Chapter Text
Elyan finds Dick later, the man curled up in a heavy blanket and sipping at his cup of hot chocolate, looking somewhere between a wet, disgruntled cat, and an angry bird. It’s only Tim’s mild chastiment and Clark’s parental disappointment that had clued Elyan in on the line he had very nearly crossed. Cass had been one thing - she’d been broken inside in a way that needed help, that she needed to be protected, but Dick?
They had been friends, once upon a time. Close friends, and the memories of Dick, small and huddled and broken after Deathstroke’s manipulations had come undone at the seams, a visceral revelation of how his once upon a time best friend had been shattered by what had come from the way the older man had used Dick.
He wonders - did Dick hate him now? Even if he knew that Elyan did care, in his own, twisted, weird way?
“Are you going to just stare, or am I getting company sometime this century?” Dick wonders aloud. Elyan startles at his voice, before sheepishly entering the library, watches as Dick puts down his hot cocoa. “You might as well sit.” There’s a careful neutrality in his voice, and Elyan winces, scurries over and takes a seat. Dick looks wrung out, tired. But the dark circles under his eyes are lighter, his shoulders are straight and not hunched. He looks not… not happy.
But more put together, less unraveled around his edges. Elyan sneaks closer, plopping on the couch.
“Hi.” Elyan says sheepishly. Dick picks up his mug, takes a sip. Elyan watches as he does so, cautiously concerned. Dick drains his mug until it’s empty, sets it down.
“You know, I don’t know if I should be pissed or amused.” Dick’s voice is a dry, broken thing, and Elyan winces a little.
“Sorry?” He tries weakly, and Dick snorts.
“You’re less sorry about it and more badgered into the apology,” Dick says dryly. “I’m tired, grumpy, and really fucking sick of people manipulating me.” Elyan gives a cautious hum, leans against Dick, who doesn’t throw him off.
“I am sorry,” Elyan says. “I was never good at being the whole… good, thing.” A sheepish shrug. “The problem about being cloned, I guess. Luthor didn’t give a damn for something as pesky as morals, so I still have a little trouble telling what’s right from wrong.”
“And sometimes you don’t care.” Dick says, dry and accurate.
“Or I care for the wrong reasons,” Elyan said quietly. “I don’t… Care about you the same way I care about Tim. Or Jon.” Here Elyan’s head lays on Dick’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he offers again. “I know we don’t have the same history, but you took care of me when we first met. What little I learned of right and wrong came from you. And…” a huffed little sigh. “Deathstroke used you so much, so often that I couldn’t let him use you, not, not like this.” Dick eyes him.
“The ends justify the means?”
“Mmm.” Elyan winces. “Less justification, and more a lack of forethought on consequences?” He tries, and Dick raises a brow. “You and Tim had a hard time punching common sense into my head,” He says, suddenly shy as he ducks his head, a blush coloring his cheeks. Dick’s brow rises.
“You had that much of an issue?” He says, amused. Elyan pulls a face.
“I was as down to murder as you were when you were still Robin,” Elyan deadpans, and Dick can’t seemingly help his laugh, shakes his head fondly at the boy. He flicks the boy on the nose, and Elyan squeaks in surprise at the touch. “Hey!” He squeaks, and Dick’s smile is a searing blend of bitterness and fondness all in one, and it hurts to see.
“Has anyone told you that you’re a brat?” He wonders dryly, and Elyan shrugs.
“You, I guess. But you also said me being cute’s a good reason to stop wanting to commit murder so…” Elyan says, sheepish.
Dick chuckles, a dark thing. “Were you always this brutally blunt, brat?” Dick’s tone hasn’t changed from the faint, bitter tone, but he’s physically softened, feet kicking up on the table, arm thrown over Elyan’s shoulders.
“Someone had to be honest when everyone else was fond of talking circles around their problems,” Elyan says, sighing as Dick’s fingers run through his hair. Dick is silent as he continues to run his fingers through Elyan’s hair.
“Why do it?” Dick asks suddenly. “Why do you - love Bruce?” He says the words with a bitterness, a deep, aching scar of anger. “You, more than anyone, know better what kind of monster he can be.” Elyan hums thoughtfully.
“Bruce can be a lot,” Elyan says after a long, considering silence. “He’s snippy, and quick to judge, he can be painfully, brutally blunt, and sometimes - usually - he doesn’t understand people.” Elyan can hear the bitter laugh, doesn’t let himself wince. “But even the worst, most awful versions of Bruce loved his kids.” He taps his fingers against Dick’s ribcage. “You died in some of the realities I visited.” Here, Elyan’s mouth curls into a bitter smile of his own. “Clark even killed you.”
Dick jerks upright, startled by shock, disbelief on his face.
“He what-”
“Clark killed most of you guys, in other realities. But no matter how far Bruce went, it took someone else digging into his brain, altering it on a base, chemical level, before Bruce would kill his kids.” Elyan looks up at him, and Dick’s expression is frozen. “I know Bruce can be stupid about showing he cares, but Dick. He loves you. He loves you.” Elyan pulls back, before bravely leaning in to kiss his big brother’s forehead.
“Don’t forget - Bruce adopted you to spare you from what Gotham would have otherwise made you,” Elyan murmurs quietly, before he ducks out of the room, leaving Dick stunned and shaken in response.
Food for thought, Elyan supposes.
The city is dark and empty. The shock of Joker’s death is still rippling out, making waves as the news spreads by word of mouth.
The Devil took him, they say.
Devil? Ha! There is no devils in this world, though truly, he was delighted to see how wicked his friend had become.
“I’d quite lost hope with you, Bruce.” A smile appears in the shadows, a gleam of pleasure. “It will be… delightful, to see you again, Dark Knight.”
The gleam of a smile reflects on the glass.
And then there’s Luthor… who needed to be dealt with.
Tim is curled up next to Elyan, the teenager watching his boyfriend pick at a tissue absently, fidgeting. Tim knows that if Elyan wished, he could be completely calm and still, without fidgeting in the slightest. It was an undeniably human action, a learned action. Tim reaches out to take Elyan’s hands in his own, pulling his hands close. Elyan leans in, follows his touch, before the two of them tangle together slowly, Elyan’s weight pressing Tim down into the couch.
