Chapter Text
Dick had practically passed out the second his head hit the pillow. The safe house had become less of a safe house and more of a safe home. He couldn’t return to the manor. Hearing Alfred’s voice had nearly killed him. He couldn’t handle seeing the look on his face if he returned. Instead, he opted to just live here. it was just a few blocks from the Gotham docks where he had just taken down Merrick. He didn’t kill him, so he figured that wasn’t the last time they’d see each other.
When the morning light pushed its way through the blinds, Dick buried his head further into the pillow. He was surprised that he had actually been able to get some sleep. Maybe it was the familiarity of talking to Alfred, or the new intel he’d received. Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to complain.
He stumbled out of bed, cursing while reaching a hand out to clutch the ribs that had been deeply bruised the night before. His shoulder still wasn’t at 100%. The dislocation combined with the constant stair after stair impact did nothing to soothe his aching bones.
He walked, more-so limped, over to the computer, beginning his newfound research on this arms dealer’s yacht. All he had was a location, but he figured it wouldn’t be too hard to narrow down some extra info. He had previously hacked into a criminal database on his search for Merrick, so he started there. He cross-referenced yacht, Blüdhaven, weaponry, and a bunch of other buzz words in the hope that one of them would match to a semi-recent post.
With his luck, he was surprised that the search had actually gotten a hit. There was an event happening tonight down at the Blüdhaven docks on a particular yacht. It called for open bidders to make an appearance, hoping for sales on some custom weapons. Dick narrowed his eyes at the creator of the post. He recognized the face in the profile picture. The guy was confident, and Dick had seen him before on missions with Batman.
The second he recognized that smirk he knew for a fact that this guy dealt for the Penguin. He was dealing with enough tracking down Deathstroke, the last thing he needed was Cobblepot up his ass too.
He sighed, rubbing at his eyes before accepting his fate. It was entirely necessary that he show up to this event, find Silk, and get out. He needs to blend in. He needs a suit. Only problem is, he cant risk returning to the manor so he’ll just have to go out and buy one. Dick Grayson hadn’t been seen in public since the funeral, so he’s hoping that his identity can remain a secret in whatever formal wear boutique he can find. He threw on a hoodie and jeans, pulling the hood up and settling sunglasses over his eyes, not only to mask his identity but to also mask the black eye he was sporting.
———
The store was small, nestled between two old buildings on a quieter block in the heart of Gotham. He had walked quite far, not meaning to but ultimately just wanting to clear his head. The boutique was upscale, the sort of place that Bruce would’ve taken him to before a gala.
Dick hadn’t been in a store like this in months. He pushed the doors open, heading to the left over to a rack of blazers. he ran his fingers over the material, structured yet smooth-
“Excuse me sir, we don’t allow for hoods to be worn in our store..” a manager spoke from behind the desk, now slowly approaching him.
Shit. He should’ve known. A place like this was just asking to be robbed and he obviously looked suspicious.
He slowly removed his hood, brushing his fingers through his unruly curls. The store manager recognized him immediately. He was really hoping the sunglasses disguise would’ve worked for at least a minute longer.
“Oh! Mr Grayson, I apologize.”
“Nothing to apologize for sir.” Dick said wearily, turning his attention back to the suits on display. He could feel the nervous energy radiating from behind him.
“I- I erm, am very sorry for your loss sir. I saw the photos in the Gotham Star, it was a truly beautiful service.”
Dick closed his eyes, mind trailing off almost immediately.
———
“Today we are here to remember the life of Bruce Wayne, CEO, humanitarian, son, father, and hero.”
Dick felt a shiver go down his spine. He didn’t want to attend in the first place, but Alfred insisted that it was necessary.
He hadn’t spoken all morning. He refused to give a eulogy.
The Gotham sky was overcast. Umbrellas bloomed like black flowers across the cemetery. Crowds of reporters flashed their cameras from behind barricades while the world watched live footage. Remembering Bruce Wayne and more importantly Batman. It was hard to deny the evidence that immediately followed Bruce Wayne’s death. Batman had disappeared from the face of the Earth and the Justice League wasn’t searching for him. It was even harder to deny the videos broadcast all over the city, filmed by Deathstroke, admitting to the murder of Bruce Wayne. The conspiracies flooded every forum: a known adversary of Batman suddenly kills Bruce Wayne and now Batman is missing? It didn’t add up.
