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Dick Grayson has to take liberties when he’s a civilian, but he still knows when he’s being followed.
He tightens his grip on his backpack, eyes drifting over his shoulder. Even with his sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, he can clearly scan the school and the streets surrounding it, taking in every little detail he can.
Goosebumps litter his skin, but a voice breaks him out of his trance.
“Master Dick,” Alfred drawled, his hand easing from the car door he’d opened. “Is everything alright?”
Dick swallows. He takes a few more brief, nail biting seconds analysing the flood of Gotham students leaving the building, and piling onto the streets, before he finally releases a steady breath. He scans the neighbouring rooftops as he turns back to Alfred.
“Yeah,” he sighs, climbing inside. “Just fine.”
Alfred makes a humming noise, but shuts the door after him regardless. Dick tries to resist the temptation to glance out of the windows, but the car is already rolling onto the road and heading for Wayne Manor. He slumped in his seat, taking off his sunglasses.
“If there’s something bothering you,” came Alfred’s voice from the driver’s seat. “Perhaps you ought to inform Master Bruce.”
Dick waves a hand. A feeling wasn’t enough to shake him, but there was nothing that would convince him to speak with Bruce right now. After their last conversation, and Bruce’s inadvertent decision to bench him, it wasn’t difficult to understand why he was keeping his distance. He understood why Alfred was grasping at any excuse to get the two to reconcile, and though Dick appreciated his efforts, he simply didn’t want to.
“No, Alfred. It’s nothing,” he breathed. A pause, and he caught his steely eyes in the rear view mirror. He forced a smile. “Thanks.”
The butler simply hummed, and kept his eyes on the road.
When they made it to the Manor, Dick went straight to his room and later ate dinner at the table, Bruce’s seat empty.
. . .
Again.
That feeling crept up his spine, digging into his vertebrae violently. It shook him so greatly to his core, that Dick actually started to feel a little nervous.
“You okay, Wonder Boy?” Wally grunted through a mouthful of pizza, peering at him over the table for a few seconds before he became preoccupied by his food once more. Dick spared him a glance, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from drifting out of the window and into the street. He bit his lip.
Once was a coincidence, but now Dick was starting to feel paranoia take hold in his heart.
Was someone following him?
He scanned the streets, each crack and crevice, and even checked the occupants of the diner. Nothing out of the ordinary.
He rubbed his arm, meeting Wally’s now curious eyes. “Did something happen with Bruce, uh, again?”
Dick swallowed down the pressure in his gut. Suddenly, he wasn’t very hungry, and he lightly pushed his plate towards the speedster, who happily moved to gobble it all up. He was happy he had someone on the team who knew his identity; it made it all the more easier to take his frustrations out, even if Wally wasn’t the best at giving out advice.
He listened, and most of the time, that was enough.
“How’s the team?” He asked languidly, ignoring the way Wally’s eyes seemed to fill with pity as he avoided the question easily.
“Not the same, obviously,” he lightly joked, reaching for another pizza slice. “I’m sure this won’t last long. It never does.”
Dick closed his eyes, his foot lightly tapping the floor. It wasn’t the first time that he’d been benched as Robin, but what other sidekicks were being benched by their mentors? He and Batman weren’t meant to be unequals anymore, and yet Dick still felt like the term ‘partners’ didn’t quite grasp their relationship.
Because everyone knew that Batman and Robin weren’t partners.
“Yeah,” he sighed, shrugging lazily. “You’re right.”
Wally grinned toothily. “I always am.”
. . .
The plate was gently set down on the table in front of him, and Dick offered Alfred a fond smile.
“Thanks, Alfred,” he tirelessly murmured, his stomach rumbling softly at the pleasant smell rising from the food. The butler disappeared behind him, but Dick could sense the smile in his tone regardless.
“Of course, Master Dick.”
His eyes lifted up, eyeing the seat across from him. The cutlery was set out perfectly, a cup filled with liquid sitting beside them. The chair was empty.
He heard Alfred plating up a second dish.
“Is Bruce home?” He asked, keeping his tone neutral. Usually, he would wait for his father to make it to the table before he began digging into his own food, but right now, Dick found his fork mindless poking at the herby, gravy drizzled chicken instead. Alfred hardly even glanced over, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“That is to eat, not to play with,” he chastised, and Dick inwardly swore at the man’s eyes clearly glued to the back of his head. “And yes, I’ll go and fetch him now.”
