Title: more than just numbers
Pairing/Characters: Dick Grayson/Tiger
Fandom: DCU (Comics)
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~ 1200
Summary: Dick is more than just a number. It's silly that he has even to point it out.

His identity has been exposed to the world and there's really only one thing left to do for Dick Grayson: He dies to protect the people closest to him; at least that's what they let the world see. It should be the hardest decision to make, but the moment Bruce reveals the plan to him, he just nods. There's really nothing else to do. He isn't even shell-shocked. He can't be Dick Grayson, Nightwing, a visible part of the Batclan anymore. “Makes sense.”

Bruce, his face hidden behind the cowl, body hidden beneath black Kevlar, still can't hide the way his chest expands and settles. It's so rare to see Batman sigh like that. “I'm sorry, Dick.”

Dick shrugs and tries to smile. “I can still be useful. I'm not really dead.”

The air in the cave is humid and stale today and Dick will be very happy when he can finally wash the blood of his face, and get out of the ripped up and itchy costume. He looks at the red and black today and thinks the scheme would have looked so much better with a less flashy color, but it doesn't matter anymore now. He won't be Nightwing tomorrow.

“It was never about usefulness,” Bruce nearly growls. People think Batman doesn't show feelings. Dick doesn't understand how people can be so blind, because half of the persona is made up of intensity and anger.

“I know that,” Dick says and grins lopsidedly. Batman just makes all of them feel like they needed to hold themselves to the same standards he does. “Just... Look after Alfie and don't get into trouble I can't get you out of.”

“I'll try,” Bruce agreed dryly. He squeezes Dick shoulder. It's as close as he'll get to a: “I'm proud of you.”

Dick understand.

All the information Bruce has gathered on Spyral is already in front of them. Dick has his work cut out of for him.

* * *

Not being Nightwing anymore is a thought he can live with. He's been a Flying Grayson, Robin. He has even been Batman for a time.

“37?” he asks slowly and know he's frowning.

“Yes,” the “Matron” says. “Agent 37. That will be your designation.”

“Like,” he says, “you give me a number? Because I'm actually your 37th operative? And now I'm 37. That lacks imagination, Matron.”

She doesn't smile, but she regards him with her beautiful, dark eyes and nods. “We are not superheroes, 37. We are spies. We are not in need of colorful names or costumes. The main goal will be to stay out of sight. Keep under the radar. Do you think you can deal with that?”

He grins. “I think I listened to that same lecture before. Sometime. A long time ago, from a dark, tall broody person who wears lots of black.”

Helena's eyebrow wanders upwards a little. Of course, she doesn't acknowledge the reference to Batman. She's still not smiling.

So, of course, he smiles more brightly. This kind of challenge he's used to. Miss Bertinelli just doesn't know that she has already lost this one. He hasn't just worked with the best and learned from him – he has made him smile countless times. This is going to be a walk in the park.

* * *

“It's your turn, Agent 37,” Agent 22 instructs him.

“That's not my name.”

“It is here.”

“No.” Dick is going to fight this on principle.

Agent 22 shoves a gun into his hands.

“No,” he repeats. “That's not how I do things.”

“You better fall in line soon.”

Other agents are watching. Dick is the new guy, the former superhero, the kid who got unmasked and now is here because he might have information. They all know his story. They all know his name. They all think he needs to be taken down a notch.

He can't say he's intimidated.

“You will have to use the gun, 37.”

“Dick Grayson, please,” he says and smiles sweetly. “Nobody calls me 37. I'm too cute to hide behind a number.”

Agent 22 rolls her pretty brown eyes, huffs and then gives up. She smiles. “Nice to meet you, Dick. Now use the damn gun and learn procedure.”

The truth is, she's not big on keeping to stupid procedure either. He's glad he's not the only spy who thinks for himself.

* * *

“So, you're Agent 1?”

“Yes,” the man says gruffly. His face is framed by his keffiyeh and his eyes narrow as he looks over the newcomer like he's unwanted paper work. “Agent 37,” he concludes, after a moment's consideration. Dick knows he must also know his name; his real name, not the number. The whole world knows it. Everyone at Spyral know why he was taken in.

“Nice to meet you? What do I call you?”

His cheer doesn't even get him a raised eyebrow this time. The man just stares at him, unmoved and unreadable. “You call me Agent 1,” he says.

“You don't have a name? You know? Some people have them instead of numbers.”

The man walks away, muttering something under his breath, that sounds like “idiot superhero.” At least that's more creative than 37. He can work with that.

* * *

It's only the beginning.

* * *

Alfred is thrilled to have him back, finally. Damian doesn't say as much, but he drags Dick around town for two days straight to show him how the city has changed and how well he's doing. They are both here and both alive. Dick is just glad to have his own name again, to be able to walk down a street without using Hypnos, his little brother at his side like in the old days.

He needs to thank Helena for this gift she gave him.

He's home.

He's not a number anymore.

Bruce tells him to take things slow and make a decision about who he wants to be now. It's funny coming from him and perhaps he's saying it because they both know Dick has another shady organization to face soon. So, he goes hunting for an apartment, trying to take his mind off things, trying not to worry Alfred and Bruce and the rest of the bunch. But the Court of Owls is next on his list and this is only the calm before the storm.

“Agent 37,” someone says as he steps into fully furnished apartment that he now owns the key to, voice gruff and slightly exasperated.

He isn't exactly surprised. “I do have a name, Tony.”

The man scrunches up his nose in distaste. “Don't call me that. It's not my name. You made it up.”

“You just want me to call you Tiger, because it's sexy.” Dark eyes follow him as he walks forward to sit on his new, new bed and he's putting on a show.

Finally the man, arms in front of his chest, contemplating him as he sits on the edge, looking up at his visitor. “Agent 1,” he says. “Call me that.”

“Not in bed, I won't.” He rolls his eyes.

He's not sure how this is going to work out. There's a big chance that this isn't even a relationship - just something desperate born from loneliness. He's not sure he needs a name for it. After all he's a circus kid and he knows to be flexible and take the benefits life throws his way.

“Idiot,” the man says.

“Getting warmer,” Dick says and grins up at him.

But Tiger knows how to shut him up now, with kisses and touches and sex. He's okay with that. At least he isn't just a number anymore. They are both so much more than that. No need to label it.