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Growing up in the circus, Dick never saw anything different about the way he looked.
Sure, he understood that his skin was darker than Pop Haly's, or the lion tamer with the Scottish accent, but it didn't matter. Because Lucas and Maria who rode the elephants had golden skin and spoke Spanish more often than English. And Andy and Jacob, two of the roustabouts, had deep, dark skin. And Katya and Yuri who did the trick shots and magic were pale as anything and had accents that shifted so fast Dick could barely keep up.
So to Dick, his skin, his mother's skin, it didn't mean anything different. Because if they were all a mismatched bag, then what was so strange about him? What was so strange about the language he spoke when everyone else at the circus had their own language they spoke with their blood?
Occasionally, there would be someone who attended the show that would make some comment about gypsies, comments that left Dick feeling sad and confused—
(all he'd wanted was to make them smile at his show, just wanted to fly through the air with his mama and tati. Why would they—)
—but his mother or his father would always be there to swipe him up in his arms and pull him away. Pop Hal would always be there to make a joke and a silly face. All of them, all the time—because they understood what it meant to be seen as different, as less than, and they never wanted little Richard Grayson to ever feel like that, not when he was so small.
And because of all that, because of the environment he grew up in, it was so easy for Dick to brush the comments from stupid spectators aside, confident that the words of strangers meant absolutely nothing.
It's harder to ignore the words when they're coming from men and woman dressed up like gods in a large ballroom.
Dick has always loved the spotlight, always loved playing to a crowd, and the galas Bruce has started taking him to are no different. It's a little overwhelming at first, sure, but it takes him barely any time at all to find the right mindset—these rich people have a flow to them just like the customers at the circus, and if there's one thing Dick is good at, it's reading a room.
He's separated from Bruce when it happens, his guardian in the center of the room dancing "drunkenly" with a beautiful girl Dick wouldn't be able to pick out of a lineup. He, meanwhile, is charming a group of older women with his boyish wit and charming smile.
"Aren't you just adorable!" one of them coos, and Dick preens under the attention, rolling his eyes internally. "You just clean up so well."
Dick blinks, a little confused by the statement considering they've never met before, and asks, "What do you mean?"
The woman waves a hand dismissively, still smiling down at him with that slightly-condescending look always given to children. "You know, simply so civilized! So cute in that little tux of yours!" Then she leans in conspiratorially, like she's sharing a secret with him, and says, "Your people aren't known for that, you know."
"Martha—" another one of the ladies says hesitantly, but Dick can barely hear her, too focused on the sudden rushing in his head.
Your people aren't known for that, you know.
Growing up, his mama told him magical stories of her time before meeting his father, before joining Haly's. She told him about her family, her people. She taught him (and his father) the Romani language, made sure he knew his roots, knew where they came from, what was important.
But never in his nine years of life did his mother ever imply that being Romani meant anything even close to being uncivilized. Wandering, free, loving, spiritual, empathetic, kind, yes. They weren't savages, they weren't uncivilized.
"Dick, are you alright?"
The boy blinks and looks up, registering that Bruce is now at his side. His father guardian has a hand on his shoulder, his brows drawn in concern, and whatever he sees in Dick's expression makes his own harden.
"What happened?" Bruce asks, and it's directed firmly at the women in front of Dick.
The one from before—Martha, the other called her—waves another dismissive hand. "Oh, Brucie, don't worry! The boy must simply be tired; we were only discussing how nice he looks tonight, especially considering where he comes from."
Bruce goes perfectly still.
It makes Dick think of Batman, and suddenly he's a thousand times calmer, because Batman means safety, Bruce means safety, and now that he has his partner at his side nothing else bad will happen.
"Wow," Bruce says with a laugh. It's his Brucie Wayne laugh, but there's a sharper edge to it than usual, one that makes the other women share a glance. Martha purses her lips. "Sorry, Mrs. Merriweather, I don't mean to laugh at you, it's just—" He shakes his head, chuckling. "I simply didn't think you were so old as to carry bullshit prejudices around with you everywhere you go. My mistake!"
