Chapter Text
Dick couldn’t peel his eyes off him. It was a curse—like if he were to stop, he’d lose him all over again… forever. But Tommy didn’t know him and might never know him. It was a lost cause in a way. He never mentioned this to anyone; no one would believe him, and if they did, letting anybody else in would only hurt his chances of having anything to do with Tommy.
From what he could observe, though, Tommy was a well-raised kid with a good background: a single dad, no crimes, nothing extreme. He had nothing that suggested he was anybody but Tommy. It was a mystery only for Dick to uncover.
But in the end, it wouldn’t be. For some reason, Dick stupidly let the possibility slip. And the person he told—out of all people—was the worst one to tell. It was Bruce. Batman. The worst person to tell, the worst person to ever tell anything.
“Jason is dead, Dick. He’s been dead for years.”
“How do you know?”
He grumbled, “How do I know? I saw him. He died in my arms!” Jason was someone who should have been left in the past. He was a remnant of what once was, not someone who is. These words came from Bruce himself; he’d remind himself of them whenever he forgot Jason had died. Some days, the idea of going for ice cream popped into his head, and he’d enter Jason’s bedroom to ask him, only to find Jason’s made bed, his last piece of clothing, the pile of dirty laundry on the floor. This would hit him instantly and break him down every time. He wished it hadn’t been true—that he could have Jason, see Jason grow up—but it would only ever be a fantasy, not reality. It was too much, too hard. He needed to get rid of everything, everything he touched. That was when he finally decided to empty the room, leaving nothing behind.
Dick, feeling guilty, only whispered to himself. Bruce’s eyes drew toward him with a villainous glare, one so deep he could feel it penetrate through his skin like boiling water. Bruce only loosened that glare once something else distracted him.
He pointed at Dick endlessly, his voice cold and deep, biting through Dick’s whole persona: “Leave this alone. Leave that boy alone. He is not Jason. He could never be Jason.” He could never be Jason pierced through Dick like a knife—a hard, grueling knife. It was sharp, easy against Dick, and it was true. Awfully true. But Dick could not loosen his grip on the whole situation. He would find something—anything—that could show Bruce the truth, no matter how he found it.
He breathed out a sigh, tensing up, and said in a tender voice, “You may not believe me, but I will find something and show you.” He swiftly backed away from Bruce, carefully walking off, pulling at his own skin. He walked several steps before stopping halfway.
He turned his head, twisting his body only slightly. He opened his mouth, paused, then continued fully: “You know, he was my brother too, Bruce. He wasn’t just your son.” Those words lingered in the air even as he left. Bruce could only wave them away and drown himself in work.
…
I’ll tell Bruce. I’ll tell him he’s wrong. That he’s not always right, he told himself as he hit the punching bag, the dust jumping into the air, the fan blowing it aside. He doesn’t know anything. Another hit—stronger. I’ll get back at him. Another hit—an even stronger blow. Strong enough to punch a hole in the bag, debris following suit. He coughed out the pieces that fell on his tongue, the crusty taste making him gag like a maniac.
He felt imprisoned. He felt stupid. He felt overwhelmed. He felt all these things for one reason: Jason. No punches could ease this.
It was only Jason—if he even is Jason—who could ease any of the pressure building inside him. A ticking time bomb. He couldn’t let himself do something idiotic; he couldn’t do anything that drew attention, especially from Tommy. He could never show his face in front of him again—not like that. He needed an excuse. A big excuse he could believe. But nothing came to mind that made sense.
How could he say: “Hey, I’m your brother. You’re actually Jason Todd!” No, he couldn’t say that. Tommy would never believe him. He wasn’t even sure if Tommy knew anything about his secret identity, or Bruce’s—Nightwing, Batman, Robin, Oracle. He couldn’t know anything, especially if he couldn’t even remember Dick as a civilian.
But one day, he will. And when that happens, Dick will be all open arms.
…
He stalked him. It was pitiful, in a way. Stealthy, too. Dick couldn’t get him out of his mind. It was like an aneurysm—a pull. He saw him everywhere: all night, all day, on patrol, in civilian life. Sometimes accidentally, other times intentionally. But Tommy had no clue. He lived life as he could: helping his father, playing with his friends, working like mad. A simple life Dick wanted to be part of. But he was no one—no one at all. And that hurt more than anything he could ever say.
