Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Out of all the places that Dick Grayson could've been on a Saturday night, eating cotton candy in the dark by himself was not where he thought he'd be.

Not that it was unpleasant; it had been ages since he'd last had cotton candy, which was unfortunate, because he loved the stuff. Growing up in the circus had given him a sweet tooth he'd never really grown out of. God, he missed the circus. Homesickness wasn't really something he felt very often, not anymore. It had been years since he'd set foot in a circus tent, but he couldn't help the sudden longing for that life again.

And maybe it was the late hour (he'd been in this spot since 12:15), maybe it was the fact that he'd gotten home from therapy and somehow felt worse. Or maybe it was because Jason had bought this cotton candy for him, before he'd died, before he'd miraculously come back, but Dick let his mind wander.

He used to think about what life would've been like if his parents had lived all the time. He'd already gone down those avenues. Tonight, he thought about what might've happened if he'd been allowed to stay with the circus. Would he have been happy, performing alone? Being the only Flying Grayson? Dick doesn't think he'll ever know. It was a million years ago. What happened, happened. He couldn't change it. There was no bringing his parents back.

(Though he did confess that after Jason had come back, the research he'd poured into the Lazarus Pits was not entirely for his brother's benefit. He wasn't sure what was worse, hoping that there might be a way to bring Mary and John Grayson back, or knowing that there wasn't. That hadn't been a good week for him.)

He licked the sticky remains of the sugar off his fingers, reminiscing.

Before every show, every performance, his parents would always sit with him, eating cotton candy and telling stories. Dick had forgotten most of them over the years, but he'd told Jason, and Tim, and now Damian, the ones he could remember.

(He wonders if Tim or Jason even remember them. It was so long ago. Maybe he should invite them over for dinner. It had been a harrowing few months, and now that Bruce was back, it was probably time to start dealing with the damage that his death had caused.)

Dick shook his head. He'd figure that out later, maybe when he wasn't so emotionally compromised.

For now, he was content to eat cotton candy by himself was working through an existential crisis.

(God, his therapist would be so disappointed.)

As he reached for the next bite, he accidentally knocked the carton over. I really should turn some lights on.

As he got up, he managed to knock something else over, wincing as he head it shatter against the floor.

Just as he was about to turn the light on, something else shattered.

Okay, I'm like 95% sure that was not me.

Dick immediately crouched into a fighting stance, instinctively reaching for his escrima sticks, only to remember that he'd left all his Nightwing stuff at the Cave. And I was supposed to go pick it up tonight because Bruce is back, but for some godforsaken reason I decided sitting alone in my Blüdhaven apartment with the lights off was smarter. Brilliant.

It was times like these that he wished he were as paranoid as Jason, as smart as Tim, as brave as Bruce, hell, even as deadly as Damian.

But he wasn't any of those things. He was, really, just an acrobat, and while that was great for patrol, it wasn't ideal for 2 AM break-ins.

   The fuck am I talking about? I'm Nightwing. I was Batman. This isn't anything compared to the shit I've been through. That voice sounded a lot like Jason, but Dick couldn't find it in himself to believe any of it.

  I'm supposed to be the happy one, the positive Robin. I can't even do that anymore.

   Dick shook himself out of his thoughts. He tried to listen for footsteps, but all was silent. After waiting a couple minutes, he hesitantly rose. He waited a few more. Nothing.

   Maybe I'm just clumsier than I thought.

   He signed before turning the lights on.

And he nearly screamed at the sight of Tim, sitting on one of the bar stools as he struggled to get his shirt off, blood oozing from a wound somewhere on his chest. He looked up instantly, eyes wide, like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"What. The. Fuck," Dick breathed, immediately rushing over to his brother.

Tim, for lack of a better term, looked like absolute shit. His eyes were bloodshot, and the bags under them looked like bruises. As Dick helped drag his shirt off, he noticed a deep hash along his ribs, blood still dripping lazily. "What the fuck," Dick whispered again, trying to take it all in. He knew that losing Bruce had been hard on Tim especially, but he'd been back for a month now. Surely his brother had given himself a break since then?

Tim mumbled something under his breath, too quiet for Dick to hear.

"What?" he asked.