And with that, the hand on Dick's shoulder leads him away from the women now gaping at Bruce, eyes comically wide. And Dick knows he's staring as well, knows he's not watching where they're walking, simply watching Bruce, but he can't help it.
Because Bruce looks...Well, Bruce looks like his dad whenever someone made some offensive comment about Mary, or another child did something to Dick—it's a protective look, a parental one, and it almost makes Dick want to cry because Bruce was there. He didn't need to be called, he'd simply seen Dick's distress and appeared like a white knight.
Heh. More like a dark one.
"Alfred, make a note, if you would," Bruce murmurs once they're settled in their car, having left the party immediately.
"Of course, Sir," Alfred replies, pulling away. "A note of what, if I may ask?"
"Martha Merriweather is never to be invited to anything I'm hosting or co-hosting or in charge of or whatever the fuck else connects me to an event."
Dick startles at the curse, eyes wide at the pure conviction in Bruce's voice. Alfred calls out a chastisement, but Bruce pays it no mind, instead tuning to look at Dick.
The boy meets his gaze steadily.
"Are you alright?" he asks again, and Dick can only nod. Something tightens in Bruce's expression. "Dick, I want you to know—if anyone ever makes comments like that again, or says anything offensive that hurts you, you don't have to put up with it, okay? What she said is not okay. You..." He flounders for a moment, and normally this is where Dick would step in to help lighten the emotional burden, but right now he can't manage it. "You never have to be ashamed, is what I want to say. I never want you to feel ashamed of who you are."
Dick smiles, and his eyes are a little wet and when he scooches across the bench to hug Bruce the man hugs him back, pressing a light kiss to the crown of Dick's head.
"Thank you, tati," Dick whispers, and though he's pretty sure Bruce doesn't know the meaning of the word, his father just hugs him tighter anyway, and Dick really wishes his parents were still alive in that moment simply because they would've really, really loved B.
Dick is getting used to Jason Todd.
It was a rough start, Dick has to admit. Not the kid's fault, not really. Well, Jason can be a bit of an asshole, an asshole who likes trying to get under Dick's skin, but Dick's always been good at reading people and it doesn't take him too long to figure out that Jason doesn't hate him, doesn't even dislike him, but is simply very insecure and bad at showing emotion.
He wants them to like him, wants them to want him, and that's something Dick can understand. So he weathers the snark and tries to make something of relationship with the boy that isn't dictated by Bruce, because Bruce is in the stage of his life where he is, in fact, a gigantic asshole.
Right now, Dick's in the Wayne Manor library with Jason. The kid's working on some English assignment, pretending like he hates it while clearly being excited, and Dick just hanging out with him, keeping up a stream of idle and companionable chatter, or silence, depending on how focused Jason gets.
The kid is crazy smart when he applies himself, and Dick is excited to see what he becomes one day.
They're in a period of silence—Jason scanning for a passage in his book, Dick going over notes for one of his cases—when he see Jason hesitate, lick his lips, and then asks in an extremely offhand tone, "Hey, Dickie, are you a gypsy?"
Dick goes rigid, and Jason tenses reflexively, knowing that he said something wrong even if he's not sure what it was.
Dick takes a few deep breaths. In all his years as Bruce Wayne's kid, he's gotten used to hearing that slur from both well-meaning and malicious sources, but he never thought he'd hear it within the walls of the Manor. The Manor is safety. The Manor is home.
But he knows Jason didn't say it to be cruel. Hell, he probably doesn't even really know what the word means. So Dick takes another deep breath and pushes away the sting so he can talk to his little brother.
"Where'd you hear that word?" Dick asks, going for a conversational tone and missing the mark by just a smidge.
Jason's eyes flick up to him hesitantly. His shoulders are still tense, but he slowly relaxes, seeing...something calm in Dick's expression, Dick supposes.
