Unfortunate Ultimatum
Series note: This is the sixth act of the Red Bird, Blue Bird series. Each story can be read alone, but contains references to the other parts in this series. This occurs shortly after Bit of a Jam and the next in the series is Battleship. Thank you and enjoy!
Dick studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror, lips pursed in thought. He lightly poked a forefinger at his cheek on one of the yellow-blue splotches that decorated his face and most of his upper torso. He twisted around to see his back in the mirror, taking in the impressive array of colors splayed across there as well. Like water colors over a network of new and fading scars; nearly two decades' worth of vigilantism laid out on a story of new and old lines, ink below paint.
It had been three days since Jervis Tetch, the Mad Hatter, had somehow managed to mind-control both Batman and Robin into beating Nightwing halfway to hell and the bruises were as visible as ever. Well, "half to hell" might have been a bit of an over exaggeration since, other than the deep bruising on his back from the fall, his worst injuries from the encounter were a broken nose and mild concussion; no notable mark to add to his collection of battle wounds. But with the way Bruce and Damian had both been acting around him lately – how fragile they had been treating him – it was like he'd had a full magazine emptied into his chest and lived to talk about it. Except, that analogy didn't take into account the pure guilt in Dami's eyes when he thought Dick didn't notice him watching him intently, as though the boy had pulled the metaphorical gun's trigger himself; or the blatant caution and hesitation that was in Bruce's words and actions around him, as though Dick was about to snap or keel over at any moment. He would have to do something about that soon.
God, he hated mind control cases.
Right then, though, the only thing he wanted to do was take a long, hot shower. He set the water as hot as he could handle, but didn't bother waiting for it to heat up before stepping under the spray. He washed quickly, the water going from frigid to near-scalding in mere minutes. He stood under the stream for a while, knowing he could stand there for hours before the hot ran out – one of the perks of staying at the manor instead of his apartment: the biggest and best water heaters money could buy. The heat soothed his aches and helped relax his tense muscles, but after only twenty or so more minutes under the water, he reached out and twisted the knob, cutting off the soothing spray.
After drying off, he set to applying the bruise cream that Alfred regularly mixed together to heal bruises three times faster than any other contusion ointment available. It was a much used product in the Bat household, Alfred's Extra-Special Extra-Strength Patent-Pending Bruise Be Byebye. Oddly enough though, the name never stuck, despite Dick's repeated attempts.
He dressed in a faded band tee, the worn fabric soft against his skin. Next were his favorite pair of skinny jeans and a dark blue zip up hoodie. He put on his lightest pair of sneakers, and grabbed a random pair of socks, somehow ending up with a pink one and a green one. Oh well, life was too short to wear matching socks anyways.
Ready for the day, Dick stepped out of his bedroom in Wayne Manor and made his way down the staircase for breakfast. The dining room was empty save for Tim, but the table was set and food laid out, so Dick helped himself. And if he happened to grab an extra couple slices of bacon, well, no one was looking and he figured he'd earned a treat. He plopped down next to Tim, who was occupied reading the newspaper while nursing a cup of coffee. A bowl of cooling oatmeal sat forgotten by the younger's elbow.
"Heya little brother. Got my section?" Dick shovels a spoonful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. "Wan'ed ta see what Family Circus is up to."
Tim's lips quirked up at the corners in a controlled smile before he handed over the page in question. Dick happily snatched it up and set about perusing the funny comics. "One would think," Tim began, not looking at him, but also not quite managing to keep the amusement out of his tone. "Being a businessman, you would read the business section."
Swallowing his most recent bite, Dick replies, "Nah. That's your department. I get corporate info all day every day. I try to avoid it in free-time."
Tim looked at him then, frown beginning to form. "I know you miss BHPD, but I thought you liked WE. If it's getting too much, I can take on more of the company again."
"No, it's fine." As though I'm gonna put more on you than you already deal with, little brother. When was the last time you even slept a full night? "I do like it. But I also have a lot of busywork, and some people are just difficult to deal with. Even for me." He flashes a quick smile before munching on a piece of toast.
