Work Text:
- Roy
If there’s one thing Dick should be grateful for, towards Gotham, it’s being able to handle the putrid smell emerging from this gutter. Why H.I.V.E would think it a good idea to bury these servers in a dingy, leaking basement, he has no idea.
He’s out of Bludhaven tonight, with the Titans. That seems to be the case more and more lately — when he’d met the other four, all he’d wanted was an alliance, maybe some contacts. People in their occupation tended to avoid one another, out of respect or a mixture of other, less personable things. But The Titans understood the need for a network, unlike their predecessors.
Although, patrolling through this basement with them in tow, he feels a lick of guilt for letting it progress to this state. They’re a team, now, at least Flash seems to think so. The others haven’t made any effort to disagree. It worries Dick. If they’d never come together, would H.I.V.E have felt the need to surface at all?
Arsenal is walking closely behind him. Donna (as she insisted on being called) is on a different trail a floor above them. They’re both waiting for his call.
Why he’s been appointed team leader in the first place, Dick couldn’t confidently say.
He’s never been a leader before — maybe once upon a time he’d say he was a partner, but the older he gets the more he begins to doubt the true nature of the relationship between he and Bruce’s alter egos. There’s something of a power imbalance between a ward and their carer.
(In the faintest technicalities Dick could call himself a former mentor, but he hesitates to do so. The title is far too formal and implies he made more of an effort than he actually did. An older ward — he guesses that’s all he amounted to.)
Dick had always considered Bruce a brother. Another delusion of their equality, perhaps. The pain of losing his parents was too fresh to introduce a replacement, and he saw something alike in Bruce. They’re both orphans, after all. But Bruce calls him ‘son’ too often.
Behind him, Arsenal’s breath hitches. The smell is starting to make Dick’s eyes sting, but he strengthens his resolve, and holds his flashlight higher.
“Are we sure this H.I.V.E?” Arsenal mutters, the light of his own torch illuminating more of the path ahead. Two subs circling each other — if Dick was being poetic. His teammate continues, “We dealt them with months ago. Besides, they wouldn’t just leave us to find their sh — stuff in some basement. They’re bolder than this.”
Dick’s eyes flicker up to the roof. The old parking lot’s been degrading for a while, and through an old fissure in the ceiling many bundles of wires have been fed through. They’re all leading down to something deep within its underground.
Dick spares a glance to his teammate, shaking his head, “I’m sure. This much tech; it’s their M.O. They probably want us running after clues like this.”
Arsenal’s face twists into a small frown, but he otherwise doesn’t reply. The two walk further into the room, wires beginning to pile in number at their feet and around the ceiling, crawling around the space like spiders. The air would feel dead if not for the electric shock emulating off of them.
Behind him, Dick hears a scuff of shoes on concrete. Arsenal stops walking.
“Do you see that?”
“See what?”
Dick’s eyes are fixed on a certain trail of cables that seem to be closing in on the machines they’re looking for. He hears a faint telltale humming. He hears Arsenal’s uneasy breathing, too.
“There was a light, in that window.”
Dick wants to groan and make some pithy comment about focusing — somehow the spirit of his former partner possessing him. Instead, he follows Arsenal’s line a sight out a small window through their gutter.
On the other side of the street there’s a worn down apartment building. It doesn’t look inhabitable, but Dick would believe it if he was told people lived there anyway. And in the window to the right of his view there is a sharp and unusual glint that gives him the itching feeling they’re being watched.
“Operatives?” He wonders.
Maybe they’ve left a surprise for them down there. Something makes the hairs on the back of his neck prick up.
Dick can almost make out Arsenal’s squint through the lens of his glasses, “I think I can make out a shadow—“
An instant passes and there’s a loud crash. Dick has to thank years of Gotham honing in his insatiable paranoia so his instincts make him immediately move into cover, but his teammate isn’t so lucky.
“Duck!”
Three shots fire through the small grate. Each landing with a high-pitched ‘pew’ as they bounce onto rusty metal, all except one, which tears cleanly through Arsenal’s torso.
“Red!” Dick yelps, launching himself off his feet into the air so he can pull the other onto the floor.
It’s an impulsive decision, and reckless one, as Arsenal winces from the pain of the impact.
“Shit,” Dick huffs, hauling himself onto his knees, “I’m sorry.”
“S’fine,” Arsenal coughs, even though it clearly isn’t.
Dick pulls him off the ground and over his shoulder without asking. It’d be shitty to make him walk now. Arsenal winces a little, but doesn’t argue.
