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Dick sighed softly as he leaned back against the ledge, letting his legs dangle below. He must cut an odd picture, he thought with a grim smile, still in the Batman suit sans cowl, kicking his legs like the child he had once been as he stared from fifty feet up at the crags of one of the many undeveloped corners of the Batcave. As the little found family had grown, Bruce had slowly been developing more and more of the cave to accommodate the increasingly rowdy bunch, and such quiet, empty places were harder to find outside of the tunnels. But Dick had grown up down here and knew the place like no one else.
He unclenched a fist and looked down at the object lying on his palm, and couldn’t resist another soft sigh. He let the leather cord slip from his hand until it dangled from his index finger, and idly swung it around, letting it wrap around his finger before spinning it in the other direction to release it again. Over and over and over.
A raised voice floated towards him, and he cast a quick glance behind him, tensing slightly. Damian—but another exclamation faded into what he knew would be annoyed muttering, and he relaxed and smiled ruefully. Even right now, when he so desperately wanted some solitude—he couldn’t bring himself to go very far, staying close enough to the heart of the cave to hear if anyone started yelling. He didn’t want to risk Tim and Damian getting into a real fight and ruining their delicate, hard won peace.
He would admit it—he was afraid. Deadly afraid, that Tim would leave again. That his little brother would take off, disappear, hide from him—and he’d have no idea where he was, or what he was doing, or if he was hurt or okay or even alive. Once he’d brought Tim back to the cave and helped Alfred patch him up, he hadn’t let Tim out of his sight. He’d felt like if he did, he’d come back and find him gone. Like last time, when he’d gone up to Tim’s room to check on him and found it empty. When he’d looked everywhere until Alfred told him Tim had left.
It wouldn’t happen again, Dick told himself firmly. They’d talked. They’d finally cleared things up—Tim had told him everything, about how Dick had taken Robin away from him, and how much it had hurt him and how hard it was to trust his older brother after that. Dick felt the massive guilt of it swamp him again. He’d never meant it to be that way—he should have known, though. Known how, with the way Tim had practically worshipped Batman and Robin since he was a kid, that the mantle would mean so much more for him. That he wouldn’t just...understand, without being told (unlike so many other things, so many thoughts that they always just knew without really having to say) that Dick had meant it more as...a promotion, a chance for Tim to become his own person, to leave the shadow of the Batman (and he couldn’t be the one, Tim’s mentor, Tim’s superior when they were brothers and friends and partners). That for Dick Robin had just been a...training program. Something to grow out of (something that didn’t need a name).
Tim’s words echoed in his head. Not angry—not yelling, thank God, because Dick didn’t know if he could’ve handled it if it had been an argument, didn’t know if they would have been able to talk and listen and actually hear each other. He and Bruce never did. But he’d never really had such a big fight with Tim before.
No, Tim’s words had been soft and tired. And a little pleading.
“....Robin isn’t Batman’s, Dick. You’d always told me that. But it isn’t yours, either, anymore. Robin—Robin was Jason’s, because after he became Robin he made it his. And then it was mine. And now...and now it’s Damian’s, I guess, and let’s see what he does to it—but back then, Dick? When you just took it away without even telling me first? That was...I can see where you were coming from, now, I guess. But you should have told me. It was still—it was still messed up, to just take Robin away without talking to me first, because at that point it was still mine."
And hadn’t that been an absolute blow to the heart. They’d been sitting side-by-side on Tim’s bed, and Dick was fairly sure that Tim hadn’t been looking at him—just like he hadn’t looked at Tim, yet. But still, just in case—he'd thrown an arm around Tim’s shoulders and hidden his face in his hair. The wave of despair only lasted a moment, and then he was able to shove that away, lock it up in a box and get back to Tim.
He’d apologized. Admitted that, even though it was no excuse, he hadn’t really been thinking straight—trying to keep himself from tensing (Tim would feel it) as he let that little sliver escape without letting anything else pour out from the tightly lidded box. That he hadn’t stopped to consider that Tim would see things differently—that Robin would be so much more important to him than it was to Dick (and his mind was screaming at him again and he told it to shut up and shoved it back again) and he should’ve told him. Should’ve explained.
“It’s okay, Dick.”
He almost thought about Bruce but he deflected it, letting the memory and the emotion it carried brush past him without reliving it. “It really isn’t.”
“It wasn’t,” Tim allowed, then tilted his head back to give Dick a small smile. “But it is now.”
Dick returned a smile and hoped it didn’t look too shaky. “You gonna stay a while?” he asked carefully (he wanted to say “Are you going to leave again?” he wanted to say “don’t go” “stay” “please please please don’t leave me again little brother” but he couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t crack the box or everything would come spilling out) and Tim’s smile made him unclench a little.
“I’m going to stay,” Tim said, letting his head fall (heavy and solid and warm) against Dick’s shoulder.
(Stay. Stay. Just stay. Not for the night, a few days, a week, a month. Stay. That bit of DickandTim that had always been able to speak without words and wiggle between lines heard what was said and what wasn’t and it was all Dick could do not to sag in relief even as he gave in to the urge to pull his little brother a little closer.)
It was okay, he told himself. Tim would stay. Tim would tell him before he left—and he wouldn’t disappear, next time, and he would come back. He would.
Dick would just have to make sure Tim and Damian didn’t clash too hard. And if he couldn’t diffuse a situation—he had Alfred. Thank God for Alfred.
