Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dick is just having one of those days that starts out shit and only gets shittier.

It starts with the rain. While Blüdhaven’s never particularly sunny, the weather lately has been another beast entirely. And, yeah, hurricane season comes every year without fail. Dick can handle hurricanes. It’s the relentless unending rainfall that just seeps the life out of him.

Dick yearns for the days when he used to love the rain. Haly’s circus chased the sun. When it rained, it was something to be treasured. Dick has so many good memories of stomping in the mud with Zitka, using his arm to mimic her trunk, speaking a language all their own. He has one precious memory of Bruce, after a car-ride of cajoling, stepping out of his Bentley and jumping into a puddle with Dick, his face completely stoic. Dick laughed for a week.

Dick wishes he could still see the world through that child’s eyes. He can, sometimes, but now…now the rain just makes his joints ache. It makes the world seem dark and small. Like some shadowy force is straddling the heavens, like the sky is collapsing in on itself, too weak to bear the weight of a woman on its chest…

Dick’s grateful to get the call to Gotham, hoping to outrun the rain. With Babs, Cass, Duke and Kate off on their own mission in Bulgravia, Bruce is lacking in back-up. And wouldn’t you know, ‘John Back-Up’ happens to be Dick’s middle name.

But the rain only follows him.

It makes the already annoying team-up of the Penguin and the Riddler the mission from hell. But, despite the torrents of rage falling from the sky, he and his family prevail. Batman and his five Robins, Dick notes. There’s a joke on the tip of his tongue. But his mouth is too full of rainwater to find the right wording.

By the time the police have Penguin and Riddler squared away to Arkham, Dick is utterly soaked. And not even in the sexy wet t-shirt way. Jason tells him he looks like a drowned Pomeranian and Dick can’t argue any different.

Dick would never trade away the freedom of movement his domino mask provides him for anything. But between Robin and Spoiler’s hoods, Batman and Red Robin’s cowls, and Red Hood’s perpetually scowling helmet, the rain is not treating them all equally.

In the old days, Dick would have been able to take sanctuary under Batman’s cape. How many childhood nights did he spend, tucked safely next to Bruce, inhaling the smell Kevlar and leather? He could still fit under it now – Dick isn’t a rival for Bruce in the height or weight categories – but he knows he’s not welcomed. They don’t do that type of thing anymore.

That’s fine. He has a very willing puppy snugglebug waiting for him back home. He just has to get home.

With Gotham finally saved (for one more night, at least), Red Hood jumps on his bike. Spoiler jumps on the back, hitching a ride home as they both speed off towards Crime Alley. Dick’s own bike is parked closer to the Batmobile. Tim and Damian are the first to leap from the building towards the car, clearly racing each other but neither wanting to give away the maturity high ground and admit to their childish competition.

Dick watches on with amusement. He thinks about saying something to Bruce, but he doesn’t want to risk ruining a perfectly successful night. Things have finally been okay between Bruce and Dick, for once in his adult life. It’s actually a struggle to remember their last fight. So Dick keeps quiet. Instead, he just pulls out his own grabbling gun and takes aim. Just one short grapple and he’ll be home. The motion is as second nature as breathing and twice as life giving.

He flies.

It never stops being beautiful, flying.

He can see every part of Gotham like this, even in the rain. The cars below blur together into canals of gorgeous light. The skyscrapers are dotted with stars, as if the city had been shaped by night itself. He arches upwards. Sees the crowns of the roofs, beaten down by rain.

Dick’s hand flinches, just ever so slightly.

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

The grabbling gun slips from his hands.

Flying becomes falling.

That’s fine. Dick is fine. His body knows how to fall. Already his limbs are realigning themselves and his eyes are searching for anything to grab onto to, anything he can use.

Instead, his eyes find Tim.

Tim looks up at him. No cowl could ever hide his face from Dick, not really. But Dick desperately wishes it could, because he never wants to see his little brother look so afraid ever again.

And suddenly, he’s not falling anymore. He is watching himself fall.

He is watching Tim watch him fall. Is this what he looked like when he watched my parents die? Dick thinks. We weren’t family back then. Now that we are, will he scream like I screamed?

The rain beats down on them all – unrelenting, unforgiving.

Dick isn’t in his body. Not really. He doesn’t feel Batman sweep him up into a tight embrace that, while once familiar, is now foreign with disuse. He doesn’t feel their landing on an adjacent but lower rooftop. He’s still out of his body, watching Tim watch him hit the ground.

It’s impossible to forget. What the ground does to a body.

He doesn’t come to until Batman places his heavy gauntlet on Dick’s face, cupping his chin. It’s a gentle touch. Dick knows it is a gentle touch.

The fear sends him crashing back into his body. It doesn’t care what he knows.

It only consumes him for a second. Not even a full breath. Dick is an adult now, he’s been a vigilante for longer than some of his comrades have been alive, and he’s goddamn good at it. It was just one second –

But one second of failure is all it takes when Batman is watching.

And Bruce is watching him. Consuming every bit of Dick’s reaction with the level of intensity only Batman can muster. The white gaze of the cowl tugs at Dick’s attention like a black hole, pulling him in, distorting him, and he can feel himself float away from his body again –  

No. Dick’s fine. He’s fine. He just needs one minute to collect himself. He falls all the time. He gets spooked all time. It’s come with the territory. One good night’s sleep and he’ll be right as –

But it’s too late. It’s too late to just breathe and then move on.

Because Bruce saw.

He will always be attuned to Bruce’s reactions before anything else. Dick’s eyes devour everything in front of him. Bruce’s shoulders, squared up and locked tight, his frown, pulled tight and favoring the left, the start of a snarl –

Bruce is terrified. And furious. 

Dick is well-acquainted with this look. As Robin, it meant weeks of being grounded, and days spent with either Bruce obsessively monitoring him or ignoring him completely. Punished or exiled. God knows Bruce only deals in absolutes.

As Nightwing, the look mostly means yelling. Lots and lots of yelling followed by months of no words at all. Dick can kiss his family goodbye. After all, they will always be Bruce’s family first.

Dick’s stomach is pulled out through the soles of his feet. His insides drop like a stone in the ocean. Down, down, down. His husk of a body is left on the surface, weak and tensed for battle.

But the battle doesn’t come. Bruce exhales. He brushes the wet bangs out of Dick’s face. Gently, his hands move down and he inspects Dick’s gloves. He removes them with the grace of a surgeon. The rain stabs at Dick’s bare skin. Dagger after dagger after dagger –

Dick wills his eyes to focus. Five things he can see. Batman’s pointy ears. (Bruce’s suit doesn’t have ear-rockets because he’s not as cool as Dick is.) A white spot on the nail bed of his ring finger. (Possible zinc deficiency?) The wet gravel on the roof. (Rough on skin.) Batman’s utility belt. Batman pocketing his gloves into his utility belt.

Alright. Okay. He’s fine. He can do this.

He has a lame joke at the ready when Bruce pulls him close and they swing down to the Batmobile together.

He has a carefree smile and a shoulder hug for Tim when he gets to his nervous, but no longer petrified, little brother.