“Hey,” Tim says, hands cupping his cheeks as Elyan looks distressed. Elyan presses closer, his mouth pressed thin, and he tucks his head into Tim’s neck.
“Hi,” Elyan’s voice is a little muffled, but that’s fine. Tim honestly thinks he’s just overwhelmed. Tim’s hand runs through dark curls, and Elyan relaxes by degrees, clearly taking comfort in Tim’s touch.
“Do you want me to ruin Luthor’s life?” Tim asks, and Elyan laughs, a quiet, wet thing.
“I just… I’m so fucking mad,” Elyan mumbles against Tim’s neck. “At Dick, at Slade, at…” Teeth grit, his jaw set against Tim’s throat. “I hate that my memories aren’t preventing the worst things, that I can’t remember shit until it becomes relevant!” Elyan’s arms wrap tight around Tim’s waist and squeeze, though he stops before it gets too close to uncomfortable.
“I don’t think you’ll be able to stop everything,” Tim says finally. “You came into our world for a reason, Elyan.” He holds Elyan, feels him quiver anxiously. “You and Jon. Who knows what would have happened to Dick and Jason and everyone without you here.” Here, Tim cups Elyan’s face, tilts his head up. “I wouldn't have a best friend without you.”
Elyan’s purple eyes widen, and a blush colors his cheeks pink.
“Oh! Um.” He reddens steadily, and ducks his head against Tim’s shoulder, visibly flustered. Tim grins shyly at his boyfriend, and Elyan peeks up, before giving a shy smile. “You’re my best friend too,” Elyan mumbles, before hiding his face once more. Tim hums happily in response, ruffling his hair again, and Elyan melts into his touch, giving a soft sigh.
Tim waits until he relaxes to say, “So, ruining Luthor’s life?” He asks, and Elyan laughs softly.
“You really have something against Luthor,” He says admiringly, and Tim shrugs.
“He tried to buy my parent’s company out when I was little, and when that didn’t work, tried to buy out our investors.” A slight shrug, and Tim smiles slightly. “And then Clark talked B into taking me in as his ward.” Tim runs his fingers through Elyan’s hair, feels him quiver anxiously. “You’re scared of Luthor.”
“I… I know Clark. Good, bad, evil, indifferent…” Elyan’s breath is warm, but he’s shivering, scared, cold. “Luthor scares me because he’s not just rich and eccentric like B. He genuinely, absolutely, completely thinks that Kryptonians are all evil overlords, and… I’ve been there. I’ve watched it, I’ve seen it. But Luthor…” Elyan shivers. “I’m terrified, because Luthor could have told me when I first came here that Clark was out to corrupt Jon, to turn him into a monster, and I would have bought it.”
Oh.
Oh.
Elyan needed so many hugs, Tim thinks, squeezing his best friend closer. Elyan makes a happy noise against him, and Tim grins happily, before his amusement settles and he becomes sober again.
“Is that a yes on destroying Luthor?” Tim asks, and Elyan huffs a laugh at his cheerful tone.
“Hmm. Well, you are being nice.”
“Not to Luthor, I’m not,” Tim mutters, and Elyan laughs, a sweet sound. “Get back here. I wanna snuggle.” Elyan snorts, since he hadn’t moved anywhere, and his arms wind around Tim’s waist, The teenager nuzzles against him, and Tim closes his eyes. “You know,” Tim muses. “You did say that you were glad you weren’t a clone of Lex and Clark at that gala…” Tim says, a smile brightening over his lips. Elyan looks up at him, raises a brow.
“I know that face. That’s your insane plan face,” Elyan says warily. Tim gives him big, wobbly doe eyes, and Elyan’s wariness visibly grows with it.
“Well, that depends on how you feel about visiting Lex.”
Elyan stares at him.
“Oh no,” he says quietly. “Oh no.”
Tim snickers.
Slade is surprised to find Nightwing leaning against one of Gotham’s many grotesques, the boy looking at home on the statue more than any one person really ought to. Though given his flexibility, it probably didn’t bother the kid any, even with the uncomfortable stretch. He’s texting someone on his phone, but he puts it down and sits up, eyes gleaming. For once, he doesn’t have the block-out lenses, showing off pretty blue eyes.
“Decided to take me up on my offer?” Slade asks, and Nightwing pulls up by his front palms, flipping into a standing position on top of the statue’s head.
“Mmh. I want to see what the fuck I’m signing, first.” Nightwing says, hopping from his perch to land in front of the mercenary. Slade raises a brow, but Nightwing’s lips curl into a sharp half-smirk. “I’m pissed at Daddy dearest, not stupid,” the vigilante says wryly. “Contract, or no dice.” Slade’s mouth curls into an amused smirk, but he hands it over. Nightwing hops up to another perch to read it, blue eyes quickly skimming through the contract. He checks everything, references previous chapters - he wasn’t the kind to leave something to chance. After a moment, he smiles, a cold, icy thing.
“Not getting paid, here?” Nightwing teases darkly. “At least give me a bonus, Deathstroke.” Nightwing says dryly, flicks it back at him. Slade hums, but accepts that criticism.
“Greedy, aren’t you?” Slade wonders, and Nightwing raises a brow.
“You’re asking me to turn B and all his allies against me. I’m risking a fuckton of shit just for a little job and I’m not even getting paid?” Nightwing’s snort is gallows humor. “I’m angry, not stupid.” Slade tilts his head back, laughs.
“That’s how you get in this business,” Slade says, amused, and Nightwing snorts.
“Find some other boy to be your bitch then. I don’t do anything that unbalanced. I learned my lesson with Daddy Bats.” Slade snorts, but obediently takes the contract back and offers a second one. Nightwing takes it with rising brows, and Slade smirks.
“What? I had to see if you were gullible.” Slade says, and Nightwing laughs, a sweet sound as he reads through.
