#forced choice

The whole situation was ridiculous honestly, the two of them swarmed by the group after Legend had tripped on a loose cobblestone and accidentally triggered his scales by falling into the gutter. It would be laughable if Legend wasn’t trapped and essentially drowning, and Warriors didn’t have a good dozen weapons pointed at his neck.

Legend’s face was starting to turn red from lack of air, and he was giving Warriors a look that begged him not to do anything stupid.

Unfortunately, Warriors already had a stupid plan forming.

“I’d hate to ruin such a pretty face, so here’s the deal,” the woman with her boot on Legend’s chest said. “You let us leave with your friend, no fighting, no following, and in return, we won’t kill you.”

“Pass,” Warriors said with a glare, sword clenched tightly in his palm. The woman made a pouting face.

“Aw, can’t we settle this like civilized people? We’ll be gentle, so long as you cooperate,” she smiled, and dug her heel into Legend’s ribs.

Legend grunted in pain, and Warriors swallowed, his thoughts whirling. His idea really was stupid, and the thought of using it made him cringe, but he was outnumbered and rapidly running out of time. Legend’s wheezes kept growing more frantic, and Warriors didn’t want to bet his safety on whether he could take on the entire crowd.

At least he wasn’t in his own Hyrule. Revealing the secret here would be awful, and he knew these people would exploit the knowledge, but at least it wouldn’t come with the political firestorm it would at home.

And if it got Legend free, it was worth it.

Warriors sighed.

“What if I have a better deal for you?” he asked, and the woman raised an eyebrow.

“What kind of a deal? If it involves you, I already have a fella,” she said mildly, and Warriors swallowed.

“Nothing like that. A trade. Me for my friend.”

Laughter went through the group, and the woman snorted. “You may have a pretty face, but you’re nothing compared to a merman, honey. Sorry.”

“Would it change things if I told you I’m half dragon?” he said quietly.

The woman’s ears flicked, her eyes widening. “Oh?”

“Yes. Much more exotic then a kid with a curse,” Warriors said, keeping his eyes off of Legend. He wished he could’ve told him about this on his own terms. Who knew what he was thinking at the moment. “If you let him go, I’ll come quietly.”

“And do everything I say?” the woman said with a raised eyebrow, and Warriors swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat. He would escape. It wouldn’t be for long.

“Yes.”

She hummed consideringly, eyes trailing over Warriors. Legend wheezed again, and she glanced down at him, then back up again, crossing her arms.

“Well, I can’t really pass that up, can I?” she said, and snapped her fingers. Two burly men came up and grabbed Warriors’ arms, one twisting his sword out of his grip.

Warriors didn’t resist like he said he would, and happened to catch Legend’s eye, the other hero giving him an unreadable look. He was pretty sure he saw exasperation in his gaze though.

I don’t have a tail whenever I get wet, Legend, I’ll be able to escape better than you.

Warriors’ arms were tied behind his back, and he breathed out as the woman finally stepped off of Legend’s chest. A different bunch of people came forward as she snapped her fingers again, hauling Legend up out of the water, and they held him still while his tail split back into legs.

Legend began to struggle the moment he had his legs back, but the people held him tight, suddenly pulling ropes over his wrists and ankles. Warriors watched in shock as Legend was thrown back to the ground, a cloth tied over his mouth, and he snapped his gaze over to the woman.

“You said you’d let him go!” Warriors shouted, struggling wildly against the men’s hold. He shot an elbow out, trying to hit one in the face, but they only twisted his hands tighter behind his back, at an angle that felt like they were close to breaking.

The woman who was obviously in charge came over to him while he struggled, still smiling happily.

“We had a deal!” Warriors spat.

“We didn’t shake on it hon,” she said with a shrug, tapping his nose. “And there’s no way I’d pass up on a real mer. I happen to have a use for dragon blood at the moment, but even if you were lying about that, having another pretty face around is always good for business. I’m sure I’ll find a use for you somewhere.”

Warriors tried to lunge for her, but the men held him back, kicking his legs out from under him. Warriors dropped to his knees as she walked away with a laugh, and locked eyes with Legend, the veteran’s expression frantic as he was dragged away as well.

Oh Legend I’m sorry.

Then something hit him in the head, and with a burst of pain, Warriors knew no more.

(...)

A tapping noise woke him back up.

Warriors groaned, eyes flickering as he tried to figure out where the tapping was coming from. His head was throbbing, but it wasn’t too bad, and he pried his eyes open, a mostly dark room meeting him. The pounding kept up, more quickly now, and Warriors raised his head and looked to the side.

Two glowing eyes stared at him, and Warriors yelped, sitting up rather abruptly.

His head hit wood, and he made a pained noise, rubbing his forehead. He looked back over at the eyes, and Legend gave him a grim smile, the motion making the scales on his cheeks shine.

Oh. Right.

Warriors groaned, more in annoyance this time than anything, and glanced around, wrinkling his nose at the small cage he’d been dumped in. It was wood on the floor and ceiling, but metal bars blocked off everything else, the door firmly locked.

“Well. This is just lovely,” he sighed, and Legend let out a snort that shot out bubbles.

“Yeah, quite a nice predicament we’ve landed ourselves in. You okay, pretty boy?” Legend asked, his voice warbling a little strangely. Warriors was surprised he could hear him through the thick glass. “Or should I say dragon boy? Nice plan by the way.”

“Sorry, it was all I could think of,” Warriors apologized, leaning against the bars with a wince. The cage was so small he could only just barely sit up.

“Yeah, well it was a valiant effort,” Legend hummed, rubbing a dark bruise on his arm. He was silent for a moment. “Were you uh... were you serious?”

“About being half dragon?” Warriors asked, and Legend nodded. “...Yeah. It’s true. On my father’s side.”

Legend made a noise Warriors wasn’t sure how to interpret. “Huh. Well, I’ve heard weirder.”

Legend didn’t sound accusatory or disgusted or anything, mostly curious, and Warriors’ shoulders lost some tension he didn’t even know he’d been holding. It looked like Legend wasn’t weirded out much at all. Which was understandable since he was currently covered in blue scales and barely looked Hylian at the moment, but the reassurance was nice.

“...So how’d your mom get with a lizard exactly?”

Warriors’ goodwill towards Legend immediately disappeared. “Oh don’t even start, no, he has a hylian form! Don’t be weird!” he said in disgust, and Legend laughed, the sound oddly musical.

It broke into a bit of a wheeze, and Warriors’ exasperation turned into concern as Legend coughed a couple times.

“...Are you okay vet?” he asked worriedly, and Legend waved him off with a webbed hand.

“Yeah... yeah, ‘m good. Having a heel ground into my chest didn’t do me any favors,” he said with one last cough. “And all this going back and forth between lungs and gills isn’t much fun. But I’m alright.”

Warriors took a moment to study Legend, bruises painted across his skin, fins drooping. He didn’t look too bad, but he wasn’t in great shape.

“So how are we getting out of here?” Legend asked, breaking Warriors’ thoughts.