He has a playful exchange of barbs regarding his vigilante skills prepared for Damian, who wants to be comforted without being comforted.

Dick has a million different serene smiles for them all.

The sinking feeling doesn’t leave him.

Bruce coerces Dick into spending the night at the Manor.

The Manor can feel suffocating even on good days, and today has very much not been a good day. Dick doesn’t want to stay here, crime scene of so many fights, haunted by so many different ghosts…he wants the safety of home. The one he pays for out of pocket. His new apartment that has never been exploded, or set on fire, or nuked in a chemical attack. The one home no one has ever kicked him out of.

But Batman is adamant. Dick needs to be monitored throughout the night. A tall unmovable mass of self-righteousness. And Dick knows himself, can sense that he is two steps away from really losing it, and if he gets in a fight with Bruce tonight it will be a fight-fight.

And he can’t do that. Not when Damian has an art show in a month. Not when working with Jason tonight had gone so smoothly. Not after the look on Tim’s face.

So Dick acquiesces. Promises himself that he can just leave first thing in the morning. Besides, maybe this will be victory enough for Bruce. Maybe Dick can just go to bed and wake up tomorrow, and they’ll both have forgotten that anything of note occurred the night before.

Morning comes lackluster. Dick’s body aches like he’s been sleeping in the wrong position for days, but his eyes are heavy like he hasn’t slept more than twenty-five minutes. Dick’s hope of a quick escape plummets. He’s gonna need coffee before he makes the drive back home, which means going into the kitchen, where Bruce will presumedly be reading his morning paper, (still an actual paper, because for someone as forward thinking as Bruce, he really cannot stand change).

When Dick makes his way down the stairs and into the kitchen nook, it is surprisingly empty. No sign of Bruce. Not even a sign of Alfred. But there is, thankfully, coffee brewing in their so-fancy-it’s-scary espresso machine.

Dick closes his eyes in gratitude. The kitchen, in the early hours of the morning, is strangely peaceful. This quiet is the lucky break he’s been needing.

A walking hoodie vaguely in the shape of a person makes it way towards Dick. Up close, Tim looks pretty decent, which is probably a sign that he hasn’t slept yet. In another version of today, Dick might have pressed him on it, but for now, he just needs to get out of here.

Dick settles for smooth, easy, small talk.

“Morning, Timbo, you’re up early.”

Tim gives a noncommittal grunt. Like father, like son.

“Where is everyone?” Dick needs to know what clock he’s outrunning.

“Alfred took Damian to school,” says Tim. “Everyday I wake up grateful for the fact that I am no longer in school.”

“But you’re in college?”

Tim nods sagely. “Which is not school. Oh, and Bruce went to the office early. Something about a meeting with Lucius.”

That’s good. That should be good. He has plenty of time now to get properly caffeinated, maybe even eat a little breakfast. This is a relief.

But it doesn’t feel like one. Bile bubbles up in Dick’s gut. After the night he had, Bruce couldn’t even bother to see him off? As he pours a bowl of cereal, what should be a small irritation burns into a slow rage within him.

When Dick had been Robin, Bruce had been a guard dog, ferociously barking over every cut and bruise. The attention had felt smothering back then, dismissive, like Dick was afforded no forgiveness or leniency. Earning Bruce’s trust didn’t compound; he had to earn it every day or he wouldn’t have it at all. Dick spent his whole childhood worried he was one wrong move away from being kicked out of Bruce’s life. And Bruce proved him right the day he fired Robin.

Now, Dick can dissociate in Bruce’s arms and the man won’t even bother having breakfast with him the next day. He’s still pissed at Bruce for treating him like that as a kid and he’s pissed at Bruce for stopping. It’s infuriating.

And great, now he’s pissed at himself and Bruce.

Dick eats his cereal in silence. If Tim notices anything about his mood, he doesn’t say anything, too immersed in his tablet.

“Well,” says Dick, pushing his hands against the counter and out of his seat. “I’m heading out.”

Tim waves at him noncommittedly. “Oh, yeah, one more thing. Bruce told me to tell you to go downstairs and get your hands molded. He’s working on something. Says it’s ‘top priority’.”

Dick makes a noise that could easily be mistaken for agreement but isn’t.

He hasn’t been up for even one full hour yet and already he feels a migraine starting, right behind his left eye. The thought of going down to the Batcave right now makes Dick want to skin himself. He can’t name why he feels this way. But his gut tells him that if he goes down to the Batcave, he might as well sign Haley’s adoption papers over to Barbara, because he is as good as dead.

The trapeze is a teacher of many things; trusting your gut is her oldest lesson.

Dick trusts his gut. He feigns heading towards the Batcave and instead takes the nearest sports car home.

That should be the end of things.

But it’s not.

Dick wakes up the next day with a migraine worse than the day before and one blinking voicemail on his cellphone.

Dick, with countenance of a condemned man heading for the gallows, presses play.

Apparently, Bruce has decided to focus all of his considerable attention on re-designing their glove technology. Dick gets a whole long voicemail lecturing on it. On any other day, Dick would delight in discussing schematics. He’s a tinkerer at heart. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as making your own gadget with your hands, but brainstorming improvement ideas with one of the smartest people in the world is a close second. Today, Bruce’s techno babble is unintelligible. But his tone of voice says everything, as cutting and scathing as barbed wire. Dick needs to ‘return to the Cave’ – like that isn’t a two hour drive out of his way, the entitlement of billionaires – before patrol starts.

Dick stares at his phone, desperately trying to stop himself from seething in rage. He takes his morning shower pissed off. He drinks his breakfast smoothie pissed off. On the drive to his gymnastics classes, he plots just how viciously he is going to tear into Bruce for this.

His barely-in-use-for-six-months gloves are fine. It was Dick who was being careless, it was Dick who got distracted and caused the slip. But oh no, Bruce fucking Wayne felt one goddamn feeling for five seconds and now he’s on a war path.

Well, Dick refuses to be enlisted. He is a grown ass man nearing thirty, a tax-payer, father of one very spoiled pup. He's not thirteen anymore, doomed to live his whole life around Bruce Wayne’s fears.

At the start of class, Dick is ready to tell Bruce exactly where he can shove his latest obsession in excruciating detail. By the end, the anger has drained out of Dick. He’s exhausted. He simply cannot afford the mental energy it costs to fight with Bruce right now.

He settles for a text.

Busy with case, it says, will let you know when I’m free.

There. That should get Bruce off his back long enough for Dick to catch his breath.

The next day Dick’s migraine has cleared up in order to make way for excruciating joint pain. His hands and knees get the worst of it. It’s a small miracle that he doesn’t have any classes today. He was planning on taking Haley to the doggy park, but it’s raining Catwomen and Superdogs outside (again), and Haley is content to not leave her pile of blankets on Dick’s bed.

Dick draws the curtains closed so he doesn’t have to see the rain. He puts the TV on for the background noise. Today can still be a good day. He can take it easy, rest up, get some case work done. Maybe even do some meal prepping. Cooking sounds like the perfect way to keep his mind occupied and his hands from going completely stiff.

He’s halfway through a minestrone soup recipe when he hears a knock at the door. It’s a very even knock, clearly audible but not obnoxious.

