Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s not the first time that week that Dick wakes up with his heart in his throat. That isn’t the part that bothers him. 

It comes with the job, and it’s not as bad as one might think - not at the Manor when Alfred had the sixth sense to wake up before dawn and already have the kettle boiling and the French toast on the pan by the time Dick makes it to the kitchen. The warm cup of tea in his hands and the gentle bustling of the kitchen chases away any lingering ghosts from his dreams.

(When Dick has his first sleepover, he learns that maybe it wasn’t as much of a sixth sense as Al’s sense of hearing still being intact. 

He had gasped awake and only felt his panic grow when figures towered over him. He had pushed away the hand on his shoulder a bit too roughly before he saw the ginger mop of hair it was attached to. Wally had looked at him, face shadowed and mouth hanging open in a question that never found its words. Donna, at his other side, had hovered her hand over his like she wanted to grab it. 

“What? Is everyone okay?” Dick had asked, trying to wake up his numb and dry tongue.

“You were screaming,” Roy had filled in, tone carefully casual.)

It comes with the job, and it doesn’t bother Dick because he has had plenty of time to adapt to the business. He isn’t bothered when his lungs wake up devoid of air or his heart running a marathon (thankfully no longer screaming-). 

Really, he isn’t upset or anything. No more than he should be, not more than usual, that would be weird and there is nothing weird about this. 

Dick just- he doesn’t know why he had this dream again.

The breathlessness and racing pulse feels lesser compared to the disproportionate discomfort that Dick is left with whenever this dream reappears- maybe not this exact one, maybe they’re different, but they all blend together into a vague tooth-pulling haze that makes his skin crawl. For all intents and purposes, they might as well be the same when they’re just a flash of orange and black and nausea when he wakes up.

Dick swallows hard, and rises to his feet. He might as well put the kettle on before he accidentally wakes Kori up. His feet tap restlessly against the tile floor of the tower over and over, waiting for the water to boil.

He really doesn’t understand why he is making such a big deal out of this. 

Frustratingly, Dick isn’t the only one of the Titans to make a big deal out of it.

Gar looks like he is trying to calm a cornered animal on cracking ice. Tugging at his collar, he finally speaks up. “Hey, uh,” his eyes avoid Dick’s as he speaks, “maybe you should stay here and coordinate the search?”

Clearly, Gar is going for ‘casual suggestion’ and misses by a mile. It feels like there is something careful in his words, an unreasonable gentleness with a cause that Dick refuses to read into. 

“What?” he prompts, all Robin and no Dick, all authoritative Batman he can muster into his almost cracking voice. His white lenses glare into Beast boy and Cyborg where they’ve blocked his path (have they spoken about this behind his back? what was there to speak about?). Jutting his chin forward, Dick dares them to suggest that the team leader should stay back when there is a Chronoton Detonator unaccounted for and they desperately need all hands on deck. 

Cyborg does dare, apparently. “Man, when it comes to Slade, you've got issues.”

At the frank acknowledgement, Dick grits his teeth and feels himself stutter.

Something about that makes his blood boil and his face itch to be covered. Dick has tried to get more in tune with his emotions, vowing to not uphold the Wayne legacy of hnnn when there is a team who is counting on him. But for all his efforts, he cannot pinpoint why his heart is picking up the speed of shame .

Clever boy , Slade’s voice echoes in his mind with the crackle of the speakers. Clever boy.

“Might be better for the team if you sit this one out,” Cyborg concludes with a grimace.

Why does it feel like Dick was caught doing something bad? He wasn't. Dick wasn’t-

“No,” he insists, his voice more desperate than he intends it to be. The outspoken denial is as much to convince his team as it is his for himself. He cannot allow this to be a problem. It isn’t . That would be- that- Dick doesn’t let himself think about that. 

He focuses on the mission. Slade is a villain, just another threat of the week that they need to handle. Lucky for him, Robin would love to take out this anger on something.

Giddy glee tugs Dick’s lips into an unavoidable grin as the door goes down with an explosion. Sure, the rusty old thing barely seemed to be locked and would probably have opened with a less loud method but maybe Dick felt he had earnt this. Sue him for wanting some payback.

Robin had found him. Slade hadn’t accounted for this, for Dick to be able to track him back to his lair, and Dick had outsmarted him. Suck on that, Deathstroke. 

Dick watches from the railing of the stairs, high ground on his side. Looking down on the man, he can push away the apprehension and feel the comfort of skill and victory setting in. 

And then those feelings falter. They seep away like the smoke from the blasted door.

Slade doesn’t turn away from the large screens in front of him, where cameras are following his friends hurrying their way forward through the sewage system. 

Dick doesn’t like it. He wishes Slade would stop looking at them, it feels uncomfortable .

Somehow, even though he has the high ground, Dick feels very small. Yet, it feels wrong to let Slade just stand there and-

Robin vaults down from the railing and approaches. One step after the other. One breath after the other. He grits his teeth and clenches his fists. Surely, it’s anger that resides in his veins. What else?

At least, without a doubt, Dick knows that he hates Slade right now. That makes it easier. The strange taunting voice and yet playful movements of the man is all tucked under “I hate it” and he doesn’t have to investigate it further. 

They trade blows and although Dick knows his head isn’t in the game and he isn’t exactly winning, a relentless kick to his stomach manages to feel like a relief. The way the man clasps his metal gauntlet around Robin’s fist and holds on a little too long and too tight is scary in the familiar way, not the weird way- 

(All of a sudden Dick regrets coming here alone, the split second of helplessness is too much and Robin feels like he is treading on unsure grounds and he doesn’t know how to go back.)

“ Good technique, ” Slade praises, deadpan voice revealing no clue behind his intentions but it leaves Robin scrambling for solid ground.

Dick cannot hear his own voice shout out snarky remarks and angry shouts over the rushing in his ears. He loses track of everything else but the situation in front of him, and his whole body goes into overdrive to get this over with.

Finally, when every piece of him is aching and begging him to stop, Dick manages to shove Deathstroke away for long enough to get his hands on the transmitter. He feels like he could cry of relief.

When the trigger combusts in his hands, he might just cry.

“Nanoscopic probes,” Slade explains amicably. “The Chronoton Detonator was merely the bait for a much larger trap.”

Things are starting to go fuzzy actually. The kind where you’re on a roller coaster, going up and up and up- just the moment where everything slows down and you’re realizing hey I’m also going down . That kind. 

Dicks gaze is plastered to the device that Slade curls his gauntlet around. He gives it his best glare, as if that one would like to combust too.

“You see, with the push of a button…” Slade rubs his thumb over the button, and it unfortunately does not break into pieces. Unfair conditions, really. “...my probes will destroy your friends from the inside out.“

The room becomes freezing. “You can't control them. No matter what you threaten, they'll never obey you.”

“This isn't about your friends, Robin.” There is a split-second of silence. Dick swears that, despite the mask over Deathstroke’s face, the bastard is smiling. ”It's about you. It's always been about you.“ Dick’s throat, on the other hand, is closing off and he cannot breathe . He wants to go home and eat French Toast and steal the raspberries from Bruce’s plate and-

“What?” he croaks. 

The words are zoning in and out of his perception. Dick wills himself to hear what Slade’s moving lips are spitting out when the man comes closer, too close, there is no need to get so close- 

“-some time now, I have been searching for an apprentice. Someone to follow in my footsteps.” Slade is crouching down, and yet Dick has to tilt his head up to look him in the eyes. Dick wishes he understood what was going on. He wishes he could compartmentalize his trembling when Slade is face to face with him. “And, Robin, I've chosen you. Congratulations.“

To hell with it. Robin does cry.

He takes solace in his white lenses, pretending like the shuddering of his chest isn’t visible to the notably observant man while he is led to some hideout the man had prepared. 

He gets his own bedroom. There is no lock. Dick closes the door, sliding down in front of it and finally burrowing his face in his arms. And he cries. He whines, wails and blubbers like a baby, like he hasn’t done since the early times after he had just lost his parents.

There is a stinging inside of him. Spikes of ice clench his stomach. But his tears are warm and he cannot stop them from falling. 

It feels immature. It’s not what a Robin would do. 

Every time the hiccoughs quiet down, the silence becomes deafening. 

Staying seated in front of the door, Robin cries until the tears turn cold. 

Slade doesn’t barge in that night, even though some part of Dick expects him to. The next morning he comes in with a new uniform, one that fits surprisingly well, and even though hates every step that Slade takes into his private space, hates the way the man picks at his unused bed and intrudes in his personal space- Slade doesn’t do anything. 

Dick doesn’t like his tone, his compliments and his controlling presence but… He never does anything that could strictly be weird. Dick is just his apprentice, and that’s all.

The nausea and the needles never stop, all the same.

When he is reunited with his team, with his friends -

Dick had thought that he had no tears left to cry, and he was so sorely wrong. 

They don’t press him on it. As if no time had passed and nothing had changed. They dance around the subject and his discomfort when he avoids their questions, but they all pile together on the carpet in the living room area of the tower and let him bundle them in blankets. His tears seep into Kori’s shoulder, and she clasps her hand over his neck in a way that makes Dick feel safe.

Robin thinks he knows fear, and it isn’t that bad. It comes with the job.

But with Slade- it’s different. 

Chapter Text

While the potatoes are roasting in the oven, Alfred takes the time to sort through the Wayne manor mail. With hands still smelling of rosemary and thyme, his nifty wrinkled fingers divide the mound of letters into piles with a fluidity that only practice can bring. 

The easiest is the pile for doubtless garbage; here goes the regular advertisements and a few blacklisted signatures. Master Bruce does not need to know that Alfred sometimes reads a few chosen excerpts from the gossip magazines. As long as everything is properly disposed of at the end, all is well. Indeed, Bruce has seemed to appreciate the assortment of scented candles around the manor (All credit goes to the mother who recommended gifts for brooding teens. Alfred couldn't help himself and his curiosity.)

Then there are the threats, the ones too serious to be rid of without taking note of their contents. Was there going to be another kidnapping attempt in the coming week? Had some fool assumed that they could spew vitriol upon young master Dick without being tracked down? Even general warnings about city disruptions could be important pieces to a future puzzle, if one listened to Bruce and his ever-growing database.

Alfred sighs.

Another two piles, one each for Bruce and Dick. Anything that seemed to be personal belonged in this pile, and would be kept safe until Alfred’s two wayward wards returned home- only after any injuries were treated, no compromises, even if young Dick suspected it was a valentine’s day card.

Finally, the remaining letters are scarce and, ordinarily, entirely uninteresting. What a relief. These are the ones that Alfred will read and manage - either letting them join the company of the garbage, or respond if so necessary. Business proposals for Wayne Enterprises, a response from the catering service who refused to respond through digital means, a letter from Gotham Academy-

Alfred splits the letter open with the rosewood-and-ebony letter-opener (the one he had received after Master Bruce had tried to cook dinner with the last one and gotten it impossibly stuck in the chopping board) and thumbs through the contents. His frown deepens as he reads.

