Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The office felt wrong. The absence of Caffrey had extended far past the ‘See you all on Monday’ he’d promised when he left the office with his brothers. Hughes hadn’t said anything so Peter knew it was cleared time off, but something was wrong. It had been weeks and the whole team had felt it.

Diana was jumpy and tense. Clint had stopped complaining about mortgage frauds. Peter couldn’t stop himself from turning to ask for his opinion during cases and had learned to fake a sneeze each time he glanced over his shoulder.

Each day was longer than the last and every evening Peter was glad to return home to his wife and dog. At least he was until he walked in to find El sitting on the couch watching a live interview.

LIVE: Bruce Wayne: Gotham’s Billionaire Declared Missing and Presumed Dead

“ -the Wayne family released a statement this morning confirming that billionaire Bruce Wayne has been declared legally dead after two weeks missing-”

The image cut to an interview feed. Four boys sitting on a couch across from a reporter. Damian Wayne, 14, sat by the edge of the couch, back still and straight. Tim Drake-Wayne, 16, was sitting similarly though his right arm was in a cast and faint bruising showed where his suit sleeves had ridden up. Jason Todd-Wayne, 17, was more sprawled than sitting on the couch, his arm tossed over the back. Dick Grayson, or Neal, as Peter knew him, sat all the way back, arms crossed with an ankle propped on his knee.

“Is that Neal?” El asked and Peter nodded before sitting down next to her.

The reporter smiled wide as she leaned forward a bit. “Thank you, gentlemen, for agreeing to this. The world’s been concerned for your father. Of course, everyone’s been following the story. How are you holding up?”

Jason leaned forward, voice rough. “We’re managing.”

“That’s good to hear.” The reporter shifted her notes. “Mr. Grayson, you were his ward the longest though the only one not formally adopted. Some say you were closest to him. What’s this been like for you?”

Dick’s hands folded neatly in his lap. “Losing anyone you’ve known your whole life hurts. We’re focusing on keeping the family stable.”

Peter heard the lilting inflections in his voice, the regulars behind the words. Heard the lie for what it was.

“Stable,” the reporter repeated. “That’s an interesting word. Given your family’s … history.”

Tim glanced up from where he’d been picking at the edge of his cast, eyes narrowing slightly. Damian shifted forward, tense.

The reporter pressed on, shifting her attention. “Mr. Drake. Sources at Wayne Enterprises say you’ve taken over some of your father’s corporate duties. How is that transition going? Is it hard, being 16 and running a company?”

Tim’s mouth opened but Dick answered smoothly, smile sharp. “He’s doing excellent work. The company’s in good hands.”

“And you, Mr. Wayne,” She turned to Damian, “Your relationship with your father was … complicated. Is it true that he didn’t know you existed until you were eight?”

Damian glared at her. “That is correct.”

“Were you close before he disappeared, Mr. Wayne?”

Dick cut in again, “We were all close. We’re family ma’am.”

She turned back to him with a sharp look.

“So you say. What’ll happen now Mr. Grayson? Your father is gone. What will you do when your brothers are sent into the foster system now that they don’t have a guardian? Will you return to your roots? Find a caravan of gypsies to take you in?” Her smile was a sick kind of sweet.

El went rigid and Peter sat up straight.

Dick blinked once and matched her grin. “I’ll take care of us, ma’am. We’re staying together. We’re moving cities. That’s all you need to know.”

Jason stood and moved to leave the interview, Tim and Damian behind him as Dick shook the reporter’s hand and followed them out.

The news switched to commercials as El slumped backwards on to the couch.

“Will we see Neal again?”

Peter rubbed his face with one hand and pulled El to his side.

“I don’t know.”

***

The house didn’t feel like Gotham. That was the first thing that Dick noticed when the door swung open. No damp concrete, no stale smoke, no copper-tinged air lingering in the house. Just the faint scent of new paint, sawdust, and the hint of lemon cleaner.

Park Slope was quieter than he expected for Brooklyn. Rows of houses pressed into each other, their stoops lined with flower boxes. There were bikes chained to the stair rails and people jogging. The kind of place where people said hello and had neighbors over for dinner. The kind of place Bruce Wayne wouldn’t have ever lived.

He loved it.

Jason set a duffel down in the hall and blew out a slow breath. “We’re doing this.” It was an assurance, not a question.

Dick smiled faintly. “Yeah. We are.”

