Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure he never knows he's in prison.” ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Nightmares and Daydreams

“Get back here.”

Dick’s steps falter, but he doesn’t slow his pace as he makes his way to the shower. The Nightwing suit is sticking to his back, and he can feel dirt falling out of his hair. The rest of his data set input can wait until he’s not actively leaking mud. Besides, Red Robin and Spoiler are also in the room, maybe Batman isn’t even talking to him. 

Although, if Bruce is using that tone with someone else, maybe Dick shouldn’t just walk away...

He is almost to the door when something hard clamps down on his arm and whirls him around.

“Ow, what the f-”

“Dick.” Batman’s cowl is now inches from his face. Dick is too tired to flinch, and holds himself still. 

“B, let go,” says Dick, swallowing his anger and pride at being manhandled like a child. Bruce’s hand is still wrapped around Dick’s arm and Dick tries to pull free but the grip only tightens, restraining him. He feels a wild urge to defend himself, for simply trying to shower. “We’ve been working for hours. I’m just going to shower, grab something to eat, then I’ll be right back.”

“Grab me a hot chocolate!” Steph calls from across the cave.

“No. That data is time sensitive. Tim needs the results to complete his search. That has priority right now,” Bruce growls, and from up close the sweat is strong and Dick really wishes Bruce would get changed too. 

Dick wants to be peaceful, really. Only, it has been almost three hours since they returned from a tense showdown at one of the hotels linked to the latest human trafficking cartel case. Bruce has involved the entire family in this one. The case has been going on for months now and should have been wrapped up today, but this night revealed a more insidious fifth root of the operation that will drag the case out for weeks by Dick’s estimate. No one is happy tonight, least of all Bruce.

So, Dick gets it, he really does. Bruce wants him to finish entering the data to run the algorithm on location prediction, which will help Tim track from there. It’s important to be as fast as possible - with human trafficking, time is always too short. 

But: it’s 5:03 am. Dick has already completed three sets and only has one more to enter. The program takes hours to run and won’t be ready for the last set anyway until 8:00 am. And it’s Monday morning; Dick wants to be back in Bludhaven to teach a class at noon.

And Dick is dirty, hungry and tired, and now he really needs to pee.

Another part of Dick that he would never voice aloud whines that the Red Hood went home right after the mission with zero hassle from Batman. But Dick knows that if Bruce had tried to force Jason to stay they wouldn’t have seen the Red Hood again for weeks. Besides, Jason can smell angry Bruce from miles away and knows exactly how to make himself scarce. Dick doesn’t begrudge him this talent, recalling his violent reception after his resurrection. And Damian isn’t here, is probably going to be upset to miss all of this case work, even boring computer input. Dick knows that Damian has a test tomorrow and loudly complained before heading to bed at a reasonable time. It’s likely for the best that they aren’t here. Alfred has entered the cave every hour on the hour since they returned; each visit he stares disapprovingly and then pointedly talks about the time, but Bruce has firmly refused to allow anyone to leave yet. 

Sometimes, Dick wishes he was out of the country with Cass. This is definitely one of those times.

“It’s five am, Bruce, I-,” Dick turns and glances across the cave, where Stephanie is helping Tim comb through the case files related to the four different organizations they had already apprehended, searching for hints related to the fifth. Tim’s eyes are glued to the screen, though whether he is actually processing information is a mystery. Tim, Dick is fairly certain, has not slept in days. Bruce has been pressuring him on both the Wayne Enterprises and Red Robin fronts. 

Stephanie is watching Dick and Bruce with interest, and she gives a small wave when their eyes meet and mimes drinking hot chocolate. Dick almost snorts.

Bruce grabs Dick’s jaw and forces him back to meet his eyes. His irritation is clear. Dick starts speaking before he can get rebuked.

“Come on, there’s no point in me punching numbers in now, the last set won’t be finished for hours,” Dick can’t remember how to talk to Bruce when Bruce is angry and he’s not, but he knows he needs to make Bruce not angry. He tries bargaining, softening his voice. “I'll be fifteen minutes tops. Then I can help you monitor alerts, divide and conquer. I’ll take the annoying media ones even to protect your sensibilities,” He offers a tired, commiserating smile.

Bruce remains unchanged. He pulls Dick closer to him. “You need to take this seriously.” Dick’s heart pangs because seriously? Seriously? Dick has spent more time in Gotham than Bludhaven lately for this case, dropping everything. Dick starts to protest but Bruce continues. He sounds frustrated; it must be at Dick. “You have a responsibility to this case, after that sloppy entry tonight. If you had called for back-up sooner we wouldn’t need to start from scratch with running the search. But now we’re behind, and playing catch up.” 

How unfair. There were a thousand reasons they had failed to close the case tonight. Bad intel from Red Robin, Jason’s poor interrogation methods, Bruce’s own rush to finish the case. Dick could have recognized the threat sooner but blaming it solely on him was just rich. He feels the old anger stirring, familiar from every time Bruce has questioned his competency. “But we had bad intel. And you -”

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Dick. All that matters is getting that information as fast as possible. Because of our actions tonight, hundreds of victims continue to be at risk. I’m not asking you to be perfect Dick, I’m just asking you to be better.” And Dick… can’t argue with the stakes, as his shoulders sag. His heart is heavy for the trafficked souls that slipped out of their grasp. And Bruce isn’t wrong, he made a bad call in the field.

He opens his mouth to say the words that taste so familiar now it’s like he has swallowed them before. The words he has gotten used to, an easy diffusion to most painful situations. “I’m sorry, B.”

He allows Bruce to drag him back to the computer. His whole arm is numb by now; he doesn’t even feel it when Bruce finally lets go and steps away from him, settling back at his own computer. In fact, maybe his whole body is numb now, except for his gut, which is churning. He automatically starts to enter data again, just with his right hand, his left arm not responding well. 

There is a squeak of a chair from across the room and Stephanie says, “Well, I’m not crucial right now, I think Tim could do this research in his sleep. He might even be asleep right now.” A muffled squawking sound, strikingly similar to a sharply-poked maybe-asleep Tim. “I’m going to grab that hot chocolate! Anybody else want one? Tim? Dick?”

Dick can hear Tim mumble an assent. Dick turns to meet Steph’s eye. She is standing at the bottom of the stairs now, waiting for his reply. She is too far away to read into her expression but there is something searching in her gaze, like she is testing him. Dick is pretty sure he smiles. The thought of eating anything now makes him nauseous.  “Actually I’m not that hungry after all, thanks Steph.”

Steph frowns like he failed her mystery test but her wave is breezy enough as she bounds up the stairs with more energy than reasonable at 5:00 am. College students.

Dick turns back to the computer. The cave is silent save for three separate keyboards clicking. His arm throbs in time to the strokes. Just another hour. He’s almost done.

--------------

Dick wakes up to sunlight streaming in through his window. He is in his old bedroom in the manor. He had finally crawled to bed at 8:00 am and set his alarm for 10:00 am. He feels better rested than two hours of sleep warrant, though.

Suspicious, Dick reaches for his phone on the side table and curses when he sees the time. 

It’s 3:05 pm.

He bolts upright and frantically starts to get dressed, feeling suddenly terrible. He wants to be dependable, hears Bruce’s voice saying you need to be better. He bites back the irrational panic, scrolling through contacts on his phone until he finds his gymnastic manager’s name. He hits the call button.

The phone rings once, then Carol’s voice. “Hello? Dick?”

“Hey,” he says, slightly breathless as he struggles to pull on sweatpants. “I’m so sorry I missed the noon lesson. I can head out now and I’ll be there for the 4:30 class. I must have slept through my alarm and -”

Carol’s laugh cuts him off. “Woah slow down! Dick, hey, it’s okay. Your dad called this morning and said you wouldn’t be able to make it today, maybe not for a few days.” Bruce what? “Listen, I’ve got to go, but I hope you feel better soon, okay? Let me know when you’re up to classes again. Can’t have our best gymnast sick for long!” Her voice is soft and teasing before she ends the call, but Dick can tell she is telling the truth. Bruce really called her.

Bewildered, Dick stares at his phone, then checks his alarms. All disabled. He was sure he had set them this morning. And he was sure he had told Bruce he was heading back to Bludhaven this morning. 

Dick is pretty sure he knows exactly what is happening. The human trafficking case is far from over, and Bruce wants him to stick around to lighten the load. He feels some anger mixed with dread rising up now that the panic is gone. If Bruce thinks he can casually excuse Dick from his own job, his life in Bludhaven, well; he would need to be set straight. Dick is already packed to leave the manor. Dick and Bruce just need to have a chat before he heads home.

Dick slips on a worn t-shirt as he stumbles through the bathroom. It’s fluorescent orange, advertises a local food stand, and is designed to piss off his family members with darker clothing tastes. 

Which is all of them really, but he’s targeting Bruce right now. He’s no Jason Todd, but he can irritate Bruce when he wants to.

He checks his phone. 3:15 pm. Alfred will be out collecting Damian from school. Tim should be asleep, but realistically is either at Wayne Enterprises or Titans Tower. Bruce is either in his study or the cave.

He is about to leave when he glances in the bathroom mirror and freezes, noticing dark finger rings around his arm, darker than he remembered this morning. They stand out grotesquely against his tanned skin. Dick stares for a moment and slowly lifts one hand to trace the bruise with his finger. He doesn’t feel anything, just a bit of emptiness to hollow out his simmering anger. He notes distantly that Bruce must have been really angry last night; this doesn't usually happen anymore. It probably won’t help the conversation to flaunt Bruce’s… issues in his face, and Dick doesn’t like the reminder himself. He bemoans this development as he’ll have to hide his t-shirt choice, but the lime green sweater he pulls on over top is almost as good. He leaves his room.

The manor is quiet except for his footfalls as he searches for other life forms. The kitchen is empty. Dick hasn’t eaten today, but he needs to confront Bruce now, before he loses his nerve, so he moves on. Empty library, empty office. Dicks sighs internally, knowing that the Batman will be where Dick expects him to be when Alfred isn’t around to chase him out, and heads to the cave.

Bruce doesn’t look up from the computer even though Dick pointedly makes his tread heavy. At least it really is Bruce, who has forgone the cowl and armor for suit slacks. Perhaps he was doing Wayne Enterprises business earlier. Dick wonders if he has slept at all. There is a half empty coffee mug next to a stack of files.

“Hey B,” Dick greets, going for casual, but even he can hear the steel undercurrent. 

Bruce must pick up on it as well because he actually looks up. His eyes tighten when met with the neon green brilliance of Dick’s sweater, and Dick takes time to be petty-proud. “Dick. I trust you slept well.”

Dick narrows his eyes, jaw clenching. “Oh, yeah. About that.” He slams his fist down on the desk next to Bruce, scattering the files. “What the fuck , Bruce!” It comes out louder than he’d meant it to, and he fights to control his volume as he continues, “Why the hell did you turn off my alarm? Why did you tell Carol I was sick? I told you I was going back to Bludhaven!”

Bruce frowns at the files falling to the floor. He sighs as he bends to pick them up, like he doesn’t have time for this. Like talking to Dick is a nuisance, like he doesn’t think they should even be having this conversation. Dick stands there uselessly for a moment, watching Bruce pick up his mess. “Calm down, Dick. You’re overreacting. Right now, you are needed here more than in Bludhaven. The gymnastics school doesn’t need you to go on. And you need to sleep if you’re going to be of any use to me, to the mission.”

Dick had been hoping Bruce would feel a little guilty about his actions, but apparently not. He is also a little hurt at the insinuation that he is wasting his time at the gymnastics centre. He ignores his tiny sense of self-preservation that sounds a lot like Barbara saying he needs to diffuse. Maybe he is out of practice since Bruce died and then didn’t die, because he wants to have this fight.

He grinds his jaw and forces out, “You. Do not. Make decisions for me. I have my own cases in Bludhaven I’ve been letting sit for weeks to help you here and you could try being thankful instead of controlling -,” Dick cuts himself off. “Anyway, I need to get back. I just came to say goodbye. This mission isn’t going to be over anytime soon, so I’ll see you next weekend.” He starts to move away but Bruce catches his wrist and Dick feels a déjà vu from last night that he can’t shake. Two days in a row is abnormal, usually he knows better than to provoke Bruce so frequently, but today? This fight feels inevitable.

“Dick, stop. Don’t exaggerate, your Bludhaven cases can wait, there’s nothing urgent.” Dick opens his mouth to argue but Bruce squeezes hard and it takes Dick’s breath away for a second. Bruce’s eyes dare Dick to interrupt as he growls, “Let me finish. I know what you’re doing. You’re upset that I interfered with your civilian commitments and you want to hold me accountable by leaving anyway. I understand. But you need to understand what’s important - we are on a timer. People’s lives are at stake while you waste time teaching toddlers how to tumble. You can’t leave now.” 

“Fuck you,” Dick hisses, rage still intact, but his thoughts are swirling now. He knows this case is important, he knows, but surely Bludhaven needs him too? Surely Bruce can see that Dick needs his independence like he needs to breathe. “I’m going to Bludhaven, and I’ll come back when I want to.”

It happens fast. One second Dick is matching Bruce’s glare and the next he’s staring at the computer monitor, his cheek stinging, his neck sore as the rest of his body tries to follow. Bruce’s vice grip holds him in place, along with the words, “Richard John Grayson, stop acting like a child.”

Bruce sighs again, and this time Dick feels it break through his own anger to stab his heart. “I am disappointed that you need it explained to you like this. That you came to me looking for a fight, when it’s already done. Think of your siblings, they can’t shoulder this alone. You are needed in Gotham for this mission for the foreseeable future. And that is final.” He shakes Dick before releasing him and Dick steps back, rubbing his left wrist. It’s the same arm, he notes distantly. 

“A week,” he says, but he’s not sure if it’s really him that says it. “I’ll stay a week.”

Bruce shakes his head. “That might not be long enough. Two weeks at least.”

“A week for now,” Dick doesn’t know why he is insisting on this pretty poor compromise, but he is struggling to find control. He’s floating. If not these words, he’ll wind up apologizing and he is trying hard not to give in. “We’ll reassess.”

Bruce is watching him carefully. “Alright. I’ll reassess in a week.”

Dick can’t talk about this anymore. So he nods, stiffly. He wants to bury their fight in normal conversation. It’s easiest when they both move past these episodes as quickly as possible. Get it together, Grayson.

He looks at the computer for inspiration, notes that Tim must have finished consolidating after Dick went to bed. Who knows how long that took. Poor Tim - Dick feels a sudden certainty that it should have been him doing the extra mission work, thinks bitterly that it’s not like he had anywhere to be today after all. 

He asks neutrally, “Where’s Tim?”

Bruce is silent for a moment, like he is mentally boarding the next train of their conversation. He does that a lot with Dick. “He’s sleeping. Wayne Enterprises can wait for a day. I need him mission ready tonight.”

Dick hums, neither approval nor disapproval. “And have you slept?” He prods, glancing at the coffee mug.

Bruce looks like he wants to roll his eyes but restrains himself. “Don’t parent me, Dick.”

Dick, finally, manages to find a grin. “Alright, alright, I’ll leave that to Alfred, but I don’t want to deal with your crankiness if he starts using underhanded methods!” Hopefully Alfred uses some methods soon. A tired Bruce is, obviously, volatile.

“I’ll try to restrain myself,” Bruce says dryly. “Damian should be home soon, why don’t you go inform him that you’re staying?”

Dick knows a dismissal when he hears it, but he is too much of a coward not to feel anything but grateful for the escape. He salutes lazily and walks himself out. “Aye, aye captain! See you at dinner.”

Bruce goes back to typing before Dick has reached the staircase. Dick allows himself until he reaches the top stair to compose himself. He can’t help feeling frustrated. He and Bruce had been good for months, even during this stressful case. Why now could he suddenly not keep it together? It has been harder these last months since Bruce returned, harder than it was before. But at least Bruce is fighting for him to stay this time. Bruce wants him. Still, perhaps Dick is losing his touch. Or maybe, a small, traitorous voice whispers in his mind as he steps through the door, Bruce is losing his.

----------------

Dick takes a long and scaldingly hot shower, spending the entire time psyching himself up for another week in the manor. This is a good thing, he reasons. Tim is around so he can work on their relationship, which has improved painstakingly slowly since he initially apologized for taking Robin but is still more distant than Dick would like (and maybe Bruce is right, if he has been neglecting Tim, maybe he should spend more time in Gotham). And Damian will be thrilled. By the time Dick has finished turning himself into a tomato, he can hear voices in the manor. He checks his face in the mirror. He is entirely red, no distinguishing marks. Good. Bruce didn’t hit that hard and Dick had turned with the motion; the swelling is minimal. He might not even bruise. His wrist is a different story, but his lime green sweater is back in place.

He enters the kitchen to a pleasingly domestic scene. Damian is sipping tea at the counter while regaling Alfred with the shenanigans of his plebeian classmates. It’s a scene Dick knows well, from that year where Bruce was gone and almost everything was terrible, but this was one of the few bright memories in a sea of dark and grey. The only difference is the priceless heirloom countertop that has served countless Wayne generations in place of the sleek ultramodern newness of the penthouse.

Dick slips up behind Damian and waits for him to set the tea cup down before scooping him up and whirling him around. He feels Damian tense, then relax when he realizes who it is.

Ah, the delightful shrieks of a child. Ow, the fists of a tiny assassin.

“Hello Master Richard,” Alfred greets him over the screaming, affection clear in his voice. “So nice to see you are still with us.” There is a question in his statement.

“Hiiiiiii Alfred,” Dick sings while still spinning his captive. “I couldn’t bring myself to leave!”

“Put me down, Richard!” Damian hollers, beating at his back halfheartedly. Dick counts to five, slowly, before setting Damian back at the counter. He takes the stool next to him.

He grins, leaning on one elbow to get closer. All negative feelings from an hour ago recede as he basks in the presence of his favourite kid in the world. “Damian. How was school?”

“It was not worth my time. Why are you here?” Damian questions hesitantly, avoiding eye contact. “You said you were leaving today.”

Dick is ready for this, after his shower pep talk. “I’m going to stick around a little longer, maybe a week,” he says casually, “This is a pretty big case. And I wanted to spend some more time here when I have you to myself before Thanksgiving!”

“I trust you’ll need my help on the case then,” Damian says self-importantly. “You will be here all week?” Damian glances up, looking hopeful, but he frowns when he sees Dick’s face. “Why are you so red? It was not sunny today.” 

“Damian, you need to be very careful with the showers here,” Dick says seriously, leaning in further to bestow wisdom. “The hot is very hot.”

Alfred meets his eyes and nods sagely at this profound statement, eyes twinkling, and Dick laughs at the camaraderie.

Damian honestly rolls his eyes. “Richard.” Then softer, “You need to take care of yourself.”

Dick decides it is time Damian finished his story to Alfred. “What’s this about a weasel?”

Damian huffs. “It was a rat. And it was very misunderstood, but that imbecile James …..” And he is off again, recounting the woes of elementary school. Dick listens intently, Alfred quietly preparing another pot of tea nearby. 

Dick feels a pang of loss, remembering a year ago when it was just the three of them and such a scene was normal. He misses this. He feels bad missing such a difficult time, when Tim hated him, Jason was off the rails, and Bruce was dead, but there were some very good moments with these two people in front of him. He sits back, accepting a cup of tea and trying to soak up the moment with his family as much as he can.

The moment morphs when a human slug slides into the kitchen and oozes onto the stool furthest from their tea party. Tim blinks groggily from his blanket cocoon, rapidly assessing where the coffee is located.

“Damian,” Dick stage whispers around his teacup, mollusc comparison in mind, “What species is that?” There is a little bit of trust in making this joke, trust that it will not be turned into something it is not, made cutting and cruel. It is something he never would have offered even several months before. But Damian has been doing so well, exchanging what Dick knows to be playful banter with Steph on patrol and, on one memorable occasion, delivering a veiled compliment that had Dick doing a double-take.

“The common pest,” Damian replies, which is... not as bad as it could have been. “It is an invasive species.” Ouch. Dick shoots Damian a reproachful look, which Damian pretends to miss while carefully twisting his teacup’s handle.

But Tim doesn’t seem to notice or care about the insult. He does make a noise of indignation, only it is directed towards the teacup Alfred smoothly places before him. “Alfred,” he whines, “You’re killing me here.”

Alfred adds a plate with two toast slices next to the tea and raises a brow. “Once you have consumed this meager sustenance, you may have coffee. I have just begun a brew.”

Tim looks like he is struggling to choose between accepting defeat or retreating to the illicit instant coffee stash in his closet. Dick glides over and steals one of his toast slices before he can decide. Dick mumbles around a mouthful, “We’ll share, thanks Alfred.”

Tim seems to accept this and begins eating in silence. Dick continues to make small talk with Alfred as Damian pulls out some homework at the other end of the counter. Damian normally studies in his room, but if he wants to be near then Dick is happy not to say anything. It turns out that Alfred has taken up fruit carving as his newest and very respectable hobby. Dick oohs and aahs over an apple turned into delicious delicate leaves.

Tim doesn’t speak until he has finished an entire cup of coffee. Then he turns to Dick. “You’re still here,” he observes. 

Dick turns to Tim with a smile already in place and waits. Alfred graciously pauses his demonstration of fruit carving technique, incidentally sparing an innocent tangerine. 

Tim then raises an eyebrow, a still facade but mind obviously calculating. All he ends up saying is, “Cool.”

Cool. Dick chooses to be optimistic about this response. He stretches out, swinging his leg up onto the neighbouring bar stool. “I’m sticking around for a week to lend a hand on the case.”

Tim nods, fingering the blanket around his shoulders absently. “I’m not surprised; Bruce has me pulling back from Teen Titans. This one means a lot to him.” And oh, Dick feels for Tim, being pulled away from his friends, a team he is responsible for leading. When Dick was leading the Titans, that would have rankled. 

Tim must see some thread of pity Dick feels in his face because he adds, “It’s not a big deal. Everyone is happy for some quieter downtime over the next weeks before Thanksgiving.”

“It’s okay to be disappointed when you can’t see your friends,” Dick says earnestly, and Tim acknowledges the sincerity with a nod and a small, commiserating smile. Two brothers, stuck right where Bruce wants them, as always. But, it wasn’t so long ago that Tim was escaping whatever room Dick walked into. And - ignoring the part of him that dreads (knows) that they will never be the same, will never have what they used to - Dick is pretty certain that they are getting to a good place. This week may be a blessing after all.

“I know that, but thanks.” There is some fumbling within his blanket and then a laptop manifests on the counter. 

Dick dramatically gasps and points at the device, “Concealed carry!”

“It has now been revealed, relax.” Tim then ignores him and starts opening files. Dick doesn’t recognize them from the case; they look Wayne Enterprise related. Dick transfers his focus and studies Tim. He is pretty sure the darkness beneath his eyes isn’t natural, just chronic. The blanket burrito makes him look so young, and Dick desperately wishes he could order him back to bed, or to his friends, somewhere he can relax. But Dick hasn't been able to tell Tim what to do for a long time now.

So Dick grins instead. “Well, I’m looking forward to a week of hanging out with my adorable little brothers!” 

Then, while Tim is distracted and immobilized by his blanket, he swoops in for a hug that lasts only a microsecond, because if Tim were to stiffen or pull away at his touch it would hurt, and in this Dick is a coward. He warps over to a bar stool next to Damian before Tim can react. From safely across the island, all Tim can do is shoot him a dirty look, but Dick is already interrogating Damian about his marine biology project.

Oh, yes. His brothers need more of his attention. An extra week home will be good.

--------------------------

Dinner is a successfully pleasant affair. Alfred has managed to wrangle Bruce out of the cave to sit down with them. Dick keeps the conversation light. He watches Bruce and Tim interact, but if Tim holds any resentment for being kept from the Titans it doesn’t affect his treatment of Bruce. Dick takes this as his cue to forgive and forget as well, if his little brother isn’t bothered at all.

Like the universe balancing the difficult trials of last night, patrol is blessedly smooth as well. They pair off to scout hotels implicated in the human trafficking ring and Dick gets paired with Damian, to their mutual delight. And afterwards, Jason even comes back to the cave briefly and mentions something about saying hi to Alfred before he disappears to the shower to get changed.

Tim and Dick and Stephanie make intense eye contact and gesture furiously - Steph mouthing alternate reality repeatedly - before they all just play it very cool. It is not unheard of for Jason to pop by but it’s not common, especially not out of costume. The Red Hood may work with the Bats occasionally, but Jason isn’t showing up for Wayne family movie nights. He will stop by for Alfred, and he will take Dick’s calls; it is uncertain if he is planning on coming for Thanksgiving this year in a couple weeks. 

It was a good night. Bruce agrees that they can break for refreshments before getting back to business. Steph gleefully calls out, “Last one to the kitchen forfeits fruity marshmallows!” before shoving Damian (who squawks) as she races after Jason for the showers.

Dick helps Damian up only to bodily throw him forward, propelling him past the now sprinting Tim. Then he chases after them, more slowly. He knows Alfred won’t subject him to marshmallow-less hot chocolate, even if he settles for the non-fruity kind.

“What the hell? What’s with the crowd?” Jason calls from the shower, unnerved at the sudden ruckus in the change room.

“Race to the kitchen, no fruity marshmallows for the loser,” Tim summarizes while throwing off his mask.

“No marshmallows for you, Drake,” Damian pronounces with relish, already in his shower.

“No fruity marshmallows?” Jason muses. “Lame stakes. Those taste like trash, everyone knows regular is superior.”

“Fruity is delicious!” Dick protests from outside. He is waiting his turn and wondering for the first time why they only have four change rooms. Or a better question: why they still had four change rooms back when it had just been himself and Bruce.

“Goldie, your opinion is forfeit - you think Lucky Charms is flavourful when its flavour is literally just sugar.” There is a general hum of agreement with Jason from beyond the doors, which, really? Younger siblings are traitors, every single one of them.

“Sugar is a real flavour! If you don’t care about fruity marshmallows, let me have your shower,” he reasons, eager to get out of last place. He doesn’t really expect anything, but Jason’s door opens almost instantaneously, like he was just waiting for the signal.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Jason drawls, stepping out in the same clothes he was wearing before but his hair is wet and he is holding his helmet. “And since I was done anyways.”

“Give up, Dick! You can’t catch up!” Stephanie calls from somewhere to his left.

“Never!” He is already half out of his costume as he heads past Jason, pulling his arms out of the sleeves when Jason makes an odd noise. Dick glances up and tracks Jason’s gaze to his left arm. 

“What happened?” Jason pitches his voice low, meant for Dick only. 

Dick spends a second examining himself, letting his brow furrow as though he can’t recall what happened, like it didn’t matter. There is dark bruising around his wrist and a ring higher up as well. He lets out a little laugh, barely a breath. He speaks very deliberately. “Oh, got that in the chaos of last night. My entry was careless.”

His words are close enough to the truth that Dick tells himself he doesn’t even feel that bad. More specifics aren’t an option, have never been. He doesn’t need to drive a wedge into Jason and Bruce’s fragile bridge, which Dick has poured so much into helping build between them.

Jason doesn’t look convinced, still staring hard. “Really. Why are you still here tonight anyway? Not heading home? I thought you were running back to Bludhaven this week.”

Dick can’t help but shift to hide the bruise from sight. He nods with a regretful look on his face and tells more obscured truths. “Really. It was bad luck, and we can't all pull off armored leather, you know. And I’m sticking around to help out with the case. It’s gone on long enough, and it’s important to wrap it up.” 

“But - what about your classes? You lo- I thought they were important to you, and face it: this case isn’t wrapping up soon.” And Dick catches his breath at how gentle Jason’s voice is suddenly, at the overwhelming warmth that roars up within him that Jason Todd cares enough to remember that Dick teaches gymnastics classes.

“Priorities, Jay. Lives are at risk.” He matches Jason’s gentleness. He tries a grin, cocking his head to indicate the doorway Jason is blocking. “Speaking of priorities, If I don’t get in that shower right now I might as well forget about marshmallows, Jay. Don’t do that to me.”

Jason glances one more time towards Dicks arm, but eventually he snorts and shakes his head. “You’ve got some shit luck, Dickie-bird.” But he moves to let Dick pass.

Despite Dick’s best efforts, by the time he slides into the kitchen in sock feet and crashes into the counter, all of his siblings are accounted for. Jason is standing next to Alfred, likely for his own emotional protection from the scary domesticity of the moment. Dick is pleased to note that he too clutches a mug.

Tim is on the closest bar stool, calmly taking a sip of hot chocolate and barely checking on his oldest brother flat on his butt below him.

“Oh no, are you okay,” Tim asks, monotone. And Dick knows he makes a lot of terrible jokes but come on, Tim is obviously the comedian of this family.

“Hey loser,” Steph greets, no sympathy at all as she tosses back her drink in one large gulp. Probably for the theater rather than thirst, because that hot chocolate must burn. “No marshmallows for you!” Her hair is still dripping from her hurried shower.

On the stool furthest from Tim, Damian is watching him intently with a frown. “Get up, Grayson.”

“Just leave me here,” Dick lies down dramatically. “Without fruity marshmallows, there is no point rising to meet the day.”

“It is clearly night,” Damian protests.

“Why is Dick on the floor?” Everyone looks up to see Bruce walk in, freshly showered. He walks casually over to where Alfred has lined up the hot chocolate mugs and selects a beverage. 

Dick can’t believe this is happening. Has he done something incredibly good, to deserve his entire family drinking hot chocolate together? If last night was a nightmare, Dick is now waking up in a fairy tale.

“It’s where he belongs, where no fruity marshmallows can reach him,” Jason mutters darkly, but he is speaking out loud in a room that also contains Bruce, and Tim laughs, so Dick doesn’t care. He scrambles to his feet.

“Hey now, that was a hasty call, the real loser is now among us!” He rushes past Bruce to grab a mug of hot chocolate and intercepts the fruity marshmallow bowl. “Last one to the kitchen forfeits fruity marshmallows, B. Sorry for your loss.” He says feelingly, and gives him a sympathetic half hug. Bruce allows it, watching him bemusedly. Dick internally congratulates himself on the positive physical contact.

He ignores his siblings' protests that vary from “Grayson, stop” to “that’s disgusting” and “Are you an animal?!” as he tips the entire bowl of remaining fruity marshmallows directly down his throat.

He grins once he is certain he won’t choke and makes a show of smacking his lips. "Delicious.”

Steph applauds. Jason rolls his eyes. Tim’s cough sounds suspiciously like “diabetes”.

“You could have choked,” Damian accuses, “You are a land creature. You need to breathe.”

Dick comes to sit next to him, pulled magnetically by the force of his own affection. “Land creature huh? How’s that harbour restoration project coming?”

Damian perks up. “It is proceeding according to schedule.” Dick has seen this schedule; it is three double sided pages of meticulous bullet points, Damian’s indomitable will for the next three weeks given physical form. “And the sections pertaining to ancient and near-modern breeds were trivial, as expected. I am already well into analysis of current harbour life.” 

Here there is a minute pause, and Dick wonders if it screams insecurity to everyone else the way it does to him. “In commemoration of recent cleanup attempts, the Gotham Aquarium has put up a temporary exhibit on local marine life. Nothing I have not found elsewhere, of course.” It is said with a purposefully insouciant air, the tone perfect for making observations one is indifferent to, and Dick melts. Because.

Damian wants to go to the aquarium. Going to the aquarium is suddenly Very Important to Dick. As important as keeping his family together.

“Man, I haven’t seen a live fish in ages,” Steph notes. The eye contact she makes with Dick is significant. “Unless you count this one squid at a sushi bar that I swear begged me for help.”

And just like that, he knows exactly what needs to happen. God bless Stephanie Brown.

“I haven’t been to an aquarium in a decade, but definitely best civilian field trip by far,” Dick muses, plowing straight through Damian’s incensed correction of a squid is not a fish, it is a cephalopod, you ignorant- with a prudence born of long exposure, “I wonder if they’ve added any new fish lately.” He straightens up and looks around, capturing everyone’s attention simply by adjusting his body posture. “You know, I’ve been thinking really hard about Thanksgiving. I think this one’s going to be special for obvious reasons, namely since we’re all here. But what if we did something together, just as civilians?” He wants to say family but the connotations may read as pushy to Jason and exclusive to Steph. “I propose: Thanksgiving with the fish - let’s go to the aquarium. Just for a morning, or an afternoon.” He glances at Damian who looks ready to object out of obligation. “For science,” he amends.

“I can’t think of anything I’d rather do this Thanksgiving than check out the live action version of Finding Nemo with you people,” Steph agrees readily. Seriously, God bless Stephanie Brown.

“I suppose it could be minorly beneficial for my research,” Damian says, carefully neutral.

“Wait, for real?” Tim frowns and looks to Bruce. Bruce is scrolling through his phone, hopefully idly but probably vigilante research. “Are we sure we’re not going to be - busy?”

“Tim, I know you’re important, but you can spend half a day admiring fish,” Steph gives him a little poke in his side and he jumps. Still ticklish then.

“Tim’s right, we can’t schedule a block of time, there’s no telling what emergency could happen, and this case may still be ongoing -,” Bruce begins, but Alfred the Hero cuts him off.

“Actually, Master Bruce, an afternoon at the aquarium sounds like the perfect way to celebrate Thanksgiving. It shall get you all out from underfoot for enough time for me to prepare a fitting meal. I will put it in the calendar and make the necessary notifications to inform the appropriate colleagues of your appointment,” Alfred meets Dick’s eyes and nods, two soldiers in the never-ending fight to force this family to bond. Bruce, Dick’s most difficult opponent, has just been defeated before he could enter the battle.

“You should come too, Alfred,” Jason says suddenly, “To the aquarium. We could have the Thanksgiving meal the Friday night, aquarium on Saturday.” Dick files away this new information that Jason is confirmed attending Thanksgiving and interested in coming to the aquarium.

They traditionally celebrate Thanksgiving dinner on the Saturday, but it can be shuffled for the sake of a miraculous family gathering. 

“Excellent point, Jay; Alfie, you are a part of this too,” Dick agrees, and again, the family is silent but implied. “Besides, Cass flies in the morning before, we can definitely move the meal to Friday.” 

With a few minor protests from Alfred, who is consoled when it is agreed that he shall make a fantastic brunch spread prior to the Thanksgiving meal on Friday and will pack homemade food to eat at the aquarium on Saturday, it is decided. 

Steph leads the conversation down a pathway discussing how she personally relates to Nemo, and Damian cuts in with information about how realistic Nemo is.

“You know we definitely need to watch Finding Nemo to prepare,” Dick insists, and thus they plan a movie night after the Friday Thanksgiving meal. 

“Cass is going to love this,” Steph says, texting furiously, and Tim hums in agreement. “I’ll let her know.”

Dick’s phone chimes with a notification from the Batman-associates group chat, Steph advertising their aquarium plans. There is a quick response from Barbara, saying she won’t be able to make it this Thanksgiving (Dick already knew that; she has family plans), but that she strongly votes YES and they had better follow through with satisfying photographic evidence. Cass must be sleeping.

Dick is elated. Making family plans to hang out is almost as good as actually hanging out, and right now he is doing both. He throws an arm around Damian and tugs him closer as the conversation moves on to Tim’s history with pet goldfish, and whether Spongebob has any basis in reality. And suddenly they have plans to watch Spongebob together.

Fifteen minutes later, Damian heads to bed, Steph and Jason head out, and Tim and Dick follow Bruce back to the cave.

-----------------------------

Cass responds in the morning with enthusiastic emojis. Dick is excited for her return, knowing that Steph will likely stick around the manor the entire weekend if Cass is here. It will be good to see more of both of them. Dick spends some time during the day ironing out details for their aquarium plans with Alfred until he is certain this is going to be the most perfect nautical-themed Thanksgiving ever.

It is late afternoon, just as Dick is finishing warming up in the cave’s gym when his phone rings on the floor beside him. He leans out of his split to flip it over. It’s Donna Troy. He presses the speaker phone immediately and pauses the blasting pop music.

“Hey there, you’ve reached your biggest fan,” he answers with a smile. “What could I possibly do for you?”

Donna laughs, and the room feels brighter. “Oh, what a coincidence! I’m your biggest fan! Is it ever good to hear your voice. Would love to see your beautiful face, too,” she teases.

“I think I can arrange that,” Dick replies, rolling onto his stomach and resting his elbows on either side of the phone as he turns on the video. He is careful to keep his wrist out of view. Donna’s face appears. It has been a while, but talking with Donna is as natural as breathing. “How are you?”

There is a thoughtful pause, some motion off screen, and when her answer comes her voice is rich and warm. “Good. Really good.” There is some banging; it sounds like a pan. “Tell me you’re free next Monday?”

“I’m always free for you,” He says automatically, no matter how untrue they both know it is. Donna Troy. Dick’s heart aches with how long it has been since they last hung out. 

“Right, silly me, I must have imagined you skipping out on Halloween, and on board game night, and -”

“Okay, okay,” Dick cuts in quickly, not prepared to listen to his many failings as a friend. “For real, though. What’s Monday?”

“Monday night. We’re doing a Thanksgiving-Wally’s-birthday-old-Titans-get-together, Star City, Wally’s place,” Dick is used to the run-on event names; in their line of business they need to combine a lot of special occasions because it’s hard to find time to celebrate the mundane things. “You, me, Wally, Roy, and Garth, maybe even Victor and Rachel depending. Kory’s off world.” A decent turnout, considering. Dick has complicated feelings about Kory’s absence but it’s nothing new.

“That’s not fair, Wally’s birthday was ages ago, I literally already gave him a present,” Dick protests for the sake of being stingy.

“You’re rich, you’ll be fine,” Donna dismisses.

“Well, I’d love to come, I just need to run it by B first,” he says, already planning. He is at the manor for the next week, maybe longer, but surely he can take a night off to go to Star City. He’s still prioritizing the mission.

There is silence on the line. Then, “Why do you need to ask Batman?”

And, oh. That is hard to explain for reasons Dick is not comfortable exploring. He settles for the cold, hard mission facts: “I’m in Gotham for the week helping with a big case, been going on for months. B is kind of relying on me here, I can’t just dip out on him.” 

“But why do you need his permission to come to a party? You can’t focus on months-long cases with no breaks,” Donna insists, and Dick abruptly remembers how weird all of his friends are about his relationship with Batman. He is suddenly restless, picking up the phone to walk in tight circles.

Dick is careful about his response. It is a little awkward that, when pressed, he finds it hard to articulate why he needs Bruce’s approval to go to a party he has every right to attend. It was difficult enough back when he was sixteen and still, legally, in Bruce’s care, but he is an adult now. He has been making his own decisions for years. Dick knows there is no actual reason he needs to put his life on pause for this mission, it’s not like it’s a mass Arkham breakout or super villain chaos. But Bruce has asked him to stay, and he has spent more than a decade stumbling after that kind of acceptance in Bruce’s life, in his family. So.

“I want to come,” Dick says quietly, spinning himself in a circle. “But I can’t just disappear for a day. Not if they need me.”

Donna doesn’t say anything for a moment, but she doesn’t have to. Not when they have played through this scene as often as they have. Dick is almost grateful in that moment that he can’t see her face; she is still off screen, and Dick can hear the faint bubbling hiss that comes with pan frying. 

He is about to break the silence again himself, with something more apologetic and promising, when Donna speaks. “You know I love you, Boy Wonder,” she says, and Dick’s own mirrored reply is immediate and no less true for having been completely instinctual.

And Donna, what did Dick do to deserve her, moves on. They talk for a while about her new apartment, and Dick gets the virtual tour, including the unveiling of the pancakes that had been cooking just out of view. He fills her in on Damian’s most recent forays into marine biology and what he has begun referring to in his head as Operation F.I.S.H. (short for Family Imperative Sea-world Hangout). When they end the call, Dick doesn’t move for a minute, letting the echo of Donna’s laughter soothe something in him he didn’t know was hurting.

If there is a little anxiety in the pit of his stomach at the thought of bringing up Monday to Bruce, no one has to know. He goes back to stretching. He doesn’t turn the music back on.

Chapter Text

“When you're born in a burning house, you think the whole world is on fire. But it's not.”  ~ Richard Kadrey, Aloha from Hell

Fathers and Sons

Dick feels like he has seen this argument before. 

“It is just a scratch. Pennyworth is more than capable of dressing a simple flesh wound. I will be fully functional for patrol tomorrow,” Robin is insisting. The flesh wound in question really is minor, a scrape over his shoulder, but the blood on his uniform can’t be helping Bruce’s agitation.

It is the wee hours of Friday. Three days since Dick spoke with Donna. Another week until Thanksgiving. Bruce said he would reassess his need in Gotham this weekend, whether Dick needs to stay longer.

Dick still hasn’t asked about leaving on Monday.

Regular patrol tonight was interrupted by some supervillain action - an associate of Professor Pyg. The Bats are for the most part physically unscathed; Robin’s shoulder is the worst of it. All told, it was an easy take down, but they lost time on the Big Case, and Batman is frustrated with the setback. Irritation is plain in the set of his shoulders, rigid like a wall and blocking Robin’s escape. The other Bats are scattered around the Cave, mostly headed to the showers, and Red Hood is just mounting his bike to head out again. Dick had taken off his mask and been on his way to the showers but is now hovering near the conflict, trying to gauge what sacrifice is necessary to prevent the impending explosion.

“Robin, your presence will not be required on patrol tomorrow,” Batman growls. “You need to heal, and review protocol.” 

Red Hood must not be leaving so quickly because Dick hears a faint, “You need new material, old man”, but Dick is focused on Damian right now.

Leave it to Batman to turn his worry into a dismissal for his equally emotionally stunted progeny to ruminate about for days. Resentment festers in Dick’s chest. How dare he. Damian has been doing well, and the kid needs to trust that his performance will be rewarded, not punished. This will set him back, and there will be consequences.

Damian hisses indignantly, exactly like an outraged kitten. He pulls off his mask before whirling to stalk towards the medical bay where Alfred is waiting. “Do not be ridiculous. This does not affect my combat abilities. I will perform my duties perfectly on patrol.”

“Robin, get back here!” Batman thunders, moving to pursue like an avenging storm cloud. The Dark Knight indeed.

Yes, Dick has definitely seen this argument before, and he doesn’t like the next scene. He moves to intervene before he is even consciously aware of his feet propelling him into Batman’s path. He comes back to himself the moment Batman slams into him, stumbling to catch himself. Batman must have seen him coming, could have stopped in time, but there is always some reason, some lesson with Bruce, too subliminal for Dick to guess at motives for his actions. So like usual, Dick stumbles and Bruce lets him.

He is facing down Batman now, the cowl’s scowl directed at him like it has been plucked from a fear gas nightmare that he will never let himself dwell on. He has been in this position often enough, but it never fails to give him a thrill of danger. He lost his taste for this kind of fight over the years, with every additional body count added to their family, to his pile of Things He Can’t Lose. But this is fine, it’s for Damian. “Batman, go easy on him. He’s barely even wounded, and he took down the gun threat admirably. The bad guy’s in jail. It was a good night. He’s fit to patrol.”

Batman pushes past him, but Dick grabs his arm and gets dragged along until Batman slaps his hand away. “Stay out of this, Dick!” His voice is loud, the sound beating down on Dick’s confidence, but Dick used to yell a lot too. “If he had followed instructions, he wouldn’t have been anywhere near the gun to begin with. He shouldn’t be in the field until he learns to listen.”

Dick wants to roll his eyes. Like Robin was seriously going to just head back home when Oracle had informed them of the supervillain in the area. He raises his voice a tad. “He made a good call, B! He was closest to the coordinates, he assessed the situation, and he didn’t engage until he had backup. He did a good job.” 

Was Dick very proud of Damian tonight? Yes, yes he was. Damian doesn’t deserve all of Bruce’s complicated frustrations being piled onto his perceived mistakes. Maybe Dick doesn’t deserve it either, to constantly be caught in Bruce’s crossfire, but his priority right now (and always) is Damian.

It is silent in the cave. Dick doesn’t notice until an alarm chimes; it’s the tone that signals a non-urgent message from a League member.

Batman glances at the computer before he finally turns to confront Dick directly, stepping into his space. Damian has stopped on his way to medical, watching the exchange in perfect parade arrest. His foot twitching towards escape betrays his nervousness. “I don’t need your assessment of the night. Robin is benched, Nightwing. Stand down unless you’d like to join him.”

Dick swallows. Sometimes when the decision is already made for you, the only choice left is to say yes instead of no, so it becomes your choice. “Actually, I think that’s a good idea - taking a night in.” Dick says carefully, tracking the shift in Batman’s stance at the indirect insubordination. “Robin and I can monitor comms and run some of the old reports through the simulator, see if we can find some new connections.” 

Batman’s cowl glares at him for a moment. “Fine,” Batman rules, and Dick internally relaxes at the mercy. “But you prep them tonight.” And he is gone, striding off to check the computer notification.

Running the reports is tedious work, but someone has to do it, and it keeps Damian involved in the case; besides, having Dick join him will make him happy. Plus this could ease Dick out of participating in the case altogether, which could mean he will never have to bring up his Monday plans at all. This is a win, Dick reasons with himself. He just wishes that his wins with Bruce didn’t always feel so pathetic.

He is interrupted from his musings by Jason’s dry voice, “Volunteering for paperwork on a night off. Only you, Goldie.” Dick isn’t deluded enough to believe he says it fondly.

The whole conversation couldn’t have lasted longer than a couple minutes, but Dick feels like he has just been released from death row after Bruce left him standing there. Dick takes a breath he hadn’t realized he had been delaying and looks around. Damian hasn’t left his spot by medical, Tim and Steph are standing at the shower room door, and Jason managed to put his helmet on but has yet to turn on his bike. Everyone is staring at him.

Jason’s helmet is inscrutable. Tim is frowning, and Steph mouths, are you okay?

Dick does the only thing he can think of in the moment. He sweeps one leg backwards and dramatically bows. It’s safe, since Bruce’s back is turned. 

He hears Steph snort loudly, and Jason’s, “Always a fucking show,” before an engine starts and a bike speeds out of the Cave. By the time Batman glances up to check on his flock, Dick has his arm around Damian and is guiding him to medical, gushing a mile a minute about how he’s looking forward to having more hangout time with his favourite youngest brother. 

Now that it is Dick who has his back turned, he can’t see Bruce’s expression sour into a frown as he watches Dick walk away with his son.

-------------------------

The moniker “Operation F.I.S.H.” is polarizing in the group chat. Dick challenges himself to defend his choice through a string of relevant gifs and emojis, a sort of virtual interpretive dance. Jason, the leader of the opposition, fights back with brutal stickers and gifs. In the end, the chat is won over to Dick’s side by Cass’ emoji prowess, and Operation F.I.S.H. is officially a go (fish. Ha.).

Dick raises a fist in victory from his position lounging on his bedroom floor, feet dangling on his bed. Despite the lively group chat debate, Dick hasn’t actually spoken with any of his siblings since last night, when he had been focused on distracting Damian from his father’s disappointment. It’s not quite dinner yet, which leaves a perfect window of time for him to test the waters of his and Tim’s relationship. 

Dick hasn’t been avoiding Tim this past week, and as far as he knows the same is true of Tim. And so it’s a little sad, Dick admits to himself, that outside of meals and casework, despite living under the same roof, their paths during their meager spare time have just… never crossed. There has been no casual seeking out of Dick’s perspective on a new find, no dragging him into a TV series binge, and Dick hasn’t reached out either. They are both swamped with Bruce’s case, plus Tim has his WE responsibilities, but that shouldn’t mean they are too busy for each other. The brotherly bonding begins today, Dick decides. Now he just needs to find his elusive brother.

It’s a short trip down the hall to knock on Tim’s bedroom door. “Come in,” Tim calls. Well, that was easy.

Dick sticks his head through first, then lets his body fall in after. “Hi Timmy,” he greets. “Whatcha doing?”

Tim’s room is bipolar - his desk is freakishly neat and organized down to the pencil orientation, but his bed is barely visible beneath the piles of notebooks and clothes scattered over its surface. It’s impossible to tell at first glance how many layers of chaos have made their home amongst Tim’s sheets. It is here in the pandemonium that Tim dwells, cocooned in another blanket ball, laptop inches from his face. Dick suspects he wears pajamas. Tim looks up when Dick enters.

“Heya,” he says. “Just perusing the budget proposal for Wayne Enterprises’ marketing campaign.” Which, ew. Tim shifts over slightly, and maybe he’s just shifting because he’s stiff but Dick takes it as an invitation to burrow next to him, dislodging a few notebooks that crash to the floor. Tim doesn’t look bothered by their fall, so Dick decides they weren’t important.

“Budget proposals will age you prematurely,” Dick prophesies sagely. “Where are the memes?”

Tim smirks and switches tabs. The screen is immediately replaced by an episode of a comedy show, paused halfway through. “I thought you might be Bruce,” he apologizes.

Dick laughs. “Oh, much better. I haven’t seen this episode! Restart it?” And Tim obliges.

They spend a companionable half an hour getting caught up in the fictional, predictable drama. The main character’s love interest reminds Dick an awful lot of Jason, and Tim’s look of horrified fascination when Dick reveals this has him laughing harder than the show. Dick feels more relaxed now than he has in days. As the theme song plays out the end and the credits roll, Dick turns to Tim, a joke on his lips, but he stops at Tim’s strange expression.

“Something wrong?” he asks easily, jostling Tim gently with his elbow.

“You know, you don’t need to overcompensate for anything,” Tim says seriously.

Dick blinks. “Uh. Thanks?”

Tim’s mouth twitches up into a tiny smile at Dick’s confusion. He rushes his explanation like it’s too awkward to hold in his mouth for long. “I mean, it’s just that I can tell you’re trying. Really hard. To be a good brother? Or whatever you think you need to be to me, and to everyone else. And I just wanted you to know that you don’t need to do that with me.”

“You… don’t want me….to try to be your brother?” Dick says slowly, the words painful to speak.

Tim winces. “No, no! I meant, like, you are a good brother, or whatever.” His voice gets delicate, and Dick doesn’t know if it’s to protect Tim or Dick. “You don’t need to prove it to me. I already know.”

“ Tim,” Dick says, and he puts all of his feelings in the naming. His gratitude, for the words he didn’t know he needed to hear, didn’t think would ever be said out loud by anyone, let alone Tim, whom he suspects might still harbor some resentment from Dick ripping Robin away from him. Still, maybe Dick is a sucker for pain, but he has to know, so he presses, “You’re not still mad at me for ….last year? I did a horrible, no good, very bad thing to you. And I - I’m so, so sorry,” He manages to choke out. Honestly, why is Dick bringing this up, does he want Tim to remember to hate him? But he can’t help himself. They never really talked about it, after his hasty apologies in the chaos of Bruce’s return, and the guilt never truly left him alone. Dick of all people knew what it was like to be kicked out of Robin, to have your identity given to another without your consent. 

And now he has pushed their happy hangout into an uncomfortably serious conversation.

“Not mad at you for - no, I,” Tim says quickly, but then he actually thinks about it before he says again, measured, “No, I was mad. Ripping away my identity was really shitty.”

The flat way Tim pronounces this makes Dick wince. “I know,” he agrees, trying to make it sound remorseful.

“And you wouldn’t listen to me,” Tim continues, old frustration bleeding through. “You wouldn’t talk to me about it, just kept saying it was ‘for the best’,” - air quotes -, “And I know you meant it was the best for Damian, it’s obvious he’s doing better now and he loves you, but what about me? You took Robin away from me, Dick. That hurts.” 

Ouch. Does Dick ever know how much that can hurt. Bruce giving Robin to Jason behind Dick’s back had felt like Bruce ripping off Dick’s face and sewing it onto someone else. If Dick shared his own history with Tim right now, he is pretty sure they could bond. But then Tim might be mad at Bruce, and that would upset their family’s balance, and it has been so precarious these days.

(And what if Dick told Tim and Tim thought Bruce was justified? What if Dick is just making a big deal about an inconvenience to himself? Dick doesn’t think he could bear it.)

Lately, Dick has come to slowly realize he has really dropped the ball with Timothy Drake. The boy who always seems to find a way to keep going no matter how impossible the odds, so everyone forgets he is human too. Dick channels the level of focus he reserves for defusing bombs. “Taking Robin away from you behind your back was horrible. We should have discussed it.” A pause, then gently, “But giving Robin to Damian was right.”

Tim laughs bitterly. “Always Damian.”

“Tim, listen to me,” Dick says seriously, twisting to face him properly. “You are very important,” to me, he wants to say, needs Tim to know, but this is about more than that, “You are strong; you are a leader. You outgrew Robin, like we all do. You were ready for the next step. I’m sorry I pushed you off the stair instead of helping you up.”

It’s about support really. Dick can only hold up a finite number of people before he breaks himself. Tim has always seemed so stable alone, but appearances are deceiving in this family. Dick reaches out a tentative hand towards Tim, vowing to start now.

“I know that’s what you think,” Tim says carefully. “I still don’t completely agree.”

“Well, if we had talked about it, if we’d had time -”

“That’s always the problem,” Tim notes, voice practically monotone for how deliberately emotionless he keeps it. “You didn’t talk to me first. We don’t talk enough.”

“We’re talking now,” Dick says quietly.

“A bit,” Tim says, but it’s dismissive.

“Oh,” Dick says, a little disappointed. He doesn’t know what to say next, but he knows he should be cautious where Tim’s feelings are involved, when Tim basically just told Dick he is still mad. But what did Dick expect, an epiphany where Tim suddenly values Damian the way Dick does? Where Tim can read Dick’s mind and just know how much Dick loves Tim, even when Dick accidentally burns him all because he can’t seem to make the best decisions for everyone at the same time?

(This is why Dick prefers that if anyone is going to get hurt, please, let it be himself.)

Tim sighs deeply into the silence.

“Look, Dick, I know you’re stewing right now so just stop. I might not agree with you, but I understand you. I’m not mad at you anymore. But ....I was, for a long time. It was hard, you know? Bruce’s ...disappearance was difficult for all of us, and then it felt like you’d betrayed me. And then gave up on me, which was even worse. And we never talked about it, even now.” A pause, and it feels like an accusation. “I didn’t deserve it. But you regret it now.” He sees Dick’s grimace and continues before he can protest. “I know you don’t regret giving Damian Robin, but you didn’t mean to rip away my identity and tell me you didn’t need me anymore.”

“I need you. I definitely need you.” Dick agrees heartily, nodding with vigor.

Tim snorts and shakes his head. “I know, Dick. That’s what I’m saying. So you don’t need to act so careful with me anymore.”

Dick sits there for a moment, absorbing. Lately all of Dick’s disagreements have ended in hurt, so he is a little surprised, how Tim can both disagree with him and still be so civil. More than civil, so kind. Tim has grown so much; the Titans have been good for him, just as Dick is sure that Tim has been good for them. Poor Tim - it’s too bad he is stuck in Gotham so much now. “That’s very big of you. Thank you.” He swallows a lump in his throat. “I love you, Timbo.” 

“Love you too.” The only family member who will say it back. His cocoon contorts as he stretches. “Great, well now that that’s settled -,” Tim starts off in what might be an imitation of Dick’s own usually jovial tone, but halfway through he seems to panic when he sees how dangerously wet Dick’s eyes are. He yanks his laptop back into place and slams his finger on the mouse. “Next episode?”

Tim seems to feel that something has been resolved here. Dick, on the other hand, feels sort of like he has been ripped open, still in shock that they talked about this at all and left feeling like there is more that needs to be said. But the moment is gone.

Dick’s laugh is a little strained, still trying to recover from the conversational whiplash. “Definitely,” he agrees. “I bet you two of Alfred’s cookies that there’s a kiss in the first ten minutes.”

“You’re on,” says Tim, and he shoves Dick amicably as the show starts. That should be the end of it, but because Dick has, as Jason would put it, shit luck, Tim pushes directly on a bruise and Dick is both relaxed and surprised enough to flinch from the pain.

“Oh sorry, are you okay?” Tim asks, pausing the episode and leaning over to examine Dick with a frown. “What happened there?”

Dick is wearing a t-shirt Barbara gifted him, hot pink with a sprinkle donut on the front. It reveals his forearms; from this angle his bruises don’t have a distinctive shape, but they are still noticeable, and Tim clearly notices.

Dick waves off his concern. “Leftover souvenirs from Sunday night. I don’t even notice them anymore, except for when little brothers bully me.” He shoots Tim a playfully reproachful pout, then turns meaningfully back to the show. “Come on Timmy, those Alfred cookies are mine!”

Tim gives Dick the same searching look that Jason had during the shower race. Dick just pouts childishly and stares longingly at the laptop, willing them to move on. He can out-stubborn Tim, he is certain of it.

Eventually, Tim hits play.

-------------------------------

Dick is back in his lime sweater by dinner. It’s Friday, so Damian is extra miffed about no patrol tonight, but he still gets all of his homework done swiftly. Dinner is quiet; Bruce is brooding as he has been since last night and is best left alone to his lasagna. Damian, it seems, has decided to express his anger at his father with silence. Dick wants to tell him that giving the Bat the silent treatment is an exercise in futility, but sometimes these lessons need to be learned by practice. At least Tim is still in the relaxed mood left over from their frivolous afternoon, although Dick can see his walls closing as the evening progresses. It’s too bad he and Damian aren’t ready to be vulnerable with each other yet, but an older brother can dream.

Alfred informs them generally that he will be making pies tomorrow morning and Dick enthusiastically volunteers to help out.

“Dick, there is no way Alfred needs your help to make pie,” Tim states.

“Then why would he explicitly tell us a time and place for the event?” Dick challenges.

“So you can make yourself scarce,” Tim explains, fake pity on his face. “He’s being polite. And practical.”

“No way! Alfred wants me. Alfred, tell Tim you want me,” Dick demands.

“I would be pleased for the assistance if Master Richard is inclined to provide it,” Alfred agrees formally. “Or if anyone else were to be so inclined, for that matter.” It’s an open invitation to spend quality time with Alfred. Dick can use this.

“Alright! We have to seize this opportunity guys, or you’ll regret it for the rest of your lives! Perfect Saturday activity,” Dick looks at both of his little brothers hopefully. Damian is still silently picking at his vegetarian lasagna, mostly uneaten. Tim looks uncertain. Neither is convinced. “It will be fun, a morning of deliciousness and bonding,” Dick lures. He leans forward conspiratorially. “Zero downsides. What could go wrong?”

“I don’t know if I’ll be awake -,” Tim begins, but Dick isn’t done with his ad campaign.

“Don’t make Alfred babysit me by himself,” Dick continues, and Tim smirks a little. So close, just another push. “Come on, you can come in pajamas, there won’t even be a dress code!” Dick turns more specifically to Damian. “And Damian, it’s really excellent fine motor practice, we can -”

“Dick, stop trying to make your brothers do something with you they’re not interested in, you’re wasting their time,” Bruce speaks for the first time since sitting down at the table. There is an edge to his voice, though he’s talking at a normal volume. Dick knows better than to take the quietness as an indication that all is well. Bruce’s attention is on his plate as he takes a bite, heedless of the mess he just made.

There is an awkward silence.

Dick is a bit taken aback by Bruce’s abrupt words, hurt even. He knows Bruce is likely upset about something entirely unrelated - he usually doesn’t interfere in their petty bickering - but still. The rebuke is uncalled for, in Dick’s opinion, and everyone seems to share his stunned silence. Tim’s eyes are wide with surprise. Even Damian glances towards his Father, brow furrowed. Alfred is staring at Bruce with clear disapproval, but if he criticizes Bruce right now Dick is not certain anything good will come of it. The moment is fragile, and Dick is worried that the slightest pressure could shatter the superficial peace and plunge them into a nightmare. What is Bruce looking for here? He must tread carefully; thankfully, he has always had excellent balance.

Tim looks at Dick, who shakes his head. So Tim says nothing.

Dick opens his mouth, then closes it. He closes his eyes, then opens them. Then he says, “Right, sorry.” To his brothers, “I’m sorry guys, I was pressuring you. Tim’s right; Alfred can handle those pies with his eyes closed.” There is no reaction from Bruce, who keeps eating. Dick smiles at Alfred, willing him to move on.

Alfred is still frowning at Bruce. “Master Bruce, I would appreciate the help and company from any of the young masters, and yourself included.”

Bruce finally looks up. “Thank you, Alfred, but I don’t think I will have time for pies tomorrow. This case is ramping up.” Bruce knows Alfred disapproves of cave-talk upstairs, but he ignores it now as he pushes his empty plate away. He meets Dick’s eyes and then pronounces very deliberately, “I need you for a moment, Dick. If you’re done?” He phrases it like he is waiting for Dick’s response, but he is up and out of the room before Dick can reply.

There is half a lasagna left on Dick’s plate. Dick leaves it to hurry after Bruce, shrugging at Tim in a what can you do? sort of fashion. Tim’s response is to stare back, still a little miffed, but now tinged with a wary concern that does nothing to calm Dick’s nerves.

“I’ll catch you guys later. Thanks for dinner, Alfred,” he calls over his shoulder as he follows Bruce’s footsteps.

Dick finds Bruce waiting in his study. He must have sat down at his desk only moments before Dick appeared, but he gives off the permanence and belonging of a statue, staring Dick down like he is trespassing. The illusion makes Dick freeze in the doorway for a moment, uncertain suddenly whether Bruce had wanted him to come now; maybe he is not supposed to be here after all.

“Come in Dick, don’t hover,” Bruce’s voice breaks the spell and Dick feels safe to walk in now that he is following a direct command. He comes to perch on the corner of Bruce’s desk. He swings his legs for something to do.

“What’s this about, B?” Dick asks.

Bruce holds his gaze for a moment. Then he sighs. “We need to talk about Damian,” Bruce says, and Dick blinks. 

“Yes,” he agrees instantly.

Bruce’s words are unexpected, even though they are the same words that have been circling Dick’s mind for the past six months since Bruce returned and Damian transferred caregivers. This conversation has been a long time coming, and Dick has been working himself up to broach the topic with Bruce. Really, he should have brought it up ages ago. It is obvious they are both uncertain about the boundaries of their relationships with Damian and therefore each other, so they shy away from the edges of their roles. It makes for a narrow path for growth, and it has become painfully clear that, left unaddressed, it is a path they won’t be walking down. It’s not fair to the poor kid in the middle when neither of them address their issues. Dick is self-aware enough (about some things) to know that Bruce isn’t the only one who has been avoiding this  - Dick is unspeakably grateful that he himself doesn’t have to bring it up. Dick is a wimp about things that pain him emotionally, but he has to be stronger. For Damian. Picturing Damian in a healthy, balanced family is the only thing that has him saying his next words.

“I think we need to talk about us too,” Dick continues, and he might sound hesitant but at least he got the words out of his mouth. They taste a bit stale, like they have sat for too long unsaid and don’t have the same kick that they should.

They are clearly uncomfortable to hear as well, because Bruce grimaces, but he acknowledges, “There are some ....misunderstandings, that we need to sort out between us. I don’t think it’s healthy for Damian to be constantly questioning who he should be listening to.” Dick nods encouragingly. Bruce takes a deep breath like another sigh and looks pained. “I believe this may be somewhat my fault,” he confesses. “I had thought it was obvious when I returned that I would be taking over Robin’s training and Damian’s ...parenting. But I can see that you have grown used to a certain role in Damian’s life, and it’s making things difficult at home and in the field.”

There is a slow, sick feeling growing in Dick’s stomach. Bruce is clearly waiting for a response, and Dick has a lot to say, but he doesn’t like the direction this is going. He tries to steer back to Damian. “I guess I may have been - concerned about Damian, at first. He’s a really special kid, and he really just wants to be loved and accepted, but he shows it by provoking you and you just cannot react to that. I was worried that maybe you wouldn’t see that, because …,” because you take any argument, any question, like a battle that needs to be won, and you can’t treat him like the enemy or he’ s going to break. “He really can’t take rejection, so you need to be careful when you’re upset, or when you’re expressing your worry, that you make sure he knows he’s wanted. And about last night, I don’t think -”

“Dick, this is the problem, right here,” Bruce interrupts the lecture. He runs a hand over his face. “You question me when I discipline Robin. You come in here and tell me how to raise my son. Let me straighten this out: that is not your place any longer. You’re the problem.”

Dick reels back, slipping off the desk slightly. He crosses his arms, sliding his hands up his sleeves. He digs his fingers into his skin to be able to hold onto something, anything, in this moment.

You’re the problem. Dick is going to think about that a lot later, but right now he needs to fight for his kid.

He lets his frustration seep into his voice. “Bruce, I’m not trying to make you do anything, I just think that Damian is like you in a lot of ways and you both need -” 

“And now you think you can tell me what I need?” Bruce sounds incredulous, like he had thought better of Dick. “Dick, I am asking you, please be professional. Damian is my son, and this fixation you have should have ended six months ago. I know you care about him, and he cares for you, so I’ve allowed it until now. But you’re interfering in Robin’s progress.”

Bruce’s own emotional constipation is what is halting Batman and Robin’s synergy. Dick cannot believe he is getting blamed for this. He wants to throw his hands in the air, or maybe he wants to throw Bruce out the window. “I know you, and I know Damian. Yes, I think I have an idea about what you need to get through to each other! For the love of - Bruce, you’ve raised me since I was nine, and I was Damian’s only parent for months. Excuse me if I’m a little over involved in your lives. I’m not a house plant.” He spits.

“You think you know what’s best for Damian?” Bruce’s tone is ominous. He stood up at some point, and now he is looming over Dick’s seat on the desk. Dick cranes his neck to look up into his eyes, the same eyes that smiled so gently when he first came to the manor, and wonders how they have gotten here. He glances down at Bruce’s hands, notes they are fists clenched against the wood.

Dick wants to say, I know him better than you do, because it is the truth. But that is not going to help anything so he says, “Look, B, I get what you’re saying. Damian’s not my son.” Ow. “I know that. But he’s my something.” My everything. “He’s my kid brother. I’m not sure what you’re asking me to do here. I won’t tell him what to do. But I will hang out with him. And I will call you out when you’re being unfair.” He sits up straighter, to physically prove he won’t back down here, not on this point.

Bruce shakes his head. “That’s not your call, Dick,” he says slowly, like the only reason Dick isn’t agreeing is because he doesn’t understand Bruce’s point. “You helped out while I was gone for a few months, and now your mission is done.”

“Okay, let’s get one thing straight here - your son, Damian? Is not a mission,” Dick says angrily. He rakes his fingernails down his arms to keep himself from lashing out. “He’s a little boy who’s worried that he’s been foisted on a father who never wanted him, and he thinks that he has to be useful if he wants to be kept around. It is your job to make sure that he feels absolutely wanted at all times.”

“You say you want him to feel accepted for himself, but you don’t model this support,” Bruce accuses. “You overstep, you undermine my own methods of reward and discipline so he lacks consistency, and you constantly force him to do things he’s not interested in.”