“We’ll think of something,” Warriors sighed, looking around his cage. “If I had something to pick the lock I could get out of this thing at least. Think you could get out on your end?”

“I already tried breaking the glass, it’s reinforced or something,” Legend grumbled. “And again with the lock, there’s bars over the top of the tank.”

“So we’re stuck for now, then.”

“Yep.”

Silence fell over them as they digested their situation, and Warriors sighed, looking around their prison. He was pretty sure there were in the back of a large wagon of some sort, based on the size and shape of the area. A few small beams of sunlight snuck through some cracks, lighting up more cages and equipment Warriors really hoped wasn’t for them.

He wondered what that woman was going to do with him. Legend was very obviously exotic—all she would really have to do was put him in a tank and the money would pour in—but Warriors looked rather normal. She said she had a use for him, for someone with dragon blood specifically, but what exactly was she thinking?

And how was he going to get him and Legend out of this mess?

A quiet chirping cry broke the silence, and Legend and Warriors both froze, pricking their ears.

“What on earth was that?” Legend asked in confusion, and Warriors shushed him, eyes narrowing. His night vision was a bit better than most Hylians, but he still couldn’t see very well in the shadowy room. And something about that sound...

He could just barely make out another cage, a spot of sunlight shining beside it, and another crying chirp came from its direction. Something about the sound struck Warriors right in the chest, and he kicked at the bars, peering through them and trying to see better.

“Whoa, what’s gotten into you? Any clue what that is?” Legend asked, and Warriors growled, kicking at his cage again.

“I don’t know, but it sounds hurt. I don’t think it—”

“Ma!”

Warriors went silent again, listening as the tiny voice repeated its cry. Legend looked utterly confused as Warriors kicked at the bars again, another tiny cry ringing through the room, and he growled in frustration.

“Cap, seriously, why are you so wound up? It’s probably just an animal or something,” Legend said confusedly, and Warriors stared at him. “I don’t like that it’s trapped either, but we can’t get it out right now.”

“An animal? Can’t you hear it talking?” Warriors said in disbelief, and Legend slowly shook his head.

“All I hear is growling and chirping. ...How hard did they hit your head?”

Warriors opened his mouth to argue, but a door was suddenly opened, and the room flooded with light. Warriors and Legend both squinted against it, and the chirping cries faltered into a whimper.

Footsteps clicked against the wooden floor, and the woman who’d gotten them both in here stood above the two of them, flanked by two larger assistants.

“Oh great, you,” Legend grumbled.

“Me. You might want to fix that attitude there merman, or today isn’t going to be much fun for you,” she said with a tsk. “Time to learn some tricks.”

“I already know plenty of tricks, I don’t need more,” Legend shot back, his arms crossed.

“It’s always good to expand your repertoire. But first,” she said with a clap, turning back to Warriors. “Let’s see that supposed dragon blood put to some good use. Hope you weren’t lying, honey.”

One of the burly people she’d brought with her stepped away, and went over to where the frantic chirping had been coming from. He came back with a cage in hand that was only about as big across as a shield, then put on a hefty pair of gloves.

The cage was set down, and then opened, the man quickly grabbing something from inside. A terrified chirp came from the cage, and Warriors and Legend both watched in shock as a tiny pale green dragon was yanked out, its eyes wide with fear.

Outrage burned in Warriors’ chest, and he watched in distaste as the poor creature was manhandled, the man avoiding its attempts to bite and claw him. Warriors stiffened as the man approached his cage, but didn’t have time to attempt an escape as he unlocked the door and quickly tossed the dragon in.

It hit the ground with a small thump, then wailed, scrambling to its feet and immediately running for a corner. It cowered against the bars, spikes on its back raised threateningly, and bared its teeth as a squeaky growl came from its throat.

Then it froze, nostrils twitching.

It raised its nose in the air, and suddenly looked straight at Warriors, eyes wide.

Then it made a beeline for him, chirping in distress as it clawed its way up his leg. Warriors jumped and nearly kicked it away, but something stopped him, something that told him the tiny dragon wasn’t a threat. Sure enough it didn’t try to bite him, and quickly latched itself onto his shirt, body trembling. Warriors carefully touched its head, and it butted cautiously against him.

“Well then, looks like you might have been telling the truth after all,” the woman hummed in interest, tapping her chin as the dragon clung to Warriors’ shirt. “I need someone who it’ll listen to, I haven’t made any progress getting the thing to behave. But if you’re dragon like it is, then you should have no problem.”

“He,” Warriors said quietly, running a careful hand over the tiny scales. The dragon nuzzled into his hand. “It’s a he.”

“Good to know. Start training it,” she said, and put a hand on the whip at her belt. “Or else this will be unpleasant for all of us.”

“Are you kidding? Look how small he is, he’s only a hatchling. You can’t train a baby,” Legend snapped from his tank, and the woman gave him a look.

“I’ll do whatever the public wants to see. Now come along honey, you have tricks to learn.”

The burly people she’d brought with her unlocked the top of Legend’s cage, then dragged him out despite his best efforts, tossing him onto the floor. Legend grimaced as his tail turned to legs yet again, and before he could recover he’d been grabbed and was quickly dragged away.

“Hey!” Warriors shouted when one of them kicked Legend, and the veteran struggled viciously. “Get your hands off—!”

The door was slammed, cutting off the sound of Legend’s struggling. Warriors was plunged into darkness once again.

He let out a tense breath, and looked down, the dragon still shaking against his chest. He was trying to work his way under Warriors’ scarf at the moment, and Warriors lifted a fold out of the way so he could slide in.

The shaking eased a little finally, and Warriors studied the tiny dragon in quiet curiosity. It was less like dragons he’d seen in his world and more like Wild’s, a long body, small legs, no visible wings. Two tiny horns poked from his head, and his eyes were bright with a pure green that reminded Warriors of Faron woods.

He’d never seen a dragon that wasn’t full-grown before, and Warriors looked at every detail in quiet fascination. He grew more worried the longer he studied the creature though, noting how thin he was, his scales lacking some sparkle.

Warriors may never have seen a baby dragon before, but he knew what a healthy dragon should look like.

And this wasn’t it.

“Ma,” the dragon chirped again, breaking him from his thoughts. He whimpered as he hid in Warriors scarf, claws scratching him a little. “Ma.”

A little wail came from the dragon, and Warriors felt that sharp feeling in his chest again, a frantic urge to fix the problem, get rid of the threat, stop the crying.

“Hey, hey it’s okay,” he tried, wishing he could purr on command as the hatchling cried. Unfortunately that particular quirk only seemed to happen without his permission. “We’ll find your mom and get you out of here. Calm down.”

He scratched a careful hand over the dragon’s head, and his wails quieted a bit. He looked at Warriors with his bright eyes, and tilted his head.

“Ma?” he asked, and Warriors nodded.

“Exactly, we’ll get you back to your mom,” he assured, all while he was wondering how exactly he was going to do that.

The dragon made a small chirp, and nestled himself up next to Warriors’ neck, still shaking just a little. Warriors kept scratching near the base of his horns, and the dragon gradually relaxed, tiny claws flexing.