Dick has a few guesses on who it could be. He opens the door, a smile already forming on his face.

“Tim!”

It is Tim. They didn’t have a meet-up planned today (at least as far as Dick can remember, his memory has not been the greatest lately). He is in his college civvies, backpack and all, looking a little damp but otherwise no worse for the wear. So he can’t be here on Bat-business.

That means he must just be here to see Dick.

Dick’s grin is bright enough to power a large city. Now today will actually be a good day.

“Hey Dick,” says Tim, greeting him with a small smile. “Is now an okay time?”

“For you, buddy?” Dick swings his arm around Tim’s shoulder and pulls him out of the doorway and into the apartment. “Anytime is a good time.”

Tim smiles up at him, shy and pleased.

“I was just making dinner. Want some minestrone? I think I have some frozen breadsticks in the freezer.”

“I’m good, I’ll eat back home. I’m not planning on staying long,” Tim explains. “Bruce just wanted me to give you these.”

Dread spills out from the center of Dick’s chest, irradiating his entire body.

Tim unzips his backpack and pulls out what is clearly an advanced prototype of new gloves for his Nightwing suit. Dread turns to rage. Just a few days ago Bruce was asking for his hand cast. How can he possibly already have a working prototype? How many hours has Bruce spent on this? Has he slept at all since Dick –

Dick forces himself to terminate that thought. He can’t fall apart. Not here. Not in front of Tim.

“Alright,” Dick says. His voice is steady. His body language is calm and at ease. “You can just leave them on the table and I’ll try them on later.”

Tim suddenly looks bashful. The dread Dick’s feeling quadruples.

“Uh, I know this is kinda awkward,” says Tim, hands visibly fiddling with something in his pockets, “but Bruce asked me to make sure you try them on. Could you just do it now?”

“Nope,” says Dick, retreating to the kitchen. “These hands are very busy stirring, see?”

“Dick,” says Tim, exasperated. It’s exactly how Bruce says his name when he’s annoyed with him too. You’re being a child comes next. It brings Dick to a dark place, to think that Bruce says his name that way so often that Tim has learned it. To think that Tim thinks as little of him as Bruce does.

That’s not fair, his inner Donna reminds him.

And she’s right. Tim respects him. Admires him, even, when Dick is having a good day. He’s just…not having a good day right now. And he’s projecting his issues all over the place.

It’s much more likely that Bruce is just being a total terror at home right now. And Tim, being a former Robin and all, is doing everything in his power to assuage Bruce’s mood. Dick knows better than anyone what a full-time job that is.

“Don’t worry about him,” Dick says, trying to console Tim. “You did your job. I’ll text B once I get the time to try them on. If he gets mad, you can just blame it on me.” Dick doesn’t look up from stirring his soup. He’s hoping that will be enough. He’s hoping that Tim will let sleeping dogs lie.

“Or you could just put them on now,” says Tim, his tone cold and logical, “and then no one has to get mad at anyone.”

What a stupid fucking hope. Dick is such an idiot. What was he expecting?

Of course. Of fucking course Tim would take Bruce’s side. Bruce is a 210 pound giant baby throwing a tantrum and somehow Dick – even when he lives in a whole other fucking city – is still tasked with changing his diapers.

God forbid that Dick is ever the one to stay stubborn.

God forbid that Dick is ever the one to say no.

Dick’s jaw makes a horrible crack sound. He’s clenched it too tight.

Dick forces one long deep breath. He can do this. He went to therapy for a whole year just to learn how to better assert and maintain his boundaries.

He will be clear. He will not be argued with. He will not get mad.

Dick turns around. Looks Tim dead in the eyes.

“I will try them on later.” Dick’s pronunciation is slow, even, and precise.

Tim reacts like he’s been slapped. He scoffs, shaking his head. He’s always a bit more animated in frustration.

“Dick, you’re being childish. I don’t know what Bruce did this time, but come on man. It will take you two seconds.”

Inner Donna is nowhere to be found. After a whole lifetime of working ropes, you’d think Dick would be better at knowing when the next one is about to snap.

“I told you no!” snarls Dick. “If the only reason you came here was to do Batman’s bidding, then you can just get out!” His right-hand swings out too aggressively and the wooden spoon is thrown all way to the other side of the kitchen, by Haley’s food bowl. It makes the most sickening bang when it hits the floor.

Tim looks at him, utterly dumbfounded. There’s no hint of fear on his face (thank god) but disgust and hurt shine clearly.

Now. Now would be the time to apologize. Tim knows it too. That’s what he’s waiting for. Dick could just open his mouth and say what a bad day he’s having. How he’s been going on close to a month of bad days now… He could tell Tim and Tim would understand. He just has to get his mouth to open. Get his lips to form the shapes needed to say ‘I’m sorry’.

Dick turns back around.

He hasn’t been stirring. The soup bubbles over and bursts.

He can’t apologize for something he means.

Tim’s not here for Dick. He’s only here to make Bruce happy. Tim thinks Dick is an overreacting, spoiled child. He doesn’t know the context, the history. The Bruce that Tim got… Tim would never understand. He would never take Dick’s side.

Dick reaches for a new spoon and starts to stir.

Tim leaves without another word.

Two days worth of all-consuming guilt later, Dick texts Tim an apology. It’s not the truth, but Dick worked hard on it, trying his best to tailor it to Tim’s liking.

Predictably, it goes unanswered.

It’s becoming clear to Dick that he has entered a cold war with Gotham.

Well. It’s not like this is first time it’s happened.

But usually he has someone on the inside. Babs still isn’t back from Bulgravia, won’t be back for another month at least. Tim is a no-go, for obvious reasons. Alfred’s loyalties can never be counted on. Besides, he made his allegiance quite clear when instead of their regular Sunday phone call, he left Dick a voicemail politely requesting that he try on his new pair of gloves.

Damian’s still texting him the usual amount about the usual topics (frustrations with the family, frustrations with his schooling, cute animal pics), so things haven’t gone nuclear yet. It sucks having Tim pissed at him, but if there’s one thing Dick knows about Tim’s anger is that he keeps it to himself. It will be Bruce who forces everyone else to pick a side, not Tim.

When he gets a text from Jason out of the blue though, he’s still worried. It takes ten minutes of staring at the notification to work up the will to open the message.

Following some friends into town tonight, it reads, wanna get a few beers and catch up?

It’s code. Dick and Jason have ‘never gotten a few beers and caught up’ in their lives. Not that he wouldn’t love to do that. Jason is the closest to him in age. And unlike Tim and Cass and Duke and Damian, he knows what Bruce was like before, when there were frequent glimpses of an amazing dad, before Batman had hardened him over completely. Bruce has been doing a better job of opening himself back up again – up until recently, anyway – which is good. But. But it’s not the Bruce that he and Jason grew up with.

It’s fine. He and Jason simply don’t have that type of relationship. Dick’s just thankful that things are good enough between them now that Jason feels okay asking for Nightwing’s backup on a mission tonight.

Sounds fun! He types back, throwing in a few sparkle emojis. Should we meet at Bell’s or do you have somewhere else in mind?

Jason replies instantly. Bell’s is good. See you at 5pm.