Dick presses an ear to his comm, craning his side to see the other side of the road. The glint in the window is gone.
“Darkstar?” He rattles, and then hoping to grasp her attention amends it to, “Donna. Arsenal is injured. You need to recover him. I can do the rest on my own.”
“Is he okay?” Is her immediate response.
“He’ll be fine.”
Arsenal sways in his hold.
“I don’t feel fine,” he grouches. He’s growing pale, and his blood is beginning to soak through his costume. Dick’s hands feel damp.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to do this alone, Nightwing.”
Dick’s perfectly capable of doing this on his own, thank you. He spent years fighting against the hoard of evil sideshow acts (and he would know what those look like) living in Gotham and Bludhaven’s walls alone, he can handle a decrepit parking lot.
He chances another look over his shoulder. Whatever their enemies are hiding down here, it can’t be far. He can still hear that humming…
That ringing… ticking sound…
Shit.
There’s a bomb.
“There’s a bomb.”
“Whut?” Arsenal mutters, and then stumbles.
He’s beginning to fall unconscious. Dick heaves him back rightly over his shoulder.
“There’s a bomb?” Donna’s voice climbs.
Dick wants to squirm at her rising anger, but there’s too many other things relying on him right now.
“We need to evacuate. There’s no time to diffuse it.”
“Meet you east of the entrance,” Donna says curtly, and then drops off comms.
Dick can’t blame her for being angry. He’d been arrogant, and presumptuous.
Stupid stupid stupid—
“Arsenal?” He calls, one last time, just as he’s nearing their exit, “Red, do you have a safe house around here?”
They’re in Star, after all. Dick has to assume he’s got some sort of vigilante cave prepared.
“Home,” Arsenal says meekly, “take me… home.”
And then rattles off an address and passes out.
Donna trades Dick’s faulty fireman carry for scooping Arsenal up into her arms whilst Dick sorts out their navigation. Thank god for super-powered teammates.
She called Flash about the bomb when she’d been exiting the building. Dick didn’t hear a damning explosion, so it’s safe to say it’s been dealt with.
They reach a shabby little apartment building at a cross between the downtown and the suburbs. There’s a small park over the road, with a slide and swing set and everything. It’s a nice little area.
If you’re young, broke, and starting a family.
Dick ushers that thought out of his head as he goes to force open the door. Donna tentatively lowers Arsenal to his feet, the other a little delirious but gradually waking. The pain can’t keep his conscious abated for long. Dick prays he doesn’t keel over and puke before he gets the door open.
Maybe he should’ve thought about his previous analysis some more.
The minute the door slams open there’s a gasp of surprise from the, well, surprises sat in Arsenal’s living room. A black-haired girl who can’t be older than five and a blond-haired girl who looks to be in her late teens.
The little one lets out a little squeak and runs over, innocently oblivious to the shock and worry of the room’s inhabitants around her, barrelling straight into Arsenal’s legs.
“Daddy!” She cries.
Arsenal, despite all pain and delirium, smiles at her and crouches down to her height.
“Hi, Princess! Oof—“ He says, his voice weak and breathy. His wraps his arms around her, and glances over at the blond, “Daddy’s not doing too well, can you give him and his friends a minute?”
The smile he offers the girl (his daughter, Jesus) is weak and wavering like the rest of him. Dick’s heart squeezes a little.
The blonde girl, whose face is twisted like she’s been personally affronted by this whole situation, rushes to her feet as soon as Donna and Dick enter and ushers the kid into another room.
“Come on, Lian, let’s give your dad a minute—“
“Why? What’s wrong with him?”
Dick shakes himself off. Task at hand.
“Arsenal, where’s the med kit?”
“Top shelf,” Arsenal coughs, “Bathroom.”
Dick walks through the premises quickly, methodically, like he’s doing a stakeout or patrol. It’s an environment he’s not used to navigating in a suit; there’s toys scattered across the floor and rugs that feel soft under his feet, shelves that are old and careening downwards.
Usually, in Bludhaven, or maybe during the odd long-term stay in Gotham, he’s only in someone’s apartment for a few moments. Consoling a victim of violence or theft or some other equally violating crime. The apartments don’t seem cozy then, only dark and scarcely protected.
But this is nice.
He reaches a tiny bathroom. Most of the space in the room is given to a bathtub shielded by cartoon-printed curtains, and Dick finds said shelf pretty easily, kept in an unlocked cabinet behind the mirror. He wonders for a fleeting second where Arsenal keeps all his vigilante equipment, and then disposes of the thought. It’s not any of his business anyway.
