Bruce never let go of that night. It's never far, even when he pushes it away. Sends it careening into the darkest corners of his brain. Even when he tries to lock it away and forget where he buries the key. Bruce never let go of that version of him. And maybe he never will.
Dick would never understand. Every time he took a risk or steps out into the field, all Bruce would ever see is a coffin. Another procession. Another burial. Not the man choosing to standing beside him. He sees a corpse ā his to carry and mourn.
Fire and ice didn't mix. Because Bruce wants to freeze him, stifle that flame until it burns down to nothing. Not out of love. Out of fear and failure and that deeply rooted need to control.
Dick would never understand. He almost died and Bruce had to keep him safe. Even if it meant he could never let him truly live again. ]
You're done.
[ His jaw sets, face unreadable. But there's pain even if it didn't seem like it, chipping away at his insides. It's piercing and cold and it makes him feel so empty. Any other man would be doubled over from the hurt. Bruce isn't any other man. He glares. ]
Until you remember how this works. [ How they worked ] you will no longer come with me on patrols.
[ The words burn. The look Bruce gives him cuts, making everything hurt worse than it had a second ago. Everything in his body physically tightens in response, his jaw, his fists, the tension around his eyes knitting his brows together to stop the tears.
He refuses to cry, to give Bruce that satisfaction, but it does take him a moment as he reels from it, staring at Bruce like he can barely believe it.
This is a nightmare.
His gaze casts down as he steels himself, the words stuck in his throat for a beat before he lifts his newly determined eyes back up. ]
I'm leaving.
[ Sure, he's run away from home before. This is far from the first time they've argued, far from the first time Bruce is threatening him, but Dick has his mind made up this time. It's better to leave the nest for good than be a bird in a cage, chirping and flapping and going no where.
He hates the way that thought boils his emotions over, welling over his waterline and searing down his cheeks. He hates how he rushes to wipe it off his face, furiously staring right back at Bruce.
He hates the way his voice shakes. ]
You're right. I'm done.
[ He shoves the covers off and forces himself to his feet, gritting his teeth against the woozy way the whole room shifts. He pushes until he's stepping forward, one foot determinately in front of the other. The physical pain is a welcome one. At least like this, it drowns out the one in his heart. He makes it all the way past Bruce and shoves past his oppressive presence before it catches up to him, bringing him to his knees before he collapses and passes out in a heap on the ground. ]
[ It hits like a punch to the face and Bruce is still reeling from the blow. I'm leaving, Dick says like he hadn't just reached into Bruce's chest to squeeze his heart so hard enough to stop it.
It is a nightmare and Bruce wants it to end.
But none of that turmoil reaches his face, except in the subtle tightening of his jaw. He couldn't stop Dick from leaving. Probably never could.
Maybe it's for the best. ]
Fine.
[ Bruce would make arrangements for a hospital stay. Somewhere where they wouldn't ask too many questions. Somewhere Dick could recuperate out of his sight.
Clean lines. A clean break. No mess. Just the way Bruce liked it.
He doesn't get the chance to make those arrangements before Dick is shoving himself upright and swaying under the weight of his concussion. ]
You shouldn't be standing.
[ The words feels like they come out in slow motion. Bruce feels like he is moving in slow motion, like he's trying push through something oppressive and heavy. Dick! he yells and it brings Alfred back to the room in a flurry of supplies.
Alfred disagrees when Dick is back in the bed. Dick would be going no where until he was at least through the worst of it. Maybe then they could discuss the logistics of Batman and Robin breaking up. But not one second before.
[ Bruce isnāt here for any of it. Bruce isnāt at Dickās bedside when he recovers enough to pack up his life at the Manor. Bruce doesnāt stop him from re-building it in an abandoned warehouse in the middle of a city that he no longer sees as his. Bruce isnāt here when he moves to San Francisco and forms the Titans, trying to open his heart up again to alliance in an act that bravely worked against the distrust his mentor instilled in him.
Bruce isnāt even here when Deathstroke kills Aqualad, or when Dick kills Deathstrokeās son in return, or when he shutters the tower and isolates himself in Detroit for it. Itās only during the darkest moments that he realizes the truth: that despite his best attempts, everything he does is because of Bruce. Batman even follows Robin around on the tongues of everyone he meets.
Whereās Batman, little birdie? Why are you so far from home?.
Heās more brutal then, alone and hurting, punching with Batmanās mantle gritting like a curse behind every blow, the callouses on his knuckles and scars on his body etched with the very violence he tried to run away from. He doesnāt know how to be any other way, so he quits again. He strips off the Robin suit and burns it and leaves its ashes scattering in the wind.
The following year is spent trying to fill both Batman and Robinās void with every kind of case he can take on. He dives deep into the precinct, trying to drown it all out by submerging himself into a life that doesnāt feel like his. Most days, he keeps his head and anger to himself. Other days, he wonders who heās trying to convince of the lie. Is he still doing this for Bruce?
Is it what Bruce did for him that has him gravitating toward helping kids? The troubled ones are drawn to him, too, congealing around him until something like a family forms into a second reincarnation of the Titans. Like a phoenix rising out of ashes, Nightwing emerges from the lowest point in his life.
And strangely enough, thatās when Alfred calls and tethers him back to Gotham.
Dick sits in his favourite armchair of the manor. A fire crackles in front of him, the glow of it casting a warm glow across the otherwise dark living room. Itās so late itās almost light outside, and Dick wonders whether or not it was worth coming here.
What do you want me to do about it? He had asked Alfred, in a flurry of sadness and frustration, terrified that everything heās worked so hard for would be destroyed in an instant, blown up to smithereens by the silent missile that is Bruce Wayne. Yet even if Alfred hadnāt answered the way he did, Dick knew he had no choice. Dick knew he was defenceless against the way his heart leapt at the thought of returning.
His gaze is unreadable when he looks over his shoulder. Even after years and years apart, he recognizes those footfalls anywhere. He stands to face Bruce and folds his hands into his pockets with a slow, steadying exhale. ]
[ No, Bruce isn't there. He had no desire to watch what he had built crumble into dust. Alfred had tried to warn him, guilt him into at least saying goodbye when Dick packed the last of his things. But Bruce hadn't. And in that quiet refusal, he was sure of one thing: Dick would not be coming back.
It's a thought that shatters him all over again. The pieces scattered so far they may as well be out of reach. And Bruce would have to put them back together again. Pick them up one by one and find a new way to put them together. Because looking at the old picture was too painful of a reminder.
No one notices the dark turn Batman takes. Not at first. He's always been brutal. But now there's a new kind of mean streak in him, sharper, colder. Something darker and jagged that wasn't there before.
Alfred notices first. Of course he does. It becomes undeniable when the first one dies. A quiet death in the hospital. Bruce dumped him at Gotham Memorial, bloodied and broken. The poor sod never woke up again. He notices when Bruce's methods shift. How the violence escalates, how the rage simmers just beneath the surface. How Bruce fights now. The brand he leaves on the people he doesn't want saved. A silent sentence. This one dies.
It's different. All of it is different. All of it started after Dick left.
