Comic pitch: Eight-year-old Dick Grayson, having just lost his parents, is understandably sad. It’s cool that Bruce knows what he’s going through, but Wayne Manor isn’t the most comforting place, and Dick is lonely. He explains to Alfred that it’s not only the loss of his parents that get to him– it’s also the loss of his community. All the Haly’s performers were super close, and they were his family too, until he had to leave them. Now it’s three people in an empty mansion, and that’s depressing.
Bruce hears this and develops a plan: he’ll take Dick to work with him tomorrow. Wayne Enterprises isn’t like Haly’s– Bruce doesn’t think of his employees as his family– but Dick doesn’t know that, and at the very least, he’ll get out of the house for awhile and see some other people. Dick agrees.
The next morning, Dick puts on his gala suit and follows Bruce to work. He doesn’t like it at first. It’s unfamiliar, and everything seems very formal, until they walk into the WE lobby and start to meet employees who seem thrilled to see Dick. He is, after all, small and adorable and wearing a tiny suit. He’s very cute, so they are very friendly.
Bruce walks around the place introducing Dick to his people, and then he asks about their children and grandchildren and dogs and hobbies, because he does know all about them, for security purposes. It would be negligent of him not to research his employees, right? He has to keep track of everybody.
Dick follows Bruce around for the entire day and meets tons of people, forcing Bruce to interact with all of them. Dick has a blast. They let him roll around in the big CEO chair yelling nonsense instructions about the budget. On the last page of the issue, the two of them walk out of the building and into the car where Alfred is waiting. Dick is clearly happy. When Bruce asks if he had fun, he grins and says, “Your family is huge!”
As Bruce thinks back on the day, he realizes that he does genuinely know and care for all of his individual employees, and it’s clear that they love him too. Maybe the kid is on to something. In the final panel, Bruce looks fondly down at Dick, who is falling asleep in the backseat of the car.
Nightwing’s ears picked up each whiz and shing while his eyes kept his body in motion, ducking, dodging and flipping with all the agility of a swimmer in water. No one doubted Nightwing’s immortality in the field. He thrived on instinct and adrenaline. He didn’t think, he acted. Nightwing was a human alongside mortal gods, and in the chaos of battle, it was easy to forget what a weak cage human flesh was to the heart.
Icy gusts tore through the skyscrapers, around the silent, brooding form. His cape draped over his hunched shoulders, encircling him on the ground where the kevlar was immune to the wind’s barrage. Gotham blinked back at him, each flicker of light evidence of the life thrumming through his streets.
A whiff of amber, sandalwood and musk sailed on the wind. A dark, spicy and warm scent the detective would recognize anywhere.
“Nightwing.” His voice punctuated the air.
The figure snorted, one foot in front of the other as if walking a tightrope. “I knew the wind would give it away.” Nightwing’s weight dropped out beneath him with one leg suddenly hanging precariously off the building’s edge— an action that would look dangerous if it wasn’t being performed by a world class acrobat. “How’s it hanging, boss?”
Batman gave an unintelligible grunt. “Quiet night.”
“Sounds like I caught you in a conversational mood. How long have you been staking this place out?”
“Three hours. Four minutes.”
“Well, look, I’m here now,” Nightwing said. “Go stretch your limbs for ten. I’ve got it covered.”
Batman didn’t move, and Nightwing rolled his eyes. “How about some soup then?” He twisted off the cap, letting the wind carry the steam away. “Made it myself,” he continued, wagging the thermos as if enticing him.
A low, brief rumble through the man’s throat was the only reply.
“It was Alfred’s recipe. You know I had to bend an arm and a leg to get a hold of that?”
Batman held out a hand and Nightwing passed the thermos. “So that Sionis’ office?”
Batman grunted, the sound echoing against the metal tin.
Nightwing settled back on his elbows, a wry smile taking over. Batman passed back the thermos, and Nightwing took a draught.
“I think I’m the only person who’s seen you eat in the cowl.”
“You are.”
The blunt truth trilled a chill up Nightwing’s spine. “It does clash with the whole striking fear into the superstitious and cowardly lot thing.” His voice dropped several octaves to mimic the Bat.
An involuntary shiver wracked the acrobat’s frame. “Too bad soup doesn’t stay hotter when you’re traveling thirty-three stories by jump line.”