Tim would be okay. They were okay.
Taking a deep breath and letting it settle, Dick turned to the other thing that had driven him to this corner of the cave.
“Robin isn’t just yours anymore, Dick.”
He was right, and he’d never know how much it had hurt Dick to hear it out loud. He’d known for a while, obviously, three Robins later, but he’d never acknowledged it.
Robin. His mother’s name for him. One of the last pieces of her, that he’d held onto as hard as he could—
It wasn’t his, anymore. It had slipped through his fingers (just like everything and everyone always did.)
He’d created the mantle to honor his parents. To avenge their deaths, to make them proud, to remember them--
It was part of what Robin had been (to him) but it wasn’t anymore, he realized. Not really. Robin had become Jason’s (an opportunity to be something and someone, to make a difference) and then Tim’s (a chance to help Gotham and then the world, an identity beyond the shy, quiet, lonely rich boy) and now it was Damian’s (a redemption, a second chance, a symbol of his place at Batman’s side) and maybe some little part of the name and the red and green would still honor Dick’s parents, but none of the other boys knew—had known—would know and that little part would be lost, would die with Dick.
He mourned it.
It was still his, he knew, the name—Robin—his—his mother’s. He was 'Dick' and 'Richard' no matter how many other Dicks and Richards there were in the world—he could still be his mother’s Robin, too, even if there were three other Robins who’d transformed his name and his costume into three other mantles (he could, he could, he could.)
Closing his eyes, he tried to remember. Dark, wavy hair, bright brown eyes and a slightly upturned nose, the dimple on her chin and the squint of her eyes as she laughed, the soft smile and hooded eyes as she stroked his hair. “My little Robin."
The face was right—mostly, he hoped, he still had pictures—but her voice escaped him. The words were there. The sense of a feminine voice. But her voice was gone. Slipped away through the cracks as something as intangible as a memory would.
He pictured his father standing next to her. He threw back his head and laughed heartily. Soundlessly. He couldn’t remember his voice, either.
Dear God, fifteen years later and it still hurt.
He wondered how long it would take for his memories of Bruce to fade—and he began to shove that aside before he paused.
Bruce was alive. If anyone could find a dead man, it was Tim—and Tim had proof now, Tim would find Bruce, and Dick could hope now. He could let himself think and feel, because his dad would be back and he wouldn’t spiral into a desperation so deep he’d never be able to claw himself out.
He missed Bruce. He missed his dad. Staring down at the crags of the cave beneath him, he imagined Bruce walking past, cowl down, before stopping and jerking his head up, his momentary surprise (though he would never admit it) softening his features as he smiled up at Dick, settled up in his alcove.
“I think I should be telling you you’ll break your neck one day...but I’m honestly not sure that’s true.”
It wasn’t a laugh or a smile—it was an old, old memory, a remark when Dick had been a teenager and one of the times he knew he had taken Bruce by surprise because he’d been startled enough to let something like that slip through without overanalyzing it fifteen different ways as he was wont to do (ironically, Bruce could be so much more of a people person if he would just stop trying to say or show how he felt and just said it instead).
He pictured Bruce smirking behind the cowl, a snort of amusement at something Alfred had said.
He missed him. He missed all of them.
Sighing and scrubbing his eyes before pressing his palms against them—there'd be questions to answer if it looked like he’d been crying—Dick breathed in, deep. Let it out. Again. Again.
That was probably enough for today.
When his eyes had stopped burning (mostly) and his breathing was steady (as it would get), he dropped his hands, absently unwinding the leather cord from his finger and making to put it around his neck before remembering he was still wearing the Batsuit. So instead, he bunched it up in his hand, holding his mother’s ring between his thumb and finger, and studied it before pressing it to his lips, then shoved it into his glove. It should last there for long enough for him to get it back upstairs, he figured.
He slipped off the ledge and dropped to the ground silently, no fancy flips or tricks, and turned back to the central part of the cave. He’d be okay, he reminded himself. He was okay now—most of the time—it was just a bad day. He just had to get through today, and maybe tomorrow he could be back to remembering his parents fondly without wanting to cry and thinking about Bruce and feeling determination to help Tim find him and bring him back, however he could, instead of focusing on the fact that he wasn’t here. He could have finally settled it into his brain that Tim was back to stay and he was stupid to be afraid that Damian would ruin everything (he was a good kid—really—deep down, he didn’t deserve that—much).
Just today. Just get through today.
He stepped out of the shadows into the more brightly lit Batcave.
"Grayson,” Damian said loudly. “Inform Pennyworth that cucumber sandwiches are not a lunch food.”
Tim, sitting cross-legged on a medical cot, just looked at Dick with a wide grin, no doubt remembering all Dick’s own comments regarding those sandwiches over the years. The smile faltered for a moment as he met Dicks eyes, but Dick ignored it, throwing up his hands and laughing.
“Oh, no, I’m not taking part in this one.”
“Does that mean to say you do not consider my sandwiches suitable for the midday meal, Master Dick?” Alfred asked with a raised eyebrow, but he was smiling.
“Staying out,” Dick repeated, still smiling, and backing away towards where Tim sat. He plopped down next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, and Tim leaned into his side.
Dick sat in the cave, one little brother tucked against him, listening to his other little brother and sort-of-grandfather-figure playfully arguing over what criteria applied to lunch foods.
It could be better, he supposed.
But this was good. This was good, and for now, it would be enough.
(It had to be.)
(It was.)