azrael?”

“Everyone,” Red Hood says with a mechanical cough so loud it reverberates through the room. “I think you’re missing the obvious.”

Dick turns to the man, allowing the surprise to flash across his face. Red Hood, dramatic as ever, checks to make sure the entire room is watching, and then hooks his gloved fingers under his chin. The helmet releases with a click and a faint hiss, though from what, Dick isn’t sure.

“I can play Mister Wright,” says Jason Peter Todd-Wayne, wide grin crooked and easy across a face Dick has spent the last three years thinking he’d never see again.

Talia hadn’t told them.

To be fair, Jason hadn’t exactly been expecting her to- honor among thieves, of course, although Talia could never be a thief. An enigmatic shadow on the edges of the night, perhaps, but never a parasite feeding off of the wealthy, and not the laser-focused predator of the cruel who believe themselves above consequence by the magnitude of wealth they have acquired over the years. Then again, he’s been split from Talia’s training for over six months ago now, curling ever-closer to Gotham as he’s lain in wait to begin his plan.

That is, of course, until the man sitting across the room from him now had gone in and upended everything .

Jason wants to pretend to revel in what his plans had been, but even now, looking at Dick and remembering that the fucking clown is dead, all he can feel is relief.

There’s a moment- one shining, glorious moment- where something raw and cracked-open flashes across Dick’s face, like he’s watching a miracle on Earth and can’t bring himself to look away. There’s something about that expression that makes Jason want to fall apart and crack, too- the knowledge that he was deeply and dearly missed. But as soon as he spots the emotion on Dick’s face, it’s gone, closed more firmly than a vault door. Jason knows how to read his brother- three years of working side-by-side will do that for you. This, though? The soft joy that crosses Dick’s face right now? Jason doesn’t know this.

Dick Grayson is a man whose emotions could knock a grown adult off their feet with their force. This is soft and gentle and patently wrong, like-

Like it’s made to keep him happy. To keep Jason calm.

‘Something happened to you,’ Jason thinks, not able to stop the concern that flickers across his face. ‘Something bad. Since when do you pull that face around family?’

 He keeps a handle on it. They can talk about this later. They need to be professional right now.

“... We need to keep an eye on Dylan, though,” a voice chirps over the comms, just as shaky and hesitant as everybody else. This must be the new Robin- Tim, Jason thinks his name is. Jason pushes back the hissing, angry side of him that screams about replacements and, instead, focuses on this: the kid sounds young. Concerningly so.

“The meeting’s at nine in the morning on a Monday right after school’s let out for the summer, Tim-Tam. Kid’s not expected to be awake until noon. We can just kidnap him for the night if we need,” Jason offers. The nickname, strikingly, sounds delightful as he says it. Is this why Dick had so many for him?

The comms, predictably, go silent. No cameras in the room, then- at least none that the kid can watch.

“... That could work,” Barbara finally offers, as if Robin has broken her out of a stupor. The new Batgirl, who apparently will also answer to Orphan, nods fiercely.

“Honestly, we could just have you and Cass swap places,” Dick points out. There’s a sharp hiss as both Batgirl- Cass- and Barbara turn to him.

“He called Robin Tim-Tam, he obviously remembers our names and did research to boot,” Dick points out after a moment of uninterrupted staring. This seems to be an acceptable response.

“Alright, new plan. Cass, you’re on babysitter duty. Re- uh, Jason, you’re going to be Mister Wright, which means you’re taking point. Dick, I’m going to need you to take these flash drives…”

Burgess, as expected, is an absolute sleaze.

Jason has learned how to deal with various types of corporate stooges over the years, and while it gets easier, it never gets more pleasant. It’s one of the reasons he’s glad he’s become a hitter- most of the time, the sucking up part of a con is the grifter’s job, instead. Jason would vastly prefer leaving Dick to deal with this particular corporate weasel on his own, but the con’s not possible with just the one grifter, and he’s the least recognizable of the bunch.

The white stripe absolutely refuses to be dyed, which means that Jason’s stuck sporting a realistic-looking but distinctively uncomfortable bald cap, dark auburn waves curling around his head. At the very least, it’s a beautifully maintained wig- Alfred refuses to let even one part of any of his or Bruce’s old stage costumes go to waste.

“I’m afraid we’ve come across some rather concerning information,” Jason purrs in a thick, practiced Southern drawl, leaning across the glass table. “LexCorp is not interested in continuing with the existing negotiations.”

“Oh, you think you can use that tactic to drop the price? Come up with problems with my company and pretend that you aren’t willing to pay the price we agreed upon? Oldest negotiating tactic in the book! That shit won’t work on me!”

“That doesn’t matter,” Jason continues, a sharp-edged smirk playing across the edges of his face. “And besides, if what I’m hearing is correct, it’s not really your company, now is it?”

“Oh, you little brat,” Burgess hisses. “It’s my company in all the ways that matter. The kids are inconsequential. Six years until they’re old enough to make any noise about it, and I know how to shut each and every one of them up. What the hell do you have that’s making you so damn cocky? ”

“Be that as it may,” Jason hums. “We’re going to need some guarantees.”

There’s some noises of protest, and Burgess stalks out of the room in disgust. Jason hums, and checks the transmitter under the desk, still merrily beeping away.

Tyler stalks to his computer, and pauses for a moment. His eyes widen with concern as he spots the rectangle hanging off of the end of his monitor.

“No, no, no, no, no,” he hisses, and reaches for his phone with the hand that’s not holding the flash drive. The number he dials is familiar enough for muscle memory.

“I need to speak to Agent Whittaker,” he says, “It’s urgent. I need him to get people down here and into my office immediately. I need to report corporate espionage.”

He looks through the drive with eagle-sharp eyes- he’s not sure what kind of idiot private investigator would leave this in, but it’s certainly extensive reports. On his way out of his office, he bumps into his assistant- worthless idiot, always too clumsy for his own good. The young man apologizes, scurrying away like an upset mouse. Tyler curses.

It takes about fifteen minutes, all told, for Whittaker’s men to arrive. He’d been with him, in his fraternity- he still trusts Michael with most of his admittedly shriveled heart.

“What did you want to show me, Burgess?” says the head agent- not Whittaker, this time, he must have sent someone else. Tyler hurries them into his favorite conference room, plugging in the flash drive and tapping harshly on the side of the projector.

What he sees next makes his blood run cold.

Instead of evidence of Lexcorp’s meddling, on the screen, there is a video. Against the darkness of the conference room, the scene it paints- of Tyler standing impassive and uncaring over a wheezing, desperate child- is something unmistakable.

He reaches for the flash drive again, desperate to turn it off. The hand of one of the agents stops him.

“I think I’ll be taking this,” she says, dark eyes narrowed in his direction as one of her underlings looks through the flash drive. Tyler swallows and turns away, unwilling to look at how much the little stick of plastic has betrayed him.

There’s a commotion in the hallway, and Tyler’s eyes snap up, finding Devlin struggling against the agents near the door to his office. “Your secretary said you were unavailable today,” Tyler says, voice smooth.

“So did yours! Nobody’s been able to contact you for a week!”

Tyler frowns, and casts his eyes around, not finding his usually ever-present assistant. Come to think of it… had he ever even gotten the man’s name?

As he makes his way out of the building, escorted by dozens of blue-jacketed FBI personnel, all with the same razor-focus look to their eyes, Tyler can’t help but cast his own eyes around.

Off in the distance, he finds Mr. Wright, chatting idly with the lemon-haired LexCorp woman he’d been so pleased with himself for locating.

Had he been a more observant man, perhaps he would have noticed a fiery-haired woman in a wheelchair playing chess with a small, dark-haired boy with a brace on his arm. Instead, Tyler’s eyes are drawn to the wide, sharp-toothed smile of his nameless assistant as he laughs at one of Mr. Wright’s jokes.

His scream of rage is loud enough to startle the pigeons.

“It’s good to see you settling in, Dylan,” Dick hums. “Does your uncle treat you well?”

“Donny is funny,” Dylan chirps back. “And he doesn’t try to get me to eat durian. I think anything’s an improvement over a guardian who actively tries to kill you.”

Dick snorts.

“I guess that’s true,” he admits. “You know how to contact us again if you need it?”

Dylan nods rapidly.

“How do I go about paying you?” he asks, cocking his head to the side after a moment. Dick grins.

“You won’t have to worry about that. We work on an… alternative revenue stream.”

There’s a creak of footsteps from the hallway. Dick falls backwards out the window, swinging off into the night. Don Figueroa steps into his nephew’s room.

The curtains are blowing in the wind.

The window is open.

Don reaches out to shut it, smiling gently at Dylan as he does so.

“It’s a nice night out, no?” he asks. “Want to see if your siblings want to watch fireflies?”

Dylan, now relieved of one of the largest weights to ever rest on his back in his twelve short years of life, flashes his uncle a gap-toothed smile and nods vigorously.

Chapter Text

Dick Grayson is a professional. A performer to his last. He does not crack down the middle like a teacup, worn from age and constant use. But he wants to. By all that he holds dear to his chest, he wants to. He wants to fold to his knees, elegant even in the heights of joy and anguish, and sob until his voice has gone hoarse from the effort.

In the mottled dark of the forest, he spies the gleam of red chrome in the dark, and his heart hammers in his chest.

There’s a thump along the trunk of a wide old red oak, and the branches creak with the added weight. Jason slinks up beside him, lenses faintly glowing in the dark. Dick inhales deeply, gripping the trunk beside him with such force that it dents the bark below his fingers.

How are you alive, he wants to ask, staring wide-eyed at the man who wears his brother’s face, three years gone, three years grown. How am I supposed to know it’s you, he wonders, trying to force it on his tongue.

“I’m sorry for what I said in there,” is what escapes instead, tumbling end-over-end into the warm summer night. Jason doesn’t seem prepared for it either, the branch creaking under his feet as he shifts uneasily.

“It’s fine,” Jason responds, soft voice marred by the roughness of the distortion. “You didn’t know.”

“I should have,” Dick counters, surprised with himself at the sharpness of it. “I knew your reaction was off as soon as I’d seen it, but I was distracted, and I was careless, and I hurt you. And I’m sorry for that.”

“It’s still not your fault,” Jason insists. He raises a hand to his helmet. The characteristic click-hiss of depressurization is drowned out by the chirping of crickets and the hiss of cicadas, impossibly loud in the forest quiet. Dick almost raises a hand to stop him, but pauses when he notes the sharp-cornered domino mask uncovered as Jason tucks his helmet to his side.

He stifles the urge to snort at the fact that Jason is wearing another mask beneath the bulky red chrome. Jason had never been that prickly, but he doesn’t know this Jason, three years later, nearly as tall and broad as their father and a grown man in the eyes of the law.

Jason regards him curiously, head tilted to the side like an owl.

Dick memorizes the new lines of his brother’s face, the way it has changed in three years- in ways he hadn’t expected. In his dreams, the ones that he wakes up from with a tear-stained pillow and sobs shaking their way through his chest, he’s never seen Jason quite so tall, quite so broad. It’s something so uniquely fascinating, to see that expectation turned on its head.

“Race you back to the car,” Jason hums, voice rough from disuse. Dick nods, switching from amiable to sharp-eyed in a moment, feet digging against the bark like the claws of some massive raptor.

Jason should know better than to issue this kind of challenge, because even in the dead of night, Dick is far more familiar with tree cover than his city slicker brother will ever be.

It seems, sometimes, that whenever he’s above ground, Dick Grayson becomes more lemur than man. It becomes instinctual, effortless, downright easy to leap across branches, spying every heavy spruce or oak trunk that can take his weight. He leaps like a sifaka, arms outstretched to catch his weight, and doesn’t hesitate to pull himself higher and higher until there are no more branches thick enough to hold him.

At the edge of the woods, he waits, turned back towards the thick, ever-present darkness that lurks below the trees. There’s a flash of red, far behind, and then another and another and another, blinking like the abdomen of a firefly.

And then, as if he’s been spat from the maw of some giant beast, Jason tumbles from the treetops with a sharp yelp.

Dick leans down at his brother, sprawled in the dirt, panting heavily from exertion.

“What,” Jason begins, before pausing for a deep gasp, “has B been drilling you on, holy fuck.”

Dick snorts, and offers a hand. Jason takes it, and Dick steps back, hauling the younger man to his feet.

“That’s just me, Little Wing,” he coos, “You city boys always seem to forget what trees are.”

“You’re a city boy too,” Jason grumbles. Dick laughs, and shakes his head.

“I resent that particular accusation. You know it’s not the same.”

He makes sure to be light, with Jason, light and nice and welcoming, so that he doesn’t overwhelm him. He’s used to this, being as careful as a dancer, as gentle as a doe.

There’s something disgruntled in Jason’s expression as they make their way back to the Batmobile. Dick tries a half-dozen fixes to the front he’s putting up to see if it’ll go away- loud, quiet, joking, just a hint of seriousness, soft-and-warm, and a more clinical professionalism that earns him an even more disgruntled look. By the time they make their way back through Gotham proper, the moon is high in the sky, bathing the suburbs on the outskirts of the city in a warm golden glow.

Even this far away from the city center, the off-putting chill that always hangs in the Gotham air is still pervasive, winding its way in through the barely cracked windows. Dick isn’t sure how Gotham manages to cling to the hint of cold even in the heights of summer, but he can’t find it in himself to complain. If they must deal with the harshness of winter, there should be at least one season where people aren’t risking dying of exposure in the streets.

“We’re heading to the Manor,” Jason says, just as much a question as it is a statement. Dick nods.

“Even if whoever brought you back to life left something in your mind, you already knew where it was,” he says, deciding on ‘calm and practical’ for this conversation. “And besides, Alfred will want to see you.”

The mention of Alfred hits Jason like a lance, sending him slumping down in his seat. For a while, the only sound in the car is the purring of the engine, the whistling of the wind, and the tires against the road underneath them.

“You haven’t met Tim yet, have you?” Dick asks, still overly cautious as he shrugs a jacket over his costume and peels off his domino. Jason doesn’t quite understand the thick pane of glass Dick seems to always have surrounding him, now, distorting the expressions on his face and the tone of every word that leaves his mouth. It makes Jason feel like he’s stepped into a Twilight Zone episode.

“Not properly,” Jason replies as Dick opens the door in the study. The heavy creak is something that wouldn’t be out of place in a horror movie, but the thick wooden door gives way to a bright, cheery room that smells faintly of onion and garlic.

“Alfred started cooking as soon as he heard I was bringing you over,” Dick says, voice still odd-and-soft in the way that makes Jason’s proverbial hackles rise in its deep seated wrongness. “Cass and Tim wanted to invite Stephanie over, but we figured that would be too many new people to introduce to you at once.”

“I’ve met Cass.”

“You’ve met Batgirl,” Dick corrects, the slightest hint of his normal self slinking through the cracks as his lips quirk up into the beginning of a grin. “We’re all a little different off a job, you know.”

Jason does know. He’s beginning to think, however, with his quiet steps and his too-forced smiles and the way he seems to project his emotions instead of actually feeling them, that Dick has forgotten.

He doubts the kids know exactly what’s happening. They haven’t known Dick since he was eighteen, just barely scrabbling on to the finer points of grifting, holding on with the edges of his fingers and every inch of performing instinct he had. Jason knew him then. Jason knew him when he was learning, when every grift was gut instinct and intuition rather than blood-and-sweat experience. He knows when his brother is wearing a mask.

He used to drop it, when he was home.

Clearly, he doesn’t do that anymore.

Jason pulls himself out of that train of thought as they slink through the doorway to Alfred’s favorite dining room. It’s one of the more intimate ones in the Manor- the table is large, but just enough for a big family, and the ceiling is lower, the walls more closed-in. In short, there’s less space, so it forces them to actually sit next to one another. Jason’s pretty sure that is what makes it Alfred’s sitting room. That, and the fact that the windows are of a height with the rosebushes. Someone has placed a series of bird feeders by the window, and there is a series of identification guides stacked on a chair in the corner.

Of course, it’s past sunset, so there aren’t any visitors now, save a hummingbird moth darting around the blooming roses. Jason’s not very good with entomology, but he knows it must be the insect- the birds go into a state of torpor at night. Jason knows this because it was a Riddler clue in his first traditional-vigilante outing as Robin, and he’d been so ecstatic to get the answer correct that he’s never forgotten it since.

He’d been worried, he remembers, that he wouldn’t be able to cut it, on the hero side of things. That all Bruce wanted him around for was the thievery.

Alfred calls Dick into the kitchen to help him carry the food to the table, leaving Jason alone with the kids.

Jason is starting to think that this might have been a bad idea. Cass, he can tell at a moment’s glance, is dangerous. She’s sharp-eyed, following him around the room with a piercing gaze that tells him that she knows exactly how to disassemble him if the mood ever struck her. Jason can’t help but grin back at her, and she relaxes just a tad, dark eyes flickering over to-

Ah. The new kid.

… Was Jason ever that small?

The kid’s folded up in on himself, dark hair obscuring his face as he stares down at his plate. Jason follows his line of sight, and hums.

“Milchig plates, huh?” he asks. “You two have any idea what’s for dinner?”

“French Onion Soup,” the new kid- Tim- answers quietly, rising from where he’s coiled into his chair. Any sort of anger Jason could have felt vanishes when he sees the brace on the kid’s arm, instead replaced with a distinctly Robinlike worry.

“Oh, that’ll be good,” Jason hums, trying not to betray the spike of anxiety he feels at seeing an injured child in front of him. “If you don’t mind me asking…”

“I do,” Tim squeaks, looking as if he’s going to just about drop dead from the effort, “Mind.”

Jason decides to take the high road, and drops the subject. In good time, too, because soon Dick is carrying in a wide tray piled high with food, as careful and elegant as he always is. Jason, on the other hand, digs into his soup like he hasn’t eaten in days.

From the other side of the table, he hears a barely suppressed snort. He reaches over the table to snag a piece of brioche, dipping it halfway into his soup before shoving it in his mouth, a giant grin on his face all the while. The subsequent snort is actually audible, drawing faint looks of surprise from Tim and Cass, and a fond smile from Alfred.

“What?” Jason asks, head cocked to the side. “I’m a growing boy.”

“That you are,” Alfred says, voice undeniably fond. “That you are, Master Jason.”

Jason smiles bashfully, ducking back into his soup.

Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Dick’s phone starts buzzing halfway through dinner. He’s finished his own soup, and is now simply watching all three of his siblings in a room together, slowly getting used to each other’s company. Jason jerks at the sound, clearly startled, eyes darting over to Dick as he presses himself back into his chair. After a moment, he relaxes, sliding back from the table.

“Going to take that?” he asks, indicating the phone with a tilt of his head. Dick hums, and flips it over.

“It’s Babs,” he says, “I will.”

“Cool,” replies Jason. “Mind if I come with you?”

Dick notes, with a curious eye, that he’s only halfway through his second bowl of soup, and he was still plowing through it like a man possessed when the phone had rung. He’s obviously still hungry. Which means he’s leaving the table because Dick is leaving the table.

Dick isn’t nearly as frightened of leaving Jason alone with Cass and Tim as Jason seems to be. He knows quite well that the One Who Is All is more than capable of handing any of their asses to them- and Jason hasn’t spent long enough with Cass to know her own quirks, besides. He slinks down into the Cave, Jason following hesitantly. Someone- probably Tim, he’ll have to thank him- has turned the glass display case of Jason’s battered  Robin uniform a deep, opaque black- the same color as their empty displays. Jason regards the empty display with a faint hint of curiosity, before swiveling his head back towards Dick, sharp blue eyes narrowed. Dick holds up a hand, and answers his phone.

“Hey, Babs.”

“Dick,” she says, “I take it someone saved me some of Alfred’s brioche?”

“Of course,” Dick replies, sinking delicately down into the chair in front of the massive wall of monitors, “What do you take me for?”

Jason takes a seat in one of the other office chairs they’ve dragged down here over the years, hard enough that the chair releases an audible puff of air from the sudden added weight. Dick lets his eyes flicker over to his brother for a moment, tilting his head questioningly. Jason raises his hands and shrugs.

“Jason’s down here with me. Jay, do you want to talk to Babs?”

There’s an eager gleam in Jason’s eyes- Dick remembers how close they’d been, when he was Robin and she was Batgirl, both always eager to tease him on a job.

“I’d love to later, but right now, we’ve got to figure out what we’re doing about the Flash.”

Dick makes a little questioning sound in the back of his throat, and leans backwards into his chair.

“I’m putting you on speaker,” he says, and taps the phone, placing it down on the table. Barbara’s voice filters out, clear as always. WayneTech doesn’t skimp on their phones.

“Alright. You know how the Flash has been snooping around Gotham?” Barbara asks. Jason’s office chair squeaks closer- in the reflection of the dark monitors, Dick can see his face shift from relaxed to alarmed in an instant.

“How did you people manage to get a Justice League member on your tail?” he asks, in a classic accusatory wail that wouldn’t be out of place on an eighty year old grandmother.

“Dick killed Joker.”

Jason blinks for a moment, confused.

“How is that relevant to the Flash sniffing around?” he asks.

“Joker was in Central at the time,” Dick explains. Jason tilts his head, nodding.

“That how the kid got the brace on his wrist?” he asks. There’s nothing accusatory or dangerous in his tone, but Dick resists the urge to flinch regardless. He should feel bad about it. He nearly got their youngest killed, out of a sheer inability to put the clues together before he’d sent Tim into a situation so over his head he’d nearly drowned in it.

“Yeah,” Dick says, careful to smooth out the jagged edges of his voice, “It was.”

There’s a note of concern and curiosity in Jason’s expression for a moment, before it’s smoothed out by glacially cold professionalism.

“Alright,” Jason says, “So the Flash is digging around.”

“One of them,” Barbara corrects. “I’ve been able to get some decent shots- it looks like it’s just the former Kid Flash, nobody else.”

Dick makes a considering noise.

“I’ve met him before,” he says. “Was part of that not-really-a-peer-group we sort of had, around eight years ago.”

There’s a hacking wheeze.

“Eight years?” Jason asks. “You’re kidding. It’s been that long?”

“Since the last time I asked Bruce if I could join their superhero team as a solo hero, yeah,” Dick replies. “Wasn’t really a team, not like the JL, they kept breaking up and reforming all over the place, but you have no idea how badly I wanted to join the Teen Titans back when I was Steph’s age.”

“You ranted about their battle plans at least once a week,” Barbara says, voice fond. Jason snorts, spinning closer to them with the barest hints of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Dick is struck with the urge to reach out and ruffle his hair until Jason complains at him, like he did when he was still small enough for Dick to carry him. Something deeply fond unfurls in his chest.

“That I did,” Dick agrees, tapping his fingers across the table. He hums, for a moment, bringing a hand up to his mouth and chin as he thinks.

“Do we know who the Flash is?”

“Not really,” Babs says- a completely expected, if disheartening, response- “All we really know is that the one that’s been sniffing around is a redhead.”

Dick frowns.

“Anyone he save more than a few times?” Jason asks. “Did anything ever go anywhere with the Lois Lane lead, by the way?”

“To answer your questions in order, yes and yes,” Babs says. “The younger Flash doesn’t appear to have a priority when it comes to rescues, but the older Flash, for quite some time actually, appears to give priority to-”

“Iris West,” Dick finishes for her. There’s a noise of surprise from the speaker.

Jason raises his eyebrows.

“She’s one of the better reporters we send information along to,” he says, careful to keep his voice level. “There was a… memorable incident, where we arrived just after the Flash did.”

“... You caught him making out with her, didn’t you,” Jason snorts. Dick rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

“No, but he did seem more concerned than someone simply rescuing a civilian. She’s married, right?”

“Mhm. A husband, Barry Allen.”

The monitor flickers to life, revealing a man in his early forties with sharp blue eyes and a long face. His hair is a sandy blonde, just barely starting to go gray, and the small smile on his face is painfully fake, overwritten easily by the concern made obvious by his furrowed brows.

Dick knows this face.

The Flash is one of the founding members of the Justice League- of course he knows this face.

“Any children? Adopted or otherwise.”

“Funny story,” Babs replies, “He and Iris West don’t have any children at the moment, but they did host her nephew all throughout college. Twenty-five, a forensic scientist just like his uncle, and take a look at his face.”

Barry Allen is replaced by an all-too familiar redhead, face cracked open in a wide grin that Dick remembers from more than one job back in Central City. His eyes are nearly as wide and trusting as they’d been back then.

“That’s him,” Dick says, tone final. “That’s the Flash we need to be worried about.”

“So,” Jason says without any preamble, fifteen minutes after the rest of the family files down into the Cave after dinner, “You’re Robin.”

Tim, who seems to be torn between dying of embarrassment and eagerly following Jason around like an abandoned duckling, squeaks, half hiding himself behind one of the Cave’s many support pillars. He peeks back out halfway, like a kitten heavily considering coming out to play.

Jason can’t help his amused snort at that.

“I’m not going to eat you, ketzele,” he says, hiding a smile. He really is like a tiny kitten, taking hesitant steps closer every few moments, and never when Jason is looking directly at him.

“Um,” Tim says quietly, “It’s really nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Jason says, and then, like poking at a bruise, he makes the decision to add “So what made you decide to become Robin?”

Tim curls closer in on himself, clearly mindful of the brace, and frowns.

“A couple reasons. Mostly, though, it was ‘cause of you.”

Jason tilts his head, trying his best to convey curiosity without any anger behind it- despite the flash of it that rumbles deep in the back of his mind. He feels like there’s more to the story than what Tim’s saying right now- it won’t hurt to hear him out. Not right now, at least.

Jason’s been on a rollercoaster of emotion for the last several weeks, starting with arriving as a raging fire full of anger dropped in Crime Alley just about a month ago, cooling to a slow burn when he’d heard about the death of the Joker at the hands of a Bat, and dropping to a low simmer that night on the rooftop when his brother had told him, in no uncertain words, that he had killed a man for him. Along with the lessening of the anger has come the rise of the shame. Bruce is gone- dead, according to the public, MIA to the point where not even Barbara can find him to the Bats. Bruce is gone, Joker is gone, and the way that his plans are all unraveling now brings forth a sense of embarrassment that Jason is desperate to make go away.

“How so?” he says, instead of poking more at the tangled web of emotions he’s currently dealing with. Like a cat being introduced to someone new, Tim slowly uncurls from where he’s shoved himself behind the pillar, just barely inching into Jason’s space.

“When I was eight,” Tim begins, before Jason cuts him off.

“Two years ago,” he agrees. The look Tim shoots him is incensed, but absolutely harmless, like a six week old kitten trying to make itself look far bigger than it is.

“When I was eight,” Tim continues, the hero worship mostly vanishing off of his face, “Batman saved me and my mom from the Riddler.”

Jason freezes. Riddler- Tim’s almost fourteen now, according to the information he’s gathered on the new Bats so far, so six years ago, Riddler, that would have been-

“That was my first case as a hero, instead of a thief,” Jason says softly, and Tim nods gently, creeping ever closer.

“You were like. Smart, and cool, and you made me feel safe. So I might have started following you and Batman around with a camera a few months later.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Your parents didn’t notice?”

Tim scowls.

“That’s the other reason,” he says, eyes narrowed, “My parents are archaeologists by education- most of their time is spent out of the country. As it turned out, they had a bit of a side business.”

Tim's hesitant sentences trailing off into nothing have shifted into something smoother and angrier. Jason has a feeling that he’s explained all this more than once.

“Some of the artifacts they took were priceless pieces of cultural heritage,” Tim continues, “Some of them were magic. I knew they weren’t supposed to be going where my parents were sending them. Batman was still out breaking people’s bones every night, and nobody had seen Nightwing in months, and, well. I’ve always had sticky fingers.”

Jason takes a moment to consider the implications of that statement. He and Dick had different skills, when it came to the whole ‘thievery’ part of the job- Jason learned to handle the acrobatics and Dick learned to handle the pickpocketing, but for Jason, both had been hard-won skills. Someone who never had to steal to survive, but has sticky fingers anyways- talent, not skill- becoming Robin after him feels off and uncomfortable, but not enraging like it would have been a month ago. Instead of commenting on that part, he decides to dig a little bit more into Tim’s story.

“So you decided to steal them back.”

Tim nods.

“I started doing it on my own,” he says, “and then, a couple weeks after that, Dick and Bruce got kidnapped by Two-Face. I couldn’t leave them.”

Jason sighs, and reaches out to ruffle Tim’s hair. Reluctantly, disbelievingly, the kid lets him.

“If you want it back, you can have it,” Tim tells him. “I can imagine it doesn’t feel great, not getting to pick the next person in the uniform.”

Jason snorts.

“Believe me, kid, Dick didn’t get to pick either,” he replies. “And really. Do I look like I’m short enough to fit into those tights anymore?”

Tim makes a considering noise.

“... Maybe a bigger version of the leotard…”

Jason outright wheezes, bending at the waist and slapping his knee. From across the Cave, Dick looks back at them, visibly startled.

“We’re making fun of your baby-years costume, Dickie!”

Even from this far away, Jason can see the way Dick rolls his eyes before slumping back down into the overly ostentatious leather office chair.

Jason wipes away tears of laughter from one eye, before turning back to Tim, face turning somber once again.

“In all seriousness, Tim- yes, it sucks that I didn’t get a choice in the matter, but you seem like a good kid. And it’s nice that one of us is a natural pickpocket, no?”

Tim’s nose scrunches up. “I’m still not as good at lifts as you or Dick. Bruce said.”

“Well, talent doesn’t make up for skill, ketzele,” he says with a snort, though something greedy flickers to life at that, at the thought that his dad hadn’t thought the new kid was better than him.

Jason stamps it down hard. He’s a grown fucking adult now, he doesn’t need to be getting into competitions with literal children, especially not now that he’s grown into such a distinctively different position on the team. Tim doesn’t seem to notice, thankfully. He needs to distract himself from this train of thought. Anything. Literally anything. Even something that can be tangentially related to a recent job.

Jason’s eyes find Tim’s brace.

“So,” he says. “What distracted you enough for that to happen?”

A mischievous glint rises in Tim’s eyes. Finally, after several minutes of conversation, he uncurls completely, bounding over to a lead-lined case in moments. Jason follows at a more sedate pace, mildly curious, until Tim flicks back the latches, and the slowly opening crack in the case glows green.

“What the hell,” he whispers, almost reverent.

Nestled in the black velvet of the case is one of the most expensive-looking necklaces Jason has ever laid eyes on outside of one of Bruce’s fancy galas. It’s got to be at least several hundred years old by the detailing, but it’s in fantastic condition. No wonder Tim is proud of himself for snagging it- this is the kind of lift their fellow thieves brag about, even if it means admitting to their injuries.

“Fucking hell, that’s what, several hundred carats of Kryptonite?” he asks. “Look at that, the quality’s gorgeous. What era is that, Elizabethan? Goodness, the luster on that is absolutely phenomenal. Well fucking done, Tim.”

“We’re trying to find out how to get it to the Justice League safely,” Tim replies, a giddy smile on his face from the praise. Jason would kill for this kid, he really would. “I know they’ll probably dismantle it, though.”

“Probably not,” Jason agrees. “They can do tests on these without impacting items of historical value.”

Tim nods. There’s a twitchiness to his fingers as he shuts the case, like he’d wanted to reach out and run his fingers across the stones of the necklace, just to reassure himself it was still there.

“So,” Jason says, returning to the computers with Tim in tow, “Have you all figured out exactly which Leaguer you’re giving several million dollars’ worth of Kryptonite to?”

Dick hums, and turns back towards the rest of them. “We haven’t made any final decisions, no.”

That is, of course, Dick-speak for ‘we’re considering a specific person, but you can make your case if you want’. Jason tilts his head back and forth for a moment, making a considering noise.

“Any of you considered Black Canary?”

Dick raises his eyebrows. “Yes. Why are you considering Black Canary?”

“Least likely to beat the living daylights out of us if we say Oracle sent one of us,” Jason points out. “Plus, we’ll know if she tries anything shady, since we know her civ identity personally.”

Dick nods. “That’s what Babs and I had been considering, too,” he says. “We’re mostly just contemplating who to send along with it. We can’t risk more than two people getting captured, but if we send too few, we’re running the risk of getting found out and someone trying to take the case from us.”

Jason taps his foot along the ground.

“Send me.”

Dick narrows his eyes, and leans forwards. “And why should I do that?”

“Least risk, if I get captured, I’m new to being a member of the crew again and I’m legally dead besides.”

“I’m not letting you go on a solo mission,” Dick counters. Jason is about to argue, before he recognizes the faint thread of anxiety in Dick’s voice, too well-hidden for any of the kids to hear it. He shuts his mouth with a click.

“Send me with him,” a new voice says, warm and pleasant and deeply familiar. “I can charm Dinah for you.”

Jason turns, a smile just beginning to cover his face. Selina crosses the distance between them, and pulls Jason into a hug so tight it cracks his back.

“Oh, and you can come too, honey,” she says to Dick from beside Jason’s arm, “I’m sure the kids can keep themselves entertained tonight. Not that they should still be awake anyways.”

She releases Jason, who barely moves, just rocking back a little bit. Selina isn’t exactly tiny, but Jason is nearly as tall as his dad had been, and still growing.

“I’m so glad you’re home, sweetheart,” Selina says. “Now! I hear we have a necklace to give to a certain friend of mine?”

Jason smiles. Dick slinks up past the both of them, and makes a break for the small zeta tube in the Cave.

“I’ll see you in Star!”

Jason takes a moment to grab the heavy lead-lined case. He knows the rules: whoever carries the goods goes in the middle.

Star City might be just as wet and cold as Gotham, but it’s certainly cleaner. They’ve done jobs in the area before, but not many- Jason certainly hasn’t been since Black Canary decided to pick up a stint in Gotham while he was dead. Jason takes a little while to follow Nightwing around the city, acknowledging the way Catwoman slips into the shadows with barely a trace. It’s nice, really, Star City at night. If it was less cloudy, perhaps he could even see these stars they speak of.

There’s a thud on the rooftop behind him. Jason sighs. He really should know better than to let his guard down in a city absolutely filled with heroes.

Jason turns, and tucks the case closer to his side. Beside him, Dick has his escrima out, brow probably furrowed behind the mask.

“Hey… what is it you go by now, again? I’ve been out of touch for a while.”

“Arsenal,” the archer in red- ex-Speedy, ex… Red Arrow, he thinks the man was for a while? growls, arrow trained on them both.

“Put the weapons down,” Dinah snaps, landing hard on the rooftop behind Roy. He doesn’t move all that much, but relaxes a fraction. Anxious, then.

The man in black and blue, on the other hand, puts his escrima away immediately. The one in the red helmet lays one casual hand on a gun, the other wrapped tightly around the heavy metal case in his hand. Dinah doesn’t know what it is, yet, only that Oracle had contacted her specifically to inform her it was dangerous.

“Easy, easy, don’t hurt my boys,” a familiar voice purrs. Dinah jerks her head over to spy Catwoman, dropping elegantly from the rooftop.

“Well maybe if they-”

“Arsenal. Quiet,” Dinah warns. “Oracle said you three have a package for me.”

“That we do!” Catwoman hums. “Would you like to hear what it is?”

There’s a thread of anxiety in her voice, though Dinah doesn’t know if she’s put it there intentionally.

Dinah nods. Catwoman leans forwards.

“The little bird found us over two hundred carats of Kryptonite,” she whisper-hisses into the same ear that Dinah’s comm is precariously perched in. She must know that it’s being transmitted to the rest of them. Roy takes a shocked step back, mentally calculating the numbers in his head. His mouth falls open, just a tad.

“Is this a buy?” he asks gruffly. Dinah turns to glare at him.

“It’s not,” the man in the red helmet offers. “We’re not villains, man.”

“No, you just steal from people,” Roy snaps back. There’s the firing of a grapple, and suddenly, both the man in the black-and-blue and the one in the red helmet are on the rooftop as well. Something tells her that they’ve had this conversation before.

“Like us or don’t, we won’t care,” the man in the red helmet snarls, the voice modulator adding an air of inhuman menace. “The important thing is, we’re trying to help right now, and we are throwing away a lot of fucking money to make sure people don’t end up dead.”

“Arsenal,” Dinah chides, “I think you’ve offended them.”

She’s amused, and the two young men hear it, faces snapping to her sheepishly as they realize they’ve forgotten their main objective in favor of getting snippy with her grown son. Roy retreats to the other side of the rooftop, eyes flicking between her and Catwoman curiously.

“Catwoman’s a former teammate, and these two are dear friends of a member of the same team,” Dinah says, deciding to offer something so that Roy will stop staring at the Bats suspiciously. “They located the object by chance, and managed to retrieve it safely.”

“Mostly,” the man in the black-and-blue suit- Nightwing, she thinks she remembers Oracle calling him. “One of our own was injured. Not terribly, thankfully, but do not underestimate how badly people want what’s in that case.”

There’s something relieved and heavy about the tone in his voice on the thankfully. Dinah wonders how young this teammate is- if she recalls correctly, there’s usually a child on the Bat’s crew of thieves.

Dinah takes the case with no small amount of nervousness. Over two hundred carats of Kryptonite… she’ll have to warn Clark, definitely.

“You get all that?” Dinah asks when the Bats have disappeared.

“Of course,” Oliver replies. “I’ll meet you at the zeta. Already calling a meeting.”

It’s the fastest run to the Watchtower that Dinah has ever made in her life.

Chapter Text

Wally shifts uncomfortably as he stares at the necklace in the lead-lined case. Beside him, Superman pales, though for a different reason. Black Canary steps forwards and shuts the box again.

“Well, I guess that confirms it,” she says quietly, watching as Clark starts to regain color in his face. Wally narrows his eyes.

“Who did you say you confiscated this from, again?” he asks. Black Canary shakes her head.

“Not confiscated. It was a gift, from a source I trust. They… acquired it in a confiscation of their own, but didn’t have the facilities to protect it long-term. They also wanted to insure that they didn’t piss off our Big Gun.”

Clark blushes, but Wally frowns. Beside him, Barry is doing the same.

“And who did they say they stole it from?” his uncle asks, eyes narrowed. Dinah regards them both curiously, before nodding to herself and speaking again.

“Joker, so that lines up with that Central City heist you two mentioned.”

“Not much of a heist,” Wally points out. “They killed a man.”

There’s a heavy layer of discomfort that radiates through the Watchtower. Wally resists the urge to shrink back and run until he stops feeling the eyes on him.

“We aren’t here to discuss their character,” Dinah says, voice flat, “We’re here to discuss what to do with over a quarter pound of Kryptonite.”

Wally frowns.

The confirmation is decent enough. He’s not exactly sure who it is that Dinah’s not talking about, but it’s good to know that instead of some worse villain taking out the Joker, instead of enough Kryptonite for more than a few bullets landing in the hands of the highest bidder, they’ve got their hands on the weapon, and everything’s secured. He taps his fingers nervously on the meeting table as the necklace is discussed. The general consensus appears to be to hide it so deeply in STAR labs that nobody will ever find it, which Wally can’t argue with. After the case is gone, though, an uncomfortable silence falls upon the core of the League.

“Has anyone heard from Hal recently?” Barry asks from next to him, for wont of nothing else to say. Jon shakes his head, and everyone else follows suit.

“He’s supposed to be heading back to Earth soon- last I heard from him was a few days ago, breaking up this interplanetary trafficking ring. He’s busy, but he should be fine.”

That seems to break the seal on casual check-ins. Wally resolves to ask Roy about what’s going on with Dinah- he has a feeling his friend will probably know.

“I thought I told you not to get Steph involved,” Dick chides, “No offense.”

“None taken, at least you people actually care about whether or not I want to deal with the repercussions of your criminal enterprises,” Steph jokes, elbowing Tim in the side. “But seriously, dude, I heard about this one and I just couldn’t let it stand.”

“Fair enough,” Dick says, spinning around in his office chair, careful to be warm and friendly- Steph responds well to warm and friendly. He’s not her dad, not even her brother, so he can’t allow himself to take on that sort of role, or else the kid won’t listen to him at all.

And, also, she’s just funny. There’s that, too. Dick feels like an overbearing grandmother by saying it, but she really is his favorite of Tim and Cass’s friends- and only partially because she’s the only one that he doesn’t need to make up complicated excuses for why they vanished in the middle of the day.

(Dick still shudders at the thought of explaining to one of the PTA dads from Gotham Academy as to why Tim had abruptly left in the middle of a party. As it turns out, he’d heard about a Rogue attack on the other side of the city, but obviously, he couldn’t have told the man that.)

Steph inhales deeply before launching into her recounting.

Apparently, Steph’s mother’s coworker’s friend’s niece recently took a painting she’d inherited from a grandfather to an appraiser, and received a modest price for it. Immediately after, she was contacted by a wealthy entrepreneur- Michael Bradbury- with an eye for art, who offered to buy the painting for twice what the appraiser had told her it was worth. Steph’s mother’s coworker’s friend’s niece, as a broke recent graduate with massive student loan debt, had been bullied into selling the painting. A week later, it was in the news, having been re-sold for several hundred thousand dollars.

“My mom says it was probably the appraiser that screwed her over and called the rich guy,” Steph finishes. “And like. I know I could probably go after the guy as Spoiler, but I’m not sure how to take him out permanently, and I was wondering, since you guys tend to do this kind of thing a lot…”

“We’ll handle it,” Dick offers, smile pleasant, not asking questions like how did you find out about the Parity thing. They haven’t really been keeping it a secret, but that side sure as hell isn’t common knowledge, either- though Dick supposes she could have heard about it from a cop. Or her dad. Probably her dad. Steph slumps in relief, nearly bowling poor Tim right over. His brother squeaks in dismay. Jason’s right- the kid really is one of those barely-weaned kittens. It’s adorable.

There’s a long silence before Steph speaks up again.

“Actually,” she says, near quiet as a mouse. “I. Um. I had some ideas about that, if you don’t mind?”

“No, go right ahead,” Dick replies, making a wide, sweeping gesture with his arms, “We’re all about sharing ideas here.”

Steph’s face brightens.

“I was wondering if you were thinking of pulling a Fiddle Game?”

Dick pretends to think on it, for a moment. In all honesty, it had been his first instinct when considering a con involving valuable art, but it’s always good to encourage the kids, and Steph’s instincts are definitely right. “I might have been,” he admits- better to not have Steph figure out he’s just humoring her later- “Did you have any specifics in mind?”