Warriors glanced at the empty tank beside them, worry clenching at his chest. He didn’t know what Legend was dealing with, but he hoped it wouldn’t be too bad.

Right. Like our luck is ever that good.

The dragon let out a sound Warriors thought was a sniffle, and he petted him again, letting him nuzzle deeper into his scarf. At least the little guy wasn’t attacking him. Can he tell I’m half dragon? Is that enough to label me not a threat?

...Or is it just a Hero thing?

Warriors sighed, and attempted to get in a more comfortable position as the dragon chirped again. It didn’t really matter much.

What really mattered was figuring out how they were going to get out of this.

(...)

Hours passed, Warriors attempting to talk to the dragon, and not getting very far. He gave up eventually, and tried to think of some semblance of a plan while he waited for Legend to come back.

But Legend was gone for a long time. Long enough that both Warriors and the dragon were asleep when the door finally reopened.

They both startled, and the dragon chirped in alarm as moonlight spilled into the room, tiny scales sticking up as he scurried under Warriors’ scarf. Warriors quickly sat up as the same two burly men came in, and sucked in a breath as Legend was dragged in behind them.

He wasn’t moving.

Legend was lifted up and tossed back in the tank without a word, and Warriors clenched the bars as he saw him jerk, blood floating through the water. A brief cry came from him as his legs merged back into a tail, and he went limp as it finished, breathing heavily.

“Legend?” Warriors asked frantically as the men left, leaving them in darkness again, “hey, Legend, talk to me. What did they do?”

Legend didn’t reply for a few long moments, floating silently except for his pained breathing. More blood wafted through the water, and Warriors caught a glimpse of red lines cut into his back.

“Oh Legend, did they whip you?” He whispered, and Legend finally opened his eyes, blinking slowly.

“Mm... yeah,” he mumbled, letting himself drift down to the bottom of the tank. He breathed out tiredly. “Kept talking back, refused to do what they wanted. Lady didn’t like it. Actually got loose once, gave her a black eye. Really didn’t like that.”

He chuckled, then grimaced, wrapping his arms around himself.

“Legend, why didn’t you just play along?” Warriors asked in dismay, and Legend huffed.

“Tried to at first. Didn’t work,” Legend grumbled, then hissed as he shifted around a little.

Warriors watched in alarm as a little more blood wafted into the water, and Legend grimaced as he tried to get himself into a comfortable position.

“‘M alright Wars,” Legend sighed when he fell still, his eyes closing again. “It’s not that bad. Won’t let ‘em win.”

“I know,” Warriors said quietly.

The dragon still in Warriors’ scarf finally poked his head out, and crept along Warriors’ arm, nose twitching as he stared at Legend. Legend opened his eyes again, and the two of them watched each other in silence.

“Made a friend?” Legend rasped, and Warriors hummed, reaching a few fingers through the bars to just barely brush Legend’s tank.

“Yeah. He mostly initiated it though. Poor little thing is terrified,” he replied, watching the dragon settle down on his arm. “And before you ask, I can understand him a little, but not everything.” Warriors had gotten as far as getting him to say something vaguely like his name, but that was really it.

“Any idea how he got here?” Legend asked, and Warriors shrugged, the dragon still watching Legend with his bright green eyes.

“He can’t talk that much. Probably the same way we did, more or less. But... I’m thinking he might actually help get us out of here, if I can figure out everything he can do,” Warriors said with a small smile. Legend hummed, and shakily moved forward a bit, resting his head against the side of the tank around where Warriors’ fingers brushed.

“I’ll let... you plan, then,” Legend murmured, and closed his eyes again.

“And you rest. Sounds good,” Warriors replied softly.

Legend didn’t say anything else, and Warriors kept his fingers on the glass until his breathing evened out, and he knew the younger hero was asleep. He drew back with a sigh, leaning his back against the bars again, and the little dragon moved to his lap, still watching Legend.

“You hear that little guy?” Warriors said softly, running a hand over his head. “I’m going to think of a plan to get us all out of here.”

“Ink,” the dragon chirped in agreement, nestling up to his shirt.

He opens his eyes and discovers that he’s not alone. 

Illya’s sitting across from him, similarly tied up. He’s sweaty from effort, but his bonds appear unaffected, and it is at this point that Napoleon realizes that they’re not going to be getting out of this easily. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, and Illya nods. 

“You?”

He nods as well. Wonders what fate holds for them, knows it can hardly be pleasant. 

The man who enters the room just then is not someone Napoleon knows. Nor Illya, from the looks of it. He smiles, quite friendly, and Napoleon is put deeply on edge. 

The man stands directly in front of him. “Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Solo,” he says smoothly, which is another bad sign. 

“Now. Let’s get straight into it. Left or right?”

“What?” This is decidedly not the sort of question he’d been expecting, and he can’t make heads or tails of it. The man’s hands are loose, so he’s hardly hiding any kind of nasty surprise, and there’s nothing in the room that makes this question make sense. 

“You heard me. Left or right?”

“In regards to what, exactly?”

The man grins again. “Just choose.”

Napoleon shrugs as much as the bindings will allow. “Left, I suppose.”

The man whistles sharply, and a door at the back of the room opens. Another man enters, looking considerably more physically imposing. So he’s got minions, Napoleon thinks. Great. 

“He wants the left,” reports the man in charge. His goon nods, slipping a length of metal pipe from out of his sleeve. Shit, Napoleon thinks, and braces himself for a hit. 

Except it never comes. The minion, as Napoleon has already begun calling him, approaches Illya, and so suddenly that Napoleon cannot so much as cry out, he swings the pipe directly into Illya’s left ankle. 

There’s an audible crunching sound, and Illya lets out a sharp breath. Napoleon just stares at him, shocked. 

“What the hell?”

“Don’t speak unless I tell you to,” says the man in charge. His voice is flippant and yet belies an enormous amount of power. 

Napoleon shuts up. 

“Now then. Let’s let the real fun begin, shall we, Mr. Solo?”

“What do you want?”

Another unnervingly placid smile. “Only to hurt you.”

“Funny way of doing that, hitting him instead of me.”

The smile widens. “Oh, trust me. You’ll hurt plenty.”

Napoleon elects to ignore him, for the time being. He focuses instead on Illya, who is breathing heavily in the way he does when he’s trying to control a rather immense amount of pain. I’m sorry, Napoleon thinks, as if Illya will hear. I didn’t know that would happen. 

“My next question, Mr. Solo, is this: waterboarding, or whipping?”

Napoleon blinks. Doesn’t answer. What the hell?

“I won’t repeat myself next time, and he’ll just end up getting both. Choose, for his sake.”

“You’re not—why not me?”

“I’m sure you’ll work it out. Now choose.”

Napoleon locks eyes with Illya, who looks back, unflinching. He blinks once, very deliberately, and Napoleon speaks before he can question it. 

“Waterboarding.”