Okay, what? Dick is thrown by the parallel Bruce is trying to make. “It’s not like that, he’s not some pet dog we’re training, and exposure to new activities is good for him -”

“Dick, have you considered that he might not want to spend tonight working with you on reports?” Bruce points out. “It’s tedium, and your chatter distracts him from excelling in his work. And now you want him to make pies with you.” The disdain in his voice makes Dick feel small. If Dick didn’t know better, he could mistake it for jealousy. “He is likely just trying to please you, out of some learned emotional obligation, and you need to stop bothering him. Face it, you’ve been manipulating him.” 

“I have not,” Dick denies vehemently, but even as he speaks he is already questioning himself. Looking back, they had a very rough start when Bruce disappeared, and Dick has to admit he himself took a while to warm up to Damian, let alone Damian’s own trust issues allowing him to return any sort of closeness with Dick. Even now, Damian sometimes needs a little encouragement to spend time with Dick, but that’s just because he needs to feel assured that he is wanted. It’s not that he is reluctant because he actually dislikes it.

…Right?

And another part of Dick is stuck on the part where Bruce doesn’t approve of Dick’s penchant for chitchat. Dick is pretty sure it’s just Bruce projecting; Damian always seems to relax the more Dick speaks. Dick’s fingers dig into his arms, squeezing his chest so hard it aches. “Do I talk too much? I didn’t know I was bothering you,” he says quietly, vulnerable and exposed. Waiting for the knife.

Bruce does not relent, and Dick is not imagining the derision in his voice. “There’s a time and a place. This mission is a serious one, and it has been straining us all. Think of your other siblings, too. Tim is shouldering a lot of the casework right now, and Jason will be picking up your slack in the field tonight.” Guilt picks away at Dick, for burdening his siblings, for his inability to multitask when it came to their complex relationships and his tendency to tunnel vision on the one sibling who was once a son. But, Bruce had agreed that running the reports was a necessary hurdle before their next case step. And Dick knows for a fact that other than routine patrol tonight they will just be scoping locations. He is hardly endangering anyone. “Dick, please, I asked you to stay in Gotham so you could help out, not cause trouble. I know you’ve been on your own in Bludhaven and out of practice, but you’re on a team here. Your siblings look to you for guidance. You need to listen to me, or you’re not going to be needed at all.”

This is so unfair. There are so many thoughts in Dick’s head that they flicker in and out of his focus before he can concentrate on any long enough to address, and he is in no position right now to respond to Bruce. He thinks about how many teams he has been on, how many missions he has led. He thinks that out of himself and Bruce, only one of them is listening in this conversation. He thinks he is pretty sure that Bruce still loves him, still wants him, but he’s not certain. He thinks he needs Bruce, but he is pretty sure Bruce doesn’t need him. He thinks that if Bruce kicks him off the mission and sends him home right now, he won’t be able to handle it. He thinks that he might be losing his mind a little.

He thinks that maybe he should breathe.

Bruce has continued speaking, ignorant of Dick’s freak out in front of him. Dick is only able to perceive sound again at, “- understand, Dick? Are we clear?”

And Dick forces himself to nod, saying yes when he cannot say no. “Got it, B. I’ll restrain myself a little. And I’ll support the team however I can.” 

Bruce scrutinizes him for a moment longer, but he must look convincingly penitent to pass whatever test this must be. Bruce nods back. “Thank you, Dick. I’ll give you some additional direction on the reports before patrol tonight.”

Dismissed again. Dick slips all the way off the desk and escapes the room. He doesn’t make it far and ducks into the darkened library, slamming the door as he leans back against it and slides to the ground. 

“It’s fine, everything is fine, just breathe,” he whispers to himself. He swings an arm over his eyes, then jerks back quickly when it comes away wet. He is not crying. He squints in the darkness, but curiosity drags him up, has him stumbling over to switch on a reading lamp.

Deep scratches run up his wrists, disappearing beneath his now stained sweater. He has clawed his arms bloody. Bizarrely, a calm settles over him as he takes in the damage. His arms, a physical injury, he can focus on. This is something he can fix.

He will work on the rest of his baggage later.

---------------------

“Is something the matter?” Damian asks.

It is just the two of them in the cave. Dick is huddled over one monitor peering at near-indistinguishable lines of text. He has his knees drawn up so he is perched on the edge of his chair. He is wearing one of the old sweatshirts he dug out of Bruce’s closet, a huge black hoodie that Bruce would never actually wear, but Dick likes it because it belongs to Bruce, and because Dick could really use a hug and some acceptance from Bruce right about now. He is resigned that the sweater is as close as he is going to get today, and that he is maybe being a bit pathetic.

Bruce has hardly spoken to Dick since their tête-à-tête. When everyone had gathered for patrol, Bruce had pulled him aside to specify which reports Dick should run, in which order, and what time frame. His communications were clinical, precise and efficient, like he was reading a script. Dick had tried a joke as a test while they bent over the reports, unnerved by the micromanaging robot in front of him, and Bruce had just stretched out an arm that Dick was careful not to flinch from. Bruce simply rested his hand on the back of Dick’s neck as he continued his explanation of his expectations for the night. It could have been friendly. His grip was gentle, but Dick could recognize a warning. He kept his posture loose and relaxed, and his hyperfocus on their point of contact prevented him from interrupting again. When Bruce finally took his hand away, Dick felt the loss as keenly as he felt the relief, and he hated how confused it made him.

The others left for patrol over an hour ago. Damian was relegated to the furthest computer from Dick and has, up until now, not strayed from his post. Dick still feels spacey, mind racing in circles as he tries to figure out what Bruce wants from him. Bruce had sort of implied that he doesn’t even like Dick. Does he regret that Dick had been Batman in his stead? And Bruce suggested that Damian doesn’t like him, either. Does Bruce regret allowing Dick to raise Damian? Ugh. The computer screen is blurry. This sweater is a little itchy on his wrists. His arms are sore. 

And he still hasn’t mentioned the party on Monday. Donna and Wally have been needling him.

“Sorry, what was that Damian?” Dick asks to buy more time since his zoning out instead of responding and he has got to get it together. Damian must be so confused; Dick had hyped up tonight and so far all he has done is go catatonic in a chair. He is being terrible company. 

It is really sweet that Damian came all the way over here to see him, though. Perhaps his affections are returned after all.

Damian regards him carefully. “There is obviously something troubling you. What is it?” And then, when Dick once again can’t bring himself to reply fast enough, he adds, more subdued, “Was it something father said?”

“What?” Dick is startled. “Why would you think that?”

“It was not difficult to deduce. You spoke together after dinner and since then you have been... quiet,” Damian summarizes. Well, Dick hadn’t realized he was being so conspicuous. Damian looks a little guilty, his shoulders shaking like he wants to hunch them, but he keeps his hands behind his back in perfect posture. “I apologize for my part in complicating your and father’s relationship. I am not ignorant to the strife I have caused between you two.”

“Oh, Damian no, never apologize for being a part of my life,” Dick rushes to say, fiercely. Damian is still looking apprehensive. Dick drops to the floor and sinks to his knees so he is looking up to Damian. He reaches out to rest his hands gently on Damian’s arms, rubbing soothingly, and Damian lets Dick comfort him. “Listen, this is not your fault. Bruce and I do this to ourselves. We’ve always been like this, but it’s because we care about each other, and because we care about you. We worry differently, but it’s because we love you. I love you, kiddo. So no more feeling bad, okay?”

Damian inches forward, turning their position into an embrace. Dick enthusiastically pulls him in. Damian mumbles into Dick’s shoulder, “I have a deep regard for you as well, Richard.” 

And, well. That is really, really nice to hear. Finally, Dick’s mind starts to calm.

“Dami! Was that a movie quote?” Dick asks, delighted.

Damian makes a huffy, embarrassed noise, then pulls away to speak. “You enjoy such references.” 

“I do,” Dick agrees. 

“And you must know that you are crucial to our operations here; they would not be the same without you,” Damian says, more seriously, but his care is just as transparent. Dick can hear the don’t go. Dick’s heart is very full. He never should have doubted this kid, this kid who needs Dick as much as Dick needs him.

He gives Damian a last squeeze before sitting back down in front of his monitor. “Why don’t you pull your chair over here and give me a hand?” he suggests. “We can go through these together, and then we’ll both do yours.”

Damian perks up. “That would be most efficient.”

After that, the rest of the night becomes much more enjoyable, tiresome reports and all.

Dick tries to keep involved with the comms, wanting to know how his family is faring out in the field. He also has the echo of Bruce’s nagging voice in the back of his head that he needs to try harder to help out his other siblings, not just Damian. Bruce is right, as usual. Dick needs to be more of a team player. So Dick makes sure he directly checks in with Jason, and Tim, and Steph. Barbara is managing intel and responds readily, so Dick directs most of his comments towards her. He gets into the groove of fish-related puns, preparing for Operation F.I.S.H.

Dick asks Batman how he is doing just once during their patrol. Batman responds with a pointed, “How are the reports coming, Nightwing?” And Dick gets the message. 

“Swimmingly.” He replies, and that’s it. Sarcastically he thinks, who is he to question The Batman? Dick wishes it was Thanksgiving already, that Cass was here. Bruce responds well to her, which makes his life so much easier, although Dick is a little resentful about what she can get away with. Resentment isn’t very sporting, so Dick tries not to think about it much.

By the end of the night, Dick’s eyes are twitching but the reports are all complete. Stephanie went straight home to study, but Dick is surprised to see Red Hood ride in, tires squealing to a stop beside where Red Robin and Batman are exiting the batmobile. It’s always hard with the masks, but Dick is pretty certain that Tim is also surprised to see Jason, so the latter’s presence must not be mission related.

“Hey Jay,” Dick welcomes him easily. Dick is spinning his chair in circles, kicking off of Damian’s armrest for momentum. Damian pushes his legs each time for maximal acceleration. “Are you here for the hot chocolate?”

“Not this time, Dickie-bird, I’m here on important business,” Jason tells him, grabbing something off the back of his bike. He throws a sack onto the floor. Dick stops spinning and leans closer. It’s some sort of fertilizer. Huh.

“Is this for a case?” Dick asks, immediately thinking of Poison Ivy, trying to remember if there has been any recent activity.

“No, it’s for Alfred,”Jason is saying gruffly, clearly uncomfortable with his own actions. He probably wishes he wore street clothes so he could have snuck in upstairs and avoided the cave people. “From a specialty store in town. Roy swears they’re ethically sourced too.”

Jason brought Alfred plant fertilizer for the garden. That is so sweet . Dick fights to keep a grin off his face.

Tim is drifting over to check out the unusual scene. “Oh hey, that’s a good brand.”

“What do you know of reputable plant nourishment, Drake?” Damian demands, ghosting over to better dish out insults.

Tim waves a hand. “Growing up, our housekeeper mentioned it when she was on the phone with her sister, the florist.” Dick marvels at the steel trap that is Tim’s mind. Dick doesn’t even know what brand of cereal he ate last week.

Jason seems to focus on other details of Tim’s statement, muttering something that sounds vaguely like, “pretentious”, “housekeeper”, and “rich”. In Dick’s opinion it’s a moot point since they are surrounded by millions of dollars of tech beneath a literal mansion.

“That was eely, eely thoughtful, Jay,” Dick chirps, before the silence can get awkward.

Jason snorts. “That pun was a pile of carp. Try harder, it’s embarrassing.” He stretches and turns to go, “Alright, delivery service done. No need to tip. I’m taking off.”

“Let minnow if you want more hot chocolate sometime,” Dick says, a risk.

Jason stops. He is still wearing the helmet, effectively inscrutable. “See you around.” He leaves quickly. Could have been worse, so Dick congratulates himself.

“Jason,” Batman’s voice freezes the second Robin in place just as he is mounting his bike. “We’ll need you tomorrow night.”

“Really?” Jason’s voice comes out a little flat through the helmet. “Well gosh gee, I’ll have to check my schedule.” Apparently the helmet doesn’t filter sarcasm. “Don’t hold your breath, old man.” And he is off.

As Damian and Tim continue to bicker about the plant fertilizer, Dick watches Batman from the corner of his eye. Cowl on, fists clenched. He is trying to reach out to Jason, but he is clumsy with relationships and frustrated with his lack of progress. Bruce and Jason have gotten better at interacting with each other, but there is a lot of unresolved hurt and tension between them that they both willfully ignore. Their emotional minefield is too full to leave room to move forward safely. They need to diffuse, but one of them has to take that first step. Dick empathizes with their reluctance.

All the same, every Robin, past or present, has yet to truly reach escape velocity from the gravitational pull of the Batman. Dick is pretty sure they will be seeing Jason tomorrow.

Batman swallows, then walks towards the rest of his sons. Tim and Damian fall silent as he approaches. “We’ll need everyone in the field tomorrow night. We’ve narrowed possible locations down to three sites. We have intel that they will make a transfer tonight, and we need eyes on each location. Robin,” He says, and Damian snaps to attention. “You need to be careful. It takes a small slip to cause grave consequences. You’ll be with me tomorrow. And Dick,” Batman barely glances at him, but Dick tries to look attentive, “Spoiler will be covering regular patrol tomorrow, so you’ll be alone. I trust you to be professional.” 

The condescension reeks. Dick grits his jaw and nods. “I’ve been doing this for a while, B,” he points out. Bruce ignores the jab. Probably for the best. At least what Bruce said to Damian was a bit of an improvement, so that’s progress.

“Do you really think I should be partnered with Red Hood?” Tim asks skeptically, having already deduced his role. “We haven’t done any one-on-one missions together yet, and we need full concentration tomorrow.”

“I trust you to be professional,” Bruce repeats, though the words land differently this time. Dick watches as Tim straightens, a soldier receiving a commendation, or perhaps just a son receiving a pitiful scrap of respect from his father. Dick knows Tim will try his hardest to make this work. To make Bruce proud.

------------------------

Dick walks into the kitchen late Saturday morning just as Alfred has begun to set out the pie pans. Alfred is wearing his apron, the blue one he wears for desserts. Dick is pretty certain kid-Jason got it for him before he ....died young and tragically.

“Good morning, Master Richard,” Alfred says, acknowledging his presence with a nod. 

“Hey, Alfie,” Dick yawns, stretching. He is in the same sweater from yesterday, and the fabric pools around his neck when he raises his arms, conspiring to choke him yet still strangely comforting. Dick waggles his eyebrows. “Still interested in some pie assistance of borderline competence?”

“I have trained you in the art of pastries for many years now, do not insult my own competency by impugning yours,” Alfred intones seriously, and Dick gulps because oops, but Alfred relents. “But degree of expertise aside, I would be most appreciative of the company.”

Dick smiles and claps once. “Alrighty then. What are we starting with?”

“You can start by washing your hands,” Alfred instructs. “Then we shall begin mixing the dough.”

Dick does as he is told and settles in beside his grandfather-figure as he offers further directions. It’s a sunny day, and the kitchen is bright. Alfred’s voice is calm. The dough is pliant and real in his hands, and Dick can feel something in him settle.

“I believe we can lay all notions of ‘borderline’ to rest in regards to your competence, Master Richard,” Alfred asserts once Dick tilts the bowl for his inspection. It’s accompanied by a little approving nod that has Dick smiling more easily than he has in a while.

Alfred’s face seems to soften, and then he is moving about swiftly doing very useful looking tasks and opening a lot of cupboards. It leaves Dick feeling lost until he is handed a new bowl, a wooden spoon, and introduced to a small army of waiting ingredients. “The pumpkin first, I should think,” Alfred rules.

Dick is given an index card that holds a neatly transcribed recipe for pumpkin pie filling. And then he is smiling again, terribly endeared as he realizes that Alfred had, in preparation for this day, handwritten the prized recipes he knows by heart for his potential assistants to follow.

While Dick begins to measure ingredients, Alfred steps away to move some supplies at the other end of the table. He comes back briefly to check on Dick and offer some praise on whatever task Dick has just finished before returning to his station. He repeats this series of actions until Dick notices the pattern, though he remains a little baffled by it. It’s not that Dick is doing anything wrong with the recipe, it’s just that he is… following the recipe. The compliments, though appreciated, don’t quite feel merited. 

On Alfred’s next foray into Dick’s territory, still bemused, he is paying closer attention. To Alfred’s soft tone, to his carefully worded commendation, and most of all to the way his eyes never stray far from Dick’s own, gentle and knowing. And for the second time that morning, Dick finds himself coming to a warm realization about Alfred Pennyworth. It seems that today, Alfred has purposed in his heart to be exceptionally kind to Dick in the way he knows best: making Dick feel useful by giving him things to do, then validating his efforts.

And Alfred’s actions are proving successful. The pleasant simpleness of following instructions and the positive reinforcement are pulling him out of the bleak series of thoughts he has been spiraling into recently. Namely, Dick has been uselessly trying to figure out what Bruce wants from him. Lately it seems like he wants to pretend Dick doesn’t exist, or at least wishes he were gone. After their brief exchange the previous night, Bruce has continued to ignore and avoid him. It’s starting to make Dick too wish he were somewhere else, but he can hardly run off now. He agreed to patrol tonight, and he wants to be reliable for his family.

A rattle interrupts his mental train wreck in time. Alfred is setting a pair of rolling pins out next to him. Dick quirks a brow. “I’m not finished with the filling,” Dick says, but it’s a question.

“This is for the fresh recruits,” Alfred tells him, right before there is a crashing sound in the hallway, followed by a muttered “Ow, watch it”.

“What are you doing here?” A very superior tone.

“I live here.” Comes the reply, mostly exasperated, mildly amused. Very tired.

“You are not normally awake before noon has passed.” An accusation.

A pause. Then, a very long inhale. “Please, please, for the love of Gotham, stop talking until I have coffee.”

Dick turns, already grinning, as his youngest brothers enter the kitchen side by side. “Hey, I wasn’t sure if you guys would make it! Such a long crawl from bed,” he teases.

Tim is dressed casually, but rumpled, like maybe he fell asleep wearing the same clothes and didn’t bother to change. His eyes are barely open, squintily narrowed at Damian. He is also rubbing his forehead and wincing. Damian looks crisp and neat, freshly showered.

“Drake ran into the gum tree in the hallway,” Damian wastes no time tattling. 

“No dignity,” Tim mumbles as he sits down next to Dick. It is unclear who he is ascribing the description to. Dick pats his shoulder consolingly.

Alfred sets coffee in front of Tim and finally a spark of life enters his eyes. “Alfred, you are a national treasure.”

Damian shakes his head at Tim’s behaviour, but then he turns to survey the kitchen’s setup. “I would like to offer my considerable services to assist with the pastry arts.”

Alfred gestures to a seat in front of the rolling pins. “It would be an honour to have you craft the dough, Master Damian.” And Damian nods as he carefully selects a rolling pin, a determined look in his eye.

Alfred retreats again to his private workstation from where he can monitor all three of them. Dick continues to mix pie fillings, moving on to the apple recipe card laid ready for him.

Once Tim finishes his coffee he also begins to roll dough. Damian critiques him immediately. “Your form is all wrong, Drake, your elbows need not mimic a chicken’s posture.” And, “Don’t beat the dough, it is not your enemy!”

“Damian, have you ever even made pie before?” Tim asks, irritated.

“Of course,” Damian replies. “And my pie shall be of far superior quality to yours.” 

“You’re on,” Tim scoffs, then looks to Dick.

Dick raises one shoulder, unspoken apology. “We did it last year,” he says, and leaves it at that. Tim looks surprised, then just nods.

“Cool.” He says. He plops his dough into a pie pan.

“Drake, you can’t just -”

“Calm down, little one, why don’t you just demonstrate?” Tim suggests. Damian hisses and grumbles at the nickname but does actually proceed to perfectly mold the dough into a beautiful crust, complete with detailing on the edges. He even cuts floral designs out of small pieces of dough to place on top of the pumpkin filling.

“Wow. That actually looks really good,” Tim says, examining the product carefully. Damian just huffs.

Dick is impressed with how maturely Tim responds to Damian’s pestering. Then he remembers that Tim is in fact an adult. Of all of them, Tim has grown up too fast, being whatever he needs to be, whether a vigilante or Wayne Enterprises manager. Now he is an older brother to a kid who treated him terribly, and he is valiantly being kind to him. Yes, Dick loves this family.

Alfred has come over as well to lend his admiration. “A most exquisite creation, indeed, Master Damian,” he agrees, setting it in the oven.

After some more hard labour, Dick eventually contributes one saggy apple pie next to Tim’s slightly better pumpkin. Alfred adds his own mystery pie to the oven load.

“Oooh, what’s this one?” Dick asks, leaning in to investigate, though he already has a fluttering suspicion.

“It is key lime,” Alfred replies, meeting his eyes with a soft look, and Dick melts.

“Not very on theme there for Thanksgiving,” he remarks idly, but he is unable to stop smiling.

“Nevertheless, I believe it belongs all the same,” Alfred says steadily, rearranging the oven racks so Dick’s favourite type of pie can fit better. “We shall consume it this afternoon. It goes well with tea.”

There is a lump in Dick’s throat. “I’d like that,” he manages without his voice breaking. Damian is focused on his craft and Tim is respectfully looking away, but Dick can see he is smiling.

Now that his private culinary mission is done, Alfred lends a hand in speeding production and enhancing the quality of the rest of their pies. Tim and Damian have settled into bickering with no bite to it. 

Dick has just convinced Damian to show them how to carve pie dough flowers when Tim’s phone buzzes. He pulls it out with one hand and glances at it. Then he frowns. He sets down the fork in his other hand to type viciously for a few minutes. His expression continues to darken.

“Everything okay?” Dick asks casually. 

Tim sets his phone down and sighs. “It’s Bruce. He needs me to handle a discrepancy in the finance department for WE while he’s busy ....researching.” While Batman is busy researching, then.

“Oh. Urgent?” Dick knows that Bruce and Tim have different ideas for how the company should operate, what needs to be managed and what can be delegated, and sometimes Tim triages differently. But if Bruce has asked Tim to stand in for him, Tim is twice as likely to stand in as Bruce, and that means he will do as Bruce tells him. He will leave pie making to go into the office on a Saturday morning.

“Unfortunately. I need to head into Gotham. Bruce is going to meet me there later.” Tim stands up, running a hand through his messy hair so it sticks up even more. He looks genuinely sorry to go. “Rain check on the pie art, guys. Thanks for everything, Alfred.” 

Damian shrugs like it doesn’t matter either way, though Dick would swear there is disappointment in his eyes.

“It was a pleasure, Master Timothy. Do take care of yourself.” Alfred offers Tim pie to go, but Tim waves it off as he walks away, already raising his phone to his ear to start a call.

Dick watches him disappear around the corner, trying to figure out why Bruce calling Tim to meet with him gives Dick so much anxiety. 

He shakes it off and tries to pay attention to Damian’s explanation of dough carving.

---------------------------

That night, Dick heads down to the Cave feeling refreshed. He did his workout outside today, amongst the beautiful late-autumn trees of the Wayne Manor property. He then spent a peaceful afternoon tea with Alfred sampling key lime pie, before helping Damian choose designs for the exhibit portion of his marine biology project. An accumulation of positive moments from the day has Dick feeling mentally stable and ready to take on Gotham’s dark underbelly.

After Bruce’s attitude last night Dick is expecting to be somewhat ignored again, but once he suits up, Batman zeroes in on him. Spoiler and Red Hood have already arrived and are sitting by the entrance chatting. Cool. Robin is checking his equipment, and Red Robin is already at the computer.

“Nightwing,” Batman growls. “You’re late.”

Dick raises an unimpressed eyebrow. There is no official start time to their night-time activities, but it is an unspoken agreement that they usually gather by nine for bigger missions. “Chill out, B. I am basically,” he makes an exaggerated motion to check the time on the computer, leaning over Tim, “On time. The night is young.”

Bruce gestures for everyone to gather instead of replying, and begins to go over their assignments. And while it’s a bit weird for Batman to be so anal about what time they show up, it’s obvious he is on edge about tonight’s mission. That’s fine, that’s understandable. He expresses stress through worrying away at those he feels responsible for. Dick can handle a little needling and micromanaging.

What Dick was not expecting was for Bruce to continue to nag at him for the rest of the night.

It has been four hours.

So far, Batman has demanded an update from Dick every 10 minutes, on top of the 5 minute check-ins everyone is already doing with Oracle. And yes, Dick is doing his stakeout at the Seashell Hotel alone, but he is also very capable of some boring monitoring without supervision. It grates on him, but besides a little snark, he doesn’t complain. 

He is not the only one feeling the aggravation tonight. Red Hood and Red Robin’s dialogue has steadily increased in frequency, but the content has become almost entirely passive aggressive remarks about each other. Dick knows they can be civil; he has seen it for himself on occasion. But if he is following the argument correctly, Red Robin commented something about the clientele of the motel they are watching, and Red Hood fired back that he knows people who have stayed there. Red Robin said he meant no offense, but Red Hood definitely took offense, and as is the way of siblings, suddenly everything about each other is offensive.

And it’s not that Dick is bothered by their fighting so much - sure, it’s a bit unprofessional when they are literally in the field, but they are both experienced and are likely multitasking like pros between cutting barbs and the stakeout. And sure, he wishes everyone got along, but he’s not delusional, that’s probably not going to happen in the next millenia. But what annoys him is that Batman literally interrupts Red Robin mid-insult to tell Dick he should check his hotel’s side doors again, while totally ignoring the verbal sparring match. Even Spoiler points out that they are really exploiting the open comms tonight, with a tone of admiration she clearly isn’t putting much effort into suppressing. Eventually Oracle tells them both to cool it, but there is no intervention from Batman. He is, apparently, far too busy critiquing Dick. It makes Dick feel like he is Robin again, during their worst years.

If Dick thought Batman was irritating before, he is ready to tear his own hair out when he sights activity at his hotel. Batman kicks up the micromanaging ten levels. He doesn’t bother with check-ins, just straight up instructs Dick step by step on what to do. 

Dick tolerates this as he is moving to get a better angle (Switch to the southeast roof, Nightwing), as he is lining up his entrance (Hold for backup). But he needs to concentrate.

“Oh sorry, B, you’re cutting out,” he says sarcastically, right before he shuts off his comms and moves in.

In the moment, as he focuses on his entry, he thinks the peace and quiet is worth whatever reprimand he is sure to get later. It is not, he believes, as irresponsible as it feels. Before leaving the cave, they hashed out exactly how this particular scenario would be handled. Even if they hadn’t, Batman has repeated it to Dick and made Dick repeat it to him at least twice since then. It did not involve holding for backup.

Although, the hotel is fishy in more ways than just its aquatic theme, and Dick spares a pang of regret that he has no one to comment to with his comms switched off.

By the time Spoiler arrives as his backup, he is nearly finished. A neatly sealed plastic bag with a bundle of files, two fingerprint samples, and all the photos of a dingy hotel room that Oracle could ever want to sift through. It is almost, Dick thinks acidly, as though he knows what he’s doing . 

Spoiler high-fives him before accepting a bundle of files to carry. They take off across the rooftops, heading for their transportation. “Awesome rebellion, real gutsy, way to really stick it to The Man, or the Bat man in this case. But maybe don’t switch your comms back on.”

“That bad, huh?” Dick asks, dropping down into an alley. Spoiler lands next to him.

“Oh, Batman went angry-silent a minute ago after ordering everyone to regroup at the cave. But the great dick-measuring contest between the Reds never stopped. I’m really suffering over here,” she says dramatically, then more sincerely,  “Enjoy your peace while it lasts - I’ll let you know if there’s an emergency.”

Dick appreciates Stephanie Brown very much, and likely he should appreciate her even more; he doesn’t get to hang out with her enough, and he sorely misjudged her initial debut. Getting to spend more time with her now is probably worth the slight ego sting of being sent back-up for some light infiltration. Dick tells her the fish puns he had come up with in the Seashell Hotel and enjoys her surprisingly analytical reactions as he tries to distract himself from what will be waiting for him in the cave.

They are the first ones back, thankfully. It gives Dick time to sort the evidence and start running tests on the fingerprints while Stephanie heads for the shower (claiming she had sweat a lot “busting my ass to get to you”). He discards his mask, wanting to feel more free, but doesn’t waste time changing yet. It can’t be longer than ten minutes before two motorcycles roar in and Red Hood and Red Robin stalk towards him, unbelievably still arguing.

Jason pulls off his helmet to better communicate disapproval with facial expressions. Tim has rebranded Bruce’s resting frown. When Jason looks up and sees Dick he says, “You are about to be in deep shit, Goldie, way to piss off the old man,” before turning to Tim with, “Well that’s rich, or maybe you’re just rich, so let me tell you how the real world works -”

Tim rolls his eyes so hard it’s visible through his domino mask.

Dick doesn’t know if he should intervene. If he is honest, the jabs are staying pretty tame for what their history is. And besides, Dick doesn’t have the head space right now to diffuse their tension, not when he has his own conflict rapidly approaching. Dick decides that he will step in only if things escalate. He turns back to the computer.

But he has run out of time. The batmobile enters the cave like a harbinger of doomsday and Dick’s days are numbered. Jason also notes the batmobile’s arrival and announces he has had enough assholes for today. Dick very carefully projects a calm air, keeping his eyes focused on his screen and his fingers busy on the keyboard. He relies on sound to track the changes in the cave. Jason’s bike starting, driving away. Tim’s measured steps heading to the showers. The batmobile’s motor turns off. A car door slams, then another, more gently. “Father, wait.” Angry footsteps intentionally landing heavy; they all can be silent if they choose. Lighter footsteps start to follow, then slow down, halting awkwardly halfway, in the centre of the room. Batman’s hard steps keep coming, a drumbeat that drowns out Dick’s own heart. They stop directly behind him, and he can feel the heat of another presence. He waits for it, body relaxed.

A hand lands like an executioner’s blade on his shoulder, cutting deep. Dick is wrenched so forcefully from his seat that he feels his skeleton shake. The movement is disorienting, and he finds himself with his back pressed against the computer desk, held in place by Batman’s gauntlet. Dick finally looks up, head spinning.

“Welcome back,” Dick says, nonchalant. Unrepentant.

It’s moments like these that he hates the cowl. He empathizes with the criminals who fear shadows and the lurking, cold judgment of the Bat. Dick feels bare before the dark judge, wishing he had kept his mask on, wanting some kind of barrier. The air feels charged between them, like an explosion is already set to blow and Dick has no way of stopping it. 

Batman’s fury has him coiled tight, has him spitting his words through gritted teeth. Dick is not even sure if Bruce means to, but he is shaking Dick as he speaks, rocking him back and forth into the sharp edge of the desk. “Your shockingly childish actions jeopardized the entire operation tonight. You undermined my authority and threw it in my face. Report.”

Dick swallows, the calm indifference he was projecting earlier extinguished. As Dick tries to meet Bruce’s eyes behind the cowl, there is no mercy to be found, and he knows instantly that this will not be a discussion. There will be no reasoning with Batman when he is set on the path of his own self-righteous justice. He has already decided Dick’s guilt and is here to deal his punishment.

Dick, hopelessly, tries to defend himself anyway. He tries to straighten as much as he can in his restrained position, showing confidence he doesn’t feel. “Switching off comms was a calculated risk in a dynamic situation,” he argues. “Keeping the lines on at all times is a good protocol, but there are always exceptions. There was some ....distraction on the line.” He just knows his listening brothers are shifting uncomfortably at the call out, but he can’t check on them right now. “I needed to be able to focus, so I decided to go silent for a few minutes. Spoiler had eyes on me in no time. A calculated risk,” he repeats. “Come on, I’m not green, B. My entry was flawless, and you know it. We have the evidence to blow this case wide open within a week tops. Tonight was a success.”

Maybe painting it as a success is too far. Batman’s glare hardens. “This is not about the gathering of evidence. This is about your obnoxious insubordination that could have compromised the mission, and your own safety or Spoilers. You could have met an unforeseen obstacle and been unable to warn Spoiler. Your behaviour was foolish, bordering on deliberate negligence and malpractice.”

Dick narrows his eyes and sucks in a breath, chest heaving at the accusations. “B, you can’t just boost your point with “what if”s, not everything is a multifactorial contingency plan -”

“You. Disobeyed. Me.” Batman hisses and oh. Right. The real crux of the matter: anything that threatens Batman’s control. Well, Dick has had enough of coddling Batman’s tender control issues. This case may be making Bruce edgy, but Dick is tired too and close to snapping.

“Well maybe if you weren’t clogging my feed with instructions on how to walk I would have been more inclined to listen to you plan my building entry , you colossal -,” bottomfeeder, and oh hey it would have been a fish pun too.

Slam. Dick doesn’t get to finish his insult out loud. Bruce’s fist connects with the side of his jaw and he drops, crashing into the desk on his way to the floor and bashing the back of his head on the edge. The double hit to his skull has Dick’s vision spinning, mind exploding with pain.

He has been trained to take a hit since he was nine, but for some reason when it’s Bruce he can never follow protocol.

His ears ring, but he can hear Batman saying, “-on’t blame me for your failure. We can’t work together when you are always looking to sabotage me, Dick. I don’t want to fight you.”

 It’s a struggle to recover orientation but he finds he is already automatically scrambling to pull himself up again, leaning heavily on the table for support. He notes absently that there is some blood on the keyboard, before further noting that there is blood leaking from his face. He raises his head defiantly, ignoring the vertigo. 

He sees Damian over Batman’s shoulder, looking so lost as he squeezes his mask in one hand, and is jolted by the reality of their public confrontation. Dick really, really wishes Damian wasn’t here right now. Tim too is watching from across the room, poised where he had been about to enter the change room. Everyone seems so frozen, like the world has been paused beyond the borders of Bruce and Dick’s argument.

It’s okay, Dick isn’t expecting an intervention, is praying that they won’t try stepping out onto the tightrope with him when he can already feel the rope poised to snap. If he’s falling too, there will be no one to catch them. If he thinks about it, he is pretty certain his brothers haven’t seen any of his messier fights with Bruce. Maybe Jason, before he died (and Jason always knows when to leave, doesn’t he?). But besides, Dick kind of brought this on himself. He knew he shouldn’t have turned off comms. He has dug his own grave, and he is going to keep digging if it means he can choose that for himself.

Dick latches onto the last thing Bruce said and gives a broken laugh. He spits blood when he laughs. Split lip, probably. “You don’t want to fight me?” he repeats, incredulous. “What do you think this is, B? I’m not fighting.” His face aches with a rictus grin. He must look insane. Batman is staring at him like he is one of the crazies they lock up in Arkham. Dick shifts minutely, a warning, “But everything’s always a threat to you.”

And because Dick is a reckless maniac, he punctuates his statement with a lunge forward, half a stumble with his world tilting alarmingly, pitching his face closer to the cowl. And Batman, proving Dick’s point beautifully, reacts instinctively to the perceived attack and punches him in the gut. Dick folds over Bruce’s fist, a soldier impaled on a suicide charge. Breath knocked out of him, there is no more laughing now.

Batman leans over to speak next to Dick’s ear, the intimate closeness of the gesture mocking Dick. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “Your recklessness makes you a liability. You are terminated from this team, Nightwing, effective immediately.” With his last words, he shoves Dick off of him, and Dick stumbles back to clutch at the desk. The words more than the actions are what finally drain Dick’s defiant resolve.

“Batman,” he whispers, a plea with no specifics. All he can think is, not again. 

No mercy from the Bat. Just the same frigid dismissal from Dick’s teenage years. “I don’t need you here. Not like this. Pack up your things, Dick, and get out of my house. Now.”

And Bruce finally, finally, pulls off the cowl, revealing angry eyes, but it is too late to appeal to a different god. He has spoken the words, started the spell, and Dick knows what happens next.

Get out of my house. Now.

Dick swallows hard.

He carefully releases the desk he is clutching and takes two wobbling steps towards Bruce. Stares into his face, this man who has raised him, who owns him and Dick knows it. A few more steps, getting easier, and he is past him, then past his still-frozen siblings. Tim’s mouth is moving, but Dick can’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears. The words might not be meant for him anyway. Now he is walking to the stairs, and now he is up in the manor. He throws clothes blindly into his bag, hoping he at least grabbed his phone, but not really sure of anything right now. He thinks he might be shaking. Dick is living these moments in snapshots: blink and he is at the front door, no Alfred in sight; another blink and he is on his bike. Driving away into the night, his mind stuck years in the past.

Get out of my house.

This is nothing new. Dick will be back. When he is called.

Chapter Text

“And when you are kept from your home, no matter where you are, you are in a cage.” ~ Shane Arbuthnott, Terra Nova

Friends and Enemies

His phone is ringing.

Dick has just returned to his apartment in Bludhaven, having accomplished nothing apart from unlocking the door, letting his bag drop to the floor, and leaning wearily against the wall. Or possibly, Dick reevaluates as he raises his phone and notices the time, he has been home for almost an hour. Just standing in the dark, staring at nothing, mind off. 

Dick blinks. The phone is still ringing. It’s Barbara. He should answer, not because he wants to talk, but because if he doesn’t Barbara has ways of invading his virtual privacy if she gets Concerned. Dick would like to avoid Concerned Barbara, and he thinks he can tolerate a conversation. He just hopes it doesn’t last longer than two minutes.

He presses talk, then speaker, no energy to raise the phone to his ear. 

“You dick,” Barbara says, often mixing her worry and relief into insults, “I’ve called six times. Your apartment sensors show you’ve been home for an hour.” Ah, so Concerned Barbara is already in effect.

“Sorry,” Dick says, “I was busy.”

Barbara snorts. “Right. Seriously, how are you?” Her voice loses some of the bite. “You and Bruce were ready to throw down on the comms. I haven’t heard you two like that in years. Then Tim mentioned you fought in the cave.” Of course he did. “And now you’re in Bludhaven.” Dick would wince if his body didn’t feel like it was made of lead, holding perfectly still instead. No sugar coating the facts, that’s Babs. “What really happened?”

“You’re right,” Dick says, the weight of the words heavy on his tongue. “Bruce was pretty pissed I turned off my comm. We fought.” It’s so difficult to speak right now, tired as he is, but even harder to tell the truth about something he wishes hadn’t happened. It comes out toneless. “He said I should take a break from the case. From Gotham. So he sent me home.” And there, that’s it. That’s what happened.

Barbara sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh, Dick, I’m sorry,” Barbara sympathizes. “Bruce is an asshole.”

“I shouldn’t have turned off my comm,” Dick says, because it’s all he can think right now.

“Well yeah, that was dumb, but everyone was being dumb tonight! Bruce was being a despot. Jason and Tim were literally throwing mud at each other.” Dick recalls fuzzily that they had looked curiously dirty in the cave. “But, Dick, are you okay?” she repeats.

Are you okay? No matter how many times Dick has hurt Barbara in the past, dating or not, she will always care about him. And he will always care for Barbara Gordon.

Dick has not seen himself in a mirror yet, but his face and abdomen throb in harmony. There’s a curious ringing in his skull. He sags further against the wall. “I’m okay.”

Barbara is quiet, and Dick knows she is trying to decide if he is safe to be alone. The thing is, Barbara has always sort of half known the details of Dick and Bruce’s fights. She has never asked about it; Dick made it very clear when they were young that he never wanted to discuss it, and she respects that. She trusts him to handle himself. Or maybe she just doesn’t want to know.

This conversation has definitely lasted longer than two minutes.

“I’m tired,” Dick says, before she can insist on probing his mental state, or worse, his physical. “But I’m okay. I’m just going to go to bed.”

“I don’t think you should -”

“I think I can decide some things for myself,” and Dick instantly regrets his cutting tone, but he’s so raw about having choices right now. And he’s too tired to deal with an actual heart-to-heart with Barbara. So he just says, “Sorry. I’ll text you later. Goodnight, Babs.” And then he hangs up.

He notices he has message notifications, from Tim, from Damian, but he can’t. Not now. He knows he’s being a bad brother, but he lets his phone fall to the ground, and it clatters on the floor.

The following silence rings loud in the dark. Dick blindly shuffles to his bedroom. When he reaches his mattress, he drops down like a stone, ignoring the pain that erupts from his bruised midsection at the jostling. He’s still wearing part of his Nightwing costume under his sweater, not able to fully change in his rush to leave the manor. His sheets are musty. He doesn’t bother dragging them over his body.

He wasn’t lying to Barbara, he’s really tired. But it’s a world weary, existential fatigue that leaves him kind of apathetic. He also has a pounding headache. He finds he can’t sleep, though that’s no surprise. Instead he lies awake, blank. He gets like this sometimes, usually after one of his and Bruce’s fights. Why are they like this ? Years spent together, they should know how to get along. Then Jason, Tim, Cass, and even Damian. Dick knows it’s different with him for some reason, but why ? What’s wrong with him, that he makes Bruce regret ever taking him in? That he never - he shies away from the hole where another question should be, one he can’t voice even to himself. 

(Headlines flash through his mind, unbidden. WE CEO to Adopt Ward Jason Peter Todd. Billionaire Bruce Wayne Adopts Neighbour After... . Bruce Wayne Recognizes Son Damian….Cassandra Cain to be Adopted… )

...It’s a question about family. But as always, there are no answers in his lonely apartment, and he settles like sediment into the ennui of Bludhaven’s grimy night. 

He continues to exist in the fog of emotional limbo when he rises with the sunlight a couple hours later, when his clock says it’s almost 7 am. He’s ready to move now, though not ready to deal with his feelings on what happened (he knows that’s cowardly). But he has things to do and he won’t get anything done if he’s just processing. He can deal with his physical needs, that still counts as progress.

So, Dick lugs himself to the bathroom. He stops before the mirror, squinting in the fluorescent light. His head is really bothering him. His reflection looks like a mess, the usual sweaty tired kind, but also the beat up kind, with bruising along his jaw and a puffy lip that’s starting to scab. He likes to believe Bruce didn’t hit him as hard as he could have, but Dick still should have iced it; it’s already swelling. Dried blood is on his face and on his sweater.

Dick can’t believe he walked into his apartment like this. Good thing his neighbours aren’t very observant, though he internally winces to think what Batman would have to say about his continued carelessness.

Dick carefully strips. He notes the sweater he grabbed is the one he stole from Bruce’s closet; there is blood on the hood, which puzzles him until he remembers that he hit the back of his head on the desk. That explains the pulsing headache. He is a little sad that he will have to wash the sweater now. It won’t smell like the manor anymore. Another look in the mirror. More bruising over his abdomen, no surprise there, but no broken skin.

The shower feels good. Scaldingly hot, the way he likes it, though it’s a bit painful on his injuries. By the time he is finished, the entire room is foggy with steam, but Dick’s mind feels clearer. He gets dressed in the first thing he stumbles across and sets off to his kitchen. 

He hasn’t been home in a while. He starts clearing out his fridge, tossing saggy takeout containers and unrecognizable vegetables. By the time he is finished removing all potentially bio hazardous material, he’s left with… a bottle of ketchup, half a cup of orange juice, and two eggs. 

Dick considers breakfast, the eggs and the orange juice in theory excellent candidates, but. Briefly, he pictures it, the actual act of eating; his stomach flips. He can’t right now, but he tells himself maybe later, so. Grocery shopping gets bumped up on his list of priorities.

His silent apartment is starting to feel a bit like a cage anyway.

He goes out to the store. Halfway down the baking aisle, he realizes he never made a list, meaning he is in danger of buying nothing he needs and a lot of things he doesn’t. There is a strong temptation to go with only the foods that appeal to him in the moment (which is cereal, Tim’s favourite frozen waffles, and a specific type of granola bar that Damian spent four months subsisting on) - not because he wants to eat anything, but because the thought of them makes him feel… something. Nostalgic, maybe. Comforted. But his inner Alfred scolds him severely enough to shoo him towards the produce aisle before too much damage is done. He escapes the store with only one conspicuous package of eggos nestled amongst the lettuce heads. 

On his way back home, despite the lingering headache, Dick is feeling a little more productive and a lot more positive. It’s another beautiful fall day. And maybe his sudden return to Bludhaven is a good thing. His cold cases could use some microwaving. He can increase his support on some of the League projects he’s helping with but has been slacking on lately. And he can definitely go to the party tomorrow! 

And he can teach the afternoon gymnastics class today. He will have to let Carol know he can make it. And he will have to check if he has enough make-up, start icing his jaw now to bring down the swelling. He can’t keep his hoodie pulled up in the gym.

Dick starts to plan out the rest of his day as he walks up the stairs in his building. It’s slow going, the climbing motion causing a tension in his abdomen that’s agony. He’s pretty sure he still has pain killers in his medicine cabinet, but he may need to restock soon. That’s fine, he can likely run to the pharmacy on his way to the gym. Dick is just thinking about whether he should do laundry before or after he calls Carol (has decided optimistically he can probably do both at the same time), when he unlocks his door and steps into his apartment and finds he is not alone.

Jason Todd sits on his couch. 

And it is Jason Todd, no traces of red helmet or armour to be seen, just a regular fall jacket. He looks irritated, arms folded, like he doesn’t want to be there and resents whatever forces have brought him here. Dick hopes that doesn’t mean he’s angry with him.

Dick’s surprise at seeing him goes beyond any head trauma-induced confusion. He’s pretty sure Jason has never even been to his apartment before. Dick instinctively guesses that something must be wrong. Is someone hurt? Still strange that it’s Jason who is here. Unless everyone else is hurt? But Jason doesn’t look that distraught.

Whatever the reason he’s here, Dick is going to have to reschedule his laundry plans.

Dick lets the door swing shut. They stare at each other for a moment. “Hi,” he says simply, walking over to the kitchen with his grocery bags.

“‘Hi’,” Jason mimics sarcastically. “So he speaks! You’d better be ready to do a lot of talking now, dick.” Is everyone going to be saying his name like that now? Dick hears the couch springs groan as Jason gets up and follows him into the kitchen. The sting of cigarette smoke wafts in after him, and Dick spares a moment to wonder whether Jason has been smoking in his apartment. He almost asks, but Dick is actually looking for strategies to avoid arguments right now. So. He opens the fridge and starts putting away his purchases. Jason sighs but grabs a box of cereal out of a bag and pulls open some cupboards.

“Is everyone okay?” Dick asks as he tries to sneak the eggos into the freezer without Jason noticing. Jason clearly notices, eyes narrowing and shaking his head in scorn. Busted.

Jason then makes a frustrated noise and looks up to the heavens like he can’t believe he’s here, dealing with Dick’s nonsense. “Everyone is fine, they’re worried about you, idiot. You can’t just fight Bruce, run away, and go radio silent. Rebel loner doesn’t suit you.” The unlike me is implied.

Dick has a sneaking suspicion and frowns. “Did Babs send you to check up on me? Because I’m doing fine and she can -”

“I’m not here as Barbara’s scout,” Jason says flatly. “And honestly fuck you for thinking I can be sent anywhere. Seriously, you couldn’t have bothered responding to anyone’s messages just once? Your little chicks are so worried they’re bothering me. Damn, it’s too early for this.” Jason drops onto a wooden chair at Dick’s tiny kitchen table, massaging his temple. “ See, I was just minding my own business cleaning my guns when I got a panicked call from the Replacement saying you disappeared and weren’t answering your phone.” 

Tim has been telling a lot of people about Dick’s life lately, he thinks bitterly, but it’s tinged with guilt for leaving his brothers alone after witnessing something kind of traumatic. His mind flashes back to Damian’s horrified face, glimpsed beyond Batman’s glaring cowl.

“So Tim sent you,” he summarizes, pulling himself up to sit on his kitchen counter.

“No, I told him you’re a big boy who can look out for himself, and then I hung up. But then, I’m just minding my own business making ragoût when the Demon Brat calls. And guess what? He demands I check in on you, too. Only this time he gives a few more interesting details about what happened that make me think maybe this is something I should check out after all. So spill. What’s going on here?”

Jason’s face is serious; on him, Dick notes with alarm, it looks concerned. Dick wonders what exactly Damian had said that made Jason drive out to Bludhaven with this expression on his face. Dick had been so pathetically grateful that Jason hadn’t been in the cave to see Bruce and him fight. He has always hated it when there are witnesses to his failings. Dick has been in emotional purgatory since last night and he’s not looking to deal with his damage right now. Dick looks down, hood falling further over his face to shield him from Jason’s probing look.

“I don’t know what Damian told you,” Dick says slowly, “And I’m sorry you came out all this way for nothing. But I’m fine.” A pause. “And don’t call him that.”

“Right,” Jason says disbelievingly, “You’re always fucking fine. But see, what it sounded like is that you just got beat down by your old man and then exiled. You, the Golden Boy, who’s so far in the nest you are the nest. So explain to me either what I’ve got wrong here or else how, exactly, that makes you perfectly fine.”

Dick feels a spark of resentment toward Jason for making him talk about this. For coming into his apartment uninvited and forcing him to think about stuff that doesn’t matter, stuff he can’t change. And maybe his hurt and shame over what happened is closer to the surface than he thinks, because he finds himself turning defensive.

“You don’t know what happened, Jason, you weren’t even there!” he snaps, bringing his head up to meet Jason’s unimpressed gaze. “You always run off when things don’t go how you want.” Maybe Jason runs before he can get told to leave. Maybe that hurts less. “But some of us don’t have the luxury of just walking away. I know you’re rusty on how family works, so let me remind you - it’s messy! But you have to actually handle the -”

Jason’s eyes flash warningly, “Don’t talk to me about running away, you sanctimonious prick. You fucked off to Jump City my entire childhood!” So unfair; Dick will never tell him he wasn’t welcome home then, just like now. “And don’t get me started on dealing with this so-called family’s messed up relationships. Who,” he breathes out vehemently, a flicker of green in his eyes, “do you think you are. You act like everything wrong with us can just be wiped away, like nothing’s had consequences! You can’t just bleed over everyone else like some self-appointed sacrifice and expect it to all just stop hurting. And no one is asking you to!”

Well, Dick thinks, at least Jason is referring to them as a family, and including himself in it.  But Jason isn’t done. “I fucking died,” - and it might be a new record, that it’s taken Jason this long to mention it today-, “and you always like to forget all the times your precious little psycho tried to murder Replacement-”

“ You tried to kill Tim!” Dick says, outraged on Damian’s behalf, though it doesn’t make anything better.

“I was in a resurrection-induced Pit rage -”

“He was an abused child who was raised by assassins!” Talking to Jason is never good for Dick’s blood pressure.

“What I am trying to say , Dickhead, if you would let me talk, is some people don’t actually enjoy talking to people who’ve hurt them,” Jason finishes heatedly.

“You can’t just run from problems either!” Dick insists, even though that is literally what he is doing. “If you don’t actually deal with conflict, nothing ever gets better!” Dick closes his eyes, wondering how he got to this moment, shouting at Jason in his apartment. Can all he do is fight these days?

“Alright, listen up asshole!” Jason rages. A sharp inhale, and Dick braces, gaze locked firmly on his cupboard door. Abruptly paralyzed, his frozen lungs ache. He is suddenly intensely grateful that Jason is sitting down and not looming over him; his brother’s height and build are almost identical to Bruce. But the pause goes on longer than expected, and at the end all that comes out is a measured, “What the hell happened last night?”

Dick frowns at the whiplash change in tone and looks at Jason. Jason’s gaze is fixed below his eyes, at jaw level. And Dick realizes the hood he has been wearing since he went to get groceries has fallen down during their argument.

Dick never did ice that bruise.

“It was my fault.” The words are out of Dick’s mouth before he even realizes that he’s going to defend Bruce. But of course he is, he’s talking to Jason. Even to himself, his voice sounds resigned. “I know you want to blame Bruce for everything, but I picked that fight when I chose to switch off my comms. Unlike some people, I can take responsibility for my own mistakes,” Dick says pointedly.

“Dick, stop trying to pick a fight right now,” Jason says seriously, and Dick cringes because he’s right, but Dick can’t think of why he keeps trying to goad Jason, except that maybe it would get him out of this conversation. Or maybe a fight would just feel familiar.

Dick makes a conscious effort to continue. “Sorry, that was uncalled for,” he allows. “But I just don’t think our fight is that big of a deal. Like yes, things got physical this time, and we both said and did things we regret, but we’re two adults.” Dick takes a deep breath, reaching up to run a hand through his hair, wincing a little when he grazes the still-forming scab. Jason is watching, waiting. “Look, I’m sorry we scared the kids and they bothered you into checking up on me. But the reality is it’s not anything new. Bruce and I have been clashing like this for years, we’re both strong personalities. It’s not anyone’s problem but our own.” Dick sighs. “We’ll make up, eventually.” Then quieter, barely more than a mumble. “We always do.” It’s just a matter of Bruce deciding Dick has learned his lesson.

It’s quiet for a moment, two brothers breathing in the same room. Dick releases his death grip on the counter.

“Bruce is an asshole,” Jason says eventually. Dick hums in agreement. “You can be an asshole too. But if you think that getting hurt by your parent and then tossed out of your family on the regular is okay, I’m going to have to call you an idiot again. Idiot.”

“It’s not really like that,” Dick protests tiredly.

But Jason is holding a hand up and shaking his head. “No, you’re delusional. I see that now. I know I didn’t stick around to watch last night, but I know you and I know Bruce, and I doubt he looks as messed up as you right now. Someone’s got to put him in his place.”

“We both fought,” Dick insists again. And it’s true, isn’t it? Bruce had certainly thought so. “And it’s not really your problem, Jay. Please don’t push him right now.” Dick casts around for more words that will make sure Jason doesn’t bother Bruce about this. That’s the last thing Dick needs. Then Bruce is never going to let him come back. “I wanted to come back to Bludhaven anyways. I’d been gone too long. This gives me time to catch up on my life. Just let me have some peace for a while, okay?” He’s pleading now, but he doesn’t care.

Jason stares at him like he’s never seen him before. He looks a little lost for what to say, or what to do. Finally, he just shakes his head again and stands up. He stretches. “Whatever, Goldie. It’s your life. You want some solitude away from the flock for a while, that’s your choice.” He folds his arms. “But if I ever see Bruce being a violent ass to any of his kids you better believe it’s my problem.”

Dick’s mouth goes dry, but he forces himself to nod. The idea has never been real to him before, (unthinkable, an absolute nightmare scenario,) even as his mind offers him visions of Bruce getting angry with Tim or Damian, raising a hand to strike them. No, that can never happen. “Of course,” he says levelly. “I’d be right behind you.”

Jason holds his gaze for a moment. “Alriiiiiighty then. Glad that’s sorted. Guess I’m out of here.”

And with that, Jason turns to leave, but he stops while still in the kitchen. “Oh yeah,” he rummages in his pocket, then throws a phone onto the table. It’s Dick’s. “Found this on the floor at your doorway.” 

Dick swallows. “Must have dropped it,” he says lamely, staring at the device in trepidation. He can see the list of notifications from here.

Jason snorts. “Yeah, no shit. Give those little birds a call. I’m not driving back out here.” And then he’s walking away, and then the door slams, and he is gone, and Dick is alone again.

--------------

Dick decides he was right to be apprehensive - he has texts and missed calls from every one of his siblings (notes a little touched that even Jason had called him twice), as well as texts from Babs and a couple of friends from his Titans days - Wally and Donna he expects, but Roy surprises him. One missed call from Wayne Manor that is probably Alfred. Nothing from Bruce, which though disappointing, is to be expected. It’s too soon to hope anyway.

Dick starts off easy on himself and calls Carol to let her know he can teach this afternoon. Then he does the laundry to stall while he debates if he should contact Tim or Damian next (who would be offended more by being second?), before deciding to avoid the mess entirely by calling the Manor.

He waits a bit nervously for someone to pick up while he leans against the washing machine. He almost psychs himself out thinking that maybe it won’t be Alfred who picks up. What schedule is Bruce following today? He is just about to chicken out and hang up when the line connects. 

“Good morning, Wayne Manor,” Alfred greets crisply and smoothly. 

“Alfred,” Dick breathes, overwhelming relief at hearing Alfred’s voice suddenly making it difficult to speak.

There is an answering intake of breath on the other end of the line. “Master Richard,” Alfred says much more warmly. “How are you, dear boy?”

“I’m good,” Dick manages. “Sorry for disappearing on you.”

“You should hardly apologize for something that was in no way your fault,” Alfred’s clipped tone sounds icy, and Dick does not envy Bruce at this moment. Alfred continues more gently. “And I must apologize on Master Bruce’s behalf for his behaviour. You are most missed in your absence, and welcome back when you are ready.”

Dick is almost certain that Alfred does not know all of the details of his and Bruce’s fights, and never has. Alfred’s love for his pseudo-son and his choosing to stick with Bruce after all he has done - it is difficult to reconcile the two without assuming he is ignorant of the specifics on some level. Dick has never wanted to put them at odds anyway, justifying to himself that he shouldn’t wreck a perfectly working relationship just because his crashed and burned. So, hearing Alfred lay to rest all of his fears of abandonment from his grandfather figure has him wanting to cry.

But now he wants, needs, something more from Alfred. Needs him to be more than just the refuge he was for Dick. Right now, Dick needs Alfred to be the last line of defence between Robin and the Batman, between Bruce and his son. “Alfred, I,” he starts. It’s difficult to voice. “Damian - and Tim.” Why does he always forget Tim? He hates himself sometimes. “Can you -? While I’m not around, can you. Watch them?” He cringes; it’s an awkward way to say it, and he’s not sure Alfred will understand.

He’s thinking of ways to reword when Alfred interrupts. “Master Richard,” he says, then stops. There’s an uncharacteristic pause where Dick frets anxiously, because if not Alfred, there is no one else. “Of course,” the answer finally comes, delivered in a tone Dick can’t quite place for the butler.

And Dick can breathe.

“Thanks, Alfred,” Dick chokes out. He tries to pull himself together before he falls apart completely. “Is - are Damian and Tim around?”

“Master Timothy is at Wayne Enterprises at the moment.” Dick is chagrined. It’s Sunday morning. Bruce needs to give this kid a break. “But Master Damian is just in the kitchen. Shall I get him for you?” Alfred asks kindly.

Dick is filled with longing. “Would you?” He asks gratefully.

“Of course. One moment.” Alfred steps away and Dick hears distant conversation for a minute.

Someone picks up the phone. “Richard?” Damian’s voice betrays his nervousness, and Dick feels very protective instantly. It has been less than twelve hours since they last spoke but it feels much longer. He really did just leave his kid hanging at the worst possible moment, yikes.

“Damian,” Dick says enthusiastically, smiling just to be speaking with him. But his guilt persists. “Listen, I am so sorry about abandoning you like that. You totally deserved an explanation and I left you hanging.”

“Do not be silly,” Damian says, “I was present for your dismissal. You have nothing to be sorry for.” And if Dick thought it was powerful to hear Alfred absolve his apology, coming from Damian the words are like a parachute catching his fall. This kid has come so far in his empathy and understanding it takes Dick’s breath away.

However, from the inflection, it is clear that Damian means that in contrast, Bruce has everything to be sorry for. Dick once again finds himself dividing father and son, exactly what he said he wouldn’t do. After his conversation with Jason and envisioning Bruce hitting one of his siblings, Dick suddenly needs to know that Damian and everyone else’s relationships with Bruce are better than his. He needs them all to not fight.

Bruce is a better father to Damian than he ever was to Dick, but Dick likes to think that’s because Dick wasn’t interested in a father when he first arrived at the manor. Maybe Dick wants Bruce and Damian to work out because his own biological father is such a spot of light in his past. Regardless, Dick needs to do everything he can to keep Damian and Bruce’s relationship as healthy as possible. 

“Damian, this is mine and Bruce’s fight,” he says, shifting on the washing machine, “Please don’t make it yours. I’ll be back soon enough,” hopefully, “But while I’m gone. Tell me you’ll get along with Bruce.” There’s a noise of indignation on the line but Dick insists, “Please, Dami, I need to hear it.”

“But he was cruel to you,” Damian almost whispers, a boy who knows all about cruelty.

Dick closes his eyes. He knows it’s kind of unfair to ask this of Damian, but Dick has to know he will be safe. “We were cruel to each other. But if you make him angry with you too, I don’t think I could handle it.”

“Richard,” Damian says his name like a protest. But then, stiffly, “I shall try to disguise my contempt.” A beat. “You will return soon?”

And that halfhearted agreement to not be overtly aggressive to Bruce will have to be enough for Dick. He can fix it later. He releases the breath he has been holding in and smiles at Damian’s question. “I’ve got a couple things I need to do in Bludhaven anyway, since I was gone for so long. But I’ll be back as soon as I can.”  Where ‘as soon as I can’ depends very little on when Dick wants.

Damian hmms. “That holiday, Thanksgiving, is approaching soon. Though it is not a very big deal.” It is obviously a very big deal. “You are still coming to the aquarium?”

Right, the aquarium. Dick would really like to say yes instantly, but Bruce can be unpredictable about forgiveness. Which really, really sucks because this aquarium thing is important to Dick too. It’s less than a week away now. “I’ll try my best,” he eventually says honestly.

Damian accepts this answer. “Very well then. Perhaps if you remain in Bludhaven for long I shall have to come and assist you,” he comments imperiously, and Dick stifles a laugh because, cute.

“That would be amazing, Dami,” he says, “You could sweep these streets clean in a night. Just make sure you get permission. And don’t fight.” Dick’s washing machine dings. “I have to go, kiddo. But I love you. I’ll text you later.”

“See that you do,” Damian says, adorably pompous, and hangs up.

Dick is still smiling as he goes to open Tim’s texts, but it quickly fades. He feels bad, reading Tim’s messages which went from Are you okay? to Where’d you go?, then Barbara says you’re in Bludhaven, then Answer your PHONE dick, to Don’t make me get Jason involved to Please let me know if you’re okay. Six missed calls total. He really is the worst brother, ghosting everyone when they are just concerned about him. Tim is at work right now, so Dick opts to text back.

Sorry Timmy, he types. I’m okay. 

He is about to send a long apology and explanation when his phone immediately starts ringing. He sighs, not ready emotionally for what will surely be an analytical conversation, but he answers anyway.

“Dick, hi,” Tim says. There is chatter in the background, then a clicking sound and quiet. Dick is pretty sure Tim just left a meeting to call him, which is oddly flattering. But also anxiety inducing - Bruce won’t be happy if Tim ignores work to check in on Dick’s drama.“You’re okay?”

“I am okay,” Dick confirms, “And I am also really, really sorry about ghosting you, and for leaving the way I did. I left in a rush, and then I just got so busy picking up life in Bludhaven again. I shouldn’t have ignored you.”

“I won’t argue that you’re a jerk for not letting me know you’re okay,” Tim allows, “But I can’t see how you leaving in the first place was your fault.”

And here again: someone telling Dick he doesn’t need to be sorry. It’s like everyone simultaneously decided to forgive him before he even asked. Dick’s not sure what to stand on when his apologies don’t float.

Tim continues. “I mean, that was crazy. Bruce was so out of line. And he can’t just send you away.” He is venting, but he sounds bewildered too. Dick recalls that his more physical fights with Bruce have been private in the past; it must have been a shock to see it last night.

Just like with Damian, Dick needs to know that Tim is not going to sabotage his relationship with Bruce on Dick’s behalf. Bruce depends on Tim for Wayne Enterprises and casework, and ropes him into countless projects. Of all of them, Bruce probably commands Tim’s time the most, but still trusts him enough to give him a lot of autonomy. And like most of them, Tim is generally grateful to be included at all, even when he has to sacrifice his personal life or his work with other hero teams. Tim does enough on behalf of other people, so Dick absolutely cannot let his failings be what pushes Tim to tip the balance he has with Bruce and start their own fight.

“Look, I know it’s not ideal, but this is how Bruce and I operate. You know we fight a lot; we just don’t click well naturally,” Dick finds himself repeating his defence to Jason. “We do this to ourselves. So don’t worry about it, it’s our problem and we’ll patch it up eventually, just like before. For now I need to catch up on things in Bludhaven anyway.” Dick is trying to be reassuring, but Tim’s silence sounds judgmental.

“Dick, he literally punched you in the face, then kicked you out of his house,” Tim says flatly, and Dick winces at the words because they’re technically, painfully true. “You may say you’re okay, but what he did? That was not okay. I’ve been thinking about Bruce’s behaviour for a while anyways, and our behaviour as a family. I think we need to talk about it.”

“Tim, please don’t argue about me with Bruce,” Dick tries not to sound as panicked as he feels. “I know our fight got physical last night and you’re right that’s not okay, but we’re honestly going to be fine. Please let me handle my own problems.” Dick finds himself begging a lot, lately.

Tim hums noncommittally. “We’ll see. I don’t think you can claim this solely as your own problem. It’s not just about you - this affects the whole family. Speaking of which, you’re still coming to the aquarium right? You basically planned the whole thing.” Before Dick can reply, there is a click and someone is talking to Tim. “I have to go now. But I’m working on something.” Ominous. “Keep in touch okay? And take care of yourself. Honestly.” Tim sounds exasperated, which is a bit rich since his self-care habits are negligible.

“Of course. Don’t work too hard. Bye Timmy, I love you,” Dick says.

“Love you too.” Again, so nice to hear, now that they’re on better terms. (It wasn’t so long ago that Dick would dread saying it, too affected by the answering silence.) Tim hangs up the phone.

Dick moves down the texting list. Barbara has sent him one message, a warning that Jason was coming. He texts back Thanks for the warning :), also I’m STILL FINE. 

Jason had texted a warning that if he didn’t answer his phone he would be showing up to make him answer his phone, which makes Dick laugh a little. He has sent nothing since he left Dick’s apartment, but Dick still sends a similar message to what he sent Barbara: I’m fiiiiiiiiiiine.

Jason responds immediately with a photo. Dick opens it and his laugh gets louder. It’s a picture of pants on fire, the implied liar loud and clear. Well, Dick is done trying to reassure him then. He moves on.

Steph had texted asking if he is okay, and then asking if he had tried this new brand of fish flavoured chips, photo attached. Dick replies thanking her for the concern, that he’s fine, and that he’s very interested in these probably gross chips.

Cass has sent him a string of emojis and a question mark. Dick replies with a row of hearts and a Can’t wait to see you! And Dick hopes desperately that he has made up with Bruce by the end of the week.

Dick almost wishes everyone had just used the group chat instead of all of the individual messages, but the intimacy of private messaging makes him feel more personally cared for so he decides it’s worth the extra texting effort. He does throw a few fish emojis into the chat to keep the aquarium hype alive, and reacts with a thumbs up to Steph’s question of a Spongebob viewing party by video chat this Tuesday.

Next, Dick messages the Titan’s group chat, which he has been silently avoiding all week due to his inability to commit. The last message in the chat was from Wally reminding everyone of his address and giving a time to show up. Dick sends, See you there! with a bunch of stars.

Wally immediately likes his message and replies, Duuude YES! Finally found another present for moi? ;)

Dick laughs and responds. You know it. He sends a kissy face, then closes the group chat.

Wally’s individual message is just a birthday list, which upon closer perusal contains outrageous items including a golden carved image of himself and a yacht made out of gingerbread. Dick reacts with a thumbs down and exits the window.

Dick checks the message from Roy, sent earlier this morning. It reads, Jason just left, said he was going to see you. Bruce being an asshole? 

