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The Wayne Manor had been tense ever since Dick Grayson returned, alive, after allowing everyone to think he was dead for just over two very long years. As much as his family wanted to embrace him warmly the way Damian had done, they couldn't manage to. Looking at him was a reminder of his lies. Two years he'd been gone, and not once did he even try to reach out to tell them he was alive. That kind of coldness was something they'd expect out of Bruce, not Dick. And that kind of betrayal cut deep, too deep to heal in the span of the three weeks he'd been back.
Three very strained weeks, of everyone aside from Damian barely speaking to him, where their interactions were limited to whatever meek greetings were mumbled in passing. And it wasn't like Dick was making much of an effort, either. He accepted their greetings but rarely reciprocated with any warmth. He apologized once to them as a collective, and it was weak, so weak that it actually only made them angrier. And ever since coming home, they seemed to coexist, sometimes less than peacefully due to his new quirks.
"What are you doing?" Jason asked, genuinely perplexed to see Dick at the bench press machine in the gym.
"What's it look like I'm doing?" He responded, grunting as he lifted the barbell, his arms visibly trembling with how much weight was on either side of the bar.
In three weeks, Jason had yet to see Dick at the gym even once, even though he used to practically live in it. He was in there when he couldn't sleep or needed to blow off steam. It had always somehow calmed him down no matter the problem he was facing. He hated weight lifting, at least he used to. He'd say it lacked the same finesse needed for acrobatics and absolutely refused to partake unless challenged.
"It looks like you're lifting," he commented flatly, looking at the number of discs he had on the bar. "A Lot."
"Then you have your answer," Dick told him, releasing the weights to let them rest on the metal bar above his head with a loud bang. He sat up. "Did you want to use it?"
He paused for a moment, then gave him a curt nod. "Yeah," he muttered, watching him stand up and take the towel off the rack to drape it around his neck. "Wait a minute, you're leaving?" He asked, realizing Dick wasn't just done bench pressing, but done in the gym altogether.
Jason looked to the corner of the gym that was practically dedicated to Dick; his equipment—rings, beams, and rock wall still remained untouched as it had since he faked his death. No one moved a single item, touched a single ring, stood within more than two inches of it since he left. It was covered in dust, even a few spiderwebs, and he didn't seem to care in the least.
"I finished my set," Dick said with a small shrug, as if that was an answer to his question.
"But your rings," he questioned, motioning to the untouched area. "Don't you want to...flip?"
There was a small moment where Dick looked over to his things, all once well-loved and frequently worn into oblivion, now practically useless to him. "I don't really do that anymore," he admitted, turning to his brother. "Haven't for a while."
"Why not?" Jason asked after a few seconds of silence.
"I just don't have much of a reason to," he answered, turning his back to him and walking away. He wanted to say more, explain that he didn't give up on his acrobatics, he just didn't pursue them as intently as he once did.
Acrobatics was something Dick Grayson practiced, something Nightwing utilized in combat. It wasn't something Agent 37 was encouraged to do, especially not strenuously. He could do it, occasionally, to keep himself in shape and to teach others. Otherwise, he trained the way other agents did. That was one of the first things that Spyral took from him in a long list of features that made him who he was.
The next most obvious, being his identity. Dick Grayson was dead. Agent 37 was what they called him, even when they knew who he really was. He told them not to, told them that his loyalty was absolute but his name still was and would always be Richard Grayson. That didn't matter; none of it did. His repeated attempts failed, and the only person who called him by his real name was his partner Tiger. At first, he was thankful for that, but after a while, it was just exhausting. So, he went by Agent 37; it was on his ID card, his room plaque, he introduced himself by it, and answered to it. That was who he was.
"Hey Dick," Barbara greeted him as he entered the kitchen, trying to keep her voice as kind as she could manage for it to be. He didn't respond; instead, he just rummaged around the fridge and cabinets, looking for something. "Dick?" She called after him again as he kept taking things out and leaving them on the counter. "Dick!" She shouted, once more, this time louder.
He turned, confused for a moment by the frustrated expression she wore, unsure what he'd done to cause it. "What?"
"I know things are a little tense right now," she said, slightly agitated. "but do you honestly think ignoring me is going to fix things?"
In all fairness, she'd been ignoring him for most of the time since his return. She just assumed he was finally doing the same; maybe she deserved it. She hadn't been the most welcoming since he'd come back. Then again, most of the family, aside from Damian, hadn't been. Even Bruce, the proud father who most definitely favored Dick, had kept his distance.
Realization crossed his face for a second. "I wasn't ignoring you, Barbara," he told her, using her full name instead of just calling her Barb the way he used to. "I just didn't hear you calling my name, that's all."
His voice was low, steady, and devoid of any emotion. It was as if they'd stripped him of any and all personality he had.
She clearly didn't believe him. "How could you not have heard me?" She asked, now completely peeved. "I said your name multiple times."
"I know, it's just that I..." Dick paused for a moment, looking anywhere but at her. He used to tell her everything, and now he didn't even know how to admit half of the things he was feeling to himself. "...I was lost in thought, sorry."
Barbara hadn't expected him to apologize for such a trivial thing; she also didn't expect his words to sound so utterly empty. "It's okay, I guess," she muttered, her voice sounding as empty as his did these days.
"I should go," he said, suddenly. "I've got a thing."
"A thing?" She repeated skeptically. He was never so vague before he died. "What thing?"
Dick hesitated. "Just a phone call," he told her. "It's nothing, really. I'll, uh, leave you to your lunch."
"Right," Barbara whispered, looking over her shoulder as he left. "Nothing."
He didn't want to respond to the name Agent 37, but it was a hard habit to break when he hadn't heard anyone say his real name for the majority of the two years he was gone for. He used to say his name in the mirror, over and over repeating it, trying to drill it into his brain that he was just undercover, that this wasn't his life or who he truly was. But that only worked for so long, and eventually he forgot himself just like everyone else did. He became someone else, someone he spent a long time trying not to be. And now, no matter how much he wanted to wipe Agent 37 from his mind and pretend it never happened, he couldn't. He couldn't just be Dick Grayson again, not after everything he did.