So Jay is going to meet Dick at his apartment before they head out on patrol. Dick assumes Jason will fill him in on the situation then, too. He glances up from his message to left corner of his screen. 4:15pm. Nothing to do now but wait.

Dick washes a few dishes. He plays fetch with Haley. He paces his apartment on his hands and feet. Finally, he hears the tell-tale sound of the window next to the fire escape opening.

“You know you can use the door, right?” Dick calls out.

Jason shrugs. “Where’s the fun in that?” He’s got a large, very suspicious looking, duffle bag swung over his shoulders, but otherwise he looks good. Healthy.

Haley comes prancing over. She gives Jason a good sniffing before she starts jumping up and down, trying to sink her teeth into Jason’s leather jacket. Jason hoists the ends of his jacket up even higher. It reminds Dick of a princess pulling up her dress.

“Down Bitewing,” says Jason, which just encourages Haley more. He glares at her. “Did Damian put you up to this?”

For the first time all week, Dick laughs.

Jason grabs a dog treat from his pocket and throws it all the way down the hallway and into the living room. Haley races after it like a slingshot. As soon as she’s out of the room, Jason closes the door behind her.

“It’s not funny, Dickface,” says Jason. “Titus has been on my ass all week.”

“Jay,” replies Dick, still smiling, “You’re carrying dog treats in your pocket.”

Jason glares. “These are a defensive protocol,” he says, “obviously the attacks started first.”

Dick simply chuckles. “How else are things back in Gotham? Any other emerging prank wars I should know about?”

It feels great to joke around with Jason. But the part of Dick that never stops thinking, the part of him that is always and forever Batman’s son, needs to take inventory. Is Jason staying on good terms with everyone? Is he stable? Is Bruce making life harder for everyone? Is Damian okay? Is the dog thing a playful bit of brotherly bonding or is it a cry for attention? How is Jason interpreting Damian’s gesture? What does Jason need from Dick today to be calm and happy?

“Not that I know of,” Jason shoots Dick a mean smirk. “Unless you’re looking to start something.”

“Me?” says Dick, grinning. “Why, I’ve never played a prank in my life.”

Jason rolls his eyes, throwing the duffle bag onto the floor. Dick just barely covers up his flinch. Fear fills up his chest. It is surprising how much the noise startles him. Then again, it has seemed like his hearing has gotten a lot more sensitive recently. Maybe his spring allergies are finally clearing up and his ears are adjusting to being unclogged?

“Hello? Earth to Dickie?”

Dick blinks. The world reforms. Jason is kneeling down by the duffle bag, looking up at him suspiciously.

“Sorry,” Dick says automatically. “The rain’s been making my allergies worse. Sinus headache. What were you saying?”

Jason stares at him for four seconds and Dick watches in real time as Jason decides whether to believe him or not.

“The rain has been shit recently,” Jason agrees tentatively. “I had to pull someone out of a car wreck just on my way over here.”

Dick latches on to the out Jason’s giving him. “Fuck, man. At least you were there.” Dick lowers himself to his knees, so he’s level with Jason. “I heard from the Mayor’s office that there’s talk that the sewers might flood.”

Jason’s whistles, low and long. “As if Blüd wasn’t shit enough already.”

“It won’t happen in Gotham, though,” Dick assures him. “Bruce had that infrastructure fundraiser a few years back. Completely re-outfitted them.”

“Yeah,” Jason agrees. “If there’s one thing Batman’s good for, it’s keeping the sewers clean enough to live in.”

Dick has an anecdote on the tip of his tongue, but Jason keeps going.

“Alright, enough small talk. Let’s get down to business.”

Dick nods. He stops himself from humming Be A Man, but the thought of it still puts a small smile on his face. Jason opens his duffle and starts briefing him on the mission. Red Hood has been tracking down the production supply of a particularly deadly strain of black tar heroin. The suppliers are new to the tri-state area drug scene, they are smart, and they may be metas. It’s nothing universe shattering, but taking them down will save a lot of lives.

“I’ve been chasing these guys for a while. They’re slippery fucks. Their boat leaves for Russia tonight, so this is our hail mary, ‘Wing, cuz I am fucking sick of Moscow,” says Jason. “I brought the good stuff for tonight. We can suit up and gut the fuckers.”

It warms something deep and ancient within him, to have Jason refer to them as ‘we’.

Jason mistakes Dick’s look. “Figuratively,” he says offhandedly, and proceeds to start pulling items out of the duffel bag. He hands Dick a very cool looking pair of night vision goggles. Dick flicks his finger at the tuff of white hair near Jason’s forehead.

“Thanks for the gifts, Santa.”

Jason scowls, every bit the easily embarrassed little kid Dick remembers. Then, his face twists into something mean. “What does that make you? My little elf?”

Dick places his fingers on his chin, feigning thought. “Well, I have been known to rock pixie boots.”

Jason makes a sound of disgust that makes it clear to Dick that he has been spending a lot of time with Damian. He all but throws the second inhibitor collar at him. Dick catches it with good humor.

It dissipates the instant he sees the next piece of equipment.

There, plain as day, are a pair of new gloves. The middle fingers are painted Nightwing’s signature blue.

For one long moment, the world roars around Dick.

It’s the sound of a whole circus burning down.

Then, everything gets deathly quiet. Jason is talking at him. His lips are moving. But there are no sounds. Dick can’t even hear his own heart beat.

The feel of Jason’s hand, gripped tight around his shoulder, brings the world back into focus. Dick looks at the hand gripping him, really looks. He can see clearly now what he so stupidly missed before. The design is slicker, speaking to the advanced adhesive features Bruce ranted about days ago, and the finish is glossy and new.

He knew it. He knew it was too good to be true. Jason doesn’t make it a habit to let Dick know when his work brings him to Blüdhaven. Dick just always finds out on the job.

Bruce sent him.

Devastation, heartbreak, betrayal – they all swarm around in Dick’s gut.

Tim made sense. Dutiful, steadfast, logical Tim he could anticipate. But Jason? Jason was – Jason was the one who was supposed to understand. He knew first-hand how toxic Bruce could be. He knew to call it toxic. He wasn’t like Tim and Damian, still blinded by their desire for Bruce’s approval. And he wasn’t like Cass, who seemed to be able speak Bruce fluently. No, when it came to Bruce, Jason was like him. Stronger even. He had set boundaries with Bruce that Dick could only dream of.

And now…after all that…

What did he give you? Dick wants to scream. What made you want to help him do this to me?

When Dick finally looks up at Jason’s face, his stare is cold and unforgiving.

“You traitor.”

“Excuse me?” The grip on Dick’s shoulder tightens threateningly. Dick all but flings himself out of his grip.

“Don’t touch me,” Dick sneers, crawling backwards on his hands. His brain won’t stop screaming threat levels. Jason is standing up. He has about four inches and a seventy-five pounds on Dick. He’s nearly fully armed. Dick is still in his civvies.

He’s not safe like this. He needs to get someone safe.

Jason takes a calm step forward. He’s not scared at all. He’s not the one who gets hurt.