“Funny, funny, Deathstroke.” Nightwing sounds amused, but Slade knows that Nightwing can get nasty if he feels provoked, so he waits for the adult to finish reading the new one before quipping,
“You really do read those contracts. Can’t trust me?” He teases. Nightwing shoots him a faintly murderous look.
“No.”
… Killjoy.
There is a certain arrogance to be expected with Supers. Slade is used to that, it’s a reason that he’s gotten used to carrying Kryptonite, for those little ‘just in case’ moments. Arrogance, he’s used to. Condescension, the stark amusement of a mortal facing a god… All expected.
The bitty Super accompanying Nightwing - his little renegade - is nothing like big and blue. He’s silk over knives, the sinuous curve of a razor wire gleaming on dark velvet. His eyes are sharp, calculating, burn ultraviolet rather than blue or red, and his smile promises so many painful things to come. There is no arrogance. There is expectation, of obedience, of conformity, to bow to this boy’s whims.
He does not behave as merely arrogant. He is the embodiment of it, a silky condescension that puts Slade off as much as it draws him to this enigma of a boy. He can’t be much older than fifteen, but he carries himself in such a way that even with his experience and strength, Slade was hard-pressed to not kneel. He glares at the boy when he realizes that feeling is an outside effect, and Supes’ kid doesn’t even look abashed at being caught out, just grins. The pressure eases, and he’s able to stand just fine.
It’s a bloody, cruel thing, and part of Slade wonders if it’s Luthor or Superman that the kid gets his bloodthirst from.
“So this is who Daddy-O’s gone and hired to get me in his filthy mitts, huh?” The boy purrs, head tilting with a wicked joy in his expression. The boy strolls up, and his amusement grows more palpable as Slade’s fingers twitch closer to his guns. He peers at Slade, wicked amusement and vindictive pleasure so bright it was actually a little alarming. “I like this one,” the boy says, eyes dancing. “So? What’s the deal? Handcuffs? Kryptonite vaccine?” He asks, stepping forward with every word, all threats and dark promises. “Kryptonite knife?” He teases, his mouth curled vindictively. After a moment, he backs off, skipping back to Nightwing and fluttering his lashes flirtatiously at the black and blue clad man.
“Oi. Behave,” Nightwing says, flicking the boy on the forehead, and the little Super pouts, turns his head to the side. There’s a piercing there, a tag. He tilts his head to look at it.
Atlas Laboratories.
The words chill him, and he stares at the tag. Nightwing notices his sudden tenseness, raises a brow.
“Atlas Laboratories?” Slade says tightly, and Nightwing hums.
“I forgot,” Nightwing says, tone light. “Atlas Laboratories was what tried to genetically modify you, weren’t they?” Slade bites back the acidic words he wants to make, but nods, expression tight. The boy grins at him for it, before turning around and shrugging, all cheer.
“Daddy-O does pay them money,” he says, cheerful. “He’s such a regular visitor they just had to make him a gift, but you know Kryptonians. Big on family.” There’s a slightly mocking echo in there, and Slade wonders behind it. Is that for Superman, or Lex? Either way, it’s an exploitable flaw, a crack, just like his favorite bat boy, so eager for a father’s approval. Slade deliberately does not relax. His eyes narrow, and the bitty super laughs.
“Aw, Nightwing, I didn’t think you’d be so batty about this guy,” he teases, and Nightwing’s glare turns murderous at the teasing pun.
“Don’t.” Nightwing’s angrier than he’d thought, irritated and visibly bristling. “You don’t get to pull this bullshit.”
… What was going on?
Bitty Super looks wickedly amused, all vengeful amusement and pretty smiles, but he holds his hands up, laces his fingers behind his head.
“Alright, alright, I’ll be good,” he says, hands behind his head and eyes dancing.
Slade doubts that. But he follows behind placidly, hands behind his head as he grins, humming some old tune. They walk along together, the super in between the pair as they enter the construction building. The construction building was full of Kryptonite slivers, but the boy walked without a care in the world, humming cheerfully.
The security’s tight, for this little dinky building, but when it’s planned to be used as an Anti-Superman measure, Slade supposes that was only natural for the man to be paranoid. They walk through the building with an idle pleasure, as he cheerfully looks around.
“Ooh, Daddy-O’s gettin’ real busy, ain’t he?” the boy asks, and Nightwing pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Please shut up,” Nightwing groans, and the boy laughs, eyes bright and malicious.
“Aw, what’s wrong, don’t you want me to be a good boy?” The boy teases. “Gotta let me have some fun, bossman.” He teases, Nightwing scowling in response.
“Don’t even,” Nightwing says, irritated.
“You know,” Slade says thoughtfully. “Never thought I’d see the day where someone annoyed you more than me.”
“Do shut up,” Nightwing snarls, blue eyes narrowed in a glare. “Can we get this over with before B and Big and Blue realize what’s going on?” Slade concedes the point, and the three file into the building. After a long moment, they’re allowed in.
Lex Luthor looks unruffled, his expression set into a neutral moue of displeasure. However, Slade knew he’d been listening. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be looking at Supes' kid like that.
“Hello son.” Luthor says, looking the boy over. Bitty Super grins, all vindictive glee.
“Heyo, Daddy-O,” The boy says, plopping into a seat carelessly, ignoring the guns as they aim at his chest, one even going so far as to poke against his chest in warning. Nightwing, in contrast, blends into the shadows, stepping back with a vindictive gleam of blue eyes.
Slade, curious, follows. At this distance, he couldn’t hear what’s being said, but that’s fine. They’d know if anything happened.
Kon El leans back in his chair, eyes the gun poking his chest with amusement.
“Are you going to bother to shoot me or is this just for fun?” He asks the gunman, who scowls darkly at him.
“That’s enough,” Luthor says coldly, and the gun retreats. Kon El leans comfortably against his seat, props a foot up on his knee, eyes glittering gleefully. There’s a faint skip of a heartbeat, the glimmer of terror. Ah. Looked like this version of his papa really was afraid of Clark. He kicks back, watching Lex curiously.
“What’s up Daddy-O?” Kon asks, his father’s brow twitching.
