Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It starts, as literally nothing else does, when Bane breaks out of Arkham Asylum’s revolving doors and snaps Bruce’s leg like a matchstick. Leslie fixes it, as she does, but post-surgery Bruce is out of it, to say the least.

“Well,” Dick says, as Bruce’s concussed form is carefully moved from one of Leslie’s designated patient transport Bat-stretchers onto a Batcave infirmary bed, “You had a good run, and a good walk and a good other things that people do with their legs, but now you can't do any of those. Have fun with your Alfred-enforced bedrest, loser.”

Bruce, who is doped up on enough painkillers to make an elephant nauseous, merely raises a drugged eyebrow, and immediately tries to swing his legs off the side of the infirmary bed and make his escape. He gets approximately five inches and two seconds of freedom before he is gently rugby-tackled by a combination of Leslie, Alfred and Dick who, in an phenomenal act of seamless teamwork, all smoothly rearrange his limbs back where they should be, which is in bed, resting, before pseudo-binding him in place with blankets like a swaddling child.

“You,” Leslie points at Bruce’s face. “Stay,” she emphasises, pointing down. His eyes fail to focus on her finger, but no one misses the implied ‘make me’ that his narrowed eyes convey.

Helpless, she looks at Alfred, who is already setting up a chair at his bedside, complete with the latest newspaper, knitting gear, and enough books to last three weeks in the manner of a man experienced with this particular brand of Bruce’s bullshit. With a smooth flourish, he pulls out a kettle from one of the compartments in the infirmary, brandishes at least twelve different types of teas and an array of biscuits, and settles in for the long haul. 

Leslie and Dick look at him, unruffled despite the hand he’s using to immobilise one of Bruce’s shoulders, holding him in bed, and then at each other.

“Do not let him leave,” Leslie tells them firmly, “He needs rest, no matter how adamantly he insists he’s fine. I will be over tomorrow afternoon to monitor his healing.”

With that, she sweeps out, presumably to deal with her other, presumably more compliant patients.

Waving halfheartedly at her back, he watches her leave, before turning to Bruce, whose weak struggles to get up have only redoubled in the absence of the doctor.

“Lemme up,” the man slurs, blinking with uneven pupils, “Justice.”

Dick presses a hand against his mouth, desperately fighting down the rising laughter. Once the need to laugh has somewhat abated, he leans over his bedridden father, carefully repressing his grin. “Yes, Bruce,” he says slowly, like he’s talking to a particularly stupid two-year-old. “Justice.”

Alfred remains calm, merely fixing Bruce with a stern eye. “You can bestow justice upon unsuspecting criminals once you have recovered, Master Bruce. Until then, you are in my care.”

“Hn. I’m Batman,” he says, like it’s the only explanation needed.

“Yes you are, Master Bruce,” Alfred, the epitome of calm and a literal saint, tells him patiently, “But right now, Batman needs to recover from his own rather poor life decisions.”

Dick needs to take a step outside, or he risks bursting into laughter and making Alfred’s job a million times more difficult. Concussed and sedated Bruce is a national treasure. It’s a shame no one will ever see this, except for maybe Babs. Speaking of Babs, he makes a quick mental reminder to ask her to save the security footage of this for future blackmail. This is golden.

“Meeting, for… League,” Bruce makes out, head lolling to one side, resting a cheek against Alfred’s guiding hand, and the older man visibly softens. “Batcalendar.”

Now Dick is paying attention.

“I see,” Alfred says, looking to Dick, “Is there a Justice League meeting scheduled?”

He hasn’t been alerted of anything on his communicator, which means that this meeting is most likely pertaining to a specific taskforce, or solely for the JL founders. Skipping over to the infirmary Batcomputer console, he flicks through tabs to access the relevant calendar, blowing it up for them all to see on the screen easier. 

And wow, that’s a lot of JL meetings. 

Bruce’s calendar is full of them, for general meetings, founders ones, mission-specific ones, PR initiatives, HR and staff ratification and management, finance, new hero selection and initiation, and wow, that’s a lot of bureaucracy for a superhero club.

But for today, the meeting that Bruce is specifically looking at is this one.

9am: FOUNDERS MEETING.

Bing-pot. 