Hmm. Roy, and all of the older Titans really, have been in Dick’s life during his worst teenage fights with Bruce, back when Dick wasn’t even sure if Bruce cared about him. They had seen how broken Dick could get over one insult from Bruce. But now? Dick is grateful for the backup, sort of, but he is so used to dealing with Bruce’s moods that it all feels a little overkill.

Just a little fight, nbd. Going to stay in Bludhaven for a while. He types. Then, a little hesitant since Roy is not the best friend he used to be (these days he firmly stands with Jason), he adds, See you tomorrow?

Roy responds instantly. Sure it was ‘nbd’. But ya, see you tomorrow.

Dick frowns but decides he’ll just deal with Roy when he sees him. Donna has seen his message in the group chat and reacted with a happy face, but then she sends him a private message.

Everything okay? She asks simply. She knew why he was struggling to figure out if he could come and must have realized something happened. 

Dick sighs. All of his friends and family seem to be practicing their detective work on his emotions. Yeah okay, just back in Bludhaven for a while. He is sort of sick of talking about his issues so he just says, I’ve got to run. See you tomorrow? And Donna sends a thumbs up.

Dick sets his phone down, finally, relieved. Then he looks back at his laundry. Well, no one ever said being an adult was fun. He gets to work.

He does end up going to teach gymnastics that afternoon, face full of makeup and body full of painkillers. It rejuvenates him, getting back into his routine life teaching something he loves. His coworkers welcome him back, and the kids are enthusiastic at his return too.

When he gets home, he has enough time to eat one eggo waffle - his stomach is still unsettled, one waffle is enough - before he sits down to dust off his case files. A lot of the trails have gone cold, and Dick can tell it’s going to take a lot of work to revive his search. That’s okay, he has time now.

Dick decides to go out briefly as Nightwing after more careful makeup application, just for a light patrol. He needs to show the citizens of Bludhaven that he is back, and if a certain Bat is watching and notices that he is perfectly capable of fighting crime on his own? Well, that’s just a bonus. He heads home again before long, no crazy curveballs keeping him out late, to continue sorting his old casework and catch up on current local crime reports.

It’s after midnight when his phone rings. Dick is lying on his couch, sifting files as he checks the phone. It’s an unknown number. He answers. “Dick Grayson.”

“Richard, how good to hear from you.” Dick freezes, drops the case file he was looking at. He pulls the phone away from his ear to stare at the number, then puts it back again.

“Slade,” he fights to keep the alarm from his voice, scrambling to sit up. “What the hell do you want?” He doesn’t bother asking how he got his contact information. He always finds a way, no matter how careful Dick is. It has been years since he last reached out though; Dick was starting to think he was rid of him, that perhaps Slade had finally grown tired of him.

Slade Wilson laughs, low and patronizing. “Calm down, little bird. I saw on the news that a certain blue bird had returned to its cesspool of a city. It just so happens that I have business in Bludhaven as well. I’ll be there tomorrow night.”

Dick is nonplussed. Is Slade threatening him right now? Usually he is way more subtle about his jobs. “Why are you telling me this? What’s the contract?”

“This is just a courtesy call. My contract is in your territory but is, as usual, none of your business. Even so, perhaps I shall see you there.” Is this a warning? An invitation? Dick has no idea.

“Slade, I don’t -”

“Goodnight, little bird.” Slade hangs up. Dick stares at his phone for a moment, absolutely thrown by the exchange. Then he gives in to his instinct and makes Slade’s number a contact. So he has more warning next time, on the slight chance Slade ever uses the number again.

A contract in Bludhaven tomorrow night. Uncharacteristic of Slade to let Dick know; Dick can’t decide if he appreciates it or if it’s really, really irritating, like he’s taunting Dick to just try and stop him. Dick is swamped trying to catch up on what’s happening in Bludhaven anyway; it would take hours to try and find a thread that leads him to what Deathstroke might have business in. 

But another complication: the party is tomorrow. Should he really be leaving for Star City now? The commute is over an hour. Maybe he should stick around Bludhaven; he doesn’t even know what Slade’s contract is for yet. Then again, the party starts at four in the afternoon, and he doesn’t have to stay late. He can be back in time to stop Slade. Besides, if he backs out of the party now, Donna will be even more worried than she already is when he doesn’t show.

Dick decides he can do both, see his friends and address the Slade Problem, and tries not to think about how, lately, all of his choices have proven to be bad ones.

--------------------------

The next day Dick scrambles to find Wally a present on the way home from his morning gymnastics class. He ends up settling with a childish water gun, justifying that he already bought Wally a sound system for his gaming setup, so he can cheap out now. Besides, it will be funny, and it's exactly the type of nonsense gift Wally adores.

He didn’t make much progress tracking Slade’s actions until almost 4 am, when he stumbled across a shady casino that might have contracted Deathstroke’s services for a hit on their competitor. He tried texting Slade’s number, fishing for information, but received no response. Regardless, Dick is planning to scope out the situation tonight. 

Dick skips lunch, opting for painkillers instead. Then he sits down to re-apply his makeup. It’s tedious, but he has thought about it and decided that he would rather his friends not see exactly what Bruce did to him. They are pretty anti-Bruce as it is, and have a tendency to overreact about anything related to Dick’s perceived safety. The last thing Dick wants is to turn their chill hangout into a lynch mob for Batman.

He checks his phone before he heads out to Star City. He doesn’t know what he’s doing until Bruce’s contact information is already open. No messages from him of course. Before Dick can reconsider, he types, Hey Bruce. Can we talk?  

He hits send. Then he closes his phone and leaves his apartment.

It’s a cloudy day, but it makes for a nice drive to Star City. He tries to focus on driving instead of the second thoughts he has about texting Bruce at all. Over the years of fighting and making up repeatedly, he has learned that it’s best to wait until Bruce is ready to reach out, but Dick doesn’t have the luxury of time right now. They celebrate Thanksgiving this Saturday, and Dick has promised his family a trip to the aquarium. He needs a resolution between him and Bruce this week, the sooner the better. 

Dick tries not to think about whether he is ready for a resolution.

By the time Dick reaches Star City and pulls up to Wally’s place, a small unit in suburbia, he has carefully put his family worries behind him for now. 

He takes a moment before he goes in, closing his eyes and just breathing. Locking everything in his mind away. Then he grabs the gift bag and walks up to the door.

The doorbell has a surprised frog’s face. Dick presses it with prejudice.

In a split second, the door is open and Dick is in the air, his gift bag flying into a nearby shrubbery.

“Robbie! You actually made it!” Wally calls excitedly, swinging him around at inhuman speeds. Dick is really glad he didn’t eat lunch.

He waits until he is set down before he meets Wally’s eyes levelly. Wally looks the same as always, maybe a few new freckles. Dick adopts a serious expression and offers his hand. “Wallace.”

His best friend solemnly takes the outstretched hand, then leans down quickly to kiss it before Dick can pull away, startling Dick into a laugh. 

He grins and goes in for a hug. “Happy Birthday, you grown ass man. You sent your present flying into outer space though.”

Wally waves his hand. “Your presence is enough for me,” he claims dramatically. 

“Oh?” Dick quirks a brow. “Well in that case…” He starts to scoot by Wally to enter the house, but Wally makes him go and retrieve his gift from the bushes first. Dick manages to trick Wally into falling into said bush, and he smiles. They are not so grown up, not really. Some things never change, and Wally is a breath of familiarity that Dick didn’t realize he was craving.

They go inside. Dick is the first to arrive, which is no surprise to him since he is half an hour early. He figured if he comes early it’s not so strange if he leaves early, and with the way the Titans gatherings go lately, sometimes it’s a good idea to have an exit strategy planned.

It’s comfortable, just the two of them. They talk casually about their jobs while they set out bowls of chips in rows, probably half of which will be consumed by Wally alone.

“I wasn’t sure if you were going to make it tonight,” Wally says after a while as he pops some hors d'oeuvres into the oven. Dick is perched on a bar stool scooping avocados into a bowl for dip. “You were pretty silent in the chat, and Donna said you were really busy in Gotham.”

Dick focuses very hard on scraping the last bits of avocado off of the peel. “I was having difficulty with the scheduling,” Dick says easily, “Bruce had me helping on a big case that kept me in Gotham for a while. But I’m back in Bludhaven now, more free time for birthday parties.”

“Oh, I’m glad the case is over, I remember how those can just drag on,” Wally bemoans sympathetically on his behalf, coming to sit on the stool next to him. He grabs an avocado as well and starts scooping. Wally is such a good friend, and Dick feels so bad misleading him, that he clarifies.

“The case isn’t closed yet, actually. But it’s close, should be shut and done within a week now,” Dick explains, going to dump an avocado pit into the scrap bowl.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Wally frown slightly. “So are you - what, off the case? Why? You usually see those through to the end.”

Ugh. Dick should have just let him assume the case was finished. “I’m taking a break,” he explains. “Bruce has a lot of hands helping out with Tim sticking around, and Jason’s pretty regular now these days too. I figured I’d catch up on Bludhaven work, maybe show up in other cities to bother some friends.” He punctuates his last sentence by poking Wally’s avocado so it slips out of his grasp. It’s only Wally’s speedster reflexes that save it from a fatal fall.

“Dude, do you have to be a little gremlin all the time?” Wally shakes his head, exasperated, as Dick grins. But then he looks considering. “So, Jason’s around more, huh? That’s good, that’s great progress for all of you.” Wally smiles, happy for him, but continues. “I would have thought you’d want to stay in Gotham if everyone is there, though? Capitalize on family time - and Thanksgiving is coming up.” More quietly, concerned. “Did something happen with Bruce?”

Damn their long friendship, and the things Dick has shared in the past when he was weak. Wally knows him too well, but Dick tries to obscure anyway. He waves a hand dismissively. “Eh, not really, nothing serious. We fought a bit, and it’s better if I cool off in Bludhaven. I needed a break from Gotham. And I really have been neglecting my casework there, it was about time I got back into it.”

Wally regards him with some skepticism, but thankfully comments no further on the matter. “Did I tell you about the squirrel family in the park I run in? I’m pretty sure they’ve imprinted on me.”

“Are you sure squirrels imprint on anything?” Dick asks. And their discussion remains light until the doorbell rings again, a ribbit ribbit that Dick is certain he will find annoying by the end of the night but is so very Wally.

Wally opens the door to a chorus of “Happy Birthday!” Dick peers around the corner. Donna and Garth have arrived simultaneously. Wally spins them both around, and they tolerate it, Garth joking about super strength.

Donna spots Dick over Wally’s shoulder. She squeezes by the impromptu wrestle between Wally and Garth. “Hey Boy Wonder,” she says, giving him a hug. “You made it.”

He holds onto her for a long time. “Hi Wonder Girl,” he whispers, kissing her cheek.

When he lets go she steps back to assess him, clearly looking for signs of maltreatment. Dick smiles and spreads his arms, turning in a circle slowly like he’s in a display case. “Satisfied?” he asks.

Her expression isn’t one of agreement, though all she asks is, “Are you okay?”

“Better now that you’re here,” he replies promptly with an infectious grin. She rolls her eyes but laughs, and lets Wally drag them all into the kitchen again to chat while he finishes food prep. Garth regales them with a fascinating tale of a boating accident.

The doorbell rings again.

Dick goes to open the door while Wally is still washing avocado from his hands and Donna and Garth taste-test the dip.

He pulls the door open. “Hello and welcome to my home,” he says, then jolts internally because.

It’s Roy.

He has grown more muscle now than since the last time Dick saw him, many months ago, but he has been keeping his hair short for ages now. The way he meets Dick’s eyes and holds them is the same. Roy doesn’t back down from a challenge. He is staring back, looking Dick up and down. His eyes settle on Dick’s jaw.

“I didn’t realize you’d moved in, I wasn’t invited to the wedding,” Roy jokes with a raised eyebrow, after a slightly awkward pause.

“It was an elopement, right darling?” Dick calls out loudly. 

Wally speeds out and kisses Dick’s cheek. “You got it babe.” And Dick laughs, wiping sprite off of his face.

Wally tries to pick Roy up but the archer is uncooperative. “Nuh uh, It’s your turn speedster, hold my bag Rob,” he says, shoving his gift at Dick who catches it instinctively just before Roy dives at Wally’s middle and hoists him over his shoulder.

Roy carries a howling Wally into the house as Garth and Donna cheer from inside. As he passes Dick, he leans in and says, “Nice makeup.”

Dick grits his teeth and grinds out a smile, winking fake-suggestively. “Thanks.”

Roy just shakes his head and moves on.

Victor shows up not long after, and then Wally demands presents immediately. The water gun is well received. Then Garfield makes a surprise but welcome appearance, bringing well-wishes from Raven and her regret that she couldn’t make it. Listening to everyone share their life updates, Dick feels more awake than he has in awhile, really seeing these people he grew up with and grew apart from. They all had different dynamics as members cycled through the team, but they are their own kind of family. He is honestly so, so proud of them.

The more people present, the easier it is to get a game going. Donna vetoes everyone’s suggestions, even the birthday boy’s, in favour of forcing them all to play Just Dance.

It’s actually….. Really fun.

“Yas queen!” Wally calls as Donna absolutely nails the moves to “Bad Romance”. Wally himself is moving too fast for the sensors to pick up his moves and loses to her, and then loses every game after. Donna is unsurprisingly the champion, but she’s determined that everyone else enjoy the game as well and forces everyone to participate. Dick catches himself thinking that this could be fun to do with his family; Cass especially would love it, and he can just picture Jason or Tim trying to nail a spin - then he remembers he’s not thinking about his family right now.

Dick does a good performance of “Sexy and I Know It”, until he starts improvising new moves and experiments with a handstand position, controller strapped to his ankle. It goes well until he accidentally crashes into Garth and Roy, after which everyone makes him swear no more inventions or he’ll be banished to the couch. Everybody’s a critic, though his screaming abdomen is grateful. He takes a quick break to grab another painkiller while everyone else is grabbing snacks before he returns to tamer dances.

They have to end on “What Does The Fox Say?” after Gar transforms into a literal fox and starts screeching along, and Donna laughs so hard she falls over and knocks three chip bowls onto their dance floor. By this time, Dick is sweating from the exertion and the heat radiating from everyone’s bodies. He is still wearing his jacket, has been dreading removing it. He never covered up the bruises on his arm, and while they have now faded to a yellowish green that a lot of people wouldn’t glance twice at, Dick’s friends aren’t most people. But everyone is in t-shirts now and wiping off sweat and Dick finally takes off the jacket after it becomes weirder to leave it on.

A quick transition has them gathering around on the carpet like kids to play cards - Dick doesn’t object, just keeps his hands casually behind him as he leans back against the couch beside Victor. Wally declares they have to play mafia, because they need more practice bringing people to justice.

“You mean you want more practice whipping up a lynch mob,” Donna interprets, unimpressed.

Roy grins sharply, plunking himself down on Dick’s other side. “I’m ready.” Dick shuffles a bit to make room for him, trying not to read too far into Roy’s decision to sit by him. Maybe there’s nothing to be wary of.

Wally hands out the cards, and Dick tries not to wonder what Jason has told Roy.

Victor and Garfield have to go after the first round, and there is a brief interruption while everyone makes their farewells that includes, in Wally’s case, fanatically waving them off from the front door. Dick is sad to see them leave so quickly, but soon the rest of them return to the carpet and pass out cards again for another round.

And Dick is having fun, really. The night is going well - maybe Cyborg and Garfield left early, but it was peaceable. No one has stormed off yet, no one has brought up old wounds, and there have been no long silences filled by ghosts and shared, painful memories.

Obviously, because Dick has shit luck, everything has to crash and burn.

After a couple rounds, Wally has managed to turn all of his friends against Dick, who has an innocent five of spades.

“He’s lying to you,” Dick insists. “Look at his eye twitching!”

“The criminals always lash out when they’re cornered. Don’t listen to him,” Wally shakes his head sadly. “This man is clearly a mafia ringleader.”

“Oh, I believe it,” Garth says with a grin. He raises his hand to vote and Dick dramatically drops his head in defeat.

Despite Dick’s pleas, he is unanimously voted to hang.

“You’ll all be sorry, you traitors,” Dick looks at each of them, shaking his head.

“No talking, dead boy,” Wally says joyfully.

Dick presses his lips together in acquiescence. Then he reaches out viciously to turn his card over and reveal his innocence posthumously.

Garth pats him sympathetically on the shoulder as Donna wipes away a fake tear and Wally feigns shock. 

“And he seemed so guilty,” Wally bemoans, leaning into Donna for comfort. 

Dick makes a you’re dead gesture with his hand over his neck.

“What’s that?” Roy asks suddenly. Dick glances at him. He is still sitting next to Dick even after they had all retaken their seats, which had been a surprising move on his part, and he is looking at …. Dick’s wrist, which he is waving around like an idiot. Stupid, Grayson.

Dick sets his hands back behind him. He pointedly presses his lips together, then lays his head back and closes his eyes, trying to communicate I am dead.

“Dick, cut it out, what’s on your arm?” Roy asks. Everyone else must pick up on his serious tone because Dick hears Wally sit up straight and Donna stops laughing.

Dick sighs. Of course. He doesn’t want to talk about something, so he has to talk about it. Roy never lets him get away with anything. 

And because he’s Roy, he is already gripping Dick’s wrist to pull it towards him. Dick’s eyes snap open as he yanks it away reflexively, trying to make the motion less of a flinch than it is.

“It’s nothing, Roy. Leave it alone.” His voice holds a warning. Back off.

Roy slaps his warning away like a mosquito. “Let me see it.”

Dick likes being the centre of attention, but not right now, not when he feels so exposed. All of his friends are looking at him, waiting for Dick to either tell Roy to fuck off or show them his arm. If he resists now, it will only be taken as a confirmation of their worst assumptions. No good choices. 

Dick’s headache is coming back.

Dick slowly lifts his arms, setting them in front of him and refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. He knows what they see. It’s not hard to identify the hand-shaped outline if you’re looking for it, and everyone here recognizes that it’s not a usual pattern for a field injury.

And layered on top, what he does to himself. The deep marks gouged into his wrists where he’d clawed them bloody days ago, fighting himself when he couldn’t fight anyone else. He hates it, hates himself for doing it. He knows how it must look, that it makes him seem unstable, distressed. Knows that it will damage his position in the impending argument.

There’s a soft, “Dude,” from Wally.

Donna sucks in a breath. “Dick,” she says, so sadly it breaks his heart. “What happened?”

Dick counts slowly to ten before he lets his hands drop. “Sorry,” he says, because he really hates to cause his friends pain over his own problems, “But really, it’s fine. They’re almost gone anyway.”

His words are met with immediate objections from everyone present.

Over everyone else, Roy scoffs. “Right, because that’s the only thing wrong with you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dick demands, a spark of indignation lighting in his chest at Roy’s knowing tone.

“Oh come on, Dick,” Roy says, exasperated, “You’ve been popping painkillers this whole time. And you’re wearing a shit ton of makeup. You wanna hide injuries? You’ve got the wrong crowd.”

Dick leans forward abruptly, annoyed, and Garth shifts to give him space. “What the hell do you know?” he says flatly, glaring at Roy. Though of course, Dick has a hunch. “Jason been gossiping?” It’s an accusation.

“You know what, yes, actually, I have been talking to Jay,” Roy snaps back. “Because we’re friends so we tell each other things. And he shares a hell of a lot more than you do about your problems. A lot more truthfully too.”

And Dick tries not to feel so jealous of Roy at this moment; Roy, who is close to his roommates Jason and Kory when Dick wishes he was. Roy, who Jason talks to about his family problems. The envy is for both of them, because Dick used to confide in Roy too.

That hasn’t been true for a long time. And now the implication that Roy, of all people, is privy to the darker parts of his private life bothers him. Roy, who hasn’t spoken to him without an edge of disdain in years. “That’s great,” he says, falsely bright. “Tell him he should stick to sharing about his problems.”

“Oh please, I remember all the shit you used to say about Jason back in the day.” Dick doesn’t think that’s fair, but he can’t remember clearly enough to protest. He’d had a lot of pent up frustration back then, with Jason in the crossfire of its true target.

But he can’t focus on that right now. Roy is still talking at him, gesturing angrily. “Dick, look at yourself. This is pathetic! You get beat to hell, tossed out, crawl home, and then show up telling everyone you’re fucking fine!”

“Could you stop judging me for two seconds? You barely even know me anymore!” Dick says fiercely. He’s practically spitting in Roy’s face.

“Guys,” says Wally, hesitant, but the fury of the moment drowns out any intervention.

“You’re right! I barely even recognize you!” Roy says, gesturing rudely at Dick’s face. “The Dick Grayson I knew used to stand up for himself when Bruce was being a bastard. You complained about him for years, but now? You have the most dysfunctional family I know, and instead of changing anything you just roll over and kiss Bruce’s ass. ”

Dick bristles at his words. That Roy has the gall to believe he’s in a position to comment is infuriating. He and Jason have the exact same strategy for handling family disputes, which is avoiding family altogether; no wonder they get along. “That’s rich coming from you, Roy. How is Ollie doing lately?” he challenges, knowing full well Roy and Ollie haven’t had more than a two minute conversation in years.

Roy’s eyes flash dangerously. “Careful, Grayson. If you think that’s where I count my family these days, you don’t know me either.”

Dick laughs harshly. He thinks very little of Roy’s position on family. “Then I’d hate to be them. Family’s so cheap to you - first Ollie, and it sounds like Jade isn’t coming around anymore eith-”

“You hypocrite!” Roy seethes, voice tight, and Dick was mostly guessing with Jade but here’s confirmation that he hit a mark. His voice drips with disgust. “You’re telling me about commitment? You? You’re the biggest slut I know.” The temperature in the room drops, and Dick’s stomach rolls over in a way that has nothing to do with his injuries. “You think Kory wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t such a damn mess?”

It’s a topic Dick isn’t prepared for, is somehow never prepared for, though he should have been; it’s one of Roy’s favourites. “This,” he manages, rigid and warning, trying to disguise the sudden difficulty he is having with staying in the present, “Is not the same thing.” It’s not. Dick forces images of events long past away, grasping for the thread of what he really wants to say.

When he finds it, Dick is livid. “You have no right to tell me what I’m doing wrong. You might know Jason, but you don’t know shit about our family.” As if Jason was a reliable narrator in this story. As if Jason knew shit about their family, about Dick.

Dick has so much, has been given so much, by Bruce, with this family, and Dick’s place in it has changed over the years, with his siblings. With Damian. Dick can’t afford to get as angry as Bruce does, can’t fight like he used to, can’t afford to get thrown out of paradise, not when he has too much to lose now. Leaving before hurt, when it was just Bruce and Alfred, but now?

Dick would rather die.

Roy barks a harsh noise that could be a laugh. “Then just tell us the fucking truth, Dick, for once in your life.” 

It’s just like Roy, to feel entitled to a full explanation of something that has nothing to do with him.

Dick doesn’t owe him anything. Not anymore.

And it’s just like Roy, to assume everything Dick’s saying is part of an act, that it’s impossible he could be describing how he actually feels.

Jason’s words echo back to him - always a fucking show. The makeup on his jaw itches.

“I am, you just don’t get it,” Dick snarls, his nails finding his wrists and digging deep, burning where they tear still healing flesh. “Yes, I fought with Bruce, we fight all the time, but we’re family, and this one was my own fucking fault, so call off the lynch mob. I basically asked him to fight me, and obviously, I lost.” He clenches his fingernails tighter with the admission.

“You’re not even listening to yourself,” Roy retorts, crumpling his card. “For fuck’s sake, you think it’s your fault when someone hurts you.”

“It is my fault!” Dick insists. And he hates that he knows what everyone is thinking now, when he’s repeating the words he hears all the time from domestic abuse victims on the more somber patrols. He’s getting the pitying looks now, the glances his friends have been sending his way for years when they think he can’t see. 

He sighs, letting go of his wrists to rub his eyes tiredly, or trying to, but for the second time that night Roy catches his arm.

“What the fuck is this?” Roy demands, incredulous. And now Dick can see the blood already beading where he has reopened the scratches. It looks mutilated, wrong -  and it startles him a little; he hadn’t even noticed what he’d been doing.

“Get off,” he spits in place of a response, pulling away again instinctively. There’s an uncomfortable pause, laden with tension, as if no one quite knows how to proceed from here. Dick is not inclined to break it. 

Finally Donna cuts in. “Of course it’s not your fault, Dick,” Donna insists, addressing his earlier words. Her eyes never leave his butchered wrists, something like comprehension dawning. “Why didn’t you say anything? You know we’re here for you. And we’re listening.” Donna shoots Roy a glare and he just shrugs, unrepentant.

But they don’t get it, how uniquely his family operates. Violence is a part of the vigilante life, the core of what’s keeping their family together and what made them family in the first place (and what separates them, when Dick was kicked out after being fired from Robin so many years ago). Everyone in their family is used to body language and tone, when they are all trained to lie so well with their words. So they often express themselves physically, and sometimes that’s how anger is shared too. So when Dick upsets the balance and winds up paying for it he does it to himself.

And as always, Dick finds himself defending Bruce to his friends, as he explains his own mistakes. It’s exhausting.

“Yeah man,” Garth is agreeing with Donna. “We’re a team.”

“We’re on your side, Dick, we always have been,” Wally says seriously.

Dick looks at his friend, exasperated. “It’s not a side, Wally, we’re not at war, we’re just taking a break!” He cringes internally. Why did he phrase it like they’re a couple going through marital troubles? He takes a deep breath, trying to calm down. “Look, we’re a little messed up, but we love each other. Now can we please stop talking about this?”

“Dick, I just don’t get how you go from wanting to protect your family to letting Bruce hurt you like this,” Donna maintains, voice reasonable. “This isn’t healthy for any of you!”

“And Dick...” Wally ventures, cautious and gentle, “What about your brothers? Does Bruce…?”

“They’re fine.” His answer is immediate, too quick to sound sincere, so he adds, “Bruce would never hurt them.” He’ll never let him. That’s why he needs to be around, why it hurts so badly to be gone. Why he’ll always come crawling back.

“Jay’s right, you’re delusional,” Roy pronounces, finally throwing his card down. Joker. He was the mafia. “What, you like putting on a show for the rest of the Bats?” He leans into Dick’s space. “Or are you trying to make the assassin brat feel more at home? Bet the little Demon loves seeing Daddy and Mommy fighting,” he suggests wickedly.

If everyone could just leave Damian alone - Dick whips his head around again, glare ready, chance of calm extinguished. “Harper, if you want to leave tonight without a new scar I suggest you shut the fuck up.” 

(And is that how Jason talks about Damian to his friends?) 

Roy’s face is twisted meanly as he meets Dick’s rage. “As if you put up a fight these days,” his tone shifts, becomes something ugly, “You know what, I think you like getting hurt. Reminds you of home. Does it make you feel good, being Bruce’s little bitch -?”

And that’s it. Dick doesn’t hear Donna’s complaint of “Seriously, guys, again?” or Garth’s “Come on, man”. Dick doesn’t hear anything over the rush in his ears, doesn’t see anything but white anger.

And suddenly Roy is on the floor and Dick is overtop of him and they’re wrestling like they’re trying to kill each other. Roy loops an ankle around Dick’s knee and throws them both across the floor, scattering the deck at the centre of the room. Cards go flying.

The fight doesn’t last long. There’s a blur of orange hair and Wally has relocated Dick to the couch. Another blur and Roy disappears from the room, but there is yelling in the kitchen so Dick has a pretty good idea of where he went.

Dick launches himself from the couch, ready to find and kill Roy, but Donna and Garth block his way.

“Calm down,” Garth is telling him, “That’s enough. Roy can be a shit, but you both need to cool it.”

“He’s dead,” Dick hisses, trying to side step, but Donna catches him in what is definitely a hug. Dick does not want to be touched right now, not when Roy brought up Kory and by implication Mirage, but he can’t escape Donna’s grasp without hurting her, and he doesn’t want to do that when he’s already caused her so much pain.

“Dick, please, listen to me,” Donna pleads, “We are your friends. We love you. Ignore Roy for a moment. Seeing you hurt makes us all very angry.” 

Dick has had quite enough of this intervention. Now, he has to get out. Has to get away. He hasn’t eaten a thing all day, but there’s bile rising in his throat. Everyone is too close to him. He can feel his body shaking.

It’s Donna who is hugging him, but it feels like someone else.

“Donna,” Dick’s voice is not much louder than a whisper, but if he let himself he would yell. “Let me go.”

And Donna, bless her, listens. She carefully releases Dick, who steps around her. He marches to the kitchen, Donna and Garth trailing behind him apprehensively.

He stops in the doorway. Roy is sitting on a bar stool, Wally holding onto one of his arms as Roy threatens him with the spoon clenched in his other hand. They are arguing loudly but look up when Dick appears.

“ You.” Dick says forcefully, meeting Roy’s eyes across the room. “Fuck you. I mean it. And all of you.” He looks around at his other best friends, people he has known and cared about for years. He has led them before, through wars, and he draws on that old authority now. “I love you, but if you want to tell me how I should love my family, you can go to hell.”

“Like you know -,” Roy starts, but Dick cuts him off.

“I am done here,” Dick growls, grabbing his jacket and shrugging it on. “And if you try to talk to me about this I will never talk to you again.” He meets Wally’s eyes specifically for the next words. “Do not follow me.”

And then he storms out.

Chapter Text

“I was always ashamed to take. So I gave. It was not a virtue. It was a disguise.” ~ Anais Nin, The Diary Of Anais Nin, Vol. 4: 1944-1947

Give and Take

Dick leaves Wally’s house in a blind fury, though it fades a bit with distance. In its wake comes guilt, that he is the one to ruin the party.

No one runs after him, and Dick is thankful for the small mercy. He doesn’t have any words to say to any of them right now. He slams on the gas driving back to Bludhaven, craving a scalding shower, Roy’s words about Kory (about Mirage) in his head and making him feel dirty, disgusting. Poisonous.

Most days, Dick is successful in not thinking about certain parts of his past, in not wondering what his friends think of him because of them. Parts he wishes never happened, that fill him with shame and a hurt that confuses him.

Slut.

Who was better?

Mi amor - and Dick almost swerves off the road.

Today, he’s alone, but he swears he can feel hands all over him.

The only distraction he has from the uncomfortable memories are Wally’s words that he can’t shake, which are no less distressing. What about your brothers? Does Bruce..? 

Because. Dick knows that Bruce treats him very differently from the rest of his siblings. Has always treated him differently. Apart from Jason's early Red Hood days (back when they hadn't even known it was Jason), he has never seen Bruce get physical with any of them, never escalate beyond a yell. The same defiance that would award Dick a slap would leave Tim with an eye roll. So he has no basis for thinking any of them are unsafe, beyond overworking. 

And yet. Now he is thinking. Remembering. Bruce, displeasure mounting. His siblings, caught in the rising tide. It all plays behind his eyes in lurid detail. His own ingrained response, wading into the current to plant himself between them and Bruce. His relief when the weight of Bruce’s anger hits him instead. A shield.

(Jason’s words again - a sacrifice.) 

Yes, he has never seen Bruce hurt them. But he cannot say Bruce has never wanted to.

His fingers tighten on the steering wheel. His wrists sting.

These dark thoughts plague his mind until he notes, with the first positive feeling of the last hour, that since he left the party early he actually has time to do some quick research before scoping out the casino. He presses the gas harder.

Time to find out if Slade is really around. 

And Dick recognizes the irony in his actions, the echo of his teenage self: leaving his Titan friends to go out as a lone vigilante and chase Deathstroke around a city. This is parallel, but different. He is no child anymore.

When Dick pulls up to his apartment he runs up the stairs, unlocks his door, and throws himself inside, turning to shut the door behind him before he comes to a dead stop.

A prickling at the back of his neck. Someone is standing behind him in the darkness.

Dick doesn’t think. He lunges diagonally, turning himself to face his opponent with a half aerial twist, putting himself closer to the living room where there is more space and window light for better visibility.

In the dim light, Dick recognizes movement coming towards him. He evades instinctively, but now his back is to the wall and a hand is still heading towards him, beyond normal human speed. Up close, Dick recognizes his assailant and freezes for a second. 

And now there’s a knife at his throat.

Whether it’s bad luck or good, Dick instantly knows that Slade Wilson will not be difficult to locate tonight after all. Dick slowly reaches out to flick the nearby lightswitch, not moving the rest of his body.

Deathstroke the Terminator stands in his apartment, in full mercenary regalia. His posture is relaxed for someone who has Dick at knife point. Dick distantly notes that he is also strangely calm himself, calmer than he has been all night, as he stands perfectly still before Slade. He always finds that danger gives him something to focus on, and nothing is more dangerous than Deathstroke.

“You’re late. And your entrance was poor,” Slade remarks dryly, removing his mask fluidly with one hand. “But I’m not here to fight you this time.”

“Slade,” Dick says, surprisingly level. “What are you doing here? What about your contract?” He has a sudden thought and swallows carefully. “Am I the contract?” 

How did you get in? He wants to ask, but Slade has disabled all of his security in the past and obviously knows his personal schedule, so the matter seems less pressing given Slade is in Bludhaven to murder someone.

“Is just now the first time you’ve asked yourself whether you are the target? You’re slipping,” Slade comments, though he sounds amused. “But as a matter of fact, I’ve turned down bids for both Nightwing and Richard Grayson in the past.” Dick finds this both relieving and threatening. Slade doesn’t say he won’t take contracts about him in the future (for the right price) and Dick doesn’t ask him to. He knows Slade would kill him if it was advantageous.

Slade never fails to make Dick feel disoriented by the many opposites he embodies. It’s hard to tell where they stand with each other. Slade liked Dick enough to coerce him into apprenticeship; Slade also technically kidnapped and tortured him. And Dick can’t pin all the confusion on Slade; Dick’s pursuit of Deathstroke was obsessive during his Teen Titan days. After all they have been through, their connection is just another complicated shade of grey in Dick’s life.

“Riiiiight,” Dick says. A beat. “What’s your contract?”

“Like I said. You’re late,” Slade says, a little smugly in Dick’s opinion. “My contract was completed three hours ago.” 

Completed three hours ago? Dick was in Star City playing Just Dance while someone was being murdered in his city. The heavy sense of responsibility drops on him like a weight.

Dick must look the way he feels - like he has been punched - because Slade finally removes the knife from Dick’s neck. He sheathes the blade and smoothly tosses a pamphlet at Dick, who catches it reflexively. It’s a menu from one of the higher end restaurants in Bludhaven’s entertainment district. 

Slade has turned around, heading for a couch. His back is open. Dick could attack him now. Dick follows him to the couch instead, curious.

Slade sits and Dick sits next to him. “The mark had dinner reservations that were…. Interrupted.” Slade looks satisfied. “The veal was very good.” 

“You didn’t tell me it was going to be an early job today,” Dick says faintly, still staring at the menu, feeling misled. Though really it’s his own fault for assuming Slade’s dirty work would be taking place after dark. He can hear Bruce’s voice berating him about presumptions.

“You are correct, I didn’t tell you because it was none of your business . But you had enough information to figure it out.” The ‘but you didn’t’ is implied. Dick hates how the subtle disappointment in Slade’s tone still has the power to make Dick wince from shame. He is not Slade’s unwilling apprentice anymore, but he will forever bear the aftereffects, the reflexive need to please him. It’s just habitual now.

“Yesterday was a polite warning. I allowed you the opportunity to interfere, and you failed so badly you weren’t even in the right city at the right time.” 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re disappointed in me, I messed up, I get it. I’ve heard this before. I’ll zone out soon if that’s all you have for me,” Dick tells him, tossing the menu to the floor and reclining back against the couch with his arms folded, but there’s no heat, no real annoyance. It’s strange; his anger from the party is still within him, but it’s muffled behind a wall. His time with Slade is in a bubble.

Dick knows his reaction to Slade is a deep-rooted response, how the world and his own emotions fall away, focus collapsing onto his former master. He is suddenly noticing everything about Slade, carefully reading his body language and words. He feels compelled to shape his response from Slade’s cues. Slade is not upset, so Dick is not upset. The careful deference comes so naturally now it’s almost a relief to fall back onto habit, the hyper-awareness of one specific person. It’s familiar, because.

This is how he interacts with Bruce.

Slade rolls his one eye, the rest of him remaining perfectly composed. “You missed your chance for a fight today.” Both a light goad and a dismissal of Dick’s attempt to rile him. “I’m here because there is obviously something wrong with you, if you can’t do your night job properly.”

Dick is thrown. He frowns, tilting his head. “You’re ... checking up on me?” Is that sweet? Creepy? As usual, it feels like both.

“I’m assessing whether you are fit for service,” Slade says flatly, and now Dick bristles.

He sits up and points a finger at Slade’s chest. “Your opinion means nothing to me,” he says, and they both ignore how blatantly false that is. “And let me make sure you get this straight. I make my own decisions. I don’t need your permission to be Nightwing. Nightwing is mine . I don’t need anyone’s permission to be myself. In my city.” Bruce can kick him out of Gotham, but he can’t take his vigilante identity away.

Not again, anyway.

Slade makes a noncommittal hum. “Yet you ran away so quickly to play Batman.” Not fair, it had been the only real choice. “You call Bludhaven your city, but Nightwing has been spending a lot of time in Gotham lately. Your control here is slipping.”

“You knew,” Dick says, annoyed. “That I wasn’t going to be able to stop your contract.” You were toying with me. It’s a familiar feeling.

Slade doesn’t bother denying it. “I was making a point, and you demonstrated it perfectly.” Derision. “It has become clear that it is not you who makes your decisions.”

And there’s the knowing look. Dick is sick of seeing it tonight, and now on Slade’s face of all people. Dick is sick of literally everyone thinking they know something about Bruce and his relationship.

“I’m a team-player, I don’t need to fly solo all the time,” Dick defends himself. “When they call, I’m there.”

“Yes, your legendary loyalty,” Slade draws out regretfully. “To a man who doesn’t want you, a family who doesn’t appreciate you, and a cause you’re wasted in.” The underlying contempt makes Dick nervous and he has to talk himself down from immediate appeasement so he can say what he means. He’s actually grateful for his hyper-focus on Slade’s emotions, keeping him from feeling his own response to Slade’s horrible, truthful words.

“Oh come on,” Dick begins, “Like your family -”

There’s suddenly a hand on his neck, freezing him in place. “Be careful what you say next,” Slade’s voice is mild. Dick is not fooled. His grip is strong. “My tolerance for your backtalk only goes so far.”

Dick swallows. He hasn’t kept up to date, but he’s certain Slade’s family relationships have not improved in recent years. Best not to stir the pot. So he switches targets.

“I just meant don’t criticize my loyalties, geez, you’ve turned your back on enough of your partnerships for a suitable price,” Dick says, and he can’t help his own disdain from slipping in there. But Slade has always been professional about his mercenary work and shouldn’t take offense. “And I haven’t abandoned Bludhaven! I was only gone for a few weeks. I’m back now, and if you think I’m going to let you walk all over this place, think again.”

“You’re stretched thin, you’re tired, and you’re obviously injured.” Dick shifts under Slade’s hand, irritated that Slade can tell, when Dick is still wearing his jacket and makeup. Enhanced senses are so annoying. “I’ve always admired your strength and respected your independence, but you could benefit from someone watching your back.”

“Are you giving me self-care advice?” Dick asks, to be a pest.

Slade gives him an unimpressed look. “I’m telling you to open your eyes to your current situation.” He takes a moment. Then, “What drew me to you, years ago, was your brash self-determination.”

“Please, you didn’t like my brashness and you didn’t want me determining things for myself  - you tried to brainwash me,” Dick retorts.

Slade dismisses this, grip tightening slightly. “I was certain with the right guidance, you would be great. But you ran back to your little team and continued your hero work. And I let you go. Batman’s teaching has crippled you in more ways than one. I could see that already then.”

Dick is miffed that Slade is implying he could have stolen Dick away again if he had wanted to. Like Dick wasn’t a competent vigilante capable of protecting himself from getting kidnapped twice . 

But he also feels the need to defend Bruce’s mentorship. “Bruce taught me a good path, one that doesn’t just benefit myself. We have a moral code; we save lives and protect people.” 

“And yet you still hurt people,” Slade says. “Most of all, yourself. That was always your biggest flaw, and now it has broken you. I am here to make you see. ”

Slade shakes him for a moment, making him nod bizarrely as Slade forces his neck into motion. It’s getting a little painful. 

“ This is your problem. Look at us.” Slade lowers his voice into a threatening growl, and all Dick can think is predator. “You shouldn’t trust me. I have hurt you before, I have tortured your friends. Who is to say I will not do so again?” Releasing his neck, Slade carefully takes Dick’s hand in his own, studies it idly. Dick is not breathing. “ Look at us .” Slade repeats, tone commanding, and the apprentice inside of Dick jumps to attention. His gaze is fixed on Slade’s face, but he feels his fingers being gently spread apart. “I’ve had my hand at your throat, and you’re not even fighting. Your weakness compromises you.” 

No warning - a twist. A snap. His body jolts, vision whiting out for a moment. Dick ….doesn’t move. He knows Slade could kill him this instant without regret. He can’t even explain it to himself, how sitting still while Slade threatens him feels right. Slade continues with no regard for his inner turmoil. “But I can’t take credit for your behaviour, despite my own efforts in the past. There’s something very wrong with you,” Slade remarks, reluctantly admiring, finally releasing Dick’s hand. The pinkie finger now hangs crookedly. “I could never hope to mess you up the way the Bat does.”

“Bruce isn’t the bad guy here,” says Dick indignantly, words clumsy from pain. Slade always was self-righteous about his own actions while condemning the same patterns in others. A piety of convenience.

“You would believe that, wouldn’t you?” Slade comments mildly. He stands up now. He really does tower over Dick, especially when Dick himself is still seated. Dick pretends not to be affected, though there’s no disguising the sudden tension in his body. “And yet you can’t help but compare us.”

Dick hates that Slade has a point about comparison. Dick really does feel like he has double vision looking at Slade right now, seeing the shape of Bruce in the presence he commands, in the way he looms over Dick. They are such different men, but they fill alarmingly similar categories in Dick’s mind.

His finger throbs.

“You used to fight,” Slade says, almost wistfully, “You used to fight me. I know you used to fight Wayne. But you’ve stopped. Where is your brash anger, Robin?”

Dick winces as the old name coming from Deathstroke draws up memories.

But here, Dick feels safe with the truth in a way he hasn’t with anyone else. “Anger burns a lot of bridges.” He says quietly, refusing to look at Slade. “And I have a lot more to lose now.” He’s trying not to draw attention to the photos taped to his walls, scattered all around the living room, but his gaze finds them anyway. Candids of his siblings, group photos with friends, precious memories all.

Slade is quiet so long, Dick finally looks up. Slade is watching him. “They will never thank you for what you’ve done.”

“I know.” Dick isn’t foolish enough to think his siblings want him to protect them. But he’s the older brother. That’s his role.

Slade regards him for a long time, gaze inscrutable. “If I told you to come with me now, would you?”

Unexpected. Slade had stopped trying to recruit Dick since he became an adult. Although Slade's obsession with him never truly went away - his current presence in Dick’s apartment is evidence enough.

Dick considers Slade, never entirely certain what he wants from him, outright enemies or not.

“I can’t turn my back on my family,” Dick answers, cradling his damaged left hand in his right. It comes out apologetic, but he means it. 

Slade inclines his head in recognition, then turns to go.

“If you come to your senses,” Slade says, and that’s it. Slade is no hero; he would let Dick choose to destroy himself, and he would watch. Still Dick knows the invitation is real. It’s oddly touching. 

Slade walks to the door. Dick almost wants to thank him for the offer before remembering Slade just broke his finger. So instead, he watches him leave.

Bizarre. Dick sits curled up for a moment, rubbing his hand. Thinking. Even when he literally assaults him - how dare Deathstroke be a better communicator than half his family. He feels a rebellious spark light in his belly, a hint of indignation that Slade is right - he doesn’t need to be treated like this. But Dick can’t see how he can both keep his family and be pain free, not when their roles are so set.

There’s always a price. Dick has never considered what would happen if he was no longer able to pay it.

Before his thoughts can darken further, feeling guilty for thinking anything against his family at all, Dick distracts himself by assessing the damage to his hand. It’s not bad; Slade was only making a point. It’s a clean break, Dick is just annoyed that it will be hard to hide. The broken pinkie gets taped to his ring finger.

Then he checks his phone. 

There’s a message from Slade. Don’t bother going out tonight. Dick is kind of pissed to read the order, especially since he himself has already decided he may need a night in of research. He swallows the need to be contrary and settles for an eye roll emoji.

He has missed calls and texts from everyone at the party tonight, even Roy. There is no way he is answering those tonight. Some messages from his siblings. He scrolls down, searching, hoping for the unexpected, but - no. His message to Bruce this afternoon was read almost immediately and is now sitting between them unaddressed. No response.

Well, that’s fine.  

He’s fine. He still has two full days before Cass comes home. Three days until the aquarium. Bruce is a slow processor when it comes to personal equations and rushing him has never turned out in Dick’s favour in the past.

He goes back to his notifications and starts sifting. He responds with appropriate gush to Damian’s photos of his final project illustrations. Tim has sent him a link to a research article on learned behaviour in captive marine life. Very subtle. Dick does not read it.

Steph has sent him an update: she has tested the fishy chips. Dick sends a question mark and gets an immediate response - an entire three paragraphs describing the culinary experience in great detail. He reads every word and finds himself smiling. Suddenly, his stomach growls, surprising him. Then he remembers that his last meal was a midnight snack of eggos before crashing around 3:00 am. He pockets his phone, getting up to check his fridge. 

When he sits down at his kitchen table with a bowl of cereal, his nerves are starting to come back from before and he’s not certain he’ll be able to finish what he has started. But then his phone dings and Steph is asking him about what Spongebob episodes they should cover tomorrow night. And from there it’s a long discussion about Sandy vs Squidward for comedic material and the next thing Dick knows his spoon is scraping an empty bowl. Well, that solves one problem. He bids Steph a See ya tomorrow <3 <3 <3 and gets ready for some case work.

It’s dull, but he researches Bludhaven’s latest police reports and newscasts for hours. He can’t let his city down anymore… and while it’s a lesser motivation, he knows not only Batman but Deathstroke is also watching his movements; he needs to show that he’s an adult and he’s handling it, geez. He keeps his eyes on data until the night becomes morning and he’s reading words wrong.

He takes another painkiller and goes to bed but lies awake for a long time, in a black mood. He’s not thinking about the case work he had hoped would occupy his mind. Instead his brain points out things he doesn’t want to think about - things that Wally said, Roy said, Slade said, Bruce said. He knows he’s not living in a fairy tale by any means. It’s frustrating, because he does wish things were different, he’s not a masochist, but he doesn’t know how to change them - and he doesn’t feel like he deserves a miracle like that anyway, not when so many people in the world deserve more. Not when there were twenty homicides in Bludhaven in the last two weeks.

Why should he of all people get his wish?

He can’t argue his mind out of a slideshow of the past, so he ends up taking a late night shower after all. Returning to bed at least physically clean, he does eventually sleep. His dreams are vivid, his fears obvious: Dick stands in a glass chamber in the middle of the cave watching Batman walk towards Damian, hand raised. No matter how loud he shouts or how hard he beats his fists, he cannot reach them. He feels horror at the inevitable.

He wakes up in a cold sweat to an early morning smoggy dreariness that’s just typical for his city.

“What a beautiful day,” Dick tells his ceiling before he rolls out of bed.

In the dim morning light, he’s feeling less morose. He decides that his problems are not so bad; after all, he still has an amazing family, friends who care about him enough to be pushy, a usable apartment, an enjoyable job and a great life. 

Although, it would be for the best if he and Bruce made up soon so the ‘amazing family’ part could feel a little more real.

While he’s eating his second bowl of cereal, feeling confident, he makes a deal with himself: if Bruce doesn’t respond to his text by 7:00 pm, Dick will send him another message. This seems like a good idea when Dick still exists in the safety of 8:07 am. Throwing on a sweater and a jacket, he heads to work.

It’s Tuesday, his busiest work day. He’s teaching tumbling to toddlers in the morning, flexibility for older adults in the afternoon, then it’s the intermediate teen group followed by the advanced class. In between classes he’s cleaning equipment and chatting with his coworkers and it’s absolutely awesome. Dick can feel himself starting to relax more as the day carries on, falling into his routine, focusing on the simple problems of frustrated kids trying to perfect their handsprings. Here with this job, in this city, Dick feels like he’s helping someone. 

For the most part, nobody is asking Dick about his problems aside from some vague allusions to his mysterious illness the previous week and expressions of gratitude that he’s ‘better now’. His taped finger gets explained away as his clumsy attempts to do at-home acrobatics in a tiny apartment. Dick wears long sleeves or sweaters and sweatpants for gymnastics pretty regularly so there’s no awkward questions, thank goodness. He does this because it’s practical - he has a lot of vigilante scars to cover - but he also has psychological reasons he doesn’t explore. Regardless, he’s more comfortable with more skin covered, and no one bats an eye.

He texts Donna and Wally at lunch while he’s trying to coax himself to eat something; they are careful to keep their conversations light, their concerns veiled, and he feels a bit bad. Dick knows his parting words were pretty severe, but he really can’t handle any more probes into his glass personal life or he’s going to shatter.

He doesn’t bother looking at anything from Roy, especially not when he’s in public and feeling too frayed to control his reaction.

Dick knows he’s just ignoring his issues, distracting himself with smiling acquaintances at break (Oh, Joey got a puppy? Tell me everything) so he can pretend to be fine enough to eat something without feeling sick, just once. He’s not thinking about anything all day but work, not until he’s heading home at dusk and detects a shadow in the corner of his eye.

He’s on high alert now, looking around discreetly, but he doesn’t catch another glimpse on his way home. But he could have sworn he saw Red Hood. 

Then again, Jason hasn’t texted him since Sunday, and, Dick considers with a sinking feeling in his stomach, Roy probably already told him about how horrible Dick was last night. Dick wouldn’t blame Jason if he ignored Dick out of solidarity with Roy. With a pang, Dick tells himself he’s not as close to his siblings as he would like to be, but it’s okay. He’s okay. 

He thinks he sees Jason again when he looks out the window while washing dishes, but it’s dark and he’s missing his family. He can’t trust his senses, he knows that.

He also knows that it is now 8:27 pm and Bruce has not messaged him. He has been dreading this moment, but if he’s going to be consistent with people he needs to start with promises he makes to himself.

He ignores how his hands shake as he pulls his phone out and scrolls to Bruce.

Hey, stop ignoring me, he types. Erases it. We need to talk. Delete. Please call me. No. 

I’m sorry. Too soon?

A few more minutes go by. Dick is psyching himself out. He can’t send anything, he’s just going to make it all worse. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. This was a bad idea. Tomorrow. He’ll text Bruce again tomorrow.

Dick has a quick patrol, checking in on what he suspects is the new headquarters for a local gang. Minimal activity, so it’s just observation tonight. It’s enough, he’s not slacking, Dick tells his inner voice that sounds like Bruce. He heads back home before too long, anticipating his night plans with fragile hope.

He showers quickly before burrowing into bed with his laptop, hoodie up and face barely visible. Steph has put a link for a video call in the group chat. Dick takes a moment to breathe and pray that no one asks him about Bruce. Then he presses join.

His screen is immediately taken over by a close up of Stephanie’s face at an unflattering angle.

“Woah there, I can see up your nose, Steph,” Dick says, smiling. 

“That will be extra,” she jokes with a wink, readjusting the camera, and he laughs.

“So who do you think will actually join?” he asks, curious.

“Well Cass is out on a case, but the others? I’m optimistic,” Steph says with a shrug, but no details, “Give ‘em some time.” A pause, then very casually, “You coming to the aquarium on Saturday?”

Oh, the pressure. Of course Dick wants to come. Bruce needs to respond to his text already.

“Who would want to miss it?” Dick says, a non-answer. “I bet you’re ready for a break. How are the exams?” Steph graciously allows herself to be redirected.

They chat easily about Steph’s classes and Dick’s gymnastics for a few minutes until more people join. If she finds it weird that only his eyes are visible sitting in the dark, she doesn’t comment.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this. Spongebob. Seriously, who picked this again?” Barbara says, but Dick can see she has made herself popcorn so the complaint is perfunctory.

“It’s another training module for the aquarium,” Steph replies, pulling up the episode she and Dick had decided to start with.

“I know we’re framing it that way for the brat but I think I was too old for Spongebob in kindergarten,” Tim says ungraciously. He’s in his room at the manor, hunched at his bed, and clicking on his keyboard, eyes scanning. Clearly working on something else. He looks tired. “I don’t think I have time tonight anyway.”

“Tim, relax for a minute,” says Dick. “One episode.”

“One episode, but only if it’s about Plankton,” Tim bargains.

“Of course it’s about Plankton, obviously we know what’s good,” Steph confirms, insulted.

“Plankton is the most measly of marine life forms, I don’t see how it deserves first place,” Damian says, having just joined for the last couple sentences. He is perfectly poised at his desk.

“Oh boy,” says Tim in response, and leaves it at that.

“Is this everyone?” Dick asks, but then suddenly Jason is there. The blurriest camera shot.

“I’m not here for your stupid-ass show,” are Jason’s first words. Great start. Dick feels self-centred but can’t help praying: please don’t let this be Jason stopping in just to yell at Dick in front of everyone for fighting with Roy.

“That is literally the entire purpose of this call,” Steph points out.

“I’m just here to say, Sandy could crush all of you with one chop suckas and Plankton is lame,” Jason continues. His camera is moving, but it’s difficult to track. Dick is pretty sure he’s in his kitchen. Is he cooking?

“I’m starting the episode, you can fight when we see some evidence,” Steph says, pressing play. 

Dick knows he’s a sentimental idiot, but he watches his family’s video screens instead of the episode and listens to their reactions instead of the dialogue. He couldn’t tell you what was happening in Bikini Bottom, but Steph announces each character as they appear like she’s a sports commentator. Barbara is halfway through her popcorn bowl and Damian is gradually leaning closer to the screen, eyes alight with interest. Jason is confirmed to be making some kind of pasta dish. Tim is still very obviously multitasking. Dick misses them all already.

After only one episode, Tim is firm that he needs to go, and can’t be persuaded otherwise.

“We’ll chill this weekend, guys, let me get back to my job,” he says, rolling his eyes as he cuts his video to a chorus of farewells.

Damian is also very done. “This was a foolish show, and highly inaccurate to the point of absurdity. I do not want to see more.”

“Goodnight, Lil D,” Dick wishes him, and he nods and is gone.

“I’m out too, and my correct opinion is unchanged,” says Jason, “See you losers later.” He cuts his video before anyone can say anything mushy like a simple “goodbye”.

And Dick tries not to, but he worries again about what Roy may have told him. Why he’s leaving the call early. He reminds himself that Jason is super busy these days, moving between a new permanent safehouse in Gotham and his old place with Roy and Kory, and likely just doesn’t have time for more frivolous Spongebob viewing. Dick needs to stop taking everything so personally.

(And maybe stop avoiding those texts from Roy.)

“And then there were three,” says Steph, waiting a moment but neither Dick nor Barbara tries to leave so she hits play on the next episode and they soldier on.

At some point in the middle of a much later episode, Barbara ventures a quiet, “Are you okay, Dick?” 

Dick is pretty sure Steph is holding her breath. Dick just says, “Shhh this is the best part!” And Barbara is savvy to his very obvious dodge, and doesn’t try again.

Later, when Dick goes to sleep, he’s feeling pleasantly full. It’s an emotional full, after hanging out with the people he loves. It reminds him that at all costs, he needs to make sure he can be with his family this weekend.

-------------------------

His dreams are memories - he and Bruce shouting, shouting, shouting. In the batmobile, in the medbay, in the kitchen, in his room. Over and over, I don’t need you , the echo ringing through his past. 

It’s so loud in his dream that he can’t think, so he covers his ears.

-------------------------

Wednesday. He’s getting into the rhythm now - wake up alone, morning workout, try to eat breakfast, head to the gym, teach classes. He lives in a reel of these scenes, his life in Bludhaven, what his life always looks like when he and Bruce are on the outs. He’s communicating with his siblings and friends via text only today, but at least he’s in touch so he tells himself it’s enough.

He spends time on Justice League associated business; he’s really more of a consultant right now. He’s looking over profiles for candidates for a new sub-team focused on mobilizing for disaster relief. He had put it off for weeks to focus on the Gotham case and now he’s playing catch up, but he enjoys partnering with some JL members and affiliates he wouldn’t be talking to regularly otherwise.

Wednesday is also the one day of the week a separate committee - this one for handling new magical anomalies, Dick is still not sure why he is on it, but he has such a hard time saying no to people - planned to meet in person, so he finds himself rushing to headquarters after classes end. By the time he arrives, everyone else is already there. He turns up his smile. “Sorry guys,” he says, sinking into a seat beside Zatanna, “Day job.”

She nods sympathetically. “Back in Bludhaven?”

“Yep,” he says cheerily, popping the ‘p’.

“Damn, why are you so sunny?” John Constantine intones from his other side, seeming horrified and fascinated in equal measure. They hadn’t interacted closely much before this committee, but they get along well. Dick winks at him, knowing it looks ridiculous through the mask.

“Have you met Nightwing? This is only half strength,” Zatanna smirks knowingly. 

“He’s actually glowing,” John observes, amused. Dick waggles his eyebrows, for effect.

Zatanna rolls her eyes at both of them. Then, to Dick, “Not home for Thanksgiving though?”

Ouch. The grin gets a little tighter. “Not yet. Bludhaven could still use a little extra love this holiday season.”

“You know, I could use a little extra-,” John begins, raking his eyes over Dick, before Zatanna’s rushed ‘pu tuhs’ has him glaring at her in silence. A quick hand motion, and Zatanna seems to suffer the same fate. Increasingly rude hand gestures are traded as the meeting begins.

Dick is starting to understand why this seat was empty. Maybe he should have taken the rumours of their breakup more seriously. But the meeting proceeds in a generally professional manner, and soon they’re wrapping up with objectives to meet by their next gathering.

“Nightwing!” John stops him later as he’s heading out, passing through the cafeteria. Dick smiles back, waiting. “You know, if you happen to find yourself alone this weekend, you’re more than welcome to pass the time in …more pleasurable company.” The appreciative look he gives Dick makes his intention clear even if the arm that gets wrapped invitingly around his back hadn’t.

Dick laughs lightly to disguise his discomfort; he doesn’t pull away. “Not planning on being alone, but I appreciate the offer.”

“Ah,” John’s eyebrows raise, and his look turns sly. “Do I know them? I’ve never adhered to that old ‘three is company’ rule, if that’s what’s stopping you-”

Behind John’s shoulder, Dick can see Hal and Oliver exchange glances over their french fries, eyebrows raised. “Just family this time,” Dick cuts in. The grin is getting painful, and why did Dick say it like that? It’s only family, all the time. 

As if he could handle another person needing his attention. (As if that has ever worked out in the past.)

“Well, if you change your mind,” John leans in to speak in his ear, pitching his voice to a whisper that still seems to carry, “I’ve heard what you like, and I can make it well worth your while.”

Oh. Oh. Hell. Dick’s stomach drops.

He knows that John’s offer is good-natured, that he’s just operating based on what he has, apparently, been told is true. Dick really just wishes he hadn’t brought this up in the cafeteria, as if Dick’s reputation wasn’t colourful enough already. 

He wants out of this conversation right now . Instead, he’s already adopting the demeanor he thinks John is looking for. He meets his eyes boldly, curls his lip up further. An invitation even in dismissal. ( Stop stop stop. ) “Thank you, really - but there’s no place like the Batcave for Bat-Thanksgiving dinner.” He hopes he actually gets there this year.

John smirks at ‘Bat-Thanksgiving’, looking delightedly entertained. “Bloody hell. You’re too much. Another time, then.” Pulling his arm away, John steps back. Then, jokingly, but way too loudly, “I can be rough.” He does a terrible impression of Dick’s waggling eyebrows.

And Dick can’t- but he also can’t make this an outright rejection (as if those have ever worked out for him in the past). His mouth is already moving, deciding for him, “I’ll have to-”

“You’re both dogs,” Zatanna drawls from the table John vacated, head propped in her hand. “But please, John, Nightwing does a little better than you.” It’s a little too smug for Dick’s liking.

“Oh? And what does that say about you, love?” John’s grin takes on a sharp edge when turned to his ex-lover.

“I think it says that I,” Dick’s own sort-of-ex-girlfriend explains (alternate universes are so confusing), “Am better than you.”

“That wasn’t really you -”

People are watching them openly now, expressions ranging from casual interest to amusement. Dick wrestles with the urge to hide, Zatanna’s words a double entendre that Dick can’t help reading into. If John Constantine and Zatanna Zatara think they know something about Dick’s personal life, everyone else is likely on the same page. Just Nightwing being Nightwing. This community is too small sometimes. And even in a world of superheroes and aliens, rumours are always more exciting than the truth. Dick tries not to let it affect him, tries to keep the smile in place even while he’s suffocating.

The only way for this to get more uncomfortable would be for Batman himself to walk in. For the first time, Dick is grateful for the case in Gotham taking up all of Bruce’s time.

Avoiding everyone’s gaze has him instead watching the cafeteria door swing open to admit Diana in mid conversation with Clark. And Clark …isn’t looking at him. Appears, actually, to be determinedly looking anywhere but Dick. Super hearing can be quite the curse. Dick kind of wants to die.

Why does he always do this? Why does he act this way, just because he thinks it’s wanted, if he doesn’t mean it? If he’s not interested in following through on what he’s implying? He must want it too - or is he just toying with people? His stomach clenches. No wonder people think the worst of him.

Damn Roy for being right.

Dick checks out for the rest of the interaction, thankfully not necessary to the conversation now that John and Zatanna are bickering. Eventually, Hal interrupts their squabbling and Dick seizes the opportunity to escape. John waves goodbye with a “Say hi from me!” that is not as innocuous as it could be, and Zatanna catches onto Dick’s arm to plant a confident kiss on his cheek, throwing a look John’s way to catch his reaction. Maybe he should have been paying better attention to the conversation after all.

He waves to everyone in the cafeteria, not faltering at Oliver’s smirking look or Dinah’s oddly troubled one. He walks out, determinedly leaving everything in the room behind him as the door slams shut, leaving him empty.

Dick really, really wants to go home right now. He wants to drink tea with Alfred, he wants to listen to Damian complain, he wants to pester Tim into sleeping, he wants to apologize to Bruce for everything.

He heads back to Bludhaven instead.

After he returns, the plan is quick errands, hurried dinner, solo night work. He checks his phone constantly between minor tasks, anxiously awaiting a reply from Bruce, but their conversation is a ghost town. He checks reflexively on his way home from the corner store, and debates calling but shies away, telling himself he will call tonight. Maybe Bruce needs more time. Dick needs a distraction.

With some trepidation, he opens the texts from Roy as he starts cooking. The first looks like it was sent right after the party on Monday, still colourful and angry. Dick almost doesn’t read the rest, but he is filled with morbid curiosity, wanting to infer what Roy has told Jason. Dick is surprised to read, 

Hey you’re a crazy idiot but you need HELP and I know you don’t want it from me.

And,

I know you don’t think I care but I do so just talk to someone.

Huh. Interesting. Dick responds with a careful, thoughtful: k.

Maybe Roy cares, maybe he doesn’t, but Dick doesn’t care either way. Really.

He rereads the texts until the timer goes off on the stove and he has to rescue his eggs.

Dinner - check messages again. Nothing. Dick sets his uneaten plate of food back down on his table and rubs a hand over his face, dread pooling in his stomach. He hates trying to figure out how to approach Bruce when he can’t even see the man to gauge how Bruce is feeling. But Dick needs this resolution now.  

He debates calling but shies away, sending a follow up message of: We need to talk. There.

When Dick returns from patrol that night and collapses on his couch after a shower, he checks the conversation again. Bruce has received the message, but no response.

Dick sighs and throws an arm over his face. Without letting himself second-guess, he presses call. He doesn’t think he breathes as he listens to the ring. Dick can’t decide if he’s more annoyed or relieved when the call goes to voicemail. All he says is, “Hey, it’s me. Call me back.”

Dick tosses his phone on the coffee table and doesn’t move for a while. He can’t help feeling frustrated with himself. Why isn’t he better at this family relationship stuff? He has been practicing for years.

He goes to bed but tosses and turns, anxiety keeping his mind occupied. He’s extra annoyed at himself because he can’t seem to focus on the casework he has finally started to revive, instead he’s overwhelmed with his personal life. Get it together, Grayson. He finally falls asleep when the optimistic side of him reasons that even if Bruce is mad at him, maybe he can still go on the family trip? Half delirious from fatigue in the middle of the night, this seems like a great solution when Dick is so tired he can’t even remember why Bruce is mad at him in the first place.

-----------------------------

Thursday. No alarm set since the gym classes today don’t start until early afternoon. Dick wakes up to sunlight, feeling refreshed. He rolls over to check his phone. 

9:18 am. No texts or calls from Bruce. Dick even checks his email. Nothing. His mood sours a bit but he’s determined to stay positive, some optimism lingering from his frantic thoughts last night. He tells himself that perhaps his relationship with Bruce doesn’t have to shape how he interacts with the entire family, despite no precedent for this.

Dick pulls on a pair of sweatpants and an old ripped t-shirt before heading down the hall to the kitchen, wondering absently if he can stomach an omelette or if it will have to be cereal.

Bruce Wayne is sitting on the couch in his living room.

Chapter Text

“We accept the love we think we deserve.” ~ Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Apologies and Penalties

Bruce Wayne is sitting on the couch in his living room.

Dick almost walks right by him before his brain catches up and tells him it’s not a hallucination when Real Bruce shifts and clears his throat. Dick almost trips as he comes to a stop, staring in shock.

(And why does everyone keep showing up unannounced, like his apartment is public property? He has a phone.)

“Hello,” says Bruce, awkward. His eyes go directly to Dick’s jaw, and Dick is privately vindicated by the tightening skin that reveals Bruce’s displeasure.

He is dressed in his Wayne Enterprises attire - full suit, polished oxfords. His posture is trying for relaxed, holding his phone at knee height as though he was busy typing before he heard Dick coming towards him. Dick notes that he does not appear to be angry.

Dick straightens, takes a breath. Wills his heart to stop racing. Forces himself to wake up. He’s not nervous, just surprised. Really.

“Well, hi. How long have you been here?” Dick asks as casually as he can. It’s not what he wanted to say but at least he spoke. He slowly approaches Bruce, padding quietly in his bare feet. He finds he doesn’t know what to do with his hands so he stuffs them in his pockets.

Bruce glances at his phone screen and Dick uses the temporary reprieve from Bruce’s focus to settle next to him on the couch. He ignores the past parallel now staring him in the face - the ghost of Slade exactly where Bruce now sits beside him. “Seventy eight minutes. You slept in.”

Bruce keeps his tone mild, not quite an accusation. Dick still grits his teeth and finds himself defending his human need to sleep, of all things. “I teach late today, figured I could use the extra z’s. You must have disabled all of my security.” His own careful not-accusation. 

