Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bruce sat at the dining room table. His elbows atop the wooden surface, lightly sipping a coffee with the newspaper in hand. The paper was rough in his calloused hands, he sat slowly flipping the pages with his glasses low on his nose.

Dick watched from afar. He was suited up, the “R” emblem displayed over his heart. It was hours before patrol usually began, broad daylight to be exact. He was going to leave, stick to the rooftops, watch over the city.

He just needed to clear his head. The tension in this house could be cut with a knife.

They had argued the night before. Bruce may trust him, but Batman doesn’t. Batman doesn’t think that Robin can handle himself.

And it infuriates him.

“Are you going to sit down or continue looming?” he took another sip of his coffee.

“I was just leaving actually.” Dick said, setting his domino mask over his eyes, and heading for the balcony.

“Stop.”

It was like his feet became stuck in cement. He angled his head towards the ceiling, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath before turning to his mentor.

“Are we going to resolve this, or are you going to just leave, at four o clock in the afternoon, on a patrol that you’re not scheduled to be on?” Bruce spoke lowly, barely looking up from the paper.

“There’s nothing to resolve. You don’t trust me. You lied to me. And we’ll never actually talk about that, we’ll just simply forget it ever happened and then continue on like we always do.”

Dick found out that Bruce had been keeping tabs on him during solo ops, watching him on city cameras, rescheduling his patrols to line up with his own, and keeping tabs on his cases. Even worse, when he asked him about it, he pretended that he had no idea what Dick was talking about.

Dick had been Robin for more than 5 years, and he was just sick of the lies. It was a constant that he had become more skilled at recognizing. He wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse.

“I already apologized, Dick. I want nothing more than to move forward.”

“Well maybe I’m not ready to forgive you, B.”

Silence filled the room, the newspaper left abandoned on the surface of the table. They stared at each other. Dick could’ve sworn he saw a flash of emotion in the man’s eyes.

He closed his eyes, “..But I could be.”

He couldn’t stay mad at him forever. All he wanted was some respect and some trust, so him and Bruce can sort their shit out later. He needed to leave.

He turned once more, walking towards the balcony, pushing open the glass doors, running into a dive and leaping over the guard rail.

Bruce sighed. He picked up his glasses from the table, standing and walking back to the living room.

Something felt off, he wasn’t sure what. He knew that it wasn’t because of the argument. The house felt physically different.

His eyes squint, turning on the tv and flipping to the cameras. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, nothing but a missed voicemail from Alfred on his phone screen.

He looked closer, noticing the timestamp on one of the feeds, it seemed locked, the seconds not moving. It was looped.

A sharp crash interrupted the quiet. It was likely glass, shattering somewhere downstairs. Bruce stopped in his tracks, head tilting towards the sound.

Boots. Trying to remain silent but failing, he could hear each step make their way up the stairs. Close. Too close.

He moved.

———

Robin sat, his legs dangling over the side of a rooftop. Daytime crime wasn’t a usual circumstance in Gotham, there wasn’t much to really look for.

He just needed to get out of the tower for a while.

He turned back, seeing it in the distance and sighing once more.

He wanted to go back, finish the conversation that he abruptly left, but he didn’t know what he would even say.

There was a break of trust, a persistent lie, and a constant tension that he wasn’t sure he was ready to return to yet.

It had barely been ten minutes since he’d left the man in the dining room and he was already feeling guilty.

Bruce had a way of doing that. Just a subtle look in his eyes was enough to break anyone who looked into them for too long. He probably wasn’t even aware that he was doing it, but Dick could feel his heart shatter.

He was so mad at him. Enraged that he still treats him like a kid, but maybe that was his way of showing that he cared.

He doesn’t want to be mad at him forever, he just wants a genuine “I’m sorry” and a genuine display of knowledge that he hurt Dick’s feelings. Was that too much to ask?

“Goddamnit.” Robin muttered under his breath, he didn’t even want to be on patrol right now. He just didn’t want cameras flashing in his face the second he left the tower.

Maybe he had some homework or a case he could focus on. Hide in his room for a while until Alfred comes and brings him food, and Bruce quietly says goodnight, ignoring everything they’ve spoken about.

He shakes his head for a final time, getting up and grappling off towards the building.

The Gotham air whipped in his ears as high pitched whistles, the smell of cigarettes and rain permeating his nose.

He looked at the skyline to his left, the buildings covering the soon-to-be-setting sun.

It didn’t take long for him to reach the tower, grappling across each balcony up to the one that reaches his bedroom.

He punched in the code, unlocking the door from the outside and pushing it open. He shut it quietly behind him, not wanting Bruce to know he was there.

He peeled off his suit, running his fingers over the scars that litter his torso, before throwing on a hoodie and some sweatpants. The same thing he’d been wearing before leaving.

A sound rang in his ears, muffled, but evident, punches. Blow after blow landing against something.

He stopped, quickly walking and putting an ear up against his door.

“Funny thing, Wayne. For all the power you had… it never saved anyone who mattered.”

The voice was gruff, he didn’t immediately recognize it through the layers of wall that came between them, but he acted fast.

He reached for the Robin suit, stopping. This was his home. The man said Wayne, not Bat or Batman. This was a personal hit, everything would be exposed if all of the sudden Robin showed up to save the day.

He looked around the bedroom, opting to go for the knife he kept strapped to the leg of his bedframe. He was vastly unprepared, no armor, no mask. Just him and these intruders.

He gripped the blade tightly, knuckles white as his free hand slowly turned the doorknob. The hallway was empty, the voices were getting louder as his sock covered feet made their way to the living room.

More blows landed, the sound of glass exploding across the hardwood floors sent chills down his spine. He needed to move faster.

The hall was entirely seperate from the main open space that connected the kitchen and living rooms, meaning that he’d have to open a door and risk being seen. It didn’t matter, he could defend himself and so could Bruce.

Their security system was extensive, this type of thing should never be able to happen, Dick should’ve been notified, Alfred should’ve been notified.

He took a deep breath, slowly turning the doorknob and peeking into the room. He looked down first, puddles of blood seeping into the floors, boots surrounding them.

There were 2 men, militia in appearance, sat against the wall, they seemed injured, barely conscious.

That’s when he met his eyes.

Bruce.

He went down fighting. He was laying on his stomach, shrapnel had torn apart his knee, likely from some kind of shotgun ammo. A pool of blood made its way from his head.

His face was nearly unrecognizable. His expression was still, blood permeating his hair and pouring down his forehead. His right eye was swollen, a ghastly purple and yellow color creeping across his face.

The look in his eyes was blank. Like his soul had up and left his body, floating above the room and watching in horror.

Dicks heart was like a jackhammer, he could feel it across every inch of his body.

He didn’t think- he just moved. Reckless and fast. Any and all of his training went out the window the second he saw his face.

“No!” he yelled, the knife swinging through the air, slicing one of the armed men straight across the bicep. He clutched it, hissing before kicking his right leg straight into Dick’s chest.

He could feel the air being ripped from his lungs as his body hit the floor. Two more men were on top of him in an instant. The knife clattered across the wooden floor as his hands became pinned at his back. He layed on his stomach, maintaining eye contact with Bruce.

He struggled against their grips, their boots slamming into his back, holding him straight to the floor.

He cried out, Bruce’s fingers twitching at the sound.

Dick hyperventilated, his short breaths coming out in wheezes in response to the new pressure on his chest.

“Bruce- get up.” he pleaded, his voice quiet upon noticing the man’s small movements. He was conscious and blinking- but he was clearly out of it. He was in no state to defend himself.

Dick almost threw up when he saw Bruce’s knee. It was tourniqueted, so the blood had stopped but the bone of his kneecap was visible, along with skin and muscle that had been ripped apart by continuous gunshots. He bit back the nausea.

“Bruce, fucking get up!” he was screaming now. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears.

“Don’t you fucking touch him!”

He was staring hard at the man, only pausing when heavy combat boots stomped in front of his vision. He looked up slightly, eyes tracing the black and orange armor.

Deathstroke.

His white hair was covered by the mask, one eye staring down at Bruce. In his hands was a long, sharp blade. The sword dripping blood onto the floor.

“Please- don’t, please please!” Dick cried out, he couldn’t let him know that he knew who he was, or that he had dealt with him in the past. His identity hadn’t been revealed to the man. He wasn’t so sure about Bruce’s.

Slade ignored him, holding the sword high above his head, “You his kid?”

Dick didn’t answer, instead just shaking with the rage boiling in his chest. He continued to defy the men above him. Hot tears poured down his face, he couldn’t stop.

“Maybe you’ll grow up to be smarter than he was.”

The sword remained high, the man breathing out before slamming it down. Cold and unforgiving.

“NO!” Dick screamed. The sound tore through his throat. It echoed off the walls, sharp and shattering as if it might be loud enough to stop the blade.

The sword stabbed straight through Bruce’s heart. He twitched once more, gasping for a final time before the blood pooled from his chest, his life seeping out with it. No big fight or explosion, no long goodbyes or peaceful slumbers. Just nothingness.

“No- no- I’m gonna fucking kill you! I’m gonna kill all of you!”

Dick struggled, the boots holding him down stomped hard, causing his head to bounce off of the wooden floor.

Stars bit at his vision, nausea climbing into his throat as the world became a blur of red and gray.

The men released their grasps, the footsteps getting farther and farther away as Dick was left on the floor. He tried to stay awake, his head spun.

He reached out, he tried to get to him, but the pain swelled in his chest and took over his senses, the void swallowing him whole.

———

Alfred had gotten a security breach alert. It had taken him far too long to reach Wayne Tower. He had been at the Manor all day.

He buzzed in his code to get into the elevator leading to the penthouse. The lobby was oddly quiet, no one was there to greet him or even acknowledge that he was there. Papers were strewn across the tiled floor.

Red lights flashed as the elevator finally reached the bottom floor, Alfred quickly stepping in.

He didn’t know what he was getting into or if the intruders were still there, but he knew that Master Bruce and Master Dick were not answering any sort of cell or comm. And that was reason enough for worry.

He looked down at the pistol in his hand, using a handkerchief to wipe off any residue on the ride up, pulling back the slide and turning off the safety. The elevator finally dinged, he had reached the top floor.

He raised the gun as the doors opened, checking to the left and right, his dress shoes tapping slowly against the floor as he walked towards the main area.

The hallway was silent. The atmosphere was entirely wrong. Something had happened and he figured that he’d find out what very soon.

He walked, near silently, using an open hand to push open each door. He raised the pistol constantly, clearing each room as he made his way through the penthouse.

He pushed open the door to Master Dick’s bedroom. He immediately noticed the missing knife along the bedframe, followed by the Robin suit, unfolded and thrown across the bed.

This was highly unlike him, he would never allow for the suit to be seen like this, away from its usual place hidden within his drawers during their time at Wayne Tower.

Alfred turned around, his eyes squinted and gun raised even higher. His hands were steady as he held onto the cool metal, finger hovering lightly over the trigger.

He walked through the hall, spotting an open door leading into the living room.

He stopped, taking a deep breath before walking quickly, heading straight for the opening.

He lightly pushed it open with one hand, gun raised and eyes darting back and forth, scanning the room. It was clear, the house was empty besides for two figures.

The scent hit him first, metallic, thick, wrong.

He saw the blood, then Bruce, face down, body crumpled on the floor.

It was like the world crashed down on him. He wanted to run to him then and there, pick up the boy he had raised like a son and lift him from the floor, but the act had been done, the blade remained embedded deep within his chest.

He had no time to grieve, the gun’s safety was turned on and the weapon was dropped to the floor immediately upon noticing the smaller body next to his, curled into itself, arm laying flat, reaching out towards the older man.

He dropped to his knees immediately, putting two fingers to his neck to check his pulse. His heartbeat was there, steady.

“Oh thank God.”

He breathed a sigh of relief before rolling him over onto his back.

“I’m here my boy, I’m here..”

He shook him once, then twice.

———

“Msr Dk”

“Masr Dck!”

“Master Dick!”

He woke with a start, immediately trying to sit up before the pain in his chest sent him straight back into the ground. An older man was looking over him, smelling of coffee and sweat.

Alfred.

His eyes welled with tears, pushing back the pain as he forced his head to turn to the side. The memories returned to him quickly and with force. His head pounded with agony. He had hoped it was a nightmare.

Bruce was still there, the blade still in his heart, his chest still unmoving.

“No… no no no-” Dick attempted to crawl over to the man before Alfred held back his shoulders.

“No, no- no!” he was screaming again, struggling against Alfred’s grip. He was fully sat down behind him now, his arms looped through and intertwined with Dick’s, holding him back from the unmoving body.

He struggled once more, sobs tearing through his throat as he lost his strength. He fell back against Alfred.

The two sat, Alfred against the counter, legs spread apart with Dick laying between them, the back of his head against his chest as he remained within the man’s grasp.

They stared at the body of Bruce before them, the room devoid of life, and filled with the quiet agreement that this wasn’t over.

Chapter Text

Arkham Asylum

11:08 PM

It had taken him two months to track down Deathstroke’s first operative.

He was holed up in Arkham Asylum, the place long abandoned. It hasn’t held any patients or prisoners in years, just dust and ghosts, stuck in the past before likely reopening in the future.

Robin was perched atop a light post, eyes locked on the entrance to the Administrative Wing.

You always said I relied too much on the height advantage. Guess I still haven’t learned.

The gates were rusted open, warped by weather with weeds crawling up, intertwining with the metal bars. No guards were posted outside, likely to keep up with the abandoned illusion, but he knew better.

Tonight, instead of the red, yellow, and green Robin suit, he opted for a black version. Far more tactical, better for stealth, and so far unused. He wants them to know that he’s Robin, he hasn’t let go of the name or stopped fighting.

He just wants them to know that Robin became someone else after what happened. He evolved.

He made his move towards the Wing, knocking down any security cameras with batarangs, shattering the lenses and disrupting the feeds. He slid through the main door, it was already opened, just enough for him to slip inside undetected.

Almost every window is broken, glass shards littered the floor, the tiles beneath his feet were worn and cracked. The asylum moaned with every step, alive in its decay. This place has definitely seen better days.

