Archive of Our Own ^beta

In a miraculous turn of events, the sun was out and the sky was clear when Dick parked his bike in downtown Gotham. The Robinson Park summer arts festival was in full swing, and he’d had to park several blocks away to avoid paying exorbitant fees in the parking garage.

He slipped his keys into his pocket and appreciated the sounds and smells of the event that drifted down the street: funnel cakes, a local rock band, freshly-mowed grass, squealing children. As Dick got closer, he joined the bright-colored streams of people headed toward the festival’s entrance. Without his family and without “rich people” clothing, he blended in enough not to be recognized. Still, he pulled his baseball cap lower on his head, intending to keep it that way.

“—there was a discount for kids?”

Dick’s head swiveled to the ticket booth, where a mom with two young children and a stroller were huddled. The ticket attendant looked unamused. “The discount is for children 5 and under.”

One of the girls, wearing a pair of fluorescent pink butterfly wings on her back, looked up guiltily. “It’s okay, mom. I don’t have to go.”

Dick hung back, not wanting to intrude.

The mom shook her head. “No, it’s okay,” though the tightness in her tone suggested otherwise. She pulled the girl into her side in a half-hug as she dug through her old wallet. “These two are younger than five,” she told the ticket attendant, pointing to the smaller boy and the baby in the stroller. “I’ll need two tickets, please.” She pulled out a small wad of ones. Her hands shook as she passed the money over.

“Mom,” the girl whispered. “What about—”

“Two tickets,” the attendant confirmed, passing over paper wristbands and taking the money. “Have a great day.” She waved the small family through. “Next.”

Nobody stepped forward. Dick glanced behind him and realized a line had formed there, a couple teens wearing all black, a man in a blue sweatshirt, a couple with matching salt-and-pepper hair. One of the teens raised her eyebrows at him.

Dick gave an apologetic wave. “Sorry, guess that’s me.”

He paid for his ticket quickly, eyes skirting back into the festival to try to keep track of the family that had just entered. He could drop a fifty on the ground near them? No, with these crowds, it would be a safer bet to hide it in the stroller. He spared the ticket attendant a smile as he took his wristband. “Keep the change!” he yelled, darting inside.

The arts festival had expanded in the last several years; they’d announced they would allot some of the proceeds of the festival toward conservation of the park’s plants and wildlife, and Poison Ivy had mostly left it alone since. As such, it was a sprawling, lively thing, not unlike the circus Dick had grown up in. Rows of booths lined the two wide aisles of the merchant area. Food trucks were rounded up in one corner, surrounding several long rows of picnic tables. Two stages were set up at opposite ends of the festival, where acts could perform without interfering with one another. A local children’s band was one of the highlights of today’s acts, so when Dick couldn’t spot the small family immediately, he headed down an aisle toward the main stage where the band would be performing.

The merchant aisles were swarming with people. It was only Dick’s preternatural grace that kept him from being swept away as others roamed the stalls. Still, he was jostled here and there by less observant festival-goers: a gaggle of college kids that backed into traffic from a nearby stall, a man in a blue sweatshirt looking at his phone, two unsupervised children that were trying to sprint their way through the crowd.

Luckily, he was able to spot and catch up with the family quickly. People crowded around a stall sampling handmade soap were blocking foot traffic. He reached them just as the mom was able to push the stroller through the throng. Dick was debating whether to tail them long enough to discretely hand the money over, or if that was creepy, when a stuffed animal launched out of the front of the stroller.

Instantly, a shriek from inside.

“Madelyn,” the mom chastised. “We are not playing this game right now.” She shuffled around to the front of the stroller to retrieve the lost unicorn.

Dick took his opportunity to tuck a $100 bill into one of the stroller’s side pockets as he brushed past.

The girl with the butterfly wings stared at him. Caught.

He winked, and pointed at the pocket. She began to reach for it as he waved goodbye, slipping back into the crowd.

Good deed done for the day, his steps felt lighter. He was able to focus on his main mission: finding a gift for Damian’s birthday. The kid had sent him three screenshots of an artist’s work in the last week, with some mild commentary on the technique. From him, that was the equivalent to receiving a raving review. So Dick had looked up the artist, and lo and behold, he was supposed to have a booth at this festival.

He wandered around the stalls, admiring the trinkets and jewelry, the art prints and leather goods. He went back to the soap sample booth and picked out a bar that smelled like mint and strawberries — real strawberries, not the sickly sweet artificial scent. A particularly sparkly shop also caught his eye, where he honed in on handmade crowns that he thought Tim and Steph would like. He picked out two options for Tim and removed his hat to try them on in the mirror, deciding which color would work best for Tim’s most recent Warlocks and Warriors character.