Gotham was gone. The manor, the lies, the capes, all of it. Alfred had refused to come with them and Dick hadn’t argued. The man deserved peace.

He stepped inside, followed by his three brothers. Legal sons now, technically. Adopting them was the best and quickest way to keep the boys in his custody. It felt lighter, like he could breathe here.

The living room rose into vaulted ceilings. By the next afternoon, ropes and rigging hung down from reinforced beams. Silks in deep blue and red, a narrow trapeze bar, a few suspended grips and a removable raised bar. Jason had muttered something about turning the place into a circus, but Dick had caught the faint smile he tried to hide.

The kitchen came next. Jason took to it like a man on a mission. New cabinets, a full set of kitchen knives with a magnetic strip on the wall, and moving steel islands. The first night with the new setup was silent. Every night after that had a speaker hooked to his phone.

Tim quickly disappeared into the house network, dragging cables through crawl spaces and cornering Damian to help install motion sensors. A custom system by the end of the week, camera feeds tied to their phones, automated locks, encrypted routers. It was overkill, but no one said anything about it.

The garage became a training room. Damian handled the set up, picking and choosing everything himself. Reinforced mats, adjustable weapon racks, mirrorless walls, he’d found space for a cot in the corner and set up a dog heaven for Ace and Titus, though neither ever left his side. Jason’s and Dick’s motorcycles stood next to Tim’s skateboard and Damian’s bicycle.

By the end of the week, the house looked less like a house and a lot more like a home.

On the third night, Dick found Tim crisscross on his bed, screens casting a pale light over his face. The kid was typing fast, expression blank, and several empty cans of Bang next to him.

“You should sleep,” Dick said from the doorway.

“Almost done,” Tim murmured.

Dick leaned against the frame. “You’re doing it?”

Tim nodded. “Neal Caffrey resigned from the Bureau, effective two days ago. His files are gone, both the ones from working for the FBI and everything prior. He simply doesn’t exist anymore, though he did buy a plane ticket to Paris before he disappeared.” His fingers hadn’t stopped moving. “And Richard Grayson transferred from Blüdhaven Police Department to the White Collar division of the New York offices. Referred by Chief Rohrbach. I called her and she agreed completely, I didn’t even have to forge her signature.”

Dick smiled a little. Amy was a good cop. “How’s it feel, committing federal fraud?”

Tim’s mouth twitched. “Fun.”

The computer pinged, it was done.

Dick crossed the room and set a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Thanks, Tim.”

He shrugged, eyes still on the screen. “Hope you’re ready for this. You start tomorrow Detective Grayson.”

Outside, the city hummed softly, different from Gotham’s constant growl. The air carried laughter, distant sirens, and shouts of neighbors. Dick stood a while longer, the weight of everything both gone and beginning settling against his ribs. Then he turned off the light and left Tim to sleep…or not, seeing as the computers were still on.

***

The elevator dinged.

Peter looked up automatically from his desk, half expecting the sound to be muscle memory playing tricks on him again. But this time, someone actually stepped out.

Neal.

Perfectly pressed shirt, a slim tie, and fluffy hair. He walked through the bullpen with an easy confidence and a genuine smile on his face.

“Neal!” Peter stood.

Every head turned toward him. Diana straightened in her chair. Clint blinked once and frowned. There was something off about Neal. The way he walked, carried himself, smiled. None of it was Neal.

The man stopped mid-stride, brows knitting slightly in confusion. Then he smiled, “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” His voice carried an accent Peter couldn’t identify. A weird blend of almost Slavic mixed with the heaviness of Gotham. “I’m Richard Grayson. You can call me Dick.”

He extended a hand and Peter took it with slight hesitation. He knew Neal was really Dick Grayson, but he’d never expected to actually meet Dick.

Hughes came out of his office with an amused grin that made the office freeze. They’d never seen Hughes smile, even slightly. He came down the stairs with his usual calm authority and shook Neal–no-Dick’s hand without pause.

“Detective Grayson,” Hughes said warmly. “It’s good to have you join us.”

The room seemed to catch on at the same moment even as Hughes clapped Dick on the shoulder and turned him to face the bullpen.

“Everyone, this is Detective Dick Grayson from Blüdhaven PD. He’s been undercover for the last eight years.”

Eight years. Timed exactly to when Neal Caffrey popped up on their radar.

Diana got up from her desk and with a grin thrust her hand forward to be shaken. “Well then, Detective Grayson. May I be the first to welcome you to the White Collar office.”

