Gotham Legends

by Beljoyous_works

Summary:

Chronological order of the works in this series

Notes:

Dick is a performer; he has many names, and wears several different skins. Dick, Richard, Robin. . . any time I call him by a name, or try to avoid calling him any one specific name, there's usually some significance behind it, just so you know.

In case it matters. Which, I personally think it does.

Chapter 1: Robin

Part One:

 

Dick blinked open heavy eyes. He couldn’t think straight through the bleariness of old sleep. He felt warmth, and comfort, and soft blankets and two warm bodies around him. And he really didn’t want to wake up yet. He nuzzled his nose back into the wool, turning on his side a bit as he pawed the covers closer to him. Breathed out a contented groan.

His Tati stirred at the small noise, and Dick wrinkled his nose in distaste as he heard his father mirror the same waking-up noises that he had. His mother, just as light of a sleeper, shifted in bed as well, her blue-bell eyes fluttering open and alighting on Dick as a smile stretched sleepily, peacefully across her face.

John Grayson pulled himself half-upright, slowly pushing out his arms to stretch his back. Mary balanced her gaze lovingly between the two, the happiness of her smile leaking into the twinkle in her eyes as she watched her husband.

She looked at Dick again, the smile back and soft as ever. “Bună dimineaţa, little robin.” She spoke the Romani in a husky, morning voice and pulled a hand from the warmth of the covers, tugging the wool away from Dick’s face. She brushed the back of her fingers down the side of her son’s face. “Sunteţi gata?” Are you ready? “Today’s the day,” she reminded him as his father stepped out of the bed with another stretch.

And suddenly Dick remembered what day it was. Only a week and a half ago, he had turned eight, and his parents had promised a birthday present at their next show that he’d been waiting for all of his life. He shot upright in bed, an excited smile now on his face, and tried to untangle himself from the sheets. “Da! Foarte pregătit, atât de pregătit!” (Yes! Very ready, so ready!) Mary laughed, the sound like fluttering birds’ wings.

His Tati took pity on his efforts to escape the labyrinth that was his parents’ intertwined limbs and twisted blankets. He took Dick by the hands and swung him around in a circle and into his arms, Dick clinging to his father’s strong form like a spider monkey.

He laughed, pressing his hands down on John’s shoulders and his feet off of his chest as he completed a small flip onto the floor of their small wagon, his arms extended high. Dick grinned at his father’s smile.

Mary was already swinging her feet off of the bed. She clicked her tongue in a late scolding of Dick’s response to her question. “Dick, English today,” she prompted. “We’re in America. It is a good time to practice.”

Dick nodded in all seriousness. “When is the practice today?” he asked, the language foreign to his tongue, but a nice sort of different. It tasted like a campfire in his mouth, smokey and strong and burning.

“Be back before lunch,” his father decided, and Dick started to cartwheel to the door, but was stopped when a strong hand grabbed the tail of his shirt. He looked up at his tati’s raised eyebrows. “Are you forgetting something?”

Dick scrunched his face up as he tried to remember what his father was talking about. “A good-bye kiss?” he guessed, looking at his mother with big eyes. That always seemed to work.

“Not with your stinky mouth, little bird,” she laughed from where she was brushing her hair at the small vanity. And Dick clopped his mouth shut before going about his morning routine, eating the special oatmeal his mother prepared for him, and changing his clothes for the day.

He stopped by the door for John to inspect him, which he did with ritual seriousness. “All set, soldier,” he said with a lop-sided grin after patting down his son. “Run along, now, son.”

And he did.

-x-x-x-

It was just before noon when Dick started heading for the big top where his family would be waiting for him. He’d been playing and jumping around with Raya and Raymond and Zane when the rumbling of his belly reminded him that it was almost time to practice. He’d waved good-bye and left them where they’d all been feeding some of the animals.

The walk to the big top was short, but Dick liked to go the roundabout way, and he had time. He ran through the hubbub of his home, sliding in between the busy figures and tossing out a greeting or two. He decided to make a stop by Haly’s wagon at the last minute, seeing as it was right by the back entrance.

He was turning around the corner when he heard it. Voices. None of them belonging to his circus family.

“–we can offer you protection, see?” One person was saying, a swaggering lilt in his rough voice. Dick peeked around the side of the wagon nearest Haly’s to catch sight of a man with a nasty scowl, pale skin, and a reedy face. The man speaking shrugged. “But when you don’t have that protection. . .” He clicked his tongue, and the other man, a taller, broader, scarier man, flexed his muscles threateningly and went to lean on the railing of Haly’s porch. It snapped easily.

“Oops,” the tall man said. But he didn’t sound very sorry to Dick.

The first man chuckled darkly. “Well, let’s just say that bad things happen.”

Haly’s back was to Dick, but the boy could see the tension rippling in the man’s muscles. “You won’t be getting a damn penny from me,” the ringmaster said with a heavy weight in his voice. It sounded like power. “Take your ‘business’ elsewhere,” he sneered.

Reed-face’s mouth pursed sourly. “Now, now. If we do that, then how can our business keep your business safe?” His mouth spread into a grim, self-satisfied line. “What’s the name of that act you’re always harping about, again? The Flying Squirrels?”

But Haly wasn’t having any of that. “Leave, Zucco. Now, before I send a bigger bully than the two of you, your way,” he said, crossing his arms.

“Have it your way,” the man spat in reply, snapping his fingers as he turned away for his guard to follow after him like a dog. “But I figure,” he said, turning at the last step, “That we might just pay a visit to your show tonight. ‘M thinking those Falling Graysons will be quite the catch,” he chuckled.

The two men left, and Dick walked up to his Uncle Haly. The man looked tired, but he put on his showman’s smile when he caught sight of the boy. “Dick! Isn’t your family waiting on you?”

“Dar–” Dick began to protest, his mouth turning down in a frown as he thought about the scene he’d just seen. “What about–”

Haly looked up just then, apparently remembering something. “I’m sorry, Dick. I’ve got some things to attend to. Give your parents a hello for me, will you?” he said, a smile his dismissal, so Dick turned and left for the big top, and forgot about the conversation he’d overheard.

He was too excited to fly.

-x-x-x-

The noon practice went perfectly; Dick knew that the routine they would be performing that night would go off without a hitch. It would be their best one yet, he knew, and he was excited to add that night’s poster to his quickly-growing collection. It would be the thirteenth show he was going to perform in with his parents, but the first time that he would be doing the quadruple flip, his family’s signature move, in front of a crowd.

It would make him officially a Flying Grayson, the only aerialists in the world who could do what they did.

Because nobody else in the world could fly in the air like his family.

The routine they had prepared for the night would be their most difficult yet, with plenty of flips and choreographed spins to keep the citizens of Gotham entertained. His tati said that was the most important part, that they keep Gotham happy, excited, wanting for more. John Grayson always said that the city he was born in was one of teeth and claws, a place for the meanest of people to live in the meanest of ways. He said that her citizens needed to be kept satisfied, or they would tear with their sharp claws and teeth until they got what they wanted.

So they had to give Gotham what she so clearly craved.

Danger, excitement. A show.

And Dick was nothing if not a performer at heart. His mother always whispered to him lovingly of his smiles and wide eyes, of how a soft word and a pleasant grin would tease out approval from anyone he met. His father loved to reassure him that flips and turns and tricks impressed everyone, impressed them to the point where they would listen in approval to someone who knew what they were doing. His aunt and uncle liked to laugh about the way Dick would flip and fly for an extra sweet, and his cousin was just as bad as he was, in performing at any given moment.

Because everyone liked to see a show.

And Dick was very good at being in the spotlight, with his littleness and his flippiness and the way he could fly and pull out smiles and laughter from the gruffest of onlookers. It warmed something in him, made him feel accomplished. It was what he was made for.

He was made to fly, and to be seen, and to fall and to be caught.

It was almost time.

Dick chased after his cousin as he and their young circus troop flipped and raced through the crowd that was pushing its way into the doors. Other children laughed and pointed at the spectacular taste of the oncoming show that Dick and the others were baiting them with. Dick grinned at the smiles he fished from the sea of colorful, bright-lit people.

He performed a low row of flips, completing a double turn in the air and landing on his hands. He kept himself upside down as he walked into the big tent, the blood rushing pleasantly to his still-spinning head to make his face flushed and happy, his heart full and anticipating. Looking up, he was nearing where the rest of his family were performing tricks much like he was, cousin John standing on his father’s shoulders to turn into a flip and land on his hands in the same place.

A young child shouted at Dick as he turned into a backbend, front-flipped, and spinned in a series of cartwheels in that direction. He landed upright and waved in the direction of a nice couple and their young kid, chubby-cheeked and bright-eyed.

“Picture!” the child said with all the seriousness in the world, tugging on his mother’s skirt and pointing in Dick’s direction.

The mother looked at her husband, who said something that Dick couldn’t hear, and they picked up the small child and made their way down to meet Dick, who had turned himself upside down again. He rotated himself as two small feet landed in front of his face, and the young boy squatted down so he was looking Dick in the eye.

“Hi!” he said brightly. “Take a picture with me?” he asked, the words very big for someone so small, and Dick couldn’t make himself say no.

He grinned in response, lifted off of one hand and turned easily upright. “Desigur. . . of course,” he amended, and reached out for the kid’s hand. “Do you want a picture with everyone? All of my family?” Dick asked carefully, cherry-picking the words from the English language.

“We would love that,” the woman smiled, and the kid grabbed Dick’s hand and started pulling him away. Dick quickly caught up, reached down to pick up the small child and carried him towards the rest of his family, the couple following closely behind.

He reached his aunt and uncle, his now-grounded cousin, and his parents, and waved to get their attention. He set the boy down on the ground and then brought his hands up close to his face to mime the action of taking a picture. His mother nodded, grabbed the rest of his family, and then they all gathered around the excited child.

They grinned bright and wide, and Dick slung his arm around the small boy, and then a bright light flashed and a moment in time was captured forever. He sent a quick smile to his family and then knelt down to the ground. “It was very nice to meet you . . .”

“Tim,” the child responded confidently.

“Tim,” Dick smiled. “I am Dick. Have fun with the show!”

The boy’s parents whisked him away to return to their seats, and Dick and the rest of his family fled to the back of the tent, where they would wait until it was time for their act. Haly was already stepping into the center of the big top, the sun in which Dick’s entire world revolved around.

“Ladies and gentlemen, people of all ages,” he shouted, the ringmaster’s voice big and his smile louder, “Welcome to the greatest show you will ever see. . .”

And so began the most memorable night of Dick Grayson’s life.

-x-x-x-

Dick and his parents were standing on one side of the trapeze platforms, his aunt, uncle, and cousin on the other. Dick was shifting from one foot to the next excitedly when he suddenly remembered the conversation he’d overheard Haly having with the two men earlier that night.

“Mami, Tati,” he said, tugging on his father’s arm. “Erau doi bărbați–” There were two men …

“English, honey,” his mother corrected him absentmindedly, her gaze still on the crowd, a fire burning in her eyes. She turned to look at him, her eyes softening as she reached out to straighten Dick’s new costume, the red and green and yellow colors bright and attention-snatching. He remembered her words from that morning. . . my handsome robin.

Dick pouted, but complied. “Grandpa Haly. . .” he started again.

“Yes, Dick, don’t worry. He’s about to introduce us,” his Tati said, a hand clapping on Dick’s shoulder, and he shrugged. He could always tell his parents about what he saw later.

He had time, and the show was about to start.

The bright lights of the circus fluctuated around the inside of the vast tent, the red and white stripes a comfortable thing. The act before them had just finished, and Haly was stepping up to his platform with all of his usual grandeur and pomp. He spread his arms wide. “And now, for the act you have all been waiting for,” he called out, his voice roaring in the speakers, “The Flying Graysons!”

He enunciated each word like it was special, like they were special. Then the brightly colored lights flaring about the tent all spiraled in a circle to focus on the two halves of his family.

“Rick Grayson,” Haly called, and Dick’s uncle took a running leap off of the platform, his arms stretched wide as he grabbed onto the trapeze, easily rotating and flipping until he hung upside down from his knees. “And his brother John Grayson,” the ringmaster continued, and his Tati’s warm hand left Dick’s shoulder as he leapt into the air and mimicked his brother’s movements, throwing an extra turn in for good measure.

As Rick’s trapeze began to swing back to the platform, Haly announced, “Rick’s wife, Karla,” as Dick’s aunt jumped off and twisted in the air to hold on to her husband’s forearms. “John’s wife, Mary,” Haly said, and soon his mother left him for the air, as well. The arc of his aunt and uncle’s trapeze reversed, and Aunt Karla spun in the air to grip the third trapeze, twisting around it in a flurry of motion.

Dick watched as his mother spun and flew through the air, grabbing the strong arms of her husband, then flipped up to land on the topside of her husband’s platform.

By the time Karla was in position, Rick’s trapeze, which he had been twisting around on in order to build up momentum, had returned to Cousin John’s side of the tent. “Rick and Karla’s twelve-year old son, John Grayson!” John leapt off of the platform in a flash of glory and motion, twisting and turning until he grabbed onto his father’s arms, who then swung him with the momentum of the trapeze into the waiting arms of his mother.

His mother caught him, swung him upwards to stand on top of her platform even as it kept swinging. John flipped backwards, landing in the same position with his arms posed confidently above his head, his balance easy.

“And last, but certainly not least, the youngest member of this famous family, Dick Grayson!” Then Dick watched as his mother flipped backward off the bar, keeping with its momentum, her husband easily catching her ankles as they arced toward Dick in a wide, easy swing.

And he ran forward, a smile on his face, and he leapt.

And then he flew, caught his mother’s hands as they dropped, dropped, dropped. Flew upward, spun twice in the air to catch his Aunt Karla’s hands even as John leapt over Dick’s head in a triple-front flip to catch Mary Grayson’s still outstretched arms. His aunt Karla, hair messy and flying away just as much as she was, rotated her grip three times to spin him around as they reversed their momentum, each switch of the arms a sturdy snap, and she let go. Suddenly, Dick was flipping backwards and being caught by his uncle, who looked at him with wild eyes and a sharp grin. A few twists, turns, and spins later, he and John were landing on opposite platforms, their parents continuing a series of flips and spins until they were all mixed up on different platforms.

Then the two brothers leapt off into the air again, beginning a series of dizzying tricks and flips and whirls in sync, jumping and leaping and flying before their wives joined them in the air with just as much grace and belonging. Then Dick and John united with their families in the air once more, and crossed paths in the air, and his cousin threw him a dangerous smile as they passed each other up in a rush of whipped wind and sharp laughter.

John Grayson laid a hand on his son’s shoulder, squeezed it firmly, strongly. Gave him liquid courage even as the anticipation built up so much in his lungs that he felt he couldn’t breathe until he was in the air and the air was in him.

“And now, watch as The Flying Graysons perform the trick for which they are known world-wide– the quadruple flip!” Haly called, his arms flung wide and his tall hat spinning as he turned to watch the last, most magnificent part of the whole act, of the entire show.

His Tati’s hand left Dick once more, and he ran forward to leapt into the air, gripping the bar once more with all of the familiarity in the world, copying the movements of his younger brother on the other trapeze. They flipped, rotated in the air in quick succession, jumped on top of their bars before backflipping until it was safely tucked under their knees as the momentum of the movement suddenly reversed.

As John Grayson swung back to meet them, Dick caught a glimpse of the fondness and exhilaration in his father’s every movement as his mother leapt backwards off of the platform, spun, was spinning, was caught by the ankles by her husband. And then they were falling backward in a graceful arc, and Dick watched from his side of the platform as his aunt and uncle began to reach for him.

Dick took a breath, familiarized himself with the air he so loved to fly through, and then ran and soared off of the platform to be caught soundly by his aunt’s arms. And then they were arcing, moving, swinging upwards with all of the speed and strength of a rushing waterful, his cousin John copying his movements a second later.

And then his aunt let go, and he was rotating, flipping, once, twice, three times.

Four.

And a bright laugh escaped Dick’s mouth as he grinned with all of the strength left in his body. Because he did it.

He was a flying Grayson. His hands clapped against his mother’s as she caught him, kept him, swung him up to the platform with bright eyes and a happy, bird-feather light laugh. He flipped again, though not as spectacularly this time, and his heart was full of joy. His eyes passed over the ropes holding up the trapeze.

The elation of flying was short-lived.

Landed. Looked up, a frown marring the perfect smile that had graced his face only moments ago.

Then,

snap

His mother’s arms still stretched towards him, a look of horror mutilating the expression of joy she’d worn only seconds ago. When they were flying.

Only now they were falling. Dick screamed, leapt for the edge of the platform, felt his mami’s fingertips just miss his hand as he half-hung over the side.

“Dick!” she screamed, a horrible, terrible thing that sounded nothing like the soft whispers she’d left in his ears only that morning.

And they kept falling.

There was no-one there to catch them.

And
Thud.

 

“Nu!” The inhuman sound tore its way out of Dick’s throat, and suddenly he was jumping off of the ladder he had somehow clawed his way down, and there was an awful, horrible silence in what should have been the happiest place on earth.

And then suddenly Dick was standing in a quickly-growing puddle of blood and fluid and death, standing amongst his family’s bodies. All wrecked and torn and broken and wrong. All weird angles and snapped bones. (thud. he couldn’t get that sound out of his head.)

And suddenly Dick was screaming, had been screaming the whole time, really, calling out to his parents to “Svegliati, ottenere, ottenere! Non lasciarmi, Tati, Mami!”

Wake up, get up, get up!

But as he laid down next to the bodies of his parents, clawing at their bodies, shaking them but they weren’t moving, it felt nothing like it had earlier that morning. The warmth was leaving them cold, time was passing (Dick didn’t have enough time after all, did he?), and instead of warm blankets and soft hands and loving eyes and morning stretches, there were hard, strong hands and a tall man with black hair and blue eyes pulling him away from the broken bodies of his family.

Don’t leave me!

But really he was the one leaving them, as he was dragged away kicking and screaming and tearing with bloody hands and sharp cries.

Tati, Mami.

But they were gone.

 

Part Two:

 

Dick couldn’t remember much after that. It all passed in some sort of haze around him. People passed. (They didn’t care, couldn’t care as much as they felt obligated to.) Time passed. (He didn’t have time at all, did he? And now it was passing around him like there was all the time in the world, when really there was no more time left to spend with his family.) His aunt, uncle, cousin, parents passed. (They said that Uncle Rick still had a chance, that when he twisted to protect his son he had accidentally protected himself, and Dick had had hope until he looked into those people’s eyes but couldn’t look into Uncle Rick’s and he realized that there really wasn’t much hope at all, was there?)

At one point, he thought he remembered a kind man with a trench coat and an orange mustache and a world-weary look in his eyes talking with him. Asked him questions. Realized that Dick couldn’t hold a thought long enough to answer.

One man stayed with him for longer than the others. Dick wasn’t sure if he would recognize him if he saw him again. Didn’t think he would care if he did.

They all left, eventually. (Left like his family left Dick. Left like Dick left his family.)

A social worker came and took Dick further away from his family’s bodies. He wanted to stay, tried to tell them that, but they didn’t seem to understand. Couldn’t understand. She looked at him like he was a dirty rag. Maybe it was because of the blood that still soaked his clothes, dried in his hair, and on his hands. (The blood was the last part of his parents that would ever touch him.)

He thought he remembered Mr. Haly arguing to keep him. Or maybe that was a fever dream. (Would he ever be able to sleep without their warm bodies next to his? Without remembering the way their cold, dead bodies felt so different than they had in life?) But Mr Haly didn’t try hard enough. Didn’t have enough trying left in him. (Flying. Sounded like flying, and would Dick ever feel that again?)

Dick didn’t have any tears left to cry as his family was taken away from him for the second time that night.

They took him to a place called Juvie, which sounded a lot nicer than it ended up being. He didn’t know what that word meant, what that English word was in Romani, or Romanian, or Russian, or French, or Italian, or German. He knew a lot of words in a lot of languages, but he couldn’t remember that one. Couldn’t remember many English words in his tiredness and in his brokenness. Not remembering didn’t help him very much.

And he realized when the worker shoved him towards the desk with his small bag (that he couldn’t remember packing but was sure he did since he was holding it, wasn’t he? was he holding it, or was it the thing holding him up?) that the look of aversion in her eyes wasn’t for the blood that she hadn’t bothered to let him wash off (though he was disgustingly grateful for that small mercy), but was because he couldn’t speak remember how to speak English very well after watching his entire family fall to their deaths, and it only seemed to remind her that he wasn’t like her.

Not even a little bit. Not even at all.

(He thought he remembered his Tati reading him a book that sounded like that once, long ago. In another life, another time when he had all the time in the world to spend with them and not only eight years to the day, and oh what sort of birthday present was this?)

He was shoved into a cell with a boy who was twice as old as him and four times as big and eight times as mean. Dick squeezed himself into the corner of the cell and tucked his head behind his knees and tried to breathe in the warm air like he was still under the blankets and waiting to be woken up by his parents to fly. Tried to.

But all he smelt was iron.

Iron bars.

Iron cell.

Iron in the blood of his parents still caking his clothes.

He didn’t sleep that night.

-x-x-x-

Dick didn’t sleep a lot of nights.

Every time he laid his head down, all he could feel was the puddle of blood, and their chilled, sickly, broken bodies next to his, when he should have been nestled safely in a maze of tangled limbs and soft sheets.

Every time he stretched out, all he could remember was the way their limbs had looked so . . . wrong. The way their necks were turned the wrong way.

Every time he closed his eyes, all he could think of was the fact that their eyes hadn’t been closed when he’d gotten there, and his mother’s eyes weren’t at all as blue as he’d remembered them, but they were somehow bluer in death all the same.

Every time he fell asleep, all he could hear was the
Snap.
Thud.
Crack.

So Dick didn’t sleep. Because when he did, he would always wake up screaming, and his roommate didn’t like that.

Not a little bit. Not at all.

-x-x-x-

Dick decided very quickly that he didn’t like his new roommate.

Decided that he didn’t like the place called “juvie”.

It wasn’t at all like the circus.

-x-x-x-

Two days later, the nice man in the trench coat with the orange mustache pulled up to Juvie in a cop car and brought Dick to his family’s funeral. He told him it was all paid for by the man who had sponsored the last performance of the Flying Graysons. (A small part of Dick wanted to hate that man . . . Bruce Wayne . . . wondered what would have happened if there hadn’t been enough money for the circus to perform that night.)

But his family would have found some way to fly no matter what. They were born to be in the air, cursed to not have wings, too prideful to use a net.

(But where is the fun in flying if there is no falling? his Tati’s voice reminded him, whispered in his ear from beyond the grave.)

So Dick couldn’t blame Mr. Wayne, no matter how much he wanted to have somewhere to direct his anger that was not the world, because that was too big for Dick to fight, to bloody up as much as his parents were the last time he saw them.

The priest said holy words over the graves of Dick’s family, and then dirt was shoveled onto their coffins, boxes that kept them from flying off like the birds he had always thought them. Dick wanted to cry again. But he had no more tears left to shed, all of the water being beaten out of him in the past three days.

But he figured the rain shed enough tears for all of them (because the circus wasn’t there to grieve their family, either, had left Dick kneeling in the mud in front of the freshly-buried bodies of his parents, with no one but a cop and a rich stranger and his butler for company, and maybe Dick hated the circus a little bit in that moment, but he couldn’t help it, his family had left him).

There were four graves.

There should have been none.

-x-x-x-

One and a half weeks later, there was a fifth.

And it was all Dick’s fault.

But maybe that way, Uncle Rick could fly again. Maybe he could be a bird in heaven.

-x-x-x-

Two weeks ago, Dick wished it was six.

And he was ashamed, so ashamed that he had begun thinking that thought the moment he had heard the awful sound of bodies hitting the ground. (thud.)

Because Graysons were meant to soar in the sky, but now all but one were chained below ground.

-x-x-x-

A month into Dick’s stay at Juvie, he remembered something very important. It was by accident, when he was being beaten to within an inch of his life in his cage (a robin’s cage, he thought before another blow glanced off his cheek), but he remembered something that happened the day of the . . . that day.

He didn’t know how he could be so, so. . . so stupid, to have not thought of it earlier.

He had been naive, then, a child. Still was a child, but he had gained an appreciation for the finer things in life. Was that the phrase? For having a newfound knowledge of how cruelly world worked and recognizing that the conversation between Haly and those two men wasn’t just a conversation at all. It was a threat.

Dick had just needed the sense knocked into him (hah), he supposed.

The man had called them The Falling Graysons, not The Flying Graysons. And the Graysons certainly hadn’t been known for anything but flying at that point (although they were more known for their falling, now). It wasn’t just a threat, it was a promise

And even when he was younger still, and just as naive besides, before-Dick had recognized that there was something wrong with the entire situation. Had tried to ask Haly about it, had tried to warn both of his parents.

He should have tried harder.

It was his fault, he knew, for not trying again, for being a child when he should have been grown.

Dick no longer wished that there were six graves. He wished for seven. One for each of the Flying Graysons.

And one for Zucco, far, far away from Dick’s family where his bones could rot in the earth and be eaten by worms.

Dick staggered to his feet and dodged a misplaced blow from his cellmate. Reared back and threw one of his own. It didn’t work. He was only eight. But it was better than lying down and taking it.

-x-x-x-

Juvie was tough; Dick learned he had to be tougher.

-x-x-x-

Two months into his extended stay in the prison for children, Dick heard someone whisper about a bat. At first, he thought it was some sort of infestation, and kept a close on the ceiling for days before he worked up the nerve to ask about it.

The teenagers who didn’t hit him (the very few, because Dick had long ago realized that he was the youngest one there, even if he did belong there for murdering his parents) told him that the Bat was Gotham’s vigilante. Dick didn’t know what that word meant. He asked them if it meant hero.

They said no. That he was bloody and cold-hearted and relentless. But that he tried to do good.

And Dick thought that almost sounded like him, with the phantom blood of his parents still staining his hands, the hard chill in his heart where flying and family used to belong, the craving to chase Zucco down and wring his neck and the life from his eyes.

The Batman sounded like someone who could help, who was like Dick enough to understand, but who was stronger and faster and scarier.

Maybe the Batman could help.

-x-x-x-

Three months passed since (thud) Dick had become an orphan (because they fell, and kept falling, and why couldn’t they just use a damn net?).

(start again, calmer, louder this time)

Three months after his family fell from the sky, Dick was called forth and brought to a gray-washed room with a gray desk and two gray chairs (and everything was so bleak and bland and where was the color? It wasn’t at all like the circus (that had abandoned him, part of him screamed, maybe from where his heart used to bleed)).

Three months. (Calmer, quieter.) Three months after Dick had a very bad day, he was called from his robin’s bird-cage and brought to a gray room.

He waited for a long while, or maybe it was a short while. Time didn’t quite mean the same to Dick when there was so little of it left. Eventually, the gray door creaked open and the Bruce Wayne man from the funeral and from the circus (don’t think, don’t think) stepped into the room and moved to sit in the chair across from him.

Mr. Wayne blinked, and Dick decided to keep staring at him with his too-big blue eyes (like his mami’s) until he understood that Dick was not going to be the one to speak first. The last two times he had been in this room, he’d been invited to a funeral (Mr. Wayne had been at both, he remembered).

The man seemed to Dick like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite make himself get past thinking it, and maybe they were a little alike that way because Dick suddenly remembered that he hadn’t spoken very much in quite a while. He used to like talking, a lot, and in a lot of different languages. He was getting better at English.

Mr. Wayne cleared his throat, and Dick cocked his head a little in anticipation (fear), still waiting. It was an odd feeling, the waiting thing that he was doing. He didn’t like it.

“Richard,” he began, “I have something that I wanted to speak to you about.” (and oh there it was, bubbling up like a hard pit inside his stomach, the fear that he was about to go to another funeral, even though there was no one else to lose unless Zucco had gotten to Haly and his circus family, after all and so maybe there was someone left for Dick to lose but that made the hard pit even worse and–)

“It’s nothing bad,” he promised, a reassuring gleam in his eye. He hesitated, but he wore the emotion wrong and wasn't performing it right. The unease looked wrong on him. “But. . . I wanted to know how you felt about adoption.”

The sentence was left hanging. Unfinished. Open. A question. It gave Dick pause, made him frown and try to roll that new word around in his mind. Adopt-ion. Adopt. Ad-opt. Opt. Choose? Ad-option. Option. Choice?

Seeing Dick’s reaction, Mr. Wayne immediately started to say little nothings of great importance about something or another that floated around Dick’s head as he kept thinking about the word and nothing else. He interrupted, looking up into the man’s almost-blue blue eyes. “What is . . . ad-opt-ion? What does it mean?” he asked slowly, the English as unfamiliar on his tongue as it was three months ago, although he was far more used to hearing it by that point.

Mr. Wayne blinked again, and his shoulders loosened. And that must have been the right thing to say to keep the man from spiraling (and it felt like a little bit of a thrill, reminding him of performing and shows and flying). “Oh, well, adoption is when an adult– like me– takes in a child in order to care for them.”

“Ad-option,” Dick repeated. “Option, like choice?” he clarified, and Mr. Wayne smiled a little in response. That also seemed like an uncomfortable skin on the man, and it made Dick a little sad, because he liked to see other people smile.

“Yes, like a choice. I chose you,” he said a little more comfortably, “to come and live with me as my ward, where you will be safe and protected.”

Dick hummed. “Ward?”

Mr. Wayne nodded. “Someone an adult takes care of,” he explained. (Takes care of, not cares for.)

Dick folded his fingers, flexed them, folded them again, rubbed his knuckles. Something didn’t quite sit right. (Dick also wasn’t quite sitting right, his legs contorted beneath him in order to keep him from twitching right out of his chair.)

“Why?” Dick frowned.

Bruce frowned right back at him, an action the man seemed far more comfortable performing than smiling, which was truly something to be sad at. “Why do I want to take care of you?”

Dick growled a little in frustration, took apart his finger structure. “Yes– but,” he struggled, “Not just why to take care of me. Why, me?” he finished, and Bruce nodded almost . . . sadly?

At least it wasn’t pity. Dick hated pity.

Silence stretched, but it wasn’t awkwark. Just . . . contemplative. Knowing. “I was your age when I saw my parents murdered,” he confided, because it was a confession. Something tucked away in his heart that fueled him, was why he went to Dick’s family’s funerals (both of them), was the reason for his getting up every day.

Dick cocked his head a little to look at Mr. Wayne, really look at him. He’d asked around Juvie about the man after he found out who paid for the funerals. Everything he’d heard contradicted every interaction he’d had with the man.

Playboy, idiot, clumsy, worthless, pretty face.

But the Mr. Wayne that Dick had met was shy, a bit awkward, sincere, graceful, gracious. Wealthy, yes, but generous.

He’d paid for both of his families’ funerals. Had somehow found out about his Uncle Rick despite him not being there for the decision like he had for the falling Graysons. Had cared enough to look for those answers.

And if he thought hard enough, really, really hard back to the first few hours on that very bad day three months ago, he thought he could remember dark hair and blue eyes and strong arms holding him. Maybe not holding him back, as he’d thought at first, but maybe. . . just . . . holding him?

Providing comfort. Like maybe how Bruce had wanted to be held when he’d watched his own parents be murdered.

Maybe the adoption thing that Mr. Wayne was suggesting didn’t sound so bad, after all. It was a choice, and Mr. Wayne had chosen him; he didn’t feel good enough to be chosen, not after killing his parents and not killing Zucco. But maybe he could make Mr. Wayne smile while he was there with him. As payment.

So maybe if Mr. Wayne was choosing him by adoption, maybe he could choose him right back.

And more importantly, adoption would get him out of the hell that was Juvie. If adoption wasn’t bird-cages and non-circus-fun colored skin and not-Robin nicknames and painful metal trays and stolen food and sharp cuts and sleepless nights, then that was good enough for Dick.

It wouldn’t be home. Couldn’t ever be home if he was going to chase down Zucco. It would be betraying his parents, otherwise.

But it was an opportunity.

“Okay,” Dick said, his first smile in three months lightly brushing his mouth.

An opportunity to kill Zucco.

And Bruce smiled right back, and it looked a little more comfortable on him than before. “Okay.”

 

Part three:

 

Dick learned that Bruce Wayne was a very rich man, with his mansion and his cars and his nice butler who Dick thought was really his secret father in disguise, but over the course of that first week, he quickly found out that he was only rich because he didn’t have any time left over to be anything else. What was the American saying?

 

Time is money?

His Tati always told him that time was precious, and money was for fools.

Which was strange because Mr. Wayne did not seem like a fool, or at least a regular one, anyways. Perhaps he was more similar to the stories the other children (criminals) told him than he had hoped to believe otherwise.

When they first arrived, Dick half-dozing in the limo-sine ride on the way there, Dick was more than a little surprised to see how big of a house Mr. Wayne lived in. After they walked in, Dick found himself looking around for where the rest of the people were.

Mr. Wayne followed right in behind him, passing his heavy Gotham-air cloak to the butler. “What are you looking for, Richard?” he asked.

And Dick replied, “The rest of your circus– er, family,” he said with a small slip of a smile at the mistake.

The man didn’t seem to mind, let slip a smile of his own, and Dick noticed the butler softening (oh yeah, definitely a dad in disguise, he thought smugly) when he saw the change on his son’s face. “It’s just us and Alfred,” he reassured, both to Dick’s disappointment and relief. It would make sneaking out a lot easier, but he was a people-person. Even if the last dozens of people he’d met hadn’t exactly helped him maintain that inclination.

“May I take your bag, Master Richard?” Mr. Alfred asked, but Dick shrunk in on himself, clutched the bag a little tighter.

“Nu multu– no thank you,” he amended, “Mr. Alfred. I rather– want to keep it safe.” The bag had all that was left of Dick Grayson’s other life. Bits and pieces of the circus, memories on printed posters, love tucked into the stuffing of an elephant, a small box protecting his parents’ wedding rings, parts of a life he wasn’t sure he would ever feel again even though they were all that was keeping him going.

Mr. Wayne kept a too-carefully straight face at that, straight enough that Dick knew he’d said something wrong, but the butler didn’t seem to take offense to it, for which Dick was grateful. “Of course, and call me Alfred, Master Richard,” he rectified.

“Dick,” he replied in kind, to which Alfred responded in a half-startled manner before straightening himself with a sly smile. Dick frowned. “What is wrong?”

Bruce noticed the exchange and hid a smile away of his own. “Nothing,” he assured him. “Dick, huh? You can call me Bruce, then. Let me take you up to your room.”

Mr. Wayne led Dick up the stairs, and then up some more stairs and down a hallway, and past a lot of doors, and if he wasn’t so used to relearning a new set-up every time the circus settled down somewhere, Dick would be worried about getting lost. Although, he thought as they turned down another hallway, that was probably still a concern.

Bruce finally stopped in front of a door, reached for a handle, opened it, and stepped aside for Dick to pass through. “This is your room,” he said. “Alfred already took the liberty of purchasing a few items for you, but we can go shopping later in the week once you’ve settled in. And I managed to find a few of the things that were left behind in your trailer.”

Dick stepped inside the house (because there was no way that the room was just a bedroom) and set his bag on the bed before looking back at Bruce. “It used to be mine, when I was a kid. Now my bedroom’s just down the hall from yours, if you need anything.”

He nodded politely in response, and then Bruce and Alfred led him on a tour of the rest of the manor. Bruce had to leave after a few hours, explaining that he’d taken a half-day off in order to make sure that Dick could get settled, but that he had a very important meeting to prepare for. Dick didn’t mind. He felt a little overwhelmed, if he was being honest.

Alfred fed him a snack in the kitchen, then sent him off to bed claiming that “Young boys need rest, Master Dick. I expect you to get some sleep tonight, unlike other occupants in this house.”

And Dick found out just how true that was. It seemed like Bruce was always working, day and night. He would disappear into his study for hours on end, only coming out to exchange pleasantries with Alfred, check up on how Dick was doing (which he found . . . nice), and ask about their days. He would eat, and talk a little, but then return to the seclusion of his den to finish up more “work”.

Dick would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought that Bruce was a secret mafia leader for the first three days he lived in the manor. But the man was always busy; it was like he had some sort of secret life. Luckily, Dick hadn’t had to deal with party boy Bruce Wayne yet, though he was certain he would have to at some point, no matter how unlikely he considered that possibility when taking into account the man’s personality.

He did wonder how Bruce could stay in one room for so many hours in a day, however. Dick could barely sit still for two minutes; how was Bruce staring at papers and computers and sitting still for so many hours at a time?

He just couldn’t understand how the man did it. Standing still. Wasting time. Not being in constant motion.

Dick couldn't even sit at the table and eat without swinging his feet or fiddling with his fork or folding his legs.

But Bruce’s penchant for whiling away hours at a time in his study proved to be a blessing in disguise. Neither he nor Alfred noticed whenever Dick would slip out the window every night, sidle along the side of the building, leap into the nearby tree and scamper down it, and then run into Gotham to search for Zucco.

He’d waited until after the third night, when they’d established a routine, in order to see when they would be checking in on him. Alfred would check on him at nine, and Bruce at 3, which gave him plenty of time to look and ask around.

Some people didn’t like it when Dick started sticking his nose in Zucco’s business, but he was agile and quick; he could usually get away most of the time, and the few bruises he received were easily hidden from cautious eyes.

Bruce and he talked every morning at the breakfast table. The man made a point to have breakfast together each day, rescheduling meetings and putting off phone calls while they were eating. Dick . . . appreciated it. Appreciated feeling chosen. It felt like a familiar, warm blanket.

It was a nice change of pace from the cold anger he felt whenever he thought of Tony Zucco. It had taken an entire night just to find out the man’s first name, and another to figure out who he was, in lay-man’s terms, anyways.

Mob boss. Extortionist. (Dick didn’t like that word very much.) Bad guy.

He hadn’t learned much more than that, he was sad to admit, and he wasn’t sure how much time he had left to find his parents’ killer.

(He kept thinking that his time was almost earth, like Zucco or something equally as bad was waiting to snatch him up and carry him into death because he was supposed to die with the rest of them. And he would feel a little peace whenever he thought of that, but then he would be consumed by the guilt. Because his parents were waiting for him with brown sugar oatmeal, trapezes, and strong hands to catch him with, but would it be worth it if their murderer was still alive, still dirtying the same air they used to fly through?)

So every night, unsteady of sleeping in a bed that was much too soft and much too warm to not remind him of his parents and to not cause their dead, broken bodies to follow him into his nightmares, Dick would slip out of the bedroom window and look for Tony Zucco.

-x-x-x-

A week after Dick was taken in by Bruce, Dick saw The Batman. He had been following a man who he’d heard mention the murderer’s name, hoping that it would lead him to some clue or another, or,better yet, Zucco himself.

It was barely a glimpse, half of a moment suspended in time, but enough for Dick to know that the Bat he’d heard of in Juvie was real. A real, tall, black figure with pointed ears who stood at the rooftops of alleyies, arm stretched forth like he was saluting the moon. As Dick watched, a line shot out of his saluting hand, and he began to almost-fly, zipping away into the sky like a dart.

It looked fun. Like flying, but not. Dick wondered if he would be able to pick pocket the zipline thing off of The Batman and try it for himself.

He kept following the man until he’d reached a small store. Watched as the same thing that happened to Haly happened to the shopowner. Only, the shop owner listened. (Why hadn’t Haly?)

No Falling Graysons for him.

-x-x-x-

Five days later, Dick met The Batman face-to-face. Or, well, face-to-cowl.

In Juvie, he had heard all sorts of whispers about the creature who owned Gotham’s night, a relentless vigilante who worked in the dark and fought with pointed teeth and sharp talons.

They didn’t tell him that the Dark Knight would get down on one knee and ask him in a gruff, familiar voice what he was doing out at night.

“Finding Zucco,” he told him.

His fellow criminals hadn’t told him that The Batman was kind, that he cared.

Dick asked The Batman to hunt down Zucco for him.

-x-x-x-

Dick returned early that night, laid in bed with bated breath and feverish thoughts. He thought he would be too restless to sleep, but he hadn’t considered the fact that he’d barely slept in the past three months. That the minute he fell into a real bed instead of huddling on the cold floor, his exhaustion would take over and send him into a deep sleep.

Not deep enough.

Darkness, then bright, taunting circus lights, the spotlights moving from where Dick was standing on the trapeze platform to focus on the circle below him. Dick didn’t want to look, wouldn’t. Ran and jumped onto the trapeze instead, like he’d done all his life.

He kept jumping, kept twirling and flipping and whirling. Flying. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t let himself fall. As soon as he stopped, he would remember that there was no net, that the only cushion to keep him from falling to his death was the broken bodies of his family.

But he couldn’t stay still. It was a dangerous buzzing in his bones. Painful. He couldn’t stop flying, or he’d die, following his parents into an early grave without dragging Zucco down into hell with him.

He couldn’t do that. He’d promised on his parents’ graves, on one of the nights he’d snuck out.

But he was so. . . tired, and beat up. And he could feel every bruise he’d gotten from Juvie, remember every dead end he’d exhausted chasing Zucco, hear every thud of every body.

(Because he was lying to himself whenever he remembered just one thud, because really it was five. Thud thud thud thud thud. But he liked to just call it one and pretend like the rest were echoes.)

His hand slipped, couldn’t grip. And he was falling
Falling
Falling
Dead.

Dick woke up in a cold seat, the scream tearing from his lips as he struggled to get his breathing under control. A tear quietly streamed down his cheek as he pulled his knees up to his chest and buried his nose under the blankets. His chest burned.

There were no warm bodies beside him.

Only cold. He felt like he couldn’t move. He was frozen to the spot.

A soft knock on the door, and Dick peeked up from the bundle of sheets he’d pressed his face to. A crack, a sliver of dim light.

“Dick?”

Bruce. He couldn’t say it.

He stepped in, almost hesitantly. Certainly tired. He had things to do even at night. He looked at the bed, and Dick watched as his shoulders fell when he took in the scene. He stepped closer, sat on the bed from a safe distance away.

Silence.

Then, “I have nightmares, too.”

Dick looked up from where he’d been watching his toes fidget under the blanket. Looked at the kind, brave man beside him.

He sniffed. Bruce shifted, and Dick’s heart tightened, and before he knew it, he gasped out in a whisper, “Don’t go. . . please.”

And he stopped, turned, shifted slightly, his posture open. “I– it’s just. . . they were so. . . cold, when I– when they–” Dick buried his face into the sheets, his hands fisted and pushing at his eyes from underneath. “And I– when I try to, to sleep–” he gasped out, unable to finish.

A warm hand on his shoulder. Not John Grayson, but Bruce Wayne, and Dick suddenly thought that maybe that was the next best thing. He looked up at Bruce, his face red and wet and his heart still too-tight and too-cold, but maybe just broken enough to finally be fixed. He saw a question in Bruce’s eyes. “It’s okay to cry,” he admitted to Dick. Maybe a little to himself, Dick thought, and that’s what broke him.

He dove forward, buried his face in Bruce’s sleeping shirt, sobs finally wracking his body in a way he hadn’t been able to let himself in three months. Hadn’t been able to accept that it didn’t just happen, but it was still happening. The grief.

The love with no place to go.

He missed them, rahat, how he missed them!

No more of the poor-man’s brown sugar oatmeal that his mother lovingly and carefully made for him in the mornings, or soft hands carding through his dark curls in the morning. No more calloused hands catching him when he fell, quiet reassurances or pats on his shoulder to congratulate him after a routine. No more jokes with Aunt Karla or Uncle Rick about his performances, or their good-natured teasing whenever he would steal away their son to feed Zitka.

It was all gone. Because they were gone, and he missed every minute of it. Every minute he hadn’t spent with them.

Bruce wrapped his other arm around Dick, tightened his hold into a hug. Leaned back onto the bed post as Dick kept crying, couldn’t stop crying. Couldn’t stop grieving. And it hurt.

It hurt so much.

Hurt so good. The hurt felt good, he admitted. Like even though his parents, his aunt and uncle, his cousin, weren’t there, they could still change him.

He never stopped crying, not even when he felt himself falling (careful, carefully, Dick) into the haze of sleep, his ear pressed against Bruce’s heart. Beating, alive. Pumping blood and not bleeding it from between his joints.

Dick was on the cusp of sleep when he felt Bruce take a soft breath and murmur, “Pearls and lead.”

Bruce’s warmth chased away the cold fingers of the dead before they had the chance to follow him into his dreams.

-x-x-x-

Dick woke up slowly, softly, comfortably the next morning. He was warm. He felt safe. He let out a happy wheeze and tucked his nose back into the mattress. He had time.

No he didn’t. He tried to blink his eyes open, tired and dry with sleep, but found that he could. He lifted his hands to his falled, balled his fingers into fists and tried to force himself awake.

Something stirred under him. Tati? He blinked against the light and met Bruce’s mildly content face as the man continued his tired dozing.

Hm. Not Tati, he thought with a quick pang of hurt, but it was gradually smoothed over (though not gone, never gone) when he realized that he was still warm and safe. He laid his head back down. Maybe he had a little bit of time before death came to take what it was owed.

Zucco could wait a few more minutes.

 

Chapter four:

After The Batman found Dick on a rooftop in Gotham, Bruce had been keeping Dick on a discreetly tight leash in the manor, checking up on his whereabouts more often and sending Alfred to do his dirty work for him whenever he didn’t have the time to spare. And the both of them had also taken it upon themselves to keep checking up on Dick in the nighttime to make sure he was still in his room.

He appreciated it, in some small way, but that didn’t change the fact that their efforts to keep an eye on him were cutting into the time he could be using to locate Zucco. With their nightly check-ups, there was no time for Dick to slip out the window and hit the streets; he’d only been able to get out once in the past four days, and even then only for a few hours and because Alfred had mysteriously gone missing for that time.

It hurt, not being able to chase down Zucco. It burned in his gut. Guilt. Because he wasn’t strong enough, good enough to get back out there, because he was too young and it was holding him back. But he didn’t have enough time to grow up before he took his parents’ murderer down.

He needed to die, now. Not later, not in a few years. As soon as possible, so that his parents and aunt and uncle and cousin could rest in peace until Dick went to join them (because death was chasing Dick down, he was sure of it; he didn’t feel like he belonged here in the world of the living. . . he’d been misplaced, a mistake that day at the circus when six should have fallen instead of five, and Death was looking for him just as well as he was looking for Zucco).

So the guilt ate at Dick but there wasn’t much he could do about it until he thought of something else. Until then, he was stuck in Wayne manor.

Which was a horrible thing, he soon found out once he resigned himself to waiting (ugh, he hated it). He realized that without his nightly expeditions and without getting beat to within an inch of consciousness and without being able to swing on the trapeze with his parents, he was experiencing a far worse thing than guilt.

Boredom.

It itched in his bones and Dick couldn’t quite scratch it. He tried coloring in a book that Bruce had brought home for him one day, but gave up on it once he discovered he didn’t have a lick (his Tati always tried to teach him American phrases he learned on previous travels to go with the English Dick was learning) of talent. Then he tried spending time with Alfred in the kitchen, although he had been banned from doing anything but watching twice as quickly as he had given up on coloring after he had gotten into the flour.

He decided to spend the day wandering around the manor, much to Alfred’s chagrin. But the butler and Bruce didn’t seem to mind after the few times they caught him exploring whatever rooms he could get into and climbing over whatever furniture looked like it could hold him. (He thought Alfred had just realized Dick considered the entire kitchen to be a waste of his time.) He peeked inside every nook and cranny and crevice, sticking his head out the windows and under tables, climbing on the heavy bookcases in the library like they were trees, sliding down the long set of bannisters in the front room.

It was after that last attempt at finding a cure for his boredom that Dick realized there was a far better way to occupy his time. He looked up from where he had slid to the bottom of the staircase, up to where a heavy, and rather sturdy-looking, chandelier hung from the ceiling of the entry-hall.

He smiled.

Dick climbed back up the stairs to the second story, eyed the distance from the top balcony to the chandelier. Backed up, took a running sprint just as he noticed Bruce come down the hall from his study.

The man stopped in shock just as Dick vaulted over the bannister, jumped off the balcony, and flew at the chandelier. “Dick!”

Dick let out a ring of laughter as he grabbed onto the cold metal of the hanging structure, swung his body with the momentum as Bruce raced down the hall and stopped at the top of the stairs. “Get down from there, you’re going to hurt yourself!” he shouted, something in his voice. Dick couldn’t help it, he giggled from where he was still swinging on the chandelier, but he let a chastened expression cross his face when Alfred abandoned the kitchen to see what Bruce was yelling about.

“Dear heavens,” the butler commented, looking up at where Dick was still very happily swinging. “I suppose I’ll go fetch a ladder, Master Bruce?”

The man could only nod, his eyes still fixed on Dick. “No need, I am coming down!” Dick shouted cheerfully. “Catch!”

Bruce’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open to say something else, but could only brace himself as Dick launched himself off of the chandelier and turned in two and a half flips before easily landing in Bruce’s arms. Another ring of laughter came from Dick as he looked up at Bruce’s dumbfounded expression, Dick’s own face warm and pink from the adrenaline rush he’d felt at almost-flying.

“That was fun!” he chirped, Bruce still clutching Dick close to him like he was about to fly about. Which, DIck supposed, was sort of fair considering he was debating taking another running leap off of the balcony. He turned half-around to look longingly at the chandelier. “Again?” he suggested.

Bruce tightened his hold on Dick. “How about . . .” he managed, “we go play a game, instead?”

Dick looked at him suspiciously. Whenever his cousin brought up the idea of playing a game, he almost always meant somehow tricking Dick into helping fold his laundry or do his chores for him or something. But Bruce never seemed to have chores, so Dick figured he was safe.

“What sort of game?” Dick asked.

Bruce flicked his eyes over at Alfred. (Relief?) “Have you ever played basketball?”

-x-x-x-

It happened by accident. Dick had decided that, if he couldn’t take to the streets of Gotham to look for Zucco, then the next best thing was using Bruce’s computer-device in his study. The man was never actually in there, so he’d figured that he had time to sneak in, research a bit into the businesses that he knew the mob boss was affiliated with, and then get out before Bruce ever came back.

He really should have considered the fact that the reason Bruce was never actually in his study when he said he was in his study was because he had a whole secret passage hidden inside the grandfather clock behind his desk.

Dick barely had time to dive behind the heavy curtains before Bruce stepped out. He peeked through the fabric and watched as he stepped through the entryway, held his breath as the White Prince– Dark Knight – reset the broken clock’s hands to 10:47.

The man must have been tired or off of his game or something, because Dick was surprised he hadn’t yet given away his hiding place in the curtains with his too-loud heartbeat. Bruce left the office, and Dick stepped to the clock, listened to make sure that Bruce wouldn’t be coming straight back.

It was almost afternoon, he thought. The best time to do what he was going to do. Now or never.

He dragged the heavy chair at the study desk closer to the clock, stood on it, and then fiddled with the clock hands until they read 10:47. He returned the chair to its spot and then stepped inside the elevator, pressed the only button that was on the panel.

The doors shut and Dick was surprised to note that he was going down. And kept going down (into hell?) even though the study was only on the second floor.

A few minutes later, the doors opened to show a massive cave system, rocks hanging from the ceiling, walkways stretching everywhere, a sleek black car that he hoped had as cool of a name as it looked, and a gigantic computer against a wall in the center of the compound.

Dick held back a little gasp at the sight.

The Batman’s computer. Surely Batman had some small bit of information on Zucco that Dick hadn’t been able to find on Bruce’s computer. He quickly went over to it, pressed a few keys until the dark screen lit up, let out a heavy sigh when he realized it was password protected.

Hm. What would The Batman’s password be?

When Bruce adopted him, and Dick had wondered why Bruce wanted to choose Dick, of all of the other little criminals running around Juvie, Bruce had told him it was because he had watched his parents be murdered just like Dick had.

They were the same, Dick had realized in that moment. Bruce was still alive because his parents were murdered, just like Dick was still living because he couldn’t stop for just the same reasons.

He thought back to whispers of pearls and lead, remembered the article he had read about Martha and Thomas Wayne afterwards, saw the picture of two bodies and scattered pearls on the digital paper.

10:47. It had happened at night, hadn’t it?

So maybe Dick wasn’t actually trying to find The Batman’s password. The Batman was a byproduct, an offshoot of Bruce.

What was Bruce’s password? Dick thought back to the article he’d read, remembered a name that he was sure Bruce would never forget just like Dick would never forget Zucco.

Dick typed in JOE CHILL and he was greeted with a screen that replied AUTHORIZED.

(And right then and there when he realized that Joe Chill was on the outside of Bruce, and not on the inside, Dick understood that maybe he and The Batman were more different than he had thought in Juvie all those months ago. He didn’t know the words to describe that difference. But the names that Bruce kept tucked in his heart to warm him and keep him going were Martha and Thomas, while he chased after Joe Chills. While Dick only kept the name Tony Zucco inside of him while the murderer ate away at his insides, while his dead family chased after him with cold, pointing fingers and oh the guilt.)

Dick foraged around in the computer until he found a sort of search bar. Typed in Tony Zucco.

Three hits.

One, his name, his occupation, the basics. Information that Dick had mostly been able to find out for himself. But he also learned that Zucco had a family of his own, a brother who looked like the man who had helped him threaten Jack Haly.

Two, information on his organization, names of restaurants and shops that Dick recognized and many that he did not. He learned that Zucco was focusing on extortion with smaller shop owners for a while, and Dick thought it was to keep the heat off of him. Lay low, as his Tati would say the Americans said. He learned that Zucco’s brother was working one of those shops.

Three, an article. The Flying Graysons. Notes on Haly’s Circus. Snippets about Zucco and his other attempts at extortion, largely successful. And there, at the top, a description of The Batman’s encounter with a young boy chasing after the name Zucco, who asked him to find his parents’ murderer for him, a witness who could prove the mob boss’s connection to five murders and lock him away for good.

Because when Dick had asked the Batman to find Zucco, Dick knew he was really asking Bruce for closure, but he hadn’t expected the man to listen, just like his parents and Haly hadn’t listened to him almost four months ago.

But he had listened.

Dick looked at the information he had found, at the other bits and pieces. Looked into the restaurant that Zucco’s brother was about to close a deal on.

Too bad The Batman had come too late.

-x-x-x-

“Dick, please.”

The soft whisper, the gentle, desperate pleading came from Bruce. Not Batman. Because it was Bruce who stood there in full Bat regalia, looking for all the world a demon when he was really the angel who had saved Dick from Juvie, saved Dick from his nightmares, was trying to save Dick from himself.

“Justice,” Bruce said, “Not vengeance.”

And oh those were the words that described what that large, untraversable canyon of a difference there was between Dick Grayson and the Batman. And now that he finally had the words to tell Dick how to feel about it all, how to feel about how he would never be able to bury that dark carving of murder and death and retribution inside of his small body, Dick wanted to break.

Because the Batman was a hero. He wanted justice.

Dick was a villain. He wanted vengeance.

“What would your parents want?” Bruce continued, his voice still a whisper, still unheard by anyone who wasn’t Dick Grayson.

What would Mary and John Grayson want?

Dick thought that they wanted to chase him down with pointed, jeering fingers. Your fault your fault your fault you should have said something should have tried harder but you didn’t try at all did you, didn’t try like how Haly didn’t try to keep you, like how–

But that wasn’t who his parents were at all, were they?

Mary Grayson was soft fingers in black curls, love and excitement burning in blue eyes, warm hugs and homemade oatmeal.

John Grayson was proud pats on Dick’s shoulder, adoration in every movement on the trapeze with his family, strong arms that always caught Dick when he fell.

Dick Grayson thought that he wanted vengeance.

Maybe he really just wanted his parents.

“Justice, not vengeance?” Dick repeated, looking up from where he was dangling over the edge of a building. He was the only thing keeping the unconscious Tony Zucco from falling to his death. Bruce Wayne was the only thing keeping Dick from jumping to his.

There was height. There was falling. Could there be flying? He could so easily let go of Bruce, push off of the building and fly one last time, find the freedom in falling that only a Grayson could experience, the peace and the happiness of flying (because that’s really what falling was for a Grayson, falling in different directions with the grace of a bird). Freedom and peace that Zucco could never in a million years experience. And he would die a horrible death, like the murderer deserved.

So why was Dick still holding on to him? Bruce Wayne looked into Dick’s eyes, the cowl still off, his eyes still pleading for Dick to keep catching Tony Zucco even as he kept catching Dick. And he almost didn’t understand why, because if anyone deserved to fall, it was Zucco. It was a murderer. It was Dick.

Because there was Bruce Wayne, still catching Dick. Looking at him like he held the world in his hands.

“Your parents were good people. They don’t want this for you, to become a murderer like the man who killed them.”

Tony Zucco took the world from Dick.

“Don’t let Zucco take anything else away from you, don’t let him take your parents away from you for good.”

And Bruce, his voice, his body, his face, his heart was starting to break, just as much as Dick was, all over, the familiar hurt of grief curling in his insides once again.

Because Bruce was right.

His Mami and Tati weren’t the same demons that haunted him in his nightmares. Those came from Dick, from his guilt.

But there was something else that Bruce had said. Become a murderer. But . . . Dick was already one? When he’d killed his parents.

That’s why he’d been sent to Juvie, hadn’t it?

He looked up at Bruce, needing answers that only he could provide (because he seemed to understand everything that Dick was going through, who he was becoming in that moment, didn’t he? did he almost become the thing that Dick was fighting not to be? was that why he chose Dick?).

“Become a murderer? But– I am one, already.”,Tears bubbled in his eyes like white hot fire. “I tried– I tried to tell them about Zucco, but I should have– I should have tried harder,” he gasped. His lungs tearing apart and his shoulders hurting and his world breaking.

And Bruce broke with him. “Dick, it wasn’t your fault. There wasn’t anything you could have done. You are not a murderer. You’re a child,” he said. And oh how that smarted. Because Dick wasn’t strong enough. Dick wasn’t brave enough. Dick wasn’t enough. Because he was too young and it hurt and it wasn’t fair that even if he could have gone back, nothing would have changed. And that hurt.

But . . . it felt . . . freeing.

Liberating.

Because Bruce knew a lot about these things, didn’t he? About the line between vengeance and justice, guilt and blame.

You are not a murderer.

Maybe Zucco still deserved to die. Maybe Dick still belonged to Death. But . . . if he wasn’t a murderer, if that was Zucco and not Dick, then maybe . . . maybe he should try to live for his parents.

Tuck their names instead of Zucco’s behind his heart, and maybe the world would grow warm again. Warm like blankets and tangled limbs and proud pats and fingers in his hair and homemade oatmeal and strong arms catching him when he fell.

Justice, not vengeance. The only difference was whose names Dick tucked inside of his heart, and Mami and Tati and Uncle Rick and Aunt Karla and Cousin John were far more deserving souls to live for than Tony Zucco was to die for.

Dick nodded. Didn’t let go of Zucco. And Bruce breathed out a sigh of relief knowing that he could try to pull them up without Dick letting go.

-x-x-x-

Hours later, Dick and Bruce sat in the cave beneath the manor. It was cold down there, but there was a warm hand on his shoulder.

“Robin,” Dick told Batman.

Because when Dick was born on the first day of spring, with eyes the color of robin eggs, his mother had laughed, a bright little thing, and called him her little robin.

And when Dick had flown for the first time, his father’s arms open wide and welcoming as he caught him, his Tati had laughed and said that his robin finally knew what it was like to fly.

“Like the bird?” he asked, a teasing eyebrow raised.

Because when Dick finally laughed and made other people laugh and lived and flew again, he wanted it to be as Robin. To remember the family who taught him what it felt like to fly. Wanted to remember the people who gave him a reason to keep living. Every day. To keep escaping the Death that lurked in his dreams and over his shoulder.

So maybe Batman could teach Robin like how his Mami and Tati taught Dick how to fly. Teach him like how Bruce taught Dick the difference between the Justice the Batman fought for and the Vengeance that Dick had almost been consumed by.

Because Robin could remind Dick what it was like to fly again.

“Yeah, like the bird.”

Chapter 2: Step into the Light

Part One:

The beginning of the end of the world started on a Monday, something that Bruce knew Dick would be talking about for a good while. His so– ward, he reminded himself– hated Mondays, hated leaving weekend patrols behind in favor of a textbook and a desk and sitting still and not talking and being quiet and did he already mention sitting still? Dick hated sitting still, doing nothing and letting the world pass him by when he could be flying above the streets of the most dangerous, crime-ridden city in the world, flipping around, soaring through the air like his namesake. Robin. He was a Robin, a free spirit, unchained and flying free and floating away. Unfettered, unsafe.

A robin whose existence he hid from the world, from his own city, which he knew better than he knew himself. The world barely knew of The Batman even after the five years he’d spent protecting Gotham, thanks to his best efforts, so he could be damned sure that no one would know of his Robin. The more people that knew, the more danger his partner–“I am not a sidekick, Bruce”– would be in.

So to Gotham, Robin was a myth. A small, dark, devilish form that flickered through the shadows and cackled dangerously and grinned freely with sharp teeth that gleamed in the darkness like fangs that would bleed the crime in Gotham dry if the Bat didn’t get to them fast enough.

To the world, he was a rumor. The mysterious partner of the Bat, the only “man” who could keep up with the dark creature that patrolled the bloodiest streets of the city that anyone would be insane to stay in and came out with a gleam in his eye and a victory in his bones.

To the other heroes, the few that yet existed, anyhow, and the families they raised to keep their legacies afloat, Robin was a legend. The first partner, the first to run, compete, fly alongside a hero and keep up with and flourish beside the archetype of justice. A legend, an inspiration, an ideal. The Boy Wonder. For how else could someone stay in the shadows with such bright colors, cackling with sharp teeth and bright smiles, laughing without abandon as crooks and criminals fell to the floor with powerful kicks and showy flips, flashes of red and yellow and green the last memories of the criminal bodies that thudded to the floor, if they were not wondrous?

To Bruce, Robin was, cautiously, his son. His ward, technically. His world, honestly. He would burn the world if someone harmed Dick Grayson (not Wayne, could never hope too hard for him to carry his name even as he carried the same torch Bruce did as he fought in the streets of Gotham). Bruce would become a match and light himself on fire if only to see Dick’s smile better, clearer, warmer. Because Robin wanted to spend time with him. Robin wanted to be like him. Robin wanted to be himself, be a robin, fly through the air that he alone could ever own and belong in, and that could only happen if he was with the Bat in the skies of Gotham, free and happy like the bird he remembers his mother calling him.

(He confided in Bruce once he’d forced the Batman into taking his eight year old son on as a partner, and he could have sworn he felt his heart tighten painfully two sizes even as it burst from his chest and flew away, because his ward (son) trusted him but he could never be his Tati like John Grayson had been.)

So Robin would fly, and the Bat would make sure he never fell. Would never be numbered among the Fallen that Bruce kept carefully tucked away behind his heart where they burned with a vengeance and fueled the purpose that pumped through his veins each night he hunted the criminals that bled his city dry. The souls of his dead burned with a vengeance that Bruce couldn’t afford to be lost to, so that the Batman could stand for justice. A dark justice, but justice, and not vengeance, nonetheless.

Justice, not vengeance. It was the chant that beat in time with his heart, reminded himself of with every breath, every jab, every kick, every victim of a criminal that escaped from a prison that Batman had put them in, every scratch or injury that kept his little bird from flying as freely because a rogue managed to land a blow on the Bat’s elusive partner before he managed to cover his son with his cape and fly Bruce’s entire world far, far away from whatever the Batman would try not to finish that night. Because Bruce could hope for vengeance, but the Batman had to fight for justice.

Bruce wanted vengeance, so he needed to stay in the light, fight in the light, fight for better streets and better lives. But the Batman needed justice, was safe enough to let loose in the streets of Gotham, trusted enough to not go as far as Bruce wanted to go. So Bruce lived two lives, and sometimes he wasn’t sure which life he liked better. Because he wanted Bruce, who could laugh and smile with his son as they watched the old Saturday cartoons from his childhood as they ate the cookies his fath– Alfred lovingly made. But he needed Batman. Gotham needed Batman.

And the world needed heroes.

But Batman wasn’t a hero, he was a vigilante. A force of nature, a myth and a rumor and a legend of darkness that fought and bled in the underworld and clawed its way out of hell every night after two a.m before pretending to sleep like he wasn’t haunted by nightmares of pearl necklaces and falling birds until a small gasp or scared scream floated past his carefully cracked bedroom door and a small, sweaty boy crept into bed and they both fell asleep for a few hours before waking and pretending like they weren’t father and son, like they didn’t bleed the same colors. Because the Batman stood for vengeance and fought from the shadows, but Robin was light and hope and everything that needed to exist or else Bruce would run dry and the Batman would fall from the sky.

And Bruce promised Dick that he would never fall, would always have a net, would be his son’s net, promised that the day that he took in a small boy with scars and old rope burns and a dark look in his eye and a fake smile that Bruce swore would one day become as real as the day he saw young Dick Grayson flying through the air with his parents. What he didn’t tell Dick was that the only net that kept the Batman– Bruce– from falling and crashing and thudding to the ground was the net that was Dick Grayson.

The world needed heroes to fight for the light, but Gotham needed a vigilante that could brawl in the gritty, bloody dark, and the Batman needed Bruce, needed Dick, his son who would grow into a better man than Bruce could ever be, and the hero that the Batman could never hope to be.

And although the Batman could twist and stretch and bleed and tear himself apart until he was the creature of night that Gotham needed to protect it, the Batman could not be the bright hero that the world needed to save it without sacrificing the very thing that kept him from falling and crashing and being burned alive by the vengeance that Bruce craved but that the Batman fought to never want. He couldn’t be a hero without leaving Gotham to her wolves and letting Dick fly without the net he promised to be for his son.

The world needed heroes, plural, more than one, and Batman couldn’t barely stay the half of a hero of a vigilante that he was.

But those heroes were just so . . . idiotic. Foolish. Prideful, yes, that was the word. So caught up in their small little world, their own little section of the earth that they couldn’t see that the oncoming danger would need more than one hero, would need someone other than just them defending a small part of the entire world.
Bruce would help, if he could, but Dick was his entire world, not just a small part of it, and he could never compromise him.

So he couldn’t protect the world, being the one (or maybe two, sometimes three?) man that he was, no powers, only training and callouses and some cash and a fancy yellow belt and a penchant for justice that hid the vengeance Bruce actually wanted.

If the Batman couldn’t do it, could never be enough, then someone else, preferably several someone elses, would need to be enough.

Bruce sat in a comfortable, hard-backed chair in front of a rather large computer (cheerfully dubbed the Batcomputer by the small nine year old he had only recently convinced to stop running and jumping around in the green shorts from his circus days) as he examined the files he’d pulled up on the extensive flat screen, each folder a font of information he’d gathered on the heroes remaining after the Justice Society of America’s fall from glory years prior.

Clark Kent, alias Superman, age 26. A reporter for the Daily Planet in Metropolis, originally from Smallville but likely alien in origin, as no unusual incidents occurred in his hometown other than a meteor shower that happened around the time of his presumed birth. Superman first appeared in Metropolis over two years ago, and exhibits the abilities of flight, enhanced strength, enhanced speed, extreme durability, enhanced senses (possible x-ray vision, look into lead lined cowl/mask), heat vision, and freezing breath. (Bruce personally thought that the last ability was overkill, and more than a little weird). His only known weakness is a green rock dubbed “Kryptonite” that appears to be alien in origin, which further supports the extraterrestrial origin theory. Media-suggested personality suggests that he would be amenable to the idea.

Diana Prince, alias Wonder Woman, age unknown, no younger than 90 years, although physically in mid-20s. Works as a museum archivist in Washington, D.C. Her first appearance was documented in WWII, as she was rumored to have aided the side of the Allies, although her level of training suggests far more years of experience than her then-current age would have. Exhibits enhanced strength, the ability of flight, and enhanced durability. No current known weaknesses. Owner of the “Lasso of Truth”, which compels the wearer to answer any question honestly. Has not appeared publicly since WWII, but personal opinion on her personality suggests that she would be amenable to the idea.

Barry Allen, alias The Flash, age 27. CSI for CCPD, no direct relation to the original Flash, Jay Garrick. Exhibits extremely enhanced levels of speed, and likely possesses an enhanced healing factor and metabolism. Likely weaknesses: human, difficult surfaces to run on, enhanced metabolism, cold. First appeared in Central City two years ago. Likely amenable to the idea.

Oliver Queen, alias Green Arrow, age 26. Millionaire and owner of Queen Enterprises in Star City. First appeared one year ago, although a three year disappearance on an island suggests further training. Highly skilled with a bow and arrow, possesses several high-technology arrows. Weaknesses: human. Early assessment of personality contrasts with his recent development as a vigilante in Star City, but likely amenable to the idea.

Hal Jordan, alias Green Lantern, age 28. Former pilot for the U.S. airforce before going off grid for two years, during which he has appeared on Earth several times as Green Lantern. Able to form and manipulate green light projections. Known weaknesses: human. Little in terms of personality assessment, but he seems to be part of a larger protective organization that would suggest an amenability to the idea.

Arthur Curry, alias Aquaman, age unknown, appears to be late twenties, early thirties. Atlantean, occupation unknown. First spotted on the surface one and a half years ago. Exhibits enhanced strength and durability, hydrokinesis, and an affinity to water. Likely weaknesses: water deprivation, higher temperatures. No known amenability to the idea, but has exhibited protective behaviors for non-Atlanteans.

John Jones, alias Martian Manhunter, age unknown, but first spotted nine months ago. Detective in New York city, although he shows no protective preference in terms of location. Originally from Mars, the martian exhibits shapeshifting and mentally-inclined abilities, as well as thicker skin, though not enhanced durability, and the ability of flight. Known weaknesses: fire, higher temperatures. No known amenability to the idea, but has worked with Amanda Waller (see file 874.2) in favor of protecting the earth.

Shayera Hol, alias Hawkwoman, age unknown. No known occupation or location, although seen several times in Chicago. Exhibits flight capabilities due to the presence of avian wings on her back and enhanced durability. Possesses a mace of unknown origin and is made with electrical capabilities. No known weaknesses, although if her wings are damaged she would be severely hindered. No known amenability to the idea, but has been spotted several times in the past five months exhibiting protective tendencies.

Bruce looked over their files, and those of others, for another hour before he confirmed a decision he had already come to hours ago, when WayneTech satellites first caught signs of the encroaching alien invasion. He almost hesitated. Once the decision was made, there was no going back.

But the earth needed heroes, needed someone that the Batman could never be.

The time was nearing two. Bruce would normally be getting home from patrol by now, and it was nearing the time when Dick would stir from his light, fevered sleep in a fit of terror and seek out Bruce for comfort from his nightmares.

The earth needed heroes, not Batman, who needed Dick Grayson. And his son needed Bruce.

His decision made, Batman sent eight formatted messages he’d constructed long before this most recent alien invasion threatened the Earth. Each missive detailing a plan, no, more than a plan. A mission. An ideal, for protection, for hope, for light.

One that the Batman had no business in being a part of. Bruce stood up from his chair, the clock striking two as the legs scraped the stone floor. He discarded and put up the cape and the cowl, locking the Bat away for the night, and he climbed the stairs to the mansion. He reached his bedroom, cracked the door open, showered quickly, dressed, and then shook loose his bedcovers before climbing underneath the right side, his nightly ritual almost complete.

He laid there, eyes shut but his mind roaming, flashes of pearl and lead burning at the edge of consciousness, tense and cold and selfish, in his bed until he heard a muffled scream from the bedroom across from his.

Light footsteps, a brief flash of dim light, and then the left side of the bed shifted as a small boy climbed under the covers and huddled against him. Bruce shifted, wrapping his arm around his son and exhaling all of the tension from his tired muscles.

Because his son was here, and he was safe within his reach, and even if Bruce could never be his son’s father, his Tati, could never replace or live up to the idol that was John Grayson, Bruce was still someone that Dick needed.

Part Two:

Morning was only a few minutes away in Star City, where a lone figure perched on the edge of the tallest building for miles. Low rays of sunlight stretched across the sleepy city, peeking through waves of smog and the haziness of the early morning. The sunlight felt good, it felt cleansing, empowering. It burned through his skin, soaked into his bones like no bullet ever could.

It made him feel human, feel like the world around him could actually touch him even when he was consistently, painfully reminded at the end of every work day that he was not. When he couldn’t feel the aching in his back from a long day spent hunched over a key board, when he didn’t have a piercing headache from staring at a bright screen with tiny words, when he wasn’t bothered by an early morning chill, or annoyed when he stubbed his toe on the second step to the front of his apartment every night.

But when he was sitting at his desk, eyes skimming for grammatical errors, his focus narrowed in on whatever story he was chasing after that week, his back always hunched over to make him seem less superhuman, more human, and he felt the rays of the sun finally reach him through the window panes?

He felt wonderfully, blissfully human when the sun soaked into his bones. It made him feel alive. Like he was a part of a world he hadn’t quite picked out, but that he knew in his heart he deserved to belong in. Like he wasn’t. . . alien.

(The way some people said it, it felt distasteful in his mouth, in his mind. He’d been working so, so hard to feel different, to feel proud of where he came from. But it wasn’t that he was technically alien, was an alien, it was that he was human. Because how could he be proud to not be a part of the very species that he fought so hard to protect? That he wanted so badly to belong to?)

And really, that was why he was standing there, in not-quite broad daylight, waiting for the appearance of the mysterious green vigilante who was surely the one who had summoned him here, to his home city, wasn’t it? Because he wanted to belong, to be Clark Kent, bland, boring Clark Kent, who worked at the Daily Planet with the lovely lady Lois, who returned (albeit at inhuman speeds, but he would give up feeling human for that added time he got to spend with his mother any day of the week) every weekend to the Smallville countryside to eat his mother’s pies, who got home every evening and stubbed his toe on the second step (and sometimes, most times, always he did it on purpose, just in case he finally felt something, felt a little bit more human, even if only through the pain) before locking shut the door (as if some gun-wielding robber could hurt him) and exhaling a sigh of relief as yet another calendar day ended.

But the message he’d gotten at work that same morning threatened to end it all. End the belonging, or at least the feeling of it, end Clark Kent.

Because someone, namely, most likely the Green Arrow, whoever he was under that mask, had contacted Clark Kent’s personal email about very important Superman business.

And, oh, how he’d tried to keep Clark Kent and Superman separate. Maybe not in personality, as he wasn’t quite prepared to deal with that sort of imposter syndrome, seeing as he was already an alien stranded on another planet that was not his own, blown up one, but at least in theory, in practice. Because Superman was practically Clark Kent, the way that Clark saw it, but nobody else saw it that way, could never, because Clark Kent and Superman were a million miles apart from each other. Those two could never be treated the same way.

Because one of those men was a red and blue alien with super strength. He could fly, he saved damsels in distress (though he would never tell the disaster-prone Lois that), and he was confident, a hero, a beacon of light for the world. And the other man was human. Just that. Human (or so he told himself).

They could never be treated the same way in a million years. That is, unless someone knew they were one and the same. Someone like this Green Arrow person who had somehow, someway made the connection between the two and had the gall to call him out on it.

He was almost tempted to give in to his anger and confront the vigilante about it, to give in to that tiny, but very present, flicker of flame deep in his gut that he called righteousness. But really it was anger. To call it what it was, anger, would be dangerous, though, with all that he could do. If he called his anger a righteous one, though, if he cast it in the same light of hope that he did everything else that he did and was, then he couldn’t do anything wrong, anything bad with it, in the name of it. Because then it would taint the image of hope, of safety, of light that Superman stood for.

So instead of being angry, Superman was righteously upset as he waited on the top of Queen Enterprises for the vigilante to come and protect his home turf. Besides, he was Superman. Self-important, busybody jerk or not, The Green Arrow had called for Superman’s help, and vigilantes (all of the two that he knew, suspected, about) were notorious for their possessiveness of their territories. For him to call Superman to his city, it must be a serious matter, a dangerous, hero-needing matter. Superhero business. And Superman was a superhero. So he needed to help.

It was only a bonus if he got to talk, and maybe fight, the jerk who had the gall (and he knew that Lois would be so mad if he kept repeating himself like this, but gosh darn it (because Superman didn’t cuss), he was angry–righteously angry– with this vigilante for butting into his civilian life and threatening the balancing act he’d finally gotten the hang of) to message Superman through Clark Kent’s email.

The wind whipped all around him. Sharp, cutting, pushing, pushing, and he didn’t move, only waited. He thought for a while, listened for longer, and then he finally heard a small thud and slight zipping sound, barely perceptible, but clear as day (which had finally come by that point, thank God). And, there, further off, the quick folding of wind around a body as it pushed through the air, a hissing, fluid, folding sound that echoed softly in his ears. It sounded like a bird, or a plane without the hum of its engines. He ignored it for now, and looked in the direction that the zipping sound came from.

A figure vaulted onto the other side of the roof, a heavy compound bow held easily, dangerously in his hands as he landed in a crouch, a short line of wire recoiling into a compartment in the side of his weapon. The dark, forest green man, a pointed, Robin Hood-esque hat perched on the top of a blond, curled mess of hair, framing his tanned face and green domino mask, stood. A frown caused the edges of his blond goatee to bristle as he examined the man opposite him.

“Why are you in my city?” A smooth, deep voice echoed from across the wide roof, the pitch controlled and entirely intentional; this vigilante knew what Superman could do, was letting him know that.

Well, whatever Clark was expecting the man to say, it certainly wasn’t that. Because he had been the one to call Clark here, hadn’t he?

The sound of wind grew louder from when he’d been ignoring it, and before Clark opened his mouth to respond, he turned to see a dark-haired woman clad in shiny, patriotically colored armor fly up from the side of the building and land in one of the other corners of the flat roof.

Wonder Woman. The hero (war hero, he’d heard) cut a tall, imposing figure, her Greek tan glinting in the sun as she crossed her arms, her muscles flexed and defensive, protective. Sharp blue eyes looked between the two men already there, and the grim line of her mouth that had been present ever since she touched down was softened by the barest trace of a smile.

“Hail, fellow warriors. I take it you are the heroes who have called me here?” Which struck the cord of confusion that had already been winding up inside of Clark even further.

Three heroes, none of them with any knowledge of why or how they’d been summoned. Clark almost opened his mouth to speak again, but then thought better of it when he reconsidered the fact that the same sound of whipping wind that had accompanied Wonder Woman’s arrival still had not faded.

“Forgive me, but I don’t think that we’re all here yet,” Clark guessed, and was rewarded with the sight of a green glow in the distance. He nodded his head in the direction of their newest arrival, and the other two turned to see a glowing green man alight in the middle of the roof.

The man, tan, Caucasian, brown-haired and all sorts of nondescript, grinned brightly as he took in the other heroes on the roof.

“Green Lantern, I take it?” The other green man asked, the top of his domino mask twitching in what Clark assumed was his eyebrow being raised.

The hero bowed dramatically in response, one arm rising in a flourish behind him before he popped back upright. “The one and only,” he smiled, then cocked his head. “Well, for now, anyways,” he shrugged, which should have been ominous or mysterious but came out rather well-meaning. Jokingly. Clark decided he liked the man; besides, he didn’t seem like he knew why he was there, either, by the way the man was acting. “You three here for the same reason I am?” Yep, there it is, Clark internally sighed. What’s more, the windy sounds still weren’t finished yet.

Woman Woman looked over at Clark, presumably seeing something in his expression that he had failed to hide. “I presume we are still waiting on more heroes, then? No one here seems to know more about the matter at hand than the others,” she reasoned.

Then the elevator to the roof dinged and Clark was almost ready to. . . do something righteously if he didn’t get answers from whoever walked out those doors next.
And two men did, walk out the doors, he meant. They didn’t do anything righteously like how Clark wanted to. Because Clark was slightly peeved, maybe a tad exasperated, although certainly not angry at the fact that he may or may not have been led into a trap with other heroes.

One, a dark-skinned man in a long trench coat and a folded hat, his appearance nondescript for someone who walked rather confidently onto a roof that three Superheroes and one slightly media-approved vigilante stood on. The other, a tall, orange and green clad man holding a thick, shiny trident, his long golden locks wet and whipping around his tanned and weathered face, droplets of water clinging to him everywhere. He was soaking wet, even though the walk from the nearest ocean would have certainly dried him off. But when Clark sniffed the formerly misty morning air, he realized that the moisture in the air had practically abandoned him, seemingly in favor of clinging to the regal man in front of him. Aquaman.

And someone else.

A soft clapping sound accompanied the ringing of the wind in his ears, and Clark turned to see a large . . . bird, or something, flying toward them in the distance. Oh well, he could deal with that later.

He turned back to the small, growing crowd of people on the roof, all of whom (including Clark, he realized) had drawn closer to each other, although he noticed that Green Arrow had somewhat ostracized himself from the misshapen circle of people in the center of the roof, although he had drifted closer to the man in the trench coat. He didn’t have to be a detective to know that the vigilante probably wasn’t feeling all that comfortable with this many super-powered people all on the same roof as him. And the trench coat man seemed normal enough.

Hmm.

Before Clark could think further on that thought, the bird-person he’d seen in the distance finally came to land on the roof a ways beside him, a slender woman with auburn hair falling from a bronze, winged helmet, graceful wings folding against her back as she stepped closer to the group. “What have we here?” she asked, her voice gravely and guarded.

“Beats me,” Green Lantern happily snorted, which Clark wasn’t sure was a thing until he heard the man do it.

Clark turned his eyes back on the man with the trench coat. Not to encourage cliches or anything, because Rao knows that Clark Kent was the epitome of any and all countryboy archetypes, but he was a mysterious man in a trench coat. That had to count for something, preferably some answers. Anything that could prove this wasn’t a trap.

The man in the trench coat looked up from where his hands were tucked into his pockets, his gaze alighting on Clark before an expression of . . . something. . . crossed his carefully guarded face. “I am . . . unaware of the purpose I have been called here for,” he said slowly, truthfully.

Aquaman, who had arrived with him, seemed equally at a loss. He confirmed what Clark assumed, speaking up to agree with the trench-coat man. “So none of us have any answers as to why we’re here?” Green Arrow droned out sarcastically. “Great, just great,” he mumbled, the hand not holding his bow coming up to rub his face. “Wonderful. This isn’t a trap, is it?” he said, peeking through his fingers to look quickly at each gathered member.

The winged woman crossed her arms and narrowed her gaze. “It’d better not be,” she growled out threateningly.

Clark instantly raised his hands in a guarded, calming manner. “Not that we’re aware of,” he said. “Although it might be better to take this meeting elsewhere, just in case?”

Green Arrow raised his eyebrow again, a soft chuckle almost escaping his throat. “I think I would know if this is a trap, here of all places. In my city. I’m sure I would have heard something,” he guessed, rubbing his goatee before furrowing his brow in thought.

“There’s always the chance that it is,” Aquaman said. “It is easy to overlook in cities as big as these.” Green Arrow almost laughed again. Strange, definitely. Egotistical? Possibly, but also something else.

He only shook his head in response. “No, it’s not that, not completely, anyways. This just feels . . .”

“Different?” Green Lantern suggested.

“And planned,” the blond archer agreed. “But not necessarily in a bad way, if that makes sense?” He seemed to struggle with something, shifting his feet as he thought. Then he looked at everyone else like he’d come to a decision. “I don’t suppose that our mysterious friend, whoever contacted me like they contacted all of you . . . they didn’t happen to, you know. . .” he left the sentence hanging. Everyone else shifted in that same uncomfortable manner, each presumably wanting someone else to confirm what nobody wanted to happen.

Clark understood. “Know our identities?” he finished, because somebody had to say it.

He could almost hear the collective relief and fear from everyone as he said the words.

“Yeah . . .” Green Arrow finished.

Wonder Woman stepped a bit closer, like in solidarity. “Then, surely, the situation is not all that bad?” she said with a thoughtful frown.

Green Lantern turned to look at her with an incredulous expression. “Not all that bad? No disrespect, lady, but I’m pretty sure some mysterious rando knowing who all of us are is pretty bad. Like, really bad,” he stressed, his easy smile gone. “Especially considering that, I don’t know about you all, a lot of the people I love don’t even know, much less some stranger.”

The man in the trench coat spoke up. “I agree with Wonder Woman. If this person knows who we are, they could have done a lot worse than summon an impromptu meeting of heroes.”

“You think they want something from us?” The winged lady clarified, her head cocked to the side. The man nodded.

Clark narrowed his brow in thought. Her reasoning was sound, but didn’t assuage any of Clark’s concerns. “For better, or for worse?”

“That is the question,” Green Arrow agreed.

A ping came from Green Arrow, who looked down at his belt in confusion even as the rest of the gathered heroes looked to him in suspicion. He looked up, then back down, then up at them as shrugged his shoulders awkwardly. “I should probably . . . yep.” He reached into his belt and pulled out what looked like a small communicator, his eyes flicking across the screen as he read the message. His mouth tilted into a small frown and he looked back up.

“I, uh–” He reread the message again. “It’s for all of us,” he said, to the surprise of everyone gathered, then cleared his throat. “It says that first of all, no, this isn’t a trap, and, I’m paraphrasing here by the way, they want us all to group together to save the world. Basically.”

“Basically?” Green Lantern scoffed. “Don’t they think we need a little more detail than that?”