Steph brightens. “My mom’s coworker’s friend went to the guy’s gallery,” she says, “Wrote down a list of what painters he seems to like.”

Dick’s pleased grin at that is completely genuine. Instead of having to dig up the information themselves, Steph’s just handed it right to them. She passes him a sheet of notebook paper with exactly thirteen painter’s names on it. Dick narrows his eyes as he taps one on the sheet.

“Hereford should work,” he hums to himself, “I’ll have to talk to Babs, but… Hereford should work.”

There’s a few things about Carwyn Hereford’s work that makes it particularly vulnerable to forgeries.

The first, of course, is that he had been a rather prolific painter, so there are any number of potentially surviving masterpieces to be considered.

The second reason is not very many paintings have survived to the modern day.

Hereford primarily painted as a hobby- he was a textile merchant by trade, if Dick remembers correctly (and he usually does- fine art is his bread and butter, after all). Most of his paintings ended up as gifts for dearly beloved friends and extended family, not in galleries all across the world- not until long after his death. He’d gotten his moment in the spotlight when the Royal College of Art had finally recognized the Welshman’s immense talent in the realm of realism-in-light. His paintings remain… not photorealistic, they’re distinctly impressionist-inspired, but they do remain convincing to the day.

… Dick partially knows this because Bruce has bought three of his paintings over the last decade to display in the Gotham Museum of Art.

By the time the Royal College of Art had recognized his talent in the 1950’s, however, Hereford was twelve years gone. There’s tragedy, to it- the tragedy of life taken too soon, the tragedy of life without recognition. Some days, Dick wishes he could have met the man.

Regardless, Hereford was well-known for his landscapes. Babs, on the other hand, is well known for her Herefords. The three Herefords that Bruce had displayed in the Gotham Museum of Art? Well, there’s also multiple copies- primarily in his office, but also in several rooms of the Manor. They’d been an experiment Babs had done back in college- she’d been forging for a while, already, but she hadn’t done a painting like that for fun, yet, and Hereford’s depictions of light and shadow are tricky enough to try to mimic without copying an existing painting.

Despite the trickiness of it, Babs can pull it off flawlessly, which is the final reason why a Hereford is the perfect choice to fake.

… Now, he just has to make it worth Babs’s while.

“You, mister,” Barbara Gordon says, a soft smile crossing her face, “Are going to owe me so many muffins.”

“Muffins, and half my cut of the profits off this job,” Dick offers with a sly grin. Babs sighs, and pinches her nose with her fingers, but her smile remains.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do it. We’re going to need to find a second forger in the future, though, because I do actually have a real job.”

Dick grins, and presents the box of muffins he’s been hiding behind his back for the entire conversation. Barbara makes grabby hands, and he passes them over.

She pulls her sketchbook out a few minutes later, and gets to work.

“Alright,” Dick says, “We’re doing a modified version of the Fiddle Game.”

Jason raises a hesitant hand. Dick points to him immediately.

“What are we using as ‘the fiddle’?” Jason asks. Babs, to the side of the meeting table, grins widely. She rolls over to a large easel covered in an opaque white sheet, and removes the sheet with a harsh tug. The canvas underneath- old and weathered, but still in excellent condition- nearly topples to the floor. Even from this distance, he can see the dust flying through the air. Jason is certain that if he’d gone to investigate the canvas closer, it would smell musty and dusty, like any old fabric.

The colors, while muted from synthetic aging, are more than glorious. The light the painting seems to hold almost radiates out from where it’s contained within the limits of the canvas.

Jason knows what this is a forgery of on sight. Hereford is one of the few artists that he, Dick, and Bruce had all agreed on, years ago when they’d had the time to argue over those sorts of things. Jason’s still surprised the man was able to make his colors so bold and bright despite his lack of access to many dyes in the blue range- synthetic ultramarine wasn’t commercially available until the fifties.

The scene is simple- the very edges of a lemon orchard, and beyond them, a wide blue bay, ringed by limestone cliffs. The light of a warm afternoon lazily shines at the edges of almost-ripe lemons, yellow spackled with green.

“I’m not sure he ever visited a lemon orchard,” is what falls out of Jason’s mouth, rather then Well fucking done, Barbie, or That’s incredible, or any of the other pieces of praise he should, in all honesty, be heaping onto their hacker and incredibly talented forger.  Barbara’s impassive face tells him she’s noted the mistake and he will most definitely be paying for it later. Jason visibly cringes, hoping looking smaller than he is will make her take pity on him.

… No luck. He’ll probably get stuck doing some embarrassing part of the con. Ugh.

“He visited Southern France back in the twenties,” Barbara explains, “We’re arguing that this is one of his earlier known pieces. You can see it’s a little more muted than his later pieces, and the light isn’t quite as bold.”

Jason can see that, surprisingly enough. Barbara’s right (of course she is, she did paint the damn thing, after all)- the style of this painting is just a hint more traditionally impressionist, and the colors are muted in a fashion beyond what age would do to the bold colors of Hereford’s later works.

“So,” he says, “What, are we turning the appraiser into the outside man?”

“Not… exactly,” Dick says, a slow grin stretching across his face. “We’re turning the mark into the outside man.”

“I still think this is stupid, for the record,” Jason says into his earpiece. “Why can’t Dick do this one, again?”

“You volunteered when you questioned my forging prowess,” Barbara replies. “Just be grateful that you’re not stuck doing Dick’s job.”

“Hey! It’s not like it’s some kind of punishment to wear a dress,” Dick snaps back over the line. “Admittedly, though, Jason would probably stand out a little bit.”

“You don’t say,” Jason drawls, more than aware that at over six feet tall and built like a truck, he already looms over the mark without adding heels to the equation.

There’s a beat of silence while Jason shifts, painting still held securely under one arm. The appraiser’s office opens at exactly eight in the morning, and Jason’s cover’s “shift” starts at nine- better, according to Dick, to appear anxious at the thought of missing work.

“In any case, Jason, I may be good, but if we have access to more than one person with a half-decent poker face, we’re going to use that.”

Jason, not for the first time, contemplates whether or not he regrets revealing his true identity to the rest of the family. On the one hand, he wouldn’t have to deal with this nonsense. On the other hand, he wouldn’t get to deal with this nonsense. They’d still be uncomfortable allies. At best. 

Jason doesn’t know if he could bear it.

He carefully pulls his face into a more neutral mask as he spots his target hurrying down the sidewalk. They may be in Newark rather than Gotham, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that the weather is always going to be better- it’s been raining for the last three days and it’ll probably rain again today.

He steps forwards, allowing himself to tilt just a little bit, anxiety flickering across his face. The appraiser stops, and, for a moment, gives him a considering look.

“Stutter a bit,” Dick instructs.

“I- I don’t have an appointment, sorry,” Jason says, holding the package close. “Your website says you take walk-ins?”

“I do!” the appraiser says jovially, waving him inside. There’s something sharp-toothed about his smile that would put a normal man on edge. For Jason, it just reminds him of when Bruce is in conman mode. Jason hugs the painting, still wrapped in paper, tighter against his chest. The appraiser’s eyes flicker down at the motion, and then flick back up to meet Jason’s. His smile, still unnerving, stretches just the slightest bit wider.

“So, what do we have here?” the appraiser asks as they sit down at his desk. Jason carefully unwraps Barbara’s gorgeous masterpiece, passing along the equally talented forgery of its documentation, and watches for a moment as the appraiser’s eyebrows rise near into his hairline, before he smooths them down again in a motion so quick it’d take another conman too be able to spot it. Fortunately for Jason, he’s learned from much better fiends than this one.

The appraiser's eyes dart to the bottom left of the painting, where Hereford usually left his signature- it’s there, the looping CH that Barbara had studied for hours in an attempt to get it right. The appraiser’s eyes widen.

“So,” the appraiser hums, setting the painting back down on his desk as if he hasn’t been presented with the find of a lifetime, “How did you come to be in the possession of this painting?”

“My, uh, granddad left it to me in his will,” Jason says, scratching at the back of his neck with one hand, “Was really the only thing he had left. Not like I could have been of much help anyways, with the bum leg, but still.”

The appraiser shuffles some papers around, but his eyes flicker down towards the table, as if he can see right through it and investigate Jason’s leg himself.

“And where did your grandfather say he purchased this painting?”

“It was a gift,” Jason replies, sticking to the script. “To his grandfather, right before him and my great-granddad left France, back in the twenties.”

The appraiser gives the painting another critical once-over, eyes narrowed. He hums to himself quietly, nodding. “Did your grandfather ever have this appraised?”

Jason shakes his head. "I need you to sound absolutely miserable,” Dick says over the comm line, “Guilt. Depression. The works.”

“I never even let him consider selling it,” Jason says, breathing ragged. “But I’m three years up shit creek without my software development degree, y’know? And I had a scholarship, it was just. Y’know.”

He rattles his leg against the edge of the desk.

“It was for football.”

Fortunately, if you don’t live in Gotham, the level of suspicion that random people have on the street for men in the sixteen to sixty range is greatly decreased. Jason’s ninety percent sure that if he tried this shit in the Alley, he’d be made in minutes.

… Mostly because there are precious few people in Gotham that care about American football. They have their Gotham Knights and their Gotham FC, but nobody’s been stupid enough to slap an NFL team at them. They do have the Nighthawks, he supposes, but nobody ever actually expects the Nighthawks to win anything.

(Nobody expects the Knights or Gotham FC to win anything either, but it’s the thought of having a full time professional sports team- two, even, baseball and soccer- that counts.)

The appraiser nods consolingly, though there’s the sharp, familiar gleam in his eyes of a con that’s found an easy mark. Jason has no doubts that he’ll propose some sort of miracle amount, just enough to get him through his last year of college, net Jason his (fake) degree, and send him off on his merry way.

“Well, I do believe you came to the right place,” the appraiser says. “Judging by the documentation, the age of the paint… one of Carwyn Hereford’s less valuable works, but I’d say it’s worth at least thirty thousand dollars.”

The character Jason is playing- a polite young man named Ryan Davenport- collapses into his chair, eyes going glassy and unfocused at the realization. He lets out a breath that’s somewhere between a sigh and a gasp.

All of this, of course, is overdramatic theatrics to distract from Jason’s eyes, which boring a rage-fueled hole into the ceiling.

‘If it were real, it'd be worth at least eight times that, asshole,’ he thinks to himself.

Predictably, no more than a day later, there’s another man in a suit waiting for Jason outside “his” apartment (an easy fake that they’d set up for this con, of course). Jason is still wearing the dark auburn wig he’s using to disguise his incredibly identifiable stripe of white hair (of course he is, he’s not an amateur), and thank goodness for how well it’s secured- he’d nearly jumped. While carrying quite a few groceries, he might add.

“Be annoyed,” Dick instructs, like he’s not busy running his own side of the con. It doesn’t take much to rile Jason up, and he’s easily pulled into a scowl.

“Um. Hi,” Jason says, shouldering past the man. “What do you want.”

“To send you back to college, son!” the mark chirps. Jason’s spike of rage at the word son is tempered by the sharp voice in his ear.

“Angry, but a little bit interested,” Dick hisses. Jason resists the urge to remind his brother that he doesn’t need his hand held to cross the street anymore.

“Pretend I’m listening,” Jason snaps, shouldering his door open. The mark tries to slink inside the studio- “his grandfather’s”, according to Jason’s fake paperwork, courtesy of Barbara. Jason’s glare, sharp and glacial-cold, stops him in his tracks.

Jason waits a beat, to see if Dick’s going to try to make another comment, before he sighs and… well, relaxes doesn’t quite cut it, but it’s a motion he’s seen Dick do a thousand times before to lure in a mark, releasing tension while remaining taught as a bowstring. It’s the physical equivalent to an apology, he’s noted over the years, and usually accompanies the verbal version.

“I’m sorry,” he says, letting his face go just a little slack, swapping from anger to grief in the space between seconds. “I’m not normally so standoffish.”

“It’s no problem, my boy!” the mark chirps, jovial smile crossing his face once again. Jason resists the urge to tense up, backing his way into the apartment once again.

It is, of course, as clean as any room of a late-stage teenager can be. Jason’s always been neat when he has the chance (fewer opportunities to sneak up on him, if he knows where everything is, same as Cass- he knows Tim takes the opposite approach, everything strewn about in an order that only seems to make sense to the kid himself, and Dick makes everything look neat on the surface, but he’s pretty sure his brother’s cabinets haven’t been cleaned out in years), and he’s carried over this trait to the Ryan persona- not particularly unexpected, for a character whose military grandfather had raised him from a young age.

The mark- Michael Bradbury, if Jason is remembering his names correctly, but Ryan Davenport isn’t supposed to know that yet- looks over the room appraisingly, nodding to himself. The fake Hereford is still up against the back wall, elegant and beautiful, standing out vividly against the plain beige walls. Michael Bradbury sucks in a deep, reverent breath, crossing the distance to the painting in only two and a half steps, eyes wide and hands trembling.

“How much do you want for it?” Bradbury says.

“It’s not for sale,” Jason responds, voice a low growl, “Much less to someone I don’t even know the name of.”

“Ah. Sorry,” the man says. “I… my name is Michael Bradbury. It’s a pleasure to meet you…”

“Ryan Davenport,” Jason replies, eyes narrowed. “That appraiser guy call you?”

“He says you implied you were willing to speak to a buyer,” Bradbury hums. Jason snorts.

“Not really,” Jason-as-Ryan growls, “I never wanted to sell it.”

“I’m afraid my offer is short-term, but… I can offer twenty thousand dollars for the painting,” the man says. Jason shakes his head.

“I’m not selling a family heirloom, much less for barely two-thirds what it’s worth.”

“Fine. Thirty thousand.”

“Again,” Jason growls, “Not selling. What part of family heirloom don’t you-”

“Sixty thousand.”

There’s a pause, for a moment, and Jason lets his jaw drop, eyes going wide. It’s not hard. Sixty thousand dollars… even knowing what he does, that if this was a real Hereford it’d be worth four, maybe five or six times that, Jason’s eyes can’t help but boggle. Sixty thousand dollars… that’s go-back-to-college money. That’s get-your-degree money. “Can,” Jason-as-Ryan says, breathing shocked and ragged, “Can I have a day to think about it?”

Bradbury nods.

In twenty-one hours, he will own the forgery, and Jason will walk away with a smile on his face and a spring in his step. Ryan Davenport will never be seen nor heard from again.

The thing is, Dick had gone into the gallery expecting to target Robert Tanner, an oil baron with a weakness for a pretty face. The man’s actually been the target of at least six of Dick’s cons before this one- he’s fascinatingly easy to manipulate, and Dick never feels guilty for the man taking the fall.

He’s very cleverly maneuvering himself into yet another ‘accidental’ meeting with Tanner when a skeleton of a man, dressed in the prim, pressed elegance of someone who doesn’t understand why the ‘kids these days’ will go out on the town without a button-down, a tie, or a good, long dress, blocks his path.

“Oh, Olivia,” the man says, voice the high creak of a man not used to speaking in public, “It’s been ages, child- how is New York treating you?”

Dick takes a moment to weigh his options- either responding in the affirmative or quietly redirecting the man- before he catches the gleam in his eye. He doesn’t clear his throat, too careful to risk the sound, but his voice is a delicate fake more elegant than most voice actors’ regardless. “It’s going great,” he replies, a soft smile stretching across his face. The elderly man cracks a wide smile.

“Is that any way to say hello to your grandfather, dear?” he asks, offering his arm. An elderly woman waves from the other side of the room. Dick-as-Olivia allows himself to be dragged along. The elderly man’s voice is a low hum.

“I’m sorry for the interruption,” the man says, “But you see that man over there?”

He points out Tanner with the corner of his elbow, a scowl crossing his face. Dick-as-Olivia nods, eyes wide and guileless.

“He’s no good,” the man’s wife hisses, arriving to their little soirée with minimal fanfare and a scowl ten times greater than her husband’s. “Apologies if we’ve ruined your afternoon, dear.”

“It’s no trouble,” Dick replies. “Um. I’m Amelia, for the record. Not Olivia.”

'Amelia' taps the university ID on her lanyard.

“Of course!” the elderly man says, nodding. “Jeremy, this is my lovely wife-”

“Anne-Marie,” the woman agrees, bobbing her head with a nod. “I do hope you don’t mind the rescue.”

'Amelia' giggles, dipping her head. “No, of course I don’t! But. Um. If you don’t mind me asking…?”

“He’s a notorious - well, pardon my language, but he’s a sleaze,” Jeremy says with a huff. “He goes through young women like yourself in a week or less. Already tried that on our youngest, about fifteen years ago now. Of course, he was younger then, but he still broke her heart all the same.”

“Makes you long for the days when it was acceptable to offer a man stone shoes and a short pier,” Anne-Marie agrees. “In short, dear, he’s manipulative. No good.”

'Amelia' nods.

“So,” she says, “I know why I’m here, I’ve got a project on Hereford for my art history class, but…”

“Oh, we just like him,” Anne-Marie says with a casual wave of her hand, “And we heard rumors of a nice seller going around, too!”

That nice seller is probably Bradbury, Dick notes with enthusiasm. Looks like he’s lucked out- he’d been considering leaving and returning later with a different guise, or targeting a less convenient temporary mark, if they hadn’t been interested in Bradbury’s Herefords. In all honesty, this particular con relies on things going well for his current mark, anyways- there would be a bad taste in his mouth if he made things go well for Tanner.

“Oh?” Dick decides to ask, perking up, “Do you mind letting me know when? I’d love to see more of his work!”

Amelia is a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed biochemistry major with more than a passing interest in art history. He’d intended to play up the young socialite aspect with Tanner, but a delightful student that reminds a pair of former publishing giants- Dick remembers where he’s seen their faces before, now, their company (now in the hands of their children) had landed a massive translation contract a little over six months ago- of their many, many grandchildren is also an angle that works for him.

He exchanges numbers- a burner, of course- with the pair, and slinks off into the crowd for the day.

Michael taps his foot anxiously as he stares at his appraiser.

“How did you not notice this?” he asks, pointing to the painting, which is a beautiful rendition of the French Coast… complete with a long, low pier that wasn’t built in that particular cove until the 1970’s.

“Admittedly, I am not as aware of the inner workings of tiny marinas in the middle of nowhere in coastal France,” his appraiser replies dryly, “I saw a Hereford. I judged a Hereford.”

“Yes, and you missed what I pay you for,” Michael growls, “It’s fine. It’s fine! We’re out sixty, but we can still resell it for more.”

“You’re going to sell it despite knowing it’s a forgery?” his appraiser asks.

“Sure, why not? It’s not like any of those idiots are going to be able to figure it out.”

He leaves the back room of his gallery, surveying his potential customers. There aren’t many today- a few tech millionaires, and a pair of elderly art aficionados parading around what looks to be their granddaughter, who is dancing around the warehouse with a critical eye.

Had he looked closer, perhaps he would have noticed that her attention was less on the paintings, and more on the light fixtures.

“So,” Jason says, tilting his water bottle in Dick’s direction, “You agree you gave me the more difficult grift?”

“I gave you the less uncomfortable grift at the time,” Dick concedes smoothly, sinking into his chair. “I really don’t think you would have wanted to deal with Robert Tanner. I can barely stop myself from kicking him on a good day. But you did really well, Jay. I’m proud of you.”

Jason dips his head, staring at his water. His ears have turned a bright red from the praise, and Dick resists the urge to tease him further. It’s still more than he can imagine, seeing Jason across the table from him. Breathing. Alive.  Dick wants, so desperately, to reach out, to crush his brother into his arms in a back-breaking hug, sob into his shoulder until he’s out of tears. But, Dick reasons to himself, he’s only risking chasing Jason away. Possibly even for good.

There’s an odd, uncomfortable silence in the moments that follow. Jason lifts his head again, staring at Dick curiously, as if there’s some kind of puzzle that he’s trying to solve.

“Well,” he finally says, “At least you don’t have to deal with the guy either?”

“Here’s to Jeremy and Anne-Marie,” Dick offers, “Saving random students from one of the most oily men I’ve ever met. Goodness knows they need it.”

“He’s really that bad?”

“Oh, worse,” Dick says. “And he’s such an idiot, too, I’ve used him for what feels like half a dozen cons, and he still hasn’t recognized me once.”

Something almost like concern flickers across Jason’s face, for a moment, before he cleverly hides it away. Dick wonders why.

“You know,” Tim says, “I think you owe Barbara a lot more than muffins.”

“True enough,” Dick replies, flashing him a smile. “But shhh, kiddo. We’ve got to get to work.”

“I think it’s a little bit extra to screw in all of these lightbulbs,” Tim continues. Cass, from where she’s leaning halfway through the skylight, snorts.

“You’re not even screwing any in,” Dick points out. “Leslie wants you off your hand for another week.”

“I’m supervising.”

The building the gallery is housed in is wide and flat- a rarity, given how expensive real estate is these days. In contrast, the hallways within the building- a converted warehouse, almost, but Dick knows which districts Newark has warehouses in, and this sure as hell isn’t it, which suggests that the warehouse façade was built special, which is certainly… a choice- are narrow and high, not allowing for much of the natural light from the wide, high skylights to seep through.

Dick, as Amelia, follows Anne-Marie and Jeremy through the winding corridors towards the auction. The pieces up for sale today are, as expected, the Herefords- it’s been a week since Dick first met Anne-Marie and Jeremy, and in that time, Bradbury’s sold over ten million dollars worth of paintings. Dick supposes that’s what happens when you sell them en masse.

… Admittedly, one of them was a Warhol that made up nearly a tenth of the total profit, but still.

“Oh!” Anne-Marie chirps, “It’s starting. Shh.”

Amelia shuts her mouth obligingly, watching as the crowd begins to grow restless, energy spinning higher and higher as they bid and bid and bid.

Finally, near the end of the auction, Bradbury pulls out the Hereford.

It’s as beautiful as any of Barbara’s forgeries, if not more so. The vibrant hues of the blues against the stark, bright yellows of the lemons come alive in the muted beige auction hall. The painting practically glows, reflecting a soft blue onto the surrounding wall as the setting sun glints off of it.

The timing had, of course, needed to be perfect. The auction has gone on for hours longer than anyone’s expected, sharp, angry deals being cut on uncomfortable chairs. Anne-Marie and Jeremy have waited placidly for the Hereford, but he can tell even their patience has been waning.

The thing is, Dick really had needed to come with someone. This is their second day at the gallery- the first had been for another Hereford, a far more familiar piece featuring a gentle morning light across a herd of cattle, the breed something Dick still can’t recognize.

The first, of course, had been nearly a week ago. More than long enough for the rest of the plan to fall into place. More than enough time to know exactly where to place his bulbs.

Bradbury signals with a hand to turn on the lights. The bulbs, warm and eerie, glow purple-green. Also glowing, though with far more vigor, are four letters stretching across the canvas Barbara had so lovingly painted.

In the light of the UV, the word FAKE is unmistakable.

Dick listens to the whispers with a dark and stony face. He can’t afford to tip either of his lovely hosts off, but he can’t help but take pride in his work.

The thing is, they didn’t just leave Bradbury with one forgery. They’d taken his whole gallery.  Even the ones he’s already sold. This scandal, of course, will likely trigger an review, leading to every one of his most recent buyers searching desperately to see if they’ve purchased a forgery.

Because, here’s the thing: Bradbury, at the very least, had known that The Lemon Tree was a forgery.

How does Dick know that?

Well. That’s where the little audio bug- barely big enough to be visible, hidden under the wooden frame of the canvas- comes in.

The recorded audio crackles over the speakers. The auction hall descends into chaos. Dick takes to his feet, offering a hand to Jeremy and Anne-Marie.

In a few days, there will be a package on their doorstep, one not purchased- a painting of a lemon tree, upon a backdrop of the French coastline. A piece of pride. A piece with a story behind it.

For now, Dick slips away into the hustle and bustle of the city, nearly three hundred thousand strangers providing a better disguise than any mask could ever hope for.

Wally steps into the central GCPD precinct without much fanfare. Granted, he’s not exactly going in dressed in his full Flash getup, but he’s surprised to see just how hectic the precinct has become since he spoke with their forensic team on the phone less than a week ago.

“Duck!” a man shouts, and Wally does so, dropping to the balls of his feet, thighs resting on his calves as he looks up. There’s a sound like a hissing cat, and a mass of leather and fur goes flying overhead.

“I swear,” the man- a detective, by the looks of him, dressed in a long trenchcoat with a bright red tie and a brown fedora like he’s stepped out of some kind of crime thriller, and smelling strongly of cigarette smoke- “If I ever have to deal with Man-Bat again, it’ll be too soon.”

“Man-Bat?” Wally asks, “Do you-”

“No, I do not mean Batman, kid,” the man spits, “Not like he goes by that anymore, anyways. If he’s even still alive, that is.”

Wally raises an eyebrow. The man blinks.

“Oh, you’re really not from Gotham.”

“No, I’m here with the last of the evidence handover,” he says, “For the, uh, Joker case?”

A bright, vibrant smile cracks across the man’s face, looking completely out of place against the scraggly, graying beard, unkempt hair, and permanent frown lines.

“YOU HEAR THAT?” the man calls to the rest of the precinct, which goes near-silent at the roar, “HE’S HERE WITH MORE OF THAT DEAD FUCKIN’ CLOWN!”

There’s a moment of charged silence, when even the screaming creature batting at the sides of the holding cell they’ve placed him in for now quiets. It’s almost… reverent. Wally has the feeling that every single one of these people was counting down the days until the Joker drew his last breath.

“Shut up, Harvey!” a voice calls from the other side of the bullpen. The moment is broken, and the detective- Harvey, apparently- lets out a loud laugh, clapping Wally around the shoulders. Wally taps his feet along the floor nervously. He really should have accepted Barry’s offer to go in his stead. Gotham is weird. It makes him uncomfortable.

“Easy, kid,” Harvey says, “No need to look like a spooked rabbit.”

“What is that?” he finally asks, gesturing at the creature Harvey had named as Man-Bat. That definitely sounds like less of a way to start some kind of screeching argument than asking why everyone seems to be so happy about the death of the Joker.

“Like I told you. Man-Bat. Some kind of science experiment, I think,” Harvey says, scratching at his beard. “The Bat usually takes care of him, but nobody’s seen him in weeks, and Nightwing’s… busy.”

“How so?” Wally asks, “I didn’t think Gotham had capes.”

Harvey laughs, a deep, hefty sound that rings a little bit in Wally’s ears from the volume.

“Oh, we do, a whole colony, Birds and Bats alike, ” he hums, voice scratchy like an old record. “You’d probably know ‘em better as thieves. But we do.”

Nightwing. Huh. That might be Canary’s contact- or, if Harvey’s right, it might be one of the others, instead.

“You think they’re responsible for all-”

“The stolen goods in your case? Yeah, probably,” Harvey replies. “They do good work. Don’t forget that. Just turns out that stealing's better at taking out the head of their snakes than punching people ever will be.”

“Huh. Wasn’t expecting-”

“People to defend ‘em?” Harvey asks, and his lips quirk into a sad smile at Wally’s nod. “Well, they’re the only heroes we got.”

“Are you surprised-”

“Nightwing’s the one that killed the Joker,” Harvey says. “I know better than anyone. Knew that kid back when he was ten years old and one of the best thieves I’d ever met. Ain’t nobody else save the Bat himself with a better reason.”

“Oh?” Wally asks, eyebrow raised, “Um. If you don’t mind me asking-”

“The fuckin’ clown killed his little brother.”

Chapter Text

Nobody’s as much of a gossip-monger as a Gotham City detective. Even years of promotions haven’t changed that, not for Jim.

The thing is, while the gossip-monger trait is certainly useful for anyone in their profession, Gotham cops are notorious for it. The Bat’s stopped letting anyone besides Jim know jack shit about any ops, ‘cause even if Jim’s men aren’t in the pocket of whatever twisted son of a bitch the Bat’s set his eyes on that day, they’re still liable to blow the whole operation. Nightwing is a lot less tight-lipped, but Jim can’t help but think about how he manages to say even less than the Bat ever did with a hundred times as many words. Then again, Nightwing’s job is very different than the Bat’s- that weird little family of theirs relies on him being able to speak at length while saying nothing at all.

Jim doesn’t like to claim favorites out of the former (and current) Robins, but he has to admit, Nightwing’s pretty damn good at getting the job done.

He’s also very good at wrangling gossip out of Jim. (And the other cops, of course, but mostly Jim.)

“So,” Nightwing hums, too light and young-sounding to be his interrogation purr (it’s almost a chirp, if Jim listens closely enough- the same sort of tone he’d had as Robin, just older, and a few notes lower.) “You said there was some guy from Central nosing around?”

“Harvey said,” Jim points out. “Why are you out here, anyways? The signal’s not up.”

Nightwing’s head tilts towards the Batsignal, still unlit.

“Habit, I guess,” the kid says. “I snagged some bagels from Donnie’s in East End, if you want some.”

Ah, bribery. Jim wondered when it would make its appearance. He holds out a hand, receiving a brown paper bag filled to the brim with warm, fresh bagels.

“Thanks,” he says. Nightwing’s grabbed his own bag, sitting on the edge of the rooftop, legs dangling off the side. He’s got half of an asiago bagel stuck in his mouth, looking for all the world like an overly rounded duck bill. Jim resists the urge to laugh.

Nightwing finishes his bagel, stands, and then takes a moment.

“Don’t mention it,” he finally says. “Now, about that Central guy that was lurking around earlier…”

“Red hair. Young. West-something. That’s all I can tell you,” Jim hums, before pausing for a moment. Nightwing waits, the lights of the city forming a halo around him in the dark. His shadow is long across the rooftop, at least twice as tall as the man himself is.

“Thank you,” he says again.

“The bagels weren’t a problem,” Nightwing chirps, a smile crossing his face. As he moves to leap away, graceful as an alley cat, Jim’s hand snakes out to grab his wrist.

“This isn’t about the bagels.”

Nightwing stares. Beyond the whites of the domino lenses, Jim can almost imagine the shape of his eyes- they must be wide, now, though from shock or fear, Jim can never tell with this one. They stand there for several beats, silent in the cold wind blowing through the city.

“Then what is it about?”

Jim takes a deep breath.

“Thank you,” he says. “I know it doesn’t feel like something people should be thanking you for, kid, but thank you. You have no idea how much safer this city is without him in it.”

Nightwing relaxes, his wrist slipping from Jim’s grip like a greased otter. He vanishes like a shadow in the inky black of night, flickering off the roof and out of sight. Jim stands on the roof, holding the bag, alone once more.

“Well,” he says to nobody in particular, “Might as well find someone to eat these things. Harvey would like ‘em, I think.”

“We need to keep an eye on West,” Dick says, slumping into his chair. From across the Cave, Alfred raises an eyebrow and Barbara turns in her chair, while the rest of the family continues with what they were already doing.

“Trust me, I know,” Barbara replies. “I’ve been taking a look at his social medias, but there’s literally nothing he ever posts that indicates when he’s going to Gotham. I’ve managed to pull up the location data, but that only tells us when he’s about to be here or when he’s already in the city- not before, and not why he’s choosing to spend his time here.”

“We know why this man is lurking around Gotham,” Alfred says, grave. “We all know it.”

Dick cringes. “I know I haven’t been the most careful-” he starts, voice poised and precise, before he’s interrupted.

“Don’t you fucking dare apologize for that,” Jason snarls. “Only thing you should be saying sorry for is getting to the clown before I had a chance to.”

Despite himself, Dick snorts.

“I can handle West,” he says. “I just need more available hours than we currently have, which means I’ll either be pushing more onto Lucius, or-”

“We’re not dragging me back into the world of the living just yet,” Jason growls. “And certainly not to do your fuckin’ WE paperwork.”

“That’s fair,” Dick concedes, “I deserved that.”

Jason gives him a suspicious glare, but doesn’t continue the matter further. He’s been doing that a lot, lately- glaring at Dick whenever he tries to do something to keep the peace. Dick doesn’t understand what Jason wants from him, is the problem. Jason was around before Dick learned to constantly be on edge, on guard, always looking for the way to soothe ruffled feathers, which means Dick never really learned how to soothe Jason’s ruffled feathers. It’s making the both of them distinctively uncomfortable.

“I can handle some of it,” Tim says quietly. Dick shakes his head.

“You’re thirteen. I’m not going to make you do my paperwork. I’ll just figure out some more effective time management skills and I’ll be fine.”

Tim gives him a thumbs-up, and goes back to chatting about a card game he’s picked up over the summer with Cass and Steph. Stephanie’s started spending more and more time over at their place now that the jig is up (although Dick isn’t exactly sure how he thought he’d be able to hide the more unsavory parts of their work from the kid, he can at least now say he tried), to the enthusiastic response of Dick’s youngest siblings.

She is not, however, allowed to go on jobs.

… Yet.

Dick’s not going to say ‘never,’ because he’s pretty sure that’s a surefire way to end up with Steph on a job regardless, but he is going to say ‘not for a while yet’. For Tim, he couldn’t quite put his foot down- Bruce had let him (and Dick and Jason before him) out on jobs at younger ages. He can’t put his foot down regarding Cass, either, she’s a legal adult and can make her own decisions. Dick’s not going to try to open up the discussions of fully developed frontal lobes, because that sounds like an excellent recipe for getting his own words parroted back at him- he’s barely twenty-four, after all.

“Isn’t he only thirteen for like, another week?”

Dick freezes. “Tim! Did you manage to ask everyone if they were in town?”

Tim groans dramatically, spinning in his office chair. Steph gives him a harsh push, and he spins towards Dick and Jason like a crab flipped over on its back- ungainly, undignified, and generally odd. “I’m going to be fourteen,” he whines, “Do we really need to do… all of this?”

Dick hides a laugh. “If you don’t want the fanfare, we won’t get too ridiculous. Remember your bar mitzvah? We didn’t let that get out of hand either, now did we?”

“Yours, on the other hand…” Barbara whispers, a small smile on her face.

Tim folds in on himself, which has the unfortunate and hilarious consequence of making the office chair spin about three times faster. Dick whips out his right hand, now covered in slowly fading scar tissue, and stops the chair with a thud. Tim’s eyes, when they meet his, are the slightly glassy and unfocused commonplace amongst the extremely dizzy.

“I really just want to invite a couple people,” he says, voice soft, “If that’s okay.”

“Perfectly fine,” Dick reassures him.

He’s forgetting something. Tim stares at him for a long moment before Dick makes the connection of what he’s supposed to be remembering.

“Oh! Right. Yes, I do have a plan for the Flash, but it’s going to be a bit tricky from a time management front…”

The growing is slow, at first. One could even be excused for not realizing how the trees have moved just a fraction of an inch, how the cracked pavement seems to shudder above thousands upon thousands of webbed roots. One could even be excused for not realizing how the vines rise up to choke everything in their path- benches, tables, and even cars all fall to the ever-surging green.

“Ugh. Kudzu,” says Pamela Isley, better known as the Rogue and occasional Parity associate member Poison Ivy, surveying her field of green. “I should have checked my seed bombs more thoroughly.”

“You probably should have,” Dick agrees, dropping down to the pavement in front of her. “Do you know how difficult it’s going to be to make this place wheelchair accessible again?”

Ivy winces. Apparently, he’s struck a nerve- looks like she’s here for Parity today, not a fight. Dick straightens, wiping away any indication that he’s looking for a banter-filled clash of wit and weapon. He’s got a job to do. Clearly.

The thing about Poison Ivy is that, deep down, she really does have the same goals that they do- steal from, threaten, and generally humiliate rich people until they stop ruining people’s lives. This won’t be he first time Dr. Isley has contracted Parity for a job, and it sure as hell won’t be the last- she still seems to find her pollen more effective than a good, long, aggressive con, but Dick’s seen her admit that their methods are excellent for long-term gains.

Ivy notices the change in posture, and matches it with her own. All of a sudden, it’s not a Bat and a Rogue standing in the middle of a park in Gotham Proper, but two Parity members looking at a prospective job.

There’s still something distinctively tense about Ivy’s stance. Dick casts his eyes around for Harley.

She’s not here.

“Where’s your shadow?” he asks. A vine snakes up and around his feet, and he’s hauled bodily deeper into the park. Ivy must be upset- she hasn’t even noticed the way that the trees are creeping further in. Everything is growing, Dick notices- except the kudzu, which is withering and dying behind them, as if all of the water has been sucked right out of it. Above them, the tree canopy grows thicker. Native plants- the beeches, the white pines, the red oaks- are bolstered first. It’s not the right time of year, but acorns fall all the same, one hitting Dick directly on the nose. A squirrel runs across his shoulders to grab part of the new bounty.

A woodpecker- Dick’s not sure on the species, Tim has always been the one more interested in birdwatching (both of the real bird and the vigilante bird variety), but it’s a large one with black wings, a white head with a black stripe running from its bill to its back, and a bright, flame-red crest- flitters down from the canopy, alarm call ringing through the rapidly expanding woodland. Another acorn, one that has fallen into Dick’s hand, has sprouted without soil- his face is half-covered by a sapling red oak, and roots trail around his arm, tying it to the ground.

“Can I put this down?” he asks, careful to keep his voice calm as ever. Ivy narrows her eyes, but nods. Dick allows the oak to slide off of his hand- it grows into the ground instead, burrowing itself deeper from the weight as it rises in between him and Ivy.

“That’s intense,” Dick acknowledges. It’s been only thirty seconds, but the trunk of the former sapling is already several inches around and growing larger.

Ivy steps past the oak, eyes glowing green in her displeasure.

“Where’s Harley.”

“Well how would I know?” Dick asks, injecting offense into his tone, “I haven’t seen either of you two in months.”

“She mentioned wanting to thank you, for…” Ivy trails off, tilting her head to the side. Dick swallows uncomfortably.

“How, exactly, was she planning to thank me?”

“Said something about taking care of one of your problems in turn,” Ivy hums, inspecting her nails. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“I would think that’s pretty obvious,” Dick says, ignoring the tightness in his throat as a vine wraps around it. “You know, if you’re asking for my crew’s help, this is a pretty bad way to go about doing it. Hood will probably just shoot you, and that’s if Batgirl doesn’t get to you first.”

Something like interest flickers across Ivy’s face.

“So you do have a new hitter,” she purrs. “I was wondering if the rumors were true.”

“We do,” Dick agrees, bobbing his head.

“You should be able to be of service, then,” says Ivy. “Harley’s missing. I’ve already been looking- nobody’s talking. I need your help.”

Her voice cracks on the last word, like it’s the most difficult thing in the world to ask it of him.

“Of course,” Dick replies, and the vines fall away. “She’s a friend. How could we not?”

Ivy’s eyes burn green. “I need you to find whoever took my partner,” she growls, “and I need you to make them regret it. And I need you to leave them alive, so I can make them regret it even more.”

Dick’s inhale is sharp and stuttered, and brings with it a lungful of indigo-colored pollen. Sleep rushes up to him like shadows in a train tunnel, a violent, physical thing.

On the other end of the line, Dick is silent. There’s no chatter to dampen the panic, only the sound of deep, even breathing. Jason’s hands tighten along the back of his chair, before he releases it (crumpled and dented under his fingers) and stalks to the exit of the Cave. Beyond the antimicrobial mesh, the fluttering of the bats- gentle and quiet- serves to soothe his frayed nerves.

“Don’t fret,” the voice of Poison Ivy purrs. “His eyebags were past his domino mask. All the pollen was supposed to do was disorient him- he fell asleep all on his own.”

None of the other kids are down in the Cave- they’re off-comms, which means all Jason has right now is Alfred’s steely-eyed concern and Barbara’s effective nervousness.

Well. Actually. Barbara’s got this covered. Especially if they’re going to be working with Ivy on this one- all this means is that they have to locate Nightwing. Preferably soon.

Jason slips on his helmet, red-lacquered metal and all, and checks his guns. His bike should cut it- he’s not sure exactly how difficult it’ll be to lug an unconscious Nightwing across the city, but it can’t be too difficult, especially if he’s anywhere close to waking up.

The streets are quiet as he roars down the road. Ivy being out and about means that nobody wants to even think about using a form of transportation that involves fossil fuels- walking and biking is one thing, but driving? Better to not risk it. Jason, being a Parity member that Ivy’s asking for assistance from, knows he doesn’t have to worry. Everyone else, though? Depending on the Rogue, some people decide to just take the day off when the opportunity presents itself.

(Others, on the other hand, decide to collect some of the fattest overtime checks they’ll ever get to cash in their entire lives. Overtime is one thing. Rogue time? Triple pay, sometimes more.)

(Gotham has made it illegal to force people to work when there’s a major confirmed Rogue sighting, in that they’re actively going around and causing some kind of mayhem. Normally, things being illegal does not in fact stop them from happening in Gotham, but, as it turns out, the Old Families aren’t exactly fond of everyone who launders their money winding up dead from Joker gas. That was, if Jason recalls correctly, one of the last things that Dent helped push through before he got hit with acid and turned into a Rogue himself.)

His bike skids to a stop as he reaches the edges of the cracked pavement and overgrowing green. Some of it is shriveled and died- maybe a non native plant that Ivy started the day working with on accident- but most of it is so healthy and wild that it almost glows. The trees are at least five feet taller than they’d been the last time he’d seen them, and they’re thicker, too. The park’s initially somewhat sparse treeline has become as thick and dense as a throw blanket.

How the hell is he going to be able to find Dick in this?

He pulls out his tracker, tapping it with mild annoyance and more than a little bit of concern. According to the small device (palm-sized, and such an obnoxiously bright purple that Jason just knows it was originally intended for Steph), Dick’s about a hundred and fifty feet into the woods, not far from where the path is supposed to be.

Only problem is as follows: Jason has no idea where the path is supposed to be. There’s a little segment of woodland that’s more grass than tree, and Jason treads carefully- it wouldn’t do to come back to life only to get Lyme Disease from a deer tick. There’s a bird call overhead- some kind of owl, it sounds like. Maybe a Great Horned? It’s certainly big and deep sounding enough for it.

As the light fades, it becomes more and more difficult for him to pick through the thick forest. Jason is startled from a sleepy yawn by an upset sounding rattle, and has to back away from the snake slowly rising from the grass into a strike posture.

Jason is pretty sure he’d heard once that there’s only two species of venomous snake in New Jersey, and to be honest, he’d never really expected to see either, but sure as anything, right smack-dab in the middle of his path sits an angry timber rattlesnake.