He made eye contact with someone in the reflection. A man in a blue sweatshirt, who blinked at him mildly before turning back to the nearby photography prints of the Gotham skyline.

A gasp brought his attention back to the booth. “That looks so good on you,” the artist at his stall said. She had freckles across her nose and callouses on her hands from the wire work. “It’s totally fine if not, but could I take your picture for my socials?”

Dick smiled, standing to his full height and adjusting the crown so it stood straight. “Yeah, sure. What are you going for?” He struck an overdramatic pose, arms wrapped around his stomach and lips pulled into a duckbill shape. “Drama?” he asked. He placed the back of his hand to his forehead and leaned back, like he was about to faint. “I could also do tragedy?”

The vendor snorted. “Yeah, that’s perfect.” She took a single photo to play along. “Just look natural? Ooh, maybe look in the mirror again?”

Dick let his face fall into a genuine smile and obliged. She took a few photos of him wearing each crown, then paused when another customer asked her a question. “Here,” she said, handing the phone over to Dick. “Take a look and let me know if they’re okay.”

She walked away to help the other customer while he scrolled through the photos. Not bad, for how quickly she took them. She obviously had experience photographing her products. Dick reached the last photo, the one where he was still being melodramatic, and paused, frowning. The man in the blue sweatshirt was in the background, looking toward the camera.

Dick looked up, but the man was not at the photography booth anymore. It was probably just a coincidence.

He gave the phone back, and she beamed as she looked through the photos again. She tried to give him a discount in exchange, but he refused, asking only that she wait until after Wednesday to post them, so the gifts wouldn’t be spoiled.

And then he was on his way, his hair tucked into his cap, once again looking for Damian’s artist. He found his booth in the second aisle, and by the time he reached it he had collected two bags’ worth of merchandise. The stall wasn’t as busy as some of the others; the pieces were beautiful, but out of the price range of most casual onlookers. The artist combined canvas and sculpture to create lush landscapes and figures that seemed to escape their frames. Dick glanced past a few half-hidden nude figures that he was not about to purchase for his thirteen-year-old brother.

“Can I help you?” the artist asked. He had tattoos on his fingers, and smelled like cigarettes. Not what Dick had expected, but then he caught himself wondering why he hadn’t expected it.

Dick shot a grin toward him. “Actually, yeah. My little brother loves your work. He sent me a photo of the one with the horses, and I was hoping you’d have something similar?”

The artist gave him a look. “You want,” he clicked his tongue, “horses?”

Dick’s smile went brittle around the edges. “Yes, or something similar.”

The artist steepled his fingers and leaned back in his seat, humming in thought. “I don’t have anything.”

“Nothing? Do you have any other works with animals?” he tried. He was keeping his tone so neutral, being so generous. Damian would hate to find out this guy is such an asshole.

The artist flipped his hand up dismissively. “You can look.” He had the audacity to pick up his phone, dismissing the conversation completely.

Well.

Dick only needed a moment to debate, and decided he’d rather spend his money elsewhere. He turned abruptly, and froze.

A man in a blue sweatshirt was in the booth across the aisle from him, barely looking at the spinning rack of earrings there. His ears were not pierced. No wedding band, not even a tan line from a wedding band, despite his age and the sun damage evident on the backs of his hands.

It could still be a coincidence. They entered the festival at the same time, and if they were both looking at all of the booths, then they’d make their way around at a similar rate.

Plausible deniability meant it wasn’t worth causing a scene yet, so he didn’t say anything. Dick hiked his two bags of merchandise higher onto his shoulder and began to speed-walk through the crowd. He wanted to see one of the bands performing by the food courts. He could grab a funnel cake and wait the last 30 minutes before it was their turn.

If the man showed up there? Dick would know.

His heart was racing by the time he made it to the food court, and it wasn’t from the walking. The smells were almost overwhelming, chili dogs and funnel cakes, steak tacos and barbecue pork, garlicky pizza and kettle corn. He wasn’t really hungry, so he chose the truck with the shortest line, without really looking at the menu. Instead, he scanned the crowd around him, looking for that blue sweatshirt.

“Sir? What can I get you?”

He whipped his head around in surprise. “Me?”

“Are you in line?” the lady asked. She had a hint of a southern accent.

“Yeah.”

“What do you want?”

“Uh.” Dick looked over the menu and regretted his choice already. The tiny truck had a little bit of everything: nachos, pretzels, funnel cakes, Italian ice, pizza, ice cream and floats. There was no way any of it was actually fresh. “A pretzel? And a lemonade.”

“Salted or cinnamon?”

Dick blinked at her. “What?”

“You want a salted or cinnamon pretzel?”