“Dickie,” he says. Dick flinches. The tenderness in that name is a lie. That affection never lasts. “Something is wrong with you. You’re compromised.”

Your loyalties are compromised, Bruce had told him back when his name was still Robin, in one of their worst fights about the Teen Titans. I don’t have any use for a partner like that. Dick had run away before Bruce could kick him out that time, before Bruce could raise his fist and – but no, no, that came after. That was because of Jason.

“I need you to tell me who drugged you,” says Jason, closer than he was before, closer than Dick ever agreed to having. His back is against the wall. There is nowhere to go.

“Let me take your vitals,” Jason reaches out.

“I said, don’t touch me!”

Dick lunges at him. Weaponless, armor-less, surprise is the only element on his side right now. If he can get Jason on the ropes, rattle him just enough, he can take him. Dick has fought – really fought – Jason before. Jason’s good, but Dick’s always just been a hair better.

Dick lets years of training flow through him. Fighting is all he seems capable of doing anymore. And they are really fighting now. Distantly, he can hear Haley barking.

Jason lands a punch on his jaw. It’s not even a good punch. Legitimately, Jason has hit him harder at fifteen. It’s just one of those punches that lands by sheer chance. Jason was clearly aiming for Dick’s shoulder, but Dick botches the dodge, and puts his face right on a colliding path with Jason’s knuckles.

It’s not that hard a hit. If Dick were – if he were better – if he were Nightwing right now, he wouldn’t even stumble.

Tonight, though – tonight the hit sends him sprawling.  

He curls a hand around his cheek, holding the place where Jason used to be. Everything is familiar. Everything is so foreign Dick isn’t sure he’s piloting his body. Isn’t sure he even has a body, until he presses down on the forming bruise.

“Jesus Christ,” someone says from a million miles away. “Are you crying?”

Is he?

He doesn’t have the energy to check.

Dick tucks his knees into his body, resting his head on them. The Batcave is so cold. He’s alone, and no one – not his dead little brother, not his dad– is coming back for him.

Far away, the bats chatter around him. They speak a language Dick cannot know, no matter how hard he tries.

It’s raining somewhere.

“I’ll come back.”

But it’s a lie. It’s always a lie. When Bruce hits him, he leaves.

And he never looks back.

Dick’s cheek throbs. He is alone with the weight of his failures.

An hour later, Haley nudges the door open. She licks at Dick’s face until slowly he comes back to himself.

Shame. That’s all there is to return to. Shame.

He acts fast. Slips out of the restraints Jason cuffed him with easily. Makes up some lie about trace amounts of fear toxin in his system, probably from a mismanaged evidence bag. That gives him an excuse to skip patrol for the night, too. He can’t even look at his Nightwing suit right now, much less wear it. Dick’s a disgrace.

But he is a crafty disgrace. It’s easy to forge an all-clear bill of medical health from his home-lab and send it to the Batcomputer. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s falsified his medical records, probably won’t be the last either.

The adrenaline rush of lying gives him just enough energy to text Jason. He apologizes for getting in the way of whatever Jason had planned for tonight. Thanks him for trying to help and lets him know that he’s all good now, so Jason can just focus on the mission and then head home.

A couple hours later, Jason thumbs up the message. Three floating dots appear underneath. Dick waits for the reply.

He waits all night, passing out with the phone still clutched in his hand.

It never comes.

Dick wakes up the next morning to Damian, in full Robin get-up, glaring down at him.

It’s like an ice bucket thrown in his face. Dick has never been more awake in his life.

“What’s wrong?” he says, already scrabbling for the escrima sticks under his pillows.

“Father sent me.”

“About?” A flood of criminals and plots crashes through Dick’s head. Despite his blaring migraine, he forces himself into an upright sitting position.

Damian is still crouched over him, like some kind of protective colorful gargoyle. He doesn’t answer right away; the pursing of his lips makes it clear that he is deliberating something carefully. Chills run through Dick’s chest and shoulders. It feels like he’s being drowned in ice.

“You haven’t tried the new gloves on yet, Richard.”

Dick’s brain stalls. Then, it restarts.

Un-fucking-believable.

The light in the room makes it clear that it is barely early dawn. Patrol must have only just wrapped up. There’s nothing wrong in Gotham. Batman hasn’t sent Robin all the way to Blüdhaven to check on Dick’s (supposed) fear toxin recovery. It’s just about the fucking gloves. It’s just about Bruce’s fucking control.

Dick sags back into bed. A puppet with cut strings.

“Go home, Robin.”

“I will,” Damian assures him. “After I have completed my mission.”

He drops the gloves on Dick’s bare chest.

In a fit of outrageous childishness, Dick takes the gloves and hurls them across the room. The thud they make against his wall is so satisfying. Then, he rolls himself up into his blankets, pushing Damian off of him, burying himself far far away from Bruce’s bullshit.

“Richard!” says Damian, aghast. He does a pitch perfect Alfred impersonation. “What is wrong with you?”

“I’m not trying on those gloves, you can’t make me!”

A very poor choice of words. He should know better than to issue Damian a challenge.

Damian is already upon him, trying to manhandle him out from under the blankets. “Oh yes, I can!”

Dick keeps them pulled tight around him, as tight as he can. The stakes feel absurdly high. More life or death than any of Dick’s recent patrols. This blanket, it is the one last shield of sanity he has. No one is taking it away from him.

“Get off of me!” he cries, kicking Damian away as best he can from under the covers.

“Richard, this is for your own good!”

“I’m fine!” he shouts. His voice disagrees with him, the fucking traitor, and breaks. “My gloves are fine!”

“These gloves are better!”

“I am not going to try those gloves on! Ever!”

They wrestle. It’s really nothing like sparring, since Damian is fully outfitted in his Robin uniform and Dick is in his boxers, swaddled in blankets. Dick’s destined to lose this fight.

He’s only saved when the ruckus finally wakes Haley up. Immediately she is on top of Dick, alternating between barking at him and barking at Damian.

Damian halts in his tracks. Haley is his ultimate weakness. He wouldn’t dare do anything to cause her stress.

“Fine,” Damian draws back and sits on his heels, analyzing Dick like a particularly unfriendly cat. “Why not?”

“Huh?”

The question shocks Dick so much that he dares to peek his head out of his blanket cocoon.

“You are being obtusely adamant in your refusal of a simple armor upgrade. I am asking why. For what purpose does this serve?”

Shamefully, Dick’s eyes start to water. No one’s asked him why yet.

He doesn’t have the words.

Dick buries himself back in his blankets, this time out of shame. He never wanted Damian to see him like this. Never wanted his former Robin to see him so…this not even a word for it, the type of broken he is. Brittle, is the closest. Weak.

Damian watches him, waiting patiently for an answer that will never come.

Dick curls up tighter. His face is wet.

After a long while, Damian speaks.  

“Do you –” Damian clears his throat and tries again. “Do you want me to make you some cocoa?”

The relief those words bring nearly makes him cry out.

Dick, still mummified in his blankets, nods. It comes out like a full body wiggle.

“Right. And I will call Pennyworth, inform him that I will be spending the night here.” Damian’s more talking to himself now, which is good, because Dick doesn’t think he could speak right now even if he tried.