Jason is suddenly significantly more worried about his brother. He stomps through the grass, eyes scanning for more snakes, grateful that his boots are armored and so are his knees, and the pants he’s wearing are a material thick enough that most snakes would find it tough to bite through them.

“Shhh,” a voice says as soon as he reaches a small clearing, “He’s still sleeping.”

Dick is splayed on his back like a starfish, snoring louder than the engine of Jason's bike. His head is tilted to the side, close enough to a red oak sapling that he might risk biting it in his sleep.

Up against one of the larger beeches stands Ivy, who’s watching the whole scene with visible amusement.

She’s dressed down, not in her full Poison Ivy getup that she wears whenever she feels like cracking skulls, which means this was probably some kind of request for assistance.

“Something tells me you didn’t stay here just out of the goodness of your heart,” Jason growls. Ivy sighs, and pulls herself all the way to her feet.

“You’d be right about that,” she says, “Waiting twenty minutes was mostly to get my cortisol down.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. Unfortunately, the helmet won’t translate that into a readable expression, so he’ll have too hope that his silence will suffice.

“Your boss will let you know the details,” she hums. “Or should I say… your brother?”

Jason takes a step back. From the faintly smug look in her eyes (hidden behind a layer of concern, of course, but still there), Ivy had definitely seen that.

Jason places one hand around Dick’s arm and another around his legs, hefting him up on his shoulders like a dead deer. Dick uncurls almost immediately, locking his arms over one of Jason’s shoulders and under the other, still snoring unbelievably loudly in his ear.

That… should be fine. Jason resists the urge to cuff him so that he’ll be more secure, and instead hopes that his brother will be able to cling on as well in sleep as he does when he’s awake.

Isn’t there some kind of reflex in monkeys that keeps them from falling when they pass out? Jason’s pretty sure he read somewhere that some humans have that- he wouldn’t be surprised if Dick did, given his general behavior half seems to indicate he’s some kind of freakin’ lemur.

… Jason caves and straps Dick in. Wouldn’t do to have him rolling off the bike in the middle of the city.

Moving with Dick on his back isn’t exactly as easy as moving without a grown man strapped to his back, but Jason isn’t built like a living brick for nothing. The snoring has eased into something softer and quieter as Jason starts his bike back up. He realizes, with an uncomfortable clench of his stomach, that this is the first thing that could even hesitantly be described as a hug that he’s gotten from Dick since he’s revealed his continued status in the world of the living.

There’s two possible explanations.

Number one: he’s somehow been determined unworthy of a Dick Grayson octopus hug. Somehow, this is the better option.

Number two sits like curdling milk in his stomach: that Dick is so worried about pushing buttons that he didn’t even think to offer a hug. He’s been astoundingly quiet, more than Jason has ever remembered him being off a con, and nobody else seems to think it’s odd.

… Is he really walking on eggshells like this all the time?

There’s a sleepy giggle, and Dick leans in closer.

“Hi Jay,” he says, voice somehow less soft through dozens of layers of sleep than it ever is at home. “My baby Jay. Little birdie. When did you get so big, Jay?”

Jason smiles under his helmet.

“Hey, Big Bird. You waking up?”

“Nnnnnooo,” Dick whispers. “I love you.” It’s practically like a toddler’s sleepy whisper, given how out of it he is, but it makes Jason smile wider all the same. Okay. So he’s not part of some kind of weird elaborate plot to make Jason feel unwelcome. Great. That’s fantastic.

… It does, unfortunately, lend more credence to the second theory, but they’ll cross that bridge when they get to it.

“Love you too, idiot.”

Dick yawns, reshuffles, and promptly falls back asleep.

Jason doesn’t say anything for the rest of the ride home- it really does look like his brother needs the sleep. Dick starts snoring again about halfway through, before making a truly undignified sound that makes Jason think he’s accidentally swallowed a bug. That motion seems to wake him right up- there’s a bleary whine, and Jason pulls over right before they hit the Cave, looking over his shoulder with concern.

“You good?” he asks. Dick tugs at the straps keeping him in place, obviously confused.

“You were totally out of it, I couldn’t exactly let you just sit there without making sure you wouldn’t fall off somehow.”

Dick blinks several times, before yawning widely.

Almost immediately, he falls back asleep.

Jason considers this an absolute win, even if he is functionally treating his twenty-four year old brother like a twenty-four month old.

It takes Barbara about half an hour to run the search. Gotham security camera “computer security” is nothing to Oracle, which means two things.

Good news first: they’ve found out who’s taken Harley.

Bad news: it’s Black Mask.

Black Mask is one of the reasons Dick is trying so desperately to keep Steph away from their jobs. She’s already nearly died at the man’s hands once- Dick’s not about to let that happen again. Even if it means truly excessive amounts of complaining.

“On the upside,” Dick says, “this means the con’s fairly straightforward: we’re not actually doing a con.”

Tim, from where he’s sitting by the long table in the center of the Cave, raises his eyebrows.

“So… what exactly are we doing?”

“I’ll run distractions for Mask,” Dick hums. “Tim, as long as it’s not in person, you can help. Cass, Jason?”

“Yeah?” Jason asks, while Cass just nods.

“We’re gonna need you both on best form,” Dick chirps, smile wide, “This job is best for hitters.”

They both straighten, looking at each other with fierce, mischievous grins. Dick claps his hands together to get everybody’s attention.

“Alright,” he says, “Let’s go steal a Rogue!”

They are, in all honesty, incredibly fortunate that this year is an election year in Gotham. Every single one of the major players tries to get new mayors in their pockets. Some are decidedly partisan, but most- including Black Mask- like to play both sides.

Gotham’s mayoral candidates are a Russian Roulette of quality versus corrupt to the core. Parity, as a collective group, tries its best, but nobody’s been able to top Bella Reál for her ability to actually root out corruption in the fifteen years it’s been since she first took office- and she’d lost five years ago to a Maroni puppet who was arrested no more than six months later.

Reál’s gearing up for a run at Congress now- WE’s actually been donating quite a bit to her campaign.

Gotham is the largest city in New Jersey by a large margin (as in, over half the entire population of the state large), which means it’s split into multiple districts for election season- Reál’s chosen to campaign in the smallest and densest of them all. Barbara wishes her luck, but she won’t need it. Reál’s popular in Gotham for a reason, and the idea of actually having advocates in the national legislature when the usual approach is simply forgetting they exist is, needless to say, appealing.

This is, of course, a long way to say: Black Mask is going to be at one of these benefits.

Black Mask is one of the non-partisan donors, the ones who want to play the aisle and see which benefits he can score. Therefore, it’s not too hard to figure that he’ll be in whatever big campaign event that will take him.

Barbara hums, chewing on her knuckles as she scrolls through her options. Behind her glasses, she narrows her eyes.

“I think I’ve found an option,” she says on her private channel with Dick. “Just depends how willing you are to use your real identity with this one.”

“Bruce has done it before,” Dick reassures her, though he still sounds hesitant. Barbara's frown deepens. She’s in the Clock Tower tonight, hidden away from all of the mess. She’s usually in Headquarters or the Cave during Parity missions, but the Clock Tower is safer than Headquarters on a night like this one, and she’s not feeling like sitting all swaddled in the Cave tonight anyways.

“You place the drive yet?” Barbara asks. There’s a hum on the other end of the line.

“You have too little faith in my ability to disappear,” Dick purrs right back. “A janitor’s uniform and a baseball cap, and nobody even has a chance of figuring out who I am. Brought it with me, too, don’t want to risk them finding it.”

It’s always a delight to watch Dick work when he’s actually having fun. He slinks right past the security cameras- that Barbara can see, now, thank you flash drive. They’re all hackable, of course, but it would take a lot of determined data mining from several of her better programs to get anywhere near the amounts of information she can get from a plugged-in drive.

Dick is very good at getting her the information she needs. It’s one of the reasons they work so well together.

“You know, I’m almost done with that long-term cover of yours,” Barbara hums. “You start on Monday.”

“You’d think it’d be more difficult to get an interview.”

“You’re going to be part-time,” Barbara laughs. “I did not skimp on the health insurance.”

“Oooh, that’s always nice,” Dick replies. “Not that I need it, but it’s always good to see part time positions with nice health insurance. Do they have dental?”

“It’s Central City, what do you think?”

“Sooooo… is that a yes?”

“No shit they have dental,” Barbara says. “Decent package, too, considering you’re part-time.”

“Maybe WE needs to up its game.”

“There’s no reason not to,” agrees Barbara. There’s a noise of agreement over the other end of the line. Barbara resists the urge to laugh, instead pursing her lips in a small smile.

“You ready for the gala tonight?”

“As I’ll ever be. Is Black Mask going to be there himself?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” Barbara replies. “Checked the schedule and everything. Don’t get shot.”

“I won’t,” Dick hums. His voice is more strained now, like he’s been running.

“Hmmm. Don’t think I’d be too sure about that,” Barbara teases. There’s a snort on the end of the other line, and Barbara can hear the even, almost mechanical motion of his shoes hitting the pavement now, even and wide-spaced like he’s jogging.

“I would be,” Dick purrs, voice as confident as ever.

Barbara may be half of Parity’s brain, but there’s a reason Dick’s their frontman. It’s going to be an absolute delight to watch him work tonight.

“This feels too-” Jason starts.

Cass slaps a hand over his mouth and glares.

“Shh. Cursed.”

Her brother, not seemingly familiar with the concept of never say ‘quiet’ in the emergency room (a phrase Dick had taught her on their first job together, posture alight with mischief and the satisfaction of a job well done) glares at her, and-

He licks her hand.

Cass narrows her eyes, but doesn’t remove her hand. Instead, she slinks forwards, shadow low against the ground, watching the cars slink out of the parking garage underneath Black Mask’s skyscraper.

The skyscraper is situated in the Diamond District, a mark of how difficult it’s been to put Black Mask away in a manner that won’t result in him squeezing his way out of it. It’s a gaudy, ugly building- though of course, she’s biased.

The security cameras don’t move. Mask is cheap- easier to hire goons than buy good cameras, here in Gotham. People want to ask what the cameras are for. They don’t question security.

Cass clocks the movement of the cars, and leans back like a stretched rubber band. In the gap between them- the moment where nobody will ever think to notice her- she snaps forward, tension releasing, crossing the lot in moments and springing up into the second level. With her grappling hook, it’s the furthest thing from difficult to reach the lowest office floors from there.

The duffel bag on her back is no issue.

Behind her, Jason is almost as quick. He moves with the grace of someone who has been doing this for quite some time, and the discomfort of someone who would rather be entering through the roof.

Too bad.

“Can you open it?” she asks Barbara. While Cass could theoretically use one of the nice tools Barbara has made for her to open the window, it’s far less likely to draw unwanted attention if the windows are, like so many things these days, connected to the Internet.

“Not that one, but the one about five to the left of you is an executive’s smart window,” Barbara replies. “Not sure why.”

Cass shrugs in turn, but takes the opportunity. The window unlocks with a slight pop, and she runs her fingers under it, silent in her victory as she pries up the glass. Slinking into the executive’s office, Cass opens her duffel bag. Inside, she finds a relatively unassuming blouse and slacks, a dark brown wig, and bright pink lipstick that, while she’d never wear on a casual day in a million years, will cover the short, jagged scar on her lower lip.

Jason is much less graceful upon entering through the window, not seeming to realize that he’s gained nearly a foot and at least a hundred pounds of muscle and bone since he was last Robin. For a moment, he manages to catch himself in a handstand, before once again falling flat on his face.

“Don’t you dare,” he whispers, dragging himself to a crouch. Within his duffel is a janitor’s uniform, a pair of headphones, and directions to where Dick stashed his cart earlier. (Within the cart, of course, is a stash of many of the weapons that Jason had requested, in addition to a long, cheerfully decorated mallet they will be returning to Harley as soon as they see her.)

Jason reluctantly slips his helmet into his duffel.

They take the elevator up together. Cass makes sure to keep her head down and the ID badge that Barbara had provided her clamped on to her shirt. Jason doesn’t need to hide his face (though he’s careful to anyways)- he already has the best cover.

Invisibility.

The issue with Black Mask’s skyscraper is that, according to Barbara, the holding cells are on the top floors, for the oddest of reasons. Either way, it means that despite the owner of the tower’s absence, they’re going to have to be careful.

They can both do careful.

Cass is halfway down the hallway when she’s stopped by a young-looking blond with a busted nose, wide smile stretching across his face.

“Hi! You weren’t at the meeting earlier today! Are you okay?”

Cass freezes.

Hand halfway to grabbing a glass of champagne, Dick freezes in tandem with his sister.

He snags the champagne, pretending to down it quickly (in fact, he only holds it in his mouth), and quietly slinks to one of the single-occupant bathrooms. In a split second, he’s checked for bugs, and has removed the alcohol from the equation.

“Alright, Cass,” Dick says. “I’m going to need you to get angry.”

He can almost hear her asking to please not make her. Big shows of emotion are something Cass hates to do on a job- they’re already difficult enough to come by naturally, especially anything involving negative emotions- but fucking hell will her getting upset solve this problem fast.

There’s a sharp intake of breath.

“I’m going to need you to repeat after me- be sure to match my tone. Increase the volume if you have to,” Dick growls. “‘I think you’re mixing me up with someone else.’”

There’s some clicking on the other end of his line, and Dick can suddenly hear the other side of Cass’s conversation in perfect clarity. Right. The audio recorder in the cart. That’s good.

“No, I haven’t,” the man replies with an obnoxious whine, “Janet, from Communications! You still haven’t texted me back!”

Dick grumbles under his breath. “Cass, I need you to repeat after me again,” he says, “My name is Brenda. Says it right here. I don’t know who that Janet lady is, but maybe she had the right idea.”

Cass repeats it. The man seems to grow more angry.

“Janet, come on. This isn’t funny!”

There’s a thumping sound, like he’s stomping closer to them.

“Oh, fuck this,” says Jason on the other end of the line. But it’s not Jason that Dick hears move, crunching the man’s nose back up into his skull and slamming one of their tranquilizers into his neck. No, movement that efficient has to be Cass.

“Problem solved,” Cass confirms cheerily as she, from the audio Jason’s cart is getting at least, shoves the man’s unconscious body into a closet. Dick blinks, for a moment, before bringing his hand to his face with an overdramatic groan. Of course. They’re hitters- he’d been treating them like a pair of grifter prospects caught off their guard.

“Sorry about that, Cass,” he says as he returns to the party. His voice is soft and quiet, and he casts his eyes around anxiously.

“Dickie!” a voice calls- Kate! Dick lets out a tense breath, and stretches his face into an obviously fake smile.

The thing about expression is that there’s layers to it. A real-looking smile is actually easier than a fake one. He needs to crinkle his eyes a little bit, make it soft and easy, but it’s far simpler than something obviously fake. But Dick’s grieving- he’s supposed to have obviously fake smiles, painted on as thin as metal plating. And so, he doesn’t let the grin stretch up against his eyes, lets it pull taught and uncomfortable against his teeth.

Kate stops short, cataloging his expression, and tilts her head in a silent acknowledgement. Instead of coming over to rescue him from a gala he’s been forced to attend, she puts on her own party face, trailing closer and yet seemingly aimlessly like a floating Portuguese Man-o’-War.

“I have to talk to you soon,” she whispers, voice low. “I think I’ve found something.”

“I have to talk to you, too,” Dick replies. “We definitely have.”

He still feels guilty for not telling her about Jason before now, but it’s been completely unavoidable. To be honest, this is the first time he’s seen Kate in weeks- she’s been unreachable.

“Oh, Kate, darling, shove over, I haven’t seen your lovely nephew in ages,” says an older woman, pushing through the crowd to put Dick’s face between her palms as if she’s his grandmother and not a woman Dick sees maybe once every five years.

“Valerie!” Kate says, enthusiasm somewhat faked, but not entirely- someone Kate doesn’t have a strong distaste towards, then. That’s always a good sign.

“Oh, you poor dear,” hums Valerie, turning her attention back to Dick, and he’s perfectly aware that this is about to become a distinctively uncomfortable conversation. “I heard about what happened to your father. And you poor dear, having to go back to work right after… I don’t know how you can stand it.”

Dick’s throat tightens.

“Could barely argue enough time to sit shiva,” he admits. “Everyone kept trying to drag me away from the rest of the family.”

Valerie’s eyes are downcast. She slinks off, distinctively uncomfortable. Good. Dick wants people who ask about that without invitation to be uncomfortable.

In the space left behind by Valerie's exit is a middle-aged man with a smile that speaks of a lot of dental work to cover being punched in the face a few too many times.

“Arthur Diamant,” he hums. “I don’t believe I’ve had the opportunity to make your acquaintance before. Mister Wayne, may I introduce my good friend Roman Sionis? He was a friend of your father’s.”

No, he most assuredly was not, Dick thinks to himself, forcing himself to not grit his teeth and ruin his performer’s smile.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he tells Sionis, who has apparently decided to wear a second mask to the party. Dick is more than familiar with the expensive, intricate masks that most only know of in the concept of spy thrillers- but this one, which seemingly allows for almost fluid movement and facial expressions, is a cut above the rest. Dick would never wear one of these silicon masks himself- it’s obvious to anyone who looks long enough that there’s something patently fake about it, and it draws attention in an uncomfortable manner, too. There’s something not right in the way that he can’t quite seem to move his brows, and it’s done nothing for the bright red of his irises, glaring out at the room under thick, presumably plastic, blond brows.

“Fuck,” Jason hisses over the line, voice coming through with the click of his helmet engaging. “Batgirl, move NOW.”

Dick covers the sudden increase in noise with a shake of his head, rubbing at his eyes blearily. Sionis’s eyes sharpen at the movement.

He has Sionis’s attention, at least, which means the only goal for the night is to keep it.

Dick lets himself stumble a little. The champagne he’d artfully spilled earlier allows him to smell more strongly of alcohol, making him seem far more drunk than he actually is (which, of course, is that he’s not drunk at all). Sionis’s eyes narrow, like he’s found easy prey.

Needless to say, he hasn’t.

“S-sorry,” Dick laughs, a pained smile stretching across his face. “I’ve. I’ve not had the best night.”

“Understandable,” Sionis hums, leaning forwards to catch Dick, who artfully twists out of the way, overbalances Sionis, and sends him crashing plate-of-Hors d'oeuvres-first into the exact woman Dick had been hoping he’d stumble into.

Celestina Gigante, beloved niece of Mario Falcone.

… Dick still regrets his own part in what happened to her mother.

Jason slides under the reception desk on the sixty-fourth floor. Fuck, how many shots does he have? He checks his guns, eyes narrowed, before shooting a glance at the men in the hallway. Alright, he should have enough for kneecap shots if his aim is good- Jason doesn’t give a shit whether or not these guys are gonna die, but it’s never good to kill randoms on a job anywhere close to covert.

He bites his lip, curses, and ducks under the desk again when another shot goes through the wall behind him. If he’s really clever, he can pass this off as a gang-on-gang shootout- while Black Mask likes to hire internally, he’s not that good.

“Big Bird,” he hisses, “You distracting him enough?”

There’s a muffled curse on the other end of the line, and a low thump, so Jason assumes the answer to that question is a resounding yes. There’s a muffled thump on the other side of the hallway, coming from the elevators, and Jason raises his gun to fire. Six goons. He takes out kneecaps, making every shot perfectly nice, neat, and even, just like he’d been taught. He spins around to the side of the hallway where Cass had been fighting-

And finds his sister standing in the middle of a pile of thugs, chest heaving, office chair’s wheels spinning end over end from where it lays sitting upside down against the wall.

“That was fast,” Jason rumbles in the mechanized tone his helmet provides. He shouldn’t be too shocked- she’d come with a reputation- but he’s pleasantly surprised regardless.

Cass nods. She’d hastily pulled on her Batgirl mask, which looks strikingly bizarre against the business-professional look of the rest of her outfit.

“You wanna quickchange, or…”

Cass shakes her head, and digs around the pockets of one of her thugs. There’s a clatter of metal on metal, and she pulls out a large keyring. His sister prances down the hallway, stopping at each door and counting off the number to herself on her hands.

“It’s this one,” says Barbara.

“... That’s just a normal office, Oracle.”

“It’s not,” Cass says quietly, slipping a key into the lock and twisting. The sound behind the door is like the creak of some great machine. Jason has cracked more than the one safe in his day, but this isn’t that- it’s more like a vault door’s slow rumble, if anything.

The door creaks open. Jason’s eyes rise to his hairline as he notes the thing’s thickness- three inches, at least. Fucking hell, it must weigh nearly a thousand pounds. He reaches a hand out to push it open with Cass’s help.

Beyond the steel door lies a long, high glass wall. As Jason's eyes adjust to the dark, he realizes it’s not quite a wall, but rather a window.

Beyond the window lies Harley Quinn.

“The fuck?” he asks. “Did they put her in an interrogation room or something?”

“I can hear ya, you know,” Harley says on the other side of the window. “Big bad mechanized voice won’t do anything to scare me. Mask already tried!”

She giggles, pounding on the glass. Jason sighs, and procures the devices that Barbara somehow knew they’d need- a paint marker, which Jason shakes up in one hand, and a drill, which Cass revs up in her own. Jason draws a circle, wide and high, but not too large. Cass gets to work on the grinder. In three minutes, as they listen to the pounding of feet on the other end of the hall, coming ever closer, they reach the end of their slightly lopsided circle, and the glass falls through, smashing to smithereens on the floor below.

Harley sticks her legs through immediately, gripping onto the upper side of the hole to haul herself through. She nearly smacks her head on the glass, but pops out with a wide smile on her face.

“Oh! Batgirl!” she says, clapping her hands together delightedly. “Did Red send ya?”

Cass nods. Harley spins around to eye Jason up and down.

“You have any idea where a girl could get a nice mallet? I’m itchin’ for some skulls to crack.”

Jason steps backwards to pull out his janitor’s cart, grabbing one of the mops by the handle and turning it towards Harley. She regards it suspiciously, but pulls it the rest of the way out of the cart- making a delighted noise of surprise at the realization that it is not a mop, but instead her precious mallet.

“Oh, I’ve missed you,” she says to her weapon, kissing it on the handle. “You two ready to crack some heads?”

“We’d prefer a quick in-and-out, but I have no problems with a little bit of light maiming on the way down,” Jason offers. Harley shoots him a delighted smile.

Sionis’s phone buzzes on the table.

Of course, Sionis is currently unable to reach it, given that he’s currently having the shit kicked out of him by Mario Falcone and Celestina’s several agitated brothers.

Dick, who had made a token effort to quell the fighting earlier, calmy sips on his champagne.Turning on his heel, he exits the banquet hall, stumbling slightly in the manners of a drunk man. On his way out, he tosses his champagne in a garbage can, still holding on to the glassware with one hand- never ditch a potential weapon if you don't have a better option, Bruce had always said. He turns off his comm with a quiet click. There’s a flare of bright red hair, but just as soon as Dick registers Kate, she’s vanished into the mass of people trying to catch a glimpse of the fight. The purr of an engine distracts him from the crowd, and Dick smiles as he sees Alfred, who looks only faintly irritated. Dick slips into the passenger seat, rather than the back.

“Miss Gordon would request I inform you that your cover is complete and has passed all checks expected of it,” the old butler hums. “And… should the family be expecting some particularly nasty tabloid rumor, come the morning?”

“Just that I’m grieving and not handling that well,” Dick replies. “Not that far from the truth, to be honest.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dick can spot a frown gracing Alfred’s face for a moment, quickly smoothed away by effortless professionalism. Dick may have been born to perform, but he’s learned from the best. Alfred knew acting long before he knew the Waynes.

“You know,” Alfred says, voice clinical and detached, “I do believe that’s the first time you have admitted that to anyone, Master Dick.”

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Dick asks. “I know I try to hide it, but-”

“I believe you underestimate your own ability,” Alfred replies. “Do not. It is an insult those who honed your talent.”

It’s the voice of a chiding grandfather, one Alfred rarely pulls out of his toolbox unless they’re acting in a particularly frustrating manner. Dick smiles, natural and easy for once.

“I saw Kate, today,” he says, changing the subject. “She wanted to talk about something important. I still haven’t told her about Jason.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Alfred asks with a raised eyebrow. “You inherited this stubborn inability to share information from your father, you know.”

Dick sighs, and collapses further into his seat. “It’s not lack of willingness to share,” he tries to explain, “It’s just. Difficult.”

“As is discussing your feelings, apparently.”

“I don’t want to burden anyone. You figured it out on your own.”

Alfred sighs, and drops the subject. Dick stares out the window, grateful for the silence. He takes the moment to breathe, then turns his comm back on.

“How are we feeling, everybody?” he asks, injecting his voice with as much cheer as he can manage. He doesn’t need to do much. The energy of the rest of the team, unimaginably loud through the communicators, is a roar of excitement (from everybody but Tim, who is staying home tonight) that leaves Dick’s ears ringing. After the sound finally fades, there’s a few beats of silence before Barbara clears her throat.

“So, Dick,” she asks. “You sure about this?”

“I am,” Dick replies, “No better way to get to know a mark.”

“Aww, that’s tomorrow?” Jason asks. “Damn, I thought you’d get more of a break.”

“It’ll help sell it,” says Dick, “If I’m tired.”

As it turns out, exhausted, supposedly hungover people do not show up to their forensics lab fifteen minutes early. However, exhausted, supposedly knee-deep in grad school people will, especially when they’re lugging a large iced drink that is definitely not their first coffee of the day.

Dick picks at his gloves, glad they’re hiding his hands. The scars will fade eventually, but they haven’t yet- they’re an identifying feature, now, and one that Dick doesn’t want to keep. Most of the time, an easily identifiable grifter is a dead grifter.

The lab is cold, which is nice. Cold is better for STEM work, Dick finds. He’s beyond grateful that Barbara found the open position- while his pre-law degree would make it easy to fit in as one of the cops (or more difficult, depending on the general quality of members of the Central City Police Department), he’s taken enough forensic courses that he’d gotten offers to TA back in senior year. He knows this. He won’t fuck it up.

‘Sophie Devereaux wouldn’t be worried about fucking things up,’ Dick thinks to himself, ‘ She’d just fake it till she made it.’

Somehow, that doesn’t reassure him.

There’s supposed to be another technician in the lab with him today. He doesn’t expect it to be the mark, not on the first day- this is a long con, after all, and part of that will require learning how to blend into the background, which means needing to familiarize himself with his workspace before he ever comes into contact with-

His timer chimes. Dick takes a look over his duties for the day, and frowns. It’s ten minutes past nine. His coworker should be here by now. Ten minutes isn’t large, in the grand scheme of things, but it does throw him off his game enough to be important.

Outside, in the hallway, Dick hears the screech of rubber-soled shoes, and freezes.

“Sorry, sorry,” apologizes a man Dick has seen in countless photographs, a man whose stare has been burned into the back of his mind since they both wore very different names. “Oh! You’re new.”

Wally West extends a hand and introduces himself. Dick waves.

“Tom Graye,” he offers, “It’s nice to meet you.”

West smiles, bright and energetic as Dick remembers him.

“It’s nice to meet you too!” he chirps.

Dick lets a smile crinkle the corner of his eyes, and puts more of his weight on his left foot, throwing more of his energy into the handshake and leaning a little more into West's space. West’s grin widens.

‘Oh, you poor man,’ Dick hums to himself, hiding a mischievous smile, ‘You don’t stand a chance.’

Chapter Text

Dick hadn’t been expecting to get thrown straight into meeting his mark, but he knows how to adjust on the fly- any good grifter does. Wally West is sweet and happy to assist, too- Dick’s not particularly surprised that, given powers, he’s taken them to do good.

“So, you’ve never worked in the evidence side of the field before, huh?” West asks, pulling a set of pipettes down from one of their shelves, “Just research?”

Dick nods, ducking his head. Tom Graye is supposed to be shy- originally, Dick had planned for him to be a bit standoffish, too, but shy with too much work on his hands feels like something that West will respect to maintain at least enough distance between then for Dick to remain a sharp-eyed observer.

West passes the pipettes over. Dick’s eyes flicker to the centrifuge, which is, oddly enough, still unplugged.

“Oh, ew,” he says under his breath, before turning to West. “Looks like somebody left evidence in the centrifuge overnight. Is that going to be a problem?”

West cringes, then checks the labels. All of a sudden, he relaxes, all tension leaking out of him like a cut drawstring.

“No, this is Thompson’s personal project- you haven’t met Thompson yet, thankfully,” West hums, “Nothing important. Gonna have to talk with him about what he’s using the centrifuges for, though.”

Dick nods.

As they both get to work, they fall into a companionable silence. It’s nice, honestly, especially for Dick, who’s used to having to get all over a mark just to have them tell him at least one thing that’s of any kind of use.

With West, though, Dick is expected to be a- not silent, but a quiet observer. He’s not supposed to be getting in the middle of things and mixing them up- he’s just supposed to be able to keep an eye on West, maybe give Barbara a little bit of a heads up if he’s heading their way, get some insight into his thought process so they can deal with him later.

He’s not getting involved.

Tim turns fourteen on the day that, by the standards of any true Gothamite, is nothing short of beautiful. The dawn air is clear and night-chilled, free of the oppressive humidity that a New Jersey summer outside of Gotham might bring, and the later day will be free of any of the biting chill that Gotham can’t seem to shake away no matter how warm it supposedly is. It’s cool, and bright, and the sky is peppered in thin cirrus clouds, so stringy a white that the oranges and pinks of the morning sky shines through them and casts them in color.

Normally, no member of the Wayne family in their right mind would be up this early. They don’t patrol regularly, not like other vigilantes of the same caliber, but the night is their playground all the same- it is rare, for them to be asleep before two or up before six, much less both in the same day.

But it’s for Tim. They’ll manage.

Tim’s friends, who hadn’t stayed over last night despite the early waking hour (Dick will never be able to understand how high schoolers can tolerate this pattern), have already arrived- Dick recognizes Stephanie, of course, and Sebastian Ives, whose chemo appears to be going well, and he thinks he recognizes one of the other children as Zoanne, but he doesn’t know the last one.

Granted, he’s a grown adult who doesn’t have much reason to hang out with a group of fourteen-to-sixteen year olds, so it’s somewhat understandable that he doesn’t know all of their names.

Dick has just barely managed to wrangle Tim into standing still, busy dabbing sunscreen onto his nose, when the doorbell rings.

Tim excitedly wriggles out of Dick’s hold, bounding towards the door and throwing it open.

“Bernard!” he says, “Hi! Come in!”

Ah, that would be the last of them.

Tim’s got his binoculars and his new camera- a gift from Dick, who couldn’t help himself when he’d seen it- wrapped around his neck. He has a bird book held under his arm (a gift from Jason, who’d seen the general lack of practically sized bird books and acquired one for New Jersey in particular) and a bag slung over the other.

While normally Dick’s youngest brother prefers to spend his free time inside cracking some elaborate mystery exclusively for fun, the eBird email he’d gotten late last night had lead to an excessive amount of excited screeching and frantic checking of iNaturalist, which had. Well. It had lead to a significant change in plans.

Granted, apparently Swainson’s Hawks are an incredibly rare sight in New Jersey, much less Gotham (Tim had described them as a ‘vagrant’ species), and Sandhill Cranes are an even bigger surprise- especially during the same timeframe.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come, Alfred?” Dick asks. His sort-of-grandfather offers a small, almost invisible smile and a minute shake of his head.

“I do believe neither you nor Master Bruce ever paid me enough to suffer the attention of so many children,” he laughs, “Do take pictures for me, Master Dick?”

“Of course, Alf,” Dick says, “I’m going to see how many leaves I can shove into my brothers’ hair. And how much blackmail I can retrieve, obviously.”

The word choice is specific, and Alfred catches on it- Jason’s reanimation is not a publicly released fact, so they can’t go calling him by his name around the kids, but Dick won’t lose the opportunity to take adorable photos of his family having a nice time together.

Tim’s prodigious usage of eBird and more than a few local birding forums has resulted in a set of excited squealing from the birthday boy himself, one of his friends that Dick can’t remember the name of, and Stephanie, while the other boys mostly stand around looking confused. Dick, delighted at the energy, swoops out to where they’ve parked the one, singular car that Bruce ever owned that wasn’t some macho power move.

“Exactly how are we going to fit-” Jason asks, mentally doing calculations, “Nine people in a seven-seater?”

“It isn’t a seven-seater,” says Dick, delighted, “It’s an eight- seater. And we’re going to have to squish!”

Jason makes an overdramatic face and grabs for the car keys. Dick expertly bends out of reach, a delighted smile crossing his face at the effort.

“Nobody’s sitting on my lap,” Jason says darkly.

As it turns out, nobody needs to sit on Jason at all. This is, of course, due to the bright decision that one of the children, some teenage boy Dick still can’t remember the name of for the life of him, deciding to climb into the car’s admittedly spacious- can you call it a trunk if it’s not an entirely separate zone of the car, but rather a section of empty space behind the last seats? Dick’s not entirely sure, but the kid crams himself back in there, sitting between a large cooler (that Dick and Alfred filled with soda and, in a desperate hope, actual water bottles late last night) and a larger bag almost exclusively consisting of snacks.

Jason, instead, sits awkwardly in the first row of high schoolers, sandwiched against the window. Steph is against his other side, eagerly talking to Tim, while Cass gives him a smug grin from the passenger seat.

“I will end you,” Jason whispers, glaring so sharply that Dick can practically see his eyes produce daggers in the rearview mirror. Dick resists the urge to roll his eyes, instead providing the rest of the car with a gentle, reassuring smile.

Something about that seems to make Jason’s glare turn from joking to serious. Dick course-corrects, allowing the smile to become smaller, softer, almost cautious.

The glare becomes worse.

Though he won’t let any other member of the car see it, Dick bites his lip with uncertainty. It’s become more and more difficult to find what pattern of expression won’t set Jason off in some way, shape, or form. It’s getting ridiculous.

He taps on the brakes as they slide to a slow, even stop outside one of the local parks- Ivy’s favorite outside of Robinson, though she’ll never admit it. It’s technically a National Wildlife Refuge, but it’s small- small enough that Dick doesn’t see many cars in the vicinity, besides one with a bumper sticker that reads MASTER NATURALIST, and another with six different window stickers of various rare birds on the back. Good. If Jason’s face is released to the public… he shudders at the thought of what could happen. He can deal with birders. He cannot deal with paparazzi.

He’s barely been able to roll to a stop before Tim has vaulted right out of the window, racing towards a field. That one singular movement sets the whole car into a frenzied chaos- Steph tries to follow him, Jason jerks her back so she won’t vault out the window like their idiot brother, the other kids try their best to escape the backseat by climbing over the other chairs-

Dick sighs, but doesn’t raise his hand to pinch at his nose like he wants to. Instead, he parks the car, unlocks the doors, and lets all of the wiggly little teenagers spill out onto the dirt.

Except for Cass, who has not joined the Mess, and therefore gets to stay upright in her seat.

Jason has not escaped the carnage, falling flat on his chest with both Steph and another one of Tim’s friends- the boy from the trunk- on top of his back. He shoves his hands under his chest and pushes up off of the dusty ground, rolling the kids off his back and accepting a hand up from Cass when she offers it.

Dick resists the urge to laugh at him.

Steph, once she’s free of The Pile, launches herself towards Tim, who’s raced off into a field to look at a tree with what appears to be the owners of the other bird-themed cars, along with a handful of what appears to be fellow high school students. That’s good- a nice intermingling with kids from other schools, completely unrelated to whatever kind of jockeying that competitive sports and games sends kids into.

… Is birding competitive? Dick wouldn’t think so, but sometimes people do still manage to surprise him.

Dick follows at a more sedate pace than the rest of the group, sticking several cold water bottles and more than a handful of snacks into his satchel. He picks up the pace as soon as he’s away from the car.

As he gets closer to the tree that the children (and several adults) have crowded around, Dick takes note of the large bird in the higher branches- a hawk, looks like?

“Is that the…” he trails off, not quite remembering how to pronounce the name.

“The Swainson’s Hawk? Yeah,” Tim whispers back, eyes alight in wonder. It really is quite an interesting-looking bird- the belly and under the beak are white, and the back is dark, much like many hawks that Dick has seen while driving down the highway, but there’s a rusty-colored collar of feathers that circles over its breastbone, and when Dick looks through the binoculars, its large dark eyes are almost kind.

“So, why is this one so rare? Couldn’t really parse out what you were saying last night.”

“It’s a vagrant,” Tim whispers, barely audible over some distant rumbling, “Swainson’s Hawks are native to the western United States- it’s unbelievably uncommon to see one here. They usually only get as far East as Illinois.”

“So this bird is lost, then?” Dick asks, voice soft. Tim nods eagerly, then looks around.

“I’m surprised nobody else is here yet, actually,” he says, “Usually a vagrant this obvious is a bigger deal.”

Dick frowns, and turns towards the direction of the rumbling. It’s grown closer, and now he can see the characteristic creeping vines that announce Ivy’s arrival.

“Here to do some birdwatching?” he asks quietly. Ivy, slinking out of the forest, places a finger over her lips in a shushing motion.

“I need to speak to the Connolys,” she says, “It is a matter of concern to the Green.”

The naturalists, both transfixed by the hawk, turn to her in unison.

“Is this about-”

“Yes,” Ivy confirms, then tilts her head in the slightest of gestures to Dick. It’s fairly obvious what she means by it- she may need Parity’s help again, and soon.

“Well,” Dick says to Tim, “At least we know why the attendance here is so limited today?”

Tim giggles, quiet as a mouse, hiding his smile by ducking his head. Dick reaches out and ruffles his hair.

There’s another quiet moment of silence before people start to raise their cameras again.

The hawk takes off after a few minutes, circling the field. The collection of birders whisper at one another and begin to follow it. In the reprieve, Tim checks his phone, and Dick nearly chokes at the sudden (but quiet) excited squeal.

“The cranes are here too!” he whispers, delight crossing his face. Dick wonders what the chances of that are- two birds that have sent Tim into such excited babbling arriving in Gotham on the kid’s birthday so close to one another.

It feels a little bit like luck. Real luck, not the kind that Dick forges for himself and the rest of his family with love and grit and his own two hands.

He can’t help the smile that graces his face, light and easy, as he follows his brother across the meadow.

The sound that greets them as the cranes touch down is almost like someone has taken snippets of the trumpet of an elephant and stitched them together in pauses. It’s… staticky, perhaps isn’t the word for it. Maybe staccato?

In any case, the sound is something positively prehistoric. The birds themselves aren’t too shabby, either- long-legged, long-necked gray cranes with a softer, lighter gray all the way up to their red-capped heads. Their wings are wide, wider than any Dick has seen before besides those of swans and eagles , and they dance ever closer, calling loudly, as if they have no fear of humans.

The only sound, besides the wind through the trees and the calling of the cranes, is the clicking of Tim’s camera shutter. The rest of the family, friends included, stands in silence, staring at these incredible birds. After several moments of true stillness, Dick finally gathers himself enough to speak.

“So are these… vagrants, too?” he asks. Tim tilts his head to the side a bit, as if he’s unsure how to answer that question. “Sort of?” he says after a moment, “This is theoretically part of the native range for Sandhills, and there's a group that winters in Husted Landing, but they don’t come so close to Gotham most of the time. They’re recorded vagrants in… Taiwan? We’re at the southern edges of their breeding range, right now, and... north? For wintering range, I think.”

The sheer delight in his voice is obvious, and Tim ducks his head after a moment when Dick’s only answer to his spiel is a soft, warm smile.

“Um. I’ve never seen them in person, before,” he says quietly. “My Mom tried to take me, once, when she was mad with Dad and on a dig in New Mexico, but it was the wrong time of year.”

Dick hums softly, carding his fingers gently though Tim’s hair. His youngest brother leans into the touch, eyes wide.

“They’re smaller than Whooping Cranes, right?” Jason’s voice asks over Dick’s shoulder, and both Dick and Tim jump at the surprise. “Yeah!” Tim replies, wriggling out of Dick’s hold. “They’re smaller, and darker in color, but both of them have that little red patch on the front of their face, above their bills. Whooping Cranes breed way northwest, though- Northern Alberta, southern Northwest Territories, I think?”

“That is pretty far north,” Jason agrees, and Dick realizes with a surge of proud affection that he’s making an effort. A real one, not a begrudging one Alfred pushed him into. Dick can’t believe that a few short weeks ago he’d been so worried that they wouldn’t get along.

Tim nods at Jason’s agreement, twisting at his fingers with the clearly-held-back desire to continue his infodump. Dick squeezes his shoulder reassuringly, and tilts his head in his way he uses to tell people that actually know him please keep talking, I’d love to hear it.

Tim’s face brightens.

“Have you ever seen a Whooping Crane?” he asks Jason, who shakes his head. “Why’d you ask about them, then?”

“They’re one of the most iconic conservation efforts of the twentieth century,” Jason says with a shrug.

“That’s Jason-speak for ‘they were mentioned in a couple books I’ve read and I’m curious because of that’,” Dick explains. The short flash of amused delight that crosses Jason’s face at the prodding is… confusing.

Tim cocks his head to the side, and nods.

“There’s about four hundred in the wild and a little under two hundred in captivity, I think?” he says. “The Louisiana resident population went extinct, though. The migratory population is all that’s left, even if they’re becoming residents now.”

They all lapse back into a companionable silence, listening to the pleasant honking of the cranes together. Dick, for a moment, allows himself to relax.

He should have known that was a mistake.

The rest of Tim’s birthday goes by rather well, actually. The mostly-amateur birdwatchers are all very pleased at the concept of going home and getting lunch when the sun starts really beating down in the middle of the day. Dick, as promised, delivers several photos- one that Cass had taken of their middle brother face-first in the dirt, pinned by a handful of teenagers, and several more of the entire family transfixed by the honking of Sandhill Cranes.

“Beautiful birds,” Alfred agrees, though he’s certainly not gone misty-eyed at the avian portion of the photos. “Thank you, Richard.”

Something warm glows in Dick’s chest at that, being addressed so casually. It’s a gift Alfred rarely lapses in his tight self-control enough to give, and Dick treasures the moments when it does happen like they’re more precious than stardust.