"A kid at school," Jason mumbles. "He made a joke about B taking in outcasts—the gypsy and the street rat."
Dick winces as Jason says the word again. The younger boy's lips twist in something like apology.
"Jay, do you know what that word means?" Dick asks, fighting to keep the strain out of his voice. He hasn't had to explain this in years, actually. Not since telling the Titans what it meant.
(And considering his team is made up of an alien, an Atlantian, an Amazon, a Navajo man, and an extremely empathetic speedster, explaining his Romani background—and the prejudices that come with it—wasn't a challenge at all. They all, to some extent, understood. Or, could at least empathize. Easy peasy.)
Jason shakes his head mutely. Dick tries to give him a reassuring smile.
"Okay, well, it's...kind of a slur."
Jason's eyes go wide, his lips parting like he's going to apologize, but Dick holds up a hand to stop him; he wants to get this all out.
"Gypsy is a term that is used to describe the Romani people. I'm Romani—different, just so you know, from Romanian. Half, technically, but that's not important. Romani people are typically travelers—"
You have your mama's wandering soul, Dickie. Born to fly and run. Never let anyone make you think you have to sit still, okay? You were born to move.
"—and have skin like mine. My mom was Romani, and she always taught me to be proud of who I am. Both of my parents did, actually. And then Bruce, of course..." He grimaces, trailing off, hating the current state of his relationship with Bruce. "But, people can be shitty, and I've had to deal with being called gypsy or gyp throughout my life, especially after coming to live with Bruce."
Jason digests that all quietly for a moment, and then says, "Racist fuckers, the lot of them."
That startles a laugh out of Dick, and he grins, which make Jason grin back at him. "Pretty much. Some of them don't even realize they do it, they're just ignorant as shit, but sometimes it's like with that classmate of yours—people are assholes, and can never pass up a good opportunity to use an insult."
Another moment of silence, and then Jason says, voice soft, "I'm sorry I said it, Dickie. I didn't..."
"I know," Dick interrupts, just as soft, because he does. "Of course you didn't. And thank you for the apology."
Jason nods, smiles slightly, and then goes back to his assignment. Dick smiles back, pleased by how that went, and figures that the end of the subject.
He's proven wrong the next day when Wayne Manor receives a call from Gotham Academy asking for the guardian of Jason Todd-Wayne to please come down to the school at their earliest convenience, thank you very much.
Bruce is wrapped up in Wayne Enterprise meetings for the next few hours, so Dick goes instead, figuring that legal big brother is just as good as legal father for whatever this shitstorm is going to be.
He's directed to the principal's office when he arrives at GA, and his chest tightens with concern for whatever horrible thing that must've happened to Jason.
Instead, upon entering the office he sees his little brother in perfect condition, other than the split knuckles and a small bruise on his chin.
Dick blinks at him. Jason blinks back, but whatever happened, he doesn't look apologetic about it. In fact, he looks proud.
"Mr. Grayson-Wayne, please, come in," Principal Jamison says, gesturing to the seat next to Jason.
"What happened?" Dick asks as he sits, glancing once more to Jason's roughed up hands. Clearly a fight, but Jason knows better than to attract that kind of attention, so what—?
"Jason started a fight in the school cafeteria," Jamison says on a sigh, sounding apologetic.
"I didn't start it," Jason snaps back. "Grant Anderson was spewing out racist slurs and when I told him to stop, he just got worse and worse. The teachers were turning a blind eye! Someone had to do something to make him stop."
Dick stares at his little brother, and when Jason raises his head to meet his gaze, suddenly Dick understands.
"Oh, Jay," Dick murmurs, and he's simultaneously so touched and so incredulous, but he decides to stick with the happy feeling for this meeting. "Was that the kid you were talking about the other day?"
Jason just nods.
Dick withholds a sigh. He knows the name Grant Anderson. Back when Dick was at Gotham Academy, there was a Thomas Anderson in his grade, one who was also a fan of the gypsy word. Learned it from his daddy, or something. Figures that his little brother would be just as much of an asshole. Figures that his little brother would be in the same grade as Dick's little brother.