That phone call, just like every other phone call he'd made since getting back, was to Oliver Queen. He didn't know him all that well before his disappearance, but he was told he attended the funeral and that it was lovely. That was something, he supposed. It was nice to know that he was truly missed and mourned, not just by his family, but by most of the Justice League.
Dick swiped his fingers across a few buttons on the keyboard in the bat cave, answering the scheduled call he'd planned with Oliver last time they spoke.
As the call connected, the digital silence was broken, Oliver's gruff voice coming through the speakers. "Any word from your friend?" He asked.
"Nothing yet," Dick said disappointedly, referring to his lack of information or contact with Tiger in the last three weeks.
"I thought you were supposed to be a detective, Dick," he joked. "Couldn't you track him down?"
There was his name again, sounding completely unfamiliar to his brain. He knew Oliver was joking, but he wasn't in the mood for any quips. Just before taking down Spyral, he found out his partner was a double agent for Checkmate, an organization he knew Oliver had once been forced to join against his will. He wanted to shut it down; he wanted Oliver's help to do it.
"I was a detective," he confirmed, putting an emphasis on the past tense. "But he's a spy, just like me. Now how about you tell me what you've found?"
Calling himself a spy was a bitter pill that burned his throat no matter how many times he swallowed it. He hated to think of himself that way and wanted nothing more than for it to no longer be true. But it wasn't as easy to turn off as he'd hoped; he'd spent too long embracing it for it to go away in a few weeks.
Oliver sighed. "Nothing on my end either," he told him. "Are you positive your friend was telling the truth?"
Dick nodded. "He's an asshole, but he's not a liar," he tilted his head, reevaluating his statement for a moment. "Actually, that's not true; he's a spy and a double agent, he lied to me a lot. But I believe him about this."
"Alright, I'll keep looking," Oliver said, hesitating for a minute. "But you should know that it is possible that his involvement with Waller is voluntary. Just because I didn't have a choice doesn't mean others don't."
"No," he shook his head. "He doesn't want to be in Checkmate anymore than I wanted to be in Spyral," Dick said firmly.
Oliver didn't look convinced but went along with it. After all, he'd never met this man before, and Dick had spent two years working with him. "If you say so."
"I do. I'll call you next week and see if I have more for you to go off of," he told him. "Until then, just keep your ear to the ground. If you hear anything, let me know."
He nodded in agreement. "Okay, I'll call a few of my old contacts and see if anyone knows anything about-"
Dick ended the call just as Tim entered the cave, his steps slowing as he approached. He looked at the screen, the disconnected video call still loaded to the contact of the last person he'd called on it.
"Why were you calling Oliver Queen?" He questioned, his eyebrows knit together tightly in confusion.
"No reason," he responded, deleting the number out of the call log history and shutting down the large computer, turning the screen black.
Dick didn't have to lie; he knew that. He wasn't doing anything wrong, and if for some reason Oliver told Bruce or anyone else, he wouldn't be upset about it. But he wasn't oblivious; he saw the way they looked at him. The anger and resentment they held for him and his actions. They probably thought it was far too soon for him to be getting back into this kind of thing; after all, they'd banned him from going on patrols or missions until further notice. They may think he was broken, and maybe he was, but he wasn't useless. This was something he could do, he had to. Tiger had his back for years, and Dick had to have his.
"Right," Tim nodded skeptically. He wanted to say something, anything that would break the tension between them, but he honestly didn't know what that was. "Do you- do you call him a lot?" He asked, awkwardly attempting to make conversation.
It was an odd question, and he didn't really care about the answer. Whoever Dick was talking to these days, it wasn't him. Or Jason, or Barbara, Bruce, Cass, Damian, Stephie, or even Alfred. It wasn't anyone inside the Wayne Manor, and that made their family feel broken; to him at least. The others seemed quite content giving him the cold shoulder.
But Tim didn't want to freeze Dick out; it was just that he didn't know who he was anymore. He was dead for two years, and even though everyone uses words like "disappeared," "left," or "went undercover," it didn't make his absence easier to digest. He was dead. They mourned him at a funeral service and long after too. Just because he was alive, didn't mean any of that pain suddenly disappeared.
"Why do you talk about?" Tim asked, pushing a little further.
Dick sighed, leaning against the computer board. "Nothing that would interest you, believe me," he said, noticing the pained look on his brother's face. "Look it's not personal, Tim, it's just something I need to do on my own. Okay?"
"On your own, with the arrow, you mean?" He counter-questioned, his voice laced with frustration.
Even when he tried to make an effort to get to know his brother again, to at least attempt to have a conversation with him, Dick didn't even bother. It was getting aggravating.
"He's got connections I need," Dick explained. "It's not like we're friends."
"Are we though?" Tim asked skeptically. "Because you've been acting like none of us even exist. Damian is thrilled that you're alive, and you won't even look at him. Or any of us, for that matter."
"That's not true," he muttered softly, shaking his head.
"Bullshit!" Tim exclaimed. "You can't even look me in the eyes, let alone pretend like you care for more than five minutes. What the hell made you so distant?"
Dick tried his best to glance up and look him in the eyes. It was harder than it should have been. "Death," he answered. "Death is what made me so distant."
"You didn't die," he reminded him. "You just let us think you did, for two while years you let us mourn you!"
"I did die," Dick corrected him. "Dick Grayson died, and I'm alive but a part of me stayed dead. So I'm sorry if I'm not very good at being conversational, or at spoiling Damian or indulging you in your detective work. But I'm not the same person who left."
"So, what? You're just a shell now? Is that it?" He asked.
"Maybe," Dick shrugged. "I'm not sure if I can find a way to be who I was again. But I am sure that you don't know me, Tim; and I really think you should really stop trying to," he said as he brushed past his brother and left the bat cave, pondering his words.
