(A/N) Oh my god the reviews! 60! askfdjhaskd
The morning finds a man draped in a dark costume, a boy following, hands grabbing onto the cape. The quiet permeating the air was disturbed by a set of footsteps that pad noisily after silent ones.
Bruce, cowl pulled down, was hyper aware of the presence following him, wide eyes staring at him and a small content smile. It was strange to him how easily the boy could just come back into his life.
The smell of food wafts from the kitchen.
"I think Alfred has breakfast ready."
The boy hums in agreement.
"Do you think he made pancakes?" the boy asks, eyes wide with excitement.
Bruce smiles, the feeling of something too normal, too happy for the house perpetually in mourning, and sulking, and brooding.
"Son, I can smell the syrup from here."
The boy preens.
Bruce can't help but reach out a hand to ruffle his hair.
Then he withdraws his hand and turns away, toward the kitchen.
He clears his throat, "Well, let's go."
Dick hesitates, his euphoria wavering before following.
Superman is brooding, something that he used to do sparingly. Now, he does it when he thinks of Superboy, or Batman, or the many, many stressful league formalities that Batman used to take care of.
(Now there was only him.)
The other league members were in various states of brooding, sulking, and confusion themselves.
Wonder Woman was stoically staring at where her hands were attempting to crumble the reinforced table.
Barry was unnaturally still but Clark could hear his heart moving too fast, could see his brain working overtime.
The news was startling and needed to be addressed. The dead ward and supposed sidekick of Batman.
Superman sat up and cleared his throat.
"We need to discuss the matter of Richard Grayson."
Dinah speaks up first, "He is Bruce's legal ward."
Barry slams his hands on the table "Ya, his dead ward."
He flinches back in his seat as people send him withering glares.
Clark's mouth goes in a straight line.
"That brings up another question."
The leaguers look at him.
"Is he safe?"
Dick looks around the dining table, pancakes warm and sticky, thin wisps of steam rising from them as butter melted. His knife and fork poised, ready to cut and bring them to his mouth. He was starving. He wanted to devour them, stuff himself full like he usually does when Alfred makes pancakes.
His hands were still and Bruce was watching him like a vulture, black cape draping behind him like feathers.
"Are they okay?"
Dick looks up and smiles.
"Ya…" he trails off not sure what to say or how to say it.
The click of dress shoes walking on polished floors prompt him to start cutting into the hot cake.
Alfred walks in, a cup balanced on a silver tray. The milk looks delicious, cool as it's set in front of him.
"Your milk Master Ri-richard."
Noticing the blip, full of emotion and loss and gain, he ignores it except for a quick brush of hands and glove as he reaches for the milk. Alfred lingers before moving to his own seat.
Dick takes a large gulp of milk, hoping to wash down the tightness in his throat.
His stomach clenches and the milk tastes disgustingly fattening.
Dropping the cup he runs out.
Alfred and Bruce are immediately on their feet following. They hear gagging and retching and crying from the bathroom. In the back of Bruce's mind he notes that Dick knows the layout of the building, or at least where the bathroom is.
Alfred coughs and turns.
"I'll be back with a washcloth and something to help settle the stomach."
Bruce nods and tentatively walks into the bathroom that Dick is in, puking his guts out.
Settling beside him he starts rubbing his back. He says nothing while the boy is sick, choosing instead to offer his presence as comfort. He cannot reassure the boy when he is unsure about what happened. About what has happened.
"We're going to have to talk about this." He says as Dick finally stops, resting his head on the cold porcelain, eyes closed.
Licking his lips, Dick grimaces at the taste of vomit.
Alfred walks back in carrying a glass of water and wash cloth.
"I'm sorry for the delay. I thought he might be a moment so I cleaned up the spilled milk."
On a better day, maybe one three years back, Dick would have said something about not crying over spilled milk. Instead the boy sits up and weakly makes a motion for the water. Or wash cloth, Bruce isn't sure. Alfred gives him the water and begins to clean him of vomit, easily ignoring his weak protests. The familiar childish independence strikes a pang in his heart and he reaches out to smooth back Dick's hair.
Bruce closes his eyes. He does not cry.
Dick turns back to retch into the toilet.
Somewhere in Paris there is a woman who is smoothing down the black satin of her dress. Her face, with catlike eyes and framed by short dark hair, is painted perfectly. Drawn out eye shape, brushed up lashes, and dark red painted lips. Looking in the mirror she examines her curves in the tight fitting top, the draping black skirt that just brushes her feet with black heels.
She is beautiful.
She is dangerous.
A knife is in her glove, small and hidden under black elbow length fabric. A vial of poison is attatched on the hair piece, behind a red rose and small black feathers. A gun is strapped to the thigh that doesn't show through the slit in the dress.
She is dangerous.
She is beautiful.
There is a knock at her glamorous hotel room.
"Miss Kyle, chère, are you ready yet?"
Leaning forward she bites her lips seductively, white against red, and checks her teeth for make-up. They were clean.
Sighing she looks at her hair piece and ghosts her glove clad fingers over the feathers.
"Dick…" She sighs.
Another series of knocks brings her out of her reverie.
"Chère?" a French accented voice called out.
Taking a deep breath she closes her eyes.
When she opens them she is not Selina.
She is Miss Kyle.
Selina turns away from the mirror.
"Coming monsieur!"
