Chapter Text
March 3rd, 2010. Five days before the anniversary.
If there was one thing Dick hated more than a homicide, it was one that involved people he knew.
In all honesty Dick hadn’t known of it until he had stepped out of the car and crossed the threshold into the warehouse. When Electrum tainted his nostrils, filling his entire senses and giving rise to the anxious feeling pounding behind his heart, he knew it was one of his.
“Don’t touch anything.”
Neal looked to his right and glanced at the older man standing beside him. Special Agent Peter Burke had been his handler for almost a year now and still struggled to trust him. Not that Dick particularly cared. He tried to keep an arm's length from these people. Not because he feared them, no. It was because if he gave in and made a connection, he was afraid he’d lose them.
“I’m an alleged forger Peter, not a maniac with the need to touch dead bodies.” Dick threw on a teasing smile and hoped it wasn’t a grimace. “You know how I feel about dead people anyway. Not my expertise.”
“Just let Violent Crimes do their job and focus on the artifacts.” Peter put on the latex gloves. “Somehow these two things are connected.
Before he even stepped foot in Peter’s direction, however, his eye caught a glimpse of the murder scene itself. Years of working in Gotham and as a Talon made him desensitized to most of these scenarios. Yet this made the bile in his stomach shoot to his throat and burn it raw.
He worked with this Talon before. A Rook in his parliament, if the colour of the shoulder pad was anything to go by. Specifically mutated with a mixture of Electrum and Venom to enhance him. He easily towered over the others and over most of the other Rooks. The muscles on him weren’t toned, but more so reminded him of people spending their days lifting heavy objects.
Now this Talon lay dead on a strange metal table in the middle of this warehouse. Arthur was his name. Didn’t talk much, but cared for the Talons stuck as Children. Kept them curious without the court finding a way to punish them for it. Engaged them constantly in social interactions. It let them all have a break from the Death that clung to them like leeches.
Arthur hadn’t died quickly. Not with the kinds of wounds present on his body. They were cut in areas to allow blood to slowly ooze from someone’s veins, possibly to drain him. On his neck was an injection point. The needle had to have been thick and filled with some sort of paralysis or some dangerous substance that could somehow shut down a Talon.
Dick didn’t realize he’d gotten so close until his hand was hovering just over Arthur’s eyes. They were glassy and far away. The golden hue, almost black from the lack of movement.
In this moment, he wondered what colour his eyes really were. Was it a warm brown that looked amber in the sunlight? Or a dazzling green like those lovely emeralds.
“Isn’t it fascinating?” A woman slipped beside him and stared down at Arthur with an odd grin.
“Not really.” Dick removed his hand and hooked his thumb under the belt loop. “This person died in a painful and slow way, so apologies if I don’t share the same enthusiasm as you.”
A lot of that sentence came out more sarcastic and rude than he wanted it too. Or what the Neal Caffrey persona would allow.
“How do you know if they died like that?” She asked, lifting her brow.
“The wounds aren’t concerning, not until they become multiple. He wouldn’t have died from them.” Dick couldn’t help but go into detective mode. It had been far too long. “This spot on his neck. It’s fairly recent, which indicates the suspects had used a needle on him.” He walked around the table and gestured to Arthur’s wrists. “Not to mention no indication of restraints had been used, which means-
“A paralytic drug was most likely used.” Another voice cut in.
Dick startled and spun around, praying he didn’t look too guilty. The man in front of him was one of the higher ranking men in Violent Crimes. He looked older and like he’d seen many not so pretty things in his lifetime.
“That’s quite the detective work. Usually white collar CI’s avoid the gruesome bits.”
A nervous chuckle passed his lips before he forced the mask of Neal back on. “You have to have a keen eye to locate forged paintings, so this is nothing too different. Though, I’m definitely trying to hold down the vomit on this one.”
The man slowly nodded. “Special Agent Ed Barstow, I’m the one in charge of the operation.” He offered Dick his hand. “You can call me Barstow.”
