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Tim did it.
Bruce would be proud, finally, to call him his Robin after so many years. After Jason, after Dick. And Tim couldn’t recall exactly when the relief washed over him, the realization that, after this, surely he could stop having to prove himself over, and over, and over again. On the field, off of it.
That he could be Robin. That he was Robin. He was worthy, he was.
Because Robin’s job was to save their Batman, have his back; that’s what the position meant.
He felt relief, elation, maybe. Mostly grief, because just because he knew where Bruce was, knew that he wasn’t really, truly dead, it didn’t mean that Bruce had come back yet. He still needed to go fetch him.
But there was a lot of relief, for sure. Now that he had proof, irrefutable proof that he’d spent days locked away in the Batcave searching for, it wasn’t just on him anymore. He didn’t have to be the only one to carry the awful weight that had settled on Tim’s shoulders, crowded his brain when he understood that, as Robin, as Tim with Tim’s brain and Tim’s gut feelings, he had the responsibility of finding Bruce.
But now it wasn’t just him. Dick could help, now; he would help, had promised him so many times that he would be there for him after Jason’s death, pestering Tim with love and support until he’d felt irrevocably smothered and trusted and supported. It was nice. Dick gave him his first hug. He didn’t feel worthy of it, the love and support, but . . . it was Dick.
Dick was always there, now, even though he’d told Tim no the first time, when Tim had begged Dick to be Robin and pull Bruce back into sanity. He never told Tim no again, after that one time. A switch flipped after Tim took on the Robin colors. It was like that was what made him a part of the family. Because nothing changed when Bruce adopted Tim, it was as if that didn’t matter to Dick. Because Tim was already loved as soon as he became a Robin.
He’d smothered Tim with patience and support, a Robin for Robin; told Tim time and time again that he was his little brother, his Baby Bird, that he was loved and supported and that Dick would always be there. And Tim tried not to trust it, really, he did, because that didn’t usually turn out very well for him most of the time.
But. . . it was Dick Grayson. How could he not end up trusting the man who gave him wings, who made Robin someone that Tim could breathe as.
So Tim decided to fall into the net that was Dick Grayson, to trust that the man had spoken truth all of the times that he’d promised help, that he’d promised to be there, to believe in him. Tim fought through the lingering grief and the confusing feelings of (Bruce was dead but alive, he promised!) elation and worry and anxiety and distrust and faith and just focused on the relief he had realized came with the understanding that, with proof, he would have Dick Grayson at his back. So he left the Batcave and found Dick.
The man was hiding from the world, his head in hands and the kitchen counter suspiciously glistening with sweat. Damien and Alfred were who-knows-where, but Dick was right there, exactly where Tim could find him, manic with neatly and panickedly organized folders pressed preciously to his chest and face flushed with caffeine and exhaustion and relief.
“Dick, I found him,” Tim said breathlessly, dropping the folders on the kitchen counter and letting a few pages slide across the table and float to the floor. Dick looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and sleek with moisture, lines on his face that Tim swore weren’t there before.
Tim knew that he didn’t look much better. “I found him,” he repeated. “He’s alive,” he breathed, a promise as he leaned over his papers and spread out the documents with purpose. Passing a torch. “He’s alive, Bruce is alive,” he said, a prayer passing from his lips, “He’s alive and we can find him.”
Dick’s skin grayed like his soul had been drained out of him. “Wha– Tim, slow down. What are you saying? Bruce isn’t– he can’t be–”
Tim ignored Dick; he didn’t see what Tim could, yet. He pushed a paper in front of his older brother, fingers splayed across the page as he leaned into Dick’s space. “He’s alive, not dead. I know what you think you saw, but–”
“Tim, I can’t–” Dick sucked in an unsteady breath and his eyes briefly skimmed the page that Tim shoved in his face. He took it from Tim, pressed it forcibly to the counter. “Bruce isn’t. . . I saw his body, Tim. It was him, I’m sorry, but–”
Tim blanched. All of the evidence was right there. How could Dick not see it? “Dick, please, I’m telling you, he’s not. Just look, please,” he pleaded, the relief draining from his chest as something heavy filled his lungs like fluid. He felt sick. (Betrayed.) “Please, Dick,” he begged, and some of what he was feeling must have shown on his face, because Dick looked at the papers on the counter.
