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Chapter Text

The crystal chandelier cast a harsh glare on the mahogany dining table, its perfectly polished surface reflecting Bruce Wayne's stern countenance. He sat straight, his fingers steepled before him, the weight of expectation hanging heavy in the air.

"Richard," Buce began, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the room. "We need to discuss your future. Now that you've... stepped away from your studies, it's time to consider your role in Wayne Enterprises."

Jason groaned out loud. Bruce was always so pushy at the wrong fucking times. Jason looked up from his plate to see Dick's jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around the fork staring at his untouched food. If Bruce pushed Jason was pretty sure Dickie would probably storm off with an untouched plate.

Dick felt the urge to hurl his plate across the room bubbled up inside him, but he forced it down, mostly for Alfred and Jason, settling for a derisive snort instead.

"My role?" Dick interrupted, his blue eyes flashing with defiance. "You mean the role you've mapped out for me that I never chose for myself? I already dropped out of business school. Sorry, Bruce, but I'm not interested in being another cog in your corporate machine."

Bruce's eyebrow twitched, the only outward sign of his rising frustration. He smoothed down his tie, a habit that usually preceded a lecture. Dick braced himself, his mind already formulating retorts.

"The business world offers stability, son," Bruce pressed on, his tone measured but laced with an underlying steel. "It's a path that will secure your future, provide for-"

"Provide what?" Dick cut in, pushing back his chair with a screech that echoed through the dining room. He stood, hands planted on the table, leaning towards his father. "A life I never asked for? A future I don't want?"

Bruce's eyes narrowed, his own posture shifting to mirror his son's confrontational stance. "You're being shortsighted, Richard. This isn't just about you. It's about legacy, about responsibility-"

"Responsibility?" Dickie laughed, the sound bitter and hollow. "That's rich coming from you. You took me to court to argue just how irresponsible I am!"

The words hung between them, sharp and cutting. Dick's heart raced, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Part of him wanted to back down, to acquiesce as he had so many times before. But a larger part, the part that ached for freedom, for a life beyond the suffocating walls of Wayne Manor, refused to yield.

Bruce's jaw tightened, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table. "You're making a mistake, son. Without direction, without purpose-"

"My purpose isn't yours to decide," Dick shot back, his voice rising. "I'm not a child anymore, Bruce. I can make my own choices, live my own life."

“Then stop acting like one.” Bruce snapped.

Bruce's words cut through the air like a whip, causing Dick to flinch involuntarily. The older man's composure wavered for a moment, a flicker of regret passing across his face before he steeled himself once more.

"Dickie," Bruce began again, his voice strained with forced calm, "You need to understand. The business world isn't just about profits. It's about making a difference, about using our resources to help people. That's the legacy I want you to carry on."

Dick's lips curled into a sneer, his blue eyes blazing with defiance. "You're a billionaire B. You never have to work a day in your life and be fine! It’s about control! What about my legacy, Bruce? Or did you forget that little detail when you had me declared incompetent last month?"

The words hung heavy in the air, laden with accusation and hurt. Jason felt bad for Dick but also understood why Bruce took such measures. Dick had over dosed and had been hospitalized twice with alcohol poisoning. He still understood Dicks frustration with Bruce taking away control over his own life so he sat there quietly and watched Bruce's jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tightening visibly. He opened his mouth to respond, but Dick cut him off.

"What future are you even talking about?" Dick spat, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "The one where I'm your puppet, dancing on strings you control? Or the one where I'm locked up in rehab because you couldn't handle a few public slip-up?"

Bruce's nostrils flared, his composure cracking. "That 'slip-up' nearly killed you, Richard. I did what I had to do to keep you safe."

Jason suddenly straightened in his chair. His green eyes darted between his father and brother, sensing the conversation spiraling out of control.

"Hey, guys," Jason interjected, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "Maybe we could look at this from a different angle? What if Dickie took some business classes but also pursued something he's passionate about? Like, I don't know, social work or something?"

Both Bruce and Dick turned to look at Jason, momentarily stunned by his interruption. Jason swallowed hard, fighting the urge to shrink under their intense gazes. He pressed on, desperate to find some middle ground.

"I mean, that way Dick could learn about the business side of things, but also use it to make a difference in a way that matters to him. It could be a compromise, right?"

Dick's eyes flashed with a dangerous intensity, his jaw clenching as he turned back to Bruce. "You don't get it, do you?" he snarled, his voice rising with each word. "This isn't about classes or careers. It's about you thinking you can control every aspect of my life!"

He slammed his fist on the table, causing the silverware to rattle. The sudden outburst made Jason flinch, but Bruce remained stoic, his piercing gaze fixed on his eldest son.

"I'm not a child anymore, Bruce," Dick continued, his words laced with bitter resentment. "I don't need you to make my decisions for me. I need you to trust me, to let me live my own life!"

Bruce's facade of calm finally cracked. He leaned forward, his broad shoulders tensing as he gripped the edge of the table. "Trust you?" he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "How can I trust you when your idea of independence nearly cost you your life? Dropped out of college, partied every night doing god knows what and ending up in hospitals. Thats the choices YOU made."

Dickie recoiled as if he'd been slapped, but Bruce pressed on, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "I am your father, Richard. Everything I do, every decision I make, is to protect you. To give you a future."

"A future I never asked for!" Dickie shot back, his blue eyes blazing with defiance.

Bruce's jaw tightened, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the table harder. "I know what's best for you," he insisted, his tone leaving no room for argument. "This path, this education – it's not just about the company. It's about giving you the tools to succeed, to stand on your own two feet."

As Bruce spoke, Dickie's hand unconsciously moved to his arm, fingers tracing the faint scars hidden beneath his sleeve. The gesture wasn't lost on Bruce, whose expression softened for a brief moment before hardening once more.

“Its not fair!” Dick yelled.

“It’s not fair to think Jason and I would just sit back and watch you kill yourself.” Bruce snapped back.

"I won't watch you destroy yourself," Bruce said, his voice quieter but no less firm. "Not again. Not ever."

Jason felt his chest tighten as the argument between his father and brother escalated. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart, and leaned forward, his voice strained but calm.

"Guys, please," he pleaded, his green eyes darting between Bruce and Dick. "Can we just... take a step back for a second?" He unconsciously adjusted his posture, making himself appear larger.

"Dickie," Jason continued, turning to his brother, "I know you feel trapped, but Dad's just trying to help. And Dad," he swiveled to face Bruce, "maybe we could listen to what Dickie wants, find some middle ground?"

His words hung in the air, met with tense silence. Jason could feel his palms growing sweaty as he desperately tried to maintain the fragile peace. "We're family," he added, his voice cracking slightly. "We should be able to talk this out without—"

“I agree with Master Jason.” Alfred said walking into the room in a well-worn but tidy suit.

Dick groaned and abruptly stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. The sudden noise made Jason flinch, his carefully constructed composure crumbling.

"Talk what out?" Dick spat, his blue eyes flashing with defiance. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, a habit that always surfaced when he felt cornered. "There's nothing to discuss. I'm done living by your rules, by your expectations."

Dick's lean frame trembled with barely contained rage as he glared at Bruce. "I'm twenty-one years old. I'm not a child anymore!"

Bruce's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching as he slowly rose from his seat. The sudden movement caused his cufflinks to catch the light, a glint that seemed to underscore the tension crackling in the air. As he stood to his full height, he towered over Dick, casting a long shadow across the dining room table.

"You think you're ready to face the world on your own terms, Richard?" Bruce's voice was low, controlled, but laced with an undercurrent of steel. He took a step closer, his imposing frame dwarfing Dickie's smaller build. "Have you forgotten what happened last month? The overdose? alcohol poisoning? The headlines?"

Dickie's defiant stance faltered for a moment, his eyes flickering with a mix of shame and anger. Bruce pressed on, his words measured and cutting. "Actions have consequences. Your reckless behavior nearly cost you everything. The conservatorship isn't a punishment, it's protection."

Jason watched the confrontation unfold, his heart pounding in his chest. He felt torn, understanding both Dickie's desire for independence and Bruce's need to protect. The weight of their shared history pressed down on him, memories of late-night hospital visits and hushed arguments flooding his mind. Alfred rested a comforting hand on Jasons shoulder.

Jason was adopted at thirteen when he was angry and alone. His mom overdosed in the bathroom. He ran away from a group home and tried to pick-pocket some rich guy who ended up adopting him. At the time Richard was 17 and already started rebelling and arguing with Bruce but it wasn’t this bad until he suddenly dropped out of college and started dabbling in drugs almost a year ago. It terrified Jason that he could lose another family member to an OD.

"I can't just stand by and watch you destroy yourself," Bruce continued, his fingers gripping the edge of the table. "Whether you like it or not, I am responsible for you. And I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe, even from yourself."

The dining room crackled with tension, each word hurled between Bruce and Dick like a lightning bolt striking the polished mahogany table.

"You don't get to decide my life!" Dickie shouted, his voice raw with emotion. 

Bruce's jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and fear. "And you think destroying yourself is the answer? That's not independence, Dickie. That's surrender!"

Their voices reverberated off the high ceilings, filling the cavernous space with their pain and frustration. Jason flinched at the intensity, his heart racing as he watched his family unravel before his eyes.

"You don't understand!" Dickie stomped his foot on the ground and clenched his fists. "I'm suffocating here!"

"And you think drugs and alcohol will set you free?" Bruce retorted, his tone cutting. "Wake up, Richard! You're throwing everything away!"

Dick rolled his eyes “Like you didn't drink when you were my age! You were all over the tabloids Brucie!” Dick sneered throwing Bruces past at him.

“I never overdosed!” Bruce snapped.

Jason couldn't take it anymore. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "Stop!" he shouted, surprising even himself with the force of his voice. Both Bruce and Dick turned to him, momentarily stunned into silence.

"Please," Jason continued, his voice softer but firm. "Can't you see what this is doing to us? To our family?" He looked between them, his eyes pleading. "Dad, Dickie..."

Jason's words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of truth. He swallowed hard, fighting back the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Alfred squeezed his shoulder continuing for Jason "I know we're all hurting, but tearing each other apart isn't the answer. We have to find a way to understand each other, to support each other."

Jason's heart pounded in his chest as he waited for their response, praying his words had made some impact on the two stubborn men before him.

The grand dining room fell into a tense silence, broken only by the soft ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the corner. Bruce and Dick locked eyes across the polished mahogany table. The air crackled with unspoken accusations and long-buried resentments.

The silence that followed was deafening. Jason held his breath, his eyes darting between his father and brother. He could see the pain etched in both their faces, the love and frustration warring beneath the surface.

Finally, Bruce sank back into his chair, suddenly looking older than his years. Dick's defiant posture softened slightly, a flicker of uncertainty and guilt crossing his face.

The family sat in strained silence, the weight of their unresolved issues pressing down on them.

As the tension slowly bled out of the room, replaced by a hollow emptiness, Jason couldn't shake the feeling that this was only a temporary reprieve. The underlying resentment remained, simmering just below the surface, waiting for the next spark to ignite it.

He looked at his father and brother, these two men he loved more than anything in the world, and felt a deep ache in his chest. Their family was fractured, held together by fraying threads of obligation and shared history. And as the silence stretched on, Jason wondered if they would ever truly be whole again.

Chapter Text

The soft click of the window latch echoed in Dick's ears as he eased it open, his heart hammering against his ribs. He paused, listening for any sign that Bruce had heard. Silence. With practiced agility, he slipped out onto the ledge and shimmied down the drainpipe, dropping silently onto the manicured lawn.

"Not tonight, old man," Dick muttered, adjusting his leather jacket. "You can't keep me caged forever."

He ran his fingers through his hair as he strode towards the garage. The weight of the Manor loomed behind him, suffocating and oppressive. Dick's hands shook slightly as he fished out Bruces car keys, the metal cool against his sweaty palm.

"Breathe," he reminded himself, sliding into the driver's seat. "Everything is fine."

The engine roared to life, and Dick peeled out of the driveway, tires squealing in rebellion. As the city lights grew closer, a manic grin spread across his face. Freedom tasted sweet on his tongue.

Thirty minutes later, Dick stood before the pulsing facade of Gotham's hottest nightclub, bass reverberating through the sidewalk. He hesitated, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm against his thigh.

"Jason would lose his shit if he saw me here," Dick murmured, guilt gnawing at his insides. He imagined his younger brother's disappointed frown, those earnest eyes filled with concern. But he doesn't understand. He's always been the good son. I’ll just avoid drugs. He reassured himself easing the guilt.

A group of laughing twentysomethings brushed past, their carefree energy infectious. Dick's resolve strengthened. He deserved one night of reckless abandon, didn't he? One night without Bruce's suffocating expectations weighing him down.

"Screw it," Dick declared, striding towards the entrance. "I'm done being the perfect heir."

As he reached for the door, a fleeting image of Bruce's stern face flashed through his mind. Dick faltered, but it was just the bouncer. He had the same built as Bruce and did not look like he wanted to let Dick in but his ID was valid and even if it wasn’t he stole a handful of hundreds from Bruces wallet. The man was a billionaire was it even considered stealing if he wouldn’t notice.

With a deep breath, Dick walked into the club. The cacophony of music and laughter washed over him, promising sweet oblivion. He stepped inside, leaving behind the shackles of Wayne Manor, if only for one night.

***

The pulsating bass hit Dick like a physical force, vibrating through his bones as he pushed deeper into the club. A sea of writhing bodies engulfed him, the air thick with sweat and perfume. Neon lights sliced through the darkness, painting faces in surreal hues of blue and red.

"This is it," Dickie thought, his heart racing. "This is freedom."

He closed his eyes, letting the rhythm wash over him. For a moment, he wasn't Richard Grayson-Wayne, heir to the Wayne fortune. He was just another face in the crowd, anonymous and unfettered.

A hand brushed his arm, and Dick's eyes snapped open. A girl with glitter-streaked cheeks grinned at him, shouting something he couldn't hear over the music. He smiled back, relishing the simple, human connection.

As he navigated through the throng, Dick's gaze locked onto the bar. "One drink," he told himself. "Just to take the edge off."

He sidled up to the counter, flashing a reckless grin at the bartender. "Whiskey, neat," he ordered, his voice carrying a bravado he didn't quite feel. It was a drink Bruce used to order. He tasted it once when he was a kid and almost threw up but now it was his choice of poison. He didn’t want to think about what it implied.

The bartender slid the glass towards him, and Dick stared at the amber liquid. His fingers tapped an anxious rhythm on the bar top.

"Jason would lose his mind if he saw me now," Dick mused, a pang of guilt piercing through his euphoria. He could almost hear his brother's voice: "You're better than this, Dickie."

Was he really who they thought he was? The relentless pressure of being the flawless son, the ideal successor, bore down on him like an unyielding weight. His entire life had been a performance of perfection, an act that began long before Bruce entered his world.

As a child performer in the circus, it didn't matter if he was sad, sick or had just gotten scolded - when the spotlight fell upon him, he knew how to craft a smile and wave to the eager crowds. He was there to evoke laughter, to coax smiles from their lips, to ensure they felt their time and money at the circus were well spent.