"Language," Tim gasped, his tone sounding almost humorous, but Dick suspected a concussion was to blame for that. "You sound like Jason."

"Now I really know we're in trouble. Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, making jokes? Just how much blood have you lost?" Dick tried to keep his tone light, because he knew that his relationship with Tim was rocky, and the fact that he was there at all was a shock.

As Dick went to get his stitching kit, he kept up a light conversation with Tim. He didn't ask about what had happened, or why he was currently even in Blüdhaven, much less in Dick's apartment. Dick knew that in their line of work, sometimes it was just better not to ask. He knew that if the roles were reversed, he wouldn't want to answer questions.

So he didn't ask.

Once he'd finished with the stitches, and made sure there weren't any other injuries besides the concussion, he helped Tim to bed.

(He'd take Tim to the Cave's medbay tomorrow, where Alfred could deal with the concussion better than he could.)

Dick really tried not to notice how much lighter he felt.

Once he'd made sure Tim was comfortable, he went to go turn out the lights and crash on the couch. But just before he could leave, he bears a weak voice call out.

"Dick?"

He whirled around.

"Yeah, Timmy?"

Tim buried himself a little deeper into the covers.

"What were those stories you used to tell me? When I first became Robin and patrolled with you for the first time?"

Dick froze.

"You remember those?"

A beat.

"O-Of course, they were some of the first times you and me ever really talked."

"Oh."

Dick paused.

"Of course, Timmy."

And so Dick walked back over towards the bed, and told Tim the stories his mother had told him. It had been nearly a year since he'd last told them (to Damian, when Bruce had... gone away), but after a bit, it felt like it was just yesterday. There was something incredibly therapeutic about it. He hadn't seen Tim this vulnerable in... too long. Dick wished he could go back and explain himself better then he had. That was something to save for another time.

One day, they would talk about it. All of it. Dick knew how important it was to talk, even if he wasn't the best example. But the past year had been a wake up call for all of them. Dick hadn't realized it, but every day, he'd felt himself becoming a little more like Bruce, a little more guarded. That ended now. He was the oldest of them, and he would not let his brothers build their walls up so high that they could never bring them down.

Tomorrow, he and Tim were going to talk. Because God knew he'd made mistakes, and he needed to fix them. It wouldn't happen overnight. But it would be a start.

Once he'd finished his story, he found Tim looking at him. Dick sighed. He knew that look. Whatever had happened, he knew that Tim wouldn't be able to sleep for a long time.

"Wait right here," he said before leaving the room. He came back holding two new cartons of cotton candy. He held one out to Tim.

"Want some?"

They spent the rest of the night eating cotton candy and listening to music on Dick's speaker.

When the sun finally rose, Dick went out to grab them coffee and donuts, calling in one of his vacation days at work. When he got back, he found Tim snoozing peacefully. He smiled, throwing his brother's espresso on the counter as he drank his own.

As he looked at his tired Tim looked, even in his sleep, he made a choice. He picked up his phone, and dialed a familiar number.

"Hey Bruce?"

"Dick? Is something wrong?"

Dick glanced over at Tim.

"No, nothing's wrong. I was just wondering if you'd like to go out for drinks on Thursday? I was thinking, and I think we need to talk. About everything."

"Sure, chum. Sounds great."

"And maybe, in a week or two, you could bring Damian over to my place for dinner? I was thinking, we should have a family dinner. Me, you, Damie, Jason, Alfred, Cass, Steph, and Tim. Just like old times."

"Alright then. That'll be... good..."

It was silent for a moment.

"Hey Dick?"

"Hm?"

"What brought this on?"

Dick paused.

"I don't know, it just... it's been a tough year, for all of us. I think we need it."

"Hey Dick?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm proud of you."

Dick smiled.

Everything was going to be okay.

~Fin~

Chapter Text

   As soon as this case was over, Tim was going to take a fucking vacation.

   Scratch that, he was going to take a goddamn leave of absence. He’d find some bullshit excuse to give to B, and then he was going to stay by himself in a cabin in the woods. Preferably without seeing another human being for six months.

   He chugged the last of his coffee (his fifth? or was it his fifteenth? At this point, he didn’t know, and he didn’t care) as he followed up on a lead.