“I have… heard that you are my son,” Lex says, tone a little chilly. Kon smiles sweetly, sugar-brilliant joy.
“Yeah? Is that a problem?” He asks, eyes dancing playfully as he watches Lex twitch.
“Not at this moment.” Lex is kinda precious, twitching like this, glaring minutely. “Why not come to me first?” Luthor wonders, and the boy tilts his head, and can hear the subtle jealousy that the man was likely unaware of.
“That’s what I was assigned, Daddy-O. Kill Big and Blue,” Kon says, shrugging carelessly. “After the first DNA sample turned out to be some journalist he hung out with, they tossed that aside and made me. Said Killing Papa would make you happy, Daddy-O.” He lets his eyes fixate on Luthor’s, and can see the surprise and pleasure that crosses Luthor’s face. “He trusts what’s his blood so easily,” The boy says, smiling wider. “Big on family, them sons of El.” Leaning back, he allows himself to relax.
“Was I supposed to find you first, confirm my assignment?” He drops the human arrogance and swaps it for clinical control, for the precision of a lab that he often ignored for how uncomfortable it had made him, in those early days. Lex stiffens at the change, just as Kon had expected. He’s shifted position at an inhuman speed, feet on the floor, gaze firm, head tilted just so. The clinical perfection of a machine, the unerring lack of humanity for a Kryptonian.
He knows how much it disturbs Lex, that he chose this as his option to negotiate from, knows how it rattles the billionaire.
“Do you prefer I address this as Connor Luthor, rather than what He has named me?” Kon asks, eyes trained on Lex, watching his every betraying tell. Hah. Lex was so easy to follow, to dissect.
It was probably all those realities he’s been to.
Luthor was twitching at the new face he was showing, a slight smirk curling over Kon El’s otherwise blank face.
“How can I trust that?” Luthor says, tone unsettled, heartbeat faster than it should have been. Kon El watches, tilts his head, keeps his burning gaze settled on Luthor until the man finally swallows down his nerves. “I want an answer,” he adds, when Kon doesn’t immediately answer him.
Kon El, in response, allows his eyes to glow with black fire.
“As you desire, Father.” Kon El says tonelessly, expression set in flat, blank neutrality. He sits up straighter, his eyes set in a thousand-yard gaze he knew unsettled people when he used it. “Atlas Laboratories should have had a protocol. The Son of El, page fourteen, paragraph three. You could even ask Amanda Waller - it was her insistence on weaponizing us that resulted in Elyan Wayne’s escape.” Kon El says, smiling easily and with almost malicious intent. All Kon El had to do was stall for a while, get Lex to get in close…
And then he would ruin him. There would be no walking away from this one, not with what Kon El had planned.
Luthor pounces, just as he expected. “Elyan Wayne?” the man’s eyes narrow - calling bullshit. Lex wasn’t stupid, after all. He’d been convinced that Clark was Superman since the beginning, almost fanatically so. Kon El leans in, the barest, razor’s edge of a smile.
“There were many of us,” Kon El says, Luthor twitching at his tone, his demeanor. “If we were not useful, then we died. Or our malformations from being clones were not fixed and killed us.” An easygoing shrug. “Do you have need of something else to prove my words? My obedience?” Here he smiles, puts a hand in his pocket as he fishes out his prize, offers it to Luthor, all sick and saccharine amusement. Carefully, Luthor accepts the metal container. He can tell it’s obviously lead-lined, and looks at it in bewilderment, before he warily uncaps it.
A thin sliver of Kryptonite falls out onto his hand, and Luthor regards it in shocked disbelief. Here was the not so fun part of the plan… Kon El grimaces internally, but puts his hand out, spreads his palm open.
“Do you still desire proof of my obedience?” He asks, tacit invitation.
Luthor’s gaze snaps up to him, at his hand, then back to his eyes, before settling on the green fragment.
“Are you not immune?” Luthor says, but Kon El doesn’t twitch. Of course Luthor would know - it’s not like they’d been subtle when he’d fought Clark.
“Hardly,” The boy says instead. “Do you truly think that Atlas Laboratories would have been so careless as to remove their most effective culling method from their test subjects?” Luthor acknowledges the point with a slight squint at the green sliver.
It’s not unexpected, but it is painful when Luthor experimentally presses it against the pad of a thumb, the boy fighting to keep the wince from his face as veins of green crawl from his thumb and make tracks to his heart and lungs. Luthor pulls it out after a second, eyes holding a betraying wonder in them, a maddened gleam of glee.
Gotcha, you bastard.
Slade shoots Nightwing a sharp look when the three of them leave, Nightwing’s hand scruffing the boy as he moves to sneak away.
“Don’t even,” Nightwing says strictly, and the boy squirms, but allows it as they disappear down the alleys of Metropolis. “You’re going back to Supes now.” The boy pouts, crossing his arms, and Slade is startled with the sudden change, just as he’d been when it had happened in the same office they’d just been in.
“You’re no fun,” He pouts, before leaning against the wall when Nightwing lets him go.
“Drop the act, Kon El,” Nightwing snaps. Kon El grins lazily up at him, cold and cruel and it makes a shiver run down even Slade’s spine. Then it dropped, the boy’s expression flattening into empty blankness once more.
“As you command,” Kon El says flatly, no longer smiling or rather, pretending to smile. There is no expression now, but the empty blankess is even more unsettling, in Slade’s personal opinion. “Orders?” He asks, looking up at Nightwing obediently.
“We’re heading back,” Nightwing says sharply, and the boy nods, falling obediently into line behind the vigilante.
“Of course, sir,” The boy’s good humor is completely gone, his head bowing obediently down as he waits for further orders.
“You’re not particularly cute,” Slade says, and Nightwing tilts his head to a side, raises a brow. “And you’re not clever. What do you think you’re doing?” He says, and Nightwing’s lips curl into a vindictive smirk.
“What makes you think I’m doing anything, Deathstroke?” Nightwing’s smile is all malice; malice of a different kind than he was admittedly used to.
“I’m not blind,” Slade points out. “And you’re not subtle.”