He knows Illya’s trained for this. They both have, in their time. This does absolutely nothing now. Napoleon’s heart beats wildly in his chest and there’s a sense of rage threatening to consume him as the minion approaches Illya with a towel and a bucket. 

Watching his partner be waterboarded is one of the most painful things that Napoleon has ever experienced. The way he fights, absolutely futilely, as the towel is placed over his face, as the water is poured over. The way his body thrashes against the restraints. The way he coughs and gasps when the towel is pulled away, only to be replaced mere seconds later. 

Waterboarding is supposed to make the victim want to speak, to share every secret they’ve got, but at the moment Illya isn’t so much as making a peep, while Napoleon feels like he’d spill everything he knows if they’d only stop. 

“Stop!” he shouts, though he knows that they won’t listen.

“Shut up. Every time you speak without me telling you to, I’ll hurt him just that little bit more.”

To prove his point, the towel is replaced once more. Illya gasps for breath and it turns into a horrible coughing and spluttering as the water—the last of it, it looks like—is once again poured over his face. 

When the towel is removed this time, it’s placed neatly onto a table, and the bucket is set onto the floor. Napoleon observes these things out of the corner of his eye, the bulk of his attention focused on Illya's coughing, shivering body across from him. 

When the coughing at last subsides, the man approaches Napoleon again. He is so angry he can barely hear the words spoken to him over the pounding of blood in his head. 

“Hammer or pliers?”

“Leave him. The fuck. Alone.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. I’d like to see you suffer a bit more, first.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Bigger men than you have tried. Choose, or shall I remind you of the rules again?”

Brief eye contact with Illya, another single blink. Napoleon hopes to god he’s reading this right, that Illya isn’t simply doing this coincidentally, that he’s at least allowing his partner the freedom to choose. 

Choose. Right. He feels sick. Wishes, above all else, that it was him in Illya’s position, making decisions about his own fate. 

“Hammer,” he says, and his voice sounds alien to his ears. 

“I do hate to repeat a question, but needs must. Left or right?”

Another single blink. 

“Left.”

He doesn’t want to watch. But he has to. 

The hammer comes crashing down onto Illya’s left hand and there’s a sickening cracking noise and Illya makes this completely involuntary sound of pain and shock and Napoleon feels like his entire being is getting ripped in two. 

“Stomach or chest?”

The single blink again. Napoleon cannot wrench his attention away from the tear that travels its way down Illya’s cheek. 

That metal pipe makes a reappearance, slams into Illya’s stomach. There’s a loud exhale as the air is forced out of Illya’s lungs, and he gags harshly. 

God, Napoleon is going to be sick. He’s sitting here watching and making decisions and Illya is getting tortured and he can’t do fucking anything about it. 

He can feel blood trickling down his wrists from where he’s been straining against the ropes with every action taken against his partner. He focuses his attention on this infinitesimally small pain, hates himself for losing focus on Illya for even a second, but—

He wants nothing more than to break free of these restraints and kill this guy. Brutally, if necessary. 

“Fingers or toes?”

He forces his attention back to Illya. Two blinks. 

“Toes.”

The minion places his entire weight onto Illya’s left foot, the same one he’d previously smashed with the pipe, and Illya groans. Napoleon struggles harder against the ropes, without making it obvious what he’s doing. 

When the minion at last steps off of Illya’s foot, his partner is crying. It’s involuntary, a pain response, and Napoleon knows this, and god, he understands. What the man had meant earlier, when he’d asked, why not me?

This is more painful than anything else they could do to him, by far. 

“What you want?” Illya asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken and his voice is wrecked, all small and shaky and wrong. 

The minion steps back and to the left, faces Illya, and the man in charge gets up into his space. They’re not looking, and Napoleon fights frantically against the ropes in this window of opportunity. 

“Don’t speak.” There’s the sound of a slap, but Napoleon isn’t paying attention. He’s got the ropes off his wrists, and he’s untying the ones around his ankles as quickly as he can. 

“Or else what?” Illya asks, and Napoleon knows he’s seen him, knows he’s doing what he needs to do so that they can get out of this. 

There’s a dull thud and a wince. 

“I suggest you don’t try to find out.”

He’s done it. The ropes are gone. He just has to get up, while their backs are still turned—

They’re turning back around. Fuck!

There’s no time to do anything, but then Illya says, “fuck you,” which takes Napoleon completely by surprise—he can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard Illya curse in English—and it takes the other men by surprise, too, because they both turn back around just before their eyes would’ve landed on Napoleon. 

The hammer is picked back up and just as it’s being brought down onto Illya’s already destroyed hand, Napoleon flings himself out of the chair. 

He tackles the minion first, not quite stopping the hammer but at least preventing it from doing maximum damage. He wrests the implement from its wielder’s grasp, smashes it into the man’s head. He goes limp immediately.

One down. 

The other man, the mastermind of this horrific torture scheme, is standing above him with the metal pipe in his hands. He swings it down, and Napoleon just barely rolls out of the way. The pipe hits the body of the minion instead, adding insult to injury. 

Napoleon leaps to his feet. The fight is harder than he would’ve expected, given the relatively small size of his opponent and his apparent unwillingness to do any of the truly nasty work. 

Still, he gets there in the end. He sacrifices himself to a couple strong hits from the pipe, but then the hammer connects with the man’s skull and this wave of pure anger and adrenaline overtakes him. 

He loses himself for a second. And then Illya’s saying, “it’s enough, Cowboy, stop,” and he opens his eyes and finds himself straddling a body which is only vaguely recognizable as Illya’s torturer. 

He drops the hammer to the ground with a deafening clatter and then gets to his feet. His hands are covered in blood and he can taste it in his mouth. 

He’s gone, is the first thing Napoleon thinks, untying Illya with trembling hands. He can’t hurt him anymore. Illya’s safe. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says quietly, as he unties the ropes around Illya’s ankles. “God, Illya, I’m so sorry.”

“You did not hurt me,” Illya responds, wincing as Napoleon inadvertently brushes a hand against his injured ankle. “No reason to apologize.”

“He hurt you because of me.”

“No, he did this because of him. Come, we should leave.”

Napoleon wants to argue. Wants to apologize for the rest of his life, wants Illya to yell at him and tell him to go to hell, wants—

He wants to hold onto Illya forever and protect him, even though he knows Illya’s more than capable of protecting himself. He wants to be around Illya always, to threaten those that would come near him, try and harm him like they had today. 

He doesn’t know what he wants, in short, and his heart is still pounding and he feels dizzy with relief and guilt and about a million other things he can only guess at. 

Their getaway is slow-going. Illya can barely walk on his destroyed ankle, although he does his best. They limp out of the building, Napoleon with the hammer in hand lest anyone else should come crawling out of the woodwork.

But they meet no one. The path to their car is mercifully short, and Napoleon drives them back to their safehouse with his hands clenched firmly around the wheel so that they’ll stop shaking. 

“It’s okay,” Illya says, quiet and sudden, when they’re about a mile away from their destination. “I know…I know you will blame yourself about this. But you did not do anything. It is not your fault.”

