Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Sir, shall I send the last candidate in?" Alfred peeked his head through the door into the study, where Master Wayne sat at his desk with his head cradled in his hands. The chair in front of his desk had been moved to sit at an angle. It was empty.

"Send them home, Alfred," sighed Master Wayne. "This is pointless."

Alfred shut the door behind him and came to stand in front of the desk, arms folded behind his back. "It has been a long day, sir. Perhaps after a good dinner and a good night's sleep, you will feel differently—"

"No." Manila folders full of paperwork were scattered over the desk. Master Wayne flipped through them, reading the name written on the tab, then tossing them one by one into the rubbish bin beside his chair. "He'll eat them alive, Alfred," he smiled ruefully. "And none of them are good candidates for… the other stipulations of the position. We'll have to find another solution."

Before he could pick up the last one, Alfred stayed his hand. He picked up the final folder, confirming the name written on the tab. "Forgive me, sir, but I think you'll want to meet this one. I think he shows promise."

Master Wayne raised an eyebrow. "He?"

"Yes, sir. The only man to apply." Alfred handed the folder to him.

"Damian would probably respond better to a man," Bruce acknowledged, as he perused the first page of the profile. "He's a gymnastics teacher?”

"Was. The gym recently closed. Thus, he is searching for a new position."

Grey eyes scrutinized him over the edge of the folder. "Really."

"We've had the time to chat, since he's been waiting to meet you for the last four hours."

The admonishment rolled off Bruce Wayne's tailored suit jacket like water off a duck's back. He closed the file with a snap. "Fine, send him in. But after this, we're finished.”

Alfred very carefully did not smile. "Very good, sir."

---

Haly's Tumbling had held out as long as it could, but in the end, the owners couldn't afford the rent for the building. So Dick really, really needed this job.

He scraped a sweating hand over his black corduroys, running over his qualifications in his head. Then the wooden door swung open, and he was inside, staring at Bruce Wayne, billionaire, philanthropist, and father to a shifting number of kids, all from rough backgrounds. Dick didn't know how many of them he'd be watching over, but standing in the entry way of that huge, lavish office, he suddenly felt… out of place. The air in the office felt stifling, stale.

"Richard Grayson?" A folder hid the face of the person speaking from view.

He swallowed. "Dick."

The man set the file down. He was handsome, maybe mid-forties, with tired grey eyes and a broad, aristocratic jaw. Dick saw a tiny cut on his neck, perhaps from shaving. His stare was piercing as he raised one manicured eyebrow.

"I go by Dick," he stammered. He squashed his nerves and darted forward to the armchair in front of his massive desk and extended a hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne."

He did not move to shake his hand. Instead, his eyes dropped to the chair. "Sit."

Dick sat. Nervous energy thrummed; he forced his hands to be still. The silence drew on, long enough to confuse him, but he waited. If he started talking now, he'd never stop. First impressions were important.

"What ages do you teach?"

Dick brightened. "Oh, all ages, really, but I have the most experience with eleven to fourteen-year olds. They can be trouble, but they're fun."

"Boys?"

"Boys and girls, co-ed and separated. We had all kinds of groups at Haly's." He couldn't quite keep the sadness out of his tone. "How old are your kids?"

The other man frowned. "Damian is twelve."

Dick nodded. He loved twelve-year olds. "And…?"

"You would only be responsible for Damian."

Dick settled into his seat. How long had it been since he sat down? It had to be longer than some of the previous girls lasted. "And his siblings?"

Mr. Wayne studied him for a moment, then sighed. "My other children are above the age of eighteen. They are not relevant to this discussion."

"Um…" Dick resisted the urge to pry. "Okay."

"I'll be honest with you, Richard—"

"Dick."

The other man's brow twitched. "Dick. I'll be honest with you. I don't think you're good enough to supervise my son."

Dick's eyebrows almost reached his hairline. "Are you serious? I haven't even met the kid. He’s twelve. I guarantee you, I can handle him."

"Damian is not a simple child—"

"No child is simple," Dick argued. 

"There are extenuating circumstances.”

"Which are?"

"My family's private intricacies are not up for discussion," Mr. Wayne said thunderously. "The fact remains—"

"With all due respect, sir," Dick said acidly. "I've yet to hear any facts. All you've told me is that he's twelve, and difficult — like all twelve year olds are. I waited here for four hours, and I'm easily more qualified than half the girls you've let in here. If you just wanted some pretty nanny—"

"Don't you dare talk to me like that," he snapped. His voice was too loud, echoing off the teakwood furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows. Dick flinched.

The other man sighed, raising a hand to rub at the line between his brows. "Forgive me. It's been a very long day."

Dick waited. He didn’t trust himself to say anything polite.

Just as the silence became unbearable, Mr. Wayne began to speak, a grimace flickering over his face. "It's his mother," he said quietly. "We separated a few months ago. We… disagree on how he should be raised." Those tired eyes came to rest on Dick's face, and suddenly he felt a strange sense of vertigo. They were deep, clear pools, at a glance featureless and still, but the longer he looked, the more he was pulled into a sweeping current of anger, grief, sadness, and more than anything else, a powerful, enduring weariness.

"You would not just be his au pair," said Mr. Wayne finally. "He cannot stay in the Manor any longer, lest her family find him and attempt to take him back—"

"But the police?" Dick said before he could stop himself. 

Darkness flitted across Mr. Wayne's face. "This is not a matter for the authorities, Mr. Grayson. This is a matter between two families, and it will be settled as such.

"Then the rumors about the Waynes are true," Dick said, too bold. "Aren't they?"

"If they are," Wayne gave him a pointed look. "Then I wouldn't be able to tell you, would I?"

"Right, of course," Dick nodded. Then he almost smacked himself on the forehead. What was he still doing here? 

"Unfortunately, I don't have many options, besides — but no, that wouldn't work —" Wayne sighed again. "Listen, if you're willing, I'd like him to meet you."

"I thought you said I wasn’t qualified?"

"I'll let him be the judge of that," he said drily. "I don't have a choice."

He should say no. Actually, he should tell him to fuck off, and tell the nice old man outside to fuck off too. 

But… he really needed the money. 

"Alright. When?"

Bruce Wayne stood, and finally extended a hand to him. As he took it, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd made a deal with the devil. "We'll come to you."

Chapter Text

"Don't you think I should at least run a background check on him?" Tim's loafers clicked on linoleum as he hurried after Bruce. "He could be one of Talia's—"

"I sincerely doubt it," Bruce said over his shoulder as he strode through the WE building, passing hallways with doors on either side. "He's lived in Gotham or Bludhaven most of his life. When would the al Ghuls have had the chance to—"

"It doesn't matter," Tim insisted, finally catching up enough to grab his father's arm and pull him to a halt. "You told me you thought I was ready," he said breathlessly.

Bruce paused, eyes flicking up and down the hallway to make sure they were alone. "You are ready," he said quietly.

"Then let me do this," said Tim. 

His father deliberated for a moment. "Alright. Let me know what you find." He turned to keep walking, late already for a meeting with their newest distributors.

"Wait!" Tim called after him. "Do we get to meet him?"

Bruce barely paused his stride. "I haven't decided yet."

---

Damian glowered at the man in front of him and folded his arms. "This is the au pair you had in mind?" he looked up at his father, who sighed.

Richard Grayson opened the door wider. "C'mon in."

Inside, the apartment was modestly decorated, clean, and somewhat homey, though there were one too many dishes in the sink and a scattering of clothes here and there that marked its inhabitant as a somewhat down-on-his-luck young man. The young man himself seemed freshly scrubbed, neatly dressed as he was in a sky-blue polo and dark jeans. His feet were bare; they were fine-boned, with agile toes. Even in slightly ill-fitting clothing, he was clearly extremely fit, with strong, nimble fingers at the end of densely muscled forearms and an upright, tightly-coiled air to his posture. A chain gleamed at his throat, the pendant tucked beneath his white undershirt. He smelled of sandalwood aftershave. 

Bruce redirected his attention to his son, who stood a few feet from Richard — Dick, as he liked to be called — as if he were a wary stray cat sniffing at a stranger. Dick leaned forward, arms braced on his butcher block countertop, and gestured at a plate of cookies. 

“You want one? I made them today.”

Damian slowly approached, sneakers silent on the scuffed hardwood floor. He turned a cookie over in his hand, eyeing Dick suspiciously, before he took a bite and chewed. After a moment, he said, “These are terrible, Grayson.”

Dick laughed. “Oops. I’m not a very good baker.”

Damian flicked his eyes back to his father, confused. “Why bake them, if you’re awful at it?”

Dick shrugged. “I wanted to do something nice for you, I suppose.”

“I don’t need your charity,” Damian said imperiously. He set the half-eaten cookie back on the plate. 

Dick simply smiled at him, eyes dancing as if he were laughing at his own joke. Then he turned his blue eyes on Bruce. “Nice to see you again. Having a better day today?”

“Infinitely,” he replied, feeling faintly embarrassed at the reminder of his behavior. He cleared his throat. “And you?”

“Well, turns out my career as a baker is over.”

“It should be,” Damian added. He made a face that could only be considered rude, but Dick laughed again, bright and clear like a bell. Damian furrowed his brows, confused again. 

“So,” Dick brought his hands together palm to palm and peered at Damian. “I thought you and I could get to know each other, what do you think?” He glanced at Bruce, who inclined his head and made to step outside. 

“Oh, don’t wait in the hall,” Dick protested immediately. He strode over to a door at the other end of the kitchen and opened it, gesturing inside. “Please, make yourself comfortable. We’ll just be a minute, right?” He winked at Damian, who again looked at Bruce in confusion. 

”Behave,” he warned the boy. Damian bristled angrily. 

---

As the door shut behind him, he realized he was standing in Dick’s bedroom. It, too, smelled of sandalwood; the bathroom to the side was humid from a recent shower. The bottle of cologne sat, half-empty, on a dresser nearly bursting with clothes. 

Suddenly burning with curiosity, Bruce perused the room further, taking in the rumpled red comforter and single pillow on the full-size mattress in the corner — so the boy was likely unattached, then. That would make things easier. Along the far wall was a row of trophies arranged on shelves, some with medals dangling down. He stepped forward and held one in his hand to read it: Richard Grayson, First Place Men’s Gymnastics, 1997 — he would have been, what, nineteen? He looked at all the other medals one by one — it was an impressive collection.

Above the dresser, there was a framed poster of three people in matching leotards, a man, woman, and child, titled The Flying Graysons . It was creased and torn at the bottom right corner, but had been carefully repaired with clear tape. He studied their faces, and saw something of Dick in all three. His family, then. Bruce wondered what Tim would turn up in his background check. 

Behind the door, he heard muffled conversation — his son was behaving civilly, which did not reassure him at all. Damian was always nicest when he was about to strike.

Still, Dick’s apartment was in a safe enough part of Gotham, close to the Manor and in a densely populated area, where it would be difficult for the al Ghuls to send an operative.

He smiled ruefully to himself. How readily he had accepted it, that Dick would become his son’s guardian for the time being. But there was something about the boy, he thought, as he poked through the clothes in his drawers, listening intently for movement beyond the door. Most people hid any number of shameful things in their dressers; it was only fair he had a look. His son might be staying here, assuming Dick agreed to it.

Yes, there was something about him, something about his open gaze and easy smile that Bruce found trustworthy. Perhaps Damian would feel the same. His son could use a better role model than the ones he’d had so far. 

His fingernail caught on something scratchy in the depths of his topmost drawer — he pulled it out, then felt his entire body flash hot, then cold, then blisteringly hot again.

It was a lacy black thong, one with enough fabric in the front to hold a —

The floorboard outside the door creaked; he dropped it and whirled around, schooling his facial expression just in time.

“Hi,” Dick smiled at him sheepishly. “I don’t know, I think that went well. He’s a little hard to read, but a good kid. I know you’ll want to talk to him afterwards —”

Bruce forced his mind to the present. “There’s something else we should discuss, before you decide this is something you’re willing to do.”

Dick shut the door behind him, and they were alone in the bedroom. Bruce wished he had one of his cigars, just to have something to do with his hands. “Alright, lay it on me,” said Dick.

Oh, joy. “Damian’s mother is Talia al Ghul.”

Dick’s eyes widened. “The Talia—?”

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

Dick’s face became pinched. 

Bruce kept his own expression neutral. “You’re well informed.”

A dozen emotions flickered in his gaze. He bit his lip. “I used to hear things, back in Bludhaven. And I looked up some news articles at the library after we met.”

“Really.”

Dick shrugged. “I like to read. But why? You said you’re separated?”

“It was not an… amicable separation. They wish to eradicate the Waynes and take control of Gotham. With Damian on their side, they could very well do it.”

“Don’t tell me all that!” Dick rubbed both hands over his face. “Then you’ll say you have to kill me,” he said miserably. 

“Only if you squeal,” Bruce said mildly, then he softened at the horrified look in Dick’s eyes. “No no, you’ll just sign an NDA. I have it here with me.” He patted his suit pocket. “There are a few other things you should know, before you agree to this. First, Damian had already begun his assassin training before we recovered him. I don’t think he’ll try to kill you, of course—"

“Of course,” Dick said faintly. 

“—but he is much harder to anticipate than an average twelve-year old. And my family — that is, the Waynes — will be under the impression that you’re my… romantic partner.”

“What?”

Bruce closed his eyes. “I realize how it sounds. I don’t particularly want to do this either.”

Dick waited for him to continue, blue eyes narrow with disbelief. 

“Talia’s agents have gotten closer and closer to Damian, and I cannot determine how. The only thing left to assume is that someone in my inner circle has betrayed me.”

“So… you’re not telling them he’s with a caretaker? Why would that even matter?” 

Bruce cast his eyes around for a place to sit, then remembered where he was standing and gave in. “My family cannot know that I suspect one of them is a traitor. That means I can’t rely on anyone I already know to guard my son. Having him stay with a romantic partner is as good of an excuse as any to keep him away from them.”

“…Won’t that be confusing for Damian?” He still sounded skeptical. 

“He is aware of the ruse. He will play along, so long as he is kept out of his mother’s hands.” 

Dick scrubbed his hands across his eyes. “That’s not really what I meant, but—"

“It is a lot to ask of you, I know. There are other reasons to pretend: we won’t need to keep to a regular schedule, which will also help conceal him from her. And I can pay you a lot more. An allowance for my current fling, not just for my son’s care.”

“How much?” Dick asked curiously. 

Bruce told him. 

He inhaled sharply. "That's too much!”

Bruce stepped closer to him, using his height to tower over him and impress upon him the gravity of his next words. “Dick, if the al Ghuls discover who you are and where you live, there is a high chance you will be killed. If they capture you, they’ll torture you.” He paused. “Accept the money. It’s the least I can do.”

He fell silent. That was everything he needed to say. The words hovered between them, awkward and far too big for the quaint bedroom. It was too much to ask of a twenty-something ex-gymnast, he knew that. The burden of a Wayne’s inheritance — too much for everyone but a select few.

Dick chewed at his lip. Then suddenly, he furrowed his brows and turned halfway to the door. “Was that the window?”

Bruce stiffened. In the next blink, Dick was already out the door into the hall, bare feet light on hardwood. When Bruce rounded the corner into the kitchen, he heard, “Damian?” followed by the sight of Dick Grayson swinging himself out the window with one arm.

He ran to the window, then halted. He could hardly believe what he saw: His son, leaping from fire-escape to fire-escape, rusted metal squealing with each impact, and Dick, who took one look at the gap between him and Damian and leapt into the air.

---

Dick parceled his racing thoughts into one tightly-wrapped box and let his body take over.

He caught the edge of the nearest platform and clambered up, vaulting over the railing to stand and survey the scene.

Damian was already halfway to the alley’s exit, precariously balanced on the outside of a platform's railing as he steeled himself for the next jump. There were only two more platforms before he could drop to the street below, if he wanted to run away. The two buildings’ fire escapes were maybe six or seven feet apart — not too far to jump, but certainly dangerous. 

Working quickly, Dick unscrewed the latches holding the ladder in front of him upright, then swiveled it til it smacked into the platform closest to Damian. It was risky, but faster than jumping and less likely to break the rusted metal structure.