Cake, in the Wayne household, is a complicated affair. Well, less complicated when it’s not Halloween (the largest culprit of any overly complicated themed cakes), Rosh Hashanah (the arguments over apple cake shall not be spoken aloud outside of the household or within it), or, on one memorable occasion, a very hectic Purim (Tim’s first, with the rest of the family- he’d managed to hide a grogger and a turning mechanism inside the cake. Somehow. It hadn’t stopped making noise until they’d nearly finished the entire thing), that much is for certain. However, birthdays are still an Event, which means that one of them (usually Alfred) will pull out at least a few of the stops.

In this case, an absolutely gorgeous Black Forest cake that must have been a work in progress since last night, at least- they don’t have any sort of blast chiller, so the cake layers would have melted the frosting otherwise.

Mental note: Dick needs to ask Alfred if he wants a blast chiller. Alfred (and maybe Jason) is the only one with a passable capacity for cooking- he’d know if he wants a blast chiller or not.

Tim’s eyes light up when he sees it. The half-surprised delight is so heart-wrenchingly obvious that Dick can’t help but snap a photo anyways.

It’ll be treasured, in years to come- Cass has her arm wrapped around Tim’s neck in a headlock, chin resting on his head, while Jason crouches down beside the both of them with a wide, mischievous grin, and Alfred surveys all three of his younger grandchildren with a soft, fond smile on his face that’s tinged with more than a little bit of sadness.

It’s late afternoon, before the kids start to head home. Cass has volunteered to drop off Steph- she’s very pleased that nobody stood in the way of her getting her adult driver’s license- after the blonde had extracted a promise from her and Tim to visit one of the local aquariums or natural history museums over the next week or two. “Even if we all have to drive all the way to Massachusetts”, she’d said, which was certainly an exaggeration, though she does have a point- the New England Aquarium is more than just a little bit impressive.

He should see if Tim wants to visit. He needs to encourage his siblings to have more hobbies and career paths outside of stealing things. Tim’s going to grow out of being their thief eventually- he should have the opportunity to grow into something new, not tethered to their expectations.

Dick, Jason, Cass- none of them really got that opportunity. For Dick, it hadn’t been presented as an active, guiltless option, and he’s not sure Cass would know what to do with herself in that scenario. Jason was going to be presented with the choice, Dick was sure about it, but. Well.

He’d died.

Dick stares at the back of Jason’s head for a moment. Needling him, just a little bit, had gotten the least negative reaction so far. He’ll be careful, but he’ll continue it.

Dick can’t risk driving Jason away again.

With that note, slightly sour on such a sweet day, the parents begin arriving to pick up their kids. As it turns out, beyond Steph, Bernard- the blond- is the last of the kids to hang around.

Dick wonders how close some of them are to passing their driver’s tests. He knows Steph is midway through driver’s ed, despite being sixteen already, and knows a few more will be hitting sixteen by the end of the summer- they’re all grouped in the same grade, but Tim’s about two years ahead, and he’s one of the later birthdays, being midsummer. Some of the kids are going to be seventeen by the end of the school year. Goodness.

… Sophomore year of high school. That’s a lot for Dick to think about, when it comes to Tim. They’re going to have to start talking about colleges next year, maybe.

He takes in a sucking, nervous breath, and runs his fingers though Tim’s hair.

His youngest brother has taken some time to cool off from all the exciting activity, but hasn’t retreated all the way back to his room- as ever, a sign that this is a good day. He’s curled up next to Dick on the couch, laptop open on top of his knees. At the movement, hand in his hair, Tim cranes his head to look back up at Dick, the mechanical pencil he’s been chewing on still hanging from his teeth.

Dick snorts, and taps a gentle finger on the tip of Tim’s nose. Tim, dismayed, rears back and sneezes. It’s a small, light sound.

“You really are just the sweetest little ketzele sometimes, Jason’s right,” Dick coos. He doesn’t reach around Tim to pull him closer- he’s worried about scaring the kid off- but he wiggles, trying to make Tim a bit more comfortable.

They sit there, in companionable near-silence, only broken by the clicking of keys from Tim’s laptop, for several minutes. Outside the window of the main living room, the sun begins to droop just a little bit lower in the sky, though it’s still strong and aggressive like any midsummer sun.

Near them, Jason begins some odd almost-pacing around the living room, as if he’s deciding whether or not he’s allowed to sit down. Cass has already claimed a loveseat- she’s watching him and Tim fondly.

The knockers- old and heavy- on the front door slam with more than just the barest hint of urgency. Dick makes an apologetic noise as he slides away from Tim, who falls on the edge of the couch with a soft but uncomfortable sounding thump. Jason has already made his way closer to the door, but Dick gestures with his head away from it.

They don’t know who’s on the other side of the door, after all.

Dick unlocks the front door cautiously, poking his head out.

“Good, Dick, after I say hi to Tim I need to speak with you-” Kate starts, carrying in an absolutely massive bag, presumably filled with some variety of presents.

“Wait, Kate, there’s something I haven’t been able to tell you-” he says as she pushes past him. She barely makes it ten steps in before she stops, and Dick knows that she’s seen him.

There’s a moment, frozen as solid as deep ice, where nobody says anything.

Kate is still as a statue, not moving a single muscle, not even those in her eyes so she can blink, for a solid thirty seconds.

Then, she drops her bag- not softly, but not roughly, suggesting that there wasn’t really anything breakable within it, which is good news- and reaches trembling hands up to cup Jason’s face.

“Is it really you?” Kate Kane asks a long-dead nephew, voice rough-worn and raw. Jason’s face spasms, before he gives the barest of nods.

Kate reaches out to grip him by the neck and shoulders, pulling him into a hug.

For a moment, they simply stand there, as if preserved in amber for millennia to come.

After a while, though, Jason detaches and Kate follows. She turns towards Dick with a questioning look in her eyes.

“Was this what you needed to tell me?” she asks, voice soft and faintly dangerous. Dick nods.

“I couldn’t say over the phone,” he hums, “I didn’t know who could be listening.”

The danger dissipates.

Kate takes in a deep, heaving sigh, running her fingers through her hair in a self-soothing motion. She looks back to Jason for a moment with a fond expression, reaching up to ruffle the white streak of his hair around, before she turns back to Dick.

“We need to talk,” she says, then turns to the rest of the family, “Alone."

Dick straightens, eyes sharpening.

“The Cave is probably-”

Kate huffs.

“If I go down to the Cave, you’re going to find some excuse to squirm away from this talk. We can move to one of the living rooms, but-”

Dick catches Cass’s eye, and tilts his chin up towards the stairs. Tim whines overdramatically when Jason stalks over to scoop him up, tossing the teenager over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Tim, Dick notes with amusement, immediately falls right back asleep, as if he was never worried about Jason to begin with. It’s good, Dick thinks- Tim gets too little sleep regardless. None of them have a reliable schedule, but Tim’s is the worst, for a reason Dick could not give anyone else, and he’s the youngest and the smallest, which means he needs the most sleep to grow.

He’s barely tall enough to sit in the passenger seat of a vehicle, legally. Dick is pretty sure that they still have a booster seat from back when Tim was too small for the seatbelts in any of Bruce’s cars.

Dick allows himself to stare at them, fond, for a few more moments, before turning his attention back to Aunt Kate for the inevitable tongue-lashing on information sharing that he’s going to get.

When he turns back to Kate, though, he’s surprised to see her eyes filled with not recrimination, but rather the aching, painful stare that accompanies betrayal.

She tugs at Dick’s wrist, firm but gentle enough to not hurt him, careful like she’s been with all of Bruce’s children, and Dick follows. The sitting room that she chooses is one of the interior rooms- no windows for potential eavesdropping, and two doors for a hasty exit from either party. Excellent taste, as always.

Dick notes, in addition, that she’s chosen a sitting room that doesn’t appear to have many objects of a throwing weight. He has to admit, that particular detail doesn’t make him feel very good about the likelihood of this being a calm, reasonable conversation that won’t result in any tears (or, worse, blood) being shed.

Kate paces a circle around the room, as if she’s testing the likelihood of either of them being overheard. There’s a good chance that’s exactly what she’s doing, as Dick is well aware- there are many secret passageways that even he hasn’t been able to find in the… goodness, nearly fourteen years it’s been since Bruce adopted him. Dick chokes back any comments as Kate circles the walls, tapping like a woodpecker looking for grubs on the edges of the crown molding. Satisfied that there isn’t any notable points of eavesdropping besides the doors on either end of the room- and Dick knows from experience that the other door is difficult to find on the outside, the room just past it used to be one of Jason’s favorite places to hide in the Manor- she turns back to Dick.

And she waits.

Dick shifts uncomfortably as Kate levels an unimpressed stare in his direction. Her eyes are narrowed. She’s swept her hair back and away from her face, probably from running her hands through it anxiously- he’d seen her do it more than once on the way to this room. It’s such an obvious tell, but Dick’s eyes are drawn to it anyways- it suggests that the conversation is rooted in worry, rather than anger, which is definitely a comfort. He allows himself to stiffen, muscles going taught- better to show that he’s just as anxious as she is about this.

It’s not like it’s a lie.

“How long have you known?” Kate asks, picking at her fingers. Her eyes have left Dick’s face, and instead are focused on her own hands, like she won’t be able to believe whatever he says next. Dick clears his throat awkwardly.

“What do you mean by that?”

Kate’s head snaps up, and she pins him to the wall with her glare like a red string to a corkboard.

“How long have you known about Jason?”

“Less than six weeks,” Dick replies, smooth as anything- it’s much easier to give reports. “He revealed himself to us near the tail end of the Figures job. We weren’t able to reliably get in touch with you until after the thing with Sionis.”

Kate nods, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She clasps her hands behind her back, and leans forward.

“I didn’t ask you why you didn’t tell me,” she says, voice quiet. “I asked how long you’ve known. He participating in jobs?”

“One of our hitters.”

“You didn’t think to ask me?”

“It was short notice.”

Dick’s voice is growing more clipped and cold as the conversation goes on, and he scrambles to warm it back up.

“We would have, if we knew how to contact you more easily- I’m sorry, Kate. We should have tried harder.”

Something suspicious flickers across Kate’s face.

“You know,” she hums, “I was just about to say- you’re certainly getting better at sounding like him.”

“Who?” Dick asks, knowing perfectly well who she’s referring to.

“Bruce,” she replies. “You sound like Bruce. Manipulative bastard side and everything.”

She says it with a choked laugh, like it’s funny.

“I don’t think I’m being manipulative,” Dick responds, voice carefully even. Kate rolls her eyes dramatically.

“Yes, you do, you just don’t want to admit it. You already know what I was coming to tell you, don’t you?”

“I don’t,” Dick stresses, eyes going wide, “Can you-”

“Save it,” Kate says. “I’m leaving.”

The door to the sitting room slams behind her, so hard that the other one creaks its way open. On the other side, staring at him with an unimpressed glare, is Jason.

“She’s right, you know,” his younger brother says as he stalks into the room, taking up the place their aunt has just vacated. “You sound like him, on days like this.”

It’s not accusatory, but Jason blew back into Gotham killing people- it’s not too far of a stretch to assume he’s not particularly happy with Bruce at the moment. Dick huffs.

“I don’t sound anything like him,” Dick growls, and is shocked by how low it comes out. There’s something oddly delighted on Jason’s face, like he’s pleased with Dick’s momentary lapse, the little flicker of anger that had escaped its tiny, pressurized cage.

“You do,” Jason argues, circling closer like a hungry panther, eyes sharp and almost predatory. “You claim you don’t, but everything you do- it’s like you’re trying to play the rest of us like we’re a collection of marionettes . When was the last time you had an actually real fucking emotion, Dick? When you weren’t just faking one to pretend to some person or another that you agree with what they’re saying, or to make them agree with you?”

Dick twists, hand slamming on the table behind the long sofa in the center of the room, then stalks forwards to Jason, who stumbles and takes a step back. Dick pauses in the middle of the room, feeling, ironically, like a marionette with half his strings cut. He takes a deep breath, and raises his hands- outstretched and uncurled- towards Jason.

‘You can’t get angry,’ he tells himself. ‘You can’t risk it. It always made Jay upset, even if he won’t admit it, and last time.’

“Can we just talk about this?” Dick asks. “What have I been doing that upsets you this much?”

Jason snarls, kicking a stray ottoman with one foot.

“This is exactly the problem!” he shouts, and Dick backs up instinctively, heading for the door, blinking in confusion. His breathing is coming in more rapidly than before, he notes absentmindedly, as Jason lurches forwards, eyes blazing, cutting him off from his exit. “You sit here like a puppet with its strings cut, and you jerk around everyone else like they’re your little Barbie dolls you get to play with,” he snarls, backing Dick up further towards the wall. “You’re practically a fucking doll half the time. I haven’t seen any legitimate shows of emotion from you since I got here.”

Dick’s breathing stutters. There’s a ringing in his ears.

He feels like he’s going to puke, but Jason just keeps going, and going, and going.

‘Don’t say anything,’ he chants to himself like a mantra. ‘If you say anything, it’s just going to break everyone apart again-’

He’s tearing up, Dick notes- he’s never been good at that, holding back tears as soon as they get started. Dick’s not sure if he’s entirely in his own body, right now, but the ringing and the nausea and the vaguely alkaline taste of his saliva do seem to suggest it.

“Do you even care about any of us?” Jason asks, hands swooping wide in an arc around his head, and something breaks in the depths of Dick’s chest. He thinks he’s about to vomit, but instead, what tumbles out is-

“What do you want from me?” Dick wails, clutching on to one of the loveseats for support. Absently, Jason realizes that he’s pinned his older brother in the corner of the room, far away from either of the doors.

“What do I-” he starts, but Dick cuts him off.

“I try,” he heaves, like he’s trying to expel all the breath from his body, “So hard. You’re upset when I try to be softer- okay, I’ll be more clinical, but that’s upsetting, too, and you get mad at me, so I get mad back, but that scares you, and- what do you want from me, Jason?”

The sound at the end is halfway to a screech.

He wants to step forwards, grab his brother’s hands, ask what’s happening, but what tumbles out instead is-

“So you admit to being a manipulative bastard.”

Dick lets loose a shuddering sob, then pushes himself up from the edge of the loveseat, ambling towards Jason like the world’s most upset zombie.

“I’m not trying to manipulate you, Jason,” Dick hitches like he’s trying to get his breathing under control, scrubbing at his face. “I’m trying to keep you from leaving again.”

Jason grimaces.

“That’s still-”

“When people leave, they die,” Dick snaps, then stumbles, crashing onto his knees with none of his usual grace. He looks up at Jason like someone might stare at water if they’d been lost in the desert for decades. His eyes are unfocused, hazy, and glassy with a sheen of tears.

…Jason may have misread the situation. He crouches down, and Dick’s eyes follow him, wide and shaky.

“Tell me what I need to do,” his brother says, breath hitching on a sob, “So you don’t leave again. So I- so I know you’re safe. I’ll do anything. I’ll be anyone. I just-”

Jason reaches out, rubbing a thumb over Dick’s tear tracks.

“I don’t need you to do anything,” he whispers, voice soft. “I don’t need you to be anything. ‘Cept my brother.”

Dick leans into the touch, overbalancing onto Jason’s shoulder. Jason reaches up a hand, rubbing circles into Dick’s back, and whispering soothingly.

“‘M’sorry, ‘m’sorry, ‘m’sorry,” Dick chants over and over and over again. As the sobs slowly fade, Dick’s arms come up- gently, at first, like a spooked cat.

After that isn’t rejected, though, it’s as if a steel bar has been wrapped around his ribcage. Dick clings to him like he’s a buoy in a storm.

Jason doesn’t move, not until the sobs have all faded, and the vice grip Dick has on his ribs has loosened. He’s asleep, now, and doesn’t make a single noise of protest as Jason hauls him up like a sack of potatoes. On his way upstairs, he runs across Alfred, who takes one look at the tear-stained state of Dick’s face and Jason’s shirt, and sighs.

“I do believe we need to discuss this in the morning, Master Jason.”

Jason thinks, for a moment, of the desperate I’ll be anyone, and wonders what three years without him has done to his brother.

“Yeah,” he agrees, voice rough, “I think we do.”

Chapter Text

Dick wakes up on the floor of his room, Jason snoring softly on his bed.

“Ow,” he grumbles, stretching- his back pops in what seems like half a dozen places. He has a headache, like he’s been crying, and his mouth tastes faintly of acid.

“Did you roll me off my bed?” he asks his brother, who sleepily opens one eerie, almost glowing eye.

“And what of it?” Jason huffs, “Did you really have to wake me up for that?”

“Did you really have to throw me off my bed?” Dick retorts. A fond, shaky smile crosses Jason’s face. Dick climbs back up to his bed, and flops over-

“OW!” shouts a small voice, and another on the edge of the covers whines loudly. Dick sputters.

“Is- are all three of you in my bed?” he asks. Tim’s head pops up, as does Cass’s. Their eyes are wide and their lips are trembling.

“We can go… we can go if you want,” says Tim, intentionally stuttering.

It’s the worst manipulation attempt Dick has ever seen with his own eyes. He’s honestly offended at the meager effort.

It’s working anyways.

He flops onto the bed, careful not to crush Tim this time.

“So,” he whispers, “What brought everybody here, then?”

“Jason kind of just grabbed us in the middle of the night,” Tim whispers back, and in the gloom, Cass nods in agreement, “You were totally passed out, but you grabbed us like an octopus. It was kind of weird.”

“S’not that weird,” Jason says with a yawn, “That’s what Dick’s like when he’s not trying to beat out Bruce for the ne plus ultra of the emotionally constipated.”

For a moment, there is silence.

“... Oh,” Tim says, and it’s a little raw, and deeply uncomfortable. Dick reaches out to crush the teenager against his chest. Cass leans against the bed’s baseboard, phone glowing bright in the darkness of the room. Apparently, she’s up for the night.

“You’re cool with me being a bit clingy?” Dick asks Tim, chin resting on top of hid brother’s head. From somewhere around his shoulder, Tim replies in the affirmative.

There’s a creak, and a heavy weight settles over the both of them.

“Ow,” Dick says in an exaggerated tone, “You’re heavy.”

“I notice you’re not asking me to leave.”

“I’m not. I’m asking you to get off my bladder before I have to.”

Even in the dark, Dick can see the flashing white of Jason’s teeth as he grins brightly.

Something tense and hesitant begins to uncoil in Dick’s chest the longer he grabs on to both of his brothers. After a moment, Cass clicks her phone off and flops on top of the pile, eyes staring down unblinkingly at Dick.

Dick yawns, and buries himself deeper in his bed.

This is nice.

The tense, hesitant mess of balled-up emotions finally loosens under all of this weight. Dick lets out a heavy breath, and slips off back to sleep.

Of course, he wakes up on the floor again, but it’s better than it was before.

Their next job practically falls into their laps.

One would normally be pleased with that, with the ease of finding work, but for everyone in Parity, a new job means that people have suffered and ask for their help.

It’s sort of like being a medical specialist, Dick thinks- the goal is to eradicate the foe you fight so thoroughly that you never get patients again.

Dick is in a small, nearly empty bar. The young man across from him must be only barely eighteen, if even that. Hunger has eaten away at his frame, but his eyes are clear, free from confusion despite the horrors he claims to have witnessed. They’d have to be clear- he’d have to be with himself- to be able to make a bus trip halfway across the country to see a myth.

“Just to be clear, you two said you talk with The Bat?” he asks, fiddling with his fingers.

“We’re with The Bat,” Dick confirms, leaning back in his side of the booth. Clear green eyes meet him from across the table, and the young man shoves scraggly red hair under his baseball cap. He picks at the sleeves of his hoodie anxiously.

“And?”

“And, we’ll take your case,” Dick hums gently, “But are you sure you don’t want to talk to the Big Red Cheese about it? Heard he’s really good at that kind of thing.”

“I…” the kid says, “Look, the Captain’s got more on his plate than anyone’s had any right to give him. If you knew him, you’d know that.”

Something terrible sinks in to his expression, then, like he’s realized he’s said something that he shouldn’t.

Dick gives the slightest of shrugs. It’s not like he has the context for any of this, he’s only been to Fawcett on jobs… hm. Three times, maybe? And all before Captain Marvel had become active.

“So,” he restarts, leaning forwards again, “You said that SI’s been testing some memory wiper on people in your encampment?”

The kid nods.

“I know it sounds crazy,” he starts. Dick raises a hand to stop him.

“We live in a world that’s under the protection of an invulnerable flying alien that shoots lasers from his eyes,” Dick says, voice soft, “I believe you, Aaron.”

Aaron brings a hand up to his mouth, letting out a tiny sniffle.

“Oh, oh dear,” Dick says, reaching across the table. Aaron raises a hand up to stop him.

“No, no, I’m fine, I just- you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that,” he gasps, choked, “I- I’ve woken up with these gaping holes in my head, and I don’t know why, and so has everybody else, but I couldn’t go to the cops- who would believe if some random guy started rambling about how a billionaire stole pieces of his brain?”

“Do you have anywhere to stay for the night?” Dick asks gently. Aaron puts his hands under his chin and stares down at the table.

“You already helped,” he replies, “You’re going to fix this, and- and you paid my bus fare.”

“Bare minimum- you schlepped yourself all the way to Gotham, least we can do is make sure you don’t have do deal with the Penguin today,” Jason says, voice rough- he’d wanted to come to this client meeting, had practically begged, but it looks like it’s been a tough time for him, “Hotel room, shelter or safehouse?”

“Um,” says Aaron, “Would a hotel room put you two out…”

“Of course not,” says Jason soothingly, in a tone that sounds strikingly like one of Dick’s calm-down-the-mark voices, “Follow me, I’ll get that taken care of for you.”

Jason escorts their client away. Dick moves to the edge of the booth, and places his head in his hands.

The idea behind making sure Sivana doesn’t continue with this research- simple. How to get restitution for every one of the people he’s taken when it’s likely that a good portion of his victims don’t even have a bank account? That’s going to be more complicated.

He’ll work through some ideas on the way home. In the meanwhile, though, his fingers itch at the thought of leaving these people to fend for himself.

His lips curl into a small smile.

He’s found his con.

“So… what’s this kind of Circus, again?” Jason asks, landing hard onto one of the chairs in the Cave. Barbara isn’t with them tonight- she’d chosen the Clock Tower, which means it’s just him, Dick, Tim, Cass, and Alfred listening to the squeaking of the bats. There’s a speaker attached to one of the communicators, but all of the rest of them are sitting in their cases.

“Romanian Circus. We’re going to be turning them against each other the old-fashioned way,” Barbara’s voice crackles over the speakers, “It’s one of the cons Dick and I used to run all the time.”

From the other side of the table, Dick nods.

“Listen, these people have little to no moral compass and definitely nothing resembling an ethical one- our best bet is turning them against one another and having them cannibalize their own department.”

He says that so icily that it makes Jason resist the urge to shudder. Dick, apparently, is very much on his game today.

Dick leans forwards, hands clasped together under his chin. He points his hands forwards, and then sits up straighter.

“Alright,” he says, “Romanian Circus requires some heavier setup, so we’re starting with Tim…”

‘It’s so nice to actually be in the field again!’ Tim thinks, forcing down a grin as he expertly dodges a series of security personnel. Of course, he’d prefer to be dodging lasers or cracking a safe, but this works, too.

Barbara had given him an intern’s cover and an easy target- the executive in front of him has no regard for his interns, doesn’t use his keycard frequently, bumps into people often, and, best of all, keeps the keycard in his side pocket.

Tim is so going to rock this.

He slips forward, picking up his pace just the tiniest amount, and swaps out the real lanyard for a fake. The executive- Pierce- has stuffed it into his pocket, calling it ‘embarrassing’, but it’s started to spill out with his movement, so it’s not difficult to put the fake back exactly where it’s ‘supposed’ to be.

With the lanyard in hand, Tim slips off at the earliest opportunity. Avoiding security cameras is fun- Tim’s been doing it at the Drake residence since he was seven, it’s not difficult whatsoever.

Tim’s here to make two stops- the server room and one of the labs. The server room, surprisingly, is empty besides the servers themselves, without anyone to keep an eye on it. Tim pauses for a moment, eyes narrowed, taking in the edges of the room. There’s a light, blinking, near the bottom of the floor.

“Huh,” he says in realization, “Lasers! Nice.”

“You can back out of this if you want,” Dick offers softly over the other side of the line.

“Come on, really?” Tim huffs, “I just got back to field work again!”

He looks over the grid- it’s probably just a basic set of floor motion sensors. For a homent, he hums to himself… before he reaches over to turn off the lights.

From the small bag attached to his ankle, Tim retrieves a fistful of white powder. Between the darkness of the room and the powder he blows over it, there’s enough that the lasers- a beautiful, brilliant green- become visible.

Hmm.

Simple grid on the floor, but it looks like it’s moving. Now there’s a fascinating system- usually, lasers just move in place, changing their angles. These, though- they’re sliding in their sockets, all the way from one end of the room to the other.

There’s no grid above the one on the floor, though, which means it’s Tim’s lucky day.

‘Remember what Dick taught you about handstands,’ he thinks to himself, spying the slot he needs near the bottom of the server stack, ‘And… go!’

Tim springs from his feet to his hands expertly, catching the keycard under his chin awkwardly as it tries to slip away from him. He dodges the lasers smoothly, and, coming across a gap in the middle of the room, digs out the flash drive, placing it between his teeth while he readjusts the lanyard with the keycard.

The lasers, for a moment, get closer. Tim stretches up onto a single hand, and then onto just a few fingers, breathing shallow.

He can’t hold this position for long.

For a few moments, the lasers sit there. With his free hand, Tim places some of his weight on the servers themselves, then switches to the elbow and grabs the flash drive.

It’ll take a moment. The lasers retreat, after about a minute, and Tim swaps hands.

“You’re good.”

That’s Barbara, on the other end of the line. Tim reaches forwards to snag the flash drive, and, once it’s safely in his buttoned pocket, flips to his feet again.

The way out is, needless to say, much easier than the way in. All he needs to do is dance.

“Oh, Thaddeus, it’s been ages!” a voice cries from the other end of the hall. Thaddeus Sivana, just getting out of his water therapy session, lifts his head to see a man with obviously dyed-blonde hair and sharp gray eyes careening towards him.

“This is a private facility,” he grits out.

The man pouts overdramatically, hand on one hip.

Thaddeus recognizes the logo on his lapel, he notes. One of those rat-catchers. Thaddeus shivers slightly.

He’s had a bad feeling this entire morning, and it’s had nothing to do with Captain Marvel getting a leg up on him again yesterday (or whatever Lex Luthor needed that protein synthesis research for last week). He straightens, and narrows his eyes at the man.

“What do you want?”

Terrier, Inc* is one of the more popular sources of internal investigators- their people are ruthless, and it’s like they know how to smell blood in the water- Maxwell Lord once complained about his experience with them for four hours in what was supposed to be a meeting involving Thaddeus getting his hands on some Kryptonite, and Thad’s wanted to work with them ever since.

“Nothing, at the moment,” the man says, “Just wanted to give you a card.”

Thaddeus nods.

“I have no need of your services,” he huffs, “And if I did, how would you know?”

A sly grin crosses the man’s- looking at the card, Thaddeus notes his name is Frank Castillo- face, and he leans into Thaddeus’s space far more than is comfortable.

“That’s the secret,” Frank purrs, “There’s always rats, in a company as big as yours, once it’s left to its own devices for long enough. I’ll bet you’ll see them soon enough.”

Thaddeus manages to wait on the call until he’s back at his office. Something, though… something doesn’t feel right.

He calls the Terrier agent, figuring it’s best to leave him to his own devices. They’re savage about it, but efficient.

There’s something delightfully easy about half-truths, Dick notices, especially when you’re in a situation where you don’t feel terrible for telling them. He smiles fiercely as he enters the main R&D laboratory in the Sivana Industries building, grin so sharp it could cut glass.

They don’t notice him, at first.

The squabbling is easy to pick out. Two departments have recently been merged, and the clearly defined pecking orders have become smudged and uneven. None of the scientists seem to know their places, though they boss around interns all the same.

Well, almost all the same.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dick spots one of the younger project leaders toss a bottle to an intern- not Tim, who’s left his post in favor of the second part of their plan, but rather Cass, who’s spent the last three hours down here with the rest of the college-age interns.

“Do I have to do this?” Tim groans over the line. Dick’s smile sharpens further, and his teeth nearly draw blood as he bites down on his lower lip to keep from laughing.

“I don’t like this either,” Jason grumbles, “If you have to put up with it, then I have to put up with it.”

There’s a surge of chatter from random children on their end of the line. Dick taps his fingers against the table, continuing to watch the scientists around him. For a moment, he ponders his options- there are several.

For one, he can intentionally pretend to stumble in this job, adding to the frenzy and sending everyone in the building into a panic. For two, he can play this as smooth as an oil slick, and watch everyone else stumble into his trap.

They still haven’t noticed him- the scientists, that is, too busy squabbling with one another. These aren’t the more dedicated researchers, all sequestered into their little labs- no, this group is fighting over funding. With his newfound security clearance and his seeming invisibility, Dick decides to take a little stroll.

Normally, they’d be relying on Cass for this part, but if he can take some of the workload off of his little sister without compromising his own efficacy, Dick will take that part of the job happily.

The labs, like many in buildings that try to look ‘futuristic’, are glass-walled, and have the names of experiments being conducted within them on little placards on the door. The one Dick is looking for is Erasure Therapy, funnily enough.

There are many issues with the Erasure Therapy experiments, but they boil down to several things: number one, nobody’s been paying the patients for their participation as is listed on the advertisement, number two, they either aren’t taking proper account of who they’re taking for experiments or they’re taking people multiple times- even though the listing says they won’t- for shits and giggles, and they clearly haven’t done enough testing on the side effects, given how nasty Aaron’s headaches had been.

Dick shrugs on a free lab coat from the hallway, and slinks closer to the glass door that reads Erasure Therapy. There aren’t any security cameras on this hall- ostensibly to reduce anxiety and increase the level of safety and privacy for patients, though Dick knows if that were the only reason that there aren’t any security cameras on this hallway… they would install them. Sivana Industries- and Sivana in particular- really don’t care about the patients they’re putting through the ringer. That much has been made painfully obvious in the last several weeks.

“Oh, hi, are you here to supervise?” a graduate student asks, popping his head out of the door, “Um, you’ll need these-”

He presses a set of sunglasses into Dick’s hands, and drags him through the door. Dick allows himself to straighten, shoulders back and head held high. It’s the look of an overseer, and the graduate students know this.

He slips on the sunglasses, and tries not to pay attention to the fact that he probably looks ridiculous.

“Um, so, you’ve probably already read the report, but Dr. Martin said I was supposed to say this anyways, and I hope you don’t mind that I’m listening to her-”

Dick waves his hand dismissively.

“It’s not a problem. Go on?”

The graduate student nods nervously, eyes wide, and grabs a packet full of papers, shuffling them around in his hands.

“Okay, so we’re calling it the Neuralyzer for now, but we’re pretty sure that’s trademarked, so we’re looking for alternative names, if you can tell the people in Marketing that,” he says, “We’re basing it off of the design from the series, ‘cause it’s small and fairly practical, but it has a more effective range and it’s useful even if someone’s head is turned or their eyes are closed. Weirdly enough, polarized lenses do actually work..”

Dick blinks, putting the pieces together silently.

“The Neuralyzer,” he asks, “As in, the Men In Black Neuralizer?”

“Yes!” the graduate student says delightedly, “Oh, I am so glad you got that reference- Dr. Martin didn’t, but she’s not much of a person for sci-fi, and like, why are you even in this field if you’re not into science fiction, but-”

Dick raises his eyebrows, and the man shuffles, clearly resisting the urge to run his fingers through his hair in a self soothing motion.

“Um. Anyways, it’s a small device, designed to let out pulses of light that we’ve determined can remove recent memories without suggestion of new ones, and can remove older memories if we suggest something else, as well, but only under clear instruction. One of the subjects was not given clear instruction, and, as a result, forgot how to count.”

There’s a wince at that, and Dick feels a surge of anger. How is someone forgetting basic skills of childhood like counting just a little whoops to these people? How are they being so careless? Did they even file a report with whatever ethical oversight exists for this experiment?

“Hm. Do you have any finished sets?” he asks, and the graduate student nods.

“We keep them all downstairs, it’s the level just below us. Everything’s marked with EX-ET-5.”

Dick repeats that, loud enough for the comms to pick it up and the other members of his crew to hear. He gets an affirmative from everyone except Cass, who is apparently dealing with a ridiculously demanding set of fellow interns. Dick pities her.

He stands there for a few more moments, controlling his breathing effortlessly. As he leaves the laboratory and slides his lab coat back onto the rack, the plan slowly begins to tweak itself in his mind. With a smile, sharp and elegant, he straightens his posture more, and strides out towards the stairs that overlook the center of the laboratory floor.

Eyes follow him this time, curious and wary. None of the higher-clearance scientists have noticed his presence, but it’s been a draw for more than a few of the interns, apparently- Cass gives him a look that, even without the accompaniment of words, clearly asks what the hell he’s thinking. Dick slips out of the door, as if he’s following somebody else’s trail, and walks directly to the server room.

Tim’s good, but nobody’s vacuumed the server room since his little excursion- there’s still talcum powder scattered over the floor, if you know where to look. Now, Dick won’t be trying to argue that there’s someone who’s escaped the building- oh, no.

“Barbara? Did you remove the feed in front of this room for the twenty minute window before I went to speak to the Erasure Therapy lab?” he asks. He whispers under his breath- the jawbone mic will pick enough of it up.

“Already done. We’ve done this before, remember?” Barbara hums, “Done time-of, actually. You just have to…”

“Bring it to their attention, of course,” Dick purrs, slinking back towards security.

There’s no notice of his presence, even now. It’s almost as if he’s a ghost, watching everyone from on high. Dick leans forwards, watching as the screens flicker, and delights in the surprised yelp from the security personnel. He looks down with amusement, and then frowns at the screen.

“Do you have any recent lapses in your video data?” he asks, “You’ve got a rat. They were active recently.”

There’s a hissing noise as they note the missing footage. Dick has about…. Hmm.

“Everyone, get into position,” he purrs into his earpiece as he enters the main laboratory room, “If you’re not in the doors in the next five minutes, you’re going to be locked out.”

“Here,” Tim says tiredly over the line.

“Here,” agrees Cass, looking up at him with a sharp, clever smile.

“Here!” chirps Barbara, who’s about the furthest thing from on-the-premises, “Whoops. Instinct.”

“You switching the con on us mid-job?” Jason growls with offense rather than marking himself as present. Dick snorts.

“Nothing quite that complicated,” Dick hums, looking over the various scientists in the room below him, and picking at his nails absentmindedly, “We’re narrowing our focus. I’m triggering a Snipe Hunt.”

Tim is the last person to roll through security. The doors slam shut right behind him.

That just leaves him and Jason and a very large squadron of middle-schoolers, all staring at each other with wide eyes.

Tim’s going to actively choose not to take offense with the fact that rather than trying to pass him off as a college age student teacher, Jason had stuffed him with the middle school age students.

“Um,” one of the boys says, leaning harder on his crutch, “Are we not going to talk about…”

“Shhh,” Jason says, leaning down, “I’m just as confused as you are, promise.”

“But you said you were our teacher,” another kid says.

“That’s cause I didn’t want to have to explain that your teacher- I think- left a bunch of twelve year olds alone with a college intern she’d just met,” he replies, “I am a tour guide, though.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” the second kid says, “You’re in college? Where do you go?”

“Rutgers,” says Jason, clearly picking the largest school he can think of off the top of his head, “It’s in New Jersey. I’m here on a work-study.”

“Oh, cool!” says the first kid, “What’s your name?”

Jason’s head clearly goes blank as he tries to remember his cover.

“I’m not going to lie, I haven’t drunk enough coffee yet today to answer that question,” he says, to a round of laughter from the middle schoolers, “It’s James, but I go by Jay, for short. I already had a cousin named Jamie, and two named Jim.”

Oh, smart. Good call.

“Um. I’m Freddy, this is-” the kid says, and then goes about introducing the rest of the class, before his eyes fall on Tim.

“And this is, um, I’m so sorry, I think I forgot your name-”

Tim blushes with mortification, and hides a little bit behind Jason.

This. This random child actually thinks they’re part of the same middle school class.

“Tom,” he squeaks out, “I go by Tommy. I- it’s okay, I don’t like talking.”

Freddy nods, as if this is perfectly understandable and not coming from someone that he had no contact with up until less than fifteen minutes ago.

“So,” Jason-as-Jay-the-tour-guide asks, making a wide, sweeping gesture with his hands, “What were you kids here to learn?”

Freddy, who seems to take note of how all the other kids are staring at him, moves to speak.

“Well, um, actually,” he says, “I think we were supposed to go to the labs, but those are probably closed down… or maybe…”

He mutters to himself, looking down at the floor, then looks back up at Jason.

“I don’t actually know what we were supposed to be here for. Aren’t you supposed to have the itinerary?” he asks challengingly. Jason shrugs.

“You think they gave me one, man?”

“Um,” one of the other kids says, raising her hand, “I grabbed the list on my phone… I think we’re supposed to head to see the completed products?”

Jason blinks for a moment, and Tim, who has only been a younger brother for… a little over two years now, maybe, gets the overwhelming sensation common to many younger siblings- the one where he’s about to witness some Genuine Shenanigans.

“That sounds boring,” he says, “Who wants to see if I can get us all into the labs?”

The cheer that goes up from the group of middle schoolers is practically deafening.

“Mr. Castillo?” a small voice asks. It’s one of the scientists. Dick has gathered all of them into one large meeting room, and takes great pride and pleasure in stalking across the room with a predatory smile across his face.

“Yes?”

“You don’t really believe that one of us is responsible for the theft, right?” It’s the graduate student from earlier, wide-eyed and nervous. Dick throws back his head and laughs.

“Oh, theft is one thing,” he purrs, teeth sharp and eyes wild, “I’m also here because some~one has embezzled over three million dollars worth of funds.”

That part is true. According to the data, Sivana had actually earmarked money for the subject funds- over two hundred dollars for each of the nine hundred subjects over the course of the study. It’s not much considering the amount of suffering the project managers have put the subjects through, but it, when Barbara had uncovered the discrepancy, had been several hundred thousand dollars- enough for her to go digging.

There really is an embezzler at Sivana Industries. Now, Dick just needs to find them.

‘We’re going to make the day of whatever reporter we hand this off to, aren’t we,’ Dick thinks, biting the inside of his lip as he smiles widely. The collective of scientists takes a step back, all as one.

The silence stretches for what feels like hours. It’s tense, and the pressure is high, like they’re all standing on the bottom of the ocean in some sort of anti-pressurized submarine, and the second they step outside they’d be crumpled like a soda can.

Or, perhaps it is like they’ve been transported to Jupiter, where the gravity would be so difficult on their muscles that it would almost glue them to the floor, rendering them unable to move, to even speak their mind in front of a gallery of their peers.

And it’s Dick doing this, Dick who has a gravity like the sun’s, Dick who puts more pressure on them than the entire volume of the Pacific Ocean, Dick who can level his eyes at any one of them and make them crack open like a fortune cookie. He wonders what meaningless drivel the first one of them will spill.

That’s his favorite thing about a Snipe Hunt, to be entirely honest- although he’s not sure if this qualifies as a Snipe Hunt anymore, given that there really is someone in this department embezzling. It doesn’t matter.

There’s a shuffling in the center of the group, and everybody’s eyes shoot towards the subject, who stills, quaking under the force of several dozen combined glares. It’s as if everyone is telling the young woman in the center of the group to shut up, or else.

“Mina bought a new Rolex recently, and we’ve got the same job, and my salary is not high enough for that,” the woman says finally, and the room descends into madness.

“Wow,” says Freddy, the only member of the group that Tim can remember the name of, “These labs are really empty! You’d think there’d be more people here, right?”

Jason shrugs, stalking down the hall. He’s leading them towards the stairs in the middle of the laboratories, Tim notes- the ones Cass had mentioned earlier during their floor planning.

He eyes it shiftily, but Freddy pulls his attention to the rest of the group.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable earlier,” he whispers loudly, “Some of my siblings don’t like to talk much either, I totally get it.”

Tim realizes he’s being pulled into A Conversation with an eleven year old, and resists the urge to sprint for the hills like he’s being chased by a pack of rabid wolves.

He makes a sound sort of reminiscent of a gurgle of protest as Freddy drags him along.

Cass glares at the security camera on the products-in-progress floor.

The camera, that doesn’t see her along the edge of the wall, does not stare back.

On his way back to the main laboratory, Dick bumps into a gangly pile of limbs that quickly disappear behind a corner. He finds his pockets several ounces lighter, and smiles fondly.

Mina- Dr. Young- works with the construction of synthetic silicates. Generally speaking, she’s rather unassuming, except for the fact that she recently made several purchases that even her handsomely sized salary does not take into account.

… Dick, staring at the ever-growing list, realizes that Dr. Young’s theoretical embezzling- all three million dollars worth of it, mostly from funds meant to pay off research subjects- also does not cover the entirety of what she’s spent. Or even half of it.

‘I am the main owner of a several billion dollar company,’ Dick thinks to myself, ‘And even I wouldn’t even dream of spending this much money so quickly.’

Dr. Young looks up at him sheepishly, while Dick does the mental math.

“You’re double-dipping,” he says immediately. Dr. Young goes dead white, eyes wide. Dick leans forwards, tipping his own chair against the table and placing his weight on top of it, “Corporate espionage isn’t a good look, you know.”

Dr. Young narrows her eyes at him.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I am so glad that Doctor Who is back on air,” Tim says, “This is going to be so hard to explain otherwise.”

“Just keep disassembling,” Cass replies, voice cool as ever.

Dick lets Dr. Young go, for a moment, watches as she races her way towards one of the computer terminals.

“You got her?” Dick asks quietly.

“I got her,” Barbara agrees, “She's not going to be transferring anything into her own Cayman Islands account, that much is for sure.”

“You, my fine friend, are nothing short of fantastic,” Dick says, “How much?”

“Enough for every one of Aaron’s fellow subjects to get a pretty hefty cut- and a good one for us, too,” Barbara says, “Don’t worry, I’ve got it handled.”

Dick smiles, and walks right out the front door, clapping a man from Security on the shoulder as he passes through. On the way to the metal detectors, he feels a thump, and keeps on walking.

They let him through.

Dick disappears into the crowd, a wide smile on his face.

His burner phone rings, and Jason, Cass, and Tim gather around him, Barbara still hundreds of miles away in her tower, but with them in spirit.