Once he grabs the med kit he stalks back to the living room — he’d memorised the path there on his way, though it isn’t like Arsenal’s apartment is big enough to get lost in. He hears a voice at the very threshold to the room, and walks through to the sight of the blonde girl sat again on the couch at Arsenal’s side.
Her lips are still twisted into a pout, like he’s inconvenienced her.
“What the hell, Speedy?” She says, which is an odd name and most definitely not Arsenal’s real one. She starts gesturing wildly with her hands, “l knew you weren’t running off to book club. I can’t believe you’d hide your friends from me and then crash our sleepover—“
“M’sorruh, Mi,” Arsenal slurs in response. His words are made even more unclear when he winces in pain and squashes his face into the crook of the couch.
“Help me take his shirt off,” Dick snaps in his team-leader voice, which makes the blonde girl (Mi?) jump.
Donna nods and they begin to undress the top part of Arsenal’s uniform. Arsenal’s… babysitter sits and watched them in tense silence.
Arsenal groans and shifts in his seat. He diffuses the tension by looking at Donna and smiling, “If you wanted to get my clothes off, all you had t’do was ask.”
Dick practices some self restraint and bites back a groan. Unlike the babysitter, who loudly proclaims, “Ew!”
Dick tosses some alcohol over the wound, and Arsenal hides his wince with a laugh.
2. Garth
The mission is wrapped up in less than thirty minutes, which is perhaps what inspires Dick to indulge his teammates in a little follow-up work.
There’s an abandoned aquapark at the very edge of the city. Garth is pretty determined to see it scoured out, and his forcefulness about it is so unlike him Dick thinks he’d better allow it just this once. It’s clearly important to him.
The inside of it — if you can even call it that, given it’s open-roofed — is built like a colosseum, with rows of cheap plastic ascending chairs surrounding a pit of murky green water. It’s not shallow enough for Dick to see the bottom, and Garth tells him that’s because it’s connected to the ocean.
Which is good, he supposes, because it means any poor animal that was forced to perform in here was able to escape.
“This reminds me of when I took Lian to SeaWorld,” Roy says, rummaging through a pile of rubble.
He’s been a lot more forthcoming about his personal life since Dick and Donna cleaned that bullet wound for him. Dick speculates it was something about the pain that led Roy to lower whatever inhibitions he had about secrecy with the team.
He can’t relate — trusting anyone out of capes that much, he can’t relate to it.
(And Alfred and Bruce don’t count because they are, a little regrettably, the family he means to protect.)
Garth frowns at him, and Roy shrugs, “wasn’t worth it. She dropped her doll in the water and cried.”
“I don’t understand the appeal,” Garth admits, looking out over the filthy water, “surely humans are capable of much more impressive feats than animals?”
“It’s impressive because they’re animals,” Donna explains. She’s stood on one on the higher levels of the seating arrangement, but she faces Garth with her hands on her hips to talk him, “The idea is that they’re less intelligent, so the fact they can perform any feat is impressive.”
Garth’s face twists. Dick watches a surge of emotions rise in his eyes. Disgust and confusion, he would’ve assumed at first, but there’s a lingering sort of sadness there, too. He looks regretful. Dick wonders not for the first time about Atlantis’ deeper issues.
Something quakes in the water, and they all jump. Garth approaches the very edge of the deck, following the sound.
The monotony of the water’s surface breaks again, and from it, Dick spies a head of white hair, and two sea blue eyes.
Next to him, Garth lights up with an intensity Dick’s never seen in him before.
“Dolphin?” He gapes, and then without hesitation dives headfirst into the filthy green water.
Dick grimaces in sympathy — swimming in that must feel disgusting — but Garth doesn’t seem as perturbed by it, anymore, falling straight into the white-haired girl’s arms as she laughs and tries to catch him.
“What’re you doing here?” Garth says.
The two rock back and forth a little in the water, creating small waves. The girl — Dolphin — doesn’t say anything in response, instead opting to mouth some empty words out and gesture with her hands. Dick notes those hands are scaled and webbed.
In the midst of this huge distraction, he almost misses Donna brushing up against his side. He glances at her, but she only seems to be hiding some faint amusement.
Garth is a little harder to read, what with his back to Dick’s face, but he’s close enough that they can see the tips of his ears getting red.
“Tell Arthur I’m fine,” he says to the girl, whose lips curl up into a small toothy smile, “He doesn’t need to look for me.”