His eyes narrow beneath the Domino mask, listening intently to low voices down the hall.

A figure appeared at the end of the hallway, he ducked behind a splintered crate, scanning the walls of the building. They were covered in graffiti, some of it paint, some of it blood, from guards, inmates, people no one bothered to name.

This entire building was the product of years of neglect. It was like you could feel the ghosts lurking within the paper thin walls.

Funny. Bruce always said this place was cursed.

Dick moved forward, staying low to the ground. He wanted to be stealthy, not draw too much attention to himself until it was necessary.

He had been here with Batman hundreds of times. He could practically draw the layout of this place from memory. No one can hide from him in here.

He kept moving, coming up behind the first guard. He waited for him to turn his back, and then he struck, leaping from the shadows, wrapping an arm around the bastard’s neck and squeezing. He brought the guard to the ground, waiting for him to twitch and still, before dragging the unconscious body into a room seperate from the hall.

There were no comms. No alerts. Rookie mistake.

Another guard watched from the security room, confused by the lack of feed coming from the outside but not worried. Nobody was stupid enough to check Arkham.

One of the screens flickered, static, just for a moment. He leaned into the screen, frowning, searching for some kind of clear error.

The power cut. He gasped, searching the room for a light switch, a flashlight, anything. He came across a lighter, sighing in relief while attempting to charge up the flame. He swiveled in his chair as the fire burst to life, illuminating the unmistakable face of Robin.

He tried to scream, but his airway was crushed far before he could think twice. His limp body sliding to the floor with ease.

The power surged back on, the guards patrolling the hallway together not thinking much of it. It was an old building, the electricity was constantly faulty, this was nothing new.

They were engaged in meaningless conversation, something about how annoying their commander was. Dick didn’t care, he wouldn’t bother asking them any questions.

They continued to walk and talk, laughing to one another, the man on the left suddenly disappearing into a dark room, yanked from the light of the hallway.

His partner gasped, turning his gun to the dark space, his flashlight wouldn’t work, despite his efforts to turn it on, shaking it vigorously in panic. His eyes were wide and frantic as he took a single step towards the darkness.

Wrong move.

Dick was already airbourne, the end of his baton smashing into the guard’s jaw. He fell hard against the wall, crumpling to the floor just like the rest of them. They were trained to fight criminals, corrupted by Slade. They weren’t trained for this, for him.

After the hallway takedown, Dick was spotted by another guard, gunshots rang through the air. The armed man was messy, uncalculated. Dick was the opposite.

He closes the distance as if he was gliding, the gun fires twice more but Dick is already behind him. He throws an elbow straight into his skull, knocking him to the ground as the blood trickles slowly from his mouth.

He stepped over the bodies, entering an open area filled with various cubicles. He turned to the right, spotting two more men guarding the inner sanctum. The commander was right through that door. He grappled up into an overhead vent, that should lead him straight into the office.

“Remind me why we’re here babysitting again? Thought the kid was just mourning his Daddy.”

“Not just mourning. The word is he’s hunting. Picked off 3 guys in Blüdhaven last week. Slade says he’s gone off script.”

“Come on,” he snorts, “It’s Robin. You know, little cape, domino mask? What’s he gonna do? Ground us?”

“You haven’t seen him in action, I’ve seen what the kid can do when he’s angry. And now? The leash is off.”

“Still just a kid. He won’t find us. Nobody knows this place is live again.”

The second guard remained silent, shaking his hand and tightening his grip on his rifle.

They thought his grief was a weakness. That’s fine. Let them think he’s just a kid. They’ll understand when their bodies hit the floor.

Dick stopped right above them, pushing out the vent grate and letting it drop onto their heads. They’re disoriented for a moment, one of them even dropping their gun in surprise.

A foot drops from above, a gloved hand grabs, and a smoke bomb hides every shadow in sight. It barely took 10 seconds before both guards had their skulls slammed together, knocking them both out and leaving them to rot.

Dick didn’t care who saw him now. He only had one person in mind.

The door was right there, he would climb back into the vent but the noise outside may have ruined the element of surprise anyways. That’s fine, he wanted to have a chat.

He pushed the double doors open, batarangs at the ready and feet steadily planted on the ground.

The commander walked in from the left, not noticing the new presence in the room. Dick remained still, watching the man’s lack of spacial awareness. He pulled his new escrima sticks out from behind his back, the blade attachment held at the end. Electrified and lethal.

The commander finally turned, his eyes widening in shock upon seeing the kid his men had sworn to protect him from.

He leaned back against the desk, fingers itching towards his pistol.

Go ahead. Try it. Give me an excuse to make this easier.

“Don’t. Move.” Robin said lowly.

“You remember me?” he asked, wanting to see if the man could put the pieces together. This guy was the same asshole who slammed his body to the ground. He could still feel the boot stomped into his back.

“What do you want, Robin?” the Commander asked in return. He clearly hadn’t solved the puzzle, but that didn’t matter just yet. They’d come back to it.

“Deathstroke was here earlier. Where’d he go?”

“I don’t know.” he said in reply. Dick took a step forward, his eyebrows lacing together in anger.

“Tell me where he is and I’ll think about letting you walk.”

“Don’t you Bats have some kind of code against killing?

Dick sighed. He reached his free hand up to his mask, removing it with ease.

“Batman isn’t here.”

The soldier stared back in shock, the cogs in his mind turning before realizing just who he was standing before. Realization hit hard.

“You’re the kid? We could have killed you..”

“Maybe you should have.”

He waited for just a moment. The soldier moved first, bolting towards the door. Dick ran after him, the mask back on his face. The Commander got through, shutting it behind him and continuing his sprint. Dick burst through it seconds later.

The two chased, fast, brutal, the man throwing obstacles in his way, slamming doors, rolling gurneys, but it didn’t matter. There was no escaping this.

He turned a corner, slamming the double doors and barricading them just as fast. Dick ran straight up to them, shoving with all his might before realizing they would never give.

He looked to his right, spotting a glass window. He didn’t hesitate, diving straight through it. The shards exploding around him. He did the same thing to the set of windows on his left upon entering the room. He rolled through the glass into the empty hallway, slamming his left side against the far wall, not stopping his pursuit.

It was seconds again before he was hot on his tail. He finally reached the man just as the hallway was coming to an end. The floor gave way some time ago, leaving nothing but a gaping hole leading to the basement. An impassible gap in the hall.

The commander stopped upon noticing it, trying to turn around but instead being hit with Robin’s full force. He grabbed the man in a barrel roll, tackling him straight into the depths.

They hit the ground hard, impact sending them sprawling. Robin’s grip was lost in the fall, the two separating, rolling into opposite directions.

The commander staggered upright, limping over to a different doorway. Dick stayed back, rolling over onto his hands and knees to catch his breath, not even looking back while throwing a stun grenade, hitting the man and knocking him back down to the ground.

He coughed, regaining his breath before standing as well. The commander remained on the ground, grabbing and swinging a broken pipe. Dick grabbed it easily, ripping it from his grasp and smashing it into the side of his head.

Blood sprayed from his mouth as he was shoved to the side on impact. He coughed hard, clutching his jaw and sliding back against the door, rather than opening it. The handles were chained together anyways.

“Where’s Deathstroke?”

“Think about how many people Batman hurt, kid. How many people died because of his reluctance?”

Dick swung the pipe again, hitting him twice as hard, “Try again.”

“I’m not giving him up.” he spat, blood coating the floor beneath him as he gritted his teeth together. Wrong choice.

Dick swung again, for Bruce laughing in the doorway.

And again, for the sight of his life leaving his eyes.

And again, for the realization that he would never hear his voice again.

———

11:46 PM

His hands shook as he exited the Asylum. Walking towards his bike parked near the outskirts, he placed his finger on the button, pressing the detonator hard, not bothering to look back as the heat of the explosion licked at his skin.

He wouldn’t stop. Arkham was just the beginning.

Chapter Text

Even though Arkham itself had been dismantled, and recently destroyed, its information was still good.

Before pressing the detonator, Dick had managed to infiltrate and steal some files. They had police reports, old cases, now-cold leads. Everything he needed to figure out the next step.

He sat in one of the many safe houses he and Batman had set up. Memories of collapsing onto the beds, eating their lunches, and laughing after missions burned in his mind.

He shook his head, flipping through the stack of papers on the desk in front of him.

The safe house lights were dim, flickering endlessly as he scrubbed at his eyes for the hundredth time that night. The whole place smelled of dust and mold, he couldn’t remember the last time he had been here.

What he can remember, is that he has gone through nearly every file concerning Deathstroke and his operatives up to this point.

He was getting frustrated.

He needed motives, weaknesses, possible allies, locations, anything.

He picked up the second to last file, the yellow folder rough against his skin as he blew a thin layer of dust off of the top.

He opened it, clearing the rest of the papers off the desk before taking out the new ones. A flipped over page revealed a photocopy of a polaroid. Pictured, was Slade, along with some old military buddies.

He was stood in the center, arms around the two guys closest to him, along with four others surrounding them, all smiling at the camera like sunshine coursed through their veins.

Dick scoffed, narrowing his eyes at the photograph. He recognized Slade’s commander, he was to his left in the photo. But as he looked closer he realized that he recognized every man in that image.

Flashes of boots against his ribs. The scent of fresh blood. A face recklessly slashed by his knife. Wounded soldiers sat against the walls, laughing as the blade penetrated Bruce’s chest. They burned in his brain, hot as a raging fire.

He gritted his teeth, averting his eyes to a space below the photo, filled with scratchy handwriting.

“Left to right: Crackshot, Silk, Bull, Deathstroke, Commander, Merrick, Nails”

“What kind of a name is Crackshot?” Dick mumbled to himself, turning on the computer in front of him to start working on enhancing the image.

A clear picture could be the difference between finding and not finding these fuckers. And Dick would be damned if he left a single stone unturned.

These weren’t just names on a list, or faces on a page. They were ghosts, grinning through the blood, smiling through his grief, breathing despite stealing life from an unarmed man. They weren’t soldiers anymore. They were targets. And they were his to deal with.

He input the names into the Batcomputer database, along with the digital copy of the photo that he had just processed. Now he just had to wait for a hit.

He was exhausted. He hadn’t been keeping up with regular patrols, going out when he couldn’t sleep, which was always.

Every time his head hit the pillow, it felt like his skull cracking against the wooden floor, blood pouring out of his nose as red footprints led out of his home.

The iron scent lingered in his dreams, the method of execution changing each time. A shotgun round, a baseball bat, a katana, a kitchen knife, a goddamn golf club. It never came to an end. He just lays there and watches him die, unable to move, breathe, fight.

So he didn’t sleep, and when he did it was out of pure necessity. Like to stop hallucinations, because that was the last thing he needed to be dealing with.

He could feel his eyelids getting heavier, his head slowly falling to the table as his vision became tunneled. The wait felt like forever before the computer got a match.

The sound chimed through the speakers and his head shot up from his arms, eyes blinking away the sleepiness as he narrowed them to get a better look at the text.

Listed, was known drop locations for a few of the guys in the photo. Closest one was the Gotham Docks. There was an abandoned rail station there that served as the supply house for “Merrick”.

The same Merrick whose steel toed boot cracked against his abdomen, again and again, each time he screamed.

Dick shuddered, turning off the monitors and standing from his seat. The wooden chair screeched against the concrete floor as he walked over to the bed on his left.

His suit was laid out, gear tucked into the lockers on the far wall.

He slipped the suit on, adjusting the armored plates and pulling at the sleeves. He walked over to the locker, opening it and taking out his new escrima sticks, along with several batarangs, Bruce’s grappling hook, smoke bombs, and a lighter.

He turned to his right, looking into the mirror, and for a second he saw Batman looking back at him, the white eyes of the cowl were dim, the armored suit standing menacingly within the reflection. He quickly blinked, the image disappearing.

His hands began to shake as he grabbed his domino mask, setting it onto his eyes, and beelining it to the back door.

The streets around this area were pretty empty, besides for a few homeless and some stragglers from the bayside bars, especially at this time of night.

Dick knew that going for Merrick without a plan was stupid. But you do stupid things when you’re tired. And you do even more stupid things when you’re angry. Dick was both of those things.

It cancelled out.

He continued his walk, not bothering to take to the rooftops. Alfred had sewn a hood onto this suit a while before everything went down, so that on covert missions he could be more anonymous. It was coming in handy for the Gotham streets, people trekked past him without a second glance.

The docks were only a few blocks from here. His hand was resting on the grappling hook, just incase he needed to make a quick exit, but for the most part it was peaceful, quiet even.

The smell of cigarette smoke and polluted Gotham air permeated his nose. It was lightly raining, as per usual. The wind danced across his face as he got closer to the shore, salty and sharp.

For a second, he wasn’t there, he was 13 years old again. Standing on the ledge of the rooftop to his left, the night wind whipping through his cape.

“You have to learn to work with the wind, not against it.” Bruce said, his voice softer than usual.

Dick turned around, a strong gust knocking him off his balance as he started to fall forwards. Bruce caught him by the cape, pulling him back up and placing a steady hand between his shoulder blades,

“You’ll last longer up here if you learn to move like she does.”

“Who’s she?” Dick asked, quirking an eyebrow in Bruce’s direction.

“The wind.” Bruce said back to him, a small smile creeping onto his face as if he was embarrassed.

Dick scoffed, playfully pushing the older man’s arm before leaping off to the next rooftop, wild and weightless.

The memory burned away just as fast as it came. Leaving the cold to settle back into his bones. He kept walking.

He was at the Docks now, the sight of smoke floating through the air told him that the place was occupied.

Good.

The railyard appeared empty at the entrance. The gates were rusted and broken, shattered glass scattering the tracks. Warehouses lined the area, completely gutted and abandoned.

The place was like a cemetery for industrial decay—rusted cranes loomed like headstones, shipping containers sat stacked like coffins, and silence hung over it all like a burial shroud.

Dick slowly pushed open a gate as the wind began to die down.

The fence was practically crumbling as he shut the gate behind him, lowering his hood and leaning against a cast shadow created by a warehouse. He walked as quietly as he could along the gravel paths, remaining vigilant as he headed towards the firelight.