“I must thank you,” says Sivana, “I doubt we would have found out Dr. Young was selling company secrets to LexCorp otherwise.”

“Wasn’t a problem,” Dick replies smoothly.

“Please, do send me the number for the consulting fee.”

Dick rattles it off, and snaps the flip phone shut with a satisfying click before he reopens it.

“I’ve got the files,” Barbara hums, “We’re ready.”

He dials the only other number on this phone. Despite it being an unidentified cell, the other end of the line picks up anyways.

“Ms. Lane,” Dick purrs, leaning against a brick wall, “Have I got a story for you!”

The thing is: it was a rather simple con, all put together.

The job was rather basic: destroy their data on the neuralyzer, and steal whatever versions they did have. Dick’s hand curls around his own version, resisting the urge to be smug.

Everything else… everything else had just been window dressing, once Dick had realized that they were actually looking for an embezzler. Of course, they’d all still passed on quite a bit of relevant information to one of the finest reporters any of them have had the joy of working with- Iris West had been an alternate option, given that Central is closer to Fawcett, but she’d be close enough for retaliation from Sivana.

Now, though, Dick hums a little song as he swirls his saliva sample in his test tube, gloves once again safely over his hands.

“You’re in a good mood,” says West teasingly, a bright smile on his face.

“It’s been a good week,” replies Dick, grinning back.

It’s not even a lie.

Jason waits until the grandfather clock creaks open to turn on the lights.

Dick spills out of the stairwell, rubbing at his eyes blearily. He stares at Jason for a moment.

“So,” Jason starts, “Are we going to talk about-”

Dick stiffens, and Jason knows it was the wrong choice.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Jason glares at him, and Dick’s shoulders relax as he walks over, arms outstretched.

“I need a hug to deal with this conversation,” he says, and Jason offers it to him.

“See, you’re doing better about expressing yourself genuinely already,” he jokes, pulling them both down onto the couch. He pulls away a bit, so he can look at his brother face to face.

“I know you’re on an endorphin high from a Snipe Hunt gone well, but seriously, dude, your mental condition affects all of the rest of us, and you can’t genuinely pretend to me that you’re doing fine.”

Dick sighs, and looks down.

“Yeah,” he says, “I guess I don’t want to talk about it right now? If that’s okay.”

“It’s fine,” Jason replies, “I just… you’re my brother, and I love you, okay?”

Tears well up in Dick’s eyes, and Jason pulls him closer again.

“If you’re not ready to be a little more genuine with the rest of us, maybe start with someone you don’t feel as much pressure to be ‘okay’ for?” Jason asks, “Like. A casual acquaintance or something.”

“Thanks for the advice, Jay,” Dick replies, “And… I’ll try, if only to make you stop worrying about me so much. I’m older, it’s not your job to take care of me.”

“Is it not the duty of the youth to care for the elderly?” Jason jokes, driving his knuckles into Dick’s hair. Dick yelps, ducking under, and holds Jason at arm’s length.

“Elderly?” he shouts in mock-offense, grabbing Jason in a headlock.

Jason laughs widely. There’s still a little bit of the aggressive falseness around Dick’s smile, but not nearly as much as there had been.

‘He’s trying,’ Jason thinks fondly, and then grabs his brother around his waist and chucks him bodily into a beanbag chair hard enough to make the beanbag move.

Chapter Text

Ollie’s staring at the Waynes again.

Roy is used to this by now. It’s been weeks since Bruce’s death, and yet none of them have worked up the courage to walk over and offer their condolences- not even Dinah.

How could they, when they could have saved him?

It’s like Jason all over again, watching a dearly loved friend sink deeply into grief and knowing, just knowing that if you’d been a little faster, you could have changed the outcome.

Green Arrow, Black Canary, Arsenal, and now Arrowette- they may not be any Superman or Martian Manhunter, beings from other worlds capable of tremendous feats, but they’re still heroes. They’re supposed to be able to reach out, they’re supposed to be able to help the people they care about, moderately estranged they may be.

Oliver takes a step forwards, as if he’s going to go over and actually say something, before he stops. Roy sighs, and goes off to find someone else to talk to. This plan, however, is thwarted by a familiar voice.

“Hey,” says Dick Grayson-Wayne, “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Didn’t feel right,” Roy says, “Ollie’s sorry for not coming to the shiva.”

Dick snorts, and glares darkly.

“Barely got the time off to have one in the first place,” he mutters, before wiping the angered expression off of his face with more smoothness than an expert baker leveling out buttercream frosting, “How is your family doing?”

“I could ask the same,” Roy asks, “We’ve been fine.”

“You’re welcome over, you know,” Dick replies, “It wouldn’t be an imposition, though we’d like a little forewarning, if it’s all the same to you. And… we’re doing as well as we can, given the circumstances.”

Roy nods.

“That’s good to hear,” he says quietly, “It’s been a while.”

“It really has been,” Dick agrees. He sways a little on his feet- Roy remembers gala after gala where he’d sweep Jason under one arm, or lean into Bruce’s side, and wonders if he’s unmoored, without another person to cling to. It doesn’t look like he’s been the same with the other two.

Dick’s two living younger siblings- a specification that tastes like ash in Roy’s mouth- are a little more shy and reclusive than Jason was, and definitely stick to their own corner far more than Dick ever did. However, Cass creeps closer, leaning her head  on her brother’s shoulder, and whispers something under her breath.

“Sorry,” says Dick with an easy smile, one that looks so fond that it makes Roy smile in turn, “Gotta go. The kids want to wrap things up for the night, and it’s not like we’re in charge of this particular shindig.”

“You kind of are,” replies Roy with raised eyebrows. Dick laughs, bright as a bell, and it sounds like the most genuine thing in the world. There’s amusement back in his eyes, and Roy can’t help but feel glad for being able to put it there.

“Nah, that’s the Foxes. Lucius and Luke are in charge of this one, it’s just my job to show up, toss some money around, and look pretty.”

There’s a wolf-whistle of agreement at that, and Roy could swear that for a split second, he sees Dick’s party mask crack right down the middle.

“That’s rude,” says Tim, flanking his brother on the other side. The young woman who whistled blushes bright red in embarrassment and power-walks away, as if she wants to get as far away from the encounter as physically possible.

Roy reaches out to grab Dick’s hand.

“I’m serious, man, it’s been good to see you. It’s been too long.”

Dick’s smile grows a touch softer, and he squeezes Roy’s hand back.

“It really has been.”

He fades off into the crowd, flanked by his siblings, a carefree “Call me!” tossed back over his shoulder. Roy smiles, and shakes his head, a touch amused. He’s stopped by Oliver before he can make his way back to the dessert table.

“Was he doing alright?” Oliver asks, eyes filled with concern. Roy tilts his head and looks up to the ceiling for a moment, deep in thought.

“I think he’s doing better,” Roy replies carefully, “He asked us to call. Said it wouldn’t be an imposition. I actually, shockingly enough, think we’re a little bit missed.”

Oliver’s expression turns deeply fond and a little bit sad, the way Roy had known it would. It makes him look kind of goofy, with how it makes his goatee droop just a little bit.

“Good,” he says quietly, “That’s good.”

“Do you think they know that we know that they’re…” Tim asks on the way to the car, miming shooting a bow and arrow. Dick snorts, and reaches out to ruffle his hair.

Normally, he’d at least try to curb the impulse for the sake of not scaring Tim off with too much physical affection, but after his conversation with Jason and the fact that none of his siblings had objected to spending several hours in a cuddle pile, Dick is going to give him the option to bow out of hugs and hair ruffles, instead of making assumptions.

“Oh, they have no idea,” Dick replies, leaning down to whisper at both of his siblings. Cass is still a little taller- though she’s built pretty small, he wouldn’t be surprised if Tim’s taller by the time he’s done growing- so it’s a bit of an awkward angle, but it’s still loud enough for both of them to giggle wildly.

“Do you have it?” Tim asks, “I lifted it earlier, but-”

By it, Tim means the copy of the key they’d snagged from Emilia Middledown, their mark for the evening.

Now, what did the fifty-something West Coast socialite do that was so heinous to attract the attention of Parity?

Simple: she’s burying her lawsuits.

Emilia Middledown is the sole heiress of Middledown Pharmaceuticals, a generic brand pill company with a bad habit of cutting costs (and not paying its workers, as is unfortunately the standard) whenever they can.

Parity heard its first request regarding Middledown six days ago, from a young woman who’d had a near-fatal anaphylactic reaction from an undisclosed allergen in her antibiotics, of all things- apparently, the usage of gluten as a filler is incredibly common in that particular industry. The client must have passed their willingness to help on down the line, because since that first meeting, they’ve had ten calls about Middledown, ranging from more allergic reactions to hiding side affects to providing substandard cancer medication.

The thing is, for a significant portion of the population, generic drugs- many of which are from Middledown- are the only thing that’s affordable. The sky-high prices of the pharmaceutical industry are enough to drive anyone to a life of crime (regardless of if that’s the path of the traditional Gothamite or if it’s the path Dick and his family have taken).

It’s enough to drive someone to distraction.

“It and a cast of her thumbprint,” Dick replies, handing the cases over to Tim with a smooth flourish of his hand. Tim’s eyes light up as he sees them.

“We’re going home to get these cast, right?” he asks. Dick nods.

“Safehouse,” he whispers, finger pressed against his lips. Tim nods brightly, and follows after him as Dick slides into the car. Predictably, Cass has already slipped into the passenger seat.

It takes about fifteen minutes to reach the first safehouse, after which they change, switch cars, and head to the second, where Barbara is waiting. Theoretically speaking, they could do this part on their own, but Barbara has always been of the opinion that none of them are half as good at forging or construction as she’ll ever be.

To be honest, she’s completely right about that.

Tim’s work is… serviceable, as is Dick’s, but Jason’s never quite been able to figure out casting and the less that can be said about Cass’s pieces, the better. Hitters- Dick loves them, but thumping a mold on the back does not make something made out of molten metal come out faster, unless you’re looking for an oozing pile of red-hot iron.

Not that casting is how keys are made, of course- they’re ground into place- but it’s the principle of the thought.

The key-carver is one of Barbara’s more versatile pieces of equipment- they use key-carvers less often now that so many things have been moved to digital or can be picked with a good set of lockpicks, but it’s not infrequent that they’ll have access to a set of a mark’s keys, and as the saying goes, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. Dick would far prefer spending more time prepping on a con rather than having to make that time up later.

“Done,” says Barbara after a few minutes, passing the short, round-topped key back to Dick, who holds it high above Tim’s head, “Did you manage to grab her phone?”

“And open it,” Tim agrees, eyes lighting up with delight, “Our window’s run out for tonight, but it’s Thursday, and she’s a big partier, right?”

“Hold your horses, mister,” Dick chides, tapping him on the nose- Tim scrunches his face in response and looks up at him indignantly- “Did you get the numbers?”

“Yeah,” Tim replies, chin up, “But I got something better, too. ”

Triumphantly, he presents a tiny digital camera, and plugs it into one of the desktop displays.

“I,” says Tim, pleased as the cat who caught the canary, “Got her calendar.”

Wally looks over to his left.

Tom’s concentrated, staring at the centrifuge as it whirls. Wally can’t blame him- he still can’t get over how mystifying it is as it turns around and around and around, even when he uses his speed to do it instead half the time whenever he’s alone in the lab.

Wally lifts the two test tubes in his hands, and contemplates doing exactly that. He’s pretty sure Tom’s centrifuged the same quartet of test tubes twice in a row already, and if there’s no precipitate by that point, there’s not going to be any precipitate, in his own humble opinion.

He leans over the edge of the… counter? The edge of the lab table, feeling the oddly cool dark stone seep the warmth away from his arms. It’s the height of summer, and it gets hot. Not as hot as, say, the middle of Nevada, but definitely far warmer than Wally would like- especially as a speedster who tends to run warm.

Heat is only the excitement of molecules, after all, and Wally’s molecules are always very excited.

In any case, it’s hot outside, and Wally resists the urge to splay out on the cool, dark countertop like some sort of overheated squirrel. Instead, he studies his lab partner.

Tom’s been really shy. And Wally’s fine with that! It’s not like he has to be friends with everyone- he’s more than happy to let Tom keep his distance. If he wants.

Only, it seems like Tom isn’t super interested in keeping his distance- just that he’s shy and doesn’t know whether or not it’s fine to talk to Wally first. Which is also fine! But it is a little bit confusing. Wally doesn’t want to upset him, though, which means that he’ll provide the occasional outstretched hand while also attempting to not Be Weird about it. Roy pointed that out, once, about how Wally will sometimes assume anyone he’s fond of that he spends any amount of time with is a friend. He hadn’t meant it in a cruel way, because he’d immediately clarified that he was Wally’s friend, but also… he hadn’t been entirely wrong.

Wally really doesn’t want to overstep boundaries and chase Tom off- he has precious few civilian friends as it is. However, he also doesn’t want to leave the man awkwardly hanging in case he actually does want to become friends. Therefore, Wally sort of just… hangs around. Lurking. Generally vibrating with excitement, sometimes, but mostly just lurking.

Tom steps away from the centrifuge finally, tucking his hair behind one ear. Wally, surprised, spots the marks that ear piercings have left on them.

“So what made you decide to get your ears pierced?” he asks, before he claps a hand over his mouth, absolutely mortified, cheeks as bright a red as his hair.

Tom steps back for a moment, blinking confusedly, before he raises a gloved hand right up near his ear, stopping just shy of touching it- and saving himself the need to change his gloves.

“Oh,” he says, “Um.”

He’s clearly distracted, which means Wally has time to get his shit together. He strips off his gloves, reaching for a spare pair to swap them with, and while he’s turned away from Tom, he sighs. That really was a boundary-push right there, wasn’t it?

“Sorry, I know piercings are like. Really personal to some people, you don’t have to tell me.”

Tom shrugs.

“I don’t actually remember off the top of my head,” he says, “I’ve had them for a really long time. Probably got them at Claire’s or something when I was a tween- don’t get piercings at Claire’s, just for the record, go to someone with actual piercing experience.”

It’s the most words that Wally has heard Tom say at once.

“You’ve been really focused on that centrifuge,” Wally continues, “Anything I can help with?”

Tom shakes his head minutely.

“Not really,” he replies, “I just wanted to be sure.”

There’s something final about the way he says it, and Wally deflates a little bit. Tom looks at the clock, and Wally knows he’s gone- he and Tom share most of the same shifts, which means they’re both fairly close to getting off work.

“Oh, and we need to tell Detective Finnegan that the ‘hair evidence’ he found belongs to a dog, not a person,” Tom calls over his shoulder. Loudly and overdramatically in the manner of many young men forced to deal with a person they do not like, Wally groans.

It’s… surprisingly easy, being honest.

Normally, Dick would hide behind some sort of ridiculous, overdramatic story to provide a sense of camaraderie with a mark without saying anything important, but he does need practice talking to people like he’s not going to sell them something, and West isn’t a normal mark.

He’s not even really a mark at all, more just someone Dick needs to be observing. He doesn’t need to narrow him down into certain paths- he just needs to familiarize himself with West. Trying out answering questions honestly is the first on his checklist- he has many, to try to narrow his interactions with people back into something less fueled by his need to have some semblance of control over the situation.

But Dick does have control over this situation- if he needs to, he can leave . West has been investigating Parity business, sure, but he’s far from the first Leaguer to come sniffing around, even if he started looking when there was already blood in the water.

There’s something freeing, about being able to just leave if something about the situation makes him uncomfortable. Dick’s used to pushing past the discomfort- being able to theoretically simply ditch and leave it behind brings forth some sort of weird, giddy delight.

He can leave, but he doesn’t want to- not yet, at least. There are so few expectations to this job that it’s nothing short of wonderful. Sure, it requires some clever scheduling, but that’s almost Dick’s only expectation.

He thinks that might be why it’s so easy to be honest, here- if it’s too much, he can leave.

He doesn’t have that, with anyone else.

Nobody ever bothers to lock their upper-floor windows.

That’s not a complaint, Tim would like to state for the record. Nobody bothering to lock their upper floor windows is one of the reasons he can do what he does as effectively as he does.

Of course, they do have their fancy alarm systems, but again, it’s rare for upper-floor windows to actually be armed- usually, people take comfort in their safety, that high up off the ground. To be fair, they’d usually be right- most thieves wouldn’t bother.

Most thieves donn’t have a master hacker at their back and a need to see exactly what’s inside this particular safe.

Tim pulls his mask up with two fingers, securing his domino more firmly over his eyes. His gloves grip the edge of the windowsill, not betraying the excitement Tim feels in every single one of his muscles. He really does love a challenge. He loves being clever and careful, sinking through windows and flipping over wires, effortless talent and hard-won experience and Dick’s acrobatic drills all clicking in his head into the perfect symphony.

Had anyone been watching him wait at the window at that moment, had anyone seen him turn his head, cocking it to the side as he watched through the panes of glass, they might have compared him to a falcon whose hood had just been removed, remaining calm on its perch, jesses held tight in a falconer’s hand.

He slips through the window, and it’s as if the falcon has been tossed high into the air, seeking some far-flung, quick-winged prey.

“Safe, safe,” Tim mutters to himself, ignoring the beautifully framed “diamond” necklace along the wall. It’s listed as something valuable, but Tim knows that it’s nothing more than cheap cubic zirconia- he’s the one who stole the original right off of her neck, after all.

He’s still surprised she hasn’t noticed, actually- the knockoff was pretty cheap, even if it was cleverly made. Moissanite would have been a far better choice than cubic zirconia, something he’s adjusted since he’s joined Parity- it’s far more difficult to determine a fake made out of moissanite simply because it’s often prettier than the diamonds it mimics, and near as resistant against scratching. Accordingly, though, it’s far more expensive than cubic zirconia- nearly five hundred dollars a carat versus twenty for CZ. Still an expensive necklace… but not a diamond one.

Admittedly, Tim has his preferences far flung from diamonds, anyways- he loves gems, and diamonds are surprisingly easy to move since so many of them are ill-gotten gains in the first place, but Tim loves shiny more than he loves money- and, accordingly, prefers the moissanite if he’s going to be wearing a piece himself.

Not that he gets to very often, that is- Dick and Cass (and sometimes Kate) are the jewelry-wearers in the family, even if Cass doesn’t like many pieces at all. Tim is trying to argue to get his ears pierced like Dick has done, but they haven’t booked anything with a piercer yet, and Tim is pretty sure if he goes to a mall to get his done, Dick will actually kill him.

Well, that’s an exaggeration. He’s only halfway sure.

After a few moments, Tim’s eyes catch onto the heavy iron safe in the back of the room.

It, Tim realizes with growing joy, is a combination safe. He steps over carefully, ducking under the desk and listening for any shuffling feet in the hall, before he pulls out his stethoscope.

He could, theoretically, do this part without it, but Tim’s never been that confident in his own hearing.

Tim begins to twist the knob of the safe, listening to the little clicks of the spindle as he goes. It’s almost like nails tapping on a table, the smaller clicks of the pins- he gets used to the rhythm and the noise level, so when the spindle drops, the sound is practically deafening. Tim doesn’t flinch back at the sound like he does with so many others, though- he just pats the safe and continues on.

There’s something very classic about a good old-fashioned combination safe. It’s good to see that even if she doesn’t have a moral compass, their mark has taste.

Tim can feel the give of the door as the safe is opened, and swings it wide gladly. Within the safe is a small metal box, sealed with a key.

Tim fishes the small key out from around his neck, pulling it over his head and inserting it into the lock. With a soft click, the box opens.

“Nice,” Tim whispers under his breath, with more than a hint of sarcasm, “Paperwork.”

“Get photos of those,” Dick instructs, “I’m pretty sure we only have about a half-hour left, she’s getting pretty drunk right now.”

Tim shrugs, and pulls out a disposable camera.

In the dark recesses of the safe, a glow of blue catches Tim’s attention, scattering light from both the stars outside the window and the floodlight along the edge of the lawn.

With shaking, clever fingers, Tim digs the stone out from its place at the edge of the safe. It’s large- surprisingly so, when Tim makes note of the pyramidal shape and the deep blue color.

Benitoite. Worth over four thousand dollars a carat- and with this piece being more than a few on its own- it’s one of the most expensive stones that Tim has ever held in his hand. And it’s sitting here, forgotten at the bottom of a combination safe that Tim has just demonstrated can be broken into at any moment.

He wipes a hand over it reverently. This piece is at least sixty carats- judging by the weight, potentially even more- making it the largest benitoite to have ever existed, at least by his own reckoning.

Tim wonders if Middledown even knows its value.

He doubts it.

Tim sighs, reluctantly sliding the gem back into place. As he’s doing so, his fingers skitter along the edge of the floor of the safe. With a frown, he lifts the lip of whatever it is up off of the base.

‘Who needs a false bottom inside their safe?’ he thinks to himself, gloved fingers finding a sheaf of paper along the floor, ‘What do you need to hide so dearly, Emilia Middledown?’

The paper is heavy, like many important things are, but it smells new. Old paper has a faint scent of marshmallow to it from the decomposing compounds releasing something that smells of vanilla. It looks new, too, with no yellowing.

‘It’s a formula,’ Tim thinks, trailing a gloved finger down the ink splashed across the page. As his eyes flicker downwards, they widen. With shaking hands, Tim grabs his camera, photographs all four pages of the document, and shoves them back inside hastily.

For a moment, Tim considers closing the safe and leaving it as-is, but he’s too upset for any real self-control. The benitoite finds itself back in his hands within a moment, and he clutches it like a lifeline as he makes for the window.

“We have a problem,” Tim’s voice sounds from the other end of the line, “We’re good to go, but we have a problem.”

There’s a hint of half-feral desperation to his voice, as if he’s trying very, very hard to hold it together and is about ten minutes from losing his ability to do that much.

“Tim?” Dick whispers, “Cass, can you-”

“I’ve got him,” Jason replies, “Forgot about me, did you? I’m already on my way.”

“Tim, there’s a wildlife crossing underpass about half a mile from you,” Dick says, “Keep an eye out for traps. We’ll talk about it when we get back to base.”

“No, you don’t get it,” Tim hisses, “She knows. She has known. It’s not careless negligence, it’s malicious cruelty. The drugs aren’t supposed to work at all.”

A chill goes down Dick’s spine. In the middle of the grand ballroom at another one of these massive society parties that Middledown seems to love so much, he pauses and seeks out his mark’s face in the crowd.

She doesn’t notice him, too busy chatting up another pharmaceutical giant. Dick spins on his heel and makes for the exit, stalking past gossipy socialites, uncomfortable businesspeople, and the occasional sharp-eyed grifter.

“Mr Wayne!” one of the latter calls, dressed in an elegant black dress, carefully arranging an inviting quirk to her lips. Dick knows her type- integrate herself with some older gentleman with no eye for anything but the curve of her hips and the shine of her hair, and help herself to his money. Dick’s pulled near the same thing more times than he can count- he’s been watching these people work since he was in short pants, after all. Ths one, though, looks like she’s in need of a rescue, and is nervously eyeing the man about fifteen feet behind her and slightly to the left.

And, well, Dick’s never been one to ignore someone in need of assistance.

“I’m sorry, miss, but I do have to make sure my brother’s alright. If you’d like me to escort you outside, though…”

“Awww, stay a while!” her unwelcome ‘date’ says, closing the distance with alarming swiftness, “He’s what, fifteen? It’s not like he’s going to get himself into much trouble, not if he hasn’t started driving yet.”

“Fourteen, actually, and you’d be surprised,” Dick replies cooly, eyes narrowed. He takes another step back, but his temper’s rising, and he’s got a grifter’s self-control, but even that can waver under stressful situations, and he still doesn’t know what the fuck is going on with Tim.

“Aw, the way you’re talking, it sounds like you expect to come home to a dead body in the living room!”

The ballroom around them goes dead silent.

For a moment, Dick can’t quite comprehend what he’s said. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a flash of red- Roy, moving closer as if to intercept something. Everyone else, though, has gone still, the collective force of their gasps of shock at the statement sucking all the air out of the room like a vacuum, leaving no room for sound.

Dick moves in a split-second decision best described as ‘fuck it’, powered only by a snapped temper and aching grief.

He crosses the distance between himself and the sleaze in three quick steps. His fist cracking across his face is the first sound in the ballroom in half a minute.

The man crumples like wet sand.

“Did Big Bird just-” Jason asks, hitting the brakes so hard that the whiplash from the seatbelt knocks the breath out of Tim’s lungs. He’d taken a car, today- a nondescript Subaru with fake license plates. Tim is pretty sure that’s not legal, but then again, they kind of operate with nothing they do being legal, so he supposes it doesn’t really matter in the end.

“I think he just punched a guy,” Tim says absentmindedly, “Uh, Dick? You alright?”

There’s a tense few minutes of silence, and Jason restarts their drive. The trees in this part of Northern California are beautiful, Tim notes, tall, wide-trunked redwoods that scrape the sky with their woodland crown.

“Did you know,” Tim hums, “That the oldest Giant Sequoia that ever lived was over three thousand years old? And General Sherman, the biggest living sequoia, is over two thousand years old?”

“Cool,” says Jason, in the way that suggests he’s in no way paying attention to what Tim is saying, which is fair. Not everybody changes the subject when they’re confronted with something distressing. Some people just suffer in silence.

Tim rattles off tree facts for the next minute or two, before a quiet cough on the other end of the line suggests that Dick is ready to talk.

“Yes, I punched him,” is the first thing Tim’s brother- and now foster father- says, “He was being an asshole. Now…”

“Good for you, Dickie,” Jason says, “Tim? You were going to say what was upsetting you so much.”

Tim inhales, and places his knuckles against his face, thumbs against his jaw. He resists the urge to bite at his fingers out of stress, and turns to Jason.

“She’s copying an Ivy formula,” Tim whispers quietly, low enough that it’s probably only audible through the comms, “One of the mind control ones. It’s this one massive test- they’re trying to get enough data points to use it on someone specific, though I’m not sure who. Not human, at least.”

Jason slams hard on the brakes again, and for a moment, Tim thinks it’s in response to what he’s just said. Instead, though, he looks out through the windshield to find-

“Did you nearly hit a bear?” Tim asks, mystified. Indeed, along the road is a female American Black Bear, cubs trailing behind her. She raises her head to look at them, before continuing on, not a care in the world.

“I did not,” Jason argues, “I hit the brakes.”

Tim snorts, before sobering once again. The bears are unbelievably cute- and make it across the road safely before they continue on- but they’re not a sufficient distraction from this reality.

“Okay, then,” Jason says after a moment, “What’s the plan now, Big Bird?”

“Not much has changed,” Dick hums, “We just have some clean up work to do afterwards, now.”

Tim’s fingers unclench slightly. Okay. Okay, they’re sticking to the plan.

Tim can do the plan.

“I’ve got the documents,” he says, “Or. Well. Photos of them. You should be good to go.”

“Thank you for that ringing endorsement,” Dick replies with mild amusement. It’s almost… sarcastic, though, like Dick’s actually letting Tim hear the stress behind his voice.

It’s surprisingly candid, actually.

That’s new.

“Let me know when you need me to start the signal jamming,” Dick hums under his breath, “Barbara?”

“Give us five,” Barbara hums.

Dick enters Emilia Middledown’s home wearing a long, black, professional pencil dress, jacket slung over his shoulders. He’s an FDA agent, this time, which means he needs to look the part- sharp eyed, uncompromising, and, to be most “easily manipulated” by Middledown… bribable.

He watches her with an impassive expression, one eyebrow raised as she launches herself into the room.

“I’m so sorry about this,” Middledown says, “I know I was due to meet with Avery, but he’s got the flu, yes?”

Dick nods solemnly.

“It’s hit him pretty bad.”

Middledown winces, fiddling at the rings on her fingers. She locks ghostly pale eyes on Dick, before cocking her head to the side with a gentle-seeming smile.

“It’s too bad. I just finished filming our announcement, you know- one of our new generics was approved! Lovely basic painkiller- it should sell out pretty quickly!”

‘We’re counting on that confidence,’ Dick thinks to himself. On the surface, he smiles widely and extends his hands.

“I’ve heard. Avery talks a lot about you, you know.”

“All good things, I hope,” Middledown purrs, leaning forwards on her desk, “Now, I do hate to derail, but I believe you’re here to discuss business, not chat about one of your coworkers, yes?”

“Of course,” Dick agrees, tapping one of the buttons hidden under his jacket.

“News has gone live,” Barbara hums, “Give it five.”

“Fantastic!” Middledown says, “So, as you know, obviously, the generic process is a little more… streamlined than the brand name market. However, I’ve found that even the streamlined process for generics is… less efficient, you could say, than it could be. I was wondering if you’d help me work out some snags?”

“What kind of snags?” Dick asks, leaning forwards in the chair opposite of her desk.

“Oh, hm. Dosage levels, perhaps- a half pill more per dose, perhaps. And testing, of course- goodness, we lose so much time with testing.”

Dick blinks.

‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ he thinks, ‘That’s going to get people killed. Even if I was able to be bribed… I wouldn’t be that easy.’

“That’s dangerous,” Dick purrs, “I’m afraid I can’t do that for you. Lesser snags, perhaps?”

Something smooths on Middledown’s face. A test, of course, to see if he knows what he’s doing.

Dick slides back in his chair, regarding her with narrowed eyes and an impassive face. Middledown stares back, lacing her fingers between one another.

“We’d like first priority for generic approval applications, as always,” Middledown hums, tilting her head to the side.

“That can be arranged,” Dick agrees.

“Start jamming,” Barbara says. Dick reaches under his jacket, feeling for the warm plastic weight of a button. It clicks reassuringly under the weight of his thumb.

Barbara’s voice goes out.

See, the thing is: it’s a signal jammer, sure, and it’ll be important to screw with Middledown for the next few minutes, but it jams everything- meaning, for the next few minutes, Dick is flying blind.

“Huh,” Middledown says, checking her phone, “I could’ve sworn… well, the signal out here is terrible. I suppose I only have my mother to blame, moving us all the way out here…”

He’s only sure that Barbara has released the information when, half an hour later, an arrow goes flying through the window, burying itself into the drywall sixteen inches from Middledown’s head.

There’s another woman, besides Middledown, int he office when Roy swings in. She’s glaring sharply at Middledown, tapping her foot against the floor.

“What the hell are you doing that’s got a hero on your tail?” she asks, in a tone that’s practically a hiss.

Middledown slams a hand on the table.

“You were the one telling me about-”

“Do you think I wasn’t going to report your and Avery’s asses as soon as I got back home?”

Roy nods at this statement. Seems reasonable enough.

For a moment, he turns his attention solely to Middledown. That one moment is long enough.

The woman has disappeared by the time Roy turns back around. There’s a sheet of paper stuck onto one of the unused arrows in his quiver. Roy pulls it out, plucking the note off of the arrowhead.

‘You’re Welcome, Speedy!’ the note reads. On the other side, when Roy turns it over, the small piece of paper reads ‘We did good work, huh? :) - Nightwing’.

Roy snorts.

He can’t remember anything distinctive about the second woman beyond her being dressed professionally and being somewhat tall- he wouldn’t be surprised if that was his second encounter with Nightwing, but what a fantastic way to go about it. Roy does have to respect the grind, that was an impressive disguise.

… He thinks he understands why Dinah likes the Bats so much, now.

“It’s Arsenal,” he mutters under his breath, but his good mood is betrayed by his grin. He can’t wait to hear how much Wally complains-but-doesn’t-complain about how Roy’s had two encounters with the thief on accident, whereas Wally’s own investigation has gone absolutely nowhere.

As they’ve learned many times before, shortselling stock when there’s about to be a major rise and dip in prices is a way to make quite a bit of money. Retire and buy an island money. Return more than any lawsuit would have given money.

That doesn’t mean that their job is over.

Barbara pushes herself away from the computer, wheeling to face Dick, who sits on the counter opposite. She’s in one of her favorite California safehouses today, a small, cozy cabin with a secret, ground-floor panic room filled to the brim with monitors. Outside, however, there’s a lovely paved path down to the sea, and another circling the dozens of bird feeders that Dick takes careful care to maintain whenever he’s in town.

Barbara wonders if seeing the birds means they’re in good luck for… The Birds.

She wheels out of the cabin and down to the pathway, watching as an overeager pair of hummingbirds squeak at each other over a bright red feeder. They shine like tiny gemstones in the morning light. Beyond the edge of the woods, Barbara hears the crashing of the waves. The smell of salt fills her nose.

Further down the path, she spots Cass, staring up at a feeder occupied by a pair of woodpeckers. Even further down, through a gap in the trees, she spots Jason throwing a handful of sand at Tim.

Beside her, Dick’s phone rings.

“I know it was you,” Middledown growls through the phone, “I know you’re no FDA inspector.”

“I’m not,” Dick agrees, slipping back into the feminine voice he’d been using before, leaning an arm on the edge of the railing in front of the feeders, “See, Miss Middledown, that’s the problem with people like you. You think you’re so big and powerful cause your mother gave you money, so you use it to hurt people, because you think if you have more money, you’ll be more powerful. And in some cases, I suppose you’re correct. More money means more efficient ways to hurt people, after all.”

Barbara leans forwards, grinning at Dick, her smile filled with sharp, dangerous teeth.

“But here’s the thing, Emilia,” Dick purrs, still a thirty-five year old woman from Connecticut if she closes her eyes,  “Cruelty can’t sustain itself. One way or another, all truths must come to light. We just serve as a catalyst.”

He snaps the phone shut, grin firmly in place.

“We’re not done,” she says.

“We’re not,” he agrees, “We’re never done.”

Chapter Text

Dick hits the rooftop like a sledgehammer, his shins creaking under the force of it. Behind him are Cass and Jason, both landing with equal weight.

“It’s been a while,” Jason says, stretching out his arms. The pop is audible, and Jason takes a half step back, clearly surprised at the noise.

Dick snorts, and turns back to the reason they’re here.

“Hello, birdies,” Ivy hums, “What brings you to my forest?”

“Two birds. One bat,” Cass says, tilting her head in Ivy’s direction.

“You still fly,” Ivy purrs back, “What seems to be the problem, my little winged friends?”

She’s in a good mood, which is good, because if she wasn’t, this would be a problem.

“Going to need to ask some uncomfortable questions, Ivy,” Dick says, “They’re here to make sure I don’t forget anything.”

Ivy’s gaze sharpens, and she shifts her stance from loose and inviting to something on edge and dangerous.

“I have a feeling I’m not going to enjoy this conversation,” she replies. Dick nods.

“You’re probably not,” he agrees, “Middledown Pharmaceuticals. You know anything about that?”

Ivy tilts her head to the side, curious.

“Should I?” she asks, “I don’t, besides their recent scandal in the news… foreknowledge of useless generics, yes? Heard they nearly killed some important politician’s kid.”

Dick nods. He was expecting this, and is grateful for the truth in that answer.

“They’ve snagged one of your Subjugation formulas and are using one of their ‘useless’ pills to test it en masse,” he says.

It takes a moment for the words to sink in- Dick notices exactly when they do, for the way Ivy holds herself, steady-dangerous and ice-eyed, becomes alive with rage and the barest hint of fear.

Vines writhe across the rooftop. Roots crack through concrete. Behind them, a small car crumples under her anger. Dick notes, absentmindedly, that if this hadn’t been smack-dab in the middle of Ivy’s territory, that would probably belong to someone who would need a replacement.

“THEY WHAT,” Ivy snarls, voice layered as if she’s holding back more than just herself. Dick sidesteps a rose as it surges upwards, thorny vines an ever-present-danger, especially at that speed.

“You heard him the first time,” Jason bites from somewhere behind him, “What can we do to help you make sure this doesn’t happen again?”

“Let me kill her, for one,” Ivy growls, stalking forwards. Her eyes are practically aglow with rage. No, Dick notes for a moment- they actually are glowing, harsh and angry, like sunlight filtering through broken glass.

“I’d prefer it if she talked, first,” Dick says, raising his hands in a ‘peace’ gesture, “Can’t get any good information out of her if she’s six feet under.”

Ivy tilts her head to the side, giving Dick a considering look.

“Acceptable,” she agrees, “If I tag along, that is.”

Dick knows he’ll be sentencing himself to logistical hell. There’s no way this won’t come back to bite him in the ass later. Despite that, he nods.

“Sure,” he says delicately, “You’re part of the team, after all.”

Ivy’s smile is downright poisonous.

Central City.

It always comes back to Central City, doesn’t it?

Dick’s been to that city more times in the past four months than he’s been here the preceding decade and a half. Granted, that’s partially due to the fact that he technically has a day job there now, but that’s not exactly the point by any means.

One of the manufacturing plants for Middledown is smack-dab in the middle of Central. From careful analysis- mostly done by Barbara, who Dick is once again relieved is on their side and not anybody else’s- they’ve been able to determine that the synthesis of the active ingredient for Ivy’s Subjugation pollen is being done here.

Subjugation Pollen is one of Ivy’s more cleverly cruel inventions. It’s not some direct, iron-strong control of will, no- Subjugation is much more sensitive, which makes it much more terrifying. Subjugation works quietly, twisting opinions to those of whoever’s DNA it’s been combined with by virtue of having the victim agree to whatever the donor says in front of them.

It’s visually coded, too, which means that Subjugation can act as long as the victims have seen the donor (either in person or on a screen) since being dosed.

Ivy’s Subjugation Pollen is a closely guarded secret for exactly that reason. She’d destroyed any physical copies of the formula after discovering it, and had never bothered to upload digital ones to begin with. Ivy knows better than to use it- if she needs subtle manipulation done, she’ll call Bruce.

Well, she’ll call Dick now, but the point still stands.

“Alright,” Dick says, “We’ve got two options, here. Number one-”

“Storm the facility,” Ivy cuts in, eyes glinting in the dim light. Behind her a few paces stand Harley and Selina, both as on-edge as everyone else seems to be.

“Yes, that is an option,” Barbara agrees, tapping the site on the map, “However, that’s also going to bring about a whole slew of logistical issues, not in the least that it’s going to make us look extraordinarily suspicious, and it’s not going to work if the Flashes catch wind of what’s going on.”

“And how is sneaking around in the dark any better? No offense meant, of course,” Ivy hums, gaze sharpening on Barbara, who remains cool and unaffected.

“Well, first of all, it won’t get us spotted in five minutes and run the risk of getting the same treatment the rest of the Central rogues get,” Dick points out, “We can make a loud, hasty exit if things go to shit, but even that’s unreliable. Ideally, we’d pick a date where at least one of the Flashes is out of the city, break in, destroy any physical copies they have, and then Babs would wipe their data.”

Barbara nods.

“I’m seeing fairly easy entry points if we want to pull off a heist,” Selina says, leaning forwards to tap the map herself, “It’s got a skylight, no?”

“It does,” Dick agrees.

“Do we have any way of noticin’ when the Flashes ain’t in town?” Harley asks, leaning forwards. Dick hums pleasantly in response.

“Actually,” he purrs, the faintest of grins on his face, “We do.”

Dick’s picking out earrings.

Dick almost never picks out earrings if he’s not going fem for a job.

Tim sits on the edge of the counter, kicking faintly at the air, while Dick sorts through his extensive jewelry collection.

“I am so going to be stealing one of these once you let me get my ears pierced,” Tim whispers, fingers gliding over some of the smaller pieces.

“Well, that’s what we pay you for,” Dick teases, leaning over to press his face into Tim’s hair for a moment, giving him a gentle kiss on the forehead as he does so. Tim flushes at the almost parental gesture- he’s still not used to Dick being so openly affectionate with him, no matter how much he likes any sort of positive attention from his family.

Tim leans forwards, taking a closer look at some of the studs.

“So are you planning on wining and dining this guy?” he asks, picking up a light pair of studs that look like they might be topaz- they’re certainly a strong enough blue for it. Dick gently plucks the stud out of his hand, placing it back in its case.

“No,” he replies.

“You usually only dress up when you need to present fem for a con,” Tim hums, “And if you’re not wining and dining…”

“It’s not for the job,” Dick says quickly, “I just want to.”

Tim straightens for a moment, hands splayed behind him as a balance, and looks at his brother. Dick ducks his head, as if he’s a little bit embarrassed.

“He already pointed out my pierced ears,” Dick half-mumbles, barely loud enough to be heard, “I figured he wouldn’t care if I wore earrings in. And I like wearing earrings, you know?”

Tim does know- Dick’s love of jewelry is why he’s one of the easiest members of the family to shop for. Tim is the easiest, given that he’s appeased by practically anything shiny, and Jason’s the most difficult, now- it’s tough to find a book for him that he hasn’t already read. And he won’t accept first editions that aren’t stolen from some asshat, either.

“So… basic studs, then?” Tim asks, pointing out the ones in the drawer below him, “Not diamonds, presumably?”

“No, I don’t want to attract that much attention,” Dick replies, “Besides, most of my diamonds are. Ah. Inherited.”

“Martha’s?” Tim asks. Dick nods.

He’s being surprisingly honest and open with Tim today, even if Tim had to wriggle his way into Dick’s room to be able to get this.

“And therefore, they’re recognizable,” Dick continues, “A lot of my other pieces are more difficult to place.”

“How many are natural?” Tim asks. Dick tilts his head to the side.

“Not many, actually,” Dick replies, “Don’t want to support unethical mining practices with my wallet. A lot are synthetics, unless I know exactly where it comes from and exactly how much they paid their workers. A good chunk of it is custom, though, in case you need any of your own rough rock cut.”

Tim makes a note of the sapphires in the collection- probably synthetics- and then moves on to the topaz and the aquamarine. There’s a shimmer, and his eyes dart to a dark pair of cabochon studs, shot through with veins so bright a blue-green that they almost seem to be glowing.

“Whoa,” he says softly, eyes filled with wonder, “These definitely aren’t synthetic. Dick, since when do you own anything with Koroit Opal?”

“Since ever,” Dick replies amusedly, gently ruffling Tim’s hair before he takes the studs, “I’ve had these for a long time. I have more boulder opal, if you want to borrow anything…”

Tim’s eyes light up with delight, and he steps off of the counter eagerly. Dick places the studs in his ears and hums.

“You know, Tim, it’s been way too long since I’ve worn these,” he says, “Thank you for picking them out for me!”

Tim’s gaze is on the floor, but his ears are burning at the genuine praise. He shuffles his feet a little bit.

“I’m glad I spotted them,” he mumbles. Dick laughs fondly, shepherding him out the door.

