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The room was cold and clammy, and somehow also uncomfortably warm. A blue suitcase sat opened beside the single bed on the floor, clean, unworn clothes spilling out with dirty ones tossed on top. In short, the place was a mess, and had been a mess for a little over a month. It was a single studio in a three-and-a half-ish star hotel, or as it had been for some time, Dick Graysons makeshift apartment.
He had driven out for a funeral. The funeral. There was just something about it that meant he couldn’t leave right after the burial. It was too soon. He felt he needed to stay, because this was the only place where he had been. Where they had been together. He didn’t like to linger on the feeling.
Dick Grayson hadn’t thought about the crime committed. Actually, he had been thinking about it; how terrible it is and how he’s planning on beating the living crap out of one very specific clown and how it was the whole reason he had driven down here in the first place. Why this bloody funeral had even happened.
But, actually, he hadn’t thought about actually doing anything about crime. More specifically, about crime in Blüdhaven. The city had been more or less unprotected during his entire time away, and he wasn't exactly keen on getting back at it. Thankfully, Starfire and the rest of the Titans offered to help when a bomb went off and Nightwing was nowhere to be found.
No one had really heard about it. The funeral. It wasn’t a big ceremony—just him, Alfred, and Bruce. It didn’t have media coverage, Bruce made sure of that, and it was expertly covered up as an accident. He didn’t bother asking about what type of accident, but knew Bruce would brief him on it anyway in case anyone started asking any questions. For now, though, he was blissfully unaware of what caused his brother’s fake death, and painfully aware of what caused the real one.
Bruce had offered him his old room. “Don’t stay at a hotel,” he’d said, at an attempt to be lighthearted during the ceremony “Alfred can fix up your old one.” With the manor so big, Jason had his own room. There wasn’t any reason for Dick to turn his offer down—wouldn’t have to pay a crazy bill, wouldn’t have to sleep on a half-assed mattress with broken springs, wouldn’t have to socialize with anyone aside from Bruce and Alfred.
But he did. Maybe it was because the manor had become Jason’s home. Maybe because he wouldn’t be able to walk in without spotting the carved out ‘J’ on the old grandfather clock, or he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from inevitably fighting with his father about something trivial; something so small it could only stem from their combined mourning. Dick gave the smallest of smiles and said he’d be leaving soon anyway.
Of course, he was met with a blank nod, aside from hearing the faintest of voice cracks when Bruce apologized profusely and said he understood. He needed his son home. Someone to share the burden of grief with; but Dick couldn’t come back to the manor. Not until most of the pain had subsided. Until Bruce would stop overworking himself for days.
A week after the ceremony, Dick was met with another one of Bruces’ offers. Something about moving back to Gotham for a bit, to keep in touch. So both of them could make sure the other was okay. Dick said something about his duty to his city, not hesitating as much as he thought he did, yet—
It was irrelevant.
The point was that after a month of Bruce’s nagging Dick had finally began to pack his things. It was clear he’d overstayed his welcome, anyway, because the city was rubbing off on him. Specifically, a jaybird had begun to trail after him curiously.
“You packing?” The little bird quipped over his shoulder, Dick shoving piles of just things into his suitcase (he hadn’t paid his outfits much thought when he left), the yellow-caped boy bouncing after him around the room. There was something so frustrating about looking at him for too long, being forced to look at features he hadn’t seen in a long time, and would never see again. He felt his hands clutch hard around a t-shirt.
“Stop—talking to me.” Dick rubbed his nosebridge, inhaling deeply. When he opened his eyes, the ghost was gone. The wish was short-lived when the boy returned a moment later, standing with an annoying grin behind the bathroom door.
He grabbed his toothbrush, furiously avoiding eye contact. Dick moved around the room, grabbing his belongings as swiftly as he moved when he was out on a mission.
“Where are we going?” the boy chirped cheerily, suddenly balancing on a small armchair.
“There is no we, Jason,” Dick grunted, the name sounding unnatural on his tongue. “I’m going to Blüdhaven.”
