#talon!dick

Tim summons what little brevity he's got left, and rolls back to the other side, ready to turn on the bedside lamp-

But he need not.

His eyes land on glowing yellow eyes- glass lenses of the Talon hood lit up like headlights, the figure perched in the window frame in a crouch, balancing on his toes and fingertips.

It could be any of them, he realizes, and the dread seeps in. The eye lenses weren't lit the night before, and realistically with the hood mask on he's not completely confident in his ability to identify someone he's seen once in the dark by build alone. He quickly begins to grow nauseous.

The longer he's conscious however, the more his brain catches up with the situation.

He's still alive... and for all that he knows, that should be telling enough.

"Dick?" He murmurs softly, hesitant.

The Talon's head cocks.

It's almost always cold in Gotham, but still. He can't have Pennyworth or Wayne seeing someone impossibly high up off the ground, perched within his window...

It's not confirmation- not exactly, but he swallows and lets him self relax minutely.

"Can...can you shut the window? It's cold." he murmurs.

To his pleasant surprise, after a pause, the Talon hops down from his post, and silently shuts the window. Satisfied that he's not about to have his throat torn out now, he sighs and finally gets around to turning on the lamp-

And a strangled noise bubbles out his mouth before he can stop it.

Dick gets to the bed before he can untangle himself from the covers, and Tim ends up kneeling on the mattress rather than leaving it. He frantically paws at the man, slipping fingers into the slices in the fabric, trying to assess the wounds- but they're already closed, looking days old. It's a relief- and the panic subsides some, but still, what the hell?

Because Dick is covered in slashes, deep claw marks raked across... well, everything. The fabric clinging to his form is shredded, and the only thing that had prevented him noticing in the moonlight, was that fact that his skin appeared to be covered in a dried grey/black substance .

He realizes then, with his shifted skin, it's probably blood...and panics.

"Oh god...they-they attacked you?" His voice is high as he says it. "Because of me? Because you didn't kill me, right?"

He doesn't expect an answer at this point- but also, he knows. Because the proof is in front of him. He doesn't think there would be another reason for the Talon's to tear into each other besides betrayal...

The door cracks open, and Pennyworth pokes his head in, regarding Tim curiously.

To his surprise however, Dick drops his head once, in confirmation. Between that and the closing of the window, this is the most with-it he's seen the man.

Unfortunately, the relief is short lived- because he hears the creek of a floorboard, rather close to the door, and he freezes in horror.

"I happened to see the light reflected in the garden from downstairs. Is everything alright, Master Tim?"

He snaps his head back to the left- but Dick is gone, despite the window still being shut tight. He doesn't dare look around further with the elder man still present.

"No...no I just- nightmare is all..."

The man looks at him with pity and understanding, and nods.

"Certainly understandable. Is there anything I might bring you?"

He shakes his head.

"No I...I'll be fine." He insists.

The man stares briefly, and Tim's certain that the man doesn't for an instant believe him. But even still, the elder man gives a curt not, and turns his back on the room.

Tim doesn't hear Dick move, but is immediately aware of him as the man appears beside him. He sucks in a deep, calming breath, and gazes up at him.

Alfred leaves, and Tim finally takes a frantic look around- and spots Dick is in the far corner, tucked up high where the wall meets the ceiling, staring.

He shifts and flops back down on his back with a ragged sigh- because that had been close... He clicks the lamp off to avoid any further concerns from Pennyworth.

There's probably something seriously wrong with him that he finds it endearing.

"You...can't let them hurt you, okay? Just- stay away from them. This place is huge, and they barely touch most of it. I'm sure you can hide here. It not like anyone hears you move..." He reasons.

Whether it's a valid plan or not, Dick doesn't say, doesn't acknowledge. He just continues to stare at him with big round lenses.

He sighs and reaches forward, hooking fingers into fabric, and tugs. Off comes the hood.

That's better, he thinks. Being able to see his face.

"I'm sorry you got hurt, because of me. But I'm glad that you came back."

