Chapter Text
The first time Dick sees it, he's standing on the edge of a rooftop in the rain, watching an ambulance drive away a man he almost beat to death for making a comment about Robin. He'd pulled him off a little girl before that, so all things considered, he doesn't feel too bad about his actions. Thankfully, he'd managed to catch the entire encounter before anything had escalated past ripped clothes. She's safe in her mother's arms now, wrapped up in a blanket and sucking on a lollipop. The sight sends a bittersweet pain ping-ponging through his ribs.
He turns away from the scene. When he glances down at his aching knuckles, he can see the rain slowly working away at the blood there. He breathes slow and tries not to think about what it all reminds him of.
When he takes a running leap off of the rooftop, he does so alone. His suit stretches over his shoulders in classic Nightwing blue.
It's been three months since Bruce returned without Tim. Three months since he got his father back and lost his little brother—for good this time.
He's run apologies over in his head, again and again. Paced and planned and agonized for hours over how to bring Tim back into the fold; how to make him understand that Dick never meant for him to think he had no place. That Tim couldn't be his Robin but he could be his Nightwing; could be the one to call Batman out and the pillar he leaned on.
That'd all come crashing down the moment Ra's had sent Tim's suit back to them in shreds, covered in Tim's blood. Ra's followed shortly after, along with every single Lazarus Pit in the world, leaving no answers; only questions.
Justice League Dark had sniffed around the subject before refusing to meddle, no matter how much Batman pestered them.
Tim is gone.
Bruce is back.
Dick is guilty of inadvertently causing his little brother's death.
So he sees it—looming in the shadows, a shape like a dog—but he can't be bothered to do much more than take note. It's not doing anything. There's no screaming, no sign of danger. Just another oddity among oddities; one he turns his back on in order to return to his empty apartment where he can wallow in peace.
The second time he sees it is a bit different. He's investigating rumors about a warehouse that was found full of a strange green goo that matches the pattern of blood splatters normally found in homicides. It's at least a day old and if it is some kind of blood it tells of a ghastly crime. He takes a sample and snaps pictures of everything before sending them off to Oracle to look over.
He can't do anything more without further information, so he puts up caution tape likely to be ignored and leaves the warehouse. Outside in the alley, he almost jumps when a low growl comes from beside the dumpster and a pair of red eyes seems to materialize out of thin air.
He turns on his heat sensors and gets nothing. By the time he turns them back off, whatever it is has vanished.
"Okayyyyy," he says to himself, rocking back on his heels and giving a nod to the suddenly empty space. "That's totally normal and not at all concerning. I'll be leaving now."
There's no answer, no trace that there was ever anything to give an answer in the first place. But he feels an itch between his shoulder blades the whole way home, like he's being watched.
It doesn't go away.
The third time he's… not doing well. If he ever was the first two times.
He's gotten into another screaming match with Bruce, managed to evade Damian despite the aching hole his absence continues to leave and he's on his own on patrol making bad decisions. A bullet grazes his bad leg and he buckles, going down hard on the concrete. He grunts, hands planting themselves against the ground as he works to push himself up, even knowing he's going to be too late.
A gun cocks. A finger curls around the trigger—and a shape erupts from the shadows at Dick's feet with the sort of screaming snarl that accompanies nightmares. It swallows the gun, attached arm and all.
Dick struggles to keep up after that.
There are screams and shots gone wild as the snarling mass cuts through the group of ten like a knife through paper. Blood splatters onto the floor and bodies fall, leaving only carnage behind. By the time it's all over, Dick has gotten his leg beneath him again and is leaning heavily against the wall, staring with wide eyes at the thing that has become his savior.
It's dark by the docks and not very well lit. The sky is overcast as per normal Gotham weather and the streetlights in the area don't reach this far. Still, he can make out some of what he's seeing through his advanced lenses.
There are glowing red orbs dotting its body, casting a faint light onto the skin around them. As it moves closer, it becomes apparent that those orbs are eyes with no pupil or sclera; they move independently from one another, scanning the dark for threats and watching him all at once. Its body is so dark that they seem to almost hang in the air. It's only their differing angles that tells him there is a shape there at all.
The two closest to him blink at him, starting a wave that ripples out through the rest. One by one, those lights blink out until only the two in front remain.
It steps closer, revealing dangerously taloned feet that appear to be a poor imitation of a dogs foot—or, like someone took a dogs foot and threw in some prehistoric genes for fun. He can just make out a snout emerging from its face. Blood drips from sharp teeth and adds to the usual city ambiance.