“Bit stupid to ask that now, don’t you think?” Nightwing says, eyes darker with amusement. “I’d suggest you let it lie, Deathstroke. My reasons are my own, and you should keep your mouth shut, rather than cause problems.” Nightwing’s cold smirk is chilling, in more ways than one.
His eyes, his smile. That was not a smile to be trifled with.
And those weren’t the eyes of a sane man.
When Clark finds him, Bruce is regarding his bottle of whiskey.
“This isn’t going to help your issues with Dick,” Clark says mildly, and Bruce doesn’t argue when he takes the bottle away.
“Not much is,” Bruce agrees, and doesn't argue when Clark bullies him into a chair. “I thought… No, actually, I don’t know what I fucking thought. I was just… Looking back, I really regret that I wasn’t… that I didn’t push. He was so angry, and I didn’t want to take the place of someone who genuinely meant so much to Dick.” A sigh, and Bruce runs his hands through his hair.
“We both fucked up.”
“Don’t be nice,” Bruce says, tired. “I was his father. I was the one who should have noticed what he needed… and I fucking didn’t. Dick… Dick needed…” Bruce’s head falls into his hands, the man sighing in defeat. “I love him. I do. But…” Bruce sighs again. “I’m… Fuck, I’m a terrible father.”
Clark’s mouth presses into a faint frown. He wants to argue, Bruce can tell. But he can’t. Being a good father to three other boys doesn’t negate the harm he’s done, and after a moment, Clark takes a seat next to him.
“Maybe… maybe Harley could help?” It’s a tentative question, and Bruce shoots him a sharp look.
“You don’t like Harley,” Bruce points out.
“No, not really. But she’s your friend, not mine. And you trust her.” Bruce sighs when Clark’s hand strokes through his hair, the man taking a seat on the desk as he tries to offer some sort of reassurance. “I don’t think we’re at a point where we can handle this inside the family.” Clark admits a bit sheepishly. “Harley is at least nice, right?”
“Until she realizes that I’m Batman,” he says dryly. “And there’s no way we’ll be able to get out of admitting that to her.” Clark hums, and he offers him a quick kiss, Bruce accepting the touch.
“Have you considered just… letting Dick yell at you?” He asks, and Bruce snorts.
“No.”
“Course you haven’t, baby,” Clark chuckles, before shaking his head. “I think first, you two need to spend some time yelling at each other. Without interrupting. If you really want to keep Harley out of this, then we’ll need to find an alternative. Mind if I talk to Jordan about it?”
“I’d rather you not,” Bruce sighs. “But it’s probably for the best in the end. If you really think Jordan can help, go hog-wild. I just…” Bruce kneads a hand against his forehead. Clark kisses him there gently, a soft caress, and Bruce sighs a soft thank you.
“I’ll start making arrangements and let Dick know to come see you. Maybe you’ll be lucky and just get a chance to talk it out here, help handle some of the damage.”
“God I hope so,” Bruce groans, hand kneading against his forehead. Clark gives him a gentle smile and leaves, the door left open for Dick. While he waits for his son, Bruce goes through the paperwork he’d let build up during his trip, frowning. With Harvey Dent now down, the next person to handle was going to have to be Scarecrow - the man had used Joker as a smokescreen to make his fear gas, and he was at least relatively sure he’d worked to some degree with Bane on his damn Venom.
“... Clark said you wanted to see me?” Dick’s voice is a bit wary, a bit chilly, and Bruce puts down the paperwork, offers him a seat that he takes. “Here to tear apart my justification some more?” He says bitterly, and Bruce looks his eldest in the eye.
“You know,” Bruce muses, reaching out to tuck an overly-long strand of hair behind an ear. “If anyone had ever asked me which of m children was most like me, before last month I would not have said you.”
Dick blinks. Stares. And then his mouth works briefly with his obvious surprise.
“What?” he sputters a little incredulously, and Bruce gives his eldest a tired smile.
“You heard me, chum.” Bruce says with a sigh. He cups the boy’s face. His son had become so handsome, bold and strong, and so fiercely headstrong. He’d lost so much of the chubby baby fat that had made him so cute in his younger years. Dick lets him look at his boy a bit longer, and finally, he lets go. “You think we argue so much just because you see the best in people and I don’t?” Bruce asks him fondly, and Dick blushes a bit at the tone. “We’re a lot more alike than either of us will ever be happy admitting to each other, and it just means we fight a lot.” Bruce watches Dick, and waits for him to talk.
It doesn’t take long for his eldest to finally crack.
“Why?” Dick asks, and Bruce stands up.
“Come with me,” he says softly. Dick obliges, the boy following behind him with some bemusement as the two walk through the house. They stop at a door Bruce knows Dick has spent countless hours staring at before, and Dick swallows.
“Do you remember what you said here?” Bruce asks, and Dick is startled into staring at him. He looks at the door, and then at Bruce, before finally, mutely, shaking his head. “I told you this room could be yours, if you wanted. That it was a room I’d made for a son.”
Dick blanches. He clearly remembered now, by the way he turned pale. “I… I told you that you just adopted me to feel better about yourself,” Dick admits, voice small. “That no matter what you did or said, you’d never measure up to a real father.”
“That on its own didn’t really hurt,” Bruce admits, when Dick can stand to look at him again. “What really… What did hurt was that everything you said, word for word, was the same as what I’d told Alfred the day he came to pick me up from the Kanes’.” Dick stiffens.
“You - what?” He says, stunned. “I thought -”
“Alfred was always around?” Bruce asks, amused and tired. Dick gives an embarrassed nod, and Bruce tilts his head towards the door of his master bedroom. Dick follows him as he goes to the small desk and starts rummaging around. “He wasn’t. He’d actually just finished his tour of military service and finished up his training to follow the Pennyworth family trade of being a butler when he’d been notified that I was in the care of my aunt and uncles.” Finding the key, Bruce pulls it out. “By the time I came to be in Alfred’s custody, my parents had been dead six months, and I’d already dealt with people thinking that they could adopt me to take the Wayne fortune.” Closing the drawer of the desk, Bruce tosses the key to Dick then, the boy fumbling with the key and catching it after a moment.