Oh dear. Maybe not entirely uninteresting letters. 

Dinner is over and the plates have been rinsed. About half an hour has passed since Bruce has had a coffee, so Alfred has brewed a refill before he is asked. Alfred carries the silver tray towards Bruce’s office, balances the painted porcelain cup with espresso and extra cream with three bundles of letters.

His gloved knuckles raps three quick knocks at the door.

“Come in!” Bruce calls, a higher pitch than he usually would speak in. He has just had a phone call for Wayne Enterprises, then. While his persona faded, the voice and mannerisms were a tad exaggerated for a bit longer after Bruce has been on official WE business. 

Alfred enters, but clears his throat. The scented candle leaves a faint note of peppermint in the air. “I do hope I’m not disturbing your work.”

Bruce stretches in his chair and shakes his head. “Not at all, I just hung up. Is that a coffee?”

Alfred replaces the empty cup on his right with the still-steaming cup, holding it by the saucer so as to not get burnt. “I brought both of your vices, sir. Coffee and the mail.” Two of the three bundles are deposited upon the desk as he talks.

Letting out a mild huff, Master Bruce gives a small, wry grin - a far thing from the pearly whites of his persona. “I see. Carrot and stick, is it?”

“Your words, not mine, Master Bruce,” Alfred quips, but does not leave. He stands where he is, clenching the tray with one last letter on it, already opened.

When Alfred does not leave nor continue speaking or even move from his spot, Bruce quirks an eyebrow at him, tilting his chin in consideration.

Lips pressed together, Alfred gives a low hum . It feels important to phrase things correctly, even if he isn’t quite sure himself what he is trying to point out.

“Master Bruce,” he begins, hesitating.

“Alfred,” his boy mirrors.

”Please remind me, what did young Master Dick have on his agenda today? He has seemed to be in quite a hurry.”

Bruce sighs. “Yes. He got a call from his Titan-associates. They were asking for his help, and he swore he would step in and still make it back in time for patrol.” His face is creased in disapproval, his downturned eyes flashing a glint of worry. “He says he can handle it, but he's spread too thin. It's going to take its toll, eventually - on his work and on his safety.”

Ah, what a familiar peril. “Yes, it's really a mystery where he got those tendencies from,” Alfred says, looking at the suit Bruce is dressed in and knowing of the many scars and abrasions hidden underneath.

“Hnnnn, ” Master Bruce tactfully acknowledges.

Alfred tilts his back in the slightest of bows. “Now then. I shall let you get to those letters.” 

Those letters, because Alfred keeps the letter from the academy on the tray. He takes a step back.

Eyes regarding one pile and then the other, Bruce grumbles for a bit before finding his words. “Thank you for the coffee, Alfred.”

“Not at all. I'm glad I could be of assistance.”

Aldred leaves the office and closes the door behind him. He nods to himself.

Where his boys were spread thin, Alfred would spread thick. 

Maybe quite literally. 

The sandwich is thick, filled with arugula, honey, pesto and a generous layer of chevre cheese. As Dick approaches, Alfred finally prepares a glass of milk.

“I thought you might be hungry. You've had quite the active day, and the night is far from finished.”

Even as Dick settles into a chair and flashes him a smile, he moves through the pre-patrol stretches; Never missing an opportunity to not sit still.

“It looks delicious,” Dick exclaims happily, and Alfred feels himself smiling along, satisfied. “But I'll probably save half for later. The Titans needed some help with an intel thing, it was a job for the junior detective, not his batarangs.” Dick separates the sandwich into two. “Let's not get too full before volting off of rooftops, right?”

“Right you are, Master Dick. Please do keep down what you eat, if you can help it.”

The response is a mmm-hmmm muffled through a mouthful of food. 

“I was working by the assumption that you're usually hungrier after a strenuous day.”

“ Ravenous , you mean.” Dick snorts, then shrugs. “You're not wrong, it's just that it hasn't been all that strenuous. A completely whelming day, you know?”

Alfred doesn't stare down the boy. He stays partially turned away as he talks, watering the potted plants in the kitchen window. “I thought you had physical education on Tuesdays?”

Silence. Alfred glances back to see young Dick taking a slow sip of his milk. “Tuesday. Right, yeah, we have gym class on Tuesdays.”

“Did you have fun? What was it about?” The silverware had already been polished but Alfred worked through them again, not wanting to put too much pressure on the questions. He had taken this into his own hands specifically so that it wouldn't become an interrogation or argument. 

“...It was gymnastics,” Dick says, as if that answers every question. Usually it would, but in this moment it simply raised more.

Master Dick has had gymnastics, and he sounds neither enthused nor exhausted. Not strenuous was it? When it came to gymnastics, young Dick had never missed the chance to exert himself to the fullest. Usually , there was nothing that could stop him from doing what he loved.

“Was it fun?” Alfred repeats softly. 

Dick has stopped eating. A napkin has entered his hands instead. Fidgeting with it, he takes a small breath of air. “I wouldn't know, I missed it.”

“Did you now?” Alfred asks with a hum.

The napkin is being ripped into tiny, tiny pieces. Master Dick is looking anywhere but Alfred's eyes. His voice was an unconvinced mumbling. “...I forgot my stuff. I didn't have a change of clothes, so I missed it.”

Finally, Alfred moves away from the potted plants and the blinding silverware, instead sitting down next to the young boy.

“Master Dick, please extend the courtesy of honesty with me. I quite vividly remember that your gym bag was in the car, left the car on your shoulder, and returned in one piece.”

Dick whips his head to look at him, face a bit too pale for Alfred's comfort.

“First, I shall return the courtesy to you,” Alfred contines, reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket to pull out the letter. He sees Dick’s eyes becoming glued to the Gotham Academy logo. “I received a letter from your physical education teacher. Mrs Kim writes that you’ve been consistently missing any and all gym classes for weeks. Since I know this cannot possibly be about a matter of forgetfulness, will you enlighten me - what is it about?”

With narrowed pupils, Dick crosses his arms on the table and looks away from Alfred. His back is hunched and his knuckles are pulled so taught they are trembling. 

Dick sniffs. “I have reasons.”

“I believe you, Master Dick,” Alfred says, and once again the boy's face snaps in his direction, mouth falling open. The surprise hurts. “I would just like to know which ones they are.”

It takes a second for Alfred to realise that the boy's fists haven't stopped trembling, it's just that his entire body is trembling along with them.

“I feel funny .” Dick says it so quickly, like the words escape him without his permission. His voice cracks halfway and he has to clear his throat and repeat himself. “I feel funny,” he says again, slower, tasting the words, then snapping his teeth shut like he didn't like how they tasted.

“You feel funny?” 

“Since the Teen Titans got back-” Dick cuts off and bites his cheek with a furious passion. Alfred contains the urge to admonish him, wishing for him to continue speaking. “It’s stupid.”

“Nothing that matters to you will be ‘stupid’ to me, Master Dick.”

The young boy’s breath hitches, and then the words spill so quickly from his lips, like they’re burning him. “I hate the changing rooms, and the showers. I don’t like… having to change in front of them.”

Freezing in place, Alfred clenches the teaspoon in an iron grip. Were the students treating his grandson -

Before Alfred can consider if the Batcomputer has access to the addresses of Gotham Academy pupils, Dick continues, voice jumping pitch like a leaping bird. Suddenly, it feels like Alfred is seeing Robin make quips at a rogue - stubbornly playful and too unbothered for the situation.

“Like- there are so many new bruises, just a whole other level Alfs - science isn’t my best subject, but how does a fist made of concrete even move? How am I supposed to hide that? It’s insane …” The energetic explanation trails off awkwardly, shrill laughter choking where it tries to lift the atmosphere. “I wasn’t planning on playing hooky- there’s just been a lot, and having to- on top of it all-” Dick bites his cheek once again, as if he’s trying to swallow the words in his mouth. 

Coming from him, that’s what makes worry squirm in Alfred’s gut.  There is a piece he is missing, and Dick is unwilling to share it. He’s just like his father.

“Master Dick, if we could speak to Master Bruce-”

Dick pales. “Pleasedon’ttellbruce,” he rushes out in one breath, and takes another short breath before trying again. “I’ll go. I’ll go to class, please don’t tell B.”

Alfred puts a hand on Dick’s shoulder, and then promptly retracts it when the boy stiffens further. He smiles, instead. “What I was saying, Master Dick, is that we should inform Bruce that there is no PE during the spring term, so he doesn’t become confused and remind you to bring an unnecessary change of clothes.”

“No… PE?” Dick blinks at him.

“I should also inform Mrs. Kim that we have decided to bring in private instructors and take the physical education into our own hands from now on. Please bring me any forms to fill, if need be.”

“A- You aren’t saying-” A crack of sunlight breaks through the grim and determined mask. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Alfred holds a finger to his mouth in a hushing motion. “Only if it would be helpful, Master Dick. “In all fairness, I think another hour of exercise is the least thing you need in your schedule-”

The air leaves his chest as Dick shoots forward like a bullet, enveloping him in an oxygen-stealing embrace. “You're the best,” he whispers, voice cracking.

Thinking of the way Master Dick had stiffened before, Alfred moves slowly and carefully when he pats the boy on his back. 

“There, there,” Alfred soothes. He isn't sure whether or not he's said the right thing when Dick’s body shudders with sobs. Even as the sound disappears into the fabric, they sound so very afraid and tired. The boy clenches on to his shirt desperately when Alfred considers moving back, so the hand on his back returns. Dick's body relaxes with a small whine.

“Thank you .”

“Not at all. Thank you for letting me be of help.” 

Where his wayward wards were spread thin, Alfred would fill in. Even if he didn't always understand the full picture.

Chapter Text

Benched. Benched. Benched .

Roy cannot believe it. Oliver had benched him, because of his grades of all things. Seriously? 

It could totally have been avoided if Roy had kept his mouth shut, but after Oliver had heard that Roy’s grade in physics (usually his best subject) bordered on failing, he had tried to convince Roy to get a tutor. A tutor. As if he was some child.

…

Okay, as if he was some middle schooler. He was in high school, and a skilled vigilante, and Oliver wanted him to get a tutor?

Roy had snapped at him, told him how much a waste of time that would be. God, what was the tutor going to do, tuck him into bed and make sure he got eight hours of sleep before the exam? Roy wasn’t stupid , it was just that sometimes, it was a little rough to pierce through the sleepy haze after a busy work-night and jet-start his brain into calculus-mode.

And apparently, that had been the wrong thing to say, because when Roy had started to gear up that night, Green Arrow had so kindly snatched the bow right out of his hands and given him the good news.

Benched. Until his grades recovered.

Roy glances at his desk where the worn copy of Catcher In The Rye from the school library sat, fraying at the edges but otherwise untouched. Next to it was an empty paper, where only the title had been filled in. ‘Book report.’ He slams his head back into the table with a groan.

Yeah right. As if. 

