Chapter Text
A week after the simulation, Robin still sees the bleak picture of Earth under siege of an unbeatable alien armada every time he closes his eyes. He sees Artemis disappear before his very eyes, feels the weight of the world land on his shoulders when Aqualad sacrifices himself to save the rest of them, hears Superboy’s thoughts suddenly cease when they infiltrate the mothership. He feels the fire against his skin, smells flesh burn, hears a cacophony of panicked whispers in his head until he feels nothing at all.
He means to tell Black Canary at his League-mandated counseling session about the nightmares and the daydreams (daymares?) and how he still smells Wally’s burning flesh. He had planned on mentioning the random texts he’d send his friends to make sure they were still alive, and how he’d panic if they didn’t answer within a few minutes. He has every intention of being honest about his feelings… but none of that comes out of his mouth. Instead of his teammates screams or the vivid visions of them disappearing before his very eyes (his fault his fault his. fault.), he pours his heart out over another fear.
“I don’t want to be the Batman anymore.”
Strangely enough, Robin feels as though a weight has been lifted off his shoulders when those eight words leave his mouth. He pauses, waiting to hear Canary’s response, but the room remains silent.
It feels like a dam breaks.
“And I… it feels like I’m betraying him, saying that out loud,” Robin says. “Batman, he’s… he’s done so much for me. Everything he’s taught me has kept me alive, and here I am, questioning it, questioning him. I wouldn’t be who I am today if it weren’t for him, and I’m grateful for it, believe me, but… I watched my teammates… my friends die. I know I’ve grown attached, but what am I supposed to do, pretend I don’t care about them? He wants to keep everyone he cares about at arm’s length, and I get the reasoning behind that, but… I can’t… I don’t…”
The words die on the tip of his tongue. He rips the shades off his face, scrubs at the tears threatening to fall with the sleeve of his jacket in a sudden fit of frustration. Why can’t you get the words out?
“Robin,” he hears Canary say. “It’s okay.”
He raises his head, looking her in the eye. He can’t find the energy to lash out and tell her that it’s not okay, that it’s the most not okay thought he’s ever had, that he’s throwing away everything his mentor taught him.
“You are your own person, Dick,” Canary continues, her voice soft. “You don’t have to be a carbon copy of your mentor. You’re Robin, not Batman.”
Not yet, he thinks.
He thinks of an old saying he heard Daj use once when he was little. Či perel a phabaj kathar pesko kaš maj dur. The words don’t quite roll off his tongue like they used to, but he could never forget their meaning. Back when he first lost his parents, it was almost a comforting phrase, something that reminded him that no matter what, a little piece of his family would remain alive.
Now, it’s a phrase that haunts him. Robin knows he picked up plenty of Batman’s habits, knows that his teachings are deeply rooted into what was once a name he associated with the comfort of his mother’s arms.
He doesn’t tell Canary that part.
Robin’s time runs out before he can get around to telling her about the nightmares. Before he leaves to get M’gann for her counseling session, Canary reminds him that she’s always available if he needs to talk. They both know it’s unlikely he’ll actually seek out additional sessions, but he can’t really blame her for trying.
He drags his feet on the way to the kitchen, thinking back to Canary’s words. You’re Robin, not Batman. Two weeks ago, he would’ve been insulted. Now, the words he spoke back on Santa Prisca haunt him.
“Closest thing we’ve got,” Robin whispers bitterly.
How close? How many steps away from Batman is he? Is there a fork in the road where he can get off this path, or did he miss his chance when he took that oath four years ago?
“Robin?”
He tears his gaze away from the floor, finding M’gann standing in front of him. He has to force himself to look her in the eye, force himself to keep it together when he sees the concern and guilt shining through. Robin wants to tell her that it’s not her fault, that she hasn’t gotten the hang of her powers just yet, but he reminds himself that Canary is probably wondering what’s taking so long.
“Hey, Miss M,” Robin says, his voice sounding far too small for his liking. “Um… BC’s ready to see you.”
“Okay. There’s… there’s cookies on the counter, if you want some,” M’gann says, trying to put a little cheer into her voice. “Chocolate chip and snickerdoodle.”
Robin feels the corners of his mouth lift ever-so slightly. “Thanks, M’gann.”
They start to go their separate ways. Robin makes it halfway through the kitchen before he hears M’gann call his name. He turns his head, raising an eyebrow.
“I swear I wasn’t reading your mind, but… are you okay?”
If Batman were here, an irritating little voice in the back of his head says, he’d kill you for letting your thoughts get so loud.