When Bruce adopted him at eight years old, the performance shifted but didn't end. Now it was galas and Gotham's elite that required his attention. Their eyes were always on him, tabloids ready to capture every moment for public consumption. But he had reached his limit; he couldn't continue this charade any longer.

His hand gravitated towards the glass resting on the table beside him. Its contents shimmered under dim light promising a temporary escape from this stifling reality – a fleeting chance at freedom from himself and those suffocating expectations.

"To freedom," Dick muttered, raising the drink to his lips. The whiskey burned a path down his throat, warmth blooming in his chest. He savored the sensation, already feeling lighter.

"Another," he called out, pushing away thoughts of consequences. Tonight was about escape, about shedding the skin of Richard Grayson and becoming someone – anyone – else.

As the second drink appeared before him, Dick's resolve wavered, running a hand through his disheveled hair. But the music pulsed, the crowd swayed, and the allure of oblivion beckoned.

With a defiant tilt of his chin, Dick downed the second whiskey. The world softened at the edges, his inhibitions melting away. He turned back to the dance floor, ready to lose himself in the chaos.

"Sorry, Jason," he thought, a fleeting moment of regret quickly swallowed by the intoxicating promise of the night.

The bass thrummed through Dick's body as he moved towards the center of the dance floor, his steps already looser, more fluid. He caught snippets of hushed conversations as he passed:

"Isn't that...?"

"...Wayne's son..."

"...what's he doing here?"

A group of young women eyed him with undisguised interest, their whispers barely audible over the pulsing music. Dick met their gaze for a moment, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, before deliberately turning away.

"Not tonight," he thought, closing his eyes and letting the rhythm wash over him. "Tonight, I'm nobody."

As the beat shifted, Dick's body responded instinctively. His movements were graceful, almost hypnotic, drawing attention from those around him. But he paid them no mind, focused solely on the music, on the way it coursed through him, drowning out everything else.

A guy nearby leaned in, shouting to be heard over the din. "Hey, aren't you Richard Grayson?"

Dick's eyes snapped open, a flash of irritation crossing his features. "No," he replied curtly, turning away. "You've got the wrong guy."

He danced harder, faster, as if he could outrun his identity. The alcohol buzzed pleasantly in his system, lowering his inhibitions with each passing moment. He was swallowed by the crowd. Too many bodies on the dance floor to be one person. People dancing with him and around him.

"This is freedom," he thought, a reckless grin spreading across his face. "This is what it feels like to be truly alive."

The music swelled, and Dick surrendered himself to it entirely, his body moving with an innate grace that belied his intoxicated state. He had somehow joined a party group who cheered when he joined in pulling him into their dancing circle. A girl with a tiara was there and he assumed was some birthday party. In this moment, he was free – free from expectations, free from responsibility, free from the crushing weight of being Richard Grayson.

And yet, even as he reveled in this fleeting escape, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered, "But for how long?"

A hand touched Dick's shoulder, and he whirled around, ready to rebuff another intrusive fan. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with a stranger – tall, lean, with a dangerous glint in his eyes that matched the pulsing lights. He was a part of the birthday party crew.

"You look like you could use something stronger," the man shouted over the music, holding out a small white pill in one hand and a shot glass in the other.

Dick's heart raced, a mix of adrenaline and alcohol coursing through his veins. He hesitated for a split second, Bruce's stern face flashing in his mind. But the image quickly morphed into one of suffocating control, of golden handcuffs tightening around his wrists.

He looked around and everyone in the circle was taking the pill and a shot around him.

"Fuck it," Dick muttered, snatching both offerings from the stranger's hands. Without a second thought, he tossed back the pill and chased it with the burning liquid. The strangers cheered and it started a choris of cheers around him making him laugh.

The strangers grinned, and they danced. The effects of the drug began to take hold. The music seemed to slow and stretch, each beat reverberating through his body like a shockwave. The lights intensified, leaving trails of color in their wake as he moved.

"What am I doing?" he thought briefly, a moment of clarity piercing through the haze. But the thought vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by a wave of euphoria that washed over him.

The world around him began to blur and shift. Faces in the crowd morphed into grotesque masks, then beautiful, ethereal beings. Dick laughed, the sound lost in the cacophony of the club.

He spun, arms outstretched, reveling in the chaos. For a fleeting moment, he caught sight of his reflection in a mirrored column. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated, hair wild. He barely recognized himself.

Dick closed his eyes, letting the music and the drugs carry him away. In this moment, there was no suffocating expectations. There was only the beat, the lights, and the intoxicating feeling of losing himself completely.

A hand on his shoulder jolted Dick from his trance-like state. He blinked, struggling to focus on the face before him. A woman with concerned eyes was saying something, her words barely audible over the pulsing bass.

"Hey, are you okay!?" she repeated, leaning in closer. "You don't look so good."

Dick's tongue felt thick in his mouth as he tried to respond. "I'm... fine," he slurred, attempting a reassuring smile that came out more like a grimace. "Never better."

The woman's brow furrowed. "Maybe you should sit down for a bit. Do you need some water?"

Her words seemed to come from far away, and Dick found himself mesmerized by the way her lips moved. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog. "Don't need... anything," he managed, pulling away from her grip. "Just wanna dance."

As he stumbled back into the crowd, Dick could feel the woman's worried gaze following him. A small part of him recognized the danger he was in, but it was quickly drowned out by the music and the drugs coursing through his system.

The night wore on, a blur of faces and bodies. Dick's movements became increasingly uncoordinated, his feet tangling as he tried to keep rhythm with the relentless beat. He bumped into other dancers, mumbling apologies that were lost in the noise.

In a moment of disorientation, Dick's mind flickered to Bruce. He could almost hear his father's disapproving voice: "What do you think you're doing, Richard?" The thought sent a wave of defiance through him, and he raised his arms higher, as if to shake off the imaginary admonishment.

Then, unbidden, Jason's face appeared in his mind's eye. His younger brother's green eyes were filled with worry, his mouth set in a tight line. "Dickie, please be careful," the phantom Jason seemed to plead.

Guilt and shame threatened to break through Dick's drug-induced haze. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the image away. "Not now, Jay," he muttered to himself. "Just let me have this."

Desperate to escape the unwelcome thoughts, Dick pushed deeper into the writhing mass of bodies on the dance floor. He let the thunderous music wash over him, drowning out the voices in his head. Here, in the chaos and noise, he could forget who he was supposed to be. Here, he could just be.

Dick stumbled away from the pulsing heart of the dance floor, his vision swimming. He found himself in a dimly lit corner, the bass now a distant throb. Leaning against the wall, he closed his eyes, trying to steady himself.

"You okay there, pretty boy?" A voice cut through the fog in his mind.

Dick's eyes snapped open, struggling to focus on the speaker. A man with a big grin stood before him, his eyes roving over Dick's disheveled form.

"I'm fine," Dick slurred, unconsciously running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. He tried to push himself off the wall but swayed dangerously.

The man's hand shot out, gripping Dick's arm. "Whoa there. Maybe you need some fresh air. I can help you out."

A dim warning bell sounded in Dick's clouded mind. He tensed, his instincts fighting against the drug-induced haze. "No, thanks. I'm good here."

The man's grip tightened. "Come on, don't be like that. I just want to help."

Dick's heart raced, his fingers tapping anxiously against his thigh. He scanned the area, searching for an escape route, but the darkness and the drugs made everything blur together.

"Let go," Dick growled, trying to inject some of his usual confidence into his voice.

Just then, a new voice cut through the tension. "There you are, man! We've been looking everywhere for you!"

A stranger appeared, the same guy that gave him the pills and shot, slinging an arm around Dickie's shoulders. The newcomer shot a pointed look at the first man. "Thanks for finding my friend. We'll take it from here."

The predatory man hesitated, then released Dick's arm with a scowl. As he slunk away, Dick sagged against his unexpected savior.

"Thanks," Dick mumbled, shame and relief warring within him.

The stranger patted his back. "No problem. You should probably call it a night, though. You don't look so good."

Dick nodded absently, already pushing away from the wall. The encounter had sobered him slightly, but as he stumbled back towards the dance floor, the pounding music and flashing lights quickly overwhelmed his senses once more.

He threw himself back into the throng, desperate to recapture the earlier feeling of freedom. But now, an undercurrent of unease tainted the euphoria. Dick spun and swayed, his movements growing increasingly erratic.

In his mind, fractured images flashed by: Bruce's disapproving frown, Jason's worried eyes, the predatory grin of the man in the corner. Dick shook his head violently, trying to dispel the unwelcome thoughts.

"I'm fine," he muttered to himself, even as he stumbled into another dancer. "Everything's fine. I'm in control."

But deep down, a small, sober part of Dick knew he was spiraling. He was Richard Grayson, heir to the Wayne fortune, and he was completely screwed. He saw the cameras pointed at him. He needed to get out of here.

Dick stumbled out of the dance floor again and found the party group a few were still dancing but the stranger that he dubbed drug guy in his head was there. “Can I borrow your phone?” he asked interrupting his conversation with tiara girl.

The guy looked annoyed but pulled out his phone and the girl wearing the tiara whisper yelled “Do you know who that is!?” excitedly.

Dick struggled but pulled up the keypad and called Bruce. Unfortunately it was the only phone number he had memorized because Bruce made him memorize it incase of emergencies.

“Dad! I want to go home!” he yelled into the phone.

After telling Bruce where he was, he hung up and pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket and gave it to the guy who let a stranger borrow his phone.

He went outside and bummed a cigarette leaning against the wall waiting for his jailor to come pick him up.

Chapter Text

Dick jolted awake, his heart thundering against his ribs. Sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead as he gasped for air, the acrid taste of fear coating his tongue. The room spun around him, shadows dancing at the edges of his vision like taunting specters. He was in his room he could tell that at least. 

He ran a trembling hand through his hair, willing the nightmarish images to fade. But they clung to him, vivid and visceral - his parents' broken bodies, their lifeless eyes staring accusingly. The sickening crunch of bone meeting pavement. The crowd's screams morphing into mocking laughter to paparazzi yelling at him as he tries to walk by he was stuck surrounded by flashing lights and yelling people. Hands were grabbing him. Shoving him. Everywhere.

"Just a dream," Dick muttered, his voice hoarse. "Just a fucking dream." 

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, gripping the edge of the mattress as if it could anchor him to reality. His fingers tapped out a frantic rhythm against the sheets - one-two-three, one-two-three -

The door creaked open, spilling warm light into the darkness. Bruce's imposing silhouette filled the doorway, concern etched into the lines of his face.

"Dickie?" His father's voice was uncharacteristically soft. "I heard you yell."

Dick scrubbed roughly at his face, hating the dampness he found there. "I'm fine," he bit out, the words tasting like ash.

Bruce crossed the room in three long strides, sinking onto the bed beside his son. Without a word, he wrapped an arm around Dick's shoulders, pulling him close. For a moment, Dick allowed himself to lean into the embrace, to be comforted like the child he no longer was.

Bruce kissed his son’s forehead running a hand through his sweaty hair and rubbing his back rocking them both.

“Dad.” he whined grasping his shirt like he always did when he was afraid or after a nightmare. Bruce hummed “deep breaths” he whispered cooing him out of his panic.

After Dick had calmed down, they sat there for a moment "Was it the nightmares again?" Bruce asked, his deep voice rumbling in his chest.

Dick stiffened, the spell broken. He pulled away, instantly missing the warmth. "It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters," Bruce insisted, frustration creeping into his tone. "You can't keep bottling this up, Chum. We need to talk about-"

"I said it doesn't matter!" Dick snapped, surging to his feet. He paced in tight circles, feeling caged.

Bruce's jaw clenched, his eyes hardening. "Of course it matters. When it's tearing you apart. You're clearly not coping, Dickie. The nightmares, drinking, the recklessness - it has to stop."

Dick laughed bitterly. "Right, because you're such a shining example of healthy coping mechanisms."

"That's not fair," Bruce growled, standing to his full height. "I'm trying to help you."

"Help me?" Dick's voice cracked. "Or control me?"

The words hung between them, sharp and accusing. He was gearing up for a fight.

Dick's heart raced, adrenaline flooding his system. Part of him craved the confrontation, anything to drown out the echoes of his nightmares. But a larger part just felt bone-deep exhausted and hungover.

"I can't do this right now," he muttered, pushing past Bruce towards the bathroom door.

"Dick, wait-"

Bruce's hand shot out, gripping Dick's arm. "This isn't over. You're grounded, indefinitely. I'm placing sensors around the house to monitor your movements so no more sneaking out at night, and I'm taking your phone."

Dick's eyes widened in disbelief. "You can't do that!"

"I can and will," Bruce growled, his grip tightening. "And don't forget, we have the charity gala tonight. Hangover or not, you're going."

A surge of white-hot anger coursed through Dick's veins. He wrenched his arm free, "You're unbelievable. What, are you going to put a tracking chip in me next?"

Bruce's expression hardened. "If that's what it takes to keep you safe."

"Safe?" Dick laughed bitterly. He knew deep down that Bruce was worried for his safety, but it felt like he was losing control of his life with every passing moment and Bruce just kept taking. 

He stormed towards the bathroom door, pausing to snarl over his shoulder, "You know what? Fuck you and your gala."

The door slammed behind him, leaving Bruce alone with his frustration.

***

Hours later, the Wayne household buzzed with pre-gala preparations. Alfred moved efficiently between rooms, his crisp movements betraying an undercurrent of tension.

"Master Richard," he called, rapping sharply on Dick's door. "Your suit is pressed and waiting. We mustn't be late."

Dick glared at his reflection. His fingers trembled slightly, whether from anger or lingering effects of last night's binge, he couldn't tell.

"Coming," he muttered, hating how defeated he sounded.

In the hallway, he nearly collided with Jason, who was tugging uncomfortably at his collar.

"This sucks," Jason grumbled. "Why do we have to parade around like show ponies?"

Dick's lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. "Welcome to the wonderful world of Wayne galas, little brother."

Alfred appeared, his keen eyes assessing them both. "Now, young sirs, I cannot stress enough the importance of presenting a united front tonight. The eyes of Gotham will be upon us."

Dick's jaw clenched. "You mean they'll be looking for cracks."

"Precisely," Alfred said softly, his gaze softening. "Which is why we must be vigilant."

As they descended the stairs, Dick's resentment simmered just beneath the surface. He caught sight of Bruce, impeccable in his tuxedo, and felt a fresh wave of anger.

Jason watched Alfred, Bruce and Dick groaned this night was going to be a disaster. He could feel it in his bones.

***

The grand ballroom of the Gotham hotel glittered like a vault of jewels. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across the sea of Gotham's elite, their designer gowns and tailored suits a stark contrast to the city's gritty streets outside. Dick's eyes swept the room, taking in the opulence that felt suffocating rather than impressive.

As the Waynes made their entrance, a hush fell over the crowd. Bruce's hand on Dick's shoulder felt like a vice, steering him forward with a plastered-on smile.

"Showtime," Dick muttered under his breath, his fingers unconsciously running through his hair. Jason was standing next to Bruce and they shot each other knowing looks.