Dolphin seems to find this answer satisfactory, which Dick thinks means she either doesn’t care or doesn’t want to get into the middle of the drama between Garth and the guy called Arthur, and throws her arms over his shoulder. She peers over Garth’s head of hair at Dick and Donna, curious.
“This is my team,” Garth explains without further prompting, pointing a finger towards them as he lists their names, “Nightwing, Troia and Arsenal.” As he turns and his face comes more into view, Dick can see his blush hasn’t abated, “Don’t tell him? Please?”
She doesn’t nod or make another motion with her hands, instead opting for a kiss on the cheek.
Dolphin, as it turns out, is (in Roy’s terms) awesome. Donna goads Dick and Roy into pulling on some old scuba gear and collecting scooping out rubbish from the pool. Dolphin dumps a load of seaweed on Garth’s perfect hair.
3. Wally
“Okay,” Roy announces, standing above the battered villain-of-the-week with his arm propped over his leg like a television presenter, “How old did you say, Flash? Thirty-five?”
Wally zips back in front of the rubble and shakes his head, “Forty! And make it fifteen bucks.”
Roy purses his lips, “Donna already said forty.”
“Shit,” Wally hisses, scratching his chin, “Forty-seven?”
Garth approaches on Dick’s right and hums, his face betraying some judgment, “Pretty specific age…”
“Can we hurry this up?” Dick snaps. The press is beginning to gather around the aftermath of the fight, and his bat instincts are making him begin to feel antsy, “Anyway, he’s probably like thirty. No forty year old is moving like that.”
Roy quirks an eyebrow his way, “You wanna bet ten bucks?”
Dick looks at him deadpan, “Sure.”
Donna jogs up to Garth’s side with some excitement, peeking over the wreckage to get a glance at their downed opponent. With a flourish, Roy (melodramatically Dick might add) kneels down and removes the mask from their sluggish adversary’s face.
Roy winces.
“Well?” Wally asks, tapping his foot.
“I can’t tell,” Roy admits, shrugging his shoulders.
With the growing size of the crowd of onlookers, Central City police arrive. The short whistle emitting from the police cab is enough to startle their villain awake. His eyes dart over to Roy, and he squeaks.
“Please! No! I don’t wanna go to jail!” He begs, “Let me go!” He flails his arms across his face, “I-I’ll be good, I promise!”
Wally scoffs, and — in an instant — brings his face directly in front of the man’s, twisted into a snarl.
“Yeah, well, you should’ve thought about that before you committed a crime! Now,” he growls, “How old are you?“
“Wh — I’m thirty!” The man squeaks, “Why?”
The team all deflates with various grumbles and groans. Dick can’t help the smugness that radiates off him in waves.
Beneath them, the man looks over the group with confusion.
Dick turns to Garth and outstretches his palm, “Seems like we’re done here, team. Pay up.”
Garth shrugs. It’s not like he has pockets lining his suit.
By the time that situation is dealt with and the offender is in handcuffs, the crowd has swarmed around them so thickly Dick can’t see a viable way out. He damns the spaciousness of Central City for being unable to flip or grapple gun his way out of the clearing.
Seeing this many cameras near him makes him a little tense. He wasn’t trained for cameras. He fixes his face and (hides) stands a comfortable distance behind his team.
One of the officers tries to quell the crowd, but her effort is met with a lot of resistance. This is the first time they’ve been this public as a team, Dick supposes.
One woman — a reporter Dick assumes from her smart dress shirt and pants — slips under the police tape with such grace Dick has to mentally commend her audacity. She struts straight over to Wally.
And Wally doesn’t make a single effort to stop her, instead cringing and looking sheepish.
“Uh… ma’am,” he begins, hesitant.
“What’s this, Flash?” The woman flips open her notebook and begins scribbling with superhuman speed, occasionally chewing on the tip of the pen, “You promised me a special scoop, didn’t you? This a new team of yours? Some superhero friends?” Her lips tug upward into a coy smile as she continues, “Boyfriends? Girlfriends?”
“Aun — Iris!” Wally squeaks, cheeks beginning to flush.
Well, that explains it, Dick thinks, Wally knows this woman.
“Ma’am,” he says respectfully, approaching with his hands clasped behind his back and his best ‘I’m-just-a-humble-performer’ smile that he’s had perfected since he was little, “Since Flash forgot to tell you, I just wanted to let you know you look lovely today.”
Wally gapes at him with a hurt in his eyes that could only be brought out by betrayal.
“Thank you!” The reporter beams. She taps her notepad with the tip of the pen, “Sorry, I don’t think I know your name?”
