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“When are you going to tell Batman?” Red Robin asks.
Batman is crouching on a roof, observing Nightwing and Red Robin search through the pockets of the henchmen they’d easily dispatched. Batman had watched them quip at each other throughout the fight with fond amusement, but now his blood runs cold with worry.
Nightwing grimaces and fiddles with his ponytail—he’s growing his hair out again. He’s also recently added armor to his suit. Pleased at the extra protection, Bruce let himself assume that Dick had grown used to the heavier Batman suit. Dick had so easily ceded the cowl, leadership of the Justice League, even his Robin, back to Bruce that Bruce had foolishly clung to any sign that Dick cared.
Now he worries it’s something else.
“I don't know, Red,” Nightwing says, obviously uncomfortable.
“So you'll be avoiding us some more,” Red Robin says, crossing his arms. “Robin's pissed.”
“Yeah, well,” says Nightwing, shrugging in mild agitation. “I'm not sure how to tell him either.”
That's concerning—Dick and Damian are close, and Dick would only hide something from him to keep him out of danger. Batman's fist clenches with the quietest creak of his glove.
How much trouble is Dick in? He looks relatively healthy and well-rested, but that doesn't mean much in their field.
“Come on,” says Red Robin, “He wouldn't—”
“Can we not talk about this right now?” Nightwing cuts him off, more forcefully than he usually speaks to Tim.
Red Robin huffs and drops it, turning to pat down a different gaudily-dressed goon.
Perhaps Bruce is overreacting. It's likely a personal issue that Dick is embarrassed about. Maybe he has a new girlfriend.
“Here we go,” Nightwing says brightly, holding up a thumb drive with a flourish.
“Great.”
“Hey,” Nightwing offers, “Let's hang out this weekend.”
“Yeah, okay,” says Red Robin with a reluctant smile. “You’ll have to talk to them sometime, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah,” says Nightwing.
Batman ducks behind a gargoyle as they grapple away, mind working furiously.
The manor had been so empty when Bruce returned: shrouded furniture, dark hallways dusty and cobwebbed in a way Alfred would never tolerate.
“We've been working out of the penthouse,” Dick had explained, somewhat awkwardly.
Bruce couldn't blame him. This awful stillness was how the manor felt after the death of his parents.
A step behind Dick, Damian had stood at attention, eyes carefully hopeful. It had been odd for him to look so boyish, damp-haired and pink-cheeked from his shower, in much more casual civilian clothes than Bruce had seen him in before. His son was a stranger to him.
“You've done well,” Bruce told them, and smiled a little at their twin disconcerted blinks.
Bruce is in the Batcave, running on caffeine after days of work on a case, when Dick calls.
“Dick,” he answers, surprised and pleased to be contacted on his personal line. He hasn't interacted with Dick out of costume in months.
“Hey, Bruce,” Dick says.
His voice sounds high and anxious; Bruce starts tracing the call. If only Dick wasn't so careful about keeping his phone clean, he could have his location instantly.
“Everything alright?” Bruce asks.
“I'm fine,” Dick snorts, already sounding less nervous. “I just need to talk with you.”
The trace reveals that Dick is in his apartment and he didn’t relay a codephrase; he probably isn’t in imminent danger, though Bruce hates to have so little intel. He removed the cameras from Dick’s apartment after a minor argument, but this is the exact sort of situation they’re necessary for.
“If you’re in any sort of trouble…” Bruce starts.
“Bruce, it's fine,” Dick says more firmly. “Can we have lunch? Alone?”
“Damian would love to see you,” Bruce hedges.
“Soon, I promise,” says Dick, and he does sound guilty.
“Alright,” Bruce agrees. Anxious to see Dick, he pushes his luck: “Damian is training with Cass today, if that’s not too soon.”
“Yeah, that sounds good,” Dick says, false smile in his voice. “I’ll be over around noon.”
He hangs up before Bruce can respond.
There’s not long until he’ll be here. For the first time in hours, Bruce leaves his chair to stretch and shower.