There were many things Roy would rather do instead. He’d rather mess up a shot and feel the string of the bow snap against his wrist and leave a bruise, he’d rather stay out on the rooftops of Starling City until the morning sun lit the smog of the driveways and his joints ached from exhaustion.  He’d rather-

Filled with vigor, Roy unlocks his phone and scrolls through his contact until his thumb hoveres over ‘Slasher smile’.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. He presses the call button.

“Hey wonderbread, are you busy?”

Of course, that dickhead had been busy with defusing a bomb or not ingesting some poisonous plant gas or keeping another Teen Titan from drowning- it was a little bit hard to tell what he had been saying through the interference. Maybe it had been all three?

Whatever it was, they had decided for Roy to come over the next day instead. All the way over to Gotham, no biggie. 

The corners of his eyes teared up as he yawned. Getting some sleep before impromptu traveling across half the country had probably been a good idea, actually. 

All sponsored by the Green Arrow’s, deep, green pockets. (No really, that wasn’t meant to be a quip, Oliver had gladly handed over the money for tickets when Roy expressed that it might be helpful if he got to see his friend. He just hadn’t said how , exactly, it would be helpful. Or how he knew the heir to Wayne industries, but it was pretty much a rich people thing to just know every other rich person.) 

His own pockets of his ripped jeans have to sponsor the pineapple smoothie Roy sips on while he waits outside the airport for his ride to pick him up. The tingling on his tongue at least helps keep him awake. His eyes once again flick between the messaging app on his phone, the watch on his wrist, the clock hanging above the entrance, and the long line of taxis on the road ahead when a frantic waving enters his vision.

A black-haired boy dressed in brown corduroy pants and a blue knitted vest approaches with his hand raised in the air. Underneath a growing set of bangs and hyperactive greeting is a smile that splits cheeks and bares his teeth. Roy would recognise that slasher smile anywhere.

“Wonderbread!” Roy calls, even though he has already been spotted. 

“Little John!” Dick calls back with a mischievous grin, and then sloppily dodges the empty plastic cup that was thrown at him. “Watch it- if I didn’t know better I’d say you were trying to mangle me with this dangerous, plastic, club. I could have been gravely wounded.”

Sometimes, when Roy hasn’t talked to Dick in a while out of costume, the cheery demeanor surprises him. Not to say that he wasn’t cheery as Robin, beating up villains with a grin was a staple of his, but Dick Grayson seemed like such a carefree guy compared to the competent and contained leader that Roy had known him as. When is he really wearing the mask? Which one is real?  

But masks were always more complex than that, so Roy merely snorts. “Should have gotten out the way faster then. Serves you right for taking so long to get here.”

Dick crosses his arms righteously. “The bus missed my stop. I got here as fast as the laws of Gotham Public Transport permit. All for someone who didn’t want to tell me over the phone what this is about.”

“You took the bus? Did you even want to be on time?” The taxis are still in his field of vision. Roy feels his eyebrow twitch.

“Safety measure. Most of the rogues respect that the commuters are in a time crunch. The taxis are a free-for-all.”

And somehow, because this is Gotham, that makes sense. Of course. Roy sighs. “Do you know somewhere a bit more private?”

Dick grins. “Would you, hypothetically, be opposed to bats in the attic?”

“Do we have to take the bus to get there?”

“...Let’s find the nearest subway station.”

Despite their history, Roy has never been to the Wayne Manor. He doesn't think any of them has, although Wally and Donna must have been the closest contenders. 

From what Roy had gathered, Batman was strict about Robin's secret identity, strict about a lot, really. Even if Dick had revealed himself to them in the end, he wasn't sure if Batman even knew about it. I don't know much about Robin, and I know even less than I think I do.

Walking through winding corridors and hardwood floors, Roy stays glued to Dick’s back to not get lost in observation. 

Finally, they round a corner and Dick pushes open a door into a large room. Smudges of sunlight dance across the room through the large palladian windows on the wall, glistening in the polished teak wood of the desk and canopy bed. There's a trash-can filled with bandaid scraps, a large poster of a circus next to a smaller one of superman, and a stuffed elephant on the bed.

It's Dick's room, he realises. The invitation feels a lot like trust, so Roy shuffles inside in an awed silence. 

Dick plops down on the floor, legs crossed effortlessly in an angle Roy could never replicate. Seemingly catching on to Roy’s hesitance, he swipes the air dismissively. “Don't worry, B is out, we've got the place to ourselves. No cameras in my room or anything, either. You don't have to talk in any codes.” Roy blinks at him, and Dick blinks back  “This is about vigilante business, right?”

“Well,” Roy says, drawing out the word as he rubs his neck. Hopefully this hadn't been a stupid idea. “It is because it isn't.”

Eyes narrowing and lips pressed together in concentration, Dick looks at Roy like he is the newest of the Riddler's inventions. “Right. Break that down for me?”

So Roy does. He flops down next to Dick, laying down on his back in a much more reasonable position for his limbs, and he explains the situation. Dick doesn't laugh when Roy talks about struggling to find motivation or his grades slipping, so he continues with more feeling. 

“Benched!” he finishes, gesticulating wildly to convey the full audacity of the decision. “Doesn't he know how much it means to me to be Speedy?”

Throughout the retelling of the story, Roy has shifted from laying down on the floor, pacing around the room, and tops it all off by sliding his back against the wall into a sitting position.

Dick has been sitting in the same spot with only minor adjustments, and slowly looking more disgruntled. Now he looks thoughtful, clenching his knuckles. “That's not okay. He should have at least talked to you, right? Not… Take something you love and hold it over your head to make him listen to you.”

Roy groans. Maybe it's a bit silly to be so upset over this but- “Right?”

Dick scooches over the floor ungracefully, peering at him from underneath his slight bangs, and then knocks their shoulders together. “Not cool,” Dick confirms.

The word choice, the scooching, and the simple shoulder to shoulder contact does something to Roy. It shouldn’t be so funny to him, but it is. He feels warm inside, a fine mix of laughter and appreciation. Dick has managed to make him feel heard and cheer him up at the same time. Robin's superpower. Smiles and steel boots.

At the laugh, Dick smiles and huffs.

“I'm sending over my thanks to you.” Fleeing the abashed blush on his cheeks, Roy slams their shoulders together with more force than Dick’s gentle knock. “Did you feel that? That's gratitude.”

Dick squeals and cackles, it bubbles out of him now and reverberates his ribcage- Roy can feel it resound into his own chest through their linked shoulders.  “Ow! Ha- Keep your gratitude, I haven't even done anything to help.”

“See…” Roy clears his throat awkwardly. “Maybe you can see it as an advance payment instead? I was going to ask you for a favour, actually.”.

“A favour?” Tilted head, all puppy-like, but narrowed eyes. Cogs seem to be whirring behind those bangs. “How can I help…?”

And maybe Roy isn't a Titan anymore, but the habit runs deep - when he is in trouble, when he needs instructions and advice on what to do, Roy looks to Robin. Robin can handle anything.

“As I said, he confiscated my bow… Do you have anything similar to that Batman wouldn't miss? Anything long-range, really. I'm sure I can figure it out.”

Instantly, Dick quirks an eyebrow at him. “You want batarangs? To pester Green Arrow into letting you back on the team?”

“Exactly.” Roy nods firmly. “I'm guessing you don't have a batbow or anything, then? I'll give it back, I swear!”

Dick sighs. “No batbow, and anything more, uh, extreme is kept child-proofed. Me-proofed. I'm not going to break into the trunk of the Batmobile or pretend like I can run off with something from B’s utility belt without him noticing.”

That was a… fair albeit slightly disappointing assessment. They should avoid involving the Batman, if possible. (Of course, maybe that would have been even more grating for Oliver.)

“Fine, batarangs would be great. It has to be similar to skipping rocks. Twist and throw?” He mimes the motion with his hand, sending the imaginary rock skipping over the quilt on the bed.

“No.” Dick buries his face in his hands. “Not exactly, no. And there is a problem with that plan already.”

"Enlighten me, oh mastermind?”

Dick looks entirely unimpressed. “Are you telling me that Green Arrow will not at all question how you got those? Will he not know that you visited me and that you then show up with Robin-gear, and maybe put two and two together? Publicly, Speedy and Robin haven't been seen together in a while.”

Shit. “Shit.” He really should have thought of that. It was a plan made in the spur-of-the-moment, so yes it made sense for it not to be bulletproof. This was why Robin made the decisions.  

“Would it be totally impossible to just…bear it for a little while? Focus on school, just enough to show him you're trying?”

“Yes !” Roy hisses. “Because I already am trying. And I’ve been trying! But being Speedy is the only thing that I'm good at, that I know how to do and like doing.”

Slowly and loosely, Dick puts an arm around his shoulder. “You're good at many things. You're talented and skilled-  and I've seen you show off, so I'd know. It's okay if you struggle with things, too.”

Silence drags out between them. Comfortably and stilling. When Roy speaks next, it’s more of an agitated mumble. “Oliver never had to deal with homework either! I know he spent his free time partying with rich brats, and then his parents bribed the school.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“He didn't want to listen.”

Another beat of silence, then Dick hums.

“So,” Dick begins, a scheming tone to his words. “Maybe you could show him that?”

Roy looked at him quizzically. “Spell it out.”

“It's a stupid idea- mostly to get back at Mr Queen for his stupid idea. I mean, why not show him that Speedy is a better outlet than a benched teenager? Hold a party, be a menace. Throw some jabs at the infamous Oliver Queen hangovers of the past. Just make him listen.”

“Mhm. A party.” Roy's cheeks flush hot, and he crosses his arms defensively. “With the many friends I've made sleeping through class and skipping school?”

“Oh,” Dick winces.“...But you've got me! Rich brat extraordinaire, ward of Brucie Wayne himself.”

Roy snorts. “Sure, golden boy. I’m sure you speak from experience, you unruly hooligan. Will you have time to put together a list with the many rules you’ve broken?”

Slasher smile and a wink. “Do you want them sorted chronologically or alphabetically?”

“Ha-ha,” Roy says, making sure to include as little amusement in his voice as possible.

“This is a misunderstanding,” Dick says, rising back to his feet and holding out his finger like he is a teacher with a powerpoint. “I’m not a stickler. I just know what I can get away with.”

And the look on his face is serious when he says it. Roy can’t find a dip into sarcasm or lips twisting into a smile. The worst part is, Roy can totally see it. That bastard wonder boy. Little shit with his shit-eating grin. Of course.

God, Roy loves his friend.

“I hope you realize I will never let this go and will extort you for stories until Garth, Donna, and Wally see the truth-”

“-Good luck!” Dick cuts in.

“-but seeing as you're on my side, I'll put a pin in that for now,” Roy continues. “So what's the plan, boss?”

Terrifyingly enough, the slasher smile evolves into a maniacal giggle. “Easy. Do you have a speaker? Otherwise you can borrow the one from the gymnasium. The smaller one should fit in a bag, probably. Maybe.”

“Oliver's got one already,” Roy reassures.

“Even better! So I'll ask if Donna can share some of her playlists with you, the really noisy stuff- like cacopohony type of noisy.”