Members of the Justice League in their civilian form were there as well. The ones who knew Batman’s identity at the time were Clark, Diana, and Oliver, all of whom were among the crowd of grieving bodies.
Dick tuned out a majority of the speeches. He had already begun strategizing.
He was dressed sharply, keeping up his image despite his grief. The world saw Bruce Wayne’s son, calm and composed, but beneath the cuffs of his sleeves, his fists were clenched at his sides.
the coffin began to lower into the ground, dirt piling on top of the occupied grave. Dick imagined Batman falling, his cape whipping in the wind and Robin failing to catch him.
The crowd began to clear out leaving just him and Alfred. Even the reporters had managed to scrounge up some decency and leave the site. Alfred squeezed his shoulder before turning to walk away as well. Dick waited, staring down at the grave. The marbled stone engraved with his name seemed further and further away and tears warped his vision. He couldn’t help but read “Bruce Thomas Wayne” over and over again.
He fell to his knees, the wet dirt soaking through the fabric of his suit. He remained near the headstone, lowering his forehead to the cool stone and sucking in a deep breath. His lungs felt shallow as the rainwater stung his eyes.
A photo was taken from afar.
———-
The images appeared of Dick alone at the gravesite in the papers the next day. “Gothams Golden Boy Stricken by Grief”
The world called it poetic. Dick called it bullshit.
He turned to meet the man’s gaze, “Yeah, thanks.”
The older man vigorously nodded, his hands clasped together. Dick sighed, finally giving in, “I need a suit: plain, black, nothing flashy.” he rubbed at his temples as the man ran off to go and find what Dick was looking for for. While he waited, he grasped the lapel of one of the hanging coats.
Part of him cringed at being seen and recognized. Not as Robin, but as Dick Grayson, the one Gotham believed that they understood. The one that was constantly questioned by every news outlet, and in every article, wondering why he hadn’t taken over Wayne Enterprises or done any press conferences or whatever bullshit they envisioned that he should be doing. He could worry about his public image when business was taken care of. When his actions would allow for him to sleep at night once more. When they would allow for balance.
The man came back with a few options, leading Dick to the fitting room and giving him privacy.
He tried on the first suit, blinking at his reflection in the mirror. He walked out of the room to meet the man’s face once more.
“I’ll take this one.” It really didn’t matter what the suit looked like on him, he would’ve taken whichever one he put on first.
“You look just like him y’know? Despite it all, it’s almost uncanny with that suit on…” The man almost laughed in surprise.
Dick didn’t find it amusing, he just nodded and returned to the fitting room to change back into his normal clothes.
After checkout, he headed straight back for the safe house, hood pulled up and sunglasses secured over his eyes. He passed hundreds on the street, none of whom spared him a second glance.
———
He got back to the safe house, already exhausted even though the day had barely begun.
He pushed open the door, turning to flick on the lights before realizing that they were already on. He turned to look straight ahead, tossing his bag to the left towards the bed before noticing the figure sitting at the desk.
His hand reached quickly for the knife strapped to his forearm, until he noticed the nearly perfect posture and reading glasses perched on the surface of the table.
Alfred.
The man turned around, looking Dick up and down as he removed his hood and sunglasses, walking further into the room.
“You’re limping...and bruised.” he said, concern lacing his tone.
Dick scoffed, walking over to the bed and taking off his hoodie, leaving him in a plain white shirt and jeans.
Alfred took a deep breath, spinning the squeaking desk chair to face the younger.
“Come home, Master Dick.”
He stopped in his tracks, closing his eyes.
“I can’t.”
Alfred stared back at him. His expression was devastatingly readable. His eyes welled with tears, despite not a single drop falling. His brows furrowed together, and he shook his head back and forth ever so slightly, as if his body was attempting to think of a plead without words, a beg for reconsideration. Dick had known this man since he was twelve years old. The two had never seen each other so lost before.