Alfred tries and it's a valiant effort to bring Bruce back to himself. But his pleas and ultimatums are ultimately ignored. Even a quiet threat to leave is met with cold indifference. Maybe it's for the best, Bruce thought. Then he wouldn't have to be party to this. Whatever it is Bruce was becoming.
But he doesn't give up. Not quite yet. He calls Dick in the middle of the night, while Bruce is out and they can talk with a little more room to breathe. He asks Dick if he'll come home again. Just for a little while. Because Bruce is losing himself and Alfred could not bring him back alone.
You have a guest, Alfred tells him while he's getting dressed for patrol. Master Grayson is waiting for you in the living room.
Bruce almost doesn't go. Almost tells Alfred to send him on his way with his regrets they couldn't meet. But...it's been five years and Bruce would be lying if he said he did not want to see him. So he goes, costume and all to see his prodigal son.
He swallows a hard breath when he sees Dick, eyes hard and jaw set tight. ]
What are you doing here?
[ āHello, Dick,ā he means. āIt's good to see you again.ā ]
[ It's hard to say what it is Dick expected for a reply. Perhaps, it's even stupid that he would have any expectation at all. It should be good enough that Bruce actually came, though the suit serves as a degree of removal from Bruce himself.
Maybe it's a good thing. Five years later and Batman is still the same. Standing there dark and ominous like an extension of the shadows in the room. He knows he's different. A little taller, a little broader, filled out and grown up from the boy he was when he left.
More mature, too, despite the dry huff he gives in response, coupled with a beat looking off to the side. He shrugs and shakes his head like he doesn't have an answer before levelling his look. ]
I'm not here to fight you, Bruce. You don't have to come out swinging like that. I wanna know...what's going on?
[ He has to take a minute. Just to look at him. The last image burned into Bruce's memory is of Dick sprawled out on the infirmary floor. Bleeding. Shaking. Furious. Done.
Quitting on him.
And now he's come back. All grown up. Five years may as well have been five lifetimes. This isn't the boy he trained to be his partner. He isn't Robin anymore. And he hadn't needed Bruce at all to get there.
What else was he supposed to say? I missed you is too much. I'm sorry is not enough. You shouldn't have come is cruel, but the closest to honest. He's thankful he doesn't have to come up with something else to say. He can answer Dick's question and move on with his night. ]
Nothing is going on. I'm sorry Alfred wasted your time.
[ That's not true. He did need Bruce. He needed everything Bruce did to him, for him, to get him exactly where he is today.
All that good, and all that bad.
Five years is a long time, but it's helped him work through at least that much. However, not even all the time in the world could dull the hurt Bruce manages to pull up from the depths of his chest, easily parting everything he's carefully mended shut. He finds it now burns, and oozes like an old, infected wound.
Dick looks away, dark gaze dropping to the fire instead. ]
Alfred's worried about you. And...
[ Ugh. The words catch in his throat like rusty nails. He has to work to pull them up. In his eyes, there's weight, but there's also a quiet, yearning vulnerability when he lifts them to Bruce again. ]
[ Isn't it? Bruce left Dick to put himself back together again. Withdrew so completely, he may as well have been a ghost. Like all that time together hadn't meant a thing. Except that it had. It had meant so much and Bruce didn't quite know what to do when he thought it was slipping away.
So he stayed away, where it was easiest and safest for him. And watched his son grow up without him. Watched him form the Titans and watched it fall apart and come back together again. Watched him find his identity as Nightwing and put all of that training and experience to work in BlĆ¼dhaven. He had become something better. Stronger. What Batman should be instead of...this. ]
I'm fine, Dick.
[ A little older now. Sometimes there's a twinge in his knee or a catch in his shoulder. The cold settles easier in his bones than it used to. But he's fine. He's fine. ]
[ Sometimes, in his darkest and guiltiest moments, Dick would wonder, seeking out the comfort of the closest thing he used to have that felt like home. Was Bruce watching? Was Bruce keeping tabs on him from the glowing screens surrounding him in the Batcave? Seeking out his face in the chaos of the city, combing through security footage like he would with any of the villains he was chasing down?
The questions were as far as those thoughts would get, only ever tendrils of yearning Dick would quickly sever, catharized and buried down into the wound with every other intrusive thought of his father-figure. Cold, as always, unreadable. Fine. ]
The relevant details.
[ A single-shouldered shrug accompanies the way Dick meets Batman's eyes before letting his gaze wander, tracking down the details of the suit. It's changed, lighter in some areas, reinforced around the joints, surely better in many ways that Dick can't see standing this far away. ]
Nothing I couldn't have figured out on my own.
[ It's been a long time since he did this whole standoff thing with Bruce. Five years, to be precise, and he can feel how rusty those gears are, the tired croak of their movement, the way they start to thaw out the hurt in the dusty corners of his heart.
A furrow pinches between his brow in the slightest hint of wince, emotion rippling through his features for a moment before he hems it back. Though he manages to keep his voice calm again, Dick knows Bruce wouldn't have missed it. ]
You're not fine, Bruce. You're hurting people--branding people. You don't wanna do that.
[ He hates the scrutiny. It's the worst part. It's the worst part because he knows Dick's putting his training to use. He taught him how to use his eyes. Not just to see, but to uncover. To find all of the little details and secrets and tells and giveaways that made it clear who the person was. And more importantly, what they were hiding.
Bruce doesn't have many tells. He knows how to show only what he wants people to see. But that doesn't mean he doesn't have any. Dick could suss him out if he were inclined to and with the way he eyes the suit and how it's changed over the years, Bruce gets the feeling that's exactly what he's doing. Looking for that tell, that subtle shift. That admission without words. ]
Is that what he told you.
[ It sounds like it should be a question. It's not. It feels like a mischaracterization. Branding someone implied ownership. Bruce didn't want to own any of Gotham's dredges. He was simply cleaning up the city. Like he'd always promised to do. Taking out the trash. Doing a public service. ]
Go back to BlĆ¼dhaven. I hear there's a drug deal happening tonight.
[ A litany of questions floods his mind, the same broken record playing over and over again since he left. It's louder now when Bruce's non-question sounds both like an accusation and willful ignorance. That part is concerning, but what's more concerning is the little spark of something like hope snapping Dick's gaze to meet Bruce's eyes again.
BlĆ¼dhaven?
So Bruce has been watching. For how long? How closely? Very closely if he knows about the deal happening in a few hours, which means Bruce...
...still cares?
Fuck, Grayson, you're so fucking pathetic. His gaze turns hard and his arms cross over his chest. ]
Stay out of my business, Bruce.
[ It comes out angrier than he intended, but what else is he supposed to do when Bruce makes him feel this shitty about himself? ]
You have enough to figure out in Gotham. You know you're killing them, right? Does that still matter or did you change your constitution?
[ He has been watching. Since the day Dick left. He couldn't help himself. Not really. If asked, he'd call it part of his routine surveillance. Knowing what's happening outside of Gotham can inform him on what's going on inside of it.
He'd say he didn't sit and watch his feeds to know what Dick was up to precisely. He had other things that needed his attention. He didn't have time to monitor Dick's every move.
