#so dick or maybe tim teaches him and gets hit with all the grief

[batbux]

Alfred's Act of Love

Every Robin is at least a passable marksman.

Bruce hates the fact and fights it every time a new bird dons the uniform.

And every time, Alfred Pennyworth looks him in the eye and tells him, "I am not losing any more of you than I have to."

What defense could there be against that?

So a few months into each Robin's training, Bruce will look at them and tell them they have the weekend off... From him.

Alfred steps in at that point. They don't use the bat cave - Alfred knows the echoing gunshots (even muffled) will trigger his oldest charge. No, Alfred belongs to a respectable club and they have ranges for use. He kits his charges up in passably high quality clothes and packs a lunch.

His charges are spoiled little rich things to most of the world and he doesn't care to change that impression now. He chats with his fellows and talks up the Wayne brood's carelessness, ensuring that he'll have plenty of space. He takes them to the farthest end of the range and everyone else will spread the story of silly rich kids and they'll have peace.

It is an act of love when he carefully demonstrates how to disassemble and reassemble each hand gun he's brought.

(For the bigger guns he will manufacturer an emergency to take Bruce away from the house so they may make use of some of the sprawling Wayne property.)

Only when each child can field strip a gun in under a minute can they move onto firing the things.

Dick's only experience with guns came from trick shooters he met travelling around America with Haly's - they usually didn't last long because archers generally made better showmen.

Jason had mostly negative experience with guns, but he'd at least fired one before. Bashfully he explained that guns were a common commodity and as a younger lad he'd gotten one and went shooting cans down near the train yard.

Tim had actually been shooting with his father, but only with rifles because they went hunting with a client of his father's one year. Tim confessed that he cried when they actually bagged a deer, but Tim's aim was very good regardless of his misgivings.

Stephanie hadn't been allowed to come to the manor, much less spend idle time with Alfred when she was Robin. Nonetheless, when she stepped back onto the vigilante scene, Barbara made sure to send her his way. She was a good student and learned just as fast as any of his other charges.

Damian came to be Robin with the skills of a marksman already. Alfred had not thought he would be called upon to instruct him, but Dick surprised him by mandating that Damian's skills be validated by Alfred.

"It's tradition," Dick said later, after Damian had retired to his own quarters. "And one day he'll appreciate it."

There was no arguing with Batman, Bruce's or Dick's. So the very next weekend, Alfred packed a lunch while Dick and Barbara stressed to Damian that he behave around civilians and listen to every direction he was given.

Damian still complained the whole time, but years later he would recall the weekend with fondness. In time he would learn that everyone participated in Alfred's training and each of them valued it just as much as any lesson from Bruce.

Alfred couldn't follow them and keep them safe. Teaching them what he knew was the next best thing.

Every time a Robin, past or present, took aim, Alfred was there guiding their hand.

[ragingbookdragon]

I'm Only A Crack In This Castle Of Glass (Hardly Anything Else I Need To Be) PT. 3

Batfamily x Batsis Story!

Word Count: 2.1K Warnings: Explicit Language, Angst! Tags!: @itsnottilly @cloudyskylines

Author's Note: DUN DUN DUN!!!! Y'all enjoy this now, because it's only gonna get so much more angstier soon. -Thorne

Set Three Months After PT. 2:

She didn’t have to look up to know who entered the shop, because his voice carried over the air. “Melisandre!”

Humming, she immediately plated a pastry and a hot coffee, sliding it on the counter just as he sat down. “Good morning, Wally,” she greeted, watching him take a bite. “Right on time, as always.”

He smiled, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. “Morming Merisamdmur,” he replied, and she rolled her eyes with a snort.

“Jeez Wally, didn’t your mom teach you to not talk with your mouth full?”

Shrugging, he swallowed and said, “I was trying to be polite.”

“I think it’s more polite to chew with your mouth closed and speak after you swallow.”

They glared at each other before one of them cracked a smile and they fell into laughter. She tossed a napkin his way. “How’s your day going so far?”

Wally groaned and laid his head on the cool marble countertop. “I’ve got so much to do today, it’s not even funny.”

“Well, well, Wally the procrastinator is finally feeling his toes at the fire, huh?” She ignored his glare. “What do you have to do?”

“Barry needs my help with my cousins and my friends are coming over today to hangout and I haven’t bought any food or drinks for that and I have yet to even start cleaning my house.”

She giggled and reached over, patting his head sympathetically. “There, there, Wally. Everything will be alright. Why don’t you just bring your cousins over to your house and watch them while you hang out with your friends?”

“Because my cousins are annoying and I’m not subjecting my friends to that,” he countered and propped his chin on his palm. “Unless…”

She cocked a brow and waited for him to continue and he offered, “You come over with my cousins and help me watch them?”

“No.”

“What! Why?”

“Well for starters, I don’t know your friends and it would be weird for me to just show up.” She countered.

“They’ll like you though!” he cried, and his hand shot out, wrapping around hers. “Please, Melisandre!”

“Wally, I’ll just watch your cousins at my apartment and Iris can just come get them later, that’ll be easier and won’t force me to sit in a group of people who don’t know me.” He tried to speak but she tossed another napkin, hitting him in the face. “I’m watching Dawn and Don so you and your friends can hang out without being bothered, and that’s final.”

His face pinched. “You sure you can keep up with them?”

Something passed between them and she quirked a brow. “I can keep up with you, can’t I, Wally?”

Wally chuckled and nodded. “Yeah, that’s a fair point.” He glanced at her. “They would like you though.”

She ignored the comment in favor of, “Tell me about them. What are they like?”

He inhaled sharply and took a moment to think. “Donna’s strong willed, Roy’s loud, Lilith likes to get in your head, Garth is easy to annoy, and Dick’s kinda the glue that keeps us together.”

“Dick? He get that from Richard by asking nicely?”

Wally barked a laugh. “Oh, I’m definitely gonna tell him you said that.” He nodded. “But yeah, his name is Richard Grayson, but he goes by Dick.”

Her eyes almost bulged out of her head and she was lucky that Wally was looking at his watch then.

Don’t ask. Don’t do it. Leave it alone.

But she couldn’t stop herself.

“Richard Grayson?” she feigned. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

Wally met her eyes. “Bruce Wayne.”

She snapped her fingers. “Right! The ward.” Wiping the counter, she added, “I heard they added a new addition to that family too. A daughter, right? Cassie? Cassidy?”

“Cassandra,” Wally corrected. “Yeah, that’s Dick’s new sister.” He put his elbows on the counter. “She’s nice, doesn’t talk a lot though.”

“The quiet one, then?”

He laughed. “Of them all.”

Don’t dig any deeper, (Y/N). Keep your fucking mouth shut and let it go.

