Chapter Text
“Should we-?”
“Keep that cryo-gun ready, Damian,” Tim orders, slowly approaching the expressionless, bloody figure sitting on the floor.
“Hey,” Tim says. “Dick. Gray Son. It's Tim. I’m just gonna sit here, okay?”
But Dick doesn't look at him. Tim can't even tell if he's breathing. (Though that’s not something he does much anymore, is it?)
“What did you say happened again, Jay?”
Jason raises an unamused eyebrow. “He broke out of the cell and stabbed Court Master What’s-Her-Face in the eye. And then tried to kill himself.”
“And he's been like this ever since?”
Jason shrugs. “More or less.”
“Gray Son,” Tim repeats, hating that he even has to use the name. “Can you hear me?”
Dick stares straight ahead. If he heard, he makes no attempt to broadcast this.
“Damian?” Tim calls. “You ready?”
“Just do it,” Damian replies.
Slowly, hesitantly, Tim taps Dick’s hand. He’s prepared to spring backwards and roll out of the way so Damian can use the freeze gun, but Dick doesn’t respond.
Undeterred, Tim prods Dick’s shoulder. “Hey. Gray Son. Dick. Look at me.”
Nothing.
“Okay, maybe…” Tim hates to suggest it - hates to think that it’s even a possibility - but he can’t rule anything out. “Does someone else want to try? Maybe he’ll respond to one of us.”
So they try, passing off the cryo-gun as they take turns trying to get Dick’s attention. It isn’t until Cass that he stands up, and even then, Tim is pretty sure he only did it because Cass dragged him onto his feet.
“You should get some rest,” she offers, slowly guiding him by the hand up the stairs. Tim isn’t sure where she’s taking him, exactly.
“Um, maybe we shouldn’t take him to the Manor?” Tim suggests, and Cass hesitates. Dick stops dead in his tracks, eyes still out-of-focus and unseeing.
Bruce rubs his face wearily. “As long as we keep something up there to… calm him down, I don’t see why not. It might help to see his old bedroom?”
Right. They hadn’t touched Dick’s bedroom since he died. Alfred kept it pristine while he was still alive, dusting every day like he expected Dick to waltz through the door any minute. After that, it was retired. The room went untouched. No one ever went in. It was an unspoken agreement that the bedroom would never be used again. Not under any circumstances. (Though Tim will admit, he thinks it’s because Bruce never stopped looking for Dick. He was holding out hope that he’d find the rightful occupant eventually. And… he was right to, Tim supposes.)
“Come on,” Cass coos, taking Dick’s hand again. He follows her blindly, looking, for the first time since he's returned, just as much like a zombie as he truly is. Is it possible that some aspect of the Court’s control (beyond the Electrum, of course) was keeping him alive? Is he slowly going to break down into a corpse again?
Tim does his best to banish the thought. He’s relatively unsuccessful.
Cass and Tim escort Dick upstairs, while the rest are left to sort out the dead body in the Cave. Barbara doesn't know about it yet, and they don't intend on telling her until it's out of Bruce Wayne’s basement.
As soon as they pass through the grandfather clock, there's a barking and a skittering of nails against the hardwood.
Foolishly, in his heart of hearts, Tim had hoped that the dog jumping on Dick’s legs and scratching his Court-issued boots would finally snap him out of this. Damian had recounted an incident where Haley was pawing at the containment cell, and Dick had spoken softly to her, idly stroking a finger down the glass as if to pet her. And Tim had just thought… well… his ego could take the hit if Dick woke up for the dog and not him.
But it was a silly thing to hope for. Dick just keeps moving, gaze unfocused and stricken. No matter how much Haley yips or nips or bows, tail wagging with the kind of hopeful optimism that only something as pure as a dog can have, Dick doesn't react. He just steps, steps, steps. He trips over her once, and as if sucked of all life, grace, and awareness, he collapses like a rag doll. Haley whimpers and scampers over to lick his face in apology. He doesn't react to that either.
“Easy,” Cass says quietly, taking him under the arm. Tim takes him on the other side, one hand still holding the cryo-gun, and together, they lift him back to his feet. “You okay?”
Dick doesn't reply. (How shocking, Tim thinks dryly.) He just keeps moving forward. They scale the steps with little trouble, Haley following behind Tim with her tail between her legs.
Dick’s bedroom is just as Tim expected: dusty and lined with cobwebs. The bedding is going to need to be changed, and a vacuuming couldn't hurt. Even so, it's familiar, with a few of the mementos Dick kept here during his childhood: the Flying Graysons poster, a second place medal from high school track (second place per Bruce’s request; can't look too physically talented or people might start asking questions), his old stuffed elephant from his circus years. Tim remembers going in here whenever Dick would come by to visit, griping about something Bruce said or talking excitedly about a new gadget he was working on or asking for advice about a cute kid at school. It's familiar. Safe. He wonders if Dick feels the same right now.
“We should get you cleaned up,” Cass suggests. “New clothes, maybe.”
And she's right. He's been in that Talon uniform for god only knows how long, and his face is covered in Rifkin’s blood. The only reason they hadn't offered him clothes earlier was because he threatened to kill them every time they spoke to him.
But as expected, Dick doesn't confirm or deny any ability to clean himself.
“If you swap the bedding,” Tim offers, “I’ll take care of him.”
Cass nods, and very cautiously, Tim takes him by the arm, guiding him to the bathroom.
“Okay, can you…?” Tim gestures to the shower.