Bruce leaned in, his voice low. "Remember, we're here to support the children's hospital. Best behavior."

Dick bristled at the command. "Yes, sir," he bit out sarcastically.

His eyes locked onto a passing waiter's tray of champagne flutes. Without hesitation, he snagged one, downing half its contents before Bruce could react.

"Dick," Bruce warned, deftly plucking the glass from his hand. "No. Drinking."

"It's barely a sip," Dick protested, reaching for another.

Bruce intercepted, his grip tightening on Dick's wrist. "I’ll give you back your phone if you don’t drink today."

Dick nodded curtly, hyper-aware of the curious glances from nearby guests. He wanted his phone it felt like a violation when Bruce actually took it and he kept trying to check it for notifications or the time before remembering it was taken and getting upset all over again. But could he stay sober with all the judgy eyes on him watching him waiting for him to fail.

The tension between them crackled like electricity, threatening to ignite at any moment. Dick's gaze darted around the room, seeking an escape from Bruce's suffocating presence. "Fine" he said walking away.

That's when he spotted her - Vicki Vale, Gotham's notorious gossip columnist, approaching with a predatory gleam in his eye. He gritted his teeth. his day really couldn't get much worse. 

"Well, if it isn't the wayward heir himself," Vale drawled, her voice dripping with false charm. "Tell me, Richard, how does it feel to be Gotham's favorite tabloid fodder?"

Dick's jaw clenched, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. "I wouldn't know," he shot back, his tone razor-sharp. "I don't read trash."

Vicki Vale's smile widened, sensing blood in the water. "Oh, but everyone else does. Your latest escapades have been quite... illuminating. Care to comment on what went down last night?"

Bruce stepped forward, clearly, he let Dick wander but not too far, his face a mask of controlled fury. "Ms. Vale, this is hardly the time or place-"

"It's fine, Bruce," Dick interrupted, his blue eyes blazing. "I've got this."

He turned to Vale, his voice rising. "You want a comment? Here's one: Go to hell. You vultures make money off other people's pain, twisting the truth to fit your sick narratives. You don't know me, and you sure as hell don't know my family."

The room fell silent, all eyes on the unfolding drama. Bruce's hand gripped Dick's shoulder pulling Dick behind himself and getting between him and the reporter, a warning. "Richard, that's enough. Ms. Vale you are here to cover the charity please stay away from my children or I will have you escorted out." Bruce glared and everyone pretended they weren’t gawking.

Jason stepped in, his voice low and urgent. "Dickie, come on, man. Let's take a walk, cool off a bit."

Dick shrugged off Jason's attempt to guide him away. "Stay out of this, Jay. It doesn't concern you."

"The hell it doesn't," Jason whisper yelled, positioning himself between Dick and the growing crowd. Both boys kept their voices down and masked their faces with polite calm expressions no one would even know they were arguing.

"We're family, remember? That means I've got your back, even when you're being an idiot." Jason gave him a pleading look and Dicks shoulders fell a centimeter.

Jason seized the moment of vulnerability, gently guiding Dick away from the prying eyes and towards a secluded alcove. The muffled sounds of the gala faded as they stepped behind a heavy velvet curtain.

"What's really going on, Dickie?" Jason's voice was low, concern etched across his face. "I know you're not just acting out for kicks."

Dick ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his façade cracking. "I can't... I can't breathe, Jay. It's like the walls are closing in -it's suffocating me."

For a moment, Dick's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, his shoulders sagging under an invisible weight. But as quickly as it appeared, the vulnerability vanished, replaced by a cocky grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"But hey, that's life in the spotlight, right? Nothing a few drinks and a good party can't fix," Dick said, his voice dripping with false bravado.

Jason's brow furrowed. "Dick, you don't have to—"

"Save it, little brother," Dick teased the little because Jason was an inch shorter than him and still growing and had much broader shoulders. "I've got this under control. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I saw a waiter with some champagne that has my name on it."

As Dick sauntered away, Jason clenched his fists, frustration and worry warring within him. Part of him wanted to punch Dick in the face and wrestle him away from the alcohol but he knew better than to make a scene. Dick could be a real Dick sometimes.

***

Bruce found himself cornered by a group of Gotham's elite, their faces a mix of concern and barely concealed judgment.

"Bruce, darling," cooed Margaret, her diamond necklace glinting in the chandelier light. "Have you considered sending Richard to that lovely rehab center in Switzerland? It did wonders for the Vanderbilt boy."

Bruce's jaw tightened, his fingers automatically moving to straighten his already impeccable cufflinks. "I appreciate your concern, Margaret, but my son's well-being is a private matter."

"Of course, of course," chimed in Harold Livingston, swirling his brandy. "But you must admit, the boy's behavior reflects poorly on the Wayne name. Perhaps a firmer hand is needed?"

Bruce's eyes flashed dangerously, but his voice remained controlled. "I assure you, gentlemen, ladies, that I have the situation well in hand. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe we're here to discuss the new children's wing at Gotham General."

Bruce casually walked around strategically blocking his son’s way to the champaign table and he had slipped hundred dollar bills to all the servers to avoid his son. They played that game for a while Dick trying to act casual and get his hands on one of the waiters serving champaign or better yet the open bar while avoiding Bruce. Bruce walking around socializing and thwarting his sons attempts to get near alcohol.

Jason sat back and watched with mild amusement. Both Bruce and Dick wore such good masks that only he could watch this show play out. The rest of the room were swooned and delighted to mingle with them.

***

The cacophony of camera flashes and shouted questions assaulted the Wayne family as they emerged from the gala. Bruce's arm shot out instinctively, pulling Dick close to his side. His grip was firm, protective, but to Dick, it felt like iron.

"Mr. Wayne! Is it true your son's been in rehab?"

"Richard! Are you back on the party scene?"

"Jason! Do you think you will follow in the Wayne party footprints?"

Bruce's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as he guided his sons through the sea of paparazzi. "No comment," he growled, his voice barely audible over the roar.

"You okay, Dickie?" Jason muttered, concern etched on his face.

Dick shrugged. "I'm fine," he snapped, immediately regretting the harshness in his tone. He wanted to yell at the paparazzi but knew that it would only cause more chaos.

They reached the sanctuary of the limousine, Alfred holding the door open with a grim expression. As they piled in, the sleek black car became a fortress against the outside world.

The ride home was suffocating in its silence. Bruce stared straight ahead, his fingers drumming an agitated rhythm on his knee. Jason's eyes darted between his father and brother, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.

Dick pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching Gotham's neon-lit streets blur by. His mind raced, replaying the night's events in a dizzying loop.

'I can't keep living like this,' he thought, his reflection staring back at him accusingly.

He seemed to fail at everything. He was a horrible big brother always snapping. A failed heir for Bruce. He knows that he disappointed Alfred by snapping at the tabloid writer instead of giving a polite ‘no comment’.

Dick felt tears in his eyes but refused to let them fall. He wondered if he would have disappointed his parents too. Would they hate the rich entitled man he was today. Whining about a golden spoon when they lived in a trailer. Would they be disappointed that he took drugs when to a performer their bodies are their livelihood.

The car came to a stop, and as Alfred opened the door, Dick steeled himself for the battle to come. The chasm between him and his father had never seemed wider.

Chapter Text

The study's oppressive silence shattered as Bruce's fist slammed onto the mahogany desk. "You can't keep throwing your life away like this!"

Dick's jaw clenched. "My life to throw, B. You don't get to decide anymore."

"Actually I do—"

"There it is!" Dick laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "Always about control with you, isn't it?"

Bruce's eyes flashed dangerously. "This isn't about control. It's about responsibility. Something you seem hell-bent on avoiding."

Dick paced, feeling the walls of the study closing in. His father's words burrowed under his skin, igniting a familiar rage. He wanted to scream, to make Bruce understand the suffocating weight of his existence.

"Responsibility?" Dick spat. "I know responsibility! unlike you I worked as a kid. I got good grades when you sent me to school. What more do you want from me! You mean living up to the almighty Wayne legacy? Following in your parents footsteps like a good little heir? I’m not a Wayne!"

Bruce's voice lowered, a warning. "Watch yourself, Richard."

"Or what?" Dick challenged, stepping closer. "You'll cut me off? Kick me out? Go ahead. Might finally get to make my own decisions for once!"

The words hung between them, sharp and cutting. Bruce's face hardened, a mask of stern disapproval that Dick knew all too well. It made him want to lash out, to crack that perfect facade. a little part of him wanted to shrink in on himself and cry. Hold out his arms like a little kid and just let Bruce make it all better.

"You can't even see it, can you?" Dick's voice cracked. "How you're suffocating me with your need to control everything?"

Bruce straightened, adjusting his cufflinks. "What else am I supposed to do? I'm trying to protect you, to give you a future—"

"A future I never asked for!" Dick exploded. They keep going back to the same argument and Dick was sick of it. His hand swept across the desk, sending a crystal decanter crashing to the floor. The sound of shattering glass punctuated his words. "I'm not you, Bruce! I never will be!"

The room fell silent, save for Dick's ragged breathing. Amber liquid seeped across the expensive carpet, a fitting metaphor for their fractured relationship. Bruce stared at the broken glass, his rigid posture betraying the turmoil beneath.

Dick's chest heaved, adrenaline coursing through him. He'd crossed a line, he knew. But the satisfaction of finally making Bruce react warred with the gnawing guilt in his stomach.

"Is this what you want?" Bruce's voice was dangerously quiet. "To destroy everything, I've built for you? To destroy yourself?"

Dick ran a hand through his hair, suddenly exhausted. "I want you to see me, Bruce. Not as your legacy, not as a problem to be fixed. Just... me."

The plea hung in the air, raw and vulnerable. For a moment, Dick thought he saw a flicker of understanding in his father's eyes. But then Bruce's walls slammed back into place, and Dick knew the battle was lost.

Jason busted into the room looking down at the shattered glass in shock then looking over at Bruce and Dick to check if anyone was hurt.

Bruce had sent him to his room and told Dick to go to his study. Jason made it to the door of his room before turning around and headed for the study. He hated being in the middle of a fight, but he also hated not being involved. he was going to stay outside the door and just listen through he peephole, but he moved on instinct when he heard something break.

Now, Jason stood frozen between them. His green eyes darted between Bruce and Dick, wide with apprehension. He could feel the tension crackling in the air, threatening to ignite at any moment.

"Guys, please," Jason said. He unconsciously adjusted his posture, trying to appear bigger, more in control. "Can't we just talk about this without—"

"Stay out of this, Jason," Dick snapped, but his eyes softened slightly when they met his younger brother's gaze.

Jason swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he raised them in a placating gesture. "I know you're both upset, but destroying things isn't going to solve anything. Maybe if we all just took a moment to—"

"This doesn't concern you," Bruce interjected, his tone brooking no argument. He hated dragging Jason into these arguments. He should be focused on graduating not taking care of his older brother who is hell bent on an early grave. 

Jason felt his chest tighten, the familiar feeling of helplessness washing over him. He looked at the broken glass on the floor, fighting the urge to clean it up, to restore some semblance of order to the chaos around him.

"It does concern me!" Jason suddenly shouted, surprising even himself. His carefully maintained composure crumbled as tears welled up in his eyes. "This is my family too! Do you have any idea what it's like to watch you two tear each other apart every day? To watch someone I care about not care about themselves?"

The words poured out of him, years of pent-up emotion finally breaking free. "I'm scared, okay? I'm terrified that one day, this family is going to fall apart completely, and I won't be able to put it back together."

Jason's voice cracked as he continued, "I can't keep being the glue that holds everyone together. I'm not strong enough. I'm just... I'm so tired of trying to fix everything, but I can't fucking sit back and watch it either."

He sank to his knees, tears streaming down his face. The room fell silent, the weight of Jason's words hanging heavy in the air. Jason remembered trying to save his mother how he failed and he was terrified he would fail with Dickie too.

The tense silence was abruptly broken by the sound of measured footsteps approaching. Alfred entered the room, his composed demeanor a stark contrast to the emotional turmoil surrounding him. His sharp eyes took in the scene—the shattered glass, and Jason kneeling on the floor, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

Alfred cleared his throat softly, a subtle sign of his disapproval. "Master Jason," he said, his voice gentle but firm, "I believe you have some homework that requires your attention. Why don't you tend to that while I have a word with your father and brother?"

Jason looked up, his green eyes red-rimmed and pleading. Alfred's expression softened slightly. "Go on, lad. This will all sort itself out."

As Jason reluctantly left the room, Alfred turned to face Bruce and Richard. He clasped his hands behind his back, his posture perfectly straight as he addressed them.

"Gentlemen," Alfred began, his tone measured, "I believe we've all had quite enough excitement for one evening. Perhaps we could continue this discussion over a cup of tea?"

Bruce's jaw clenched. "This isn't something that can be solved with tea, Alfred."

"Perhaps not," Alfred conceded, "but it might help us approach the matter with clearer heads. Master Richard, your thoughts?"

Dickie scoffed, pacing like a caged animal. "Clear heads? That's rich. Dad's head is so far up his—"

"That's quite enough," Alfred interrupted sharply. He took a deep breath, his calm exterior barely masking his growing frustration. "I understand that emotions are running high, but surely we can find a way to communicate without resorting to destruction and insults."

A crushing wave of self-loathing surged through Dick, an undertow threatening to pull him under. The sight of Jason's tear-streaked face felt like a punch to the gut, a visceral reminder of the damage he was inflicting on his younger brother. He couldn't bear being the storm that left his family in its wake.

His father's gaze was a mirror reflecting back at him all his own cracks and fractures. Bruce looked at him not with anger but with a deep-rooted concern that only magnified Dick's sense of guilt. It was as if he had become a puzzle with pieces missing, an incomplete picture that no one knew how to fix.

And Alfred... Alfred who had always been their rock, now appeared weather-beaten and weary. His disappointment hung heavy in the air around them, adding another layer of regret to the turmoil within Dick.

Panic clawed at his insides, gnawing away at any semblance of control he still possessed. The walls of Wayne Manor seemed to close in on him, suffocating him like a too-tight shroud. The air turned viscous and unyielding, each breath becoming harder to draw than the last.

"I think it's time to readdress rehab facility and family therapy." Alfred nudged. 

Dick felt like an infectious disease spreading through his family, poisoning them with his chaos and instability. Tears welled up in his expressive blue eyes, spilling over before he could contain them. Each droplet was a testament to his unraveling control; they were salty reminders of just how close he was teetering on the edge.

Bruce took a step forward then, reaching out with paternal instinct etched into every line on his face. But Dick recoiled instinctively - afraid that even this contact would taint his father further with whatever darkness lurked inside him.

"Chum?" Bruce's voice wavered slightly as he used the pet name from Dick's childhood - an attempt to tether his son back from the precipice. But the sound was a siren's call, pulling him deeper into the storm of his own making.

His heart pounded in his chest like a wild animal caged and desperate for escape. The world around him seemed to spin out of control, every familiar object blurring into an indistinct whirlwind. He was a wrecking ball careening through their lives, and if he didn't leave now, there would be nothing left but rubble.

