"Rae." Dick took the towel from around his neck and tossed it into the laundry hamper in his closet. "You can't train Malcolm."
"Why not?" Raya huffed as she hugged his pillow to her chest. "Don't you think I can train him?"
"No, I know you can train him," Dick said as he ran his fingers through his still damp hair. "You've done a great job at helping to train Jason."
"Then why don't you think I can train Malcolm?"
"'Cause Bruce won't approve."
"How do you know he wouldn't?"
"It's Bruce, duh." Dick reached into his dresser for a t-shirt. "He's never gonna agree to you training Malcolm like he trained us."
"I don't plan on training him as Bruce trained us."
Dick glanced at her from over his shoulder. "You don't?" One brow arched. "Then how do you plan on training him?"
"Teaching for strength, speed, and stealth mainly."
"You're thinking of teaching him Krav Maga?"
"More a mix of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Muay Thai, and Krav Maga."
A grin tugged at Dick's lips. "Gee, that's only your three favorite styles."
"Along with Hapkido, Capoeira, Tai Chi and Taekwondo."
"Why not teach him those, instead?" he suggested as he tugged his shirt over his head. "They're all excellent styles with similar principles that will help someone like Malcolm."
"I know they're good styles." Raya hugged his pillow tighter. "I just think Malcolm needs empowerment as much as he does enlightenment at this point."
"I think he needs enlightenment more than empowerment." Dick flopped down on the bed beside her and reached for the remote to his stereo. He didn't normally listen to music as he slept but Raya did. He had loaded the tray with her favorite albums before going to take a shower because he suspected she'd end up in his room. He selected a CD now and hit play. He put the remote back on the nightstand before looking at her. "Guy's wound tighter than you and that's saying something."
"I know he is." Raya lifted troubled eyes to his. "Tonight was better but I'm still worried he's going to snap under the pressure. Do something harmful to himself."
Given what the guy had done the last time he snapped under pressure, she had reason for concern. "Getting him to dance with you will help burn off some of that restless energy he has. Plus, you can sneak in different lessons while at it."
"How did you know I was planning on using ballet to train him?"
He folded his arms behind his head and sent her a smug look. "I know how your mind works."
Raya made a ffff sound. "You only think you know my mind works, buzzard brains."
"I know you've been plotting out how to go about training Malcolm for weeks."
She harrumphed while rolling her eyes. "Like you haven't had the same thoughts?"
She had him there. "I did, yes," he admitted with a wry grin. "I agree with you that his knowing how, and that he can protect himself will help him deal with the bullies at school."
"Bruce is going to speak with his mother about transferring Malcolm here to Gotham Academy."
Dick's eyebrows winged up. He hadn't known Bruce planned to talk with Malcolm's mother about more than attending the ballet with him and Raya. "How did you get him to agree to that?"
"I didn't."
"Bruce decided it on his own?"
"He did." Raya nodded. "Yes."
"Wow..."
Why he was shocked by Bruce's decision was beyond him. Bruce had been deeply disturbed by Malcolm's suicide attempt. All of them had been rocked by it, really. Even Jason was disturbed when he found out about Malcolm trying to take his life, Dick recalled. And he hadn't even met Malcolm yet. Suicide was not something to joke about, though. Teen suicide rates had spiked in recent years, bullying being one of the biggest factors in why. Dick wasn't positive, and he'd never ask, but he suspected this wasn't Malcolm's first attempt.
It was just the most serious.
Helping him find healthier coping mechanisms and ways of dealing with the bullies would go a long way towards seeing Malcolm not choose such a path again.
"You really think using ballet is a good idea?"
Dick turned his head to study her face. Her color was good, but she looked exhausted. "Yeah, I do," he told her as he patted his side in silent invitation. "Ballet will not only help him with his anxiety, but it will help him with the more complex moves you'll teach him."
"That's what I was thinking." Raya scooted back against him. The only acknowledgment she'd give about needing physical contact. Dick hid a smile as he curved an arm around her. "It's been a few years since he did ballet so he will have to start slow. Bends and stretches, at first."
"You're totes looking forward to dancing with him, aren't you?"
"A little," she admitted, tipping her head against his shoulder. "I haven't had a partner since Alexi returned home to Moscow."
"You didn't have a crush on Alexi like you do Malcolm," he couldn't help but tease.
"Is it wrong that I do?" Raya asked in a small voice. "I like him, Dick."