Once it was reasonably stable, he hopped on, bare toes gripping each rung as he walked, arms outspread to balance him. In the center, the rusted ladder wiggled, reminding him how far up he was, no net — but it didn’t matter, he didn’t need one.

He hopped down onto the next platform with an oof, then called out “Damian, this really isn’t a good idea—”

Damian whipped his head around. The boy was shocked to see Dick so close. He glanced back at the ladder and at the window, then set his jaw and jumped. 

Dick’s heart leapt into his throat. Damian sailed through the air and slammed into the next platform. The metal shuddered and screamed. The boy shouted, “Go away, Grayson, this doesn’t concern you—”

“That’s my fire escape you’re about to break!” Dick wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers, wishing he’d grabbed his chalk, then he maneuvered himself over the railing again and jumped to the platform Damian had just left. Dick braced himself with one hand on a support beam and made to grab him, leaving half of his body suspended in the open air. A bead of sweat dripped into his eye, forcing him to blink. 

Damian evaded his hand, but his sneaker slipped. He caught himself, knuckles white with fright. Dick reeled himself back to his own platform just in time to avoid a kick to the head. “Damian, seriously, this is too dangerous. Let’s go back—”

“You know nothing of danger,” he hissed, shuffling along the railing toward the final platform.

Warning blared along Dick’s skin, raising the hair on the back of his neck. Without thinking, he jumped again, right hand reaching blindly for Damian as rusted metal gave way beneath him. He closed his eyes, praying it would end quickly—

His left shoulder exploded with pain. Damian screamed. 

They hung there for a few moments, dangling above a hundred-foot drop, Dick with one hand on the fire escape and the other holding Damian by the neck of his hoodie. The boy was thrashing in fright, which strained his shoulder even more — was it dislocated? “Stop, Damian, stop moving!”  

He stopped. Dick closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and tightened his left hand even more. The platform shrieked again, listing sideways. Nuts and bolts pinged as they ripped free of the brick wall. His stomach lurched. The whole structure was coming loose.

“Damian, can you reach that platform’s ladder?” He hoped the boy wouldn’t argue. 

Some jostling, then, “Yes—! Let me try—” 

His shoulder felt like it would be ripped loose, too. “Can you extend it to the other fire escape? Like you saw me do.” Talking was difficult. Dick felt a cold thrill of fear as his left hand started to go numb.  

Damian swore in frustration. “I can’t reach the screws!” 

Shit. “Damian, I’ll have to swing you to the other side.”

“No!” He thrashed again. Dick groaned in pain; he barely managed to keep his grip. “Don’t you dare let me go, Grayson!” The section below them squealed as it ripped free, jerking them both again as it tilted farther over the gap between the two fire escapes.

“Damian, we’re running out of time. It’ll be alright, I promise. I used to do this all the time when I was your age. I’ll talk you through it.” 

Silence, then a curse. “Fine.” 

“Don’t look down,” Dick warned him. Then he curved his spine, finding their combined center of gravity and beginning to build momentum as carefully as possible. Metal creaked, but nothing broke. “Have you ever been on a swingset?” 

“Yeah?” 

“It’s like that, swing with me, and then I’ll let you go—”

“Don’t let me go!” 

“I’ll count to three when I’m ready, little dude!” They were almost there, only a few more swings and he’d have enough momentum to drop Damian squarely on the other side. Thankfully, the structure leaned closer and closer to the other one as it came free. But if another level came loose, Dick wouldn’t be able to hold on through the jolt.

A hundred feet in the air, no net. But he didn’t need one.

“Okay, on three! One—”

“What about you?!” 

“Don’t worry about me! I’ll be fine! Two, three—!”

As soon as he let go of his hoodie, he closed his eyes. He couldn’t look. There was a loud clang, then, “I made it!” 

Then the next section tore free, and Dick was in free fall.

---

When Dick woke, his mouth tasted like blood. Damian hovered over him, the steel grate of a fire escape platform digging into his back. “That was impressive. Are you really just an au pair?”

Dick sat up and groaned. He rolled his shoulder — not dislocated, but ouch. Behind them, his building fire escape leaned so far over the alley that he had come close enough to swing onto the platform before he blacked out . His stomach lurched as he caught sight of the drop again. He kissed the pendant on his chain in thanks.

Damian was still talking. “You must have some sort of combat training. You should teach me how to do that— ”

“What the hell was that?” 

Damian stopped dead. All the spirit and fire in his eyes vanished. 

“Don’t you clam up on me now,” said Dick. “Your father told me about what’s going on, but he said you didn’t want to go back to your mother. Is that true?” 

“What does it matter what I want?” He scowled. “I can’t go back.”

“Damian, if you want to go back to your mother, just tell me.” 

The boy watched him warily. “You wouldn’t defy my father.” 

“I would, if you needed me to.”

Damian’s eyes widened. Then he slumped against the railing again. “No. I don’t want to go back to her.”

“Then…?” 

“Anywhere is better than with him. He hates me. He can’t even look at me.” He crossed his arms and hugged his knees to his chest. “I’ve been trying to run away for weeks, but—” 

The window back into the building above them slid open, and Bruce Wayne poked his head out. He glanced at Dick. Once he confirmed he was alright, he turned his furious gaze on his son. “Get inside,” he growled.  

“But—“

“Get. Inside. Now.” 

Damian bared his teeth in anger, but clambered inside. 

Bruce appeared again. “Are you hurt?”

Dick dusted his pants off and rose to his feet, wincing a little. “Nothing a little ice won’t fix,” he said, then accepted Bruce’s outstretched hand and was pulled inside. 

On the street, a young man with dark hair and skin leaned against a black four-door Mercedes. He started out of a doze when he spotted them. 

“Get in trouble already?” 

“Shut up,” Damian bit out. The backseat door slammed shut behind him. 

“I apologize for my son’s behavior, I—” he glanced at the young man, who frowned and looked between them. “Do you mind, Duke?” 

He rolled his eyes and smirked. Then he sat in the car too. 

“One of the people you want to fool?” Dick asked lightly. 

“It was a stupid idea. I should have known he’d try something like this. This was doomed from the start. I’ll send you a check for the damage.” He turned to join his family. ”You risked your life for him. Thank you.”

“No, wait.“ Dick grabbed his arm. “I’ll do it. If he’s okay with it, I’ll do it.”

“What? Why? You almost died.”

Dick shrugged. He had no idea why. Just a feeling, the same one he had when he was in free fall. An instinctive sense that his body knew what to do, even if his mind did not. 

But he couldn’t say that. Instead he said, “I just really need the money, Mr. Wayne.”

Wayne’s grey eyes roved over him, then he nodded. “Fine. Then we’ll see you on Monday.”

Chapter Text

Damian entered his apartment on Monday with nothing more than a duffel bag. He stood alone in Dick’s hall, no sign of Bruce or the young man that drove their car. He wore the same hoodie as the first time they met. It fell almost to his knees. 

Dick led him to the guest bedroom. He’d used it for storing his old gymnastics equipment, and with all that packed away, the room was bare and impersonal. Damian dropped his bag on the bed and made to shut the door. 

“Whoa, hey — I thought we could do a little tour of the place, what do you think?” 

“Not necessary,” he said. Then he tried to shut the door again. It slammed on Dick’s toe. 

“I guess that’s a no on decorating your room, too?” 

Damian sneered. “Leave me alone, Grayson. I won’t try to escape again.” 

“That’s not why I was asking.” Dick considered him. It wouldn’t be smart to push too hard at this stage. It had to be an adjustment, living in a huge Manor with your father and then being relegated to a guest bedroom in a stranger’s house. “I’ll be out here if you need me. Have you eaten?” 

“I’m not hungry.” 

“Alright then.” As soon as Dick withdrew his foot, Damian shut the door. 

Dick stood in the hall for a moment, gathering his thoughts. The boy was less cooperative than even his worst students at the gym. At least the thrill of physical activity inspired kids to behave, if only to be taught something fun they didn’t know before. But Wayne had placed significant restrictions on what he and Damian could do during the day. Sometime this week, he was to be given a stack of homework from the classes Damian was missing, but beyond that, they were not permitted to leave the apartment. 

With the restrictions in place, he felt more like Damian’s jailer.

Dick shook his head and restarted his effort to clean his apartment. He’d made huge progress over the weekend, but he still wouldn’t consider it child-proof. Every once in a while, he stopped, cocking his head to listen for any movement beyond Damian’s door. Occasionally, he heard a rustle or a creak of floorboards, but not much else. Hopefully he was unpacking. Dick finished vacuuming and deep cleaning the bathroom before moving on to the kitchen to make lunch. Then something occurred to him. 

“Damian?” No response. He frowned, then tried the handle. 

When the door swung open, Damian shouted in anger from the bed, hurrying to sit up and as he did, a thick folio of papers slid from his arms to the floor. Dick bent to help him gather them, glancing at them curiously. Some were blank, but others were filled with sketches, ink and pencil and smudges of charcoal outlining startlingly beautiful fragments. 

On one page, hands, in complicated poses. Another was a detailed image of Bruce Wayne, with one eye unfinished. Still more were pitch-perfect renderings of old buildings, animals, and what must have been the Wayne Manor garden. He gazed at the last picture for a long time, taking in a woman’s sharply angled face, her eyes dark and wide, her hair partially hiding her mouth. Her skin was luminous, full lips parted, as if she were about to speak. 

Damian snatched it from his hands so forcefully the edge of the paper tore, splitting her forehead in two. “Oh! But—”

The boy slid around him and bolted for the door. “Whoa, hey—” Dick caught him by the arm. “Let’s not do this again, seriously.”

Damian’s mouth twisted, and he yanked his arm back with such force Dick jerked back in surprise. “You shouldn’t have looked.”

“They’re amazing.” Dick tried to temper his excitement. “You’re so talented. You should be proud, Damian.”

 “Get out.” 

Dick was so tempted to argue, but he didn’t want to press the boy. He would have to see if he could get their bodyguards to stop at a craft store. While they were sequestered here, neither of them would be able to go. Really, it was such a shame the boy didn’t have any colored pencils — every single image had been black and white, and yet the shadows and light in each had been… quiet, almost reverent. 

They spoke of a boy who had more to him than ill-advised escape attempts. A boy, Dick realized, he desperately wanted to know.  He turned to leave, but just before he shut the door, Damian spoke again. 

“Grayson?” With a thud, a three-pointed throwing star embedded itself in the doorjamb just four inches to the left of his head. “Don’t ever enter without knocking again.”

---

Tuesday, and all the other days thereafter, were much the same. If it weren’t for the threat of another throwing star, Dick would have forgotten the boy had moved in at all. He only left his room for meals, which he ate silently, eyes resolutely staring at the table. He kept his promise and did not try to escape again. 

Each day, their bodyguards changed. They would arrive before Dick woke, in a black sedan parked on the curb near the entrance to his building. One man would stand outside his apartment door, and the other would remain in the car. At lunchtime, they would switch. 

He had tried to tell them it was far too conspicuous, but neither of them would respond to a single thing Dick said. He’d even offered them one of his cookies. They were like the Queen’s guard. Silent, and totally unreactive. 

In the quiet hours of the morning, after Dick prepared breakfast but before Damian woke, Dick would sit and inhale the steam from a cup of coffee and wonder. He had needed the money, but would this be his life forever? Trapped in an apartment with a boy who had nothing to say to him? What about pretending to be Mr. Wayne’s lover? Would he be required to play a part in the charade, or would he simply feature in it while imprisoned in his own home? 

At Haly’s, he had never wanted for conversation. Between the other coaches and the kids, he’d always felt that he was a part of a community. It had reminded him of the circus, before — well, before everything had gone wrong. He tried so very hard not to think of those years, when hope had seemed more distant than the far shore of the Atlantic sea. But it was times like these, when he could not distract himself with conversation, that the silence thrummed with memory. 

---

Three weeks later, the boy no more talkative than before, but perhaps slightly softened, out of laziness if nothing else, their bodyguard’s routine changed. For the first time ever, he knocked. 

Damian’s spoon of cereal froze on the way to his mouth. They looked at each other, confused. Then Dick rose to answer the door. 

“He wants to see you. Lunch.”

“It’s nine-thirty in the morning.” 

The man didn’t explain.

“What about—” 

“I’ll stay with him until you return.” 

Dick stared at him. “How will I know where Mr. Wayne is?” 

The bodyguard looked at him with the faintest trace of exasperation. “He’s here to see you. Meet him on the street.”

Dick wanted to argue, but then the man crossed his arms, and Dick caught the bulge of a gun at his hip and felt a prickle of fear. Right. 

Wayne was leaning against the hood of a shining black sports car, arms crossed, the morning sun shining off his black-tinted sunglasses. When he spotted him, he straightened. 

“Good morning, Mr. Wayne.” 

"You should call me Bruce," he corrected him gently. "You saved my son's life. I think we're on first name terms, don't you?"

Dick reddened a little. "Right, sorry."

"No need to apologize," he said. They both fell silent. 

“Um, is there a reason we’re getting lunch in the morning?” 

Wayne hooked his sunglasses on the collar of his shirt and scrutinized him head to toe. “You’re meant to be my boyfriend, and you’re wearing that?” 

Dick sputtered. It was a t-shirt and jeans, what was wrong with it? “Not all of us are drowning in money, Mr. Armani,” he snapped. 

Wayne chuckled, then opened the passenger side of his door. “You are now, Dick. Let’s go shopping.” 

Dick fumed in the car. He supposed this was how he would be acting the part of Bruce’s lover: letting him buy him extravagant clothing and parade him around in public like a show dog on a leash.

Well, it probably wouldn’t be very different from actually dating him, if the man’s shallow rudeness was anything to go by. Then he remembered their guard’s gun and scolded himself. He needed to remember that Wayne was dangerous. Looking at the man now, with a toothpick dangling out of his mouth and his collar open far too many buttons, he didn't seem it. 

“How come you don’t have a bodyguard with you?”

"No need," Bruce flicked his eyes at him. "I don't need the protection."

---

Dick refused to look anywhere but out the window. As they drove downtown, the buildings became taller and nicer. They were probably heading to one of the luxury shopping districts that Dick had heard of, but never bothered to visit. 

He had to admit, the car was nice. It smelled brand new. The leather of its seats was soft and supple. He stroked a hand over it appreciatively. The engine growled, and then the car lurched forward even quicker; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wayne smirk.

“Compensating for something?” Dick asked. 

“Just showing you what it can do,” Wayne replied. The toothpick bobbed as he spoke. 

Dick returned his gaze to the road. Typical. But his curiosity was starting to get the best of him. “Where are we going?” 

Wayne gave him a long, considering look. “Somewhere nice.” 

---

After another half hour, they made their way out of Gotham traffic into a small driveway tucked underneath one of the older buildings in the downtown district. It was a creamy stone, streaked with rain damage, and carved with ugly but charming gargoyles every ten or so floors. 

Bruce put the car in park and then turned to him. His face was oddly formal. “Listen, I know I asked you to pretend to be dating me, but that doesn’t mean you need to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.” 

“Gee, thanks,” Dick snorted. “Here I thought you’d be buying me lingerie.” 

For a half-second, Wayne looked constipated. “I don’t need to do that.” 

“Yeah, you probably have terrible taste,” Dick agreed. “Relax. I’m not uncomfortable being seen with a man, if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Fine. I suppose we’ll see how good of an actor you are, then.” 

Oh, yes they would, Dick thought. 

Bruce opened his car door and extended a hand to him. Dick wiped his palm off on his jeans, then took it. As he straightened, their noses came within inches of brushing. 

It was difficult, but Dick maintained eye contact. “Thanks, baby,” he purred, enjoying the blush that appeared on Wayne’s cheeks. The man almost dropped his stupid toothpick before he closed his mouth. Then it was Dick’s turn to blush as that same hand landed low on his waist and pushed him ahead.

As they walked through the building, Bruce gave him a quick summary of what they’d come here to get: a few suits for Dick to wear to formal events, some daily wear pants and shirts, and “—anything else you want, honestly.”

Dick shot him a look at that, but Bruce only shrugged. “In here, we won’t be bothered by photographers or reporters, but out there,” he indicated the street with a tilt of his head, “it will happen. Pick whatever you’re comfortable making the gossip rags in.” 