He spots the largest warehouse, flickering light coming through the broken windows. Two guards are stationed on either side of the entrance, radios clipped to their belts, too relaxed.

Lazy.

Dick reaches into his belt, grabbing a small explosive and attaching it to the fence on his right. He sticks to the shadows, footsteps silent as he slips behind a shipping container. He looked over to the guards, watching to ensure that they didn’t see him. They were oblivious, so Dick reached into his belt once more, clicking the button on his denator.

The explosion was bright, but relatively quiet. It wouldn’t attract police attention but it was definitely enough to distract the guards so that he could get inside.

The guards perk up immediately with the sound of the boom and the sight of flying shrapnel, jogging over to investigate the noise.

Dick silently ran as they made their way past, getting to the side of the building and grappling up to the roof. He hopped over the guard rail, walking across the pebbled surface in search of a way in.

There was a skylight, leading into a seemingly empty upstairs area. All of the guys were on the first floor, some kind of meeting or celebration likely considering the firelight from the windows.

He walked onto the glass, looking down for a better look into the area he would be dropping down into. The floors of the warehouse looked dirty, no visible footprints from where he was standing. No one had been up there in a while. He wanted to watch some more, analyze the scene but he was getting impatient.

He crouched down, looking for some kind of way to enter the window without shattering the glass, but he didn’t need to worry about that for much longer.

The ground beneath him suddenly exploded, his body freefalling along with the shards of glass against his skin. His tried to twist midair, angling to protect his back, hitting the ground at full force directly onto his shoulder.

Before he could even cry out, an armed man was in his vision immediately. The assault rifle pointed directly between his eyes.

Dick’s shoulder was pushed forward at an angle that a shoulder should never be. He rolled over onto his back, trying to use his legs to push himself away from the man, but the pain was too much.

He didn’t hear any other voices. The fire had to have been some kind of bait, make it seem like the downstairs was full when there was no one there at all. Just noise and smoke to sell the illusion. This whole thing was a set up.

Dick narrowed his eyes at the man.

Merrick.

“I knew that the Robin would try to avenge his Batman. You need to be more careful kid-“ He observed Dick’s shoulder, squinting for a moment before stomping directly down onto it.

Dick screamed. He wasn’t sure if the sound or the crack rang first. The action had popped it back into the socket, helping the dislocation, but ultimately leaving Dick in blinding pain. It helped. But it hurt like hell.

He began to hyperventilate, the wind had been stolen from his lungs in the impact from the fall, and the new white hot pain didn’t help.

He had come here to kill Merrick.

Now, he was more focused on surviving him.

The man cocked his head, “There we go, all better.” he said, as if amused by his pain.

He tried to stand, twisting and rolling onto his side, but Merrick grabbed the hood of his suit and began to pull. He started dragging him across the concrete floor, glass shards ripping at his skin.

He tried to fight back for a moment before stopping. He wasn’t going to kill him. The guy would’ve stomped his boot straight through Dick’s skull if he wanted him dead.

Merrick walked ahead at a casual pace, his fist twisted in the fabric of Dick’s hood, dragging him across the cold, dusty floor like dead weight.

“Let’s go, Sweetheart.”

Dick lay on his back, boots scraping against the ground, his good hand pressed tight against his ribs. Every breath burned. The fall had rattled something loose—or maybe just reminded him of every break that hadn’t healed yet.

The jerking motion sent hot flashes of pain through his shoulder, the tendons screaming with every tug.

They reached the stairwell.

Without slowing, Merrick gave a hard yank upward, like he was about to lift a bag of garbage.

Then he let go.

He crashed down the metal steps, each one cracking against his ribs, his body like a ragdoll as the he met the final platform. He groaned at the bottom, writhing without purpose. He twisted again, trying to find a position that didn’t feel like knives beneath his skin. Moving hurt like hell, but staying still was worse, like suffocating in his own bones.

Merrick casually descended after him, slow and smug, knowing damn well that Dick wasn’t going to be able to stand on his own.

He felt helpless, lost, in pain, but most of all he was angry. Angry at his own carelessness, angry at his actions, angry at his inability to speak. Bruce had taught him to stay silent. Let the enemy unravel their own plans in front of him. But now, it just felt like he was watching himself unravel.

Merrick reached the bottom, fingers twisting in the fabric of his hoodie and dragging once more, they got out to the railyard, where Dick was pulled into one of the empty cargo containers.

The two guards out front were already inside, a single chair sat in the center of the blue metal box.

It was seconds before Dick was being hoisted up, pushed down into the seat, and losing access to the hands behind his back. The zipties were tight, cutting into his wrists as he breathed deeply, ignoring the pain flaring in his ribs as he stared at the men ahead of him.

Merrick stood behind them, lighting a cigar and placing it between his teeth. The flame lit up the box for just a moment, Dick being able to take in the blood soaking into his suit, even through the dark fabric.

The inside of the container is dark and stifling, with streaks of light cutting through bullet holes and rusted seams. Merrick shut the door behind them, nothing but the flame of his lighter illuminating them now.

He paces for a moment, tapping his knife against his palms once in a while.

He crouched down in front of Dick, resting a hand on his knee like they were old friends.

“You know, I expected more from the golden boy. Bruce would’ve had a knife in my throat by now. But you? You’re just… sad.”

Dick didn’t reply, instead remained focus on eyeing the distance between him and that door.

He stood and paced slowly, dragging a crowbar across the metal floor behind him. The screech it made crawled into Dick’s brain and settled behind his eyes.

“Tell me something, Robin. Why’d you really kill the Commander? Hm? Revenge? Or just practice for when you get to Slade?”

Dick didn’t answer. His head lolled forward, hiding the hatred boiling in his eyes.

Merrick didn’t like that.

He stepped back, kicking his boot directly into Dick’s chest. The chair went flying backwards, his head bouncing against the ground below him as metal met metal.

Bruce’s bloodied face.

Hands holding him down.

The sound of an unsheathed blade.

Dick forced himself to focus, thoughts racing as the chair was pulled back upright, his face meeting Merricks as the scent of tobacco invaded his nostrils.

“Clearly, he didn’t teach you survival.” He let his new crowbar drop with a clang against the floor, then picked it back up, casually spinning it. “You’re too emotional. Like a little dog that’s been kicked too many times.”

Dick breathed out through his nose, controlled, physically unphased.

“I saw what you did to Commander. Messy, that’s for sure, but impressive. I’m sure you did a real number before turning him to ash. You must’ve cared a lot about Wayne, huh kid?”

Dick closed his eyes, for a moment longer than a blink, enough for Merrick to notice. His head tilts a bit.

“We all know Wayne loved a project, must be why he took you in. But you… you took it too personally.”

“Let them talk.” Bruce’s voice echoed in his head like thunder across rooftops. “The more they say, the more they reveal. Keep your mouth shut, and you’ll learn everything you need.”

Merrick stood, pacing again. He eyes him more carefully now, his eyes squinting like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

“You move like someone trained. You’re not talking. You’re not even flinching. Not just some sidekick—it’s like you were raised in this.”

He stopped. Turning to face Dick head on.

“No.. no, wait.” His eyes sharpened, flicking across Dick’s features with growing suspicion.

“You were at that Wayne Gala last year…I worked private security with Silk. I recognize you from those pap photos— your cheekbones, your jawline, I’ve seen you before.”

One of the guards’ eyes widened in shock for a moment, his face becoming pale before saying three small words.

“It’s Dick Grayson…”

A smile creeps onto Merrick’s face. He laughed. Long and loud and ugly. Finally stopping to catch his breath, “Holy shit, Robin is his son.”

Dicks expression didn’t change, he didn’t care that he found out who he was. He had one thing on his mind.

“No wonder you lost your mind. We didn’t just kill your mentor—we killed your daddy .”

The enclosed atmosphere dissipated between them, the cold metal turning into deep burgundy walls, warm toned wood lining the ceilings and floors.

The sun was just setting, orange light spilling into the hallway through the tall windows.

Dick stood in front of the mirror outside his bedroom, wrestling with the cloth in his hand. His tie wouldn’t cooperate.

It was the night of another Wayne Foundation event. Bruce insisted that they look their best, as per usual. Dick let out an annoyed sigh, yanking at the tie.

“You’re going to strange yourself.” Bruce said quietly from behind him, watching as his boy outwardly struggled.

“I’ve tried to do this a hundred times, this thing hates me.” Dick sighed, throwing his arms down to his sides while the tie lays misshapen around his collar.

Bruce steps closer, reaching around to undo and fix the knot, “You have to let the fabric guide itself. If it’s forced it’ll look messy. It’s like throwing the first punch without a direct destination, your opponent uses that sloppiness against you.”

Dick rolls his eyes, “Can’t even go to a party without a combat lesson?”

Bruce chuckles— ever so slightly, rare, “It all connects, patience, precision-” He finished the final loop

“-and presentation.” He tightens the tie slightly, fixing Dick’s collar and pressing his hands against his shoulders.

“You clean up nice, Chum.”

Dick smiled, ducking his head to avoid ruining his annoyed facade. Bruce ruffled his hair, the touch quickly leaving him as the cold air returned.

Dick opened his eyes again, fixing them on Merrick’s face.

Calm. Controlled.

Merrick raised an eyebrow. “Still nothing?”

No threats. No speech. No answers.

Just the quiet, cold patience of a predator.

Dick’s wrist flexed. A hidden wire popped in his gauntlet with a near-silent click.

Merrick paused, sensing something shift.

Dick looked up with a razor-edged smirk.

“You talk too much,” he said.

Merrick laughed again, waving off his guys as they all walked towards the exit. “Maybe you’ll be more willing tomorrow then?”

He gave Dick a patronizing wave, before shutting the door behind him. The only sounds left are distant footsteps, the wind against the walls, and Dick’s continued ragged breathing.

He wants to scream. Punch something. Let it out. But he can hear Bruce’s voice in the quiet: “Control is what separates us from them.”

So he doesn’t cry. Doesn’t curse. He just breathes, holding the pain inside his chest like it’s armor.

He tests the give of the zip ties, welts burning into his hands with each movement. He manages to stand, lifting his arms above the back of the chair, and stepping through his looped forearms so that his hands are in front of him.

He reaches up, cracking the ties down across his knee as hard as he can. They snap, he breathes a sigh of relief while grabbing at the raw skin on his wrists.

The door creaked as it swung open. Cold air slapped him in the face.

Dick stepped out of the container like a ghost pulling himself out of a grave. His legs were shaky, muscles aching with every step, but his eyes were steady. Focused.

The night was quiet again. That eerie kind of quiet right before the storm rolls in.

He pressed his back against the container’s edge, eyes sweeping the rail yard. Tracks crisscrossed the gravel like veins, old freight cars rusting along the perimeter. Merrick and his men hadn’t gone far. They’d left him too long. That meant they thought he was broken, didn’t even bother locking the door behind them.

Good.

He crept through the yard, keeping to the shadows. The pain in his shoulder was flaring again, but he adjusted—gritted his teeth and moved forward.

Voices echoed nearby, Merrick and his guys were outside the warehouse entrance, laughing and joking as if the past twenty minutes hadn’t happened.

One of them threw Merrick a beer, “To Gotham’s favorite brat.”

Dick exhaled sharply, biting his own tongue.

He reached for the smoke bomb still tucked in his boot, thumbed it, and rolled it between the rails toward their feet. The second it hissed, he moved.

The explosion of smoke shattered their line of sight. They shouted, stumbling backward.

Dick was already on the first one.

He drove his elbow into the guy’s face, disarming him in a single twist and slamming him against the rusted side of a freight car. The crack of bone echoed.

Merrick shouted through the fog, “Where the hell is he?!”

Dick didn’t answer. He never did.

The last man raised his weapon but hesitated—too late. Dick lunged from the haze, striking low, kicking the rifle out of his grip and finishing with a brutal knee to the sternum.

That left Merrick.

The smoke had thinned, revealing the leader alone now, spinning in place with a pistol drawn. Paranoia painted across his face.

“Come on, you little freak—” he started.

Dick dropped behind him like a phantom. Ducking as he turns and ripping the gun from his hand, throwing it across the tracks.

Dick tackled him into the side of the shipping crate, the sound echoing across the bayside waters. He shoved his forearm up against Merrick’s throat.

He reached for a blade at his belt. Dick stopped him with a brutal hit to the ribs. Another. Another. Until the man choked out blood and crumpled under him.

Dick stood over him, chest heaving.

He looked down at what was left of the man who had laughed as Bruce died. And for a second, he wanted to end it right here.

But he couldn’t, “Where’s Deathstroke?” he spoke calmly, his voice low, breath ragged.

Merrick wheezed, one of his eyes starting to swell shut as his bloody teethed smile came into Dick’s vision. His chest was rising and falling fast as he sat slumped against the cold crate wall.

“Right to the- big guy.. huh?”

He didn’t answer.

Merrick chuckled. “You don’t say much, do you? That’s new. You always used to flap your mouth when you were younger. I guess your old man finally taught you the power of a good stare.”

No reaction. Dick just waited.

“I don’t want to give you Wilson, I want to see where- this shit heads first. How about I give you Silk instead?”

Dick pulled his escrima stick from behind his back, wincing as the pain tugged at his shoulder.

“Alright, alright. You know why we call him Silk? Smooth talker. Can maneuver his way out of anything with a conversation.”

Dick continued to listen, readying the electricity for if he didn’t give him something worth while.

“You know what, don’t get me wrong—he was scary, sure, the Bat I mean. But you? You don’t talk. You don’t blink. You just keep coming.” Merrick’s grin returned, twisted. “You’re gonna burn the whole thing down, aren’t you?”

Dick’s jaw tightened, “No. Just the parts that deserve it.”

Merrick sighed, his grin still evident as he spat blood onto the concrete next to him, “He’s laying low in Blüdhaven. Got himself a cushy gig guarding some arms dealer’s yacht. Real under-the-radar stuff, but I got a call from him a few weeks back. Bragged about the paycheck. Bragged about you too, actually.”

A beat.