His brother breathed out slowly, his features rearranged into something placid, and only then did Tim realize how twisted with pain the man’s face had been, before. “Okay,” he whispered. “Show me.”
And Tim did. With fervor, words and explanations flowing out of him in a hurried rush so that he could keep himself from drawing in the fluid that had replaced the relief. Like he was bailing out a sinking ship, and he had to go faster, faster, faster or else Dick wouldn’t believe him and he would be sinking in his grief and disappointment all over again.
Tim finished, and Dick was quiet for a long while. Tim realized that the longer he had talked, the wetter his pages had become. Tim lifted a finger to his eyes, but they were blissfully dry; he wasn’t sinking, yet. He’d kept his head above the water.
Then something . . . changed, shifted inside of Dick, and the man looked up at Tim with something in his eyes that Tim couldn’t quite identify, if only because he hadn’t ever seen it on his big brother’s face. If it were anybody else, Tim could have sworn it looked like–
“I believe you.” And Tim forgot what he’d seen in Dick’s eyes because his world was suddenly all upright again, and he didn’t feel like he was drowning, anymore, because his big brother, Nightwing, the first Robin, was right there. And Tim wasn’t alone anymore, not in this, not ever, because he realized that this was a test he hadn’t meant to put on his brother, but that he’d passed all the same.
And then Dick looked at him with that same … something in his eyes, and said Tim’s name like it was a prayer. “Tim,” he said, like Tim was the future, everything that had ever mattered in the world, like it held some weight or power that Tim wasn’t aware that he had. “I believe you, and I’m so proud of you. But–”
And then Tim realized what that look was in Dick’s eyes.
It was desperation.
Tim didn’t feel like he was in danger of drowning, but he felt . . . weightless in another way. Not like he was in water, or like he was flying as Robin. Like he was being sucked into a black hole.
“–do we really want to bring him back?” Dick finished, his voice a whisper, like he was going to be condemned to hell and back.
Tim froze. He didn’t know what to think. He’d spent all this time, and– why would Dick– why would Bruce’s son not want his father alive? This was his brother. His big brother. A hero. Nightwing. Robin.
Wasn’t this the same thing as killing Bruce? Leaving him in the time stream? Breaking the most important rule?
“What?” Tim managed to squeeze out, and he was distantly aware that with that word he’d begun breathing again.
Dick stood up and grabbed Tim’s elbows, gently, desperately. Understand me! his actions screamed. Tim couldn’t do anything but look into Dick’s eyes. Blue, clear, crying, desperate.
Desperate, desperate, desperate. It was all that Tim could think of now that he’d recognized the emotion. He wasn’t even desperate when he’d killed the Joker for Barbara and Tim (though it hadn’t actually stuck), just furious. He wasn’t desperate when Tim approached his doorstep after Jason died and Bruce was going off the rails. Or desperate any of the other times that Tim or Bruce had gotten hurt, because Dick had always been able to save them.
Why was he desperate now? Desperate to keep Bruce dead?
Why? Dick was saying something, Tim thought. He couldn’t hear straight, hear right. He thought he was telling Tim to breathe. But why?
Why why why why why? “Why?”
“Tim,” Dick said, increasing the pressure on his elbows for a half a second, which was actually sort of stabilizing, and Tim missed the touch when Dick released him and turned around, running a hand through his hair, the movements tense, tense, tense. Desperate. “I–” He suddenly turned around. “I need to know. Honestly know. Please, tell me. Has Bruce ever . . . has he ever hurt you?”
“What? Of course not, Bruce would never–” But the question got Tim thinking, which was a bad thing. Or maybe a good thing. Sometimes. Most of the time. But why would Dick ask that unless something had already happened? Had Bruce hurt Dick?
Had Bruce hurt Tim? Because suddenly all of Bruce’s actions were cast in a new light. He didn’t think that he had. Not out of uniform, not without reason. Except . . . was there ever a good reason?
