Chapter Text
In reality, Gotham is no gloomier than usual. Dick’s lived here for almost nine years now, and he can probably count the number of genuinely sunny, warm days on his fingers. He might have to use both hands, but it would be doable. Still, despite the fog and chill that seemed to settle solely over Gotham, Dick has always been able to find something good there, hundreds of tiny silver linings.
So no, Gotham’s general climate hasn’t changed, but for the first time since his parents fell, he can feel the cold and the poison settling on his bones, bogging him down. For the first time since he was eight, Gotham feels heavier than anything Dick has ever tried to lift.
The weight in his arms is nearly as heavy a burden to bear. Damian is only two years old, dressed in the smallest rendition of a suit that Dick’s ever seen. He keeps tugging at it uncomfortably, which Dick can relate to. He’s held Damian countless times, but he’s never been this heavy. Maybe it’s because Bruce isn’t there to hand him off to when the day's done.
It’s just Dick now, holding his confused baby brother close against the Gotham chill and praying that it doesn’t settle in him like it has in Dick.
The funeral for Bruce Wayne is a fairly large event. A lot of people knew him in Gotham’s elite, socialite circles, and Wayne Enterprises had a lot of employees, so there’s a pretty decent crowd.
Right at the front, so close to the empty casket (because there’s no body, he’s just gone ), stands a small, shattered family. Dick is in the middle, Alfred at his left and Jay on his right, Damian in his arms. Alfred sets a slightly-shaking hand on Dick’s shoulder while Jason clings to him, hand fisted in the side of his too-fancy suit jacket, seeming so much younger than his thirteen years.
“Baba?” Damian asks, looking for a father that isn’t there. Dick shushes him and rocks him and tucks his tiny head against his shoulder, while Jason’s hand clenches tighter, pinching his side through the fabric.
It’s Dick’s second funeral for this particular father. Third overall, for two different dads. That’s pretty shitty.
It’s not any easier the second time around.
(Last time it was a funeral for Batman, so Robin went and the entire Justice League watched him sob until the adhesive of his mask threatened to come loose. He'd tried to hold it back, to be strong—he was Robin for Pete's sake—but Wally had told him to let it out and the temptation had been impossible to resist.)
This time though, he’s not alone, and he has to be strong for his little brothers. Robin had Superman and Kid Flash to lean on, but Damian and Jay need Dick. He’s done this before, and it hurts so, so bad, but still he knows how to do it, knows that with the right support, his little brothers can get through this the way Dick did eight years ago. He has to be there for them the way… the way Bruce was for him. He presses Damian closer to his chest, burying his nose in dark hair and trying so hard to hold in his tears.
He feels so useless. He’s Robin, for fuck’s sake. He became Robin to keep other kids from going through what he went through when he was eight, but he couldn’t even protect the most important person in his life. He wasn’t there when Bruce needed him.
He failed, and now his dad is dead. Jason’s dad is dead. Damian’s dad is dead before he even got the chance to know him.
Dick was already in the Cave, spinning lazily in the chair at the Batcomputer. Both Jason and Damian had gone to bed hours earlier, but Dick was used to late nights, and just because Batman was with the League at the moment, didn’t mean that he couldn’t wait up for him.
After what felt like forever, the zeta tube buzzed to life.
“Finally!” Dick mumbled, sinking heavily into the chair. Bruce was back. Now he could congratulate him on a job well done, tease him about how much faster things would've been done if he’d brought Robin along, and get a goodnight hug before he joined his little brothers in dreamland. It had been a long week without Bruce.
“Dick.”
He glanced up, seeing Superman standing there. Alone.
“Hey, Clark. Where’s Bruce?” Clark bowed his head and wrung his hands and Dick’s heart plummeted towards the center of the earth. “Clark?” he repeated. “Where is Bruce?”
“Dick, I am so, so sorry.”
“Clark, where’s Bruce?”
“I’m sorry, Dick. I’m so sorry. I tried—”
“Stop apologizing," Dick snapped, but there was no heat in his voice. "When is he getting back? That’s why you’re here, right? The mission is running longer than expected? Right?”
“No, Dick. I’m so sorry. The mission… the mission is over. It was a success—”
“Bullshit! It’s not—it’s not a success if… Please, Uncle Clark. Please, please…”
“He was a hero. We wouldn’t have won without him.”
“No! Heroes don’t go off and die! They come home! I—He has to come home. Please…”
“I am so, so sorry, Dick. Truly.”
There were tears on Superman’s face. The fucking strongest man on the planet. Dick can’t hold it in anymore. He crumpled to the floor, knees slamming into the cold stone.
His baby brothers were upstairs, sound asleep. Alfred was somewhere, waiting up for him, waiting up for Bruce. He’d have to tell them. He’d have to tell them, and then it would all be so real.