With one last look at the man who raised him – his face etched with worry and hurt – Dick turned on his heel and bolted. He heard Bruce's footsteps echo behind him, but adrenaline fueled his flight. Slamming the garage door shut behind him, he threw himself onto the motorcycle. The roar of the engine drowned out any remaining traces of his father's voice as he sped off into Gotham's underbelly - leaving behind the shattered remnants of what once had been home.

Chapter Text

Bruce stood frozen, his fists clenched at his sides. The sound of tires screeching on gravel echoed through the manor, each revolution of the wheels carrying his son further away.

"Master Bruce," Alfred began gently, but Bruce held up a hand, silencing him.

“You saw that look in his eyes?” he whispered almost too afraid to ask it out loud. When Alfred nodded Bruce felt like he could collapse onto the floor, but he didn’t have the time to break when his son was out there. Probably going to do something stupid or put his life at risk.

When Bruce had first adopted Richard, he had extreme mood swings. He would go from sobbing into Bruces chest to raging anger plotting the death of his parents’ killer. He would break down crying at a moment and clung to Bruce like he was a lifeline following him around like a second shadow at one moment then tried to escape to find his parents murderer the next.

Bruce tried to help him find an outlet for his built-up emotions but never seemed to be able to. Dick was a performer and easily tricked even the child psychiatrists and friends that he was okay. Smiling and telling jokes, but every once in a while, the damn would crack and occasionally burst open and he would break down hurting himself and anyone in his radius. He usually only ever fully let go in front of Bruce. Occasionally Jason and Alfred got a glimpse into his inner turmoil but never the full rage.

Bruce straightened, his jaw clenching as he made a decision. He turned to Alfred, his eyes filled with a mixture of determination and vulnerability.

"I need help, Alfred," he said, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. "I can't... I can't do this alone anymore."

Bruce strode to his desk, his fingers trembling slightly as he reached for his phone. He hesitated for a moment, then dialed a familiar number.

"Lucius," he said when the call connected, his voice tight with urgency. "I need you. It's Dickie. I need to find him."

As Bruce spoke, his free hand gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles turning white. Dick could be so self-destructive sometimes turning all his burning emotions inwards and Bruce had to save him from himself.

…

In the heart of Gotham's underbelly. Richard Grayson Wayne stalked through neon-lit alleyways, his anger and regret propelling him forward. The city's grime seemed to cling to him, a stark contrast to the pristine halls of Wayne Manor.

Dickie's eyes darted from shadow to shadow, alert for any threat. The thrum of bass from a nearby club vibrated through his chest, matching the angry rhythm of his heart.

"Fuck him," Dick muttered, kicking an empty beer can. It clattered against a dumpster, the sound echoing off graffiti-covered walls. "Fuck his rules, fuck his expectations." he knew he was projecting he wasn’t even mad at Bruce, but it was easier than trying to sort through the tangle of emotions trying to suffocate him.

A group of rough-looking men eyed him as he passed, sensing his vulnerability. Dick met their gaze, almost daring them to try something. Part of him craved the release a fight would bring, a physical outlet for the turmoil roiling inside him.

He paused at a street corner, the garish light of a liquor store sign illuminating his face. Dick stared at his reflection in the grimy window, barely recognizing the angry, lost young man staring back at him.

"What the hell am I doing?" he whispered. The city seemed to pulse around him, offering both danger and escape.

Dick's hand unconsciously ran through his hair as he pushed open the liquor store door, the bell's jingle a jarring contrast to the muffled street noise. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across shelves of bottles.

"ID," the clerk grunted, eyeing Dick suspiciously.

Dickie fumbled for his wallet. He had a fake ID when he was in high school that he had on him. He was technically old enough to buy alcohol but because of the conservatorship, Bruce has his real ID and all his cards. So, he found his old fake one and some cash he still had. his fingers trembling slightly. As he handed over his license, a rough voice behind him made him tense.

"Well, well. Ain't you a bit far from the fancy part of town, pretty boy?"

Dick turned, coming face to face with a women barley dressed face full of smeared glitter and clearly on drugs. Two equally unsavory companions flanked her, predatory grins on their faces.

"Just passing through," Dick said, forcing bravado into his voice.

The leader chuckled, a sound devoid of humor. "Nah, I think you're looking for something. Maybe we can help you find it."

Dick's heart raced, adrenaline flooding his system. Part of him screamed to run, but a darker impulse whispered to stay, to embrace the danger.

---

Across town, Bruce paced before floor-to-ceiling windows. The city sprawled below, a maze of lights and shadows where his son was lost.

Lucius Fox voice came through the speaker as he sat at his desk at Wayne Enterprise, fingers flying over a keyboard. "I've accessed the city's surveillance network," he said, his calm voice a counterpoint to Bruce's agitation. "We'll find him, Bruce."

Bruce gripped the edge of his own desk, knuckles white. "We need to move faster. Every minute he's out there..."

Lucius looked up, meeting Bruce's gaze. "I understand your concern, but we need to be strategic."

Bruce exhaled sharply, straightening his cufflinks. "You're right. What's our next move?"

"I've narrowed down likely areas based on Dick's past behavior," Lucius said, pulling up a map on his screen. "We'll start in the Narrows. I've alerted our contacts in the area to keep an eye out."

Bruce nodded, his jaw set with determination. "Good. I'll take the car and-"

"Bruce," Lucius interrupted gently, “Not yet.”

A flicker of pain crossed Bruce's face, but he nodded reluctantly. "You're right. Again. I just... I can't lose him, Lucius."

Lucius’s reassuring voice came through the speaker. "We'll bring him home, Bruce. Together."

Bruce ran a hand through his hair, his usual composure cracking. "All these years, I thought I was protecting them. But I've been suffocating them, Lucius. I just wanted to be a good dad."

"You are one, Bruce," Lucius said firmly. "You're here, fighting for your family. That counts for something."

Bruce's laugh was bitter. "Does it? I drove Dickie away. Jason's terrified. And I... I don't know how to fix this."

"Acknowledging the problem is the first step. Dick has always been a traumatized child underneath those bright eyes and big smiles. He needs professional help and better coping mechanisms. I’m not saying your perfect, lord knows no father is, but you try your best and you love those boys which counts for something."

"Keep being there," Lucius said. "Not as a controlling force, but as a support. A real father. Let him feel like he has some control in his life."

Bruce nodded slowly, his reflection blurring as he blinked back tears. "I need to find him, Lucius." Dick has ran off before but something was not settling in Bruces chest. He felt hopeless and terrified.

"We will," Lucius assured him, turning back to his computer. "The facial recognition software is scanning now. We should have a hit soon."

As the computer beeped with a potential match, Jason burst into the room. “Alfred told me about Dick. I’m coming with you.” He told him. His green eyes showed the determination that Bruce knew no argument would push down and just nodded exhausted and wound up at the same time.

Chapter Text

The world tilted and swayed as Dick Grayson stumbled through the grimy doorway of The Rusty Nail, his vision a kaleidoscope of neon and shadow. The bass from the speakers pulsed through his veins, mingling with the cocaine and whiskey already there. He swallowed hard, trying to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. He bought the women at the gas station alcohol and they gave him a small baggy and surprisingly were happy with the exchange and fucked off. 

"Watch it, asshole," a burly man growled as Dick careened into him.

"Sorry," Dick slurred, raising his hands in placation. His fingers twitched with nervous energy yet felt numb. He needed another hit, another drink, anything to drown out the cacophony in his skull. He felt like poison. He was ruining Bruce, Jason and Alfreds lives but he couldn't stop. He just wanted his mind to quiet. He didn't want to think about his parents' broken bodies, or how he was living a privileged life in a manor with a billionaire when his parents struggled their whole lives to put food on the table in a little camper. If his parents met him now, they would be so disappointed, just like Bruce. He even thought of the man as his dad. He was a horrible son and adopted son. Dick shook his head trying to focus on his feet making them move one at a time towards the bar. 

Worthless. Failure. Disappointment. The taunts echoed, each one a dagger to his fragile psyche.

Dick pushed through the crowd, desperate for the relative safety of the bar. His hand unconsciously ran through his disheveled hair as he squeezed between two women, their perfume cloying and suffocating.

"Whiskey. Double," he managed to croak out as he collapsed onto a sticky barstool. The bartender's eyes narrowed, assessing.

"You sure about that, kid? Looks like you've had plenty already."

Dick's jaw clenched. "I said whiskey," he snapped, slamming a crumpled bill on the bar. "I can handle my liquor."

As soon as the glass appeared, Dick's trembling fingers wrapped around it like a lifeline. He brought it to his lips, relishing the burn as it slid down his throat. For a blissful moment, the voices quieted and the only thing he felt was the burn down his throat and settle in his stomach.

"This what you wanted, Chum?" Bruce's disapproving face swam before his eyes. "To throw it all away?"

Dick growled, draining the glass. The Bruce in his head was a lot meaner than his actual dad, but it stung anyways. Contrary to his actions he really hated upsetting Bruce. He was just the only person that Dick felt safe with to show his broken sharp sides to. He spent most of his life pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t and never could be. Bruce understood that, he understood him. He watched his parents die too. He could take Dicks yelling and anger because he was strong and safe.

He signaled for another, his leg bouncing with frenetic energy. The walls seemed to be closing in, judgmental eyes boring into him from every direction. Dick's fingers found the keys in his pocket, tracing their edges just to fidget with something.

"One more," he told himself, even to his own ears, the words rang hollow.

As the bartender refilled his glass, Dick caught sight of his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Bloodshot eyes stared back, his pupils blown from whatever drugs he had taken that made his stomach churn.

A shadow fell across Dick's face, momentarily obscuring his reflection. He blinked, struggling to focus on the figure now looming beside him.

"Rough night?" The man's voice was smooth, almost hypnotic. His features were indistinct in the dim light, but his smile gleamed.

Dick's head lolled as he turned. "You could say that," he slurred, fumbling with his glass.

The stranger leaned in closer, his breath hot against Dick's ear. "I might have something to take the edge off. Make you feel alive again."

Dick's fingers tightened on his keys, the metal biting into his palm. A warning flashed in the back of his mind, but it was quickly drowned out by the promise of oblivion. He chose a seedy bar to score he was just slightly surprised how easy it was.

"What've you got?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The man produced a small baggie, its contents catching the light. "A little taste of heaven. On the house, for a new friend."

Dick hesitated, his hand halfway extended. He caught sight of two other men watching intently from a nearby booth. Something about their gaze made his skin crawl, but the craving was too strong to ignore.

"Thanks," he muttered. "I'm Rick." He said as casually as he could.

"Oh, I know who you are," the man's smile widened.

***

Across town, the sleek black car tore through Gotham's streets, its engine a low growl of urgency. Bruce's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.

"Anything?" he barked, glancing at Jason in the passenger seat.

Jason shook his head, fingers flying over his phone. "Last ping was near the Narrows, Luke thinks he’s at one of the bars. God, Bruce, what if he does something stupid?"

Bruce growled, but the fear in his eyes betrayed his certainty. Jason felt like a little kid again watching his mother’s life slowly fade out of her eyes. She loved him so much, just needed the medicine more. He begged her to stop. He tried to bargain and be a good boy but she just needed that ‘medicine’ that took and took until it eventually took her.

"He's gotta be okay," Jason murmured, more to himself than Bruce. "He has to be."

Bruce's grip tightened on the wheel. "I should have seen this coming."

"This isn't your fault," Jason insisted, his voice cracking. "Dick... he's been spiraling for a while now."

"He's my son," Bruce's voice was raw with emotion. "I'm supposed to protect him."

As they sped past neon-lit clubs and shadowy alleyways, both men scanned the streets desperately for any sign of Dick. The tension in the car was palpable, each second that ticked by feeling like an eternity.

"There!" Jason suddenly shouted, pointing at a rundown bar. "His bike!"

Bruce's eyes narrowed, a mixture of relief and dread washing over him. "Hold on," he warned, as he wrenched the wheel, tires screeching as they pulled into the lot.

***

The stranger's arm slid around Dick's shoulders, a gesture that might have seemed friendly if not for the painfully tight grip. Dick's vision swam, the bar lights blurring into a nauseating kaleidoscope. He tried to shrug off the man's touch, but his limbs felt heavy, uncooperative.

"Hey, pretty boy," the stranger's breath was hot against Dick's ear. "How about we find somewhere more... private?"

Dick's stomach churned. "I'm good here," he slurred, attempting to pull away.

The man's grip somehow managed to tighten even more causing Dick to hiss out in pain. "Come on, don't be like that. We're just getting to know each other."

Dick has been hit on by a lot of women and men at galas and clubs, usually he was able to squirm out of it with no problem be a little loud or rude to get them to back away. He tried to open his mouth, but his stomach turned, and he bit his lip trying to breath. His body felt heavy. Really heavy.

Panic began to seep through Dick's drug-addled haze. He glanced around, searching for an escape route, but the crowd seemed to swirl in around him.

"I should go," Dick mumbled, trying to stand. The room tilted dangerously.

"Whoa there," the stranger caught him, his touch like a vise. "I've got you. Let's get some air."

Before Dick could protest, he was being steered towards a dingy hallway. His heart raced, fight-or-flight instincts kicking in despite his impaired state.

"No," Dick managed, weakly pushing against the man's chest. "Let go."

The stranger's facade dropped, his smile twisting into something cruel. "Don't make a scene, rich boy. You don't want trouble, do you?"

Dick's mind raced, fragmented thoughts colliding. How had he ended up here? Bruce would be so disappointed. Jason would be terrified. He'd screwed up again, and this time...

The bathroom door loomed ahead, and Dick's fear crystalized into sharp clarity. "Stop," he gasped, struggling in earnest now. "I said no!"

But his protests were swallowed by the thumping bass of the bar as the stranger shoved him roughly into the grimy bathroom, the door slamming shut behind them.

The stench of cheap beer and bleach assaulted Dick's nostrils as his back hit the cold tile wall. His head swam, the cocktail of unknown drugs and alcohol turning his limbs to lead. The stranger's fingers fumbled with his belt buckle, hot breath reeking of whiskey against his neck. The man's fingers dug into Dickie's hip bones, his alcohol-soured breath hot against his face. Dickie's heart hammered in his chest. The bathroom's fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting sickly shadows that danced across the stranger's predatory grin.

"Stop," Dickie mumbled, the word slurring as he tried to push the man away. His hands felt like they were moving through molasses. "Get off me."

The man's calloused palms slid under his shirt, rough against his skin, violation in every touch. Dickie's stomach lurched as chapped lips crushed against his own, forcing his head back against the wall with a dull thud. The man's tongue pushed past his teeth, tasting of cigarettes and desperation.

In that moment, the chemical haze in Dickie's mind parted just enough for clarity to slice through. This wasn't the oblivion he'd been chasing. This was something else entirely – something terrifying and wrong. His heart hammered against his ribs as panic flooded his system.

Dad. The thought surfaced unbidden, childlike in its simplicity. Panic surged through Dickie's veins as rough hands continued their violation, fumbling with his cloths. One desperate thought kept repeating in his mind, Dad. He wanted his father. Not the disapproving Bruce who'd lectured him countless times about his "lifestyle choices," but the dad who'd stayed up all night when he had the flu.

