Work Text:
Bruce never expected to be living in a haunted house.
Living alongside Dick provides as much insight into his character. Dick is dead, but Bruce finds out quickly just how full of life he is. He is kinetic energy incarnate, turning the usually static manor into a madhouse of movement and mischief. In the rare case Jason is home, Dick orbits him like a satellite. Despite the circumstances that brought them together, the two are brothers without question; constantly bickering and teasing one another, occasionally joining forces to pull pranks on Damian when the opportunity presents itself. Bruce often wonders about the roles reversed: a younger Jason swinging across rooftops in different colors as he chases an older Dick Grayson. Perhaps history would’ve been kinder to his son. Also, Bruce would be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed the subtle shift in Jason’s sharp attitude – he’s not eager to breach the topic.
But for all the light Dick brings, he is still a traumatized child. Little things like Afred cutting vegetables before dinner or a gala guest’s deep laugh can cause Dick to disappear for days on end. The longest on record being a week following an incident involving Tim getting stabbed. Bruce miscalculated, thinking Alfred had already put Dick to bed when they rushed Tim to the Batcave with a knife protruding from his abdomen. The look of horror that came over Dick’s face is forever seared in Bruce’s memory.
The same fear gnawed at Bruce’s stomach when nobody could find Dick that morning. Even Jason couldn’t prompt a response. Rationally, either Dick was purposefully ignoring them or simply wasn’t around. Whatever the reason, he makes sure to inform the empty manor (Alfred being on leave visiting an ill cousin in England) about the late patrol.
Halloween in Gotham city makes the rest of the year look like child’s play. Any supervillain vaguely related to the supernatural is fair game tonight. Drunken teengers in cheap masks flood the streets in hordes twenty strong, terrorizing storeowners and the few brave parents shepherding children to and from costume parties. At least half emulate the Joker in some way, practically begging for a visit from the Red Hood.
The night runs its course without much incident and soon Batman, Shadow, and Red Robin are homeward bound. Bruce is only half-paying attention to the fading lights of the city as the Batmobile drives itself home. He’s frankly exhausted from the night, quiet as it was, and he can’t find the energy to quiet the childish argument raging in the backseat. All his thoughts are turned toward the manor and the hope Dick will be there. Paranoia nags at his mind, that maybe this is it. This is the time when the universe changes the rules and takes Dick away from them. Bruce’s only comfort is his trust that Dick won’t go down without a fight.
But when the Batmobile pulls into the Batcave, Bruce is instantly on edge. Invisible spiderwebs phase through the windshield and sear his skin, pulling his already aching muscles tighter in a way that whispers danger. He exits the Batmobile and makes an initial check of the Batcave, finding everything frustratingly in place. The only disturbance is Damian’s indignant yell at Jason swerving his bike just a bit too close before coming to a complete stop.
Staying on the seat, Jason hastily removes his helmet, a deep agitation clear underneath the red domino mask. His gaze immediately snaps toward the closed study door, remaining fixated on the spot until he notices Bruce observing him. Without a word, Jason stomps off toward the showers.
And that was another thing: despite the newfound connection Dick forged between Jason and Bruce, it failed to soften the resentment which had festered and raged in both of them for so long. The past was too strong a beast for even Dick to break.
Pushing away the complicated emotions, Bruce forces himself to follow the normal protocol. Reports need to be written, the boys have injuries needing attention. Out of habit, Bruce showers last and lets the water wash away the hectic night, though the quiet discomfort persists.
Tim and Damian are lingering in the study when Bruce eventually enters, back in the throes of their earlier argument. Surprisingly, Jason is there too. He stands apart from his brothers, leaning against the doorframe with the same pinched expression pointed at the brass knob.
But what immediately strikes Bruce is a chill, a sharp one that elicits an involuntary shiver. “Who messed with the thermostat?” He questions, knowing full well the Manor had been at its usual comfortable temperature before they left.
Damian huffs a plume of mist, wrapping his arms tighter around his middle. “Honestly, Father. This is obviously one of Grayson’s pranks. Though I never imagined him stooping to such stereotypes as chilling the entire house.”
