Archive of Our Own

As was often the case, if anyone had asked why it had happened, Dick would have told them it was all Bruce’s fault. 

The summer had come to a rapid close that year, and autumn rolled in on a sea of fog, the trees like firebrands against the gray sky. Dick had barely had time to register that he had actually been accepted to the program of his choice when his siblings started school again too, and even as his EMT program began, he frequently got roped into corralling them. 

Two years since he had graduated high school. Six months of college before dropping out. Then a turbulent year and a half of frustrating, dead-end jobs, of “finding himself” while sleeping on his friends’ couches, of his first serious relationship, all while Bruce not-so-subtly hinted over his voicemails that he could still go back and complete his business degree at any time. Now, after all the drama and the blood and the major catastrophic breakup, he was back in New Jersey, and his siblings were all growing up too fast; Jason and Cass were, unbelievably, already in high school. Jason was still “a pleasure to have in class” (albeit less so outside of it) and a shoo-in for Bruce’s alma mater once he graduated. Cass was taking her dance troupe by storm, and one martial arts belt after another. Duke and Tim were cheerfully terrorizing their middle school with their whole hearts, frighteningly intelligent and impulsive as they were. 

They were all still so young, but now, only Damian seemed small . 

The outrageously expensive prep-kindergarten – which was, apparently, a thing – that Talia had insisted upon only kept the kids for half-days, so, while Bruce worked and Alfred cleaned, Dick, even entrenched in the depths of his homework, often found himself with the youngest of their clan. He would work while Damian drew or watched cartoons, small, round-cheeked face fixed in very serious focus. He would fetch the kid Capri-Suns or milk when he was thirsty, would take breaks with him outside playing catch with the dogs, would make them both lunch and try, try to persuade him to eat a vegetable. Last month he’d offered him a bowl of Alfred’s potato-leek soup in a no-spill bowl, and, in an incredible defiance of the laws of nature, Damian had managed to spill from the no-spill bowl by taking one look at its contents and promptly hucking it straight at the wall. The kid then spent a very happy lunch hour eating Lunchables and animal crackers off the mahogany dining room table while Dick spent that same time crawling around on his hands and knees with a Swiffer mop pad, squinting for flecks of soup in the antique flooring. 

Despite all this he – God help him, he must be a masochist – loved Damian. 

He loved sitting on the couch with him while he read one of Jason’s book recommendations and his little brother studiously filled in a Wild Animals coloring page, feeling the small, warm body trustingly curled into his side. He loved Damian expressing his love by demanding that Dick and only Dick be the one to play with him, demanding that they draw on the driveway with sidewalk chalk together as the leaves turned gold around them, demanding he take him to the zoo to see the tigers, demanding generally being his main form of communication. He loved Damian even though over the High Holy Days the kid had gotten a vicious stomach bug from his friend Maya and had then promptly given it to the whole family via biological warfare (i.e. spitting in Tim’s food the morning before Kol Nidre service), officially making this their second -worst Yom Kippur of all time. 

He loved Damian enough to not immediately say no when Bruce had a proposition for him. 

“First, refresh my memory, Bruce. Why can’t you take him trick-or-treating?”

His adoptive father winced viscerally. They were sitting on the far edge of the manor’s living room, next to the big open windows; golden autumn light filtered through, framing a paint-blue sky. Across the room, Tim and Jason were playing some kind of fighting video game, cursing creatively at each other. Duke was glued to the movie on his laptop, expensive black-and-yellow headphones firmly clipped on. And the little menace himself had taken ahold of Cass’s limp arm while she napped on the couch, studiously doodling on her exposed skin in what Dick was pretty sure was a Sharpie. Not one of their brothers had made any attempt to stop this. 

“I have late meetings all through Halloween night,” Bruce said gruffly, glancing back at the riotous cacophony that was his younger sons. “But I have a friend living in Gotham Heights, and he has always expected my family for trick-or-treating.”

“Really? I don't think I ever went to Gotham Heights. I think I’d remember the whole suburbia thing.”

“It started with Jason. You were in high school by then and wouldn't let me take you.” Bruce rubbed the bridge of his nose. “My friend and his kids will know Damian when they see him; he’s the one I told you about, the city’s police commissioner.”

“Yeah. Still can’t believe you’re friends with the police commissioner. Still can’t believe you have friends. Next question, I know Alfred’s staying home to give out candy and Tim and Duke are having sleepovers here with friends, so why can’t Jason or Cass take him?”

“Jason and Cass are fourteen. They could have taken him around our neighborhood, but not driven out to this one. And Damian’s too small to walk the expanse of ours. You can take the car.”

More importantly, Dick figured, Jason and Cass probably already had pre-established, private Halloween plans – Cass to eat her weight in mini Three Musketeers bars and take the subway out to various places around the city rumored to be haunted, and Jason to try and trick Tim into thinking their house was haunted before meeting up with his weird little friends to TP all the other local billionaires’ homes. 

Dick chose not to relay this, but instead set his jaw. A month ago he had promised to meet up with all his friends in New York for the holiday weekend. A month. He had told Bruce this when it happened. Now Halloween was three days out. 

“Bruce, I spend all my time studying. I haven’t seen my friends in weeks. Again, I ask you: why can you not take care of your own child?”