Clark seemed frozen, staring at nothing, possibly still in shock, as Dick sobs. He hugged his arms around himself, but the one hug he needed, the one hug that would fix everything, would never be available again.
“I’m sorry,” Clark whispered again. Dick spat bile on the cave floor.
Dick slumps on the couch, not caring as he wrinkles his suit and musses up his carefully-gelled hair. A moment later, he’s bouncing slightly as Jason throws himself down next to him, curling up against his side. Dick automatically reaches out to wrap his arm around his brother. Jason is never this tactile, but Dick is also never this still and quiet. They’re mismatched together.
Damian is on the floor, doing one of the puzzles Jason picked out for him. He’s too young to really understand what’s going on, but Damian’s got some pretty damn smart DNA, and he’s always been incredibly perceptive for his age. Clearly, Bruce’s inability to read people that weren’t criminals had been a result of trauma and repression, because Damian’s good at it.
(Bruce likes—liked—to say he gets it from Dick.)
Damian can tell something is wrong. He keeps turning to stare up at Dick and Jason, frown too deep and tiny eyebrows too scrunched up for someone so young. Dick smiles down at him as best as he can muster, but it must still be far too weak and watery because Damian’s expression morphs into a tiny scowl. He looks so much like Bruce.
“Master Dick,” Alfred says, voice impossibly soft and sad as he enters the room. Dick glances up, watching as the butler sits down in the chair across from them, staring at his shaking hands in his lap. It’s so uncharacteristic from the usually stoic man that Dick sits up, suddenly alert.
“What’s wrong?”
Alfred sighs, and Jason shifts beside Dick, sitting up as well. He’s pressing his knuckles into his thigh, a bad habit he takes up when he’s stressed or worried.
“I hesitated to tell you until after the funeral because I did not want to add to your stress, but I am afraid that I cannot put this off any longer.”
“What’s going on?”
Alfred grimaces. “Your social worker called.”
Of all the things he imagined would come out of Alfred’s mouth, that wasn’t it.
“My social worker? Why?” They haven’t really had to deal with her much in the past few years, since Bruce filed for permanent guardianship when Dick was nine.
“Your guardian is… gone, so you will apparently need to be… relocated.”
The air in the room drops about twenty degrees. Jason is alert now, saying something that Dick can’t hear. He can’t hear anything but static ringing in his ears as his vision tunnels and blurs.
“What?” he breathes.
“I am so sorry,” Alfred says, sounding almost on the verge of tears and that scares Dick more than anything. This can’t be happening. “I tried so hard to keep you here but they simply wouldn’t have it. I’m a single, older man who is not a citizen of this country. Apparently that is enough to make them believe that you will do better somewhere else than in the home you’ve had for the past eight years.”
“Wh—What about Jay?”
Alfred purses his lips tight. “Master Bruce’s will does name myself as Master Jason’s guardian.”
“But not me.”
“He… Master Bruce has no real authority to say what happens to you in the event of his death.”
“The adoption.” Dick drops his head into his hands and squeezes his eyes tightly shut.
Jason had been adopted about a month after arriving at the Manor. Bruce had offered Dick the same thing, but he’d hesitated. He’s been hesitating to let Bruce adopt him for years, scared that it would somehow be a betrayal to his parents. It was stupid, he realizes now, because legally or not, Bruce was his second dad, and it certainly hurt just as bad to lose him as it had when his parents fell.
And now he’s a ward of the state. Again. Dick shudders, remembering the awful few months between the night he lost his parents and the day Bruce finally managed to get him out of the detention center they’d “temporarily” stuck him in. He doesn’t want to go back there, he can’t.
Gotham social services is pure bullshit. They’ve never done anything good for the kids here.
As if reading his mind, Alfred sighs and says, “It won’t be the detention center again, Master Dick. I won’t allow it. A good home, one that will allow you to visit—”
“What about Dami?” he interrupts. Legally, Damian isn’t Bruce’s either, despite being arguably the one of his kids he’d had the most claim to. They’d been trying to keep things quiet about Damian to protect him from the League of Assassins and their copious enemies, claiming instead that the baby had been abandoned on their doorstep, perhaps by some unprepared mother who knew Bruce Wayne was big on adopting kids in need and could provide the child a much better life than she could. Throw in some Brucie charm, and social services had eaten it up. Now though, it’s coming back to bite them in the ass. Big time.
“Young Master Damian as well,” Alfred confirms. “Again, I will do everything I can to ensure that he knows his true family. I will not allow neither you nor him to lose us, Master Dick. I swear.”
“That’s bullshit!” Jason cries, and for once Alfred doesn’t bother to reprimand him for his language. “We can’t just stand by and—and let them take you guys away!”
“It is. I am so very sorry, Master Dick. This system is failing you once again.”