"Employees?"
Dick shook his head. "Board members. Some of them still aren't happy about my being appointed as heir more-than-apparent; especially with Bruce back again. A few are still trying to freeze me out."
"Does Bruce—"
Dick interrupted before he could finish the question. "It isn't a big deal. We lost a big contract to one of our up-and-coming new rivals last week. It was in my department so the board is taking it out on me." It was said with an air of nonchalance, like it really didn't matter to him one way or the other. When Tim seemed ready to protest, Dick continued. "I've taken punishment from the League of Villains; trust me, a few tightwads in fancy suits aren't much of a threat."
"Nightwing has faced them. Dick Grayson hasn't," Tim corrected, full attention directed at their conversation.
"No, but Dick Grayson has faced most of the Gotham Rogues and came out mostly on top each time." Dick knew he had to end this before his brother's full brain power – a definite force to be reckoned with – was put on the problem. "Timmy, relax. It'll be fine. I can handle it."
"I know. But still . . . you shouldn't have to. I can come back to the company again."
"Aren't you leaving for Jump again in a few days?" Tim looked away, so Dick continued. "But hey, if it gets any worse, I'll call you in. The two of use against the world, right?" He threw a wink at his brother, grinning brightly when it elicited a quiet chuckle out of him. "Be with your team, Tim. It's good for you." His smile settled into something more genuine as he turned back to his breakfast.
Tim still looked somewhat dubious, but he held his comments as, at that moment, Dick's work cell started ringing. "Crap. Speak of the devil," Dick muttered. He wiped his greasy hand on his slacks – after checking around to make sure Alfred wasn't in the room; he wasn't suicidal – and fished out his phone. With a silent farewell to his morning off, he thumbed the call button. "This is Grayson."
It was his assistant-slash-receptionist – they don't like being called secretaries anymore – Sarah Johnson. She informed him of the most recent events, they had got the smaller government contract they had been vying for, one of their factories had accidentally order outrageous amounts of materials due to a misplaced zero and decimal point on the order forms, and two board members were pushing to close a section of R&D in a different department. "I'll be faxing over all the pertinent paperwork for you to sign to contest the push. And I've been asked to remind you that Cameron Vallen is pitching his latest development idea for the nano-chip project on Thursday." Sarah also updated him on the latest news from Reynold's Tech, the up-and-coming that had phished their big contract from them. "Since I know you don't read the news," she stated, cheek hidden under a façade of polite professionalism.
"You know me too well, Sarah." Dick knew his smile could be heard in his voice. That was one of the reasons he liked Sarah Johnson so much: she saw a problem and she fixed it, or found someone who could. She made going into work a more pleasant experience, especially when she came with new pictures of her four year old son who was, in her words, the "cutest thing ever breathing". Dick had to agree that the kid was adorable, but he was sure nothing could beat the picture he had hidden in his desk drawer of Dami sleeping in Batman pajamas with a teddy bear dressed as Robin. He thanked her for keeping him up to date, inquiring about her husband's health; he'd been down with a bug last time he spoke to her.
"He's doing better. Going back to work tomorrow. Micah's been playing doctor all weekend, so he's been in good care. I have pictures of him with his little yellow stethoscope. They're adorable."
"You'll have to show me when I come in the office tomorrow. I'd love to see them." He bid her goodbye and slipped the phone back in his pocket. He turned back to Tim, holding back a sigh when he saw that calculating stare on his younger brother's eyes. It seemed Timmy had decided to give the situation some extra thought after all. Time for a distraction. "How are you feeling, by the way? Still sneezing out kidneys? Got your squeaker removed yet?"
With an amused eye roll, Tim's attention was officially redirected – for the time being, anyway. "Technically speaking, I'm no longer contagious. I may have permanently dyed my tongue cherry red from popping Hall's for two weeks, but I feel fine and my sinuses are more or less clear, so Bruce has officially taken me off sick leave."