   Word on the street (read: word Jason had heard from his growing legion of street kids he’d practically adopted) said that there was a new drug dealer moving into Gotham. He’d supposedly worked for the Count a while back in Star City, dealing Vertigo. Lucky for Tim, that meant, at the very least, this new guy probably wasn’t as smart as the Count had been. Probably.

   Either way, it didn’t make a difference. Tim was close to a breakthrough, and that was all that mattered. After this, though, he was going to take a break. If he so much as saw another case file for a few weeks, he was going to die.

   This would be a big bust, though. He’d been on this guy’s tail for weeks, and now, all that stood between him and rest was a military-grade firewall.

   Tim sighed. Easy as pie.

   (Ignoring the fact that the last time Tim had baked a pie he’s used salt instead of sugar and… well, that was really all one needed to know.)

   It wasn’t that he couldn’t get past it because that was not the issue. The tough part was how long it would take. He’d hacked into the Pentagon as a dare, once. Granted, he’d dared himself to do it out of sheer boredom (before the vigilante life, he’d had virtually no way to channel his brainpower, and it had showed in many solved cold cases and ‘accidental’ tips for the FBI. But he’d never gotten caught, so what did it matter?)

   It was easily past midnight, and Tim had been working on cracking this code for about eighteen hours now. He hadn’t slept in at least two days, which he knew would get him benched if Dick ever found out (or any of the Bats, but he was still kind of pissed at Dick, so he was allowed to get mad at him for things he hadn’t done.)

   Only a couple minutes later, and Tim found himself with access to everything about both the dealer and his new drug. He noticed a few other files that were definitely not about the drug Tim had been after, but he was way too tired to deal with that right now.

   The next thing on Tim’s agenda was to forward all his info to Oracle so she could assign someone else the tedious task of actually taking them down.

   With that done, he sighed, leaning back in his chair. He was done. He should’ve taken a break, or at least lightened his workload, when Bruce had come back. But he hadn’t. He still wasn’t sure why.

   (That wasn’t true. The last time he’d seen Bruce before it all, he’d still been Robin, still been a sidekick. Tim wasn’t an idiot. He knew why he’d kept up his breakneck pace.)

   (But just because he knew he still looked to Bruce for approval didn’t mean he had to acknowledge it.)

   Tim was just about to call it a night and sleep in his clothes (he was practically an adult, he was living on his own, he could do whatever the hell he wanted), when his com started beeping. Tim was fully prepared to ignore it. I’ve done so much for this family, this life, they can handle a few nights without me.

   He was going to ignore it. He really was. Until he heard Bruce’s voice come over the channel, cutting in and out with static.

   “Red! --- you there?”

   Tim froze.

   “—need—Joker—”

   Tim raced to pick up the com.

   “Bruce? Bruce? I’m here! Where are you?”

   “—warehouse district—the one with the—gas we raided.”

   Tim was already suited up and out the door by the time Bruce finished.

   Really, this one was on him.

   As soon as he’d heard the static, he should’ve known something was wrong. Not in a Bruce-needs-help kind of wrong, but a the-coms-work-in-space-how-is-there-static-in-Gotham kind of wrong.

   Besides, even if he hadn’t noticed the static, he should’ve known something was off the second Bruce had described the warehouse instead of giving an actual address. Bruce would never leave something like that up to chance.

   And that was how he’d found himself tied up in a chair while the latest villain-of-the-week prepared some sort of ‘experiment’ that was probably designed to torture him. Tim wasn’t really paying attention, though. After trying (and subsequently failing) to get out of his bonds, he thew his head back in frustration.

   (Bruce would’ve lectured him about showing emotion in the field.)

   He tuned back into his captor’s monologue.

   “-and all it took was planting a few bugs around Gotham, and I had all I needed to lure one of the Bat Brats into my humble abode. Y’know, you really should be careful about what you say,” the man said, turning around. “You never know who might be listening.”

   It was then that Tim noticed the syringe.

   “Now, since I know you got into my files, I’m sure you saw my notes on my latest scientific pursuit.” The man (who Tim now recognized as Hiram Stockton, the dealer he’d been after) examined the needle, before continuing on.

