Chapter Text
“Dick?”
Dick’s mid pull up, the wooden rafter rough against his palms. He glances to see one of the new ones, Jenny, standing hesitant in the doorway, her eyes cast downward and one foot scuffing the dusty floor.
He lets go of the rafter, dropping to the floor with practiced ease. “What’s up, Jenny? Everything okay?” He keeps his tone light, inviting, as he does with all the new kids.
When Jenny looks up, her matted, brown hair hangs forward in her face, half hiding her wide, trembling eyes. Dick studies the fear silently, his jaw clenching, as he waits for Jenny to gather up the courage to say what she needs to say. He’s learned far too quickly that if he pushes anyone here to speak before they’re ready, they’ll lash out via flying fists or running away. After five punches to the jaw and three near death runaway scenarios, he worked on building trust with each person that stumbles upon his shelter.
“Some man is here to see you.”
Shit. Dick rakes his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair to hide the slight tremors jolting through his hands. Could be the cops, he thinks. Though, he’s made it very clear to everyone that he’s only able to maintain this warehouse as a shelter with the promise to GCPD that everyone will behave. There’s too much crime in Gotham as it is, one cop had said to him, so if he keeps his kids in line, the cops will turn a blind eye to the trespassing.
Maybe not the cops, then. Unless there’s been trouble with one of his kids. But then, he would have heard about it by now. Word of mouth travels fast amongst his crew. He mentally picks through today’s schedule, running brief analyses over each person on today’s food crew. He currently has a handful of troublemakers, a rowdy group of pre-teens taking their anger of their current life situation out on each other. But, he’s been keeping their daily duties separate to avoid conflict, so—
“Yo, Nightwing!”
The budding fear diminishes the second Dick hears the rough, familiar voice accompanied by steady footsteps that deliberately avoid each creak in the stairs. He smiles at Jenny and nods to the door. “Thanks, Jenny. I’ll take it from here.”
The second Jenny turns, she bumps into Roy, who steadies her with a hand clapping down to her shoulder.
“Why thank you, sweet messenger.”
Dick cocks a brow as Roy steps around Jenny and enters the room, arms as wide as the smile stretching across his mouth.
“Code names again, Roy? Really?”
Roy crosses the room and slaps a hand across Dick’s mouth, and Dick has to swallow back the annoyed urge to lick his palm.
“No speaking of Roy Harper here, Dickie. Only Arsenal when I cross through this threshold.”
Dick swats Roy’s hand away, tilting his head. “Arsenal? That’s new.”
“Yeah, well, I decided to stop rolling with Speedy. Sounded too drug-like, if you ask me.”
Nodding, Dick side steps around Roy and jumps up until his hands are latching onto the low-hanging rafter above him. He ignores the unsettling creaking against his weight as he pulls himself up until his chin’s tapping the top of the rafter.
“Well, Arsenal,” Dick starts, dragging out the new code name, trying to gather a feeling of it on his tongue. “What brings you here?”
“Well, first of all, you are looking at the new mid-day stocker at Queen’s Market and Café.”
“Shit, you got the job?” Dick drops down after his tenth pull-up and arches his back into a stretch before moving downward to work through a set of push-ups.
“Yep, Oliver said he sees real potential in me. He said I’m a good last piece to his arsenal.”
Dick pauses, laughing lowly under his breath. “Of stockers and baristas?”
“Yeah, he’s kind of a weird dude, but he gave me an advance so I could get an apartment.”
“Have you told him about…” Dick doesn’t finish; he doesn’t need to. The dark flash that pulls across Roy’s face says enough.
“He knows I’ve been in between homes, but that’s it.”
Dick can fill in the gaps easily. He’s been in this warehouse since he was 12, after fleeing from his first foster family. Roy joined him not long after, and together, the two built this place up, swaying reputation and all. He finishes his tenth push-up and slowly gets to his feet, a sigh slipping past his lips.