“I always wondered what happened to that other daughter he had,” she murmured, and Wally’s face blanched like he’d witnessed a murder.

“What?”

She met his gaze. “He had another daughter. I think her name was (Y/N).”

He swallowed thickly. “He does.”

“Does? She’s still around?”

“Yeah, she’s in some Italian villa.”

“Wait really? I thought she died or something?”

“What? No! She left—” Wally snapped his mouth shut like he was about to reveal a secret, but she knew anyways. “She left and went to Europe for a mental retreat.” He finalized and she wondered if that was the story Dick told him to say if anyone asked. Or maybe it was Bruce.

“It’s been like three years now, right? You’d think she’d post something on social media.”

“The whole point of a mental retreat, Melisandre, is to get away from social media.”

Oh please, I know plenty of elite who do that shit and still post crap on their socials.

“There’s no way that girl hasn’t.”

“Why do you say that?”

She scoffed. “Oh please, she’s the daughter of a multi-billionaire. There’s no way a girl that wears Gucci belts and carries Prada purses keeps herself off social media.”

Wally’s eyes narrowed like he was thinking hard about something and she internally cursed.

Oh, smooth move you dumbass.

She coughed and waved a hand. “Well, it’s all theory anyway.”

After a moment, he nodded. “Yeah…theory.” Wally got to his feet and handed her the empty plate. “I should go ahead and get back to my place and clean up before they get here.”

“Have fun,” she smiled, and he grabbed her arm.

“Take a pic with me.”

“What? Why?”

“So, I can tell my friends about you and prove I’m not lying.” He pouted. “Pretty please, Melisandre?”

Don’t do it. Dick will know. You know he’ll know.

She smiled despite her internal thoughts. “Sure.”

Wally grinned and raised the camera where she was in the background. She threw up a peace sign and gave a cheesy grin, momentarily blinded by the flash of the camera.

She spun and filled a bag with pastries then handed it to him. “Here, so you can give even more proof.”

Wally took the bag and hopped onto the counter, leaning down to press a kiss to her cheek. “Thanks Melisandre!” And he was dashing out the door.

You’ve ruined it all. This is going to come back to bite you in the ass. And it’s going to come quicker than you think.

She frowned and wiped down the counter again, trying to ignore her thoughts. Maybe. Just maybe, it wouldn’t.

***

Waving Barry and Iris off, she smiled as the twins climbed into the backseat of their car and the taillights signaled their departure. She closed the door behind her and glanced at the mess the two tornadoes had left. Even for the little she had in her apartment, they sure did know how to make a mess.

She sighed as she bent over to pick up one of the cushions when her doorbell rang and she stood up, confusion coming over her as she made her way to the door.

“Hello?” she asked, and a muffled voice echoed from the other side.

“Melisandre, it’s me, Wally. Can I come in?”

She opened the door, surprised to see him. “Wally? What are you doing here? I thought you were with your friends?”

“Yeah, I told them I had to do something really quickly,” he said as entered her apartment. He took a moment to examine her living room. “Man, Dawn and Don did a number here, didn’t they?”

She chuckled. “We had fun building forts.” Nudging him in the side, she added, “I don’t mind the mess.” She looked at him. “Do your friends know? About you being…you know?”

He nodded. “We’re all special in some way.”

Understatement there, Wally.

“So, why tell them you need to do something then come to me? Is everything alright?”

Busying herself with the couch cushions, she waited for him to explain, but nothing could’ve prepared her for his words.

“It will be once I get to the bottom of it…(Y/N).” She froze for a split second, but it was all he needed. “It really is you, isn’t it?”

(Y/N) stood upright and gazed at him. “When did you know?” Her voice was a lot colder than she meant for it to be.

“I had suspicion for a while, but when I showed the picture to everyone, Dick said it looked like you.”

“Really?” she laughed. “I thought I did a good job changing my appearance from three years ago.”

Wally didn’t laugh, he merely gaped at her. “Why?”

“Why what?” (Y/N) knew what he was referring to.

“Why’d you just leave?” He took a step towards her. “Do you have any idea what your family has gone through since you disappeared on them? The grief? The shame?”

She shrugged. “I explained everything in the letter I wrote my dad, Wally. There’s no reason why they should still be concerned with me.”

“They love you!” he shouted, taking her by surprise. “They love and miss you so much!”

“My family ignored me for eighteen years straight, Wally!” She yelled right back. “What was I supposed to do? Sit and pretend being forgotten was all normal?!” (Y/N) couldn’t help but shove at his chest. “I chose to leave because my next choice was taking a swan dive off Wayne Enterprises!”

His eyes went wide, and she shook her head. “I left because the only person who cared about me, was me.” She turned and fixed the final couch cushion while he watched her do so.

“They’re still looking for you, you know. Dick is always staring at his phone hoping there’s a text from Jason or Tim that they’ve found a sign of you.”

(Y/N) sighed. “If you’re trying to guilt trip me, Wally, it’s not going to work.” She shot him a glare. “I got over the fucking guilt the second the flight to Central took off. I got over the fucking guilt the night I laid in a hotel room bed curled into a ball where I cried myself to sleep. I got over the fucking guilt the moment I realized I’ve done so much better on my own than when I was there.”

She marched up to him and got in his face. “I got over the fucking guilt when I realized Barry and Iris Allen were more of a family than four brothers and dad ever were.”

They glared at each other and finally, she let out a sigh. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve already started a new life here and I have no plans of ever going back.”

“At a college that doesn’t have a real name. You know that’s illegal, right?”

(Y/N) scoffed. “What’re you gonna do, Wally? March into four-C and tell them Bruce Wayne’s daughter is going to school under a false name? We both know you wouldn’t.”

“I’ll tell Dick,” he suddenly shot back, and she went rigid.

“You wouldn’t dare,” (Y/N) threatened and he took a step towards her, getting nose to nose with her.

“Try me.”

They stared one another down and she said, “I think you need to leave, Wally West.”

His eyes narrowed. “Yeah, I guess I should.” He spun on his heel and marched to the door, but stopped when she questioned,

“Are you really going to tell him?”

Wally gazed at the ground for a moment then he murmured, “…No…it’s not my place to.”

(Y/N) swallowed and nodded. “Thank yo—”

“Don’t thank me, (Y/N). I’m lying to my best friend about knowing the real location of his baby sister he misses dearly.”

She looked away. “Cassandra is his baby sister now. He should focus on her.”

“You really have no idea about what they feel for you, do you, (Y/N)?” He asked, and she grunted.

“Get out, Wally.”

“Don’t worry, I’m gone,” he spat, slamming the door behind him, hard enough that it shook the walls that held the doorframe.

(Y/N) stared at the door for a few moments then cursed sharply and collapsed onto her couch, eyes directed to the ceiling. Three years down the drain in one conversation.

