Chapter Text
Bruce watched his boys disperse, Tim towards the Batcomputer while Jason headed to the showers, his eyes lingering on his boy’s brown wings. Death was always a risk in their line of work, haunting their steps as they grappled through Gotham, lines pulled tight as they swung between their city’s grey buildings.
Death had claimed his second son, had claimed his fourth Robin and they both came back, wings of differing sizes and colours adorning their backs. Jason’s death had destroyed him, and guilt settled heavily in his chest for Stephanie.
And tonight…
And tonight, he learnt that his eldest, his first and dearest Robin, the light to his darkness, had also succumbed to death. The horror and grief went deep, sinking sharp claws through his ribcage to pierce his heavy heart.
And then to learn that the shroud that burst forth from Dick’s back wasn’t his original shroud, that they had been ripped from his very being - a blessing, a gift from coming back from death’s shores - and that it was not quick, that it was multiple times of mutilation. Such maliciousness and vileness of his captors and torturers.
Bruce wanted to see Dick. No, he needed to see Dick.
His son was alive and safe and home.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred called from behind him.
He turned to face his father in heart and soul. The older gentleman was pale but steady.
“I shall handle the Batmobile and ensure that Master Tim retires for the night.”
“Thank you, Al,” Bruce said sincerely. He headed to the locker room and took care of matters. He was quick and efficient, his thoughts swirling like the water that flowed down the drain.
Up the elevator and past the grandfather clock in his office, Bruce silently and briskly walked through Wayne Manor. The two tended to have sleepovers together, and usually in Damian’s room so he would check Damian’s room first. And, in no time at all, he was outside his youngest son’s door.
Suddenly, Bruce felt unsure. Should he really intrude? He glanced at his own bedroom door, a deep feeling sinking from his chest to his stomach. He took a breath, he needed to do this.
Gently, quietly, he twisted the door knob and pushed the door open. True enough, two lumps were tucked in bed, a large shape draped across the blanket. He walked to the bed and that horrid feeling in his chest and stomach lightened, a soft smile gracing his lips.
Damian was facing his brother, tucked securely underneath Dick’s chin, his young face was slack and an arm slung over Dick’s waist. The boy was relaxed, so different from when he first joined the family, tense with a dagger hidden underneath his pillow, a hand wrapped around the hilt in preparation for an attack that never came.
Dick himself was fast asleep but he looked troubled, his brow pinched. His oldest looked different, his usually tanned skin was almost bleached white, faint black vessels lined his jaw and temple, the dark grey wings stretching from his back notwithstanding.
Bruce frowned as he observed the wings. One was stretched across his shoulder, resting on the blanket as if to hide Damian, while the other flared out behind him, almost falling off the edge of the bed. His wings were dull in appearance, some feathers were bent while in other places the feathers were missing in patches, probably from the gunshots earlier that evening.
Bruce felt a pang, fingers twitching with the temptation to reach out and brush those dull feathers but he refrained. He didn’t have permission for such an act. Touching a resurgent shroud was considered an intimate act, a gesture of deep trust and love, so one does not simply touch without the owner’s express permission.
He took a deep breath, held it and then let it out slowly. His boys were fine. They were safe and sound asleep. He should leave and not continue lurking over them like some looming weirdo.
“...B?”
Bruce looked up, ice blue meeting liquid gold. He blinked.
“Hey Dickie,” Bruce rumbled softly, warmth filling his chest.
“You ‘kay?” his voice slurred.
“Yeah, chum. I’m okay. And you?”
A slow blink of golden eyes.
“...‘eepy.”
“Then sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Night, B,” his voice was softer, more breathy as sleep pulled him back into its embrace. “Love you.”
“Love you too, chum.”
He closed the door with a quiet click, his heart feeling three sizes too big in his chest. He rested his forehead against the wooden grain, eyes pressed close against the tears that threatened to fall. Bruce was so, so thankful that his children were still with him, that they had come into his life, that they returned to him, even journeying back from death’s shores to stay.