Tim nods, “The little gremlin is probably waiting to ambush us someplace. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, Jay?” He grins, turning on his heel dramatically to confront Jason.
But Jason says nothing.
In fact, Jason is gone – the only indication of his being there at all is the study door slowly closing.
Bruce is across the room in an instant and catches the door, telling Tim and Damian to stay put before following after Jason.
Contrary to Tim’s predictions, there is no evidence Dick is anywhere in the still shadows. The manor is highlighted in black and gray, casting a shroud on the figure hunched at the base of the grand staircase. Jason is visibly trembling, gripping the banister hard enough Bruce swears he hears the wood splinter.
“Jason?” Bruce calls out, hovering awkwardly at his shoulder.
Jason shakes his head, making a quiet pained noise and prying his eyes open with some effort. Black clouds hang over the brilliant green for a fleeting second then disappear back into the sleeping manor. “Do none of you hear him?” Jason bites out.
The cold around them grows fiercer. Bruce, who meditated in Himalayan caves for weeks on end, is absolutely freezing.
Taking Bruce's silence as confirmation, Jason takes a deep breath and straightens. “Dick is having a nightmare.”
“But only you can hear it.” Bruce states, picking the information apart like a clue left at a crime scene. He knows Dick has nightmares, often superimposed over his own; monochrome sensations and disjointed noises that strike and instantly dissipate. From the way Jason is reacting to whatever is in his head, it’s far worse than anything Bruce has experienced.
Jason shrugs weakly. “Probably because I've been a ghost relay machine before. Didn’t you know? Gaining a sixth sense is part of the 'technically I died’ package.” He smiles in spite of Bruce’s harsh frown, rolling his eyes. “That was a joke.”
Bruce swallows his displeasure that Jason can so easily joke about…that. “This happened before.” He says instead.
“Back at the restaurant. I asked about Dick’s murderer and got knocked flat in my ass into some kind of mindscape, or a memory, watching everything happen through him.” There’s a flash of pure, vibrant green and Jason’s smile is gone.
The anger is mutual. Lenny Blake is a name synonymous with twenty years of cruelty terminating in a gruesome crime scene photo. Gordon told Batman later that it took hours to detangle the man’s corpse from the animatronic costume he died in. The way he suffered and died slowly, deliberately excited an unsettling satisfaction in Bruce. Yet another emotional puzzle box he’d rather not look too close at. But it’s the fact Dick had a (however unwilling) part in the execution that still baffles him.
Don’t let emotions blind your judgment, Batman mutters, It shows what he’s capable of. He’s dangerous.
“We’ve got to wake him up, then.” Bruce grabs the banister and climbs the first stair, looking over his shoulder. “How?”
Jason blinks, like he can’t comprehend the fact Bruce just deferred to his judgment, and clears his throat. “First, don’t mention the pissbag – that’s what got me. Second, don’t touch him. Humans and unstable spirits don’t mix well. Third, don't freak out. The more scared you are, the more scared he is.”
Nodding, Bruce opens his mouth to affirm but Jason isn’t finished: “Oh and keep Tweedledee and Tweedledum downstairs. I ain’t in the mood to handle any more than your dumb ass.”
“I am not an idiot, Todd!” Bruce and Jason turn to see Damian’s scowling face poking out from the study. “And I am perfectly capable of holding my own against Grayson.”
Rather than retort, Jason narrows his eyes and shakes his head. Damian’s expression remains unchanged, but he yields.
Tim, however, does not. His head pops out above his brother’s and he matches the intensity of Jason’s stare. “We should get to help,” he says evenly, in the same confident tone he insisted on a place at Batman’s side all those years ago. “If Dick is in danger, we want to help him.”
“No,” Bruce declares before Jason can and holds up a hand to silence the inevitable protests. He shares a look with Jason. “I know you two mean well, but the situation is complicated. Potentially dangerous. Having too many people approach Dick may worsen the problem and endanger everyone involved. You two will remain here until everything stabilizes. Understood?” He lowers his voice, and the change hits its mark.