"Principal Jamison, I understand that the school has a zero-tolerance policy for fighting, but it also has a zero-tolerance policy for bullying of any kind, including that which uses discriminatory language. I remember when I was attending school here, you were pretty strict about enforcing that." He cocks his head. "What changed?"
Frankly, Dick knows exactly what changed. When Dick first started living with Bruce and going to the private school, Bruce donated quite a lot of money to the school, and part of the exchange was that Jamison wouldn't tolerate any forms of discrimination, whether from teachers or other students. It was Bruce's way of having Dick's back in an indirect way, a way to keep the next generation of assholes off his back.
They'd never talked about it, but Dick had known, and he'd been very appreciative. But that hadn't been needed after Dick left GA. Now, though...
Jamison swallows slightly, and Dick withholds a smirk; it's not like the principal can just come out and say It's because your dad was paying us a fuckton of money, though it would be incredibly funny if he did.
"You're right, Mr. Grayson," Jamison agrees. "We have..." he grimaces slightly, "...slacked off in that department. It is..."
"Unacceptable?" Dick suggests. "Unbecoming? Has no place in a school of this prestige?"
"...Quite."
"Excellent!" Dick says, grinning, and gets to his feet. "Then we'll be on our way. C'mon, Jason."
"Mr. Grayson, your brother still hit another student—" Jamison begins, standing as well.
"You're right, that was a bad thing to do. Detention for a week? Sound good? Great. Make sure to call Mr. Wayne—our father—to let him know what will be done about the clear free-range of racist language in your school. Goodbye, Principal Jamison!"
And with that, Dick pulls Jason out of the room and out of the building.
"That was awesome," Jason laughs, shaking his head. "Man, you should've seen yourself—hey!"
Jason rubs the back of his head where Dick just hit him, and then tenses when Dick pulls him into a tight hug.
"What was that for?" Jason asks against his shirt, wiggling like he's trying to escape the embrace.
"You know better than to start fights at school. Do not make a habit of it, understand? And I can fight my own battles; I don't need you defending me to everyone who has something bad to say." He pauses. "But...thank you, Little Wing."
Jason slowly goes still and then hesitantly wraps his arms around Dick as well, tightening his hold into a proper hug. "...Yeah, whatever, Dickiebird. Just don't expect me to defend your honor all the time."
Dick simply smiles and drops a kiss to the crown of his little brother's head.
"Tim!" Dick says in surprise, a smile breaking out. "What are you doing here?"
"Haven't seen you in a little while," his brother replies, a quiet smile on his face. "I just...wanted to stop by."
Dick withholds a wince. It has been a while, a little over two weeks. He's been trying to keep regular contact with Tim, trying to stick to that and really give his little brother someone to lean on (other than Bruce, because that can be hit or miss), but he's been absolutely swamped at work the past month. Bludhaven's crime is like Gotham on crack—a lot less of the supervillain types, maybe, but so much more of everything else.
Plus, all the goddamn corruption in his own police force. Bludhaven's a lot to handle, between his day job and his night job, and he's been struggling to find the time to make a trip to Gotham.
"Well, I'm glad you did," Dick says, still holding that smile on his face, and then gestures to the chair next to his desk. "I've got a lunch break coming up soon, in about half an hour; if you're good to wait, we can go get some food together?"
Tim nods quickly, eyes bright, and says, "Yeah, I'd like that."
Dick spends the next thirty minutes working on one of his cases (and trying to figure out a way to say to his captain hey, I know you've worked with these guys for a long time, but they just stole $10,000 worth of cocaine from lockup and I'm thinking that means they're not squeaky clean), while Tim takes out his phone and either does normal teenage things or remotely accesses the batcave, and Dick knows which one is more likely.
