Chapter Text
“Well, now that the swelling’s gone down enough to let me get a scan, I can confirm it’s not broken,” Leslie says, wrapping Tim’s arm back in its brace. “The cracking sound would have suggested a broken wrist, but it’s just sprained, and mildly to boot. You’re lucky. I’d say a month is long enough to keep off of it, but you’re going to need to stay out of any of your… night activities for another two weeks past that to get your strength back.”
Tim’s expression is mutinous, but Dick nods, helping him to his feet.
“Don’t think you’ll get away with not letting me take a look at those,” Leslie barks, dragging Dick’s right hand towards her, unraveling the bandages. The hand is scabbed to hell, but already healing well and quickly- Dick can tell that much.
“I disinfected it immediately after we got to the rooftop,” he says, voice low. “We were able to Zeta back pretty quickly after that.”
Zeta tubes are the worst kept secret of the Justice League. It’s still laughably easy to hack their servers, even now- one of the reasons that they don’t generally keep anyone’s identity on said servers, most likely. In any case, it was, while complicated, achievable technology- and not that hard to maintain now that they’ve made their own tweaks, either. They don’t use them often- they’re expensive to keep battery backups for- but it’s… useful, when they end up somewhere they don’t want to be.
Leslie grips his hand in her own, investigating the scabs. The worst, unfortunately, are along his palm- Dick doesn’t think they’ll scar, but it’ll be close.
“You can stop wearing the bandages, these are sealed tightly,” she instructs. “Try to avoid using this hand for the next few days. Otherwise, flex your fingers for me?”
She instructs him on the pattern, and taps his skin to test his nerve endings. Satisfied that the glass hasn’t done any nerve damage, she allows him to remove his arm from her grasp.
“You’ll have some minimal scarring for the next few months, but as long as you take care of them, they shouldn’t be permanent,” she hums. Dick nods, pulling his hand back to his chest, poking carefully at the scabs.
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” he reassures her. “We aren’t planning to head out any time in the next few months.”
Tim’s wince is visible. Dick resists the urge to frown and acknowledge that he’d seen the expression. That’s the face of someone who’s been planning to seek out clients that they can take on with even more of a skeleton crew than they already have.
“Good,” Leslie says, with a finality to her nod. Dick rises, a perfect measure of elegance, and gently shoulder-checks Tim as he walks past, just firmly enough to barely jostle him. The meaning is clear- we need to talk later, but you’re not in trouble. Dick’s gotten very good with the specificity of those recently. Tim follows him reluctantly, wide eyes darting around the room. Dick hums, and crushes the kid to his chest in a one-armed hug.
Tim squeaks.
“So,” Dick says after a moment, “I need you to know that I’m not mad.”
“Are you sure?” Tim asks. “It was a pretty stupid thing for me to have done.”
“Not really,” Dick replies. “I still need to figure out how to get that necklace to the Justice League, for the record, but you were right to go for it- we just hadn’t planned for it to be a part of the collection. In all hindsight, everything else about the collection was probably a smokescreen for it.”
Tim’s eyes sparkle with delight at the praise. Dick isn’t done, however, and he knows his brother isn’t going to be happy with him by the end of this.
“You’re also grounded.”
“What?” Tim hisses, “I thought you said I did well!”
“You did. However, you also could have died, and you’re a child that I’m legally responsible for, Tim. I know you’ve been thinking about approaching clients. We’re not doing that until I say so. No night business.”
Tim’s eyes sparkle with mischief, and Dick sighs.
“And no Robin on the streets, either.”
“Why?” Tim squeaks. “It’s literally just a sprained wrist! Leslie already said I was fine!”
“You won’t be if you try to use a grapple with it!” calls the doctor from the other side of the Cave. Tim huffs, doing his best to cross his arms when one of them is in a brace. Dick inclines his head in her direction, and Tim grumbles, head down. There’s something else there, though, beyond the annoyance. He’s relieved and feeling guilty because of it, Dick notes, as he reshuffles his perspective on exactly what’s happening here.
“Tim,” says Dick, taking a seat and pulling his brother down with him. “I am worried about you, because you’re my brother and I love you. I need you to understand that I will always be worried about you, no matter how competent or brave you are. And when the Joker grabbed you… it scared me, kiddo. I was terrified I’d lose you.”
