Work Text:
I want to be a passenger
in your car again
and shut my eyes
while you sit at the wheel,
I want to be a passenger
in your car again
and put my life back
in your hands.
He was OK.
He had been OK. He was OK. He shook himself out of the lead shell all around his body, pressing all the pains reality could offer into his pores. He started lifting his limbs and feeling the heavy strain in the motion, instead of the stuffy cloudy echo of a steady buzz ringing from head to toe. He knew he would be OK, the day he visited Bruce and finally cried. He thought he wouldn’t ever stop crying but then he did that too. He stopped. He stopped lying in bed, watching the shadows of birds flying past his blinds, flashes of darkness in broad daylight, golden daylight. He was OK. He was fine.
He moved back to the manor. For a while the drive from Bludhaven to Gotham was the best thing because when he was away, if he was away, he could still pretend. For a while the drive from Bludhaven to Gotham was the worst thing because he could almost forget.
He moves back. He is fine.
He goes to galas and makes stilted conversations, and he is fine.
He puts on the cowl and cape and teases the bright colors by his side, and he is fine.
He meets Jim Gordon’s all too knowing eyes by the floodlight, and he is fine.
Someone, a civilian, says Batman and he responds. The split second between the word Batman and his own voice cuts and he bleeds but he is fine.
He sews himself up by the computer, hands illuminated by the large screen. If he lets his mind wander he could sense a looming figure behind him, the body that belonged to this chair. For a second he thinks about Bruce’s put-upon voice saying get out of my chair and smiles. It’s the first time he’s thought about Bruce and smiled, in private, to himself, with no pressure or need to show the world and the people around him that he is fine. He smiles again, as a test. The skin on his face only feels slightly tight. He is fine.
He is losing blood dangerously fast.
Whoever is on the comms is telling him he is going to be fine, the people caught in the explosion are going to be fine, help is on the way, and in any event, he was the only one smack in the epicenter when it happened. He believes them. He is also so glad that he doesn’t have Robin with him tonight. The kid is going to raise hell later but he is safe.
He drags his body into the Batmobile and struggles to pull the cape all the way in before the door shuts. The aftermath of the explosion making him physically slow and the neurotoxin before that makes him...something else. He activates voice command with clenched teeth.
Bruce wouldn’t budge. It had become the Batmobile in the man’s reports as well but it’s still going to be Car for the voice command activation, Richard, yes forever and always, the benefit of a single syllable code program far outweighs any whimsical delight –
“Engage autopilot,” he forces words out, from the shotgun seat. It didn’t occur to him to get in from the driver’s side. “Take me home.”
Whoever is on the comms tells him everything is going to be fine and he knows that. He knows that.
Tircorner Yards is roughly thirty miles from the cave and he is losing blood, fast. He tunes out the voice in his earpiece even though he is trained not to, even though he could not afford to. He promises himself that he is not going to lose conscience before they – before he gets back and keeps his eyes open by watching Gotham City fly by. Tricorner Yards, thirty miles from home.
His mind – in desperate need for distraction, his mind whispers but didn’t we get our first dose of fear toxin right here? Slumped by the rusty gate, one hand clutching the comm link like a lifeline. Robin to Batman, emergency extraction needed.
He presses an entire roll of gauze to his side, slippery, sloppy. Terrifying thing, life is, when no one is there to cushion your fall. All you have is the will to hold on. He stares out as a skyscraper passes them so quickly it looks like it’s been pulled to the ground if gravity was a hundred times heavier and ten times – No. No that can’t be right. Gravity travels at the speed of light. The building isn’t falling. It is behaving exactly as it should be. It is exactly where it should be. One Gotham Center. He was there for its opening ceremony. Bruce had put a hand over his shoulder and they’d cut the ribbon together. There is a thing that grew up with his memories of this city. When he was little he never thought he’d have a city, his city, a place where he’d tie himself to willingly, reflections of clouds and pedestrians trapped in shiny glass panels, on a rare sunny day. The skyscraper disappears from the rearview mirror. Twenty-six miles.
It’s a technique. One of the first ones. He thinks he’d learned it before he even met Bruce. Divide, compartmentalize. But Bruce was the one who taught him to count. To find comfort in precision. How long was that? That was ten seconds. You can do anything for ten seconds. Your brain can be tricked into focusing on the numbers instead of the pain. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi –
Gotham Superior Courthouse, built between 1919 and 1927, designated City Landmark in 1966, twenty-five miles away from home. A flight of thirty-two steps between the ground and the price of justice. I saw Dent at your funeral, the civilian one. He didn’t even wear one of those two-toned suits. How much did that one hurt, on a scale of one to ten? No wonder you turned out to be such a paranoid control freak. Every love you’d ever given a chance to turned into a fatal wound. But Harvey was at your funeral and he didn’t have his Two-Face on. Whatever Batman could not achieve, he was trying to find for Bruce Wayne. I can’t take any credit for this one, but I wanted to tell you –
“Well done, partner.”
