Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Respectfully speaking, that goddess did some damn good work,” Constantine says from his chair in the League medbay, unlit cigarette between his lips. 

Zatanna gives him a look so sharp it would impale a lesser man. “No smoking, Casanova. And I’m sure Dick would prefer if the people trying to change him back would spend more time researching and less time flirting.” 

“I’m just saying, if I went from bloke to bird, I’d want to be a looker.” A translucent bubble forms around his head, making him appear as if he's wearing a fishbowl as a hat, and he lights his cigarette. Smoke begins to fill the bubble, disappearing before it reaches the edges. “Pretty as a picture, you are. Not that you weren’t before, of course.”

Several books floating in front of Zatanna slam shut, and Dick decides to intervene before the argument can escalate. He holds up a small, manicured hand. His nails are buffed, not polished, but a little nail polish wouldn't have bothered him—he’s worn it before, just for fun. He'd been Liz Hurley's character from Austin Powers for Halloween, which required a silver mini-dress and matching go-go boots, and Kori had painted his nails with the sparkliest nail polish he'd ever seen. Atomic glitter, she'd proclaimed, and painted her nails with it, too, even though it didn't quite go with her blue velvet Austin Powers costume. That had been a lifetime ago.

“It’s fine, Z. I’ve had worse. But Constantine, should you be chatting me up when your girlfriend is literally right there?” 

“Three’s company, doll, and—”

“Shut it, both of you. I don’t care that you’re chatting Dick up; I care that you’re doing it now. If we can’t figure out a fix before midnight, Dick’s going to be stuck like this for nine months until we can do a rebirthing ritual. On top of that, we’d have to go back to that shrine and beg, which is hardly your strong suit, Jonathan.”

“Oooh, the big names are out. What are you always saying, that you shouldn’t rush certain mag—”

“Guys, it’s okay,” Dick assures them. Their heads snap toward him, and they stare at him, disbelieving. He scoots to sit up properly in the bed, which feels ginormous when it really isn’t. He’s only six inches shorter than usual, but all of his muscular bulk is gone, too, giving him a narrowness he hasn't had since he was a kid. He continues. “Really, I’m fine. You said the goddess was ‘chaotic good’ and gives out unexpected gifts, like a fun monkey’s paw. I didn’t go into the shrine wishing for anything”—except to be loved by his family again—“but maybe the goddess knows something we don’t? Me being a woman might be useful for some reason or another.” And now for a closing quip, to really convince them. “Besides, my joints haven’t felt this good in ages! A sex swap wasn’t on my list of pain management options, but maybe it should've been!” He gives Zatanna what he hopes is a winning smile, which seems to convince her.

“If you’re sure…” she says. He can tell she's tempted to leave and get some rest.

“I am. I still feel like me, no dysphoria, promise." He doesn’t need a dick to be Dick Grayson.

“Well, have some fun for me, will ya?” Constantine says with a wink, earning him a swat on the back of the head. Zatanna is so done with today's antics. "Babe, I didn’t mean anything by it, honest! Grayson, you know me. Common gentleman, I am. I meant that you should hang out with Wondy on Themyscira or something. You know, things you couldn’t normally do.”

Shaking his head and grinning, Dick politely waves them out, claiming that he's feeling sleepy. It's not a lie. Once he's alone, he reaches for the control panel on the bedside table and dims the lights. Wrapping the sheets around him, he rolls to his side to study his reflection in the dark window. His mother stares back at him, her strong jawline and high cheekbones achingly familiar. Traces of his father were still present in the blue eyes and black hair, but all he can see is his mom. He’d thought he’d forgotten her face, but when Dick first saw his transformed appearance in the mirror, he was overcome with the warmth of recognition. Hello, my little Robin. My darling. My sunshine. 

As he dozes off, he dwells on how he’d always been welcome on Themyscira, Boy Wonder and all.

He wakes up to Batman looking at him like a problem to be fixed. Dick can feel a headache incoming already. Blearily, he makes a show of yawning and sitting up in bed. A tray of food is in front of him, loaded with his favorites, and he eagerly rolls it towards himself.

"Morning, B." He takes the lid off the bowl and restrains himself from licking his lips when he sees what's inside. Whoever makes the overnight oats for the League cafeteria knows what they're doing.   

“I was counting on having you in the field this week," Bruce says just as Dick's taking his first bite. 

Petulant, Dick takes his time chewing and swallowing. Could Bruce do anything other than punch and express disappointment? How easy it would be to start their conversation on the right foot! Like, hello, son, I see you've changed. Do you feel okay? Good. I'll let you eat your blueberry maple confection in peace, then we can talk about plans going forward. Remember, I love you, no matter what you look like. But that wasn't Bruce.

He puts down his spoon and looks Batman in the eye. The cowl is as unfeeling as ever. 

"I'm sorry this unexpected event ruined your plans." It's not like Dick's plans hadn't suddenly been turned upside-down. Another job he'd have to quit, another lease he'd have to cancel, another group of budding friendships he'd have to abandon. It wasn't like he's completely rebuilding his life from the scorched earth left behind by the Crime Syndicate and Spyral. Nor was it like he was finally enjoying some agency for the first time in a long while. Nope. No siree. Dick being magically transformed into a woman is an imposition on Bruce.

“I thought I taught you to expect the unexpected,” Bruce rebukes, and Dick wants to scream into a pillow.

He settles for sarcasm. "Really, B. How would you have prepared for this, then? This exact scenario. Please, give me the rundown."

Bruce says nothing. 

Then: “Robin is here to see you.”

Damian appears by the door, bedecked in Robin regalia, clearly having been listening in on their conversation. Dick needs to work with him on that. Boundaries, and how—and when—to respect them. It's hard to explain when their night jobs require so much snooping. Despite his tendency to adopt a stoic façade, Damian’s eyes clearly widen behind his mask. Slowly, he approaches the bed and assumes his usual place at Dick's side.

“You are unharmed?" He reaches out and gently clasps Dick's wrist to take his pulse. "I do not trust the assessments of a degenerate like John Constantine.”

“I’m just peachy." He shakes off Damian's hand before taking it in his own, interlacing their fingers. Their hands appear to be about the same size, with Damian’s being a little bigger. It’s unreal. His little Dami, all grown up. Or is it just that Dick’s grown down? He’s feeling a smidge sentimental, regardless. "Zatanna was here to help, too. You’ve valued her input in the past.”

“That was before I discovered she chooses to spend her time with that libertine. Surely, there are better candidates that are worthy of her romantic affections.”

Dick chuckles. “I dunno, they bicker like an old married couple. They might be each other’s person; we can’t judge from the outside.” 

“Perhaps you may not, but I will reserve my right to judge,” Damian sniffs. He looks down at their hands, examining Dick once more. “I did not expect you to be so—petite.”

“Hey now! I’m five-foot-four, average height for a woman. An American one, at least.” He makes a mental note to research the worldwide stats later. He’s gotta do something to occupy his brain while he’s benched. “I’m only an inch shorter than Black Bat and Spoiler,” he adds, puffing up his chest defensively. In his incredibly slim female body, it's hardly an intimidating pose, but Damian seems to see the humor in Dick's response.

“And myself,” Damian replies, a hint of a smile on his face.

“And—really? I missed your growth spurt.” Damian Wayne, five-foot-five?

“An inch is hardly notable.” He looks down as he flushes, which makes Dick's heart swell several sizes. He'd get out of bed to hug him, but he's still covered with blankets and food—and surprisingly tired, considering his full night of sleep. An uninterrupted eight hours was a rarity. Maybe he actually slept too much? But doesn’t he need more sleep as a woman? He vaguely remembers reading that somewhere.

Dick squeezes Damian's hand. “You know, seven more of them, and you’ll be six feet tall.” 

“I am in my final foot of growth, yes. I expect to eclipse Batman in stature by my seventeenth birthday.”

Bruce clears his throat from a shadowy corner of the room, interrupting Dick's little moment of happiness. “I will see you in the Cave at noon.”

Dick shakes his head. “Nope. I don’t do the Cave anymore, remember?”

“There’s no need to be immature,” Bruce growls. 

“I’m not being immature. You know why I won’t go there."

Damian looks confused, but Dick doesn't elaborate. Bruce knows what he did, how he ruined the Cave for Dick—and, by extension, the Manor. Dick refuses to return to the scene of the crime. He tried, once, when wrapping up the Spyral mission, and all he could see were the places where Bruce had slapped and kicked and smashed Dick into everything. The sight of the Batboat alone made him want to vomit. He'd just been killed, his heart barely restarted, and there he was, fighting for his life against the man who was supposed to be his father. Or father figure, at the very least. Not an antagonist. 

"Unacceptable. You must remain under—"

"No," Dick interrupts, voice firm. "I'll stay in the penthouse, which is still in Gotham and more than enough for you.” 

Damian perks up. “May I stay with—”

“No, Robin.” Batman's scowl is an ugly thing, and Dick wishes he'd seen less of it. There'd been a time when Bruce never greeted him with a frown on his face, but those days were long gone.

“I’ll visit,” Dick promises his Robin. "And school’s out for summer tomorrow, right? We'll have plenty of time together." 

When Dick arrives at the penthouse, there’s a stack of clothes waiting for him in the bedroom he favors. Wow, he didn’t know where Alfred had been hiding some of these things—an ancient Gotham Academy sweatshirt, t-shirts he hasn’t worn since middle school, a pair of sneakers he’d outgrown before wearing them out. The socks were new and probably borrowed from Damian’s never-ending stash, as the kid had a thing about fresh socks. Not that Dick could blame him. Clean socks were a luxury few appreciated until they had to go without.

Reaching for a comfy-looking shirt and pair of shorts, he hesitates. It wouldn’t do to put clean clothes on a dirty body. It had been over two days since he’d last showered, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t perspired in the meantime. The goddess’s cave had been swelteringly hot, and when she zapped him, she left him in his uncomfortably sweaty Nightwing suit, his now waist-length hair plastered to his head and neck. Zatanna had given him a quick freshening up when they reached the medbay, but magic wasn’t the same as a good scrub down. She’d also spelled his hair into a perfect French braid, now mussed by a night of sleep, and Dick hoped he could replicate it later. At the very least, he could manage a ponytail. He had a fair amount of experience with French braids, but braiding someone else’s hair was a world of difference from braiding one’s own. He’d have plenty of time to practice, at least. Nine whole months, geez Louise.

But first, he needs a shower. Zatanna had assured him that this was his body and that he hadn’t swapped bodies with some female Dick Grayson in another dimension, but those thoughts still plague him. What if Z was wrong? What if this body really belongs to someone else? A very similar someone, sex chromosomes aside, but still, someone other than himself. How horrified he would be if someone touched his body so intimately without his knowledge or consent. (How horrified he had been, the many times it happened before.) So no, he’s not going to experiment or “have fun” with his new figure the way Constantine and others had intimated. He isn’t the type and had never been, regardless of the gossip about Nightwing that he hated tolerated for the sake of cohesion. Nightwing is competent, good-natured, and could take as many jokes as he could give. Mr. Congeniality with an ass that just asked to be grabbed. Easy on the eyes and even easier to get in bed, so why not try?