Dick took his hand and shook it. “Neal.”
“I’ve heard about you.” Barstow smiled. “Though most are bad things.”
“That depends on who you’re talking to. I’m actually quite the charmer.” Dick tilted his fedora down with a wink.
“Organized Crime says you are a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” He moved past Dick and stared down at Arthur. “Every homicide just keeps getting stranger. Last week there was a vampire, now it’s some cult.”
“Not a cult actually.” The woman (who Dick totally didn’t forget about) spoke up.
“Which is why we brought you on.” Barstow sighed. “Neal, this is Marge. She’s part of the Metahuman and Monsters sector.”
“My main focus is in the Avian-Human branch.” She looked down at Arthur and began peeling back the layers of clothing.
If Dick didn’t say his stomach churned as she did, then he’d be lying. “Really?” He asked, trying his best to sound interested.
“Yes. You can tell they’re Avian in nature from the suit, weaponry and physical characteristics.” Marge turned over his hand and pulled off the glove revealing the long sharp blackened claws underneath.
When Dick was talonfied he gained the same mutations. The same dark claws, the same oddly shaped feet and the same cold golden eyes. Once the Electrum is flushed out of his system the only thing remaining is the claws and stupid feet. Of course specialized shoes and weekly nail care keeps him human looking.
“It’s surprising that a whole branch is dedicated to these fuckers.” One of the agents shot over his shoulder.
“I think it’s amazing,” Marge said. “An entire network of people with different customs and beliefs.”
“Have you ever met a live one?” Barstow asked.
“Sadly no.” She spun one of the throwing knives between her fingers. “If I did, it would be a breakthrough.”
If she met a living Talon she'd be slaughtered and eaten. No one met a Talon and lived to tell the tale. Or came out in one piece. Though, Dick liked the curiosity in her. It wasn’t often he met someone so interested in their work. Yet the idea of a talon mauling the poor woman brought dark images to his mind.
“I’m going to get some air.” Dick turned around and walked outside. Peter will be pissed, but right now the nausea was starting to set in and he couldn’t look at Arthur without wanting to throw up.
The stagnant air from earlier in the day had picked up and become a slight breeze. FBI agents roamed around doing their assigned tasks. Dick shuffled over to the curb and sat down. He took off his fedora and ran his fingers along the rim, breathing deeply.
A pang of sadness finally set in. He didn’t know Arthur on a personal level, but he knew him just enough. Just enough for there to be more grief than expected. The others didn’t know. If they did, Arthur’s body wouldn’t be in the government's hands.
“Room for one more?” Marge hovered behind Dick. Her fingers fiddled with her latex gloves.
“No one’s stopping you.” Dick shrugged as let out a long sigh. “Though I’m not sure it’s a good idea to sit next to me.”
“Oh? Why’s that?” She asked.
“Haven’t you heard?” A sly smile played across his face and he revealed Marge’s badge ID. “Never trust a con artist.”
A warm laugh bubbled out of Marge and Dick couldn’t help but smile wider. It’s been a while since someone has actually laughed with him. Since someone has really listened.
No, she was only charmed by him. This wasn’t her caring for him. People weren’t like that. They weren’t like him.
“Maybe, get a zipper pocket. I find it’s harder to pick pockets that require more steps to open.” He offered her badge back and let her take it back.
Her nicely trimmed nails grazed his hand and he couldn’t help but admire them. Then again, he couldn’t help but admire her. She seemed so… inquisitive. Maybe even someone who could be a good friend.
“Neal, there you are.” Peter crossed his arms. “Come on, I found the paintings.”
Marge gave him a tilt of her head and a silly smile. Dick stood up, matched her smile and followed Peter back into the warehouse. His smile quickly fell as he walked after Peter.
He stared blankly at the back of his neck and began compartmentalizing the death that was crawling its way back into his thoughts. Batman taught him when on the job he needed to put personal emotions on the back burner. Home was the time to let it out, not the field.