It's very obviously not a dog. It's huge, for one. Its head comes easily to his own and its strange eyes read of some form of intelligence. It has no fur that he can make out—save for a thick mane of red so dark it's almost black—just smooth skin over rippling muscle, similar to a jaguar.
"Good boy?" He tries, as he debates whether he really wants to attempt to fight if it lunges for him next.
The creature tilts its head, movements too sharp, too deliberate to belong to an animal. It’s studying him. Gauging him.
Dick presses harder against the wall. He tries not to flinch as it prowls closer, those taloned feet clicking faintly against the wet concrete. When it finally stops, it folds down onto its haunches in front of him, like some monstrous parody of a well-trained dog waiting for command.
Up close, it’s worse. The air hums faintly around it, and the stench of iron-heavy blood mixes with something acrid and electric that makes the hairs on his arms rise. The two forward-facing eyes don’t blink again, but the rest along its body ripple with subtle movement beneath the skin, restless, shifting.
For a long beat, neither of them moves. Dick realizes he’s holding his breath.
“…Right,” he mutters, voice cracking with nerves. “Definitely not Lassie.”
The creature doesn’t react. It just sits there, still as stone.There's a faint curl of steam rising off its skin in the cold night air; its tongue lulls as it pants in a way that is inherently canine.
Dick cranes his head around it, looking at the bodies that aren't moving and then back. "Can I, uh, look at that?"
He doesn't get a response.
He steps sideways against the wall, testing. Two red eyes track him but the creature stays still. When he gets out of range of the two on its face, the ones on its side open once more.
"That's gotta be handy," he says, more to fill the silence than anything else. His feet nudge the first body and he doesn't need to check a pulse to see that the guy is dead. His head is missing.
Dick grimaces. He limps away from the wall to check the others, still caught under that unsettling gaze. Every single one of them is dead.
"Shit."
He breathes out a sigh, head tipping back.
He turns back around and jumps when he finds himself suddenly face to face with the creature. Unbalanced already, it sends him backwards and right into a pool of blood. He groans as it soaks into his suit's backside.
"Don't do that!" He says sharply, before realizing he maybe shouldn't yell at the murder dog currently sitting inches away. "I mean—you committed several crimes! Very bad ones! Do you have any idea how badly B is gonna get on my case for this?"
He gets a slow, eerie head tilt for that.
"Ugh, you're just like him. No words, just that judgmental stare." He runs his hands through his hair and scowls. "Listen, I appreciate the assist, I do. But you're going to get animal control called on you—or worse—if you keep killing people."
Red eyes shift to look down at the body then back up at him.
"Yeah," Dick says. "That? That's bad."
He blinks once and it's like the shadows come alive. They swallow the alley whole, leaving him suspended in darkness. When they clear once more, there isn't a single trace of blood or bodies to be found. Just that same monstrous shape, sitting in front of him like before, staring him down.
Dick drags his hand down his face, the weight of the night pressing heavier with every second. The alley is spotless now, like nothing ever happened; like his suit hadn’t just been soaked in blood. His voice comes out flat, tired in a way that’s worse than anger.
“…Or you could do that,” he mutters, staring at the spotless ground. He shakes his head. “Great. Perfect. Why not add reality-warping to the list?”
He finally lifts his gaze back to the eyes still watching him. His glare is half-hearted at best, but it’s all he has left. “With the dread of sounding like Batman—don’t kill. And don’t erase people from existence. It’s bad. Really bad. Got it?”
The creature doesn’t move for a moment. Then, impossibly, it lowers itself onto its forepaws in a slow, deliberate motion. Its many eyes fix on him with an intensity that almost mimics a dog’s contrite look—except this is no dog. This is a nightmare folded into flesh and shadow, pretending at innocence with a thousand unblinking stares.
Dick lowers his hand, glaring at the creature through his lashes. “Don’t look at me like that. That’s cheating. You don’t get to go all murder-Cerberus one second and then pull the puppy-eyes routine the next.”
The rows of red orbs blink out of sync, rippling across its body like a morbid light show, until only two remain fixed on him. The rest stay half-lidded, drooping in a way that almost passes for contrition.
He snorts, half a laugh, half disbelief. “God, I’m losing it. Talking morals with a… whatever you are. Ghost-dog? Demon-dog?”
The thing doesn’t move, doesn’t blink—at least not with the eyes focused on him. It just settles further onto its paws, massive head lowering until it’s nearly level with his knees.
Somehow, despite everything—the carnage, the blood that should still be on him but isn’t, the impossible shadows—it feels less like a threat and more like… company.
Dick rubs the back of his neck. “Fine. Stay. But no more head-snacking, got it? I’m barely keeping B off my ass as it is.”