“So, maybe not lingerie,” he said thoughtfully. He spotted something on a mannequin that made his head turn immediately. “Ooh, what about that?” 

Bruce looked at him strangely, but he flagged down an employee all the same. “We’d like a dressing room,” he told her, “and a stylist.” 

---

“What about this?” Dick struck a pose. Bruce had settled into a plush armchair half an hour ago. He lowered his newspaper and looked Dick up and down. Not for the first time, he swore he saw the mobster’s nostrils flare in a subtle laugh. 

“Are you anticipating some sort of denim-related disco emergency any time soon?” Bruce asked him levelly. 

“How bout a sequin shortage?” He twirled to show off the shirt’s tassels. “Or a fire on the dance floor?” 

“Perhaps the same in a larger size, sir?” Their stylist stood off to the side, next to a rack of clothes that Dick had rejected for one reason or another. She had introduced herself as Flora. 

“What do you think, babe? Too small?” Dick crossed his arms. He felt the seams over his biceps and chest strain. 

Bruce stared at him for a moment too long, then he huffed. “Too big, obviously. You’re practically swimming in it.” 

He probably shouldn’t take that as the challenge it was, but— “You heard the man, Flora. You got something more… freeing?”

Flora’s grey eyes twinkled deviously. “I’ll be right back.”

When he tried the next one on, he almost called her back inside. There was no way this was designed for men… but then again, Dick thought as he eyed himself in the mirror, clothing didn’t really have a gender. 

And despite the breeze around his… well, everywhere, this was sure to get a reaction from the stoic man outside. Besides, the sheer, peacock green silk felt nice against his skin. He wasn’t vain, but in this, he thought he looked almost… pretty. 

He adjusted the bodice of the dress, lost for a moment in his own reflection. He wondered what Damian was up to. He realized that, surprisingly, he was having fun. 

He didn’t stop to think about why he wanted to show Bruce Wayne, notorious Gotham mobster, what he looked like in something this revealing. Instead, he just opened the door and flounced through it. 

This time, the toothpick fell to the floor. 

“Wanna see it in black, too?” Dick asked him sweetly. 

---

They stopped by the tailor’s shop so Bruce could pick up some of his own suits and drop off the pants they’d purchased for Dick that needed to be let out a couple inches in the rear. 

He tried not to be embarrassed about it. It wasn’t his fault he was built so generously — or maybe the models they’d used were just deficient.  He leaned back against the counter while Bruce spoke with the man, mind wandering, when Bruce’s arm wrapped around him and pulled him tight to his side. 

“No, this one’s for keeps, Reggie,” he said good-naturedly. 

“You said that the last time you brought someone in here, and she seemed nice too,” the tailor said wryly. “You’ve gotta stop breaking hearts like this, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce’s exhaled laughter tickled his ear. “I’ll try.”

Even changing in and out of clothes just a few feet away and pouring himself into a sheer dress for him hadn’t felt as intimate as this. Pressed against the warmth of him, while he went over the details of whatever alterations had been done to his suits. Dick wasn’t listening at all. He was too busy being shocked at his body’s reaction to Bruce Wayne.

He realized he was playing with the lapel of Bruce’s jacket absentmindedly, familiar with him the way a lover would be. He smelled so good, like cedar and lemongrass and cigars, and underneath all the layers of formal clothing, he was firm with imposing muscle. Dick wanted to lick the stubble on his jaw.

“What do you think?”

“Huh?” 

Bruce’s gaze was so intense Dick became paranoid that his thoughts were written on his face. But he only asked, “Do you want to get matching cufflinks made?”

“They’re all the rage with couples,” Reggie added.  

Dick blinked. He tried to clear his thoughts. “Sure, why not?”

---

In the relative secrecy of Leslie’s lounge, Bruce’s wallet considerably lighter, they both sat down to eat. Dick seemed ravenous — as if it had been very taxing to try on tinier and tinier outfits with higher and higher price tags. His taste was atrocious. Bruce had enlisted the help of more than one employee to combat it. He had begun to wonder if the boy was color blind — or completely blind. 

Even if he was loath to say it, the morning had still been a welcome break from the usual drudgery. He was still no closer to finding the traitor. Even if the pretty young thing in front of him wasn’t here for his amusement, he could still appreciate the view. 

“Can I ask you a question?”  Dick pushed the last bite of his salmon around on his plate.

Bruce wiped his mouth with a napkin and sat back. “You just did.” 

“Ha.” Dick rolled his eyes. He took a sip of his water. “Why does Damian think you hate him?” 

Bruce looked up from his meal, surprised. Dick was watching him, clear-eyed and a little too serious. 

He didn’t know what to say, but an odd feeling nudged him toward the truth. There was no reason to lie to Dick, no power play, no upper hand to be gained. He was simply asking, and it was out of concern for his son. “Talia concealed him from me. I didn’t know he existed until he was seven years old.”

Shock slackened Dick’s jaw. He swallowed. “That’s… well.” 

Bruce studied his own food, appetite curdling. “I regret missing those first years. I’m not sure that what was lost can be recovered.” 

Dick’s nimble fingers twisted his napkin, eyes cast down to the table as he mulled over this new revelation. Yet another way that Bruce Wayne has failed his city, his family, and his parents’ legacy. Bruce continued. “I think he blames me for chasing Talia away in the first place. But though I did not love her, I would have married her. It was the right thing to do. But then, she allowed her father to take over Damian’s training, and that — his methods, his brutality, I could not stand it. He was careless with life, didn’t believe in the sanctity of it —”

“This was Damian’s grandfather?” 

Bruce nodded. Dick rubbed a hand over his face. “Things are making a little more sense now,” he said, voice muffled by his palm. 

“You must think me hypocritical, a mobster believing murder is wrong.” Bruce searched the room, hoping to spot their server. It was time to go. 

“Are you a hypocrite?” Dick looked at him shrewdly. 

Bruce sighed. “I’m not sure I can tell anymore.” 

Dick accepted this with a nod, fingers still fidgeting with the cloth of his napkin. He set it down deliberately, and went back to considering him. When the check came, Bruce was all too eager to sign it. 

---

Bruce parked his car in the alley behind Dick’s building. The fire escape had been repaired well, and quickly. His single act of fixing something instead of destroying it — at least in the last several months. 

He knew something was wrong as soon as they opened their doors. A black shadow materialized on the passenger side of the car. Bruce cursed. He threw himself over the hood of the car in time to grab the shadow’s wrist and push it upwards. 

The gunshot was deafening. Dust streamed down from the bricks. Bruce kept his bulk between the ninja and Dick, who was stupidly not running for the entrance. “What are you doing?” he shouted at him. “Go!” 

Another punch came flying at him, but he blocked it, then kicked the gun out of the other man’s hand. It went off as it skidded across the concrete. Bruce leapt backwards, but the gunshot startled their attacker. In the opening, Bruce slammed his fist into his nose and felt it crunch, then twisted him into a headlock. There was a flash of silver, and then a knife was buried in Bruce’s bicep. He grunted in anger. 

The ninja kicked out, nearly catching Dick across the knees. Bruce felt a twinge of frustration — why hadn’t the boy run to safety already? He slammed the ninja into the hood of his car once, twice, then he reined himself in before he did it a third time. He did just get it detailed, after all. 

He held him down with one hand, then ripped off the ninja mask with the other. He tightened his grip around the man’s throat and squeezed, feeling the ninja’s legs jerk in pain. 

The other man spat blood in his face. “The Demon’s heir will be returned! The Demon’s heir will be returned, the Demon—” he kept repeating the same phrase over and over, eyes rolling back into his head. By now, he would have bitten into the cyanide capsule implanted in his molar. 

Bruce‘s grip slackened as the man started to foam at the mouth and twitch. The body fell to the floor with a thump. 

He ducked inside the still open passenger door to grab his phone. Dick stood in silence, hand to his mouth. He looked green.

“Next time, when I tell you to run, you should run,” Bruce said. He flipped open his phone. Blood smeared across the screen. “This is Wayne. I need a cleanup and disposal in the alley.” 

Dick twitched in annoyance. “Well, I wasn’t going to leave you behind.” 

Cute. Bruce flexed his knuckles. He frowned at the blood spattering the cuffs of his white dress shirt. 

“Uh, you have a—” Dick pointed. Bruce looked down, then pulled the knife out of his arm with a hiss. Dick turned greener.

“You saved my life,” he said after a moment. 

“I’m the one who put it in danger,” Bruce said darkly. “Don’t thank me yet.”

---

Later that night, the door to his office opened. “Ah, I knew I’d find you here.” 

Steph shut the door behind her. In her other hand swung a duffel bag. She tossed it onto his office couch. “How did it go?” 

“It could have gone better,” Bruce sighed. “You have something?” 

She leaned over and unzipped the bag. Inside it were stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Then she walked to the window, where the skyline of Gotham glittered. It was very late, but there was still work to be done. Bruce studied her profile — she was often quick to offer a smile, but she was better at hiding exhaustion than even Bruce at times. “Tribute from the Maronis, as promised.” 

Bruce almost raised his eyebrows. The Maronis were notoriously tight-fisted. 

He rose to stand with her, arms clasped behind his back. Below them, the streets were nearly empty; anyone with any sense was safe in the comfort of their beds. 

“They asked me why Jason didn’t come.” Steph’s eyes were piercing as they reflected the light of the skyline.

Bruce studied the rooftops, remembering the nights he spent retaking Gotham with his eldest son. “What did you tell them?” 

She snorted. “I told them if they asked me any more stupid questions, I’d take them to the harbor and fit them with some concrete shoes.” 

“Steph—”

“Relax.” The moonlight made her look even paler. “I didn’t tell them anything.” 

They fell silent, lost in memories. The sky slowly lightened, sunlight streaking pink and orange across the clouded sky. Even as high up as they were, the sounds of the morning commute slowly grew louder. 

“So… a little bird told me you’re dating again,” she said lightly. 

“This little bird wouldn’t happen to be named Duke, would he?” 

The slightest smile pulled at her lip. “Does he know about our… hobbies?” 

Bruce felt a twinge in his bandaged arm. He didn’t want to reveal too much or too little.  “I told him,” he said finally. 

He saw her nose wrinkle in surprise. “You trust him?”

Trust had nothing to do with it, he thought grimly. “Anything else to report?” 

She stepped away from the window. He sensed her displeasure; Steph didn’t like to be kept in the dark. None of them did, which made this whole operation that much harder. His eyes drifted to the cash spilling out of the duffel on his couch. He’d have to count each bill himself to make sure they weren’t marked before delivering them to his launderer. 

Distrusting his family was becoming exhausting. 

“How’s the brat? Does he like him?” Steph rifled through the papers on his desk. Looking for her next assignment, most likely. 

He produced a thick envelope from his suit jacket’s pocket and held it out to her. “Take this to the Gotham Herald, will you? It’s urgent.” 

She strangled a groan of frustration before it left her clenched teeth. “Fine. Keep your secrets.” She snatched the envelope and strode toward the door. “Tim will tell me what I want to know.” 

Chapter Text

The next morning, the front page of the Gotham Herald was taken up with a black and white photo. It was a picture of them at lunch the day before, sitting side-by-side at a square table. The paparazzo must have been outside, because a thin sheen of glass shone between the camera and the two of them. 

Bruce was looking into the camera, a reaction to the flash. Dick’s eyes were glazed over, as if he was about to sneeze. 

His heart skipped a beat. The focus of the article was obvious. Bruce’s arm, the one closest to Dick, was extended under the table between them, as if he was… 

The back of his neck heated. 

The headline read: Wayne Caught with Hands Full—And Not of Cash! 

“What are you looking at?”

Dick scrambled to toss the paper in the trash. Damian was quick, but his shaking hands were quicker. Before he could speak, the phone rang.

“It’s me.” 

An afterimage of Bruce, staring at the photographer, flashed before his eyes. “Did you intend for this to happen?” 

There was a pause. He stood in front of the trash can to prevent Damian from fishing the paper out. “Of course not.” 

The sentences he read jumbled in his head. "High-Rise, Low Standards: CEO Caught in Risky Position!” He also remembered seeing the word floozy. His cheeks burned. 

“Dick, I really am sorry. I didn’t expect the picture to be interpreted like that.”

“What?” 

“I was adjusting my napkin—"

“Did you or did you not know the photographer would be there?” said Dick icily. 

Silence. 

“Did you call him?”

More silence. Damian gave up and started eating breakfast. He glanced back at Dick curiously every minute or so. 

“I told you that we’d need to pretend to be together in public.”

Dick swallowed down his anger and watched Damian for a moment as the boy leafed through his homework assignments for the day. He was already three weeks ahead of the curriculum. Dick said, “You owe me one.”

“I—”

“And I’m cashing in right now.”

---

Dick flipped from his handstand onto the ground with an oof. He had mud all over his new shorts. “That’s how you do it! It’s easy.” 

Damian’s head blocked the sun. Behind him, the sky was a clear, joyous blue. “You dismounted poorly,” he said, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It felt good to be in the sunlight. This was their first day outside in weeks. 

“Alright, show me how it’s done!” 

They had been at the park for a couple hours now, lazing about on a picnic blanket near a busy soccer field. Damian was unexpectedly athletic for a boy of his age—must be that assassin training, Dick thought. The boy had also brought his sketchbook. Their bodyguards were nowhere to be found. They were easier to slip than Dick thought they would be.

In the noonday sun, they polished off the tofu sandwiches packed in their cooler, along with some homemade lemonade and half a watermelon. Stuffed, Dick nestled against the truck of a tree, Damian in his sights, and opened a book to read. 

He woke more than an hour later with a start. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Bruce Wayne stepped onto their picnic blanket with one loafered foot. He looked vampiric, pale and foreboding in a three piece black suit, sweat beading on his brow underneath a helmet of gelled hair. “You’re not to leave the apartment.”

Dick blinked sleep out of his eyes. “We’re in public, dear, remember?” he smiled at him sweetly. He patted the blanket beside him in challenge. “How nice of you to join us.” 

To his surprise, Bruce folded his huge body and sat. Dick resisted the urge to squirm away from him; he radiated heat. Lowly, he said, “How can you watch my son if you’re napping like a cat in the sun?”

“I was watching over him, Father.” Damian sat up, having finished hiding his sketches. “He was perfectly safe.” 

Dick almost laughed at the expression on Bruce’s face. “I wasn’t worried about him.”

“Surely, Father, you don’t mean to say you don't care for the safety of your paramour?” said Damian loftily. “How very un-romantic of you.” 

Bruce inhaled sharply, but did not reply. He leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes, and then he took another deep, measured breath. “Fine,” he said. “Now that I’m here, fine. But next time—”

“Next time?” Dick said curiously.

Bruce opened one eye and considered him. “You said that I owed you. You only wanted one day at the park?” 

“Can we have more?” 

“I’m not a monster. You can come once a month—”

“Once a week,” Damian insisted. 

Bruce looked at him oddly; Dick braced for a sharp word or a fight, but Bruce only said. “Alright, fine.” Then he sighed, lacing his hands over his chest and relaxing a little. “Any other wishes you’d like granted while I’m here?” 

They were interrupted by another kid running up to them, a little younger than Damian. “Hey, can he play with us? We have an odd number and I need another person for my team—”

“Say please!” his mother called to him, exasperated. 

“Please!” The kid was practically vibrating in place, eyes darting from Damian to Bruce to and back. “We’re just over there, we won’t go far! I don’t wanna lose again, so please.”

Damian pretended nonchalance, but he looked back at Dick and Bruce with an uncharacteristically childlike gleam in his eye. 

“Ask him,” Bruce said, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand. 

“I will come,” Damian said. He stood and dusted grass off his knees.  “We will crush your competition. That is my solemn vow.” 

“Cool!” 

As soon as Damian was out of earshot, Bruce said, “Hm.” 

Dick turned to look at him. “What? Think he won’t go easy on them?” 

Bruce snorted. “He’d better not. No, it’s just that he never would have entertained the idea of it before. Before you.”

Dick tried not to preen at that. He lay back against the tree, but with Bruce’s bulk beside him, hot and uncomfortable, it was hard to find the right position. Finally, he said, “Take your damn suit jacket off, you look ridiculous. It must be a hundred degrees out, aren’t you melting?” 