Napoleon suddenly finds himself blinking back tears. Get it together, he tells himself. It’s not you who was just tortured. At least not physically. 

“I just sat there,” he all but whispers, after a beat. “They were torturing you, and I just sat there and gave them directions.”

“They made this decision. And you told them to do what I chose.”

“He said—he said he was hurting you to hurt me.”

“And?”

“That makes it my fault, Illya,” Napoleon says, and he can’t quite stop his voice from breaking.

“It is his fault,” Illya says, and there’s the familiar sureness in his voice that has heretofore been missing. “He wanted to hurt us. You did not make this decision.”

“But—”

“No. Not your fault. I do not blame you, you cannot blame you.”

Napoleon does not know how to argue against this. Even though the guilt feels like it is going to eat him alive. 

They arrive back at the safehouse, and he helps Illya through the door. There’s about a million things that they need to do. Tend to Illya’s injuries. Contact Waverly. Pack and prepare for an evac. 

Illya collapses immediately onto the couch. He’s damp with water and sweat and blood, his hand is swelling something awful, and his ankle must be faring similarly. He looks absolutely exhausted and pained, and Napoleon is about to start bustling around, gathering ice and bandages and alcohol and cotton balls, but then Illya lightly taps the space beside him. 

“Sit with me?” he asks, and Napoleon thinks he’d do absolutely anything Illya asked of him right now. 

He sits, looks at his partner. Illya is looking back at him, terribly vulnerable beneath the tiredness and hurt, and Napoleon feels himself begin to properly cry. 

He shouldn’t be crying. He’s not even hurt, besides the scrapes around his wrists and the bruises from the pipe. But there’s nothing for it and no way of stopping now that he’s started. 

“Napoleon,” Illya begins, but Napoleon cuts him off. 

“Just—I don’t want to hurt you any more, but can I—can I touch you?”

It sounds pathetic and stupid but he just wants a physical reassurance that Illya’s here, still alive despite the torture and not even upset with him, after everything. That protective feeling is back, hot in his chest. 

“Okay.”

He carefully pulls Illya towards him, gentle as he can be, attentive to any indication of discomfort. 

He doesn’t get any. Quite the opposite, actually. Illya leans into him, warm and still trembling a bit, and Napoleon wraps an arm around him and just holds on. 

---

“Well?”

Master Bruce hands the letter back to Alfred and turns away, staring out the window.

“Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

The following silence is deafening.

“I expected better of you, Master Bruce.”

Still, he says nothing.

“The lad is injured, upset, and missing. Aren’t you going to do something? Do you even care?”

Master Bruce turns back to Alfred, shoulders tense. “Harvey Dent escaped tonight. Two-Face is free.”

Alfred feels sick.

“Man the comms,” Master Bruce orders. “Watch for Two-Face sightings. I’ll find Dick.”

Heart in his throat, Alfred nods. He’s immediately on his feet and headed for the Batcave. Master Bruce isn’t far behind, silent.

In all of Alfred’s years of caring for him, Master Bruce has expressed three distinct forms of silence. The first is companionable, reserved only for those he’s closest with. The second (and most common) occurs when he’s thinking. He takes in new environments. He picks up little details and forms an analysis with it, like life is simply a logic puzzle, begging to be solved. And the third is for when Master Bruce’s head is filled with something other than thought. It happens when his emotions rampage in his mind like a herd of carnivorous rhinos. He becomes overwhelmed, stuck inside his head as he desperately tries to control the situation.

Today, Master Bruce’s silence is of the third kind. And Alfred is silent too, giving Master Bruce the space to wrangle his thoughts.

And to be honest, Alfred’s mind is raging a bit too. So the silence isn’t unwelcome. It’s the closest thing to relief that either of them will feel until Dick is found.

---

Dick left too soon. He was barely ready to walk, much less sneak out of the manor and roam the streets of Gotham. He should have waited - let himself heal a bit more - before he ran away.

But Dick needed to get out immediately. He couldn’t stand to be some useless little kid, staying in Bruce’s home and eating Alfred’s food without providing anything in return. If he had to stay in that bed for another five minutes, he would have lost his mind.

But now Dick’s out on the street, slinged arm tucked inside a red hoodie. His ribs are still a horrific shade of purple, though it’s beginning to yellow around the edges. He aches and he’s tired and his head spins a bit, but he keeps moving. He doubts Bruce is looking for him - and why would he? - so he’s not concerned about Batman catching up to him. The police, however, are bound to see a kid wandering around at 10 AM on a Tuesday and get suspicious. And that’s a one-way trip back to the manor.

Or…

No. Bruce would probably send him back to the youth center. What’s the point in keeping him? He’s not Robin. And Bruce doesn’t want a son.

So Dick keeps moving, even as his injuries wear on him. Even as his torso shrieks in pain. Even as his arm begins to throb and he gets lightheaded. The pain medicine must be wearing off. And Dick didn’t take any with him, so he simply endures it.

Doing his best to be discreet, Dick hops on a bus and rides it to Old Gotham. He hides behind a tall man during the ride, doing his best to keep his face covered (Gotham buses have more security cameras than the White House), but no one calls him out. The tall man doesn’t turn around and say, “Aha! You’re runaway Dick Grayson! I’m sending you back to the youth center!” He minds his business. Dick is just paranoid.

Gotham Public Library is a short five-minute walk from the bus stop. Dick makes it in fifteen. His body is starting to shut down, which is absolutely not in the escape plan. He musters all his strength and slips in through the library side door, sitting down at one of the computers. Dick doesn’t stay long. Just long enough to google “Haly’s Circus tour dates.”

Haly’s isn’t close. Not even a little. They’re currently in Tampa. But that’s okay, because Dick could stand a few days on a Greyhound bus. To be honest, it sounds like a relief. Dick could get a little sleep. He could definitely use a nap-

“Sweetheart, are you okay?” An elderly woman is gently tapping his good arm, concern cemented in the lines of her face.

Dick sits up. He must have fallen asleep at the computer. He blinks a few times (the lights are getting unbearable, and the painkillers have definitely worn off), trying to get his bearings.

“I… I’m okay,” he replies, trying and failing to give her a charming Flying Graysons smile.

But the woman isn’t convinced. “Did someone hurt you?”

And it’s a fair question. He is sporting a fair number of bruises and bandages.

“No,” he lies. “I fell off my bike.”

She's still frowning, expression reeking of concern. “Are you here all alone?”

Dick resents that question. Because first of all, Dick is plenty old enough to be in a library by himself, thank you very much. And secondly, if she thinks Dick is alone, she's probably going to call the police.

And Dick won’t let them take him back to the center. Never again.

“No. My, uh, my dad’s in the car. Our wi-fi went out, and I have an assignment due today. Online school, yanno?” Dick doesn’t know if online school is even a real thing, but the woman doesn’t call him on it. She just frowns deeper, eyes flicking to the computer screen, still open on Haly’s Circus tour dates.

“Can I talk to him? I want to make sure you’re safe.”

Darn it.