The irony wasn't lost on him, even through his fear – running from Bruce's control for months only to desperately wish for his father's protection now. But as the stranger's hands moved lower Dickie's head knocked against the bathroom wall as he tried to twist away, a pathetic whimper escaping his lips. Shame and fear collided inside him.

Chapter Text

The bar's heavy door swung open, a shaft of streetlight briefly illuminating the dim interior. Bruce strode in, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the floor. Jason followed close behind, his green eyes darting anxiously from face to face in the crowded space.

"I don't see him, Bruce," Jason muttered, unconsciously positioning himself at Bruce's elbow.

Bruce's jaw clenched, his fingers absently straightening his cufflinks looking around the room. He was definitely overdressed. "He's here. We keep looking."

They pushed through the throng, Bruce's piercing gaze scrutinizing every corner. The acrid smell of stale beer and sweat assaulted their senses, a stark reminder of how out of place they were.

"Excuse me," Bruce grabbed a bartender's attention, his voice carrying an edge of barely contained urgency. "I'm looking for my son. Barley twenty-one, dark hair, blue eyes. Have you seen him?"

The bartender shrugged, already turning away to serve another customer. Bruce's hand gripped the edge of the bar, knuckles white with frustration.

Jason tugged at his sleeve. "I’ll check the bathroom." he told him because that’s where he always found his mother.

Bruce nodded tersely, his eyes never ceasing their relentless scan of the room. The bartender knew something Bruce was sure of it. As Jason disappeared down a narrow hallway, Bruce felt a cold dread settling in his stomach. Where was he?

Abruptly, a resonant thud echoed through the pulsating rhythm of the music. It seemed to go unnoticed by the patrons, swallowed by the cacophony of clinking glasses and raucous laughter. Bruce, however, detected it just above the pounding bassline. He might have dismissed it as a mere quirk of an aging bar, but it originated from the direction Jason had vanished into moments ago.

Without hesitation, he quickly went towards the sound, shouldering past startled patrons.

Bruce stepped into the grimy bathroom, his eyes taking in the chaotic scene before him with a dawning sense of horror. Jason was locked in a violent struggle with an older man, his young face contorted in a mask of fury. Meanwhile, Dick was slumped against the cold tiles of the wall, his clothes barley hanging off his lean frame. His shirt ripped and jeans unbuttoned and unzipped breathing heavily with glossy eyes.

His eldest son's appearance spoke volumes - disheveled hair, torn and disheveled clothing that barely clung to his body, and a look in his eyes that flickered between fear and confusion. The sight of Dick so vulnerable sent a shockwave through Bruce's stern facade.

A momentary paralysis gripped him as he tried to make sense of the situation. His piercing eyes darted between Jason and Dick, confusion etching deep lines onto his usually composed face. But as the reality sank in, Bruce's perplexity rapidly morphed into a seething rage.

Jason grappled with the older man with a ferocity that belied his age. His sturdy body moved with calculated precision despite the chaos around them. His fists clenched tight as he fought to protect his brother from further harm. His fury mirrored Bruce's own rising rage.

"Get. Away. From. My. Sons." Bruce's voice was low, dangerous.

Bruce's fist connected with the man's jaw, sending him sprawling. In an instant, Bruce had positioned himself between the assailant and his sons, his entire body radiating protective rage. Thankful he had a personal trainer who liked mixed martial arts. He told himself it was for his health, but now all those gym days became for protection.

"Jason," he barked, not taking his eyes off the groaning man on the floor. "Go get security."

Jason must have ran because only a few moments later two burly men pushed their way in, taking in the scene with practiced efficiency.

"What's going on here?" one demanded.

Bruce straightened, his voice cold and authoritative. "This man assaulted my son. Call the police. Now."

As the security guards moved to restrain the stranger, Bruce turned to follow his boys, his heart pounding with a mix of relief and lingering fear. The night was far from over, but for now, his sons were safe. It was all that mattered.

The harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom cast stark shadows across Dick's face as he stumbled, his legs giving out beneath him. Bruce lunged forward, catching him before he could hit the grimy floor. Dick's body went limp in his father's arms, the adrenaline of the moment finally giving way to the cocktail of drugs and alcohol in his system.

"I've got you, chum," Bruce murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I've got you."

Dick's fingers clutched weakly at Bruce's shirt, his face pressed against his father's chest. "Dad," he choked out, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Bruce tightened his grip, one hand cradling the back of Dick's head. He could feel his son's body trembling, could smell the sickly-sweet scent of alcohol and something more sinister on his breath.

"Shh," Bruce soothed, his usual stern demeanor cracking. "You're safe now. That's all that matters."

Dick's shoulders began to shake, quiet sobs wracking his body. "I can't... I can't do this anymore," he confessed, the words muffled against Bruce's shirt. "Please... I don’t know what to do."

Bruce's heart clenched, a mix of relief and anguish washing over him. He'd waited so long to hear those words, dreaded them just as much as he'd hoped for them. "We'll get you help, Dickie," he promised, his voice rough. "Whatever you need. We're here for you."

Jason hovered nearby, his face a mask of worry and barely contained anger. He took his jacket off and wrapped it around Dicks trembling shoulders. "We should get him out of here," he said softly, glancing towards the door where the sounds of the bar still filtered through.

Bruce nodded, gently shifting his grip on Dick. "Can you walk, Chum?"

Dick tried to steady himself, but his legs wobbled dangerously. "I... I don't know," he admitted, frustration and shame coloring his voice.

"It's okay," Bruce assured him, he adjusted Dicks clothes back on noticing the forming bruises with barley held fury wanting to go back and beat the guy to death but holding back for his kids’ sake. He effortlessly scooping Dick into his arms. "I've got you."

***

Dick felt like he was trapped in a surreal nightmare, each moment hitting him like a sledgehammer. His mind spun in chaotic spirals as if watching a disjointed film reel unraveling before his eyes. Clarity pierced through in jolting bursts, leaving him disoriented. Time warped and twisted, surging forward and dragging torturously slow in the same heartbeat. One instant, tears were streaming down his face as he clung to his father's shoulders, and the next, blinding lights exploded around him, sirens wailing, cops shouting, and an ambulance screeching to a halt. The sterile, stifling air of the hospital suffocated him, the acrid scent biting his nostrils as needles pricked his skin and officers bombarded him with questions. Suddenly, the crisp night air engulfed him and he was enveloped once more in Bruce's strong embrace. Confusion roared in his mind like a tempest; he couldn't anchor himself to reality. 

***

The journey back to Wayne Manor was a blur of city lights and tense silence. Dick drifted in and out of consciousness in the backseat, his head resting on Jason's lap. Bruce's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his mind racing with plans and fears and the overwhelming need to protect his boys.

As they pulled into the long driveway, Bruce caught Jason's eye in the rearview mirror. Jason had his hand over Dicks pulse scared it would suddenly just stop. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a shared resolve that things had to change.

Bruce went around and with Jasons help picked up Dick. He was too drugged out to stay conscious much less walk.

Inside, Bruce took Dick to the bathroom, and hesitate. "We need to get you cleaned up," he said gently, not wanting to trigger him but also get him out of the stained and clothing that reeked of the night.

Dick just lifted his hands up like a child and Bruce helped him out of his sweat-soaked shirt.

As the fabric lifted, Bruce's breath caught in his throat. Bruce's jaw clenched, his protective instincts flaring. There was a sign of a bite mark on his shoulder and possibly a hickey. He would make sure that the bastard went to jail if it was the last thing he did.

"Oh, Dickie," he breathed, unable to hide the pain in his voice.

Dick's eyes, glassy and unfocused, met Bruce's for a moment before darting away in shame. "It's not... it's not as bad as it looks," he slurred, the lie falling flat between them. 

***

The plush cushions of the couch in Wayne Manor's living room cradled Bruce, Dick and Jason, their bodies entwined in an uncharacteristic display of vulnerability. The room was softly illuminated by the gentle light of a lone lamp, casting dancing shadows over the antiquated furniture.

Bruce sat with his back against the armrest, one arm wrapped protectively around Dick who lay nestled against him. His other hand rested on his son's chest, feeling the erratic rhythm of breaths as Dick drifted in and out of consciousness. His eyes remained fixed on his son's face, tracking every twitch and grimace that flickered across it. Alfred gave him an infusion bag to flush out whatever was in Dicks system. The hospital checkup declared he wasn't in any danger of OD. 

Jason occupied a spot at their feet, his body coiled tight like a spring, ready to leap into action if needed. He watched them from beneath furrowed brows, his fingers drumming an anxious beat on the rich fabric of the couch.

In contrast to their tense vigilance was Alfred Pennyworth, who fluttered around them like a mother hen, carrying trays laden with steaming mugs of tea and plates piled high with sandwiches and pastries. His sharp eyes missed nothing as he fussed over them with quiet efficiency, offering soft blankets and warm drinks while subtly assessing their state.

"He looks... younger," Jason murmured, breaking the heavy silence. "I forget sometimes, you know? That he's not invincible." Jason was almost four years younger than Dick, and when he was a kid Dick was a teenager. To kid Jason Dickie seemed so old and wise. Now that Jason was on the cusp of adulthood the age gap wasn’t so prominent in their dynamic.

Bruce's eyes flickered to his younger son, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "None of us are, Jason. Plus, he’s wearing oversized pajamas." Bruce mused looking down.

Dick stirred in his sleep, his brow furrowing as he mumbled incoherently. Bruce leaned forward, instinctively reaching out before catching himself and withdrawing his hand.

"Why do you do that?" Jason asked, his voice tinged with frustration. "Why did you pull back?"

Bruce's jaw tightened. "It's... complicated."

"Bullshit," Jason retorted, then immediately tensed, waiting for the reprimand. When it didn't come, he pressed on. "He needs you to be vulnerable, Bruce. We both do. And I think... I think you need it too."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths. Finally, Bruce spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm afraid, Jason. Afraid that if I let myself feel everything... all the love, all the fear... I'll be paralyzed. I won't be able to protect you."

Jason patted Dicks feet looking down "Maybe it's not about protection anymore. Maybe it's about healing. Together."

As if on cue, Dick's eyes fluttered open, unfocused and confused. "Dad?" he croaked, his voice raw and vulnerable.

Without hesitation, Bruce spoke running his hand through his hair "I'm here, Dickie. I'm right here."

Dick's hand fumbled for Bruce's, gripping it tightly.

"Shh," Bruce soothed, gently brushing Dick's hair from his forehead. "We'll talk tomorrow. Just rest now."

As Dick drifted back to sleep, Bruce looked up to find Jason watching them, a mixture of hope and uncertainty on his face. Bruce extended his other hand, and after a moment's hesitation, Jason took it, allowing himself to be pulled into the embrace. all of them too big to be awkwardly hugging on the couch.

In that moment, surrounded by his sons, Bruce felt a flicker of hope. The road ahead would be long and difficult, but for the first time in a long time, he believed they might just make it through. Together.

Chapter Text

The sleek black car glided through the iron gates, each revolution of its wheels drawing Dick Grayson closer to a future he both craved and despised. His blue eyes, usually alight with mischief, now stared blankly at the sprawling rehab facility looming before him. The manicured lawns and pristine white buildings felt like a prison, a gilded cage built by his father's wealth and influence.

Dick's fingers unconsciously tapped a restless rhythm on his thigh as he wrestled with the turmoil inside. "This is bullshit," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "I don't need this place to fix me."

But even as the words left his lips, a treacherous whisper of hope flickered in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, this time would be different. Maybe here, he could finally silence the demons that drove him to the bottle, to the pills, to the edge of oblivion night after night.

The car rolled to a stop, and Dick's hand instinctively flew to the door handle, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turned white. His body tensed, poised between flight and surrender.

'You don't have to do this,' a small voice in his head urged. 'You can still walk away. Show them you're in control.'

But another part of him, the part that remembered the fear in Jason's eyes the last time he'd overdosed, whispered back, "You need this. For them. For yourself."

Dick closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and forced his fingers to relax their death grip on the handle. When he opened them again, determination mingled with the fear in his gaze.

"Fuck it," he growled, yanking the door open with more force than necessary. "Let's get this over with."

As he stepped out into the sunlight, Dick felt the weight of his decision settle onto his shoulders. It was a burden, yes, but also a lifeline. A chance, however slim, at redemption.

He looked back at the car, at the path that had led him here, and for a moment, his rebellious spirit surged. But then he thought of Jason, of the family he'd pushed away time and time again, and something inside him softened.

Dick murmured, running a hand through his disheveled hair, maybe this time, he'll actually try.

Dick approached, Bruce's stern features softened almost imperceptibly. "Ready?" he asked, his deep voice carefully neutral.

Dick's eyes flashed with a mix of defiance and vulnerability. "As I'll ever be," he replied, his tone edged with sarcasm.

They walked side by side towards the facility's entrance, the silence between them as thick as the Gotham smog. Bruce's hand twitched, wanting to rest on Dick's shoulder but stopping short, hovering awkwardly before dropping back to his side.

Dick noticed, his lips twisting into a bitter smirk. "What's wrong, old man? Afraid I'll shatter if you touch me?"

Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Richard, I'm trying-"

"To what?" Dick interrupted, his voice low and taut with tension. "Even now, you can't help yourself, can you?"

They paused at the entrance, Bruce turning to face his son. "I'm here because you asked me to be," he said, his tone measured but tinged with frustration. "Because despite everything, I still-"

"Care?" Dick finished, his laugh hollow. "Yeah, I get it. The great Bruce Wayne, always doing what's best for everyone else." he was lashing out. Dick knew he was being a jerk but he couldn't stop the poison from leaking. He felt cornered and Bruce was there, a victim by proximity. 

As they stepped inside, Bruce's shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly. "I just want to help you, son," he murmured, the words heavy with unspoken emotion.

Dick's anger faltered for a moment, replaced by a flicker of something softer. "I know," he admitted quietly. "That's why I'm here."

Bruce nodded slowly, his piercing gaze meeting Dick's. "I'm trying," he said, the words a promise and a plea rolled into one.

As they moved deeper into the facility, the tension between them remained, but beneath it, a fragile thread of understanding began to take root.

The hushed atmosphere of the rehab facility enveloped them as they approached the reception area. A flash of red caught Dick's eye, and he found himself face-to-face with a women with strongly half and half dyed hair. Her warm smile and professional demeanor seemed at odds with the sterile surroundings.

"Mr. Wayne, Richard," she greeted them, her voice soft yet confident. "I'm Dr. Harleen Quinzel, the lead counselor here. Welcome to Gotham Recovery Center."

Dick's fingers twitched, unconsciously reaching to run through his hair before he caught himself. He settled for a curt nod instead, his eyes darting around the room, anywhere but at the Dr. or Bruce.

Harley's gaze flickered between them, her bright eyes sharp behind her rectangular glasses. "Why don't we move somewhere more private?" she suggested.

As they followed her down the corridor, Dick couldn't help but notice how she seemed to catalog every interaction, every micro-expression. It made him uneasy, like she could see right through his carefully constructed walls.

