Chapter Text
"Sweep everything under the rug for long enough, and you have to move right out of the house." –Rachel Ingalls, Mrs. Caliban
Dick’s been back from patrol for less than five minutes when he gets the message.
Richard. I need a favor. In return, I have something to offer that is of interest to you. Tomorrow, 10 AM, usual meeting place. Please be there.
T. Al Ghul.
The email is clearly from a throwaway account and gives very little information, but Dick isn't surprised.
He'll be there.
It’s barely even a choice. Talia Al Ghul is not the sort of person one ignores a message from. She and Dick are… well, they’re something. “Friends” isn’t the right word, but “allies” is too impersonal…“Associates”, maybe?
Regardless, Dick will be there. He sighs, deleting the message. It’s not like there’s any real point in replying. Talia knows full well that Dick will do everything in his power to honor her request.
Dick shoots a quick text to Babs, letting her know what’s up. She doesn’t respond, but it’s—he checks the clock at the top of his phone screen—3:21 in the morning. Babs will get it.
She always does. Dick loves her, and she loves him, although their relationship (if it can even be called that) is far from traditional. They are, at the very least, best friends, and would never hurt each other on purpose. They're... complicated, but a good kind of complicated.
Not the kind of complicated that Bruce is.
Bruce is… maybe he isn’t a bad person, but he sure as hell was a bad father. And—actually, Dick should stop overanalyzing this. The time for this is therapy, not now.
The important part is that Bruce was harmful. Besides being too emotionally constipated to say incredibly basic things like ‘I love you and ‘good job’, he did say a lot of really bad shit. He also hit Dick hard a couple of times during the bad fights. That's physical abuse, and it's illegal, and Dick was a child and he was not in the wrong.
His heart rate is going down, finally.
This isn’t even counting the shit with Spyral a few years ago, which Dick still has nightmares about multiple times a week. That was the thing that pushed him over the edge. Babs was there in the aftermath, though, and Dick’s been in therapy ever since. Thank god for Dinah Lance.
He's getting better, but recovery takes time.
Dick thinks of the three teenagers working with Batman, all of whom he’s semi-adopted as younger siblings, despite limiting contact with Bruce.
Tim seems happy enough, if a little insecure. Cass is almost impossible to read, but she’s also a goddamn force to be reckoned with, and Bruce knows it.
Mostly, Dick worries about Steph. If Bruce decides to be a fucking psycho again sometime, Tim has his parents, Cass has her incredible combat skills, and Dick is an adult. Jason would be an adult now, too. But Steph? The kid’s got a gang member for a dad and no mom in the picture, and she’s only fourteen. Dick hopes that Steph knows she can come to him for help. He remembers being fourteen, alone in the house with a constantly angry, not-yet-thirty Bruce.
The worst years of his life.
Breathe, Robin. A voice in Dick's head echoes. It sounds like his mother.
It’s over now, it’s all okay. Those two years were some of the worst of Dick’s life, but he's an adult now.
From what Tim said last time Dick was in Gotham proper, it’s better-ish now, and none of the others have been hit. Bruce still isn’t above other physical punishments, like extra training, but usually, he’s just neglectful with the younger ones.
Which is… better, Dick guesses. Still not good though.
It’s all… It’s a lot. It’s a lot.
With the therapy, he’s doing better, it’s just… Dick’s been through a lot of stuff. That’s how it is. First his parents’ death, then the time he spent in Juvie, then… everything to do with Bruce and Batman and Robin, then Jason, on top of everything… It’s a lot to deal with. It’s a lot to deal with, and Dick needs to go to bed.
He debates for several minutes whether to get some sleep first and go in the morning, or just leave now. Dick chooses option two, because goddamnit he’s tired. He barely has the energy to change out of his Nightwing uniform and shower. He’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.
Hours later, dressed in black jeans and a crisp button-up, Dick is seated in a reserved private room of some random small-town cafe. He sips his insanely sugary latte and waits.
Then he waits some more. What is taking her so long?
Fine, to be fair, Dick did get here almost two hours early, so this incredibly long boring wait is kind of his fault, but still. He stands, paces aimlessly around the room, and sits back down. The next fifty minutes pass excruciatingly slowly.
He hears Talia before he sees her.
She’s wearing a long, deep green coat, and her boots click on the tile flooring in a way that’s too measured to be unintentional. There’s a kid next to her, maybe eight or nine at the oldest.
It's almost certainly Talia's son, Damian. Strange that she brought him with her; Dick is almost certain the boy would be better protected in the league. Probably-Damian's face is mostly concealed with the hood of his jet-black satin jacket, and he stands with his hands behind him, back ramrod straight.
“Talia,” Dick greets with a nod. He’s unsure if and how he should address the kid at Talia’s side. A moment later, small hands reach up to gracefully remove the boy’s hood.
Dick was right, he's almost certain of it now. He’s seen the boy a few times before, once as an infant and twice the past few years.
Why did Talia bring her son?
“Hello, Damian,” Dick adds smoothly. Damian tenses, and gives no reply.
Dick looks at the boy more closely.
Damian takes after his mother.
His skin is a few shades darker than Dick’s own, the same tawny brown as Talia’s. He has her face shape, too; her high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes narrowed with distrust. Dick sees hints of Bruce in the child’s broad shoulders and sleek black hair, but the Al Ghul genes are strong.
Good.
Dick isn’t one to hold a child’s parentage against them, no matter what. But it still… makes things a little easier, not to be reminded of Bruce.
After another beat, Dick leaves it be, looking back at Talia.
She meets his gaze, moving to sit across from him. “Richard,” she addresses him, voice even. Damian trails behind his mother, standing at her arm instead of taking the seat next to her.
Dick maintains his politeness. “I hope all is well with you and yours,” he pretends not to notice
“After the death of my father, the League of Assassins has fallen,” Talia says simply. Dick conceals his surprise. “As it stands, this development will most likely work out for the best," Talia says, green eyes flashing with an emotion Dick doesn't recognize.
“Unfortunately, though, I am, for the foreseeable future, unable to adequately care for my son.” A hint of pain bleeds through her composure. “I ask—I ask that you take him into your care. Damian understands the situation and will cause you no trouble. He is a very independent child.” Talia says determinedly.
Probably a very traumatized child. Dick thinks but doesn’t say.
Dick controls his breathing. “Of course,” he says instead, using the faux-light tone of voice that got him through every stupid gala Bruce made him go to. “It is my honor to be of assistance.” He’s cutting it a touch formal, but that’s alright.
Talia closes her eyes for a moment. “Thank you. As always, Richard, I appreciate your willingness to help. You are a great ally to the Al Ghul line.” A slight smile rests on her lips.
Dick allows a moment of silence to pass.
“Always,” he says. “I’m sure you have a great deal to attend to, but I’d be interested in the information you mentioned in your message.” Direct questions, for whatever reason, tend not to work as well as talking around the issue. Dick doesn’t have to understand this fact in order to use it to his advantage.
Another long pause.
When she answers, Talia’s voice is impassive, and her eyes are unreadable. “Jason Todd is alive.”
“I’m sorry,” Dick says carefully, “What?”