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It wasn’t supposed to go like this. Bruce had made it clear that he didn’t want to see Dick again, not after their confrontation over Jason’s death. But there was an emergency, and the Justice League had called for all available heroes to come and help beat back the robotic alien army. And Dick, well, of course he came. Normally he’d be leading his own team during a situation like this, but he was on break from the Titans and he didn’t want to mess with their leadership structure. Indecision in battle is dangerous, and if the Titans weren’t sure who to listen to…it wouldn’t be good. Clark had asked Dick if he was sure he wanted to join the main Leaguers—he knew that Dick and Bruce aren’t on best terms right now, even though he likely doesn’t know the details. But Bruce is professional and Dick should be able to keep his head in the game.
Should being the keyword. And yet he can’t stop watching as Bruce faces off against twelve robots, because something…something is wrong. His heart nearly leaps out of his chest as an energy beam misses Batman by an inch. Bruce should’ve dodged that. Easily. The man doesn’t try to split up his opponents, lead a group of them off to dispatch separately. No, he fights all of them at once. When a blow from one of their four arms strikes him in the stomach, Bruce doubles over. He grins, even as blood drips between his teeth, dribbling down his chin and into the snow.
Focus, Dick orders himself as he dodges an energy beam and rolls between one of the robot’s eight legs, scoring its underside with a batarang.
Batman spins, his cape a whirlwind as he pulls two more robots into the fight.
Dick watches an energy beam scorch Bruce’s arm, and suddenly it clicks. Bruce isn’t trying to keep himself safe.
This is all wrong.
Dick may have given his keys to Alfred—or, tossed them away in the Batcave where Alfred would find them, at least—but his Batcave access hasn’t been revoked. He had thought it might be, after the way he left, but he had other plans for if this didn’t work.
It’s 4 PM. Bruce should be upstairs in the Manor, but he’ll come down eventually. In the meantime, Dick has a case that he picked up in New York with potential ties to the League of Assassins. He needs to analyze a sample of poison, and the Batcomputer will be useful for that. Dick could probably call up Clark and get access to some Justice League equipment, but…the Batcomputer is probably best for the job.
It's a convenient excuse. Dick might not be allowed in the Manor, but Batman wouldn’t deny Nightwing access to the Batcave’s equipment, not when it could save lives.
This is going to be awkward as hell, if it doesn’t devolve into Round Two. But Dick can’t just stand by while Bruce gets himself killed.
Fuck. That’s what’s happening, isn’t it? He knows—he knows that Jason’s death hit all of them hard. Dick and Alfred, hell, the entire superhero community…but especially Bruce. He knows. But Dick never would’ve expected this. Not of Bruce.
When Dick climbs off his bike, he finds that the Batcave is not empty. In fact, Bruce is hunched over the Batcomputer, cowl off but uniform still on, the same burn marks from the fight still present. Bruce turns around at the sound of Dick’s footsteps, and Dick sees a bruise on the man’s jaw that wasn’t there before. He went on patrol, didn’t he? That reckless idiot. No patrol after League missions unless absolutely necessary, and Dick’s kept an eye on the news—it wasn’t necessary at all.
“Dick?” Bruce asks, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. His voice is hoarse from exhaustion and his eyes are glazed. Dick doesn’t think Bruce has slept in days.
Dick pulls the poison sample out from his pocket and holds it up. Instead of the nod of acknowledgement Dick was expecting, Bruce’s shoulders slump.
“You need access to the Batcomputer?”
“Yeah,” Dick says softly. “Have you slept in the last forty-eight hours?” Bruce grunts in the negative. Yeah, Dick thought so. “Seventy-two?” Another grunt. Dick steps closer. He can see the bags under his father’s eyes, the exhaustion evident in his normally military posture. “I’m worried about you, Bruce,” he admits.
Surprise flickers across Bruce’s face. “I’m…relatively uninjured.”
“Not for lack of trying,” Dick says. Bruce looks off to the side. Dick walks over to stand by the second chair by the Batcomputer, the one normally reserved for Robin, and hovers there, uncertain.
“You should…you should sit,” Bruce says gruffly. Dick sits. He thinks they both know that this means something. “What is the sample? Do you need help with it?”
This is definitely a distraction tactic, but the sample is important too, so Dick takes the vial out of the plastic bag he was keeping it in and places it in one of the machines attached to the Batcomputer. The two vigilantes fall into a practiced rhythm, cycling through tests and databases until Dick’s fairly certain that the poison is a paralytic that comes from a region close to a League base in the Amazon. He wants to keep working, find something else that they haven’t considered yet, just to keep this comfortable companionship with Bruce. He misses it so much. But he came here for a reason. “If you keep this up,” Dick says as he turns back from the hazardous waste chute, “you’re going to get yourself killed. And I’m worried that you don’t seem to care.”
“I’ve always been devoted to my work,” Bruce argues, even as he doesn’t outright deny the accusation.
“Not like this,” Dick says. He looks around the cave, the mess of files cluttering the medical cots, the dust on the giant penny, the number of windows open on the Batcomputer. “Not like this,” he repeats. “Bruce, you need to slow down and…and think. How many of those blows could you have dodged during that battle? How many of your injuries could you have healed if you stayed in the League infirmary for even an hour?”