Tom’s wearing earrings, today.

Wally can’t help but notice- they catch the sunlight filtering through the window, lighting up with sparks of green-blue and purple that draw his eye like a moth to a flame.

It’s not exactly the pair he’d assumed Tom would be wearing when he’d first seen the piercings, delicate and lovely and set in a light gold that’s been polished to a shine, but then again, Wally isn’t really sure what he was expecting.

They really do suit him, though, catching light and mirroring his eyes. Looking closer, Wally notes they’re some dark stone, veined with streaks of a bright blue-purple. The name escapes him, but Wally knows he’s seen it before.

“Do you mind if I ask what stone those are?” he tries about an hour into their workday, while Tom is focusing on a blood sample under the microscope. Tom jerks his head up, looking at Wally with a faintly bewildered expression.

“Oh. Um. They’re opal- Koroit Opal, to be specific. Australian Boulder Opal.”

Wally nods along.

“Where’d you get them?”

“They were a gift,” Tom replies, “The birthday after the whole Claire’s escapade. My dad got them for me.”

It’s the most Wally’s heard about the man’s home life in weeks .

“That is a nice gift, man,” Wally hums, “Glad your dad was chill about it.”

“Oh, he was so mad that I went to a non-professional piercer instead of just asking for permission,” Tom snorts, a delighted grin crossing his face, “He tried to be like. Calm and serious about it, like he always was, but he was so bothered. I think he was just as mad that I was able to fool the employees that I was over eighteen.”

“You were? How old were you, even?”

“Thirteen,” Tom says with a wide smile, “I didn’t even look older than I was, I think they just didn’t give a shit.”

“Probably not,” Wally agrees, smiling himself- the joy is infectious. Carefully, though, he notes the was, the past tense, in reference to the man’s father, and decides to sidestep a potentially precarious conversation.

“I have no idea what my aunt and uncle would do if I did something like that when I was that age,” Wally says with a laugh. Tom perks up, cocking his head to the side. Apparently he’s just as interested in hearing about Wally’s family dynamics as is the inverse.

“Oh right, your uncle works here, yeah?” he asks, “I haven’t seen him. Has he been on vacation or something?”

“Huh, weird. Maybe it’s because you’re part-time and your days align more with when I’m in this lab?” Wally asks, “Or maybe they just trusted that I knew what I was doing enough to show them the ropes, huh?”

He elbows at Tom a little bit, a mischievous grin on his face. He’s delighted to see a small smile, a little more hesitant than the one he’d had while speaking of his father, but just as kind and warm, in return for his efforts.

“Still,” Wally says, “He is going on vacation in a couple days, actually- I think he and Aunt Iris are bummed they didn’t have the chance to check out Vegas when they were still newlyweds, so if you need to talk with him about something, better take care of it quick.”

“No, I don’t need to,” Tom hums, “I was just curious. I haven’t met him yet, but I think I’ve met everybody else. Schedule’s been weird.”

“That’s what happens with the Central City forensic department, man, what can I tell you?” Wally offers, shrugging widely, “Sometimes I think they think we’re nurses at a hospital. Our crime rate isn’t even that high.”

Tom’s answering snort is quiet, but the halfway fond look of amusement in his eyes is something Wally wouldn’t mind seeing more often.

Dick doesn’t know why he feels so awful.

All told, he’s had a fantastic day. Things were downright easy with Wally- West, it’s not any easier if he starts referring to a mark by their first name- Dick barely had to prod to get personal information and scheduling details. He didn’t even have to lie, really.

All he really had to do was… point West in the right direction, just a little bit.

Honestly, Wally- West, damnit- had done more than half of that all on his own. He’s very… genuine, despite the massive secret he has to hide.

It’s a wonder he’s managed to keep it a secret this long, in all honesty. He wonders how many friends the man has- real friends- outside of the superhero gig.

… And there returns the awful feeling, sinking deep down into his bones.

Now that Kate and Jason have brought it to his attention, Dick is a little more aware of when he’s accidentally slipping into grifting-mode. He’s made it a point, these past few weeks, to practice not doing that with Wally- the man makes it easy to set boundaries, and the lack of need to push him into things has made most of Dick’s interactions with him a little more… hesitant, but whole and genuine nonetheless.

They haven’t talked much, but Dick’s enjoyed it- the quiet companionship, the occasional sharing, but only on his own terms.

Maybe that’s why this feels so off-putting- Dick knows what he’s like around Wally now with less of that guard up, so it feels thrown into sharp relief when he’s pushing Wally into revealing information, no matter how lightly he does it.

The feeling of it tastes bitter in his mouth.

‘Is this what manipulating a good man feels like?’ Dick wonders, ‘Or have I just lost my taste for the work?’

He doesn’t think it’s the latter. But the thing is-

Dick’s been conning people since he was ten years old, but he’s not like the greats- not like Sophie Deveraux or Tara Cole, who made their living and their skills on a wide variety of marks. No, Dick sunk his teeth into the worst of the worst first, and has never looked back since.

There’s no desperation to make Wally stay, and there’s no self-righteous satisfaction at seeing him flounder. Taking advantage of the way he reaches out feels downright cruel.

Dick hates it, but if it’ll keep his family safe, he’ll do no shortage of things that make his stomach churn.

“Alright,” says Dick, stepping up to the map, “Central’s going to be down to just one Flash in a couple oof days.”

“Source?” Selina asks, eyebrows raised.

“Trustworthy. Don’t know how long I need to keep an eye on him, though, so I’m not revealing any names.”

Barbara jerks her head up and stares at her friend and her team’s primary grifter with more than just a hint of concern.

He knows, right? He knows that he doesn’t have to stay on the mark if it’s making him upset? She knows that her own position is unusually well suited to barking orders if need be, but Dick knows he shares the mastermind role with her, right? That she tells him things?

Dick has always been in on the ground floor of planning a con- at least, since she’d become a part of Parity herself all those years ago. Maybe it’s just the tone, maybe it's the don’t know how long, but Barbara wonders, quietly, when he forgot that he’s allowed to call off a con himself.

He catches her eye, then, and offers a quick grin and a thumbs-up. Her phone buzzes after a moment.

I’m fine, the text reads, I’m just feeling a little weird. Vaguely melancholy. You know how it is.

Barbara smiles softly, hiding her phone in her lap under the table so she can text back.

You know you can back out at any time, right?

Dick’s answering grin is more faint and honest than most other expressions she’s seen on his face in a long, long time.

That’s why I haven’t yet.

“So, we make our way into the factory when there’s only one Scarlet Speedster, hm?” Ivy asks, leaning forwards on the map again. Barbara rolls out from under the table, catching Ivy’s eye.

“Exactly,” she says, “Although I think you and I might have different ideas of what ‘make our way’ means.”

Ivy’s smile is sharp and wicked.

“Well, my dear, that would be because I am incredibly, inconsolably enraged, and I would very much like to kill someone. Subjugation is not for humans to play with. It’s not even for me to play with.”

She really is incensed, glare burning like summer sun glinting through wilting, drought-parched trees. Ivy’s grip on one of the metal chairs near the map is so tight it’s likely to dent it before the meeting is over.

Barbara is going to have to redirect them soon, before anyone’s temper gets out of hand, the spell is broken, and they all scatter away from each other across the city, like snakes from an overturned den.

The sound of arguing grows higher and higher, like winds whipping up into a loud, overwhelming storm. In the chaos, Barbara finds the seeds of an idea. Checking her weather radar, she monitors the next few days carefully. This is probably going to be traumatic for at least a few people, but better that than being the puppets of someone intending to use thousands of people as un-consenting test subjects. She rolls back her chair, and shouts-

“EVERYBODY!” she yells at the top of her lungs, “I have a plan!”

Eight pairs of eyes snap to her in a moment, regarding her curiously.

“It’s going to need all of you,” she says once the attention is on her, “Pam, Harley, how good are you two at disguising your voices?”

She can pinpoint the exact moment that Dick recognizes what she’s talking about. They’ve both studied at the feet of giants in their field, learned exactly which cons work and which ones don’t. There’s one that, surprisingly enough, she and Dick have never had the opportunity to run themselves.

“Are we doing a MassDOT Special?” he asks, practically vibrating with his excitement. Barbara hides a smile behind her hand, but she knows that Dick- her best friend of over a decade, ex-boyfriend, and a professional grifter to boot- can see right through it anyways.

“Technically speaking,” she says, dropping the hand, “It’s a MODOT special.”

She ignores the looks of confusion from Harley and Ivy. They’ll be able to do what she tells them, anyways.

A MassDOT Special- or, rather, in this case, a MODOT Special- is one of the cons that Dick has always genuinely looked forwards to pulling off, but has never been able to do himself.

“So, what are we thinking?” he asks, “I mean, it’s a little late in the season-”

“Tornado,” Barbara replies, “It’s late in the season, sure, but there’s nothing that’ll distract the Flash- or Flash-es, I think there’s another one that’s mostly retired, so that’d be three, two left in town- better than something that they’d actually be able to help with.”

Dick tilts his head to the side in response, watching the rest of their crew chatter amongst themselves, throwing the occasional concerned glance in his and Barbara’s direction.

If he’s going to be entirely honest, it’s mostly Jason doing that. Dick waves his younger brother over- the teenager doesn’t spare the rest of his own little group a second glance.

“You doing okay?” he asks, “You look worried.”

“Not sure what a MassDOT Special is,” Jason admits, “Don’t know why it requires all of us. Kind of freaking me out a bit.”

It’s said gruffly, but honestly, and Dick’s heart warms at the trust.

“It doesn’t, technically,” Dick says, “It’s just helpful to have more people. A MassDOT Special is this con I heard about through the grapevine, what was it, five years back? Barbara and I have never had the opportunity to run it ourselves, but it involves faking a tornado or some other large natural disaster to whatever department of transportation exists in your state. It’s reliant on weather patterns, a bit, and it needs human error to be able to work, but what con doesn’t?”

Jason blinks at him for a few moments.

“Faking. A tornado,” he replies, with no small amount of skepticism. Dick smiles sharply, all teeth.

“You make it sound like it’s hard.”

“How in the hell are we gonna steal a tornado, Dickie? They’re not exactly something Timmy can pick up and hold in his hand!”

Dick snorts.

“Human error, Little Wing. We don’t have to fake an entire tornado. We don’t have to con the National Weather Service- well, not entirely- and we don’t have to fake any readings on satellites, although bold of you to assume that Babs can’t do that. All we have to do is make some phone calls to the real-life people who man the stations, and the rest of it will happen all in good time.”

“The dates that the other Flash will be out of town are good for it, too,” Barbara says, “Look at the storm system that’s moving in. No way that any sensible person manning the phone line would dismiss that as a hoax.”

She taps her touchscreen, enlarging the image as she turns the screen around to show it to Jason. His eyes widen.

“Damn,” he replies, “If it was three months earlier, I would have bet real money that we’d get our shit rocked by a real tornado in the middle of the con.”

Dick clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“Don’t say things like that, Little Wing,” he scolds, “It’s bad luck.”

Jason snorts.

“You sound like a ninety year old grandmother.”

“Since when is any grandmother of ours ninety?” Dick shoots back. Alfred, from about half the room away, lets out a light cough.

“I’m not saying you’re ninety,” Jason points out to their grandfather, who seems appeased, “I’m saying Dick acts like somebody’s eighty-five-and-up year old bubbe.”

“... He’s not wrong,” Barbara creaks, as if she’s desperately trying to hold back laughter. Dick rolls his eyes.

“Oh, har dee har, joke about how our streak of terrible luck has made me paranoid, why don’t you. Rub salt in the wound too, why not?”

He’s joking, though, and it’s clear that they hear it from the faint grins that break out across their faces. Jason hums thoughtfully after a moment, taking the tablet from Barbara’s hands.

“So, when’s our opening, again?” he asks Dick.

“Three days,” he says, “They- the older Flash and his wife- are going to be on a flight to Vegas. Even the Flash can’t run his way out of a moving plane. It’s an afternoon flight, just barely getting out of the way of the nasty storm system we’re taking advantage of.”

Jason nods, biting at his thumb as he watches the weather radar.

“... And the facility’s not a twenty-four-hour, right?”

“It was, but they fired so many people recently that they don’t have enough to cover both a day and night shift,” Dick replies. Jason’s smile is a wicked thing.

“Well,” he hums, “Should be easy enough to target whoever’s left behind to close up shop.”

Ivy stares, half confused and half amused, at the flip phone.

“Haven’t you used that burner before?” she asks.

“It’s wasteful to keep throwing them away,” Barbara huffs, “You taught me that, in case you’re forgetting. I wipe them, and I rotate between a large number of them, or I’ll give them away, but I won’t just… dispose of them.”

Ivy nods approvingly.

“Very well,” she says, and stretches out her hand, in which Barbara deposits the flip phone. They’re all a little north of Central, right now, miles south of the massive storm system that they’re going to be taking advantage of, so Barbara doesn’t need to mess with the signal that much. Instead, she keeps an eye on Harley, who has already started with the theatrics, out of the corner of her vision.

“Nah, I’m telling you, I saw the damn thing rip a hole through this RV park!” Harley yells, “Pulled up some damn oaks by the roots, too!”

They’re mimicking an F-2 (or EF-2, Barbara supposes, with the Enhanced scale) tornado, figuring it’s moderately believable while also being an urgent threat. Missouri doesn’t have F-2s in July often- or rather, ever. The meteorological phenomenon hasn’t happened in this state this late in the year more than twice in the past couple decades (when it wasn’t being caused by Weather Wizard, at least).

… Barbara wonders if someone is going to blame Weather Wizard for this. She wouldn’t be surprised.

The F-2 is, of course, in reference to the Fujita Scale of Tornado Damage Intensity. Barbara’s not particularly familiar with the scale herself, given that she lives on the East Coast and not in the range where tornadoes seem to have shifted in the past couple decades, but she knows enough to know how to suggest at the size of the tornado.

They’re close to the factory, right now- a few miles, really, but all along the river. The sunlight is just beginning to die in the sky, and it casts a deep, ember-like red glow across the buildings close to the river, glinting off of windows like a thousand tiny fires. The sky is growing dark and angry, and thick with deep blue-purple clouds that smell of rain.

Barbara herself has a small, underground hideout here, one of the few she has outside of Gotham- it’s the location for their zeta tube, after all. She rolls down the ramp to the entrance, and places her palm on the cool glass.

Behind her, the wind slowly stirs to life. By the time the elevator doors slide closed once again, they’ve worked themselves up into a howling frenzy.

Barbara can only hope that everyone will be alright.

She’ll call it off if things get too hectic, she knows that much.

As she shakes off the flash of light from the zeta tube, she takes her place once again beside the massive screen of monitors, keeping an eye on MODOT’s reactions to their little ruse.

They’re  buying it, it seems.

Now it’s just time to wait.

There is no basement in the factory. There isn’t even a proper storm shelter. According to the building plans, they were all filled with concrete years ago- for what reason, Jason doesn’t know.

Cass perches on the edge of the main room, watching the dead-still machinery in the long basin that must have been the upper half of the basement before they filled it. The entire floor is sunken down at least ten feet below ground level- it likely makes everything easier to maneuver.

Theoretically speaking, had the building itself been more solid and the entire room been about fifteen feet underground, it would have made for a phenomenal tornado shelter.

Those benefits, of course, are outweighed by the high glass skylight at the top of the building, shining the cloud-blotted light of afternoon across the gleaming metal of the pill production line. They’re also outweighed by the long, high windows along the sides of the factory, which could shatter at a moment’s notice in a real storm.

“I’m surprised there’s nobody here,” Jason mutters under his breath, kicking at one of the heavier metal tubs. It’s sparkling clean, no sign of dust- not surprising, given that it’s a facility with only one twelve hour shift, considering how many workers they’ve laid off. He’s not actually surprised- with how much glass is in the windows and how flimsy the steel shell is, most of the workers here would probably be better off taking shelter from a real tornado in the street.

“Everything ready for transportation should be over there,” Dick hums under his breath, something Jason’s only able to hear through the transmitters, “The pill name is under-”

Tim cuts him off, rattling out a long name that Jason is going to be able to recognize in a heartbeat. Jason jogs over to the pills ready for transport- the factory is small, and therefore it’s not a particularly tough task, but he wants to be sure regardless.

“What do I do with these now?” he asks Barbara, hefting one of the packages in his arms.

“There’s a waste disposal system they have not far from you,” Barbara replies, her voice cool and clipped, “Should be fairly easy to acquire a forklift and drive them over.”

“I’m not forklift certified,” Jason points out. There’s a moment of silence from the other end of the line, and Jason has to wonder if she’s about to take offense at the fact that he isn’t certified, or-

“You do more illegal things than driving a vehicle without a license every day,” she replies.

“Well yeah, but not a forklift,” he argues back, “Those things scare me!”

“Okay, do you want me to ask Dick to do it?”

Jason scrambles for the forklift immediately at the threat.

“No, no, I’ve got it.”

“Thought so,” Barbara replies smugly, “Now get to work.”

Jason’s almost all the way through his disposing of the Subjugation laced pills, on a convenient little garbage disposal-slash-water containment room not to far from the transport zone, when he hears the start of an argument.

“No, I’m telling you, Pammy, they’re gonna notice!”

“Are they not going to notice regardless?” Ivy points out. Jason finishes disposing of his ready for transportation pills, heading back towards the main room. Ivy is somewhere in the middle, arguing with Harley over the merits of destroying one of the larger dust tanks, while Dick and Cass are in the monitor room, Selina has gone looking for the physical file copies, and Tim’s off on his own searching for any secondary server locations, due to the fact that Barbara actually trusts him to be able to follow her directions on his own.

“They probably will notice,” Jason cuts in, “Don’t see any reason to not blow shit up when we leave. Not like there’s any security cameras around here anyways- Middledown really didn’t want any of this information leaving this factory, that’s why she only had the physical copy.”

Ivy’s lips curl up into the smuggest grin that Jason has ever seen in his entire life.

“Files are shredded,” Selina purrs, also making her way back to the main, basin-like room.

“Nice,” Jason says, “Tim?”

There’s no answer. It’s dead silent on the other end, when he listens closer. There’s a few moments of quiet, before Dick takes over for Jason with a much more urgent “Tim?”

“He’s really stressed out, huh,” Selina whispers, “Timmy, kitten, we all know how much the biggest bird freaks when he can’t find any of you. Mind answering?”

Instead of a voice, the sliding screech of a metal door being thrown open answers Selina.

“Is this yours?” a man’s voice calls. In one hand, he holds a gun, silver and polished enough that even in the dark, storm clouds gathering above them as afternoon slides its way into night, Jason’s eyes catch upon it.

In his other hand, flailing like a scruffed kitten, cape wrapped around his torso so tightly it likely keeps his hands from moving at all, much less loose enough to free him, is Robin.

Jason’s heart leaps into his throat. He takes a step forwards, but is halted when the man presses the gun closer to Tim.

They are all, of course, wearing their costumes, so Tim’s got some armor on his torso, at least, but he’s not wearing a helmet like Jason himself is, and his face is far too close to the muzzle.

Distantly, Jason wonders at how he’s gone from disliking the kid to being willing to move heaven and earth to protect him in the span of a few weeks. He thinks, almost halfheartedly, if this is what being a big brother means. He’d do the same for Cass in a heartbeat.

“Put him down,” Jason growls, the mechanized snarl reverberating through the stainless steel of the production lines, sending a ringing noise bouncing through the building. Above them, upon the skylight, it begins to rain. The man jerks Robin forwards, almost tauntingly.

“I don’t think I will,” he replies, “I’m not that stupid.”

“I said,” Jason repeats, pulling out his own gun, “PUT HIM DOWN.”

There’s a whoosh of air, and just like that, Dick is standing right next to him.

“I think we can settle this like adults, without the petty arguments and the gun-toting,” his brother purrs, “What seems to be the problem?”

“She warned us about you people,” the man snarls, “Costumed freaks-”

Ivy’s glinting glare is the only warning any of them get before she too steps forwards.

“Oh, and shoving a mind control substance into a commonly used pain reliever is so perfectly normal?” she snaps back. The man’s eyes don’t widen. Good. Jason will feel like less of a dick when he shoots this asshole in the face.

“Ivy,” Dick warns, eyes still fixed on Tim.

He’s going to do something stupid, Jason notes absently like he’s watching this entire fiasco through several sheets of cotton.

Jason refuses to not be involved.

Dick begins to circle around behind the man, keeping a careful eye on the hand holding the gun. He dodges closer, attracting his attention, and draws a batarang, throwing it-

At Tim.

Well, not quite at Tim- at the hand holding Tim, which is still a close damn call. Jason shoots above the man’s head to keep his attention. Lightning flashes, and Tim drops to the floor, cutting himself out of the cape in one elegant, fluid motion.

The crack of thunder takes a few seconds, but it shakes the windows with its force, and Jason resists the urge to clap his hands over his ears. Several paces ahead of him, the man has lost track of his gun, and has instead picked up the discarded batarang, waving it like a knife. Ivy sends a thick vine up past him, knocking away the batarang and sending it all the way up into the skylight, where it shatters the glass above the heavy ventilation lines, and what Jason thinks might be gas.

Jason tackles him in seconds, pinning his arms behind him viciously. In front of him, Dick remains steady on his feet, though he’d somehow managed to get a long, ragged tear through one of his gloves on the way. It’s large enough that it’ll either need immediate mending or the whole glove will need to be cut off- the hole is of a size that it could cause near-lethal snags easily if Dick doesn’t land right because of a misaligned jump.

He digs his knee into the man’s back. Instead of a groan, though, he hears a chuckle.

“Oh, you brats are fucked,” the man laughs, “You practically did our jobs for us!”

Jason growls through his voice modulator. The man apparently takes that as an invitation to continue.

“I’ve already sounded the alarm,” he hisses, “The Flash will be here in five minutes, if not less. And guess which little idiots just erased any evidence they could use, hmm?”

Jason’s chest goes cold. He doesn’t step away, but it’s a very near thing.

“You’d be surprised,” he says instead of something hot-headed and angry.

Outside, the thunder rolls.

Jason wonders when it’ll be too late.

There’s an F-2 tornado just north of his city.

This has to be the absolute worst possible time for Barry to be out of the city. Wally knows how to deal with Weather Wizard- obviously, he’s been doing this gig for around a decade, now- but he doesn’t have nearly the same amount of experience with natural tornadoes, much less anything severe!

Missouri has had less than four hundred tornado fatalities since 1950, and lately- and by lately, Wally means relative to 1950, he’s been doing this since he first got the Kid Flash mantle- he and Barry have been able to get everybody out of the way in time, so the standard low level of fatalities has dropped even further.

Wally’s not used to solo outings versus a natural tornado, though. Therefore, he doesn’t notice that the sky isn’t tinged green, that the clouds aren’t circling in quite the right way, that-

He skids to a stop near the last reported sighting of the tornado, in a field ringed with the vans of excited storm chasers.

“Hey, it’s the Flash!” someone yells, and a few turn to take photos of him, rather than the sky.

“Has anyone spotted where the tornado went?” he asks. There’s a few head shakes across the field, and Wally takes a closer notice of the carnage laid out ahead of him.

Or, rather, the lack thereof.

He’s in the right place, right? Wally’s not as familiar with tornadoes as, say, Clark- Missouri only gets thirty natural tornadoes on average every year as compared to neighboring Kansas’s ninety-two (although Kansas actually gets fewer natural tornadoes than Texas annually, who usually numbers at over a hundred, and the general range of the highest number of tornadoes has been sweeping south and east in the wake of global warming)- but he’s sure that something of an F-2 rating or above should be leaving significant damage, no?

Wally tunes in to the Central City police frequency, bolstered by the Justice League satellite. Then, he turns back to the storm chasers.

“Has anyone seen any signs of a nearby tornado?” he asks. All thirty-something of them shake their heads.

“The MODOT system says there’s one, but there’s been no activity that would suggest it. The storm’s worse south of here, but we drove through it to get here- no sign of anything big. Just rain.”

“You think someone could’ve made false reports?” a woman asks from a nearby car, and the first storm chaser- an older man, flanked by a girl who appears to be his teenage granddaughter- turns to her.

“I’d sure fuckin’ hope not,” he growls with the ferocity of a scientist whose research has been intentionally tampered with, “This was one hell of a meteorological anomaly. If some kids were just goofing around-”

“Don’t mean that,” the woman says, “He’s here, ain’t he? You think it could be some supervillain plot?”

Wally’s blood turns cold as ice. In his earpiece, he turns up the CCPD cop chatter.

“We’ve got a 10-35, large scale break in at the Middledown plant on the river,” someone barks out. Wally takes one last moment to survey the sky.

“You’re absolutely sure there’s no tornado here?”

“There’s been no sign of one for about half an hour now. We’ve been coordinating ‘cross the state,” the woman grouses.

Wally nods.

“Thank you,” he says, before he turns his tail and runs.

The factory is already beat up when he gets there. It’s old, yes, but not that old- it was still in good condition the last time Wally had seen it, but now there’s a yawning gap in the rooftop, likely a product of the massive vine hanging limply like a dead limb over the side of the squat old building. He runs up it, sliding down in a matter of moments, finding himself firmly in the center of a fight.

Nightwing is above him, having somehow made it to the corrugated metal walkway, while the rest of whatever crew he’s working with- including an infamous Gotham Rogue, if his eyes do not deceive him- are scattered around the room, hidden by a massive wall of vines and the pouring sheets of rain.

Normally, he’d be on point, would have these foes tied up in a matter of seconds, but the massive crack-boom of thunder catches him off his guard, sending him stumbling. The storm must be almost on top of them now, and the rain has made the concrete floors puddle-slick. He’ll need to pick his way through carefully- even with the Speed Force, the process is slower than he’d like.

It’s still fast, though.

Fast enough that he doesn’t quite notice the lightning strike arcing down through the skylight and past the corrugated iron walkway, landing squarely in the midst of the gas line.

The entire west side of the warehouse explodes.

Metal and fire are sent in every direction, and once the initial shockwave peters out, the fire just keeps burning, supported by the ever-constant outpour of natural gas from the line.

Wally only has the slightest warning before the walkway is vaporized below him. He wheels, for a moment- even speed can’t help him against gravity in its entirety if he can’t get any purchase- and catches sight of the ground nearly thirty feet below.

Maybe if he angles himself right, the injury will be damaging, rather than fatal or career-breaking. Wally tries one last time to reach out at the railing, halfway fallen across the gap.

Rather than sinking his fingers onto burning-hot metal or the empty stillness of open air, they find purchase in warm flesh instead. Wally’s arm creaks under the pressure, and his savior staggers in the gloom, holding tight to the railing with his left hand, but…

But the man has him.

Wally hasn’t been left to fall.

Dazed, he takes note of a warmly tanned hand. It had once been smooth, clearly- the skin is well tended and taken care of, almost dewy where it isn’t damaged, despite the fire. The damage, though…

Wally can see long, thin raking scars all along the back of the hand, light compared to the darker undamaged skin, as if the person had been injured by multiple small, sharp things all at once. Glass, perhaps?

He gets a better look at the palm- paler, with long and strong fingers- when the man pulls him entirely to his feet. The palm is scarred, too, a long, angry thing that crosses the entirety of its center. The inside of the fingers are scarred in the same way. Wally can’t help but memorize the pattern.

He coughs, bent over, before he raises his head to look at the face of his savior, and promptly nearly drops his jaw from shock.

There stands Nightwing, the man who he had been about to apprehend, cool as a cucumber in the smoky darkness that descends as the storm does its level best to put out the fire it had created.

“You sent out that tornado warning, didn’t you?” he asks accusingly. The white lenses of the domino mask don’t reveal much, but the outside of the mask crinkles faintly in amusement.

“Is that what you say to your savior?” Nightwing purrs back. He leans over the side of the railing. Wally, struggling, pulls himself to his full height. Nightwing turns back to him.

“Hey, do you know how we can turn off the gas valve in this thing?” he asks.

Wally just stares.

“I said,” Nightwing repeats, as if checking to make sure that Wally hasn’t lost his hearing in the explosion, “Do you know how to shut the gas off?”

“I heard you the first time,” Wally says, “I’m just- surprised.”

“This was supposed to be a simple ‘recall’,” Nightwing grumbles in air quotes, “Never doing a MassDOT Special ever again in my life, it is not worth it, I swear to-”

Wally snorts, and Nightwing turns back.

“If I got you down there-” he says, pointing towards a large red wheel, “Do you think you could shut it off?”

Wally nods, sobering quickly.

Nightwing gives him no warning before he’s grabbed roughly around the waist, sending both of them spinning towards the floor below. There’s a sound like a zipline, and they both abruptly slow significantly.

Wally wriggles out of Nightwing’s secure hold when they’re about to touch down, immediately gunning for the valve. The first turn makes the flames glow brighter, so he quickly spins the wheel in the opposite direction, though not too quick as to risk it cracking.

The flames begin to die down. Smoke rises higher as they’re extinguished.

“Batgirl- good, Red Hood- okay, that’s the last of you,” Nightwing mutters, holding a hand to his ear. Ah. Must be a communicator. Wally inches his fingers out, and Nightwing slaps them away, grabbing Wally around the waist again and sending them circling up to above the skylight.

Wally nearly takes a tumble right off the side of the roof. Nightwing grabs his hand again. Wally wonders when he lost that glove.

“Will you listen to me now?” Nightwing asks, voice grave. Wally, who figures there’s not much of a way for things to get worse, nods vacantly.

A flash drive is pressed into his hands.

“On that,” Nightwing hums, “Is everything you need to confirm- and prosecute- Middledown Pharmaceuticals for an attempt to use a generic painkiller as a testing ground for a mind-controlling substance. And a way to contact my associate Poison Ivy, should her expertise prove necessary.”

Wally’s breath hitches.

“And you’re trusting me with this?” he asks, instead of I’m taking you in anyways. Something about this man is painfully familiar, heartbreakingly trustworthy. Wally wants to listen to him. Wally wants this man to trust him in turn.

“This is your city, no?” Nightwing asks, raising a hand to cup the side of Wally’s face- and then jerking it away, as if he’s been burned.

Wally, surprisingly enough, wishes he’d left it there.

He stands there for a moment, half in shock. He lowers his head to take a closer look at the flash drive, as if simply poking at it will reveal whether it’s some gold mine of information or the worst virus known to man.

When he looks up, Nightwing is already gone.

Chapter Text

Tom’s being awkward.

Normally, Wally would have left it alone, but he thought they’d been getting a little closer, recently. They’ve shared some things- not much, but some.

Barry’s working with them today, though, so that might be a part of it. Wally doesn’t get to work with Barry very often, but when they do man the main lab together, they’re a well-oiled machine.

… Oh.

Could Tom be feeling weird because Wally’s father figure is present and his own has passed away at some point, likely recently?

That actually tracks exactly.

Tom starts to slide off after their shift is over. Wally catches up, and hopes he isn’t overstepping.

“Hey,” he says awkwardly, sliding into the elevator after him, “Are you good? You’ve been awfully quiet today.”

Tom snorts.

“When am I not?”

It’s not a dismissal. It’s said in a joking, pleasant tone, the kind that suggests that he’s not mad at Wally for overstepping when talking to him at the boundary between at-work and not-at-work, but that he’s just… tired.

“That’s fair,” Wally replies. They both sit in companionable silence until the elevator dings, and they make their way out to the street without saying another word to each other.

“I’m fine, by the way,” Tom says, finally breaking the silence, “In case you were wondering. It’s just. New people.”

He waves his hands around, as if to convey the size of the emotion. Wally nods.

“Nah, I get it. See you on Thursday?”

“See you Thursday.”

Selina is waiting for him on the roof of the Gotham Natural History Museum.

Dick hoists himself up the side of the glass dome covering the butterfly garden. Theoretically speaking, the heavy metal struts would be good purchase for a grapple, but he doesn’t want to risk damaging the glass and exposing the fragile insects inside to the cold night air.

“Follow me,” Catwoman says once he arrives, dropping off the side of the building. Dick bites back an annoyed remark at the swift change in location, but does as he’s told, sliding down the metal struts like  he’s skateboarding.

He follows Catwoman all the way to one of her safehouses, a quiet thing in a fairly boring neighborhood- well, as boring as Gotham gets in the city proper, anyways.

Dick crawls in through the window, allowing himself to spill into a gangly mess of limbs. There’s a meow from beside his head, and he turns.

A tiny paw whacks at his face. Dick leans back, and all of a sudden, his arms are filled with cat.

It’s a soft little white kitten, with dark points and strikingly blue eyes. A few feet away, lounging upon the couch, not a care in the world, is a cat who must be the kitten’s mother. She’s massive, with a dark face broken by a white line streaking its way up from her nose towards the crown of her head, and thick brown-and-cream fur that’s almost the color of a good iced coffee. She’s also darker around the head, tail, and legs, and she’s surrounded by small kittens- some pointed, some tuxedo, and one with a fantastically beautiful gray-and-black pattern, with a faint white nose line, similar to its mother’s, that reminds Dick of Jason’s little white curl at the front of his head.

“I’m glad you’re spending time with them,” Selina says, startling Dick out of cooing over the kittens. The kitten in his arms meows with displeasure at the way he tenses, wriggling its way out of his arms and onto the couch.

“I have a feeling that’s not what you called me for,” he hums in response. Selina, arranging herself elegantly on the couch next to the cat, nods.

“No, it isn’t,” she replies, “I have a mark for you.”

“Oh?” Dick asks, because it’s rather rare that Selina is so forward about their association. It’s usually Ivy who’s the one asking them for favors or passing them clients- she’s the one who has access to more information regarding clients on an environmental basis.

“It’s not going to be an entertaining one,” she says, voice low.

“It never is,” Dick replies.

“There’s this… supposed ‘stock broker’,” she begins, and Dick already knows where this is headed from those words on their own, “He’s been buying up penny stock, and then calling every Gotham number he can to invest in it, saying he has insider information. Afterwards, he dumps the stock and waits for it to crash. Standard pump-and-dump, but he’s vicious about it.”

Dick winces.

“Thought we’d had our share of pump-and-dump scams for the year already. It’s been common in cryptocurrency lately, too,” he mutters to himself, “Well, it’s sort of ninety percent of what cryptocurrency is- nevermind.”

He looks back up to Selina.

“Any particular requests?”

“He’s been targeting people with barely anything in their savings to begin with. I want him to bleed.”

Dick nods, eyes narrowed.

“Legally, financially, or literally?”

Selina cocks her head to the side and hums for a moment, before turning back to him with a grin so sharp it could cut glass.

“Think you can pull off all three?"

Dick smiles faintly in response, rubbing his first three fingers together to call over one of the cats. The first that he’d met, the little cream-and-brown kitten, meows and attacks his fingers. Selina smiles gently- Dick’s not sure if it’s because he’s going to be taking her job or if it’s because he’s spending time with her cats.

Out of all of the people Bruce has dated, Dick’s the closest with Selina, he thinks. Granted, a lot of the people Bruce has dated are either supervillains, people Dick doesn’t trust as far as they can throw them, civilians, or some combination of the three, but that doesn’t make Selina’s positive contributions to his childhood- or the entire existence of Parity and the mantle of The Bat as it exists today- any lesser.

Dick would probably take any job she asked him to, and she wouldn’t ask any job of him that would be cruel beyond measure to him, for which Dick is grateful. Back when he’d gone solo, had been a lone grifter with myriad talents in a sea of others who would use those talents for less scrupulous means, he had known what falling into a job like that meant. He’s never going to allow his siblings to get anywhere close to something of a similar vein.

There’s a faint meow, and the kitten wriggles out from under Dick’s hand to place one of her front paws on his chest, the other reaching for his face.

“So,” he asks, deciding to change the subject, “Are you fostering them with a shelter, or…”

“Why, are you looking to add to the ever-sprawling Bat clan?” she shoots back. Dick snorts, ruffling his fingers through the kitten’s fur.

“Don’t really think now is the time, what with everything going on. Ace is cat-friendly, at least- B used to have one- but I think a kitten would get lost in the Manor, the way things are right now.”

Selina’s smile turns mischievous.

“Are you sure? She really seems to like you.”

She’s not wrong- the kitten stares up at him, her wide blue eyes filled with absolutely nothing except for affection. Dick would be surprised if there was more than a single brain cell bouncing around in her tiny, delicate head.

“As to my question?” Dick asks, redirecting her. Selina snorts.

“No, they’re not with a shelter. Mama cat over here got dumped by one of my neighbors at a different safehouse- they moved to Metropolis and didn’t take this sweetheart with them.”

Selina makes a kissing noise, and the beautiful pointed cat surges from where she’s entertaining her kittens to Selina’s lap, seemingly pleased to finally have an invitation.

“She’s normally more cuddly,” Selina explains, struggling with an armful of one of the fluffiest cats Dick has ever seen, “She tends to be a bit more held back around new people.”

There’s a meow from one of the other rooms, and a night-black shorthair with half of one ear clipped off and a ginger-and-white medium hair that’s missing its left eye race into the room to add to the pile of cats upon Selina’s lap.

“They all look pretty cuddly to me,” Dick jokes. Selina snorts, then sobers, pushing all three cats off of her lap and standing to look at him.

“I know it’s nothing you aren’t used to doing,” she says quietly, “And a type of mark you’re well acquainted with. But it’s personal for me. He messed with people under my protection, and you know I can’t let that stand.”

Dick nods.

“I can make him bleed, Cat,” he says quietly, “Just say the word how.”

She smiles again. This time, it’s full of teeth.

Warren Bell is a pale, dark-haired man in his early forties, and tall enough that even Jason would have to look up to meet his eyes if they met in person. He’s not quite built like a goon, but he’s not lean, either- he’s got plenty of the thick muscle that suggests that he’s more than happy to crush somebody’s head in a door if it’d make a Falcone happy.

Hey, look, Jason has seen some fucked up shit over the duration of his life. It’s just par for the course when it comes to living in Gotham.

As Barbara goes through the presentation of the mark, Jason’s attention is drawn to the rhythmic tapping of Dick’s fingers. He looks as if he’s about to stand and say something- most likely either announce what con they’re doing or explain exactly why they’ve taken this particular con, not that they wouldn’t have regardless.

“You have something to add?” Barbara asks, amusement flickering across her face. Behind her, on the other side of their vaguely U-shaped table, Cass and Tim whisper to each other, as if contemplating their own particular ways for dealing with this mess of a mark.

Dick’s smile stretches across his face, pleasant and a little bit mischievous in the way that means he’s figured out what con they’re going to execute.

“How do all of you feel,” he purrs, lips quirking up into a smile, “About pulling off a Shuffle?”

The thing is, it’s honestly pathetically easy to get into Warren Bell’s confidence. While the man is of the wannabe Wall Street type to the core, there’s one general truth among the kind of men that make their money fleecing already vulnerable people- they’re not nearly as smart as they think they are.

If they were, they’d go for tougher prey.

All Dick really has to do is take advantage of the fact that the man is hiring.

There’s really very few people who can match Dick at a grift when they’re starting from cold like this. Dick’s good at cold-calling, though he dislikes the practice on principle- he’s always been talented at making his voice as soothing or energizing as he needs it to be.

Dick spins around in his chair fifteen minutes into the introductory test, wrapping the cord of his landline around his finger expertly. He leans back in the office chair, staring upside-down at Bell as he hooks yet another potential ‘client’. Of course, the money will be returned to them- ideally, obviously, from Bell’s holdings, but if they’re unsuccessful, Dick’s more than happy to put up a significant chunk of his own ill-gotten-gains for the measure. They may not take payment from their jobs, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t make money, and it’s a useful safety net when it comes to things like this.

Bell snorts, somehow displeased, and turns back to the window, before stalking over to another one of his little ‘sharks’ and grabbing the phone from him. In an instant, he turns from a gruff man with a sharp smile and nothing even resembling a moral compass to something lighter, brighter, and seemingly helpful. The ‘shark’ he’d pushed into flails, nearly collapsing on the floor before he snags against Bell’s shirt collar.

If he hadn’t been an objectively terrible person, Dick might have allowed himself a little professional respect at the sheer efficiency of the man, grifter to grifter. He’ll bounce between whatever three or four pump-and-dump schemes he’s working at the same time. It’s penny stock, usually, but he also hypes up at least one cryptocurrency that Dick can’t remember the name of off the top of his head.

They should take on some crypto giant next. It’s basically the same premise as a pump-and-dump- well, technically, it is a pump and dump scheme, just with fake money instead of stock.

Dick earns his living in gold, gemstones, and cold hard cash- he’s not exactly fond of the new fads. They all turn back to real money eventually.

He keeps an eye on Bell as he works. The man moves from one of his little sharks to the next, sliding around their ‘bullpen’ like a bobcat pacing in its pen.

When Dick stands to leave for the night, Bell stops him.

“You’re welcome back tomorrow,” he says, “Not like some of these idiots.”

Dick nods.

He’s been expecting this.

He’s not going to get any sleep tonight, is he.

Dick stares up at the ceiling of his room, listening to the faint wind blowing through the trees. There’s a gentle smell of loam filtering through the walls- it’s probably going to start raining soon enough, and given the age of the Manor and the proximity Dick’s room has to some of the larger windows in the house, it means it’ll probably get colder, too.

Only in Gotham does someone need to consider starting up the fireplace in the beginning of August, huh?

Dick scrubs a hand against his face, before hauling himself out of bed. There’s a faint tapping on the roof- it’s begun to rain.

He stumbles for a moment, foot catching on the blanket. He nearly falls onto his face, but a clever hand below that allows him to turn the faceplant into a handstand, and he gingerly lowers himself to his feet again as he makes his way for the door.

It’s quiet, in the house. The hallways are even colder than the bedrooms, devoid of any human source of warmth. There’s a quiet whuff from down the hall and a skitter of nails, and Ace makes his way down to Dick’s door.

“Hi, buddy,” Dick says, scratching behind the old dog’s ears, “What are you doing up?”

“What are you doing up?” another voice answers him. Dick jerks his head up to see Jason, eyes half-glowing in the dark. In his hands is a steaming mug of what smells like some kind of tea.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Dick says with a shrug, deciding to answer honestly. Jason nods sharply.

“Why not?”

Dick shrugs again.

“Not sure why,” he replies, expertly avoiding subjects like I’m feeling guilty about manipulating the Flash and I don’t know what to do about that or others such as I feel like there’s something deeply wrong that I haven’t been able to spot yet and I’m not sure what it is. He’s not going to make Jason deal with that. If he can help it, he’s going to make sure nobody has to deal with that.