Mayor Hill’s face looked even paler right next to Robin’s yellow cape. His first front page appearance. Batman had taken an inconspicuous step back, further into the shadows when they snapped that picture. And what a place for a milestone picture. City Hall had it framed too and he’d grinned from ear to ear when Bruce took a picture of him and his hero identity, standing in that hallway. Nineteen miles from when he first put on that uniform. An honor preceding all honors. He still feels – felt – the impulsive little grin whenever he sees – saw – Mayor Hill at those fundraisers. They tried to run some campaign with Robin once, right? Mayor Hill had retired to his estate in scenery Upstate New York. You see? That’s what people do. They grow old and retire and live out life peacefully. Not you though. Never you. Even if you were to grow old enough to belong in the –
Gotham Natural History Museum. His class had gone that week but did not spend enough time in the Fashion and Textile section. He’d seen a feathered dress and wanted to investigate further. Bruce had taken a day off because the exhibition was leaving. They’d had a fight before getting in. He didn’t want to hold Bruce’s hand. And then at the end of the day, he did. He had sheets of stickers and backpack full of magnets and he was sipping on the second soda he wasn’t supposed to have, and he’d forgotten. He’d slipped his hand into Bruce’s without even thinking. Do you think one day you would open the cave up, for tourists? Kids would go nuts over the T-rex. One day, in the distant, distant future. His fingers spasmed over the console. If he reached, just a few inches more, he should be able to find the person at the wheel. But that’s not right. He doesn’t get to forget. He isn’t on the long stretch of freeway between ‘Haven and Gotham. He doesn’t get to pretend. He is eighteen miles from medical care. There is no one in the car with him.
There is no one in the car with him.
He’s only ridden shotgun when Bruce drove.
Some nights it was tense, cutting it close, chasing fire after fire. Robinson Park, sixteen and a half miles. Ivy turned it into a jungle once. He climbed out of the moving car and hopped onto a branch. Batman was – How was Batman? He was not happy, that’s for sure. But did he yell? Did he scream and bark orders at Robin? Did they make up after, adrenaline crashing and muscles tense? Too many nights, all blending together. They pulled through though. That’s what’s important. All those nights they’d emerged from, wounded but undefeated.
Some nights it was nice. The Reservoir, sixteen miles. It was a long night littered with petty crimes and held out with tenacity. It was so late that it started to become early. They’d gotten fries and milkshakes from Big Belly Burger – the Batburger chain hadn’t opened up yet, and drove circles to wait for the sunrise. Layers and layers of golden light, brushed onto the blue water. Bruce rolled the windows down and he let the wind take his hair to wild places. His heart soared in the morning breeze. Those nights he leaped without looking. Those nights he leaped without thinking.
He is fine. He just needs to hold on. The voice on the comms is telling him something urgently. He doesn’t want to listen to that voice. He is riding shotgun in the Batmobile and it’s too easy. It’s too easy. If he could close his eyes, he could still –
He leans his forehead into cold glass and gazes out. Monolith Square, twelve miles. There used to be street performers in the piazza, right in front of the strip of craft stalls and the vintage stores. He liked to browse the latest at the HMV in the nearby mall then visit the square. Friday afternoons, he would make Bruce drive him there after school, pick out DVDs for their movie nights, watch unicyclers juggle knives and axes and eat ice creams. They don’t have street performers anymore as part of the Joker-watch protocol. And when he drove by last time, the last surviving HMV store in Gotham had been closed. There was a version of Gotham City that he remembers, and it’s vastly different from the world he is in now.
Bruce must have felt like that his entire life. He pointed to the buildings in Old Gotham and told the stories behind each one. The stories were less extraordinary than you would expect from a man wearing both the Wayne name and the Bat mantle, but they were told with a fondness. His own parents had shared mundane family history with the same fondness. Alfred says every sentence starting with and when Master Wayne was your age with that same fondness. Seven and a half miles. There was so much of this city in Bruce. There is so much of Bruce in this city. He wants to close his eyes and pretend. He can’t bear to stop looking, drinking in blurrier and blurrier lines hungrily. His city. Gargoyles and art deco. His home.
Crime Alley. The Waynes were murdered six miles from home. That’s where it all started. If he were a better man he’d believe what Clark had said at the funeral, the silver lining. The Waynes are together now, and Bruce has returned to a home and peace he deserves after all these years.
Except he’d also left a Wayne behind, and Damian is his to raise now. His to care for. His to teach. He doesn’t know how to. Where do I go? How do I do it? He thinks about Bruce and the early years, I’ve forgotten if ...They were good for you, weren’t they and family history, and old and tall and imposing buildings, and closed-down and new businesses. He thinks about Friday afternoon car rides from school, golden sunrises over the reservoir, dark shadows of forests in parks, museum trips, and headlines. The Dynamic Duo. That was them, before anything else. They’d always caught each other.
“Have you heard that one fish telling another about healthy diet,” he asks the driver without looking, because surely there is a driver. He only rides shotgun when Bruce is driving. “He said, chews wisely, or you might become shark bait! Get it? Because it’s –”
He coughs, chokes, then immediately tries to stop himself from making a sound. He needs to listen carefully. Bruce is stingy with reactions. He holds his breath, for too long, longer than he could bear. Come on. Say something. Do something. Snort that little snort of yours. Tell me I was reckless. Tell me to shut up. Give me a sign. Anything.
Let’s have an explosive fight again, right here and now, you and me.
Nothing. Then the voice from the comms, shouting at him. He blinks the black spots away and tries to plug up the holes in his body with his fingers and his eyes start to roll back again. Not good. The gauze has become drenched in red. A splash of color. He was tied to an abandoned roller coaster ride and it was going so fast. Amusement Mile. Three and a half miles from home. He’d overplayed his hand. Quick. Robin to Batman, emergency extraction needed.
No.
No, wait.
He is Batman.
But that can’t be right.
No. Wait. Wait, wait, wait.
Robin to Batman –
Wait –
Just, just wait –
It’s OK, chum. We are home.
“B,” he replies, out loud.
“B”, he says, to the empty cave.
He passes out and wakes up in the car. He hears footsteps rushing close and passes out again. The next time he wakes up, he meets Alfred’s eyes, suddenly caught up to the age of their owner overnight.
“I’m fine,” he croaks out. “Sorry to have worried you or, whoever was on the comms earlier.”
Alfred stares back at him.
“Master Dick,” the man says. “It’s a miracle that you were able to find your own way back. The situation had called me away and all the others had been out in the city. No one was monitoring the comms tonight.”