A gentle laugh echoed in the silence. “Thank you very much, and please. Call me Dick. All my friends do.”

Chapter Text

Dick rolled his motorcycle into the garage before tossing the helmet on the worktable. He ran a hand through his hair and huffed out a breath of relief. He loved coming home and leaving work at the door. He loved not having to put on an act in his house just in case someone dropped by. He loved that home felt real again, not like a scene he had to perform.

Work helped. He’d fallen back into it fast. Coffee with Diana, office jokes that he could laugh at. He smiled more now. Not the fake grin that made people think ‘con’ but a smile that left his face aching and his heart full. He swapped his tie drawer for a snack drawer. His mug of drawing pencils for a glass bowl of butter mints.

It was normal, or close enough. But he wasn’t so sure it was for the boys. Tim, especially, was having a harder time of it.

The first week back was fine enough. Dick would come home to find dinner halfway done and Damian partway through a sketch. Tim would meet him at the door and hug him tight before disappearing back into his computer. It was wonderful, until it was all the time. On later nights, he’d come home to a plate of food in the microwave and notes from Jason and Damian. Tim would be up. Sometimes on the couch scrolling his phone, sometimes in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, sometimes just standing in the hall watching the door.

“Hey,” Dick said once, setting his keys down. “You’re up late again.”

Tim didn’t look up from the laptop but his shoulders had loosened when Dick spoke. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Can you ever?”

“I’ve work to do, Dick.”

Dick didn’t point out that he could do the work in the day, when he was dead asleep with his face smooshed into the table. Jason always texted him a photo when it happened. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been there when the kid was asleep. He met him at the door every night, and waved goodbye every morning. He was always holding some form of caffeine and had shadows under his eyes darker than Dick had ever seen.

“I’ll be back tonight.” he promised as he left one morning, and watched as stress seemed to disappear from his brother. He made the same promise every morning after that.

“Work’s a little late tonight.” He’d started to text Tim when it happened and was always greeting a boy on the couch, rather than the table. It was progress.

“On my way home! See you soon” started every day whenever work ended and after a week, Tim stopped greeting him at the door even if he still popped his head out of his room when the door opened.

It was an improvement, but it didn’t really fix anything.

He still jumped at small noises. Still muttered under his breath when the house was quiet. Sometimes Dick caught Tim seeming to have conversations with himself, always in his room.

It took Dick another week to notice a pattern. The anxiety didn’t happen when people entered the room. It happened when they left. The moment they came back into the room, his shoulders dropped and his breath evened out.

“Hey Tim.” Dick started after being welcomed into the boy’s room. “Weird question. Do you know what separation anxiety is?”

Tim had glared at him, but agreed to come to therapy with him the next Thursday.

***

“You’re getting rusty at this.” Jason grinned as he flipped a full row of Dick’s white pieces.

“I’m totally letting you win.” Dick lied.

Across the room, Damian sat between Ace and Titus, taking turns brushing one while petting the other. The living room lights were half dimmed, the aerial silks casting shadows on the far wall from where they were wrapped up to the ceiling.

Jason’s reply was cut short by a crash from Tim’s room. A shattering that sounded like something heavy, probably glass.

Before anyone could react, Dick was on his feet. The Othello board hitting the ground and scattering the two colored pieces all over the carpet. His hand went to his sidearm by instinct.

“Stay here,” he said, already halfway to the hall.

Jason’s hand caught his arm before he could take another step. “Hey. Hey. It’s fine.”

Dick froze. “That didn’t sound fine.” But he paused to look at Jason, who had just leaned over to pick up the pieces, and at Damian, who just kept petting Titus and was watching Dick with concern. Neither of them seemed bothered in the slightest.

“Yeah, well.” Jason rubbed the back of his neck, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “Tim’s just fighting with JJ.”

What? “JJ?”

Jason hesitated. “It’s uh…complicated.”

From the floor, Damian sighed. “Oh, just tell him. It’s fine.”

“Tell me what?” Dick’s voice dropped low, calm but edged. What didn’t he know? He had to know. The last time someone kept information from him, his brother had died.

Jason glanced towards Tim’s door, then back at Dick. “Fine. Just…he doesn’t like us talking about it and Bruce hated it, so maybe just pretend you didn’t hear anything, okay?”

“Shut up!” Tim’s shout was higher pitched than Dick had heard Tim's sound since he was 12.