Bruce is looking at Dick’s hand. “What happened to your finger?”

As if Bruce has any right to question Dick’s injuries. “Gymnastics accident,” he says the first thing that comes to mind. He folds his arms around his thin shirt. Now, finally, what Dick really needs to know, “Why are you here, Bruce?” 

Breathe. Don’t forget to breathe.

Bruce furrows his brow. He shifts again. He must find Dick’s couch very uncomfortable. “You asked me to. You texted me. You said we need to talk.”

“So you drove all the way to Bludhaven just to talk? We have phones,” Dick says, outwardly skeptical, but on the inside his heart has started fluttering hopefully. If Bruce really came all the way out to Dick’s city to repair their relationship, well. That’s a pretty grand gesture. 

Usually Dick has to crawl back.

Bruce’s reply is a bit stiff, but he’s trying, “I think it’s important to talk in person after ...everything.”

Dick snorts, finally finding it in himself to relax against the couch. “Everything? Right, okay. That’s what we’ll call it when you throw me out like yesterday’s trash.” A slight wince from Bruce. Good. “Very rude of you, by the way. But then, I texted you days ago and got no response. I left you a voicemail, and nada. So thanks for the suspense.” So apparently he’s a little angry, but Bruce always makes him feel so cheap. He wishes desperately he had dressed differently, knowing the contrast in wardrobe has him looking lacking.

He recrosses his arms like the petty teenager he’s feeling right now. He wants to upset Bruce. He wants Bruce to feel distressed about what he did to him and regret his actions. Dick is playing a careful game, because he needs them both to leave this conversation on good terms. But he has walked this tightrope before, and his routine is well-practiced.

Bruce is silent, considering. He chooses not to rise to Dick’s barbs, which is probably for the best. Then Bruce says, “I was wrong to dismiss you the way I did. I should not have sent you away at such an important time. And again, I felt it would be best to discuss this in person.”

His tone sounds rehearsed.

Dick frowns. “Just tell me what you want, Bruce.”

Bruce takes a breath and it transforms him into Batman. He instantly appears more comfortable and assured. Dick instinctively braces himself. “The case we’re working on is almost closed, but we’re going to need everyone tomorrow. I need you back in Gotham.” He must take Dick’s breathless (stunned) silence as judgmental because he adds quickly, enticing, “And, it’s Thanksgiving this weekend. Your siblings will want you home.”

Dick is having a hard time thinking over the replay in his mind. I need you back in Gotham. I need you. There they are, the words that never fail to sink him, drowning him in his own conflicting emotions. All of his anger and fears clash with his deepest desire to be loved by this man he considers his father.

To Dick’s horror, he feels tears pricking at his eyes.

“Dick,” Bruce says earnestly in Dick’s continued silence, heedless of his inner crisis. Can’t he see Dick is underwater? “Please. I know you’re busy here with your own life, and I respect your autonomy. I know we’ve had our differences, and you have a right to be upset with me. But the family needs you now.”

He even said please and acknowledged Dick’s independence and feelings. Dick’s mind is spinning, the tears growing more imminent. He wants this absolution badly, but he is so scared he is physically shaking now.

“Bruce. I can’t,” Dick chokes out. “I can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep doing this to me,” he tries to say it seriously but it comes out pleading, and Bruce nods but Dick is pretty sure he doesn’t know what Dick really means.

With no further warning, Dick starts to cry.

“Oh, chum,” Bruce says in alarm, reaching to pull him into a hug. Offering comfort, and Dick lets him.

The thing is, Dick has been holding onto a lot of hurt since the first time Bruce looked him in the eyes and told him to leave, and each time Bruce throws him out, it gets heavier. He feels like a leper, Bruce protecting his siblings from whatever Dick has wrong with him by casting him out. And sure, he may be allowed to return now, but who knows how long it will be until the next signs of his defectiveness have Bruce banishing him all over again.

Dick hates this cycle. He wants so hard, he’s trying so hard, to make everything work. Dick feels a responsibility to Bruce and now everyone in their dysfunctional family, that he needs to smooth over arguments and hurts. Pressure to just let things go, so they can all be at their best with each other. But why is he the poison in this family? What is he doing wrong?

Whatever it is, he’s - “I’m really, really sorry.” Sobbing, hardly able to speak. He has been holding these tears back all week.

“It’s okay, chum, everything is okay now.” And here is Bruce, welcoming him back. Forgiving him.

But Dick can’t stop crying.

Why does he feel so awful? He’s tired and mad at himself for caring about Bruce so much when Bruce hurts him like this all the time. He’s mad that they fought, and he’s mad that he knows he’s going to just let it go (he always does, he knew he would). He tries to ignore the tired part of him that is familiar with this cycle, that even if Bruce hadn’t reached out like this Dick would trip over himself to tell Bruce whatever he needs to hear.

Jason’s words come to mind. Roy’s needling jabs so close to the mark, Wally and Donna’s worried questions and Does Bruce ever ..? Slade’s knowing look. Dick knows he and Bruce have a pattern. But maybe this time, something can change. He steels himself, just a little.

“I need you to stop,” he says brokenly into Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce stills in his arms, and Dick rushes to explain, between shuddering sobs, “I’m coming home, yes. I want to be with you guys. But we can’t argue so much, B. I’m going insane. And it’s scaring the others.” Dick’s fingernails dig into his own palms behind Bruce’s back, trying to ground himself. “You need to just agree to disagree sometimes, okay?”

Bruce is quiet for a moment. “Agreed. Our arguing has become an obstacle to the mission. But you need to listen to me,” Bruce counters. “Especially when you’re … this unstable.” A weak stirring of protest rises inside him, but he is in no position to argue about his own volatility now, not when he’s feeling so shaky and still struggling to just stop crying.

Honestly, Bruce agreeing with him is more of an apology than Dick had hoped for. It boosts Dick’s confidence enough to let his mind move on from this moment and consider the wider family problems they should really address.

“Okay, I’ll listen more,” Dick agrees, but I don’t have to obey. “And you need to be kinder to Damian, he’s sensitive,” Dick adds. “And give Tim more breaks before he falls over.” And make more of an effort for Jason, he can tell you don’t know what to do with him, he decides not to include, because of all of his siblings Bruce considers Dick the least of an authority on Jason and this is already pushing it.

Bruce’s grip tightens, growing slightly painful. But he doesn’t let Dick go. Bruce sighs. “I will try.” 

Dick squeezes back, reassured, before he gently releases him. His breaths come in hiccups. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to calm down. He’s so dramatic, like everyone always tells him. Bruce is watching him, assessing. His eyes catch on Dick’s scabbed wrists, the fresh indents in his palms. He frowns but doesn’t comment, and Dick tries to ignore the shame he feels. He gives Bruce a watery smile.

This is a good morning. He has gotten what he wanted and he didn’t even have to beg. Dick is happy to be joining his family in time for Thanksgiving. He’s happy to help out on closing this case. It’s mingled with so much relief that it feels a bit like euphoria. He wants to be this happy forever.

“We should get going,” Bruce says abruptly, glancing at his watch. He stands and looks at Dick expectantly. Dick feels oddly slow, attempting to pull himself out of his daze.

“I can’t go now,” Dick protests weakly. “I have to teach this afternoon.”

Bruce frowns, and Dick tries tiredly to prepare himself for an argument he’ll likely lose, but Bruce just amends, “I expect you to be at the manor this evening, then. I want to go over your role for Friday. You will need to stay a few days.”

“I’ll be there for Thanksgiving weekend,” Dick agrees easily, not even bristling at the direction. He’s grateful to be allowed this. “Thanks, B. Have a safe trip back.”

Bruce nods and turns to walk to the door. His mission accomplished.

(And it’s nice that at least everyone has been using his door this week. He hasn’t had to fix his window in ages.)

Dick waits until Bruce is gone before saying, “I love you.” It is just himself and empty air, so he can pretend Bruce would say it back if he heard. He can’t help it as a smile slips across his face. He’s coming home. The knowledge is a balm to his nerves that have been fizzing all week.

Before he gets off the couch, he takes his phone out and starts to text the group chat to tell them he’ll be at the manor before his brain catches up. His hands still. He recalls his conversations with his siblings this week - Jason’s anger, Damian’s concern, Tim’s suspicions. Drawing attention to why he is gone in the first place and having everyone wonder what happened now is definitely a bad idea.

He will surprise his siblings. It’s a good surprise.

—----------------------------

Dick practically floats through his afternoon classes, feeling elated. His coworkers laugh at his inability to keep from grinning. The drive to Gotham is bogged by traffic and takes him into the evening but he barely notices, buzzing with anticipation to see his family.

When he bounces up the steps, he has barely opened the door before Alfred is there to greet him.

“Welcome home, Master Richard,” he says with a slight smile. For Alfred, this is an outrageous display of affection.

“Alfred, it’s so good to see you,” Dick says, pulling him into a hug that Alfred tolerates very briefly.

“You as well,” he replies, taking a discreet step back to fully regard his charge. Dick is abruptly on display, and suddenly very glad he decided to re-apply makeup on the fading bruise. He puts his hands behind his back in a mock parade rest, makeshift finger splint carefully out of sight.

Alfred allows himself a slight frown, for which Dick feels extremely guilty. “Have you been eating well?” Alfred asks him seriously.

“Ah,” says Dick, fidgeting. “Well. Some.” He desperately casts about in his mind for what he ate today, knowing his appetite improved significantly since speaking with Bruce, but he’s drawing a blank. And he knows his food intake always suffers when they fight, but hasn’t it only been a few days? So there’s no way it’s physically obvious. How can Alfred just know?

“I see,” says Alfred, disapproval very apparent. “You shall be joining us for dinner. It will commence shortly.” He leads Dick to the kitchen immediately. Dick smiles, following.

“Where are Damian and Tim?” Dick asks a short while later, sipping tea as Alfred stirs something on the stove.

“Master Damian is doing homework in his room,” Alfred answers. Dick knows Damian retreats to his chambers when he is upset. Hmm. “Master Timothy is downstairs with Master Bruce.”

Alfred’s expression sours as he says the name of his eldest charge with palpable displeasure, stirring a little more viciously. Dick can smell the dish better now, and he’s getting wary.

“What’s for dinner?” he asks carefully.

“Fettucine alfredo,” Alfred replies primly, meeting Dick’s gaze with daring, hard eyes. 

Oh no. Bruce once said that fettuccine alfredo was a waste of space on a menu. Perhaps the only man alive who actively dislikes the fairly universally enjoyed dish. Dick swallows. Alfred’s umbrage with Bruce is very obvious. This man knows what he is doing, poking the bear. 

Dick is uncertain what to do about that. On one hand, he is privately appreciative of the solidarity it shows when Alfred is frosty towards Bruce for kicking him out. But he also wishes Alfred wouldn’t instigate Bruce’s discomfort lest he be angry this weekend and ruin the aquarium for everyone. Especially not on Dick’s behalf, he’s just not worth it.

Dick takes another sip, still holding onto one last hope. “Is Bruce joining us for dinner?”

“He is,” Alfred confirms. He turns off the stove. Time is up.

“Ah,” says Dick, hope dashed. Then again, if anyone can get away with needling, it’s Alfred. And Bruce could stand to suffer more distasteful things for the sake of his family (and Dick’s petty secret enjoyment).

Dick stands. “I’ll get Dami.” Alfred must know he’s avoiding the people in the cave, but he just nods and continues setting up.

Knocking on Damian’s bedroom door allows Dick a moment to feel the anticipation he has been ignoring. He can’t keep a grin off his face, but it fades with Damian’s words, “Go away, Pennyworth, I will not be having dinner tonight!” 

More subdued, Dick knocks again, their special sequence. There is silence on the other side of the door, then very quiet footsteps approach. The door opens with a soft click, just wide enough for Damian to peer out.

“Richard?” he asks, fragile. Dick assesses him quickly. No visible injuries, perhaps some shadows below his eyes (tired), sullen expression. Damian. 

Dick says nothing and opens his arms, a silent request that Damian answers by darting out for a hug. It’s quick but validating for both of them. It feels like coming home, and Dick feels something inside of him stabilize that he hadn’t realized was drifting.

“How’s school?” he asks when Damian pulls away, slowly guiding Damian back into his room. Alfred the cat is asleep on the perfectly made bed. On the desk, there are textbooks neatly arranged around an open notepad that appears to have been abandoned mid sentence. Dick sits carefully on the empty corner of the desk.

“It is fine,” Damian replies, crossing his arms awkwardly in the middle of his room. “Why are you here?”

“It’s Thanksgiving. I’m here for the weekend,” Dick says excitedly. 

Damian’s eyes light up, but his expression is still reserved. “Have you spoken with Father?”

“Yes, he came to Bludhaven this morning and we talked things over,” Dick says, a bit vaguely. “Damian, I really am so sorry about ditching you.”

“You did not ‘ditch’ me,” Damian dismisses. He relaxes a bit, “I am glad to hear you two have spoken. Father has been insufferable and unreasonable without you.” Dick hates that hearing how Bruce needs him around to pass for functioning makes Dick feel weirdly loved. Damian continues, vulnerable. “I am sorry for my own part. Had I performed more adequately, you would not have fought.”

“Damian,” Dick says seriously, beckoning him closer. Damian shuffles over until Dick can reach out to grab his hand. “I need you to know - none of this is your fault, okay? Really. It’s never going to be your fault, so you don’t have to apologize. But I need you to do something for me.” Dick braces himself, looks Damian directly in the eyes. He needs to know. “Has Bruce ever hurt you? Whether in costume or not, I want you to tell me.”

Damian meets his gaze, solemn. This poor kid, who escaped a terribly abusive childhood only to be stuck with this dysfunctional family. Dick feels bad he even has to ask. “He has not caused me physical harm aside from sparring; I only receive field injuries.” Dick wants to scream that Bruce shouldn’t be hurting him emotionally either; but now that Dick is home, it’s something he can work on again.

“Okay,” Dick says, releasing a breath. He keeps hold of Damian’s hand, strokes it gently. “Okay. Thank you for telling me. But if anything ever happens, anything at all, you have to tell me alright? Promise me. It’s not okay for that to happen, you know that right?” He’s being pushy, but right now he doesn’t care.

“Richard.” Damian’s tone is exasperated of all things, bordering on frustrated. “How can you be this way? I don’t understand how you can say and believe such opposites.” Dick is a little lost. “It is not okay for you to be hurt by Father either.” Oh, right.

“You’re right, Damian,” Dick agrees. “It’s not good that Bruce and I fight so much. We communicate poorly and lash out when we shouldn’t, and you shouldn’t have to see that. I know we’re not a good example, but don’t worry, okay?” he squeezes Damian’s hand, reassuring. “We’re adults.”

Damian doesn’t look convinced. Dick thinks he might argue more, but then his eyes catch on Dick’s hand. “What happened?” 

Dick hates the suspicion in his narrowed eyes. “Gymnastics accident,” Dick says breezily.

A dubious look. “But you are excellent at gymnastics.”

Oh. Dick should have said patrol injury, but it’s too late, he already told Bruce it was gymnastics and he needs to be consistent.

Now they’re out of time. Dick ruffles Damian’s hair quickly. “Sometimes accidents just happen. Don’t worry about me.” He slides off the desk. “Alfred says dinner is ready. Let’s head down before all the good seats are taken!”

Damian scoffs but follows him out. “As if there are insufficient chairs. And you will of course be sitting by me.”

Dick smiles.

---------------------------

Dinner is quiet but pleasant enough. Bruce takes one look at the meal and another look at Alfred’s expression, then wisely says nothing as he begins to eat. Dick knows Bruce is capable of great self-restraint, so this show of temperance is not unexpected, just hurtful when unwanted noodles get more toleration than Dick himself does.

Tim raises his eyebrows when he sees Dick present. He looks to Bruce and back, before he greets Dick with a smile, no questions asked. He has carried a tablet to the table and is absently tapping away on the side. Dick is not fooled - he knows he is getting interrogated later. Damian sticks to Dick’s side. Dick does most of the talking, though he tries to cut down on the quantity of words. Bruce doesn’t laugh at any of his jokes, but he does occasionally smile. Dick can’t wait for this case to be over, for the weight Bruce has been carrying to lessen so the man can let himself relax.

Tim is watching them both very closely. Dick pretends not to notice.

They all file down to the cave for patrol, just the four of them tonight. It’s nice and easy; they are mostly gathering intel for the bust tomorrow at a dock warehouse being used as a distribution centre (and it’s always a warehouse, isn’t it?).

It’s a careful sort of ease, though, that has them working together so well. Dick is hyper-aware of himself in relation to Batman, following every single order without hesitation. He remembers a rule from his brief days in juvie before Bruce whisked him off to a life in the limelight: Keep your head down if you don’t want to get hurt. Tonight, no one says much in the field, but everyone pays close attention when anyone does speak. 

Robin and Red Robin are being civil with each other too, even sharing looks; there is some sort of unspoken collaboration there that Dick is not privy to (he was pretty sure they would vote each other first off the island, what’s with the cooperation?). Both of them stare hard when he asks Batman what he wants Dick to do for check-ins, and there’s another shared look when he agrees to update him personally every five minutes. Dick doesn’t have time to figure out their weirdness - the frequent updates Batman orders feel like a test, and Dick is determined to ace this. However, the attention of his siblings and his own laser focus on Batman are a little draining, leaving Dick especially tired when they return from patrol.

It is hours later, when Dick is putting away equipment, that Bruce approaches him, cowl off, face serious, files in hand. Dick forces himself not to tense. He sets aside his escrima sticks and looks up expectantly from his seat on the bench.

“Dick,” Bruce greets, moving as though to place a hand on Dick’s shoulder. But the motion gets aborted halfway through, hand dropping instead into the space between them. Dick feels the absence of the gesture like a slap.

“Need something, B?” he asks gently.

“I need to go over your role in tomorrow’s operation, since you’re behind on the situation,” Bruce tells him, which stings since it’s not like Dick wanted to be cut from the information loop. He bites his tongue.

“So catch me up,” Dick says instead, leaning back. “What’s going on?”

Bruce passes him a file. Dick looks it over briefly. There isn’t as much new information as he had feared. The final plan is largely the same as they had drafted it a week ago: hit hard and fast. The only problem is they need one of them with the hostages when the fight begins to protect them from backlash, and they are detained at the centre of the operation. Dick checks the blueprints again. They will need some serious stealth to reach them.

No names or roles are identified in the plan outline, as usual. Bruce always holds person-specific information close. Dick looks up to see Bruce studying him. He hands back the file. “Where do you want me?”

“Here,” Bruce points to the hostages’ cell. Dick isn’t surprised, but he is unconvinced.

“Hmm,” he says, considering. He traces the blueprints. “I can fit through the vent but it would be tight and take time. Cass is coming tomorrow. Black Bat could get to them easily, and she’s ample protection.” Phrasing his own recommendations like idle comments is so tricky sometimes, but it is a method that doesn’t lead to shouting so here he is.

He’s pretty sure none of his friends would recognize him if they saw him right now.

Bruce shakes his head. “Robin explored that option tonight. It’s too much of a risk for detection. We need another route in.”

“And what is Nightwing going to be doing exactly?” Dick asks, interested in what Bruce has come up with this time. The man really is a genius for tactical situations.

“Not Nightwing, not tomorrow,” Bruce says. “They are well prepared for confrontation. The warehouse is fortified. You’ll have to be undercover.”

“What?” Dick says, alarmed. That’s new. Undercover in human trafficking is the worst . Dick hates posing as the trafficker, because it makes him feel so dirty. And he hates posing as the trafficked for other reasons; he hasn’t been able to handle that kind of …situation for years now.

But the other piece that surprises him now is that human trafficking is a long game; there’s no way he can go undercover convincingly for one night. Dick pushes down his apprehension to point out, “How is that going to work? It’s too sudden, no one’s going to buy it.”

“It’s not sudden,” Bruce hands him another file.

Dick forces himself to open it. His stomach drops at the first page, a different name next to a grainy photo that could be himself with brown eyes and lighter hair. “Alin Vasile,” he reads. “Illegal immigrant from Moldova. Sex worker.” He flips through pages of information with dates and communications between ‘Alin’ and the traffickers. It looks like they’ve been leading clueless Alin into a trap posing as a friend of a client and are planning to pick him up tomorrow night and add him to the shipment. They’ve been spurred on, it appears, by a faked request on the buyer's end for someone described very much like Dick. This is a lot of effort, a lot of time. Dick looks at Bruce, a blank feeling setting in. “You’ve been building this identity for me for weeks.” Why didn’t you tell me until now? He wants to scream.

And now he’s pretty sure that Bruce’s trip to see him this morning was less about reconciliation and more about needing the actor he cast to play his chosen role. Always, always, the mission, why did Dick forget that for even a second?

Even now, it is so hard to bring up their personal issues. Dick is pretty certain Bruce knows he doesn’t like this kind of undercover. But Dick is being selfish; no one likes this kind of undercover, and they all suck it up and play challenging roles as vigilantes. Still, Dick wants to tell Bruce he can’t do the mission, but Dick doesn’t want to tell Bruce that if someone tries to touch him like that he thinks he will probably pass out. Then he would have to explain why, and what if Bruce doesn’t think it’s a good enough reason?

Bruce is watching him, calculating. And Dick knows his worth is being weighed by his answer, by his usefulness to Batman.

When Dick first became Robin, he knew that Bruce would sometimes test him. It made sense, when the pressure of their job demanded so much from them. But he hadn’t thought it would be like this, constantly guessing what Bruce wants him to say or do, wondering what is the right answer. After so many years, he knows he is a weapon that belongs to Bruce, that Bruce will sharpen him for the field before swinging him into danger, but Dick wishes he wasn’t so blind to the hand that controls him.

Still, he tends to internally downplay Bruce’s merciful side when he’s feeling on the fence about his place in the family. Dick can often get Bruce to see his perspective; he just needs to tread carefully. So he tries, “Bruce, undercover is always risky. I wouldn’t be able to mobilize as quickly if the plan changes. And what if Damian used the vent system? He’s the smallest and fastest, I think he’d have the best shot at zero detection.”

“Robin is not ready for the responsibility, and besides, he is needed elsewhere,” Bruce dismisses, which is frustrating but Dick can’t help focusing on his own fate.

“I’m underprepared for this role, it’s too soon,” Dick says, grasping a little desperately, “Who even is Alin?”

“You are an excellent improviser, you should have no problems,” which is flattering, and the first part is true. Dick doesn’t know how to tell Bruce he’s wrong about the second part. Bruce sighs into Dick’s silence. “Dick, this is obviously the better option. I’ve had Tim look the plan over and he agreed with me. Why are you fighting me?”

Did Tim really agree to throw Dick to the human traffickers? Dick is pretty certain Bruce has never shared his full plan, or at least not all the back-ups, with any of them.

Wait, he’s not fighting is he? He said he wouldn’t fight.

“Undercover should always be a last resort this far into the mission,” Dick says quietly. “And this is a high risk role. A sex worker, Bruce, really?” He hugs his arms to his body protectively. “They’re going to be expecting something.”

“It’s more believable and lowers their guard,” Bruce says promptly. “You know this.” Which leads Dick to believe he knows exactly what he’s asking of Dick and expects compliance.

“Right, but I don’t …. like it,” Dick says lamely, the closest he’ll come to confessing how much it bothers him. He feels small, his opinion insignificant.

“I trust you to handle it,” Bruce says firmly. “I know undercover with human trafficking is unideal and you’re playing a … provocative role, for added distraction,” honeypotting, just say it, Bruce. “But you’re comfortable with these types of interactions-,” wait, hold on - but Bruce is continuing like it’s just a known fact- , “and it will be very short. Nothing should ...go too far.” 

While Bruce is talking, his gaze narrows in on Dick’s taped finger. He has to know, like Damian, that it would not have come from a gymnastics accident, not for Dick. He wonders what conclusions Bruce is drawing instead, with that faint expression of discomfort on his face, knowing Dick lied, and given their current topic of conversation.

Dick has no words to enlighten him.

“They’re on the clock themselves. The time you get picked up off the street until the time we break everyone out will be no longer than a few hours.” When Dick remains quiet, Bruce adds, a little disappointment in his voice, mixed with impatience, “Who else, Dick? One of your siblings? It would be even riskier. You’re good at this, and you’re the one with the identity set up. I need you on board.”

You set me up, Dick thinks viciously, but now he’s thinking of his siblings and he would never want them to play this part - over his dead body. What does Bruce mean that he thinks Dick is “good at this”? But Dick thinks he knows. He’s the one who is good at this because people find him attractive and he has a high tolerance for distasteful things without cracking his facade. And he’s the oldest. It should be him. So now he’s nodding.

“Okay,” he concedes faintly, feeling doomed.

Bruce takes a breath, nods back. He reaches out to squeeze Dick’s shoulder, and finally Dick has earned this contact. It should be a supportive gesture but somehow isn’t. “Good. Thanks, chum. Look over the rest of the communications. Let me know if you have any questions.”

Bruce walks away, leaving Dick alone with Alin Vasile. He rests his elbows on his knees, puts his head in his hand, closes his eyes for a moment. Just breathing. Everything will be fine. He just needs to set aside his personal misgivings. Bruce will be happy. Then he stretches, looking around the room.

He stops.

He thought he was alone.

His gaze catches on Tim, sitting in the corner of the cave, watching him. He has a sprawl of papers spread around him and has clearly been there for a while. Dick quickly looks around but at least Damian isn’t present, thankfully sent upstairs right after patrol.

Tim’s eyes are narrowed, studying him. Then Tim looks briefly at Bruce’s retreating back, frown deepening. 

This looks like a good time for a big brother intervention.

“Hey Timmy,” Dick calls, pasting a smile on his face. He glances at the equipment he had been cleaning. It can wait. He takes the file and strolls over to Tim, plopping down in a chair next to him. The papers look mission related. “It’s late, you should head up soon. What are you working on? Can I be of assistance?”

Tim immediately tosses the paper he was holding and sets his elbows on the table, hands clasped. “Nope,” he says.

 Dick blinks. “Uh. Okay.”

“I have some things to say,” Tim continues, “And then I have some questions.”

Dick raises an eyebrow and copies Tim’s posture, a little charmed by the quirky behaviour. “Alrighty. I’m listening.”

Tim opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks at the papers Dick is holding. Then, “Okay nevermind, question first - what just happened? With you and Bruce? I overheard a little - is he making you go undercover?” He sounds concerned. Argh.

Dick blows out a rush of air. “Nothing happened. Bruce was just filling me in on the mission tomorrow since I’ve been out of the loop. Now I have to study my role,” he adds dramatically, waving the file.

“Can I see that?” Tim motions to the folder, and Dick hands it over. Tim’s gaze snags on his injured hand. The folder is set aside. “Hold on. Can I see that?”

Dick bares his teeth in a grin, does a little wave with his hand that keeps it out of reach. Sticks to his story. “Gymnastics, Timmy. They’re dangerous.”

A skeptical look. Yeah, Dick wouldn’t believe himself either.

Tim flips through the folder.

“This took some time,” Tim comments, looking at the dates. “You’re just seeing this now?” There is so much unsaid, so much implied.

“Yeah, but B said you knew about it though? This is our best plan since the vents are a no go,” Dick replies.

He is confused by Tim’s surprised look. “What? No. I mean, I told him weeks ago this was an option if stealth falls through, but I thought we’d settled on the vent.” Dick feels a bit of relief that he’s not the only one stumbling when the rug is pulled. 

“So, you didn’t help create the profile?” Dick asks, a bit hesitant, but he has been struggling to digest Tim helping with that.

“No,” Tim denies vehemently, still looking at the papers. He gives a disbelieving laugh. “I didn’t realize he’d gone and made a contingency for this, since we had, like, three different options for stealth.” He reads some more and grimaces. “And everyone knows human trafficking undercover sucks.”

“Right?” Dick agrees emphatically. 

Tim looks up at him, incredulous. “Then why in the world did you just agree to it? We have the vents.”

Dick looks at the file again and sighs. “No use, though. They’re too difficult to navigate in time and it’s worse if someone gets detected in them. This is safer.” Just more uncomfortable.

Tim frowns, then out of nowhere opens his laptop. Where does it even come from? He types rapidly for a moment, then spins it around to face Dick, who obligingly leans over to examine the screen. It’s the blueprints for the warehouse, but it looks like a rainbow vomited over the map.

“See,” Tim points. “I colour coded risk levels for exposure at each point. Cass could do it. It’s true there’s more risk, but undercover has its own danger. Even if it’s been planned for weeks.”

And Dick does see. But that’s not the real problem.

“Bruce wants me to go undercover,” Dick says, knowing that no matter how much he agrees with Tim it doesn’t matter. Neither of them is Batman (at least, not anymore).

Tim chews his cheek, glances at the undercover profile. Dick can tell he’s looking at the suggestive communication between Alin and the human trafficker’s bait. “But you hate this kind of job.”

Wow. Are all of his hang-ups and failures apparent to everyone? And if they are, why is Bruce putting him through this? Or is Dick’s past somehow part of the reason?

“It is uncomfortable,” Dick admits, “But it has the best margins of safety for the captives. And it’s not long, just for the night.” All the things he has been telling himself. “Someone has to do it. The profile is pretty solid, anyway.”

What wouldn’t he do, these days? He hates himself a little.

Tim looks at him, assessing. “Should I ask Bruce -”

“No!” Dick cuts him off quickly. “It’s fine. I can handle it.” The thought of Tim asking Bruce to let Dick out of this on Dick’s behalf when he literally just agreed to Bruce’s face makes Dick panic at his own patheticness. 

Tim blinks at Dick’s obvious desperation but moves on. His next question doesn’t seem related. “Did Bruce and you make up?”

Dick examines his hands very intently. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Yeah yeah, I saw you on patrol, and I’m glad you’re speaking again. But did you guys talk things over from Saturday night?” he presses.

Dick sighs. Nothing is private in this family. “Yeah, we’re good now. He actually came out to see me this morning in Bludhaven. I apologized for my crap, he said he shouldn’t have kicked me out, and he needed me back. So here I am.”

“Wait, you apologized? What about Bruce? Did he say sorry?” Tim demands, leaning forward.

It is Dick’s turn to roll his eyes this time. “What is this, juicy high school gossip? Yes, I was being stupid, so I apologized. And yeah, B expressed some regret about his actions, and that’s enough, we all know he doesn’t do ‘I’m sorry’s.” 

Judging by Tim’s expression, even when Dick is making peace he doesn’t do it right.

“You weren’t being stupid. And I told him to apologize. But you both are acting like there are eggshells around you so I figured maybe he didn’t do such a good job. I don’t even know why I’m surprised,” Tim mutters, looking annoyed. His hand reaches out for a coffee mug that isn’t there.

And if Bruce only came to Bludhaven because Tim had told him to and because he needed Dick undercover, where does that leave their relationship? Dick can see that Bruce’s forgiveness was fast, earlier in their cycle than usual, forced by an outside source; he’s honestly a little bitter that Bruce listens to Tim.

“Why would you do that?” Dick groans, exasperated, while Tim is staring, brow furrowed, at his hand grasping around thin air. “Would you stop meddling? Look, it’s not a big deal. It’s Thanksgiving. We’re fine now.”

Dick knows he and Bruce are a little weird right now because B is stressed with this case and a stressed Bruce always makes Dick edgy, but it will be over soon.

Tim surveys him like he’s seeing something for the first time. He abruptly changes direction again. “I talked to Jason.”

Dick feels like he has been launched into another dimension, one without gravity. “Ah, good? I didn’t know you two …. spoke.” Ever. Honestly, it’s happy news, just very unprecipitated. They were ready to declare war last week as far as Dick knows.

“We talked about you,” Tim continues, which is rude. Dick has never had to deal with younger siblings ganging up on him before due to the fractures and fault lines that divide everyone in the family. He doesn’t know what to do about it now. Is this still good communication? Should he be encouraging?

“Everyone seems overly interested in my life lately,” Dick says a bit pointedly.

Tim dodges the point like a pro. “I wanted to know about your lives when you were teenagers, with Bruce and with the Titans.”

“You know you could just ask me about my own life, right?” Dick says, annoyed. He runs a hand through his hair. What would Jason say about some of the worst years of Dick’s life? Well, Dick had been pretty cold to him and blamed him for stealing Robin. Whatever Jason said, it probably wasn’t anything nice.

“He said you and Bruce fought all the time,” Tim continues. Seriously, why does Dick even bother speaking when no one is listening?

“So what, Tim?” Dick asks tiredly. “That’s pretty common knowledge, and obviously things haven’t changed much.” It's wry but bitter. Dick grips his wrists with his hands to ground himself. “We’re two very different people.”

“I know,” Tim says, “But I’ve been thinking a lot about this. Hear me out,” he adds when Dick opens his mouth. Dick obligingly presses his lips together. “I thought you guys were acting strange since Bruce returned, but maybe it’s just that I’ve been paying more attention. It’s been a pattern of behaviour for both of you for years, right? The fighting, the separation, the reunion, repeat. But when you were with the Titans and Jason was around Gotham, you didn’t come back much. Jason said you seemed happier being with your friends. So what changed? Why are you here?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dick asks, a little touchy about his own presence in Gotham.

“Not like that,” Tim corrects, “I mean, I’ve been trying to figure out why you are so ….,” for a moment, he dances around whatever word he wants to say, and eventually settles for, “Why you keep coming back to Bruce. I get it in some sense, you’re both so permanent in each other’s lives. But logically? I’m watching and even I can see he makes you miserable. You know each other best and are the worst for each other. You’re in this cycle; I think the way you act around each other is such a routine that you just return by habit.”

Something about the routine and habit strikes Dick deep, taking him back to the memory of a sunny afternoon in his childhood sitting in the garden with Alfred. He had been watching Alfred demonstrate weeding techniques. Routine is important to keep oneself healthy and sane, Alfred had told him when young Dick asked about why he gardened every day. It’s a powerful technique for the mind. He had encouraged Dick to find stability in his own repeated actions, and Dick took this to heart as a life principle. 

And routine is powerful. It has been keeping him sane all these years.

There is a twisted comfort now, in the lack of surprise when he and Bruce fight, or when he’s thrown out, knowing he’ll be welcomed back eventually. He’s addicted to the kind of relief that comes with Bruce’s forgiveness. The pain is only temporary, he just needs to hold out. If he stays on the current path, it may not be stable, but at least it’s known. But Dick isn’t fooling himself, he knows this isn’t what he really wants. Dick wants to feel this comfort and familiarity with steadier relationships, but it has been this way for too long. He has been this way for too long. Could he change things? It feels unattainable, the dream too painfully out of reach to bear entertaining.

Besides, what they have now works fine.

Tim has lowered his voice. “Is it me? You only came back after I made you, when Jason - died. Is it my fault?” He sounds vulnerable now, worried that he is responsible for Dick’s problems.

It’s difficult to answer that when yes, Dick is here for Tim, and Damian, and all of them really, but it’s not on them. He wants to be here to protect them, but that’s because he loves them. Dick is reminded again of his conversations with the Titans. What is Tim’s relationship like with Bruce, exactly? He suddenly needs to know how Tim is doing.

“What about you and Bruce?” Dick redirects; he ventures, “Are you okay, Tim?”

“No I’m not okay,” Tim says seriously, and the instant negative makes Dick feel sick. “I’ve slept five hours in the last two days. I’ve been completely ignoring the Titans. When I’m not working on this case, I’m covering for Bruce at WE. And when I’m not working on either of those,” a sort of weariness creeps into his tone, “I’m wondering what the hell is going on with you, because you guys fight and Bruce obviously doesn’t talk about it but then you don’t talk about it or anything important.” Tim blows out a breath. 

Dick doesn’t dare interrupt, not when this is so clearly important to Tim. When Tim starts again, it’s slower, calmer. “Bruce pushes us all really hard, in like self-care boundaries, and it’s not healthy but I get it. And he sucks at emotions. He can be an asshole to me, though not in the same way he clearly is to you. That’s super not okay.” Tim pauses to meet his eyes directly for the next words. “But it’s not just him - the rest of us can barely talk to each other either. No one can be okay when there’s a problem in the family.” Dick really appreciates the backing except it’s a little belated when he is at the manor again now and everything is fine.

“We’ve got our issues, all of us,” Dick agrees. “But my problems with Bruce are not your fault okay? We can handle them between us.”

“You’re blind if you think they don’t affect everyone,” Tim counters, shaking his head. He doesn’t say it meanly, but Dick is reminded of another person.

“Geez, you sound like Slade,” Dick mutters with another eye roll. When he stops looking at the ceiling, Tim is staring at him in surprise. 

“You mean Slade Wilson? The mercenary assassin?” Tim asks. His mind always works so fast . “What the hell? When did you talk to him?”

Dick winces, regretting saying anything. And isn’t that what Bruce has been trying to tell him - he needs to say less, be more careful with his words. “Uh. Monday.”

“You talked to Slade Wilson, as in Deathstroke, your literal enemy, about your family issues?” Tim is having trouble processing this news.

“Well it wasn’t exactly a social call,” Dick defends, even though if he thinks about it, it was pretty much only a social call. “He had a contract in Bludhaven, so he stopped by.”

“At your apartment?” Tim asks, alarmed. “Did you fight him?”

And now, Tim’s gaze is sliding back to Dick’s taped finger. Such an odd injury.

Dick is getting a headache. “Yes. And kind of.”

“‘Kind of’?” Tim repeats, alarm rising. “He tried to kill you, remember? You know he would do it again.”

“Yes, I am aware, I’m not saying we’re friends; look, can we talk about something else?” Dick massages his temples.

‘Not friends’ Tim is mouthing, before seeming to collect himself. “Then why? Does this happen often?” Tim asks. He looks as frustrated as Dick feels, and sighs when Dick responds with silence. “You know, it’s so strange how quickly you forget things.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dick demands again, tiring of this conversation.

“You have these ‘not-exactly-a-social-call’s with the same person who would be the first suspect in your murder, like you’ve forgotten your history. But it’s not just your weird thing with Slade; it’s your weird thing with Bruce.”

“Bruce and I are fine,” Dick insists. He has had enough.

“But you haven’t been before and it seems like you instantly forget,” Tim shoots back. “You forget when Bruce is a jerk to any of us! Remember Jason’s return, when Bruce beat him to hell and threw him in Arkham? And you want those two to be chummy. Is he supposed to just forget that? Am I supposed to just forget Damian trying to murder me?” An old frustration. Then a softer, “Why are you fine with Damian living here, anyway? It’s like you want us to play dollhouse, but you’re not even the one in control.”

There is so much to unpack in Tim’s words, so much to unpack in their family. “Slade being a creepy stalker aside,” Dick begins, hand massaging his temple harder, “I’m not forgetting about how terrible Bruce or Jason or Damian have been, I’m just not going to hold grudges until eternity against my family. Bruce didn’t even know it was Jason half the time!” Dick is pretty sure, anyway. “But it was terrible, I know, especially Arkham, but he wouldn’t do that now! And Damian wouldn’t do anything like that again either.” He leans in, earnest. He wants Tim to see things his way, to help unite them all. At the very least, he needs Tim to not resent anyone. “Look, you know I’ve done things I regret, myself. I’m sorry. We’re not some perfect dollhouse. But we’re all getting better. We have to work together.”

Dick has to believe people can change. Damian has changed. Bruce must be able to as well.

“Mmmm, sounds like forgive and forget. What, you want no consequences?” A pause. “But I guess anything for family,” Tim says, maybe sarcastically, clearly unconvinced. But Dick has had enough of trying to coax Tim off of the precarious theory he’s clinging to and talking circles around. Dick blows out an annoyed breath.

“Did you need any help with these or not?” Dick asks, gesturing at the papers still surrounding them.

“Or not,” Tim replies. His eyes are far away, like he’s deep in thought.

“Then goodnight,” says Dick, standing. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you,” Tim echoes, still staring blankly.

Their conversation is abruptly over, a page torn quickly out of the script, but Dick will take the escape. Finally, he can stumble away and think. Dick just wishes Tim’s words had left him less disoriented.

But really. Everything is fine. He’s fine.

(He has to be.)

Chapter Text

“You don’t remember what happened. What you remember becomes what happened.” ~ John Green, An Abundance of Katherines

Winning and Losing

It’s like you want us to play dollhouse, but you’re not even the one in control.

Tim’s words follow Dick into his dreams. He sees his siblings in plastic perfection, sitting around a meal of food that shines grotesquely. They are living dolls, smiles frozen, with thread attached to their limbs. Dick feels a tug on his wrists and looks down. He traces the string from his arms to where it disappears around the corner of their perfect dining room.

He resists the pull, fiery pain in his wrists, but then he is yanked hard out of his chair. No one looks up from their plastic meal as he is dragged away by an invisible master. Dick fights and yells but nothing and no one frees him as he is towed along winding hallways, further and further away from his family.

He wakes up with scratched wrists and blood under his fingernails.

(He swallows residual panic and holds back literal tears of all things, because really, he’s not panicked, it’s just - why does he keep doing this? There’s nothing even really wrong, it was just a dream - but even when asleep he is a mess, and no one wants that -)

Happy Friday. 

He checks the clock - it’s mid-morning. Cass will be coming at noon from the airport. Alfred shot down everyone’s pleas to join him in picking her up, wanting to spend quality time together alone. Dick can respect that. And he’s grateful for the extra time to calm himself down before he needs to be a mentally stable adult for his family.

Dick lurches falteringly to his bathroom, stopping before the mirror. It’s his eyes, he thinks, staring hard, that give away the anxiety. The sweaty brow and wild hair don’t help his image either. What a wreck. It’s raining today, at least he didn’t dream of -

He needs to pull himself together.

He takes a boiling shower and does light stretching exercises in his room, which help him relax a bit. He takes the tape off his fingers, unconcerned about proper healing, because he is sick of people asking questions. He decides to cover the bruise on his jaw for the same reason.

It’s not just the weird dreams or the tension with Bruce that has him wound tightly. Honestly, he’s looking forward to today and tomorrow so much it’s actually causing some stress. The whole family together, doing normal family things. He tells himself it’s okay if it’s not perfect, but. He really, really wants all of them to bond, or at least not fight. That puts pressure on himself to make it happen.

He’s back in front of the mirror. Very deliberately, he forces his face into a performer’s smile. The ghosts of his parents smile back at him in his features and he feels a little lighter. Finally, he lets himself out of his room. He gives in to the juvenile urge to check Bruce’s closet and grab another one of his never-worn hoodies. They’re comfy, that’s all.

The manor is quiet like a pregnant pause. Dick knows there are likely three other people here, but it feels empty. Dick suspects Bruce is down in the Cave, working until the minute Cass arrives. Hopefully Tim went to bed and isn’t down there with him. He debates going down to see Bruce, it’s not like they’re fighting so there’s no reason to avoid him, but his anxiety starts to build again at the thought so he decides to try for breakfast instead.

The kitchen is barren without Alfred. There are signs of him everywhere in the carefully prepared and set aside dishes for this weekend. But still, Dick ends up grabbing a croissant to-go and retreating to one of the lounge rooms to hide from the aura of suspense. He randomly lucks out and chooses one with an old Wii system. He turns the volume up to attract other organisms and hits play.

Damian manifests at the end of Dick’s third lap around Mario Kart’s Mushroom Gorge, successfully startling him into flipping his kart off of mushroom safety and into the void.

“No! I was in first place! Victory was mine,” Dick laments, watching his character place last.

Damian accepts the extra controller Dick passes him.

“Your lead was pathetic if all eleven computer programs beat you,” Damian brushes aside Dick’s wounded pride like a dust bunny while he settles down next to him and selects his character. “Watch me destroy you. There shall be no question of who is champion.”

“Oh, you’re on,” Dick agrees warmly.

Mario Kart was one of the first video games Dick had coaxed Damian into playing with him, and it has remained a relaxing favourite, surrounded with good memories. They play a while, until they are interrupted by Stephanie.

“What up, losers,” she plunks herself down right in between them, forcing them to shift and reorient carefully to avoid spilling her coffee drink. “Who’s winning?”

“It is me,” Damian says smugly, just as Dick’s turtle shell blows his cart into the air. Dick’s bike rushes by to cross the finish line.

“Yes! Sorry, Damian,” Dick says with no remorse. “You were saying?”

Steph laughs as Dick gets up to do a dramatic dance. Damian throws his controller at him and Dick lets it hit him in the stomach with an oof .

“Did you just get here, Steph?” Dick asks as he sits back down, perched on the arm of the couch next to a huffing Damian. He pats Damian’s shoulder absently, a silent apology for crushing his video game ego.

“Yep,” Steph pops the ‘p’. “I was just waiting at home, so I figured I’d come and just wait here. Let the preliminary phases of Operation F.I.S.H. begin.” She salutes briefly, then picks up the croissant Dick had taken, still uneaten on the coffee table. “Is anyone eating this?”

“Go ahead,” Dick says, nervous energy curbing his appetite. Thinking about Steph sitting impatiently in her apartment counting down the seconds makes him smile. He can see his own excitement mirrored in Steph’s eyes (with none of the dread). She and Cass get along really well, and Dick knows Steph has been anticipating her return since she left.

“Did they send an ETA?” he asks, checking his phone, but nothing. Just Barbara telling them to have a good time and that she’ll talk to them on patrol tonight.

“No, I found out by tracking the flight - I think they’re trying to surprise us with what time she gets here,” Steph hypothesizes around mouthfuls of croissant.

“We are expecting their arrival. We will not be surprised,” Damian says, and Dick looks around just to make sure he didn’t jinx it, but neither Alfred nor Cass appears.

There is, however, a faint crashing sound in the distance. They all turn towards the door.

“Uh,” says Steph. “Was that your cat?”

Damian just shakes his head, a knowing look in his eye. He stands up with a mission, muttering, “Why is he always like this in the mornings, so useless…,” as he leaves the room.

Steph and Dick share a look, then follow Damian down the hallway. He stops in the front foyer, at the bottom of the grand staircase. They find Tim sitting on the ground, glaring hard at a houseplant laying sideways across the floor.

Damian has turned his muttering into a lecture. “- innocent, and has never moved, it is in the exact same spot every day, and yet you still cannot evade a simple inanimate object. And as for your situational awareness -”

“Hi Timmy!” Dick interrupts, because there is going to be a lot of family time this weekend and starting with an argument is a Bad Idea. “Ready for the best day ever?” He pauses, then amends, “Second best day ever, after the aquarium tomorrow.”

Dick decides to pick up the tree first and deal with the fallen teenager second. He rights the plant and starts scooping the dirt back into the pot with his hands.

“Nice gum tree,” Steph compliments, addressing no one in particular. She takes a sip from her cup as she sits down on the stairs.

Tim turns bleary eyes towards his fellow humans. Dick wonders how long he stayed in the Cave last night and feels guilty for not ushering him to bed more forcefully, for getting distracted from Tim once again. “Could someone please, please, start some coffee?” he pleads. “I can’t believe Alfred is gone in my time of need.”

“I’ll do you one better,” says Steph, graciously handing him her drink.

“You are so good to me,” Tim breathes, downing it all in one prolonged gulp.

“What an embarrassment. I cannot believe we have to spend the day in your company,” Damian complains, crossing his arms.

Tim wipes his mouth and sighs. “You are so mean to me.”

Dick gives in to his urge to ruffle Tim’s hair as he passes by, forgetting the dirt. Tim glares, getting to his feet. The coffee seems to be instantly energizing; what do they put in there?

“Oops sorry -  but oh hey, why the dirty look?” Dick asks, pun intended, waggling his fingers before he dusts them off.

Only Steph laughs. Damian and Tim groan in unison, then look absolutely offended at the other. 

“Is now a bad time?” asks Cass, who is suddenly there.

“Cass!” Steph cries, throwing herself off the stairs. Cass catches her in a hug.

Tim and Damian both shuffle closer to their sister, waiting for the hug to finish so they can welcome her home. Dick hangs back a moment to watch. Cass looks good, wearing exercise clothes that emphasize her powerful physique. Her face is happy with very little jetlag evident, her self-confidence having blossomed the longer she spends away from Gotham, from them. Dick thinks bitterly of Batman Incorporated stealing her away before he shoves it to the back of his mind. Not the time.

Dick spies Alfred, lurking in the doorway behind them. He is watching the reunion with a fond look in his eyes. He catches Dick’s glance and raises an eyebrow as if to ask Why are you not participating? Which is pretty hypocritical, but Dick obligingly walks over and scoops Damian and Tim along as he presses everyone into a group hug.

“Grayson!” Damian squawks, but his resistance is perfunctory. His scooting away from touching Tim is not.

“Missed you all,” Cass says warmly. They manage to stay in the embrace for three seconds before the collective tolerance is depleted and they separate.

Dick signs welcome home and love you very rapidly. Cass catches the gestures and smiles.

“It is good to see you as well, Cain,” Damian says a bit stiffly for someone who was just in a group hug.

“Welcome back, Cass,” Tim says with a grin. “Steph has been insufferable.” He ducks a swat from said Insufferable, ignoring the complaint of “I gave you coffee , you ungrateful-”.

“I am certain there is much to catch up on. If you would all be so inclined, I have prepared refreshments for the occasion,” Alfred interjects.

“Oh, I can’t, Bruce wants me to -”

“Tim, come on,” Steph drags him and Cass grabs his other hand. The three of them get on well, Dick notes, uncertain what this feeling is inside of him. He thinks he’s happy.

They all dutifully file down the hall, retreating to the room with Mario Kart still paused on the screen.

“How was the big wide world?” asks Dick as they sit down again. Tim and Steph sit on either side of Cass on one couch. He settles with Damian on the other.

“Not like Gotham,” Cass says, which can mean many things. “Much brighter. But none of you.” She looks around. “Where is Bruce?”

Alfred enters with a charcuterie board Dick had seen sitting in the fridge. “Master Bruce is on his way upstairs and should arrive momentarily.”

Alfred makes to exit the room again but Cass raises a hand at the same time Tim says “wait” and Dick says, “Alfred, stay!”

A brief pause, which Dick suspects is more about Alfred upholding his dignified image than actual deliberation. “I suppose I could remain briefly,” Alfred acquiesces his charges, and there is much cheering. Dick scooches over to make room on the couch, but Alfred sits primly on the separate bergere armchair.

“Wow Alfred, you’ve outdone yourself,” Tim comments, examining the spread of food.

“Did you carve these little cheeses yourself? They’re tiny bats!” Steph exclaims, delighted, as she passes one to Cass.

“Food carving has become a hobby of mine, one I confess is quite recent,” Alfred admits, but he accepts the praise.

“I didn’t know you were transferring your fruit carving techniques to other food items,” Dick marvels, “Where will it end?”

“Alfred has no limits,” Tim says, seriously. Cass nods solemnly in agreement and they all laugh. If Alfred were anyone else, he would probably roll his eyes.

There are the quietest footsteps before Bruce enters the room. Dick looks up. He’s dressed casually for once, and looks like he has slept a bit, the dark circles from last night reduced. Bruce searches the room for a moment before his eyes land on his daughter.

“Cass,” Bruce says, and Dick can tell that it’s real warmth in his voice. “Welcome home.”

Cass rises and gives him a hug, which he accepts readily. Dick is not jealous of their seemingly easy relationship, he knows they’ve had their own struggles and Cass literally lives on a different continent most of the time. But Dick wants a fraction of what they have. He berates himself; this is not the time to be resentful of his sister who is only here for the weekend.

He is startled from his thoughts when Bruce sits next to him on the couch. He tenses reflexively.

The placement makes sense; the other couch is full now that Cass has reclaimed her seat. Dick had moved over when he thought Alfred would sit down and has now left a place open. So it’s the most logical choice for Bruce to sit here. And Dick should be happy Bruce is sitting next to him - it’s a good sign. Their relationship is mended, they can companionably relax on a couch with their family. He knows this. Everything is wonderful.

So why is he panicking again ? He smiles at Bruce and forces himself to ease up, releasing the tension in his muscles as he leans back into the couch. The anxiety is back in the pit of his stomach, but he fights his own body. He will make himself be fine.

“Good morning,” says Dick, resting his head on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce shifts and pats him awkwardly on the back. Dick feels weirdly like he needs to puke. He sits up straight again, but not too quickly, it needs to seem natural.

Bruce regards him carefully. “Are you feeling more …together?”

Dick is mortified that Bruce is asking him this in front of everyone. But he grits his teeth to keep the smile on his face and forces out, “You bet.” Bruce just nods.

He catches Tim watching with a frown, but before he can make eye contact Tim looks away. Meanwhile Damian has shifted closer to Dick, and he is happy to lean in Damian’s direction. He smiles at Cass, who tilts her head, assessing.

As the dreary weather continues outside, they talk and eat and enjoy each other’s company in the cozy living room. Dick finds he can eat very little, knowing what he’s going to have to do tonight, but he pretends with little bites of small foods. (And he’ll look better, won’t he, if he isn’t bloated for the mission; really he shouldn’t be drinking much either.) He compensates by talking more, asking each of his siblings question after question about their lives, trying not to come across as too desperate for details about them. They’re all usually either closed off or far away, and he needs to interrogate them while their guard is down.

When lunch is over, Alfred excuses himself but leaves the remaining food out for snacking. Bruce tries to follow, but Dick makes himself reach a hand out to stop him. “Play games with us, Bruce. Just for a bit.”

“I don’t have time -,” he starts, but Cass interrupts him.

“Please stay,” she says. And Bruce sits down again. Dick is in control this time, no tension visible as Bruce moves closer to him. He is not intimidated.

“I have the perfect game for you, Cass, you’re going to love it,” Dick says with a grin, thinking of the Titan’s party as he grabs the remote.

He flips through the Wii to find Just Dance. Cass reads the title and her eyes light up as Steph whoops. Bruce groans. “Really, Dick.”

“What is this nonsense, Richard?” Damian asks suspiciously, but Dick just squeezes his shoulder.

Steph and Cass go first, and just as Dick predicted Cass is a natural. When they finish, it is discovered that Tim has actually fallen asleep at some point, and he is immediately designated as the next contestant for his punishment. 

“We’re playing what?” he asks, groggy, as he is handed the remote.

“Here Dick, show him how it’s done,” Steph tosses the other remote and Dick catches it.

“I think she meant this for you,” he says, passing it to Bruce who takes it automatically before looking betrayed by his own hands. Dick laughs, pushing Bruce up.

Just as Bruce and Tim get into position and start “Eye of The Tiger”, Jason appears in the doorway. Dick is surprised but hopeful - he had figured Jason would show up at the last possible moment before dinner started. This is promising, Jason choosing to come early enough that he has to know they will still be doing casual family things. 

Jason is hidden from most of the residents of the room, but Dick has a good view of him. He is just finishing a cookie, which means he stopped in to see Alfred on his way. And he’s wearing what appears to be a cardigan under his leather jacket, which just captures the aesthetic of “inner nerd” so perfectly Dick wants to grin.

Jason scans the room quickly, eyes settling on Dick for a minute pause before moving on to size up the rest of the situation, taking in Bruce and Tim playing Just Dance. A smirk takes over. Dick thinks he is going to interrupt, but instead Jason pulls out his phone and starts a video. 

“Well isn’t this just the sweetest,” Jason drawls, a full minute later. Bruce and Tim both whip around, looking so caught that Dick almost falls off the couch laughing and Damian has to hold him up.

“Priceless,” Steph gasps, between laughs. She holds up a hand for a high five.

“What the hell, Jason, don’t film us you traitor,” Tim hisses, panicked. Bruce just has the same stunned look he always gets when he sees Jason without his cowl to hide behind. Jason doesn’t even look at Bruce.

“You’re just embarrassed because you were doing so poorly,” Jason retorts as he puts his phone away and strolls in. He debates for a second, then high fives Steph.

“Do you think you can perform better?” Damian challenges him from the safety of the couch he has not yet left. 

Jason smiles wickedly, always at his best when it’s a competition. “I know I can. Watch and learn. Come on, brat.” He beckons to Tim for his controller.

Dick watches Jason subtly track Bruce as he passes Damian the remote and retreats to sit back down next to Dick. Jason’s eyes tighten slightly, looking between them, but then he is accepting the controller from Tim and starting the next song.

Jason and Damian face off in the most aggressive Just Dance match that Dick has ever witnessed. And yet, it’s fun to egg them on when it’s not a real battle and he doesn’t have to mediate to prevent disastrous fallout. Damian has never played Just Dance, but he has always been a fast learner, Dick thinks proudly. And he is becoming a better sport, as evidenced by his lack of physical aggression when Jason beats his score. Cass smugly collects money from Steph and Tim, who have all wasted no time in turning the competition into an opportunity for monetary gain.

The harmony is interrupted by Bruce, who has looked on edge ever since Jason showed up. He stands abruptly. “I should get going.”

His retreat is expected; Dick has been counting and barring the marshmallow night, this is the longest Bruce and Jason have remained in the same room as civilians since Bruce returned. But Dick is a little disappointed - Jason has been ignoring Bruce since he walked into the room, and if Bruce had remained silent maybe they could have reached an even longer record. He knows Bruce is happy Jason is present, they’re just so. Awkward. With each other.

Jason is pretending to be very invested in the score stats, but Dick can tell he is watching Bruce out of the corner of his eye, jaw clenched. He is going to take this personally. There’s nothing Dick can do to make Bruce stay that won’t aggravate both of them.

“See you at dinner!” Dick calls instead, waving Bruce out. He turns back and Jason is staring at him, hard. What? Dick wants to ask, feeling defensive. Jason’s problems with Bruce are not his. But he will take this opportunity to keep Jason playing. He stands and approaches. “My turn, Jay,” he says with a grin. “Think you can best me?”

“With ease,” Jason scoffs, and the sibling bonding continues. In some ways, it’s easier with Bruce gone. Jason seems to relax now that the main object of his ire is no longer in direct line of sight, casting fewer suspicious glances around the room, even at Dick, who privately considers himself the second biggest thorn in Jason’s side. A bit guiltily, Dick finds himself loosen up and laugh more often as well, carefree. Everyone else must feel something similar because the conversation flows easier.

They grow tired of Just Dance soon and move on to board games. Steph suggests Clue since the irony of the detective element is apparently “too good to pass up”. Dick feels déjà vu for Wally’s reasoning behind playing Mafia. Hopefully Clue with his family ends a little more positively.

“Listen up everyone! We are in a murder mystery in an old creepy manor, while sitting in an old manor. May the best detective win,” Steph advertises through a megaphone. Dick does a double take. Where did she get that?

“Where the hell did the bullhorn come from? Don’t tell me you brought that just to announce board games?” Jason asks, mystified but admiring.

“She has one with her for emergencies,” Tim explains. Steph looks proud.

“That’s more extra than Goldie,” Jason shakes his head.

“Why me? I’ve literally just sat here quietly,” Dick defends himself indignantly as he sets up the game with Cass. 

Jason just gives him a peeved look like he can’t believe Dick has the audacity to believe he deserves an armistice, but then he helps position pieces. 

“Here Dickie, you can be Miss Scarlett.” Jason passes him the sultry character.

“Gee, thanks,” Dick says sarcastically, ignoring the clenching in his stomach at what Jason may be implying. “Method acting for tonight.”

Tim frowns at him, but Dick avoids eye contact by focusing on his little crimson figurine. Jason is likely taken aback by Dick’s words and he must catch Tim’s look too because he asks, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Whenever Jason is uncertain, his voice defaults a little colder, a little more like how he sounded when he was fresh from the pit. It may be unintentional, but it makes everyone still at the subconscious reminder of a threat.

“I’m undercover tonight,” Dick admits, extremely vague. He does not want to get into this right now. “Fun stuff.”

He looks up to see everyone’s eyes on him. Steph has lowered the megaphone in surprise.

“Why?” Cass asks.

“For human trafficking? That’s such shit,” Jason says, looking closely at Dick’s figurine like it has some explanation. Like Jason didn’t literally hand it to Dick himself.

“Yeah, I know, but can we just talk about it tonight?” Dick says, really wanting to move on. “Anyway, you’re right, this will be great practice. This game is so vigilante.”

“Is this ‘Clue’ like training?” Damian thankfully interjects, brows drawn together. Well, that’s one way to get him to play. The other way is -

“Yes,” Steph whispers seriously, graciously switching topics. The words come out crackly through the megaphone. “And there will be prizes for winning. It’s a competition.” There we go. Damian’s eyes light up.

“What are you offering me when I win?” Jason asks, the other aggressively competitive person in this family. “Free manicure?” he examines his nails, ignoring Damian’s sneering “ If you win”.

“Winner picks the next game,” Steph decides. Tim makes a noise of disagreement.

“That’s lame!” Jason protests immediately. “And what about all the losers? Losers should suffer.”

Oh dear. Dick hopes not. He wants one weekend with no hurt feelings, please. “I don’t think punishment is necessary here, Jay.”

“Well, if Jason wins he can have the manicure too,” Steph amends. “And the losers have to play whatever game the winner picks, so that can be its own kind of suffering.”

“So tame,” Jason grumbles, but he’s already choosing his Clue character.

This is all so surreal, playing Just Dance and now Clue with his family. Dick feels like he woke up in another world. This has literally never happened before.  

But, there’s a strange undercurrent through everything, and he notices it now as they begin the boardgame. There is gentle bickering, nothing major. Maybe that’s it - they are all so good at finding each other’s bruises and pressing, but right now? Everyone is being so careful, and all their arguments are superficial. Everything that’s not being said is its own silent buzz. It’s creating a tension that seems to be growing, but Dick doesn’t know how to diffuse what he can’t see.

“A confusing move by Miss Scarlet, who is retracing her steps. Care to comment on what’s going through your head right now?” Steph announces a while later through the megaphone as Dick plops his character into the dining room. The game has dragged on for over an hour, and the end is in sight.

“No comments for the press,” Dick says, flashing a media smile with a wink.

“Hey, get out of here, the dining room is mine now,” says Jason, waving a hand to shoe Dick away as he leads his Colonel Mustard into the dining room as well.

“Your fight is with me, Todd,” Damian says, gesturing to his Mrs. Peacock. “Victory is within my reach.”

“That’s what you think,” Jason says, a gleam in his eye that he gets when he thinks he’s ahead. “Hurry up Replacement, I need to show the brat who’s the cluemaster.”

“What about me? Doesn’t anyone think I have a chance?” Tim demands. His Professor Plum is in the conservatory looking lost.

“You are okay,” Cass says, patting him on the shoulder as she moves Mrs. White to join him.

Steph moves Mr. Green into the hall and Dick takes his turn but it doesn’t matter because Jason is next, moving fast, and he shoots his hand out to flip over his solution card.

“Ha! Take that,” Jason says triumphantly. “And I’ll take a raincheck on the manicure. You all are slacking in your detective skills. It was Miss Scarlett with the candlestick in the conservatory. ”

Tim winces. “Ooh, nasty.”

“We have a winner,” Steph announces redundantly through the megaphone. She flicks a button and it turns on a siren, which lasts for ten seconds before Tim breaks and tackles her to silence it. Cass grabs the megaphone in the confusion.

“I was so close,” Dick laments, looking forlornly at his unchecked box in his solution card.

“Yeah you almost got away with murder, wouldn’t that be a shame in this family,” Jason says a bit sarcastically. It is momentarily uncomfortable before everyone chooses to take it as a light joke. Dick privately does not think about any other times where he has sort of almost gotten away with murder.

(No wonder Bruce thinks he’s the unstable one.)

“Miss Scarlett should have contracted help from a friend, clearly she’s an amateur,” Damian says consideringly, eyeing his own playing piece like he’s disappointed in it for not aiding Dick’s character with the murder.

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” Dick agrees. He starts cleaning up the game.

“Yeah, next time Deathstroke’s in Bludhaven,” Tim mutters, then freezes like he immediately regrets the words. Dick looks at him in horror, dropping the figurine he’d picked up, but it’s too late.

(Or maybe it’s his own reaction that stops the comment from being overlooked. Stupid, Grayson.)

“What the fuck?” Jason asks. Everyone else also looks confused.

“Isn’t that the mercenary assassin guy? Why would he be in Bludhaven?” Steph asks, curious, and Cass nods.

“Why?” Cass repeats through the megaphone for emphasis.

Tim looks at Dick, who tries to communicate ‘ drop it’ with his expression.

“Ah, nothing, no reason,” Tim says quickly, convincing nobody. Dick wants to groan. Tim may be a genius, but he has always struggled to deflect social tension under pressure.

“Really? Deathstroke’s on the radar?” Jason says, sounding almost angry. He looks at Dick, who remains silent. “Uh huh, right. Okay, so this is how it’s going to be.” He beckons at Cass for the megaphone. She looks at him, a bit mistrustful, but hands it over.

“As the winner, I declare our next game Truth or Dare,” Jason says loudly. Dick winces. “Let’s play now. Truth or dare, Goldie?”

“Come on, Jason,” Dick says. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Truth. Or. Dare,” Jason repeats, tone icy again even through the megaphone. His knuckles are white where they grip the plastic. He’s a little terrifying, but no one addresses it or tells him off because Dick knows them, knows that right now they all want to hear this just as badly as Jason does. If it takes children’s games and Jason’s complete disregard of his feelings to find out Dick’s secrets, they will stoop. It’s the younger sibling in them. Or maybe just the shadow of the Bat.

And besides, this is Jason. He’s allowed to be volatile, and everyone else is expected to dance around his sharp edges. It’s your own fault if you get cut.

Dick closes his eyes. Why is this happening? “Dare.”

“Fine. I dare you to tell us what’s going on with Deathstroke,” Jason sits back, waiting. Everyone is waiting, watching.

“That’s not even a dare!” Dick protests feebly.

“Answer the fucking question,” Jason says with an intensity Dick doesn’t understand.

“What’s going on, Richard?” Damian asks. He looks worried on Dick’s behalf, which always makes Dick feel like a bad pare- brother. A bad brother.

Dick squeezes his hands in frustration, resisting the urge to grab his wrists. “This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. Guys, nothing is going on. Slade had a contract in Bludhaven this week and we ran into each other. That’s it. Tim was just making a joke.”

“Really.” Jason turns to interrogate Tim. “Replacement, is that the truth?”

“Hey slow down, it’s my turn to ask the questions now,” says Dick. He sticks a hand out. “Pass the megaphone.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” says Jason, leaning back. “I’m the Clue-master here. And I’m sick of your bullshit. We need someone to confirm your truth.”

“It was a dare,” Dick grumbles, exasperated.

Tim grimaces. He looks torn between letting Dick tell his own secrets and the notion Tim has gotten lately that Dick needs Help. “Well,” he begins slowly, sounding apologetic, “you said he showed up at your apartment to ...” Hesitance. “Stop by? And…” Tim trails off, uncertain.

Dick hopes Tim can read the ‘traitor’ in his expression loud and clear.

“He what?” Damian is outraged.

“Holy shit,” Steph says, mouth open, a bat-shaped cheese paused halfway to her mouth. Cass is watching everyone silently. Dick does not have time to read her.

“Okay, we’re getting somewhere, even if that somewhere is Crazytown. Now, elaborate,” says Jason. He twirls the megaphone and sighs to himself, “I always need to clean up the messes myself, fuck.”