“That’s not your concern, Nightwing.”
“It is! Bruce, I…” Dick feels his heart clench. “You’re going to get yourself killed. It’s…it’s terrifying. I know after…” He trails off. “I know after everything, it’s hard. I get it, okay? But this? You can’t do this.”
Bruce’s fists clench. “I’m taking all normal precautions. You don’t need to worry.”
“I think I do, Bruce. You’ve never been reckless like this before. I mean, what does Alfred think?”
“Alfred left,” Bruce says shortly.
What? “He’s coming back, right?”
“…I don’t know,” Bruce admits. He shifts uncomfortable. “Alfred…he said he couldn’t stay and watch this. So I asked him to take a vacation.”
“And he left? Just like that?” Alfred has dealt with a stubborn Bruce for far too long to just leave when commanded. There’s something that Bruce isn’t saying. And Bruce is perfectly capable of hiding things, so either this is something so bad that Bruce can’t hide it or, deep down, Bruce doesn’t want to hide it.
“There was a fight with Two-Face. It went badly. Alfred…had the same opinion that you do now.”
“Holy shit,” Dick says. “And you think you’re just fine and dandy?”
“I think,” Bruce says slowly, “that how I fight is my business.”
“Not if…not when you’re like this.”
“I’m fine.”
“Would you tell me if you weren’t?” Dick takes a deep breath and accesses the post-patrol reports, running a quick script. The list of injuries—far, far more extensive than it should be—prints out before his eyes. Dick’s stomach turns.
“You shouldn’t be looking at that,” Bruce says, almost apologetically.
“Then you shouldn’t get hurt,” Dick hisses. “What the hell, B? This isn’t…this isn’t recklessness.” He can’t bring himself to say the proper words. “This is deliberate.”
The air sits heavy in the Batcave. “I think you should go,” Bruce says.
“No.” Dick takes a deep breath. After seeing this…his breath catches as he stares at the list, and he forces himself to look away and face Bruce. Dick can’t leave. “I’m not leaving you alone. I shouldn’t have left you alone while you were grieving, but…I can’t. I can’t leave and come back to realize you’re dead. Don’t do this to me, Bruce.”
“I’m not—”
“Bruce, please.”
“Dick, you’re making—”
Yeah, Dick doesn’t want to hear how that sentence ends. “You clearly don’t care if you live or die.” Dick stands up. “Well, guess what, asshole? I care! I’m staying here where I can keep an eye on you and make sure I don’t wake up one day to the news of your corpse. And if you don’t want me to stay, then I’ll just live in the Batcave! And—and if you kick me out of here too, then I’ll follow you on patrol and fucking tranq you and take you to Clark. So what’ll it be?”
“Dick—”
Dick can feel the tears welling up in his eyes. He rarely cries anymore, but all he can think of is losing Bruce, so soon after he lost Jason. Dick can’t do that. He can’t lose another father, another family member. Not like this. “Jason wouldn’t want you to die, Jason would want you to live. And I need you to live. So I’m going to make damn well sure you do, no matter what you say!”
“Chum, I—”
Fuck, the tears are falling now. Dick wipes his eyes with his sleeve. “I don’t care if it’s selfish, you are not going to die. I won’t let you.”
Suddenly, Dick feels Bruce’s arms around him, pulling him close. Dick sinks into Bruce’s chest and slings his arms around Bruce’s waist. Bruce is alive. Dick will make sure he stays that way. He won’t lose him.
“If you’re willing to stay, I would…I would greatly appreciate it,” Bruce says. He doesn’t pull away. Dick clings close, afraid to let go.
On patrol, Nightwing sticks close to Batman’s side. It should be suffocating, but it’s better than the fear that freezes his lungs whenever the two vigilantes get separated. Dick leaps into fight after fight, brandishing escrima sticks and cracking jokes like it’s the only thing that’ll keep him afloat. Dick is painfully aware that if he can’t keep a light heart, then no one will. There is no Robin around to light the way. Nightwing will have to be enough.
It's hard, though, when Dick sees Jason on every rooftop and the Joker laughing in every shadow. It’s hard, when Dick realizes he hasn’t contacted his friends for two weeks—and none of them have contacted him. It’s hard, when Dick and Bruce trade nights of nightmares.
The first time Dick hears Bruce screaming at night, he throws himself out of bed, terrified that the Manor is under attack. But when he reaches Bruce’s door, he can hear the man crying and sobbing inside. This is wrong. Batman doesn’t have nightmares, Batman doesn’t cry out in his sleep. Dick hovers outside the door, uncertain, unwilling to cross that boundary.
Should he go in? When Dick was a child, he was always welcome after one of his own nightmares. But Dick is no longer a child, and Bruce having nightmares is completely uncharted territory.
Dick should leave. This isn’t his place. But he can’t bring himself to go back to sleep when he knows Bruce is suffering.