Jason shoots him a skeptical look.

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

Dick snorts, and reaches for his brother’s mug of tea. Jason tries to yank it away, but Dick hasn’t been a thief near a decade longer than he has for no reason.

“Black tea?” he asks, offended, “You’re not even trying to go back to sleep?”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Jason replies gruffly- Dick pours the tea out in a potted plant before he can snag it back.

“I was drinking that,” Jason grumbles, and Dick, self-control wavering in the face of exhaustion, sticks his tongue out at him. Jason steps back a bit before he realizes what’s happening- once he does, he begins to giggle quietly. Before long, the giggling becomes cackling, and Dick reaches out to keep his brother from overdramatically sliding down onto the floor.

“Ugh,” Jason says, wiping at his face as he straightens, “I needed that, thank you.”

“All I did was stick my tongue out at you,” Dick replies airily, but with enough pretend haughtiness that Jason will be able to read it in its proper, joking tone. It nearly sends Jason into another fit of laughter, but he sticks his fist against his lips and nose to muffle it.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Dick says cautiously, “Why are you up this late?”

Jason seems to be about to answer, before he frowns, tilting his head as he looks at Dick.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” he starts. Dick frowns in turn.

“What do you mean?”

Jason sighs, and gestures at Dick with both hands.

“The- careful thing, I don’t know. You don’t have to be worried about upsetting me all the time. I’m not gonna leave.”

He says it like he’s sure of it. Here’s the thing, though: nobody can be sure of it. Dick doesn’t bring this up, of course, instead leaning a little bit more into his little brother’s space, seeking an invitation.

Jason gives him one, stepping more in Dick’s direction, and Dick places his chin on Jason’s shoulder, wrapping his arms under Jason and clinging to him tightly. It takes a moment, but the awkward stiffness leaves Jason’s arms and shoulders, and he clings tighter to Dick in turn.

“Are you going to tell me what was bothering you?” Dick asks, halfway muffled into Jason’s sleep shirt. Jason sighs.

“You gonna tell me what was bothering you first?”

“Already said I’m not sure,” Dick replies, but decides to be a little more honest this time, “It’s a couple of things. Nothing really enough to keep me from sleeping on their own, but they build.”

It’s not a lie. Dick is used to a low-grade level of what if there’s something you haven’t noticed yet, something that could hurt the rest of them- it’s been there ever since Jason died, and it’s only gotten worse since Barbara’s injury and Bruce’s death. 

Jason pulls away, regarding him suspiciously for a moment, before he lowers his gaze and sighs.

“... The sheets are freaking me out.”

Dick remembers, back in the early days of Jason’s tenure as Robin, that he found discomfort in the richness of the fabric and the softness of the bed, too far removed from what his muscles had grown used to during sleep in the years between his mother’s death and his own adoption. Bruce had been similar, early on, though for different reasons- he simply wasn’t adjusted to the feeling.

Something tells him that this night isn’t anything like that.

“Why?” he asks, and Jason’s eyes meet his again.

“It’s-” he starts, and his breath hitches, as if he’s trying not to cry. Dick pulls him into another hug, crushing his not-so-little brother against his chest.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” Jason growls, “You have no idea how much I want to. It’s building up in my head and it’s upsetting me, but I don’t… You have every reason to not believe me.”

Dick is the one to pull them apart at arm’s length this time. He stares at his younger brother, almost shaking with the weight of this great truth, and pulls them both into his room. Better the younger kids not overhear.

“I believe you,” he says quietly, sitting down on the long couch, “I promise I’ll believe you. No matter how ridiculous it is.”

Jason takes a long, stuttering breath, and collapses beside him on the couch. He curls up against Dick’s chest like he’s thirteen again and small enough to carry, rather than a man in the eyes of the law, taller and broader than Dick by a more than insignificant margin.

Dick cards his fingers through Jason’s hair, and waits.

“The sheets feel like the inside of my coffin.”

Dick freezes. It’s as if the air has been knocked out of his lungs, as if the whole world has gone quiet- even the creaks of the old red oaks outside and the pounding of the rain against the rooftop have stilled at this terrible, horrible truth.

“Jason,” he asks, voice trembling, “How do you know what the inside of your coffin felt like?”

Jason’s breath hitches again, and Dick wraps one arm tighter around him.

“It,” he starts, “It wasn’t the Pit. Wasn’t some sort of necromancer who dug me out and gave me life again. I… there’s no body, in my grave. I’m not a clone.”

Dick nods at all of these statements, and breathes in deeply.

“That’s not what I was asking, Jason.”

Jason takes a deep, stuttering breath again. He sounds on the verge of crying, and by all that is good, Dick doesn’t want to push him, but he needs to know, even if the truth is more blisteringly painful than an oil burn.

“I know what my coffin felt like,” he says, voice softer than it’s been since he came back, “Because I had to crawl my way out of it. And the sheets- they’re slick and they trap me and I-”

His breathing stutters again. Dick grips him tighter, and snakes two fingers to the pulse point under Jason’s chin. For a moment, he just feels his little brother’s heartbeat against the fingertips.

“I feel like I’m back in my coffin again,” he whispers, “I remember it, Dick. I remember what the soil felt like under my fingernails. I remember the scrape of my belt buckle against the wooden lid. I remember what the stuffing felt like when I scratched it open. It was worse, Dick. Coming back. It was worse than dying.”

It takes a little while, for Dick to work up a response to that.

“I’m so sorry we couldn’t help you, Jay,” he finally says, finding it appropriate, “I’m sorry you had to go through that alone. I’m sorry it was so hard for you. But- and I know this might sound selfish- I am so glad that you’re alive. I’m so happy you’re here, you’re alive, you’re safe-”

Jason chokes up, and buries his head into Dick’s shoulder, seeking comfort like he did when he was small.

“I love you,” he whispers into his little brother’s hair. It’s the truth.

It takes a little while, for Jason to fall asleep on the couch, pinning Dick there so soundly he cannot even think about moving. He runs his fingers through Jason’s hair, thinking.

‘You can’t expose him to your own problems,’ Dick thinks, ‘He has enough to deal with when it comes to his own issues. It would be unkind.’

Dick will content himself with listening.

The thing is, Warren Bell is terribly inattentive besides his laser-focus on his own marks. He doesn’t notice, not really, when there’s a flicker of movement behind him, when there’s the gentle thump of feet dropping onto the floor above them.

They’re in some rented apartment building, one Bell’s probably . Bell only notes the ways that his ‘sharks’ behave, but he’s starting to become more shifty around at least Dick. He’s wearing the same suit jacket that he was the day prior, some nondescript black suit that Dick only recognizes due to the notable border on the lapel.

Warren Bell watches Dick. Dick watches Warren Bell.

There’s another thump in the ceiling, but it’s so quiet that someone could only hear it with the most sensitive of ears. It’s coming from a little ways away from the next wall, close to the office.

Dick smiles, and turns back to his computer. Warren Bell regards him suspiciously, as if he is expecting Dick to trip up something fierce at any moment. Well, not now. Not yet.

Dick leans back in his office chair again, letting his smile stretch unsettlingly wide.

“So,” he says near the end of the day, “How can I be of assistance?”

“By not sticking your nose anywhere it shouldn’t be,” Bell answers him gruffly. Dick smiles cleverly, hiding it behind his hand. 

He has the man, he just knows it, knows it like he knows any hook right before he catches a mark. It’s the feeling of the snag, a heavy weight catching on the edges of his spiderweb, as if he can feel the vibrations up through his fingers and his toes, telling him that it’s about to be time to feast.

Dick Grayson has been a grifter for near half his life, now, and he’s been a performer since long, long past that. He knows exactly how to hook an audience, exactly what kind of performance he needs to put on to get his intended result. And, well, Warren Bell may protest at being considered the fool, but in all honesty, by Dick’s standards, considering the kinds of mark he usually deals in, that’s certainly one of the most apt words that Dick would use to describe the man, no matter how cruel it may be at times.

He’s suspicious. That’s good. It means he’s right where Dick wants him to be.

“You’re not sleeping, are you?” Jason asks the second night, sitting down with him in the middle of the hallway. He has not, Dick notes, changed into sleepwear, so there’s still the question raised of whether or not the switch from silk to a less water-smooth, but potentially more comforting cotton will do anything to avail him of the nightmares.

“You’re not either,” Dick points out. Jason huffs.

“I haven’t tried yet. Not looking forwards to… all of that.”

“I bought you new sheets,” Dick says suddenly, wringing at his hands, “Alfred and I put them on this before we left this morning. If you were worried about that.”

Jason looks at him more closely, frowning.

“I’m not sure whether that’s some invasion of privacy or if I should be flattered you’re looking out for me like that, but considering you’re my overbearing dumbass of a brother and I love you, I’m going to take that as the latter.”

Ace stumbles down the hall, sitting down beside Dick’s feet. He absentmindedly scratches at the dog’s ears in silence.

“It was intended to be us looking out for you. We worry about you, Jay.”

“I know that,” Jason grumbles. Dick goes into his own room, and pulls out one of his old throw blankets.

“Come on,” he says, “It’s nothing to be scared of.”

“Are you finally going to admit to what’s been bothering you?” Jason prods, eyebrows raised. Dick shakes his head.

“Still not sure of the extent of things- just know that it’s not because I’m scheming or wanting to keep the concept of a job under wraps, but because I’m not interested in making my teenage siblings deal with whatever issue of the week is swirling around in my head.”

Jason stops at the door, eyes wide.

“You don’t mean that, right?”

“Mean what?” Dick asks, already focusing on arranging the pillows on Jason’s bed. He calls Ace up, and the dog listens, and though his joints may be aching from the effort, the dog does nothing that would even suggest he has any issue with the situation.

“That you won’t talk to us about whatever it is that’s messing with you like this,” Jason replies, “Dick, I’m revealing all of my deepest secrets- do you not trust me with your own?”

His voice is vulnerable, which isn’t unexpected given how late the hour is. Dick turns back to him, tiredness written in his expression from the furrow of his brow to the lax corners of his mouth.

“This isn’t about trust, Jason,” he says quietly, “You’ve got bigger issues than I do. You’re working on them. I’m older, and you’re barely an adult- believe me, you’ll get it when you’re in your own mid-twenties. I’m not going to burden you with my own shit, Jay.”

“Okay, first off, you’re five years older than me, that is not much-”

“Five years in this age range is absolutely quite a bit,” Dick replies, perhaps a bit too harshly. Jason ducks his head for a moment, rubbing at the back of his neck sheepishly. Dick loosens his shoulders and sighs loudly.

“I’m sorry,” he continues, “I just… Jason, do you want to come back to life legally?”

Jason raises his eyebrows. Dick admits, it slipped right out of his mouth, but it has been one of the many issues that’s been bugging him lately, and it’s at least moderately relevant to the current discussion.

“That’s definitely a new pathway right there,” Jason replies, flopping face-first onto his bed, turning his head so that it still faces Dick, “We will come back to the whole ‘I’m not making anybody listen to whatever problems I’ve got going on’ overdramatic thing later- you should talk to someone about it, even if it’s like. Ace, though that would probably not be as good as talking about it to a real actual friend, or better yet, a therapist.”

Dick nods, figuring he should agree to some degree- if he could find a trustworthy therapist, that would be one thing, but who has both the power to protect themselves from the people that Parity antagonizes and wouldn’t immediately turn them in to the Justice League?

Ace jumps off of the bed, sniffing around Dick’s hands. Dick leaves the room for a moment, heading downstairs towards the kitchen to see if he can fix himself something on this sleepless night.

Behind him, once again, is Jason- this time in a sleep shirt and sweatpants.

“Look,” he says, “I don’t… I think you’re being more honest right now ‘cause you’re tired, yeah?”

Dick hums.

“Probably.”

“... I shouldn’t be surprised,” Jason huffs, “But seriously, Dick, we need you on your best form tomorrow. Try to get some sleep.”

Dick shrugs. Jason hauls him by the torso, lugging him back up the stairs without issue.

“What’s all that noise?” asks a tired, small voice- Tim. Beside him, Cass steps out of her own room.

“Our brother’s an idiot,” Jason says, “Who wants to sleep in a pile tonight?”

“Aww, sweet,” Tim says, “It’s cold in my room. Budge over.”

Cass says nothing, but takes up the middle of the bed with a sprawl, cooing at Ace. Dick continues to slump on Jason, but doesn’t object to being maneuvered around.

The weight of his siblings is like a blanket filled with glass beads, weighing him down into a dreamless sleep.

When he wakes the next morning, he’s well rested, bright-eyed, and more dangerous than he’s been in weeks.

Bell is watching him again, sharp eyes dogging Dick’s every move as he slinks around the little ‘bullpen’ the man has constructed. Slowly, Dick makes his way towards the man’s office, running his fingers up and down the drywall as he goes. It’s pleasant, in this way, to feel like something reminiscent of a bad omen. He hopes that the rest of the people behind him in the bullpen feel the chill.

There’s a quiet chirp from his comm, and Dick knows that it’s go time. He slips into the office with nary a sound, and slides behind Bell’s computer. He’s just about to type the transaction in, when-

“I knew it,” Bell hisses, stalking forwards, “I knew it! Michael, grab him!”

Dick flails, but not too dramatically. He needs to fight just enough.

Bell lunges forwards with a cloth, and everything goes dark.

He’s been brought to some half-finished room on the side of the building. It’s a long drop, of course, but Dick’s not all that worried.

They’re not too far from the original office, right now- Dick certainly hadn’t noticed them driving him anywhere. It hasn’t even been a full five minutes yet. He leans back in his chair, watching as the man stalks around the room like a caged animal, occasionally sending glares in Dick’s direction.

“Because of you, we’re going to have to move ahead of schedule.”

“What, targeting some other Gotham neighborhood? I’m so shocked,” Dick says sarcastically with a wide roll of his eyes, taking an experimental stretch at the rope that binds his hands. Loose, easily removed. Perfect.

“You shouldn’t be looking so smug,” Bell growls, “Certainly won’t be nearly that smug when I punt you over the side of the building.”

The streets below are a long way down. Involuntarily, Dick feels his breath catch in his throat.

Instead of breaking, though, Dick waits a moment.

“Are you so sure about that?” he asks, voice carefully even, “Are you so sure your people will listen to you afterwards? Are you so sure that there’s no damage left in my wake?”

Bell snorts, stalking forwards.

“I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours, but we caught you, idiot,” he says, “Before you could run your little scheme on the computers. You’re tied up with nowhere to go but down.”

His smile is cruel.

“You caught me,” Dick purrs, “But you didn’t catch Red.”

Bell’s eyes widen. Dick leans forwards on his elbows, chin placed in his palms, as if he's a child doodling in his diary. He looks unbelievably smug- as he should.

"You see, first of all, you may want to check those numbers on your account- I did more than just a little failed heist when I was in there.”

Bell blanches.

“And while you were busy trying to keep me out of your bank account while raking in the cash I was collecting for you- not that you managed to do that, mind you-, you failed to notice the recording devices that my associates placed... under your desk. In your pen. Under the lapel of your jacket, too, if you'd just care to..."

Bell lifts the jacket collar and curses. Dick leans back, a wide grin on his face, and hums quietly to himself.

"So, what, you're planning to take my show on the road?"

"Nothing that complicated," Dick replies, the rope falling from his hands, "All I needed was to buy time until the FBI got here. You see, while I don't exactly see eye-to-eye with the government very often, if you give them the right information, they're very good at making sure people like you have a very hard time in the future. And, well... I happened to know exactly what kind of information they'd find particularly appetizing."

Bell takes a step back, eyes wide. Down below them, there’s the sound of a door bursting open. Bell stares at him, for a moment, before recognition seems to come to him as quickly as a flash of lightning in the dark.

“You’re the Bat, ain’t you,” he says, so close and yet so far, “I thought you’d be broader.”

“Could be,” Dick agrees, and takes a step out the window, firing off the grappling gun he’d kept hidden at his waist.

The drop is much less frightening when you know how to fly far better than you ever knew how to fall.

Dick waltzes in to Selina’s apartment with takeout under his arm and a bright smile stretching across his face.

“You got him,” Selina says pleasantly from the couch. There’s a noise at the window, and Cass slips in behind him, making a beeline for the kittens.

“This one looks like Jason,” she whispers, showing him the charcoal-colored kitten with the white stripe down his face. Dick snorts, and nods. The little pointed kitten from before winds her way around his feet, and he picks her up to cradle against his chest.

“You know, Ace is good with cats,” Selina says quietly, “It was one of the things I made sure of back when your father and I were still together.”

Instead of dismissing the idea, Dick looks closer.

“How long until they’re adoptable?” he asks, rubbing the kitten between the ears. Selina’s smile is blindingly warm.

“They’re thirteen weeks, so they’re adoptable now, if you think you’re ready for a cat,” she replies. 

“Do they have all of their shots yet?” he asks, “And are they fixed?”

“They’re fixed. All shots for their age, too. I’m assuming you’re actually asking out of interest?” Selina asks. Cass’s stare is wide-eyed and hopeful.

“Really?” she whispers, holding the kitten that looks so much like Jason tightly to her chest. The kitten, in a perfect show of manners, just yawns and continues to purr.

“I mean,” he says, holding one hand up, “I’ll have to ask-”

“Alfred said yes,” Cass interrupts, showing him the text message, “And Jason’s asking if he needs to get kitty litter.”

“Well, legally, Jason does not exist anymore, so I suppose that would be something you and I have to do, no?” he teases, “Do you mind if we head out to…”

“Far be it from me to keep you from properly taking care of these sweethearts,” Selina replies, grin turning joyful, “Want me to send you a list?”

“I think you’re going to have to,” Dick replies with a snort, “I feel like I’m going to lose my sister and shopping buddy to the cats any minute now.”

Selina nods sharply.

“Well, first thing, the rule for litter boxes is one for each cat, plus one for the household in general, but honestly, given the size of the Manor, I’d say increase it by…”

The pointed kitten, held snugly against Dick’s chest, is named Luna.

The little Jason-mimic, in a stunning show of word association and love of ornithology by their youngest brother, is named Cornix.

Both cats have every member of the family wrapped around their tails by the end of the day.

Chapter Text

“Wally,” Tom says, eyes wide and a little bit manic.

Wally jerks. It’s one of the first times that Tom has not only actively started a conversation, but also one of the first few times that the other man has used his name instead of simply leaving it implied. It sounds nice, in his voice, in his East Coast accent that Wally can’t quite place.

“Yeah?” he asks. He’s looking at urine samples today, unfortunately, and he’s glad for any distraction.

Tom has taken to wearing earrings more often, Wally notes as he takes in today’s pair, a small set of studs- professional, given that they’re both working with lab equipment, of course- twinkling in the light. They’re faceted, and light blue in color, though Wally doesn’t know his gemstones well enough to be able to tell what they are on sight. Regardless, he gets the feeling that Tom’s wearing them more often due to, shockingly enough, a greater feeling of comfort.

He leans over the table, careful to keep his face away from any of his tools. Tom vibrates excitedly, pulling off his left glove and reaching for his phone. Idly, Wally wonders if he’s ever seen the man’s hands before without the gloves in the way.

For a moment, Tom pauses.

“... Do you want to see my cat?”

It takes a second for that sentence to process, but as soon as it does, Wally is halfway around the table and into Tom’s space.

“I didn’t know you had a cat!” he says, delighted, “Of course I want to see them!”

“Well, I adopted her like… this weekend, actually,” Tom replies, “She’s fourteen weeks old, and-”

“Oh my goodness,” Wally breathes, “She must be so little!”

“Her and her brother,” Tom agrees, showing him a photo.

“From zero cats to two cats in one weekend! I’m impressed,” Wally says, before he scrunches up his nose, “Is it zero to two cats? Obviously, I don’t know if you had cats beforehand, I-

“It is,” Tom replies with a snort, showing him the photo in question to Wally’s adoring coos, “And it’s one cat- the second one is my sister’s.”

Wally decides not to push the envelope of personal information as far as he can get it for once in his life, and stays quiet about statements like ‘I didn’t know you had a sister’ or ‘are you taking care of her now that your father’s passed’. Those, even by the standards of his own curiosity, are a step too far when it comes to nosiness.

“She’s so little,” he whispers over Tom’s shoulder, “What’s her name?”

“Luna,” Tom says immediately, and Wally’s grateful for the acknowledgement that he hasn’t overstepped yet, “Her name is Luna, and she’s a Ragdoll mix, and she’s a little over three months old.”

Wally nods.

“She looks like she’s going to be pretty fluffy.”

Tom grins, sliding his phone back into his pocket and heading to the other side of the lab to find a new pair of gloves. Something weird’s on the edge of his sleeve- some smear of something tan, Wally thinks- but it’s gone by the time he returns, poking at hair samples, and so Wally doesn’t bring it up. He must have noticed on his own, earlier.

“Thanks for showing me your cat,” he says quietly, “I needed that, today.”

Tom flashes him a bright, brilliant smile, the first of its kind that Wally has seen from him thus far.

“Anytime, man,” he replies, and gets back to work.

“So,” Jason asks, leaning back in his chair, “You’re saying that he’s…”

“He’s been skirting around lawsuits for the last several years- almost two decades, now,” the woman on the other side of the table- Camila- says, running her hands through her hair with a sigh, “Workplace discrimination, property damage, slander and libel, you name it. Property disputes too, if you can believe it- I mean, they’re a publishing company, what is he doing holding obnoxious parties at three in the morning in an apartment complex?”

Dick stares in disbelief from where he’s seated next to Jason.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m afraid I am,” Camila says, “I filed suit against him for workplace discrimination- he fired me when I got pregnant. This is an at-will employment state, as I’m sure you know- I’m assuming you’ve-”

“We’ve done a lot of these cases,” Jason says, as Dick reaches out to take her hands in his own, “I promise, we’ve got this covered. You don’t need to worry about this anymore, okay? We’ll make sure he backs the hell off and can’t spook you like this anymore.”

Camila looks up, eyes wide.

“How did you… I didn’t tell you he was bringing people by my apartment,” she says, and Jason has to dig his fingernails into the table to keep himself from getting upset. He’d expected it, sure, but it doesn’t hurt any less to hear of the absolute gall that some of these people have.

“He is?” Dick cuts in, eyes narrowed, “Mrs. Velez, do you and your husband need a safer place to stay? We can arrange it.”

Camila shakes her head.

“I know you can. I’ve been told you’re the best of the best. But I don’t need it. I need to keep my head held high, and I need to smash this man in court for all he’s worth. You have no idea how many people are counting on me. And I don’t need a lawyer, either- I already have one.”

Jason frowns.

“If you don’t mind me asking, then, why do you need us? If you don’t need him to back off that badly, that is.”

Camila snorts.

“As it stands, the judge is planning to be lenient. This is because he can afford a nice, fancy lawyer, and because the great majority of people in our city don’t know what he is behind that little philanthropic mask of his. I want him to lose money, and I want him to be embarrassed. Publicly. Enough that he loses people in his corner. I’ve spent years of my life on this nonsense- I want him to feel as embarrassed and scared as I once did. I want him humbled and I want him humiliated.”

Jason nods sharply, and stands.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. Velez,” Dick says beside him, smile filled with needle-sharp teeth, “I hope we can execute this to your standards.”

“Oh, if even half the things my friend said about you are true, I’m sure you can,” Camila replies, “I’ll leave first. Don’t follow me.”

For a moment, two, stretching on into several minutes, Jason and Dick simply stand there, the chatter from the bar fading into the background like the babbling of a brook in the middle of the woods.

“You ready to go?” Dick asks after a little while, still standing there. Jason nods.

“Course I am,” he agrees, “You ready to make this man more miserable than he’s ever been?”

“Don’t you know it,” Dick agrees, grin sharp and fierce in the low light.

Barbara sighs, pinching at the bridge of her nose as she stares at the handful of children that face her. And Dick, but sometimes, she’s fairly certain she should count him among them.

“I think you’re not realizing how much work you’re about to give me,” she grumbles, “Do you know I’m the only active forger that we trust? Do you understand what I mean when I say that? Do you know how much work that I do on an average day?”

“I do!” Dick says cheerfully, “Feel free to press me into forgery service any time you need.”

“You,” she says, “Are needed up on the actual grift, because you are, somehow, the only person on our team who will be able to be a consistent at a grift. I know you want to volunteer. I’m not going to let you.”

“I don’t know if I should be relieved or offended,” Jason grumbles.

“Offended,” Barbara says, “You’re over six feet tall and built like a brick, and though I’ve never been able to confirm it, I’m pretty sure your eyes glow when you get pissed off. You’re good at smaller-scale grifts, obviously, but I’m going to need Dick in the field.”

Jason glares at her. Barbara resists the urge to stick her tongue out at him.

“I’ll help,” Tim offers, “You said I can help with the tech side of things sometimes, right?”

“That’s helpful, thank you Tim,” Barbara acknowledges, “I’m being completely serious, not sarcastic, by the way, I know this family is terrible at reading tone sometimes for a crew of professional conmen.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Stephanie agrees.

“Are you the one who suggested the Mummy’s Tiara con, Steph?” Barbara asks, narrowing her eyes sharply in the child’s direction. Steph shakes her head.

“No, I think that was…”

“It was me,” Cass interrupts, perched on the edge of her chair, “I’m the one who suggested the con.”

Barbara sighs.

She can’t stay mad at Cass. Basically no person in the entire family is able to stay mad at Cass, even if this means that Barbara is going to be dealing with the most in-depth forgery that she’s had to do in ages.

“Alright,” Barbara says, “What am I forging, then? A painting? A suitcase?”

“A diary,” Dick says, “The diary of Harlan Harroway.”

The thing is, it’s really rather easy to get the idea churning in the man’s head.

Harlan Harroway is only days from dying- every socialite on the East Coast knows it. And every socialite on the East Coast knows two more things besides: the first is that despite his notorious womanizer status, Harlan Harroway never married, and none of his children have ever crawled out of the woodwork. The second, of course, is that Harlan Harroway is- or, rather, in a few days, was- one of the wealthiest men in the country.

An energy heir and an oil baron, Harlan Harroway became the kind of legend that only fools bought into, and yet, he made money all the same. So much, in fact, that he’d still stand to challenge the later technology giants who came after him.

Dick remembers him, from the occasional gala that he had attended near the man. He cut a terrifying figure, even as ancient as he was, and he’d frightened Dick back when he was small and didn’t quite know how to school his features away from expressions of distaste just yet. Bruce had only just begun taking him on missions, back then, and Dick certainly hadn’t been able to determine how to grift at that point.

Alfred was the one who taught him that, how to effortlessly play people off of each other like they’re dogs scrabbling over the slightest scraps of his attention. He was the one who taught Dick to be both quiet and unnoticed and loud and the center of attention, and he had been the one who was most formative in Dick’s lessons in the art of the con.

After all, there’s not that much of a difference between acting and grifting- in Dick’s opinion, in all honesty, the latter’s easier. It’s a much simpler art to pull off a performance when nobody else expects you to be performing, and if Dick wasn’t good at manipulating the expectations of other people, he wouldn’t be in this part of the job.

He would have just stuck with the catsuit.

Selina, of course, was also a vital teacher in his formative years of grifting- more so than Bruce ever was, really. There’s a fundamental way in which they keep up their acts which is the same between them, and so similar in Alfred.

Dick’s style, he supposes, is a mimicry of many of those who came before him. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

In short, though: it’s frighteningly easy to push this man into coming to the conclusion that Dick wants him to arrive at.

A Mummy’s Tiara con, in short, is reliant upon the mark to believe that acquiring an item will allow them to take over the holdings of some supposed ‘ancestor’. If there’s anything that this particular mark- Adam Darry- wants, it’s to be seen in the same light as every other old-money socialite, and, rather than trying to work up the respect of people that are actually worth asking for respect from, Adam Darry has set his sights on being a Harroway.

It’s not too far off, really. His parents had invited Harroway into their home at the right time frame- there’s certainly a chance he could have been one of the man’s illegitimate sons. The only issue with that, of course, is the fact that he has freckles.

You see, freckles are a dominant gene among humans- if neither parent has them, it’s impossible for a child to. Adam Darry’s legal father had a smattering of them across his face and arms, while neither Harroway nor Darry’s mother had possessed the feature.

However, Dick’s pretty sure he’s more aware of human genetics than Darry is- or that most of the social scene on the East Coast is, to that end.

Which is why he’s so certain that this will work.

All he really needs is to start talking in the right places.

Dick, unsurprisingly for a grifter who spends most of his time under other names, even other faces, does not enjoy doing cons in his own name. Alas, there’s nothing that shoulders open the doors of a gala faster than the name ‘Wayne’, and this one’s one of the ones that he doesn’t have to do much besides spread gossip in, anyways.

He’s not even going to be the one spreading the gossip- not this time, at least. No, that job is reserved for some of the- Dick hates to use the term, but the only one that really applies is ‘frenemies’- that he’s acquired over the past decade and a half- almost- of being Bruce’s eldest son.

Namely, the job is reserved for Baxter Merryweather, also known as Bax, also known as the bane of Dick’s entire high school Mathlete career.

… Normally, one would not anticipate that Mathletes would be the kind of parental squabbling usually only reserved for things like middle school flag football, but alas, Gotham Academy had been one of those schools. Dick is still, somehow, despite years of professionalism and fighting far greater and far more annoying opponents, bitter about it.

“Hey, Rich,” Baxter calls from where he’s standing with his twin- Bethany, nearly as irritating but at least notably smarter, which meant he never had the urge to thunk her upside the head during their competitions. Dick sighs, but follows him over anyways.

The thing is, Baxter is one of the most irritating people Dick has ever had the misfortune to meet, but unless one is counting their lab grade in physics or their chances at a trophy in a competition, he’s harmless. He’s also an incredible gossip monger, and has the tendency to blow even the slightest thing he hears completely out of proportion.

Darry also happens to be dating his girlfriend’s sister.

Now, if Dick is remembering what he’d heard of his college drama correctly, Baxter and Darry aren’t on good terms- and Darry’s never met him personally, and isn’t attending this gala. However, what Baxter loves to do is brag about acquiring things other people are interested in, which means, if Dick is correct about his schedule- which he will be, considering Baxter Merryweather wouldn’t be able to alter his schedule on his own to save his life- he’s going to be meeting up with his girlfriend, her sister, and Darry for drinks and food after this gala.

Which, fair, sometimes they’re really bad about serving actual food at these things. Not often, but sometimes. Dick has a feeling it’s because people mislabel their cocktail parties.

Regardless, Baxter shows up to these kinds of events frequently, which means Dick has his in.

Now, how best to casually introduce Harroway in that-

“Have you heard Old Man Harroway’s about to kick the bucket?” Baxter asks, a gleeful smile crossing his face, “They’re saying it’ll be any day now.”

“Come on, Bax, have some fucking decency, the man’s dying,” Bethany bites back, “Doesn’t matter how much of an ass he was in life.”

That, Dick is not going to argue with. He tilts his champagne glass in their direction, eyebrow raised.

“See, here’s the thing,” Baxter says, delight shining in his eyes, “The old bastard doesn’t even have a will.”

Dick pretends, for a moment, that this isn’t something he’s already more than well aware of, taking in an exaggerated suck of breath and raising his eyebrows.

The thing is, Harroway was a sour, spiteful man, and as much as Dick had feared him, everyone else had disliked him in turn. Harroway, in equal measure, had disliked the rest of his family, and for all that he likely would be displeased to find strangers in his home no matter if he’d sired them or not, he’d be dead, so it wouldn’t be like he’d care.

The man probably took some sort of sick, twisted joy at the idea of his family fighting like a set of feral, bloodied roosters over the corpse of what used to be one of the most ruthlessly efficient energy companies on the East Coast since Rockefeller had made his grave.

Dick wouldn’t be surprised- he’d always been cruel.

“Are you sure?” he says, leaning in a little bit closer, “Who’s set to take over the family business, then?”

“His nieces and nephews are getting into a snit over it, apparently,” Baxter replies, eyes aglow with the thrill of a socialite’s favorite food- gossip. Harroway’s nieces and nephews, of course, are all pushing or above the age of seventy themselves- while genetics and the sheer age of Harroway would suggest otherwise, there’s a good chance that his oldest niece will pass before the squabbling is over and done with.

Of course, there’s a decent chance that the ‘squabbling’ will turn into lawsuits that last for the next two or three decades, so it’s quite possible that the lawyers will be fighting for longer than their clients can remain alive. To be entirely fair, this is a lot of money Dick is talking about- even more than the Wayne family fortune, even more than the steadily growing Luthor empire. This is the kind of money that makes grown men sweat and drool.

It’s going to be so easy to convince Darry to bite. Dick can almost taste it.

Dick nods at Baxter.

“Any of his illegitimates show up out of the woodwork, yet?” he asks, “I imagine it won’t be long.”

“Nobody so far,” Baxter hums right back, “Probably because it’d be a pain in the ass to track them down.”

This, of course, is where Dick’s own involvement comes into play. He’s going to have to be quite careful about this, he knows. He can’t be too overeager, for it’ll make Bethany wary, at the least, and he can’t be too obtuse, for Baxter won’t be able to realize it and pass the message on later.

“Wonder if he had anywhere he wrote those trysts of his down,” Dick says, “Would make it much easier to keep track of and hunt down all those ex-girlfriends. Might even be able to find any of those kids of his.”

Baxter’s eyes light up.

The thing is, Harroway’s family will never agree to a DNA test without significant evidence- they know there’s a good chance that anyone who passes it will be able to get in on the family fortune. Dick is going to be exploiting this- Darry will be absolutely desperate to get his foot in the door. He’ll do anything, pay anything, and it’ll drive him to distraction. There’s not a chance in the world that he’ll keep his eyes on some little lawsuit when the mother of all prizes has seated itself directly in front of his face.

Dick watches as Baxter “power-walks” away, hindered by the fact that his suit is cut just a little too tight for ease of movement. Dick doesn’t have that problem, of course, because he has actual taste.

He sips his champagne, and quietly makes his way out the front door. Nobody else needs to know that he was here- save whoever’s collecting the donations. Dick wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to donate to cancer research, not for anything.

He smiles, sharp and vicious, and slips his way through the door. It’ll probably take a few days for anything to bear fruit- he should probably, in the meantime, make his way back to his day job.

“So,” Wally says, “How’s Luna doing?”

Dick offers a bright smile. Now that he doesn’t need to poke Wally West into any notable sinkholes, it’s a lot easier to just… speak with the mann, and Dick’s been struck with the classic new cat owner’s pit trap of being unable to do anything other than gush about his sweet little kitten.

“She’s doing great!” he replies, chipper. She really is- she’s adjusted fine, despite the gigantic dog and the even more gigantic house, and she’s already wrapped every occupant around her tiny little paws. Cornix has, too, but he’s Cass’s cat, and she spends so much time with him that it’s nearly impossible to get a photo of one without the other, which means he can’t show off anything to Wally.

Dick’s glad that nobody from Marketing has reached out to ask for him to put Luna on social media yet- he knows it’s going to happen eventually, but people were already demanding enough about Ace, and that was back when Bruce was still alive-

Despite himself, Dick’s breath hitches, and he watches with numb dismay as worry crawls its way all over Wally’s face.

“Are you okay, man?” he asks, “I-”

“S’fine, I just,” Dick says, “Lost my dad recently. Wish I could have introduced her to him, he loved cats.”

Wally offers a sympathetic frown.

“What was he like?”

This, Dick realizes with uncomfortable dread, is becoming a little too personal for the moment. He needs to find a way to de-escalate, to pull it back without offending-

But wait. He doesn’t have to do something complicated like that, not with the Flash. His job is to observe, not manipulate into some predetermined consequence that they have decided for some slight he’s thrust upon the rest of the world.

“I’d rather not talk about that right now,” Dick says, smile brittle and fragile, “It’s not any issue with you, it’s just-”

“No, wound’s still raw. I get that. Thanks for letting me know, I know I can be a bit nosy at times,” Wally replies, holding his hands up in a ‘peace’ gesture, “I’m serious, man, I know we don’t know each other well, but I think of a lot of people as friends really quickly and it means that I can super overstep when it comes to boundaries. Feel free to put me back in line as much as you need.”

Dick nods, grateful for it. Something warm, uninvited but still kind and gentle, curls in his chest at the word friends.

“Thank you,” Dick whispers, eyes a little watery. For once in his life, it’s not intentional.

“So,” Barbara says with a sigh, “You want me to make a diary.”

“Listen, it’s the only thing that will work,” Dick replies, “Anything else is liable to raise too many eyebrows. I mean, who keeps a ledger of their sexual escapades?”

“Ew, please never use the phrase ‘sexual escapades’ in my presence ever again, thank you very much,” Barbara prods, a fond smile on her face, “It makes you sound like you’re some disapproving grandmother.”

“You know, you’re the second person to compare me to somebody’s grandmother recently?” Dick asks, “But the reason I’m saying this is that there is- technically speaking- a real, actual diary that Harroway had. I saw him writing in it, once.”

Barbara raises her eyebrows.

“Really? That’s awfully convenient.”

“I mean, technically speaking, I was breaking into his study at the time,” Dick replies. At her skeptical look, he frowns. “What? He was a shitty rich guy. We take down shitty rich guys. Are you surprised?”

“Only mildly,” Barbara replies, “A little endeared, honestly. I didn’t think we’d ever taken him on.”

Dick shakes his head.

“No, this was before your whole tenure as Batgirl. One of the first cases I ever worked with Bruce, but after the whole Maroni thing that landed me with him in the first place. I lowered down into his study on a rope, and I swear that he looked straight at me. Found out about a month later that sometimes when he’s in his study, he sleeps with his eyes open.”

“Holy fuck, that’s terrifying,” Barbara says with no small amount of wonder, “I’d hate that. That’s why I was never the sticky-fingered thief, more the keyboard warrior, I suppose.”

“You have no idea,” Dick replies with a laugh, “I was ten.”

“Oh, that’s awful.”

“Hey, not aw awful as getting myself beat up by Two Face less than a month later!” he calls cheerily. Barbara sighs.

“That’s not nearly as reassuring as you think it is,” she huffs with an eye-roll, “So, we’re sending Tim into the lion’s den?”

“How do you gather that?” Dick asks, leaning over her chair. Barbara points at him with her mechanical pencil.

“Because you just said that he does have a diary. I assume you’re intending to acquire it for me,” she says. A slow smile spreads over Dick’s face in response.

“That I am,” he says, “That I am. Or, I guess, that’s what Tim is going to be intending.”

“There are so many people here,” Tim whispers into his comm, “Are you sure we couldn’t have picked a better night?”

“Chicken,” Jason chides, “Bawk, bok bok bok bok-”

“I distinctly remember you being more easily intimidated by a much smaller crowd than this one, Little Wing,” Dick purrs, and Jason’s end of the comm goes dead silent, “And besides, Tim, that’s what Jason and I are here for.”

“The sound is going to be awful and there’s a decent chance you’ll end up arrested,” Barbara says on the other end of the line, “This was a terrible plan.”

“It’s not.”

“It is, and it’s my solemn duty as co-mastermind to inform you of that fact. Also, you would have had better plausible deniability in early July or late December.”

Tim snorts.

In the dead of night, far beyond him, the first of the series of fireworks streaks off into the sky.

The report about the items stolen from Harroway Manor hits the gossip mongers of the New Jersey social circle the following morning. Dick gets busy finding himself a fence.

The diary is old- at least twenty or thirty years, old enough to get the pages to start smelling like vanilla. Harroway’s notes within it are fragmentary, scattered across several years, but it’s still something Dick can parse as distinctively familiar.

Barbara, on the other hand, sees the diary and slumps immediately in relief.

“Oh, good, it’s mass-produced,” she says with a sigh, “I can compare it to others of the same age and their modern equivalent, this design is still in use with the same materials.”

Dick blinks in surprise.

“Now there’s a strike of luck,” he says, “How long do you think it’ll take you?”

“Not as long as if you’d asked me for a diary from two hundred years ago,” Barbara replies, voice deadpan, “Now shoo! I have work to do.”

Dick holds his hands up, gracefully taking his leave. As he steps out of the room, he runs into Cass, once again clutching Cornix to her chest.

“I’m not going to bother her,” Cass says defensively. Dick frowns.

“I didn’t think you were,” he explains gently. Cass nods.

“I know,” she says, “It’s hard sometimes.”

Dick sighs, and kisses her on the forehead, then leans down to do the same to Cornix, who mews up at him curiously, wide green eyes staring at everything and nothing all at once.

Down the hall, there’s a slight noise, and Ace comes running, chased by a bouncy Luna, who jumps to bat at the dog’s tail. Barbara has decided to hold her forgery attempts in the Manor- the natural light, apparently, is better for determining how it will look in the auction house.

That particular part of the con will be… entertaining, to say the least. Dick is grateful that all he has to convince is the fence, rather than Darry himself- more layers of subterfuge will always be to his better.

It does feel like they’re riding high, today. Dick won’t say it aloud, but he feels lucky, and the luck makes him feel warm.

As it turns out, Dick doesn’t even need to go through a fence- Darry has already contacted one, who reaches out through the little clues that Dick has left. Dick, who has decided to be as vague as he can, leaves quiet instructions regarding their auction.

It’s nothing like the Zanzibar Marketplace*- no, this is a completely legitimate affair, for all that it seems that half the goods upon the docket have been stolen at least once, if not five times or more. Dick’s own delivered journal is supposedly from the early twentieth century, but he’s sent word along to Darry’s fence to inform him of the change.

He’ll be there.

Along with the journal- a forgery based on the real one, of course, they wouldn’t do something as stupid as attempt to place a few pages in the genuine journal when there are so many easy ways for such a thing to go wrong- there are plenty of other stolen goods, a few that Dick has gotten his hands on himself, and more that-

“See,” Tim is whispering to Steph, “B first acquired that one over there- no, don’t look- in a mission in northern Russia. It’s gotten stolen from like, three museums since.”

Up in the rafters, Dick can see Cass nodding. He takes his place in the center of the room, as does Jason, carefully arranging his wig so that the white streak of hair- slicked back under a wig cap- is properly hidden.

They’re going to need to be clever about this, of course. Every single one of the people in this room is filled with the slightly on-edge anticipation of knowing that there’s something just a little bit off, in the air- it’s vital to take advantage of that. There are two approaches that people this wealthy take to stress- clam up, or open their pockets.