Dick stares ahead blankly.
“Yeah, no, guess not,” Tim sighs. He shuts the door behind him and starts searching for some kind of zipper or snap on the Talon suit. It's so tight that there must be something.
But there isn't. Almost like it's just another layer of skin. He's going to have to cut it off. Which is just great. He grabs the first aid kit from the closet and pulls out the trauma shears.
“Okay, Dick- Gray Son. I’m going to use these scissors to cut your suit,” Tim explains clearly, holding them out for Dick to see.
But Dick’s eyes don't even track the object, still staring out at the distance.
“Ohh boy,” Tim murmurs. With one hand on Dick’s shoulder, he gently pushes him down to sit on the edge of the tub. Then he slowly (slowly) brings the scissors closer until he's got them pressed against Dick’s wrist. “Still okay?”
Dick doesn't answer. Tim is pretty sure he hasn't been okay for a very long time, but he carries on anyway.
At the agonizing pace of a bloated slug in a tar pit, Tim cuts through the suit, revealing starkly pale skin mapped with black veins and mottled with a concerning assortment of scars, jagged and intersecting and telling of a rather tragic existence. Very few of these look like the scars Dick had when he disappeared. Tim was under the impression that Talons healed completely when they regenerated, but perhaps even with Electrum, scar tissue grows in place of original skin.
Dick is incredibly compliant with everything Tim does, eyes never quite moving from that random point in the distance. It's concerning, but Tim tries not to read too far into it. He's been through a lot. It would be abnormal if he didn't show some sign of stress.
Cass knocks on the door just as Tim has finished wrestling the boots off Dick’s feet. (Kind of like a toddler, honestly. Not uncooperative but not helpful either.)
“Dick?” she calls from outside.
“One minute,” Tim replies. Then he takes Dick under the arm and helps him stand again. He starts the water and nudges Dick into the shower.
“You’ve got it from here, right?” Tim asks him. He doesn't know why he bothers.
Tim dries his hands off on a towel and opens the door a crack, slipping out and leaving it ajar, just in case Dick decides to pass out or something.
“Here,” Cass says, offering a small pile of clothes to Tim.
“He still has clothes here?” Tim wonders, taking the stack.
Cass nods. “He’d visit sometimes. Before.” She gestures to the bathroom. “How is he?”
“The same.” Tim runs a hand through his hair and releases a slow breath. “He won't answer me or even look at me. And he's… he's got way more scars than before.”
“Hm. I’ll let Bruce know.” She nods at the bathroom door. “His room is ready for him.”
“Great, thanks, Cassie. I’m gonna go now. Make sure he hasn't drowned.”
Sneaking back inside, Tim calls out. “Dick? Gray Son? You okay?”
Dick doesn't reply. (Again, what a shock.)
Tim knocks on the wall of the shower so Dick can see him if he can't hear. “Dick, you good, man?”
Taking a quick glance, Tim realizes what the issue is.
“You can't just stand in the water, dude. You gotta use soap.” Tim reaches over to grab a bar, soaking his sleeve in the process. Then he holds it out to Dick. “C’mon. Take it. Please. Trust me; neither of us want me to help you shower.”
There's no response, and Tim is seriously considering his life choices and what led him to this moment when a cold, gray hand takes the soap from him.
“Thank god,” Tim mutters.
The next few minutes pass in silence, with Dick finally, finally using soap and Tim standing guard, the cryo-gun nearly forgotten on the bathroom vanity.
There’s a shred of hope in Tim’s chest when Dick steps out of the shower of his own volition, clean of the blood, sweat, and dirt of the last… well, long time, probably. He takes the clothes silently and puts them on himself, no guiding necessary. He still won’t look at Tim - not unless Tim steps directly into his line of sight, of course - but that will resolve in time, he’s sure.
Dick holds up the t-shirt he was offered, squints, stretches his wings as far as he can in the confined space, and then hands the shirt back to Tim. Which is fair, he supposes, because there’s really no hope of getting a shirt over his wings.
“Cass got your room ready,” Tim explains. “If you want to go see it?”
But whatever cognizance Dick has regained for tasks has not translated to conversation. Tim guides him back to his room and to bed, trying not to worry about that.
“Look familiar?” Tim asks gently. He throws a blanket over his brother. He doesn't know if Talons like blankets, what with their body temperature being basically that of a corpse, but he figures that, at the very least, it might provide some emotional comfort.
“Rest, Dick. You’ve been through a lot today.”
… a lot for the last decade, really.
Dick continues to stare, almost like he can’t close his eyes. And then Tim spots the wetness under his eyes. He spends a long second debating if he should do something about it before Dick turns away from him and curls in on himself, one wing coming up to hide him from the world.
Yeah. Tim should leave him alone for a bit. He turns the lights off and pulls the door shut, trying to ignore the hitched breath behind him.
(He ignores it fine. It’s forgetting it that’s the problem.)
---
The Gray Son deserves to die. It failed the Court, and as such, death is the only acceptable punishment. Unfortunately, the Court is gone, so now it can’t even be disciplined properly. Instead, enemies of the Court have captured it and given it a shower. A bed.
It’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong. Surely they realize how they’re torturing the Gray Son this way? By denying it the only punishment that would bring it peace? By rewarding it for its complete and utter betrayal?
They must know. And they love it. They’re nothing but smiles and soft voices and gentle touches around the Gray Son. Even the Dog’s affection is starting to feel malicious.