He stares at the wall blankly from the couch he's been seated on, waiting for them to figure out what to do with him. For child services to come. He already knows that he has no living relatives- and he's a couple months shy of seventeen. No one is going to just let him go, live without a legal guardian. He could fight it of course- but that would take time, and what were the chances that they would emancipate him, the underage Drake heir? No... someone would be chomping at the bit- in fact, it would probably be someone from the Court all things considered...

He wondered if they would make it quick- just kill him and get it over with, or if he would somehow share Dick's fate too.

That's not what happens of course. He doesn't understand what's happening- because what???

Suddenly Bruce Wayne- his neighbor is there, being granted temporary custody of him.

Then just like that he's being whisked off right back to Bristol.

Bruce says he would like to make things a permanent arrangement. That he knows he's mourning his parents, and that this is a lot, all at once. But the man says that his life shouldn't have to drastically change because of it all. He can continue going to the same school, can keep ownership of Drake Manor- even if he has to live at Wayne Manor for the time being. Bruce carries on about how Wayne Enterprises is willing to back Drake Industries in the time of crisis, an incomplete merger of sorts, so no one is suddenly laid off.

They head to Drake Manor first, to gather his things, with promises he can go back at any time for more.

It's the safest he can get, he thinks, residing in Wayne Manor. Being one of the founding families of Gotham, the Court is far less likely to make a move- if of course Bruce isn't involved with them himself.

Tim doesn't think the man has it in him- but what does he know? Up until the night before he was blissfully convinced the Court itself was in fact just a fairytale.

It's quite possible the "Brucie Wayne" is another elaborate lie too.

But... if that's the case, he's already dead. There's no fighting it- so why bother?

He lets Wayne, and the butler- Pennyworth, lead him through the manor. It's far larger than the Drake Manor, and just as empty. 

He understands the why in regards to his own home... parents always gone, him away at boarding school most of the time, much of the staff dismissed over the years due to both of those facts. His parents hadn't made much time for him with their go-go-go lifestyle- they certainly hadn't ever planned on having more children.

But Wayne Manor was practically a mausoleum. Seemingly countless rooms, most untouched for decades sans Pennyworth's dusting. The decor still every bit what it likely was thirty years prior. It was so much for two individuals, and truth be told it hardly looked as though Wayne did anything but just...exist in the home. Even his room- which he was shown in passing, barely had much in the way of personal affects. A few photographs, some mixed Asian trinkets mounted to the wall. But pristine. Hardly looked lived in.

They show him to his room. It's large- bigger than he's used to, and surprisingly a ways down the corridor from Wayne's. Like the man wants to give him as much privacy as possible- or more likely, himself that privacy. He's grateful, he supposed. If the man is as active romantically as the rumors say, the last thing he wants is to be an incidental voyeur.

So he gets his room. He suffers through an unbearably awkward, strained dinner. Heads to his room after- and is only interrupted briefly when Wayne pops in to inform him that he'll be going out for the night. To not wait up. If he needs anything, to just ask Pennyworth and he will gladly be of service.

On one hand, he's grateful.

On the other, it shows first night in what's likely to be his new home... and Wayne can't be bothered to forsake his night life for one night. 

Tim bites his lip.

Decides the hell with it- and slowly pries the covers off. He doesn't know how well Dick's mind is functioning, not when he will not speak, and the only change in his expression has been the occasional blink. So he's careful to not turn his back on him as he slips from the bed. It's only a handful of feet from there to his desk, and Dick's eyes track him as he goes. 

The photo album he pulls out of the top drawer is thin and worn. Most of the photos inside taken by his mother of dig sites, a handful of family photos- but one is unlike the rest. 

He flips it open to the page, and returns to the bed, climbs back into the warm pocket he'd left. He holds his breath as he turns the book towards the man and pushes it forward.

It's not instantaneous. He watches the Talon's head tilt back and forth.

Tim wishes he would speak. At least then he would know what was and wasn't registering in the man's mind.

Something gives eventually, because quite suddenly Dick practically seizes- and lets out a wounded sort of screech.

It not quite unlike an actual owl. Tim shoves the photo album away, does the only thing he can think of to stop the horrid keening sound being ripped from Dick's throat- he lurches forward, wraps his arms around the Talon's neck, and buries his face in his shoulder.