Bruce raised an eyebrow, but acquiesced. He ran his fingers through his hair, then unbuttoned his waistcoat too. Dick resisted the urge to avert his eyes—it felt oddly intimate, watching those nimble hands work each polished button through its hole. He did look away when Bruce loosened his tie, but found himself mesmerized again as he rolled up each sleeve neatly. 

“You needn’t sit so far away. We’ll look like we’re fighting.” 

“Probably better for us to be caught fighting in public than—Well.” 

Bruce gave him a wry smile. 

Dick’s heart skipped a beat at the implication. His face felt hot all over again. “Next time, warn me before you call any paparazzi.” 

“Yes, I can do that.” There was a redness to Bruce’s cheeks, but it was probably due to the heat. He’d beaten a man half to death outside of Dick’s apartment building; he could hardly be embarrassed by a newspaper article, right?

“Hey, whatever happened to that guy yesterday?”

He picked a bit of grass off his trousers idly. “It’s under control.”

On the field in front of them, Damian warmed up with the other boys, his keen eyes evaluating. Two orange cones at each side of the lawn marked the goal posts. Damian hadn’t picked a forward position; he was instead a midfielder, the position that required the most running. 

“What does that mean?” 

Bruce looked back at him impassively. Then he patted his thigh. “You needn’t concern yourself with it. Come here.”

Dick obeyed without a second thought. He leaned back to rest his head on Bruce’s thigh, then felt foolish. Couldn’t he at least pretend not to enjoy the attention? And he didn’t like being treated like a child—he wanted to know more about the man who had attacked them. 

He resolved to broach the subject again later. He kept one eye on Damian. The hot sun had him feeling drowsy again, made worse by the rhythmic motion of Bruce’s fingers in his hair, scratching at his scalp like one would a dog. It was a little demeaning, but it felt so nice, he could only sigh and relax further. 

“How’s your arm?” he asked without opening his eyes. 

“You’re full of questions today.” As he spoke, Bruce paused the motion of his hand. 

Dick frowned. He bucked his head to get him to continue. “That knife went in pretty deep.”

Bruce hummed. “It’s far from the worst injury I’ve had. I will be fine.”

His hand resumed. Dick almost purred. “Once, when I was a kid, I fell from the uneven bars and broke my ankle.” 

“How old were you?”

He wrinkled his nose. “I think I was eight.”

“How long did it take to heal?”

“Six weeks or something. But I was back on the bars after three, of course.” He opened his eyes to see Bruce looking down at him, those grey eyes thoughtful. His breath caught in his chest. “Couldn’t keep me away for long.”

“No,” agreed Bruce. Fingers brushed his forehead, tickling his temple and the shell of his ear. The bright sun almost brought tears to his eyes, but if he closed them, then he’d miss the expression on the other man’s face, pensive yet unguarded. Stress lines radiated from the corners of his eyes and mouth; they were relaxed for now. 

“Sorry we interrupted your day,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d leave work to find us. I thought you’d just send the bodyguards.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “There is nothing more important to me than the safety of my son, and now you, as his guardian.” Before Dick could feel chastened, he continued, “But I could have sent someone else. I came because I needed a break.”

Dick extended his hand for Bruce to take. Their palms slid together, electric and tingling. “It’s a great photo opp, too,” he joked. 

Bruce rolled his eyes. “You’ve been a gymnast since you were eight?”

“Oh, younger,” he replied. 

With a little prompting, he launched into a rambling summary of his childhood: the years he trained with his parents at the circus, riding Zitka the elephant, feeding the tigers, and playing pranks on the strongman with the clowns. Bruce laughed once, and it amazed him how deep and rich and wonderful the sound was. He cleared his throat afterward, self-conscious, but Dick longed to make him laugh again. The intensity of the feeling dismayed him. 

“I’d like you to meet the rest of my family this weekend,” said Bruce, bringing him out of his reverie. 

Dick swallowed. In the heat, he suddenly felt cold. “Think we’ll convince them?” 

Bruce’s eyes were unreadable. “We’ll do our best.”

Chapter Text

Dick scrutinized himself in the bathroom mirror. He wore a silk button-up shirt underneath a tailored maroon dinner jacket and grey slacks. He'd never tied a tie before, so he'd left his collar bare. His chain was reassuringly warm under his fingers.

The bathroom was luxurious. Everything gleamed with fresh polish. The basin and countertop were a pure white marble threaded with veins of gold and bronze. The hand towels hanging beside the sink were thick, dark purple, and embroidered with a curling W. Here and there were baskets full of items he'd never seen in a bathroom before — a bowl of pinecones, a jar of dried leaves, a tiny glass vial filled with a pale yellow liquid, with sticks poking out of the top. He touched one curiously — it smelled of lemons. Maybe lemongrass?

A knock came on the door. He steadied the vial before it could fall. "Are you alright?" 

It was Damian. "I'll be out in a moment," he called back. He swept a hand through his hair. He felt like a clown in a costume. It's just a performance, he reminded himself.

"There's no need to be scared," Damian taunted. "They're all idiots."

Dick opened the door. Damian looked dashing in a well-fitted emerald green suit, the color so dark it was almost black. He stood with his arms crossed leaning against the opposite wall. "I'm not scared," said Dick. He forced himself to stop fiddling with his pendant.

"You chose the servant's washroom," he snorted. "Ironic."

That was for servants? "Are they all here?"

"They're waiting for you." he beckoned him down the hall. "Hurry up."

---

At the head of the table, predictably, sat Bruce Wayne. The seat to his left was empty. He sat in it quietly, then tried to stare discreetly at the other guests.

Directly across from him, at Bruce's right hand, sat a young man of perhaps twenty, with a long, pale face constructed of pointed features and a thick wave of black hair gelled away from his forehead. He sat straight in his chair, shoulders relaxed, and observed Dick with piercing blue eyes. He didn't speak.

Unnerved, Dick looked on. Farther down the table, he recognized the young man who had accompanied Bruce and Damian on their first visit to Dick's apartment. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome. A smile of recognition lit his dark eyes, then he winked. In front of him and next to Dick sat a blonde woman, around the same age as the rest, and beside her, another woman, too far for him to see her face. Her dark hair was cut short. She murmured something in the blonde's ear, who laughed. At the opposite end of the table was another chair, but it had been left empty. 

He was saved from the burden of making conversation with the entrance of an army of servers. He tried not to make a face at the first course — it was served in a porcelain spoon. Chunks of raw meat marinated in some sort of sauce, the shining yellow of a raw egg yolk, and a few slices of jalapeno on top. That was it.  

The others were all watching Bruce. The man took a sip of his water, then began to say grace. It was hard to tell what, exactly, Dick was meant to be grateful for, since it seemed their first course hadn’t even been cooked, but he closed his eyes and bowed his head all the same. The Waynes did not hold hands around the table as they prayed. 

When it was finished, the meal began. As he chewed, murmurs of conversation came from up and down the table, but the mood was stilted and expectant, as if they all were waiting for some sort of signal. Damian seemed annoyed to be forced to sit at the other end. He didn’t touch his food. 

“Haven’t you had tartare before?” Bruce asked him. He dabbed yolk off his lip primly. 

 Dick swallowed. “It’s… good?” 

“Are you interested in food, Richard?” the young man at Bruce’s right hand asked. 

“As much as anyone can be,” Dick said. He had the nagging feeling that he’d given the wrong answer. The man glanced at Bruce, then continued eating. Somehow, he hadn’t eaten the tartare in one bite. 

The next course appeared safe, and smelled good enough. It was some sort of velvety potato and leek bisque, and it settled his nerves. This may be a mob family, but they were a family.  It may have been a long time since Dick had been part of one, but that didn’t mean he’d forgotten how. 

“So, Bruce,” the blonde said over the clink of cutlery. “Are you planning on introducing us?” 

“Do you mean to tell me you haven’t interrogated the boys already, Stephanie?” 

“Typical,” she huffed. Then she leaned toward Dick. “I’m Steph. Don’t call me Stephanie.” She shot a glare over at her father. 

“I’m Dick,” he replied. “Not Richard.” 

She ate another mouthful of soup slowly, staring at him openly. Then she said lightly, “I’m surprised the demon brat hasn’t killed you yet.”

There came a furious clatter at the end of the table. Bruce sighed. 

Dick didn’t know what to say. “Maybe I’m too hard to kill?” 

“Tell us, Dick,” said the man who had come to Dick’s apartment. He remembered Bruce calling him Duke. “What is a civilian doing dating a mobster?” 

He was taken aback. 

“If you really are a civilian,” the man in front of him added. 

“Timothy,” Bruce admonished him. “All of you. Enough.” 

“We’re just curious,” came Steph’s reply. “Is he really a better guardian for Damian than one of us?” 

“Well, you did call him a demon brat,” said Dick. 

Tim scoffed. “Before you defend him, do you know how many of us he’s tried to kill?” 

“I would have succeeded if Father hadn’t intervened,” Damian spit. “You are poor excuses for assassins and ill-equipped to lead the Wayne Empire —”

“All of us,” Tim continued blithely. “Except you.” 

Duke held up a hand. “I seem to remember an incident with a fire escape—?”

Damian snarled. He made to stand, but they were interrupted by the third course. Plates laden with steaming pasta were set in front of each of them. Dick couldn’t believe the whiplash — one moment sniping at each other, and the next, digging into pasta like nothing was wrong. 

He glanced at each of the serving staff, wondering if they knew what they had walked into. Surely, they did. Surely it was obvious? Dick looked down at his meal, at the curls of pasta and yellow chunks of… something he didn’t recognize. 

He remembered the last meal his family had eaten together, before his parents’ final show. Spaghetti with tomato sauce from a can. He’d eaten two plates of it.  

His stomach churned. 

As soon as the staff left the room, Tim shot him a piercing stare. “Don’t take it personally, Richard. It’s just hard for us to believe you don’t have any ulterior motives. Bruce Wayne is cold, ruthless, and the most dangerous gangster in Gotham. He doesn’t just fall in love.” He set his fork down and steepled his fingers. “So what is it you’re really doing here?” 

“Enough!” Their glasses rattled. Bruce withdrew his hand from the table. He looked at them all one by one. “You can be angry with me for keeping him a secret for so long. But do not take it out on him.”

Steph frowned. “Then why won’t you just tell us—”

“He doesn’t think you’re good enough, Brown,” Damian snapped. “What more is there to say? You are inadequate, weak, and sloppy, and you’ll never—”

In the space between one blink and the next, Steph and Damian were at each other’s throats, tumbling over the dining table and rolling over the carpeted floor. Dick leapt out of his chair but the crush of bodies blocked him from grabbing Damian. Had that been a knife in the boy’s hand?

“Stop it!” he cried. Absolutely no one listened. Before he could do anything else, Timothy grabbed Damian by the collar and pulled him off Steph. She was holding her right forearm in her left, blood seeping from between her fingers, her white teeth bared in anger and pain. 

Damian shook off Tim’s hold and swiped the knife clean on his emerald green suit sleeve. 

Dick felt sick.  

“He’s out of control,” Tim growled. “Can’t you see—”

“What do you care?” Damian shouted back. “What do any of you care? You all hate me!” His eyes darted wildly about the room. His father stood frozen, face pale. Damian reared back and drove his knife into the table. The point sank deep. Then he turned and ran from the room. 

The fourth course probably wasn’t coming. But Dick wasn’t hungry.

“Steph,” Bruce said after a moment. “Go have Alfred stitch you up.”

“But—”

“Now.” He passed a hand over his face tiredly. “The rest of you go to your rooms. You’re on transport duty for the next month.”

There was a chorus of groans as the four of them filed out of the room. Then it was just the two of them, and the knife, and the bloodstain on the floor. 

Dick reached over and grabbed the hilt and levered it gently out of the wood. He dusted splinters off the table. It had probably cost more than he made in a year, and now it was ruined. 

The blade was black, with a golden cloth wrapped carefully around the handle. Its serrated edge curved to a wicked point. He stood, but Bruce seized his elbow before he could leave. 

“I wouldn’t go after him now. That’s not the only blade he keeps on him.”

Dick stared back at him incredulously, then pried his hand out of Bruce’s grip and left. 

---

He tried a dozen doors before he found him on the second floor. He had opened a window and crawled onto the rooftop to sit out of sight from the hall. 

As soon as Dick poked his head out the window, he looked away. “If you’ve come here to lecture me, don’t bother.”

His voice was calm, collected, even. But he sat with his chin on his knees, arms curled around his calves, shoulders hunched and small. 

Dick swung himself out onto the rooftop and sat next to him. He peered over the edge and saw a row of rosebushes and a few fireflies. “I didn’t come here to lecture you.” Dick held his hand out and opened his fingers. “I came to give this back.”

Damian eyed the knife, then, fast as a snake, he snatched it back. It disappeared between his fingers. “Now you can go.”

“I think you know I’m not going to do that.” In the darkness, the shadows under Damian’s eyes were deeper than he’d ever seen them. 

It was rare that Dick was lost for words, but he felt truly out of his depth tonight. This family’s standard for normalcy was so far beyond what he knew.

“You should go,” said Damian again. “No one wants you here.”

Dick snorted. “Yeah, they made that pretty clear.”

White teeth flashed in the light from the window. “Don’t you get it?” He gestured in the darkness. “We’re dangerous. It isn’t worth the money.”

“Now you sound like your siblings. I’m a lot tougher than I seem—” The blade reappeared at Dick’s throat. Dick swallowed and felt it nick him. 

Damian watched him dispassionately in the darkness. Then his lip curled. He drew away. 

“Like slaughtering a lamb. Shameful.” He sat down again, dejected. Dick’s fingers came away from his throat spotted with blood. 

Distantly, an owl hooted. In the daylight, the grounds were probably beautiful, but now, the ambiguous shapes of the trees and the rustle of animals moving through the undergrowth seemed only sinister. 

“When I lived with my mother, my grandfather discovered proof that one of his personal guards was selling secrets to our enemy. He didn't know which one.” Damian scratched at a shingle with his fingernail. “He had all twelve of them beheaded.”

Dick held himself still. 

“He doesn’t trust them, but instead of eliminating the threat, he hides me away with a stranger. Nothing makes sense.”

There wasn’t anything to say. It was true, Dick realized. Not that Bruce should behead his family, but that he was so convinced pretending to date a stranger would keep Damian safe. It didn’t make sense. 

Damian’s breathing grew taut. “I miss my mother,” he whispered, a confession so quiet only the shadows could hear it. 

Dick‘s heart twisted. He brushed a hand over the boy’s shoulder. When he spoke again, it was with the same strange, weightless sensation he’d felt before agreeing to care for him in the first place, before he leapt off a fire escape to save his life. 

“I lost my parents when I was nine.”

Damian looked at him, curious. Dick couldn’t meet his eyes. He stared at the fireflies, then continued, “It was during a show. The ropes broke. The last thing they ever did was swing me to safety.” His lips twisted. “They always said we didn’t need a net.”

In the silence, it was like a stopper had come loose. He talked and talked. Slowly, the knot between Damian’s shoulders loosened. 

They stayed on the roof until the first tendrils of dawn lightened the horizon. 

Chapter Text

Supervising the weighing, packing, and distribution of all the drugs the Wayne family sold was one of the most boring jobs he could force his lieutenants to do. 

The Waynes were known for selling the best of the best, and they never overcharged or cut their product with filler. They kneecapped dealers who sold to children and added to the Gotham medical system’s supply whenever they could.

His stringent rules meant Tim, Steph and Duke would be drowning in inventory management and accounting for a month, and Bruce could finally get some peace and damn quiet.

But I’ll have to check all of their ledgers myself, he thought darkly. If one of them was working with the al Ghuls, they were probably smart enough to hide skimming his drug profits too, but at this point, any lead was worth following. 

A knock came on his office door. He frowned, but nodded to Alfred to let them in.

“Hi,” Tim said. He had the decency to look faintly embarrassed. 

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be on—” 

“That’s what I’m here about.” He swept forward and spread six files out on his desk. “Have you looked at the profits from the last three months?” 

Of course Tim would have taken to the task of accounting with relish. Bruce gazed down at the spreadsheets in front of him. On most of them, he saw his own handwriting. “What about them?”