Dick bristles at that, as if Jason is the one doing everything he can to hold this family together. “This is not your problem. I am not discussing this with you.”

“You don’t handle father figures very well, you should be grateful for my help - now you don’t have to pay for a therapist,” Jason shoots back.

“Harsh,” Steph comments, but she still looks morbidly interested.

Dick glares at his brother. Jason always knows how to rile him up; it’s a lot like talking to Roy. “What does it matter to you anyway? Nothing happened. We spoke, he basically called me an idiot,” - Jason snorts -, “and then he left. The end.” Dick’s finger throbs. “Now, it’s my turn. Truth or dare, Jason?”

“Dare,” he replies, glaring back. Well, Dick is so done with tiptoeing around Jason’s flames.

“I dare you to tell Bruce you love him,” Dick challenges, vicious. You. Sanctimonious. Prick.  

It’s a successful subject change.

Everyone else in the room stops breathing.

Dick has taken a knife and torn the veil separating them from the tension they’ve been carefully sidestepping all afternoon, and now it’s threatening to crush them. Dick knows he’s being mean, striking Jason where it hurts the most and all in a childish game, but he needs to keep his own vulnerabilities protected. He learned long ago from Bruce that sometimes your best protection is to lash out quickly and brutally.

Jason looks thrown. “What the hell? That’s one manipulative dare, Dickhead. You sure you haven’t been flirting with villains lately?”

“What’s stopping you? It’s just words,” Dick counters, cruel. He feels a sick pleasure at pushing Jason’s boundaries, the way he used to push Bruce’s.

Something hard settles in Jason’s expression. “Unbelievable. And everyone thinks you’re the nice one. You think you’re the nice one, don’t you? Think again, asshole. Fuck you, and fuck this family. I’m out,” Jason says through the megaphone, before he twists and throws it violently at the window. As the glass shatters, he heaves himself up and stalks towards the door.

The sight of Jason’s retreating back shakes Dick back to himself and guilt sets in immediately. What has he done, what has he done? Jason showed up, played games, and made an effort to bond, then Dick punished him for it.

If Jason leaves now, it’s Dick’s fault. Bruce will be so. Mad.

“Shit,” Dick says under his breath before he launches himself up and runs after him. “Jason, wait!”

“Well that went well,” Dick can hear Steph say behind him.

“Richard? Wait - unhand me Drake!”

“Damian, stop,” That’s Tim. Dick should probably check that they haven’t started a fistfight, but he’s focused on following the faint cigarette smell down the hall and out the door.

He catches up to Jason on the doorstep, rain pouring and masking his steps. He reaches out to grab Jason’s sleeve and counts it a small miracle when he’s not shaken off immediately. “Jay, please, wait. I’m sorry.”

Jason wipes rainwater out of his eyes, squinting. Dick shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny but doesn’t let go. Can’t let go, or Jason might keep walking away. Jason’s posture is still rigid with anger. “Ten seconds, Goldie.”

“You’re right, I’m an asshole,” Dick begins, letting the words spill out in a desperate flood. He needs to fix this, he needs Jason to not leave. “I shouldn’t have said that, it was uncalled for and I’m sorry.” It may have been a little called for, the way Dick was getting picked on, but Dick needs to take a side and he chooses Jason’s over his own. “I keep trying to meddle with your life and I should stop.”

“And?” Jason prompts, his gaze still assessing.

“And you’re right, I’m an idiot about Bruce.” The words feel right.

Jason tilts his head to the side. “I never said anything about Bruce.”

Oh. Dick is thinking of someone else. “I mean about Slade. But really, everything is fine.”

Jason raises an eyebrow, silent for a moment. Dick holds his breath.

Then Jason sighs. “We are not done talking about this, and I’m not promising to stay,” he warns. “But let’s get back inside, I can’t think over this damn rain. And get the hell off me.” 

Dick’s heart leaps and he releases his death grip on Jason’s sleeve, relief flooding him as Jason steps back into the manor and closes the door behind them.

They go to the library. Dick isn’t surprised - it was always Jason’s favourite. He would want to feel in control for this conversation, and a familiar setting builds security. They sit awkwardly in plush armchairs, dripping water onto the floor. Dick feels a bit bad for ditching their other siblings, but he needs to fix this first. The rain beats against the library windows, and Dick tries to ignore it.

“So,” Jason says. “I talked to Roy.”

Dick’s entire body tenses immediately. 

“Oh relax, I’m not going to kick your ass,” Jason says, noticing his stiffness. “Even if you deserve it. Listen. I don’t know what you’ve done in the past, whatever happened to you and Kory,” -and it’s always Dick’s fault isn’t it?- “Or everything that’s going on between you and Roy now, but he’s pissed. So yes, I’m mad at you. But I’ve come to the realization that you’ve got some problems, and I’m feeling fucking altruistic.”

Dick could feel almost fond, if the situation was a little different. Jason always had been better at dealing with other people’s trauma than his own. It makes sense that in response to Dick needling him about his vulnerabilities he reacts by aggressively addressing Dick’s own. It’s just so Jason . That doesn’t stop it from feeling extremely invasive.

“What does Roy say?” Dick asks tiredly, a question he has wondered for literal years, but the agonizing suspense has dragged on too long to hold its proper weight.

“Roy says you’re an idiot about Bruce,” Jason’s voice is flat. “That you’re brainwashed and can’t tell who your friends are or who’s trying to help you. And after everything I’ve seen, I’m inclined to agree with him.” The look Jason gives him is clearly intended to be significant. Dick wants to roll his eyes. “Nice shiner you gave him by the way, matched yours from Bruce so nicely.”

“Roy was not helping,” Dick growls. Roy was too busy verbally eviscerating him and his entire family.

“Oh cut him some slack, Goldie, we can’t all devote our lives to sucking up to people,” Jason says dismissively. “And pot, kettle. I mean, taking out your anger on your friends? Attacking them? I always knew your self-righteous act was bullshit.” Jason is shaking his head, and Dick feels a sort of helpless frustration mix in with his guilt.

Because Jason is supposed to be better these days, and therefore Dick is supposed to have moved on , but seriously: taking out his anger, attacking people, does Jason hear himself right now?

Apparently not, as he continues on in the same tone, “And, look, Roy’s been through a lot. It’s hard for him to talk about this kind of thing. Hits close to home.” 

Dick doesn’t need Jason to tell him this. Dick was actually there. Roy was someone he’d watched grow up, who had watched him grow up, through every tough family struggle and confusing teenage phase. They had been teammates and friends, good friends, until suddenly they weren’t anymore. No, the moment everything changed, when it was Dick who needed him, he-

(Stop. Stop. Not helping, Grayson.)

He switches focus. “Everyone has their own idea about what’s going on,” and they hardly seem to need or want Dick’s opinion, “But they’re all years behind. So Bruce and I fought a lot publicly when I was a teenager - so what? Why does everyone keep bringing it up? It’s not how it is anymore, we’re much better now.”

“‘You fought a lot’? You mean he dragged you home kicking and screaming,” Jason throws back, derisive. “It’s like you didn’t even want to be his Robin. No wonder I -”

“Robin wasn’t his! ” Dick tries not to yell. It was mine, he wants to say. Instead, he calms his breathing. “And when you keep getting sent away, it’s harder to want to return, so excuse me for being a bit resistant.”

“Ah, so he did kick you out,” Jason seizes on this, contemplative, and had he really not known? Dick always assumed it was obvious, that whatever reasons Bruce didn’t want him anymore had been clear to everyone else too. That it was just Dick left in the dark. “I didn’t think so growing up, but you know, this all explains so, so much about how awful you always were to me.” 

Well that hurts, because Dick remembers making a huge effort to reach out to Jason when they were younger and receiving an endless supply of defensive sarcasm and vitriol in return. At least, once Dick got over the complicated betrayal, hurt, and anger at being replaced.

Leave it to Jason to frame Dick’s personal problems in reference to how they made Jason feel.

“You were awful to me too,” Dick points out. “But anyway, that was so long ago, we’re past this now.” He leaves ‘this’ open-ended - it could refer to Jason and Dick, and it could refer to Dick and Bruce.

“Yeah, I’m going to give that a hard no,” Jason shoots down Dick’s opinions like he’s a toddler who doesn’t understand his own circumstances. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this so-called family you’re clinging so hard to? It’s got a shit-ton of holes in it. And you and Bruce keep punching those holes, because neither of you will ever change.” His tone is exasperated, and seriously? Seriously? People punching holes in their family? “And it was okay for a bit because your weird drama was contained, but now there’s the Demon Brat.”

“Don’t call him that,” Dick says automatically. “And none of this is Damian’s fault.”

Jason snorts. “For fuck’s sake, you’re so predictable. I’m not saying it’s demon-baby’s fault. But if we can’t fix you and Bruce, everything’s going to fall apart real fast. It already is.” Jason looks thoughtful. Dick has never heard him sound so condescending. “I guess it’s not wholly your fault either, not when you’ve been conditioned for this since you were, what, nine?”

“Fuck you,” Dick says, no longer trying to calm Jason down, not when Jason is implying that Robin, Nightwing, his entire life, has all been a part of some brainwashing scheme. “I haven’t been conditioned for anything! I know you’ve probably heard from the Titans that Bruce was terrible before -” 

“You bet I’ve heard, but I also had eyes, Dickhead-”

“- and he was definitely more physical,” Dick plows through Jason’s interjection, “but it wasn’t abusive! We’re vigilantes, violence is part of the job description, part of our lives. And now I’m an adult, so however we interact is my own choice.”

“Do not try to tell me what’s abuse,” Jason’s eyes flash dangerously, his difficult childhood clear in the set of his jaw, in the heated glare. Dick’s stomach plummets and he’s looking for green green green . But then Jason sighs. “It’s so hard to talk to you like this, you don't even know what you’re defending. I think I need to have a little chat with Bruce.”

And Jason turns slightly, as though to get up, as though he will go to Bruce right now, and Dick’s stomach turns because as if that would solve anything, as if Jason talking to Bruce about Dick’s callow grievances won’t make everything so much worse.  

“ No!” Dick yells, startling himself as much as Jason, who flinches. He automatically reaches out to comfort him, then lets his hand drop when he remembers the gesture won’t be appreciated. “Don’t. Please don’t talk to Bruce about this.” Dick sighs, puts his head in his hands even though he knows it makes him look weak. Sometimes Jason is surprisingly conscientious of perceived fragility. Dick is still angry, but he’s so tired. “Look, I know you don’t like me. I know it’s hard for you to be here, I get it. But just, please. One weekend. Please, just one weekend where we can at least pretend to be a fucking family.”

“I don’t-,” Jason starts, surprised, then stops. He takes a deep breath, then blows it out. “There. See? Predictable.” He mutters almost to himself, “Why didn’t I see it before?”

Dick looks up, taken aback. “What?”

“Why’d you run after me?” Jason probes.

Dick blinks. “Uh. To apologize?” Then he winces because obviously he is failing that hard.

“Why would you even apologize? I called you an idiot and implied you were maybe more than buddies with Deathstroke,” Jason reminds him. Dick fights against another wince because ew.

“Just because you were being a jerk doesn’t mean I had to be,” Dick says, the words he knows he is supposed to say. They taste a bit bland, but he means them. “And I didn’t want you to leave because of me.” 

“There it is,” Jason says, folding his arms. “See, I knew you would come after me. You had to.”

“Excuse me?” Dick says, confused. “You literally just told me I’m not a nice guy -”

Jason waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah, I said a lot of things, most of them are true. And I meant them. I was mad. But you were mad too. And yet as soon as I threatened to leave, you dropped everything to beg me to stay. What, couldn’t face Bruce if I dipped?”

Jason’s tone is casual, but his eyes are so focused that Dick takes a second to think about his answer, knowing it will be picked apart.

Even picturing how Bruce would react if Jason left gives Dick a bit of anxiety. He pushes it away. “Yeah, it would hurt Bruce if you left,” he begins, choosing his words carefully. “He doesn’t show it, but he’s really glad you’re here. Having everyone there tonight is important to him. I didn’t want to mess that up.”

But then it occurs to him, another part of why Jason might not want to stick around, and he feels cold. Tim’s words from yesterday are in his mind, and Jason is so distant with Bruce since his resurrection but before that, well. Dick wasn’t home very often. He has to know, though, needs to know, even if it feels harder, somehow, than with Damian or Tim. What exactly is he asking Jason to do by staying? “Jason,” he begins, stops. Starts again, and tries to keep the intensity out of his voice, hoping it is steadier than it feels, “Did Bruce ever...”

And Jason, with a directness Dick is endlessly grateful for, rescues him. “No,” he says, and Dick can breathe. “Never. Not like...” he trails off, and he is looking at Dick intently, but maybe he isn’t really seeing him. His eyes are narrowed, though it looks more calculative than upset.

Dick has probably brought up memories of Jason’s shitty childhood. Idiot.

Jason breaks through his mental beration with a low whistle. “Replacement really wasn’t exaggerating,” he mutters, eyes on the ceiling, and hold on, what? But then he is focused on Dick again. “And you weren’t scared of the Bat’s wrath if I jumped ship and it was your fault?” he presses, tone a little dubious for Dick’s liking.

Dick feels extremely psychoanalyzed. “You and Tim have this idea, and it’s wrong. Bruce would be mad at me if I picked a fight with you, but I’m not in danger or anything.” Not anymore, not if Jason stays. Not if Dick plays by the rules. 

(First Tim, now Jason, can everyone stop trying to save him? He’s fine. )

Jason regards him silently for a moment with disbelieving eyes. Then he shakes his head. “Damn, Dickie, what wouldn’t you do for Bruce?”

The truth is, Dick doesn’t know. But he’s pretty sure he’d do anything.

He rolls his eyes. “Sorry for being a people pleaser,” he says sarcastically. And he needs to make sure, “But ...you will stay, right? Please, Jay. This weekend is important.”

Jason regards him with exasperation. “Yes, alright? I’m fucking staying. But I reserve the right to change my decision at any time with prejudice.”

Dick feels a rush of relief and gratitude. “Thank you,” he breathes out.

Jason must be able to sense how much this means to Dick because he looks almost embarrassed. “Whatever. Let’s get back, your rain-soaked ass is making a mess of Alfred’s favourite chair.”

Jason gets up and stretches, and Dick follows. He is carefully not going to address how Alfred has a favourite chair and Jason knows which one it is.

“I’m making a mess? Who’s the one that threw a megaphone out the window?” Dick challenges, and then stops suddenly in the middle of the room because he forgot they just left their siblings alone after literally shattering a window.

Bruce might be mad. 

Dick is Not going to think about that.

Jason doesn’t seem bothered, not slowing his pace. “That window was old and needed replacing anyway. Bruce is rich, he should thank me for the opportunity to shed some money.” He glances back at Dick from the door. “Come on, slowpoke, I bet the brat’s going out of his mind thinking I murdered you.”

Dick keeps himself from commenting on certain murderous people out of their minds. They return to the living room without any further fighting, mostly by remaining silent.

Steph, Cass, Tim, and Damian are gathered around a board game. Their faces and postures are all a little strained for recreation, and Dick mentally prepares himself to have to intervene, praying casualties will be few. But they all look up when Jason and Dick enter, and it’s like a switch is thrown, tension melting away. Cass waves, but her expression is appraising. Tim and Jason have a strange staring contest. Dick can never figure out where those two stand with each other.

“Hey emos,” Steph greets, breaking the silence. “Done emoting?”

Jason flips her off as he saunters over to the couch. “Temporary ceasefire, in the spirit of Thanksgiving.”

Damian keeps his eyes on Dick, who tries to smile reassuringly as he comes to sit next to him.

Dick glances at the broken window. The glass and debris are already cleared and a drape has been taped across the opening. The guilt is a little heavier. “Thanks for dealing with the window, guys.”

“We hardly dealt with it,” Tim waves away the praise. “And Mr. Anger over there can explain it to Alfred.”

“Easy, I’m his favourite,” Jason says self-righteously.

“No,” Cass says, and Jason shoots her a wounded look. She tosses her hair dramatically, and Dick smiles at her joking behaviour.

It’s a frequent playful competition they have amongst themselves, claiming Alfred’s favouritism while the stoic butler denies partiality of any sort. But Dick has his suspicions. He has known Alfred for a long time, and he is pretty certain Alfred’s favourite is Bruce. It’s expected really, the unconditional love that comes from being a pseudo-parent; Dick would know. There’s proof of it, in the careful guidance of his charge that Alfred has devoted his life to. The Fettuccine Alfredo Incident of last night is fresh in his mind, one of the tamer moves Alfred has made in his crusade for Bruce’s personal growth. But even so, Dick never likes putting Alfred in a position at odds with Bruce - so afraid to test Bruce’s limits these days - so he’s glad most of their arguments are private. 

The lighthearted disagreement has continued. Tim is saying, “If anyone is Alfred’s favourite, it’s me, because that new coffee maker is definitely directed at someone, not saying who.”

This is met with many objections.

“I’m the favourite because I’m low maintenance,” argues Steph. “He’s sick of dealing with all of you drama queens.”

“Cass is low maintenance,” Dick points out. “And what about Damian? He’s the smallest, so he’s the cutest, that’s a natural edge.”

“Oh look, Dick’s simping for Damian again,” Tim drawls, and the others laugh over Dick’s protests and Damian’s embarrassed grumbling.

“Oh, fuck no, have you no taste? Why are you playing this?” Jason says, looking at the board game.

Upon closer inspection, it appears they are playing the Game of Life. Little families are piled into plastic cars on a colourful road of milestones.

“Why are there more cars than players?” Dick asks, interested.

“Tim had too many babies so he needed an extra vehicle to hold them all,” Steph explains with relish.

“Tim is fertile,” Cass agrees solemnly.

Jason makes a surprised choking sound that turns out to be a laugh, and Dick can’t help but grin.

“Why would you say it like that,” Tim groans. “At least I’m not living in the RV.”

“Your quaint housing is inferior to my mansion,” Damian goads. Dick looks down at his career. Doctor, huh. He privately thinks Damian would make a great vet.

“Did you name your family?” Dick asks excitedly.

“Of course not, they are pieces of plastic,” Damian says, stiff.

“What?” Steph cries. “Unacceptable. Here, I’ll name them for you. That one is Stephanie -”

“Stop, Brown, they are mine!” Damian says possessively. “Name your own.”

“Oh, I have,” Steph says, smug. “Look, it’s Steph’s Crazy Bus, featuring all of you guys! Jason and Tim are twins.”

“We’re fraternal,” Tim interjects, glancing sideways at Jason as if sizing him up.

“Please, remove my piece of plastic from the bus,” Jason requests, deadpan.

The squabbling is gentle and the game progresses. Dick finds that the rest of the afternoon is surprisingly pleasant, everyone trying very hard not to fight. Delicious scents eventually waft into the room from the direction of the kitchen. Alfred appears in the doorway and everyone goes quiet as he regards the broken window.

“I see we’ll be needing repairs,” he says disapprovingly. He looks at each one of them in turn, and everyone looks away guiltily.

“Sorry, Alfred,” Jason says, and Dick looks at him, surprised by his serious tone. But if there is one person Jason doesn’t like to disappoint, it is this man.

(Jason is maybe a little bit Alfred’s favourite, too.)

Alfred nods to him. “I shall take care of it, Master Jason.” He gestures to the doorway. “Shall we congregate in the dining room for dinner? Master Bruce need not be informed of this room’s recent draftiness.”

Alfred is the best. They clean up the game and exit the room. Alfred closes the door behind them.

Walking to the dining room, Dick feels a tug on his arm as Cass pulls him to hang back. He slows to a stop and leans against the corridor wall, turning to regard his sister with a raised eyebrow. “Hey Cass, what’s up?”

Her eyes are solemn, her head cocked attentively. “Are you sick?” she questions.

Dick blinks. “I - no, I’m fine,” he says, smiling. “Why?”

She frowns. “You look,” she observes, then pauses, brow furrowing. “Sick.” Frustration, like that’s not what she meant but can’t find the right words. Dick is apprehensive of the concern in her voice. Her gaze travels over him, assessing, lingering at his jaw, catching on his left hand. Seriously? He took the tape off for a reason.

She reaches out to touch his hand and Dick shies away. “Nope, just tired,” he insists. She looks unimpressed, so he smiles a little harder. “Glad you’re back. When this case is over, I think we’ll all feel a bit better.” There, a better truth. Cass likes those. Dick slides away. “Come on, let's not keep them waiting.”

And he darts ahead without looking back. He catches up with everyone at the doorway to the dining room, relieved by the distance he has put between himself and Cass’ disappointed eyes.

Chapter Text

"I have never understood where the line is drawn, between sacrifice and self-slaughter." ~ Hilary Mantel, Wolf Hall

Safety and Danger

As usual, Alfred has gone ahead and prepared an absolute feast for Thanksgiving. Dick pauses to admire the spread on the dining table.

“You've outdone yourself again,” Dick says, reaching out to squeeze Alfred’s arm. Alfred smiles at him tolerantly and pats his hand before ushering him into a chair. Damian slips in next to him and Dick tries not to beam too brightly.

“Nice going, Alfredo,” Steph compliments, plopping herself down before a heaping bowl of delicately whipped potatoes. Tim gapes at her, clearly mouthing ‘Alfredo?’

Alfred just inclines his head graciously. “Thank you, Miss Stephanie. Now, if you will excuse me, I shall go and fetch Master Bruce.”

“You can’t call him Alfredo, it’s disrespectful,” says Jason, appalled, the minute Alfred is gone. He is only concerned about manners when Alfred is involved.

“I think he secretly likes it,” Steph insists. She looks at Cass. “Right, Cass?”

Cass shrugs. “He likes you,” she explains, and Steph makes an ‘ah’ noise.

When Bruce arrives, there’s a slight awkwardness in the air wafting from whatever invisible stench is hanging between Jason and Bruce. Everyone ignores it beautifully, well-practiced in talking around uncomfortable things.

As is customary on special occasions, Alfred allows himself to be manipulated into sitting down to eat with everyone. He sits next to Jason, who had purposefully left a spot empty between himself and Damian. It is far away from Bruce, who sits between Tim and Cass, but it’s still amazing that they are all at the same table. The meal begins.

Dick can’t help noticing that Bruce is in a good mood. They all are, really, but it’s especially important to Dick after the week he has had that Bruce is happy. Bruce doesn’t even seem to mind when Steph picks on him for his tie.

“It’s a special occasion, it’s normal to dress up,” Bruce tries to defend himself.

“Maybe, but that tie has seen better days,” Steph points out. It’s true, Dick knows that the tie is frayed and old; he gave it to Bruce as a present on his one year anniversary of staying at the manor. Is Bruce trying to say something by wearing it now? Dick finds he is annoyed at himself for being endeared. It’s just a tie.

“You shouldn’t be calling people out on their outfits, Blondie, that vest is a traffic violation,” Jason observes around his green beans.

“Says the guy in a cardigan,” Steph waves her fork. “Which don’t get me wrong, is very cute.”

“Excuse you, my clothes are fucking delightful, this cardigan is brand spanking new,” Jason boasts.

Tim chokes on his water. “Why would you emphasize spanking?” he questions between coughs, scandalized. 

Steph gasps like Tim said a bad word. “Tim, you just emphasized spanking!”

“Oh dear,” Dick throws a hand over his heart, the other fanning his face, “my delicate sensibilities!”

Cass covers her mouth, faux politely, as Tim splutters objections. 

“Dickiebird, you of all people wouldn’t have your sensibilities offended,” Jason snorts, which is rude, but. Dick sees Bruce smirk out of the corner of his eye at their shenanigans, and it feels like the biggest win of the day. Worth any minor discomfort; Dick is not going to be the reason this turns into an argument. Not about himself.

Which includes not letting Damian start a fight with Jason for some perceived slight on Dick’s behalf, as his murderous expression suggests will be his imminent course of action. Dick lands a distracting hair ruffle to redirect him.

The food is amazing, Dick can tell that from sight and smell alone. But he just sips his water, feeling queasy. He only has a couple more hours left, and he can’t ignore the nerves anymore. He smiles and laughs and jokes with his family, wishing dinner could last forever, but it has to end eventually.

When they finish eating, Bruce stands up. “Meet downstairs in an hour.” It’s a dismissal, and they all automatically stand to leave as well. 

Bruce looks at Dick, and he veers towards Bruce expectantly. “I left contacts and colour in your room,” says Bruce. “I trust you’ll take care of the rest.” 

It’s not a question. Dick nods, suddenly extra glad he hasn’t eaten today, as his stomach tightens further. “I’ve got it, B.”

Bruce nods back and that’s it. Dick has his assignment. He heads over to Steph.

Cass and Steph are leaning against the table, discussing exhibit preferences for the aquarium. Dick wishes it was already tomorrow. Steph looks up when Dick approaches. He puts a hand in his pocket, casual. “Hey, did you bring the stuff?”

Steph is nodding as she pushes off from the table.

“I left it in the guest room, hold on,” she says. The ‘guest room’ is the bedroom Steph always uses when she’s here. Dick is pretty sure she feels strange admitting to any possession of it even though it is definitely hers.

“Stuff?” Cass questions, getting up as well to follow them out.

“He texted me last night asking for some funky clothes and accessories,” Steph says as they walk. She glances at Dick. “It’s for the surprise undercover mission thing, right? The one Tim’s not happy about?”

Does Tim broadcast everything about Dick?

“Yeah, I didn’t have the right wardrobe for it, so thanks so much,” Dick says. He parts ways with them in the hall. “Can you drop it by my room before tonight?”

“Sure,” says Steph cheerily, but her eyes don’t match her tone; Cass remains silent beside her. Dick doesn’t have time to follow up on that.

He heads to his room, taking purposeful breaths on his way, calming himself. He has a job to do. He lets the tranquility that comes with having a purpose settle over him. He grabs his only pair of ripped black skinny jeans; they’ll have to do.

He finds the brown contacts and palette of hair chalk on his desk, like Bruce said. He takes them into the bathroom, pulls out the makeup from his drawer. He slips the contacts in quickly and moves on to makeup, mindful of the clock. An hour is not that much time; sometimes with a disguise less is more, but this does not feel like one of those times. He outlines his eyes darkly, giving himself little wings, with a bit of gold eye shadow. He hates the feeling of lipstick, but he puts a tiny amount of gloss on so that his lips, at least, will look dewy even though the rest of his mouth has gone dry.

Then, he eyes himself professionally, assessing. Debating.

Well, he has always been partial to redheads. He pulls out the chalk and gets to work.

Some time later there’s a knock on his door. 

“Come in,” he calls, focusing on the back of his head as best he can. It’s okay if it’s not even colouring, since there’s no way Alin Vasile would be able to afford a proper dye job anyway. He hears the bathroom door open.

“Woah,” says Steph. She drops a bag onto the floor.

Dick looks up. Steph is staring. Dick feels a bit self-conscious despite himself. He had taken off his shirt, since the chalk can be messy, but now he feels exposed, leaning half naked over the bathroom counter.

“Hey,” he says, holding out the chalk stick. “Can you help? I can’t see the back.”

“Uh.” Steph blinks and recovers quickly, taking the chalk. “Yeah, sure.”

They’re quiet as Steph starts colouring his hair. Then, “What made you choose pink?”

Dick groans. “I thought it was more red.”

There’s a laugh behind him, more comfortable sounding. “It could go either way, it’s a reddish pink,” Steph allows generously. A pause. Then carefully casual, “So, what’s got you looking like a stripper?”

“You kind of already know,” Dick says, no spare energy to really detail what he has to do, much less cushion it to land softly. He’s looking down at his wrists. The scratches are obvious; should he cover those too? Or do they make ‘Alin’ look more desperate, more believable? Maybe Dick’s own instability can be useful for the mission. “I’m going undercover so we can have someone with the hostages when the place gets blown open. Bit of a time limit, so I’m playing the ideal fish to catch, and voila. This outfit.” He begins to pose, but it feels so fake he drops it immediately.

“Right,” says Steph. She is still holding the chalk, twirling it around and around. With the constant motion, it’s hard to tell if her hands are shaking. “So just to clarify, sneaky stealth mode is a no go? And this is the only way?”

“Stealth is a no go,” Dick says with a sigh. “Bruce had this prepped as a backup for a while now.”

“Right,” Steph says again. She puts down the chalk. “Done. Did you want to seal it so it will stay better?”

“Nah,” Dick says, staring hard at himself in the mirror. “We don’t have the time. And if it runs it just makes me look cheaper. If I’m lucky this will all wash out in just a few hours anyway.” It will all be over soon, he tells himself, even though it hasn’t even started yet.

Dick walks over to the bag Steph brought. He rummages around for a moment before pulling out a purple tank top and a shiny black jacket. He slips both on; the tank top is very tight, but that’s probably for the best.

Steph is watching him. It doesn’t feel as weird as it could. She waits until he’s back to staring at himself in the mirror before saying, “I’m sorry, but I have to ask this: Dick, are you okay?”

Steph’s tone is uncharacteristically serious. (Or maybe it’s not unusual for her to be serious about things like this. Perhaps Dick just doesn’t know Steph that well. And whose fault is that?)

And Dick wonders to himself, is it the way he’s dressed? Is it how mechanically he prepared himself, like he has done this a thousand times? Or is it the scratches on his wrists, clearly self-inflicted, that overlay the yellowing skin? Maybe it’s how he left a bit of bruising peeking through on his jaw, to show the human traffickers that he’s vulnerable, that he’s an easy target.

“I’m fine, Steph,” he breezes, posture straightening, taking control of the situation. Steph is uncomfortable and the only way to help her is to be comfortable himself. “I’ve done this before. No need to check in.”

His fingers fiddle, straighten the lines of the coat around him, tugging it closer, craving its cover. He deliberates for a moment before grabbing a sparkly scarf from Steph’s bag as well. It’s rainy and cold tonight.

He turns to Steph, who is still watching. “What are you going to do, if it gets to be too much?”

“Are you coaching me?” Dick asks, bemused. “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. It won’t be too much. And you guys will just have to come save me along with all the others.” Dick knows he isn’t the priority here. He gives her a wink.

“Uh huh,” says Steph, looking unconvinced. “But if you do feel overwhelmed, just call us, okay?” Softer, but clear, “It’s okay to ask for help.”

He smiles at her. That is so sweet . He gives into the urge to ruffle her hair and she ducks belatedly. “Thanks, Steph. Why don’t we head down?”

Steph searches his face for a long moment. Finally she snorts, turning to go. “I can’t wait to see everyone’s reactions.”

What are you going to do, if it gets to be too much?

The truth is, it won’t be too much. Not for him, not on Bruce’s mission. Dick has to do his best here, and how can he do that if he gives himself limits? Everyone always tells him he overextends, assisting multiple teams on top of solo Bludhaven vigilantism and helping out in Gotham. But the way he views it, he is his own most expendable resource, and he won’t shy away from getting dirty if Bruce only implies that it might help out. His weird hang-ups about physical touch shouldn’t stop him from being useful; he won’t let them.

He doesn’t want to think about why Bruce sets him up for missions like this, why he sees a human trafficking case and automatically builds Dick a seductive undercover back story without his permission. Maybe it’s subconscious, or somehow Dick’s fault - a vibe he gives off. That would explain a lot. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter; Dick is good at this role, it suits both the performer and the people pleaser in him. Bruce may see him as just an investment for the cause, but at least he will be a good one. And if this is the only reason Bruce wanted Dick back this weekend, well. Dick will make it worth his while.

Dick and Steph head down to the cave. They are the last to arrive; from the sounds of arguing, his siblings are getting changed. Steph slips away to get costumed as well. Bruce is already in Batman regalia minus the cowl, which is set next to him on the desk as he glares at the computer. Dick is already in his attire for the night, so he takes a deep breath and ambles over to Bruce.

Bruce looks up as Dick gets closer, then up and down, clinical and assessing. Dick spreads his arms and twirls like he’s on a stage.

“What do you think?” he asks, nonchalant, even though Bruce’s opinion is literally the only one that matters at the end of the day. “Ready to hit the town?”

Bruce’s face is utterly blank, and for a moment there’s no response, then, “Are you sure you’re feeling … alright now?” Ah. Bruce has always preferred to look empty rather than uncomfortable.

Dick grits his teeth. Really, again? But Bruce is being concerned in the only way he knows how; it’s not his fault that Dick is overly sensitive these days. “I’m good, B,” he chirps, posture straightening, leaning forward slightly to convey his focus. That he’s all there .

Bruce nods, then his eyes catch on the coat, on the corners where it hangs a little looser. Steph likes baggy clothes. “Are you sure that’s enough?”

Enough what? Dick wants to ask. Enough skin exposed? Enough of a stereotype?

He leans against the desk. “What do you want me to do?”

Bruce stands up and approaches. Dick wills himself to be still, wills his heart to stop accelerating like he’s facing down a threat. Bruce reaches out and tugs at the jacket, and Dick lets him slide it off his shoulders. The tank top is as tight as Dick remembers it looking.

“It’s November, Bruce,” Dick says, crossing his arms, but he’s already resigned. He shakes out the scarf and drapes it around his shoulders like a shawl, a poor replacement.

Bruce looks him over once more, a slight frown now. 

Dick shifts, crosses his arms. “What?”

“You have very …revealing clothes,”  Bruce observes. He sounds strangely bothered.

Dick feels like he is missing something here. Does Bruce think Dick owns stuff like this? Is that why he let Dick choose his own wardrobe? “It’s Steph’s,” Dick says defensively, not sure why this is even being brought up. “But I can put the jacket back on -?” But Bruce is already shaking his head.

“No, this adds to your perceived vulnerability. Less threatening. It’s just tight,” Bruce points out, still with that strange undercurrent.

Dick rolls his eyes. Why did Bruce create this role for Dick if he can’t even bring himself to discuss it objectively? “B, trust me. These people? They’ll love that.” Dick doesn’t know why he’s the one confidently reassuring Bruce that he can play this part. And he feels a bit off-balance at the judgment - he thought Bruce picked him because he looks this way, wanted him to be on display, chosen the smaller and lithe build of an acrobat; what is Bruce looking for exactly?

Bruce just nods, like what appeals to human traffickers is a good point, but he is still frowning. “What’s wrong?” Dick asks, uneasy.

A drawn out pause. Bruce’s gaze travels over him again. Finally, he glances over at the screen. “We’ll discuss it later.”

Something cold and unpleasant settles in Dick’s stomach.

Bruce turns back to the computer and sets Dick’s jacket on the back of the chair before putting the cowl on. Dick looks at the jacket longingly, but it’s too late, it has already been confiscated. He can’t reach for it now unless he wants a fight. Instead, Dick grabs one of the subtle earpieces they use for undercover and runs through settings.

“Holy shit,” Red Hood’s voice modulator manages to sound incredulous. “What the hell are you wearing? It’s November.”

Dick pastes a practiced smile on his face as he tilts his head at his brother. “I am immune to the elements.”

His other siblings are filing out now as well, and Dick feels like everyone is looking at him. He sees Spoiler rush out of the change rooms, just in time to watch the reactions.

“Why is Richard dressed like a harlot?” Robin directs his glare at Batman accusingly, making it clear who he blames for this.

Red Robin has his arms folded. He is also looking at Batman for an explanation. Black Bat stares at Dick. As is typical lately, he can’t read her expression.

Dick stays silent, letting Batman deal with this one.

“Nightwing will be infiltrating the organization via an alias as a recently arrived illegal immigrant working the streets,” Batman delivers the information flatly, stating facts.

“You mean he’s going to get picked up like candy.” Red Hood is unimpressed. To Dick, “Seriously, where are your clothes?”

“Batman, I reviewed the vent schematic,” Red Robin speaks up, his posture tense. “The route is viable. If -”

“No,” Batman cuts him off, shutting him down immediately. Everyone straightens at the tone. “This is safest for the victims, they need someone with them.” And Dick knows this is a symptom of Bruce’s own guilt at how long this case has taken, that he needs to prioritize the human trafficked above all else. Above all of them. “The plan is set. Nightwing is undercover. Red Hood will be monitoring his movements until he reaches the facility, then join Red Robin on the south to wait for the signal. I will take the entrance on the west. Spoiler and Robin will take the north.” Far away from Dick, who can’t help but feel it’s intentional. It chafes but Dick gets it; Bruce doesn’t want Damian around Dick, not when Dick has yet to prove he’s as intact as he claims. “Black Bat will take the east, and be ready to enter the vent, only if necessary .” He emphasizes the last word, deliberately. It’s a good plan, other than leaving Dick exposed like a lamb to slaughter.

No, wait. He’s fine.

Red Hood seems slightly mollified that he will be able to look out for Dick. On the other hand, Dick is not keen on his brother watching him get picked up by human traffickers. But their roles are set: Bruce’s word is law. It’s more obvious in moments like these, when any of them would squabble with each other about details and preferences, but not with Batman. Not even Tim, who is now chewing his lip and frowning. This is for the best - Dick doesn’t think he can stand even the slightest bit of fighting right now, he feels so wound up.

And that’s it for protesting. Batman goes over a few more details. The swift acquiescence to the plan is unsurprising. They have all done outrageous things for the sake of the mission before. This isn’t even that insane, not compared to the creative ways they sometimes tackle supervillain chaos. And ultimately, Dick agreed to this. It’s his decision.

Black Bat walks up to Dick. “You look pretty,” she says, reaching out to lightly brush the shawl.

Dick smiles softly at her. “Thanks, Cass.” Then he pouts. “Aren’t I always pretty?”

She huffs a laugh. “Yes.”

“Always redheads, isn’t it Dickhead?” That’s Red Hood, who has moved on from defending him to mocking him. Dick gets whiplash when he can’t pick a persona.

“It’s more of a pink, really,” Spoiler chimes in. “Compliments purple well, and as we all know, purple is the best.”

“Okay, sorry for trying to not look like myself when I’m undercover,” Dick apologizes with zero sincerity. “Red is an attractive colour!”

“Why would you want to be attractive for these sick fucks?” Red Hood demands.

“Are you kidding? It’s the whole point, it makes the job easier,” Dick says, exasperated.

“The job being seduction or infiltration, remind me.” Flat tone.

It’s clearly a bit of both, but that is not the right answer. Luckily, Batman interrupts. “Time to go. Alin needs to be at the corner of third and west fourteenth in thirty minutes. Robin and I will drop you off near the pickup location.”

Everyone transforms subtly between one second and another, mission ready. Dick gets into the back of the batmobile. Robin glances over his shoulder at him frequently, but says nothing. Dick just tries to smile at him reassuringly, while internally psyching himself up for his role.

He gets kicked out in an alley at sixteenth and he ducks under an overhang. It’s raining. Ugh. His hair dye is going to run. Oh well, it will make him look even cheaper and more pathetic, so it’s perfect really. And there are less people out in the dreary weather. Dick slinks through the shadows as best he can in his getup, suppressing a shiver. At least his shoes are functional boots.

Bruce had arranged via Dick’s alias to meet with the hook of the human traffickers for some deal, promising ‘Alin’ help with getting work at the docks on some boats and getting him off the streets and out of the sex trade. ‘Alin’ is desperate enough to believe it. Dick reaches the meetup point a bit early and leans in an alley doorway for shelter. He grabs some gum he’d slipped into his pocket earlier and starts chewing. He scans the surrounding buildings for signs of Red Hood.

There’s a crackle in his ear. “Stop looking for me, have you never been undercover before?” Then more gently. “I’m across the street. I’ve got eyes on you.”

Ah, there he is. Dick relaxes a bit in spite of himself.

Oracle’s voice comes on over the private comms loop between him and Red Hood less than a minute later. “Everyone is getting in position. I have ears with the guys heading out to grab Alin. They’re on their way.”

“How was family dinner?” Dick mumbles into the comms, barely moving his lips.

“It was nice. Now focus. They’re almost to you.”

Barbara can be as clinical and cold as Bruce when necessary. Dick finds courage in her direction and he lets himself hunker a bit more into the wall, a little world weary like he hasn’t slept in his bed in weeks. Like he’d do anything for the promise of changing his life.

A van slows to a stop at the end of the alley. No windows in the back. They’re not even trying to be subtle.

“Wow, what a fucking cliche,” Red Hood comments, reading Dick’s mind. He has to fight not to laugh, the aborted amusement spoiling in his stomach and churning up acid he swallows down.

Dick pushes off of the wall and adopts a wary but hopeful expression, making his way closer to the vehicle. It really is pouring. He can barely feel his fingertips gripping his biceps through the shawl. A man steps out of the van, approaches him.

“Alin?” asks the man. He has a bit of a limp; it probably helps vulnerable people feel a bit safer when he has an obvious weak point. Dick is not fooled. The man is looking at him like a hawk eyeing a mouse, his gaze sweeping and appreciative. Dick fights off a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold.

“What do you want?” Dick asks, choppy and accented. He puts a taste of suspicion into his voice. He chews the gum slowly, hinting at sensually, and poses a little, like the question could have many different answers. 

“I’m Kevin. I’m a friend of Ana, she texted you,” ‘Kevin’ explains calmly. It matches the file Bruce handed Dick last night for the cover story. ‘Ana’ is a real plant the organization has on the streets, but she has never met Alin.

Dick lets himself pretend to ease up slightly, wiping rain out of his eyes. It’s dyed from his hair and resembles blood. “Ana? She say she has work for me.”

Kevin is looking at Dick’s jaw. He gives a low whistle. “Where’d you get that shiner?”

Dick turns his posture defensive. “Hard job,” he says with a scowl, and Kevin laughs. Slightly hopeful tone, “You have the new job?”

“I’m here to talk about that. But man, it’s wet today. You want to get off these streets? We can talk at the docks,” Kevin offers, invitingly. He gestures at the van. His smile is friendly, and his words are exactly what a lost soul needs to hear.

Dick pulls the shawl closer around his shoulders. He blows a bubble, lets it pop. Alin has nothing left to lose. “Why not.”

The man beams at him. “Excellent. Let’s go.” And he offers a hand, and Dick forces himself to take it. The man’s grip is strong. He won’t be letting go.

There’s Red Hood’s voice crackling in Dick’s ear, sounding pained, “This is so fucked up.” Dick totally agrees, but he can’t afford distraction right now; he has a role to play.

As they get closer to the van, Dick braces for it, but it’s still a bit sudden when the door is thrown open and two figures in black jump out and pull him in as Kevin shoves him from behind. He cries out and thrashes convincingly, but is ultimately overpowered.

“Got him, Kevin,” says one of the figures restraining him in a bizarre bear hug. Ah, so that is indeed his real name. Kevin slams the door and Dick hears him get into the front. Dick feels the van lurch beneath him as the driver stomps on the gas and they squeal away. The fastest route to the warehouse should take them eight minutes and thirty seconds. Dick starts counting.

His arms are roughly forced together and he’s pushed down to the floor of the van.

He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s Alin.

“What is this?” Dick asks, making his voice fearful and tremulous. It’s not difficult; his heart is beating fast and his breaths are shallow. But he rationalizes that he’s not truly in danger, with his training and with Oracle and Red Hood listening in. He just needs to calm down.

His hands are zip tied behind him. His legs are zip tied to a bar on the wall of the van. Dick tests the restraints, tight but he could break them. They really don’t think he’s much of a threat. The measly contents of his pockets are turned out - a fake ID, a handful of bills, and a burner phone. They take the knife out of his boot as well.

“We’re taking you to your new job. Don’t worry, you’re already hired!” one of his captors grins at him, confiscating his belongings with pleasure. “It won’t be much different from your last ...profession.”

The man’s grin turns leering, and Dick is suddenly shaking for real. It’s subconscious somehow, and he can’t stop it, though he tries. He manages a glare at the man, though he’s having trouble making his face obey him.

The man sees his arms trembling and laughs. “Aw, don’t be shy. I’m sure you’re going to be a natural.”

The man reaches towards Dick, strokes his cheekbone. “Not really my type, but I can see the appeal.” He moves to slip a finger over his frozen lips, smearing the gloss. And Dick is …. not okay, but Dick can handle this. But then the man looks …down. He calls his friend, “Hey, you searched him right?” The man smirks. “Are you sure you checked everywhere?” And there’s a laugh, and Dick’s breath catches as he feels the press of a knife on his abdomen, but then it’s slicing through his shirt like butter and the cut fabric is falling to the floor with the scarf. Sorry Steph, Dick thinks distantly. He owes her some new clothes.

The man’s partner makes an appreciative noise from across the van, watching Dick sit still as the hands exploring his face wander further. “Look at that muscle. Being a hooker must be a good workout.”

“What a price though. Who messed you up so badly, huh?” And Dick has seen it all in the mirror, his bruised abdomen, his bruised wrists, his bruised face, but the idea that it can all so easily be written off as sexual violence unsettles him.

“Dick? What does that mean? What’s happening?” It’s Oracle, or maybe it’s Red Hood, but it sounds so far away. They can probably hear how rapidly he’s breathing. Dick is pretty sure he’s drifting away from his body. The hands feel like other hands, hands he has tried to forget. He wants to fight this guy; it wouldn’t even break his cover if he yelled and thrashed. They might even get some sick enjoyment out of it. But Dick can’t; he is frozen in an old fear. He can’t feel himself breathing, can’t hear himself thinking. He can barely hear at all. He tries to force himself into the present, and catches the end of a sentence.

“-sies really are lookers, aren’t they?”

“Racist bastard,” Red Hood swears over the comms, but it’s almost drowned out by the sound of Dick’s own desperate breaths.

Keep it together, keep it together . Dick is losing time; when is this van ride going to end? It feels like it has been longer than eight minutes. The second man is talking lowly into a communication device, too quiet for Dick to eavesdrop.

“So quiet. Terrified, are you?” The man before him sounds nauseatingly amused. “I’ve barely even done anything.” Base curiosity fills his voice. “What else would you let me do?”

Well, Dick has let people do a lot of things in the past. Murder, for one, and - but now he can feel himself starting to panic, as the hand goes lower. Is he still in the van? He’s soaking wet, and this is so familiar -

He hears Oracle’s voice in his ear, tense, “Nightwing, Batman says hold. Just a minute, almost to the warehouse.” Dick tries desperately to listen. One minute. He can endure for one minute.

Stop it, he tells his spiraling mind, struggling to get a grip on the present. If he slips into a memory or please no an actual panic attack, it’s all over. He can freak out about this later, at night, in the privacy of his room. Right now, he needs this guy to stop touching him.

Oracle’s voice has helped to tether him a bit. Dick gathers himself enough to twist his features into a hard glare.

Then he spits his gum out at the man’s eye.

The man reels back, his hands finally retreating, moving to cover his face. “Ow! Motherfucker!”

“What just happened? Nightwing, what just happened?” Oracle sounds almost panicked.

“I bet he did something stupid,” Red Hood hisses, but it sounds worried.

“What? What happened?” The man’s partner is bewildered, glancing up at Dick’s restrained self as though searching for a weapon.

But the man is glaring at Dick. Dick is too busy breathing to try to defend himself. Dick sees the punch coming and takes it to his stomach, welcoming the pain as the sharpness brings back the edges of his awareness. The second punch is lower and he’s keeling over, seeing stars instead of raindrops.

“Enough,” the other man rescues him reluctantly. “Stop testing him out. We don’t have time, anyway. We’re back.” Footsteps approach Dick. “Time for you to relax,” a whisper in his ear and then a pinch in his neck. He starts to struggle, but the sedative sets in quickly, and even if he wanted to he can’t fight anymore.

Getting drugged was not part of The Plan.

Dick floats a bit. Someone is talking at him over the comms. “I’m fine,” he says aloud, and the other people in the van look at him like he’s crazy. And oops, he vaguely notices that he has the wrong accent; he has naturally slipped into the accent he came to Gotham with. Oh well, these guys shouldn’t realize the difference.

“I’m fine,” he repeats, through chattering teeth, when it’s becoming harder to believe himself. “I’m-,” poisonous.

“Shut him up,” a voice growls, and then there’s duct tape over his mouth. Why is he choking? Her hair-

Quiet, mi amor, callido…

He’s slipping faster now that the sedative is acting - masking the pain that grounds him, and he can barely hear the increasingly distorted words in his ear. Nothing is keeping him from the panic he was feeling earlier, and memories flash before his eyes, dragging him through time in snapshots.

One second, he’s in the van. Next second, he’s on top of a building. Then the van stops and he is hauled out into the rain. Then he’s lying on the rooftop, a weight on his chest. Then he’s dragged through more rain into a warehouse facility, a faint “put him with the others, hurry up, we’re late”. The rain blurs the distinction between past and present even further.

“Nightwing, please, snap out of it,” Oracle’s voice. She may have said more, but Dick is having trouble focusing. She’s waiting for a vocal click, the one that Dick is supposed to use when he’s on track, a warning signal. Everyone is waiting on him. 

Where is- is he in position? Dick bites his tongue to feel the pain, to bring himself a little closer to the surface. His body feels strange after leaving it for so long. The drugs are wearing off a bit, but not enough. He’s still hazy. He can’t tell what’s the drugs and what is his own drifting mind.

He’s tossed into a room, body slamming into the ground. He’s surrounded by scared faces. He has reached the hostages. Some are tied like he is, but others are free. His stomach sinks as he counts over eighty people in the tiny space. Their intel had them at fifty. They are mostly young women, but there’s a variety.

Dick feels a bit of despairing dread creep into his chest. How is he supposed to protect eighty people stacked on top of each other from being used as collateral? One explosive and the casualties are devastating. He can’t think. He doesn’t know how much time passes, how many blinks, before he hears Oracle again.

“I’m patching in the open loop, everyone is about to start,” Oracle warns. Almost immediately after there’s a crackle in his ear.

“-atman, we still haven’t received confirmation from Nightwing!” Robin. Damian. He’s upset, and it does more to jolt Dick to the surface than getting punched.

“No time. Their transfer is beginning. Move now,” says Batman into the earpiece, the moment the door is closed behind Dick. It’s a direction for them all. Dick gives a faint, belated click.

Then he turns his head and freezes.

Make that Dick plus eighty-one people - with the extra body being an armed guard staring straight at him. Dick lies still, bound on the floor at his feet, fuzzy mind racing as he tries to push off the fog in his thoughts. The variables keep changing. This is going to be much harder than expected, but Dick doesn’t have any time to re-think - the plan has already been set in motion, any second now his family’s presence is going to become obvious. He’s not ready, he needs to get out of these restraints, but he’s being watched like a hawk.

Dick is trying to keep track of the time, but everything keeps slipping out of his head. There’s noise in his ears, it’s the comms, but he can’t parse any meaning.

( “Black Bat is held up. Plus two minutes on her ETA.” )

…

(“ Nightwing, update on the hostages?”)

As if to remind Dick of the deadline, the guard’s communicator beeps. He brings the device to his ear, eyes flitting away for a moment. Dick struggles to listen over the static. “Bat sighting,” the grainy voice intones. “Shoot anyone who looks suspicious.”

And the guard is turning to look back at Dick again, and maybe he’s raising his gun, so Dick swings the lower half of his body with all his strength into the side of his legs and he goes down hard. Dick swings his body again to sweep the gun out of his hands but there’s a loud bang before his foot connects with the metal and the gun goes flying. The guard’s head hits the ground with a crack and he stops moving. Did Dick just -?

His ears ring from the gunshot and the screaming around him. There’s a voice in his ear, but it’s just noise. His side burns from scraping his bruised skin against the rough floor and something wet runs along his arm. Shrapnel wound, superficial.

It all feels like it’s happening to someone else. 

(“-was that Nightwing’s feed-?”)

(“Nightwing, report.”)

Dick rolls himself so he’s sitting. There’s hardly any space here, he’s lucky he didn’t land on top of someone. Quickly, he teases the tiny razor out of the lining of his pants. A deep breath to brace himself, and then he snaps the wrist zip ties over the razor edge, cutting into his skin in his hurry. Then he does the same with his legs.

(“This is some weird shit you’re pulling, Goldie-”)

Finally, he rips the duct tape off his mouth. Everyone is watching him, faces shocked. Dick directs his eyes to the sobbing people on the left, who are clutching bleeding limbs. Horror fills Dick’s chest. Did someone die? All of the hostages seem to be breathing. He sweeps his eyes to the fallen guard, lying still. Did he just kill someone? He wants to check for a pulse, but there’s no time. Dick feels like he has been placed in a doomed train-for-failure scenario.

“Could everyone, please move?” he says, mouth clumsy, trying to keep the panic out of his voice, just as shouting starts outside of the room. No movement. But they’re out of time and they need to move so his fake calm drops and he barks, “Away from the door!”

(“Ri- Nightwing! What’s happening?”)

(“Are comms down on his end?”)

The people jump and do their best to listen to him, even as they look him up and down in disbelief. Dick knows he looks a mess - half-naked, bleeding, soaking wet, shaking - but they thankfully comply. The space is too cramped for their actions to be successful; the room is clearly a temporary holding space, but there’s a thick stench that makes its way past Dick’s muddled senses. It has been a temporary holding space for some time.

“Um,” Dick speaks into his communicator. Tries to formulate his thoughts.

“Did that idiot just say ‘um’? ” Red Hood’s incredulous voice sounds, between the solid thumps of landing punches. “What the hell, are you-”

“Nightwing,” Red Robin’s voice cuts in, intent. “What’s the situation?”

“We’ve got eighty hostages.” Dick can’t let himself get distracted, can’t afford to lose his grip when he’s clawing so hard to lucidity right now. “Handful of injuries. Could use some help, stat,” Dick says, dragging himself to his feet unsteadily. His ears are still ringing. He stops listening to the comms once he is done actively trying to communicate.

(“Black Bat?”)

Essentially, Dick’s job is to guard the door. If anyone tries to enter, take them down. Simple. He thinks he has less than two minutes before Black Bat should arrive as backup. He can hold out until then.

(“Four minutes.”)

There’s the lock turning now. Dick does his best to prepare, shifting into an offensive stance.

Two masked figures walk in with guns and Dick immediately kicks the gun out of the one’s hand, sweeps the legs out from under his partner, then does the same to the first guy - or tries to. 

Huh. He missed. Instead, the man lands a hit to his abdomen before Dick grabs the man’s shoulder and pulls . But his body isn’t moving the way he expects it to, and a move that should have ended with Dick standing over him now has them both on the floor.

Disorienting. At least Dick is the one on top of him. That is, until someone is grabbing him from behind, dragging him off. Dick’s arms are pinned.

(“-maybe I should double back for him-?”)

(“I’m closest-”)

(“Negative. Black Bat is en route.”)

Dick feels so… slow. So heavy, even when he’s not wearing any armor, his body foreign.

Freed, the first man wastes no time, and Dick feels a crack with the punch to his bare ribcage. Dick slams his head back, a satisfying crunch as his skull connects with his captor’s face, and the arms restraining him loosen. 

Over a decade of training has Dick acting on auto-pilot. One movement. Dick kicks the man before him in the face and reaches up to grab the one behind. With a twist aided by the man’s own momentum, Dick throws him over and into the wall. 

For the second time that night, Dick finds himself rising shakily to his feet in the cell. He takes stock of the guards on the ground; one is still groaning, so Dick kicks him, hard, in the crotch.

What a mess this is turning out to be. It’s always stressful when they’re missing intel, and Dick is spending half his energy fighting off this detached feeling. And now everyone in the room is really looking at him like he’s crazy.

Dick closes the door again.

It is opened seconds later by a trio of armed figures, and Dick has taken down two of them (neither easily, why won’t his body work right), but it leaves him in the grasp of the last man. He is really off his game tonight. His head is slammed against the wall, hard, and for a few seconds nothing is real to him.

“-ightwing, status?” Oracle. 

Status. Dick is… Dick is on the ground. The man is on top of him.

When did she get on top of him?

No. “I-,” Dick wheezes, fighting himself. “I need-,” a punch to his face, the world is spinning, “Backup.”

Then he’s grappling with the man, trying to throw him off, scratching and being scratched in the process, and what is he trying to - and then the man’s hands are around his throat, and he couldn’t breathe even if his lungs were working right-

( “Shit, Black Bat-”)

- and oh no oh no, he’s the only thing standing between this man and all of the targets in the room-

-this weight on his chest is so heavy, so familiar, and he’s freezing again-

(“There.”)

- when suddenly the last man is dropped from behind and Black Bat stands over him.

“My hero,” Dick breathes, hoarse. Reality flickers. Black Bat grins, but only for a moment. She looks at him assessingly. He must look pretty wrecked. He glances down surreptitiously to see for himself and - oh. His arms are bleeding, his entire abdomen is bruised and scraped.

(He can admit the fighting was rough, but right now he’s not feeling the damage. Is it the drugs, or the floating feeling?)

Seeing the bat symbol must give the captives a better idea of what is going on. One person steps out. “Can we…help?” A couple more people inch closer, nodding, a fierceness entering their eyes.

It’s not protocol, but Dick gets it. Sometimes you need to fight your own battles, even a little. Black Bat must get it too because she throws them a rope. She points to the bodies. “Tie them up.”

They move forward eagerly as she cuts their bonds. The guards look like flounders flopped on the floor, but the one lies so motionless…

Black Bat startles Dick by grabbing his arm, dragging him over to lean against the wall. “Stay here,” she says, a bit of worry in her voice. She signs I’ll be right back. Then she exits the room and Dick can hear the sounds of fighting in the distance, then closer as Black Bat meets the reinforcements.

But Dick stays put, standing still. He should be helping to free the other captives, or tying the gangsters up. He should be doing something other than shaking, but he can’t stop the tremors now that he’s aware of them and he can’t seem to do anything else either. He has used up his capacity for pushing through the mess of his mind, and now it pulls him down like quicksand. He can’t feel the lull of the sedative anymore, but his body feels no closer. Distantly he notices how everyone gives him some space in the cramped room, recognizing he’s not quite one of them, but he certainly doesn’t look like a vigilante. It feels oddly respectful. Dick should think about that, instead of. Instead of.

At some point, a few blinks later, Black Bat returns and starts cutting more people’s bonds. “Free,” she tells them, and some cry or smile or thank her. Dick does nothing at all, just shakes and leans against the wall.

The crumpled body of the first guard still hasn’t stirred.

Dick feels horror slowly creep up his throat and he finally pushes the words out of his mouth, rasps, “Is he ….?”

Black Bat looks up, follows his eyes to the guard. She reaches two fingers to check his pulse. “Alive.” 

Alive .

The relief buckles Dick’s legs and he slides to sit on the dirty floor. Black Bat looks at Dick warily, something calculating in her expression. Dick tries to smile but is alarmed to find he can’t make his face do anything at all. A tiny self-aware part of him is unsurprised, recognizes the symptoms of his progressively detached state and traces them to an obvious conclusion. It’s natural, he’s fine. It will pass. (Bruce’s voice, stop being so dramatic.)

Red Robin is here. He grabs Dick gently, pulling him to his feet, and Dick doesn’t flinch as he’s led away, out the back of the building so no one will see him disappear into the night with the vigilantes. Red Robin is speaking, and there are more voices over the comms in Dick’s ear, but the words aren’t making sense. Dick thinks he’d feel embarrassed about how he’s acting right now if he could only focus. But he’s still drifting.

“Dick!”

He’s snapped viciously back to reality. He sucks in a breath, and next to him Red Robin does the same. They are outside, the air crisp after the night rain, burning Dick’s lungs with its cold. Red Robin is putting on a helmet and they are standing next to a bike; it looks like they were about to take off. Red Robin lowers the helmet, face horrified.

Batman stalks towards them, fury boiling off him like steam. Dick knows it’s hiding the fearful worry underneath, but his stomach drops painfully anyway.

If Dick remembers the plan, Batman and Robin are supposed to be giving the handoff to law enforcement. Or did that already happen? Dick can’t be certain of the time. Now that Batman is before him, Dick remembers with shame how unprofessional of him that is, to lose track of the clock when they’re literally on the clock.

Although talk about unprofessional: Batman of all people saying his real name in the field.

...Unless he meant the insult.

“Batman, I -,” Dick starts, wanting to say I’m sorry, but the words choke out when he is grabbed by both shoulders and shaken.

“What happened in there,” Batman growls, menacing. “You almost jeopardized the entire -”

“What the fuck is going on here?” Red Hood appears, and Dick can’t keep up. Isn’t Red Hood supposed to be with Spoiler checking the perimeter for strays?

Red Hood physically pulls Bruce off of Dick, who squints at him, dizzy. Curse that unreadable helmet of his.

Red Robin steps in now, taking command like this is the Teen Titans. “We don’t have time for this! Batman, Robin needs you at the entrance. Red Hood, finish securing the perimeter.”

“I need to understand why -,” Batman argues, stepping closer again.

“You don’t need anything from him -,” Red Hood interrupts, moving towards Batman aggressively.

Oracle’s voice cuts in. “Not the time or place, guys. Save it for the cave.”

“You heard Oracle,” says Red Robin, looking agitated as he glances around. Their little corner of the dock is still empty, thankfully. “We can talk things out later. Let’s go.”

Batman is still looking at Dick. “I expect a full account,” he says ominously, before turning and disappearing back into the warehouse. Dick’s chest aches with a sudden pressure, the crushing guilt of all his mistakes tonight. How close he was to failing completely.

“Asshole,” Red Hood comments, watching Batman go. He glances at Dick, and his jaw tightens. But when he speaks, it’s to Red Robin.

“What the fuck did they give him?” he hisses, dropping his voice like they aren’t the only ones around (like Dick won’t hear him from one metre away). “This looks like fear toxin shit.” His eyes flicker back to Dick and away again. If Dick was feeling present enough to be embarrassed, he might cross his arms over his bare chest.

As usual, people talk about him like he isn’t even here. Dick wishes his mind wasn’t so muddled. Wishes he could move his lips, say something, but he’s so hazy and barely clinging on.

(Batman sounded so mad.)

Red Robin gives a tight shake of his head. Dick can’t focus enough to read into their shared look.

“I’ve got him,” Red Robin says. Red Hood nods and leaves.

Dick lets himself be guided onto the bike. The drive to the cave is a blur, and when they arrive Tim takes off his mask and looks at him worriedly, hands him a blanket from the med bay and sits him down on a chair next to him at one of the computers. But Tim doesn’t try to talk to him as he takes a blood sample, which is a good thing. Dick’s mind is far away again, this time stuck in the future. He pictures Batman’s furious expression and dreads the storm that’s coming.

Batman is so angry.

Batman is so angry.

Why can’t he breathe?

Red Hood, Black Bat and Spoiler arrive quickly after. More collateral; Dick wishes they would go away, doesn’t want them caught choking on the ashes of the imminent eruption. But Red Hood marches right up to Tim, glancing at Dick before noting the test on the screen. “Anything?” he demands.

Tim is already shaking his head. “Just straight fast-acting sedatives,” he sounds puzzled. “Effect should be gone.” They both turn to look at Dick, but he has narrowed his awareness to the sharpest memory of the night, to the feeling of impending doom.

Batman is so angry.

(“His weight has shifted a lot, maybe his tolerance is skewed-?”)

By the time the batmobile pulls into the cave, Dick has convinced himself the world is about to end.

And it’s all his fault.

Chapter Text

“You are shaking fists & trembling teeth.

I know:

you did not mean to be cruel.

That does not mean you were kind.”  ~ Venetta Octavia, “The Burning”

Blowups and Fallouts

Dick feels surreally like no time has passed since last Saturday night. Here is the batmobile, screeching to a stop. Here are the doors slamming, open then shut, angry footfalls stomping towards him, and a faltering, frustrated, “Father, listen to me”.

Here is Dick’s heart, beating too loudly in the tense silence. The entire cave is holding its breath. Caves were once common burial sites, and this familiar space has never felt so much like a tomb.

The difference this time is that all of Dick’s siblings are scattered around the room, reading the tension and tense themselves. Dick wishes he had heard more of the comms tonight, known who said what to who and why everyone looks so apprehensive - why everyone looks how he feels. Dick is the one who messed up tonight - he got drugged, allowed hostages to be injured, almost killed a guard - and he almost had a panic attack in a human trafficker’s van. Bruce must be so worried; that isn’t supposed to happen to them, they are supposed to be better than that, Dick is supposed to be better than that. Unfortunately, a frightened Bruce is also an angry Bruce. He will need to be calmed down, he will need an explanation from Dick, he will need logical reasoning.

Dick forces air into his lungs - he needs to be present, he can’t check out right now. 

He has about six seconds until Batman reaches him.

He forces sensation back into his body through sheer willpower - he’s soaking wet, water dripping down his back, and there’s something supporting him; ( Five) it’s a chair, he’s sitting in a chair, Tim made him sit. Four. Too vulnerable, he needs to be taller. Three. He makes himself stand up, shaky, hands clutching the blanket around him. Two. Head up.

One.

Batman stands before him, so close that Dick has to fight not to take a step backwards. He is trembling again in a way that has nothing to do with his goosebumps and can’t make himself stop. Dick doesn’t want to think about what the uncontrollable shaking means.

(Combined with the red-dyed water dripping over his shoulders, thin blanket not quite concealing his bare and bruised torso, cuts dripping blood down his skin - he must look pretty weak, and won’t that just irk Batman more.)

Batman immediately picks up his interrogation where he left off at the warehouse. “Report.” It’s an order, but he doesn’t pause for input, “What happened? You were completely unresponsive for twenty minutes,” - was he really? Time is so nebulous when he can’t track the present - “I thought it was clear that your communication on missions needed to improve after the incident last week,” Dick almost cringes at the admonishment, and now Batman is reaching for Dick’s arm. Dick knows it’s his habit, holding Dick in place so he can’t leave. Bruce probably doesn’t realize how obvious his abandonment issues are. Pointing them out right now would be a bad move, so he lets Batman grab him.

Dick may be soaking wet but his mouth is so dry.  Dread coils around his throat, choking him, and he can’t speak. He swallows. “Right, I -”

Batman carries on like it doesn’t matter what Dick says, and Dick clicks his jaw shut. His words probably don’t matter, not when Batman already knows Dick so well. He tallies the mistakes dispassionately, like he expects Dick to tell him the list is wrong, that Dick didn’t fail to be perfect. But Dick can’t. “You let it get too personal and didn’t compartmentalize. You failed to protect the hostages and there were nine injured. One guard has a serious brain bleed.”

Someone sucks in a breath, Dick is not sure who.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Red Hood’s voice modulator intones, disbelieving. Dick can’t afford to look at him right now. “That plan was so fucking dumb.”

And then Batman is turning his glare to Red Hood, and Dick feels the simultaneous relief of the laser passing away from him and the desperate need to throw himself back into the beam. But now Tim is stepping closer, posture uncertain, words firm. “Calm down, Bruce. There were unavoidable variables, it wasn’t Dick’s fault, it wasn’t anyone’s fault,” Tim stresses, trying to diffuse when Dick is too frozen to intervene. “There were more captives than estimated, a guard in the hostages’ cell, and -,” here he does glance at Dick before addressing Batman, pointedly, “The toll of undercover with human traffickers is always a risk, particularly a drug risk, you know that, we all know that.”