“Yeah, basically,” Green Arrow shrugged. Another little ping, and he looked down. “Oh! There’s more. It says . . . oh, okay that’s weird. Word for word, they said, ‘basically.’” Then, in a jerk of sudden movement, he immediately looked straight up and at the elevator doors that the two men came up in early. He frowned a little bit, and then gave a little wave. Clark turned to look in that direction, as did everyone else, and immediately saw what he had. The security cameras.

“Whoever this is, they’re watching us,” the bird lady said, voicing what everyone else was surely thinking.

“And listening,” Green Arrow agreed. “Hi there!” he said with another little wave. “Mind giving us a bit more than just, ‘save the world from this unknown, scary threat that I won’t be telling you anything else about’? Might help a little,” he said with more than a bit of sarcasm lacing his words.

Another ping, and then Green Arrow groaned. “Haha, very funny,” he said. Clark attempted to raise his eyebrow but both went up. Green Arrow looked at him before explaining. “Our guy has a sense of humor in choosing our meeting place, it seems.” Another ping. He read that one out loud, clearing his throat again. “‘Satelite readings indicate that a large extraterrestrial force will approach the earth in less than forty-eight hours. One hero isn’t enough. Do with that what you will.’”
He looked back up, and Clark turned his gaze on each and every hero gathered. Because that was who they all were, apparently, and according to their mysterious . . . friend. He could see that they were all deep in thought.

“I don’t know about you all,” Green Lantern spoke up, certainly not the person Clark expected to speak first, “But saving the world is sort of in my job description,” he said with a half laugh. “Green Lantern, nice to meet you all,” he smiled.

Superman nodded. “Superman, likewise. My responsibility is to protect Earth. Of course I’ll help.” There wasn’t any other choice than the one he had chosen. How could he ever hope to belong on Earth if there wasn’t an Earth to belong to?

Women Woman smiled companionably. “I, as well.”

“Hawkwoman,” the lady in question spoke up, her arms still crossed, but her stiff posture slightly looser. “If you’ll have me, I’m in.” Wonder Woman smiled in response, causing the other woman to relax slightly.

Aquaman nodded his assent. “Atlantis is in as much danger as the surface world, and my duty is her protection. You can count on our aid.”

A beep, and Green Arrow looked down to read it.

Then, faster than Clark could register the sound, there was a flash of lightning and red as a man clad in crimson sped up the side of the building skidded to a stop in the middle of the circle, a lightning bolt insignia in the middle of his chest. A grin brightened his face even as the circle of heroes had immediately dropped into defensive stances.

The Flash. (the second one, anyway)

“What’s this? Am I late to the party?” he joked, and somehow diffused the tense mood of the entire roof in less time than it had taken for him to show up. A superpower in itself.

“Flash,” Clark smiled. “Long time no see. I don’t suppose you–”

“--Know who the mysterious person is that brought us all here, I’m guessing?” Clark smiled with a half shrug. “Nope, nada. Nothing,” he sighed dramatically. “And here I was hoping you lot would know more about this than I would.”

 

Clark turned once again to Green Arrow. “What was the beep?”

“The beep? Oh! Somehow, our friend, here,” he said, waving his communicator around his head, “Knew the Flash was coming before we did. Although, it probably wasn’t that hard considering he’s the one who invited us all to this little alien invasion party.”

Flash perked up. “Alien invasion? Cool, haven’t fought one of those in a while.” Everyone turned to him, and he smacked his head. “Wrong timeline, sorry,” he shrugged. And Clark decided that he wasn’t going to open that can of worms, just . . . no. He was way too . . . okay with that, and the fact that there was apparently an alien invasion he’d dealt with that Clark somehow didn’t know about. Although, a different timeline would probably . . . nope. Not thinking about that.

Green Arrow blinked (probably). “Yeah, I’m not getting into that,” he said, seemingly agreeing with Clark. “But I guess I can’t protect Star if there’s no Star left,” he reasoned. “I’ll help, but I’m not sure how much good I can do with a bow and arrow.”

Woman Woman moved forward to clap him on the shoulder, knocking the man off balance a little. “All warriors will be needed and appreciated in the coming battle. I will be glad to fight beside you, archer.” Green Arrow didn’t seem to know how to take that.

“Thanks,” he said.

The man in the trench coat stepped forward. “I may be of some help in identifying the aliens. Mars has had more encounters with other extraterrestrials than Earth has, as of yet.” And then Clark blinked, because he wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“Wait, Mars?” Flash said, even as the man in the trench coat turned into . . . not a man. He became green, his head bald and slightly pointed, his eyes glowing red, a blue cape unfurling from his shoulders and a red X crossing his chest. Flash let out a little gasp, and the man–alien– almost started to shudder. “Cool!” He relaxed, and Clark never felt so akin to someone else as he had in that moment.

“I am J’onn J’onzz, but you may call me Martian Manhunter,” he said.

Green Lantern’s brow furrowed. “Wait, but doesn’t that mean–” The Martian turned to look at him with a blank expression. “Never mind,” he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head.

“I guess this is everyone, then?” Flash asked.

Clark looked at him. “That we know of. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I just thought that this person would have tried to contact the Bat. I mean, he’s been around for years longer than any of us, right?” Flash reasoned.

Clark frowned. “He has, hasn’t he? I think that it would be a good idea to recruit him to the cause.”

Green Lantern shook his head. “Hold on, you mean to tell me that you want to willingly, and by that I mean of your own free will, which, trust me, I would know about, walk into Gotham and talk with The Batman?” He made a violent crossing motion with his arms, pacing around. “No way. No way in hell are we doing that and walking out alive. Who would protect the Earth then?” He threw up his hands.

Wonder Woman made a face. “I have gone into Gotham plenty of times, and I have never encountered any trouble from this Batman. I would be willing to talk to this hero, if all agree.”

“Vigilante,” Green Arrow corrected, because he would know. “And I guess it can’t hurt. Well, hurt me, I mean. Cause I’m not going. That guy is like, the vigilante of all vigilantes, even though there’s only like a few of us out there. I mean, Star is bad, but it isn’t Gotham bad, you know?”

“Wonder Woman and I can go fetch the Bat, and any other heroes that we all think could help, but we also need a plan.”

The others nodded, and before long, Wonder Woman and Superman flew up into the sky and towards Gotham.

PART THREE:

Bruce had a rule. Well, he had lots of rules, really. Not enough for Dick, although more than enough according to his son. Several were self-explanatory, simple, but important, pillars.

Don’t kill. Don’t put yourself in danger. Save the innocent. Vigilante (hero) rules.

Some only made sense when you took in consideration who, exactly, he was raising. Don’t swing on the chandeliers. Don’t slide down the banisters. Wear socks when you do end up sliding down the banisters. Don’t vault over people’s shoulders unless they’re committing a crime. Rules for when you were raising a hyper nine–year old vigilante who spent his entire childhood in the circus.

Others were strange, odd, even, but worked for him, worked for Dick. Kept them alive, kept them living long enough to become a family.

The most important of these rules: prepare. Be prepared. Continue preparing. Know when to throw that preparation out the window, of course, but continue preparing otherwise. Prepare for others, prepare against others. Prepare for yourself, and against yourself. If there’s something to be prepared for, prepare to prepare for it.

Dick thought that he was being overly cautious, but Bruce was a vigilante in the most dangerous city in the world, toting around a child vigilante (and oh there was that same wave of guilt every time he remembered that Dick was eight when he’d pushed Bruce into bringing him into this life, but how could he say no to the child who’d lost everything just like Bruce had, who needed this life, who needed to fly, who needed Robin, as much as Bruce needed Batman?) who insisted on wearing bright colors and laughing and giggling while he kicked criminals in the jaw hard enough to dislocate bone, in a world with metahumans and aliens and who knew what else? (Well, Batman knew, but he didn’t want Dick to know about those sorts of things yet. Protect him from as much as he could for as long as he could.)

If anything, Bruce wasn’t being cautious enough, and evidence of who was in Gotham, in his city, was proof of that fact. He hadn’t been prepared, hadn’t needed to be prepared for this sort of thing, hadn’t thought it was necessary. Of course, he’d prepared for the eventuality, but not the reasoning behind the circumstances.

He’d prepared for the heroes to arrive in Gotham to chase down the identity of the man who they would of course assume had laid a trap for them. Who knew their identities. Who pushed them together to form a world-saving group with other superpowered strangers.

Even though it was to save the world, the sort of thing they would all be doing in forty-eight hours anyway, just with a great deal less of preparation. So really they should be here, in Gotham, in his city, to thank him. Not that he wanted that. Really, he’d rather they leave and never bother him again. Would prefer for them to drop off the face of the Earth.

Yet, here they were. Wonder Woman and Superman. In Gotham. In broad daylight, nonetheless, standing on the top of Wayne tower like damn beacons while he was stuck in a meeting absently watching the security cameras.

Sure, he’d thought it was sort of funny to send the hero squad to all meet on the top of Ollie’s building, give him a bit of a scare like the one he’d given Bruce when he thought his best friend had died for three years. He found it hilarious, actually, not that he’d ever admit that out loud to anyone else. Well, maybe Dick if he tried to make fun of Bruce’s sense of humor again. He thought that his son would find his jabs at Oliver’s expense more than a bit funny. Not to mention the fact that he’d been able to tease his friend through his communicator because he knew for a fact that he was the only one of the eight heroes who carried around something like that. Because he wouldn’t be friends with a total idiot.

But he didn’t think that he would be the butt of the same joke that he’d played on Oliver only hours before.

Because just like he’d tricked the heroes into meeting Green Arrow on top of Queen Industries, two of those same heroes were trying to meet the Batman on top of Wayne Enterprises.

The irony wasn’t lost on him.

So maybe he shouldn’t tell Dick about the whole semi-prank on Oliver thing, seeing as he would just make fun of the whole Superman and Diana trying to meet his alter ego on top of Wayne Enterprises. And if he found out, he could just claim that he was trying to protect him from the heroes. Yeah.

Better an angry Dick than a Dick that poked fun at him for his own half-hearted attempt at a joke backfiring on him in the worst way possible. He’d never be able to get over that.

At any point, at least the meeting was mostly over, and he could excuse himself for a bathroom break or something. He probably wouldn’t have to even make up an excuse, seeing as he’d perfected the balance between playboy philanthropist Brucie and billionaire CEO Bruce Wayne.

Lucius concluded the meeting, promising to send the project information to Bruce later that night, and then promptly ushered everyone out of the meeting hall. Bruce not-so quietly followed with a smile and a few jokes and (not-so) well-meaning jabs before making his way to his private office, opening up the secret back room, changing, and leaving the building through his secondary private elevator. Because, hey, he was rich and he could afford it, and it had proved its usefulness several times over, the current circumstance proving that case in point.

Batman hid in the shadows of a nearby building, his steps quiet and his breathing controlled. He was extremely grateful that he’d put a rush on the lead-lined cowl and cape, even though he hadn’t thought they would be used this soon. He could only hope that it would work, but it might not even be necessary, seeing as Superman’s X-ray vision was only a shaky theory at the moment.

He watched as Diana and Superman continued whatever conversation they were having at the moment before pulling up the audio link to the WE cameras on the roof. They weren’t talking about anything he didn’t already know about the situation, seeing as he’d orchestrated the entire meeting in Star in the first place, but he did make sure to record their current, and previous, conversations about the mysterious Bat and Bird of Gotham for posterity. Certainly not to entertain one hyperactive Dick Grayson on a stakeout later that week with the various theories that Superman and Wonder Woman were discussing about Batman and Robin.

Bruce made his way around to the West side of the building, using his silent grappling hook to pull himself up to the roof while Clark was otherwise engaged in a conversation, his focus somewhere other than what his enhanced hearing was picking up. Bruce waited in the shadow of the elevator construct for them to finish their conversation, taking the moment to observe them and make his own judgments.

Diana, he knew, for the most part, although only as Bruce Wayne. He had made it a point to meet her after he became a benefactor some odd years ago for the museum she worked at. He had struck up a conversation, and they became fast, easy friends, and she had visited Gotham several times in the months since, even meeting Dick in some of her more recent visits. (She had become instantly enamored with his son and had made it a point to visit more often ever since.) She had a soft spot for children, had a gentle heart, and a strong mind. Those attributes alone had eased his mind when he’d considered letting Dick meet her in the first place, although it hadn’t exactly been up to Bruce at the time, as she’d promptly dropped by unannounced the week after she’d found out he’d taken Dick in for the sole purpose of meeting him.

Superman, on the other hand, Bruce was more worried about. He could snap Dick in half with one hand, and he wasn’t going to let any man that could do that anywhere near his child if he had anything to say about it. He slid his hand to a compartment on the left side of his belt, comforting himself with the green rock’s presence.

He didn’t quite know what to think about the man, yet, because while he was certainly a force for good, he didn’t quite know where Clark thought which side of the line the Batman stood in terms of good and evil. Bruce would be hard put to defeat an angry or uncontrollable Superman. He could do it, he was confident of that, but he wasn’t sure if he would come out the other side of that fight breathing. He certainly didn’t want to test that theory, either.

“When do you think the Batman will show up?” Superman asked after a longer pause.

Diana shifted. “Soon enough. I suspect he knows that we would not venture so far for matters of little importance, regardless of whether or not he is a creature of the night.”

“What if he doesn’t show up?”

Bruce took that as his cue. He stepped halfway out of the shadows, making no sound. “He will,” he said in his usual growl, his voice modulator doing most of the work.

The two heroes spun around, their eyes going wide as they took in his appearance. Bruce didn’t move an inch, barely breathed, and his heart rate was completely under control. “Batman,” Clark said, his stance shifting into one of confidence that contradicted the surprise and hint of fear Bruce had read in him earlier.

Diana’s mouth formed a grim line as she observed him, but she nodded in greeting. “Welcome. Apologies for the trespass in your city. I have heard that vigilantes are rather . . . territorial in that regard.”

Bruce grunted softly in response. “Why are you here?”

The two looked at each other before turning back to him. “We received word of an oncoming alien invasion in less than forty-eight hours,” Clark began, and Bruce focused on his breathing to keep his heart from tightening inside his chest or his pulse going haywire, because he couldn’t be entirely sure that Superman wouldn’t hear that. Couldn’t give him that advantage, and he knew he succeeded.

Bruce remained silent.

Wonder Woman looked to Clark again, uncrossed her arms in a sign of peace. “We are here to request your help in this matter,” she finished in response to Bruce’s unasked question. She was always good at reading the room.

Wait, they weren’t here to discover the identity of the man who’d learned every aspect of their lives and pulled strings until they were all in the same room. They were here for his . . . help.

For Batman. The vigilante. The non-hero.

That didn’t quite make sense. The world didn’t need Batman, it needed heroes, good-hearted people like Superman and Wonder Woman and the Flash. Not . . . whatever Bruce was. Because he definitely wasn’t a hero, a vigilante maybe.

He was just someone who wanted justice.

Justice for his city, for his parents, who wanted Gotham to be better, to have a chance to change. Justice for himself, for Dick, the victims of Gotham’s endless cycle of pain and death and pearls and lead and nets and greed.

Batman wasn’t hope, he wasn’t truth. He was justice, a dark, blood, rendering of the thing. Someone who clawed and scratched and brawled and bled and burned for a justice that the few good people of Gotham deserved.

He didn’t say anything, not yet. He was still. . . not thinking, maybe pondering. Possibly panicking, although he would never physiologically show that.
There was a choice to be made, one that he thought he had already made. One to be Batman, to be the dark sort of justice that Gotham needed, although maybe didn’t deserve. One to be Bruce, the man who needed Dick as much as Dick had needed him. And he had made that choice, to be both, because he needed both, and both had needed him. One couldn’t survive without the other. But he hadn’t expected that choice to warp into something . . . different.

When he’d first made the choice to try to save the world, and not just Gotham, it had been the choice to remain the Batman, to keep Dick safe and to stay in Gotham where he was needed, because Batman wasn’t the sort of justice that the rest of the world needed, could survive. The rest of the world was . . . lighter, safer, more hopeful. Not whatever Gotham was.

So he’d selfishly and smartly chosen to keep Gotham and Dick all to himself, leaving the rest of the world to the people with powers and stronger ideals and barriers than the ones that separated Batman’s justice from Bruce’s vengeance.

He’d thought that the Batman didn’t belong in the type of world that the rest of the Earth besides Gotham lived in, so he hadn’t expected to have to make the choice between Gotham and Dick and the rest of the world.

But if the world (and Gotham, a small part of him screamed) fell, and there was no net to catch it, then would Dick blame him? If he wasn’t the net, just this once? Because if he made the choice to be the net for the rest of the world, what if that didn’t include Dick? He couldn’t afford for it to not include Dick, and bringing Dick into the world, into a life that wasn’t Gotham, wasn’t where Bruce could reach, was dangerous. It wasn’t safe.

Neither Bruce nor Batman could take that chance.

“I will give you what information I have on the matter, but my place is in Gotham,” Bruce said before he could change his mind. A good, safe option. Help, but from a distance. Because where Bruce was, Dick was sure to be close by, and these people, these heroes were dangerous. They didn’t live on the same rules that Gotham survived by, and that made them unsafe. Less predictable, less known.

Something that Bruce couldn’t prepare for as well.

“Meet here, at midnight.”

And then Bruce left.

-x-x-x-

Midnight was quickly approaching, and Bruce was already in position by the time that Clark and Diana landed on the top of WE again. He waited, just to be punctual, because he could. It wasn’t like two minutes would make a difference anyways, and it gave him the chance to observe the two heroes for longer.

In the hours after their first meeting, Bruce had been able to glean some information about the approaching army from his satellite imaging. Because that’s what it was, an army. He’d been able to send out alerts to the various governments around the world, hacked into various government interfaces to learn whatever information he could about previous alien encounters on Earth. It hadn’t been much, but it was something. Besides he was about to get some answers from the members of the team who had prior experience with extraterrestrials.

Midnight struck, and Bruce stepped from the shadows, his presence unnoted by the two heroes (who really should have been looking in that direction for him in the first place) until soft moonlight lit up the front of his suit.

“You’re here,” Clark said after a brief startle.

“I said I would be,” Bruce responded, his cape still enshrouding his entire figure. “Where are the others?”

Clark shifted uncomfortably. “What do you mean, the others?” he asked with a nearly imperceptible, nervous timbre in his voice.

“I didn’t specify for you to come alone, so I assume you brought company?” It was the tactical choice, one that he sincerely hoped that Clark and Diana had made or they were just wasting his time.

Diana let a slight smirk cross her face. “They are waiting a few buildings away, so as to not alarm you.”

“I’m not so easily scared off,” Bruce assured her. “Call them over. I have questions.”

Superman left to presumably inform the others of the situation. Wonder Woman turned to Bruce. “I have heard many tales of the Batman of Gotham. And his partner,” she added, leaving the sentence open in a sort of half question.

“Rumors are tricky things,” Bruce said after a second. There was no way in hell that these heroes would learn of Robin if he could help it, much less bring him into whatever sort of alien mess he was about to be dragged into. It was enough that he was helping them; they didn’t get to ask the world of him. “They tend to be wrong.”

She nodded in response, her curiosity evidently satisfied. But then she spoke up. “And tend to be founded in a grain of truth,” she replied wisely. Shit. But there was a plan in place for everything, and he’d prepared for this, luckily.

He grunted. “Let’s just say I went through a phase,” he said, and left it at that. He’d rather his reputation take a minor hit than chance the possibility of Diana having some sort of sixth sense that could divine the aura of children. He wouldn’t be surprised if she had a divining rod dedicated to finding children for her to love and dote on, seeing as she’d already somehow found out about Dick before his name even hit the papers. Or an Alfred.

She chuckled slightly at that, and then truly seemed to accept his answer. And just in time, because the Flash sped up the side of the building, skidding to a stop behind Diana, and Superman landed shortly after with the other flying members of the League in tow.

It took a large amount of Batman’s self-control for Bruce to not laugh as Oliver pushed at Green Lantern’s chest, who had been carrying him bridal style for the duration of the flight, to be let down. He let loose a huff of indignation as he stumbled ungracefully to the floor, looking more green than he normally did. “Give a guy a warning next time, will you?” He righted himself, stepping away from the laughing Green Lantern.

“Sure, man,” he said in between laughs, and then the two looked over at Batman, who hadn’t moved from where he stood, half in the moonlight, half in the shadow. They both visibly shrunk at his unintentional glare, a byproduct of Batman trying to shut Bruce down in favor of business, and Bruce wasn’t too proud to admit that it gave him no small amount of satisfaction to be taken as seriously as they all saw him.

And then Flash lit up with a bright smile and no sense of self-preservation. “Wow, never thought I’d get to see the Bat in person! Gotta be honest, I was still half-convinced you were a rumor or some sort of vampire or something,” he laughed, and Oliver and Green Lantern turned slowly toward him with what looked like murder in their eyes.

“You brought us all the way out here. . . for a rumor?” Oliver grit out, his eyes nervously flitting between Bruce and Barry, who seemed completely unbothered by the situation.

Flash shrugged. “I figure if a rumor keeps going for five years, there’s got to be some truth to it, right?” Bruce had to remind himself that Barry was also a CSI, and no idiot, despite how his happy-go-lucky personality may peg him. Because that was actually an intelligent answer.

Clark cleared his throat. “About the alien invasion. . .”

Bruce hummed under his breath, stepping fully out of the shadow, earning a sharp exhale from Green Lantern who seemed to think he was some sort of ghoul or vampire, by the looks he was getting. “First, I have some questions for some of you. Superman, I doubt that you have any pertinent information regarding extraterrestrial threats, seeing as you have spent the majority of your life on Earth, but Green Lantern and Martian Manhunter may be able to provide some insight.”
Superman blinked in surprise after Bruce’s first sentence, but seemed to get over his initial surprise. Time to deflect. “Where did you say you got this information from? It may be best to start there,” Bruce said.

Superman looked a bit sheepish at that, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I wouldn’t say that our source of information is the most reliable. The fact that you showed up after promising information is our first real lead that this invasion is even happening,” he confessed.

Stupid, and yet not foolish. A strange combination, but one that he could work with. He would have thought that Superman, seeing as he can fly in space, would have at least flown out to confirm the invasion was happening.

“And you didn’t think to confirm that this invasion was even happening in the first place?” he repeated, but shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I have satellite imaging of some of the alien ships,” he said, reaching into his belt to retrieve the photos. He pulled them out, the front of his cape sliding over his shoulder as he did so, and extended them to Martian Manhunter and Green Lantern (who seemed to be eyeing Batman’s arm as if to confirm that he wasn’t some sort of ghost, Bruce assumed). “Are you able to confirm which species?” he asked, tucking his arm back under his cloak.

Martian Manhunter studied the photos intently, while Green Lantern took one look at them, flipped through his list of extraterrestrial species in his mind, and then passed the photos to Martian Manhunter after evidently coming to a conclusion. “They are called the Thythen, distant survivors from Mars who have a bad habit of trying to invade other solar systems. Looks like they’ve come back to this one.”

“Thythen?” Martian Manhunter questioned, still deep in thought. “There were old legends of them on Mars, long ago. The details are . . . out of reach,” he hummed.
Batman nodded. “Then remember what you can of them,” he advised before turning to make his way back to the safety of the shadows.

“Batman, wait,” Clark said, and Bruce snapped his head to glare at Superman’s outstretched hand, which he quickly retracted. “The offer to help is still open,” he said.
Bruce grunted. “Be out of my city within the hour,” he said, and continued into the shadows, disappearing long before he jumped off the roof of WE and into the streets of Gotham.

PART FOUR:

“But Bruuuccee,” Dick groaned quietly, wide-eyed domino mask looking up at Bruce from where he slumped against his shoulder, legs sprawled out at uncomfortably awkward angles that he didn’t seem to be bothered by. “Pleeeassse,” he half-whispered, although there was no chance of the criminals hearing them anyway, with how far away their stakeout position was located.

“No,” Bruce said, trying to leave it at that, but Dick somehow saw past his ruse and clutched at his cape to pull himself up and into Bruce’s lap. It never ceased to amaze Bruce how unbothered Dick was by physical contact, how he seemed to thrive on it, where Bruce tried to avoid it at all costs. And yet Bruce still relaxed into his son’s touch as Dick pulled himself upright to stare into the eyes of Bruce’s cowl with a very serious expression.

“Please.” He said, like a command, and it might as well have been for the most serious-looking expression that Bruce had ever seen (bar once, the night Tony Zucco almost died) crossing the kid’s face. “Ill be good, promise!” he said, his accent still fingering the edges of his words. Dick had only recently begun learning English before the accident that tragically (graciously) left him in Gotham city (with Bruce). Although he was very quick at picking up languages due to his time spent traveling with the circus, he still had a somewhat heavy Romanian accent whenever he began to learn a new language. Of which he was learning two right now, English and Latin. But Bruce was certain it would fade over time, seeing as Dick spoke perfect French, German, and Italian, his only accent the dialect he learned the language in.
As it was, his two favorite words were currently “please” (he was told by Alfred it was a “magic word” and he had taken a liking to it) and “promise” (he seemed to have convinced himself that promises were a magic unto itself, and Bruce had an inkling of a suspicion that he had somehow, unwittingly helped with that assumption). And Dick was making sure he was using them as much as as powerfully as possible during their entire patrol route.

Maybe he shouldn’t have given in to Dick patrolling on Tuesday, a school night, but he honestly had needed to find some way to distract the boy or else he would probably attempt to swing on the chandelier again without Bruce to catch him when he was ready to come down, or try (and likely succeed) to hack into the Batcomputer (...and now Dick had him saying it) files again (because he couldn’t just be learning English and Latin, he’d convinced Bruce to teach him the language of ones and zeroes, as well).

At any rate, at some point along the patrol, Dick had somehow found how about both of Bruce’s meetings with what Dick had quickly dubbed “The Justice League” (because Batman is obsessive (obsessed, Dick, and no I am not) with Justice (he continued on undeterred) and Batman made it up, Dick said). With his newfound knowledge, Dick had decidedly made it his goal in life, or at least for the next week, to meet Superman, whom he seemed to think was friends with Batman. (Wouldn’t you rather meet Wonder Woman, Dick? No, I see Aunt Diana most times. Often, Dick. And you know this, how? Batcomputer! (he proudly stated as Bruce massaged his quickly forming migraine))

Bruce still couldn’t get over his ward’s fascination with Superman. He’d asked him once about it, his only explanation from the boy being that “he can fly, Bruce!” like that was the be-all end-all reasoning, like there weren’t over a dozen other heroes that can fly that he could have picked. But no, Dick had to go and pick the one hero that Bruce was trying to keep away from Dick at all costs.

“No, Dick. I am not taking you to meet Superman. Focus,” he added, picking up the light boy and turning him around to face the direction he was supposed to be watching for the stakeout.

Dick huffed and crossed his arms. “Jealous,” he stated.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Me, jealous? Of that patriotic marshmallow?” Dick giggled quietly, earning him a smirk from Bruce.

“Yes, jealous. Because you are a bat, but Superman can fly,” he said with absolute certainty. Bruce snorted. “And,” he added, thoughtfully worrying at the inside of his mouth, “He is my second favorite.”

“Oh,” Bruce said. “And who is your first favorite?”

Dick looked up at Bruce, mask keeping his bright blue eyes from boring into Bruce’s soul (it was as much for Bruce’s protection as it was Dick’s). “Not telling,” he decided, and then turned back to watch the scene.

Bruce let the edges of his mouth quirk up. “That wouldn’t happen to be because I’m your favorite, would it?”

Dick shook his head vigorously. “I’m not telling! Have focus.”

“Pay attention, or be focused,” Bruce softly corrected, but patted Dick’s shoulder.

“Pay attention,” Dick repeated with just as much seriousness as he had the first time.

Time passed, and Bruce got the information that he needed in order to perform the sting next week on the drug deal and gather enough information to bring down yet another Gotham gang. The Dynamic Duo left their perch and returned to the Batmobile (yet another victim of Dick’s naming practices) to begin the drive home.

Dick suppressed a yawn. “I still think you should let me meet Superman,” he said, finally giving into his yawn, and then blinking up at Bruce with sleepy eyes. “He is very. . . cool,” he said, rolling the last word around in his mouth before saying it like he was practicing how it would feel.

Bruce grunted, thinking to let Dick talk himself into a short nap. The boy needed all the sleep he could get, even if their patrol was ending a bit earlier in the night than it usually did.

“You should help,” he murmured after a while, his chin half tucked under the seatbelt. “That would be cool, also.”

And then Dick fell asleep, and when the Batmobile rolled into the Batcave, Bruce gently shook him awake so that they could change. And then they both went to their respective rooms, and Bruce did his nightly routine before laying down, awake in bed, selfishly waiting for the nightmares that would probably come for Dick tonight, like they did every night. But when Dick padded as softly as ever into Bruce’s bed, Bruce spoke softly into the dark room.

“What if they are unsafe for you?” he asked.

And Dick murmured back, half asleep and sweaty from the life that leaked into his dreams that night, “Batman will protect me. ‘S why you’re my favorite.”

And Dick curled asleep, thinking he was safe and sound tucked under Bruce’s arm. But for once Bruce didn’t fall asleep, because he knew that even though Dick was safer in Gotham, with him, Gotham wasn’t safe unless the world was safe.

-x-x-x-

The Batman shows up in Washington D.C. two hours into the invasion, dropping out of a sleek black jet without a word but with a shower of batarangs. He fights back to back with Wonder Woman, propels himself off of a green light construct, is flung across the sky by a red cape-wearing beacon of hope. He takes down dozens of aliens, strategizes against thousands more, negotiates the peaceful retreat of the opposing armies with a threatening glare and an unwavering eye.

The public is terrified by the alien invasion. Enamored by the existence of a group of heroes willing to protect them. Astounded that there is confirmation that the rumors of a Bat in Gotham are true.

Unsure what to think. Scared, but grateful nonetheless.

Batman returns to Gotham without preamble, leaves without a word, leaves the heroes to their own devices.

Superman and Wonder Woman return the following week, ask him to join what they think should be a permanent organization.

“I’m not looking to join your Justice League,” he says, because he knows that Dick will be mad if he doesn’t join, but not as angry if they take the name that Dick gives them.

Another week passes, and the two leaguers return asking for help against another worldwide threat, and because of Dick, Bruce can’t say no to protecting the world. Protecting Dick.

They asked him to join; his answer was still no. He returned to Gotham two days later.

A month of asked and answered help goes by, and somewhere along the way, Batman becomes needed by the Justice League (because they did take up the name, and Dick forgives Bruce for not joining and not being friends with Superman).

Two months after the invasion, Diana and Clark (because somewhere along the way, they become Diana and Clark in his head and not Wonder Woman and Superman) approach Bruce and tell him that he can be a part-timer, but that they need him. They need Batman, but also The World needs Batman. And somehow, those are the right words to say. Because somewhere along the way, Dick needs Bruce, Bruce needs Batman, Batman needs Gotham, Gotham needs The World also became the World needs Batman, and if The World doesn’t exist, then how can Dick? And Bruce needs Dick just as much as Dick needs Bruce.

Two months after the invasion, Diana and Clark tell Bruce that The World needs Batman, but really what Bruce hears is that Dick needs The World, needs Batman. And Bruce says yes.

A month later, billionaire Bruce Wayne approaches Gotham City’s resident vigilante about funding the newly founded Justice League. He said that it will be good for the World, but he really means that it will be good for Dick.

A month and a half later, the Justice League meets in Mount Justice (name courtesy of Dick) for the first time.

PART FIVE:

Sometimes Bruce regretted joining the Justice League. He knew how it happened, but sometimes Bruce thinks really, really hard about how, exactly, it happened that Batman became one of the three heads of the Justice League. Because didn’t he say no, at first? Didn’t he kick them out of his city? Didn’t he say no nearly half a dozen times before agreeing to be a part-timer? And then declined another three times before Dick finally convinced him?

Ah, there it was. What it always came down to.

His Robin.

But sometimes he still had to think really, really hard about how he got here, standing at the head of a table for nine, giving a debriefing after their most recent mission. At least, he was supposed to be, but somehow he was talking over the League’s small gossip mill (consisting of Barry, Hal, Oliver, (and Dinah, although she isn’t a part of the League), and, surprisingly, sometimes Clark) when he should have been scolding the team about the too-high casualties percentage.

If his cowl wasn’t so thick he would slam his head against the table and not wake up until three a.m.

The worst part was, they were talking about him (Batman him, not Bruce him; he was prepared but not quite prepared to deal with that sort of devil yet) and they weren’t even trying to be discreet about it.

“–after the League’s most recent mission–”

“Come on, Robyn is definitely a girl’s name. I bet she’s like his wife in the chair–”

“–there were a number of casualties–”

“No, I could have sworn I’ve heard a criminal say Robin is a dude.”

“I heard Woman Woman say that Bats told her that Robin was just a phase. You know, like reverse emo?”

“--get it, wife in the chair. You know, like the guy in the chair. Oh, come on!”

“You’re not funny.”

“–and while mostly unavoidable–”

“I’m hilarious.”

“Dream on.”

“–there are more efficient–”

“I am, admit it.”

“–definitely a girl, but I’ve heard she’s out on the field though. Not just in the chair.”

“No, because there would be pictures–”

“–efficient ways to reduce the number of–”

“Says who? No pictures of ol’ batsy over there until the JL started. What’s to say she’s not the same way?”

“The creepy laughing, that’s what.”

“–civilians injured during major battles–”

“The what?” Clark jumped in, and Bruce finally had enough.

“The cackling. It’s all any of the Gotham criminals talk about. Freaks them out.”

“–If you four don’t shut up and pay attention, I will sic Robin on you myself,” Bruce growled, narrowing a glare on the four offenders. And that shut them up, because apparently the creepy, cackling mystery of Gotham was enough to do that. And Batman wasn’t even offended, just more than mildly relieved.

“Wait, Robin actually exists?” How thick was his cowl again?

-x-x-x-

“Hey, Batsy!” Hal Jordan jogged up beside Bruce, who was standing in front of an array of computer screens, preparing for their next mission. He glared at Hal out of the side of his eyes.

He grunted, which Hal apparently took as permission to forge ahead with whatever he had on his mind. The brief stint of competence he had shown in identifying the alien race during that first invasion was fading more and more from Bruce’s mind after every conversation he had with the man.

“When do we get to meet Robin?”

Yep, there it went. Gone. Zero recollection of the man’s competence left. One would think avoiding the topic since, hmm, forever would deter the man from what was clearly a sore subject.

Hmm. Sore subject. Batman turned his head to look at Hal Jordan for a good, hot second. Or twenty. Glared until he was almost certain that he really should have been seeing the back of Hal’s head by that point.

“We divorced,” he deadpanned.

And Hal bought it, fortunately. And left him alone.

-x-x-x-

Unfortunately, everybody else bought it, as well. At least he seemed to have thrown off Diana’s internal child honing system, which he suspected had repaired itself after his comment on the WE roof. She no longer appeared to suspect Robin of being only nine years old, and instead decided to focus her efforts on making sure that Batman and his divorced wife would leave on good enough terms for child support. (Because somehow she was still convinced that he was a dad. How did she know, after everything?)

Clark, on the other hand, took it upon himself to act as Bruce’s unofficial divorce counselor. Even though he was barely holding a half sort of a relationship with Lois Lane, himself. Although, come to think of it, Superman and Clark Kent were sort of sharing custody over Lois, if that was a thing. Which was a weird thought, and he promptly dismissed it and returned to his original opinion that the admittedly awkward man was in no position to give Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, dating advice. Of course, he couldn’t tell Clark that.

Hal Jordan and Green Arrow kept trying to get all of the “juicy details” about the divorce from him.

Shayera couldn’t care less. Just told him she was free for a beer if he wanted to drown his sorrows in alcohol.

J’onn informed Batman that his emotional state was very stable for one who just lost a wife, and Batman promptly informed him right back that he shouldn’t believe anything that came out of Hal Jordan’s mouth, and that closed the subject matter.

Barry Allen kept avoiding him like he was bad luck for his own relationship with Iris West.

Arthur expressed his sympathies but couldn’t really relate because he had a wonderful wife and they wanted to have children. If Batman had actually been in the process of a divorce he was fairly certain he would have socked the man, or if he wasn’t at least eighty percent certain that the man had seen through his ruse or talked to J’onn and was actually teasing Batman about it.

Or maybe Batman just really wanted to punch somebody.

The rumor mill was fueled for weeks.

-x-x-x

It was the one-year anniversary of the Justice League forming, and the nine members were gathered in the meeting hall of Mount Justice in celebration. A celebration that Bruce had tried to avoid but that somehow both Alfred and Dick found out about, so naturally he’d had no choice but to go.

It didn’t stop him from brooding in the back of the room, however. He was barely paying attention to the conversation that was happening around him when he heard it.

“–tell each other our secret identities,” Barry finished, half of a beer in his hand. But Bruce couldn’t blame it on the fact that he was drunk because the speedster hadn’t yet figured out how to make an alcoholic drink that could keep him drunk.

He snapped to attention to listen to what the rest of the Leaguers were saying, to gauge how drunk they all were. And unfortunately none of them were really that drunk; all of them were of sound mind when they all nodded their heads and decided, somehow, that yes, telling your secret identity to the most powerful people in the world (some of which had literally gotten mind-controlled last week, he wasn’t kidding) was a brilliant idea that would most definitely not end in disaster and put your entire family in danger.

Brilliant, Barry. Brilliant. “I mean, I trust all of you to have my back in battle. If something happens to me, I want to make sure my family is taken care of,” he finished. Okay, so maybe slightly not stupid reasoning, Bruce had to admit. But still stupid.

J’onn spoke up. “I do not have as much to lose as my human counterparts,” he admitted, “I can always take on another name, another shape. But I trust you all, just as well.” Which was great when he had nothing to lose.

Diana, Clark, and Arthur all nodded in response to that, and Bruce knew that his chances of avoiding the topic were very, very quickly dwindling. But how much would that affect them? They were all enhanced, all had super powers, and much of the League barely had lives. Half of the League lived in or came from outer space, lived longer lives than an entire generation of humans. Could protect themselves, and the families many didn’t have.

Of all of them, Bruce, Oliver, and Barry were the most vulnerable, had the most to lose.

Which was why when Oliver spoke up, Bruce once again had the familiar urge to slam his head into a table. Or a wall. Maybe a concrete wall. “I have a lot to lose, but I want to help build something here,” he said wisely. And then Bruce didn’t want to just slam his own head into a wall, but his friend’s, too. Because why did he have to pick this moment to be serious? To have an iota of common sense, even if it was incredibly stupid common sense.

Bruce very pointedly stood up from where he was sitting in the shadows in the back and made his way around the edge of the room undetected. Or, at least, mostly undetected. He was almost out, but unfortunately the door was right in front of Clark’s line of eyesight. “Batman, where are you headed?”

Bruce turned around. That bastard knew exactly what was going on. “This conversation does not benefit me, so I’m leaving,” he said, his voice modulator on like always.

Clark and Hal both stand up, and Clark speaks. “I think that it’s a good way to build trust and to grow closer as a team. We can all benefit, even you,” he said with a smile.

“No thanks,” Bruce said, and started to step out of the room, but Clark was there in front of him, damn superspeed.

He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow, something Bruce noticed he’d been working on ever since the JL first met on Queen Industries’ roof.

Diana spoke up from behind Bruce. “Please, stay,” she said in a way that was almost like an amalgamation of both Dick and Alfred’s voices when they wanted Bruce to do something. And she hadn’t even known she’d done it. Bruce let out a heavy breath and returned to his seat without another word.

Barry, realizing that he was the one who started it all, graciously decided to go first. He pulled down his cowl without preamble. Messy blond hair framed green eyes and a tan face, but a familiar grin lights up the room. “My name is Barry Allen. I’m CSI for CCPD, and I’m actually engaged to be married to my best friend, Iris West.” Bruce could tell in the way he’d said that last statement that he’d waited a long while to be able to tell them that last bit of information. Especially since he knew the wedding was in a few months. Bruce Wayne had conveniently had several business trips to Central City over the past year once he’d found out about the engagement, trips where he would conveniently run into a CSI for Central City PD. He was only a few friendly coffees away from an invite to celebrate the happiest day of his teammate’s life.

“Congratulations,” Bruce said, his gruff voice startling a few of the occupants in the room, who quickly followed up with their own accolades.

“That’s part of why I wanted to tell you all,” he said with a blush, the color oddly familiar due to the redness of his cowl. “You are all invited, of course. I don’t want to spend the happiest day of my life without the people who’ve kept me safe long enough for that to be possible,” he ended with a smile, his brief stint with the unfamiliar emotion of embarrassment quickly forgotten.

“I think I speak for all of us when I say that we would be honored, Barry,” Diana said with a soft smile.

Aquaman clapped Barry on the back with a final congratulations before promptly informing the entire room of his name. “Arthur Curry,” he said, “Although in Atlantis I am named Orin.”

Barry raised his eyebrows playfully at that. “King Orin, huh? Sounds like less copyright infringement than King Arthur, that’s for sure,” he laughed.

Arthur smiled.

Hawkgirl pulled off her feathered helmet, revealing bright green eyes. “Shayera Hol,” she said, a woman of few words, and everyone nodded in silent acknowledgement.

Hal clapped his hands together. “Guess I’m next, huh? Good thing I wore clothes today,” he laughed, and then pulled off his ring, the green glow fading around him to show the man wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a white muscle tank. “Hal Jordan, nice to see your faces,” he grinned.

Barry let out a laugh when he saw what Hal was wearing. “Nice anniversary clothes, man. Dress down, much?”

Hal huffed. “Haha, very funny, Barry,” he said, dragging out the other man’s name. “It’s not like I was expecting to pour out the deepest, darkest secrets of my heart today. If I was, I would have worn my good pjs, that’s for sure and certain.”

Barry just laughed again, and then J’onn stood up and shapeshifted back into the form the League had met back in Star. “J’onn J’onzz, as I have previously said. But in this shape you can call me John Jones.”

Clark had remained standing the entire time, and smiled with something that looked like both sorrow and joy. He pulled out a pair of glasses, ruffled his carefully coiffed hair, and then slouched in a way that took off three inches of his height. “Clark Kent, of the Daily Planet,” he said with an awkward smile, and Bruce had to admit that it was an effective disguise for someone who wore no mask and was on the front page of his own paper every day. Although his personality wasn’t any different that Bruce could tell, the change in demeanor and posture alone was something that few could accomplish that quickly. It was almost as good as the difference in his Brucie and Bruce Wayne persona, though it was far from being as different as Brucie and Batman were, or as Richard and Robin were.

It was still stupid that he didn’t wear a mask, but Bruce supposed that if the man wanted to be the embodiment of hope and light then a little trust was probably necessary.

Bruce looked over at Oliver, his best friend, his last hope of getting out of this mess with his position in the League still intact. Although, come to think of it, he did only join the League because of Dick. But of course his now ten-year old son would be very peeved if he left the League now, before he’d gotten the chance to meet Superman. And Bruce supposed he would be a little put off not being able to see and work with teammates he’d reluctantly grown fond of.

Oliver made eye (cowl/mask?) contact with Bruce, and, knowing his friend as well as he did, he recognized that Oliver was almost as nervous about his identity being known as Bruce was. He had almost as much to lose, was as human as Bruce was. As vulnerable. But he didn’t have a family any more. Didn’t have a father. Or a son.
Bruce barely shook his head, almost pleading, but he saw the tension melt from his old friend’s shoulders before Oliver even realized he’d made his decision. He pulled off his hat and peeled off his mask and smiled that playboy smile of his. “Nice to meet you all. I’m Oliver Queen.”

And Bruce would have punched his best friend in the face if he hadn’t seen the way Clark’s jaw dropped a little at the admission. “You’ve got to be . . .” Clark starting mumbling under his breath.

Hal almost dropped to the floor in a fit of laughter. “Is that. . . what you meant. . . back in Star . . . when you said our friend . . . had a sense of humor?” he choked out.

“About our location?” Ollie finished with a grin. “Yeah, apparently our still-mysterious friend thought it would be hilarious to pin the whole meeting on me by having it happen in Star. Not to mention the fact that he insulted my security and basically gave me a panic attack when I saw Superman on my roof and proceeded to watch seven other powerhouses all use my building as a clubhouse.”

Hal and Barry were in fits of laughter by then, and Clark and Arthur had joined in. Diana and J’onn smiled their usual soft smiles. Shayera smirked. Bruce fought a smile of his own.

“Hey, we didn’t ever figure out who planned this whole Justice League thing in the first place, did we?” Barry said after his laughter calmed down. “I mean, I’m okay with you lot knowing who I am under the mask, but I’m not that happy about a total stranger knowing.”

Clark frowned. “I agree. Who were, or are, they? We should have someone on that.”

“I am,” Bruce said, and Clark nodded his head in acquiescence, content in knowing that their Bat was on the case, oblivious to the dual irony of his statement. “As a matter of fact, I’ll get right on that,” he said, never one to leave open a door of opportunity. He smoothly got up and began to leave the room before Hal Jordan (because it was always him) remembered something.

“Wait, Batsy, you’re forgetting something,” he said, and the other members turned at once.

“Am I?” He started to turn again.

“Yeah, you forgot to tell us who’s up under that cowl,” Hal reminded him, and Bruce shut his eye at the migraine that was forming.

Oliver seemed to notice his discomfort and piped up. “No pressure, but it would be appreciated.” At least he seemed to get how much of a disadvantage they were at, even if he had given his own identity up.

“Hold on, much pressure. More pressure needed,” Hal said, turning around the room.

Clark frowned again. “I agree with Hal. I think it would be best for the team.”

“Do you mean the team I avoided joining in the first place?” he asked dryly, but Clark kept talking.

“I hate to make you do something that you don’t want to do, but it will bring us all closer, and I just think it’s for the best.”

“You know all of our identities, Bats. It’s only fair we know yours, now,” Hal said, his voice grating against Bruce’s nerves.

Bruce had been standing half turned away from the conversation, but now he turned to face them all, his eyes narrowing. “Nothing has changed,” he said. “I already told you all at the beginning of all this that knowing your identities would not benefit me. Because I already knew who you all were. Nothing has changed, so I don’t see why they should now,” he said, his voice dropped another octave in his anger.

Hal opened and closed his mouth, and then his face scrunched up. “What do you mean, you knew who we all were? You didn’t feel the need to tell us this? Pretty important information, if you ask me!” he yelled.

Clark spoke up. “I agree. This is information we should have had access to.”

Oliver just narrowed his eyes, and Bruce turned to look at him with a detached look as Hal started his rant again. Oliver cocked his head at Batman, an unspoken question. You’re him, aren’t you? The man from Star. Some friendships, time can’t break. He and Oliver could still read each other as well as ever, even if Ollie didn't know who it is that he’s reading.

Batman nodded, imperceptibly. Oliver huffed out a small puff of laughter, ignored by everyone else.

“And, you know what, even if you did already know, which we have no proof of, by the way, then we still have the right to know who you are! It’s only fair,” he concluded angrily.

“Not fair?” he asked, his voice quiet. “Don’t act like a child, Hal. Whatever power imbalance you’re perceiving was never there, and if it was, I’d say it would be with the seven out of the nine League members who do have powers.”

“My identity is the only thing that protects me because I. don’t. have. powers,” he enunciated each word as the man backed up. “I have my brain, and my training, and a damn utility belt. You didn’t notice a damn power imbalance before because there never was one, and there isn’t one now,” he growled. He tucked his arms in and backed up, letting the cape fall over his front, resisting the urge to leave because there were still things to be said and if he left now there was a good chance he might never come back.

And then Oliver, blessed, precious Oliver, spoke up. “Hal, Bats is- I hate to say it, but he’s right.” And Hal looked over at Oliver incredulously as the archer shook his head. “It’s different for us. Batman is right. We don’t have powers, we just have ourselves,” he said, looking at his calloused hands. “We have whatever we have taken and clawed and fought to keep ourselves alive. I know I have. Fought to stay alive, that is. And it’s harder when people know who you are, and how they can hurt you, a hero who seems indestructible, by hurting those around you who can get hurt.”

“And I know you all have people to protect, too. Friends, family,” Oliver continued, looking up to meet each League member in the eyes. “But you forget that you have superpowers. You can be there in the blink of an eye, jump in front of a bullet for them. But if me and B do that, we’re dead, and the people we care about are just as dead as we are.” His best friend was always too smart for his own good.

And then he looks at Bruce. “And that’s just it, isn’t it. I’ve met a lot of selfish people in my life, Bats. Hell, I’m one of them. So I know when a man is selfless, when they’re like you. That’s just it," he repeated. "You’ve got someone to protect, too, haven’t you? Someone who can’t protect themself.”

And Bruce’s world started crumbling down, and he felt his strict, tall posture close in on itself for half a second before catching himself. Half a second that Wonder Woman, the damn child detector, was able to catch. A small gasp escapes her.

“Robin isn’t your wife,” she said. Not a question. A statement.

“No,” Bruce said, his voice a whisper but heard just the same. “He’s my son,” he said, just as loudly.

PART SIX:

Bruce used to say that it would be a cold day in hell before anyone in the League met his son. His baby bird. His Robin.

But here he was, the ten year old tucked away in the safety of Bruce’s cape (The Batcape! No, Dick. That’s too much. We're not calling it the Batcape.) as he stood at the front of the meeting room in Mount Justice, waiting for the other Leaguers to arrive. He shifted, a crevice opening in the cape so that he could see the whites of Dick’s domino mask peer up at him.

“Remember the rules?” he asked.

Dick nodded excitedly, remembering the list of rules that Bruce had made him recite and practice all week after Dick had hacked into Mount Justice’s cameras and found out that the Justice League did, in fact, know about the existence of Batman’s son. It wasn’t that big of a leap for the smart ten-year old to realize that it was the best time to beg Batman into letting him finally meet the Justice League, namely Superman. (Which Bruce still didn’t get all of the hype over.)

Bruce nodded, letting his cape fall back into place, confident that Robin would stay quiet until it was time.

The League filed in one at a time, a few of them nodding in Batman’s direction before starting up smaller conversations with each other while they waited. Flash was the last to come in, his cowl down and the dark circles under his eyes somewhat obvious. Wedding plans, if Bruce had to guess.

They all took their respective seats and waited for Batman to begin the meeting, as usual. But this time he didn’t, he waited a few seconds, hesitated, remembered that this was his last chance to tuck his Robin away forever, keep him in the nest that was Gotham.

But no, if not now, then when? Robin was right, this was the best time. And the League needed to understand, to truly know why they could never know his identity, or at least not until after his Robin left the nest.

Batman cleared his throat, and he felt Robin hop in excitement a little, his cape fluttering a little bit at the ground, catching Oliver’s eye. But he seemed to dismiss the movement as Batman began to talk. He decided to get the League business done as quickly as possible; if he knew his teammates, they would not be able to focus after meeting Robin. Bruce could barely focus knowing just how excited Dick was, worrying that he would pop out of his cape at any time.

Of course, this wouldn’t be the first time that Dick had snuck under his cape while Bruce had met with a League member. Many a meeting had been conducted on the edge of Gotham while Bruce was in the middle of patrol with Robin. Dick would always hide and sometimes nap under Bruce’s cape while the man met with other League members. Of course, this would be the first time in Mount Justice, and with all of the other League members present, but it wasn’t a foreign concept to his son.

Bruce began the meeting with a recap of the events of the week, inviting each member to report on their individual cities, and then provided detailed analyses of previous missions with suggestions on how to adapt and train in order to improve. The majority of the meeting took about an hour, as they didn’t actually have much to discuss.

“Before we conclude today’s meeting, I have something that I need to address with each of you,” Batman said, and the members of the League perked up from where half of them were drowsily paying attention. “Now that you all know that the existence of Robin in Gotham is no rumor, and that he is my son,” he added softly, feeling Dick clutch a little tighter to Bruce’s left, “I need your word that you will not share this information with anyone else. Robin is a secret to keep him safe,” Bruce said. “And now, now I need your help to do that.”

He looked around the table, seeing the firm nods and reassuring gazes of each of his teammates, hearing their verbal agreements, and a small weight lifted off of Bruce’s chest. Because he could trust these people. Not just with his life, but his son’s. Maybe not all of it, but a little bit of it. Enough to help keep him safe when Bruce wasn’t enough to save the World, and to save his son.

“Thank you,” he said, to the astonishment of the League. Because Batman never said thank you. Batman never smiled. Or laughed. Those were constants, aspects of the Bat that never changed. He was careful not to frown too deeply. The most emotion someone could get out of him on a good day was a smirk when he took someone down in a training session.

“In that case,” Bruce said, “I’d like for you all to meet someone.” And then before anyone else could say a work, he shifted his shoulders to let the front of his cape fall back, revealing a small, bright figure that quickly left his cage in a blur of traffic-light color, giggling gleefully as he cartwheeled into a double flip and landed on the League table.

“Hi! I’m Robin!” And Bruce’s small smile was a distant echo of his son’s bright grin.

-x-x-x-

One year after Green Arrow finds out about the existence of Robin, Oliver Queen meets a young man named Roy Harper, a sixteen year-old with no small skill with a bow and arrow. He is on patrol when an arrow that is not his pins a robber, the gun clattering to the cold ground, to a wall. Oliver wasn’t fast enough, was still injured from the previous night’s patrol gone wrong. He hears the grateful, repeated “thank you’s” from the woman who’d been saved by someone who was not him, and looks up to see a young boy with an arrow and an anger in his eyes, and he thinks that he can help him. He sees a Robin somewhere inside that young boy.

And Speedy is born.

-x-x-x-

Speedy is the first confirmed sidekick of a League hero. Of course, everyone has heard the tales of Robin, the Boy Wonder, the only man (so they think) who can keep up with the Bat of Gotham. But he’s just a rumor, a myth. A legend.

A truthful legend told to children to give them hope of a justice they can’t take for themselves.

So Speedy is the first in name, but Robin is the first in spirit. Who children look up to and believe they can become, who Speedy hears mentions of from League members who pop in to visit his mentor, who Speedy wants to be like. Someone who doesn’t exist, has never been proven true, but who inspires all the same.

So Speedy is the first, but he is remembered second. Because the world knows that Robin walked and flipped and flew so that Speedy could leap and shoot and live.

-x-x-x-

Of course, Speedy is not the only partner to be born chasing after the fleeting legend that is Robin.

Two months after the appearance of Green Arrow’s apprentice, a young boy with bright orange hair and too-wide eyes discovers that his uncle is the Flash. The fastest man alive. It was an accident, to be sure, how his uncle got his powers, but Wally is smart enough to become like his hero on purpose.

So Wally studies, and learns, and asks questions, and figures out how to recreate the accident that made Barry Allen the Flash. And it works, but just as it had for his uncle, he is left in a coma for weeks.

When he wakes up, he is not the same. His heart is weaker, and his metabolism unstable. But that doesn’t matter to him, because now he can be like his greatest hero.
Now he can follow in Robin’s footsteps. His hero, unreal though he may be.

Because Barry Allen was the Flash, would be Kid Flash’s mentor, but there could be no Kid Flash if there wasn’t a Robin to prove that it was possible.

-x-x-x-

Four months after Speedy first appears on the scene, Kid Flash is born. And he runs, and he laughs, and he runs some more. And sometimes he gets hurt, but never for long. More often, he runs dry, his energy depleted and his heart pounding.

But then his uncle is always there with a large snack bar and a joke and a pat on the back, and it’s not something that he has to worry about anymore.
Because they’re Flash and Kid Flash. They can handle anything. Just like Batman and Robin.

-x-x-x-

Speedy has been Green Arrow’s partner for four months when he begins to think that Robin is more than a myth. He asks Oliver if the Bird is real, and Oliver, true to his word, denies the little bird’s existence. Robin is a myth, he says. A story. A legend. But an inspiration nonetheless.

Oliver tells Speedy that he looked at Roy and saw a Robin, and at first Roy is angry. Because he is second, when he should have been first. But then Roy realizes that Robin isn’t just a myth, or a story. But a legend, and he thinks and he thinks and he thinks on it, and he realizes that his uncle saw someone who could be realer than Robin never had the chance to.

And he isn’t mad, not anymore. Because he realizes that all this time, he wanted to be a Robin, too.

-x-x-x-

A month into their new partnership, Flash tells his nephew that they are to meet the Batman in Gotham. They arrive on the outskirts of the most haunted city on earth, perched on the edge of a crumbling building. And Wally talks and talks and talks and can’t sit still, eats a snack or two while they are waiting.

And Wally asks why they are here, and Barry just smiles knowingly and says they are here to meet someone.

They wait some more, and then a dark shadow parts from the wall it formed from. Bat ears and a cape. The Batman. Wally has never met the vigilante before, and he is more than a little scared. Though he would never admit it.

Flash and Batman exchange a few words. And Wally decides he is ready to go, leave Gotham and its scary shadows behind.

“Nice to meet you Batman. Are we leaving?” Asks Wally to Barry.

“Oh, this isn’t who Bats and I wanted you to meet,” he replied.

A cackle, a vicious, eerie sounding thing, a flitting shadow, and a burst of yellow and black as a small figure lands in front of Wally, the chills still flitting down his spine as he takes a step back. But the small boy steps from the shadows, pale teeth peeking out in the darkness as a softer laugh echoes across the roof.

It’s just a boy. A child. No older than ten, surely. More kid than Kid Flash was.

Then he cackles again, a scary thing, and then the smile stretches eerily wide, and the soft laugh still echoing sounds more like a threat than an assurance even as he thrusts his hand forward in a handshake.

“Hi, I’m Robin!

Chapter 3: First Glimpse

PART ONE:

Barbara liked to think herself a practical girl. Her father had raised her that way. He taught her how to hold and shoot a gun as soon as she left her mother’s womb. That honestly probably played a hand in her parents’ recent divorce.

It was still a sore subject for her, and the wounds were still too fresh. Her dad had signed her up for amateur gymnastics classes in order to get her mind off of the matter, but how could she? Barbara felt more like a tote bag than her own dang tote bag, with the amount of out-of-town trips she was making in order to keep in contact with both parents.

She loved them both, and she couldn’t stand when she was away from either of them, but . . . but Gotham was her home. It was her childhood haunt, the place with most of her fondest memories. She had friends, a room, an actual life here, space for her to grow and be herself.

Sure, Gotham wasn’t the safest place. Scratch that, the city was ranked second in the world’s most crime-ridden cities. But it used to be first! Then again, Bludhaven didn’t have its own personal vigilante, so it had only recently gotten bumped up to number one.

Vigilante. She let her lips form the word as she sat on the rooftop in the cool city air. Even the mention of The Batman filled her with a rush of adrenaline. It sounded so dangerous, so freeing; she wondered how it would feel to be a vigilante just like the man he father worked with.

He used to be nothing more than a rumor, a whisper in criminal circles. He’d first appeared four or five years ago. No one had really been able to pinpoint the exact moment he showed up, which made sense considering he was famed for his stealth. His ability to strike from the shadows and leave no mark or trace, only fear instilled in the criminals left in his wake.

But as time went by, his name grew louder and louder, and his work was the only thing holding the Gotham PD afloat, what with all of the corruption her dad was always complaining about. When he’d first started coming home with tales of tied-up bank robbers and neatly packaged bags of detailed evidence, she’d thought it a hoax, a story her father was telling her to get on her good side so she would wash the dishes like he’d asked her to.

But after that first year of his sporadic, or more likely, well-hidden, appearances in fighting crime, he’d taken a particular liking to Barbara’s dad, Jim Gordon. She’d asked her dad why he would only meet with him and no one else, once. He’d informed her that the Bat mentioned somehow knowing he was the most honest officer on the force, that he had a feeling that he wouldn’t try to take the Batman down because they both knew he was needed. She’d asked him what he was like. He’d told her that he wanted her as far away as possible from the maniac as possible. And when she’d asked why, he told her that anyone who could fight Gotham’s darkest shadows and walk out the other end alive was insane enough to try in the first place, much less go back for more.

Then she’d asked her dad if he was also insane and he’d sent her to bed two hours early. She still got a laugh out of that sometimes.

If Barbara was being completely, one-hundred percent totally and unabashedly honest with herself, she might be able to admit that there was the slight possibility that she had a bit of an obsession with The Batman.

But come one! She had good reason to! The number of times he’d saved her dad’s life aside, he was just a man who wanted to save his city, who was strong enough and willing enough and just a tad bit crazy enough to go through with it, all while kicking butt and taking names!

If that wasn’t fan-girl worthy, she didn’t know what was.

She was seven when she first saw The Batman. The man had landed on Barbara’s roof to talk with her father about some crime something or another. Her dad didn’t know that she was still awake, spoke loud enough for her to hear them from where she’d tucked herself just outside her open window.

And that’s when she knew that he was real, that he wasn’t just some children’s story that her father had told her like all other fathers told their children. He wasn’t the bogey man; he was a hero. A vigilante, her father would argue, but Barbara knew the truth.

When she was eight, Barbara realized something that no one else had. That the Batman was a hero, her hero, after he’d saved her father, recently promoted the commissioner, from an assassination attempt. Her dad had only mentioned that it was a close call, not wanting to worry her. But she’d seen how shaken up he was by the whole thing, which could only mean that he wasn’t the one who had been in control of the situation, to save himself, something that she knew had always scared her dad.

Which could only mean that it was the Bat who had saved him. Because the Bat couldn’t be controlled. He was a force of nature like that.

He reminded her of the way Barbara’s dad used to tease her with the nickname “Hurricane Barbara”. She liked it.

When she was twelve, Barbara saw someone that no one else had seen. The Batman’s Robin.

Ironically enough, she felt like she was bird-watching. She’d gone with her mother, once, a few months after the divorce back when her mom was still trying to repair the gap that she’d been responsible for tearing open. She could still remember the feel of the tall grass brushing against her face, and her unpurposeful sneeze, which had sent a bluejay skittering across the open field from where her mother had been eyeing it through the binoculars.

Batman’s Robin was almost like that, she realized. They’d been nothing but a rumor for over two years. Most people in Gotham, and certainly all of the world, didn’t believe in their existence, but Barbara knew better than to think that. She had made the mistake in doubting the Bat, so she could not afford to doubt the Bird. Not with the stories of dark, flitting shadows, flying roundhouse kicks, dark cackles echoing in darker buildings.

Besides, he had a name. It made sense to Barbara that a rumor with a name and criminals left in their wake was as much of a real vigilante as the Bat who had appeared in much the same way, years earlier. It didn’t make sense for the entire criminal underworld to come up with a name as out-there as Robin if there wasn’t some evidence that Robin had given themself their name.

And now, at twelve, Barbara had that evidence. She was tucked into her usual hidey-hole for when she wanted to listen in on her dad and Batman’s conversations, their low voices drifting down to her ears. They were never loud enough for her to hear any sort of details, sadly, but they were loud enough that she could continue to believe that the Bat was real, even though he had already made his (somewhat of a) debut (considering that he had only actually been spotted as a dark shadow a few times) to the rest of the world during the alien invasion that spawned the Justice League.

She always got bored during those conversations. She didn’t ever want to stay long, but if she moved while they were up there, her dad would find out about her eavesdropping and make sure she would never do it again. So even after she got tired of listening to low voices saying a lot of nothing, she had to stay and watch.

So Barbara had looked around at the familiar surroundings when she’d spotted it. A flash of yellow in the otherwise complete blackness of the night.

She blinked in surprise, narrowed her eyes and squinted into the dark nothingness. There was nothing there.

And then she spotted another almost-memory of yellow, shook her head, peered closer, and she got a glimpse of a bright white grin peeking out of the black. A blur of motion.

A Robin.

And they were. . . waving? at her. She blinked again, confusion drawing her features.

There was another blur of black, and suddenly they were gone, even less nothing in their place now that they were gone. Surely she had been imagining things. But it would made sense that Robin would have been with their partner. It was a wonder she hadn’t spotted them in the past two years, if they had been present during those times, too. Although, considering how well hidden Robin was, only intentionally making themself spotted…

Oh crap. Barbara realized that she’d been spotted. Robin would tell Batman, who would tell her dad. If she hadn’t already been outed already, or spotted in the past two years of hiding on the fire escape and listening to private conversations that really she couldn’t even hear that well in the first place.

But then she saw another flash of yellow. Another wave, and Robin was closer, within sight. A black finger pressed up against his– because now she could see that he was a he–mouth in a signal of silence.

And with a start she realized two things.

One, that there was the very real possibility that Robin was as out of place and not-supposed-to-be there as Barbara was, and that created some real solidarity in the terms that neither of them would be blabbing their mouths about tonight.

And two, that Robin was a kid, and definitely younger than her. Which further reinforced the idea that of course the vigilante child wasn’t supposed to be there that night. Because of course Batman would keep a child soldier as secret and as safe and as unknown as possible.

Gosh. He was a kid.

And he was out there on the streets with The Batman. Keeping up, putting as much fear into the hearts of criminals as the full-grown man in the bat costume. And that was . . . more than slightly impressive, she had to admit.

Sort of intimidating, honestly. Because he was, like, nine, her age. And what was she doing? Hiding on a fire escape and hoping her dad wouldn’t catch her eavesdropping.

Although, she considered, Robin was pretty much doing exactly the same thing.

Barbara smiled at him, a cheeky grin. She lifted her finger and mimed closing a zipper on her lips.

His secret was safe with her.

Chapter 4: Wheels

Sometimes Jason wished he was old enough to smoke cigarettes. He would give up almost anything in that moment to feel the comfort of the small fire inches away from burning his fingertips, or the comfortable suffocation and warmth of the chemicalized smoke. He had to admit that they tasted sort of nasty. His dad had let him try one of his cheap six-pence coffin nails when he was eight, right before he left.

It wasn’t a great memory, but it was one of the only ones he had from his deadbeat of a dad: cigarette smoke, dusty boots, and the smell of chewing tobacco. He wasn’t much of anything, except for trouble, but he did keep the coppers off Jason and his mom’s backs, what with her being hooked on the weed at the time and getting in with all types of wrong suppliers.

He was pretty sure she was dead, now. Jason couldn’t think of any other reason why she would have left him in that house for two weeks to fend for himself. Because Mary Catherine Todd loved him, even if his dad hadn’t.

It didn’t change the fact that he wanted to take a puff and act bigger than he was. Bigger, like his dad, tougher. Meaner.

Too bad about the whole him being a ten year old thing. Even though it wasn’t really that he wasn’t old enough to buy a pack of the nasty lung-cancer sticks, not in Gotham, where cash was the only sort of language everyone spoke. It was really just the fact that he didn’t have as much of that language to spend as everyone else, didn’t have any of it, really.

He’d been out on the streets for over a month, by his best guess, and he’d mostly got on by pinching pennies, though not in the way that little old ladies would approve of. His grandma would, though; his dad always spoke about her nimble fingers as a child with a sort of begrudging respect. She left his ma just like Jason’s dad left him.

Ran in the family, Jason supposed.

But lately, Jason’s fingers had been too cold to be nimble and quick, with the weather changing for the worse, and all. It was bad news for him, seeing as he didn’t have any cash to buy food, much less cigarettes or coats or mittens.

So he’d switched from picking pockets to shoplifting from stores, and when that didn’t go his way, he just had to make do with whatever he could get his hands on. Too bad the grunginess of crime alley had made him look like too much of a street rat to use the puppy dog eyes anymore. He was pretty sure all of the cuteness had been exorcised out of him. Gotham had a tendency to do that, especially in the East End.

Puppy dog eyes didn’t usually work on Gothamites anyways, though, so it wasn’t much of a loss, more of a series of mildly successful one-offs that had gotten him on for another day or so.

Jason knocked into someone, hands flicking out and steadying the man, fingers easily sliding into pockets and slipping out disappointingly empty. The man batted Jason’s hands off of him and sent him away with an angry look. His faked smile turned to a scowl as he continued on. It was too late at night for easy pockets, but it didn’t change the fact that Jason’s own pockets were just as empty as that man’s had been.

He wasn’t the best pickpocket, he could admit that to himself. Just a kid off the streets of Gotham. But at least this failed attempt didn’t end up in blows or a half-hearted chase into a nearby alleyway.

Jason kept walking, the glower still present on his face and a glare directed at anyone who looked his way. Just kept going until he could find a place to hunker down for the night. He still hadn’t found anywhere to spend the night at; he would’ve stayed at his old place if that had been an option, but of course as soon as he’d finally left to go find food, he’d come back to find an eviction notice nailed to the door. He’d been too scared of CPS to return for anything more than to raid his house for whatever he could sell.

He heaved a tired sigh and shook his shoulders loose, took a turn down an alley way and kept taking turns until he was well and truly lost in the underbelly of Gotham, close to one of the resting locations he liked to rotate through. Then he turned and saw. . . no effing way.

Jason’s eyes widened as he skidded to an ungraceful stop, his hands still in his pockets to conserve what little warmth he could.

He saw what was possibly the coolest motorbike he had ever laid eyes on. And in Gotham, they rode some pretty strange shit. The rich were weird like that, with their fancy tanks dressed up like they were going out to dinner and their military-grade windows and tires.

Tires. Hm. Jason eyed the wheels of the bike, colored a sleek, dark red with lines of black and green. It was a pretty sweet ride, but, he thought, eyeing the brake check, it wasn’t going anywhere with Jason for him to pawn it off.

The wheels, though. Those were another story.

His place (a temporary one, but still) was nearby, and he recalled walking past a dumpster with a crowbar laying outside of it the other day. He was pretty sure some thug or another had gotten beat up outside his place and had dropped his weapon of choice (a popular one in Gotham).

Jason raced to where he remembered seeing the piece of hooked metal, grabbed it, and then sprinted back in that same direction he’d come from. He didn’t know how long he had until the owner came back.

He slid to his knees in front of the bike, taking a half second to admire the ride and pat its side, and then got to work, jamming one end of the metal into a crevice and starting to lean back.

“What are you doing?”

Jason’s head shot up from where he had knelt over the wheel. He fell backwards on his butt, the crowbar clattering on the ground next to him as he cast his eyes around for a sign of who had spoken.

“Who’s there?” Jason called out, and he hated that his voice came out in a squeak.

A . . . something from around him snickered, and the sound reminded Jason of skidding on gravel. “Ah ah ah,” they tutted, the disproving sound echoing from a dozen different directions. “I asked first. Also, I’ve just caught you trying to steal my bike.”

An unsteady breath shook its way free from Jason’s lungs, but he made himself scramble to his feet and ball his hands into fists anyway. “Nuh-uh,” he argued, and looked for where he’d let the crowbar drop. “Jus’ the tires.”

The person cackled and Jason was reminded vaguely of that one time he had watched a documentary on hyenas with his mother. Well, she had turned it on because it was one of the only channels they could afford back when she was paying the bills and hadn’t felt like taking care of him while she laid on the floor high as a kite. “That so?”

“‘M not ‘fraid ovya,” Jason said instead of sprinting in the other way like he found himself so desperately wanting. What if he died? What if this freaky laughing-type person was going to kill him? Laughter was the Joker’s whole schtick, and Jason wanted nowhere within a thousand miles near that creepy clown.

Without fanfare, a dark shadow detached itself from out of fricking nowhere and– flew– right over Jason’s head, the blackness convoluted in its motion as there was a soundless thud as a figure landed on the other side of the motorcycle. They stood up, their head rising over the motorbike and into Jason’s field of vision like a fricking sunrise, and the darkness was broken up by the crack of a sharp, pearly grin. “Good.” He shifted, a casual movement that broke up the blackness as a snap of red, green, and yellow caught Jason’s notice. His eye was instantly drawn to the circled ‘R’ insignia that the blackness parted from like curtains.

He held back a gasp. Robin.

The Batman’s partner, a dark thing of motion and brightness and stories told by fearful, crying criminals sent to Arkham when they used to be perfectly sane. A myth of sharp kicks and dark cackles that scared the shit out of two-bit thugs alike and Rogues alike.

Nobody ever really believed in the stories. They were all too . . . different. Like maybe it was less embarrassing to get beat up by a Bird than a Bat, becasue the Batman was something concrete ever since he had joined the League. But Robin was a figment of the imagination that anyone could twist however they wanted to save their own hides.

Robin was either seven-foot tall or a small sprite of chaos incarnate, a shadow or a bright burst of people seeing crazy lights from their concussion, a laughing man or a snarling woman. Dark, bright. Short, tall. Mythical, legendary, real in the sense of how they lived in their victim’s minds, but never confirmed into existence like the Batman had been.

Jason wondered just how many criminals were in Arkham because of fearful ramblings about a Bird that most believed to be as hated and loved and wonderful and feared as that owl legend kids were told by their parents.

“Kids aren’t supposed to be,” Robin chirped, continuing on like he wasn’t the person straight out of the Gotham myth his mother had last told Jason as a bedtime story.

And his words smarted. Jason snarled, “‘m no kid, dumbass,” and crossed his arms, his search for the tire iron momentarily forgotten.

He had the distinct impression that Robin was rolling his eyes behind the domino mask he wore. “Yeah, yeah,” he responded flippantly. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

That made Jason do a double take at the small– because he finally, belatedly realized that he hadn’t needed to crane his head up to look at him– figure standing in front of him. He looked closer and he figured out exactly why Robin had taken offense at Jason’s words.

Robin was just as much of a kid as Jason was. “Mierda,” he cursed. “How old’re ya?” he asked with big, disbelieving eyes before he could stop himself.

The vigilante sniffed indignantly. “Older than you.”

“An’ youben doin’ this for how long?”

Robin crossed his arms to match Jason’s pose. “Longer than you’ve been out on the streets–” There was a challenge in his voice.

Jason almost wanted to pout. He thought he looked like a very tough Crime Alley street rat, thank you very much. “Hey!”

“–though I’d bet that’s only been a couple of months. At least you haven’t gotten in with any of the wrong crowds,” he added as an afterthought.

Jason blinked. “How’d ya tell?’ he asked.

A grin that could sharpen metal. “Trade secret. And I did catch you stealing my bike– ahem, sorry, tires just a minute ago.”

Oh yeah, Jason remembered, but couldn’t find it in himself to act any sort of apologetic. “Well, like ya said. I’ben out on the streets. Gotta make cash somehow.”

“Really?” Robin asked, uncrossing his arms. “Not even a sorry?”

Jason shrugged. “Not like I actually stole’m yet.”

“The intent was there.” Jason just shrugged again, and Robin sighed. “Well, I guess it’s not like it was going anywhere either way. No harm no foul, I guess.” He snickered to himself. (“Fowl,” Jason absentmindedly noted him repeating under his breath.) He regained his composure and gave Jason a good, hard look up and down. “Wanna ride?”

“Huh?” He heard him wrong, he had to’ve.

“I said,” he repeated with emphasis, dragging the word out playfully, “do you want a ride? There’s this burger place I’m hungry for, but the old Bat won’t let me go in for myself, that bastard,” he added.

Jason looked at himself, and then looked at Robin, fully aware of the fact that Jason was younger. And of the fact that if Jason had any good sense in trying to stay alive, he shouldn’t be hitching rides with strangers. Much less vigilante-strangers. But then he looked at the bike. He shrugged. He was going to pawn the tires off for something to eat anyway, and, his attempt having failed, this was as good a way as any to get a bite to eat.

“Sure.”

-x-x-x-

He didn’t get to pawn off any tires that day, but when Jason stepped off of Robin’s bike later that night, he was contentedly full and more than a little reluctantly happy to get to talk to someone his own age without having to fight tooth and nail for a dinner roll.

And when Jason curled up to sleep that night, an uncomfortable bulge in his clothes waking him up, he found a small bundle of cash that had somehow made its way into his pockets without him knowing.

He had a feeling he knew exactly how it had gotten there.

It helped last him until the next time Robin visited.

There were a lot of next times.

Chapter 5: I'm not stupid, I promise

PART ONE:

 

Tim didn’t have very many happy memories with his parents. But that was Tim’s fault, for not remembering well enough; because he still had impressions of soft smiles and twinkling eyes and cheerful laughter. And he wouldn’t have those half-memories if they hadn’t happened. It was just the full memories that he struggled with, the ones he had to force himself to consciously recall because they were so far back in his head. Four, five, six years ago.

So there were happy times, just not that many happy memories, if that made sense. Because once upon a time, Tim Drake had been a chubby, well-meaning toddler who needed every spare minute of his parents’ time to be looked after and cared for or else he would get into some kind of trouble. And he’d loved every minute of it. But then once upon a time, Tim Drake grew from chubby toddler to little kid, and he’d been taught how to take care of himself.

And once he learned that, well, there was no need for his parents to be around as much. Why would they, when their job as parents was already done.

Which was fine. It was fine.

Tim was fine. He wasn’t some stupid child who needed his parents to watch his every move lest he stuff another toy train down his throat, because he’d been raised to be mama and daddy’s sweet, obedient little boy. And when he obeyed and was good, his parents would pay him a smile when they got home from another work trip. And that was that.

They did their parenting for the day.

Sometimes Tim thought that he must have used up some quota on family time that he hadn’t known about as a needy child. Maybe if he’d been less greedy with their time, then, he could have spaced out the good times so that he could remember them well enough to store for adulthood.

He still had a few good memories, though, from when his parents had been working overtime hours in their jobs as parents.

Like when he was three, and they took him to the park. He remembered flashes of pigeons and McDonald’s french fries. (He should have been too young to remember, but his nanny liked to show him photographs of those older days, and one of those was of a carefully-posed family of three standing with a family friend from work, a pigeon caught pecking at a red box of fries in the foreground.)

And when he was six his nanny showed him a photo of the three at some gala or another. He barely remembered that one, just smells of sweet, colored water and the clack of shoes and the loud hum of classy voices and a scolding when he’d cried to go to the bathroom.

He wasn’t stupid, it was just getting harder to remember those memories, and not just the impressions of good times that had been left in his mind. He was thankful to his nanny for having the foresight to show him that small stack of eight photos, so that he could remember those glimpses into an older life. But Tim had to admit that he could remember what was part of that memory and what was Tim remembering that memory by looking at old photos. Were they ever memories in the first place, if he was just imagining sensations from a half second in time?

One memory he didn’t think he would ever forget. He knew that he wasn’t just re-imagining scents and tastes of objects and people in a photograph, because he remembered parts of that day that hadn’t been captured in that half second of time a camera could remind him of. (It made him think that maybe he was too young to remember those other memories, after all.)

When he was four, his parents took him to Haly’s Circus, where he took a photograph with a young acrobat and his family, all of them copy-and-pasted smiling at the camera, but each and every smile was genuine. They were just that close of a family that even their smiles were the same.

He remembered vague, flashy movements, a boy standing on his hands, eager hands leading him to meet with the stars of the show. Then, bright lights and loud voices and daring acts. An elephant. A tightrope act. People who flew (and fell). Screams. Silence. He had thought that was a weird way to end the show, at that time, but everything leading up to that part of the act had been exciting enough that Tim didn’t pay it much time when they ended up leaving early. He couldn’t remember why they’d had to leave early, but he thought that he remembered his parents saying something about a bird or some old contract not being fulfilled.

After that, Tim suspected that something changed with the Drakes. His father became stressed, and he would come home wearing a rose-scented perfume instead of the vanilla-scented one his mother liked to wear. His mother also started liking wine more, and her aroma changed from roses to a sparkly, sickly grape scent.

When Tim was eight, he noticed that his father and mother rarely talked without raising their voices, and Tim would hide in his room because whenever he showed up, their voices would be directed at him. (stupid boy, go to your room, why are you still here, their voices would say. . . stupid stupid stupid, though his nanny always called him a bright young lad, so maybe it was just the grapes and the roses talking). So he just stopped showing up when the voices were raised and glass would shatter and furniture was moved.

When Tim was nine, his life changed for the better.

He had tucked himself into bed early that night, his nanny having called in sick. That hadn’t pleased his parents very much, since they’d needed to extend their quota on Tim time, so he’d removed himself from the situation and hidden away in his room all day. He was still hungry from having missed dinner, and only being able to find a box of saltines for lunch. But his parents were having their loud nightly talk in the kitchen, so he couldn’t exactly sneak down there for food yet.

But Tim remembered that his mother liked to keep snacks in her room to go with her wine. She wouldn’t be able to notice the food’s absence. . . she was always too drunk by the time she remembered to eat food and drink water to calm her stomach down. So Tim left the warm, comforting covers of his bed and snuck into the room several doors down the hall from him.

Tim slipped through the door, shut and locked it behind him, trying to be quiet regardless of the fact that his parents couldn’t possibly hear him over the yelling, but one time he had stubbed his toe near his mother and hadn’t tamped down on his tongue quick enough, and she had thrown an empty bottle of headache pills at his head. So it was best to be quiet. Because Tim wasn’t stupid enough to get himself caught.

He looked around the room, headed straight for the bar.

“Kitten, don’t you think you’re a bit young to wine and dine?” A sleek voice curled around his ears and Tim startled, turning around with all the grace of . . . well, something with considerably less grace than Tim was showing.

A tall woman, dressed in a skin-tight black suit, her neck adorned with a string of pearls (he remembered his mother had worn something similar once), short brown curls framing her jaw, the cowl of her suit sporting two black ears on the top of her head, and a small sack dangling from one hand, the other propped on her hip. A smile was on her face but to Tim it seemed strained, maybe forced.

Tim tucked in a gasp at the woman’s appearance. Blinked twice. A yell came from downstairs, followed by the sound of glass breaking, and the woman’s smile fell and was replaced by a look of concern as her eyes flicked to the door.

She attached the small, bulging satchel to her belt, and started to make her way to the window, leaving through the open exit with her face still turned toward Tim.

More screaming, and another bottle of glass– this one sounded full– shattered against a wall in the kitchen. Tim flinched and looked at the door, started to leave before his mother returned to her room and found him and was angry with him.

“Kitten,” the woman began hesitantly, and Tim turned back in surprise to look at the thief who was standing only a few feet away from him now. He’d thought she would have left by then.

Because Tim wasn’t stupid. Something about Tim made people want to leave.

A scream. Just one. Then,

B A N G.

The woman’s eyes widened, her stance settled into something defensive, and Tim turned to race for the door.

His parents. Tim needed to get to his parents.

The doorknob rattled. But he hadn’t heard either of his parents’ footsteps (he was good at telling whose was whose, to know who he had to avoid).

The thief reached Tim before Tim could reach the door.

She clasped a thin-fingered, black clawed glove over Tim’s mouth, scooped him into her arms as then sprinted for the window she had entered through. Tim struggled in her grip, but her size belied her strength, and soon he was falling from the sky down a rope of wire.

Tim stopped struggling. Tears slid down his cheeks.

Because Tim wasn’t stupid.

Just in shock.

Somehow, the woman reached a motorbike as streamlined as her voice was sleek, settled a catatonic Tim in her lap, his face pressed against her neck, as she squeezed the handles and they raced away in a blur of wind and the low hum of an engine.

Tim looked up and over the woman’s shoulder. A man in a black suit stood in the window. Turned and walked away.

Calm. Like he hadn’t just (possibly, probably) murdered Tim’s parents (likely, because they might still be . . . Tim hadn’t actually seen . . . hadn’t seen it happen. . . but Tim wasn’t stupid. (He wasn’t!)).

-x-x-x-

“My name is Selina, kitten. What’s yours?”

A sniffle. “Tim.”

-x-x-x-

Selina was nice, and soft. She brought Tim back to her apartment, tucked him under the covers of a bed far too big for him, brushed a soft hand against his forehead and promised that he would be safe.

He kept catching flashes of something in her face.

He knew that he wasn’t in the plan, but . . .

Tim hoped a little bit that maybe that plan would change.

-x-x-x-

She didn’t kick him out after that first night. Or the next. She cooked him eggs and held his hand and promised that everything would be alright, that Tim didn’t have to worry about anything.

She didn’t kick him out at night when he would wake up in her bed, screaming. She would rush from where she had been sleeping on the couch in the living room and hold his hand and pet his head until his sobbing calmed down.

She didn’t kick him after he asked her one night if she was mad that he had upended her life in the span of three days. (No, kitten, of course not.)

She didn’t kick him out after any of those nights.

-x-x-x-

Selina knew his name, but she always called him kitten.

-x-x-x-

A week later, and Selina was at work when Tim found a newspaper half-hidden under a stack of mail.

The headline said that the Drakes had been murdered, and that Tim had gone missing.

Selina walked in the door to see Tim on the ground with his knees against his chest, the paper on the floor, and tears in his eyes.

“Breathe, kitten, just breathe.”

-x-x-x-

Tim mentioned that he liked looking at pictures. The next day, there was a camera with a bow (the bow had little cats on it and Tim liked that Selina had a shtick and she stuck with it) sitting neatly on his cot in the living room.

There was no note, but Tim knew who it came from.

There was no reason for her to give it to him. It wasn’t Christmas, or his birthday.

It meant more to him than all of the Christmases and birthdays he had ever had.

-x-x-x-

One day, there was no cot in the living room. Tim almost cried, but then Selina led him to the room next to hers and showed him a twin-sized bed with two pillows and a cat-patterned blanket.

He slept safe that night, just like every night he’d had since coming to live with Selina, but his dreams were safe that night, too.

-x-x-x-

A month to the day, Tim woke up in a flash of cold sweat and heavy breath. Selina had been in the kitchen getting a glass of milk. She looked over at him, that same expression of . . . something on her face, and took him by the hand and led him to her bed.

Tim slept safe that night, his head in the crook of her arm as she stroked back his black hair, whispered sweet assurances (you’re safe, Kitten (not kitten), I promise. you’re not going anywhere.).

She didn’t kick him out that night, either.

