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"Tim's gone."
Dick wakes up to the sound of his phone ringing, reaching blindly for it in the dark of his bedroom. The caller ID reads Bruce, and he debates not answering for a second before sliding the button over to accept.
"What?" He rubs the sleep out of his eyes, brows furrowed, and tries to ignore the cold dread settling deep in his chest. "What do you mean gone?"
"He was at the tower," Bruce explains while Dick crawls out of bed and into a pair of pants. "It appears somebody broke in, but the security footage was wiped. Oracle is working on recovering—"
"Wait, wait, wait—" Dick presses the phone between his shoulder and his ear, pausing in his search for a shirt. "When was this? When did this—"
"Last week."
Again. Dick wants to laugh.
Of course it was last week. Why would Bruce tell him something was wrong? When has Bruce ever done that?
(Dick is going to miss another funeral. Another little brother that he failed, six feet underground.)
"And you didn't think to call—?"
"I had my reasons."
He fights the urge to scream, just throwing on the first shirt he finds— dirty, probably, but who the fuck cares at this point— and storming out the front door. He barely remembers to grab his shoes and keys on the way out.
"I'll be there soon," he bites out, hanging up before Bruce can try to defend himself again.
(He misses flip phones. That would have felt so much more satisfying if he had been able to slam the stupid thing shut instead of jam his finger into the end call button until his busted screen decided to work.)
A week. Tim had been missing for a week, and Bruce only thought to contact him now.
He revs the engine on his motorcycle, taking the highway just a little too fast as he weaves between the late-night traffic.
It's classic Bruce— classic Batman— to just try and deal with something completely on his own. Leave Dick completely out of the loop when his own family's life is on the line.
How many times does he have to do this? How many times is Dick going to have to bury the people he cares about?
(And will it be Bruce's turn next? If Tim can't be found, will Dick have to bury his father for a second time?)
"What do we know?" he asks as soon as the kickstand on his bike is down. His shoulders are set, back straight as a ruler. His eyes skitter over In memory of Robin, a good soldier, and he forces his shoulders to slump just a little.
"There was a break-in at Titan's Tower," Bruce tells him, eyes on the CCTV footage Barbara managed to dig up. It's glitchy enough that Dick can barely make anything out, but it's going to have to be enough. "From what I can gather, there was a fight. Robin lost and was forcibly removed from the tower."
Dick watches the security footage, lips pursed.
Tim runs through the halls— in his pajamas, somewhere he was supposed to be safe. He looks so tiny like that, in a shirt he stole from Dick and a pair of basketball shorts— chased by what looks like… a wolf?
"Where'd the wolf come from?" he asks, leaning closer.
Bruce shakes his head, replaying the footage. "This is all she could salvage," he says. "The wolf tackles him— here." The clip shows Tim, pinned underneath the wolf and then jumps to— "Red Hood. We don't know where he took Robin yet, but we're working under the assumption he's still alive."
Dick's nails dig into the leather of Bruce's chair, jaw clenched.
Red Hood has made no secret of his hatred for Robin. Dick knows what a man like that will do when he gets his hands on the littlest bird.
(He's lived through it twice before.)
(Slade, at least, hadn't killed the bird when it was in his grasp. He cannot say the same for Joker, and he won't put his trust in Red Hood to be more like the former.)
"Have you found anything?"
"He's in Crime Alley."
No shit, Dick shoves away from the desk, digging through his locker for the spare Nightwing uniform he keeps at the cave. "I'll go in on foot."
"You'll be shot, Dick," Bruce's hand is on his shoulder, hot as a brand and twice as painful. "Wait until we have something more concrete to investigate. You'll be no use to him if you—"
No use. Because that's all Dick has ever been, isn't it? Useful.
"I'm not letting another one of my brothers die because you were too late," he whirls on Bruce, teeth bared and shoulders set once again. No longer the straight lines of a soldier, though. He is the raised hackles of a cornered animal. "If you want to wait until he's in his grave to care, then you can sit around and wait—"
"Dick." Dick's mouth clicks shut, and he glares up at Bruce through his bangs. Despite Dick now being taller than him by quite a bit, Bruce has never failed to make him feel like a child being scolded. "We will find him. But I can't—" It takes him a few seconds, and he almost looks like he's going to throw up or faint trying to get the words out. "I can't lose you, too. While we search. Stay."
Dick feels himself deflate just a little, unable to look Bruce in the face now. He knew that's what the man had meant, but—
"And I can't leave him," he says, voice firm. "I can't risk losing Tim."
He watches as his father's shoulders slump, face going carefully blank.
"You'll stay with me," he tells Dick finally, reaching to pull his cowl back on. "Do not engage with Red Hood if you encounter him on your own. Do you understand?"
"Understood," Dick says.
(He will not engage, if he sees Red Hood. Because Dick will not lose another brother.)
(If he sees Red Hood, Dick will kill the bastard. Bruce's rules be damned.)
"Then let's head out."