“Not feeling too tressed right now, to be honest,” Robin says, offering what he hopes is a comforting smile to the Martian. “But I’ll get there. I always do.”
The smiles he gets in return is… sad. M’gann turns away and walks down the hallway, leaving an unspoken apology hanging in the air.
I’m sorry I put you all through that.
Robin lets out a soft sigh. “I’m sorry I let everyone die.”
Recognized: Robin, B-01
The Batcave is dead silent when Dick steps out of the Zeta-Tube. He lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding, grateful that Batman wasn’t present. He didn’t think he could face his mentor right now.
Nothing leaves this room, Canary had told him. Dick has no reason to doubt Dinah will keep her promise and not tell Batman, but Batman doesn’t really need her to tell him anything. He has his ways of finding answers without confrontation―Dick would know, he’s been taught every. last. one.
It occurs to him that Batman probably bugged the room, or that he probably watched the security footage from his session, but Dick can’t find the energy to feel anything about it. Right now, he just wants to lock himself in his room and find a way to keep Robin from sinking into the darkness that was threatening to pull him under.
Dick slips the utility belt out from under his hoodie, setting it with the rest of his Robin gear. He pulls off the shades, tucking them into pocket of his jacket before walking up the steps to the elevator that leads to the grandfather clock.
“Good evening, Master Dick,” he hears Alfred say as he steps out of the elevator.
“Hey, Alfred,” Dick greets, offering the butler a tired smile. “Is B out?”
“He is. Would I be correct in assuming you will not be joining him tonight?”
Dick nods. “Yeah. I know he said he’d unbench me after I’ve jumped through all his hoops, but I… I guess I’m not really up for it tonight.”
“Ah,” Alfred says, “not quite ‘feeling the aster’ tonight, as you would say.”
Dick lets out a humorless laugh. “Yeah.”
The old butler offers Dick a comforting smile. “Master Bruce figured as much, so he took the liberty of inviting Master Wallace to stay the night. In fact, he should be arriving any minute.”
As mentally and emotionally drained as Dick feels right now, he can’t help but smile. “Thanks, Alf. Send him to the game room and I’ll meet him there in a few?”
“Of course, Master Dick,” Alfred says.
Dick watches Alfred walk down the hall and turn the corner. He stands by the grandfather clock for few more moments before walking in the opposite direction. As he makes his way to his room, he takes out Robin’s phone and types out a message.
thanks
He knows he probably won’t get a reply, not for a message unrelated to their work, but he doesn’t really mind. A lot of people mistake the Batman’s silence as something cold, that he’s ignoring you, but Robin knows better. It’s a language that Robin knows well.
In his room, Dick changes out of his civvies and into an old Gotham Knights T-shirt and a pair of black basketball shorts. He pulls out the sleeping bags he and Wally use for their sleepovers, along with a change of clothes for Wally because he can never remember to bring his own (but he does manage to remember his costume, the idiot).
Dick gathers everything he needs up in his arms and walks towards the door, wasting a few seconds cursing at the doorknob and shifting items around in his arms because he’s stubborn and the very idea of taking more than one trip is an insult to the Boy Wonder.
(He drops items every few steps, but hey, even mathletes make miscalculations.)
He finds Wally in the game room, along with a stack of pizza boxes from the pizza parlor in Happy Harbor that the team frequents at least once a week. He’s in the middle of setting up Super Smash Bros. Brawl, a slice of pizza hanging from his mouth.
“One of those better be for me, Kid Glutton,” Dick says, jerking his head towards the pizza boxes. He drops his cargo onto a nearby chair, approaching the speedster.
Wally wolfs down the rest of the slice he’s currently working on. “C’mon, what kind of best pal would I be if I didn’t bring anything for you?” He leaves the Wii and walks over to the stack of pizzas, scanning the labels on the side. When he finds the one he’s looking for, he slides it out and sets it aside. “The usual―green pepper, mushroom, black olive.”
Dick takes one of the plates Alfred must’ve set out for them, placing two slices of pizza onto it. “So, you remembered my usual order, but I bet you didn’t remember to bring a change of clothes.”
Wally groans. “One of these days I’ll remember.”
“And I’ll someday be taller than Bruce,” Dick says, snatching up the clothes he brought down for Wally and tossing them onto the couch cushion beside him.
Wally takes the clothes and speeds off, returning moments later dressed in an old Flash sweater he swears he’ll take home (but never does) and a pair of sleep pants. He reclaims his spot on the couch to polish off the last few pieces of meat lover’s pizza.