Dick is hearing Tim’s words, watching Batman’s cowl. Hearing Red Hood shifting restlessly and Black Bat’s light footsteps pacing nearby. The night’s events have put everyone on edge, but they were all debriefed on the mission hours earlier in the same cave. They were aware of the risks.

And if everyone knew the mission was doomed to be a dumpster fire, why did they all agree to it?

Batman grits his teeth. “There were complications,” he allows, but he is turning back to Dick, his grip finally releasing from Dick’s arm only to come down instead on his shoulder, frustration clearly unresolved. Dick holds himself perfectly still. “But your behaviour undercover was unacceptable. You were …instigative.” Batman’s tone sounds different for a moment, some tinge of something Dick doesn’t recognize. It is not dissimilar to discomfort, or perhaps disgust.

Dick doesn’t know what to do with Bruce’s words. He hadn’t thought he had been too provocative, but maybe - the way Batman is explaining it, is Dick somehow responsible for inciting the guards in the van to touch him? He can’t think, Batman is still speaking, “You can’t keep acting this way. You were erratic - you broke character, switched accents, and generally made a fool of yourself.” A punctuating shake, but Dick is so rigid it’s hardly visible. Unstable, you were unstable.

“It’s your fault he was in that position to begin with!” Red Hood is ready to assign blame, never concerned with conflict resolution, only with his own sense of justice. “That plan was shit from the start,” he repeats. Dick sees Steph nodding behind him.

“You were all aware of the reasons for this strategy, despite how poorly it was executed. If you truly had concerns about the method, why did you agree to it?” Annoyed, Bruce echoes Dick’s internal question, one Dick never would have let himself be the one to bring up.

Silence. No one seems to have an answer to this. Dick feels something in him fall. All this criticism now - it looks unfounded.

Dick doesn’t have time to sort through his own muddled thoughts about whether he was sexually baiting the human traffickers, about whether he was supposed to. He screwed up, he knows. So much could have gone wrong tonight because he was off his game. But he needs to alleviate Batman’s anger - point out the positives. Everyone always says he’s the silver lining to Bruce’s storm, and he’s the one who caused this mess in the first place; if he can calm everything down now maybe it won’t blow up in his face. Right now Dick’s guilt is a vignette clouding out his peripheral vision, leaving room only for Batman.

Fix this, Grayson.

“I may have had a hard time, but the mission was still completed,” Dick argues, moving to cross his arms like a defiant child. He is stopped by Batman’s tightening grip on his shoulder, holding him in check.

“You gave yourself a hard time,” Batman says flatly. “You had one job, and it wasn’t very difficult. I trusted you to handle it.” A sigh, that same foreign intonation mixed confusingly with the disappointment. “But you have proven you have certain tendencies in these sorts of situations before.”

What is that supposed to mean?

“How can you say that to him? The mission was successful,” Tim interjects, clipped, then turning to Dick, “You sounded like you were hyperventilating,” Dick recognizes the tone as concerned. “What happened? Was it what that guy said? Or did he do something?” Dick looks at him, and he’s staring hard.

“I -,” Dick is having a hard time speaking, he’s usually okay with being the centre of attention but not right now. Tim’s gaze is so piercing. “I got a little uncomfortable, reminded of a couple things, but then I got over it.”

“Reminded you of what?” Tim presses.

Does Dick really have to say it? He doesn’t want to think about it, let alone talk about it. He waves it off. “Just similar things. And I’m fine. And you’re right, the mission is finally complete, so we can move on.” We should be celebrating, he doesn’t say, but he sort of wishes he were in that alternate universe now. 

Bruce is still unimpressed, like he doesn’t get why everyone else isn’t setting their emotions aside as easily as him for the sake of the mission. Dick feels the fingers around his shoulder curling closer to his neck. He doesn’t dare blink, pushing away the orange that flickers in his vision, splitting the cowl in two. “You can’t let yourself get caught off guard like that in the middle of a mission! You should know better, Dick,” and Bruce is shaking his head now, frustrated, like Dick is letting him down, “Honestly, with all your recklessness it’s like you want things to go wrong for you.”

It’s like you want this. Dick feels cold. Haven’t people been saying the same thing to him for years? If he doesn’t want it, why does it keep happening to him?

Dick grinds his teeth at the obvious derision in Batman’s voice. This is clearly the point where he decides whether Dick needs the silent treatment or more correction. And Dick opens his mouth to say something - to defend himself, he thinks - but what comes out is, “I’m sorry.” It feels right.

And Batman is reaching his other hand out - a slap? A hug? Dick never finds out. 

(Perhaps the night could have ended earlier, easier.)

But Dick sees the hand approaching, and the pressure against his neck is tightening, and for one wild moment, he thinks - thinks

- but it couldn’t be, Bruce would never -

(- but there’s a hand closing around his throat, and then he won’t be able to breathe-)

There’s some noise from beyond them, and suddenly Batman is dodging a projectile, releasing Dick to step backward. Red Hood’s helmet flies between them, spinning as it clangs to the ground. In the ringing, there’s another voice.

 “- hands off, asshole; I can’t watch this anymore. Are you actually going to victim-blame right now?” Jason is saying, stalking over to Batman and raising his arms aggressively. Jason and Bruce haven’t truly interacted within five feet of each other in over a year; it’s like Dick is observing another reality.

Dick feels like his bubble has popped and now he’s drowning in the real world watching his little brother shove Batman in the chest. He could reach out and touch both of them, and maybe he should intervene. 

He rubs his neck and forces himself to speak when Batman makes a fist, not willing to bet he won’t retaliate. “Guys, stop -”

“Jason! Calm down,” Tim interrupts, darting closer only to hover just out of reach, perhaps out of some latent sense of self-preservation.

Dick glances around a bit desperately, trying to account for everyone. Damian is hanging back by the batmobile. Steph is leaning against the opposite wall. Cass stands in the center of the room, arms folded, watching.

“Oh, so it’s okay when Batman does the manhandling,” Jason turns his vitriol on Tim. “Seriously, whose side are you on?”

“Of course it’s not okay! But I said we needed to talk,” Tim begins.

“I’m talking -”

“Not start another fight!” Tim continues peevishly. “You can’t just hit people!” 

Jason scoffs. “Oh, I can’t just hit people? What did we all just do all night? What was Bruce just about to do to Dick, when I stepped in?” Dick freezes. Batman wasn’t going to - hadn’t been going to - well.

It doesn’t matter, because he didn’t.

Is that what this is about? Definitely not worth an argument.

Batman twitches, startled, a glance at Dick before focusing on Jason. His fists rest at his sides. “I wasn’t going to hit him.”

Jason snorts and crosses his arms. “Oh that’s rich, so maybe this time you weren’t going to hit him.”

Batman scowls and opens his mouth but Tim barrels on, exasperated, “Well we won’t know because you hit Bruce.” Dick tries not to think deeply on Tim’s words, on what they imply about Tim’s means of proving his point.

But was he just waiting for Bruce to-?

“Don’t give me that shit, Replacement, you’ve seen the same things I have. I’m done talking around this. Time for some results.” Dick is having a hard time following Jason and Tim’s weird team up. It sounds like there’s another layer to the argument, something he’s missing. What’s wrong? 

Dick glances again at Batman’s gauntlets, then at Jason’s fists. At Tim, always so small and standing way too close to the hulking figures. Well, Dick can deal with Jason and Tim’s problem later, right now he needs to diffuse this hostility before it blows up into a brawl.

“Jason, stop-,” Dick tries, moving to put himself between them all, but Jason glares at him hard and his steps falter.

“‘Stop’?” he repeats, caustically, “No way in hell.” Dick grits his teeth, but it’s expected. (No one ever stops when Dick asks them to.) “And leave it to you to fight against yourself. Seriously? All you had to say to this asshole was ‘I’m sorry’?” He shakes his head. “Stand down, Big Bird. You’re no good at these issues.” What? Dick is struggling to follow what this is about now. Is Jason defending him? He has a funny way of showing it. Maybe Jason is in trouble, or feels he is. Dick tries to think, but he can’t recall what Jason did tonight.

So Dick tries, cautious, “Jason, just tell us what’s going on, no one blames you -”

Jason cuts him off again, barking a laugh. “Oh, the irony.”

Dick glares at him, then feels a tug on his arm and flinches before he can stop himself. He glances right; it’s Damian, who has crept over silently to stand next to him supportively. He is watching Jason and Batman with a faint furrow between his eyes. Dick gently squeezes his arm back.

Tim makes a stressed noise, finally reaches out to grab at Jason, who dodges easily. “Back off a bit! You’re not helping, whose side are you on?”

“I’m on the side of justice,” Jason says grandly, and he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a couple objects and twists them into the megaphone.

(Oh, it’s collapsible, that’s neat; Jason must have retrieved it when he disappeared after dinner, Dick’s brain notes before he can tell it to focus.)

Jason points the device at Batman. “I’m done waiting for some fantasy ‘organic resolution’.” A glaring glance at Tim, who seethes, before, “Time to answer for your sins, Bruce. Take off the cowl.”

Jason is escalating everything, as usual. Everyone is wrong, Dick is not the drama queen in this family. And now Dick is really lost, but Jason is pointing the megaphone like a weapon and Batman is still tense, so he can’t afford to back down. Everyone is affected by the rising pressure in the room, pushing all of them into high alert.

“Holy shit, is this a trial?” asks Steph from the other side of the room, sounding both horrified and thrilled. “Count me in, I call jury duty.”

“Not now, Steph,” Tim snaps, tense.

She shoots him a wounded look. “If not now, then when? I’m not sitting this out, I have a lot of things to say,” she says, and Dick thinks there might be some anger in her tone that makes it sound so hard. 

Steph pushes off the wall to march over to Tim, who is looking a bit resigned. As she gets closer, it’s clear in her eyes that she’s upset. Dick always forgets her carefree mask is as solid as his, until it starts to slip.

“You think I don’t have an opinion on everything? You think I’m not hurt too?” she hisses at Tim. Her eyes are shining and she’s clenching her fists, but Dick is pretty sure Steph responds better to a gentle approach than any of his siblings.

“Steph, are you alright?” Dick asks, and both Steph and Tim turn to look at him in amazement like he just spoke in tongues. Dick groans, feeling a headache start to grow. “Okay, what the hell is going on.”

“Dick, honey, I’m doing awesome,” Steph says, patting his shoulder. “I’m filled with righteous fury, don’t worry.” 

“Okay, that’s not patronizing at all,” Dick says sarcastically, turning to Tim.

Tim just shakes his head, then shifts to a ready stance when Jason loudly stomps his foot on the ground.

“Todd, that’s childish,” Damian comments, but it’s so quiet Dick is pretty sure he’s the only one who hears. Dick’s heart hurts that Damian has to once again watch his family tearing into itself.

Jason and Batman are still arguing, and it has only gotten more heated.

“Don’t talk to me about sins, Red Hood,” Batman spits, and oh, that is not going to go over well with Jason, “Unlike you, I’ve only ever tried to help the people of Gotham. I don’t play judge and executioner.”

Jason barks out a laugh. “Only tried to help people you don’t know, maybe. Your beloved, vague, Gotham. Who is she, anyway? You’ve fucked all of us up though.”

“Nonsense, you made your own choices,” Batman says gruffly. He’s talking about Jason murdering people, which is definitely a mistake, they should never talk about that ever, there are unspoken rules.

Jason makes a disbelieving noise. “Choosing to be Robin, as an impressionable minor? Yeah, big choice. Choosing to put up with all your bullshit for the magic of the mask?” he shakes his head. “This is so toxic.” Dick resents that. Robin is everything good.

Jason and Bruce are so tense now that Dick worries the slightest pressure will make them snap. He musters himself to say, “Jay, wait, whatever this is, you’re taking it too far. Let’s just calm down and talk.”

The megaphone swings towards him. “Shut up, Goldie,” Jason says, bluntly, “We tried it your way, the nice quiet approach where we just stay silent and pretend to be a happy family. But you set yourself on fire to keep everyone warm.” Scorn. “And now you’re having a mental breakdown. So no, it’s my turn.” He twists back to Batman, voice dropping low and menacing. “Take off the fucking cowl.”

“Jason, what is this about?” Bruce asks, taking off the cowl. He’s frowning, eyes locked on Jason. 

“That’s the first intelligent question you’ve asked in months,” Jason tells him unhelpfully, through the megaphone.

“Jason.” Bruce growls. Oh boy. Dick braces himself.

“I’ll say it,” Steph speaks up suddenly. Everyone turns to look at her, and she straightens up under the attention. She inches a little closer. “You,” she says, pointing at Bruce, “need to listen for a minute, to your children.” There’s a scoffing noise from Jason, and Bruce tries to say something but Steph says even louder, “No talking! Just listen. You have some issues with parenting.” She turns to look at everyone in turn. “And clearly, everyone here has daddy issues. Looking at all your angry faces.” She swings her pointed finger around to gesture to all present.

There is immediate grumbling at the insinuation that actually everyone might have problems.

“This is not about me,” Tim denies, looking at his friend with betrayal.

“I do not have daddy issues,” Jason protests through the megaphone. “Dick is the one with eldest daughter syndrome, trying to parent everybody because Bruce sucked at parenting him!”

“What the fuck?” Dick says, annoyed at being singled out. “Sorry for being interested in your lives-”

“Dick he’s not picking on you he’s just saying we’ve all noticed you’re -,” Tim tries, falters for words.

Dick is so sick of the allusions. Impatient, “I’m what?”

“Well you take care of everyone but you don’t take care of yourself,” says Steph, summarizing thoughtfully. She snaps her fingers and points at Dick specifically this time. “Also Bruce makes everything worse. Look at your face.” What’s wrong with his face?

Tim nods.

“Well said, Blondie,” says Jason.

“What’s wrong with my face?” Dick asks, although he’s starting to get an idea. His stomach twists tighter.

“Are you serious?” Tim asks, incredulous, “Because last Saturday Bruce literally just -,” But he doesn’t finish before Bruce talks over him.

“I don’t think that you-,” Bruce tries to speak but Jason whips back around.

“ Shut up.”   he says, threatens, and Bruce looks momentarily taken aback. “That’s right, you don’t think. And you don’t talk,” Jason breathes in sharply through this noise and snorts it out, almost like a laugh, “Nobody does in this fucked up family. So I talk to other people, friends. You should try friends sometime, might do you some good.”

“Don’t tell me what I need,” Bruce says testily, and he actually folds his arms and everything.

“Look, I’m telling you what you are.” Jason shoots back. He leans forward, eyes gleaming strangely. “See, I’m friends with Roy. You know Roy.”

“Arsenal,” Bruce says through gritted teeth, his tone communicating exactly what he thinks of Roy Harper.

“Right.” Jason says, twirling the megaphone before going on. “He says you’re an asshole by the way, and I’m inclined to agree because he also said you used to treat Dick like absolute shit, you child abuser.”

A horrible, heavy pause. The words are a judgment, too damning to deflect lightly or to let sink long unaddressed. No one speaks. Then Dick and Bruce are both rushing to deny it.

“I didn’t-”

“He never-”

“For fuck’s sake,” Jason explodes, “I don’t need to hear your stupid explanations for what happened years ago. But just look at Dick’s fucking face!”

The cave rings silent for a moment as the echos die away.

Dick frowns, reaches up to touch his jaw, where the old bruise lingers still. He makes the mistake of looking at Bruce, but he can’t help wanting to know Bruce’s reaction. They never talk about it, they never address their more physical issues, they always move on mutely. Dick just wants to know, once, what Bruce thinks of it, so he watches his face.

Bruce looks back at Dick, tracking him up and down, zeroing in on his jaw. He frowns, looking almost surprised, like he didn’t expect to see anything there at all.

Dick feels like the floor just dropped out from underneath him; does Bruce not remember? Dick replays every action of his, of Bruce, over and over in his head. Maybe it’s better if Bruce doesn’t remember why he was so angry he hit Dick. Dick knows he himself pushes it behind him every time as quickly as possible.

But then Bruce asks him, “Dick, did you put them up to this?” He narrows his eyes. “What have you been saying?”

Dick is swallowed by his own horror. It’s his worst nightmare, what he’s been struggling to avoid all week: Bruce blaming him for everything. “What - Nothing!” He tries to control his panic. Bruce is just exploring explanations for all of these accusations, it’s not personal. “Come on, B, I’m not the one making a fuss. This is not my problem!”

“I fail to see why they would find issue on your behalf unless you gave them reason,” Bruce persists cynically. He is full on glaring now.

“Bruce, please, I didn’t make them do anything!” Dick says a bit desperately, unable to produce a logical defense out of his jumbled thoughts. He wants to point a finger at Jason, or Tim, for shit-disturbing, but something ingrained deep inside him holds him back from directing Bruce’s ire at anyone else, holds Dick’s own hands to the flames. His breaths are coming in short gasps again; please not now, he can’t have a panic attack now.

Bruce is a stone wall of judgment, now that he feels he understands the situation, that he understands that Dick is unsurprisingly disappointing him again. “You need to stop pushing people to do things just because you want them to. You’re an adult.”

Breathe. Breathe.

“And you need to stop giving Dick all the credit when we don’t let you get away with shit,” Jason interjects loudly, drawing Bruce’s attention once again.

“Bruce, Damian and I literally saw you last Saturday, we don’t need anyone to tell us anything,” Tim says, appalled that the same memory could be reframed as anything but what he sees as the truth. He is clenching and unclenching his hands, a nervous habit when he’s stressed. “And just because we’re not all minors doesn’t make violence magically okay now.”

Jason is still yelling through the megaphone, and the sound is grating to Dick’s ears, almost as harsh as the words themselves, “You should know this already, but clearly you don’t: you can’t just punch all of your problems, Bruce, not when they’re your fucking family!” The sound crackles when he shouts the last words.

Tim winces at the noise. “Turn it down!” he snaps, then, “He’s right, Bruce, you’ve got a pattern of behaviour and we’ve all been tolerating it for too long. It ends now.”

“Fuck you,” Jason tells Tim through the megaphone, and turns it up louder.

“Why?” Cass speaks for the first time, her voice carrying across the cave. She hovers at the edge of their standoff, watching. Her eyes are locked on Bruce. “Why did you-?” She motions to Dick. There is something lost in her expression, and something searching. She has been gone so long; all of the cracks in their family have become fault lines in her absence, and now the earthquake has come and she is left not knowing where to stand.

“It’s not like that, I would never just hit someone out of nowhere,” Bruce is defending himself, “There were extenuating circumstances.”

And Dick finds himself nodding in agreement, because the context frames the incident, and the context shows that he provoked Bruce, that he fought, and ergo maybe it was called for. But Tim had been present that night too, and his response now is different.

“I can’t believe you right now, are you trying to deny it?” Tim says, disbelieving, voice loud with the frayed nerves of many sleepless nights. He shakes his hand at Dick. “The evidence is right there, Bruce. He literally still has bruises. And I saw you do it!” His voice gets quieter, sobering. “How many times have I not seen you do it?”

Well, Dick is certainly not going to offer up that information. He presses his lips together.

Bruce is shaking his head.

“Tim, I didn’t expect you to be involved in this drama,” Bruce says, slowly, and there’s disappointment in the annoyance. Tim looks stricken, instinctively affected by the tone. “Dick and I fought last Saturday, and we have made up since then. Now, I just wanted to go over a breakdown of tonight’s mission and now you’re all attacking me claiming I’ve attacked you.”

“I’m not attacking you,” Tim protests. There is a bit of panic in his voice making him sound strained; he’s not immune to the need for Bruce’s approval. “You’re being illogical,” he says, frustrated, “I’m just pointing out that we have enough data to prove you have a problem, that you …..” he hesitates before continuing, “That you have hurt us, one of us at least, and it’s not okay so we’re going to have to change some things.”

Bruce breathes deep, rubbing his face tiredly. “It was an isolated incident that in light of the circumstances was -”

“I was there!” Tim cries, visibly rattled. “There were no circumstances.”

Dick glances at Bruce nervously; they need to move on. But Dick is struggling to gather himself, and his siblings won’t leave things alone.

“So just Dick,” Jason breaks in, the megaphone commanding attention. “That we know of. Unless we’re counting me before you knew it was me, bit of a gray area I’ll give you that, but yes I’m still bitter. And unless you want to do some more confessing?” He spins in a circle. “Unless anybody else, someone with a history of having one terrible parent anyway, would like to use this opportunity to confess anything about the other?” And he dangles the megaphone invitingly, pointedly, in Damian’s direction, and Dick’s blood boils.

“Damian is not involved in any of this,” Dick hisses, surging forward to confront Jason with renewed energy at the implication that Damian is somehow unsafe (when Dick has been agonizing over that himself). And then he’s turning to Bruce, pointing a finger, “You wouldn’t dare hurt him. Right?”

“Of course not,” Bruce swears, looking disgruntled at Dick’s sudden intensity, but Dick is not as convinced as he would like, not anymore. Bruce’s word is not as solid as it used to be. As it used to seem.

Jason is clearly even less convinced. “Yeah right, let’s let demon baby tell us. Here ya go.” And he’s extending his arm again. Damian’s eyes are wide; Dick can see his hands trembling at his sides.

Dick sees red. “Don’t call him that -”

Bruce moves fast, slapping the megaphone out of Jason’s hand.

“-Bruce, what the hell!” Dick shouts, as he ducks out of the way, dropping his blanket. The megaphone sails over his shoulder and clatters against the wall.

“Stop behaving like a lunatic!” Bruce yells at Jason, defaulting to giving orders when he feels like he’s losing control. His chest is heaving with his frustration.

“This is a mess,” Steph declares from off to the side, eyes wide. Dick sees her take a careful step closer to the computer, to the emergency button.

Dick wants to put his head in his hands. This argument is going nowhere; it needs to stop before it leads to blows. But no one seems interested in calming down. Everyone is high on adrenaline like they’re in the middle of a mission, but they aren’t surrounded by the enemy; they’re glaring at each other.

“Who’s the one who just slapped the megaphone out of my hands?” Jason is Mad. There’s green flickering in his eyes, Dick is sure of it.

“ Enough!”

Everyone turns to Cass, still standing apart. Her voice is clear and cutting, her face agitated. “This,” she says, waving her hand around at all of them, “is not working. No one is saying how they feel. You all feel pain.”

And isn’t that just exactly how their family operates. They’re like an impossible puzzle of people linked together, wanting to be loved, but all they do is hurt each other where their sharp edges meet.

“Bruce never says what he feels,” Jason says viciously, still too green. Dangerous.

Bruce must see it too. His posture shifts, a hand raised like he’s taming a wild beast. “Jason, I understand that you feel I’ve wronged you somehow, but you need to calm down,” he warns.

Jason takes it like an insult to his control. “I’m not here to play nice,” he says, reaching out and shoving a nearby chair so it crashes to the floor, making some bizarre point. It’s juvenile , but with the dangerous atmosphere the action makes the hair on Dick’s neck stand on end . “I’m done playing at all; I’m here to set the record straight. You need to realize what’s wrong with you and start making up for the shit you’ve put us all through.” Then, grandly, “It’s called restorative justice and it’s fucking excellent.”

Cass steps in as Bruce moves towards Jason, placing a hand on his chest.

“Stop before you break,” Cass tries again. She is looking at Jason.

“I won’t be the one breaking,” Jason promises her. He is looking at Bruce.

“Jason, everything I’ve done, I’ve done for your own good,” Bruce says, frustrated. To his daughter, “Cass, let go -”

“You liar,” Jason hisses. “But you probably believe that too, you delusional bastard. I can’t believe you,” the contempt is mixed with hurt, “You threw me into Arkham for my ‘own good’, but it’s clearly you who’s crazy! You wouldn’t know what’s good for us if it hit you in the face with a crowbar.”

And now they’re back to Jason’s trauma. This argument is spiraling.

“Jason, he already apologized for Arkham, and you weren’t in your right mind -,’ Dick says, trying to do the emotional heavy lifting for Bruce.

“Shut up, Dickhead, unless you want a fight with me too about how to welcome family,” Jason spits. Dick is a little embarrassed to be unable to tell whether Jason means before or after his resurrection. Maybe both.

“Jason, seriously, not right now,” Tim says dismissively, trying to reign the conversation back to the path he is envisioning. “We all know you were being manipulated hardcore by Talia!”

Dick winces. Talia Al Ghul. Contentious; it’s a triple hit. Bruce, Jason, and Damian all turn to glare at Tim.

“Drake, you don’t know anything about my mother -,” Damian begins.

“My decisions were my own, Replacement,” Jason cuts across him, tone warning.

“Talia can be… misguided,” Bruce intones reluctantly, and Damian turns to him with wide eyes. Dick’s own opinion of Talia Al Ghul is far from flattering - too familiar with the damage Damian’s upbringing has caused him - but he can’t help but wince at Bruce’s thoughtlessness.

Bruce continues, “But don’t confuse her with Ra’s.” The look he gives Tim then is sympathetic, close to pitying. Dick knows it will be read as patronizing. “Tim, I know you had a hard time when I was gone-” 

Dick cringes again as Tim bristles. “ Really, Bruce? Talia is a snake and you know it.” There is a sharp intake of breath near his elbow. Dick hates that Damian is being talked over when the conversation is about his own family.

But there’s real hurt in Tim’s voice. Dick doesn’t know all the details of what Tim had to go through to get Bruce back; Tim has never told him and has rebuffed Dick’s gentle attempts to pry. Dick knows how hard he failed Tim that year, that he’s more than earned his privacy from Dick. But his tightlipped silence tells its own story, and Dick has always been hyper aware of his siblings’ distress.

“If we’re going to bring up shady characters, how about the Joker,” Jason says nonchalantly, but there’s death in his tone. “I see he’s still running around. Face it Bruce, you’re a bad judge of how to deal with vigilante conflict, let alone family conflict. How do you think it feels for victims, when criminals get released again and again. How do you think I feel? When someone hurts you, and they don’t pay, and you have to see them again.” Jason pushes a breath out harshly, shaking his head, “No one else here gets it -”

And he cuts himself off abruptly, looking at Dick. Actually, all of his siblings are looking at him now.

“Would you all stop that, I’m fine,” Dick says exasperatedly.

“Sorry to call you out on your bullshit, but you’re literally shaking,” Steph points out.

“I’m cold!” Dick snaps.

“Okay look, there’s something weird between you and Damian, and Bruce and Damian because there’s a dual father thing going on, and that’s screwing everybody up, so Bruce is jealous of you because you get along better with Damian but it’s clear that Damian needs validation from Bruce and you also need validation from Bruce so you’re vulnerable when he hurts you and it makes all of you miserable,” Tim launches so suddenly into a theory he’s clearly put a lot of thought into, done waiting for Jason to say the words he wants addressed.

He speaks so fast Dick is having trouble following, but it seems he is the only one as Damian’s glare deepens and Jason shakes his head.

“You’re one to talk about needing validation from Bruce.” Jason is unimpressed.

“You can’t say anything either!” Tim shoots back, irritated.

“How dare you,” Damian hisses at Tim. He has a batarang clutched tightly in one hand. “Richard is not weak! And I do not require anything from Father.”

“I’m just saying -”

“You know nothing, Drake, you are least deserving of this family-,” Dick’s stomach turns; Damian is so vicious when he’s hurt.

“Damian that’s harsh,” Steph rebukes.

But Damian is upset; tonight has clearly unsettled him. Now he is a wounded animal backed into a corner, lashing out at whoever tries to come close. He switches targets. “And Brown you’re not even a part of this family-” 

Steph snorts. “Yeah maybe that’s for the best, considering you’re all a shitshow.”

 Damian’s eyes are narrowed. “This is a family matter, you don’t belong here -”

“You can’t make me leave, you little twerp,” her eyes are dangerous. She doesn’t usually look at Damian that way, but everyone seems so off right now.

“You are a worthless nuisance,” he expounds viciously, and Dick winces. “No one wants you here -”

“Fuck you, these are my friends!” she says fiercely, posture tensing like a cat poised to strike.

Damian levels a cold glare. “That hasn’t stopped you from leaving in the past.” And oh. Oh no. They should never bring up anyone’s deaths, faked or otherwise, ever. Steph looks outraged, but she can’t help a glance at Tim.

Tim’s lips are pinched in a thin line; he doesn’t meet her eyes, and his words are directed at Damian. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, you little-,” Tim does a double take. “What the hell? Put the knife away!”

“ Make me.”

“Let’s just all calm down,” Dick tries, but no one is listening. He looks around hopelessly and locks eyes with Bruce, who is glowering at him.

“Dick, look at this,” Bruce says, frustrated, gutting Dick afresh as he brings the entire argument full circle. “If you had just put aside your personal issues and operated as you told me you could, there wouldn’t be this mess.” A considering look, and then the words Dick has been dreading, “Maybe you should ...go.”

Dick can’t speak. What could he say when he can’t even seem to breathe? Bruce blames him; he blames himself. And there’s no time because Jason is talking again.

“Not everyone sacrifices their emotions for a lifetime of revenge on crime! You’re the one who put him in a shitty situation. You know what, forget what I said about helping you out,” Jason is saying to Bruce. “You can’t even see that you’re the biggest villain in our lives. So I think I’ll do everyone else a favour and teach you a lesson.”

And Jason is pulling out a gun and Bruce is pushing Cass aside, moving forward, and -

Dick finds himself thinking about the second law of thermodynamics. How there is increasing entropy in the universe, but more importantly, how complex systems tend towards chaos. His family is the most complex system he knows, and right now they are spiraling towards the event horizon of something horrible if Dick can’t think of an intervention soon enough.

Dick considers, for a moment, that he may need to call Clark. Normally this would be absolutely taboo because the consequences and repercussions on his relationship with Bruce would be catastrophic (a super in Gotham, the audacity). But the way Jason and Bruce are squaring up with Cass in the middle, Steph’s hands tightening into fists and Damian about to lunge for Tim means that suddenly the consequences of not calling for help are unthinkable.

Bang!

A gunshot breaks Dick from his thoughts before he can decide.

He looks around wildly, thinking for one terrible moment that he has deliberated too long, Jason has shot Bruce, but he too is looking around bewildered. Everyone tenses at the unknown threat.

Another gunshot thunders through the cave. Then, salvation:

“That is quite enough.” Alfred Pennyworth is standing in his sleepwear at the entrance to the cave, holding a smoking shotgun up to the ceiling, looking like an avenging angel. Dick is overwhelmed with relief; everyone will listen to Alfred. Dick hadn’t even realized how much tension was coiled inside him until it was released at the sight of Alfred. He slumps a bit and, oh, he really is shaking quite badly.

Alfred descends the stairs, recocking his gun with medical precision and sweeping his gaze to lock eyes with everyone. Jason has lowered his own gun; Bruce has straightened. Cass has stepped back. Dick feels Damian grab his hand and looks down; the batarang has discreetly disappeared.

“I am extremely disappointed with all of your behaviour,” Alfred says severely.

“Alfred, you don’t have to -,” Bruce begins.

“I said that is quite enough, Master Bruce,” Alfred snaps. Everyone’s eyes go wide. Bruce closes his mouth. “Clearly none of you can be trusted to speak without hurting one another, so you all shall remain silent for the rest of the night.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dick notices Jason glancing between Dick and his bike as though torn, clearly longing for an escape now that he’s facing Alfred’s disappointment. Dick doesn’t understand why it’s him that’s somehow holding Jason here.

Alfred catches Jason looking as well. “That is not a dismissal, Master Jason,” Alfred clarifies. “No one is leaving tonight. Now, I expect all of you are very tired and in need of a good night’s rest. Breakfast will be ready at nine sharp, and then we shall go to the aquarium.” Dick blinks at the reference to their family trip planned for tomorrow. Does Alfred really think now is a good time to-?

“Alfred, I don’t think I can make it -,” Jason tries, eyes darting to Bruce and away.

“Nonsense, Master Jason.” Alfred rules. “Everyone has worked very hard to prepare for tomorrow and this petty arguing will not be the reason it is not realized.” He looks over them all again. “I suggest everyone hurry to their chambers. Now.” He gestures at Bruce with his shotgun. “After you, Master Bruce.”

There’s a pause as everyone waits to see if he will listen. Bruce sets his jaw. A momentary standoff. Then slowly, amazingly, Bruce walks towards the change rooms. Cass swiftly moves after him, perhaps to have a Talk, and Dick knows this is absolutely not the time to be jealous of how those two seem to understand each other. If Cass can communicate with Bruce, that’s a good thing right now.

“Did Alfred just send Bruce to bed?” Steph whispers to no one.

“Not just Master Bruce, Miss Brown,” Alfred says pointedly. “There are fresh sheets for the rest of you waiting upstairs. Tonight, please.”

Alfred’s displeasure is clear in his clipped words. Everyone’s adrenaline is still high from the stalemate they were in moments ago, but authority is powerful, and Alfred holds authority over all of them. One by one, they turn to the change rooms or the stairs. Dick takes a moment to get the strength to move before heading to a change room. He dresses blindly, his movements mechanical, before slipping back out.

Jason is hanging back, likely wanting to talk to Alfred by himself. Dick feels the sickness in his stomach grow as he adds Alfred to his count of people he has disappointed today. He hugs his arms tightly around his body, willing himself not to throw up right now.

As Dick passes Alfred, he is stopped by a gentle hand on his arm. “Do you require stitches, Master Richard?” Alfred asks with some amount of concern. Oh right, Dick is bleeding. It’s just scrapes though. Nothing that happened to him tonight was more than surface deep. He can deal with it on his own.

Dick struggles to form words through his chattering teeth, even though he can’t feel the cold for the numb dread. “Just a scratch. All superficial,” he reassures. “I’m fine, Alfred. Thanks. I’m sorry.” The apology slipped out before he thought it through, and Alfred is raising an eyebrow.

Jason snorts behind him at the “I’m fine” and Dick shoots him a look, but honestly he is seconds away from a breakdown and he needs to be alone. He grasps for an exit, his spotty memory from tonight mercifully gifting him one clear flashback.

“Jason took a hit to the back,” he tattles. A truth. “He was moving funny earlier.” A lie.

Then he hurries up and out before Alfred can say anything more to him, his clinical attention appropriated to a defensive Jason (“I was not-”).

Dick barely makes it to his room before he’s falling to his knees in front of the toilet, puking.

It doesn’t take long before his empty stomach finishes dumping its meagre contents - pure bile - and Dick is left spitting to clear his mouth, chest heaving. Dick closes his eyes and leans forward to rest his forehead against the porcelain.

Images flash through his mind. 

So compliant. What else would you let me do?

The human trafficker, tracing his skin. Dick shudders at the phantom feeling of hands all over his body and curls into himself further.

It’s like you want this to happen to you.

Bruce’s disappointed face, unable to understand why Dick is like this, why he can’t just be stronger, better. If only he could stop being affected by the worst moments of his life; he should have moved on ages ago. Weak.

Did you put them up to this? You need to stop pushing your siblings to do things just because you want them to.

Bruce has to know how hurtful the words are, that Dick would never; Dick would rather bury himself alive than willingly burden his siblings with his own problems. But maybe Dick inadvertently showed his distress, a subconscious cry for help - because he’s weak, he thinks again bitterly. Because he’s not Bruce, he’s not Batman, he’s just Dick, and he has always needed someone else’s support.

And these days the only talking Dick does behind his back is in Bruce’s defense. Dick thought Bruce trusted his loyalty. He feels a small bitter spark, that Bruce could think Dick would be badmouthing him, and about something as personal as this.

Maybe you should ...go.

Dick feels a tear slide down his cheek and belatedly gasps a sob to follow. He staggers to his feet and throws himself into the shower, turning it hot and blasting, so he can’t tell what’s shower and what’s tears.

Go.

He always does this. Bruce always does this. Every time something goes slightly wrong, Dick’s fault or not, Bruce pushes him away. It’s a defense mechanism, how Bruce protects himself from further hurt, but it hurts Dick instead. And now it feels like his heart is cut open and bleeding down the drain. The water is even red from a combination of the cuts on his body and the lingering hair dye.

Now Dick is not sure what he’s supposed to do. Bruce obviously doesn’t want him here anymore, and half his siblings are annoyed with him, and he’s annoyed with them. Alfred impossibly thinks that everyone will still be able to peacefully attend the aquarium trip tomorrow, but personally? Dick thinks Operation F.I.S.H. might have to go down the drain right next to his cheap dye.

Dick groans, physically pained. He hadn’t expected to be so disappointed by how today went. He had been trying not to get his hopes up too high about tomorrow, but there is no way it will go smoothly now, not when everyone is being forced at literal gunpoint to get along. Dick slowly sinks to the ground and finds it more comfortable when he is curled up small.

Dick loses track of time. He can admit to himself he is wallowing, but the edges are tinged with panic, still jittery from the mission and the memories it stirred. At some point his fingers start to feel weird from being too waterlogged and he drags himself out to find a towel. He dresses his wounds on autopilot. There’s still a pink tinge to his hair when it catches the light, and one streak towards the back that’s pretty vibrant. Dick can’t bring himself to care.

He puts on pajamas and stands in his room, bed on one side and open suitcase on the other, trying to decide. He really doesn’t think he can face Bruce tomorrow, doesn’t want to have to look at his face. He’s shaken from tonight, the mission, the argument, Bruce’s unsettling allusions to something wrong with Dick that Dick isn’t privy too.

And really, Dick is still shaken from last week. Usually after a fight he doesn’t see Bruce for weeks at a time, and they both cool down. This time, the nerves never went away, and neither did the tiniest spark of resentment he has been ignoring but that has only been growing, that won’t help him keep the peace tomorrow. A part of him is longing to run away from whatever pain awaits at their next interaction; he’s not strong enough to face it. On the other hand, Alfred will be cross if Dick jumps out the window and ghosts on the trip he basically planned himself.

Before Dick can decide, there’s a quiet knock on the door, so subtle Dick almost misses it. A hesitant pause, then a louder knock. Dick feels his anxiety spike at the thought of interacting with someone right now. He’s not trembling uncontrollably anymore but he still feels shaky, off-balance.

Please, please, don’t let it be Bruce.

Dick takes a deep breath to calm himself, putting on a smile. Shoves his problems down deep inside. Then he opens the door.

The smile instantly feels more real.

“May I come in?” Damian asks shyly. He is dressed for bed and clutching a pillow and blanket.

“Of course,” Dick says, and he means it. He steps back and Damian squeezes through before he shuts the door behind him. “What’s up?”

Damian sits primly on the edge of Dick’s bed, nervously flattening the pillow. His lips twitch like he wants to bite them but keeps stopping himself.

“Are you okay?” Dick asks, coming to sit next to him. Guilt gnaws at his mind, recalling Damian’s frozen expression. “Tonight was a little intense.”

“I am merely inquiring as to -,” Damian cuts himself off, frowning as his eyes settle on the open suitcase. “Are you leaving?”

Go .

Dick swallows. “Damian, Bruce is pretty upset. I think it’s best if we ...don’t see each other.” Because for some reason, he can’t tolerate even looking at Dick when he’s mad.

“But Pennyworth said everyone was to stay,” Damian persists, almost whining. “And I ...I don’t want you to leave.” He sounds so fragile it breaks Dick’s heart.

“I don’t want to leave you, Dami,” Dick says gently, putting an arm around him that he leans into instantly. “But I really don’t want to cause anymore trouble.”

“It is not you who causes trouble,” Damian says with conviction. “And … Drake may have had a point, earlier. About our … confusing relationship.” Dick holds his breath, waits for Damian to put his words together. “You blur the line between brother and some sort of father figure, but I understand now. My father was not straightforward in his parenting for you. So brother, father; you do not know how to be quite one or the other. It bothers them, some of the others.” ‘Others’ is Damian’s circumspect way of referring to his siblings.

“And does it bother you?” Dick asks carefully.

Damian turns to face him, expression serious. “It is what you are, and what we are.” His breath shakes nervously, fear of rejection never truly gone. “And we are the best.”

Dick’s heart warms. He squeezes Damian in a hug.

“We are the best,” he agrees, hushed.

Damian hugs back, relaxing. “I want to go to the aquarium with you tomorrow,” he whispers. “Even if everyone is upset, and it is very uncomfortable. It will be better if you are there. I shall protect you from anyone who tries to hurt you,” He confidently assures Dick. Aw, Damian. “So please, Richard. Please stay.”

Well, if Dick can’t deny Bruce anything after all of the pain he’s caused him, Dick is no match for Damian, who holds his whole heart.

“Of course,” Dick agrees, and Damian relaxes slightly.

They talk briefly about mundane things, Damian’s project and the temporary exhibits at the aquarium. They carefully avoid any mention of tonight as they both seek distraction.

When Damian is unable to hold back a yawn Dick suggests they get some rest.

Damian’s hesitancy returns. “May I stay with you?” he asks, looking like he expects a no.

“I would love that,” Dick says with a grin. Maybe having Damian around will keep him calm, even keep the nightmares at bay.

 Damian nods and makes as though he will get up, throwing his blanket on the floor.

“Oh come on,” Dick says. “There’s tons of room, sleep up here.”

Damian takes no further convincing and acquiesces to some cuddles without any performative resistance. He was probably angling for a snuggle from the beginning.

Dick closes his eyes, more peaceful than he expected to be tonight, and blessedly too exhausted to entertain his anxieties. He suddenly remembers their plans to watch Finding Nemo this evening, abandoned for obvious reasons. He feels a small bit of grief for the night they could have had. It’s mixed with some dread for tomorrow and inevitable discomfort, but there is hope as well. He will be with his family. That is enough.

---------------------------

Dick wakes up as quietly as he can after a nightmare. 

(And when did it happen, that all his worst nightmares are memories?)

There’s no going back to sleep afterwards, but he lies still until his alarm at 8:30 am. Damian grumbles next to him at the noise and rolls over, burrowing deeper into the blankets.

Dick smiles and silences the alarm. “Turning over isn’t going to help,” Dick sings, “You can’t run from today!”

“Cease your sunny disposition immediately, it is inappropriate at this hour,” Damian mumbles, blinking at him like a kitten opening its eyes for the first time.

Dick is glad he had some time to think this morning after waking up, because as breakfast time approaches his anxiety is increasing. The idea of actually eating breakfast is particularly unappealing. But he tries to be positive for Damian.

“Come on, up you go, wouldn’t want Tim to beat you down to breakfast,” Dick goads. Damian rises quickly after that, proving that sibling rivalry will always be an important incentive in his life. 

Damian slips away to his own room to get ready and Dick makes the mistake of checking his phone. He ignores the texts from his friends wishing him a Happy Thanksgiving.

He has two missed calls from Barbara. Six text messages, ranging from worried to gently berating to finally: Tim told me you’re still going to the aquarium today. Take care of yourself, Boy Wonder.

Barbara has always had a hands off approach to Dick’s emotional state, giving him lots of space that Dick chooses to be grateful for. He replies, Happy Thanksgiving. Wish you were here. Because really, if Barbara was around, she could cut everyone else’s bullshit in half.

Dick hesitates a moment before his mirror, then applies makeup, covering his yellow jaw, the dark patches beneath his eyes. He swallows some pills. Then he dresses quickly, no thought, just a vague itching to cover as much skin as possible. Deliberately not thinking about today, about how his family thinks of him, about how they will act. He’s pretty sure he’s wearing two different sweaters by the end but his time is up, he’s actually a minute late, so he heads down. His bruised body protests as he descends the stairs, a thin sheen of sweat forming by the time he reaches the bottom. The painkillers haven’t kicked in yet.

Despite his tardiness, he finds himself loitering at the stairway. “Stop being a coward,” he tells himself. It doesn’t help. “You promised Damian.” Dick swipes the sweat from his brow. Another stabilizing breath, and he forces himself towards the dining room.

He summons a smile easily as he enters. Everyone is already present, except for Bruce. Dick assesses the room quickly, careful not to let his eyes settle for too long on anyone in particular lest prolonged eye contact be taken confrontationally.

There’s Damian, carefully arranging blueberries in an artistic pattern on his vegan waffle. Tim looks like the half empty coffee mug before him hasn’t kicked in yet, blinking at his food. (Did he even sleep?) Cass sits next to Tim, talking quietly with Steph, who looks more glum than usual. Jason is a grumpy island, glare in place, though he has placed a stack of waffles as a defensive tower between himself and the rest of the family. 

Everyone has bunched up at one end of the table, their anger with Bruce very clear by their positioning as new battlelines have been drawn. Dick feels some chagrin at their behaviour, but it’s not surprising; they are all growing tired of pretending to get along and this is just the cracks showing. It’s amazing they are all here. No one is looking up, so Dick has an extra moment to gather himself and make sure his smile stays in place.

Alfred is just setting down a fresh tray of fruit. He spots Dick. “Welcome, Master Richard.” He graciously doesn’t comment on his lateness. “Please seat yourself.”

At Alfred’s words, his siblings look up, varying emotions.

Jason looks annoyed, but that was true before he saw Dick.

Steph almost smiles, a bit more cheerful, as she announces, “Not so washable hair dye, is it?”

Dick groans theatrically as he drops himself beside Damian. “I’m giving it until tomorrow, or I’m going to just dye it black.”

“Looks good,” Cass compliments.

“Thanks Cass,” Dick says, grabbing a slice of orange. “You know, there’s more chalk in my room…”

Cass’ eyes light up. “Yes.”

“Ooh count me in,” Steph says, “I think a nice biohazard green would suit my current threat level. And give all the fishies a fright.”

“It’s just ‘fish’,” Damian corrects. “Or fishes, if you’re being scientific - which I am confident you are not.” He levels Steph with a flat look. She glares back.

“But you’re wearing red,” Tim mumbles to Steph, still half awake.

“So?”

“So you can’t,” Tim explains, waving his hand vaguely. “Because, Christmas colours. Incorrect holiday.”

Steph hmms. “I can change,” she decides. Then she scrutinizes him more closely. “You could pull off a sick red though, Tim, just think about it.”

“I don’t want to,” Tim says flatly.

“I want purple,” Cass says, and Steph high fives her.

Bruce enters the room. Dick knows everyone saw him enter, but suddenly they are all looking conspicuously down. Dick finds he can’t look at him directly either. Still a coward then, he thinks bitterly about himself.

“Good morning,” Bruce says awkwardly, choosing the empty seat next to Dick. Dick does his best not to choke on his orange. Or flinch too obviously.

Jason breaks the sudden one-sided silent treatment, speaking for the first time. “Good morning, asshole.”

Stephanie snorts into her cranberry juice. Dick just focuses on breathing.

“Master Jason,” Alfred chides, but he chooses a side when he sits pointedly next to Jason.

Jason folds his arms. “I said good morning.” He is looking between Dick and Bruce, torn, like he’s not happy with the seating arrangement but can’t bring himself to switch places.

Dick glances at Bruce. He is looking at Cass, but then he sighs and starts to load his plate, a bit resigned. Dick wonders what they talked about last night.

Well, he can’t expect anyone to take steps towards a ceasefire unless he’s willing to move on first. He takes all of his complicated hurt and shoves it hard to the back of his mind. Luckily he has experience washing bad blood away, even when he has to scrub with his tears.

Dick turns more fully towards Bruce. Smile. “Good morning.” Jason groans, but Dick doesn’t look at him.

Bruce nods back. Dick hates himself a bit when even that slight recognition has his stomach settling, his anxiety reduced by a scrap of positivity. Pathetic, but he’ll take whatever he can get right now. He goes back to his breakfast.

And then no one speaks. There’s just chewing and cutlery clatter. The silence lasts for a few minutes, and the awkwardness is excruciating. Dick can’t bring himself to break it, choosing instead to try to force himself to eat something. Perhaps part of this aching feeling inside of him is hunger.

Honestly, last night wasn’t so unusual - they have had their fair share of borderline violent screaming matches. In their line of work and with their complicated histories, it’s almost expected. What is unusual is that they are all sitting around the same table the next morning eating waffles, planning on spending hours together at an aquarium. There is no time to stew, but nothing has really been resolved in the hours since they left the cave. The thin peace relies on the fragile, superficial calm that protects them all.

Nobody knows what to do. So everybody does nothing, disguising it as eating breakfast.

Tim sighs deeply, setting his empty mug down. “Okay, we need to talk.”

Dick feels both Bruce and Damian tense up on either side of him. It feels uncomfortably like being flanked by two wired bombs.

“We?” asks Jason. “I don’t have anything to say to half the people here. I’m just here for Alfred. But some people better start begging for forgiveness.” He looks pointedly at Bruce.

“Yeah, I’m going to want one in writing,” Steph adds, looking at Damian, who sniffs and ignores her.

Tim sighs again, massaging his temples. “We all said things we regret.”

“I regret nothing -”

“We all said things that were hurtful,” Tim rushes to clarify. “And this is an intense topic, considering all of our… emotional involvement.” There is a general air of distaste at the implication of emotions. “Look, we’re going to need a fresh start on this conversation.”

It shows something of Tim’s tenacity, that he is still trying to get everyone to work this out after the blow up last night. It’s clear that everyone would rather cut ties than mend them. But when Tim makes up his mind about something, he is unable to let it go. After all, persistence is the very reason Tim became Robin in the first place. It makes him a great detective, and a decisive leader.

“It’s Saturday morning,” Steph says. “Are we really going to start talking about our hurt feelings and therapy needs between bites of waffle?”

“Well we might as well!” Tim says with a huff, waving his arms around. “We clearly can’t go on like this. It’s so awkward.” That, they can all agree on.

Bruce makes a noise like a cough. A lot of curious gazes turn to him. “Jason is right. I have considered my behaviour last night, and I need to apologize.”

Dick is glad he gave up eating when Tim started talking or he would have certainly choked this time. Most of his siblings appear to have similarly shocked reactions, though Cass is nodding encouragingly.

“You - what?” Jason asks blankly.

Bruce sits a little straighter, raises his voice and injects firmness into his tone. “I apologize for my harsh words last night. To all of you. I was …frustrated. But it was not my intention to ....hurt you.”

It’s choppy and slightly ambiguous but Bruce looks at each of them as he speaks. When he is done, he takes another bite off his plate. Everyone watches him.

A pause.

“I’m pretty sure your entire bite there was just whipped cream,” Steph comments, staring at Bruce in fascination. But she is speaking to him.

Cass snorts a laugh. 

“Any more specifics?” Jason asks once he recovers from the initial shock.

“Well, I,” Bruce begins, glancing first to Dick before he must remember that Dick is the Problem here and then he quickly switches to looking at Cass for guidance before directing his words to Jason. “I should not have insulted your mental state.”

“Damn right you psycho,” Jason mutters into his glass.

Bruce grits his jaw, but he says nothing further.

Wow. Bruce is trying so hard, and so soon after a huge fight. Dick is strangely proud of the man. He thinks it’s because he knows Bruce’s flaws and discomforts so well, knows how hard it is for Bruce to say these things and be this vulnerable. It’s an incredible display of ...well, change.

(What did Cass say to him?)

Change is only so fast though. Bruce quickly goes back to awkwardly eating his breakfast, display done. If Dick is disappointed he doesn’t get a direct apology too, well ....it’s fine, he wasn’t expecting anything, and he’s grateful Bruce is sitting next to him. He’s happy, yes, that must be it, this churning feeling in his stomach.

He can’t demand atonement, not the way Jason can. Bruce is clearly at his limit, to push him now would have consequences and Dick is starting to warm up to their family trip again. Best not to stir the pot.

But then Jason is saying, “Anything else you need to answer for?” And staring so pointedly at Dick that he’s tensing all over again.

“I already forgave him,” Dick says quickly, glancing at Bruce, who is looking determinedly anywhere else. Dick grits his teeth at the avoidance.

(But Dick wants that apology - its own kind of absolution.)

“Uh huh,” says Jason, unconvinced.

Bruce says nothing.

“So yeah, apologies are great,” Tim says, rubbing his eyes like he thinks everything might just be a hallucination. “Also, we need some serious changes. I mean, all of us. We can’t work as a team like this.” Tim checks that Bruce is not about to speak and say something stupid like ‘I work alone’. His mouth remains closed, so Tim continues, “So there’s the personal issues, and I know no one will take my word for it when I say you need therapy but -”

“- but y’all need therapy,” Steph finishes for him.

“Tim,” Bruce protests with one word.

“I fail to see why I should have to -,” Damian starts.

“Yeah, you don’t get to tell me that,” Jason says loudly.

“I don’t need therapy,” Dick says, because he’s fine.

Jason looks at Dick and switches tones. “Okay, you need therapy. So many reasons.”

“What? You don’t get to tell me that,” Dick shoots Jason’s words back at him. Again: “I’m fine .”

“You always say that,” Jason says around his waffle, between chews. “But you’re always lying.”

Juice runs down Dick’s wrist. The orange slice in his hand is crushed. 

“Stop! Everybody shut up for a second,” Tim says, and Dick is mildly surprised at the mildly rude command. “Look, I literally don’t care about whatever excuses you have to not help yourselves improve or whatever.”

“Tim, you’re telling us about self-care, really?” Dick says, unimpressed only because it’s directed at himself.

Tim shoots him an annoyed look. “Yes, actually.” He leans forward, intense, hands gripping the table, “Because our team, this family , is performing inadequately and we will destroy ourselves without the help of any villains. And because I care about you idiots.” He practically spits the last words.

“Unreciprocated,” Damian announces immediately in case there was any doubt. Dick looks at him with disappointment.

“Aww, Tim,” Steph coos. Cass puts a joking hand over her heart.

“I’m not getting you a Christmas present,” Jason says, pointing at Tim with a fork for emphasis.

Tim sighs once more, but heroically soldiers on. “So it’s your decision to get professional help or not, but regardless we need to improve our team communication.” He bites his lip, then continues unhappily, “I think that means we need to improve our family communication.” Some ruckus, but Tim is louder, “And that means we need to talk more in general about not mission things. And,” Tim visibly braces himself, “We need to talk about feelings.”

“Yes,” says Cass, nodding.

Damian scrunches his nose.

“Please, I’m barely a part of this so-called team,” Jason argues.

“Well I’m not a part of this so-called family,” Steph says, glaring at Damian again.

Tim slouches, trying to disappear into his chair, clearly reaching his limit for nagging feedback. He ignores all of the protests to end with, “Let’s just consider today a trial of our latest mission: Getting Our Shit Together.” He throws his hands in the air. “Because we need to treat each other better. ” A tired face scrub. “Seriously, if we can’t even go to the aquarium like normal people for a few hours, we may need stronger interventions.”

Well, that’s a bit ominous. Tim is well-connected in the superhero community and has almost as many contacts as Dick; he could back up a threat of “stronger interventions”. Dick thinks of his Titans friends, who he yelled at for suggesting they could help him, and feels a twinge of guilt. It’s not that the superhero community is truly ignorant of all of the problems with the Gothamites, but it’s hard to help someone who actively resists. That’s how Dick wants it though, how Bruce wants it. No one wants to bring anyone outside of Gotham into this; always, this will be a Family Matter. 

No one speaks. Bruce is clearly unhappy with what Tim is suggesting, the thought of supers in his city absolutely abhorrent, but he does not voice any objections as he recognizes the threat for what it is. Steph mouths “ Mission G.O.S.T.? What happened to Operation F.I.S.H?” Dick privately agrees that this must prove Tim is the family quipster. He has a point though: if they can’t even pretend to get along today, what does that say about their ability to support each other on missions, or stick together as a family? 

Silence again. 

Finally, Alfred sets down his fork and clears his throat. He has everyone’s attention instantly, even without the shotgun that mysteriously disappeared last night.

“The aquarium opens at ten. I suggest everyone be ready to leave in twenty minutes.”

Alfred has spoken. Everyone jumps into action. Dick races back upstairs to grab a coat, and Cass walks in behind him.

“Chalk,” she says.

“Uh,” says Dick, glancing at the clock. “I don’t know if there’s time…”

Steph barges in after them. Dick notes that as per Tim’s objections, she is no longer wearing red.

“It’s fine, let’s do it quick,” she says, heading straight for Dick’s bathroom. Dick hears a triumphant noise and a “Found it!” 

Cass immediately heads for the bathroom and Dick trails after. Steph already has the neon green selected and is handing Cass the purple.

“Why do you want to do this so bad?” Dick asks, leaning against the door.

“So we match, duh,” says Steph. She cracks her chalk and holds out half. “Can you do the back for me?”

“You will not be alone,” Cass says, gesturing towards Dick, and he is suddenly very touched by the camaraderie.

“Sure,” he tells Steph with a smile, accepting the chalk, “Let’s make you guys fabulous.”

They get to work. It’s a bit of a shoddy job by the time they’re done, and they didn’t seal it, but for the time limit it’s pretty good.

“Don’t brush up against any strangers,” Dick advises, looking at Steph’s vibrant green pony tail and Cass’ purple cropped cut. 

“Hey Dick are you ready to - woah,” Tim walks in and stares. “I didn’t realize you guys were actually going to do it now.”

“We are fast,” Cass brags, shaking her hair. Purple dust falls over the bathroom tile. Dick grins.

“Okay well,” Tim says, recovering fast. “This is good, I doubt we’re going to get recognized when you’re covered in chalk.”

“Perfect,” Cass says emphatically. She hates any attention on the Wayne family from the nosy public.

“Should be safe anyway, no one expects Bruce Wayne with a preteen and a gaggle of young adults, one of them dead, and a butler at the aquarium of all places,” Tim continues, walking out of the room.

“Who’s dead?” Jason asks deadpan, passing by in the hall.

“Everyone will be if we’re late, Alfred already has our funerals planned,” Dick swiftly ushers them all out before it can get tense. 

There is a blundering moment on the doorstep as they look at the Rolls Royce Alfred has pulled up to the front and everyone realizes they will need to take two vehicles. Steph immediately volunteers her Honda Civic that she has parked edgily close to the door. And the tide is moving again, the small knot of humanity spilling out onto the doorstep and flowing down the steps, where Dick observes its diffusion into two clusters. Steph is leading a lightly bickering Tim and Jason towards her parked car while Alfred has ushered Bruce, Cass, and Damian towards the other.

For a moment, Dick stands in the middle, watching the separation with bemusement. 

“Yo Dick, you coming with us?” Steph calls from her car.

Then Damian glances back, frowning when he sees Dick still unmoved. 

“Grayson, come along,” he demands. Dick detects a hint of urgency in his tone and recalls the morning live sea jellies’ feeding that Damian had very carefully not-expressed-interest in, having no need for the ‘useless creatures’ he spent fifteen minutes monologuing about.

And he thinks about Damian and Bruce in a car in Gotham traffic, Damian venturing carefully that “all they’ll miss is the pointless sea jellies demonstration” and Bruce agreeing.  

Oh hell no. A deep, habitual need to shelter Damian’s dreams from Bruce’s carelessness and nurture their father-son relationship has Dick shifting to follow along after a shrug to Steph.

“Where do you think you’re going, Goldie?” And there’s Jason, scowling over the hood of Steph’s car. He’s tracking Dick’s position with respect to Bruce in a way that is far from subtle.

Dick tells himself that he appreciates the concern, really. However grating and misplaced it may be. “I believe it’s the aquarium, Jay,” he says, voice falsely bright.

A narrowing of eyes. “Then come on.”

Poised to duck into the car behind Damian, Dick has neither the patience nor the energy for another argument. He flashes a grin that he intends to look as fake as it feels, jerks an explanatory thumb over his shoulder at the waiting vehicle, and hops in.

If he slams the door shut a little harder than strictly necessary, well. No one comments on it. “I think that’s everyone accounted for,” Dick says breezily. 

Damian is sandwiched between Dick and Cass, with Bruce up front next to Alfred. Dick is directly behind Bruce, and he is pathetically grateful he doesn’t have to see his face.

“Then we shall depart,” Alfred announces, and they are off.

It’s a quiet car ride for the most part. Dick gently cajoles Damian into regaling everyone with information about the exhibits, but it’s subdued. Damian keeps glancing at Bruce for a reaction. Just like Dick, Damian can’t help but hope for validation from Bruce, even when angry with him.

Dick is nodding to what Damian says about guppies in captivity. “That’s interesting, right Bruce?” 

Dick discreetly kicks Bruce’s chair. Bruce nods, then returns to whatever he’s been brooding about the whole ride. Dick can see the furrow between his brows in the window’s reflection. Something is on Bruce’s mind, but Dick can’t agonize about it right now; he doesn’t have time to go crazy.

“What about babies?” Cass asks Damian, attentive, and Dick smiles as Damian straightens and turns to her to share more of his research.

Dick tries to relax against the seat. No one is arguing, yet there is always tension. Dick didn’t sleep well last night. He feels like he has been in a hyper aware state for too long and his reserves are depleting, but he can’t afford to unwind. A family trip in public? This is a test of their collective self-control. There can be no fighting, so that means there can be no arguing or hurting each other’s feelings, and that means that Dick needs to be ready to mediate. For now though, he just focuses on breathing evenly, hoping to feel well rested if he just calms enough.

They reach the aquarium before he can magically rejuvenate, and he resigns himself to faking the energy. The parking lot is mostly full, of course it is, it’s Thanksgiving weekend. Steph pulls in a second later three spots away from them, and they meet in the middle. Jason and Tim trail behind, arguing quietly about something Dick hopes isn’t significant. As they draw closer, he is bewildered to catch dialogue about bidets of all things. Okay then.

“Beat you,” Cass teases.

“That’s because Alfred drives like a madman,” Steph protests, admiring.

“I beg your pardon,” Alfred sniffs, but there’s a twinkle in his eye. “No one likes a sore loser, Miss Stephanie.”

Dick laughs as he helps Alfred retrieve the bags of refreshments he packed for them. “We may have to smuggle these in,” Dick muses.

“Nah it’s fine, we can leave it in the locker room and use the cafeteria,” Tim says. “I looked it up, the reviews say they’re super lax.” He frowns at Bruce. “You need a bit more of a disguise.” Bruce is about to speak, but Tim continues, “Don’t worry, I brought you a hat.”

And Tim produces a green baseball cap that he hands to Bruce. Classic Tim, planning ahead.

“Hey, that’s my hat!” Steph objects, but she makes no move to retrieve it.

“He needs it more, unless you want to be in a newspaper article,” Tim points out. “We should be okay though. None of the rest of us are that recognizable.” Not when they aren’t dressed for a gala, anyway. Tim’s eyes survey the busy parking lot. “And we’re actually less likely to get picked out since it will be more crowded today.”

“Hmm, good point, fine he can keep the hat. And now we match I guess, so go green,” Steph cheers, flicking her neon green pony tail over her shoulder. 

“Okay slowpokes, let’s get this over with,” Jason says with the enthusiasm of a very angsty teen on ...well, on a mandatory holiday trip with the family.

Okay. Here they go. Dick squashes the lingering anxiety. He pulls his hood up and prays, pleads, that today is pleasant, and everyone comes away closer. Please, no fighting.

They head into the aquarium.

Chapter Text

“He didn’t like to see animals in captivity. When he looked into their eyes, something in their eyes looked back at him.” ~ Rick Yancey, The Infinite Sea

Oceans and Fishbowls

Everything starts off rather swimmingly. They have prepaid passes, and the bored college kid waving them through ahead of the masses doesn’t look twice at the poorly-disguised billionaire or the large baggage once it passes the metal detector. They get handed a map and a bland “welcome”, and then they are inside the aquarium.

“The hat is magic,” Steph whispers.

“No magic in Gotham,” Bruce says, straight-faced, and Dick cracks a grin despite himself.

“Wow what a joker,” mutters Tim, quiet enough that Jason doesn’t hear, and Dick can’t help but laugh. There’s hope now, small but growing tentatively in his heart, the more steps they take together in the same direction.

Maybe... But Dick doesn’t want to get ahead of himself.

They deposit their bags in a locker, looking at each other like they can’t believe they are doing this. Then there is a moment where everyone makes towards an exhibit, before realizing they are heading separate directions. They all pause, eyeing each other.

Damian tsks. “The Gotham exhibit is this way,” he says impatiently.

“No way, I don’t need to see that cesspool, I’m here for the real ocean,” Jason gestures to the open sea exhibit. Dick can’t tell if he actually took the time to develop itinerary preferences or if he is just being contrary.

Damian folds his arms. Before he can argue, Steph is jumping in.

“Priorities you guys, there’s a greenhouse section,” Steph points out on the map. “I want to see the sloth!” Cass leans in and oohs.

“It’s an aquarium,” Tim says, but he does look interested. Then he looks at Steph and Cass’ hair, unset and already leaving faint chalk stains on their shoulders, and regretfully adds, “Your hair is going to bleed if you go in a greenhouse right now.”

“Worth it,” Cass says solemnly.

Bruce is watching them all, baffled. “But what about the coral reef?” he asks, clearly having had his own ideas for how the viewing would go.

“That’s so basic,” Steph tells him, disappointed. A lot of people are frowning at Bruce now, actually. Dick wonders how much of the emotion is directed at his exhibit choices and how much is something deeper, leftover from last night.

“Allow me to assure everyone that we will be able to see all of the exhibits in due time,” Alfred breaks in. “We need only choose what is first.”

Dick really appreciates how everyone nods at this, how no one bristles at the statement when the implication that they’ll stick together is unspoken but strong.

Then suddenly everyone turns to Dick.

“What?” he asks, crossing his arms defensively. He didn’t say anything.

“What do you want to see?” Cass prompts him.

Oh. Dick glances around at all of their expectant faces. He doesn’t want to let anyone down. “I’m cool with anything,” he says mildly, smiling back.

Jason looks so unimpressed it comes off as angry. “Come on, Dickhead, just pick.”

Dick groans theatrically. He may take the lead on vigilante teams but he hates the pressure of choosing family activities; he always loses something. “Why do I have to pick first?”

“Because otherwise you’ll never tell us what you actually want,” Jason snaps. That is definitely some anger.

Dick sighs internally. “Okay, okay,” he looks at the map. There is one exhibit that he has been really looking forward to, thinking about Finding Nemo, but Bruce is the one who mentioned the coral reef. If Dick chooses it, Jason is going to judge him hard for giving in to Bruce’s preference. But too bad for Jason, Dick isn’t going to spite Bruce for the sake of it, not today. If Bruce is pleased, Dick tells himself that’s just a side effect. Dick wants to see a clownfish.

“Well, the coral reef should be beautiful,” Dick announces. And Jason does look peeved, while Bruce looks weirdly endeared. But Dick just wants to see some fish with his family, without the weird choosing sides, so he puts a hand on Damian’s shoulder and starts forward.

Conveniently, the coral reef habitats are the closest exhibit area. It’s busy, because the fish are most colourful here, capturing the attention of light-starved Gothamites.

Alfred makes everyone agree to meet in the cafeteria for lunch in case they get lost - or separated, when there is some eye rolling at the term ‘lost’. With some reluctance, everyone agrees.

At first, they are altogether. It’s crowded and the press of other people determines their viewing pace. There are a few cracks in their cohesion as Jason sticks to Alfred, Damian sticks to Dick, and both Jason and Damian polarize with Bruce, but they all naturally gravitate towards the same exhibits, nothing pulling them together but the same draw of exotic fish.

They are all light-starved Gothamites, too.

“Wow, it really is just a bunch of Nemo,” Tim observes, watching clownfish tumble around the sea anemones. He taps the glass lightly. “That is exactly Nemo, right there.”

