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Dick Grayson officially joins the BAU team in Quantico the day after his twenty-eighth birthday.
It’s really not that exciting.
He spent the day-of to finish moving into his new apartment. Boxes stacked high around his bare-bones living room, nothing more than a thrifted couch, a coffee table he can no longer remember how he got, and a television that is at least ten years out of date. His and Damian’s bedrooms are the only things he bought new furniture for: a decent bedframe and mattress go a long way when chronically behind on sleep, and he wanted to set up Damian’s space as neatly and well as possible.
His family was various degrees of unhappy with him for the move, especially so soon after— Well. But the opportunity presented itself, and frankly, Dick needed out. Picking up the badge again was a happy medium between the practically obsessive need to help and the fact that putting on the costume again—
Well. A change was sorely needed. With this, he gets that. He gets a new team, a new city, rules and regulations and accountability. Stability, even.
Jason tells him it’s a good thing, even if he’s gone Fed again.
Dick isn’t above telling Jason that he’s probably right, but mostly he doesn’t want to give him that satisfaction.
In lieu of that unhappiness, though, Dick said goodbye to most of his family a few days previous in Gotham. It was… fine. It was fine. There is no better or worse way to phrase it, really. It was, simply put, fine. Alright, even.
Jason took one look at all his fine-ness, though, and promptly declared that he was helping Dick move in. Then he grabbed Damian’s shoulder, shook it, and said, “The twerp too.” The fact that Damian didn’t immediately try to maim him, despite his fierce scowl, told Dick that he wasn’t even opposed to that plan, and in fact had probably been hoping for it the whole time.
So instead of moving himself alone into his new apartment on his birthday, in a new city where he knew exactly no one, his two brothers were hauling in boxes with him, setting up his apartment without his input and arguing about what went where.
It was inexplicably comforting.
Damian took point like a pint-sized dictator, directing the inflow of boxes and furniture to each room, and once he deemed them competent in getting it done themselves, began unpacking Dick’s boxes to figure out the best place to put things. Dick left him to it. He’s gone through a lot of apartments in his twenty-eight years, and only ever achieved varied levels of almost-unpacked in all but the first one in Bludhaven. If Damian wants to decorate, Dick’s not going to stop him. Maybe he can finally get rid of all the cardboard this time.
In the midst of Damian’s distraction — currently, with the framed paintings of some of his own artwork, and by the slightly pinched eyebrows, that he didn’t know was there — and after everything has been moved inside, Jason corners him in the kitchen. Dick’s halfway through unpacking a box of cooking supplies he wasn’t aware he had when Jason’s frame fills up the walkway and stays there.
Dick looks up from the scattered cutlery and raises an eyebrow. “Do you think Alfred snuck a bunch of kitchenware into a box and shipped it with me? Because I don’t remember owning half this stuff.”
Jason scoffs. “Please, as if Alfred would ever be so subtle. No, he’d package it for you, shove it in your hands, and make you feel bad about the fact that you live off of Lucky Charms and takeout. I packed that.”
“And you are known for your subtlety?” Dick retorts, pulling out a… juicer? It’s small and hand-held and looks like it can squeeze things, so he’s probably right enough. “Jay, what do I need a juicer for?”
Jason crosses his arms. “I can be subtle when I want to. Most of the time, going big is a lot more fun, though. And, you need it to juice things. Duh. Try making your own orange juice for once. Or squeezing limes for salsa. Or, hell, use it when you inevitably get robbed. It’s versatile.”
Ha. He was right. Dick lets his bemusement show plain on his face. “Why are you so sure I’m going to get robbed?”
He shrugs. “Seems your luck.”
Dick can’t really argue with that one.
Jason pauses, watching him quietly as Dick continues unpacking. Dick lets him, knowing his brother prefers to think out his words when he has the time or patience for it. There’s not a nonzero chance that Dick will actually like what Jason is planning to say, but it’ll be easier to hear him out.
In the meantime, he’s got to figure out where to put all this stuff. Where does one sort a juicer? Does he put it in a drawer, a shelf? Somewhere it will gather dust or that has easy access, to fend off intruders like Jason suggested?
“I know I’ve already said it, but I think this is a good thing.”