The creature huffs out a sound that rattles in its chest, like air escaping a crypt. It goes still again; watchful, silent, loyal in its own terrifying way. It reminds him of the gargoyles that dot the city.
He stares at it for a few long moments before heaving another deep sigh. He lifts his fingers to his com and taps out the code for patrol done, heading in instead of talking to anyone. Babs is still somewhat mad at him and he can't handle her passive aggressive comments right now.
"Well, Fido, it's been real... weird and freaky, if I'm being honest. Thanks again for the assist. I'll just be going." He pushes himself back up to his feet and takes a limping step, eyes scanning the fire escape for a way up to the roof that won't agitate his knee further.
A heated length of muscle presses up against his bad leg and a shoulder nudges his side. He looks over to find the creature looking back at him, it's body leaning into his as if offering support. He very hesitantly reaches out to place his hand against its massive shoulder.
"You can't come with me," he says weakly. "If Damian finds out he'll want to keep you and I can't handle another lecture from B about setting poor boundaries for children."
The creature stares up at him with that impossible look—dozens of eyes, unblinking, yet somehow managing the exact same pathetic, hopeful expression he’s seen on every stray mutt in Gotham. It shouldn’t work. It really shouldn’t work. And yet, when it nudges him again, careful and almost gentle against his bad leg, Dick feels his resolve snap like wet cardboard.
He groans and just barely refrains from scrubbing a hand over his face. “Damn it. I’ve always been a sucker for dangerous, scary puppies.”
The creature tilts its head, as though considering whether that’s a compliment.
“Fine,” Dick says at last, letting his hand linger against its shoulder as he leans into the solid weight. “You can help me get to someplace safe. But after that, you’re gone, got it? Streets of Gotham, shadows, whatever hole you crawled out of—just don’t let the rest of the Batclan see you. They’ll either try to lock you up or drive you off, and honestly, I don’t have the energy to argue with them about keeping a hellhound as a sidekick.”
The creature lowers itself slightly, making it easier for him to lean on it, and Dick shakes his head with another weary sigh.
“…I really hope I don't regret this.”
They make it to his closest safe house, where the creature helps him to the bathroom. Dick sits on the toilet seat and begins to peel himself out of his suit. He unwraps his bruised ribs and eases his swelling knee out of its brace with a soft hiss. He's bleeding from the graze but not too deeply. He grabs his med-kit and gets to work disinfecting it.
The creature stares at him through it all.
Dick finds himself filling the silence.
"I'm getting old," he jokes, as he straightens his bad leg. "But Gotham makes it worse. It's so damp here, I'm always achy. Don't tell anyone, though. Jason would make fun of me until the day I die. Again."
He turns on the shower and considers them both. It's nowhere big enough for two people, but the smell of blood is still thick on his savior and it's putting him on edge.
"Hey, come here, big guy—err, are you a male? Female? Non binary? All's good, just, you know, gotta tell me."
He gets a flat stare. Somehow, he feels like he's being judged.
"Hey! I'm just trying to be nice! I was trying to tell you to get in the shower so I can wash that blood off."
The creature lets out a long, low huff that fogs the mirror, then—impossibly—rolls all of its eyes at once. The effect should be nightmare fuel, but Dick can’t help the short, startled laugh that slips out of him. It’s the first real smile he’s managed in days.
“Yeah, okay,” he says, shaking his head. “That’s fair.”
With a fluid, almost liquid grace, the hulking shape shifts forward and wedges itself into the shower stall. It fills the cramped space, shoulders brushing both tiled walls, taloned feet digging faint grooves into the porcelain. It sits there, massive and dark, as water begins to run down its slick hide in rivulets tinted pink.
Then it turns its head, fixing him with a look so flat, so pointed, that Dick almost hears the unspoken words: This what you wanted?
He chuckles again despite himself, exhausted but unable to fight the warmth creeping in. “Yeah. That’s exactly what I meant. Good boy.”
All those eyes blink in an uneven ripple, and Dick swears—just for a second—that it looks smug.
He grabs a washcloth and turns, careful to keep his knee straight. "Close your eyes," he instructs, before pausing. "Well, close the eyes on your body. I'm going to wash you."
They all close as asked. He reaches out slowly with his hand first, careful not to press too hard. He's startled at how soft the skin feels. It's like silk with just the faintest texture of fur; stretched tight over muscle that looks even more impressive under the lights. It's also warm. Unnaturally so.
The water runs brown and pink for a long time as he works soap into the creature's skin. Pieces of things he refuses to think about come free along with dried flakes of blood. The mane he thought was red turns out to be white.