Slowly, he rests against the wall to Bruce’s room and slides down to the floor. He leans his head back, closes his eyes, and listens as every cry stabs at his heart. Eventually, it stops, and Dick drifts off until morning.
The next night, Dick dreams that he is sitting with Barbara in a small, quaint coffee shop. Outside the window, every adult is dressed as Batman and every child as Robin, but inside, Dick is just Dick and Barbara is just Barbara. “Don’t look at them,” Barbara says. “It doesn’t matter.”
And then she’s choking, doubled over with the Joker standing behind her, his bloody red lips twisted into a smile. His hand is buried in her back.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Joker grins. “I can just twist, and—oops!”
Barbara falls to the ground. “Dick, help me! Dick, please, I can’t move.”
Outside, all the children drop dead. The coffee shop is on fire.
“Why?” Dick asks the Joker.
The monster laughs and laughs and laughs, and with every second his face loses its pallor and his grin shifts into a grimace, until Dick finds himself staring at Bruce.
“No,” he tries to say, but it doesn’t come out. He stumbles, only to find his back pressed into a wall. “No, wait—”
Bruce plunges his hand into Dick’s chest. Dick can feel it close around his heart. “Jason is dead.”
All the dead Robins outside sit up and twist their heads at unnatural angles. Their Batmen pick them up and hold them, like an army of despair.
“Jason is dead,” Bruce repeats, and Dick knows it’s an accusation, but—
“It’s not my fault,” he insists.
“These are your colors,” Bruce says. Dick looks down. He’s wearing a yellow shirt and green tights, and Bruce’s hand is still clenched around his heart. “Yellow. And green. It’s only missing the red.” And then Bruce pulls.
Dick watches, frozen, as his father holds a bloody, pulsating heart in his hands.
“I would give this to Jason if I could,” Bruce says. “But it’s not enough.” His grimace twists even further. “You’re useless to me.” He tosses the heart to the side. Around them, the flames burn brighter and brighter.
Dick wakes up screaming, with Bruce at his side.
Immediately, he pushes himself up into a seated position, flicking on his lamp and breathing heavily as he tries to force the dream from his mind.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce says. “I had to check. I heard you screaming. I had to check.”
And three years ago, Dick would’ve been angry. Would’ve ranted about invasions of privacy and paranoia. Instead, he slides off the edge of the bed, wraps his arms around Bruce, and lets his father hold him close. “I’m fine,” Dick says, wishing he believed it. “I’m fine. You’re fine. Everyone’s—” He chokes on the word. Jason.
“You’re alive,” Bruce whispers, as Dick buries his face in Bruce’s chest.
“Where were you?” Bruce asks as Dick pokes at his mac and cheese. They’ve been eating the most basic meals possible. Too much takeout and the papers will start to speculate. “I needed to consult with you on the Michaelson case.”
Dick sighs. This is why he moved out. Bruce does not need to know where he is at all times.
And yet, Dick gets it. Bruce didn’t keep track of Jason.
“I was looking for a job.”
Bruce’s brows furrow. “A job? Why?”
Dick rolls his eyes. Seriously? “A job. To earn money. You know, that thing that buys food?”
“I have plenty of money,” Bruce says, like he doesn’t see the problem there.
“I’m not mooching off of you,” Dick insists.
“It’s not…mooching. I’m happy to support you.”
Rich people. Seriously. “You don’t get it, B. I’ve got to get a job. Save up. Be independent.”
“You don’t need a job, Dick. Besides, you’re twenty-one. If you were in college, I would still be paying for everything.”
“Bruce.”
“Dick.”
“You don’t get it,” Dick says. He can feel his frustration rising. “I’m not going to be living with you or the Titans forever. You get that, right? This is temporary.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Bruce says, looking down at his plate.
Dick stands up. “Seriously, B?” He moved back into the Manor to help Bruce out of the funk he’s in, not to staypermanently. But Bruce doesn’t seem to have caught onto that.
“You can stay as long as you want.”
Dick is already sacrificing everything he built by staying here. And he’s willing to do it, he is, but Bruce doesn’t seem to realize just what Dick has lost. “I don’t want to stay forever. I have a life. I have friends. I don’t exist solely for your stupid fucking mission!”
Bruce stands up too. “Richard John Grayson!”
“Oh, the full name, huh?” Dick scoffs. “You’re not my father, Bruce. And if you want me to give a fuck about language, then get Alfred back. Oh, wait—you drove him away!”
“At least I know where Alfred is! When you run off, you don’t tell me where. And when Jason ran off, he got himself killed!”
“I’m not Jason!” Dick screams. “And I’m a grown adult, I don’t have to tell you anything! You don’t own me and you don’t own my life!”
“Then you don’t have any right to dictate how I live mine!”
“I have the right to make sure you fucking live!”
They’re both heaving for air, fists clenched as they stand over the dinner table. Suddenly, the guilt hits, filling Dick’s lungs. It all just ran away from him, the whole fight spiraling and spiraling and spiraling. Dick didn’t mean for it to go like this. And instead of storming out, like he normally does after a fight with Bruce, he just slumps over and stands there, head hung.
“I don’t want to fight,” Dick says, eventually.