A matching smile is beginning to grow on Roy's face. “I think I see where this is going.”

Dick extends his hand in an invite. “Then, may I show you to the next step? The escalation, if you will.”

“Don't disappoint, boy wonder.” Roy slaps it in a high-five, then takes the hand in his  and lets himself be dragged to his feet and away. 

“Let's go Maid Marian! Towards The Sherwood Forest!”

Roy intends to tackle his friend for the low-hanging fruit (damn him and his neverending cheesy references to Robin Hood, Roy got the joke the first time thank you very much) but is immediately distracted from his task when Dick drags the two of them towards the window instead of the door like a normal person. In one fellow swoop, before Roy can utter as much as a hey, what , Dick has opened the window and hoisted the both of them out of it. 

Sharp wind hits his face. He’s falling.

The whole point of this was that Roy didn’t have his equipment on him, and unless Dick has managed to hide an entire grappling hook in the curls of his hair, they were decidedly falling from the second floor of the building- 

As soon as the thought has had time to form, the two of them slam into a platform of gridded metal. Fire escape, his mind supplies when he’s come to terms with the fact that he’s not breaking his legs today.

“That was so unnecessary,” Roy groans. 

“Entirely necessary. The quickest way.”

“Show-off. Maniac. Human slinky-”

Dick proves Roy right by flipping him off, followed by backflipping off the fire escape. Double flipping combo. Roy strains himself not to laugh. 

Roy joins Dick on solid ground (thank god) by scaling down the fire escape like a normal vigilante. He realizes too late that he could have just walked down the stairs, but if Dick got to be superfluous then so does he.

His shoes sink into soft, cut grass. Looking around, they seem to be standing in an off-shoot of the Wayne Manor patio. They’re surrounded by glossy hedges with one gated entrance that they’ve bypassed by self-defenestration. A marbled path continues from the gate and trails past where Dick and Roy are standing, ending at a short staircase down into the ground. 

“Is gardening part of your master plan of rebellion?” Roy prompts. 

“You’d be surprised! But it’s more about what can be found in the garden. Come over here.” Dick starts walking towards the staircase. As they approach, Roy can see the solid cellar doors at the bottom. Standing out from the archaic architecture, the electronic lock must be a newer addition. 

Wasting no time, Dick presses in a few combination of numbers. The first two tries leads to a loud buzzing noise of error. Roy thinks he can safely assume that Dick does not know the correct pin-code in the first place. Then, all of a sudden, the lock gives off a correct ping. The doors click as they unlock. Alright.

Triumphantly, Dick swings open the doors, revealing-

A wine cellar.

Tiles of soapstone floor click against Dick’s shoes. Brick valves line the walls, containing shelves upon shelves of bottles. Upon Dick’s movement, the lighting overhead flickers to light and reflects against the surfaces glass in a myriad of shades. 

Roy takes a deep breath. The air tastes like underground. 

From where Roy is standing, he can only see the caps of the bottles peeking out in a nameless sea of products, but Dick seems to know his footing a little better. He heads deeper into the cellar, behind the support beam in the middle and ignoring the barrels he passes. Finally, he crouches down and holds his hand over his eyes, eyes trailing over the miniscule name tags. “I swear it was somewhere here, I know he kept it. Not that one, no, no…” His eyes light up. “Aha!”

He pulls out a bottle of wine. Roy thinks it looks pretty much the same as every other bottle, but what does he know. Dick seems to think otherwise. “Bruce has got such a bleeding heart- He absolutely hates this brand, but he got it in one of those gift baskets, you know? And so he doesn’t want to throw it away, but he’ll never use it and-” Dick grins wide. “And he’ll never miss it.”

Roy feels pressure build under his skin. “You think drinking is going to help me get back my bow?” he asks skeptically. In a weird way, that had been how he had ended up meeting Green Arrow, but that was neither here nor there.

Dick scrunches up his face in disgust. “Ew, no, don’t drink it. It’s disgusting. Way too overhyped,” he says casually, and continues. “No, I’ll just pour it down the drain or something- like I said, it won’t be missed. I was thinking about setting the tone, sending a message, that stuff. We’re reminding him of his teenage shenanigans right? How about putting a message in a wine bottle? That’s both funny and a bit poetic-” 

Dick is rambling, but Roy is stuck on the first thing he said. 

“How do you know what it tastes like?” Roy feels his eyes widen. “Does Bruce Wayne let you drink wine?” 

Dick laughs stutteringly, and looks off to the side. “...No.”

Did Dick just avoid Roy's question? What was there to avoid? Roy doubles down. “But you're speaking from experience? You've had it before?”

“You're acting as if that's, what, uncommon? Weird ? Yeah let the boy run around on rooftops and throw batarangs, but boy if he's tasted a drop of alcohol? Holy sobriety Batman!” Dick rambles, a bit too much like a barking dog too hide the defensiveness in his tone.

Maybe this is just a sensitive subject to Roy, and maybe he’s overreacting… But then why did the temperature of the room just drop? Why would Dick act weird? Roy furrows his brows. “Then when? If it wasn't from your d- If Bruce didn't give it to you. Like a party? Some fancy gala?” 

Dick rolls his eyes and drawls the words with as much irritation as he can seem to muster. “Dinner. Just something that fit the food.”

“Oh, so your babyface strolled unattended into a restaurant and asked for wine with your dino chicken nuggets and-”

“Babyface?” Dick echoes, like he has been slapped and scarred all at once. His shoulders wrench in around him and his pupils are rattling like qualmish pinpricks.

Something Roy said has struck a nerve, but- “Yeah? Have you seen yourself in the mirror?” Robin is a leader, but he is also Dick Grayson. Dick, who has permanently frazzled hair, dimpled cheeks, sticks his tongue out of his mouth in concentration when he's counting, and does a happy cartwheel when he gets something right. Like, Roy is younger than Dick and yet almost a head taller. Babyface was an understatement. “Do you seriously think you could pass for ‘21 and can legally drink’?”

“But I'm mature.” And there is a stark blankness over him. The words sound like they crack his throat and leave splinters.  “It’s different. He said- He's always saying-”

Roy feels like he's holding on to a lifeline and the rope is giving him friction burns as they quickly slip out of his hands. 

Who? He wants to ask, but the unraveling threads are moving with so much force that Roy fears they're going to catch on fire if he prods them.

Dick's breathing is getting quicker, ribs rising and lowering like a drum-solo. “I mean, everyone agrees! I'm a special case. Boy wonder, and all. I'm responsible enough that Batman trusts me, and mature enough to be the leader of my own team, and old enough to drink-” His eyes zone in on the bottle in his hands, cork forgotten on the floor. Roy never saw it get opened. Dick lifts it to his lips and takes a swig.

"Dick!" Roy shouts. His heart flicks every lever into high gear and has decided to start pounding a mile a minute. 

Dick grimaces and wipes his lips. “It still tastes foul, honestly. I thought it was supposed to get easier.” Gritting his teeth, he drinks another sip.

Spikes of icy fear settle in his fingertips. Roy curls them towards the palm of his hands to warm them, to calm down, to not think about the consequences of alcohol- “Then stop! Why are you drinking it? Doesn't- Doesn't being drunk make you aggressive?”

“Aggressive?” Dick repeats with a sardonic huff. “God no, it makes you friendly.”

Roy takes a step closer, honing in on the bottle. If Dick tried to drink more, he'd rip the bottle away from him. His friend wasn't acting like himself, he wasn't thinking. Something is wrong and Roy would not like alcohol to be added to the mix. “Being even friendlier is hardly the thing you need, giggles.”

Dick's skin no longer looks like it's devoid of blood, and the pallor has instead turned into a shade of green. He briefly looks like he wants to throw up into his bottle. That can't be because of the alcohol, can it? He had his first drink half a fucking second ago.  

With a hitched breath, Dick presses his eyelids together hard, as if he's barricading doors against an invasion. As if nothing will be real if he just doesn't have to see it. “It makes your eyes water,” Dick hastily adds. “You wouldn't know, you haven't tried it.”

Neither of those statements are true. Roy grinds his teeth uncomfortably, but takes the chance to nick the bottle away from his friend.

The moment the glass slips away from his fingers, Dick burrows his eyes open. Water gathers on his lashes. “No! Come on Roy, I've barely had any. I can't even feel anything!”

“Hallelujah. I think we should leave it at that.”

“I want to know! I need to know.” Dick starts to reach out and swipe for the bottle, but his heart is not in it. Easily outclassing Robin is a weird feeling. It hovers like a dark cloud.  “You're being a dick! At least let me see if I can get that fuzzy feeling, that was the only nice thing about the experience-”

So he had a bad time. Roy looks at the boy in front of him, really looks. He smashes the bottle against the stone floor. It splits in half, and shatters into pieces. The dark red liquid pours out into a puddle around it, looking like a morbid recreation of a carcass. 

Dick sniffs and makes a quiet, wounded noise as he stares at the shattered mess on the floor - as if he's the one laying there, irrevocably ruined.

“What happened?!” Roy tries to calm the agitation in his veins long enough to ask his question more gently. “Who are you talking about, Dick?”

“A mission, if you so dearly need to know,” Dick spits, glaring at him. The effect is less intimidating when tear tracks form around the frown. “During a mission, I got myself into a situation where I had to have a meal with a villain. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Nothing more. But that feels like a lot, already. It feels like too much. 

Roy wants to say as much, but words are fleeing his dry tongue. He swallows. “That… I don't think that's right.”

But Dick seems to take his words the wrong way, flinching back like he's been admonished. “Neither did I, asshole! I'm not dumb . You just- you haven't seen the full picture.” 

“Well, you’re not making it easier! I'm trying to help,” he yells.

“No, you're trying to make a big deal out of something that I've got under control! Why can’t you just trust me on that? Why do you have to bring it up? I don't want to think about it all of the fucking time. Not here.”

Roy takes a step forward, Dick takes a step back. 

Dick doesn’t trust Roy enough to tell him what’s wrong, and Roy doesn’t trust that Dick has got it under control. What a nice team they make.

“Leave me alone!” Dick screeches, all cornered animal. He heaves and pants like he's run a race to get to these words. He follows it with a soft, dead and final order. “I think it's time for you to leave. I don't want you here. I don't want you here.”

Those words hurt. They're probably meant to do that, to drive Roy away and to make him drop the conversation. The horrible thing is that it works. 

“Fine,” he snarls, angry that he doesn't understand and angry that Dick doesn't care. “I'll stay out of your hair, boss.”

Roy takes a step back, watching. Dick doesn’t take a step forward, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t stop him.

Another step. Another step. 

The eye-contact doesn’t break until Roy has shuffled back against the stairs and nearly trips and falls on his ass against them. He gives Dick one last look. “Thanks for the advice,” Roy mutters, tearing away from his stare, and leaves. 

Roy leaves the patio, then he leaves the Wayne Manor, and then he leaves Gotham. 

Something about Oliver’s concern felt a bit more comforting now. 

The next week, Roy's thumb hovers over the Slasher smile contact. He doesn't call.

