Chapter Text
Dick fights to keep his face vaguely pleasant as Mathew slaps him heartily on the shoulder, right over where a 2 a.m. thug got a lucky shot in.
“That was a fantastic presentation, Richie,” Mathew beams, far too awake for an 8 a.m. meeting. “You’ve come a long way since taking over the company.”
Dick is too tired to find the hidden insult. No one had been happy when Dick returned to Gotham, the majority shareholder and emergency-appointed CEO. More than one person had suggested Tim would be better at filling these shoes. But Tim has just turned sixteen three weeks ago (the first birthday without Bruce, and he’d spent most of it hiding under the covers), and Dick refuses to throw him into shark-infested waters this young.
If that means Nightwing has to make a permanent move to Gotham until Robin is old enough to fly with new wings, so be it.
“Thank you, Mathew,” Dick nods, sidestepping to get some distance as they enter the hallway. “Please remember to send me that email. I’ll be happy to answer the Shanghai branch’s questions after my 10 o’clock.”
Mathew says something vaguely agreeable as Dick forces himself not to sprint down the hallway. Bruce’s office…his office…can’t come soon enough.
Jason is already waiting for him when he arrives.
“Nice view,” Jason quips, feet kicked up on the desk, arms crossed. He’s wearing slacks for once. It seems Alfred’s warnings about “the Wayne name” and “intentions” are still fresh in Jason’s mind. Soon enough, he’ll be back to wearing ratty jeans and gas-station T-shirts. But for now, his oldest-youngest brother has deemed a visit to his biggest brother worthy of dressing up for.
“Shoes,” Dick sighs, slumping into his chair, kicking it around to face the view Jason was admiring. There is something beautiful about being this high up, seeing all of downtown Gotham stretch over the horizon. The occasional seagull or pigeon swooping past.
When Dick was a child, he’d spend afternoons drawing all over these windows. Silly cartoon images of Batman and Robin defeating the rogue of the week. Or his English teacher being sent to jail for assigning too much homework. Bruce would document them all with a picture before handing Dick a bottle of Windex and a rag to clean up--never willing to stop the fun, but always there to remind Dick of the consequences.
(There had been a folder on Bruce’s phone: all of his children’s artwork forever preserved in digital. A drawing of Batman and Robin standing on top of a skyscraper immortalized forever as the first picture.
Barbara had offered to send it to him. He’d declined.)
Jason drops his feet with a heavy thud before lumbering over to lean against the backrest of Bruce’s massive chair. “Hey, Dickface. How ya holding up?”
Dick snorts, fighting to avoid rolling his eyes. “Pretty good. Could be better.”
“Yeah. That’s why you look like you’re two seconds from smashing my fuckin’ head in?” Jason jokes, an attempt at smoothness, as if they were just shooting the shit at a bar somewhere.
“Don’t take it personally. That’s what capitalism does to my face,” Dick rolls his eyes this time, twisting in his chair to look up at Jason. “Why are you here, Jason?”
Jason shrugs, leaning closer to tower over Dick. “Trying to get a read on things.”
“Just intel gathering,” Dick prods, refusing to lose as he cranes his neck to meet Jason’s too-green eyes. “Nothing that can’t be found on the security tapes.”
“See, I almost believe you…If I hadn’t gotten Alfred’s amber alert this morning.” Jason pushes back.
Dick takes a deep breath, admitting defeat as he rolls to his feet. “Bruce keeps the good whiskey on the third shelf.”
“It’s 8:45 a.m., Dick. You’ve got a meeting in an hour fifteen.”
Dick shrugs, walking over to pull out the decanter. “Bruce used to pretend to be drunk at all his meetings.”
“I thought that was when Lucius was still around to run the show.”
Dick doesn’t look back, pouring three fingers into crystal glasses. He debates for a moment before adding an artisan ice cube that someone is keeping stocked. “No one is expecting the runaway heir to keep all his buttons shut.”
Jason raises an eyebrow but accepts the glass. “Dick… why didn’t you call me when our Baby Bird tried to fly the coop?”
Dick closes his eyes and takes the whiskey like a shot. It burns, too expensive to be pleasant. But it warms his stomach and makes the ache in his back a little easier to bear.
“Dick.”
It also gives him the courage to say this: “I didn’t think you’d come.”
