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Dick sighed, raising his head just to thump it back against his pillow. He rolled over for the hundredth time that night, tucking one arm under his head and wrapping the other tight around himself.
The moon was full tonight. He stared at the halo of white around the disc in the gray Gotham sky.
Stop worrying. Stop. Stop. It’s okay. You’re okay.
What with Tim’s plan and his injuries, the past few nights had been hectic. Alfred had made sure everyone grabbed a nap here and there, but Dick hadn’t slept properly in a week.
He needed to sleep. Wasn’t that what he told everyone, always? Damian, when he was up late nights attacking practice dummies, trying to burn away fear of inadequacy, of rejection, with training. Tim, when he let a case consume him, burned himself out trying to figure it out.
Hypocrite. Doing exactly what he told everyone not to. (Hurting his little brothers the same ways he himself had been hurt the worst. Tearing them apart even as he preached that they pull together.)
There was the whisper of wood against carpet as his door opened, and he tensed momentarily. (Bruce used to slip in, every now and then. Dick thought it was sweet. He never let on that he’d ever been awake to notice. But Bruce was—
Alfred, in his stoic British butler-y ways, allowed them all the privacy of their rooms, instead choosing to fuss over them once they finally stopped sulking and left the room. Or—once he got impatient—sending someone else to bother them instead.
Damian...was still trying to figure out borders. Slipping into someone’s room with some kind of affection wasn’t something he was comfortable with yet, and Dick knew the kid wouldn’t be planning on murdering him or anything of the sort.
Tim used to slip in sometimes, when they were younger, and Dick had always hoped that was one thing he’d gotten right. That when his little brother had nightmares or dark thoughts or just felt lonely, he knew he didn’t have to deal with it alone. That he could come to his older brother. Even if it was the middle of the night.
But Tim was...
Oh.
Tim.)
“Dick?”
He rolled over to face the door, offering a small, tired smile. “Hey, Timmy.”
Tim hesitated at the door. (Twelve years old, and so small, sometimes Dick wondered what the hell he and Bruce were thinking but he’d been in the same place as Tim, so he never said anything. Small and awkward and unsure, in the way that he’d always been, the way that sometimes made Dick want to punch somebody or maybe just throw a parenting book at Jack Drake’s head. Instead he’d just smiled and--)
He lifted the corner of his blanket, wordlessly, with a small smile (hoping it didn’t look too hopeful.)
Tim’s reaction was instantaneous. He pushed the door shut softly, then ghosted over six feet of carpet to the bed and slipped in under the blanket and Dick’s arm.
He brought his arm back down, tucked the blanket around his little brother as Tim curled against him.
“You okay?” he murmured against his hair, curling his arm around the smaller boy’s shoulders.
“Yeah,” Tim said softly. He looked up, then, meeting Dick’s eyes with his own. Big and blue, sad and solemn. “You okay?”
And...it took him by surprise. The little huff that could be a laugh was reflexive.
“Course I am, Timbo. I’m not the one who got kicked off a building.”
“I saw you when you came back to the cave, Dick,” Tim insisted.
“Timmy...I’m fine.” Okay, he wasn’t, and he’d admit it to himself but damn if he was going to say it out loud.
(They didn’t need him breaking down. Not when everyone was always breaking. He couldn’t. Someone had to be there, to listen. For them to lean on without worrying about burdening them. And he was happy to be that person.)
“Dick, that might work on Damian, and your friends, and maybe even Alfred.” He leaned forward a little, almost challenging. “But not me.”
“Timmy...”
“I know you’re not, Dick,” he said quietly. “None of us are, and...” He took a deep breath, a faraway yet concentrated look in his eyes, like he was gathering his thoughts. “He was our dad. And...” he paused again, pressed a little closer. “You’ve had to pick up his slack. With Damian, with Batman, with the company...And I left you, here, and you’ve been listening to my crap, and there’s Damian, and I know you haven’t been around with the Titans a lot lately and Babs is--Dick--you’ve always looked after the rest of us. And I know that, no matter what, you’ll take whatever is thrown your way and deal with it, for the rest of us’s sake. And Damian’s...a kid, and Alfred’s Alfred, and everyone else...but Dick...I’m not—we’re--”
He didn’t need to finish (DickandTim.) He knew what he was trying to say. This is ME. It’s US. You don’t have to hide. You don’t have to pretend.
" You don’t always have to be okay,” Tim whispered, finally. “You don’t have to be Batman when you’re not in the suit.” You can just be you. Just be.
Dick sighed. He was tired. So tired.
DON’T. Don’t ruin this, Grayson, don’t you dare--
"Dick?" Please.
But he’d always been the optimist in the family.
He pressed his face against Tim’s shoulder.
“I miss him, Timmy.”
There was a moment’s silence, and Dick tensed. “I know.” Tim’s arm came up to wrap around his shoulder, and he relaxed. A little.
“I missed you, too.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing with Damian,” he admitted.
“You’re doing fine, Dick.” Tim paused, then ducked his head to meet Dick’s eyes, offering a shy smile. “You’ll do fine.”
Dick felt the tears slipping from his eyes.
“We’ll find him?” He didn’t mean it to come out, that question. He was the big brother. He was supposed to be the one assuring them.
Tim’s arms squeezed around his shoulders. “We will,” he said firmly. So confident and sure that Dick believed him with all his heart (it was a risk, giving your whole heart to anything. It could come back, haunt you and stab you in the back and hurt. But this was Tim.) “I promise.”
Dick nodded against his shoulder. They’d find him. They would. But...”I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.”
“You don’t have to do it alone, Dick. You’ve always been there for all of us—we'll all be there when you need us.”
He was really crying, now, and damn he’d thought he was done back down in the cave. “I’m sorry.” For Robin. For Bruce. For everything, and anything, and breaking down when we’re all hurting.
“ Don’t be,” Tim said. I want to. I want to be here for you.
Dick breathed in, and out. Trying to steady his thumping heart and stuttering breath.
Tim pressed closer. “We’ll be okay,” he whispered against Dick’s hair.
We.
That’s my line, Dick thought vaguely. But.
We.
They would. (Dick would make sure of it.)
They lay there quietly, after that. Dick listened to Tim’s steady breathing even as he tried to steady his own.
Finally, he pulled his face out of Tim’s shoulder. He slipped one arm under Tim’s neck and wrapped the other around his shoulders, pulling his little brother closer. Tim let him, letting his own head fall against Dick’s shoulder.
Dick pressed his lips against the top of Tim’s head, before resting his chin against his hair. One hand found its way up to Tim’s hair, and he ran his fingers through it. (It was longer than he’d ever kept it before, long and soft and silky.)
He ran his fingers through his hair, holding the warm heavy THERE weight of his brother’s body against him, until both of them were breathing deep and steady...asleep.
(When Dick wakes up, he’s lying on his back. Tim is asleep next to him, his back pressed against Dick’s side, and Dick’s arm is going numb.
Tim wakes up when he shifts, rolls over and lifts himself onto an elbow as Dick shakes out his arm, pulling himself up to sit against the headboard.
Tim looks up at him, small smile and eyes full of promises and reassurances.
Little brother. Dick loves this kid so much he feels like something should explode, or melt into a puddle, or something.
(So much it hurts.)
He smiles back.)