“So you killed him,” Tim replies, shifting so that his good arm is rested against Dick’s chest and his head is up against Dick’s shoulder.
“... Yeah. For you, and for Jason, too.”
Tim’s wide blue eyes blink up at him, and his brother presses closer.
“... I’ll stay out of the in-person stuff until I’m healed,” Tim says, voice a low whisper. “I promise.”
“I mean, that was the expectation anyways, but okay,” Dick hums, a gentle smile crossing his face. Tim huffs, and buries his face deeper into Dick’s shoulder, hiding his eyes from view. Dick hums again, the beginning of a half-remembered lullaby forming itself in his mind, and strokes his uninjured hand through Tim’s soft dark hair.
“... and you’re not going to let Steph sub in for me, are you,” Tim grumbles against Dick’s shirt. Dick snorts.
“Even if we were deciding to tell her everything, her mother would kill me, so I will refrain.”
Tim, clearly despite himself, manages a small giggle.
The thing about their alter egos is this: they have one job, and one job only. The duty of the mantle of The Bat and the subsequent titles is, first and foremost, a codename to use- something to refer to themselves by, a calling card in case their services are needed in the future, a threat against those who would do the vulnerable harm.
The second is this: it makes it easier to deal with law enforcement if they’re seen as particularly weird vigilantes. Technically speaking, Dick supposes that’s what they are, just with theft as their crime of choice rather than aggravated assault, but no matter how many times someone tries to argue, he’ll never be able to see himself as some kind of superhero.
That premise was, understandably, muddied by Bruce’s initial forays into crime-fighting (before he’d started to realize that the root of the problem was, in fact, the people who had the power and chose to exploit it). Their gallery of Rogues can attest to that much- which is why the costumes are Kevlar and packed to the brim with weapons. Even if they almost never need to use them, Bruce would never had let Gotham suffer when he could do something about it- even if it meant punching a clown instead of stealing and redistributing millions of dollars from a corrupt CEO.
Which means, every once in a while, Dick makes an appearance in black and blue, stretched above rooftops like a squirrel between branches.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, Dick watches suspiciously as a streak of red flickers through his city, eyes narrowed, fingers gripped tightly around the edge of a rooftop.
What, he wonders, is a Flash doing in his city?
It takes about two weeks until Tim cracks, and by cracks, Dick means: brings the rest of them a case with a client too vulnerable to resist helping.
In this case, the client is twelve years old.
Normally, when presenting the rest of the team with a case they can’t help but take, either Barbara or Tim will end up being at least a little smug about it, but not now- now, there’s just wide-eyed desperation and the tender tinge of worry.
“Dylan Figueroa,” Barbara says, having taken over the briefing this time. “Twelve years old, and the heir to Figure Instruments, a semiconductor manufacturing company. Think the slightly- and that's a very narrow slightly- less impressive cousin to Texas Instruments.”
As they have all bought or held a TI calculator at least once in their lives, the entire crew nods.
“Figure Instruments is entirely private, and Dylan and his younger siblings are set to inherit equal ownership of the company when they turn eighteen. This is a problem for the man that currently controls the company in their name- their legal guardian, Tyler Burgess, who has spent the four years since the death of their parents progressively making life worse for employees of Figure Instruments, cutting pay, cutting jobs, and most recently, as Dylan has managed to uncover, misuse of pension funds.”
Dick nods. Clearly, though, there must be something else- otherwise, this would be a simple, straightforward job.
“The pay and job cuts appear to be intended to make the company ‘leaner’ to be more attractive to a potential buyout. Dylan has approached us for two reasons- the first and less immediate is that the buyout he’s courting appears to be from LexCorp. The second, more immediate reason is that upon realizing Dylan has been nosing around, Burgess has attempted to have him killed.”
Ice flows into his veins, and Dick sits up immediately, eyes wide.
“We’re going to need to call Kate in on this one,” he instructs. “We need a hitter we trust around kids, and we need one fast. Is Dylan sure that Burgess is the one that tried to have him killed?”
“Positive. Poisoning attempt. Kid’s allergic to durian. One of his siblings found him and grabbed the EpiPen in time. Burgess just sat there, watching him asphyxiate.”
“Well, that’s one thing we can use to get the kids away from him,” Dick says, more to himself than anyone else in the room. “It’s on a report?”