No, he’s not going to let this body become public property, too. It deserves respect. It’s clean and untouched by the world, wholly without scars. Practically fresh out of the womb, even, save for its age and the well-cared-for calluses on its hands. His hands. His small, delicate-looking hands. He’s now a twenty-nine-year-old woman who had the body of a professional acrobat—and a lucky one, at that. There’s not an injury to be seen or felt. It’s as if he's been reborn and cleansed of his past. The pain, the mistakes, the sins… all gone. Earlier, when he had first tried to do a handstand, he wanted to cry. It was effortless, everything floating into place, the movement an expression of joy. Of freedom. His body is a lithe, aerodynamic machine, impressively strong for his size—but only as strong as it needed to be. No extra bulk, no muscle forcefully packed on, just enough to move. Much like his mother, he’s now got a body that’s built to leap, to extend. To reach out, to remain open.

If only his loved ones would take his offered hand. Barbara, Tim, Jason, Cass, Steph… even his old Titans teammates. Why was it that the forgiveness he extended to others was never extended to him?

He steps into the shower and lets the warm water pour over him. With no physical aches to soothe, the water has a sensuous quality, gently coursing over his body in a way that makes everything feel new. He lets himself be reduced to a being of pure sensation. The smell of soap and shampoo, the scratch of fingers massaging his scalp, the softness of the washcloth he used to cleanse himself there. He tingles pleasantly, but he doesn’t linger. Turning off the shower, he lets himself dry off a bit before opening his bottle of jojoba oil and carefully rubbing a few drops all over his damp skin. It’s a bit of a pain to work around the heavy mass of his hair, but he normally puts some oil on his ends, anyway.

The terrycloth robe on the hook is comically large, and when he looks in the mirror, he laughs. The ginormous rat’s nest on his head really completes the look. Hopefully, his old detangling brush will be up to the task. He sits down at the previously unused vanity and begins combing through his ends, slowly working his way up toward his scalp.

Idly, he thinks back to how his parents wanted another child. A younger sibling for Dickie, and wouldn’t he just be the best older brother? They’d died before that happened, but what if? What if he’d had a little sister? Would this have been how she looked? How would he have been as her brother? Would he have been able to do to her what he had done to his family, faking his not-so-fake death for over a year? It pains him to think about it, so he stops. He’s not Bruce, the constant ruminator. No, he’s Dick Grayson, and now, in a weird way, he's his own sister, too. As a brother, he would want his sister to be happy and healthy. To be someone that took care of themselves and treated themself well. So that’s exactly what he’s going to do. These next nine months are going to be the vacation he’s always been told he should take, and hopefully, he will emerge from this happier and with his family by his side.

That’s the plan, at least.

Two days later, Damian arrives at the penthouse with a smile on his face and a purple cast on his arm. It's Stephanie’s work if the signature in silver Sharpie is any indication.

“What happened?!” Dick rushes to meet him at the elevator door, his hair in a passable braid. He had played around with other styles, but he’d yet to find another that kept his heavy hair out of the way and didn’t give him a headache. Ponytails and buns were a no-go.

Damian holds up his injured arm in an assuaging manner. “There is no need to worry.” He gestures behind him to the veritable mountain of luggage in the elevator. Titus is sniffing at his paws, and was that Alfred the Cat's travel crate? How did Damian manage all this?

Damian continues. “I am no invalid, as I was able to carry this by myself. In fact, I did not injure myself at all.” He fiddles with the cast, and a hidden seam opens, revealing an unblemished limb. Dick's initial worries evaporate. "I apologize for the deception. That said, both Dr. Thompson and Brown approve of this ruse, and both are keen to see you, should you be willing.”

“Of course I am.”

“And I told them as much. Pennyworth is also a part of this scheme. I informed him of my intentions, and he aided in convincing Father of this arrangement. He is in agreement that Father does not appreciate my presence when I am unable to contribute to the vigilante cause and that a month away from the Manor would be beneficial for all parties involved. Pennyworth compared the time you and I spend together to 'summer camp,' which was apparently a positive formative experience for Father."

Dick brings his Robin in for a hug. “You’re so clever, Dami, and I'm so happy you're here," he murmurs. "I just wish you didn't have to do all that to see me."

"I will do anything for you, Richard." Damian pauses, his brows scrunching together, and pulls back from their embrace. "Or is there another name you would prefer?"

He shrugs. "I'm still the same as I was before."

"But it would draw unnecessary attention if you were to go out and be referred to by such... masculine names. They are ill-fitting."

"I can figure out an alias. And why don’t you come up with a few options? ‘Alfreda’ would go great with Alfred and Alfred the Cat.”

Damian rolls his eyes, but his amusement is evident.

“In the meantime, I've got several seasons of The Great British Bake Off to catch up on. Want me to make some popcorn? There's also quite the selection of teas in the pantry, along with those Scottish cookies you like.”

“Shortbreads,” Damian corrects, but he suddenly deflates like a balloon. “I must apologize in advance.”

"Dames?"

“We may need to postpone our viewing plans, as I may have made an appointment for you this afternoon with Miss Kyle."

Dick sighs. “I like Selina, I really do, but I'm tired, and I was planning on having the day to myself." Ever since his transformation, he’s been in desperate need of afternoon naps. And evening naps. And mid-morning ones, too, even after a full night of sleep. It’s like he’s finally catching up on all the sleep he missed since starting the vigilante life as a kid.

"This will only be a minor interruption. There will be no need to leave the penthouse. She and her team will be bringing the necessary items to you."

"What do you mean, team? You know I'm out of commission.”

"You misunderstand. I have inquired regarding her assisting you in selecting a wardrobe, as you are now of a similar physique. I believe the term is ‘gamine.’ There will also be professionals of the cosmetics and hairdressing variety.”

The expression on Damian's face is so earnest that it’s shockingly adorable, but Dick is still unconvinced—and confused. Dick’s turned into a woman, and now Damian suddenly wants to play dress-up? They’d had a bit of silly fun practicing disguises, but Damian demanding an all-out makeover (and it certainly would be that elaborate if Selina’s involved) was incredibly out of character. Dick thinks back to Damian’s habit of disparaging Dick’s outfits, especially when they were on the casual side—he spent most of his time in comfy t-shirts and sweats, so sue him—but he’d attributed that to snobbery handed down by Talia and R’as. And yet, Damian had never tried to dress him before. Given his artistic sensibilities, he’d probably be good at it, but that’s not the issue here. Dick’s suddenly a girl, and now he’s a living doll for someone else to dress up?

“I’m not sure I understand,” he says, cautious, trying to not let concern seep into his voice. He sounds so much softer, which must have been how his mother sounded, but he can’t remember much aside from her scream as she fell.

Damian tuts. “Simpleton. This consultation with Miss Kyle is a strategic maneuver to aid in your reunification with Todd and Drake. In enhancing your feminine qualities, they will be taken off-guard, thus granting you opportunities to speak and be heard.” 

And now Dick wants to cry. How considerate his little Robin is trying to be! He wants to ease his pain and has concocted an innovative plan to solve his big brother’s problem… Not that being pretty had ever solved any of Dick’s issues.

He smiles weakly. “I don’t know, Dami…”

Damian tuts again. "Mother always said that for a woman to be treated well, she must be well-dressed, and I have observed the truth of that statement. Thus, with a few tactical changes on your part, Todd and Drake’s unacceptable treatment of you will end.”

What would really end things would be Bruce telling everyone the truth about how Dick ended up at Spyral, but he tries not to dwell on that particular betrayal. Damian’s here, and they’re going to have a good time, dammit. 

He shrugs. “Sure, why not? If you think some lipstick will help, I'm willing to try." 

“Oh, kitten.” Selina practically melts when she first sees Dick. Dripping with pearls, she embraces him and presses a kiss to each of his cheeks.“You are absolutely lovely.”

Dick leans into the hug, squeezing her tightly. “I’ve missed you so much.” The last time he had seen her, he’d been strapped to the Murder Machine, suffocating under Luthor’s clammy hand. There had been no magic death pill, though he had to hand it to Luthor for coming up with such a quick, convincing lie—if he hadn’t, an apoplectic Bruce would’ve prevented him from reviving Dick. For the longest time, he wondered if that would have been such a terrible thing. The idea of staying dead, of finally being at peace, of rejoining his parents, Donna, Wally, Damian… but then Damian was alive again, and Dick had someone to live for. Someone he loved wholeheartedly and who returned that love, albeit in his own shy, prickly way. It was real love, too, more than just appreciation that Dick was there to teach a new skill or help with a mission. He wouldn’t stop loving Dick if Dick didn’t bend to his will.

Sensing Selina’s scrutinizing gaze, he does a little twirl. “What do you think?”

“I think Damian was right to call me. Those ratty sweatpants are absolutely criminal.” She whips out her phone and presses a button on the elevator doors. “Now, all of these women are excellent at what they do. You don’t have to do everything they suggest, but please consider it. I’ll do my best to steer them in a direction that works for you. As for the clothes, don’t get overwhelmed. I’ve selected basics that you should feel comfortable in and a few fun pieces that I thought might catch your eye. But first, you need to get measured for your undergarments. Some options will be brought out while we figure out your hair.”

“Should I be nervous?” Dick jokes, watching as rack after rack of clothing is wheeled out from the elevator by several women dressed in head-to-toe black. One woman rolls a trunk behind her, and another, a hairdresser’s chair and a three-way mirror. He’s vaguely reminded of the scene in Miss Congeniality when Sandra Bullock gets a torturous-looking makeover in a warehouse. No bikini waxes for Dick, at least, as it appears that the laser hair removal his previous body had undergone transferred over to this one. How convenient.

Selina doesn’t respond, instead calling over a woman with short burgundy hair. “Bozena, I’m thinking a foot off, at the very least. Her hair is swamping her figure.”

“Yes. Pixie, collarbone, or armpit, no longer,” Bozena replies, her (Polish?) accent almost mechanical. She start unbraiding Dick’s hair and gently combing it with her fingers, analyzing it as if Dick were a spaniel and she a judge at Westminster. “So healthy. What do you use?”

“Um. I travel a lot, so pretty much whatever’s on hand.” He’d never been particularly brand-loyal, unlike Bruce, who used the same shampoo, conditioner, aftershave, and cologne as his father had.

Bozena swoops his hair from the left to the right, playing with his part. “No special treatments?”

“Does jojoba oil count?”

The woman shook her head, tutting. “Some people have all the luck.” She gathered Dick’s hair into a ponytail and gave it a small tug. “Do you want to donate?”

At Dick’s quizzical look, the stern woman chuckled. “For a wig. A sick child would be happy to have such pretty hair.”

“Oh, sure. Yeah, that sounds good. I don’t think I want it cut super short, though. I like being able to pull it back into a ponytail. Right now, it’s a little heavy for that.”

The woman nodded. “Yes. So thick. You need layers for movement. What about bangs?” She reaches out to touch Dick’s forehead, about a centimeter above his eyebrows. “Very pretty, and they will stay out of your eyes.”

As a man, Dick’s always had bangs of some sort that he had to style, so he shrugs in assent, but Selina intervenes.