“Nightwing,” He says sweetly, “but you can call me whatever you like—“
Wally interrupts him with an unceremonious hand over Dick’s mouth.
(Which is totally unfair, because he flirts with girls all the time.)
“Oh-kay!” He smiles, but it seems slightly anguished, “I think that’s enough of a scoop about our superhero team, yeah?”
“I don’t know,” the reporter looks at Wally and hums, “can’t I meet the rest of them?”
“I’ll bring them over for dinner,” Wally mutters.
It’s the last thing Dick catches before he takes the reporter by the shoulders and — gently as Dick’s ever seen him with anyone — flits them both towards the crowd, guiding her out under the tape. How gentlemanly, Dick muses.
When Wally returns, Dick can’t help but twist his face into a smile.
“Shut up dude,” he grudges, pointing an accusatory finger, “That was totally not cool.”
“I was just trying to make a good impression!” Dick argues — his innocence is slightly overshadowed by him trying not to laugh.
“That was my aunt, bro!”
Dick brings a fist up to his mouth and snickers.
Weeks later, Dick learns that Iris can’t cook very well. But she buys the team dinner from an authentic Italian place, and that’s good enough.
4. Donna
Dick stalks down the hallway of the Titans Tower and rehearses the approaching conversation in his head again. He has about seven different avenues envisioned for this; some more unfair than others.
The goal is to see what’s troubling Donna and (maybe more importantly) try to bring her back over to the team’s side. It’s kind of hard to think of a way to wiggle out of this situation, because the truth is — Donna’s right; they all use her as an outlet for their worries. She’s a good listener, and an even better shoulder to cry on.
Isn’t that what friends do? Dick thinks. There’s no use pondering on it. Now’s the time to reciprocate.
He’s so wrapped up in his mind during his approach to the kitchen that he misses the sound of two different voices coming from the other side of the door. A pool of light floods into the hallway as he gently pries it open, and he sees, sat on the breakfast bar—
Dick rubs his eyes.
No, she’s still there.
“Hello!” Wonder Woman says jovially, “Nightwing, I presume? I’ve heard a lot about you.”
She’s stirring a cup of tea, prepared in Vic’s cat mug, with her left hand. Her right is atop the bar, fingers intertwined with Donna’s.
“Uh,” Dick says dumbly, like an idiot.
“Yeah, Di. That’s the team leader,” Donna drawls from the other side of the countertop. Her gaze flits up to his face, but she still won’t look him in the eyes, “What do you want, ‘wing?”
“I… now?” He chokes.
“You came in here.“ She argues.
“Children,” Wonder Woman says consolingly, using her other hand to pat Donna’s. Her words would be condescending if not for that glint in her eyes, “Settle down. I believe your friend come here to apologise?”
“I did…” Dick begins.
Donna looks at him and raises an eyebrow. Dick slips inside the kitchen awkwardly, closing the door behind him. Standing before royalty, he feels acutely aware of his posture.
But Donna is still waiting for his apology, and more important things need to be dealt with right now.
His eyes dart between his friend and the literal Amazonian princess sat on their team breakfast bar. As he opens his mouth to speak, he stops. He decides to scrap all the arguments he’d prepared anyway.
“You were right, Donna,” he says. Her eyes widen a little with surprise, but she doesn’t reply, so he keeps on talking, “I was using you to vent about I felt without any consideration for you. I’m sorry. I should’ve asked how you were doing. You would’ve done the same.”
A minute passes, but with both of their eyes on him, it could just as well have been an hour. Dick fights the urge to avert his eyes.
Finally, Donna ducks her head and sighs. Her hair falls in front of her face, but not soon enough for him to miss her hiding her smile.
“It’s fine, ‘wing.” Then she motions to Wonder Woman, “This is Diana.” She says, as if Dick doesn’t know.
“I know,“ he grins.
“Donna says the team calls you Wonder Twins?” The princess asks suddenly, and Dick can’t help but laugh.
“Yeah. We—“
“HOLY SHIT, DUDE!” Comes a shout from the doorway.
The three of them jump, and Dick turns to see Gar stood in front of the doorway with his jaw hanging agape.
He lets out a shriek that, now that Dick’s thinking about it, might’ve been more of a tiger growl, and darts back out into the hall.
“Guys! GUYS! Wonder Woman is in the kitchen!”
There’s a clatter from a few doors down.
“Wait, are you fucking serious?”