“Burgess tried to have it scrubbed, but yeah. Dylan’s also been seeing some pretty burly guys following him home from school the last few days,” Tim offers. “It’s why he asked for an alternative location to meet with Parity, rather than trying to go for the office.”
“Smart kid,” Dick acknowledges, and then curses.
“Forgot. Kate’s flying blind right now, we won’t be able to contact her for the next week at minimum. Fuck! We’re good, but not Kansas City Shuffle with three people on a tight schedule good.”
“I’m sure we are,” Babs points out, “But good point. We know any hitters we trust?”
Dick shakes his head.
“There’s some ex-League kid who’s taken up shop in Park Row who looks promising, I guess. Cass, do you think we need another hitter or another thief?”
His sister tilts her head curiously, blinking at the screen. “Hitter,” she says after a moment. “I can be a good thief. Tim is a good thief. You are a good thief. We have three thieves, and one hitter.”
“You’re saying you need backup more often,” Dick hums with a tilt of the head, “Since Kate doesn’t work with us all that much.”
“It would be nice,” Cass agrees.
“If we’re going off of who we need based on who we don’t have, a hitter with enough social confidence to grift if we need it is probably preferable,” Babs points out, “We just need a hitter for babysitting right now. You’re right about the Crime Alley guy, though, he is promising. Contract requirements are a little loose in the no-killing department, but otherwise…”
“Rustle up some noise that we’re looking for a steel hand in a velvet glove?” Dick asks, leaning forwards slightly. “And someone a little light on the fireworks.”
He turns to the rest of the group, hand placed firmly on the table.
“You know the drill for outside contractors. No real names on the line. No real faces. Cass, this means you’re going to Wig School with me.”
“No.”
“Aww, come on! I’ve been looking forwards to teaching you how to wear them,” Dick says, not even bothering to switch his tone for Cass. She can almost always see right through him- unless he’s gone so far into a grift that he’s having trouble distinguishing things himself, in which case, she’s still better at it than he is.
“I have as well,” Alfred interrupts, the absolute picture of elegance as he floats his way into the room. “Miss Cassandra, I take it you would not object to more unnatural shades of yellow?”
Cass’s expression turns from ever so slightly uncomfortable at the thought of spending hours trying to tell the difference between different cuts of hair to absolute delight at the idea of wearing some silly, over the top shade of yellow on a con. Dick is delighted, too. He loves the electric colors as well- mostly for the fact that they really draw attention all the way away from his face.
He has some ideas cooking in his head. They shouldn’t take too long to execute.
Two days later, Dick has his contacts in and a domino stretching across his face, a hood lazily thrown over his head and a bulletproof vest on underneath his sweatshirt. It’s Park Row. He’s not going in under-prepared.
Gotham is cold and damp, even in the heights of summer. The commitment to the gloomy bit regardless of the climate of the rest of the state is a feat Dick has still never truly been able to understand.
Behind him, on the other side of the roof, there is a heavy thump.
“Heard you were in the market for a hitter,” a smooth, mechanically altered voice rumbles. Dick turns, and cocks his head to the side. The young man is tall and broad, but there’s enough uncertainty in his voice that he mentally revises his opinion of his age- probably around twenty or so, no older. Dick straightens, hands in front and obviously not hiding anything, as he finally clicks into the mentor role.
“We might be,” he acknowledges. “I heard you were good with kids.”
The half-step back is confusion, plain and simple. The man in the red helmet cocks his head to the side.
“Heard you were the one who killed the Joker, Big Bird.”
Dick nods sharply. He’s not going to pretend he wasn’t responsible, even if the feeling of another person’s blood on his hands, as slick as oil, still makes him feel sick.
“He’d already killed one of mine and was ready to do it again. We back each other up, on my crew.”
“Not on the Bat’s, huh?” the man in the red helmet growls, stalking around Dick in a wide circle, as if penning him in. Dick resists the urge to turn around and follow him with his eyes- it’ll lose him control of the situation if he answers to that movement. Dick tips his head to the side, another half-acknowledgement. The man in the red helmet turns on a dime, knife sliding out of a sheath along his calf. The point of the blade rests against Dick’s ear.
“Don’t try any permanent damage, it makes it rather difficult to do my job,” Dick says blandly. “And put it away, regardless, we both know you’re not going to do anything.”
The instinctive swap from mentor to chastising older sibling is… a surprise, to say the least, but one that clearly works enough to make the man in the red helmet hesitate.
