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Someone is following him.
Whoever it may be is good at concealing their presence, entirely silent as they trail him across the city, over rooftops and through alleyways.
They haven’t attacked him yet, so he doesn’t stray from his usual patrol routine. He has a vague idea, just from gut feeling and maybe something more, of who has come. If they had wanted to attack him, he thinks that they would’ve done it a long time ago.
They’re waiting for something.
The comms are mostly quiet, scattered with vague comments and the occasional banter, light conversation that quickly fizzles out into silence. It’s the first slow night they’ve had in a while—though ‘slow’ is a strong word, perhaps. Gotham feels the absence of Batman just as heavily as the rest of them do. Crime has been more frequent, more intense. It’s evident in the fresh bruises that litter Dick’s skin after every patrol.
(Keep the comms clear, Bruce would always say when one of Jason’s jabs at Tim sparks an argument, shutting them both up before it escalated.
There is no one to say that now. They go at it for a good few minutes before Tim goes quiet so abruptly that Jason splutters, seeming surprised that the bickering had been allowed to go on for that long, and then it’s like he realizes all over again that Bruce is gone and not even Dick has enough energy to break up their petty spats, and he, too, falls silent.)
The night passes at a snail’s pace, crawling by, minute after minute, crime after crime. It's nearing the end of patrol by the time he stops on a rooftop, tucked into a small corner of the West End that’s quiet this time of night. A flickering billboard spills orange and yellow light all over his arms, some advertisement for an upcoming game show with some insane cash prize. God, he hopes it doesn’t end up being a front for another supervillain plot. Game shows that double as vigilante traps just screams Riddler or Harley Quinn.
When he tucks his grapple back into his belt, he sees it—but not quite. It is nothing more than a flicker of shadow in the edges of his vision, one that melts back into the darkness cast by the rooftop entrance just a handful of feet away. It’s intentional, that much is certain.
He glances down to the street. There is a Cold Stone’s still open, white light pouring out into the street, fluorescent red letters flickering dimly. A few letters of the sign are broken: the s and n of stone, making the sign read like Cold Toe's.
Absentmindedly, he wiggles his feet inside his boots. Damn, his toes are cold.
“You still like matcha?” he calls over his shoulder. The presence at his back disappears, then reappears. Dick turns his head enough to watch his pursuer emerge.
Damian melts out of the shadows like he is made from them, uniform a careful combination of Robin reds and blacks and grays, hints of yellow and green splashed amongst the darker colors. He’s taller, Dick realizes. Older, but that’s a given. Sharper around the edges, more defined. Hair longer, but still spiky; he needs a trim.
It makes a part of him ache, realizing just how different this Damian is from the one he had known just a handful of years ago, when he was a little louder, a little brasher, baby fat still clinging to his cheeks and hardly even reaching up to Dick’s chest.
“Obviously.” Even Damian’s voice is a little lower now, deeper, but still with the slightest hint of a Jersey accent gained from several years spent in Gotham.
Dick hums and swings himself off the rooftop. In and out of the ice cream store he goes, swiping up two cups of ice cream and handing some bills to the sole worker, an older man with crow’s feet around his eyes and a kind smile. When he returns, Damian is still there, waiting, feet dangling over the edge of the rooftop.
They eat in silence for a while. Damian doesn’t comment on Dick’s choice of cake batter ice cream, though he half expects something like your taste is as terrible as ever, Grayson, or something equally snotty and likely to make him laugh.
His comms are quieter. Tim and Jason must’ve gone back to the Belfry already. Babs had chosen to stay back, still recovering from a nasty twisted ankle from the night prior.
When Damian speaks, his voice is carefully even. He does not look at Dick either, chooses instead to pick at his ice cream and stare down at the street below them, the ambient sounds of the city floating through the air. “My father is dead.”
Dick does not flinch. He sets his empty cup down and leans back onto his hands, inhaling slowly and tilting his face up towards the sky. “Yeah.”
“You didn’t contact me.”
“Haven’t had time to find you, kiddo.” Dick cracks a wry smile. “It’s not like you make it easy. Things have been—”
“Difficult.”
“—difficult,” he agrees, soft.
Damian is silent.
Dick sighs. “Robin—”
“Grandfather is dead,” Damian interrupts. He looks at Dick, orange light slanting off his cheek, the lenses of his domino narrowed into sharp slits. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
There’s an almost pleading edge to his voice. Tell me he’s dead, he doesn’t say. Dick hears it anyway, clear as day, hanging heavy in the space between them.