When his silent and nimble footsteps, even for such an old man, disappeared out of the room, Dick set his fork down and let his hands rest in his lap. He hadn’t realised he’d been playing with his fingers anxiously until he sensed another presence in the room. When he looked over his shoulder, Alfred seemed a little tense, picking up the plate of food and moving to sweep the cutlery off the table.
Dick watched.
Because he already knew, yet Alfred felt inclined to tell him anyway.
“My…apologies, but Master Bruce will be eating in his study tonight.”
He understood why Alfred was apologising, even though he shouldn’t. It made his core feel tight, thoughts flickering through his mind as he stared numbly at his food. He already knew Batman didn’t want Robin; clearly, Bruce didn’t want Dick either.
He sensed the butler was hesitant to leave. Eyes were piercing straight through him, waiting for his reply.
Dick just picked up his fork, and started eating.
. . .
After dinner, in which Dick had hardly finished, he found himself wandering to his room, fingers itching, and his heart aching.
It was as if the Manor was stuffy, too stuffy for him, and he was almost begging himself to get out of here while he still could. Dick needed some fresh air, and he needed some space.
As he crept to his room, he passed Bruce’s study.
The door was closed, but he could hear faint voices from under the crack of the door.
He could hear Alfred; the old man was speaking with a harsh tone, in long, scolding sentences. Bruce quipped in, quiet and short. Dick couldn’t make out the conversation, but he had already left down the hallway before one of them opened the door and discovered him there.
By the time Alfred had taken Bruce’s empty plate, scraped Dick’s leftovers into the bin, and gone to his room to check on him, he’d already packed a bag and left through the window.
Gotham’s night air was cold, and nippy, biting at his bare hands as he jabbed at the screen, dialling Wally’s number. Frustration shot through him every time it went to voicemail.
Dick began speaking after the beeping sound. For the fourth time.
“Hey, Wally, it’s me,” he started gripping the straps of his bag on his shoulder tightly as he walked. “Again. I just…left the manor. Me and Bruce didn’t get into an argument, not exactly…but I can’t be there anymore. If, If there’s any chance I can crash at yours, even for a little bit, I’d really appreciate it. Or at least…”
He bit his lip.
“...I just need to see you. I need someone, please?”
His eyes drifted towards the sky. Fingers clenching around his phone, his brows furrowed hotly and he gently shook his head.
“Yeah, sorry. I guess you’re busy with Barry, or the League. See you.”
He hung up the call, his face twisting at his own stupidity. Maybe it was desperation that was making him fumble so much — he didn’t know. It wasn’t as though he wouldn’t be found at Wally’s, Bruce being the world’s best detective and all, but at least he would have had a few days to collect himself someplace safe, and someplace he liked.
Though, he knew it would be Batman coming to find him, and not Bruce.
Dick miserably kicked a stray stone, watching as it rocked down the street and stilled to a stop.
The buildings here were starting to become more decrepit, the victim of Gotham’s latest attempt to rehabilitate these uninhabitable areas and replace them with stronger, bigger, and better buildings for the people. It was quiet here.
Dick liked the quiet.
He stopped still, glancing over his shoulder.
That’s when he felt it. That same feeling; the feeling of being watched.
His hairs snapped to attention, pricking the back of his neck like the tip of a needle. Dread pooled into his stomach as he whipped around, eyes dancing between every shadow and every dark crevice he could find.
It was stronger this time. The feeling felt like it was practically suffocating him instead.
He immediately reached for his phone, and he dialled Wally’s number. He didn’t even check to see if his voicemail had finished before whispering shakily into the receiver.
“Wally?” He choked, whipping around. The shadows felt like they were moving. “Wally, I think I need help. Someone’s following me…”
His breath caught in his throat. Dick should have been able to sense another living person in such a deserted place like this, but it was the fact that he couldn’t that was frightening him the most. His senses were sharp, and they were dialled to a hundred right now, so why was the feeling so strong? Why was it so consuming?
“I felt it back at the diner too,” he admitted, his voice trembling. “And before, but I, I didn’t think it was important. Wally, please, call someone. Just pick up, please.”