But Bruce won’t be cleared to move until tomorrow afternoon and this meeting is in - Dick checks his wrist computer - three hours, give or take. That’s not enough time. That’s not nearly enough time.

He pokes around further, discovers a powerpoint with a concise summary of the issues to be discussed. Giving it a once over, he finds nothing out of the ordinary, and nothing he doesn’t know or can’t rationalise away. There are notes about intel, though. Out of the seven major investigations investigating a country-wide trafficking network, one has finally borne fruit. That, he notes, is both time-sensitive and important. 

“I could go,” Dick volunteers. Two sets of eyes swivel to face him. “Clark can back me up, and I can take notes so you don’t miss anything.”

Alfred looks pensive for a moment, before turning back to Bruce, who blinks up at him. “Would Nightwing going in your place be acceptable, Master Bruce?”

A pause.

“Hn.”

That’s acceptable then. Alfred nods at him, and Dick smiles back, almost excited for the opportunity. Rushing into the changing rooms, he flicks through the digital panel listing all his available costumes. Such an occasion is only deserving of Discowing in all its glory while Bruce is too concussed to argue otherwise. 

He’s about to select his choice when Dick’s eyes fall on a particular suit of his, one he’s been saving for a very special occasion.

Ready for the official Batman Cosplay Contest at Bat-Con, the annual convention celebrating Gotham’s fabled vigilantes, Dick’s batsuit was never supposed to see combat, even if it was technically made to the same standards as Bruce’s own.

It’s perfectly fitting, because he made it to be. Why worry about half-assed cosplay, when he can just contact Bruce’s suppliers and use Bruce’s technology to create an identical copy of his suit made to Dick’s measurements? Instant win. That $50 BatBurger gift card will be his, thank you very much.

He grew up with Batman. None are more familiar with his movements, his mannerisms, his humor. 

The modified Batsuit stands on the rack, perfectly imposing and imposingly perfect.

Well, Dick grins to himself. Don't mind if I do.

Stepping back through the Zeta with Bruce’s particular heavyset grace, Dick sweeps into the Batcave, kevlar-reinforced cape flaring protectively behind him. The cowl, despite fitting perfectly, itches persistently and the armour is almost claustrophobic compared to his own, more elastic outfit as Nightwing.

The moment he’s cleared the threshold of the Zeta, he stops, letting a stunned grin overtake his face.

It was stupendously, ridiculously easy. Nobody even doubted him for a second, and he didn't even have to explain anything to Superman! He just walked into the room, winked at Clark, who instantly (and wildly incorrectly) assumed that this was one of Bruce’s plans, and didn’t say a thing the entire meeting. 

It was amazing.

All he did was glare at people, grunt when spoken to, and generally give monosyllabic answers when prompted.

And no one saw through it.

His head whirl through questions, picking apart memories of interactions and reactions for hints of suspicion, but to no avail. Will someone tip Bruce off? Will he mention it next meeting? Will Clark snitch? And most importantly, can he pull this off a second time?

A soft thud sounds from beside him, and Dick whirls around with an acrobat’s poise and his stock-standard guilty whoops-I’ve-been-caught-doing-a-Bad grin plastered on to hopefully alleviate future sentencing or judgment.

It’s Jason, the new Robin, with crumbs on his face and half-eaten doughnut lying on the floor.

“Dick?” he queries, disbelievingly. “S’that you?”

In all honesty, he and Jason haven’t had much to do with each other, not with the ever-present rift between Dick and Bruce, not with the open wound of seeing his parent’s colours on someone who doesn’t even understand the weight of the legacy they bear. Their interactions have mainly been limited to team-ups as fellow vigilantes, or stilted conversations in the Batcave minutes before Dick leaves, returning to Bludhaven.

It’s awkward, and he’s wanted to change it for a while, but with such a rough start, he’s not really too sure where to begin.

But now, Dick sees a bonding opportunity for the ages.

“Hey, Jason,” he says, shucking off the cowl to tuck it in the crook of his arm. He doesn’t have to look in the mirror to know that there’s a wide, mischievous smile on his face right now. “Think you can keep a secret for me?”

And really, what better do two Robins of a feather have in common, other than pranking their partner, their Batman?

It becomes their thing.

