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Dick can’t see properly.
Whether it's from the tears that are blurring his vision, or the anger that is clutching his throat so tight he can’t breathe properly leading to a lack of vision.
He doesn’t know.
But he’s angry beyond words.
And he’s worlds beyond sad as well.
Bruce had been nearly suicidal because of Jason’s death, and he knew it wasn’t good, but he was getting somewhat better with Alfred’s help.
But then Alfred had told him that it wasn’t him helping Bruce, it was a child.
A child named Tim, who had taken the first chance he could get to throw himself into the Robin suit.
Tim is standing in front of him, looking oh so proud in the red, yellow, and green suit.
Smiling so bright it has to be hurting his face.
All he can see though is that stupid stupid suit that was bloodied with Jason’s blood that Alfred burned as soon as he saw it.
All he can imagine is how happy Jason had looked in the outfit, looking all the perfect sidekick, waiting for his favorite hero’s approval.
And Dick had thrown that down the drain with the first words out of his mouth.
(“You're kidding right?” Dick had asked almost hysterically.
Bruce had turned his small proud smile into a frown immediately and looked at Dick like he was the crazy one.
Jason’s smile had disappeared immediately and he had shrunk into himself, wrapping his arms around his body like he could hide in that stupid garish outfit.
“What’s wrong, chum?” Bruce had asked.
And Dick had lashed out.
“WHAT'S WRONG? WHAT'S WRONG IS THAT A CHILD IS WEARING MY GODDAMN PRIDE AND JOY, USING MY HERO NAME, THAT I CHOOSE BECAUSE IT WAS THE LAST THING I HAD OF MY PARENTS.”
It had turned into a screaming match after that, meaning neither had realized the way Jason’s eyes had teared up, the way he got the suit off so fast it nearly ripped in some spots and he had curled up in his bed and cried.
Meaning neither knew he hadn’t cried like that since the day his mother died.
Dick hadn’t returned after that unless it was to quickly visit Alfred or grab something from his old room.)
All Dick can think about is Jason's lifeless body being slowly lowered into the dirt, in a pristine white suit like the ones he would always complain about having to wear for a gala or some stupid Wayne Enterprises event.
All Dick can think of is how disappointed he is in Bruce.
You think Jason’s death would make him realize that a child isn't cut out for this life, not unless they had some form of martial arts or calisthenics they had trained in before they even met Bruce.
But no, he just wants to watch another young, happy child, die a gruesome death like Jason had.
He’s even smaller than average like Jason was, his hair even slightly curls like Jason’s had.
Dick is staring at a near replica of his dead brother.
It's like staring at a ghost.
Dick didn’t lash out like he did last time.
He just put on a small smile while the tears flowed freely down his face, making it almost impossible to even see the boy in front of him.
“It fits you.” He said softly, carding his fingers through Tim’s hair briefly.
Tim was frowning, and he shrunk into himself slightly- just like Jason did when Dick had yelled.
Dick had looked right into Bruce’s eyes, and he didn’t say anything, but he knew Bruce understood the unspoken conversation.
Dick stepped back, wiped at his tears- uselessly because they didn’t stop falling -and then he had turned around.
And walked out.
He pretended looking at Tim wasn't like looking at someone wearing Jason's skin. Like wearing a Robin's skin.
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If Nightwing was spotted in Gotham, a silent shadow watching Robin more closely then even Batman did, Bruce didn’t say anything.
But he knew.
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What Bruce and Dick didn't know is that Tim had practiced posing like Jason did from the pictures and videos he took when he followed Batman and Robin.
So they wouldn't reject him.