“What’s this have to do with me?” Dick says, suspicious, and Bruce gives a tired smile.
“I went to Alfred for advice, after you shut me out, and he suggested that I do what he had done. Take a step back, observe. Be more of a brother than a father, since you’d made it clear there was no space for me there.” Dick flinches, a quick, sharp thing. “My mistake was to let that sour everything, to not realize when you needed me to step up from brother to father.” Bruce looks at Dick, and the boy, to avoid looking back at him, looks at the key. “That one was my fault. You weren’t to blame for me not realizing that you needed me to change. That point of no return was something I failed to look at, or take into account in any way.”
Dick’s hand tightens around the key. “And the key?” He says, voice tight.
“Alfred has the only other key. Even after Jason moved in, I… I know that things were tense between us, and… This has always been your room. I know it’s stupid, maybe, but I couldn’t just hand it away without -” Dick’s hand is over his mouth, and his son’s expression is exasperated, but fond.
“You make it real fucking hard to be mad at you, B,” Dick tells him, when he drops his hand. “Seriously. You have the sensitivity of a fucking brick, most days, and then you pull this shit out.”
“... I’ve been told I need to go to therapy,” Bruce offers awkwardly, and Dick bursts out laughing.
“You’re hilarious, B,” Dick informs him, before his grip tightens some more on the key. “I’ll look at it later, on my own.” Bruce reaches out, pulls Dick close so they can press forehead to forehead, and Dick lets him stay in that familiar position until he’s calmed down once more. “Love you, B. Even if you do make me want to fucking strangle you or murder you the other half of the time.”
“It’s a successor’s only privilege,” Bruce tells him dryly, and he can tell when Dick registers the words.
“It’s what -”
Dick stares at the door. Out of all of the doors in the manor, it’s the only one not in black. Jason had modified his to be some stained-glass monstrosity, and Elyan’s door was less of a door than some sort of terrifying black-hole thing he’d joked about making. It’d go away, he’d promised.
So much for that one.
But none of them - none - had ever dared to enter this room. This was the Young Master’s suite, the room for a son that all of them had thought was never going to be any of them.
Dick looks at it, looks at the key, and wonders if he really had the courage to do this, to look at what he’d denied himself and Bruce. Carefully, slowly, he slides the key into the lock, hears it open with a soft click.
The door opens on clean hinges, and he sees the room that had been promised to him for the first time.
It’s beautiful. The walls gleam a soft, desaturated green, and the wood of the room is a custom cherrywood, the sunshine of the late afternoon gleaming red off of the furniture. The canopy is drawn shut, but they match the theme and design. He sees the gleaming bookshelves filled with dozens of black volumes, a handful of them covered with green, red, and gold covers in sets of three each. Gold accents decorate the area, and he carefully closes the door.
All of this… all of this was in his colors. The glow of gold and green and red, it was just as lovely as his old tent when he’d been a kid. With a shaky sigh, he walks over to the bed, carefully draws the curtain aside to look at it.
Almost as quickly, he drops it, his mouth dropping along with it. Shakily, he moves the curtain again.
He’d begged Bruce for one as a kid, he remembered, the adult exposing the duvet to the light. It had been clearly well-kept by Alfred, the colors vivid and brilliant and… just like home.
He moves the curtains open, looking down at it again. And his mouth curls into a small, bittersweet smile. His fingers skim the duvet.
The Flying Graysons is proudly printed beneath the vintage-styled, gorgeous halftone print of him and his parents. He laughs, at first. Laughs and laughs until he damn well cried.
He really was a fucking idiot, Dick thinks to himself as he kneels there at the foot of the bed, elbows and forearms settled on the cherrywood footboard of the canopy bed.
This… all of this was his.
The tight, niggling ball of anger that had always been in the pit of his stomach loosens a little. It’s still there, still angry and upset, but the realization he hadn’t been entirely alone, entirely left behind this entire time soothes old hurts, somehow. Every breath is slower, softer than the last, aches and pains registering little by little. His knees hurt from where they’re dug into the carpet, his elbows fucking hurt from where they’re on solid fucking wood. He manages to straighten up after a moment, and he feels… more. More cared about, more loved, less replaceable in the way that Slade had always told him he was.
If he’d been replaceable, this would have been gone. There would be no decor of home, there would be no consistent reminder of the green and gold and red. Standing up, Dick sighs to himself, runs a hand through his hair and turns around to take a look at the other wall.
Again, his breath betrays him, catches on a hitch.
These posters have faded some with sun and time. They’re old, vintage, and Dick’s heart breaks on seeing them.
The Flying Graysons
The Rope Dancer
The Lion Tamer
The Knife Thrower
Four posters. Posters that Dick had never been able to find, of his family legacy, of his grandfather and his great grandfather, and his grandmother.
Dick’s hands tremble, his mouth working as he tries to find himself the words to admit to himself what he’d never thought was his.
He laughs a bit wetly at it all, making his way over to the desk, before pausing.
There’s a binder here. It’s a plain-looking thing, but he knows it well. Jason had one, in Bruce’s office, a collection of newspaper photos of him as Robin.
This one… is all about him. But it’s not just him as Robin. Everything is in here. The days he’d been in the circus. Every photo of him from gap-toothed toddler to gangly little eight year old kid is labeled under Flying Grayson. His appearances as Robin are labeled too. There are some old, crumpled newspapers of him in business school. Every single photo of him as Nightwing is gently pinned, a reminder of his startup. Every single time he was in the Titans photos. Justice League photos. Every single photo of him in uniform.
Dick laughs, bitter, but that same lump in his stomach is starting to unravel much more quickly.
“Fuck me,” Dick says, pushing back from their seat and laughing helplessly.
He was going to find B and punch the man in the face.
… After a hug, though.
“B?” Jason asks Bruce the next morning. Bruce gives him a smile over his eggs, though it’s visibly tired.
“Yeah, Jaylad?” He seems softer today, and Jason bumps his foot against B’s, his father looking particularly content with the world at large.