   “Yes, I thought this might be something you enjoyed. Very similar to Crane’s formula, But I like to believe I’ve perfected it. See, not only does it bring one’s fears to life, but it’s also incredibly addictive. Just one dose can get an average adult hooked.”

   Hiram looked at Tim, his eyes alight with manic excitement.

   “I can’t wait to see how you react to it.”

   Stockton lunged, the needle plunging into Tim’s arm. But before even half the drug could enter his system, Tim threw his body back, causing the chair and himself to fall. He managed to kick Stockton’s face, probably breaking his nose, before grabbing one of the throwing disks he kept in his boots. He used the disk’s sharp edge to cut through the rope, then throwing it in Stockton’s shoulder. Stockton tried to call for backup but didn’t even manage one word before Tim landed a blow to the man’s head.

   He heard a door open, and whirled around just as Stockton’s guards ran in.

   “They heard the chair falling. If you’d been better, you wouldn’t be having this problem.”

   Tim nearly screamed as he saw Bruce standing next to him, except that couldn’t be right. Bruce was next to him, not Batman. Tim wanted to kick himself.

   Well, looks like Stockton’s science fair project works.

   Bruce wasn’t really there, which meant Tim was going to have to take down five armed guards while the drug ran its course.

   Lovely. This is exactly how I wanted to spend my Saturday night.

   The first guard that ran at him was tall. Very, very tall. Or maybe he just seemed like that standing next to Damian.

   “Tt. This is why Grayson replaced you. I would never have made such a juvenile error.”

   Tim pulled out his bo-staff, sending a carefully placed strike to the guard’s knee, sending him down. With a swift knock over his head, he was down.

   Damian’s face changed, this time turning into Jason, eyes glowing a sickening green.

   “If you’d said something sooner, I wouldn’t have died. Do you have any idea what it’s like? Dying? And then coming back with no control over my own body? You could’ve stopped it. But no, instead you replaced me. I died, and when I came back, it was like it didn’t matter, like I didn’t matter. That’s because of you.”

   Tim took out the next two with his throwing disks.

   “Where were you, Tim? And when I came back, you had the nerve to tell me that you were a better Robin? Do you have any idea what that does to a person? How traumatizing it is?”

   Tim knew it wasn’t real. He did.

   “I had no one! And then you made it all worse. That kind of shit doesn’t disappear overnight. When was the last time you saw me? When was the last time you fucking called?”

   “Shut up,” Tim murmured, as the fourth guard started throwing punches.

   “And now you won’t even look at me. I have no one. you took them all from me.”

   Tim heard the sound of a gun being loaded.

   “I hate you.”

   Tim whirled around.

   Jason’s green eyes were fixated on him, and they felt like a death sentence. There were tears making their way down his face. He was holding a gun to his own head.

   “This is all your fault.”

   “No! Wait! Jason plea-,”

BANG

   Tim let out a wretched sob as he watched his brother’s body drop, hitting the floor with a thud.

   He fell to his knees.

   A whack to the back of his head sent him sprawling across the floor, but he found he no longer cared.

   He knew that wasn’t Jason.

   But that didn’t mean that what he’d said was wrong.

   “Tt. And here I thought you were supposed to be good.”

   Damian leaned over him again.

   “But I can see now that Father was right. You are useless.”

   No, I’m not. Tim struggled back to his feet. None of this is real.

   He struck out at the guard again, trying to ignore Damian’s taunting. He was fairly successful and had almost taken down the guard.

   Until he heard a muffled cry.

   Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dick tied up in a chair, his mouth gagged. Dick’s eyes were wide, a frantic, terrified look in them. Damian was standing next to him, a sinister-looking dagger gleaming in his hands.

   Damian looked bored.

   “I’m going to kill Grayson.”

   Dick started thrashing.

   “Tt, this is your fault, Drake. If you’d been better, Grayson would’ve trusted you to be Robin. Instead, you failed him, gave him no other option than to fire you, forced him to trust me. You should’ve tried harder to make him see the truth, to see my true mission. Alas, you failed, and now you are going to watch the great Nightwing die,” he sneered.

   Damian slit Dick’s throat without a second glance.

   Tim screamed.

   He hit the guard once more on the back of the head, rendering him unconscious, before racing over to Dick. He didn’t care if it wasn’t real. He couldn’t just stand there watching his brother bleed out.