Chapter Text

The camera shutters snap closed with a rattle and a click. Donna takes a few steps back, trying to get the full statue in the picture. The camera clicks again, and when it has snapped open, Dick is there. 

He pretends to lean against the sculpture, holding his hand out in the air as if he's supporting himself with it. The smile on his face is victorious, as if Dick has cracked a cold case and not just done the most corny, touristy pose possible. Donna indulges him, taking another picture. 

Dick winks. “Careful, I'm too photogenic. If you listen to what the magazines have to say, my face is like a performance enhancing drug. They'll ban me from your portfolio and you'll have to start all over.”

Donna gasps, mock offense in her voice. “Do you think I need to cheat my way into NYU Tisch?” 

Dick immediately barks a laugh, and even though Donna never had any doubt he was kidding, warmth buzzes inside her that the thought was so unthinkable to him.

“You don't need a lasso to know what I think about that. God no. Me, on the other hand? I could use the publicity. I'll wait until your photography makes you famous, and then I'll publish every photo you've taken of me and cruise right into any uni I want,” he says, as if he couldn’t do so already.

“So you're really not going to Gotham University?” The choice, for anyone looking in, would have seemed the obvious one. As the ward of Bruce Wayne, Dick had practically a reserved spot in the place, no bribes necessary. On top of that, it would be closer to his family. That might be the dealbreaker, one way or the other. 

“I'm still considering my options. There's what, half a year until I turn eighteen? Plenty of time left.” 

Raised by both Batman and Bruce Wayne, there was nobody that could worm their way out of a question quite like Dick Grayson. Pick your battles, Donna. “Well, thank you for coming with me to the open house. Even though you're undecided, I know you've never had an interest in Tisch.”

“I'm really interested. Look at her, right here.” He points at the sculpture of the woman, the Bust of Sylvette .  “Doesn't she look a bit like you? You know, when you used to have your hair up all the time. They even captured your lovesick pout. That's interesting.”

Donna rolls her eyes.

“-And I might also be interested in where you'll be spending your next few years. Can't let my wonder-twin get caught up in a wonder-less place,” Dick adds.

Ah, there we have it. Donna doesn’t hide her delighted smile, and makes sure to look Dick in the eyes long enough that he can’t possibly have missed it. 

Both her and Dick had trouble accepting a ‘thank you’, and recompensation felt like an affront. So, speaking from experience, Donna can declare that the best thing to do is clearly expressing how happy it made her to have him here. Dick thrived off that, even though he pretended to be so unwavering.

So she smiles and hooks their elbows together. “You would never.”

Some ever-present tension in his shoulders relax. While Donna’s senses aren’t quite as whetted as Diana’s, she can hear how the heartbeat next to hers slows down into a more natural pace. Strange, how one becomes more used to the sound of blood pumping hammer and tongs than deep breaths in this line of work.

“I would never,” he promises, squeezing her hand, sounding so relieved in the confidence they have welded. “Which brings us back to the subject at hand-” Dick taps at the watch on his wrist. “How much time do we have before the guided tour starts?”

She glances down at the clock that has moved so infinitely quick. “45 minutes, just about.”

Dick brings his fist to his chin in a pensive frown. “Think we can squeeze some more sightseeing ‘til then?”

“...Oh, hm-” Donna almost forgets to answer, entirely caught up in the spitting image of a plotting Batman before her. That frown must be infectious. Maybe they practise it? She wouldn’t put it past them. 

“You were talking about the Gallery, right? Or is the tour going to stop by there?” Dick suggests, waving his hand at her in a circular motion as if he’s unspooling a ball of yarn for Donna to reel in. 

“Right, the gallery! Well, there are several galleries, so the tour is bound to pass by one of them- I still don’t know which, though. I think it’s better if we leave that until later so we don’t have to do a repeat.”

“A good plan. What else, then?” He burrows closer against Donna’s absurdly fluffy scarf when a wave of particularly chilly wind whips at them. “If I may put in a request, I’d love something indoors.”

Donna nods. “I think you’ll find a clue if you look at your clock, actually.”

Dick immediately lifts his wrist closer to his face and examines the thing with great scrutiny. “Did you booby trap it? You would never booby trap my favourite clock, would you?”

Donna giggles. “Dick, it’s lunchtime. I think we should grab something to eat before the tour.”

He nods and huffs. “I knew I could trust you to leave my things alone, unless it’s my most comfortable clothes.”

Donna slaps a piece of the white fur against his nose. “Admit it, you were never using this scarf. I didn’t even think you knew you had it!”

“Wait- is that my scarf? I was talking about your cardigan!” Dick exclaims, only managing to sound thoroughly baffled.

She crosses her arms. “And where did you get those boots?”

Dick lifts his arms in exasperation. “That’s different! You outgrew them! And the only comfortable shoes Bruce knows about are Birkenstock loafers.”

She winces. “Alright, I guess I did have to save you from that fate.”

“I’m glad you see sense,” Dick agrees with a sigh. “Now let me save you from the fate of a busy lunch queue. If you find somewhere to sit, I can find somewhere to order food.”

“Too slow, Dickie!” Donna’s grin grows as she digs her hand into her backpack and pulls out a children’s lunchbox with the Kid Flash printed on top. Dick immediately groans. “Don’t be like that, I know you’ve kept yours too.”

“Yeah, I’m not going to throw away a gift but I’m not going to stroke his ego that easily either. If he ever finds out I’ve used it my credibility is done for - A one-ticket ego trip paid for by my dignity.” The look on his face is far too intense, but Donna is a good friend and will not laugh at him. Such a good friend.

“Well, since you aren’t paying for the food, maybe your dignity can pitch in for this picnic.” She dangles the lunchbox between them. The reflective flash symbol glistens. “Or do you not want my tirokafteri and pita chips?”

Dick whines longingly. “Alfred is a stellar British man, and I wouldn’t exchange his cooking for the world…”

Donna dangles the lunchbox in his face slowly. “...but?”

“But god do I miss spice sometimes. Bruce cries when there’s too much pepper on his potatoes,” he laments, covering his face in abject horror.

Doing her best impression of a crime lord pitching her product, Donna unlocks the clasps in front of the box and opens it so that it faces Dick. 

He groans, shaking only slightly with underlying laughter. “How dare you. How dare you.” Dick takes a deep breath, and a smile grows on his face. He sends her a knowing look. “You added extra peppers-”

“-I added more hot peppers,” Donna says at the same time.

“-didn’t you?”

Donna snorts a breath, and then Dick’s laughter makes her unable to contain her own. 

And that's when a shiver passes through her, and the soft grip that she’s got on the box slips. 

Dick is quick enough to catch the box before it falls to the ground. Some of the chips take the chance to go flying everywhere, and Donna can already hear the excited chatter of birds. “Are you okay? Donna, what’s up?” In one motion, Dick has pulled himself taught, taller and at the ready. His gaze is so calm and clear that Donna would have missed his change in heart rate if she hadn’t just paid so much attention to it.

“Yeah, sorry, I was just caught off guard,” she is quick to assuage. Before continuing, Donna sends a look around them to make sure no-one is eavesdropping. “I think my sister needs me.” The shiver had that distinctive far-away feeling that Donna had felt many times before, like feeling whispers fizzle against your skin. Diana was probably calling for her telepathically. 

Understanding flickers in Dick’s eyes, and they steel over into business. “Did she say about what?”

Donna shakes her head. “Too far away to tell. I’ll call her, get somewhere I can change.” If it wasn’t something that needed a suit, Diana would have just called using a phone like a normal person, even if she was somewhat of a technophobe.

“I’ll come with you,” Dick says, always at her side before she even needs to ask. 

Donna sends one last look over to the waving banners announcing ‘Open house!’, and tucks the lunchbox back into her bag. “You have your things with you?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

Dick gives half a grin. “I would never leave without them.” 

As soon as she got a fraction of privacy Donna had called Diana and gotten a cursory briefing on the situation. What she had heard did not calm her down in the slightest, nor make her any less puzzled.

After recovering the spare suit Dick has in a secret compartment in his motorcycle, the two of them slip into an unmonitored manhole and change into their costumes. For ease of travel, they opt to leave the bike behind and hope no-one will have stolen it before they return. In lieu of motor vehicles, Donna acts as a human private plane. 

Like many times before, Robin climbs on her back and hooks his legs tightly around her waist as she takes to the air. He’s so used to it now that he barely lets out a thrilled ‘whee!’.

While they’re flying, Donna fills him in on the situation.

“We’re going to the what now?” Robin questions skeptically, making the effort to squirm around her with a flexibility that just shouldn’t be possible purely to send her an incredulous look. 

Donna swats at Robin admonishingly. “Sit still when we’re flying- Yeah, St. Patrick’s Cathedral. What, do you know it?”

“Well, obviously I’ve heard about it, but I’ve never been there in person.” She catches sight of the contemplative scrunch of his face before Robin swings back into a safer position. “It’s just such a normal place. You said that there’s a blackout, but that can’t possibly be league level concerning. What’s the sticky wicket?”

“Stop using bizarre british expressions you’ve been taught by an old man-”

“-I’ve got to keep them guessing!” 

“-But yeah, usually a power outage flies under our radar, except for the fact that the JLA has been keeping tabs on the place for a little while. It’s the first time I’m hearing about it, but apparently they believe a relic from a cult has gotten mixed up and has ended up at the cathedral, hiding somewhere in plain sight.”

Robin hums. “That’s interesting… I wonder if it was a mistake, or if someone planted it there. I’m assuming the ‘blackout’ might not be a coincidence, then?”

“Maybe not. Maybe someone else has heard those rumors and is coming to retrieve it,” Donna agrees.

“Do we know the cult in question?”

“The intel is leaning towards it being Zandian,” she recalls. “They haven’t determined which, yet. Retrieving the item would help.”

“Great!” Robin snarks. “We’re maybe looking for a mysterious object from unknown origins in a lightless cathedral while there could be other people there looking for it.”

And yeah… “When you put it like that… it sounds like we’ve got this in the bag.”

Robin huffs softly. “If I have to be in this situation, I’m glad it’s with you. Makes it almost feasible! Needle in a haystack, meet your match.”

“Wonder Woman is on her way, but she sounded pretty preoccupied. We just have to investigate, I don’t think she’d want us to engage if it seems dangerous. I have a feeling this could be bad - If anything happens, let’s try to distract them and hang in there until back-up arrives. Okay?”

“Hang in there, you say?” Robin removes his arms from her and swings himself backwards, so he’s hanging off her only by curling his legs around her, the rest of his body flopping freely in the wind. “Where else would I go?”

“Rob!” she squawks, adjusting the course so as not to break his neck. “Oh Zeus-”

As quickly as he swung down, he sits back up again. Worst of all, she can’t be mad at him when he cackles like an overjoyed madman. She has missed his laugh. 

“Wonder, a lot has changed, but we’ll always be a team. If you don’t think we should engage, I trust your judgement.”

