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As Bruce walked past the kitchen, he saw Dick holding a knife.
This wouldn’t have been particularly out of the ordinary if it weren’t for how the knife was right above his wrist.
Bruce did a double take. He probably should have said something, called out for Dick to move the knife away before he hurt himself. But he didn’t.
Bruce did a double take and stood still in the doorframe as he watched his son seem to – and this was an educated guess – fight the urge to hurt himself. At this realisation, Bruce made an odd, strangled noise, finally notifying Dick that he was there.
Dick looked up, eyes momentarily wide like a deer in headlights. He put the knife down too quickly and it landed with a clatter. “Bruce!” he said, voice tinged with a similarly strangled inflection. “I was about to make some food. Any requests?”
Bruce stayed silent, unable to find his words.
Wonderful. Now both of them were awkwardly staring at each other.
“I…” was all Bruce could manage. Say something, goddamnit. This is your son!
Holding a knife in a kitchen was not an abnormal thing to do. Holding it above your wrist with no cutting board nor ingredients in sight was.
He knew his son was… for a lack of better words, depressed. He saw the expenses on Dick’s card. Therapy, once a month. Zoloft, one time. And then Lexapro. He saw the look on Richard’s face that came when he thought no one was looking, far away like his mind was trying to take him somewhere else. He felt the periods of absence, during which Dick would hardly answer anyone’s calls or texts, and saw the Bludhaven security footage of Nightwing taking twice as many hits than usual.
Why hadn’t he said anything?
Because Bruce was a coward at best, and a selfish father at worst. Because he feared that knowing the truth of his own child’s suffering would expose that the root cause was him, and his screwed up attempt at parenting.
“You were going to cut your wrists,” Bruce stated.
Maybe he shouldn’t have said that.
“What?” Dick said. “Why would I do that?”
Bruce internally steeled himself. It was now or never.
“Richard, I… I know you struggle with your mental health. I know you’ve been going to therapy. I know you were on antidepressants for some time.”
Dick visibly deflated, in the same way he did as a kid when Bruce would call him out on his mischief and misbehaviours. His lips tightened into a pout that told Bruce he was fighting the urge to cry.
“You knew?” Dick asked.
“I did.”
“Then.. why didn’t you say anything?” His eyes flickered briefly to the knife.
“Because I haven’t been a very good father,” Bruce said. “But if… if you were ever to hurt yourself, or to… go further – it would break me, Dick. I’m not a very good father, but you’re the best son I could ask for. I want you to be safe and happy. I would do anything for it.”
Dick inhaled. His hands were braced against the kitchen counter, fingers flexing restlessly. He looked down, closing his eyes tight, and then looked up to blink back tears. “I just… I thought no one noticed, so I didn’t really know what to do. Fuck, I can’t believe I was about to slit my own wrists in your kitchen.” He huffed a tired laugh that rung hollow.
Bruce’s heart dropped at the implication of what Dick had been mere seconds from doing. “Can I go over to you, chum?”
Dick nodded. In no time, Bruce was by his side. The first thing Bruce did was put the knife into a drawer, and place himself in front of it before hugging his son. He felt every tremor of Dick’s body along with him as Dick cried, but didn’t let his grip falter. He pushed his guilt and regret to the side for now; it certainly didn’t take precedence over the current situation, which was exacerbated, if not caused, by his own negligence.
“I really needed you, dad,” Dick sobbed. “I still need you.”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Dickie.” Bruce pressed a kiss to his hair. “This won’t be forever. I’m here now.”
“Everything’s s-so dark, dad. It’s like I wake up and there’s this fog inside me that doesn’t want me to be alive, and I can’t tell what’s actually me. I try so hard but I can’t escape it – I don’t think I can. I put myself in therapy, I’ve tried medications, but nothing stops it, I always get stuck back in this same pit. People ask if I’m okay and I say yes – I lie to all my friend’s faces when really I can’t even remember what it’s like to want to even be here,” he said through stuttering tears. “I- I want to die, Bruce.”
“Oh, Richard.” Bruce felt his heart break in two. “You don’t have to do this alone anymore. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m here.” He kept repeating those last three sentences like a prayer, like an oath. Or maybe like a promise of what he would do, after – because right now, in the middle of their kitchen, all Bruce could do was hold his son through his breaking.
Once Dick stilled in his arms, and the hiccuping sobs ceased to small sniffles, Bruce loosened his embrace. Dick’s eyes were red and puffy, highlighting the dark circles under them; his skin was sallow and his lips were cracked.
Why hadn’t he said anything?
“We need… We will talk about this. We’ll get you help, we’ll get you support. But for now, I think you should get some rest.” Upon seeing Dick’s expression light up with a hint of panic, Bruce added, “I’ll stay with you. We can camp out in the living room. Blankets, food, and a good book. How does that sound?”
Dick nodded. “Mhm.”
So Bruce followed the plan. He collected the softest, most worn blankets and pillows from his and Richard’s bedroom. Retrieved a bowl of overnight oats from the fridge, and Dick’s favourite packaged popcorn from the pantry. Located a battered copy of The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane.
Dick followed him the whole time, even though the poor boy looked like he was ready to collapse any minute now after having cried himself out. His gaze remained downcast, and he always lingered right behind his father, never walking side by side.
Bruce turned off the main overhead light in the living room, instead opening the curtains to allow the right amount of sunlight to enter. He set everything up in the living room. Snacks on the coffee table, book tucked under his arm, Dick laying down and cocooned in a patchwork quilt gifted by Martha Kent years ago.
He shifted slightly to allow Bruce to sit.
“I always liked this book,” Bruce said.
“You used to complain because I asked you to read it so often,” Dick mumbled back softly, but not unkindly.
“It made me emotional.” More emotional than he was comfortable with at the time.
Dick sniffled. “Me too.”
Bruce flipped to the first page, and started reading; he knew most of the words by heart at this point. By the end of the fourth chapter, Dick had drifted off, his breath evening out. Bruce set down the book and let his gaze flicker to his son: Richard looked worn out. Even asleep, his eyebrows were furrowed, and the middle of his chapped lips had split open into a red line. Yet, despite the obvious exhaustion permeating his face, Bruce could still conjur up the image of a younger Dick – the boy he felt an inexplicable urge to protect.
It was almost laughable how terribly Bruce had failed at that.
He didn’t know how long he spent simply analysing Dick’s face, filing away every physical tell of stress for later (watch out for prominent eyebags, dry lips, a tense jaw), until he himself fell asleep.
Later, Bruce and Dick would both stir awake at the same time. Dick would clam up with embarrassment, a dismissive excuse already on the tip of his tongue. Bruce would lay a firm hand on his son’s shoulder, the tentative ghost of a smile on his face. “It’ll be okay, Dick,” he would say. “I’m here now.”
Dick would go to therapy once every two weeks, and visit the manor every weekend. Bruce would text and call just to make mindless conversation more often, and accompany Dick to his sessions when he was welcome.
It wouldn’t be an easy adjustment by any means, but they would learn.
Bruce would learn to check in with a simple, “How have you been?” – and Dick would learn to tell the truth.