The man in the red helmet regards him suspiciously.
“What’s the job?”
“Client has had at least one attempt on their life in the past month. You would be providing eyes, backup. No killing required, not unless the mark’s an idiot and jumps the gun.”
The man in the red helmet slumps against the opposite wall, caution tinging his mechanical voice.
“The helmet stays on.”
“I have no problem with that,” Dick agrees, “We’ll be wearing our own masks.”
The man in the red helmet leans forwards, as if trying to study Dick in return.
“Why me?”
“You have a good reputation, when it comes to children,” Dick says with a shrug, “And you answered the ad.”
There’s an amused sort from the kid. The red helmet flashes in the low light of the surrounding billboards as he tosses a burner phone in Dick’s direction.
“I expect twenty percent of the cut,” he says. “I’ll be in touch.”
Dick makes a considering noise.
It’s not that much of a leap to discern that the current Parity team has four people (not counting Alfred, who often refuses to be involved- at least one of them needs to be mostly in the clear in case the truth serum comes a-calling). Nightwing is a rather infamous grifter- not quite to the heights of the iconic cons of Sophie Devereaux, but known and respected regardless. Robin, though an inherited title, is always an athletic, clever, sticky-fingered thief. Orphan (though she goes by Batgirl, gifted from Barbara, nowadays) is more than well respected- few people remember David Cain, but the One Who Is All? People remember her. Even if they don’t get the specific details right.
Oracle, though? Oracle, who’s only known as a shadow in the recesses of a security camera’s lens, who is so reclusive that she’s more story than a well-known hacker in truth?
… Then again, guessing that there’s a talented hacker on their staff isn’t particularly difficult. Maybe he’s giving the man in the red helmet too much credit.
“Fair enough,” Dick agrees, “Twenty percent of any profit made.”
The man in the red helmet peers at him suspiciously.
“What do you want me to call you?” he asks. “As shorthand. Can’t exactly go around on a call talking to ‘Nightwing’.”
“You’ll adjust. Night will be fine. People will assume you’re talking to someone with ‘Knight’ as a last name. We have designated codenames for the rest of the team. You’d like to go by…”
“Well, Red Hood was an attempt to piss the Joker off enough to leave him careless enough to get killed- you kind of chucked that plan in the dirt,” the kid hums. “But I’ll still answer to it regardless.”
Dick relaxes, just a fraction, but not enough to make it obvious to anyone watching. Given his pattern of behavior, he hadn’t really considered that the man in the red helmet- the Red Hood- was a Joker fanboy, but he hadn’t really wanted to rule it out, just in case. The knowledge that it was an attempt to work the man up does wonders for his nerves.
“Well then, Red,” he says, “I look forward to working with you.”
There’s a mechanized snort.
“Right back atcha, Big Bird.”
The real kicker about Dylan Figueroa is this: he's a good kid. A kind kid.
Dick’s not used to people in the eleven-to-fourteen age range being anything other than tiny, intensely frustrating monsters. Present company is not excluded- while Tim is sweet, he’s certainly tiny, and he’s definitely mind-bogglingly frustrating at times, even if Dick always thinks of that frustration in a deeply fond manner, and Jason had been-
Dick’s train of thought screeches to a halt.
Anyways: Dylan Figueroa. Incredibly bright, incredibly sweet, and incredibly worried about what will happen to his younger siblings if anything happens to him.
He is also incredibly familiar with the secret passageways in his old, well-maintained 19th century home. Dick’s reminded fiercely of Wayne Manor as he watches a mirror swing open to reveal a wide-open passageway. Dylan pulls out the bookshelf in his own room, and Dick nearly jumps at the broad figure wreathed in shadow beyond it before his eyes register the flash of red. Dylan doesn’t have the same reprieve, freezing like a deer in headlights, eyes wide and terrified. Dick takes a step forwards and shoves Red Hood with one hand, eyes narrowed.
“You’re going to give the kid a heart attack!” he hisses. “That’s one way to get out of doing your job, but still! Dylan, honey, this is the Red Hood, he’s here to protect you.”
Dylan nods, eyes wide.
“Do you want to learn how to clean a handgun?” Red Hood offers, taking one of his guns out. Dick resists the urge to coo when Dylan latches himself to his side like a limpet.
“You’re scaring him,” Dick chides.
“Well forgive me, Big Bird, but I don’t exactly have any idea of how to bond with a twelve year old,” Red Hood snarks.