The sharp stone peaks and twisting valves of the cathedral come into view. Wind digs into her cheeks with a furious frost as she starts to dive down. The short journey through the city has brought them from a chilly but sunny autumn day to a cloudy state of smog. Skyscrapers tower over the cathedral, shadowing what little light could have slipped through the gray overhead. 

Donna had been hoping for the sprawling windows to provide natural lighting, but maybe she should extinguish that train of thought already. Naturally, she’d be fine, but Robin didn’t have super senses to help him navigate.  

She lands in front of the main entrance, having a quick word with the firemen that assured her the place should be empty of civilians. Donna asks them to wait outside, and they thankfully agree for the moment.

Robin is waiting by the gates, and when she approaches he points at his ear. “Connected?”

Donna clicks a miniscule button underneath the lobe of her ear. “Connected. This should go straight to Wonder Woman’s channel.

Confirming her words, the backup comms crackle to life and project the voice of her sister. Donna relaxes at the concise instructions. “Stay in touch, I’ll answer as soon as possible.”

“Gotcha!” Robin confirms, letting the channel remain open as he talks. “Wondergirl, if we’re focusing on recon, we should split up to cover ground and make sure nothing - by which I mean no-one - slips past us.”

It was a fair point, and even though going in alone was a risky move, they weren’t very far from each other - and she knew they both could handle themselves.  “I don’t love it, but I’m just a shout away. Withdraw and wait for me at any sign of danger.” Donna pats him on the back in a good-luck gesture.

“That goes for you too,” he smiles, returning the pat, before pulling out his grappling gun and sending it off behind him without even looking at where it lodges itself. “Dibs on the the top and back, see you at the middle,” he says, just before the line draws him up and away from the scene. 

Just a moment later, Donna can’t help but break her professionalism with a groan. Of course her boy wonder had left her to deal with the crypt. Donna, this isn’t Themyscira, and these crypts probably aren’t channeling the spirits of legends. Yeah. Just some relic from a cult. Did they really have to split up? 

The hallway is dark except for the ill-fitting neon green of the emergency signs. Donna begins by treading slowly, taking in her environments before making any hasty moves. 

Something glints to her right, and she almost trips on the scuffed carpet as she skips backwards and preemptively shields herself with her bracelets. 

The threat that Donna had tried to protect herself against was- the flickering light of a fake candle. Maybe it should be a silly overreaction, but something about this was really giving her a bad feeling. 

She crept closer. Rows of candles and books, pamphlets and other oddities lined the small room. The light reflected itself against a metal sign on the wall. 

“I think… there's a gift shop?” Donna reported trailingly.

“Churches have gift chops?” Robin whispers in shock. 

Donna considers the mess of items and how easy it would be for a genuine relic to blend in. “Could be a point of interest.” As long as they didn't know what it was, the gift shop was a potent hiding spot. She'd definitely want to delve further into that at some point but… There was too much there. Better to do a sweep of the first floor before digging deeper. 

Storage and janitor's closets were obvious targets, too. Less traffic, less eyes on the prize, and thus less risk of getting caught. That would be, of course, if Donna assumed the relic had been intentionally hidden here. Diana had described it as a mistake.

“The garden was empty, the ground was frozen, too solid to show any footsteps. Nothing of note in the clocktower,” Robin updates just as Donna returns to the main corridor. 

“I’ll take a look at the altar,” Donna shoots back. 

Entering the nave, slippery and polished marble floor clicks underneath her careful feet. Not needing the noise, she lets her next steps hover in the air instead. The added height is a good vantage point over the columns of benches at either side of her. Empty, save for a forgotten bible and hair-tie. 

It's difficult to make out the far ends of the room, as it disappears in darkness only mildly buffeted by the blue mosaic windows. There seems to be objects mounted on the wall, but the symmetry tells Donna that they're meant to be here. They don't seem to be in any immediate danger of snatching as long as she is in the vicinity, so she presses forward.

“That's strange,” Robin breathes. “I think there's a light on. Could be a candle?”

“There was one in the gift shop,” Donna supplies.

“I think this one is inside the confessional?”

The altar is the statement piece of the room, on top of a small set of stairs. A golden structure frames it like a gateway and wreath all in one, spiky and threatening - In sharp contrast to the living plants potted in a circle around the structure.

Behind the altar is another set of stairs. Leading down into the ground, with a heavy door. The crypt.

The door to the crypt is not fully closed. Silence and black envelops the inside. But through the crack in the door, she is overwhelmed by the smell .

The place is absolutely drenched in the crisp scent of soap. Moving inwards, her eyes adjust to the darkness enough to separate the gray, shadowed floors from the yellow, viscous fluid dripping from a cart. Spilled soap. That does explain the scent.

The cap on the bottle must have been screwed on too loosely, because the liquid seeps out where the bottle tilts over the edge of the cart. The cart is accompanied by the silhouette of a broom, bucket and mop. It all seems to be in quite a state of disarray, and the cart itself is awkwardly resting out of the way. 

It doesn't feel right.

The ceiling of the crypt is too low for Donna to fly with her back straight. She continues on foot, eyes peeled and her fists closed. 

Her foot smacks against a pebble that crunches underneath her step. 

Something heavy slams against the wall in response.

“Donna?” The comms crackle.

Donna rounds a pillar. Laying against it is a lanky man on the older side, hands and feet tied and mouth muffled with a rag. Sweat glistens against his pale face. Even in the darkness, Donna can see how his white apron is stained red.

“I think I've found the janitor. He's injured.”

Robin hisses. “Careful, could be a ruse.”

The man looks up at her, the look in his eyes drowned in the obscurity, but pupils dilated. She steps closer, running her eyes up and down.

“I can’t see any weapons on him, his leg is broken, and he's bleeding heavily from his thigh. Fresh wound.”

“Attacker?”

“Not here,” Donna says, already on her knees and extracting the man from the corner without jostling his wounds. He seems dazed, which is not a good sign, but at least lets Donna work her first aid without disturbance.

A split second before the comms can convey anything at all, Donna hears the far-away echo of Dick’s heartbeat stop . Momentarily, it freezes, just disappears. The lack of it permeates wood and stone and drives a stake into her gut. Donna’s lungs twist.

And quicker than lightning but far too slow, it returns. Not the slow comforting beat or the elevated pace of Dick’s focus. No, the pumping in his veins echoes through the halls and roars in a panic. It feels like the hammering feet of a dying rabbit that is trying to expel lead out of its body. It feels like a body permeated by sickness roiling helplessly against itself, trying to find a way out of its own skin. 

It feels like terror. 

It leaves Donna gasping for air. “D- Robin. Robin?”

Then, she starts to pay attention to the comm by her ear. It doesn’t convey every minute detail the way her own ears would, but she doesn’t need supersenses to hear Dick’s breathing rasp against the air and then falter in a choking sound. A deep breath is sucked in through gritted teeth (she knows that noise, that Dick makes when he’s at the last bastion of calm before collapse, trying to drag himself into composure) - and then the air waits quietly in bated breath.

“Ecce Agnus Dei!” A man exclaims, rough and gravelly. His voice rings like an attack. Donna knows that voice, doesn’t she? She’s heard it before- “Can you see the writing on the wall? Do you know what that means, Robin?”

“...Slade,” Robin says instead, sounding both distant and despairing when his voice cracks. “Deathstroke,” he corrects, more determined and determinedly detached.

The man speaking. She had recognised him. It had been years since she'd seen him, but she would never forget the sight of him cradling the dead body of Ravager. The name Slade rolls off her skin, unknown and without meaning.

Then Robin says ‘Deathstroke’... 

Oh no.

A moment later, Wonder Woman clicks through to their channel. “Deathstroke? Did I hear that right? Wonder Girl, Robin, retreat and report.”

The only shuffling of motion Donna can hear are heavy, deliberate movements, becoming more clear as they approach the microphone. That’s not Robin.

“You will answer me when I speak,” Deathstroke demands, then his voice becomes soft and sickeningly, mockingly sweet. “I can hear the chirping from your ear. Should I go talk to them first?”

“No!” Robin exclaims. “No, Slade, we’re having a conversation.”

“We are,” Deathstroke agrees, sounding incredibly pleased. It makes Donna’s blood boil.

An assassin with a vengeance towards Donna and Robin were now in an enclosed space with them. Next to Robin. Hippolyta give me strength .

Donna looks at the man in front of her. At the wound she’s pressing down on. He's still bleeding, he would really be in need of further care, but- But he wouldn't die if Donna went to extract Robin, would he? But Robin might, if she didn't.

“Robin, get away , I’ll come get you,” Donna hisses, already trying to put the bleeding man into a safe position. 

“Do not, I’ve got it handled,” Robin orders.

“Recon, we agreed. This is more than the first sight of danger - Robin he’ll kill you.”

Robin laughs, lengthily and acrid. “No he won’t.”

Donna staggers. He sounds so sure of it. 

“I’m being cordial,” the assassin agrees, and yeah he can definitely hear them as well as she hears him. “But the favour isn’t being returned to me.”

Robin gnashes his teeth so hard that Donna can hear them scrape and clash. “What does ‘ecce’- what does it mean, then?”

“Agnus Dei . I don’t expect you to speak latin, but I thought a Robin might recognise its likeness, the sacrificial lamb,” he taunts.

“I’m not a lamb,” Robin asserts emphatically, the bantering tone falling flat before it has ever flied. “I’m Robin. That’s a bird, didn’t you know?”

“You want to be the bird that brings peace on an olive's branch. Awfully cute, lovedove.” Deathstroke says with a click of his tongue. What? And then Donna hears the whining of a blade in the wind. “They usually have a wound right here, in paintings. I can't recall, have I struck you there before? I know you can bleat.”

Robin's breath hitches. "Please stop listening, Wonder.”

The channel gives a monotonous zizz, and then the comm goes quiet.

“Robin?” Donna calls. “Robin, come in!”

Wonder Woman speaks up, too. “Robin, can you hear us?”

“I’m going to find him!” Leaving the man on the floor, Donna jumps to her feet and starts rushing out of the crypt. 

The hallway echoes with every step and reverberates her own breathing so that she can barely hear anything else. Just as she’s outside the door, she stops to listen. She strains her ears and closes her eyes. Where are they?

“-what do you want?” Robin's voice slithers from the eastern stairway, trailing up and away. 

“I think they’re on the upper eastern wing,” Donna instructs just as she leaps into the air and takes flight. 

“I’ll be there soon, hold out and stay safe,” Diana calls back. 

Deathstroke’s reply becomes louder as Donna approaches. “From you? A lot.”

Robin spits back. “What are you doing here, Slade?”

“Having fun,” the man drawls.

Faint traces of speckled light splatter over Donna’s skin from the stained glass windows. Purple, yellow, blue, red… Purple, yellow, blue, red… Donna whirs past it all, seeking the shadows and the noise of speech, the song of a Robin caught on a limestick. 

“What’s so fun about this? No fighting, barely any threats-” Robin takes a deep breath. “You’re letting me waste your time. You’re playing at something. What’s in this for you?” 