“Yes, Father.”
“Fine.”
Upstairs, the chill settles itself in Bruce’s bones, a thick layer of frost like death incarnate. Wisps of smoke rose from his lips, curling in the darkened hallway.
Motion-sensing night lights light up and flicker out, making a supernatural path down the dark hallway. Dick's door feels a thousand miles away and Bruce keeps his eyes firmly on Jason to keep from getting lost in the numbing sensation slowly taking over his body, the distilled noises echoing in the darkness. He hears faint tinny music and mocking laughter, the patter of rain on an umbrella though the world is silent and still.
As they round the corner, Bruce realizes his shadow is staring at him.
The moonbeams on the wall slash a bright white through its face and dot two sketchy eyes.
Bruce can't move. He can’t breathe.
The thing shutters and is suddenly right behind Jason, stretching creeping silently on his heels. It seems to grow, stretching itself taller and taller until it can curl right over Jason’s head.
"Jason," Bruce warns in a hoarse whisper. "Jason, freeze."
The child-like fear currently eating away at his courage must've been evident in his voice because Jason (albeit irked) tosses a sharp look over shoulder.
(Inexplicably, Bruce is struck by how strange his son looks in the moonlight, gray except for the vibrant green of his eyes. Cats eyes, Bruce thinks absently.)
"It's negative a-hundred in here and you want me to freeze? Lame." Jason snorts, then reevaluates. He stops. "Christ, stop looking at me like that!"
Bruce suddenly can’t find his voice.
The thing pauses, too, and shrinks back to its original size. It shudders again. The sketchy eyes come more into focus, hardening and gaining form like weathered stone carved in deep relief: grainy semi-circles holding perfectly round pupils fixed on Bruce. A bony hand forms from its body and materializes in the real world, glossy and frighteningly real. Bracing its fingers in the wall, it detaches itself from the paint and forms right between Bruce and Jason, dripping ink on the carpet.
It shivers. It laughs. And then it darts forward, extending its limbs for Bruce’s throat.
Bruce shields his face in a laughable attempt to defend himself against a nonexistent blow. Instead of darkening, the world brightens.
A train whistles nearby. The air is perfumed and pleasantly warm. People and animals echo in the distance.
Removing his arm, Bruce finds himself in a meadow. Long, soft grass stretches as far as the eye can see like a golden ocean. Clouds amble leisurely across the sky.
There is a woman sitting in the grass, a slightly younger version of Dick nestled in her lap. Her arms are wrapped around his middle and her chin rests on his head. She smiles as she rocks them back and forth to a song Bruce doesn’t know, a melancholy melody. Dick’s eyes are closed, totally content.
Bruce’s heart squeezes. He recognizes Mary Grayson instantly, lining the dark hair and brown eyes up with the terrified woman he saw plummet to her death. Seeing Dick so happy, so relaxed, in the arms of his mother makes Bruce feel like there are spiders crawling under his skin.
“This is your nightmare,” Bruce mutters, trying to understand.
Dick opens his eyes and Bruce startles, moving to take a step backwards. An invisible rope stops him short, keeping his feet firmly rooted to the ground. He looks up and Dick is scrambling from his mother’s lap, sprinting full force at Bruce with his arms outstretched.
Instinctively, Bruce crouches and opens his arms. But he gasps as a different man walks through him, sweeping Dick in a flying hug.
John Grayson swings his laughing son in an arc before pressing a kiss to the little boy’s temple. He kneels next to Mary and deposits Dick back in her lap, chuckling at the boy’s indignant whine.
It’s not real. It’s still here. Stay focused.
The hair on Bruce’s arms stands on end as he stands up, turning his face to the shifting winds. The thing from the hallway is somewhere, lurking on the edges of what he can only assume is a memory, slowly burning its way toward the center.
The wind blows ruthlessly, casting a gray sheen on the Grayson parents which darkens like blood stains on white fabric. Two sets of glowing white eyes appear, glaring down at the oblivious child between them.