Donna sighs in exasperation and runs her hands through her hair. The princess watches her sister with a mischievous grin overtaking her face, slowly sipping her tea.
+1 Dick
It’s late noon, and Dick drapes an arm over his eyes and yawns.
He’s lying in one of the lounges of the Titans Tower. It’s one of those rare days where there’s no warning to decipher, no threat to handle. They can all just comfortably coexist with each other.
They have to send Vic’s dad some flowers or something though, he thinks. He really outdid himself with this place.
There’s a low hum of conversation from the other side of the room. Some of the team gathered around a TV, watching a movie together. Tonight was Wally’s pick. Absently, he wonders what a man with such a dangerously short attention span would even choose to watch.
He could join in. He probably will, when he musters up the energy. All that free time had left him for a free day of training and various things he’d wanted to try in the tower gym. It’s left him extremely worn down.
He considers taking another cold shower with to wake himself up, stretching out over the sofa and unveiling his arm from over his eyes.
When his view is unobstructed again, a domino mask and an expressionless face looks down at him.
“I knew you weren’t at work,” Tim says.
Dick lets out an extremely manly yelp and falls off the couch. His head hits the floor with a groan.
He pushes himself upright with a lurch, head spinning towards the partly-opened room where the rest of the team is sitting. The ambience remains resolutely undisturbed.
Dick sighs a little sigh. Nobody heard.
He turns to Tim with a scowl, springing to his feet, “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Tim replies in a snarky tone, wafting a picture of Titans in front of Dick’s nose, “Team leader.“
Dick snatches the paper out of Tim’s hands. Of course he heard about the team. Even Wonder Woman knows about the team. It was on the news.
“I am an adult,” he reiterates, not for the first time, “I can do what I want.”
“You think I’m mad about that?” Tim sputters, his chest puffing up like an angry bird. He waves his hands around in obscene gestures, “I don’t care what you do in your free time, I care that you didn’t tell me. We’re supposed to be brothers.“
Brothers, Dick’s mind echoes venomously. Dick’s had brothers, and it never ended well.
And maybe Tim’s a little undeserving of the inspiring wrath, but it’s not like he doesn’t know.
“Don’t you trust me?” Tim frowns.
As he stands straight, he comes up to Dick’s collar. He’s just a kid, Dick reasons. Like he was.
“It’s dangerous,” he admits.
Tim scoffs, “I can handle danger. I handled Lady Shiva and Jean-Paul all on my own, remember?”
The memory of that period of time makes Dick wince a little. He still hasn’t forgiven Bruce for that. Not really. He hasn’t forgiven Bruce for a lot of things.
There’s the distinct sound of a packet of chips being opened from behind him. Dick turns to see Wally watching them and snacking, his fingers powdered orange with cheeto dust.
He’s really got to stop letting his guard down in the tower.
Vic’s voice calls out from the other lounge, “Walls! You coming, man?”
“Yeah, man!” Wally responds, not turning his head, “It’s just that…”
Dick would tell him what to say, but he’s kind of at a loss. He looks at Tim, then back at Wally, and shrugs.
Wally continues; “Nightwing’s talking to a clone of himself next to the couch, except the clone is little, and also… white.”
“Didn’t need to include that detail,” Tim mumbles.
Which one? Dick wants to retort. Instead, he just waits for the his carefully-made shield of privacy to break in front of him.
“What?” Donna shouts, and then pops her head through the door. Her eyes lock onto Tim immediately, “Oh. Is everything alright?”
“He’s my brother,” Dick says, too quietly for anyone to hear. The awkward silence resonates around the room until Dick clears his throat and loudly amends himself, “He’s my brother.“
“Oh!” Donna says again, “Hi.”
Tim’s back has gone ramrod straight. He waves, “Hi.”
She turns to Wally and starts a whispered, very unsubtle conversation.
Dick looks back down at this kid who’s forced himself into his life and considers his options. He’s had brothers before. They’ve never worked out. Each of those times might have been partially his fault.
“Do you wanna come watch a movie?” He asks.
The whites of Tim’s domino mask get slightly bigger, and his mouth falls a little open. He looks between Dick and the other room, his demeanour timid all of a sudden. Dick is reminded of Alfred’s mentions of his problems in school.
And to think, Dick himself was younger when he became Robin, and had already plotted murder.
— But Tim still looks up to him like he’s a well of wisdom, something he should aspire to be. Dick reasons if the kid can still see him that way, then maybe he hasn’t completely fucked everything up.
“Yeah,” Tim finally responds, an uneven smile rising onto his face, “I do.”