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For the first time in a while. The manor is loud.
Except not in the normal way. No alarm bells or mission briefings or the constant hum of the cave. Nor the controlled chaos that seems to follow vigilantes wherever they go.
It’s the crazy family loud.
The grandfather clock in the foyer chimes six as voices spill from the dining room and into the kitchen. Someone—Steph probably—has music playing low enough to be ignored, but loud enough to fill the silence between conversations. The scent of rosemary, garlic, and fresh baked bread hangs heavy in the air. Alfred stands at the kitchen island carving roast chicken with the same precision he applies to stitching wounds. Beside him, Cass carefully arranges dinner rolls into a basket and Steph playfully knocks them over before stealing one.
Bruce watches from where he’s setting down a serving dish full of appetizers. The dinners with his family were rare enough now that he has learned not to take them for granted. Schedules often pull everyone in different directions, different cities, world missions, off-world missions, college, work, or even just simply… life.
Tonight, somehow though, everyone is here. Well... almost everyone.
Jason and Tim occupy the opposite ends of the dining table, arguing back and forth playfully, about a topic neither of them actually care about.
“Objectively, that is not how statistics work, Tim.”
“It literally is.”
“Nope,” Jason replies with a shrug.
“But—Yes that's literally—”
“Nada.”
Tim's eye twitches, making Jason bark out a laugh at his little brother's expense.
Duke snorts into his freshly made lemonade. While Damian sits at the far end of the table with the expression of someone trying to hide their enjoyment and failing miserably.
Bruce catches him reaching for a second dinner roll with a raised brow—to which his youngest child rolls his eye and slowly puts it back.
The grandfather clock ticks steadily in the foyer when Bruce looks up at the oven.
6:10. The number stares back at him. Still no Dick—he glances toward the front windows expecting to see his car pulling in at any minute.
It's not entirely unusual.
Dick has been late to nearly every family gathering or event since he was twelve like it was a part of his personality.
“Golden boy’s late,” Jason singsongs around a mouthful of bread.
“He has ten minutes before Alfred disowns him!” Steph chimes in from where she’s half hanging off of Cass.
“I would never disown Master Richard,” Alfred adds without looking up from his carving. “I would, however, express my disappointment. He did say he was picking up a cheesecake from that bakery, afterall.”
Jason snorts, “Alfie I would rather you disown me then give me your disappointed look.”
Tim shudders dramatically next to him, “I think I’d prefer disembowelment actually."
Bruce ignores them with a fond smile, pulling his phone from his pocket to check.
No messages—also not too unusual. Dick had just texted that afternoon that he’d see everyone tonight, and to not start without him.
Attached was a blurry selfie of the bakeries sign with Dick smiling and pointing up at it.
Steph had responded with six different warnings to not drop the cheesecake once he got it. Dick had responded with a simple thumbs up.
That had been two hours ago.
6:15.
The food was ready. Alfred was plating the chicken. Damian was helping himself to the vegetarian option. Water glasses were full and napkins were folded perfectly thanks to Tim.
Dick’s seat was empty between Jason and Damian.
Bruce lets out a sigh.
“Let’s eat,” he says, shaking his head.
“Absolutely not!” Steph shrieks. “We wait. We always wait.”
Jason argues back almost immediately. “Dickhead will survive—I’m hungry,”.
“He’d never forgive us though,” Tim chimes in.
“He’s twenty-nine,” Jason deadpans, jerking his head toward his younger brother who offers a dramatic shrug.
“And still dramatic enough to hold a grudge.”
A ripple of laughter moves through the room. Bruce feels himself smiling to the sound of it. Relishing in the way the manor just feels warmer on nights like this. Less like a monument to a dead family and more like a home to a new one.
A series of buzzes in his pocket cuts through his thoughts. Bruce slips his phone out, expecting to see his son's obnoxious profile picture taking up the screen. Except—all it says is unknown caller. Perhaps a telemarketer?
Bruce narrows his eye at the screen, but slides to answer it anyway.
“This is Bruce Wayne.”
The voice on the other end is calm, far more professional than a telemarketer
“Mr. Wayne, my name is Doctor Reneé."
“What is this about?” Bruce asks into the line, earning a confused look from Jason at the head of the table.
“I’m calling from Gotham General Hospital regarding your son Richard Grayson.”
Bruce’s chest tightens at the same time his heart rate skyrockets.
The speaker on his phone must have been loud enough because the conversations around him ended. The music stopped playing and suddenly everyone in the room was looking at him.
“What happened?”
There’s a pause. Tiny. Almost imperceptible, but Bruce still can feel it through the line.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’d like you to come down to the hospital first before I explain.”
Bruce’s fingers tighten around the phone, the room has started to blur around the edges. Like the rest of the world is being muted.
“Tell me what happened,” he orders, his voice dropping an octave closer to Batman than was probably safe.