“Oh. Salted, please.”

“Twelve dollars.”

Dick bit his tongue to keep his eyebrows from drawing up. The prices were on the menu, he just hadn’t looked at them. He forked the cash over with an extra dollar to tip, anyway.

“Give me a minute,” the lady said, and Dick realized she was the only one in the truck. Great.

She pulled out a bottle of mustard and, when it didn’t relinquish any condiment to her tiny plastic cup, added water to the bottle and began to shake it. Dick made the executive decision not to watch her prepare the rest of the food, lest he be unable to eat it.

Instead, he turned his attention back to the crowd. The children’s band must have finished their set, because most of the picnic tables were occupied by families with young children. To his delight, he spotted the girl with butterfly wings across the lot, a giant bag of kettle corn swinging from her fist. Her mom looked relaxed, (well, as relaxed as she could be, while the younger boy kept trying to climb into the stroller so he could ride with his baby sister.)

Someone blocked Dick’s view, and it took him a moment to register that it was a person.

A man. In a blue sweatshirt.

Dick stepped backward, but the man still wasn’t looking at him, just reading the menu on the truck from up close. His posture was still, guarded.

Dick’s blood went cold. He opened his mouth, about to say something, when the woman in the window called for him. “Here ya go!”

She passed him a pale pretzel that had obviously been sprayed with fake butter to get the salt to stick, a cup of watery mustard, and a plastic bottle of lukewarm water. Dick grimaced at the grease on the plate, and the woman shooed him away with a, “What can I get you, sir?” aimed toward the man in the blue sweatshirt.

Dick sped-walked to the picnic table furthest from the truck. He was determined to enjoy his day, to not cause a scene and draw any more attention to himself. The last thing he wanted was for Bruce to catch wind; he’d never be allowed in public alone again. The seat he chose was close enough to the bandstand that he could see the musicians beginning to set up. The rest of the table was occupied. This was good. He was going to enjoy this.

He ripped a piece of the pretzel off. The fake butter spray had missed this chunk, so it was unseasoned and unappetizingly white. But a tentative bite proved that it was, technically, baked through.

He got through a few bites before the rest of the party at the table stood. The pretzel turned into ash in his mouth as they left in a swarm around him. Not a moment later, his baseball cap was liberated from his head, a few strands of hair pulled out with the grip.

“Hey!” Dick shouted, more surprised than anything. He twisted in his seat, and was met with a wall of blue.

“No,” Dick hissed, as the man put his baseball cap on. “Get away from me.”

The man ignored him, sliding into a seat across the table. He’d ordered the same thing as Dick had.

Dick slammed his palms on the table. “Stop following me.” He didn’t try to avoid eye contact again. The man had brown eyes and a sun-aged face to match his hands. Dick guessed he was about 60 years old.

The man didn’t say anything. He just stared, openly, as he ripped a piece of the pretzel off and engulfed the end in his wet mouth.

Dick’s stomach soured. He stood abruptly, not caring that he knocked over his water bottle to spill into the grass next to his foot. “Stop following me,” he repeated. “I mean it.”

He walked his pretzel to the nearest garbage can and tossed it, unable to look at the food without gagging. The man sat at the tables still, watching him and sucking salt off the pretzel lewdly. Even from this distance, Dick could see drool spill from the man’s lips onto the paper plate. And when the man began to chew, he took Dick’s baseball cap off his head and sniffed it.

With a shudder, Dick headed toward the park’s main building, where he knew there would be security.

Except.

He didn’t have the hat anymore. Causing a scene now would get him recognized. And the only way this outing could get worse was if he got caught in a paparazzi storm.  

“Shit,” he murmured. His throat closed up with the realization. He just needed to leave.

He ducked behind a stall, finding a place where he could watch the man in the sweatshirt without being seen as easily. As he predicted, the moment he was out of sight, the man stood with his plate and headed toward one of the trash cans.

Dick lunged while the man’s back was turned, weaving through the crowd back toward the entrance, where the crowd would bottleneck enough for him to see if he were being followed.

“It was him!”

He startled when his path was suddenly blocked by a little girl wearing butterfly wings. She pointed at him accusingly, the bag of kettle corn now only half-full. “He’s the one who gave us the money!”

No good deed.

The mom was on him in an instant, using the stroller as a kind of battering ram to get through the crowd and tugging the little boy behind her. “Honey,” she shushed the girl. “Pointing is rude.”

Despite her tone, her eyes were sharp as she appraised Dick, suspicious. “Why?” she asked.

Dick held his hands up, his two bags of merchandise digging into his elbows. “Look, I—” he scanned the crowd, and his heart skipped a beat when he realized he’d lost track of the blue sweatshirt. “I don’t mean any trouble. Just wanted to be a good neighbor.”

