Work Text:
It was strange.
Bruce was acting strange.
He was smiling at them. He wasn’t dressed in a suit, not dressed in the suit, but instead a set of silk pyjamas he hadn’t touched in months. He normally just toppled into bed and passed out, if he bothered making it to bed at all. If he bothered sleeping at all.
The food in front of them was freshly made, Bruce made. Dick had forgotten that Bruce could cook at all, half remembered memories of Bruce frantically icing hundreds of cupcakes for his birthday floating back, and he doubted that anyone, besides perhaps Jason, even knew that Bruce could cook.
And yet here they all were, even Jason, sitting eating food that Bruce made. Even Alfred was sitting down, not rebuking anyone, no lines of stress on his face.
And Bruce was with them. Smiling enough that it made all the years on him fade away, more than the Brucie Wayne act ever did. He hadn’t done that lately, apart from when he needed to, and even then it was in short intervals and it would drop right afterwards. Everything Bruce enjoyed had faded away like smoke, leaving just Batman, until even Batman was a chore, instructions to be given to soldiers in coloured suits, more bulletproof armour to be designed to protect them, not that they should’ve got hurt at all.
Dick thought of the bleak look in Bruce’s eyes when he’d come back from his mission to find his brother dead. It was grief, yes, and self-hatred.
Dick hadn’t been alive at the time of the Wayne murders, but he had seen the effect they’d had. Even the rich and the philanthropic weren’t safe. Even the children weren’t safe. Pearls in the gutter. Blood, and a child, left not crying but cold and blank.
He wondered, then, what Bruce had been like before.
Bruce had been a man on a mission, that morning. Dick had turned up early for use of the Batcave and found it completely shut down; even once he’d been able to break in, nothing was on, electronics cold. They’d been down for hours, switched off.
Breakfast was on the table inside, still warm. It was not Alfred made, because Alfred made the sunny side up type of fried eggs, and Bruce left the top a pink colour. Dick had forgotten that he did that. He didn’t remember where Bruce had learnt that, but he thought that Bruce—young, only twenty-four—had told him.
He liked it more that way.
Dick was as old as Bruce was, then.
He’d felt sick, even though the room around him was warm and full of good cheer. Bruce could light up a room, when he wanted to. He’d forgotten that, too.
“Hey, old chum,” Bruce had said, and he hadn’t said that once since—
Their argument. Before Jason. Back before Dick had ever thought of Robin as anything but his.
“Hey,” he said, weakly. “You cooked?”
“I did. I thought I’d let everyone sleep in.”
“You made some for me.” It came out as more of a question than he’d intended it to.
Bruce had smiled at him, then, warmth permeating every part of his body. “You’re here, aren’t you? Did you even eat breakfast?”
“You didn’t know I was going to be there,” he replied, throat thick with grief and rage and some kind of desperate longing, not for a father but for his partner, he wanted to be Robin again, weightless across rooftops and chasing the Riddler, who was terrible at running but never stopped trying. “I made my plans with Tim. You were patrolling. You wouldn’t have known.”
“I talk to my sons,” Bruce said. “I asked Tim last night.”
Bruce gave him that easy smile, the one that cost nothing. Not the press pass one weighed down by the murders, but the one he gave to Alfred when he was convincing him he was fine. The one that convinced even Clark, who could hear his heartbeat, of the lie.
When Bruce lied like this, it was impossible not to believe him. Flawlessly convincing, like he’d changed the course of history to make his lie true, like he was stating a fact of the universe. That and the smile, gentle teasing, his come on, chum, even you should’ve gotten that one smile.
Bruce didn’t talk to his children. Bruce gave them money and free time and a suit. Bruce looked after Gotham, blank and empty. A soldier built amongst his own ashes.
But Bruce smiled at him, and Dick believed him, even though Tim would never have told him that.
“Okay,” he said. “My favourite?”