Way to go, (Y/N). You did a spectacular job of keeping it all under wraps.

She groaned and picked herself off the couch, not caring about the mess as she headed to bed. She’d deal with it all in the morning.

[callmesteve]

sneak peak at what i’m writing?

for real this time, sghlidugh. 

so, that post i just posted? yeah, i started a rough draft. here’s the first half! (not really any dami yet, sorry folks :((. also, note: i’ve made jon and damian the same age, i think there’s an age gap normally, but this works better for me.) 

do i continue it?

(fic below the cut)

Dick and Bruce go back in time to save Damian before he was killed. They end up in the wrong time. There’s so many ways it goes wrong.

Dick crosses through the portal to dusty air and ashes scattered amongst the ground. Buildings crumble around the torn up street. Markings all over the remains of Gotham tell Dick all he needs to know. Green and red spray paint curl heavenward in a sick imitation of Joker’s manic grin. When he hears Dick grunt, he whirls around, already gesturing to their belts. “We’ve hit the wrong time,” he says, voice carefully low. “I think we went forward, not back.” 

It’s just like Bruce said, before they left. Time travel is a fickle thing. There’s no right way to do it with the resources they’re working with. Plus, it doesn’t really help that ever since Bruce’s whole incident with Frankenstien, Tim’s been hellbent on not helping their efforts to get Damian back. 

God, Dick knew this wasn’t going to work. There had been too many variables in the beginning. Too many what if’s, too many maybe not’s. 

He just had to agree to go with Bruce anyway, hadn’t he? 

With a groan, he drops his head into the palms of his hands. Ever since Damian died, all Bruce could think of doing was bringing him back to life. He hadn’t been like this with Jason, but with the knowledge that Jason had managed to come back to life- Bruce took it and ran and somehow ended up coming across time travel. Their plan was simple. Go back to the fight that took Damian’s life far too early, stop Heretic before he was able to slide that sword through his little brother’s chest. They’d open themselves a new life where Damian lived and breathed and-

And Dick swallows a sob, fixing his domino mask to make sure it covers his teary eyes. He was just like Bruce, in the end. All Dick wanted was to wrap his arms around Damian one last time, to hold him close and breathe in that stupid strawberry shampoo Dick decided to buy him. Why wouldn’t he want to help Bruce with this? Dick and Bruce, although they both avoided the conversation, knew that Damian and Dick were closer than the title of brothers allowed. (Father and son fit better, Dick dares to think.)

“Should we stop by the Batcave in our time?” Bruce questions, as he fiddles with his wrist computer. While the actual portal-opening-thing-a-ma-jigs were attached to their belts, all the information they needed rested in their batcomputer’s archives, for Alfred to monitor over. “Or should we just skip to the next time we have queued up?”

Home rests on the tip of Dick’s tongue. They’ve only just started this time travel task, and Dick already feels weighed down by his grief. He’s still mourning, naturally. At this rate, he knows he’ll end up compromised by the time they make it to the time they’re shooting to find. All he wants to do, (besides save Damian and hold him again), is to go home to the manor, make tea, and cry as Mean Girls plays in the backgr-

“You’re not Batman,” someone scoffs, voice laced with a pout. They sound offended, almost, and- And Dick knows that voice. It’s older, sure, but- “It’s rude to pretend to be a dead man- and to dress up as someone who’s still around. I think. Technically. Okay, okay- Didn’t your mom’s ever teach you not to play pretend as dead men, guys?” 

Dick’s eyes shoot up, to a familiar little getup. The red cape, cropped so it doesn’t pass the knees, the ripped jeans still baby blue, the same old Superman t-shirt, long since faded. Beat up converse, double knotted on his feet. He’s a few years older and a whole lot taller than when Dick last saw him, but it’s all the same. 

Jonathan Kent stands before Dick and Bruce, hands folded across his chest. 

Dick still remembers the days that Jon and Damian raced around the manor, (and the penthouse, while Bruce had disappeared). Years ago, Clark had decided it’d be a good idea to get the two to be friends, given the fact they were around the same age. It’s just a shame that they never got the chance to grow up as complete heroes together. Him and Damian had been close- really close. Their time’s Jon was still torn up about Damian’s death. 

This Jon blinks as he takes in Dick and Bruce, before tutting an all too familiar tut. “I’m gonna have to bring you guys in to the base. No running away.” He purses his lips, regarding Bruce closer for a moment. “B-boy doesn’t like it when people do that. It always attracts the Joker’s attention, and we don’t need that.” 

Dick looks back to Bruce, and they both share a nod. No confrontation until Heretic- not unless it’s totally needed. That was their agreement. Besides, from Jon’s reaction of them, this time’s Nightwing and Bruce-Batman are obviously dead. It’s a dull thought, considering that Jon’s only a few years older. Dick can admit that he’s at least curious about who dawns the cowl now, though. Dick had done it last time- Jason probably refused to this time, too. Especially with Joker leading this whole thing.

Tim, then? He’ll be the smartest Batman there ever were, that’s for sure. It’s just a shame he had to do it so young. 

A pit forms in Dick’s gut. If Bruce, Dick and Damian are dead, there’s a big chance that all Tim really has left is Alfred. (God, Dick hopes Alfred’s still alive.) 

“We’ll go,” Dick says, raising his hands in the air. “You’ve just got a misunderstanding about us, is all. We’ll clear it up and explain it to- uh- B-boy?” 

B-boy could mean Beast Boy, really, but Dick’s pretty sure it’s just Batman. He’s confirmed as correct when Jon amends with, “Batman. He’s so uptight and serious now-a-days. We like to make fun of him- All friendly teasing, y’know- But- You probably shouldn’t- He’ll feed you to Ivy’s plants the next time she decides it’s time to swarm the city.” He winced at his own words, the nod to Ivy sending the conversation and joking cold. 

Dick has a feeling the new Batman might just be Jason. Prickly and serious could fit with Tim, but- Hey. Who knows. Grief and mourning do things to people that you can’t always explain. Time travel included. 

Jon leads them by the wrists after slapping cuffs on their wrists. They’re the plastic kind you can buy in toy stores for your kids to play with, but they’ve been modified and bulked up with metal, steel and tech. The locks have been changed from a key to a fingerprint scanner. When Jon’s fingers brush over it, the little screen beeps red. He clearly can’t unlock it. (The Bruce-influenced part of his mind thinks that it’s good- if he needs to, he can put a pair on Jon and not need to worry about him getting out. They seem pretty solid. Though, there’s always the chance that he could break out, Super-something’s always seem to surprise him.) 

“These are pretty high tech,” Dick remarks, more for the sake of something to say and to focus on, than to learn about the cuffs. Not that it’s not cool, or important to hear about. “How’d you guys make them?” 