“I…I don’t want to fight either, Dick.” Bruce looks so very tired.
“I didn’t mean it,” Dick whispers.
“I know,” Bruce says.
“I just want to help.”
Bruce pulls him close. “I know.”
“Bet you can’t keep up, B!” Dick shouts, diving off a skyscraper. He shoots his grappling hook before he jumps. Bruce does not.
The two race through the rooftops, Dick adding in unnecessary acrobatics and Bruce replicating them, though not quite as elegantly. In theory, they’re patrolling. In practice, it’s the closest they get to a game.
The last time Bruce and Dick raced across Gotham’s rooftops, Dick was fourteen. The next time Dick thought Batman was looking down and tried to start the chase, Bruce growled at him to focus. Dick didn’t stop trying for another year.
Dick tries to push the dismal thoughts from his head. What matters is the here and now. The thrill of the wind blowing through his hair, the swooping in his stomach as he falls, the laughter that spills past his lips. This is how Batman and Robin used to be.
Did Jason do this with Bruce too?
Dick mistimes his landing and stumbles, forcing himself into a sloppy roll. When he lands on his feet, his shoulder is aching. That’s going to bruise, and bad.
Bruce, in the middle of copying one of Dick’s flips, doesn’t notice. Dick forces a grin onto his face and rushes forwards.
As he somersaults over the gap between the next two buildings, he notices a man threatening a scrawny teenager with a knife in the alley below. “You go on ahead, B!” Dick shouts. “You could use the head start!”
He makes short work of the mugger and ties him up for the police.
“Wait,” the kid calls out as Dick turns to leave. Dick pauses. “Can I…can I report something?”
Dick shifts his body language, trying to make himself appear open. “Sure!” He says cheerily—but not overly cheerily, just enough to be encouraging.
“There’s this tunnel,” the kid explains. “Some of us—I mean, some of my friends—go there to paint. I mean, I don’t. But some guys I know do.” Their shoulders hunch defensively. Dick’s not buying it for a second, but Batman and Nightwing don’t hunt down graffiti artists. “These guys came along one day, wearing these weird masks, and said we all had to get out. So I—I mean, my friends left. But some people were like, ‘screw it,’ and stayed, and no one’s seen them in days.”
That certainly sounds concerning. “What sort of masks?”
“Like, clowns. Hey, do you think it’s the Joker?”
“Maybe,” Dick says. Probably. But the Joker’s still in Arkham right now, so what’s he playing at? “What else can you tell me?”
By the time he’s got all the information the kid has, Dick knows Bruce is far ahead of him. He races along the patrol route, not bothering to do any fancy acrobatics. A few minutes later, Dick hears the sound of grunts from yet another alleyway and sighs, dropping down to join the fray.
Except, it isn’t much of a fray at all. There are two men lying on the ground, unconscious, one of them bleeding, a tiny kid cowering a few feet away against a building, and Batman straddling a third man, pummeling him in the face.
Dick freezes, taking the scene in. One of the unconscious men has half his limbs bent at artificial angles. The other appears to be bleeding from the temple and has a batarang pinned through his hand (batarangs aren’t supposed to be that sharp). And the kid, the kid is shivering, his arms wrapped around his knees as he pushes himself into the corner between the building’s wall and a dumpster. He’s wearing a ragged red hoodie and his face is far too gaunt to be healthy. Homeless, probably.
Another grunt pulls Dick’s gaze toward the third man, who Bruce is taking an unusually long time to subdue. Or—that can’t be right, because he already seems to be unconscious, not even moving as Bruce strikes him again and again. “Batman?” Dick asks hesitantly, stepping forward. Bruce doesn’t respond. He aims another strike at the criminal’s face and Dick hears a distinct crack. “B, I think you got him,” Dick says, his voice shaking ever-so-slightly. Another grunt. Another strike. This is wrong. The man is already unconscious. They’re supposed to tie him up and leave, why is Bruce still attacking him? “B!” Dick orders. “That’s enough!”
But nothing seems to be getting through. Bruce grabs the man’s shirt collar and slams him against the ground. His head bounces off the pavement, and all Dick can think of is that Bruce is going to kill this man, if he’s not already dead. Dick rushes forward and shoves Bruce in the shoulder as hard as he can. Bruce reacts instinctively, throwing a wild fist that Dick easily ducks, but now Batman’s standing up, and he’s not hitting the man anymore, so it’s—it’s okay.
Bruce freezes. “Dick—”
No names in the field. No names in the field. That’s all Dick can think of. Bruce is the stickler for that rule, but even Dick only ever breaks it when on rooftops, far away from the action. But here, in an alleyway in the middle of Gotham, with a witness…
Bruce is compromised. Dick knew it already, but not like this. He pictures Bruce’s fists pummeling the criminal again and again and feels…sick.
“What the hell was that?” Dick accuses.
“I didn’t mean—I didn’t see you. I didn’t know it was you.”
Dick laughs harshly. That’s what Bruce is focusing on? “Forget about me, what about him?”
Bruce tilts his head to look at the criminal lying on the ground. He swallows.