Knowing about that drug deal is just a coincidence. ]
[ There's no reaction from Bruce, like Dick's words don't even register. It has him drawing a blank, eyes widening ever so slightly before a pinch wrinkles between his brows. ]
You're...
[ His words trail off and die on his tongue. He struggles to come to terms with just how far out of reach Bruce feels now, standing in front of him for the first time in years. ]
What happened to you?
[ It's a genuine question, his own hurt feelings cast aside in shock and worry. ]
Bruce? [ Dick takes a step forward, every foot in front of the other bringing him closer to Batman until he can see the dark, stormy irises of Bruce's cold, emotionless eyes. A hand grips Bruce's upper arm. ] You have to snap out of it, Bruce. What the hell is wrong with you?
[ What the hell is wrong with you? The question feels like it strikes him square in his plated chest and it bounces off him. Alfred had a laundry list, he's sure. Categorized and alphabetized because it helped to quantify all the ways Bruce's life has spiraled out of control.
Bruce could see it himself. He didn't need Alfred or his spreadsheet to know this has gotten out of hand.
But he can't stop now. The mire's too thick, too deep. It's seeped into him in a way he can't cough up or out. ]
Nothing. You don't like how I do things now, I get that. But it's been five years. You're not the only one who grew up.
[ Before he agreed to come back to Gotham and the manor, Dick thought about this moment endlessly, turning it this way and that in his mind, thinking of all the ways this could go. Bruce says itās been five years and that Dick isnāt the only one whoās changed, but what Dick sees is different. He sees the same thing staring him right back in his face, a man whoās as closed off as heās ever been, stuck in his own echo chamber, stubbornly self-righteous.
Right. This is why he left in the first place. ]
I know you donāt agree, Bruce, but if it were me, Iād hope that the people around me would call me out on my bullshit too. Iām sorry, this is gonna suck. For all of us.
[ Thankfully, in the five years since, Dick has learned Bruceās language of cryptic, though he doesnāt deliver it with the same ice-cold tone. Instead, his words are full of empathy, full of the hard-earned kindness Dick fights to keep every day. ]
Could weā¦talk? Me and you? Could you take off the suit?
[ The funny thing is, he should have seen this coming. Alfred had warned him. Warned him for weeks that he would do something drastic if Bruce didn't get his act together. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew calling Dick was a possibility, if even a slim one. Of everyone Bruce might have counted as an ally, Alfred was the one who knew how much Dick leaving had affected him. How shut off and cold and cruel he'd become in the years after everything fell apart.
He knew calling Dick was a possibility, but stubbornly only really considered Alfred leaving as his only option.
But here he is, his prodigal son lecturing him about his bullshit and asking if they could talk. Now he wants to talk after five years of radio silence. Bruce scoffs, incredulous. ]
Would you even be here if Alfred hadn't asked you to be?
[ Is this talking? Dick supposes itās better than whatever Bruce was doing before, dodging everything that Dick was trying to say.
Still. That scoff has the line of Dickās mouth tightening, stuck on his response because he doesnāt have one Bruce would want to hear. Still, five years later, he still considers what Bruce would say before he speaks. Strangeāhe thought he wouldāve been over that bit. ]
No.
[ It takes effort to hold Bruceās gaze. ]
I wouldnāt. I said no to Alfred at first. I didnāt wanna get involved, butā¦after everything, weāre all we have.
[ It's honesty he should have expected. But it still comes like a glancing blow to the face. He feels. He feels like an idiot, if he's honest. Of course nothing has changed. Dick had untangled himself completely, like he'd never been here at all. And Bruce had been foolish enough to think, to hope that maybe Dick would have chosen to return without needing some kind of drastic reason. Bruce is falling apart and this makes everything feel that much more precarious.
He holds Bruce's gaze and he can see the effort it takes. Because there's no kindness there. No warmth or welcoming or understanding. Just a cold acceptance of the truth. He didn't want to be here. Bruce didn't want him here either. He didn't have anyone and he's better off for it. ]
Go home, Dick. Stop wasting both our time.
[ He turns to go. Pulls the cowl back over his head like he's saying goodbye to the last little bit of humanity. ]
[ And just like that, the man disappears into the bat, and Dick is left standing in the living room, feeling emptier now than when he came. He stands there until Batman fades into the shadows, every step Bruce takes bringing him further from all the ways Dick imagined this going right.
It's not until Bruce is gone that he lets out the breath he was holding, the quiver of it shaking his through his shoulders and body until he melts into a leather armchair, refusing to cry. This is a mission now. Bruce is another case to crack, and he's determined to do it. The heels of his hands sink into his eyes, pressing back the hot tears welling at his lashline.
Fuck this. Fuck talking. Fuck conversations that go no where and the brick wall that is Bruce Wayne. His fingers slide through his hair as he lets his head droop back until he's staring at the shadows casted by the crystal chandelier. A plan starts to formulate in his head: He'll find each of Batman's allies and explain what's going on and convince them that Batman needs a break. Nightwing will cover in the meantime for whatever it is that they need Batman to do. Whatever Batman is capable of, Dick knows he is as well.
He pushes off the armchair and heads off to find Gordon. Bruce won't like this one bit, but it's what has to be done. The hard part will be reorienting himself deep enough into the city to figure out which abandoned building he can set up shop in. There's a lot of work to be done and he can't afford to sit around trying to talk. ]
[ It only takes three days for Bruce to figure out something is wrong. He's been working a lead on some human traffickers and every narc he's on "friendly" terms with has suddenly forgotten any necessary intel. Or have disappeared, seemingly into nothing. A bank truck is struck and Gordon never turns on the light to summon him, even though Bruce is sure it's connected to the trafficking case. When he stops by GCPD, no one is on the roof to greet him. When he stops by Gordon's office, he tells him it's being investigated and dismisses him like he's dismissing a misbehaving child.
On day three, Bruce follows a rumor that Nightwing's been spotted in the city and he's moving in on the Bat's territory.
It's not hard to find where he's hiding out and Bruce suspects, he means for it to be found. That annoys him. It annoys him even more when Dick returns and seems like he's expecting him to be here. ]
[ It only takes three days for Bruce to find him, but it's three days of gruelling, difficult work. Batman isn't someone who's easy to infiltrate, even given all the clearances Dick has to his systems. He hasn't slept for more than two-hour stretches at a time and feels half-delirious with all the information he has to now keep up with.
It's been a long time since he was this deep in Gotham.
The notification that Bruce has gained access to his warehouse is paired with a flood of nerves, as much as he manages to keep it all hidden as he steps in, wearing a black hoodie and dark jeans. He has a split lip, a bruise on his cheek, and unsettled eyes. Nightwing is in the case held in his hand that he pops open on a table. There's blood on the pieces of armour he pulls out to clean. ]
[ Sleep almost feels like a luxury at this point. 40 hours since his last 15 minute nap, but there's something angry and vitriolic fueling him. It keeps him from feeling the weight of his own exhaustion too badly. But he's tired and if you knew what to look for it's easy to see.