“I’m not as dumb as I look,” Jon scowls. “I won’t hand away free information just because you think I’m stupid and easy to trick.” 

It’s a completely valid concern. Dick gets to work shooting it down. “We’ve been compliant! If I wanted to cause trouble, I would’ve already. As soon as we get to Batman, we’ll explain that this whole thing was a mistake and that he doesn’t have to worry about us! Or- Me, at least.” He gestures to Bruce. “He’s pretty shifty. We’ll be fine.”

Surprisingly enough, Jon gives. “B made them,” he half-beams. Tim then. “Only his fingerprint is recognised. Way too many times have we had traitors in our midst that free our prisoners, or just plain old teammates who are super gullible. He was gonna let me be one of the only other people, besides- uh- someone else. But.” He adopts a sheepish grin. “Stuff happened, I guess. It was really bad. I trust his judgement, though!” 

“If he’s good, then all power to you,” Dick grins back. 

Bruce hunches his shoulders. “What the hell happened to Gotham?” he asks, and Dick winces at his wrecked tone. It’s their city, to be reduced to ash in a few years time. There’s no point in asking the year instead, anyhow. Jon’s no older than sixteen now, no younger than twelve or thirteen. They can take a pretty good guess. “We were just here-” Bruce pauses, piling on an alibi fast. “-a few years ago.” 

Nice save, B.

“B always says a lot can happen in a few years! You’d be surprised. And- Everyone’s heard of the old Batman’s loss at the hands of the Joker and his Arkham crew. He didn’t die in the battle- He came close. Present day Batman took up the cowl while the villains reaped their spoils of war. Old Batman died pretty soon after that. Health complications, I think?” Jon hums. “I thought you might’ve been posing as the old Batman. I guess I was wrong then, since you didn’t know?” 

“I’m not posing as anyone,” Bruce grinds out. Dick chokes back a laugh, which goes sour as soon as he grumbles, “Fuckin’ Joker.” 

Dick steps over a stray piece of rubble on nimble feet. “See?” he whispers to Bruce. “You should’ve let Lil’ D beat up Joker when he had him in that damn room.” He scowls low, matching Bruce to a near perfect T. The Joker has messed with their lives way too much, at this point. 

Jon stiffens. 

Shit. 

The Supers have super hearing, and Damian’s still probably a sore spot for everyone. 

Just before Dick can question about Nightwing’s death, on rolls to a stop. “Close your eyes,” he says, tacking on a sorry soon after. Dick obliges. He hopes Bruce does too. Jon drops their hands, but reaches back a moment later. Something rolls open. He doesn’t tell them to open their eyes, so Dick keeps them close. Jon leads them forward, and immediately, Dick recognises the smell of the place they're in. Musty, damp. The Batcave. They’re using the cave as their base of operations?

Of course they would. 

“Hey, B-boy!” Jon yells, before saying, “you can open your eyes.” 

Dick does, expecting the same old vave. What he gets is something nearly three times larger. There’s more space in the center, lined with more vehicles that Dick cares to count. They’ve all got a reoccuring theme- Beat up, covered in spikes and neon green spray paint. Undercover vehicles, no doubt. The Batcomputer ahead has grown a few sizes, monitoring different sectors of Gotham and others displaying some of Arkham’s more dangerous ex-patients. Bane’s profile is marked with a deep red stamp, right over top his picture, that reads off deceased. 

The glass cases hosting the Bat-clan’s fallen uniforms has been moved, now showing Bruce’s old cowl, Dick’s Nightwing uniform, and so many others he can’t name. One’s nothing more than a brown one piece with orange stripes on the side, gloves and a mask. Towards the end is Damian’s old Robin outfit, shoved over there like it doesn’t even matter. It should be in the dead center with the rest of the Batfamily’s fallen members, Dick thinks, and makes a note to yell at Tim/Jason/Batman for it. Family should stick together, even if it’s only their old legacies that stay by each other's sides. 

The other platforms scattered around the cave’s walls are hard to see. There’s more than there used to be, all covered with discarded training weapons and dummies, with cots for sleeping. What an upgrade. 

“B-boy!” Jon tries, cupping his hands around his mouth “I know you’re here! We’ve got prisoners!” 

The voice that responds is low, older, but not overly so. It can’t be Tim or Jason- then who? “Then send them to the cells,” this Batman says. “Why on Earth do I-” 

Oh, Dick knows the exact moment that Batman sees the two of them. Is it really that big of a crime to dress up as Nightwing or Batman around here? Jeez. 

“Take off those damn masks,” Batman hisses, dropping from his perch atop one of the lower platforms. He’s- He’s tiny. Smaller than Jon by nearly a whole foot! “How dare you tarnish the fallen’s legacies like this! Did the Joker put you up to this? Harley? Catwoman’s not normally this cruel.” 

“We can explain,” Dick defends. Bruce gives him a grunt and that’s all the conformation that Dick needs. He tears off his mask. Bruce pulls down his cowl. 

Jon recognises them immediately, taking half a step back. “Mr. Wayne?” he says, soft. “And- And Dick-? They weren’t- You two weren’t imposters-? How did you survive? We saw both of you die-” 

Bruce steps up, holding out his cuffs to Batman. “We’re not your Batman and Robin,” he explains. “Not yet. We’ve come from the past. A miscalculation while trying to travel through time brought us here.” He waves his wrists. “Now, Batman. If you’d be so kind as to let us know who decided to carry on the cowl? You aren’t Tim or Jason.” 

“B-” Jon whispers, and it sounds wrong. “You should-” 

“I know,” Batman interrupts. He reaches out, pulling off his glove, and unlocks Bruce’s cuffs. He does the same for Dick, with shaking hands. Then, his hand snakes up to his mask.

“You don’t have to,” Jon reminds. 

“I know.” 

Batman pulls off his cowl. Glassy green eyes- for the first time in near months- peer right back at Dick.

[heelturntoo]

Tread Lightly, She is Near

Summary: Tim spends his first night as a real Robin

Next you're going to tell me how simple it all is."

"Well, yeah. It's pretty basic math."

On his first night living in Wayne Manor, Tim lies, unable to sleep, staring up at the roof of his bedroom.

He had stayed in The Cave, curled under the weight of his cloak, until four AM, pretending to work as he monitored Batman from the cave and then watched him go through his warm down and debrief. The truth is he hasn’t retained more than a half-dozen data points all night about the villains he had been tasked to study.

When even Batman was ready to finish up for the night, he had asked to stay down in the cave a little longer, to more fully accustom himself to the computer’s system.  But Batman had been stern. “We sleep when we can. That’s as important a part of the job as any other if we want to maximise operation at peak capacity.” He had said, not unkindly and sent Tim to go change.