In a small, comfortably furnished office, Harley gestured for them to sit. "Richard," she began, her tone gentle but direct, "I'd like to speak with you alone first, if that's alright."

Dick tensed, his eyes darting to Bruce. "Sure," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Whatever you say, doc."

As Bruce left the room, Harley leaned forward slightly. "So, Richard," she said, "tell me why you're here."

Dick let out a harsh laugh. "Isn't it obvious? It's all over the tabloids. I'm a mess. Drugs, alcohol, the whole nine yards. Bruce's perfect son, spiraling out of control."

Harley's expression remained neutral, but her eyes softened. "And how do you feel about that?"

"How do I feel?" Dick repeated, his voice rising. "I feel like I'm drowning, like I can't breathe without something to take the edge off. I feel like I'm disappointing everyone, but I can't stop. I feel..." he trailed off, his anger deflating as quickly as it had risen.

"Scared?" Harley offered quietly.

Dick's head snapped up, his blue eyes meeting hers. For a moment, his carefully constructed mask slipped, revealing the vulnerability beneath. "Yeah," he admitted, barely above a whisper. "I'm terrified."

Harley gave him a reassuring smile, "We can work on that."

After that, Bruce and Dickie took a tour of the facility, walking side by side through the sprawling halls. Bruce's eyes were sharp, taking in every detail of the luxury rehab center he'd picked for his son – the polished floors, the stables on the horizon, and painting studios filled with vibrant supplies. Even the dining hall was lavish, with crystal chandeliers casting a soft glow over long, elegantly set tables. Dick shuffled beside him, his gaze flicking around restlessly. Despite his long history with Gotham's high society and upscale settings, he felt a pinch of discomfort here. The place was too well-kept, too perfect, like a reminder of the gilded world he'd been trying to escape. Yet, ironically, it was also a world he knew all too well. As they continued, a staff member gently directed Dick to a room, suggesting he change into ‘comfortable’ clothes to make sure he didn’t smuggle any contraband in with him or hurt himself. He paused, glancing back at Bruce, who gave a small nod of support. Reluctantly, Dick let himself be led away.

Bruce stood in the hallway for a moment, watching him go, his heart heavy with a mix of hope and fear. Then he was ushered to an office, where a stack of paperwork awaited him. The forms detailed everything – the treatment plan, the stay duration, the rules that would govern Dick's time here. Bruce's hand hovered over the legal guardian line, a stark reminder of how much control he still wielded. He hesitated, his mind echoing with Alfred's guidance: support, not control. But he couldn't help himself; the need to protect was too ingrained. He signed the forms with a decisive stroke, knowing that once this was done, Dick wouldn't be able to leave without his approval. Even though he wasn't going to be in his home he would be safe. 

***

(Time Skip)

***

The soft click of the door opening drew Dick's attention, his body tensing instinctively before relaxing at the sight of his younger brother. Jason's steady green eyes met his, a silent understanding passing between them.

"Hey, Bro," Jason said, his voice low and warm as he settled into the chair beside Dick. "How're you holding up?"

Dick ran a hand through his hair pulling a little at the ends, a humorless chuckle escaping his lips. "Just peachy. Living the dream, you know?"

Jason's lips quirked in a half-smile, but his eyes remained serious. "Yeah, I bet. Look, I know this isn't easy, but-"

"But what, Jay?" Dick interrupted; his voice sharp. "But it's for my own good? But I should be grateful? I've heard it all before."

Jason leaned back, his posture open and non-confrontational. "Nah, none of that bullshit. I was gonna say it sucks, and I'm sorry you're going through this."

Dick blinked, caught off guard by his brother's frankness. He felt the familiar itch under his skin, the craving for something to numb the ache in his chest. "I don't know if I can do this," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

"You can," Jason said firmly. "And you're not alone, Dick. I'm here, every step of the way."

Dick's eyes burned with unshed tears. "Why? Why do you even bother with me?"

Jason reached out, gripping Dick's shoulder. "Because you're my brother, you idiot. And because I know the real you, underneath all this mess. You're strong, Dick. Stronger than you think."

As Jason's words sank in, Dick felt a flicker of hope amidst the darkness that had been consuming him. Maybe, just maybe, he could fight his way back to the surface.

***

Barbara Gordon, one of the volunteer councilors, wheeled herself into her office, her keen eyes observing Bruce Wayne as he paced near the window. His broad shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched as he stared out at the manicured grounds of the rehab facility.

"Bruce," she said softly, breaking the heavy silence. "Why don't you have a seat?"

He turned, his piercing gaze meeting hers. For a moment, Barbara saw the vulnerability beneath his stoic exterior – a father grappling with helplessness. Bruce moved to the chair across from her desk.

"How do I fix this, Barbara?" he asked, his voice low and strained. "How do I make sure Dickie comes out of this okay?"

Barbara leaned forward, her hands folded on the desk. "Bruce, this isn't something you can control or fix. Dick's recovery is his journey."

Bruce's fingers gripped the armrests of his chair. "But he's my son. It's my job to protect him, to-"

"To what?" Barbara interjected gently. "To shield him from every hardship? To make decisions for him?"

Bruce's jaw tightened. "I've always known what's best for him."

Barbara's eyes softened with understanding. "I know you want to protect him, Bruce. But sometimes, the best way to help is to step back and let him find his own way."

"And if he fails?" Bruce's voice was barely audible, laden with fear.

"Then he learns from it," Barbara replied. "Your role now is to support, not to control. Dick needs to know you believe in him, that you trust him to make his own choices."

Bruce's gaze dropped to his hands, now clenched in his lap. "I don't know if I can do that," he admitted. When he closed his eyes he could still see Dick on the grimy bathroom floor crying into his shoulder. Too wasted to even realize what kind of danger he was in. The little boy sobbing in his arms eyes blown from whatever he took. He was so fragile in that moment. Couldn't even stand on his own. 

Barbara wheeled around her desk, positioning herself next to Bruce. "It won't be easy," she acknowledged. "But it's necessary for both of you. Dick needs to feel autonomy in his recovery, and you need to learn to let go."

As Bruce absorbed her words, his shoulders slowly relaxed. He looked up at Barbara, a mix of gratitude and uncertainty in his eyes. "How do I start?"

"By listening," Barbara said, her voice warm but firm. "Really listening to Dick, without trying to solve everything. Show him you're there, but let him lead the way."

Bruce nodded, a flicker of determination crossing his face. "I'll try," he said softly, the weight of his realization settling over him like a heavy cloak.

***

(Time Skip)

***

Dick sat across from Dr. Thompkins, his fingers tapping an erratic rhythm on the armrest of his chair. The doctor's office, with its muted colors and soft lighting, felt suffocating. He longed for the open air, the freedom of movement that had always been his escape.

"Richard," Dr. Thompkins began, her voice gentle but firm, "after our extensive evaluations and discussions, I believe it is time to introduce medication and work with your therapists."

Dick's eyes darted to the window, then back to her face. "Yeah?" he asked, trying to mask his anxiety with nonchalance.

"You're exhibiting symptoms consistent with depression, and you stopped taking your ADHD medication after high school." she explained, her words cutting through the tension in the room.

For a moment, Dick felt as if the air had been sucked out of his lungs. Then, unexpectedly, a wave of relief washed over him. "So... will meds help?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Dr. Thompkins leaned forward, her eyes meeting his. "You're dealing with very real, very treatable conditions. With time, proper medicine, and therapy if you're willing to work with us it should help."

Dickie nodded slowly, his mind racing. "So what now?" he asked, his voice a mix of apprehension and something else – a flicker of hope he hadn't felt in years.

As Dr. Thompkins outlined treatment options, Dick found himself actually listening, really listening, for the first time since he'd entered the facility. The pieces of his chaotic life were finally starting to make sense.

Later, alone in his room, Dick sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his reflection in the window. The sky outside was a canvas of purples and oranges as the sun set over Gotham.

He stood up, pacing in tight circles as he processed the day's revelations.

Dick paused, his hand automatically reaching for car keys that weren't there – his usual escape route cut off. But as he looked around the room, at the pamphlets on mental health, at the schedule for group therapy sessions, he felt a new kind of determination building within him.

"One day at a time," he whispered, echoing the mantra he'd heard in group. He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. 

***

(Time Skip)

***

The gentle knock on the door startled Dick from his thoughts. He turned, his body tensing instinctively as Bruce's imposing figure filled the doorway. The silence between them stretched, heavy with unspoken words and years of misunderstanding.

"Can I come in?" Bruce asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Dick nodded, "Yeah, sure."

Bruce entered, his eyes scanning the room before settling on his son. Dick noticed his father's fingers twitching, as if reaching for cufflinks that weren't there – a telltale sign of discomfort.

"How are you feeling?" Bruce asked, his tone careful, measured.

Dick shrugged, pacing in a small circle. "Overwhelmed. Scared. Relieved. Take your pick."

Bruce nodded, his piercing eyes softening. "It's a lot to process."

"Yeah," Dick agreed, surprised by the understanding in his father's voice. He stopped pacing, leaning against the windowsill. "I keep thinking... all those times I lashed out, all the reckless stuff I did... it wasn't just me being a screw-up."

Bruce took a step closer, his hands clasped behind his back. "You were never a screw-up, Dickie."

Dick scoffed, but there was no real anger behind it. "Could've fooled me."

A heavy silence fell between them. Dick watched as Bruce struggled with something internally, his jaw clenching and unclenching.

Finally, Bruce spoke. "I... I haven't always known how to help you. But I want to. If you'll let me."

Dick felt a lump form in his throat. He turned to look out the window, blinking rapidly. Bruce sounded like he did when he first took him in after his parents died. 

"Okay," Dick said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Bruce nodded, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He reached out, hesitantly placing a hand on Dick's shoulder. Dick tensed for a moment, then relaxed, allowing himself to accept the gesture of support then leaned into Bruces chest hugging him tightly. He still felt like the little kid that watched his parents die clinging onto the closest life raft that was Bruce Wayne, his father. 

As they stood there, the setting sun casting long shadows across the room, Dick realized that maybe, just maybe, there was hope for them after all.

Chapter Text

The stark fluorescent lights of the therapy room cast harsh shadows as Dick, Bruce, and Jason file in, their footsteps echoing in the silence. Dick's soft rehab clothing hangs loosely on his frame, a stark contrast to Bruce's impeccably tailored suit and Jason's stylish streetwear. The air feels thick with unspoken words and simmering tensions.

Dick's eyes dart around the room, avoiding contact with his family as he sinks into the nearest chair. His fingers unconsciously fidget with the hem of his shirt, seeking something to ground him.

*Why am I here?* he thinks, a mixture of anger and anxiety churning in his gut.

Bruce takes his seat with practiced grace, but the tightness in his jaw betrays his discomfort. He straightens his cufflinks. Dick clocked in on the discomfort immediately making him angry and guilty at the same time. He looked down at his shirt not wanting to know how Jason felt. He already felt bad enough for dragging them into family therapy. 

Jason positions himself between Dick and Bruce, his watchful green eyes taking in the room's dynamics. He adjusts his posture, subtly making himself larger as if preparing to intervene.

The therapist, a woman in with blonde hair and dyed tips, settles into her chair. "Welcome, everyone," she says, her voice warm and steady. "I'm Dr. Quinn. I'd like to start by having each of you share your thoughts and feelings about being here today."

Dick scoffs, unable to contain his frustration. "Thoughts and feelings? How about we start with why we're really here?" He runs a hand through his disheveled hair, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He didn't want to do family therapy. He didn't want to drag Bruce and Jason into his mess, but he didn't have a choice and that just pissed him off. 

Bruce's eyes narrow, his voice low and controlled. "That's not fair, Dick. We're here because we care about you and want to help."

"Help?" Dick laughs bitterly. He decided that he didn’t like rehab and wanted to leave a couple days ago but was stopped because Bruce who has legal conservatorship over him decided he will stay the full term and then go from there. The rehab was also a mental health facility with locked doors and evaluations. Bruce didn't bother telling Dick about it until he was already checked in. 

Jason leans forward, his voice calm but firm. "Guys, come on. We agreed to give this a chance, remember?"

Dr. Quinn nods appreciatively at Jason before addressing the group. "It's natural for emotions to run high in these sessions. This is a safe space for all of you to express yourselves honestly. There's no judgment here, only an opportunity for understanding and growth."

Dick slumps back in his chair, his mind racing. Understanding? How can they possibly understand what he doesn't even understand himself. Dick was self destructing but he didn't know why or how to stop. His emotions just boiled over. He glances at Jason, a pang of guilt hitting him as he remembers his brother's own struggles. *At least I didn't drag him down with me... not completely.*

Bruce clears his throat, his voice softer now. "I... I want us to be able to talk openly. To find a way forward as a family."

The word 'family' hangs in the air, loaded with expectations and unspoken pain. Dick feels the weight of it pressing down on him, threatening to suffocate him with its implications. His first family died and he just replaced them and he feels so guilty for thinking of Bruce as his dad when he had a dad.

Dr. Quinn leans forward slightly, her presence a steady anchor in the storm of emotions. "Let's start by acknowledging that you're all here because you care about each other. That's a powerful foundation to build upon."

***

Dick's fingers twist the hem of his soft light blue sweatshirt, his eyes fixed on a scuff mark on the floor. He takes a deep, shaky breath, feeling the weight of anxiety pressing down on him like a physical force.

"I..." His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. "I feel like I'm drowning." The words come out in a rush, barely above a whisper. "Like I'm constantly failing, no matter what I do." he brought his feet up on the chair hiding behind his knees. 

He risks a glance at Bruce, seeing the furrow in his adoptive father's brow deepen. Dick's heart races, but he presses on.

"I don’t know what to do. I hated business classes. Bruce paved the way for me to succeed but I just fail at everything... I don't know who I am, or what I want. It's easier to just... give in. To be what everyone expects me to be."

Dick runs a hand through his hair pulling the ends a little. "But then I look at Jason, and I remember what he's been through, what he's seen with his mom and the drugs, and I feel like the worst person alive. I just… it’s easier to not feel the pressure when I’m drunk or high."

Bruce shifts in his seat, his jaw clenching. Dick can see the struggle playing out across his face.

"Dickie," Bruce starts, his voice tight with controlled emotion. "I never meant to—"

"I know," Dick interrupts, his own voice raw. "But that doesn't change how it feels."

Bruce falls silent, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair. Dick can almost see the gears turning in his head, the way he's trying to process this information like it's a problem to be solved.

*He doesn't understand,* Bruce thinks, frustration and guilt churning in his gut. *How could my attempts to protect him have caused this much damage?* He opens his mouth to speak, to explain his intentions, but the words die on his lips as he sees the pain etched across Dick's face. He curled in on the chair bringing his knees to his chest looking very young and vulnerable.

"I just wanted you to be prepared," Bruce finally says, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "To be strong enough to face whatever life throws at you."

Dick lets out a bitter laugh. "And look how well that turned out."

Jason leans forward, his green eyes darting between his father and brother. The tension in the room is palpable. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself before speaking.

"Look," he says, his voice calm but firm. "We're all hurting here. But maybe... maybe we're not seeing the whole picture."