“You happen to know where Dick went?” He asks, and Bruce gives a little hrn. It’s not tired, just thoughtful.
“Probably checking out his old room,” Bruce offers him with a smile. “Why?”
“The Nightwing-themed set I got for him is gone from the tea cabinet,” Jason tells him, and Bruce gives a hum.
“You know your big brother,” Bruce points out fondly. “He probably took it out to take a photo of the set to show off at work or something,” Bruce points out, and Jason gives a little frown at his dad.
“You sure he’s not just moving out?” Jason says suspiciously, and Bruce snorts.
“Please. If he was going to move out, he’d have taken you with him,” Bruce informs Jason tartly, which makes Jason blink. And then stare.
“Seriously?” Jason says, torn between amusement and annoyance, and Bruce chuckles.
“He does love you, Jason. He’d make sure to walk out with you, and then probably snatch up Tim when I’m not paying attention,” Bruce assures him, which makes Jason laugh.
“I have two arms,” Dick says dryly, the man himself coming in to give Jason a quick hair ruffle and then dipping down to kiss the top of his head. “Hey Little Wing. Save me any French toast?” He asks, and Bruce reaches out and lifts up a metal cloche. “Oh. Thanks, B,” Dick says, and instead of running away, the man joins them. Jason stares at him, and Dick gives him a half-grin, and while it’s still tired, but none of the bitter, sarcastic edge is present.
“Mm. So what you’re saying is that you’re going to carry four kids out with you. Got it,” Bruce says, and Dick chokes on the cup of coffee that Alfred gives him, coughing violently while Jason laughs at his expression.
“Dick move, B,” Dick groans. “Dick move.”
“You would know,” Bruce agrees, and Jason cracks at the glare Dick sends his father, before it folds into an amused smile, his big brother mopping up his mess.
“I’d be angrier if it hadn’t actually been funny,” Dick concedes, shaking his head fondly. Before he can say anything else, Clark enters, a sleepy Jon dangling from his arms, the boy’s arms extended out and already making grabby arms for Dick. “Heyyyy there, Jon,” Dick softens, and the boy giggles, cuddles up. “... Hey Clark.” Clark bends down and presses a kiss to the top of Dick’s head, murmurs something that makes Dick’s brow rise in amusement, before he shakes his head.
“You two make it hard for a guy to be mad at you,” he informs them, and Clark shrugs his shoulders.
“We’ll probably be stupid again later. Might as well save it.” Clark says absently, and Dick snorts again, but his smile is softer.
“Sure, sure,” Dick sighs. “What’s up?”
“Jordan was able to find someone for you and I to go see, therapy-wise,” Clark says lightly, and Dick pauses from his breakfast.
“Therapy?” He says warily, and Bruce sighs. But it’s Clark who answers, the man stealing a slice of toast.
“I’m going for a better understanding of what being Kryptonian is doing to my sense of family dynamics,” Clark explains.
“I’m… I need a therapist for most of my issues,” Bruce says, sighing as he rubs his forehead. Jason shares a look with Dick, disbelieving.
“Is anyone equipped for that?” Dick says, openly skeptical. Jason snorts his milk out of his nose, and Dick snickers, the two of them distracted for a moment while Bruce gives him a slight scowl. It quickly melts into nothing, Bruce giving a rueful smile.
“Alright, fine,” Bruce sighs. “You get that one,” he agrees. “I just...” A deep sigh, and his hand runs through his hair. “Even if some of my issues can only be addressed, even then it’s still less that other people have to be carrying,” Bruce admits, and Dick props his head up in a hand, Jon trying to sneak off with one of Dick’s slices of French Toast. Dick notices, and he shares a grin with Jason, who snickers at the teasing expression, but lets him sneak it into his mouth.
“Are you seriously committing to this?” Dick wonders, and Bruce gives him a tired smile.
“Once the paperwork comes in, I’ll be legally obligated. Which means I can’t skip an appointment,” Bruce admits, and Jason isn’t the only one staring at him. “Slade hurt you because I failed to be a proper parent,” Bruce reminds Dick, who continues to stare at him in surprise.
“This is more than that, though,” Jason points out. B had never gone this far before for any of them.
“Just because I made jokes about stealing the Devil’s wings back didn’t mean I didn’t evaluate what it meant, that I had to go so far to see justice done, and how far I’m willing to go to not kill someone.”
“Including literal deals with the Devil,” Dick says dryly. Bruce acknowledges the point with a tilt of his head. “Is that why you made the moves on Harvey?” He asks, and either Bruce is either too dense to realize he’s in danger, or was just taking him seriously, as he considers his words before speaking.
“I’d been looking into Harvey for some time for different reasons,” Bruce admits. “After…” Bruce looks at Jon, whose hair fluffs at the sudden attention, before the boy pouts.
“Gonna find Granmama and Granpapa,” Jon says smartly, walking off with Dick’s plate held above his tiny head.
“Wha - my breakfast!” Dick whines, though he doesn’t look like he’s too upset, by his amused smile. Jason offers him a slice of French Toast, and he gives a grateful smile, accepting it with an exasperated air. “Thanks, Little Wing,” Dick says gratefully, before taking a bite and arching an expressive brow at the distracted-looking Bruce. “And…”
“Just a moment,” Bruce tells him. “Elyan? If you and Tim aren’t busy, you should hear this in the same room as it might be relevant.” It doesn’t take long for the two of them to arrive, Elyan arching an expressive brow at them, same as Dick had.
“Hey Papas. Jason. Dick.” Elyan greets, and Dick offers the boy a hug. He gets a narrow-eyed look, and is then given a hug from both Tim and Elyan, before Jason too, is piled with hugs before they take seats, Clark moving to stand behind Bruce. “What’s going on?”
“We’re talking about Harvey,” Bruce explains, and both boys stare at him. “But, Dick asked an important question about why I was only making moves against Harvey now, and since you’re home and not visiting Lois, I might as well tell you all at the same time,” he admits.
“Sounds fair enough, Papa,” Elyan agrees, as does Dick, though his eyes are slightly cool at the sight of them. “So… Harvey?”
