AUTHOR'S NOTE: So, the information I was able to gather says Dick Grayson's birthday is on December 1st – at least it is in Young Justice. Of course, if you go by the comic version, his birthday would be in March, but since this is a Young Justice story, I went with his YJ birth date.
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Thoughts
Memory/Past Event
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Happy Birthday
Alfred was putting the finishing touches on a small cake. It was a two layer dark chocolate cake with a sweet vanilla frosting. Alfred was in the process of placing small slivers of strawberries on the cake. The butler wanted the cake to look as good as it would taste, since it was a birthday cake.
Today was the first day of December and it was Dick's 16th birthday. A much larger party, with an even bigger cake, was planned for the weekend. But since it was Thursday and a school night, a quiet family gathering had been planned for evening. Just Bruce, Alfred, and, of course, the birthday boy. Bruce had agreed to take the night off, as Batman. So they would have a quiet dinner, eat some cake, and then watch a movie. Since it was his birthday, Dick would get to decide on the movie, which meant they were probably going to watch a comedy. Dick would also receive some of his birthday presents tonight, though the big one – a new motorcycle – the teen would get on Saturday at his party.
Just as the older man placed the final piece of strawberry, the door bell rang. Taking a hand towel, the older butler wiped his hands. Putting the towel on the counter next to the cake, Alfred left the kitchen and headed toward the front door.
"You want me to get it, Alfie?" came a voice from the dining room.
"No, Master Dick," replied the Englishman. "It is my duty to answer the door. And it is your duty to finish your homework."
Alfred could hear a quick laugh from the other room as he continued toward the door. The laugh pleased the older man. The business with Deathstroke was affecting Dick and the butler had heard the teen laugh less and less.
Before he opened the door, Alfred looked out the peep hole. A man was standing outside. Dressed in a brown uniform and holding a package, the butler examined the man for threats. The man standing outside was neither young nor old, but most likely somewhere around his late 30's to early 40's. He had the beginnings of gray hair in his brown hair, but it was mostly contained near the temple. No facial hair, the man was cleanly shaven.
Not seeing any apparent threats, Alfred opened the door. "Good evening."
"Hi," replied the delivery man. "I have a package for a..." as he scanned the package, "Richard Grayson."
"I will sign for it," replied Alfred.
Holding up the scanner, the driver handed a stylus to Alfred. Quickly, the older man signed his name. The driver took back the scanner, pushed a few buttons, than handed the package to the butler. "Have a good night!"
"You as well," replied Alfred, as he glanced down at the package.
The package was wrapped in brown shipping paper. While there was no return address, Richard Grayson's name was clearly printed on the package, along with the address for Wayne Manor. Though it felt heavy, it wasn't a large package. It was shaped like a square, a little over a foot in either direction and only a few inches thick. Tucking the package under his arm, Alfred shut the door.
Calmly, the man walked toward the dinning room. "Master Dick, it is for you."
Looking up from his homework, Dick smiled. "Maybe it's a birthday present?"
"It would seem logical, sir, since it is your birthday," replied the older man, as he walked toward Dick.
Alfred handed the teen the package and Dick wasted no time ripping it open. As soon as the dark haired teen could see what was in the package though, he set it down on on the table in front of him, which covered his books. The teen's smile was gone. He looked very serious, as he raised his eyes from the package to look at the older man.
"Alfred, call Bruce. Tell him to come home quickly."
"What is it?" replied Alfred, glancing down at the package. With the brown paper ripped away, the older man could see it was a painting. Mostly black and red with a little white, Alfred thought the painting was familiar. It only took a moment more before he finally realized where he had seen it. "My word! The stolen painting from the museum!"
"Yeah," replied Dick, though he was looking at the note that had been attached to the painting. Only three words, but they sent a chill down his spin: Happy Birthday, Richard.
The butler wasted no time in contacting Bruce.
…...
Less than thirty minutes later, the billionaire was home and looking at the painting that was still resting on the dining room table and Dick's school books.
"Should we call the police, sir?" asked Alfred, who was hovering near the table.
"Not yet," replied Bruce. The note attached to the painting did not escape Bruce's notice. "I want to take it down to the Batcave and scan it for evidence."
Putting gloves on his hands, Bruce took the painting down to the cave. For a moment, Dick debated whether he should follow his mentor or not. The teen didn't need the Batcave to tell him who had sent him the painting. Deathstroke had been seen standing near the painting months ago and then a few weeks later, it was stolen. Though Dick and Bruce couldn't prove it, they assumed Wilson had had something to do with the missing painting. Now the painting had arrived at Wayne Manor, addressed to Dick as a birthday present.
Mort de la Jeunesse, thought Dick as he remembered the name of the painting. Death of the Youth. Is it a threat? Is this Deathstroke's way of telling me that he plans to kill me?
Lost in his thoughts, Dick doesn't join Bruce. While it only felt like a few minutes, fifteen minutes pass before Bruce returned to the dining room. With a scowl, Bruce put the painting back on the books, exactly where Dick had placed it earlier.