Jason trailed after him as he moved to zip-up the suitcase. Looking around, he was surprised to find that the hotel room was almost as pristine as the day he checked in. More often than not, Dick had found himself ‘accidentally’ leaving out a couple shirts, delaying his stay by another couple days. Truthfully, he was worried about Bruce, but Bruce was a grown man. He had to leave, or else he feared he’d stay forever.
Dick buried his hand into his backpack for the room key, producing the white keycard and setting it on the bedside table. Then he turned for the door and swung it open.
”Hi, Bruce,” Jason waved happily from behind Dick, which obviously harbored no reaction. Dick just stared.
”Hi,” Bruce began slowly. There was something off about his stature. Bruce was someone who always stood tall, yet he seemed to have shrunk into his coat. His eyes glittered with sadness and the weight of losing your son. “I wanted to visit, but I guess I caught you at a bad time.”
Bruce looked tired. Not like staying-up-for-three-days-during-a-case tired, but tired. It was a weird look on him. Dick ran a hand through his hair.
He could tell from Bruces’ face he was disappointed to find him at the door. Was he lonely? Dick waved his left hand dismissively, suitcase in the other.
“Oh, no. It’s fine. My checkout time isn’t for another hour. You can come in, if you want.”
Bruce shook his head, almost politely, like he did at galas.
“I don’t want to intrude, really. I hope you have a safe drive back, Dick.”
It was professional. Clean, smooth, his voice nearly unwavering. That was his dad. His dad, and he was grieving, yearning for a connection with someone aside from that dastardly computer in the cave, and Dick was leaving him for a city where no one awaited him.
Jason had grown uneasy beside them. “Why don’t you guys hug?” the comment was pure, naive, unaware of the years of hardship their relationship had faced; Dick tensed, just slightly, enough for his father to notice.
”I hope you visit more,” Bruce murmured, perhaps to himself, looking at his feet. Dick gave him a meek smile.
”Me too. Next time, I’ll stay in the manor. It’ll be nice.” His eyes glimmered. Bruce returned the sheepish grin.
As Dick moved past him with a nod, Bruce lingered in front of his door, Jason looking up at him curiously. He reached out for him, green-gloved hand hesitating with something unsaid, before he ran after his brother. His footsteps made no sound, the elevator letting out a ding as—
“Dick, wait.”
Bruces’ hoarse voice came as a surprise to himself. Dick turned, cautiously, and saw Bruce pacing up to him with purpose.
“Bruce?”
”Dick—here. Sorry. I should have said something. I found this, and—” He pushed a photo into Dick’s hand. Jason got on his tippy toes and tried to take a peek.
Dick glanced down at the polaroid, gaze flickering hesitantly between the picture, Bruce, and Jason. When he stared, Bruce fidgeted uncomfortably. Dick felt himself grip it tighter, as if he was afraid he would let go.
It was him and Jason. They were making pancakes in the manor. Alfred was behind them, looking like a concerned head chef, and there was batter almost everywhere except the pan. He was happy. Jason was smiling.
Dick just stared. The kid beside him wasn’t Jason. He wasn’t really. That kid died in the warehouse in the hands of a clown who had no business leading him there. That kid died thinking he was only an asset to Batman’s mission. Thinking the Bat wouldn’t care.
”Dick. Son—“ Bruce began again after noticing Dick’s hand beginning to tremble.
The suitcase was quickly pushed aside. In a moment, he had wrapped his arms around Bruce, melting into his coat, tears beginning to stain it like rain on a dusty windshield. Bruce could only return it, water streaking his own cheeks.
”Dad,” he sobbed. “I miss him too.”
Bruce held his head. “Me too, kid.” they unconsciously shifted into a tighter hug, as if afraid they’d lose eachother.
The photo drifted from Dick’s hand to the floor where Jason stood. He could only frown and look at them fretfully. He wasn’t Jason, or at least the one they had known. This was not his place, and he wouldn’t try to make it his.
Dick didn’t ever see that jaybird again. At least, not until a crime lord showed up at his door a few years later.