The artifacts were the real deal. They were surprisingly familiar with their gold trim and leather handles. It only took a second to figure they weren’t forgeries. Somehow he managed to keep his persona up. Though, the cracks were there. Maybe it was the lack of sleep.
William had a solo mission in France and decided to drop the parliament onto him. Now he was babysitting forty-ni… forty-eight talons. They spent the nights on his balcony and roof. Some of them had found their way inside and created a nest out of his blankets and pillows.
Or maybe it was because the anniversary of his parents death was soon. The day after Mothers Day was when his parents took the fall. The number changed every year, but the day was still the same. That could be it.
He thanked whatever god existed that Peter had lighted up on impromptu visits. He couldn’t deal with him coming in on those vulnerable moments.
He was also thankful Moz was out on a trip in Blüdhaven following a lead on one of his wild conspiracy theories.
The parliament was going to be angry when the news came in. It was going to get dangerous and people were going to be in trouble.
“Angent Burke.”
Peter looked up from his file and Dick turned his head. “Agent Barstow.”
“Those paintings are somehow related to our case, one of the higher ups said we’ll be working together.” He put his hands on his hips and smiled. “Maybe I can use Neal here to help. He’s quite the detective.”
Peter looked unimpressed. “He stays with my team.”
“Right.” Barstow cleared his throat and slowly made his way back to where Arthur lay.
Once Peter was nose deep in the file prattling on about the case, Dick slipped away and stood beside Barstow. Arthur was now in a body bag, his dead eyes closed, almost making it look as if he were only sleeping. Marge was back, taking some final pictures before the bag was zipped up halfway and left to wait for the right gear to move it.
“You have a light?” Barstow asked.
Dick pulled out a simple lighter from his chest pocket and handed it over. He didn’t smoke as often as he used to, but it was there in case the need to anxiously go through an entire pack overwhelmed him. Or if Jason or Konner hung out with him and wanted a smoke.
Barstow took out a flat candle and placed it at the head of the table, he lit it and gave the lighter back. Carefully he pulled out a white scarf with red trim, held the fabric under his chin and muttered a familiar phrase, “Akana mukav tut le Devlesa.”
It was Lavari. A dialect under Vlax Romani. He’s heard it many times, mainly from the group in the more rough parts of Blüdhaven.
His mother tongue was Angloromani or Pogadi chib, which meant it was an offshoot of Romani. It didn’t follow the same structure as Rromani ćhib, leaning more into English sentence structure.
However, that didn’t mean he couldn’t understand Vlax Romani. He spent many months learning from the older Roma folk in that part of Blüdhaven, and was too stubborn to forget it.
The phrase itself was one of mourning and involved helping the dead depart more peacefully. Dick didn’t have any red on him so he opted for pulling out his white handkerchief and held it between his fingers. He didn’t exactly need to hold it, but he felt Daj would have wanted him to be more protected.
The two stood in silence and occasionally Barstow muttered another prayer. At one point Peter awkwardly stood next to Dick and stared warily at the body. With his free hand, Dick pulled out a quarter from his pocket and tossed it onto the body’s chest. Barstow gave a curious glance before fully closing the bag and leaving elsewhere.
“What was that about?” Peter asked.
“It was nothing. Let’s just go back to the bullpen.” Dick pocketed his handkerchief and left back outside.
“You weren’t conning him were you?” Peter fell into stride beside Dick, his voice stern. “That man isn’t someone you should-
“Okay I get it!” Dick snapped. “Geez Peter, can you just lay off for a second and believe I’m not always going to do something criminal?”
Peter stared for a long moment, his eyes wide with shock. Regret quickly washed away Dick’s anger and he went back to walking. Neal Caffery wasn’t quick to anger. He always brushed things off and teased. If he was losing his temper this easily, clearly it meant he was more than just tired.