Try as he might, Dick couldn't resist. "So I guess you won't be kissing anyone for another week yet, huh?" He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from bursting out laughing as Tim nearly spat out the coffee he had just taken an ill-timed sip of, ears tipping pink in a suppressed blush. It was a repetition of a factoid Timmy had used on him the last time he was sick: you know, you're not supposed to kiss in the ten days after a cold to minimize the risk of spreading. Tim had later admitted that fact wasn't true, but it was a running joke too good to pass up. Deciding to let his brother off the hook, he instead asked, "Have you seen Dami around?"
Taking a moment to recollect himself before replying, Tim answered. "Last I saw, he was in the weight room, trying to bench a truck or something."
Working out at ten AM on a Sunday morning; that was either good or very bad when it came to Damian Wayne. "Mood status?"
Tim's expression turned pensive as he thought out his response. Dick could always count on Timmy to give empirical answers – provided his own emotions were level enough; an angry Tim could be a conniving imp when provoked. "Well, hard as it is for me to believe that the demon child can feel any emotion besides anger or smug satisfaction. . . I'd say he's three out of ten usual Damian. Quiet. Too quiet, really. Guilt, I would say, if it were anyone else. But I suppose if anyone is capable of making the ice prince feel real emotions, it would be you."
Dick didn't smile at the comment, nor respond in any other way. He was thinking hard on a way to set things right between them all. "Bruce and Alfred still at the Children's Home setting up?" He would have to discuss the newly forming plans in his head with them later.
"Yeah. Alfred's picking us up at four-thirty."
That left six hours until they had to be ready, more than enough time. "I'm gonna go talk to li'l D."
"Good luck." Tim turned back to his paper as Dick stood to his feet.
Dick took his time traversing to the training room, solidifying his thoughts until his plan was fully formed.
The training room on the first floor of the manor was a large, open space filled with state-of-the-art exercise equipment. Unlike the practice room in the Batcave that was tailored more for hand-to-hand and target practices in varying conditions, the manor training room consisted of weight racks, weight machines, climbing walls, gymnastic equipment like parallel bars and hanging rings, and had a ceiling just high enough to accommodate a short pair of trapeze swings, all of which was meant more for recreational exercise than vigilante training despite its name. Leaning against the separator wall between the weightlifting equipment and the gymnastic mats in the otherwise wide open room, Dick observed his youngest brother positioned flat on a bench lifting almost twice his own bodyweight. There was a layer of sweat glistening along the boy's exposed skin, damp tank top and black sweatpants showing he had been at it for a while, and his lack of reaction to Dick's gaze let him know the boy likely didn't know he was there.
It wasn't often he got to sneak up on this particular Batkid.
When no lull presented itself after a moment, Dick waited for the dumbbell to finish its lower descent before asking, "Need a spotter?" His voice was even, calm, and carefully casual.
The bar paused for a span of time less than a second – the only outward sign of Damian's surprise at his sudden presence – before continuing its repetitive motion. It physically hurt to see his brother doing this, especially on his behalf; turning something he enjoyed, used to relax and unwind, into a punishment of failures. Dick had been there himself too many times to count, worked the uneven bars until his hands had bled and muscles quaked too much to lift him. He knew the kind of pain that left in the heart.
"You know you're not in trouble, Damian."
"-tt-" was the boy's eloquent response, not stopping his repetitions.
"It wasn't your fault," he tried again, waiting for a response. When none was forthcoming, he continued. "You did nothing wrong."
An angry snort of disbelief and the bar began to lift faster. Bingo.
"It's true." Casually calm with a hint of humorous reassurance. "Being mind-controlled pretty much exonerates someone of any wrongdoing done during the mind-controlling."
Damian didn't reply. Dick moved to buddy position at the head of the bench regardless. It was a rarely followed house rule that a spotter was needed when lifting more than their body weight.