“You think I relish this?” Bruce snapped; Dick almost yelled right back before he saw the tightness in his father’s jaw, the frustration in his eyes. “You think I enjoy it? I took Damian every year for the last four. If I wanted to not spend time with him, I wouldn’t have bothered then. But he needs to go with someone. And I am asking you now to pitch in for your family.”

Dick did not appreciate that last sentence. Moreover, he could have very easily argued that Bruce could have tried harder to get out of or postpone his meetings, that he could have at the very least given Dick some more warning. 

But instead Cass woke up across the room. She must have immediately seen the doodles all over her arm, now extending upwards over her shoulders, neck, and face, because she started laughing so hard she almost fell off the couch – promptly setting off Damian’s own triumphant cackles. 

This drew Dick’s gaze over to them. His sister, bare skin covered with misshapen black lions and horses and elephants, and his little brother, head thrown back in glee, his grin showing off the baby teeth he was newly missing. 

Dick’s shoulders slumped. He sighed deeply, head falling. 

“I’ll call Donna,” he muttered. “Bruce, you owe me big time for this. You had better introduce me to my future spouse or something afterwards.”

A moment passed. Outside, a cool wind ruffled the tranquil air, shaking loose the amber leaves.

“...Are you joking? I can inquire of my neighbors’ daughters.”

“I was. Your chances of liking women I can actually get along with are kind of 50/50.”

“Hm. That reminds me, I have dinner plans with Selina tonight. She’ll probably come by to say hello afterwards. I hope it won’t interfere with your studies.”

“You’re seeing Selina again? As opposed to anyone else? …Bruce, that’s not quite making it up to me, but it’s definitely some kind of a start.”

“She’s been buying you things again, hasn’t she.”

“Spending time, you mean. And taking your money while she was at it, I assume. Told you it was a start.”

It was hard to tell sometimes, but in that moment, he could have sworn that Bruce almost smiled. 

Halloween came. The afternoon after Damian’s school let out was crisp; it practically snapped under his teeth. A brisk wind stirred the leaves on the grass, the city sidewalks, and high within the manor’s walls, across from the first-grader-sized fire engine bed (picked for the Dalmation sheets it came with), Dick helped Damian get into his costume. 

“M’not a baby,” Damian sulked as Dick fiddled with the zipper. “I can put it on myself.”

“You got stuck in it twice before I came up here.” Dick pulled out the little tin of black face paint and dipped his finger in it. He traced careful lines along round brown cheeks, dabbing on a little black nose. “And also, when people offer to help you, you don’t call them cretins. Seriously, you’re lucky I love you so much.”

Under his costume’s hood, Damian’s eyes turned shrewd. 

“Tt. If you really loved me, you’d say I could so call other kids’ costumes stupid.” 

“Kid.” Dick’s hand briefly stilled on the face paint. “Listen for a minute. That line’s never going to work on me. Because I already know I love you. Know how I know?”

Despite himself, the kid listened. 

“Six months after your mom first gave you to us, you finally stopped throwing your baby food on the floor, or at my shirts, and let me feed them to you for the first time. Let me sit with you for the whole meal. Then, you let me pick you up and hold you, let me bounce you in my arms and hold you cheek to cheek for the first time without screaming. And I was so elated.” He finished drawing on the whiskers. “And then you threw up your pureed squash all over my face. Trust me, if I didn’t love you beyond all sense and reason, I would’ve left you to the wolves long ago.”

Damian was not humbled one bit. 

“Your costume’s stupid too,” he huffed. “Dunno what you even are.”

In Dick’s defense, he had had a costume. Donna never would’ve forgiven him if he’d turned up to the most iconic Halloween party in New York without one and embarrassed all their friend group like that. He’d spent so much time picking something fun and putting the look together, making sure it would dazzle and delight all the guests. 

However, that costume had been made of glitter, feathers, blue boots, blue satin, and…not much else. Dick seriously doubted that the (predominantly heterosexual and white) picket-fence families of the New Jersey suburbs would have allowed him in that near a crowd of trick-or-treating children without calling the cops, the FBI, and the National Guard to boot. 

So he was stuck with whatever he could pull last-minute from his own closet. 

He glanced self-consciously down at his dark blue army jacket, white shirt, and form-fitting pants. At least he’d half-heartedly attempted to dress it up a bit with a holster-style black belt he liked and black leather boots, but Damian was right. He didn’t know what he was supposed to be. 

“Let’s say you’ll get it when you’re older.” He got back to his feet and took in his work. “You look good, kiddo.”

“Of course I do.”

The two of them headed back downstairs just in time to see Duke, black makeup-scruff on his chin, wearing a floor-length leather coat and wielding a fake sword, open the door for his chattering friends. And also in time to see Tim pour a can of soda in Jason’s lap; the yell of “this house is NOT haunted you shitheel” and Jason’s threats to get Tim cursed by a ghost overlapping with the other middle-schoolers’ laughter. 

Dick stifled his own chortles as best he could. Time to be the responsible one. 

“Guess that’s our cue. C’mon, Dames.”

“Finally.” 

As they approached the living room and foyer, Dick spotted Cass rummaging through a bucket of chocolate bars, wearing an impressively realistic suit of sleek black body armor, the front tips of her short black hair streaked blue. A little plushie lizardlike monster was cradled in her free hand. 

“Pacific Rim?”

She mockingly saluted in response, which he took as a yes. Though he doubted that character had ever been onscreen with three separate nougat bars in hand. 