Taking a few grounding breaths, he once again compartmentalized the emotions and plastered on his Neal-esque smile. “You know I’m just joking around Peter. There’s no need to go all cop on me.” He winked and strode toward the car.
Dick was almost in the car when the scream happened. It was ear splitting and not human. The beginning had been, yes, but the rest sounded like a very angry owl. Anger that wasn’t his own flared in his chest and the need to tear apart every agent here boiled cold under his skin.
Holding his ears, he grit his teeth and looked across the street between two other warehouses. In the darkness a small talon bolted out and into the daylight. Her sword drawn and ready to kill. The symbol on her gold medallion indicated her rank as pawn and if he got a closer look he knew engraved on the edge of the flat circle would be the name Grey Son.
She was the oldest “child” talon in his parliament. A twelve year old in mind and body. Cindy is what they called her. She doesn’t remember her given one. Her death was too traumatic to remember.
In a rush of movement, Dick snagged Cindy by the back of her suit. Latched his fingers around the holster for her blade and held her up in the air. He kept her back firmly to his chest as she screeched and clawed at the sleeves of his blazer. Her sword clattered to the ground and those who weren’t paying attention finally joined in with the ones watching.
Many of the agents from violent crimes had their guns drawn and raised at her. It wouldn’t do much to keep her back. Even if all of them had good aim and were able to hit her, she’d still manage to kill them all. Dick was the only reason they weren’t bleeding out. He was the highest ranking in the parliament and only lost that rank when William took over. Every talon within it answered and listened to him. Cindy could easily slit his throat, but she didn’t.
His own instincts were fighting with his morality. The screeching brought it to the forefront of his mind. It wanted to join her and help gut them. The FBI weren’t the murderers though. They were only the ones with the body, not the ones who killed Arthur.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Dick began to hum a soft tune. It was the same one he always whistled or hummed when he performed a trick or comforted a person. Usually there were lyrics to accompany it, but right now he only hummed.
Blood soaked through his sleeves and made his arms slick. Cindy’s claws dug deeper into his flesh, but surely enough her screeching died and became small lamenting chirps.
“My god! That’s a living Avian!” Marge pushed past the agents and trotted over. “There’s no need to point your guns at it! I got this under control,” she said.
Something about the way she approached made the Dick’s skin crawl. Protectively, he slotted Cindy beside him and held her against his hip. Her claws wrapped around his arms and squeezed. Forcibly getting her off would take the act of breaking her fingers, so Dick just let her hold onto him. When she is ready to let go, she’ll let go.
“You must be my good omen Neal!” Marge exclaimed.
“Neal, you better put that thing down.” Peter cautiously stepped forward.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to.” Dick tugged at his confiscated arm as a demonstration.
Peter sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course not. It’s never that easy with you.”
Dick smiled awkwardly and for (hopefully) the final time today trekked to the car. He opened the back door and sat down. Cindy curled into him and rested her head on his shoulder. The chirps had faded into light breaths.
Marge hopped into the passenger seat. She turned to face them with a stupid grin and pointed a camera at Cindy. Dick forced his lips together and put on a neutral expression. If he bared his teeth and screeched it would not be a good idea. Especially to someone he found was actually well attentioned.
At one point on the car ride Marge had begun chatting away about the fantastic ‘Avians’ and all the interesting things they could do.
A lot of it was false. She believed they were born like this. That they had colonies under the city and lived peacefully. Personally, Dick thinks Marge should go pull her head out of her ass and actually look at all the weapons they carry.
What a rude thought.
“…. Not to mention they most likely had wings at one point!” Marge walked just behind Dick.
Dick has seen some talons with wings. It was a work in progress and only aided in gliding. They were too small and the muscle points weren’t in the right places. Many of those talons just ripped them out on their own from how painful and annoying it was.
“I wonder if they can speak like us? Oh isn’t this exciting?” She leaned close to Dick in the elevator and cooed at Cindy. If Cindy was awake, she’d have torn her throat out by now.