"Well, that's not what I wanted to talk to you about anyway." The half-truth fell easily from his lips. "I actually have a favor to ask of you." The weightlifting slowed slightly, and Dick could see Damian glancing discreetly his way, so he knew he had his attention. Time to initiate his plan. "See, I need to drop in on Bludhaven in a few weeks. Touch base with some old contacts, run some errands I've been putting off for too long, that kind of thing."
There. Right there. Whatever thought that just ran through Dami's mind that caused the boy to tense up stiff as a weightlifting statue, that thought was what Dick intended to nip in the bud right then and there. He knew exactly what it was and, hopefully, exactly how to correct it.
"I have some stuff in long-term storage over there that needs to be moved. After two years here, it's more than time I finished my move back to Gotham, don't you think?"
The dumbbell slowed significantly as those words were processed. Dick gave it a moment then continued.
"It's too much work for one person, and with the stuff I'll be moving . . . well, I could use another person there." He took a breath, tried not to let it out in a sigh. "Anyway, I'm just taking my bike, not a car, so I can only bring one person, then stick the bike in the back of the rental truck for the trip back. Quick and easy, shouldn't take more than a few days, we'll take a long weekend and have you back in time for school by Monday."
The bar stopped entirely. "Why don't you take Todd with you?" Damian mumbled in a voice that was likely meant to contain more scorn than it did. "The two of you seem to be the best of pals lately."
"I don't want to take Jason. I want to take you," Dick replied simply. He reached down and guided the dumbbell into the rack and out of Damian's hands. Without the weight to occupy him, his brother quickly sat up. Offering a clean towel, Dick asked, "So? Would you like to come? If I do it myself, it'll take twice as long."
Damian wiped his face and neck with the linen, pretending to mull it over. Dick waited patiently, already knowing his plan was a success. "Well, I suppose I should come along. Who knows what sort of trouble you'd get into if left alone for too long," was Dami's haughty reply.
It brought an instant and blinding smile to his own face. "Great! Now we'll just have to settle it with Bruce and pick a weekend." He ruffled the boy's hair, smirking when his hand was swatted away. Yup, everything's back to normal. "C'mon, let's go watch a movie 'til Alf comes to pick us up."
Damian gave a dramatic groan. "Not more of that adolescent terrapin ninja mutant garbage. Those films are horrendous."
"Hey, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles is a classic," Dick defended quickly. "And besides, you've only seen the first two movies. You'll probably like the newest one better; more explosions, less puppet suits."
Damian grumbled, but didn't protest as Dick led him from the room. They spent the morning together, watching movies into the afternoon. They set up in the screening room, Dick armed with his secret stash of contraband junk food and sweets. They worked their way through the newest Ninja Turtles and then, with much eye rolling and grumbling that seemed more perfunctory than in actual complaint, the Breakfast Club followed by the Princess Bride. The protesting was mostly to save face when Tim joined them halfway through the second film, but Dick used his super-secret superpower of big brotherly awesomeness to keep hostilities to a minimum. It was a rare moment of peace and Dick knew he would treasure the memory.
The tail end of Princess Bride was playing when Alfred found them. Without wasting a minute, he rounded the three of them up and stuffed them in the car.
The Martha Wayne Children's Home, celebrating its grand re-opening thanks in large part to generous donations from both Wayne Enterprise and Bruce Wayne himself, was a three building complex on a half-acre of land. The old, outdated main building had been entirely renovated and expanded, the second building added for improved facilities. The rooms were larger, cleaner, and nicer, allowing the home to adequately house children in a safe and stable environment. Dick had helped with the planning and approval of the update – some of the board members seemed only interested in the PR benefits rather than actually helping the city, but there always remained a loyal few he could count on.
Stepping out of the car, they made their way through the gate and into the courtyard. There was the gentle bustle of staff preparing the area for the coming occasion and strands of unlit lights hung in swagging lines above them. The soft sounds of trickling water came from the small fountain at the center of the brick-laid yard; two stone statues stood sentinel on either side of the wrought iron gate. A buffet table – soon to be covered in heaping platters of food – was set up off to the side, leaving the area open for mingling and dancing. The house itself – made in gothic style as was Gotham's norm – a three story manor, functional but comfortable for those who lived there, would be closed to the public tonight out of respect.