"Must've been a while since you've been clean," he murmurs, leaning down to scrub at its broad chest. He's half soaked as it is, along with the floor. "You'll feel a lot better after this, right boy?"
He gets a soft huff that ruffles the hair at the back of his neck. There's no protest to the pronouns so he settles with that.
Next come the feet. He picks one massive paw up and scrubs at the dirt caked to the bottom. He eyes the strange nails, unsure if they need to be taken care of.
"Do these need to be trimmed? They're pretty long."
The massive paw twitches in his grip as a low whine rolls out of the creature’s chest. It gives a half-hearted tug, careful, like it’s afraid even the smallest jerk might hurt him. The sound is so incongruous—a nightmare beast making the kind of noise he’s heard from Great Danes afraid of nail clippers—that Dick can’t help but laugh.
“Don’t be a whiny baby,” he chides, rolling his eyes as he scrubs at the grime between its talons. “You eat a guy’s head and then cry about a little paw-care? Please.”
The creature lets out a grumble that rattles the shower tiles, but doesn’t pull away.
“I’ll cut them once we’re done cleaning,” Dick promises, setting the paw back down gently before reaching for the next one. “You’ll survive. And hey—if anyone asks, you’re officially getting the Wayne family spa treatment.”
For a moment, he swears he sees the ripple of eyes narrowing, the closest thing to an unimpressed glare he’s ever gotten from something not human.
"Just be glad it was me you chose to save and not B. You'd be stuck in a cell in the Cave getting poked and prodded." He sits back up, arching his back to stretch his spine out. It lets out a series of satisfying cracks.
A low growl rumbles from his companion at the mention of a cell. Lips peel back from teeth but it doesn't feel like a threat aimed at him.
"Yeah, those cells suck." He sighs, patting the creature's muscled shoulder. "Alright, you've gotta stand up so I can get your back legs."
It isn't until he stands to get a proper angle to scrub at his hindquarters that Dick realizes there's a tail back there. More than one in fact.
They're plastered tight to the creature's back legs but they unfold as he scrubs away the grime, becoming far longer than they'd previously looked. They look almost like thick tentacles with the same texture as the rest of him and they behave like they're separate. They pat at Dick curiously, wrapping around one of his wrists while the other curls high, shedding droplets of water everywhere.
"You just have more and more surprises, huh?"
The creature makes a sound—half growl, half rumble—that vibrates through the shower walls. Its eyes flick from its own hind legs up to Dick, expression unreadable, almost… puzzled. Then one of the tails snakes forward with startling precision, curling firmly around his waist.
“Hey—” Dick barely gets the word out before he’s yanked forward, stumbling into the spray of the shower. Warm water splashes down his front, soaking his compression shorts. He sputters, blinking through the droplets as the monster gives another low huff, something that almost—almost—sounds smug.
“Oh, I get it,” Dick mutters, swiping wet hair from his eyes. “Now me, huh? Real subtle.”
The tail loosens just enough to let him breathe but doesn’t let go, holding him in place like the world’s most terrifying seatbelt.
Dick groans, but there’s no real fight in him. “You know, most dogs just shake water all over their owners when they want attention. You had to go for kidnapping.”
Hundreds of eyes blink in a ripple, and Dick can’t shake the feeling that the thing is laughing at him.
"There's not much room in here," he points out. "Unless you want me to sit on you like the world's scariest shower seat, we've gotta trade places."
He gets a soft huff. In one graceful leap, the creature is out of the shower and on the floor next to the toilet. Dick barely gets a chance to lift his hands before he shakes, spraying water in every direction.
When it's finally over, he drops his hands to squint at him. "I walked into that one, didn't I?"
He lets out a barking sort of sound that gives Dick the distinct feeling that he's being laughed at.
"Yeah, yeah, laugh at the poor, injured human, I see how it is." He sits down on the side of the shower to wiggle out of his shorts and grabs the shower head so he doesn't have to stand. He makes quick work of cleaning his own body before he grabs for a towel to wrap his hair up in. It's getting long; it's fallen past his shoulder blades now. He's already heard at least half a dozen mullet jokes from Jason.
He tosses another towel down on the ground so he doesn't slip and crack his head open. Another is wound around his waist before he hobbles out of the shower. He has to apply butterfly bandages to his wound now that it's clean and a wrap for his knee.
From there it's a trip to the freezer for some ice packs before he collapses into bed, towels and all.
The creature pads after him the whole time—when it nudges at his hand with its nose he's surprised to find that it's bone dry already.