He's quiet long enough to look Dick over. He notes the split lip and the dark bruise on his cheek and the way his eyes don't focus like they should. It makes ignoring Dick's reply easier. ]
This isn't your city.
[ Concern is a lower priority, behind the agitation and outrage he feels at being shut out of his own operation. But it's there, quiet like a breath. ]
[ Has it ever been known that Bruce Wayne would state the obvious? Dick's eyes lift from the armour, hard and defensive, and a long moment's pause precludes a single-shouldered shrug. ]
So what?
[ It's hard to say what it is he's really answering to. How the tables have turned, that he was the one standing at Bruce's doorstep days ago, just wanting to talk. It's this thought that has him sighing and stepping away from the table. He can't be like Bruce--won't be like Bruce, throwing up walls in the face of an open desire to communicate.
Not that he believes for a moment that Bruce is here to communicate. So he might as well start throwing topics at the wall, then. See what sticks. ]
You wanna know why I'm doing this? [ Both hands splay at his sides, open, but tired, the throb of his head building behind his eyeballs. ] Or what I'm trying to achieve? Wanna know how far I'll go?
[ Bruce is. Furious. It starts with a simmer tucked out of the way in his brain. A convergence of all the information in front of him that drags out an ugly, dark feeling in his gut. So what he says like this isn't a slap in the face. So what he says like this wouldn't be a deceleration of war if Dick had the misfortune of being anyone else. Bruce wants to grab him and maybe shake him to rattle the good sense back into his head.
But he doesn't. He just keeps the distance between them and stares at Dick while he puts his arms up and out and questions him like he's on trial. ]
I don't care why you're doing this. Just stop and go home.
[ It's been a long time, but he can see the anger simmering inside Bruce, can practically feel it rolling off him in waves, charging the air around them. However, Bruce isn't the only one capable of it anymore, and seeing it almost feels like permission.
Dick steps towards Bruce, long, purposeful strides that put him chest to chest with Batman. Maybe Bruce doesn't want to shake Dick, but Dick holds no such reservations and finds Bruce's shoulders with both hands. ]
[ The distance shrinks and so does Bruce's patience. He could headbutt him when he's close enough to reach out and touch. It would be so easy to forget that the man in front of him had been his son once. His partner. It would be so easy to let all of that history go and think of Dick Grayson as another enemy. Another Gotham horror.
It should be easy. But it isn't. Because even under that simmering anger is all of the love he'd ever felt for the boy in front of him and somewhere, he knows Dick's actions come from a place of concern. He knows he hasn't been himself in ages and part of him wants to give in. That human part that realizes the hole he's in is only getting deeper because he refuses to stop digging.
But there's something stubborn that wants to cling to the darkness. That doesn't want to admit any fault at all. ]
[ Forcing Bruce's hand. To do what? The words sound like an empty threat.
Dick looks at Bruce, his warm, brown eyes wild, his pupils dilated because of the concussion, and the whole thing feels like a strange dream. What is Bruce thinking right now, as he stands in front of a son he hasn't seen in years, who reappeared in his life only to wreak havoc, claiming it's for his own good?
He's not sure how long passes by before he's finally answering back. ]
I'm not.
[ There's no bite to the words, only a quiet calmness, a statement of fact as he stepped in closer, until they were chest to chest. With one last beat, he wraps his arms around Bruce, unpracticed, but warm, and draws him into an embrace. ]
[ What is he thinking? He's thinking about the way his heart is beating the longer Dick stares at him. He's thinking about that bead of sweat slipping down the side of his head and down behind his ear. He's thinking about Dick's wild eyes and about all of the years that separated them. But how they'd never really been apart. Not in the truest sense.
Because no one else could have come into his life and turned his world upside down and make it right again in a single sweep.
He's stiff in Dick's arms because it's been ages since anyone's been close enough to hold him like this. Since he's allowed anyone close enough like this.
And then he sinks into the embrace, like it's the only thing holding him together, reluctant arms circling around Dick's waist. ]
[ As much of a tactile person as Dick is, and always has been, his years with Bruce were marked by a distinct lack of warmth. Bruce had never been the type to hug him, or say anything remotely close to the lines of the 'I love you's' that his parents showered his childhood with. Though he and Bruce still had to catch each other when they fell, Dick never felt there was anything other than loyalty underpinning the trust, leaving the void his parents left inside him to fester and spread.
He doesn't remember the last time he hugged Bruce, but it feels like embracing an icicle shaped like the man he still loves despite everything that's happened. Though it's cold, though the ridges of the suit dig into the soft parts of his body, he squeezes anyway. God, he misses Bruce, misses him so bad, and the overwhelming tide of emotions flooding him when those arms wrap around his waist have him shutting his eyes. Nausea crawls up his throat, and finally, he lets go of the breath he holds. It shakes like a weak, soft thing, like finally, he can loosen his control. With it, there's a barely-there whisper of Bruce's name.
Without warning, he goes slack in Bruce's arms and passes out. ]
[ At one point, maybe Bruce had been just as tactile as Dick. Filled up as much as an eight year old could be with life and laughter and imagination and the warm exuberance of youth. All of that's been crushed out of him though. Life had taken him by the neck and squeezed until there was nothing left, but a boy hollowed out and scraped clean.
Dick had been...
Dick had been the start of something good in Bruce's life. Even if he was cold and the relationship distant at best. He could feel the warmth of life seeping back into him in slow, quiet drips. Until it stopped when he nearly lost Dick and the relationship fractured into it's thousand tiny pieces. Dick had been the only good thing in his life and just like his mother and father and all of the what ifs Joe Chill snuffed out, he was gone.
But the difference is Dick came back, despite all of Bruce's efforts to keep him away. He's here and he's got his arms around Bruce and he maybe he doesn't realize how much he's needed this. How badly having him close again would soothe all of the aches and self inflicted pains. He hugs Dick and he feels like he's alive again. Dick says his name and Bruce grips him tighter ]
I'm right here.
[ And it's good that he is because soon after Dick is limp in his arms and Bruce has to put himself away for now to see to him. When Dick wakes, he'll find himself under the harsh fluorescent glow of the Cave's infirmary lighting. And Bruce is there, sitting not too far away and half dressed in his costume. The cowl is missing and the gauntlets are off. He's just Bruce and for once that feels like it's enough. ]
[ The lights are blinding. Dick has never been a religious man, but he thinks that if this is heaven, itās too bright. It burns into the back of his irises, making him turn his head one way then the other, trying to find solace from it. Pain blooms somewhere and clouds over his senses, until he hears himself make a quiet sound, somewhere between a groan and a croak. ]
ā¦offā¦ [ He hears himself say it as if far away. ] Nnhāturn it off. [ He squeezes his eyes shut then dares to open them, gasping and blinking as the bright fluorescents beam down on him. It takes him right back to years and years ago, when heād woken up with this exact feeling, wanting the exact thing he wants now. ]
Bruceā¦ Bruce. [ His voice is barely above a whisper. He doesnāt know where he is, but as soon as that name leaves his mouth for the third time, he remembers: Bruce isnāt here. Dick left him years ago, and the gaping wound in his chest throbs as he squeezes his eyes shut and feels hot tears roll into his temples. ]
[ The lights were necessary. Alfred had needed them when Bruce hauled Dick into the room and asked (begged) for Alfred to do something. To save him. When Alfred looks at him, it's the same look he'd given him the night Bruce's life fell apart. The same look when they thought Dick wouldn't survive Joker's assault. It's those soft, sad eyes. He told Bruce to step back and let him work. That Dick would be fine.