And yes, these aren’t just enemies of the Court. They’re also… important. The Talon can’t explain exactly why. It remembers something about them. Fights and anger but also contentment and affection. It’s a very strange way to feel about sworn enemies, but that’s the best way to describe it.
So, put mildly, the Gray Son is completely lost, its identity, its faith, its purpose twisted and severed. It writhes in its skin like a beetle on its back, desperately scratching the air for relief. Once willing to do anything to feel warm, it suddenly detests the heat. Detests anything touching it, anything near it.
So after Timothy Drake closes the door to let the Gray Son rest, the Talon kicks the blankets off. Rolls onto its feet. Paces, paces, paces. Chokes on a sob. Crashes through the window and flies anywhere but here.
The wind is cold, cutting through the boiling fluff in the Gray Son’s mind. It doesn’t provide clarity so much as it does a physical relief: a tangible reassurance that the cold still exists. There’s still a chance for the Talon to receive justice.
The flight is fast. So brief that it feels the Gray Son simply fell asleep mid-flight and woke up at its destination. Either way, it’s all too easy to soar through a window of the GCPD Headquarters, glass shattering in its wake. It doesn’t waste time, soaring through the building searching for the holding cells.
But the Gray Son finds it quickly. It’s an expert at tracking, after all.
“Hey, what the hell’re-?”
The Gray Son knocks both guards out with a single sweep of its wings and rushes up to the barred cell.
“Talon!” the Orator says, voice colored in shock. “What are you doing here?”
“I failed the Court,” it explains. “I am here to make things right.”
The Orator’s lips curl, looking at the Gray Son as if for the first time. “Free us, Talon, and all is forgiven.”
The Gray Son’s heart leaps in its chest. Such a simple request with such an immeasurable reward! It already has its hands on the padlock, about to tear the bolt from the shackle when there are footsteps from behind.
“Freeze! Step away from the cell with both of your hands up!”
“Talon,” the Orator whispers. “Kill them first.”
Unease ripples the Gray Son’s muscles. It knows what will happen if it doesn’t obey. “Yes, Master.”
The Talon spins, already in motion to kill the officers when it spots the woman leading the charge.
Green eyes… red hair… freckles… glasses… safe… home… familiar-
It hesitates, loyalty to the Court warring with some unnamed emotion linked with this woman twirling through its brain like confetti in a tornado. That hesitation is enough.
One of the officers beside Barbara Gordon fires his gun, and the bullet tears through the Gray Son’s shoulder. It regards this dully, more inconvenienced than anything else.
“What are you doing, Talon??” the Orator shrieks.
Without thinking, the Gray Son tenses, expecting a shock. A fist. A cane. Something.
It never comes.
“Stand down,” Barbara Gordon orders, cautiously approaching the Gray Son.
“Kill her, Talon!!” the Orator demands, voice edging on hysterical.
And still, there is no whip. No cold. Nothing. Why isn’t it being punished for disobeying?
“Dick,” Barbara Gordon says, hands up in peace. “Step away from the cell. I’m going to help you, but you can’t listen to what she says.”
Normally, the Gray Son wouldn’t consider this offer for even a moment. It is loyal to the Court of Owls. But coming from Barbara Gordon, the suggestion is far more tempting. It’s almost not even a consideration. The Gray Son isn’t sure why.
The Gray Son slowly walks away from the cage, ignoring the increasingly furious, increasingly desperate cries of the Orator.
“There you go,” Barbara Gordon encourages softly, leading it out of the containment wing altogether. “It’s okay, Dick.” She brings it to an office and tells it to sit.
It does not.
Then Barbara Gordon says something. “Bruce, I’ve got your runaway bird at the station. I’ll bring him back. Just stay put.”
“... why?” the Gray Son asks.
Barbara Gordon purses her lips and looks at the Gray Son like it's a kicked puppy or a crying child. It has her whole and complete attention. It feels… nice.
“What do you mean?”
The Talon shifts from foot to foot, wings twitching and fluttering before folding against its back. “Why did I disobey the Court when you asked? Or when Jason Todd was in danger?”
“Oh.” Barbara Gordon looks so very tired, but her expression turns hopeful. “You know us, Dick. We’re your family.”
“I have no family.” The response is immediate. Robotic.
“Before the Court,” the woman insists. “We love you, Dick. And you loved us too. I think… I think you still do.”
The Gray Son doesn't know what to do with this information because, quite frankly, there wasn't anything before the Court. But if it's to believe Barbara Gordon (and it does), she was its family a lifetime ago. As were the others that took it from the Nest.
“Can I look at your shoulder?” Barbara Gordon asks suddenly.
The Talon frowns. Why would she need permission? But it nods, and she steps forward, carefully prodding the dark, healed-over bullet wound.
“You heal very quickly,” Barbara Gordon notes. Her fingers flutter to some overlapping scars. “But you scar?”
The Gray Son isn't sure what her point is, so it doesn't reply.
The woman steps back, eyes trailing over the Gray Son’s bare chest and arms. Her lips tug down, something unspoken in her eyes as she meets his gaze again. “You've been through a lot, haven't you?”
The Gray Son looks at its bare feet. “... I was loyal to the Court.”
---
Bruce Wayne doesn’t share his problems with others. He’s highly secretive, and he’s perfectly capable of fixing things on his own. But even he can admit that Dick’s situation is beyond his knowledge and capabilities. He wants to believe that Tim’s suggestion will work. That teaching Dick that disobedience won’t result in punishment will bring him back.