Had he truly changed so much that they didn't think of him as their brother anymore? He supposed it shouldn't be all that surprising since most days he barely recognized himself either.
When Jason came back as the Red Hood, he was violent. And no one, especially Dick, could ever fathom why. Of course, he'd been through hell and back, but seeing him so willing to commit such atrocities made him reminisce about the boy who liked to dye his red hair brown just so he could fit in with the family.
Now, he understood what it felt like to have his world shattered, and the pieces of his heart and mind taped together. He was barely holding on, but even so, when Bruce asked him to put the Nightwing suit back on, he did. He wasn't ready for it, that much he knew, but it didn't stop him. All it really did was cement the fact that none of them really knew who he was anymore.
"Nightwing!" Jason called through his comms in the middle of the chaos. "There's one behind you trying to escape."
Without saying a word, Dick pulled a gun, aiming it at the man and pulling the trigger without hesitation. He hit him directly in the leg, immobilizing him as the man fell to the ground. "Got him," Dick said through his comms as he calmly walked towards the man.
The others froze, and Bruce threw a punch so hard it shattered a man's jaw. Seeing the changes in Dick was killing him, knowing it was his fault, that he'd been the one to put him through it. It hurt even more knowing that while Dick was taking the brunt of his siblings' anger and pain, he kept his mouth shut about Bruce's involvement, claiming it was his idea and his alone to stay dead and infiltrate Spyral.
The gunshot echoed through the air, causing feedback in their comms until the silence eventually pierced through the cold night, and everyone stood still in the wreckage they'd made. "...Was that..." Even Damian seemed concerned, "...Dick?"
Not even Jason had brought his guns tonight. Alright, one, technically. But it was small and barely even counted since it was never discharged.
"What?" He responded harshly. "You didn't want him to get away, did you?"
Dick was a fast runner, a good acrobat, and an excellent aim. He could have gotten to that man in ten different ways under ten seconds each time. Yet, he pulled a gun, not to kill the man, but to immobilize him.
"Tell me-" Bruce swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to keep his composure. "Tell me you didn't kill him."
"He's alive," Dick clarified bitterly, yet managing to ease their minds. He bent down and grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt. "For now, at least."
He had no intention of truly killing the man or honestly even hurting him that badly in an interrogation. Maybe a few broken bones, but nothing extreme. He may have changed, but the golden rule—no killing—would never change in his mind. No matter how angry he was at Bruce. He did, however, want to make sure the man knew it was something he was capable of. Because he was. Killing, like everything else, always had an exception, a time when it was acceptable, even necessary.
This wasn't that time, but who knows, maybe eventually it would be.
Getting back to the Manor, Dick sat quietly on the couch as Bruce berated him. The others stayed away, watching from the stairs as he crossed his ankle over his thigh, clearly not paying attention to a single word Bruce was saying.
"Are you even listening to me?" Bruce asked, his face flushed with anger and his voice filled with frustration.
Rage was the only emotion he felt was acceptable to show. What he really felt was sadness, grief, and guilt. Maybe even a little fear. He never thought he would ever be afraid of the kid he'd raised. The kid he helped turn into an empty man, devoid of emotion. Like a reflection of himself.
"No," Dick gladly admitted, sitting up straight. "And why should I listen to?" He questioned. "Give me one good reason why I should ever trust you again?"
"Because I'm your father-"
"No, you're not," He interjected, shaking his head. "John Grayson was my father, you-" he said, standing up and taking a step closer, sizing him up. "you're just the sorry excuse for a man who wanted someone to keep his legacy alive. A legacy, which I would happily see burned to the ground, for the record."
"You can hate me all you want," Bruce told him, even though it tore him to pieces to say. "But if you want to be a part of this family, you have to start opening up eventually. Maybe not to me, but to them." He pointed at the staircase where his siblings were doing a terrible job of hiding. "Because they care about you, and so do I, even if you don't believe it."
Dick scoffed. "Always a great show of concern for the 'family.'" he mocked, bitter edge to his words. "You think throwing a bunch of kids together in costumes makes us a family? You're as delusional as you are cruel." He threw his gun on the table. "Take it," he said. "I've got more."
He eyed his siblings as he walked past the staircase on his way out of the living room. Damian looked especially sad, sitting among a group of people who were disturbed and slightly scared of him. Dick shook his head, mumbling under his breath as he broke eye contact and took his jacket off the coat rack, putting it on and leaving for the night.
Dick had tried his best to make peace with Bruce, or at the very least remain civil around him. He thought he was doing relatively well; it was especially easy to avoid him since Bruce was doing the exact same thing. He didn't want any of his siblings to know what Bruce had asked of him, how he'd begged to come home but been forced to stay away. They still believed in him, so did the city. So who was he to take away their father just because he no longer saw Bruce as his?
It didn't take long for his less than triumphant return to be noticed, both by the local news and by the Justice League. Dick had assumed Bruce would have told them all, the way he'd told Oliver and Clark. But it seemed Bruce only ever did what he wanted, and only told a few people. But news spread the way it always did in Gotham City, fast and without shame. It was only a matter of time before everyone knew. Including Midnighter.
He burst through the entrance of the Manor, taking the door straight off its hinges as he entered. "Where are you, 37!" He shouted as the alarms began to ring at the intruder alert.
Midnighter was a member of the Justice League, but only a few of them had clearance for Wayne Manor, and he wasn't one of them.
Alfred simply stood nearby, concern, but disapproval sprawled across his face while he shut off the alarms, quieting the blaring alarms as everyone rushed out of their rooms to see what the commotion was all about.
Again, he called out for Dick. "C'mon, don't hide from me!"
"I'm not hiding, Midnighter," Dick said, hopping the banister and landing on his feet. "I'm right here."
"So it is true," he mused, curiously, looking him up and now. "The Boy Wonder has returned."
"Those are the rumors," Dick shrugged, nonchalantly. "Why are you here?"
Most of the family, minus Damian, Cassandra, and Stephanie came rushing down the stairs, Bruce who recently hung up on the Mayor, right behind them.