“I don’t know. Her hair grows so fast, and bangs limit styling options. She’d have to part her hair in the same spot, and she likes to flip her hair around and let it fall naturally. Also, if she wanted to air-dry her hair…”

Bozena nods. “I see. Why not something like this?” She lets go of Dicks hair and pulls out her phone, typing something. She shows the screen to Selina, who smiles and then turns the phone towards Dick. The hairstyle in the photo is simple—long enough to look cute in a ponytail, Selina assures—and has a sassy little flip at the ends. It’s Sixties without being too literal, Bozena adds, and with a few invisible layers, it will air-dry nicely.

It looks fun and easy to manage, so Dick agrees.

The next thing he knows, well over a foot of his hair is being slipped into a plastic bag, another woman—Alicia—is finding his “my lips but better” lipstick, a third woman has painted his nails—Lori, with a neutral pink on his fingertips and “the most perfect red” on his toes—and the other women are cooing over him. You have the most beautiful eyes! Just like Liz Taylor! And those eyelashes! Those brows! It’s giving Audrey, it's giving young Brooke Shields! Just gorgeous! He nods along, not getting any of those references.

They finally start talking about fitness, asking him what he does to stay in such great shape, and he’s happy to finally have something he can confidently talk about. Thanking them for their complements, he explains that he did acrobatics and gymnastics, that no, he had only done a bit of pilates and yoga, and that he appreciated their eye for color. He would’ve never thought to distinguish one red from another as being better for his coloring—apparently, he’s a “true winter”—but now he actually could see the difference in the mirror. Bozena had shown him several flattering hairstyle options, instructing him on how to achieve each look, and tucked the necessary tools and products away in his bathroom.

Makeup is less intense than he anticipated. Thankfully, he’s had enough experience doing makeup that nothing’s entirely new to him. Everyone exclaims that his skin is so perfect, it deserves to be seen, so all he’s been given is some sunscreen that made his skin velvety soft, some lightweight concealer (“just in case”), some eyeliner and mascara, a small eyeshadow palette, and a creamy stick of blush (in a color called “orgasm”) that could also be used on his lips. There are a few other balms, lipsticks, and glosses also included in his new makeup bag, but everyone agrees that “orgasm” suits him perfectly. The name is enough to make him blush. There’s some debate over his brows, but Alicia insists they were to remain untouched. Brush them into place, but nothing more, she repeats. No tweezers, no gels, no powders, no pencils. Dick nods fervently, trying to get her off his case.

Picking out clothes takes much longer. Selina ensures that he has enough underwear and bras to get him through the next decade. For the most part, they are simple and practically invisible under t-shirts and leggings, but Selina insists he should have a lacy set or two “just for fun.” Pajamas are a mix of practical cotton and bright silks, all of them a combination of pants, shorts, and button-down tops, save for a short nightie and matching robe that is particularly decadent. They are the sort of silky, lace-trimmed things he’d seen Kori and Barbara wear before, and he had loved seeing them swan around in them, all flirty and confident.

His sportswear now consists of a series of leggings and matching crop tops with built-in bras. As a 30B, he doesn’t need much support, thank goodness. Relearning his new body was already challenge enough without having breasts to get in the way of his stretches and flips or painfully weigh down on his shoulders and neck. More than a few superheroes suffer from that affliction, and he used to offer massages to any teammate in need. Donna had always taken him up on the offer, but when she died, that part of him went with her. Plus, the massages didn’t help with his reputation.

But back to the here and now.

For “real people clothes,” as Tim had once called them, Dick now has an assortment of basics tailored to his new frame. Even his t-shirts had been altered, which seemed excessive, but everyone insisted that he had to show off his figure. Jeans, pants, shorts—they are all high-waisted, further accentuating the curve of his butt. (Selina had joked that his ass remained a constant, and Dick had smiled tightly in response, hoping the attention that came with his old butt wouldn’t also accompany his new one.) His few dresses nip in at the waist, with the exception of a short dress made of giant metallic sequins that reminds him of chainmail. It’s the sort of dress that was made for dancing, and he hopes he’ll have the chance to go out with friends if he has any now while he’s still a woman. What we wouldn’t give for a night out with Donna, twirling under the lights as they become one with the music.

The penthouse clears out by six o’clock. All of Dick’s new purchases are now lovingly arranged in the walk-in closet he’d never used before, and Selina has explained how to use his new purse to his advantage, showing him how the modified chain strap could be used as a garrote. Dick hopes he has no need to use it.

Damian, who had remained holed up in his bedroom during Dick’s makeover mayhem, emerges from his bedroom and tuts approvingly. He gives his compliments to Selina before turning back to Dick, asking if they could order pizza from that bougie vegan place on Main for dinner. Once he gets the okay—Dick is such a pushover, and they both know it—he scampers back to his room, stating that he will place the order himself and that Dick can fetch it from the private lobby as he’s busy playing a video game with Jon. It’s probably Assassin’s Creed 12 or whatever number they’re on now. It’s no Cheese Viking, but Damian had enjoyed analyzing the accuracy of those games and tearing apart the plot holes. He’d allowed Dick to play once and had been so exasperated by his tendency to swan-dive into every hay bale he saw. Dami’s critiques had been delightfully scathing. It’s like you want to lose! You are meant to stab the soldier, not pickpocket him! You cannot be a pacifist assassin!

Selina watches from her corner of the couch, a small smile on her face. “You’ve done wonders with that kid.”

Dick wraps himself in a knit blanket and sighs happily. “He’s a wonder all by himself. He’s gone through so much and is still willing to open up.”

“To you, maybe.”

“To the people he trusts. And it’s amazing that he’s able to trust anyone. No, it’s miraculous.”

He’s tearing up, but Selina’s smile doesn’t change. Surprisingly, for someone known for great taste, she’s rarely judgmental. When the masks are off, at least.

“I could say the same about you.” She takes another sip of wine, leaving a dark lipstick print on the glass, and Dick struggles to meet her eyes. “I know you don’t want to hear it, and please don’t turn away, but you are miraculous, too. When I saw you die, it was one of the worst moments of my life. Those minutes when you were gone… my god. And when Luthor brought you back… it was like I could breathe again. You coming back to life was a miracle. I don’t know what Bruce did after, but keeping you a secret was wrong—and I know that was Bruce’s decision because it’s his way or the highway. We know that better than anyone.”

Dick slowly nods, ensconced in his blanket. “Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. “Yeah. I didn’t want—it hurt everyone I love, and...” He’s fully crying now, and Selina puts down her wine and embraces him through his fabric shield, gently rocking him in her arms. Her hold is firm yet comfortable, giving him the support he needs to just let go. She would’ve been a great stepmom.

“I’m just happy you’re back, sweetie. Everyone will turn around, I promise.” She pulls a fresh tissue out of her pocket and offers it to Dick. “But most importantly, your makeup still looks great.”

Dick snorts as he blows his nose, and Selina cackles at the mess he makes.

“How do I look now?” He jokes, dabbing at the snot dripping down his upper lip, and he only giggles more when she tosses more tissues at his grinning face.

Later, when Dick randomly wakes up at 4 in the morning, he types young Brooke Shields into Google, curious to see who he’d been compared to earlier. Images of an incredibly beautiful young woman pop up, but also photos of that woman as a girl, and there’s something off about them. He goes to Shields’ Wikipedia page, and a wave of anger and sadness overcome him. Sexualized from a young age, the page reads, and he thinks back to the photos he’d just seen. Was she even twelve? Ten? And apparently those were just the ones tame enough for Google. There’s mention of child pornography being masqueraded as art, and when he reads the descriptions of some of the photoshoots and movies she starred in as a child, he feels sick. No, not sick. That pit in his stomach is fury. He wants to go down to the gym and scream, but it wouldn’t do a thing, aside from maybe waking up Damian.

He turns off his phone and sits there, hurting for this woman he’s never met, this woman who reminds him a bit of Donna and had to have the strength of an Amazon to survive what she’d been through.

A few days later, Dick feels stupid for having been nervous about seeing Leslie, because as soon as he and Damian enter her clinic, the normally über-professional physician gives him a bear hug.

“My God, Dick. You don’t know how happy I am to see you,” she says, squeezing him tighter. She’s also taller than Dick now, but it’s comforting, almost like he’s back in his Robin days when nothing could go wrong. 

“I think I have some idea,” he wheezes exaggeratedly, and she gives him one last squeeze.

“Now, I want to do a physical, and then we can chat about more feminine health needs.” She eyes Damian, who is practically attached to Dick at the hip. “Perhaps you would like to keep watch outside the examination room?”

Damian nods. “To protect against interlopers, of course.”

Leslie pats the examination table, and Dick quickly changes into the medical gown and is about to hop up when she stops him. “Let it open in the front, dear.”

“Right.” Duh, he’s got different parts now. Sometimes he’s so dumb. He shifts the gown around and gets up on the table, which is also taller than he remembers.

Thankfully, Leslie doesn’t ask for more blood work, trusting the League’s analysis, but she does ask to “palpate” new areas. He is shown how to check his breast for suspicious lumps, which apparently needs to be done once a month, but not during his period—and holy shit, he hadn’t really thought about that new reality—as the tissue can be sensitive and feel more lumpy than normal. As for the period itself, he should prepare for it to arrive at any time, though she’s not entirely sure, as there’s not much medical literature about magical sex swaps. Dick’s handed several pamphlets to peruse later, one of which has a “period preparedness shopping list.” Hoo boy. He’s bought tampons and pads for others before, but it’s different to actually be shopping for himself. He’d normally ask Babs for help, but that wasn’t an option anymore. She might get a laugh out of his misery and confusion, at least, which would make Dick feel better. He just wants Babs and Tim and Jason and Steph and Cass and Dami and Alfred and Bruce and everyone else to be happy.

A strange-looking plastic device suddenly appears in front of his face. “I’m using the smallest on the market, so this shouldn’t be too uncomfortable. ”

“What is it?” The curved part of the device reminds Dick of those old-fashioned shoe horns Bruce keeps in his closet.

“A speculum. For your vaginal exam. I’ll be looking at your vagina and cervix and doing a Pap smear.”

“Oh.” Another reality Dick hadn’t thought of. “Is it battery-powered?” That could easily go wrong. Visions of a machine automatically spreading his… opening uncontrollably flit through his head.

“No, that’s just the built-in light. It shouldn’t take more than a minute. Can you scoot down the table and put your feet in the stirrups?”

Dick does, and huh. It’s an odd sensation. He could see why this could be painful, especially with a larger tool, but he’s mostly struck by the feeling of having air down there. Weird. He’s spread open, but Leslie’s there, and she’s not looking at him like he’s a piece of meat. She never has. She just wants him to be and feel his best, and what a world it would be if everyone was like her. There’s a bit of uncomfortable pressure near the end—he assumes that’s the “smear”—and once he’s given a wipe to clean up and able to get dressed, it’s like it never happened.

Leslie takes the sample away and comes back with more pamphlets and a very excited Stephanie.

“Dick! Oh my god!” She goes to hug him, but Damian pulls her back by her belt loops.