"Hey," he mumbles sleepily, "'m gonna pass out now. Please don't wreck the place. I'll do your nails tomorrow if you're still around."
The weight of the bed dips as the creature folds itself down beside him. Heat radiates off its skin; a steady furnace that seeps through towel and bruises alike. Gotham’s chill has always been murder on his old injuries—every crack in his ribs, every twist in his knees sings when the damp sets in. But with the beast pressed close, the ache dulls, soothed by a warmth he hadn’t realized he’s been craving.
“Mm,” he hums as his eyelids droop. “Guess you’re good for something besides head-eating.”
The only response is a low rumble, not quite a growl, not quite a purr. It vibrates through his spine and pulls him under fast.
When he wakes, sunlight is leaking pale and gray through the blinds. The space beside him is empty, but the sheets are crumpled with massive paw prints and the bathroom looks like a war zone of water and soap suds.
Dick drags a hand over his face and lets out a groggy laugh. “Well, at least I know I didn’t make it up.”
His body protests as he pushes upright, but it’s not as bad as usual. In fact… he feels better than he has in weeks.
Confused, sore, and strangely lighter, he shuffles toward the kitchen. “Great. Now I’m bonding with Gotham’s new murder dog.”
It's not the strangest thing to ever happen in Gotham.
There isn't anything in the kitchen other than old protein bars and bottled water. He takes some pain killers and eats a protein bar halfheartedly, staring off into space. He's been doing that a lot lately. Just. Checking out. He used to do it a lot as a kid, back when he first came to Bruce.
Trauma response, his therapist had said, before he had had to worry about secret identities and his own trauma giving them away.
It happened again with Jason, when everything fell apart and Bruce went off the deep end. When Tim first came to him with a plea to save Batman from himself.
It wasn't fair, he'd wanted to scream at the time. Dick was falling apart too; Dick was dealing with his own issues with Slade and Babs and Bludhaven. Why did it have to be up to him to save Bruce?
That was the first time he failed Tim. He wonders if he'd still be alive if he'd only stepped up all those years ago; if he'd have even gotten to know how brilliant Tim is without him taking up the Robin mantle.
He startles when a soft whine breaks him free from his thoughts. His head turns, pulse spiking at the sight of a familiar, hulking body sliding out of his own shadow.
"Oh," he croaks, blinking fast to clear away his tears. "I thought you left."
A massive head plants itself on his good knee and two red eyes stare up at him. The heavy weight of it wiggles insistently against Dick's thigh. The pressure is grounding, insistent in a way that won’t let him spiral too far.
“Okay, okay, I’m here,” he murmurs, forcing a shaky laugh as his hand comes up to rub between the two forward-facing eyes.
In daylight, the creature is… worse. Or better. He isn’t sure. Every movement sets its muscles rippling under skin too smooth, too taut, like the anatomy is wrong but intentional. It shifts with an uncanny control that makes him feel like he’s watching something choose to wear this form.
“You’re worried about me?” he asks before he can stop himself, voice raw.
The creature answers with a soft whine, eyes blinking slowly in sequence until they all rest steady on him.
Dick swallows hard. “That’s… not fair,” he mutters, blinking fast again, because tears sting his eyes and he doesn’t want them to. “You can’t be a murder dog and a therapy dog at the same time. That’s cheating.”
The head only presses down harder, and he feels himself give way, his hand sinking deeper into the heat of its skin as if clinging to the anchor it’s offering.
"You're going to need a name," he says, because at least if he's talking he isn't crying or screaming. "I can't keep calling you The Creature in my head, like some awful horror movie knock-off."
Tim… Tim loved knock-off horror movies and all their awful effects. The older the better.
He clears his throat and offers a shaky smile. "You did kind of come out of nowhere. And you just did some really freaky stuff with my shadow. So—Shadow? Does that work for you, big guy?"
The dog’s head grumbles—low and strange, but close enough to agreement that Dick huffs a wet laugh. Then that massive head shoves forward, pressing hard against his chest like it could push straight through to his heart. A deep rumble vibrates out of Shadow, not quite a growl, not quite a purr, but something steady and grounding. Like he's trying to console him.
Dick hasn't been touched kindly in what feels like years. He's spent an entire year and a half teaching Damian how to love without holding a knife in each hand and you don't get soft cuddles out of a kid like that. Jason is—well. Jason. Babs is still unhappy with his decisions. Bruce can't even look at him half the time and Alfred only knows how to show his love through acts of service. Cass only just recently came back and she's always liked Tim above all else. Steph likes him well enough but isn't the type to cuddle either.
