Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There were moments in Dick’s life he remembered with absolute clarity. Snapshots that carved him into who he was. The problem was that none of them were good.

The first was when he was eight, when the ropes snapped and sent his family careening to the ground, and something in him turned toward vengeance. The next came at eleven, when Two-Face beat him with a bat, snarling that it was all Batman’s fault, and Bruce’s protectiveness turned suffocating. 

Then there was the first time Wally kissed him at fifteen, when love stopped being simple. 

At twenty, he’d thought the Joker had taken another brother, grief turning white-hot with rage. And most recently, when Bruce told him Wally was gone, and the world lost all its color.

That moment stayed sharp: the temperature of the air, the smell of the room, the angle of sunlight cutting through the blinds. The weeks after, though, were hazy.

It was surreal. It shouldn’t have been new, he’d felt it before. That sense of having his world ripped from his hands while everything around him continued on, unchanged.

Like a movie Wally had mentioned once. One that must have come out by now. The days kept moving. On and on and on. Why couldn’t they stop? Not even for a moment, just long enough for him to breathe.

The weeks drew on. Life went on, as if Wally had never existed. But he had. And like everything else in Dick’s life, his one source of comfort and safety had been ripped away. Again. He was a Flying Grayson, after all. He couldn’t do death-defying stunts with a safety net.

Dick had been counting the minutes. One hundred thousand, eight hundred and ninety-seven. Over eight weeks since he’d last seen Wally. Since he’d last spoken to his alpha. Since he’d asked him to be safe with a chaste kiss goodbye.

If Dick had known, he would’ve pulled Wally back into bed and made it matter. Made it a goodbye for the ages. He wouldn’t have let him leave at all.

Because he hadn’t said goodbye.

A chaste kiss wasn’t goodbye. It was see you later.

I should’ve said goodbye.

No one had pushed him yet, but he could feel it looming. Eventually, they’d strongly encourage him to talk. He could get away with pretending for now, but that meant getting himself in order.

After the news broke, Bruce had benched him. Not indefinitely, but Dick’s suit and equipment had been locked up all the same. He didn’t want a repeat of previous years. Which was fine, in theory. Dick hadn’t really felt any vengeful urges.

Because the person to blame had already been taken care of by Wally. It was why he was gone. Dick wasn’t going to go beat up Gotham thugs for a Central City rogue. How was that fair?

Not that he’d had the energy lately to do much more than exist. It’d been like this after Jason: basic functions and crime fighting. Since crime fighting was off the table, that left only the basics. He was managing, as long as no one asked follow-up questions.

He tried to maintain some routines. Meditation, surprisingly, had become a refuge from his own head.

He knew that if he checked the clock, it would be prime crime fighting hours. He knew that if he asked Bruce about going out, he might even be allowed. In truth, he wanted to go back. He craved the distraction.

But filling his days was getting harder. The righteous anger had burned itself out. Meditation helped in the short term; but the moment he stood, his thoughts came screaming back. The world felt lopsided, and he wanted to right it.

What didn’t help was that their bond hadn’t snapped when Wally disappeared.

Bruce had a theory about the Speed Force. Dick didn’t care about the mechanics. Only that the bond hadn’t snapped. Maybe it was because Wally hadn’t just died, he’d become part of the Speed Force itself. Maybe that was why the bond lingered.

For whatever reason, that broke Dick’s heart just as much as it comforted him.

The bond stayed silent. As it always would.

Because Wally was dead gone.

Dick’s wandering thoughts made it clear the meditation session was a lost cause.

He stretched, joints stiff, muscles tight. A glance at the clock showed it was just before midnight. Perfect prowling time. He could almost see his usual perch, watching his route, waiting for Oracle to call him in.

He considered sleep. It still eluded him, but it was worth trying. He could train. Get mission-ready again. He knew the milestones Bruce was looking for.

He was already hitting some of them; eating reasonably when he could stomach it, resting when he could if his newfound insomnia allowed him, interacting with the others when he wasn’t actively avoiding them.

There was only one other thing that would clear him.

He tried not to think about it. The dread was too heavy.

Dick sighed and dropped back onto the floor, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars he’d stuck to the ceiling as a kid. Their glow had faded years ago, but he still smiled at the sight. Simpler times. Or as simple as things ever got.

A persistent buzzing pulled him from his thoughts.

It wasn’t the phone on his bed. It was coming from his desk.

There weren’t many people who had that number.

Curiosity won out. Most of his vigilante gear had been confiscated, but not all of it. The burner had been spared.