“Ask him about his interests. Like a normal person. Don’t just trample all over him with your own!”
Dylan giggles. Dick peers down at him, silently asking a question with a cocked head and furrowed brows.
“I’m glad that adult brothers argue too,” he explains. “I was worried I’d lose that. With them.”
By them, Dylan likely means his two younger brothers, ages eight and ten, and his younger sister, also age ten. Dick latches on to the first part of the sentence, however.
“We’re not brothers,” he explains. He’s surprised, then, to see Red Hood jolt, taking a step back like he’s been struck, before very obviously composing himself enough to speak again.
“He’s right,” Red Hood says. “Hadn’t met me before we started working together recently. He’s just like that.”
Even through the mechanical alteration, something painful manages to make its way into Red Hood’s voice. Dick hums thoughtfully.
‘Did I know you?’ he wonders to himself. ‘In some other life, years ago, did I know you?’
He wants to say something, to ask, but Red Hood has pulled him in past the bookshelf and slammed it shut. Dick is about to ask why, in the low light creeping under the shelf, before he hears what Red Hood must have heard.
Footsteps. Heavy ones.
“Hi, Tyler,” Dylan says, voice soft and frightened. Dick wants nothing more than to reach out for him and pull him back into the safety of the darkness with them.
“Dylan!” Burgess replies. “Did you see the books I got you while you were in the hospital?”
“I did,” Dylan says, “Thanks for getting them for me! I haven’t had the time to read them yet, but I’ll check them out!”
He’s cheery and bright, but the sound is so obviously fake that it brings Dick’s heart into his chest. He needs to teach this child how to grift. Badly.
The footsteps fade away, back down the hall, and Dick hears the old front doors creak open and slam shut. He and Red Hood don’t move until he hears Burgess’s car roaring away.
The bookshelf creaks open. Dylan stands, trembling softly.
“Don’t worry, kid,” Red Hood offers. “I can get out there in two seconds flat. You don’t have to worry about him. I’ll follow you home, too.”
Dylan nods, collapsing back down on his bed.
“Thank you,” he whispers, to frightened to try for anything louder. Dick winces in sympathy.
“Don’t worry, kid,” he says. “We’ve already got a plan.”
Cass slinks down into the server room, highlighter-yellow wig more of a mask than even the makeup that covers her face. She doesn’t like it, that much is certain, but she’ll tolerate it, if it means a more efficient use of her time.
She flashes a carefully-crafted badge with a smile as she slinks into the main lobby. She ignores any more uncomfortable looks shot her way and the way the heels make her feet ache, then slips into a supply closet and reaches her way up into the vent.
“They’re looking the other way,” Barbara hums in her ear, gentle as ever. “Coast is clear for you.”
Cass pulls the yellow wig off in the vent, and slips down into Burgess’s office. Carefully, she inserts a flash drive.
She pulls herself back up into the vent, retrieves her disguise, and continues onwards. She takes a long, careful sweep about the Research and Design department, a bright smile faking its way across her face. This makes her deeply uncomfortable- she’s not Dick. This doesn’t come naturally to her, not like fighting does. For one blissful moment, she considers shattering the exterior window, jumping out, amd firing her grapple into the wild mess of city far beyond. And then, like a magnet has crossed under the metal in her boots, she’s brought violently back down to earth.
She needs to see this through.
As if by mistake, she stumbles at the edge of the lobby, catching a security guard’s attention just enough, like Dick has taught her. He’ll remember the yellow of her hair, at least.
“You did so well, Cass,” Dick hums in her ear. “I know it made you uncomfortable, but you pushed through, and I’m so proud of you.”
Outside on the street, Cass’s shoulders hike up. Dick is free and open with praise for her and Tim, but it still feels odd. “Thank you,” she manages as she hides her wig in her bag. There’s a soft noise of encouragement on the other end of the line, something distinctively warm and gentle.
She slips into the hustle and bustle of the city, quiet as a mouse and careful as a cat. If Burgess’s people have been watching her, they won’t find her again.
Contrary to the beliefs of his college professors, most of his fraternity, and the dear, sorely missed friends he’d built this company with, Tyler Burgess is not an idiot. He may not be as tech-savvy as Daniel and Vanessa had been, but he’s got the business acumen they’d never managed. This means that Tyler knows when shit is going down in his company. His assistant- a jumpy little man (he’s taller than Tyler, but like hell is Tyler going to acknowledge that) just as worthless as the last one- is the one who brings the issue to his attention, nervously showing in a big, burly man from their security department.