A small, cautious hand is placed on top of his head.

“It will be alright, Richard.”

Dick feels a collage of a million different emotions, each layered on top of the other. Love. Pride, at how far Damian has come in his ability to comfort others. And then guilt. So much guilt. He doesn’t want Damian to have to take care of him. He doesn’t want Damian to spend a whole day outside his door, afraid and lonely, wondering why he won’t get up.

He doesn’t want. He doesn’t want to be like Bruce.

Dick, aching all the way to his marrow, forces himself upright. The blankets fall off around him.

Damian is frowning, gaze wary. He approaches Dick with the same restraint he uses for cornered animals. Which, alright, fair approach, given the way Dick has been acting. But that’s not him. That’s not the person he wants to be.

Damian should never be afraid. Not because of him, not for him.

Dick waits a second, keeping a close eye on Damian’s physical tells. He leans forward, opening his self up. When he gets the okay, he pulls the boy into an embrace.

“It will,” he forces himself to say. “It will be alright.”

Dick refuses to let that be a lie.

Damian nods into his shoulders; Dick holds tight enough to not let go.

Damian stays for two whole days.

And for two whole days, things are the closest to alright that Dick has had in a long time.

He opens up as much as he can. He promised Damian honesty a long time ago; he never wants the newest Robin to grow up like the original did, always on edge, always trying to guess what Bruce was mourning at any given time, always trying to make him better and failing.

Dick’s vague, but he doesn’t lie. He tells Damian that he’s struggling with some old issues. He just needs some time and space. He needs to do things on his schedule, for once in his goddamn life.

Damian understands. He understands more than a kid his age should ever have to.

He makes it his mission to get Dick out of bed. They go to the pet-store and buy Haley a doggy raincoat. They take her for a lovely walk in his neighborhood’s mostly deserted park. They outlast the rain, watching it turn from steady streams into a fine mist. Damian kicks his ass at Swordwalkers. They both eat too much pizza.

And then, all too soon, Alfred arrives. Damian, blessed kind beautiful soul that he is, doesn’t allow Alfred to linger. But his pseudo-grandfather/father/mother figure’s patented look of reserved concern is not one that Dick is going to forget anytime soon.

Dick closes the door on them both with a heavy sigh.

Get it together, Grayson, he tells himself.

And for a week, he practically does. The ever-present rain gives way to foggy mornings with afternoon sun. He makes some big breaks in his casework. His classes feel grounding instead of overwhelming. Dick smiles less, but each smile is real.   

And then. Then, he has a shit day.

One of his kids breaks her ankle. Injuries are part of the sport, they all know it, but the look on her dad’s face when poor little Ava started wailing…Dick still flinches at the thought. And then it is a million other little things. He leaves his phone at the gym. Dick gets a parking ticket, and he is too disheveled to charm his way out of it. Patrol is long and chaotic. A bank robber gets a lucky shot to his ribs. His suit protected him, of course, but it is still a wound to his pride.

Dick returns home via the well-loved fire escape. He slides out of his suit, utterly exhausted.

There’s only one thing that has any hope of salvaging the night. Dick opens his freezer. As soon as he reaches for his pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream (with extra chocolate chips) he feels him. The glower burns through him like a death ray.

Classic Bruce. Can’t make it to any of his housewarming parties, oh no, he’s way too busy in Gotham for that. But god forbid Dick wants to make updates to his suit on his schedule. Now suddenly it’s the end of the fucking world.

Suddenly, Batman is menacing him in his own goddamn kitchen.

He should have known. Dick having a bad day is like his own personal version of the Batsignal, summoning Bruce over to be an asshole.

“Nightwing,” says Batman in greeting. Instead of a normal ‘hi, how are you’ or ‘sorry I broke into your house’.

Dick looks down at his Superman-themed boxers. “Nightwing’s off the clock tonight, can I take a message?”

“Dick,” Batman growls. And the nerve of that guy, to break into Dick’s apartment in the middle of the night and start getting pissy with him.

Dick slams his freezer shut. “What?”

He twists around, looking Bruce dead in his inhuman white eyes. “If someone’s dead or Gotham’s on fire, lede with that. Otherwise whatever you have to say to me can wait until tomorrow. Or better yet, text me!”

It’s all just spilling out of him now. The rage catches on more rage, feeding itself, a wildfire big enough to consume a coast. He needs to calm down. He needs to breathe.

He breathes.

“It’s 4:00am, B,” says Dick, as calm and evenly as he possibly can. “I am going to eat this ice cream and then I’m going to bed.”

Batman stalks towards him, absolutely spitting on Dick’s olive branch. Batman is awe inspiring, in the old school sense of the term. A terrifying mass of shadows. Dick gets older every year, but that eight-year-old boy he used to be never goes away. Deep down, he’ll always be afraid of Batman. Despite himself, he flinches.

Bruce notices. His stops in his tracks and straightens his posture so he is no longer looming his full height over Dick.

“Try on the gloves,” he says, his tone completely flat. “Please.”

All breath leaves Dick and any fear that he might have had along with it.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” His words are barely above a whisper, but no less dangerous in their quietude.

“Language.”

“Language!”

Most days Dick loves the life he chose. His job, his friends, his family. But sometimes …sometimes Bruce will just string a sentence together and Dick could so clearly see himself in Arkham.

Dick has his hands behind his back, clinging to the refrigerator door, desperately trying not to turn this fight into a physical one.

That hatred must be a flashing neon sign on his face because now it’s Batman’s turn to flinch back. The placement of his left foot changes ever so slightly. His shoulders droop. In Batmanese, that’s as good as a full retreat.

“You are angry with me,” he says, exhausted, sounding one hundred years old.

Finally, Dick could hear Bruce under that suit. It centers him, just a bit.

“You broke into my house in the middle of the night,” says Dick, crossing his arms over his chest. His hands dig into the meat of his biceps. “Color me a little ticked.”

“You were angry with me before this. You’ve been ignoring my calls.”

Dick scowls. What a bullshit, self-serving way to frame that.

“You’ve only been calling about one thing,” says Dick. “A thing I told you I am not going to do.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Bruce continues on. As always, it’s as if Dick’s words are water, sliding right off of Bruce. “I thought things were going…better between us. Dick. Tell me what I did wrong. Tell me how to fix this.”

Bruce takes off his cowl. God, he looks old. Every age line in his face came out to party tonight. His eyebags have bags under them. It disturbs something deep down inside Dick to see Bruce look so beaten down, so broken.  

Dick wants to rush in and comfort him. Force him to bed, make him the hot cocoa that he pretends is too sweet for him but isn’t, and tell him that everything will be alright.

But that urge just reminds Dick of every single other time he has done that. A whole childhood of caring for Bruce, and what did it get him? Fired. Replaced. Beaten. And when does Bruce come in to comfort him? Dick is so clearly not okay and Bruce can’t even let him get away with not trying a pair of goddamn gloves.

All of that wars inside of him. And still – and still – Dick has to fight from rushing to Bruce’s side. It makes Dick so goddamn fucking angry. At both of them. Why does it have to be like this?