“We all agreed to do a sci-fi/fantasy theme,” Tim explained, coming over to set down his empty soda can. He was wearing what Dick would have otherwise assumed to be North African desert gear, all loosely-wrapped linen, over a gray bodysuit. He cradled a fake plastic gun in a clip-on toy holster. “All but Damian, who does what he wants. Even Bette and Kate got in on it; they're being Dolores from Westworld and Ripley from Alien at the big party uptown. See mine? I did Dune.”

“Because of your shared name with the actor?”

“Yeah, but also cause Dune’ s awesome.” He glanced over at their brother, his voice taking on a distinctly annoyed note. “Except Jason backed out on us last minute.”

“I told you, mine’s better.”

Wiping the last of the root beer off his rain jacket, Jason joined them. The jacket, including a hood pulled up over his brother’s curls, was a bright yellow, childlike, with green rain boots to go with it. The single balloon in his hand, however, was cherry red. Dick stared at him, puzzled. 

“What are you supposed to be? One of Damian’s classmates?”

“Close. I’m that kid from It. ”

Their other siblings scowled. 

“You know,” Jason prompted when he got no other response, “the one who gets eaten by the clown first?”

Dick stared at him for a long moment more. 

“...You have a really sick sense of humor, Jason.”

“Whatever, dickweed. Your costume sucks.”

“Not entirely,” Duke spoke up, the last to join them. He had his fake sword slung casually over his shoulder; his friends, in the meantime, appeared to be raiding the kitchen, which Dick studiously ignored. “I think he can make it work.” 

He nudged Tim, who gave Dick another once-over in turn. Then his eyes grew wide, and he nodded. 

“Yeah, I can see it.”

Then, to Dick’s surprise, he offered him the gun and clip-on holster. 

“Complete the look?”

“Oh, um, okay.”

He was confused, but didn’t have time to ask what they meant. The sun would be going down soon, and Damian was clearly getting impatient, so instead, he strapped it onto his belt without argument. 

“You guys have a nice night, okay?” he said to all of them, even Jason, with fondness. “Stay safe. Don’t eat too much candy.”

Cass rolled her eyes affectionately, sweeping her hand in an obvious get-going gesture. Damian expressed his agreement by tugging hard on the hem of his jacket. 

“Good luck to you too, Captain,” Tim called after him as their diminutive younger brother dragged him to the door. Dick felt his mouth slide up despite himself, stepping out into the fading golden light. 

He had never been particularly comfortable in suburban spaces, and the Gotham Heights cul-de-sac was just…too well manicured for his tastes. The houses all similarly designed, all within the same color palette, the mowed lawns all more or less alike. As such, he privately applauded the people who had gone a little too far with their Halloween decorations, whether it be the house with the life-size skeletons posed to dance in the yard, the one with every spare inch covered in intricately carved jack-o-lanterns, or the one with a pair of horse-sized blow-up dragons lurking over the front porch. Damian seemed to like that one in particular. 

What also made him feel better was, oddly enough, his brother’s peers. Hordes of children had taken to the street, filling the space with their plastic pumpkin-shaped candy buckets, their squeals and shrieks of delight. Their guardians looking haggard while they sprinted up and down the sidewalks, vaulting the begonias, little girls dressed as witches and Spider-Man, little boys dressed as Transformers and frogs, buckets and bags outstretched hopefully for treats. Damian, in his black-and-white cat costume, the little paws falling over the handle of his bucket, fit right in; even though he frequently glared balefully out at the other kids like a miniature, chubby-faced gargoyle. 

Dick, not tempted by cheap candy, mostly hung back by the street while his brother marched sternly up to each door, knocking on the front with the air of a general storming an impregnable city. The sun fell behind the dying blaze of the trees and the shadows grew long, and dozens of adults, as they distributed candy and snacks, each cooed over how cute the little kitty looked with his little ears and whiskers. He did, Dick had to admit. Despite the perpetual glare. 

The evening wore on, and the bucket filled rapidly, full of enough candy to make Dick’s teeth itch just looking at it. They wound round the streets, approaching the address Bruce had told him, when at the house just before it they got the door slammed firmly in their faces. 

“But they gave me an apple, ” Damian complained as the sky faded from the last of the blue to true black, Dick’s hand firmly on his shoulder. “You don’t give apples on Halloween. That was dumb. ”

“Maybe, and maybe Jason might have said told you it was okay, but we do not yell ‘where’s my candy, you son of a bitch’ at strangers, Damian. That was not funny.”

It absolutely was funny. Dick was trying not to laugh even as he said it. But Damian didn’t have to know that; Dick had pretty much inevitably gotten blamed growing up whenever his younger siblings repeated swear words and sex jokes, even when they’d picked it up from classmates and TV and Kate that one time she’d dropped a can opener on her foot. 

“Now, when we go to Bruce’s friend’s house, will you please be civil? No insulting people?”

“But they’re not strangers. I know the Gordons.”

“Still though. For the sake of my not getting premature gray hair.”

“Tt. Okay. You are getting pretty ancient.”

Damian was marching down the front walkway before Dick could say anything in his own defense. 

Could have been in New York tonight . 