Dick looks back up. The set of Jason’s shoulders and jaw make him straighten, the seriousness read in those lines something he rarely sees so plainly in his brother.
“I’m serious. I know you can’t stop helping people, but— Fuck. The life was killing you, Dick. And not slowly, either. Hell, I thought it did kill you, and that was a bigger shock to my system than when I thought it got Bruce.” There’s a raw quality to Jason’s voice that has something skitter uncomfortably along Dick’s skin, and he shifts. Jason swallows, and there’s a visible struggle on his face to keep looking at Dick. “And— I mourned you, Dick. I fucking— Went on a rampage, screamed and cried and blew shit up, the whole ordeal. And, yet. And, yet—”
Jason laughs, something bitter and ugly, like he chewed up glass and spat it back out. “And, yet at the same time, I was almost relieved for you. I was so fucking mad, that you went and got killed, that B— I was mad at Bruce, I was mad at Luthor, hell, I nearly fucking killed him, and I was mad at you, too. But, at the same time, I was relieved. Because at least you didn’t have to keep on taking the fucking punches, you know? How messed up is that? At least you weren’t in fucking pain anymore, I thought. But, no—” Jason’s voice breaks, and Dick can’t quite hold his gaze anymore, dropping his eyes back down to the juicer and swallowing back the lump in his throat. “No. No, Bruce sent you on some kind of suicide mission, and then fucking left you there.”
The statement rings out in the hollows of his kitchen, an unspoken truth given over to the light of the world. In the background, he can hear Damian vaguely shuffling about, and he has to forcibly shove away the idea that he can probably hear every word that is being said. Dick still can’t look up from the damned juicer.
“So, yeah,” Jason continues, voice ragged, “I’m fucking grateful that you took this job. That you’re getting out of Gotham, that you’re going to have a team of people that will be right there to have your back, regardless of the fact that they’re government spooks or that I don’t know them or that we have a whole secret double life they can never know about. I know you better than almost anyone, Dick, and right now I’m not convinced that if you put on that suit again right now, you wouldn’t go out and get yourself killed. Not on purpose, no, but— So, I’m glad. I fucking support you, all the way. I just— I want you to be safe. I want you to be happy. You deserve to be happy, Dick, more than anything. And I just— I don’t think you can get that in Gotham. That place has never been anything but a sinkhole for you.”
Dick can’t quite recall when his vision got blurry. “I—” he tries, before audibly choking on his words. “Jay—”
There’s motion from in front of him, then two strong arms wrap around him not-quite-gently, bringing him forwards and into a warm, cotton-clad chest. His chin only just reaches his brother’s shoulders, and, huh. Jason is bigger than him. As he wraps his arms around Jason’s waist, it's as if he’s only realizing it for the first time. He knows, obviously, that his little brother has long since gained a couple inches and several dozen pounds on him, but he’s never felt it before, not like he is now.
He feels— Small. Cradled, like Jason can, through sheer physical presence alone, ward off anything that might come their way, just for a moment. It’s— Dick will never admit how much he needed that, right then. He sinks into his brother, fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt like he can remember Jason once doing to him, and lets himself be held as he shakes quietly, tears leaking. Jason exhales softly, muscles going loose as he drags Dick closer against him, head pressing softly into his hair, and he thinks Jason might need this as much as he does.
The moment lasts until a pointed cough startles them apart. Jason and he both flinch at the reminder that they aren’t alone, and with one final squeeze, they part. Dick gracefully ignores the red and wetness around Jason’s eyes, and is offered the same in turn.
A few feet away, Dick’s littlest brother stands with an awkward sort of tension, and Dick knows with a sinking in his gut that Damian probably overheard every single thing that Jason said. Well, fuck. Nothing to do about that now.
Damian narrows his eyes at them, more knowing than he knows what to do with, as he searches for something Dick can’t possibly name. After a beat, he states, “Richard, Todd, if you two are done, there are still plenty of boxes that need unpacking and I should hardly be expected to do all the work myself.”
“Right you are, Little D,” Dick agrees, voice still a little uneven. He doesn’t quite care how his apartment is decorated if he’s being honest, but neither does he want to let Damian feel as if he has to take over the task, and he takes the out for what it is.