Damian’s hands are fists in his lap, ice cream discarded and forgotten. Dick imagines them wrapped around the hilt of a sword.
(The first time he had slipped into Damian’s room, so many years ago when they all thought Bruce died the first time, Damian had thrown a knife at his head. It whizzed by his cheek and embedded into the wall behind him, pinpoint accurate even though the kid was supposed to be sleeping. Would’ve made its mark if Dick hadn’t been awake enough to dodge.
There was another in his hand when Dick turned to look at him. Green eyes narrowed, dangerous, reflecting moonlight and silver and fear-turned-anger.)
Carefully, he says, “If I told you he wasn’t, would you try?”
The silence that follows is thick.
Damian’s throat bobs when he swallows. His forehead creases into a scowl, and he looks so much like Bruce that it hurts, a little.
“I don’t know,” he mutters eventually. “Does it matter?”
“No,” Dick says, shrugging helplessly. “Because Ra’s is dead. So I guess it doesn’t.”
He doesn’t quite know why he asked. Some part of him already knows what the answer would’ve been. Another doesn’t even want to think about it.
(It would be ironic, maybe. He thinks of the aftermath of Jason's death all those years ago, and the Joker’s body and blood beneath his hands. Then he thinks of Damian, puts him in his place and puts Bruce in Jason’s, because both deaths are so horrifyingly similar that it’s almost funny, in a morbid, terrible, tragic way.
He imagines what Damian would do to Ra's, if he was still alive. Something worse than what Dick had done to the Joker, maybe.
It shouldn’t be a comforting thought, but somehow it is.)
“Why did he do it?” says Damian.
“Who?”
“Grandfather. He wanted Father to be his—” A pause. He swallows, forces the words out. “—to be his heir. Why would he kill him?”
“I don’t know,” Dick murmurs. He wishes that he could give a reason other than insanity and bad luck. “Talia said that he took a dip in the Lazarus Pit, just before everything.”
“The Lazarus Pit,” Damian utters. Bitter. “Of course.”
Dick suddenly feels the need to say, “We tried.”
“What?”
“Bruce sent out the—the distress signal. Before he...” His tongue feels heavy. Something sharp and ugly lingers on his tongue, leaving an acrid taste on his tongue. “But we… it was too late.” A wet chuckle crawls up his throat. “It took me nine minutes to get there. He never sends out distress signals. Only nine goddamn minutes. Nine—”
Damian glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “It was not your fault.”
“... I know.” He does. Because it’s Ra’s’ fault and Ra’s is dead, Talia burned the body, but it’s still…
Maybe if he had been at the manor that night, he could’ve done something —maybe if he bothered to check on Bruce after his patrol, he would’ve been able to help. He and Bruce never had the best relationship; they butted heads a lot, not so much after Jason and never so much after Tim joined, at least not in front of their family. He tried not to, for everyone else’s sake.
But for all their differences, Bruce was still the man who raised him after his parents, who trained him and called him Robin, not like his mother did in her soft and soothing voice but in that gruff, stilted way that meant he cared and was trying his hardest to show it. And between training sessions there was always hot chocolate and board games and trips to the arcade, and I’m proud of you, Dick murmured into his ear as Bruce carried him up the stairs to his room after a long night of patrol.
Dick exhales sharply, curling his hands into fists. When he uncurls them, he presses the heels of his palm against his eyes until he sees spots.
“I know that,” he says again, quieter this time.
Through the lenses of his green domino, Damian’s eyes bore into the side of his head like daggers. He sounds skeptical. “Do you?”
“Yes,” Dick huffs, halfway amused. He’s the big brother here, he’s not the one that’s supposed to need comforting.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he can hear Jason saying something like shut up and take the emotional support, Dickhead, and has to bite down a small chuckle.
His comm beeps twice, sudden and loud, not quite loud enough to make him jump but enough for him to be surprised. Barbara’s voice filters into his ear, concern lingering in the spaces between her words. “You good, Nightwing? Been hanging around West End for a while.”
He knows that Damian hears it. Wonders how long he's been in the city—wonders if he’s hacked into their comm line already, and if that’s how he managed to track down Dick so early into his patrol.
He presses two fingers to the corner of his mask. “I’m alright. Stopped for a breather.”