Suspicion wiggles in the back of his mind as he notes that this woman- and who dyes their hair yellow, really- is most certainly not on the list of approved building visitors.
There are many, many people who want insider access to Figure Instruments, but Tyler only has eyes for one potential offender. He pulls open the employee registry for the nearest LexCorp subsidiary- one of their security companies, they hire people in-house- and scrolls down the personnel list. If she’s listed anywhere, it’s going to be there.
With a sharp, barking laugh, he takes note of a woman halfway down the page, offset to the side as if she’s been hiding from him. The black and lemon-yellow of her hair falls in waves around her face.
“That’s her, alright,” his head of security says. Tyler nods. The phone on his desk rings. Tyler picks it up, not even bothering to check the caller ID, smug smile stretching across his face.
“Tyler Burgess speaking.”
“Ah, Mr. Burgess. Mr. Devlin will not be able to make your eleven o’clock meeting tomorrow, as he is otherwise indisposed.”
Tyler grins, wild-eyed. "Ah, you all can’t get out of it that easy! Who’s available?”
“Mr. Wright will be available,” the young woman on the other end of the line says smoothly. What was her name, again? Tyler can’t remember.
“Alright! Get me a meeting with this ‘Mr. Wright’- same place, but make it nine o’clock. Let him sweat a little.”
He ends the call with a poke to his screen that is many degrees less satisfying than slamming a flip phone closed or jamming a landline back into its rightful resting place. He spins in his chair, folding his hands together and pointing then in the direction of his assistant.
“You. You’re taking notes for me tomorrow, in the meeting.”
His assistant nods sharply, though jerkily. Tyler grins.
Yeah. Tyler Burgess isn’t as stupid as everybody once thought he was. See if Lex Luthor is able to pull the wool over his eyes- even through several layers of underlings- now. He may not be the founder, may not be some ridiculous computer genius, but he’s a hard, sharp man.
His eyes flicker to the photo of himself, Daniel, and Vanessa on the desk.
Not like them. Not soft and trusting like they'd been.
However, if they hadn’t been… they might not have left him with their children. They would have been whisked away by some far-off family- maybe that uncle of theirs, the one that keeps threatening to sue, the one that turned eighteen barely six months after their deaths over four years ago now.
Honestly, Tyler’s damn lucky that the brakes failed when they did. Everything else would have been much more obvious.
“We need a new plan of attack. Timeline’s moved up,” Dick says as he arrives at one of their Parity safehouses. He’s still deeply uncomfortable that someone completely new now knows one of their more well trafficked safehouses, but they have dozens they can rely on if need be.
“Are you sure you can’t pull it off?” Barbara asks, leaning forwards. Dick shakes his head.
“I was already cutting it close. I can create the illusion of being in two places at once, but it’s not physically possible for me to actually be there,” Dick points out, “Even Sophie Devereaux isn’t that good.”
“Wasn’t,” Cass points out- Devereaux hasn’t been active, at least not under that name, in years. Dick can feel that Tim is itching to say something on comms, but he’s already uncomfortable enough letting Red Hood into their safehouses- he’s not allowing a newcomer access to his thirteen, almost fourteen year old brother, no matter how nice or good with kids or otherwise well-mannered the hitter has been.
“We need a guy,” Babs hums, “I don’t think Batgirl or I are good enough at crossdressing- not nearly as good as you are, at least. Robin’s too young and is injured besides. Maybe Batwing?”
“Too short notice. He’s out of the country.”
“Hm. Good point. Ghost-Maker?”
“If we try telling Ghost-Maker that The Bat is out of commission, we’re dealing with Ghost-Maker for the next six months. I don’t want to try to imagine the headache that would cause for all of us- not to mention the fact that we will literally never hear the end of it.”
“Think Azrael could-”
“Did you seriously, legitimately just suggest Azrael?”
“Everyone,” Red Hood says with a mechanical cough so loud it reverberates through the room. “I think you’re missing the obvious.”
Dick turns to the man, allowing the surprise to flash across his face. Red Hood, dramatic as ever, checks to make sure the entire room is watching, and then hooks his gloved fingers under his chin. The helmet releases with a click and a faint hiss, though from what, Dick isn’t sure.