Dick kneels down and checks for a pulse. He finds one, thank god. Faint, but present. “He’s alive,” Dick reports. “But you could have killed him.”
Bruce just stares. Dick takes out the encrypted burner phone all of them carry and dials 911. Bruce watches silently as Dick says that an ambulance is needed. Dick throws a disgusted look at Bruce. Clearly he’s not going to be any help, and there’s still a terrified street kid to deal with. Thankfully, the kid looks too out of it to have heard Dick’s name, but if he’s still there when the ambulance arrives, he’ll get taken by CPP. And Dick knows that kids in Gotham often have a very good reason to avoid social workers.
“Hey,” Dick says softly, kneeling down a few feet away from the kid. The boy just shakes even harder. “I’m Nightwing.” Normally, he tells kids in Gotham that he works with Batman. But with what the kid just saw…Dick doesn’t even know if that’ll help him right now. “I fight the bad guys,” he says instead. The kid shifts, but looks at him with blank, blue eyes. Black hair, blue eyes, red hoodie…around ten to twelve years old…he looks like Jason, in his early days at Wayne Manor. “Can you tell me your name?”
The sound of sirens fills the air and suddenly, like a marionette, the kid jumps to his feet and takes off running. Dick doesn’t follow him. If the kid had the presence of mind to run, he probably has somewhere to go.
“Cave,” Dick says, voice hard. “Now.”
In the cave, Dick paces. Motion has always helped him think. But here, it doesn’t seem to be enough. What can Dick possibly say? Bruce was always the one who held him back, until Dick accepted the no-kill rule as part of his identity. But if Dick hadn’t gotten there in time…
A sick feeling churns in his gut. Batman wasn’t stopping. Batman would’ve killed that man.
If Dick wasn’t here, Bruce would be a murderer.
Dick gags and just barely holds down his light dinner. This is wrong. It isn’t supposed to be like this. This isn’t who Bruce is.
But maybe, this is who Bruce is now.
“You almost killed someone,” Dick says quietly, stopping to face Bruce, who stands over by Jason’s display case with his cowl off. Dick hates that damn thing. A GOOD SOLDIER. Like Jason was a soldier who died in a war. Like he made a choice to serve. Like he wasn’t a child in over his head who should have been protected by his family.
“You stopped me in time.”
“What if I wasn’t there?” Dick asks. Dick was trying to help, but…Bruce seemed to be improving. Just an hour ago, they were racing through Gotham. Dick thought he heard Bruce chuckle. How did everything change so fast? Will Dick ever be able to trust that Bruce is improving?
“But you were,” Bruce says, his voice filled with some emotion that Dick is too tired to name.
Dick was there, but he can’t always be, can he? Not all the time. He was willing to save Bruce from himself. He didn’t know he’d have to save Gotham from Bruce.
Dick steps forward and raises a hand to the glass display case. He looks at the costume, so similar to his own old circus leotard. These aren’t the clothes Jason died in. They aren’t burnt and tattered and stained with blood. It seems wrong, to remember Jason like this. With shining glass and a clean costume and a plaque.
But Dick can’t say he knew Jason well enough to decide on the right way to remember him.
“The kid looked like Jason.” Dick says it like a question, even though it isn’t one. “That’s why you were so…” Violent? That’s the understatement of the century. Batman’s always been violent, but he’s also always been kind, and that kindness was nowhere to be found in that alleyway.
“Yes,” Bruce says, and his voice shakes. Dick wants to pull him close and hug him, but he doesn’t think it would be appreciated right now. Dick’s not even sure if he could stomach it. This is Bruce, his mentor, his second father in every way that matters, but…but he just almost beat a man to death. His gauntlets are still bloody. “They were going to…”
“I know,” Dick interrupts before Bruce can continue. He places a hesitant hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “Bruce, Jason wouldn’t…Jason wouldn’t want this.”
Bruce goes stiff and takes a step back, forcing Dick’s hand away. “Don’t talk about what Jason would want,” he says, voice cold.
“He wouldn’t,” Dick says. He knows…he knows that this is a surefire way to start a fight, but he needs to get through to Bruce. He needs the real Bruce back. “Jason believed in Robin, believed in Batman. He would want you to be the man he…the man he believed in.”
Bruce shakes his head. “You have no idea.”
Dick steps forward. “Then tell me.”
“Jason killed Felipe Garzonas.” What? Dick cycles through cases in his head, but he wasn’t particularly involved in Gotham during Jason’s time as Robin. He doesn’t know who that is. “He said the man slipped. I wasn’t sure at the time. I wanted to believe him. But he didn’t even try to make the story convincing.”
Dick closes his eyes. “Jason,” he whispers.
“Garzonas had diplomatic immunity. Much like the Joker did shortly after Jason’s death. He...he was a rapist. He tormented a woman until she hung herself. And Jason went after him alone. I arrived to see Garzonas hit the ground, after falling from the top of a building with a railing.”
“He said he didn’t,” Dick protests weakly. “Jason wouldn’t.”
“Don’t pretend to know what Jason would or wouldn’t do.”