He instinctively reached for his belt, and felt nothing. He wasn’t wearing his costume, which meant he didn’t have any of his weapons and tools. He was completely unarmed; he was just Dick Grayson, ward of billionaire Bruce Wayne, and there was someone out there.
Dick clenched his jaw, and he lowered his phone from his ear once he realised the call had ended itself.
“Gray Son.”
He whipped around.
He hadn’t even heard him coming, but there was a tall, masked figure standing under the headlamp, staring at him. He didn’t seem to be moving an inch, so still that Dick was sure he wasn’t even breathing. His own breath hitched in his throat.
He wearily eyed the knives strapped over his chest, and the strange golden mask almost resembling an owl sitting on his face. He couldn’t see his eyes.
In fact, he couldn’t even see a slither of skin behind that costume.
Dick nearly staggered back, tension gripping his bones.
“Excuse me?”
The owl man titled his head. It was a smooth, eerie sight. Dick shuddered.
“Gray Son,” he repeated, his voice blank. “We’ve been looking for you.”
A blink, and the owl man had seemed to creep closer. Dick was sure he hadn’t even seen his feet move, but the light on his clothes had been displaced. He clenched his hands into fists, feeling the clamminess building up on the skin. If he would have to fight, he would have to be prepared. This guy was clearly swift, and faster than he could expect.
He needed to be on guard.
Part of him was hoping Bruce really had breached his privacy and had embedded him with a tracker that he didn’t know of. Without his suit, there was no way to find him.
His stomach squeezed, and it felt as though he was about to throw up. “My name’s Grayson…I think you’ve got the wrong person.”
A deadly silence settled between them at that, and it was as if the already thick tension bubbling in the air had just increased. It tickled his throat, making him swallow. It felt that with every movement, no matter how small, the eyes beneath that mask were watching, tracking every little detail.
“Come willingly, Gray Son,” the owl man echoed. Each word sounded so rehearsed, so unnatural. “This is where you belong.”
Dick pressed his lips into a thin line. He didn’t dare take his eyes off him, and yet found the courage to shake his head. It made him aware how much his hands were trembling by his side.
“No,” he breathed, taking a hesitant step back. “I don’t know who you are. Leave me alone.”
The owl man didn’t move. It was unnerving, so much that Dick found his eyes hardening and a beat of frustration flourishing through his bones. In his pocket, he reached for his phone. He saw the man’s head move an inch in that direction, watching silently. He had hardly even opened his mouth to threaten him before he launched forward.
Dick hadn’t seen it coming before a fist was grazing his cheek. He threw himself out of the way, a spark of adrenaline sending him through his feet and skittering down the pavement. He whipped around and instantly readied himself, but the owl man had gathered his bearings quicker.
Dick flipped backwards with his charm and grace, twisting, turning and spinning each relentless kick or punch the man sent his way. He hadn’t used any of those weapons, and Dick was glad, since he wasn’t quite sure how long he could keep up a game of cat and mouse.
Grunting, Dick’s rib took the force of his fist, wheeling backwards and swerving around the lampost as the owl man made his move. He kicked, but the post got in between them, and his foot connected with the metal instead.
It bent at an unnatural angle. The owl man looked unphased.
Dick nearly cursed at the strength he possessed, hope slowly falling from his gut. He barely dodged another violent punch before he was sending his own, aimed for the man’s chest.
The man caught it easily, and Dick found he couldn’t pull away. The owl slid forward, spinning Dick’s smaller body with a jarring jerk and sending him flying into the dirty window of one of the deserted buildings. It smashed against his back from the sheer impact, and small shards sliced at his skin as he crashed into the ground, rolling to a painful stop.
Dick gasped, struggling to jump onto his feet before the owl caught up to him.
This guy was inhumanly fast, and strong — Dick was only a teenager, yet he’d thrown him through glass like it had been nothing.
Wincing at the sharp pain in the palms of his hands, Dick was only just hefting himself onto his knees before a shadow flickered by the window. The man effortlessly moved through the air like he weighed nothing, nimbly landing on his feet and mask instantly whipping to find Dick.
He bit down a cry of fear, ripping his bag from his shoulders and jumping to his feet. The owl man immediately saw the movement, and he was pouncing towards him like an animal. The man’s hand blurred at his chest, and Dick didn’t even see the blade that soared through the air, dragging past his arm.