He sighed and followed. The decorations on this house were a bit clumsy, but looked enthusiastic and heartfelt; a bit of a surprise considering this was supposed to be Bruce’s friend. Fake spiderwebs were hung about the porch, a grinning skeleton from the front door knocker. Cheerful little bat decals had been stuck to the panes of the windows, and muffled music and conversation came from inside. Four jack-o-lanterns were set about the front steps: a fairly straightforward spooky face, a slightly-awkwardly done sheriff’s badge, a pumpkin painted with a purple-black-and-pink Gotham cityscape, and, for some reason, a pumpkin carved with rows of binary code across the front. 

A little note had also been fastened to the door in a youthful scrawl, inked in violet glitter gel pen: Party inside! Won’t hear if you knock. Please ring the doorbell! ♡ XOXO ♡ 

It had been finished with a messy signature he couldn’t read but started with S . 

Dick shrugged, then finished walking to the door to ring. Damian extended his bucket in anticipation. 

Neither were expecting the door to fly open so swiftly, nor were they expecting the person on the other side. 

She was about Tim’s age, maybe a little older, fairly tall for a middle-schooler. A large wooden bowl of chocolates and sour strings was grasped in her hands, and a mane of blonde hair fell about her shoulders; curious blue eyes peered up from amidst it. She was wearing a full-body pocketed suit, like military fatigues, except all in gray, finished with matching gray boots. A black holster belt was clipped around her waist over the gray fatigues, rather like the one Dick was wearing, except that a long, plastic-metal cylinder was dangling from it. 

Her costume looked very familiar, but in that moment he couldn’t quite place it. 

Staring at the two of them, her eyes grew wide. 

“Holy shit. This is too good,” she exclaimed, voice bursting with delight. 

Damian frowned. 

“Where is Mr. Gordon? Who are you?”

“Jim’s inside being miserable about having to host a party,” the girl informed them both cheerfully. “He wanted to watch old slasher films tonight instead. And I’ve only, uh, been here a few months. I’m Stephanie. Foster daughter.”

“So you’ve been living with the Gordons?” Dick asked tactfully. 

“Yup. Big arrest. And then he took in the daughter, yours truly, of the guy he arrested. His own daughter apparently bullied him into it, but –” Her eyes softened briefly, before landing back on Dick and lighting up with glee again, “– speaking of her, holy shit .” 

“What?”

“You match!” Stephanie gestured with fluttering hands at his outfit. “That’s so cool! We finally have a fourth for the costume contest, and for a group photo! Sarah didn’t want to get in on it; sucks for her.” She turned to Damian. “Kinda wished you matched us too, but I’ll forgive it. Here.” She dumped approximately a metric ton of sugar and preservatives into his bucket, almost to the point of overflowing. 

What is going on here?

“I think there’s been some mistake,” Dick began carefully, “I didn’t plan on matching with your family; I didn’t know you were planning on doing group costumes.”

“Oh, that’s okay.” She shrugged. “We didn’t originally plan on doing the looks from the second movie, but Babs wouldn’t wear her hair in the buns. She says they dragged on her head too much. But it still worked out! Come in and I’ll get her.”

Dick had never previously thought that anyone could frog-march Damian anywhere, but this kid still managed to yank the two of them forward through the front door, right into the warm, cinnamon-and-tobacco-scented air of the house, full of moving bodies and vintage Halloween music and loose talk, words eased by the flow of alcohol. 

Damian peered up at all the adults now surrounding him. 

“The Gordons never had parties before,” he muttered. “I preferred the candy.”

“Babs!” Stephanie called into the sea of bodies, the fog of chatter. “Babs! Hey, Harvey, you seen Babs?”

“Aw, I ain’t your sister’s keeper, kid.”

“Boooo. Renee, you seen Babs?”

“Not recently, but she should be around here somewhere –”

“Great. Babs! ”

“You don’t need to yell so much, Steph.” From behind where Dick stood, a different woman’s voice pierced through the fog. Strong and firm, tinged with familiar exasperation. “What is it this time?”

Steph looked around him, her smile returning. 

“The Waynes’ kids got here,” she reported. 

“Yes, I can see that. What’s your point?”

“You don’t know the half of it.” She addressed Dick. “Turn around, she’s gotta see.”

Still wondering at what was going on, Dick turned around.

At once, his eyes grew wide. His heart, and the scene around him, seemed to freeze as one. 

For the woman looking up at him had stolen his breath away. She was regally beautiful, with elegant, strong features, full lips slightly parted in astonishment, brilliant green eyes trained upon him, observing. Her skin was pale and her cheeks were scattered with delicate sprays of freckles. Her thick hair, as brilliant red as the leaves outside, was tied up in a braided crown over the back of her head, and she wore all light colors: a white jumpsuit built for cold weather, white gloves, a pocketed cream-colored vest, finished with gray boots rather like Steph’s. Her wheelchair had been decorated with paper-mache metal plates and buttons, simulating the interior of a spaceship, and from within it, she seemed to glow. 

Her gaze was piercing, arresting; he took in the way her lashes brushed the tops of her cheekbones, the strands of hair coming loose here and there from her braids. 

“Huh.” She folded her arms. “Maybe we’ll actually win the costume contest now.”

He glanced briefly back at Steph before landing once more on the woman before him.

“Yeah.” She inclined her head, eyes sparking. “And my dad’s in on it too. We tried to get my stepmom to join us, but she refused, and now my friends have been bragging all evening about how they’re going to win, and, well.” She set her jaw. “I’m not going to take that lying down.”

“It would be about time you won something,” Damian needled, poking Dick in the ribs. “But I don’t understand why; he and his costume’re dumb.”