The doctor's voice remains gentle, “We really need you to come down here, Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce’s pulse spikes, a thousand possibilities race through his head.
“Put him on the phone,” Bruce pleads.
There’s another beat of silence that makes his heart sink lower, nausea curling so tightly in the base of his throat he’s surprised he’s even still breathing.
“Sir—”
“Put. My. Son. On. The. Phone,” he grits out. The rest of the dining room has gone so still you could hear the faint rustling of the trees outside.
Jason was standing now, making his way over to Bruce slowly. The rest of the kids have gone stock still aside from Cass’s sharpened gaze.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Wayne but I… can’t.”
Bruce isn’t sure what happens next for one impossible second everything just simply… stops. He hears nothing, not the trees, not the clock ticking away, not the steady breathing of his children. He feels nothing, not the clothes on his frame, the watch against his wrist, or the phone against his ear. It’s like his heart has forgotten how to beat.
Then the universe starts moving at rapid speed.
He thinks he says something to the doctor, but in the next second his phone has fallen on the ground and Jason is suddenly right in front of him. Large frame shielding him from the rest of the kids behind him.
“B,” he starts, hands settling on Bruce’s shoulders while he stares blankly at his son’s chest, head tipped down. “Bruce—dad!” Jason whisper-yells, shaking Bruce’s entire frame. “Dad what happened?”
Bruce opens his mouth, his words feel distant to even himself.
“There’s been an accident.”
He knows it’s not true, but the lie splits out automatically. An accident can be fixed. An accident has a solution. An accident means he’ll see Dick again. He has to believe he’ll see Dick again.
“We need to go to Gotham General.”
Absolutely no one questions him. Within seconds chairs scrape across hardwood, keys disappear, jackets are grabbed, and shoes are slipped on. The family moves with the strange, frantic efficiency of people trying so very desperately not to think.
Bruce pulls open Dick’s contact info as they head out to the car. When he presses call the familiar recording of his son's voicemail fills his ear immediately.
“Hey, you’ve reached Dick—”
Bruce hangs up.
Calls again.
Voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
Again again again againagainagainagainagain.
Bruce tells himself Dick is just late, because Dick is bringing dessert. Because his oldest child would never miss a family dinner. Because there has to be a mistake.
There has to be.
***
The drive feels both impossibly too long and entirely too short.
One moment Bruce is pulling out of the manor driveway. The next Gotham General rises out of the darkness ahead of them.
Alfred is driving, Bruce is staring out into the windshield. Jason and Tim are in the back seat. Cass squeezed between them. Steph, Duke, and Damian are in the far back of the car casting worried glances up at the front.
Nobody really talks. Not really.
Jason keeps trying to. Every few minutes he pulls out his phone, calls Dick, gets a voicemail and hangs up before the recording finishes.
Tim is staring at nothing. His phone is clutched in his hands, the blue screen lighting up his unseeing gaze. Bruce isn’t sure he’s looked away from it once during the entire drive.
Steph's eyes are glazed over, Duke has a single arm wrapped over her shoulders, keeping her close. Tears are sliding down her cheeks even after she wipes them away.
Damian is sitting unnaturally straight in his seat and Cass has barely moved an inch.
Bruce isn’t sure why he keeps calling. He gets the same voicemail Jason does every time.
The parking garage lights wash across the windshield in alternating bands of white and shadow as they pull in.
When they all pile out of the car and head into the building the hospital doors slide open automatically.
Sharp cleaning chemicals and the heavy thick smell of hospital and dread fill the space. People are moving through the lobby around them. A woman carrying flowers and a man holding a sleeping toddler to his chest.
A nurse by the metal doors perks up when the doors slide shut, “Mr. Wayne?”
Bruce nods, Jason coming right by his side, stepping in front of his younger siblings.
The woman’s expression changes instantly. The soft one. The one people wear when they’re carrying bad news. Bruce hates it. Hates what it means. Hates that he can’t pretend he didn’t see it.
She leads them toward the elevators.
Not a single word is spoken; the only sounds are the footsteps against polished tile and the distant hum of fluorescent lights overhead.
Bruce’s heart continues to sink as she leads them farther and farther away from the emergency department. Away from the noise… away from hope.
When they finally reach what must be the quietest part of the hospital there’s a middle aged doctor waiting near a set of wooden double doors labeled ‘viewing room.’ His expression confirms everything Bruce knew before he even opens his mouth.
“No,” Jason whispers, apparently coming to the same conclusion
The doctor opens his mouth to speak, his lips downturned eyes wearing a solemn look. Bruce isn’t sure he’s even present anymore.
“No—” Jason says more firmly as they slow in front of the doctor.
“Mr. Wayne,” he begins, addressing Bruce.
“No. You’re wrong,” Jason's voice cracks.
The doctor visibly swallows, “I’m so very sorry—”
“Fuck off—no!”
The word echoes down the hallway. There’s a soft sob behind Bruce, but he hasn’t even taken his eyes off the ‘viewing room’ label.