-x-x-x-

Tim thought that his favorite part about Selina was how often she left. Not for any reason of Tim wanting to be alone or being able to get away with doing bad things, because he was a good kid like that. His parents had raised (told, ordered, he admitted) him to be. It wasn’t even because her leaving every night was as familiar as his parents leaving for weeks on end.

He liked whenever she left because he wasn’t ever worried that she wouldn’t come back.

Her leaving was as familiar and safe and okay as her returning.

And Tim wasn’t stupid. He knew that when she left, she wasn’t doing good things, wasn’t doing good things like how Tim was raised to only do good things and sit quietly and listen and stop. But Tim’s parents left to do good, honest things, and only came home to do bad things.

But Selina? Well, she left to do bad things, but was only ever good to Tim when she came home (home).

-x-x-x-

Some nights, Selina would take him up on the roof to look at the stars and the city and listen to the cars and the people and the gunshots.

And when the gunshots scared him, she would always hold his hand and remind him that he was a cat now, just like her, so they both had nine lives.

Tim decided he wanted to spend every one of those nine lives with Selina.

-x-x-x-

Selina liked it when Tim broke rules. He didn’t understand, because his parents were always angry with him when he wasn’t a good son.

Tim thought he liked breaking rules, too.

Because even though he was angry with them, now, they didn’t have the power to be angry back.

-x-x-x-

Tim liked to take pictures. Selina said that he could leave when he wanted to, but that he had to stay safe (You’re a smart boy, I think you can take care of yourself, can’t you, Kitten? and Tim liked that she thought he was smart, and that she trusted him, that she gave him as much power to leave as he’d never had with his parents when they left and he had to stay.), and that he needed to stay up high because there was a reason cats liked heights, they were safe, and also tell him where he was going so that she wouldn’t worry (worry!).

(Tim no longer wondered every night if she would kick him out for his nightmares, and so his nightmares mostly stopped.)

So Tim would take his little camera and he would wander on the rooftops of different buildings (Selina liked to take him for rooftop-walks at night sometimes) and he would take pictures of things that made him happy. Sometimes (oftentimes) he would see Selina leaping across some building or another (maybe because he would follow her).

He liked taking pictures of people doing things that made them happy, and things that made him happy.

He took a picture of Selina when he saw her on the rooftops in Gotham.

-x-x-x-

Tim asked Selina for something one day. He didn’t like to ask for much. He felt guilty about it. And then he would feel guilty about feeling guilty because this was Selina he was talking about and she cared for him (loved him, hopefully, selfishly).

He asked her to find his small stash of pictures that he had left under his bed at his old house (not home).

That night, he looked at the picture that he knew was the only one he actually remembered (because now that he had sweet, safe memories with Selina, he knew that the memories he had thought were memories were actually just lies created by his brain when he looked at the pictures).

Selina had been telling him that he should try making friends that wasn’t only her (and he almost felt hurt, but then she had somehow known that and told him that she would always be his friend, but it was good to have variety in life and she thought he should have a friend who didn’t have warrants in thirteen different european countries and they had laughed), so he had remembered the boy whose smile matched his family’s and thought that he would make a good friend.

When she’d returned with the pictures he’d asked for, Tim promptly decided to google Haly’s Circus and find out who the boy was. (he was good at finding things. that was important to know when he was always hiding things, himself.)

He did find out.

He also found out that the Flying Graysons had fallen that night, all except a boy named Dick Grayson, and Tim thought that it was sad that the boy with the bright smile wouldn’t have anybody to match his smiles to. That someone who so obviously belonged to the air would never fly again. And that made Tim so, so sad, because Tim had already started to realize that where he belonged was wherever Selina was. And everyone deserved to belong somewhere. Tim was just the boy lucky enough to find where that somewhere was.

But Dick Grayson belonged in the air, but he had lost that. And Tim wished so, so hard that Dick Grayson would find some way to belong there again.

He wondered if Selina could take him in like how she had taken Tim in, because she was good and safe like that. He wondered if DIck could feel like he belonged somewhere else.

But then he found out that Richard “Dick” Grayson had been taken in by Bruce Wayne, and he was glad that Dick had someone he could smile at. Maybe he could belong with him, like how Tim belonged with Selina.

-x-x-x-

One night when Tim was wandering the streets and taking pictures, he met a girl his age with big brown eyes and bigger blond pigtails. She asked him if he wanted to be her friend, because she had had a really bad night, and all of her other friends were asleep. She told him that he didn’t have to be her permanent friend, just one for a little while so that she could talk, because they were never going to see each other again anyways, right?

Even when she was sad, she bounced around like she was happy, flopped down on a stack of steps and stretched out like the stone was a futon, complained loudly and sadly and angrily and dramatically, and Tim decided that he liked her and that she would become his permanent friend, whether she liked it or not.

He asked if he could take a picture because he wanted to remember her. (why? am I forgettable? she asked with a lazy grin. No, Tim said seriously, just your face, he said jokingly.) (Because Tim’s memory was getting better, and he knew what parts of his childhood were actually happy, now (not very many, he was able to admit to himself now). But he didn’t want to risk forgetting about Selina, and now his new friend.)

He used that picture to find her on Selina’s computer. Her name was Stephanie Brown.

He liked to walk around the streets near her house in case she came out. When she did, they would talk, and she never gave him her name, and he never called her a name, but they were friends.

She moved away two months later, but he liked to think they were still friends.

-x-x-x-

Selina started seeing someone. Tim wasn’t sure who, for all of his skills at finding and hiding, which was a testament to the woman’s skill. And maybe the man’s. He wondered if he was Safe for her, like she was for him.

He followed her across the rooftops one night, and saw her with a man in a black suit.

His (mom) Selina was kissing The Batman.

-x-x-x-

Selina gave him his own computer when she found out how he’d been using hers (he liked to learn about people). He saw a special, dangerous gleam in her eyes. She gave him a book about computers and told him that she liked how happy he was when he was learning.

He liked making Selina happy, so he learned, but he knew that he didn’t have to.

-x-x-x-

Selina eventually made him go to school on that computer. His name in class was Timothy Kyle.

He liked his new name.

He wanted to ask Selina if he could make it his. He didn’t.

-x-x-x-

One night, Selina went to a charity gala Bruce Wayne was hosting. She took him with her. Tim looked for Dick, but Selina took him away too early.

He thought it was probably because she left with a new watch (it was most definitely a rich man’s watch), her lipstick artfully smudged and a smirk on her face.

-x-x-x-

Tim had been watching Batman and Robin for weeks, now. He liked how they kept the city safe. He liked how Batman made Selina happy.

But he wanted to know that Batman was Safe for Selina because she was always Safe for Tim, so he kept watching them just to make sure.

He decided that he liked how Robin flew.

He took pictures of both of them.

Chapter 6: Young Justice

Gotham City; July 4th; 12:00 EDT

Gotham was most alive in the dark of the night, her criminals crawling around in the underbelly of the city when the moon was at its peak and the stars were her only lights. It wasn't that it wouldn’t be more efficient for the filth of the city to conduct their business in the broad daylight, in fact, one could say it would be far more effective, seeing as the night is claimed by the bats. But it wasn’t quite conducive to the set timbre of the crime-ridden city; for a rogue to attack a bank in broad daylight was to paint themself too similarly to the petty villains of cities such as Central.

It was offensive, to say the least, demeaning, for most. Not to mention the fact that a criminal was more likely to walk away whole from a fight with the Bat and the Bird in the dark than if they were to attack in broad daylight. The two vigilantes of Gotham seemed to detest performing their duties in the daytime, dealing out harsher, more brutal blows than they would in the silent cover of Gotham’s heavy night, just as much as the rogues detested bringing themselves down to the levels of other petty supervillains.

So the petty criminals of Gotham, also known as more than half of her citizens, pulled their petty crimes during the day, were caught by the corrupt officers of the GCPD, and were back on the streets by the next morning, the cycle beginning anew. And the villainous Rogues of Gotham, her darkest, most vile creations, roamed free in the night until they were yet again brought down by the Bat and the Bird.

Gotham city had a system. It wasn’t a very good one, certainly wasn’t conducive to anyone’s better health in the criminalized city, but it worked. It was theirs.

Which was why Dick was more than a little confused by the fact that Mr. Freeze was attacking Gotham City park in broad daylight, and on today of all days. When he had someplace important to be, so Dick was more than a little impatient. And more than a little out of place.

Working in the light had grown uncomfortable, recently. He felt more exposed. Vulnerable, even if he knew that he was more than capable enough of disappearing in the daylight almost as well as he could in the dark. It was almost sad, how Dick had grown so used to working in the shadows.

He used to be so comfortable in the spotlight. He was a performer. Used to be. Still was, in his heart.

Now, the only performing he was able to do was as Richard Grayson, occasionally as Robin, but Robin didn’t feel like as much of a mask as Richie. Ironically. (He liked that word, liked how it felt when he rolled its foreignness around in his mouth. Tasted like the candy his Mami would sneak him in between acts.)

As Robin, he got to fly. It wasn’t as freeing as the days he spent flipping and flying (and falling) with his parents, but it was close. He liked the way the grapple felt in his hands when he swung dozens of stories above the dirty streets of Gotham. The height. Freedom. (Danger.)

He even appreciated the itching tug on his shoulders when the rope keeping him from falling tore in just the right manner. It was painful, but the pain reminded him that he was alive and flying. It made him think of the rope burns and pressed band-aids and kissed knees of his childhood.

Richard Grayson couldn’t feel or experience any of that, even if Richard Grayson looked more like Dick than any of the other masks he wore. Tan skin and Romani features, gel to tame the roots of his black curls, bright, smiling (his Mami would whisper with a soft hand carding through his hair that they were robin’s egg) blue eyes. Richard Grayson was a Gothamite, but he looked closer to Dick Grayson than Robin did.

(Dick Grayson was all of the best, exciting parts of Robin, and the looks of Richard, and how he would feel playing Richie, eventually. Dick Grayson was Romani lullabies sung by his Mami, flipping around with his old circus friends and teasing Haly, and the dark cackles of Robin, the unfettered feel of flying, the dangerous excitement of falling and being caught by his Tati last-minute, the old nights he would crawl into bed with Bruce when the (snap, thud, blood) nightmares were too loud, too dark, too scary, and his dad would wrap his arm around his sweaty figure and everything would be safe and warm and strong.)

As Robin, he was pale and hidden and taller, stronger, more confident. (Maybe because Richie was hurt for looking like Dick. Being small like him.) As Robin, he could flip and fly and fall and catch himself (that was very important), even if no one saw or heard much of the Boy Wonder. It had taken him forever to work Bruce up into introducing him to his now- League family. Aunts Diana and Dinah. Uncles Clark and Oliver.

(Dick liked how big his family was growing, wanted it to grow bigger, and stronger. Make it feel more like his circus days. When he would feed Zitka, and play with Zana and Raya and Raymond, and jump across the train cars while his extended family slept. He wanted the League to feel like the family of his childhood, and how they were all so tight and caring and close. And the League was so close to feeling like that, he could almost taste it. He just had to work a little harder, and they would feel like that someday.)

Even after the League learnt of Robin, however, and even as he worked on growing his new family (he had to start from scratch, but that was okay (no it wasn’t)), being Robin still didn’t quite have the same exciting tang as performing five stories above ground did. The Rogues and criminals of Gotham had heard of the Bat’s bird, of course, but they couldn’t see Robin, couldn’t see his fun little flips, or hear his fancy little quips. Staying hidden wasn’t as exciting as the danger of being seen. But Bruce said that it was to keep Robin safe, and Dick knew that if he could go back and make sure that Mami and Tati were safe, he would be twice as careful as Bruce was now. So he played along for now.

In fact, they even had a deal going, one that had taken Dick months to strike up with Bruce. When he was fifteen, Robin could step out in the spotlight, where he was born to be, perform in. With all eyes on him, laughing and smiling just as much as Robin did. Originally, Bruce’s idea was for Robin to be seen once he was of legal drinking age (Bruce’s legal drinking age, not the age his Tati promised he would be a man when he could hold his liquor). It had taken Dick more than a long time to haggle that point.

But Dick had to admit that playing Richard Grayson was becoming a bit boring, and was making the hiding of Robin a bit too tight. Too confining. He hadn’t felt the flashing lights on him or heard the excited cheers of the crowd in so, so long, and it was taking a toll on Dick. He was ready to change it up a little bit, for Richard Grayson, mathlete, thirteen-year old high schooler, prim, proper, bullied, Gotham’s Prince’s prized ward, to become Richie Wayne, Gotham’s darling, ditzy and sweet and loved and with eyes on him but always ignored. He and Bruce had cherry-picked the parts of Richard for when he would eventually become Richie. The parts where Richie and Brucie were similar enough to each other but so far away from Robin and Batman that no, of course not, they could never in a million gazillion years be the same people, are you crazy?

He was a bit excited, perhaps smartly so, for what that new role would feel like in his bones when he performed it. Playing people didn’t quite have the same sort of flavor as playing a crowd, but it was close enough that it had the same sort of . . . placebo effect. He just wanted a way to change it up a bit.

At any rate, both he and Bruce were more than ready to knock Freeze’s lights out and send him back to Arkham so they could get on with their day.

“Enjoying family time?” Freeze sneered with a chilling grin barely seen behind the frosted edges of the glass fishbowl he wore as a helmet. He rotated the large gun in his hand toward a panicking family, a blast of frosty air trapping the parents and children in a block of ice. “My family has other plans,” the villain finished with a smart look on his rather dumb-looking face. He stepped off on a ramp of ice, turning his gun toward a horde of fleeing citizens.

A batarang cut through the now-cool air, slicing through the top of Freeze’s gun and throwing his aim off. A blast of cool air cut to the clouds.

“Batman,” Freeze mused half under his breath, but still loud enough for Robin to hear from his hiding place in a nearby building. The Gotham Rogue started making his way in the direction that the projectile came from. Bruce was crouched still in the alley where he’d thrown his batarang from, and intentionally ruffled the edges of his cloak. Freeze’s glare laser-focused on the movement, but Bruce was already gone. Not that Freeze knew that, it was more than half meant as a signal for Robin to perform one of their usual maneuvers. “I was wondering when–”

He stepped into the alley, looking around for the bat he thought he’d seen, but he was met with only empty shadows. And Dick, having already read his mentor’s mind, knew exactly how Batman wanted the rest of the confrontation to play out. As usual.

Robin tucked himself under his black and yellow cape, ducking his head as he raced across the rooftop, an excited cackle escaping his lips. (When Dick was young and Robin was still enough, he couldn’t help but laugh at the freedom and fun that being Robin meant, the laughter, a once-bright thing, transformed into a dark heckling by Gotham’s air. Bruce, seeing how unnerved Gotham’s belly of criminals were by his little bird’s laugh, had only encouraged the behavior.) Robin leapt off of the building, vaulting silently across the alley gap just as Freeze turned to look in the direction that the laugh came from.

“Where–” Freeze started to growl, but he was interrupted by another ring of childish laughter as Robin jumped over his head, flicking his cape out at just the right moment to cast a black shadow over the villain, who (haha) froze and looked up. He saw nothing. Well, almost nothing. He probably saw a flash of yellow and red instead of the quick arc of two exploding birdarangs flying at his helmer and cracking it.

He stumbled back at the force, a surprised grunt escaping him, but then he sneered in response. “The bat’s here to drag me off to Arkham, I suppose. Or did he send a little birdie to do it for him? Frankly,” he hummed, “I’m underwhelmed.” Freeze took another step back to steady himself this time, swinging his cold gun up into both hands to readjust his grip, and then sent a long blast of ice at any and all shadows that scared him too badly. The idiot. Robin wasn’t even in the alley. Really, he thought the semi-genius would have a bit more sense than that.

“Great,” Robin groaned under his breath, “but I’m kind of in a hurry here.” He swore he could hear Batman’s smirk through their comms. Their hiding places were far from where Freeze was aiming, but it was still a bit of a bother and took up precious time.

“What was that, birdie? Too scared to laugh?” He sneered again (his favorite pastime, it seemed), but Robin only rolled his eyes.

“Not talking to you,” he sang quietly to his comms again. Robin used to bug Batman all of the time about letting him taunt the Rogues like Bruce so enjoyed doing (Really, he was such a drama queen. He didn’t know why half of the League still seemed to think he was some sort of emotionless board. Well, he did, but they were just ignorant.), but Bruce insisted that the less the villains knew of Robin, the better. He said that when Robin was older, stronger, he would have more freedom, but that, for now, secrecy was best.

It was more than annoying, having to hide in the shadows as much as he did. It was more Batman’s paranoia than it was Robin’s shtick (although scaring the crap out of criminals was quite fun, he had to admit), but he had to admit that it was an effective tactic. After all, he had survived five years fighting crime on the streets of the most insane city in the world as a literal child. It had certainly protected him from being kidnapped by rogues as Robin to call Batman out, if not as Richard Grayson to threaten Bruce Wayne.

At least he only had two more years to go before the Rogues of Gotham would be able to put a face to the name that terrorized their dreams at night.

It was annoying, but Robin couldn’t deny that it was working so far. He had survived five years fighting crime on the streets of the craziest city in the world as a literal child. It had certainly protected him from being kidnapped by rogues as Robin, if not as Richard Grayson (Seriously, what was the Joker’s obsession with Gotham’s so-called White Prince and Dark Knight, even if they were the same person?). At any rate, he had only two more years to go (fifteen the age that he’s managed to haggle Bruce down to from twenty-one) before the rogues of Gotham would be able to put a face and a voice to the name that already terrified the city’s streets.

Freeze waited for a response, but didn’t seem to expect one, as he just kept the pressure on the trigger of his ice gun. But then it stopped, short-circuited, because Batman’s aim was never wrong, and he growled as he jammed a hand against his weapon.

A larger, darker shadow was cast over him once again, and Freeze looked up just as Batman sent a heavy-handed punch right into Freeze’s face, the glass of his protective helmet shattering.

-x-x-x-

Washington D.C.; July 4th; 14:00 EDT

Robin waited with Batman inside the wings (ha!) of the Hall of Justice for the other heroes and their partners (sidekicks, really, and Robin had only recently begun to feel like he’d graduated to partner in the past year or so) to arrive. Bruce glanced over at Dick, the movement obscured by his cowl, but Dick noticed the slight twitch of the Dark Knight’s cowl. “Today’s the day,” he said a few seconds later, a breath missing in the words. They both watched the video cameras showing Aquaman, Green Arrow, and their partners waiting outside for Barry and Wally, who were late as usual.

Robin nodded, a bit solemnly, excitedly. “It is,” he breathed out in a half sort of gasp. Because today they were in the Hall of Justice, which wasn’t really what today was about, but it was the first step of many to Robin being known, being seen. That’s what Bruce really meant, anyhow.

Because he’d visited the Hall of Justice before, visited back when it and the Watchtower were first built, the Hall a designated tourist trap and zeta beam layover. That wasn’t to say it wasn’t still important, he thought, looking over his shoulder to the large statues of the original League members. It was a symbol. But it wasn’t the real deal.

He’d also already visited the Watchtower (and he didn’t think they would be going there today, either), of course, seeing as he was the one who’d helped Batman set up its internal systems, the same systems as the batcave, really. And he’d been hacking into those since he was nine. But all of his visits to the Watchtower started and ended with Robin hiding inside of Batman’s warm, protective cape (it felt like a hug, sometimes, really, coming from the man who hated, craved physical touch, so sometimes Robin let Batman hide him even when it wasn’t necessary, because he think that was Bruce’s way of hugging him sometimes). He didn’t even think that the other Leaguers knew that he knew about it, much less had visited and helped set it up.

It wasn’t like Batman could tell them that he was Bruce Wayne and that he’d almost single-handedly funded the League’s entire operations, so he and Dick had every right to their actions anyway.

He didn’t even think that the other Leaguers knew that Batman was the “mysterious friend” (they had taken to calling him that, but they should have asked Dick for his opinion because he was much better at naming things, the “Justice League” and “Batarangs” being his favorites) who had organized the formation of the group in the first place. He told Bruce that if he wasn’t there when Hal found out he would be very cross, and his mentor promised to go back for the video if it happened when he wasn’t there.

(He still remembered their old patrols back when the League didn’t know about Robin, and Batman would let him watch videos of the League talking about Batman and Robin behind their backs, and they would laugh/smirk quietly while they waited for some drug deal or another.)

So no, it wasn’t any of those things that Bruce meant by “today’s the deal”. He meant that Robin was one step closer to being seen by the world, to feeling like the performer he was born to be, was taught by his Mami and Tati to be. He just hoped that by then he wouldn’t be too comfortable in the bat’s dark realm to step out into the spotlight again. Hoped that it would still feel like a familiar sleeve.

What was the term? Like riding a bike.

“Welcome to the Hall of Justice,” Dick heard Oliver telling the two teenagers waiting outside.

Aquaman continued the sentiment like they’d rehearsed it. “Headquarters of the Justice League,” he finished, and Robin knew how the rest of the day would go. The Sidekicks obviously weren’t going to find out about the Watchtower today, so neither could Robin, supposedly. He was still excited to explore the Hall of Justice, however, seeing as he’d always found the facility more boring than the old Mount Justice HQ or the Watchtower.

Then Robin heard someone exclaim, “Oh, man!” And Wally skidded to a stop right behind Barry, flickers of electricity fading in the wake and dissolving comfortably into the ground at their feet. Robin wondered how Wally and Barry felt about the electricity that almost killed them, put them in comas, chasing them around whenever they ran. Was it the same way Dick felt about falling? Exciting, dangerous, a savage balancing act of a relationship? Because as much as Dick loved to fly, it was only exciting if there was the danger of falling. “I knew we’d be the last ones here,” Kid Flash finished, crossing his arms with a puff of air.

The sidekicks and their mentors nodded greeting at each other before making their way up the steps, their movements accentuated by the flashes of light from excited photographers. Oh, crud. Robin remembered that it was supposed to be a private tour. That was the deal so that he could come and meet the other League members’ partners, if only they found out about Robin. Because they’d been working with their mentors for long enough by that point. They could be trusted, now.

Robin looked up at Bruce from the corner of his eye, and met the gaze that his mentor had already leveled at him. He sighed loudly as Bruce flicked open his cape with practiced familiarity, a level of care and ease in his movements. (When you worked with a man of as few words as Batman, lived with someone as emotionally stunted as Bruce, you had to learn how to read body language, something Dick had learned early on in their partnership. What was one more language to learn?)

He tucked himself under Bruce’s arm, where he still fit rather comfortably thanks to his short stature and in spite of the extra height his boots gave him. Being short and slight of figure was great and all as an aerialist, was a part of his he was proud of if it helped him perform all the better, but at times like these he was a bit ungrateful for that fact, and the fact that Bruce was a hulk of a man, seeing at it was just another reason for Bruce to keep hiding him. Because he looked smaller and more breakable, still fit under the cape and beside Bruce, even though he didn’t need to anymore.

Two more years, Robin reminded himself from inside the familiar stuffiness of the cloak. He was just lucky that he was as much of a people person as Bruce wasn’t, for all the time he spent tucked under Bruce’s heavy black cape.

He could hear the outside noise that followed the other six heroes as they opened the doors and stepped into the Hall of Justice. Robin still didn’t know how the general public had gotten wind of the importance of today. Or maybe they were just accidental tourists.

“Is that Batman?” And Robin, he added mentally.

“I see Flash and Flash Jr.”

“His name is Speedy. Duh.”

“No, Speedy is Green Arrow’s sidekick.”

“Well, that makes no sense.”

Robin heard the doors shut behind the six heroes, and the sound from outside was abruptly muted, the tour officially private. Six sets of footsteps approached Batman where he stood with Robin still tucked under his wing (haha, wing). He could have left the warmth of the cloak by that point, the suffocation no longer as comfortable as it was when he was ten and still hiding from the League. But Bruce had a penchant for the dramatic, not that he’d ever admit it out loud, and Dick liked to encourage his mentor to have a bit of fun when he wore the cape and cowl. It was the closest he thought Bruce would let himself get to making a joke when he was Batman.

“Bats,” Flash said, and Dick could hear the knowing smile in his voice.

Bruce greeted him with his usual gruffness. “Flash,” he said, his chest vibrating against Dick’s arm through his armor.

“Is this the first time all f- three sidekicks have been at the same place at the same time?” Wally asks, smoothly correcting his almost-mistake.

His choice of words isn’t lost on Speedy, who snarls, “Don’t call us sidekicks. Not after today.”

“Sorry,” Wally replied sheepishly. “First time at the Hall. I’m a little overwhelmed.”

And Dick couldn’t help himself. Bruce was taking too long waiting for the perfect moment, and Robin couldn’t let the opportunity pass him up. “You’re overwhelmed, Freeze was underwhelmed. Why isn’t anybody ever just whelmed?” He asked in Robin’s voice, stepping out from under Bruce’s cloak with a smirk as he detected Bruce’s almost imperceptible sigh. Well, there was such a thing as being too dramatic, although he guessed a full-grown man who ran around at night dressed as a bat wouldn’t know anything about that.

Speedy and Aqualad startled, their reactions closely mirrored, though to a lesser degree, by their mentors. “Sh–” Speedy snapped his mouth shut when Oliver sent him a quick warning look. “Where did you come from?” he amended.

Robin laughed and caught Wally’s eye, who was trying very hard to not laugh and pretend like he didn’t know Robin, wasn’t his best friend. “Dude,” he managed to wheeze out without laughing, “You popped up out of nowhere!”

Wally had known that Robin would be there to meet the other sidekicks, their friendship one that Bruce had decided to arrange (much to Dick’s surprise) upon learning about the Flash’s new partner. They’d first met when Robin was eleven, and Wally fourteen; despite the age gap, they had grown close rather quickly. Well, as close as they could be when Wally didn’t kow about the other half (two-thirds?) of Robin’s life.

Well, at least he knew about the important half. It was more than he could say about Barbara, who was only friends with Richard (and Dick), not Robin.

Kid Flash had been ecstatic to learn that his hero was real, and Robin was more than a little happy to find out about the legacy surrounding Robin’s name, regardless of whether or not he was considered a myth.

“Welcome,” Aqualad said, his voice calm and a small smile on his otherwise carefully neutral face. “I am Aqualad, Kaldur’ahm, but you may call me Kaldur,” he offered, and Robin smiled back with a grateful nod.

“Speedy,” Roy said without further explanation and a suspicious look in his eye. Even though Dick had been meeting his Uncle Ollie’s ward, his friend, at galas for the past two years, not that Roy knew that.

“Kid Flash,” Wally said with an easy grin, and the two shook hands like casual strangers.

“And you are?” Speedy edged out, leaving the vowel hanging.

Dick smirked. “Robin.”

Speedy jerked in surprise, and his right fingers twitched. “Like the Gotham myths?” he asked, his head slightly cocked. Yeah, sure, Robin thought, let’s go with that.

He was about to correct him when Bruce spoke up. “Like the myths,” he agreed, letting the other sidekicks draw their own conclusion and fixing a pointed glare at the Leaguers.

Wait, what? That was supposed to be the entire point of today, for him anyway. To let Robin be seen, be known. Perform. That was the unspoken promise between them.

What was Bruce’s goal? The point of it? Dick, for all of his ability at reading in between Bruce’s poorly drawn lines, had to admit that he wasn’t exactly sure how portraying himself as less experienced than the others would work in his favor.

Although, the more he thought about it, he supposed that it might help others in underestimating him, would work in his favor if his hopefully new friends suddenly turned evil and decided to take it out on Robin. Would help him take them down, one day, if they didn’t think he was skilled enough to do it. (But Batman had a rule: preparation. And an offshoot of that rule was to never be allies with someone you didn’t you could take in a fight.)

That sly fox, Robin thought, a second idea occurring to him, and his eyes narrowed the slightest degree as he shot a glare at Bruce, who responded with the slightest quirk of the corner of his mouth.

Batman was trying to protect his Robin again. By portraying him as the least experienced, the other sidekicks would be more inclined in the future to protect him. Not that it was necessary. He already didn’t have powers and was the youngest. Way to lay it on thick, Bruce.

 

He rolled his eyes. Whatever. It sucked but he would play along. He’d hoped that today would be a loophole in their two-year deal, but he guessed he wasn’t lucky enough for the Bat to let up on that.

At that point, Wally looked to Robin for some sort of explanation. “Bats took me under his wing a little bit ago and decided that Gotam’s scary stories might scare the Rogues away from me,” he said, guessing with a smirk, eyes flitting to Bruce’s face again for confirmation. A small nod, and he relaxed a little. “It’s worked so far, I guess, since no one’s heard of me yet.”

His friend nodded, accepting the cover story for what it was. At least one of the sidekicks knew that Robin knew what he was doing, and was more experienced than plenty of the League. He was beyond grateful for Wally, who was used to the secrecy surrounding Robin and was usually happy enough to just roll with it as long as he knew what he was expected to know.

Sometimes he suspected that the reason why Bruce decided to let them meet was because he knew how claustrophobic his own rules were for Robin. (And not just because he had a secret fondness for the speedster who was ultimately responsible for Bruce joining the League he created in the first place.) He understood all of them, followed most of them. But it could get tiring, playing so many roles and having no one to talk to about it but the man who was the reason for them. Bruce knew that. Let him be friends with Wally so he had someone to talk to about it.

It didn’t mean that Wally could be Dick’s friend, he was only Robin’s friend for now. But Robin could be patient.

After the introductions were made, the heroes entered through a door labeled AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, which slid open to reveal Martian Manhunter and Red Tornado waiting in the room for them. The latter turned to greet them. “Robin, Speedy, Aqualad, Kid Flash,” the robotic voice droned. “Welcome,” he said, and then led them on a short tour through the hall. “You now how unlimited access to the gym, our fully stocked gallery, and of course our library”

Once they reached said library, Flash beamed a bright smile and stretched his arms welcomingly wide, turning in a circle. “Make yourself at home!” Robin and Kid Flash happily took the bean bags while Aqualad perched on a chair. Speedy remained standing.

Then, an automated voice called out the name of various leaguers as the heroes prepared to depart into the league-members only room.

“That’s it?” Speedy scowled angrily, everyone turning to look at him, each with a different expression on their face. “You promised a real look inside, not a glorified backstage pass,” he edged out with his arms crossed testily.

“It’s a first step,” Aquaman replied sternly, his countenance just as calm as Aqualad had never ceased to be since Robin had met him. He briefly wondered if it was something in the water, or if they were related or something.

Speedy scoffed. “Oh really?” he challenged. “What I want is respect.” He turned to Aqualad, looked at Kid Flash and Robin. “They’re treating us like kids,” he shouted, as if Robin wasn’t already profoundly aware of the fact that he was thirteen, “Worse– like sidekicks! We deserve better than this.” Robin exchanged a series of glances with Aqualad and Kid Flash, but none of them spoke up; the lenses on Robin’s mask widened slightly at Speedy’s outburst, at the, well, the childishness of it (coming from the youngest there, he considered himself an expert on the matter).

“You’re kidding, right?” he continued, his voice low and unbelieving. “You’re going to play their game? Why? Today was supposed to be the day, step on in becoming full-fledged members of the League.”

And that gave Robin a brief pause. Not because he wanted to be a member of the League, but because he was so abruptly reminded of how far he had to go before he got there. For Roy, it was different; he was eighteen, was considered the first real sidekick, thought himself ready for the real world (though it could never be worse, more real than Gotham, a reason why Batman was more lenient when it came to Robin being involved in League matters). But Robin? He was thirteen, and a new thirteen at that.

He’d always thought that he would be ready to jump right into League business when he turned eighteen, and he probably should have been. He was honestly probably almost ready now, with how the Bat had trained him. But . . . he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to, anymore.

Sure, it would be cool to fight with the League. But he already considered them part of his extended family, so it didn’t seem as . . . special? As special as he thought it would be when he was nine and wide-eyed and Superman was his favorite hero (still mostly was, except for Batman, because, come on, the guy could fly!), he didn’t quite see it the same way anymore.

To Robin, it just seemed like joining the League would bring with it another set of rules to follow.

And he thought right then and there that before he joined the League, strapped himself down and kept himself flying, he would try to be his own hero first. Not for long; he didn’t think he could be apart from his family, from Bruce and the League, for very long. But he wanted a taste of the freedom Batman had when he’d first started out.

He wanted to take a breather, get his own two feet under him, fly by himself before he joined the League.

So he was patient. He could be patient, because he had so much time. He was only thirteen.

Wally straightened up, shuffling forward in his bean bag. “Well, sure,” he admitted, “but I thought step one was the tour of HQ?”

And then Robin swore that he would have seen a gleam in Roy’s eyes if he hadn’t been wearing that domino mask. It seemed like he’d been waiting for someone to even briefly allude to anything Watchtower-related, because he pounced on what Wally said with a vengeance. “Except,” he said, “the Hall isn’t the League's real HQ,” he retorted smartly, growing angrier by the second. The white eyes on Oliver’s mask widened in surprise, and Aquaman, Wally, and Kaldur all responded in a similar manner. Robin blinked in surprise at the fact that Oliver had told Speedy, who continued, “It’s just a tourist trap and a pit stop for catching zeta-beam teleporter tubes to the real thing, an orbiting satellite called the Watchtower.”

Oliver turned toward Bruce’s unimpressed glare, somehow directed at both Speedy and Green Arrow, and threw his hands up in a weak defense. “I know, I know, but he’s the oldest. I thought we could make an exception.” He wilted a little at Bruce’s continued glare. “. . . or not.”

“You’re not helping your cause here, son,” Aquaman said. “Stand down or–”

“Or what?” Roy demanded, snapping his head in Arthur’s direction. “You’ll send me to my room? And I’m not your son! I’m not even his,” he yelled, throwing an accusing hand in Oliver’s direction, earning him a hurt look from the green archer. “I thought I was his partner, but not anymore.” Then he threw his yellow hat down to the ground and looked at Kid Flash, Aqualad, and Robin. “Guess they were right about you three,” he accused as he walked to the door. “You’re not ready.”

And then he left, Robin and the other two sidekicks staring at his retreating back and the shut door, none of them quite sure what to make of the matter.

Before Robin could come to terms with what had just happened, an alarm sounded from the large computer in the library barely seconds later. Superman’s face flashed onto the screen. “Superman to Justice League. There has been an explosion at Project Cadmus. It’s on fire,” he said.

The adults all stepped to the computer, Batman frowning in thought. “I’ve had my suspicions about Cadmus. This may present the perfect opportunity to in–” He was cut off the sound of another alarm blaring through the Hall, and Zatara’s face popped up on a smaller screen in the corner of the computer.

“Zatara to Justice League. The sorcerer Wotan is using the Amulet of Attan to blot out the Sun. Requesting full League response.”

Batman flicked his eyes over to Clark’s face. “Superman?” he asked.

“It’s only a small fire. Local authorities have it under control,” he reassured.

Bruce nodded. “Then Cadmus can wait.” He pressed a few keys and then directed his next words to the rest of the League. “All Leaguers rendezvous at Zatara’s coordinates. Batman out.”

Robin stepped forward with the other two sidekicks toward their mentors. Batman barely spared them a glance, his eyes alighting on Robin for half a second longer. “Stay put. Wotan is a League mission,” he explained, reading the room.

“Why?” Kid Flash questioned, a frown forming, clearly still upset from Roy leaving and learning that his mentor had lied to him.

“You’re not trained,” Flash said.

“Since when?” Wally cut angrily.

Barry shook his head. “I meant you’re not trained to work with the League,” he explained. Although Robin thought he and the other proteges would be able to work more than well enough with their respective mentors. Anger thrummed in his belly, for being pushed aside by Bruce, who he’d worked with longer than Batman had worked with the League. Heck, Robin had more experience than most of the current League members.

But . . . he also knew that Barry was a little bit right. They were trained to work with their mentors, not the League, and the League wasn’t used to working with both their sidekicks and their other teammates. It would be a clash of priorities.

So maybe they weren’t ready, not yet. But they would be, one they could prove themselves.

“There will be other missions when you’re ready,” Aquaman said calmly.

“But for now,” Batman added, “Stay put.”

The League members left via zeta beam, and the three teenagers remained standing in the middle of the library.

“When we’re ready?” Wally scoffed indignantly after a bit. “How are we ever supposed to be ready when they treat us like. . . like sidekicks?” he questioned angrily, picking up the torch that Roy left behind.

“My mentor, my king, I thought he trusted me,” Kaldur murmured under his breath, his eyes deep and fixed on something in the distance.

“Trust? They didn’t even tell us they’ve got a secret HQ in space!” Wally exclaimed. Robin carefully avoided looking at him.

There was a gap of silence before Aqualad finally spoke up, something like an idea coloring his voice. “What is Project Cadmus?”

Robin hummed under his breath. “Don’t know,” he admitted, but then he let a grin stretch wide over his face. He walked over to the large computer the League had used earlier. “But I bet I can find out.” He flexed his hands and leaned over the keyboard, quickly getting to work, his fingers quickly roaming over the keys as he typed out various codes. Aqualad and Kid Flash walked over to stand at his shoulders.

<

> A robotic voice echoed after a small buzz.

Robin laughed. “Wanna bet?” he challenged, smashing a few more keys before dozens of files started panning across the screen.

 

“Whoa,” Wally gasped. “How are you doing that?”

 

It’s not like he was the one who helped set it up, he thought sarcastically to himself. But Wally didn’t know that. “Same system as the Batcave,” he half-lied, hitting another key.

<

>

He grinned and then read the file. “Alright, Project Cadmus. A genetics lab here in D.C. That’s all it says, but if Batman’s suspicious. . .” He looked over at Wally and Kaldur. “Maybe we should investigate,” he suggested with a shrug. Wotan was too big, too bright for Robin to come out to play. But infiltrating an abandoned genetics lab? That was right up his alley. They could prove themselves. Robin could prove himself. Batman couldn’t be mad about that. Well, he could. But not for long.

Aqualad smiled. “Solve their case before they do. It would be poetic justice,” he reasoned with a rebellious smirk that Robin didn’t know he was able to make.

Robin let a soft cackle escape. “Hey, they’re all about justice,” he grinned.

-x-x-x-

Their infiltration into the cadmus genetics facility didn’t quite go as planned. They’d broken into the facility only to discover an entire cloning operation in the works, dozens of secret levels underground and all of them performing illegal experiments. He’d performed well, proven his skills to Wally and Kaldur, showed them that he was valuable, all while doing what Batman had trained him to do. Not to mention they’d rescued Superboy, and Robin couldn’t bring himself to regret that, despite the disappointed look on his mentor’s face.

Kaldur apparently agreed. “Apologies, my King, but no,” he said, his eyes hardening. “We did good work here tonight, the work you trained us to do. Together on our own we forged something powerful, important.”

“If this is about your treatment at the Hall, the three of you–”

“The four of us, and it’s not,” Wally firmly corrected his uncle.

Robin spoke up, his voice soft but strong as he looked into the eyes of Bruce’s cowl, trying to convey everything in all of two seconds. “Batman, we’re ready to do what you taught us, or why teach us at all?” He stepped closer to his mentor, trying to tell him that he was ready, that he’d been trained by the best, that he was prepared. He didn’t need to be protected anymore, and they’d done good work.

Superboy stepped forward with the rest of them. “Why let them tell us what to do?” he argued, evidently comfortable with his newfound freedom to choose. “It’s simple. Get on board, or get out of the way.”

And those were powerful words.

Because somehow Superboy knew exactly what to say to convince not just Batman, but Bruce, too. Dick noticed the exact moment that Bruce’s shoulders shifted under his cloak, and he knew they were both thinking about that night, five years ago, when an eight-year old boy managed to weasel his way into not just Bruce’s life, but Batman's life, as well.

Bruce looked over at Dick, slightly nodded, just enough that only Dick would see it.

And that was all it took, because Bruce trusted him.

-x-x-x-

Mount Justice; July 8th, 8:04 EDT

Robin stood with the rest of the team in his civvies with the League gathered around them. Well, his Robin civvies, his skin carefully colored pale, black shades hiding his bright blue eyes, dark hair artfully messy, two-inch platform boots and an all-American boy accent armed and ready. He was Robin.

“This cave was the original secret sanctuary of the Justice League,” Batman informed them as Green Lantern and Captain Atom moved equipment around the mountain. “We’re calling it into service again. Since you four are determined to stay together and fight the good fight, you’ll do it on League terms. Red Tornado volunteered to live here and be your supervisor. Black Canary’s in charge of training. I will deploy you on missions.”

“Real missions?” Robin clarified. Just in case.

Bruce nodded. “Yes, but covert,” he confirmed, a silent conversation passing between the two. Just because Robin was on the team, it did not mean that the world needed to know about Robin yet, Bruce was telling him. And Dick could accept that, for now, anyways. It was more than he thought he would be getting out of their two-year deal.

“The League will still handle the obvious stuff. There’s a reason we have these big targets on our chest,” Flash chuckled, gesturing to his bright insignia.

“But Cadmus proves the bad guys are getting smarter. Batman needs a team that can operate on the sly,” Aquaman continued. He always sounded rehearsed, regal. Robin supposed it came with being the king of an entire civilization.

“The five of you will be that team,” Bruce finished.

“Cool! Wait,” Robin frowned, quickly figuring out that the math wasn’t quite adding up. “Five?” he questioned.

Bruce lifted his gaze to something behind them, and the teens turned around to see a young girl with green skin and bright red hair, a shy smile brightening her face. “This is Martian Manhunter’s niece, Miss Martian.”

“Hi,” she greeted, a green blush blooming across her skin.

-x-x-x-

Mount Justice; July 18th, 11:16 EDT

After Roy declined their offer to join the team, Wally, Robin, and Kaldur returned to the cave in hopes of being assigned a mission, but when they were turned down by Red Tornado, everyone decided to take a tour of the cave, Wally flirting with Miss Martian the entire time, and Robin joining in from time to time like it was a game between them.

Dick already knew pretty much most of the floor plan, seeing as he’d had free range of the entire mountain for a year after he was introduced to the League and before the mountain’s location was discovered by villains. Bruce would take him to the Mountain often, sometimes hiding him under his cape where he would accidentally take a nap, and other times letting him run loose around the place, trusting him not to get into too much trouble.

Afterwards, he would usually find Clark, Diana, Oliver, or (later) Dinah to spend time with his “aunts” and “uncles” (he thought Oliver’s confusion regarding why he’d been picked early on by the boy to be Robin’s “uncle” was the funniest inside joke he had with Bruce at the time, seeing as Bruce’s childhood friend had no clue that his pseudo-nephew was running around dressed like a traffic light and calling him uncle).

So he didn’t exactly need the tour, but Kaldur’s suggestion of using it as a team-building exercise was enough to convince him not to wander off.

Shortly after their conversation regarding the mountain’s history, Superboy sniffed the air. “I smell smoke.”

“My cookies!” Miss Martian gasped, flying down the hallway into the kitchen. When they got there, she was floating the pan of burnt pastries out of the oven with a disappointed look on her face. “I was trying Grammy Jones’ recipe from episode 17 of–” she laughed “–nevermind.”

“I bet they would have tasted great,” Robin assured her. “He doesn’t seem to mind,” he added with a pointed look at Wally, who had already stuffed his mouth half full with black cookies, two more in his hands.

His friend laughed weakly, swallowing the cookie he had in his mouth. “I have a serious metabolism,” he explained awkwardly in response to Kaldur and Superboy’s gap-faced looks.

“I’ll . . . make more?” Miss M suggested hesitantly.

“It was sweet of you to make any,” Kaldur assured her.

“Thanks, Aqualad,” Miss Martian blushed happily.

“We’re off duty. Call me Kadldur’ahm; actually, my friends call me Kaldur,” the Atlantean amended with a smile, which Miss M returned gratefully.

Kid Flash spoke up, the cookies in his hands having already disappeared. “I’m Wally,” he said, leaning on the kitchen island. “See? I already trust you with my secret ID, unlike Mr. Dark Glasses over there,” he said with a casual wave, and a hint of . . . irritation? Dick frowned at his friend, his hands posed on his hips as he felt . . . grief . . . wash over him and bury itself in his gut. He knew that his friend wasn’t exactly happy about not knowing his secret identity, but he’d thought it was something he’d accepted. Something that they’d gotten over. Because it was just a thing. Something that just was. It didn’t seem to bother the League that they didn’t know Batman’s identity, so he’d just assumed that Wally had gotten over that little disagreement eons ago. “Batman’s forbidden our Boy Wonder, here, from telling anyone his real name.”

“Mine’s no secret,” Miss M said, “It’s M’gann M’orzz, but you can call me Megan. It’s an Earth name, I’m on Earth now,” she explained with no small amount of excitement, clearly ecstatic to be on the planet.

Superboy slouched slightly at the counter before turning to leave. M’gann turned to him, but he tensed up and then angrily pawed at his head. “Get out of my head!” he yelled at the Martian, leaving her crestfallen. Robin snapped his head over to the situation, looking between the two, more than slightly worried that Superboy may lash out.

“What’s wrong? I don’t understand?” she asked telepathically to everyone, and it hurt. Robin clawed at his head as he realized that he’d forgotten to keep up his mental defenses, hadn’t known that she would try to so casually invade his head like that, something that he’d never had to worry about with Uncle J’onn. He quickly threw up his mental walls, bright music and lights blaring and flashing inside his head as he kicked M’gann out of his brain. He heard a sharp whimper and shot the hurt Martian and angry look, sweat beginning to bead at his forehead and heavy, angry breaths thrashing in his chest.

Kaldur and Wally had responded just as badly to the intrusion, glaring madly at the martian.

“Everyone on Mars communicates telepathically,” she frowned, confusion coloring her features. But not shame.

“M’gann, stop,” Aqualad demanded angrily with another wince, and the Martian looked at them in confusion. “Things are different on Earth. Here, your powers are an extreme invasion of privacy,” he explained, but Robin wasn’t quite sure if she understood, but he saw that she would comply, and as much as he hated to sympathize with her over such a sore matter, he understood. Because others didn’t understand his culture, either. Looked down on it, thought it was wrong just because it was different.

So she likely wouldn’t ever understand, couldn’t conceive the concept of a privacy that likely hadn’t ever existed on mars.

But she would respect it, he saw. And that was good.

Wally tried to brighten the mood, his attempts falling short, and Superboy was still at odds with M’gann when they all took her bioship for a drive around Happy Harbor. But when Mr. Twister attacked, they learned to trust their new teammate, and by the end of the day, M’gann and Superboy no longer seemed to be at each others’ throats.

-x-x-x-

Santa Prisca; July 19th, 00:43 ECT

 

When the five teenagers left for Santa Prisca to deal with Bane, their alliance was unstable and thinly strung together, but when they returned to Mount Justice, they were a team, Aqualad their leader.

And he was a good choice, Robin knew. Initially, he and Wally had both vied to lead the team, but Robin realized halfway through the mission that he was too used to working with Batman, used to working from the shadows. And the team needed someone who could lead, take command, who they could respect.

And they respected Robin, but they couldn’t respect him as leader with him being as young as he was. But Aqualad? He was calm, confident, collected. Assured. Everything that Robin wanted to be but hadn’t quite learned how yet.

One day, Robin wanted to lead, knew he had the potential to. He was made for the spotlight like that, a performer, something he knew in his bones. Not out of any source of ego, although he knew he was susceptible to that flaw, but because his parents had taught him to. But he didn’t know how to lead in a way that wasn’t like Batman yet; he didn’t know how to lead as Robin, whose job was to disappear and distract.

Robin wanted to lead the team like how Batman led the League, but for all of his experience, he wasn’t done growing yet, in more ways than one. Not to mention that the others all thought he only had a few months of experience under his belt, something that annoyed him to no end, especially considering he was already the youngest of the five.

But thinking back on it, Robin knew that Aqualad was the right choice all along. He was calm and ordered, his movements precise. He was used to military tactics, moving with and as a group. Confident.

Robin wasn’t any of those things, not yet. But maybe one day he would be.

-x-x-x-

Gotham City; August 3rd, 21:21 EDT

Dick was mortified when he came to the realization that Amazo and Ivo were at his school. When he and Kid Flash got there, Robin pulled up the schematics on his holo-watch as if he needed them to navigate his way through the building. He didn’t glance at it as much as he needed to, but thankfully Wally was too distracted to notice.

Kid Flash was already in the gym when he arrived, running past the shattered trophy case that he belatedly noticed had once contained a few of his awards. Amazo landed yet another hit on the already heavily beat-up Superboy, and Robin shot a grapple to the ceiling to hide in the rafters while flinging a birdarang toward the android.

He darted about in the shadows of the ceiling, birdarangs passing harmlessly through the android when he accessed Martian Manhunter’s powers, causing him more than a fair share of annoyance. Wally sped around the gym, landing a few hits and working with Superboy to try and take the android down.

The android flung a part of the bleachers at the ceiling where Robin was hiding. He leapt from one rafter to the other quickly, uncarefully, and clung to the metal from where he’d fallen. Then Amazo picked Wally up in a tight hug, crushing him tight against his chest, the hero crying out in pain. Robin could only watch from where he hung, his eyes widened in surprise, as a green arrow flew towards the android, which turned intangible and inadvertently released Kid Flash, who crumpled to the ground in pain.

He looked around for its source, but saw nothing, and then pulled himself up to stand on the rafter once again. Wally stood up and sped away before returning with Superboy to attack in full force, Robin sending waves of birdarangs in the direction of the robot.

Then Ivo yawned from where he lounged on the bleachers, lazily examining his fingernails, hardly paying attention to the battle happening around him. “Yawn,” he stated. “Normally, Amazo would study and mimic your abilities during battle, but what’s the point? You’re both such poor copies of the originals,” he informed Kid Flash and Superboy.

Then the MONQIs started to laugh, which was evidently the final straw for Superboy, a terrifying smile on the normally scowling teen’s face. “So everyone keeps saying,” he replied, anger bleeding into his tone. “That makes me angry!” he shouted, jumping toward ivo and smashing into the bleachers when the man barely avoided the blow. “Want to see me channel that anger?”

The clone’s words drew Dick and Wally’s attention.

“Great,” Wally groaned. “He’s gone ballistic again.”

 

“Maybe not,” Robin smirked, remembering an earlier conversation.

Amazo went to protect its creator, and after that, the three boys made quick work of the android. When Aqualad and Miss Martian arrived, they all tore the android into pieces before it could be reformed.

“Superboy, are you alright?” M’gann asked.

The clone smiled. “Fine,” he replied, and turned to Robin. “Feeling the aster,” he said. Robin smiled.

“Hey,” Wally spoke up, waving his hand in the direction of the smashed bleachers. “Where’s Ivo?”

-x-x-x-

Gotham City, August 5th, 19:32 EDT

Robin was very, very high up, dozens of stories above ground, to be accurate. It really should have terrified him, knowing what had happened for him to be born again as Robin, but he could never bring himself to hate the flying or the falling. It reminded him too much of them, and brought back memories that he knew he would forget otherwise.

He looked down from where he stood on the edge of WE, where a group of three met several years ago on a very different day. The distance between his feet and the ground was staggering, breathtakingly dizzying. He could feel the excited pounding of adrenaline being pumped through his body, the rush of cool air and the plummeting height.

He stepped off, beginning a free fall that smelled, tasted like the days he spent flying with his parents, and a laugh burst from his lips even as the wind tore at his face and his body, pushed against him and closed around him. He turned, kept turning, throwing himself into a series of flips that would have flummoxed anyone else, but he uprighted himself easily about halfway through the dive.

He pulled the grapple from the side of his utility belt, its weight comfortable in his hand, and shot out a thick wire to another tall building, his descent slowing but not stopped. The tension built until just the right moment, and the falling stopped as he pressed a button and began to swing in a wide arc, up, up, up.

And then he let go, and the wire snapped (back into the grapple), but he was flying. He turned in the air, once, twice, three times, four, not just doing, but performing the trick that his family was most famous for. Because every movement, every turn, every breath was perfect and fluid and comfortable. Like a sleeve. He remembered, Dick remembered. He could feel the ghosts of his parents’ bodies flying beside him like they were about to catch his outstretched hands, could hear their laughter, see their smiles, forget their pain. He saw, felt nothing around him but air and his family flying together once again.

And Dick felt like a Flying Grayson all over again.

He could see the flashing lights of the circus all over again.

Could almost hear the whimsical music of his childhood, almost see the red and white strips of the big top, almost feel his father’s rough callouses as he caught him from falling and swung him back up into the air to fly again.

Laughter fell from his lips as he reached upward on the fourth flip, the momentum lost, and shot out another line. He only wished someone had seen it, would be able to honor his family’s legacy by remembering who they were. Even as he remembered them by being Robin.

Minutes later, Robin was perched on yet another, less tall building, but this time he was waiting for Batman to meet him so they could start patrol together. Robin had left from a late training session with Canary at Mount Justice a few hours ago, so he and Bruce hadn’t been able to ride together in the Batmobile as they normally did.

When that happened, they would usually patrol on their own for a bit, Batman taking the darker parts of Gotham while Robin kept watch over the safer streets (although, for Gotham that wasn’t saying much). Robin knew that Bruce knew that whenever they split up like that, he always took it as a chance to fly while on patrol. He thought that there was a reason behind the increasing frequency of those split patrols other than the fact that Black Canary seemed to have a propensity for scheduling only Robin’s individual sparring sessions so late at night. With just enough time before patrol for a little bit of flying in Gotham.

And he was grateful.

He’d already stopped a handful of muggers and aggravated assaults that night, but thankfully hadn’t seen any Rogues yet. He and Batman had decided on this building as a meeting place for its closeness to the venom deal they suspected would be going on later that night. He’d decided to turn up early to keep an eye on the streets nearby, and his side of Gotham was relatively quiet that night anyways.

A shriek pierced the thick Gotham air. Robin sat up straight, a furrow forming in his brow as he turned in the direction it came from, immediately standing to his feet and racing in that direction. If he was fast enough, he just might get there in time; it didn’t sound too far away.

He sprinted faster, vaulted over the wide gap of an alleyway, rolling to ease his fall as he popped back upright and continued his run. Almost there.

He slid to a quiet stop and looked over the edge, into the dark alley he’d heard the scream come from. Two dark forms were unconscious on the ground a ways away, a third huddled close to the wall and shaking in fear, a fourth blindly waving around a large knife as his head jerked every which way. Looking for something. There! A fifth figure, smaller, greener, (blonder, he noticed, as her head peaked around the dumpster she was hiding behind), what looked like a bow clutched in her hands as she stepped out from her hiding place and pinned the man’s clothes to the wall.

Archer, and a good one, at that. The man struggled from where he’d been shot to the wall, his eyes comically wide until he noticed that he’d been bested by a teenaged girl. Because that’s what she was. A teenager, no older than sixteen.

She stepped closer to the woman, ignoring the angry, embarrassed shouts of the third criminal, and began to whisper soft, comforting words to the victim, helping her fix her clothes and gather her courage. Calm, skilled, compassionate.

Hm. Robin remained where he was, hidden comfortably by the dark of night, and continued to watch the exchange. Checked his watch. He had time to kill before Batman expected him.

He followed the archer on what was evidently a patrol route, watched her take down four more criminals and an attempted robbery of an ATM. When it was closer to time for him to meet Batman, he got close enough to leave a tracker on her quiver before leaving.

When he arrived, still early, he might add, Bruce was already waiting for him. He nodded to acknowledge Robin’s presence, and they settled down to wait. The deal likely wouldn’t happen for another thirty minutes, at least. They had time.

He settled down beside Bruce, pulled the Batman’s large cape around his shoulder as he swung his legs off the edge of the building. Bruce’s warmth was comforting in the chill Gotham air, which didn’t normally bother him while he was moving, but the sweat he’d worked up in getting back on time would soon leave him cold. The cape felt like old times, Bruce’s presence next to him a soothing constant.

“Saw someone tonight,” Robin began in a low whisper. Bruce turned his head toward his ward, a question twitching at his lips. “Vigilante, by the looks of it,” he hummed, and that gained Bruce’s attention, not that he hadn’t already had it.

Bruce shifted half an inch closer to Robin. “That’s where you were,” he stated, evidently remembering that Robin always liked to show up earlier than him.

He nodded. “Yep. Archer, and a bit of martial arts, by the looks of it. Trained, but not to be a vigilante,” he added with a sideways look to Bruce, who frowned, knowing exactly what Robin was talking about.

“Skilled, but not inexperienced,” Bruce commented, his eyes turning back to the alley they were supposed to be watching. Robin nodded his head again. “Tracker?”

Robin grinned up at him. “What do you take me for, an amateur?” Bruce smirked in response. “Wanna go check up on her later tonight?” he asked teasingly, knowing that there was no way that Batman wasn’t going to check out the new vigilante that was evidently making herself at home in his own city.

Bruce nodded, and Robin leaned back into the warmth of the cape, their eyes trained on the scene before them as two trucks pulled up next to the building they were watching, one after the other.

“Let’s go.”

-x-x-x-

Mount Justice; August 8th; 4:52 EDT

Robin returned to the cave with the others after their day at the beach, where they were briefly informed by Batman that someone would be coming to the mountain to meet them. Robin smirked knowingly, then went to his room to change out of civvies and into his uniform.

When Robin arrived in the hangar, he overheard Miss Martian wondering who they would be meeting. He walks up to the gathered group, standing between Miss Martian and Aqualad as they waited for the new arrival.

Soon enough, Green Arrow and his new protege zeta-beamed into the hanger, everyone turning to look at them as they heard the automated voice call out the two designations. The two walked over to the rest of the group

Oliver smiles. “Everyone, meet Artemis. Artemis, everyone,” he greeted, waving his hand to introduce the two parties. The female archer nodded in greeting, opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted.

RECOGNIZE: KID FLASH; B03

And then Wally appeared, dressed in swim shorts and holding a plethora of beach-related necessities, and called out, “The Wall-man is here!” Clearly, he hadn’t gotten the memo about showing up in uniform. “Let’s get this party star–” He continued, but then managed to trip on the end of the umbrella he was carrying, tipping over and thudding soundly on the floor, the beach ball escaping and bouncing past the group of gathered heroes. He looked up, eyes alighting on the newest blond archer, and then lamely finished, “–ted. . .”

Artemis smirked. “Wall-man, huh?” she asked teasingly as Kaldur turned to look at where Wally was still lying on the floor. Robin stood with his hand on his hip and a smirk on his face, happily taking in his best friend’s embarrassment. “I love the uniform,” she said sarcastically. “What, exactly, are your powers?”

He ignored her question, stood up instead to step beside Robin. “Uh, who’s this?” He turned to Kaldur, gesturing in her direction.

“Artemis, your new teammate,” the archer in question answered for him.

He looked at her and without pause replied, “Kid Flash. Never heard of you.”

Green Arrow took mercy on the situation and stepped forward, clapping a reassuring arm on her shoulder. “Um, she’s my new protege.”

Which was the wrong thing to say. Wally’s eyes narrowed and he immediately retorted accusingly, “Wait, what happened to you old one?”

Just then, the automated voice called out Speedy’s arrival.

The now-red clothed archer stepped out of the zeta tube with a scowl as he looked at the newest green archer. “Well, for starters,” he said, “he doesn’t go by Speedy anymore. Call me Red Arrow.”

Oliver stepped forward, clearly glad to see his former ward despite the bad terms on which they parted. “Roy, you look–”

 

“Replaceable,” Roy finished for him, glowering at the other two archers. Although, Robin thought, what could he expect? He was the one who quit, and Artemis needed Green Arrow, needed someone to train her just as Roy had needed someone.

Green Arrow sighed. “It’s not like that,” he said, “You told me you were going solo.”

“So why waste time finding a sub? Can she even use that bow?”

Artemis’s eyes widened angrily, and she stepped forward until she was right in Roy’s face. “Yes, she can,” she retorted, though not angrily.

Wally threw his hands out in exasperation. “Who are you?”

“I’m his niece,” she responded at the same time that Oliver said, “She’s my niece.”

Robin almost chuckled, but only gave a lopsided smile. “Another niece?” he asked Oliver, remembering the night previous. After trailing her that first night, Batman had contacted Green Arrow the day after to ask him to reach out to her. The next day, Batman had approached Green Arrow about his new protege joining the team while Oliver and Artemis were in their civvies. (Who’s this? My niece, Oliver had improvised.) Of course, Artemis didn’t know any of this, didn’t know that Robin had been watching the entire exchange. He was mostly taking the opportunity to toy with his Uncle Ollie.

“But she is not your replacement,” Kaldur placated Roy. “We have always wanted you on the Team, and we have no quota on archers.”

Wally spoke up cheerfully, “And if we did, you know who we’d pick.”

Artemis stepped forward again, rolling her arms and crossing her arms. “Whatever, Baywatch. I’m here to stay.”

Roy turned to walk away but was stopped by Kaldur, who said, “You came to us for a reason.”

“Yeah, a reason named Dr. Serling Roquette.”

Robin paused, recognizing the name, his eyes lighting up as he brought up his holowatch to press a few keys. Immediately, dozens of digital files were projected in the air around the center circles, panning around the group as they all took in the information he had pulled up. “Nanorobotics genius and claytronics expert at Royal University in Star City– vanished two weeks ago,” he informed the rest of the room.

Roy corrected, “Abducted two weeks ago by the League of Assassins.”

Robin perked up, anticipation building in his limbs. A smile breached his face. “Whoa. You want us to rescue her from the Shadows?” he asked excitedly.

Wally grinned at his friend. “Hard-core,” he commented, fist-bumping Robin in their usual handshake.

“I already rescued her,” Roy replied, bursting Robin’s bubble. “Only one problem,” he said, walking to the holo-screens. “The Shadows had already coerced her into making a weapon. Doc calls it the Fog, comprised of millions of microscopic robots, nanotech infiltrators, capable of disintegrating anything in their path– concrete, steel, flesh, bone– but its true purpose isn’t destruction, it’s theft. The infiltrators eat and store raw data from any computer system and deliver the stolen data to the Shadows.”

With that new information, Robin tensed up, thinking about just how wrongly that sort of technology could be used in the wrong hands. And those hands couldn’t be more wrong or more bloody than the Shadows.

“Providing them access to weapons, strategic defense, cutting edge science and tech,” Roy finished.

“Perfect for extortion, manipulation, and power broking,” Artemis added, ignoring the annoyed look Wally was sending her way. “Yeah,” she said with an eye roll, “Sounds like the Shadows.”

Robin’s eyes shot over to Artemis’s face with that last comment, which wasn’t particularly discreet. He hadn’t had a chance to look into his new teammate's past yet, being busy in Gotham with Batman due to shipments of venom hitting the streets. He might have to change that. Bruce’s rule of preparation was ringing around in his head louder than ever.

A scoff tore past Wally’s throat. “Like you know anything about the Shadows,” he retorted with a superior smirk, which promptly fell when he looked over at the knowing look on her face. “Who are you?” He shouted with a crestfallen and exasperated expression on his face.

Which was exactly what Robin was going to find out.

Chapter 7: Robin Midflight

The eraser tip of the pencil Tim was using found itself into his mouth and between his teeth. Tim furrowed his brow as he peered at the computer screen in front of him, his head uncomfortably positioned in the crook of his elbow, the other hand steadying the tip of the pencil while he gnawed thoughtfully. Rain pelted heavily against the long stretch of windows in the room; it was still dark outside, and Tim had only a low overhead light to save his eyesight.

Selina liked it when he broke rules, encouraged it, really. It was something he was unaccustomed to doing when he was with the Drakes, and she seemed to enjoy putting as much distance between Tim’s misconstrued memory of their now-admittedly poor parenting methods and Tim as possible. She delighted in it.

Whenever she found out some odd tidbit or another about Tim’s childhood that Tim had thought normal but now screamed neglect to him, she would go out of her way to bring him on some sort of adventure or another to do the exact opposite.

Sit still and be quiet? Selina brought him to the tenth break-up anniversary of some old rock boy band or another, and told him that if he didn’t scream at the top of his lungs at least once that night then she would bring him to more until he did.

Clean up after himself? Selina caught him nervously sweeping up the pieces of a mug that he had dropped and had promptly taken another out of the cabinet and dropped it on the floor right next to it so that she could help.

Don’t talk unless spoken to? Selina endlessly peppered him with questions about how his day had been, what did he enjoy most about it, what was he annoyed over (right now, you. (she laughed)) until Tim was finally forced to realize that the only way to get rid of her needling was to volunteer the information himself.

Do as he was told? The first time that Selina caught him sneaking out at night, she scolded him for not doing it right, then taught him how to oil the windowsill and get up the fire escape silently. Her only rule was not to do anything that she wouldn’t do, which wasn’t setting much of a standard, honestly. And he loved her for it.

Now, Tim snuck out every night to take pictures. He captured the first and last light of day, snapped shots of squirrels in moonlit parks, took candids of strangers he found interesting on the streets, caught intimate moments between friends and the platonic admiration of lovers.

At first, Selina had respected his privacy when it came to Tim’s photography. Then, once, Tim had caught her absentmindedly fingering through a stack of prints he’d left out earlier that night with a fondness on her face that he was now desperately familiar with. More photos found their way onto the counter after that, until she worked up the courage (and that was a funny thought, wasn’t it, for Selina to be scared?) to ask him to show her the pictures himself.

Because she was interested. In him. Tim. In a way that the Drakes had never been. She wanted to be involved and gosh was it a breath of fresh air.

So, at the moment, he was breaking the rules for her. To repay her for everything that she had done for him in the past six months.

After all, why would she get him a book on hacking if she didn’t want him to use it? So here Tim was, practicing his newfound computer skills by trying to remotely access the public library’s cameras. It wasn’t that difficult of a task, but it was slow-going, because for as quickly as Tim had taken to this new skill like a duck to water, it was still just that. New.

And he was a bit stumped at the moment. Hence, the pencil chewing. Selina told him it was an abysmal habit.

He made it a point to do it whenever she crossed through the living room. (She always smiled.)

Of course, Tim wouldn’t be chewing at his pencil in the first place if he hadn’t known that Selina’s motorbike had just pulled into the garage below, courtesy of Tim secretly gaining access to the security cameras located strategically around Selina’s opulent apartment.

Before she left, Selina had spent the week telling Tim little tidbits about her plans to . . . liberate a certain feline-themed pendant. Tim always thought it was funny the way that Selina described each of her latest or planned escapades. Liberate, free, confiscate. Never steal. It wasn’t that Tim didn’t know what Selina went out to do at night, and it definitely wasn’t that Selina didn’t know that Tim knew about her chosen occupation.

It was more like it was a game between them, one of many that she played. It was just part of what made Selina, Selina, and he wouldn’t change it for the world.

So Selina left a few nights a week to escort captured cat artifacts to safety, and Tim stayed at home and didn’t attempt to hack into various government networks for fun. And then when Selina came home, she talked about everything she did in ambiguous terms of liberation and generosity, and Tim talked about electronic freedom and teenage rebellion.

And if the other smiled when certain facts were skipped over. . . well, that only added to their game. Plausible deniability, as it were.

Besides, Selina liked it when he lied about little things, or got away with things his parents would have never approved of. As long as he was safe, and as long as he wasn’t taking unnecessary risks, she never punished or scolded him. Chided, sometimes, but she wasn’t a Drake. She was a Kyle. (Tim wanted to be a Kyle.)

At any rate, that night Selina was supposed to be charitably testing the security of some snobby millionaire’s museum in order to make sure that it was up to snuff in keeping a cat’s-eye pendant safe before it was moved out sometime in the next few day. If it wasn’t, then of course Selina would have to bring it to a better, safer home. She was nice like that. She did it for Tim, didn’t she?

Tim glanced at the clock as he heard the jingle of keys in the doorknob. He frowned a little. It was only half past eleven. She was home earlier than she had planned to be. He looked up as the door creaked open and Selina stepped quickly inside, discarding her heavy fur overcoat and pinning it up on the coat rack.

She was soaking wet, her catsuit beaded with raindrops and her brown waves now damp ropes of half-curls. She wore an expression of annoyance and, as she moved closer to Tim, pressing a thin, fake smile onto her face, he noticed she walked with a slight light.

“What happened?”

Her gaze snagged on Tim’s face, probably cataloging his worry, and she shook her head in reassurance. “Don’t worry, Kitten. Just a sprain. Damn museum rooftop was a tad slippery.” She set her keys and gloves down on the counter and smoothed a damp hand over Tim’s hair.

He leaned into the touch. “Are you sure? I can fish out the first-aid kit,” he offered, craning his head to look at her as she continued to her bedroom.

She paused long enough to give him a slightly more real, slightly more tired, smile. “No need,” Selina promised, “It’s just a minor one. I’ll be better in a few days; I’m just a bit annoyed about a job gone wrong.” A bit of her annoyance leaked out, and she pursed her lips, offered another half-smile, and softly shut the door behind her.

Tim heard the groan she’d been suppressing in his presence escape her lips just as the door closed. Selina hated it when she wasn’t able to finish a job, unless it was the Batman who kept her from it. Then, she treated it like it was a game, and she’d only lost another round, which she admittedly didn’t do very frequently. She’d only really lost a small handful of times, and always escaped captivity a few minutes later when she did.

But to not be able to finish a job because of a sprained ankle? Selina was pissed, no doubt about it.

But there wasn’t anything Tim could do about it other than maybe make her a small breakfast the next morning. He doubted she was feeling very hungry at the moment. Tim turned his attention back to his computer screen, where his program had just finished and he’d gained access to the cameras.

And just like that, he was bored all over again. Tim started to close the laptop when he paused.

Tim couldn’t do anything about the cat-eye necklace, but maybe someone else could.

-x-x-x-

The next morning, Selina woke up slightly less tired but slightly more grumpy. He attributed it to her uneven walk and the fact that her ankle looked suspiciously more swollen than she had claimed it was injured.

“That is definitely not just a small sprain,” TIm said with a pointed look as he passed her a glass of orange juice.

She looked at him with a hint of exasperation. He poured another glass of juice and sipped at it. “I might have . . . misjudged how bad it was last night,” she admitted. “But I’ll still be perfectly fine before that pendant ships out later this week.”

Tim rolled his eyes at that. “No cat pun? Go lie down and rest. That ankle needs more than a few days, and you’ve got time.”

Selina narrowed her eyes at Tim from where she’d propped herself up against the counter. “I’ve got time? How do you figure that, Kitten?” A soft smile taunted him.

“Go prop up your ankle,” Tim said, ignoring her question. She only smiled and moved to the couch, fixing a pillow under her foot and leaning back with all of the grace and affectation of her namesake.

She reached for the glass of orange Tim had carried for her, taking a small sip. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

Tim huffed. “I’ve kept an eye out for that pendant for you the past couple days. Turns out, it’s being moved to a safer, less slippery warehouse for a week or two before it’s being shipped out. You’ll have plenty of time to rest before they even think about sending it away,” he said, keeping the smugness out of her voice.

Selina hummed. “Well, small things to be grateful for, I suppose.” She shifted into a more comfortable position, apparently satisfied by Tim’s explanation. “Be a dear and fetch me a blanket, Kitten?”

Tim nodded and turned away with a smile. “Sure, Selina.”

Selina was the proud owner of one cat’s-eye pendant four days later.

-x-x-x-

Selina had never expressly told Tim that she wanted to keep Tim out of that part of her life, but he could sort of just . . . tell. It was in the way she skirted around saying outright that she was a thief, because Selina didn’t steal, she liberated. And in the way she tried to avoid meeting with Tim when she was in her business attire, the way she would send him out of the house if she was meeting with one of her . . . contacts.

Tim knew by now that it wasn’t that Selina didn’t want him in her life, it was that she didn’t want him in that life. For all of her encouragement to Tim to break the rules, she didn’t want him to break the same rules she did.

Because it was dangerous. It wasn’t Safe.

So Tim didn’t break the same rules she did. He just broke the rules that she had never stated out loud, in a different way than Selina would.

He started small. He would listen in on her meetings, keep track of which jobs she would be doing, and he would just . . . watch from his room at home. He would watch through museum cameras and backdoors in security systems, tell the network to tell the guards that their shifts had been changed last minute, fix a camera so that it would be on the fritz for the night, cause a pressure plate to be scheduled for a repair that would come a day too late.

Not enough to take away any of Selina’s fun, not enough to keep her from her Cat-and-Bat chases across Gotham rooftops. But enough to keep her Safe.

It was a fun way to spend more time with her, anyway. And Tim couldn’t deny that he liked dropping sly innuendos about his involvement in casual conversation, little hints or questions that she never once suspected.

It came to a head a few weeks after Selina sprained her ankle.

Tim was at home, on his computer, and Selina was in a bank’s security vault, preparing to pick the lock to a safe that contained some cat-themed something or another. Honestly, Tim gave up a long time ago on keeping track of whichever feline something or another Selina had her eyes on for the week. He was surprised people still kept that sort of stuff in Gotham, with how notorious Selina was for making it disappear only a few days later. One would think these people would learn. Although, Tim supposed, if they were in Gotham and hadn’t had the bright idea to leave yet, he doubted they were smart enough to think that in the first place.

Tim took a sip of cold milk as he leaned closer to the computer to watch Selina from the security cameras. Really, he was extremely glad he’d found a way to occupy his time other than photography, and he was happy to share this part of Selina’s life with her, even if she didn’t actually know she was sharing with him.

She crouched lower to the ground, pulling out her small lockpicking case, which was usually more than sufficient enough to break into any lock or safe. She started fiddling with it, taking her time (Tim had conveniently rescheduled the guard routes so that she would have an extra five minutes) in picking the lock. Tim saw the corner of her mouth pinch in what he knew was frustration.

Confused, because Selina never took this long to pick a lock, Tim pulled up the schematics for the vault. The vault hadn’t changed, but upon further inspection, Tim noticed that the lock on the safe had recently been replaced with a Gordanio 24.3.8. Which was an electric lock that the alarm system had direct access to.

Selina’s kit wouldn’t be enough if she didn’t want to trigger the alarms. And that she would take that worse than if she gave up and returned another day, but it also wasn't in Catwoman to give up on a lock. Even if one of the guards was scheduled to pass within eyesight in the next eight minutes.

Tim was going to be in so much trouble.

But he couldn’t let Selina get caught!

 

He accessed the vault’s system in less than a minute, and then used that access to piggyback onto the electronic lock’s network via the backdoor in the alarm system’s framework, which took another three minutes. Tim’s fingers flew across the keyboard as he typed in code after code to get back each layer of security on the safe, something that was exponentially more difficult for him to do remotely than if he were there with Selina. Not to mention that, all the while, he had to multitask disconnecting the alarm system from the lock itself because Selina was still attacking it with the various tools of her tool kit. It would be so much easier if Selina knew that she was accidentally working against him.

A ping. And Tim breathed a sigh of relief, and he flicked his eyes back to the security to see Selina step away in what looked like surprise. But she wasted no time, taking what she came for before making her way back to her exit point.

She stopped, looked straight at one of the security cameras, and said in a low voice:

“We’re having a very serious talk when I get home, Kitten.”

Shoot.

Tim was so dead.

-x-x-x-

Selina took it surprisingly well.

But then again, she always liked it when Tim broke the rules.

Unfortunately, she gave him a few rules she said he wasn’t actually allowed to break, for once.

-x-x-x-

Two weeks later, rumors began to spread that Catwoman had picked up a little Stray.

-x-x-x-

Selina didn’t want Tim to meet Batman, and made sure to keep him far away from any of their rooftop cat–and-mouse (Cat-and-Bat?) chases. She also, unfortunately, wouldn’t let him play any games with Batman’s Robin, either.

He felt a little bit left out.

Tim mostly helped from his computer, hiding in a nearby alley where her bike was sometimes parked, or tucked away in a building a block over. But sometimes, on nights she knew the Bat was too distracted by Gotham’s worst, she would let Tim tag along inside, and teach him little tricks.

But the Cat kept the Bat and his Bird far away from her Stray, which was sort of a let-down for Tim, seeing as he was one of their biggest fans.

It was a weird position to be in, seeing as Tim was pretty sure he was technically a nine-year old criminal and yet he still idolized Gotham’s two vigilantes. But Selina also loved Batman, so Tim was fairly confident he was allowed to want to be friends with Robin.

He was also ninety percent sure she knew who was under the Bat’s cowl. Not that she would ever tell Tim.

He also sort of wanted to figure it out for himself.

So until Selina decided that Tim was good enough to meet and keep up with Robin (and maybe be his friend), Tim would keep doing what Tim could do best. Finding.

Unfortunately for Tim, Robin had recently cut down on his patrol time for the past month; instead of every night, he was only going out a few nights a week, and even that was sometimes irregularly broken up. Tim had taken to keeping track of the Bat and his Bird’s movements a long time ago, ever since he’d realized that Batman and Catwoman were not just a one-time fling. He usually knew which parts of Gotham they patrolled at which parts of the night during which parts of the week. But Robin had made their routes somewhat . . . difficult to predict as of late.

Tracking him down with his camera was proving to be harder than it had been in the past. Tim had been roaming the rooftops of Gotham for over two hours by that point, and it wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the challenge of this little one-sided hide-and-seek game he and Robin so often played, but he and Selina were supposed to be meeting up later that night to case a job.

After so long spent jumping and climbing and keeping such close attention to Gotham’s skies, Tim was more than tired enough to treat himself to a break. He was sitting on a relatively tall building across from Wayne Enterprises, swinging his legs off the side of the building as he leaned against a gargoyle statue. The rough stone wreaked havoc on his back, but it was still nice to sit down and rest for a moment as he ate the snack bar he’d brought along in anticipation of his hunger. Selina made sure he always ate before going out, or at least brought along food in case of–

There!

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim caught a brief flicker of movement. He focused, and noticed a long wire cutting across his field of vision, followed the direction of movement, and then he caught a whir of black and a flash of yellow.

Robin.

Tim tossed the half-eaten granola bar aside as he scrambled to stand next to the gargoyle, wincing a bit as he caught the dizzying drop beneath him, clinging to the statue as he watched. Robin was flying upwards in a sharp arc to the top of the Wayne Enterprises building, his figure shrinking smaller and smaller as Tim squinted his eyes.

He blinked the dryness from his vision and groped at his camera, readily available and hanging from his neck, to turn it on. Tim snapped the lens cover off, pulled the device up to his eyes, pressed at a few buttons, and then peered through the lens to the top of WE.

A small figure stood at the edge of the building, the underside of his yellow cape fluttering in the wind, his head angled down to take in the distant drop. He shifted a little. Indecisive, maybe? And then Tim’s stomach dropped as he reconsidered the reasons why Robin hadn’t been on patrol as much in the past few months.

Tim spent quite a bit of his free time, before he became Catwoman’s stray, reading various scientific articles to accompany the pointless schooling Selina insisted on. At one point, he’d read a few on different types of mental illnesses, back when he’d been sad about his– the Drakes’ murders. He’d attempted to diagnose himself, at the time confused by the conflicting feelings he’d associated with their deaths. Grief, sadness, relief, a lack of disappointment. That one had been confusing. Surely, the only explanation would be that the problem wasn’t with them, but with Tim. So of course he’d tried to diagnose himself.

After a few days of nonstop research, Tim hadn’t been able to diagnose himself with anything other than a slight case of insomnia, seeing that he was a bit biased, but along the way he’d had the chance to learn about several different types of mental illnesses.

There were several symptoms of clinical depression, signs that others should pay attention to and be wary of lest the subject in question resort to drastic measures of pain relief. Losing interest in maintaining one’s body, withdrawing from loved ones, isolation, anxiety, increased substance use, a concerning change in schedule, decreased interest in previously appreciated activities, noticed access to lethal tools, mood swings, etc.

Robin was small for his age. Robin spent parts of his patrol by himself, now. Robin was always fidgety, always moving. Robin was constantly affected by various Gotham gases. Robin spent less time on patrol. Robin had access to lethal tools.

Robin was standing at the edge of the building looking down without a grapple in his hand.

Tim took in a sharp breath, his body vibrating with this newfound realization.

Robin stepped off the tallest building in the city, and started to plummet.

He kept going down, down, down, and Tim kept praying, praying, praying that he would pull out his grapple, that he would change his mind.

But he kept falling.

A scream tore through the air, and Tim could only keep watching through the camera lens, his heart at the bottom of his stomach by that point.

And then, something changed. Robin changed, turned in mid-air, kept turning until he was twisting in a series of breathtaking flips, fluidly moving– no, dancing through the air like he was born to it. What Tim had assumed were terrified screams he now realized were the breathless ringing of laughter as Robin twisted closer and closer to Tim and the ground.

And then he sharply uprighted himself halfway down the jump, and Tim was dizzy just watching, but somehow Robin was aware enough to pull out his grapple (Tim breathed a quick sigh of relief, and his limbs felt so much lighter) and shoot a line to the top of Tim’s building.

His descent slowed, his direction altered, and then he snapped in a powerful change of momentum into a graceful upward arc, swinging higher and higher and higher. And then he just . . .

Let go.

And began to turn, twist in the air in a series of flips. Robin was born to the air, belonged to it.

One.

Robin was a bird.

Two.

Robin was air.

Three.

Robin was flying.

Four.

Robin was–

Tim snapped a picture. A light flashed from his camera. A whir of movement flew past him and kept going, going, going out of sight.

He looked down at the camera, pressed a few buttons to pull up the last picture he had taken.

A robin midflight.

And Tim smiled, and realized that a wish he’d wanted so long ago had come true, after all.

Dick Grayson was flying again.

Chapter 8: It's . . . Nice

Jason didn’t really like routines. He wasn’t raised on them. Before, it was always go to school when he felt like it or when things were going good, and even then he didn’t actually have to as long as he stayed out of sight and out of mind, which wasn’t that hard. His mom loved him, but she couldn’t make him do anything if she wasn’t in the state of mind for it.

And with his dad, while he was there and before he left, anyways, well, he wasn’t there enough to even start a routine, much less keep one up.

So he didn’t really have a routine, not much of one, anyways. Not until Robin.

It started, of all ways, when Jason tried to steal the vigilante’s tires off of his bike, and then it rolled over into a burger, an admittedly nice conversation, and a bundle of cash to fall asleep with.

It didn’t mean that Jason liked the guy. Considering he was technically a criminal (Jason was too) and probably rich (Jason definitely wasn’t) and had it in his head that he should be friends with the kid who tried to pop off his tires (they were probably not friends). Which didn’t exactly scream “not-Arkham-material” if you were asking Jason.

But the teen did bring him a burger every Tuesday. Which was . . . nice. And he always had something to say. That was the deal. Jason sat and ate, and Robin sat and talked and occasionally ate, but usually wore himself out talking and gave the other half of his burger to Jason while he kept talking.

He was always talking. Which was . . . Jason didn’t really know how he felt about that. Because it was nice to be talked to when he was so used to being talked at, or ignored. Even if the whole talking thing could get pretty annoying, pretty quick.

He kept asking Jason questions, about how his day was (I live on the streets, what d’you think?), or if he liked the burger (I live on the streets, what d’you think?), or about his parents (I live on the streets, what d’you think?). He seemed to genuinely want to know the answers, but after the first two times they talked (or rather, Robin talked and Jason tried not to listen but ended up hearing everything anyway), Jason wondered why.

He asked him, a month after the bike incident. And Robin lightly joked about Batman having the conversation skills of a brick wall, but Jason thought that there was a bit more truth to that statement than Robin thought there was. So he started talking back. Because even though Batman had the conversation skills of a brick wall, all Jason had to talk to actually were brick walls. So maybe it was kind of nice to have someone as annoying as Robin to talk to. Because he wasn’t actually a brick wall.

So every Tuesday, Jason would hear the soft rev of an engine, and Robin would pop up out of nowhere and ask him if he wanted a ride (Jason would always say no but Robin would somehow talk him onto the bike, anyways), and then Jason would run in and get two burgers and two fries and two drinks, and then they would sit on a rooftop and Jason would eat, and Robin would talk and take a total of three bites, and then Robin would offer his leftovers to Jason, and only then did Jason start talking, and by the time they finished the meal, Jason knew about the three tests that Robin had and about a party he’d seen R at and his visit to CC to see W, and Robin knew about the fight that Jason won in the back alley and how he wanted to get into reading again (the classics were his favorite) and about the newest hidey hole he’d gotten ahold of. (For the next week, little gifts of a blanket, a first aid kit, and Othello kept popping up around his hidey spots.) And then they would ride back to whichever hidey hole Jason had taken over for the month and Jason would go to bed and somehow a twenty would find its way into his coat (another “mysterious” gift) pocket.

And it was . . . nice. Jason didn’t really want it to be as nice as it was. He knew that Robin was going to get tired of him and leave, or he would find some other interesting fix who wasn’t a Crime Alley kid that he had to buy burgers for in order to bribe him into conversation. (So what if Jason started talking and listening and caring more, it wasn’t so that Robin would stay around longer.)

Robin was nice enough, he supposed. But Jason had to reluctantly admit that it was nice to have a routine. Something that was always going to happen every single week until it wouldn’t. And it definitely wouldn’t happen one week, he knew, but until then, he would enjoy the little semblance of a routine that he hadn’t gotten to taste since before he could remember.

Because Robin was always there, always punctual, with the low hum of his bike somehow finding Jason wherever Jason was, at the same time on the same day every single week. And when he wasn’t, he would show up the next day with an apology and half of an explanation that made complete sense and no Jason wasn’t mad that he didn’t show up just buy him a burger and call it even.

Jason didn’t really have a way to keep time, and although he knew Crime Alley well enough, he definitely didn’t have access to a map. But he’d had almost a year of that same routine, and his body and mind had gotten somewhat used to it.

So when his stomach growled, Jason knew that it was going to be one of the weeks that Robin wouldn’t show up until the next day (or never again), and although he paused a little bit at the surprise, he shook his head and kept walking.