“It’s getting late,” she says. An unspoken demand. Come back soon.
Dick allows himself a small smile. “Heard you loud ‘n clear.”
A hum. Then, with another beep, she’s gone.
He stands with some effort, grunting as his knees pop and stretching out his shoulder. Damian also gets to his feet, watching, waiting.
“Are you staying?” Dick asks softly, not demanding or insistent, just curious. He knows better than to try and keep Damian somewhere he doesn’t want to be, regardless of how long it's been since they last saw each other and how much he may have missed him.
(Seven months and counting.)
Damian hesitates. He opens his mouth and then closes it, then looks back to the ice cream shop with the sign that reads Cold Toe’s, to the billboard with the game show advertisement, then off into the distance, where Wayne Tower can be seen stretching high into the sky, reaching for the stars.
“I’m not sure,” he says, a bit helplessly. His lips form the words Father is, and Dick can guess the rest of it from there. Dead, he thinks. Gone. Does Damian think that there is nothing left to stay for, then? Or, maybe he just feels…
Lost. Kind of like the rest of them.
“Alfred could always use help in the kitchen,” Dick replies. “The Belfry’s not the cave, but it’s… something. And Jason’s been complaining that he has no one good to spar with.”
Damian’s lips quirk at that. Barely there, but noticeable. “Have yours and Timothy’s skills really deteriorated that much?”
He smiles. “Tim’s busy working with Babs to upgrade the tech in HQ and managing WE, and I’ve only got so much time on my hands, Little D.”
“Well,” Damian sniffs, already reaching for his grapple. “Maybe Todd should simply find hobbies other than running half the Gotham underworld. It’s clearly not good for his health.”
Dick laughs. “So, you’re coming?”
“I suppose someone here must save Jason from his boredom,” Damian says, but he has the hint of a smile flickering across his face. “Who knows what he'll do if no one does. Put more heads in duffle bags?"
Dick laughs even though he probably shouldn't, ruffling Damian's hair. Damian’s face scrunches up but he doesn’t bat away the hand, and for a moment Dick allows himself to think that he even leans into it. “Thanks, kiddo. I’m glad to see you.”
Damian goes still. His gaze drops to the floor, staring at their feet, Damian's gray and green laced boots against Dick's solid black.
“I know,” he murmurs when he looks up. I'm glad to see you too, he doesn't say.
That’s fine. Dick is a Bat, after all; he's used to reading between the lines.
He wakes up late the next day.
They’ve all been staying at the Belfry more often than not, trying to deal with cases that had come surging up one after another when Bruce died. When Dick wakes up it’s already noon, the clock on his phone reading 12:03 PM.
His body aches, as it always does. He sits up slowly, drags a hand over his face and exhales slowly, then sucks in another breath and shuffles around to place his feet on the floor. His side twinges faintly from a blow he’d taken last night, but it’s nothing debilitating.
There’s light conversation floating in from the main room when he shuffles far enough down the hallway. He can hear Jason’s low, deep voice, his snicker sharp and Tim’s response loud and indignant. Then there’s Barbara’s tinkling laugh,followed by another, slightly higher voice lilted with a unique mix of Pakistani-Jersey accent.
And Dick thinks oh, because a part of him had almost been convinced that it was all a dream borne of wishful thinking. But when he steps into the room, blinking hard against the sunlight that floods into his eyes, he sees Barbara at the computer, typing away with a plate of donuts. Alfred is cooking in the kitchen, Damian at his side, idle chatter flowing between them as Jason cleans his guns at the table and Tim leans against the window near the fridge, sipping on a cup of coffee.
He blinks once, then twice. The scene does not change, and when Dick thinks oh again, something warm floods through his chest.
“Timothy,” Damian is saying loudly, “move away from the kitchen area before I am forced to remove you. I have not forgotten that the only thing you are capable of making adequately is coffee and tea, and I will not allow you to ruin this meal.”
“Ouch,” snickers Jason as Tim grumbles, “You’ve been back for less than twenty-four hours and you’re already being a brat.”
Damian lifts a slice of bread threateningly. “If you think that I am above throwing this, I can assure you that I am not.”
Tim makes a face and steps away, heading towards the table to plop down into the seat across from Jason, and it’s only then that Damian notices him lingering at the doorway, blinking once in surprise before his face twists into its usual halfhearted scowl.
“Richard. I was beginning to think you had fallen into a coma.”