Pain flared, and he staggered back, slamming his hand on the wound.
He felt blood through his shirt, but was stumbling down a desolate hallway before he was overwhelmed by the stinging sensation and the torn flesh.
He didn’t hear the owl man following, but then again, Dick knew even if he was trying to, it would be impossible. Instead, the man was taking languid, slow and calculated steps, following the dotted trial of blood that had trickled from Dick’s wound.
As he took any twist and turn to throw the man off, Dick took the pressure off his wound and reached for his pocket.
A shock stabbed his core. Empty.
His phone must have fallen out during the fight.
His ragged breath hitched in his throat when the pain swelled, and he immediately clenched down on the top of his arm. Cold sweat beaded on his clammy forehead, desperately searching for someplace to hide. He ducked into an office sized room when he saw the shadows behind him moved.
He collapsed under the window, taking a moment to draw in some ragged breaths, and shake off the buzzing feeling in his head.
The wound wasn’t deep enough to leave stitches, but the loss of blood would gradually make him lightheaded and he’d be rendered useless. He needed to get out of here before that happened.
Swallowing the dryness in his throat, he let his eyes scan anything he could use.
A weapon, an escape route, a…
Bingo. Dick felt his lips quirk into a weak grin at the sight of a vent in the wall. It was big enough to fit him, and too small for the man. He could buy enough time to find his way to the exit and get help.
Making sure the coast was clear, he forcibly dragged himself onto his feet. His heart pounded in his chest as his fingers dug into the grate, tugging at it, until the rusty hinges were pried off and he saw the dark tunnel leading to his safety. He shuddered, and grit his teeth to bite back his grunts as he hefted himself into the small vent, kicking off the wall.
It was stuffy, and the air was itching his nose with scratchy dust.
Dick’s cringed at the weight pushing onto his arm, but swallowed it down as he dragged himself forward.
His face crinkled and his feet pushed against the smooth metal, sliding himself along and trying to ignore the way heat was pricking at his face as his breathing was becoming more ragged.
Dick heard a clang behind him, and then something grabbed his ankle.
He was jerked back before he could even get his arms underneath him, his stomach sinking as he was dragged out of the vent and slammed into the wall behind him. The air was ripped from his lungs, but the gloved, almost feathered hand closed around his throat made it difficult to suck in a lick of air. Dick’s fingers gripped at his wrist, desperately trying to pry his fingers from his throat.
“Stop running, Gray Son.”
He flung his legs, smacking into the wall and the owl man’s legs. It barely even deterred him, those golden, masked eyes piercing straight through his own. Spots lingered briefly in his vision, before gravity made him sink to the ground, the realisation dawned on him that the masked man had released him. He gasped violently, skin purpled with nasty bruises instantly.
He tried to speak, to demand what the man wanted, but the noises died fruitlessly on his tongue.
The next he saw was something familiar clutched in his hands.
Dick’s heart palpated, and he scrambled backwards in terror.
“No.”
The owl man reached for him again, needle shining in his own terrified, and mesmorisingly blue pupils. He stalked forward, slow and precise, like a predator stalking his prey. Dick realised; this was no man.
When he screamed for help, attempting to make a break for it, fingers wound through his hair and dragged him back, causing his feet to slide beneath him like he was scrambling on ice. He jerked and tugged and lashed out with every blind move he could, the screams raw on his tongue in hopes that anybody could hear him.
He shouted for Clark, in an effort to trigger his super hearing. He shouted for Bruce, and he shouted for his parents.
Whatever silver liquid was sloshing about in the deadly little contraption, Dick didn’t want it anywhere near him, and knew it was bad. Whatever this man was, he was a force he wasn’t quite sure would ever be understood. Bruce would never find him. He’d be lost.
The needle jabbed into his neck, and Dick barely even registered the fact that tears were sliding down his cheeks.
The next thing he knew, the owl man was gone.
His body smacked into the ground, blood beading through the sleeve of his clothes, and lining the thin cuts on his cheeks and grazes on his chin. He retched an empty stomach, clutching his chest, gasps violent and choking in his throat. When he scrambled to his feet, his world instantly tilted.
Dick staggered forward, unable to grip the doorway before he felt dirty tiles connect to his skull. Stars popped in his eyes, and his limbs began to shake.