“You are letting your wrath prevail over your mercy and that is something you will not find an easy way back from. It’s hard to hear Master Dick, but this is not the path he would have chosen for you-“
“Well he isn’t fucking here to chose my path! Is he Alfred?” Dick found himself to be shouting, his chest heaved with repressed emotion, his eyes wild as he continued,
“I see him every time I close my eyes. I hear his final breath in my sleep. I can’t go on like this! I have to finish it!”
“What exactly are you finishing sir?” Alfred stood now, “Your mission for the greater good or your personal vendetta?”
“Sure, you can call it a personal vendetta. I call it vengeance.” Dick pointed, shouting with his hands and making the mistake of moving his shoulder. The pain echoed throughout his body, unable to stop the gasp escaping his lips as he held it. Alfred reached for him before taking a step back.
“if you continue like this, on this path my son, you will lose everything. I will be here to pick up the pieces but you will lose yourself in the process. I have buried far too many Waynes in my life, Master Dick. I shall see to it that you are not next.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Dick was afraid that if he looked into his eyes for a moment longer, he would throw up. Alfred was afraid that grief would overshadow the good in the little boy he once knew. He prayed that Dick would come to his senses, but a deep, dark part inside of him was almost glad to see Bruce in Dick’s gaze. Alfred wanted to be there for him, because he knows that if it was Bruce in his son’s position: Gotham City would’ve burned to the ground in the name of avenging Robin.
Alfred finally turned away, walking towards the door having said what he needed to, “And Master Dick…”
“Happy eighteenth birthday, my boy.” The door shut behind him.
Dick stayed frozen in place, trying to come to terms with his shattered heart as stray tears fell from his eyes. He had no idea that today was his birthday. He barely knew what month it was.
Before he could think for any longer, he walked over to the desk, sliding his hands across the surface in a fit of rage, papers and case files went sprawling onto the ground. he picked up a small lamp and threw it as hard as he could into the opposite wall, breathing heavily as the sound of exploding glass filled his eardrums.
He couldn’t stop himself from sinking to the floor. He wiped angrily at his face, catching a glimpse of a small box that had been tossed to the ground. He reached over, picking it up, unwrapping the bow and paper, revealing a small card, which read “Remember who you are.” he lifted the small folded sheet of tissue paper and revealed a worn leather wrist watch. The glass covering the clock face was cracked, the ticking had come to a stop long ago. Bruce always wore this damn watch even though it was broken. He said it was because time waited for no one.
Dick held it in his hands, pressing the leather to his forehead before securing the band around his wrist. he sat for a moment, but as he remembered, time waited for no one.
He had work to do.
———
The event was loud, the yacht was crowded, and Dick was putting on his best performance.
He was wearing his newly purchased suit, similar to many of the other guests. Peach toned concealer covered his bruises as he laughed with criminal patrons. The drink in his hand was still full, but the assholes that surrounded him were too drunk for any suspicion. His hair was slicked back, thick glasses covering his eyes. Trick he learned from Clark Kent.
There was going to be an auction on the dock in a few moments, aiming to sell as many weapons as possible in one night in order to please the big boss. He could worry about Cobblepot later, for now he was more focused on the security detail. He was sure that he would recognize Silk the moment he saw him, but he was losing hope as the sun continued to set. His plan was to find Silk, find somewhere private to reveal the Robin suit he was wearing beneath this one, and then ask the guy to talk. He was named Silk for being a smooth talker, so Dick assumed that he wouldn’t be able to resist the chance to have a conversation with a known adversary of his boss, especially now that feelings were mixed in. He’d let him talk for a while, gain information on Deathstroke, and then he’d be good as gold. Easy.
His first problem was finding Silk. The place was crawling with security, all of whom were wearing masks that covered their noses down. Dick had to rely on eyes alone, all while avoiding eye contact and keeping himself successfully undercover. It would be bad for him to be noticed as Robin, but even worse for him to be noticed as Dick Grayson.
He walked along the Dock, finding a space hidden by the shadows that he deemed safe to change at. Screw it. Maybe a brief appearance by Robin would be enough to draw Silk out from hiding.
He already knew that he was coming.
He quickly took off the trousers and overcoat, the shining R emblem now visible in the streetlight. He kicked the discarded clothes into the water, hoping that they’d just sink or something.
Focus. Find silk.