A short string of messages lit up the screen.

Dick considered it.

He and Jason weren’t exactly tight, but Jason wasn’t actively trying to kill him anymore, and he trusted Dick more than most of the pack. Even if Jason didn’t know the details of Dick’s personal life, there was no way his absence had gone unnoticed.

This could be a check-in. Or Jason could genuinely need help and refuse to ask directly, because Jason never did.

Could Dick slip out unnoticed?

Not really. Oracle would notice… unless he warned her.

Checking in wouldn’t hurt. Jason wasn’t going to elaborate anyway. He was analog like that.

Dick grabbed his civilian phone.

Dick rolled his eyes.

Dick smiled, sent a thumbs-up, and changed into something with more mobility. Not full gear, just in case.

He slipped down a service hallway, mounted his bike, and disappeared into the night.

Dick stopped about a block from Jason’s last known safehouse and texted back the burner.

He wondered if Jason was active tonight or not. Hopefully not, his active nights were usually met with extra activity from the gangs. Jason had a nasty habit of stirring up the hornets’ nest every chance he got.

Jason responded with an address to a diner not too far. It wasn’t known for seedy characters but it wouldn’t be watched too closely. Clearly Jason didn’t want any kind of attention either, whether or not that was because he was with Dick was up for debate, but he appreciated the assurance that this was just talking and nothing more.

Dick found Jason in a booth toward the back, positioned with his back to the wall and a clear view of the door. A half-empty cup of coffee sat in front of him, long since gone cold. 

Jason looked rough, more than usual. Dark circles ringed his eyes, tension pulled tight around his mouth.

Jason’s eyes flicked up the moment Dick stepped inside. 

“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” he said as Dick slid into the booth across from him.

“You said it was interesting,” Dick replied lightly. “And I’m bored.”

“You look like hell.”

Dick shrugged, noncommittal. “I’ve been told.”

Jason’s gaze sharpened; not judging, just measuring, like he was trying to decide whether Dick was here or only pretending to be. “Not sleeping?”

“In fits,” Dick said.

Jason huffed, clearly biting back whatever advice or warning wanted to follow and letting it die there.

The nice thing about Jason was that Dick had never felt pressured to impress him. Dick hadn’t been in the best headspace when Jason joined the family, and while he’d tried to repair things later, some of the damage had already been done. 

As far as Jason was concerned, Dick had always played the role of the untouchable golden child, but Jason knew better. He knew Dick was dangerous. That he could be just as vengeful if he wanted to be.

Whatever Jason was seeing now clearly concerned him.

“I’m fine,” Dick said, trying (and failing) to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He was tired of convincing people. More tired of pretending.

Jason didn’t call him on it. Instead, he reached into his jacket and dropped a thick manila folder onto the table between them. It landed with a sharp thwack.

Dick eyed it, then flipped it open, skimming. “Where’d you get this?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Dick looked up, unimpressed. “That’s not going to fly.”

Jason sucked on his teeth. “A few streets over.”

Dick pulled up a mental map. Gang territories shifted near constantly, but some things stayed the same. A few streets over was vague, but there were only two players Jason would bother targeting there.

Neither of them was Black Mask.

He’d heard rumors of new blood trying to make a name for themselves, but Dick had been buried in a Blockbuster case until recently. Gotham’s gang scene hadn’t been his priority.

So the new blood must be ‘a few streets over’.

“I overheard some guys,” Jason said. “Nobody’s talking. I can’t get specifics, and I don’t like mystery shit moving through my territory.”

Dick turned back to the documents.

“You don’t know what he’s dealing in?” he asked, surprised Jason didn’t even have a guess.

Jason let out a low, nearly inaudible growl. “I know it’s not traditional.”

That narrowed it down, sort of.

Traditional meant drugs, weapons, money. People, too, usually Omegas. If it wasn’t that, then Dick wasn’t sure what would be valuable enough to warrant this level of secrecy.

He closed the folder partway. “So what do you need me for?”

Jason studied him for a moment, then exhaled. “I can’t read half this shit, but I know a ledger when I see one. I want to intercept one of the shipments. Figure out what I’m dealing with.”

Dick didn’t believe that. The second half, sure. But Jason not being able to infer anything from what he could read? That didn’t track.

“I don’t need your pity case,” Dick snapped, shoving the folder back across the table. If he weren’t wearing scent blockers, he was sure Jason’s nose would wrinkle at the spike of emotion.

Jason’s expression hardened. “Don’t make this a pity thing. It’s not. I don’t do pity.”