Tears slip down his face as he wraps his arms around Shadow's massive head and stifles his cries.
"Sorry," he finds himself whispering. "Sorry."
Shadow only pushes harder against his chest, insistent and unyielding, like he knows Dick is holding back more than words. A long, heavy tongue drags across his cheek, hot and sloppy, smearing instead of cleaning. The slobber stings where it catches on salt, but the intent is so clumsy and earnest that Dick lets out a choked laugh between tears.Shadow keeps going, seemingly determined to wash the grief off of him one lick at a time.
"Okay, okay!" He finally laughs, pushing lightly at Shadow's shoulder. He sniffles and rubs at his face, cleaning it of slobber and tears. "Are you hungry? My knee feels a lot better, we can grab some breakfast on the way back to my place and then I can clip your nails."
Shadow whines at the reminder, though his tails whip through the air as if scenting for food.
Dick shakes his head. "You're so weird," he says almost fondly, pushing up out of his seat. "Let me get dressed and we'll go."
Shadow plops down right where he is, massive frame settling like he fully intends to wait there forever.
Dick ducks into the bedroom, tugging on a pair of loose sweatpants and a band tee so oversized it practically swallows him—definitely one of Jason’s strays from years back. When he pads out again, Shadow is already moving, padding forward with heavy steps before he suddenly sinks downward, melting into the floor like tar folding in on itself.
Only two burning eyes remain, staring up at Dick from the stretch of shadow at his feet.
Dick swallows, fighting the instinctive prickle that crawls up his spine. “…You’re really committed to the name, huh?”
Shadow's eyes blink once, slow and deliberate.
He shoves his gear into an old gym bag and leaves the mess in the bathroom for another day. Then they're off.
He tries not to feel overly conscious of his own shadow but it's difficult now that he knows what lurks inside it. Or that something lurks inside it at all. It's a very disconcerting feeling to have something you've lived with your whole life suddenly made something different.
He stops at his favorite breakfast stand and gets double what he normally gets—which is already a lot. The vendor doesn't raise an eyebrow, it's Gotham after all, but he can feel the silent judgment even as he shoves a twenty into the tip jar.
He hops on the bus the rest of the way until they reach his block. From there it's a couple minute walk. He's regretting not putting his brace back on by the end of it and is thankful to collapse onto his couch as soon as he's inside.
"Ugh. These are the things no one tells you about being an adult vigilante." He rubs at his leg as Shadow emerges from his, well, shadow.
He pads forward until his weight makes the old floorboards creak, then lowers his head onto Dick’s thigh with surprising gentleness.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dick sighs, scratching absently between his unsettling double eyes. “Judge all you want. I’m still not wearing the brace in my own apartment.”
Shadow answers with a low, resonant rumble that makes the coffee table quiver, like he disapproves but is too polite to say so.
Dick ignores him in favor of pulling out the stacks of pancakes, eggs, bacon and their various toppings.
"Here," he says, offering a big bowl of eggs and ham. "This is okay for normal dogs. Hopefully you like it, Fred makes the best eggs on this side of town. Gives the best side eyes too."
Shadow grumbles low in his chest before his jaw yawns wide. Faster than Dick can process it, his massive maw snaps shut around his hand—bowl and all.
“Holy—!” Dick jerks back just in time, heart skipping a beat. His hand comes away intact, but the sound of sizzling eggs and ham disappearing into his cavernous mouth is unmistakable.
He stares, slack-jawed, then lets out a half-laugh, half-groan. “You know, most dogs at least pretend to let you put the bowl down first.”
Shadow licks his chops. His eyes glow faintly as he rumbles smugly.
"You wouldn't be this smug if you'd taken my hand off." He pauses, container of pancakes half way open. "Or, at least, I hope you wouldn't be."
Shadow stares back at him placidly. He even yawns, putting a long almost reptilian tongue on display as well as rows and rows of sharp teeth.
Mildly disturbed, Dick drowns his pancakes in syrup and puts his leg up on the coffee table to help with the inevitable swelling that comes with his stubbornness.
Somewhere in his bags' direction there's the unmistakable sound of Bruce's text alert. Dick groans and sinks lower into the couch.
Shadow lets out a questioning whine, tilting his massive head toward the sound.
“It’s nothing,” Dick mutters, waving the concern away. “I’ll check on it later, don’t worry.”
Shadow huffs, unconvinced, and lumbers forward. The couch dips dangerously as he heaves himself onto it, spilling over both sides until Dick is effectively pinned beneath a mountain of heat, and muscle.
He lets out a soft grunt and just barely manages to save his breakfast. "Okay," he says, blinking down at the mass currently in his lap. "I guess we're staying here then. I don't suppose you could grab the remote?"