It was easier to be Robin. As Robin, he felt tougher, safer. He could keep the pain at arm’s length. It was all harder to deal with when he was just Tim. The pain felt sharper, more immediate. 

At the foot of the stairs, Bruce, now in sweats, had reached out and, when Tim gave a tiny nod, placed his hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing very well.”

“T-thank you.”

Bruce had walked him to the door of the guest room – no, not the guest room any longer – his room now, Alfred had said, for as long as he needed it, but hadn’t come inside. “I’m just down the hall. You know where to find me?”

“Yes.”

“Good night.”

It’s a nice room, if impersonal. His duffel bag and boxes of belongings still sit on the floor. Alfred had wanted to unpack them, but Tim had asked him not to, preferring to do it himself.

There had been a tray sitting on the table by his window when he came in; a glass of milk and a sandwich. Alfred had gone to bed as soon as Bruce had jumped out of the car and proved himself not in need of stitching up. That was, apparently, his custom, but he had left the snack for Tim before retiring. Tim just hadn’t been able to summon up an appetite.

Now he is lying in bed, staring straight at the ceiling, willing himself to sleep.

Bruce will be disappointed with him if he doesn’t sleep.

He has been released from school this week, in deference to his father’s illness and his mother’s death.  The funeral will be Thursday. There was no family to help organise the fine details of the memorial, so his father’s lawyer had looked after the legal side, and Alfred had looked after the personal details.  Alfred is good at that sort of thing. Tim is beginning to realise that Alfred is good at everything.

So, it doesn’t actually matter if he doesn’t get any sleep. It’s okay if he wastes the rest of the night thrashing, or lying, gazing up at the roof. He doesn’t actually have anywhere to be.

Except, if he does not sleep now, he won’t be sharp come tonight and there is no excuse for that.

Nightwing had promised to come over later today too and play video games with him. Tim had told him thank you, but that his aerial work was still weak and could they practice that instead, please?  They had compromised on Dick taking him to the track and showing him how to do pin turns on the bike as long as Dick could take him out for burgers after.

He tries shutting his eyes.  Whenever he does, he sees his mother’s body on the slab in the mortuary when he had been taken by Bruce to legally identify it - her. He hears the beep of the respirator doing his Dad’s breathing for him. When he thinks about those things, his stomach bucks and his breathing quickens. All the control, the mastery over fear he had maintained during their kidnapping, is slipping through his fingers like smoke. To his mortification, he realises he is crying.

He buries his head in his pillow and bites down on it, trying to stop himself from making a noise. God, please let Bruce not have heard that. Please.

After a while of quiet sniffling, he throws the covers off himself, pulls the throw from the end of the bed and wraps it around himself like it is Robin’s cap. He discretely wipes his eyes on the corner. Then he slips out of his room.

The mahogany panelling makes everything in the manor’s upstairs corridor seem darker, but dawn is starting to slide through the eastern window, enough to see by. Alfred had told them that the floorboards are designed to squeak, a nightingale floor to act as an extra layer of security if someone dangerous makes it as far as the manor. He hasn’t learned the trick to walking silently across it yet, but he does the best he can. He reaches the top of the stairs, wonders about the likelihood of being able to get into the cave without Bruce or Alfred being alerted and decides it is not very likely. He keeps walking.

Eventually, he comes to a door and eases it open.

The room is spotless. Alfred wouldn’t abide dust. There is a copy of The Big Sleep thrown down on the bedspread, as if the room’s occupant has just left for a moment and will be right back. But things are too tidy, and the air is thick, undisturbed. After less than a year, the room is already turning from a bedroom into a museum.

He walks a circuit of it once, afraid to touch anything in case it would be seen as an intrusion. It’s just an ordinary room, books,  a sleek laptop closed on the desk  and a closet full of clothes that will never be worn again. There is a big bay window, east facing with a window seat set beneath it. Outside, the woodlands are a riot of autumn colours, red and gold and deep green. Silver mists gird the lawns. Beyond the forest, the city lies, handsome and unthreatening at this distance, like a lounging apex predator.

Wrapping his blanket-cape around him he sits down, curling into the deep pillows of the window seat.

Ives had called yesterday, and the day before that and there had been a card sent over signed by all the kids in his homeroom. People know how to do these things properly in Gotham. He has signed a couple himself in the past. One for Cecily when her sister had been hit by joker venom. One for Mark after the fire that had killed his dad.

There had been one for Jason too, or for Bruce and Alfred. It had been passed diligently around the classroom and Tim had felt unable to sign it. Anything he could have written would have felt too much like a lie.

“What was he like?” He had asked Dick about Jason once, and Dick had squirmed and said, “You’re nothing like him,” and quickly changed the subject.

But lately, Tim has realised that Dick didn’t really know Jason at all. They had been legally foster brothers for almost three years, but Dick had managed it so their lives were kept carefully separate. Tim thinks about it from time to time, when Dick’s helping him with his rapelling or teaching him capoeira or they are just sitting on the couch, scoffing popcorn and playing videogames. He wonders if Dick’s doing this because he enjoys Tim’s company or because of an obligation to the dead boy for whom he didn’t have room in his life.

It occurs to him sometimes that even though he only knew him through a lens, he might have known Jason better than anyone alive except for Bruce, Alfred and maybe Barbara. That this is true, that this will always be true and that there is no way for him to fix it, sits like a small stone in the pit of his stomach.

He has missed his chance. He will never know Jason better than he does now.

Just like he will never know Mom.

He blows on the glass and traces geometric shapes with his finger. Up and down. He tries his breathing again, tries to put all the raw, broiling emotions back on the high shelf, not gone but... removed.

When every window pane has a hexagon or a tetrahedral drawn on it he instead switches to tracing the loops and eyes of the window seat’s wooden panelling.

...And sees the knot.

It’s an imperfection in the wood just where the wood panels become window frame. Close enough to the window to be well camouflaged, but not so close it will interfere with the sensors. You would have to be sitting precisely where he is sitting even to notice it.

There is something squeezed inside.

After a minute and a couple of wooden splinters beneath his fingernails to get it out. It’s a piece of ordinary copybook paper, rolled up like a cigarette. He can see the faint blue copy lines.

He unrolls it and holds it up to the light. On the side facing him is just the letter “R”, simple and un-stylised. He turns it over. On it, in neat cursive script are five lines of text.

He reads it. He reads it again. He reads it a third time. He rolls it back up into a cigarette.

He is crying again. He’s not sure why. He longs absurdly, pathetically for his mother, as if she had ever been the sort to hold him and rock him to sleep.

Outside, sunshine is starting to line the distant skyscrapers in gold. He presses his head against the window. The glass is cold against his cheek.