"All set!" Dick tells him when the times up, and then grabs his coat and drags Tim down the street to a great little Chinese place that gives discounts to cops, and is thus a place Dick frequents often.
The lunch goes well; he catches up with his little brother about what's going on in Gotham, and with the new superhero friends he's making, and how Bruce is coming along emotions-wise (getting better, but none of them will ever recover from Jason's death. Not ever). In return, Dick talks about the cases he's working on (both as an officer and as a vigilante), tells a funny story about his new apartment building, talks a bit about his coworkers and neighbors.
It's nice, hanging out with Tim. The kid is one of the smartest people Dick's ever had the good fortune to know, and instead of growing up to follow in Jack Drake's footsteps, or simply live off the enormous amount of wealth he has, Tim is choosing to be a hero. Tim saw that Robin was needed, and didn't hesitate to step in when he realized that that meant he was needed. He never gave up, never let B's attitude get to him, and he's becoming an amazing hero.
A worthy successor to Dick. A worthy successor to Jason.
They wander back to the police station after they finish eating, and Dick invites Tim back inside, figures he might as well give his little brother a tour of the place. They start in the main bullpen and branch out, occasionally stopping to chat with his coworkers (the ones he's pretty sure are clean, at any rate).
They're just heading past evidence lockup when they run into another officer, quite literally. Only Dick's quick reflexes keeps himself from being knocked over by the large man, and then he steps back to put some room between them.
"Watch where you're going, gyp," the officer sneers, and Dick recognizes him now as David Blake, one of the cops Dick knows is dirty.
Plus, he's a giant racist jackwad, so there's that.
Dick doesn't say anything in response, used to it from people like him at this point, but Tim calls out, "Hey!"
Dick sighs. "Timmy—"
"Got something to say, brat?" Blake says, the full force of his glare now turned on the small form of thirteen-year-old Tim Drake.
The funny thing about it is that despite the menacing picture Blake makes out, and the obvious target Tim looks like, Dick knows for a fact that his little brother could knock the officer on his ass so fast it would make his head spin.
"Nope, nothing," Tim replies innocently, and Dick narrows his eyes in suspicion. "Sorry we bumped into you."
Blake snorts. "You should teach your big brother those same manners, kid." Dick bristles. "He'd be more pleasant to work with, that's for sure."
Tim simply smiles tightly and the officer leaves. Neither Dick nor Tim say anything until he's out of view, and then Dick raises an eyebrow at the kid.
"Not that I'm not pleased that you didn't start a fight with a cop in a police station, but I am very curious about the sudden shift in tone. One might even call my curiosity outright suspicion. What's going on, Tim?"
The boy's smile widens slightly, becoming more real, and he says, "Was just getting a look at his badge number, that's all."
His voice is way, way too innocent. His eyes too bright. His body slightly too antsy. It's times like these that Dick thinks that Jason and Tim could've actually really gotten along, if life were different.
"Don't do anything stupid," Dick warns, but he knows Tim well enough to know that the kid has some brains in that head of his at least, and is very unlikely to actually do anything with the information he has.
And yet, Dick turns out to be very wrong.
Because within three days, David Blake has lost his apartment due to a loophole in the lease, been left by his wife because she found evidence he was cheating, and has been fired from the force for corruption.
Dick feels lucky that Tim is on their side, and not using his powers for evil.
Later that day, Dick sends his little brother three texts:
I'm very impressed
But I can fight my own battles, baby bird
All the same, thank you
Dick has never been the biggest fan of televised interviews, but every few years he does one, because the Wayne name draws attention and he can use it to talk about issues he cares about instead of what the interviewer really just wants to know, which is what it's like to be a Wayne, and all that goes with it. Dick's a natural performer anyhow, so it's not hard to charm the crowd and the interviewer into letting him say what he wants.
Damian, however, is brand new to all of this stuff, and the kid's prickly enough without having to deal with inane questions from well-meaning adults. That's why Dick's in the studio at all at the moment, actually; Gotham Channel 5 News has been after an interview with Damian (everyone has, really) for a while now, and after an incident involving a katana and a sports car, Bruce is making Damian do it as punishment.