He was only a few blocks away from his hidey hole when he heard it. Someone coughing–no, hacking their guts up. And normally Jason would have kept walking.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d passed up some dying druggie or sick old man. It wouldn’t be the last, but something in Jason . . . hurt a little, at the thought of leaving someone to die alone.

Maybe it was because Robin wouldn’t let Jason live alone, much less die alone. (Maybe it was because he’d paid attention to all of the rumors about Batman and Robin, about the crimes they stopped, the victims they saved, the children they left at the free clinics.)

Whatever it was, Jason stopped at the alley he’d heard the sound come from. He moved closer, into the dark shadows, toward what was most certainly not a good idea if he wanted to keep living. Robin wasn’t on time, so Robin definitely wasn’t going to be able to save him if he got himself into trouble. (Not that he ever expected Robin to come, of course.)

He moved closer, and another wet cough broke through the temporary silence, causing Jason to turn toward the noise and see . . . a kid. Or teen. Someone who wasn’t much older than Jason, but well-dressed in cared-for clothes and a shitload of blood.

Shit. Blood.

All thoughts of living through the night temporarily out of Jason’s head, he rushed for the boy, whose eyes had fluttered half-open to his face. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jason stammered out, crouching beside the boy. “You okay, man?”

The kid groaned in response and Jason swore he saw his eyes roll before they disappeared to the back of his head, the little shit. “Okay, okay. Obviously not, but– shit. Where does it hurt at?”

The boy’s eyes stayed closed, however, and Jason took it upon himself to feel around the boy’s torso for the source of the blood and (shit was that a bone he saw or his white undershirt? Don’t freak out don’t freak out don’t freak out don’t do it) the injury. It was a little gross.

He pulled up the boy’s shirt, pointedly ignoring the shiver the boy made as the sticky blood curled up with it, and winced as fresh blood poured from what looked like several thin gashes. His torso was heavily bruised, and, pressing lightly down on his ribcage and also ignoring the gasp that the boy half-woke up to let out, Jason guessed his ribs were at least a little bit broken, too. His injuries were bad, yeah, and worse than a lot of what Jason saw in crime alley. But nothing that should be making the kid fall apart like he was.

Jason, you dumbass, he suddenly thought. He needed to check for a head wound,

He looked back up to the boy’s face, also bruised and bloodied and torn up. Jason fingered through the boy's sweaty, sticky-with-old-gel hair, pulling his head closer and hovering over him, for any bumps or a source of blood, and– there! A lump the size of a small egg on the back of the boy’s head.

Definitely a concussion, Jason thought, and carefully leaned the boy back against the wall.

Well, he figured out what was wrong. What next? Jason didn’t have a phone to call an ambulance with, but maybe the boy did? He looked like he could afford it.

Jason dug his hands in the boy’s pockets for a phone, but there wasn’t one. Great. And the streets around him were, for once, thankfully, unfortunately, empty.

It was just Jason. And this kid with a concussion and a whole lotta bruises.

Wonderful.

Jason thought that maybe there was a clinic nearby. Maybe he could take him there?

He examined the boy again. He was definitely older than Jason was, but he wasn’t too much bigger, and he looked sort of on the short side. Jason could probably pick him up, but not for long. And there was no way that Jason could carry him that whole way. Not unless he was on some sort of like protein one thousand experimental diet or something. And Jason didn’t think that dragging the kid through the streets of Gotham would be the best remedy for that nasty nest egg on the back of his head.

“Okay then,” Jason said under his breath. “Guess we gotta do this tha hard way, huh?” He reached one hand for the boy’s shoulder and tried to shake him awake. “Up and at ‘em, sunshine.”

A groan. Jason shook a little harder with both hands. “Come on. I can’take ya to tha clinic all by myself. You gotta help, too,” he said. And one of the boy’s eyes fluttered open, the other still swollen shut, to focus on Jason’s face.

“Jaseh?” The boy hissed, one hand (bruised, Jason noted) half reaching up to feel at his head.

“Nope, not Jesus, Jason,” Jason corrected. “But we gotta get’cha to tha clinic. An’ I need your help f’ that.” He crouched over the boy and hugged him underneath each shoulder, locking his hands together at his back. “Let’s go,” Jason said as he stood up, dragging the boy upright with him.

The boy staggered forward, all of his weight on Jason (and ow this kid was heavier than Jason thought) as he tried to get his bearings.

“Come on. You gotta do the standing part, too. Team effort, okay?” Jason grunted under the kid’s weight. And okay, he was smart enough to admit that maybe the boy wasn’t all that heavy and maybe Jason was just a few days away from starving, but still. Come on. A kid that small should not have that much dead weight.

Finally, the boy got his feet under him, and most of the weight left Jason’s shoulders, and he breathed a sigh of relief for that small blessing. “Good. Shit– what’re they feedin ya?”

“Hey,” he retorted breathily, “I’m’nt that heavy. You’re jus’a shrimp.” He let out another groan of pain, but still managed to push away from Jason. “I’mfne,” he mumbled, standing on his own for a second. Emphasis on the second. Because he instantly began to teeter forward, stopped only by Jason and his quickly dwindling and sharply increasing desire to keep the teen from dying on the streets (damn you Robin).

“Yeah, and I’m Superman,” Jason said, his face smushed against the boy’s shoulder. He rolled his eyes as he helped the boy stand back up, and adjusted them so that one arm was slung across Jason’s shoulder, and Jason supported the boy with both arms.

They started forward, Jason’s steps heavy and the boy’s more of a stumble than an actual walk, and began to make their way out of the alley.

“Supe’s nce, buh hesa bich tahs sun,” the kid mumbled under her breath. And Jason was a little slightly concerned about the state of this guy’s head.

“Yeah, totally,” he said instead of commenting on the kid’s head wound. Which reminded him. “Hey, ya gotta name?”

The kid lolled his head around, peered at Jason through one oddly bright blue eye. “Dick,” he eventually retorted.

Jason huffed. “Hey! I’m saving your ass ‘n this is what I get? What happened ta callin me Jesus?” The nerve!

The boy shook his head in either exhaustion or exasperation. Jason wasn’t sure. “No. Shorfa Risher,” he explained.

Oh. That was the poor kid’s name. “Geez. What kinda parents you have that thought that name was’a good idea?” he scoffed.

They’d made it almost two blocks away by that point, thankfully. Jason’s legs were already tiring, with all of the extra weight he was holding up. Not to mention, he hadn’t had that much to eat today, the cash from Robin having run out the night before.

“Thewer good ‘uns,” Dick said, his head still hanging down, and Jason didn’t quite understand what he said, but at least he was up and talking. And most importantly, walking. They made it another dozen steps.

“If you say so,” Jason hummed, and they hung a left, avoiding a short, scruffy-bearded man. “Hey, how’d ya get like this anyhow?” he asked, glancing at Dick, who was starting to nod off again.

Dick forced his eyes open, his head lolling to the side again as he looked back. “Kinap,” he said shortly. “Igota way, buhdey gomme frsh,” Dick explained through his busted lip, and, geez. Kidnapping?

 

“Do we hafta worry bout them?” Jason asked. Kidnapping wasn’t like a mugging, he thought. There was a good chance they would try to find Dick and take him back, if only to kill him. (Why did Jason think this was a good idea?)

Dick shook his head, then winced and thought better of it, bringing a hand up to his head to steady it again. “No, buh maybe tha paps? La’er?”

“The cops?” Jason groaned.

“No, la’er,” Dick said, waving a hand as they rounded another corner. Only a block and a half to go, Jason recalled.

He shifted Dick’s weight on his shoulder. “Right, later.”

Dick stumbled, all of his weight falling to one side and taking Jason with it. “Oh, nonono, no you don’t,” Jason scolded, his grip on Dick’s wrist tightening as the other boy let out a painful hiss. He checked the limb. Right. Also bruised. Dick put out a hand and caught both of them on a wall.

“Mbe jusa sec,” he breathed out heavily, the arm Jason wasn’t holding going to wrap around his waist. “Ribs ert. ‘N everything else,” he added. “Jusa sec.” Dick focused on his breathing.

Jason nodded, and sank to the wall beside Dick, still making sure they both stayed standing. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to get either of them up again if they fell. “Just a second,” he agreed.

He looked over at Dick. Great. His eyes were closed, his head leaned back, and Jason could see the trembling in his legs. They needed to get moving again; Jason wasn’t sure how much Dick had left in the tank. Not to mention the fact that they’d left behind a nice little trail of blood that would lead directly toward them if the kidnappers were still looking, despite what Dick had said. Because, let’s face it, he thought, the teen was barely awake, so he doubted that he was actually conscious enough to know what he was saying.

“Come on,” he said, readjusting his grip, “Time’s up. Let’s get going.” He tugged on Dick, pulling him upright and his arm back over Jason’s shoulder. “Clinic’s just a bit further.”

“Fne,” Dick grumbled, but started walking (stumbling, Jason corrected) in step with Jason. “Sry ahwus late,” he said after a bit, like it was some sort of profound realization or something. Which, for being fully concussed and beat up after being kidnapped for who knows how long, it probably, sadly, was for the kid.

“Sure, whatever. No problem,” Jason said, if only to ease his mind and keep him moving forward. He could just make out the corner of the free clinic. They were so close.

Dick stumbled again, and Jason had to lean all of his weight to the other side just to not faceplant into the concrete sidewalk. And yet so far.

“Stay with me buddy. Come on, Dick,” he said, jostling his torso with his right hand in hopes of keeping him awake. “Dickhead!” he yelled, and Dick’s eyes fluttered open again, if barely. But he kept walking. (People kept walking past them. Sometimes Jason remembered how much he hated Gotham.)

They finally reached the door to the free clinic, and Jason managed to shove Dick’s weight off of him for long enough to open the door and stumble through into the small waiting room. Dick’s weight fell on him again, and he stumbled, barely keeping himself upright.

The clinic was busy, at least a dozen people waiting in chairs or in line to be taken care of, and at least two nurses trying to take care of people in the waiting room itself. Jason wasn’t exactly sure what to do, whether he needed to check in a kid he didn’t know anything about except for his poorly-chosen first name or if someone would come to him.

Apparently the latter, he thought, as a nurse looked up and rushed over to him, temporarily abandoning her current patient but not before calling for someone else to take care of him. She went to Jason and carefully shifted all of the weight from his shoulders. “I’ve got you, sweetie,” she reassured Dick, who was very quickly shutting down. “I need a gurney and possible surgical prep!” she called out over her shoulder. “Prepare a room immediately!” A different nurse heard and went to do her bidding, and then the woman turned back to Jason, still supporting a half-unconscious Dick.

“I need you to tell me what happened to your brother, okay sweetie?” she said calmly, her forehead slick with sweat and a worried look on her face as she ran one hand over Dick’s small figure, cataloging injuries.

Jason began to protest. “He’s no–” He sighed. Dick needed help more than he needed to fix the nurse’s misconceptions. “Never mind. I found ‘im in tha alley, all beat up. He said he was kidnapped? I dunno what happened, but he’s at least gotta concussion,” he offered, and she immediately carded her free hand through his hair, wincing once she found the lump Jason was talking about.

“I see. Thank you, honey.” She looked up when another nurse with a gurney arrived, and the two of them worked to shift Dick onto it before starting to roll him away.

Jason blinked, surprised they were leaving that quickly, and he felt a small twinge of worry. “Wait! Can I come with?” he found himself saying. The nurse hesitated, but then quickly nodded before rolling off, leaving Jason to follow.

He followed them until a frizzy-haired, sweat-browed doctor did a double-take and then rushed toward them. “Is that Dick Grayson?” she asked just as she was approaching, but none of the nurses were able to answer.

“Yeah,” Jason said quickly. “You know ‘im?”

She nodded. “I should hope so. I’ll be taking over from here,” she told the two nurses, then looked at Jason. “How do you know Dick?” she asked with a . . . look in her eye. Jason wasn’t exactly sure.

“I found’im in tha alley,” Jason replied. “He said he’d been kidnapped.”

And then she nodded. And didn’t ask questions. Like this was a daily occurrence. Maybe for an ER clinic doctor in Crime Alley that was a common thing. Jason wouldn’t doubt it.

She started to roll him away, and Jason started to follow but she held up a hand. “You can come with me, but you’ve got to stay outside,” she said, stopping outside a door and gesturing to a row of three chairs against the wall.

Jason hesitated. He wasn’t sure if he should stay. He wasn’t exactly . . . well, okay, fine. Sue him. (don’t, actually) He was worried. Robin had gotten to him with his vigilante morals and caring about shit happening to innocent people, and maybe he was a tiny bit invested in Dick’s wellbeing after lugging him six blocks away from where he’d found him beat up bloody in an alley. He nodded and sat down in the chair closest to the door, and the doctor rolled Dick into the room. Another nurse followed through a few minutes later.

Jason resigned himself to waiting. He wasn’t sure if Dick had any family. It would make sense if he did, since it was a kidnapping. Unless it was a kidnapping for, like, trafficking or something, but his clothes looked pretty well off before they’d been bloodied, so maybe he was a rich kid. Except for the fact that he knew a doctor in crime alley, of all places. Was the doctor his mom, or something?

Either way, Dick needed to have someone waiting for him when he came out. The doctor was a busy person, after all; maybe she wouldn’t have time to take Dick back to wherever he called home. If he had one. He probably did.

Time passed. Jason wasn’t sure how much. His internal clock wasn’t that good. He had almost fallen asleep when he heard the calm, rhythmic clip-clop of shoes echo softly and quickly down the hall and stop right in front of him. He blinked, opened his eyes, and saw two sets of polished black shoes. He squinted his eyes and then looked up, finally registering the two men in front of him.

One, an older man who looked to be somewhere in his fifties, though there was a timeless, ancient quality in his eyes, with a grey mustache, a bald head, and a carefully neutral face. Like he was in factory setting or something. He was dressed sharply, his gray suit neatly pressed and his buttons all shiny.

The second was a tall, imposing man dressed in another black suit (and oh, these people were rich, he realized), just as sharply and neatly dressed, though upon further inspection, he noticed that this man’s black hair was slightly mussed, his suit jacket a bit askew, and half of his tie peeking out from behind the front half. He looked rushed.

“Who’re you?” Jason heard himself asking through a yawn he’d attempted to hold back. He pushed a fisted hand into one eye as he sat up straight. He cocked a head to look at them better.

The taller man opened his mouth to speak. “We’re Dick’s family. Is this his room?” His brow was still furrowed worriedly, and he looked the perfect picture of a concerned father, but Jason saw a quiet steel in his eyes and a tension in his muscles that he only saw out on the streets.

Jason narrowed his eyes and took in the state of the two men again. Surely an old man wouldn’t be a kidnapper, but what if he was, like, some sort of mob boss or something? The very tall, broad-shouldered man was definitely some sort of muscle, he thought. He crossed his arms. “Try again. Who’s asking?”

The tall man paused, his face open in surprise before scrunching up again in confusion. “His father.”

Jason kept staring at him and tried to raise his eyebrow. The older man did so successfully, his hands clasped behind his back. “Jus’ cause ya look the part, don’t mean you’re his dad.”

The tall man opened his mouth to say something again, taking half a step forward that caused Jason to tense up, before stopping when the older man laid a calm hand on his elbow. Yeah, definitely a mob boss, Jason thought satisfactorily. Before becoming (only) slightly worried that there was a mob boss standing in front of him.

The older man cleared his throat. Jason looked at him. “I can assure you that we are, indeed, young Master (master?) Richard’s (Richard? Oh yeah, Jason remembered.) family. But I suspect you may think that we are someone else?” he prompted.

Jason nodded. “I found’im in the alley. He was kidnapped,” he explained for what seemed like the hundredth time. “By kidnappers,” he added pointedly, dragging a mean glare up and down the two men’s bodies.

He inclined his head thoughtfully in response. “I see. Well, is there anything we can do to reassure you of our relation?”

Jason thought. He didn’t know much about Dick, and the old man had already called him by his proper name, so he couldn’t prove it with that. Not to mention he was sure that information wasn’t all that hard to acquire if Dick was a target they’d had to study up on.

Then he remembered something that Dick had said early on in their conversation. “How’s he feel about Superman?” he asked.

This time, it was the tall man who responded, a look of what seemed like exasperation and something else crossing his face. “He loves the guy,” he said grudgingly, “though he’s been a bit annoyed with him recently.”

Jason nodded curtly, officially, remembering Dick’s offhand comment about the Kryptonian being a nice enough guy, but also a bitch. It seemed in line. “Okay, I guess I believe ya. I’m Jason,” he said, swinging his legs a little as he adjusted himself in his seat. “What’re you two’s names?”

“Bruce Wayne, and this is Alfred Penneyworth,” the black-haired man introduced himself, swinging one hand in the direction of the older man. “You can call me Bruce. Do you mind if we sit down?” he asked.

Jason shrugged. Bruce sat down beside him, leaving the third seat open for Mr. Penneyworth, who had still opted to stand, albeit off to the side. Jason looked at Bruce. “Ya know, ya look a little familiar. Your name, too. Have I heardaya somewhere?”

The man looked at him strangely and then chuckled. “There’s a good chance. I actually fund this clinic,” he explained, and Jason nodded. He came to this clinic a lot whenever he got into a fight that didn’t turn out so well for him. Like Bruce said, there was a good chance he’d heard the name bouncing around the walls while getting patched up.

“An’ whadya do for a living?” Jason asked, something still wiggling in the back of his mind that said there was still something off about the man.

Bruce looked at him carefully. “I own a business,” he finally said. And that’s when it clicked.

Jason snapped his head in the man’s direction. “Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne?” he asked, emphasizing the man’s name the second time. “An’ you’re Dick’s dad? Shit. Dick Grayson,” he moaned, shaking his head and feeling stupid, recalling a time when he’d been watching the news with his mom and seeing those two names and faces flash across the tv screen.

He sunk a little in his chair. “Ya can’t sue me for saving ‘im, can ya?” he asked, looking up at Bruce from his chair. “I dunno if it’s ‘gainst the law or not, but I feel like it should be,” he said.

Mr. Penneyworth smiled, and Bruce Wayne (Bruce Wayne! Wait, was Mr. Penneyworth a butler? Did those still exist? He called Dick, Master Richard, which was weird, but–) “There will be no suing, Mr. Jason. Though I daresay those kidnappers will be found and brought to justice within the week.”

That seemed to trigger something in Mr. Wayne, who looked at Jason questioningly. “Did you, or Dick, see anything that might identify the kidnappers? I hate that they’re still out there; they might come after him again,” he worried.

Jason shook his head. “Sorry,” he shrugged.

At that moment, the blond-curled doctor from earlier (Dr. Leslie, he noted, seeing her nametag) stepped out of the room, followed closely by the nurse from earlier, who continued down the hall. She turned to look at them. “You can come and see him now,” she offered, stepping aside to let the two men file into the room.

“Is he goin’ta be okay?” Jason asked, already standing up. It was about time for him to head back to his hidey hole. The doctor glanced over at Bruce, who seemed to be making a decision about something.

The man nodded to himself. “You can come in, Jason. I’m sure Dick will want to thank his rescuer.”

He followed them into the room, Dr. Leslie shutting the door behind them and setting her clipboard down on the counter. Dick was asleep, or drugged unconscious, or maybe even still unconscious from earlier, on the hospital bed, white sheets tucking him in and bruised arms folded over his chest. The bruises on his face had started to turn, but there were small pieces of tape patching together the worst of his cuts, and more tape peeked out from under his dark curls behind his ear where the lump was.

Bruce went over to his son, combing one hand through the black, knotted mess while resting the other on top of Dick’s smaller hand.

He looked over at the doctor, who took that as her sign to begin. “Three bruised ribs, though no sign of fracture or internal bleeding, a minor fracture in his left ulna, bruising along both arms and hands, his left leg, and on his back. Blunt trauma to the head and a moderate concussion, but no permanent damage. He’s not under any anesthesia, seeing as there was no need for surgery, but he is on pain medication that I will be continuing to prescribe him for the next two weeks. He should actually be waking up any minute now,” she finished, and she was rewarded with a small groaning noise from the boy in question.

Two bright blue eyes blinked open, unfocused but finding his father’s face all the same, and a small, half of a smile split his face even as he winced in pain from his split lip. “Bruss?”

“I’m here, Dick,” he said softly, just as Dr. Leslie spoke up.

“I’ll be taking my leave, now. He’ll be cleared to leave in the morning,” she said before retreating out the door.

Dick blinked a few more times, squinting at the bright light. “Wha happened? Whrs Jason?” he slurred, tilting his head a bit to the side, his body tense.

Bruce moved aside so that Dick’s bright blue eyes met Jason’s. He stepped forward. “Hey, Dickhead.”

Dick relaxed, melting into the comfort of the hospital bed. “Thanks,” he murmured.

“Anytime,” Jason found himself saying, though corrected, “Except, maybe not, ‘cause I don’ want this whole kidnapping thing to be a regular occurrence for us.”

“You’be surprised,” Dick replied, and a wet, painful laugh escaped him. Jason, satisfied that Dick was with the people he belonged to, turned to leave when a panicked Dick called out to him, “Wait! Stay awhile, please? ‘ll getya burger’r somfin,” he said around his bruised lip, though his speech seemed to be improving. And that . . . struck something within Jason. It was probably the hunger, he reasoned.

Then Bruce turned to him. “Please, stay. It’s the least we can do for you saving Dick’s life.”

Jason nodded. “Sure, I guess. Since ‘e made me miss ma dinner.”

Mr. Penneyworth left ten minutes later and returned with a late dinner. Jason sat and talked with Alfred (call me Alfred, Mr. Jason), Bruce, and Dick (I promise, it’s what I want to be called).

It was nice.

-x-x-x-

Somehow, Alfred convinced Jason to accompany the three of them to Wayne manor. Which, Jason promised that he refused at first, but somehow a boy who was two years older than him convinced him to go with damn puppy-dog eyes (he didn’t even have full use of one of those eyes!), and then the sharp-eyed butler insisted that Jason get “a real meal in him, not just a burger” (he then shot a look at Dick, who shrunk under the unspoken meaning), and after that, Bruce defended Alfred by explaining that, really, the butler just wanted to redeem his cooking ability. And of course, after that, Jason’s stomach had taken the opportunity to growl (he swore he saw an evil gleam in the evidently-not-a-mob-boss-but-Jason-wasn’t-entirely-convinced-yet butler’s eye), so he had no grounds to argue.

The four of them entered the manor after a very long drive in a very nice car, and Jason’s jaw dropped as he froze in place, Alfred gently taking his coat while he just stood there and looked around him. Bruce followed, carrying Dick (“I promise I can walk!” (Jason smugly reminded him that he was the one doing all of the walking the previous night. (Bruce then just-as-smugly smiled and Dick was forced to hang onto his back like a monkey. (They both enjoyed the exchange far too much)))) over the threshold and depositing him in the kitchen, which Jason had somehow ended up in. He wasn’t entirely sure how or when.

Alfred began preparing them a quick, but hearty breakfast, which Jason ate. And then he was somehow convinced to take a shower, and given some of Dick’s extra clothes, which were politely left on the counter and fortunately not that big on him. Unfortunately, the butler somehow stole away his old clothes in the process, and Jason was forced to wait around until they were finished washing.

Then, Dick convinced him to play a board game with him, which turned into three, which turned into them playing another round until Alfred fetched them for lunch (Jason wasn’t sure how that much time had passed).

Afterwards, they somehow they ended up in the library and Jason’s jaw dropped for the second time that day. They spent the rest of the day (and yes, Jason meant day, don’t ask him how it happened) in there, Jason fetching books for Dick and then being asked to read them out loud for him, which Jason found himself not minding at all. Dick, weirdly enough, liked the classics, which Jason was pleasantly surprised by.

They stayed there until dinner (again, Jason wasn’t sure how that happened), and then of course it was much too late for Mr. Jason to leave, said Alfred, so he obviously must stay in the guest bedroom that night.

The next day, he was convinced to stay until breakfast, and then Dick pulled him into some activity or another, proclaiming boredom and Jason was his only savior because Bruce was at work all day and Alfred was much too busy, and Jason had nowhere to be anyway, right? And every time Jason tried to leave, Dick would ask him to play a board game, or watch true crime with him, or read him a story because his eyes were still sore after the concussion. And then it would be far too late for Master Jason to leave, said Alfred after the first few days (days!), and then the cycle would begin all over again.

It was almost Tuesday. Almost an entire week had passed, and Jason still had yet to escape the Waynes. They were like the sun, constantly pulling him into their orbit, warm and bright and welcoming and burning. Except, Jason thought about the sharpness in Alfred’s gaze, the hard set of Bruce’s shoulders, the prepared tenseness in Dick’s muscles, and he thought that maybe they were more like a black hole. Pulling him in, a pleasant darkness and coolness that he could just sink into and not worry about.

Except that Jason remembered that someone would be waiting on him. Robin. And usually Robin would find him wherever he was in Crime Alley, because that was where Jason hung out. And Wayne manor was a far cry from Crime Alley.

And, okay, so maybe Jason was missing Robin just a little bit, even though the Waynes had been strangely okay (more than okay) company, but it wasn’t like he was attached or anything. It was just that he knew Robin would worry if he didn’t find Jason, and he always liked to apologize after missing a Tuesday (and really he probably was worrying all week, after not seeing him Wednesday, the sentimental shithead), but Robin really hadn’t been all that bad to him, so Jason didn’t want to worry him like that. (Unless he’d already forgotten about him, and the Tuesday before was really the last time he would see him after an entire year of Tuesdays together and he hadn’t even known it at the time, a mean voice in the back of Jason’s mind argued.)

So Jason tried to leave again, tried to sneak out this time, instead of being polite (something about Alfred’s presence demanded politeness from even someone like Jason) and trying to slip away. Except Alfred Penneyworth had eyes in the back of his head, Bruce Wayne had a generous heart as big as his purse, and Dick Grayson could guilt trip like nobody’s business.

And so Tuesday came and went in a flurry of reading and games and talking (holy cow, so much talking, this kid talked as much as Robin did) with Dick, and mornings and sitting and cooking with Alfred, and shoulder pats and sitting and talking with Bruce. And then nearly two weeks had gone by without Jason realizing it, and he finally realized that what happened with Robin was happening with the Waynes all over again.

And suddenly he feared losing something he imagined he didn’t actually have in the first place.

Another Tuesday came and went. Dick was fully healed by then, but for some reason he still needed Jason to read to him (English isn’t my favorite language. You know more than one? I know lots, English is just harder to read because it isn’t my first, can you read for me? Yeah, whatever, what was your first? Romani, I can teach you someday if you want. Whatever (please let there be a someday)), and then he would take Jason to the gym while he stretched (he was oddly flexible) and did a light workout (also oddly athletic). He would wake up and help Alfred with the cooking (Masters Dick and Bruce are banned from the kitchen, but I think that you’re still young enough to be molded, Master Jason.) or just sit and let the calm, steady sound of dishes clanking together or utensils beating away at vegetables or pancake batter. Bruce would sit with him in the afternoons, doing work on a tablet, while Jason read a classic that the man had suggested from his time in college, and he would ask questions in between important business stuff like Jason’s opinion was important (Was Hamlet faking it or do you think he was actually insane, son– Jason? (that wasn’t the first time Bruce had let the word slip))

And it was nice.

The third Tuesday, Jason was asleep in the room (his room, Dick and Alfred and Bruce always called it, even though he still made attempts to leave, dwindling and increasingly forgotten though they may be) when a little bird knocked at his window. He woke up, and Robin was perched on the open window sill.

“I like the new digs,” he smiled, and Jason felt his heart leap a little in his chest because Robin was there (and hadn’t left him like–).

“They’re a step up,” he agreed, his feet fiddling together as Robin slid in through the open gap. “I’m not so sure why I’m here, though,” he heard himself admitting. “I think I should leave,” he added quietly.

The spot on the bed beside him was weighed down, and he looked up into the white slits of Robin’s domino mask. “Do you want to?” he asked quietly, importantly, ready to listen.

Jason thought. He didn’t have to think long. “No,” he said, shame coloring his cheeks. “No, I really don’t. It’s nice here, but I don’t– I’m not tha one who deserves it. Dick is really nice, and I like havin’ a friend, but I keep thinking it wouldn’t be so terrible ta have ‘im as a brother. And I like cooking with Alfred, and he’s jus’ so– And Bruce? I really. . . I jus’ . . . he listens, ya know? He talks, and I talk, and he’s listening and asking questions, and d’ya know he keeps acciden’ally calling me ‘son’?” he asked, looking up at Robin and realizing that tears were falling wetly down his cheeks. Jason was crying, he realized. He hadn’t let himself do that in so, so long. “And it’s nice. It’s so blasted nice, and I hate myself for wanting this. For wanting to be here. It’s not a place for Crime Alley kids like me,” he finished softly.

And then Robin said, “Why can’t it be?”

“I don’t belong.”

“Why can’t you?”

Jason sucked in a breath, his chest hitching. “They don’t really want me,” he said, his voice just a whisper in the deafening silence of the room. It was just the two of them, but all of the time and space in the world was between them, and more than that between Jason and the Waynes.

“Jason,” Robin said, something coloring his voice, “From everything you’ve told me, they want you just as much as you want them. Maybe they’re just waiting for you to show it back. Because I don’t know why in the world anyone wouldn’t want you to belong with them.”

He looked up at Robin, and met the white slits of his eyes. “Do ya– do ya actually mean that? Or are you jus’ sayin that ta get rid o’ me and not hafta bring me burgers any more?”

And suddenly arms wrapped around him and drew him in close, and his face was pressed to the cool material of Robin’s suit, and when he breathed in, warmth flooded his lungs and Robin was just so warm and all around him, taking him in confidence and the entire world disappeared between them. And it was nice.

(And Jason realized that maybe the world could disappear between Jason and Waynes, and they could build their own little world, together.)

And Jason didn’t doubt the words that Robin never had to say, because he heard them in the hug and felt them in his bones, even though he did say them anyways, because he would never let Jason doubt, even though all Jason had been doing for the past year of their friendship (friendship) was doubt.

“I promise.”

He drew back from the hug, put a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Tell them,” he said. “And let yourself be happy, because I have a strong feeling that you and– and the Waynes can be happy together.”

Jason nodded, hesitated one last time, even as he hated every bit of himself for doing that. “Will you– you’ll still come visit, right?”

Robin nodded, a smirk fingering the edge of his mouth. “Promise, Little Wing.”

And then he was gone.

But Jason didn’t doubt that he would be coming back.

-x-x-x-

The next morning, Jason woke up heavy and light all at the same time. Nervous, anticipating, worried, but . . . hopeful. Was that still a feeling since the last time Jason had felt it?

Morning routine finished, he left for the kitchen, where he knew Alfred would already be preparing breakfast. He let Jason whisk the eggs, taught him how long to bake the bacon, showed him the steps to preparing some pastry or another that Jason couldn’t pronounce.

Dick bounded down the stairs, cartwheeled into the kitchen (apparently that wasn’t anything new he’d come into after losing the bruised ribs), and practically flipped into the chair at the counter.

Bruce followed a few minutes after, and they all shared breakfast while Dick talked on and on.

“I’m just saying, if disaster is something bad, then aster has to be something good, right?” Dick said, shoving an egg into his mouth. His lip had healed over long ago.

Jason rolled his eyes. “That’s not a word. It’s not in the dictionary,” he argued, “So it can’t be.”

He huffed in response. “Well, I say it’s in the DICKtionary,” he said, laughing as his ears turned pink, his retort ready for as soon as Jason said that like it was the most obvious, normal thing in the world. (It was in the new world Jason was living in.)

“Well that definitely isn’t.” Jason replied, like he did it every day (he basically did, now).

“Boys,” Bruce chuckled, like it was a normal day.

“Finish your food,” Alfred chided. And their world was normal.

They ate, and Dick went to school like he had every weekday for the past two and a half weeks, and Bruce went to work, and Alfred somehow managed to balance taking care of the entire house and checking in on Jason enough to make sure that he wouldn’t try to slip out again (It hadn’t crossed Jason’s mind to do so in the past four days.)

Jason basically lived in the library during Dick’s school day, only coming out to read on the couch while Alfred took his tea break in the sitting chair. (And Jason loved how dramatic it was for him to know a British butler, because that only ever happened in the books he liked to read, and he thought it was just a little bit cool how cool Alfred was.)

Then Dick came home from school, and Jason would read while Dick did his homework, and then he was roped into watching the latest crime documentary that Dick was hooked on, because Jason had stayed so long that Dick had finished one series and moved onto the next. And then they both went to the gym and Jason watched while Dick stretched and leapt and swung and bounced around on the uneven bars like he was born to be in the air.

Dick stood on the top of the ten-foot bar and flipped backwards, catching himself on the bar below it before rebounding, swinging again, and then dismounting in a series of quick and graceful flips that left Jason just a little bit breathless, though he would never admit it.

“Where’d ya learn ta do all this stuff?” he asked, and Dick tensed up a little, and walked over to where Jason was propped up against the wall and pretending to read Emma.

He sunk to the ground beside Jason, a serious thought crossing his face. Serious. Dick Grayson, of all people. But there he was, his face dark and tight and a furious tension rooted so deep in his shoulders that Jason wondered how he had ever dismissed it as just anxiety or preparedness in the first place. Because that was anger. And Jason wondered how something he was so familiar with was not so familiar on Dick Grayson at all.

“My parents,” he said quietly, which caused Jason to look at him. He knew that Dick was adopted, but he’d never put much thought into what caused him to be adopted in the first place, seeing as Jason was so young when he’d heard only brief mentions on the news. “We were in the circus, did you know that? We worked the trapeze.”

He leaned his head back, looking to the ceiling like it was a whole other world, and Jason found himself copying, closing his eyes, letting himself see what Dick saw. “And we were the best. The Flying Graysons. That’s what they called us. Me, my mom and dad. My cousin, his parents. The only people in the world who could do the quadruple somersault.” His voice hitched.

“It was for my eighth birthday. It was supposed to be a present. We were performing in Gotham two weeks later, our biggest, most sold-out show yet, and I was going to do the quad for the first time. And I was ready. So, so ready. Ready to earn my name, be a Flying Grayson with the rest of my family.”

“Earlier that day, before our last practice, I heard Pop Haly arguing with these two men. Only, I didn’t understand English all that well. So I knew what they were saying, but I didn’t really understand the meaning behind the words. I thought it was weird, and I tried asking Pop and my parents about it, but nobody would explain it to me, or let me explain it to them.”

(Maybe that was why Dick was such a good talker and listener, Jason thought quietly to himself, kept the thought to himself.)

“The opening night came, and suddenly me and my family were standing at the top, and we were flying, and we were the best. And I performed the quad for the first time, and I was finally a Flying Grayson.” Dick took a breath. It hitched in his throat, came out in a half sort of sob. “The lines snapped. My entire family fell to their deaths, and now I’m the only Flying Grayson. Guess what Zucco said was true, because they became the Falling Graysons that day.”

And Jason just . . . he didn’t know how to feel. Sorrow, for the boy beside him who had given Jason so much but who had had everything taken from him. Anger, for him, that the world was cruel enough to do that to him. And . . . understanding. Because a lot had been taken from Jason, as well.

He opened his eyes and looked over at Dick, whose face was still turned upward, blue eyes unblinking and wet, and Jason lunged at the older boy, arms finding his way around Dick to just . . . hold him. Like Robin had held Jason last night.

He didn’t say sorry. He couldn’t. (Because he got to meet Dick, and because nothing would ever bring them back.)

Dick’s arms found their way around Jason, and he was wrapped in the same warm hug from last night. “I– I can’t feel the same things you feel,” Jason mumbled from the warmth of the hug, “Cause my parents were real shitheads,” he said, tugging himself away so that he could look Dick Grayson in the eye when he said this. “But, I think that a part of us are tha same person. Because I miss ‘em, too. Even if I prob’ly shouldn’t,” he laughed wetly.

Dick laughed just as wetly as Jason had, and rubbed a salty tear from his eye. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said, a soft smile on his face, nothing like the sharp smirks or dangerous grins he had treated Jason with in the past three weeks. “I always thought it would be cool to have a little brother,” he admitted, eyes cast down before meeting Jason’s with something like . . . hope?

And Jason’s insides soared. “I don’t think you’ll find anyone cooler than me,” he grinned, and Dick laughed, and everything was okay, and it was warm, and nice.

Dick went back to his routine, and Jason went back to his book, but his thoughts were elsewhere. They were in the future, and Jason forgot how nice it was to be able to plan to live.

Dinnertime came. All four of them sat down again, and ate, and everything was normal. Alfred went to pick up plates, and Dick and Bruce exchanged a look, and Dick decided he had something he needed to do, and then Bruce laid a soft hand on Jason’s shoulder. Jason looked up.

“Jason, can I speak with you for a moment?”

His chest closed in on itself, but Jason forced a breath into his lungs and followed Bruce into the study.

The door shut behind them, and Bruce led Jason to the couch, sat down. Jason followed.

“There’s something I wanted to speak with you about,” Bruce began, and Jason thought he sounded a little nervous, and Jason’s own heart plummeted because maybe he was right all along, and Robin was wrong, and maybe Jason didn’t belong as much as he thought he did, after all. “Dick and Alfred and I, we’ve really come to love having you here with us, in our home. You fit right in, like there wasn’t ever a part of our world where you weren’t in it.”

“Dick and I both lost our parents at a young age, for terrible reasons. But we’ve found a home here, together, us and Alfred. To make us for the homes we lost as children.”

“And, well,” Bruce said, already standing up by that point and sliding a small sheaf of stapled papers off of his desk, holding them tenderly, carefully in his hands before kneeling down in front of Jason and offering them to him. “We want you to have a permanent place here, a home, if that’s something that you want,” Bruce said, his hands finding their way to Jason’s shoulder again, stabilizing him as his mind went haywire and his heart started to burst. “Jason?”

Jason didn’t say anything. He looked up, dropped the papers on the couch, and flung himself into Bruce’s arms before he could talk himself out of it. “Yes,” he murmured, said, screamed quietly into Bruce’s chest. “Yes, please. I want this. I want this family,” he said, drawing himself back and sniffling.

And Bruce smiled, but this smile wasn’t like all of the other smiles. This smile was meant just for Jason.

“And I want you to want that more than anything. But this needs to be an informed decision, okay? Everything that comes with being a Wayne, being near me, you need to know about. All of Gotham’s eyes are on us, and you’ve already seen what happens to my children when someone wants my money. I want you, Jason. Dick and Alfred want you, too. But we also want you to know everything that comes with being a Wayne.”

Jason shook his head in protest. “I know. I knew as soon as I saw Dick, an’ I don’t care.”

Bruce smiled again. “Then there’s one last thing I need to show you.” He pulled Jason in for another hug before opening the door, where Dick was waiting outside with a something look on his face. Bruce nodded, and Dick beamed so brightly that Jason wondered how anything else he’d ever seen on Dick’s face could ever be compared to the grin he wore.

Dick flew into the room and tackled Jason to the ground in a hug, laughing all the while. “Jay! Can’t believe you said yes!” And Jason couldn’t help but laugh, too, because why wouldn’t he?

He tugged Jason up by the hand, and led him to the grandfather clock behind Bruce’s desk, Bruce already standing nearby. He nudged Jason in the ribs with his elbow and a face-splitting grin. “Watch this,” he whispered with a dangerous look in his bright blue eyes, and then Bruce turned the hands of the grandfather clock, which parted to reveal a steel-gray elevator.

The three of them stepped inside. “Where’re we–” Jason began, but Dick shushed him.

“Just wait, you’ll see. I’ve been dying to tell you for forever.” Bruce laid a careful hand on his shoulder, a cautious look in his eyes.

Some time later, and the door opened, and Jason stepped out into an enormous cave, stalactites hanging from the ceiling, bats dripping from the stone, metal walkways stretching across. A T-rex on a pedestal, an enormous two-sided coin off to the side. A black car and a suspiciously familiar-looking bike. In the center, a large computer, and, as they walked closer, Jason made out two glass cases off to the side.

He neared it. Stood in the center, looked around, and then looked back at the two glasses, Bruce and Dick waiting a bit behind him.

In the two glass cases were two uniforms he would know anywhere.

Batman and Robin.

He snapped around to look at Bruce and Dick, the latter wearing the largest shit-eating grin on his face known to man, a grin he was all-too familiar with.

“You dick!” he scowled, but he couldn’t help the smile that melted into its place.

(Because Robin never left him; he chased after Jason.)

-x-x-x-

Later,

“Can I join?” Jason asked.

“Over my dead body,” Dick laughed.

Chapter 9: Pancakes

Mount Justice; September 2nd, 04:23 EDT

It was early morning by the time they got back. The mission had taken over eighteen hours to complete, and Batman had insisted on a virtual debrief while they were flying back to the mountain so that it would still be fresh on their minds. Logically, Kaldur knew that was the best decision, seeing as his entire team was completely exhausted from the non-stop exertion, both physically and mentally, and they would be either too tired and adrenaline-deprived or too groggy from insufficient sleep for a debrief by the time they returned.

That didn’t mean that he had to like it, though. As soon as they returned to the mountain, nineteen hours later, everyone made the collective, wordless decision to sleep there that night. Kaldur made his way to follow, but stopped when he saw the youngest member of the team perched on one of the couches, typing furiously away at his holowatch.

“Robin,” he said, a hand finding its way to his teammate's shoulder, “It has been a long day. I think it would be good for you to get some rest,” he advised.
The thirteen-year old barely spared him a glance, only flicking his eyes up to show that he’d heard Kaldur’s words. “I’m just finishing up the mission report. Batman always likes a hard copy, and it’s still fresh on my mind right now,” he said, his attention returning to his work.

Kaldur hesitated, but knew that he wouldn’t be able to convince his teammate otherwise. He left Robin to his own business and headed for the showers.

Robin, on his part, was struggling to stay awake. Even before his team had gotten the call for the emergency mission on Friday, he’d been exhausted and barely staying on his feet. He’d had four end-of-week tests, which he’d stayed up studying for the previous night, and a training session with both Canary and Batman before he headed out with Bruce for what was supposed to be a short patrol when they encountered a lead that Batman had needed the team to follow up on.

As a result, Robin was going on two and a half days with less than two hours of sleep, and he was completely exhausted. But he also knew that Bruce would appreciate a mission report as soon as possible, and it was always best to get these sorts of things done when it was still fresh on his mind.

He was going to sleep over at the mountain, anyway, so that he didn’t have to worry about returning to the Batcave early and having to worry about getting things in order at the manor. He didn’t often sleep over at the mountain, only after late-night– or early-morning, it seemed– missions, and always in his room where the door could be locked.

(Shades were great and all for keeping his identity a secret, but not exactly one-hundred percent foolproof method while he was sleeping. Locked doors, however? Great. Although Robin honestly didn’t think he was going to be awake enough to change out of his uniform before collapsing in bed.)

It was just before sunrise when Robin finally finished his mission report for Batman. He leaned his head back, the sigh lodged in the back of his throat finally escaping and the tiredness finally setting in.

He would just rest his eyes for a little bit, right? Yeah. Just for a minute, and then he would go to his room and take the longest, fattest nap of his life.

Megan and Connor were the first to wake up, Megan with her well-meaning desire to cook breakfast for her teammates, and Connor with his sharp kryptonian internal clock.

Connor went for the living room; he took one look at Robin, asleep and curled up next to the couch arm, and sat beside him in his usual spot without another thought, the tv remote in his hand. Soon, the low buzz of static accompanied the background noise of Megan locating various kitchen tools.

Megan didn’t even notice Robin, preferring to busy herself with the task of cooking enough pancakes to satisfy four other teammates and one Kid Flash (really, that boy was in another category all to himself). After she finally finished whisking four bowls of pancake batter, she started to wonder what sorts of toppings her teammates would want mixed in. She started to look over to where Connor was sitting.

“Connor, do you think I should add some chocolate chips to–”

“Shh,” Connor hissed, though not unkindly. Megan turned around and saw Connor, Robin having somehow stretched out to have his head half-propped up against the young clone’s leg, his arm and one leg hanging off the couch.

She raised her hand to mouth. “Oh!” she gasped quietly, and then smiled. Both boys closed themselves off from other people, and the sight of the two being comfortable around each other melted the young martian’s heart. She used her telekinesis to drape a blanket across the sleeping boy and then turned back to her task of making enough pancakes for their resident speedster.

Kaldur came out next, having already completed the strict morning regimen he’d maintained from his time in the Atlantean military. He decided to take it easy after such a long mission, however, and forgo the water part of his workout in favor of taking breakfast with his team.

He glanced at the back of Connor’s head, noting the static playing on the tv, and then headed for the kitchen. M’gann flipped a–burnt– pancake onto an already extremely tall and wobbly stack of the cakes just as Kaldur walked in.

“M’gann, perhaps you should start stacking on a different plate?” he suggested, and the martian turned around with a bright smile on her face.

“Hello Megan!” she exclaimed quietly, tapping a hand against the side of her head. She brought out another plate with her telekinesis, and then divided the current stack of pancakes into two, adding the other half to the plate she’d just brought out. Kaldur realized that she must have already been using her powers to keep the former stack of pancakes from toppling over. “Thank you, Kaldur,” she smiled, pouring another scoop of batter onto her pan.

He returned her smile. “You’re welcome. Do you need any help?”

She shook her head. “No. Only a few more pancakes left to go!” she said quietly.

Kaldur furrowed his brow at her low volume. The mountain’s rooms were all soundproof; no noise from the kitchen would wake the remainder of their sleeping teammates. He looked around for the source of her quietness. “Why are you–”

He stopped as he caught sight of Connor, still watching his the black-and-white “show” on the television, and Robin, locked in a deep sleep and cuddled next to the young kryptonian’s leg. “I’m glad Robin took my advice to get some rest, last night,” he smiled.

Connor looked up from the tv and nodded. “He needs the rest,” he agreed, and then returned his attention to his show.

A few minutes later, Artemis and Wally came next, their usual bickering absent as tired and heavy footsteps padded down the hall. Artemis blearily propped a hand against the wall and used the other to rub the sleep from her eyes, Wally passing her up to head straight to the kitchen, a tired look on his face as well.

“Morning, beautiful,” he smiled at Megan as she levitated a tall stack of pancakes to rest in front of him. “For me? Thanks!” His face instantly brightened at the prospect of food, and he sped to grab a fork before sitting back down to start eating. The fact that his stack of food was mostly either under- or over-cooked didn’t seem to bother him.

Kaldur also received a stack of pancakes, and Artemis plopped down at the kitchen counter where a plate waited for her, as well. She huffed a heavy breath in Megan’s direction that the young martian took as a “thank you”, knowing that the archer wasn’t much of a morning person.

“Thank you, M’gann. It was sweet of you to make all of us breakfast,” Kaldur said, keeping an eye on his stack of three pancakes, noting that one of them was definitely burnt, and that the one on the bottom was half-leaking onto his plate. Maybe the one in the middle had a bit of potential, he thought to himself.

Artemis was too tired to realize that one of her two pancakes was entirely black-and-brown, and only confusedly figured out that her food didn’t taste quite right halfway through. And even then, she only belatedly added more syrup like that would fix the problem.

“Is it any good?” Megan asked excitedly, flicking her gaze between the three teammates already eating. Artemis growled out another incoherent grunt, which Megan couldn’t quite decipher, but the archer was still eating so she took it as a good sign. Kaldur had pulled the pancake from the middle out from between the top and bottom cakes, and was picking at what was now the top of the stack.

Wally was already halfway through his dozen pancakes. His mouth was still stuffed when he said, “Amazing, babe. We should do this more often.” Although, it really sounded more like, “Amzngh bbf. Ehfuld doh’fish mmften.” Megan only caught about half of it, but, again, the speedster had very happily devoured another two pancakes in that time, so she took it as a good sign.

She smiled at him even as she thought she may have still miscalculated how much food would be needed to sate the speedster’s bottomless stomach. He only had three pancakes left on his plate, and he didn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon. She shot a nervous glance at the remaining pancakes on the plate near the stove. And she still had to feed Connor and Robin.

Her eyes widened as she remembered her other two teammates. She looked over at them. “Connor!” she half-whispered. “Would you like some pancakes?”

He looked over at where his other teammates were all gathered at the kitchen counter, the martian’s hands still cupped around his mouth to carry her quiet message. Connor looked down at his lap. Robin was still fast asleep, his nose tucked under the blanket M’gann had given him, his hair a mess, and his head still propped on Connor’s leg. The clone started to get up, but the young boy only mumbled something under his breath and flopped an arm over Connor’s lap.

He frowned, realizing his predicament, and looked over at M’gann, who seemed to have realized the same thing. “I can bring them to you?” she suggested. “But Robin might be hungry, too,” she hummed as she thought.

At the mention of their youngest teammate’s name, Artemis and Wally looked up to see what M’gann was talking about. “Robin? I thought he went back home?” Artemis asked, blinking the last of the sleep from her eyes, although her general grumpiness didn’t seem to be blinked away with it.

Wally kept turning in his chair and looking around the room until he spotted what M’gann was talking about. He paused, and Artemis looked in that direction to see what could keep their ever-moving speedster still. “Oh,” she said, a piece of pancake still on her fork as she set the utensil down on her plate. “Guess he didn’t.”

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Rob asleep before,” Wally said, food momentarily forgotten. He stood up to walk closer to the scene, followed by M’gann and Artemis. “He looks so–” Wally watched his young friend’s chest rise and flaw slowly underneath the blanket, the white eyes of his domino tiny slits and his black hair, although usually a carefully styled mess, in a mesh of dried gel and forced-straight waves. Against Connor, his friend looked so . . . small, not at all like the legend of Robin that had encouraged him to become Kid Flash. Robin looked like a–

“Young,” Artemis finished, clearly seeing exactly what Wally had. “I keep forgetting that he’s only fourteen.”

“Thirteen,” Wally instantly corrected before he had the sense to snap his mouth shut. He internally groaned, and Artemis looked over to him in an obvious question. “Just something he said to me one time. I don’t even think he remembers saying anything,” he said, thinking quickly. And it wasn’t like that wasn’t what happened. It was just that it was a few years ago, now.

The team fell silent for a bit at that small revelation, looking at the still-asleep boy on the couch. And each of them were struck, just a bit, by the fact that he was the youngest of all of them, and human besides.

Kaldur shook his head in thought, and then joined the rest of his team standing around the living room. He knew his teammate was young, and as leader he already felt so much responsibility for the wellbeing of his team, but to be reminded of how young Robin was, Kaldur felt the weight of his burdens as leader all the heavier.

Connor looked over at the atlantean and practically read his thoughts. “It’s because he acts older than all of us,” he said wisely in defense of the boy asleep on his lap, the static long forgotten.

“It’s just that it’s a bit . . . scary to remember that he’s still just a kid,” M’gann said, defending Kaldur, who had yet to speak up. “And human,” she added quietly, which caught Artemis's attention.

“Hey, just because he’s human, that doesn’t mean he’s weak,” she argued, her voice steeled and her eyes narrowing as the fingers of her bow-hand twitched a little. “He works in Gotham with The Batman,” she stressed, knowing exactly what sort of city she lived in. “He can hold his own.”

Wally didn’t argue with her.

Kaldur finally spoke up. “Both of you are right. Robin may be young, and human, but he is just as skilled as the rest of our team. Come, let’s finish the breakfast M’gann has so kindly prepared for us.”

“Should we wake him up?” Connor asked..

Artemis thought. “M’gann did work really hard. And I’m sure Robin’s just as hungry as we are.” She paused, looking over at Wally. “Well, most of us,” she said with a smirk.

Wally rolled his eyes. “Does ‘high metabolism’ ring a bell? It kinda comes with the whole running-faster-than-a-speeding-arrow deal.”

“Whatever, kid mouth,” she retorted and crossed her arms. “Since you’re so fast, why don’t you go wake him up? In case he wakes up on the wrong side of the couch this morning?”

Wally shrugged, and stepped forward, a hand landing on Robin’s shoulder. “Rob–”

Robin’s eyes flashed open, the hand flopped over Connor’s lap shooting forward to lock onto Wally’s wrist, and he shot upwards, his feet already underneath him as he jumped into the air, twisting over Wally’s shoulders and bringing the speedster’s arm with him. He landed behind him, kneeing the speedster in the back to slam him painfully to the ground and twisting his friend’s arm behind him in the process.

“Ow!” Wally cried out as the breath was knocked from him. The team was still frozen around them. Connor blinked.

Robin shook his head and looked down, realizing who exactly he had pinned beneath him. “Wally!” Robin quickly stepped off of his friend’s back and offered him a hand. “Why would you do that?”

The speedster took the proffered hand and allowed his friend to pull him up. “Rob, bro I was just trying to wake you up for pancakes,” he explained to his friend’s questioning glare.

Robin’s expression turned sheepish. He smoothed a hand over his hair. “Oh. Um, sorry, then,” he grinned.

Kaldur, for his part, had just watched the entirely one-sided confrontation, but now he let a smile melt across his face. “Now that everyone is awake, let’s enjoy the breakfast M’gann has cooked for us,” he suggested to ease the tension. Everyone nodded their agreement and went to the kitchen. Kaldur hung back for a little bit, watching Robin’s retreating back.

Robin would be just fine, he thought.

Chapter 10: Throwback

Mount Justice; September 3rd, 7:58 EDT

“I need to talk to Aqualad. The rest of you hit the showers and head home.” Batman’s voice echoed cruelly, needlessly in Robin’s ears, and his mentor repeated to Robin, “Just Aqualad.” Robin pointedly looked away, his heart curling in on itself, and walked off, sparing half of a glance over his shoulder before following the rest of the team down the hallway. He grabbed his go-bag from his room in the mountain before leaving through the zeta tubes.

Soon, he was met with the familiar sight of the batcave, and the soft squeaking of hundreds of bats ringing above him. He stepped through the cave, pushing his unfairly angry thoughts away, and went straight for the downstairs showers, as Alfred liked to refer to them.

He quickly stripped and began to rub the lightened skin-dye and globs of clay from his body, ran his fingers through his curls to release them from their gelled prison, sighed as the hot water burned away any and all coherent thoughts. Just the emotions that ran themselves red on repeat in Dick’s head, ringing through his brain like new revelations that he’d heard a thousand times before.

Logically, Robin knew that Aqualad was the leader of the team, and with that responsibility came certain . . . privileges, like having a one-on-one Batman™ scolding, which Robin was certainly glad enough to avoid. He was even happy enough to avoid being leader, though he had the most experience on the team (okay, so maybe he was a bit salty toward Batman for not being seen as the most experienced, but–), content to wait until Aqualad was ready to step down and relinquish control.

But, unlogically, it stung a little to be passed over by his own mentor/father figure in favor of someone else. Aqualad. It wasn’t like he wanted the Batman-scolding, or the disappointed, doomsday glare. He hated it, in fact.

But was also, sadly, somewhat familiar. And Dick sort of wanted something familiar, even a bad sort of familiar, with all of the change that had been happening over the last three weeks, when Batman and he were doing “Dynamic Duo things”. Most notably, the change that occurred over the last three days.

Because it was official now, and their family had changed. For the better, and Dick was unbelievably happy about that. And ashamed that he was also a little upset.

Because it was unreasonable, wasn’t it? Dick thought, toweling off his hair and running a cream through his loose waves. He shrugged on his clothes and slid out of the shower stall, the steam following him even as he shed Robin and stepped into Dick.

He should be happy, and he was. Completely, but also not . . . completely. He just needed time to adjust to the change.

He made his way out of the Batcave, left through the elevator, and walked out into a hallway a little ways down from Dick’s bedroom. It was one of the many exits leading out of the Batcave, and his particular favorite for when he wanted to avoid walking past Bruce’s bedroom. It did, however, now led past another person’s bedroom.

The door opened, and Jason stepped out into the hallway and right in Dick’s path, and he barely managed to spin around and avoid colliding with the younger boy.

“Hey! Watch it, Dickhead,” Jason warned, his hands flying up to avoid the impact even as the now-familiar nickname flew from his lips.

Dick couldn’t help the smile that split his face when he remembered he had a new baby brother, as difficult as the change may be. “Sure, Jaybird. Cause it’s my fault you like to slam doors open like nobody’s business.”

He pouted, a cute thing that was probably supposed to look intimidating but Dick had not-so-recently acquired big brother powers now. Which meant he was immune to intimation from eleven year olds, and Jason didn’t seem to realize that he was still young enough to pull off puppy-dog eyes, though just barely. Thankfully, Dick figured he would be too old by the time he realized his missed opportunity. “Yeah, yeah,” Jason said crossly, rolling his eyes. “You eaten breakfast yet?” he asked, and Dick shook his head. “C’mon, I was jus’ about ta help Alfred fix us a late one.”

Jason and Dick headed down the mansion’s large front steps, then changed course for the kitchen, where the shuffling of metal and the beating of kitchen utensils could already be heard. His little brother (!)(?) went to help Alfred stir something or another in a kitchen bowl while Dick sat down carefully at the counter, making slow moves so that Alfred wouldn’t see his presence as a threat in the kitchen.

It wasn’t that Dick was a terrible cook. It was just that he tended to get a bit . . . antsy while waiting for things to bake, or broil, or . . . just cook in general. The only type of food that Alfred would let him make anymore were the recipes he remembered his Mami teaching him in the quiet of their trailer. And even then, he made them at night, after a hard mission when he needed some sort of comfort. He would always clean up his mess and then walk in the next morning to Alfred’s soft, knowing look and no words spoken but everything known between them.

But he still generally wasn’t allowed to help in the kitchen. At least he got partial amnesty, though, whereas Bruce just wasn’t allowed in except to eat.

Jason, however, seemed to have the same magic touch as Alfred. Or he at least didn’t get bored and do cartwheels until realizing something was burning in the other room.

They shared the same patience; maybe not the same type, but more like the same amount. Alfred was calm and practiced, Jason focused and intentional. But they were both willing to wait like time didn’t work the same for them, like they were speedsters or something.

Dick felt like he never had enough time. If he wasn’t doing something, anything, then he was wasting precious time, and he couldn’t afford to do that ever again.

So he was glad that Jason and Alfred had a special way to share that time together. And as long as he was allowed to creep in on the edge of that time, knowing that they were safe and together (even if it wasn’t just Alfred making tea and Dick huddled into the kitchen booth after a bad nightmare) was enough for Dick.

After breakfast, Dick left for the library, waiting in the wings for a certain someone to fall into his trap. He pulled out a Jane Austin book and sat down in a nearby bean bag, leaning into the give of the cushion and feeling the tension melt from his spine. He let out a sigh, and settled down to wait, his eyes slowing shut and his breathing slowing until he fell into a restless, wakeful nap, the book nestled carelessly, carefully across his chest.

About an hour later, by Dick’s best guess, the door to the library creaked open, and he fluttered his eyes open to see Jason standing at the door (with the same awe-struck expression he wore every time he stepped into the library . . . it was endearing and Dick planned to encourage it as much as possible). He sat up a little, and Jason finally caught sight of him waking up from his nap.

Jason stepped forward and pulled the book off of Dick’s chest. “Hey, Little Wing,” he greeted with an easy grin, the nickname rolling off his tongue like soft butter. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Jason read the back of the book cover and then looked over at Dick, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Why were you napping?” he asked suspiciously. “This is a good book,” he added when Dick shot him a pointed expression. “How could’ya fall asleep with an Austin?”

“I guess I’m not reading it right. English, you know,” he explained with a casual shrug. He pulled the other bean bag over and patted at it with one hand. “Read with me?” he asked, letting the easy smile he reserved just for Jason stretch across his face.

Jason huffed, but plopped down beside him sideways in the beanbag, his head propped back against Dick’s arm and his legs crossed on top of the side table.

“The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex,” Jason began, and Dick let his head loll backwards in the bean bag, and draped one arm over his eyes as he paid close attention to the story. Dick wasn’t a fan of the classics, but Jason, for all of his tough-guy routine, couldn’t get enough of them, something Dick had found out early on in their relationship back when Jason had only known Dick as Robin, the vigilante who brought him on a motorcycle ride every Tuesday for burgers and conversation. And Jason always appreciated it when someone liked the things he liked; and Dick liked reading, when it served a purpose and didn’t just take up his free time.

So if Jason was reading, even if it was something as not-exciting (he couldn’t say boring or he swore Jason would skin him alive if he even thought the word anywhere near an Austin book) as Sense & Sensibility, then it meant that he was watching over his little brother and being productive. And it settled his restless spirit enough that, even if he wasn’t actually sleeping and was instead paying rapt attention to every other word Jason read aloud, he was getting three times as much rest as his hour nap from earlier.

Time passed, and Alfred eventually fetched them for a late lunch. Bruce would be at work for at least another three hours, so Dick took the time to put in a quick acrobatics workout before getting a bit of his extra summer-school work done.

Back at the circus, Dick hadn’t had any sort of formal education, and the summer after Dick had been taken in as Bruce's ward, the man had hired private tutors to help Dick with English and a few other subjects that he would have been expected to know for the American school system. As it turned out, Dick was a quick learner (and evidently some sort of genius, according to an IQ test Bruce made him take), and by the time he had to take the required exam for any of Gotham’s private schools, he was able to skip a grade. Math was his best subject, science and history close seconds, though his history was more culturally learned than professionally taught. English, however, made little to no sense.

Sure, he could format an argument and reason with the best of them. But the language itself didn’t seem to have any sort of rule that it kept to, unlike math or science. Dick was great at learning languages, and had known no less than five from his time in the circus. But it was sort of difficult to order his thoughts in only one language when he was so used to thinking in a pidgin of Romani-German-French-Russian. Not to mention that English was up there on the list of the hardest languages to learn.

Regardless, Dick intended to finish high school as quickly as possible. Hence, the extra high school online courses he intended to take (and had scheduled expertly, thank you very much) before, during, and after his Freshman year so that he could just sort of . . . skip over sophomore year. It was his and Bab’s plan, one they’d come up with over a year ago when they unanimously decided that Sophomore year was the worst out of all of them.

Unfortunately, English class. Just . . . English class. He was taking a type of supplemental English I for foreign learners that would substitute for the class he would typically take Freshman year, so that he would be able to handle the more difficult Sophomore-level class when he had the chance to take it this year. Or that was the plan, anyways.

He would have to look into getting Jason to read some of his high school books to him. He’d probably reluctantly enjoy that, so Dick would have to see if he could hack into the school network and find the list of books so that he could read them beforehand and . . .

Dick looked over at the clock. It was almost time for his second training session.

He packed up his books, left a sticky note on his desk reminding him to hack into Gotham Academy’s network later, and then changed into athleisure before heading down to the manor’s gym.

He stretched, worked on the uneven bars a little, and then took to the training dummies in the back for a light warm-up. As he pounded away at the targets, he couldn’t help but let some of the anger from earlier seep into his mind. Bruce, wanting to only talk to Aqualad.

And that wasn’t the only thing. As much as he loved Jason, Dick didn’t get all that much time with Bruce– and Bruce was different from Batman– in the first place, what with Bruce’s day job, both of their night jobs, school rapidly approaching, and Dick’s new team. Time was running away from him, from the time they got to spend together with just both of them.

Time ran away from Dick with his parents, too, and he would do anything to get that time back.

Dick spun into a heavy kick, his foot slamming into the dummy with a force that left his breath reeling, and Dick decided to make his way to the hanging rings instead. Calm himself down a bit.

He lifted himself up, and then began to maneuver his weight in the air, enjoying the burn in his shoulders and core as he kept working.

The harder he trained, the better he would be as Batman’s Robin. And maybe Dick didn’t get to spend all that much time with Bruce. Okay. That’s fair enough, he thought, because Jason couldn’t be Robin with Batman, so he had to be Jason with Bruce, even if that ate away at Bruce’s time with Dick.

And that had to be fair, even though it hurt. Dick pulled himself into an upside-down handstand, his muscles vibrating angrily as he began to lower himself until he was parallel with the ceiling.

But why did Batman have to choose to spend time with Aqualad when he could have been spending time with Robin? He sent Robin home, but didn’t go home himself, not even to change before heading back to WE. Maybe they could’ve had time to slip in a quick training session as Batman and Robin.

“Just Aqualad,” he let himself mumble crossly under his breath. Dick shifted into an L-sit, his core crying out and the pain still comfortable. He leaned into another handstand, feeling the pull as he rotated all the way around and swung himself over, turning into a flip as he launched himself upwards and into a series of flips to land on one of the nearby punching bags.

However, in his anger, he’d miscalculated, and the softness of the punching bag gave too much under the ball of his right foot, the momentum of his flip carrying him too far forward and off of his landing zone. He managed to soften the stumble into a walkover that carried him backwards until he slammed against the gym wall.

Stupid, stupid, his thought rang out, and Dick felt a wave of anger wash over him, and he turned and plunged his fist into the gym wall, feeling it give way even as he felt the bruises that would be forming on his knuckles later. He rested the other hand against the wall, his forehead also pressed against the cool material, and then pushed back from the wall.

Stupid, Robin, stupid, Dick told himself. If he didn’t get his act together, there wouldn’t be any time for Batman and Robin, much less Bruce and Dick.

He stalked back to the hanging rings. One more time.

He just sat down for a rest thirty minutes later, water bottle in hand against his sweaty forehead in an effort to cool himself off, when Alfred stepped into the gym and cleared his throat. Dick looked up from where he’d been glaring at the floor.

“Master Bruce wishes to see you.”

Dick sucked in a breath and stood, following Alfred outside the gym. A ball bounced across the cool ground, the orange roundness gleaming darkly in the night sky as Dick caught it last second. He looked up, and Bruce was standing across from him, dressed in Bruce-Wayne workout clothes, not Batman workout clothes.

“What’s this?” Dick asked, his brow furrowed as he thought through the possibilities.

Bruce shifted his stance the slightest bit, his jaw softened. “Training. Hand-eye coordination,” Bruce explained. Dick tightened his grip on the ball, smiled, cocked his head a sliver of an inch.

“One on one?” He asked, hoped, teased.

Bruce inched an eyebrow upward. “If you think you can handle it,” he challenged.

Dick dropped into a crouch, springing forward with the ball dribbling easily beside him, dodging Bruce’s quick spin. He laughed as he ran down the court, Bruce in tow behind him. The ball flew through the air, clanging against the backboard as Dick cried out, “Yes!”

Nothing but net.

-x-x-x-

Bialya; September 10th, 00:16 EEST

The first thing that Dick noticed was the sand, thousands of tiny particles digging into his neck and sinking into his hair. Gritty, and tiny, and everywhere, all around him. It was half like what he thought taking a nap in a cloud would look like, if it wasn’t so hot.

That was the second thing that Dick noticed. The heat. It was blistering, baking, sinking into his bones, and he could feel the beads of sweat sliding down the side of his face and sticky underneath his . . . uniform.

That was the third thing that Dick noticed. He wasn’t Dick right now. He was Robin.

He blinked his eyes open, grateful for the light-adjusting lens he had in his domino mask as the sun greeted him brightly overhead. At least the sand wasn’t in his eyes like it was everywhere else. It was very . . . itchy.

He groaned, his head pounding as he pulled himself into a sitting position. He brought a hand to his forehead and squeezed a handful of hair tight enough to bring some relief to the terrible headache he’d somehow acquired. He ran his hand through his hair for any sign of blood or injury, but there was none. No head wound, just a headache. Maybe from the heat? But Robin couldn’t remember being in the desert (because, looking around, he belatedly realized that’s where he was and not a beach, unfortunately) for long enough to get a headache from it.

Unless he could get a headache for staring at so much sand. There was so much of it. Sand. Robin stumbled to his feet, his legs strangely weak and his feet sinking in the sand but otherwise supporting his weight.

Looking around, Robin could see a large rock formation, and he began to make his way toward it. He reached the edge of the rock and crouched down beside it, peering around it to catch sight of large puffs of heavy smoke in the distance. He heard the soft crackling of tires on sand and hurried to climb up the stone to wedge himself into a crevice.

A jeep passed under him, right where he’d been half a minute previously. Robin peered closer into the vehicle and caught sight of the soldiers inside. “Those are Bialyan Republic Army uniforms,” he mumbled to himself, his mouth gummy and dry. “But what are Bialyans doing in–” Robin paused and pulled up the display on his HoloGlove, bringing up his gps and widening his eyes as he realized his location. “Uh, Bialya?” he questioned. “Okay, better question: what am I doing in Bialya–”

Then Robin’s eyes caught on the date shown on the display, and his eyes widened even further in surprise. September 10th. “In September? What happened to March?”

A dry couch caught in Robin’s throat. There was no way he was missing a whole six months of his life, but try as he may, he couldn’t remember anything after one of their usual patrols in Gotham. Nothing out of the ordinary happened that he could remember, just, well, Gotham stuff. And then there was a sort of fuzzy blankness.

And then sand. Lots and lots of sand. Did Robin mention how much sand there was?

“Better radio Batman,” he muttered to himself. If nothing else, he was sure Bruce would have some sort of contingency plan in case something like this happened. He wouldn’t doubt it. Robin dragged one finger up to the comm he still had in his left ear, but a painful flash of memory . . . maintain radio silence at all times. . . burned in his brain past the fuzzy and dark gap in recollection.

He shook his head to clear it. “Or not,” he groaned, standing and stepping toward the edge of the rock. He leapt off, spinning four times in the air before landing on another outcrop. He started to jump off again, but a swatch of black and red caught his attention.

A black patch of cloth, half of a red curve printed onto it. He looked at it closely to determine if there was some sort of clue that was meant for him. Maybe the Riddler? But if there was anything to know, it wasn’t anything he could learn without the past six months of memory.

Robin stuffed the fabric into an extra pocket and continued his descent off the rock, landing quietly on the sand.

He looked up at the tracks that the jeep left behind, and almost considered following it, but when he glanced at the gps on his HoloWatch to see which direction that was, he noticed the gps marker that he’d glanced over in favor of the date. He hummed to himself. “Well, I guess that’s where I’m going.”

He started walking. For a very long time. He didn’t know how much time had already passed, was already passing, was going to keep passing. He hated losing time, and even though he was able to keep track of how much time had passed based on his watch, the track of the sun, it was still just . . . slipping through his fingers. Like sand.

(Robin was really starting to hate sand.)

Gosh, and it was so– so hot. Sweltering hot. If he were any cooler he’d be able to come up with more words to say hot, but even then, that was more Jason’s territory.

Robin faltered.

Jason. He’d only known the kid for around a year, and only visited on Tuesdays. But the kid had grown on him. Like mold.

To imagine that they’d met because the ten-year old had decided it was obviously such a brilliant idea to try to steal the wheels off of his R-cycle.

Half of a basically one-sided conversation later, and Dick felt . . . not exactly pity for the kid, but a sort of sober understanding that he could have been lost to the Gotham system just as he had. Because the kid had obviously been picked over and forgotten, just as Dick had for those three, horrible months.

And Dick had just wanted to make Jason not feel forgotten about. So he’d offered the kid a ride on his motorcycle in order to bribe him into taking food. Both Batman and Alfred had a distaste for fast food, one insisting it was a mistake for his training regimen, and the other protesting that it was no food for growing boys. And Robin had to agree, for the most part. But Jason needed the food.

He’d slipped the kid a twenty after that first night, and he almost intended to forget about him, let the kid live his own life and make his own mistakes because what could a twelve year-old do to help?

But of course, the guilt had sunk in, because he wasn’t just twelve years old. He was Robin. And that meant something. It was a legacy that he wanted to build, and Jason was one of the only people who’d actually gotten to meet Robin, so he was a good first step to building that legacy.

One that meant light, and hope, and family, everything that he remembered his parents meaning to him.

He found Jason again the following Tuesday, and bribed him and fed him again, and they talked (well, Robin talked and Jason mostly listened, and then Robin gave him most of his food, anyways), and it was sort of nice. He liked helping. He liked being there for Jason, even if he could tell the kid was anything but amenable to the idea. Hostile, if anything.

But he kept seeking the kid out, slipped a few trackers on him so that he could make sure he was safe, and every Tuesday, Robin brought him food to keep him alive and money to keep him out of trouble and conversation to keep him sane.

Robin hoped that he hadn’t missed six months of Tuesdays. He really wanted that kid to still be alive.

Even one or two Tuesdays would be bad enough for a kid that small on the streets of Gotham.

But Robin couldn’t think about that now. Night was finally sinking, and with it, the cold, and Robin was finally nearing the gps marker on his map.

He stepped lightly up the dune, his head a bit woozy but the dizziness fading with the heat. “I wish I could remember why I put a GPS marker here,” he grumbled under his breath, looking up from his HoloWatch. He let out a small gasp and dropped to the ground as he spotted a large mechanical device sitting in the middle of some sort of abandoned campsite.

“Huh. Guessing that’s why,” he said. Robin slid down the dune a little bit and started to move closer, keeping a tired eye out for anything weird before fully committing. But there was nothing, just him and the weird looking . . . something. (He was so tired.)

He shrugged to himself and jumped down next to the device, but he was startled when eight soldiers popped up from the sand covers they were hiding under. He quickly fished out a smoke bomb and flung it to the ground, the foggy substance exploding out and eliciting a series of hacking coughs from the soldiers before they could get a good look at him.

“Sahibit il galala tureadahoo hayan!” Robin blinked, groggily struggling to translate the Arabic in his mind. It’d been so long since he heard it that he only caught about half of it, and understood less. When half of the soldiers charged towards his general direction, however, and the other half raised their military-grade guns, he got the general idea.

Robin narrowed his eyes behind the mask and silently lunged for the closest of the eight soldiers, slamming a foot into his gut, then grabbing the man’s head and bringing it down hard on his reinforced knee. He was out cold half a second later, but Robin was already moving.

He spun around, darting through the smoke as he noticed two soldiers having found each other in a small patch of smokeless ground. He positioned himself next to a fourth soldier even as he pulled out two bolas and sent them spinning toward the second and the third, pinning them easily to the ground. He cackled a little at the sound their bodies made hitting the sand.

The fourth soldier was one of the four who had pulled out a gun, hesitating before using it presumably to avoid shooting a fellow soldier. But Robin noticed the change in his stance after quickly dispatching the first three, and realized that his initial trigger-shyness had disappeared. Robin moved in close to avoid being one of the man’s target’s, and jumped off of the man’s knee to knee him in the chest. The man collapsed and skidded across the sand with a heavy “whumph!”

Four more to go. They were further off, and still didn’t know where Robin was, although the same couldn’t be said for him. He drew out three disks, sending two of the guns spinning from their hands, though the third avoided it at the last second. Robin sprinted toward the third soldier, leaping into the air and locking onto the man’s shoulder and spinning him around and off-balance. The two soldiers who’d had their guns knocked from their hands rushed forward just as Robin flipped, harshly pushed the soldier he was on into another, and then turned around just in time to send a punch flying into the third’s face.

“Kifaya! Idrab nar!” Robin spun around in the direction of the commanding voice, the violence obvious in the leader’s threat. One of the men he’d knocked down scrambled for a discarded gun and began to open fire into the smoke, and he was joined by several other soldiers who’d arrived during the fight.

Robin launched into a back handspring to avoid a spray of bullets, stopping at the opposite edge of the smokescreen and out of their aiming range. But then they kept coming, and Robin spun in another series of flips, sending two birdarangs in the soldiers’ general direction. Two cries of pain, and the two guns skid across the sand.

Another spray of bullets, faster, closer, and Robin dropped to the ground, eating sand in the process. He pressed the side of his face to the sand as the bullets came in waves over his head.

Then he spotted a dark whir of movement streaking across his field of vision. “I’ll take that!” And Robin sank further into the sand in relief for half a second as he realized that he recognized the cheerful voice. Wally.

Robin scrambled to his feet just as Wally called out, “Thanks!” and sped to a stop, dropping a large pile of stolen weapons to the ground in front of him as he clapped his hands together as if to brush off all the hard work. He sped back into the crowd of soldiers, and Robin threw out another smoke bomb and joined him.

He shot forward toward one of the soldiers, who had already begun to throw out a hasty punch at Robin’s approach, but he easily spun out of the way and into a flying kick straight to the man’s ribs. He landed and rolled to the side to avoid the bullets a nearby soldier sent his way, and then tackled the man to the ground at his knees, quickly slamming a fist into the side of his face to knock him out.

Looking up, he saw a third soldier suddenly collapse to the ground as Wally sped past him. Two other soldiers took notice and turned their guns toward Kid Flash, but they were both levitated into the air after only a few shots.

Robin’s eyes widened in surprise as he spun around to find the cause of the spontaneous levitation, birdarangs already in hand, but he couldn’t find anything in the smoke even with his enhanced lenses. He turned around just as a green-skinned, red-haired girl faded into view from the smoke, and he yelled in surprise, and sent discs flying toward the girl before he even registered that they left his hand. (because who sneaks up on someone like that?! . . . besides Robin, that is…)

The girl gasped in surprise and flung up her hands to stop the discs from colliding with her. Robin almost sent a few more flying her way, but then she started to reassure him instead of attacking, and Robin caught sight of a more familiar red head in the corner of his vision. He barely heard what she had to say, as Wally had just finished up with the last of the soldiers and was headed his way.

“KF!” He and his friend sprinted toward each other, and Robin took Wally’s hand in his in a familiar fashion. “Man, it is good to see a familiar face,” he said, letting his relief show.

Wally smiled back at him. “Hey, Rob. Memory loss?” And Robin blinked in relief.

His shoulders sank for half a second before he flung up his hands in exasperation. “Six months!” he complained. “Let’s hogtie these creeps and compare notes,” he suggested, and he, Wally, the girl he suspected was a martian, and a Green-Arrow wannabe finished tying up the soldiers.

“So,” Robin began, dragging out the word, “We’re a team?” he asked doubtfully, one eyebrow raised behind the mask. He sincerely disbelieved that Batman would let a group of teens he‘d never met know about Robin’s existence, especially since it had taken over a year for him to even let the Justice League know. And then another week or two to meet him.

M’gann (he’d learned her name earlier) nodded. “The four of us and Superboy,” she agreed.

Robin remembered the torn shirt piece he’d found earlier and drew it from his pocket. “Then this must be his.”

“Yes!” M’gann said excitedly, reaching for the black and red fabric. “Did you see him?”

“I think we did!” Artemis remembered, elbowing Wally in the ribcage.

His face brightened as he recalled what Artemis mentioned. “Feral-boy?” he questioned, “Some teammate. He attacked us.”

“He didn’t know who we are,” the green archer retorted, and then snapped with the same annoyed, angry tone, “I don’t even know who we are!”

Robin interjected. “I remember Batman ordering radio silence. Our team,” Robin half-paused, “must work for him,” he suggested.

Wally smirked at the mention of the dark knight. “How do you know we don’t work for my mentor?” he asked, and pressed a thumb to the lightning bolt on his emblem, which caused his suit to morph from a gray-and-black mesh to a bright yellow color with red lines. “Whoa!” he gasped in response to the color change, slapping his hand against his chest a few more times. “This is so cool!”

Robin, curious, follows Artemis’s example as they press their hands to their own emblems to see if their uniforms did the same. Robin suppressed a pout of disappointment as Artemis finally exclaimed, “This is ridiculous.” She turned to Wally, who had changed the color of his suit yet again. “Stop touching yourself!”

Robin snickered, and Wally changed his color scheme one more time to its traditional yellow-and-red with a knowing look on his face. Artemis growled, and then turned to M’gann. “We need our memories back.”

M’gann nodded anxiously, and then lifted her fingers to her head as her eyes glowed bright white, and suddenly the four of them were standing in a blank expanse, distant, flickering moments of memories spinning in the background.

Robin stepped half-back, instantly closing himself off and thinking of a large, red-and-white circus tent, all locked up in chains and barred except for the ticket line.

Miss Martian winced, her form now a ghostly white as she floated before them, and she looked over at Robin to explain. “I’ve brought you into my mind to share what I remember so far. But I need your help. Together our broken memories can form a whole if you open your minds to mind.”

“You wanna paw through our private thoughts?” she asked angrily, her face quickly coloring red and her hands fisted tightly at her legs.

Robin frowned, his own thoughts not far from hers. M’gann spoke up. ‘I don’t wish to intrude, but–”

“You need to hack our minds to figure out what happened to us. Got it, go,” Robin growled out, already sorting through his thoughts to be prepared for the martian’s intrusion. “Just stay away from the stuff that’s not yours,” he warned, eyes narrowed. He didn’t like the situation one bit, but if it was going to keep him alive. . .

“My brain’s all yours. Try not to let its brilliance overwhelm you,” Wally drawled, interrupting Robin’s thoughts.

“Or underwhelm you,” Robin smirked, and then another thought occurred to him after his recent experience trying to translate Arabic. “Hey, why isn’t anyone just whelmed?”

 

Artemis turned to M’gann, apparently deciding to ignore Robin’s very justified epiphany. Robin saw out of the corner of his eye as hers and Wally’s fingertips brushed together. Interesting.

“Last six months, only,” she said, emphasizing the last word. “And only what you need.”

Miss Martian’s eyes began to glow, and Robin felt threads of connection pull his mind closer to the other three, and he focused hard to know exactly where M’gann was going and what she was looking through, though, thankfully, she seemed to stop just inside, as they all recalled the mission they’d been given the previous day.

 

. . . “The Watchtower detected an immense power surge in the Bialyan desert . . .”
. . . “Maintain radio silence at all times. . . “

. . .Someone looked through binoculars at the vast stretch of Bialyan sand. M’gann, Superboy, and Artemis, Superboy moving the large mechanical device. . .

. . . “All clear” . . Robin’s voice

. . . “Set up here” . . .

Artemis and Robin crawled over the sand on their bellies.

. . . “Jackpot!” . . . Wally

. . . “Detecting non-terrestrial trace elements from the tent . . .”

. . . “Maintain telepathic contact” . . .

 

And then it was as if a floodgate opened, and Miss Martian had no need to dig any deeper, as that one memory opening paved the way for the rest to be recalled. She quickly shut down the mental link to allow her teammates some privacy, and they all opened their eyes to the desert, once more.

“Aqualad!” all four of them shouted, remembering their sixth teammate.

-x-x-x-

Mount Justice; September 14th; 8:04 EDT

“On July 4th, four ice-themed supervillains orchestrated coordinated attacks in four different cities, and were apprehended accordingly. Cold and Frost were remanded to Belle Reve, Junior was directed to a juvenile detention facility, and Freeze was sent to his usual cell in Arkham Asylum. However, Junior recently petitioned to be tried as an adult, and Freeze insisted on being declared legally sane, which has resulted in all four villains receiving cells in Belle Reve.”

Robin and the rest of the team all stood in the debriefing room, Batman at the head of the computer where several screens projected information regarding the four villains.

“Freeze, however, left behind in Arkham an aspiring meta-protege named Steven Wilkins; as he is not legally insane, he has been detained in Gotham’s Juvenile Detention Center, where new technology has recently been put into place to contain young meta criminals.”

Batman pressed a button, which pulled up information regarding the aforementioned place and its new technological implements, and Dick couldn’t help the tension that coiled in his muscles with the memories from Juvie.

“League Members will be going undercover in Belle Reve to ascertain the real reason behind the coincidences on July 4th and in Belle Reve. The Team, however, is expected to do the same in Gotham’s own juvenile detention facility. Your mission is to determine if Steven Wilkins has any part to play in this plan.”

Bruce flicked an eye at Dick, softened his gaze, lowered one shoulder towards him in a show of support, and Dick nodded ever so slightly, released a slow breath, and straightened.

“As the mission is taking place in Gotham, Robin,” and here Bruce fixed his eyes on Robin again, his gaze still soft even as Robin nodded again in reassurance, “will be in charge of this mission. He will also create your criminal aliases and orchestrate the circumstances leading up to your detention within the next day.”

-x-x-x-

Mount Justice; September 15th, 13:23 EDT

Robin crossed his arms as he dragged his gaze across each of his teammates’ faces, all of them dressed in civvies, and then he held up both pointer fingers and thumbs of each hand and pretended to put their faces inside of a picture frame that he held up to his eyes. “Alright, looks good to me,” he said, a grin painting his face.

Artemis raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t even done anything to us yet,” she pointed out.

Robin let his hands fall to his hips. “There’s a vision,” he promised solemnly. He turned around to one of the duffle bags that he brought with him, picked it up, and then slung it over his shoulders. “There’s a duffle bag for each of you. Follow the instructions, and you’re golden.”

Wally picked up his own bag and began to sort through its contents. He pulled out a box of brown hair dye. “Brown hair, really?” he rummaged through it some more. “And a spray tan? Geez Rob, it’s almost like you have something against gingers,” he laughed.

“Not me,” Robin corrected. “Gotham. You’re practically asking for a knife in your stomach if you don’t look the part in Juvie. Trust me.”

Wally looked at him with a bemused expression. “If you say so, Boy Wonder.”

“Why do we need all of this, anyway?” Conner asked, his own duffle bag slung over his shoulder. His eyebrows were furrowed in thought.

Robin had knelt down to drag up another duffle bag by its handle, tossing it to Artemis from where he crouched at the floor. He didn’t look up, but briefly met the young Kryptonian’s eyes. “There’s a certain type of crowd that runs in Juvie. If you don’t fit in,” he shrugged, “you’re easy game. Hence the fake tattoos, dark hair, and nose rings.”