“Dick,” says Bruce. And it’s not fair. Bruce shouldn’t be allowed to say his name like that. Like. Like Dick matters. Like Bruce cares. “Tell me what to do.”

But it’s the utter earnestness in Bruce’s eyes that really, truly breaks the dam in Dick.

“Why does it always have to be me, huh? How come I always have to be the one to tell you?” he says, exhausted and propelled by his own rage in equal measure. “World’s Greatest Detective and you can’t ever just figure it out yourself?”

Bruce draws his shoulders back. The earnestness in his face is gone. All vulnerability has been shut down. Batman goes into detective mode.

“You were triggered, and you’ve been behaving erratically ever since.”

Dick gives him a sarcastic round of applause.

“What I don’t understand is why you’re taking this out on me.”

Dick doesn’t have the energy to snarl, but it’s a near thing. “Not everything is about you.”

“But this is,” Bruce argues, as egocentric as ever. It’s made worst by the fact that he’s right.

Dick feels angry enough that he could set his whole body on fire, just with his mind. He’d start at the feet, working the fire up his legs like a pair of tights. Maybe then the fire would burn a hole in the ground under him. And he could fall through his apartment floor and through the earth and out to space and out of this conversation.

“You can–” Bruce swallows and the sound rings as loud as a gunshot in Dick’s small apartment. “You can tell me. What I did. It’s…safe to tell me.”

It’s exactly the right thing to say. It’s exactly the worst thing to say.

Where was this Bruce who tries when Dick was seventeen and homeless? When his brother died? Either time? When the chemo hit? When he was suffocating alone in a web of spies and murderers? Where was this Bruce when Dick really needed him?

Dick hates himself, he hates who he is right now, his emotions on a hair trigger. The whiplash it gives him is enough to break his neck.

He hates what it’s doing to his family. Faces flash before his eyes. Tim’s hurt and confusion, Jason’s anger and rejection, Damian’s worry and fear. And now this. Bruce’s helplessness.

Dick’s the one causing it. Dick’s the one hurting his family.

Dick barely makes it to kitchen stool before his legs give out. It’s a cheap little thing. His neighbor Kyle gave it to him when he moved out. The plastic is cool under his tight grip.

Bruce, taking care to make his steps loud and noticeable, pulls a chair up next to him.

“It’s not about the gloves,” Dick admits. “I mean, they are still perfectly functional. I’m not delusional or anything. But it’s not –” Dick breaks off into a sigh. He rubs his hands against his face as if he can knead the truth out of his skin.

“And it’s not about you either,” says Dick, risking an imploring glance at Bruce. The older man remains stoned face. Dick quickly goes back to staring at his feet. “Not really.”

“Then what is it about, Dick?” Bruce’s words are calm, tightly controlled. Practiced. Bruce has been practicing how to best speak to him. And what has Dick been doing in return? Causing problems for everybody. Being a big baby about new equipment that will, undoubtedly, make his job easier.

There’s no worse feeling than owing someone honesty when you don’t feel ready to give it.

Dick sighs again.

“I was having a bad week,” he throws out the confession casually, so he can pretend that it doesn’t hurt him. “I was sloppy. It wasn’t the gloves’ fault. It was mine. It was my fault and you watched.” Dick squeezes at the hair near his temples. “And I knew – know – that I scared you. And I know how you get when you’re freaked and I just couldn’t–” Dick’s voice cracks, both a swallowed cry and a broken sigh. “I just couldn’t deal with you like that right now. I was already having a bad week.”

The confession rings as loud and clear as church bells in his kitchen. The ones they ring for funerals.

But it’s done now. Bruce knows. Once again, Dick has made an autopsy of himself. But that’s normal. Dick is well-practiced in this role. He retreats back into humor.

“And, well, you know,” says Dick, with a sad grin, “anxiety snowballs.” His hands mimic the snowballing motion before they return to rest in his hair.

Bruce stays silent for a long time, never taking his eyes off Dick.

Then, he finally speaks. “You were having a bad week?”

Dick’s hands move from his hair to his shoulders. He holds himself defensively, braced for impact, looking anywhere but Batman’s unfathomable eyes. “Yeah.”

The silence stretches out around them, a dark unknowable ocean.

Slowly, Bruce’s stoic façade crumbles. Beneath it, he is livid. His gray eyes are pure ice.

“You didn’t tell me,” he says, voice thick with righteous fury, “or your siblings.”

But Dick can read what he is really thinking: why wasn’t I able to tell?

“Yeah, well,” says Dick, “It’s not something I’m going to post in the family group chat.”

Bruce’s eyes, against all laws of physics, narrow even more. Boy howdy, is he pissed. Dick is aware of the bile building in his throat; he refuses to name that reaction fear.

He recognizes Bruce’s body language easily. He is engaged full throttle in Batman mode, scolding his stupid, useless sidekick. “If it had been Damian or Tim or me – any of us – you would want to be told,” he says, volume still controlled but his tone swells with anger. “You would want to help. But you won’t let any of us help you.” The pitch of his voice begins to waver. “Dick.”

And there Bruce goes saying his name like that again. Like he cares. Like he loves him. Dick flinches.

“You have to know how illogical that is.”

Dick does know it’s illogical. That’s the point. That’s exactly why he hasn’t told anyone; there was nothing to tell. And now he’s shared more with Bruce that he’s ever wanted to, way more than has felt good. He’s a fish at the marketplace, gutted and scrapped raw.

Time to admit defeat.

Rule number one, right? Batman always wins.

Dick stands up. Bruce, cautiously, follows suit.

“Look, B,” Dick tells him, speaking to the Bat emblem and not to Bruce’s face. “I actually am super tired. Just give me the damn gloves.” Dick reaches out and takes them. “I’ll try them on and then you can go home.”

“No,” says Bruce, quickly snatching them away.

The shock of it forces Dick to meet Bruce’s eyes. He stares up at Bruce in confusion.

“This isn’t about the gloves,” Bruce repeats.

Dick’s own words, thrown right back in his face. The rage that sends through him gives him energy enough to moan.

“You are just so fucking – Why?” cries Dick. “Why can’t you ever just take the hint? Why does everything always have to be on your schedule?”

He is speaking his rage back into existence. Dick is struck with the sudden urge to punch him. Clock him right in the jaw. See how much Bruce likes losing a few teeth. Why not? It’s what they do to each other.

I hate you, Dick thinks, I hate you so much it poisons me. You make me poison.

“I am trying to help you,” says Bruce, calmly. Stoically. Batman is always the responsible one. He never lowers himself to throwing childish temper tantrums. Except he does, all the time, and it’s always Dick who has to pick up the pieces. And Bruce just keeps getting away with it. Each year Dick gets worse and worse at pretending to be a real human being. But Bruce? Bruce just gets to stand there, looking calm and reasonable.

It’s unfair. It’s so fucking unfair.

“No, you aren’t!” accuses Dick, so past trying to calm himself down. “I deserved to figure this out on my own. Breathing down my neck, stalking me, bringing my brothers into it. That’s not help. You’re just – you’re just waiting for me to mess up!”

“Chum–” says Bruce. And how dare he. How dare he actually look devastated.