The silence that follows hurts. Dick looks around the office. He used to do his homework on that spot of carpet. He spilled a milkshake on that sofa, the slight discoloration in the leather proof of how hard they had to scrub to get the smell of mint chocolate chip to go away. Bruce would cover him with that blanket when he fell asleep under the desk.
Jason sets the glass down, hard. “Why the fuck wouldn’t I have come?”
Dick doesn’t want to have this conversation--to open Pandora’s box and let out all the rot. Because a year ago, Jason wouldn’t have come. And four months ago, Bruce died, and Jason stopped playing keep-away. It’s good to have his first brother around. It’s nice to joke, to turn his head and see Jason standing in the spot he expects him to be. Things are good between them--easier, kinder. But…
He doesn’t want to say it’s too little, too late.
(He doesn’t want to think it, either.)
But Jason isn’t known for his patience, before or after his death. And he’s not above manhandling for answers. So Dick should have seen the grapple coming. And when it arrives, and Dick finds the lapels of his jacket crumpled under shaking fists, he doesn’t have the energy to fight it.
It takes one look at Dick’s face to see the truth.
Jason lets him go with a sneer of disgust. “I’m giving you an out, Dickface. You’re tired and stressed, and our kid is being a hardass. But you better apologize when you pull your head out of your ass.”
Dick refuses to flinch when Jason slams the door on the way out.
.
Tim is able to keep his head down until lunch.
The sensational articles about the double-orphaned Tim Drake have mostly dried up. The pushback online had quickly reminded even the trashiest gossip rags that mocking an orphan is in poor taste. That didn’t stop the worst conspiracy theorists on Reddit from joking that Tim is some kind of Black Widow, collecting inheritances like a gold digger collects dowries.
But the article about Dick adopting Tim has just made page four in the Gotham Gazette, right at the top of their social column. It wasn’t the only reason he was avoiding school since the start of eleventh grade. But Dick had promised to pick him up if anyone said anything or made Tim uncomfortable.
He’s sure Dick didn’t think “anyone” would include his boyfriend.
“How are you doing?” Bernard leans closer, resting his hand casually on Tim’s forearm. Usually this would make Tim blush and stutter, helpless under the full attention of someone this beautiful. “I saw the article.”
But “usual” died alongside Bruce in the caverns under Gotham, and Tim is too tired to pretend otherwise.
“I’m fine,” he shrugs off the hand to pull his lunch closer. Alfred had done his best to make the food appealing. Tim picks at the grapes and tries to feel grateful.
“And your family… How is Dick?” Bernard tries, curious and earnest and everything Tim loved about him.
“We’re doing okay,” Tim shrugs again, daring to try a rice ball. It has spicy tuna inside, Tim’s favorite. The fish tastes like Clayface’s sludge. “Dick’s busy with the company, and Jason has started volunteering at the new community center in Park Row.”
Safe. Nothing that hasn’t been PR-approved and printed on page four. It’s what he’s been telling Bernard all semester, and Tim can tell he’s not buying it. But it doesn’t matter whether Bernard buys it or not; Tim has nothing else to tell him. Everything Bernard needs to know is already written in black and white, after all.
“Right,” Bernard sighs. There is a flash of frustration, just for a second, before it is snuffed out by that damning care and concern. “Are you doing anything this weekend?”
Yes. Tim thinks about all the loose ends they’re still tying up. Harley, Mr. Freeze, and Clayface might be back behind bars. But Blackgate hasn’t finished construction, and Arkham Tower is getting bloated. With the Freaks and Regulators still supercharged with extra tech from the summer and the Falcones going to ground to recoup and plan, this is the only chance they have to get ahead of things before the next wave comes in.
And that isn’t even touching on the Court chatter Barbara has started picking up on.
“No, just going to spend the weekend with family,” he says, all of it true if missing all the details. “Alfred wants to decorate for Christmas.”
“That sounds fun.” Bernard pushes, “But I was just wondering…”
“Bern,” Tim stops him before he can ask, a kindness. “I’m sorry.”
Bernard nods, eyes dropping to the lunch table. His own tray of pizza and pudding untouched. “Okay, Tim. I understand.”
“Thanks,” Tim leans over, bumping their shoulders. It’s not enough. If this was a mark, he’d be better off leaning closer, resting his head on their shoulder. He’d blink his pretty blue eyes and smile that soft, teasing way Alfred had taught him. But he’s not cruel enough to pull out Carolina just to keep his boyfriend from asking him out on a date.