Sure, a secret shared is technically no longer a secret, but hey, they don’t really care as long as it’s safe from Bruce. 

It takes a while, and a few more flawless JL meetings with Dick-as-Bruce, but eventually the Batmanning becomes second nature, a cheeky little secret they share when Bruce is out of action or otherwise occupied with various important Gotham Matters.

At some point, Dick realises that none of the other JL members have realised, and those who know it’s not Bruce under the cowl sometimes haven’t said anything to the man himself. Bruce is none the wiser, and with the sound of Jason’s laughter filling the Batcave while they watch the security footage of the meeting, Dick intends to keep it that way for as long as possible.

It’s wonderful, getting to know the Jason under the mask. 

Together, they get ice-cream and sit on rooftops, fiercely debate over who suspects what, who has no idea, to the point of creating a giant betting board for how long it takes various JL members to figure out that sometimes, Batman isn’t Batman.

Eventually, as Jason hits his growth spurt, Dick starts to design a new Batsuit. One padded to fake muscles, height and weight. One for Jason, once he’s just a liiiitle bit taller. Jason marvels over it, and together they brainstorm ideas to fake more natural movement on carefully disguised five-inch platform boots, ways to copy Bruce’s mannerisms with a smaller body.

Then Jason dies, and that secret is taken to the grave. The suit sits unattended in the back of a wardrobe in one of Dick’s least used safehouses, gathering dust. It hurts to look at it.

Everything changes with Jason gone. They’re all that little bit darker, hit a little bit harder. The silences in the cave are suffused with grief now, and Dick moves back to Bludhaven permanently.

The only contact between them is the occasional summons to JL meetings. Because although Jason is dead, one thing that hasn’t changed is that the Justice League holds too many damn meetings, and crime doesn’t sleep.

Covering for Bruce is still standard procedure, and Dick is beginning to suspect that Bruce is pawning off the ones he doesn’t want to attend onto Dick, or that he’s using them as an excuse to get in touch and check if Dick is faring okay, despite their personal issues. 

Dick is not faring okay, not in the slightest, but at least he’s got his periodic identity theft down to an art form!

What a cold comfort that is.

Dick isn’t even aware there’s a new Robin for a few months, not until he accidentally clicks on the Gotham News instead of the Bludhaven page. He furiously zooms home only to see a new Robin, and a Bruce who has been strong-armed into going to grief counselling by one of the most obstinate twelve-year-olds he’s ever met, aside from Dick himself.

Of course, his first thought is another one?!

And his second, after knowing Tim for more than thirty seconds: He has parents? Alive parents?!

Which of course is followed by: Where are they, again? You were stalking us for how long? Do you have any form of parental supervision whatsoever??

The answers to these are no, yes, currently in Jamaica, about five years and no again.

Tim proudly identifies as what he calls a ‘free-range child’, an announcement during which Dick has to fight to keep his face straight. The only restrictions set by his parents include the vague suggestions to ‘go to school’ (optional, and somewhat ignored) and ‘be in bed before ten’ (also optional, and completely ignored), and yet he reports a loving, close relationship with them. Apparently they video call every week or so, but only when Jack and Janet have wifi connection at their less remote dig sites. 

With about thirty minutes worth of basic investigation into Tim’s home life, Dick comes to an astounding realisation. 

Namely, that Bruce’s parenting was a step better than the Drakes by actually being present in the first place, a revelation that makes his brain temporarily shut down. 

Despite their gross negligence, he can’t say that Jack and Janet don’t love Tim (they clearly do), they’re simply under the impression that children need significantly less supervision and guidance than a child should have. And Tim, for all that Dick loves him, is very much not a normal kid.

Further investigation reveals that all parties involved think that their current routine is normal, and are having the time of their lives.

Jack and Janet have their nerdery uninhibited by a child cramping their style, and Tim has no interruption to his long-standing night-time stalking of Dick and Bruce. 

Which is kind of an insane thing to discover, in all honesty.

Like, Dick would sacrifice his inheritance to be present for that conversation. He can only imagine how it would have gone - “Hey Batman, I’m your thirteen-year-old next-door neighbor, and I’m here to let you know that I’ve been stalking you for the last half-decade or so. Also, get therapy.” Beautiful.