“Very.” Dick was way too close to losing it. Not because of her necessarily, but from the gripping protectiveness that latched onto him like a vice.
By the time the elevator door opened, Dick was ready to break Batman’s no kill rule. He rushed out and popped into a meeting room where one was taking place. It was about a case he didn’t care about, but it seemed better than listening to Peter or Marge at the moment.
Dick sat down next to Diana who did a double take at who was in his arms. Cindy had woken up and was staring at her with a tilted head. The person giving the meeting, Hughes, rambled on. Not taking notice of Dick and his companion. Or he saw and was too done with Neal’s shit to care.
Diana leaned forward and whispered, “Neal. Why do you have a kid in a Halloween costume?”
“It’s a long story.” Dick pulled down Cindy’s mask and handed her over to Diana. “Can you watch her for a bit? I have stuff to do.”
“What?” Diana held Cindy with ease, but looked extremely confused.
“Thanks.”
He sped out of the meeting room while Diana hissed a very frustrated, “Neal!”
The bullpen was even more cramped when Dick found his way out of the meeting room. Agents from Violent Crimes and some people who were with Marge talked with the White Collar agents who were on their case. Which involved Peter and in tandem, one Neal Caffery.
“So this is most definitely bigger than we thought.” Barstow rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“Where is the Avian anyway?” A man with wild hair asked.
“Neal had it.”
“Not anymore.” Dick stood beside Peter.
“Neal.” Peter narrowed his eyes.
“I gave her to Diana to look after for a bit. Besides, I need medical attention.” He pulled up his tattered sleeves revealing the deep claw marks and shredded skin.
“Shit, Neal!” Peter yelled.
Half the group began scrambling for medical supplies while the other half forced Dick into a chair. There was a lot of angry shouting and wild curses being thrown around.
One trip to the hospital later, Dick was back in the office that was almost empty with forty stitches and tight bandages around his arms. He had been given a shirt from lost and found that was too itchy and tight. Cindy was back in his lap with her own clothes that were also pulled out of lost and found. Diana somehow managed to cut her claws and file them down. They were even a sparkly pink from nail polish that she kept in her bag to entertain kids.
Barstow, Diana, Peter, Jones, Marge and a few other agents from VC were still in the bullpen. Well, Peter was still here because he drove Dick to the hospital. They sat at the desks in silence with most of them eyeing Cindy.
“So.” Jones cleared his throat.
“Anyone hungry?” Diana asked.
“Barstow, don’t you know a nice place we can go?” One of the agents asked.
He lifted his brow and narrowed his eyes. “Which place?”
“Y’know that Gypsy restaurant you talk about so often.”
Dick bit his tongue and forced himself not to curse the man out. You can’t be Romani and mention your culture around gadjo’s without becoming the focal point of the conversation.
“Ćhavo’s?” Barstow’s voice shook, but he kept the rest of his demeanour calm.
“Yeah that! You talk about it all the time, so why don’t we go there?”
“I’ve never tried Gypsy cuisine before.” Jones joined in. Though he didn’t use the word like a slur. “Is it any good?”
“I grew up eating it, so yeah.” Barstow shrugged.
“Alright let’s go then.” Diana clapped her hands.
Oh boy, this was going to be a nightmare.
The minute Dick stepped inside the restaurant, he felt at home. The smell of it reminded him of his youth, when Daj would make those warm meals on cold days. It brought him back to the weeks Alfred spent learning to perfect every recipe in Daj’s book. The aroma of it always stayed in the house for weeks afterward.
“<Andrei, it’s been such a long time!>” An older man pulled Barstow into a firm hug. “<You’re doing well?>” He asked.
Dick recognized the dialect as Cerhari. It was more closely related to Lavari and was a form of Northern Vlax. He spent a year or so of his circus days travelling Hungary and loved meeting the Romani people there.
“<I’m fine.>” Barstow smiled. “<I brought some friends if you don’t mind.>”
“The more the merrier!" He switched to English and pulled away. “Please come! New faces are always welcome.”