“I’ve been looking into Harvey for a while now. After -” Bruce’s voice falters. “After Harvey shot you, I tried to get him convicted - not Arkham Asylum, actually convicted.” Bruce adds when Dick looks like he’s going to open his mouth. “When that failed, I looked into how to stop him from doing what he did to you again.”
“And then what? Jason stopped you?” Dick says, a bit sarcastic, but Bruce doesn’t flinch.
“I put the Harvey thing on hold at the time, but not really,” Bruce says. “Willis Todd tipped me off that something else was going on behind the scenes. Not an excuse, but more in line of - where was Harvey getting his money?”
Dick pulls up short. “I just assumed his assets weren’t frozen,” Dick says carefully, and Jason frowns.
“Uh… Not to be clueless, but what do you mean?” Jason asks, and Dick frowns.
“If Harvey was considered insane, legally, the US Government would have had the right to freeze and seize all of his assets, including things like property and the like. The only way really, around it, is if Harvey had a conservatorship, but those are risky, and there’s nothing to say that whoever got their hands on Harvey’s money wouldn’t be more dangerous with it.” Dick says, scowling a bit.
“That’s just a small part of it,” Bruce admits. “I know I personally lobbied to have him disbarred, and it went through when you were eighteen, Dick. But if you look anywhere online, there’s not a single record of any of the news articles. In fact, if you check the records, it’s as if he was never disbarred in the first place, as though it never happened.”
Jason shares a bewildered look with Dick.
“That can’t be possible - I have newspaper clippings of the shit happening -” Dick splutters, and Bruce’s mouth tightens.
“It gets worse,” Clark says quietly. “I had copies of them in my place in Metropolis. So did the Daily Planet. And here. When Bruce told me that his copies in Wayne Tower and Wayne Manor were missing, I checked in my place.”
“Gone,” Dick guesses, the faintest hint of horror bleeding into his tone. “The League?”
“Also gone.” Bruce confirms flatly. “I can’t confirm what - or who - took it. The only thing I found and heard was a nursery rhyme.” Tim straightens, and Jason isn’t the only one who turns to look at him.
“Wait. That one?” Tim asks, looks horrified. His hand clutches at Elyan’s tightly, and the younger Kryptonian looks at him in worry. His head swivels towards Elyan. “Could - could you -”
“Sound dampening, sure. You just say the word,” Elyan says easily, and sparks of purple race around them. “What happened?” Elyan asks, his smile fading at Tim’s horror. “Tim?”
“When I was really small, my parents used to make jokes about a society they wanted me to be part of. There were… parties, late at night. They didn’t ever let me go to them knowingly.” Tim frowns. “I learned really fast not to take photos then, because I would lose the whole camera. This was before I started looking into Batman and Robin more seriously,” he admits when Bruce frowns. “That nursery rhyme was the reason I got interested in looking into Batman and other local legends.” Tim admits. “Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadowy perch, behind granite and lime. They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed, speak not a whispered word of them or they'll send the Talon for your head,” Tim recites easily. “They’re… everywhere.” His eyes skitter around them, and Elyan squeezes his hand in fond worry. “I’m scared of them finding us.”
“I don’t know if they know about my powers, but I haven’t felt anyone in range of the house,” Elyan offers, his eyes flashing a darker violet as he checks again. “I’ll keep an eye out from here on,” He promises, and Tim looks at him in soft distress.
Bruce is also frowning, which surprised Jason.
“As good as this is,” Bruce sighs, “That’s not the point of this discussion. The point is why Harvey wasn’t arrested sooner. It seems someone is using their influence to keep Harvey out of jail. Not just him, though. Joker always escaped Arkham by some means, often through police officers, though I still don’t know how they ended up being bought into it.”
“Aside from corruption?” Dick says dryly in response, and Bruce winces.
“No, actually. Most of these people seemed to be normal folks. They’d go through the Academy, finish training, and then immediately free Joker, only to vanish.” Bruce winces, and Dick straightens.
“What?” Dick says faintly.
“Every single one of them just… shows up out of nowhere, frees Joker, or Harvey, or whoever, and then vanishes.”
“Some of the times I’ve been in town as Batman was following up on these leads,” Clark admits, the man reaching to squeeze Bruce’s shoulder. “The problem is, Gotham is ancient. There is a lot of lead, and any lobbying to change that for health and safety reasons tends to vanish, no matter how much money Bruce would throw into it.”
“Fuck,” Dick says.
“That doesn’t mean you weren’t justified in being angry, though,” Bruce says tiredly. Bruce rubs his forehead, looks exhausted and stressed. “You should have been told, but I didn’t want to put the idea of some faceless conspiracy on your head and make you a target without knowing what, if anything, I could do to handle the situation.” Here, Bruce gives Dick a tired look. “And then you went off to Blüdhaven and I started graying rapidly.”
Dick snorts, breaks the rapidly-growing tension in the room, and Jason reaches out, Dick taking his hand easily and without hesitation.
“And now?” Dick says wryly. Bruce looks at Clark, and Clark gives him a faint smile, digging a card out and offering it to Dick.
Jason knew that card. Heck, he knew that name.
“The Devil offered me three favors outside of Joker for finding his wings. I gave one to Diana, another to Barry, and this one’s yours.” Bruce says at last. Dick’s hands freeze before he can turn it over. “You don’t live close to home, Dick. You’re an adult, and no matter how much I want to keep you home and tuck you in bubble wrap, you’d sooner strangle me with your old Robin uniform than let me.”
Dick stares at the card.
“B.” Dick’s voice is very quiet. “How long have you been planning on this? Giving me the card?”
“The week Joker’s trial started and we met up with Lucifer there. I didn’t… I didn’t want to trust him, but seeing how Jason was safe in his presence, in how willing he was to extend the favor even that far was enough for both Clark and I to agree that when the time was right, we would give the card to you.” Bruce looks sheepish when he admits, “granted, this was supposed to be a birthday present, but a few days before Christmas isn’t too bad either, right?” Dick takes the card in hand, carefully turns it over, and Jason leans over to read the handwriting.
For services rendered.
There’s no signature.