"I heard you were back in town and wanted to see for myself. The news spreads awfully fast, especially in Gotham," Midnighter remarked. "Do you really think it was going to be that easy for you? That you were just going to come home and still be worthy of your suit? You're not fit to call yourself a hero."
He scoffed, giving him a small nod as if to agree with him. "Believe me, I know," he responded. "But you're hardly fit to call yourself one either."
"Watch it, boy," he warned. "Or we'll finish what we started."
"Seems to me like I finished it for both of us," Dick quipped. "Or would you prefer I don't mention the time I knocked you on your ass so hard you didn't get back up again?"
"You cheated with that mind tech of yours, 37!" Midnighter shouted.
Everyone could see the way his face contorted while being called Agent 37 again, the familiarity he had with it and the pain it brought him. He clenched his jaw harshly, his hands curling into fists at his side.
"Don't call me that," he said with an eerily calm tone.
Midnighter stepped closer. "Or what?"
"Or the next time I put you down it'll be six feet under the ground," Dick responded without hesitation. "And you should trust me when I say you won't be walking away from that."
Before things could escalate, Bruce stepped in between them. "Enough," he said, his gaze flickering between Dick and Lucas. "I want you out of my house in the ten seconds or else you won't be dealing with him, you'll be dealing with me."
Midnighter, still agitated, took a step back, his gaze fixed on Dick. "This isn't over," he declared, his tone leaving no room for misunderstanding.
Dick, maintaining his composure, nodded, his arms crossed without worry. "We'll see about that."
As he walked out of the Manor, he left behind a broken door, a confused family, and a very tired Alfred. Who was admittedly, far more intimidating than Bruce, who was seething in anger. "What the hell was that!" He asked.
"I didn't need your help," Dick said, brushing him off as he walked away. "I'm not a child anymore."
Bruce grabbed him by the arm as he tried to walk away. "Oh, really?" He asked. "Because it looked like you were about to get yourself killed."
He scoffed, tugging his arm out of Bruce's firm grip. "You think I couldn't take him? It's not the first time we crossed paths. He's just pissed off because the last time we met I left him half dead on the ground."
The declaration left the family shocked and made Bruce sick to his stomach. How could he have let this happen? He wished he never sent Dick to Spyral in the first place. Maybe if he'd been smarter, none of this would have happened in the first place and he wouldn't be standing there, losing his kid, unable to do anything about it.
"That's not what we do, Dick," he told him, his voice firm but fragile, like one wrong word would make his gruff facade come crumbling down on him.
"You mean it's not what you do," he responded condescendingly. "Maybe I'm just tired of everyone treating me like I'm still Robin," he said. "Like I haven't grown up and proven myself over and over again to you and to this whole damn city!"
Bruce's jaw clenched, and he took a deep breath. "Talk to your siblings," he said softly but in a way that made it clear it wasn't a suggestion. "Communicate and fix things, or get out of my house."
That was his ultimatum, and Dick would be lying if he said he hadn't been considering it every day since he got home. How could he not? Everywhere he looked, someone was mad at him about something—about lying to them, or about being different after coming back. The manor felt so big to him when he was a kid, but ever since he returned, it only seemed to grow smaller and smaller with every passing day.
He stayed for two reasons: for the people who still believed in the family they used to be, those people being Damian and maybe Tim if he played his cards right. And secondly, because Gotham still needed someone to protect it. He was a fighter; it was who he was. And he'd rather be fighting with them and for them, rather than in spite of them.
So he tried. Despite hating it, he stuck around a bit longer during dinner instead of eating alone. He added small bits of commentary to conversations here and there and even answered some of their questions about Spyral. When they were brave enough to ask, that is.
Occasionally, small pieces of information came up. Usually nothing too concerning. When he was asked a question, like where he learned to tell the difference between real and fake diamonds after calling out a set of earrings Barbara was wearing, he answered succinctly but honestly.
Tiger taught him because they'd gone undercover at a gala and stole some diamonds along with some tech. Of course, he didn't actually say that. He just said his partner at Spyral showed him how to tell the difference, and it was easy to spot the real from the fake after learning.
Questions like those were fine, easy enough for him to answer without confessing any of his guilt in the process.
Other questions weren't so easy.
Waking up in cold sweat, Dick pushed the covers off his bed, looking around the room to take note of his surroundings and remind himself he was home— he was safe. Reaching up, he rested his hand on his neck, feeling the scratchiness lining his throat like a dull and painful reminder of what his life had turned into.
Walking into the kitchen where everyone was eating breakfast, Dick got a glass out of the cabinet and kept the faucet of the sink running as he chugged a glass of water. When he emptied it, he put it back under the stream of water, refilled it, and chugged it again and again, and again, until he was so sick of the taste of water it almost made him sick.
"What was that?" Stephanie asked with an incredulous expression, looking around the kitchen to see if anyone else sitting around, eating breakfast had also noticed. They all clearly had, as they stopped eating to see just how much water he could consume.
He ran his hands through his hair, smoothing out the bedhead he'd gotten from sleeping so poorly last night. "Just thirsty," he said with a shrug, not wanting to get into it.
"Dick, you just chugged like...a gallon of water in ten minutes, without stopping," she noted. "Did you turn into a fish while you were gone or something?" She teased.
And it was a funny joke, at least for a minute, before everyone saw the look on his face and their own humorous smiles dropped. Sighing, Dick shook his head as if to say no. He looked at Bruce for a split second and then away, anywhere but at him. The sight of him just made Dick feel ill these days.
He wasn't much for sharing, but he'd been trying his best to lately. And now seemed like as good a time as any to come clean about one of the more harsh memories he had of his time with Spyral.
"No," he stated, resting his elbows on the kitchen counter. "But just over a year ago today, I was lost in the desert for ten days, trying to keep a newborn baby alive without any food or water. The baby died, and I nearly did too," he admitted softly. "Sometimes, when I wake up with a dry throat I...I panic. I need water or else I feel like my throat is gonna close up," he told them.