Feeling significantly refreshed, he paces in his office until he can hear Dick’s motorcycle coming up the driveway. He hurries to the foyer, then hesitates. Alfred, almost finished with lunch and obviously pleased about Dick’s sudden visit, walks past him with a pitying look to open the door.
“Master—” Alfred stops himself. “Well, it’s good to see you.”
“You too,” says Dick, from beyond the doorframe.
Bruce steps forward to see for himself and has to remind himself to keep breathing. Dick is heartbreakingly gorgeous. His hair falls in curls around his face, softening his jaw. Tastefully applied makeup brightens his eyes, adds shine to his lips.
Bruce has been carefully avoiding looking at Dick's bottom half for years now. It takes him longer than it should have to notice that Dick's jeans are made for women and clinging to newly widened hips.
“Oh,” says Bruce upon realization.
“Yeah,” says Dick—maybe not Dick anymore—shrugging defensively. On closer examination, her skin looks softer, her body curvier under her jacket. She's speaking in a higher voice than normal, not from her chest. “So. I’m a girl now. I've been on estrogen for a few months.”
“I—” starts Bruce. He feels choked-up for some reason looking at her, like she’s gone very far away. But there are scripts to follow when your friend comes out. “Congratulations.”
She smiles at the ground for a second, shoulders slightly relaxing. “Thanks.”
“You look beautiful, my dear,” Alfred says, and she grins at him as she enters the manor.
“Thanks, Alfie. You're looking good, too—new workout?”
Bruce can’t quite tell what he’s feeling. He's proud of her, of course, for knowing what she needs and setting her own path. He's upset and jealous that Tim knew before he did, though Tim's openly bisexual and probably has more relevant advice. He's worried, on some level, that he no longer understands her, that this will be another wedge between them. He feels a hint of the satisfaction that comes with solving a case as he recalls childhood crossdressing and anxieties about being the right type of man, her illogical certainty that something had been wrong with her.
In many ways it makes sense that his Robin is a woman—she was too good to be a man.
And there's something else, a sort of tugging in his chest, like hope and despair rolled into one. He can imagine Nightwing flipping through the air, graceful as ever, hair flying behind her and suit hugging her developing curves. But Nightwing doesn’t look like that.
When she removes her jacket at Alfred's silent prompting, Bruce keeps his eyes politely on her face.
“Is this why you added armor to your suit?” Bruce asks. It hurts to think she'd do so to stop harassment after years of refusing it for blunt force.
“What?” she asks, whipping her head around to face him, then she scoffs. “Figures that’s your concern. Yeah, I did. Nightwing is a guy for now, I guess.”
“That's too bad,” he says, starting towards a drawing room. Nightwing has always been her freest mask; it shouldn't be a heavy weight on her shoulders.
The brief anger leaves her face.
“Yeah,” she says, following a step behind. “I'm not sure how I want to handle it. It's almost tempting to start over as a new hero entirely, but I don’t really want to do that again.”
“The Justice League will support you, whatever you decide,” Bruce promises.
“Thanks, Bruce,” she smiles at him, and for a second Bruce is mesmerized by her shining eyes, her dimpled cheeks.
“What shall we call you when not in costume?” Alfred asks from behind them as they reach one of the more comfortable sitting rooms. Bruce belatedly realizes what provoked her earlier annoyance.
“I’ve been going by Rachel,” she says, almost shy. “I didn’t want anything too far from what my parents picked out, you know? And my middle name is Mary.”
“Mistress Rachel,” Alfred says warmly. “Dinner will be ready shortly.”
Rachel steals a hug before he leaves the room, and Alfred accepts it with less stiffness than usual.
“Rachel Mary Grayson,” Bruce says in acknowledgement once they're alone and comfortably seated across from each other.
Her eyes crinkle at the corners, some of the tension in her posture lessening. “Babs joked about Dixie as a nickname, but I don’t know. Is that too childish?”
“You’re not old, Dixie,” Bruce says, putting as much playfulness as he can into it despite the flash of jealousy he feels towards Barbara.