“Said if anyone was gonna come knocking, it’d be the little prince. Said he hoped you’d try.”

Still, Dick didn’t speak.

“You’re spooky like this you know? The Bat always seemed a little gruff, with the voice and the armor and all, but you… you’ve got rage behind it. That’s a quality you can use if you know what you’re doing.”

Dick’s grip on the escrima stick tightened, just slightly.

Merrick’s smile softened for a moment, like he almost admired him. “We were soldiers. We followed orders. Some of us even liked it. Silk definitely liked it. You’ll see. Even spat on the Bastard’s body when Slade was done with him, but you know that already? Don’t you?”

Dick could feel his hands starting to tremble as his grip tightened even more.

“Where’s the yacht?”

“On the East side, near the old theater.”

Merrick tilted his head back against the wall, eyes glassy but still burning with something twisted. He grinned through split lips.

“You can kill us all, kid—but you’re never gonna stop seeing his face when you close your eyes.”

Dick didn’t flinch.

The escrima stick cracked against Merrick’s temple, and the smile finally vanished.

He was left in the silence, alone.

He turned to the mess he’d made, blood splattered against the walls as unconscious men layed across the gravel beneath him.

He took a deep breath, holstering his escrima stick and walking away. He had to keep moving, because if he stopped and stared for too long he’d do something permanent. Something that he would live to regret.

He pushed past the gate, trembling hands shutting it behind him, returning quickly to the safe house by foot. He wouldn’t be followed.

When he finally arrived, the door creaked open and Dick shoved his way inside, limbs heavy, blood drying against his suit. He didn’t bother turning on the lights. Just dropped his gear onto the table with a metallic clatter and stood in the dark, catching his breath.

His communicator chimed, just once, soft- yet insistent.

ALFRED PENNYWORTH- incoming call

He thought about letting it ring, like the hundreds of other missed messages. He couldn’t bring himself to, not tonight. Not after what had just happened.

He hit the answer button, not speaking.

A moment passed, “Master Dick?”

He breathed deeply, wheezing slightly as a shaky exhale left his lips.

“You disappeared sir, not a call, a message, a note. Nothing. Where have you gone my boy?”

Dick closed his eyes, opening his mouth to speak. He couldn’t bring himself to.

“I know what you’re doing. I know why. I know that the assault on Arkham Asylum was you…” he paused, Dick heard a click, like Alfred was setting down his reading glasses somewhere.

“I need you to remember something, Master Dick. Revenge carves a wound into everything good that you’ve built.”

Dick’s throat tightens, he’s not sure why.

“Master Bruce may not be here, but that doesn’t mean you must become the worst parts of him in his absence. You are destined for far greater.”

Dick looked down at his split knuckles, the blood drying and seeping into the natural cracks in his hands. He opens his mouth to speak,

“I got another one. Gave me a location. He might be willing to give up Slade.”

Alfred paused, taking in the sound of his voice after months of silence, “It’s not what you want to hear, but this isn’t justice, sir. It’s a blood trail, the more of it you spill, the harder it’ll be to find your way home.”

“I’m not lost yet.”

He paused again, sighing, “Can I convince you to end this?”

He didn’t answer.

“When you find the one who did this, send me a message. You shouldn’t be alone.”

Dick took that in, nodding his head even though the opposite end of the conversation couldn’t see.

He pressed a button, and the line went dead.

Chapter Text

“Is it…. the circus?”

“No.”

“Is it……the museum?”

“You can keep on guessing Chum, I’m not telling you.”

“Ugh- okay, fine.”

“…”

“Is it a private concert?”

Bruce loudly sighs, shielding the map screen from Dick’s view in the passenger seat.

Tomorrow, or actually 7 minutes from now was his 13th birthday. Bruce told him they were going somewhere special.

It was late, Dick yawned again before resting his head on his hand, which was propped up against the arm of the seat.

The Batwing steadily flew across the sky, breaking through clouds as they began their descent. It felt like they’d been here for hours and Dick was desperately fighting sleep. He wasn’t used to the late night crime fighting just yet, despite how long he’d been Robin.

“Is it Superman?”

“Why would it be Superman, Dick?”

“Just guessin..”

“Well, the wait is over.”

Dick sat straight up, peering out of the large windshield ahead to try and decipher their location.

The clouds remained thick, fog covering the rest of the land. He was entirely in the dark, even as the Batwing landed on the ground. He groaned, upset at his inability to guess the location, but standing up to follow Bruce to the door anyways.

His cape blocked his vision for another moment, before Bruce asked, “Ready?”

Dick nodded furiously, the black cape swishing to the side to allow for him to walk forward. He steps out of the jet, walking down the ramp and tilting his neck to read the marble lettering against the building.

Hall of Justice

“No way.” Dick whispers, like if he said it too loud everything would disappear.

Bruce faintly smiles, pressing a button on the jet that opened the massive doors in front of them.

Dick turned back to look at him, anxiously waiting for the go ahead. Bruce nods, and Dick takes off in a spring, running up the white marble stairs straight into the hall.

The older shakes his head, not far behind as the two make their way into the large building.

Upon entering, they were greeted by a large stone figure depicting none other than Superman.

“It IS Superman you liar!” Dick shouts, his cape fluttering behind him as he heads straight for the statue.

The white marble towered over the two of them. Superman’s stoic figure, hands resting upon his hips, chest puffed into the air.

Dick smiled, bigger than he had in years before the sudden realization crashed over him.

“Are you going to get in trouble for this?”

Bruce shook his head, “They’ll live.”

The two pushed further into the museum, their footsteps echoing and bouncing off the walls.

Dick had never visited the Hall before, he’d seen photos in Bruce’s files, grainy videos on TV, but it was never like this, never empty, never his.

He lingered over a particular glass case, one that held a single batarang. It was a black metal, the left wing chipped slightly, and the sharp edges were worn from use. His fingers brushed against the surface, turning to face a much larger wall.

“Hall of Heroes?” Dick said aloud, gazing upon the hundreds of picture frames. Each held the beaming faces of young men and women, including familiars like the Flash, Wonder Woman, Green Arrow, and even Batman himself.

“Is this what I’m expected to live up to?” Dick laughed to himself, almost making fun of the idea that he could ever make an impact close to those who were pictured.

“No, I want you to be better than them.”

Dick turned away, hiding his wide eyes and slightly shaking hands.

He understood where he was. Not physically but his state. Where he stood among these heroes. He was Batman’s sidekick, his partner. Not anyone who could outrun the Flash or outstrategize Wonder Woman. He understood the weight of the legacy he now carried, the bat symbol sewn into his costume was proof of that.

“Follow me.” Bruce said as he walked through an open door on their right. Dick obeyed, entering an empty theater. A projector flickered to life as they sat down on one of the benches positioned in front of the screen. Dick assumed that this room during open hours would project some sort of informational movie about how the Justice League got their start.

But right now, it played something Dick hadn’t imagined was possible. The camera showed an empty wall, but soon enough two laughing figures filled the screen.

His parents.

His breath hitched, watching as his Mom and Dads faces met his own.

“Hi there, my little Robin!”

His mother’s voice was soft, playful.

“I’m not really sure how we’re supposed to start this, considering we’re talking to you in the future, but… maybe we’ll just go with the flow.”

“I’ll do the introductions, Mary,” his father chuckled beside her.

“Hey there, Richard. We’re your mom and dad—though by the time you’re watching this, you’ll probably already know that part. Your mom’s pregnant with you right now. And we can’t wait to meet you.”

The footage cut—static, then a new image: the kitchen of their trailer, cluttered and alive. His mother stood at the stove, baby strapped snugly to her chest. The camera wobbled.

“John, put that thing down and help me, would you?”

“I’m trying to capture this moment,” his dad laughed, stepping closer. A record played softly in the background—something old, something swingy.

The lens caught the way his mother rolled her eyes just before her lips curved into a grin. His father reached around her waist, and the two began to sway, dancing clumsily but happily. In the middle of them, baby Dick giggled, the sound bright and pure.

The clip jumped again.

A roaring crowd. The spotlight. The echo of an announcer’s voice through a grainy speaker:

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome… the Flying Graysons!”

Dick’s heart stuttered.

Three figures soared overhead, weightless and confident. His father catching his mother with practiced ease. His younger self launching into the air, arms outstretched. That moment—the routine—he could still feel it in his muscles. The rhythm, the focus. The joy.

A smile crept across his face, uninvited but real.

He watched in silence, not as a vigil, but as someone remembering a life before the grief swallowed it whole.

Then—the screen dimmed. The footage ended. Silence filled the room.

And for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t grief sitting with him.

It was them.

Dick quickly wiped at the stray tear that had fallen down his cheek.

Bruce shifted next to him, reaching beneath the bench and pulling out a carefully wrapped present, and passing the box to him.

He took it, pretending to shake it next to his ear, receiving an eye roll from Bruce in return. He pulled at the bow and unwrapped the paper, lifting the lid off of the box, revealing a utility belt.

His utility belt.

It was light, far lighter than Bruce’s, but the same yellow color. He turned it over, engrained was the words: “Robin. A legacy.”

“How did I do?” Bruce spoke quietly, his hands folded in his lap.

“Are you kidding me?” Dick asked in response as he held the utility belt, beaming with excitement.

And for the first time in a long time, Dick Grayson lets himself feel celebrated —not for who he lost, not for who he fights like, but for who he is.

Chapter Text

Dick had practically passed out the second his head hit the pillow. The safe house had become less of a safe house and more of a safe home. He couldn’t return to the manor. Hearing Alfred’s voice had nearly killed him. He couldn’t handle seeing the look on his face if he returned. Instead, he opted to just live here. it was just a few blocks from the Gotham docks where he had just taken down Merrick. He didn’t kill him, so he figured that wasn’t the last time they’d see each other.

When the morning light pushed its way through the blinds, Dick buried his head further into the pillow. He was surprised that he had actually been able to get some sleep. Maybe it was the familiarity of talking to Alfred, or the new intel he’d received. Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to complain.

He stumbled out of bed, cursing while reaching a hand out to clutch the ribs that had been deeply bruised the night before. His shoulder still wasn’t at 100%. The dislocation combined with the constant stair after stair impact did nothing to soothe his aching bones.

He walked, more-so limped, over to the computer, beginning his newfound research on this arms dealer’s yacht. All he had was a location, but he figured it wouldn’t be too hard to narrow down some extra info. He had previously hacked into a criminal database on his search for Merrick, so he started there. He cross-referenced yacht, Blüdhaven, weaponry, and a bunch of other buzz words in the hope that one of them would match to a semi-recent post.

With his luck, he was surprised that the search had actually gotten a hit. There was an event happening tonight down at the Blüdhaven docks on a particular yacht. It called for open bidders to make an appearance, hoping for sales on some custom weapons. Dick narrowed his eyes at the creator of the post. He recognized the face in the profile picture. The guy was confident, and Dick had seen him before on missions with Batman.

The second he recognized that smirk he knew for a fact that this guy dealt for the Penguin. He was dealing with enough tracking down Deathstroke, the last thing he needed was Cobblepot up his ass too.

He sighed, rubbing at his eyes before accepting his fate. It was entirely necessary that he show up to this event, find Silk, and get out. He needs to blend in. He needs a suit. Only problem is, he cant risk returning to the manor so he’ll just have to go out and buy one. Dick Grayson hadn’t been seen in public since the funeral, so he’s hoping that his identity can remain a secret in whatever formal wear boutique he can find. He threw on a hoodie and jeans, pulling the hood up and settling sunglasses over his eyes, not only to mask his identity but to also mask the black eye he was sporting.

———

The store was small, nestled between two old buildings on a quieter block in the heart of Gotham. He had walked quite far, not meaning to but ultimately just wanting to clear his head. The boutique was upscale, the sort of place that Bruce would’ve taken him to before a gala.

Dick hadn’t been in a store like this in months. He pushed the doors open, heading to the left over to a rack of blazers. he ran his fingers over the material, structured yet smooth-

“Excuse me sir, we don’t allow for hoods to be worn in our store..” a manager spoke from behind the desk, now slowly approaching him.

Shit. He should’ve known. A place like this was just asking to be robbed and he obviously looked suspicious.

He slowly removed his hood, brushing his fingers through his unruly curls. The store manager recognized him immediately. He was really hoping the sunglasses disguise would’ve worked for at least a minute longer.

“Oh! Mr Grayson, I apologize.”

“Nothing to apologize for sir.” Dick said wearily, turning his attention back to the suits on display. He could feel the nervous energy radiating from behind him.

“I- I erm, am very sorry for your loss sir. I saw the photos in the Gotham Star, it was a truly beautiful service.”

Dick closed his eyes, mind trailing off almost immediately.

———

“Today we are here to remember the life of Bruce Wayne, CEO, humanitarian, son, father, and hero.”

Dick felt a shiver go down his spine. He didn’t want to attend in the first place, but Alfred insisted that it was necessary.

He hadn’t spoken all morning. He refused to give a eulogy.

The Gotham sky was overcast. Umbrellas bloomed like black flowers across the cemetery. Crowds of reporters flashed their cameras from behind barricades while the world watched live footage. Remembering Bruce Wayne and more importantly Batman. It was hard to deny the evidence that immediately followed Bruce Wayne’s death. Batman had disappeared from the face of the Earth and the Justice League wasn’t searching for him. It was even harder to deny the videos broadcast all over the city, filmed by Deathstroke, admitting to the murder of Bruce Wayne. The conspiracies flooded every forum: a known adversary of Batman suddenly kills Bruce Wayne and now Batman is missing? It didn’t add up.

Members of the Justice League in their civilian form were there as well. The ones who knew Batman’s identity at the time were Clark, Diana, and Oliver, all of whom were among the crowd of grieving bodies.

Dick tuned out a majority of the speeches. He had already begun strategizing.

He was dressed sharply, keeping up his image despite his grief. The world saw Bruce Wayne’s son, calm and composed, but beneath the cuffs of his sleeves, his fists were clenched at his sides.

the coffin began to lower into the ground, dirt piling on top of the occupied grave. Dick imagined Batman falling, his cape whipping in the wind and Robin failing to catch him.