They stared at him, as if trying to discern the safest reaction to have to his admittance. Was it appropriate to ask questions? Or to say they were sorry? Most of them didn't say anything at all, and Jason, as well as Bruce, even looked back down at their plates, now refusing to make eye contact. The rest of them just looked at him with pity, an expression that reminded Dick exactly why he kept these things a secret in the first place.
When the silence and the glaring became too much for him, Dick cleared his throat. "I've got something I need to do," he lied. "Excuse me."
"Woah no, no, no-" Stephanie said, stopping him, by stepping in his way. "You don't get to say something like that and then just leave."
"Stephanie c'mon," he pleaded softly, his voice gentle and frail as if he was nearly begging her to let it go. "I don't wanna do this right now."
"Well that's too damn bad, because we're going to," She replied without any sympathy for his pain. "What else have you been hiding from us?"
"I'm not hiding anything, it just never comes up," Dick told her.
He couldn't promise that if they'd asked him more questions about Spyral that he would have actually elaborated. Truthfully, he didn't know if he would or not. But it didn't matter either way because they very rarely asked, aside from Damian who asked him constantly about grappling hooks and helicopters. Those weren't hard questions to answer though, and they brought a smile to the boy's face, so he told him whatever he wanted to know.
"It's coming up right now," Tim commented from his seat at the table, his expression now less filled with pity and more so curiosity and some mistrust. "What else don't you want us knowing about?"
"I was gone for two years," he reminded them, as if to say he had a lot that he didn't want them knowing about.
"What else, Dick?" Barbara pressed, setting her cup down on the dining table, too focused on the conversation to finish eating.
Meeting her unwavering gaze, the one that he knew meant she wasn't going to let this go, and he sighed, reluctantly, sitting down.
"You all want a list, is that it?" He asked, bitterly. "So you can crucify me for my mistakes?"
"No, of course not, we just-"
"I worked with criminals," Dick interjected, giving them exactly what they wanted. The truth. "I beat up good people and watched the backs of bad ones. I manipulated everyone around me. It wasn't just you guys, Gotham, or the league, but the higher-ups at Spyral, even the ones I was foolish enough to care about. I got involved with a girl I never should have even entertained the thought about liking, and helped her become the highest-ranking agent in Spyral."
He hadn't told anyone about Helena, but he was sure they all knew who she was. The Spyral takedown was big news, even if his part in it stayed mostly quiet. He'd refused to answer Bruce's questions, make a report, or fill out any sort of report about what happened. He didn't really believe Bruce had earned that, neither did anyone else, for that matter.
"I made mistakes which got people killed," Dick went on. "good people and bad people. Agents and friends. People who should have had long lives. I was framed for the murder of other agents and I wasn't even in the country when it happened. I was brainwashed, and mind-controlled to the point that my perception of reality is more screwed up than the Joker's."
Maybe he meant it as a joke, but the comparison wasn't just accurate, it was an understatement. He just didn't see things the way he used to. Everything was always so black and white before, there was good and there was bad. Sometimes, there was a middle ground, but very rarely. Now, everything was muddled in gray, and he had absolutely no idea if the ends justified the means or not. If doing the wrong thing for the right reason was a justifiable answer or a cheap copout. He didn't know if the bad guys were as bad as everyone thought, or if the good guys were even good at all.
"Some days it feels like none of this is even real. I don't know if I'm really home or if I'm even me," Dick admitted, unable to look anyone in the eyes as he told them the very things he promised himself he'd keep buried, along with Agent 37. "I compromised my integrity and my honor, I did things I swore I would never do, and lost myself while doing them. But I can't admit those things, not to anyone. Spyral may be gone, but I can't escape it, not even in my dreams. When I'm asleep, all I see when I sleep is blood, and all I feel is fear, anger, and revenge." He finally looked up, staring directly at Bruce. "How's that for honesty?"
Dick's admission left everyone stunned. Their anger, frustration, annoyance at him for lying and leaving all seemed to dwindle hearing about what he went through, what had happened to him, and what he'd done. He wasn't the first of them to do something heinous, even with all he admitted to; most of them had still done worse. But Dick wasn't like them. He had a code; he lived by it and he died by it. And after his death, came his version of a second coming, where his ties to the morals he had prided himself on, had to be severed, along with any and all emotional attachments he had.
Without saying anything, Dick left the table, and Bruce stood up, following after him. Everyone stared at each other, exchanging glances for a moment before Damian got down from his chair and raced after them. Everyone did the same, leaving their half-eaten breakfast plates on the table as they chased after Damian, who chased after Bruce, who chased after Dick.
Jason reached him first, grabbing him from behind and picking him up before he could get to either Bruce or Dick in time. Tim helped Jason hold Damian back as Bruce yanked Dick into his office, shutting the door behind him.
"Let me go!" He exclaimed, fighting against them. He was the most deadly twelve-year-old in all of Gotham, probably even the whole world, honestly, but he was still twelve. Short and light, easy enough to restrain when need be. "I want to hear what they say!"
"Relax," Tim told him in a hushed voice. "We're going to listen through the door."
He stopped fussing, narrowing his eyes. "Really?" He asked.
"Obviously," he confirmed, giving Jason the okay to put him down.
Damian rushed towards Bruce's office, putting his ear to the door while the others followed at a slightly less eager pace.
It wasn't often that Bruce was mad—really mad, the kind of rage that made him almost consider breaking his golden rule and consider the thought of ending a life. But that rage didn't just reflect in his eyes; it seethed from him around Dick most days. No one knew why, and whatever was happening between them seemed to be reaching a cataclysmic level of disaster.
On the other side of the door, inside the office, Dick stumbled back from how hard Bruce shoved him. He got his footing and immediately began to leave. "I'm not in the mood for one of your ridiculous lectures or speeches, Bruce," he told him.
"I'm sorry," he apologized, stopping Dick in his tracks. "I should have said that a long time ago."
He couldn't remember the last time he'd even heard those words from Bruce, let alone felt like he actually meant them.