“I can play Mister Wright,” says Jason Peter Todd-Wayne, wide grin crooked and easy across a face Dick has spent the last three years thinking he’d never see again.
Talia hadn’t told them.
To be fair, Jason hadn’t exactly been expecting her to- honor among thieves, of course, although Talia could never be a thief. An enigmatic shadow on the edges of the night, perhaps, but never a parasite feeding off of the wealthy, and not the laser-focused predator of the cruel who believe themselves above consequence by the magnitude of wealth they have acquired over the years. Then again, he’s been split from Talia’s training for over six months ago now, curling ever-closer to Gotham as he’s lain in wait to begin his plan.
That is, of course, until the man sitting across the room from him now had gone in and upended everything .
Jason wants to pretend to revel in what his plans had been, but even now, looking at Dick and remembering that the fucking clown is dead, all he can feel is relief.
There’s a moment- one shining, glorious moment- where something raw and cracked-open flashes across Dick’s face, like he’s watching a miracle on Earth and can’t bring himself to look away. There’s something about that expression that makes Jason want to fall apart and crack, too- the knowledge that he was deeply and dearly missed. But as soon as he spots the emotion on Dick’s face, it’s gone, closed more firmly than a vault door. Jason knows how to read his brother- three years of working side-by-side will do that for you. This, though? The soft joy that crosses Dick’s face right now? Jason doesn’t know this.
Dick Grayson is a man whose emotions could knock a grown adult off their feet with their force. This is soft and gentle and patently wrong, like-
Like it’s made to keep him happy. To keep Jason calm.
‘Something happened to you,’ Jason thinks, not able to stop the concern that flickers across his face. ‘Something bad. Since when do you pull that face around family?’
He keeps a handle on it. They can talk about this later. They need to be professional right now.
“... We need to keep an eye on Dylan, though,” a voice chirps over the comms, just as shaky and hesitant as everybody else. This must be the new Robin- Tim, Jason thinks his name is. Jason pushes back the hissing, angry side of him that screams about replacements and, instead, focuses on this: the kid sounds young. Concerningly so.
“The meeting’s at nine in the morning on a Monday right after school’s let out for the summer, Tim-Tam. Kid’s not expected to be awake until noon. We can just kidnap him for the night if we need,” Jason offers. The nickname, strikingly, sounds delightful as he says it. Is this why Dick had so many for him?
The comms, predictably, go silent. No cameras in the room, then- at least none that the kid can watch.
“... That could work,” Barbara finally offers, as if Robin has broken her out of a stupor. The new Batgirl, who apparently will also answer to Orphan, nods fiercely.
“Honestly, we could just have you and Cass swap places,” Dick points out. There’s a sharp hiss as both Batgirl- Cass- and Barbara turn to him.
“He called Robin Tim-Tam, he obviously remembers our names and did research to boot,” Dick points out after a moment of uninterrupted staring. This seems to be an acceptable response.
“Alright, new plan. Cass, you’re on babysitter duty. Re- uh, Jason, you’re going to be Mister Wright, which means you’re taking point. Dick, I’m going to need you to take these flash drives…”
Burgess, as expected, is an absolute sleaze.
Jason has learned how to deal with various types of corporate stooges over the years, and while it gets easier, it never gets more pleasant. It’s one of the reasons he’s glad he’s become a hitter- most of the time, the sucking up part of a con is the grifter’s job, instead. Jason would vastly prefer leaving Dick to deal with this particular corporate weasel on his own, but the con’s not possible with just the one grifter, and he’s the least recognizable of the bunch.
The white stripe absolutely refuses to be dyed, which means that Jason’s stuck sporting a realistic-looking but distinctively uncomfortable bald cap, dark auburn waves curling around his head. At the very least, it’s a beautifully maintained wig- Alfred refuses to let even one part of any of his or Bruce’s old stage costumes go to waste.
“I’m afraid we’ve come across some rather concerning information,” Jason purrs in a thick, practiced Southern drawl, leaning across the glass table. “LexCorp is not interested in continuing with the existing negotiations.”
“Oh, you think you can use that tactic to drop the price? Come up with problems with my company and pretend that you aren’t willing to pay the price we agreed upon? Oldest negotiating tactic in the book! That shit won’t work on me!”