The next thing he knows, there comes a gentle knock on the door and he realises he has fallen asleep. “Master Timothy?”

He lurches up, remembering where he is, remembering what a violation it is to be in here, let alone sleep here.

Alfred looks around the edge of the door and seems entirely unsurprised. “Ah, there you are. When you weren’t in your room I began to worry.”

“AlfredImsosorry. Ididntmeantobeinhere. Ididntmeanto –”

Alfred waves this away. “Calm down, lad. It’s alright. I just came to see did you want your breakfast and when I couldn’t find you I was worried.”

“You were?” Tim is confused.

Alfred crosses the room and joins him at the window. Tim expects him to sit, but Alfred is not the sort of person who sits. “Shall we say, it would not be the first time a grieving young man left this house to go do something... impetuous.”

“You mean Jason?” He glances around the room as if the ghost will be sitting cross-legged on the bed or over at the desk.

“Not exclusively, no. Grief is, I’m afraid, this family’s constant companion.”

Tim realises that ‘this family’ includes Tim himself and doesn’t quite know how he feels about this.

“At least,” Alfred’s eyes sparkle a little, “You are not dangling from the chandeliers.”

Tim smiles a watery smile. “I could dangle from some chandeliers. Would it make me feel better?”

Alfred returns his smile. “Perhaps. It often worked wonders on Master Dick.”

“And Jason? What worked for him?”

Alfred would never do anything so gauche as to flinch, but there is a definite loosening of his hold of his sang froid. “The roots of his pain had grown rather deeper. He was alone for a long time before he came to us. I sometimes wonder...” He trails off

“Bruce says he was angry.”

“Often, yes.”

“Bruce says that it made him reckless, that that’s what got him killed.”

Tim realises he was mistaken in his assessment, because this time Alfred does flinch. “Ah,” he says, “Yes.”

“Alfred?”

“Yes?”

“I want to be Robin but... I don’t want to die.” His face burns with shame at saying it and he wants to bury his head in his hands.

But Alfred smiles and says, “I am glad to hear it. I don’t want you to die either.” He hesitates and then says in a kind tone. “Do you want to stop being Robin.”

“No!” It comes out much louder then he meant and the depth of emotion, of alarm that it might be taken away from him, surprises him. He never wanted to be Robin, not truly. He’s an understudy and when the time comes he will step aside. But now, just now, having Robin, having this life makes him braver. When he feels better, when the pain faids, it won’t be hard to give it up. “No thank you, I mean.  I still want to be Robin. I just have worries, sometimes.”

He shoots Alfred a nervous glance. “You won’t tell Bruce?”

“On my honour.”

“Thanks.”

“Perhaps you would like to come help me prepare breakfast in the kitchen?” says Alfred. “I could certainly use the company.”

“And Bruce doesn’t like people in this room?” he guesses aloud.

This time Alfred makes a show of irritation. “Well, you know him. Something of a hoarder. Cards and pennies and dinosaurs. “ And glass cases, neither of them say. “He likes when things  remain as they were.”

Tim’s hand must have tightened on the roll of paper, because the movement attracts Alfred’s attention. “What do you have there?”

“Nothing.” Tim crumples the note he found in the knothole up in his hand. “Just a message someone sent me.”  He looks around the room again. “Alfred, were we anything alike?  Jason and I?”

“What did Master Bruce tell you?”

“He said we were nothing alike.”

Alfred nods. “Then I suppose it must be so.”

**

EARLIER PART HERE

[camsthisky]

Teach Me to Dream - 3

Determine Your Reality 

Part 1 | Part 2  | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Summary:  Dick’s eleven. Not thirteen and eager to prove himself. Not seventeen and mourning a brother. Not nineteen and wishing his best friend wasn’t dead and Bruce would look him in the eyes. He’s only eleven. So why does he remember all of that?

ao3 | ff.net

Bruce is just walking out of the meeting when gets a call from Clark of all people. Something heavy settles in Bruce’s stomach, and he knows that whatever this call is about, it’s not going to be good. And if it’s anything less than a global catastrophe, Bruce doesn’t think he’ll be able to hold back from snapping at the one person that Bruce can call his friend.

“Clark,” Bruce greets coolly.

“Dick is screaming.”

Bruce’s heart stops in his chest, and he freezes just before he can hit the elevator button. Because—no. He can’t have just heard that right. He’d left Dick all by himself, trusting Alfred when the butler had said that Dick would be okay for a few hours until he got home. And for what? He’s not at Dick’s side when his son needs it the most, and it’s killing him.

The meeting had lasted about an hour, and each second had been agony. He can still hear Dick screaming in his head. Dick had looked haunted, like he’d just seen the world burning right before his eyes, and it had killed Bruce to have to pin Dick to the bed in order to keep the boy from hurting himself. All he’d wanted during the meeting—all he wants is to be there for Dick instead of here, in the city, so far away from him.

“Bruce?” Clark asks, and he sounds frantic. “Bruce, please. What’s happening?”

Bruce doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. Dick had been completely fine last night before Bruce had put him to bed. He’d been happy and excited for the weekend—for their next patrol. He’d still been riding the high from solving the Riddler’s puzzles, still bright and smiling and himself.

And now? Bruce hadn’t seen him smile the entire morning. Not since Bruce had woken up to find Dick sobbing his eyes out, looking like he’d just lost his parents again. He’d look so close to how he’d come to the Manor a couple years ago. So lifeless and unhappy and depressed. But he had also looked so much worse. Like he’d just seen a thousand and one impossible, tragic things.

And Bruce’s heart hurts, because he doesn’t understand why. Dick’s had nightmares since the day he had come to live with Bruce, but he’d always found some way to bounce back—usually with a hug or sleeping in Bruce’ bed for a few days. This hadn’t been some nightmare. Bruce knows Dick’s nightmares, and this is something else entirely. And he hates that he doesn’t know. That he can’t help.

So Bruce jabs the elevator button and tells Clark, “I’m handling it—” he’s not, not at all, and he hates it, but he can’t have Clark coming here and seeing him without any composure, “—but I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

And then he hangs up, not giving Clark a chance to speak before he’s walking into the elevator, hitting the button for the parking garage, and dialing the number for the Manor.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred says after three and a half rings, and Bruce forces himself to breathe. To not demand. To let Alfred speak, because something’s wrong. He can hear it in Alfred’s voice. “I was about to call you.”

“What happened.” It’s not a question.

“I’m afraid I’m not quite certain, sir,” Alfred says, and in the background, he can hear Leslie murmuring. So something happened if Leslie was called over. Bruce waits a moment, expecting Alfred to continue and give him something a little more substantial. “I was in the kitchen, and Master Dick just started screaming from the other room. There was no cause I could determine.”

“So it was like this morning?” Bruce asks.

