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There was no one in Gotham, or the entire world, really, who could call Bruce Wayne a simple man.
No idiot, even out of his right mind, would look at the mansion made of pure cherry wood and brick, those expensive chandeliers even Swarovski broke its bank trying to make, and the thread count of a billion on every fabric the man touched, and call him a simple man.
Well, Bruce would. Probably Alfred.
Because nothing in this world—not the thread count, not the glasswork, not the private planes, nothing—seemed necessary, or even desirable in the face of one singular thing in his life. All he really needed was one thing.
“B?”
His ward's little frame hovered by the door, a silhouette of curls against the light outside in the hallway. He shifted from one foot to another as Bruce lifted himself up. “Are you mad at me?”
A sour taste filled Bruce’s mouth as he remembered the mission they’d just been on. It had been Robin’s first off-world encounter, but more importantly his first mission with the Justice League. He was officially the youngest vigilante acting for or with them. Robin would go down a legend, with a legacy greater than perhaps even Superman as he became the first protege to a Justice League member, the youngest hero to stand with them and fight.
With that great reputation, Robin had gone and exploded a ship full of aliens.
They’d talked about it before, about the no-kill rule. How important it was and how necessary it was to follow the rule. It didn’t matter if those aliens had attacked them first. It didn’t matter if they intended on killing. It didn’t matter if Robin hadn’t seen another way out, because there had been one. It hadn't mattered as much when he'd found Dick over the body of one of Zucco's men, two years ago. Bruce had excused it, telling himself the boy didn't know any better because no one had taught him.
Well, this time, Bruce had taught him. Rather, he'd failed to. He'd been there when Robin had pressed the button, engaged the missile on their jet, and created an inferno out of the extraterrestrial ship attacking them.
Dick took a step back into the hallway. His eyes were giant, glassy through his tears. He was so young, with so much to learn, so much for Bruce to fail to teach.
They didn’t even know how many casualties there had been. How many bodies had been mutilated by the fire.
Bruce had already answered that question. He wasn't mad.
"You know better than to kill, especially with the Robin suit on," he'd said an hour ago, while the boy sat by the sink in his bathroom, Alfred patching him up with Superman Band-Aids (there were so many Superman Band-Aids. They were everywhere). "We have an image. Even in space. More importantly than image is your moral conduct. This is hard work, Dick. We’re made to do a lot of things that, when you look back at it, can be pretty bad. There are only a few things really separating us from the real bad guys, and killing is one of them. If we make exceptions, then it won’t be long before there really isn’t any difference between us and the bad guys, no matter how different our intentions are. What you did today was make an exception. And I know you, Dick. I know you're willing to make a lot more than one exception."
But clearly, that hadn't been enough of an answer. So this time, he lifted the blanket in invitation. Dick hesitated, then shuffled over and crawled onto the bed.
When Bruce saw how quiet and still he was, lying there at the very edge, so unlike his usual self, he remembered what Alfred had said to him half an hour ago.
“Alfred,” Bruce had scowled. “If you have something to say to me, I’d rather you say it aloud.”
Alfred shook his head. “I only grieve the world and its disappointing decisions, Master Bruce. I cannot blame you, or your business, or fate, or whatever else there might be. Master Richard is who he is and you are who you are. I hope you both can forgive each other eventually.”
“What are you talking about?”
Alfred’s sigh was so burdened that Bruce’s heart hurt. “Master Bruce,” the butler said, “Your ward is keeping you together. He keeps himself your ward because he is so inexplicably full of happiness he should not even have left. You protect because it is in your nature, and nature is what also explains your silence, your reservedness. The bond between you that works now, the one you are happy with, may not last. When the inevitable happens, I hope you both can forgive each other.”
Bruce stared at him. “What are you saying, Alfred? That something might happen? That Dick will run away? The hell does that mean?”
Alfred stared up at him firmly. “I mean, Master Bruce, that your relationships work naturally now. Sooner or later, you must struggle to make them work. I only want you to remember that.”
Alfred was wrong, Bruce thought. He slipped his arm between Dick’s head and the pillow, then pulled him close. Dick’s body went lax at the invitation—in surprise? Relief?—before he fiercely burrowed in as close as he could.
Bruce wrapped his arms around the ten-year-old. He inhaled the familiar eucalyptus shampoo Alfred had purchased for all the bathrooms in the house, even the faint lemony fabric softener the butler had been using since the dawn of time.
“Goodnight-kiss?” Dick asked, voice impossibly small.
Bruce pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Goodnight, chum.”
Alfred was wrong. There was nothing better than the feeling of Dick in his arms, all of Dick safely in his arms where nothing could get to him. Nothing would change. And even if it did, this would never change. Dick would always fit in his arms, even if he grew up to be taller and bigger than Bruce. Dick would always fit in his arms, and Bruce would always hold him in his arms. That would never change.
It only took Bruce eleven years to remember that he was right.
It was preceded by years of believing, completely convincing himself he was wrong. Years of growing out of those rare nights that Dick needed comfort, rather needed him for comfort. Years of mistakes and regret. Years of Dick running away, an event that grew as frequent as his hugs and humor went infrequent. A rising tide and the waxing and waning of the Wayne household that ultimately stripped it of one of, if not its most essential part. The last time Dick ran away, he didn’t come back.