“Well, they’re going down, obviously,” he said. “At first, I thought it was someone siphoning off a little for themselves, but I’ve run the numbers every which way I can, and it all adds up — we’re just selling less. Isn’t that odd?” 

“No.” Bruce gathered the files into a neat stack and handed them to Tim. “I noticed.”

Tim licked his lips. “Look, I’m sorry about dinner. It’s just weird seeing you with someone after all this time —”

“Was that all?” Bruce said mildly. Unfortunately, his facial expression didn’t discourage Tim from talking.

“Honestly, I think we’re happy for you, sort of,” he continued gamely. He set the files back on his desk. “What do you want me to do? Kiss the ring and apologize? I will, if you need me to —”

“No, don’t do that,” Bruce withdrew his hands into his lap. “It was not necessary the first time.” 

“Then…” Tim jabbed a finger at the stack. “Then listen to me. Something is wrong. We’re losing distribution after eighteen consecutive months of increases. It’s almost like we have —”

“A competitor?” 

That stopped Tim short. “A competitor?” 

“Something like that. I have it handled.” Bruce handed him the stack of papers again. “It’s none of your concern, Tim. Go deal with what we are selling.” 

Tim’s dextrous fingers slid along the files again, lost in thought. “Alright. I’ll find out what our competitor has that we don’t.” The gears in his mind whirred. He walked to the door, but then he stopped and looked over his shoulder. 

“Bruce?” the boy’s gaze became painfully earnest. “I’m glad you have him. You deserve to be happy.” Then he shut the door.

Those damn al Ghuls. Bruce pulled out his own copies of the same files from a desk drawer and ran a finger down the inked sums until he arrived at the number that had alarmed him two weeks ago, the same one that Tim had shown him now. 

Two hundred grand. Two hundred grand, over the last three months. And they hadn’t even stolen it — they were edging the Waynes out. If he didn’t put a stop to this war with Talia soon, his empire would fall apart. 

---

The following Saturday, the two of them sat at the kitchen table, Dick balancing his checkbook, and Damian puzzling his way through his math homework, when they were interrupted by a knock on the door. 

When Dick opened the door, his eyes widened. Bruce looked completely different. He was wearing a grey tracksuit, his hair concealed under a black baseball cap, and aviators. His stubble was about a day old. He wore sneakers. 

Bewildered, Dick stepped back to let him in. 

“It’s become obvious that I’ve neglected your training. That changes now.” Bruce crossed his arms over his chest and stared impassively at Damian. “Get dressed.”

Damian scowled. “Finally,” he growled before he stomped off to his room. 

When they were alone, Dick rolled his eyes. “Would it kill you to call in advance?” 

Bruce’s eyebrow twitched. “It’s not like you were busy.” 

“You don’t know that!” 

“Were you busy?” 

Dick huffed. He kept his voice low, in case Damian was listening. “You shouldn’t jerk him around this much. He needs to know you respect him—”

“When I want parenting advice from you, I’ll ask for it,” Bruce replied, turning to him fully. This close, he smelled of shampoo and cologne. Bizarrely, Dick wondered how his stubbled cheeks would feel on his skin. 

He shook his head. “And you wonder why family dinners go the way they do—” 

“Excuse me?” Bruce seemed oddly hurt, but then it disappeared under a mask of anger. “You don’t know anything about my family, so don’t—”

He cut himself off just in time. Damian returned, then looked between them warily. “Richard is coming too, right?” 

“Of course,” Dick said, before Bruce could reply. “I would love to blow off some steam.” 

Bruce drove them to the Wayne Tower. They entered through the garage directly into an elevator that took them to a private gym. 

It was extravagant, but as Dick looked around the facility, he was surprised to see a huge variety of equipment. On the floor above them was a track that wrapped around the walls. In the center were rings lined with mats for sparring practice. Along the far wall, he saw racks of blunted weapons, and to his right was — he looked twice, to make sure he wasn’t imagining it — a set of uneven bars and a pommel horse. Nearby was a box of equipment waiting to be set up; he read the label while Damian and Bruce talked. 

They were gymnastics rings.

Bruce spotted the look on his face. “I thought you might like something to do, since you’ll be coming here more often.” He shrugged. “I hope I didn’t overstep?”

Dick shook his head. Excitement fluttered in his chest. “Is there any chalk?”

Bruce pointed to a wall of lockers. “There’s chalk and leotards in your size, and some other things. Take whatever you want.”

In his size? How on earth had Bruce known his—well. Maybe it would be better if he didn’t know. 

As he warmed up, he watched them begin. Damian selected a wooden sword from the rack of weapons. Bruce picked a bo staff. He spun it lazily in one hand, his weight light on his feet. 

Then he struck. The tip of his staff whipped past Damian’s nose, who leapt back just in time. He slashed at Bruce’s feet with his sword, but the staff twirled and batted it away easily. 

“First, we’ll focus on defense. You need to be better at protecting your guard before you focus on breaking your opponent’s.”

Damian sneered. “How is Brown’s arm?” Before he even finished speaking, he lunged. Bruce sidestepped just in time, but it was close. He flanked Damian, forcing him to shuffle backwards to avoid a sweeping blow meant to knock him over. 

“Taunting me won’t do anything,” Bruce growled. “Focus.” 

Then the fight really began. Dick used to play with the sword swallowers at the circus when he was a kid, but the speed and precision of their bodies, the power with which they moved—it was brutal. It was clear how well-trained Damian was, even if it was also obvious that Bruce was holding back. 

He remembered the fight in the alley again and shuddered. Still, watching them was also beautiful. They moved like dancers. Damian skimmed his blade over the skin at Bruce’s throat. Bruce swung the staff downward like an axe. Damian leapt forward and actually dove between Bruce’s feet to stab the point of his sword towards his father’s torso. 

Bruce twisted and grabbed the blade. If it had been real, Damian could have killed him. He pulled it away and tossed it to the side. “I told you, defensive maneuvers first. If you won’t listen to me, then we’re done.”

A muscle tightened in Damian’s jaw. “I do not practice losing.”

“And I don’t train murderers.” 

They glared at each other long enough that Dick finished warming up. His hands thumped onto the lower of the two uneven bars. The sound made them both jolt. Ah, they’d forgotten he was here. 

He swung himself into a familiar routine. As he moved, he felt his sense of gravity calibrate. For a moment, he hung in the air, upside down, and saw them both staring at him openly, surprise flitting across their faces. They were so similar, whenever they stopped being stubborn idiots. Then he careened downward again, spinning twice around the high bar to gain some momentum for the dismount. When he landed, he let out a breathless laugh. 

Oh, he’d missed this. 

“I want to learn how to do that,” Damian said flatly, but his eyes were shining. 

“Defense first, little D,” he chuckled. “Then maybe after?”

Bruce’s eyes were narrowed. He was thinking hard about something. Finally, he nodded. “After cardio. If you listen to my orders.”

Damian looked between the two of them, but eventually, he inclined his head. “I accept your terms.”

---

And so it went. Bruce would wake early, get some work done in his study at the Manor, then pick them up and drive them to the Tower. After a hard day of training, he’d drop them back home. 

Some nights he didn’t return to the Manor until the morning, to give the others the illusion that they had spent the night together. He didn’t tell Dick when he did it — it felt wrong, somehow, even if it was part of their agreement. After the tabloid picture and the fiasco at dinner, he was reluctant to make even more of a fool of himself; and on some level he knew Dick was kind, painfully so, and would likely offer his couch for Bruce to actually stay the night with them, and then his thoughts would drift to the thong he’d found that day and the lithe, agile strength of Dick’s body, the way he tilted his head when he was annoyed, the curl of his black hair against his slender neck, and he wouldn’t be able to resist him any longer. 

Dick was a temporary necessity. He couldn’t afford to become attached. 

His son was progressing better than he had hoped. That was also because of Dick. It was as if the two of them had known each other longer than the few months that had passed. Bruce thought of the look on Dick’s face at dinner, how stricken he’d been on behalf of a boy who not moments before had attacked his sister with a knife.

Something had changed between them that night, some misstep that Bruce hadn’t yet found a way to make right. It was important that Dick liked Bruce. But he didn’t know how to regain the ease they’d found in the park the first time. Still, he kept his word and accompanied them every week, and spending time with the two of them in the summer sunlight quickly became… pleasant.

When Tim slid him the booklet that morning, his mind finally began to form a plan.

Chapter Text

After training, Bruce opened the door to the Tower locker rooms and caught Dick shirtless as he toweled off his hair.

“I’m almost done,” Dick promised. “Trust me, there’s a new episode of ER on tonight and Dami will kill me if we miss it—”

“That’s unfortunate.” Bruce stood a touch too close to him. He seemed to like physical touch. “We need to make another appearance in public together. Tonight.” 

“Oh.” Dick turned to him, a skeptical frown on his face. “What for?” 

Bruce tilted his head. He pulled his face into a sheepish grin. “Maybe I just want to spend time with my lover and my son.” 

When the boy blushed and hid his face in his shirt, Bruce knew he had him. “Alright. What’s the plan?” 

He revealed the tickets with a flourish. “It’s been a while since I’ve used my box seats.” 

Dick’s eyes widened. “The Opera?” He looked down at himself. “I am not dressed for the Opera.” 

Before he could be irritated, Bruce soldiered on. “We’ll stop at the apartment before dinner. I need you to be… eye-catching tonight. Can you do that?” 

The air between them grew stiflingly hot as Dick leaned toward him. “It would be my pleasure.”

---

In Dick’s kitchen, Damian crossed his arms. “I’m not coming.” 

As soon as Dick had disappeared into his bedroom, Bruce started counting the seconds. “It’s important that we remain public figures in Gotham. The eye of the city gives us protection where our strength cannot.” 

“You need that protection. Not me.” 

Bruce pinched his nose. He couldn’t call his usual muscle to keep an eye on him; they were busy fixing a fight in Crime Alley. 

“Why don’t you just ask Alfred to watch him?” 

Bruce turned and almost swallowed his tongue. Dick was leaning against the doorframe, the picture of innocent curiosity in a pale blue cashmere sweater knit so fine the shape of his body was obvious through the wool. The neckline was demure, except for an oval of fabric cut out over his sternum. His pendant gleamed where it swung over his oiled chest. He wore charcoal grey trousers underneath, the ones they’d gotten tailored together, held up by a crocodile leather belt that emphasized the angle of his hips. 

“Too much?” He ran a hand through his gelled hair, mussing it artfully. “You did say eye-catching, right?” 

The scent of sandalwood reached him and curled its fingers into his gut. Was he wearing eyeliner? 

“It’s kohl. We used it in the circus.” Dick waved a hand. “Did you hear what I said?” 

What he—? 

Damian was staring between the two of them, an expression of horror slowly taking over his face. “Call Alfred, Father. We’ll be fine for one night. Tell him to bring his shotgun if you’re so worried.” 

He jolted himself, searching for a reason to argue, but suddenly a night alone with this alluring creature didn’t seem so bad. He pulled out his cell and made the call. 

---

At the restaurant, Dick allowed him to pull a seat out for him at their table. The rooftop patio was intimate, the darkness lit with candles and strings of fairy lights. A cool night breeze carried the scent of cigarettes—a few of the other couples seated outside were smoking. 

“So, Madame Butterfly, huh?” Dick said, as the waiter filled their glasses of water and slid a wine menu into Bruce’s hand. Their table was small enough for their knees to brush under the table; after a moment of hesitation, Bruce leaned into the touch. “Is there something you’re trying to tell me?” 

“I’ve never seen it,” Bruce hummed. He didn’t typically drink, but there was something charming about the image of a wine glass cradled in dextrous, agile fingers. “Something white?”

“Oh, anything is fine.” He was eyeing the other patrons curiously, roving over the decorations and the view of the city. “This place is pretty romantic, don’t you think?” 

Bruce adjusted his tie. “I changed our reservation when Damian decided not to come.” 

Dick’s lips pursed around his straw as he nodded. Then his hand darted over Bruce’s and squeezed it. His skin was cold from condensation. “I wouldn’t take that personally, if I were you. I would be more surprised if a twelve-year old wanted to go to the Opera.”

“So considerate of my feelings,” Bruce replied. He leaned forward. “How lucky I am.”

Dick withdrew his hand and looked away, but not quick enough to hide his blush. “You’re better at pretending than I am, I think,” he said after a moment. 

“What I said is true,” said Bruce. “I am lucky to have found you. You have gotten through to my son in a way no one else has.”

“I told you I was good.” He smiled at him. It didn’t reach his eyes. 

“You did,” he acknowledged. When the waiter came again, he ordered a bottle of Chablis, a white wine he found cool, inviting, and distinctive in its minerality. It felt fitting—understated but unique, like Dick. 

Once their glasses were poured, he asked, “And… how does this arrangement suit you?”

In the few seconds that passed before he spoke, a number of emotions flickered across his face. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

Bruce nudged his calf with the tip of his loafer. “You can be honest. I want to know.”

Dick didn’t seem to believe him, but he nodded. “I don’t like pretending to date you. Everything else is fine.”

The unhappiness that twinged underneath his ribs surprised him. He tried not to let it show on his face. “I understand. I doubt filling the role of a… mob wife was your intention when you applied to the job. I know it may be distasteful at times—“

Dick was shaking his head emphatically enough to make his single glittering earring sway. “No, that’s not what I mean at all, actually.”

“Then…?”

“Oh, this is so embarrassing,” he sighed. “It’s just… We are dating, aren’t we? But we’re also not. I think that’s what’s confusing.”

Bruce frowned. What did that mean? “Is Damian giving you a hard time about this?”

”No!” Dick looked down at their hands, both of his cradling Bruce’s in the center of the table. He bit his lip. 

Bruce watched him carefully. Dick was always in motion, revealing whatever he was feeling at the time. He seemed nervous, the line of his shoulders hunched and tense and… unhappy. 

What should he say? What would make him feel better? Bruce wanted—it shocked how much, actually—to make him feel better. Why was it that every time he tried to mend the rift between them, things only got worse?

“Oh, don’t keep brooding over it,” Dick said lightly. He squeezed his hand again. “I’m just being me, I guess. I’ve never been good at keeping things casual.”

“Have you decided on any appetizers, sirs?”

Bruce could have cursed the waiter aloud, but instead he squeezed Dick’s hand back. “Why don’t you order this time?”

Dick brightened. As he chattered away, Bruce turned his words over and over in his mind, worrying at them like a stone tumbling in a river. Casual. Hm. 

---

Dick’s fingers gripped his arm hard enough to wrinkle his suit jacket. 

From the vantage point of their box, Butterfly blindfolded her son. The music swelled as she walked back toward the dagger abandoned on the stage. She disappeared behind the painted screen, then raised the dagger high into the air. 

Dick hid his face in Bruce’s shoulder right before the dagger fell. 

Just before they left the theater, Bruce grabbed him by the hand and pulled him out of the crowd into an alcove. “Was that alright? I didn’t think it would make you cry—”

Dick hugged him. His arms tightened around his neck as he buried his tearstained face in Bruce’s collarbone. “I loved it,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

Bruce’s hands settled on his waist, tentative until he couldn’t resist the warmth of him and then he hugged him even tighter. He couldn’t remember the last time he had held someone like this — couldn’t remember the last time he even wanted to. With Talia — it felt wrong to think of her now — but it had never felt like this with her… it had never been so… warm.

They drew apart, and Dick was smiling up at him, despite the tears still twinkling on his cheeks. Bruce swiped one away with his thumb. 

“It reminded me of the circus.” He tilted his head into Bruce’s hand. “It was beautiful. I can’t thank you enough for bringing me—”

“Don’t thank me,” he said. “I wanted to make you happy.” He surprised himself with his honesty. 

“Bruce Wayne,” a grating voice came from over their shoulders. “I didn’t think you were one for canoodling in public.”

It seemed it was a night for untimely interruptions. He forced himself to sound polite. 

“Carmine. How wonderful to see you.” He wound an arm around Dick’s waist. Dick’s palm slipped under his suit jacket, a warm beacon over his heart. 

Falcone stood with his arms crossed, a pair of sunglasses almost hiding the scars on his face. He looked at Dick. “Who’s this?”

“Dick Grayson. Nice to meet you.” He held out a hand to shake Carmine’s, but the mobster bent into a sweeping bow and laid a mocking kiss on his knuckles. 