M’gann nodded in quiet agreement, sharing a look with Conner. Robin stood up and pointed to Kaldur, Conner, and Wally each in turn. “Calvin Flynn, Ken Gardner, Ace Juckett–”

Artemis finally looked inside her bag. “You’ve got to be joking,” she interrupted. She fished a hand inside the bag and drew out a black, draping wig, looking over at Robin with an unimpressed look. Robin snickered.

“And your name is Diana Prentice,” he added with a grin, and then shrugged. “It was too good of an opportunity to pass up.”

“Why you–”

Wally laughed over Artemis’s protests. “This goes great with her whole, gruff, virgin archer shtick,” he managed to wheeze out, and he and Robin knocked their fists together, the sharp smile still on Robin’s face.

Artemis flung the wig at Wally’s face, who caught a mouthful of hair just as the archer stepped closer to him. “At least my name is better than Flash Junior,” she argued.

“Wally, Artemis,” Kaldur called out calmly, although Robin could have sworn he detected the barest hint of exasperation in his voice. He had already retrieved his own duffle bag. “It is time to prepare for the mission.”

Wally, Artemis, Kaldur, and Conner all left down the hallway toward the showers.

M’gann stepped forward hesitantly, and Robin looked at her. “Miss M., I was actually wondering if you could shapeshift into someone specific for this mission?”

She cocked her head in surprise. “Of course, Robin.” Then she clasped her hands in front of her. “Who?”

Robin retrieved a folded picture from one of his pockets and passed it to her. “Her name is Bela Donne, a plant that one of our Gotham’s Rogues has, well,” he smirked, “planted in Juvie.”

M’gann nodded and focused on the picture, her form already morphing to match even as Robin turned and made his way down the hall and to the showers. Two of them were already running, and Artemis sat in front of one of the mirrors stuffing her blond waves under the wig cap.

She growled in frustration as yet another glob of hair escaped her hands and the cap bulged unevenly. Robin laughed. “Want some help with that?” he asked, and the archer shot him an evil glare, which softened very slightly when she realized that he was serious.

Her shoulders dropped as she sighed. “Yeah. Thanks.”

She tore the cap off of her head as Robin stepped closer and took the brush she offered to him. Artemis slumped forward and dropped her head into one hand. He ran the brush under the water in the sink and started to pull it through her hair, the tangled mass growing more manageable as it got wetter.

He was about to part her hair when he stopped, stepped back, and frowned. Artemis looked at him through the mirror. “What’s wrong?”

Robin opened his mouth to say something, but then red colored his face and he shut it. Then thought better of it. There was no way around it. “I need your chair,” he mumbled under his breath.

The green archer raised an eyebrow, a smile teasing at her lips. “Why’s that?”

“Look, either I get the chair or you get the floor,” he retorted, and she wisely didn’t say anything else, only relinquished her chair and stood in front of the mirror. Robin dragged it behind her and then stepped up on top of it. “Shut up,” he scowled when he saw Artemis hiding a laugh.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, but didn’t stop smiling.

Robin quickly began to plait her hair, one long dutch braid down the middle. He fingered the blond strands of her hair as he tucked and wove them into a pattern, and Dick was reminded of when he used to braid his Mami’s hair before their shows. Not always, because she enjoyed the way the wind cut through her hair, she told him, but before most practices, she would let Dick play with her hair and braid it out of the way. It was actually Dick’s Tati who taught him how to braid, though, a skill Dick learned on his mother’s head.

He was halfway through when Artemis spoke up. “How’d you learn to braid, anyways, Oh Boy Wonder?” she asked, sarcastically repeating Wally’s moniker for Robin from earlier. “Doesn’t really seem like the sort of thing you learn from Batman.”

Dick’s heart tightened a little bit, but not in an awful way. He just needed to be cautious, but they could share this, couldn’t they? This moment? Dick and Artemis? “My dad, actually. I used to braid my mom’s hair before practice.”

“What, were you two on some sort of mother-son little league team?” she laughed, and he smiled.

He tied a band at the tail of the braid. He wrapped it into a bun at the base of her head and gestured for Artemis to pass him the bobby pins. “Yeah, something like that,” he agreed. He poked a few pins into the bun, and then reached for the wig cap, balancing precariously on the edge of the chair and using Artemis’s head as a handhold.

“Hey! Brat!” Robin cackled, and pulled the cap over Artemis’s head as he avoided her half-hearted slap, adjusting it before walking around to the front to look at her face. Her eyes were carefully trained on his face as he reached for the scissors and started to trim away the excess material around her hairline.

“There,” he said, stepping back. “Finito. All you gotta do now is follow the instructions,” he reminded her.

“Thanks,” she said again. Robin waved a hand at her as he took to the showers with his duffle bag.

He scrubbed off the pale skin-dye and rinsed out the hair gel, and then began the bleaching process. After he sufficiently lightened his hair, which only took about ten minutes he applied the brown hair dye, let it set for long enough, and then rinsed all of the products out of his hair, leaving it an ordinary, overlookable dark brown.

That done, he rubbed a tinting cream into his skin and let it sit while he began to press a tattoo to his neck and the moldable silicone to his nose to change its shape. He darkened and thickened his eyebrows, put in brown contacts, and then sharpened and blended the rest of his features with makeup, creating a somewhat rougher and grimier look, a more Gotham look.

He stepped back from the mirror, examined his appearance, and then, satisfied, changed into the jeans, old t-shirt, and ratty jacket, slipping on sneakers with as tall of a platform he could get away with without looking weird and stuffing his left shoe with a bit of toilet paper to alter his walk.

He spun around in the mirror, shoved his hands in his pockets, and tried to summon his inner Jason. He shifted his posture and crooked his stance in favor of his left leg, an injury that this new character had sustained a long time ago on the streets after a bad fight. He shook his shoulders loose, and then drew them slightly in with an angry tightness. He fixed a permanent scowl on his face, his brow furrowed, mouth pinched downward, eyes narrowed and always searching for exits. Tense. Angry. Weathered.

He walked out of the shower stall, his normal walk now a stilted prowl.
Dick had a new character to play. First was Dick Grayson, then Robin was born, and Richard Grayson-Wayne followed shortly after. Richie Wayne would come soon enough. But until then, this new character would satisfy that performer’s itch he always had.

The others had already gathered in a circle at the front of the showers. Wally and Artemis’s already-familiar bickering echoed in the room, but abruptly stopped when he stepped out of the hallway. His friends all turned to him in surprise, and he marked the way their eyes all flew to his face, which was notably uncovered by sunglasses.

“Rob?” Wally asked, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Name’s Robbie Malone,” he responded in his borrowed Crime Alley accent, carefully modeled after his new little brother and far from Robin’s all-american, rounded voice. “Nice ta meetcha.”

Wally shivered a little. “Okay, that’s creepy,” he said, jabbing a finger at Robbie, who smirked. “Is nobody else bothered by this?”

“Nice eyes,” Artemis observed smugly. “But what happened to the whole secret identity thing you bats are so obsessed with?”

Robbie rolled his eyes. “G’luck findin’ a face that don’ exist,” he replied. “Now, here’s tha plan, ya hear?”

-x-x-x-

They were escorted in pairs, Conner and Robbie, Kaldur and Wally, and Artemis and M’gann, to cell blocks 3A and 3B, where the most violent offenders, like Steven Wilkins, were located.

‘Everybody here?’ M’gann asked telepathically, linking the six of them together.

When Robin hacked into the system, he ensured that none of their records would show them having the meta-gene, and although he’d mostly been able to keep them together, Gotham’s Juvie was predictably full.

He and Conner were the only two who would be separated, thankfully, and thanks to his own hacking skills. Dick had the experience and Conner had the skin for it. He was sure that Artemis could handle herself, but he didn’t want M’gann to be by herself; he didn’t think the Martian would take that very well. And Wally honestly just needed someone to talk to who wouldn’t blab their mouth to the other kids, hence cool-headed Kaldur.

‘Right here, Beautiful.’ Robbie was pretty sure he could hear the speedster’s suggestive smile through the mind-link, though his friend’s back was to him.

Wally and Kaldur were pushed into a cell, and Conner and Robbie passed them up as the guard kept leading them down the hall.

Cold, mean eyes leered at them through metal bars, sizing up the new competition. Robbie made sure to hurl back a cruel glare, snarling at some of them, and several of the offenders shrunk back at his mini-batglare™. (He was quite proud of himself for being able to pull that off when he never got to practice as Robin.)

‘Present.’ Kaldur’s voice was a calm wave in Robbie’s mind as the guard stopped at one of the cells and promptly shoved Conner inside, where a roommate was already waiting. The guard took Robbie by the shoulder and pushed him onwards.

‘Same here,’ Artemis responded, frustration coloring her mental voice. Robbie wasn’t going to touch that with a ten foot pole. He had other problems to deal with.

The guard stopped in front of a cell two doors down from Conner’s and opened it. “Here’s your stop. Lights out at nine.” With that, he unlocked his handcuffs and thrust him inside, where a boy of seventeen was already laid in bed, half of a lazy eye trained on him.

‘Here,’ was all Conner said.

“Who’re ya?” the teen asked, his eyes narrowing as Robbie stepped further into the room. He wouldn’t sit down yet. It wasn’t going to be like last time. He wasn’t going to wait until it was too late to defend himself and make his skin seem too tough to break.

Robbie crossed his arms and drew himself to his full, admittedly still unimpressive even with the platform sneakers, height. “What’s it t’ya?”

His roommate must not have liked Robbie’s tone, because he sat up in his cot and a vicious coldness settled over him. “My bus’ness, seein’ as you’ren my room,” he challenged, standing up to step closer to Robbie. He wasn’t tall, but he was still taller than Robbie, and he tried to use that to his advantage and lean over the smaller boy in a threatening manner. He started to move a little closer in a move Dick remembered all too well from his previous experiences in Juvie.

Robbie stepped forward and shoved the older boy back. “Back off, shithead. I ain’ here for long, but I’ain afraid ta mess withya if I hafta. I got connections ta get me outta here. You don’,” he warned, letting his previous memories of cell block three leak into his body, mind, and voice, allowing himself to feel an old, scarily familiar anger. He could feel M’gann’s worry bleed over the mind-link. She must have felt his anger. Get it together Dick.

“Got it?” Robbie snarled.

‘Robin?’ Kaldur asked over the mind-link.

His roommate scrambled backwards until he was back on his cot, and nodded his head. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever, man, jus’ stay tha hellaway from me.” (Dick felt a sort of sick satisfaction at that, he was ashamed to admit.)

‘Robin?’ Kaldur repeated. ‘Report.’

‘Here,’ Robbie said. ‘Jus’ ran inta a lil trouble. All taken care of. Everyone getta good night's sleep for tomarah. You’ll need it.’

-x-x-x-

The six of them made plans to meet at lunch. Robbie reminded them throughout the day during lessons to mind their own business, keep to themselves, but under no circumstances show any sort of weakness or fear.

Lunch came, and they all survived. Though Robbie had to snarl out a few threats here and there. He was painfully aware several times over that, though he wasn’t the youngest in Juvie this time around, he was still a smaller target, two extra inches of height or not.

Robbie slid into the open seat beside Wally. “So, anybody gotta eye on our friend, yet?” he asked.

Kaldur shook his head. “Not as of yet,” he admitted. “I’m afraid I was . . . preoccupied with our fellow inmates.”

Conner crossed his arms, his usual scowl angrier than usual. “And by that, he means they were onto him for his skin,” he growled, which led Kaldur to place a hand on the young Kryptonian’s shoulder, a warm, thankful smile gracing his face.

“I think I spotted him in one of my earlier classes today, but I wasn’t close enough to hear anything,” Artemis said, shaking her head in slight frustration.

“If I can find him, I might be able to catch a stray thought without him knowing?” M’gann suggested.

Robin nodded in agreement. “Good idea, but we’ll still be needin’ ta make sure. We needta talk to ‘im. Our best bet is still Bela,” he glanced at M’gann, “convincing ‘im ta let her in on ‘is plans. If ‘e’s even involved.”

Steven, as an aspiring Rogue’s apprentice, however true or not his aspirations may be, would feel the need to ingratiate himself with a confirmed associate of Poison Ivy. If he was desperate enough, there was a good chance he would tell them what they needed to know, and if not, they could always find out via Miss Martian’s telepathy.

“Is that him?” Wally piped up, his eyes laser-focused on a stocky blond teenager across the room, with a face like a brick and a scar across his jaw. He was almost to the lunch line.

Robbie nodded. “Yeah. That’s ‘im.” He looked over to M’gann and nodded his head in that direction. “Bela, with me.”

The two of them stood up and quickly made their way to the back of the line, just behind Steven. M’gann looked to him in an obvious question.

‘Only stray thoughts,’ Robbie warned, projecting his thoughts to the Martian. ‘Let ‘im come ta you.’ She nodded, her expression set with determination.

They waited behind him, unnoticed until the teen turned to take a tray from the counter. He half-startled upon seeing M’gann. “Bela, that ya?” he asked, pausing in line with a surprised expression. He tensed when he spotted Robbie standing behind her and staring directly, purposefully at him, but continued. “Been a while, huh?” Robbie made a point to direct his attention elsewhere, and the other teen allowed himself to relax.

M’gann froze, and Robbie repeated his earlier statement. ‘Stray thoughts, M’gann!’

She smiled a little too softly, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Yes, it’s been a while,” she agreed, which was evidently enough confirmation for Steven.

He knocked a hand against his collar as he made his way down the lunch line. A glob of mashed potatoes plopped onto the metal tray. “Suhprised ya don’ got ona these like me,” he said. “Some new thing the batons came up wit,” he shrugged in a what-can-you-do gesture.

M’gann nodded and swiped a metal tray. “I heard. Managed to get out of it. Tryna get out of here, too, you know?” she whispered, her eyes flicking over to Robbie for confirmation. He grabbed a plate of his own and barely nodded, but gently nudged her elbow.

‘Good job, but careful of other people hearin’.’ he reminded her.

Steven brightened up at M’gann’s allusion to escape. He laid a hand on her elbow and whispered back, “Hey, I gotta idea. Meet me lata, ‘n bring ya muscles Malone o’er there,” he said, jerking his head in Robbie’s direction. With that, Mr. Freeze’s proclaimed protege stalked off, leaving M’gann and Robbie in the lunch line.

They went back to the lunch table where the other four members of their team were waiting.

“Man, wish they served seconds here,” Robbie heard Wally saying as he sat down. He wordlessly slid his tray over to the speedster, snatching the roll from the plate before he did so. Wally shot him a grateful look. “Thanks, Rob!” he said brightly.

‘How did it go?’ Kaldur asked. ‘Is he affiliated with the four Belle Reve villains?”

Robbie took a bite out of the bread, still keeping his eyes trained on his surroundings even as he replied. ‘Nothin’ on that yet, but me ‘n M’gann’re meetin’ with ‘im later today.’

‘How did he know who you were, Robin?’ M’gann questioned, confusion evident in her features as she recalled the earlier exchange and Steven’s parting words.

Wally’s eyebrows shot up and he almost choked on his food. ‘Rob! He knew?’

Artemis’s worry bled through the link. ‘Are you compromised?’

‘No! ‘Course not. ‘e recognized Robbie, not Robin.’.

Conner furrowed his brow. ‘How? You’ve only been here for a day.’

‘Less than a day!’ Artemis exclaimed through the mental link. Which somehow was giving Robbie a headache. That girl needed to learn how to chill out.

‘That’s normal. I spent my mornin’ getting a bit o’ street cred so he would believe M’gann, and word spreads fast in Juvie. If Bela Donne didn’t have some sort’o backup in here, he wouldn’t believe that she was on good enough terms with Ivy ta have help getting out,’ he explained.

Wally finished his second tray of food and looked around hopefully for thirds. Artemis sighed and slid her plate of leftovers in her direction.

‘Thanks, babe,’ he grinned.

‘Don’t make me regret not letting you starve to death, Kid Stomach.’

-x-x-x-

After they finished lunch, all of the inmates were directed outdoors for their state-mandated thirty minutes of sunlight (what little there was in Gotham, anyway). At Robbie’s suggestion, the team spread out a bit to not make themselves a target, Conner, Wally, and Artemis sitting on a small section of bleachers to watch as Kaldur went for an open weight set and Robbie and M’gann lingered nearby and talked meaningless nothings.

Robbie kept half an eye on Steven, flitting around the open space and talking to a few different groups of people, while he continued his conversation with M’gann, telepathically relaying a few of his observations of their target through the mind-link now and then.

‘Well-connected, somewhat influential. . . taken seriously but not top-dog. . . Most of the teens in ‘ere are associated with several gangs and mobs in Gotham, an’ Steven’s on good enough terms, it looks like, with a lot of them. . . I see a Falcone or two, an’ one of the kids’e talked to definitely flashed a Triad tattoo. . . ‘n I’m pretty sure, go– is that Will? I think ‘e’s technically a Malone, though I thought B took care of that problem, n’ –-look, Steven’s moving toward a Sullivan right now an–’

‘Did you just say a Malone?’ Artemis cut in.

‘Hold on, as in Robbie Malone?” Wally added incredulously, surprisedly. Tensely.

Robbie flicked his gaze over to where the archer and the speedster were not-so-discreetly staring over at him and M’gann. ‘Yeah?’ He absently noted the small brawl that had begun to start somewhere behind him, and the small crowd that had gathered around the offenders. Yep. Just a normal day in Juvie, Dick remembered.

‘You didn’t steal one of the mob’s identities, did you?’ Artemis’s mental voice raised in shrill, anxious voice, and Robin couldn’t help but wince a little.

Wally shook his head, put a hand on Artemis’s elbow to remind her to engage in the less-conspicuous pastime of holding a fake conversation while talking via mind-link. ‘Dude, what if they find out? I so do not want to get shot up today.’

Robbie rolled his eyes, and then realised his two friends couldn’t see that. ‘Just so ya know, I’m rollin’ my eyes right now. Now calm down,’ he added in Robin’s safe voice. He could tell that the accent was starting to freak Wally out a little bit, which was not what the speedster needed when he was already stressed.

‘Steven has started to make his way across the field,’ Kaldur informed them, racking the heavy weight he’d been bench-pressing. He sat up and kept a quiet eye trained on the figure Robbie turned to watch.

‘What do I say?’ M’gann asked, the worry leaking through her voice.

Robbie cocked his head in her direction to think and stepped back behind M’gann so that he would appear every part the Malone bodyguard. Unfortunately, he hadn’t exactly been watching where he was going, as he’d bumped right into one of the two teens from the brawl, the one who’d been sent careening backwards after a tough loss.

“Hey! Watchit, ya motherf– Who’dya think ya are? Jus’–” He looked seventeen, on the verge of aging out of Juvie, with a broad, cracked face and a bloodied, probably broken nose. And, of course, he was taller than Robbie. Which wasn’t that much of an accomplishment, considering he was only thirteen, but at this point it was just rubbing salt in the wound because he belatedly noticed that the teen wasn’t even that tall. He was just average-height. He suppressed a pout.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Steven had stopped his advance, along with the two other guys he’d brought with him, and had paused to watch with a calculating look in his eye.

Great. Just great. Now their entire operation depended on Robbie ego-checking the piece of–

Robbie sighed out loud. Looked at the teen in front of him with a hard gaze, watched as the teen hesitated in his angry outburst, and then re-fixed his usual scowl and rotated forward to send a punch straight at the poor guy’s already almost-broken nose.

There was a crack. It was definitely broken now.

M’gann turned away to look at Robbie and the older teen at his feet with an expression of horror.

‘Just go with it!’ he hissed as he turned around without so much of a second glance at the body on the ground, still in his bodyguard position behind M’gann. The martian forced a slightly-less-horrified look on her face as Steven walked up to them.

“Nice shot, Malone. That’ll do the old man proud,” he said, a grin splitting his ugly mug. “I think you two’re perfect material for what we’ve got planned.” He gestured to the two other teenagers standing with him, one of them sporting a Triad tattoo on his wrist, and the other with a red bandana tied around his arm in obvious support of the Falcones.

Robbie snorted, a snarl comfortably drawn across his features. “An’ wha’s that? A Little League soccer team? Wan’ me to hold your hand and walk ya through it?” he taunted, and, predictably, Steven drew his face together angrily.

“Asshole,” he growled. “I got plenty more connections than you’ll ever have. Me, the falcones, the Triads; hell, even one of your damn Malones,” he yelled quietly, baring his teeth as he stepped in Robbie’s personal space. “We don’t need Ivy or Matches’fer what we got goin’ on!”

Robbie couldn’t help the dangerous smile that formed. “That’s cute. Come back when you’ve actually got a real Rogue’s support,” he drawled. “Now get outta my face and the fuck out of my space, Wilkins.”

Steven was pissed, no two ways about it. But he backed up and left him and M’gann alone.

‘Dude, did you have to run him off?’ Wally groaned as Robbie watched Steven’s rapidly retreating back. ‘He’s never going to tell us, now.’

Kaldur stepped close to M’gann and Robbie as the other three began making their way over from the bleachers. ‘On the contrary, Wally. I believe that Robin has found out everything we needed to know.’ He looked over to Robbie as if to confirm this.

He nodded. ‘Steven’s ego took too much’iva hit for ‘im not ta talk about any Belle Reve connections,’ he agreed.

An understanding look crossed Artemis’s face. ‘You pissed him off on purpose. That’s why you came as a Malone.’

Robbie nodded again. ‘Got it in one, Art. Now, let’s high-tail it outta here,’ he said, reaching one finger into his not-a-utility belt to press the small device he’d clipped to his clothes that would send out the signal for his pre-created program to start the process of their transfer papers.

‘Let’s,’ Kaldur agreed, a hand landing on Robin’s shoulder in a show of approval.

Dick smiled.

Chapter 11: Cousin?

Mount Justice; September 18th, 11:53 EDT

Artemis perched on the edge of her seat, half-looking around the metal of her water canteen as she watched Wally and Robin’s sparring session. Despite the fact that Robin was only thirteen, he was still pretty skilled, and even though Wally was the speedster, it was Robin who was practically running around Wally in circles. Or, well, dodging Wally’s superspeed punches and kicks, anyhow.

Honestly, she could learn a thing or two from the kid.

She watched as Wally overreached on a punch and stumbled a little bit, breaking his concentration and his control over his speed, which was exactly the opening that Robin had evidently been looking for. Robin snapped both hands around Wally’s wrist, twisted with the speedster’s momentum, and then flung him over his shoulder.

Wally’s back hit the mat with a very satisfying thump.

KID FLASH: FAIL.

Robin grinned and offered Wally a hand up, which the speedster took, his left hand still rubbing the base of his back. “Ow, Rob. Talk about wiping the floor with someone,” he laughed. “Thinking of showing J that move?”

J?

The two started to walk to the bench beside where Artemis already sat, oblivious to her eavesdropping. Kaldur and Conner stood up to take their place on the mat, and Artemis and M’gann kept their eyes trained on the new round (though for two entirely different reasons, she surmised).

Robin shook his head vehemently. “H-E- to the double hockey stick- no! Can you imagine how big his head would get?” he asked, his domino eyes wide as they approached the bench.

Wally knocked his shoulder into Robin’s. “Come on! You’re always talking about how hard it is to get him to spend time with you,” he said, his voice low but not low enough. “I bet he’d jump at the chance for bonding time if you bribe him with Robin stuff.”

It took a bit for her to sluggishly realize that M’gann had tugged on her elbow. “Yeah?” she hummed, her brain split in two different places, but she pushed Robin and Wally’s conversation out of her mind.

“What were you looking at? Wally?” the martian teased, and Artemis scowled and shoved her half-heartedly.

“As if!” she hissed, her gaze darting back to the speedster who was still fully locked into his conversation with Robin. “Besides, you’re one to talk, with the way you’ve been ogling Conner for the past two minutes,” she chided playfully.

M’gann blushed furiously, and they continued to talk until it was their turn to spar.

Thirty minutes and six showers later, the team was lounging in the living room while M’gann prepared sandwiches for lunch. Conner was sitting in the middle of the couch watching the static on the television screen while Kaldur and Robin played a game of chess, Wally watching from his own spot on the couch and occasionally suggesting a move or two. Artemis had just finished her own shower, her long hair still dripping wet but twisted up in a towel on the top of her head, when she walked in on the scene.

It was blissfully quiet for a while, a much needed break after their mission to Gotham the previous day and the two-hour training session they’d just finished. She would never admit it out loud, but their brief stint in Juvie had been eye-opening for the former almost-assassin. A glimpse into a life that could have, probably should have been, hers.

She would have survived, possibly thrived, she knew, but she was struck with the warm feeling of gratitude for the place she’d found on the team. She hadn’t earned her way to stay there, yet, but she could help but want to belong, to stay, and she was willing to do whatever it took to keep her new life. If only so she wouldn’t end up in Gotham’s Juvenile Correctional facility.

Artemis sat down in one of the armchairs nearest Robin and Kaldur’s chess match and watched as the atlantean moved his queen a few spaces and took the last of Robin’s pawns, whereas Kaldur still had plenty of pieces left. Honestly, she thought the thirteen year old would have been better at chess. She remembered how easily Batman’s sidekick had fit into– heck, had thrived in– Juvie, the way he’d known exactly what to do in order to get Steven’s attention and respect. All before dealing a blow to the kid’s ego that left the team with exactly the information they’d come for.

It gave her a healthy respect for what Robin had learned from Batman in order to survive the hellscape that was Gotham.

Robin cackled triumphantly as he had somehow, Artemis realized, trapped Kaldur’s king with his four remaining pieces. “Checkmate!” he crowed proudly, and their leader good-naturedly shook hands with Robin as he congratulated him.

“It was a good game,” he acknowledged, standing up from where he’d been kneeling at the coffee table.

Robin followed suit. “Thanks for playing with me. My– friends– won’t even look at a board game now. Says it’s traumatic, whatever that means,” he scoffed.

Artemis noted Robin’s slight stumble over ‘friends’ and wondered if he was talking about this ‘J’ person he’d mentioned to Wally.

Wally laughed from his spot on the couch. “It’s cause you always win. A game’s no fun if there’s no competition.”

“Well how are you supposed to get better if you never play with me, Wally?”

The speedster rolled his eyes. “Well, I would if you’d stop playing me,” he grinned.

“That’s kinda the point of playing a game?” Artemis put in drily.

“He knows what I mean.” Robin stuck his tongue out in Wally’s direction. “And if he wants J to play with him, he’ll take my advice,” he added pointedly.

Artemis furrowed her brow, her curiosity leaping in joy as she took the opening Wally had given her. “J?” she asked.

Robin winced and shot a glare in Wally’s direction, no less effective from behind his dark shades. If the speedster had seen it, it probably would have worked. As it was, Wally innocently and ignorantly plowed on, much to Artemis’s absolute joy. “His little cou–” Robin lunged across the coffee table to smack a hand over Wally’s mouth.

Artemis swore that Robin’s glare could have cut through steel in that moment.

“Dude!” he hissed, and then noticed that everyone’s eyes were on him.

M’gann walked into the room right at that moment. “Sandwiches are done!” she exclaimed cheerily, and then noticed the scene. “Um, what’s going on?”

Artemis’s smile was sleek. “Apparently, our mysterious Boy Wonder has a cousin he doesn’t want us to know about,” she said smoothly.

The martian clapped her hands together excitedly as she swooned, her eyes sparkling. “Robin, really? This is great! What’s he like? This is just like that ep–”

“M’gann,” Kaldur chided gently before turning to Robin, who had sunk down between Wally and Conner on the couch. “While I, too, would love to hear about Robin’s cousin, I believe that it is best to respect his privacy.”

And that was great and all, Artemis thought, but then Kaldur turned to Robin with such a strong look of disappointment and dejection that it was like Robin had kicked a sick puppy dog into the path of a fourteen-wheeler.

Huh. She didn’t know Kaldur had it in him to be manipulative like that. Good for him.

Robin sunk further into the couch, a hand reaching up to rub at his face as he groaned. “Fine, fine. Ask away,” he said, waving a hand in their direction before crossing his arms. He shot one last ‘look-what-you-did’ glare in Wally’s direction.

“How old is he?” Conner asked, his not-quite eagerness surprising Artemis. But the kryptonian seemed genuinely interested in the direction their conversation had taken, even looking away from the static to pay attention.

Robin shuffled uncomfortably, pulling himself a bit further upright. “That’s classified, sorry.”

“Is everything going to be classified?” Artemis raised an eyebrow, already anticipating where the conversation was headed. Robin winced again. Guilty as charged, she huffed to herself. “Well, what can,” she stressed, “you tell us?”

He pulled himself completely upright, thinking. “Well, he’s a menace, like all little– cousins. He’s always getting on my nerves and arguing with everybody, but he can also be– sweet,” he admitted. “And it’s nice to have someone to talk to, and I like listening to what he has to say. He’s actually really into the classics, like Jane Austin and stuff, and he’ll start going on these rants about character development and how the romance in Pride and Prejudice. It’s kind of funny that he knows all these big words and reads all of these big books, even though he’s really small and he talks like a trucker,” he laughed, having relaxed as he kept talking about his cousin.

And Artemis realized just how big a part of Robin’s life that they had missed. How much Robin loved his annoying little cousin, and she remembered his previous conversation with Wally about how hard it was to get ‘J’ to spend time with him. And her heart . . . cracked a little as she remembered Jade. And she wondered how things could have been different.

She shook her head. “Talks like a trucker?” she prompted, and Robin nodded.

“Did you know that when we went to Juvie, I actually modeled my ‘Robbie’ accent off of his?” he grinned.

She blinked, laughing. “No, really?” Wally asked.

“Yeah, and it was actually J who helped me with my character, too. I think he should really get into theater or something, cause there’s this whole backstory for Robbie, now, and–”

By the time everyone left to go home, the team felt like they’d gained another little brother.

Artemis wondered if they’d ever get to meet him.

Chapter 12: New Beginnings

Gotham City; September 22nd, 6:00 EDT

The incessant beeping of Dick’s alarm clock woke him from his pleasantly nightmareless dreams. An audible groan escaped his chest, and he blearily lifted his head from where his face had been smushed into his pillows to look at the time on the clock’s display. He blinked a couple of times. It was only six o’ clock; Alfred must have bribed Jason to sneak in and changed his alarm time while he was out on patrol again. Even after he’d convinced Dick to go to bed almost an entire hour earlier.

He would be mad at the butler if he wasn’t impressed.

Dick let out a long, lung-collapsing, rib-relaxing sigh that allowed him to melt further into the soft bed. Sometimes he liked to just . . . lay there, pillows lined up on either side of him like bodies, the clock beeping and drowning out any thoughts Dick could possibly think with the heat of his annoyance. It was almost nice. Discomfiting, possibly. Routine, definitely.

He would escape for just a few minutes, a handful of seconds out of the entire day where he would just breathe, and feel (annoyance), and not think or worry. Because as soon as he moved too much, the world would crash in all around him, waves of responsibility washing over him. It reminded Dick of the times he would go swimming with his friends at Mount Justice. He liked to stand in the ocean and let each wave crash over him, and he and Kaldur would have these competitions to see how long they could hold their breath. Dick would let himself sink to the sand bed and just wait for the longest time until he finally pushed off with his feet, broke through the surface, inhaled a quick huff of air, and then sank back down to keep going. It was always sort of funny whenever he suggested playing the game with Kaldur in order to freak him out with how long he could hold his breath. Like Dick hadn’t practiced holding his breath with the escape artist who took a stint with the circus when he was six.

Beep. beep. Beep. beep. Beep.

Dick groaned again, his train of graciously worry-less thought broken when the sound of the alarm clock resurfaced against the morning fog drowning his brain like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He rolled over, his hand slapping the top of the clock in a practiced motion, and then sat up, rubbing at his face with the palms of his hands.

“Here we go,” Dick mumbled to himself under his breath. “First day of high school,” he remembered.

And for as excited Dick was to finally start getting high school over with, he couldn’t help but wonder what he would give to finally convince Bruce to just let him get his GED and be done with it all. Except, he really couldn’t leave Babs behind. That girl would skin his hide if he ruined their six-year plan to surviving high school. Namely, leaving it as early and as fashionably as possible.

Babs. He could still remember the first time he’d met the girl, when she was crouched against a brick wall on a fire escape, eavesdropping on her father’s and Bruce’s private conversation. Not that he could say anything, because he’d been doing the same thing. At the time, he’d wondered how she’d been able to even hear any part of their conversation, as Robin had struggled to catch their words from his much closer and more acoustically strategic position. He never did ask her about that, he remembered.

At the time, Robin was still just a two year-old rumor, a name on the wind, and he’d desperately wanted someone, anybody to know that Robin was just as real as the Batman had proved to be a year earlier. He’d flicker the yellow of his cape at her, just a little, enough to draw her eye if she was paying attention, almost like a reward.

Their eyes had met, and he had seen hers widen in surprise, and then fear, and he’d raised a finger to his lips in a show of solidarity, a gesture for secrecy. She hadn’t met him again as Robin, but Dick Grayson became her friend a few months later when Commissioner Gordon sent his daughter to private school on a Wayne scholarship.

He and Barbara became friends quickly; it wasn’t like it was that hard, considering they’d both been ostracized by the general public that was sixth grade. The gypsy charity case and the scholarship trash. A friendship made in heaven; meant to last until then, as well. It was then that they’d made their six-year plan, more of a blood pact, really, to get out of that hell as quickly and as efficiently as possible.

Dick hopped off of his bed and started to get ready for the day. As he slicked back his black hair with Richard’s usual uncomfortably large amount of gel, Dick remembered his first experiences before he’d been forced to don “Richard Grayson” as his first new persona in order to avoid the scrutiny of the Gotham elite. A few appearances with gelled hair, bright smile, newly acquired Gothamite accent, and a proud mathlete record later, and Dick had more or less successfully been integrated into Gotham society. School life, derogatory names, and pitying stares notwithstanding.

Eventually, Richie Wayne would come into play, and he’d be able to further distance himself from Dick Grayson and Robin the Boy Wonder (Wally’s nickname was unfortunately catching on within the caped community). All part of the plan.

Dick finished dressing, tugged on his tie a little, and then went (read: slid down the front banister) downstairs for breakfast. Alfred had already laid out a plate for him in his usual spot, Jason already sitting across from him and eating with gusto the remainder of his food. Bruce had not yet arrived, but he didn’t have to be in the office until later, so he could afford to be a few minutes behind as long as he was willing to risk Alfred’s disapproving stare.

Sure enough, he showed up a minute and a half later, fondly ruffling Jason’s curls and patting Dick on the back before lowering himself into his seat. Oddly enough, he didn’t pick up the newspaper Alfred had set in front of him as was his usual routine.

Dick looked at Bruce oddly, a questioning glance, and he noticed Jason look up from his plate just long enough to decide that he didn’t feel like attempting to translate one of Bruce and Dick’s wordless conversations that morning.

Fortunately for him, Bruce had decided to respond out loud. Even stranger. “Dick,” he began, then cleared his throat when Dick placed his fork beside his plate. “A few weeks ago, Oliver approached me–” Dick noted that he hadn’t chosen to refer to himself in third person, which meant that Oliver had approached Bruce, rather than Green Arrow approaching Batman “–about a Wayne scholarship to Gotham Academy. He wanted his niece to have the best education available to her without the pressure of the Queen name,” he explained.

“Artemis is going to my school?” Because of course the archer wouldn’t take Oliver’s money. She was too proud of that. But he didn’t doubt that she was smart and skilled enough to get a Wayne scholarship in the first place; it had only been a matter of making sure she was on the school’s radar.

Bruce nodded.

Which. Okay.

Wow.

This was happening. “And you don’t think that’s a. . . bad idea?” he prodded questioningly. To be sure. Because it still didn’t seem like Bruce to put Dick in such a situation.

“Of course, she can’t know about Robin,” Bruce affirmed. “Being in different grades, I doubt that you two will interact much. But I trust you to handle the situation with discretion. And caution,” he added, because he couldn’t help himself.

And Dick’s heart sort of flew? Floated? Dick didn’t quite know, but it felt like that one time he’d ridden in a hot air balloon. All warm-heavy and cool-light at once, pressure and fear and the joy of flight all jumbled into one. Because Bruce . . . trusted him, and obviously he trusted Dick to be Robin. But this was just . . .

It wasn’t just another step, it was like a baby leap. Bruce trusting Dick to make Decisions, and not just Batman trusting Robin to have his back.

Dick nodded solemnly, but still allowed the smile he’d been holding back to grace his face. Bruce patted Dick on the shoulder again, and only then did he pick up the newspaper to read as was his usual routine.

After they finished breakfast, Alfred drove Dick and Jason to their respective schools in the black limo, the two brothers bantering (read: comfortably arguing) in the back seat as was their norm. Dick waved a good-bye, stepped out of the vehicle, and then watched as Alfred and Jason drove off.

A few students were already loitering in the courtyard, and he spotted Barbara already waiting for him underneath the shade of a tree, her red hair tied professionally back in a ponytail. Dick walked in her direction, an easy smile and wave at the ready. “Hey Babs! Miss me?” he grinned devilishly.

She rolled her eyes. “I just saw you yesterday, numbnut. Don’t tell me I’m that forgettable.”

“You? Never!” he gasped, a hand flying to his chest in faked astonishment. Then he pasted a wary look on his face as he looked around and leaned in conspiratorily. “Remind me your name again?” he whispered.

She shoved him back, and a laugh shook Dick’s shoulders. They talked about their classes and made sure that they were still all-set for their six-year plan (spoiler alert: they were, and Babs was far too competent for that to change), but Dick kept a careful eye on each student that arrived on campus. He’d already picked out who would be Artemis’s student liaison, a girl named Bette Kane whom he was fairly sure was distantly related to Bruce.

“Are you even listening?” Dick looked back at Barbara, about to reassure her that, yes, in fact, he was, and no he would not be joining her to become a student tutor because he was already Robin and that was more than enough community service for the time being. Except that he couldn’t actually say that, and he’d just spotted a familiar tail of long blond hair.

“One sec,” he said instead, “I’ll be right back.” And with that, he easily disappeared into the crowd of students. Artemis had just been approached by Bette when Dick was pulling his phone from his pocket and pressing at the screen to pull up the camera.

“. . . but you already knew that,” Artemis was saying when Dick popped up next to her, threw an arm around her shoulder, and stretched the other arm in front of them and smiled as he snapped the picture.

“We’ll laugh about this someday,” he explained, and then promptly disappeared just after the flash had faded.

Artemis turned around in an effort to find Dick, who had easily slipped away and was already nearing Barbara as the bell rang in a signal to begin the day.

Babs leaned against the tree as she watched him return. “Dick, what was that all about?” she questioned, an unimpressed look on her face after being abandoned for a spontaneous selfie.

Dick shrugged as he looked at his phone, the picture pulled up. “Nothing, Babs, just being friendly to the new girl.”

-x-x-x-

It was the end of the school day when Dick spotted Artemis again, but this time they were in uniform. Her green form was swathed in shadow as she walked cautiously, and rightfully so, down the alley, and Robin couldn’t resist dropping silently from his rooftop behind her.

“Artemis?”

She startled, one hand flying up before she realized who it was. “Robin! I uh. . .” She was very obviously flustered, and Robin kept his amusement from showing on his face.

“How random that you’re in Gotham City, instead of Star City where your uncle Green Arrow lives, isn’t it?” he asked innocently, his face free of any and all potentially incriminating tells. He leaned forward a little.

She stuttered. “I’m– uh, I’m here to see my– cousin. She was in the state spelling,” she explained fruitlessly. “Here. In Gotham. Gotham City.” She smiled thinly in an attempt to distract from the obvious lie.

Robin decided to push a little further. He couldn’t help it. “C O O L. Did she W I N?” he asked, spelling out the words with no small hint of sadistic glee.

Okay, maybe a bit too far, Robin decided when Artemis glared at him. “N O,” she replied, also spelling.

“D R A G,” Robin smiled, and then let it go.

Artemis shifted and turned toward the zeta beam. “Sure. Let’s just go already,” she said.

Robin bent at the waist, one arm pressed to his chest and the other flamboyantly waving in the direction of the phone booth. “Ladies first.”

“Your town. You go first,” Artemis argued, dropping her hands to her hips as she leaned definitely to the side.

Robin straightened up and shrugged. “If you say so.” He opened the phone booth, typed in the coordinates, and then closed his eyes at the brief flash of light as the automated voice began to call out his name and designation.

The bright light had just ended when he saw a large ball of fire fly across the room, and he leapt out of the zeta tube and slid to the floor, quickly searching for the source of the attack. Artemis’s name was called out, and, seeing another bright ball of flames, Robin shouted, “Get down!”

Her eyes widened but she immediately followed his orders. Something she was used to doing, he guessed. Robin rolled upright, trying not to cough in the now-thick smoke cover, and fished out two birdarangs from his belt as he leapt towards Artemis. He threw them into the smoke even as Artemis sent flying some of her own arrows.

He looked around for their unknown assailants. “Who are we even fighting?” Artemis asked, her voice hoarse as she unknowingly repeated Robin’s own questions.

“I don’t know,” he responded, sliding next to her. He thought he caught a glimpse of two dark, humanoid forms in the smoke and fire. “But we’re sitting ducks here by the tubes. Head for the exit!” he ordered, and they started to sprint to the nearby hallway, ducking at the last minute to avoid a shot of hot flames.

Then, a wall of water approached them quickly, and Robin barely had time to say, “Or not,” before it slammed the two of them into the wall. The water settled into a low flood at knee-level as Robin pushed against the floor to sit up, gasping loudly to take in the fresh air after having it all knocked from his lungs.

Artemis groaned as she rose, but was able to dodge with Robin as another fireball shot in their direction. Robin moved to stand and started to sprint toward another hallway, pausing to wait for Artemis, who had grabbed her bow to cover his back but had already reached him. They sprinted inside the weight room, the door shutting behind them just as Robin heard something, likely another fireball, hit it.

He lifted a hand to his ear. “Robin to team, come in. Aqualad, come in!” he shook his head. “Nothing.” Artemis had a pinched look on her face.

Another loud sound came from the door, and it blew apart as a furious tornado of . . . fire started slowly flying towards them, and Robin quickly turned to run, Artemis not far behind him. His hand still to his ear, he called, “Robin to BatCave. Override RG4.” Nothing. They slid into a room lined with shower heads on each side, and Robin sprinted to the left and began to turn on the showers, briefly signalling for Artemis to do the same. “Cave calling Justice League. HOJ/Watchtower,” he continued, but to no avail. He looked over at Artemis. “Comms are down. We’re locked out, but at least the water’s helping,” he commented.

The archer drew an arrow and went to stand in the center of the room, facing the closed door. Robin went to stand beside her, and they listened anxiously as the room around them began to make strange moaning noises, some of the shower handles shutting down or falling off of the walls along with the tiles. The water increased in pressure, and the room began to flood.

Robin sighed. “Or not,” he added to his previous statement. The room flooded all the quicker, and Robin only had time for a quick breath before he and Artemis were floating in the somewhat warm liquid courtesy of the fiery tornado that had been chasing them. He pushed through the water, pulling out an explosive disk and pressing it to the wall, and then swam backwards just as the wall blew apart.

The water carried them out into the new hole that Robin had blown into another hallway. Robin took in a shuddering breath of cold air and coughed out some of the water from his lungs. Artemis stood up, and Robin forced himself to his feet, making himself take the necessary steps that would bring them to the living room.

They ran down the hallway, and Robin was very conscious of the fact that he felt like he was being chased. Even though he hadn’t actually seen any real evidence of someone chasing them.

He looked to Artemis, who had slowed down when they arrived in the kitchen. “We need to get lost,” he said, and she looked around for inspiration.

Her face lit up with refreshing determination, an emotion he so frequently saw possess her that had been frighteningly absent since their arrival at the mountain. “The air vent!” she suggested, pointing in that direction. He nodded his head; he’d spotted a nearby control panel at the same time.

“Good idea, go!” He heard her climbing on top of something as he plugged in his holowatch to the control panel, typing in a few codes and waiting for the schematics to download.

“What are you doing?”

He barely spared her a glance, instead choosing to focus on the task at hand. “Cave blueprint,” he explained absently, then heard heavy footsteps making their way down the hall they’d just come from. So maybe there was a someone after all, Robin mused. He unplugged his watch and ran towards the archer, who was squatting near the open vent. “Go, go!” he hissed quietly, following her inside the vent.

As they crawled through the vents, he called out directions until they made it to the boiler room, and then from there they escaped a shadowy, fire-wielding figure into an access tunnel that Robin had found on his watch.

“Hold on,” Robin told Artemis, already making her way down the tunnel. Robin moved closer to the control panel and connected to it, his free hand typing furiously. “Locking out cave motion and heat sensors to prevent the enemy from tracking us,” he informed her after noting her questioning stare.

“And I ask again,” she said, her throat no longer hoarse from the smoke but irritation incredibly present in her tone, “who,” she stressed, “is the enemy?”

There. Robin accessed the cave cameras. “Let’s find out,” he smirked. “Downloading cave security footage. There,” he said, and projected the four different videos of camera angles that he’d found. They watched as the four powered members of their team lingered in the cave and talked, Artemis bristling when Kaldur questioned her loyalties. The video feed buzzed out.

“What happened?” the archer questioned, anxiety coloring her voice yet again.

Robin worked on accessing a different camera. “Explosion took out the camera, hold on.” He pulled up a different angle to watch through, and they watched as their other four teammates were attacked, and one camera after another died. Robin growled quietly in frustration. “That’s it,” he said dejectedly. “All four are dead.” Artemis jerked her head toward him, a horrified expression dawning on her face, and Robin quickly amended his statement. “The cameras, I mean! The cameras! I’m sure the others are okay,” he reassured her, “Just give me a sec to find the fastest route to the hangar.”

He turned back to his hologlove and mostly ignored whatever Artemis was saying. Something about superpowers. He didn’t know.

After he found the route, they made their way to the library in search of a secret passage behind one of the bookcases, and Robin informed Artemis as much.

“Seriously? Cliche much?” the archer asked rhetorically.

Robin laughed as he remembered the various passages winding through Wayne manor, and the manner in which he’d discovered Bruce’s secret. “You should see the Batcave,” he grinned.

Then, the door to the library slammed open, and Robin quickly drew out two of his birdarangs, ducking behind a bookshelf and trying for a glimpse of the intruder.

“Artemis, Robin,” a mechanical voice called out. Red Tornado, Robin realized, and Artemis was already starting to move forward.

“It’s Red Tornado,” she told him, her face brightening at the idea. And, well, she’d had the best position to see him from. The robot moved down the hall, and Artemis started forward, only to fall back as a robot that was definitely not their own reached toward them.

Robin grabbed at her hand and jumped out of the way, pulling them under a table. “Yes on the Red, no on the Tornado!” he called out as another robot entered the library, this one a female version to her not-actually-Red-Tornado counterpart. Fire burned in her hands and threatened to grow.

“Who, or what are they?” Artemis asked as Robin fled the table and vaulted to the top of a bookshelf, the archer trailing closely behind. The sprinklers turned on, and Robin fell gracefully to the floor to examine the bookshelf in front of him, and after letting fly a few arrows, Artemis joined him.

Robin pulled on one of the books to reveal the secret passage that they’d been looking for, and they moved inside just as a bookshelf toppled over the entrance, the door shutting behind them. They raced down the hallway, Artemis leading the way. “Did you know that Tornado had siblings?” Artemis exclaimed angrily.

“No,” Robin responded calmly,,

He glanced at the schematics on his HoloWatch before turning to the left, but a hand stopped him. “So now what? Red Tornado is one of the powerhouses of the League. How are we supposed to take down two of them?” she demanded.

Robin forced down whatever emotions were boiling in his gut that he didn’t feel like dealing with at the moment and summoned half of a smile. “They do seem pretty user unfriendly,” he managed to quip. The archer had been spiraling for some time now, and he’d been trying to do his best to stay calm. But it was difficult when every time she spoke, she seemed to be on the verge of a panic attack. And she was supposed to be the older one. And, notably, was also raised in a family of assassins. Which should have– and, oh. He identified at least one of those emotions as annoyance.

He was just going to ignore the small tinge of terror for now.

“Don’t joke, they–”

A robotic voice interrupted her. “Attention, Robin. Attention, Artemis. You have exactly ten minutes to surrender or the lives of your teammates will be extinguished.”

Artemis looked over to Robin, fear coloring her warm brown eyes. He looked back with just as much terror, but the domino didn’t allow him to show it.

-x-x-x-

Nine minutes and forty-five seconds.

Eight minutes.

They found the team. M’gann and Kaldur were in a bad state, Conner and Wally trapped. They ran.

Six minutes.

-x-x-x-

“What do we do now?” And Robin was just about ready to lose it. Because, yeah, he was Robin, the first sidekick, the Boy Wonder, partner to the Dark Knight, but it also wasn’t even like she knew any of these things. And yet she was still asking the thirteen year-old what to do.

Even with her background. Which wasn’t fair, Robin knew, but he was just so . . . tired. And he wanted the luxury of allowing the hopelessness, the fear to sink in for even half of a second, to have someone to rely on so that he could just feel all of the . . . things, emotions washing over him instead of just boxing it up and moving on and slapping more duct tape on the proverbial box every time she asked him what to do.

He wanted Bruce.

He wanted Batman.

He took a deep breath, slapped another strip of duct tape on his cardboard box, and then replied, “We save them,” but the anger and the annoyance and the (hopelessness) fear he’d been hiding couldn’t help but angrily bleed through. So much for the duct taped box. Must have leaked through the soggy cardboard with the number of times he’d almost drowned today. “That’s how it works.”

Artemis’s face colored red in anger. “Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to work, but those robots already took out our four superpowered,” she stressed, “friends.” Her fists clenched at her sides.

Robin forced himself to take another breath. (Superpowers don’t matter. They don’t. You’re still skilled, still needed, still just as important and worthy to be here as anyone else, he reminded himself.) He slapped another eight strips of duct tape on his box and pictured an industrial-sized hair drier to stop the anger from leaking out the soggy sides.

“You seem distraught,” he heard himself commenting rather blankly. No good. Too little. She probably thought he didn’t care, now. Okay, no blowdrier, but keep the tape.

“Distraught?” she screamed, and, oh yeah, Robin could feel the box growing and maybe a couple of pieces of tape popped off. “M’gann is dying. We have no powers and I’m down to my last arrow. Of course I’m distraught!” She finished, her voice still loud and (Dick hated it when people yelled) Robin swore he could literally feel the last piece of duct tape pop off of his box.

He turned to her, a cold, angry look in her eye that she couldn’t see but that he knew she would feel. “Well, get traught or get dead!” he yelled right back. So much for the duct tape, but the box was still there, just . . . damaged. He shoved all of his feelings back into what he imagined was that one Christmas tree box that Alfred refused to get rid of, despite the fact that it was more duct tape and staples than flimsy cardboard.

He turned to continue down the tunnel. Artemis followed him down the vent, and her voice echoed down. “How can you be so calm?”

Robin half-smiled to himself. Christmas tree box. He learned from the best. “Practice,” he finally said. And a good teacher. He could still remember that same night, so long ago, the night that Robin was born, the night that it all began, all of this practicing.

The second thing that Batman taught Robin was how to stay calm. How to keep control of what created Robin, just as B had learned to keep control of what had made him into Batman.

Batman may have been created out of grief for Bruce’s parents, and continued out of the man’s love for Gotham. But Robin?

Robin was Dick’s anger, born from it. It was his pain. His penance. Because Dick was always just. . . so . . . angry. He was so angry, all of the time, and he used to hate himself for it until he realized that he had the right to stay angry for as long as he needed (thudthudthudthudthud), for as long as it took for that anger to change in the same way Bruce’s grief had turned into a different sort of love. One that wasn’t any less painful, but was infinitely more healing. Helpful.

So until Dick could turn his anger into something that was helpful, Batman taught Robin how to keep all of Dick’s hurt boxed up, where it couldn’t hurt anyone else but him. It was strange, at first, feeling all of the anger all of the time; even when it was boxed up, it was still there. It was so strange because Dick used to be so happy, and it wasn’t like Dick didn’t feel happy anymore, he knew, not with Bruce and Alfred and Jason and his aunts and uncles and team. But it wasn’t the same as being in that permanent state of happiness. To go from being something to only . . . feeling it? It was some weird equilibrium of imposter syndrome. Happiness felt unfamiliar, where it used to feel like coming home.

But anger? Anger was as familiar to him now as happiness had been to him then. It was like an old friend. Easy to forget. Easy to find. Easy to embrace.

But dangerous. Dangerous for people like them. Batman had seen Dick’s anger and refused to let it consume him like Bruce’s grief had consumed him. He understood that Robin was the only way to save Dick, to let the anger fuel something good, just as Batman had saved Bruce.

The anger could be used, Dick had learned, but it was safer for everyone if it was boxed up. So just as Batman hid Bruce’s grief behind a cold mask and turned it into a painful, unequal sort of love and a mission, Dick had learned to hide his anger behind a smile that used to mean happiness, behind quips and snark and smiles.

“I’ve been doing this since I was eight,” he added.

-x-x-x-

Mount Justice; September 23rd, 06:34 EDT

There was a Mole on the team. Red Tornado, supposedly, had exploited that during the attack on the Mountain. But Kaldur still knew. Knew, and didn’t tell them anything. Didn’t tell Robin and Wally. Their leader kept secrets just like the League had.

And it hurt.

He stayed on as leader, in the end, because Kaldur was competent, smart, and good at leading. He’d done the right thing, Robin knew.

He also knew that the hurt didn’t just go away.

-x-x-x-

Bayou Bartholomew; October 1st, 18:52 CDT

Count Vertigo. Ultra-Humanite. Atomic Skull. Black Adam. Wotan. Poison Ivy. Joker.

The League would be dealing with the Kobra-Vemoned plants, but the team would be taking on the seven heavy-hitters causing the rampant destruction of several major cities in the first place.

They were all in the BioShip as it flew towards their destination, somewhere below them one of the many swamps in Louisiana. M’gann piloted, Wally ate a banana, and Robin stared at one of his birdarangs as if it held all of the answers.

He’d been expecting this to happen for a long time, now. He was honestly surprised it hadn’t happened already. He should have been prepared, and he was, but not beyond the physical. Because it hadn’t felt . . . real until Batman had looked at him. The danger hadn’t felt real yet.

(Hello, Wally, if the big guns are fighting plants, who do you think we’ll be fighting?)

Batman had looked at Robin differently when he’d given them that mission, and it was then that Robin had known just what sort of power, responsibility, spotlight he’d given Robin in that moment. He was finally going to step out of the shadows, just as Batman had when the Justice League was founded.

Not fully, he wasn’t dense enough to believe or do that, and not immediately, but two of Gotham’s worst Rogues would know about Robin’s existence. The Joker would know. He would know about Robin. And that would put a target on his back, a pretty big one.

And Robin wasn’t exactly . . . terrified, but he was smart enough to admit to a healthy dose of fear because the Joker wouldn’t just know how to hurt Batman by using Robin, he could use Dick against Bruce.

It was just all sort of . . . real. Not as exciting as he thought it would be. Not like performing in the circus.

He didn’t want his first audience to be the Joker. (ew.)

“What’s in the duffel?” Wally’s voice broke through Robin’s thoughts, and he was grateful for it.

Kaldur didn’t look at the speedster. “Plan B,” he replied. Robin was uncomfortably reminded of that one time they all found out that Kaldur had been keeping a secret from them about there possibly being a mole on their team and everyone getting hurt when they found out it was Red Tornado.

Robin had to physically remind himself to trust Kaldur’s judgment.

M’gann groaned, her hands flying to her head and leaving the controls of the Bioship. Pain tore at her face, and Conner spun around at her cry. “Are you alright?” he asked, (desperately) worried.

She shook her head, as if to clear it, shaking the pain from her head like wet droplets from her hair. “Just dizzy,” she tried. She placed her hands back on the controls.

“Can martians get airsick?” Robin asked.

Wally continued his line of thought. “She does look a bit greener than usual,” he offered, his eyes flitting across her face anxiously as if to prove his own point to himself.

She shook her head again, but winced at the mistake. “Not me, her,” she replied shortly.

“I feel fine,” Artemis frowned.

“Not her. The BioShip,” M’gann struggled to explain, still focusing on piloting the ship, her words curt and tired, “she’s trying to shield us, but–” The Martian was cut off as the BioShip vibrated with energy and dissolved into view, her camouflage fading as her fatigue increased.

Something large and heavy knocked into the side of the ship, and it began to plummet to the ground. A scream tore from Robin’s throat as they free-fell through the sky, but he wasn’t the only one. The ship eventually bounced off of the ground and skidded into part of the swap.

The screams stopped once the ship did, but the reprieve didn’t last for long, as large vines began to rise from the ground and wrap tightly around the BioShip, which had already begun to sink in the murky water. Black Adam stood on the roof of the BioShip, now, and a hand plunged violently through the ceiling and tore a hole through the material.

M’gann clutched her head again as, this time, the BioShip began to shriek in pain. “He’s hurting her!” the martian cried, tears streaking down her cheeks. Conner stood up from where he’d fallen to the floor and punched Black Adam through the hole he’d torn in the ship.

Water began to seep in, the vines continuing to drag them underwater. That triggered something in Artemis, who’d pulled two rebreathers from somewhere and slapped one of them over Wally’s mouth. “No. No way I’m nearly drowning three missions in a row,” she growled angrily.

Wally looked at her in surprise. “Oh. Uh, thanks,” he smiled.

“M’gann, we need to get out,” Conner warned the martian, his eyes still trained on the hole where water was rapidly filtering in. “Open a hatch.”

Her eyes were tightly closed with pain, but M’gann opened them when Conner called her name, and she forced a pained smile on her face. “Hello, Megan,” she reminded herself, tapping herself gently on the side of the head. “Of course.” She waded over and opened up a hole in the side of the ship.

Kaldur took control over the situation. “Out. Everyone out,” he repeated, sparing M’gann an understanding glance as the martian’s face fell at the thought of leaving behind her ship. She nodded her agreement, however, and soon followed the others through the hold she had opened.

They broke the surface of the water and stepped onto dry ground. Robin unclipped his rebreather and took a grateful breath of air; he, like Artemis, was growing tired of nearly drowning so often in the past weeks.

The vines finished dragging the BioShip the rest of the way under the swamp. He heard a soft gasp come from M’gann’s direction, but when he turned around, the Martian had already recovered and replied, “She’s just in shock; she’ll need some time to recover.” A smile had found its way onto her face, but Robin wasn’t exactly sure how much of it was real.

Conner opened his mouth to reply, but Robin didn’t hear anything else as a horrible pain had wormed itself into his head. He dropped to the ground, his hands squeezing furiously at his head as a painful pulse pounded through his mind. He thought he heard a scream. It might have been him.

Kaldur recovered first, pushing himself up on one elbow to look up. “Vertigo,” Robin heard him say.

“Count Vertigo to you, peasant.”

Out of the corner of one eye, Robin saw Conner stand up and rush forward to attack, only for Black Adam to reappear and send a fisted hand straight into the Kryptonian’s nose. He flew backwards, and there was a heavy thud. Conner didn’t stand back up.

Kaldur managed to, however, and he sent a heavy stream of water in Vertigo’s direction, pushing him away and breaking his concentration. Robin allowed himself a brief moment of respite as the pain broke and there was blissful nothingness in his brain before he reminded himself that he was on a mission. He stood to his feet and looked to Kaldur. “Robin, Miss Martian, disappear while we keep them busy. Fulfill the mission objective.”

Robin nodded. M’gann had already camouflaged herself, her form melting against the background as she followed Robin into the trees. After a few minutes of silence, Robin felt M’gann’s presence brush against his mind, and he let her in.

‘I blocked contact with Aqualad and the others. Should we–’

Robin cut her off. ‘Sorry, that’s not the gig. This is,’ he replied, ducking as he pushed a branch out of the way. A glass building came into view, a large vine-like plant growing from the center, and he relayed to Miss M, ‘The Injustice League central control system. Looks like that plant is acting as an antenna to control the other plants worldwide.’

Just as he’d thought that, a thorny vine wrapped itself around Robin’s chest and lifted him from the ground. He sucked in a painful breath and started to cut away at the vines before he even heard her speak. “Well, hello,” a familiar voice crooned, and Robin was spun around by the vine to face the green-clad, red-haired villainess. He distantly heard Miss M call his name, which caused Ivy to raise a delicate eyebrow in his direction in recognition. She dragged her eyes up and down Robin’s form, and a dangerous smile quirked the corner of her mouth. “Have I finally caught myself a little bird?” she wondered. Robin’s chest tightened a little, and he was painfully aware of the thorns digging into his skin.

Ultra-Humanite dropped to the ground beside Ivy, already swinging his large gun up and in their direction with nothing more than a bothered grunt.

Ivy looked disinterestedly in his direction before glancing at M’gann, whom the gun was trained on. “And good-bye,” she told the martian.

Miss Martian’s eyes glowed green just as the gorilla’s gun went off, the bullet narrowly avoided her and hit one of Ivy’s vines. The woman shot an annoyed glare at the martian for harming one of her plants; as her eyes left Robin, though, he finished cutting through the vines. Both teens dropped to the ground and took off in different directions.

“Sorry, Robin,” she said, his name rolling off of her tongue like a threat in and of itself. Which, it probably was, unfortunately. “I’m putting an end to your little reconnaissance mission,” she called after him, and Robin leapt into the air just as a large vine sprouted beneath him.

He landed on top of another of the plants, and slid easily down before vaulting himself up and onto a tree branch in order to avoid the flora shooting after her. He swung around the tree branch and leapt off just as a vine crashed into the branch, flying with the momentum to land with a painful roll, a rock digging into his shoulder. He popped back up and continued to race through the swamp.

Vines kept shooting out of the ground around him, Robin leaping and jumping out of the way just in the nick of time, even swinging and using the vines to help him get further away. He landed on a fallen tree, jumping off as another vine shot towards him, but as he landed, Ivy grew one of the thorny plants right under his feet.

He fell back, his head thumping against the ground. He rolled to the side and shoved himself up on his knees just as more vines flew at him from his right. He tucked in a breath, preparing to dodge at the last minute to buy him some time, but they suddenly exploded in bits of green and thorn.

Miss Martian flew toward him, her form still blending against the background. “Robin, she’s made contact,” she informed him happily.

He scrunched his face in confusion. “Artemis?” he guessed.

“No,” she informed him, and they both looked up to see the Bioship fly above their heads. They both raced after it.

A few minutes later, they arrived to see the rest of their friends in a confrontation with Vertigo, Ultra-Humanite, Poison Ivy, Black Adam, and Wotan in the part of the swamp near the glass building they’d seen earlier.

“Where are Robin and the Martian?” Robin heard Vertigo yell. Wolf and Conner were engaged in a fight with Ultra-Humanite, and Artemis, notably weaponless, and Poison Ivy were locked in battle.

His decision made, Robin sent a wave of exploding discs toward the control center of Ivy’s vines, which began to blink red. “My baby!” he heard the villain scream, just as they imploded in bursts of plant matter and a weird liquid, flames catching on the remaining part of the large plant as it started to fall over the building.

Robin smirked from where he stood a ways away with Miss Martian. “Timber.”

Ivy shrieked in anger, the heat from the fire casting her face in swathes of flickering light. She flung her hands forward, and rows of vines furiously shot forth toward Robin. He leapt and dodged as Miss Martian flew up into the air and began to implode the vines, but when Robin turned, he saw a laser shoot at her from behind and send her skidding to the ground.

Robin ducked away and spun just in time to see Atomic Skull and the Joker standing before him. The madman grinned rabidly, his eyes narrowing in on Robin with dangerous focus. “Children? Children foiled our plan? Where’s Batsy?” he shrieked, his voice crackly and angry and gleeful all at once. This wouldn’t be the first time Robin had faced the joker, but it would be the first time that Joker had faced him. “Inconceivable. Unacceptable. Retributionable!” he finished, his hands flying about in the air maniacally as he kept his eyes on Robin, as if to figure out where he’d seen him before. He leaned forward in confidence. “That last one might not be a word. So sue me,” he shrugged dramatically.

Vertigo growled and flung one hand in the team’s direction. “Kill them. Kill them all!” he shouted. Poison Ivy redirected her attention toward the rest of the teens, Black Adam following suit. Robin took the time to dart towards M’gann and pull her to her feet, shoving both of them out of the way and into the low water just as Atomic Skull sent another laser in their direction.

They rolled out of the way, and Robin looked up and saw Wotan knock Artemis and Wally to the ground. He flung two explosive disks toward Wotan’s magical spheres, but the villain sent a flurry of lightning bolts in his and Kaldur’s direction. Robin fell backwards, his head dazed and his body feeling like a campfire.

He laid there for a bit, his bones crackling with energy. He was just grateful he hadn’t landed in the water. That would have been a disaster. He’d just pulled himself to his feet when he heard an otherworldly voice echo across the space.

“Wotan, you are mine,” Fate called out, rising into the air, and Robin looked up in cold fear, quickly beginning to count his friends.

Wally. M’gann. Artemis. Conner. He looked back up. Kaldur.

Fate was already locked into a fight with the other sorcerer, beams of golden and orange light flashing around the space.

Robin groaned, shook his head, and prepared to shove himself back to his feet when he heard the wet pull of mud. He looked up and saw a familiar-looking white face, bloody red lips drawn back in a gruesome grin.

“Robin,” he drawled, recognition flashing wildly in his eyes. “Nice to put a face to the name, isn’t it?” he asked, stepping closer with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. Robin stood his ground. “It’s nice to finally meet my favorite nonexistent nephew. But tell me, where is the old Bat?”

Robin quietly fished out three of his birdarangs to hold in one hand.

“I have a few choice words for him. I have visitation rights, too, dontcha know?” His grin stretched wider, if that was possible. “Robin, you are mine,” he growled out, flicking out a small, jagged knife as he advanced.

Robin jumped to his feet and lunged backwards in a series of dodges as the Joker flashed his blade, swinging wildly at the boy. He found his balance and leapt in the air, vaulting over the evilly laughing man before turning in a handspring. Joker turned around to meet him, cackling all the while.

“I”ve been waiting a long time to carve the Bat’s little bird!” He screamed gleefully before lunging forward again in a flurry of metal and bloody smiles.

Robin kept back, dodging for the most part but managing to get in a kick here or there. But the clown prince of crime was fast. Unrightfully so.

Then, a flash of black steel knocked the Joker’s knife from his hand, and they looked up to see Batman, Green Arrow, Black Canary, and Aquaman as they were lowered to the ground on a greenlight platform.

“It’s over,” Batman said, pinning Joker with an angry stare.

Chapter 13: Campfire Stories

Campfire Stories

Mount Justice; October 2nd, 18:12 EDT

It was the day after the team’s fight with the Injustice League; seeing as it was the weekend, they’d collectively decided to spend that time at the mountain with each other. Wally, his broken arm not yet healed, sat on the couch watching television while M’gann messed around in the kitchen. Conner had taken Wolf out for a walk, Robin was napping in his room, Kaldur was in the saltwater pool, and Artemis was . . . somewhere.

And Wally was bored. He’d briefly entertained the idea of sparring a little, if only because having a broken arm and being unable to spar made him want to do it all the more, regardless of the fact that usually he tried to avoid Canary sessions as much as possible. Key word being briefly. He was bored, but he wasn’t desperate.

He stood up from the couch and wandered over to M’gann, a bright idea suddenly popping into his head. “Hey, sweet cheeks,” he smiled. “We should do something together. I’m going stir-crazy in this mountain.”

M’gann bit at her lip in thought. “We could watch a movie?” She gestured to the show that Wally had left on the tv.

He shook his head. “Boring. There’s nothing on anyway. I was actually thinking we should go out and do something. Maybe grab a movie and dinner?” he suggested.

The martian frowned. “I thought you said watching tv was boring?” she asked.

“Or,” the speedster quickly corrected, “We could make s’mores and watch the stars tonight?”

His heart leapt when M’gann smiled brightly at the suggestion. “That’s a great idea! We should go camping like they do in the movies!”

Wally grinned at the thought. “Sweet! I’ll–”

“I’ll go fetch the rest of the team!” She smiled again and then flew off.

Wally’s heart dropped. “Wait! That’s not what I–” Andddd she was gone. “Meant,” he sighed.

-x-x-x-

Two hours later, the six teens sat on old tree trunks and logs that Conner had fetched for them, a bright fire burning in the center. M’gann and Kaldur sat a bit further back, Robin happily making their s’mores for them and enjoying the simplicity of the process of cooking the perfect marshmallow.

“How many is that?” Artemis asked as Wally shoved yet another finished s’more into his mouth, not caring about the fact that it was heavily blackened and more ash than marshmallow.

The speedster shrugged and hummed an “I don’t know” around the s’more in his mouth. He swallowed. “Six?” She raised an eyebrow but, surprisingly, said nothing more.

Wally was still a bit miffed that it wasn’t just him and Miss M, but he had to admit that he was enjoying the quiet company and slow conversation, something he never thought he would admit to. It was a nice break from the high-strung events of the previous day.

“Hey, we should tell campfire stories!” Robin said as he finished the slow process of baking his third marshmallow. He slipped it off of his stick, sandwiched it between two graham crackers and a Hershey’s chocolate, and then passed it to a grateful M’gann. “I haven’t done that in forever,” he added, thinking of his old circus days, when his family, both close and large, would gather around campfires the night before opening. He still remembered some of the old Roma stories that his mami would tell him.

M’gann bit into the s’more Robin passed her. “Mmm. This is delicious.” She nodded her thanks to Robin, who had already happily impaled another marshmallow and contented himself with the process of slowly roasting it over the flame. “Who would like to go first?” she asked regarding Robin’s suggestion for campfire stories. When nobody volunteered immediately, she added, “Kaldur, I’d love to hear about how you came to the surface?” she suggested softly.

He nodded. “I lived in a city named Shayeris, and at twelve, I joined the military for my mandatory two years of service.”

Wally’s eyes opened wide. “You were in the army when you were twelve?” he asked, slightly horrified.

Kaldur nodded, undeterred and unaware of the speedster’s alarm. “A year later, I moved to the Conservatory of Sorcery, where I met my friends Garth and Tula.” His voice dropped a bit quietly at the names, but he continued, the team’s eyes raptly focused on him. “While I was there, a villain named Ocean-Master attacked and defeated Aquaman after a long battle. Garth and I saw our king fall, so we rushed in to protect him and provide a distraction. It worked long enough for our king to recover from his injuries. He told us that he was impressed with our bravery and actions, and he offered me the position of being his protege, just as Green Arrow had already done with Speedy.”

M’gann laid a hand on Kaldur’s elbow. “I’m very glad. Thank you for telling us,” she smiled.

He smiled in return. “As am I,” he agreed. He looked to their resident speedster, who had cooked and consumed another s’more during the story. “Wally, how did you become your uncle’s sidekick? You were the second, no?”

Wally looked up from the s’more he was roasting. “Huh? Oh– um, yep. The second,” he smiled, proud of himself for keeping his eyes on Kaldur and not on Robin, who had shifted on his seat from where he was still roasting the same marshmallow. “Funny story. I actually didn’t know that my own uncle was the Flash,” he laughed. “I was still one of his biggest fans, though. One day, I accidentally came across his notebook where he’d written everything down about the accident that gave him his powers. I decided to replicate it and,” he shrugged, “bada bing, bada boom. Powers!” He spread his hands apart in jazz hands. He returned to the task of roasting his marshmallow. “I’d already heard all the myths about Batman and Robin, the stories about Green Arrow and Speedy, so I figured that Flash needed a sidekick of his own,” he finished, grinning.

Artemis looked up at the mention of Speedy. “Roy was the first sidekick, right?” she asked, something in her voice.

Wally nodded. “Yep. I asked Roy about it one time, why GA took him as his sidekick. He said it was because he wanted a ‘Robin’ of his own,” he said, flicking a warm gaze over to his friend, whose posture softened and mouth twitched with a smile.

“So, Robin really is a myth?” the archer clarified, and Conner looked over at her strangely. “It’s just, I’ve heard all of these stories about him. I just always hoped he was real, but then I met Robin, and it was really obvious that he’d just sort of taken the guy’s name, and . . . I dunno,” she said, abruptly changing gears in her embarrassment, “It was just nice to think that the stories were real, for a little while.”

Robin shrugged. “Sorry, Artemis. Not all stories are true,” he said vaguely, and she turned her attention to him.

“What made you pick the name Robin, anyway, if it was already taken?” she asked, a curious quirk in her tone.

Robin shifted uncomfortably and tried not to laugh, Wally sending him a look out of the corner of his eye that let him know that the speedster was doing the same thing. The others looked over at Robin, as well. He decided to keep it vague. “Batman told me it was safer to hide behind a name that already has a history to it. If they’re scared of you, the Gotham crazies tend to be less crazy-creepy and more crazy-murderous,” he tried to explain. “And the name Robin already carried that sort of weight.”

“Why is Robin so important?” M’gann asked. “I didn’t hear of him until I came to Earth, and the only Robin I’ve met is you,” she said, turning to Robin.

Wally piped up, fixing a serious eye on his friend. “He’s the reason all of this is possible. Roy may have been the first sidekick, but the stories about Batman and Robin are what inspired everyone who came after. GA only picked up Roy because he’d heard stories about Batman’s partner, and Robin’s been my hero and inspiration for as long as Flash has.”

“Oh,” M’gann said quietly, biting at her lip. “But he’s still just a myth?” she tried to clarify, and Wally shook his head.

“More than a myth. He’s a legacy,” Wally tried to explain, and he noticed Robin sitting on his log without a stick in his hand, trying to hide the fact that he was paying attention. But he wanted his friend to hear this; Robin was always too embarrassed and secretive to let him try to explain things to him before, but now the younger teen had no choice but to listen. “Did you know,” he began, “That before we were all called sidekicks, I used to hear the League calling us Robins? Robin meant partner, it meant support. Robin came first, and the sidekicks came after,” he finished.

Robin looked up from the spot he’d been staring at on the ground and met his friend’s eyes with a small smile, and Wally returned it.

Wally was glad that his friend finally understood how much Robin meant to him.

Conner finally spoke up, having mostly remained silent for the night. “Cadmus told me about him. They thought Robin was important enough for me to learn about,” he said, and Robin looked at him in surprise when he caught the almost soft expression on the usually stoic boy’s face. “I wouldn’t mind hearing more about him.”

Artemis looked over at Robin. “Yeah, Boy Wonder. You live in Gotham. Heck, you took his name. If the first Sidekick isn’t the right sort of topic for a campfire story to tell other sidekicks,” she emphasized, “Then I don’t know what is.”

Robin tensed and returned her gaze somewhat nervously. “Oh, uh– I don’t really know that much about it. Batman’s not much of a talker, you know? But I guess I can answer a couple of questions.” Bs his way through a couple of questions, he meant. Robin wasn’t exactly sure how he was supposed to spin a story about himself while pretending that that version of himself never actually existed and that he didn’t know anything about it. But, well, Dick was nothing if not a performer.

“Is it true what they say, about the laughing?” Conner asked, the first to speak up.

Robin looked over at him. Cautiously, he replied, “Well, that is why all of those rumors started in the first place. So I guess if any part of it’s true, it would be that. I’ve always just thought that Robin was Batman’s equivalent of teenage rebellion, and he’s just too embarrassed to own up to it,” he laughed, hoping to divert their attention away from the Robin topic and to the old League rumor mill from four or five years ago.

Artemis would be having no such things. “What about the rumors that he was some sort of demon?”

Robin scrunched his nose up in distaste. That was always one of his least favorite rumors. “As if. Those criminals were just embarrassed that they were getting beat up by a nine-year old kid in tights out past his bedtime,” he snorted, crossing his arms.

Everyone blinked at him. “Kid?” Kaldur prompted, and– oh, shoot. Robin screwed up. He shrunk a little.

“Nine?” Artemis repeated, her voice high pitched and volume raised.

“Uh, yeah?” Robin winced.

“I thought Robin was about the same age as Batman. Like you said,” Artemis emphasized, “Just earlier.”

“Wait, so he was real?” M’gann asked, confusion evident in her furrowed brow and pursed lips.

Robin shook his head. “No– I mean, yes? What I meant was–”

“If he was nine back then, then he’d be, what, like fifteen now?” Artemis wondered.

Conner spoke up. “No, the rumors started five and a half years ago. He’d be fourteen,” he said thoughtfully, and Robin sank further into his log.

“I wonder if he was like Speedy?” Artemis continued. “Took on another name, you know? Have any new heroes popped up since Robin took on the mantle?” she asked.

Kaldur thought hard. “None that do not have powers. He may have fallen in battle, or retired,” he suggested.

Artemis’s shoulders sank. “Damn. That’s depressing. He would’ve been a great hero,” she said. “He would have more experience at fourteen than some of the League members, since he’s been doing this since he was–”

The archer paused mid-sentence. Robin’s heart dropped into his stomach. He saw Wally clutching at his stomach to keep from laughing, the traitor. Robin pointedly avoided Artemis’s glare when she turned toward him.

“Robin?” she seethed, her eyes narrowing. “When, exactly, were you going to tell us?”

Crap.

He quickly stood to his feet, his palms held up defensively. “I promise it just never came up!” he protested. M’gann and Conner looked at him confusedly while Kaldur just looked like he’d been stunned with the revelation of a lifetime. Which, dang.

Artemis stood up and started toward him. Wally couldn’t keep it in anymore, and he fell to the ground in fits of laughter. “You little– Why would you not tell us, and we were all talking, and– ugh!” she yelled, throwing her clenched fists down as she stomped toward him and started to chase him around the fire..

Robin finally ducked behind Kaldur for protection. “I told you,” he stressed, “I’ve been doing this since I was eight! I told you!”

“Eight!” she sputtered, and then spun around to retreat back to her seat. “You know that is not the same thing! How was I even supposed to remember that? We were in the middle of almost being killed!”

Robin, recognizing that the danger had passed, stood up and readjusted his sunglasses. He sighed. Kaldur looked at him with a hint of disappointment. “Sorry, guys. If it makes you feel better, it was B’s idea.”

“A little better,” Artemis mumbled under his breath. Robin stepped closer and held out a hand for her to shake.

“Truce?” he grinned.

She rolled her eyes, but took his hand and shook it. “Fine, but next time, tell us.”

“Sure,” he agreed. Not that there’d be a next time.

Chapter 14: Be The Batman

Mount Justice; October 16th, 16:01 EDT

The League had fallen. The team was Earth’s last hope. But they had a plan: go to the Fortress of Solitude and take over a stray ship, hit the aliens with their own “mojo”, as Kid Flash called it. They lost Wolf, but everything was still going according to plan.

But then Artemis died, and suddenly everything changed. There was a shift, blind determination replaced by something horribly painful and terribly familiar as their friend vanished in a flare of light. (thudthudthudthudthud)(zap).

And everything came crashing down.

Dick’s insides clenched in recognition of the grief tearing at his chest, rushing at his throat, burning at his eyes. He felt sick. He just wanted to curl up and cry, punch something, scream at the world because why was this happening to him all over again?

Why him? Why Artemis? What sort of memories would he have to remember her by, and how could he ever add to them if she was gone forever? Yet another permanent hole in his heart. Someone to tuck away and hide but use as fuel to keep going even when all he wanted to do was just . . . stop.

Stop time, rewind it, because there was never enough of it. Rewind to when he was eight and happiness was as familiar as the memory of pain that was his family’s colors, that was Robin.

Stop thinking. Stop feelings. Box it all up like Bruce (and oh, that wasn’t something he could deal with at the moment because he was gone and he wasn’t coming back, he knew it in his heart, in his mind) had taught him so long ago. Box it up and let it out in increments, just enough to keep him going and give him a purpose without Robin becoming dangerous again.

Except. . . now it wouldn’t be the Dick’s anger that Robin would be using. Because he was angry, like always, but now there was something fresh and awful that he would have to box up.

Grief. Dick would have to use the grief instead of the anger, because this new pain was so bright and hot that there wasn’t any room for the anger right now. Only the grief.

And. Oh. This is what Bruce felt like (what Dick felt like, before he realized that anger was far more righteous and easily directed toward Zucco, back in those early days at Juvie) when he first became Batman. Because anger created Robins, but grief created Batmans.

And now Batman was gone. Robin was needed, but he wasn’t as needed as Batman was. So Robin needed to become Batman. And he had the grief he needed to do it.

He’d always known that he was meant to be the next Batman; Gotham needed him as much as he needed Gotham. He just hadn’t expected it to happen so . . . soon.

He was only thirteen.

He used to have two parents. Then he had one. Now three of them were dead, and Dick had none.

Robin distantly registered someone screaming the archer’s name with something heart-wrenching, but he was distracted by the waves of grief washing over him. They accomplished the mission, integrating the alien canon onto the bioship and destroying the lone spaceship before flying out. (But at what cost? Was it a fair one?)

“They’re dead. Every single Alien, if it’s the last thing I do,” Wally promised, his voice low with the threat and angry with grief. He slammed a fist down on the Bioship control panel. M’gann’s breathing was heavy and tired with pent-up despair, and Robin knew that she was holding back tears.

Kaldur stood from his seat to look at the team. “We must save our mourning for later. For now, we have a job to do,” he reminded them, but Robin heard the ache he hid in his voice. “Defend the Earth and ensure Artemis’ sacrifice was not in vain.”

M’gann’s cheeks were wet by then, but she rubbed a hand quickly over them. “Back to the cave?”

Kaldur shook his head. “The Hall of Justice. The human race must know that there are still heroes defending them. That there is still hope,” he added, straightening his shoulders and Robin could practically see the weight of the world he was carrying, could see him reminding himself that it was only one more soul added to the billions. It didn’t mean it hurt any less.

But just because there was hope, that didn’t mean that anything had changed. Artemis still wasn’t coming back.

They flew the rest of the way in silence. When they arrived at the Capitol, it was already under siege, and M’gann opened fire on the alien ship canons. Superboy jumped from the ship to save the soldiers, the rest of the team following shortly after.

Conner was locked in conversation with one of the soldiers when Kaldur approached. “General Wade Eiling, U.S. Air Force,” the man introduced himself, sporting a short military haircut and a determined demeanor.

“Aqualad, Justice League,” Kaldur returned. “We’ll help you salvage as many of the aliens’ cannons as possible. Then we start taking back what is ours,” their leader promised.

A short while later, the team arrived at the Hall of Justice, determination and sorrow in tandem with their steps as they neared the tall, imposing statues of the seven founding League members. Seven among the dozens who had fallen.

Robin stepped in front of the larger-than-life depiction of Batman. Of his father. He wanted to feel something even as he struggled to box it all up just as the man had taught him.

He heard M’gann sob as she looked up at the statue of Martian Manhunter.

And suddenly, all over again, it felt so. so. real.

Batman was gone. But so was Bruce. And, oh. Oh. He was hurting. So much. All over again. Tears threatened to bleed from his eyes, a terrible tightness clawed at his lungs, and he couldn’t breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

But he was gone, and all Dick wanted to do was cry and scream and do something. Do what Bruce would have wanted him to do. But he wasn’t there to tell Robin what to do when the world was ending and he wasn’t there.

He wasn’t there.

He promised he would never leave him.

But he left.

(thudthudthudthudthud)(zap)(zap)

He heard the stone grind against stone, and, looking up, he saw M’gann levitate part of her uncle’s crumbled statue, revealing none other than the martian himself.

“Uncle J’onn!” she cried, hope and happiness flashing across her face. And Robin was jealous. Jealousy corroded away at his gut like a disease, but he forced himself to watch and pay attention and not break down and he probably should have been doing something or planning something but he was only thirteen and he’d never felt so inadequate as he did in that moment and Bruce would have–

Kaldur blocked M’gann from approaching her uncle. ‘M’gann, check his mind. Make sure he is who he appears to be,’ he ordered, ever the competent one, so composed and able to lead. And Robin was never more thankful for him in that moment, even as guilt joined the jealousy because he should have been smart enough, composed enough to remember basic protocol.

‘It's him. He’s real, and he’s alive,’ she added with no small amount of joy.

Conner stepped closer, his eyes narrowing in suspicion and possibly anger. “But we saw you get disintegrated. You and Superman,” he added, his voice gruff as he said the name. “And everyone.”

J’onn looked disoriented and out of place, and needed the support of his niece to stand to his feet; he clutched at his head all the while, his face blank but his posture pained and lost. “Yes, I remember,” he thought aloud, his brow furrowing as he thought hard. “But– but I cannot remember how I survived, or how I arrived here.”

Robin almost felt his chest weigh two ounces lighter at the small hope. Maybe Bruce could come back, still. Maybe his readings were wrong, maybe–

M’gann hurried to offer an explanation. “Maybe you were density-shifting and the beam passed right through you.”

And. Oh. That made sense. Keep it together, Robin. “Scrambling your brains along the way,” he added to M’gann’s explanation, all the while hoping that someone would contradict their explanations. No one did.

“My mind is clouded,” Martian Manhunter agreed, “But I feel certain I had something important to tell you.”

Then, for whatever reason, Wally suddenly brightened. “Hello, Wally,” he said with a quick smile and a hint of hope as he mimicked M’gann’s favorite motion of tapping the side of her head. “Come on!” he told Robin, grabbing his wrist to drag him in a different direction even as Robin arched an eyebrow in an obvious question.

The speedster led him to one of the military vehicles and gestured for him to scan one of the alien canons with his HoloGlove. Robin complied, and Wally excitedly pointed at the data reading from the watch. “I knew it! Look! It’s giving off Zanopenes, the same stuff that powers our Zeta-tubes. This thing doesn’t disintegrate, it teleports.” He grinned at Robin and clasped a hand around his arm. “Artemis is alive!”