One of Shadow's tails snaps out to where he points, winding around the device and placing it in Dick's hand. He blinks once, shakes his head and turns the TV on.
"Don't think you're getting out of the manicure," he tells him. "Now, what's your taste in TV shows?"
Shadow gives a low grunt at every channel Dick flips through, like he’s running his own bizarre commentary track.
“Yeah, hate those too,” Dick mutters, clicking past a reality show, then a rerun of some old sitcom.
He pauses on a soft-spoken English cooking show that is all calm narration and sizzling pans. Shadow stays silent, eyes fixed on the screen.
“No complaints? Alright, culinary it is.” Dick leans back against the couch cushions, fighting a smile. “Guess even eldritch shadow-dogs like a good soufflé.”
Once he finishes his food, he ends up dozing right there. The heat coming off of Shadow's body helps to further ease his various bruises while the weight of another being helps to soothe his soul. Eventually, his bladder protests and he has to coax Shadow off. He takes the chance to duck into his equipment storage once he's done and brings out a grinder he can use to file down Shadow's nails.
"Come here, boy," he sing-songs, trotting back to where Shadow watches him from the much too small couch. "Time to shorten those nails before you take out your own eye. Eyes?" He shrugs and flops down beside the couch to grab one of his massive front paws. They're almost the size of his head, a fact that should worry him—but Shadow has proven compliant so far and Dick has never had a very good sense of self preservation. He grew up with elephants for baby sitters after all.
Shadow eyes him with something between suspicion and curiosity, a low rumble building in his chest as the grinder hums to life. Dick pats his massive paw like it’s any ordinary Great Dane and not a limb that could flatten him.
“Relax,” he says, angling the tool carefully. “If I can wrestle elephants into a bath, I can handle a little paw-dicure.”
The first pass earns him a startled twitch of claws and a ripple down Shadow’s muscled shoulder, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, one of his tails curls lazily around Dick’s waist like a seatbelt, steadying him in place.
“See? Not so bad,” Dick soothes, filing another nail smooth. “By the time I’m done, you’ll be Gotham’s scariest runway model.”
He gets a soft huff for that which has Dick pausing. He's been babbling more out of his own need to fill the silence than anything else. He never expected a response, even from the beginning, but he's been getting them regardless.
"You can actually understand me, can't you?"
Shadow gives him a look of severe judgment.
"I know, I know, it's stating the obvious but—" he waves a hand, though he doesn't know what exactly he's trying to gesture to. "I don't know. I guess it's just hitting me now that I'm not sleep deprived and starving. This is weird. You're weird."
Shadow blinks slowly.
"Not that weird is a bad thing! I mean, you did save my life, even if you did it in the most violent way possible." He bends back down to work on the next paw, talking himself through his thoughts all the while. "I know a lot of people that would be classified as weird and most of them are pretty great. I don't really know you yet, but you seem okay so far. You haven't eaten me in my sleep, at least."
He shoots a grin up at him and winks. "Though I have it on good authority that I'm very tasty."
Shadow’s chest rumbles with a noise that’s somewhere between a growl and a snort. His teeth flash for just a second like he’s entertaining the idea. One of his tails flicks against Dick’s side in what feels suspiciously like a swat.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dick laughs, filing another nail smooth. “Point taken. No snacking on the acrobat, even if I am the prime cut.”
Shadow shifts closer, lowering his massive head until his muzzle brushes against Dick’s shoulder. He exhales a puff of hot air. The judgment in his eyes softens to something quieter, steady.
“See? Totally friends already.” Dick gives his paw an affectionate pat.
He's examining the two front paws critically, trying to make sure that they're even, when his front door opens. There's a purposeful scuff of a foot on the floor that gives him a grand ten whole seconds to sit there and panic before Damian clears the stairs with an impressive glower and a backpack over his shoulder.
"Grayson," he starts, voice thick with that imperiousness he gets when he's uncertain about what he's walking into and has decided to simply barrel his way through regardless, "I've come to demand an… explanation…"
He stops dead in his tracks, staring with widened eyes at the massive beast taking up Dick's couch. His eyes flick to where Dick sits with Shadow's head on his shoulder, then to the grinder on his thigh, then to the two paws he's got his hands on. Damian's mouth opens and closes before his back straightens and his expression shutters.
"So this is why you have been avoiding me," he says stiffly. "This… animal has led to you distancing yourself."