Jason makes a noise of vague agreement, now several steps away and not quite looking anyone in the eye. His brother scrubs a hand across his face, not-quite-sighs, and then squares his shoulders and looks up, locking eyes. “Happy birthday, Dickie. Really. You deserve it.”
Dick smiles crookedly, a jagged, blossoming warmth in his chest that started with the embrace only expanding further at his words. It’s more than he got from a lot of people.
Damian tuts. He had already given Dick his birthday present before they left Gotham. It’s a beautifully rendered portrait of the Gotham skyline, and if one looked closely, two little figures were visible leaping through the air, a slash of blue and a small smudge of red, yellow, and green. He has no need to say ‘happy birthday’. He’s more than likely judging Jason for being so late on the ball.
As far as his birthdays go, it’s hardly one of Dick’s worst.
— — | — —
The next morning, Dick leaves both his brothers blinking and bleary eyed at his apartment.
To be fair, none of them ever quite adapt to civilian life, even Damian, who still has to get up early for school. School that he’s been skipping, but still. Dick, unfortunately, is no exception to this rule. Two sugar-laden cups of coffee in his system, and he’s only just managing normal levels of cognitive function.
But they still wake up in time to see Dick off to his first day of work, promising to lock up behind themselves when they leave. Dick feels unwittingly like a kid shuffled off to his first day of classes, leaving behind begrudgingly proud parents, despite the fact that he is the oldest out of all them.
He is indescribably fond regardless.
But, now— Now he’s alone, in a new state with a new job and a new team.
Dick leaves early enough that he ends up being about thirty minutes early, and the hubbub in the hallways as he makes his way up onto his floor is quiet and calm, only a few other early risers filling the space. When the elevator opens to his destination, there’s hardly a person in sight.
It’s nice, in a way. He can get settled in before everyone gets there, giving himself the advantage of setting up and getting comfortable before everyone can gather without him.
Dick takes in a deep breath, holds it, and exhales, opening the glass doors of the bullpen.
It’s second nature to case a space, to note people, windows, offices. The room is largely empty— most of the desks sit abandoned, in a state of stasis as they wait for their owners to return. A single sniff, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee becomes apparent, and as he makes his way further inwards, it’s easy to spot the pot off to the side, a few stray mugs on the counter beside it. There are sparse signs of life, as if he’s just missed someone coming through, and the office closest to the stairs to the left has its blinds open and lights on.
Through the window, he can see who he knows to be Agent Hotchner move around the office easily, and, well. There’s no time like the present. He adjusts the duffle bag slung over his shoulder and shrugs to himself. Best go say hello to the boss.
The space is more or less well thought out, and it is easy to slip through and up the stairs to Hotchner’s closed door. He knocks.
“Come in.”
The door glides open on silent hinges, and inside is a standard office, set up in a way that reminds him of Bruce’s. A couch, two chairs, and a low coffee table fill the entryway, while the back and sides have room for medals, books, and case files. The focal point, however, is the large desk at the back, organized familiarly and stacked with paperwork. Behind it stands Agent Hotchner, maybe a few years younger than Bruce with a tidy suit and textbook hair, having settled from his earlier movement.
“Special Agent Grayson,” Hotchner says cordially, holding out his hand, “Welcome in.”
Dick closes the door behind him with a soft schnick, pads to the opposite side of the desk, and shakes it. “SSA Hotchner. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
Hotchner’s grip on his hand is firm, but not overbearing, and Dick can feel the faint callouses on his hands from his gun, from holding a pen. Dick can only assume the man reads as much about him in return, if not more. Afterall, he’s been long familiar with many weapons.
“Same,” he returns, “And, please, just Hotchner or Hotch will suffice. Take a seat. I have a few things to go over before I set you up for the day. The team will be in soon; I’m sure they’ll be glad to introduce themselves to you. I’ll try and get you out before then so you can set up.” There’s a hint of amusement to his voice, a clear fondness for his team, and his boss sits back down, moving the papers he was working on to the side as he searches for something else on his desk.
Dick catches a glimpse of his own name as he finds it before he takes one of the two chairs at the desk, dropping his go-bag beside him. Ah. His file.
“Much appreciated. And, if we’re dropping formalities, then I’d prefer just Dick or Grayson myself.”