“Not yet,” Dick says lightly. “Morning, guys.”
“‘Sup, Sleeping Beauty,” Jason greets, while Tim mumbles out something resembling a good morning, already distracted by whatever his tablet is displaying.
“It’s good to see you up, Master Dick.” Alfred's eyes crinkle when he smiles, an ease to his face that Dick hasn't seen in months.
Dick smiles back, stepping forward as Damian heads to the fridge to pick out the mayo for the sandwiches he and Alfred must be making. He sweeps the boy into a hug, spinning him around once before setting him back on the ground, but still not letting him go. An undignified squawk leaves Damian’s mouth, yet he doesn’t struggle nearly as hard as he would've if he were really looking to escape.
He squeezes Damian, dropping his face down into his soft, dark hair. Says, softly, “Welcome home. We missed you, you know.”
Damian goes still in his arms, and his throat bobs against Dick’s chest when he swallows.
“I know,” he whispers.
And then Tim calls out, “Speak for yourself,” and Damian throws a slice of bread at him.
He only knows that it meets its target due to Tim’s consequential splutter. “What—oh my god that actually hit me, what the fuck! You weren’t even looking at me!”
“I hit a target fifty meters away with a shuriken while blindfolded,” Damian retorts. “Your ugly face less than a few feet away is nothing.”
“It was a slice of bread!”
“And?”
“Kindly refrain from wasting food, Master Damian,” Alfred chides. Damian huffs and ducks his head, wiggling out of Dick’s arms, and Dick lets him go in favor of turning to Jason and Tim.
“No worries, Alfie, I got it,” Jason says, picking up the slice of bread from the table (where it had fallen, Dick presumes, because the thought of Jason eating it after it had landed on the floor is a little disgusting) and shoving it in his mouth.
Tim looks at him with disgust and confusion. “Dude.”
“Timmy, I watched you chug three cans of Monster yesterday when Dickiebird told you to go to sleep. You don’t get to have an opinion on this.”
“What?” says Dick, frowning. Tim shoots a dirty, betrayed look at Jason.
“Todd, you are disgusting.” Damian huffs sharply, the floorboards creaking as he stomps over to the table, taking the bread from Jason's hand and slamming a plate of sandwiches down in its place.
“That was my bread, you brat,” Jason grumbles, but he picks up the sandwich and bites into it anyway.
Damian strides over to Tim next, shoving a plate with its own, separate sandwiches catered to Tim’s tastes, into his hands and taking advantage of the momentary surprise to swipe his mug of coffee away. “Timothy, you already had two cups this morning and it’s hardly afternoon. Drink some actual water, you fool.”
“Hey—”
“If you think I am afraid to throw out all of your coffee and replace it with decaf, you are severely underestimating me,” Damian warns, dumping the lukewarm coffee down the sink.
Tim gasps like he’s just witnessed his parents’ deaths all over again. Jason chokes on his sandwich when he laughs. Somewhere in the background, Babs snickers.
Alfred presses a sandwich plate into Dick’s hands suddenly, offering him a small smile. “Master Damian insisted on helping with lunch today. He takes his duty quite seriously.”
Dick turns back to the scene before him. Damian is back at the counter, putting together his own lunch, brows furrowed slightly in concentration. A few feet away, Tim reluctantly picks up a glass and fills it with water from the fridge. At the table, Jason is halfway through his first sandwich, scrolling on his phone as he eats. Babs continues to type on the computer.
“Richard,” Damian calls, and Dick turns around to face him. He eyes Dick critically, then says, “You’re favoring your left wrist. Ice it before I do so forcefully and with the use of superglue.”
“Kinda want to see that happen,” Tim mumbles as he sits down at the table, across from Jason.
Dick has to bite down his smile as he dutifully heads over to the freezer and pulls out an ice pack. Since when did you get so good at taking care of people? he wants to ask, but he doesn’t. A part of him knows, already, what the answer would be.
Instead, he just ruffles Damian’s hair, says “Thanks, Dames,” and goes to sit at the table, batting away Jason’s hands when they not-so-sneakily reach for one of his sandwiches.
An eye roll is audible in the way Damian speaks. “Tt. Honestly, I leave for less than a year and you all forget how to be functional human beings. Embarrassing, the lot of you.”
It’s an I love you in one of the few ways Damian knows how to say it.
Dick smiles softly. “We know.”
From the way Damian's cheeks burn red, he understands perfectly.