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dick,” purred Falcone. He gave him a lingering stare from head to toe. “Where did Brucie find you?”

“In heaven, with all the other angels,” Bruce said, leering. As if he’d tell Falcone a single iota of information he didn’t have to. 

Dick shot him an exasperated smile. Then, self-conscious, he wiped a thumb under each eye. They came away dark with smudged eyeliner and wet with tears.

“Look, Carmine, it’s nice to see you and all, but Dick and I had better get going.” He rubbed his back gently. “Right, baby?”

“Sure, sure,” he stepped back to let them back into the lobby. When Dick passed him, he added, “Listen, sweetheart, if you ever want to be with someone who doesn’t make you cry, come to the Iceberg Lounge and ask for Falcone. The only tears you’ll have with me are—”

He cut himself off, chuckling at the way Bruce had lunged at him. 

A hand tugged Bruce away. “C’mon, let’s just go.”

He stood firm. “If you disrespect him like that again—” 

“Oh yeah? What’ll you do?” 

Bruce pretended to think for a moment. “Gotham University. West Quad. Third floor, room… three-oh-six, was it?” He picked a piece of lint off Falcone’s lapel. “Wouldn’t want your son to have another accident. Would we?”

“That was you?” Falcone looked murderous. “You’re lying!”

“Feel free to call my bluff,” he called over his shoulder, arm where it belonged, low on Dick’s waist. “Have a good night, Carmine.”

They were just passing through the revolving doors into the cool night air when Falcone spoke again. “Of course you’d threaten my son, even after what happened to yours. I guess you really are the worst bastard in Gotham, Brucie.”

Bruce stiffened, but then the door swung shut behind them, and he lost the opportunity to smack Falcone in the teeth. 

Dick gave him a look, but he didn’t say anything. He just tugged him into the parking lot, back to where they had left the car. Bruce knew he would ask, though, so instead of giving him the chance, he held him against the side of his sports car and pulled him close. Dick came easily, in that fetching way he always did, letting Bruce manhandle him however he liked. He smelled of cologne and a spicy, earthy scent that must have been the natural oils on his skin. 

“What was he talking about? What happened to Damian?” Dick asked him after a few minutes. His breath tickled Bruce's collarbone. 

Bruce traced circles underneath Dick’s sweater, on his bare skin. He debated what to say for a long while. 

“He wasn’t talking about Damian,” he said eventually. “He was talking about my first son.”

Dick nuzzled closer. Bruce could tell from the way his body straightened that he was listening intently. 

“His name was Jason. He was killed a year and a half ago.”

“Oh, Bruce,” Dick whispered. His embrace grew tighter. 

“It was one of the reasons things fell apart between Talia and me,” he admitted. “I blamed her for his death — she sent him into a trap. But—” he cleared his throat. “It was my fault, not hers. I shouldn’t have let him go.”

Dick cradled his face. Bruce realized the boy was once again blinking through tears. He looked especially gorgeous when he cried. 

“The others did their best to support the family, afterwards, but it hasn’t been the same without him. He was the one I trusted most, and, ironically, my misplaced trust in the al Ghuls got him killed.”

“No wonder you’re so protective of Damian,” Dick murmured. “You’re afraid it will happen again. With all of them.”

Bruce inhaled evenly. “Well, I’m not quite convinced of the others’ loyalty, but yes. You give me the perfect excuse to keep them safe and to watch over them. If one of them… if one of them has turned against me… maybe it isn’t too late. The four of them, they’ve had it rough from the beginning. Like Jason. They don’t all think of me like a father, but to me,” Bruce shrugged, “I am responsible for them. Even if they’ve been led astray. This life isn’t easy, but if I could, I would keep them safe. I need to, because I failed Jason. I owe him this.”

The orange halogen lamps of the street cast Dick in an ethereal, warm glow. His blue eyes glittered as he absorbed Bruce’s words. 

“Damian doesn’t understand it.” Bruce wished he would stop talking, but he went on. “I don’t know why he’s so convinced I love him any less than them.”

“Well, have you told him you love him just as much as the others?”

Bruce squinted at him. “What would be the point in saying something so obvious?”

Dick snorted. “Oh, goodness. You’re impossible.” He shook his head. The mirth faded from his face. The odd thing about Richard Grayson, Bruce had come to learn, was that he was always smiling, always cheerful, but when he wasn’t paying attention, he suddenly became very serious, and sometimes a little bit sad. It was the best feeling in the world to make those twinkling blue eyes fill up with laughter, but to be the subject of such intense consideration was overwhelming whenever he was unprepared. 

He was unprepared now, and when his eyes dropped to Dick’s lips, he suddenly felt as if a magnetic field was manifesting between them, and he was drawn forward inch by inch until —

“You’re so different than I thought you would be,” Dick said. 

“What did you think I would be like?”

Dick raised an eyebrow. “I thought it would scare me to be near you. You are, after all, a criminal.”

Bruce felt as if he’d been burned. He released him deliberately to disguise it. “You would do well not to forget it,” he said grimly. “Come, it’s getting late. Damian will be wondering where we are.”

And then, all too quickly, they were standing at Dick’s door, the veneer of their romantic night fallen away.

Dick pulled out his keys. He didn’t use them. He just fiddled with the chain. “Would you really hurt that man’s son?”

Bruce huffed. “No. I know how to make threats I don’t need to carry out. The trick is knowing enough to sound like I could.”

Dick leaned against his door and looked up at him through his dark lashes. “Hmmm, like a performance.”

“Yes.” The tip of his loafer poked between Dick’s shoes. “Most of the time, it’s just an act.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of just… performing?” Bruce heard a catch in his voice. “Don’t you want anything to be real?”

Before Bruce could respond, the front door opened inward and he had to catch Dick by the waist before he toppled inside. 

Damian glared at Bruce. “You’re late.”

”Ooh, do I have a curfew now?” Dick laughed at him as he passed. He reached out a hand to ruffle his hair, which Damian dodged at the last second. He didn’t meet Bruce’s eyes again. “How was ER?”

“Goodnight, Father,” Damian said stiffly. Bruce almost scolded him for his tone. What did he have to feel guilty for? 

…Why did he feel guilty? 

Damian didn’t give him the chance to speak. A second later, the door slammed shut. 

---

Tim crouched on the rooftop above the Gotham City Police Department, one hand on his comms. The night air was cool, the streets quiet. Their contact would appear soon, but until then, he kept his eyes moving, scanning the blocks below them for any suspicious activity. 

Movement to his right. Tim tensed. 

The figure stepped into the light. He relaxed. “You’re late,” he hissed. 

Steph huffed. “We got held up. Territory dispute.” 

“Did you take care of it?” 

“Don’t insult me, birdbrain.” Steph sank to her knees beside him. She touched a hand to her ear. 

Their comms buzzed. “Duke and Cass in position. Long time no chat, Tim. What’s the latest on Beauty and the Beast?”

“They’re fine.” He wrinkled his nose. “Kind of sweet, actually. In a gross, tooth-rotting way.” 

“Still think he’s plotting something?” 

Tim tilted his head, debating. “Inconclusive. You should see how he moves in the gym.”

Steph clucked her tongue. “When do you have the time to watch this much security footage?”

“No footage tonight,” he said, slightly embarrassed. “I was trailing them earlier. They went to the Opera.” 

“The Opera?” Duke made a low, whistling noise. “He must have it bad. He hates the Opera.”

“I think he just hates taking us to the Opera.” 

Steph had a point. 

Tim thought of Dick, laughing, as he led Brucie Wayne by the hand to a parked car. The most dangerous mobster in Gotham had crowded Dick against the driver’s side door, toothpick poking out between lips that curved upwards ever so slightly, before Tim had felt too much like he was intruding and looked away. 

“They might actually be in love, Dick’s true identity notwithstanding.” 

“So… we were just being horrible at dinner the other day.” 

The three of them absorbed this. Then, the door on the roof creaked and swung open. 

“Pay attention,” Cass said. “Party’s starting.” 

Steph hefted her baseball bat and clapped it to her palm. “Hey boys,” she said, as she swept from the shadows, Tim looming at her back. “Welcome to night school.”

Three shivering, fresh-faced police cadets clung to each other, abandoned on the roof by their sergeant. Tim pitched his voice in a growl. “Lesson one — Here’s how things work in Gotham.”

Chapter Text

Bruce didn’t like Sal Maroni very much, but the man played a mean game of poker. 

“Call,” Bruce said. He slid five black chips into the pile at the center, then rolled his cigar between his fingers and held it to his lips. The tip glowed orange as he puffed. 

“What’s gotten into you, Brucie?” Sal shook his head good-naturedly. “I’m robbing a man in his own house. Makes me feel bad.”

Donny, the man sitting to his left and Sal’s brother, scratched the stubbled tip of his chin. “Fold.”

“Aw,” Sal sighed. “It's like playing with wet eels.”

“If I lose any more money playing poker with you, the missus will probably castrate me,” Donny said glumly. 

”You mean, if Sal doesn’t do it first?” Bruce said wryly. Sal’s dealer, a blonde named Frannie, flipped over the final card. It was the two of hearts. 

Frannie blew a long cloud of smoke that hung in the air between the four of them. After hours, Leslie’s lounge was quiet, empty of all patrons except the four of them, and Leslie, who was at the bar polishing beer glasses with great care. Bruce usually didn’t mind attending their monthly game, but tonight, his thoughts were anywhere but on poker. Dick and Damian were probably curled up on Dick’s couch watching tv right now. They had invited him to join — or rather, Dick had, and Damian had pretended not to overhear. He hadn’t told them he would, but he hadn’t said he wouldn't, either. If their game ended early enough, he would go. Perhaps it would be pleasant. 

Sal raised the bet by a hundred bucks. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Frannie chuckled. “Poor Brucie is lovesick. That’s why he’s playing so shitty.”

Bruce raised his eyebrows. “Call,” he said. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

Sal flipped over his hand — three eights. Bruce revealed his hand. With the two of hearts, he had a straight. 

Donny whistled. Sal winked at Bruce. “Another round?”

Frannie collected their cards and shuffled them, her long, red nails perfect and precise. She cut the deck twice, then dealt the three of them new hands. Then she laid three cards face-up onto the green table between them. “C’mon, don’t be so tight-lipped. If you’re going to play boring poker, then at least tell us about the dame that’s got you so broody.”

“There’s no dame,” Bruce said. Based on Donny’s facial expression, he had a good hand. Sal hadn’t been so lucky. “And I’m not brooding.”

“Oh, come on,” Frannie purred. “I know that look. You’ve upset her, haven’t you?” She pursed her purple-lipsticked lips. “Ooh, no, it’s something else. You haven’t told her how you feel yet, right?” She grinned at him. “You’re not sure she loves you back.” 

“Don’t you read the papers, Fran?” Sal rolled his eyes. “He’s been all over town with some boy-gymnast from Bludhaven, not a woman.” Sal waggled his eyebrows. “I’ll bet he’s flexible.”

She poked a finger at him. “I’m right though, aren’t I?” 

“No,” Bruce said. “I mean, yes, he is flexible, but no, I’m not brooding over him. Trust me,” he leered, feeling remarkably hollow-hearted. “He knows my feelings on the matter.” 

Donny clapped him on the back. “Sure, and I bet he’ll be thrilled you won five hundred bucks off Sudsy Sal Maroni, won’t he?”

“Don’t call me that,” Sal snapped. “It was one time. Hurry up and make your bet.”

Donny slid eight chips into the middle of the table. “Three hundred.” Bruce almost gawked at him — he was a terrible player. Whenever Donny had a good hand, he lacked the sense to conceal it. Now neither of his opponents would add to the pot, and his good luck would be wasted. 

Bruce almost called just for the hell of it, but when he looked at his cards, he decided it wasn’t worth the effort. “Fold.”

Sal folded too. Donny grumbled, then got up to order another whiskey on the rocks. 

“You know, Brucie, I hate to bring up business at the poker table,” said Sal, as he watched Frannie shuffle the deck of cards again. She fluffed her coiffed red hair with one hand. As she dealt them their hands, she shot Bruce a wink. When he glanced down at his hand, he had a royal flush. 

“And yet you always do,” Bruce replied, but his interest was piqued. “You hear something good?” 

Sal puffed at his own cigar for a long moment. “I hear a lot of things. Some interesting, some not.” 

Bruce let him marinate. He added his bet to the pile. If he seemed too eager to hear whatever Sal had to say, then he might reveal just how precarious of a position the Waynes were in, and then the Maronis might start dreaming of a Gotham under their control. They may have a truce, but that was only because the Maronis thought the Waynes were lucrative business partners. 

Donny rejoined them. The ice cubes in his glass clinked slightly. 

“You’ve probably already heard of it,” Sal said, chuckling. “What am I doing, telling the baddest man in town about some rumor. You’ll think it’s silly.” He had a glint in his eye as he scrutinized Bruce’s face, looking for any sort of reaction. 

Bruce did not give him one. They kept playing, the clatter of the poker chips loud in the quiet lounge. 

“Well, I keep hearing that you’re losing business.” Sal leaned back in his chair. “I hear there’s a new man in town, and he’s just the sort of opportunistic businessman this city needs.” There was a beat, and then he laughed uproariously, and Donny joined in after a moment. Frannie took another pull from her cigarette, flicking the ash into a checkered ashtray near her elbow. 

Bruce forced his fingers to loosen their hold on his cigar. “Sure,” he said calmly. “There are always rumors like that, about some new hotshot that’s coming to take over. Doesn’t mean there’s any truth to them. It takes more than a bit of violence to rule Gotham.” 

“You would know,” Sal agreed. “Except I hear your ex-wife is working with him. And I think Miss Talia might be particularly interested in cutting you out, am I right?” 

Behind him, Leslie’s hand slipped on her glass. She shot Bruce a look, which Bruce ignored. Sal Maroni was a squirrelly little bastard, and dealing with him required a cool head. 

“I would know if she was in Gotham,” Bruce dismissed him outright. But in his chest, his heart was beating fast, like a rabbit running away from a fox. Talia was here? “Whoever told you that was trying to scam you.” 

The table was silent for a moment, then Sal burst into laughter again. “Oh, if you think I’ll tell you who whispered that in my ear, you’ve got another thing coming, Brucie Wayne. I’m not in the business of getting my informants killed.” 

“I will make it worth your while,” Bruce said mildly. “Don’t I always?”

“Maronis aren’t rats,” he replied. 

“I know when the next Gotham City Bank cash delivery is scheduled.” 

Sal perked up immediately, though he tried to hide it. “Everybody knows when they’re scheduled,” he argued, which wasn’t true in the slightest. 

“The driver’s cheating on his wife. I’ll give you the mistress’s name and the proof. He’ll make it easy for you.” 

Sal clapped his hands together. His cigar dangled from his mouth. “Oh, you make it worth my while alright,” he said. “Okay, you have a deal.” He nodded to Fran, who plucked a pen from the pocket of her blouse and scrawled an address on the ace of spades, then handed it to him between two clawed fingers. 

“I don’t need the card back,” she said amicably. “It isn’t a full deck, anyway.” 

Donny choked on a gulp of his drink. “What?” 

“That’s a pretty good tip, Wayne,” Sal said, “so I’ll give you a good tip in return.” He braced his elbows on the table and rested his stubbled chin on his hairy knuckles. “The man she’s running with? You really should watch out for him. He’s a killer — no honor, no loyalty, no nothing. Just business.” Sal gave him a wry grin. “He’s even worse than you. I’d hate to see your little boy orphaned, or your new pal widowed.” 

Bruce took another long, lazy drag of his cigar. The burn calmed his jittering nerves somewhat. “Nobody is worse than me,” he said. Then he revealed his hand and swept the chips in the center of the table into his pile. 

---

By the time the three of them had left, it was late. Too late for Bruce to wake Dick and Damian just to see them. Bruce turned the ace of spades over in his hand as he nursed another glass. 

“You’re going, aren’t you,” Leslie muttered. She eyed the card warily. 

“Yes.” Bruce looked up at her, at the worry lines creased into her face. 

“Not now, right?” 

“I—”

“Bruce Wayne,” she growled. “Not tonight.”

“There’s no time like the present,” he protested. Arguing with Leslie always made him feel like the child he was when he first met her. 