“Would you rather I’d be mean?”

Terse silence. 

Robin doesn't object.

Deathstroke chuckles, and his words veer into a purr, sounding every bit like the cat who got the cream. “Don't go around looking for strings attached unless you want them cut.”

She's almost there. Almost there. Almost-

Donna nearly rips out a curtain as she swerves into her room, lasso in hand. 

Robin twitches, but his eyes stay locked on the man in front of him. Deathstroke , dressed in a combat suit of orange, black and unreflecting metals. Two, six, eight- Donna automatically starts to count his weapons but redirects her attention from the futile task.

Robin's hands are outstretched. Tense, they are gripped between Deathstroke's thumbs. One of the assassin's hands is still gripping onto a handgun.

When Donna bursts in, Deathstroke seamlessly moves behind Robin and shifts the gun to point at his neck. 

Donna freezes.

Something small and metallic rests in Robin's hand, and it jingles faintly when he flinches. Then his face smoothes out once again. “He won't kill me,” he reassures.

There it is, once again. That certainty. Not the safety of a net but of the tangibility of a grave that had already been dug. Donna packs that away for later.

“Not yet,” the man corrects, tapping the gun against Robin's chin. “Not until I'm done.”

And while Donna doesn't trust Deathstroke to tell her the truth about as much as the weather, she would trust everything in Robin's conviction.

Her lasso lashes through the air and snakes around the assassin's forearm, loosening his grip on the gun. He doesn't press down on the trigger, even as he's forced to let go of it. 

Fury burns in her veins, scalding and confused. She channels the feeling into the rope of myth, seeing it glisten. 

“Tell me,” she shouts, and knows the lasso will listen. “What do you want with Robin? What are you planning, Deathstroke?”

Deathstroke smiles. “You don't want to know,” he says, easily and truthfully. The lasso accepts this.

Donna jolts. That tone- She feels sick. The lasso waivers along with her footing. 

“Until next time, boy blunder.” Deathstroke sheathes the gun, and flicks his finger against the jugular vein where it had been previously resting. Robin trips backwards, as if the touch had been a bullet all the same.

Pellets drop to the ground, and smoke fills the room with a hiss.

Wonder Woman had arrived at the scene not long after.

After Donna had promised the two of them were unhurt, and after she had double checked that Dick wasn't hiding any injuries, Diana set out to deliver the janitor to the nearest medical team. She'd return after wrapping it up officially.

Fleeing the smoke and the crowds, they had migrated to a rooftop nearby. A nicer one, some kind of roof garden. Leaning against the lemon tree, Dick digs his fingers into his arms. Donna mimics his position, knees to her chest. That whole thing definitely felt wrong .

Taking a deep breath, the gritted-teeth kind, Dick looks up and meets her eyes. He taps his ear and then points at Donna.

“Do you mean…” she doesn't finish her sentence, hovering her hand over the comm.

“Off ”, he mouths without sound. “Turn it off.”

She does. His shoulders slump in relief.

But Donna is reminded of the panic of radio silence. “Did yours break? Did he take them?” 

Dick looks away. “It's whole. I just turned it off.”

“Why?” she asks.

“Nothing important.”

Lie, lie, lie .

Donna picks her battles, and this one needs to happen. “I think it is. I would like to know, even if you don't think it's a big deal. I think it matters.”

“Maybe it does matter. Maybe it matters a lot, and that’s why I shouldn’t talk about this. I’m not thinking clearly and- I don’t think I can be trusted to be objective about this.” Dick picks at his cuticles. “This is serious. I don’t want you to trust my irrational perspective.”

“It doesn’t have to be objective,” Donna says, and Dick’s heartbeat flutters. “I’ll take it with a pinch of salt, if that helps, but I’m interested in what you are thinking, what you are feeling. Be as irrational as you’d like, I won’t judge.”

He breathes in, avoiding her eyes. Moments pass in a standstill, a stalemate between patience and fear, between stagnance and jitters. Just when it seems he won't answer, Dick breathes out. “I didn't want him to be heard. I don't- I don't like how he speaks about me,” he admits, projecting a nonchalance that strains his face.

“Me neither.”

“No?” Dick's eyes skitters over her face, searching. 

“No,” Donna affirms, grimacing.

He holds his breath, waiting, and Donna knows she has to put this into words even if it's uncomfortable.

“It's obsessive,” she begins, and that's not enough. That doesn't acknowledge the crawling lilt when Deathstroke spoke to Robin, or the avarice with which he drank in his contact. “It’s creepy. It felt sleezy .”

“I feel like I'm going crazy,” Dick chokes out desperately, as if he’s finally allowing himself to put it into words. He has to clear his throat to continue.  “I don't know if I'm the sick one for taking it… this way. He compared himself to my dad , before. And I've twisted it to something- something perverse. What does that say about me?”

Donna feels her heart shatter. Dick has thought over this for a while. What has been happening? How long has this been going on? “It says that he's making you uncomfortable. That's not crazy. The way he acts… He is the sick one!”

“He won't hurt me,” Dick says, and immediately backtracks at how utterly incorrect that is. “Not in that way. I mean, he's had endless opportunities- If he wanted to, he would have already. I don't even know if he understands how it comes off.” He rubs his arms in a semblance of self-comfort. “Maybe he just wants to get under my skin. Maybe he just doesn't care. I don't know .”

A shiver passes through Donna. Reverberating in her ear, her sister suddenly speaks, voice coming from nowhere. “The ambulance personnel took over. It seems he will stabilize.”

“Okay. We're on the roof,” Donna projects internally, then out loud says: “My sister is on the way.”

Dick straightens, hand on his pouch.

Confusion blooms into a frown on Donna's face. “What's wrong?”

Dick uncurls his hand, revealing a small metal object. Bells, painted red. “I got the relic, I think.”

“That’s great!” Donna cheers encouragingly.

“No. He just gave it to me. Slade, he just- Handed it over.” Dick jerks. “I don't think you should tell anyone that.”

Now, Donna is definitely frowning. "And why is that?" 

“I don't think he was supposed to give that to me.” Dick bites his cheeks. Donna hears the teeth grind against dead flesh. “He's working for someone else, he must be, and this was definitely not allowed.” He manages a small, reassuring smile. “Just let it stay even, alright? He gave me a gift and I don't- this is my gift back. Then I don't have to think about it anymore. I won't feel indebted.”

With as much doubt as possible, Donna hums.

Dick gives a curt nod, like that will make Donna agree. “This is between me and him.”

I think that's the problem. To fight against the sudden onslaught of nausea, Donna clasps her hands together. “I don't think it should be.”

Dick's face breaks . He looks devastated. “Please,” he begs, muscles pulled taught halfway between the point of fight and flight. “You can’t tell her. Don’t tell anyone. Promise me you won’t. I’d hate you. I’ll- I’d never speak you again-”

“I won't tell her,” she amends hastily, helplessly. Not for now. But I'm not dropping this. Maybe she should revisit the Teen Titans. See if they needed any help. See what the hell this was all about. There had to be something. I don’t want to lose him.  

Expelling the oxygen that he was guarding tight in his lungs, Dick goes slack against the lemon tree. Donna reaches out her hand in offering. He takes it and squeezes it - she’s not sure if the movement is meant for her or him. Either way, Dick unfurls a bit more, and Donna feels like she can do the same. We’re okay. We’re safe. 

They sit there, breathing. Feeling the bark against their back and listening to cars driving past far, far away. 

From the edge of the building, the formidable form of Wonder Woman flies into their sight. Her arms are crossed, her eyebrows pinched, but disquiet shines in her eyes.

Dick sits up straight. “...Was the man able to get help in time?”

Diana gives a slow nod. “He is being treated and will recover. We will see about getting his testimony when he is lucid enough to give it. It would be enlightening, considering the gaps in our intel.”

“Mm.” Dick winces. “I think I contributed to that gap, didn’t I?”

Her lips press together, partly stern and partly distressed. “What happened? It didn’t sound like the line lost signal. It sounded like you disconnected.”

“I-” Dick sighs. “I turned it off. Maybe you don’t agree, but I assessed the situation and that seemed like the best way forward.”

“The best way forward when being met with a notorious assassin was to cease all communication? Please do explain.” 

“I took a risk. Having an audience was agitating him. When we’re alone, I can handle him. I know what my limits are and what to expect. I didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to the injured man or Wonder Girl - any new variable could have put everything in jeopardy,” Dick explains, so unlike the personal confession he had trusted Donna with.

“Robin,” Donna cannot help but to interject, “I’m not Wonder Girl so that others will fight for me. I’m here to fight by your side. Teams take risks together .”

Dick sends her an apologetic look and squeezes her hand, but doesn’t correct himself. He’d never regret putting himself at risk for the sake of his teammates, Donna knows.

“That is not a generalisation - you speak from experience. You’ve fought this man before?” Diana clarifies.

“Sure. Many times,” Dick relents. “He’s got a grudge against the Teen Titans - but I’m still standing, we all are. I’ve got it under control.”

“You’ve got Deathstroke under control?”

“I’ve got it under control!” Dick snaps, composure tearing at the edges. “No one got hurt, and I got the relic. That’s a success in my book.” As Dick holds out the bell, Diana regards it curiously, but does not move to take it before Dick shoves it forward. “Take it!”

“Young man,” Diana speaks with a serious, booming voice. It softens, but doesn’t lose its resolve. “I was trying to say, we were concerned. You are thankfully unharmed, this time. Next time maybe you won’t be.” Diana is trying to be kind, but Donna can see the way Dick bristles and clenches his fists. He is on the defensive, and will only spiral deeper if prodded. 

Dick’s chest is puffed out, and he almost looks like he wants to stand on his toes. “Sorry for making a rash decision, but I don’t regret the one I made. If there was a better way to get out of that situation, I would have taken it.”

“I was on my way,” she reminds him.

“But you weren’t there. So I did what I could.” Slowly, his heartbeat cools. In fact, Donna can feel his hand physically drop temperature. “Thank you for your concern. I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

“I am sorry, too. For not being there.” Diana’s eyes narrow in consideration. “You’re troubled. I can’t speak on something I was not there for, but if you would like, I think it would be wise to talk-”

“You’re right, you can’t!” Dick chirps, hopping up on his feet. “Thanks, but what I would like to do is go home and sleep. If I get a move on, I can almost get a nice eight hours before patrol.”

“No you aren’t,” Donna flies in front of him, arms crossed. “We haven’t had anything to eat since brunch. We're getting food first.”

Dick bares his teeth, not exactly in a smile. “Superfluously generous, Wonder, but I think I’ll just order a batburger on the way home. Nothing quite like grease to, well, grease my wheels.”

“Wheels?” Donna shoots back. “I hope you haven’t forgotten that you left your bike on the other side of the city.”

Dick’s hand, which had pulled out his grapple gun, falters. He sends an irritated look Donna’s way.

Returning the favour, Donna flashes her teeth. “I can drop you off there after we’ve had some food.”