“Of course,” Hotch agrees easily. There’s a pause, and he scans over the file in front of him before snapping it closed. He wonders if the man actually needs it, or if it’s just for posterity and he has it memorized. It provides a useful buffer if so, a good illusion.
Bruce would have it memorized. So would Dick.
Hotch studies him for a long moment. It isn’t, like it could very easily be, uncomfortable. Just… assessing. Dick can’t quite tell what he’s looking for, but it doesn’t feel overbearing or critical or demanding. Simply thoughtful. Granted, that can have its own brand of discomfort, but the environment Hotchner has built is surprisingly neutral, not feeding into any one particular feeling.
How strange.
Dick isn’t sure what he finds, but there’s a shift in his posture, a small release in his shoulders, and the man tilts his head at him just barely and continues, “I must admit, I wasn’t quite looking yet to take on another team member so soon. We recently lost a member, and Agent Prentiss’s loss is too recent to make it as smooth a transition for you or for the team as I would prefer. That being said, we are in need of an experienced profiler. You… came at great recommendation.”
“Recommendation?” Dick asks lightly, sensing the hesitation.
Hotchner nods. “I got your application of course; you were a top candidate as soon as I got it. However— I was very soon encouraged to accept you onto our team. Frankly, I had no reason to argue, you are both skilled and we down a member, but I dislike interference with what I do with my unit. You have friends in very high places, Agent Grayson.”
Dick grimaces. There is no telling who pressured Hotchner into accepting his application. There is more than one person that would have done it, no hesitation, believing they were doing what was best for him. He wishes they hadn’t. Dick is skilled enough to have gotten in on his own merit, and having someone clear the way puts early strain on his professional relationships that wouldn’t exist otherwise. If he hadn’t been hired, he would have accepted that choice and moved on elsewhere.
Probably. There are other units and teams that could have used his skills, surely, but he put a lot more eggs in one basket than he cared to admit.
“I need to know that you are here for the right reasons. We do good work, and we don’t have time for people jockeying for the spotlight or a promotion.”
See, case in point. Hotchner holds a seriousness in his gaze, and Dick knows with certainty that the man won’t tolerate any bullshitting, recommendation or not. If Dick doesn’t prove his commitment, then he won’t be on the team for very long.
Dick will have to tread carefully here. Nothing new. He pulls on his lip with his teeth just briefly before responding, measuring out his words. “I didn’t know my application was fast-tracked. I have plenty of friends, but no one mentioned doing anything of the sort. I would have told them not to. I only just recently returned to the Bureau myself, and while I certainly applied to your team hoping to get in, I hadn’t been expecting the hire quite so soon. And, not to sound cocky, but I know my own skills. I firmly believe I could have gotten on without interference. If not here, then somewhere.” That much he’s sure of. He’s been in the game twenty years now.
“I assure you, I have no untoward intentions. I’m here to help people. Nothing more, nothing less. I want to help; I want to stop and catch the people hurting them, to put them away and ensure the victim's safety, the same as you. I want to help. That’s all.”
There’s no reason to fake the honesty in his voice. Of everything, it’s this he’s most sure of.
Agent Hotchner is a hard read. His face is impassive, and his body language gives almost nothing away. Truly, he could give Bruce a run for his money. It’s not disconcerting, exactly, but it is— offputting, maybe. Puts everything one step to the left, not that he’d let it show. He’s gone up against supervillains, stood toe to toe with gods, one expert in behavioural analysis isn’t going to get to him.
“I believe you.”
It takes more will than he was anticipating not to blink. An unexpected wave of relief courses through him. He had been telling the truth, but— Well, it’s not like that has always mattered. He lets his shoulders relax, settling a little better into the chair, and he purses his lips in a small, grateful smile.
“Regardless of outside circumstances, your resume tells me you are more than qualified for the work you’ll do here. And your actual letters of recommendation are impressive. Your superiors only have good things to say about you, although they’ve both noted on your tendency to push yourself too far.”
Dick skillfully avoids the probing look in his eyes. “I’m glad, sir. I don’t want your first impression of me to be colored by something I wasn’t aware of happening.”
Hotch hums lightly. “I try to judge people by their own actions and words, especially when it comes to my own team. We’re going to be working with you, Agent Grayson, it’s only right we come into this honestly.”