Scoffing, Dick turned back around. "You think?" He asked bitterly.
"I didn't know," Bruce admitted. "About the desert or the hypnosis or nightmares. I didn't know about any of it."
"Of course," he nodded, sarcastically. "I'm sure you thought I was just fine. After all, it was just two years of undercover work surrounded by spies, Nazis, and killers." Dick shook his head in pity. "Honestly Bruce, how stupid can you pretend to be? You know that places like that aren't easy to survive in; you just didn't care.
"That's not true," Bruce replied defensively, shaking his head. "I never meant for any of this to happen."
"God, for once in your life, would you stop lying?" He asked, raising his voice. "Just admit it, say you sent me in there to die."
Bruce's jaw clenched firmly. "I did what I thought was best for you," he asserted, his voice firm but filled with an underlying pain.
"What was best for me?" Dick scoffed. "You turned me into a weapon, a soldier. You molded me into someone who can't even recognize himself in the mirror. Is that your idea of 'best'?"
His eyes flickered with regret, but he held his ground. "I trained you to survive, to know how to protect yourself. I knew you would be okay in there."
"Okay?" Dick repeated. "Do you have any idea what they did to me? How they used me? How long they spent trying to break me?" He lowered his voice to a whisper, filled with venom. "How close they came to succeeding?"
"But they didn't. Because I raised you to be strong and kind," Bruce said. "I know you don't think I missed you, but I did. I missed you every single day."
Dick laughed, finding his reluctance to admit the truth absurd and slightly amusing. "You didn't care about me; you cared about your mission," he shot back. "That's all you've ever cared about, and yet you wonder why I can't look at you without feeling a pit in my stomach."
Bruce's eyes held a rare vulnerability in them. His child, the one he raised from the age of twelve, who he loved with all his heart and truly wanted the best for, hated him. The son he never knew he wanted, but was more proud of than words could ever express, couldn't stand the sight of him. And the worst part was that Bruce really couldn't blame him.
"I tried to be the father you needed," he said. "Even if I didn't know how. I thought I was—I thought what I was doing was right."
"And look where that got us," Dick retorted with a mix of anger and sorrow in his eyes. "You turned me into a ghost of who I used to be. I don't even recognize myself anymore thanks to you." He took a step closer. "Tell me, Bruce, did you make me Robin so I could protect Gotham or so I could carry on your crusade because you're too damn broken to care about anything other than it?"
Bruce visibly winced at the comment, which felt like it cut deeper than almost any wound he ever had. "I wanted to make a difference, to ensure the city doesn't suffer the way I did," he said weakly.
Dick's expression turned bitter. "Well, congratulations, you succeeded. The city may not suffer, but I do. I suffer every day, and it isn't because of this city or any criminal in it. It's because of the choices you made for me, the life you decided I should live."
"I never wanted any of this," Bruce told him, his eyes pleading for forgiveness. "I swear."
"Neither did I," he reminded him, finding it almost ironic. "But I didn't get a choice because your goddamn mission was more important to you than my family!" He suddenly shouted. "How did you do it—lie to them every day for two years? How do you live with yourself after that? Because staying away nearly killed me a second time, but you—" he breathed a deep breath. "You comforted them; you pretended to mourn me with them. I screamed at you not to make me go, and you didn't even care."
Bruce's fists clenched, but he didn't respond immediately. He did care, more than Dick would ever know. But it was futile to try to tell him that, not when he was this angry. This convinced that he didn't even think about his son, let alone love him to the point it was hurt.
"I didn't remember," he reminded him calmly, his voice tinged with guilt. "You know I didn't remember."
Dick just shrugged. "Yeah, I know. But that doesn't change the facts," he told him. "And the facts are that you not only forced me to fake my death and lie to my family about it, but you left me alone, surrounded by people who would put a bullet through me without hesitating." His voice was frail, cracking as he tried to stay angry at him instead of projecting what Bruce would likely call weakness. "What kind of father does that?" He asked, trying not to let the tears that welled in his eyes fall.
Bruce didn't have an answer; he shook his head, dropping it in shame. "I'm sorry," he said again, hoping he would know just how much he meant it.
But Dick didn't care about his stupid apologies or the guilt he only felt after putting him through hell for two years straight. All he cared about was that he'd been used, manipulated, and discarded like a pawn in Bruce's never-ending chess game.
"I called you for weeks!" Dick shouted on the verge of tears, a rarity he almost never let anyone see. "Every morning I called you; I begged you to let me come home!" He screamed. "Do you know how many days passed before I gave up? Before I realized you didn't really give a shit about if I lived or if I died?"
Bruce shook his head weakly. "That's not—I do care about—"
"Eighty-Seven," Dick stated angrily, forcing his emotions back inside, not willing to give Bruce the satisfaction of seeing him fall apart. "That's how many days I tried to call you. That's how long it took for me to realize you weren't coming back for me. That I had to figure out my next step alone and not die in the process. But hey, at least if I did die, no one would really care because you let them think I was already dead."
"I believed I was protecting them by keeping them in the dark," Bruce said. "I—I thought it was the only way."
"You thought, Bruce," he said condescendingly, wondering how he could have ever admired the man standing in front of him. "You always think you know what's best for everyone," he shouted. "But what about what's best for me? What gives you the authority to choose my life!"
Bruce's eyes drooped, haunted by the realization that his actions had been severely misguided. "I was wrong, Dick. I admit it. I failed you."
All he ever wanted for him to admit it, that he wasn't all-mighty or always in control. That he was human and flawed. But somehow, finally hearing it didn't feel nearly as satisfying as he thought it would.
Dick's anger softened into a weary resignation. "You failed all of us, Bruce," he said quietly. "You took away our chance at a normal life, a chance to be happy. And for what? So you could play hero in the shadows? So you didn't have to feel alone?"
"I'm sorry," Bruce apologized again, at a loss for any other words. He once more mustered up the ability to look up at him. "I'm so sorry, son."