But he also knows what a long shot (a waiting game) it is. And Bruce has contingencies for his contingencies. He doesn’t wait to see if things get better. He plans for when things get worse.
So Bruce goes down the list. He calls in all the psychics he can think of. J’onn, M’gann, Raven, plus some minor leaguers that no one but he’s even aware of. They all seem relatively consistent in their assessment. Whatever turned him into a Talon, it was a major physical and psychological change. If Dick’s true self is still in there (and many claimed he was nowhere to be found in his mind), attempting to draw him out before he’s ready could have devastating effects on his psyche, leaving him permanently scarred, possibly to a degree even worse than he already is.
This is not an acceptable answer. Bruce moves onto magicians. Zatanna doesn’t wait a full minute after getting Bruce’s message before appearing in the Cave. Just like everyone else, she had no clue Dick was back. Unfortunately, also just like everyone else, she doesn’t have optimistic news.
“It’s not magic-related,” Zatanna tells Bruce.
“I figured,” Bruce replies. “But can you fix it with magic?”
Immediately, she shakes her head.
And that just… doesn’t sit right with Bruce. “There’s nothing? You can’t erase his memory of being brainwashed? Or reintroduce his memories from before? I’ve seen you take out gods with a single word. You can’t just tell me you can’t-”
“I can’t,” Zatanna stresses. “The mind is delicate, Bruce. If I removed memories, he wouldn’t suddenly remember who he is. He’d be completely amnesic and would just be confused about why he feels compelled to do whatever he was brainwashed to do. And if I added false memories - because any memory, even a real one, is false if given via magic - it could overload his brain if he starts to gain his real memories back naturally. It’s just not that simple!”
Bruce doesn’t like that answer either. He clenches his jaw and takes a moment to think. Then, voice low, he asks, “Then what can I do?”
Zatanna sighs. “Find a damned good therapist.”
With no psychic or magician capable and willing to help him, Bruce turns to Black Canary, the only mental health professional that he trusts won’t turn Dick into a supervillain. (Why all of Gotham’s psychiatrists and psychologists are evil, Bruce doesn’t know. But he does know he’ll die before he lets any of his family see a Gotham-based practitioner.)
“Thank you, Dinah,” Bruce says for the sixth time. “I can’t tell you how-”
“It’s no problem, Bruce,” Dinah promises. “This is… a new situation for me, but I’m flattered Batman trusts my expertise.”
Bruce doesn’t mention all the Gotham therapists that he would first drop off a building before letting within five hundred feet of his kids. If Dinah thinks that she’s more a “first choice” and not “the only sane one,” more power to her.
“Cass is watching him,” Bruce says, leading Dinah to the med bay.
Dick is seated on the first cot, leaning over to tug a Jenga block from the tower. Cass sits beside it, an impressive number of blocks in her lap. When Dinah enters, though, Dick jumps, wings suddenly unfurling and flapping as if preparing to take off. They knock the Jenga tower over, and Dick jumps again at the crash. Then he stares mournfully at the pile of blocks.
“S’okay,” Cass assures him quietly.
“I’m sorry, Dick,” Dinah says calmly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Dick’s gaze darts to his hands, wings still extended but feathers flattened against his skin.
“You might not remember me,” Dinah continues, pulling up a chair and sitting down. “I’m Dinah. We worked together in the past.”
Bruce can’t even pretend to be shocked when Dick shuffles back on the cot, eyes still cast downward, wings curling in slightly as if to hug himself. Cass lays a gentle hand on Dick’s arm, but he pulls away, shaking his head.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” Dinah assures him. “I want to help. Talk to me.”
Something flashes in Dick’s eyes. “What do you want me to say, Master?”
If this surprises Dinah, she doesn’t say, scribbling something on her notepad. “I’m not your master, Dick. I’m Dinah. I’m a friend.”
Dick flinches, shoulders shaking, head low, but then he freezes and looks up. He finally makes eye contact with Dinah, expression befuddled. “Yes, Dinah.”
“Bruce, Cassandra,” Dinah says, looking to both. “Do you mind giving us the room?”
“I mind,” Bruce warns. “You can’t be alone with him.” And then, at Dinah’s confused glance, he continues in a whisper, “He’s dangerous, Dinah. The last time we left him alone, he jumped out the window and tried to break his captors out of jail. And before that, he tried to kill Barbara.”
But Dinah doesn’t back down, expression perfectly neutral. “I’m capable of handling myself, Bruce, thank you.”
There’s a stare-down. Under any other circumstance, Bruce would win that stare-down, but something in Dinah’s gaze is unflinching. A desire to help Dick, perhaps. Some unwritten therapist oath, maybe. She’s not budging.
Bruce sighs. “Cassandra, leave the gun with her.”
“I won’t need it,” Dinah assures Cass as she takes the cryo-gun from her and sets it on the ground, “but thank you.”
So Bruce spends the next hour standing outside the med bay, listening intently for a scream from either party. But Dinah emerges from the med bay at the end of the hour, tells Bruce that she’ll be back Wednesday to speak with Dick again, and that’s the end of that.
---
The change is gradual. As the wheels of justice move the Court of Owls paperwork from her desk to the judge’s, Barbara is left restless and uneasy. She wants to do something. She wants to fix this.
But with nothing in a legal sense that she can do, Barbara tries to focus on the victim. On Dick. She stops by the manor more and more frequently, always bringing Haley. Always holding a grocery bag.