“You cannot assume he wants—“

“I’d love a hug, Steph,” Dick interrupts, and practically launches himself into her arms. “I’ve missed you so much.” He feels her breath hitch, and he pulls back. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course it is,” she says, but she’s grown teary. “Damn. I’m just so—God, Dick. I’ve been awful to you when you’ve been nothing but great to me.”

“It’s okay. You’re here, and I’m here.” He eyes a fuming Damian by the doorway. “And Damian’s here, and Leslie’s here. We’re all good now, and that’s all that matters.”

“Bat Team, assemble,” she jokes, still wobbly, before really taking the time to look at Dick. “So, one: when did you go shopping and, two: why wasn’t I invited?”

“This is all Selina. She came by the apartment with a whole crew of beauty people last week, and now I get to wear these snazzy things.” He gestures down towards his black-and-white checkered pants. “Damian says the fabric is called gingham, but I prefer ‘picnic print.’”

“Only imbeciles purposefully call something the wrong name,” Damian mutters.

“Well, I love your ‘picnic’ pants,” Stephanie says loudly, making Damian roll his eyes. “I’d ask to borrow them, because we’re almost height twinsies, but you’re built like a Disney Princess and I’m a walking rectangle.” 

Dick tries to object, but Leslie beats him, tsking vigorously. “Don’t be ridiculous. You both are in fabulous shape, just with different builds.”

Damian nods in agreement. “You have the necessary bulk to fight—“

“I told you to cut the ‘Fatgirl’ shit—”

“Which is impressive, as it takes extra effort for women to build muscle.”

Stephanie stops, taken aback. “Was that a compliment?”

Damian crosses his arms, looking very uncomfortable. “If you wish to take it that way. I was merely stating a fact, was I not, Dr. Thompkins?”

“Before we start World War III in here, perhaps we can move this meeting elsewhere? I have a few appointments coming up, and I think Stephanie had a wonderful idea earlier.”

“I did? Yes! I did. Dick, we should go shopping right now to get all those things you need for that time of the month. It’s so much better to have everything nearby, especially if you’re having a rough one. It’ll be like a gift basket of goodies you didn’t know you needed.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I’ve got a free afternoon. Dami, do you want to join us or go back to the penthouse first?”

Damian mumbles something under his breath.

“What?”

“I will accompany you,” he says, resignation dripping from every word.

“You don’t have to,” Dick insists, but Damian shakes his head.

“I will protect against interlopers, just as I did earlier.”

“And soooooo successfully,” Steph adds, giving the air an ol’ one-two punch, and Damian’s scowl deepens further. “Off to the schmancy Walgreens!”

They emerge from the drugstore relatively unscathed. Dick had never been to this location, but Steph’s a regular and shoos away an overly helpful sales clerk. That guy’s a terrible flirt. He’ll just awkwardly hover behind you and then ask for your number. And he does it literally every time! In contrast, the cashier is a real gentleman and makes amiable chitchat while ringing them up. No commentary on what they were buying, either, which is a relief, and he ends their exchange by wishing “you beautiful ladies a beautiful day.” Damian, who had been pacing near the front of the store, doesn’t get an equally warm send-off, but he’d probably been making the cashier nervous. A loitering teenage boy rarely bodes well.

“D’you mind if I pop up to the penthouse for a bit?” Steph asks, swinging the plastic bag she’s carrying. Dick had insisted he could carry them both, no problem, but Damian and Steph had fought to be his beast of burden. The end result was Damian carrying the bag with all the embarrassing feminine hygiene products while Steph had all the foodstuffs.

“You’re welcome any time, Steph.” Dick smiled at her, and she grinned back at him.

“It’s just that I want to see if Alfred found the secret note I left. Also, have you tried the salad place on the ground floor? They’ve got this chopped beet thing that’s haunting my dreams. In a good way,” she added. “By the way, Tim can’t have beets anymore, so add that to the list.”

“Oh no.” Poor Timmy and his tummy—IBS was no joke. First dairy, then cilantro, then garlic, then most fried foods, and now something legitimately healthy. He hoped caffeine wasn’t next, because no one in this family could survive without it. Dick turned to give Damian a pointed look. “You better not be getting any ideas.”

Damian’s nose crinkles in disgust. “I am beyond such puerile antics. Besides, I was there for the original incident, which was… not pleasant.”

“Yeah, patrol was canceled ASAP. Babs had to air out the place.”

Geez. “But Tim was fine after a few hours, right?”

“Yeah, but it tired him enough to take the next day off, too. You might say he was pooped.”

Both Dick and Damian groan.

“What? Are my puns not spectacular?”

“More like a spectacle… of madness,” Damian retorts.

“Weak,” Steph flings back. “We’ve gotta work on your banter.”

The two of them continue sniping at each other, no real heat in their voices, as the group makes their way towards the private entrance to Wayne Tower. Now that he knows neither of them want to kill each other, these tiffs are far more entertaining. Plus, he can see Damian’s mood improving with each bit of repartee. They’re like puppies play-fighting, tails wagging the whole time, and it warms Dick to see it. He missed this.

The three of them are in the elevator when both Steph’s and Damian’s phones go off simultaneously. They both whip out their phones and, a moment later, their faces go carefully blank, which makes Dick nervous.

“Something in a group text?” he offers. Not the main group, obviously, as he would’ve gotten something, but the fun family (minus Bruce) chat where all the memes and hangout plans are shared… and from which he’s currently exiled. He tries not to feel hurt about it, because he understands that they feel hurt, too, but all that pain just makes him and everyone else miserable. Or not, if they’re sharing jokes in the group text. But he has a gut feeling whatever it was wasn’t a joke. Something’s about to happen.

He voices his concern. “Should I be preparing for anything?” he says in that half-playful, half-serious voice of his that’s particularly effective at diffusing tense team situations. Maybe it doesn’t work as well in this body, as Damian and Steph just stare at him. Steph, in particular, looks anxious, so he zeroes in on her. “Steph? Is there something wrong? Or something I should know about?”

After a few seconds, she breaks.

“DamiantoldBabswhotoldTimandtheyfoundthevideosotheyshowedmeandCassandJasonandAlfred—” she gasps, running out of breath, but Dick gets the gist. He really wishes he hadn’t, as he’s in a confined space with little possibility of escape, which just makes his heart pound faster. He wants to run.

“Steph, what video?”

He hopes against hope that it isn’t the one he’s thinking about. Bruce wouldn’t be so stupid as to not delete it. He’d deleted the footage of him slapping Dick after Jason died and that time he gave Dick a surprise dental extraction via his fist. Dick had checked. As far as he knew, the only other person who knew about Bruce having beaten him into submission was Bruce. And that was how Dick wanted it, too, as he didn’t want anyone seeing him that way, especially Tim, because Tim needed Bruce the way plants needed sunlight. He needed a perfect Batman for everything to make sense, and Dick did his best to give Tim that, as shattering Tim’s worldview would shatter Tim, too. And Cass, of course. She needed Bruce even more than anyone, and Dick couldn’t bear the thought of tearing them apart… If such a thing were possible. What if they agreed with Bruce? What if they wanted to do exactly the same to Dick? What if—

He had to stop thinking that way.

No, it probably wasn’t the Cave Incident, but if that isn’t what Steph is talking about, what video is it? Him being tortured by the Crime Syndicate? He hopes it wasn’t the bit where Superwoman was ripping his shirt off and kneading his ass. Or Owlman’s creepy, lingering touches. Was it him or Ultraman who’d licked his neck? Gross. Even burnt and bloody, he’s always everyone’s favorite chew toy. Is the video the bit from television? No, they’d have seen that already. Bruce’s mask footage from when he was smothered on the Murder Machine? How would they have accessed that? Also, how did Damian know to tell Babs? Bruce would’ve kept that cowl footage under lock and key, but there could be another source, another person who was there, like… Selina. She had a camera in her cowl, too, didn’t she? And she and Dick hadn’t been particularly secretive in the den, had they? Fuck, this was his own fault. For talking to Selina so openly, and for not teaching Damian about boundaries.

Dick turns to Damian, who doesn’t look particularly sorry for what he’s done. “Dami, did you overhear my conversation with Selina?” A nod. “And did you ask her for her mask footage from when I was—when Luthor—” he falters, but gets another nod. Dick bites the inside of his cheek, desperately trying not to cry. “And did you watch it and share it with everyone?”

Damian doesn’t nod. “Miss Kyle said you wouldn’t want me to witness your temporary demise, so I didn’t.”

“But you did share it.”

“With Oracle, who verified it and then showed it to Drake. They decided what to do from there.”

And no one thought to ask Dick what he wanted. Typical. The elevator doors open to an empty foyer, but he can sense several people in the kitchen. Great, an ambush. He wipes the burgeoning tears from his eyes and walks into the kitchen, slapping a rictal grin on his face. Alfred, Babs, Jason, Tim, and even Cass all turn to look at him from around the main island. Fan-fucking-tastic, the gang’s all here.

“Is this an intervention?” he tries to joke, but all he gets are stares. Jason, in particular, is looking at him like a third arm is growing out of his head, and Dick resists the urge to curl in on himself. He’s already so tiny in comparison to everyone else.

Alfred, bless him, breaks the silence. “Master Dick?” he says, eyes wide, his usual unflappable demeanor clearly flapped. “My goodness. I was not informed of the specifics of your transformation.”

“Well, now you know.” Dick does a little spin. “I’m a girl. Leslie just checked, if you don’t believe me.”

“No, we believe you, Dick,” Babs insists, but she’s using that calming voice that always sounded so insincere to his ears. He hates it.

“That’s a first. Or is it just because you’ve seen me? Seeing is believing, right?”

Her mouth twitches in irritation. “That’s not—”

“What? Fair? Neither is a surprise group meeting, but I’m not complaining, am I?”

“You are getting angry,” she snaps back, as if that won the argument.

“Too bad. I am angry. I’m angry you all decided to spring this on me, whatever this is supposed to be.” He gestures wildly with his trembling hands. Why won’t they stop shaking? “You should have asked to meet with me to talk. I would’ve been upset, but only by the fact that you saw the video, not that you saw it and also decided to catch me off-guard with it. But that’s beside the point. You saw it and thought it was best to speak with me all at once. So speak.”

Everyone is silent for several seconds before Tim clears his throat several times. He begins to talk. “We didn’t mean to hurt you, Dick. We just wanted to clear the air.”

“About?”

Tim isn’t quite looking at Dick, but Dick can see the discomfort in his eyes. Tim’s always been more comfortable behind a mask. Tim continues. “Until a few days ago, we hadn’t had sufficient knowledge of precisely what happened with the Crime Syndicate, and, as a result, since your return, we’ve been—um—”

“Assholes,” Jason rasps. Why was he so hoarse? “We didn’t know that you actually died.”

“You just assumed I didn’t,” Dick says, meeting Jason’s gaze. The rims of his eyes are pink and swollen as if he’d been crying, and Dick is briefly overcome by the urge to comfort him. Not that Jason had ever accepted his mothering.

“You should have told us,” Babs says, and rage briefly flashes through Dick, only to be replaced by a familiar sadness. As his anger drains away, he’s left with the weariness and the tears that never seem too far away. He shakes his head, refusing to cry.