“Don’t,” Dick’s face is twisted into a terrifying scowl, the face Nightwing uses when threatening his worst enemies. “I was fine. I didn’t need you to swoop in and save me back then and I don’t need you now. And I don’t need your goddamn gloves!”

Dick’s desperate hands reach for the closest weapon. It happens to be a ceramic bowl filled with soapy water. Dick, with all his might, sends it flying towards Bruce’s head.

Bruce, since he is fucking Batman, dodges it easily.

“Yes, you do,” Bruce says. He steps closer, hands open palm-side up.

Some distant part of Dick’s brain is cognizant that his heart rate is rapidly approaching tachycardia.

“Yes, you do,” Bruce repeats.

Dick backs up into his kitchen sink, every bit the cornered animal he has been trying so hard not to be.

“I don’t, I don’t –” his words are slurred and frenzied. “I always get on fine without you. I’ve survived every time you’ve left me!”

Bruce eyes fly shut. His face is pulled into a tight, ugly grimace. Every part of his body screams tension. This is it, Dick thinks, wildly relieved, he’s finally going to hit me.

The hit never comes.

When Bruce opens his eyes again, they are blazing.

“You are my family,” he growls. “We are a family, goddammit, and I am going to help you through this.”

Dick stares at him, mouth gasping for air.

Bruce approaches. Very slowly, he cups his hands around Dick’s shoulders. The grip isn’t tight. Dick could bring him down a dozen ways.

“We need each other,” says Bruce, his voice still gravel. “Son, please – please – let me help you.”

Batman never begs. Bruce –

The figure in front of him starts to blur. Dick realizes he’s crying. He thinks he may have been crying for a long time. A disjointed haze of a memory floats to the surface.

There’s so much hurt inside me, he had told Donna once, at his worst. Sometimes, I don’t always know where to put it.

These tears. These fucking embarrassing tears. There was just so much and he doesn’t know – doesn’t know where to –

Dick latches onto to the pain that is most familiar, the one he knows he can always trust Bruce with: grief, death. His parents are at peace now. He got justice for them. And every day he works hard to make the world a little bit better in their honor, using the skills they taught him.

But he still. He still watched.

He’s never stopped watching. He can still see Tim’s face. See that old terror reflected back.

Death doesn’t scare Dick. Not really. But he can’t – he can’t ever allow the people who love him to watch –

Bruce is watching right now. Eyes full of fear. Stricken.

“B,” Dick says, reaching up to claw at the other man’s face. He is miserable and wet-eyed and so deeply tired. “I almost fell.”

It’s the permission that Bruce has been waiting for. He crushes Dick into his arms.

“I caught you,” he says. The gauntlet a familiar weight against Dick, this time now cradling his head. Bruce murmurs something more into his ear, but it’s all nonsense, Dick can’t process any of it.

But he can feel this. He can feel Bruce’s arms steady and strong around him. Soak in the scent of Kevlar and leather. It unspools him, all the memories this scent brings, the safety of the cape draped around them.

Dick closes his eyes. Finally, he lets his dad hold him.

Dick never does end up trying on those gloves.

Bruce stays the night. And after one very uncomfortable breakfast, they negotiate. Dick thinks that Bruce wouldn’t appreciate that terminology, but that’s what it feels like, in the moment. Bruce concedes that employing other family members to persuade (read: manipulate) Dick into taking the gloves was a bad idea. From now on, if Dick is behaving illogically (to Bruce’s eyes) he will just ask Dick directly about his motives. Dick can still hear exactly what Bruce had said.

“I want to understand you better,” Bruce tells him. “I want – there are so many things I want to do better, Dick.” In a quieter voice, he continues on. “I am trying very hard.”

Dick believes him.

That’s the hard part.

That’s what makes everything so goddamn difficult between them. If Bruce didn’t love him, Dick could just leave. He could just bottle up the years of bad blood between them and chunk it into the ocean, flush it down a toilet, let it go. Dick would never have to think about all the ways Bruce has hurt him – all the ways he still hurts him – if he just made a pack to never love or be loved by Bruce again.

But that’s not an option. Dick doesn’t want to live in a world without late night marathons of The Gray Ghost. Bruce always provides better commentary than any Director’s Cut. Or the adrenaline rush of sparing together, matching each other blow for blow. No one challenges him more than Bruce, no one else pushes him to new and greater heights. Or that simple perfect harmony of flying together, soaring over the streets of Gotham, every breath in tandem. The good times, the life he’s made together with Bruce, Dick wouldn’t change it for the world.

So Dick makes his concession. He agrees to go back to therapy.

Turns out therapy isn’t like getting your high school diploma, a one and done thing. It’s more like getting an oil change, and Dick’s been ignoring his engine light for a long time now.

Besides, Bruce, Jason, Babs, all the cool kids are doing it these days. And Dick, very clearly, has some things to work through that no one else in the family can help him with. Because forgiveness? Turns out that forgiveness isn’t a one and done thing, either.

Bruce has made so many mistakes with him. Some he has outright apologized for. Others he has spent a considerable amount of time and effort ensuring never happen again. Dick can see that. He can see so clearly how much Bruce is trying. And Dick’s heart, his heart does forgive Bruce everything. That’s what love is.

It’s just, sometimes, his body remembers. Sometimes his body tricks him into preparing for a Bruce that doesn’t exist anymore. And that’s a problem that love can’t solve on its own. It’s one of several items of baggage Dick has to check-in at a registered clinician’s office.

Would Dick prefer to plan for a life that doesn’t ever involve mental breakdowns? Of course. But that ship obviously sailed quite a few years ago. Dick can’t keep going on the way that he has. Damian, Tim, Jason, they all need him to get better. Dick needs himself to get better.

It’s not a pleasant conversation. But no one yells, there are a few close calls but no actual crying, and Dick doesn’t lose a single other piece of flatware.  

They part ways unsteady and awkward. Dick sleeps for sixteen hours straight. A low nausea eats away at him in the background for days. But then Bruce calls him and puts him in touch with Jason, who needs back up for an undercover case. Dick and Jason, both clad in hideous blonde wigs, hustle three mob informants out of five hundred dollars at pool, and then bust the largest shipment of heroin Gordan has seen in years. And slowly, things start to fall back into place.

Therapy is long and grueling and just deeply unfun. It takes a couple tries for Dick to find the right doctor. But he doesn’t quit. He shows up every week and does the work. Dick’s a gymnastics teacher; he knows a thing or two about having patience.

Besides, he’s got fun things happening in other parts of his life. Damian and Tim both start visiting him in Blüdhaven more often. Usually separately, though there is one rare, beautiful day he spends with both of them. And every other weekend, Dick hightails it to Gotham. He visits people, runs errands, and simply enjoys the city that raised him. Then, he heads down to the Batcave.

Bruce and Dick spend a few hours, just the two of them, working on armor improvements. It reminds Dick of some of his favorite childhood memories, right at the start of Robin. But it’s even better, because this time he can actually contribute 50-50, and Bruce lets him use the lasers.

Dick never wears the gloves Bruce designed in a panicked fit of terror. But, after months of testing and tinkering, Dick proudly wears the gloves he and Bruce made together.