“Jason.” Dick’s pulse jumped.

“Fine!” Jason huffed. “Tim got tortured by the Joker and Bruce never told you about it but now Tim basically has a second personality called Joker Junior that he argues with a lot and hides the best he can because Bruce hated him.” The words were slurred together with the speed of Jason’s explanation. As if the answer was something he had to hide.

Dick stared at him incredulously. “What! How did I not know about this?”

Damian cut in, blunt and a lot less worried about consequences as Jason. “He argues with himself, Grayson. Probably some form of personality disorder. He’s had it for years. Father made him hide it and he got good at it too. Tim was scared of what you would think and made us promise not to inform you.”

Dick stared at them both, torn between anger at Bruce and anger at himself. How could Bruce make a child hide something like that? That was probably making it worse! Mad at himself because he hadn’t done enough to prove he wasn’t like Bruce.

Dick turned on his heel and headed straight to Tim’s now silent room.

“Wait!” Jason shouted after him and he could hear Damian’s voice, but not his words.

He gently knocked on the door, voice as calm as he could get it. “Hey. Is it alright if I come in?” No matter what, he would keep his promise to stay out of the boys’ rooms unless invited.

“Yeah.” It sounded tired, defeated.

Dick pushed open the door to find Tim on the floor beside a broken lamp, glass scattered across the yellow rug. His hands were shaking and the glass was in little piles, there was a streak of blood on one palm.

He crouched down, a couple of feet away. “Bad night?”

“It’s fine.” Tim didn’t look up.

“Not quite what I asked, but I’ll take it.”

There was a pause, it was weighted and heavy.

“He’s mad at me.”

Dick shifted to sit cross legged. “Why?”

Tim’s head jerked, a quick, sharp twitch. His eyes darted to the mirror before settling on Dick’s face. When he spoke again, the tone had changed. Younger, higher, edged with anger but almost laughing. “Because he won’t let me out! Tim still wants me to hide!”

Dick’s stomach tightened. He stuffed the fear down till it settled in his sternum. A smile danced on his lips. “You’re here right now. It’s JJ, right?”

Tim, no, JJ paused. As if not expecting to be addressed. “Yes.”

“Nice to meet you,” Dick said softly, heart breaking a little. “I’m your brother, Dick.”

JJ stared at him in shock. “I’m not your brother. Tim is.”

“You’re right.” Dick tried to ignore how JJ briefly looked crestfallen. “But so is Jason. So is Damian. So are you. Just because I didn’t know you before, doesn’t mean you’re not my brother.”

JJ looked at him with anger and suspicion. “You don’t want me as a brother!” He spat out with all the anger a pre-teen voice could manage. “You’re lying to me! You say that now, but just wait. You’ll change your mind! It’s fine now, but you’ll change your mind! You’ll look at me like Bruce did! Like I’m a monster. Like I stole away your precious little Tim.” he spat the name like a curse.

Dick felt it like a knife to the ribs. Bruce, how could you? He exhaled hard, forcing the air out of his lungs. “I won’t look at you like that.”

JJ laughed. “Yeah right. Even Tim does, he hates me too.”

“I don’t think he hates you. I think he’s afraid.”

JJ didn’t respond but the defiance in his shoulders faltered.

“JJ.” Dick scooted a little closer. “You’re not something to hide. You’re just as much a person as I am. You might have to share with Tim, but I’ll talk to him about sharing a little bit better. You don’t need to hide here. I’m not Bruce.”

“That’s what I said!” JJ threw his hands in the air, and Dick fought a smile at the childish behavior. It was kind of cute. “You’re nothing like Bruce!”

“Hey, JJ.” Dick asked, “We all had things to make this more like home. Anything possible. Is there anything you want?”

JJ paused. “I can have stuff?”

Dick wanted to punch Bruce. “Yes. You deserve stuff. You deserve to exist.”

“Can I think about it?”

“Yeah. Tell me whenever you want.”

JJ blinked hard, and for a second his focus seemed to flicker. The tension drained from his shoulders, and then his voice came out quieter, older. “Dick?”

“Hey Tim,” Dick said, hoping he was right. “You back?”

Tim nodded, rubbing his temples and smearing the blood from his palm onto his face. “I’m sorry. He just…got mad. We were arguing, I didn’t mean to cause a prob— ”

“Don’t apologize, please.” Dick interrupted, heart breaking for the boy in front of him. “He’s allowed to be mad. And happy. And sad. He’s allowed to exist, Tim. Both of you are.”