Honestly. Right. Well. That absolutely, definitely, isn’t a problem at all.
But Dick has been doing this a long time. There’s a lot of give, a lot of workaround that Dick has long known how to take advantage of. He’s long been a master of managing his words, the information he gives out to not lie, but not exactly tell the truth, either.
Dick knows what Hotch is trying to get at, though. It will do nobody any good if they come into this with prior animosity, especially so fresh after a fresh loss.
“I agree,” Dick responds.
Hotch nods. “Then welcome aboard, Agent Grayson. I have every faith you’ll be a good fit for the team. Now, I have some final onboarding paperwork for you to sign, then you'll be cleared and good to go.”
And, like that, the topic is dropped and they move on. Hotch pulls some files out from somewhere in one of his desk drawers and hands it to him to have done by the end of lunch, walking him through what each one is for and where to sign. Later, he has to go meet with Agent Garcia, who he’s picked up as their Babs, and get a crash course from her about the tech they use both here and out in the field.
It is, overall, a rather good and unchaotic first meeting.
When he leaves the office with a murmured goodbye, the office is significantly more full than before. Tangentially, he had been aware as the others trickled in, but between the conversation and the half drawn shades, he hadn’t kept track of exactly who or when.
He takes a second to scan over the space again. There’s a new pot of coffee brewing on the far side of the bullpen, and chairs had shifted and papers appeared as agents filled the space and started getting settled for the day. Dick knows some of his new teammates have offices— most of them, in fact —so there’s no telling if everyone is in yet.
No way to go but forward. Dick takes the papers Hotch gave him and makes his way over to the desk his boss had pointed out as his. It’s in the second quadrant of desks further from Hotch’s office and his is the desk closer to the walkway to the conference room and the other square of desks.
The desk immediately perpendicular to his and across the gap is already occupied. A young man twists back and forth slightly on his chair, a pen tapping against his desk as he blows on what appears to be a steaming mug of tea in his other hand. His clothing is better suited for someone twice his age, and as Dick approaches his desk, brown eyes look up and track him with undisguised curiosity.
They don’t let up as Dick starts getting himself settled. He leaves the other agent to it, safe in the knowledge that nothing is going to happen in such a secure area, and that most likely, the man is just getting a read on the person who is going to be his new teammate. Dick ignores him.
Or, rather, he does a good job of pretending to, all the while hyperaware of the attention.
The documents land softly on the desk as he tosses them down, creating a slightly scattered pile off to the side, and he rifles through his duffle bag for the handful of pens and pencils he stuffed in there, setting them easily in the provided holder. They’re nondescript and store brand, and it’s the only thing he brought to decorate his space. Perhaps in the future he’ll give it some life, but— He’ll see. There’s no way his go-bag will fit in the locked drawer of his desk, but Hotchner helpfully informed him they have assigned lockers, and he has the key to that to put it in later.
Very quickly, he’s done.
With that, he turns, leaning on the edge of his desk as he raises an eyebrow at his audience.
The man does not have the grace to look abashed. Dick can respect that.
“You must be Special Agent Richard Grayson. Hotch told us you started today. I’m Doctor Spencer Reid, formerly the youngest member on the team, before you.” Agent Reid says it all in one rush, eyes bright and practically vibrating with intrigue, and while he doesn’t hold his hand out to greet him, his body language is welcoming all the same.
Dick laughs lightly. “Know that much about me already, do you?” It is familiar, and strangely comforting.
Reid shrugs a little. “Anybody will tell you that knowing things is half my job on the team. And we like to be well-informed about who is joining us. Garcia did your background check and nothing on the internet is safe from her.”
“I get it,” Dick responds, truthful but carefully not tight, “A team like this becomes close. It makes sense to want to look out for one another.”
Something dark passes over Reid’s face, a wash of grief that Dick recognizes all too well. “Yeah,” Reid agrees, a little quiet.
“I guess the rest of the team is all hiding in their offices? Don’t want to greet the new guy?” Dick asks swiftly, his redirection more than a little obvious.
Reid’s look isn’t quite grateful, but it’s close. He nods his head. “Yeah. Morgan and Garcia’s rooms are out in the hallway, but you can see Rossi in his next to Hotch.” Dick flicks his eyes up, and sure enough, there’s a light on in the office beside the one he just came out of. Vaguely, he can see a silhouette behind the blinds, moving around as he too gets ready for the day. “They’ll probably be around soon. It’s not everyday we get a new member.” His voice cracks a little at the end.