“Um… yeah. Yeah, he’s in the, um, the white Honda in the parking lot. But, um. I really need to use the bathroom, so I’ll catch up with you?”

The woman smiles sadly. “That’s okay, dear. The bathroom’s right there. I’ll wait for you.”

Dick almost cries. He’s in so much pain, and he’s so tired, and he’s so through with fighting people that he almost collapses on the floor and has a full-on toddler tantrum.

But he doesn’t, because Dick was Robin, once. He’s smart and capable and good at what he does.

“Yeah, okay,” he agrees, shuffling over to the bathroom. The minute the door shuts behind him, he searches the walls, trying to find a window. But Dick isn’t lucky enough to find one. The room is completely boxed in without an escape route in sight.

Dick sighs, splashes water from the sink on his face, and towels off, feeling stray drops hit his forehead. Then he returns to the woman.

“Let’s go see your dad, okay, hon?”

Dick nods, blinking away stars. “Yeah.”

They leave through the library’s main entrance, and (as expected) there are at least three white Hondas in the lot.

“Which one is it, dear?”

Dick picks the one at the far end of the lot. “That one.”

The woman’s brow furrows, worry sparking in her eyes. “That’s my car.”

Aaand that’s Dick’s exit. He turns and sprints away, his body screaming with every jolt. Each stride threatens to disappear beneath him, spilling him onto the concrete. But Dick really can’t afford this right now. He needs to get out of here before the librarian calls the police.

He runs for as long as he can. It isn’t nearly as long as he’d hoped. Busted up like this, he can’t do much of anything for too long. He can’t go down alleys either, which is proving to make his life more and more difficult each second that he spends out in the open. He needs a place to hide.

Now.

---

Bruce doesn’t usually patrol during the day. He’s done it once or twice before, but it’s always done out of necessity, not habit.

And today, it’s definitely a necessity.

“Penny-One, any hits?”

“Negative on both counts.”

“Not even the trackers?”

“No. It seems Master Dick took it upon himself to dig the trackers out of his trainers.”

“How did he even know they were there?” Bruce mutters, more to himself than Alfred. Alfred replies anyway.

“He was trained by you, sir.”

Bruce never should have taken him on as Robin. Truly, genuinely, if he hadn’t done any of this, Dick would be safe and healthy. As usual, the blame lands solidly on Bruce’s shoulders. (Or he believes it does, anyway.)

Bruce arrives at the apartment building at Gibson and Schwartz. He doesn’t waste time getting out of the car, instead popping the top of the Batmobile and grappling to the apartment roof.

It’s an old building, rife with the city’s infamous Gothic architecture. This includes, of course, a wide array of gargoyles. Dick’s favorite gargoyle is up here, and Bruce has found him hiding behind it more than once. Unfortunately, this is not the case today.

Bruce had suspected as much. Unless Dick had made a heat-of-the-moment decision, he wouldn’t have come to such an obvious spot. But still, Bruce had to try.

And now that the gargoyle is safely ruled out, Bruce can use the current facts to guide his investigation.

Fact: Dick is injured.

So Dick is either close to the manor or took some form of transportation. A bus or a taxi. The subway, possibly, but less likely due to the distance between the subway station and the manor. 

Fact: Dick said that he was going to “move on” and that he wasn’t sure what he was “supposed to do” if he wasn’t working as Robin.

Meaning the boy intends to go somewhere where he will know what to do. Where he does have a purpose. This could be anything, really, but as a nine-year-old, he knows very few ways to live his life. One is Robin. The other is the circus.

Fact: Dick didn’t take anything with him. His suit, equipment, and phone were left behind.

Though it’s not certain, Bruce feels comfortable inferring that Dick doesn’t intend to work as Robin on his own. At least until proven otherwise. If he really was going to be Robin, he would have taken at least some of his gear. A grapple gun. Maybe a few smoke bombs.

And if Dick doesn’t plan on being Robin, then he’s probably trying to find Haly’s Circus.

“Penny-One, where is Haly’s Circus currently touring?”

“One moment, sir… They’re in Tampa for the next week.”

“Got it.”

But one thing is not quite right.

Fact: Dick left his phone, and Haly’s isn’t in his search history.

Bruce knows, because he looked. It was the first thing he did. Some might interpret this as a sign that Dick isn’t looking for his old troupe, but Bruce knows better. He knows that before Robin, Haly’s was his only family. He wanted nothing more than to return to them, even after Bruce took him in.

So Dick doesn’t want Bruce to know where he’s going. He purposefully didn’t look up anything regarding Haly’s or his escape. He doesn’t know where Haly’s is, but he’s intent on finding out.

“Sir, I’ve intercepted a GCPD report that may be of interest.”

“Play it back,” Bruce orders, jumping off the building and allowing the grapple to ease his descent. 

“3014,” a woman’s voice crackles. “London at Amnesty. Suspected runaway. RP reported a male subject sleeping at the library. Subject was injured and ran away when asked about his parents. White male, ten-to-twelve years, dark hair, red jacket, blue jeans.”

Bruce hops in the Batmobile and peels out towards Gotham Public Library. Dick - assuming that report is about Dick - may have gotten some distance away by now, but he’s hurt. He can’t have made it far.

---

The Greyhound bus station is around here somewhere. Surely it’s in the financial district or maybe along the border of Old Gotham. But Dick has never been there before, and without a phone to look it up, he's flying blind. He makes random turns and crosses streets aimlessly. At best, he randomly runs into the station. And if that doesn't happen, he’ll at least leave a difficult trail to follow. His head is foggy, but he believes his logic to be sound.

“-escaped Arkham. If you see this man on the street, do not engage-”

Dick stops dead in his tracks, poking his head through the open cafe door. A TV above the barista bar shows a newscaster speaking beside a massive photo of Two-Face. Below the picture, in large font, are the words “MURDERER ESCAPES.” Dick tastes bile.

“Two-Face is incredibly dangerous and will cut you in half if that’s his prerogative. Twins and people born on February second should take extra caution when coming home tonight. We’ll keep you updated as the situation develops. Back to you, Betty.”

Alfred taught Dick all about the nervous system. He knows about the sympathetic response. That “fight, flight, or freeze” instinct. Unfortunately for Dick, none of those options are viable. Dick couldn’t win a fight against a day-old puppy, much less Two-Face and his goons. Flight is also impossible unless the Greyhound station is the next store over. (It is not, in fact, the next store over. That honor goes to a dual ballet studio and boxing gym.) And freezing has never been a choice.

But there’s an alternative. It’s arguably a form of flight, but it’s much kinder on Dick’s aching ribs and spinning head.

Hide.

“-okay?”

Dick blinks. Then he groans. He fell asleep. Again. Standing up. “Sorry,” he mutters, sitting up. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“Are you… You look real busted up. Come inside, okay?”

Dick struggles to his feet, but he falls to one knee the second he straightens up.

“Whoa!” the barista says, grabbing under Dick’s arm. “Hey, I’m not gonna hurtcha. I just wanna get you off the sidewalk. There’s some bad guys out there today.”