   My fault my fault my fault my fault my fault.

   He tried to help stop the bleeding, but when he checked for Dick’s pulse, nothing was there. He watched as his brother’s body stilled, eyes vacant.

   All he could hear was Damian’s laughter.

   My fault my fault my fault my fault my fault.

   He heard footsteps walking towards him slowly.

   He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force himself back to some sort of semblance of reality.

   “Tim,” spoke a low, gruff voice.

   Bruce.

   An arm grabbed him, spinning him around, but Tim kept his eyes closed, trying to keep the tears from spilling.

   A sharp, brutal pain blossomed along his ribs and he cried out. Son of a- he thought, dodging as one last guard swung a knife at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Bruce, no Batman, watching with disapproval.

   Tim fought viscously. He was like a cornered animal, desperate and ruthless in his attacks. The guard went down quickly. His vision was blurry with tears, but he wiped them away. Only one thought was in his mind.

   I have to get out of here.

   He jumped out of the nearest window and grappled towards the only place he could think of.

   The light in Dick’s apartment was off, but it was 2 AM, so that probably didn’t mean much. Tim thought he remembered that Nightwing had taken off on patrol to get his stuff from the Manor, so he should be staying in Gotham for the night. Tim should’ve been in Gotham. He hadn’t really been thinking when he’d zeta’s to Blüdhaven. He’d done it countless times while Dick had been living in Gotham as Batman.

   He quickly picked the lock on Dick’s window, sliding soundlessly into the apartment. Even though he couldn’t see anything, he knew the apartment well-enough that he didn’t need to see to move through it.

   When Dick had taken on the mantle of Batman and fired Tim, Tim had moved out of the Manor. He knew he didn’t have to, but he couldn’t stand living under the same roof as his replacement.

   (Was this how Jason had felt? God, maybe he should call him…)

   Tim hadn’t had anywhere to go. He’d started looking for an apartment, but that didn’t exactly happen overnight. And after living out of a Holiday Inn for a week, he realized that if he wanted to continue living the life (if not as Robin then as his own hero) he needed a place. A Batcave of his own.

   So, while he looked for an apartment, he crashed at Dick’s.

   It hadn’t been a planned thing; he was not going to go live with Steph, Kon and Bart and Donna were all at the Titans’ place (Tim couldn’t go back there, not now), and he had no idea where any of Jason’s safehouses were (though that was more from a lack of looking than anything).

   After his first night there, he’d realized that Dick hadn’t moved out any of his stuff. Everything was still there, as if Dick would be back by next week. Maybe they’d all hoped he would. That Bruce would be back, and everything could go back to normal.

   Dick had told him that his quest to find Bruce was his way of avoiding his grief. And maybe he’d been right, but they’d all wanted Bruce to be alive.

   (And now he is, so stop dwelling on it and move on.)

   Tim was moving easily debating on whether he would crash on the couch or in Dick’s spare room, his mind starting to calm down.

   Until he knocked over a vase.

   Tim grimaced at the sound, even though no one was there to hear it.

   (If Damian were there, he’d criticize him for the mistake. Luckily the hallucinations had stopped somewhere in the last half hour.)

   Tim crept over to one of the few pieces of actual furniture Dick had, setting himself down on a barstool. (For all the times Dick had critiqued Jason for not having a real ‘home’, everything was oddly baren.)

   He was in the process of taking off his shirt when he heard a sigh that had definitely not come from him.

   That was when the lights turned on.

   Tim froze.

   Oh.

   Shit.

   Standing in the corner, looking thoroughly concerned, was his brother, Dick Grayson.

   “What. The Fuck.”

   I could say the same thing.

   Dick, the saint he was, immediately rushed over to help. I wonder if he even has to think about it anymore.

   Probably not.

   “What the fuck,” Dick whispered, sounding very done. And to be fair, Tim couldn’t blame him. He might not have liked to admit it, but Dick had stepped up when he’d taken over being Batman. Dick, who was always happy and optimistic, had taken on the darkness and morbidity that Batman carried. Tim didn’t really have a reason to be done, not compared to that.

   (He never did. He could work, it was okay, he was fine, really.)

   “Language,” Tim mumbled.