“Hi, Dick,” Barbara greets on her fourth visit. He’s officially been back in the manor for ten days. “How are you feeling?”
Dick shrugs. He’s more responsive than he used to be, but he used to be borderline catatonic, so that’s not saying much.
Haley rushes past Barbara and tackles Dick to the ground.
“Oh my god-” Barbara rushes over, but Dick is already sitting up, gently herding Haley back until she’s sprawled across his legs, licking his arm as he pets her. “Are you alright?”
Dick hesitates, almost like he’s doing a mental assessment of that himself, before nodding.
“How’s the food been?”
Immediately, Dick’s expression sours. Barbara is offered a strong thumbs down.
“Yeah. Bruce isn’t the greatest cook, is he?” Barbara laughs. Just a few years ago, the man was banned from his own kitchen. Of course he isn’t a good cook. “But I guess that’s why you have me.” She pulls a couple boxes of Captain Crunch from the grocery bag and sets them on the coffee table. Dick doesn’t smile much anymore, but when he sees her offering, that’s probably about as close as it gets.
“Just don’t give any to Haley. She doesn’t need the sugar.”
With one hand still scratching Haley’s ear, Dick rips open one of the boxes, pulls the bag open with his teeth, and dumps the cereal directly into his mouth.
“God, Bruce never said he was starving you!” Barbara sighs and gently tugs the box from Dick’s hand. He lets go instantly, shame infecting his posture.
“I’m sorry, Master,” Dick says, voice almost robotic.
“Oh, don’t say that,” Barbara murmurs. “God, don’t say that. I’m just getting you a bowl, okay? I didn’t mean… I’m not your master. I’m your friend.”
This only seems to confuse Dick, and the sad, innocent look on his face makes Barbara want to cry. But she doesn’t, because that’s not helpful right now. Instead, she grabs a bowl from the kitchen and pours the cereal out. Dick is much more hesitant to eat now, only grabbing a piece or two when he thinks Barbara isn’t looking.
It makes her feel gross, like this is somehow her fault.
“Have you been getting along with everyone?” Barbara asks, desperate for some distraction from her mistake.
But obviously, that’s not the best yes or no question. Dick nods, and that’s the end of that topic.
Dick stops petting Haley for a moment, and the dog whines, nudging Dick’s stomach until he resumes the hypnotic motion.
“She really missed you, you know. She loves you.”
“… what’s her name?” Dick’s voice is so low that Barbara has to strain to hear. But she doesn’t dare ask him to repeat himself, because she’s scared that will make him stop talking again.
“That’s Haley,” Barbara explains. “She’s my- your dog, technically. I’ve been taking care of her while you’ve been gone.”
“She’s a good dog,” Dick says softly. “You… took good care of her.” For a moment, Barbara swears she sees the old Dick Grayson in his eyes. That genuine love, undoubting fire. The person who would scale a burning building to save someone he’s never met. The man who would put all his own problems aside if someone else needed help.
The man Barbara fell in love with. The one she never fell out of love with.
“I missed you,” Barbara says suddenly. “I’m… very glad you’re here, Dick.”
Dick stops petting Haley, looking down at his hands. His shoulders hunch.
“I’m… I’m sorry, Dick,” Barbara says, rolling a bit closer. “I didn’t mean to upset you or-”
“Safe,” Dick coos, holding her hand in his. “You’re safe.” He can’t look her in the eye, still so painfully ashamed.
“Yes,” Barbara agrees. “I’ll keep you safe. No matter what.”
---
“I know you’re there, Dick.”
“...”
“Dick.”
Dick peers from around the corner, a soft trill in the back of his throat. One wing stretches into view.
“What are you doing?” Cass asks.
For a long moment, Dick is quiet, staring at the floor, but then he speaks up, voice a shaky, airy version of what it once was. “I was following you.”
Cass nods. “I see that.” She smiles softly and holds out her hand. “Come with me.”
Hesitantly, Dick takes her hand and follows her through the grandfather clock and into the Cave. She takes him to the gym and then to the trapeze.
“You remember this?”
To Cass’s utter shock, Dick nods slowly. “I… yes.”
“We’ll do a set you taught me,” Cass decides, pulling chalk from the bucket at the base of the platform and starting her climb up. “Don’t use your wings.”
“Yes, Cassandra.”
“... it’s Cass. You call me Cass. Or…” Cass chews the inside of her cheek. “Cassie, sometimes,” she murmurs under her breath.
“I’m sorry, Cass,” Dick says sincerely, following her up the ladder. Cass can’t be sure if he’s truly sorry or if he’s scared she’s going to punish him for calling her the wrong thing. (It’s been so hard to tell as of late.)
Cass reaches the top of the platform and pulls one trapeze bar in. “Do you remember the set?”
And to her utter shock, Dick nods again.
“Okay. I’ll start on the other end.”
Just as Dick taught her all those years ago, Cass takes the bar and jumps, legs straight and toes pointed as she rides her own momentum. She lets go a second before she thinks she should, continues the upward swing into a flip, and then lands on the opposite platform.
Dick starts the set. Cass had expected she’d need to teach it to him, but muscle memory kicks in like nobody’s business. He explained to her a lifetime ago that a proper trapeze act should be something that could be timed exactly. Precisely twenty-eight seconds in, Cass grabs the bar and swings towards Dick. Exactly thirty-three seconds in, she lets go, and then at thirty-four-point-five seconds, she grabs Dick’s ankles. Then at thirty-nine seconds, she lets go again, flipping for the opposite platform, and Dick catches Cass’s bar under his knees.