Tim let out a shaky breath. “You’re not freaked out or mad?”

“Nope.” Dick popped the ‘p’ and grinned “Well. I was a little afraid, it was scary, not knowing what was happening. But I understand now.”

“Sorry I didn’t tell you.” Tim’s words were muffled from where he had his face pressed into his knees pulled to his chest.

“It’s alright. That wasn’t my favorite way to find out, but I get it.”

Tim looked at him and Dick saw the fear built up over years.

“I do think therapy would be a good thing though.”

“I’m not broken.” Tim snapped and Dick was pretty sure that was entirely JJ pushing through.

“I never said you are nor do I think you are. I just thought it would be nice if you wanted to. Someone to talk to about stuff you don’t want to talk to me about.”

Tim squinted at him and he wasn’t sure who it was.

Dick leaned forward, grin pulling on his lips. “You want in on a little secret? I think we all need it.”

Tim’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. “You’re serious.”

“I’m always serious about you,” Dick said, standing and offering a hand. “Now come on. You go wash your hands and face and I’ll grab a broom.” And a washcloth, blood had also smeared onto the rug.

Tim hesitated, then took his hand.

The boy's trip to the bathroom halted with a, “Thanks for not hating me”, before he disappeared down the hall.

Dick really wished he’d gotten to punch Bruce before all of this.

Chapter Text

“Dick.” Her tone, full of practiced patience, somehow made him feel twelve again. “Think about it.”

He huffed a laugh. “Evie. I’m not gonna do it.”

Then she sat back and crossed her ankles, a winning smile on her face. “If it was one of you brothers I told to get a service dog, would you encourage them to do it?”

Dick glared at her, “That’s not fair.”

“I’m a therapist, not a judge. I’m not supposed to be fair. I’m supposed to help you help yourself.”

He frowned, but couldn’t refute it. “I’ll think about it. It’s just too much right now, Evie.”

She sighed and moved from her chair to the floor, mimicking his crisscross on the carpet. “Dick, you wouldn’t think it was too much if it was for one of the boys. It’s just too much because it’s for you. But that’s also not true, you just think it is. It’s okay to need things.”

“It’s just not as important as other things.” Dick argued back, hands motioning around them. “I need to take care of other things first.”

“You have worth,” Evelyn said softly. “Outside of what you do for others. Outside of work. Outside of the boys. Outside of everything you do. You have worth. Inherent worth, that isn’t less important than anything else.”

He gave a small, humorless laugh. “I’ll think about it.”

“Richard Grayson.”

“Dr. Hart.” His tone sharpened this time.

“Alright.” Evie shook her head. “Think about it, please. We have just a few minutes left so one question then homework for the week.”

Dick shot her a look but didn’t argue. He’d learned quickly that not doing the work just got him a lecture.

“Are your meds still working? Do you need any change in dosage? I know we just switched before you took in the boys, is it still working for you?”

Dick rolled his eyes but nodded. “Working great.”

“Good.” Evie jotted something down on her clipboard, the quiet scratch of her pen filling the space between them. “Any side effects? Sleep’s still holding steady?”

“Yeah.” Dick shrugged. “I’m feeling fine and nothing’s changed.”

She gave him a look that said she heard what he said, but also how he said it. “Fine is an interesting word. You use it for anything less than catastrophic.”

He laughed, but again couldn’t refute it. “I’ll make a note to change my vocabulary. I’m feeling good, better than I have for a long time.”

“Do that.” She said with mocking seriousness, writing another note that made him suspicious that she might actually be making note of it. “Homework time.”

He slumped back against the front of the couch and pulled his legs up to his chest. “Alright. Bring it, Evie.”

She smiled at him. “Do something for you this week. Something you want or need. Not a work thing, not something for the boys, not a favor for someone else. You.”

He blinked. “That’s vague.”

“Yup.” She popped the ‘p’. “It’s supposed to be. You pick what it looks like, but I’m serious, Dick. Something for you.”

He laughed as he stood and offered a hand to her. “Alright. You wanna book a report on it?”

She took it and he pulled her up. “Nah, but take this seriously. You’re important too.”

“Thanks Doc.” He mock saluted before walking out of her office door.

“Anytime, Dick. Anytime.” she said sadly, watching the man walk out of the building.