It comes back to him. Two-Face. Two-Face is free.

Dazedly, Dick lets the teen pull him up and walk him to a cafe table. He all but collapses in the chair, even the slightest movement blurring his vision and setting his nerves on fire.

“There y’go,” the barista says reassuringly. “You’re alright.”

“Thanks,” Dick grunts, one arm coming up to guard his ribs.

“Molly,” the barista calls to his coworker behind the bar. “Couldja grab him a hot chocolate?”

And then he turns back to Dick, worry creasing his brow. “Are your parents around here somewhere?”

And Dick doesn’t have the energy to lie. “No,” he says, taking shallow breaths.

“Yeah.” The barista doesn’t question it. Like the librarian, he’s probably familiar with Gotham’s chaos. He knows better than to dig too deep. “Is there somewhere for you to go? Can I take you to the clinic or something? Dr. Thompkins’s place is down the street.”

Dr. Thompkins?

If Dick goes to Leslie, she’ll no doubt tell Bruce right away. And then he’ll get scolded and taken back to the manor. Back to that cold, stifling, tension-rife house that stopped being Dick’s home when Robin ended.

“No,” Dick pleads. “No, I can’t… I can’t go there. I don’t… I can’t…”

“Dick.”

That isn’t the barista talking. It isn’t the barista’s coworker. It’s deep and gravelly and oh-so distinct.

Batman.

“No,” Dick says, heart racing in his chest. He stumbles out of the chair and crashes to the ground. He pushes himself back, trying to just get away.

“Hey,” the barista says, stepping between Batman and Dick. “Leave him alone.”

“This doesn’t concern you,” Batman growls. And oh. He’s angry.

“It’s in the cafe. Pretty sure it does concern me. And if you think you’re gonna hurt a kid, y’better think again.”

The lenses of Batman’s cowl narrow. He chews on his tongue. “Dick,” he says simply, looking over the teenager’s head. “Bruce is very worried about you.”

Dick scowls. “Yeah, right. He doesn’t need me anymore. He doesn’t want me. So just leave me alone.”

“Bruce is sorry,” Batman insists. “He never should have taken that away from you. And he’s willing to negotiate. And he… He wants to talk to you. He’s scared.”

And that makes Dick hesitate. Because Bruce? Admitting he’s afraid?

Dick never thought it’d happen. Never.

“Two-Face escaped,” Batman continues. “If he found you, Bruce would never forgive himself.”

“I’ll go back to talk,” Dick agrees begrudgingly. “But I’m not staying.”

“That’s okay, chum. That’s alright.”

The barista looks between the two. “I… feel like I’m missing something.”

“Here.” Batman shoves a wad of cash in the tip jar. “Thank you for protecting him.”

“I was protecting him from you,” the barista says, more and more confused by the second. “I… Kid, you don’t have to go with him.”

Dick nods, painfully pulling himself up and leaning against a booth. “I know. I want to.”

“You’re sure?”

Dick looks at Batman. Even under the cowl, he’s devastated. Dick never thought he cared that much. And maybe this is just an act. But Batman doesn’t have emotions. Bruce does. So Batman, wrecked and desperate?

“Yeah,” Dick assures him. “I’m sure.”

---

The drive back is silent. Not in an awkward, not-sure-what-to-say kind of way. No, it's actually surprisingly relaxed.

But that's probably because Dick is asleep the whole time.

Bruce kind of prefers it this way. There’s no awkward, forced small talk. No bursts of outrage. No tension at all. Just Bruce and his overwhelming guilt.

Dick doesn’t look good. Bruce doesn’t know what he looked like when he first ran away (Bruce actively avoided the boy after breaking the news about Robin), but he probably looks worse. The kid managed to escape his watch for nearly a full day. The painkillers likely wore off ages ago. Dick put a ton of undue stress on his injuries just by walking, much less crossing the city.

And only Bruce is to blame for this. Dick is a kid. Or… he was a kid. Before his parents fell. Now he’s caught in the in-between, with the problems and trauma of a full grown man but the mind and body of a child.

Bruce knows the feeling well. And he knows what chaos can come of it. How much violence and fear and pain results. If Dick was illogical in running away (and he was), Bruce can’t hold him accountable. Even if he wants to.

No. This is Bruce’s fault. Even if Robin needed to end, Bruce should’ve stuck around. He assumed Dick just needed space. Time to think. He thought his presence would only mock Dick. After all, why would the ex-Robin ever want to see Batman? Why would he want to be reminded of what he lost?

But if Bruce is to believe Dick’s letter (and he does), it seems distance was exactly the opposite of what Dick needed. It made him feel isolated and unwanted. A nuisance. Bruce dropping out of his life made him think that if he wasn’t Robin, Bruce didn’t want him. (Didn’t need him.)

“Ugh.”

In the corner of Bruce’s eye, he sees Dick shift, hissing as the movement jars his ribs.

“...B?” Dick sounds confused.

“Dick,” he says back. “We’re almost there.”

“‘There…’” Dick echoes, rubbing his forehead. “The Cave. Right.”

“You’re still okay with that?” Bruce almost hits his head off the steering wheel. He shouldn’t even give Dick an opening to get out of this. As Dick’s guardian, Bruce has every right to bring him home. Dick really doesn’t have an option here.

But Dick is amiable, if exhausted. “Yeah,” he agrees, mopping his face with his good hand. “It’s cool.”

And that’s a relief, because Bruce is currently pulling the Batmobile into the Cave. He gets out and waits for Dick to do the same. When Dick doesn’t open the door, Bruce circles the car and pulls it open himself.

“You okay, chum?”

Dick stares ahead, eyes slightly unfocused. “Um. Yeah. Gimme a second, B.”

So, impatiently, Bruce waits, pulling his cowl off and jamming his gloves between his belt and his suit. After a long minute, Bruce stoops again, holding out a hand to Dick.

“C’mon, kiddo,” he urges. “Let’s get you out of there.”

Too slowly, Dick turns to look at him, grabs his hand, and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. The moment he’s upright, his knees give out, and Bruce has to slip one arm behind the boy’s back and the other under his knees. It’s an easy, practiced motion, if only because Bruce expected the boy to go down sooner or later. He’d left the manor far too soon. He’d stayed out far too long.

And the fact only makes Bruce’s guilt intensify.

“Master Bruce?” Alfred is looking across the Cave at him, and even from this distance, Bruce can see the tension in his shoulders. His hands are fluttering over the drug cart, already prepping an IV.

“He’s okay,” Bruce says, though he doesn’t know that. In fact, he’s moving faster than Alfred is, hurried steps taking Dick to the med bay.

“M’okay,” Dick murmurs softly, though his eyes still won’t focus. “S’all good.”

“What hurts, chum?” Bruce asks, setting the boy down on a cot.

“‘m just…” He hums, closes his eyes, and then slowly blinks them open again. “Just tired, B. And…” Dick searches for the right word, his good arm curling across his ribs. “Hurts.”

“What hurts?” Bruce asks, connecting the vitals monitor while Alfred throws in an IV.