And for a brief, mind-numbing second, there was hope. A blinding flash of the thing that perched in his soul (Jason had been on a poetry-fixation, recently, and now that Bruce was coming back they would all lounge around the sitting-room while he read aloud and–)–

Robin frowned as he looked at the data. Something that felt horribly similar to doubt wiggled at the back of his mind. The numbers– something wasn’t right. “Maybe, but–”

“No maybes. They’re all alive,” Wally asserted, and Robin could see just how much his friend needed it to be true. And maybe Robin needed to believe it a little bit, too, because the fresh feeling of grief was too jarring for him to use it yet. He was still hardening it into a shield, a weapon, and it wasn’t quite . . . solid enough. It was still too fragile. Robin was still too fragile. He wasn’t quite ready to become Batman yet, but he was getting there. This was just practice.

“That must have been what you wanted to tell us,” M’gann told her uncle, but the martian only brought his hand to his head again.

Conner kept his gaze trained on J’onn, his brow still furrowed. Like he didn’t quite believe that everything was right, either. Kaldur looked at the martian, as well, but with something that Robin couldn’t quite identify. Except, wait. No. Yes he could. Kaldur was worried, yes, but there was something like relief that settled in his shoulders, and he could see an iota of weight being taken from him. He stood straighter. Because there was an adult there, and maybe he could fix everything, and maybe he could take all of the weight from Kaldur’s shoulders. Martian Manhunter could possibly take the same weight from Aqualad’s shoulders that the teen had kept from falling on Robin’s.

Then, sounds of gunfire and the sickening zaps of shooting lasers echoed around them. Alien ships flew into view and began to fire at Wally and Robin. He lunged to the side and ducked behind the vehicle.

‘We’re on our way,’ Kaldur reassured them. Robin kept his head down as another flash of light hit the vehicle he was hiding behind, and he rushed to find another source of cover.

‘Negative,’ Robin replied, looking around at the sheer amount of firepower they were confronted with. ‘We can’t win this. Miss Martian, camo the Bioship and–” He looked on in horror as a laser fired at the ship and it disappeared in a way that was most definitely not camouflage. Well, so much for that plan.

“M’gann!” Conner exclaimed worriedly and rushed to where the two martians had fallen to the ground when the Bioship vanished.

The girl looked up angrily. “That didn’t feel like–” she began.

‘We’re falling back,’ Robin cut in, hoping to distract M’gann from what he now knew to be true just based on the martian’s reaction. He should have known better than to hope. But the others? Wally? They still needed what little hope they had left.

The team fell back and followed the soldiers into the Hall of Justice, where one of the zeta-beams awaited them. General Eiling looked on in alarm at the seemingly dead end. “We’re trapped.”.

Kaldur went for the doors and pushed them open. “Maybe not.” They all stepped into the room, and Aqualad turned to Martian Manhunter. “We can all Zeta to the cave if you can grant us computer clearance to access the Tubes,” he said.

“I can only authorize one at a time.”

Aqualad squared his shoulders. “Send the soldiers first.”

But General Eiling narrowed his eyes in accusation. “Belay that,” he commanded. “You six are assets we cannot afford to lose.”

Kaldur seemed to shrink in on himself for half a moment before he nodded his assent. Miss Martian went first, and Wally pushed Robin in ahead of him.

Before long, Robin stepped into the familiar room and was struck by just how much everything had changed since last he had arrived here. M’gann was already waiting for him, and Wally came stumbling through afterward.

“What happened?” Robin asked, and Wally shook his head.

“The room got hit, but the others should be coming through soon,” the older boy said, struggling to pull a reassuring look over his face. It wasn’t working.

Next, a man Robin didn’t recognize came through, looking back for someone who was supposed to be following. Conner followed soon after, much to Robin’s relief.

Manhunter fell into the room as the zeta called out his arrival, and Robin looked on in hope.

The martian shook his head. “Aqualad–”

Kaldur’s name was not announced. He did not come through next.

He didn’t make it.

(thudthudthudthudthud)(zap)(zap)(silence)

Robin looked at Manhunter, desperately searching for some sign of competence, of know-how that would show that he could be the next leader. Because it wasn’t supposed to be Robin, yet. Not so soon.

There was none.

It was just Robin. But Robin wasn’t good enough. He needed to become Batman.

He squared his shoulders, packed everything up in a nice little box, and forced himself to move on all too soon.

“Okay. Okay,” he repeated a little louder, meeting each of his teammates in the eyes. He could do this. He could be Batman, right? Right. He could. He had almost six years under his belt. He was qualified, and even if he wasn’t, he was the next best thing. He was there. He was willing. “Our mission is clear. If we believe the aliens have been teleporting their victims–”

Wally interrupted. “We do.” Robin barely spared him half a pause of acknowledgment. If misplaced hope was what kept his best friend going, then so be it. It wasn’t like Robin was running on fumes of grief and anger, anyhow. He had no room to talk.

“Then the only reasonable detention facility is here,” he said, pulling up a projection via his HoloGlove. “Their mothership. Atop what used to be Smallville. Ring any bells?” he asked Martian Manhunter, hoping that the hero would have some piece of advice for them.

“No, I’m sorry.” And Robin’s heart sunk a little further before he slapped some more tape and a bit of hot glue over it. Okay, fine. He could take a little bit more grief, couldn’t he? He knew what he had to do next. Would do it himself if it were possible.

He turned to Conner, and wished that he wasn’t wearing the domino so that the clone could see the explanation he was trying to convey through his eyes. (Bruce would have known what he was trying to say.) “Superboy, you’ll create a distraction.”

“No!” M’gann’s voice tore through the air. She turned to the kryptonian. “He’s offering you as a sacrifice!” she screeched, and her gaze settled angrily on Robin. “Aqualad would never do that,” she seethed.

And, oh, there was that familiar anger. He’d almost missed it. Robin narrowed his eyes at her, but didn’t allow himself to raise his voice; she wouldn’t take it well. “You’re right,” he replied coldly, “Aqualad would sacrifice himself, a mistake that just cost us our leader.” And left Robin in charge, and he didn’t think he could quite forgive him for that yet, which just added even more guilt to the current guilt-anger-grief soup that he was trying to keep from leaking through his soggy cardboard box. “Superboy is the most likely to be perceived as a threat, motivating the aliens to deploy.”

M’gann didn’t look quite convinced. Conner looked . . . strong. Accepting. “Worst case, he’s teleported inside along with Artemis,” Wally added, and Robin didn’t have enough strength to correct him, tell him that, no, they were probably all gone. He just kept not-quite-lying lying to their face, just as Kaldur had about the mole not so long ago. Before he died. “And, uh, Aqualad and everyone,” Wally finished lamely.

Conner looked at M’gann, and a silent understanding passed between them.

A while later, Wally, Robin, and M’gann delivered a message of hope to the world. He didn’t quite believe what he was saying. But he said them anyway.

They went after the Mothership. That was the mission.

Conner jumped from the ship and caused chaos in a way that only a true kryptonian could.

Robin and Wally sped off of a cliff and jumped into the mothership. His heart tore in half (he patched it up with his last bits of dried duct tape) as he realized this was the point of no return.

Just complete the mission. The mission comes first, Batman’s voice sounded in his head.

A flash of light. Zap. And M’gann screamed through the mind-link. Conner. (thudthudthudthudthud)(zap)(zap)(silence)(screaming)

Another name to add to the list.

But the mission went on.

‘No. He’s gone,’ M’gann mourned as she and Manhunter joined them inside.

Wally rushed to comfort her. “Don’t worry. It’s all right. We’ll find him with Artemis. I know it.”

But Martian Manhunter stood to his feet and looked at them with something akin to pity and terrible understanding. “No. My mind is clearer now. The disintegration beam is exactly that. There is no detention facility, no prisoners to rescue. Our mission holds no purpose.”

Wally rushed toward the older martian in anger, grabbing the red x of his uniform. “No! You’re wrong,” he argued. “The zeta radiation proves she’s alive. She’s–”

And Robin couldn’t take it anymore. The mission would go on, but he couldn’t. Not like this.

Robin reached for his friend’s shoulder, spinning him around to look at him dead in the eye. He reached up with his other hand to hold both shoulders and force his friend to hear what he was about to say. Steady him. Prepare him to feel what Robin had been feeling since he was eight. “Stop it, KF. I’ve been scanning for League and Team signals since we got inside. They’re not here. Artemis is gone,” he added in finality. He’d never seen his friend so . . . heartbroken. “But our mission still holds purpose,” he corrected Manhunter, assured KF, reminded himself. “To destroy this mothership.”

He let go and walked away.

Wally didn’t want to follow him, he knew.

He still did.

Robin reached his objection and began to pull his supplies together. Supplies he’d prepared for destruction, not rescue, and Wally looked at him in sad realization.

“You knew,” he said. Realization. Accusation. Resignation. “You knew from the beginning why we were really here.”

Robin kept his head down. Typed in his HoloGlove. Didn’t look up. Couldn’t make himself say sorry because there was still the Mission and he’d run out of duct tape a long time ago. “Four minutes,” he said instead. “Let’s go.”

The doors closed, drones arrived and began to fire at them. Robin kept his eye on the task at hand, letting the others deal with the threat while he kept with the mission.

“Sixteen seconds and counting. Manhunter, take Miss Martian and go.” Because he needed Kid Flash to watch his back. He needed Wally beside him. He didn’t want to go alone.

“No, we won’t leave you!” Miss Martian argued, but there was no real effort into it. Robin had bled that from her when he sent Conner to his death.

“That’s an order. We’ll follow as soon as we blow up those doors,” he informed her. They left.

The clock started to count down from ten. He looked at Wally. His best friend looked back. He nodded. His friend pulled down his goggles with a sad determination. Resignation.

Robin did that.

Was condemning his best friend to death. Even with his healing factor, that wasn’t something he could come back from, Robin knew.

(thudthudthudthudthud)(zap)(zap)(silence)(screaming)

Robin pulled out his explosive discs and held them steady in his hand as they rushed forward.

He flung them forward. Hit his target, his best friend at his back. He turned around just as the explosion came, mouthed an apology he wished his best friend had seen, and let the heat surround him.

It almost felt like he was asleep in that trailer all over again, blankets tangled up around him with the limbs of his mami and tati.

At least he would see them again. Maybe. His parents, and cousin, aunt, and uncle. His team. Bruce.

He would miss Alfred and Jason, though. If they didn’t join him soon. Was it selfish to hope–

But it was still nice, he thought, the hug of the heat, despite the excruciating pain (penance) that seared through his body for all of two seconds before he felt nothing.

(thudthudthudthudthudzapzapsilencescreamingwarmthnothing)

-x-x-x-

Dying felt weirdly like waking up.

His eyes felt like they’d been screwed shut, and sweat beaded at his forehead. He felt fevered, but it didn’t feel like he was in hell.

Which means he needed to get up. He needed to see them. They’d been waiting for him for so long.

Dick had been waiting for so long. He never expected to see them again.

He groaned as he shoved himself up by his elbows, blinked his eyes open and sought out those once-familiar faces. It would be so good to remember, know what they looked like without having to look at a poster on the wall of his bedroom, without having their faces blur in his memories.

He heard a familiar voice. “What happened in there?” Bruce, he thought with relief. He looked around and saw his team, J’onn, Bruce. They were all here. Huh. What were the odds? He hadn’t expected to see any of them ever again.

“The exercise, it all went wrong,” he heard J’onn reply, but it was distant, a fleeting echo in his brain as Dick kept looking around the room that looked suspiciously like one in Mount Justice. He furrowed his brow. Where was everyone?

“Exercise?” he breathed, or tried to. They weren’t coming out quite right. Where were mami? tati? Because if Dick of all people wasn’t in hell, they sure as hell weren’t. He looked at Bruce for an explanation. “What do you mean? Where are they? Where are–”

“Try to remember,” Bruce said softly, stepping closer and starting to reach toward Dick. “What you experienced was a training exercise. Manhunter psychically linked the six of you within an artificial reality. You all knew this going in. What you didn’t know was that it was a train-for-failure exercise. No matter what the team accomplished, the scenario was designed to grow worse. You were aware that nothing was real, including the deaths of the entire Justice League.”

J’onn continued to explain. “That is why you hardly grieved. Even when Wolf disintegrated before your eyes. But all that changed when Artemis died. Though consciously Miss Martian knew it was not real, her subconscious mind was unable to make that distinction; she forgot it was only an exercise. And her subconscious mind took control, making all of you forget and grieve, too.”

Dick turned to look at M’gann, her face crumpling in despair. “I’m– I’m so sorry,” she began, and he hated himself at that moment, looking at the upset teen. Because he hated her a little bit, too. For getting his hopes up.

He’d been so, so close.

And now he was so, so far.

Conner stepped forward angrily, his fists tight as he squared up to Martian Manhunter. “This isn’t her fault! Why didn’t you try to stop it?”

“We did try,” J’onn argued, nonplussed. “But M’gann had a death grip on the scenario. Artemis should have awakened after her death, but she was so convinced that she died that she slipped into a coma. I realized I would have to wrestle control from Miss Martian’s subconscious from within. But upon entering the reality, I was overwhelmed by your collective emotion. There was too much noise to think clearly to remember why I was there. The deaths of Aqualad and Superboy helped. But only when the mothership exploded, and Kid Flash,” he turned to Dick, the boy’s heart wrenching, “and Robin were silenced, did my mind clear enough to remember my true purpose. To shock M’gann out of the exercise before your comas became permanent.”

Martian Manhunter turned to Bruce, sincerity evident in his features. “My apologies. I had no idea a training exercise could be so dangerous, or so damaging.”

Robin lowered his head, red shame coloring his cheeks. He didn’t want to meet any of his team in the eye.

He just wanted to fall asleep, and wake up in his parents’ arms.

He’d been so close.

And now they were so far.

-x-x-x-

Mount Justice; October 23rd, 17:21 EDT

Dick barely lived for six days after the failed training exercise, trapped in some distant limbo between thoughtless death and oppressive life. Everything felt so far away, yet at the same time, was constantly threatening to crush him or bury him under a desert of sand. He tried to keep himself from thinking too much, from letting his mind run rampant and draw him too deep within himself, from letting the world affect him too much. But it was a delicate, exhaustive balance, staying far enough away not to be burned by his own thoughts, yet close enough to discover the root of the problem.

Well, he knew what the problem was. But he just . . . didn’t know how to deal with it yet.

So he ran.

For exercise, of course. He spent hours in the Wayne manor gym, working on the bars or the rings, practicing his acrobatics, lifting weights, taking his frustration out on the training dummies. He stayed far away from the trapeze; he was still too fragile to be in the air right now, but he worked himself to the bone.

The more tired he was, the less he was thinking. The less he was worrying and grieving being angry all over again.

And there was no Robin for him to channel all of those emotions into something useful. So he burned them away until all that was left was a body.

Sometimes, Alfred was able to coax him away from the gym for a meal, and Dick would poke at his plate and eat enough for the old butler to be satisfied. Or at least for him not to chase Dick down later with another plate of food.

Bruce tried talking with him the third day, when he must have realized that the simulation would leave longer-lasting marks than he’d thought. He’d approached Dick with a single-mindedness, and Dick had seen the willingness, the desperation, the worry in the man’s eyes, and Dick almost . . . he’d almost been willing to talk.

But how could he face the man who had given him so, so much and tell him that he wouldn’t be able to carry on the mantle of the Batman one day. That Dick couldn’t harness his grief as Bruce did.

Robin was meant to burn. He was anger. He was pain. He was freedom. He was family. He was everything that Dick had lost and gained. Robin stood for family, burned, fought for family. The memory of his parents, his aunt, uncle, cousin, the old home that he had lost with the circus, the new home that he had found with Bruce, Alfred, and Jason.

Robin wasn’t meant to grieve. He was meant to protect, to use whatever hurt Dick had to hurt those that wanted to hurt his family.

Batman. . . Batman wasn’t any of that. Batman was grieving, and darkness, and shadows; he was the darkest parts of Gotham protecting herself, a love for a city that Dick couldn’t chain himself to, a penance and a promise that everyone could claw their way to a better place. Batman was stoicism, darkness, safety.

Robin was emotion, protection, danger.

Dick. . . Dick couldn’t be Batman. He didn’t have whatever let Bruce keep going when all there was, was emptiness, a hole where a lost love used to be. All Dick had was his anger, at the world for letting all of this pain happen to him, at others for hurting the ones he cared about, at himself for not doing better. But grief was love with nowhere to go. Dick’s love still had somewhere to go, it always did; he carried it around like a well-worn duffle bag, kindling for the fire, a family heirloom. It went with him, was locked deep in his bones where he could turn it into anger.

Dick couldn’t be as empty as Batman had made himself to be, as stoic Bruce needed to be, as big as his father was. He couldn’t wear the cape nor don the cowl that B was training him for.

So was it all for nothing? How could he face Bruce’s disappointment like that?

So when Bruce first approached Dick with that look in his eye, he’d almost talked, until he remembered all the reasons why he couldn’t. And then Bruce had just . . . asked him what was wrong.

Like Robin was as empty as Batman was.

Like Dick hadn’t just lost another family.

Like Dick hadn’t grieved a second father.

Like Dick hadn’t been inches away from seeing the man who gave him his wings and the woman who gave Robin his name.

So when Bruce asked him what was wrong. . . they’d fought.

Badly. And Dick knew that he was in the wrong, but Bruce was, too. Their voices had echoed violently through the manor halls like they hadn’t since Bruce called himself Dick’s father when he was eight and Dick had hurt him as badly as he knew with English words, when Robin ran off to find two-face on his own when he was ten and Batman threatened the man with his own crowbar if he told of his bird’s existence, when Dick went after an escaped Zucco when he was eleven and Bruce had to convince Dick not to kill the man where he stood.

What was wrong?

Maybe Dick had just lost a third family and a second father, and was afraid of losing them for real because Robin tried to be Batman and failed. Was strong enough to send his team to their deaths but too weak to tell Bruce that he never wanted to be the person who killed them again.

What was wrong, Bruce?

What do you think? He’d screamed, and they’d fought over nothing and everything except what was actually wrong, and they both knew it but neither could admit it.

Bruce didn’t talk to him for the next two days.

That was fine. Dick didn’t talk to him for three.

What wasn’t fine was that he knew that Jason had heard it all.

By the time a week had passed since the failed simulation, B and him were on terse speaking terms, and he sent Robin to the mountain for mandatory training.

Business as usual.

They never apologized after any of their fights. The hurt was still there, but they always made up, always got back into the swing of things and no one was the wiser except Alfred. And this time Jason.

They just kept pretending like nothing ever happened, and that nothing was the matter, that nothing would ever be wrong with the Dynamic Duo, Robin and Batman.

And that was fine.

It didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt any less.

Now, he was at Mount Justice with the rest of the team, waiting to find out what sort of mandatory training they would be undergoing. Robin leaned against the couch cushions, slumped low in his seat and staring through the dark of his shades at the ceiling. M’gann and Kaldur were in the kitchen, probably making something, but there were no clanging noises or idle conversation coming from the room. Wally and Artemis each had their own chairs in the living room, and Conner shared one end of the couch with Robin.

Nobody was looking at each other; nobody was talking.

Black Canary and Batman entered the room a little later to tell them that their mandatory training was actually more of a mandatory therapy. Robin glared at Batman, but he knew he wasn’t going to be getting out of it, much to his irritation and surprise.

(A small, largely ignored part of him that wasn’t angry, more like sad, admitted that B letting him talk to Canary showed just how worried he was.)

Conner went first, but judging from the way he stormed out afterwards, Robin guessed it didn’t go so well. Artemis and Wally both left no less shaken than they looked after the simulation.

Soon, it was Robin’s turn. He sat on the couch and leaned back, shades on his face, breathing controlled, beat-up Christmas box wrapped up all nicely with a new roll of duct tape. He was ready, prepared, guarded.

Was his determination to not say anything a bit childish? Maybe. Spiteful? Vindictive? . . . no comment. But maybe he did want to shove it to B just a little for making him go to therapy. If anyone needed therapy, it was Bruce. He dressed up in a bat costume to scare clowns and penguins in the middle of the night like that was a completely normal hobby for people to have.

“I don’t need to hear any of your psychologist mambo-jumbo,” Robin said as soon as he settled in, focusing on a spot on the wall just past Canary’s head. “I’m fine. I don’t know why B thinks I need this.”

Canary cocked her head a little at that. “Mambo-jumbo?” she prompted, her hands clasped together neutrally as she kept a trained eye on him.

Robin rolled his eyes behind his shades. “You’d be surprised by just how many psychologists-turned-Rogues we have over in Gotham. Two is a coincidence, three is a pattern. We don’t exactly like airing out our problems to people with doctorates.”

“Talking about your problems isn’t bad or weak, Robin. It’s normal, healthy, even,” the woman reasoned.

Robin crossed his arms.

“Where did you think you were, when you woke up from the simulation?” Canary asked.

Robin blinked. “What?”

She shifted in her seat but kept her focus on him, her face carefully blank. “When you woke up from the coma, you asked ‘where are they’,” she informed him. “But everyone who died in the simulation was there when you woke up.”

Dick turned his head to the side, breathed a little deeper. A bit of his duct tape loosened. “I, uh, died, remember? Where do you think you go when you die?”

Dick wasn’t looking at her face, then; Robin couldn’t gauge her reaction. She took a breath before asking, “Was it anywhere good?”

“It was supposed to be.” He looked back at her, and saw her gaze soften.

“You were looking for someone,” she reasoned, stated. Robin didn’t reply. She waited before continuing. “You’re hurting–” she tried.

And Robin scoffed. “Hurting? Try traumatized. I finally become leader and wind up sending all of my friends to their deaths. I– I–” Dick’s breath hitched, his cardboard box growing a little too big for all of the tape he’d wrapped around it. It started leaking again, and this time he let it. He forced a breath. “I– I know I did what I had to do, but I hated it. When we started this team, I was desperate to be in charge, to prove myself. Not anymore,” he added quietly, looking at the floor and trying to force a strength, a togetherness he couldn’t quite hold onto anymore. (Because he wasn’t like Batman.) He couldn’t stop the rest of it from coming out. “And. . . and that’s not even the worst of it.” He looked up at her. “You– you can’t tell Batman,” he pleaded.

He needed to rip the mess of emotions from their cardboard christmas tree box, tear it from his chest and just . . . get it off of him.

“Nothing leaves this room.”

Dick nodded. “I’ve always wanted, expected, really, to– to grow up and become him. And the hero bit? I’m still all-in, but that thing inside of him?” Dick kept his gaze trained on the floor. If he looked up– “That thing that– that– drives him to sacrifice everything for the sake of the mission?” Dick kept staring at his clasped hands, clenched his fingers together and felt the sweat and the pain and the skin on bones. “That’s not me. I. . . I don’t want to be the Batman anymore.”

Chapter 15: Stay Secret

Mount Justice; October 31st, EDT

“Computer, seal the room.”

Robin leaned back comfortably on the couch inside of the room that Batman had commandeered for the meeting. He was the only one sitting down. Roy, Bruce, Kaldur, and Red Tornado took it upon themselves to stand, which was great for them if they wanted to keep up some pretense of control over the situation or something, but it was Halloween night, the longest night of the year for the Dynamic Duo. Robin genuinely could not remember ever having a quiet night on the thirty-first of October, not in Gotham, anyhow.

Honestly, he was surprised that he and Batman even had time to make it to the meeting in the first place, considering they usually used every available hour to plan and prepare for whatever Rogue attacks, bank robberies, gang exchanges, etc. were all going to happen on the same night. He and Bruce had already been swamped with work all week prior in pre-emptive strike attempts, but there was only so much they could do.

It wouldn’t change the fact that he would be getting no less than zero hours of sleep, a handful of bruises, and likely at least two fractured ribs and a sprained wrist. Those were his usual injuries for Halloween, anyhow.

“I’ll cut to the chase,” Batman said, his voice brisker than usual and reflecting Robin’s exact thoughts. “Do we believe there’s a mole within the team?”

Kaldur shifted, crossing his arms confidently. “I am convinced there is none,” he affirmed. “When Sportsmaster claimed he had an inside source, he was merely sowing dissent.”

Robin nodded his head in agreement. He couldn’t think of a single one of his teammates who would betray them. Keep secrets? No duh, but his own hands weren’t exactly clean of that sin, either. “His intel could have easily come by comparing notes with the other villains working for the ‘“Injustice League,’’ he said, adding quotation marks with his fingers. “Think about it,” he prompted, “If anyone on the team was actually working with those creepoids–” he turned to Kaldur.

“He or she would have betrayed us during our fight against them,” Kaldur said, completing Robin’s thought.

Roy crossed his arms defensively and stepped closer. “I’m not convinced," he argued. “Sure, you two and Kid Flash are above suspicion,” he said, though his posture was still tense and Robin rolled his eyes behind his domino because he was certain that Roy only didn’t fight his presence in the meeting because Batman was there, “but I know Artemis isn’t shooting straight. For starters, she’s not even Green Arrow’s niece.”

Kaldur started in surprise, and looked to Robin and Batman for confirmation. “What?”

Robin turned to him, and furrowed his brows. He really thought that Kaldur, as leader, would have been made aware of the entire situation; he had to know that Artemis, of all people, couldn’t be the mole and risk being forced back into her family. “Well, yeah. In fact, she’s related to–”

Bruce settled an easy but warning hand on Robin’s shoulder, and he looked up to meet his eyes under the cowl. “Enough,” he told Roy,” Artemis’s relations may indeed make her suspect, but she’s still entitled to a secret identity,” he finished, squeezing Robin’s shoulder. And– okay yeah, he probably should have kept his mouth shut, to be honest. “I’m more concerned about Superboy. We still know very little about what Cadmus programmed into their weapon. Conner could be the mole and not know about it.”

Robin trusted Conner. Sure, he had a bit of an anger issue, but who didn’t? Robin would be just as guilty if he didn’t know how to control himself. But he still had a good heart. But Batman was right; that didn’t mean that he could unknowingly be working against them, somehow.

Roy spoke back up. “And what about Miss Martian? She actually is Manhunter’s niece, but he told Black Canary that he has a few hundred nieces and nephews. And the first time he met M’gann was five months ago. When she stowed away on his last trip from Mars to Earth.”

Robin wrinkled his nose at that. He doubted that Miss Martian could have been recruited by the Injustice League to spy on a team that hadn’t even existed yet while on another planet. Of course, she could have been recruited afterwards, but . . . it was M’gann.

Kaldur straightened. “This changes nothing,” he said, steel in his voice, and Robin was proud to have him as the team’s leader. “I have fought side by side with these people. None are traitors.”

Robin was proud to have someone as good-hearted as Kaldur as his leader. And maybe it was just his Bat Paranoia, but . . . he couldn’t help the seed of distrust that Roy’s and Bruce’s arguments had planted. What if there was still a mole on the team? What if the Injustice League wasn’t as gone as they thought?

He slumped a little in his seat, but he didn’t need to look up at Bruce to know that Batman was thinking the same thing.

Batman nodded as if the subject were closed. He trusted Kaldur’s judgment, Robin knew; it was just that the two of them were from Gotham, and with that came a sort of inherent paranoia that kept you safe and alive. It was better to be safe than sorry.

Red Tornado and Kaldur left without argument, but Roy looked like he wanted to linger. He wasn’t convinced that there wasn’t a mole, yet, Robin knew. That made three of them, he supposed. But the archer left, anyway.

Robin stood from the couch and looked at Bruce. “Ready for the longest night of our lives?” he said, the words coming out more resigned than he thought they would.

The corner of Bruce’s mouth quirked a little at Robin’s inflection. “Never,” he said. “There’s been a break-in at the museum in Gotham, and a new line of feline artifacts came in the week before.”

Robin grinned. “Selina?”

“Selina,” Bruce agreed. “You’ll take point,” he added, to Robin’s surprise.

He raised his eyebrows. “Really?” he asked doubtfully. “You sure you don’t want to take a night off with your girlfriend,” he teased with a suggestive smile, poking Bruce in the arm.

The older man sighed. “I’ll be busy chasing down a lead on Crane,” he said, ignoring Robin’s snickering, “I’ll contact you if I need back-up.”

“Well, what’ll I tell Selina,” Robin said with a fake pout. “You know how grumpy she gets when you ignore her. Even on the busiest night of the year.”

Bruce looked at him and Robin could practically see the man’s raised eyebrow from behind his otherwise expressionless cowl. “You’ll figure it out. She’s been hinting at a playdate with you for a while now.”

What? “Wait, what does that mean?” Robin protested, reaching for Bruce’s elbow, but he turned around and stalked off before Robin could pull an answer from him. The jerk. Robin huffed, but followed him from the room anyway.

Evidently, he had a playdate to get to.

-x-x-x-

Robin laid spread-eagle on the glass ceiling of the Gotham museum, his head turned to the side so that he could keep half an eye on the room underneath, where the exhibit was set up. It was sharing a room with another old-century exhibit that was also unfortunately just as uninteresting. Really, he didn’t get what Selina saw in the whole cat-shtick thing anymore. The costume was cool and all, but only stealing cat items? That had to get boring eventually.

If Robin were a thief, he’d want to be like Penguin. Steal bird stuff but sprinkle in a little corporate fraud and mob ties. For variety. Not that he’d ever become a thief, of course. Though he supposed Selina would get a kick out of it if he finally joined her on one of her little thieving expeditions that she liked to invite him on to tease Bruce.

Robin sighed and rolled over on the glass, smushing his face into the cool material. He shoved himself up on his elbows and then stood. Not that he wasn’t grateful to Bruce for letting him start the night off easy instead of jumping straight into the Crane-Joker-Falcone festivities that they knew would be going on tonight, but man was Robin bored. Selina needed to show up so they could play rooftop chase already.

“Kitten,” a voice purred from behind him. Speak of the she-devil.

He turned around, a grin already stretching across his face. “Selina,” he greeted. “How unexpected of you. Tell me, doesn’t stealing the same thing over and over again get sort of boring after a bit?” he asked.

The woman shifted a hand onto her popped hip. “A girl’s entitled to her tastes,” she argued with a sleek smile.

Robin shrugged his shoulders. “I’m just saying. Maybe sprinkle in a little forgery or something. Just to shake things up a bit. Not that I don’t enjoy our rooftop talks,” he added quickly, lest he offend her. A put-out Selina was never a fun thing to deal with.

“Forgery?” she murmured, walking toward Robin. She ruffled a hand through his hair that he caught himself leaning into for half a second before batting it off good-naturedly. “Maybe for retirement,” she mused, chucking a finger under Robin’s chin. “Don’t you have better things to do tonight, kitten?”

“Well,” Robin said, dragging out the word. “I was invited out by BG and BK to do ‘bird-watching’ tonight. Whatever that means. But you know how Halloween’s our busiest night of the year. I had to tell them I was taking J out trick-or-treating, but I don’t even get to dress up tonight! So not fair.”

“I don’t see the harm in having a little fun,” she purred sympathetically, shifting her weight off the balls of her feet.

Robin huffed. “You know B. He says wearing costumes out on patrol isn’t ‘professional,’” he said, supplementing his sarcastic tone with finger-quotes.

“I see, he does like taking the fun out of everything,” she agreed. “Well, almost everything,” she added with a smile.

“Ew. Gross,” Robin said, scrunching up his face and shaking his head. “I never want to hear you say that again.”

Selina propped a hand up on her hip and sized Robin up. “You know, there’s someone I’ve been wanting you to meet. An admirer, of sorts.”

Robin did a double-take and shot Selina a skeptical look. “You aren’t trying to set me up, are you? I’d rather not go on a double date with my own dad,” he said, wrinkling his nose and shuddering.

She laughed. “Not quite. He’s a bit young for you.”

“So. . . like, a fan?” he questioned, his eyebrows drawn together puzzledly. Then it dawned on him. “Wait, this isn’t what B meant by you trying to set up a playdate, is it?” He cried out loud, throwing his hands up.

Selina smirked. “Ready to dance, kitten?”

Robin groaned in response, but shifted into a defensive position as the woman stepped back four paces. “Fine, but we’re talking more about this later,” he promised, a bit annoyed at her lack of an answer.

She unfurled her whip just when there was a loud crash. They both immediately straightened and looked for the source of the sound before meeting the other’s eyes. Selina shrugged gracefully. “Wasn’t me.”

Robin sighed. Great. “If I ask you to stay put, will you?”

“You know me, kitten.”

He sighed again. “Fine. At least don't steal anything until after I’m done?” He didn’t wait for a response, which, with Selina, was usually the best course of action to get her to do what he wanted. He ran and vaulted over the side of the building in the direction the crash came from, shooting out a grapple as he did so.

Luckily, the crash was through one of the windows on that side of the building, so he was easily able to swing inside. Just as he landed the hallway, he saw one of doors ease shut, a sliver of dim light on the floor waning as it did so.

He started to run forward when he heard a soft thump behind him. He turned around just as Selina stood up. “Don’t worry, I’ll behave. Scout honor,” she promised, a hand over her heart and her lips forming a knowing smirk.

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Robin muttered, but he continued down the hallway and slid through the door. It was the same room that he’d been watching for Selina. He glanced at her, but she only smiled at him. He huffed under his breath, and looked around the room for anything unusual.

A dark figure moved along the wall in the dark spot of the cameras, and he pointed it out to Selina. She nodded, and they both took to opposite ends of the room, Robin keeping to the left where, notably, the cat exhibit was set up.

The figure approached a large sword on a weapons rack, one of the central pieces of the exhibit. “You know, if you want a sword for your halloween costume, I know this great place just down the street,” Robin said to stop him from reaching for the sword.

The man stopped and turned around, his face reflecting the moonlight. He was tall, angularly built, with brown hair, ghost-white skin (the man wore no shirt, and it was practically blinding Robin’s eyes), heavy scars over his left eye, and a twisted smile. “Harm is not in need of a Halloween costume,” the man– Harm? Weird to talk about himself in third person, but Robin supposed every Gotham villain needed a quirk– said scornfully.

With that, he turned and reached for the sword, a wicked thing sheathed in what looked like a mummified hand, and took it from the display case. Robin darted forward, his escrima sticks already unsheathed, but then Harm chanted, “Abanan aful Beowulf.”

One bright light and a flash of hissing lightning later, the hand released the sword and Harm was able to withdraw the blade from its gruesome sheath. The sword glowed with that same electrical light, and it encased the man’s body and caused a strange sort of glowing mark to form on his chest, right over his heart.

Sorcery.

Couldn’t Robin just have one normal Halloween night? He could be out with Babs and Bette . . . bird-watching, or whatever that was supposed to be code for.

“Alright, I’m going to need you to put that down,” Robin said warily. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Catwoman standing in the shadows with her whip at the ready.

The man only snarled and swung his arm in a wide arc, the lightning flying toward Robin in a blinding flash, and he was only just able to dive behind one of the exhibits. Pots flew across the room over his head, and Robin peeked his head out from behind his hiding spot.

 

Selina and Harm were locked in a sort of dodging almost-fight. Her whip cracked in the air around Harm as he dodged and tried to send a shot of lightning her way, but she was never in the same spot. Robin stood and threw an escrima stick at the back of Harm’s head, where it bounced off.

Harm let out an angry cry and turned toward Robin, who had caught his stick, to wave his sword and its lightning in his direction. But Selina flared her whip and sent it at the man’s back, where it slashed at his jacket.

Harm spun in a full circle, lightning flaring out in all directions, and Selina and Robin were barely able to fall to the floor in time. “Harm and the sword have no time for these petty games,” he lilted mockingly. “Harm has business with Gotham’s Dark Knight.” He raised his sword threateningly at Robin as he tried to stand, but Selina leapt at him and knocked them both to the ground out of the way just in time.

The kept rolling until they hit the bottom of a display, Selina’s hand still curled around his head. “Ow,” Robin groaned as they stood. “Thanks,” he said.

Harm was long gone.

“I’ll let you off the hook this time, kitten,” the woman said, her eye on the set of swinging doors the villain had presumably left by. “But I think you owe me a little something,” she said with a knowing smile and a cocked head.

Robin sighed, looking in the direction of the unharmed (hah!) artifacts Selina had initially come here for. “Do me a favor? Only take one?”

She raised an eyebrow. He didn’t see it, but he knew she did. He didn’t spend all that time around Bruce for him to not be able to read people like a newspaper. He groaned again. “Fine, two. But don’t tell B.”

With that, they parted ways, and Robin raced after Harm, but he was gone. Robin keyed in a few commands on his HoloWatch to call his R-Cycle, the thought of his bike summoning a small smile, and he promised himself that he would take Jason trick-or-treating next year, busiest night of the year or not.

While he waited, he lifted a hand to his comms. ‘Batman, come in. Come in, Batman,’ he called, but there was only static over the line. Well, so much for that plan. ‘Agent A?’ he tried.

Nothing. His bike pulled up, and just as he climbed on, he heard Jason’s voice come over the line. ‘Robin, it’s J–’

‘Little Wing?’ Robin said, his foot stalling at the pedal. ‘Names,’ he warned, just in case someone was listening, and because he knew Bruce would somehow find out if he didn’t, ‘But what’s wrong?’ The only reason Jason would be on comms tonight would be if both Bruce and Alfred were out of commission, which never boded well. He started typing in a facial recognition program on his glove that would track Harm, using whatever he could access from the cameras in the museum.

Jason’s voice crackled over the comms in response. ‘It’s B. He and A are okay, but B got hit witha bad dose o’ fear gas.’

‘Crane?’ Robin asked, the worry in his chest loosening. If Alfred was busy, there was a good chance he wouldn’t be able to help from the cave as he would be busy keeping Bruce down while he was affected by the fear gas. Which would actually work in Robin’s favor since, apparently, Harm was after Batman for whatever reason.

He checked the outside cameras of the museum to see which way Harm took off, and then turned down that street, keeping an eye out for any sort of rampant destruction (he just seemed like that kind of guy) that might clue him in to the man’s whereabouts.

‘Cops got ‘im,’ Jason reassured. ‘But Batman’s out for the next two hours, and A’s keepin’ him in. He tol’ me ta cover ya tonight.’

Okay, not the best situation, Robin could admit. But he trusted Jason, and his brother had been watching Alfred on comms at night for weeks now. ‘Some guy robbed the museum tonight,’ he explained. ‘He got away, but now he has some sort of magical sword or something. I’m sending a program to the Batcomputer, can you keep an eye on it for me? I’m searching the streets.’

‘Wow. This guy looks pretty tough,’ Jason said, his voice approving as he presumably watched the playback on the museum cameras. ‘An’ he kicked your ass, too.’

‘Language,’ Robin said half-heartedly, though he’d given up a long time ago trying to fix Jason’s liberal tongue. His brother said what he wanted, when he wanted, and Dick found that he couldn’t make himself be bothered or annoyed by it. Sue him. He was a big brother. He found it endearing.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Jason said, and Robin heard a low sort of whirring sound in the background that let him know his brother was twirling around on the Bat-chair (Bat-seat? No, Bat-chair.).

‘How’s the program look?’ Robin said as he hung a sharp right at a stoplight, passing by a car with a suspiciously burned passenger door.

Jason hummed. ‘Oh! Looks like he’s been spotted two blocks over. Wor– Worces– Wor-chess-ashter Drive.’

‘Worchester?’ He corrected with a smile. He kept driving, hanging a right when his HoloGlove redirected him.

‘Shut up,’ Jason grumbled.

Robin changed the subject. ‘How’d he get over there so fast?’ he asked, lettin a bit of his irritation trickle into his voice.

‘Bike? Tricycle? I dunno. Figure it out yourself, you’re almost there.’

Looking at his HoloGlove to see how close he was, Robin parked his R-cycle (and locked its wheels, just in case) in a nearby alley and grappled to a nearby rooftop. ‘See anything?’

‘No,’ came Jason’s voice over the comms. ‘Hey, since I’ma be helping ya on the comms, shouldn’t I have a name like Agent A?’ he asked.

Robin shook his head as he jumped over an alley, crouching near the edge of a rooftop to get a better view of the street. Still nothing. ‘This is a one-time thing.’ If anything, Jason getting some sort of code name would make him even more eager to join them out on the field, and Robin was going to do whatever necessary to keep that from happening. Jason was safe where he was, he was happy. Innocent. Sure, he came from a bad life, but Robin didn’t want to drag him away from the balance they’d found aboveground into their nightlife.

Dick needed Robin. Jason didn’t.

‘I still want a cool name,’ he argued. Because it was Jason, and Dick couldn’t be mad at him for just being himself.

Robin’s spine prickled. Was he being watched? He turned behind him and looked around, rotated and studied each rooftop and fire escape. On the streets below, there were several trick-or-treaters, and he noticed a group of teenagers walking past an alley a block away. But there was nothing . . . out of the ordinary.

He still felt like he was being watched. ‘Just keep an eye on the cameras,’ Robin replied. Jason grumbled his assent, and Robin leapt over another alley. He still didn’t see any sign of harm. ‘I don’t see him anywhere,’ he finally said after a few minutes of searching.

‘He probably moved on,’ Jay said. ‘Nothing’s popped up on the program, though.’

Robin hummed in response, and started to make his way back to his bike to finish patrol when he heard it. A scream. Probably a mugging, but possibly Harm.

Jason must have heard it, too, because he quickly responded, ‘Two alleys over. Camera shows a gang.’

He changed direction and flew over the gaps between buildings as he sprinted across the rooftops. He landed on the edge of a building to look over at the scene. It was dark, and he couldn’t discern any faces, but he was able to make out four girls who’d been blocked into an alley on both sides by a total of six thugs, four on one end, two on the other. One of the girls looked like she was about to throw a punch.

Robin was still hidden by the shadows when he fished out two birdarangs and sent them flying at the hands of two of the thugs who were holding crowbars. (he hated crowbars) He fished out another three at the two thugs on the opposite end and flipped into the alley, the birdarangs knocking a weapon out of one goon’s hand and pinning the other’s jacket to the wall. He completed his flip, landing on the shoulders of one of the goons and using the momentum to slam the man into the brick wall. He slid to the concrete, unconscious.

He turned and side-stepped one of the remaining three thug’s punches. He turned into the spin and jumped up, completing the rotation with a flying kick to the back of the man’s head that knocked him to the ground. One of the men scrambled for his discarded crowbar while Robin leapt at the third, punching him in the nose before slamming his face down into his knee. The man groaned and clutched at his broken nose, but Robin shoved him down to the floor so that he could vault off of him and into the man who’d finally retrieved his weapon. Robin turned into a forward flip and slammed his feet into the man’s ribs, propelling him into the wall of the alley.

All of that took a total of twenty seconds, and Robin spun around to find the last thug standing. Only, when he turned around, the remaining thug had been knocked to the ground. The four girls all stood around him, one of them rubbing at her knuckles. Like she’d punched the man. Which . . . she probably did. Kudos to her and whatever self-defense classes she’d taken.

Robin was still standing in the darkest part of the alley, so while the four girls probably had seen him, they hadn’t actually, like, seen him in the pitch black. Whenever Robin usually stopped muggings like this, he was either able to do it from a distance or from the shadows so that he was keeping with Batman’s rule. It always hurt him when he wasn’t able to comfort the victim, but he usually was able to work his way around the whole don’t-be-seen problem in order to make sure they were alright.

Except when it came to children. He always made sure they were alright in person, offering a smile or a hug to comfort them and ensure they found their parents. It wasn’t like anyone would believe them, anyways, and it would just add to the mystery that was Robin, he told himself.

Recently, Bruce had become a bit more lax about the whole “Robin is an urban legend” deal after Joker and Ivy found out about his existence, so he was allowed on patrol by himself more often and able to deal with more daylight or petty crimes as long as he wasn’t actually caught being seen. (He reminded himself to pick up his birdarangs later, though Robin suspected that Gordon had a hand in the fact that none of Robin’s identifiable projectiles made their way into GCPD evidence lock-up.)

Despite the fact that three (probably four) Rogues officially knew of his existence, had seen him face-to-face, they also weren’t likely to cause any sort of media trouble about it. Joker was too crazy for anyone to believe him other than Harley, who was also too crazy to believe, Ivy would be too unbothered to tell anyone other than Harley, and Batman had beaten Two-Face so brutally until the Rogue swore himself to secrecy after the crowbar debacle that he was surprised the former lawyer could still talk.

So Robin was still hidden and in hiding, and seeing as he’d been doing it for over five years, he was extremely good at it. So when he backed further into the alley to disappear, he was extremely surprised when someone actually spotted him.

“Robin?” a familiar voice called, and he paused just long enough to look at the four girls and–

Why was this his life?

“Art–” He choked when he saw who they were. “What–”

Bette Kane, Barbara Gordon, Zatanna Zatara, and Artemis Crock all stood in the alley surrounding the man that (it made so much more sense now. he probably wouldn’t have needed to step in. Zatanna and Artemis could have taken care of it. blown their covers, yeah, but–) they had taken care of.

He only barely managed to keep himself from saying Artemis’s full name. Which was not something that Robin should know. Robin shouldn’t know Artemis and Zatanna, and he definitely should not know Bette or Barbara. He never expected his two lives to collide like this.

Quick! Think of something! “What– art thou . . . here-est . . . for. In the alley. Miladies.” He winced, and Artemis and Barbara stepped closer to get a better look at him while Bette just stood there with her mouth wide open.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Jason was cackling in Robin’s ear.

‘Shut up,’ he hissed under his breath.

Artemis looked at him like she was both extremely grateful for his quick, amazing, absolutely wonderful recovery in this absolute hell of a situation and like she was able to join Jason in laughing in his face.

“It’s actually you,” Barbara finally spoke, breaking the uneasy silence, and Robin felt sort of obligated to see this situation through for Artemis. “Robin.”

“Yep,” he agreed with a bright grin he knew she would be able to see from the dark. “Well, gotta head out, you know,” he said, intentionally deepening his voice and making it sound even more American-y than usual. “Nine to five, crime to fight, you know. Don’t walk into any more alleys with gangs, okay?” Jason hadn’t stopped laughing yet, but he’d finally paused to take a breath, at least. With that, he tried to back away again.

“Why are you speaking like you’re from the fourteenth century?” Barbara asked, interrupting his hasty retreat.

Oh crap. Yeah, he still needed to cover Artemis’s butt. She so owed him for this. “Oh, uh. Batman doesn’t like it when I fight crime in a Halloween costume, so I’m Robin Hood tonight. Get it?” he cackled, his laugh echoing about the alley. Jason groaned, but Dick smirked at the giggle he’d heard come from his brother before he covered it up and finally fell silent.

His admittedly creepy laugh seemed to shake Bette from her stupor. “You’re real?” Bette finally breathed.

He winced. “Uh, yeah. Try and keep that to yourself, will you?” She blinked, and Robin decided to take that as a yes.

Oh. There was something that he always wanted to do, however. He turned to Barbara. “Hey, thanks for not ratting me out to your dad that night, by the way,” he smiled. “Batman would have benched me for life.”

She blinked, but seemed to remember what he was talking about. “Oh, yeah. No problem. Thanks for not getting me in trouble, either.”

“Wait, what are you talking about?” Zatanna asked.

Barbara turned to her. “We saw each other on a roof one time,” she said, not exactly lying and smart enough to know that she shouldn’t tell anyone about her dad and Batman’s work relationship. “Neither of us were supposed to be out.”

Zatanna nodded. “You know,” Bette began, squinting to see Robin from where he’d dropped further into the alley, “You’re shorter than I thought you’d be. And how old are you, like twenty?”

And, oh. Yep. There was Jason laughing again. “Twenty? You wish! How’d you pull that off when you haven’t even hit puberty yet?’

“Hey!” Robin exclaimed, affronted and forgetting to drop his voice. Artemis was fighting a smile and Zatanna had covered her mouth with her hand. Barbara was laughing too, which meant that she probably already knew that he was around her age from their last meeting. Just great.

Bette threw up her hands. “Geez! Sorry, touchy subject?”

“No, not you–” He started to say, but then remembered that they couldn’t exactly hear Jason. “I mean, yes, I– sorry?”

 

“No harm done,” Artemis went to say, with a look that said he should probably be leaving. And Robin couldn’t agree more.

“You know what? I’ve gotta go. There be-est danger about-eth, so . . . shoo,” he said, waving them away as he turned with his grapple in hand to leave for the last time.

And then there was a heavy thud as someone dropped into the alley behind them.

“No, indeed. Harm is not done. Much Harm left to do,” he heard the man say as he turned back to see Harm standing in the alley, sword drawn and crackling.

“Oh, great. This guy,” Robin pouted.

‘What happened?’ he heard Jason ask.

Artemis looked at him. “You know him?”

“Unfortunately. His name is Harm,” he said, partly to inform Jason. “He stole that fancy sword from the museum earlier and I was tracking him down.”

“Looks like he found you first,” Zatanna added, and then Harm swung his sword and a row of trash cans exploded in a flurry of electricity.

Everyone ducked as metal flew across the alley, and Robin called out, “Run!” Bette started backing up, but Barbara had a familiar steel in her eye, and he knew that she wouldn’t be leaving unless Artemis and Zatanna went, too. “Now!” he added as he drew out two of his birdarangs and sent them flying past the girls’ heads and toward Harm, who batted them from the air with his blade.

Bette, bless her, grabbed Barbara’s wrist and ran, Artemis and Zatanna hesitating until Robin sent a patented Bat-Glare™ their way (something he’d been working on since his second run-in at Juvie).

Harm swung his sword in an arc toward Robin, who started to jump out of the way, but the lightning hit the ground in front of him and sent him flying down the alley and past the girls. His back and head slammed against the wall. “Robin!” Zatanna called, and Barbara slid to her knees beside him.

He heard Bette and Barbara gasp as they caught their first good look at him without his usual cover of shadows. But maybe that was just because all of the shadows were in his brain. He couldn’t really see anything for a little bit. “Ow,” Robin mumbled under his breath, raising one hand to the back of his head. It felt wet and sticky, and he brought his hand to the front of his face to look at it, his vision swimming. His glove was covered in red. “Well that’s not good,” he said. Also his ribs and back hurt. Like a lot.

Distantly, he registered that Artemis had somehow found something to throw at Harm. A lot of somethings. Was that– a cantaloupe? He had to be seeing things.

Zatanna’s eyes widened when she saw the blood coating his hand. “We need to get out of here,” she told him, and reached for his arm, but he batted her away.

“‘M fine,” he slurred.

Jason protested worriedly in his ear. ‘You idiot! Let ‘em help ya!”

“Jay canya shut ‘p for a sec? ‘Is so loud,” he said, reaching for his head with one hand while using the other to push himself up to stand.

“Who are you talking to?” Babs asked.

Rob–Robin’s head lolled to the side and he squinted to look at her. Her hair was very red. He was a bit confused. Barbara knew Jason. “Jay–”

‘BLUEJAY!’ he heard Jason correct hurriedly in his ear, somehow knowing what was about to happen. ‘No names!’

“Bloo-jay,” he repeated stupidly, his head still spinning. “Blue, blue bluejay. Jay,” he sang.

“Okay–” Zatanna said, obviously worried by something. Dick didn’t know what, though. Oh wait, did he have a concussion? That was probably it. And– shoot. Was he supposed to tell them about Jason? Was that why? “That’s not good.”

“I al’rdy sa’ tha,” Robbie grumbled, and tried to start forward because he needed to keep them safe from Harm–harm? Ha! That was funny. Was that why Harm talked in third-person? Robin thought, and then realized he had been thinking out loud that entire time. “‘m fne.”

Barbara gave him a weird look. “Sure,” she said doubtfully.

There was some sort of bright light. Then Artemis finally sprinted towards them, her ammo of what appeared to be rotten fruit and moldy leftovers entirely spent. “Grab Robin and go!” she ordered, and Bette and Barbara each took one of his arms and started to run down the alley, Zatanna leading the way and Artemis following behind.

“The its cannot escape Harm,” a voice echoed slowly after them, and they rounded a corner just as a sword flew through the air and embedded itself in the wall with a resounding thud and a whole lot of electricity.

“Harm and the sword must prove themselves against the Dark Knight. Its protege will make good practice.” Harm retrieved his sword and sent another arc of electricity toward them, but it hit a nearby fire escape.

Zatanna led the way into a nearby alley and suddenly stopped in surprise. A girl in a white hood and clock, pale blond hair framing a too-thin, too-white face, beckoned for them to follow her before sprinting off in another direction.

“Who was that?” Artemis asked, standing just behind Dick. He turned his head to look at her, but ended up burying his face in Barbara’s red hair.

‘Who’s who?’ Jason asked in his ear, unable to keep quiet like Robbie had already–

“Do you care right now?” Zatanna asked, a wild tone in her voice.

“I don’t,” Barbara said, turning to look behind them for a sign of Harm. Dick– Robin could breathe again without sucking in hair. “Follow her!”

They chased down the alleyway where the girl had led them down, but it ended in a dead end.

“Dead end,” Zatanna said, repeating what Robbie–Dick–Robin? had just thought, thank you very much.

Bette looked around. “Where’d she go? Why’d she just–” There was a very loud, annoying noise of metal, which Dick made a face at when his head pounded because of it. What was going on?

“I’m liking her already,” said Zatanna, and suddenly there were a bunch of arms tugging Robin up a fire escape (and oh that was probably the noise from earlier). They kept going higher and higher and higher and suddenly they were on a roof.

“I don’ like this,” Robin murmured under his breath as he caught a glimpse of the four-story drop beneath them. It made his heart sink, which was weird because normally he liked heights. But he had a feeling that if he dropped this time, he wouldn’t fly.

‘D– Robin. Robin! Robin, are you okay?’ Jason was worried about him.

He would fall. (“‘M thinking those Falling Graysons will be quite the catch” a voice Dick could remember better than his parents’ echoed in his ear.)

‘What’s happening?’

(thudthudthudthudthud) He shivered.

“Thanks for the assist, but who are you?” Zatanna asked the girl standing in front of them

Robin shook his head, whispered, ‘’M okay.’

The girl looked like a ghost, with how washed out she was. Like she was an old t-shirt that went one two many rounds in the washer and drier. “Secret,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

‘That won’t cut it,” Artemis snapped. “We need answers. Do you know Harm? Does he have any weaknesses? Wh–”

 

“Secret,” the girl repeated, this time pointing worriedly behind them. They turned and saw Harm climbing onto the roof.

Barbara groaned. “Really?”

“He’s fast, I’ll give him that,” Artemis agreed. She reached behind her shoulder and seemed to realize that she wasn’t wearing her quiver. So instead she went for Robin’s utility belt. “Where’s your little exploding, throwy thingies?” she hissed under her breath.

“What are you doing?” Bette asked, but Artemis ignored her and reached for the three explosive discs that Robin was able to pull himself together for long enough to draw from his pouches.

Artemis stood, leaving Dick–Robin to Bette and Babs. “He’s Robin,” she shrugged, as if that was an explanation. And it probably was. She threw each disc, one after the other, at the water tower on the roof with them, which exploded a second later, all of the water rushing off and pushing Harm off the edge that he was still standing on.

Barbara whistled. “Nice aim.”

“Thanks. Now where’d little Miss Secret go?” she asked, looking around.

“There!” Bette said, gesturing with the arm that wasn’t holding Robin up. They chase after Secret for another two rooftops before Harm was able to recover and catch up.

Secret was waiting for them on another rooftop, and Artemis looked to the others. “Take Robin and go, I’ll hold him off!” She settled into a defensive position, and Dick remembered that he was supposed to be Robin right now. He tried to shrug himself off of Babs and Bette, but the red-head gave him a Look that told him that if he couldn’t even get away from two high-school girls, he probably couldn’t fight Harm at the moment.

“But–” Bette began, looking for all the world like she both didn’t want to leave her friend and like she didn’t want to be anywhere near there right now.

“Go!” Artemis yelled, and then charged toward Harm with nothing but her fists.

Zatanna murmured something under her breath after Bette and Babs turned to leave, and then chased after them. They reached the rooftop where they’d seen Secret, but the girl had already disappeared. “Where’d she go?” Barbara hissed.

The magician shook her head. “I don’t know. But she hasn’t led us wrong so far,” she argued, and then Artemis jumped onto their roof, Harm following a few meters behind. Something shot out of the darkness at Harm that he dodged to avoid.

He righted himself. “The its think to escape Harm but draw near to home. Some considerate its,” he said, and then reached into his jacket for something. Oh. That was a knife. He apparently said that part out loud, because Jaybird started saying something in his ear that he couldn’t quite make out, so he just repeated, ‘’m fine, ‘m fine’ until Jason stopped.

And then Bette and Barbara jumped off of the roof with him, and his heart stopped before he realized that it was only a few feet. They landed, and Dick fell on his back again when they accidentally dropped him (thanks for that, he thought acidly) and breath escaped his lungs and made him dizzy all over again.

Artemis and Zatanna joined them on the roof. “Aw, she’s gone again,” Zatanna said quietly. “Now what? End of the line, and we can’t go back the way we came,” she added.

“He’s coming,” Bette warned, looking up at the figure standing on the edge of the taller roof. She and Barbara stood to their feet, and Dick just kept looking up at the sky. He wished he could see the stars, but Gotham was too dark and cloudy for that. He liked watching the stars when they were on the road for the circus. They were always so much brighter. He missed being able to see the stars. It was something he’d taken for granted before he came to Gotham, and his–

Two sets of hands pulled him to his feet, and he was returned to his spot between Bette and Babs. “I think we broke him,” Barbara said when Dick’s head lolled back onto her shoulder. His legs weren’t working very well. They felt all tingly and weak.

There was another bright light, and Artemis leapt their way, barely avoiding the string of electricity that had shot at her. Harm jumped down to their roof, following the same trail as the lightning. “This can be no coincidence. They alight on Harm’s very roof. How did they know? Tell Harm. Now!” he screamed.

“Wait, this is your place?” Artemis shrieked, still standing in front of Bette and Babs to protect them. And maybe Dick, too, he mused.

“No more games,” Harm promised, and then he brought down his sword onto the roof, a shock of electricity arching toward each and every person in a wave of light and heat and then suddenly there was just darkness.

-x-x-x-

It was dark, and there were voices. Angry, and scared. Ropes tied him to something warm. His head hurt, like, a lot. And there was something small and annoying buzzing in his ears.

He blinked bleary eyes open, and he found himself in a dark bedroom, a small tv set to static the only light source. He groaned, even that little light worsening his already awful headache.

He was tied up with three other people, their bodies warm and pressed up against him, talking, moving, jostling his possibly broken but definitely bruised ribs.

“–awake, but I don’t think he’ll be any help even if he was,” someone was saying. Someone’s hair was itching at his neck. It was annoying. And the ropes were all tight and scratchy. He really wanted them off so he could just lay down and take a nap. Maybe there would still be time to go trick-or-treating with Jay. He started twisting his wrists in a familiar pattern, the motions well-known from his time in the circus and muscle-memory from his time with Bruce.

“We’ll just have to get ourselves out of this,” Barbara said, her voice as determined as ever. She didn’t stop wriggling in her ropes.

Robin groaned again. “Coul’ you stop tha?” he asked. He rolled his neck and squinted his eyes shut for a few seconds against the pounding in his head. “Not doin’ my ribs ‘ny favors,” he grumbled. Babs turned to look at him.

‘Ribs? Robin, are you hurt?’ There was an annoying little voice in his head.

“You don’t look too hot,” she observed. And Robin shot her a mean look that she definitely couldn’t see, but that he hoped she at least felt.

‘Hello? D– Robin?’ He decided to ignore it.

He squinted his eyes against the tv light again, and was thankful that at least his domino mask had light-adjusting lenses. They weren’t doing him any favors with the headache, but at least they weren’t still set for nighttime levels of darkness.

Zatanna mumbled garbled nonsense from right next to him, and he realized that her mouth was taped shut. He wondered if his other two friends knew about her secret, or if it was just Harm. He looked to see what was causing her distress, and then he noticed what everyone else had: Secret. She’d returned, and was standing in front of Zatanna.

She reached at the magician, who turned away in panic, but only reached for the tape on her mouth before ripping it off. Zatanna yelped at the pain, but then turned an angry eye on the girl. “First you lure us into a trap, now you free me? What’s your game?”

“Secret,” was all she said, and she kept staring at them, waiting for them to do something.

Robin finally released his wrists from their restraints, and then he started to shimmy loose from the ropes that tied all four of them together. “What are you– That’s not right,” Bette said when Robin finally contorted enough to slide out from under the ropes.

He rolled over and managed to pull himself into a sitting position to look at the three girls. With the ropes looser than before, they managed to pull themselves out, with only their wrists and legs tied together. Barbara looked over at where Robin still sat, blinking in order to clear his head, fuzzy from the effort it took to move his body that much all at once.

Then she stared at his hands and did a double take. “When did you get loose?” she questioned, and Robin looked down at his unbound wrists and shrugged.

“Tha ropes’re itchy,” he slurred.

‘Ropes?’ A voice buzzed. ‘Geez, Robin. Give me something!’ Robin ignored the voice, but it sounded suspiciously like his little brother. ‘B’s tryin’ ta track ya down. He’s almos’ there.’

‘Robin, what’s going on?’ a new voice said. At least there was some variety, Robin thought.

“Well, can you untie us?” Zatanna suggested slowly, and when he nodded, she lifted her wrists for him to fiddle with. His fingers felt like small sausages and it hurt to focus, but he eventually managed to untie her, Secret watching all the while.

Once everyone was free and standing, except Robin, who had only scooted close to the bed to lean his head against the mattress, Zatanna began to look around the room.

Bette looked at where Robin was slumped on the floor. “How can you escape being tied up, but can’t even make yourself stand up right now?” she wondered, shaking her head. Barbara went and tried the door, but something was blocking it from opening on the outside.

“No luck with the door,” she said.

Suddenly, Zatanna spoke up, spinning to look at Secret while holding a picture frame. “Is this your room? Do you live with this nut-job?”

“Secret.” Barbara rolled her eyes.

Zatanna flung the picture frame on the bed. “Secret, right. Naturally. Let’s get out of here.”

Bette shook her head. “The door’s locked,” she said.

Zatanna smiled. “Let me try,” she said, before kneeling in front of the doorknob. She whispered something under her breath, and then there was a scraping noise. She pushed the door open while Bette just stared. “Follow me.”

Babs and Bette pulled Robin to his feet, and then the four of them made their way down the hall, where they saw Artemis tied up in a chair. Zatanna had somehow gotten ahold of a small, green crossbow at some point.

Harm was enraged, and swung his sword (though thankfully, not the lightning) at Zatanna, who dodged and kept him busy while Babs ran to go help Artemis. Zatanna tossed the crossbow to Artemis, who snatched it mid-air, fired an arrow, and then pulled Barbara and Zatanna after her as she chased Bette and Robin down the hall

“Oh, that little–”

The room they’d just left exploded, and they rushed to leave the room they were in through the Storm Cellar. It opened into the backyard, a small, enclosed space that had been lovingly tended to. They stood in the yard, and Robin belatedly noticed a small grave with three white roses planted beside it.

Artemis and Zatanna knelt to the ground near the wooden tombstone. Bette stood off to the side respectfully. Robin was still leaning against Babs, whose breath had hitched a little. His legs were feeling really heavy again. A nap sounded nice. He rested his head on her shoulder and shut his eyes.

Then there was a small yelp, and a thud, and Robin forced his eyes open to see Secret standing on the grave and Zatanna on the ground. Huh. Maybe it was her grave. She was a ghost, right?

“This is your grave,” Zatanna said, her voice shaky. “This is your secret. This is you.”

 

Artemis shifted uncomfortably. “A ghost,” she said in disbelief. “An actual ghost.”

“Duh,” Robin heard himself mumble from under his breath.

‘B’s less than five minutes away.’ Was the voice a ghost, too?

Zatana’s breath was uneven, and she stammered, “How– how did you die?” She stood up, Secret’s form still standing over her grave. The girl lifted her hands and a shimmering image of a small dagger appeared in her hands.

“Harm’s dagger,” realized Artemis, her voice full. And even Robin understood what had happened for Secret to die.

Secret’s form melted away as the door at the back of the house blew open in a fit of electricity, Harm storming out with an angry scowl. “They defile Harm’s holy place,” he growled with heavy emotion. Bette stumbled back a bit, taking Robin and Babs with her.

“We defiled it? You did this!” Artemis shrieked, her voice crackling as she flung one hand toward the small grave. A child’s grave. “To your own sister!”

Harm said nothing. But he smiled.

Artemis’s mouth dropped open, and her eyes narrowed in anger. “And you’re proud of it? You had the gall to write ‘Beloved!’”

Harm tilted his head to the side. “Not gall, truth. She was the only thing Harm ever loved,” he admitted without emotion. “That’s why she had to go. Harm’s heart had to be pure to hold the sword. Greta had to be cut out. Excised like an infection,” he hissed.

Then Secret rose from her grave, eyes heavy and form light, and Harm backed away in fear, his face open with terror. He righted his features. Calmed himself, glanced at Zatanna. “Ah,” he realized, “it casts an illusion spell.”

Bette and Babs looked at him like he was crazy (he was), but Zatanna cocked her head. “Except I didn’t speak. Harm knows it can’t cast a spell without speaking,” she said.

Harm stepped back, and Greta stepped forward. Artemis smirked. “You asked how we found this place? Face it, Harm, your secret’s out.”

“No,” he gasped, and he pulled up his sword as a barrier between himself and his sister. “Harm’s heart is pure,” he protested. “Harm’s not sorry. I’m not!”

He looked away, and Greta passed through the sword, reached into his chest, and pulled a small star from his heart.

Harm collapsed to the ground, his face torn in desperation and pain as he looked up at his sister, still holding the small light even as the small star faded from view.

He tried to lift the sword, but it fell from his hands before flying into the sheath, which Harm threw away from himself in fear. The sheath and sword reunited and fell to the ground, but the man managed to pull himself together to stand, his face contorted in anger. “I don’t need the sword.”

Harm rushed at Greta with his knife, but the metal passed right through her, and Artemis used the momentum to kick the blade from his hand. It skidded across the space and stopped just before Robin’s feet.

“So unfocused,” Artemis taunted, elbowing him in the gut and then swinging a fist at his face. Harm stumbled backwards. The others looked on. “It can’t fight us while fighting itself.” She spun her body and then delivered one last roundhouse kick to his face, sending him rolling across the grass, unconscious.

Barbara let out a sharp breath, her grip tightening on Robin’s wrist. Which, he realized, was also hurting now because of the bindings from earlier.

Greta returned to her grave, and everyone watched as she stood and looked into the distance through a hole in the fence.

“We’ll make sure you receive a proper burial. We won’t forget you, Greta,” Zatanna told her.

“Secret,” she said one last time, and then sunk into the ground with a sad smile.

They all stood in silence for a bit, and then the soft sound of sirens carried across the distance. “The cops are coming,” Bette said.

“Well, Artemis did blow up the kitchen,” Barbara put in, earning a huff from Artemis.

“I still can’t believe that anyone could do that to his own sister. I mean, if–” She cut herself off, earning an odd look from Zatanna.

Robin broke the awkward pause. “C’na sitdwn now?” he mumbled, his head still leaning against Barbara’s shoulder, one eye already winking shut.

Startled, Babs looked over at him. “Shoot, I forgot– yeah, let’s sit you down,” she said, and she and Bette eased Robin to the ground, Babs sitting beside him so that he could still lean on her. He dug his face into her hair again.

‘Almost there, Robin,’ a voice came on the comms.

“What are we supposed to do with Boy Wonder over there?” Artemis asked drily. “We can’t just leave him here with the cops coming.”

Zatanna hummed in thought. “What about that Blue person he was talking about earlier?” she suggested. “Maybe they can get a hold of Batman?”

And then– Oh. Robin realized what those voices in his head actually were.

Babs shifted underneath Robin. “If not, I think my dad might– Robin, what are you–” Robin grumbled as he tried to pull himself upright, causing Babs to look at him in distress.

He fumbled one hand in his ear and was satisfied when he felt the comm link in his ear. “I thin’ Bat’s s’already comin’,” he said. “Sso i’ma take a nap now, m’kay?” he hummed, and then leaned back against Babs, black edging at his consciousness.

“Wait, Robin–”

Dick slumped across Bab’s lap, lost someplace between wakefulness and darkness. When he dimly registered that the voices in his head were outside now, and strong arms wrapped around him and lifted him up, only then did he let himself slip into sleep.

-x-x-x-

By the time he woke up to get ready for school the next morning, Dick’s headache had mostly gone away, so he was deemed well enough to get through the school day. He barely got through his classes, but managed to look awake and attentive enough to not draw any worrisome glances from the ever-cognizant Barbara, so he called it a win. He did need to remember to get Barbara’s notes later, however, because his handwriting hadn’t looked all that legible all day.

When lunch rolled around, Dick was just thankful that he didn’t have to stare at another board from the back of the room, or peer at the tiny, blurry words of a textbook that were going to cause his headache to come back in full force. As it was, he had managed to get by on painkillers to bring the headache down, and he was certain he would be completely recovered by the end of the day.

He and Barbara sat down at their usual table, and Dick poked at his lunch while listening to Babs wax on about their English project for the week.

“–the kennings in Beowulf are just sort of stupid, is all,” she was explaining. “It doesn't make any sense to just smash different words together to rename something that already has a name.”

Dick looked up from the mashed potato mountain he’d created. “I don’t know. I mean, it makes sense to me,” he said, unfazed by the glare she’d directed his way.

“How?” she pressed, a challenging look in her eye. Dick straightened in his seat.

“Think about it this way. Beowulf was written in Old English, right?” Barbara nodded slowly, still skeptical. “The language was still being created. They were making up words for stuff they didn’t know how to say yet.”

Barbara leaned back. “Well, sure,” she said, picking up her spoon and taking a bite of her peas. “But why not just replace the kennings with new words now that they’ve been created. I mean, whale-road?”

“Creative license?” Bette asked rhetorically, holding a lunch plate and sliding into the chair next to Dick. He fought the urge to raise his eyebrows. Artemis was with her, and the archer sat in the seat next to Babs and nodded a greeting. Dick was thoroughly confused why the two Sophomores took it upon themselves to sit with them, but he decided to just roll with it.

Barbara scoffed. “Creative license, my ass. It’s a poem, and they don’t even try to rhyme!”

“What are we talking about?” Artemis asked, a lost look on her face.

“Beowulf,” Dick supplied, trying to catch Artemis’s eye.

The archer startled. “Wait, really? As in, the warrior dude with the sword and the–” Barbara and Dick nodded. “You guys do know that was actually the warrior who originally owned the sword that Harm used, right?”

Bette and Barbara’s eyes widened, and it wasn’t hard to force a confused expression onto his own face, considering he barely remembered anything that happened the night before. “Harm?” Dick prompted. “What are you talking about?”

The three girls turned to look at him in realization. “Oh!” Bette exclaimed as she turned quickly toward Dick, brushing up against her tray in the process and nearly dropping her fork from the table. “You know how we asked you to go bird-watching with us?” she asked.

“Vaguely?” Dick hummed. “Sorry about that, it’s just that it was Jason’s first Halloween with us, and–”

 

“No worries,” Barbara said. “And I’m actually glad you didn’t come. Jason either,” she added.

“Jason?” Artemis asked.

“My little brother,” Dick replied, a smile finding its way to his face. “He’s great, and he’s new to the family, so I wanted to spend some time with him last night.” And he did, just not in the way either of them– well, the way Dick wanted . . . Jason probably had the time of his life, and he’d even managed to get his own call sign, the brat– wanted.

Artemis nodded her understanding, and Bette continued. “Well, we weren’t actually. . . bird-watching, per say?” she smiled uncomfortably, and Dick wondered what their original plans were.

Fortunately, Barbara saved Bette from her own embarrassment. “Bette’s a huge believer in Robin,” she said, which almost caused Dick to choke on the mashed potatoes he’d just spooned into his mouth. “She keeps convincing me to walk around Gotham to try to find him, and since Halloween’s the Rogue’s biggest night of the year–” Barbara shrugged.

“I thought it would be the best night to find him,” she finished, her composure regained but a blush still faint across her cheeks. “Artemis said no before I asked you two, but she and her friend Zatanna were free at the last minute, so we walked around Gotham trying to find him.” She leaned forward conspiratorily, the other three following suit unconsciously. “And we did!” she whispered.

Dick blinked in surprise. “Really?” he said, forcing doubt into his voice. Barbara looked at Dick.

“I already told you about me seeing him years ago, Dick. We’ve been over this,” she said.

Dick rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m still not convinced that wasn’t a dream or something. Robin’s a myth,” he scoffed. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Barbara and Bette looked at him in unbelief. “Well,” Babs said with no small amount of satisfied sass, “I believed it after I had to tote around his unconscious ass all night. He saved us when we got cornered in an alley–”

“–Oh my gosh, Dick, he was so cool. He took out five guys in like ten seconds–”

“–and then this freaky sword guy–” Barbara continued.

“–Beowulf knock-off–” Artemis inserted.

“–came after all of us. There was this poor ghost girl who helped us after we were all knocked out and tied up–”

 

Bette jumped in excitedly. “–and then she did something to him. He couldn’t use the sword anymore, and then Artemis took him out with some kick-ass moves–”

“You’re making me blush,” Artemis said drolly, tilting her head as she waved around her fork.

“–and then the damn Batman came,” Bette emphasized, “And took Robin away– and apparently there’s also this person named Bluejay that we haven’t even heard of– and he thanked us!” she added in an excited whisper.

“Thanked you?” Dick asked, trying to wrap his mind around the fact.

Artemis looked at him. “That’s what you’re hung up on?”

Dick shrugged. “I mean, Robin could’ve just been some middle-aged guy in a costume. But the Batman part is probably real.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. You still don’t believe me when I say Robin’s real?” Barbara groaned, shoving aside her tray and dropping her head dramatically on the table. She looked up at where Dick returned to playing with his mashed potato mountain.

He raised an eyebrow. “Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p’.

Artemis looked at him. “You’re crazy,” she declared.

“And that’s another thing!” Bette jumped in again. “He was so young! Like, our age, and he was taking down those men like that,” she said, snapping her fingers to emphasize that last word.

Dick made himself look unimpressed. “Our age? That’s even more unbelievable.”

Artemis turned to Barbara. “How long have you been dealing with this?” she asked.

“Too long,” Barbara said, her head still on the table. She sat back up. “It gets better, though. He’s a dork, too.”

“And gymnast. The athlete cancels out the mathlete,” he protested, “and if I am, we both know you are,” Dick retorted. “Besides, you know you love me,” he said with a cheeky grin. “It’s why she’s stuck around for this long,” he whispered, one hand cupping his mouth while he winked.

Artemis snorted. Bette laughed. Barbara glared at them. “As if. Besides, Bette, you’re one to talk. You’re just glad your crush on a fairytale isn’t on some thirty-year old man,” she snarked, and Dick once again almost choked on one of the most unchokeable foods on the planet.

“Crush?” he wheezed, not able to help the laugh that slipped out. “You didn’t even know if he was real until yesterday– allegedly real!” he added, pointing his spoon at a chagrined Barbara.

Bette crumpled, throwing up one hand onto the lunch table to prop her chin up on. “Hey, Batman was real!” she protested.

“Batman’s been caught on camera. Robin hasn’t,” Dick pointed out.

Artemis peered at Dick. “You really don’t believe he exists, do you?” she said almost breathlessly. He shrugged.

“I didn’t believe Batman existed even after those videos from the invasion a while back. Not until he saved me when I was kidnapped a while back–”

It was Bette’s turn to choke on her food. “You saw Batman?” she blurted at the same time Artemis choked out, “You were kidnapped?”

He looked at her weirdly. “Uh– yeah?”

Barbara laid an understanding hand on Artemis’s shoulder. “Boy Hostage here doesn’t quite understand that it’s not a normal thing for kids to be kidnapped on a regular basis,” she said, looking at Dick out the side of her eye.

Artemis kept staring at him. “Why is this a regular thing with you?” she half-shrieked.

“It kinda comes with the territory,” he said, spooning peas into his mouth. “Ward of a billionaire, ransom, etcetera etcetera.”

“Ward of a–?”

Bette looked over at Artemis. “Oh, yeah. Richard Grayson, Artemis Crock. Artemis Crock, meet Richard Grayson, ward of Bruce Wayne.”

“I go by Dick,” he inserted helpfully.

“I’ve tried to convince him otherwise, I promise,” Babs added.

“Wayne?” Artemis squeaked, stunned.

“Yep,” Dick said.

“Hey, aren’t you the kid who took that–”

“Yep.”

“You gonna explain?”

He hummed, said with a laugh, “Not really, no.”

The bell rang, and the four parted ways. They sat with each other at lunch the next day. And the next.

Soon, it became routine.

Chapter 16: Flying

Summary:

YJ s1, ep 21, 24-26

Mount Justice; November 22nd, 09:42 EST

Wally finally convinced Conner to watch something other than the static on the television, the speedster opting to put on some channel about celebrities. Artemis and M’gann had joined them in watching it as well, the former adding dry commentary, the latter rather heavily invested in the celebrities’ personal lives. Dick, however–not Robin, who was American through and through, accent and all– sat at the kitchen counter studying for the citizenship test he would be taking later that week.

Really, he would have thought that with all of Batman’s supposed preparedness and Bruce’s connections, Dick would have taken the citizenship test before now. But somehow the fact that Dick didn’t automatically become a citizen after Bruce adopted him had slipped B’s mind. After that, it had taken another few months for Bruce to set up the test, because even the one of the world’s richest men had to deal with the devil that was immigration customs.

Usually, Dick liked to study at home in the library, with Alfred sitting quietly in the corner and Jason grumbling softly to himself while he finished his homework. Lately, however, Jason had taken it upon himself to join his school’s theatre group at Dick’s urging, and the auditions for their second play of the year were next week. While normally Dick would be more than happy to listen to and critique his brother’s practice performances, this week he really needed to study, and Jason’s loud and admittedly attention-getting acting was more than a bit distracting.

So after gymnastics practice, something he’d joined both to spend time with Barbara and to explain away some of the agility and physical fitness he had reason to keep up as Robin, he headed to the Mountain early, armed with his studying materials. The team was supposed to be sparring with Canary later that afternoon, and although most of them showed up early to hang out anyway, it would still be an easier environment to study in than in the same room as Jason practicing five different roles for a play.

Honestly, Dick found the background noise–Wally and Artemis’s loud arguing, M’gann’s cheery and often one-sided conversation with the reticent Conner, and the low hum of the tv–to be reminiscent of his time spent in the circus.

“–it’s obviously posturing–”

Dick stared fruitlessly at the pages of American history before him. It wasn’t like he was terrible at the subject, but American history was more–

“–no way he spends that much money–”

“–I think that he means it. He has a good heart, I can tell–”

–narrow in its scope, whereas after all of the time he spent traveling throughout Europe and parts of Asia, Dick preferred to learn about cultures and their histories on both a broader or more intimate scale.

“–people like him never mean it. Just look at–”

“–there’s a reason his company hasn’t–”

Honestly, Dick would have just preferred to learn another language at this point. That would have been easier to pick up. . . How many was he up to, again?

“–but doesn’t he fund the–”

“–well, yeah, but why do you think–”

Focus. Dick blinked the papers into focus again and tried to concentrate on the words. And the actual meaning behind them. Something about political parties.

“–a publicity stunt. Wayne–” Dick’s head snapped up and he turned towards the teens in the living room. It was Artemis who’d said it.

“But he also donates a lot of money to good causes.” M’gann. Okay, so they were talking about Bruce, but nothing incriminating so far. He turned his attention back to studying, but kept half an ear on their conversation.

“I’m not saying he’s a bad guy,” Artemis was saying. “Just a poser and a player. You’ve seen the number of women he goes through in a week,” she argued.

“Hasn’t that sort of calmed down in recent years?” Wally pointed out.

Artemis paused. “Yeah, I guess it has. It probably has something to do with his kid.” Dick froze at the mention of, well, himself, but carefully kept his highlighter moving over the page.

“Richard Wayne, right?” M’gann asked.

“Grayson, actually,” Dick heard himself saying quietly in response. And then he cursed himself for it, because of course Conner heard and turned in his direction.

“Grayson?” Conner asked Dick, but thankfully the others had taken it as Conner adding to their conversation and not talking to Robin.

Artemis hummed in surprise. “Oh yeah, I forgot that he never actually took his dad’s name.” Dick forced himself to breathe (Bruce wasn’t his dad!) and focus on the intricacies of the– what was it? American judicial system. Wait, wasn’t he supposed to be studying the Federalist Papers right now?

“I wonder why that is,” Wally mused. “Hey, Rob–” Dick tried not to tense at the mention of his name. “–you’re from Gotham, right?” It was a rhetorical question, he reminded himself to keep from laughing. “What d’you think about the Waynes?”

He looked up from the piles of papers and highlighters stretching across the kitchen counter to find every single one of his teammates looking at him. Great. “Uh–” He stopped, cleared his throat, reminded himself that he was supposed to be Robin right now. “Yeah. They’re okay, I guess. Wayne is a bit stuck-up,” he added because Batman was notorious in the League for disliking socialite Brucie Wayne, and if Robin had a different opinion it would invite questions, “But he’s good for the city,” he said because he’d be damned if he didn’t defend his– Bruce.

M’gann and Conner turned back to the television, apparently and thankfully satisfied by his brief explanation. Wally stood up and sped over into the kitchen, causing Robin to leap over the table and keep his papers from flying off. He glared at his friend.

“What are you– sorry,” he added when he saw the shade behind his friend’s shades, “What are you doing? Mission prep?” he asked hopefully.

Robin sighed. “No, it’s–”

Artemis was in the kitchen, now, too. She pulled a page from under Robin’s elbow. “The Constitution,” she stated, though she posed it like a question.

Think fast. “Well, I am in eighth grade,” he replied drolly. Because Robin was from America. Not from– wherever the hell he’d actually been born. Did Dick even have a real birth certificate? He was fairly certain that he’d only legally existed for five years now, around the time that Robin was born. Did that mean that Robin was only five years old?

Wally’s shoulders drooped as he asked, “So. . . no mission then?”

Robin shook his head. “Nope. Now, I have a very important test to study for, so–”

“Why are you studying basic grammar?” Artemis suddenly asked. Which– shit. Dick froze from where he’d been carefully extricating himself from on top of his papers and notebooks. How was he supposed to explain–

“M’gann, can I speak with you for a moment?” Canary stood in the hallway, a grim expression on her face. Dick couldn’t help the small sigh of relief that escaped him as he sat up straight. The martian in question stood and followed their instruction with a small but confused smile on her face. Dick almost envied her ability to escape the room, if only he could do it without a one-on-one talk from the League member.

“Well?” Artemis looked at him with– was that concern etched in her features? He didn’t know what for. Though, he wondered if she thought. . . Well, if she did, he could work with that.

Wally seemed to catch on to what Artemis was putting down, and looked at him with the same questioning expression. “Uh– tutoring?” he tried. And then, oh. Yep. There it was, relief, flashing across their faces. He made the right call, thankfully. “Yeah, I’m tutoring a cousin,” he added, in case Artemis decided to remember that Dick Grayson, who conveniently looked similar to Robin, but who also refused to tutor at Gotham Academy.

“Another cousin?” Artemis questioned skeptically, her eyebrow raised. Well, two can play at that game, Dick thought, his eyes narrowing.

“Yeah,” he replied smoothly. “He’s entering a spelling bee. Wanted the extra practice.”

The archer’s face paled, and Wally was about to say something when the PA system buzzed. “Robin, Kid Flash, Superboy, Miss Martian, report for mission briefing.”

-x-x-x-

“Rumaan Harjavti is the democratically-elected president of Qurac. Harjavti has been praised as a fair, wise leader. A humanitarian.” Batman stood at the front of the room, a projection of the man in question behind him. Another image of his alter ego shaking Harjavti’s hand was pulled up; Robin vaguely recalled a business trip that Bruce had taken a few months ago to laud WE’s support of the new leader.

Wally sang in an aside to Robin, “Sure, any friend of Bruce Wayne’s,” referring to Robin’s apparent earlier agreement with Bruce’s character and Wally’s own opinion on his association with and support of the Justice League. Robin looked at his friend, considered the irony of the situation, and said nothing.

Bruce resolutely ignored Wally’s comment and continued. “But five days ago, Harjavti allied himself with the dictator of the neighboring nation of Bialya, Queen Bee.” Robin’s eyes widened in surprise. Bruce wouldn’t support Harjavti if he wasn’t a good man and a better leader, and he especially wouldn’t indirectly aid Bialya’s resident mind-controlling monarch. Although . . . surely if it was mind-control, Harjavti would have been released from her power after she returned to her home country?

Conner, apparently, held the same opinion of the queen. He huffed under his breath and turned aside to M’gann. “Not a fan.”

“Few are,” Batman agreed. “But Harjavti suddenly backs Queen Bee’s baseless claim that Qurac and Bialya were one nation in ancient times, and has announced that the countries will reunify in two days in a ceremony in Qurac.” Two videos were projected of the president’s and the queen’s formal statements regarding the unification. Robin noted that Harjavti, who he’d always thought was a rather loud and opinionated man, seemed particularly emotionless.

Wally spoke up. “And the Quracis are okay with this?” he asked in astonishment.