Dick freezes like a deer in headlights for a full five seconds before blurting, “No! No, Dami, I just got the dog yesterday, I swear. I’ve been busy the past few weeks, it wasn’t because I was paying more attention to another…” His gaze flicks to the monstrous being curled against him. “…Creature.”
Shadow lifts his head and glares at Damian, every one of his eyes snapping open at once. The low growl that follows is deep enough to rattle the floorboards; it's more than enough to make Dick’s heart lurch.
“Shadow!” Dick snaps, hands shooting up as if he can physically stop all those teeth from making a very bad decision. “Down, boy! He’s my little brother!”
The words tumble out too fast, too defensive—and they sting as soon as they leave. Because Damian isn’t just his brother. Not really. He's Bruce’s son, yes, but he’s also been his, in a way. His kid. His responsibility. His family.
Shadow bares a row of teeth but doesn't move. His muscles are tense under Dick's hand, like he's ready to launch himself across the room the moment Dick gives the word. It's shockingly protective of a creature Dick only just met yesterday.
He lifts up onto his knees, wrapping his arms around Shadow's neck in an attempt to both ease and hold back. He knows he's not strong enough to keep Shadow back if he chooses to lunge but at least he'll be coming with him if that happens.
"He is remarkably territorial for a dog you claim to have gotten yesterday," Damian sniffs. His eyes cast about the apartment before returning to Dick with a frown. "Then again, I do not see any supplies for an animal. I take it his unusual features are why you have kept him from father?"
Dick bites back a grimace. "Yeah," he laughs without humor, "you could say that's one of the reasons. But—hey, it's good to see you." He fixes him with a sincere smile and silently praises himself for not tearing up. Shadow leans heavily into him, as if sensing his inner turmoil. "I'm sorry I haven't been around lately. I'd hug you but, well." He glances down at Shadow. "Will you behave if Dami comes closer?"
He earns a low rumble of a growl and a narrowing of eyes. The muscle under him relaxes, just a bit.
"I'll take that as a yes." Dick releases his grip and stands to meet Damian half way. He pulls him into a crushing hug and lifts him from the floor, heart aching fiercely with the amount of pain and love he feels for this boy. Especially after losing Tim.
"I missed you, baby bat," he whispers, aware that he's holding on for too long. Luckily, Damian seems tolerant today. He even hugs him back.
A wet nose pushes against Dick’s ribs, shoving with surprising force until Shadow’s massive head is wedged between them like a jealous sibling demanding attention. His tails lash once, smacking against the couch hard enough to rattle the remote to the floor.
“Shadow,” Dick sighs, keeping one arm hooked tight around Damian while reaching down with the other to stroke between his eyes. “He’s not stealing me away, relax.”
Damian leans back just enough to look at Shadow, his frown carved deep. “He does not appear convinced.”
“No,” Dick admits, lips quirking despite the tension. “But neither are you.”
That earns him a sharp look, but Damian doesn’t argue. Instead, he adjusts the strap of his backpack with one hand, as if rearming himself with composure.
“Then you will explain,” he says, clipped and firm, though there’s the faintest tremor beneath the words. “What manner of beast is this?”
It's here that Dick falters. He sets Damian back down, much as he doesn't want to and scratches the back of his head. "I don't know?"
Damian blinks once. It's remarkably similar to the way Shadow does it. "What do you mean you do not know?"
He looks down at Shadow, who offers no help. He only hooks his chin over Dick's hip, pulling him back against his shoulder. His tails wrap around Dick's waist, keeping him there.
"He came out of nowhere last night and saved my life. I don't know where he's from but I don't think he has a place to go." Dick sets a hand on top of Shadow's head. "And I have always wanted a dog. Maybe he could have play dates with Titus?"
Damian frowns. "Is he socialized with other dogs—if he can be called a dog at all?"
Again, Dick grimaces. "Only one way to find out?"
The sigh that leaves him is far too great for a child of his size. "Alright," he says, lifting his chin up high. "We will go to the store and procure him the necessary equipment. We will take your car."
"Wha—wait, what about Bruce?" He calls, as Damian moves through his apartment, collecting his wallet and keys before dipping into the bedroom only to emerge with a change of clothes for Dick.
"Pennyworth drove me here. I am to stay the weekend." There's a flicker of uncertainty, there and gone in the next instance. "Unless you take issue with this."
"No!" Dick hurries to de-tangle himself from Shadow, quickly making his way over to where Damian stands. He crouches to meet his eyes, hands warm and steady on his shoulders. "You're always welcome here, Dami. Always."
He gets a short nod and the clothes shoved into his chest. Dick takes them with a small smile and goes back into the bedroom to change and take a quick shower, mind whirling with the turn of events.