The owl man hadn’t had the time to inject the full dose, but Dick knew it shouldn’t be enough to make him feel this woozy this swiftly. A nauseous feeling was crawling from his stomach, through his chest, and all the way up to his throat, infecting his very lungs.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a commotion.
The owl man was a blur, but there was something else. Something orange and black.
Dick’s head floated with a wave of lightheadedness. He wasn’t even sure if he was back on his feet, or if he was miserably lying in his sweat and blood.
What he did know, was that when air rushed past his face, he wasn’t the cause. The figure had grabbed him, and for a fleeting moment, he feared it was the owl man, before he heard a horrific, inhuman screeching noise pierce through the air.
Then, heat burned him.
Flames licked at his skin, and Dick barely even registered he was screaming again until he was out cold.
. . .
The phone wouldn’t stop ringing.
Slade Wilson wasn’t in Gotham often; business wasn’t hard to find here, and yet he found himself steering clear of the city on most days. The Bats made contracts a little harder, and it became tiresome dealing with pest control.
He had been on his way, a fulfilled, and swift contract under his belt without the interruption of any frustrating capes, when he came across an abandoned phone.
If it hadn’t been in his path, he wouldn’t have stopped.
The mercenary crouched down, observing the little device lying so lonely on the edge of Gotham.
Through the cracks webbing the screen, he saw a name. Or, at least something of the sort.
KF.
The ringing abruptly stopped. Slade caught the plethora of notifications plaguing the screen. Lots of missed texts. Twenty-three missed phone calls.
Not even a second later, it rang again.
He plucked it up from the ground, holding it between his fingers, and smoothly straightened up. Through his mask, he began scanning the area subtly, beady eye taking in every little detail he could. Silently, he answered the call, lifting it to his ear.
A voice instantly began yelling on the other end.
“Dick, Dick, oh my…” The voice was rushed, not quite knowing what to say. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
Slade eyed a broken window in one of the abandoned buildings, parallel to where the phone had been. He slowly approached it. So, the phone belonged to the little bird. The mercenary was ineptly aware of Robin’s identity under that mask of his, and had simply put the pieces together for many others. He had no need to bring their real names to light; Slade had no reason to.
If Robin was the owner, then that would only mean he had the pleasure of listening to Wally West on the other side.
His voice seemed to become fainter, as if he was leaning away from the phone. “Can you get Batman to trace the— he’s already…? Then, Then you do it, hurry up!”
It returned to normal as Slade reached the broken glass, crinkling under his boots. Just from glancing inside, he could see a long trail of blood winding further into the abandoned complex.
“Dick, we tried to track your phone but the signal’s going in and out. Did, Did you break it? Are you okay?” Wally was barely even giving himself time to breathe. “Shit, I’m so sorry, Dick. I’m so sorry. A-Are you still being followed? Are you hurt?”
There was a horrible silence as Slade turned back to the street, glancing up at the starry black sky. Wally made a trembling, huffing noise.
“Can you hear me?”
Slade ended the call, and tossed the phone to the ground. He barely even heard it clatter before he was stepping inside the building, and following the trail of blood. He wondered if it was Robin’s. Wally had said something about him being followed, and judging by the fact they had been unable to easily find his location, then he wasn’t looking for Robin; he was looking for Richard Grayson.
There was the sound of a commotion as he crept deeper. Screaming. The murmur of a deeper, calmer voice. Slade drew his sword when he turned a corner, and he leapt into action with only a single glance at the scene unfolding before him. The man—masked and armed to the teeth—made a hissing sound upon being barrelled against the wall.
He briefly saw the boy; worse for wear, bleeding, tears tracking down his cheeks. Worse of all, he saw a half empty needle lying on the floor, and an alarming staggering from the boy that indicated he’d been drugged.
He didn’t wonder what was in there; whatever it was, Dick was a child, and he could hear his ragged panting and weak scrambles even from where he was standing. It mustn’t have been good.
Slade instantly threw up his sword as a sharp tipped dagger came zipping his way. Metal clanged against the metal, and the mercenary slipped into his fighting stance when the man pounced at him.
He was unbelievably fast.
Dick Grayson was small, and light, and unbearably slippery when he wanted to be, but as much as he was an acrobat, he was also a child.
The Talon was moving with a speed of ease, something unnatural that had his own body absorbing various punches and painful kicks. And he was an adult man, from what he could observe.