He looked around, spotting the streetlight that had illuminated the area and quickly grappling to the top. He had a birds eye view of the entire event, the bustling yacht, along with the dock. He secured his domino mask over his eyes, the augmented reality lenses casting a night vision view of the crowd. He gazed directly into the eyes of each and every security officer. He pulled out the polaroid from his pocket, looking at Silk in the photo for differentiating qualities. The man had a tattoo on his neck, Robin squinted his eyes, now clearly spotting a spider spinning some sort of web. Ah, silk. Funny. This guy must really be full of himself.
He averted his eyes back to the party, the auction was now in full swing, meaning many of the guests had crowded on the west side of the dock, leaving the security officers to be surrounding the outskirts. It took him a moment but he finally saw the tip of a web poking out from beneath the collar of a security uniform. Silk. He was alone, despite many of the security teams being in pairs, and he was also the only one near darkness, out of sight from the others. He was stood outside of the old movie theater, lighting a cigarette and blowing out the smoke. He was wearing thick combat boots, his dog tag hung from his neck, an untrimmed beard catching the fallen ashes from one end of his smoke. Gross.
Robin grappled to the roof of the building, peering down at the man, taking a deep breath before dropping to the ground. He landed on his feet directly in front of him, raising his gaze through his white lensed eyes and standing up straight.
Silk smiled, dropping his cigarette to the ground and stomping it out. The scent of tobacco permeated his nose.
“I thought you might show up.” The man said, British accent heavy with each word spoken. “Come on then, follow me.” He fully turned his back to Robin, walking through the theater doors behind him and leaving them wide open in his wake, as if he was no threat at all. He followed him inside, shutting the door behind them and turning the lock.
The theater’s seats were covered in thick layers of dust, torn posters flapped in the wind through broken windows, all encapsulated before a sagging velvet curtain at the front of the room.
“You don’t look like you’re here for popcorn“ Silk started but Robin cut him off, quickly walking towards the man-
“Wait wait- before you blow me to pieces or smash my head against a train car, wouldn’t you like to have a conversation?”
Yes, actually he would.
“Start talking.” Robin spoke lowly, his fingers lingering above the escrima stick strapped to his thigh.
“You ever notice how much you sound like him? Bruce. The gravel voice, the ‘I’m not in the mood’ stare. It’s uncanny. Like Bat like Bird I guess..” Silk’s smile falters for just a moment when he notices Robin flicking open his escrima stick with a crack.
“Alright, alright. You want information? Right? What can I do for ya?”
“Where is he?” Robin asked, his knuckles turning white as his grip tightened.
“He? I know a lot of hes kid you’re gonna have to be more specific-“
Robin pursued, shoving the man up against the opposite wall, the framed movie poster cracked on impact, his skull breaking the glass beneath. Silk could easily overpower him, especially with his years of combat and military training, but not faster than Robin could shock his system with his escrima stick, which was positioned right against his neck, the taser lit and buzzing with electricity.
“You know exactly which ‘he’ I’m referring to.”
“Okay-okay! He’s supposed to be working another hit job in Gotham with Crackshot, some billionaire beneficiary-“
“I need a name-“ he moved the taser even closer, the hairs on Silk’s neck being tinged by the electricity.
“…Shit okay, it’s that Wayne kid!’ Robin felt his heart drop into his stomach, ‘Grayson! Richard Grayson…”
His hesitation from the shock of hearing his own name was enough of a chance for Silk to make his move. He shoved Robin straight off him, sending him sprawling to the floor. Silk began his pursuit but was quickly stopped as Robin rolled backwards onto his hands, pushing his body up to jump back onto his feet. He cracked his knuckles, released his second escrima stick from his back holster, and ran at him.
Silk dodged the first hit, landing a blow to his ribs, but Robin wasn’t near finished. He ran straight at the wall, using the momentum from his right leg to send himself flying sideways. His legs wrap around Silk’s neck so quick that there was no time to even register the impact. He twists violently, flipping backwards and dragging the man off his feet. The momentum slammed Silk into the red carpeted floor hard enough to leave a dent. Robin was already rolling free and upright before the man could take a breath.
Silk scrambled to stand, but was stopped by a boot against the chest and a lit escrima stick pointed between his eyes. The last thing he heard before the end of the weapon cracked against his temple was,
“Thanks.”