Bruce believed him. It hurt too much to think otherwise.
He rounded Dick's bed when he groaned. The lights dimmed and Bruce returns to his side just moments later. In time to hear his name whispered and to see the tears streaming back toward his hair. He peels the gauntlets off so Dick could feel him and not the years of barriers between them. Then Bruce wipes Dick's tears away. ]
[ Almost immediately, as soon as that warm touch finds his cheek, Dick quiets. Thereās a part of his soul that recognizes it. Slowly, the blinding light fades away and Bruceās face is there, gazing down at him. As that blurry image sharpens, Dick can see it all. All five years apart, etched deeper in the memory of Bruceās features, the crinkle in the corners of his eyes, the line at either corner of his mouth, and the furrow between his brows, pinched with worry. ]
Bruceā¦ [ He whispers again before turning his face into Bruceās palm. A quiet breath falls from his parted lips though his eyes still gaze hazily to that familiar face. ]
[ Five years and it feels like Bruce is feeling every hurt between the last time they were together and this one. Five years of loneliness and worry and pain because he missed this man, but was too prideful to ever say it. He just let it drag him deeper into the mire. Let it turn him into something he barely recognized. A true monster lurking in the shadows.
And then Dick looks at him and Bruce feels like life is returning to him in drips and drops. Slow, like a faucet barely turned on. But it was on and heād be full soon if they could stay like this for just a little while longer.
Heās relieved when Dick quiets and he can feel his warm breath on his palm. And so, so grateful they were together again. That he could be there this time to catch him when he fell. ]
You fainted.
[ He wipes another errant tear off Dickās cheek. ]
I told you, you had a concussion.
[ Itās not scolding, surprisingly enough. Itās a gentle kind of tease. The sort of banter they enjoyed in those early years. ]
Right. It all comes rushing back, the last few sleepless days had been a blur, spent chasing after Bruce's leads, dedicated to severing every tie that tethered back to Batman. Is this how it felt to be one of the rogues? To obsess over Gotham's hero and destroying all that he had built? He hadn't wanted to, he had no choice, it had been the only way he was able to get Bruce's attention. Except... ]
Yeah. You told me. [ Except he's right here, right now, and that big palm holding Dick's face is real, wiping away his tears. It's that tone that settles so achingly sweet in his chest while simultaneously filling the void that had throbbed every single day for the past five years. Bruce's tone is reminiscent of those early years when he was all Dick had and one affirmation would prove that everything would be okay.
Everything would be okay.
He's looking at the face he'd missed so much, finally out of the cowl that had acted like barrier between them, and it all came flooding in like a tide. His breath stuck in his throat and he shakily reached up to put his hand on Bruce's, unable to stop himself from turning into that palm with a hitch in his throat. Fuck. Why can't he stop fucking crying. Why can't he pull himself together? Why does this have to be so hard? ]
I'm... [ His voice breaks as tears blurred his vision. Even then, he didn't look away from the man who had caught him every. Single. Time. Who had been there when he had nothing. ] Bruce, I'm sorry.
He had heard those words the night his mother and father died. Alfred whispered them into his hair while he soaked his mother's pillow with his tears. Heard them at his first heartbreak and when he left to travel the world and when he came back on that very first night as Batman. And when he brought Dick home in his arms, bleeding and broken. So much blood he didn't think it would ever stop.
This is the first time he's said them to himself and actually believed them. Dick is alive and so is he and it feels okay. Not perfect. But getting there. The hand on Dick's cheek slides down to his neck where fingers press against the steady thump of his heart. So Bruce could feel it and be grounded by the rhythm.
Bruce should be the one apologizing. For caging him. For suffocating him. Leaving Dick to grow up in this world without him. It had all been his doing and when it comes time to recognize it, he chokes on the words. They don't come out the way he wants them to. ]
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Bruce never let go of that night. It's never far, even when he pushes it away. Sends it careening into the darkest corners of his brain. Even when he tries to lock it away and forget where he buries the key. Bruce never let go of that version of him. And maybe he never will.
Dick would never understand. Every time he took a risk or steps out into the field, all Bruce would ever see is a coffin. Another procession. Another burial. Not the man choosing to standing beside him. He sees a corpse ā his to carry and mourn.
Fire and ice didn't mix. Because Bruce wants to freeze him, stifle that flame until it burns down to nothing. Not out of love. Out of fear and failure and that deeply rooted need to control.
Dick would never understand. He almost died and Bruce had to keep him safe. Even if it meant he could never let him truly live again. ]
You're done.
[ His jaw sets, face unreadable. But there's pain even if it didn't seem like it, chipping away at his insides. It's piercing and cold and it makes him feel so empty. Any other man would be doubled over from the hurt. Bruce isn't any other man. He glares. ]
Until you remember how this works. [ How they worked ] you will no longer come with me on patrols.
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He refuses to cry, to give Bruce that satisfaction, but it does take him a moment as he reels from it, staring at Bruce like he can barely believe it.
This is a nightmare.
His gaze casts down as he steels himself, the words stuck in his throat for a beat before he lifts his newly determined eyes back up. ]
I'm leaving.
[ Sure, he's run away from home before. This is far from the first time they've argued, far from the first time Bruce is threatening him, but Dick has his mind made up this time. It's better to leave the nest for good than be a bird in a cage, chirping and flapping and going no where.
He hates the way that thought boils his emotions over, welling over his waterline and searing down his cheeks. He hates how he rushes to wipe it off his face, furiously staring right back at Bruce.
He hates the way his voice shakes. ]
You're right. I'm done.
[ He shoves the covers off and forces himself to his feet, gritting his teeth against the woozy way the whole room shifts. He pushes until he's stepping forward, one foot determinately in front of the other. The physical pain is a welcome one. At least like this, it drowns out the one in his heart. He makes it all the way past Bruce and shoves past his oppressive presence before it catches up to him, bringing him to his knees before he collapses and passes out in a heap on the ground. ]
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It is a nightmare and Bruce wants it to end.
But none of that turmoil reaches his face, except in the subtle tightening of his jaw. He couldn't stop Dick from leaving. Probably never could.
Maybe it's for the best. ]
Fine.
[ Bruce would make arrangements for a hospital stay. Somewhere where they wouldn't ask too many questions. Somewhere Dick could recuperate out of his sight.
Clean lines. A clean break. No mess. Just the way Bruce liked it.
He doesn't get the chance to make those arrangements before Dick is shoving himself upright and swaying under the weight of his concussion. ]
You shouldn't be standing.
[ The words feels like they come out in slow motion. Bruce feels like he is moving in slow motion, like he's trying push through something oppressive and heavy. Dick! he yells and it brings Alfred back to the room in a flurry of supplies.