“I’m not embarrassed by it, Dick. It is what it is. I just… Oliver sees so much in me. I don’t want—”
“You don’t want him to judge based on this,” Dick finishes for him, gesturing around the two. The room, one everyone’s dubbed as “Leader’s Lair” for years now, has a sleeping bag in one corner and a box in another. There’s a pile of worn-out books beside the sleeping bag, and a beat-up, battery-powered lamp off to the side. It’s bare boned, but it’s been home for Dick for years.
“I get it, Roy, and I’m happy for you.”
“I can still help,” Roy starts, quick tone mismatched from the determination lighting his eyes, “so you aren’t out busting your ass every night for minimum wage to feed everyone. I can give you money—”
“It’s fine,” Dick interrupts, and he means it. More than just offering a place for people in need, Dick wants to push everyone to better themselves, to thrive off independence, and Roy did just that. He doesn’t want anyone to feel like they owe him or this place anything. “I mean, I’m not saying that if we cross paths, I’m not going to insist you treat me to lunch,” he jokes, jabbing Roy with his elbow. “But that money is yours, Roy. We’ll get along just fine.”
There’s conflict in Roy’s eyes, the fire dimmed, and Dick’s already prepared to counter-argue anything that comes out of Roy’s mouth, and he knows Roy knows this; the two have been butting heads for years, but Dick’s wit always gives him the upper hand.
“Fine, but the next ten burgers are on me.”
Smiling, Dick claps a hand to Roy’s shoulder. It’s only been a few weeks since Roy left to pester Oliver Queen daily regarding the “Help Wanted” sign outside his shop, and he’s genuinely glad to see him.
“What else?” Dick asks finally. “You said ‘first of all,’ so what else?”
Roy’s smile drops instantly, and Dick matches his frown, his own brows furrowing.
“There’s this kid,” Roy starts as he begins pacing the small length of the room. “He’s been hanging around Oliver’s place for about a week now. He’s doesn’t beg for money or anything, he just… watches the store. All day.”
Crossing his arms, Dick waits patiently. He’s heard this type of scenario multiple times before, but Roy’s demeanor is telling him that there’s a catch. Then again, Dick’s grown to learn that there’s always a catch.
“So, I finally approached him. Went through the whole spiel: asked him if he was lost, had a home, needed a place to stay, yadda, yadda.”
“And?”
“He told me to fuck off.”
“Look, Roy, I don’t—”
“Look, man, I know, okay? Frankly, the kid’s a prick, but I’ve just got this feeling—he just… he’s been through some shit, man. I can just tell. And weirdly enough, I don’t think he’s casing Oliver’s place. I just think he’s tired, and he needs help.”
“I don’t force people to come here.” Dick replies flatly, and Roy nods quickly.
“I know. I just… You’ve got a way with people, Dick. You know I’m shit at talking to people, but you? You could help him.”
“I can only help people who want to be helped.”
“He does. Just trust me on this?”
Dick moves to the small, cracked window, shuddering slightly at the chilly breeze that filters in through the splintering gaps. It’s nearing the end of October now, so he should probably work on re-covering gaps in windows to keep the warmth in now that it’s getting a lot colder.
There are numerous uncertainties flicking through his mind, the top one being that he’s bringing someone dangerous into the warehouse. He has too many kids to keep safe, with the youngest being only 7. He’s accepted long ago that he can’t physically save everyone and that some people just aren’t going to work in the warehouse. Still, among the sea of uncertainties currently attempting to drown his brain, there’s one small, nagging bubble of air that he can’t help but cling to.
Dick’s been there before. After watching his parents die, he shut down, and he’s spewed his fair share of curses at adults trying to “help,” not understanding at the time why he couldn’t just shut himself away to properly grieve. He didn’t have anyone to help him; he worked through his shit on his own, until Roy came along. So maybe…
“Name?” He sighs, turning from the window.
“What?”
“You said you talked to him. Did you manage to get his name?”
“Oh, definitely not. After he told me to fuck off, I stayed, and he very calmly threatened to slit my throat in my sleep.”
Dick swallows thickly around a pull of instant regret. “There are multiple kids that hang around Oliver’s. How will I know who he is?”
“Easy,” Roy starts. “He’s always got this red hood pulled up and over his head.”