“That doesn’t matter,” Jason continues, a sharp-edged smirk playing across the edges of his face. “And besides, if what I’m hearing is correct, it’s not really your company, now is it?”
“Oh, you little brat,” Burgess hisses. “It’s my company in all the ways that matter. The kids are inconsequential. Six years until they’re old enough to make any noise about it, and I know how to shut each and every one of them up. What the hell do you have that’s making you so damn cocky? ”
“Be that as it may,” Jason hums. “We’re going to need some guarantees.”
There’s some noises of protest, and Burgess stalks out of the room in disgust. Jason hums, and checks the transmitter under the desk, still merrily beeping away.
Tyler stalks to his computer, and pauses for a moment. His eyes widen with concern as he spots the rectangle hanging off of the end of his monitor.
“No, no, no, no, no,” he hisses, and reaches for his phone with the hand that’s not holding the flash drive. The number he dials is familiar enough for muscle memory.
“I need to speak to Agent Whittaker,” he says, “It’s urgent. I need him to get people down here and into my office immediately. I need to report corporate espionage.”
He looks through the drive with eagle-sharp eyes- he’s not sure what kind of idiot private investigator would leave this in, but it’s certainly extensive reports. On his way out of his office, he bumps into his assistant- worthless idiot, always too clumsy for his own good. The young man apologizes, scurrying away like an upset mouse. Tyler curses.
It takes about fifteen minutes, all told, for Whittaker’s men to arrive. He’d been with him, in his fraternity- he still trusts Michael with most of his admittedly shriveled heart.
“What did you want to show me, Burgess?” says the head agent- not Whittaker, this time, he must have sent someone else. Tyler hurries them into his favorite conference room, plugging in the flash drive and tapping harshly on the side of the projector.
What he sees next makes his blood run cold.
Instead of evidence of Lexcorp’s meddling, on the screen, there is a video. Against the darkness of the conference room, the scene it paints- of Tyler standing impassive and uncaring over a wheezing, desperate child- is something unmistakable.
He reaches for the flash drive again, desperate to turn it off. The hand of one of the agents stops him.
“I think I’ll be taking this,” she says, dark eyes narrowed in his direction as one of her underlings looks through the flash drive. Tyler swallows and turns away, unwilling to look at how much the little stick of plastic has betrayed him.
There’s a commotion in the hallway, and Tyler’s eyes snap up, finding Devlin struggling against the agents near the door to his office. “Your secretary said you were unavailable today,” Tyler says, voice smooth.
“So did yours! Nobody’s been able to contact you for a week!”
Tyler frowns, and casts his eyes around, not finding his usually ever-present assistant. Come to think of it… had he ever even gotten the man’s name?
As he makes his way out of the building, escorted by dozens of blue-jacketed FBI personnel, all with the same razor-focus look to their eyes, Tyler can’t help but cast his own eyes around.
Off in the distance, he finds Mr. Wright, chatting idly with the lemon-haired LexCorp woman he’d been so pleased with himself for locating.
Had he been a more observant man, perhaps he would have noticed a fiery-haired woman in a wheelchair playing chess with a small, dark-haired boy with a brace on his arm. Instead, Tyler’s eyes are drawn to the wide, sharp-toothed smile of his nameless assistant as he laughs at one of Mr. Wright’s jokes.
His scream of rage is loud enough to startle the pigeons.
“It’s good to see you settling in, Dylan,” Dick hums. “Does your uncle treat you well?”
“Donny is funny,” Dylan chirps back. “And he doesn’t try to get me to eat durian. I think anything’s an improvement over a guardian who actively tries to kill you.”
Dick snorts.
“I guess that’s true,” he admits. “You know how to contact us again if you need it?”
Dylan nods rapidly.
“How do I go about paying you?” he asks, cocking his head to the side after a moment. Dick grins.
“You won’t have to worry about that. We work on an… alternative revenue stream.”
There’s a creak of footsteps from the hallway. Dick falls backwards out the window, swinging off into the night. Don Figueroa steps into his nephew’s room.
The curtains are blowing in the wind.
The window is open.
Don reaches out to shut it, smiling gently at Dylan as he does so.
“It’s a nice night out, no?” he asks. “Want to see if your siblings want to watch fireflies?”
Dylan, now relieved of one of the largest weights to ever rest on his back in his twelve short years of life, flashes his uncle a gap-toothed smile and nods vigorously.