Alfred disagrees when Dick is back in the bed. Dick would be going no where until he was at least through the worst of it. Maybe then they could discuss the logistics of Batman and Robin breaking up. But not one second before.
Bruce would not be there for any of it. ]
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Bruce isnāt even here when Deathstroke kills Aqualad, or when Dick kills Deathstrokeās son in return, or when he shutters the tower and isolates himself in Detroit for it. Itās only during the darkest moments that he realizes the truth: that despite his best attempts, everything he does is because of Bruce. Batman even follows Robin around on the tongues of everyone he meets.
Whereās Batman, little birdie? Why are you so far from home?.
Heās more brutal then, alone and hurting, punching with Batmanās mantle gritting like a curse behind every blow, the callouses on his knuckles and scars on his body etched with the very violence he tried to run away from. He doesnāt know how to be any other way, so he quits again. He strips off the Robin suit and burns it and leaves its ashes scattering in the wind.
The following year is spent trying to fill both Batman and Robinās void with every kind of case he can take on. He dives deep into the precinct, trying to drown it all out by submerging himself into a life that doesnāt feel like his. Most days, he keeps his head and anger to himself. Other days, he wonders who heās trying to convince of the lie. Is he still doing this for Bruce?
Is it what Bruce did for him that has him gravitating toward helping kids? The troubled ones are drawn to him, too, congealing around him until something like a family forms into a second reincarnation of the Titans. Like a phoenix rising out of ashes, Nightwing emerges from the lowest point in his life.
And strangely enough, thatās when Alfred calls and tethers him back to Gotham.
Dick sits in his favourite armchair of the manor. A fire crackles in front of him, the glow of it casting a warm glow across the otherwise dark living room. Itās so late itās almost light outside, and Dick wonders whether or not it was worth coming here.
What do you want me to do about it? He had asked Alfred, in a flurry of sadness and frustration, terrified that everything heās worked so hard for would be destroyed in an instant, blown up to smithereens by the silent missile that is Bruce Wayne. Yet even if Alfred hadnāt answered the way he did, Dick knew he had no choice. Dick knew he was defenceless against the way his heart leapt at the thought of returning.
His gaze is unreadable when he looks over his shoulder. Even after years and years apart, he recognizes those footfalls anywhere. He stands to face Bruce and folds his hands into his pockets with a slow, steadying exhale. ]
Bruce.
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It's a thought that shatters him all over again. The pieces scattered so far they may as well be out of reach. And Bruce would have to put them back together again. Pick them up one by one and find a new way to put them together. Because looking at the old picture was too painful of a reminder.
No one notices the dark turn Batman takes. Not at first. He's always been brutal. But now there's a new kind of mean streak in him, sharper, colder. Something darker and jagged that wasn't there before.
Alfred notices first. Of course he does. It becomes undeniable when the first one dies. A quiet death in the hospital. Bruce dumped him at Gotham Memorial, bloodied and broken. The poor sod never woke up again. He notices when Bruce's methods shift. How the violence escalates, how the rage simmers just beneath the surface. How Bruce fights now. The brand he leaves on the people he doesn't want saved. A silent sentence. This one dies.
It's different. All of it is different. All of it started after Dick left.
Alfred tries and it's a valiant effort to bring Bruce back to himself. But his pleas and ultimatums are ultimately ignored. Even a quiet threat to leave is met with cold indifference. Maybe it's for the best, Bruce thought. Then he wouldn't have to be party to this. Whatever it is Bruce was becoming.
But he doesn't give up. Not quite yet. He calls Dick in the middle of the night, while Bruce is out and they can talk with a little more room to breathe. He asks Dick if he'll come home again. Just for a little while. Because Bruce is losing himself and Alfred could not bring him back alone.
You have a guest, Alfred tells him while he's getting dressed for patrol. Master Grayson is waiting for you in the living room.
Bruce almost doesn't go. Almost tells Alfred to send him on his way with his regrets they couldn't meet. But...it's been five years and Bruce would be lying if he said he did not want to see him. So he goes, costume and all to see his prodigal son.
He swallows a hard breath when he sees Dick, eyes hard and jaw set tight. ]
What are you doing here?
[ āHello, Dick,ā he means. āIt's good to see you again.ā ]
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Maybe it's a good thing. Five years later and Batman is still the same. Standing there dark and ominous like an extension of the shadows in the room. He knows he's different. A little taller, a little broader, filled out and grown up from the boy he was when he left.
More mature, too, despite the dry huff he gives in response, coupled with a beat looking off to the side. He shrugs and shakes his head like he doesn't have an answer before levelling his look. ]
I'm not here to fight you, Bruce. You don't have to come out swinging like that. I wanna know...what's going on?
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Quitting on him.
And now he's come back. All grown up. Five years may as well have been five lifetimes. This isn't the boy he trained to be his partner. He isn't Robin anymore. And he hadn't needed Bruce at all to get there.
What else was he supposed to say? I missed you is too much. I'm sorry is not enough. You shouldn't have come is cruel, but the closest to honest. He's thankful he doesn't have to come up with something else to say. He can answer Dick's question and move on with his night. ]
Nothing is going on. I'm sorry Alfred wasted your time.
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All that good, and all that bad.
Five years is a long time, but it's helped him work through at least that much. However, not even all the time in the world could dull the hurt Bruce manages to pull up from the depths of his chest, easily parting everything he's carefully mended shut. He finds it now burns, and oozes like an old, infected wound.
Dick looks away, dark gaze dropping to the fire instead. ]
Alfred's worried about you. And...
[ Ugh. The words catch in his throat like rusty nails. He has to work to pull them up. In his eyes, there's weight, but there's also a quiet, yearning vulnerability when he lifts them to Bruce again. ]
I'm worried about you, too.
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So he stayed away, where it was easiest and safest for him. And watched his son grow up without him. Watched him form the Titans and watched it fall apart and come back together again. Watched him find his identity as Nightwing and put all of that training and experience to work in BlĆ¼dhaven. He had become something better. Stronger. What Batman should be instead of...this. ]
I'm fine, Dick.
[ A little older now. Sometimes there's a twinge in his knee or a catch in his shoulder. The cold settles easier in his bones than it used to. But he's fine. He's fine. ]
What did Alfred tell you exactly?
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The questions were as far as those thoughts would get, only ever tendrils of yearning Dick would quickly sever, catharized and buried down into the wound with every other intrusive thought of his father-figure. Cold, as always, unreadable. Fine. ]
The relevant details.
[ A single-shouldered shrug accompanies the way Dick meets Batman's eyes before letting his gaze wander, tracking down the details of the suit. It's changed, lighter in some areas, reinforced around the joints, surely better in many ways that Dick can't see standing this far away. ]
Nothing I couldn't have figured out on my own.
[ It's been a long time since he did this whole standoff thing with Bruce. Five years, to be precise, and he can feel how rusty those gears are, the tired croak of their movement, the way they start to thaw out the hurt in the dusty corners of his heart.