Dick snapped his jaw shut just to turn and glare at his brother. Damian blew a raspberry at him.

“Well you are. I can tell her that again if she doesn’t get it.”

The woman chuckled low in her throat, and oh sweet God even her voice had a chokehold on him. 

“I think he makes it work,” she said, lifting a hand to cover her smile. Then her eyes lit with determination again, reaching up to take him by the wrist. His heart jumped. “C’mon, it’s my party and I can say that we can accept late entries.”

Steph cheered, pumping her hands in the air. 

“What about me?” Damian demanded. “I want to win something. I look excellent.”

The woman peered at him, raising her eyebrows. 

“Really. Hm. Good to see you again too, Damian. You didn’t even introduce your brother to me; he’s the only one of your siblings I hadn’t met yet.”

He slid his wrist upward slightly in order to clasp her hand in his own. He shook it, and her dry look became a little more warm. 

“Richard Grayson. Friends call me Dick.”

“And you let them?” she teased.

“Careful, princess,” he fired back and she smiled at him for the first time, and oh. Oh.  

“Too on the nose. Mine’s Barbara. Barbara Gordon.”

“And I’m very glad to meet and enter your costume contest for you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.” Her smile grew. “Especially if we win.”

It was at this moment that he realized he was still shaking her hand after what had been significantly too long, and pulled his back, cheeks warm. Hers turned pink too, hand now going to the back of her neck. 

“I’m gonna introduce you,” she said, clearing her throat. “Get you entered and all. Steph, do you want to get Damian some snacks, show him what you’ve learned in your fencing lessons?”

Damian, who had been beginning to look rather bored, brightened immediately. 

“Fencing? You can sword-fight?”

“Oh yeah.” Steph grinned. “Jim wouldn’t let me bring my actual foil to the party, but –” She unclipped the cylinder at her waist. “I can show you with this, if you want.”

Damian didn’t take his eyes off the toy the entire time as he followed Steph into the throng, not even as Dick called after them, 

“Damian, don’t run off on her! And please, be nice!”

“They’ll be alright,” Barbara assured him. “C’mon, come meet everyone.”

He was led to the center of the living room, amidst a long buffet table and a swirl of mostly middle-aged adults, beers and ciders in hand. Conversations halted as Barbara lifted her voice again. 

“Everybody!” Dick marveled at her swift slice through the noise, the eyes that immediately turned her way. Her gloved hands flew up like she was showing him off. “I present to you: Richard Grayson, the fourth for the Gordon family group costume. My good friend who’s going to cement us as the winners.”

Dick softened a little bit under the curious, unthreatening gazes, offering his best smile and a friendly wave.

“Now wait a minute!” a tall woman over by the table yelled. She wore her curly black hair in a thick mane down her back and a floor-length black velvet cape trimmed with red, acrylic nails in frighteningly long points and realistic fangs between her lips. Beside her was a buxom blonde in a slinky, low-cut red dress with gold plates on the shoulders, equally good fangs and long, sharp crimson nails to match, an amused smile on painted lips. “No goddamn last-minute entries, Babs! We spent months working on these costumes!”

“And you both look amazing,” Dick soothed before the women could get into an argument. “I’m happy to participate, but I don’t want to get in the middle of anything.”

The curly-haired woman scoffed, then gave him a once-over. 

“Does Babs even know you? Or did she just snatch you up off the street?”

“Helena,” said the blonde, “leave him alone.”

“My question stands, pretty boy.”

“He’s Bruce Wayne’s oldest kid,” a fourth voice called, male and older and cigarette-rough. An amused edge to it. “And I, personally, wouldn’t mind him being our fourth.”

Dick turned one last time with a fiftysomething man who looked so much like Barbara he couldn’t be anyone but her father; red hair and mustache streaked liberally with gray, soft brown eyes lined. His own suit was all black, the long black cape not unlike Helena’s, and it wasn’t until Dick’s eyes landed on the full-face black mask crooked under his arm that he finally understood. 

He looked down at himself for the last time, then at the Gordons: the father in his blacks and the daughter in her braids, the second child somewhere off in the corner waving her blue toy saber around and almost taking out one of the lamps.  

Oh. Oh. He might be an idiot. 

“Thanks, I – wait, your stepmom didn’t want to get in on this? Is she crazy?”

Barbara smirked in a see? this guy gets it kind of way. 

“She’s matching Renee Montoya instead, as Old West sheriffs,” Jim sighed. He nodded to Dick again. “Glad to finally meet you, son. Especially under such –” His eyes crinkled, “– lucky circumstances. Stephanie! Not the china cabinet!”

“Sorry Jim!” came the piping voice mixed with Damian’s eager demands that they practice outside. Steph clearly liked the idea because the two of them, their hands full of skull and tombstone cookies, promptly sprinted past and darted to the door; it slammed with a bang. Jim shook his head, then strode off to follow them. 

Barbara squeezed his wrist again. He glanced down into those eyes, his smile almost shy. 

“Just to be safe: Steph wouldn’t let him run off, would she?”

“Probably not, but Dad’ll keep an eye on them anyway. And trust me, they’ll be back in time for the contest.”

He didn’t get to say much more to her for the next hour, as the Gordons’ guests all tried to talk to him at once, pressing drinks and snacks upon him, asking about his family, inquiring about what he’d been up to, what his EMT program was like. Helena and her blonde friend – who introduced herself as Dinah – Shanghaied him off to the kitchen to ask more about him, his likes, his dislikes, his interests. 