Bruce watches in horror as tendrils of black miasma slither toward Dick, tightening around his stomach and arms. Dick whimpers, but otherwise doesn’t react.
"Dick!" Bruce yells, finding his voice. "Dick, run!"
The energy has coiled itself around Dick's throat when the boy finally opens his eyes. He blinks at Bruce in confusion. "B?" He chokes out, just as a thick wave of blood gushes over his lips and down his chin.
Storm clouds take over the sun and the world is plunged into a blurry darkness. Bruce gags as a foul odor floods the previously fragrant meadow, the soft grass crumbling to gray earth. Dick disappears somewhere in the haze but Bruce can hear sounds of a struggle, and labored, panicked breathing.
"Dick!" Bruce shouts, holding his arms out as he starts moving through the abyss. Everything is gone: the train, the sun, the demonic presence currently holding Dick hostage in his own mind.
It's an achingly familiar entity that Bruce and those around him do battle with.
The ground crunches under Bruce's shoes and he pauses, looking around for something, a clue or proof he hadn't lost Dick. He keeps moving until an alleyway forms around him and then spits him out somewhere in Gotham.
Rain comes down in heavy sheets, making the sidewalk glossy. The faceless people scuttle past Bruce, huddled together under the oppressive neon signs strobing on the sides of hulking buildings.
A car roars down the sidewalk, its headlights roaming the alleyways, desperately searching for something. Bruce thinks he knows what it is but before he can think he hears a child screaming.
His mind goes on autopilot and Bruce runs down the never ending street toward. Rounding the corner, he once again finds the shadow pulling a struggling figure by the hair toward a car underneath a streetlight.
"Dick!" He calls, stumbling out onto the street.
Dick wailed, reaching out for Bruce as the shadowy figure tugged him along.
Bruce grits his teeth and reaches out for Dick’s hand. His hand phases right through skin and he stumbles, nearly losing his balance. Dick wails louder and the shadow chuckles darkly. The streetlight pops and dies, throwing Bruce back into the darkness.
“DICK!” He screams, clawing uselessly at whatever has a hold of him.
"For the love of shit, wake up!"
Jason? No.
A hand strikes him and Bruce reels, clutching his throbbing cheek. Bruce frowns, trying to get the room back into focus.
There's a figure before him and images of Dick being dragged away crushes any comprehension. Bruce raises a fist in retaliation but the figure has already moved and Bruce grunts as he is pressed up against the wall, arm twisted behind his back.
"Bruce, stop. It's not real!"
Bruce struggles, growling when he bangs his teeth on Damian's framed school photo. He rears back, hoping to crush a nose but the figure wrestles a hand in his hair and pins him again.
"Bruce," Maybe-Jason barks, and Bruce stills, because he perfected that tone for fear gas patients. The person behind him takes a deep breath. "Calm down."
"I have to help him, Jason." Bruce says, sounding hysteric. "I have to – he's hurt. Dick –”
"Is dreaming. I tried to warn you that it’s one helluva trip."
"Fuck,” Bruce whispers before he can think better of it and rests his face against the photo. The texture of the broken glass bites his skin, grounding him in reality.
"Are you gonna take another swing at me?" Jason asks, though his grip is already relaxing.
"No."
Jason lets him go and steps back, letting Bruce get his bearings. “Damn, he got you good.” He observes, “I’m glad I was alone. Probably would’ve lost my job even quicker.”
Bruce doesn’t take the bait. He’s too busy trying to quiet the pounding in his head, the images of Dick reaching out for him and crying and begging – “I saw him,” he says, “being –”
“Kidnapped. Yeah, I'm familiar with the story,” Jason snaps, “Look, it’s tragic. Let's bawl our eyes out together and be consumed by angst later, 'jay?” He turns sharply and stalks down the hallway, and Bruce follows.
It's strange to see the usually aloof Red Hood so rattled, but Bruce also knows how much he cares for Dick.