It is. Horribly.
And worse, it’s failing Damian.
Damian. He won’t be safe, no matter where he ends up. He’s already in danger without Bruce and the looming threat of the Bat around to dissuade anyone from trying to take him. He’ll be plopped down in the care of some unsuspecting, untrained family. If someone from the League comes for him, chances are they’ll lose Dami forever. The thought makes Dick’s stomach curl dangerously.
Scrubbing the tears from his face, Dick finally looks up. This can’t be happening. It can’t happen. He won’t let it.
“It’s not good enough.”
Alfred looks so apologetic, and Dick immediately feels bad for snapping, but he can’t help it. Nerves and grief and anger are mixing in his veins, making him feel like a human livewire.
“Master Dick—”
Dick reaches down, scooping Damian up off the floor and onto his lap, wrapping his arms tightly around him as if simply holding on a little tighter will keep CPS from dragging him away. “No, Alfie, I’m sorry. But that’s not good enough. We have to protect Dami. Us. We’re the only ones that can now.”
“And what do you propose we do about it? I’m afraid our hands are very much tied in this case. Of course, if you have a solution, I am all ears.”
Jason stares over at Dick, looking angry and desperate but confident, like he truly believes that Dick has a solution for this. That’s what Dick does—he’s a big brother. He fixes problems for their family. Dick’s heart both swells and breaks with the notion that Jason has that much faith in him. He can’t do everything, but he can fight with everything he’s got for his family, and he always will.
He has a solution, slowly forming in his mind. It’s shitty all around, and no one’s going to be happy about it, but it might be the best they’re going to get.
“I’ll file for emancipation,” he says as calmly as he can. The world still feels like it's crumbling down faster and faster. “Get a job. Support myself. I can do it.”
“Master Dick, your studies—”
“I can get my GED. I’m plenty smart enough.”
“Wait, you’re still gonna move out?” Jason demands. “You can’t! Alfred, tell him!”
“Tell him!” Damian screeches in agreement, looking proud of himself. He loves to scold his family.
“They won’t let me stay. And this is the only way to help Dami.” He smooths Damian’s hair back off of his forehead and the boy instantly calms down, tilting his head back to try and look at Dick.
Alfred raises an eyebrow. “What are you proposing here, Master Dick?”
“I’ll tell them Dami is mine. Biologically. I’ll say that it was all a cover story to prevent a teen pregnancy scandal, that Dami’s mom left him with me and Bruce was helping me out because I was too young.”
Jason splutters. “You think they’re gonna buy that? Or just let you have him?”
“We can fake a paternity test,” Dick says. “We have the tech for that. They can’t take him away if they think he’s mine.”
“I’m pretty sure they still can. They take kids from their biological parents all the time.”
“Not if I’m a capable guardian. I’m seventeen. I can get a job, and Damian’s due to start preschool soon so I won’t have to worry about babysitting.”
“What about Robin?” Jason asks.
Dick swallows the sudden lump in his throat. Honestly, he can’t stomach the idea of being Robin without Bruce’s Batman.
“I… I’ll be Batman,” Dick had whispered, staring at an old suit, now up on permanent display. A fucking memorial. “I’ll be Batman. Jason can be my Robin. He’s been training.”
Superman, who had come to collect him for the funeral, gazed down at him, sadness etched in every feature. “Dick…”
“I can do it! I can—”
“Dick… You don’t want to be Batman. And Bruce never wanted you to be.”
“Batman can’t die, Uncle Clark. He can’t. Batman can’t—” Dick’ head dropped to his chest, sudden sobs threatening to shake him off of his feet. Clark was there in an instant, first setting a hand on his shoulder, and then opening his arms to let Dick in as he fell against his chest.
It wasn’t the same. Clark hugged all wrong. Bruce wasn’t big on physical affection, but Dick had wormed his way into plenty of hugs. And when Bruce did hug, he hugged hard, like he was scared Dick would slip away.
And just for a moment, Dick had let himself pretend, that everything was okay, that Bruce isn’t the one who ended up being torn away.
(It hurt so much worse when he finally let go.)
“You can’t be Batman, Dick,” Clark said sadly. “You know that.”
Dick nodded, his forehead still pressed against Clark’s chest. “I know. But you’ll… You guys will look out for Gotham, right? For him?” He looked up, searching Superman’s face and seeing his own grief reflected back at him. It was painful to look at.
“Of course, Dick.”
He wanted to ask—beg, sob and break down and plead until his voice is hoarse—for Clark to watch over him too. That’s all he wanted, for someone to take care of him, to not have to think about anything for a long, long time. But he couldn’t. He was already asking for Gotham, and that’s a big favor. The League will have their hands full with Gotham, so Dick will have to be strong on his own. For Bruce, for Gotham. For Damian. Just one more moment, he’ll let himself be held, and then he’ll pick himself up and be strong, like he knows Bruce expects him to be.