"There's nothing on it."
"Meaning what?" asked Dick, as he stirred himself from his thoughts.
"Meaning, it's been cleaned somehow. No fingerprints. No markings. It's completely sterile," said Bruce. "Alfred, call the police and let them know the stolen painting has been found. Also, let the police know about the delivery company. Maybe they can track down who sent it."
The older man left the room, but not without a last look toward the teen. It had not escaped the old man's notice that the teen had been quiet while Bruce was gone. Just as the butler left the room, Bruce walked up next to Dick and placed a hand on the teen's shoulder.
"Is it from him?" asked Dick, as he stared at the painting. The note was gone. Dick assumed that Bruce kept the note when he brought the painting to the Batcave. For whatever reason, Bruce didn't want the police to have the note.
"I don't know," replied Bruce carefully.
Nodding his head, Dick felt like exploding. He knew it won't do any good, but he could feel his emotions building. Anger. Fear. Uncertainty. If it was Deathstroke's intention to keep the teen off balanced, he was doing a good job. And the teen wasn't the only one barely controlling his emotions.
Bruce was furious and very worried. He knew he couldn't prove that Deathstroke was involved with the painting. No fingerprints. No witnesses. He didn't have any proof. All he had was conjecture and circumstantial evidence. The killer had been at the grand opening of the art show that the painting had been in. The killer had also been seen standing near the painting, but that didn't prove that Wilson took the painting. Or that he had mailed the painting to Dick. Was Bruce dealing with two different threats to his son? Or was it all Deathstroke?
The killer had been stalking his son. First at the restaurant, then at the art show. Dick felt like he had been being watched at other times, but the teen hadn't seen who was watching him. Bruce's instinct was to keep Dick at home. No more Robin. No more Young Justice, until the killer's interest died away. But Bruce remembered an earlier conversation that took place on the day they found out that Wilson knew Robin's identity...
Dick was upset. While the teen had realized the threat he was under, it wasn't until after Wally had left the room that he realized it was much worse. Not only did the killer know who Robin was, Deathstroke probably had figured out who Batman was also.
As the boy paced, Bruce had stayed quiet. He needed to figure out the best way to keep Dick safe. He would worry about himself later.
"I know what you're thinking."
"Enlighten me," replied Bruce, as the teen stopped in front of his desk.
"You're thinking about pulling me as Robin," replied Dick, as he placed his hands on the desk that Bruce sat at.
"It makes the most sense," replied the older man.
"Yeah, it would. And that's what we normally do. It has worked in the past, even though I hate every moment of it. But there is one problem," replied the teen. "He knows who I am, Bruce."
"Dick," said Bruce, but the teen interrupted him.
"We can't do this the normal way, Bruce. You know it. Some members of the Team know my real identity. I can spend time with those who know I'm me during my civilian time and spend time with the team as Robin. The more people that are around me, the safer I will be."
"Wally didn't keep you safe today," replied Bruce, glaring at the teen.
The teen had seen that glare so many times, it didn't effect him like it used to. "Wally didn't know Deathstroke knew who I was. Neither did you."
"I don't like this," replied the older man.
"And you think I do?" demanded the teen.
"First time I feel that it isn't working, I'm pulling you as Robin," said Bruce.
"Agreed," replied Dick, placing a hand across the table. Bruce placed a hand in the teen's and they shook their hands in agreement.
…Dick was right. Pulling him as Robin won't keep him any more safe than if he spends time with the other teen heroes. Today's incident demonstrated that. Normally, Bruce required hard core proof, but he went with his gut this time. He knew Deathstroke was behind the painting coming to Dick, just as Bruce thought he had been behind the original theft.
Taking his eyes from the package, he examined his son. The teen was paler than he used to be. Of course, that could be because it's winter and no one was really tan in the winter. But Dick had always been tan no matter what time of year it was. He was also noticing that there were dark circles under the teen's eyes, which told Bruce, Dick wasn't sleeping well.
Bruce was also noticing that that teen was quieter and less likely to laugh than he used to be. Bruce would still hear the teen laugh, but the happiness that just was a part of who Dick was had seemed to be missing the last couple of months. The teen had even stopped butchering the English language. Deathstroke was destroying the happy boy that Dick used to be and Bruce didn't know how to stop it. The last few months had been difficult for Dick, but it was also testing Bruce's resolve about never killing.
"My honest opinion?" asked Bruce. "Yes, I think it's from Deathstroke, but we don't have any evidence."
With a snort, the teen turned away. "I'm going to my room."
"What about your cake and the movie?" asked Bruce.
"I don't feel like celebrating, Bruce," replied the teen, as he left the room.
…...
AUTHOR'S NOTE: If you didn't guess, the memory would take place at the end of Slade, the second "chapter", when Wally is asked to leave so Bruce and Dick could talk.