Either way, it takes a certain kind of dedication to stalk vigilantes for over five years, a similar kind to the type needed to be able forcefully insert oneself into Dick and Bruce’s lives whether they like it or not. 

It’s pretty apparent from the get-go that this isn’t just because of a long-term hyperfixation on Batman and Robin (which is a part of it), but also thanks to a deep-seated determination to help that rivals their own. He’s here to help them, not just Gotham, and he’s even teamed up with Alfred to do so, a feat that has Bruce quailing under their combined efforts. 

Dick and Tim get on like a house on fire.

Although seeing another child in his family’s colours makes Dick’s chest ache indescribably, the pain is dulled with age and a growing love for the new sibling who wears it. Growing closer to Tim is the easiest thing in the world. He’s scarily intelligent, critically empathetic, and so inherently good it makes Dick’s heart ache. 

It’s only natural that he tries to tell Tim about his regular Batmanning shenanigans a couple months after they meet, that he’s been pretending to be Batman for nearly three years now, but he’s stopped midway. Because Tim already knew.

Of course Tim already knew.

Classic Tim.

Hell, apparently Tim figured out that Dick was subbing in for Bruce the first time it happened during his tenure as Robin. Bruce still has no idea, Tim reassures him, and he ain’t snitching. 

Having someone to share the secret with is like a breath of fresh air. Dick hadn’t realised how much it was weighing down on him, being unable to laugh with someone about it. When Tim looks up at him with bright eyes, he realises that maybe, maybe this was a secret for the Robins, something special just for them.

 It still takes Dick nearly a year to gain the courage to start to build a Batsuit for Tim’s personal use, not with the grief attached to the memories of creating one. He doesn’t think of the half-finished designs and prototypes locked away in one of his safehouses.

It takes another year, but after they’ve nearly finished designing and assembling Tim’s suit, calibrated for his diminished height and weight, they practice together when Bruce is at work or off-world.  Mastering the cadence of Bruce’s voice, intonations of his speech and the swing of his arms when he walks, Tim practices until Dick can look across the room and see Batman, if Batman had a babyface and cheeks round with youth. 

Fortunately, there’s an easy fix for that. 

The Batcave has fabrication units capable of printing facial structures for various disguises and a lot of preset faces, including Bruce’s (it's a contingency, believe it or not). With a bit of finangling and contact lenses, Tim carefully plasters on a copy of Bruce’s lower face over his own, dons the cowl to hide the more obvious edges, and bing bada boom. 

Tim-Batman stares back at Dick with a stony look.

Then after a tense moment, Bruce’s face twists into what is unmistakable Tim’s toothy grin and Dick mirrors it with his own, barely tamping down the excitement mixed with bittersweet joy, because he wishes he had the chance to do this with Jason too.

“What now?” Tim asks, giddy with glee, expression completely incongruous with his current costume.

“Well,” Dick says, thoughtfully, fixing Tim with a mischievous look, “Bruce is investigating that new Joker copycat in Crime Alley right now, and,” Tim’s eyes widen with anticipation, “There just so happens to be a JL meeting in the meantime.”

“Now!?”

“Yup, I’ve mailed the relevant notes to your wrist computer.”

“No way.”

Tim laughs out loud, and Dick clasps a hand on an artificially tall, bulky, armoured shoulder, identical to Bruce’s in nearly every way. “Go get ‘em, Timmy.” 

And he does.

Chapter Text

Tim’s first JL meeting goes seamlessly. His Batmanning techniques are immaculate, and with perfect imitation of Bruce’s typical thought processes, he navigates both the League’s social interactions and their monthly budget plan.

On the screen, Dick watches Tim mentally run through their carefully curated Bruce manifestation self-affirmations. I am Batman. I am the night. Justice. Spreadsheets. Assorted grunting. 

It’s perfect timing too, because there’s a new Rogue in town, with a concerning name and an even more concerning vendetta against Robin. Tim is benched despite his protests, staying on comms during their patrols and pouting all the while. Due to the new threat, Dick moves back to Gotham temporarily, determined not to make the same mistakes.

Even worse, Bruce says the Red Hood might be Jason.