Dick is simply there to make sure his little brother doesn't murder anybody.
"This isn't so bad, right?" Dick asks with an easy smile, glancing over at Damian. They're in one of those backstage dressing rooms until it's time for them to go on stage. The room is filled with food and flowers and a bunch of other things solely dedicated towards making their rich guests feel comfortable, but Damian is simply eyeing it all with disdain.
Dick can't even blame him; he's a little exasperated with it all, too.
"This is extraordinarily stupid," is what Damian says in reply, and it makes Dick's lips twitch. "I do not see why people see an interview such as this as a necessity. It's mind-rotting, unimportant, and makes me question the general intelligence of anyone in the journalism field."
"I wouldn't quite call Andrea Carter a journalist. More like a glorified tabloid reporter. She only got this TV show because daytime television can never have enough of things like these." Dick shakes his head. "But it's honestly not so bad, once you get used to the slightly airheaded way they act around their guests."
"I still do not understand why the populous would want to watch some woman with too much makeup interview a billionaire's child about what he likes to do for fun." Damian's lips curl, deeply displeased. Somewhere, Bruce must be very proud of his punishment.
Dick shrugs a shoulder. "Dunno, Dami. Maybe because they're bored, maybe because the idea of seeing an adorable twelve-year-old speak so properly is entertaining—" Damian scowls, "—or maybe because sometimes people just want to be distracted from life by watching something that doesn't take a lot of mental effort."
Damian makes a sound, somewhere between derisive and contemplative, and falls silent.
The kid's been with them for almost two years now, but Dick doesn't think he'll ever get used to the strange mix of adult and child that Damian is. Because he is just a child, despite what he tries to make them believe, but he also is far more grown than someone his age has any right to be.
Whenever Dick sees something that is just a kid's response to something in Damian, it makes something in Dick relax a little. Damian's whole life has been fighting, being made into something he never should've had to be, but right now, when he's just pouting at the wall and kicking his feet slightly, he looks like the twelve-year-old he is, the twelve-year-old he could've been if Bruce had known about him far sooner.
"Did you have to do these where you were younger?" Damian asks. His tone is haughty, his chin raised superiorly, but he's still got that adorable pout on his face.
"Mm hm," Dick confirms, nodding a little. "I was great at these, when I was little. It was just another kind of performing. I was never a huge fan, just because the TV interviewers always seemed far more invasive—and annoying—than print, but once you get the hand of these they're not so bad."
"I do not wish to get the hang of them," Damian mutters.
Dick smiles slightly. "Yeah, Jay never wanted to either."
Damian narrows his eyes and opens his mouth to say something, but he's interrupted by a quick knock on the door and then it's opening, admitting someone with a headset.
"Hi boys!" she says with a wide smile, slightly patronizing as she looks at Damian. Dick can see the kid tense with displeasure. "You guys ready to go on?"
"Yup," Dick replies for them both, stepping into his roll as the Damian Mediator. "Let's do this thing."
He herds Damian towards the stage, only half listening to the babble the girl is spewing. It's the regular spiel about how this all works, what they should expect, et cetera, and Dick's been in the spotlight long enough to have this down.
The interview, surprisingly, goes well. Damian's still just as sharp and superior as they all expected him to be, but Dick's right there at his side to soften the blows and smile charmingly. No one's ended up screaming or crying or drawing weapons, so Dick's counting it all as a win.
That is, until right at the end (when Dick can see the finish line right in front of them), when Andrea asks, "So, Damian, what's the most different thing between school in Pakistan and school in America?"
Dick is very relieved when Damian doesn't share his weapons training, considering the League of Shadows probably isn't a good representation of regular schooling in any country, but instead discussing the differences between the organization of classes.
It's a wonderfully benign and artful comment. Dick is actually a little proud.
