Chapter Text
. . .
I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but it’s hard not to when the walls rattle from the force of Dick slamming Bruce’s study door behind him.
Pressing my ear to the hardwood, Bruce’s voice comes through low and controlled. Dick’s is louder, raw around the edges, like something’s been torn open and can’t be stitched back together. The words bleed through in fragments, broken and incomplete.
“You don’t get to—”
“—should have told me—”
“—all your fault!”
My stomach twists.
They’re fighting about something I don’t understand. Footsteps approach. I jerk back just as the door flies open and Dick storms into the hallway.
He looks… wrecked.
His eyes are red rimmed and eyebags pronounced like he hasn’t slept. There’s a tightness to his face I’ve never seen before, like he’s holding himself together by sheer will force. His hands are clenched at his sides, shaking.
“Dick.” I say, stepping forward. Whatever this is, maybe he just needs someone other than Bruce to talk to. “Hey—”
He brushes straight past me, a dark cloud of motion and anger, already halfway down the hall before I can finish the thought. I watch his back retreat, the space he leaves behind feeling colder than it should.
He doesn’t want to talk. That’s okay.
I glance back at the study. The door’s been left ajar. Bruce is still inside, slumped at his desk, head buried in his hands.
My heart is pounding, erratic and wrong. I’ve seen them fight before. Raised voices, slammed doors, and weeks of tension—but this feels different. Like something broke instead of bent.
A shiver crawls up my spine.
I don’t know what they’re fighting about.
I just know it scared me.
. . .
Dick doesn’t come back after that.
At first, that’s fine. Normal, even. He lives in Blüdhaven. He’s busy, he always has been. After a fight like that, of course he’d need space. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to come back either.
But a few days turns into weeks.
And soon I stop counting the days.
Bruce is unraveling. Every night, he comes back worse than the one before.
Sometimes it’s a limp he doesn’t bother hiding. Sometimes it’s blood crusted at his hairline, or a bruise blooming dark along his jaw. Sometimes he’s so exhausted he doesn’t even make it up the stairs—just collapses into a chair in the cave and stares at nothing until Alfred quietly intervenes.
I watch from the edges. From doorways. From the shadows I’m getting very good at standing in.
Something happened that night. I don’t know what, but whatever it was, it seems as though Bruce is determined to throw himself into Gotham like it’s something he needs to bleed out of his system.
Like he’s punishing himself.
The thought makes my chest ache.
Alfred is tired in a way that scares me. His shoulders stay tense when he thinks no one’s looking. His hands shake when he pours tea.
Bruce needs him more right now. I’m doing the right thing by staying out of the way. By not asking questions. By not needing anything.
Still… I can’t shake the feeling that if I don’t do something, Bruce is going to break.
He comes back one night with his arm bound tight, the fabric already soaked through. He doesn’t even make it a few feet before he slumps against the wall, breathing hard.
I take a step forward without thinking.
“Bruce,” I say. “You should—”
He doesn’t look at me. He never does.
Alfred’s voice cuts in instead, sharp with worry. “Master Bruce—”
“I’m fine.” Bruce growls, pushing past him, toward the elevator. His movements are jerky and off-balance. He’s bleeding onto the floor and doesn’t seem to care.
I stand there, useless.
I shouldn’t interfere. I lost that right. But watching him destroy himself like this—watching him come home more broken every night—sets something frantic loose in my chest.
This is self-destruction.
I press my hands into fists and tell myself tomorrow I’ll do something. Say something. Find a way to help that doesn’t make things worse.
Tomorrow.
. . .
Tomorrow turns out to be different than I expected.
Somehow, someone managed to slip through all the Manor’s security systems and ring the doorbell. I drift toward the stairs just as Alfred opens the door, his voice surprised as a boy barrels into the foyer.
He’s young. Thirteen maybe. His backpack is half-unzipped, papers sticking out, hair a mess like he ran here. He looked… sort of familiar as well.
It clicks when Bruce appears at the edge of the room. That kid is Timothy Drake. He’s our neighbor. I’d seen him at a gala. One of the very few times I’d joined Bruce to one of those snobby events.
“What’re doing?” Bruce questions. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Yes, I should.” The kid fires back immediately. His voice shakes, but he doesn’t stop. “Because if I don’t say something, you’re going to get yourself killed.”
My stomach drops.
Bruce stiffens. Alfred freezes mid-step.
“I know who you are,” Tim says. “I know what you do. All of you. Batman. Nightwing. Robin—”
My breath catches.
Bruce cuts him off sharply. “Enough.”
“No,” Tim snaps. “You need to hear this. You need help, and you won’t let anyone give it to you, and now Dick’s gone and you’re—” He gestures helplessly at Bruce, voice cracking. “You’re spiraling.”
That word lands heavy.
Bruce turns away, jaw clenched. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do,” Tim insists. “I’ve been watching. You’re pushing yourself harder than ever, and you don’t have a partner anymore.”
Partner.
The air feels thick and wrong.
“I tried to get him to come back,” Tim says, quieter now. “I went to Blüdhaven. I told him you needed him. That Batman needs a Robin.”
I don’t hear Bruce’s response. Or maybe he doesn’t say anything at all.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
The kid stands straighter, like he’s bracing for impact. “But if he won’t do it, then I will.”
The room goes very still.
I stare at Bruce, waiting for him to shut it down. To laugh. To say absolutely not. To not let this stranger get to have the thing that was taken from me.
Instead, he just looks tired. Older than I’ve ever seen him. “You’re just a child.”
“So were they.” Tim replies firmly, his voice projects confidence, but his restless hands show his nerves. “And this really isn’t a request. I will help you, whether you like it or not. So for both of our sakes, it’s best if you let me.”
Taking a step back, anger begins to burn hot. Is Bruce seriously considering this? He hasn’t even spoken to me in months, and here he is—listening to the neighbor's son as I stand here unseen and unheard, watching as I’m replaced.
“What a fucking joke.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Tim looks up, his eyes meeting mine. He looks slightly startled, like he didn’t realize I was here at all. If he wants to be Robin, he’s got a lot of training to do.
I don’t say anything else. Don’t give him the satisfaction. I just glare, then turn on my heel and walk away before I can see the rest of it unfold.
I already know how this ends.
I knew the second Bruce didn’t shut him down. Knew it the moment he listened. The moment he didn’t dismiss Tim’s claims.
I head back toward my room, jaw tight, chest hollow. I don’t need to watch someone else step into something that was never really mine to begin with.
Clinging to stupid hopes like that has never done me any good.
Was this how Dick felt?
It’s horrible.
I hate it.
. . .