He starts frantically murmuring sorries- realizes all too late that he's started crying. But it's all so much, all too much. Because Dick has never stopped hurting, not since that day at the circus all those years ago, and it's horribly unfair. Because Dick was sent to kill him, and no matter what he's gone through in the years passed, he somehow looked at him curled up in bed and couldn't- even though Tim knows he must have done so countless times before. Because if a Talon was here to kill him, surely another had been sent for his parents- because he was insignificant, no one would single him out, so they must be dead.

So he's alone- but not alone. Because Dick is there... and he still has yet to strike a blow. So he clings harder, sobs over the injustice of it all, and eventually feels the sting of claw tips across his upper and lower back. But he doesn't care- because it means Dick is hugging him back, merely clumsy with the weapons extending from his hands.

It's over in a flash however. He doesn't have view of the man's face to read into what's happened, but suddenly he's falling backwards onto the mattress- and he watches with wide eyes as the Talon (his hood back in place) scuttles across his wall, defying gravity, and just launches himself out the open window.

Tim throws himself out of bed and dives towards the window of course- but there's nothing but trees and moonlight to be seen.

Dick Grayson is gone.

Jack and Janet Drake are murdered one evening within their office at Drake Industries. No one sees the figure slinking in the shadows. No one hears their screams- for there are none.

(Video feed in the halls later confounds the GCPD- because no one enters the office in the many hours scoured before their deaths, and no one exits after. The audio feeds never pick up a single noise, let alone a scream.)

Halfway across town, Tim sleeps in his bed. His parents are in town- a rarity, and so instead of his dorm at Brentwood, he's happily home at Drake Manor.

He has no idea the Court of Owls exists- let alone that they have sentenced his family to death.

Tim doesn't know there's a figure lurking in the manor, moving silently, crawling through the shadows, scaling the walls and ceiling... that he's about to be slaughtered in his sleep.

It's by chance that he's a light sleeper, that he wakes briefly whenever he moves to roll over. He catches the glint of gold in the moonlight streaming though the window as he turns- and freezes.

So does the figure looming over him, with a clawed hand a mere foot from his throat.

He stares wide-eyed in terror at the glass lenses of the hood covering the man- creature's? head. He doesn't breathe, lungs seized with fear. He can't even scream.

Because like every Gothamite elite, he's heard the nursery rhyme, something every child old enough to know better scoffs at-

"Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadowy perch, behind granite and lime. They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed, speak not a whispered word of them or they'll send the Talon for your head."

Except...

There before him, going for his head, was most certainly a Talon... and what's the use of screaming, if he's already dead?

The thing is, this Talon appears to also be frozen. The killing strike doesn't come... but the man-creature also does not retreat. The clawed hand is still splayed out halfway to his throat.

Tim regains use of his lungs before the Talon manages to come to his senses. Yet... he still doesn't scream, only continues to stare his would be death in the glass eyes.

It's just that... he knows he should be dead already. That there should have been no hesitation. He never should have had the chance to open his eyes as he rolled over. The Talon stopped mid strike, and he doesn't know why.

It's nearly undetectable- but because he's so focused on the claws, so very close to him, he finally notices...

The claws tremble- but only just.

Something is wrong, with his would-be killer.

Because he's already dead- or not, he finds the courage to sit up. He doesn't break eye contact, though he does take his chance at gently moving aside the raised claws with the soft pat of the back of his hand.

He moves slowly but surely, obvious in his movements, and eventually reaches upward. Slips his fingers beneath fabric. Pushes and tugs.

Off comes the hood.

He's unable to muffle the gasp in time. It's so much, all at once. Because the flesh of the man's face is wrong- pale grey and heavily veined, the blue branches of them almost making his skin like cracked marble.

But that's not the worst of it... he'd recognize that face anywhere. Older now of course- but not as old as Tim knows he should be.

Dick Grayson, lone surviving member of the Flying Graysons, was sent to kill him. Has been turned into some sort of creature, at the behest of the Court of Owls. Who are real.