Looking up at the house, at the work that had been put into it to make it a safe place for so many kids, Dick felt lighter than he had for a while. It was a testament, he decided, to how far Gotham had come, and how far she still needed to go.
He was broken from his thoughts when a face popped up in one of the windows. He waved cheerily at the young girl, a smile crinkling her mocha face as she waved back. After that, it didn't take him long at all to gather an audience of kids to put on a show for. He paraded around on his hands, picking up a giggling child with his feet or juggling toys one handed while upside down. He happily preened under the attention. After showing off for a while to a steadily growing crowd, he ooh-ed and aww-ed as a few of the kids showed him their own talents. It was honestly the most fun few hours he'd had in ages. He hardly noticed as the event settled in and guests began arriving.
A glance around showed him a pair of new arrivals at the entrance, the signature leather jacket and biker boots signaling his oldest younger brother's presence. He excused himself from the kids with a smile despite their protests, promising to come back once he'd finished boring grownup talk, and moved off towards the gate. Once Dick was close enough, he stopped to observe the couple. He knew of Alialee pretty well despite never having met her, had run a thorough background check on her shortly after she'd popped into Jason's life. Nuclear family, stable childhood, only child, played girls' softball in high school, graduated from Gotham City University with a BA in journalism, sports reporter for the Gotham Gazette, kept to herself, had never been arrested or suspected of a crime, preferred dogs over cats, loved the rain, and her favorite flowers were purple gardenias. But with all that, he still hadn't actually met her and he had never seen her and Jason interact with each other. So he stopped and just observed for a moment.
Jason wore jeans and a black t-shirt under his jacket, as per his usual style. But his hair was combed back and his hands were clean of engine grease for the first time in ages. In contrast, Alialee was in a form-fitting sky blue t-shirt and light-wash jeans, her brunette hair pulled up into a loose ponytail. She appeared soft and bright where Jason seemed rough and dark. It was a mix that Dick found interesting.
She was laughing at something Jason had said, but her body language screamed of nerves. Jason didn't seem to be doing much better; he was smirking, but there was a bashful hand rubbing the back of his neck. Uh oh, seemed their first date wasn't off to the best of starts. Dick made a beeline towards them, hoping a proper introduction would help break the uncomfortable air between them. "Hey there, little brother. This must be the famous Alialee I've heard so much about." Smile spread wide, he stretched out his arms and embraced her warmly.
Jason rolled his eyes, seeming rather unbothered by the interruption. "Sorry, he's a hugger."
"Don't be, it's fine." Alialee took a self-conscious step back when Dick released her. "It's nice to meet you, mister . . ."
"Dick Grayson-Wayne," Dick announced with a bow. A reporter that doesn't recognize me, he mentally noted in amused surprise, what a novelty. With that thought, he was determined to leave a lasting impression. Gesturing to her shirt, he said, "And may I say, that shade of blue looks lovely on you."
"Oh, uh . . . thanks" she replied modestly, a blush coloring her cheeks.
"It was Timmy's idea for everyone to dress casual; yet again re-affirming that he is the genius of our family," Dick relayed. "He's been dealing with the black-tie-and-tux plague almost as long as I have."
"Tell me about it," Jason agreed with a nod. "I've always hated those stuffy monkey suits."
He huffed a short laugh at his brother's reply. "Heh, 'monkey suit'. I'd rather wear a leotard."
"What?" Alialee asked, seemingly startled.
"Snug, form-fitting, streamline; has an actual purpose, as opposed to a tuxedo that is only really used to make you look better than everyone else." The explanation brought up old memories of spotlights and multicolored tents as he continued. "More comfortable, too, though I've known some who'd probably disagree."
"Surprised you never wore one to one of Bruce's parties," Jason intoned, drawing Dick back to the present.
"Who says I haven't?" he replied with more than a hint of mischief.