“With fennel seeds,” Bruce promised. “Just the way you like it.”
It did taste good. “You’ve set out enough plates for an army.”
“Alf will come round to the fact that I’ve cooked and eat his, and Tim and Damian will wake up, soon.” Bruce flashed him that smile again. It cost him nothing, but it was priceless. Worth the world. He could tell him that they were in a reality TV show with that smile and Dick wouldn’t doubt him for a second. “Jason’s dropping in soon enough, and so are Stephanie and Barbara. Cassie might come over, too, she said she’d think about it.”
“What?”
“She’s taking down a mob in San Francisco,” he said. “She’s not sure she can make it in time.”
“No, I mean—” Dick swallowed his mouthful. “Jason?”
“I called him this morning, when he was getting back from patrol.”
“He wouldn’t have picked up.”
“From a payphone,” Bruce explained. “He has too many underground contacts to pass up an unknown number.”
Bruce had been agonising over contacting Jason for months, furious every time he saw him but leaving hundreds of voicemails, none of which Jason listened to. If he’d thought he could get further by using a payphone, he would’ve.
“He wouldn’t have agreed regardless,” Dick said. “Are you sure he’s coming over?”
Bruce smiled at him. “Of course, chum.”
“And anyway,” he continued, still incredulous, “Steph and Tim broke up months ago. And Babs and I aren’t dating at the moment. If you were aiming for some family reunion, you aren’t going to get it.”
Bruce just looked at him, bemused. “Kate’s out of the country at the moment. It’d be a pretty poor time for a reunion.”
But Dick couldn’t let that one go, just kept looking at him until he relented.
“I miss Barbara,” he said. “I miss her as more than a voice in my ear.” He shook his head, the lightness folding down into decades of grief. “You know Stephanie used to call me boss?”
“Jason called you boss.”
“He did,” Bruce said. “I miss having you all around. That’s why I invited them over, and why I made breakfast.”
Bruce’s own eggs had chilli flakes on them, the kind he’d gained a taste for in some obscure town and now had them imported. Dick had seen unused jars of them lining the cupboards, an order nobody was quite certain whether to cancel or not.
When Jason arrived, Dick heard, “Jaybird,” and then a hushed conversation by the door, but Jason didn’t seem bitter or callous when he came back in. He had an ice cream cone in one hand, and Bruce had another—did he not only agree to turn up at all, but went out of his way to buy them both ice cream?
“Still can’t believe you actually like pistachio, old man,” Jason said. “It’s the flavour that nobody likes.”
“You like pistachio ice cream?” Dick asked, in place of anything else. “Bruce, what the hell. I’ve been buying you vanilla.”
“You said that was the adult flavour,” Bruce replied, taking a whole fucking bite out of the side of his ice cream rather than licking it like a normal person. “I wasn’t going to argue with an eight-year-old.”
He woke Damian and Tim up at ten, and they followed him downstairs like lost ducks, both half asleep and having never experienced Bruce’s cooking, ever.
“Father,” Damian said. “What is the purpose of this?”
“I think you need to experience a good day, that’s all.”
“We’re patrolling together?” he asked. “I will get ready at once. Mother sent me a new katana.”
Bruce laughed, then, but there was nothing behind it but grief. Agonising, all-consuming grief. Nobody else noticed. “No, kiddo. We’re going to watch movies together, as a family. Take a day off.”
Damian blinked at him, then pouted, but settled down at the table by the plate that did not hold eggs. “This is my favourite,” he said.
“You’re vegan, I wouldn’t make you food you won’t eat. So I made you your favourite.”
“Only mother made this for me.”
“I asked her,” Bruce said, gentling his voice. “Tim, are you alright?”
Tim was staring at his egg, half eaten, in confusion. “This is really good,” he said. “I didn’t expect to like it.”
Bruce smiled at him then, the same godforsaken smile as earlier. Dick hated it. He wished he could see it every day of his life. “I’m glad, son.”