Slade twisted, slashing at the man’s arm when he grew too close. The owl man shrieked, taking the brunt of his momentum when Slade kicked him back by his chest. The man smacked into the wall, reaching for a dagger.
He just missed, nicking the shell of his ear. Slade spun, the blade connecting with his collarbone and tearing straight through his clothes.
He glanced at the boy.
In that moment, the owl man jerked forward. Slade tensed, ready to prepare for another attack, but he quickly realised he had his sights on Dick. The mercenary closed the gap between them with swift steps, dropping to one knee and skewering the back of his heels with a force that had him gritting his teeth.
The owl man screamed, scratching through the air, and crumbling to the ground in a mess of feathery limbs, struggling to take another step. Slade moved up and drove his sword straight through his gut. A blood soaked tip reached up his spine, and for good measure, the mercenary shoved him back with his boot, grabbed an explosive from his belt, and pulled the pin.
He was grabbing the kid around the waist and leaping the way he had come before it exploded in a cloud of fiery flames, engulfing the owl man and giving him only seconds to let out a painful screech.
Slade felt the fire lick at his back, and the boy almost took the brunt of the flames.
It didn’t take long for the screams to die on his tongue, but Slade was already out of the building before the skin of his arm became any redder. The mercenary looked back. His chest was rising and falling faster than he would have liked.
When he turned, he saw that the phone was still ringing, and jesus—when would the kid take a hint?
Regardless, he scooped it off the ground, and he answered.
“He’s fine,” he spoke curtly. “Call off your search party.”
He hung up, and pocketed the phone, drawing attention to Dick’s face.
He was bruised and bashed up, the start of a faint patch of burns catching on his arm and an alarming paleness in his cheeks. He could see his chest was rising up and down, and fixed the boy over his shoulder instead.
Whatever, or whoever that man was, he had wanted to take Dick Grayson alive. He’d live.
He set a course for Wayne Manor. He didn’t want to kill the kid; he owed him a new sword.
. . .
When Dick woke up, it was raining.
It always seemed to rain in Gotham. It was almost as if it was mocking them, snickering in their faces as they succeeded in making the city even more miserable than it already was.
Dick cracked open his eyes. The feeling of wetness registered first, and then the familiar ache spiralling through his body, causing him to suck in a sharp breath. As always, it made his ribs stab at his flesh, and he exhaled heavily as a response.
He remembered what happened.
The owl man’s face bubbled to the surface of his thoughts, and his ears recalled that high pitched screech he’d heard before blackness had taken him. He itched to move, but he could feel his back was pressed against a strong wall, keeping him in a sitting position. He was on the floor, back pressed up against the wall.
He briefly let his eyes roll back.
No, not a wall. A pillar. Stretching beside him were black gates he was all too familiar with.
Dick saw his bag and phone tucked underneath, yet it was the last thing on his mind. He hardly remembered what happened in those final moments, yet he was unconsciously rubbing his neck with sliced up hands before the memories even stirred.
Someone else had been there. Someone else had pulled him from the fight and put him here. When Dick thought too hard about that shadow, his skull flared with fire.
Wincing, he staggered to his feet. Dick wobbled, his legs almost too weak to even support his weight, before he quickly caught himself, hand pressing against the slab.
He didn’t bother with his bag and phone.
It was pointless.
When he entered the front garden of the Manor, he blinked through the pouring rain to see Alfred’s light was still on. If he looked hard enough, he was certain he saw the curtain flutter and the outline of a figure disappearing from view.
The rain was like needles on his skin, and it was then Dick shakily clutched his arm, realising how bad of a shape it was in. The sleeves of his shirt were completely burnt, leaving his skin an angry red and sure to blister. The wound from the owl man’s knife had sliced the skin open, leaving it open for any kind of infection possibly.
His eyes burned. The small, insignificant cuts lining his skin stung.
Walking grated on his bones, and he was more than thankful when the front door seemed to pull open, and Alfred came rushing outside to meet him.
“Master Dick,” he exclaimed, catching him by his shoulders as he slumped forward. “Goodness, are you alright?”
The butler didn’t give him time to answer. “Come. Inside, let me fix you up.” His hand left to press near his ear. “Sir, he’s…yes. Come quickly.”