“Right?” Steph says enthusiastically.

Dick has to agree, leaning in closer to inspect. “That movie was really accurate.” He wishes they had watched it together. He side-eyes his peaceful family. Maybe tonight ..?

Dick glances to where Damian stands silent, eyes locked on the exhibit, barely blinking as he memorizes the movements of the sea creatures. There’s a light in his eyes, the kind he gets when he sees something beautiful for the first time, or when he finishes a difficult sketch.

Dick smiles to himself and turns to join Cass at the next exhibit.

“What are we looking at?” he asks.

Cass points at the strange squishy logs. Dick peers closer. Are those weird things alive?

Dick reads the plaque. “Oh sea cucumbers, cool!” They stare together for a moment.

“I want to touch,” Cass confesses.

Dick laughs and inspects them again. “Yeah me too,” he admits.

Cass smiles slightly and turns to him.  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she says, a strange statement when her flight home was on time. There is something somber in her eyes.

Dick blinks at the declaration but recovers quickly, smiling softly back. “You’re not late. And I’m glad you’re here.” He means it. He feels a little guilty for all the times he has been jealous of her this weekend alone. She is so uniquely good for Bruce, and she has been nothing but kind and caring to Dick. He doesn’t deserve her. Maybe neither of them do.

Cass signs you okay? , and Dick’s quick nod gets him nothing but an eyebrow raise. But he doesn’t get time to feel defensive, to insist it’s true , to convince her that he does, actually, know how he feels.

Bruce steps up between them. “Are those sea cucumbers?” Dick can’t reply, he is too busy Not feeling anything about Bruce’s sudden presence. He finds himself squashing anger of all things, refuses to wonder why, and eventually settles himself into a pleasant facade. Bruce is clearly trying to engage right now, more than just an unwilling participant on this trip, and Dick wants to honour that.

“Yes,” Cass says simply. She and Dick watch Bruce examine the display of sea cucumbers.

They look so gelatinous,” Bruce says after a while. “I wonder…” and then he stops himself abruptly.

“You wonder what it would be like to squeeze it?” Dick finishes for him with a grin, and he and Cass laugh at Bruce’s blank face which may as well be an embarrassed yes.

This is nice, really. It’s like yesterday never happened, or at least everyone is agreeing to ignore it for now. Dick marvels at how careful they can all be with each other when they try. How surreal. How nice.

Until Bruce decides to dive in headfirst and drag Dick down with him.

They are a few exhibits along and Dick is squinting hard into a crack trying to glimpse the elusive octopus. Cass is on the other side of the exhibit; it’s a race to find the creature first.

Bruce appears at Dick’s elbow, crowding close.

“I need to speak with you,” Bruce announces.

Dick is in a crouch, face pressed into the glass. He tenses at Bruce’s words. Bruce never wants to speak to him lately. Which is probably for the best, Dick thinks bitterly. When they do speak, it never seems to go well these days.

“What, now?” he asks, not looking away from the rock crevices. “I’m kind of in the middle of a competition here, very cutthroat. Do you see the octopus anywhere?” 

He peers closer. Is that a tentacle?

“Dick, stop,” Bruce says. Commands. Dick knows he’s not trying to; this is just Bruce’s natural tone when he’s annoyed. Or when he wants something.

Purposeful or not, it works. Dick twists himself up to a stand and meets Bruce’s gaze.

“Yeah?” He leans against the glass to brace himself for whatever Bruce is going to say. He doubts it’s about the exhibit.

“About last night,” Bruce starts, and stops. Dick is having trouble reading him. He is clearly uncomfortable. Dick is uncomfortable, but hopeful. Then, “I was mistaken.”

Dick waits, but there’s nothing more.

“Mistaken about what?” he prods. Bruce’s apology to Jason this morning was unexpected, and now Dick can’t help the fragile longing inside of him, but it’s warring with the nerves that haven’t stopped buzzing since he walked into the manor on Thursday. Or maybe since he walked out of it last Saturday.

“About you,” Bruce says. Stops again. The elaboration only increases Dick’s anxiety. He lets his hopes die quietly. He feels like he’s missing something, something bad, but he can’t jump to conclusions yet.

“What do you mean?” he asks carefully.

“I placed you in a difficult position last night, a difficult role,” Bruce says, words general for the public setting. Dick’s fingers tighten around his arms, grasping layers of sweaters but feeling the ghost of a shawl, thin protection from this conversation, or maybe from memory. Bruce pushes onward, approaching his point, “And it is partially my responsibility for what happened, when you were… compromised by emotion. I should not have assumed you would be able to handle the pressure.”

“Uh,” says Dick, a bit thrown by what is shaping into some kind of apology. Dick is unfamiliar with this coming from Bruce; the man has never had to reach out to Dick like that. Placation has never been necessary. Bruce has always marched on, knowing Dick would follow after him. It’s not that Dick wouldn’t love for Bruce to change, but it’s a reality Dick has lived with for too long to trust vague words to lead them down a fresh path.

“It has been brought to my attention,” Bruce continues, painfully slow, “That I need to interact with you more …personally.” Dick analyzes rapidly. Tim? Cass? Probably Cass, this initiative is new. Dick presses his lips together. Of course. Of course it takes someone else to force Bruce to talk to Dick. “And I think we should discuss some of your problems of a more …personal nature.” While delivered awkwardly, the explanation comes faster now that Bruce has started the flow. “But I had thought, considering your past history and… inclinations, that you would not be so affected last night.”

His history? His inclinations? Dick is suddenly perturbed. He has a theory about what Bruce might be trying to say, and he really, really hopes he’s wrong.

“My - what?” Dick asks, hugging his arms tightly to his chest for support. He feels the dig of his nails through his sweater and tries to relax but he is too tense.

“Your history. Your reputation of ….exploits,” Bruce shifts awkwardly but his eyes are determined and his voice is steady, reasonable, honest. “Even on very recent occasions - and yes, Tim told me about earlier this week.” What happened earlier this week? “So I expected you would be more comfortable with that type of attention and situation. But you were not able to handle it.” A pause, Bruce gauging Dick’s response so far. He seems to gather some sort of cue from Dick’s silence, continuing gently, “I’ve considered that our work as a family is not the only issue that needs attention. That perhaps...”

Dick knows that Bruce is trying, that he actually intends this blunt insult as some kind of clumsy mitigation. Dick knows Bruce.

But does Bruce know Dick? Because Dick is fine, thank you. He doesn’t need some weird intervention about his supposed relationships. What does Bruce think he knows?

(Dick, you slut.)

“What reputation?” Dick persists, tone icy now, still stuck on Bruce’s first point. He hugs himself tighter, telling himself he should leave it alone, what does it matter, but does Bruce really think -?

Bruce frowns. “Dick, your reputation -”

“What about it?”

“Found it,” Cass materializes in front of them, eases between them.

Dick blinks, relaxes as he lets Cass move him away a bit. He hadn’t realized how tightly he was gripping his arms until he releases them. He uses the ache to ground himself.

“Found - what?” Bruce asks, clearly struggling to follow. He hides his frustration well. He has never enjoyed being interrupted.

“Octopus,” Cass points. “I win.”

Dick blinks again. He follows her finger and sure enough, there it is, near the crevice Dick had been staring at earlier. He would have found it first if he hadn’t been interrupted.

“Neat,” he says, distantly. Bruce says something in agreement, but Dick isn’t sure of the exact words. The present is slippery.

“Come,” Cass is saying with a frown, but it’s not to Dick. She pulls a protesting Bruce away. Bruce still looks a bit off kilter after their unfinished talk; he’s not the only one. A part of Dick wants to reach out and catch Bruce, pull him back, instead of letting him leave Dick here with nothing resolved. But he’s not moving fast enough so he watches them go as he is submerged by swirling thoughts.

Because: Dick thought he knew why Bruce chose him for undercover. He thought it was a combination of his talent for improvisation and his objective attractiveness. Also, perhaps most reasonably, he is the oldest. If anyone has to play a sexual role, it should be him.

(But why does anyone have to anyway? It’s a quiet voice, Dick can usually silence it easily, but for some reason it’s louder today.)

Bruce isn’t blind to gossip. Neither is Dick. And Dick is aware that his persona in the caped community has a certain image, and maybe some of it is because of his demeanor, how he smiles at everyone and how his jokes can come across flirtatious. But after Mirage, Dick knows people talk about him differently, like it gave them an excuse to speculate. The things they say to his face sometimes, what they assume, have him wanting to defend himself, but he’s scared the explanation would sound weak (what? He didn’t want to?).

It’s nothing compared to what people say behind his back, anyway.

He has heard wild stories about himself that are definitely not true. As uncomfortable as it is to imagine some of the tales reaching Bruce’s ears, he’s certain Bruce has heard enough. But Dick has never thought much of it because, well.

Bruce has to know they’re not true, right?

He needs to know Bruce didn’t throw him into a human trafficking ring based on his fabricated reputation - not when he knows Dick. He should know what’s true. Dick can tell the difference between the real Bruce and his collection of fake personas, what people say about him. Bruce must be able to discern the same for Dick.

And Bruce is a control freak; he has Dick’s schedule memorized, and there’s no gaps in it for fraternizing. Dick barely has time for anything at all outside of family, gymnastics, and vigilante business.

Still, Dick feels sick; Bruce’s opinion means so much to him. He’s used to measuring short in a lot of areas, but there’s something uniquely unpleasant about imagining Bruce’s disappointment in his personal life. But how the hell is he supposed to explain that it’s not what it looks like when the entire league is convinced?

And Dick wonders, dreads, what his siblings, the rest of his family, thinks of him. Do they think he enjoyed being undercover because he could be himself? Even in his mind, he can’t imagine his family believing that; it sounds like an impossible lie (or maybe not so impossible - he just couldn’t handle it if they did). But no, there’s no way they think that. Bruce can’t really think that. 

Damn Bruce, for setting him on edge like this when they’re trying to have a nice family outing.

Dick needs to talk to him, but he has been lost in thought too long and Bruce is out of sight. Now Tim and Jason are before him, bickering. He tries to set aside his anxiety and focus on his brothers, assessing the danger level of the argument. When he tunes in though, he’s relieved.

“I could be the king crab,” Jason is saying. “Sounds aggressive.”

“No way, look,” Tim taps the information card. “It says they’re not really dangerous, definitely not dangerous to humans. Can’t be you. But you know what, Bruce is definitely the king crab,” He continues with conviction, ignoring Jason’s raised eyebrow. “He basically lives in a castle. And he’s a rich delicacy.” Dick feels the corners of his lips twitch in spite of his melancholy at the mental image of Bruce’s stoic face on a crab’s body.

Jason snorts but doesn’t disagree. “Then what the hell am I?”

“Octopus,” Tim says a little smug.

Jason glares, menacing. A warning to tread carefully. “And that’s dangerous how?”

Tim gestures at the plaque. “Says they eat crab.”

Jason reads the plaque carefully, then cracks a shark-like grin. “Alright now we’re talking, Replacement.” He looks around, counting heads. “Where’d that king crab go anyway?”

“Cass dragged him off to the next exhibit,” Dick says, stepping closer to read the plaque.

“Fucking typical,” Jason mutters. Dick kind of agrees, Cass often attaches to Bruce when there’s a problem, but Dick doesn’t have the same venom about it that Jason does. It’s not quite what Jason thinks, anyway; Cass is really on Jason’s side, with her obvious beef with Bruce. But Cass likes to tackle the root of the problem, so she aims for Bruce directly. She’s clearly trying, but Dick thinks her attempts are backfiring, considering Bruce’s botched intervention.

He knows she means well, but he really wishes she would stop. That everyone would just stop, - it’s not helping.

“It’s easier for her, one on one,” is what Dick actually says. At Jason’s cynical look he rolls his eyes and adds, “For her to chew him out. And he listens to her. Let it go.” Dick pointedly turns back to the display. “The octopus really is like you, Jay. Look at him hiding in the corner all angsty.”

“I don’t hide,” Jason says, indignant, while Tim snickers.

“Are we assigning sea creatures to people?” Steph asks, delighted, as she joins them. “I have so many ideas. Hey shrimp!”

Ten feet away, Damian instinctively looks up. 

“Perfect,” Steph says, and this time Tim and Jason laugh. Damian blushes and huffs.

Dick is still feeling weird. Wondering what his siblings think of him, if they think of him at all, but not wanting to sound needy. Not wanting to find out if they do believe his reputation; he doesn’t want them to ever think about him like that.

“What about me? Which sea creature am I?” he asks instead.

“Hmm,” Steph eyes him consideringly, then moves to the next exhibit. “Let’s see what our options are.”

The display boasts a menagerie of sea life.

“Maybe the cuttlefish?” Tim suggests wryly. “Because you always want to cuddle.”

Honestly, younger siblings only like puns when they are weapons against him. But he can use this one.

“Aw Tim, that’s so sweet,” Dick says with a gleam in his eye as he goes in for a hug. Tim squawks but bears it, for longer than expected.

“We are in public,” Damian hisses, appalled by the PDA.

“It’s okay if you’re jealous, Dami, I have more hugs,” Dick consoles, moving towards him. Damian runs.

“Look at him move,” Steph comments, cackling. “Not a shrimp, what’s one of those fast fish? Sailfish?”

Dick is about to agree, then maybe segue into how Damian didn’t mean to insult Steph last night and does not take well to her bitter teasing, but a loud voice interrupts.

“Hey Dick! Get over here, forget the cuttlefish,” Jason calls from a smaller side section. Dick drifts over, peers in. Are those - “You’re a seahorse!” Jason declares proudly. “They’re pretty showy, look at that seadragon one. And get this, the males carry the baby. And you are such a mom.”

“Shit that’s perfect,” says Steph, coming over to inspect the seahorses.

“Wait the males what,” Dick says, reading the plaque frantically.

“Here’s a diagram,” Tim points out helpfully. He looks a little too pleased for Dick’s liking.

With some dread, Dick inspects the illustration of a pregnant seahorse. “Guys, I don’t think -”

“It’s perfect,” Steph says again.

“Honestly out of all of us, with the way you act, you’re most likely to get pregnant anyway,” Jason says. Jokes. 

Why would Jason say that ..? Then again, Jason is close to Kory these days. Would Kory say anything like that? Maybe… maybe if this is how Kory describes Dick, it might be true. The thought is accompanied by a wave of guilt, ashamed to have part of his notoriety justified. 

But it’s a joke, of course it is, even with the weirdly calculative side-eye Jason is giving him. Tim is laughing. Even Steph is laughing, and she literally was pregnant.

Dick takes a slow, unsteady breath and tries to pull it off as normal. It’s not just his inhale that trembles. But he can’t seem to force himself to relax. “Agree to disagree,” he says, distant.

Siblings making fun of each other, that’s all, nothing to blow up over. It’s not their fault Dick is feeling particularly fragile about his sexual reputation. He just … wishes they didn’t hear about it, had hoped that they wouldn’t believe it if they did hear. But Bruce implied differently. Dick usually tries not to let hearsay bother him, but. Clearly, his family thinks he’s somebody else. Or maybe he just doesn’t understand himself.

When he tries to look at himself these days his reflection is always so blurry.

Dick feels a flash of irritation cracking through his stress. A seahorse; of course that’s how they see him. Everyone expects him to be who they want, to carry the responsibilities for them, and then they have the audacity to tell him they don’t want his help. They demand that he understand their points of view, then get mad at him for being overbearing. They tell him they don’t want him to parent them but they turn to him anyway.

Everyone wants Dick to do something, to change, but they don’t see what Dick is holding onto. The problems in the family aren’t because Dick has been idle, coasting in their family’s flow. That he just needs to wake up and then he will fight the current, advocate for change in their family system alongside them. No one seems to realize that he is carrying the system on his back; his hands are full clutching all of their strings together and still they are slipping through his fingers. He can’t change, can’t move from his course, can’t afford to even shift his fingers. He’s afraid he’ll lose them all if he lets go.

But of course, they never try to understand him. Even with whatever is going on with Bruce, his siblings have an idea about Bruce and Dick and nothing Dick says will change their minds. He glances at them, still joking together, hanging out on a family trip, doing a surprisingly good job of playing the normal family, like nothing is wrong. His siblings hover around, watching Dick from the corners of their eyes, waiting for some kind of mysterious signal that Dick doesn’t know how to give.

If they truly believe Bruce is so toxic for Dick, why aren’t they doing more?

But Dick is overthinking, which is dangerous. He can’t afford to feel these things.

It is definitely not the time to bring this stuff up, so Dick shakily laughs along. He watches the seahorses drift and wishes he could relax with the flow like they do. When he speaks, his voice is carefully light so it doesn’t crack. “Which sea creature are you then, Steph?”

“Oh I’m not one of these little guys,” she says readily, gesturing around dismissively. She draws herself up importantly. “I’m a dolphin,” she pronounces, proud.

Tim raises an eyebrow.

“The fuck you are,” says Jason, not ready for someone to have a cooler spirit animal than him. “You’re one of those useless jellyfish.” Steph takes the insult to her worth lightly, grinning; perhaps through the refraction of the aquarium the words lose their bite.

The words are not entirely harmless. Dick notices Damian, a little ways away, stiffen up a bit. Casually, Dick says, “Jellyfish are pretty cool actually.” He checks the time. “There’s a feeding demonstration in ten minutes, anybody up for it?”

“Nah,” says Tim. He glances at Steph, who nods. “We’re gonna check out the gift shop.”

It is said casually, but there’s something about the way they grin that makes all of Dick’s older sibling senses tingle. “Why did that sound so suspicious?” Then, “Did you take Bruce’s credit card?”

“Oh relax, come with us if you want,” Steph says, not an answer, and that is definitely a mischievous look.

“Maybe later,” Dick says, though now he is extremely curious. Tim and Steph walk away, and the responsible part of him wants him to follow. They are adults though, barely, and the clock is ticking. He turns. “Damian? Jellyfish?”

“I suppose I could keep you company,” he says haughtily, like he hasn’t been eyeing the clock waiting for this moment.

Dick looks at Jason. He has been quieter than usual since arriving at the aquarium, sometimes a sign of an embarrassed or worried Jason, but he has relaxed more since Cass disappeared with Bruce. Jason glances at Damian before shaking his head. “Alfred should be back from the restroom soon, I’ll wait for him.”

Jason gives him a look, daring him to say anything. Dick grins, feeling a bit brash. “That is the sweetest.”

“Stop it you seahorse,” Jason grinds out.

“Okay, octopus,” he coos, and then he leaves quickly as Jason starts swearing and drawing attention. They need to head to the open ocean collection.

There’s a small crowd forming around the sea jellies exhibit. Dick inches Damian closer to the front as one of the staff members starts to speak. The tank has none of the decorative displays that populated the coral reef habitats. Just empty space with an artificial current.

The sea jellies feeding is actually interesting. Everything is so passive, food and jellies floating around. When food meets jelly, it gets absorbed. And that’s it, that’s the feeding. No complexities in the mechanics; the intricacy lies in their aesthetic details. Dick can see why Damian appreciates them. There is something peaceful about them, something soft and fragile, though their flexibility is their strength.

After a few minutes, the speaker stops narrating the simple feeding process, and most of the viewers grow bored and wander away. Dick catches a flash of a sketchbook and discreetly suggests Damian sit down for a moment on the bench nearby while Dick talks to the girl who did the demonstration for a bit. 

It’s mostly an excuse to give Damian time to relax in the environment, but he finds himself enjoying the chance to chat with a stranger. Lately, all of his conversations with his family have had draining undercurrents he needs to be hyper aware of.

In theory, he’s asking about the demonstration. Mostly, he talks about Damian. The girl looks tired, but there’s a soft smile on her face as she listens to Dick. About how excited Damian was to come to the aquarium. Proudly, how much Damian knows about sea jellies. And if Damian wanted to learn more, what could Dick do for him? The girl’s eyes are starting to light up a bit, and soon they’re chatting animatedly about a summer program the aquarium puts on. By the end Dick has her laughing, a tiny unassuming victory, and when he makes to leave she tells him- 

“Your son sounds real special.” Grinning, like her words don’t cut him. 

Even more piercing, to recognize how Dick himself had been speaking about Damian without realizing his speech implications. There’s an ache in his chest from a suddenly hollow space, as some unspeakable emotion crawls its way into his throat. 

Everything hovers so close to the surface today.

But he has been performing his whole life, so Dick swallows it down, the familiar foul taste, and he smiles and thanks her and walks away.

He joins Damian on the bench, and Damian sketches a little more openly. Dicks heart melts at the tiny show of trust. He watches the jellies idly. They really are lovely to behold, with their delicate patterns, but more than that, he finds a beautiful liberty to their drifting motions. No one expects anything from them, they float around with the simple purpose of existence. It’s too bad they keep running into the walls - Dick imagines them in the freedom of the open ocean, the current carrying them forever onward.

Since they are trapped in a barren tank, watching the sea jellies becomes sad after a while. In his current emotional state, Dick relates a bit too well to this empty amphitheater with glass on every side. His siblings got him wrong, he’s totally a sea jelly. Or maybe he’s just melancholy today; he has a buzz in his brain that won’t go away.

Eventually, Dick peeks at Damian’s drawing. It’s breathtakingly good, as usual. “Wow, that looks amazing,” he says earnestly.

Damian blushes. “It is nothing, Richard,” but he’s preening a little. “You always say that.”

Dick decides to push a bit. This is a family outing after all, and apparently everyone thinks Dick can’t help himself but try to parent. “It’s great, Dami. You should show the others. They’ll be impressed. Trust me, It’s not just me.”

Damian immediately scowls, shutting down. “Those fools do not understand composition.”

“Come on, give them a chance. Steph thinks art is awesome,” he tries.

Damian closes the sketchbook. “No.” Hesitation, then, “Besides, Brown is upset with me.”

Right. Because Damian told her she didn’t belong with them and should leave. Dick can relate very hard to that kind of hurt. He sighs. “Damian, you hurt her last night. Why would you tell her she wasn’t part of the family? I thought you two were getting along.”

Damian crosses his arms, petulant. “I spoke the truth. She is not part of this family.”

“You should apologize,” Dick tells him, hardened. “She’ll forgive you.”

“I should not need to apologize for the truth, Richard,” Damian says stiffly. There’s a bit of a whine. “She is the one who is behaving childishly and harassing me. She should apologize.”

Damian looks honestly hurt, like he thought Dick would take his side when he complained about Stephanie. Dick feels a headache coming on.

Dick takes a deep breath. Damian is just a child, one who was raised with misguided morals and a ridiculous emphasis on pride.

What has pride ever done for Dick? 

“Damian,” he says carefully, “She’s part of the team. She stays over for Thanksgiving. She’s one of us, and we need to make her feel appreciated. What makes her not part of the family?”

He’s pretty sure he knows, but he has to make Damian say it. He’s ready, but it still hurts when Damian says, “I am Bruce’s blood son. And you are all adopted. Brown bears neither relation.”

“What about Alfred?” Dick asks. He feels the bite of his nails digging into his palms, but he’s focused on Damian.

“Pennyworth is not part of the family, he is the butler,” Damian says, sounding bewildered that Dick would even ask.

Dick grinds his teeth, because Alfred feels the most like family some days. “Alfred is family, Damian,” he says, maybe too sharply, but he’s disappointed in Damian. He knows Damian is blinded by personal hurt and shame right now, but he should still know better. Last night he had practically told Dick that labels on their relationship weren’t important.

But Damian is young, he’s allowed to change his mind.

“Didn’t we just talk about this last night?” Dick asks, exasperation coming through a bit. “What’s important in relationships isn’t legalities or titles. It’s caring about each other. It’s love.”

Damian rolls his eyes. “Not everything is about love, Richard. And why did Father bother adopting if it’s not important? Appearances matter.”

Dick can’t take this anymore. Not when he’s pretty sure Bruce doesn’t love him any more than he loves a tractable tool. He leans in so no one can overhear. “Listen to me very closely,” he says, almost a hiss. “Bruce is not a good role model for relationships. Steph puts up with you when you’re being rude, but she can only take so much. If you want people to care about you, you need to care about them. And if you count family by the legalities, then I’m nothing to you.”

“Nothing? But Father -,” Damian begins, confused and vulnerable. “What are you - you mean-,” then, more quietly, “I don’t understand.”

“Doesn’t matter. Bruce never adopted me, and I never adopted you,” says Dick callously, ignoring the dawning revelation and subsequent lost look on Damian’s face. “So you need to make up your mind, right now, about who matters to you. And then you need to act like it. Got it?”

Damian nods, eyes wide.

“Okay.” Dick closes his eyes and inhales, lets it out slowly. He needs to calm down. But he can’t talk about this anymore. He needs a distraction.

He stands up abruptly. “I’m going to the gift shop,” he announces. “Are you coming?”

Damian gets up a bit shakily, nodding again. He watches Dick warily as they walk silently to the gift shop.

—-----------------

Dick should probably apologize for his minor blow up. It’s not Damian’s fault he’s so on edge about his place in the family, about his lack of legal title. How he feels like maybe he doesn’t have the honorary role either. But he believes what he told Damian - it doesn’t matter, not anymore.

The gift shop is packed, but it doesn’t take long to find Steph and Tim. Damian drifts off and Dick lets him go; it’s probably best to cool off separately.

Tim and Steph have their arms full of various bags of candy and are currently discussing the benefits of trying a fish flavoured gummy.

“But does it even have sugar in it?” Tim is asking. “I just can’t picture fishy and sweet united as one flavour. Sounds gross.”

“The package says it’s a bestseller,” Steph points out, reading the back.

“I really don’t think that’s human food,” Dick says, coming up behind her.

“I’m buying it,” Steph announces, tossing it at Tim who barely manages to juggle it with his other packets. “I mean, you are.”

They head to the checkout and Tim pulls out a credit card. Dick inspects it.

Suspicions confirmed. Dick raises an eyebrow. “Is this being sponsored by Wayne Enterprises?”

“It’s a business trip,” Tim says with a straight face, gathering the bags.

Dick gives them a look. “Alfred is going to be upset if he finds out you filled up on junk. He spent days preparing the lunch we lugged here.”

Steph shakes a packet of Skittles in his face. “Good thing he won’t find out,” she lures him.

“Why, you temptress, ” says Dick with a grin, grabbing the bag and ripping them open. “These are my favourite.”

“Right? Taste the rainbow,” Steph sings, grabbing some for herself.

“And now you are compromised,” Tim tells him, shoving contraband into his pockets. “Welcome to the candy rebellion.”

“Please, I led the candy revolution back when I was like ten,” Dick says, pouring Skittles into his mouth before stuffing the bag into his pocket. “Why do you think we’re allowed marshmallows?”

Tim’s eyes alight with interest at Dick’s words. He looks young, closer to his real age at this moment than he has in weeks. Tim opens his mouth but before he can ask about marshmallow origins, a clattering sound echoes down the aisle. Dick, Tim and Steph make eye contact, then move as one to investigate.

A tiny boy is sitting on the floor crying, surrounded by toys.

“Hey there,” Dick says immediately, dropping down next to the child. “What happened, buddy?”

His smile is met with watery eyes. A sniff. “I fell.” A tear.

“Are you hurt?” Dick prods gently. The kid shows him his scraped hands. Dick looks them over quickly. Nothing serious. “You’re very brave. Who did you come here with?” Dick asks.

“My mom-”

“Excuse me,” a new voice has them all whipping around. It’s an employee. His name tag reads ‘Hi I’m Gerald’. “Is your child okay?”

Steph and Tim snort, but Dick’s stomach flips. His own reaction bothers him - why is he so sensitive about everything today?

“He’s alright,” Dick answers, helping the kid up. “But we found him like this. He’s looking for his mom.”

Gerald shuffles, antsy. “There is a lost and found department at the front of the aquarium.” He glances back to the desk. “This aisle needs to be clear for traffic.” It sounds like an apology.

Dick glances around. It appears that the child crashed into a fishing barrel filled with…. “What are those?” Steph asks, confused, looking at the toys.

Tim picks one up. “Sea staff,” he reads. It’s a plastic stick with a shark mounted on the end. The other toys have different sea creatures attached.

“They’re a best seller,” Gerald points out helpfully.

“Timmy!” A panicked voice calls, and Dick catches Tim’s confused look right before a young woman whips down the aisle and scoops up the little boy. “I was so worried about you!”

Now it is Dick and Steph’s turn to snort, while Tim turns red. Little Timmy, Big Timmy, Dick mouths, heedless of Tim’s death glare.

After Dick insists that he and his siblings are perfectly capable of putting the toys away, Gerald leads little Timmy and his mom away for first aid.

“Oh Timmy,” Steph calls sweetly, holding out a stick with a sea turtle on it, “Put this in the barrel, would you?”

Tim does so, long-suffering. Dick grabs the last stick as they stand up.

“You were pretty cute with that kid,” Steph offers, trying to be nice. 

Dick grits his teeth into a smile and grips the toy tighter. “Thanks.” He is way too sensitive about kids right now.

He tries not to think too hard, but he’s thinking so much today.

“Where’s the brat?” Steph asks as they turn to meander back towards the main aquarium. She tries one of the fish flavoured candies and makes a face, then offers it to Tim.

Tim chews thoughtfully. “These aren’t awful.”

Dick looks around for Damian, a bit of shame stinging his chest at his earlier behaviour. He can’t seem to help himself today, he’s on an emotional slide. It’s not fair that Damian gets hurt by the avalanche.

Maybe it’s the guilt, but he tries to do Damian a favour. He turns to face Steph. “You know, he didn’t mean what he said to you last night. He was just upset.”

“Really, Dick?” Steph asks him. She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Nobody was ‘just upset’ last night. And you know he meant it. I’m not a part of the family.”

Steph’s tone is still almost playful, but her eyes are hard and her jaw is set. The words bother her.

Tim awkwardly looks back and forth between them, caught in the middle.

“He did mean them, but he regrets them,” Dick persists. “And no one thinks they’re true. You’re one of us. But Damian can tell you’re mad at him and it’s making him miserable.”

Steph holds up a hand. “Dick, stop,” she says. “If he really feels sorry, he has to apologize himself. I get what you’re trying to do, you want it all to work out, and for us to be friends. But I have a right to feel hurt and react,” she says pointedly.

Dick starts to argue, but Tim jumps in.

“Back off, Dick,” Tim says a bit tiredly. “You’ve got tunnel vision on Damian. Maybe take a step back. Other people have feelings too.”

Oh, right. It’s a verbal slap, but it works. Dick feels insensitive; he blames his laser focus on Damian and his own guilt from how he treated Damian earlier. He wishes he hadn’t spoken. He bites his lip, then sighs. “I’m sorry, Steph,” he says, “You’re right, you were hurt. You don’t have to just get over it.”

Steph shakes her head. “It’s okay, I know you’re just trying to help the little guy, but seriously, you can’t just do all of the emotional work for Damian.” She pauses, scrutinizing him closely. Dick feels exposed again, despite the layers he’s wearing. “Or Bruce for that matter.”

Dick freezes. So they’re back to this again. “Do we really need to talk about my relationship with Bruce right now?”

Steph and Tim look at each other significantly. Dick feels a flash of annoyance. He is right here. Honestly, his family can be so subtle when they have to, but somehow when it's with each other they lose all finer social graces.

It’s Tim who replies, words carefully chosen like he has taken time to craft them and believes they are the right ones. “Dick, you may have tunnel vision on Damian, but that’s normal, you raised him for a while. But it’s nothing compared to how you obsess about Bruce. It’s not healthy.”

Tim speaks bluntly, and Dick feels each word land like a blow. Since he’s already off-kilter, this sends him spinning. He reaches up a hand to rub at his temple; the headache has returned. “What exactly is wrong with Bruce and I?”

“It’s not your fault,” Tim rushes to assure him, and Dick wants to laugh because everything is his fault these days, “Bruce is terrible at communication, we all know that. But you keep acting like everything is okay when he does things that are wrong, just because he’s the one doing them, like he’s some golden standard. But he’s hurting you and it’s not healthy. It hurts his other relationships too, it hurts your other relationships too.” Dick’s jaw clicks.

“Tim, he literally is the gold standard for right and good.” Dick leans in to whisper viciously, “He’s literally Batman.”

“He’s a man, he’s not infallible, you know that,” argues Tim. “And you were Batman too, without the emotional constipation and lashing out at people.” Dick snorts at Tim bringing up anything positive about the time when their relationship was poorest.

“Yeah, and you liked me so much then,” Dick snarks, annoyed. “Maybe your problem isn’t Bruce and me, maybe your problem is Batman and you.”

Tim glares. “This isn’t about me -”

“Then stay out of it!” Dick practically growls.

 “- but I care about both of you and you need serious help!” Dick knows Tim’s expression here, with those pinched lips, tight eyes, body perfectly still. Then, almost a whine, “Dick. Please. This is messing with your whole life.” Still no movement.

Then - a twitch of his shoulders, and it’s confirmed. His little brother is trying not to cry. Dick feels gutted. He…

(Dick did this, but he can’t fix it, he can’t touch anyone right now, he can’t-)

“Dick,” Steph’s voice breaks in. Dick is suddenly very aware that they are huddled in a corner of a public gift shop and tries to calm down. “We care, okay? About you.”

“And Bruce,” Tim adds, still a little stiff. 

“Nah, fuck that guy,” Steph says offhandedly. “What?” she asks at Tim’s admonishing glance and Dick’s raised eyebrows. “He has a lot of self-improvement he needs to do before I start trusting him with my delicate heart.”

Bizarrely, Steph’s attitude helps Dick to ease. “He is a little clumsy with emotions,” Dick agrees.

“Maybe you should try some distance too, Dick,” Steph ventures. “Emotional or physical, you pick.”

Dick thinks about that for zero seconds. “No thanks, I’m not leaving the people I love just because they’re bad at expressing themselves.”

Tim closes his eyes and inhales deeply.

“I can’t believe you sometimes,” Steph blows air, looking up at the ceiling. “Dad-,” she catches herself quickly, but not quickly enough, “Bruce is not bad at expressing himself. That’s like calling a machete a butter knife. It’s a gross underestimation of the damage he can do when he refuses to admit he’s the problem,” she is choking on her words, but valiantly forcing them out, “You’re not helping him by enabling him, and all it does is hurt m- you,” a sharp breath, “So what the hell do you stand to gain by sticking around when he doesn’t care enough to care for you?” Her exasperation is furious, and Dick isn’t sure who it’s truly directed at anymore. “When you see a monster you run away.” A final push of air, “If this was your romantic partner I’d say dump his ass!”

Steph is almost yelling by the end of it, her personal experience bleeding through in her frustration. Dick knows what Steph is seeing in Bruce by her rigid posture and her stuttered words - the silhouette of Steph’s father; a man with few redeeming qualities for her to return to. And now she wants Dick to walk away too. Only, the parallel ends here: he can’t.

She doesn’t get it. No one does. This isn’t about Dick letting Bruce get away without consequences when his poor communication becomes hurtful. Dick can’t leave Bruce because that would mean leaving all of them. And besides, it’s not Bruce who is toxic. Dick is the one who is poison. Dick reminds himself he is grateful for any scrap of family Bruce is willing to share with him. And maybe he is a little annoyed with Bruce right now for making assumptions; it would have been nice if Bruce had taken the time to talk to Dick, to ask him about what is true, but it’s okay. It hurts, but it’s okay, really.

“You think I don’t know he doesn’t give a shit about how I feel half the time?” Dick spits, the hurt tasting a lot like anger on his tongue. “I understand him, and he understands me.” A lie. He covers it with an attack, “Maybe you guys should try to understand me a bit more too. I’m not some damsel in distress. My childhood wasn’t your childhood.” Steph flinches, and Dick refuses to feel bad. “Did you even consider that maybe Bruce saved my life after I lost e verything? So asshole or not, I owe it to him to stick with him. And I care,” he stresses, “And when you care about people, you don’t just leave.” His voice shakes on the last word. He tries not to think of the ways the very people he’s arguing with now have left him in the past.

“You think you can handle anything,” Steph says, eyes shiny; an acid rain waiting to fall. “But you’re a mess. ” You’re unstable. “You’re attacking the wrong people.” Steph draws in a sharp breath. Her nostrils flare. “We’re trying to help your sorry butt. Bruce doesn’t deserve your defense.” She points a finger, accusing, “You think you’re different? You’re exactly like me.”

Dick inhales.

Tim steps in between them, breaking their furious eye contact. “Guys, stop, public spaces, drawing attention.” He sounds tired and old again, and Dick feels guilty as the cause. Tim looks at the clock. “Time to meet in the cafeteria,” he points out. “We need to get Damian and go.”

Tim’s interruption shorts out the sparks flying between them. Steph pinches the bridge of her nose exasperatedly. Dick backs away, needing space suddenly. He tries to calm down.

“I’ll find him,” Dick says, glancing around, “He was here earlier.”

Tim hesitates as he looks between Steph and Dick, clearly conflicted. Dick has noticed that no one seems to want him to be alone today. But Tim must be able to see that Dick hasn’t really cooled down yet. And Steph’s arms are still folded. So to Dick, “We’ll see you there?”

“See you there,” Dick echoes, and he heads down the aisle he saw Damian last. He turns the corner, and pauses to collect himself for a second, slumping against the wall.

Honestly, what is with him picking fights today? But it feels like no one understands him when he speaks. He reaches up to rub a hand over his face and almost pokes his eye out; he’s still holding the stick toy, he forgot to put it back. He stares for a moment. A perky plastic whale stares back. Its tail is chipped and the stick is broken. Well, he needs to find Damian right now so the whale is stuck with him for a bit, but seriously, shoplifting? Can’t he do anything right? Dick sighs internally. He shoves the toy into his deep sweater pocket, its broken end just barely covered; he will have to return it after.

He finds Damian looking at a small selection of pet fish for sale. He appears deep in pensive thought. Dick feels his guilt return as he watches him.

“What are you thinking about?” Dick asks, standing next to him.

“There is limited space for the fish in these tiny tanks,” Damian comments, not looking away from the fish. The tanks are kind of small, compared with the giant displays for the exhibits in the aquarium.

“Maybe they’re a little small,” Dick allows. “But at least they’re safe. There are no predators in there, they get meals; it’s a good life.”

“Perhaps,” says Damian, unconvinced. “But they do not understand their situation enough to know they are trapped. All they see is their tiny tank. How could they know what they are missing when they can never leave?”

Damian still hasn’t looked at him. It’s clear he’s still upset from earlier. Dick can’t help second guessing himself, wondering if Tim is right, is he overstepping again with Damian? Who is he to tell Damian what family is? Bruce barely tolerates Dick as is, and if he thinks Dick is what his reputation shows him to be, it’s obvious Dick shouldn’t be so close to Damian. He’s not a good influence, he’s a terrible adult: he has been shaking all morning, and he hasn’t slept or eaten properly in a week. He can’t even take care of himself.

But Damian is hurting, so Dick kneels down so he is lower than him, the motion a repeat from a few minutes ago with little Timmy. It feels right.

“I’m sure with the proper sized aquarium, the fish are fine,” he says. He reaches out a hand to rest on Damian’s arm. “Damian, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lost my temper earlier. I don’t know why I said that to you. Last night was really difficult, you’re allowed to take time to process.”

“You may have had some points,” Damian admits softly. He leans into Dick. “I apologize as well.”

Dick closes his eyes for a moment, pretending he can have this.

“I love you, kiddo,” Dick says, standing up and ruffling his hair.

“You are a nuisance,” Damian tells him fondly. His eyes catch on the little whale toy peeking out of Dick’s pocket, but he doesn’t comment.

Dick smiles, but it feels forced. As they head to the cafeteria, he can’t leave Stephanie’s words behind.

He doesn’t care enough to care for you.

Dick knows.

You’re exactly like me.

But Dick can’t leave.

And his own words:

You think I don’t know he doesn’t give a shit about how I feel half the time?

Really, Dick knows. It’s not fair that he has to do exactly what Bruce wants, that he has to be perfect if he wants acceptance. But it has never mattered. Bruce’s love can be hard and conditional; that has always been the case. So long as Dick sticks around, he can earn it. He’s tired of this, sure, but he’s used to it. Really. Why would it matter now?

It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t.

Now, if only he could relax. He shoves his hands in his pockets to hide the tremors.

—--------------------

The cafeteria is crowded, and at first Dick doesn’t recognize anyone inside, but then he notices an outdoor section under an overhang. A plain balcony overlooking drab Gotham streets. Dick spots Cass, Bruce, Tim and Steph at a table just beyond the door. No one else is outside. Damian makes a grumbling noise when he sees where they are sitting, and Dick is sympathetic. Apparently they are braving the elements today. At least it stopped raining.

“A bit cold for an outdoor picnic isn’t it?” Dick asks cheerily as they approach the table. Everyone looks up. He assesses them instinctively - there’s no obvious argument interrupted, so. That’s good.

“Tough,” Cass says, puffing out her chest, and Dick grins.

“Where did you run off to?” he manages to sound casual, looking between her and Bruce. He takes a seat next to Tim, pretending not to notice Steph’s piercing look or Bruce frowning at him. 

(But why is Bruce frowning? Leftover uncertainty from their earlier conversation? A new problem? What did Cass say to him this time? Dick tries to force his mind to let it go, but it’s an old habit now, agonizing over Bruce’s microexpressions.)

“Imax,” says Cass, pointing to the brochure.

Dick makes an ‘ah’ sound, leaning in to read the title. He hears the door open behind them.

“Finally, food!” Tim says, as though he hadn’t just gorged himself on candy. Well, Dick won’t tattle. He discreetly shoves the skittles deeper into his pocket before turning. Jason and Alfred arrive together, carrying their bags from the locker.

“Now we feast,” says Bruce, getting up to help set out the food. His words are surprisingly droll - but Dick can’t even enjoy it, because he’s too busy wondering what Bruce is really thinking.

Maybe it’s the cold, but lunch feels tense. The finger food is strangely hard to swallow. Dick can’t think of anything to say, feeling edgy and prickly. The whale toy stabs him in his churning stomach, reminding him that he still has to fix mistakes he brought on himself. Great, now he’s an accidental shoplifter. But as uncomfortable as Dick feels, he doesn’t want to leave his family alone right now to go return the stupid whale. He tries to tune into the conversation.

Then Steph brings up their fish alter egos.

“-So this is really important for us to understand each other. Think of it as a personality test,” Steph rants intensely.

“You don’t get to make this a test,” Jason says, mouth full. “This is your opinion.”

“It’s a good opinion, okay? Just wait, there’s a point. So Damian is a shrimp or sailfish depending on the circumstances,” Steph launches in, “Because he’s small but he’s also quick. Dick is the seahorse because he keeps mothering people and his life revolves around relationships,” Do not react, Grayson, “Bruce is the king crab obviously because rich people delicacy, Jason is the octopus -”

“Wait,” says Bruce, “Doesn’t the octopus -”

“Yes,” says Jason, looking satisfied.

“Yeah, so Jason terrorizes you the most. I’m the dolphin -”

“Jellyfish,” Jason corrects.

“- because I’m awesome. Alfred is a sea turtle because he is wise and awesome.”

Steph pauses, but everyone must agree with that last one. Alfred daintily continues to eat.

“Tim is a cone snail.” Jason grins and Tim starts to protest at being a snail but Steph barrels on, “Because they seem harmless and honestly dormant but can be super deadly, and Tim is usually asleep but occasionally brilliant. And finally, Cass is a stonefish because she’s a sneaky, deadly boss.”

Steph pauses for a breath and Cass inclines her head graciously at the praise.

“But here’s the thing,” Steph lectures, tone serious. “The ocean is everyone’s home. The ocean is a team. All of the sea creatures need a safe environment to interact with each other and no one gets to be more dominant or there are problems.”

“Uh, what,” says Tim, pausing mid-sandwich bite and looking at Steph like she has grown a second head.

Dick gets the feeling Steph is trying to use a complicated fish metaphor to tell everyone they need to make nice and work out their problems. Dick does Not want to do that right now, he’s not feeling calm enough for that discussion. The weakness with metaphors is that people can willfully ignore them. In this case, the weak point is where he will strike.

“Thanks for that friendly lesson about sea creatures,” Dick says, teeth bared in a smile. “Nice to hear so much about the oceans. Someone was reading the plaques.”

Steph shoots him an unimpressed look. “That was clearly about us -”

“So anyway!” Dick says loudly, not wanting to have this conversation at all. The increase in volume has everyone looking up. Tim foregoes his sandwich altogether. Dick forges on, away from Steph’s point. “We still really need to see the local exhibit on Gotham harbour.”

Jason snorts. “As if anything can survive that toxic wasteland.”

“Right?” Dick says enthusiastically, relieved at the diversion catching on. “Only the toughest of sea creatures.” 

“Speaking of so-called sea creatures surviving in Gotham -,” Steph says, gaze boring into Dick. Really, her formidable willpower in the face of clear opposition was crucial to her debut as Robin and remains a part of her character that Dick really admires.

But he is getting very tired of this. The aches in his body remind him that his painkillers are wearing off. He throws his uneaten muffin back down, feeling nauseous. 

He stands abruptly, blinking back the headrush. Damian has to shift to make room. “That exhibit is probably emptier over the lunch hour. We should check it out. Right now.” His vision is clearing slower than expected, and Dick rides out the dizziness with his gaze fixed on where his lunch lies half eaten on his plate.

Dick can feel everyone looking at him like he’s crazy, but if he has to talk about dominant species making life hard for other species in the context of his own family members he will actually lose it. He feels thinly put together as it is.

Dick looks up, locks eyes with Bruce. He is frowning. “Dick, what’s wrong?” Dick has to fight to keep the disbelief off his face.

Seriously Bruce, what’s wrong? Dick wants to laugh, he wants to cry, he wants to ask Bruce what he did wrong. He feels hot and cold and sick.

What do you see when you look at me?  

He must look particularly brittle because suddenly Jason is standing.

“Why the fuck not. Let’s go, Goldie,” he says. To the table, “Catch up with us in a few.” Jason walks a few paces before turning back to Dick’s frozen form. “Well? You fucking coming, Goldie?”

Dick blinks at his unexpected saviour but takes the escape. As he follows Jason out, he feels the confusion rippling in his wake, but he can’t bring himself to look back.

—--------------------

They walk silently to the exhibit area. It’s dimly lit, probably an artistic effort to capture the darkness of Gotham. The fish are duller here; it’s a stark contrast to the colourful reef exhibits.

“I’m all for the theatre, but I haven’t seen you this dramatic since your teenage drama queen days.” Dick ignores Jason’s attempt at either starting a conversation (poor) or a fight (moderate).

Something soft is shoved into Dick’s hand, distracting him before he has a chance to sink into his thoughts. “Here, take this,” Jason says. Dick looks down. It’s a little sandwich from lunch. He looks up.

Jason is watching him closely, with something like concern. Jason is not naturally gentle, not with Dick, and Dick immediately decides he doesn’t like it. Quickly, he shoves the entire sandwich into his mouth, chewing mechanically. It tastes like dust. He swallows despite the lingering nausea, then turns back to the exhibits.

They observe silently for a while.

“So,” says Jason eventually, nonchalant. “What the fuck was that.”

Dick pretends to be absorbed with the display. Even the water is murky, like it was actually scooped out of the Gotham harbour, toxic sediment and all. “Oh, nothing. Just really excited for this exhibit.”

“Bullshit,” Jason calls him out, “You looked like you were about to either blow up or break down.” Dick presses his lips together but says nothing. Jason shakes his head, then continues to prod. “What is up with you? Seriously, you’re a hot mess today.”

Dick barely registers the sting of the insult. He has been feeling so on the fritz. Everytime he talks to someone it ends in disaster. He doesn’t want to talk to Jason, afraid that it will be another failure, but Jason is hard to avoid when he is feeling determined, and Dick doesn’t want to cause a scene even if this exhibit is emptier than others.

“What’s up with you and Bruce?” Dick asks instead of answering.

Honestly, he doesn’t know if he should be bemused or annoyed that their family outing is being hijacked by tense relationships, because of course it is.

Jason laughs, a disbelieving sound. “Really? You don’t want to talk about you, but you want to go down that road?” Jason shakes his head, whistling air through his teeth. “That’s a long road into the past, Dickie-bird. You’re not going to fix it with a conversation.”

“He’s changed a lot since you were a kid,” Dick makes himself say. It’s better to talk about Jason’s problems than his own. Maybe the conversation will be over sooner. “He was wrecked for a while, when you were gone. But he’s improved. He wants to fix things between you, he just doesn’t know how.”

“Dick, right now my problem with Bruce is that he literally hasn’t changed.” Jason’s tone is flat. “Really, what do you mean ‘he’s improved’? He hits you and throws you out of his house  - if that’s an improvement, what was he like before?” Jason’s eyes are narrowed, evaluating.

Dick stares into the water, eyes burning as he forces himself not to blink. He recalls Bruce’s anger, the memory of his harsh words still clear in Dick’s mind as if he spoke them yesterday. Bruce was so raw in the wake of Jason’s death.

Dick can’t help but think quietly, he was terrifying.

But that’s not going to help. He redirects to the present, to Jason. “Well, he has his moments now. But what Bruce and I are to each other is different. What I mean is he’s changed in how he approaches you - he really, really wants to make things right. He loves you.” Strong emotional language always pushes Jason over the edge.

“He loves me?” Jason repeats, incredulous. “No fucking way; I’m the bad guy,” he stresses, “Even if I’m not just the bad guy, I annoy him more than anyone.” Jason states this all confidently, like he believes it, but Dick detects a hint of wistfulness. Bingo. No matter how much they rage against him, everyone in this family has a core desire to be appreciated by Bruce.

“Of course he loves you, you’re his son,” Dick says, annoyed that he has to explain this when it’s so obvious. 

“Hardly, I’m more like a tolerated stain,” Jason retorts. “Besides, he treats you so poorly and you’re the golden son. Imagine how he’d treat me, the rebel, if I stuck around more.”

“Are you kidding? You’re everything to him!” Dick tries to keep the irritation down, along with the volume. It’s not a busy exhibit but if they start yelling they’ll draw attention. He pulls his hood down lower. They are drifting as they talk; he directs his feet towards a quieter area. “You weren’t there, you didn’t see how broken he was when you died but I saw and it was not pretty. You are the first person he adopted because he loved you, and that has not changed, it’s so obvious it’s hard to watch.” Dick takes a breath. Sets the bitterness aside. “And cut it out with the golden child thing, I’m clearly no favourite. I have ways of annoying him that are on a level you can’t even dream of reaching.”

Jason crosses his arms, brows furrowing. “What do you mean I’m the first one he adopted? You’re right here.”

Okay, so. Dick tries to smooth it over for his younger siblings to avoid awkwardness but it’s not like he has hidden the fact that he isn’t adopted. And Jason was around Before. How does he not know? “He didn’t adopt me,” Dick says simply, staring hard at the fish.

There is a pause.

“Why not?” Jason’s voice is quiet. Dick can’t see his expression, the reflection on the glass too dim.

Dick blows out a breath, rubbing his temple. “I guess it wasn’t common back then. Or maybe he didn’t want to. I don’t know, it doesn’t matter. Either way it’s his choice.” Everything is always up to Bruce.

It’s quiet for a moment.

“Hmm, that also makes a lot of sense about how much you hated me,” Jason says, contemplative. 

“I didn’t hate you -”

Jason waves a hand. “But still, Bruce was kind of rude to you to your face and you wouldn’t willingly go near the manor when he was around. So I don’t get why you stuck around. Why are you still here, years later?” He tilts his head, calculating. “He’s such a shit to you. Why haven’t you set yourself free?”

Dick is a bit lost now. “What do you mean? I left Gotham, I don’t even live here half the time. But you mean Bruce?” Dick recalls, briefly, the warm smiles of his parents, before he ever had to make any hard decisions about who his family was or think seriously about what love could look like, what he could accept. It had been easier, back then. But even though his new family is difficult, he would never leave. He would never choose to be alone. “I figured out long ago that family isn’t blood or labels, and sometimes it takes a little pain.”

Dick looks up to see Jason watching him, shaking his head. “I used to accept the bullshit in this world,” Jason muses. “Growing up, I figured I got what I deserved. Sometimes I thought I’d be better off dead.” Dick winces at the calm tone delivering chilling words, finds himself wanting to shield a child long gone. “It started with my dad, but then with Bruce, everything was so much better. Fuck, comparatively it was like heaven. But Bruce could be an asshole. I just thought, at the time, that what I got was warranted. I know better now.” Dick doesn’t like what Jason is suggesting. He tries desperately to recall Jason’s time as Robin, but Dick was selfishly not around to monitor. He doesn’t have time to pursue the trail before Jason’s eyes go hard. “Lately I’ve been wanting to change myself. And I’ve been thinking about Bruce, and you. Maybe we all should change.” More pointedly, “I think you should let go of some of Bruce and the other chicks’ problems; they’re not your responsibility.”

Let go?

Dick finds himself, strangely, thinking about meat. A memory: two slabs of beef sitting forgotten in the hot sun outside his family’s trailer behind a show, somewhere in Europe, sometime in his happiest days. One piece salted, the other not enough. The meat without salt grew rancid by the end of the day. Dick remembers being fascinated that only one was still good to eat. The fortune-teller explained to him why:

Things rarely improve when left alone.

So Dick can’t let go of his family’s issues, can’t leave them to their natural and inevitable end. He will preserve their relationships for them. But he needs to be here at all times, to catch the rot before it sets.

Jason won’t understand how Dick sees himself, would probably mock him for his self-important Atlas attitude towards their family’s stability. But something about Jason’s tone has Dick remembering a young boy who had never seen a mountain before. “I should have been better to you, before,” Dick admits. He has said those words many times but Jason always seems to forget his apologies. He thinks again of one of his best memories of child-Jason. He asks wistfully, “Do you remember our ski trip?”

“Our - what?” Jason asks, caught off guard.

Dick immediately wishes he hadn’t mentioned it. Everything is seeping out of his cracks today. “When we… before you…it was fun.” Dick finishes the disastrous sentence lamely.

Jason looks at him carefully. Dick wonders if he’s as transparently fragile as he feels. Jason shifts, shakes his head. “It’s fuzzy, you know?” He answers slowly. Dick holds his breath. “Everything is, from before the pit. I remember a bit, but it doesn’t feel real.” He shifts again, expression wary. He clearly doesn’t want further questions about this right now.

“Oh.” Dick tries not to be disappointed that he is alone in his reminiscing. He’s honoured that Jason gave him a real answer instead of biting sarcasm about his black memories of Dick. But Dick is not sure what to say about his apparent memory loss; he hadn’t known, Jason hadn’t told him - was he supposed to ask before? Jason obviously doesn’t want him to ask now. In the early days, Jason wanted Dick to be an older brother to him when Dick was ready to be anything but, and now most days Dick feels like he has missed his window. And Dick knows better than to suggest they make new memories going skiing again, but. It would be nice. 

Jason has moved on, free from the nostalgia that sinks Dick in his thoughts. “You always do this,” he’s saying, frustrated again. Oops, it’s always a fine line Dick walks when he discusses sensitive topics with Jason; now he’s mad again. “You always turn it into a smothering interrogation.” Dick grits his teeth. He didn’t drag the information out of Jason. But Jason goes on, “Again, it’s not me on the edge of a breakdown.” His hands are making fists now. “What I don’t get is why you’re in denial. You’re so fucking chill sitting next to Bruce eating waffles when he literally blamed you for everything, told you he doesn’t want you there and never apologizes. Where is the legendary Grayson temper? Your self-righteous anger?”

Dick stares at him in disbelief. Is Jason seriously mad that Dick isn’t mad? That’s just rich. And untrue.

Dick is very mad.

He’s mad, and the anger is bigger and closer to the surface than he has felt in years, a monster that has been growing in his heart. He can’t ignore it anymore, but he doesn’t know what to do with it, afraid of what it may destroy. Lately everyone in this family claims to want to help Dick, to fix him. They want him to feel angry on his own behalf, but his siblings don’t realize the size of the dam Dick has built to hold back his problems, his emotions, to keep them all safe. Dick knows it’s a little arrogant, a little self-centred, but they aren’t ready for him to break.

Dick doesn’t think they could handle the flood.

So, Dick knows why he shouldn’t get angry. But he’s so tired of fighting off his own emotions and patching his leaking cuts.

“Anger isn’t really useful for calming people down,” Dick says, tone turning frosty, “But now that you mention it it’s right here.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “I know your shockingly low self esteem has you eternally grateful to Bruce for no reason, but this is going to screw you up,” Jason tells him, strangely earnest. “Seriously. You need to fight back or you need to leave.”

Seriously? Jason Todd is going to tell him his options? Dick hates that he can hear the echo of Bruce, telling him he needs to either obey or leave. Why can’t Dick just exist in this family and do none of those things?

It’s driving Dick crazy, that everyone thinks he needs to listen to them, like they know him best and know what he should do. Like they know him better than himself.

“I’m already screwed up,” Dick says heatedly, “In case you haven’t noticed, we all kind of are! And fuck you very much. You can’t tell me how to deal with Bruce.”

“Then don’t tell me how to deal with Bruce,” Jason stresses. “You arrogant asshole. But maybe you should think about how your insecurities and choices are affecting the other little birdies. Look at us!” Jason gestures around wildly, frustrated. “We’re on a fucking family trip like nothing happened! You’re telling everyone it’s all okay.”  A searching look. “You’re enabling Bruce to keep acting like this; do you seriously want him to treat everyone like he treats you?”

(Slade’s words mock him - They will never thank you for what you’ve done . )

Dick tries to keep his mind from shattering at the horrifying thought of anyone feeling as precarious in the family as he does. But he doesn’t understand what Jason is trying to say about their being at the aquarium. Clearly no one has a problem with it. “You’re on this trip too, Jay,” he says quietly. He regards him carefully. “What are you telling me?”

And surprisingly, Jason looks taken aback. He grits his jaw. “No, I’m here to -,” and then Jason stops, troubled.

Dick feels a bit bad about how he went after all of Jason’s weak points; now he is making Jason second guess whether he has hurt Dick somehow by coming to the aquarium when Dick is literally fine and honestly very happy that they are all here. If only he could stop picking fights with everyone, maybe today could stop being such a trainwreck. He just needs to cool down.

(And isn’t it just like he told Tim and Steph, like he told Catalina before? It's him, he is the poison.)

It must mean something anyway, that none of them have intervened farther, or sooner. Surely Dick’s relationship with Bruce isn’t as dark as the picture they’ve painted after all, isn’t some cancerous wound at the heart of their family. 

If it was worse, well. Maybe then they would… but it’s not. Dick should be happy it’s not. He is happy it’s not.

But if it was worse…

(Maybe then his unhappiness would be justified.)

Dick shakes himself. He is feeling increasingly reckless with each blow up, like the arguments are a chain reaction and Dick himself is the catalyst along for the ride.

He almost wishes Bruce hadn’t come to his apartment on Thursday, that he had more time to sort through his feelings and dull his sharper, broken edges, to better protect his siblings from himself. When Bruce called him back, he hadn’t realized how much he normally cooled down during those long periods between exile and restoration. That maybe it wasn’t just Bruce who needed time to work through his feelings. Dick clearly hasn’t buried his deeply enough, and these earthquakes are warning signs of an impending eruption.

Everything is outside of his control, as usual, but this time his emotions aren’t cooperating either, and Dick is fighting himself.

Jason clears his throat. There is a change in his eyes, some new realization. Dick braces. Jason says, “Dick, you -”

But Jason never finishes. Cass manifests beside him.

“What fish is that?” she points, and Jason blinks at the interruption.

Blinks and frowns. “It’s an empty tank.”

Dick looks around. The others are approaching now, lunch finished. He automatically waves. Dick sees Damian perk up as he takes in the local Gotham fish he has been researching for weeks. It makes Dick want to smile, but then he sees Bruce coming straight for him, stride very purposeful. He winces.

Dick can’t imagine that anything good will come of a driven Bruce in this scenario - determination always makes him so inflexible. But there is no avoiding this, no running off to urgently check out a different exhibit this time. Distracted while arguing with Jason, they have backed themselves into a corner with unfinished exhibits. Large enough to hold mammals, but all they contain are murky water and sand. The sad, empty tanks offer him no guise of pretending to observe fish, so Dick looks back at Bruce.

Dick tries to steel himself, shove away the leftover adrenaline and frustration from his conversation with Jason. It only half works by the time Bruce is before him. “Hey B,” he greets.

Bruce shepherds him aside. He finds himself pressed against a tank. “Dick, we need to talk,” Bruce says, and it’s déjà vu, for every time Bruce has had a problem with Dick. And of course, Bruce never got to fully chew him out last night, there must be some residual grievance that has just been waiting to come out. It always comes out.

Why did Dick think coming to the aquarium with his family would be a good idea?

Bruce goes on immediately, “What I said earlier.” Then he stops.

Dick wants to close his eyes, but that won’t make this moment go away. Instead he says, faux brightly, “Yes?”

Everyone is near them now, a short distance away, giving them the illusion of a private discussion, but Dick knows his siblings too well. They are watching them while pretending to watch the empty exhibits or their phones. Cass looks strangely hopeful. Dick catches Jason’s raised eyebrow and Tim’s wince at his obnoxious tone, but Dick is feeling brash.

Bruce looks frustrated. It could be with himself, Bruce’s own inability to communicate, but Dick knows from experience that it can be directed at himself regardless of the origin. “You seemed angry earlier,” Bruce ends up saying neutrally. He leans closer. “Was it something I said?”

I had thought, considering your past history, that you would be able to handle it.

Dick, your reputation -

Dick has been jumpy all day wondering what Bruce didn’t say; who does he think Dick is? Dick’s undoing is in the details.

“I don’t remember,” Dick lies, looking to Bruce’s left so he doesn’t have to meet his eyes. He folds his arms. “What did you say?”

Bruce frowns at Dick’s offbeat response and behaviour, but Dick doesn’t care. He needs to hear it again.

“I said I had not anticipated your… struggle, last night,” Bruce says carefully, almost repentant. “It was not my intention.” If Dick was looking for an apology he could find it here, he’s sure, but that’s not what he wants right now, not this time. He wants answers.

Bruce isn’t done. “It has raised some… concerns. And in the spirit of resolving issues,” Bruce pauses, making sure he’s holding Dick’s gaze for his last words, face serious, “perhaps your own behaviours could use intervention.”

What.

Damian must see how Dick has gone rigid because he approaches, hesitant. “Father, I don’t think Richard -”

“Not now Damian,” Bruce dismisses him, and Damian’s steps falter, stopping short. “I need to talk with just Dick.”

Dick is still lost in the ugly picture Bruce’s words are painting about him, but his jaw twitches at Damian’s hurt face. “Don’t talk to him like that,” he tells Bruce, annoyed. Then to Damian, “Hey kiddo, everything is fine, we just need to talk,” Dick reassures him. He can’t smile, but he tries to stop grimacing.

Damian closes his mouth, but his eyes are wide and worried. He doesn’t move.

Bruce is frowning at Dick, annoyed. “We're talking about your issues right now Dick, I think you have enough of them without adding your complications about Damian."

Dick’s eyes flash. “This is not about Damian.” It better not be. But what is it about? Dick swallows. “I think you should let this go, Bruce.” He tries not to feel like he is running from a fight, knows a tactical retreat is sometimes the smartest move.

He can’t seem to force his body to untense.

But Bruce holds him still with a command. “No, it’s time I addressed how you have been acting. And you’re clearly still upset.”

You’re upset. And Dick realizes he is upset. Bruce’s judgments of Dick have always been self-fulfilling prophecies, no matter how grim. Dick has always struggled to distinguish what Bruce tells him is true from reality.

Usually it doesn’t matter.

Dick looks at their surroundings, his family lingering close by, their holiday trip on pause for this discussion. Bruce’s timing is consistently dreadful.

But there’s something about the dirt that Bruce is digging into that feels like it has been a long time coming. Like maybe this is a root to their decaying relationship that should finally be uncovered, a rot that can no longer be ignored. Dick just needs to be brave. It feels different when he’s being brave for himself, somehow shameful. It feels more like he’s naked.

“My …behaviours?” says Dick, tilting his head so he meets Bruce’s eyes. His hood falls down. He very deliberately enunciates, “And what was that about my reputation?”

Bruce doesn’t answer right away, able to tell that his reply is clearly significant to Dick and he needs to watch his step. He stares into Dick’s eyes for a moment. He looks a bit troubled. “I have heard talk, in the …community.” The superhero community. Dick closes his eyes, but Bruce’s words continue, “About your … exploits. Dick, look,” Dick opens his eyes unwillingly as Bruce shifts tempo, face earnest of all things. He’s staring directly at Dick, “You need to be more careful with yourself, Dick, and who you choose to …spend time with. From your Titans days, and lately I’ve heard things about John Constantine.” There’s a heartfelt sincerity behind the disdain, like Bruce is saying this mortifying mess out of some misguided endeavour to parent better or something. “You have a concerning pattern with your encounters, Dick, and Tim said that Deathstroke -”

Dick’s mind is cloudy, and his hearing fades for a second, and Dick is almost grateful for his slight break from reality that keeps him from hearing Bruce suggest that Dick is involved with Slade Wilson of all people. His words sound almost like he’s worried Dick isn’t following safe relationship practices.

And Tim needs to stop sharing personal details about Dick’s life - or at least he could make sure he shares them accurately - but it’s all so absurd, does Bruce know anything about Dick? He makes it sound like Dick is some promiscuous flirt. It’s almost like he has been talking to-

Oh. Well, it could have been literally anyone in the league. Everyone seems to think they’re an authority on Dick’s private life, like it’s up for public discussion.

“My exploits,” Dick repeats flatly, feeling disconnected. He has been tipping for days, his defensive walls slowly crumbling, and suddenly now he’s floating; where is the ground? Has he fallen off the edge?

Is someone touching him? Suddenly it feels like there are hands, everywhere. Dick reaches his own fingers up to rub his arms, trying to play off the awkward motion casually. It’s just cold in the museum, that’s all.

“Yes,” Bruce replies, soldiering on through his own discomfort. It’s a display of true valiance by a knight of justice who is trying to save Dick from himself. “Your reputation precedes you. And I’m concerned that -”

And Dick needs Bruce to be more specific, for his own sanity, so he can frame the anger that’s building, so he pronounces slowly, “You mean the rumours where I’m a slut?” Bruce winces at the term, his own discomfort finally, blessedly, silencing him.

Bruce has never been a good communicator and he’s not about to start now. It’s surreal that Bruce is trying to address this at all. But if he’s making Dick talk about this, that’s too bad for him.

When Bruce doesn’t say anything, Dick clarifies louder in that same dead tone, because apparently he’s shameless anyway, “You mean because I’m a slut?” Bruce winces again. Good. 

“Dick, wait -” It’s one of his siblings. It could be Jason, he thinks. But when it’s not Dick himself intervening in conflict, it’s usually Tim.