Jason waved a dismissive hand. "You have not, you liar."
Smile still wide, Dick set his scene. "You should've seen dad's face. And boy was Alfred mad. Way worth it, though." Bruce had been struck speechless when a ten-year-old Dick Greyson had cartwheeled his entrance to a high class gala in nothing but a brightly colored unitard and tights. If he remembered correctly, Alfred had banned him from all societal events for three months. He hadn't done it again, one of Alfred's stern lectures and two weeks of polishing, re-polishing, and polishing again all the silver in the manor had dissuaded him from a repeat performance, but he had been sorely tempted over the years.
Jason picked up the conversation. "I had a few times I went with the untucked edition of the dress code."
"I believe your definition of 'untucked' would be called Grunge Chic, dear brother," Dick remarked with a laugh, remembering the loosened and backwards tie, scuffed leather boots, sloppily buttoned dress shirt over mud-stained slacks, and a tattered tux jacket hanging over one shoulder. "That was pretty good, but Dami has us both beat. Last year he came fully clad in ninja garb, like, a full ninja suit, mask and everything. Complete with that sword of Bruce's that hangs in the manor. A sword! Kid is creative." Dick hadn't even been mad at him for it, he couldn't. For a kid trained to blend in with high society, Damian seemed to hate the 'monkey suit' affairs just as much as the rest of them. "And I used to think I was being rebellious by wearing tuxedo t-shirts at every possible opportunity. Timmy just used to wear multi-colored dress shirts, but I think we all have done that one." The last party they had been to, Tim had worn a blue and purple striped button up under his black suit jacket, but Damian had again taken the cake with a bright neon yellow shirt that Dick was pretty sure had come from the box of old clothes in Dick's own closet. It was nice seeing his baby brother in brighter colors than his usual blacks, greys, dark reds, and greens. Realizing he had let the discussion and his thoughts drift away, Dick snapped back to attention. "Okay, geez, rambling here, sorry. Anyways, just wanted to meet you; I'll leave you two love birds alone. I'm gonna go and find Dami."
That was the plan, anyway. But after ten minutes of searching the admittedly small crowd a few times over without so much as a glimpse of his youngest brother, the plan remained unsuccessful. He tried calling Damian's cell phone, hoping the boy had taken it with him when they had left the manor. If he had, it was either off or dead since his calls went straight to voicemail both times. Dick spent some time inside, searching every ninja-child sized hiding place he could find, but there remained no sign of him.
Damian had been excited for this event, in his own emotionally constipated way; he wouldn't just take off without telling someone. That thought in mind, he set off to find the 'someone'.
He spotted Tim with Jason and Alialee near the center of the courtyard and made his way to them. With more than a little concern in his voice and posture, Dick asked the trio in a low voice, "Have you guys seen, Damian? I can't find him anywhere."
"We haven't seen him, Dick," Jason replied. "He's probably hiding from you. He knows you like to annoy him."
The comment, though in jest, had its merit; it certainly wouldn't be the first time Dami had pulled a ninja-bat vanish solely to avoid the over exuberant force of nature that was Dick Grayson. But Dami also usually answered his phone during those times, if only to smugly rub it in Dick's face that he couldn't be found – until Dick managed to find him every time. "I thought that, too, Jayjay. But I've looked all over for him and I can't find him. And he's not answering his cell."
"Have you asked Bruce? Maybe he's seen Damian, or knows where he is?" Tim suggested.
"Right." That had been his next course of action. Glancing around for Bruce, Dick saw him just as he was climbing the stairs onto the stage – a two foot tall wooden platform placed to the side of the courtyard. Dick walked as calmly as he was able towards the stage, arriving just as Bruce started his speech.