Also, Bruce can hear it now: the faint keen of a child in distress at his ear, clawing desperately at Bruce's composure all the way to Dick’s room.
Jason holds up a hand and Bruce hangs back near the door. Bruce knows Dick will respond better to someone he has a deeper connection with, and Jason is more equipped to handle this. Still, there's a pang in his heart Bruce doesn't know how to interpret.
Pushing the thought away, Bruce watches Jason approach the desk. The movement is careful, and Jason pulls out his phone and turns the flashlight on. He crouches, directing the beams through the block of shadow between the drawers and the chair.
"Hey, kid." Jason says in a voice barely above a whisper, like the entity cowering under the light is a frightened animal rather than a child. Bruce hears a muffled sob, a broken sound. The plastic animals littering the floor around Jason's feet rattle in response and a soft, sad smile crosses the man's face. "Rough night, huh?"
Suddenly, a high-pitched scream shakes the desk and Jason lurches back. Bruce catches him underneath the arm before he can hit the ground and Jason scrambles to his feet, bewildered.
The entire manor seems to shudder in time with the choked breaths in between Dick's sobs. Downstairs, Titus howls in unison and Bruce grimaces, holding one hand over his ear while the other lingers on Jason's shaking shoulder.
"You okay?" Bruce asks when the noise finally recedes.
"Fine," Jason mutters, and Bruce can trace the carefully masked anxiety in the harsh set of his jaw. "The flashlight worked last time. Twice. Something's gotta be different but I don't know what."
He stubbornly goes back into a crouch but doesn't say anything, perhaps hoping that his presence will offer some comfort.
Slowly, Bruce pulls the chair away, wincing when the wood catches on the carpet. Jason glares but Bruce continues until there's enough room for him to kneel down and see exactly what they're dealing with.
Immediately, Bruce is hit with a wave of blind terror and he twists his fingers in the carpet fiber to keep his head.
Dick was so transparent Bruce almost missed the child curled tight under the desk, face turned away from him. His mouth opened in a mournful wail that rattled Bruce's ribs, a sound he'd heard in a circus tent and tearing from his own in a lamplit alley.
Bruce curls his hands into fists and Dick sobs louder, causing the grainy photos on the mantle to topple over onto the floor. A blurry photo of John and Mary Grayson embracing in front of their trailer stares at Bruce accusingly.
"Bruce," Jason hisses, barely illuminated by the nightlight. "I gave you one job: calm the fuck down."
The authority in Jason's voice is enough to break Bruce from whatever supernatural stupor infecting the atmosphere. He is overcome with the realization that his son is grown, a force as wild as it was compassionate. Even if the affection was for Dick rather than Bruce, he was proud nonetheless.
When Bruce looked back at the wall, the entity had vanished and subsided, giving way to light crying.
"Jason, I want to try something." Bruce whispers, following the tendrils of pain back toward something comforting. A memory under assault, but intact. The look Jason gives him is dubious. "Trust me, please."
For Dick.
After a tense deliberation, Jason nods.
Bruce adjusts his posture so he's sitting cross-legged. Taking a deep breath, he starts humming.
It's rough, nowhere near the graceful rhythm Mary Grayson performed with. Jason arches an eyebrow but remains quiet, turning his focus on Dick.
The child slowly turns his head toward the sound. Big black eyes see past Bruce and he whines.
Bruce wills the incomplete chorus further, casting it out like a life preserver on the ocean. In the notes he tries to project a promise, a promise of safety – of protection.
You're safe here, I promise. I promise.
For the first time that night, Dick is silent. He is enraptured by the song, his head tilting slowly to the side. Tiny blood-stained fingers reach for the notes, plucking an invisible string.
Bruce finds himself extending a hand, palm facing up. He doesn't grab, simply holds his hand steady.
Bruce expects some sort of reprimand from Jason, only to find his eldest watching the scene with an unreadable expression. He notices the look and nods again.
Dick lightly brushes Bruce's hand. The sharp freeze is almost unbearable but Bruce focuses on the song, coaxing Dick to tentatively wrap his fingers around Bruce’s wrist. There’s some solidity – a good sign.