“Hardly,” Batman replied, and another projection of the country’s people protesting the situation was pulled up. “They’re well aware of the brutality of Queen Bee’s regime. But Harjavti has censored the press, silenced all legitimate protest, and invited the Bialyan military into his country to enforce martial law.” They watched as the slideshow of images changed from peaceful protests to the brutal enforcement practices of Bialya’s army.

“Queen Bee has to be controlling Harjavti,” Robin put in, inclining his chin in question at Bruce. “Doesn’t she have the power to enthrall most men?” he asked.

Bruce shifted his stance. “And some women, but we have confirmation she hasn’t left Bialya,” he said in response to Dick’s silent inquiry. “Something else is at work here. Find out what,” he concluded. “Robin, you’re team leader.”

Robin’s stomach sank, his eyes widening and mouth popping open in surprise.

What?

B couldn’t possibly– not after. Not after last time. Dick knew that Bruce knew how the last mission he’d led turned out . . . he’d watched it happen. Robin he shouldn’t be in charge, not after– Not ever. Surely Bruce wouldn’t–

He vaguely registered his friend’s congratulations. “Promotion. Sweet!” he called out, raising a hand in a hive five. Wally– Why would he– Dick had killed (killed!) him, dragged his best friend to his death just so Dick wouldn’t die alone, and–

Dick ignored him and stepped forward, straightening his face and slowing his heart rate back down. Bruce had already seen his reaction, that didn’t matter (should matter enough for B to know what was wrong) . . . he just needed to . . . needed to put on a strong front, a Robin front, for the team. Himself.

“Me?” Dick questioned, a hint of desperation lacing his tone. “What about Aqualad?” Robin asked, his hands spread wide in question.

“Busy helping Aquaman,” Batman said, but when there was no change in Batman’s posture or shift in his breathing, hitch in his expression, Robin knew that what Bruce wasn’t saying told him everything he needed to know. Regret, but intention. “You’re the next logical choice,” Batman said.

The mission. Always for the mission. Never mind that Robin would probably send his entire team to their deaths this time. Again. As long as the mission was completed, that was all that mattered, he thought bitterly.

“Great,” Dick said, dejection slumping his shoulders and he looked down to center himself. Anger at Bruce, resignation for the mission, fear– he didn’t care. Let Batman see.

“Dude–” Wally said. “You totally left me hanging.” Right, the high five prematurely celebrating how they were about to be sacrificed for the mission.

Always for the mission.

-x-x-x-

The bioship pivoted midair and dove back toward earth, her exterior blending in easily with their surroundings as they approached the ground. “We’re right above the Quraci/Bialyan border,” Wally informed them. “A border the Bialyans are in the process of ignoring," he added bitterly as he looked through one of the windows at the ground below, where tanks rolled over grass and fences alike, scaring away a herd of animals.

“No opposition,” Conner commented, looking back at the others from his seat in the front. “Guess Harjavti really is in bed with Bialya.”

“I wouldn’t expect opposition here,” Robin replied as he looked closer at the gps on his HoloGlove. Something dropped in his stomach. These people wouldn’t be able to defend themselves. “It’s an animal sanctuary.”

M’gann looked over his shoulder at the projected map. “The Logan Animal Sanctuary?” she asked, her voice heavy and shocked all at once.

Robin looked over at her in surprise. “You’ve heard of it?”

“Guys!” Wally called, pulling their attention. The speedster was looking through the window of the bioship at the ground below. “The tanks have caused a stampede,” he warned, “with civilians in harm’s way.”

That wasn’t the mission. They weren’t the mission. The mission was Harjavti, Robin reminded himself. Batman gave them a mission: save Harjavti, save Qurac, save more people than just–

Conner joined Wally at the window, leaning over the side to get a closer look. “I see them. A woman and a small boy.”

A family. Robin meant family–

“We have to help them!” M’gann pleaded.

“We’re way off mission here,” Robin began. But Batman meant mission. Robin turned his head away. Dick didn’t want to be Batman anymore, though, did he. Robin meant family, protection, safety. Saving people, saving families, was the mission; they were the mission. He narrowed his eyes, looked at the team that he was leading.

“Deploy.”

But that didn’t mean they couldn’t be smart about it. “But stealth mode,” he added, “If the Bialyans know we hit them, this becomes an international incident.”

Miss Martian redirected the bioship, her canons firing at one of the two tanks crossing the border so that it slammed into the other. Armed soldiers looked up at the skies for the source, and the bioship flew through a cloud of smoke, the team jumping out in the cover.

Robin barely had time to enjoy the feeling of being in the air, turning in a somersault and throwing a birdarang at the ground near a group of soldiers, before M’gann began to slow his descent. Kid Flash sped through the smoke cover that Robin’s birdarang wrought, knocking out soldiers left and right.

The bioship continued to fire at the soldiers, herding them back over the border. The team turned their attention to the stampede and the family, Conner jumping in front of the two civilians and slamming into one of the approaching beasts. The herd parted around the three, but the animal that the two civilians had been tending to was startled and darted into the stampede.

“Oryx!” the boy, who Robin saw was only ten or eleven (Jason’s age, Dick realized), shouted, one hand stretched in the animal’s direction.

M’gann was still levitating the both of them down, but he watched as she stretched forth another hand and levitated the escaped animal above the stampeding herd. She let go of Robin, and he dropped to the ground behind the mother and son.

“Are you both alright?” he asked, still crouched as Kid Flash skidded to a stop beside him, arms full of liberated military-grade guns that he promptly tossed over Robin’s head, hands falling to his hips. Robin stood

The boy’s eyes widened comically and he turned to the stunned woman beside him. “Mom. Mom, mom!” he exclaimed, his voice rising in pitch until the woman regained her senses and finally looked at him. “We were just saved by superheroes! That’s Kid Flash,” he emphasized, pointing at the red-haired speedster.

Wally hummed with pride, and waved a hand toward the approaching Conner. “Superboy and Miss Martian helped, too.”

“Oryx!” The boy rushed forward as said animal was levitated to the ground by Miss Martian, still cloaked as she landed behind them.

“We diverted the Bialyans around the sanctuary,” Robin informed the woman as she approached. “You should be safe now.”

Wally looked over at M’gann. “Uh, yeah, the coast is clear, Miss M. You can de-camo now.”

M’gann pulled back her hood as she faded back into sight, red hair falling at her shoulders. “H-hi,” she greeted shyly. The boy’s eyes widened and his smile grew into a grin.

The woman pet the animal beside them. “You may have made things worse,” she told them resignedly. “Bialyan border crossings are a way of life here. Usually they wreck a few fences and move on. Engaging them might have made us a target,” she said, crossing her arms as if she were– no, she was– scolding them.

The boy groaned under his breath and looked up at his mouth. “Mom,” he sang quietly, “uncool.”

The oryx grunted and moved to the side as the woman sighed. “I’m sorry. I should thank you.” She reached toward her son and placed a loving hand on his shoulder. “This is my son, Garfield. I’m–”

“Marie Logan!” M’gann giggled, half out of breath as she stepped forward. “I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you in person.” Her pupils grew and she looked down for a second. “Uh, I’ve– I’ve admired your stance on animal rights for years,” she added awkwardly, and then after a pause, turned away with a blush spreading across her cheeks.

The wildebeest Conner had stopped earlier staggered toward Marie, who stepped forward to comfort it. “The Oryx is sick, and I think you injured this wildebeest," she added, looking back with an accusing gaze.

Conner tilted his head. “Uh, sorry?”

“I suppose it was unavoidable,” Marie admitted in a low tone. “But both need to go to our clinic,” she pressed.

“The boys can do that,” M’gann quickly volunteered, and Robin blanked. What? “You and I can . . . fix your fences.”

Robin recovered. “That’s not exactly our–”

M’gann spun around, hands held together pleadingly. “Robin,” she begged, at the same time Garfield grabbed onto his mom and petitioned, “Please, mom!”

Marie sighed and acquiesced, and Robin, seeing just how much M’gann, who never asked for anything, who was always volunteering to help, for some reason wanted this, groaned at the same time as Marie, “Fine.”

-x-x-x-

Garfield had just found and inserted the VHS tape for Hello Megan when Conner turned and snapped, “Wait. Aircraft, headed this way.”

He and Wally raced for the door, Robin turning to follow them when something occurred to him. He paused, turned to Gar, and told him, “Gar, stay put.”

Robin turned and just as he started down the steps of the porch, the planes fired down at M’gann and Marie, who’d just returned from fixing the fences, Conner jumping to cover them at the last minute.

“Where’s my son?” Marie asked Conner, her hands on her shoulder.

“I ordered him to stay inside,” Robin told her.

The mother’s eyes widened, brows drawing together in anger. “He’s eleven,” she said, gritting her teeth. “He doesn’t do orders.”

Then they heard a small voice cry out, “Mom!” They turned, and saw Garfield standing at the door to the barn, waving his hand in the air and grinning proudly. “It’s okay, I got the animals out!”

The planes turned around and fired at the barn, and it fell apart in a burst of wood and metal, Gar flying into the air.

M’gann flew to catch him, Conner holding Marie back as she screamed for her son.

Why couldn’t he stay put? But Robin should have known better. Jason wouldn’t have stayed put.

The planes came back for another round, and Conner and M’gann rushed to stop them while Robin remained. Marie turned to him with an angry look on her face. “I told you there’d be consequences.”

Robin glanced down, clenched his fist, and then looked her in the eye. “Always,” he said, remembering a time when he’d listened and shut his mouth, and five people fell. “Let’s get him inside.”

-x-x-x-

They completed the mission, defeating Psimon, saving Harjavti, and proving that Queen Bee was behind everything.

“Dude, saving a country!” KF playfully punched Robin in the arm. “Pretty big win for your first turn as leader,” he grinned.

Robin rubbed his shoulder. “Yeah, thanks,” he replied.

They completed the mission, and they managed to save the Logans.

So why did he feel like he still failed?

-x-x-x-

Gotham City; November 26th, 18:00 EDT

Dick was flying; it never failed to calm him down. He was everywhere and nowhere, all at once, in his own world that nobody could belong to like his family could. Had. Dich sucked in a breath as he twisted in the air, a sharp pang melting into his ribcage at the thought.

Some days were harder than others. His birthday, their birthdays. That day. Holidays. Robin’s birthday. Sometimes, on those bad days, or when Dick was playing other characters, he selfishly wished that he lived his other lives. Wished that he had a birthday he could enjoy, or a holiday he could sit through without looking at other families and seeing something he could never have.

True, he was building something good, here, for himself. With B, Alfred, Jason. His aunts and uncles in the League. His older brothers and sisters on the team. His friends at Gotham Academy. He was building a home for himself, drawing in people who reminded him just enough of his first and second families to feel like home, but far enough away that he wouldn’t be struck by terrible, bittersweet pangs.

Sometimes, he still felt those feelings, like when he braided Artemis’s hair and remembered the smell of his mother’s hair, and the way it would sometimes sweep across his forehead as they flew through the air.

When Kaldur laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder, Dick would sometimes close his eyes for the briefest second and imagine his father.

When he sat with Jason and talked, ran around the manor with him like they were his old fairgrounds, Dick could pretend that his cousin was chasing after them, trying to wrangle Dick back to his parents.

When Alfred noticed he was sad, and showed up with a plate of his favorite cookies, Dick remembered when he would run to Haly with a busted finger and leave with one of the small candies the older man kept for the circus children.

And when Bruce would look at him, with a soft look just for Robin after a long patrol, it would remind him of when he was his parents’ Robin, flying in the air and sharing something just for them.

He was surrounding himself with a family as big as the one that he used to know. And it was something good, and strong.

And yet it sometimes felt so fragile.

He and Bruce may be the Dynamic Duo, but recently their relationship had been . . . strained. Sure, they never used to always see eye-to-eye, but this felt like more than just growing pains.

He wondered if Bruce knew about Failsafe.

He wondered if Bruce resented taking Robin, taking Dick in if he wasn’t going to be the next Batman.

And the worst part–

Dick could never hate Bruce’s Batman, could never hate B. But he hated playing that role, it fit in all the wrong places; it was tight, and dark, restricting, wrong.

But the worst part was that Dick would make himself grow into Batman if he knew it would keep Bruce close, keep his new family together, even if he had to stretch the suit and shrink, warp, twist himself into fitting it.

Dick, Robin wouldn’t survive; something else would grow out of that other skin, someone his parents wouldn’t want him to be, but he would become Batman in a thousand lifetimes if it kept his family, his.

He spun in the air again, and caught a flutter of clothing out of the side of his eye. He twitched, adjusted the direction of his momentum, grabbed the trapeze bar and swung himself around it until he perched at the top like a bird. He looked down, and Jason was standing in the corner of the gym, though it didn’t look like he’d noticed Dick on the trapeze, yet.

But something was wrong. Dick leapt off the bar, turned in the air, and caught the next, not even bothering with a flip off of that one in order to reach the platform. His feet thudded soundlesslessly against the wooden floor, but Dick made sure to make a little noise as he climbed down and walked over to him.

“Jay?” Dick could easily read the tension in his shoulders, the anger in his clenched fist. Something was really wrong.

“What’s wrong, Jaybird?”

Jason looked up, his eyes red but his jaw clenched. “Me ‘n B got into a fight,” he said. Short, clipped. “I jus’ wanna be–” He let out a hard sigh. “There, ya know?”

For once, Dick didn’t really understand. But he put an arm around his brother’s shoulder anyway and led him to a nearby bench. “I’ve been at this for a while. Sit with me?” He uncapped his bottle of water and chugged a few sips, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably until Jason wanted to break it.

“I know– I know ya don’ want me out there with ya. But it’s somethin’ I thought we could share.”

Robin. Now Dick understood.

“But B jus’ got so– so angry, an’ I–” Jason looked down, his jaw still clenched tightly. He opened and closed his fists a few times. “We yelled, a lot.”

Dick took a deep breath. He probably wasn’t in the right headspace to be giving advice about Bruce at the moment, if he was being entirely honest, but he’d be damned if he let his little brother feel the same as he did without at least trying to talk him down.

“You want to be out in the field,” Dick reasoned, and Jason nodded his head the slightest. Dick fingered the cool material of his water canteen. “It’s not– safe.”

Jason shot a mean look at Dick, tensed to stand, run, leave. “I knew I shoulda–”

But Dick wrapped a hand around his wrist. “Not that kind of safe. Just– listen, will you?” He sat back down, perched at the edge like he was ready to run. He probably was. Gotham habits died hard. “Me and B, we started out for different reasons, but we were hurting the same kind of way. Batman and Robin were all we had left to become. There wasn’t any other option where we came out alive if we weren’t– who we are now.”

Jason furrowed his brow. “What d’ya mean? You were safe once B took ya in, weren’tcha?”

“Yeah, B was safe, but I wasn’t,” he tried to explain, but there wasn’t really a way to explain the dark sort of anger that had clawed at his insides before he’d found a way to control it, harness it. “I was angry and desperate after my family died, and that made me dangerous. To myself. I wasn’t safe for myself, but Robin, helping others? That helped me change that. B’s the same. But you?”

Dick worked his jaw, looked over at his brother, looking back at him. “You don’t have– that, yet. You’ve been hurt, but you weren’t–” looking to hurt someone else, his mind supplied, but he didn’t– he didn’t want Jason to know that about him. To know that Robin, something that stood for good, has been born from so much bad inside of Dick. “–you didn’t need your own Robin to pull you out of it. You just needed Bruce and Dick and Alfred, not Batman and Robin. You have the chance to have what me and B never got to live out, and he–we are just trying to give that to you. Because once you’re pulled into this life, it’s not so easy forcing yourself out.”

They were quiet after that. Dick was waiting for the ball to drop, but all he heard Jason say was, “I’m still angry at him.”

“That’s okay.” Because Dick understood wanting to belong somewhere so badly that you tried to force yourself to become someone you didn’t need to become.

He looked up at Dick. “What d’ya think I should do?”

Dick cocked his head at Jason. “I think that you’re my Bluejay, whatever that means. But–” Dick shook his head. “But you need to understand that being a robin isn’t safe for you like it is for me. You can be angry with us if you want, fight, argue, whatever. Just– understand that.”

There was another silence, but Dick noticed the way Jason’s head nodded almost against his will. He understood. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t have to; as long as he understood.

“Are you– are you angry at Bruce right now, too?” His little brother looked up at him, and there was something in his eye that told Dick it was very important to tell the truth. To not lie about why he and B were arguing like all the other times. “Is that why you two’re arguing all tha time?”

Dick sucked in a breath. “Me and B, we don’t exactly have the best track record for talking it out. But. . . yeah, I’m mad at him right now,” he admitted. “He’s probably angry with me, too.”

“Probably?” Jason pressed.

Dick shrugged. “Sometimes it isn’t so clear-cut. Sometimes arguments are just growing pains,” he tried to explain, to reassure Jason about his own relationship with Bruce.

“But you don’t think so, not this time.” Not a question. Sometimes his brother could be a perceptive little asshole, Dick thought.

“No. I just feel like, lately–” Dick paused and tried to think through how he wanted to say this. “Lately, I feel he’s been trying to stuff me into a role I don’t want to fit into. I don’t even know if he knows the reason why we’re fighting, if he knows about–” Dick stopped. Failsafe was his to deal with. “We just . . . are. Don’t worry, though,” Dick said, knocking his shoulder against Jason’s. “It’ll blow over sooner or later. It always does. So, we good?”

Jason looked at him, his face scrunched up for a half second. “Yeah, we’re good. But what am I s’posed to do about B? What do you usually do? Besides yell at ‘im,” he added drily.

Dick snickered. “Well, actually,” he said, his eyes sparkling, and Jason looked at him strangely. “Whenever me and B get into a fight, I like to run off and do something that’ll piss him off, but nothing he can ground me for.”

Jason’s eyes widened. “Wait, really? I can do that?”

 

Dick shrugged. “I mean, you’re probably not supposed to, and I’m probably not the best influence, but. . . yeah? I do it all the time, I don’t see why you can’t.”

Jason sat up a little straighter. “Like what?”

“Well,” Dick thought, trying to remember one of his smaller indiscretions. Best to start the kid off small; he’d hate for there to be a repeat of Two-Face. “There was this one time that I convinced Catwoman to take me on one of her little museum trips. But since I didn’t steal anything, B couldn’t pin anything on me,” he grinned. “Even when she came back with a whole bunch of stories I know he never wanted her to hear.”

Jason laughed, and Dick joined in. “So, got any ideas?” Dick asked.

Jason thought, and then a truly terrifying smile lit up his face. “I’ve got a few,” he mused, and then popped up out of his seat with twice as much energy as he walked into the gym with.

“What? Not going to tell me?” Dick asked, pulling an affronted look over his face.

“Nope,” Jason popped. “But trust me, it’s gonna be waay better than yours,” he promised, and then backed away and ran out of the gym, leaving Dick sitting on the bench with the water canteen still clasped between his hands.

Dick let out a little sigh and hummed as he stood and made his way back over to the trapeze. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told him that,” he said, a little worry leaking in. But, no, Jason was a smart kid, and he wouldn’t do anything as dumb as chasing after Two-Face like he did, and without training for that matter. The worst he would do was glitter up the batmobile or something.

He figured he should probably warn Alfred to keep an eye on the kid. But, then again, Dick was the one who’d given him the idea. Jason deserved a head start on the shrewd butler, at least.

He stood on the platform again, already having chalked up his hands, and jumped back into the air.

Dick lost himself to the graceful back-and-forth of weightlessness and falling, of turning and twisting in the air, his parents beside him. Jason was a breath of fresh air from the thoughts he’d been consumed by earlier, the haunting loneliness of bittersweet longing for a life he didn’t have the chance to finish living.

Bruce had seen him on the trapeze only once, Alfred never. It was something of a sore spot for Dick, but he also . . . appreciated that they seemed to know that his time on the trapeze was something just for him. But now– now, he sort of wished he could show his little brother this part of his life.

Maybe let him see, even try–

But Jason wasn’t into that kind of stuff, was he? He seemed to be carving out his own little nook in the manor, a place on the comms as Bluejay, with Alfred in the kitchen, in the study with Bruce, the library with Dick.

Dick landed in a handstand on the platform, performing a graceful kick-over as he straightened up and turned around to continue the routine. He had just leapt off, turning in another series of flips and propelling himself off the first bar, when he heard it– a small gasp.

Not Bruce, or Alfred, certainly, and not Jason.

Robin would never be startled by such a small thing, would have noticed whoever it was a long time ago, but Robin wasn’t who he was right now. He was Dick, and he was with his family in the air, in a world so high up that he couldn’t have seen those who were grounded by gravity even if he’d wanted to.

Which he did.

Dick turned mid-air, twisting at the last moment so that he would catch the next bar under his knees, but the noise had thrown off his timing, and he only managed to hook one leg on the bar. Which was fine, honestly, considering he’d done the same thing a million times before, but he did flail a little bit as he hung upside down like a monkey and had to actually take a few seconds to orient himself.

The shame.

But it was only when he saw who was standing in the doorway of the gym that he was mortified. “What are you guys doing here?” he gasped, half out of breath and only slightly screeching.

Barbara, Artemis, and Bette all stood at the entrance of the gym, dressed in a motley of dark colors, ski caps on their heads like they were about to mug someone in the alley. He couldn’t figure out who’d gasped, or how much they’d seen, but he felt a little . . . violated. This was Dick Grayson’s time, not Richard’s, or the strange mix of Richard-Dick that he was when he was with his friends.

Barbara recovered first, while Artemis had frozen and Bette had just gaped. Dick remembered her fascination with Robin and was fervently glad that he was wearing a long sleeve and sweatpants today in anticipation of the cooler weather and still had his hair styled back in Richard’s usual way after his naturalization test earlier that afternoon.

“We came to see you,” Babs supplied, shaking her head. “Although, I didn’t expect to see–” She paused as Dick let go of the bar and turned in a double somersault to cushion his landing on the net below. He bounced back up easily, swiped his towel from the nearby bench, and walked over to the three girls. “This,” Barbara finished, waving her hands in Dick’s general direction.

A faint red color flushed her cheeks, and Dick couldn’t help laughing. “What, Babs, you didn’t forget I grew up in a circus did you?”

“You. . . grew up in a circus,” Artemis repeated. “Why am I not surprised?”

Dick shrugged, still gripping both ends of the towel around his neck. “So, what did you need to see me for?” he asked.

Bette spoke up this time. “We wanted to invite you to go bird-watching with us.”

“Bird-watching?” Dick asked, and tossed a pointed look at the dark windows in the gym. “Isn’t it a bit late for that?” A look that he didn’t like crossed Bette’s face, and Dick paled. “No, you don’t mean–” he began in horror.

Bette smiled. “Yep, we’re hunting robins.” It looked more like she was baring her teeth, in Dick’s opinion, although that could just be because he was the prey.

“But he doesn’t even exist!” Dick protested, throwing up his hands.

“And that’s exactly why we’re kidnapping you, Boy Hostage,” Artemis argued, her hands on her hips. “To prove that he exists.”

Dick blinked. “What do you mean?”

Barbara sighed. “Just be glad we talked Bette out of kidnapping you for real. Don’t worry, we’re just dragging you along, no actual kidnapping involved.”

Dick shifted on his feet. “I don’t know–”

“Nope,” Artemis snapped. “You don’t get a choice, hence the ‘kidnapping’ part,” she said, throwing up finger-quotes. “Bette’s been on my ass all month about you not believing Robin exists. This is the only way we’re ever going to get her to shut up about it.”

Well . . . Robin didn’t actually have patrol tonight . . . And Dick couldn’t deny that the chance to mess with his friends was looking more appealing by the second.

He forced a sigh, hid his grin. “Fine.”

-x-x-x-

“Why did I think this was a good idea,” Dick grit out, hanging on for dear life as he dangled from a fire escape. He was fighting to keep a believable balance between trapeze artist who used to fly eight stories above ground and the kid who watched his entire family fall and die from said same stories. It was a surprisingly tough act, trying to be both terrified and unbothered when really he was just slightly annoyed and all too comfortable to be so close to falling to his death.

“Shh,” Barbara hissed, both hands still clasped around one of his wrists as she kept him from falling. “I don’t want to get mugged again.

Dick rolled his eyes. “We’re eighteen stories up, Babs. I doubt we’re going to get mugged.”

They pulled him the rest of the way up, tugging him over the metal rails. He dusted himself off as Bette began another series of apologies. “Dick, I’m so sorry–”

He waved her off. “It’s fine, Bette. Trapeze artist, remember? Heights got nothing on me.”

She still looked doubtful. “But, after–”

Dick’s face hardened. “I said it’s fine. Lay off, and let’s get moving.” He turned his back and started up the next set of stairs, ignoring Artemis’s and Bette’s low murmurs as he climbed.

And he really was. The height hadn’t scared him; he’d climbed worse as Robin, flown higher as Dick. But he still didn’t want to talk about falling.

He didn’t even want to think about falling, not after a day like yesterday, or, honestly, not after a day like today. He wasn’t angry at Jay, but being interrupted twice on the trapeze, where he usually got to fly by himself with the ghosts of his parents, had shaken him more than he cared to admit.

Babs was right behind him. “Dick,” she began, but cut herself off when Dick turned to level a glare at her.

“I’ll apologize later,” he whispered as the two girls started to follow them up. They only had a few more stories to go.

Barbara brushed her fingers at Dick’s wrist on the handrail. “I’m not worried about her. How are–” He shook his head once, sharp, and Barbara didn’t finish her question.

A few minutes later, they made it to the top of the roof and split up to keep an eye out for Robin. It was going to be a long night, he knew, though he couldn’t tell them that. Dick, not wanting to talk to either Bette or even Barbara at the moment, took Artemis by the wrist and made his way to the other side of the roof.

They sat down to wait, Dick plopping himself on the edge of the roof and swinging his feet off the building. Artemis knelt behind the ledge and propped her chin up on the stone.

“Do you actually not believe in Robin, or are you just messing with Bette?” she asked after a while, her head nestled in the crook of her elbow as she kept her gaze on the skyline.

Dick huffed a small laugh under his breath. “Think of it like ‘innocent until proven guilty,’” he advised. “And if it just so happens to throw Bette for a spin?” he shrugged.

Artemis snorted, and lightly shoved him with one hand before resettling herself into a more comfortable position. “Hey, what got you so upset earlier?” she asked.

Dick looked over at her, entirely ready to shut her down like he had everyone else in his life when he didn’t want to talk about something. Because it was hard enough barely telling Jason the basics, even harder when the kids at school liked to bring it up every other week, or when the socialites at Bruce’s galas pinched his cheeks and called him an orphaned circus brat, or when people implied that his parents clearly weren’t the best if they had fallen. (it was murder!)

But Artemis looked . . . worried. And he knew her, didn’t he? She knew a part of him, Robin, that not many others knew.

And Robin knew a part of her that she tried to keep hidden, that she was ashamed of. And even if Dick wasn’t technically supposed to know about it, he also knew that Artemis. . . Artemis had a really good chance of–not understanding, but maybe–being able to listen properly. Hear what he was saying and take it to heart.

It would be nice to tell someone, wouldn’t it?

 

“It was nothing,” he finally sighed. Best to be vague. “I just don’t like it when people act like I’m supposed to be scared of heights or something.”

Artemis’s brow furrowed as she looked up at him from underneath her lashes. She uncrossed her arms and propped her head on a hand. “Should you be?” she asked.

And, oh– she really didn’t know. And, well, Dick probably should have seen the signs. But now all he could think about was the fact that it would have been nice to know that she didn’t know at the time, so that he could savor the feeling of having a friend that just . . . didn’t know about that part of his life. Maybe then he could have pretended it didn’t happen, even if just for a little while.

He hated to tell her. “No, just Bette being an idiot,” he spat bitterly, then looked over at Artemis after a second thought. “Sorry,” he added.

“I’m not Bette,” she said, like she was sidestepping the apology even though the look in her brown eyes told him that it was more. She wouldn’t judge, she wasn’t like the others, she would listen, her eyes promised.

And Dick was always too trusting for his own good.

Dick sighed, and this time it was real. Because Artemis was his friend, and even if she didn’t know that she knew both parts of Dick, he sort of wanted somebody that wasn’t B to know. Someone he wasn’t fighting with about trying to fit into a suit that wasn’t meant to fit Dick or Robin or anybody that Dick could ever be.

“My family, we were in the circus. Trapeze artist, remember?” he half-smiled, and Artemis’s gaze was still trained on his face. “We were the best.”

“Were.”

Dick nodded his head. “Yeah, we were the best. The Flying Graysons.” He whispered their name like it was sacrilege. “But even that couldn’t stop some asshole with a knife. They fell, and now everyone thinks that I should be. . . scared, or something,” he scoffed, looking down at his interlaced hands, through the gaps in his fingers and at the distant concrete below. “Like I didn’t learn how to fly before I could even walk.”

“Do you miss it?” she asked, and Dick . . . he’d never felt so relieved. That she hadn’t pushed. Because she got it, knew what he was talking about. Understood that legacies were something important. “That life that you can’t have anymore?”

He looked over at her. “Every day. Bad days, especially.”

“Today was a bad day, wasn’t it.” He nodded.

“Flying helps, but not always, and you–” he chuckled. “Well, you girls sort of came at a bad time, to be honest. But I still shouldn’t have snapped at Bette, she meant well–”

Artemis shook her head, and then turned away to look at some distant building. Dick followed her gaze. Wayne Enterprises. Yet another legacy, lights burning against the night sky like yet another torch to carry. “You don’t have to apologize. I lived somewhere else, before I came to Gotham. With other people. I miss it, sometimes. I probably shouldn’t,” she admitted, whispering it like she was confessing her sins.

She probably thought it was. “I feel guilty for missing the circus sometimes,” Dick added quietly. “Bruce has been so good, giving me another home. But I can’t just forget that I had to leave behind two other homes to get to this one. It doesn’t mean we’re . . . bad, does it?” He asked, as much for her as it was for himself.

Artemis shook her head, not wanting Dick to believe it, but Dick knew that if she had to believe it for him, she had to believe it for herself, too. Good. “No, it just means that we’re . . . “

“Human,” Robin said.

“Human,” Artemis agreed with Dick. (Robin)

None of them saw Robin that night, but Robin hoped that Artemis saw Dick a little better.

-x-x-x

Three weeks later, Bette managed to string them along to “bird-watch” again, though why she didn’t just call it what it was, stalking, Dick didn’t know. He only went along with it because he needed to keep his mind off things.

After his talk with Artemis, he’d kept a much closer eye on one of his old homes. A little part of him still hated the circus for leaving him behind to fend for himself in Juvie, in Gotham of all places. Now that he was older, he knew there was nothing they could do, but that didn’t mean it didn’t still sting.

He’d found out a few days ago that Haly’s Circus was being implicated in a string of robberies, but there was nothing he could do about it. Batman couldn’t sanction a mission that would probably end up compromising Robin’s identity and therefore his safety. And, honestly, though he and Bruce had mostly gotten back into their groove after their series of argument-non-arguments, he and Bruce were still on shaky ground. They were still healing, though they hadn’t, could never talk about what the problem really was in the first place, and Dick couldn’t afford to compromise the progress they’d made.

So there was nothing he could do about it.

And it was killing him.

So he’d allowed Bette, and Barbara, and Artemis to ‘kidnap’ (as they so fondly kept referring to it, though he didn’t doubt that if they kept it up and didn’t see Robin and prove to Dick that his own alter-ego existed, they wouldn’t hesitate to resort to more drastic measures) him to go robin-watching.

He and Barbara had started off that night, but Dick couldn’t force himself to be very good company. At some point, Artemis noticed, and the archer asked Barbara if they could switch watch partners.

“Something bothering you?” she asked as she sat down beside him on the ledge, though her fingers gripped the concrete so tight they were turning white.

Dick didn’t say anything for a moment, but . . . she’d listened pretty well last time, hadn’t she? And Dick felt better after they talked the first time.

“It’s Haly’s,” he finally said, and Artemis jerked her head towards him like she hadn’t actually been expecting him to answer. “It’s home for me, and I’ve always thought that if things didn’t work out here, with Bruce, if he kicked me out . . . I could always go back, you know? It wasn’t their fault, what happened, and I still have family there.”

Artemis looked questioningly at him. “Family isn’t always blood,” he explained softly, even though–or perhaps because– he knew she understood better than anyone that the team was a family of its own. “But I think they’re about to get shut down,” he confided.

Her eyebrows raised. “Why? What happened?”

 

“Interpol’s looking into them,” he replied. “Apparently, there’s been a whole bunch of thefts along their route, and now there’s these articles about it . . . “

Artemis looked at him closely. “You don’t think they’re responsible?”

Dick shook his head vehemently. “Never. I know these people. They’re good, they’re family. We live or die by how good we are; they would never–” Dick took a breath and looked up at the dark fog of the Gotham sky. He missed the starry nights he used to see on the road. Sitting under the stars and having his father point out the constellations, his mother telling him a story about each one.

“And if they are?” Artemis pressed. She was tough like that, believed in tough love, and maybe that’s what Dick needed right now, when he was doubting the family who raised him. An old life that made Robin who he was today.

Dick could feel himself shaking. “I have to believe they aren’t,” he said, forcing the belief into his voice.

“Okay,” she said. “I get that. Just– don’t break yourself, okay? Believing someone to be anyone other than what they are. It hurts when they let you down.” Dick could hear the underlying anger in the tremor of her voice, but he said nothing, just gave her a look that he hoped she would understand.

“Okay,” he agreed, eyes meeting hers before turning back to Gotham. “It’s just– the circus can’t take that sort of bad publicity. They barely got back on their feet after– I can’t let that happen, or that’s on me. And the worst part? There’s not even anything I can do about it. They’re in Europe. I’m thirteen,” he shrugged, trying to act nonchalant but for the first time in forever failing in his performance. His shoulders drooped. His eyes met his feet.

A hand found its way onto his shoulder, and Dick looked up at Artemis. “I can’t guarantee everything will be okay, but things usually seem to get better,” she reassured. But she said it like a promise.

And Dick felt a little better.

-x-x-x-

That Monday after sparring with Canary, Artemis pulled him aside in the hallway. “Robin, can we talk?” she asked, one hand fiddling nervously with her bow, but her face drawn together like it was before a mission.

“Sure,” he agreed, following her into her room. “What about?”

She bit her lip, set her face determinedly. “Look, I know that it’s your thing to know everything, you being a bat and all, but if I ask you to look into something for me, can you do it without, you know, looking into me?”

Robin frowned thoughtfully. “Artemis, what is this about?”

“Only if you promise,” she pressed, her bow-hand gripping so tightly it was white, and Robin was reminded of a night on the rooftop two days ago. It was the least he could do, he thought, though it was a bit too late to avoid poking his nose where it didn’t belong on one front.

“Okay,” he agreed.

“Okay?” she ascertained, and when he nodded, he could literally see most of the tension melt from her body. He wished that she knew that who she chose as her family was more important to him than who she didn’t get to choose as her family. “There’s this old. . . friend of mine. We go way back. They used to be a part of this circus–”

Oh no.

“–Haly’s circus–”

Shit. Nononono. This was a disaster.

“–and he thinks that they’re being framed for thefts that happened along their route–”

How was he supposed to– This was exactly what he wanted though– But Batman– But this was the perfect opportunity, surely he could– B would be so mad at him if he ever found out– it was being handed to him on a silver platter, though, and this was his best chance– Surely he didn’t have to find out? And he was just looking into it, right?

Artemis was looking at him expectantly. Oh. She must have finished talking. He blinked owlishly. “What if it is them?”

“He says it’s not.”

No, Dick needed to know the answer to this question. Because he couldn’t– He couldn’t do what Robin does to criminals with these people, his family– He didn’t know what he would do if–

“But if it is?” he pressed, hoping the desperation didn’t leak into his voice. He was mostly successful.

“He has to believe that it’s not them,” she said, looking at him with something . . . and an understanding passed between them.

“It won’t be them,” Dick agreed. He didn’t know what he was agreeing to. To believing in the honor of a family that left him, for better or worse, dead. To making sure, one way or another, that the circus wouldn’t be implicated for any crime, committed or not. To lying to himself. To all of the above? But he still agreed. “How far are you willing to go for this?” he asked.

She looked at him, her eyes hard and posture straight like a beaten steel. “Far. You?”

“All the way.”

-x-x-x-

Bruges; December 22nd, 20:08 CET

 

“Damen und herren. . . Mademes et monsieur. . . Ladies and gentlemen. . . ”

Dick felt like he was home again, standing under the big top waiting for their performance. The large tent stretching above him, the crowds cheering wildly in the bright lighting, Haly beginning the introductions to the greatest show on earth.

M’gann waited on the platform opposite him, limbs thrumming with nervous energy, her eyes darting over to him anxiously, feet shifting uncomfortably. Dick, for once in his life, stood still, took it all in.

Because it felt like he could breathe again. Loose, cool gulps of air that filled his lungs and would make him buoyant while he flew; it was a different sort of freedom that inflated him, would make him feel high on helium when he took that first leap off the platform.

It felt like he was half-way home on a long drive back from vacation, a sort of nervous excitement that coursed through his veins with the oxygenation of it all. Knowing how close he was to a life that could have been his, and he could almost pretend like it still was.

Because when he was in the air, he wasn’t Robin, or Richard, or Robbie, or even Dan. He was Dick, his mother’s little robin, his father’s son. A bird, a Flying Grayson.

It was the closest he would ever get to his parents, and it gave him energy, made him energy; it bubbled up inside of him and he closed his eyes and took it all in, waited in the moment, in the anticipation of being close to them and far from the ground.

Bursts of firework light expelled from the ground at Haly’s last words, a cloud of smoke erupting around the man as he walked into the center of the ring to stand on his raised platform. Dick knew the routine, knew it with his eyes closed, the way his Pop Haly walked with confidence and belonging into the center of a world he created, directing staff twirling in his hands and top hat high on his head.

The crowd cheered wildly, and Dick knew that they’d caught sight of the ringmaster, arms spread wide in pride as he usually did. “Welcome to the Haly International Traveling Circus! Where the world of the center ring is your oyster. And these are our latest pearls. . .”

Dick opened his eyes, a bittersweet memory of his last introduction clenching at his heart and causing him to shake. It was a little thing for Haly to have changed his usual speech. It made sense. The Flying Graysons were no longer the center of the show, life changed, things changed. It was logical, it made sense. The show had to go on.

It still hurt.

“. . . the Daring Dangers!” A spotlight swung across the high top towards Dick, and he pulled a bright, performer’s grin onto his face, the one his mami taught him to make. It felt comfortable; he didn’t need the vaseline his mami used to smear on his teeth to keep his smile up. It wasn’t anything like Robin’s sharp grin, Richard’s soft smile, Richie’s goofy grin, Robbie’s bared teeth. It was a smile to make others smile. And it felt good.

He turned to the crowd with a bright flash of teeth, one hand held high as he waved it in the air, switching hands at the roar of the crowd. The trapeze swung towards him, courtesy of one of the hired hands above (Dick couldn’t help the clench of fear, weak legs, trembling limbs that came with the thought that– no, it wouldn’t be tampered with– he would fall, he wasn’t going to fly– but he was a Grayson– but there was no safety net– no, he won’t need it–) just as Haly called out, “Dan Danger. . .”

Dick pushed aside his fear and hopped up on the trapeze, sweaty hands gripping firmly around it as he pulled himself up and forward before stretching out into a curve to follow the swing of the bar. He swung his legs forward and threw himself into a tight cannonball flip before catching the next bar, M’gann passing by him just as Haly continued, “Dawn Danger. . .”

He continued with the swing, landing on the platform as Haly continued to call out his team’s names. “Diane Danger,” Haly boomed, and Dick leapt off the platform to catch the still-moving trapeze, flying back into the air, “Dane Danger, and Dean Danger.” Dick swung himself into a side-way cartwheel before turning forward into a sleek leap through one of the hollow barrels that Conner had thrown into the air. He extended his arms and straightened just as Artemis’s and Roy’s arrows shot past in a latticework of colorful sparks.

He felt like a robin, a bird in midflight. He stretched further and caught the trapeze bar as Haly continued, “You’ll never see another trapeze act like this, folks.” (And– oh– Dick’s world started to spin, and no, they wouldn’t, would they? Because–) (Focus. A familiar masculine voice sounded in his head, and why couldn’t he tell who–) Dick switched his grip and pivoted on the bar mid-swing to reverse the direction he was facing. He swung back and forward to change the momentum of the bar, force of the air hard and cool against his face.

Across from him, M’gann swung forward on her knees, arms stretched out to catch him (like his mami–)(why was he shaking so much? …And his grip was starting to slip with all of the sweat on his hands…his arms weak and trembling…what would B think?) as Dick continued forward and launched himself into a double-twisted flip. He stretched up, up, up. . . but he didn’t feel like he was flying any more . . . he felt like he was–

Sweat dripped down his forehead and nose and he tried to reach up, but M’gann wasn’t close enough, she wasn’t going to be close enough, but she had to be close enough, she had to catch him, she always caught him in every practice, they’d been training for years, and– this was M’gann, though, not his mami.

Dick barely heard the gasps of the crowd, their horrified screams (it wasn’t– not that night– it wasn’t, it wasn’t, it wasn’t, stay calm– he has a team, they’ll catch him somehow, don’t look down, don’t think thudthudthudthudthud (thud) … broken necks and bones they were birds of course their bones were light enough to fly and would snap so easy but then why did they sound so loud? (thudthudthudthudthud)(thud))

And Dick was falling.

‘Robin!’ M’gann’s terrified voice echoed in his head, and he barely heard it over (thudthudthudthudthud(thud)) the crowd, but he twisted mid-air to look at M’gann (and is this what his parents last saw as they fell to their deaths? His terrified face, horrified eyes?), his hands still stretched forward like she could still catch him.

The air rushed around him, brushed his ears, cushioned his fall like chains, but it no longer felt like a soothing memory, but like the violent pushes he got in the hallways of school or Juvie.

He was falling, falling, fallin– and all he could see were his parents… he would be joining them soon, though, wouldn’t he? It couldn’t be so bad, going out like a Grayson…

B’s voice echoed in his head. (focus!) (oh, that’s who it had been, earlier) Focus, Robin. (have focus, his own smaller, younger voice echoed, and he listened).

‘Don’t blow our cover,’ he managed to grit out through the mental link, turning to face the rapidly-approaching ground, Conner looking up at him with a barrel clutched under his arm.

‘But saving your life’s okay?’ Conner asked rhetorically, because he was already in the process of throwing up a barrel with enough strength to lift Dick back into the sky.

He let out a heavy grunt as the metal slammed into his chest, and he had just enough sense, barely enough strength, to clutch at it to stay on as he kept going up. He looked up and reached with one hand to M’gann, already swinging back on the trapeze, arms stretched forth in a second chance.

(She wasn’t going to be close enough, Dick knew. He knew what falling looked like, felt like. And he was going to join his parents, after all.)

But then her eyes flared green and bright, and it was like time reversed, and (Dick still had time, there was enough time, enough time, time, time) both of her hands clutched desperately at Dick’s outstretched wrist.

They swung in the air (but it didn’t feel like flying, Dick still felt Death barking at his heels, chasing, chasing, chasing) and Dick forced himself back into his own head and out of the– (thudthudthudthudthud)

‘What did I just say?’ he scolded M’gann, but he couldn’t help the relief that flushed his cheeks. Or maybe it was the fever. He has a suspicion that he was sick.

‘The crowd couldn’t see me using my telekinesis from below,’ she reasoned, and Dick was so grateful. She blushed and glanced to the side before they completed their final swing. ‘Besides, I’ve been . . . using it all night,’ she admitted. They landed on the platform, and Dick forced his performer’s smile back onto his face. Forced. It felt stretched thin, like it didn’t belong, and Dick’s stomach swirled with nausea, but he still waved at the crowd, his mami’s voice echoing in the back of his head (at least it wasn’t (thu–)(“The show is the most important thing, my little robin. Smile!”) ‘I’m not exactly the acrobat you are.’ She waved at the crowd.

Dick turned toward her, his smile slipping into a grimace. ‘Yeah, neither am I, right now. I think I caught that 24-hour bug that’s been going around the circus.’ He looked at her, sweat freely coating his entire body, when he hadn’t even been using two-fifths of his skill set. He kept waving, then dropped his hand.

‘But– the show must go on,’ he said, echoing his tati’s words from so long ago.

They descended the ladder and gathered with the others in the center of the ring. Haly gestured proudly toward them as they accepted the crowd’s accolades. “Put your hands together for the Daring Dangers!” Dick wrapped a loose arm around M’gann’s waist, more to hold himself up than anything, though the crowd loved to see a family– , as he waved.

M’gann looked over at him worriedly. ‘I didn’t think you’d make it through,’ she told him.

He looked over at her briefly before wincing as another round of nausea and dizziness hit him. Neither did I. Help me backstage?’ he asked, and she wrapped an arm around his back as the show continued on around them.

The show must go on.

-x-x-x-

That night, they went after the thief, staking out one of the weapons plants that Interpol wasn’t. They went inside and confronted the thief, only to discover that it likely wasn’t just one, but two: the acrobat and the firebreather, who thought it was a good idea to set the building on fire.

Conner got M’gann out, and Roy needed to carry Robin out of the building. The next day, they listened in on a conversation between Haly and the investigative agent.

“Another weapons plant is hit, and once again, the circus is in town,” the Interpol agent was telling Haly. The five of them were waiting in the next room over, hidden behind a curtain. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

Haly bristled, just like– “I don’t care what you believe. My people are not responsible. I did a bed check last night, and every single member of my troupe was asleep in their bunks.”

‘Well, we sure weren’t,” Artemis commented, and Dick felt a part of him shrivel up, because she was supposed to be on Dick’s side. She’d come to Robin for Dick’s sake. To help him, because she believed in him. What about their agreement? Or did– “And if he’s lying about us. . .”

Robin looked down. It couldn’t be Haly.

It couldn’t.

-x-x-x-

‘So, two thieves, right?’ Artemis reasoned. They were sitting in one of the train cars, Dick looking at his HoloGlove for any previous footage they had on the thieves.

M’gann looked over. ‘The fire breather and one of the acrobats,’ she agreed. (The fire breather, one of his father’s friends; he taught Dick how to–) ‘Dressed in identical clothes.’

Dick pulled up a series of videos on his projection. ‘Maybe not just two,’ he said, his heart sinking. ‘Here’s the Madrid security footage.’ One video showed the thief prying over iron bars. A strongman. (Jonas, lifting him on his shoulders, laughing at his own jokes, told in a jilted pidgin of Lithuanian and Russian.) The next, a tightrope walker in Paris. (Ana and Alfonso, clowns by profession, siblings who would sit in Uncle Rick and Aunt Karla’s small kitchen, gossiping in bits of Portuguese and German.)

‘If the entire circus is involved,’ Roy began, ‘Haly himself may be the mastermind.’ And Dick wanted to sock one of his oldest friends in the jaw. Nevermind all of the times that Roy would notice Dick’s discomfort at galas or events, secreting him away from the leets and snide comments (circus brat, gypsy pig, charity case) to a hallway to play poker with the sushi they stole from the tables. Or the sleepovers at Uncle Ollie’s, Wally occasionally swinging by as Roy’s ‘cousin’, Dick making obscure comments about Wally being slow or Roy’s terrible aim. Once Roy finally figured out that Robin was actually . . . Robin, he’d gotten over his distrust of Dick, even treating him like a younger brother as he did Wally, and focused his search for the mole on the other three on their unsanctioned tip. Because how could his older brother just . . . think of Pop Haly like that? (they don’t know him like Dick does, he had to remind himself.) (Roy doesn’t know that Haly is his own family by extension. Because that’s how family works. Speedy was Robin’s brother as soon as Dick found out that he was one of the sidekicks, even if they’d never met as Robin and Speedy, only as Dick and Roy.)

Dick looked up at Roy, pleaded with his not-blue-colored eyes. ‘You don’t know that.’

M’gann thought, ‘It would explain his lies.’

Dick stood up, trying not to clench his fists as his body thrummed with anger. “I told you to keep an open mind,” he ground out, and then turned and left the train car. He couldn’t stay when his family was just going to– not to his other family–

He slammed the door shut, closing himself off from the mental link as he did so. They didn’t want to know what was going through his mind right now.

Dick didn’t know how long he was walking for. It started snowing at some point. He found himself following the length of the train, hands shoved in his pockets, old circus posters nailed to the metal of the train walls.

He stopped in front of one of them, the familiar colors popping out at him: a border of red and yellow stripes framing six figures outstretched in the air. Two men, two women, two children, one of them smaller than the other.

He sucked in a cold breath, but it wasn’t enough air to keep him flying, and his eyes were suspiciously burning. He couldn’t make himself look away.

(Ladies and gentlemen, Haly’s voice echoed, the Flying Graysons!”

Figments of memory, flashes of faces he struggled to remember. Early-morning voices, blankets and limbs intertwining in a nest meant for a robin. Laughter, chasing through the circus. Head pats and easy hugs, the familiar warmth of family, strong hands catching him. Flying with a family, not alone.

Dick’s comm beeped, and he shook himself from the depths of his mind. He brought a hand up to his ear. ‘Uh, yeah?’

‘Dude, where are you?’ Wally’s familiar voice, and suddenly Dick could breathe again. It was good to hear his best friend. Something familiar in a way that dragged him back from his old life.

‘Confidential mission, from Batman.’ Dick shoved his hands back into his pockets and walked on.

‘Wow,’ Wally responded, sarcasm heavy in his voice. ‘Know what I’m doing? Making a bologna sandwich. Kinda like you just did,’ he added drily. ‘I talked to Tornado,’ he explained, ‘You guys are not on a mission. Not an official one, anyway.’

Dick sighed. ‘A favor for a friend of a friend,’ he said. He wondered how much he could give away without giving anything away. Because he really needed his best friend right now. ‘Jack Haly.’

‘The circus guy?’ Wally asked, recognition coloring his tone.

Dick paused. ‘You know him?’

‘Friend of a friend,’ Wally replied. ‘Dick Grayson, this guy I know, he used to be in one of his acts.’

. . . How much could he get away with? ‘Sounds like some of our friends run in the same circles,’ Dick said slowly. ‘Someone was worried about him, too, and asked me to look into it, keep him from losing another home. He’s implicated in this global crime spree. Someone in this show’s dirty, but I need to prove old Jack’s clean or he might lose the circus.’

‘Why not bring me along?’ Wally asked.

Dick drew in a sharp breath as he stopped in front of another poster, this one of a woman with green-feathered hair and sharp gold eyes, her skin a grayed purple. ‘I didn’t need my best pal questioning my objectivity,’ he admitted, eyes still on the snow-covered ground.

‘Dude,’ Wally began, his voice soft and understanding. ‘That’s what a best pal’s for.’

-x-x-x-

They boarded up the train and left for Geneva, but after finding Haly tied up in one of the supply closets, they chased Parasite to the roof of the train. Robin was able to pick the leech’s pockets before he got away, though he managed to get away with Superboy’s powers in the process and threw Robin off the train. (How many times was he going to fall in three days??)

They recovered, Conner surprisingly fast, and raced after Parasite, taking him and his blackhole generating machine down. Interpol took him away in a power-dampening collar, courtesy of Robin’s tip, and Roy was finally satisfied that there was no mole on the team.

Afterwards, the Dangers met up with the train in Geneva, and Dan went to Haly to take their act out of the show.

“So,” the ringmaster said as the two stood in his office. Three posters, one achingly familiar, lined the back wall, and Haly leaned against the side of his desk. “The show will go on, and I have the feeling I have you Dangers to thank.”

Dan shrugged. “Don’t know what you mean.”

“No,” Haly chuckled, “Of course not. But, I’m guessing you’ll be leaving now.” He stretched forth a hand for Dick to shake.

“Time to move on,” Dick replied, something clammy coloring his voice.

Haly smiled as they shook hands. “Well, Dick, I’ll miss you.”

Dick froze. “It’s Dan,” he quickly corrected. “Dan Danger.”

He only shook his head with a slow, regretful smile and laid a soft hand on Dick’s shoulder. “Son, you’ve grown. . . but some things never change. Like the sight of a Grayson on the trapeze. You can’t fake that, can’t hide it.”

Haly pulled him into a hug, the old ringmaster’s smell familiar and warm, and Dick let himself sink into it before tugging away. He looked up, Haly’s hand still on his shoulder. “Why–” he cut himself off with a sharp inhale. But he had to know. “Why did you leave? You didn’t even stay for–” the funeral. He couldn’t make himself say it.

Pop Haly straightened, sliding his hands into his pockets as he looked at the floor. “It was for the best. We couldn’t take you, as much as the c–” Haly tucked in a soft, sad sob, his eyes red as he looked up. “–the circus,” he repeated, “as much as I wanted to,” he emphasized. “But I don’t regret it if it means you’re here now. So, do an old ringmaster one last favor?”

-x-x-x-

“Ladies and gentlemen, the farewell performance of the Daring Dangers!” Haly gestured toward Dick, standing with a comfortable smile and a performer’s grace as he waved at the crowd in the spotlight. Where he was born to be.

A Grayson’s farewell performance, is what Haly meant, as he smiled up at Dick.

Dick leapt off onto the trapeze, and this time, it didn’t feel like falling.

It felt like flying.

-x-x-x-

Secrets are revealed. The light steps out of the shadows. The team sets a trap, and they win. Everything is good. Until they realize that Roy was right. There was a mole.

They just didn’t know it was him until it was too late.

They fight the league. Robin fights Batman.

They win. Robin wins.

And he finally realizes that he doesn’t need to be Batman, to grow into a mantle that cannot fit, that chains him down and forces him to obey gravity.

He can be someone else, fly as someone . . . . more like himself. Wear a mask that fits better than any skin he’s ever worn.

Someday. Not yet, but someday.

When he’s grown up.

Chapter 17: Meeting Robin

Tim didn’t say anything for four months: four months of typing furiously away at a keyboard and watching Selena’s back, four months of keeping a close eye on the cat and her bat as they chased each other across rooftops, four months of trying to pin down Robin’s ever-changing patrol patterns, four months that not a whisper or a word came from Tim of his newfound knowledge.

That Robin was Dick Grayson.

And, really, it wasn’t much of a leap to figure out that Batman was Bruce Wayne, the mysterious, brooding orphan who dropped out of high school to find himself via a worldwide sabbatical that he only vaguely and occasionally mentioned once or twice before fully diving into a persona so ridiculous and watched so closely that no one would ever believe he spent his nights beating up criminals dressed as a Bat. Tim barely believed it.

But the timing worked. The motive worked. Everything worked about it. The traveling, the intelligence, the reason, the funds, the ward and the bird.

Bruce Wayne was Batman.

There were no two ways about it. And, really, it almost peeved Tim to find out that one of his heroes was as much a do-gooder in his civilian persona, what with all of the donations and charity galas that he spent his time working toward in the day, even as he suited up for most of the night hours to beat back the city’s crime.

And– dang. Even the names matched up. It was so blatantly obvious. Tim wondered how on God’s green earth Gotham was so dense.

Bruce Wayne was Gotham’s White Knight, Batman her Dark Knight.

Dick Grayson was the Boy Hostage, and Robin the Boy Wonder.

Did Gotham know she was screwing herself over with one of the city’s greatest mysteries, or was that just something she did subconsciously? So many people wanted to know the Bat and the Bird’s identities, and honestly if they actually existed at all for most of their careers, and, all along, they’d been drawing parallels between the biggest names in Gotham without realizing the conclusions they were unknowingly making.

It made Tim sick that he hadn’t figured it out earlier, though he supposed they had done an extremely good job at separating their work and civilian lives.

Because who would ever dream that Brucie Wayne, Gotham’s darling philanthropist playboy who had enough money to buy himself a new brain but not the wit to follow through, and The Batman, the terror and scourge of Gotham’s criminal night, would ever exist in the same hemisphere of personalities, much less be the same person?

And Tim’s not ashamed (okay, maybe slightly… he would never admit this to Dick’s face) to admit that he’d watched Dick at school a few (several, and only barely got away with it each time(somehow he always knew when he was being watched by an extra set of eyes)) times to see how different Dick was from Robin. Sure, he didn’t know Robin all that well, and only got his first glimpse of Robin when he was Dick Grayson and flying through the air like he was eight again, but he’d heard the rumors of dark, childlike cackles, flitting shadows, whirls of motion distracting the eye but never caught by it. The image didn’t match up with studious, sarcastic, (bullied), friendly Dick Grayson.

And yet. . . somehow it did? Because Tim had the feeling that Dick liked the dramatics that came with being Robin. Why else would he laugh and be loud when the Bat was so quiet and stoic? It had something to do with the person that wore the mask.

And once Tim realized that, he saw the sameness between Bruce and Batman just as he saw it in Dick and Robin. In interviews, Tim could see a quiet determination in Bruce’s eyes that wasn’t there before, one that heralded of the man’s vigilance over his city; he saw the soft looks he gave his ward, the promises of safety that he kept by hiding Robin from the world as long as he could, even as parts of that secret were beginning to fall away. In school and on the television, Tim could see the happy glimmer of trouble in Dick’s eyes that presented itself in Robin as jagged grins and sharp teeth, terrifying cackles and other dramatics and small rebellions reminiscent of a child used to the spotlight but forced to work from the shadows.

No, there was no doubt that the two were the Dynamic Duo.

The only question was what to do about it.

Tim knew what he wanted to do, but whether that was the right course of action, he hadn’t decided yet. He wanted to meet them, greet Dick (Robin) face-to-face and tell him that he was so proud of him, that he was the big brother he used to want to have (still did, sometimes), that he wanted Dick to teach him how to fly like he did. But he also didn’t think that it was the best idea to confront the two by hoarding his newfound knowledge of their most precious secret over their heads.

The best thing to do, he knew, was probably to confront Selena about meeting them; she already knew who they were, so she would probably know how to go about it.

It took him only three months to run through all of the different courses of action (Showing up at their manor, confronting them on patrol, leaping off a nearby building and accidentally “getting mad” and “cursing” Dick out with his own name and pretending to draw conclusions on the spot…) before deciding on letting Selena handle setting up their meeting. It took him another month to figure out the best way to ask Selena about it.

“I want to meet Robin,” he ended up blurting out. Selena and he were crouching on top of the roof of the tall apartment of some socialite or another, the master safe in the bedroom having just been cleared out by theirs truly.

Selena flicked her eyes over at Stray with a queer look in her eye. “Do you, now?” She grabbed his hand in hers before drawing him into a close hug and sliding down the rappelling hook to the base of the building. Tim’s stomach dropped as easily as they did, but he breathed in her warmth and safety as the wind rushed at his ears.

Her feet thumped softly at the ground and Tim regained his footing, not bothering to draw away from her arms. He looked up at her. “And what brought this on?” she asked with a quirk of her lips, brushing a hand softly at his hair before taking his hand and leading him to her bike nearby.

“You get to be friends with Batman,” he reasoned as he clambered in front of Selena, her arms wrapping around him as she kicked the bike stand and revved the soundless engine. They sped away, Tim easily settling into Selena as she leaned forward, strands of her hair peeking out from her cowl and tickling his neck. “I want to be friends with Robin.”

She hummed, the sound louder than the bike but barely heard above the wind, and he only knew from the way it made his back vibrate softly. “I suppose I could arrange something,” she mused, a comforting chuckle escaping her. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Tim didn’t know when, exactly, Selena managed to ask Bruce? about Tim meeting Dick–or would it be Stray meeting Robin?–but two months later, on Halloween night, a frazzled (now there was a thought) Selena returned from a near-botched museum theft with news. She didn’t return with just the news, of course. That would be a worse thought than a disheveled Catwoman. She did only manage to claim half of her originally planned haul, however.

She told Tim that she met up with Robin and informed him about Tim, although Tim was able to easily read between the lines and interpret that as, Robin may be open to the idea, but Batman hasn’t explicitly approved it yet. Which, of course, meant that Tim was going to get exactly what he wanted because there was no way in hell the Bat was ever going to be able to stop the Cat from getting what she wanted.

A month later, Selena presented Tim with a folded leather suit, the material soft and black, lined with comfortable and protective passing. He put it on, and was pleased to find that his own suit matched Selena’s almost perfectly, with a fitted half-cowl and matching ears. Though, he was slightly annoyed by the fact that she’d also included a soundless bell to tie around his neck.

“Really, Selena?” he asked, though he fiddled with the clasp to tie it around his neck. He looked up at her with a needled huff. “Is it–”

She pressed a kiss to the top of his head and all sounds of protest died. He sighed, rolled his eyes, and then went to pack up his laptop and other tools in his black backpack. Before he tucked away his laptop, however, he looked through the tabs that kept track of various Rogues and several gangs.

He looked over at Selena, who was tucking away a few tools in the hidden pockets of her catsuit. “There are no Rogues out tonight,” he mentioned casually. She didn’t glance his way, only hummed to let him know he had her attention. “Batman and Robin won’t be busy,” he continued. Because Selena always kept him in when the Bat and his Bird weren’t too occupied to deal with a Cat and her Stray.

“No,” she agreed, finally looking up. “I don’t think they’ll be busy.” Tim tucked away his computer and gave her a grin when he realized what she was actually saying.

“Really? Tonight?”

Selena nodded. “I think you’re good enough for your first game of Cat and Mouse.”

WIth that, the two of them finished their usual preparations, Selena taking a bit of time to remind Tim how to operate his rappelling hook and the procedures for the night, and they took off on Selena’s bike toward the Gotham Museum. No doubt, Batman knew about Selena’s plans to make off with the rest of the museum’s valuables from the exhibition in October, seeing as tonight was the last night for her to do so, a quiet challenge to Batman to come and try to catch her.

They parked a few blocks away, then made their separate ways to the roofs of two buildings nearby. Tim clambered quietly up a fire escape and quickly began to set up his equipment, pulling out his computer and his pre-set programs to prepare for Selena’s entry. By the time she went to slip in the windows, Tim had already disabled all of the external alarms and begun working on the inside of the museum.

He wasn’t foolish enough to think that Batman and Robin weren’t already on their way, but there was no way he was going to let the police stumble upon a night he’d been waiting to happen for months. He’d just finished cutting ties between the museum and the police department when a bright figure dropped down in front of him, a dark cape sliding to cover the colors as Robin stood up.

“I guess you’re my dance partner for tonight, huh?”

Tim would just like to say that he most definitely was not startled and did not squeak when Dick spoke up. He did, however, manage to gather his equipment impressively quickly before fumbling to his feet.

He held out one hand, the other tightly gripping one arm of his backpack, the parts of his face still visible flushing warmly. “Hi, I’m T– stray,” he said, barely managing to correct himself.

Robin smiled knowingly, but took Tim’s hand and shook it, leaving Tim a bit breathless (because this was Dick Grayson!). “Robin, though I’ve heard you already knew that?” he prodded.

Tim nodded sharply. “Yep! I- uh, it wasn’t too hard to figure out, you being Batman’s partner and everything. I mean, if Batman wasn’t a rumor then Robin probably wasn’t, either, and after that it wasn’t too hard to figure it out on my own. I didn’t need S– Catwoman’s help or anything,” he added, trying his best to keep from rambling. He thought he mostly succeeded.

Dick smiled again. “Smart cookie,” he said. “So, I don’t suppose you already know the steps to this dance already, do you?”

Tim wrinkled his nose, and Dick laughed. “Yeah, gross,” he agreed, and walked over to prop himself up on the air vent that Tim had been leaning against earlier. “I’d rather sit a bit. I’ve got this English test tomorrow–”

Tim found himself sitting down beside Dick, listening to the older boy talk, letting him ask questions back. They sat like that for a few hours, and Tim knew at some level that Dick was probably humoring him, but, screw it, Tim found that he didn’t much care. He wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass him by.

So he sat, and they talked, and when Selena came to find Tim, patting Robin on the head as she would a small pet before Dick left to go find Batman, Tim felt lighter, practically buoyant.

“What did you think?” Selena asked in the wake of Dick’s departure, one hand absently carding through Tim’s hair as they stood on the rooftop.

Tim let out an excited breath. “He was great,” he admitted. “Just like I remember.”

Selena’s hand paused, and when Tim looked up he met her confused gaze, her goggles pulled to the top of her head. “Like you remember? I thought this was your first time meeting Robin, Kitten?”

Tim furrowed his brow. “No? I met him a long time ago. Remember the pictures I asked you to get?” he asked.

Selene froze, one her hand dropped to Tim’s shoulder from his head. “You. . . know who Robin is?”

 

“Yeah?” The ‘so do you’ went unsaid.

“And the bat.”

Tim tried to raise one eyebrow. He hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it, but Selena was a very good teacher, and he eventually accomplished his mission. “Well, yeah. It wasn’t too hard, since–”

Selena clamped one hand over Tim’s mouth, and Tim’s eyes were wide as he stared at Selena, who’d taken to rubbing the bridge of her nose with her other hand. Her face was all scrunched up and Tim suddenly got the feeling that maybe he didn’t have all of the facts.

“Don’t . . . don’t tell me, okay, Kitten? That’s . . . not quite something I’m privy to, yet,” she admitted, her eyes finally blinking open, and Tim couldn’t help but gape.

Because he’d sort of just . . . assumed that since she and Batman were sorta-dating, she would sorta-know that he was Bruce Wayne. She removed her hand. “Oh,” Tim breathed. “Don’t you want to know?” he couldn’t help but ask.

She bit at her ruby red lips. “Yes, but–” She took in a sharp breath, rolled some things around in her mind, and then continued. “Me and the Bat have a kind of understanding, right now, and that’s something I want him to tell me.”

Tim thought he could maybe understand. He didn’t understand not wanting to know about the other half of your other half’s entire life, or why Bruce could know who Selena was but she couldn’t know who he was. But he thought he could understand wanting to be important enough for someone else to share their secret with. To be loved enough that someone wants you to know them completely.

He liked to feel important, too.

He and Selena were similar in that way.

For the next few days, Selena acted sort of strangely, almost like she was . . . nervous for something, which was a concept so inconceivable that it took Tim a while to figure out how she was acting. She was absent-minded, spending a lot of her time lounging gracefully on a sofa, stroking one of her cats while she stared out the window, or sitting at the kitchen counter with a full glass of orange juice as she traced some unknown pattern on the marble. Tim figured that she was probably coming up with some way to deal with Batman and the fact that Tim had figured out who they were before she did.

A week later, Tim woke up to a smiling, soft, present Selena, the woman placing a small stack of pancakes in front of him with a tall glass of milk (she kept complaining that Tim was too light), one of the few things that she could cook besides toast, and even then the center was doughy and the sides burnt. Tim said thank you because he was polite and this was Selena and he was excited to hear how well her conversation with Bruce went.

Because that was the only reason she would be acting this way. If it was some sort of feline-oriented heist, she would be more purposeful and sly, and would throw in more cat puns than the zero she’d said in the tight-lipped silence she was holding herself to this morning.

“He told me,” she finally said as Tim was mid-bit, sliding into the seat beside him. “I’ve been stealing his watches every year for as long as I can remember, but I never thought–” She shook her head and forked a piece of pancake dough into her mouth. “How did you figure it out?” she asked, genuine curiosity and. . . pride (because now Tim could identify what that looked like, after so many months trying to figure out what that bright glint in her eyes meant) warming her face.

Tim smoothed his pant legs. “I saw Robin do a quadruple somersault,” he said, studying Selena’s face as the pieces clicked together. “Dick’s the only one who can do it now. I saw his first time doing it when I was four,” he admitted, a small little secret, a glimmer of pride that he was privy to Dick’s forgotten accomplishment.

She hummed in understanding. “Bruce wants to meet you. Wants you to meet his boys,” she said. An offering. An opportunity, a prayer answered. Because he’d gotten to meet Robin, but he hadn’t gotten to meet Dick Grayson yet.

“Yes,” Tim breathed excitedly. “Please, I’ve wanted to tell him thank you for. . . for forever,” he said.

Selena raised an eyebrow. “For what?” she asked.

For saving him, Tim wanted to say. Because that memory from the circus, of seeing Dick and his family and realizing that he wanted more than what the Drakes could offer him, was what allowed Selena to save him, in turn. Allowed Tim to want to be saved from something he didn’t know he needed to be saved from.

But he couldn’t say that.

“For giving me you,” he said.

Chapter 18: Family

Family

Mount Justice; February 14th, 2011, 16:53 EDT

It was Valentine’s day; there was no scheduled sparring or training session with Canary, yet somehow almost the entire team had found themselves at the Mountain. M’gann and Conner had initially opted for a night out on the town, but when they discovered that Wally and Artemis planned on staying at the Mountain and watching a movie, both couples decided to spend their first Valentines together in the cave.

Although Valentines wasn’t exactly an Atlantean custom, Kaldur had also opted to stay at the Mountain as returning to Atlantis and seeing Garth and Tula together would be too painful with the meaning of Valentines swirling around in the back of his head. Zatanna had, of course, also decided to stay at the Mountain both due to her current living situation and the fact that she hoped to see a certain Boy Wonder who was unfortunately absent from their impromptu team gathering. Both had retreated to different parts of the Mountain upon seeing the two couples cozied up on the couch with their partners.

They were watching, after much consternation and arguing, a movie Zatanna had suggested, some laughable chick flick that M’gann was heavily invested in, Conner was attempting to understand, and that Artemis and Wally were poking fun of the entire time. For the most part, they were talking more with each other, M’gann trying her best to explain romantic concepts to Conner, Wally and Artemis arguing over most of the movie in general, Artemis occasionally taking pity on the two non-humans and explaining earth customs, and Wally laughing at every other word coming out of the main character’s mouth, than they were actually watching the movie.

Artemis and Wally were locked in yet another debate about the practicalities of the love interest’s advances when the zeta tube called out Robin’s designation. All four teens looked up just as a harried and disheveled Robin stumbled out of the tube, his skin paler than usual, his hair frazzled, and his shades shoved haphazardly onto his face to match his wrinkled jacket and mismatched shoes. He fell forward a few steps before turning to look back as if he expected someone to chase after him, then breathed a sigh of relief and slumped forward.

Wally raised his eyebrows as he took in his best friend’s state, removing his arm from around his girlfriend and leaning over the couch to get a better look. “Dude, what happened to you?”

Robin turned around quickly, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise before he tried to smooth over his face as best he could. It was a losing battle, something he quickly realized as he threw up his hands and face planted over the back of the couch, smothering his face into the cushions. Wally turned back around and patted Robin’s back, and Artemis leaned forward, interested to know what had their resident Boy Wonder so distraught.

The teen started to mumble something into the back of the couch, and a soft scream was muffled by the cushion all while Wally kept patting his friend’s back. Conner’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion at something Robin said. “Rob, honey, I won’t know what you’re saying until you stop screaming into the pillows and talk to me.”

Robin heaved a heavy sigh just as Kaldur and Zatanna walked into the cave, having heard Robin’s zeta tube announcement and intending to greet the young boy. Robin lifted his head up just enough to turn to look at Wally, who reached out to fix the shades on his friend’s face. “Wally, I think I’m scarred for life.”

Wally frowned a little bit, and Robin pushed himself up before vaulting easily over the back of the couch and fitting himself in between Conner and Wally. Shoving his head into his hands and scrubbing furiously at his eyes. “I want to burn my eyes out, Walls, it was so– bleughh,” he gagged as he shuddered.

“What happened? Condiment King again?” Wally guessed

Robin shook his head violently. “Worse!” he cried, and tore his fingers from his eye sockets to look at his friend. “There I was, minding my own business and getting ready to head up to the cave, when I caught–” Robin cut himself off for half a millisecond before plowing forward. “–my dad and my aunt making out in the–” Robin groaned loudly and shoved his face further into his hands.

“Your dad and your what?” Artemis croaked, and Robin looked up, his face still pale and a bit on the green side.

“My– yes! It was awful!” Robin flopped forward across Wally’s lap, and the speedster rubbed his friend’s while turning a helpless gaze at Artemis, who was currently freaked out and trying to line up all of the things that she knew about Robin’s life so far, which, admittedly, wasn’t much. Just that he had a cousin named “J” who may or may not be “Bluejay”, and that he’d been a vigilante since he was eight. And now that his dad and his aunt were– yeah, no, she was trying not to think about that.

“Wait, which side?” Zatanna asked, and– well, that was actually a really good question. Like, the different between incest and just really weird family dynamics and a maybe dead family member.

Robin mumbled something into Wally’s leg, which Conner translated as, “He said it’s on his mom’s side, but that it’s still weird.”

Zatanna nodded sagely, and Artemis– well, it was slightly less weird, but that was still wrong on so many levels to her. “Wait, so is he cheating on your mom?” M’gann cried, all interest lost in the chick flick that was still playing in the background. Artemis had to agree that Robin’s life was now at least ten times more interesting than Chad, Kellie, and their meet-cute turned slow-burn romance, especially since getting information from a willing Robin was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

Robin shook his head, but didn’t say anything else on the matter. Which meant either dead or divorced, Artemis surmised. “Is your mom still. . . you know . . .” Zatanna waved her hands around in the air, but when she remembered that Robin was still trying to suffocate himself with Wally’s jeans, she weakly finished, “around?”

Robin slowly raised his head, and it only occurred to him right then and there that he’d probably given them far too much information on his personal life, traumatized by walking in on Bruce and Selena in the Bat Cave or not. He needed to give some sort of explanation or else they might just connect Batman and Catwoman’s buddy-buddy friendship to Bruce and Selena’s blossoming relationship on the news. “Uh, no. . . she’s–” Dick’s mom was dead, but they didn’t know that Robin’s mom wasn’t. “–alive,” he choked, “But things are kinda complicated with– yeah,” he said, his determination falling off. Well, that could have gone better, but at least Bruce wouldn’t kill him for letting them connect Batman and Robin and Catwoman to Bruce and Dick and Selena. But even if they did, Robin thought agitatedly, it was just what he deserved for making Dick see– nope. Not going there again.

Robin shot a helpless look to Wally, who was really the only member of the team who somewhat had a grasp on the situation, seeing as Robin had complained to the speedster about Catwoman (whom he’d admitted he thought of as a really cool aunt) and Batman’s rooftop dalliances several times over the years. He’d sort of gathered that Robin had stumbled too close to Batman and Catwoman doing . . . stuff on a roof, and seeing as Robin had already admitted to Wally that Batman was basically his father figure, it wasn’t too hard to figure out that Robin was having trouble separating his vigilante-family from his civvie-family in explaining the situation to their other friends.

Everyone else, on the other hand, thought that Batman and Robin only had a mentor-mentee relationship after Robin had admitted to Zatanna (after her father had been taken by Doctor Fate, Robin had talked to her about her confusing grief) that Batman wasn’t actually his dad, and word had spread quickly after. Which led to Artemis’s and the others’ conclusions that Robin wasn’t actually talking about Batman or Catwoman (they didn’t even know the two were in a not-relationship for the past few years) when he said he’d walked in on his dad and his aunt, which meant his claims about his mother were not, in fact, needed to defuse the situation at all. Because they all thought he was talking about his real family. As a civilian.

Artemis, in particular, wanted to use this information to sate her curiosity about the Boy Wonder’s past while she still had the chance. “What does your cousin think?” Artemis asked, remembering Robin’s mention of a Bluejay (obviously a codename for J, potentially, possibly?) that past Halloween, and Zatanna looked her way in understanding.

Robin, who still thought that his team thought he was talking about Batman and Catwoman, furrowed his brow in confusion until he realized she was probably thinking about Tim, though he hadn’t thought that his new pseudo-baby cousin (brother, if Dick was being honest, with how quickly and comfortably Dick had taken the younger kid under his wing) had accrued any sort of reputation yet, either in or out of Gotham. “Stray? He knows.”

“Stray?” Zatanna mouthed to Artemis, who shrugged when Robin turned his attention back to Wally. Artemis was just surprised that she’d gotten information on yet another one of Robin’s family members. Which meant she now knew of his dad, his aunt, his mom, a Bluejay, and a Stray. Where previously all she knew of was a cousin, and that was if Bluejay and J were even the same person in the first place.

“From the comms?” Zatanna asked, interrupting Wally’s placations to the still-traumatized Robin.

Robin shook his head. “No, the stalker,” he said offhandedly, referring to a conversation he’d already had with Wally about the matter of his growing family.

“The stalker?” Conner asked. “Isn’t that illegal?”

 

Robin shrugged, already having pulled himself upright again. He didn’t see what the big deal was with Tim being a stalker since he was the accomplice to the most skilled thief in the world, and already an accomplished thief in his own right. “Yeah? Not that big a deal seeing who my aunt is.”

Artemis blinked in surprise. Not that she was judging, because who was she to judge, seeing as her entire family were assassins, but she hadn’t expected this from Robin of all people.

Wally just shook his head in understanding of Robin’s plight. “What the heck is your family, dude?”

Robin sighed and flopped back against the couch. “You’re telling me.”

Chapter 19: Language

Language

Mount Justice; July 28th, 2011, 13:42 EDT

“Thanks again for helping me practice,” Zatanna said, a faint blush coloring her cheeks as she turned to Robin, who’d just plopped down beside Conner on the couch as the two of them prepared to be Zatanna’s guinea pigs.

For the past few months, Canary had been working with the team to develop skills other than the ones they tended to use in sparring. Earlier that day, she’d wanted to assess the team’s communication abilities, which had led to other topics about language proficiency and how important it was to know more than one or two languages. After that, she’d asked after the number of languages each team member knew.

Kaldur knew Atlantean, English, and Latin; M’gann knew Martian, English, and was learning Spanish in school, but could also translate for others using her telepathy; Artemis knew English, Vietnamese, Spanish, several curse words in select languages, and was learning Arabic; Wally knew English, Spanish, and a bit of Latin; Conner was taught English, Spanish, Mandarin, Hindi, Russian, Japanese, and some Korean by Cadmus, and Robin was fluent in fifteen languages, and learning eight more, the second most in the League after Batman, who knew twenty-seven.

Zatanna, on the other hand, only knowing English and a bit of Latin, had felt out of her league and decided that she needed to practice spells for translation and language capacity. She’d roped Conner and Robin into being her guinea pigs, seeing as they knew the most languages out of their little group, and M’gann had tagged along as well because she could mentally translate and monitor the situation. The others were all sitting around the living room and loitering in the kitchen (Wally, mostly) just for the fun of it.

“No problem,” Robin grinned, pulling one leg up onto the couch to rest his chin on his knee. “So, whatd’ya need us to do?” he prompted.

Zatanna scrunched up her face in thought. “Hold on a second. . . Okay, I’ve got it,” she said, smoothing her features and flexing her fingers. “Just start talking in another language or something. I need to figure it out as I go.”

“Well, does it matter which one?” he asked.

The magician shrugged. “Probably not. But maybe a language Conner already knows?” she suggested.

“Hindi okay?” he asked, and when both she and Conner nodded, he chirped “Cool!” before diving right in the middle of a thoroughly-thought out dissertation on the exact velocity a pigeon would need to reach when flying into a window for all of its feathers to explode off of its body upon impact.

Conner and M’gann stared at Robin in horror as Zatanna flung forth her hands and exclaimed, ‘Etalsnart idnih!”

Robin was in the middle of discussing the impact of bone density, blood fluidity, and the squishiness of bird muscle on his mathematical computations when Zatanna’s spell went into play. “Stop! Stop it! I did not want to know that!” she cried, slapping a hand over Robin’s mouth. He shrugged sheepishly.

‘I guess it worked, then?’ He continued in Mandarin.

Zatanna nodded and took her hand away. “Unfortunately. Now let me try something else.” She backed up and wiped one hand on her blouse. “Conner, Robin, can you both start speaking in a language you both know? But don’t tell me what it is this time,” she added.

The kryptonian nodded, then looked to Robin to ask a question. “Just pick one,” Robin said before the clone could ask and spoil it for Zatanna.

The two of them began an awkward conversation in Mandarin about the new television show that M’gann had finally convinced Conner to watch with her. It wasn’t too long until Zatanna called out, ‘Kaeps rouy eurt egaugnal!”

Robin and Conner paused mid-conversation, each suddenly realizing that they didn’t fully understand the other. Or know quite what was coming out of their own mouths. Conner understood bits and pieces of what Robin was saying, and vice versa, but neither knew what was going on.

Conner, for his part, had suddenly begun speaking in a pidgin of English, French, and Kryptonian, the last of which he’d never had programmed into him by Cadmus, seeing as only Superman and other kryptonians had access to that knowledge.

Robin, however, had descended into an unholy fusion of Romani, Romanian, Russian, French, German, and Italian, words of different languages and dialects blending together in a weird sort of word salad consisting of the languages his parents had grown up speaking around him and had taught him.

Everybody in the room stopped as Robin and Conner’s conversation mushed together in a clamor of ill-fitting sounds, Kaldur looking up from the textbook of Atlantean magic that he was studying, Wally and Artemis pausing their conversation in the kitchen to figure out what was going on, M’gann pressing her fingers to her forehead as nine different languages all fought to be understood in her head, and Zatanna freezing as she realized something had gone wrong with her spell.

“Uh–” Zatanna began, and Robin’s eyes flew wide as he spun around to face the magician.

‘Why am I–’ he stopped, his brain fizzing as he realized he was speaking in Romanian and French. ‘Why can’t I– I can’t stop,’ Dick tried, the words coming out in a weird mash-up of Romani, German, and Russian. ‘Not speak . . . English, stupid brain– augh!” he cried out in frustration, jumping up from the couch in horror.

Conner stood as well, Kryptonian and French spewing from his mouth, parts of his sentences understood as a word or phrase of English slipped in. ‘I can’t

speaking

and. . . why am I–

I don’t even

of these

is!’

Artemis flew from the kitchen, Wally speeding next to Robin as his friend turned to try and talk to him. ‘Wally– please tell me– gah, you don’t know what I’m saying, do you?’

“Robin, slow down, I can’t– I don’t know what you’re saying, dude!” Dick’s shoulders slumped.

Zatanna’s hands flew to her mouth before falling back down, and Kaldur had led M’gann to a nearby seat as her headache worsened. “I’m so sorry– I don’t know what went wrong, I just–”

Kaldur laid a hand on the magician’s shoulder. “We will figure it out, but we must remain calm,” he intoned, and Zatanna nodded, mentally running through what went wrong with her spell while Kaldur returned to M’gann and led her through a meditation exercise. Wally and Artemis looked on in concern.

“Why can’t they speak English?” Wally asked.

Artemis half-turned to him. “Conner can speak bits of it, I heard him. But I don’t know what–”

“If. . . I concen–trate,” Conner began, closing his eyes intently for a few seconds, “I can focus. . . on only speaking English. But . . . it’s difficult. Like . . . my brain is crowded, and ‘parts of–’ parts of,” he repeated, “me are . . . fighting to speak . . . something else?” he tried.

‘Conner, do you think it’s Kryptonian?’ Dick asked, all of his words still mixed up in different languages, but Conner only looked at him in confusion. And he realized that, if Conner could speak in only one language if he concentrated, then he might be able to, as well.

Conner, in the meantime, had also figured out that he had understood parts of Robin’s speech, and he turned to the younger boy, forcing himself to concentrate on his exact words. ‘Can . . . you . . . speak only . . . French?’ he managed, his brow furrowing in intense thought.

Dick lit up, and nodded his head sharply. ‘Yes! Thank God!’ he exclaimed, the singular language coming easily to him after he’d realized he had the choice. ‘I don’t know what went wrong with Zee’s spell, and– why were you speaking so slowly? Cadmus taught you French, right?’ Conner blinked and waited for his brain to finish translating what Robin was saying, but it was a slow process, as the only knowledge he had of the language was what Zatanna’s spell had recently endowed him with. ‘Right?’ Robin repeated more hesitantly.

Conner shook his head. ‘Not . . . French. That part . . . is Zatanna,’ he admitted. ‘I think that’s what. . . is making it so hard . . . to understand and only speak . . . one language.’

Dick nodded. ‘English, French, and Kryptonian?” he guessed, and Conner sucked in a sharp breath of hope at the last word.

‘Kryptonian?’ he repeated. ‘But I don’t know–’ Conner paused as he realized that he hadn’t known French, either, before Zatanna’s spell. Which meant . . . it was possible. But he hadn’t ever really dared to hope that he could– Conner focused on English and turned back to Wally and Artemis, catching Zatanna’s attention as he began to speak. “I’m speaking Kryptonian, too,” he said.

“What? I didn’t know you knew it,” Wally said.

Conner crossed his arms. “I don’t. But I am half-Kryptonian,” he added.

Light dawned on Zatanna’s face. “Oh! I said, ‘speak your true language,’” she realized, “because I just assumed that it would be English.”

‘Damn,’ Dick cursed quietly in Russian, catching Artemis’s attention. Her eyes widened as she realized that the language was a clue to Robin’s ethnicity, and, having quite the repertoire of foreign curse words herself, she easily recognized the Russian.

“I know how to fix it, now,” Zatanna promised, before flaying her fingers wide at Conner and Robin and exclaiming, ‘Keaps lamron!’

Robin felt something settle in his throat, and when Zatanna turned to look at him in anticipation, he said aloud, “All good now?”

Wally pumped a fist in the air as he lunged at Robin to pull him into a one-sided hug. “Oh yeah! All better now, Rob,” he grinned, and Zatanna heaved a sigh of relief of her own.

M’gann had calmed her brain down, by that point, and she and Kaldur returned to the group, the martian intertwining her hands with the kryptonian. “What’s wrong, Conner?” she asked.

Conner looked at her. “It was. . . nice, I guess. Speaking Kryptonian. I didn’t know that was something I wanted to know,” he admitted. “It feels like I’m missing something, now.”