"You're not my father," Dick reiterated, his tone cutting him deep. "And just to make it clear to you, I reject your guidance, your legacy, and everything else you've ever tried to offer," he stated firmly. "I did everything you asked, just like I always do everything you ask, but this was too far Bruce. You crossed a line and there's no undoing it. My family hates me, I hate myself, and I really...really...fucking hate you."
"Dick please—" he pleaded, watching him cross the room to leave. "Please don't do this."
"You're the one who told me to get out of your house," Dick reminded him. "I'm just following one last command."
Bruce regretted even issuing the ultimatum; it had only been said in the heat of the moment as an attempt to get him to open back up to the rest of the family. He never saw it backfiring on him like this. "But you don't have to; if we could just talk about this we—"
"I'll be out by the end of the day," Dick said, reaching for the door and pulling it open, having five of his siblings fall through the open doorway, onto their knees or onto his feet. He sighed, looking back over his shoulder at Bruce. "Sorry to spoil your secret," he added sarcastically, stepping over the pile of his siblings' limbs and walking back to his room to pack.
He could hear Bruce's stammering, his weak attempt to explain his actions to the others as he walked away. It would have almost been amusing if it weren't for how bad it hurt. How much he still wanted Bruce's approval, even after everything he put him through. He truly was the most pathetic superhero to ever fall off the wagon.
The shouting ensued as he closed the door to his room behind him, quieting the conflict in his mind. He opened his closet and dressers, packing his bags, one article of clothing at a time. He thought about bringing the Nightwing suit and his other things. He wasn't sure if he wanted to. He'd still be a hero, or some variation of one, at least. He had to; it was who he was. But dressing as a part of what the world had come to know as the Bat Family wasn't a part of the future he wanted. It just linked him back to Bruce, and that was the last thing he wanted.
His door was shoved open abruptly as whatever argument his siblings were having with Bruce came to a close. They tumbled into his room, Jason and Tim immediately grabbing his bags and throwing them into the corner of his room.
Damian jumped on his bed. "You can't go," he said, giving him his best puppy eyes. His eyes started to well with small tears in a matter of seconds. "You just can't."
Dick looked around at all of the sad faces and back to his littlest brother. "Sorry Dami, but your tears don't work on me," he replied, turning to Tim and Jason. "Now get me my bags."
"No," Jason stated, crossing his arms in a protest. "Get them yourself."
"Fine," he sighed and went to retrieve his bags, but was stopped by Barbara and Stephanie. "Alright, enough," he told them. "I'm sorry for lying about everything, I really am. But I'm leaving, so you'll never have to see me again."
"Is that what you think we want?" Tim asked, genuinely hurt by his brother having such a little opinion of him.
"Isn't it?" He asked. "None of you like me anymore anyway; the best thing for all of us is if I go."
"We don't have to like you, Dick, you're family. We stick together," Stephanie told him firmly.
"It's not true anyway," Barbara added, shaking her head. "I was upset at you, yeah, but I didn't know that Bruce was the one who made you leave."
"You knowing that doesn't change anything," Dick insisted. "Regardless of what he had me do, I could have refused."
Jason scoffed. "No, you couldn't have. None of us could have. It's Bruce; he always thinks he knows best, and the rest of us always let him because we want his respect."
They had all faced Bruce's disappointment at one time or another when failing to reach his unattainable expectations and goals for them. It was a fine line between him pushing them to be better and just plainly pushing them around. But he did care; they all knew that. As misguided as his actions often were, he cared for them the best way he knew how to.
Dick nodded, agreeing with him. "Yeah, too bad mutual respect doesn't exist for him," he muttered, finally pushing past the girls to get his bags off the floor.
He tossed them towards Damian, who caught them. "You're abandoning us," he accused, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I'm not abandoning anyway," Dick said, ruffling his hair, something he seldom attempted because it would usually result in a blood bath. This time he just let it happen. "You guys don't need me anymore; I don't know you never really needed me at all."
"That isn't true, and you know it. Leaving like this won't solve anything. We're family, and families work through their problems," Stephanie said.
"I don't think we've been a family for a while," he told her somberly. Then furrowing his eyebrows, he gave Damian a stern look as the boy started to take things out of Dick's bags. "Really?" He questioned, raising his eyebrow. He reached for the bag, but Damian threw it over to Tim. "C'mon," he said, as Tim threw it to Barbara. "You realize how immature this is, right?"
They all nodded. Immaturity was a specialty of theirs, always towing the line between being violent or childish in their endeavors. It was impossible not to when their family was so large, constantly encouraging one another to do stupid things or carry out absurd plans just to see what would happen.
"You realize how immature it is to pack up and run away from home after having an argument?" Barbara asked in response.
He gave her a flat stare. "It wasn't a fight Barb, and I'm twenty-eight, that's not running away."
He'd moved out once already before he faked his death, and to be honest, he didn't entirely love it or hate it. It was just quiet, and he hasn't had that for a very long time. It was difficult to get used to, and he wasn't honestly sure if he wanted to. He liked Tim just being down the hallway and having breakfast as a family when everyone had a chance. He saw far less of them when he had moved out.
"You think you can just walk away, and we'll be fine without you?" Tim asked.
"You got along fine without me the last two years," Dick replied, pausing for a moment as he mentioned his absence.
"Ha!" Jason scoffed. "I don't think so. You're the only one who can control the brat properly."
"Hey!" Damian reached for one of his knives, but Dick stopped him, grabbing his wrist and shaking his head no. He grumbled and let it go reluctantly.
"See?" Jason asked, motioning between the two of them. "Point proven."
"Or maybe you just shouldn't call him a brat," he shot back. "Did that ever cross your mind?"
He frowned, and shook his head, shrugging. "No, not really."
Everyone loved Damian; really they did. He scared them occasionally; any twelve-year-old with access to knives, swords, and flash bombs probably would, especially when that twelve-year-old knows how to use them effectively. He was the youngest, teasing him was mandatory, but at the end of the day, Dick knew that they all loved him. They'd kill for him if they had to. Although most of the time, Damian could kill for himself just fine.