The crowd began to clear out leaving just him and Alfred. Even the reporters had managed to scrounge up some decency and leave the site. Alfred squeezed his shoulder before turning to walk away as well. Dick waited, staring down at the grave. The marbled stone engraved with his name seemed further and further away and tears warped his vision. He couldn’t help but read “Bruce Thomas Wayne” over and over again.

He fell to his knees, the wet dirt soaking through the fabric of his suit. He remained near the headstone, lowering his forehead to the cool stone and sucking in a deep breath. His lungs felt shallow as the rainwater stung his eyes.

A photo was taken from afar.

———-

The images appeared of Dick alone at the gravesite in the papers the next day. “Gothams Golden Boy Stricken by Grief”

The world called it poetic. Dick called it bullshit.

He turned to meet the man’s gaze, “Yeah, thanks.”

The older man vigorously nodded, his hands clasped together. Dick sighed, finally giving in, “I need a suit: plain, black, nothing flashy.” he rubbed at his temples as the man ran off to go and find what Dick was looking for for. While he waited, he grasped the lapel of one of the hanging coats.

Part of him cringed at being seen and recognized. Not as Robin, but as Dick Grayson, the one Gotham believed that they understood. The one that was constantly questioned by every news outlet, and in every article, wondering why he hadn’t taken over Wayne Enterprises or done any press conferences or whatever bullshit they envisioned that he should be doing. He could worry about his public image when business was taken care of. When his actions would allow for him to sleep at night once more. When they would allow for balance.

The man came back with a few options, leading Dick to the fitting room and giving him privacy.

He tried on the first suit, blinking at his reflection in the mirror. He walked out of the room to meet the man’s face once more.

“I’ll take this one.” It really didn’t matter what the suit looked like on him, he would’ve taken whichever one he put on first.

“You look just like him y’know? Despite it all, it’s almost uncanny with that suit on…” The man almost laughed in surprise.

Dick didn’t find it amusing, he just nodded and returned to the fitting room to change back into his normal clothes.

After checkout, he headed straight back for the safe house, hood pulled up and sunglasses secured over his eyes. He passed hundreds on the street, none of whom spared him a second glance.

———

He got back to the safe house, already exhausted even though the day had barely begun.

He pushed open the door, turning to flick on the lights before realizing that they were already on. He turned to look straight ahead, tossing his bag to the left towards the bed before noticing the figure sitting at the desk.

His hand reached quickly for the knife strapped to his forearm, until he noticed the nearly perfect posture and reading glasses perched on the surface of the table.

Alfred.

The man turned around, looking Dick up and down as he removed his hood and sunglasses, walking further into the room.

“You’re limping...and bruised.” he said, concern lacing his tone.

Dick scoffed, walking over to the bed and taking off his hoodie, leaving him in a plain white shirt and jeans.

Alfred took a deep breath, spinning the squeaking desk chair to face the younger.

“Come home, Master Dick.”

He stopped in his tracks, closing his eyes.

“I can’t.”

Alfred stared back at him. His expression was devastatingly readable. His eyes welled with tears, despite not a single drop falling. His brows furrowed together, and he shook his head back and forth ever so slightly, as if his body was attempting to think of a plead without words, a beg for reconsideration. Dick had known this man since he was twelve years old. The two had never seen each other so lost before.

“You are letting your wrath prevail over your mercy and that is something you will not find an easy way back from. It’s hard to hear Master Dick, but this is not the path he would have chosen for you-“

“Well he isn’t fucking here to chose my path! Is he Alfred?” Dick found himself to be shouting, his chest heaved with repressed emotion, his eyes wild as he continued,

“I see him every time I close my eyes. I hear his final breath in my sleep. I can’t go on like this! I have to finish it!”

“What exactly are you finishing sir?” Alfred stood now, “Your mission for the greater good or your personal vendetta?”

“Sure, you can call it a personal vendetta. I call it vengeance.” Dick pointed, shouting with his hands and making the mistake of moving his shoulder. The pain echoed throughout his body, unable to stop the gasp escaping his lips as he held it. Alfred reached for him before taking a step back.

“if you continue like this, on this path my son, you will lose everything. I will be here to pick up the pieces but you will lose yourself in the process. I have buried far too many Waynes in my life, Master Dick. I shall see to it that you are not next.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Dick was afraid that if he looked into his eyes for a moment longer, he would throw up. Alfred was afraid that grief would overshadow the good in the little boy he once knew. He prayed that Dick would come to his senses, but a deep, dark part inside of him was almost glad to see Bruce in Dick’s gaze. Alfred wanted to be there for him, because he knows that if it was Bruce in his son’s position: Gotham City would’ve burned to the ground in the name of avenging Robin.

Alfred finally turned away, walking towards the door having said what he needed to, “And Master Dick…”

“Happy eighteenth birthday, my boy.” The door shut behind him.

Dick stayed frozen in place, trying to come to terms with his shattered heart as stray tears fell from his eyes. He had no idea that today was his birthday. He barely knew what month it was.

Before he could think for any longer, he walked over to the desk, sliding his hands across the surface in a fit of rage, papers and case files went sprawling onto the ground. he picked up a small lamp and threw it as hard as he could into the opposite wall, breathing heavily as the sound of exploding glass filled his eardrums.

He couldn’t stop himself from sinking to the floor. He wiped angrily at his face, catching a glimpse of a small box that had been tossed to the ground. He reached over, picking it up, unwrapping the bow and paper, revealing a small card, which read “Remember who you are.” he lifted the small folded sheet of tissue paper and revealed a worn leather wrist watch. The glass covering the clock face was cracked, the ticking had come to a stop long ago. Bruce always wore this damn watch even though it was broken. He said it was because time waited for no one.

Dick held it in his hands, pressing the leather to his forehead before securing the band around his wrist. he sat for a moment, but as he remembered, time waited for no one.

He had work to do.

———

The event was loud, the yacht was crowded, and Dick was putting on his best performance.

He was wearing his newly purchased suit, similar to many of the other guests. Peach toned concealer covered his bruises as he laughed with criminal patrons. The drink in his hand was still full, but the assholes that surrounded him were too drunk for any suspicion. His hair was slicked back, thick glasses covering his eyes. Trick he learned from Clark Kent.

There was going to be an auction on the dock in a few moments, aiming to sell as many weapons as possible in one night in order to please the big boss. He could worry about Cobblepot later, for now he was more focused on the security detail. He was sure that he would recognize Silk the moment he saw him, but he was losing hope as the sun continued to set. His plan was to find Silk, find somewhere private to reveal the Robin suit he was wearing beneath this one, and then ask the guy to talk. He was named Silk for being a smooth talker, so Dick assumed that he wouldn’t be able to resist the chance to have a conversation with a known adversary of his boss, especially now that feelings were mixed in. He’d let him talk for a while, gain information on Deathstroke, and then he’d be good as gold. Easy.

His first problem was finding Silk. The place was crawling with security, all of whom were wearing masks that covered their noses down. Dick had to rely on eyes alone, all while avoiding eye contact and keeping himself successfully undercover. It would be bad for him to be noticed as Robin, but even worse for him to be noticed as Dick Grayson.

He walked along the Dock, finding a space hidden by the shadows that he deemed safe to change at. Screw it. Maybe a brief appearance by Robin would be enough to draw Silk out from hiding.

He already knew that he was coming.

He quickly took off the trousers and overcoat, the shining R emblem now visible in the streetlight. He kicked the discarded clothes into the water, hoping that they’d just sink or something.

Focus. Find silk.

He looked around, spotting the streetlight that had illuminated the area and quickly grappling to the top. He had a birds eye view of the entire event, the bustling yacht, along with the dock. He secured his domino mask over his eyes, the augmented reality lenses casting a night vision view of the crowd. He gazed directly into the eyes of each and every security officer. He pulled out the polaroid from his pocket, looking at Silk in the photo for differentiating qualities. The man had a tattoo on his neck, Robin squinted his eyes, now clearly spotting a spider spinning some sort of web. Ah, silk. Funny. This guy must really be full of himself.

He averted his eyes back to the party, the auction was now in full swing, meaning many of the guests had crowded on the west side of the dock, leaving the security officers to be surrounding the outskirts. It took him a moment but he finally saw the tip of a web poking out from beneath the collar of a security uniform. Silk. He was alone, despite many of the security teams being in pairs, and he was also the only one near darkness, out of sight from the others. He was stood outside of the old movie theater, lighting a cigarette and blowing out the smoke. He was wearing thick combat boots, his dog tag hung from his neck, an untrimmed beard catching the fallen ashes from one end of his smoke. Gross.

Robin grappled to the roof of the building, peering down at the man, taking a deep breath before dropping to the ground. He landed on his feet directly in front of him, raising his gaze through his white lensed eyes and standing up straight.

Silk smiled, dropping his cigarette to the ground and stomping it out. The scent of tobacco permeated his nose.

“I thought you might show up.” The man said, British accent heavy with each word spoken. “Come on then, follow me.” He fully turned his back to Robin, walking through the theater doors behind him and leaving them wide open in his wake, as if he was no threat at all. He followed him inside, shutting the door behind them and turning the lock.

The theater’s seats were covered in thick layers of dust, torn posters flapped in the wind through broken windows, all encapsulated before a sagging velvet curtain at the front of the room.

“You don’t look like you’re here for popcorn“ Silk started but Robin cut him off, quickly walking towards the man-

“Wait wait- before you blow me to pieces or smash my head against a train car, wouldn’t you like to have a conversation?”

Yes, actually he would.

“Start talking.” Robin spoke lowly, his fingers lingering above the escrima stick strapped to his thigh.

“You ever notice how much you sound like him? Bruce. The gravel voice, the ‘I’m not in the mood’ stare. It’s uncanny. Like Bat like Bird I guess..” Silk’s smile falters for just a moment when he notices Robin flicking open his escrima stick with a crack.

“Alright, alright. You want information? Right? What can I do for ya?”

“Where is he?” Robin asked, his knuckles turning white as his grip tightened.

“He? I know a lot of hes kid you’re gonna have to be more specific-“

Robin pursued, shoving the man up against the opposite wall, the framed movie poster cracked on impact, his skull breaking the glass beneath. Silk could easily overpower him, especially with his years of combat and military training, but not faster than Robin could shock his system with his escrima stick, which was positioned right against his neck, the taser lit and buzzing with electricity.

“You know exactly which ‘he’ I’m referring to.”

“Okay-okay! He’s supposed to be working another hit job in Gotham with Crackshot, some billionaire beneficiary-“

“I need a name-“ he moved the taser even closer, the hairs on Silk’s neck being tinged by the electricity.

“…Shit okay, it’s that Wayne kid!’ Robin felt his heart drop into his stomach, ‘Grayson! Richard Grayson…”

His hesitation from the shock of hearing his own name was enough of a chance for Silk to make his move. He shoved Robin straight off him, sending him sprawling to the floor. Silk began his pursuit but was quickly stopped as Robin rolled backwards onto his hands, pushing his body up to jump back onto his feet. He cracked his knuckles, released his second escrima stick from his back holster, and ran at him.

Silk dodged the first hit, landing a blow to his ribs, but Robin wasn’t near finished. He ran straight at the wall, using the momentum from his right leg to send himself flying sideways. His legs wrap around Silk’s neck so quick that there was no time to even register the impact. He twists violently, flipping backwards and dragging the man off his feet. The momentum slammed Silk into the red carpeted floor hard enough to leave a dent. Robin was already rolling free and upright before the man could take a breath.

Silk scrambled to stand, but was stopped by a boot against the chest and a lit escrima stick pointed between his eyes. The last thing he heard before the end of the weapon cracked against his temple was,

“Thanks.”

Chapter Text

Dick walked away from the theater feeling less in control than ever before.

He wanted to stop. Wanted to take a second and think but he couldn’t. Deathstroke and whoever this Crackshot guy is, are coming for him. Not Robin, but him.

It made sense. He was the only witness to the crime against Bruce Wayne, and they had clearly found out he was Batman. If they were smart, they would easily put together the pieces and assume that he was Robin, since he was the only person who saw the faces of every man in that room. As well as being the only possible person with the means and ability to hunt each of them down.

He stuck to the rooftops, the cool Gotham wind sending a chill down his spine as he hopped from one gravel surface to the next. The city was loud. It was around midnight, so the streets were filled with bar-hopping Gothamites, some returning home and some only getting started. He wasn’t too worried about being seen. Frankly, he didn’t care.

What he did care about, was getting to Wayne Manor as quickly as possible. That had to be where Crackshot was staking out, waiting for Dick Grayson to finally take a few steps out the door, and then bam! Two bullet holes through both his eyes and one in the forehead for extra measure.

He shook the image from his mind, finally reaching his desired alleyway. He slid down the railing of the fire escape, landing light on his feet on the concrete below. In front of him was a large bedsheet, used to be white in color but now stained a gross shade of beige with all the dirt it had been collecting. Walking over to it, he grabbed a corner, pulling hard and revealing a motorbike below. He was honestly most surprised that no one had found it, stolen it, and scrapped it for parts yet.

Must be his lucky day.

He pulled up the bike, quickly hopping on and hitting the gas, hard. The bat symbol lining the handlebars sent another chill up his spine, all while the tires shrieked against the pavement. He turned out of the alley and caught some air time while breaking off of the sidewalk curb and onto the main street.

He shot out of the darkness and into the open like a warning. The city, once comfort and chaos all at once, blurred past him—neon signs, traffic lights, flashes of recognition from pedestrians. Somewhere in the noise, a drunken girl pointed: “Is that—”

It didn’t matter.

He wasn’t hiding anymore.

———

The city lights disappeared behind him as the night somehow grew darker. The road ahead of him was winding, covered by trees on both sides. A quiet seclusion perfect for a billionaire estate.

The road turned from winding concrete, to cracked stone, and finally to gravel as he reached the driveway. The first gate was already open, but that hadn’t changed because it always was. Welcoming until it wasn’t. Dick kept his eyes low until he couldn’t anymore.

The manor.

Straight ahead it stood, as if it had been holding its breath waiting for his return. He felt like a massive cloud had fallen over his head the moment he locked eyes with the entrance.