"I want to thank you all for coming, this evening." Dick stopped at the foot of the stairs. His question was important, but not urgent; he would give Bruce a moment to serenade the audience. "Tonight is not about celebrating riches or a job well done, it is celebrating the re-opening of what will be a safe place for these children." He gestured towards a handful of the Children's Home kids. The attention was rapt on him, a performer in his own right. Putting on a show Dick never tired of watching. Bruce's voice was that cheerful, open tone that was part paparazzo puff, and part the man that had raised Dick; more genuine than the playboy persona, but kinder than the businessman. "I'm sure many of you can understand why I sympathize with this cause in particular, myself having been orphaned at a young age. As most of you may know, I have adopted three boys of my own throughout the past several years. Boys, would you come up here and join me?"
Taking that as his cue, Dick stepped up beside his mentor. Whispering quietly into his ear, he explained, "Damian's not answering his cell and I can't find him anywhere. Please tell me you've seen him?"
Bruce's eyebrows furrowed as he shook his head. "No, I haven't seen him since you all arrived." Dick hated the implications of the realization that flashed behind Bruce's eyes. He turned back to the audience. "I'm sorry to break this—"
"Father!" Damian's voice called above Bruce's at the same time that a cloud of white gas surrounded the courtyard. The gas had little effect on the four men on stage – long since grown immune to its incapacitating effects – but the other guests couldn't say the same, and quickly succumbed, dropping to the ground in a deep sleep where the assassins began carting them off around the side of the orphanage. Quick as it had happened, they were forced to just watch as the civilians – the hostages – were moved off the playing field, frozen by the sight before them.
Ra's al Ghul, thought to be dead for two years and suspected alive for over one and a half, stood behind Damian in front of the now closed iron gates, a hand on either of the boy's shoulders in a clearly possessive gesture, flanked on either side by his lackeys. His brother's distress was obvious to Dick and it sent a surge of protectiveness through him.
The whisper came unbidden to his lips, "Dami. . ."
"Hello, Detective," Ra's greeted once he had their undivided attention. "I have an ultimatum for you. . ."
Even with his eyes still trained on the scene in front of him, Dick could feel the shift in Bruce from socialite to tactician. "What do you want, Ra's?"
"I want you to take your rightful place as the heir to my empire. Join me, Detective, or I take my grandson back with me."
"Please, grandfather," Damian begged eyes locked with Dick's. "I want to stay here."
"We've been through this before," Bruce growled, words still directed at the Demon's Head, both ignoring the boy's plea. "What makes you think the answer would be any different this time?"
"Your stubborn refusal grows tiresome, Detective. I thought myself rid of that problem with the birth of my grandson. Imagine my surprise when I return to my empire, only to discover my heir has chosen to follow in his father's deluded footsteps. Believe me, my daughter is being punished for her indiscretions, allowing the boy to become corrupted by your pathetic, outdated morals."
Using his own cross between sign language and Morse Code, Dick carefully relayed a quick plan to Tim and Jason – get hostages, I'll get Bird – then he tapped instructions in Morse on Bruce's sleeve – wait then get demon; I'll get Bird. He received a minute nod of understanding from his former mentor.
Dick stepped forward, drawing attention away as much as he could while his brothers slipped off the stage and out of sight. "Why are you doing this, Ra's? Why now?" Something was wrong, something . . . off about the whole thing. Dick couldn't quite put his finger on it. "You aren't usually so spontaneous. Getting sloppy in your old age, there?"
The Demon Head turned to face him, grip tightening on Damian's shoulders. "Your base humor is as deplorable as ever, Young Grayson. However, I do not believe I was speaking to you."
At his words, two black-garbed assassins moved towards Dick, ignoring Damian's angry snarl. They gave pause when Dick growled out a warning of "don't". For a moment, it seemed as though nothing would happen; then Ra's lazily waved a dismissive hand before looking back at Bruce, the assassins moved back to their previous position beside al Ghul.
"I swore not to wage war with you again after the misfortunate death of your second son, Detective. Truthfully I had no more reason to after the birth of my grandson. But you have taken what is most precious to me, and I cannot allow this insult to continue." His expression became dangerous. "I need only one. Come willingly, Detective, and I shall spare you the same of taking something precious of yours." To punctuate the point, Ra's snapped his fingers; an apparent cue for five of the assassins to suddenly pounce on Dick without warning.