“Why do you want to know?” he asked them as Helena moodily nursed her drink. The costume contest was due to start soon. “I thought I was your sworn rival. As much as I hoped I wouldn’t be.”

He smiled at them. Helena tried not to look charmed, but Dinah openly tittered, pressing her fingers with their two-inch red acrylics to her cheek. 

“Looking out for Babs,” she explained, voice turning sly. “You are very -good looking, my friend. But she likes nice men, so looks can’t be everything here.”

Dick felt his face turning red. Helena smirked. 

“Be kind to her, okay?” Dinah asked. “If you do make a move. She’s tough and strong, but she’s had a hard time of it.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Not my place to tell the whole story. The short of it is, academia, breakups, and uh…just ask your brother whether she was in a wheelchair last year.”

Dick bade them thanks, just as Barbara’s stepmother Sarah announced the contest’s beginning. Sure enough, allured by the siren call of potential victory, Steph and Damian came running back in, Jim hot on their heels. Steph kept her lightsaber extended, bright grin on her young face, as Jim hastily shoved his mask back on to stand with her, Dick, and his daughter. 

Steph posed, Dick mimed shooting his gun. Sarah’s phone camera flashed. Jim, still a bit winded from the hasty run and clearly a lifetime smoker, breathed wheezily, raspily, in and out. 

Dick realized the significance of that at the same time Barbara did. As Sarah continued taking photos, the two of them locked gazes. Barbara placed her fingers over her mouth and softly mimicked the breathing, in and out, hohhhh-hah. 

The two of them burst out laughing in unison, and the camera flashed for the last time. 

Later, when everyone had gotten a look at the photos (Steph posed for a couple extra where she sprawled in fake agony in front of Jim, a decorative severed hand lying next to her, pretending to scream melodramatically), after more drinks had been pressed into his and her hands by well-wishing friends and the world felt slightly more liquid, while the votes were beginning to be tallied, he noticed that she had been able to slip away from the party. Grabbing a couple of mugs from the Gordons’ kitchen and filling them one last time, he carefully followed her out, lingering at the doorway to the front porch. Was surprised to see, of all things, the silhouetted cat ears of Damian’s costume. 

“– why do you want to know? Do you like him?” he heard the kid saying. Dick immediately stifled a groan, thunking his head on the doorframe. “Because my brother may be stupid, but he…” Damian struggled for the words. “Deserves good things. He's still a cretin. But he is nice. Does nice things.”

Dick stilled. The bourbon-hot chocolates seemed to burn in his hands. 

“I understand what you're saying.” Barbara’s voice had become gentler. “But Damian, I only just met him. Your worrying is a little premature, don’t you think?”

“Don’t care. It’s true.”

She exhaled softly.

“Well, okay. How about I say that I will promise to be careful with him, if it becomes relevant.” 

Hesitantly, Damian nodded.

“Alright. That’s good. Now, how about you go back inside? I’m sure Steph’s missing you.”

“She’s a cretin too,” Damian grumbled, though not without affection, as he got up and headed back for the door; Dick flattened himself to the other side, hiding against the wall as it opened in his face. It was only after the kid left that he headed back out to the front porch, moving over to her. 

Barbara looked up in surprise, but smiled a bit before gesturing to the empty rocking chair next to her. When he sat, she tipped her mug against his own; the warm ceramics clinking against each other. 

For some time, they just sat together, chatting lightly, getting to know each other rather like the guests inside had been. Their breath came out in clouds, mingling with the steam from their drinks, as the end-of-October night brought a plummeting chill to the air and frost to the grass below. But the two of them were still just tipsy enough to retain their warmth, the whiskey burning in his chest even in the promise of winter’s approach. 

“So let me get it all straight,” Barbara said at last, voice warm, “Born in the circus, raised in a manor, a year and a half in Manhattan. You’re an EMT student and dog person who drives a motorcycle; you like comedies but not horror, you like cooking but not baking, you can still do acrobatics, and your favorite color’s blue. You have all your friends' coffee orders memorized and you always treat your siblings on their birthdays. Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He finished the last of his hot chocolate “And you’ve got a helluva memory. It’s incredible.”

“Eidetic.” She tapped the side of her temple. “Comes in handy in my library work, and in academia.”

“That’s right, you said you were writing your PhD thesis. How’s that going?”

For the first time that evening, Barbara wilted, sighing deeply. Her breath smelled of the whiskey, of chocolate, and of the cinnamon Sarah had spiked it with. 

“Not well.” She rubbed her forehead. “I’m sorry I dragged you into my family’s competitiveness, but I needed a win tonight. My research has stalled because of the day job and shit-ton of appointments I’ve needed to work around, and Katarina – one of the other doctoral candidates – was being really annoying. She said what would’ve really suited me this year would be to come as Stephen Hawking.” She lifted one gloved hand to give the finger in what was presumably Katarina's direction, somewhere over the city skyline. 

Dick had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from spitting some choice words. 

“I was happy to help you guys out, though,” he said sincerely. “And I like your costume. It suits you.”

Oh God, he was so out of practice. He hadn’t done any real flirting since he and Kory had broken up. So it came as a genuine surprise when her cheeks pinkened again, and she ducked her head behind her mug. 

“Blame my dad,” she mumbled. “And Steph. She was the one who had the idea for her own outfit, and Dad couldn't resist the obvious joke.”