His bike skidded to a stop. He had eyes all over the property and saw no sign of movement from the outer courtyards, nor the front entryway.

He hadn’t been here in months. The only reason that they had been staying in Wayne Tower rather than the manor was that Bruce had a string of conference meetings over that weekend which went from 6 AM to 8 PM, so there was really no reason to return home just to barely sleep anyways. He should’ve known that someone would use the penthouse against them.

Dick felt his heart drop when he finally stood. He rubbed his hands through his hair for just a moment, before taking a deep breath. He walked towards the front door, removing his mask while the gravel crunched beneath his feet. Ascending the stairs, he shook his hands at his sides: mentally preparing himself to open the door.

He put his hand on the golden knob. The massive dark oak doors towered over him, another reminder of how small this place made him feel. The grandeur always felt as though it didn’t mix with his blood, like medicine that could never bind.

He pushed open the doors, revealing the grand foyer. He expected it to look similar to how they had left it, but instead, the place was trashed. Dresser drawers were thrown across the room, various objects and trinkets scattered along the wooden floors. The rugs were covered in gravel dust and smelled faintly of blood. Lampshades were left behind and bulbs were smashed and broken.

“Must’ve done some redecorating while I was gone…” Dick muttered to himself, stepping over a gravel shoe print.

He stopped and listened for a moment. It was dead quiet, not an ounce of movement anywhere, so he deemed it safe to continue. Stepping over glass shards, he made his way upstairs. His assumption would be that whoever broke in would go for the study if they wanted Bruce, and Dick’s bedroom at the end of the hallway if they wanted him. The mess didn’t seem calculated, it didn’t look like the perpetrators were searching for something, it looks like they trashed the place just to say that they did. No motive or clear reasoning behind it.

Dick moved quietly along the stained wooden floors, peering down the hall before pushing open the door to Bruce’s study, the first one on the left.

Everything seemed so much bigger all of the sudden. The oldies jazz music softly warbled from the record player. A quiet humming came from behind the desk as Dick took in the sight of the hundreds of books lining the walls. The room was lit by nothing but a roaring fire, the crackling of the flame matching the older quality of the record.

Bruce sat at the desk, tapping his finger against the wooden surface to match the beat of the music. His eyes were closed as his head moved slowly from side to side.

Sinatra was playing. It was always Sinatra.

Dick scoffed, closing the door behind him. It was pretty late and he was supposed to be in bed by now, but he just couldn’t sleep. He tried counting sheep, closing his eyes and being as still as possible, even having Alfred bring him some warm milk like he was five or something. But nothing would work.

Bruce sat steadily, humming the vibratos. He was so at peace. Every ounce of him was feeling the music, unburdened by the stress of his business and of Gotham entirely. He was busy now, busy being in the moment, and busy hanging out with Sinatra while his newly teenage son sat down across from him.

The two just sat together for a moment, the silence comfortable and warm as Dick stared into the flames, watching each little spark jump out from the wood. The next track spun into motion, “You Make Me Feel So Young” now filling the room.

Bruce stood abruptly from his chair, spinning around the side of the desk until he was stood in front of Dick. He held his hand out, with the same gravity that he would if he was defusing a bomb.

“C’mon, simple box step. Get up.” He smiled, shaking his hand slightly.

Dick groaned, begrudgingly taking his hand and standing.

“Okay, first you put your hand- no not there- not there either- right here.” Bruce guided him, placing his hands in the positions as if Dick was the leading man and Bruce was the lady.

“Alright step forward with your left foot, yes now to the right, just making a box. I think even you could manage a square Richard.”

Dick scoffed again, “Can’t we just hire someone to dance with you at the next gala?”

“Oh this isn’t for me Chum, this is a meaningful life lesson for you. It’s important to know the basics.”

The two moved in tandem, occasionally mixing up the steps and forgetting where their hands are supposed to go. They both were truly terrible at dancing. But none of that mattered.

Dick went as far as lifting his hand so that Bruce could twirl beneath it, even though he had to bend down quite far. They laughed, boisterous and loud as their dancing became less and less proper.

The final notes rang in their ears as Dick attempted to dip Bruce, instead dropping him to the floor while Bruce dragged him down with him. They remained on the floor for a minute, clutching their chests with ever present laughter.

The needle scratched, the record becoming more and more disturbed until there was nothing.

Silence. Dick stood in the empty study. The record player covered in dust while the firewood remained ashen and grey.

He unclenched his fists, blinking rapidly as he shook away the pain. Blood dripped down his palms from where his nails dug into the skin below. He wiped the red onto his pants and kept moving.

Behind the desk, the drawers were scattered across the floor, the large bay window behind was cracked, wind whistling through the opening as the curtains swayed side to side. Dick ran his fingers along the wooden surface, finally seeing what they wanted him to.

Stuck in the wood was a knife, the blade embedded deep, as if someone had stabbed with all of their might. Carved into the desk, read:

“HE CALLED FOR YOU”

His breath hitched in his throat. His jaw clenched tightly, his chest now rising and falling more rapidly.

A lie. He knew it was. Bruce would have never called out for him, never would have put his name out there, never would have put him in danger like that. It was still difficult though to not let the words get under his skin. He closed his eyes for a moment. He needed more information on Crackshot. Coming here immediately without research was reckless and he knew that. Bruce always taught him to put logic before emotions.

Definitely a failing grade this time around.

When Dick first became Robin, Batman let him in on secrets hidden within the manor, like his contingency plans for various heroes and villains, or where he kept a stash of Alfred’s recipes. But what Dick was really trying to remember was where he kept the extra tech. He needs access to a computer. Now.

He looked around the room grabbing certain books, tapping on the walls and shelves, when a painting catches his eye.

He walks to it, grabbing it with both hands and lifting it off of the wall, beneath it was a screen, a keyboard, and a mouse.

“Bingo..” he said quietly as the screen flickered to life.

“Goddamnit.” he said just as fast afterwards. Password protected.

He really hoped that there wasn’t some kind of a limit on tries because he was about to brute force the fuck out of this thing. Possible passwords that relate to Batman…

He started typing, trying various inputs like “worldsgreatestdetective” and “gotham”, neither of which worked. Dick was really banking on the world’s greatest detective one. A long breath through his nose. His fingers hovered. He glanced around the ruined room. The air still smelled like smoke and dust.

A small notification popped up, the cursor abruptly stopping. It was in Bruce’s security font.

“THE SIGNAL CAME TWICE”

Dick read it over a few times. This had to relate to them, their patrols.

“Of course Bruce, you had to make it poetic.”

On their patrols, to signal that the other was alright without using comms, they would flash the light on their utility belts twice.

Dick typed slowly: F-L-I-C-K-E-R-T-W-O

The screen switched softly, tabs now opening and the Batcomputer database popping up with a whir.

He smiled, shaking it away and quickly pulling up his prior information about the military squadron. The Batcomputer database was all connected, allowing him to pick up where he left off, despite using a different device in a different location. Searching through the file, he finally found Crackshot.

Military sniper, 38 confirmed kills, 88% shot accuracy.

“I’m liking my odds..” Dick murmured sarcastically, shaking his head and squinting his eyes at the photo of the man. He was on the taller side, probably 6’0” - 6’2” range. He was lean though, not outwardly muscular but still presenting a lurking strength. His hair was deep brown with a flat top cut, and a brown mustache to match. He had a long scar running from his left temple to the corner of his lip. Despite his somewhat calm demeanor and clean cut appearance, his eyes were wide and manic, as if the camera flash had caught him mid-psychotic break.

“Yeah, Crackshot.” Dick said out loud. Someone in his unit must’ve had a sense of humor.

He was dishonorably discharged over an incident oversees that no one cared to document.

Dick took a step back. He remembered him from that night. Not him exactly, but his eyes. Wild and unforgiving. He saw Bruce’s face, imagination wandering down to Bruce’s legs, the multiple straight-through bullet wounds stuck in his mind. Crackshot may not have taken the final shot but he sure as hell made it rain metal in Wayne Tower that night. The monitor dimmed and the painting was carefully placed back over the screen, hiding its contents once more. It was time to end this.

He turned on his heels, walking out of the office and towards his old bedroom. The hallways were a wreck as well. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling was flickering, many of the bulbs shattered in the chaos. Paintings and family photos were ripped off the walls and scattered across the hardwood floors, red rugs now tainted by broken glass. The air smelled like dust and the house was deadly quiet besides for the crunching beneath Dick’s feet. He took each step carefully, not planning on falling victim to any sort of trip wire or trap that may have been set.

He could recall the memories in this place: running down the hallways, sliding along the grand staircase railings, even using the light fixtures as hiding places. Bruce often found him hanging from the ceiling. Dick always thought the nervous look on his face that he tried to hide it was funny. His lips would tighten, his eyes became double the size they were before, and his nose wrinkled as the anger grew at Dick’s defiance-

He cut off his own train of thought. Now wasn’t the time.

Finally reaching his bedroom, the only door in the entire house that wasn’t already kicked in, he placed his hand on the knob. Turning it slowly at first, he quickly moved to push it open hard: letting the wood hit the wall to its right. He pointed his escrima sticks, first to the left, then to the right, successfully clearing the room. His bed was still made and his desk was still messy. Everything just as the way he left it, besides for the comically large boots beneath his curtain.

Dick blinked, squinting his eyes and trying to decipher if there could be a person of Crackshot’s stature behind the cloth. He doubted it. Moving slowly, he reached up a hand to grab the curtain and shoved it to the left as hard as he could, revealing nothing but the empty boots on the ground. He sighed, holstering his escrima stick and kicking the boots to knock them over. He took a moment, closing his eyes before every hair on his neck stood straight up.

He opened them, looking down at the red dot that appeared on his shirt, just above his heart, just barely non-lethal. He ducked, reflexes on his side, but not faster than the bullet that went straight through his left shoulder with a whistle. It shattered the glass window on impact.

Dick hit the deck as fast as he could. Yelping in pain as his shoulder hit the floor. He rolled onto his back, sucking in quick breaths, before rolling over again, moving to crawl out of the room. He angled his head up slightly too high and 3 more bullets whizzed into the walls in front of him. He needed to get out of here. Now.

Army crawling along the floor, he made his way into the hall, more bullets still piercing the dry wall and going straight past his skull. He gritted his teeth while practically dragging himself to the next room, a trail of blood following him. Shock was setting in, his left arm practically useless as the blood lay slick on his fingertips, trembling as though it had been disconnected. His suit slowly becoming more red by the minute.

He reached a room under renovation, no windows and no whizzing bullets. He slowly stood, his vision blackening as a cold sweat rolled across his spine. Not yet.

Crackshot was likely moving locations, finding a better spot along the trees to shoot at him from. Dick was confused though. If he wanted him dead, he wouldn’t have hesitated on the shot to the heart. Why would he let him react?

Didn’t know. Didn’t care. He just needed to find the guy and stay alive. In that order.

He staggered to the next room, an unfinished study, nothing but tarp covered furniture and a window leading to the courtyard outside.

Even though the threat was coming from outside, Dick knew he would have a better chance if he wasn’t confined to the manor layout. The courtyard had large fountains, pillars, and hedges that he could hide behind and lose Crackshot’s eye. The courtyard was his only chance.

He dragged his shoulder along the walls, blood smearing in his wake. He was starting to get really fucking dizzy. The world entering a steady spin as he finally threw himself towards the window, sliding it open. No bullets forced their way into the home, so he assumed it was safe enough.

He wanted to be rational but between the blood loss and the utter panic he was feeling, there was nothing he could do.

He crawled out of the window on his hands and knees, looking out into the courtyard for any sign of Crackshot. His vision was becoming more blurry by the second, trying to stop his pursuit, but the adrenaline pumping did enough to compensate.

Dick tried to stand, the lower roof extension creaking as he used his right hand to push himself up. He got about halfway to standing before a slight reflection, a glint of red entered his vision.

He didn’t think.

He dropped, rolling straight off of the awning and down onto the gravel below. He landed on his right side with a bounce, his body curling in on itself with the pain. A broken sound tore from his throat.

He took a moment, trying to think of what to do next while his blood pooled beneath him. Any plan he started was soon thrown out of the window when Crackshot appeared above him. The man looked just like the photo, this time with a lit cigar hanging out of his mouth.

“You know, I thought about shooting you in the house then, but I figured I’d rather see the life leave your eyes up close, just like your old man.”

Dick had his domino mask on but that didn’t matter. If it hadn’t been confirmed before it definitely was now, that each and every participant in Bruce’s death knows that Dick Grayson is Robin.

The end of the gun moved to aim straight at his forehead while he layed on the ground.

Dick had never thought about death before right now. For himself really. He had of course thought about it first with his parents, and then Bruce. He knew it was a natural yet entirely unfair piece of the human experience, oftentimes coming too early and ripping away the people he loved.

Dick thought of death as an extension of humanity’s anger. A thing to be feared rather than accepted. He had never imagined that his day would come so soon. When staring down the muzzle he imagined the trapeze, his parents watching him soar through the air, pride beaming in their eyes and in their bright smiles. He pictured the rooftops of Gotham City, Bruce’s cowl-covered face within his vision, giving him a slight grin and laying a heavy hand on his shoulder.

He had wondered before if the afterlife existed. If the aftermath of death was an eternity of love or a brutal abyss of nothing. Staring down the muzzle he knew. He felt the weight of Bruce’s hand on his shoulder. He felt the ruffle of his mom’s hand through his hair and heard his dad’s bellowing laughter. They were so close, so close he could almost feel their breath on his skin.

He turned towards Batman, watching as the man’s comforting smile turned from one of pride to one of ambition. The heavy hand left his shoulder and he shook his head. Dick wanted to yell out, wanted to tell him to wait, that he was almost there, but Batman disappeared and he was left with the view of the muzzle.

“You’ve caused us a lot of issues kid-“ Crackshot started but was abruptly cut off with a bullet to the temple. The man staggered, dropped the gun and fell directly to the gravel below. Dick’s ears rang with the close proximity of the shot, his body lay still, despite his consciousness somehow holding on. He turned towards the sound, hearing the click of a safety turned on and the footsteps of someone determined.