For a little while, Dick is able to forget about the simulation. He and Wally spend the first half of their evening playing Brawl and trash-talking between bites of pizza. Dick cackles with delight when Fox McCloud launches Donkey Kong offscreen, winning his fourth round in a row.
“Dude, come on," Wally groans.
“You’re predictable, Walls,” Dick cackles. “Maybe you should try someone other than Donkey Kong.”
“Excuse me? At the cave, I’m unstoppable as Donkey Kong!”
“That’s probably ‘cuz Supey, Kal, and M’gann have never played a video game before joining the team,” Dick says. “If I were there, I’d wipe the floor with you before you could land a hit on anyone else.”
Wally snorts, his cursor hovering over Donkey Kong. “I’ll have M’gann’s moral support to― Kirby, dude? Seriously?”
“Proving a point here, pal.”
“Whatever, Dick. Kirby so doesn’t stand a chance against Donkey Kong.” Wally’s cursor hovers back and forth between three different stages before he ultimately decides to hit Random.
The battle ends quickly, in spite of Wally’s insistence to go by stock instead of time and have the stock set to six instead of their usual three. Wally flops back onto the couch, pouting as they watch Kirby’s victory pose flash across the screen.
“So,” Dick says, “what was that about Kirby not standing a chance against Donkey Kong?”
“It was the stage!”
“Well, you did give the computer the power to choose the stage on your behalf.”
“Dude! You ninja’d me!” Wally says. “No fair, using your Bat-training in a video game!”
“It’s called strategizing,” Dick says, picking up another slice of pizza. “Maybe you should try it sometime.”
“Yeah, whatever you say, Batman.”
Dick stiffens, nearly dropping the pizza. “I’m not Batman,” he says, a bitter edge creeping into his voice.
Wally gives Dick an alarmed look, holding his hands up. “Dude, chill! It’s a joke!”
“I… I know,” Dick sighs, setting the pizza down. Suddenly, he’s not feeling all that hungry. “I’m sorry, Wally, I just…”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s okay, I promise,” Wally says. “I’m just a little surprised, y’know? A few months back, you were kinda all about becoming the Bat.” He sets the controller down, turning to face Dick. “Look, I didn’t ask Bruce any questions when he invited me over, but I did get the impression that something was wrong. Did something happen between you two?”
The smell of burning flesh hits his nostrils. Wally’s scream of agony is intensified by the psychic link. Agony, fear, despair, ohgodIdon’twanttodie. The very last thing he feels before darkness takes him is M’gann’s last remaining threads of hope being severed as a new ship takes the place of the one they gave their lives to destroy.
Dick pulls his knees up to his chest. “No. Nothing happened between me and Bruce.”
“Okay, let me rephrase that,” Wally says, wearing his I’m-not-actually-as-dumb-as-I-act expression. “Does it have anything to do with Bruce? Batman?”
Dick is a good liar―when you’re the adopted son of a billionaire socialite who also happens to fight crime alongside aforementioned billionaire, it’s an essential skill to have―but Wally has known him for over two years. He was the first person he revealed his identity to, the first person other than Bruce that he trusted with his life. They knew each other as well as they knew themselves, and that meant they could see through each other’s lies.
But this isn’t exactly a lie, is it?
“No, it has nothing to do with Batman. Not in the way you’re thinking, anyway.”
If any of his other teammates were here instead of Wally, they would’ve pressed for answers―Kaldur and M’gann out of concern, Conner and Artemis because they care (even if they’re too stubborn to say it out loud). It means the world to Dick, knowing that his friends care so much, but he isn’t like the rest of his team. He’s forced to conceal his identity, forced to keep himself distant. They didn’t exactly understand that Bat-business―and this is Bat-business―had to stay between the Bats. But Wally, he understood. He hated it, but he understood.
“Alright,” Wally says. “One more question, then I’ll drop it.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
Dick shakes his head. “No. Are you?”
Wally lets out a bitter laugh. “Far from it, dude. I know it’s stupid―”
“It’s not,” Dick says. “That simulation, it fucked with everyone.”
“Still, I kinda feel like I should be over it by now.”
“Your accelerated healing only works on physical injuries, dude,” Dick points out. “Trauma, that’s something that takes time, and even then, it… it never really heals. Not completely.”
“Guess you’d know that better than anyone, huh?” Wally lets out a soft sigh. “This is getting depressing. C’mon, let’s go back to beating the snot out of each other.”
“You mean let’s go back to me kicking your big, hairy monkey butt.” Dick picks up his controller, sets the stock to six, and selects Zero Suit Samus.
(And if Wally notices that Dick purposely threw the match, he doesn’t complain about it.)