“You really want me to believe you don’t have any inkling?” Dick asked. “That you didn’t spend five minutes trying to piece this together before dumping it on me?”

“Dick, it’s not a pity case.”

“Bullshit.” Dick shifted, starting to slide out of the booth.

Jason reached out and gripped his forearm, not hard, just enough to stop him. “Will you drop the dramatics for five fucking seconds?” he exhaled sharply. “I heard about West. I’m sorry. He was a good guy. But this isn’t that.”

Dick rolled his eyes.

Jason scrubbed a hand over his face. “Okay. Fine. It’s a little charity. Everyone’s riding you, and yeah, I figured you could use something to focus on. But this also goes faster with you. You’re better at this than I am.”

Dick settled back into the booth.

“Just look over the ledger,” Jason continued. “Tell me what you find. Contrary to popular belief, I’m a busy guy.”

“What, got a traitor in a meat locker needing your attention?”

“I don’t keep traitors in meat lockers,” Jason said flatly. “I keep them in warehouse basements.”

Dick gave an amused huff.

“You’d be helping me out,” Jason added. “With the added benefit of helping yourself.”

Dick considered it.

As pity cases went, this one was tempting. Bruce didn’t want him touching casework until he was cleared, but Dick had long stopped caring what Bruce wanted. Tim had tried to distract him, but the kid’s life revolved around school and patrol. Same with his team. Same with Barbara.

They were busy.

A case like this would make Dick feel useful again. And Jason wouldn’t keep him around unless he actually was.

Dick picked up the folder. “Y’know, B hasn’t cleared me yet.”

“So?” Jason snorted. “I watched you try to fist fight him into letting you go to the tower with a broken leg. I’m not worried.”

“I’ll look it over,” Dick said. “See what I can find.”

Jason shrugged. “It’s not like you can make it worse.”

Dick pursed his lips. “We both know that’s not true.”

Jason laughed. “Fair.”

“You really want to work this together?” Dick asked. It was a fair question, bringing him in meant Dick wasn’t just consulting anymore.

Jason tilted his head. “Whatever he’s dealing in probably needs to end up on the Bat’s radar.” He gestured vaguely at Dick.

Dick knocked his knuckles against the table once. “Alright. I need to get back before he notices.”

Jason gave a two-finger salute as Dick slid out of the booth.

Dick took a breath to steady himself before knocking on the partially open door to Bruce’s office. He must not have been working on anything critical; Bruce was usually more reasonable when he wasn’t buried in something urgent.

Jason had stumbled onto something big.

As Dick dug through the ledger, it painted a horrifying picture. It took painstaking hours to decipher the illegible Spanish handwriting, though the scattered notes requesting clarification suggested the poor penmanship wasn’t an intentional trap. Regardless, the ledger was meticulous.

Dick still thought Jason could have managed this on his own, but he appreciated that Jason had handed it off. Admittedly, he’d enjoyed the busywork.

The ledger referred to the man only as Flamingo, but a cross-reference through the Batcomputer turned up another alias.

The Face Eater.

A name like that spelled trouble.

From what Dick could gather, Eduardo Flamingo was a cartel assassin with a penchant for cannibalism; specifically betas. He targeted anyone, but betas were reserved for what the ledger termed personal use.

Jason’s notes corroborated the unusual victim pattern. The GCPD had assumed Killer Croc was responsible, which had initially drawn Jason’s attention. Bruce had investigated briefly, sending Tim to track Croc down and confirm he wasn’t behind the killings. Then, according to the case file, Bruce had stepped back when Jason called ‘dibs’.

It was obvious Bruce had no idea Flamingo was behind the murders. Otherwise, he never would have let it go so easily.

No matter. Dick was involved now, and that might keep Batman at bay a little longer.

Jason hadn’t exactly agreed that they were working together, but he would appreciate Dick’s input. Black Mask had hired a pair of former cartel members who were next on Flamingo’s hit list. A flight was scheduled three days from now; Flamingo’s arrival to take them out.

Intercepting it would be child’s play. For Jason. For Dick.

The real problem was Bruce.

He hadn’t mentioned Dick slipping out the night before yet, but there was no way Alfred hadn’t noticed. Dick briefly considered leaving again and letting the consequences fall where they might. Ideally, Bruce wouldn’t interfere if they wrapped things up quickly, but that wasn’t fair to Jason.

So Dick chose to get ahead of it.

Bruce barely glanced up when Dick stepped inside.