“Would you have listened? Would you have believed me? Your minds were already made up from the moment you saw me,” he replies tonelessly.

“And I punched you,” Jason says, his anguish palpable.

Dick smiles humorlessly. “To be fair, I didn’t try to avoid it. And I get why you’d be angry and why you’d react like that. You really died, for real, and I was only out for a few minutes.”

“Four minutes, seven seconds,” Tim adds.

“Still counts,” Cass says quietly from across the room. Part of Dick is touched that she came all the way from Hong Kong for this meeting. She could’ve just as easily sent a text or done a video chat, which would’ve been less socially taxing. She’s uncomfortable on the best of days, and right now, she’s miserable. Everyone else nods or hums in agreement, and the somber looks on everyone’s faces makes Dick want to lighten the mood.

And why shouldn’t he? This meeting was in his honor, after all, so he should have some say. He wants fun, and he’s going to get some now, dammit.

“Well, since we’re all sorry—” not that anyone had actually said it “—let’s move on to the resolution part of this meeting. Damian, you’ve been unusually quiet. Why don’t you explain how you created this mess and I’ll decide if I’m angry at Selina, too. While he’s doing that, Steph, I’m in the mood for some of your signature popcorn. Why don’t you make some for the group? Then, I’m finally going to catch up on the Great British Bake Off, and you’re all going to join me.” He pauses. “At least for an episode. I’m not going to hold you hostage for a whole season. Unless you’d like to stay, which you totally should, because Alfred’s commentary makes everything better.”

As Damian tells a terribly overwrought version of what actually happened (i.e., that he’s a sneak and Selina indulged him, thinking it was for the best), Dick rests his hands on the counter and takes a deep breath. Steph and Alfred are knocking around in the kitchen, Babs and Tim have relocated to the den and are setting up the television, and the focus is finally off of him. He feels strange. He knows this conversation isn’t over and that he’ll be grilled for details eventually—hopefully in a one-on-one that he’ll be ready for—but it’s like he can’t breathe.

Well, literally, he can, but it’s as if the air isn’t enough for him. He needs more than this. He can’t continue living on this edge, wondering what secret will come out next, feeling guilty over something he logically knows isn’t his fault. He’s going to have to explain why he agreed to stay dead. What happened at Spyral. Why Bruce makes the decisions he does, and why it’s in everyone’s best interest that Dick obeys them. He needs time to think. Time to be alone. He needs—

Jason clears his throat. He’s standing beside Dick and slightly behind him. One of the fluffy blankets from the back of the couch is in his arms. “You’re shivering.”

Dick looks down at his arms. So he is. “Thanks,” he says, taking the throw from Jason and gently wrapping it around himself.

“I never said it, but I’m sorry,” Jason says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was a jerk, and you didn’t deserve that. Don’t deserve that.”

“No worries. All’s forgiven.”

“I call BS, but okay. You know, you don’t have to forgive me so easily.”

“You’re just so forgivable, Little Wing. Just—try not to assume the worst of me, next time.”

“You plan on doing that again?”

“Hell no,” Dick scoffs. “But you get what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He reaches down to the drinks fridge and grabs a bottle of mineral water. “Want one?” Dick shakes his head and watches Jason down half the bottle in a single gulp. Jason’s screwing the cap back on, carefully looking away from Dick, when he asks a follow-up question. “So, who decided you should stay dead?”

Dick purses his lips. “You know who.”

“I figured. Bruce can be so stupid sometimes. But normally you can talk him out of it. Why’d you agree–“

“I didn’t,” he interrupts, voice sharp. “Don’t ask. It’s between me and Bruce, and right now, he can fuck off.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Jason raises his bottle of Pellegrino in a toast, and the pressure in Dick’s chest dissipates. Just a little.

An hour or so later, there’s a lull in the baking chit-chat that Steph takes advantage of. “Soooooo, are we not going to talk about Dick’s super-cute new look? I’m obsessed.”

“Steph!” Babs shushes.

“What? Don’t tell me you don’t want a pair of those sparkly sneakers he’s wearing, O. They’re like a sporty version of Dorothy’s ruby slippers.”

“Let’s not make it awkward for Dick.” Babs casts a pitying look towards Dick, but there’s nothing to pity.

“Actually, not talking about it makes it more awkward,” he says. “And I don’t mind. It’s kinda fun to be a girl for a bit. I’m finally getting some vacation time, I get to wear whatever I want, and it’s nice seeing my mom when I look in the mirror. I haven’t seen her face since I was a kid.”

Jason startles. “Don’t you have photos?”

Dick shrugs. “We didn’t really do photographs. My dad always said it was better to live in the moment and keep it all up here.” He taps his temple for emphasis, just like his dad used to. Does that count as an act of remembrance? It’s certainly a gesture he picked up from his old family, not his new one.

Tim whips out his phone. “I can check to see if I have anything,” he offers. “I know I have some photos of me posing with you, but maybe…”

“That’d be really nice, Timmy. I’ve got so many copies of the Flying Graysons poster, but it’s just a sketch. It doesn’t really convey who they were, you know?”

Alfred clears his throat. “You do that in your being, Master Richard. I’m sure they’d be proud to see the person you’ve become.” His eyes are shining with fondness, and Dick wraps his arms around him for a hug.

“You’re kind to say that, Alfie. I bet they’d be a little surprised to see me now, though.”

“No,” Cass says quietly from her side of the sectional. She’s wrapped up in a fuzzy blanket, too, and her smile is soft. “You are exactly the same.”

And now Dick feels as warm and fuzzy as his blanket. He smiles back at her. “Thanks, Cass.”

“May I try on your sneakers?” she immediately asks.

Dick barks out a laugh. “Were you trying to soften me up?” He unties the red laces, admiring the way the red crystals sparkle in the afternoon light, and tosses the shoes over. Hopefully, they aren’t stinky. His feet sweat like crazy when he’s nervous, but his little red socks don’t seem to have gotten soaked.

Cass smiles mischievously. “You were already a softie.” She tries them on, standing up to pose in first, second, fourth, and fifth positions before doing some tendus, a passé, and then a développé to the side that has her foot around about shoulder height. She’s strong, and while not as flexible as Dick or a professional ballet dancer would be, her stability is impeccable. “Do they come in black?”

Steph’s scrolling on her phone. “Ooh, we should all get a pair! Dibs on silver. Or gold… no, you should get those, Babs.” She starts bouncing on the couch in excitement and adopts a sing-song voice. “And they come in men’s!” A link comes through on the group chat, and Dick’s happy to see that he’s been added back. For some reason, though, his profile pic is Alfred the Cat, but that’s probably Damian’s doing. His last profile pic had been a picture of the most perfect grilled cheese he’d ever seen in his life, but the Dick who’d chosen a grilled cheese profile photo was long gone. Three years had passed, and he hadn’t had a grilled cheese since. He should rectify that.

Jason grins. “I’m in.”

Dick turns to him. “Really?” He’d love to see Jason in some glitter and sequins, especially after all the ragging he’d done on Dick’s first Nightwing costume. In his book, disco never died, and the world always needs more joy.

“Sure. They’d go great with my look.” He gestures down to his ever-present combo of t-shirt, cargo pants, and combat boots. “Timbo could definitely rock them, too. What about you, Alf?”

“Regretfully, I must decline the offer. An old man cannot be separated from his brogues, or, more precisely, his orthopedic oxfords. The perils of fallen arches,” Alfred sighs, not at all upset to bow out from the sparkly shoe club.

Jason shakes his head. “Please. You’re still pretty spry... for a British guy, I guess.”

Alfred chuckles. “I did, after all, teach each of you the ins and outs of ballroom dancing. I recall you being a particularly attentive student, Master Jason.” Jason blushes, and Steph, Babs, and Tim hoot and holler. Damian and Cass just smirk, enjoying Jason’s embarrassment. Alfred continues. “That said, Master Richard, you might need a refresher on the ladies’ movements. Ideally, we could meet in the Manor ballroom, but given your apprehension—“

“I think I’m fine, Alfie.” He turns to Jason and slaps on an innocent smile. “And, if not, Jason could always teach me. Right, Little Wing?”

Jason turns red again. “Sure,” he mumbles.

“You don’t have to. I was just teasing.”

“No, I can,” he says immediately, like it’s a challenge. His blush is fading, and he’s looking Dick in the eyes, and now Dick really wants to see what a dance lesson with Jason would be like. Probably a little awkward at first, but once they broke the ice—ideally via some terrible jokes on Dick’s part—it'd fun the way spending time with Jason was always fun.

Damian puffs out his chest to interject. “If Richard needs a partner, I would be the superior candidate.”

“Not in terms of height,” Tim says “If Dick were helping with a mission, he’d probably be dancing with someone taller.”

Dick holds up his hands. “Guys, it’s fine. I’ll rehearse with Alfred. It’ll be just like old times.”

“Yes. I’ll be the Fred Astaire to your Audrey Hepburn,” Alfred replied. “Or perhaps Rex Harrison would be the better comparison?”

Dick has no clue what Alfred's talking about, so he slides his phone out of his back pocket to do some googling.

“Funny Face and My Fair Lady,” Jason says suddenly. Everyone, save for Alfred, turns to stare at him. Clearly, Dick wasn’t the only one who’s confused. “You looked—anyway, they’re old movies. Alf’s saying that you look a bit like Audrey Hepburn.”

Well, that explained some of the makeover women’s cooing. He does an image search and is inundated with photos of yet another incredibly beautiful woman. Wow, she really looks like his mom, especially when she’s smiling. Cute as a button, his dad would always say to his mom, thumbing the tiny cleft on her chin, before kissing her forehead, the tip of her nose, and then her lips. And wow, Dick hasn’t thought about that in ages.

Babs rolls over towards Dick using one hand, her phone in the other. “I’m surprised you know who she is, Jason.” She flipped her phone around to show Dick an image. “Dick, you’ve probably seen this picture of her. It’s pretty famous, and everywhere—on posters and coffee mugs and other random stuff.”

“Oh yeah, miss fancy lady.” He looks up at everyone and is taken aback by their stares. “I don’t really see the resemblance, but I’m not really posed with a cigarette holder and tiara a lot, am I?”

“We can make it happen,” Steph says. Cass is nodding encouragingly beside her.

Babs rolls her eyes. “Steph! Dick’s not a dress-up doll.”

“Uh, I wasn’t thinking that, O. I’m just saying that that Dick’s only going to be a girl for the next eight-ish months, and those months include Halloween…”

Dick fucking loves Halloween. Really, he loves playing dress-up, especially when it didn’t involve casework. “Yes! Let’s do it.”

Steph squeals.

DIck sends out an invite for a Friday night showing of Back to the Future in Robinson Park. Every summer, Gotham Museum of Art would host outdoor showings of family-friendly films, and Dick had never had the chance to go—even as Robin, as most villains weren’t in the habit of crashing free community events. A $10,000-per-plate dinner was a much more likely target.

That said, several of the people who had agreed to come had claimed it was for “security purposes.” Dick wished Tim and Jason could’ve just said they wanted to hang out for the sake of hanging out, but he was just happy that they’d be there. They’d need more than one picnic blanket to fit Steph, Damian, Tim, Jason, maybe Cass, and Dick (tiny as he was now.) And that wasn’t even counting the food and drinks! He’d confer with everyone later, but his mental list already included two sandwiches per person, a few bags of chips and popcorn, and at least a dozen bottles of soda.