That’s fair, Dick supposes. He still…he still struggles to wrap his head around the idea of Jason killing, Jason who proclaimed Robin to be magic. And Bruce doesn’t know for sure. But whether Jason pushed Garzonas or not, that doesn’t change what Dick saw in that alleyway. “You almost killed someone, Bruce. What would have happened if he hadn’t had a pulse?”
Bruce’s every muscle stills. “What would you have me do?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Bruce turns to face Dick, meeting his eyes. “If I had killed him, what would you say I do next?”
Why is Bruce asking Dick of all people? Batman doesn’t kill. (Neither does Robin.) It’s just how it is. Batman doesn’t. “Batman doesn’t kill,” Dick says. But that’s not an answer, is it? Bruce looks at him, like he’s waiting for more. This isn’t a situation Dick’s ever considered. He’s thought about what would happen if he failed. As Robin, he always figured Bruce would disown him, kick him out permanently and leave him to fend for himself. As Nightwing, he figured Bruce would put him to Arkham. “Batman doesn’t kill,” Dick repeats. “I don’t…what do you want me to say, Bruce?”
“Would you place me in Arkham?” Bruce asks. “I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t stop you.”
“No,” Dick says, before he can even think about it. Immediately, he wants to take it back. Of course he should put Batman in Arkham. If someone kills in Gotham, they’re a criminal, and if they wear a mask, they’re a Rogue. Bruce should berate him, tell him that Batman is no different, that if he kills, it’s Dick’s duty to stop him. But Bruce just watches Dick closely. Not like this is a test…like he genuinely wants to hear Dick’s answer. “I’d. I’d. I don’t know.” Maybe Bruce could throw Dick in Arkham. Probably could. But Dick doesn’t think he could do that to Bruce. “Batman doesn’t kill,” Dick repeats for a third time, clinging to it like a lifeline. He can feel tears welling up in his eyes. He turns around so that Bruce won’t see. “We don’t kill. It’s the first rule you taught me.”
“I know,” Bruce says quietly. “We don’t kill,” he agrees.
“I don’t think you should patrol right now.”
“Gotham needs me,” Bruce protests.
Dick turns around. “One week. I can handle Gotham for one week, and then you’ll be back out in the field. Okay?”
There’s a long silence, before Bruce eventually nods.
“Okay,” Dick says. “Pull yourself together, Grayson,” he mutters under his breath. It doesn’t help.
Fifty-six hours later, Dick wakes up from his third nightmare of the night. All he can see is Bruce’s body burnt and disfigured, bones clattering like a skeleton as he cries out again and again, “Why didn’t you save me?”Dick stumbles through the hallway, reaches Bruce’s door and, against his better instincts, opens it.
It doesn’t bring relief, though. All Dick can see are blankets, and that’s not enough. He shuffles over to the bed, wincing as the floorboards creak. And he can see Bruce, but his mind whispers insidiously. What if it’s an illusion? What if he’s not there? What if he’s dead? Tentatively, Dick raises a hand to touch Bruce’s face.
“Dick?” Bruce asks blearily, and Dick jumps back.
“I had to check,” Dick justifies.
“I’m here,” Bruce says. He raises a hand, slightly, letting it slip outside his blankets. Dick grabs the hand and holds it tight, fingers twisting around to feel Bruce’s heartbeat.
“You’re here,” Dick echoes.
On day four of Bruce’s forced break, the Joker, Killer Croc, and the Riddler break out of Arkham. Dick reluctantly admits that he needs help and tells Bruce that he’s back to being Batman.
“Are you sure, Dick?” Bruce asks quietly.
“I trust you,” Dick says. He doesn’t know if that’s a lie or not. Either way, it’s impossible to miss the flash of guilt on Bruce’s face. “We’ll stick together. No splitting off.”
Bruce nods. “Thank you, Dick.”
“Nothing to thank me for.”
Dick watches Bruce like a hawk. Although he hits perhaps a bit too hard, it’s nothing like the excessive violence Dick saw in that alleyway. Bruce is more reluctant to get hurt when Dick is watching, and Dick is sure to block the strikes that Bruce doesn’t avoid.
They finish patrol at 5:31 AM, battered and sore and exhausted, but Killer Croc has been returned to Arkham, and they have a lead on the Joker. That tunnel the graffiti kid mentioned may look clear now, but sooner or later, the Joker is liable to show up.
After one too many nightmares, they give up on boundaries. Dick humors Bruce’s first idea, which is to put cameras in their rooms to check on each other at night, but neither of them is satisfied that someone isn’t just looping the feed. When Dick finds himself checking on Bruce at four in the morning, Bruce mutters deliriously, “just stay, Dick.”
So Dick crawls next to him and falls asleep to the sound of Bruce’s heartbeat. He doesn’t have any more nightmares that night.
Donna calls. The Titans have been on another off-planet mission. She asks if Dick is coming back soon.
“I don’t know,” Dick says. “Bruce is…Bruce isn’t doing well.”
Dick can practically hear her purse her lips over the phone. Dick and Donna tell each other everything. “You’re living with him again?”
“Yeah,” Dick says. “Yeah, I…I am. Look, it’s really bad, Donna. I had to do something.”