Lunch passes without note. Darla drops by with some of her cheerleading friends, and Tim fakes a laugh whenever someone comments on the article. Darla says they got a nice picture, which Tim has to agree with. PR knew how to showcase his good angles.
The bell comes too slow. A loud clattering of voices and chairs shatters the peace as kids begin their march back to the classroom. Darla leans over to squeeze his arm as she gets up. Bernard hesitates, picking up Tim’s backpack as if he’s going to walk him to class.
Last year, Tim had been eager to prolong their time together. Today, Tim reaches out to grab the bag. “Thanks.”
Bernard nods, uncertain. “If you need anything…”
“I know,” Tim shrugs the bag on, body angled toward the door. The lunchroom is nearly empty.
“I love you,” Bernard leans over and grabs Tim’s hand, squeezing tight.
Tim’s smile goes thin. His chest tightens. “I know,” he whispers, forcing his voice steady as he fights the impulse to lean in.
Bernard nods again, dropping his hand. “Okay.”
Tim bites his lip, taking a step back. “I’ll… text you,” he lies.
“Yeah.” For a second, Tim is scared he’s going to cry.
Tim nods, turning to leave. He hesitates, footsteps pausing as he turns back. “I-”
Bernard looks up at him, bag held loosely in his grip. He’s beautiful. Funny and kind. The kind of boyfriend Tim never thought would look twice at him. Braver than Tim in all the ways Robin can’t make him. He looks hopeful.
Tim regrets hesitating. He regrets stepping into this lunchroom. He regrets getting caught this morning. He regrets… he regrets everything.
“Bye,” he calls out as he runs for the door.
.
Tim is waiting for him when Dick pulls into the pickup line. He’s alone. Last year, he’d have a gaggle of kids hanging off his every word. Tim was good like that--different from Dick, who struggled to connect with people outside of the life, and far better than Jason at maintaining social connections. Bruce used to call Tim the social butterfly of the family, warm when it suited him and grouchy when it took Tim away from Gotham.
Now Tim stands alone with his hood up, face down, and headphones over his ears. Cast against the backdrop of a dirty, snowy Gotham, he looked the very picture of teenage angst. It would be funny if it wasn’t so painful.
“How was school?” Dick asks when Tim finishes climbing in. “Seatbelt.”
Tim clicks his seatbelt into place and slouches in his seat. “Good.”
“Any weekend plans? I know we’re busy, but we can spare you if you want to go on a date night,” Dick offers, hands tightening on the steering wheel as they pull out of line and onto the main streets.
“No.”
Dick sighs, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the road. “Want to listen to music?”
“...Sure.”
At least he’s talking, Dick forces himself to look at the bright side as he turns on the radio.
Vaguely familiar rock anthems from a generation earlier filter through the speakers, something slow and familiar, the kind of music Bruce liked to listen to when he prepped for a night out. The DJ doesn’t talk much. Dick is grateful.
The ride home passes in silence.
By the time they pull into the garage, Dick starts to feel the exhaustion of the day.
The penthouse is dark when they climb up, leaving the lights of the city to spill in through the large bay windows. The view isn’t as great and heavy as the one in his office, but Dick still feels the reminder.
Tim enters first, toeing off his shoes and abandoning his backpack in a mess by the front door.
Dick takes the time to straighten up before following Tim in. “Hungry?”
Tim shakes his head from where he’s curled up on the sofa, headphones abandoned on the coffee table as he starts to flick through channels.
“Do you have any homework?” Dick asks as he picks through the cupboards. Tim is rarely hungry these days, but Dick has noticed he’ll pick at his food when offered. And he can’t have Robin going out on an empty stomach.
“I finished it during my free period,” Tim settles on a Hallmark movie.
Dick hums quietly, more to fill the space than anything else. “When are your club assignments due? Anything I need to schedule around?”
“...No.”
Dick takes a deep breath as he finishes plating the Oreos and carrots. “I thought your debate club met after school?”
Tim shrugs. “Not joining.”
Dick fights to keep himself patient as he walks over and sets the plate in front of him. “Why not?”
Tim shrugs again, slumping further in his seat.
Before Dick can make up his mind whether to push or not, Alfred arrives like a saving angel, bearing two reusable bags and a tote labeled “Butlers Know Best.” “Master Dick, Master Tim! Apologies. I got caught in the afternoon rush.”