“You need to take backup with you when you go.” She picked up the phone threateningly. “I’ll call Tim if you don’t listen.” 

“Excuse me?” He let his voice darken. 

“Don’t growl at me,” she scolded him. “Why don’t you go spend time with your son and that nice boy? It can’t be crime and punishment all the time, Bruce. You need to enjoy living, too.” 

“Leslie,” he said testily, but she barreled on. 

“Besides, don’t you think you should keep an eye on the two of them tonight, instead of gallivanting off to,” she squinted at the card, “Crime Alley, of all places? What if the Maronis get smart and try something?”

That was a good point. “Fine,” he bit out, then he drained his glass. “I’m leaving.” 

“Good, get out,” she said. “And drink a cup of water before you go.” 

---

He parked his car outside Dick’s apartment, in the alley underneath his window, and lit another cigar.

Talia was in town. He burned with curiosity — where was she staying, what was she up to right now? There were a million things he could guess, but without following Maroni’s tip, he couldn’t know for sure. 

Maroni had confirmed whoever she was working with was a man. That eliminated Cass and Steph. So her ally was either Tim or Duke, and… Bruce hated to think who he suspected more, but Tim was certainly more suited to scheming. Had he resented Jason, before Jason’s death? Or had he lost faith in Bruce’s leadership after he got his own son killed? 

It was, of course, possible that there was a stranger working with Talia, but as much as he would never admit this to Maroni, Bruce knew that this mysterious man was indeed a credible threat. The Wayne family’s profits were getting worse each day, and as their cash dwindled, so too would their leverage over the police and the city council. If they lost those institutions, then they would lose their protection, and Bruce’s family risked jail, or worse. 

And only someone he himself had trained could be this damn good. 

An owl hooted outside his window. He tapped the ash off his cigar. It was unlucky that Leslie had threatened to call Tim about the tip. He would bring him along tomorrow when he went to investigate — he didn’t have a choice, but it would also be useful to observe his reaction in real time. Maybe he would slip and reveal something that would give Bruce the evidence he needed to confront him. Then Damian could come back home, and all would be right with the world again. 

Bruce looked upwards, at the repaired fire escape on the side of Dick’s building. Once everything was over, he would have to cut Dick loose. His thoughts turned to the Opera, and the park, and that first day Damian had been in his apartment, when Dick had leapt out of a window after a boy he’d just met. 

Bruce frowned. He knew that he had already become far too attached. The sooner he could wrap up this whole affair, the better. Dick Grayson was a good man, a kind-hearted soul. He needed to live a normal life. He needed to escape Brucie Wayne. 

It was late, so most of the windows were dark, but Bruce could see that the window of Dick’s bedroom was dimly lit, probably by a bedside lamp. The dashboard clock read three am. What was Dick doing awake? 

His fingers twitched on the wheel. He wanted to go upstairs so badly it scared him. But this was where he belonged. Dick, high above him, wreathed in light, and Bruce, far below, shrouded in darkness.

---

Dick was accustomed to sleeplessness. To sleep soundly meant trusting your surroundings. It required stability, safety. A home. 

Even though he’d worked hard for his apartment, it still didn’t feel like home, though the boy sleeping a room away did more to make it one than Dick expected. If only Bruce had joined them tonight, then they would have all been together, but he had never promised to come, and besides — they weren’t a family. It was just Dick’s selfish loneliness that tormented him, nothing more. His loneliness, and the sadness that stung him when he realized that Damian had always known that his father wouldn’t show. 

“He has other priorities,” he’d said calmly, before he’d shuffled off to bed. 

Just as Dick was reaching for the book on his bedside table, the door to the hall crept open. A thin strip of golden light revealed Damian’s face. His eyes were narrow with sleepiness, but his lips were pulled into a frown. 

“I cannot sleep,” he rasped. He ground a knuckle into his left eye; the gesture was surprisingly cute. 

“You want me to make you some hot cocoa?”

Damian came further into the room. He shook his head. “Could I…?” The boy looked as if he was seconds from bolting back into the hallway. 

Dick patted the sheets next to him. His own heart had begun to thud in his chest. “Come on over.”

Damian sat on the very edge of the bed gingerly. His hands buried themselves in the soft blankets of Dick’s bed, twisting the fabric nervously. “If this is an intrusion—”

“It’s not,” Dick said simply. “I can’t sleep either.”

“Alright.” He nodded. He was silent for a long moment, then he spoke. “I dream of it, sometimes.” Damian clenched his eyes shut. “I tried the meditation techniques Father taught me, but they aren’t working tonight.”

“What kind of dreams?”

Dick pulled back the comforter so Damian could sit underneath it. He wrapped it around them both. They lay with their knees pointed toward each other, legs curled underneath them, the blanket pulled up to their shoulders. Damian kept a careful distance between their bodies, and his gaze remained on the pillows. Dick settled in, resisting the urge to touch the boy, to wrap an arm around his thin body or to stroke his hair behind his ears. It was much longer now. 

How quickly young boys grew. 

Damian’s brow hardened. “I dream of training.”

Dick didn’t breathe. He was frightened of saying the wrong thing, of sending the boy running off into the dark hallway, when all Dick wanted was to hug Damian close. Dick felt his throat seize. 

“Training with my grandfather,” Damian said finally. His voice was dull. “It was—he…” Damian pressed his nose farther into the pillows. His frustrated breath stirred the hair on Dick’s temples. 

“You don’t need to tell me,” Dick told him softly. 

“It wasn’t bad,” Damian snapped. “I knew what his expectations were. I had my orders, and I would carry them out perfectly, as an al Ghul should, or be punished for it. It was simple. It made sense.”

“…and now, you don’t know what is expected of you?”

Damian shook his head again. “This is stupid.” He made to rise, but Dick grabbed his shoulder to stop him. 

They both froze — Dick had touched him before, but only in passing. Never in comfort, nor so familiarly. He thought of the throwing knife, but the tension in Damian’s body lessened. He sank back into the mattress sullenly. 

“He doesn’t want me here,” Damian said after a few minutes of silence. His voice was taut with sadness. “He doesn’t even come to see me.”

Dick couldn’t have stopped himself from hugging Damian even if he had wanted to, knives and ninja stars be damned. Damian tucked his head under Dick’s chin willingly, eyes still shut tight. Dick cradled his skull with his hand. “He loves you, Damian, I promise you that he does,” he murmured. 

Damian inhaled as evenly as he could, but Dick could feel the gathering wetness on his collarbones and the tremble under the boy’s ribs. “It’s alright,” he found himself saying softly. He was breathing along with him. 

“I know you think I hate him. I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.” Damian grew louder. “I hate that I care what he thinks of me. I hate that he makes me weak. I shouldn’t need his approval.”

Dick sighed and nodded. Damian always smelled of cloves and teenage boy shampoo — in the warmth of his bed, with that scent all around him, Dick suddenly felt like he might fall asleep tonight. 

“Do you want to know what I think?”

“No.” Damian said shortly. “You are not qualified in matters such as these.”

Dick chuckled. “Okay, maybe I’m not experienced with crime families and stuff, but I do know your dad thinks the world of you. Only someone who loves you would pretend to date someone just to protect you. Or would forgive you for slashing Steph’s arm—”

“Oh, please—”

“I’m serious!” Dick laughed again. Damian was not laughing, but he was warm and relaxed in Dick’s embrace. His face was still buried in Dick’s shirt so their eyes wouldn’t meet. Dick’s laughter dried up. “I’m serious, Damian. I know he’s very bad at telling you how he feels, but he loves you, and he wants you here with him. I’d bet my life on it.”

“And you?”

Dick’s heart stopped. “I—?” His tongue was ready with the words: Of course I do, silly boy. I want you here with me too. Actually, I think I might need you here. But his breath was gone from his lungs. 

Damian pulled back slightly to give him a shrewd stare. “Has he failed to tell you how he feels, too?”

“Oh. What do you mean?”

“Do not play coy, Richard,” Damian said imperiously. “I can see that he treats you much differently than he ever treated my mother.”

Dick spluttered. “Damian, it’s supposed to be a ruse—”

“For whom?”

“I—for…”

Damian smirked. Then he shifted onto his back and stretched luxuriously across two-thirds of the bed. “I think I will stay here. This bed is much nicer than the other one.”

“Fine, brat,” Dick chuckled, but secretly, he wanted to grab Damian and pull him close again. Children were so warm, and even though Damian had been through so much, he had such a pure heart. Dick found the fleeting moments of joy he shared with him more and more addicting the more time passed. 

“Do not be fooled by my good humor, Grayson,” Damian said sleepily. Dick nestled himself into his own pillows and clicked off the night lamp. “I am, after all, still a killer.”

Dick turned to look at him in shock —

But the boy had fallen asleep, and Dick was left staring at the faint lines of his ceiling until the morning light filtered in.

Chapter Text

The next time they were supposed to go to the park, Bruce didn’t show. He’d never even been late before. It was probably nothing, but Dick worried anyway. Had they done something to offend him?

“It was only a matter of time before he stopped coming,” Damian told him simply. “The question is whether or not we can go anyway.”

“We’ll wait for him to call,” Dick said. He stared down at the puzzle they were working on together. It was a picture of the Gotham skyline. Damian had done most of the work—he was very good at puzzles. 

Maybe Dick would be more helpful if he could stop wondering what was keeping Bruce; it was clear from Damian’s face that he thought so too. Dick bit his lip. Perhaps, like he’d suspected, he had been too obvious that night at the Opera. Maybe Bruce had caught on and decided to put some much-needed distance between them. 

That would be a good thing, he thought firmly. He needed to remember Bruce was his employer, not—

Not. 

Still, when the knock came at the door, he stood up so quickly he kicked the edge of the puzzle. Damian scolded him before fixing it, but he barely heard him over the pounding of his heart. 

It was just their bodyguard. He slipped his cellphone into his pocket as the door opened. 

“He wants to see you at the Tower. Get in the car.”

He bit back an angry retort. Damian put his shoes on quickly, laces neatly tied. As they exited the stairwell, the boy said out of the corner of his mouth, “Something’s happened.”

Worry tightened his chest. “What makes you say that?” 

Damian just shook his head. 

The car ride was silent as the buildings from their puzzle streaked by. There was a grey cast to the clouds above the city. He felt impatient, and it got worse the longer he had to wait. 

If nothing was wrong, then they’d been summoned with no regard for their schedules yet again. If something was wrong—

He hoped nothing was wrong. 

They were in the elevator of the Tower, riding up to the penthouse floor, when Damian tugged at his sleeve. 

He looked at him. Damian made a face, like he didn’t know how to say what was on his mind. Finally, he settled on, “Calm down.”

Dick wrestled him into a one-armed hug. “I’m totally calm, what do you mean—”

“Get off me, Grayson, I’ll maim you,” he snapped, but the words were without heat. Hell, if Dick was reading him right, he was almost smiling. 

The elevator doors opened. It wasn’t so long ago that he’d sat in this very hallway, waiting hours and hours to be interviewed by Bruce Wayne. He felt strange, seeing it now. So much had changed. 

Tim stood in front of them both. He was holding an ice pack to his jaw. He eyed the two of them strangely. 

Damian stepped a half-step away from Dick. 

“Glad you could make it,” Tim said. “Come with me.”

So Damian was right. Something had happened. 

They found Bruce sitting on the edge of his desk, his shirt cut away to reveal the right part of his chest. Blood soaked into the white fabric of his undershirt. Alfred was in the process of cutting it off, too. 

Dick was across the room in a heartbeat, taking Bruce’s outstretched left hand with both of his. “What happened?” 

He blanched; Alfred was holding a wicked pair of pliers. “Not to worry, Mr. Grayson, we’ll have the bullet out of him in a jiffy.”

“You were shot?” 

“Armor piercing rounds,” Bruce said. “Hand me that, will you?” 

Dick looked where he was indicating. His belt was folded on the desk on his other side; he handed it to him and watched in shock as Bruce fit the leather into his mouth, then nodded at Alfred. 

He held his hand as Alfred dug around in the tiny hole on his chest. For all his posturing, he gripped Dick’s hand hard enough to grind the bones of his palm together. 

“Got it!” There was a tiny plink as the piece of metal dropped into an empty whiskey glass. Alfred pressed a full one into Bruce’s hand. “For the pain, sir. I’ll have to stitch you up—”

Bruce was breathing steadily through his nose, each lungful deep and measured.  “Dick can do it. Right, Dick?”

“What?” he spluttered. “No, absolutely not—”

“I need to talk to you,” he said quietly. He looked pointedly over Dick’s shoulder. 

Behind him, Damian was frozen, eyes wide as he took in the bloodsoaked rags and bandages strewn everywhere. Under their gazes, he straightened. “It was a minor injury?” he asked. 

“Just a couple stitches. Less than Steph needed,” he replied. 

The boy rolled his eyes. 

“Damian, we need you to tell us if you recognize any of our attackers,” Tim said finally. “Are you willing to do that?”

The boy nodded. “Bodies?”

“No,” Tim gave him another odd look. “I wouldn’t show a twelve-year-old corpses, are you insane? They’re prisoners.”

“Tch.” Damian glanced back at Dick. 

Dick knew he wasn’t looking for permission from him. He wanted to know if Dick would be alright alone with Bruce. “Go ahead,” he told him. Then he turned to Bruce. He was still gripping his hand so tight their skin was becoming white. He forced his hands to loosen. 

“I’ll walk you through it,” Bruce said. “It’ll be easy.”

Alfred gave them both a little bow and followed after the boys. Then they were alone. 

“How did this happen?” he hissed. 

“Relax. We didn’t expect them to have so much firepower, but this is good.”

“How could this be good?”

“Pick up that needle to your left, and I’ll tell you.” There was a trace of iron in his voice that forced Dick to obey. That, and how pale he looked. He must be in pain, but he didn’t drink much of the whiskey Alfred had given him.  

The needle was shaped like a fishhook, with a tiny hole for the thread. He tried to make his hands stop trembling. This close, the coppery scent of blood and alcohol clogged his nose. The skin around his wound was mottled with bruises. 

Bruce talked him through threading the needle. He had to restart the first stitch three times before Bruce laid his left hand over both of his. “I’m fine, Dick,” he said. His voice was stiff with pain. “You can do this.”

“Alright,” he said dubiously. “Your funeral, I guess.” 

Bruce chuckled, then winced. Dick forced himself to calm down, to find the center point in his mind he needed whenever he swung on the trapeze. Then it was a steady rhythm from there: needle in, grab the tweezers, pull it through. Needle in, grab the tweezers, pull it through. Concentrating this hard, he could almost ignore the heat of Bruce’s body and the muscled expanse of his grey-furred chest.

He sighed in relief when he was done. 

“There, see? Easy.” Bruce nodded toward the bandages stacked on the cart Alfred had left beside them. “Help me wrap this up.” 

Dick averted his eyes as Bruce shrugged off the remains of his shirt. Then he folded the linen bandages over his bare shoulder as instructed. “What did you want to talk about?” 

Bruce’s breath brushed across his cheek. “I have reason to believe Talia is in Gotham,” he said after their eyes met. “We could settle this, once and for all. Force her to give up her search for Damian.” 

“That seems like a good idea,” he said, stroking a thumb over his chest. The first layer of linens was spotted red already. Then Bruce’s words caught up to him. “Hm, then you won’t need me anymore, will you?” 

Bruce stood. He reached behind his desk and grabbed a clean shirt. He grunted when he tried to put his right arm in the sleeve, so Dick helped him. Finally, he said, “That’s not what I wanted to discuss with you. There’s a reason she’s chosen to come back now.” 

Then those grey eyes met his again, heavy with… something Dick couldn’t name. His eyes drifted to Bruce’s mouth. They were standing so close, if he rose up onto his toes, he could press their lips together. There was no reason to pretend anymore; they were alone. But he wanted to kiss him. 

Then he thought of Damian’s puzzle. The pieces slotted into place. “She’s here for me.” 

Bruce inclined his head. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dick stopped him. Once he saw the big picture, he spoke. “That’s why you needed me, isn’t it? You weren’t worried about a traitor. You needed to make her jealous. That was the only way to get her to come herself.” There was a lump in his throat, but he ignored it. 