“I believe it. I’m familiar with enduring family members’ senses of humor,” he chuckled. “You met all my siblings, right?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Wow. Genuinely sorry. If I ever make it back to synagogue I’ll pray for you.”

“Nah, it’s okay,” she said even as they both chuckled. “I actually kind of like the brats. I’m the one who had the idea to take in Steph after her dad was arrested, though, so I must be a little crazy when it comes to wayward kids.”

“I’m familiar with the feeling.” He placed his hand over hers. “Though I do think that was really kind of you. I…I’m only here because I had my arm twisted.”

“Maybe, but Damian clearly still thinks very highly of you. He wouldn’t if you only ever did things for him because you had your arm twisted.”

His chest warmed. Her fingers squeezed his. 

"You're...not wrong. I do love him. I love them all."

“Mm. I thought so. And you also did do this silly little thing for my family because it mattered to us. That says a lot too.”

“Huh.” He was finding it very hard to speak all of a sudden as she sipped the dregs of her chocolate. “Never would’ve thought that yanking on the first things out of my closet would come so much in handy.”

Barbara choked on the dregs, and he realized too late what he’d said. His face flaming again, worsened by the cold and the alcohol, he was about to swiftly backtrack before he realized she was laughing again.

“Wait,” she gasped, “you’re telling me that’s not a deliberate Han Solo costume? Oh God – that’s your normal jacket. Those are your normal boots, aren’t they?”

Dick buried his face in his free hand. 

“Very much so, yes,” he mumbled. 

“Oh, Grayson.” She wiped her eyes. “Come on, it’s fine. For one thing, I’m realizing that Helena’s going to have a fit when she finds out that the costume she spent months on was judged against literally just your normal clothes, and that alone makes the night worth it.”

“Aw, c’mon, don’t tell her.”

“No promises.” She playfully nudged him, and he turned, realizing as he did that they were face-to-face. Her cheeks were still glowing; he was sure his were too. “Seriously, don’t be embarrassed. Your outfit, um…it suits you, too.”

The last part came out breathless.

As did his own words when he spoke again. 

“You think so?” He bent a little towards her. The air seemed to swim around them, and it wasn’t just the whiskey. "You mean it?"

Barbara pulled back a bit. 

“I do, I...I don’t know what I’m saying,” she mumbled. “I, uh. I ended a pretty major relationship last year, and haven't dated since. Around when…”

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “I went through the same relationship ordeal, and at the same time. My life was pretty chaotic until just a few months ago. Still is in some ways. You're okay. And you don’t have to talk about the other thing.”

“I would have to eventually.” Her green eyes flickered downwards. Dick was entranced. “I’m not easy to know.”

“I’m up to the challenge,” he replied, unable to believe himself even as her cheeks burned. Unable to believe that such a beautiful, captivating woman was responding to him like that. 

She locked eyes with him for a long time. The light of the moon, the cul-de-sac's streetlamps, the lingering liquor, the warmth of her breath on his skin. It was hard to tell which of those made him lean forward and press his lips to hers. 

She gasped softly against his mouth, but did not pull away. Instead her eyes closed, gingery lashes fluttering as she tilted her head, leaning into the kiss. Her sigh was full-bodied and strong, the weight of all that was on her mind releasing; he cupped the winding braids at the back of her head and held her close. His other hand pressed to the back of her vest but respectfully remained above her waist, even as his breath hitched, something beginning to stir inside him. 

Her own hands reached up to cup his jaw, determinedly pulling him close as she licked slightly into his mouth, and he wasn’t sure what would have happened had the door not opened at that very moment. 

"Well, I do seem to remember this part of the movie."

They ripped away from each other as though burned. 

“Sorry to interrupt.” Dinah’s voice was full of amusement and barely-restrained delight. “But the votes are all counted, and you two might want to know the results. And Dick, Damian’s looking for his brother.”

“Is he okay?” 

“Fine, just tired and peopled-out, I think.” She smiled broadly, fiddling a bit with her mascara. “He was a huge hit tonight, though, and Steph’s basically his new favorite person. She promised to take him to the arcade this weekend.”

“Tell her I said thanks. And we’ll be right in.”

Dinah flashed them one last grin before ducking back inside. Dick looked at Barbara, thinking about what to say, about telling her he liked her, that he’d had a fun night and a good time with her friends and family, to eventually get around to asking her for her number. 

But before he had a chance to, she cleared her throat and said, “I’m sorry. I’ll let you go get your brother. Have a good night.”

And with that, hastily wheeled herself back inside, leaving him alone in the frosty night air. 

“So let me get this straight,” Jason said loudly, the next morning, “you and your bargain bin costume won that contest? For real?”

“Yes, we did. And don’t call my clothes bargain bin,” Dick snipped, clutching his coffee and silently begging for Jason to shut up. For once. “Like, of all things.”

“I got horrible mention,” Damian chimed in proudly. Naturally, being five, he had no concept of such things as hangovers – even relatively mild ones – and was instead happily making crayon drawings next to his breakfast. “They didn’t even have a horrible mention, but they gave it to me anyway.”

“‘Honorable’ mention,” Duke corrected.

“No, I think Damian was right the first time,” Tim said. He then turned to Dick. “That was fun that you and the Gordons did that, though. I guess they really liked you.”

“Yeah.” Dick stared into the depths of his coffee cup. “I guess they did.”