Which makes it even more critical to keep Tim out of the way, because now they know that this vendetta is likely very personal, and because Hood has had Bat-training. He knows them, knows how they operate and think and react, making him a lot more dangerous than originally anticipated. 

Even with Tim out of state, the Red Hood still manages to corner him in Titans Tower. And the horrible truth comes to light: Jason truly is alive, and he is mad.

“He said I didn’t just take Robin,” Tim privately tells Dick later in the Bat-infirmary, wide-eyed and desperate for Dick to understand, “He said I took his Batman suit too.”

Oh no.

Oh no.

Okay, so Jason’s vendetta might just be very, very personal, moreso than Bruce suspects. But Dick ain’t a snitch. 

Hence, there is a very, very non-zero chance that Hood may go after Tim again. They need intel desperately, and giving up the opportunity to attend a JL meeting in Batman-cosplay is a sacrifice he’d make again a million times for his brother’s safety. Tim is safe at the manor right now, secure behind locked doors and updated security protocols, guarded by Alfred with his faithful shotgun.

He’s been bored out of his mind, both benched and injured, so a little bit of identity theft will probably do him some good.

D.GRAYSON: Hey

D.GRAYSON: I know you’re injured and bored

D.GRAYSON: Want to cover for me at the JL meeting tonight?

T.DRAKE: !!! Yes pls

T.DRAKE: When will you be back?

D.GRAYSON:  Probably later, after the meeting sometime. Srry

T.DRAKE: No problemo, I can take care of it

Message sent, Dick dons another fake identity, and slips into the winding streets of Crime Alley.

The public opinion of Hood is a mixed bag; dock workers complain about more stringent checks and anti-tampering measures for their stock, parents tell him how their children have never been safer, and the beggars speak positively about his philanthropy and his efforts in regulating crime. The sex workers, on the other hand, adore both him and his tendency to give those who don’t understand what the word ‘no’ means a large double-barreled serving from his fondly named ‘consent shotgun.’

And yeah. That does sound like something Jason would do, if a little twisted.

The info gathering goes better than expected, and he’s able to return hours faster than he previously assumed. He strolls into the cave to write a post-mission report, only to see Tim sitting in the plush chair in front of the Batcomputer, focused on something playing on the screen. Sitting in the plush chair in front of the Batcomputer, and not at the JL meeting.

“Tim?” He calls, confused. “What’re you doing here?”

Tim, who clearly wasn’t expecting anyone to interrupt him, makes a half-aborted jerk to close the current window he’s viewing. Which, fair. Watching footage of Batman at the watchtower is kind of a dead giveaway that he’s doing something he shouldn’t be doing, in typical Tim fashion.

Dick approaches the console, and slumps over the back of the desk chair and onto Tim’s shoulders. Leaning over to rest his chin atop Tim’s head, Dick squints at the screen. The screen, which has a label signifying that what they’re watching is, in fact, live footage.

“Huh,” he says pensively, “Did Bruce end up going to the meeting after all?”

Tim’s shoulders are tense under his hands. 

He takes a closer look at the Watchtower security footage again, eyeing the screen as Batman gives a presentation on updated security protocols. 

But Batman doesn’t stand like that. It’s barely perceptible, even with the 4K definition of the security camera, and it’s only something that a Robin could notice. Someone who learnt to read Bruce through hours of hard fights and helping, where picking up on slight changes in his body language meant the difference between life and death, or that he was too emotionally constipated to say that he was proud of their achievements that night.

This live footage was innocuous to anyone who wasn’t a Robin.

Dick knows better. He moves forward, leaning further over Tim until he knows that his upside-down head is half-blocking the screen. Tim, looking back up at Dick with an expression of forced calm, begins to sweat.

“Tim,” he says slowly, “Bruce is out investigating a time-sensitive tip on the Red Hood. If I’m here, and you’re also here,” his headache ratchets up by a couple of magnitudes as he lifts a hand to point at the Not-Batman, “Then who the fuck is that.”

On the screen, an impostor continues to lecture the core JL members on critical safety protocol updates. 

Tim looks vaguely guilty. “Steph wanted a turn too,” he says.

Dick facepalms.

And thus, Steph joins their little Bat-Cosplay Club.