Batman spent a long moment in silence before shifting so that his arm extended outward, opening up his cape in invitation.
The brief hesitation didn’t last long before Nightwing scooted against Bruce’s side, the cape falling and enclosing around him.
“I thought you had your suit insulated.”
Nightwing momentarily wondered whether to go with the truth or not. “I do.”
“Indeed, when advances of this kind [have been made] to me on his part, they were rec[eived in a manner] that showed at least I had no inclination [to court them, and that] I wished to stand rather upon a footing of m[ilitary confidence than] of private attachment.” ~ Alexander Hamilton, regarding George Washington’s attempts to become closer in the army, 1781.
May, 1787
It had been years since he had last seen him.
He stood at the table of the Virginia delegates, talking to James Madison unassumingly. The rays of sunlight shone down upon him through the large glass windows, perhaps the final time they could do so before the delegates closed the shades to uphold the secrecy of the convention.
He looked every inch the lawyer he had become, with his auburn hair perfectly powdered white and tied back with a black ribbon. He wore a green velvet frock coat with a gold trim and a matching waistcoat with gold buttons. His black breeches and white, silk stockings accentuated his legs, and his black shoes with gold buckles complimented the rest of his appearance. One would not typically use the term “beautiful” to describe a man, yet George Washington could not think of a more perfect word to summarize the sight before him.
George swallowed hard and clutched his gold-handled, black walking stick more tightly than usual. He grew warm under his black velvet coat as he wondered how he was going to address the one man who he had not seen in years, yet whom he thought of every day.
He had tried so hard to forget, too. Once he finally returned to Mount Vernon after the war’s end, he had indulged himself in his family, horses and gardens, all the while denying that he felt the way he thought he did in the army. He displayed more affection towards Martha than ever before to assure them both of his devotion. Mount Vernon quickly became his ultimate escape, the place where he could finally achieve inner peace after six years of uncertainty and self-loathing.
Yet every time a letter from New York arrived on his desk—which was quite often—George opened it and remembered with dread how his newfound bliss was a complete charade. Indeed, it was one of those letters that convinced him to come to this Constitutional Convention and throw himself back into the national political arena. Even as he boarded his black carriage on the morning of his departure and waved goodbye to his wife and step-grandchildren, George could only think of the man he would find waiting for him in Philadelphia.
And there he was, laughing gaily with Madison and perhaps mocking the other delegates already. The little Virginian could not have appeared more captivated as the animated New Yorker gesticulated with his hands to accompany whatever story he was telling. George noticed how other delegates ceased speaking in their circles and turned slyly towards the colonel, curious as to what the pugnacious yet charismatic delegate could be discussing.
Then suddenly, as if adhering to a sixth sense, Alexander Hamilton looked over and his violet eyes met George’s stare. Their gaze remained frozen upon each other for a moment, as if all time had stopped and the bustling political world surrounding them no longer existed.
George’s heart beat quicker as Alex smiled at him, and it only increased as Alex turned to Mr. Madison and excused himself. Alex began to strut towards his former Commanding General in the confident manner George remembered. That military-like step never failed to draw people’s attention towards him.
“Your Excellency,” Alex said suavely. After stopping before him and bowing politely, the colonel added: “It has been far too long.”
Despite his wish to return the greeting genially, George retained his dignified, stoic air and unexpressive tone of voice as he responded.
“Indeed it has, Colonel Hamilton. I do hope this convention will afford us the chance to become reacquainted with one another.”
Alex skeptically glanced at a few Southern delegates standing across the room.
“If this convention proves as effective as the past few Congresses, we shall have copious amounts of time for recreation.”
Had it not pained him to do so, George would have smiled. It seemed Alex’s pessimistic demeanor had not decreased over time.
“Yet now that you are here,” Alex continued, “I feel more certain something shall be accomplished.” The colonel eyed him keenly. “These factions cannot unify without you. I think I speak for all in this room when I say I am very glad you are here, sir.”
It was the closest thing to direct approval George ever heard Alex grant him. For a reason he could not explain, George sensed that things were going to be much different between them than they had once been in the army.
“I thank you for your steadfast support, Colonel. I shall endeavor not to disappoint.”
Daintyfire 