Dick felt relief flood through him when the sound of the pouring rain was cut out, and his eyes swept over the familiar throes of his home. Alfred gently, yet with an urgency he hadn’t seen from the old man for a while, urged him to his room, which was just as he’d left it.
With his throat so dry, it felt like he was swallowing glass.
“I’m…okay,” he croaked, realising in fact, that he was home, and he was safe for now.
Alfred swatted his hand in a frustrated manner. “No you are not, Richard. Now, don’t make a fuss. Come quickly.”
The butler immediately got to work patching him up. There was always something so calming when Alfred would slide the alcohol over a wound, or gently mop up the blood, no matter how devastating the wound was. The man had a gentle firmness to him that nobody could match.
He had only just begun fixing up an IV, when Bruce finally arrived.
Dick blinked as he came rushing into the room, head tilting towards him slightly, those dark bruises making it painful to do so. The Dark Knight was dripping wet, and yet he noticed he wasn’t looking at Batman right now.
He’d taken off his cowl before he’d entered the room, and it was clenched tightly in his hand. He was looking at Bruce.
“Chum,” he breathed.
Dick forced a smile. “Hey.”
As Bruce moved forward, Alfred sent him a warning look.
“Watch your step.”
He diligently went back to securing the IV, and took Dick’s good arm with little resistance. He could sense Bruce’s eyes scanning each and every little wound on his body, and they stopped on his neck, jaw clenching.
“Wally sent us the voicemail,” he began, setting his cowl down on Dick’s desk without looking. “You said you were being followed.”
He wasn’t quite sure if he wanted to explain everything that had happened, but even Alfred was serving him a pointed look, an indication he wanted an answer too. Wincing as the needle was slotted into his arm, he let his eyes fall uncomfortably to his lap.
“I didn’t know who he was. He wasn’t anybody we’d ever fought before,” he cringed, and swallowed the dryness in his throat. His windpipe ached at the exertion. “But…I think he’d been following me for a while. I always felt like something was wrong, but he was…he was good. Crazy strong, and fast, and when he attacked me, I could barely even hold my own.”
His brows pinched slightly. He felt shame rise in his throat. Maybe this was why he’d been benched; he was getting incompetent.
“Kept calling me Gray Son. If someone, I didn’t see who it was, hadn’t shown up, I think he would have…taken me,” Dick breathed, rubbing the palm of his hand. “He was trying to take me away.”
Bruce sat down on the edge of the bed. Dick let his mouth fall shut, eyes drifting upwards to meet his.
“It’s okay,” the older man sighed, relieved. “You’re safe.”
Dick nodded his head.
He stayed by his side while Alfred finished healing up all of his wounds and taking a small blood sample after Dick had gone into more detail about the events that occurred. Wally had sped to the manor and crashed into the room, and if it hadn’t been for Bruce keeping him at bay, he was sure the boy was about to wrangle him into a hug. A plate full of food and lots of water later, Dick felt better.
He was gazing out of his window when Bruce silently crept inside for the second time. Dick barely noticed him out of the corner of his eye, but turned to meet his gaze anyway. Bruce was out of his suit now, wearing plain clothes, similar to Dick, after Alfred insisted he changed. It took a moment for the man to find the right words, clearing his throat.
“I’m sorry,” he began,” for driving you away. It was…because of my actions that you were attacked in the first place.”
Dickl looked away. His gut stirred. “This owl guy would’ve ended up finding me anyway…”
Silence gradually built up between them again, and he noticed the way Bruce shifted uncomfortably. Dick closed his eyes, finding the courage to meet his again.
“Robin won’t be benched forever. Right?”
He hated the way his voice sounded so quiet, and so breathless.
Even Bruce’s eyes visibly changed in the light, blinking it away. The man settled down on the bed, and he shook his head.
“No.”
Dick let out a trembling sigh, and nodded his head. He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, and the touch made him melt.
“Chum, would you like to have dinner with me?” Bruce asked softly. He had to stop his eyes from lighting up at such a simple question, but he didn’t have the same control over nodding his head. He did so without a second thought, trembling words flying from his lips.
“Yes,” he choked.
Bruce leaned forward and wrapped him in a hug, and Dick instantly crumbled under the affection, embracing him back.
It was now that they both realised, whether they were partners or not, that they needed each other.