***

The fabric wrapped around him, pressing into his thigh and his arm as he hung suspended, weightless and still. One hand gripped the silk above his head, the other hanging free to the air. He could hear music from the room Damian shared with Tim, and the smell of brownies lingering in the air from Jason’s baking that morning.

The light hummed overhead, glinting off the mirror in the hall. It was strange, he could almost see them in the corner of his eye, but every time he looked, they were gone. His mother’s hand reaching for him as he spun down the fabric, an echo of his father’s voice shouting out a “Point your toes, chavi”, the laughter of his aunts and uncles shouting over each other under the rehearsal tent. The ache in his chest deepened, weighing him down.

He tilted backward, letting the silk unwind him slowly until he hung upside down. His hair brushed the mat below, dark strands swaying like a pendulum. The blood rushed to his head, but he didn’t move.

Evie’s voice threaded through his thoughts.

“Do something for yourself. Something you need.”

He exhaled, long and shaky. “Something I need,” he muttered to no one.

When he flipped upright, the motion came from muscle memory, years of practice settling into every joint. He landed softly on the mat and started to gather the fabric, moving to return the silks to the ceiling and the couch to the center of the room.

He missed them. Not the fame or the crowd, that had never been important. He missed them. The warmth, the language, the food, and the travel. The stews over campfires and the laughter as the acrobats tumbled off each other’s shoulders in the middle of open fields. The pieces of home that had slipped through his fingers somewhere between a performance tent and Gotham.

He hung the last of the silks and brushed the chalk off of his hands as he headed to his room to change but popped his head into Jason’s room on the way.

“Jason?”

The boy looked up from his book, sticking his finger on the page to save his place. “Yeah?”

“Is it alright if I make dinner today?”

Jason blinked. “Of course. Do you want a hand?”

The ‘no’ caught in his throat as he realised that he did, in fact, want to share this part of him with the boys. “Actually, yeah. You ever made sodmay before?”

***

He scrolled absently through his phone, one leg bouncing in time with a rhythm that came uninvited but familiar. A hum slipped past his lips without him realizing it. Slow, low, patterned like footsteps and drumbeats.

A song without words. One his mother used to sing when the sun set and the family circled around. Wordless and nameless, older than memory and slightly changed with every person. It was meant for dancing and movement, it was meant for life.

He didn’t notice when the boys started drifting closer.

Tim pulled out one headphone, head tilted. Jason closed his book then closed his eyes. Damian came in from the kitchen to lean against the doorframe. The room seemed to breathe with the rhythm, each heartbeat in time with Dick’s soft humming and the gentle tap of his heel against the hardwood.

He looked up, startled by the sudden quiet, to find three pairs of eyes on him. A laugh caught in his throat at the expressions of peace and interest. “What?”

“Nothing.” Damian said, grinning a little. “We’ve just never heard you hum before.”

Dick grinned and started humming again, louder as he stood. “Up.”

Jason frowned. “Up?”

“Up.” Dick reached out and tugged Tim gently, then pointed at Damian. “All of you.”

Jason groaned, but he stood. Tim followed hesitantly. Damian raised an eyebrow but stepped forward without protest.

Dick picked up the humming again. Letting the rhythm carry them. He started to move, steps light, shifting his weight from foot to foot, guiding them with gestures instead of words. When Jason stumbled, Dick caught his arm, laughing. When Tim’s timing fell behind, he clapped, steadying the beat. Even Damian, stiff at first, began to move with the rhythm, concentration on his face.

The house felt alive in a way none of them had felt for years, even before Bruce for all but Dick. Laughter, motion, the soft echo of bare feet on wood.

Evie’s voice surfaced again: Do something for yourself. Something you need.

Dick spun once in time to his own humming and smiled. ‘Well, Evie,’ he thought, ‘I’ve done two.’

It was different after that. He started teaching Jason to climb the silks, patient and encouraging. Tim started dancing with Dick every morning. Damian picked up Dick’s childhood language quicker than the others.

When night settled, Dick sat by the window with his tea, the city slowing down with the late hour. The boys had gone to bed, their doors closed. Faint light coming from Dick’s own room where Tim worked so Damian could sleep in the shared space. He looked down at his hands, the faint trace of chalk still clinging to his fingers, and breathed in.

The ache of loss still lived there. Maybe it always would. But it didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

He leaned his head back against the glass and whispered, just for himself, “Thanks, Evie.”