A furrow pinches between his brow in the slightest hint of wince, emotion rippling through his features for a moment before he hems it back. Though he manages to keep his voice calm again, Dick knows Bruce wouldn't have missed it. ]
You're not fine, Bruce. You're hurting people--branding people. You don't wanna do that.
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Bruce doesn't have many tells. He knows how to show only what he wants people to see. But that doesn't mean he doesn't have any. Dick could suss him out if he were inclined to and with the way he eyes the suit and how it's changed over the years, Bruce gets the feeling that's exactly what he's doing. Looking for that tell, that subtle shift. That admission without words. ]
Is that what he told you.
[ It sounds like it should be a question. It's not. It feels like a mischaracterization. Branding someone implied ownership. Bruce didn't want to own any of Gotham's dredges. He was simply cleaning up the city. Like he'd always promised to do. Taking out the trash. Doing a public service. ]
Go back to BlĆ¼dhaven. I hear there's a drug deal happening tonight.
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BlĆ¼dhaven?
So Bruce has been watching. For how long? How closely? Very closely if he knows about the deal happening in a few hours, which means Bruce...
...still cares?
Fuck, Grayson, you're so fucking pathetic. His gaze turns hard and his arms cross over his chest. ]
Stay out of my business, Bruce.
[ It comes out angrier than he intended, but what else is he supposed to do when Bruce makes him feel this shitty about himself? ]
You have enough to figure out in Gotham. You know you're killing them, right? Does that still matter or did you change your constitution?
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He'd say he didn't sit and watch his feeds to know what Dick was up to precisely. He had other things that needed his attention. He didn't have time to monitor Dick's every move.
Knowing about that drug deal is just a coincidence. ]
Stay out of my business, Dick.
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You're...
[ His words trail off and die on his tongue. He struggles to come to terms with just how far out of reach Bruce feels now, standing in front of him for the first time in years. ]
What happened to you?
[ It's a genuine question, his own hurt feelings cast aside in shock and worry. ]
Bruce? [ Dick takes a step forward, every foot in front of the other bringing him closer to Batman until he can see the dark, stormy irises of Bruce's cold, emotionless eyes. A hand grips Bruce's upper arm. ] You have to snap out of it, Bruce. What the hell is wrong with you?
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Bruce could see it himself. He didn't need Alfred or his spreadsheet to know this has gotten out of hand.
But he can't stop now. The mire's too thick, too deep. It's seeped into him in a way he can't cough up or out. ]
Nothing. You don't like how I do things now, I get that. But it's been five years. You're not the only one who grew up.
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Right. This is why he left in the first place. ]
I know you donāt agree, Bruce, but if it were me, Iād hope that the people around me would call me out on my bullshit too. Iām sorry, this is gonna suck. For all of us.
[ Thankfully, in the five years since, Dick has learned Bruceās language of cryptic, though he doesnāt deliver it with the same ice-cold tone. Instead, his words are full of empathy, full of the hard-earned kindness Dick fights to keep every day. ]
Could weā¦talk? Me and you? Could you take off the suit?
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He knew calling Dick was a possibility, but stubbornly only really considered Alfred leaving as his only option.
But here he is, his prodigal son lecturing him about his bullshit and asking if they could talk. Now he wants to talk after five years of radio silence. Bruce scoffs, incredulous. ]
Would you even be here if Alfred hadn't asked you to be?
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Still. That scoff has the line of Dickās mouth tightening, stuck on his response because he doesnāt have one Bruce would want to hear. Still, five years later, he still considers what Bruce would say before he speaks. Strangeāhe thought he wouldāve been over that bit. ]
No.
[ It takes effort to hold Bruceās gaze. ]
I wouldnāt. I said no to Alfred at first. I didnāt wanna get involved, butā¦after everything, weāre all we have.
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He holds Bruce's gaze and he can see the effort it takes. Because there's no kindness there. No warmth or welcoming or understanding. Just a cold acceptance of the truth. He didn't want to be here. Bruce didn't want him here either. He didn't have anyone and he's better off for it. ]
Go home, Dick. Stop wasting both our time.
[ He turns to go. Pulls the cowl back over his head like he's saying goodbye to the last little bit of humanity. ]
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It's not until Bruce is gone that he lets out the breath he was holding, the quiver of it shaking his through his shoulders and body until he melts into a leather armchair, refusing to cry. This is a mission now. Bruce is another case to crack, and he's determined to do it. The heels of his hands sink into his eyes, pressing back the hot tears welling at his lashline.
Fuck this. Fuck talking. Fuck conversations that go no where and the brick wall that is Bruce Wayne. His fingers slide through his hair as he lets his head droop back until he's staring at the shadows casted by the crystal chandelier. A plan starts to formulate in his head: He'll find each of Batman's allies and explain what's going on and convince them that Batman needs a break. Nightwing will cover in the meantime for whatever it is that they need Batman to do. Whatever Batman is capable of, Dick knows he is as well.
He pushes off the armchair and heads off to find Gordon. Bruce won't like this one bit, but it's what has to be done. The hard part will be reorienting himself deep enough into the city to figure out which abandoned building he can set up shop in. There's a lot of work to be done and he can't afford to sit around trying to talk. ]
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On day three, Bruce follows a rumor that Nightwing's been spotted in the city and he's moving in on the Bat's territory.
It's not hard to find where he's hiding out and Bruce suspects, he means for it to be found. That annoys him. It annoys him even more when Dick returns and seems like he's expecting him to be here. ]
Whatever you're doing, stop. Now.
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It's been a long time since he was this deep in Gotham.
The notification that Bruce has gained access to his warehouse is paired with a flood of nerves, as much as he manages to keep it all hidden as he steps in, wearing a black hoodie and dark jeans. He has a split lip, a bruise on his cheek, and unsettled eyes. Nightwing is in the case held in his hand that he pops open on a table. There's blood on the pieces of armour he pulls out to clean. ]
Not until you stop.
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He's quiet long enough to look Dick over. He notes the split lip and the dark bruise on his cheek and the way his eyes don't focus like they should. It makes ignoring Dick's reply easier. ]
This isn't your city.
[ Concern is a lower priority, behind the agitation and outrage he feels at being shut out of his own operation. But it's there, quiet like a breath. ]
You have a concussion.
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So what?
[ It's hard to say what it is he's really answering to. How the tables have turned, that he was the one standing at Bruce's doorstep days ago, just wanting to talk. It's this thought that has him sighing and stepping away from the table. He can't be like Bruce--won't be like Bruce, throwing up walls in the face of an open desire to communicate.
Not that he believes for a moment that Bruce is here to communicate. So he might as well start throwing topics at the wall, then. See what sticks. ]
You wanna know why I'm doing this? [ Both hands splay at his sides, open, but tired, the throb of his head building behind his eyeballs. ] Or what I'm trying to achieve? Wanna know how far I'll go?
[ Just say something, goddamnit. ]
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But he doesn't. He just keeps the distance between them and stares at Dick while he puts his arms up and out and questions him like he's on trial. ]
I don't care why you're doing this. Just stop and go home.