Dick considers this. Or he looks like he considers it, anyway.

“... yes.”

“Uninsightful as ever, Master Dick,” Alfred tuts softly. “Look at my nose,” he orders, shining a penlight in Dick’s eyes.

Bruce lets Alfred fuss over the boy, helping where he can and stepping back when he can’t, trying to stay out of the way. When Alfred is done assessing and has adjusted medications accordingly, Dick is still awake and relatively aware, watching Alfred with a passive interest.

“You’re not to leave this bed,” Alfred orders. “Understood?”

“‘course, Alfie.”

“Prepare to face dish duty if you break that promise.”

Dick whines appropriately. While normally an annoyance, Bruce is happy to hear Dick’s complaining. It means he’s still with them. It means he’s alive and here and safe.

“Alfred.”

The butler turns towards Bruce, one eyebrow arched. “Sir?”

“Have there been any updates on Two-Face?”

Alfred’s expression sours. “No. And if you suggest returning to the streets to find him, I may put you on bedrest as well, sir.”

It goes against Bruce’s every instinct. Because knowing Two-Face is out there? Free and capable of killing innocents?

The last thing Bruce wants to do is stand by and watch it happen.

“Need I remind you of what happened the last time you abandoned the boy? Or is yesterday recent enough for you to recall?

Bruce scowls, but point taken. “I remember, Alfred.”

“Good. Then perhaps you’ll heed my counsel this time.”

“You were right,” Bruce agrees. “No need to remind me.”

“Respectfully, I think there was a need, but I appreciate your attempt at character growth.”

“You’re dismissed, Alfred.”

Alfred walks away without another word, but Bruce doesn’t hear his footsteps up the stairs. He’s still in the Cave, though Bruce can’t tell if it’s to monitor Dick’s condition or to keep Bruce from saying something stupid.

“B?” Dick says, voice suddenly desperate as he tries to sit up. His gaze flicks around the room before settling on Bruce. He falls back against the pillow, expression easing a touch.

“I’m here.”

“B, I’m…” He sighs, twisting the blankets with his thumb and forefinger. “I’m sorry. I never shoulda… I shoulda known it was a trap, but… B, I thought he was gonna kill you. I didn’t want to…” His eyes water, but he stubbornly looks up, trying to keep the tears from leaking out. “I couldn’t lose you. Not after…” He doesn’t finish the thought.

“I know,” Bruce assures him, sitting on the edge of the bed and running a hesitant hand through Dick’s hair. The boy leans into his touch, and he repeats the motion, slightly more confident. “And I never should have put you in that position. That’s why you can’t be Robin. You shouldn’t have to make that choice. And the rogues see Robin as a target. I can’t make you some bartering chip in Batman’s mission.”

Dick tenses. “No. No, you can’t take that from me,” he insists, fatigue softening the intensity of his conviction. “I’m Robin. I can’t… I can’t go back to being… I can’t be an orphan for the rest of my life, B.”

Bruce frowns. “What do you-? Wait. Robin isn’t Batman’s kid.”

The boy looks away, expression breaking. A tear slips down his cheek. “I… I know.” But his tone isn’t one of knowledge. It’s one of realization. He’s just now seeing it the way Bruce does.

“Did you…?” Bruce’s hand hovers near Dick’s face, but he can’t bring himself to brush away the tear. He doesn’t deserve to comfort the boy. “Did you think this was conditional? I’m not kicking you out for not being Robin. I took you in to help you, not to fill a position.”

“You fired me,” Dick seethes, voice strengthening with pure ire. “Of course you were filling a position!” He pushes himself up, catching himself on his hands when vertigo almost pulls him back down. Bruce reaches out to help, and Dick swats his hands away. “How could you pretend to care when you stopped caring after Robin died? You never wanted me. And now you don’t even want Robin. Don’t lie.”

“I-” Bruce is taken aback. He knows just how angry Dick can get. But this is a new level. “Of course I still want you. I was giving you space.”

Dick scowls, tears falling freely now. “Liar. You’re Batman. You’ve always been Batman. Bruce Wayne isn’t a real person. He doesn’t want me because he doesn’t exist. And if Batman doesn’t want Robin, then no one wants Dick Grayson.” He watches Bruce with unrivaled fury. “Why did you bring me back? So you could reject me again? Just let me…” His breath catches in his throat, strength failing him. He buries his face in the pillow. “Just let me go, B,” he mumbles.

Bruce swallows hard. He isn’t a father. He’s never been a guardian before. But he’d thought…  He’d just assumed that having that similar history - that sharing a tragic past - would tie them. Even if Dick wasn’t Robin, Bruce thought they’d still have that. But now it’s quite clear:

Both Bruce and Dick watched their parents die. But Dick was the only one who got a taste of belonging after, only to have it taken away.

To Bruce, Batman is a duty. An obligation to prevent others from facing the same tragedy as him. But to Dick, Robin is an opportunity. A chance to have a family again. A chance to feel wanted again.

And Bruce neglected that critical difference.

“What can I do?” Bruce asks, softening his voice. “I can’t let you get hurt.”

Dick ignores him.

“Dick, chum, I…”

What can he say? Bruce cares about Dick. He’s warmed up to the boy’s cheesy humor and easy demeanor. He’s grown to like (and perhaps love) this child, but Bruce has no clue how to express it.

Because Bruce is a man who rarely shows his face. Not when Batman occupies his every waking thought. So Dick has a point. If Bruce is only Batman and Batman got rid of Robin, then who’s supposed to care about Dick Grayson? Not only has Bruce taken away Dick’s chance to seek justice, but he’s also taken away his only hope at being loved.

God, this is depressing.

“Dick, let’s…” He rests a tentative hand on Dick’s back. The boy doesn’t flinch away. “We’ll talk about Robin again. I swear. I shouldn’t have taken that from you. But I don’t think… I don’t know what to do right now. Can we wait a bit? Let’s get you better first. Then we can come back to Robin.”

Dick turns onto his side, watching Bruce with bloodshot, betrayed eyes. “You’re just trying to shut me up. You’ll fire me again the second I’m better.”

“No,” Bruce says softly, brushing back Dick’s hair. “I… I care about you, chum. I don’t know if I’ve ever been as scared as…” He takes a deep breath, hand settling heavily on Dick’s neck. He can feel the boy’s pulse against his palm, and it reassures him, if only slightly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been as scared as I was watching Dent hurt you. And you were so still, I… God, I thought you were gone.” He shakes his head, trying to force the thought from his mind. “I’ll admit, I don’t know how I care about you. I don’t know if it’s Bruce or Batman or some weird in-between, but I can say with complete confidence that I care about you. Not Robin. You. Dick.”

Dick’s skepticism melts into something far more vulnerable. Something far more childlike than this world-weary nine-year-old has ever expressed. His good hand comes up to grab Bruce’s hand. He sighs, almost content. Uncertain, but perhaps hopeful.

“I care about you too,” the boy admits. He closes his eyes, but he doesn’t release Bruce’s hand. “Can you… stay? At least for a little?”