It's familiar. It’s deceptively simple. It takes two incredibly practiced and strong people to pull off.
It’s also the first time Cass has seen Dick smile since the Court.
When the set is finished, they do it again and then one more time. Then they sit together on a platform.
“You and me,” Cass explains, “we’re the same. Assassins. Damian was one too, but… He was a legacy. We were just tools. Never anything more than killers.”
Dick is watching her with wide eyes. Cass can’t tell where his mind is. She keeps talking anyway.
“Our identities were reduced to our kill counts,” Cass says, voicing things that she’s only ever thought in her head before. “We were our achievements, and if we couldn’t achieve, we weren’t anything anymore.”
One of Dick’s wings has extended behind Cass, just shy of wrapping around her like a hug. It feels… protective.
“But you’re not just your kills anymore,” Cass continues. “Neither of us. Bruce took us in because of what we were capable of. He kept us around because of who we are as people. If… If that makes sense.”
Cautiously, Dick ruffles Cass’s hair affectionately. “It does, Cassie.”
---
The Bats don't leave Dick alone. Not only is he a flight risk, but they can't take the chance that he’ll fall back on his programming and try to break Court members out of jail or kill enemies of the Court (i.e. them). The cryo-gun is always present, even if they haven't fired it since Dick broke Bruce’s wrist during the autopsy.
Damian hates it. He hates treating Dick like a threat. He gets it - he does - but this is… Well, this is Dick. Sure, he's a little paler than usual. And yeah, he doesn't really breathe all that much anymore. His body temperature is consistently below 80°F. He’s got these things sticking out of his back that are covered in feathers and give him the capability of flight. And he's been locked away and brainwashed for ten years, but…
But he's still Dick. When Damian tells him stories about saving the world from giant flesh-eating rats imbued with Kryptonian powers or the litter of kittens at the shelter that his coworkers named after Gotham vigilantes, Dick sits and listens, raptly attentive. The feathers of his wings fluff out a bit, head tipped in curiosity. If anyone comes back from patrol injured, Dick will follow them around until they let someone treat them. When Barbara and Haley visit, which is becoming more and more frequent as of late, Dick holds or pets the dog the whole time, following Barbara every time she leaves the room.
That’s not to say Dick is exactly the same. He’s far more timid than before. He rarely speaks. Barely eats or sleeps. He’s jumpier. He - tragically - doesn’t do physical affection all that much anymore, which makes Damian even more jealous that Jason got a hug from Dick for the first time in a decade, and Damian is lucky if he can pat him on the shoulder.
(God, Damian misses Dick’s hugs. They were the warmest. The strongest. He never felt safer than when he was wrapped up in his akhi’s arms.)
Some days, Dick won’t interact at all, staring into the distance and pulling away from anyone who tries to get him to move or speak. Other days, he’ll pick someone to tail like a puppy or simply wander to wherever the most people are and soak in the atmosphere of a healing family. But the worst days are maybe when he still thinks he’s at the Nest with the Court. He won’t speak without permission. He asks for tasks, practically collapsing in on himself if someone doesn’t give him a way to be useful. He flinches if he thinks he’s offended them, ducking his head and shielding his face.
It makes Damian’s chest ache just to get a glimpse of how awful the Court was to his brother. (More than once, Damian has called Barbara in tears, demanding that she push the judges to give the Owls harsher sentences. She doesn’t have that kind of power, and any attempt to would be a gross misuse of her title, but in the moment, Damian never cares. He just wants the people who did this to Dick to suffer.)
Multiple times a week, Dinah Lance comes over to have therapy with Dick. She doesn’t discuss the sessions much beyond a little warning (“Don’t keep him cooped up inside,” she told them last week) or a general progress report (“He’s doing just fine.”)
And Damian will admit, over the course of three weeks, Dick does seem to be getting better. The usual greeting of “Damian Wayne” shortens to “Damian” or (once, but Damian will never forget it) “Dames.” He’ll make a comment on the rare occasion alluding to an event from before the Court. (Last week, he asked where Alfred was. Bruce left the room in a hurry, hand covering his face, and Jason and Damian were left to come up with a lie about the butler visiting his daughter in London.)
And then, the greatest piece of hope stabs Damian between the ribs. He’s on the roof of Wayne Manor, supervising Dick’s nightly flight time, when Dick lands beside him and watches him with curiosity.
“Are you okay?” Dick asks, which is funny for a couple reasons. The first, being that Damian was just about him the same thing, and the second, being that this is the first time Dick has spoken to him without being spoken to first. Since the Court, anyway.
It’s the biggest milestone Damian’s seen, and he nearly pukes in relief. He’s very glad that he doesn’t puke, though, because cleaning vomit off shingles is not nearly as fun as it sounds (and it doesn’t sound fun at all).
Then Damian realizes that Dick is staring at him. He’s taking too long to reply.
“I’m fine,” Damian assures him. “Why?”
“You look… not fine.”
It’s been a very (very, very, very) long time since Damian discussed his feelings with Dick Grayson. So long, in fact, that he forgot how nice it feels to have someone checking in on him. Someone genuinely concerned who can verbalize their concerns without miscommunicating or accidentally insulting him. (Father tries his best, but he’s never been one to talk about his feelings. Or Damian’s feelings. Or anyone’s feelings. That’s always been Dick.)