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Dick steps towards Bruce, long, purposeful strides that put him chest to chest with Batman. Maybe Bruce doesn't want to shake Dick, but Dick holds no such reservations and finds Bruce's shoulders with both hands. ]
Listen to me. If you don't care, I won't stop.
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It should be easy. But it isn't. Because even under that simmering anger is all of the love he'd ever felt for the boy in front of him and somewhere, he knows Dick's actions come from a place of concern. He knows he hasn't been himself in ages and part of him wants to give in. That human part that realizes the hole he's in is only getting deeper because he refuses to stop digging.
But there's something stubborn that wants to cling to the darkness. That doesn't want to admit any fault at all. ]
You are forcing my hand.
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Dick looks at Bruce, his warm, brown eyes wild, his pupils dilated because of the concussion, and the whole thing feels like a strange dream. What is Bruce thinking right now, as he stands in front of a son he hasn't seen in years, who reappeared in his life only to wreak havoc, claiming it's for his own good?
He's not sure how long passes by before he's finally answering back. ]
I'm not.
[ There's no bite to the words, only a quiet calmness, a statement of fact as he stepped in closer, until they were chest to chest. With one last beat, he wraps his arms around Bruce, unpracticed, but warm, and draws him into an embrace. ]
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Because no one else could have come into his life and turned his world upside down and make it right again in a single sweep.
He's stiff in Dick's arms because it's been ages since anyone's been close enough to hold him like this. Since he's allowed anyone close enough like this.
And then he sinks into the embrace, like it's the only thing holding him together, reluctant arms circling around Dick's waist. ]
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He doesn't remember the last time he hugged Bruce, but it feels like embracing an icicle shaped like the man he still loves despite everything that's happened. Though it's cold, though the ridges of the suit dig into the soft parts of his body, he squeezes anyway. God, he misses Bruce, misses him so bad, and the overwhelming tide of emotions flooding him when those arms wrap around his waist have him shutting his eyes. Nausea crawls up his throat, and finally, he lets go of the breath he holds. It shakes like a weak, soft thing, like finally, he can loosen his control. With it, there's a barely-there whisper of Bruce's name.
Without warning, he goes slack in Bruce's arms and passes out. ]
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Dick had been...
Dick had been the start of something good in Bruce's life. Even if he was cold and the relationship distant at best. He could feel the warmth of life seeping back into him in slow, quiet drips. Until it stopped when he nearly lost Dick and the relationship fractured into it's thousand tiny pieces. Dick had been the only good thing in his life and just like his mother and father and all of the what ifs Joe Chill snuffed out, he was gone.
But the difference is Dick came back, despite all of Bruce's efforts to keep him away. He's here and he's got his arms around Bruce and he maybe he doesn't realize how much he's needed this. How badly having him close again would soothe all of the aches and self inflicted pains. He hugs Dick and he feels like he's alive again. Dick says his name and Bruce grips him tighter ]
I'm right here.
[ And it's good that he is because soon after Dick is limp in his arms and Bruce has to put himself away for now to see to him. When Dick wakes, he'll find himself under the harsh fluorescent glow of the Cave's infirmary lighting. And Bruce is there, sitting not too far away and half dressed in his costume. The cowl is missing and the gauntlets are off. He's just Bruce and for once that feels like it's enough. ]
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ā¦offā¦ [ He hears himself say it as if far away. ] Nnhāturn it off. [ He squeezes his eyes shut then dares to open them, gasping and blinking as the bright fluorescents beam down on him. It takes him right back to years and years ago, when heād woken up with this exact feeling, wanting the exact thing he wants now. ]
Bruceā¦ Bruce. [ His voice is barely above a whisper. He doesnāt know where he is, but as soon as that name leaves his mouth for the third time, he remembers: Bruce isnāt here. Dick left him years ago, and the gaping wound in his chest throbs as he squeezes his eyes shut and feels hot tears roll into his temples. ]
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Bruce believed him. It hurt too much to think otherwise.
He rounded Dick's bed when he groaned. The lights dimmed and Bruce returns to his side just moments later. In time to hear his name whispered and to see the tears streaming back toward his hair. He peels the gauntlets off so Dick could feel him and not the years of barriers between them. Then Bruce wipes Dick's tears away. ]
I'm right here, Dick. Look at me. I'm right here.
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Bruceā¦ [ He whispers again before turning his face into Bruceās palm. A quiet breath falls from his parted lips though his eyes still gaze hazily to that familiar face. ]
What happenedā¦?
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And then Dick looks at him and Bruce feels like life is returning to him in drips and drops. Slow, like a faucet barely turned on. But it was on and heād be full soon if they could stay like this for just a little while longer.
Heās relieved when Dick quiets and he can feel his warm breath on his palm. And so, so grateful they were together again. That he could be there this time to catch him when he fell. ]
You fainted.
[ He wipes another errant tear off Dickās cheek. ]
I told you, you had a concussion.
[ Itās not scolding, surprisingly enough. Itās a gentle kind of tease. The sort of banter they enjoyed in those early years. ]
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Right. It all comes rushing back, the last few sleepless days had been a blur, spent chasing after Bruce's leads, dedicated to severing every tie that tethered back to Batman. Is this how it felt to be one of the rogues? To obsess over Gotham's hero and destroying all that he had built? He hadn't wanted to, he had no choice, it had been the only way he was able to get Bruce's attention. Except... ]
Yeah. You told me. [ Except he's right here, right now, and that big palm holding Dick's face is real, wiping away his tears. It's that tone that settles so achingly sweet in his chest while simultaneously filling the void that had throbbed every single day for the past five years. Bruce's tone is reminiscent of those early years when he was all Dick had and one affirmation would prove that everything would be okay.
Everything would be okay.
He's looking at the face he'd missed so much, finally out of the cowl that had acted like barrier between them, and it all came flooding in like a tide. His breath stuck in his throat and he shakily reached up to put his hand on Bruce's, unable to stop himself from turning into that palm with a hitch in his throat. Fuck. Why can't he stop fucking crying. Why can't he pull himself together? Why does this have to be so hard? ]
I'm... [ His voice breaks as tears blurred his vision. Even then, he didn't look away from the man who had caught him every. Single. Time. Who had been there when he had nothing. ] Bruce, I'm sorry.
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He had heard those words the night his mother and father died. Alfred whispered them into his hair while he soaked his mother's pillow with his tears. Heard them at his first heartbreak and when he left to travel the world and when he came back on that very first night as Batman. And when he brought Dick home in his arms, bleeding and broken. So much blood he didn't think it would ever stop.
This is the first time he's said them to himself and actually believed them. Dick is alive and so is he and it feels okay. Not perfect. But getting there. The hand on Dick's cheek slides down to his neck where fingers press against the steady thump of his heart. So Bruce could feel it and be grounded by the rhythm.
Bruce should be the one apologizing. For caging him. For suffocating him. Leaving Dick to grow up in this world without him. It had all been his doing and when it comes time to recognize it, he chokes on the words. They don't come out the way he wants them to. ]
It's okay.
[ No it isn't. He leans in and tries again. ]
I'm sorry.