Dick never thought he'd ever utter these words. But. There’s not enough JL meetings to go around.

Yes, really. The thought that he would end up enjoying professional meetings is a ridiculous and slightly terrifying thought, and Dick knows that if he ever told his younger self about this, he would either be met with gratifying amounts of violence against unsuspecting criminals or simply abject disbelief.

But, yes. It’s not a problem he ever thought he’d have, but covering for the occasional meeting on behalf of Bruce has almost become… therapeutic.

It’s for his mental health, the batmanning is.

With Steph added to the mix, Dick and Tim now have to split up the meetings even further. And there’s not enough to go around.

As one of the founders of the JL, Bruce is still making a valiant effort to attend as many as he can, but in all honesty, the man is flagging a little. Who knew that a club full of taxpayer-funded heroes would require So. Much. Damn. Paperwork? The threat of the Red Hood hanging over them is wearing at their nerves, and Bruce is getting the worst of it the longer Hood runs free. He’s wearing himself to the bone. 

It’s time for a bat-intervention, for all of their sakes.

“Hey Bruce,” Dick calls, approaching the man where he’s hunched over a difficult case on the Batcomputer, “You know how I sometimes attend Justice League meetings as - ahem, for you? Well, it’s been really good getting to know the League, and I think it would be more advantageous if I attended more meetings. Y’know. Building professional relationships and all that jazz.”

“Hn,” Bruce grunts, tired eyes fixed on a set of particularly grisly crime scene photos, “I trust your judgement.” 

“Sooo,” Dick grins, leaning on Bruce’s shoulder, “Just to make it super clear, this is me volunteering to cover you for more League meetings. So if you’re tired, or have a time-sensitive case, a midnight rendezvous with Selina, or you want to go get a Bat-manicure or something, then-”

“I appreciate it, Dick,” Bruce interrupts him, turning away from his work. “Although I can’t promise that I’ll take you up on that offer of getting a Bat-manicure,” a warm hand covers his own, and the corner of his lip quirks up, in that typical, emotionally constipated fashion in which Bruce expresses positive emotions. “I’ll take better care of myself. Thank you for looking out for me.”

Dick grins at his mentor, takes the opportunity to steal a large swig of his coffee (black, minimum drinking for maximum caffeine) and dips before Bruce can Batglare him away from the beverage.

And that was that.

Steph is a natural at Batmanning. A little vocal training and enough padding to hide the fact she’s 5’4” and has boobs, she’s ready to go.

As a matter of fact, she takes to the JL like a fish to water, finding great joy in lecturing people about HR issues and PR initiatives. Tim blows the finance and contingency update meetings out of the water, and Dick divys up the rest according to who wants what. General meetings, founders ones, mission-specific task forces, staff ratification and management, new hero selection and initiation, government communication and oversight, political maneuvering, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. 

The aptly-named ‘Jason situation’ is mostly solved by cornering him in a warehouse, with Nightwing pinning the Red Hood down and crying on him while Batman mentally prepares to utilise the emotional laxative strategies he painstakingly acquired from his Tim-enforced therapy.

To the shock of everyone involved, Bruce actually manages to solve a problem with verbal communication.

Sort of.

With halting, painstaking communication (which was mostly Bruce trying to express his emotions with the enthusiasm of a torture victim) they tell Jason what transpired after his death. That he was loved, that Dick was off-world and all the regrets that came after. That Bruce had, in fact, tried to hunt down the Joker, despite the fact the clown had diplomatic immunity and WWIII was on the line, only to be stopped by Superman. 

There are tears and grievances aired, yelling and compromises involved, but at the end, it’s made clear that there will always be a place for Jason in their hearts and at their table, even if they’d prefer he stopped decapitating people on the side.

It goes… better than expected. 

Alas.

Rather than taking to heart that Bruce had tried to avenge him, that he had grieved and tried to end the legacy of Robin with his death, Jason focuses on a different aspect of that conversation.

During Bruce and Tim’s next patrol, the security system alerts them of a break-in in the Batcave. 

Reviewing the security footage only reveals Jason flipping off the camera, and about twenty kilograms of kryptonite stuffed into his backpack.