It’s Dick’s job today to encourage the latter.

The diary isn’t up for auction for about fifteen minutes. In that time, Dick insures he’s close to Darry, who’s looking about the auction room as if he’d bolt at any second. Dick slips into the seat next to him with a smile, pointing out various little grievances that each of the people here have with one another- and pointing out the diary when the number is about to come up.

He then moves to a different seat, near the back of the room, and offers a wide, warm smile to a woman around his age, nervously wringing her hands as she watches the proceedings.

“Ah, I come to these all the time, but I never buy anything,” she says quietly. Dick smiles, fond.

She flushes, and bids the second that the diary comes up, just as anticipated. This, of course, sends Darry into a fit, and the numbers grow ever-higher- exacerbated by Jason egging the both of them on- until finally, past three hundred thousand dollars and then some, Dick sighs and takes a step back, and the young woman puts down her little placard, staring at him oddly.

“I’m honestly surprised we didn’t go higher,” she says, assigning camaraderie to their position at the back. Dick shrugs.

“I think that guy would have outbid us regardless of what number we put up,” he replies, a warm smile crossing his face. The young woman laughs.

“RICHIE!” Baxter says, waving his hands dramatically, “Man, you have no idea what happened last week, shit’s gotten insane.”

Dick, in fact, does actually know what happened last week- Camila won her case, mostly because Darry never even bothered to tell his lawyer about the court date.

Dick finds pride in being able to dangle such a prize in front of the man’s face that he’d go to the ends of the earth to catch it, neglecting all duties such as court appearances and answering for the way he’d treated his workers, writers under his contracts, and more. He knows there’s no greater skill in the world than being able to drive a man to distraction, regardless of whatever particular thoughts may swim through their heads.

And Dick is very, very good at driving people to distraction, no matter what the bait is. He can pick apart most people’s straying thoughts at a glance, knows just how to needle them into decisions that will be their downfall.

Four days ago, Darry had bought a diary at an auction in the middle of nowhere, somehow knowing that it would confirm what he already believed- that he was one of the lost heirs of Harlan Harroway.

And, well.

“You see, Old Man Harroway’s nieces and nephews weren’t too fond of that,” Baxter says, leaning in with a broad smile, “They took one look at the diary- thing was dripping glue already. It was a fake!”

Dick nods, wide-eyed, pretending that this is the first time he’s heard it. Under his wide-eyed stare, he preens pleasantly. The last few days have gone unbelievably well- there’s no greater satisfaction than a con gone so perfectly on-track.

“And, you know what that family’s like,” Baxter says with a shudder, shivering at the thought of dealing with the massive, sprawling Harroway clan, all clinging to their great-uncle’s bones like he’s the only thing that will ever be able to save them.

Dick does know. Dick knows that they’ll probably- metaphorically, of course- cannibalize each other, ripping subsidiary after subsidiary from each other until there’s nothing left but whoever takes up the mantle.

“They made him take the DNA test. I mean, it’s pretty solidly part of his family history, even if the diary was fake. Came back negative, of course.”

“Of course,” Dick acknowledges, “How common is it that someone finds a lost heir, anyways?”

Baxter rolls his eyes.

“Never,” he agrees, then frowns at Dick for a moment, “Hey, how come we never hang out anymore, Richie Wayne?”

‘Because you’re a pretentious asshole who can never get my name right,’ Dick thinks to himself, but doesn’t say it. Instead, he smiles pleasantly- not something difficult to do, given the joy of a job well done is still washing over him.

He walks out the door with his head held high.

None of the rest of his family are outside, waiting for him.

Dick freezes in the middle of the valet parking lot, eyes wide.

“Sorry!” Steph’s voice crackles over the comm, “Just realized you probably just got out of the building- we’re in Old Gotham, dealing with some magic-user. Shouldn’t be long!”

Dick hums, and grabs his keys from the valet parking. If he’s careful, he can find his way to a safehouse- there’s plenty in the vicinity of Old Gotham, and more than a few have a recent version of the Nightwing suit.

It takes him about fifteen minutes, all told, to get there- usually, the traffic is much worse, so he’ll take what he can get. It’s not exactly a safehouse, more of a few soundproofed rooms in the apartment complex- technically speaking, the safehouse is in the adjacent building, but there’s an old fallout shelter built into the basement, and it connects both buildings, which means that Dick Grayson can enter one, and Nightwing can leave the other.

It’s not as filled with delicacy and subterfuge as he’s like, but there’s only so much one can do.

Dick swings through the city with as much speed as he can manage. His arms don’t tire, despite their faint ache from carrying his weight on the grapple with so much acceleration behind it, and he doesn’t either, despite the late hour and the cold biting through the fabric of the suit.

He can still hear the kids chattering on the other end of the line, teasing whatever mage they’re toying with.

Three minutes.

The fight turns more hectic, as far as he can hear from it.

One minute.

Dick rises to the edge of the rooftop opposite the square that the magic-user and his siblings are squabbling in, and slides down the opposite side, letting his grapple slowly drop him towards the ground.

There’s nobody here.

Well, that’s not quite the case.

There’s a young woman in the center of the square- with mild surprise, Dick recognizes her as the same one who had been at the auction a few days prior. In her hands is a small, slender piece of metal, one Dick had mistaken for a paperweight when his eyes had caught on the elegant piece of citrine attached to one end while Tim had been placing the diary.

It must have not been a paperweight, then.

There’s a choked sound, and Dick’s attention is pulled from her wand back to her face, streaked with tears and blurred makeup.

“I didn’t mean to,” she hiccups, blind to Dick’s rising terror, “They just- I just wanted them to go away-”

The fear rises up into his throat, crawling up his tongue and threatening to choke him.

“Where are they?” he manages to gasp. She shakes her head, sobbing harder.

“They’re alive,” she says, quieting the worst of Dick’s fears, “But I don’t know where.”

Dick falls to his knees in the middle of the square, staring down at his hands.

Too late.

Again.

Chapter Text

The first sign she has that something’s wrong is the static on the other end of the comms.

The second sign she receives is Dick’s panicked sobs.

“Nightwing?” she asks, leaning forwards to take a closer look at her monitors, “Nightwing, report.”

“They’re gone,” he manages between ragged breaths, “They’re not dead, but they’re missing. Transport spell. They’re on Earth, all above sea level but-”

Barbara feels bile rise in her throat.

The last time they’d lost a Robin this thoroughly had been Jason’s death. Now, they’ve lost a Robin, Spoiler, Batgirl and Red Hood, all teenagers with their own traumas about being left alone, left for dead, away from the rest of the crew and forced to survive on their own.

Well. Actually, Barbara doesn’t know all of that for sure- for all she knows, they could have landed themselves each in a bed and breakfast for the night, distinctly comfortable and warm, but she can’t be sure of either that or the worst of things, and it is the uncertainty that frightens her just as much as anything else does.

“You’re sure?” she asks, clinging tightly to one of her pens, so tightly that it cracks within her palm, blue ink exploding across the table.

“I am,” Dick replies, voice gone from ragged to all too steady, like he’s chipped away at the spires and valleys of anguish until they’ve all become level once again, “We have to find them.”

“And soon,” Barbara agrees, and gets to work.

Jason wakes with hay in his mouth and a cold nose in his face.

“Aww, gross,” he says, enduring the dog’s excited, slobbery kisses in the meantime, “Hello to you too.”

He sits up, back creaking from some unknown stress, and reaches for his helmet.

It’s not there.

With a jolt of horror, Jason presses his hands to his face, next, feeling for his domino. That isn’t present either- then, with a sigh of relief, he notes that it’s right next to him, and the domino mask is hanging from a puppy’s mouth.

“Hello,” he coos, tucking the helmet away under the straw- he’d removed the explosives from it under urging from Barbara, who’d nearly gone to tell his siblings about them. It seems, as always, that Barbie’s about six steps ahead- she probably didn’t expect the helmet to get pulled off by a litter of overeager puppies, but she had anticipated that someone would try, and, surprisingly enough, Jason doesn’t actually want to die again.

He reaches out for the domino, but the puppy races away with a playful little growl.

“You licked that thing right off my face, didn’t you?” Jason hums, amused, grabbing the puppy around the middle and picking it up carefully. It takes a little coaxing to convince the puppy to give up the mask, but it’s done eventually, and Jason sighs, sticking the mask inside the helmet and once again hiding it under the hay.

“Alright,” he says to himself, “Looks like I’m in a civilian barn, so that means I should probably…”

He stows his guns, too, and all the more obvious knives. Out of the small pouch on the side of his waist, Jason fishes around, and finds a smaller bag of thick plastic. Pulling it out, he frowns.

There’s a note scrawled on the front.

For when you need a quick change! - Big Bird.

Jason snorts. Dick really does think of everything.

Inside the bag is a soft black shirt, vacuum-sealed to keep it from taking too much space up in Jason’s utility belt. He frowns, for a moment.

Is it obvious he’s wearing armor if he just wears the shirt over it?

Jason digs around a little more, and is surprised to find a drawstring bag in the pouch, too- no wonder it had felt more full recently, there’s practically an entire summer camp care package’s worth of ‘just in case’ items in here.

Jason squints at his armor, shrugs, and hauls it off, packing it into the drawstring bag- which turns out to be much larger and sturdier than he was anticipating, a little closer to a small laundry bag with thick fabric than it is to one of those little ones with nothing more than a few overnight clothes in them. He unloads his guns- never hurts to be careful- and cleans them, placing them and the ammunition carefully in the bag, then placing the helmet and the mask inside as well. It’s clumsy, and very obviously filled with metal, and more than a little bit heavy, but at the very least, Jason only looks on the surface to be a young man in dark pants and a brown leather jacket who’s gotten himself terribly, horribly lost.

Satisfied with the way he’s gone and elegantly reduced suspicion of his person, Jason nods and reaches for his comm.

This immediately proves to be a mistake.

The sound of the feedback is so sharp and violent that it sends him reeling, his ears ringing. He doubles over in pain and releases a cry so loud it startles the doves in the rafters of the barn, scattering the sound of feathers and panicked coos.

“What the fuck?” he hisses, ripping the comm out of his ear as quick as he can. This inspires a new round of pain from the rough treatment to his already injured ears, and he gasps in agony for a moment, falling to one knee and grasping the side of an old stock tank to steady himself.

It takes a moment before he can come back to himself- when he does, there’s already somebody else there.

“You alright, son?” a woman in her mid-forties asks, radiating gentle concern. She helps Jason stand, after a moment, and cups his face in her hands.

“Where am I?” he asks, “I think I got hit in some kind of- attack, I’m not sure. I was in-”

Jason thinks for a moment, both to make himself seem more likely to have a concussion, and also to think of something close enough to obscure his hometown but also be somewhere he can easily get home if this lady’s feeling like she needs to help him.

“I was in New York,” he says after a quick pause, “I don’t think anyone else got caught up in it except my siblings.”

The woman nods.

“What year is it?”

Jason startles at the question.

“Um,” he rattles off the current year, “And… it’s August Fourth?”

“Fifth,” she replies dryly, “It’s the fifth.”

“Ah, yeah, that was dumb of me,” Jason says, “It was night when it happened, and it’s day now. Can’t believe I-”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a head injury,” the woman replies gruffly, “New York? You’re halfway across the country, kid, this is Kansas.”

“Where in?” Jason asks cautiously, following her outside. He shades his eyes from the bright, fierce sun of late summer- August is the cruelest month, for places that actually experience summer besides a few days in late August that might somehow get up to the mid-eighties with strong sun.

“Smallville,” the woman replies, “I’m Patty Anders. This is my parents’ farm. My husband and I, plus the kids, of course, moved back in when my mother, bless her soul, got sick.”

“Oh,” Jason says, not exactly sure how to respond to that.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, she’s still alive,” Patty huffs, “Just milks it for all it’s worth. You’d think she’d never seen children before in her life, with how much she dotes on mine. Even ropes our poor neighbors into it. I think she’s the reason little- well, he’s not so little anymore, ain’t he, ever since that growth spurt near on twenty years back now- Clark Kent doesn’t come around so much anymore. She keeps badgering that poor fool and his wife on when they’re giving Martha more grandchildren.”

Jason raises his eyebrows. Clark Kent, Clark Kent… the name’s familiar, but he’s not sure why.

Right- one of Bruce’s favorite reporters, isn’t he?

Jason follows Patty obediently, trailing after her into the old farmhouse. There’s a pounding on the stairs above his head, and a girl- fourteen, maybe fifteen- streams through the kitchen, hopping over a table to avoid her brother, who closer to twelve.

“MICHAEL!” Patty roars, “RACHEL. We have a guest.”

Jason blushes, and ducks his head. Patty huffs.

“Oh, none of that now. Jackson! Mind making sure this young man can make use of the landline to call his family? He got caught in some kind’a villain shenanigans down on the East Coast, got transported all the way to our barn, if you can believe it. MA! I brought a visitor!”

Patty’s mother, an elderly woman who looks as if a stiff wind would bowl her right over, creaks her way down the stairs.

“Oh, look at you,” Patty’s mother says, patting his cheek, “Poor thing. Patricia, has he had anything to eat yet?”

“Was just about to take care of that, Ma,” Patty replies with a tense smile. Patty’s mother responds with a decisive nod.

“Good. Heaven knows I raised you right- can you imagine turning away a guest like that? Why, that Luthor boy-”

“Lex Luthor?” Jason interrupts despite himself, eyes wide. Patty’s mother sighs.

“Oh, mind my manners, I forgot to introduce myself. My name’s Dorothy Tanner, and you would be?”

“Jason,” he replies.

“Jason what?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

Jason, as exhausted and stressed as he is, makes a decidedly unwise decision.

“Jason Todd,” he replies uneasily.

There’s no hushed gasps, no silent stares.

They don’t know him, so far from Gotham.

“Well, Jason,” a man who must be Patty’s husband says, “Can’t say we get very good cell service out here, but the landline-”

Jackson is interrupted by an uncomfortable electronic hum and the sound of a dying fan. The lights flicker, and then turn off, and so does the softly glowing television in the other room.

“Well,” Dorothy says, “I do have to say, there’s rarely an opportune time for a blackout, but this is in quite poor taste.”

“I’m going to have to go into work, aren’t I,” Dick groans, scrubbing at his face. Barbara looks on sympathetically, though she herself is buried in her work, trying desperately to locate any tracking devices that any of the other members of their crew have on their person.

Most Parity crew members have at least a few ways to be tracked- Barbara herself has four. The primary, of course, is the earpiece, but whatever magic had been used to transport the other members of the family wherever they had landed has seemed to fry all their other communicators.

Everything involved in the initial radius, at least.

They’ve questioned Mina Fairburn, but she doesn’t know anything of importance, other than overwhelming curiosity and no good sense.

Barbara has run all three of each of the trackers belonging to the rest of them- it looks as if they’ve all gone dark in the wake of the use of magic. Barbara’s not sure why, but she’s begun taking readings off of the wand, to insure that it doesn’t happen again.

“You don’t have to,” she points out after a moment of quiet, turning her chair to face him.

“I do,” Dick says, “It- it’ll draw suspicion, if I can’t-”

“You should stay home,” Barbara responds again, grabbing one of his hands in hers- the scarred one, still not quite healed, “I’m going to need the help.”

Dick nods, still shaky.

“What do you need me to do?” he says in response. Barbara sighs, and jerks her head to one of the maps along the table.

“We have their last known locations. There was a general signal-pulse from each of their earpieces before they went out- Jason’s somewhere in the Midwest, Cass is somewhere in Western Canada, Tim found his way to Australia somehow, and I’m not sure where Steph is besides somewhere in Central Asia.”

Dick’s eyes brighten, and he runs over to the map immediately.

“When’d you find that out?” he asks.

“Just now,” she replies, “It was only for the last fractions of a second, which is why it took so long, but they were able to get something out.”

Dick nods. Barbara eyes the screen uneasily.

All they have is hope that the kids will be fine.

Jason does his best to help in the midst of the blackout, but there’s only so much that a city-born teenager can assist with. At the very least, though, he has a lighter, and they have a gas stove.

“I can help with cooking later,” he says, flicking it open, “If we need.”

There’s a nod from Patty, before she sighs.

“You don’t have to,” she says, “You’re a guest in our home, you shouldn’t. But this doesn’t look like it’ll clear up quickly, so we’ll take the help that we can get.”

“Think you can head over to the Kent farm to check on ‘em, Patty?” Dorothy asks, “Shouldn’t take too long, with the car-”

“I’m not sure if it’s a natural outage or not, Ma,” Patty replies, “Could be that everything electronic’s been shut off.”

“My phone isn’t!” one of the kids says, eyes wide, “No service, though.”

“Alright then,” Patty continues, “Jason, honey, why don’t you come with me? We could use the extra hands, and you look like you’re used to usin’ those arms of yours.”

Jason ducks his head, flushing, but nods.

“Yeah,” he says, “I’m used to helping out my granddad. These aren’t just vanity muscles, y’know.”

“Vanity muscles?” the girl- Rachel- says, eyes narrowed. Jason rocks back on his heels, and pretends to think up a response to that.

“Vanity muscles,” he explains, “Are the kind of muscles that you get from going to the gym to work out in very specific ways so that you look big and strong, but you’re not actually that good at manual labor. A lot of the time they’re also a result of very specific diets that can be restrictive. You can’t always tell which muscles are vanity muscles, though- my older brother does a lot of gymnastics, so he looks like he only has vanity muscles, but he can lift me. Sometimes.”

Rachel’s eyes widen. Patty snorts.

“How much older is your brother?” she asks, not nosy, but genuinely curious.

“He’s twenty-four, and I’m nineteen, so five years,” Jason responds as they head out to the truck, “My younger sister’s about a year younger, and my younger brother is about four years younger than her.”

Patty nods to herself, starting the truck.

“Ten years between oldest and youngest? Your parents are braver than I am.”

Jason winces.

“We’re all adopted,” he explains, and Patty nods.

“Apologies if I overstepped, there,” she says, looking over her shoulder as she pulls out of the gravel driveway, “I’m just curious.”

“No, it’s fine,” Jason says, scratching at his arm a little bit. He’s near silent, for the rest of the drive.

Cass delicately leaps over a snarling werewolf.

She’s not exactly sure how she got into this situation- in all honesty, she’d appeared in the crook of a tree branch (some tall pine, she thinks, but Tim would probably know it better- she snags a small branch covered with leaves and one tiny cone so that she can ask him later) several hours before, and had only shaken off the drowsiness from the spell recently.

When she’d awoken, the wolves had already circled below her. These aren’t normal wolves, that much is obvious- Cass hasn’t been to a zoo, before, but she’s seen them on art in Steph’s apartment, and some of the shirts she wears to their get-togethers. Wolves are like dogs, except larger and pointier and shaggier- these things…

These things have hands.

They’re muscular, too, with shorter, finer fur than she’d see on a wolf. The heads are correct, even if the muzzles are a bit flat and stocky, somewhere between those of a true wolf and those of a particularly angry rottweiler- and the eyes, glowing golden in the light of midmorning, are distinctly canine in their appearance.

One of them scrabbles against the tree trunk. Its claws are like meat-hooks, digging so deeply into the bark of the tree that when they come away, they’re covered in a sheen of sticky sap.

Even this beast of a tree is not solid enough in its bark to allow proper purchase for the monsters that snarl and circle below her. Her first tree, of a similar species but notably smaller, had threatened to buckle under the tremendous strain of multiple of the wolves attacking it from the same side all at once.

She had, reasonably, not taken any chances and moved to a different tree instead.

“Keep calm,” she scolds them, eyes narrowed. The wolves set to howling again, scrabbling at the bark.

THere’s a high whistle, then, drawing the attention of every last one of them. Cass clings tighter to the bark with one hand, fiddling at her mask with the other.

As if a spell has been broken, the largest of the wolves tilts their ears back, lowering their head. Cass watches in wonder as they shrink and crack into shape- but not a human shape, no.

They transform into a real wolf.

A large one, given what Cass knows about wolves, but still.

It’s… ashamed.

“Sorry about that!” a voice hollers up, “They turn into that when they’re spooked, and it was the full moon last night besides! Could I offer you some coffee? It can’t have been good for you to be treed like that all night!”

Cass is silent.

The newcomer pauses. She can’t see them, from here, but she knows that they’re trying to figure out what to say in response to her silence.

“... Alright, then,” they say after a moment, “I won’t begrudge you your quiet, you must have gotten quite the scare. I’ll leave you to it. I trust you can make your way out of here alright, if you’re not paying me any mind? They won’t hurt you, they just- there was a murder here, recently, a small child, and we haven’t- everybody’s still on edge.”

Cass perks up for a moment, leaping across a branch to come closer. The person’s head jerks up, and finds her in the canopy. Their eyes widen.

“You’re one of those superhero types, arent’cha?” they ask, eyes wide, “Do you have a name?”

“Black Bat,” Cass replies, voice exactly as loud as she needs it to be and tone as clinical as an oncologist delivering neither good nor bad news, “You said something about a murder?”

Surprisingly, wherever Tim has ended up, it’s not hot.

Tim’s not sure why he’d expected it to be hot, aside from the fact that in the Northern Hemisphere right at this moment, practically anywhere is warm compared to Gotham City, which rarely sees a day that’s above seventy degrees Fahrenheit if it’s not pouring down rain from some southern hurricane.

Of course, there’s always the distinct possibility that he’s not in the Northern Hemisphere, which becomes distinctly more possible as he squints up at the night sky, trying to determine whether he really doesn’t know these constellations or if he’s just very, very bad at remembering his astronomy lessons.

… Is it cocky to say that he doubts it’s the latter?

Tim squints at the horizon. From the chill in the air and the darkness of the sky, he has a feeling it’s not going to be light for several hours yet, but something niggling in the back of his head tells him that it’s probably the earliest tinges of morning.

If Tim was a superstitious child, he might begin discussions of witching hours.

It’s dark, though, and there’s no time for being skittish or superstitious, no time for worrying about any sort of thing like that, no time for doing anything except trying to figure out the closest place that’s still open, so that he can call home and figure out where he needs to be going.

Only issue is: it’s probably around two or three o’clock in the morning, Tim’s pretty sure he’s in some small town in the middle of nowhere, and, accordingly, no lights are on, and everybody is asleep.

Something moves, in the distance. Light catches something reflective, and Tim stills, heart beating rapidly against his throat.

Far out in the darkness, as if summoned by his presence and the light he’s holding in his hand, dozens of eyes turn to him, glowing green and angry red.

Patty doesn’t ask him anything for the rest of the drive over to the Kent place, and Jason doesn’t answer, poking dedicatedly at the little communicator in his hands. He wonders if it might have started the blackout, or if it was fried in the lead-up to it, or-

“Stop your worrying,” Patty scolds, “It won’t do you any good. We’ll get you back to your family soon enough.”

“Yes ma’am,” Jason says, ducking his head to look out the window of the truck instead.

Smallville, Kansas is only really ‘small’ in terms of the number of people and the heights of the buildings- looking out at the vast fields and the wide blue sky, Jason must imagine that the people that built this place must have felt small, insignificant, with nowhere to shelter them against the winds and nowhere to hide them from the sun’s tender mercies.

Jason can’t help but feel exposed, in this kind of place, with no high, sky-clawing towers to launch a grapple at, no hidden alcoves from which to survey the city like some territorial little hawk.

No, Smallville, like so much of Kansas, is flat farmland and ranchland. The ranchland, Jason thinks, is often let out of considerations regarding Kansas- the state is most often considered for its wheat production, rather than its beef. Despite this, Jason sees cattle dotting the more empty-looking pastures, and tall stalks of wheat overtaking many of the other fields. Likely, this is at least in part due to, according to Patty, the fact that Smallville is full of small-time farmers, all doing their best to tend to their own properties, rather than the fruits of some mega-corporation that it has simply fallen to locals to manage.

The town, like so many of its kind, is built on a riverside, where flat grassland breaks in favor of wide, tough oaks, some of whom have branches that reach near all the way down to the ground and are strong enough to climb, and tall, proud, thick-trunked cottonwood trees, who rely on the flooding of the river to go to seed.

What? Jason remembers what Tim tells him about trees, okay?

Regardless, the trees provide shelter against the harsh wind that blows across the grassland, and the river provides water for people, crops, and livestock alike, so it’s no wonder that people, many years ago, decided to set down roots here. Not that Jason ever would, no thank you. He’s a city boy by birth, and a city boy he shall stay, thank you very much.

Dick’s probably laughing at him, wherever he is now. He’s always been better with small towns than Jason has, even if he hates level ground just as much. Sometimes, Jason thinks his brother is more of a lemur than a man. A sifaka, maybe, like that old show that was around before Jason was born, the one his mom used to let him watch reruns of on PBS before they’d had to sell their TV.

Jason had Googled it, once- the lemur was a Coquerel’s Sifaka. Apparently the animal from the show only died a few years back, which was sad to hear about, in a strange kind of way, but also surprising- Jason didn’t know lemurs lived that long, but he supposes it makes sense that primates have longer than average lifespans compared to some other mammals.

He lets his mind slip back to the landscape around them, just as the truck shudders to a stop. He hops out the cab without much fanfare, but not before Patty. There’s a crunch of gravel beneath his feet, and another that speaks of someone approaching- someone big and broad, at least the size of his dad, if not taller.

“Everything alright?” a woman’s voice asks- older, from the sound of it, maybe in her late sixties or early seventies?

“We had a blackout down at ours,” Patty says, “And we found this poor young man, too, got caught up on some kind of villain attack on the East Coast. Clark, son, your wife’s still over there, yeah? You think you could get a message over?”

“I’ll find a way,” a man replies, amused. Jason rounds the corner of the cab, and tries, from years of Dick’s lessons on grifting and keeping calm, to not let his eyes bug out of his head.

Jason wonders how their best and brightest missed it for years. Unencumbered by a terrible haircut or an oversized suit jacket, there’s no mistaking it.

Clark Kent is Superman.

It seems, however, that Jason has been recognized in turn. Clark takes off his glasses, rubbing at them for a moment, before placing them back on, as if he couldn’t see better without them anyways.

“Is that…” he trails off, eyes as wide as Jason wishes his own could be, “Jason Todd?”

“Wayne,” Jason corrects automatically, “Todd-Wayne.”

Clark Kent laughs, but the smile on his face is unmistakable.

“Mrs. Anders,” he says, “I believe this young man is quite a bit more lost than he thinks he is.”

“So,” Dick says, leaning over her shoulder, “You think you’ve figured out what the spell’s signal is?”

Barbara nods.

“It’s more intention-based than anything else, and I’ll have to test it on an inanimate object first, but it should work,” Barbara replies, “Then maybe on one of the bats?”

Dick raises an eyebrow, and Barbara flushes, before she takes the time to clarify as to exactly what she meant.

“I meant one of the bats in the Cave,” she explains, “Not one of the kids, obviously, I’m not going to use one of the kids as a test dummy.”

“Didn’t think you were,” Dick replies with an easy smile. If Barbara didn’t know him as well as she does, she could have sworn that he’s perfectly calm- but she does know him. She knows him well. She’s known him for nearly the same amount of time as his own father has, ever since they were eleven and thirteen and stuck being babysat in the same room while Bruce Wayne went off to go save the world.

It’s that amount of history, that amount of deep seated knowledge of her dear friend that lets Barbara know what’s happening, here. Dick may spend most of his time as a professional conman, but Barbara knows near all of his tips and tricks dearly, and she can see through the mask of calm to the fear beneath just fine. It helps, a little, that she feels that same fear, that same anxiety at the knowledge that they have no idea where the kids are.

“Do you mind getting me some object that we can test it on?” she asks him, knowing that giving Dick a task to do is more effective than anything else at getting his mind back on track for what he needs to be doing, “I’m going to need something inanimate, but memorable, to start with. Preferably something unique so we can test whether or not it was returned properly rather than something identical being swapped in its place.”

Dick nods, and produces two items after a quick round of searching- a unique-looking pen, which Barbara takes gratefully, and a white marker on which to mark said pen, insurance to make absolutely certain that they won’t be missing which pen it is.

After a moment, he also produces a small oak sapling in a tiny pot.

“Alfred said it was fine, and I think this is a better idea for an initial organics test than kidnapping some poor bat,” he explains. Barbara nods.

The spell’s an old one, but according to the last audio she’d gotten off of the comms, it’s definitely the right one. Barbara sucks in a careful breath, and levels the wand at the pen.

The words tumble out of her mouth without any conscious thought, as if something else has decided to take her tongue and vocal chords and move them around for her. It’s a disconcerting feeling, but the pen arrives in the same condition in which it went, so she’ll take that as a win.

The oak, too, arrives in the same state in which it left.

Barbara sighs.

“Should we get one of the bats?”

Dick frowns.

“Don’t you think a squirrel might be a better idea if we don’t know where these things go to?” he asks. Barbara shrugs.

“I mean, if you want to go get a squirrel…”

It takes him five minutes.

Cass launches herself from treetop to treetop, tracking a murderer.

This, despite the odd situation in which she finds herself, is nothing if not familiar. Cass knows how to deal with murderers, just like she knows how to deal with kidnappers, with other conmen, with the worst of loan sharks. They’re not all within the same vein, of course, but Cass knows how to treat all of them regardless, and is near as good on a hunt as the wolves snarling below her.

Now that they know she’s a friend, rather than a foe, the werewolves have acclimatized far more to her presence. A few have turned back into their human skins, but most of the rest have stayed as wolves, either calm and collected on four legs or snarling and bestial on two- and then some, if you count the hunched posture of the massive creatures.

Not all of them, of course, have the same shape, or even near it- according to her guide, who is apparently an entirely different kind of supernatural being, the lycanthropy virus is found in many different ‘strains’, and those ‘strains’ can impact how a werewolf thinks, how they hunt, or how they’re shaped.

This is, of course, only tangential to the topic at hand, but Cass finds it interesting despite that.

She’ll have to ask Steph, later. Steph likes wolves. Steph would probably find werewolf virus strains incredibly interesting.

… Cass wonders, for a moment, if letting Steph know about lycanthropy viruses would make it more likely for her to get bitten, and then realizes that it wouldn’t matter- even if she was like these wolves below her, who, when within the heights of terror, can turn into beasts over nine feet tall and weighing near or even over six hundred pounds, Steph would still be her friend. She probably wouldn’t even try to eat her.

Now, that’s Steph. If Tim got bit, he’d probably be much smaller, and he would definitely try to eat somebody. She knows her little brother.

“This is where it happened,” the not a werewolf says, pointing at a disturbance in the leaves, “We think she was shot from… over there, probably.”

Cass frowns, leaning forwards.

“How recently?”

“Two nights ago,” they reply, “Cops won’t do anything this far out.”

Cass nods decisively.

“It did not rain,” she says, “They obscured the scent track?”

They nod.

“They dragged her,” she says, “No?”

The not-a-werewolf swallows, eyes downcast.

“Yeah,” they say, “They-”

“There are drag marks,” Cass says, cutting them off from whatever unquestionably painful thing they’re about to reveal, “We can follow those.”

“There’s not-” one of the werewolves protests. Cass glares.

“You cannot see,” she says, “Because there is… There is…”

She wracks her brain for the name of the flower, but she’s not Tim or Alfred- she can’t remember plants off the top of her head like that.

“Wolfsbane?” the not-a-werewolf offers, “Aconite? Monkshood?”

“That,” Cass agrees, “It clogs your noses?”

“It’s more poisonous to werewolves than it is to even humans,” one of the werewolves agrees. Cass narrows her eyes, following the dragging trail as best she can. She’s no forest ranger, but she’s certainly been trained at discovering bodies.

The drag marks lead to the track marks of a large vehicle- the only one this close.

The not-a-werewolf narrows their eyes.

“I know that tire tread,” they snarl, eyes alight with some inner fire.

Behind Cass, the pack begins to howl.

Tim freezes, staring at the wall of glowing eyes in the cool dark of early morning.

As if things can’t get any worse, one of the sets of eyes rises to stare at him. Breathing softly in through his nose and out through his mouth to slow his breathing and his heartbeat in turn, Tim clicks off his light.

In the dim light, hours before dawn, he can just make out the edges of the dark shapes.

Tim narrows his eyes as they adjust to the dark, and comes across a series of forms most akin to lopsided triangles rather than anything else. It’s a massive cloud of lopsided triangles, all topped with long, upright ears.

With a start and a smile, Tim realizes what these are- kangaroos!

He laughs brightly, turning his flashlight on once again. If he can get closer, maybe he’ll be able to identify the species- he might be able to tell how close he is to a city, or what side of Australia he’s on.

He’s definitely in Australia, though, unless he got transported somehow to one of those weird ranches where they keep kangaroos, which suggests that he’s lost a lot of time just standing around here. Tim wonders what happened there, if he’ll ever be able to figure out what happened to the hours he’s now missing.

He creeps closer to the kangaroos, eyes wide. They’re not as big as Red Kangaroos, at least, which suggests that they’re grey kangaroos, and he’s relatively coastal, at the moment.

… Unless they’re Western Grey Kangaroos, in which he could be literally anywhere in Australia right now aside from the Northern Territory.

And like, Tasmania, but he’s pretty sure that doesn’t count right now.

“Hey buddy!” Tim whispers, trying to stare closer at one of the kangaroo’s faces. The animal rears up further on its hind legs, and Tim remembers something that he really should have recalled earlier- kangaroo kicks hurt. A lot.

He clicks the flashlight off again, backing away.

“I’m… just going to go now,” he chuckles nervously, eyeing over his shoulder so he doesn’t trip over everything. Like some monstrous beast, the kangaroo lurches forwards, as if it’s trying to follow him.

Tim continues to trail backwards towards the safety of the town. The kangaroos, all somehow sensing weakness, begin to slowly lurch towards him.

One of them stands on their hind legs and tail again, looking directly at him. Tim whimpers.

The kangaroos begin to hop faster.

Tim turns his heel and runs.

Clark Kent, who is apparently Superman, is nervous about them going back on their own.

“Our power hasn’t gone out,” he explains, “It could be something normal, Mrs. Anders, but I won’t take any chances.”

“Oh, please, I’ve been telling you to call me Patty since I babysat you as a child, young mann,” Patty replies with a scolding tone.

“Wouldn’t quite go as far as to call me ‘young’ anymore,” Clark replies with a laugh. Jason hops into the bed of the truck, letting Clark take his place in the cab next to Patty.

“Then you should call me Patty!” she continues.

Jason rolls his eyes fondly, and tries to ignore the way that the rattling of the gravel below them stirs up dust that works its way into his lungs.

Clark heads over with Patty to check out the generator. Jason, in the meanwhile, nearly gets bowled over by a litter full of puppies.

“You alright there?” Clark asks after they’ve gotten the power back on, “I can imagine you’d want to call your family, now, but don’t get up on my account.”

“Surprised you’re not planning to write an article about this,” Jason bites back. Clark doesn’t smile when he offers Jason a hand up, hauling him to his feet with more effort than you’d expect from Superman. Then again, if Jason had unfathomable levels of super strength, he’d probably want to hide that fact too.

“I wouldn’t violate your privacy like that, son,” he says, voice dark and eyes narrowed, “They deserve to know.”

“They have known,” Jason snaps, “We just weren’t ready to tell people about it. Getting me back so soon after losing our father- can you imagine-”

The blow seems to hit, because Clark is, in that moment, clearly stricken. Jason takes no joy in it, rubbing a hand across his face with a sigh.

One of the puppies yips at his feet.

“Oh, they like you, don’t they,” Patty teases. Jason smiles, pulling a dog to his chest, and tries to calm his heart rate down.

Superman, he thinks, can probably hear it.

The squirrel returns holding on to an acorn- how it had acquired the thing, Barbara doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter.

She casts the return spell, thinking of Cass, of Steph, of Tim and Jason.

Tim feels something bubbly trail up his arms as he rushes for the safety of the middle of the street, kangaroos racing behind him. He’s not sure whether he dreads the sensation or welcomes it, but it takes him all the same, leaving nothing behind for the kangaroos to attack with their deadly kicks.

Cass feels the bubbles in her toes, first, as the wolves circle their prey. The not-werewolf has called some sort of supernatural law enforcement, so hopefully Cass won’t have to witness a revenge killing right before she vanishes.

She doesn’t. She’s grateful.

Jason takes care to put the puppy down as he feels the tingles begin in the edges of her fingertips, on the end of his tongue, and in the base of his heels.

“I think I’m getting summoned back,” he says, “Thank you so much for your hospitality, Patty.”

“Anytime, and I mean it,” she replies, “You take care now, you hear?”

Obediently, Jason nods.

The first three arrive in the middle of the Cave without incident. They’re unharmed and mostly unruffled, likely all with some kind of amusing or enlightening new experience under their belts that they’re going to be happy to tell the rest of the family later. It’s Steph that’s the problem.

Steph’s light fades in last, and it’s larger than usual.

It’s as if she’s brought someone else along for the ride.

That, Barbara finds after a moment, is completely accurate- Steph manifests last, alongside a small boy who can be no older than eight, with night-dark hair and startling green eyes so familiar that Barbara could swear she’s seen them elsewhere before.

“Hi, guys,” Steph says, “So. This-”

She gestures to the little boy, who glares at the rest of the room as if all of them have personally offended him somehow.

“I am Damian al-Ghul, son of the Bat,” he says, tone clipped and accent posh and polished, “And you are all standing in my father’s house.”

Steph winces.

“Yeah, he’s not been entirely sold on the whole concept of ‘adoption’ yet.”

Chapter Text

Dick takes a half-step forwards despite himself, eyes wide.

“So,” Jason says, “Dad somehow managed to acquire another kid from beyond the grave, huh?”

“Be careful how you speak of my father,” the child snarls, eyes blazing, “I-”

“He wasn’t just your dad,” Jason snaps back, puffing up like an angry cat. Dick doesn’t need any grifter’s instincts to know he needs to step in.

“I think we all need to calm down,” he says, keeping his voice carefully level as he looks around the room, making eye contact with Jason first, to tell him to back down, and then Steph, so she doesn’t try anything, and then Cass and Tim, so they both stay calm. By the time he’s done silently communicating a plan of attack with Barbara and has swung his attention back over to the kid- Damian, he’s being regarded with a curious eye.

“So,” the child says after a moment, “You are… Father’s oldest apprentice?”

“His oldest, yes,” Dick agrees.

Damian narrows his eyes.

“And you are his current heir?”

Dick nods. He figures it may not be the best time to bring up the fact that Bruce has been dead for months, now.

Damian seems to take a moment to make a decision, before he launches himself at Dick with all of the fury of a pissed off cat. Dick jumps out of the way, clinging to the railing halfway up one of the walls, while the rest of his siblings scatter, looking to him for approval to deal with the problem.

Dick won’t give it. He can deal with an eight year old on his own, even if the eight year old has clearly had some kind of assassination training.

It takes a few minutes, and gains him more than just the one cut, but he manages to grab Damian in a headlock, lifting him above the ground. After a moment, he partially drops him to readjust the child, and holds him above his head, arms pinned to his side, like an overlarge sandwich.

“... Father has taught you well,” Damian acknowledges.

Dick sighs.

“I have so many questions,” he says, staring up at the eight year old that he’s holding as if the child is a particularly unruly toad. Had he been a more impulsive man, Dick might have taken the opportunity provided by his grip and the soft mats on the other side of the Cave and chucked Damian over his head like he’s throwing a medicine ball.

Damian stares at him eerily, not saying anything more. Dick isn’t sure if he’s actually aware that he’s been the cause of quite the significant portion of Dick’s emotional distress this morning.

“You are a worthy heir to my Father,” the child continues, then swivels around in his grip to face Jason, “You! Fight me next!”

“Your syntax is pretty good for an eight year old,” Dick hums quietly as he moves to place Damian back on the floor. Somehow, despite Bruce clearly being the kid’s biological father, he’s smaller than even Tim, who’s already unusually small for his age.

Granted, there’s a six-year age difference between them, but Dick has known Tim since he was eleven and needed an even smaller Robin suit than Dick’s old colors. He’s allowed to wonder at the tiny stature of his youngest brothers, alright?

The rest of the family seems to catch on to what Dick had realized right when Damian had first charged him- it’s like a new hen being introduced to an established flock. The kid needs to challenge the pecking order to determine his own place in it, because he’s in a new and unfamiliar space, filled with strangers.

Tim shuffles uneasily on the furthest side of the room.

Dick has no doubts that he’s noted Damian’s unusual agility and his small size. He wouldn’t be surprised if Tim is sizing Damian up as a potential Robin replacement- especially considering Tim’s going to be due for a growth spurt eventually, no matter how small of one it is.

Because here’s the thing: outgrowing Robin isn’t just an age thing- it’s also a size thing.

Dick may be able to squeeze through air vents and into tiny gaps in windows like an octopus with a meal in mind, but he sure as hell isn’t near as good at it as he was a decade ago. He’d passed on Robin when he was near done growing, and still set to broaden more, and it had passed to a small, skinny boy with knobby knees and a talent for shoving himself into small spaces as Dick once did.

It’s the thief’s talent. The greaseman’s talent, if you must.

At the time of his death, Jason was still a ways away from reaching the width of shoulder and heftiness of muscle that he has today, but he was gaining height quickly and was already starting to consider what life after Robin would be like.

Tim may be the first who stands a chance of being small enough for the ‘thief’ role forever, but Dick knows him better- he finds joy in it, in using clever hands with sticky fingers to outwit the worst of the worst, but it’s not going to be his role forever. He’s going to outgrow it eventually.

Dick, however, is not about to give that role to an eight year old. If he ends up with the costume somehow within the next four years, Dick sure as hell won’t be the person who put it there.

No matter how skilled Damian is, he’s too young to head out into the open on jobs with the rest of them. If Dick had his way, the youngest any of them would have been heading out was fourteen, at the barest minimum- and only that young because Dick remembers being fourteen and knows that if he tried to get the rest of them to stay in the house, they’d simply break out and follow along anyways.

Curse B for raising a conglomerate of self-sufficient children with a knack for causing trouble. Dick resists the urge to smile at the thought, instead turning his attention back to the rest of the family.

“Are you alright?” he asks Steph after a moment, crossing the distance between them to check on her. She rolls her eyes, shaking out her arms as if they’re made of rubber for good measure.

“I’m fine,” she says, purposely dragging out the i, “It was a crazy day, but like, when is it not?”