They dropped down next to him, Dick’s blurry vision betraying him as his eyes desperately tried to focus the image ahead of him.

“I’ve g-t you, S-n. Yo-’ll be alr-...”

The voice was far away despite the proximity. Everything sounded like it was underwater and Dick felt like he was drowning. He felt an arm hook under his legs and another behind his back. He tried to fight back, but he was pretty sure that his body didn’t move an inch.

He thought about the words, not knowing exactly who said them. Despite his confusion, his eyes began to close, a feeling of safety washing over him somehow.

He couldn’t remember the last time he felt like this. Vague memories of Bruce carrying him out of the Batmobile and into the cave elevator came to mind. This felt sort of like that. He felt his arms and legs go limp with exhaustion, and finally let his vision go black.

Chapter Text

Dick woke up somewhere he recognized and quite frankly knew all too well.

The Batcave medbay.

The smell of sterilized equipment and bleach, along with the sound of steady beeping and ticking clocks reached his mind. He didn’t even need to open his eyes to recognize his surroundings.

He slowly blinked them open anyways, trying to sit up, but instead quickly falling back against the propped up bed. He groaned, grabbing his shoulder, and then winced due to the pain flashing through his entire right side. Right: what he landed on when he fell off the roof.

Now that he was mostly clear headed, he could realize that the idea was kind of stupid.

God, his entire body ached. He stared up at the ceiling, letting in a sharp breath before attempting to swing his legs over the side of the bed.

Before he even recognized that he was there, Alfred grabbed his legs and put them straight back onto the mattress.

“You Sir, have the survival instincts of a moth at a bonfire.”

Dick smiled, humorless. He should’ve known it was him. He tried to sit up one more time, just to see if he could sneak past him while he straightened out the sheet at the end of the bed, but was met with an iron hand on his good shoulder.

“No sudden movements. You’ve got a through and through on your shoulder, too many bruised ribs to count from your swan dive off the roof, and enough blood loss to make a vampire send a thank you card.” Alfred’s voice cut through the haze- calm, but lined with that dangerous edge he reserved for post-mission lectures.

“I’m fine.” Dick said softly, using his please let me get what I want voice.

“You’re not. But you’re breathing, thanks to my timely intervention. Which I may add, was made much easier by following your blood trail through our home.”

Dick shifted, gritting his teeth before a realization dawned on him, “Crackshot?”

“Will not be troubling anyone again.” Alfred said harshly, closing the book on that conversation for good.

Dick nodded slowly, finally sitting back for a while, even though his mind screamed at him in protest.

The answer should’ve been enough, it was the kind of clean ending Dick’s body was begging for. The low light, the antiseptic smell, the steady presence of Alfred nearby… it was too easy to let the tension drain out, to let the exhaustion sink claws into him. For a moment, he almost stayed.

But the second he felt that thought take root, he shoved it away. If he stayed, the city didn’t pause with him. Bull wouldn’t wait.

He swung his legs off the table.

“You are not serious,” Alfred said, straightening. “If you think I’m allowing you to go gallivanting about the city after—”

“Bull and Deathstroke are out there,” Dick cut in, voice low but resolute. “And if I wait, more people get hurt-“ he paused, Alfred’s face softening for just a moment, “-more people get hurt because of me.”

Alfred studied him for a beat, the weight of that stare making Dick’s skin prickle. Finally, the older man sighed, reaching for the tray where Dick’s gear sat, neatly cleaned.

”That’s where you are mistaken Master Dick. Each fight you pick and body you claim are all because of you. Yes, these men are terrible, but you are perpetuating this fight. You aren’t allowing yourself to heal and you’re making rash decisions on the reasoning of ‘vengeance’. It’s foolish.”

”It’s necessary.” Dick spat. He wasn’t up for arguing with the man, but he was defensive. 

He knew this tirade wasn’t what Alfred wanted. He knows that if Bruce were here, he’d be hesitant and he’d say all the right things to make him stop. But Bruce wasn’t here, and that’s exactly why this was happening in the first place.

”You are caught up in your emotions and you’ve thrown logic out the window.”

”The only thing thrown out the window, was Bruce’s life. You weren’t there when Slade plunged the blade into his chest Alfred! You weren’t fucking there.” he was yelling now, each shout somehow tore at his ribs, the soreness reaching deeper than his bones.

”And I regret that every day, Master Dick. But do you see me leaving a blood trail in my wake? No. I sit in the cave, and I clean, and I research and gather evidence to give to Gotham P.D.-“

”Gotham P.D. doesn’t do shit. You’re lying to yourself if you think they’ll do anything that matters-“

”And what you’re doing matters?” he shouted. Dick had never seen Alfred lose his temper, or raise his voice. He had only seen him appear more stern, not rash all together.

”What I’m doing will let me sleep at night.”

”But it won’t, Master Dick. It won’t let you sleep at night, because Master Bruce is gone. He’s gone and he’s in the ground, buried. And as much as it hurts me to say, he’s not coming back.”

”You can’t stop me.” Dick spoke, calmer than he had all night. He stared into Alfred’s eyes, his face covered in a veil of ambition. 

Alfred stared back, his shoulders loose with realization. Dick could almost see his stomach turning.

“You’ll rip half my stitches before the hour’s out,” he muttered, pressing the gloves into Dick’s good hand. “But I suppose you’d do it without the stitches anyway.”

Dick gave him a faint, tired smirk. “You know me too well.”

“Yes,” Alfred said dryly, “and that’s precisely the problem.”

Dick looked at him, and Alfred took a step back.

”You must remember that you not only carry his legacy, but his heart. You are all of the good parts of Bruce and all of the terrible parts of Batman. Until this ends, you will not find peace, I’m sure of it. But, when this is over you come home.”

Dick felt like a knife was stabbed through his heart. The words were as sharp as a blade, and as pointed as an arrow.

But he nodded nonetheless.

———

Dick pushed the heavy Batcave doors open, letting the chill of the early night air hit his face. The underground stillness of the cave was replaced with the faint hum of the city above, distant sirens, and the occasional metallic clang echoing from the Wayne estate grounds. Every step up the slick stone stairs reminded him that he was leaving the safety of his preparations behind, every instinct screaming for caution.

He moved quickly, sticking to the shadows along the mansion’s exterior. The estate was quiet, the renovations making the place feel hollow, almost abandoned. Yet every window, every crevice could hide a threat, and he assumed nothing. His shoulder still throbbed from the last fight, the pain a constant whisper at the back of his mind, but it sharpened his senses rather than dulled them.

Reaching the smaller roof over the back porch, he paused for a moment, crouched low. The wind tugged at his suit, brushing past the edges of his cape. The city’s lights flickered off in the distance, and he let himself take a slow breath, letting the memory of the Batcave, Alfred’s voice, the quiet reassurance, linger before he moved forward.

———

Gotham stretched out below, a web of lights and shadows, alleys and streets that promised both opportunity and danger.

He vaulted onto the nearest rooftop with practiced ease, letting the night swallow him. From this vantage, the city was alive, cars moving like ants, streetlights flickering through the mist. Every rooftop, every ledge, could conceal an enemy, or give him the upper hand. He moved fast, silent, a shadow blending with shadows.

His shoulder throbbed again, the dull ache from the last fight a constant reminder that he wasn’t invincible. He clenched his fists, forcing the pain into focus once more. He tracked Bull’s expected patrol route across the rooftops, timing his leaps and sprints to hit from angles that would give him advantage.

Every step on the Gotham rooftops felt deliberate. The shadows shifted beneath him as he jumped across gaps, rolling on contact, sprinting along narrow ledges, closing the distance to Bull with every pulse of adrenaline.

The rooftops were where he found peace. They reminded him of the swinging trapeze and the feeling of self-crafted wind through his hair, his fathers hands locking on to his and he flipped through the sky. Running across one gap to another felt that way, whether he was chasing after Bruce, or completely alone.

He knew the man’s patrol routes by heart. He saved this fight for second last because he knew that despite his stature, and his strength, Bull chose the most elusive grounds for battle. The grounds at which Dick was the most comfortable, giving him the idea of security.

He sat along the edge of one building, his shoulders tense as he waited to spot the man. He allowed his legs to dangle in the open air. His thoughts drifted away as he stared deeply into the skyline in front of him.

Bruce and Dick perched on the rooftop ledge of an abandoned building, legs dangling carelessly over the side. Between them sat a paper bag with their Bat Burger orders inside. Bruce had insisted on picking it up, though Dick swore he would’ve managed a granola bar for dinner just fine.

Dick bit into his burger, and immediately felt the crumbs scatter across his lap. “Great, now I’m leaving a trail,” he muttered, brushing at his pants.

Bruce spoke, his voice teasing but gentle. “At this rate, you’ll redecorate Gotham with debris.”

“I’d say it’s an improvement,” Dick shot back, smirking. “Adds character.”

Bruce chuckled and took a sip, humming softly to himself. “Gotham has enough mess to deal with, you’re going to start pushing her boundaries if you disrespect her enough.”

Dick glanced down at the streets below. The traffic looked like toy cars, and the people, tiny figures moving in random patterns, seemed oblivious to the chaos of the city. “Not sure if it’s pushing boundaries or just avoiding homework with patrol,” he said, leaning back to get a better view of the skyline. “Either way, I’m winning.”

“Your civilian responsibilities are just as important Chum,” Bruce scoffed, more seriously now, his eyes scanning the horizon even as he spoke. “that’s what matters. Your life outside of Robin and outside of Batman. Not winning, not showing off, just creating a boundary between your two identities. And sometimes, that means sitting still for a moment, enjoying the calm before the storm.”

Dick nudged Bruce with his shoulder. “Yes because work life balance becomes much more difficult when I eat a burger in costume.”

“You know what I mean,” Bruce said, smiling faintly. For a while, they simply sat there, shoulders brushing slightly, legs dangling, sharing food, conversation, and silence. The city below rumbled on, but up here, it was just them. Just two people, a father and his son, a mentor and his protege. No masks, no missions, no vengeance.

”If you let Robin and Dick Grayson merge, you’ll lose yourself. I’m serious about this.”

Dick watched Bruce hum again, catching the faintest smile tug at the corner of his lips, as if he didn’t just say something daunting and vaguely threatening. He denied the thought, instead picturing how rare this was—how fleeting and precious. He wanted to memorize it: the smell of the city air, the warmth of the afternoon sun, the soft clink of Bruce’s armor. He wanted to remember what it felt like to just be a kid again, to be safe.

After a long pause, Bruce closed up the bag. “Alright,” he said, eyes on Dick now, “back to reality soon. But remember—moments like these, they remind you why you fight.”

Dick nodded, swallowing the last bite of his fries. “Yeah… I’ll remember.”

It was only 15 minutes before Dick spotted Bull on an opposing roof. The bustling street being their only separation. He was alone, and settled his elbows onto the barrier between him and a possible plummet below. He looked up for a moment and saw Dick on the opposite side of the street.

Dick expected him to stand up straight, crack his knuckles in preparation to fight, run, anything. But instead, he remained still, his body losing all tension as if he’d expected this. As if he was sighing at the idea that Robin had come for him at all.

Dick grappled over to the other roof, vaulting over the small wall and landing across the gravel with a slide. He stood straight, watching Bull carefully. The man’s veins pulsed beneath his pale skin, and his eyes—a hard, unreadable brown—tracked Dick with a curiosity that bordered on caution. Even the scar running from his temple to his jaw looked like it had a story to tell, one that could make a lesser person shiver.

He’s not moving. He’s not charging me. Why isn’t he charging me?

He leaned casually against a low wall, arms crossed, his massive frame filling the space with quiet authority. “You don’t have to do this, kid,” he said slowly, each word deliberate. “You’ve gone too far already.”

Dick’s grip on his escrima stick tightened, the weight of the night pressing in around him. Every instinct screamed that Bull could end him in an instant, and yet the man didn’t move. He just watched, his eyes calm, scanning the young vigilante like he was trying to read every corner of his mind.

“You know nothing about me and I’ve come here for one thing and one thing only.” Dick’s voice came out tighter than intended, sharper, betraying the raw edge of grief and anger that coursed through him.

Bull shifted slightly, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “I see it in you. The rage, the grief… it’s not just a fire you can control. You’re wounded, physically, but more than that, you’re bleeding from the inside. And you’re thinking this vengeance will fix it. It won’t.” His gaze softened ever so slightly, as if he recognized the desperation of someone who had lost everything.

“You don’t get to say a fucking word about my grief.”

Dick swallowed, keeping his stance ready, yet frozen by the man’s words. Every instinct wanted to strike, to demand answers, but he stayed silent, letting the tension stretch between them. Bull exhaled, a long, measured sound that seemed to fill the night. “You’re good, I’ll give you that,” he said with a hint of admiration. “Sharp, precise… smarter than most who come at me. But you’re still just a kid. And kids… they make mistakes.”

The silence pressed back, punctuated only by the distant hum of the city. Dick’s heart pounded, every second making him feel exposed, vulnerable.

“Nothing I’ve done has been a mistake. Everything I’ve done here has had a purpose.” he spat, not moving, not lowering his guard. Bull’s eyes flicked to the extra padding on his shoulder: an area still wrapped heavily in bandages, the mark from Crackshot’s attack, and the faint limping in his stance. “I know you’re hurt,” Bull said quietly, “and I know you’ve been pushed too far already. But, you’re not ready for what comes next… and if you go after him blind, it’ll kill more than just you.”

He took a deep breath, turning fully towards Dick, “I know what it’s like. To have someone you love ripped away from you.”

Dick almost laughed. Laughed at the irony, at the complete delusion. At the attempts for something kind of empathy. As if he wasn’t the reason this was happening in the first place.

”My wife. She was murdered in Crime Alley. Shot point blank so that the bastard could grab her purse. I drove myself to the brink of insanity trying to find the asshole before I realized that I wasn’t doing it for her. I was doing it for me.”