Cass was even quieter than usual, he noticed after a while, as his brothers bickered and counted candy and fought over the good cereal. Bent over her phone, squinting carefully at the words as she texted. Damian glanced over at her and what she was doing, offering a rare nod of approval; she winked in response. Before stowing it away in her backpack as the grade schoolers’ morning rush for school began, before offering Dick an odd look, almost knowing.  

As the kids stumbled over to the foyer, the doorbell rang. Halting all of them in their tracks. 

Dick froze. Bruce emerged from upstairs in his monogrammed bathrobe, Alfred from the living room with his feather duster. 

“Who could it be at this hour?”

When the door opened, Dick almost didn’t recognize them at first. Out of their costumes, Steph now in sneakers and an embroidered denim jacket, her foster sister in a now-unadorned wheelchair next to her. Barbara's hair was loose down her back, slightly crimped from the braids, and she wore wire-rimmed glasses and a soft green sweater, to-go thermos in her hand, but she still looked every bit as beautiful. 

Dick set his coffee cup down with shaking hands. Feeling very self-conscious about his sleep-ruffled hair, his old t-shirt and pajama pants, about the way she had run away after he’d kissed her. 

But he walked over to the foyer anyway. Steph was waving to the other kids; Barbara had a Tupperware resting on her lap, avoiding his gaze. 

“Babs, hey,” he managed to say. “What are you doing here?”

All five of his siblings’ gazes flicked over to him. Barbara ducked her head further. 

“I’m taking Steph to school today,” she explained, sounding unusually subdued. “And I thought…”

Steph nudged her arm. 

“Quit that. I wanted to say hi to your family, and I wanted to apologize. Your sister texted me your address.”

He almost swallowed his tongue. Cass caught his eye and nodded. 

She extended the Tupperware, placing it in an astonished Tim’s hands. 

“The cookies left over from last night,” she explained. “I made them myself. I know you don’t like baking, since there’s less room to improvise, but…”

“I’m sure I’d like anything you made,” was what came out of his mouth. “And I’m sure my brothers and sister will too. Uh, kids…” He turned to their siblings, who were watching with wide-eyed intensity. “Can you give us a sec?”

Nobody said a thing about being late to school. Not even Bruce. 

They headed out of the foyer and into the living room. This time he took one of the armchairs, again seated next to her. The November day shone through the windows, and he swallowed hard. 

It had been out of character for him, but he had liked it. Had liked her , had liked how she seemed to see him, liked her vivacity and determination and obvious intelligence and even her competitiveness. He had liked the woman in the Princess Leia costume who had gone along to make her father and foster sister happy. 

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, looking down at her hands. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. You said you’d ended a relationship, and you were figuring things out, and neither of us were sober, and –”

“Hey, don’t be sorry for that,” he soothed. “First of all, it was last year, like yours. Second of all, I knew all that too and I still kissed you first. I should be apologizing to you, since you clearly didn’t want me to.”

She looked at him for a minute.

“Don’t end a sentence on a preposition.”

“Don’t end a – God, is this what you’re always like?” he groaned, feeling the tension break a bit; she huffed a laugh. 

“Oh yeah. Always. I am a librarian.”

“Uh huh. You know, for the record, that’s an extremely outdated grammar rule and nobody cares about it anymore.”

“Screw off, I care,” she laughed, shoving his shoulder a bit. “And, uh…” She looked down at the floor. “Also for the record, it wasn’t that I didn’t want you to kiss me. I was nervous. I was worried. But that doesn't mean I didn't want it.”

His breath caught. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” 

They sat together some more, the silence growing more comfortable, the steam from her thermos rising to frame her face and invoke the previous night. He wondered if she was wondering the same thing he was, about the person sitting opposite. Wanting to learn more, to look more at what they had glimpsed on Halloween.

“Barbara,” he said, voice cautious, “About what you said. I’m not really an easy person to know either. And I like you. I like what I’ve seen of you.”

Her expression, though still guarded, softened somewhat. Once again, she placed his hand over hers, squeezing.

“I like you too.” 

Dick could not help but smile. 

“I know,” he quipped.

“Oh – oh dear God. ” She swooshed the armchair's throw pillow at him; he ducked away, guffawing. “Since you told me you liked Middle Eastern food, I was going to ask if you’ve been to this Iranian place in Midtown, but after that –”

“Ha, no, you can fling all the pillows you want at me, but I still want to do this again with you sometime,” he told her, smiling. “Can I pick you up tonight at seven?”

“Not likely. I saw your car, there's no room in it for a wheelchair.” She lifted her head and that intense light reentered her eyes; he felt like he was falling. “But keep your calendar clear, Grayson. I’ll pick you up tonight at seven.”

His siblings all kept staring in astonishment as she and Steph bade everyone goodbye, as her car roared off into the distance, for now. 

“I kinda guess she could do worse,” Damian judged at last, beaming to himself. 

“Yeah. I guess so.” Still smiling, Dick turned to his gobsmacked father. “Bruce?”

“...Yes?”

“I owe you big time for this.”

The next year, they made sure that when their costumes matched, this time it was deliberate. Many people tried to claim credit for that, both their relationship and the longevity of it, from Damian and Steph to Cass to Dinah to both of her parents. 

But if anyone asked Dick, he would say it was all because of that one ridiculous ‘80s movie. 

And that, of course, it had all been Bruce’s fault.