"No." Dick rest his cheek against her crown, breathed in the exotic scent that was hers, and hers alone. "It's not wrong that you like him, Rae. I like him. So does Jason. And Bruce." His fingers drifted up into the hair at her nape. "Just be careful, okay? I don't want to see you get your heart broken the first time you give it to someone."
"Malcolm would sooner cut his own heart out before he'd ever break mine." Her sigh tickled his throat. "He's terrified of hurting people. That's why he bottles his emotions. He fears what'll happen if he lets them out."
"If I didn't know better, I'd say he was related to Bruce."
"Bruce vents his emotions."
"On bad guys faces."
Raya snorted a laugh. "If they weren't bad guys, he wouldn't vent on their faces."
"Good point."
"Malcolm doesn't have bad guy faces to vent on. He turns his anger inwards. It's the root of his depression."
"Anger turned inwards is depression?"
"Anger needs to be recognized, acknowledged, and resolved. If we don't, we risk developing maladaptive behaviors."
"Such as not eating or sleeping."
"Those are a few maladaptive behaviors that can develop, yes. It links to thoughts and feelings of shame, even doubt."
"Malcolm's definitely ashamed of being the son of The Surgeon."
Not that Dick could blame him. He wouldn't exactly be thrilled if he found out his father murdered twenty-three people.
"Alexander Pope summed it up best when he said, 'to be angry is to revenge the faults of others upon ourselves'."
That she had a quote ready didn't surprise Dick. Raya, much like her cousin, Barbara, was a talking, walking, breathing encyclopedia. It didn't hurt her grandfather was a respected neuro-psychiatrist who took his granddaughter to his lectures at an early age. Matthew Sr. did his best to shield his granddaughter from his son. At the expense of his own life.
Another death that's gone unsolved, he thought, jaw clenching.
"Malcolm punishes himself for what his father did."
"Mhm."
Dick heaved a sigh as he massaged the tense muscles of her neck. "You have that in common."
"I know we do." Her hand slid up to rest over his heart. Guarding it as he guarded hers. "I'm just lucky because I have bad guys to vent my anger on."
"You also have people there when you're not whelmed."
She snorted a laugh. "You and you're whelms."
"Well, I am the pun master."
"Whatever you say, buzzard brains." Raya yawned hugely. "Whatever you say."
"Get some sleep." He reached over to click the lamp on low. Not off. Seven years with her taught him many things, one being her fear of the dark. "You have a ballet lesson to teach in the morning."
"Mm," she hummed as she snuggled closer. "Gonna teach him my choreography for Danse Macabre."
"One pirouette at a time, Rae."
Her deep, even breathing was his answer.
...
The Berkeley Estate shared the same Gothic architectural style as most of the other homes and buildings in Gotham. A thick wrought-iron fence topped with the blivet the devil wielded surrounded the property. It was an appropriate symbol for the man who inhabited the residence until a few months ago.
A blanket of snow covered the manicured lawn. The limbs of the majestic oak trees circling the drive bowed beneath the weight of the icicles hanging from them. More snow gleamed from atop the roof. For all its glacier beauty, though, Berkeley Estate was a dark, dark place.
Anger throbbed and hate pulsed as she faced the house that had been her home until she was nine. The grand old house with its stately columns and towering spires was the only witness to her lost innocence.
This had not been a happy place.
No, the Estate was a cold, cold place.
Full of secrets and lies and pain and misery.
And death.
Oh, yes, death, in all its cruelty, resided here.
It held the house in its dark, sinewy web. Its shadow ran deep. Its breath was thick and fetid, and its eyes gleamed a feral shade in the dark. Whispers stirred in the leaves of the trees, across the glistening snow, in the tangled vines fastened to the bark of those old oaks. More voices called to her as she made her way up the front walk.
To the door, the tall white door that opened into the long, wide foyer. Inside, the edges were sharp, surfaces hard. Colors were pale, mostly ivory and dove-gray.
Save for the roses — always red roses —in the crystal vase on the table in the middle of the foyer.
The house seemed vacant, but it was a lie.
The house wasn't empty.
There were dozens of ghosts trapped inside its hallowed walls.
All of them people who lost their lives to the monster who dwelled here.
The house beckoned her, begged her to step inside, to traverse its hallways once more.
In sleep, Raya turned her head away, resisted its lurid pull. She didn't want to go inside.
Not now.