Of course there was. After Jason– that was a reason, he thought. Probably a good one. They were both so high-strung, and Tim just wanted Bruce to listen to reason– (if he wasn’t listening to reason, then why was there a reason for him to hit Tim? a small part of him that sounded like Dick whispered).
And then there was his sixteenth birthday. But that wasn’t physical, it was just training, right? Sure, it was . . . . it was necessary, right?
“He wouldn’t–” Tim tried again, but his brow furrowed and he remembered all of the books that Bruce made him read about victims and abuse and . . . it was part of Robin training, so he knew what it was supposed to look like, child abuse. So he would recognize it if it had happened to him, right? Or Dick. “He hasn’t–” Tim hesitated.
That was enough for Dick, who reached forward and pulled Tim into his arms and Tim distantly heard him telling Tim to breathe, Baby Bird, I’m here, it’s okay, we’ll–
Bruce hadn’t– had he?
Strong hands rubbed at his back until the world pressed in around him again with bright colors. His lungs shuddered as he sucked in warm air and Dick’s cologne, and he looked up at Dick from where his face was pressed to the man’s bright red sweater.
“He hasn’t, has he?” Tim asked, as much for Dick as for himself.
Dick didn’t respond for a bit, which was as much of an answer as Tim needed for his world to crash even when Dick did speak up. “He has,” Dick murmured, pressing his nose to Tim’s hair and tucking the younger into his sweater again, but Tim pushed back.
“But– he’s Batman. He fights– he can’t–” Tim blinked furiously, but he was all too aware of how cold the kitchen was now, or maybe that was just because he wasn’t wrapped up in Dick Grayson’s octopus hug anymore, and he felt sort of small without the familiar, comforting warmth. “When?”
Dick reached for Tim’s hand absently, pulling them both onto the kitchen stools, his voice quiet. Secret. How long had he kept his secrets?
“A while, for me. We were both so new, and I was his partner, not his son, when we first started out. And, Go– I was so young, Tim; it shouldn't have been that way. And he was so young. We didn’t know, we were the first; there are no examples to follow when you’re the first. I didn’t think anything of it– maybe he didn’t, either.”
Tim’s stomach sank further. “But then he kicked me out, and I was fourteen. I had the Titans, but he never should have– I knew it felt wrong, but I didn’t know that it was wronger than it felt. We kept fighting, but that was just training, you know? But then Jason died, and–”
Dick closed his eyes, lost in a memory from so long ago. “He hit me. Told me it was my fault, and let me believe it. I wasn’t even on earth at the time, Tim, but he took all of his guilt and blamed it on me, because Batman can’t make mistakes, but Robin can,” he added bitterly.
“Jason didn’t know how bad it was; I didn’t let him, and it was different for him, I thought. Because he was Bruce’s son, not his partner. But then he came back, and Bruce fought him, and he was so–” Dick sucked in a breath. “But I told myself that he didn’t know it was Jason.”
He looked over at Tim, shrunk in his seat, and Dick squeezed his shoulder. “But even when he did know, he sliced open his own son’s throat with a batarang instead of letting that damn clown die.”
Something wet slid down Tim’s face, and he vaguely thought that maybe he had drowned, after all, a long time ago when Bruce first let him into the Batman’s crusade. Maybe he had been drowning all of this time, and they were both finally coming up for air and seeing clearer than they could in those murky Gotham waters. “But I kept making up reasons for him,” Dick continued. “And Jason was older, by then, and I was his partner, so it didn’t count that I was ten, right?” he chuckled, a dark thing. “I never thought– Tim, I promise, I watched him, I didn’t think– not to you,” he said, the last words escaping him as a sob. “I’m so sorry, I should have–”
Tim lunged forward and wrapped his brother in a hug, unable to think any thoughts anymore. Because how had he not known? Noticed. He was Robin. He should have known, should have been able to tell– all of that research, training, but he couldn’t even tell when it was happening in his own home.