Dick clenched his jaw, breathing shallow, every instinct screaming to do something—anything. Bull stepped closer, just enough to fill the space without touching, a silent warning and a mirror. “You’ve got one chance to stop before it consumes you completely. Think on it. Because when this ends… it won’t be just a hole in your shoulder.” He straightened nodding towards the wounded limb, giving the impression of a mountain that could move at will, and then turned, walking toward the edge of the rooftop, his eyes leaving Dick completely, as if he wasn’t a threat.

The young vigilante stayed frozen for a moment after Bull disappeared into the shadows, the tension slowly unwinding in his chest, replaced by a mix of frustration, fear, and the strange, reluctant respect that the man had inspired. Every instinct still screamed danger, but the words spoken rang in his mind, echoing softly.

But Deathstroke was out there. The sound of the blade slamming through Bruce’s heart haunted his thoughts, his dreams, his every waking moment. He was so close. He had to keep going. Sure, maybe it all wasn’t for Bruce, maybe Alfred and Bull were both right. But Dick could live with that. Because he knew deep down that if the roles were reversed, Bruce would’ve had Deathstroke in Arkham City Prison, or maybe even in a shallow grave.

But there was no way to tell. No way to know. Because Bruce was dead. The same Bruce who taught him to throw a punch. The same Bruce who danced with him to old records. The same Bruce that pulled his blankets up a little higher when Dick pretended to be asleep.

With that, he melted into the shadows, the night alive around him, and the hunt resumed.

Maybe not for Bruce.

Maybe not even for Batman.

But for Robin.

Chapter Text

Dick hadn’t heard about Deathstroke’s movements in weeks. It was almost complete radio silence, but he never stopped searching. His nights seemed to never end, the research piling on his desk and the Batcomputer databases being stretched thin with overuse.

Days began to blur together. He slept when his body demanded it, ate when he remembered, and talked to no one. Alfred had stopped calling—he could only handle the silence on the other end for so long. Even the safe houses felt different now. The hum of the Batcomputer used to be comforting, a steady rhythm that meant Bruce was near. Now, it was just noise.

Robin was convinced he had searched every goddamn corner of Gotham and its surrounding cities, and yet not a single peep from Deathstroke.

He wouldn’t call it losing hope. He’d call it the disappointment of a lack of response. He wanted Slade to outright contact him. He wanted a location and a time: where he’d be, instructions on how to get there, and a clear invitation to fight.

The thought of his hands wrapping around the man’s throat permeated his dreams.

Part of him wanted to forget. Part of him wanted to put all of this behind him and just forge forward. But he couldn’t. Every time he thought he was okay again, Bruce would appear in his dreams. They’d be together on a mission, grappling across the Gotham skyline, or fighting near the docks. And each time one of these dreams happened, it ended with a blade through Bruce’s chest. Always from the back and through the heart, always unexpected.

He’d wake up angry, hot tears pouring down his face, and a chest heaving with deep breaths. Part of him knew that the grief wouldn’t dissipate. It wouldn’t stop unless Dick did something about it. So he continued to search. He sat at the batcomputer database and burned the screen into his retinas. He ended each day with a headache, a pulsing beat behind his eyes and a sharp pain in his temples. A physical reminder of his ailments and a piercing pressure to move forward.

A few mornings ago, he woke up without a start. The night was far behind him, birds chirping in the cracked open window, a gentle breeze kissing his cheek as he turned an eye to the sun. It was the first night in months without a dream. The first night he didn’t have to watch the blade be slammed through Bruce’s heart. The first night where his mind was nothing but a black screen with radio silence. Despite the peacefulness of it all, he missed his dreams.

Before the tragic ending, he would see Bruce again. He could talk to him just like he once did, about everything and nothing. He could hear his laugh and decipher his expressions. A part of it always felt wrong though, like his voice wasn’t truly his, or something was slightly off about his laugh.

Dick found that he was starting to forget the sound of Bruce’s laugh.

He shook his head, trying to shake himself out of his thought, pushing around the same files he’d been looking at for the last hour.

He had created his own files on Deathstroke over the course of the last few months. He had decided to consult Bruce’s files though. The chance that they had some information that he didn’t was pretty high. He found himself staring at the pages, eye caught on a specific portion.

“Possible Safe Houses / Hide Outs”

He’d looked over this page before, but never spent too much time on it. He assumed that each of these places were abandoned, the second that they were found to be discovered they’d be vacant and stripped bare.

One stuck out to him. It was less of a safehouse and more of a broad location. In Otisburg, a neighborhood in South Gotham, there was a stretch of neglected shoreline. It was an industrial area where factories and refineries met the sea. It was always blanketed in a ghastly smog, exhaust from the factories mixing with the sea spray.

The specific hideout was one of the abandoned factories. Dick was sure that area would be cleared out by now, turned into some new power plant to further pollute the bay, but upon further research it was still just abandoned.

He stared at the description of the location, along with the coordinates, for a long time. He couldn’t tell whether his brain or his heart was fighting for him to stay behind. He closed his eyes, the inner turmoil causing his head to spin.

If he stayed back, he could move on. He could repair his civilian identity. He could continue as Robin, hell maybe he could take up the Bat mantle. He could regain trust with Alfred. He could live again.

But he can’t.

Not with something like this weighing on his shoulders. This pain, this anguish and rage: it can’t all be for nothing. There has to be an end. He needs closure and he’s the only one that can get it.

So he’s gonna go fucking get it.

———

He gathered his suit, weapons, and other supplies. Gotham’s main streets disappeared behind him in pieces, first the skyline, then the glow of the streetlights, and finally the sound. By the time the tires hit the cracked industrial road toward Otisburg, there was nothing but fog.

His bike’s headlight carved through the gray in a narrow cone, catching glimpses of old refineries and collapsed cranes. The salt air hit his face, sharp and bitter. The world felt smaller out here. Colder. Like it was waiting for him to do what he’d come to do.

He arrived in Otisburg at around 5 AM. The sun will be rising soon. He wanted to see the area in its entirety, scope out, plan, and see if Slade was even here in the first place. He could make his move later tonight.

The fog in the area was dense, so dense that the horizon completely disappeared. The sea and the sky melted together in a pale grey. The fog hung low over the sand, blanketing the ruined dock and badly crafted boats.

The industrial buildings behind him along the sand were ruined as well. Boarded up broken windows and badly painted graffiti permeated each wall. The area reeked of smoke, as if the buildings were recently burned, ash mixing with the sand below. The morning was quiet. Deadly quiet. The only sounds being the crashing waves and the occasional bird chirping.

Dick settled his backpack on his shoulders, rolling one in lingering pain from wounds past. He trudged on, walking through the sand towards the building pictured in Bruce’s files.

Dick was wearing heavier black boots, worn from use, khaki-colored cargo pants, a leather belt that he’d stolen from Bruce’s closet ages ago, and a loose fitting black t shirt. His hair was messy and unkept, curls grown out slightly past his ears.

He furrowed his eyebrows, looking up at the industrial complex. He was desperately trying to focus, but the pain in his temples and the pit in his stomach forced his mind to only focus on one thing. Finding Deathstroke.

Every step closer to the water felt heavier, like the sand itself was trying to hold him back. The fog pressed in, wrapping around him until it felt like he was underwater. He could barely make out his own shadow in the mist.

The waves rolled in quietly, dragging scraps of rusted metal and blackened wood across the beach. Somewhere far off, a gull screamed, a sound so sharp it almost broke the silence.

He kicked up the sand with each step, moving closer to the building. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if Wilson was inside. He didn’t know what he’d say or how he’d react. He just knew that he needed to see him. He told himself that he’d know what to do when the time came.

He just wasn’t expecting the time to be now.

His steps ended abruptly, turning his head back to the shore. In the midst of the emptiness, there were wooden posts near the water, tall in stature, wide in circumference. He heard a cough and a sputter.

At first, he thought it was the wind. Then came the sound again—a ragged, human noise. A cough. A wheeze.

The cough was weak. He moved towards it, towards the posts. He walked purely on instinct.

As he got closer and the fog began to fall in around him, he saw a figure.

The person was strung up to the post, easily left for dead. Their wrists were pulled up above their head, bony shoulders in plain view. They wore boots, military style pants, and a bloodied white tank top. Their skin was dirty and their white hair was stained red at the hairline, a head wound dripping blood down their face.

The scent of blood permeated the air, almost as thick as the fog. Dick took another step closer, seeing the blood run over what looked to be a metal eyepatch.

The man weakly tilted his head upwards, seeing who had come to mock him. Upon seeing Dick, he actually laughed. Chuckles then followed by wheezing coughs and spurts of blood through red teeth.

Dick’s legs seemed to move on their own, his arms throwing his backpack down into the sand, hands grasping a blade and reaching up to cut the rope used to tie the man. After the final slice, the rope gave and he fell straight to the sand, stomach first. He groaned, his frame clearly beaten and starved. His cheeks were hollow against the ground, his skin pale from blood loss.

Dick watched as he weakly moved to stand, stumbling once back to the sand before managing to walk. He headed for the ruined dock. The silence was deafeningly loud, reverberating through Dick’s mind and body.

He couldn’t bring himself to speak. His mouth felt like it was filled with cotton and his brain couldn’t form a sentence to say. He followed behind the man about ten feet. He kept a reasonable distance, watching him stagger across the sand towards the structure.

When he finally reached the dock, he used all of his might to untie a wooden boat, pushing it slightly into the calm waters, before turning around.

Dick could only think of one thing to say.

“I can’t let you leave.”

It was said more like a question rather than a statement or a threat. He met Deathstroke’s eyes, but they weren’t filled with the same ego, the same cockiness. They were empty. They were hollow and deep-set.

“I’m not going to fight you, kid.”

Dick stared, hesitating before reaching back into his backpack. His fingertips brushed the cool metal, shaking hands grasping the object as he dropped the bag into the sand. He used only his right hand, clicking off the safety with his left, before raising the pistol.

“Yes, you will.”

Slade’s head dropped to his chest, shaking it back and forth as he met Dick’s eyes once more.

“You’ve taken enough from me. My own people have taken enough from me-“ he gestured back to the posts, Dick could draw his own conclusions without explanation, “-I’m not doing this. Wayne wasn’t untouchable, none of us are.”

Dick took a fast step closer, the gun pointed in a far more reckless manner as he racked the slide. “He was all I had.” He tried to stop the stray tear that burned in his eyes but couldn’t, powerless as it fell down his cheek.

Slade hesitated, grabbing his side in pain as he slowly nodded his head, “Okay…okay.”

Dick waited, realizing that Slade wasn’t going to make the first move, so he struck. Tossing the gun straight to the sand he walked towards him, movements fast and somewhat steady. Slade made a weak swing at him, Dick easily ducked and came back with a harder hit, landing one straight across his jaw. The man was quickly knocked to the ground, his hands clawing at the sand below, clawing for some kind of stability.

Dick towers over his broken frame, too in the moment to notice the sweeping leg that knocked him off his feet. He fell on his back against the sand, the pain in his shoulder still radiating as Deathstroke made a move towards him. He threw a punch downwards, Dick rolled to dodge, the fist flying into the sand instead. Dick used this moment to gain the advantage, shoving Slade back to the sand.

The fight was scrappy. Born of pure rage and desperation. Fists flew and yet not many connected. Slade grabbed Dick’s arm mid swing, twisting and throwing him into the nearby water lapping up onto the shore. Dick took in a sharp breath, steadying his heartbeat as the wind was stripped from his lungs. He tried to take another moment but Slade was on him again, forcing him down into the shallows.

Dick panicked, cold water flooding his nose and mouth as he kicked himself free.

“You think he’d want this?” Slade rasps between heaving breaths.

Dick lunged, shoulder screaming, as he slammed Slade down into the wet sand. He’s on top now, raining blows until the man below was too weak to counter. Using both fists, he pounded them into his chest, blood pouring from between his teeth.

He raised his fists once more, catching his own reflection in Slade’s one eye. It isn’t a hero, nor a son. It’s a ghost.

Every movement hurt. Every breath burned. Dick’s arms felt like they were filled with lead, each punch slower than the last. Slade’s counters were clumsy but still dangerous—like an animal fighting with its last ounce of strength.

The sea roared around them, the tide licking at their boots, dragging the sand away beneath their feet. The fog swallowed their shadows until they looked like two ghosts locked in a dream neither of them could wake from.

He hesitated, standing. He grabbed Slade by the strap on his undershirt, dragging him into the shallow waves. He stopped for a moment, face scrunching into something angrier, before forcing his head beneath the water. Dick’s hands wrapped around his throat.

One day, you won’t need me.

The water bubbled around his head.

If we cross that line there’s no one to pull us back.

Slade continued to fight, legs thrashing against Dick’s knee on his stomach.

You always have a choice.

Slade’s eye was wide and wild, panic taking over every instinct.

You did good kid, you always do.

His eye closed, thrashing limbs slowing down as Dick’s grasp tightened.

I’m proud of you Dick, always have been.

Bruce’s face flashed in his mind. He’s sitting at the kitchen table in the penthouse, the morning of his death. His robe is still on, coffee cup and morning paper in hand. Reading glasses sat on his nose as Dick entered the room. Bruce looked up for a moment, smiling at his entrance-

Dick let go.

He scrambled backwards into the shallow water, sitting with his knees raised as Slade thrashed upwards, gasping and coughing out seawater. He turned over on his hands and knees.

“Go.”

Tears poured down Dick’s face as he buried his head in his arms. Blood permeated his skin and his clothes, pain wracked his body.

Slade looked over to him, before standing without a word. He carefully walked over to the boat, the water splashing with each step. He pulled the engine cord a few times, causing it to sputter with life. He climbed in the boat, leaving Dick with one final look, before sailing off into the fog.

He watched as the boat disappeared into gray. Its dark shape dissolving into nothing. Dick stayed behind. Alone in the surf. He’d forgotten what he was meant to fight for as his shoulders shook. His hands trembled, the silence breaking into something raw and human. The salt burned his eyes.

The waves lapped gently against his back, washing the blood from his hands, painting thin red ribbons across the tide. The fog shifted with the breeze, and for a moment, he thought he heard something: footsteps, Bruce’s voice, the crackle of a comm, but there was nothing. Just the sea. Just the silence.

He had found what he had came for. It changed nothing.

The water carried what was left of his anger out to sea.