Not ever.
However, she found herself greeted by the black-and-white marble streaked with gold threads, gleaming wood, and the cold, cold sparkle of crystal and chrome soon as she stepped inside. Only this time, in this dream, it didn't start with her mother collapsing on the antique table in the middle of the foyer, and upsetting the crystal vase full of fresh red roses. No, this time her mother stood in front of the table, her dark hair a riot of curls sweeping past the shoulders of the white dress she wore.
Her lips were red, like the roses.
They trembled as she stared at the dark shadow lurking in the entryway she faced.
"He told me what was supposed to happen after the ballet, Matthew!" A tear slithered down her pale cheek. "That he was to invite us to his home, offer us tea laced with ketamine, and then he and his partner were to dispose of us."
A frown wrinkled her brow. He? He who? The man who murdered her mother was right in front of her.
"So, the good doctor revealed his plans to you, did he? How... disappointing." Her belly cramped at that silky purr. "Tell me, why didn't he go through with his plans?"
"He said Raya and I were the same. Like he and his son, Malcolm."
"I see," her father murmured. "Well, I will make sure Doctor Whitly regrets his decision."
"How could you ask him to murder your wife and child?!"
"Easy, my dear Ellen," was said in that silken purr. "You and that mongrel of yours have become a liability."
"A mongrel?" Fury stained her mother's pale cheeks. "You vile, loathsome bastard. How dare you call our daughter a mongrel!"
"Tsk, tsk, Ellen. Such language is unbecoming of you."
"Go to hell, Matthew." Her mother turned for the stairs. "I'm taking Raya and going to Jim's. My lawyers will contact you for a time we can come get our things."
"Oh, I don't think that will be necessary, Ellen." There was a click. "Unlike Martin Whitly, I have no qualms about killing you or that miniature version of you."
Bands of panic formed. Around her chest, around her head. Tightening, tightening until she could hardly breathe. She fought the nausea that threatened to burst from her mouth at any moment.
Harder to stop was the memory of what happened next...
...
A scream ripped through her head as she shot up in bed. It wasn't her own scream, though, oh no.
It was her father's.
A howl of pure, unmasked rage.
With her breath sobbing in her throat, and her heart thumping wildly in her chest, Raya scrambled out of bed, upsetting the kitten that had been asleep on her back, and raced from the room. A bone-deep chill wracked her from head to foot as she fled down the hallway to the one place, the only place she could think to go that was safe from her father: the Batcave.
For a moment, just one, she thought she felt her father's fingers brush across the sensitive flesh along the back of her neck, tangle in the strands of her hair. She stifled a shriek and twisted out of teach, almost toppling backwards down the stairs in the process.
A pair of hands grabbed her before she fell. "Raya?" She heard through the static filling her head. "Raya, what is it? What's wrong?"
She shook her head to clear away the lingering fog from her dream. "Malcolm?"
"Yes."
Knowing it was Malcolm who steadied her and not a hallucination snapped Raya back to herself. She made to step back, breathing still a loud rasp to her ears, but the strength went out of her legs. She'd have dropped to the floor if not for Malcolm holding onto her.
"Whoa..."
"Okay." He lowered her to the floor and sat beside her. "It's okay. Just breathe."
Raya's quaking hands curled around his arm, as much to anchor herself in the here and now, as him.
"I know," she managed around the lump in her throat. Tears wet her cheeks but she paid them no mind. She needed to tell him what she remembered before she lost her nerve. "I know the connection between your father and mine. I finally remembered."
"Remembered what?"
She lifted her head to look at him. Saw the fear, panic, and questions burning in the depths of his eyes. "Why he shot her. It wasn't because of me. Not completely."
"I don't understand." His brow creased. "Who shot who?"
"My father." Her hands trembled so hard on Malcolm's arm she swore they'd rattle his bones. "He shot my mother. And I know why."
"You know why your father shot your mother?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because she was a liability he needed to get rid of. Only," the words started coming fast now, almost tripping over themselves, "the man he hired to take care of them backed out at the last second. He couldn't kill her or me."
"Why?" This came from Dick as he crouched on her other side. "Why did he back out, Rae?"
"Because he saw me as an extension of my mother." Malcolm's face drained of color as her words registered. "Same as he sees his son as an extension of him."
"My father..." Malcolm breathed out in a strangled sound. "My father was supposed to kill you and your mother."
All Raya could do was nod.