It was his brother. No matter how many doubts or concerns—it was him. His baby brother, back from the grave.
He couldn’t be stopped.
Not even when Bruce told him to stop, to leave the boy alone. Dick knew that Bruce knew it was him, but he didn’t want to believe it.
That the boy who had died in his arms and said his last word: “Bruce,” A tainted name now. A burden. Not even with everyone around was it easier. It was a mental break. And soon enough, that mental break would consume Dick whole.
…
As Nightwing crouched on the ledge, watching Tommy through the window in his dad’s room, someone approached him—a deep voice with an even darker presence. He could feel its weight instantly. Batman.
“Nightwing,” Bruce said angrily. He glided toward his companion, continuing a previous demand. “I told you to stop.”
Nightwing ignored him, focusing on the movements inside the room. Tommy practically sprinted from his bed to take care of his father, helping him drink a glass of milk, then wiping away any stains that might have spilled. It was basic, but it showed how deeply he cared. It was gentle. It was everything Nightwing wanted for Jason and Batman.
He gibed, “That could be you, Batman.” A son helping a father. A moment of peace and of silence.
Batman shook his head, annoyed. “That is not him.”
“It is!” Nightwing snapped, glaring at him. “He has the same hair, same face. He’s all of him.”
Batman exhaled sharply—intense, just like Batman himself. Every word, whether it was truth or lie, was full of it. “It doesn’t matter.”
“How can it not matter!” Nightwing shot back, whiningly. Stepping off the ledge, he stood in front of Bruce, whose suit scared everyone in sight. An identity he created—one everyone knew. He lamented, “Look at him. He’s there. Without me, without you.”
“Even if it is him… he looks happy.” Even he could say the same: he was happy. What else would a father want? Disaster? No, never. It was all too true to discard.
Nightwing couldn’t stop himself. The emotions were too strong—sadness Batman rarely saw. “Batman, you don’t understand!”
“How could I not understand?” Batman questioned. “I watched him die. Don’t you think that kills me? His suit in that case—I’m always reminded of him. Don’t you see? I made him that way. I created him.”
“You watched him die… but don’t you want to watch him alive? Full of joy? Full of hope?”
“I carry that guilt every day of my life. I was in charge of him.” He shook his head repeatedly and turned back toward the window.
Tommy kissed his dad good night, the light turning off afterward. “That boy is living a life. His own life.”
Bruce whispered back, quieter—loud enough for Nightwing but no one else. “Every day. Every night. When I see you, when I see Tim, when I see Damian, I think of him. How he would have grown, how he would have persevered. And that…” He broke there, a rare occasion. “That hurts. It’s grief. A life lost. But you move on.”
“Move on? Have you moved on, Bruce? Like you said, you see him in all of us.”
Batman sighed. “Grief is difficult. Alarming. You learn to live with it, no matter what. The past cannot be changed.”
Nightwing jerked back, his face lowering, tears already flowing like emotions had knocked him down. A tearful response was all he wanted. “You never cry.”
Batman rolled his eyes, swallowing a whirlwind of emotion. He closed in on Nightwing, only a few steps apart. They had never been this close—not in uniform. “When he died, I did. We all did. I cry differently. I cry silently.”
Nightwing shook his head continuously, unable to accept the words. He breathed in a long pull of air, feeling the void. His black mask couldn’t hide the distortion of his pain.
Batman begged, “Stop, please. Before you get hurt. Before he gets hurt.” It was unlike him but it was needed this time around.
Nightwing could only oblige, tearfully. He left the area, fulfilling Batman’s demand, trying to forget Tommy, trying to forget everything.
Batman stayed, watching the two as Nightwing had done—only this time in the dark, hidden from sight. He saw Tommy return from the other room, comforting his father as pain shot through him. Batman stayed there, watching. Not as emotionally as Nightwing, but still present. He felt the connection, the fondness he had for Jason. It was him… but that could never be revealed. Nothing more should or could occur. No matter the shock factor. Jason had long been gone, and only Tommy had returned.
A different person. A different identity.
He was no longer Batman’s partner or Bruce’s son; he was someone unknown, someone among strangers.
That was all he could be.