Mainly, he’s concerned with Dami enjoying the movie. While Dick’s no great film connoisseur, he had seen the Back to the Future trilogy and had been especially delighted by the first movie. Maybe he and Dami could watch the rest of the trilogy on Saturday if he liked what he saw the night before? Without Batman and Robin responsibilities, there was so much more time in the day, and Dick didn’t really know how to structure his or Damian’s schedules. Could they just laze about all day? Sure, but was that a constructive use of their time? What activities would be best for maximum bonding?

Damian’s also trying to get ahead in math, declaring that he would beat Dick’s record of achievements. In his words, any simpleton who put their mind to it could take Calculus III and Differential Equations at fifteen and pass with flying colors. Dick had promised Damian that he could come to him for help, but Damian had brushed him off, claiming that if Dick had managed to do it alone, so could he. Did Damian get his stubbornness from him or Bruce? It didn’t matter, as neither of them were known for asking for help. Dick was far more used to providing it.

In fact, he wants to offer help right now. Not to Damian, who was still secreted away with some carrots and hummus in the penthouse, but to the woman struggling beside him on her silks.

It would be inappropriate, wouldn’t it? Definitely awkward. He’s not the instructor in this class, and he’s never even taken an aerial yoga class before, but the instructor just walked out of the room, presumably to talk to the receptionist or someone else in the lobby. Dick had always been curious about these sorts of classes, but they pretty much only catered to women, and he hadn’t wanted to impose in such a female space. In a female body, he blended right in, and he didn’t have to be the awkward guy at the back of the class or worry about making anyone else feel nervous. The presence of a male body had a way of making safe spaces feel unsafe for many women.

He decides to go for it. “Hey.” He swings a bit, catching the attention of the woman next to him. “If you bend your knees more, you’ll not need to grip the silks so tightly.”

The woman shakes her head. “I’m fine.” She looks like she’d rather be anywhere else but here, and a nauseated expression is starting to creep across her face.

Dick tries another approach. “You know, we probably shouldn’t be upside down this long. I’m coming down.” He quickly flips, unfolds, and stands upright. “Would you like me to spot you?”

The woman nods, and as Dick helps her get situated, the rest of the class follows their lead, each woman getting out of her inversion in a relatively uncontrolled manner. Well, this was a beginners/intermediate class…

The instructor returns to the studio a few minutes later. “I am sooooo sorry. My boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—just showed up and was being very unprofessional, so I needed to deal with that immediately.”

“Want me to go tell him off?” a woman pipes up from the back. Her voice is low and loud, and when Dick turns to look at her, he’s shocked by how tiny she is. Damn, she should be the acrobat! Was she even five feet tall?

The instructor shakes her head. “No, Janice. But thank you.”

“If she won’t do it, I will,” another woman says. More voices join in. “I’ll do it, too!” “Me, too!” “Me three!” “Me four!” “We’ve got you, girl!”

Dick whoops from his spot near the front. Practically everyone in the room is ready to throw metaphorical hands, but in a jokingly supportive way, and it makes him proud to be a Gothamite. It’s sweet, reminding him of the early Titans days. Nothing but simple friendship.

“You guys are too sweet!” the instructor demurs. “But let’s get back to why you’re all here. We’re already at 15 ’til, so let's skip the rest of this series and start cooling down.”

Dick knows he’s overstepping. This is literally the first class he’s taken here, and the instructor doesn’t know him from Adam (or Eve), but he still lingers by the doorway, waiting for the instructor to gather her stuff and leave the studio space.

“Hey, I’m Radhika,” he says, offering his hand. It’s a name Damian had picked. Aside from containing a “Dick” sound, it also referenced the Hindu goddess of love, beauty, tenderness, compassion, and devotion—which Dami thought suited him perfectly. The rest of the Bat Family liked it, too, and when combined with the surname of a distant Kyle relative, his initials were still RG. Richard Grayson was now Radhika Graham. He continues his introduction. “I really enjoyed your class.”

The instructor smiles. “Hi! I’m Tamsin. It’s always nice to see a new face. Are you new to Gotham?”

“Yes and no. I just came back after some time abroad, so the city feels new again.”

“I get that. I’m from New York, and every time I go back to Brooklyn, there are like a thousand things that are different.” Her peppiness is endearing. Dick envies her energy.

“Parts of Park Row are getting to be like that.”

“Really? I’ve never been in that part of town. Isn’t it dangerous?”

“It depends,” he says, not elaborating any further. Red Hood area was safe but gritty, while the edges and anywhere close to the subway were getting gentrified in the blink of an eye. He bites his lip, not knowing how to bring this up, so he just does. “Terrible segue, but you’re not worried about your ex, right? He hasn’t done anything to, like, threaten you?”

“Oh, gawd no!” Tamsin gasps. “He just thought he could show up, pull a grand gesture, and it’d end like a rom-com. He’s harmless.”

“If you’re sure…” Dick gives her a bright smile, which she returns. “Take care.”

“Thanks!” They’re by the front desk, and she gestures toward the neatly stacked piles of folded paper. “You should take a brochure—I teach some higher levels of aerial yoga and plain yoga-yoga if you’re interested. From what I saw, you’re really good. Are you a dancer?”

“Close. Acrobat and gymnast, so there’s definitely some overlap.”

Her eyes widen. “Wow, that’s so cool. You know, there’s this neat new factory space in Burnside that specializes in that kind of stuff. They just moved down from Montreal, I think. I’d call it a ‘circus school,’ but you know how touchy Gothamites get with ‘circuses.’ Or would that be ‘circi’?”

“Circuses. And understood. I’ll check it out!” And boy, would he. Fuck yeah, circus school! He’d had a blast working at L’Académie Fratellini in France, and anyone coming down from Montreal was probably connected to Cirque du Soleil. He knew a few people who’d performed with the troupe and only had good things to say, so he was definitely intrigued. Before he came along, Cirque had attempted to court his parents away from Haly’s, and damn, what a different life he might have lived if they’d agreed.

He tries not to think too hard about it as he makes his way back to Wayne Tower. He can’t change the past. He glances at the windows around him, using their reflections to assess his surroundings, and he notices a suspicious-looking man in his proximity. The perp keeps staring at Dick and walking several steps behind him, following him for several blocks. Dick wants to confront him, because the guy’s clearly hovering to make him nervous, but would that be what the guy wants? It’s some sort of power play, and if he were a man watching another man do this to a woman, he’d call it out. Or if he were a man being followed by another man, he supposes. But he’s a woman now and far easier to overpower, especially with the tote bag slung over his shoulder. The guy probably would probably just get off on Dick telling him off, which is a shame, because what is this asshole’s problem? He’s just trying to walk down a busy street like a normal person. In fact, he’s surrounded by several normal persons, and not one of them is doing a thing.

Fuck, he hates this. He’s not in any danger, but he is rankled as hell. Once Dick’s inside the Wayne Tower lobby, the guy briefly stands outside, still staring, before continuing down the block. Mentally, Dick flips him the bird, and he wonders if he can get Babs to inconvenience that guy’s life via Oracle. He shouldn’t ask, but the petty part of him really, really wants to.

Sadly, not everyone can join Dick and Damian for Back to the Future. Babs is busy with Dinah, and Cass is back in Hong Kong, so it’ll just be the two of them plus Tim, Jason, and Steph. One blanket won’t be enough, obviously, and neither will one basket of vittles, so Dick’s stuffing the trunk of his electric BMW crossover with everything they might possibly need. Tim spent the day working at Wayne Enterprises, so he just needs to join Dick and Damian in the garage, and after that, they’ll pick up Steph at her place and drive over to Robinson Park. There are two reserved spaces for the Wayne family in the parking garage right across the street, so they won’t have to worry about parking, and Jason will meet them there on his bike. Dick’s curious to see what Jason’s driving these days as a civilian. Is that beat-up Honda still kicking? Last time he’d seen it, Jason had quipped that Dick should be the one driving it. Nightwing + Goldie = Gold Wing. It’s basic math.

Jason does, in fact, show up on his Gold Wing. He’s refinished it since Dick last saw it, and it’s now an immaculate dark matte green. It looks good, and Dick tells him so.

“Looking good, Billy Ray!” he chirps, quoting Trading Places. He’d loved that movie since he first saw it as a kid. Why Italians played it every year for Christmas was beyond him, but he’d shared it with Jason during his first Christmas at the Manor regardless. Jason had gotten a kick out of it, too.

“Feeling good, Lewis!” Jason quotes back at him. “Nice jacket.”

“Thanks.” He’s wearing a bright blue racing jacket that’s straight out of the 60s and very Mod, according to Selina. When she said that, he immediately thought of Mad Mod, a villain from his early Titans days, but Mad Mod favored the worst looks of the 60s. Nothing like this jacket, which makes Dick feel cute as heck. He likes wearing things with personality, and it’s nice to be able to wear bolder clothes without getting looks. God forbid a guy wear bright colors, right? It’s just like that bit from that Madonna song: Girls can wear jeans and cut their hair short / Wear shirts and boots ‘cause it’s okay to be a boy / But for a boy to look like a girl is degrading / ‘Cause you think that being a girl is degrading. (He loved all the songs from that album—he has fond memories of his parents playing it in the camper van during their long road trips.)

“What color do you reckon Dick’s jacket is, kiddo?” Jason asks, directing his question to Damian, who’s standing by the trunk of the SUV. “Teal? I’m sure there’s a fancier word for it.”

“Cyan, you philistine.”

Stephanie exchanges a glance with Jason, smirking. “Looks like turquoise to me.”

“Turquoise?!” Damian squawks. Dick opens the trunk, and everyone grabs something to carry to the park. Dick’s left with the lightest load—just a blanket—while Jason commandeers all of the picnic baskets and coolers.

“What about aqua?” Tim asks, a devious glint in his eye. He’s laden with the other blanket and all the trail chairs.

“I will not dignify that with a response.”

The five of them find a nice place near the edge of the seating area, right next to an oak and a crabapple tree. Neither have limbs that make for good climbing, but Dick’s tempted. He’d have a great view.

“I could give you a lift,” Jason says, clearly reading his mind. After laying out all the blankets, Steph, Tim, and Damian had sat down and were staring over Steph’s shoulder at something on her phone screen. Jason’s rummaging through the cooler, examining Dick’s selection of drinks.

“I’m good.” Dick joins him on the blanket. “I got some of that ginger ale with the bits of ginger in it. Is original okay? Passionfruit was sold out.”

Jason waves him off. “I like all the flavors.” He uses a bit of the blanket to shield the palm of his hand as he forces the lid off the glass bottle without the bottle opener.

“But passionfruit’s your favorite.” Dick reaches over Jason’s lap to grab the bottle opener from the wicker basket. He opens a root beer for himself and wags the bottle opener in front of Jason. “For next time.”

“Dickie, I don’t really care. As long as I’ve got a drink, I’m good.”