“No, Dick, stop. Stop,” he said, and there was a gap between them that Dick bridged with his bright blue eyes, all wet and sad. “I didn’t even know, and I should have seen– I didn’t think. I didn’t think those sorts of things could happen to me, by him, to heroes,” he tried to explain. “If I didn’t know, how could you have known? And it wasn’t ever– there was just this test, and it was an awful test, and I drove myself almost insane but I passed, so it was fine. And then when Jason– I tried to reason with him, and we were both just so– there were so many emotions, so I thought it was normal, like training, but–”
He was rambling, he knew, and Dick just shook him desperately. “No, it wasn’t okay,” he pleaded, “It’s never okay, Tim– what happened was on Bruce, it’s not right, and he should have– He never should have– Tim, it’s not on you, just– thank you for telling me.” He sucked in another breath. “He’s changed. Over the years. It wasn’t bad at first, with me. Just hard training, a heavy hit here or there, never outside our masks, and when it was, I thought it was just Bruce trying to. . . to parent, I guess. I didn’t know better, I just knew that it wasn’t how it was with my parents. But when Jason– It’s hard to tell, and when I did know it, I didn’t want to believe that it was him. The man who saved me.”
Tim nodded, but he stayed quiet for a minute. Let it sink in, and he thought, truly thought. Was this Bruce man the man he wanted back into their lives, or was it the man he thought Bruce was? “Bruce died,” he said slowly, and looked up at Dick. He let something hard enter his eyes. He thought it was determination, but maybe it was something else. Maybe it was desperation and relief, too.
Dick looked at him. “He did.” Desperation shifted into solidarity. Support.
“If he doesn’t come back,” Tim said, still slow, the concept of Bruce not being there, of Batman not coming back still new. He said the words as he thought them. “Then. . . isn’t that for the best?” He slid a few pages into the folder he’d accrued over the past few days.
Dick bit his lip. “But Gotham. . . we may not need Bruce, but Gotham needs Batman,” he said, and resignation bled into his voice.
“Bruce doesn’t have to be Batman,” Tim said, all wrong and twisted but hopeful. “You can.”
Dick looked up at the ceiling, up and far away. “Did you know I used to want to be Batman? I grew up thinking that’s who Bruce wanted me to be, another him. But as bendy as I am, I couldn’t warp myself to fit into that damn cowl. I created Nightwing to get away from him, as far away as possible after he stole Robin from me, but I kept– I kept coming back, for my Robins.” He looked at Tim, something soft in his eyes. Something like love and desperation, but a soft sort of desperation that begged Tim to stay. “Because Robin isn’t Batman’s, as much as he wanted it to be. Robin’s always been mine, it’s my name, did you know that? I was born on the first day of Spring, my Mami’s little Robin.” Tim’s heart crumpled up like a page torn from a notebook. Because that meant– “The first words she said to me every morning, and the last words she said to me as she fell. Bruce knew that, and he still took it from me,” he continued.
“Dick–”
He looked over at Tim and pulled him into a hug. “He didn’t have any right to give you that name, Timmy, but I’ve never been anything but proud of you for how you’ve lived it. Don’t think for a second– no, Tim. No, no, no. You’re my brother, always have been, the moment you–”
“When I was Robin,” Tim gasped out, because Tim realized that the reason Dick never treated Tim any differently when Tim became a Drake-Wayne was because Dick was never a Wayne in the first place. He was always a Grayson, and the moment he became Robin–
“The moment you became Robin, you became a Flying Grayson,” he whispered, carding a hand through Tim’s hair. “And I wouldn’t change that for the world, Baby Bird.”
Some time passed, Tim spending every moment of it wrapped in his big brother’s arms. He didn’t know how much time went by before he spoke up again. “What now?”
Space stretched before them again. “Now– Now I’m Batman,” Dick said. “He’s never someone I wanted to be, but Bruce isn’t Batman anymore. I’ll make it my own, don’t worry,” he said. Don’t worry, he said, I won’t become Bruce, he said, Batman has to be someone different, he said, I’ll survive, he said.
“What about Damien?” Tim finally asked. Because that was the question. Bruce’s son, his own flesh and blood. He wasn’t just a Wayne, though, he was an Al Ghul. And both of those names were a problem.
“We can’t let him go back,” Dick agreed.
Tim fiddled with the papers in the folder. “But nothing’s holding him here, now. Not with Bruce gone. What’s to stop him from going back to Ra’s?”