“I’m…” Damian knows that Dick is different now. Mentally, he’s got his own problems to deal with. The likelihood that he’d actually give good advice isn’t all that great. But Damian has also longed to hear Dick’s concern. Every night that he beat himself up about or mourned the loss of his brother, he was violently reminded of just how much he lost, because Dick wasn’t there to tell him it would be alright. His person - the person he went to when anything went wrong, when he needed an ear to listen or a shoulder to cry on - was gone forever. And he had no one to lament to about it.
So despite the fact that Dick isn’t the same as he was before the Court, Damian feels compelled to tell him everything. Maybe it’s selfish, or maybe he’s still that same little boy, tearing the city apart looking for his big brother. He just wants Dick back.
“I’m worried,” Damian admits. “About you. Before the Court, we were very close. And then I thought I lost you forever. It… God, I never felt so helpless. And now you’re back, and you’re… different.” He’s grateful for the dark, making it difficult to see Dick’s expression, but he knows that Talon supervision is letting Dick see every line of his face. Both watering eyes. The tightness of his jaw. “I love you no matter what you look like or how you act. I just… I miss the you from before, you know?”
Dick hums. The stand in silence for a moment. Damian almost apologizes and tells Dick to go back to what he was doing when Dick takes a step closer.
“Do you want to fly?” Dick offers sheepishly.
“Do I… what?”
“Want to fly?” Dick repeats. “I always feel better up there. You can see all the lights, and it’s calm, and… it’s nice.”
Damian realizes just how much the Dick Grayson of ten years ago would have loved to be able to fly. He expressed a similar sentiment to the person talking to Damian right now. It’s calm up there in the sky. His problems seem to melt away. He feels closest to his parents in the air.
Maybe… Maybe Dick hasn’t changed as much as Damian thought he had.
“Yeah,” Damian agrees. “Let’s fly.”
Even in the dark, Damian can see the mega-watt smile on Dick’s face, which is weird, because he can’t remember the last time Dick so much as smirked, much less beamed. A knot in Damian’s stomach loosens.
Dick wraps one arm around Damian’s waist, holding him close to his chest. It takes everything in him not to sob.
Then, with a beat of his wings, Dick takes him up, up, up. Above the manor, above Bristol. Damian can see Gotham’s bridges from here. He watches tiny cars drive over them and disappear into the city. There aren’t many stars - not with light pollution at the reins - but the moon cuts through the haze, cold and crisp and bright.
Dick flies in slow circles, gliding lazily on the breeze. He doesn’t go half as fast as Damian knows he can. Maybe he’s tired. Or maybe he just wants Damian to have a nice view. To be able to think without worrying about falling.
(Damian isn’t worried about falling. Dick wouldn’t drop him. Not even on accident.)
“You’re right,” Damian calls over the wind. “It’s nice up here.”
“I feel… more connected in the sky. If that makes sense.”
“To your parents?” Damian suggests.
A hum. Dick does a corkscrew, and a laugh bubbles up from Damian’s chest. “Maybe. I don’t remember them. Just my grandfather. But he was terrible, so I killed him.” He does a loop-de-loop.
Damian tries to process this information, but it’s not computing. He didn’t even know Dick still had a grandfather. (Though not anymore, he supposes.)
“What were they like, my parents? Did you know them?”
“I-” Damian blinks. One crisis at a time. “I never met them, but you told me they were very loving and dedicated people. They performed in the circus with you. Trapeze.”
Another hum. Another corkscrew.
“You said your mother loved to dance. And she made the best quiche you’ve ever had. Better than Alfred’s, even. And your father made the worst puns, and you made it a game to try to make worse ones than him.”
The flight speeds up a bit, the wind growing harsher on Damian’s skin. He can’t hear the sniff, but he sees Dick wiping his face. Rubbing his nose.
“... Dick?” Damian shouts over the wind.
Again, Dick ignores him, circling down until they’ve landed safely on the manor’s roof.
“Dick,” Damian repeats. “Are you okay?”
“I miss them,” Dick says, gaze downcast. “I didn’t know I missed them.” Then he laughs around a sob. (It’s a sad little chuckle, but it’s a laugh. Something Damian thought he’d never hear again.) “Sorry. I didn’t make you feel better.”
Damian’s pressing his luck, but with all the other oddities going on today, he figures he can try to do this. He puts a hand on Dick’s shoulder. Then he goes in for a hug, slowly, lightly, just in case Dick feels the need to escape.
But Dick doesn’t try to escape. He hugs back.
“It’s okay, Dick,” Damian whispers into Dick’s hair. “I feel a lot better now.”
---
“Hood, I need a favor.”
This immediately makes Jason’s ears perk up, because Tim doesn’t ask for favors. Not from Jason. And definitely not from the Red Hood.
“That depends. What’s the problem?” Jason asks cooly, grabbing the last thug from an arms bust and dropping him in the Gotham Harbor.
“GoldenEye fled the coop.”
Jason snorts and returns to his bike, swinging one leg over it. “Ha. ‘GoldenEye.’ That’s a good one. You have that one ready in your notes app or something?”
“Hood, please. He’s been having a bad day, and then he jumped out a window trying to escape talking about his feelings with Bruce.”
“I swear, I think he got more relatable after he died. Which makes sense, I guess.”
“Hood.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll find your bird,” Jason assures him. Then he hesitates. “But, ah, in the interest of time, what kind of ‘not good day’ are we having? Like, just jumping out windows or are we back to biting?”