“Need any help, Alfred?” Dick offers, eager to have something else to focus on.
“No need, Master Dick.” Alfred’s eyes swing between Tim and Dick, a slight frown on his lips, observant to a fault. “I am making lasagna for dinner.”
Dick accepts the bag of cans anyway. Lasagna is one of Tim’s favorites, just like every meal they’d eaten that week. For a second, he allows himself to hope as he turns to see how Tim responds.
Tim sits up, switching the TV off. “Do you mind if I take a nap before dinner?”
Dick forces a smile. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll wake you.”
“Okay,” Tim replies, already turning away.
Dick watches him go, listens to the soft click of the bedroom door down the hall. The silence that follows feels heavier than the one in the car.
Alfred sets a hand on Dick’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “You’re doing well, sir.”
Dick exhales, scrubbing a hand over his face. “No, I’m not. I have no idea what I’m doing,” he admits. “I feel like every time I open my mouth, I’m saying the wrong thing.”
Alfred offers a half smile, eyes twinkling with unspoken grief, as he sets the ingredients out on the counter. “Master Bruce often expressed similar doubts.”
Dick can’t meet his eyes, focusing on the way Alfred begins to dice the onions.
“He was the same age when he took you in,” Alfred continues, hands steady. “He was terrified of getting it wrong. He asked me every night if he was doing enough.”
Dick swallows. He knows Alfred is trying to help. But Bruce had been…Bruce. Steady and larger than life in a way Dick had never managed to measure up to.
Dick is just Dick. And he just feels tired.
“I’m worried about him,” Dick closes his eyes and slumps against the counter. “It looked like he was doing better after the League left Gotham, but after the school year started, he’s been…”
Alfred touches his arm, forcing Dick to look at him. “Master Tim will come to us in time. We must simply remind him we are here.”
Dick nods, even as his chest tightens. “Maybe…”
He stares down the hallway where Tim disappeared and fights the urge to chase after him.
.
“Ground Control to Major Tom,” Batgirl sings as she crackles to life in his ear. “I’ve got some Ice Boys on 7th!”
“On it!” Robin croons as he leaps off the rooftop.
“Wait for me,” Nightwing cackles, taking off after his littlest bird.
They fly. Gotham glows below them, neon smeared by mist. The skyline finally achingly familiar. Winter winds cut against his cheek as he races Robin across rooftops. Below, someone calls out their call signs, and Nightwing dares to add an extra flourish to his flight, catching himself on the wire at the last second. Robin’s cackle echoes across the snowy rooftops.
“Bet I can take out more than you,” Robin grins, a little too wide.
Nightwing echoes his challenge with a grin of his own.
He lands first, boots-first skidding on black ice before coming to a still on the lip of the rooftop. Robin drops beside him a heartbeat later, silent and poised.
“Six inside,” Nightwing reports. “Four by the truck. Two Buster and three Gunmen all mixed up.”
“They really want to rob this bank! Really embracing their inner grinch this year,” Robin leans forward. “Want me to guard the getaway van?”
“You’d do better picking them off ins--”
Robin is gone before he can finish, announcing their presence with a boots-first slam into the heavy gunner. The three remaining fall on their asses, startled. Robin whips out his staff and gives them a little twirl. “Who’s next?”
Nightwing curses and joins the fray, dropping onto the Buster hard enough to flip him. Pulling out his escrima, he forces himself to grin as his heart starts to pick up. “Don’t forget about little old me!”
The Regulators barely have time to react before Robin and Nightwing are on them. Twice, Robin intercepts the money carriers before they can load the money. Once, Nightwing has to step in to intercept an ice blast meant for Robin’s back.
It’s only when the last Buster is left that Nightwing realizes that Robin is off. It’s the way he hits: all heavies. Instead of the quick strikes and retreats he’s known for, Robin fights like Red Hood, holding his ground and slamming his enemies into the pavement.
It’s the kind of out-of-character recklessness Batman would normally step in to correct. But there is no Batman to guide his Robin anymore.
All that is left is Nightwing.
They finish the fight clean. No injuries. No sirens. The robbers are zip-tied and groaning, ice guns kicked out of reach.
Robin bounces on his heels, alight with a job well done. “Guess Freeze’s leftovers are still making the rounds.”
