Chapter Text
Peter’s funeral was quiet and small. The family and few friends assembles in the estate and tells stories of the short time he was in their lives. Dick sobbed more than he wished as he tried to remember his child’s life than the terrible day of his death.
There is a higher security to keep funeral crashers out. After Bruce’s fit at the GCPD and subsequent lawsuit against the officer that leaked the tape did the media back off. A juicy story and freedom of press would mean nothing if the Waynes sued them into oblivion.
It didn’t matter if they had the right too do something unsavory and would in theory win. The Waynes could prolong a lawsuit long enough to bleed almost anyone dry. It was something the family rarely did.
Gordon issued a public and private apology. Dick accepted it because Gordon had long run a campaign to clean up the GCPD. He couldn’t get everyone in line.
Barbara gave him enough to ruin the man if he felt like it. Dick would leave the lawyers to do that. He had enough to worry about.
There was no appeal in sleep anymore after the funeral.
Dick couldn’t sleep his grief away. His son was dead. There was no denying what had happened.
Dick was never prone to sweet dreams after the death of a loved one. Memories had to be enjoyed when he was awake. Nightwing took off once again.
His grief gave way to rage. Rage at whatever took his son. Rage that was taken on his unfortunate victims. He was not Bruce, who brutalized the whole of Gotham to his grief. He hurt more than needed.
Gotham remembered the rage of the first Robin.
A rage that was echoed in the family in their own combat.
As if the city spoke to its villains quieted to avoid their wrath.
Dick trains and works.
He tries to avoid his apartment. He avoids his son’s rooms at the manor and other homes. John Peter Grayson had carved a space for himself in each of the family homes be it a room or play space.
Jason is the first one to get rid of his. Not for a lack of love but because he had to switch safe houses. He gave most of the toys, clothes and other casual sundries to Dick.
Dick folded the clothes with love and stored them in Peter’s room as if he would still use them. The toys were stored away. They were rich enough that the room could stay as it was forever. Bruce had kept Jason’s room a shrine until he returned to the family.
Dick did not know if he would do that. He needed more time. Right now he could sit among the things and remember. He hadn’t had the chance with his parents’ things.
Dick went through the coloring books and papers Jason had given him. Peter had been a decent artist for his age. Damian guided him through techniques. (It might have also just been Dick’s own parental pride that had him say that.) Peter was-had been prone to just coloring with abandon like most children.
The coloring book was the victim to this savagery. A dinosaur was painted purple with no care for the lines. Dick smiled. He could see Peter just coloring fiercely with his tongue out.
A sketchbook showed more care. It had practiced letters. John Peter repeated with equal various levels of finesse. The earlier attempts poor and malformed. The newer letters still with a child’s imprecision but legible.
There were drawings. A series. Dick looked at them carefully. He wondered what Peter thought when he drew these.
There were a series of characters drawn with clear identification. A man with a cape and dark hair, flying and orange circles around him. A man in red and yellow shooting out lasers. A thinner smaller figure in red and blue. Nets? It was hard to tell.
They were fighting a purple bulky monster. He had a glove with colored stones. Dick thought they were stones. It was just colored circles.
Peter had written names against some. Thanos? Was that was it was for the purple thing? Ron Man for the red flyer. Doc Stran and Speedr Man.
The spelling indicated Peter had done this when he was about three. He could spell better at five. He could read books for older children.
He went to various other pictures he’d drawn at various ages. The heroes lost to Thanos no matter how many times Peter redrew the characters.
In a different sketchbook was the mysterious May as a stick figure with dark hair and next to a man named Ben. There was a heart between them. Ben had died in one picture. He was in a tomb RIP. Peter and May sad next to it with big blue tears from their stick faces. Peter had a tomb for himself on the next page.
Dick closed the book. He’d look at it later. Part of him wanted to rip that page out but it’d be destroying something he is son had done.
As the days turns to weeks, Dick finds he can power through most days. His family helps. He’s rarely alone the first few months. Tim and Duke are the ones who are most with him.
Bruce takes a sabbatical from WE and looks into the issue. He pulls resources Dick hasn’t even heard of to try and find out why. Tim is also doing his part where he can. His little brother doesn’t sleep some days.
Some days Dick didn’t want to get out of bed. Alfred came to him and helped him get around and made sure he eats. He sits in the sunroom with Peter’s ashes and holds the spider plush toy. Peter never named it. At most he called it ‘Spider’ but that wasn’t its name.
They hold a memorial for Peter’s birthday. Dick finds himself sobbing again like the first day he’d lost Peter. Bruce support him as he sobs like he did after his parents died.
“I’m not gonna see him again, B.” Dick sobbed into his shirt.
“I know, chum.” Bruce’s voice is thick with tears. “I remember going to the hospital with you. He gave me hope like you had. Robin was hope for Gotham. I thought Peter was hope for our family. A child who came into it without any real trauma.”
“That’s why the universe took him from us. We’re broken, B. To be a Wayne you have to be fucked up.”