“You don’t owe him anything.”
“I wanted to help him,” Dick says.
“Yeah,” Donna says. She sounds resigned. “Just…be careful, Dick. Please.”
“Always am.”
That’s a lie. They both know it.
The Joker returns to the tunnel that his henchmen set up. Along with him goes the Riddler.
Dick knows that with two villains, they’ll probably get split up. So when Bruce says that he’ll take the Joker and Dick will rescue the hostages playing one of the Riddler’s games, Dick holds out an escrima stick to stop him in his tracks.
“What?” Bruce growls.
“You get the hostages, B. I’ll deal with the Joker.”
“I don’t want you facing him alone.”
“Tough luck,” Dick says. Bruce may not be beating street-level thugs to near-death right now, but Dick doesn’t trust him against the Joker. Hell, Dick doesn’t even fully trust himself. “I can take care of myself.”
“Fine,” Bruce agrees reluctantly. Dick can see how difficult it is for the man, allowing Dick to face the Joker, and he’s grateful that Bruce manages to agree.
They split ways. Dick follows the tunnel, disarming booby traps until he finds the Joker perched atop a throne. Dick sighs.
“This ends here,” Dick says. “Whatever fucked-up scheme you concocted now, it’s over. I’d recommend you come quietly.” He bares his teeth. “Wouldn’t want to give me an excuse.”
The Joker doesn’t respond. Dick steps closer, wary of traps. Another step. Another step. Something’s off about the Joker. Something’s really off.
Another step. The Joker’s face has a waxy sheen.
Another step. That’s not just some bad makeup. That’s…
Dick spots the bomb strapped to the wax figure’s back.
“Fuck.”
His first instinct is to run, but a cave-in here could be disastrous. He tries to estimate the distance he travelled, and he guesses he’s right underneath the Narrows right now. And Dick does not trust Gotham tunnel inspectors.
Dick rushes forward. Two minutes on the clock. Only one bomb, as far as he can tell.
He makes quick work of it. A minute in, and the bomb’s disabled. Dick looks around. He must be missing something. A trap’s never just a trap, with the Joker. It’s never this easy.
Fear shoots through Dick. Of course. It’s not a trap for him. It’s a trap for Batman.
Dick takes off in the direction of the Riddler’s game, where he assumes the Joker will also be.
He arrives just in time to see the bullet hit.
Brain matter splatters all over his face, and Dick can’t breathe.
“Dick.”
Dick isn’t here. He isn’t. He isn’t here. Not here.
This is a nightmare.
Dick has had this nightmare before. He picks up a gun and shoots the Joker, and it feels good. Bruce picks up a gun and shoots himself. Bruce picks up a gun and shoots Jason. Bruce shoots the Joker. Bruce shoots the Joker. Bruce shoots the Joker.
“Batman doesn’t kill,” Dick whispers, but it’s a lie. It’s a fucking lie. Batman doesn’t kill, but Dick watched him shoot the Joker and he doesn’t even know how it happened. Just that the Joker’s head exploded and Bruce stared at him and then said, quietly, “I’m sorry, Dick,” and then everything went sort of fuzzy and—
His lips feel disconnected from his body. He wants to talk, to scream, to beg. To ask why. Why did Bruce do this? Bruce, who hates guns with his whole soul. Who sees the good in everyone. Who could never kill.
Was Dick just lying to himself this whole time? Pretending like he could help Bruce, like he was what Bruce needed, like he could stand in for the magic of Robin?
Cold water hits Dick’s face. It’s a decontamination shower. Why is he in a decontamination shower?
Blood runs out of his hair, flowing off his suit and swirling around the drain. Oh. That’s why.
The Joker is dead. Dick knows that, because Bruce checked for a pulse, face stony. Bruce killed the Joker. And Dick didn’t stop him.
Because Dick could have jumped in front of that bullet. There was a split-second, where he saw Bruce’s finger tense on the trigger. Where he knew what was going to happen. And he watched. He watched it happen.
The water turns off. Someone presses a towel into Dick’s hands. He just stares at it blankly, before sliding down to sit on the stone floor. He should change out of the Nightwing suit, probably. But it’s so difficult to even twitch one of his fingers. Bruce sits down a few feet away from him.
“You killed him,” Dick says eventually.
“Yes,” Bruce agrees. “I did.”
“Why?”
“He had a detonator. He was going to kill the hostages. And I didn’t know where you were—he might have. He might have killed you too.” Bruce wraps an arm around Dick’s shoulders. Dick feels empty inside. He should—he should feel revolted, shouldn’t he? This is a—this is a killer.
(But this is his father. This is Bruce.)
“You always find another way,” Dick says.
“I didn’t want to.” Bruce inhales deeply. “I’m sorry, Dick. I’m sorry that this happened. But I’m not sorry for what I did.”
Dick closes his eyes. He can smell blood, thick and metallic. Can practically taste it. But he also smells Bruce, and the unique scent of the Batcave, and—
How did it end up like this? Dick was supposed to help.
“I’m sorry,” he ends up whispering. “I failed you, Bruce. I’m so sorry.”