Dick laughed lightly, smiling softly as Barbara finally gave him his bag back. "It won't be like last time," he assured them. "I won't disappear completely, just living somewhere else. Somewhere far away from here, preferably."
"Okay, just wait," Stephanie pleaded with him. "Stop packing for a second and just....just try to remember why you liked living here. I know it's been a hard month for you-"
"Try a hard two years, Steph," he corrected her.
"But you're home now," she continued. "And we suck as a family lately, but that's not new. We were especially horrible to you lately, and I think I speak for everyone when I say we're sorry for it. But things have been better the last week, haven't they? Ever since Midnighter broke in and-"
"And you threatened to kill him," Tim interjected. "That was fun. You think you'll get that living in the suburbs?"
Dick scoffed, rolling his eyes, but Stephanie went on anyway. "Do you remember when I first moved in? You helped me paint my room purple because I hated how dark the walls were?"
He nodded wearily.
"When I moved in, you insisted we have a family dinner. You made spaghetti, and it was delicious until it ended in a food fight that Alfred made us clean up," Barbara added.
He remembered. There had been pasta stuck to the ceiling for a month.
"You let me drive the Batmobile my first week here when Bruce left for work," Tim recalled. "And when we scratched it, you took the blame for me."
He had gotten in so much trouble for that; Bruce grounded him for two weeks and made him wash the Batmobile every time it got dirty for three months.
"You taught me how to throw a Batarang," Jason piped up as well. "You weren't even mad when it came flying back and almost hit you."
He smiled softly. Jason hated being sentimental.
"When I first got here, you had movie nights with me every week because I'd never been allowed to watch them before," Damian said, then added crassly. "Besides, leaving now would be a coward's way out."
He scoffed a laugh, nodding. "Are you calling me a coward?" Dick asked.
Damian shrugged. "Depends on what you do with those bags."
"Look guys, I remember all the good times, I really do," he told them. "But I also remember all the times we hurt each other. All the times I've let you down, all the lies and the secrets."
Barbara shook her head in disagreement. "The world let us down, and Bruce let us down, but you never did. You never let us down," she insisted sentimentally.
"You don't have to stay for him," Tim said, and it was clear who he was referring to. "Stay for us."
Dick dropped his head in his hands confused, the longer he thought about it. "I just, I don't know if I can," he told them, looking back up.
"Leaving won't erase what happened, but staying might help us all heal. Better together than alone, right?" She asked, looping her arm around his shoulder.
That's what he'd told her the first time she thought about quitting. That they were better together than alone. That she was valued not just as a part of their team but as a part of their family.
He nodded. "Right," he whispered softly, tossing his bag on the bed nearly hitting Damian with it.
"Do I need to cry again?" Damian asked, suddenly, looking around at his family. "Cause I can do that."
Dick laughed. "No, Dami. No more tears today. I swear."
"Hey, I have an idea," Jason said, with a devilish glint in his eyes. "I think we could all use a break from the manor after all this drama. How about a road trip? Just the Bat Family, hitting the open road."
They passed the idea around, most of them nodding, Damian mentioning something about getting ice cream at the parlor downtown before they left.
"Well, Dick?" They asked, waiting on him.
"Seems like a good idea to me," he responded with a smirk. "On one condition," he added seriously. "We take the Batmobile to piss off Bruce."
"I can live with that," Barbara told him, smiling and nodding in agreement with the others.
"I was just going to rewire his security system to go off whenever he enters the house," Tim commented, completely serious. "but he'd be way more upset about us taking the car. let's do that."
"Yeah, I was planning on revving up my motorcycle at five in the morning every day all month, but I guess the Batmobile idea works too," Jason added, trying to pretend like he wasn't disappointed for not coming up with the idea himself.
Stephanie and Barbara leaned in simultaneously, enveloping Dick in a heartfelt hug that he allowed only because it had been a rough day for him. Soon, the gesture expanded into a full-fledged family embrace, minus Damian, who had seemingly disappeared.
"You're squishing me!" Damian shouted, his voice muffled. They all pulled away, trying not to laugh as he rubbed his face. "God, when did we turn into such sentimental people? It's pathetic."
"He's right," Tim reluctantly admitted, agreeing with him. "....First one to the Batmobile gets to drive," he said rushing out of the room and taking off down the hallway.
The others exchanged glances and took off after him. "Last one there's a rotten bat!" Steph shouted, pushing Jason out of the way.
"No fair, I have short legs!" Damian screamed, running after them.
"Too bad, little bat!" Barbara commented. "Guess you won't be driving."
Dick just stood there in his room, smiling as they clamored to get to the Batmobile first. He shook his head. "Fools," he muttered to himself, with a sly grin as he pulled a book off his shelf and activated the hidden mechanism, causing the bookshelf to slide aside, revealing a dimly lit passage leading to the Batcave.
-------
Dick sat in the Batmobile, buckled into the front seat with the car already started and his preferred choice of music playing through the speakers. He rolled down the window, sticking his head out. "What took you so long?" He asked them.
They all froze, out of breath and completely confused.
"How did you beat us!" Tim screeched, running over to the car and getting into the passenger seat before someone else took it.
Dick shrugged. "I'm the oldest," he said simply.
"That's not an answer," Tim told him.
The others piled into the Batmobile,
"Secret entrance," Dick confessed with a grin, relishing in their baffled expressions. "You guys really need to explore the cave more."
Jason, catching his breath, muttered, "Well, that's just cheating."
Damian, still slightly irritated, huffed, "I should have known."
"Guess some secrets are meant to stay secret," Barbara commented.
"Alright, Dick. You win this round," Stephanie added. "But just wait until we stop for ice cream, then it's my turn."
"No way!" Jason and Tim shouted at the same time. "It's mine."
"Why can't I drive?" Damian asked.
Dick smiled, turning the music up and accelerating as they bickered about who got to drive next, leaving the Batcave behind as they headed for the open roads.