Something flashed across Dick’s face as he thought. Inspiration, worry, resignation, guilt. Desperation. “Robin kept us here, with Bruce,” he offered quietly. Hopefully. Desperately.
And in it, Tim heard, give up Robin. Be the first to go willingly. (I don’t want you as my Robin. You’re not needed. You’re not important. You’re not enough.) And Tim’s heart hurt, and his lungs closed up.
“Tim, Timmy, Baby Bird,” Dick prayed, trying to tug Tim closer but he didn’t want to move because how could his big brother just– “Please, I can’t have you as my Robin–”
“What? You can’t just, not after–” Tim couldn’t breathe, he was so– so angry, and he felt so flushed, a flood of a different kind filling his body red hot.
“Fuck, no– Tim, that’s not what I meant, I mean–” Dick tried to pull Tim closer but Tim wanted that distance, craved the warmth, pushed it away because how could he just–
“Be my Nightwing.”
Tim blinked. Stunned. Paused. Switch flipped. “What?”
“I want you as my Nightwing, not my Robin. You can stay Robin if you need it, Tim, but . . Robin’s always been a so– a student to Batman,” he amended. “You can’t learn anything else from me, you don’t need Robin anymore. You’re my equal, my brother, and I can’t do this without you, but I need you beside me, not behind me,” Dick said, his words running over each other. “Nightwing was something I created to stand on my own, someone stronger than Robin, and that’s–”
Tim shook his head. “But Nightwing is yours,” he said. “Your name, and with Robin–” Tim didn’t know how to feel. Honored. Confused. Because Robin was Dick’s, and it hurt to have that name taken away because it made Tim feel like he wasn’t valued, important. . . but Dick was right that it was his name to give and take, except– he wasn’t taking Robin. He was giving Tim Nightwing. The first name he gave himself.
Dick shook his head. “I want you beside me, Tim. I promise.”
“Okay,” Tim said. “Okay. Thank you,” he breathed, because he knew what names meant to Dick Grayson, who switched masks and skins and performed smiles like they were second nature. Dick wrapped him in another hug. “What about everyone else? Cass, Alfred, Steph, Barbara. Jason. And the League, the Titans, the company. What are we going to tell everyone?”
“I’ll take care of it all. Batman needs to stay with the League, and I can take care of the Titans. You’ve still got to lead your team,” Dick said, continuing to think out loud. “But with Damien. . . I know that Bruce is still majority shareholder, and we need the money to support our nightlife, but–”
“I’ll do it,” Tim offered. “I’ve got a better head for business than you do, anyways. And Bruce had me take over some of the WE work anyhow.” Dick’s face darkened at the mention of Bruce.
“He never should have– damn it, that was his job. You’re just a–” Dick calmed his breathing down, rubbed a hand down his face. “You’re still just a kid, Timmy. It wouldn’t look right–”
“But I can do it, and you can’t do everything. Stay the face of the company until I’m older, for all I care, but let me take this work from you. I can do it,” he promised, laying a hand on Dick’s arm to force the man to look at him.
Dick looked at him for a long bit. “Okay, okay,” he agreed. “I believe you. But tell me if it’s too much, okay?”
“Okay,” Tim agreed. “And the others?”
Dick worried at his lip again. “We don’t tell them. Is your research online?”
“Only some of it, but I can doctor it so Babs won’t find out. Or she’ll think it’s a dead end.”
His brother nodded. “We keep our family close, then. And we build a better one, kinder and stronger than Bruce ever could. In a few years, when Cass is ready, she can be Batman and I can be Nightwing and you can be whoever you damn well want to be,” he said, clutching at Tim’s hand with promise and love and support. He looked at Tim after a pause. “With Bruce gone–”
“Jason might come back,” Tim realized. “But, with the pit, I don’t know–” Tim paused as he realized just how far he was willing to go, remembered how far Dick had already gone, for his family. “If Bruce and the Joker are both gone,” he began, a suggestion.
An offering.
Dick finished for him. “Jason might come back,” he said, hope flitting across his features. There was no hesitation in his eyes when he continued, but there was a hint of desperation.
“I’ll take care of it,” Dick promised.