“Good.” Dick knocks his shoulder against Jason, who feels even more solid than usual. Dick’s arms are little noodles compared to his. “You’re my favorite hydrohomie.”

Dick wakes up to someone tapping his nose with their finger.

“Out of bed, sleepy head,” Steph sing-songs. He’s partially underneath a blanket, head propped up on Jason’s thigh, and the credits are rolling on the giant projector screen. Fuck.

“I missed the whole thing, didn’t I?”

Everyone nods at him.

Perfect. Just perfect. The one time they’re all together for a good time, and he misses it completely. “Sorry. I really wanted this to be fun—”

“It was,” Tim insists. “We had a popcorn fight. Damian said you’ve been sleeping a lot?”

Dick pushes himself up and rubs his eyes. “Yeah. ‘The Change’ took a lot out of me, I guess.” He turns to Dami. “Did you like the movie, at least?”

“It was acceptable.” He pauses, suddenly bashful. “If it’s not too much of an imposition, could we watch the rest of the trilogy tomorrow?” Dick resists the urge to do a celebratory fist pump. He just knew Dami would love Back to the Future. Honestly, a perfect movie.

“There’s no better way to spend a Sunday afternoon than with a movie marathon. We can polish off the rest of that potato pizza. And you guys are all welcome if you want to join.”

“I think we’ve all got plans,” Steph replies. “Homework for my summer course,” she says, pointing to herself before pointing at Tim. “WayneCo schmoozing at the racetrack.” She then points at Jason. “Mystery things.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “It’s not a mystery. When someone says they have plans, they don’t have to elaborate any further. Dick, you up for driving, or should I hand to keys to Timbo?”

Dick is the first to stand up. “I’m good.” He squeezes Jason’s shoulder. “You were just so comfy that I couldn’t help falling asleep.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure the dark sky, blankets, and pillows had nothing to do with it. You sure about driving?”

“Positive.” Dick starts doing some jumping jacks before going into a handstand. He does the splits, then a side-bend to the left, to the right, then back to a handstand, and, finally, a smooth, controlled forward roll. “See?”

Some random person nearby starts clapping, and Dick does a little bow toward the kind stranger. The park is emptying out for the night, and it’s nice to see a bunch of families and friend groups hanging out. Public spaces are meant to be used, and it’s nice to be around people having wholesome fun. Everyone’s in a good mood. He could feel it in the air.

“Okay, Boy Wonder. No blunders on the way home.”

Tuesday morning, Dick’s still getting used to the way his new body jiggles. Even when flexing his muscles, there’s no getting around the fact he has boobs. Small ones, but still, a softness that he’s never had before. His abs are pretty much gone, too, despite the incredible strength of his core, but that doesn’t really bother him. Women have more essential fat than men, anyway, and he’s not eating for abs right now. ‘Definition is made in the kitchen’ and all that. He could dehydrate to make his abs more visible if he really wanted to, but after his time in the desert during Spyral, he has no desire to ever go thirsty again.

It’s funny how he’s able to think about that. Before "The Change," he wasn’t able to dwell on his time in Spyral without, well, spiraling, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in its mouth. The goddess basically gave him free instant therapy, and he’s thrilled to no longer be waking up in the middle of the night, searching for his gun under the pillow. He should probably be more upset that she messed around with his brain, considering everything that happened with Dr. Minos, but there’s no malice to what she did. She didn’t create lies in his brain or try to trick him. He’s still himself, and his memory is still intact, but some of that C-PTSD that he’s been carrying around for decades has been cast off. Those negative emotions feel softer, and his trauma is staying (mostly) rooted in the past—and when it does pop up, those feelings don’t threaten to swallow him whole. Maybe the body really does keep the score, because his old brain in his new body feels much more… stable? Content? There’s a better word for it, he’s sure, and Damian would probably know the perfect one.

He’s a couple of feet off the ground, playing around in his new silks, when the buzzer for the penthouse door goes off. Still upside down, he taps the face of his WayneWatch and pulls up the camera. It’s not Bruce, as he wouldn’t be polite enough to ask permission to come in, and Alfred’s off preparing the beach house for the Fourth of July family shindig, but that doesn’t really narrow it down. As far as Dick knows, everyone’s in town for the holiday, so it really could be anyone. On the tiny screen, he sees Damian opening the door for Jason, who appears to be lugging several coolers behind him. Slipping out of the silks, he switches to another camera and watches them arrive in the kitchen and begin unpacking. A mountain of familiar Tupperware emerges. Alfred’s been stress-cooking (or, hopefully, stress-baking) again. Still dripping with sweat, Dick rushes upstairs to inspect the goodies.

“Hey, Jay!” He peers around him to see what’s on the kitchen island. “Is that cobbler?”

“Blackberry and pear,” Jason answers. “Damian’s least favorite, apparently, so I guess you’ll just have to eat it all.”

“I didn’t say that! I just expressed a preference for blueberries. Considering the time of year, I’m surprised Pennyworth didn’t make any—“

“Blueberry sorbet?” Jason pulls out a quart-sized container from a silver insulated bag. “There’s peach, too.”

Damian immediately grabs the peach sorbet and begins rooting around for a spoon.

“Hey, I thought you were all about blueberries?” Dick teases.

“The peach has nothing on the mango, of course, but Pennyworth makes the most of any ingredient.” He takes a greedy bite of the sorbet and then another. As he digs in, Dick turns to Jason.

“Do you want anything?”

Jason shakes his head. “I just ate with Alf. Aside from all this, he also had this giant Mediterranean spread that I couldn’t say no to.”

“Did he share his story about—“

“Cyprus. Only for the millionth time. But there’s a new detail.” He lowers his voice so that only Dick can hear. “Did you know he was in a thruple?

Dick’s jaw literally drops. “What?!”

Jason shares a conspiratorial grin with Dick. “Yeah, with a Greek woman and a Turkish dude. It lasted for almost a year.”

“Wow. Just when you think you know a guy…”

“It’s Alf. He could say he’s interrogated Santa Claus, and I’d be like, yeah, that tracks.”

“Seriously. Screw the Dos Equis guy—Alfred’s the most interesting man in the world. He was in the room when ABBA recorded ‘Fernando,’ for chrissakes.”

Jason chuckles. “I’d forgotten. His security days were weird as fuck.” He grabs a sparking water and takes a sip. “That’s your favorite ABBA song, right?”

“One of them.” He smiles and gently shakes his head. “I guess you remember my rant, huh?”

“Something about catchy music and sincere lyrics. You were in the Discowing suit, so I just figured you really loved disco.”

“ABBA’s more pop than disco, but yeah. Rock’s great, but it’s not really meant to make you dance, and it’s not nearly as joyful. Or sincere, which is severely underrated. More things should be sincere.”

“I get that.” Jason looks down at his forearms, which are resting on the kitchen island, before meeting Dick’s gaze. Like this, he’s about even with him, height-wise, and his face is only a few inches away from Dick’s. “Don’t shoot the messenger, and I’m paraphrasing here, but Alf wanted me to tell you that he’s there if you ever want to talk about spying and Spyral and all that bullshit.”

Coldness sweeps over Dick, but with Jason so close, he doesn’t shiver. The man’s a space heater. Still, there’s a lump forming in his throat. “Tell him I’ll think about it.”

“Good. He really misses you.”

“I missed him, too. And you, Little Wing.” He reaches out and puts his hand around Jason’s. “I’m really glad we’re hanging out.”

“Yeah?” The light coming in through the penthouse windows catches Jason’s eyes, bringing out their true color. It’s easy to mistake Jason’s eyes for some other dark color like brown, but when you really look at them, it’s a bit like looking at Earth from space. A mossy green here and a leafy green there, all surrounded by misty blues and grays, like a forest in a rainstorm. The electric green of the Lazarus Pit is nowhere to be seen.

“Yeah. I like spending time with you,” Dick replies, and Jason does one of his soft little smiles. Dick’s always loved it when Jason’s eyes do that happy little crinkle. His little brother can be such a cutie-patootie.

Their moment is interrupted by Damian dropping his spoon onto the marble countertop. He leans back in his chair, a pained look on his face, and burps loudly. Dick can feel Jason, still by his side, valiantly trying not to laugh.

“Did you eat too much, Dami?” Dick asks, trying to keep his expression neutral. Dami doesn’t need Dick snickering at him, even if he does resemble a cartoon of a gluttonous kid who’s clearly overdone it. Clearly, sorbet has its limits.

“Perhaps.” Damian’s stomach gurgles, and he pales. “Might I retreat to my bedroom?” He rushes off before receiving an answer, and Jason and Dick shake with silent laughter.

“Hey, found Waldo!” Steph says, pointing at Dick when he gets out of his SUV.

They’re both standing on the gravel driveway in front of Bruce’s beach house in Avalon, New Jersey. The property was tucked away within a forested area of the barrier island and had a private beach. Recently, the state had outlawed private beaches, saying that all members of the public should have access to the shore, but some fancy Wayne lawyers had ensured that Bruce could continue to lurk out of sight. The smooth taupe of the beach, as a result, was interrupted by stone partitions, signs, and security cameras on the edge of the property. Anyone could still hop over the stone wall if they really wanted, and apparently, a little kid had done so earlier that day. She’d been chasing after his dog, and Alfred had assured her that, contrary to the sign, Bruce wouldn’t be pressing charges.

Dick looks down at his outfit in confusion. He’s wearing a red & white striped t-shirt, blue shorts, a pair of white-rimmed sunglasses, and a yellow bucket hat. Okay, so there’s some resemblance.

“I thought Waldo had a striped hat?” He replies. “A beanie, right?”

“And long pants, long sleeves, brown shoes, and nerd glasses,” Babs quips, wheeling herself out of her car. They’d driven as a little convoy—Babs & the gals and Dick & Damian. “There’s a female version of Waldo, too. Wendla. I dressed up as her for Halloween several times as a kid.” She beckons him down and gives him a kiss on his cheek. “You look cute.”

“Thanks.” Dick’s happy that his easy banter with Babs is back. When their relationship is good, everything is just so effortless. It’s more than speaking the same language—they’re saying the same words and finishing each other’s sentences. Like two halves of one whole idiot, they liked to joke, though Babs was no dummy and wouldn’t tolerate Dick if he were one, either.

All it had taken was Dick stopping by Oracle HQ for lunch with food from that Nepalese place Babs loved but didn’t deliver. After a few minutes of awkward conversation over momos, they both finally broke down and ended up shedding a few tears in each other’s arms. At 5’11”, Babs had always been taller than him, but in Dick’s new body, he felt like a kid when they snuggled up to each other. For a few hours, they watched a bit of mindless television, allowing Babs to bring him up to speed on the most crucial of information: what happened in the last three seasons of The Real Housewives of Gotham.

Babs taps the edge of his sunglasses. “Did Selina pick those out? I love them.”

“No, I did. I saw them in this vintage shop next to the teqball place I’m trying out.” The sunglasses are white plastic with black lenses and have a funky oval shape, so obviously, Dick had to have them. Also, he’d first heard about teqball from one of the St. Hadrian’s girls, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to try that crazy sport out while he could. Soccer combined with ping pong combined with a bit of gymnastics? Yes, please. He’s only been to two classes thus far, and he’s obsessed.