“Uh, are you busy?” Dick asked, eager to get it over with.

“Is it important?”

“Mildly.”

Bruce paused, then closed his laptop and looked at him fully.

“I’m going to help Jason catch a cartel assassin in a couple of days.”

Bruce was silent. Forty-five seconds.

“I don’t remember clearing you for active duty.”

Dick’s stomach turned, sharp and sudden, but he ignored it.

“I don’t remember asking permission,” he snapped. “This is a courtesy, so you don’t mess it up in the name of protection.”

“You are not cleared,” Bruce said flatly. “You will not assist Jason with anything.”

Dick’s jaw clicked. “Last I checked, I’m an adult. I don’t need permission. I’m fine. I’m trying to get back to normal.”

“You need my permission to access your equipment,” Bruce replied. “Unless you plan to apprehend a cartel assassin without it.”

Dick scoffed. “You really think I don’t know how to get my own gear?”

Bruce sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why are you picking a fight? What are you hiding? I’d rather address it now than let it boil over later.”

Dick hesitated. He’d used distraction before. But this time, he didn’t even know what he was protecting. His stomach tightened again, a sharp reminder that he hadn’t eaten nearly enough today.

“I’m not doing that,” he muttered, sounding childish even to himself.

“Dick, I’ve known you thirteen years. I know your tactics.”

He forced himself to stay still, shoving aside the thoughts threatening to spiral somewhere he wasn’t ready to go.

“You are not cleared for night activity until after your heat,” Bruce said. “End of discussion.”

Dick blanched. “That’s not for another two weeks.”

“I’m willing to compromise,” Bruce replied. “Take a pregnancy test. Now.”

“What?”

“I wanted to give you time,” Bruce said. “But I will not allow a pregnant omega in the field. It’s unsafe... for everyone.”

Dick’s shoulders tightened. His stomach fluttered again, sharper this time. “I’m not doing that.”

“If you’re not pregnant, then what’s the issue?” Bruce’s tone grated. “Take the test, help Jason unsanctioned, and we move forward.”

Because the truth was, Dick had wondered.

The thought had been simmering for weeks, growing louder by the day. He wasn’t ready to face it. And while he’d appreciated Bruce not pressing earlier, the fact that Bruce had been thinking about it at all was terrifying.

“How about it’s none of your business?” Dick said tightly.

Bruce rolled his eyes. “Dick, you’re not stupid. Pregnancy is a liability. Miscarriage. Compromised judgment. I won’t risk it. Take the test, or we discuss it after your heat.”

“So I’m too hormonal to think straight.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth. I’d do the same for any of you.”

And maybe... maybe Bruce had a point.

Maybe Dick’s judgment was off. Maybe he needed to prove he was field-ready. Maybe if anyone else had said it, it wouldn’t hurt so much.

But Bruce had never liked Wally. Never liked that they’d moved in together. Never liked that Dick had something he cared about more than the mission.

It felt personal. Dick had never been able to ignore that.

“I’m not taking a pregnancy test,” Dick said quietly.

“Then you’re not doing vigilante work.”

Predictable.

Dick said nothing. Let Bruce think he’d won.

“I’m sure we’ll discuss this later,” Bruce said, dismissing him.

Dick didn’t linger. He didn’t slam the door either- he’d learned long ago that loud exits only proved the other person’s point. He walked back to his room with deliberate, steady steps.

Once inside, he braced against the door and breathed until the tightness in his chest dulled.

Heat.

Pregnant.

Liability.

He shoved the words aside.

Bruce could think whatever he wanted.

Dick crossed the room and dropped into his nest, opening his laptop. The ledger sat where he’d left it; heavy, accusing. Something concrete. Something actionable. Something that wasn’t grief.

Flamingo didn’t care about Bruce’s rules. Cartel assassins didn’t pause for unresolved emotions. The flight was coming whether Dick was cleared or not.

People would die if no one stopped it.

That was enough.

Dick refined the files, annotating timelines and marking locations. His mind settled into the familiar rhythm of problem-solving.

This was the part of himself Bruce couldn’t take away.

His burner buzzed softly.

Dick stared at it, then typed back.

Dick almost laughed.

Sleep still felt foreign, but he shut the laptop anyway. Darkness settled over the room, broken only by the faint outline of glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling.

Bruce thought this was about permission.

It wasn’t.

It was about control. About choosing something in a world that had already taken too much.

At the very least, Bruce couldn’t pretend he’d been kept in the dark.

And if this was the game Bruce wanted to play…

Fine.

Game on.