But then Andrea looks at Dick. "And you, Richard? I know before you were adopted by Mr. Wayne you didn't really have any kind of formal education—what was that shift like?"
Dick's been asked that question—or some variation of it—many times in the past, so his answer is practiced and ends with a small joke, making the audience titter. It's an easy segway to move the conversation along.
But, of course, Andrea doesn't leave it there. "Of course, of course," she says, smiling along with the audience. "I can imagine how much of a relief it was to escape the constraints of your people, actually step into real society and away from that vagabond life."
She says it with a companionable smile, her tone teasing, like she's commenting on some bad haircut Dick got, or if he was wearing an ugly shirt. She says it like it's a completely regular thing to say, to insinuate that his people live lives that are worth less than the regular lives people have in Gotham, and how grateful he must be that Bruce took him away from all the horribleness that is the Romani way.
Dick stares at her, utterly speechless.
It's like his ability to spin things back into safer territory has left him for a moment, because all he can picture is his mother singing a lullaby in Romani and his father mastering the language just for them, because he never saw being Romani as anything other than special, always saw it as something to be proud of and he'd be damned if anyone made his wife or son feel less than because of who they are—
"Richard?" Andrea prompts, her brows furrowed in concern, and it startles Dick back into the right mindset.
"Of course," he says, and the smile on his face is tight, an imitation of the charming one he's been using throughout the interview. "My apologies, simply thinking about the shift in lifestyle."
"What did you mean?" Damian asks, and there's something so deceptively innocent in his voice that gives Dick pause, because he knows his little brother. Damian's face in arranged in the perfect version of concerned curiosity, like a regular twelve-year-old boy when confronted with something he doesn't understand.
Andrea buys it instantly. She smiles indulgently at Damian, and Dick's still too suspicious of what Damian's doing to interrupt, and then she says, "Well, Damian, your big brother used to live in a circus!"
"Yes," Damian agrees, nodding, his expression not shifting at all. "And?"
Andrea blinks at him, but continues. "And that meant he moved around quite a bit, never really putting down any roots. Plus, on top of all that, his mom was a gypsy." She winks at Damian, her tone that of someone sharing a magical secret with a child, like she'd just told him that Dick's mother was a fairy.
Dick's jaw actually drops. Because she literally just said that on live television. She just said that goddamn word on live television to describe his dead mother. All of this, she's actually been saying all of this shit on TV.
Exaggerated understanding dawns on Damian's expression. "Oh, you mean that Dick is Romani!"
Andrea blinks again. "I'm sorry?"
"That's what you mean when you call Dick's mother—and, by extension, himself—a gypsy; that's a slur for the Romani people. That's what you meant, right? When you were saying how relieved he must be to have escaped his heritage, which only happened because his parents were murdered."
Andrea stares, absolutely speechless. Dick can't say he's doing much better.
Damian smiles, pleased. A certain sharpness has come back to his expression. "Okay, I understand now. Was your next question going to be to me about if I'd ever met a terrorist? Or, better yet, if I know one? How awful it must've been growing up in a place filled with them?"
Andrea splutters. "No, that's—I'm not—I wouldn't-"
"Because despite what is constantly on the news cycle in this country, not all Muslims are terrorists, in fact not even close to a majority are terrorists. Are all Caucasian people associated with your white supremacist movements? No? Then apply the same principal when looking at countries like Iraq and Lebanon and Pakistan."
The room is dead silent.
Dick feels like crying with how proud he is.
"O zalzaro khal peski piri," Dick says with a smirk, the Romani syllables falling expertly off his tongue, and then he gets to his feet. "Hayaa linadh-hab," he says to Damian, switching over to Arabic.
Damian grins back at him and stands as well. "Bikuli surur."
As they walk away, Dick can hear the audience all talking over each other, can hear Andrea calling for calm and trying to talk with her producer, can hear some of the men who work on the set trying to get them to stop walking away, but Dick just puts his hand on his brother's shoulder and heads for the door.