Cindy slowly slid out of Dick’s carry and began walking, her fingers carefully wrapped around his hand. At the booth she was given a colouring sheet and crayons which she carefully examined before giving Dick a curious glance. A smile and nod was all she needed from him before she gingerly began to colour.
It took a few moments before she gave Dick a crayon and twittered. He took the green crayon carefully and began colouring with her. Though it only lasted a few minutes before she angrily hooted and ripped the crayon out of his hand. She clearly didn’t like what he was doing.
“Since this is your first time, I’m thinking we will order the Family meal. We can pick multiple dishes in smaller portions and go from there.” Barstow tapped the menu’s front side. “I’ll pick what I think you'll like.”
Dick looked down at the menu he had been given and looked at it thoughtfully. Many of the dishes were from different regions with some he recognized as more associated with his own group Romanichal. The one that caught his attention the most was Hočiwiči. He bit his lip and stared at the word for a long time.
He remembered when he tried making it the first time at the manor and nearly burned the oven down. It ended in tears from Dick and a patient Alfred gently reminding him he can try again with some extra help.
After a few minutes of settling in they were given Bodag as a starter. Dick had to refrain from immediately tearing into it and instead took a chunk and put it on a smaller plate for Cindy to try.
He wasn’t sure whether or not she’d like it, but he had a feeling she wasn’t going to be picky. Thankfully he was right and she ate it relatively fast. Dick bit into his own piece and all of his problems melted away. The bread was that perfect texture and evenly spread with warmth.
The drinks, Romano Cajo, were even better. He used to steal his parents' Cajo after he finished his on those scorching August days. Or in the winter when it was served hot. This one was chilled, but it still did the trick of bringing back the sense of nostalgia.
“Who knew Gypsies were good cooks?” An agent had finished the Cajo and was chewing on a piece of Bodag.
“Just because my people are different from yours does not mean we are inferior in making home cooked meals,” Barstow said evenly.
“Was the candle also something part of your culture?” Peter asked, taking a sip of his drink.
“It was a smaller version of a mourning ritual. Lighting a candle and saying a prayer in someone’s death or just before is supposed to help them find their way into the afterlife.” He explained. “I may not have known the person, but everyone deserves to be mourned and grieved.” Barstow looked at Dick and smiled softly. “I’m glad you joined me in prayer.”
Dick shrugged. “I don’t think it’s any fun to pray alone.”
The group flitted off into silence once the food arrived and ate without much complaint. Dick enjoyed every part of the meal and helped Cindy understand how to properly use a fork. She didn’t listen much and ate with her hands and a knife.
Halfway through the meal, some of the employees came out onto the small stage and began singing. Their instruments and voices carried through the air and gave a warm ambience to the restaurant.
A few tables away, he noticed one of the waitresses struggling with carrying too many dishes. Dick quickly excused himself and strode over to her. He put on a small smile and gently took some of the load off by taking some of the dishes and balancing them on his arms.
“<Thank you.>” The waitress looked up and her eyes blew wide. “Oh, sorry I thought you were- no no, you don’t have to-
“It’s fine.” Dick laughed. “You looked like you needed help, so let me help.”
“This is my first day on my own. Usually I’m trailing behind one of my brothers.” She chuckled, and began moving to the kitchen. “I’m Daisy. She quickly flustered. “But you probably already knew that from my name… tag.” Daisy looked down at her shirt and her face became redder. “Or not.”
“Don’t worry, my first day of my job was way worse.” Dick used his foot to push open the swinging door.
“Thank you.”
The kitchen had four people inside moving about. One was an older woman with speckles of grey in her hair. Two of them were men that looked to be a few years older than Dick and a younger man washing the dishes had to be younger than Daisy.
“<Csilla! Don’t start using customers as your help!>” The older woman scolded.