   “What?” he asked.

   “Language,” Tim repeated, finding the whole thing strangely funny. “You sound like Jason.”

   “Now I really know we’re in trouble. Timothy Drake-Wayne making jokes? Just how much blood have you lost?” Tim knew Dick was trying to stay positive. If he’d gone to Jason, he knew he’d currently be in the middle of an interrogation about who hurt you and when can I go kill them.

   Yeah, sometimes he really appreciated Dick Grayson.

   Dick kept up a light banter with him as he got to work stitching Tim up. (If he’d gone to Alfred, he would’ve had to explain exactly what had happened, and he just did not have the energy for that.)

   Once he was satisfied that Tim was no longer going to bleed out (Tim definitely owed him one), Dick put an arm under him, helping him up, leading him to a bed.

   Tim weighed his options in his mind.

1. A) He could say nothing and lie awake until dawn, while hoping he hadn’t been injected with enough toxin to get addicted. Or B) he could find some way to keep Dick near, just to make sure he was fine.

   By the time he’d made up his mind, Dick was already halfway to the door.

   “Dick?”

   No turning back now.

   “Yeah, Timmy?” The fondness and concern in Dick’s eyes almost made Tim want to cry.

   And yet, despite the kindness he could see on his brother’s face, Tim still couldn’t didn’t want to tell him what happened. That he’d seen him die, and it was like losing Bruce all over again.

   (Except this time, he knew it wasn’t real, knew it like he knew his favorite song, but somehow that didn’t make it any less painful.)

   “What were those stories you used to tell me? When I first became Robin and patrolled with you for the first time?”

   Tim wasn’t sure where the memory had come from, and it was only barely there, but he did remember how welcome and loved he’d felt.

   Even though he was half-convinced he’d dreamed it, it was one of the happiest moments of his life.

   “You remember those?”

   The surprise in Dick’s tone hurt, and though the hallucinations had passed, Tim couldn’t help but remember the things he’d heard.

   (When was the last time you fucking called?)

   “O-Of course, they were some of the first times you and me ever really talked.”

   Dick’s face softened. “Of course, Timmy.” Tim wasn’t sure if he was agreeing to tell him stories, or if he’d agreed with what Tim had said.

   Tim was happy when he realized that it didn’t matter.

   (And the fact that he was actually proud of himself for not completely overanalyzing everything was maybe a little sad, but it was progress.)

   (Baby steps, right?)

   As Dick told the story, Tim could tell he wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. He was too keyed up from the drug and could still feel his heart beating faster than normal. It was a wonder Oracle hadn’t asked him about it.

   Besides, it was never a good idea to fall asleep with something unknown in your system, especially something that had been forcefully administered.

   (And shit, that’s another rabbit hole for him to go down, isn’t it? Because what if there was something deadly or a bad ingredient or he reacted badly or-)

   Dick had finished his story and was giving him a look that makes him look like he knows exactly what Tim’s going through, and Tim swears if Dick says something sappy, he’s going to cry.

   “Wait right here.”

   Dick leaves, giving Tim a moment to get himself under control.

   And it’s a good thing he does, because Dick comes back with two sizable cartons of cotton candy, a grin on his face as he asks, “Want some?”

   Tim hates how far apart they’d grown. He hadn’t realized it, but he’d missed this.

   They eat in silence for a few minutes before Dick decides to put his never-before-been-opened speaker to use.

   As he scrolls through the music on his phone, he takes one look at Tim before pressing play.

   It’s a soft intro, but one Tim knows by heart.

“Keep your helmet,

Keep your life, son.

Just a flesh wound,

Here’s your rifle.”

   Dick smiles and whispers, “I always knew you were a Swiftie.”

   Tim lets out an amused breath, letting the lyrics wash over him.

   They listen to a few more albums before the sun starts to rise. At this point, it’s been over six hours since Tim was injected, so he’s feeling better, definitely less anxious. He’ll still head to the Cave later to get bloodwork done (you can’t be too careful), but he’d probably be fine.

   Dick stands, announcing his plan for coffee and donuts, heading out the door. Tim tried to stay awake, he really does, but he’s be lying if he said he wasn’t exhausted.

  He’s asleep by the time Dick gets back.