Nightwing laughs, but his chest feels tight. He should say something, reach out. He’s mentored Tim before. This shouldn’t be any different.
He hesitates.
Batman would’ve said something.
Batman is dead.
The moment passes.
Robin swings up, leaving behind their leftovers for the GCPD. Nightwing follows after.
The guilt settles.
“Nightwing. Robin.” Batgirl’s voice crackles through the comms. “Activity at Kane HQ has popped up on the radar. Possible Court activity.”
Robin stills, smile faltering for the first time that night. “On our way.”
They take the bikes. Their dash through the island doesn’t take too long, just enough time to let the anxiety build. There is still police tape out front. Kane Industries HQ has been shut down since the assassination, six months ago. No one would dare to go inside. No one but the Court.
There is no resistance. Bloodstains mark the carpet. Broken glass glitters in the emergency lights.
Nightwing glances at Robin as they crawl their way through the HVAC and toward Kane’s old office. “You okay?”
Robin is silent for a moment before quipping, “Feels a lot more welcoming without all the ninjas.”
It’s a good joke. The sort of thing Robin would say. The sort of thing Tim would have said the first time he fought through this space.
Nightwing doesn’t push.
They rappel down the elevator shaft. Nightwing extends the blades in his escrima to pry open the escape hatch, and they drop into the broken elevator. The pool of blood has dried dark brown and brittle.
“Hopefully, we won’t have to do the puzzles again,” Robin leads the way through richly decorated rooms layered with artful crown molding, decadent marble busts, and oil paintings as old as the ones that used to sit on the walls of Wayne Manor.
Which is why the concrete box they finally end up in is so jarring. “Huh…” Nightwing steps past Robin, dragging a finger against the dusty console. “This doesn’t scream Gotham villain, more of a Star City look.”
“Kane Industries was always the odd duck out,” Robin replies as he works his magic booting up the computer. “People have been complaining about their weird brutalist eyesore for years now.”
Nightwing clicks his tongue, side-eyeing the concrete KI symbol not-so-tastefully backlit by yellow LEDs. What’s wrong with classic neon glass signs? What kind of Gothamite goes for LEDs?
“Alright, BG. It’s all you!” Tim calls out on the comm as the screen blinks to life.
“Thank you, R!” Batgirl chirps. “I think you boys are good to head home.”
“Roger! Robin out,” Robin salutes the camera in the far corner.
Nightwing scans the room one last time, freezing when he spots a small indent in the wall. “There is a mailbox here.”
“What?”
Nightwing runs his finger along the subtle seam in the wall. “There is a dropbox here similar to the ones in the Court hideouts. But this one is built into the wall.” He blinks, turning on the AG system, “This concrete is thinner. A small charge should bust it open”
“Any danger?” Robin asks Batgirl.
“None that I can see. Go for it, Man Wonder!”
Nightwing sets the small charges and steps out of the room as he activates the bombs. Robin is already half-covered when the charge goes off. Nightwing pulls him close, arms locked around his head and palms over his ears, pure instinct.
The charge goes off with a sharp crack and a flash of light that would have blinded the less prepared. Nightwing keeps his arms locked around Robin until the dust settles and the echo dies.
“I’m fine,” Robin mumbles as he leans closer, tension dropping from his shoulders as the room calms. “You can let go.”
Nightwing squeezes him for just an extra second before releasing him. Concrete dust and wood splinters litter the floor, cracking underfoot, as they make their way to the back wall. Inside the wall is a narrow steel box with a metal chute sitting above. He wrenches it free and sets it on the floor.
“Nightwing? Robin?” Batgirl asks. “Find anything interesting?”
“It’s definitely a mailbox,” he answers, pulling out a handful. “Clearly for the higher-ups if it’s sitting here.”
Inside are a few dozen letters and packages. Robin is already pulling a folded duffel bag from one of his pouches. “They must have been clearing this semi-regularly. This box is too big and there isn’t enough content to justify six months of inactivity.”
Nightwing opens the top letter and freezes.
It’s his name. Not him, Nightwing. But him, Dick Grayson.
He can feel Robin go still over his shoulder.
Nightwing opens the card.
The letter is brief. Clinical. A date and time. The location of the sandwich shop he likes to frequent during lunch. A preferred method of death that makes his skin call. And the target: Dick Grayson."
For a moment, no one speaks.
“Babs,” Nightwing hisses, voice tight. “They’re coming after me.”