“Stop, for once, would you just -” he looks around wildly at his watching family, “All of you, just stay out of this.” Dick hisses, unable to deal with multiple attackers, unwilling to risk multiple casualties again. He feels frayed already. It shouldn’t be this easy, he thinks, for Bruce to unravel him. He has held on for so long, why now? But he has so many loose threads and he’s only just realizing that somewhere along the way he has been pulled apart.

No wonder he feels so empty.

Tim closes his mouth, surprised. Cass, who had been looking strangely hopeful when Bruce first started talking, is now frowning, but she keeps her distance. Everyone is still raw, likely lingering hurt from the arguments last night and today. No one really wants to be in another shouting match. Jason looks at Alfred like he thinks maybe he will intervene. But Dick knows he won’t. Alfred has never stepped in when it was just Dick and Bruce before, and from the weary resignation on his face, won’t start now. But no one leaves; they’re all vigilantes for a reason: they can smell smoke.

It’s an awkward topic though. It sits differently in the throat than the abuse they were ranting about yesterday. Dick can feel the embarrassment radiating off of his siblings, so strong they are frozen in place. Dick is on display.

Everyone is interested. Everyone is listening.

“Perhaps it’s in part my fault,” Bruce says slowly, “I was not a good role model,” which is a surprising confession. Dick would be touched if his next words weren’t incendiary, “But you were so afraid of losing any connection to your childhood, how was I supposed to change you?”

And maybe Dick is overthinking and overanalyzing but if Bruce is suggesting that somehow Dick’s parents are to blame for why everyone thinks Dick is easy, he is going to lose it. The implication rings false, barely worth addressing directly when the rest of Bruce’s statement was so blatantly untrue anyway: of course Bruce has changed Dick.

Some days it feels like he has changed him in all the ways that matter. 

A dark part of him whispers that Bruce is responsible for what’s wrong with Dick, responsible for all of the things he is ashamed of in himself - for how Dick compartmentalizes his friendships, devalues his personal well-being, puts himself into risky situations, all for the sake of some glorified mission. Bruce took Dick apart and rebuilt him into a horrible shell of a creature playing at human. But who does that? Who tells a child they are not as important as the ladder of justice, that no one is? That the moral code requires throwing yourself away to save others?

Bruce has created Dick, turned him into this person he hates. Bruce is Frankenstein, and Dick is his monster, his Adam. But he never asked for this. Who, between the two of them, is the real monster here? What makes someone evil: What they do to others? Or is it what they are, how they were created? There is something wrong with Dick, after all, this emptiness inside of him that demands he be hollow all the way through, an empty machine to better serve the greater good.

“What’s wrong with me, exactly?” Dick asks Bruce, a question he has always wanted answered, but his siblings are in his sightlines as well.

It’s always the faces that give people away. The knowing looks. And the answer is clear, as he stares into his family’s uncomfortable expressions. Into Bruce’s face, chiding him for being difficult about this, as he mutters a low, warning, “Dick.”

No. The world on Dick’s shoulders shifts. He is left suddenly overbalanced. The uncertain limbo of the moment is over; the rope has snapped with the weight of this terrible truth, confirmed in all of their faces, in Bruce’s face:

He. Is. A. Slut.

Dick swallows stomach acid. Bruce’s judgments of him have always been prophecies that Dick has followed religiously to define his reality, to define himself. But it doesn’t feel right this time. 

Unless… it only makes his skin itch because it’s an uncomfortable truth?

(Shut up, shut up , shut up.)

Dick really doesn’t want it to be true. Not this time. Not when he has tried so hard to not be a slut.

There’s so much more that Bruce should have noticed, if he was watching at all - Dick is so careful about how he talks to people, how he smiles at people, always assessing the give and take. And he has been so focused recently on his family, he hasn’t thought about himself in ages, let alone a relationship.

But pieces of conversations, ruined friendships, offhand comments, overheard jokes, wandering looks, touches, every unwanted advance someone’s ever felt entitled to make on him (that he never knows how to reject), everything he runs circles in his head to avoid, are all rising to the surface, a damning file of evidence for Batman to flip through.

Dick wants to throw up.

They’re just… they’re just rumours, how does Bruce not know that it’s not real, when he knows Dick so well? When he knows Dick would never - but something makes him Bruce’s pick for undercover sex trafficking. Maybe everyone can see how dirty Dick is.

And now his dam has cracked, with more suppressed memories leaking without his permission.

So tell me, who was better?

He should have known the difference, really.

Quiet, mi amor.

He could have pushed her off.

What else would you let me do?

Dick put himself into that position willingly.

Your reputation precedes you.

..But.

You don’t need to rely on reputation when it comes to someone you know. So what is Dick to Bruce?

It’s almost funny; Dick has always believed his relationship with Bruce bore at least some resemblance to family. This uncertainty hurts, but he has been hurt before. Bruce has hurt him before. When Dick became Robin, Bruce would tell him when to start fighting, to teach him when to engage. And Bruce would tell him when to stop fighting. But that didn’t mean Bruce would stop. That didn’t mean Dick was safe. That didn’t mean Dick wasn’t going to get hit. It just meant he wasn’t going to fight back.

Now, Dick is always ready, always waiting, for Bruce to fight him. And, with an old weariness that weighs in his bones, Dick is suddenly certain that Bruce doesn’t even realize what he has done, that it was never to train Dick or make him better, that, perhaps. Perhaps Bruce didn’t even mean to damage Dick like this. Perhaps it has never been about Dick.

Dick’s lungs are burning, but he’s too trapped in his thoughts to care.

All of Dick’s hurt that has been running under his surface for too long is boiling over, threatening to engulf him. He can’t drown; he needs to seize the old rage and ride it up.

But which way is up, which path is right? Dick wants to keep the peace; he wants a fight. He wants to please Bruce; he wants to make him pay. He wants someone to stop this, to stop him;  he wants everyone to let it all go, to let him go.

Dick lets the stale air out of his lungs. He has thought himself into a fight in the span of a breath. He needs to calm down, he needs space.

Dick turns away from Bruce, comes face-to-face with water and glass. Deadened eyes meet a hopeless stare, but the tank is empty.

Not good enough; he needs to be farther away. He starts to move, but a strong grip forces him back, turns him around.

“Don’t walk away,” Bruce says, peeved at the insubordination. “We’re not done talking.”

“I just need a minute,” Dick tells him, but Bruce is already shaking his head.

Dick closes his eyes. He just needs a moment to compose himself, to shut away his jumbled thoughts. Just one second.

“We can’t let this go on,” Bruce admonishes him. “You’ve been ignoring it for long enough.”

His eyes snap open as his anger rises again. “What is that supposed to mean?” It comes out biting, bitter, loud. Bruce looks a little nonplussed at the non-sequitur.

Some of his family members shift awkwardly. Dick wishes they weren’t here. The subject matter keeps them from speaking.

Or maybe it’s something in Dick’s expression.

(Dick never did learn how to save rotting meat - it was always tossed away. But perhaps there is some way to salvage this, to sever the contamination. They just need something sharp.)

Bruce will never admit he’s wrong, even when he’s telling Dick how Dick feels. “I thought that since you -”

“‘My reputation precedes me?’” Dick repeats, cutting Bruce off like a knife. His words are razors; all the better to drain the infection.

Bruce seems surprised at the show of temper. “Dick, you-”

“No stop, just listen to me for one. Second,” Dick interrupts viciously. And it feels good, to be the one shutting other people down in an argument for once. To feel, finally, in control.

Dick is a performer. When he gets angry, it’s captivating; no one can look away, no one can interfere. His heart is racing. So many fights with Bruce have been private. They all feel like rehearsals for this moment, here. Dick has never spoken these lines aloud before, but they pour out now.

“I thought you chose me for last night because I’m the oldest, I'm charming, I can act, and I can improvise.” He feels hot with anger but every word leaving his mouth is icy. “But let me get this straight: That is not, in fact, why you chose me.”

Bruce opens his mouth again. “No-”

“Shut. Up.” Dick hisses.

Bruce frowns. Jason looks pleased. Dick doesn’t care.

He rubs his temple and takes a deep, steadying breath. It doesn't work. “‘My reputation precedes me,’” Dick spits again, contempt thick. “What the hell, Bruce! You’ve known me for more than ten years, you know my history. But by hearsay, from people who are not me,” he stresses. He points at Bruce, “You, the great detective. You think you learn something about me.” He lets his derision seep out, and Bruce bristles in response. Dick’s fist hits his own chest. “About what I’ve done, what I can handle. And instead of asking me, you go behind my back to create a role you think will fit me, because I’ll be used to it or whatever, based on gossip.” Dick can’t keep the incredulity out of his tone. And he shouldn’t say it but it comes out anyway in a hiss between his teeth, “What the fuck , B?”

Oops, he’s losing control, his old accent is slipping in, an audible tell. His breaths are short gasps. Get it together, Grayson. But he can’t seem to stop himself. There’s no traction to slow him down. He’s slipping, he’s falling.

It’s terrifying.

“Dick, calm down,” Bruce says lowly, tone even despite his clenched fists. He is glancing around at the groups of people passing by them. Dick isn’t worried. They are surrounded by empty exhibits, and every Gothamite knows better than to stare at arguments in dark corners. “I admit it was the wrong call, you weren’t able to handle it.” It never ends with a concession, not with Bruce, and he goes on, “But you have to admit, with the way you behave-”

Dick laughs harshly, a sobbing sort of noise, cutting Bruce off. “Of course it was the wrong call, B, you had bad intel about my personal life.” Dick shakes his head, taking a small step back. “My reputation precedes me,” he repeats again, wonderingly. He looks at Bruce, accusatory. “I know everything about you, forget your reputation. Do you even know me? What I’ve done for you?”

He is seething now. He breathes staccato, sharp hiccup motions. He can’t seem to control his shaking body, can barely even feel it.

His whole family is looking at him with concern over Bruce’s shoulder, like he’s unhinged, like he’s in danger. They shouldn’t worry, Dick feels more alive right now than he has in years.

“Of course I know you,” Bruce says, annoyed now. He reaches out a hand to settle on Dick’s shoulder. “You’re overreacting.” The touch burns.

You’re so dramatic, Dick. But don’t some things deserve his emotion?

“Well it doesn’t feel like it,” Dick shoots back, swatting the hand away. “I was Batman for you, when you left us all alone,” left me alone, “And you demand we do so much for you, but then you forget it all so easily, and nothing ever changes.” Just Bruce, in control, always. “I deal with all of your shit so I don’t have time to deal with my shit. But every fucking day I have to decide between my friends, my job, and my city on the one hand - and you ,” Dick stabs a finger at Bruce, a condemnation, “Because you hate my job, hate my city, and probably wish I didn’t have friends.” Breathe, he’s forgetting to breathe. “And I put up with it. Even when you hurt - even when you don’t even like m-,” Dick’s voice stumbles and breaks; he hardens it again, “But the only reason I choose you every fucking time is because it’s the only way to guarantee that I can see my family.” Dick gestures around at their stunned audience. Maybe Steph has been getting to him, because he is feeling fishy and metaphorical. “But we’re not family to you. We’re like …some poor fish trapped in your aquarium, but you don’t even remember you have fish, you don’t even know what a fish is.”

Bruce looks lost, which is unsurprising; Dick is struggling to make sense. He is so far off the rails he can’t see himself or his point either, so he restarts. “Okay, you don’t understand fish metaphor, so how about bats?” He narrows his eyes further. “Let me make this very simple.” He drops his words like depth charges. “The bat cave? Is the bird cage. But we’re not birds, we’re your fucking kids.” He shoves his hands into his pockets to hide the trembling. “You have to get to know them and take care of them, or they go away.” A threat. He drops another one, heavy, “And if you don’t figure that out real soon, there’s going to be none of us left to count.”

Bruce is looking at Dick like he is watching him stand on the edge of a precipice. His words have the desperate tinge of someone trying to control a hurricane. “Dick, it’s not like that. You need to take a deep breath. Get a hold of yourself.” Always so commanding at the worst times.

Dick has already snapped, a rubber band pulled too hard, a dynamic system tipped over a critical point, what comes next unavoidable and irreversible. His hands shake in his pockets, fury fighting fear. He steps off the precipice, and falls.

“Don’t try to parent me, Bruce,” he hisses. The hairs on his arms stand on end. “I’m not even your son.”

It is so, so quiet.

Dick finds he is always holding his breath around Bruce; now that he has spoken, there is no air left. He feels like he’s already underwater, like maybe he always has been.

And Dick watches in slow motion as Bruce frowns and opens his mouth.

And Dick doesn’t know why this is it, why this is the moment, why this is the drop that overflows.

It’s something about Bruce’s face, the way he’s looking at Dick, the way he always looks at Dick. It’s something about the disappointment. It’s something about the disbelief, how maybe there was never any belief in Dick at all. And Bruce says, “Stop attacking-”

And Dick doesn’t wait for Bruce to finish. Dick knows how it ends and he wants out.

Instead, Dick lunges forward, his fist leaving his pocket, swinging towards Bruce - whose eyes widen as he shifts instantly to defend himself in the only way he knows how, and Dick feels the punch land on already bruised skin - but he just wants to laugh because: isn’t it just like Bruce to assume everything is an attack? That Bruce must be the target, that every fight is about him.

This is about how Dick feels this time. This is about the way Dick’s expression looks in the reflection of the glass over Bruce’s shoulder, staring back at himself out of a murky cage, desperate to be freed. 

It’s confusing, reality suddenly distorted. Dick wants to swing himself into the emptiness, to break through to that open space - is he on the outside or the inside - which way is out? He needs to get out.

And Dick’s fist flies past Bruce on his right, destined for the plaque next to his head that reads Coming Soon, but:

He has miscalculated his reach.

In his fury, he has forgotten that his hand is still locked around the shoplifted toy. Realization comes too late. He watches himself shove the stick into the glass exhibit, whale first, hard.

There is a split second where Bruce looks at him like he’s an exotic creature, strange and potentially dangerous.

(Bruce hits hard, he knows very well, but Dick hits hard too.)

Then the world shatters.

Water bursts from the broken glass wall in a rush, engulfing Bruce and slamming into Dick. He can’t see what happens to the rest of them - his vision is filled with water. The pressure pushes him back, and he’s slipping across the floor, crashing undignified into the opposite wall. He pukes into the water as he crumples, bile mixing with the already sour stench of Gotham harbour.

Dick blinks away his double vision, wipes his mouth. He rises shakily, hand on the wall. Years of training has him checking for casualties. Across the room, Bruce has been forced to his knees by the surge, but he’s recovering quickly. Everyone else is backing away from the water, soaked. Shocked faces.

(Like the magnitude of Dick’s anger is a surprise - is this not what they wanted from him? But Dick is always too much for people.

And the tank was huge.)

 Dick feels some of his blind fury drain away with the water as he takes in the broken exhibit, the ruined floor, the scattered shards of the crushed toy.

Dick did this.

And there are other people, onlookers attracted by the noise, who have come to investigate. They gape at the flood. The crowd grows quickly, grows louder.

And Dick meets Bruce’s eyes. The water dripping from Bruce’s hair gives the impression of tears, and the surprise on his face could be mistaken for sorrow.

Dick doesn’t want to hear what Bruce has to say now that Dick has made another mess.

Dick’s breaths are still uneven, but his mind is becoming clearer. He knows he should take responsibility for the problem he has created. Someone is going to need to wipe the security tapes, explain to the staff. He should stick around, do damage control. But then Dick will have to interact with Bruce, who will no doubt be the one to pay for Dick’s expensive mistake, and then Dick will be in his debt, as he always is. There is no point putting it off. He should just give in now.

Or..

Dick doesn’t break his gaze from Bruce’s as his hand slowly gropes at the wall behind him. His hand catches on plastic, there. Dick pulls.

The fire alarm wails.

And then, like Dick has wanted to do for years, he turns and runs away.

He hears Bruce start to slosh after him, faintly hears someone calling his name. He doesn’t turn around. Dick can feel the drum of footsteps behind him. They almost catch him when suddenly over the din of the alarm, someone yells, “Is that Bruce Wayne?” It sounds like Jason.

The pursuing footfalls are intercepted. Dick turns a corner and is gone.

The best performers always know when to exit the stage.

—--------------------

Dick hides.

At first he moves through the aquarium in a blur, guided by nothing but a feeling that he needs to get out, and an even deeper instinct to find high ground. He winds up somehow on the roof.

He thinks bitterly that he never seems to learn from his past. Whenever his life falls apart, Dick always seems to end up on a roof. For better or worse.

It’s a nice enough afternoon, if cloudy; it’s cold, but Dick is numb. There’s public access for viewing the tops of some of the larger exhibits up here, but Dick has squished himself into a nook off the path next to an Employees Only sign. He pukes again into a trash can, surprising himself. Then he loiters on a bench, relying on the crowds of people to give him cover. He’s not surprised that everyone is ignoring the fire alarm - it’s Gotham. An elderly lady starts to come towards the bench then pivots hard when she spots Dick. No one goes near him. He has pulled his hood up again so he must look like a hooligan. His hand is bleeding slightly where he cut it on the glass. The trash can next to him smells like vomit.

And he’s soaking wet, so. People avoid the puddle.

He watches the fish, unseeing, desperately hoping his family won’t find him. He’s not ready to face them. He sneaks some soggy contraband Skittles from his pocket but they don’t help, tasting like ash on his tongue.

He’s moping, he can admit that to himself. He’s disappointed with the day; he got what he wished for, a day out with his family, but it’s not what he wanted. He should have known - this always happens in stories, the tales that teach contentment. They mock him now. This is what he gets for pushing people beyond their natural boundaries.

Why did he say those things?

Your reputation precedes you. Dick holds his head in his hands. He wishes Bruce had never tried to speak to him this morning; Dick could have continued ignoring all of the problems and they could have had a nice trip. All he can hear is echoes of his own hard voice, breaking the delicate relationships he has worked so hard to build. Damian, Tim, Steph, Jason, Bruce. What is wrong with him today?  All he wants is to fix his family but he’s so angry; he can’t be trusted with fragile things right now.

It is better to be alone.

Dick tries to focus on the aquarium before him. It’s one of the lovelier exhibits, artfully balanced and boasting a large variety of species all living together in harmony. Dick is reminded of his own stupid fish metaphor and blames Steph. But the fish feel so real to him right now, when he is so out of control of his own life. He is left wondering if perhaps all of these years he has been seeing the world through distorted glass, and it’s actually himself who is in the fishbowl. Trapped.

The thought feels suddenly clear and damning. Dick doesn’t know what to do with it. The consequence has always been the hardest part of metaphor.

Someone sits next to him. Dick’s hood cuts off his peripheral vision, but he’d bet money his time has run out and he has been found by a hostile. It’s just his luck lately. Well, Dick is not going to be the one to initiate this likely unpleasant interaction. He stubbornly continues to stare at the aquarium. But whoever it is doesn’t speak. Dick waits five minutes before his curiosity wins and he takes a peek.

Alfred Pennyworth watches the fish.

“Alfred,” Dick says, surprised. The man is slightly disheveled, a startling change from his usually unflappable self, like it cost him something in his hurry to find Dick. While Dick was not eager for company, it is touching to be so sought.

“My dear boy,” Alfred greets, turning to look at him. Dick is alarmed to see tears in Alfred’s eyes.

“Is everything alright?” Dick asks carefully, sliding closer.

“I believe it would not be untrue to say that everything has never been alright,” Alfred replies, voice almost steady, his gaze deep and knowing. There’s something about Alfred’s strange phrasing and intensity that has Dick thinking this about more than just the injuries he has been hiding. It’s odd, but Alfred appears to be bracing himself.

Dick bites his lip, contemplative. It’s not something he likes to acknowledge, buried inside, but everything he has kept submerged seems to be surfacing today so here it is:

He is angry with Alfred. 

Angry that when Bruce hurt Dick, Alfred never asked the right questions. Angry that whenever Bruce and Dick fought, Alfred always stuck with Bruce. He didn’t always support Bruce, he might even give Bruce the cold shoulder if he disagreed, but he never stood up for Dick the way he has always fantasized about him doing. Dick knows that Bruce means a lot to Alfred. But when Bruce was gone last year, Dick felt like maybe they had a strong bond together as well. He feels like a fool now; nothing has changed. Bruce returns and decides he’s not happy with Dick’s relationship with Damian and Dick is on the edge again. Nothing has changed - he’s sixteen again and getting thrown out like he’s trash and not a person and Alfred -

Alfred just watches.

Everyone in the family jokes that Alfred sees everything, that he is the omniscient caretaker. Dick has always pretended to himself that Alfred was blind to Bruce and Dick’s fights, for Dick’s own sanity. But they have always been like this. There is no way Alfred doesn’t know how hard it was for Dick, that he didn’t see how unfair it all was. Not just during Dick’s unusual childhood, but his short, foolish adulthood too.

And today Dick is angry enough to ask.

Dick turns back to the fish, unable to look Alfred in the face. Even with the fish as a buffer he can barely choke out, “Why?”

“Pardon me,” Dick feels Alfred shift next to him. “But I am not certain what you are asking.” He already sounds tired. Dick will make it worse.

“Why did you let this happen?” Dick whispers to the fish. “You raised him. Why didn’t you stop him?”

Alfred sighs, an old and weary sound. “Perhaps that is the problem.” Alfred speaks slowly like he is still thinking, but something about the regret has Dick suspecting he has dwelt on these words before, perhaps many times. “I raised him, but I was never his parent. I was the butler, it wasn’t my place. Maybe that’s why I could never tell him no. And now I - ” a choked sound, a swallow - “I failed him. And you, my dear boy.” Dick’s heart stutters. He’s frozen. “I am so sorry for all of your pain. For that, I will forever be guilty.”

Dick turns to look at the man he considers his grandfather and finds tears streaming silently down Alfred’s face. Miserable. That’s what they are, what they all are. Dick is tired of it. He goes in for a hug, which Alfred returns fiercely.

“I’m done,” Dick says to him quietly, exhausted. He’s not even sure what he’s referring to, he just wants the pain in his heart to stop. “I don’t think I can do it anymore. I’m done.”

“Oh, dear child,” Alfred reaches out to Dick’s face and wipes moisture off his cheek. Dick is surprised; he had not noticed when he started crying as well. “You deserve to be loved properly.” Alfred’s voice catches. “I suppose I have failed you there as well in the past. But the past is never an excuse for the present.” Alfred draws himself up, looks into Dick’s eyes and says firmly, “I love you.”

Dick can’t say it back, he’s sobbing too hard now. But he thinks Alfred knows, anyway. 

“It is okay to not be fine when you are hurting,” Alfred continues, patting his back. “You will survive this; you are not alone.” Dick’s arms clench tighter around Alfred’s frame. “You do not need to hold everyone up all the time; the world will not end if you take a moment for yourself. And heaven knows you deserve many such moments.” 

Being told he’s not the centre of the universe is… actually really nice to hear. Dick feels the pressure ease, the weight he has been carrying as he tries to balance all of the family problems lightening slightly. Alfred has surprised him here. Maybe he can trust other people to also care about their family.

(Would it be possible to be a family without Dick having to sacrifice his own pride and comfort? Dick kind of wants to find out.)

They are quiet for a while.

“I’m not ready to see everyone,” Dick says eventually, when he has calmed down a bit. But the tears are still falling.

“That is quite alright,” Alfred says, merciful. “We came in two vehicles.”

Dick struggles to imagine everyone else squeezing into Steph’s car but the idea makes him snort, an ugly sound that has him coughing. Alfred’s next words are equally tender-hearted, though pointed and leaving no room for arguing. “I felt it prudent to restock the first aid kit under the seats before this adventure.” Dick’s lips twitch in an almost smile. By no means infallible god or judge, Alfred is still a watching, benevolent being.

They sit together, Dick crying into Alfred’s shoulder, for what feels like a lifetime. Eventually, there are quiet footsteps that end abruptly before them. Dick doesn’t look up.

Alfred makes a motion, shifts, says, “Yes, but gently.”

And then there is a small body on Dick’s other side, carefully embracing him. Dick would recognize Damian’s cautious attempts at affection anywhere. He raises his head so he can look at his kid.

“Hi Dami,” he says. He must look a mess, red-faced and dripping snot and tears.

“Richard,” Damian says. His expression says everything he struggles to say aloud, and Dick puts an arm around him. He knows. He always knows. It is enough.

They sit quietly a while longer, the three of them. Familiar company when things fall apart. Strange, how much has changed in a year. How much is still the same. But they cannot linger in a public aquarium forever, and Dick is freezing. Eventually, he takes a shaky breath and says, “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go.” He stands up, then hesitates, feeling cowardly. “Can we just go to Bludhaven?”

Damian perks up, the possibility of a sleepover still exciting at his age. Dick holds his breath.

“Of course,” Alfred agrees, and Dick releases some of his residual tension. Let everyone else yell at each other without him for a change. He has nothing more to say right now. He needs a break.

As they head out, Damian gathers himself. “I have an idea for you to feel better,” he declares, but Dick can read his nervousness. “It may help you take care of yourself. It is a proven method of therapy.”

Damian holds himself like he expects resistance.

“What do you want me to do?” Dick asks, suspicious, but it just comes out sounding drained.

“Actually I am thinking it is something we all should participate in,” Damian ventures, tentatively, “As a ….family.”

Dick looks at him in pleasant surprise. “Yeah?”

Damian nods, serious.

Dick has no idea what to expect, but when Damian leads him through the gift shop to the fish tanks with price tags, a determined look on his face, well.

Dick can’t help but smile.

Chapter Text

"I think we deserve

a soft epilogue, my love.

We are good people

and we've suffered enough." ~ Seventy Years of Sleep # 4. nikka ursula (n.t)

Time and Space

Dick comes up for air.

He is alone, of course.

It’s Monday now. He’s hiding in Bludhaven, where he has remained since Saturday afternoon, cowardly asking Alfred to make sure no one disturbs him, to convince everyone that he needs space. And Alfred has done a good job, although perhaps Dick’s privacy is only respected because Damian stayed the weekend. He told his friends to leave him alone too, so they wouldn’t panic when he stopped answering (as if he was a consistent responder anyway these days). He didn’t specify how long he was to be undisturbed, and his family has been known to find grey areas quickly, particularly when Concerned, and yet..

Alfred took Damian back to Gotham for school early this morning, and Dick has been left alone.

Until now.

His phone is ringing again.

From this angle, he can’t see who is calling. In the last five minutes, he has already let it ring to voicemail three times in a row, watching it vibrate precariously on the edge of the bathtub. Dick has been soaking in the tub for hours and the water is too cold to be soothing but moving is too troublesome to bother. He likes baths to relax, when he has time for them; they never remind him of rainy nights the way showers can betray him. This time, he is bathing with a purpose, or trying to. He had told himself he’d ‘soak in his thoughts’ and process the giant mess that is his personal life, but whenever he tries to think about it his mind slips away, so all he has done so far is space out and lose time.

Oops, the phone goes to voicemail again. Then the ringing resumes. Dick really should get that, it could be important.

With herculean effort, Dick stretches out his arm to press talk and then speaker on the phone. 

“What’s the emergency?” Dick asks, infusing all of the energy he doesn’t feel into generating a lively tone. It half works.

“Hi,” says Barbara. Always Barbara, composed and put together while he’s unraveled in a mess of his own making. “How are you?”

“Are you just checking up on me?” Dick asks, making slow circles with his hands and watching the water swirl. He’s not annoyed; a couple days of refuge have curbed his edge, like sea glass ready to be handled.

“I’m not just checking up on you,” Barbara denies. “I’m also updating you on the outside world, since you’ve decided to play hermit.” Is that bitterness? Dick can’t read her tone. He has been avoiding everything since Saturday. It has been over forty-eight hours since the aquarium. He has been alone for twelve hours since Damian left early this morning. Perhap it has been selfish of him to enjoy the retreat. A tiny voice accuses him in the back of his mind, you can’t always just run away. “Figured it’s about time you heard some things.”

“Mmm. What things?” Dick watches the water. It’s mesmerizing. Damian had a great point with the pet fish, and it was actually fun visiting the pet store yesterday, even if he’s ninety percent sure it was purely a distraction technique. He should play with the fish in the bathtub. Or does that kill them? He can’t remember.

“Bruce is getting therapy,” Barbara says bluntly. 

Dick’s hands still before him, the final ripples crashing into the walls of the tub and unraveling into nothingness. Time passes, and Dick does nothing.

“Dick?” Barbara is asking. “Dick? Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” says Dick. “Bruce is getting therapy.” The words are foreign in his mouth, and it feels like he has just told a lie. Because how can they be true, Dick thought surely Bruce would never-

“That’s right,” Barbara’s tone is careful now. “Tim kind of forced him into it this weekend. With help from Cass. And Jason. Everyone, really.”

“Really.” It’s an echo instead of a question.

Barbara snorts. “Well, ‘help’ is a generous term. Tim blackmailed Bruce with the league after Jason punched him in the face.”

Dick sucks in a sharp breath, caught off guard. “Jason did what?”

“He punched Bruce in the face,” Barbara repeats, and maybe she sounds a little satisfied. “There’s footage and everything. Definitely worth a watch.”

“Damn,” says Dick, faintly. He hates himself a little for the anxiety that automatically wells inside of him. Hopefully Jason is okay. Bruce probably didn’t like being punched in the face. Bruce is probably angry. Dick tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter, but it’s difficult. So he switches subjects. “Therapy you said?”

“Yeah, he wasn’t really given a choice,” Barbara allows the redirect. Dick hears her shift, a keyboard click. Working as she talks, always multitasking. “It’s through the JL, they have a new program with specialized therapists, trained for vigilante and superhero trauma. I looked into it a bit, the style is reminiscent of an approach to soldiers.” Soldier. The term feels right. “I checked the policies and contracts - pretty air-tight regarding the double life aspect.”

“That’s good,” Dick says. Hearing Barbara pointedly outline the positives of therapy makes him tread carefully, wary of her intent. Dick knows everyone thinks he needs professional help. He just doesn’t feel ready right now. What would he say to someone who doesn’t already know everything? These days he doesn’t want to talk to people even when they do know his story.

But Bruce getting therapy? Dick has a lot of feelings about that. Irrationally, he feels almost jealous that Bruce has everyone forcing him to get help after everything he’s done while Dick gets a bathtub of cold water in an empty apartment. The jealousy is so hypocritical Dick can’t ever share it aloud - not after he literally stormed off and demanded to be left alone. Besides, he can’t help feeling happy too, that maybe professional therapy will produce the behavioural change in Bruce that Dick could never force from him.

“Are you okay, Dick? It sounds like your teeth are chattering,” Barbara analyzes, tone clinical.

“I’m taking a bath,” Dick confesses reluctantly. “The water is a little cold.”

Silence on the line for a moment. Barbara is probably trying to calculate how long he has been stewing in his own personal soup and the potential toll on his health. He side-eyes his phone screen. It’s around dinner time now; Dick isn’t going to tell her when he turned on the tap. “You should get out of the tub, Dick.”

“Mmm,” he says absently, swirling the water around again. “So therapy? That’s good. Good for Bruce. I don’t see why you called me though.”

“Really?” Barbara sounds unimpressed. “Don’t pretend. I called because I know you want to avoid all of this but you’re in the middle of it.”

“It’s not about me -,” Dick tries, but Barbara scoffs.

“It’s always you, Boy Blunder. Honestly, you freak out on the mission Friday, Bruce gets pissed, and I heard there was a huge fight afterwards with everyone. But then you all go to the aquarium on a happy family trip? Seriously? And then you’re suddenly gone to Bludhaven and everyone’s mad at Bruce and now he’s in therapy.” Barbara doesn’t like to be out of the loop. It often manifests as aggression. “Something smells fishy, and it wasn’t the aquarium. You can’t hide in Bludhaven forever, Dick, not from this family.” Her voice gets softer. “I saw the news articles about the aquarium flooding. Security tapes were wiped. What happened?”

Dick sighs. “What did Tim tell you?”

“It was Steph, actually,” Barbara says. Uh oh, Dick was kind of mean to Steph, this might be painful. Barbara has some latent protectiveness about Steph and can get defensive, especially to Dick and Bruce for their initial behaviour. “She said you had a meltdown in one of the exhibits and ran away.” Dick winces. It’s not wrong, but it’s embarrassing to hear about thirdhand. “And that Bruce said some… personal crap about you.”

“Oh,” says Dick. He’s certain suddenly that he’s colder than the water; ice from the inside out. He can’t seem to expand his lungs. “What?”

Barbara, Barbara, Barbara. She has been Dick’s confidante for so many things, but when it comes to Dick’s deepest hurts, he prefers to bleed alone. They both do. Perhaps that is why they could never patch each other up, why there relationship could never truly recover after-

Dick tries to slam on the breaks for his thought train, since he’s in the middle of a conversation. Even so, he feels like a few minutes have passed, and yet he is confident he hasn’t missed anything, the line still silent, a clear sign of Barbara’s discomfort.

“I’m not going to discuss your rumoured sex life,” she says eventually, and Dick closes his eyes because he can’t believe he made her feel like she even had to say that, it’s so inconsiderate after everything he has put her through. It’s good she enforces her boundaries. “I don’t know what’s true, Dick, but I just can’t talk about that with you.” Her voice is a bit shaky, maybe with old pain, but she draws in another breath and moves on like they always do. “But she did say that Bruce admitted to …hurting you. Before.”

Barbara stops talking, perhaps uncertain of what to say. It’s unusual for Oracle to be at a loss for words, but Dick and Barbara have never talked about this before and it’s unfamiliar territory. The jump in topics is jarring, but he doesn’t land in any safer terrain, caught in a different whirlpool of intrusive memories and emotions. It’s weird anyway hearing about this from Barbara, who hasn’t been around recently for one of the worst weeks Dick has ever had. It’s strange; she knows Dick so well, but the events of this weekend have left Dick so Changed, while Barbara has stayed the same.

Why is he the one so affected by all of this? Everyone has been part of this family, this group, for years. Didn’t they see this all before?

Barbara tries again. “So, how are you? With … everything.”

Dick hadn’t really wanted to talk when Barbara called, but maybe he’ll feel better if he can find some answers to the questions that tangle his thoughts.

“It’s strange, I guess,” Dick says eventually, shifting in the tub. He decides to go for honest. “Like, why now? We’ve been …fine, we’ve been fine for years. Dealing with each other’s trauma and crap. No one said anything before, so it must have been working, right? So I don’t get why it’s such a big deal now, that things had to …change.” Why did this break him?

“Dick, it wasn’t working,” Barbara sounds skeptical, but her pitch is soft and gentle. “You know it wasn’t fine. Just because you were surviving doesn’t mean it was okay. It was only a matter of time.”

“I know that,” Dick says, annoyed with himself that he can’t say the words he wants, the way he wants. “Okay? I know things could get better. I’d love to not get punched by my family anymore.” Barbara sucks in a breath. Too bitter. Calm down. Calm down. “So Bruce is getting therapy? Great, good, fine. But why did no one think things needed to get better sooner? ” Dick’s voice is coming out a little strained, he can feel the tightness in his throat. And he needs to get his shaking under control before he bites his tongue off. “Why did I have to go through a decade of bullshit before suddenly everyone decides that’s a wrap? Even this past week has been such shit but everyone waited until the weekend to protest. Why now?”

Dick’s face is wet. He’s crying. It’s a saltwater bath now. Barbara must hear; likely it makes her uncomfortable. Dick needs to get it together. Yelling at Barbara is useless, she wasn’t even there. (She wasn’t even there.) But Dick has always suspected that since it’s mostly just him who Bruce has treated as expendable, all of this must somehow be his fault. Otherwise why would it be limited to him? And it made sense, until now suddenly it doesn’t. 

“I don’t know,” Barbara chokes out, and his wandering thoughts halt, shocked. Is Barbara Gordon crying? First Alfred, now Barbara - all of the unflappable pillars of Dick’s life are crumbling, leaving him unmoored and holding the hammer. But it only takes a moment for her to pull herself together enough to speak again. “Maybe we didn’t want to believe the worst when there always seemed to be an excuse. Bruce has never pretended to be good with emotions, so we never expected him to be gentle. But that was a mistake because we never blinked when he was cruel to anyone. And you were always so fine, and you smoothed things over between Bruce and everyone else, made excuses for him, so it felt like he was doing better than he was because you were always helping him. But it’s so obvious in hindsight. So no, I don’t know why we all waited, why no one stepped in sooner.”

Dick thinks he knows why, or at least knows the reasons he has told himself for years. No one knew enough to be certain; he never told anyone, and sometimes he straight up lied. He pushed everyone away with a smile. He was never a damsel in distress. He didn’t want to be saved. How dare he blame anyone else for digging the grave when he still clutches fistfuls of dirt?

Dick sticks his hands back under the bathwater, washing them clean.

“Sorry, I’m- did you know?” he asks. He doesn’t hear Barbara on the other line, though he knows she’s still there; the silence sounds like she’s holding her breath too. She has long stopped typing. “When we were younger. About our …fights.” 

He doesn’t need to be any more specific. Not with the detectives he surrounds himself with.

Barbara breathes out, long and slow. “I was never sure,” she admits. “Like I said, you’re good at hiding your emotions; you’ve always shown people only exactly what you wanted to.” Dick tries not to read into this or speculate on how Barbara feels about their own history. “But back before Jason, when you and Bruce first started really fighting, and you were so angry all the time and lost, I suspected that you were hurt… by more than words.” A shaky breath. “Dick, I’m so sorry.”

The surface of Dick’s thoughts are carefully calm, a still body of water, depths purposefully unexplored. He holds the ripples at bay by sheer force of will as memories float up from his youth. Bruce’s smile when Dick perfected a move in the training room. Bruce’s frown, when Dick got a small cut while saving a civilian, turned into a lecture on field competency. Bruce’s face, while telling him how well he’s doing as Robin on patrol - then Bruce yelling at him that he’s not ready to be Robin with the Titans. Bruce telling him to get out, Bruce telling him to come home; Bruce yelling to get out, Bruce yelling to get back here. There were harsh grips and reprimanding slaps, but it’s the harsh tone, it’s the hard words, that always cut Dick deepest.

“Why did you never say anything?” Dick asks quietly. His friends on the Titans had raged against Bruce, but they had never known the man behind Batman the way Barbara had. It was easier to demonize an unknown, rather than a real person in one’s life.

“I thought you didn’t want me to.” Barbara’s response is honest, if a little defensive. “And we were kids, Dick. I was a kid.”

Dick bites his lip. The explanation will have to be enough, even though it doesn’t feel like it. Dick doesn’t think she can say more anyway. Her usual air of moral superiority leaves her floundering when she finds she regrets something. And Dick doesn’t feel like looking to blame people anymore; he’s so tired. Everyone gets wrapped up in their own dramas all the time, to penalize them for being human is unreasonable, and Barbara’s right. He didn’t want help, not then.

Now? ...He’s undecided.

The line is silent again for a while. Dick is pretty sure Barbara won’t hang up until he does, not when she’s so concerned for his mental health right now. And he’s slowly realizing that she needs this catharsis as much as he does. Dick lets his mind drift back to the present, and he inevitably circles back to the events of the weekend and his aquarium full of regrets.

“I didn’t apologize,” Dick says after a while, groaning.

“What do you mean?” Barbara asks, patient.

“For this weekend. I was so rude,” Dick says, idle tone disguising his inner turmoil. His words are joking but he’s not really, not when he recognizes the lingering indignation and self-hate at his own actions. His emotions war within him at the unspoken turbulence he has been fixed on all day, his heart a battleground. “To everyone. But I didn’t apologize to Steph or Tim or Jason or -” Bruce. He says quickly, “I was even kind of mean to Alfred, Babs!”

“Wow,” says Barbara. “It’s almost like you were really hurt and took out your anger on other people.”

“Babs,” Dick whines, happy to make light of his own emotions by overacting them childishly. “I know. But everyone finally tried to help and I spit in their faces.”

“Well get this: you’re not the only one capable of dispensing huge amounts of undeserved forgiveness,” Barbara delivers this pronouncement like it’s a death sentence instead of liberation, “I’m pretty sure no one holds anything against you right now. Seriously, you could murder someone and you’d get away with it.”

Dick winces at her words, safe in the bathtub where Barbara can’t see. Barbara never really sees him anyway, not since Catalina broke them up, not since Blockbuster - certainly not since Dick murdered Blockbuster. But Barbara doesn’t know. No one does, really. Dick doesn’t talk about anything, ever. The strategy was working.

“Thanks, Babs,” Dick manages. “Still should probably apologize to them though. Anyway, what shall I do with my blanket forgiveness? Become an evil dictator?”

“You could start by getting out of the ice bath,” Barbara says pointedly.

“Right,” Dick says, still not feeling ready to continue with life. “But then what?”

“Look, I’m not going to tell you how to deal with something like this. I’m not going to take your choice away here.” Some of Dick’s anxiety remains. Freedom is kindness, but Dick is deeply afraid to make the wrong choice. “You can treat yourself a bit, take some time like you’ve been doing. Relax. But you could call your brothers, your friends. Get back to work. Buck up, Boy Wonder, the world continues,” Barbara says, all tough love, and Dick half smiles at the familiarity.

“Yes sir,” he says.

He is about to hang up the phone when Barbara says, “Wait.” Dick stops, patient. “I didn’t just call you to give you a pep talk.” She sounds apologetic.

Dick sighs. “What is it?”

“Jason’s headed your way,” Barbara tells him. Dick closes his eyes and groans silently. Of course he is. “He’s not accepting my calls so I don’t know what this is about, but I figured I’d give you a heads up.” A pause. “And Dick? Maybe talk to him. Or someone.”

Dick sighs again, more dramatically. He refuses to commit to another full conversation with anyone right now. “Thanks, Babs.” He hangs up the phone.

It rings again immediately. Dick rolls his eyes and presses talk and speaker, leaning back to rest his head on the tub. “Hi Jason.”

“Dick,” says Jason. “I need to talk to you.” He is speaking loudly over the roar of a motor, but still Dick picks up on the undercurrent, a strange urgency to Jason’s words. Dick instinctively assumes something must be wrong, something new, but if it was serious Barbara would have known. Barbara would have mentioned it.

Everything is fine.

Dick closes his eyes, sinks deeper into the tub. “Now?”

“Yes now -,” Jason stumbles a moment over his words, deliberately choosing a more passive path. Interesting. “I need to - I think we should talk now, if you’re free.”

Dick swirls the water. “I said I didn’t want to see anyone,” he points out, in case Jason didn’t know.

Jason definitely knows. “The twerp is back in school today. Are you alone?” There’s a bit of weight to the question, the same pressure that Dick has felt from all of his siblings lately, like they’re uncomfortable with the idea of Dick being without supervision. Like he isn’t a capable adult.

“Yes,” Dick says, swallowing his annoyance. Pointedly, “I like it.”

“I need to see you,” Jason says. It’s almost sweet, but there’s no way Jason is calling for cuddles.

Dick closes his eyes. He doesn’t feel up to an argument. Maybe he can just say no? Well probably not, but perhaps his decline for company will be accepted if it’s indirect. “Maybe later, Jay.”

“Sorry to cut into your me-time, but I think now, Dick,” Jason says Dick’s actual name, almost apologetic, and Dick blinks. Then Jason coughs. “I’m at your apartment.” Through the phone, Dick hears the motor cut out.

He grinds his teeth.

“Ah,” says Dick. It seems Barbara’s warning was a little late. This will be difficult; it’s so much harder to hang up on someone in person. But this talk is going to happen whether he wants it to or not. “See you soon.” He hangs up.

He briefly looks at his notifications. Calls and texts from everyone but Bruce. Dick checks himself for disappointment, but finds he is numb.

The bath was good for one thing, then.

Dick allows himself one last moment to sink his head into the water, ears below the surface, to dwell in the silent limbo of the cold water before he has to confront Jason. Then he puts on his game face, and he drags himself out of the bath.

He has just enough time to pull on a long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants, hair still dripping, when there is a sharp knock on his front door - Jason’s kind of knock. He looks through the peephole anyway, on edge. (Does he want confirmation or time?) It’s Jason, of course. Dick glances back at his window, wondering if he has time for self-defenestration… but no, he has run from his problems enough. He takes a deep breath.

Dick opens the door. “Hi.”

Jason opens his mouth. He could be about to say anything, but it’s probably bad. Actually no, Dick doesn’t want to do this.

Dick closes the door, but Jason catches it with his foot before it shuts. “Hey wait!” Jason pushes the door open. His brute strength surpasses Dick’s, which is annoying; Dick blames his lethargy on his frozen body.

He steps back and crosses his arms. Water drips down his back, a cold stream.

“Asshole.” Jason is annoyed now. He looks Dick up and down, assessing. “How are you doing?” His eyes catch on all of Dick’s injuries, visible and not, before finally settling on his face. “Why are your lips blue?” he asks.

Dick rolls his eyes. “Nice to see you too, please do come in,” he invites sarcastically, sweeping his hand in a welcoming gesture.

Dick wanders to his living room. He can hear Jason following behind. Suddenly needing to be cozy, he grabs a stray blanket on the way, one that Damian had been using while he stayed over. Dick settles on one end of the couch and Jason takes the other. By the time Dick has positioned himself comfortably, curled up as tightly as possible, Jason is watching him expectantly, like he is still waiting for Dick to answer his question. It had been about ..right. “I took a bath.”

“An ice bath?” Jason asks, skeptical, like he thinks Dick is an idiot. Well, he probably does think that. And Dick is not exactly upset that his brother decided to ignore his wishes for solitude, but he’s something close.

“Did you seriously come here to judge how I look?” It’s snappy, but Dick is not in the mood to defend his selfcare right now. He’s exhausted; all of his strength seeped into the tub, leaving him with a quiet anger that sits heavy in his bones.

“No, but you need to stop hurting yourself,” Jason's face looks pinched, not quite a glare but some other strong emotion Dick can’t read. His eyes are tracing again. “How are you doing?” A surprisingly sensitive question.

Dick glares back, but it’s tired and he’s out of heat. He just needs to get this over with. “Why are you here, Jason?”

“I-,” Jason takes a breath instead of finishing. Dick has never seen his brother so uncertain in conversation; the awkwardness hangs on him, making his huge frame look small and unsure. Some deep instinct within Dick has him wanting to reach out and comfort him. But he is too tired, so just burrows deeper into his blanket.

And he waits.

“I have a question,” Jason says eventually, like he’s already beginning to ask it, but then he stops again. He is leaning back on the arm rest so he can face Dick fully. His gaze is penetrating, holding Dick in this moment against his will.

“Well?” Dick prods.

Jason stares at him, gaze penetrating. “You’re not going to want to answer.” A beat. “And you don’t have to answer,” he stresses. “I won’t make you, I would never fucking make you-,” he shifts. “Fuck, you don’t have to tell me. We don’t have to talk about it. But I’m going to ask anyway, okay?”

Dick tries to parse through Jason’s tumble of confusing assurances. Dick doesn’t have to answer to his family? That doesn’t sound right. But for the love of - “Then why are you asking me at all?” Dick says, exasperated.

“Because you can talk to me, if you want to. I’m worried about you,” Jason admits, grimacing like the real emotion behind the words causes him physical pain. He looks away like concern for others is too embarrassing for eye contact.

Or maybe it’s just Dick who makes everything uncomfortable for his family all the time.

“You don’t need to be,” Dick says immediately as his ever-present guilt twinges. “I’m sorry for ducking out and ghosting again,” he apologizes. “And for all the shit I caused.” Dick shouldn’t have grown so complacent with how they were, should have been the one calling for change, for Bruce to change. He needs to be stronger if he ever wants to support his family.

Jason whips his head back around.

“Don’t fucking apologize,” Jason says, appalled. “You didn’t do shit.” A pause. “Well, the aquarium maintenance department probably disagrees-” Dick winces,” -but I think that blow up was a long time coming and Bruce fucking deserved it. You didn’t do shit to the rest of us, anyway. Stop worrying about us, we’re not kids - except for the brat. And we can handle ourselves.” He leans in. “You’ve done enough, okay? You’ve done ..good.” And the strange compliment keeps Dick from arguing the point further, now that he is firmly in uncharted territory.

Jason takes a deep breath. Dick is impressed by the visible display of him trying to calm himself. Whatever he wants to talk about must be really important. Dick’s stomach sinks; it’s probably about Dick and Bruce. Dick does not want to talk about it.

“Look, Jason, I appreciate your and everyone’s concern, and you’ve all made your points this week, but I need to ..process,” Dick says, as gently as he can manage while still being annoyed. “I don’t know what I’m going to do about Bruce and I really, really don’t want to talk about it with you.” Not when they always, always fight about it. Dick feels a pang of regret. But Jason can be gentle. So he adds more quietly, “I don’t want to fight you right now, Jay.”

Jason shakes his head. “It’s not about Bruce.” Another pause, and Jason can’t seem to let it go without adding, “But he is an asshole.”

Dick snorts, not disagreeing. And he’s dying for confirmation but he forces his tone into neutrality, asks, “Is it true you punched him in the face?” Not that it matters.

(It matters a little.)

“You fucking know it,” Jason says, proudly.

Dick makes an obligatory show of looking disapproving, shaking his head at Jason’s behaviour, but he struggles to squash a tiny sprout of satisfaction at the confirmation that Bruce’s face must hurt. A bigger part of him is feeling responsible for ruining Jason’s relationship with Bruce, for letting them come to blows. Or maybe they were like this anyway, and Dick has just stopped trying to fix them. Tragedy either way, and blame aplenty, whether Dick did something wrong or failed to do something right.

“You missed a massive argument by the way, Dickhead,” Jason continues. Dick tries not to find this anxiety-inducing, not knowing what everyone said, who cut who with a reckless word, who needs comforting now. He can always ask Barbara for the cave footage, but an even bigger part of him consumed with the tired blankness really doesn’t want to know.

Jason side-eyes Dick, judging his reaction to his next words. “No one liked my body bag idea-”

“What the hell, Jason, don’t joke about -”

“- so Replacement is forcing him into therapy. Like I said, we’re handling it fine,” Jason finishes. He looks like he expects Dick to do something, react somehow. Maybe Dick would, if Barbara hadn’t already let him know. He is suddenly very grateful to her, if only for indirectly helping him save face with Jason.

Dick grits his jaw. “I already said, I don’t want to talk about Bruce.”

“Right, we don’t have to talk about it, I was just saying, but I’m here if you ever want to talk about that too.” Dick rolls his eyes. His family is a bunch of gossips. And as if Dick could confide in Jason of all people about his feelings on Bruce - Jason is way too close to the shipwreck to carry Dick into a lifeboat. Jason seems aware of this because he adds, a bit peevishly, “Look, I know I haven’t been the sweetest sunflower to you lately but despite what you think I actually don’t hate your sorry ass. Most of the time.” Apparently Jason is still incapable of a blatant declaration of affection, so this near-thing is ..really nice. But Dick doesn’t feel like responding; he’s still tense with the uncertainty and bizarreness of the interaction.

Jason must take Dick’s uncertain silence as an indication to move on. “Okay I know I’m probably not the best person to talk about this, or your favourite choice, but I don’t think you’re going to get help otherwise. So I’m here to talk about..” Jason blows a breath out, looking frustrated with himself. Looking uncomfortable.

Dick opens his mouth to prod him again, uncertain where Jason is trailing off to, but then it clicks.

Your reputation precedes you.

He’s taken aback for a second. His mouth is still open but he’s unable to speak. And then Jason is laying words out like heavy weights that hold Dick in place, that demand an answer Dick can’t give, “Were you ever taken advantage of?” A dark beat, a death knell. “Sexually?”

It probably takes effort to ask, but Dick is shocked that Jason can say the words at all when Dick can’t even think them.

“No,” he says immediately.

Dick’s breath is solidifying like a heavy mass in his lungs. Damn Bruce. Dick suddenly realizes that this conversation is not unprecipitated. Of course his siblings are curious. Of course Jason goes digging, then runs back to Dick with this horribly perceptive question. But Dick isn’t ready, and he’s so tired. He doesn’t want to talk about this, has never talked about this before.

Has he ever been taken advantage of? Sexually? No.

“Dick,” Jason tries. Soft. Out of character. This week has changed them all, peeled their layers, exposed their hidden selves and sore points.

Dick curls impossibly further into himself, wrapping his arms tightly around his knees for protection. He peers defensively out from his blanket cocoon. “No. I’m not talking about this with you.” His breath catches, solid, and he chokes. “I can’t.”

Is the room getting darker? Or maybe he just needs to breathe, and the dark spots in the corners of his vision will go away. He forces his lungs to expand, wills himself to live through this uneasy moment. He has always adapted quickly to discomfort. He can already feel the resignation sinking in; he thinks he doesn’t want to talk, but. Perhaps he deserves this conversation, some kind of punishment for the things he has let people do in the past.

The concern in Jason’s eyes burns. He is still treading carefully, expecting conflict. “Dick, you’ve painted a really ugly picture and I -,” another stumble; it’s so wrong, Jason is always confident with his words, speaking without regret. But now he is speaking slowly and carefully and it’s wrong. “You don’t have to answer. But I want to know the truth. People talk a lot of shit and I think I should hear it from you.” Another calming breath, no green flickering anywhere today. “Dick, what happened with Mirage?”

Dick remains perfectly still. He needs to be careful how he looks when Jason asks him these questions. So much can be given away without a word spoken. 

“What do you know?” Dick asks, and it’s not just a barb, it’s a real question: what does Jason think he knows? It’s obvious he showed up today with these notions already decided. Dick regrets not keeping tabs on his family; Jason has clearly done some digging in the last forty-eight hours.

“I talked to some friends,” Jason confesses, a little guiltily, but there’s a defiance in the set of his jaw that betrays his self-righteousness. He thinks he’s doing the right thing. Dick tastes bitterness like jealousy, for how much Jason and Roy share with each other.

“I don’t know what Roy told you this time,” Dick says, still tired, instead of annoyed. “But it’s probably true.” He keeps all emotion out of his voice, seeking detachment. It makes him sound dead.

“Kory talked to us,” Jason says, and Dick can’t hide the cringe. “She said you slept with Mirage instead of her.” Dick knows, he was there. Jason doesn’t need to say it. This is so personal, but everything personal has been so public lately that Dick feels like he may as well walk around naked, so why not have his little brother narrate his sexual history.

“Look I get it, okay? I’m sorry I cheated, I didn’t mean to and I never meant to hurt Kory like that. And I’m not so good with relationships, I thought we covered this Saturday,” Dick snaps. His arms feel numb; he’s gripping them too hard. “Thank you for driving all the way here to throw that in my face.”

“What - Dick, no,” Jason says, sounding bewildered. “I meant you thought you were sleeping with Kory, but you slept with Mirage instead.”

“Yes?” Odd. The distinction never seemed to matter before.

Jason takes in Dick’s confusion and groans. “Are you serious? She tricked you. That’s not consent,” he stresses.

Oh. There’s a dangerous, slippery word that Jason hasn’t said, and Dick’s thoughts slide around it now. “It wasn’t exactly against my will,” Dick finds himself arguing with Jason. Bizarre; usually he only has this discussion with himself, after a nightmare, trying to remind himself he deserves it.

Usually he’s crying. He’s fighting hard not to now.

“Did you want to have sex with Kory?” Jason continues to patiently press needles into his heart.

“Yes.” Dick feels weird saying this to his brother, who obviously thinks he knows something Dick doesn’t about Dick.

“Did you want to have sex with Mirage?” Jason asks, intense.

“No, I-,” Dick thinks for a moment, tries to remember without flashing back. It’s hard, but his fingers digging into his arms help him stay present. It’s such a complicated memory. If it hadn’t been Mirage… “I regretted it,” he settles on. “But I said yes at the time.” Despite his efforts, images flicker before his eyes. She really did look like Kory. Still, he should have known.

Jason is staring at him, aghast. Apparently, even when Dick is telling the truth, he is somehow answering wrong.

“You said yes to Kory,” Jason differentiates. “Mirage took advantage of you.”

Well, yes. Wait, no. “But I-”

“Dick, it’s not your fault,” Jason cuts him off sharply.

Dick shuts up.

It’s not your fault.

Dick must hold his incredulous, uncomprehending silence for too long. Jason scrubs his face, swears softly. “Un-fucking-believable. Of course you think it’s your fault, you idiotic martyr. Just like with all the family problems, I swear. Your guilt complex is pathological.”

“I’m-” sorry.

“It’s not your fault,” Jason repeats, more firmly. Then, a little desperate, “Has no one told you that before?”

Dick doesn’t know how to answer that; people tell him all sorts of things. Dick is responsible for a lot, but there are limits. But this specifically? Well.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Jay, it was a long time ago.” The wound is so old, Dick is afraid that to rip it open now will only cause more damage. And Dick has been using the scar as a reference for new pains, everytime someone thinks he owes them something because he smiles at them. If Mirage wasn’t his fault, what is he supposed to think about everything else? Better to leave it alone, for things to remain as they are. Dick is doing fine, he can take responsibility for his own mistakes. It’s just like everyone thinks.

Strange, though, that Jason has adopted this viewpoint after talking to Roy and Kory. He would have thought - but, well. Dick doesn’t know them that well anymore. Maybe..

Dick continues, “I don’t need you to make me feel better; I can defend myself.” That’s the problem as much as the solution isn’t it? Dick is strong. Dick can defend himself, so he doesn’t need Jason to make him feel better about himself. Dick can defend himself, so he could have stopped her, so why didn’t he-

This blanket is so constricting, but he can’t move his arms to free himself.

Dick tries for a bit of humour, to lighten Jason’s dark expression, to distract himself, since his life is one big joke anyway, “I’m sorry you have to hear this again Jay, but your big brother’s a ho.” He lets the word lilt out like it doesn’t mean anything to him. Like his stomach isn’t aching strangely.

Jason flinches as if the words hurt him. “Don’t,” he snaps, looking a little unnerved at Dick’s blasé attitude, like he’s hurt that Dick is trying to brush this off. “Don’t talk about yourself like that. Not about this.”

“It’s the truth,” Dick says, angry. When the truth hurts Dick, he doesn’t get to just not hear it. He’s on edge, arguing about this topic that he tries to avoid. He can’t help reliving Saturday between blinks, seeing everyone’s uncomfortable expressions as Bruce tried to tell Dick he needed to be more careful about sleeping around. “And it’s what you all think anyway.”

“It’s not,” Jason breathes heavily, and there it is, the green. “It’s not the truth, it’s victim-blaming.” It is Dick’s turn to flinch with the insinuation that he might not be the offender. “And fuck you, I don’t think you’re a slut.”

“You called me a seahorse,” Dick points out petulantly. It’s such a small thing, he feels whiny for even bringing it up. Jason always brings out the childish sibling in him.

Jason’s face pinches. “Sorry about that,” he says, and Dick was about to speak but now his mouth is left hanging open. “It was partly a joke, and a little bit of a test that you f- anyway.” Jason shifts. “Kind of shitty of me.” Yeah it was. The apology has Dick caught off guard and he’s unable to speak, so Jason continues, “No one thinks you’re a slut, not in this family.”

It’s not your fault. The words are kind of exactly what Dick has longed to hear, but hasn’t dared to hope for. It’s a bit entrancing to hear this from Jason, who’s a sibling but more of an equal, who has never been really close to Dick, who is close to Roy, and who has no reason to give him empty assurances to spare his feelings like Donna or Wally. And he wants Jason to keep saying these things, but there is a problem.

Jason doesn’t know everything.

If he did, he wouldn’t say it’s not your fault; not if he knew what Dick has done. 

There is something about Jason fighting so hard to make Dick not think he’s a slut that makes Dick feel like he wants to tell him everything. But Jason is just one person, and so many people think-

“Bruce thinks so,” Dick says quietly, hugging himself tighter. 

Jason makes a sound like someone sat on his chest. “Are you kidding me? He’s been hurting you for years. After dowsing him in a tank of water, you still care about what that asshole thinks of you?”

Dick winces, because the answer is yes and always.

Jason can clearly tell. His jaw clenches. “Unbelievable. You know, part of your problem is you always let what other people think affect you too much. If someone says you’re a slut, that doesn’t mean shit. It means you’re not a slut, they’re wrong.”

Dick blinks, not sure where to start. As if things were that simple, but maybe they are for Jason. Dick doesn’t know why he cares so much about what other people think. But ..life is so much easier when people are happy with him, when he does what they want.

“That’s not even the problem with Bruce anyway.” Dick shoots him a look as Jason changes to the protective sibling role he seems to have been studying this week. Jason notices the look. “It’s not my fault we’re talking about him, you brought him up!” Touché. Dick can’t help thinking about Bruce when they’re at odds, when all of the problems between them trace back to him. “I don’t get you Dickhead - I know everyone wants to give him a chance, fuck knows why, but that doesn’t mean you need him in your life. Really, you should just cut him out. You’re better off without Bruce, we all are.” Jason looks like he’s trying to convince himself.

Once Batman’s Robin, always Batman’s Robin.

“He needs us,” Dick says. No matter what Bruce thinks. No matter how Dick feels about the toll it takes to be Bruce’s emotional support. As if Dick has ever wanted space in his entire life. “I think I need him too. You know, Tim’s right with the therapy. Bruce could use the help.” At Jason’s raised eyebrow he adds, “I know he has room for improvement. It could be good for him to have professional support.”

Jason pulls a face. “Whatever, I’ve told you what I think you should do, but it’s your stupid life. Just don’t expect me to go anywhere near him anytime soon.” This is usually what Dick expects. Jason sighs, a long annoyed whistle. “And since you care so much about his stupid opinion - okay, Bruce doesn’t - look, I know how it sounded, but you know he has the emotional intelligence of a literal crab. Bruce sucks. I literally hate you for making me defend him right now on behalf of your fragile psyche.” Dick bristles. Jason meets his eyes very deliberately. “But he doesn’t think you’re a slut, okay?”

Dick cycles quickly through his immediate thoughts. How would Jason know? But he used to get along with Bruce, when he was young, maybe his instinctive understanding has carried over somewhat through the pit changes, despite no evidence. The problem is Dick wants to believe Jason right now. And Dick knows Bruce sucks at communication; he has been reminding himself of this for years, whenever Bruce’s words are particularly hurtful. But when there are both words and actions, it is hard to dismiss, and this time it is unmistakable.

“But he was talking about the rumours. And that’s why he picked me. For.” Dick can’t say it.

Thankfully Jason seems to understand. “No. No. First, Tim is a gossip girl and you know it. He thought he’d help you by telling Bruce about Deathstroke, but he told it wrong. And people in general are gossip girls, and Bruce hears people saying things about Constantine, or whoever you’ve randomly spoken to lately. He’s an idiot for not talking to you about it, because it’s obvious there’s something wrong and I’m starting to -,” Jason cuts himself off, switches, “And that had nothing to do with that damned clusterfuck of a mission. He’s a bastard for making you think that, but then you ran off -,” Jason halts again before he can detail Dick’s blame. “Stop looking like that, it’s not your fault.” Dick doesn’t know what he looks like; he can’t feel his face or the rest of his body. Jason groans. “Fuck, Bruce is useless. But if he actually thinks you’re a slut I will slaughter him with prejudice, forget therapy.” He slams a fist on the couch, and Dick would flinch if he wasn’t still frozen. Of course Jason is irritated when he has to defend Bruce.

Since Jason is fervently worked up about what he’s saying, Dick tries to give his words the benefit of the doubt and parse through the logic. Okay, maybe Bruce’s true thoughts are complicated by his inability to express himself, as always. Sure. Dick knows him well; it’s plausible. And maybe Bruce heard concerning rumours from multiple sources and was actually trying to verify them with Dick before believing them, and picked a terrible time and place and method and everything by trying to kill two birds with one stone and simultaneously semi-apologize for the mission assignment. Bruce could actually have no idea about Dick’s sexual history, which Dick decides is maybe a good thing. Dick can visualize this being reality; it’s not so impossible. But it’s not the only potential explanation, not even the most likely.

(And yet, the vague hope, the mere idea that maybe Bruce doesn’t think that about Dick relaxes him so much he desperately wants to believe it. But even if he wants to believe it’s true, he doesn’t know.)

But Dick can also visualize continuing this discussion about Bruce’s misspeaks and true intentions. And Dick thinks maybe he doesn’t want to see how Jason’s anger will develop if they keep talking about Bruce. Some points can’t be argued anyway; even Jason seems to agree other people talk about Dick like he is somehow open for objectification. There has to be a reason. A reason from people who know Dick better than Jason thinks he knows him. Jason’s distanced opinion on things is nice, at least when it’s so validating, but there has to be more from someone who actually knows the story. So.

“What about Roy?” Dick asks, maybe defensive, maybe vulnerable. But other people’s opinions matter. Unfortunately. They determine Dick’s damn life.

“Dick, I mean it, you’re not a slut,” Jason says instead of answering. He looks exasperated, but his words are strangely patient. Dick keeps waiting. “Why do you need validation from all of these people who weren’t even there when it happened? Kory knows you didn’t cheat on her, you have to know she never blamed you.” Dick knows. But he still feels guilty. “Roy doesn’t know shit.” When Dick continues to be silent, waiting for more, Jason’s exasperation breaks into something harder. “Roy doesn’t use his brain sometimes, okay? He misunderstood some important things. But we had a nice talk about consent.” He clenches his hands. A sinking feeling in Dick’s stomach comes with the insinuation of a fight, of even more conflict he’s brought into the lives of the people around him.

Beyond that, it’s weird to imagine Roy and Jason having a conversation about Dick’s love life, but here is the confirmation. And here is Jason thinking Roy got it wrong, but Jason can only know so much from his own experience. When he was Robin, he saw Dick head over heels for Kory. Dick wonders if this is why Jason seems to so easily reject the idea that Dick could be the poison in his relationships, even when Jason has witnessed some of the lasting rockiness between Dick and Barbara. But Jason’s social circles aren’t identical to Dick’s, a different fringe of crime fighting; he hasn’t seen Dick the way other people have, or heard what they say about him. Maybe Miriam was in the wrong, maybe Kory has been right all along and it’s not Dick’s fault. But how could that one incident have left such a long scar in Dick’s reputation? Dick has to believe there’s something more to it or he would have gone crazy ages ago. And Roy said-

“But he did say I’m a slut,” Dick persists. Roy told him so, in front of everyone. And no one denied it- but that’s not fair to them, it was such an awkward and tense moment, with so much going on. Dick was making it tense. Of course no one defended him about a tiny, throwaway, insignificant truth-

“Not anymore,” Jason says, a steely glint in his eye. Dick is scared to ask what happened exactly, but now he’s really regretting not keeping tabs on Jason. Where does Jason think he’s coming from that gives him this intensity, this need to convince Dick? It’s hard to argue when he doesn’t know what information Jason has. It’s not like he can know what Dick has never told anyone, but there’s a pattern even Jason must be able to see. “And if anyone else says that shit about you, I’ll fight them too.”

Dick is bone-tired from years of sleepless nights wondering how to fix his own reputation and having to accept the nauseating reality that he can’t. Jason isn’t going to fix it with his fists now. Dick scrubs his face with the blanket. “It’s no one in particular, you know. You can’t blame people for believing what they hear anymore.”

“Fucking watch me.” Jason examines his surprisingly nice fingernails.