“It would seem so.”

Bruce practically sprints to his car as soon as the elevator doors slide open. He unlocks it quickly and slides in, and then he’s driving. He needs to be home. Needs to be with Dick. He tries to take a breath, tries not to jump to conclusions, because in the end, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what’s happening to Dick.

“Does Leslie know what’s wrong with him?”

Alfred hesitates. “Dr. Thompkins believes Master Dick to be in seemingly in perfect health.”

Mind over matter, then. Nothing Bruce hasn’t already guessed at this point, but it still makes Bruce want to pull over and scream incoherently. He’d hoped that this was just Dick feeling under the weather, making the nightmares slightly worse. If this was physical, Bruce would have no trouble calling Leslie and asking what to do. But mental traumas are always tricky, and no one will be able to do anything about it if Dick doesn’t tell them what’s wrong.

And Bruce doesn’t think that Dick will, in all honesty. Dick doesn’t often keep a lot of secrets from Bruce, but what if Dick’s too traumatized by whatever’s going on in his head to tell Bruce. Heaven knows that Bruce didn’t talk to anybody for over a week after his parents died, not even Alfred, and Bruce doesn’t know if he should expect anything different.

But he has to try.

“I’m on my way home,” Bruce tells Alfred. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Very good, sir. I shall see you then.”

Bruce wants to get this figured out. He wants Dick to be happy again. He just doesn’t know how he’s supposed to make that happen.

Dick dreams of the dark. He dreams of dying, of his family dying. Of being unable to keep his world safe. The dark presses in around him, and he finds it so hard to breathe, so hard to not suffocate on the blackness, and he wonders what he’s done in his life to deserve all of this. To deserve to watch Jason and Wally and Tim and Alfred and Leslie and Roy and Conner and M’gann and all of his friends—he wonders what he’s done to watch them die.

He’s twenty—he’s eleven—and he’s done things he regrets, but he doesn’t think he’s done anything bad enough to warrant something like the grief that’s dragging him along through the darkness right now.

Or maybe he has. Maybe he just can’t remember.

Dick lurches upright, gasping for breath, and when two sets of hands try to push him to lie down again, Dick fights. He’s—he doesn’t know where he is. Colors blur and each of his breaths catch in his chest, and all he can do is fight, try to make it out alive.

His ears are buzzing, and as he fights off his assailants, Dick thinks he hears someone calling his name, calling out to him. The voice is familiar. Dick knows that voice like he knows how to execute the perfect quadruple flip.

“—awake now, Dick. You’re alright,” Bruce is saying. Dick grips onto Bruce’s T-shirt with both hands and leans forward, right into Bruce’s space. The buzzing stops, and Dick can hear everything with a sharp clarity that he might have questioned at any other point in his life—but for now, he’s just grateful that the memory’s hold on him is fading. He can hear two other voices murmuring quietly to each other across the room, he can hear the springs of the bed as Bruce shifts on the bed, and he can hear the white noise of the portable fan that has sat on his bedside table ever since Bruce had bought it from a street vendor on an unusually hot day in Gotham.

He’s in his bedroom, the one he’s had for a little over two years. Bruce is here, holding onto Dick’s shoulders gently, patiently waiting for Dick gain some semblance of coherency. He’s not twenty, he’s not Nightwing, and he’s not dead. He’s eleven, he’s Robin, and he’s alive. He has to be alive.

“I’m not dead, am I?” Dick whispers into the air, just to make sure, and the room quiets. All but the fan. Dick doesn’t open his eyes, though, and he keeps his tight hold on Bruce’s T-shirt.

“No,” Bruce tells him, and he sounds very confident. Confident enough that Dick lets himself relax and crumple forward into Bruce’s comfort. Bruce doesn’t hesitate to scoop him up into an embrace, and Dick can’t help it when he starts crying. “No, Dick. You’re very much alive.”

“Good,” Dick manages to say despite the tears. It almost sounds like he’s choking. “That’s good.”

Dick just cries for a few minutes, letting everything out. It feels good, despite how much he’s been crying lately. It’s nice to pour out his frustration and his anger and his confusion and all the other emotions that accompany the memories until he’s raw and empty, and Bruce lets him. Bruce runs his fingers through Dick’s hair and rubs his back with a rough hand, and Dick doesn’t think that there’s anywhere else he’d rather be but here in Bruce’s arms.

All of these memories, they show him a future full of pain and suffering—they show Dick how he dies. He doesn’t want them. He just wants to be happy, to feel like himself, to grow up with Bruce and Alfred like he did in the memories. Sure, he knows what’s coming, but so what.

He feels like he’s lost a part of himself, and he’s not sure if he’s ever going to get it back.

“Dick,” Bruce says a while after Dick’s tears subside, and it’s gentle and soft and caring, and Dick doesn’t know if he deserves any of that. “Dick, I think we need to talk.”

“I don’t want to,” Dick tells him. “Bruce, please. Please don’t make me.”

Bruce squeezes him tighter, and he doesn’t speak for a while. The room goes back to being silent, and Dick thinks that the other voices, whoever they were, they aren’t in the room anymore. He thinks it’s just him and Bruce, and he’s so glad that no one else is here to watch him break down like this.

Finally, Bruce says, “Dick,” and it’s soft. Gentle in all the ways he usually isn’t. “I know that—”

“You don’t,” Dick cuts him off.

“What?”

Dick’s breathing speeds up, and he almost feels like that blackness is getting ready to rush over him again. Swallow him whole, and he wonders what happens then. Will he still be Dick Grayson? Will he still be himself? Struggling to handle these memories of a future he doesn’t want to remember?

Bruce has no idea what’s going through Dick’s head, and he doesn’t know whether he’s just still reeling from the memories and that dream, or if he’s finally lost it, but Dick snaps. He’s doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to feel this way, but the anger rushes up, consumes him, and Dick pushes Bruce away from him, screwing his eyes up against the angry tears.

“You don’t know!” Dick sobs. “You don’t get it! I’m not—I’m not you, Bruce! I feel like I’m about to lose my mind, and you have no idea what that feels like!”

Bruce swallows, and he lowers his voice. “Dick, I don’t know anything because you aren’t telling me.”

“And what happens when I do tell you?!” Dick screams, grabbing the blankets underneath him and twisting. He’s angry, he’s sad, he’s scared. Oh god, he’s so scared. His chest is tight with so many emotions, and he doesn’t know where to put them, what to do with them. And he hates himself because he’s never wanted to take this out on Bruce, but Bruce doesn’t get it. And he shouldn’t say that he does. “Are you going to lock me up in Arkham?! That’s what Batman does to all the crazies, right?! He puts them in Arkham and then he forgets about them. They don’t matter anymore!”