“What… happened?” Tim says, voice very carefully pitched just above a whisper.
When Bruce turns to him his son is standing unnervingly still.
The doctor takes a very slow breath, “Richard was brought in approximately forty-three minutes ago. He sustained severe traumatic injuries after being struck by a commercial vehicle after saving a little girl from being struck on a crosswalk.”
Bruce hears every word, and understands none of them. The sentence feels like a foreign language being spoken under water, and yet the doctor keeps talking.
Something about head trauma, something about blood loss, something about resuscitation efforts, but Bruce only catches fragments.
“—everything we could do—”
“—heart stopped—unable to save—”
“—brain bleed—time of death—”
Death.
A single word finally cuts through.
Death. Not severely injured, not in a coma, not in critical condition, but… dead.
Dick is dead.
The words form a thought in Bruce’s mind but slide off like water on glass. There is nowhere for it to stick. Not a single place for it to exist, because he talked to his son this morning when he complained about his laundry machine being broken again. How he promised to stop by Alfred's favorite bakery for dessert. Dick isn’t supposed to be dead. Parents don’t bury their children. It's unnatural. It's not right.
"If you’d all like to see him he’s through here," the doctor says softly gesturing toward the double wooden doors.
Jason moves immediately halfway to the doors before Bruce even registers that the doctor was inviting them back.
“Hold on, Master Jason,” Alfred’s voice cuts through the chaos like a knife.
Bruce turns to the old butler as everyone stops, his gloved hands are folded neatly in front of him. The perfect picture of composure—except—Bruce can see the slight tremor in his fingers and the reddening of his eyes.
“I believe Master Bruce should go in first.”
If possible the hallways go even more silent, Jason opens his mouth before closing it with a nod. The rest of his children seem too stunned to even comprehend the request.
“We’ll be out here when you’re ready,” Alfred says with a waver in his voice.
Bruce doesn't answer—he’s not entirely sure that he can.
The doctor reaches for the handle and pulls the door open, a soft yellow light spills into the hallway. The room beyond it is dim, quiet. The blinds have been drawn across the windows, shutting out the city beyond. No flashing ambulance lights. No traffic. No reminders that Gotham is still turning.
Bruce walks past once the doctor steps aside and when the door shuts behind him it’s almost like the world stopped.
The room is larger than he expected. A brown comfy couch sits against one wall. A box of tissues sits ready but untouched on a side table. It’s like someone tried very hard to make the room comforting. Except the fact that it isn’t.
Nothing about this room is comforting.
Despite his efforts to avoid the thought entirely, Bruce’s eyes find the bed immediately,
And for one impossible second—
One horrible, impossible second—
Everything is perfectly… fine.
Dick is there. Right there. Curled beneath a white hospital blanket. Dark hair pushed back from his forehead. His face is clean. It’s peaceful. Almost like he’s just asleep.
For possibly the worst second of Bruce’s life he thinks it’s all been a mistake because he’s right there, but the thought dies.
His son isn’t breathing. The room is so incredibly still.
There’s no rise of his chest. No shift of blankets or restless movement that often follows Dick around. Bruce has spent decades cataloging movement. Watching heartbeats and tracking breathing patterns. He’s spent a lifetime searching for threats, for their signs and their tells.
The absence of it from one of the most lively people he knows is so very very wrong.
Bruce stops beside the bed, the blanket is pulled neatly up to Dick’s chest. His arms are resting on top of it. Most of the blood has been cleaned away, though dark patches still cling to the hair at the base of his skull.
This is his son.
His first son.
The tiny acrobat who used to launch himself off of chandeliers and furniture because gravity was always optional. The teenager who talked with his hands. The young man who somehow managed to make every room brighter simply by entering it.
Bruce’s hand hovers over Dick’s for a moment and when he settles his own warm palm against the top of his son's hands he’s just met with cold. Not even freezing, but cool—hospital cold. His hand jerks away on instinct alone, because Dick is never cold. He’s scraped knees on asphalt and summer afternoons with ice cream melted all over his hands. He’s hot chocolate and buttery popcorn. Laughing too loudly and sunlight through circus tents and hugs that seem to last a lifetime.
It’s always been warmth, but now... it’s nothing.
A breath leaves Bruce’s lungs, like something inside him has finally given way.
“Dick,” the name barely leaves his throat. Bruce isn’t sure if it’s a plea or a prayer.
There’s no answer to his name, no rustle of fabric. Nothing, but still Bruce waits.
He waits one second.
Two.
Three
Then seconds morph to minutes.
First two.
Four.
Then seven.
There’s still some stubborn part of him that refuses to accept a universe where Dick doesn’t answer.
Except ten minutes later when that answer never comes, something tears loose inside Bruce's chest and hot tears gather and spill over onto his son's cold hands.
“You’re late,” he cries quietly, the words shaking on their way out.