Bruce pulls him close. Dick can feel himself start to cry. He doesn’t deserve to cry. He’s just as responsible for this as Bruce. “You didn’t fail me,” Bruce promises.
“I did,” Dick mumbles. “I did, I failed you. I failed you.”
“Don’t say that,” Bruce tries to order, but Dick’s never been good at following orders. “You did not.”
Dick swallows. “You were always there to catch me and I…I let you fall.”
A hand runs through his hair. Dick lets himself rest against Bruce. They’re murderers, the both of them. Dick doesn’t want to pull away and find out what comes next. “Dick, look at me. Please.” Reluctantly, Dick opens his eyes to look up. “This is not your fault. This was my decision alone, and you couldn’t have…you couldn’t have stopped me.”
But Bruce doesn’t get it. It was his decision, but it was a decision Dick let him make. Dick knew Bruce shouldn’t be out in the field. He knew he shouldn’t split from Bruce when hunting down the Joker. He knew that Batman was violent and dangerous and unpredictable, but he couldn’t see past Bruce.
Dick still can’t see past Bruce. Because he should be fighting him and throwing him in containment, but he’s not, he’s not. He’s just letting Bruce hold him, comfort him, lie to him.
Suddenly, a horrible thought strikes Dick. It takes root in his stomach, and grows and grows and grows until he can’t ignore it. It makes too much sense. “This isn’t the first time,” Dick whispers, “is it?”
Bruce lowers his head. “No, Dick, it isn’t.”
Dick pushes himself away from Bruce and stands up. Bruce stays seated. “When?” He demands.
“Before you got here. I stopped caring. I only…I only realized he was dead after I left the scene. I went back, and there wasn’t any pulse. I didn’t mean to,” Bruce says, like that matters.
Dick doesn’t know what to say to that. “That’s why Alfred left, isn’t it?” Bruce nods. Dick tries to wipe the tears from his eyes. “I should take you to Arkham.”
“Okay,” Bruce says, resignation filling his voice.
“I need to stop you,” Dick says. “I—you’ve gone too far. You’ve broken all your own rules. I need to.”
Bruce just closes his eyes.
“Say something!” Dick shouts.
Bruce looks straight up at Dick. “I accept your judgement.”
“You’re supposed to fight me,” Dick screams. “You’re supposed to say you’re right, you’re supposed to tell me I’m wrong, you’re supposed to put me in a cell until I agree, you’re not supposed to just come quietly!”
“I’m not going to fight you.” Bruce swallows. “You’ve always been better than me, Dick.”
Dick laughs. “That’s why you let me come to the Manor, isn’t it? It’s not because you wanted me back. It’s because you wanted me to judge you! I was a fool for thinking I was welcome, wasn’t I?”
“No,” Bruce says. It’s finally something other than the quiet acceptance of before. Arguing feels right. “No, Dick. I…I wanted you to stay. It was selfish. I let you stay against my better judgement. I didn’t want you involved at all, to know about this. I wanted to spare you this burden. And I’m sorry that I couldn’t.”
Dick kneels down next to Bruce. “I don’t think I can put you in Arkham.” It’s true, and Dick hates himself for it.
“That’s okay, Dick,” Bruce says. “Should I turn myself in?”
Dick closes his eyes. “Don’t put this on me, Bruce. Don’t—don’t do that. Don’t make this my responsibility.”
“There’s always room for you in the League,” Bruce says softly. “You have Clark and Diana’s respect. And, of course, there’s Titans. If you can’t stay, if you can’t have any part in this, I understand.”
Dick shakes his head and settles so he’s leaning against the wall only inches away from Bruce. Bruce doesn’t reach out to him again. “I already have a part in this.”
“You don’t, Dick. I swear you don’t.”
“I should have been there,” Dick whispers. “I left you. I left you to grieve alone after Jason’s death. I knew I should’ve pushed. I knew I shouldn’t have left. I—”
“No,” Bruce says harshly. “No. I made you leave. You made the right decision. No one would blame you for leaving after that. The fact that—the fact that you came back at all is a miracle.”
And Dick can’t help himself. He reaches for Bruce’s wrist and twists his fingers around to feel the pulse. And it’s there, it’s there, strong. Alive.
“I understand, Dick, if you can’t follow me down this road. I understand if you need to stop me.”
“I can’t stop you,” Dick admits.
“That’s okay, Chum.”
Dick leans his head against Bruce’s shoulder. “I don’t want to leave.”
“Okay.”
“I know I should,” Dick says. Bruce doesn’t deny it. “I want to stay. I want you to live.”
“You will always be welcome here. Even if you decide you can’t be here anymore.”
“What would Jason think of us now?” Dick asks.
“I don’t know,” Bruce whispers.
Did Jason push Garzonas? Or did the rapist slip? Would Jason have approved of Bruce killing the Joker? Or would he see it as a betrayal?
Neither of them can ask him. Neither of them can turn back time, and neither of them can speak to the dead.
“What happens next?” Dick asks.
Bruce’s hand cards through Dick’s hair once more, slow and soothing. “We go on.”