He’d known all along that he was just a pawn in Bruce Wayne’s game.

“We do have a traitor,” Bruce corrected him softly. “But yes. You played your part well.” 

He steeled himself. This was the deal, right from the beginning. It was just another performance, but at the end of it all, Damian would be safe. He wanted that, more than anything. 

He didn’t look down. He didn’t wonder how far he had left to fall. He just leaped. 

“What do you need me to do?”

Chapter Text

It was especially painful that tonight of all nights, Damian and his father seemed to be getting along. 

The bowling alley was lit with neon lights. Around them, the sounds of pins toppling blended into the disco music playing over tinny speakers. It was crowded tonight — that was why they were doing this here. 

The tv screen in front of their lane brightened, then displayed an animation of a bowling ball barreling into a cartoon bird, who exploded into a cloud of blue feathers. Damian had scored another strike. 

On the table, plates of half-eaten wings and onion rings were slowly getting colder. Dick thumbed the label of his beer, lost in thought. He made sure to smile at Damian when he came to sit on the bench next to him. He needed to appear normal. 

Bruce watched him from the opposite bench, a flush stealing over his pale cheeks. He looked gorgeous under the colorful lights, hair ruffled and skin pink from laughter. He rested his glass bottle on his lips, then quirked an eyebrow. 

Dick reached for another onion ring so he had an excuse to look anywhere else. Then he checked his watch. It was almost time. When he glanced back at Bruce, he could tell he was thinking the same thing. 

He rose to take his turn. Bruce and Damian were neck and neck. If Dick managed to get another strike, then he’d beat them. But if Damian lost, he might notice what happened next, so Dick’s next throw accidentally found its way into the gutter. 

GUTTER BALL! The tv screen lit up red and yellow. Animated pins mobbed the cartoon bird and again, he disappeared into a frenzy of feathers. BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME!

He took out four pins with his second throw. “Bummer! I’ll be right back,” he told them both. “Gotta hit the restroom.” 

Before he could step away, he felt a hand on the arm of his jacket. “It’s your turn,” he told Bruce, careful to keep the quiet intimacy in his voice steady. He was so focused on his performance, he was blindsided when Bruce’s hand caressed his cheek and drew him into an embrace that smelled of warmth and expensive cologne. He felt lips brush his temple. 

“Be careful,” Bruce whispered, so quiet Dick almost missed it. He let himself lean into Bruce, just to breathe him in for a moment longer, then nodded and walked away. 

---

The air conditioner in the bathroom hummed loudly as soon as he turned on the faucet. Rust-colored water dribbled out from the tap. The hair on his arms stood on end; it could happen any minute now. He checked the pocket of his jacket — the tracker was still there, good. 

He stared at himself in the mirror. A toilet flushed in the stall behind him. He couldn’t believe what he had agreed to do, but he also didn’t regret it. He wondered if his entire life, and everything good and bad that had happened to him, had in some way been leading to this. 

At the end of tonight, Damian would be safe. That was the only thing that mattered. 

Then the door to the bathroom swung open. “Grayson, you’re taking too long. There’s one more round we have to play—” 

Something metallic and cold brushed the nape of Dick’s neck. A leather-clad arm wrapped around him, and then the barrel of a gun dug into the flesh of his throat, just under his ear. His stomach dropped to his feet. “Damian—”

“Don’t talk, pretty bird.” 

Dick felt his voice crumple. Damian wasn’t supposed to be here — Bruce had promised him —

“Get inside, kid. And shut the door behind you.”

Dick shook his head wildly. “No, Damian, don't!”

There was a sharp pain in his knee, then he was kneeling on the cold tiled floor, hair tangled in the man’s gloved fist. A cry escaped him, half-swallowed out of fright. The gun jabbed under his jaw again. “Get inside, or your little nanny dies.”

Damian entered, then shut the door. 

“Did you really think you could fool me?” The man growled. Dick could feel his pulse beating hard and fast under the barrel of the gun. “She wants both of you.” 

There was a clinking sound, then the man threw Damian a pair of handcuffs. “Put them on.” 

“He’s a child—” 

A burst of pain cracked across the back of his head. If it wasn’t for the hand in his hair, he would have fallen onto the tile. 

“You bastard,” Damian snarled. Dick could barely see him through the colored spots dancing across his vision. He tasted blood. 

“Put the cuffs on, or I’ll kill him,” the man said. “Slowly.” 

Dick blinked the pain out of his eyes. For a moment the two of them looked at each other, then Damian gave him a minute nod, just a twitch of his chin. The handcuffs closed around his wrists with a click.

“Good. That’ll make this next part easier.” Then the man shifted and a bright pinch of pain exploded behind Dick’s left ear. An awful burning spread through his body, down his spine and over each limb. He felt himself lose control of his body in stages until he collapsed on the bathroom floor, cheek pressed to the scummy tile. 

His vision tunneled, but he could still watch. Damian kicked and fought as the stranger seized him and plunged a fresh syringe into his neck. When he went limp, the man tossed him next to Dick. Without the force of his personality, he looked especially small. Dick felt a cry building and building in his throat, but he couldn’t even move his tongue. 

Hands fumbled over him, then another pair of handcuffs locked his wrists behind him. Then more groping. The stranger felt every fold of his clothing, every part of his body. Nauseated, Dick could do no more than lie there and take it. 

“Aha!” The stranger straightened. Dick’s blood ran cold. “Good thing I know all his tricks,” the man purred. The tracker dropped to the tile in front of his face, then the stranger’s boot came down on top of it.

Time began to blur as Dick stared at the fragments of the tracker. Then the rushing sound of his blood got even louder, and he fell unconscious. 

---

He had only lost sight of Damian for a moment, and of course, that was enough time for his son to disappear. 

The commotion at the front entrance of the bowling alley had divided his attention, but he knew that was no excuse. He scanned every stranger milling about. There was no sign of him. 

He flipped open his cellphone and pressed it to his ear as he shoved his way through the crowd to the bathroom. 

“Tim, status? What’s going on at the front —”

His second eldest son panted for breath. “There was a shooter. They drove by and took out two civilians. We’re rushing them to the hospital now.”

Bruce dodged a family of four and entered the hallway to the bathrooms. He swore. “It was a distraction.”

He swung open the door to the men’s. It slammed into the wall. 

Empty. He cursed. Where were they? He checked each stall, then approached the sink. 

Something crunched under his shoe. He picked up a shard of metal to examine it. A cool breath of wind brushed his cheek when he realized what it was — and then he saw the window next to the sink was cracked half-open. One of its hinges was broken. 

“—status?” came Tim’s voice in his ear. Bruce took a deep breath. 

“They’re both gone.”

---

The first thing he became aware of was how cold he was. Heat leached from his back, wrists, and the seat of his pants. He tried to move, but his muscles were slow and sluggish. 

His head lolled forward. He could hear conversation, a man’s voice, a woman’s voice. Time passed, and he heard more strangers. He shifted again. 

He was sitting on a damp concrete floor. His wrists were stretched high above his head, chained in place with thick, rusted shackles to the wall behind him. 

“My son,” he heard from somewhere to his left. “We are reunited.”

A rustling sound. “Mother.” 

He felt a surge of energy. That was Damian! He blinked the spots out of his eyes and tried to see into the dimness of the room. 

“Our reunion was overdue.” The woman was walking around; the sound of her heels echoed. Dick looked around. He couldn’t figure out where they were. It looked like a basement. 

“We can leave now,” said Damian. His voice was hollow. “I’m glad you came for me. It took you long enough.”

Talia chuckled. Her voice was low and musical. Dick caught the scent of jasmine as she came closer. 

“Mother—”

She tilted Dick’s face upward, and Dick saw Damian’s mother for the first time. 

She looked exactly like the drawing of the woman Dick had seen in Damian’s sketchbook. She was beautiful, with the same deep green, almond-shaped eyes that Dick had seen at breakfast all summer. A pang rippled through him. 

“So this is the pretty thing Bruce Wayne bought to replace me,” she said. She released his head. “Disappointing.”

“He’s nothing,” said Damian. “Just staff.”

““Don’t lie to me, my son.” She laughed again. Her earrings tinkled as she shook her head. “I am your mother. I will always know when you’re lying.”

Then she drew back and kicked Dick. A starburst of pain bloomed across his ribs. 

“Damian,” Dick slurred. Don’t make her angry. 

“He makes you weak.” Talia’s heels clicked away. “He makes your father weak too, but he is already beyond saving.” 

Damian controlled his breathing. “Untie me. I want to come with you.” 

His mother clucked her tongue. “You know better than to form bonds with lesser creatures. You have given your father leverage over you that must be dealt with before we go.” 

“Talia,” Dick gasped out. His wrists were bruised from all the struggling, but he couldn’t bring himself to be still. “Don’t do this to him, please.” 

There was a beat of heavy silence. “He told you my name, did he?” She strolled back toward him. Dick’s stomach sank. “What else did he tell you?” 

Dick tried to breathe around the pain in his side and think. The tracker might have been destroyed, but Bruce had said every one of his men would be searching the city tonight. Talia wanted her son back. Well, now she had him. She could just take him and go. 

He just needed to buy them both some time.

“He told me you were a bitch,” he chuckled. “And boy, he wasn’t wrong—ah!” His thigh flared with pain. 

“How dare you talk to me like that?” She slapped him. “I am the mother of his child. You are nothing but his latest toy.”

He worked his jaw loose. The truth in her words cut him deeper than he would have liked. “He loves me, Talia. The way he could never love you.” 

The black blade of a knife flashed in front of him — the perfect match for Damian’s. She pressed it to his bare arm. “Bruce Wayne doesn’t love anyone. He barely even cares for his son.” A hot line of blood began to dribble down his arm, droplets splashing onto his face. The cut burned, but he could barely feel it. “He will not even mourn you. He might have you convinced of his humanity, but he is in the same business as my family. He is just the same as I am, and you are nothing.” 

For a moment, he was speechless. Then he felt himself begin to get angry. “That’s not true,” he spat. She tried to respond, but he kept talking. “He does love Damian. He’s thoughtful, and considerate, and generous, and he’d do anything to keep the people in his life safe, even if it means lying to them. He’s so generous it makes me want to scream —” he coughed around a painful lump in his throat. “He’s a good man, and he wants to be a good father, and I —”

“Grayson,” Damian sounded horrified, “Grayson, don’t—”

“It’s true,” he said, anger fading to a dull ache in his heart. “Damian, I’m sorry, but it’s true. I love him.” Then he laughed. His cheek throbbed. “I can’t help it.”

Talia stared at him in shock. Then her face twisted into a hideous scowl. He could see it in those gorgeous green eyes — she believed him. 

She believed him, and she wanted him to pay. 

“Damian, do you wish to rejoin the al Ghuls?” Talia asked. 

“Of course, Mother.” 

“Then I have a contract for you, my son,” she told him. Her eyes never left Dick’s face. “Destroy Bruce Wayne’s heart.” 

Chapter Text

Bruce was so unexpectedly shaken that he didn’t argue when Tim insisted on driving. The traitor could not be Tim — so who was it?

“The two civilians will be fine,” Tim was saying, eyes on the highway as the streetlights of Gotham sped by. “One of them might be eating from a tube for the rest of his life, but he’ll live.”

Bruce grimaced. “I should have predicted they would draw our attention by targeting innocents.”

“We just got unlucky,” Tim told him. “You’re sure you trust Dick—?”

“Yes,” Bruce surprised himself with the vehemence in his growl. “He did not do this.”

Tim glanced over at him for a moment too long. Sometimes his son’s gaze was truly too perceptive. He nodded. “Alright.”

“He agreed to do it,” Bruce felt the urge to explain himself. “To help us to get to Talia.”

“Right,” Tim winced. “But the tracker is gone, right? He could have done that himself.”

“Timothy,” Bruce rubbed a hand between his eyes. “He really is just a civilian. He’s Damian’s caretaker. We’re not—I’m not really…” Why couldn’t he bring himself to say it — to admit to the deception?

Tim looked over at him again, and whatever he saw on his face must have been admission enough. “How could you lie to us about this? How could you lie to me?”

“You and I both know we’ve had reason to doubt the bond of trust that keeps the family together—”

“But you can trust me—” Tim bit his retort short. “Whatever. Your plan didn’t work anyway. They found the bug.”

“The traitor found the bug I intended for them to find.” Bruce dug in his pocket for his cell phone again. He could still salvage this. “Take a left here.”

---

“Come, Damian. We’ve waited long enough.” 

“Your drug still hasn’t worn off yet—” Damian cut himself off with a yelp.

“What did I say about lying?”

“Amma—”

Dick closed his eyes. He tugged at his shackles again, to no avail.  

“Come inside, pet. It seems we need your assistance.”

There was a scraping sound, and then moonlight streamed in through the door that opened at the end of the room. The man from earlier appeared. 

Facing him, Dick saw he was huge. He wore a brown leather jacket over grey tactical gear, heavy boots, and a red mask concealing the lower half of his face. He had a gun holster strapped to each thigh. 

Dick thought he was hallucinating for a moment. The man’s eyes glowed green over the nose of his mask. Not green like the al Ghul’s—his eyes reflected light like a cat’s. 

He moved fluidly for someone of his bulk. He pulled the shackles holding Damian out of the wall with his bare hands. 

Talia caught Dick staring. “Yes, he is useful, isn’t he? Another one of Wayne’s toys he so carelessly discarded.”

The man dragged Damian to the center of the room by the wrist. 

“Stop, pet,” she commanded. He released her son, then became unnaturally still. “You will take this man’s life honorably,” she said, “if you still wish to be my son.”

They were running out of time. Dick searched for something he could say to stall, but the looming bulk of the man from earlier was making him too nervous. He could still feel his gloved hands all over his body. The man simply stood and stared at him. His gaze was eerily blank. 

He tried to catch Damian’s eye, but the boy looked away. 

“You replaced me with him?” he asked suddenly. “This brute?”

“No, my love,” she came up behind Damian and carded her hand through his hair, then pulled him gently to her chest. “He is a weapon. There is much you have missed over the last few months. The Demon grows stronger than ever before.”

She knelt in front of him to bring their gazes level. In one hand, she offered Damian his black knife, hilt first. “Come home to me, my son. Take back your birthright, and come home.”

Damian’s eyes wavered. Dick saw it and felt his heart tear in two. His voice withered in his throat.

He was nothing to the boy. Nothing to any of them. Damian was faced with an impossible choice. He took the dagger from his mother.

Dick’s pendant was cool against his throat. Had it really all been leading to this? 

Damian stepped closer. 

“Release him.” His voice was steady. “I will not kill a defenseless man.”

His every breath came faster and faster. Talia nodded to the huge man — her pet. Dick flinched when his shackles came free of the wall. The man seized his chains in one gloved hand and dragged him forward to kneel in the center of the room. 

Every detail seemed brighter, more distinct. Dick saw everything — the slight smear of purple lipstick on Talia’s bottom lip, the redness of Damian’s left ear, where she had tweaked it, the twisted scar that curled over the masked man’s neck and disappeared into his hairline. 

The door was still open. He realized that they weren’t in a basement at all — he was staring at the moon, high in the sky over Gotham Harbor. It was full, and bright, and — 

And probably the last thing he’d ever see. 

It was with that thought that a strange sense of clarity descended upon him. This is just another leap, he told himself. I don’t need to be afraid. 

Then there was a knife blade angled against his jugular. Damian stared down at him, breathing steady. The edge pressed against the exact same spot as it had on the roof that night, all those weeks ago.

“He’ll find you,” Dick said suddenly. He spoke quietly enough that he hoped Talia couldn’t hear.  “It’s alright. He won’t give up until he finds you again.”

“You won’t even beg for your life?” Damian asked. Dick felt a pinch, and then a thin line of blood dribbled down his neck. 

“Your father will find you,” he said instead. 

Damian stood there for a moment, eyes glittering like the edge of a blade. Then he shifted his weight ever so slightly. His arm slashed through the air, and the knife—

Dick heard an awful gurgling noise. His thoughts felt like they were underwater. 

He saw the gilded hilt of the dagger protruding from the masked man’s throat. Blood began to bubble from the wound as he fell to his knees. 

Talia gasped. 

Damian yanked Dick to his feet. “Go!”