Dick and Bruce stare at each other. In the background, Tim has a hand clasped over his mouth, like it’ll hide the wide grin they all know lies underneath. Bruce blinks tiredly, then turns back to the screen, as if to double check what he saw wasn’t just a hallucination caused by sleep deprivation or copious amounts of Gotham’s air pollution.

The monitor stays stubbornly still, showing Jason’s face in perfect detail, middle fingers thrown carelessly at the camera, backpack glowing ominously.

“Oh my god,” Dick says.

“Is he..?” Tim breathes, giving up on hiding the hilarity.

“He is,” Dick splutters, and they both turn to Bruce as if his next reaction is unmissable prime time reality TV, barely managing to hold back inappropriate laughter, before giving up entirely and cracking up into howling laughter. Tim makes little snorting noises as he gasps for breath, and Dick can barely see the betrayed disbelief on Bruce’s face through the film of hilarity-induced tears.

“I try,” Bruce says, long-suffering and barely audible over the noise of their hysterical laughter, “to engage in open and honest conversation about my emotions.” He buries his face in his hands, comical in its poignancy. “I bare my heart about a sensitive, painful topic, and all he takes from it is not that I love him, but that the solution to all his problems lies in becoming a Superman rogue?”

“You know,” Dick muses out loud. “Not all problems have to be solved with gratuitous amounts of violence.”

“Hypocrite,” Jason tells Dick, jamming his infamous hood in place and engaging the neck clasps. The safehouse they’re in is basically furnished with assault weapons, apart from a single, sad-looking, lumpy mattress shoved into the corner. Even then, Dick can see the stock of a sniper rifle poking out from underneath the old pillow thrown on top. “Says the guy who also beats people up for a living.”

“Ahem, it’s for justice.”

“Yeah,” Jason says, slinging a duffel bag packed with even more firearms over his shoulder, “And this is justice for me. Very important. Anyway, toodles, Dickhead, I’ve heard the weather’s nice in Metropolis.”

“It's Metropolis. You won’t last two weeks.”

“I’m gonna last longer now. Out of spite.”

Two weeks and one day later, Superman approaches Dick-as-Batman after a meeting and lowly informs him that there’s a new Rogue in his territory gunning for him and playing pranks on his civilian identity, and to please ask Batman (here he gives Dick a knowing look) to please let him and his new Rogue buddy onto Gotham City territory temporarily for ‘damage control’ and ‘bonding time.’ 

Making the executive decision that Bruce doesn’t really need to know, Dick gives the thumbs up. Jason knows what he’s doing. Probably.

He’s proved right when, two days later, the Joker turns up in pieces in Gotham Harbour, Jason is back in the manor, with (most of) the Kryptonite returned back to the safe. 

Jason skitters around the edges of the family for a while, like he’s torn between wanting space versus wanting acceptance. The best comparison Dick can find is like playing fetch with a dog that wants you to throw the ball but refuses to let the ball go so it can be thrown. 

They can all tell the animosity is mostly gone, no matter how many times Jason tells Dick that ‘being a hater is good for the soul,’ or that ‘spite is a vital part of Gotham’s ecosystem’. 

“I want in,” Jason tells him one night, stitching their wounds closed on the roof of one of Nightwing’s Gotham safehouses.

“In on what?”

“Don’t fuck with me,” Jason snarls, “I know exactly what you and the Replacement are up to. He also took my damn Batman costume too, didn’t he, the little twerp.”

“He’s not your replacement,” Dick says firmly.

“Is too,” Jason retorts, sitting up to stretch out his back from where he’s been hunched over, sewing up a cut on his calf. “He’s running around in my Robin suit, isn’t he?”

“Not your suit. Tim’s suit has pants. Groundbreaking, I know.”

“I mean it’s still Robin, Dickhead.”

Jason gingerly pushes himself closer to the bandages splayed across the concrete behind them. He rips a packet of sterilised gauze open with his teeth, and begins to wrap his leg. There’s a pause.

“I’d love to have you around again, Batman impersonation or not.” Dick says quietly. Then, louder: “With your extensive experience of stealing mantles as both the second Red Hood and the second Robin, it’ll be a pleasure to work with you, Batman the Fifth.”

Dick returns to the Batcave with a couple of very minor bullet grazes and cheeks hurting from laughter.