“We can’t find a reason.” Bruce admitted voice hoarse. “I thought if we could find who did this we could turn it back. Get back my grandson. I’m sorry Dick. I failed you there.”
“It’s not your fault, B.” Dick wiped his nose on the man’s shirt. Bruce ran his hand through his hair. This was such a familiar pose despite the years between it. “I just want him to back. I just want him back. I still wake up most days thinking I’ll hear him calling me and wanting breakfast.”
“It gets better, chum. The pain is still there. It never goes away. I’ve been blessed with Jason and Damian but the pain is still there. You have to keep going for him. Keep his memory alive.”
“I know. I try. I try so hard. It’s just hard today. I was so happy when I held him and now-“ Dick sniffed and wiped his face.
“Eventually you’ll see something he’d like and smile. You’ll do things for his memory and be happy. You’ll talk to the air and direct to him and it won’t make you sad.”
“If there’s a heaven he’s there with my parents and yours. We’ll see him if what we fight for is any good.”
“Yes.” Bruce agreed. “We’ll see him again there.”
“Thanks, B.” Dick said.
Dick would honor his son. His son loved science. The Waynes had a number of memorial projects. What was one more? There was always a person who’d need it.
The J.P. Grayson STEM Grant came into existence a month later. The first recipient was a little girl with a missing tooth who was a brilliant thing from underserved communities. Dick would only learn that later but it made him smile. Peter would have loved that.
Tim’s birthday came. Jason’s. Damian’s. Cass’. Bruce’s. Alfred’s. Duke’s. Then Dick’s.
Each celebration was met with a blown out candle and “If I tell you it won’t come true.” A phrase Peter had liked saying when he was alive. Dick had a feeling they all wished for Peter to come back to them. A childish desire to keep Peter’s childish memory alive.
Dick’s birthday was celebrated more somberly. They went out to dinner to give Alfie a break from cooking. The cake had a candle he blew out. He wished Peter was with him.
“What’d you wish for?” Jason asked.
“If I tell you it won’t come true.” Dick said. The smiles from his family were fond and tinged with sadness. Dick wondered if this little trend would continue on when most families lost it as their little ones grew up. Their little ones hadn’t had the chance to lose it.
They headed to the manor after for a more sedated evening watching movies before patrol. The weather turned unexpectedly thunderous on the way. It hinted that they may stay in for the entire evening rather than patrol.
“I thought it wasn’t supposed to rain today?” Tim asked as they exited the garage to the main house. “It’s usually not this bad this time of year.”
“Eh, it’s Gotham. It’s always raining.” Duke said. Cass nodded.
“So much rain here or snow.”
“It doesn’t rain all the time. It’s not England.” Dick said.
“Quite, right, Master Richard. While Gotham does experience a fair amount of rain we have more sun than rain. This unexpected storm use has us feeling it is a common staple.”
“We didn’t leave any windows open, did we?” Bruce asked.
“Of course not, Master Bruce. Did you?” Bruce froze.
“No, Alfred. I know better.”
“Good.” Dick snickered. With Batman activity Bruce would often push through Alfred’s protest or suggestions. With their home life Alfred still was Bruce’s father at the end of the day and rules the Manor with an iron fist.
Peter had never liked thunderstorms. It was too loud for him and had made him cry. He’d gotten better before he died. Sometimes he still snuck into Dick’s bed. Dick would visit him in the sunroom before he went out or to bed if the storm didn’t let up.
Jason, who had been walking ahead of them, stopped. He raised a hand.
“Be quiet.” He said softly. “I hear something.” In any other family a chorus of questions would follow. In this one they shifted into a fighting pose. Dick moved forward silently to join Jason.
There was nothing for a few seconds. Then. He heard it. He looked at Jason.
Jason, wide eyed, nodded. He knew what Dick heard.
Dick took off running before he could be stopped. He didn’t care if it was a trap. If it wasn’t-.
He ended up in the sunroom. The full force of the storm was visible against the glass walls. Dick’s eyes landed on the shelf where Peter’s urn should sit. It was gone. Dick saw parts of it on the ground.
There was no ash.
He followed the crying. His legs shook as he went closer to the sound. Against one of the settee, huddled with the plush spider that also lived in the room was Peter.
Dick didn’t dare move as his family joined him.
Peter was crying in his sleep. He looked older. That was Dick’s first thought. He was also dressed in clothing he hadn’t died in. It was a red and blue costume. His face was bruised and covered in blood.
Alfred’s gasp was as loud as the thunder. Peter’s eyes opened. He looked tired and haunted as a child’s eyes never should have. He reached out to him for comfort. That was all Dick needed.
Dick took him into his arms as the family crowded them. Bruce and Alfred fell next to him. Their hands touching Peter’s face like when he’d been born. Tim ran get a first aid kit for Alfred. Jason, Duke and Cass just hovered unable to quite speak. Afraid it would shatter the moment and he’d vanish. Peter broke the silence as he snuggled against Dick.
“Happy Birthday, Daddy. I’m home.”