Diversion unsuccessful. “I’ll be glad to meet them. It’s best we do introductions now, or we’ll all be meeting on the way to a case or something.”
“It’s been known to happen.” There’s a bittersweet humor to his response, and it’s with that, that Dick knows there will be no avoiding the topic of Emily Prentiss.
Her death is fresh. Dick understands.
With a tilt of his head, Dick finally takes a seat in his desk chair. He figures he might as well be useful until the other members of the team take their turns swinging by, although the refreshing smell of bad coffee is alluring enough he might get himself a mug before he really settles in.
Thankfully, he’s not more than three pages in when he notes two new people entering the bullpen, making a beeline towards their desks. It’s a man and a woman, bodies held close together but stances more familial and friendly than anything else. The man is dressed plainly, a black button-up tucked into dark slacks but matched with combat boots, while the woman is about his polar opposite. Her dress is a patterned purple color that Steph would appreciate with a bright blue and embroidered sweater on top, while her hair gets pulled back with something feathery and oversized jewelry hands from her ears and neck and wrists.
She makes it look natural, and the smile that lights up her face when she sees him and Reid is nothing but genuine. The other agent looks on fondly, although far more reserved, as they finally come to a stop between their desks.
“Hi! You must be Richard Grayson. I’m Penelope Garcia, these guys’ tech analyst and knower of all things digital.” She holds a hand out to greet him. “Welcome to the BAU.”
Dick stands to shake it, returning her smile. “That I am. Although, I do prefer Dick or Grayson. Richard is far too stuffy.”
Her eyebrows jump a little, but she takes it in stride. “Of course, absolutely. No Richards here. Who’s that?”
Her enthusiasm is infectious, and he feels himself relaxing into the edge of his desk as he turns to the other agent. “Pleasure to meet you, Agent…”
“SSA Derek Morgan,” the man responds, shaking his hand as well. His energy is far more muted than his companion’s, and while he is perfectly professional, he is entirely more closed off than either Reid or Garcia.
Which is fine. Dick is the interloper here, inserting himself into a well-oiled machine of personalities and minds. It will take a while for everyone to get used to it, for Dick to find his place amongst his new teammates. Not everyone is going to have the same reaction.
“Welcome,” Morgan tacks on, a little belated. He steadfastly ignores the look Garcia sends him, a deep sorrow masked by playful exasperation. “Honestly. It’s good to have you. Garcia here tells me you did the Gotham-Bludhaven circuit, and Lord knows our world is becoming crazier and crazier everyday. Your experience is sure to come in handy sooner rather than later.”
That’s easy to believe, although, “Something tells me that you guys would be able to handle a vigilante-level problem just fine. This team’s reputation is like nothing else.”
They all shrug or laugh away the compliment, which mostly just tells Dick that he’s right.
Out of the corner of his eye, he notes Agent Rossi leaving his office.
Morgan must too, and he calls him over. “Oi, Rossi! Come meet the new guy.”
The older agent doesn’t so much redirect as he does actually focus on his intended target. He’s wearing a sensible dark brown wool blazer over a thinly striped button-up, with pants and shoes to match. In his hand is an unused mug, likely the intended ruse for why he left his office.
Rossi slips in easily with their little gathering, setting his mug down on Reid’s desk. The other agent squints at it, scowling mildly, and visibly resists moving it elsewhere. If Dick had known them longer, he would have moved it to his own.
“Rossi, could you not? My desk is organized for optimal functionality, and your mug is in the way.” The complaint is genuine, but the way he says it speaks to a long-standing, benign argument.
“Kid, I’m just setting it down to shake Grayson’s hand. It’d be mighty awkward to put it on his desk, now wouldn’t it?” Rossi punctuates his statement by shaking Dick’s hand, shooting Reid a ‘See?’ look before sharing an amused glance with Dick.
“I guess,” Reid allows. His face is still distinctly displeased.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Agent Grayson. The Bludhaven-Gotham circuit is no joke. Any agent that comes out of it sane and uncorrupted has my respect.”