It wasn’t a one-off thing, where he’d stay with Barbara Gordon or Wallace West and complain to them about Bruce or Batman. Bruce tried to believe he’d made the right decision. He’d rather his ward be alive and angry at him than dead and happy in his dying breath. He didn’t need to know how much Bruce had impacted him by taking him in and giving him Robin. He didn’t need a dying speech. He was happy to be the villain, he thought, as he sat up late after patrol, checking in on (stalking) Dick from security cameras and the trackers implanted in him.
All it took to remember was death.
Funny how that worked. All he needed to remember how far he’d fallen, how much light there used to be, was seeing that light drain from his boy’s eyes. It kept him in the moment, kept him from replaying the sickening moments that led them to this. The cut-off scream as Nightwing had been torn off his feet, the sickening crunch as he’d hit the wall. The snaps, the breaks, the wind. The crack when Nightwing’s head had collided with the stone ground.
Bruce scrambled to hold onto that dying light as he pulled his boy's domino off. “Nightwing, report,” he ordered, if only so the concussion wouldn’t get the better of Dick.
Nightwing’s blue eyes flickered around at the scene. Superman and Aquaman stood a bit behind them, his face protected as he leaned into Batman's shoulder. In front of them stood Red Hood, Red Robin, and Robin.
Batman wished they weren’t here. He wished his son wasn’t bleeding in his arms. How he wished.
“Nightwing,” He said again. “Report.”
It was useless. Dick looked up at him with those darling blue eyes. He’d grown into his features, a handsome young man, but to Bruce it was no different than if he were eight again, staring up with those manipulatively large dinner plates for eyes, with those chubby little cheeks and a circle of a face that made even Bruce Wayne want to keel over and smash glass.
Dick was looking at him with those beautiful eyes, but it was clear he couldn’t really see.
“Nightwing,” He started again. “You need to tell me what hurts.”
And Dick finally spoke. His voice was slurred. “B? Am… I dying?”
Bruce had to remember he was still wearing the cowl. “No. No, you aren’t. Tell me what hurts. Listen to me and you'll be fine. Tell me what hurts.”
Dick closed his eyes, but Bruce shook him awake. After a moment, the words seemed to come to him again.
“It’s… B, it’s okay if I die.”
“You will not—"
“It’s okay if I die. Just... as long as you keep holding me.”
Bruce drew in a breath. He couldn’t. His son needed him, he couldn’t fall apart now. “I’m right here. Let me help you.”
Nightwing’s voice was faint. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“No, I do. I was difficult and you tried so hard to give me a good life, and I—”
“You were a kid, just a child. You have nothing to be sorry for—”
“I’m sorry I never called you Dad.”
“Oh, chum.”
Nightwing continued faintly. “I was always mad that you… you adopted the rest of them. But I was always your ward, and I was so angry. I thought you thought I wasn’t good enough for you, that you were too hard on me. But I shouldn’t have been mad that you didn’t make an effort when I didn’t even make an effort either.”
It would have been an optimistically strong sentence, if everyone there didn’t immediately think of the death spark. This was it, the life in the dying breath. The last speech.
In response, Batman raised a hand. He pulled off his cowl.
***
Superman had never seen his colleague before. He had no idea who Batman was, truly was, and he didn’t know what to think when this was how he would find out. It still shocked him to the core when he came face to face with a human man with a neat head of gelled brown hair. Worry lines, shining eyes, a human expression of utter misery. Human skin, human hair. Human hands under the black gloves that placed the cowl down on the ground.
When Superman finally saw him, he found the Bat’s wings clipped. The cave had crumbled. The facade underneath was already a shattered one, held together only by the fastenings of the Batman cowl. He found a heart, a broken one.
"Oh, chum."
Batman was devastated. And so, so human.
The man who was Batman gathered Nightwing impossibly close. His shoulders sagged with realization.
“B?”
“Chum.”
Without the modulator, he was human. A tired voice, deep but anything unlike the Bat’s. It was deep and kind, not like the icy depths of the ocean that was Batman, but the crackle of a fireplace or the wool and warmth of a dark brown sweater knitted by an old hand. It was the voice of a father.
“Can you kiss me goodnight?”
The man who was Batman leaned over and pressed a long, trembling kiss into Nightwing’s temple, then his forehead.
“I love you, chum. I love you so much. I’m so proud of the man you’ve become. You’re more than I could ever have asked for.”
Nightwing didn’t move, didn’t respond. His human father kissed his forehead again.
***
Alfred was wrong.
It was the only time he was ever wrong. Dick did still fit in his arms. He was bigger, taller. Not as big as Bruce, but bigger than he was at eight and nine and eleven and sixteen, and yet he still fit in Bruce’s arms perfectly. It felt right. Dick was dying and he was still in so much pain, and it was probably Bruce’s fault, but Dick still fit in his arms and that would always feel right.
It never changed, that feeling. It would never change.
“Goodnight, B. I love you.”
“Goodnight, chum.”
The lights of a ship descended upon the rocky terrain. Their reinforcements had arrived. They would go home at last.
Harsh white light blanketed them. Bruce kissed his son goodnight.