Carefully, Bruce draws his hand back. Dick floats along like a balloon on a string, and immediately curls in Bruce's lap. The boy fits perfectly underneath Bruce's chin.
Bruce itches to smooth back his hair like he used to do to Jason, who had regular nightmares and would wake swinging his small fists and sobbing.
Dick settles, hiccuping. The boy must be exhausted because his eyelids are dropping, losing the battle to stay somewhat conscious while the entity tormenting him lurks somewhere in the shadows.
The guilt is overwhelming and Bruce fights to keep it somewhat contained, lest he break the soothing spell. Every time Bruce sees this incredible child shadowing Alfred as he does chores or walking on his hands while Bruce takes a phone call, he forgets. And then he remembers Dick is dead. Much like Batman, Dick is a reminder of how one moment can define a lifetime.
He is the one who failed Dick, leaving him abandoned in a hellhole for nearly twenty years. What right does he have? He envies the way his children instantly regard Dick as a brother but Bruce can’t find the words to call him a son. The other children under his care came to him seeking a father, a mentor, an ideal. Bruce found himself constantly buckling under the weight of their expectations, failing to fill his role in the disjointed family they'd created.
Dick is different. Dick loved his parents, mourned them, and died in an attempt to avenge them. Bruce pushes the doubt away because right now, he doesn't need to be a parent. He needs to be here, now, for Dick.
I know I'm not your mother, your father, or your blood; I am here for you, Bruce thinks as he does so. You are safe. I will protect you. We all will.
Dick whines, though it turns into a yawn halfway through. He presses further into Bruce's chest, finally letting his eyes close.
Jason and Bruce let out the same sigh of relief. However, Bruce knows he can't keep up the song forever. He waves to get Jason's attention and mimed a phone beside his ear.
R-E-C-O-R-D
Setting the recording to loop, the two men and the ghost sit quietly on the floor until a thump outside the door breaks the silence.
Dick stirs, eyes fluttering beneath his eyelids. Quickly, Bruce hovers a hand over the boy's forehead and shushes him gently.
“Guess the idiots found their way upstairs." He hisses, Jason scowls at the door.
"Your call," Bruce tells him. He can sense how uncomfortable Jason is right now, probably amped up with the palpable negative energy swirling around the floor.
Jason tenses, glancing at Bruce out of the corner of his eye, then back at the door. His shoulders relax and he picks himself up, walking silently from the room.
Dick whines and Bruce shushes him again. "It's alright, chum." He says, looking up when the door opens and Jason comes in with Tim and Damian.
Tim shoots Bruce a questioning look as he sits on the chair. What happened? he signs, taking the hint from the soft hum filling the room.
Nightmare, Jason answers. His signs are jerky, reflecting his agitation. Song keeps him asleep.
Damian lingers in the doorway, focused on the fading ghost curled in Bruce's lap. It's a look Bruce had come to know very well. He pats the ground beside him.
His son stiffly accepts the invitation and leans against Bruce's arm in a rare display of affection. Bruce can't help but smile softly, pressing a soft kiss into Damian's hair.
The song is an effective lullaby.
By the time the sun peeks through the windows, everyone except Bruce is asleep. Tim is leaned back in the uncomfortable desk chair, feet propped on the bed. A trail of drool hangs out of his mouth as he snores quietly. Jason has one knee tucked in his chest, the other extended out. His back is ramrod straight, expression pinched. Damian leans on Bruce's shoulder, arms crossed.
And Dick...
Bruce looks down as he hears a soft moan. Dick pushes himself up from Bruce's lap, blearily taking in the mess from last night. He doesn't register Bruce is with him until Bruce whistles, and two mostly blue eyes snap up to him.
"Good morning," Bruce whispers.
Dick rubs his eye absently, yawning. I had a bad dream, he signs. There’s a slight tremble in his hands. Thank you for staying.
"Always," Bruce promises. "I will always be here for you, Dickie. Your family will always be there when you need them.”