Dick's head snaps up, confusion replacing the pain in his eyes for a moment. Bruce's brow furrows, but he remains silent, waiting.

Jason continues, his words measured. "Dad, when you push Dick, it's because you want him to succeed, right? To be safe?" Bruce nods slowly. "And Dick, when you rebel, it's because you feel trapped, like you can't breathe under all that pressure?"

Dick's pulls his hair a little more as he nods, avoiding Bruce's gaze.

Jason swallows hard, his own vulnerability seeping into his voice. "I'm scared too, you know. Scared that one day, this tension will break us apart for good. But I also hope... I hope we can find a way to understand each other better. I know you love each other and you love me so its not that. We just have to... I don't know..." He admitted looking at the psychiatrist who nodded in approval. 

Encouraged by Jason's words, Dick uncurls from his defensive position. His voice is barely above a whisper when he speaks. "Remember when I was fifteen, and I got that B- in calculus?"

Bruce nods, confusion evident on his face.

"You didn't say anything," Dick continues, his voice breaking. "But I saw the disappointment in your eyes. It was like... like I'd failed at being your son."

Bruce's jaw clenches, a mix of pain and regret flashing across his face.

"And last year," Dick presses on, gaining momentum, "when I decided to drop out of business school. You acted like I was throwing my life away, you said I was ungrateful for everything you gave me."

Dick's words hang in the air, raw and honest. The room feels smaller, the weight of unspoken expectations pressing in from all sides.

“I will never fit in at the galas because to them I’m just a circus kid, but to everyone else I am just a rich kid. I can’t go back to the circus and paparazzi won’t leave me alone because I’m labeled as ‘Gotham’s prince' I don't know what to do and with every turn I am just a dissapontment.“

Bruce's eyes dart to the window, his usual escape when emotions run high. But this time, he forces himself to meet Dick's gaze. His son's pain is etched across his face, impossible to ignore.

"Dick, I..." Bruce starts, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "I never meant to make you feel that way. I can’t control the public or media."

Dr. Quinn leaned in “Let’s talk about you, not the media.”

Bruce's shoulders slump, the weight of his words sinking in. "When my parents were murdered, I lost everything. The world became a dark, dangerous place. I wasn't ready to take on being the CEO of Wayne industries" His voice cracks, raw emotion seeping through. "I swore I'd never let that happen to you or Jason if something happens to me I want you boys to be okay."

Dick's eyes widen, surprise flickering across his face at his father's vulnerability.

"But I see now," Bruce continues, his words coming faster, "that in trying to protect you, I've been suffocating you. My fear... my need for control, to protect... it's pushed you away."

Bruce leans forward, his piercing gaze locked on Dick. "I'm so sorry, son. I'm sorry for every time I made you feel like you weren't enough. For every expectation that crushed your spirit instead of lifting you up."

Dick's breath catches, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"You're not a disappointment, Dickie," Bruce says, his voice thick with emotion. "You're my son, and I love you.” he turned to Jason “Both of you. Unconditionally. No matter what paths you boys choose."

The silence that follows is charged with emotion. Dick's hands tremble slightly twirling around in his hair as he processes his father's words. A mix of relief and lingering hurt war across his face.

"Dad, I..." Dick starts, then stops, swallowing hard. "I want to believe you. But it's not that simple. It can't be. You literally took away my choices."

Bruce nods, understanding etched in the lines of his face. "I know. The conservatorship had nothing to do with dropping out of college or any other decisions other than the OD and to keep you safe from yourself."

Dick's eyes flick to Jason, then back to Bruce. He wanted to yell and cry. He loved them but wanted away from them.

Dr. Quinn shifted the conversation and asked Jason how he was feeling and what he was thinking about.

Jason leans forward; his green eyes intense with emotion. "I... I just want to say…" His voice wavers slightly, betraying the vulnerability beneath his usual composure. "Seeing you both actually talk, it's... it's more than I hoped for."

He runs a hand through his dark hair, a nervous habit he's picked up from Dick apparently. "But I need you both to understand something. Being caught in the middle of this... it's been hell."

The therapist nods encouragingly, her pen poised over her notepad. "Go on, Jason. It's important for your father and brother to hear this."

Jason takes a deep breath, his shoulders tensing. "I've been trying so hard to keep the peace, to be the glue holding us together. But it's exhausting. I'm constantly walking on eggshells, afraid that one wrong word will set everything off again. I’m terrified that Bruce will say the wrong thing and push Dickie away and I’ll find him dead in a bathroom somewhere." he sniffed.

Dick's eyes widen, guilt flooding his features. Bruce's jaw tightens, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair.

"I love you both so much," Jason continues, his voice cracking. "But I'm terrified of losing this family. Every time Dick acts out or Dad tightens the reins, I feel like I'm watching everything fall apart."

Dr. Quinn interjects gently, "Jason, it's not your responsibility to hold the family together. That's a burden no one person can bear."

She turns to Bruce and Dick. "Can you both see how your actions have affected Jason? How he's internalized the family's struggles?"

Bruce nods slowly, his eyes never leaving Jason. "Son, I... I'm so sorry."

Dick reaches out, placing a hand on Jason's shoulder. "Jay, I never meant to put you in that position. God, I'm so selfish."

The therapist leans forward, her voice calm but firm. "Everyone has selfish moments that doesn't make us inherently selfish." She tells Dick then adds "This is an important breakthrough. Bruce, Dick, how can you both work to alleviate some of the pressure Jason's been feeling?"

The silence hangs heavy for a moment, broken only by the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. Bruce clears his throat, his normally commanding voice now soft and uncertain.

Bruce reaches out, places it on Jason's knee. "I... I promise to listen more, to try and understand before I react. For both of you boys." His eyes, usually so steely and controlled, are glistening with unshed tears. "Dick, I've been so afraid of losing you that I've been pushing you away. I'm sorry."

Dick swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he fights back his own emotions. "Dad, I..." He pauses, taking a shaky breath. "I'm sorry too. I've been so caught up in running away that I didn't see how much I was hurting you both."

Jason, caught in the middle both physically and emotionally, reaches out to grasp Bruces hand on his knee. 

The air in the room seems to shift, the tension dissipating like morning mist. Dr. Quinn watches with a small, satisfied smile, her pen poised over her notepad.

"This is a significant step," she says softly. "Remember, healing isn't linear. There will be setbacks, but what matters is that you keep trying, keep communicating."

Bruce stands, straightening his suit jacket out of habit. "Same time next week?" he asks, his voice gruff but tinged with a new warmth.

Dr. Quinn nods, "I think that would be beneficial. We've made excellent progress today."

As they file out of the room, their steps are lighter, shoulders less burdened. Dick lingers for a moment, turning back to the therapist. "Thank you," he says simply.

In the hallway, Bruce checks his watch, a reflex born of years of tightly controlled schedules. But this time, he pauses, looking at his sons. "Why don't you take Jason to the cafeteria?"

Dick and Jason exchange glances. Dick didn’t look happy but was too exhausted to start an argument in the hallway "Yeah, sure." Dick says taking Jason with him. The facility was state of the art molded after a resort and the 'cafeteria' was practically a restaurant.

***

Bruce goes to another room, a doctor in a crisp white coat was there reading notes, his expression a carefully composed mask of professional concern. "Mr. Wayne."

Bruce's shoulders tense "Dr. Thompkins."

“Well, I just got the final notes sent in from Richard’s psychologist and blood work. Have a seat.”

Bruce settles into the chair.

The doctor leans forward, clasping her hands on the desk. "We are going to up the antidepressant dosage starting this week," she begins, her tone measured. "These things are not an exact science, and it takes time to get the right dosage, but we believe it will help stabilize his mood and anxiety. He has had a few panic attacks and we gave him Xanax to help him calm down Being back on his ADHD medication has also helped him a lot."

Bruce's jaw clenches, his fingers gripping the armrests. Dick was on antidepressants when he first adopted him. He thinks of Dick's rebellious grin, his acrobatic grace, trying to reconcile that image with the clinical terms being thrown at him.

Dr. Thompkins continues. "And there's more. We're seeing some patterns in his behavior and thought processes that suggest he may have possibly bipolar disorder. However, we can't make a definitive diagnosis just yet. He seems to have manic episodes of intense positivity and energy followed by depressive drops."

Bruce's mind reels. He remembers Dick's restlessness, his impulsivity, the wild mood swings. "What... what does this mean for his treatment?" he asks.

The doctor sighs. "As his legal conservator, Mr. Wayne, you'll need to make some decisions about Richard's ongoing care. We need approval to move forward. We'll need to monitor his response to the antidepressants closely and potentially adjust his treatment plan as we gather more information."

Bruce nods mechanically, feeling the weight of responsibility settle heavily on his shoulders. Meeting the doctor's gaze. "Whatever he needs."

Bruce lingered in the hallway, exchanging a few more words with Dr. Thompkins before he excused himself. He needed to find Jason; it was time for them to leave. As he stepped into Dick's room, his sons glanced up at him, Dicks eyes glinting with a defiant edge.

"So," Dickie began, his voice laced with a bitter undercurrent that made Bruce wince internally. He leaned back against the sterile white wall of the rehab facility, arms folded defensively across his chest. "What did MY doctors tell YOU?"

The accusation hung in the air between them, heavy and palpable. Bruce could feel it pressing down on him, but he forced himself to keep his composure. He knew any show of guilt would only fuel Dickie's resentment.

"They're increasing the dosage of your antidepressants," Bruce said finally, maintaining eye contact even as Dick turned away to stare out the window folding in on himself. "Your doctors are not hiding any information from you Chum." he tried to reassure. 

Dickie nodded slowly without turning around, his body language radiating frustration and resignation in equal measure. The silence stretched out between them again.

Bruce felt an urge to reach out, to somehow bridge this chasm that had grown between them. But he held back - for now - knowing full well how fragile this moment was. The last thing he wanted was to say something that might upset Dick further.

“We will come back next week and hopefully spend more time with you.” Bruce said nodding at Jason wrestled Dick into a hug. The seventeen-year-old wrapped his arms around him and Dick practically fell into Jason's chest with a yelp. Bruce noticed that Jason was the same size if not bigger than his older brother now. Bruce felt like every time he blinked Jason grew a few inches it was disorienting.

Jason left the room and Bruce walked over pulling Dick into a hug “I love you sweetheart.” he whispered into his hair kissing his forehead. Dick just leaned into him closing his eyes not hugging him back but not pulling away. Baby steps. Bruce thought.

Chapter Text

The gravel crunched under Dick's feet as he stepped out of the car, his eyes drawn inexorably to the looming silhouette of Wayne Manor. The Gothic spires pierced the overcast sky, a sight both achingly familiar and suddenly alien. He ran a hand through his hair, it was the same as when he left to the rehab but felt different somehow, more intimidating like when his parents first died and he walked out of the car looking at the large stone building trying to process that this was a home. 

A knot tightened in his stomach. "You can do this," he muttered under his breath, clenching and unclenching his fists. The manicured lawn stretched before him like a green sea, threatening to drown him in memories of better days and worse nights.

Bruce's car door slammed shut, the sound sharp in the still air. Dick's shoulders tensed instinctively.

"Ready?" Bruce's voice was gruff, but there was an undercurrent of something else. Concern? Fear?

Dick turned, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "As I'll ever be."

He watched Bruce's internal struggle play out across his face. The tightening of his jaw, the aborted reach of his hand, the way his eyes softened for just a moment before hardening again. Dick braced himself for the lecture, the rules, the disappointment.

Instead, Bruce simply gave a small smile and kissed his forehead. "Welcome home, Chum."

The words hit Dick like a physical blow. He blinked rapidly, swallowing hard against the sudden lump in his throat. "Thanks, B," he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

They stood there for a moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them. Dick fidgeted with the hem of his shirt.

"I know this isn't easy," Bruce began, his tone cautious. "But I want you to know that I—"

"Can we not do this right now?" Dick interrupted, harsher than he intended. He softened his voice. "I just... I need a minute to breathe, okay?"

Bruce's expression flickered between hurt and understanding. "Of course," he said, reaching for Dick's bag. "Let's get you settled in."

As they walked towards the manor, Dick's mind raced. How long before he screwed up again?

He took a deep breath, willing his racing thoughts to slow. One day at a time, that's what they taught him. One hour, one minute if necessary.

As the heavy oak door swung open, a blur of motion caught Dick off guard. Suddenly, he found himself enveloped in a bear hug.

"Welcome back, you jerk!" Jason's voice was muffled against Dick's shoulder, a mixture of joy and relief evident in his tone.

Dick felt a genuine smile tug at his lips. "Missed you too, Jase," he replied, returning the embrace with equal fervor.

As they separated, Dick noticed Jason's watchful green eyes scanning his face, no doubt searching for signs of his struggle. But Jason's smile never faltered, a beacon of warmth.

“Welcome home, young master.” he heard an older voice looking up and smiling at Alfred.

"Come on," Jason said, clapping a hand on Dick's shoulder. "Let's head to the family room. I've got so much to tell you about English class. We're studying Shakespeare, and man, I never thought I'd say this, but it's actually pretty cool."

Dick shot a questioning glance at Bruce, who nodded almost imperceptibly. "Lead the way, Jay," Dick said, grateful for the distraction.

As they walked, Jason's excited chatter filled the air. "There's this play, 'Hamlet,' right? It's all about this prince who's dealing with some heavy family drama. Sound familiar?" He nudged Dick playfully. "Anyway, I was thinking maybe we could go see it performed live. You know, once you're settled in and everything."

Dick's chest tightened at Jason's considerate phrasing. "Yeah, maybe," he replied, his voice thick with emotion. "That sounds... that sounds great, Jay."

They reached the family room, its plush couches and warm lighting a stark contrast to the sterile environment of rehab. Bruce cleared his throat, drawing Dick's attention.

"Dick, I thought we could talk for a moment," Bruce said, gesturing to the couch. "If you're up for it."

Dick's stomach clenched, but he nodded, sinking into the soft leather. "Sure. Let's talk."

Jason gave Bruce a warning look then left the room standing right behind the door clearly listening in if the shadows of feet under the door said anything. Dick smiled. His family were anything if not invasive as fuck, but he loved them.

As Bruce sat across from him, Dick noticed the slight tremor in his father's hands as he straightened his cufflinks. It was a tell he'd never seen before, and it struck him how much this situation was affecting Bruce too.

"I want you to know," Bruce began, his voice uncharacteristically soft, "that I trust you, Dick. I know the road ahead won't be easy, but I believe in your strength to navigate it."

Dick's eyes burned with unshed tears. "Even after everything?" he whispered.

Bruce leaned forward, his gaze intense. "Especially after everything. I'm proud of you, Chum."

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Dick struggled to find his voice, overwhelmed by the unexpected validation. Apparently therapy was working a little.

"There is one thing, though," Bruce continued, his tone hesitant. "Your medication. I was thinking—"

"You want to keep it locked up," Dick finished, a spark of his old defiance flaring. "You don't trust me with it."

Bruce shook his head. "No, that's not it. I was going to suggest that you keep it in your bathroom. You'll be in charge of taking it, but... I'd like to be able to check occasionally. Just to ease my mind. Is that something you'd be comfortable with?"