“Well, good call. They suit you to a T.”

He, Babs, and Steph make their way inside. The beach house is one of those grey-shingled places that’s very old-school Hamptons, and the interior is all whites and blues with touches of wood and rattan. It’s all very airy and light, so totally unlike anything in Gotham, and it has killer views of the ocean. The backyard’s no slouch, either, with its manicured gardens and giant pool. Dick’s always been fond of all the hydrangeas that are dotted throughout the landscape. Each bush has its own color, which Dick learned as a kid is determined by the pH of the soil around the bush.

“Hey, Alfie.” He goes in for a hug, which Alfred warmly returns. These past few weeks, Dick’s been getting all the hugs he wants, and he’s not complaining. Finally, some platonic physical affection! He doesn’t even have to ask—it just happens naturally. Is it because everyone feels bad about how they treated Dick? Or maybe he’s just more huggable in a smaller, more feminine form? Eh, a little bit of column A, a little bit of column B. His loved ones are so much more loving now, and that’s all that really matters to him.

“Master Dick, might I suggest speaking with Master Bruce regarding the music selection?” A guitar and drums suddenly thunder outside, and if it was any louder, it would rattle the windows. It takes Dick a moment to recognize the song, and he groans. 

“Led Zeppelin? For a pool party?”

Alfred is equally unimpressed. He’s dressed more casually than usual in a blue button-down, ivory linen pants, and tan suede loafers. Dick’s seen this outfit a few times before and knows there’s a matching ivory blazer and straw Panama hat. Very “Saville Row tailor vacationing on the Amalfi Coast." He figures Alfred probably wore something similar during his Cypriot thruple days, as he's always been dapper as hell.

“I’ve got this.”

Dick heads out to the pool house where the CD player hooked up to the speaker system is located. Everyone is already around the pool, sitting awkwardly on the lounge chairs while Bruce hovers over the CD player. It’s an older piece of machinery, unable to hook up to the internet or Bluetooth and thus impossible to hack from afar. Otherwise, any other member of the Batfamily would have done so already.

Dick raises his voice to be heard over the music. “B, could you change the music? It’s killing the mood.”

Bruce’s stance goes defensive, shoulders tensing, and Dick immediately tries a softer tactic.

“Look, we all love Zeppelin, but it’s not really pool party music. Try something a little jauntier. You’ve got a whole binder of CDs just for yacht rock, and while we’re not on a yacht, we’re close.” Thomas Wayne loved Steely Dan, and Bruce loves anything his dad loved, but Dick’s not going to use that trump card just yet. Ideally, he could get Bruce to play something from this century. He knows there’s a Rihanna CD somewhere in there, and she’s a real crowd-pleaser—he’s even seen Damian tapping his feet along to her music.

“Fine.” He flips a CD binder shut. “You can choose,” Bruce says, terse, before stalking back into the main house. Damn, what crawled up his butt?

“Any requests?” Dick hollers out towards the pool. He gets a cheer in response. “Okay, time for some RiRi!” After that, it’ll be some B-52s, some Prince, some Piero Piccioni for Alfred—the instrumentals would be perfect during dinner—and some Beach Boys to round out the evening before the fireworks.

He presses play.

One re-application of sunscreen later, Steph suggests a game of chicken. “Cass has never played it, and I know she’d be unstoppable.”

“Sure!” Dick chirps. He’s stripped down to his bathing suit. It’s a simple one-piece, basically a red leotard, but made of this cool crinkly fabric that makes it really, really stretchy. Babs had already slid a cold can of Coke down the back of his swimsuit, and the fabric encased it perfectly. After his initial yelp, he'd added another Coke can to give himself a “totally tubular” ass, which he proceeded to shake. Later, they cracked open the cans and the Coke went everywhere (to everyone’s delight.)

“I’ll referee,” Babs says. “What do we want to do for teams?”

“Dick and Jason,” Cass pipes up. “Then me, Steph, and Damian. One of us can also use weapons.”

“That’s not really how it’s played,” Steph replies. “But I’d love to see Dames try attacking with a pool noodle.” She turns to Damian. “Unless you want to be the base? Cass wants to be on top.”

Damian vehemently shakes his head, and with that, the game is decided. Jason, who’s been floating on a giant inflatable flamingo in the pool, clears an area for them to play. There’s a ton of pool toys in the water, as they’ve been thinking up creative versions of basketball with them, flinging them towards the hoop by the pool in an increasingly convoluted manner. It had taken a few tries, but Dick had managed to throw a frisbee into the hoop with his feet while doing an underwater handstand. The trick was to spin it on his toes.

He swims up to Jason. “Howdy, partner,” he says, with the most ridiculous Western accent as he tips an imaginary cowboy hat. “Can I get a lift?”

“Sure thing, pal,” Jason replies, adopting the same accent, and he does a squat so deep that his chest is almost underwater. From there, Dick climbs onto his shoulders, swinging one leg over Jason’s chest, then another, and he’s finally in that kinda awkward position that basically mashes your crotch against the back of someone’s neck. Jason doesn’t seem to mind. He wraps his arms around Dick’s dangling legs and stands up effortlessly, definitely used to squatting far greater weights than Dick.

A few feet away, Steph and Cass have assumed the same position, and Damian has assembled an array of pool toys to use as weapons. In the shade of the pool house, Babs is watching intently, slurping the margarita Bruce has just made at the bar. He seems to have cheered up a bit now that he’s on grill duty with Alfred. It’s such a male cliché, but damn if Dick didn’t love cooking on the grill, too. There’s something appealingly primal about the fire, and seeing those grill marks on a steak or bell pepper is so satisfying. Mmmm, now he wants some grilled pineapple.

“Get ready!” Babs announces. “On the count of three. One—two—three!”

Cass clasps Dick’s hands and begins pushing. They both know that locking their arms would be a death sentence, so they keep things loose and dynamic. Cass is stronger, but Dick is more flexible. On the other hand, Dick’s more unstable, as Jason is a taller base, even if they’re in slightly deeper water than Steph and Cass.

Plus, they have an extra team member, which Dick is reminded of when he receives a gush of pool water to the face. Damian has entered the game wielding a water gun, and Jason is the next recipient of his watery wrath.

“Ugh, some got in my mouth,” Jason grouses. “Damian, you’re gonna ge—did you just hit me with a pool noodle?”

Damian has. He’s throwing them like javelins, aiming them for Jason’s face between Dick’s thighs. Dick is Damian’s next target. He gets a pool noodle to the shoulder, which is a minor inconvenience, and then one to the boob, which makes him laugh. The only problem is, when he starts laughing, Jason starts laughing, and their position is now unstable as fuck. So much for engaging your core. Steph is grinning up at Dick deviously, and Cass has a smile to match, so Dick happily bows out.

“Timberrrrrrrrr!” he shouts, slumping backward and letting himself slide off Jason into the water. He reemerges to see Steph carrying Cass around in a (tiny) victory lap, singing the Rocky music. He swims back to Jason, swinging an arm around his neck, and whispers into his ear: “Now’s the perfect time to attack.”

Jason nods, discreetly snagging a pool noodle for both of them, but Damian quickly notices. Dick gets another faceful of water, and it is so on. Time for a game of good ol’ fashioned pool mêlée.

“So, you and Jason,” Babs says quietly. They’re soaking in the hot tub as twilight descends, both having demolished a spread of kebabs. Dick’s had enough grilled pineapple for the rest of the year. Everyone else is playing frisbee on the lawn or nursing a drink by the bar—Bruce has been drinking a lot today, come to think of it—so whatever Babs wants to say, no one’s close enough to overhear it.

Dick frowns. “Me and Jason what?”

“You look good together.” Babs takes a long sip from her mojito, smirking around her straw. He can’t remember the last time he saw her this tipsy. He's a little floaty, too, from his piña colada, but he's smaller now (and has always been a bit of a lightweight, anyway.)

“Jason looks good with anybody,” Dick says, still confused.

Babs rolls her eyes. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. You and Jason—are you together?”

“What?” he sputters. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He and Jason? They’re brothers. Siblings. Family.

“I’m not being ridiculous. It sure looks like you’re together. And, not that you need it, but I approve. As does Steph, Cass, Tim, and Damian. Alfred, too.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking ab–”

“Don’t give me that,” Babs interrupts. “We have eyes, Dick. And you two clearly have eyes for each other. It’s like you’ve got hearts for eyeballs.”

“I’ve never thought of Jason like that.” He pauses. “He’s my brother. My Little Wing. I love him, but, you know.”

“I don’t know. Tell me how you love him.” Her gaze is penetrating as she takes another sip of her drink.

“I just… I want him to be happy. Seeing him happy makes me happy. You know how it is. And I can see that he’s handsome. He’s got a little bit of that ‘young Marlon Brando' thing to him. And yes, I remember watching A Streetcar Named Desire with you in Film Appreciation; no, I did not sleep through that class; you and Ms. Williams just had it out for me. And so what if I think Jason’s good-looking? He’s always been cute, but he’s more than his looks. He’s brave and a little goofy and sweet when he cares about you, and, sure, I find that attractive, but just because I find someone attractive doesn't automatically mean I’m in love with them. I’m not in love with Jason. I just love him in a normal way, which means I enjoy being around him and want to make him happy.”

“And is he happy around you?”

He thinks back to the time they’ve spent together, especially during this past month, and his stomach does a series of warm, tingly swoops. Dick recognizes that feeling. Oh god. She’s right. Damn her, she’s always right. He does have feelings for Jason. Feelings feelings. He’s twitterpated.

Babs gives him a knowing look.

“Okay then. But how do you know—”

She holds up three fingers. “One: he asked for my advice on swimsuits. He wanted to know which ones best showed off his thighs. Two: he got a haircut just for this weekend. He sent me a photo, asking me if it was a good idea. Oh, and three: the fact that he’s been obsessed with you since he was fourteen.”

Dick nearly jumps out of his skin. Jesus. “What?! He told you that?”

“Yes.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “I’d always suspected—there was always some tension between you, and his energy towards you was very ‘gay but can't come to terms with it yet’—but it wasn’t until after you died that he actually said anything. To me, at least. He’s mostly straight, with you being the sole exception. You, Dick Grayson, are the one who took him from a Kinsey 0 to a Kinsey 1, just by existing.”

“You shouldn’t be sharing this with me,” he huffs, trying to not feel flattered. “You shouldn’t out someone like that, blabbypants. Especially someone like Jason. He deserves better.”

“I knowwwwww,” she pouts, “but I want to see you two be happy, and as soon as humanly possible. Now grab him for a walk on the beach and start making out... Or maybe go follow him?” She points towards the lawn.

“What?” Dick looks to where she’s pointing. The glow-in-the-dark frisbee is no longer being tossed around, and Bruce is standing where Jason was previously. Dick leaps out of the hot tub, grabbing his flip-flops and a terrycloth robe, before storming up to Bruce.

“What did you say to him?!” He doesn’t give Bruce time to respond. Instead, he starts running towards the beach, hoping Jason isn’t too far away by now. Damn his short legs.

“Jason, wait for me!” he yells, just as the fireworks show starts. “Jason!”