Dick bites down hard on his lip at the memory, embarrassed at how vulnerable and childish he’d acted then. He’ll have to do better if he’s going to convince the world that he can take care of his baby brother.
“Robin will… take a break. Damian is more important right now.”
“Master Dick, I must say that I have many reservations here. I know how much you care for your brothers, but you must not throw away your own life to solve this family’s problems.”
“I’m not, Alfie, I swear. I can do this. I know I can. And I know it’s the right move.”
Jason huffs, falling back and folding his arms across his chest with a huff. “It’s a stupid move,” he grumbles.
Dick’s heart twists a little at the thought of leaving Jay, but Jason’s always been closest with Alfred, and he’ll do well in his care. Dick has been helping take care of Damian ever since Talia dropped the baby into their arms. He knows how to do it, he’s good at it even. Dami had latched onto Dick early on, and Dick has known since he first laid eyes on baby Damian that there isn’t much he wouldn’t do for the kid.
This is just another thing he has to do.
“It’s right,” he repeats, firm and confident. “I’m sure of it.”
And it is. He’d do anything for Dami.
He has to protect Damian. He has to. Everything is falling apart; he can’t let them take Dami too.
Dick will do everything in his power to protect his baby brother, to make sure he’s safe and loved, and to make sure he knows his father. He owes it to Bruce, for everything he’s done for him, and to Dami. He’ll help keep Bruce’s memory alive, the way Bruce helped him keep John and Mary Grayson.
He’s always known he’d do anything to protect his family, he just had no idea that it would mean this.
Talia came at night, when Bruce was Batman and Dick was Robin. She’d paid Dick absolutely no attention as she passed a tiny bundle of fabric and a button nose to the Dark Knight himself while Robin stared open-mouthed at the scene unfolding before him.
“He is ours,” Talia had said.
Batman growled. “How—”
“Does it really matter, Beloved? Right now we have much more pressing issues. Damian isn’t safe with me anymore.”
“And what exactly am I supposed to do with him?” Batman asked.
“Train him,” Talia said. “Keep him hidden. One day I will return for him, when the time is right.”
There hadn’t been much more to the conversation after that. Talia disappeared, leaving Batman standing there awkwardly clutching a baby. It was just about the oddest sight Dick had ever seen. Bruce scowled when he told him as much.
“You can’t let her take him back, Bruce,” Dick said when they returned to the cave, “not even when he’s older. The League of Assassins? That’s not the right environment for a kid. We have to protect him.”
“We?” Bruce arched an eyebrow, glancing over at Dick.
Dick snorted, grinning. “You think you can handle a baby on your own, B? Of course you’re gonna need my help. And I’ve got a baby brother now, so good luck trying to pry me away.”
Bruce smiled, real and genuine and surprisingly soft. “You really want to do this?”
“Absolutely.”
“Alright. You’ve got a new baby brother.”
“Yay!” Dick cheered softly, scuttling over to Bruce and leaning on his shoulder as he gazed down at Damian asleep in his dad’s arms. “Hi little D,” he whispered. “I’m your big bro, big D.”
Bruce actually snorted. “You cannot call yourself that.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, B.” He grinned. “He’s little D, I’m big D!”
“No.”
“Don’t listen to him, little D. You just listen to me, I have all the common sense in this house.”
“Don’t let Alfred hear you say that.”
“Nevermind, I take it back. I have more common sense than B though. You know how many toasters he’s set on fire, Dami? Four. Four toasters. I’ve set exactly zero toasters on fire.”
“Not true,” Bruce grumbled. “That one time when you were ten was a joint effort.”
“Don’t slander me in front of little D, B. I want to make a good first impression.”
“He’s sleeping. You’re not making any sort of impression.”
Damian chose that moment to blink open his tiny green eyes, tired gaze drifting between Bruce and Dick. He let out a tiny yawn and wiggled a little, tiny feet kicking, and Dick couldn’t hold back his coo as he reached for Damian’s tiny hand, growing delighted when tiny baby fingers wrapped around his thumb.
“Look, B!” Dick grinned, unable to tear his eyes off of the adorable baby. “He loves me already.”
“It’s just a reflex,” Bruce grunted out, because he never had any sort of tact. “Infants will grasp at whatever you place in the palm of their hand—”
“Shut it, B.” Dick cut him off, completely unperturbed. The grin threatened to split his face and none of Bruce’s crotchetiness could dampen his mood. “He loves me.”
Bruce grunted once, and rolled his eyes in a manner that Dick chose to interpret as fond. He was, after all, one of the world’s leading experts on Bruce-speak, second only to maybe Alfred. “I’m sure he will.”