Tim smiled back at him, weightless.
Could they not feel the weight on the room?
This was the thing: Dick knew what weightless felt like. He was an acrobat. He was first. He jumped and dived through the streets, shrieks of laughter and justice and the thrill of the night air. He knew what Bruce’s love felt like. It felt like being weightless, flying high, nothing to hold you down. It felt like dressing up in rainbow Batman suits to hide his injuries. It felt like pestering the Riddler on the drive back to Arkham. It felt like Gordon patting him awkwardly on the head, making fun of Bruce as he grumbled on the way to a party, laughing as Bruce sped down the highway at more than double the speed limit.
It was the best feeling in the goddamn world. He had been Robin, Batman’s equal. He had been Dick Grayson, beloved child. He had been a child, free of worry. He had been flying high, weightless, even in the face of gravity.
It had been joy.
This was not weightless. This was just the absence of the guilt and burden that weighed down on the house. This was the absence of a broken family. The absence of scars. This was not weightless.
They didn’t know that.
Steph and Babs turned up together, Steph pestering Bruce over his movie choices until they were sitting on the couch and laughing, Damian’s pets curled up in a heap on the rug. They had popcorn. They were free.
This was what was strange. And, at some point during which he had been ruminating on how strange it was, Bruce had slipped out.
He’d been strange all day. Perhaps it was simply an excuse to patrol the streets of Gotham alone, suit like a second skin, away from people criticising him and expecting a father from him, alone like he was in his early twenties, fresh and barely an adult, just himself against the world. Alfred had watched him with gentle, concerned eyes, reproachful but mindful of his words. It had been another world, then. Everything had been different, then.
The grief had only been for parents, long ago, but never forgotten.
Dick clicked on his comm, quiet, checking the screen to see if Bruce was—
Don’t disturb them. The message was short.
As if that would stop him from finding Bruce. He ran his fingers over the back of the comm, found the button he’d edited in long ago to find people’s location’s—
Under my bed. Bruce had found that too.
He obeyed. There was a USB attached to the top of an old shoebox, and that USB contained a video.
Bruce smiled at him from the screen, a smile older than even Bruce had seemed, lately. It was more alive, too. The window, in the background, showed the night sky; it looked to be the early hours of the morning. “Hello, Dick. I know that you will not like what I must ask of you, but there is no other way.”
Dick swallowed, looking at the Bruce on the screen. He carried the air of the Bruce of today if the Bruce of today had not hidden all of the guilt and the grief. All of the weight on his shoulders.
“I must ask you,” Bruce continued, only a recording and thus heedless of Dick’s turmoil, “that you do not look for me until sunset. Then you may open the box.”
The shoebox in Dick’s hands, so easy to open, so unprotected.
“You have no incentive to do as I say other than the fact that I am asking you, Dick. Please.”
Bruce smiled at him. It was a weighted smile.
The video ended.
Dick went back downstairs and waited ‘til sunset. Bruce never returned.
The shoebox contained only a letter.
If you are reading this, then I have failed. If you are reading this, Bruce had written, then you will never see me again, and for that, I am sorry.
Dick set the letter down on the table, looking up at the ceiling. He’d half thought that when the day came for mourning, he’d cry, but there was nothing but a sense of cold numbness. No relief. No grief. Emptiness.
This you, of this timeline, and this world, that is. Two days ago, I fought the Joker, alone. You know this. You yelled at me for it, and I didn’t listen.
I am stuck in a time loop. The Joker is, too, and I assume that, at some point, he will concede to freeing us both. I try every day, but I cannot risk you, and in the event of which I fail, you will not see me again, for I will be dead here.
Some other you may know a better me, one who remembers what love is. Bruce’s words were steadily written, practiced. This was not the first time he had written it. This would not be the last. The tearstains on the page—just three—said more than the letter would. I promise you, there will be a you that does not have to suffer the way this you will suffer. This does not diminish my regret.