“<Sorry Mom, I tried to stop him.>” Daisy set the dishes next to the sink followed shortly after by Dick.
“<Did our little sister find herself a boyfriend?>” One of the men asked with a wide smile.
“<Shut it József!>” Daisy stamped her foot.
“<Twenty-seven, and she finally pulled.>” József laughed.
“<Go easy on her. Everyone knows she looks like a troll.>” The other man, stage whispered.
Angrily, Daisy kicked the man’s shines. “<Sándor! You jerk!>”
“<Hes kind of right, it would be a miracle if you finally pulled. Especially the pretty boy over there.>” The youngest pointed at Dick.
“<No, he’s a non-Roma.>” The mother waved a pair of tongs around. “<We don’t need gadjo in this family!>”
“<Relax mom. Antal is just joking around!>” Sándor waved dismissively which earned a smack on the head.
Daisy slowly backed out of the kitchen with Dick in front. Once outside of the busy space she sighed.
“As you can see my family is very chaotic.” She ran her hand through her hair.
“Probably not as bad as mine.” Dick smiled but quickly it became a grimace. He wondered if she'd seen anything. Mostly because his penthouse was pretty close around here. “I have a question.”
“What is it?”
“Has there been any rumours of murders going around? Or anything that involves things being moved?” Dick asked.
The tension rolled off Daisy in waves. “Of course you ask me,” She spat. “Always asking the poor gypsy girl.”
Dick’s eyes blew wide. “No no, I didn’t ask because you were-
“Have a good night.” Daisy turned around and left for the back.
Dammit.
At the end of the meal, Dick decided to walk home. The restaurant was close and in his radius, but the look Barstow gave him after the father of Daisy came out and told him what happened was not a good one.
Cindy followed close behind jumping in the shallow puddles from the rain that fell while dinner happened. She nearly screamed her lungs out when they tried making her go with anyone else. Peter looked ready to pass out when she glued herself to Dick. Diana only laughed while Jones snapped a photo.
More missing posters than usual lined the lamp post outside June's place. It only was two a week or so ago. Now it’s up to ten. The worst thing is it’s people society wouldn’t particularly miss.
The door clicked open and Dick crashed to the floor. Cindy carefully shut it behind them and scampered off to the bed where the rest of the parliament had most likely went in to hide from the rain.
A bath would be nice.
Shakily, Dick got to his feet and made his way into the bathroom. He turned on the faucet and put the plug into place. While the water warmed and filled the tub, he peeled off his clothes and wrestled out of his shoes. Usually he took them off at the front, but the exhaustion from today left him forgetful. The bandages were quickly discarded leaving scarred arms beneath. The stitches sat uncomfortably in the healed skin, but would eventually degrade on their own time.
In the mirror, Dick stared at his face. He was paler than usual (though that didn’t mean much since he had lacked proper sunlight since entering jail) and a thin band of gold outlined his pupils. A sign that his above average healing had worked (other than the actual healed arms showing it, that is).
Hot water worked out the aches in his muscles and allowed exhaustion to set itself into his bones. This was the time he finally allowed his compartmentalism to crack and fall apart.
First it was the anger. The horrible anger that always sat just below the surface. Dick bit down on his hand and let out a muffled scream. It was inhuman and loud. He screamed and bit until his throat was raw and the blood pooling in his mouth, rapidly flowing past his lips, dripped off his chin.
Then, the lamentment came. It formed into tears that fell down his face and disgusting snot that plugged up his nose. It became ugly rib rattling sobs which wracked his body and shook his usually strong frame.
He didn’t know Arthur well. He probably misunderstood him more than not and most likely ignored him. Yet, he let him die. Dick’s one job was to keep every talon safe and accounted for, but somehow he let one out of his sight and they died because of it.
Dick wondered if Arthur died scared. If his final breath was one of fear because he knew he’d never see the others. Or was it peaceful? To finally die and move on from this cruel world.
Whatever the feelings were, he died alone and Dick grieved for him.