“No biting,” Tim promises. “I think he’s over that, thank god. Just very withdrawn.”
Withdrawn is fine. Withdrawn sucks, but it’s manageable.
“Got it. Talk to you soon.”
It’s not difficult to find Dick. He hasn’t escaped much since being Talon-ified, but his patterns now aren’t so different from before the Court.
“Hey, Dick,” Jason says softly as he approaches Dick’s favorite gargoyle. (They all have favorite gargoyles, and just as Bruce would find his runaway Robins sleeping under the protection of their favored cement terror, Jason finds Dick sitting under the Gotham Public Library’s dragon gargoyle.) “Tim said you’re not feeling so hot?” He sits beside his brother, letting his legs dangle off the side of the building.
Dick doesn’t respond, staring out into the night, but one of his wings stretches to shield Jason from the rain.
“You don’t have to talk,” Jason explains, “but on a scale of one to five, how insufferable is Bruce being today?”
There’s no immediate reply. Dick kicks his legs a little. Sighs. Then he holds up three fingers.
“Right down the middle, huh?” Jason removes his helmet and looks out at the city they all love so much. It’s a bit quieter tonight than usual, or at least it feels that way. It always does after a Gotham Gaslamps game lets out and all the spectators have gone home for the night. The noise makes it easier to notice the silence.
“I’m scared,” Dick says suddenly. “I don’t know what happened to the Court.”
“They’re in jail,” Jason replies. “Or dead.”
Dick seems… perturbed at this. He hiccups. “What am I supposed to do? What… What good is a Talon with no one to serve?”
“You’re not a Talon anymore, buddy.”
There’s a beat. Dick tips his head. Hums.“Then who am I?”
“You’re my brother.” The answer is immediate. Natural. “And Tim’s and Cass’s and Damian’s. You’re Bruce’s son. You’re Dick Grayson, the golden boy.” And then, he huffs on laughter. “GoldenEye.”
“What does it mean? To be a brother and son?”
“You’re already living it, Dickie. That’s…” Jason blows out a slow stream of air. “That’s maybe the best part about you. You don’t have to try. It’s so natural for you to care about people that you just do it.”
“But I’m not doing anything,” Dick stresses. “Everyone is worried about me, and I feel like they miss someone that’s not me. I haven’t helped anyone. I’m not this saint you all talk about.”
It’s the most Jason has heard Dick say in a decade. “You’re not doing anything, huh?” He points a finger upwards, and Dick’s eyes follow the path up to the wing he’s stretched over Jason’s head. The wing blocking out the rain.
“That’s different,” Dick argues immediately. But he doesn’t provide any examples or clarification, and Jason can only assume he has no real argument. “I just… I’m tired of burdening people without giving them anything in return.”
“You haven’t.” And Jason says it so fiercely that he can already see green leaking into the corners of his vision, anger barely held back. “Dick, I don’t think you realize how desperate everyone has been to get you back. You mean the world to us. We’d do anything to keep you around.”
“I just… worry that the person you want back isn’t me. I’m… I don’t remember everything about before but… I know I’m different now.”
Jason smirks. “You think Bruce gives a rat’s ass if you’re different? You think any of us do? Wings or no wings, we miss you, Dickie.” He puts an arm around Dick’s shoulders, just above said wings. Dick sighs contently and leans against Jason, pressing his face into his neck.
“You’re right. You’re right. But can we just… stay out here for a bit? I don’t know why, but I feel safe here.”
“It’s the gargoyle. It’s always been your favorite. You named him Chaz.”
Dick snorts. “That’s a horrible name.”
“Coming from the guy named Dick?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
---
It’s four months after coming to Wayne Manor that the Bats – his family – show it (no, it’s him, not it) the suit.
“That’s… cool,” the Gray Son (no, shit, it’s Talon) (no, fuck, it’s Dick) says. And it is. It’s black with gold accents, decked out with some high-tech gauntlets and a utility belt. It’s missing a cape like most of the suits Bruce and the others wear. “What’s it for?”
Bruce smiles softly. “It’s for you, if you want to join us.”
“Oh.” Him? Dick? Join the others patrolling Gotham? But he’s… different from before. He doesn’t remember everything about life before the Court, but… he remembers enough. Most importantly, he knows that he didn’t kill before.
“You don’t have to say yes,” Bruce assures him. “You can wait a bit or you don’t have to do it ever. I just want you to know that you…” He settles a heavy hand on Dick’s shoulder. “You’re missed out there. We’d love to have you back.”
“But I killed people,” the Gray- no, Dick – argues. “You don’t like killing.”
“Cass and Damian have killed too.” Bruce’s voice turns soft, like the manor’s impossibly comfy beds after a decade in a freezing, unlined coffin. “Jason too. We’ve all made mistakes in the past, but all that matters is we learned from them and changed.” He tips his head. “Do you still want to kill?”
Dick frowns. “No.”
“Then we don’t have an issue.”
Dick hums. He’d love to join his family. He would. In fact, he would argue he wants it more than anything. He’s just…
“What if I slip up? What if I accidentally kill someone?”
“I’ve trained you for that, and if you’re nervous about it, I’ll train you again. We don’t accidentally kill people. We know our limits, we know the limits of others, and we don’t make that mistake.”
Dick nods. “Yes. Yeah. Okay. Let’s… Let’s do it.” He smiles. “Put me in, Coach.”
Bruce’s smile back is warmer than Dick has ever seen it. “That’s the spirit, chum. That’s the spirit.”