Dick considered for a moment, surprised by Bruce's willingness to compromise. Especially after he stopped taking his other pills. When he was a kid Alfred was in charge of his medication. He would prefer Bruce not counting his pills, but it was the least invasive and in your face suggestion. "Yeah," he said finally. "Yeah, I think I can work with that."

“I called Lucious to come talk with you for a proposal. You don’t have to say yes but at least hear him out, okay?” Bruce told him.

After weeks of therapy and trying to figure out what Dick wanted to do Jason suggested he help with philanthropy and when Dick didn’t have an immediate visceral reaction Bruce hooked onto it and arranged everything with Luke.

Dick nodded.

Bruce signaled for Jason to come back. As they continued talking, Dick felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could rebuild what had been broken.

***

After a few days of selling in Dick felt like he slipped back into living at the manor again. He no longer felt like tip-toing around the large home. Bruce was still himself but a little less if that made any sense. He didn't treat him like he was made of glass or a massive disappointment. It was kind of nice to talk with Bruce and not feel like he was in an obstacle course. A gentle knock at the door interrupted their conversation. Alfred opened the door to reveal Lucius Fox's distinguished figure appeared in the doorway, his calm presence immediately filling the room. Dick straightened instinctively.

"Hope I'm not intruding," Lucius said, his deep voice warm and measured.

Bruce stood, gesturing for Lucius to enter. "Not at all."

Dick nodded, fighting the urge to fidget. "Of course. It's good to see you, Mr. Fox."

Lucius smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Hi.” Jason said shaking his hand then excusing himself with a book under his arm.

As Lucius settled into an armchair, Dick leaned forward, his heart racing with a mix of anxiety and excitement. This was his chance to prove himself, to find purpose beyond the haze that had clouded his life for so long.

"I hear you're interested in some of our philanthropic initiatives?" Lucius prompted. 

Dick said, his voice steadier than he felt. "I want to make a difference, you know? Actually contribute something meaningful."

Lucius nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Well, we have several projects that could use a fresh perspective. There's our youth outreach program in the Narrows, for instance."

As Lucius outlined the various initiatives, Dick felt a spark ignite within him. His mind raced with possibilities, imagining the impact he could have.

"What do you think about starting with the community center renovation?" Lucius asked, his tone encouraging.

Dick's eyes lit up.

As they continued discussing the details, the aroma of a home-cooked meal wafted through the manor. Jason appeared in the doorway, a dish towel slung over his shoulder.

"Hey, sorry to interrupt," he said, his posture relaxed but eyes watchful. "Dinner's ready if you guys want to join us."

The dining room was bathed in warm light, the table set with care. As they settled in, Dick was struck by the effort Jason and Alfred had clearly put into the meal. The atmosphere was relaxed, a stark contrast to the tension-filled family dinners of the past.

"This looks amazing," Dick said, genuine appreciation in his voice.

Jason shrugged, a small smile playing at his lips. "It's not much. Just thought we could use a proper dinner."

As they began to eat, the conversation flowed easily. Laughter punctuated the air, a sound that had been all too rare in recent years. Dick found himself relaxing, the weight on his shoulders lifting slightly with each shared moment.

Looking around the table, at Bruce's cautious optimism, Jason's steady support, and Lucius's gentle guidance, and Alfred’s comforting presence, Dick felt a surge of emotion. This was his family, flawed and complicated as they were.

"You know," he started, his voice carrying a mix of excitement and vulnerability, "I can't stop thinking about those projects Lucius mentioned earlier."

Bruce's eyebrows lifted slightly, his hand pausing midway to his glass of water. Dick could see the flicker of hope in his father's eyes, and it spurred him on.

"The youth outreach program, especially," Dick continued, his words tumbling out faster now. "I mean, we have the resources to make a real difference in these kids' lives. To give them opportunities they might never have otherwise. Like you gave us."

"I know I've made mistakes," he admitted, his voice lowering. "But this... this feels like a chance to do something meaningful. To use my experiences to help others."

Bruce's expression softened, pride replacing his usual stern demeanor. "That's... that's incredible, Dick," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm proud of you for wanting to take this on."

Dick felt a warmth spread through his chest at his father's words. It was a feeling he'd been chasing for years, one he'd often sought in all the wrong places.

"Thanks, B," he murmured.

As the conversation continued, Dick couldn't help but notice Bruce's subtle gestures - the proud glint in his eyes. It was as if his father was seeing him for the first time, not as a problem to be solved, but as a man with potential.

***

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Lucius Fox's office at Wayne Enterprises. Dick sat across from him, leaning forward in his chair, his entire body radiating enthusiasm.

"So, tell me more about this mentorship program you mentioned," Dick said, his fingers tapping an unconscious rhythm on the armrest.

Lucius leaned back, a small smile playing on his lips. "It's still in the planning stages," he began, his calm voice a counterpoint to Dick's eager energy. "But the idea is to pair at-risk youth with successful professionals who've overcome similar challenges."

Dick nodded, his mind already racing with possibilities. "That's brilliant," he breathed. "We could really make a difference, show these kids there's a way out."

As Lucius outlined more details, Dick found himself pacing, unable to contain his excitement. He paused by the window, looking out over the city he'd grown up in, seeing it with new eyes.

"I want to be hands-on with this, Lucius," he said, turning back to face the older man. "Not just a name on some letterhead, but really involved."

Lucius nodded, his expression thoughtful. "It won't be easy, Dick," he cautioned. "There will be long hours, setbacks, moments where you might question if it's worth it."

Dick felt a familiar urge to bristle at the warning, to prove he could handle anything. But he took a deep breath, forcing himself to really listen.

"I know," he said finally. "But I'm ready for that. I need this, Lucius. I need to prove to myself, to everyone, that I can do this."

As he left the office, Dick's mind was buzzing with ideas and possibilities. For the first time in years, he felt a sense of purpose, a drive that had nothing to do with rebellion or self-destruction.

The excitement of possibility fizzled out far sooner than he'd expected. In the cafeteria, he thought he might blend in, feel a sense of the normalcy he'd craved, but the atmosphere was nothing like he'd imagined. Dozens of employees turned their heads when he entered, their eyes filled with forced admiration and feigned respect. Conversations halted, replaced by a manufactured friendliness that made Dick's skin crawl. This wasn't about connecting or being part of something bigger; it was about being the CEO's son. The heir. Not Dick. Never Dick. He received a few nods, overly polite gestures, and hollow words about being glad to have him there, but no one seemed genuine. Their smiles were mechanical, and their flattery empty. After watching him with a mix of awe and wariness, they quickly resumed their chatter, albeit with more caution. This wasn’t what he’d hoped for, and the sense of euphoria he'd felt in Lucius's office began to crumble into something cold and familiar. Feeling the walls close in, he grabbed his coffee and made a hasty retreat.

As he headed for the door, trying to shake the discomfort gnawing at him, he froze. He heard his name, unmistakable amidst the low hum of conversation. The sound carried a sneer, a mocking edge that cut through the chatter. "Oh, head of philanthropy," a man scoffed, his voice dripping with irony. "I've got an MBA, but sure, give it to the guy who snorts coke for fun." Laughter erupted, brash and cutting, a sharp stab into the belly of his already shrinking confidence. Dick felt his heart sink into his shoes.

"That's nepotism for ya," another voice chimed in, amused and biting. "He ain’t even the man's biological kid, but one day he'll be signing our paychecks, so play nice and maybe you’ll get promoted." More laughter followed, the sound like a pack of hyenas feasting on his unraveling hopes.

Humiliation crashed over him in waves, and Dick's stomach clenched into a tight knot. He felt the old, familiar ache of not being enough, not being deserving. They were right. How could they not be? He was the college dropout, the mess, the tabloid fixture. He'd thought he could change, be someone new, but hearing their words, his past loomed large, ready to smother any chance of reinventing himself.

Pausing just beyond their view, he leaned against the wall, struggling to catch his breath. His vision blurred, a mix of anger, shame, and panic boiling under his skin. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole, to escape the scrutiny and whispers.

The world spun, and all he could think of was retreat. Getting out. Anything to stop the rising tide of anxiety threatening to consume him. He turned the corner, avoiding any chance of them seeing his stricken face, and broke into a near run toward Bruce's office. Panic clawed at his throat, and he struggled to breathe, each step punctuated by the echo of their laughter in his ears and the harsh truth that maybe this was who he was meant to be.

He burst into Bruce's office without knocking, desperation in his eyes as he looked from Bruce to Lucius, both of whom seemed startled by the intensity of his entrance.

"I can't," Dick managed, the words escaping in a breathless rush. "I can't do this."

Bruce rose from his desk, alarm etched on his face. "Dick, what's wrong?"

The concern in his father's voice only made the knot in Dick's chest tighten further. He paced the office, hands raking through his hair, pulling at the strands as if the physical pain might ground him.

"This was a mistake. All of it," he said, voice cracking. "They know who I am, Bruce. What I am. The fuck-up. The addict. The—" He choked on the words, shame burning his throat.

Lucius stood slowly, exchanging a glance with Bruce. "Perhaps I should give you two a moment."

"No," Dick said sharply, then softened his tone. "No, please. You should hear this too. It's your company I'm dragging down just by being here."

Bruce's jaw tightened. "What happened, Dick?"

"Reality happened," Dick spat, gesturing wildly toward the door. "Your employees happened. They're laughing at me, Bruce. Talking about nepotism and coke and—" His voice broke again, and he turned away, pressing the heels of his palms against his burning eyes.

"Who?" Bruce demanded, his voice dropping dangerously low. "Give me names, and I'll—"

"You'll what?" Dick whirled back, anger flaring hot and bright. "Fire them? Make an example of them? That'll really help my reputation, won't it? Poor little rich boy can't handle the truth, so daddy fires anyone who points it out."

Bruce flinched as if struck, and Dick immediately regretted his words, but couldn't stop the torrent now that it had begun.

"I was delusional to think I could just waltz in here and be taken seriously," he continued, his voice hollow. "One day clean and suddenly I'm worthy of respect? Of responsibility?" He laughed, a bitter, broken sound. "They're right about me."

"No, they're not," Bruce said firmly, stepping closer. "Dick, you—"

"Don't," Dick warned, backing away. "Don't try to fix this. You can't fix me, Bruce. You never could."

The silence that followed was deafening. Bruce stood frozen, pain evident in the tight lines around his mouth. Lucius watched them both, his expression careful, measured.

"If I may," Lucius finally said, his calm voice cutting through the tension. "Dick, do you remember what I told you about this work not being easy?"

Dick nodded reluctantly, unable to meet his eyes.

"This is part of that," Lucius continued. "The doubt, the judgment, the voices telling you that you're not enough—both from others and from yourself." He moved closer, his presence steady and reassuring. "The question isn't whether you

Lucius stood slowly, his movements deliberate. "Dick, those people don't know you. They don't know what you're capable of. You have to prove it to them but most importantly yourself."

Bruce walked over and carefully led Dick to sit on the floor with the wall behind him breathing deeply trying to coax Dick into calming down.

Lucious took that as his que to leave and quietly left the room.

“Chum, I know how you feel because I was in your shoes when I turned eighteen. Suddenly I was the CEO and no one believed in me or that I deserved the job not even myself.”

Dick looked up at his father, tears welling in his eyes. "How did you do it? How did you get them to take you seriously?"

Bruce's expression softened, his hand still resting on Dick's shoulder. "I didn't, at first. I made mistakes, I doubted myself constantly." He paused, searching for the right words. "But I kept showing up. Every day, I showed up and did the work."

Dick wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. "I don't think I'm strong enough."

"You're stronger than you know," Bruce said firmly. Pulling Dick into a hug. "The fact that you're here, that you're trying—that takes more courage than most people will ever have." he rocked them.

They sat in silence for a moment, Dick's breathing gradually slowing to match his father's steady rhythm.

"I wanted to run," Dick admitted quietly. "When I heard them talking, all I could think about was finding something to take the edge off."

Bruce tensed, but his voice remained calm. "But you didn't."

"No," Dick whispered. "I came here instead."

"That's progress," Bruce said, the pride evident in his voice. "That's choosing a different path."

Dick leaned his head back against the wall, exhaustion washing over him. "What if I can't do this?"

"Then we adjust," Bruce replied simply. "We find another way. But I don't think that's going to happen." He shifted, turning to face Dick more directly. "You know why?"

Dick shook his head.

"Because you've never backed down from a challenge in your life," Bruce said. "Not when it really mattered. And this matters, Dick. Not just to me or to Lucius, but to you."

Dick felt something stir within him—not the manic excitement from before, but something steadier, more grounded. "I'm still scared, and it’s still nepotism." he admitted.

"Good," Bruce said, surprising him. "Use it. Let it remind you what's at stake… and for the nepotism, well what’s the point of being rich if I can’t help my own son in my company with my last name as the logo. Work to prove that you deserve to be here to yourself not to them."

Dick calmed down enough for Bruce to lead him over to a near by leather couch that he spent way too much time on playing video games of homework.

A knock at the door came. Lucius peeked in, his expression carefully neutral. "Sorry to intrude, but there's someone here who might be able to help." He opened the door wider to reveal a young woman with bright eyes and a determined set to her jaw.

"Dick, you remember my niece Tamara Fox," Lucius said, pride evident in his voice. "My daughter. She runs our outreach programs in the East End."

Tamara stepped forward, offering her hand to Dick. "Nice to meet you, though I've heard plenty about you already."

Dick tensed, bracing himself for more judgment, but her smile was genuine.

"Dad says you've got some ideas for the youth program," she continued. "I could use some fresh perspectives, especially from someone who understands what these kids are going through."

Dick glanced at Bruce, who nodded encouragingly. Slowly, he got to his feet, taking Tamara's outstretched hand.

***

The rhythmic thud of fists against leather echoed through the home gym as Dick pummeled the punching bag, sweat glistening on his brow. Jason stood nearby, holding the bag steady, his watchful green eyes never leaving his brother's face.

"You're hitting pretty hard there, Dickie," Jason remarked, a hint of concern in his voice. "Everything okay?"

Dick paused, breathing heavily. "Just... processing," he muttered, adjusting the wraps on his hands unnecessarily.

Jason nodded, understanding etched in his features. "Want to talk about it?"

Dick hesitated, then sighed. "It's all so... much," he admitted. "The projects with Lucius, people judging me, staying clean. Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning."

"Hey," Jason said softly, moving to stand in front of Dick. "You've got this. If you want to take a step back that’s fine."

Dick scoffed, but Jason pressed on. "I mean it, Dickie. This? This is just another challenge."

"What if I fuck it up again?" Dick whispered, voicing his deepest fear.

Jason's eyes hardened with determination. "Then we'll face it together. You're not alone in this, bro."

Dick felt a lump form in his throat. He nodded, unable to speak.

"Come on," Jason said, gesturing to the sparring mat. "Let's work out some of that tension."

As they circled each other, Dick felt a familiar calm settle over him and he smiled looking up to see Jason smiling back at him. This, at least, was familiar territory.