Dick looked over at the clone in understanding. He knew what it was like to not feel entirely himself, to feel like a fraud when he spoke English so often instead of his mother’s and father’s tongues. Bruce had learned a bit of Romani with Dick’s permission, but. . . he thought that he wanted to share that part of him with Jason, and maybe Tim. “A piece of your identity,” he added, and met Conner’s eyes. “I get it. You should ask Un– Superman to teach you,” he suggested. “It would be a good way to get to know him.”

A dark cloud passed over Conner’s face before he remembered that, recently, Clark had seemed more open to spending time with him. Their relationship still wasn’t great, but. . . there was something to hope for.

“Okay,” Conner agreed.

Chapter 20: Gunsmoke

Summary:

Todd pt. 3

PART THREE:

He came to consciousness slowly, like he was waking from a dream that he wasn’t entirely sure he was false.

Jason thought it was dark; it was warm, too, but that might have just been the effect of his warm breath puffing at the bag on his head. It was scratchy, and the ropes at his wrists, waist, and ankles were tight and uncomfortable, binding him to a cold metal chair.

His head still lolled at his chest, and Jason couldn’t find the strength to look up, or even blink his eyes open. Everything felt so . . . heavy, and his thoughts were slow, too. Muggy. Foggy.

What was going on? He heard what he thought were voices, probably. Maybe a television. But why was there a television on while he was. . . what, kidnapped? That was the most likely scenario, Jason figured. Dick had already been kidnapped so many times that he’d picked up the moniker Boy Hostage, saving himself half of those times and by Bruce the other times. Jason would never admit it, as he liked to poke fun at his older brother for it too often, but he thought it was sort of smart that Dick had convinced everyone else that he had an unhealthy belief that Robin wasn’t real since he’d never been rescued by his own alter ego.

Again, not that he’d ever admit it. It was far too much fun listening and making fun of Dick whenever he told Jason about his friends’ attempts to get him to go Robin-watching with them. Getting him to stalk himself with his own stalkers. It was hilarious. After a bit, they’d eventually decided that inviting Dick along was bad luck, and would only invite him again after they caught sight of Robin often enough that they thought they could prove it to him.

Jason, on the other hand, thought it was the grandest thing in the world that Dick Grayson, mathlete and somewhat genius, had to ignore all of the evidence and paint himself stupid in protesting that his own self didn’t exist. Though, Dick had actually admitted to Jason that he thought that the absurdity of the entire situation would roll over nicely into his future Richie Wayne persona, which the guy was far too excited about in Jason’s opinion.

Wait, he was kidnapped. Focus, Jason. If he had enough strength to shake his head and snap out of it, he would have. Except, in a hostage situation. . . Jason could have sworn that Dick had told him what to do if his own bad luck with kidnapping rubbed off on him . . . which it did, damn it.

Focus, focus. What was he supposed to do?

The voices continued, and Jason finally realized that it would probably be a good idea to try and figure out who took him. He hadn’t been able to make himself move yet, so that was probably good. He could pretend to still be knocked out with drugs. Oh yeah, he was probably drugged, wasn’t he? Was his breathing supposed to stay the same? Had he already started breathing easier when he woke up?

If only he could remember what Dick told him about kidnappings. God knew his brother had enough experience with it, not only as a civilian, but also as Robin, now that Gotham and her Rogues were slowly coming to the realization that, yes, it was stupid to ignore the other half of a whole freaking vigilante duo for seven years. Jason tried to slow his breathing back down, or at least make it look like he wasn’t about to hyperventilate with the sack over his head and the gag in his mouth. He tried to look as normal as possible, kept his bones and muscles as loose as he could.

Okay. That done, he should probably pay attention to what they were saying.

There were about three different voices that Jason could make out, one woman and two men. One of the men sounded like the whitest, most stereotypical American that Jason had ever heard. He decided to call that one Joe. The other was definitely from the East End, the Narrows if Jason had to guess, considering that guy had one of the most Gothamite accents he’d ever heard. And that was coming from Jason, who was self-aware enough to realize that that part of Gotham would follow him for the rest of his life through his voice if not anything else.

They were arguing about . . . something, saying words that made sense but didn’t fit together in Jason’s head very right. But he thought he understood the gist of it.

Ransom.

At least that meant that Jason was probably going to live through this. Odd, though, that he hadn’t quite felt any fear about the situation yet. He was just still so . . . confused, mostly. He felt like he was floating and carrying around ten tons of concrete all at once, and it was altogether an extremely weird sensation.

As time passed, Jason couldn’t help but wonder if that was how his mom always felt, before she died. Disconnected, drifting. Far away, detached from the world. And Jason couldn’t quite grasp the concept of wanting to feel so out of control of his body, of wanting to stay this way.

He knew that she hadn’t exactly been in the best place. That addiction was a sickness that haunted her, drove her to desperate depths, and Jason just as far. But it was just that, a sickness. The drugs were . . . bad. There were no two ways about it. Why would she want to feel so . . . like this? Because Jason felt awful, and out of control (and as time passed, the fear was slowly setting its hooks into him) of himself.

Why would his mom keep doing this to herself? Hunting the next high? Because, sure, Jason was high as hell, but the floatiness and confusion in his head was nothing compared to the heaviness that weighed him down.

Maybe she was trying to get away. It was a strange juxtaposition. Drugs helping Catherine Todd escape. Drugs keeping Jason Todd from escaping. He wondered if drugs were what had run Willis Todd off.

Jason hated drugs. A familiar anger bubbled inside of him, replacing the drugs that continued to drain out of his system, though it was a slow process.

He must have stirred, because the voices that had previously been a low background hum rose in volume, and footsteps paced toward him with a purpose. The sack was ripped off of his head without preamble, and Jason blinked at the light that filled his vision as he opened his eyes for the first time.

His face was sweaty, his hair sticking to his forehead and eyelashes, and two figures blurred into view. He kept blinking like that would somehow help him hear better.

“He’s awake,” Joe said, a white man with an alcoholic pot-belly. He smelled like smoked, Jason thought. Or maybe he was just imagining that, mixing the strength and meanness of smoke with the memories of Willis and the image of Joe before him.

Jason wished he smelled like smoke, even as much as he hated it. A hand gripped his damp head by his hair and jerked his head back. Joe. He hated Joe. Jason tried to breathe around the disgusting gag that was in his mouth, because whatever he was breathing in through his nose wasn’t enough.

A chill clenched at his heart. Was that the fear that Jason had been waiting on? He didn’t like it.

“Get tha cam’ra set up. Wayne’ll want proof’a life,” a voice said from behind him. Narrows.

Joe leaned in close, the warm puff of air burning at Jason’s forehead. Jason thought his eyes were bugging out of his head as he stared at the man, staring back at him with something familiar that he didn’t like. He felt disgusting. “What? We don’t getta have any fun, first?”

Jason wanted to throw up.

Not that, he thought, pleaded. No, no, no. No,nono, nonono no. No. It was a mantra that screamed at the edges of his brain because all he could actually think about was how much he wanted to slug the asshole right in his nose.

A tanned hand flashed across Jason’s vision, and a smack clashed with the noise of the woman setting up the equipment. His head was released, and Jason thought that he wanted to shave off all of the hair that the man had touched. It was burning at his skin, his scalp crawling. Something sharp and sticky and burning attacked his lungs in spine. Shivered. Unpleasant.

“Hands off,” the Narrows man growled, and Jason looked around and realized that the man had pushed or slapped or something at Joe. And he was sort of incredibly thankful. He wondered if it was because the man grew up in Crime Alley or the Narrows or any of the other streets that were just as bad. If he understood. “And you– hurry up with that,” he said, flinging a hand in the woman’s direction. “I’ma make contact.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbled under her breath. She was built like a brick wall. Jason thought that she might be the muscle. Cool. And also scary. She had two guns clipped to her belt, one on each hip. He looked, and realized that each of the two men also carried a gun.

Jason kept a close eye on all three of his kidnappers while the woman finished setting up the equipment. The Narrows man started on a phone call, but Jason was only able to catch his end of the conversation.

“Wayne, I’m sure by now ya’ve noticed your boy isn’t home yet– no, no– no, not– not tha’won. Are ya’ crazy? We ain’ stupid– Yes, no th– take it easy on him, it’s his first time? . . . Relax, man, we won’ hurt ‘im if ya do what we say. . . Two million, wired ta an account o’ our choosin’, an’ we’ll give ya your boy back. . . We already set upa proof o’ life, connect to. . .”

After a few minutes of instructions, the screen of the television flashed to life, the video quality crinkly but clear enough for Jason to make out Bruce’s face, clock the concern in his eyes. That was . . . nice. He thought he saw Alfred and . . . was that Tim? In the background.

What was that little pipsqueak doing there? And where was Dick? Timbo was practically glued to their– Jason’s older brother’s side nowadays. Had some sort of weird hero-worship complex going on there, so why was he standing in for Jason’s ransom call? And, again, where was Dick? He honestly thought that the teen would be all over this sort of thing, with how he liked to hover around Jason all the time.

“Jason, Jaylad, are you alright? Nod your head for me,” Bruce said, his voice clicking in and out with the feed before the audio and visual stabilized.

Jason tried to keep the fear out of his eyes as he nodded his head, but he couldn’t help but glance over at Joe at the question, something he was sure that Bruce noticed instantly. The man’s face darkened, and then the negotiations began.

If Jason was being honest, he wasn’t exactly paying all that much attention. The drugs were still swirling around in his head, which made it difficult to pay attention to something that he didn’t really know that much about. He spent the time keeping a close eye on Joe; he noticed Bruce keeping a close eye on both Jason and Joe. They eventually came to an agreement, and though Bruce asked to be able to stay on the line, they simply told him that he needed to arrive alone at a specific destination for the deal to be made good on, and then shut off the line.

Jason’s stomach clenched nervously, because Bruce wasn’t on the line to keep an eye on the men for him. He felt naked, bared, vulnerable; Bruce was Batman, but he couldn’t exactly be Batman if he was on a deadline that his life depended on. He knew how those sorts of things usually worked for Dick, who was Robin and the Boy Hostage that tormented his captors more than they did him. But what about Jason? What if Batman didn’t come to save Jason? What if Bruce couldn’t get to Jason before Joe got to them.

Narrows made another call to someone else, probably another member of their crew, to go meet Bruce for the money in an hour. Jason tried not to think about the threats that Narrow made if Bruce wasn’t there on time. About the gun in the holster on Narrow’s hip. Or the way that Joe licked his lips and ran his eyes down Jason’s body from across the room, or. . .

The next hour passed like that. Them keeping an eye on Jason. Jason keeping an eye on them.

Nothing changed until the lights began to flicker, the three kidnappers reaching for their guns as their eyes traveled around the warehouse. An admittedly very incredibly creepy cackle began to echo around the rooms, and Jason suddenly remembered the few times he’d been able to pester Dick into telling him about his circus days. He’d told Jason about the man who’d taught him to throw his voice, some ventriloquist or another. Or something like that. He couldn’t remember the term for it.

The woman looked up, her guns following her line of sight just as a flash of black and color fell from the ceiling in a fury of motion, Robin’s legs pin-straight as he twisted around the bullets and dove at the woman’s face. She fell to the ground in a heavy heap, one gun sliding across the floor to the middle of the room, and Robin cartwheeled away from the bullets that Narrows and Joe shot at him, also drawing their aim from Jason, still tied up in the middle of the room.

So that’s where Dick was while everybody else was on the call. That made more sense.

Just as Dick flipped upwards, he sent two birdarangs right at the men’s guns, snapping them out of their hands as Dick rotated a foot at Narrow’s face, knocking him cold to the ground. Joe rushed in, one fist swinging wildly that Dick easily sidestepped, spinning low to the ground to knock Joe off his feet before punching the man out cold.

He snapped upright after that, his head twitching slightly as he accounted for everybody in the room. The white lens of his mask alighted on Jason and he swore he could see the tension draining from Dick’s shoulders as he rushed forward. “Jason!”

Jason mumbled something embarrassing that he will not be repeating even in his own head around the gag before Dick ripped it from his mouth. “You okay?” Dick asked, worry lining his face as one hand ran over his head and traced his sweaty cheek.

Jason nodded, breathless, and Dick pulled out a birdarang to slice open Jason’s bonds. “Took ya long enough,” Jason said, his voice a bit hoarse and dry as Dick tore off the restraints around his ankles.

He stood up with Dick’s help. “Just be grateful I didn’t leave you here so I could have the back car seat all to myself,” he retorted, then Jason clocked the exact moment panic flushed his stupid brother’s features as he hurried to amend that statement. “But I would never– I promise, Jaybird,” he said, hands falling to Jason’s shoulders.

Jason rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, his words echoing that of the woman’s from an hour earlier. “I know, Big Bird. Let’s get out of here.”

The safety on a gun clicked off. Jason and Dick spun around to see Bertha (she looked like a Bertha, Jason decided) standing to her feet with her second gun gripped tightly in her hands, blood streaming freely from her definitely broken and swelling nose. “Nah sofas,” she warned, though it was more of a wheeze, and one hand flew to her face to stem the blood flow. The other kept the gun leveled easily at the two boys.

“Hans’up ‘n steppawy from tha ki’,” she told Robin, who shot a warning at Jason and slowly began to comply.

But her gun stayed trained on Jason, which. . . not good. That meant Dick wouldn’t do any of his stupid Robin stuff to get them out of this situation because he’d be too worried about Jason, and Bertha knew it. “Hey–” Dick began calmly, but the woman’s face flashed angrily.

“Shaddup!” she snarled, and her gun traveled quickly back and forth between Jason and Robin before settling on Robin. “Jus’ do wha’ I say.” At this distance, Jason didn’t think that Dick could dodge it.

Jason’s eye caught on the gun she’d dropped earlier. He saw the woman’s finger starting to tighten on the gun trigger, and he didn’t think, he just . . . did.

 

Jason dove for the gun, quickly wrapping his fingers around it properly and pulling the trigger just as he aimed it at the woman’s leg. She screamed, and the bullet from her gun flew wide, Robin dodging forward to tackle Bertha to the ground and soundly knocking her out this time.

Dick rolled off of her just as Jason flipped the safety and tossed the gun to the side, his limbs shaking a little. But he felt . . . good. Powerful. In control. He didn’t feel floaty or detached anymore, though the drugs were certainly still in his system.

The gunpowder in the air sort of smelled like smoke.

“Jaybird? When’d you learn to do that?” Dick asked, the lenses in his mask blown wide, and– oh, right. Jason didn’t have the same hang-up on guns that Bruce did. And therefore Dick. Probably.

“Oh– uh,” Jason fought the red blush spreading across his cheeks. “Remember when you told me to find something to stick it to Bruce without it being big enough to be mad at me for?”

Dick nodded intently. Jason continued. “Well–” he shuffled his feet, but crossed his arms as he stared Dick straight in the eye. “I sort of asked A to teach me how to shoot a gun?” he explained, one eye wincing in anticipation of what Dick would say in spite of himself.

Dick’s mouth twitched, and there was a long pause of silence. And then a grin spread wide over Dick’s face as he broke out into laughter, doubling over.

“Really?” he finally wheezed out, straightening up to wipe a fake tear from his domino mask. A hand flew up to his comm. “You get that, S? Please tell me you got that!” Jason stared in surprise. Because Dick wasn’t . . . angry at him?

“S? And you’re not mad? What about B and his thing with guns?” Jason asked, looking over at the discarded gun again.

Dick waved a hand. “Eh, that’s just for vigilantes, ‘s far as I’m concerned. It’s a respect thing,” he shrugged. “I’d rather not use one cause I can’t control a bullet after it leaves the gun, but it’s not like Agent A doesn’t have a stash of them hidden somewhere. B knows, I know, he knows. We all just ignore it in case the Joker comes a’knocking.”

Dick chuckled, slinging an arm around Jason’s shoulder. “Besides, I just can’t wait to see the look on B’s face when you tell him!”

Dick fell into a fit of laughter again, one that Jason finally joined in on. “Hey, D– Big Bird,” Jason amended, because it felt weird to call Dick Robin. Dick looked at him as they walked out the building.

“One sec,” he said, and then buzzed his comm to let Agent A know that Jason was safe before flicking it off. “Okay.”

Jason looked up at Dick. Robin. “I wanna be able ta protect myself, next time. I couldn’t stop ‘em from takin’ me,” he said, looking down at his fingers, tangling and untangling them as they walked to Dick’s motorbike. “I need ta not feel . . . helpless next time. And what B’s taught me ain’t enough.”

Dick glanced over at him as they stopped in front of his bike, and then wrapped him up in one of his octopus hugs that Jason pretended to hate but that actually felt really nice. “I’ll always come to save you, Jaybird,” Dick promised, before letting go as Jason pushed away. “But. . . I get it. I’ll train you, and you won’t have to feel like that ever again.”

Jason nodded in gratitude but said nothing else as they climbed onto Dick’s bike. He wasn’t lying, not completely, but he knew what Dick would say. He’d try to stop Jason.

Because Jason didn’t just want to protect himself. He didn’t want anybody else to feel as helpless as he did, ever again.

Chapter 21: Happy Birthday!

Gotham City; March 20, 2012, 12:30 EDT

It was a testament to how far Artemis had come since the days her father spent training her that she didn’t immediately snap Bette’s arm in two when the supply closet door opened and a hand reached out to drag her out of the school hallway. Artemis caught half a glimpse of Bette’s face and the brief shine of bright red hair before the door shut behind them and they were left in darkness. She blinked as a chain was fumbled around and a light suddenly clicked on above them to brighten up the room.

Barbara was leaning against a shelf of cleaning supplies while Bette finally released her iron grip on Artemis’s wrist. She stepped back, her foot banging against an empty bucket as she faced Barbara and Artemis, all business in the way she stood pin-straight and purposeful in the way she folded her arms against her chest. A commander facing her small army.

Artemis wondered what, exactly, she’d let Bette pull her into this time. Ever since she became friends with the girl, Bette somehow knew exactly which buttons to push to drag Artemis, or whoever she wanted, really, into whatever scheme she had planned. Usually, it was some sort of Robin-watching, which Artemis found weird at first because she was stalking her teammate, but after Dick had gotten roped into it as well, for Artemis it became more about proving the kid wrong than anything else.

And, of course, once Dick had admitted that it was about pulling the wool over Bette’s eyes, Artemis was more than happy to be a willing co-conspirator for all of the times that Bette had inconvenienced the archer with her plans.

Barbara went along with Bette’s Robin-watching about half of the time, having her own reasons for doing so; Bette, of course, could usually rope her into some newfangled scheme or another most of the time, but Barbara had an uncanny ability for figuring out when Bette would get her into trouble. Artemis tried to listen, but she couldn’t quite discern when Barbara was getting out plans to stay away from trouble or because she actually had plans of her own. Which resulted in it usually being just Bette and Artemis. And sometimes Dick, though the kid was slippery and great at escaping in his own right. So, again, it was usually just Bette and Artemis unless Dick took pity on them and included them in his Houdi-ness when they dodged the police or authorities or gangs or the few well-meaning adults left in Gotham.

So the fact that Barbara was here meant that either the plan wasn’t going to be one of the ones that left Artemis climbing up fire escapes in Gotham in the middle of the night, or Barbara just hadn’t heard what Bette was planning yet.

“What’s this all about?” Artemis hissed at Bette. She still had ten minutes before her next class (eugh. Arabic, the required language class she’d picked solely because the League of Shadows mostly operated in the Middle East and she liked to be in the know whenever they (Jade, her dad, etc.) started talking in a language she couldn’t decipher.) but in all likelihood this was going to make her late again and her teacher was going to get on her ass about it. She could not afford another letter sent home to her mom.

Barbara sighed and slumped a little further against the shelf she was propped up against. “I already told her it’s a bad idea,” she told Artemis, huffing a little in indignation that she was still forced to be present for their impromptu and totally not inconspicuous secret meeting. If Barbara was still forced to be here, Artemis realized, then she likely wasn’t going to be able to get out of it, either.

Bette flashed an annoyed look at Artemis. “No, it’s a great idea. You told me–”

“I also told you it was a bad idea,” Barbara reiterated, rolling her eyes but standing upright to inch closer to them. “But since you’re going to go through with it anyways, I might as well do damage control.”

“Wait, back up. Go through with what?” Artemis asked, resignation already settling in her stomach. Though, she did wonder what Bette was cooking up this time. No matter how often going along with Bette ended in either disaster or complete and total embarrassment, she couldn’t help but want to be involved anyways. The girl was like Mars, sucking everyone around her into orbit.

Bette looked over at her. “It’s Dick’s birthday today,” she finally admitted. “And I just found out!” she said, an annoyed tone leaking into her voice as she shot a glare at Barbara, who she obviously blamed for that oversight.

“It is?” Artemis asked, at the same time Barbara argued, “You don’t know him as well as I do!”

Bette crossed her arms. “It is,” she told Artemis, “But the only way we would’ve known was if someone,” she said meaningfully, leveling another Look at Gordon, “Had told us.”

Barbara’s face warmed. “Well, you haven’t seen how he gets every year,” she retorted angrily. “Don’t think I haven’t tried for his birthday or anything, he’s just always in a mood.”

“Mood?” Artemis hummed questioningly.

Barbara turned to her. “You haven’t noticed? He’s always so . . . down. I don’t get it, and he won’t tell me anything. I think he just hated his birthday, or maybe it’s this time of year,” she said, shrugging contemplatively.

Artemis furrowed her brow, trying to recall Dick’s behavior from Monday and earlier that day. He had been a little . . . quiet, she realized, which wouldn’t be weird if it wasn’t for the fact that the kid basically never shut up. He was a bit like Wally in that way. She mentally shuddered, briefly thinking what it would be like if Dick met her boyfriend. “I guess he’s been a little quiet,” she agreed. “But, again, why are we here?” she asked, trying to get them back on track.

“Like I said,” Bette began, “It’s Dick birthday. We need to do something for him.”

“So get him a birthday present,” Artemis shrugged.

“No,” Bette groaned. “Like, go out or something. We’re kidnapping him after school today!” she exclaimed happily, her eyes lighting up briefly with either mischief or excitement. It was hard for Artemis to tell sometimes.

Barbara’s eyes widened. “Oh no. That’s a terrible idea. Let’s just do what Artemis said and get him a birthday present or something.”

Bette shook her head furiously. “Don’t you get it? This is the perfect way to get him out of his funk! We’ll take him after school, leave a message with his butler or something, and then go out to eat. It’s perfect! Besides, he loves getting kidnapped,” she said, waving a hand. “Right, Artemis?”

“I don’t know. . .” she began, but Bette was always better with people than she was. And Dick never seemed to mind their impromptu kidnappings as long as Alfred knew it was planned by a bunch of high schoolers and not some two-bit gang. “I guess,” she agreed.

“Perfect! Then we agree,” Bette said, clapping her hands together. “Meet up at that Oak tree after school, you know the one?”

Barbara sighed. “Yeah, we know it,” she said, earning a bright smile from Bette.

“Fine,” Artemis agreed, her hand already on the door knob. She slid out of the room, Bette and Barbara tugging on the light chain as they followed after her.

Artemis slid in the classroom door just as the tardy bell rang, her teacher flicking a warning look at her as he stood from where he’d been organizing his colored pens at his desk. She winced at the judgmental glare that followed her to her seat, but when she sat down, the desk beside her was only devoid of the usual teasing giggle that followed any evidence of Artemis’s rivalry with her Arabic teacher. She looked over at Dick only to find him resting his head tiredly on his desk, face turned her way but hidden behind the arm of his suit jacket.

Odd, but after her conversation with Bette and Barbara in the supply closet, not totally unexpected now. It still bothered her a little bit to see her normally upbeat friend so . . . dejected and tired, like a deflated balloon. It was weird.

Dick spent the rest of class with his head on his desk; when the bell rang, he got up from his desk and packed up in a sluggish pace, the bags heavy under his eyes and his feet moving like cinderblocks. Artemis didn’t see him again until lunch, when he showed up without a tray, laid his head down on the table, and promptly ignored every effort to draw him into the conversation. Barbara kept shooting both Artemis and Bette pointed looks as if to say, “See? I told you this is going to be a bad idea.”

After lunch ended, Artemis didn’t have any more classes with him. She did manage to leave her last class of the day two minutes early, however, in order to meet Barbara and Bette at the tree before Dick walked out the door with the rest of the school. Barbara was in charge of telling Afred of their plans to “kidnap” Dick while Bette and Artemis were to catch Dick’s attention.

The bell rang just as Barbara returned from making a call to the butler, and the three of them kept an eye out for Dick under the shade of the oak tree as a crowd of students flooded out from the sets of double doors. “There!” Bette pointed, and Artemis looked in the direction she indicated to see Dick just walking by. “Dick!” She waved her hands in the air, and he looked up, his gaze instantly locking on them. There seemed to be a war of indecision in his eyes, but it didn’t last long before he turned in their direction and made his way over.

His face was carefully blank as he regarded the trio of girls, no easy smile lighting up his features like usual, and Artemis’s stomach sank a little at the sight. Because maybe Barbara was right, and they should have left well enough alone. But, no. Bette was usually good about these things, about people. And Dick did look like he needed cheering up.

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. Artemis decided to speak first. She held up the well-loved and not-as-well-washed-as-it-should-have-been bag in one hand. “Alright Boy Hostage,” she said, forcing a grim smile on her face, “You know the drill.”

A flash of what looked like panic crossed Dick’s face, and he backed up half a step before his eyes flicked over to Barbara in a pleading glare. “Babs, can’t you–”

The red head shrugged regretfully. “Sorry, I tried,” she apologized.

Bette shook her head and huffed playfully. “C’mon, Dick; it’s not the end of the world,” she smiled. “Now,” she said, waving a hand toward the bag Artemis was still displaying. “If you would be so kind as to let us kidnap you, we won’t have to resort to more drastic measures,” she threatened.

“Wait! Mgh–” Dick barely had a chance to protest before Artemis gripped both ends of the bag and pulled it over Dick’s head. “Really, girls, can’t we do this some other day?” he tried. But the three teenagers had already fallen into their usual positions: Barbara and Bette in the lead, Artemis guiding Dick with both hands on his shoulders after looping her extra hairband around his wrists.

Bette half-spun, her plaid skirt twirling around her legs, to glance back at Dick. “Nope! Sorry, Birthday Boy. Got approval from Alfred and everything!” she grinned.

Artemis patted Dick sympathetically on one shoulder. She knew what it was like to contend with Bette when she had her mind set on something. A sigh escaped the younger teen, but he followed, his steps only a bit unsure due to the amount of times that the girls had “kidnapped” Dick after their first expedition from Artemis’s sophomore year.

“So, where to this time?” he asked after they went about a block, his voice a bit muffled under the bag, which Bette had happily labeled ‘official kidnapping sack’ with a sharpie.

“That would spoil the surprise,” Bette tutted. Barbara cast an uneasy glance over her shoulder at the younger boy, one that Artemis almost missed. “But don’t worry, we’re going to get you out of your funk,” she promised.

Dick huffed something under his breath that sounded much more suspicious than it probably was and stayed mostly quiet for the next few minutes of conversation, which was mostly taken up by Bette, as usual. Barbara tried to fill in the gap that was left by Dick’s silence, but Artemis could tell that she still had her reservations about the whole situation. Which really shouldn’t have been as big of a deal as they were all making it out to be. They kidnapped Dick all the time; it was bound to happen on one of his off-days. In fact, they often planned their somewhat impromptu kidnappings around their friends’ moods: Bette when she got a bad grade on a test, Barbara after a weekend with her mom and brother, Artemis usually after a bad mission or particularly irritating day at school, Dick after . . . well, actually, they could never usually get a real reason out of the youngest, come to think of it.

Artemis was still musing over that fact, her friends’ voices humming in the back of her mind, when they turned a corner and a small yelp sounded. Bette had bumped into an older man, and Artemis had accidentally steered Dick into Barbara’s back, causing both to stumble.

“Sorry, sir,” Bette smiled, straightening her uniform jacket.

The man ran his eyes up and down the younger girl’s figure, and Artemis noticed the small shiver that racked her friend’s spine, instantly straightening in response. “No problem, honey,” he grinned, the smile lop-sided and his gaze disgustingly leering.

Artemis let go of Dick and shouldered her way to the front, a frown quickly forming on her face. “We’ll just be going, now,” she said firmly, grabbing her friend’s wrist and nodding with her head for Barbara to do the same with Dick, who, she now noticed, had tugged their makeshift hood off, his gelled hair sweaty and sticking up.

The man’s eyes had snagged on Dick, who had allowed himself to be tugged ahead by Barbara, and his gaze followed their backs as they forged ahead of Bette and Artemis, who tailed right behind them. But the man thankfully didn’t do anything, and simply turned his attention back to the phone he’d had in his hand, likely what he’d been doing when Bette ran into him, and continued around the corner.

“Pedophile,” Artemis snorted under her breath, and Bette nodded beside her, still clearly disgusted by the encounter. It wasn’t the first time the girls, or Dick for that matter, had run into someone like him while they wandered the streets of Gotham. At least they had a system, however. Though their system was more like Artemis puffing up and using every bit of her naturally aggressive nature to scare off whoever their problem was, and then either running away or having Artemis or Barbara kick them where it hurt.

“Gross,” Barbara agreed, her face pinched. She still gripped Dick around the wrist, who had fallen silent but was taking in their surroundings with unusual vigilance.

Oh, right. He was trying to figure out where they were going. Bette seemed to have realized the same thing, because she raised a pointed eyebrow at Dick. “Forgetting something, Boy Hostage?” she called teasingly, and Dick’s gaze flashed toward her somewhat sheepishly.

“No?” he tried, but Bette wasn’t having it.

“Yeah, nice try.” She ripped the sack from his hands and pulled it over his head, and Dick’s shoulders slumped as he sighed exasperatedly once again.
“Do we have to?” Artemis could very clearly hear the pout in the boy’s voice. She passed over another rubber band (her long hair was a hazard she was too attached to to get rid of) to Bette, who snapped it over Dick’s wrists again.

“Yep,” Artemis said. “Sorry,” she shrugged, and shoved Dick forward again.

“No you’re not,” he grumped, but followed Bette and Barbara again, his shoulders still tense from what Artemis assumed was the encounter with the creepy man.

“No,” she agreed. “I’m not.”

Artemis paused as her gaze snagged on a brief flash of movement in the nearby alley. The lack of movement coupled with one hand still holding onto Dick’s shoulder caused the boy to stumble back into a stop with her. “Artemis?” he asked, but she didn’t say anything back, watching as three men stepped out of the dark of the alleyway and approached them.

“Dick–” her voice cracked a bit in her worry, and Bette and Artemis turned around at the sound. Their eyes widened as they saw the three men, but as Artemis risked a glance their way, she noticed that another man and a woman had stopped just behind them. She turned around, her stomach sinking a bit as she saw the man that they’d run into earlier standing two meters behind her.

Dick heard the concern in her voice and ripped the bag from his head, his eyes quickly taking in the scene. “Official kidnapping, huh?” one of the men in the alley said, clearly referencing the sharpied words on the bag and stepping closer.

“We’ll be the judge of that,” the woman behind Barbara added on, reaching with both hands towards the red head. And with that, the other five thugs moved in as well.

Artemis instantly stepped into action, settling into a defensive position in front of their youngest as she faced the three men in the alley. She didn’t have her bow, but she kept a really sharp pocket knife in her waistband, which she really didn’t have time to retrieve because all three of them were rushing her at the same time.

She dodged a wide-swung blow at her jaw and returned one in kind, landing a heavy kick at the man’s gut and knocking him groaning to the ground. One of the other two men managed to get a hit in at her shoulder as she did so, however, but she took the blow in stride as the other man headed toward Bette and Barbara. She punched him twice, once in the jaw and once in the nose. He recovered, but Artemis noted with satisfaction that the bone was probably broken.

Behind her, Dick had somehow managed to incapacitate the man they’d run into earlier. Artemis was glad that his self-defense lessons (which he’d told them he’d taken just for this purpose, luckily) were coming in handy. Barbara was trying to fight off the woman who’d stepped toward her, and being the athlete that she was, she’d gotten in some good hits, but she was quickly being overpowered. Bette had managed to kick the man after her in the groin, but the goon who’d left Artemis pulled out a gun and pulled Bette to him while she was distracted, leveling the weapon at the side of her head.

Bette squeaked, and Barbara was distracted for long enough that the woman she’d been defending against had twisted her arms behind her in a painful position. “Alright, stop!” the man with the gun growled out. “Or the girl gets it,” he threatened.

Artemis paused in her fight to watch the confrontation, keeping one eye on the thug she’d been fighting as she tried to think her way through the situation, but she’d turned her back away from the man that she’d first taken down. He’d recovered and lunged at her back, tackling her to the ground and settling his heavy weight on her.

Artemis let out a pained breath as her face was ground into the concrete, and felt a flash of fear at the thought of the man on top of her like that. He’d locked her arms behind her, the man much too large for Artemis to fight from such a weak position.

“Let me go!” she snapped angrily, trying to shrug the man’s weight off of her, but he didn’t budge.

From the corner of her eye, she watched as the man she’d been fighting went for Dick, grabbing at the struggling boy. The kid managed to elbow him, hard, in the nose twice before he was completely subdued, like Artemis, by the sheer size of the man. It didn’t stop him from trying to headbutt the thug in the nose for the third time, though, which led the man to lock Dick into a hard strangle-hold, the boy’s face quickly turning red as he struggled to get out. After a few minutes, Dick slumped against the man.

A black van pulled up beside the alley they’d been shoved into. “Load ‘em up,” the man with the gun said, jerking his head toward the vehicle as he retrieved a syringe from his pocket. He tossed it to the man on top of Artemis, who’d snapped it out of the air before plunging it into Artemis’s neck before she could do anything about it.

The drugs were fast-acting, but she managed to watch as Bette and Barbara were restrained, gagged, and tossed into the back of the van with startling efficiency. Or maybe that was the drugs. She thought she might be losing time. And at some point she’d been zip-tied and gagged, too, and she thought she might have been pulled up?

She barely registered being thrown into the back of the van with Dick, two of the thugs climbing in behind them before everything went black.

-x-x-x-

When she came to, the first thing that Artemis noticed was someone muttering quietly and angrily in another language. It was . . . vaguely familiar, possibly recognizable in the distant part of her brain that was recovering from the influence of the drugs.

She tried to get her bearings, but all she could tell was that someone’s head was on her lap, and that her ankles and wrists were tightly restrained with some sort of painfully thin rope. Artemis decided to try and open her eyes, since she wasn’t learning anything by pretending to be asleep while listening in on a language he couldn’t even translate.

She was in a small, square room, dimly lit by a singular bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling. Bette was the one whose head was in her lap; her drugs must not have worn off as fast as Artemis’s, thanks to her own . . . less than superb upbringing and slightly concerning nightlife that allowed her a decent resistance to a variety of drugs. Barbara was also collapsed on the floor nearby, similarly restrained to the others, her red hair falling from her ponytail and splaying across the gray concrete floor.

Dick was, surprisingly, also awake, and bound to a chair, though his face was flushed red, and evidently the one who’d been talking to himself in another language while she’d been coming to consciousness. He was working on his bindings, which were. . . significantly more complicated and painful than what Artemis and the others were restrained with, seeing as he was tied up with twice as much wire instead of the rope the thugs had used on the rest of them.

“Dick?” Artemis groaned, pulling herself up and ignoring the twinge of pain as she supported herself with her bound wrists. She was nursing a bloody awful headache that she was doing her best to ignore.

His head snapped up as he looked over at her, his face brightening slightly. “Artemis!” he smiled, which was honestly a welcome sight for Artemis after the glum blankness she’d been faced with all day. Though she had to say that the fact that it took an actual kidnapping to lighten his mood was somewhat insulting after all of the effort they’d put into cheering him up. “You’re awake,” he said.

She nodded, instantly regretting it as the movement caused her head to spin and her headache to flare up. “Yeah,” she said with a grimace, “The bastards drugged me.”

Dick nodded. “Same, but I think I’ve almost got these ropes . . .” His voice trailed off as he continued to manipulate his wrists, which Artemis noticed were rubbed raw with a thin metal wire and tied to the chair arms.

“Stop that,” she snapped, “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

He looked up at her with an affronted look on his face, the movements paused. “Come on, Arty,” he said, a trace of some sort of accent coloring his tone that she’d never noticed before, “I’m a professional.”

“A professional,” she intoned sardonically.

He nodded, his eyes flicking over to her for only a second before they rested back on his wrists, twisting again, the wires red. “Yeah, professional kidnappee, professional escape artist . . .”

“Huh? Oh yeah, Boy Hostage,” she remembered. Artemis decided to take a look at her own bindings, focusing a careful eye on the rope already burning into her skin. She tried twisting them as Dick was, but very quickly gave up on that plan after a sharp gasp of pain involuntarily escaped her lips from the tightness of the bindings. She cursed loudly and decided to instead finger the inside of her skirt waistband for the knife she was pretty sure was still there.

“And circus kid,” Dick added. He cursed again in that language she vaguely recognized before admitting, “I think I’m going to have to pop my thumbs for this one.”

Artemis looked up. “What? Wait, I think I have a knife!” She only barely managed to stop Dick from popping his thumbs out of place (what the heck?), and he looked up in surprise and not the slightest bit of guilt. “Idiot,” she grumbled, but managed to somehow dig the small blade from her waistband after a fair bit of painful maneuvering with her hands.

“Here we go.” She awkwardly manipulated the small blade with her fingers so that she could dig it under the rope, wincing at the pain as she sawed at the cord. It was a slow process, and she looked up to see Dick watching her impatiently. She could barely see the depressed friend she’d been dealing with all day, his sadness mostly gone in the face of this new danger. Mostly. She could still see it in his eyes, clear blue and just . . . sad. “So,” she began, not really knowing how to bring the topic up, but hoping that he’d be willing to talk. Actually talk, and not just easily deflect all of their questions and steer the conversation away to happier matters like he usually did without them noticing, like she’d recently realized he had the habit of doing. Really, she realized, the only time she’d succeeded had been the one time she hadn’t meant to, back on the rooftop before their mission at Haly’s circus. “Why the sad face today?” she settled on.

Dick looked up at her in surprise. “What do you mean?”

Artemis rolled her eyes at him before focusing once more on cutting the rope without injuring herself. That would be a pain with drawing her bow. “Don’t play stupid. You’ve been acting weird all day,” she said.

Dick shifted uncomfortably, or at least as uncomfortably as he could being very tightly restrained to the chair at his wrists, ankles, and waist. He didn’t say anything for a long time, and Artemis was starting to think that maybe her usual bluntness wasn’t the best way to go about getting Dick to talk to her. But then he flicked his eyes over at Bette and Barbara, which was weird considering he and Barbara were like peanut butter and jelly, and spoke. “Bruce wants to adopt me,” he said.

And Artemis paused and looked up at her friend, that same sorrowful expression on his face from earlier. He was eerily still for someone she could’ve sworn had never stayed in the same place for more than five minutes in his life. “And that’s . . . bad.”

He looked over at her. “Yes, no. . . I don’t know,” he sighed, and then started to work at his bindings with a vengeance despite Artemis’s earlier protests. “It’s more the fact that he suggested changing my last name. And– I mean, yeah, it’s just a hyphen, but . . .”

Oh. Artemis thought she understood, now. “You’re a Grayson,” she finished.

He nodded. “Yeah. It doesn’t help that I hate my birthday, and he knows that, but he still asked me, and. . .” He groaned and popped one of his thumbs out of place, but she got the feeling that it wasn’t a cry of pain but rather one of exhaustion or exasperation. It reminded her a bit of Roy.

“Dick–” She wasn’t sure if she was going to scold him about popping his thumb out of place when she was close to cutting the rope, or what, but he just plowed on and ignored her protests, doing the same to other (and, yeah, no cry of pain for that one either, the freak) and then proceeding to maneuver both of his hands in ways that were most definitely not normal before he slipped them free of the now incredibly red and slick wire. “Wow, that’s creepy,” she said, just as she cut through the rope. She tugged at it, twisting her wrists until the cord dropped to her lap, or, rather, on Bette’s hair.

He grinned at her, a small, wild thing. “Thanks.” He rubbed at his wrists a little before reaching inside . . . somewhere in his jacket and pulling a small blade similar to Artemis’s knife. He started on the ropes at his waist and Artemis leaned over Bette’s head to work on her ankles. “You pick up a few things,” he said, accompanying the sentiment with a half-hearted shrug.

“At the circus,” Artemis said.

“At the circus,” he reiterated.

She’d almost gotten through the rope at her ankles–much easier to cut through without hurting herself through the material of her socks–when she spoke up again. “And I’m sorry, that was a really shitty and sweet thing for him to do,” she said.

Dick didn’t look up. “Yeah, it was,” he agreed. “I know he means well, but,” he sighed, “he still should’ve known.”

“I have a friend,” she began, thinking of Roy, “Who doesn’t get along with his dad either. Caretaker, adoptive dad, or– whatever they are. I’m not even sure if they’re friends, to be honest,” she said. “But . . . I think it gets better. If that helps.”

Dick didn’t say anything, only nodded. He heard her. For as much as he liked talking, Artemis also knew he was a really great listener. She’d talked with him a couple of times, about her father. They didn’t exactly have very similar situations. What with Artemis’s dad being her real father, an assassin, and not wanting anything to do with her other than to get her to follow in her family’s footsteps, and Dick being the orphaned ward to a well-meaning but awkward playboy billionaire, but. . . they sort of just . . . got each other.

Or they were both able to just listen. Maybe it was the fact that their situations weren’t similar. Not at all. Maybe that’s what made it easier to listen and not pretend to understand or have any advice to give in a situation you wouldn’t know what to do with.

She thought that might be why he’d opened up to her. Even if it was just a little bit. And why she’d opened up to him, just a little bit. It wasn’t much, could never be much with the life she lived, but . . . it was something. They were friends, and that was something. She thought it was enough.

Dick didn’t expect her to share her life story with him. Didn’t pry, didn’t judge from the little he knew, or what he surmised. Because the kid was smarter than she knew most people gave him credit for, behind the goofy grin and lightheaded small talk of the newly-dubbed “Richie Wayne” that the public knew of.

She knew that Dick probably thought she just had a complicated relationship with an abusive father. And, really, that’s what it boiled down to, wasn’t it? And she knew that Dick loved Bruce, was grateful to have a second chance at a father, but that it wasn’t as simple as that, what with the Grayson name and Wayne legacy.

So, yeah, maybe they didn’t know everything about each other. And they couldn’t completely understand one another. But there were bits and pieces. Small cracks that the other could see. But they listened, even if they didn’t really, really talk. And that was enough to be the good sort of friends they were.

They managed to wake Bette and Barbara up after they freed themselves from the ropes, and after that, it surprisingly wasn’t much work for the four of them to slip out of the warehouse, considering who Artemis was and the fact that Dick was apparently an expert escape artist/hostage, and the fact that Barbara was way too competent at a lot of weird and different things for her own good.

They called the police, or, rather, Barbara called her father, and soon, the four of them were safe and tucked away in their own homes.

But Artemis couldn’t help but think about what Dick had said in the warehouse. She realized she’d forgotten to ask him why he hated his birthday in the first place.

She wondered if it mattered. She knew it did.

She also knew that she’d have to wait until next year to ask him if she wanted a real answer.

Notes:

There's a number of reasons that Dick's sad on his birthday, and you can pretty much head-cannon whatever you want, but I wrote this keeping two things in mind: 1. Dick is called Robin because he was born on the first day of Spring, so of course this day would make him think about his mother, and 2. the reason that Dick was allowed to attempt the quadruple for the first time at the show two weeks later when his parents were killed was because it was a birthday present, so now he just sort of has a bit of a negative association with that.

Chapter 22: Malone

Malone

Mount Justice; June 15, 2012, 6:30 EDT

It was the second month after Kaldur had passed leadership of the team over to Robin. At some point in the last few months, their youngest had turned fifteen (Artemis couldn’t deny that she’d added this small, vague fact to her growing list of things she knew about Robin over the last two years. It was a frustratingly small list.) and was deemed old enough to take on that role.

Artemis could admit that she had her reservations at first. Sure, this was Robin. The first sidekick, hacker and planner extraordinaire, master of disguise and martial arts, the first of an entire generation of superheroes, and he did it all without powers. He was a legend, more hero than vigilante, regardless of who his mentor was. But he was still fifteen.

And she could tell that he was still nervous about being leader despite the fact that almost two years had passed since the disastrous failsafe situation. She hadn’t been as. . . affected as the other members of her team, seeing as that she’d died before everyone else, but she’d felt the aftershocks of that experiment in a way that the others couldn’t quite understand. All of the others had seen at least one other teammate (her) die, and had felt the grief of their deaths and suffered the consequences of their decisions. But all she remembered was this . . . blackness. It was dark, and it reminded her of the times her father would lock her in her closet as a young girl.

But it just meant that she very clearly could see the abrupt change in her teammates’ behaviors before and after the simulation. She hadn’t seen the transition as they were happening in the team’s minds. It had been abrupt, shocking, obvious.

She’d seen how M’gann had withdrawn into herself, blaming her own lack of control (She was so young, they’d all been so young, still were, weren’t they? Even though Artemis would be a legal adult in just a few months, a senior in high school.) for the disastrous training simulation.

She’d seen how Connor had drifted away, locking himself away with his anger. She still hadn’t found out why, but after his talk with Canary, he’d been . . . better. He’d grown so much in the last two years.

She’d noticed how Wally’s eyes had drifted her way when he thought she wasn’t paying attention, an anxious look in her eye that she hadn’t known how to feel about at the time. She’d been offended, for being pitied, until she’d realized that it was concern. Because he cared, because he valued her. Now she looked back on her memories of that look in her eye with fondness, because it was the first of many that she still received to this day.

She’d noticed how much Kaldur had blamed himself. She knew that he’d died, had chosen to sacrifice himself as a warrior instead of carrying himself on as a leader. Had surmised as much from the other’s brief explanations in the early hours after the simulation when the team had filled her in with the bare bones of the situation. She’d seen the hard, guilty look in his eyes, and the way he began to subconsciously defer to Robin after the disastrous experiment. It was then, she thought, that the transition had truly began in the change of leadership that was only now fully fulfilled, a year and a half later.

But those four had moved on. They’d been changed by the simulation, yes, but that change had turned into a sort of armor, seeping into their blood and fueling them to be better. M’gann had an iron grip on her abilities now. Connor had this sort of inner peace and understanding that she had honestly thought he’d never achieve. Wally had realized his feelings for Artemis (thank God). Kaldur had grown into his new role as right-hand man, rather than forcing himself to be the leader that he’d never wanted to be in the beginning.

But Robin? Robin had taken the lesson, and instead of taking it to heart, he’d wrapped himself up in his guilt like it was a second skin, an armor. He’d learned from it, grown from it, been changed by it, yes. But he hadn’t . . . let it settle within him, like the others had.

The wounds were still fresh for him. And she often wondered why. Why he still had this fear of being leader. Sure, he’d sent half their team to their deaths. But they’d accomplished the mission. And that was what mattered, wasn’t it? He’d done good, as good as he could have in a training scenario that was literally designed to fail. And that mission in Bialya? She hadn’t even been there, but she’d heart from the report that he’d led well, thought like a leader, compromised between the team and the mission and what he knew was right like a champ.

But on every mission that he’d ever led since the transition between Kaldur and Robin had begun, Artemis was able to see this sort of . . . tightness to Robin. One that hadn’t been there before Failsafe. Like his skin was stretched too thin. The only reason she’d noticed it was because she hadn’t seen him grow through the grief and the guilt during the simulation like the others had, hadn’t seen a slow transition, only the abrupt change when they’d woken from their comas.

And now that he was officially leader? Robin was working himself to the bone. He was more prepared than she’d ever noticed Batman be, though she couldn’t imagine who else he would have gotten it from. He spent hours before missions reviewing every fact, thinking of so many contingencies and possibilities that it made her head spin. He worried over every detail, memorized everything that he could, planned with a steel trap of a mind, and never seemed to lose his cool when the initial plan, as always, failed. Because he always knew what to do when that happened.

It didn’t mean that he didn’t still beat himself up over it, but he was always just so . . . prepared. Worried. Anxious. Stretched thin.

It worried Artemis, sometimes. And she knew that Kaldur saw it, too. The worry. It didn’t look . . . right on Robin, regardless of the fact that it was all she’d seen on him in the past few years. It was scarier how well he covered it, too. She only knew because of Failsafe, and Kaldur only knew because he, too, had held that same position.

Artemis thought that was why it happened, how they found out. Or, rather, how she found out and everyone else knew about it only after she’d accidentally discovered it. It was because he was so tired. Stretched thin. Worn out. Like he’d lived half a dozen lifetimes in the two years they’d known him.

In part, anyways. The other half was by pure coincidence. Artemis worked in Star City with Green Arrow, yes, but she still lived in Gotham. It was her home. She and Robin would sometimes patrol together in the beginning, but now, whenever she felt too small and cramped, and Oliver was away on business or she just didn’t want to see him, she would slip out of her window on her own, dressed in black with only her bow and her quiver. She’d take on the night, the gangs that Batman and Robin were too busy with the Rogues to pay as much attention to anymore, like they had in their early days. Before the Joker and Ivy and Killer Croc and . . . well, yeah.

So she’d picked up a bit of their slack. Ruffled the feathers of the Falcones, gnawed at the edges of the Triads. Just caused trouble for them, put off their plans until the Dynamic Duo could pay better attention to them. She knew they knew about it. Of course they did. But since they’d never confronted her about it, she’d kept doing it. She thought that was some sort of stamp of approval that they were ignoring her. Not meddling in her business.

She dealt with gangs and crime families all of the time, so she recognized their names. Would have known even just from her time in Gotham. There were a few well known ones. The Falcones. The many Triads, of course. The Malones.

It was just a coincidence that she’d been dealing with the Malones the night before a training session at the mountain. The head of the rather well-known, albeit new, Russian crime family was some elusive brute of a man named Matches, his son the boy whose identity Robin had assumed for their Juvie infiltration shortly after the crime heir had first come onto the scene. There were also other members of the family, a woman only known as Anna, two other boys called Jenson and Alvin, minor characters who hadn’t yet accrued the same level of fame as Matches and Robbie.

She still wasn’t exactly sure what kind of following or type of empire the two of them had amassed, to be honest. She just knew that in every other one of her interrogations, the names Matches and Robbie would come up and press the criminals into silence. They had something on everyone, fingers in every dish of the criminal industry, but at the same time, she couldn’t find anything on them. For as dirty as they were, they were also one hundred percent legally and for all intents and purposes clean.

She’d been venting to Wally about it, half-collapsed on the couch, her face pressed against his leg as he ran his still-gloved hand over her hair. She wore her usual workout clothes, of course, but Wally, seeing as his powers tended to burn off anything that wasn’t his specially-designed suit, was in his uniform.

Conner and M’gann were conversing in not-so-low tones in the kitchen, where Robin had spread out a plethora of papers over the free counter space in anticipation of . . . well, something. She could never tell these days. Sometimes it was Gotham things. Sometimes it was team things. Sometimes it was even League things. (And wasn’t that the surprise of a lifetime, when Robin had offhanded mentioned one day that he needed to update the Watchtower’s servers, because apparently he’d been the one to help Batman design it back when he was ten or eleven.) He was muttering under his breath about something, clearly intimately focused on whatever he was working on, Kaldur leafing through a few of his discarded papers like the considerate soul that he was. (Though they both knew that Robin was going to go over them again, the paranoid bat that he was.)

Robin had been so intently focused on what he was working on that she hadn’t thought he’d be paying attention to her conversation with Wally. And maybe the point was that he wasn’t, she would later realize, and that was the importance of it, what made her realize what she later came to realize.

“–and his kid? Just as hard to find. Not that I’d target him. He’s like, just a kid. But still!” Artemis had lifted her head in exasperation, intending to find sympathy in her boyfriend’s eyes (or a slight crinkling of his eyes in a way that foreshadows laughter at her expense. . . . it was coin toss at this point). “Robbie sh–”

Maybe it was the way she’d been a bit out of breath after pressing her face into Wally’s leg, causing her voice to hitch on the name the slightest bit in a way that might would suggest emphasis. Or the way that Robin had been so deep into paperwork that he hadn’t been in his right mind. Or how tired the kid was after who knew how many sleepless nights. It could have been nothing or everything.

But Artemis caught the way that Robin’s entire self had just . . . changed. Completely and wholly. He was an entirely new person. Pure Gothamite trapped in an iron cage of skin. His posture shifted, became meaner, tougher, his voice twisted into a old, familiar accent, his face transformed into a snarl as he shot a glare in Artemis’s direction that she swore she could feel through the domino mask.

“Whasit t’ya?” Robin– Robbie?–snarled, his features almost unrecognizeable but also . . . not? Because she could faintly remember how Robin as Robbie Malone had looked, and this expression stood out ot her far more than the different features, and there was still something distinctly Robin-Robbie-something else that she had seen both times. And Robin still had that something.

Artemis’s mind blanked for a second, but Wally had spun around in surprise, and Kaldur, Conner, and M’gann had all looked up in confusion.

Robin had seemed just as confused as the Team for a moment, before a flash of (terror? Artemis couldn’t tell) passed over his face, and he . . . morphed, tranformed? (again, Artemis didn’t really know) back into the Robin that they all knew. “I, uh–” His domino eyes had flown wide open in realization.

“What the heck was that?” Wally asked, choosing to voice exactly what the others were all thinking.

Robin blinked. And Artemis suddenly felt like a complete idiot. “Wait, you’re not actually–”

He’d literally told them his name.

Robin. Robbie. It wasn’t much of a leap. She’d just thought it was joke for his undercover name, at first, to have it be so similar to his superhero name. Something that an eight year old Robin probably would have gotten a kick out of, she thought. And then at Juvie, he’d not only gained a reputation in less than a day, but Artemis realized that Robbie Malone had only started showing up on the crime scene a week before Robin went undercover. The night after they got their mission.

“No! No! Of course not,” Robin protested, his hands flying up in defense. The kitchen stool wobbled a little with how frantic the motion was.

Not to mention the cursing in Russian. A dad who wasn’t Batman, a complicated relationship with a mother/aunt figure who could very possibly be Anna. His two cousins, Stray and “J” which she now realized were probably Alvin and Jenson.

If Batman found an eight year old Robbie being mixed up with the mob, it wasn’t that much of a leap to assume that he’d taken the kid in to keep him from a life of crime. The only problem was that Robbie was still considered active. His name was certainly still known on the streets. And Robin was a hero, right?

“Robin, you literally just responded to the name,” Artemis argued, sitting up now with the full force of her revelation backing her up. “And you went undercover as him, remember? Not that hard to do if you actually are Robbie Malone.”

Wally grinned. “This is great,” he laughed, his head knocking back against the couch cushion.

Artemis looked over at him. “I’m not joking,” she frowned as she realized her boyfriend wasn’t taking her seriously.

Robin rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure, Artemis. In my downtime between high school, vigilantism, leading this team, the League–” he listed off before huffing. “Sure, I’ve also got time to be an enforcer for the fourth most influential crime family in Gotham.”

“Then what do you call that whole–” Artemis waved her hand in Robin’s direction, flustered. “–shtick you did earlier?” she questioned.

Kaldur looked over at Robin with interest, even as Wally re-evaluated everything he knew about his best friend, which wasn’t that much, he knew, even though he knew it was far more than anyone else on the team knew. It was possible. . . the speedster thought.

Robin caught Wally’s re-appraisal and raised an eyebrow behind his mask in his best friend’s direction. “You aren’t seriously considering this, are you?”

Wally shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe? You did pull off Robbie Malone really well,” he mused. He pulled up both hands and used his pointer and thumb fingers to frame Robin’s face in a distant recollection of the day that Robin had first become Robbie Malone in front of the team so long ago. “I could see it,” he hummed. “You did look enough like him to fool all of juvie,” he reminded them.

“And Robbie is still an active Malone,” Artemis inputted, not missing the opportunity to have someone back her up.

“You did scare off those boys,” M’gann remembered, “with your reputation,” earning Robin a satisfied smirk from Artemis. He sighed exasperatedly.

“Robbie’s just an act, you guys. In fact,” he decided, thinking he would take advantage of the situation to get Artemis off of the Malones’ backs so they could gather information on the underworld more effectively again without her meddling, “the whole Malone family is an act,” he finished smugly.

Artemis furrowed her brows. “What?”

“An act?” M’gann questioned.

Robin nodded. “Yep. B thought a good way to get information in the criminal underworld would be for me to keep up the Robbie Malone character after Juvie,” he explained.

And, oh. Okay. That sort of made sense, Artemis thought. Robbie became Robin to get out of the criminal world, but during their stint in Juvie, Batman had Robin/Robbie start working for his family so they could have leverage for their mission, then keep up the character to get more information on criminals.

“So you’re not actually a criminal,” Artemis tried to clarify.

“Ehh–” Robin shrugged. “I mean, technically as a vigilante–” he grinned, but Artemis scoffed and cut him off with a glare. He sighed. “You’re no fun. No, Artemis,” he said, holding one pal up like he was taking an oath, “I promise that I am not a criminal except for the fact that I am a vigilante and secretly undercover as a member of the Malone crime family. Except for the fact that I committed identity theft,” he added after a moment of thought.

She narrowed her eyes at that. “Gee, thanks for telling me after I spent two weeks trying to track your stupid butt down.” Yeah right. She didn’t believe for one second that Robin wasn’t actually Robbie Malone. It all matched up too perfectly. The Russian. The look. Juvie. The family. The timeline.

“You’re welcome,” he smirked, not realizing that Artemis had already come to a conclusion on who she thought he was. That she thought he was actually Robbie Malone behind the mask of Robin.

“So, do you do that often?” Wally spoke up, and Robin looked his way.

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Wally waved his hands around before settling his arm back behind Artemis’s head on the couch cushion. “The whole undercover thing. You switched to Robbie pretty quickly,” he explained.

“Oh.” Robin thought for a second. He didn’t think that he did, but he supposed that he did have a handful of identities that he switched between. Dick Grayson with his family. Richard Grayson-Wayne for school. Richie Wayne for galas. Robin for criminal and other heroes. For his parents. Robbie Malone for Juvie and criminals. His yet-unnamed identity for his secret excursions with Selena. Not to mention the several other minor variations of characters he would often slip into if Bruce needed him for some other sort of undercover work. John. Rick. Nathan. (names to remember his family by, it made it easier to remember the names, the people) “Hmm. I guess so,” he conceded, though it sort of made him uncomfortable to think of it as going undercover. Because it didn’t quite feel like being undercover. It was performing. He was someone else. Pulling on another skin, flipping over another part of his brain or personality. They were all . . . him. He wasn’t becoming someone else, not quite. He was still Dick, underneath all of them, wasn’t he? Because if he wasn’t, didn’t that make him a liar?

“And the rest of the Malones? How’d you get them to go along with it?” Wally asked, his brow furrowed. “Surely they’d notice if another son just sort of. . . popped up a couple of years ago,” he reasoned, and Artemis turned toward in in expectation and . . . was that satisfaction? What did she think she knew, Robin wondered.

And, crap. What was Wally thinking? Because his best friend knew about Batman not being Robin’s father (he was very adamant about that fact, a sort of anger that could not be faked rising when Wally had asked him about it. He knew his best friend would never disbelieve him on that front.). He also knew that “Jay” (now known to Wally as Bluejay after Dick told him about the Halloween debacle) was Robin’s little brother. And that he had a pseudo-brother-cousin in Stray, Catwoman’s foster son. And that Catwoman and Bruce were . . . involved together. He knew the most about this entire situation.

Which also meant that he sort of knew nothing at all? Because did he think that Robin bribed the Malones and everything else that he’d told Wally was true, or did he think that Robin was lying and was actually a Malone? Which was the least harmful? Most truthful? Because to an extent, everything was true and everything was a lie.

He didn’t want to hurt his best friend.

Could he tell them the truth, that the entire Malone family was a front? But would that put Jay and Bruce and Alfred and Tim and Selena at risk if they connected the dots about the few hints of Robin’s family and the Malones together.

Or could he let them think that he was actually Robbie Malone? Put them that much further from his family’s real identities if they thought they were someone else.

Because, technically, they were the Malones. And wouldn’t this let him talk about his family all the more often, get to share his favorite part of his life with the team? Sure, he couldn’t include Bruce as Matches. But that was such a minor detail, and they already knew Batman. This way he could talk about B as his fake-dad and share that part of his life with them.

Wait. This was a great idea. He should just run with it, he thought.

“They don’t know,” he quickly covered up. “They don’t know that I’m Robin, just that I didn’t want in until a few years ago. But I still love them, so B and I worked out a deal,” he reasoned. “We’re the good side of crime, I guess you could say,” he said, chuckling a little at the reference to their vigilantism.

“‘J’-” Wally began.

“Matches, Jenson, Alvin, Anna. Grandpa Fred,” he added as an afterthought. “They’re my family,” he affirmed, a small smile warming his heart. He looked over at Wally with a promise of as much of an explanation that he could give, and he knew his best friend would forgive him.

Kaldur laid a hand on Robin’s shoulder. “Thank you for sharing this part of your life with us, Robin,” he said.

“Yeah,” Artemis agreed, something like understanding burning in her eyes. “Sorry we found out this way,” she said, but really she was saying, ‘I get it.’

And maybe Robin felt a little bit guilty when she looked at him like that. Like this was something they shared when he’d half-lied to all of their faces.

But maybe he didn’t regret it, if it meant that they could know his family and how important they were to him.

Yeah, maybe he didn’t regret it at all.

Chapter 23: Batgirl

PART TWO:

Gotham City; June 23, 2012, 20:30 EDT

Barbara liked to think herself a practical girl. She was sixteen now, seventeen in two months. Practically an adult. Practically a practical woman, now.

So even if she was doing something stupid, she was going to do it in a practical way. Because she was Batgirl now. Trademark pending.

Was that a type of copyright? She didn’t think so, since it wasn’t like Batman was ever going to abandon his vigilante status just to put a claim on anything bat-related. She wondered if, if he ever did that, he named his technology after bats. Or if he kept pet bats. He did seem like a bit of a drama queen, considering he’d been dressing up like a bat for going on six to seven years in order to scare the living daylights out of criminals.

Not that Barbara had any claims to sanity now that she was doing the same thing.

For almost four months now. Her anniversary was April 1st. She thought that it was fitting, becoming Batgirl on her best friend’s birthday, since it was him who’d inspired her to be Batgirl in the first place. Sure, Robin was her role model, but people like Dick Grayson, good, kind-hearted people who didn’t deserve the heartbreak they had to live through every day, were the reason she was out here in the first place.

Dick Grayson had a good heart, had grown to be good, kept the good inside of him despite all that he’d been through: parents murdered at eight, sent to juvie for three months because of racist pigs, bullied in school for being a circus kid, sent to live with a reclusive billionaire who didn’t deserve Dick. And yet, he’d still managed to come out on top. Righted himself, landed on his feet like the acrobatic brat (she meant that lovingly) he was. Righted himself and gave Barbara the inspiration and the courage to protect herself, inspired the most problematic playboy (aside from Oliver Queen, of course) to do the biggest one-eighty in personality ever documented in history, and took care of his brother(s?) with the biggest heart she’d ever seen.

And damn it if his heart wasn’t inspiring. Because how could he go through all of that, all of what Gotham had forced on him, taken from him, and not be broken, or worse, a jerk? He didn’t deserve the bad things that happened to him, kept happening to him even as he carried on with a smile that was worryingly convincing even though Barbara was his best friend and knew everything about him. Nobody like him did. There were people with good hearts in Gotham, and Barbara knew that it was up to her to help protect them.

Like Robin. The first sidekick. Because Barbara was one of the few people in the world who knew that, and she’d felt a connection to him, back when she’d helped save him two halloweens ago. Because he had a good heart, too, and he didn’t deserve to have anything bad happen to him, not if she could help it.

And back when their Gotham Gang had gotten kidnapped? Barbara had felt defenseless, not to help herself, but to help Bette. Because she was fine until she’d seen Bette with a gun to her head and realized that she wouldn’t be able to help.

So she’d gotten better. It wasn’t like she didn’t have any sort of preparation. She’d done gymnastics most of her life, and her father had made sure she could shoot a gun (not that she would, because she didn’t want to get on the Bats bad side if she was going to work with them one day (hopefully)) and protect herself with self defence. She protected both her body and her identity, and it hadn’t taken much work to figure out how to turn that around and learn how to protect others, just a bunch of youtube videos and one and a half years of stolen time after gymnastics and before her dad got home.

And because Barbara was a practical gir–woman– (her father always told her), she had started out small. She hadn’t taken on anything that she knew she couldn’t handle. Muggers without weapons were fine. Small-time thieves? No match for her. But she avoided the gangs. Anyone who she thought she wouldn’t be able to flip over if they got on top of her.

She helped those that she could, and called in the police for those that she couldn’t.

But as practical as Barbara was, she couldn’t prepare for everything. It was only supposed to be one man; she’d only seen the one, and she’d checked out the surrounding area, as well, but another one had slipped past her watch.

She’d disarmed the first mugger, kicking aside his knife and landing a solid blow to his solar plexus and his tenders before slamming his head into the wall. She’d taken time to make sure that the woman was alright, but she’d only barely dodged the swipe of a crowbar at the woman’s panicked cry.

It whirred over her head as she ducked forward, crashing into a woman for a bit before she yelled at her to run as she turned around and faced her attacker. Er– two attackers, a man with a rusty crowbar and an overly-muscled woman who was built like a brick wall.

The woman advanced in the absence of another swing of the crowbar, and Barbara easily dodged the swipe of her fists, but was caught in the side by a hard stick of metal. That damn crowbar, she cursed mentally.

She barely caught her breath before the weapon whirled back around for another hit, and she dove for the bar and tried to pull it from the man’s hands before he could try again. She succeeded, the metal spinning from his grip, but the woman managed to get behind her and wrestle her into a sturdy hold.

Barbara tried to jerk her head back into the woman’s nose, but the height differential was too great, and she was left struggling in the criminal’s strong grip. “Well, what ‘ave we ‘ere?” And Barbara swore she could see the smug smirk she was sure the woman was wearing on her face.

“Asshole,” she grit out, kicking out at the man who tried approaching her. She managed to kick away the crowbar he’d gotten ahold of again, sending it skidding across the alley floor. She didn’t think she’d be so lucky a third time, however, and a cold feeling of fear fingered her heart. Her throat felt dry, and she wondered if she’d be getting out of this one.

It wasn’t like all of the times she’d roamed Gotham alleys with her friends. Artemis was strong and capable, and had her back. Bette was courageous and smart, good at talking her way out of difficult situations. And of course Dick was plenty good at escaping and helping others escape with him.

But she was alone right now. In Gotham. Against two criminals that she wasn’t actually sure she could get away from this time, much less defeat like a Batgirl should be able to do.

She was scared. An unsteady breath fled past her lips as she clenched her jaw and tried again in vain to hurt the woman holding her. “What’re we–”

The man didn’t have time to finish his sentence, as two flashes of spinning metal seared through the air and pinned him to the wall. He let out a yelp of fear as Barbara jerked her head around to see who it had come from. There were only two options.

She really hoped it wasn’t Batman.

Her prayers were answered as a small-ish (not as small as the last time she’d seen him, she noted) figure dropped from the sky and turned in a powerful spin to kick the woman in the back of her head. She stumbled forward, releasing Barbara from her iron-clad grip and giving her the opportunity to grab the woman’s arm and twist it in a painful motion, pinning her to the ground. Robin landed behind her and quickly cuffed both of the criminals, pressing a small button on both of them that Barbara knew served as a one-time distress beacon to the GCPD.

She stood up, her mouth already pressed into a grim line at the thought of what Robin had to say to her, seeing as she was dressed in black and purple, a bat proudly ironed to the center of her chestguard, and beating up criminals in the middle of the night. But she also couldn’t ignore the cool feeling of relief flooding her lungs. “Thank you,” she said gratefully, but because she was admittedly also a prideful girl, she added, “But I could’ve handled it.” She crossed her arms defiantly. Because she couldn’t afford for them to see her as less than them. Incapable. Not if she wanted to work with them someday.

Robin mirrored the action, and the corner of his domino quirked up in amusement. Or skepticism. She couldn’t quite tell. “Really? Didn’t look like it,” he said in that distinctly perfect American accent, the slightest bit of Jersey still coloring his voice, just enough to remind people that he belongs to Gotham.

Red colored Barbara’s cheeks. She still felt relief, but she was also now well and wholly embarrassed. “Well, I did,” she retorted, the anger coming easily to her in the wake of her shame.

The vigilante then looked her up and down, clearly taking in the bat insignia on her chest. “Let me guess, Batgirl?” he teased, and when her face burned even brighter, a chuckle just escaped him before it turned into a full-on laugh. He doubled over.

Barbara drew her arms tighter around her before marching over and swatting him on the back of his head. “Shut up,” she snarked, and tossed her red hair over her shoulder as he popped back upright.

He faked wiping a tear away from the corner of his eye, the whites of his domino still squinted in jest. “Sorry, sorry,” he grinned, not sorry at all. “What are you even doing out here? Being a vigilante isn’t for everyone, Batgirl. You could get hurt.”

She peered angrily at him. Shame and embarrassment but most of all righteous anger welling up in her. “Well, so can everyone else,” she argued. “I’ve been training for this my whole life. I can’t just stand by and let people get hurt,” she ground out. “I can’t.”

Robin looked at her intently before something like . . . sorrow, resignation? passed over his features. “And you couldn’t just stop after four months?” he mumbled under his breath, and rubbed his palms into his eyes. He suddenly looked very small and very tired. He let out a long sigh that Barbara didn’t quite know what to do wtih.

“No,” she decided on answering, though the question was clearly rhetorical. “And I won’t.”

She heard him mumble something else that sounded suspiciously like, “now I know how B felt, stupid–” . . . and, yeah. She wasn’t going to even try to decipher that crap. He looked up at her, and, yeah, that was totally resignation. “Well, I tried,” he shrugged, and Barbara sort of just . . . paused.

“Just like that?” she asked, not believing him.

He shrugged. “Yeah, just like that, I guess. I mean, it’s not like I can tell you that you’re too young, I mean, look at me,” he said, gesturing to himself. “And you have a background in gymnastics, defense, not to mention your father–”

“My father?” Barbara squeaked. She couldn’t help it. The familiar red flushed her cheeks again, but Robin continued on undeterred.

“There’s not really anything I can say to convince you to get off the streets, if you think this,” he said, waving his hands up and down at Barbara, “is actually the best way to help.”

And there was something about the way he said it. . . “You don’t think this is the best way?” she asked, a little surprised after she’d figured out what his inflection meant.

Robin rolled his shoulders out. “Not really,” he hummed. “It’s just sort of something I got into without knowing the consequences.” There was a distant look in his eyes that Barbara could see even with the domino. “People die, and– people miss them.” Her father, Barbara realized. She wondered who Robin lost. “It’s a dangerous life, one you can’t really get out of once you’re this far in, and I wouldn’t want to, but sometimes I wonder–” He shrugged, letting Barbara finish his thoughts. Letting his thoughts run into her thoughts.

Because what would happen to her father if she died? Her mother, brother? Could they handle that? Could her father? She knew that his heart wasn’t getting any younger, and she didn’t want him to deal with the same grief that Dick Grayson had–

Was she stupid? How could she do to her father what she was trying to keep everyone else from experiencing? But how could she just leave everyone else– Where was the balance?

Robin looked at her again, his eyes trained steadily on her. “There’s more kid heroes nowadays, you know. Sometimes I wonder if they’d still be out there if I weren’t the first, still putting themselves in danger and getting killed. Getting others killed,” he added to himself. For himself. “I just think there are better ways, right Stray?”

Barbara almost jerked in surprise. “Stray?” she asked, not knowing that there was someone else listening in on their conversation. Stupid, stupid.

Robin hummed. “Yep. My guy in the chair,” he explained. “Well, mostly. I share custody,” he joked, “But I could really use one of my own, what with the team and all,” he continued.

And . . . Barbara didn’t really know what to do with that. Because. What? “Team?” she decided to ask. That seemed like the least problematic part of that answer to tackle.

He nodded. “Team. I’ve been too busy leading to hack like I normally do. It’d be so much easier with someone watching my back,” he sighed, dropping his head before shooting a mischievous grin Barbara’s way, which she reluctantly found herself returning.

“I don’t know how–”

He pshaw-ed at her, waving a hand dismissively. “Please,” he said, “I’m a bat. Better, I’m a bird, and a little birdie told me that you’re freaky smart with computers, and even better at picking things up quickly. I’ll catch you up in no time.”

She blinked. This could be good, she realized. A way to help without hurting her family.

“I’m in.”

Chapter 24: Celebrity

Celebrity
Mount Justice; July 4, 2012, 11:23 EDT

It was the two-year anniversary of the team becoming a team, and they’d grown since Kaldur, Wally, and Robin had first broken into Cadmus and freed Conner. M’gann and Artemis had joined, Roy came around regularly, and Zatanna was frequently found at their base as their official magical advisor. Which was code for being on the team without actually being on the team, since she could actually learn more being away from it than on it, as a magic user.

As it was, all of their members, both official and unofficial, had made the decision to meet at the mountain for a small celebration. M’gann’s cake was still in the oven, which they were all looking forward to seeing as her baking skills had improved drastically over the past two years. Conner’s super senses were no longer essential to keeping the cake from burning, so he was sitting on the couch in his usual spot, unintentionally separating Artemis and Wally from sitting next to each other but resolutely ignoring the glares that Artemis was sending his way. Kaldur was sitting in a nearby chair, Robin opposite him filling out some sort of form or another for either Batman or the team, and Roy had left for the bathroom. Zatanna and M’gann had turned on a celebrity gossip channel to watch while the martian was waiting for the cake to finish.

Robin, having learned his lesson from the last time that he hadn’t been paying close enough attention to his teammates’ conversations to keep a closer eye on his team, was lightly eavesdropping on his team’s discussion about some new model or another. Thank God, he thought, considering that the last time he hadn’t paid attention, his team had ended up assuming that he was actually Robbie Malone, enforcer for the Malone family’s criminal empire.

Well, he technically was. But Batman usually just used the Malone name to gather information, keep a close eye on the less unsavory criminal types who were only committing crime to provide for their families, and to send various people into witness protection programs. Which was mostly Robbie’s job, as the “enforcer” who “got rid” of the “victims”. Not that anyone else really knew that.

His team mostly just assumed that Robbie’s kill count was a smart mixture of rumor and fear tactics, and not that he was actually killing the people that he “killed”. Which was mostly true, he guessed. Because technically the people he made disappear were legally dead. It was a complicated situation.

“–celebrity crush,” M’gann was explaining to Conner. “It doesn’t mean I’d ever cheat on you,” she protested, which Conner furrowed his eyebrows at, seemingly not understanding the situation.

Artemis nodded her agreement. “Yeah, I mean, sure Demarco is hot and all, but it’s not like I’d ever actually get with him. Not over Wally.”

The lines on Conner’s face deepened. “I still don’t get it.” As far as the Kryptonian clone had come, he still had trouble understanding certain earth customs. Or just any customs, really. People in general.

Artemis knocked her head back against the couch in exasperation. “Back me up, Zee,” she pleaded.

The magician looked between the clone, the martian, and the archer and struggled to find a way to explain it. “Well, it’s like this, Conner. If me and Robin were still dating–” Robin had stood to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen, but his attention was drawn back their way at the mention of his and Zatanna’s brief two month romance, cut short by the fact that she didn’t exactly appreciate Robin’s very necessary habit of keeping secrets. “–then obviously I’d stay loyal to him, right? But I’m allowed to think that my celebrity crush, someone who’s probably conventionally attractive, is hot, as long as I don’t do anything about it, you know?”

“Like Canary?” Conner asked, the furrow slightly smoothing out. That earned a surprised sputter from M’gann, who was remembering an awkward conversation with the older hero after a misunderstood game between the martian and the kryptonian over a year ago. M’gann seemed to get that Conner more or less understood the concept, however, and squeaked a small sound of approval. She couldn’t exactly begrudge her boyfriend for something that she was justifying for herself, after all, no matter how awkward it was to remember that situation.

“Sure, that works. I’m Wonder Woman fan, personally,” Wally shrugged, but reached an arm behind Conner’s head to hold Artemis’s hand. His fingers brushed hers, and he shot her a soft smile that made her heart melt. Yeah, Artemis thought, Demarco (the celebrity on the screen) may have been hot, but Wally was hers.

Artemis looked over to Zatanna again. “What about you, Zee?”

The magician looked over to the archer and realized that she was asking about her own celebrity crush. “Oh, me?” A blush colored her features, but she forged on. “I’ve always thought the Wayne kid–”

Robin choked on his water, coughing the liquid back up and into the sink. Zatanna paused her sentence in alarm, and Wally looked over to his friend. “Rob, you good, bro?”

Robin shot him a thumbs up as he straightened, thankful that his red face could be passed off for him nearly choking on a liquid. “Yep,” he said, his face still pinched.

“Dick Grayson?” Artemis questioned Zatanna, whose attention was drawn back to the conversation. “Seriously?”

Zatanna frowned. “Dick Grayson? No, Richie Wayne,” she corrected, and Robin barely managed to suppress his wince at the last name, still something of a sore spot after his ‘talk’ with Bruce (neither of them had brought it back up in the months since). And, sure, Richie was fun to play at first, but ever since he’d modeled for a charity magazine, the role (and the eyes that came with it) hadn’t been as much fun to play as of lately.

Artemis waved a hand in dismissal. “He goes by Dick Grayson. That’s just what the media calls him, and he actually sort of hates it.” Thank God for Arty, Dick thought.

Zatanna’s eyes widened. “Art– Wait, you know him? You’re friends with him?” she asked incredulously.

“Yeah?” Artemis said, before remembering that she, too, used to think being friends with a billionaire’s ward was weird. “We go to the same school,” she explained.

“What’s he like? Is he as hot as the–”

Artemis’s face pinched in disgust. “Ew, no! He’s just a kid! Just– no, ew,” she shuddered. She did not want to think of her friend like that. He was basically her little brother, him and Robin both. “He’s like a little brother to me.”

And, oh– Dick thought– that was nice, to be thought of in that way. Especially since he basically considered his team as his own older siblings. It was nice to know that he was loved in the same way.

Zatanna rolled her eyes. “Well, he’s not my little brother. So tell me what he’s like, please?” she pleaded.

Artemis sighed just as Robin plopped back down in his seat. Was this wrong? Probably. But it wasn’t like he was going to be leaving anytime soon. This was too good of an opportunity to pass up. “Well, he’s a brat, that’s for sure. An evil genius. Hates bird-watching,” she snickered, and Robin couldn’t help the quirk of his mouth. “. . . kind, smart. People look at him and see some stupid rich kid, or a ditzy playboy’s son, but he’s . . . a lot more than that,” she said, sending a meaningful look to Zatanna. “He’s probably one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.”

M’gann furrowed her brow. “Wait, Grayson? As in, the Flying Graysons? From that circus we went undercover to?” she remembered.

“Haly’s,” Wally realized, and Artemis nodded. “That Dick Grayson? I forgot,” he murmured, just as Roy was returning from the bathroom.

The older archer looked up at the mention of his old friend’s name. “Dickie?” he asked, running a hand through his hair. “What’s the kid got himself into this time?” he wondered.

Robin was attempting very hard not to sink into his seat as he realized just how uncomfortably close his team was getting to his life, what with Artemis being one of his best friends at Gotham Academy, Roy being his partner in crime at galas and dragging his little cousin “Wally” into it, and the entire team except for Zatanna knowing about Haly’s. So he sort of wanted to leave now, before they made any unwanted connections. Except if he left, then he wouldn’t be able to prevent said unwanted connections if they were made in absentia.

But at least Dick Grayson and Robin were eons apart from each other, and his team still thought that he was Robbie, even Roy. And probably the rest of the Justice League at this point. That conversation was not a fun one to have with Batman. But at least if they thought he was Robbie, then he couldn’t be Dick, or Richie, or Richard or whoever.

“Nothing,” Wally hummed. “I just haven’t seen him in. . . what, three, four years now? And I just found out he’s practically Artemis’s little brother, now. Just makes me wish I hadn’t lost contact.”

 

Roy nodded contemplatively. “Yeah, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? I haven’t seen him since I stopped going to all those galas with Oliver,” he added. (Dick knew that. It’d hurt, but he’d understood, especially in light of some of his own arguments with B. Well, Robin had. Dick wouldn’t have understood if Dick weren’t also Robin.) “We should catch up sometime.”

Artemis blinked. “You both know him, too?” she asked.

They nodded. “The tike’s like five years younger than me, but we both hated the galas Bruce and Oliver made us go to, so we sort of just . . . clicked. He was pretty cool, we’d sleep over sometimes, and I invited Wally as my cousin a couple of times. It was weird, but nice, kinda felt like–”

“Like being a big brother?” Wally suggested, and Roy nodded, then sighed in guilt.

“I feel a bit bad doing what we did to Haly’s a while back, now. If we’d shut the circus down, I don’t know what–”

Wally sent him a pitying look, but didn’t offer any comfort. He didn’t know Dick Grayson well enough now to know what he would have said, done, felt. He hated that he’d let that friendship go, forgotten about him like he hadn’t mattered.

Artemis rubbed the back of her neck. “It’s just kind of funny,” she said, picking up the drop in conversation. “I hadn’t realized how many of us knew Dick. You, me, Roy–”

“Robin,” Wally added, which caused said Boy Wonder to freeze and look up from his hologlove, a few sets of eyes darting his way.

“Robin?” Artemis questioned. She remembered asking Robin for help with her friend’s problem, and the solidarity that came with it. Had he betrayed that? Or kept it secret from her that he already knew Dick.

Robin blinked. “What?”.

“Remember,” Wally prodded. “You said you knew someone from that circus. . . gosh, who was it– Haly, you said?”

Robin swallowed, but his throat was still dry, courtesy of hacking up that glass of water from earlier. “Oh, yeah. Met him on a mission. He’s a good man,” he added.

Evidently satisfied, Artemis turned back to Wally and Roy. “You two should reconnect with him,” she said. “He deserves to have good people at his back.”

Wally nodded. “Yeah, good idea,” he said, his head cocked to the side, gaze a bit distant. Roy looked contemplative, but he was present enough to nod his agreement.

“Hadn’t realized how much I missed the kid,” he hummed, scratching at his forearm.

Zatanna looked between the four of them. “Well, that’s great and all. But what I really wanna know–” She turned to Artemis. “–is if you can set me up with him.”

Robin choked again and tried to cover it up with a cough. Zatanna looked at him oddly. “What is with you? Jealous?” she teased, though she knew that they had both gotten over each other a long time ago. But it was still fun to mess with him.

Robin scoffed. “As if,” he laughed, suddenly finding the situation a bit funny now that he figured that if the conversation was going to turn to the possibility of Robin being Dick Grayson, it would have done so a while ago. “He just doesn’t seem your type,” he shrugged, deciding to have a bit of fun with it.

“My type?” Zatanna smiled. “And what, exactly, do you think my type is?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged. “Not him.”

M’gann looked at him discriminatively. “I don’t know. There is a resemblance,” she teased with a smile, and Robin wanted to smack himself across the face. This is what he deserved for taking a break, he bemoaned to himself, but recovered quickly.

“No way. We’re two completely different people,” he huffed, crossing his arms. Because also how dare they criticize his acting skills? Especially since he’s been both Robin and Dick Grayson to these people for as long as he’s known them, not to mention Richie Wayne and Robbie Malone. And they hadn’t caught on yet? Amateurs.

Zatanna nodded vehemently. “Completely different,” she agreed, and M’gann just shrugged, not wanting to fight the matter. Artemis, on the other hand, was close enough to both Robin and Dick Grayson to remember a few times she’d recalled them acting similarly enough.

“Maybe Zee’s type is escape artists,” she laughed, remembering the time she’d been kidnapped with Dick and the numerous times she’d seen their Boy Wonder escape captivity. “You should’ve seen the way he popped his thumbs out of place to get out of a kidnapping a few months ago.”

“Perhaps he could teach you a few tricks?” Kaldur suggested with a half-smile.

Roy chuckled at his friend’s joke, something Kaldur didn’t allow himself to do all that often, but then furrowed his brow. “Kidnapping?” Roy asked. “I thought that died down after he hit his growth spurt? What is that, twenty-seven now?”

Artemis snorted. “Twenty-eight,” she corrected, “and what growth spurt?” Hey! Robin thought very offendedly in her direction, but forced himself not to say anything. “He’s even shorter than Boy Wonder over there,” she laughed, jerking a thumb in Robin’s direction.

“Hey!” he said, this time the words actually escaping him. “I’m perfectly average height; I can’t help it that you’re all giants,” he frowned and crossed his arms, a bit of Robin’s controlled Gothamite accent slipping through Robin’s normal all-american.

While Robin and the others finished arguing over Robin’s height– or more accurately, lack thereof– Roy followed Wally, who had left to grab something to eat from the kitchen. The speedster looked over at Roy. “We messed up,” he told the elder, to which the archer nodded.

“Shouldn’t have let him slip through the cracks, Oliver or not,” Roy confessed.

“But we can do better, now,” Wally promised.

“We can do better,” Roy agreed.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Gotham Legends