Diana watches the exchange, and does not open telepathic communications with Donna to share what she's thinking. Donna wonders what today had looked like from the outside, if it had seemed like anything at all. Come one , she urges, but does not send the thought. Can't you see something is wrong? Aren't you going to address what you heard?

Barely anything had been caught on the comms, though. Having been there herself, Donna had heard every word in a different key - they had sounded different when they were accompanied by the chords of panic she'd witnessed.

Donna can say something. She really, really wants to. It rests on top of her tongue, burning and lurching against the barricade of her smile. She doesn't even need to say it out loud for her sister to hear her. 

Truth was a pillar to Donna. It carried her principles. It was her justice.

But she has made a promise. What she fears most of all is to scare him away with a betrayal, to close him off, and to lose the chance to be there. Having this slip through her fingers would be… disastrous. She'll try to talk to him first. He needs his twin right now.

Donna bites her tongue. For now. Just for now.

The JLA protocol usually requires immediate debriefing, while everything is a fresh memory, but Diana lets them go with the condition that they'll send in a detailed report as soon as possible. Maybe she did see something was wrong, or maybe the protocol didn't account for what to do with non-league members. Either way, Donna thinks both Dick and her are relieved to not relive the situation so soon.

Unfortunately, Batburger-places are far and few inbetween in Midtown. The one they’ve got is usually flooded by curious tourists who want to get a taste of Gotham without ever stepping foot in it, and being packed like sardines is a bad idea when they haven’t had time to change out of their hero costumes. 

Instead, Donna remembers the shittiest 7/11 she has ever been to. There can’t possibly be a crowd there. Somehow, the small building surrounded by unused parking lots simply deters visitors, and Donna accepts the stench of rat poison in exchange.

The place is predictably dead empty when they turn up, so they can have their pick for seats. Most of the tables are outside, but fleeing the cold takes priority over the added layer of privacy, so they settle by the one inside, next to the window. Lucky. The view of asphalt is the inspiring sight we need right now.  

Without dwelling on it for too long, Donna orders a chili dog for herself and an orange juice to go with it. Dick takes longer to make his decision, subtly shifting from foot to foot as his eyes trace the products in the fridge. Meanwhile, Donna sits down, claiming the table before any surprise guest could claim it. It takes Dick five laps around the shelves before it seems he has paced sufficiently, and he grabs a couple of items and brings them to the counter. The baggy-eyed cashier barely looks up from the thick textbooks on the counter as she rings him up. I wonder how long it’ll take until she notices Robin and Wonder Girl have visited. The lack of security and surveillance was a surprising silver lining of this place.

Donna takes a bite of her food as Dick takes the seat next to hers. Yeah, definitely stale. She makes a face. The rubbery meat is somehow less dry than the bun. 

“That look is making me glad I didn’t pick something warm,” Dick comments.

Ready to insult whatever choice her friend has picked, Donna rounds her chair, but stops earnestly. Only a little package of fruit salad lies before him, along with an iced tea of some sort. “Is that all you’re going to eat?” 

Dick shrugs. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Would a Batburger have been better? I can still take us there, if you don’t mind eating outside.”

“No, no,” Dick brushes off. “Honestly, I was just looking for an excuse to leave. I really do want to go home and sleep. Can’t be feeling all wrung-out on patrol, that’s a bad idea.”

“Are you sure you should be out and about tonight? If this is about some sense of duty, you’ve already been a big help today,” Donna says, skirting around the specifics like hot coals. “And I think a break is in order. You don’t look too peachy.”

“I didn’t mean to worry you, I was just upset over nothing. Ugh, this was supposed to be your day. Can’t we switch? Let me worry about you a little.” Dick gives a lighthearted groan, softly slamming his head into the table. After doing so, he promptly stills for a moment. “Uh, actually, Wonder, did you bring a napkin?”

She brushes off the crumbs around her mouth with the back of her hand. “Nope, why?”

“This is such a dramatic move from my body.” He looks up from the table, blood pouring from his nostrils. As it flows down his chin, he holds out a hand to catch it before it falls in his food.

“Whoa!” Reaching for the first tissue-shaped item in the vicinity, she crumples some old newspapers left on the table and shoves it against Dick’s face. Good enough. 

“It’s all good.” He gives a little laugh, following her lead and reaching out for another paper. His eyes skim over the grayscale, then does a double-take and jolts. He presses the flimsy pages against the gushing blood. Instantly the grayscale turns a blood red, and Donna sees how a front-page picture of Dick Grayson is soaked red and dripping. The imagery is a little too on the nose for her liking.

“What did you do to get on the front page?” she asks in bewilderment.

“I was born,” he quips. At her raised eyebrow, he reaffirms his words. “No seriously, apparently some people find my birthday incredibly interesting. Every year I see some ‘super scoops’ with ‘insider information’ on my ‘upcoming birthday extravaganza’. It’s a fascinating read. I wonder how they come up with it all.”

“Upcoming… as in half a year from now? Gee, how punctual.”

Dick switches his hold on the papers so that he can give a showmanly point at Donna. “ Exactly half a year, apparently. Or it was whenever this was printed. They have a countdown.”

Donna scrunches up her face. “Countdown.”

Dick snorts, entirely without mirth. “I think they’re just aching to be able to say whatever they want about me without attacking a ‘child’. Or, well, being too affectionate.”

“So they’re having a countdown until it suddenly becomes fine? How could they come up with that?” she cannot help but ask.

“You tell me. Sometimes it does leave me wondering what they’re all seeing that's so-” he stutters, staggers, cogs shuttering. “It’s becoming a pattern. Have I done something to make them act this way? Did I- I don't know, ask for it ?”

“ Rob ,” Donna balks. “Robin, no. That’s not how this works. Have you seen what people say about Starfire, just because she prefers to show skin? You heard the weird questions I got during our first interview, just because they saw me as a miniature Wonder Woman. Do you think we deserved that?”

“No!” he exclaims, disgust written all over his face.

“So why would it be different because it’s you?” she asks, and he doesn’t seem to have an answer to that. 

Donna opens a packet of wasabi peas and puts it between them. The small crackle of plastic seems to disturb Dick. In fact, every time the fan whirrs or the cashier flips a page of her textbook, Donna sees him twitch. Hm . Donna takes out her headphones, puts on her workout metal mix, and offers them to Dick. 

Like he simply doesn’t know what else to do with them, Dick hesitantly puts them in his ears. He stops twitching. Then, he starts to bop his head. They spend a few minutes without saying anything.

“Well, at least I’ve got variation!” he cracks, suddenly. “Either, I can be Batman’s little flunkie-” He stabs a slimy piece of pineapple with a grudge. “-Or Bruce’s. I think that’s their deal. The magazines, they expect me to be like him, or compare me to him.” A strawberry is crushed underneath his plastic fork. “They never just let me be faceless. I can’t even be left alone when I get groceries in Gotham, I just have to ignore my face in the papers the next day.”

Donna wishes she could relate. There aren’t any words of god, yeah, that sucks or been there that she can express - not because her time as Wonder Girl hadn’t put her under a spotlight, but because she had thrived under it. Themyscira had been colossal and wondrous, filled with everything Donna had known and loved. It was peaceful, even alongside the efforts in training and education. 

Before, between the sporadic visits of her sister, Donna had sometimes not understood what could be keeping her away for so long. What was out there that demanded her full attention? She heard about battles, but couldn’t see how something could possibly be happening at all times. The expanse of the full world was unfathomable.

Then she was endorsed to leave Themyscira to see her sister, and her outlook on everything had changed. Man’s world was so intense . Vibrant, never-ending and fast-paced. Donna hadn’t understood that there was an itch within her until it had been scratched. After that, she craved it, and couldn't get enough of it. She packed her days stock-full with every experience she could, seeing fireworks, going to concerts, tasting new spices, all for the first time. 

Even when her visit had come to an end and Donna had returned to the island, her Queen had seen that a piece of her had been left behind. Themyscira had been her home, but Donna had outgrown it.

The point was, every new experience had intrigued her. Getting to make her people and sister proud, living up to the name of Wonder? Sign Donna up. Seeing her picture in the news, having people greet her when she flies by and meeting people who were fans of her? It was exciting! An adventure. 

But I could pick between Donna Troy and Wonder Girl.

Dick had connections all over the world, but in a way he was isolated. Carving out a life for yourself was difficult enough without having to demolish the image that others had built around you. Could he get to know people without his secrets being pumped into a gossip magazine? Could he experiment and find himself without ridicule? 

Donna remembers her first few times trying dramatic makeup for a concert, and then imagines having those pictures shoved in her face against her will. She cringes.

But, the thought puts some cogs into motion. An idea is beginning to sprout in her head. “It's Friday, isn't it?” Donna asks.

“Yeah,” he says, accepting the change of subject without further ado. “The open house feels like forever ago, but it's still Friday. Sorry you missed the tour.”

“It’s not a big deal. I had pretty much made my decision before coming to the open house.  Either way,” she carries on. " Friday ."

“Friday,” he repeats. “Friday?” He brings his voice to a whisper. “Is that a codeword? Should I know this?”

“There will be live music at Bowery Electric!” Donna gushes.

Dick looks soothed at her excitement, but mainly confused. “That’s great? Are you in a rush? I can just bring this with me if you want to leave,” he says, holding up his cup of fruit.

“You can bring it to my place, and you can try doing some horrible makeup,” she says, and he seems to bluescreen while trying to process that answer.

“Sorry, what in the world are we talking about?”

“Decompressing. A very aggressive method of winding down.”

“You want to aggressively do my makeup?” Dick raises an eyebrow.

“No need. Makeup is already a hostile sport when you don’t know what you’re doing. No, if you’d like, my suggestion is that you should come to a gig. Have you ever moshed? It’s cathartic, I swear.”

Dick raises an eyebrow. “I've spent plenty of nights fighting strangers. You know that right?” 

“It’s not the same! They’re two different things, like…” Donna searches for the right words. “You want to feel faceless, and this- it feels almost anonymous. You’re just in an ocean of limbs, and you get a safe source of adrenalin.” 

Dick hums.

She gives a sheepish smile. “Sorry, maybe I got ahead of myself. It doesn’t have to be today, but I don’t think you should knock it before you’ve tried it. It could be nice.”

“...I did like the music,” he relents.

Donna perks up, and he is quick to add: “But- I don’t know. I think I would embarrass myself. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’ll look like an idiot.”

“That’s half the point,” Donna teases, then swerves into something more genuine. “I’ll show you. No cameras, don’t think about how you look, let’s just enjoy some music.”

“ Maybe,” he says, undecided.

(They do go. Dick takes to it like a fish to water. Garth would have been jealous. One band sucked, and the second one was great - by the end Dick was screeching to the lyrics just as loud as Donna. Apparently, her friend had never learnt not to bottle things up. Metal was a temporary fix.

And she knows things are still bad. Dick knows that too. But at the end of the night, Donna’s throat hurts from singing along to the music and Dick is smiling again. And that’s not a solution, but it’s something. 

For now. Just for now, she promises.)