Dick tagged one of them in the face, dodged a blow from the right and blocked a hit from the left. He managed to down one assassin before another from behind kicked out the back of his calves, sending Dick to his knees. A black garbed man on each side held his arms to keep him still, but he didn't cease his struggle until he felt a blade at his throat. The entire encounter lasted all of ten seconds.
Taking in his surroundings again, Dick saw a handful of downed assassins by Bruce's feet. As his ex-mentor moved to aid him, the sword edge was pressed harder against his jugular.
"Still your hand, Detective, or your protégé dies."
Bruce stops, fist in mid punch, and turns to look at the Demon Head, "Then let Damian go, Ra's. There is no need to fight . . . it should be up to him who he wants to go with. But you know my answer will always be no."
Damian's eyes flared with panic under his stoic expression. Seeing it, Dick grit his teeth as he called to draw attention back to himself again. "Why are you doing this, Ra's? Why the theatrics all of a sudden?" The blade bit into his skin slightly at his intrusion, but it was worth it as Ra's turned to address him.
"My reasons are of no business to you, gypsy."
"I don't know," Dick said, trying to catch Damian's eye. "Seeing as I have a sword at my throat, I'm thinking it's kind of my business." Having gained the youngest Wayne's attention, he blinked three times and gave a barely there twitch of one eyebrow in question. The single answering nod of confirmation was just as faint.
Ignoring the Demon Head's reply, Dick gave it a three second mental count before thrusting his head backwards to hit the sword wielding assassin's tender bits, hard. Dick ducked below the flailing blade as the guy instinctively curled up to protect his injured groin. With the grip on his arms as leverage, Dick lifted his knees and pushed up off the ground, flipping himself upside down and sending his feet out in a scissor kick to knock out each of the assassins at his side. His arms were freed just as he was about to land, catching himself in a handstand. He spun around and sprung back to plant both feet against the skull of the bent over man behind him, knocking that one unconscious as well.
Once he was on his feet, Dick turned towards Ra's. The monologue-ing had been cut off when Damian had gone limp, spinning as he dropped to dislodge the possessive hold on him, before spinning on the ground with one leg extended to sweep the Demon Head's feet right out from under him – a move Dick had taught him himself. Al Ghul didn't stay down long, but by the time he had regained his feet, Damian had used an assassin that tried to grab him as a springboard to backflip away and dash to meet Dick midway. Bruce utilized the moment to ground his own assailants and barrel towards al Ghul while Dick and Damian stood back-to-back to deal with the entourage of Shadows together.
Fighting beside Damian had become second nature, much like it had been fighting next to Bruce once upon a time. It was easy to fall back into it that routine, moving as one to assist each other with moves, block blows that would have landed, and defending each other any time they got hit.
God, Dick had missed this.
Movement to his left showed him that Tim and Jason had arrived back to the courtyard, meaning they'd secured the hostages and hopefully negated al Ghul's leverage. It seemed Bruce had gotten a few good hits on Ra's as well as downed half a dozen Shadows. Damian and Dick had downed over a dozen assassins between them. There couldn't be many left now. All they had to do was wrap things up.
"Look out!"
Tim's warning shout had everyone looking his way. It was quickly followed by a cry of pain from Jason as he got pinned when a group of assassins toppled one of the ornate stone statues onto him. Tim moved into defense position beside him.
A growl from Damian had Dick turning back around just in time to see the youngest deflect a knife that had been thrown at the eldest's turned back. The knife imbedded itself into the grass. Damian took up a defensive stance in front of Dick.
"Enough!" Bruce snarled, tossing a downed assassin at the one that had thrown the knife. "You've lost, Ra's!"
"So it seems," the Demon Head decided, wiping a drip of blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. He glanced at Damian, making Dick itch to defend the boy but he held position and al Ghul turned his eyes back to Bruce. "Next time, Detective."
In a flash of smoke, the Demon and his Shadows were gone.
The end.