Damian was half asleep on the sofa when Dick came downstairs, draped across Jason’s lap, Tim’s head on his shoulder. Cass had come in at some point, and her and Steph were peering at something on Steph’s phone. Babs and Alfred were having a quiet conversation.
I try not to dwell too much on the worlds I have left behind, but I do keep count. This is the four hundredth and nineteenth. I have orphaned children who have already been orphaned once before four hundred and nineteen times. I hope this will be the last. I know it will not be.
“I think I should put Dami to bed,” he said quietly, mostly directed towards Alfred, who nodded his assent.
I grieve.
“Where’s Father?” Damian had mumbled when Dick scooped him up, still half asleep.
I do not know if you will grieve, and I hope you don’t. I have not been a good father, as of late.
He ran his hand through Damian’s spiky hair, and said, “he’s in the bathroom, running his eighty-step skincare routine as usual.”
I suspect Dick will find this letter, based on many other worlds and times and lives. If that is the case: I am sorry I can never hope to match up to your father. I am not sorry I tried. I am sorry that in my attempt to be your father, I forgot you were my son, and I forgot you were my partner.
He nudged Jason out of his half-asleep state, ignoring his scowl. “Can you take Tim to bed?”
You are twenty-four, now, which is the same age as when I took you in. It is unfair to ask you to watch over all your siblings; I would not have been able to manage it at your age. I will ask you regardless.
Jason rolled his eyes. “Sure. Up you get, Replacement.”
Please, take care of them. You have been Damian’s father before, and I do not doubt that you will succeed. Please keep an eye on Tim, you know what he’s like when I die. Ask him about how he found me last time. Be gentle with him. Make sure Jason doesn’t feel alone. He’s scared, Dick. He’s a little boy, still, even if he’s an adult. Please. Look after Cassie, too. She’ll be okay on her own, but she doesn’t deserve to lose her family.
“Cass, you still have a room upstairs,” he said. “I’d offer Steph a guest room, but—?”
Don’t forget everyone else on this crusade we have woven. Kate will never forgive me. Barbara will be fine, too, but she is an old friend. Stephanie still needs guidance. I think she and Cassie could become good friends.
“I’m staying with Cass,” Steph said, firmly, and Cass nodded.
Tell Gordon, please. Tell him I trust him. Tell him who I am. He deserves that much.
“Babs,” Dick murmured.
Tell Diana and Clark that one version of them will see me again, and tell the League not to come after me, for they will ruin any hope of a better tomorrow for myself.
“Dick,” she said.
Nobody will ever fall victim to the Joker again. Tell Jason that. If you ever meet a boy called Duke, befriend him. In another world, he could’ve been your brother.
“There’s a guest room made up for you,” he said, instead of anything else he wanted to. “If you want it.”
I try not to think of the children I have orphaned once more. I try not to think of Alfred, alone in all these universes. I have shaped his life for so long, and I don’t get to say goodbye.
She stared at him, but nodded.
I hope everyone had a good day.
Alfred looked at him, and he already knew, grief filling every part of his face.
I am very sorry, old chum. My boy, my partner, my Robin.
“I’m sorry.”
In another time, in another world, we will see each other again. In another time, we will be weightless across rooftops once more.
He crumpled onto the sofa, and Dick was starkly reminded of his age. He looked frail, and old, and the suit he was wearing was long outdated. His hair had thinned further from what Dick remembered it as.
Think of me fondly, I hope.
“My boy,” Alfred said. “Oh, my stupid, reckless boy.”
You have my best wishes.
Dick sat down next to Alfred and said nothing.
With much love and greater sorrow,
They fell asleep like that, in that silent vigil. Tomorrow, they would find Bruce’s corpse, together with the Joker’s. One final dance in this world, to be echoed over and over in the next, and the next after that.
Bruce Wayne, Batman, father, and son.