They were drawing attention. Someone on the edges of the crowd had a phone up, and maybe it was pointed at him. Two teen girls whispered to each other, staring at him as they passed.

“I have to go,” Dick said, rushed. “Sorry!”

“Wait—” but the mother’s words were lost to the crowd as Dick dodged around her and continued to weave through it. He reached the entrance without being stopped, and only got a few dirty looks from the staff members as he forced his way out against the flow of traffic. Nobody stopped him.

Dick sped-walked toward his bike. It was stupid to buy so much; now he had to carry it all the way back, and the best way to be targeted by a mugger was to walk around Gotham with plastic bags full of junk. As on-edge as he was, he was relieved to round the corner and see that his bike was still where he had left it.

His hand slid into his pocket for his keys as he approached, and his steps faltered. He checked his other pocket. In a moment of panic, he set down his bags and rifled through them.

No keys.

He was kneeling on the hot sidewalk when he heard the jangle behind him. There were his keys, twirling around the finger of a man rounding the corner.

The blue sweatshirt was tied around his waist, revealing a wrinkled polo shirt, a tuft of curly gray chest hair poking through the opened buttons. Dick’s hat was tucked into the front of his pants, the bill of it sticking out of the waistband like a promise.

“Give me my keys,” Dick demanded. He scrambled to his feet so fast black dots danced in his periphery. “I’m calling the police.”

The man licked his lips. “Richard Grayson. Dick.”

Dick’s hand was already wrapped around his phone. “Back up,” he warned. “Throw the keys to me.”

A strangled sound escaped the man’s throat. “No.”

Dick pressed the emergency alert on his phone, the civilian one. There was a taser tucked in his boot. He wasn’t past using it, now that there wasn’t a crowd to worry about. But when he bent to reach for it, there was a tell-tale click of a gun safety flicking off.

When he looked up, it was into the barrel of a pistol.

Dick raised his hands. “What do you want?” he asked, eyes not straying from the weapon. It swayed slightly as the man did. Was he on something?

The man made that whining noise again. “I just want.” He swallowed audibly, smacked his lips. “I want to touch. Hold still.”

“Don’t touch me,” Dick warned, but the man was already getting closer. “Police are on their way. Give me my keys, and you can—” Dick shuffled backward as the man continued his approach. “—you can get away before they get here.”

His foot caught on the bag he’d left on the ground. He corrected, but his boot slipped on uneven ground and sent him careening into the brick wall.

The man was instantly on him, the barrel of the gun pressed into Dick’s shoulder, something else hard pressing into his hip. The man panted into Dick’s face, breath reeking of mustard. “Just a touch,” he said, almost more to himself than out loud.

A rough hand slid up the front of Dick’s shirt, skimmed along his stomach. The man leaned into Dick’s neck and inhaled, eyes drifting shut.

Dick struck.

In one practiced movement, he wrenched the man’s hand backward until he dropped the gun. Dick’s foot sent it skittering down the pavement. He didn’t let go of the man’s wrist, following through to force him over and around, switching their places.

The man yowled. “You’re hurting me!”

“Give me my keys,” Dick demanded, letting a little Nightwing slip into his tone. “Or I’ll break your wrist.”

The man sobbed. “They’re in my pocket. You could—”

“Give them to me.” Dick pressed the wrist until he felt something pop.

The man wailed. He fished the keys out and tossed them blindly to the side.

Dick just barely didn’t catch them. (He ignored the tremor in his hands.) He growled in irritation. “Listen closely. If I catch you following me, or anybody else in Gotham again, I will not hesitate to rip off your testicles. Do you understand?”

The man whimpered. “Promise?”

Dick saw red. Without thinking logically, he thrust the man into the wall. The man instantly went limp, and Dick felt the sickening pop as his shoulder dislocated when he fell.

Dick dropped him like he’d been burned. What had he—fuck. He rolled the man to his back and checked his vitals: airway clear, pulse strong. But when he pulled back the man’s eyelids, it revealed one large pupil, the other contracted into a tiny pinprick.

Fuck.

It took three tries to call an ambulance. Dick’s hands shook too hard; he couldn’t read the screen. He was cold all over, except the hot press of the man’s hand on his stomach, the hot pressure against his hip. The mustard smell was thick in his nostrils, even when he blindly reached for the bar of soap—partially squashed by his boot—and jammed it against his face.

Bruce arrived before the ambulance. He stopped on the street with his hazards on. He didn’t pause long enough to shut his door when he ran to crouch by Dick’s side. (Dick didn’t remember sitting.)

“Sweetheart,” was all he had to say.

Dick curled into him, and cried.