Oddly enough, Dick believes him. “Please, the pleasure is all mine. I’ve read all your books. I’m sure you get that a lot, but having them has been fundamental to me and my career.”
It’s true. Agent Rossi and Agent Gideon’s early inroads into the art of profiling shaped a lot of Bruce’s current methods, and B made Dick read all their published books and articles before he let him out onto the field, and he’s kept up with them ever since. He’s pretty sure Rossi is one of Tim’s favourite authors.
Rossi thanks him in a way that tells Dick he does get that a lot. Dick imagines so, especially now that he’s come out of retirement. “I’m glad they’ve been helpful. Welcome to the team, kid.”
“Thank god,” Reid mutters. “I am no longer the youngest on the team. Enjoy,” he says to Dick.
“Thanks,” Dick returns, to both Rossi and Reid. “Seriously, I’m glad to be here. I look forward to working with you all.”
“We’re glad to have you,” Garcia replies, not quite grinning again, but eyes sparkling regardless. “And we’re looking forward to working with you, too. If you ever need me, my little cave is tucked away at the end of the hallway. You can find me, my screens, and my trinkets all there at almost any given time. I keep an open door policy.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“And my office is in the same hall,” Morgan adds. “It’s the second one from the elevator. You can catch me either in there or out here at one of the spare desks. I’m a bit everywhere, but I’m always happy to talk.”
Dick tilts his head in acknowledgement. It’s useful information. It takes away his reasoning to go exploring and match the blueprints to reality, but that’s an issue for another day.
Rossi swipes his mug back up into his hands. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Grayson. I’m up in my office if you need me.” And with that, he finishes his journey over to the kitchen for his over-burnt coffee.
“We’re going out for drinks Friday, if you want to come. A ‘welcome-to-the-team’ if you will. I’ll send the address to your phone,” Garcia offers before making a face. “Well, I will if we don’t get sent out this week.”
“Statistically, it’s more than likely, especially since we’re the team on call.” Reid comments, already having turned back to his paperwork.
“Thanks, Doctor Reid. Well, drinks as a solid maybe, then. Perhaps next week. Either way, it’s a standing offer. You’re one of us now, Grayson. Prepare yourself.” The challenge is light, although there is a certain gleam to her eyes that tells him that she won’t stop trying until he agrees to go out eventually.
Dick can be stubborn for a long time, although he has no easily obvious reason to deny her. “I appreciate it.”
She squints at him. “You better. Well, I better get back to it. Computers don’t hack themselves, after all. Except when they do. Still, my skills as the all-knowing font of information doesn’t occur standing up, so back to my cave I go.” She elbows Morgan. “Walk with me.”
Morgan sends her a bemused look. “You heard the woman. Nice meeting you, Grayson. Reid.”
Reid waves a distracted goodbye, and they leave. Dick watches them go, bypassing Rossi on his way back up to his office.
And just like that, he’s met the team. No pain, no explosions, no strenuous fight against forces much stronger. Just… conversation, plain and simple. Navigating a normal world, with normal people, and mostly-normal problems.
It’s like a breath of fresh air, and he ignores the little voice inside of him that tells Dick not to trust it. This is good. This will be good. He’ll still get to help people, and he’ll get to set down the suit for a little while.
This is what he wanted.
It’s what Jason wanted, too. It’s what Damian wanted, behind his pinched eyes and perpetual scowl. Even Tim, Cass, the rest of siblings. Wally. To take a break, get his head screwed on straight. To relax, even.
To get out of Gotham, away from Bruce’s city-wide shadow.
That, more than anything, is what convinces him.
There’s no Bruce here. No Gotham and her nightly, ever-increasing insane horrors. Just regular human monstrosity, and that, that he can deal with.
Dick scans the bull pen one last time, and takes his seat. He’s got normal human paperwork to deal with, and a new team to get to know.
It’ll be good. It’s a new place, a new chapter, and a new team that needs him. Have welcomed him openly, in fact, despite the grief that weighs down on all their shoulders. There are new rules, new terms of engagement, a standard of accountability, a better chance at stability.
It’s a new normal, and Dick welcomes it.
— — | — —
“Once you make the decision to move on, don’t look back. Your destiny will never be found in the rearview mirror.“ —Mandy Hale