“Dick—what—”

But Bruce is at a loss for words, and Dick can barely handle looking at his stupid face at this point. Memories are threatening to overwhelm him again and Dick is having the hardest time pushing them down. He looks down at his shaking fingers, trying to ground himself in the present.

It’s too late, though. He can’t stop it.

“You just gave it to Jason?!” Dick asks, and he can’t believe it. “Without even asking me?!”

Bruce doesn’t say anything, just like he never says anything. Bruce is ruled by paranoia and fear, and Dick hates it sometimes. It’s saved his life, sure, but it’s also ruined his and Bruce’s relationship almost beyond repair. It’s always his rules. Always his way or the high way, and no one else can speak up lest they get shot down by the almighty Bat.

Dick absolutely hates it sometimes. Still, it’s something he’s learned to live with.

But this? Giving Robin to Jason without even so much as a word? That’s—that’s—

No. No no no. Dick can’t get sucked into the memories right now. He needs to stay focused. He’s not mad at Bruce for taking Robin away, because that hasn’t happened, and he doesn’t know if it ever will. He’s angry, he’s shaking, because Bruce is trying to tell him that he knows what it feels like to have his whole life keep flashing in front of his eyes with no way out of the stupid repetitive cycle. Bruce has no idea what it feels like to watch his own death.

Dick is the only one. He’s the only one who has this burden on his shoulders. Bruce thinks he knows? He doesn’t, and Dick thinks that even if he found some way to tell Bruce, he still wouldn’t.

“Dick,” Bruce says, and it sounds like Bruce is getting angry, too. Good. Dick doesn’t want to be the only one upset here, even if something in the back of his mind reminds him that he hates when Bruce gets mad at him. It’s never a pleasant experience for either one of them. “I’m not talking about any of the psychopaths in Arkham right now. I’m talking about you.”

“You don’t know anything about me!” Dick cries, eyes whipping up to meet Bruce’s intense gaze head-on, but he can’t quite make it. He ends up looking at Bruce’s nose. “You—you don’t know anything!”

Bruce grits his teeth, and Dick can tell that he’s forcing himself not to yell when he says, “You’re not insane, Dick.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do,” Bruce tells him, putting so much meaning in just two words. Bruce leans forward on the bed to grip Dick’s shoulders, and he shakes Dick slightly, like he’s trying to shake some sense in Dick, but Dick’s right. Bruce is wrong. Dick’s been slowly going insane since he first got these memories. “Dick, look at me.”

“I am!” Dick says, but he’s not. He’s crying too hard to see anything, much less Bruce. All he sees through the tears is the blurry blot of where Bruce is supposed to be. He wishes that he could just stop for once. He’s tired of crying, he’s tired of seeing memories, and he’s tired of feeling.

“You’re not.”

“I am!”

“You’re not,” Bruce says again, and then Bruce is brushing away the tears as they fall down Dick’s cheeks, and Dick blinks and finally looks Bruce in the eyes. Bruce doesn’t look mad anymore. Bruce looks sad, and it’s Dick that made him feel that way. Dick’s still crying—he doesn’t know how to  stop—but what else can he do when Bruce isn’t going to yell at him? What can he do if Dick’s the only bad guy in this situation? “You’re right, Dick. I don’t know what you’re going through. And unless you tell me, I’m not going to know.”

Bruce just wants to help. He’s not like the person the memories say Bruce will be. He isn’t pushing Dick away only to reach for Jason, instead. It’s Dick that’s pushing Bruce away, no matter how much he doesn’t want to. He wants Bruce to hold him and reassure him that he isn’t crazy. He wants Bruce to know.

But he can’t say it. He can’t. If he says it, will those memories become real? Will everything be the same when he finishes? Will Bruce look at him and tell him that he is sending Dick to Arkham to rot with people like the Joker? Is that how Dick will spend the rest of his life?

So Dick deflates and he whispers thickly, “I can’t, Bruce. I can’t tell you. Not right now,” and he pretends not to see the heartbreak on Bruce’s face as the man scoops him up in his arms again, tucks Dick’s head under his chin, and rocks him back and forth. Through all of this, Dick wonders just what he’s done to deserve Bruce and this unconditional love.

And when Bruce says, “That’s okay, Dick. Just tell me when you’re ready,” it just makes Dick feel that much guiltier.

“How is he?” Leslie asks.

Bruce looks up from where he’s leaning back against the headboard, Dick cradled in his lap. Leslie and Alfred are back in the room, having left when Dick had started freaking out before. It had been a good call, Bruce thinks. Dick had barely been able to look at Bruce while they were alone. He doesn’t think that he’d have been able to get a word out of Dick if there had been other people in the room.

Bruce is glad Dick’s even talking to him at all, even if it had been out of anger.

“He’s asleep,” Bruce says lowly. “I think he wore himself out yelling at me.”

Leslie sighs. “I hate to say it, but you might want to find him a psychologist to assess him. Whatever this is, it’s going to be a long road. I have a few I can recommend—”

“No psychologists,” Bruce growls immediately.

“Sir,” Alfred says, looking disapproving and unhappy, “I understand your avoidance of therapists and psychologists, but this does not seem something that we can handle on our own. We may want to listen to Dr. Thompkins’ suggestions if we want to see Master Dick return to his cheerful self.”

Therapists had done nothing for Bruce when he’d been younger, and in his opinion, they probably won’t do much good for Dick, either. Still, Alfred is right to some extent. This is way above all three of their heads, and without forcing Dick to open up, none of them—not even Leslie—know how to help him.

“Let’s give it a couple of days,” Bruce says, hating that he’s even considering this. But for Dick, he would do anything. “If he hasn’t opened up to us by Monday, then I’ll give someone a call.”

Leslie sighs, but she doesn’t look upset. Alfred looks carefully blank, like he’s not prepared to deal with any of this in front of Bruce and Leslie, and Bruce doesn’t fault him. Hell, Bruce isn’t ready to deal with any of this. And if this is tearing apart the three of them, Bruce can only imagine what Dick is going through.

“So three days, then,” Leslie says. “I’m going to head out and get that list together. Give me a call if there’s something I can do, Bruce.”

Bruce nods, and Leslie sweeps out the door, Alfred following her out after a quiet moment of staring forlornly at Dick completely passed out in Bruce’s arms. And then it’s just Bruce and Dick, and Bruce sags back into Dick’s headboard, because he’s never—never—felt this lost in his entire life. His parents’ death had been horrible, tragic, and it had set him on his life path, and it had hurt and never really gone away.

But Dick is Bruce’s entire world now. And to see his world in so much pain—Bruce is barely able to handle it. He just wishes that could do something more than offer help. He wishes he could take Dick’s pain, save him from it all.

He can’t, though, and nothing has ever hurt more.