Dixie should get to be friends with other girls, to have a childhood nickname.
She grins and flushes and glances at her hands, though she quickly recovers. “Not as old as you, at least.”
Bruce exaggeratedly grunts in offense. Dixie actually giggles, a sound he hasn't heard since she was a child. It tugs at his tender heartstrings.
“Will you be coming over more often?” he asks, wishing he could say coming home.
“Ah, well,” Dixie starts, avoiding his eyes. “I need to talk to everyone else.”
“Damian loves you,” says Bruce, cutting to the heart of the matter.
“That's not the problem," she says. Bruce raises his eyebrows so she'll continue and she grimaces. “He needs male role models other than you.”
Bruce clenches his jaw to prevent himself from immediately arguing and she narrows her eyes.
“You're the best man I know, Bruce, but I’ve been Batman and I don't want that for him. He needs to know that there are ways to be a man without working yourself to death, without feeling like you're drowning in anger and shame. There isn't a way for me, but at least I could fake it.”
“I am still friends with Clark,” Bruce reminds her sardonically, feeling a little like he's the one drowning.
Dixie laughs, which must be why Bruce says: “A man and a woman tends to be the standard configuration for childrearing anyway.”
The smile freezes on her face, then her eyes slide slyly to meet Bruce's.
“Female role models are important, too,” he adds.
“I suppose so,” she says, cheek dimpling.
Bruce isn’t privy to their conversation, but soon enough Dixie has dinner with just the two of them. Damian calls her “Rachel” in his serious little voice, which makes Bruce’s heart ache, and shoots her increasingly pointed glances.
“I was thinking Robin could patrol with Nightwing tonight,” she finally says, casual as anything.
“Of course,” Bruce agrees easily. Damian has missed her, and Robin still works better with her. She seems to always know what to do with the boy in a way that makes Bruce feel clumsy and inadequate.
Dixie flashes him a grin, then seamlessly returns to making fun of his recent sleep schedule.
“Don’t imitate your father,” she tells Damian in faux seriousness, eyes mirthful. “You’re still growing.”
Bruce fondly watches his son explain his airtight health regimen, and hates himself for wishing that this was his life every day. That she was always here, always raising Damian with him.
Bruce gets papped outside a restaurant on his way to a lunch meeting. It's been long enough since tabloids have cared this much about his personal life that he initially assumes he's been outed as Batman. The truth is only marginally better.
“Mr. Wayne!” a snickering voice is yelling at him. “Any comments on your eldest's new look?”
“Did you buy him that boob job?”
“Transsexuality is often linked to childhood abuse—”
“She’s my daughter,” Bruce snaps. “Show some respect!”
He escapes into the relative quiet of the restaurant, grinding his teeth. Dixie said she wanted to transition publicly and Bruce believes her, but it's awful that she feels safer among these vultures than acting as a female superhero.
Though such a public transition in either space seems nearly impossible. Leave it to Dixie to forge the way.
She calls him the next day to tease him about the tabloid article. The rare unflattering photo of Brucie Wayne usually spurs a free-for-all amongst his family, but this time only Dixie has taken the bait.
“Don't be too noble,” she scolds playfully. “People might think you're Batman.”
“Next time I'll just tell them to fuck off,” he says, knowing she can hear the levity in his voice.
“Well that won't keep you out of the headlines,” she jokes. He doesn't think she's faking her smile.
“You’re happy, right?” he asks.
“Yeah, B,” she says, quiet and sweet into the receiver. “I am.”
“I know you're trying to tell how much muscle mass I've lost,” Dixie says midway through a training session, amusedly annoyed.
They're re-acclimating themselves to some of their two-person maneuvers. She's been launching herself at him from various angles so he can catch and redirect her—often a mid-fight necessity. Most differences in her form he's noticed so far can be attributed to her change in weight distribution. It's impressive to watch her update her techniques as she adjusts to her lower center of gravity.
She's in a sports bra and leggings, and when they grapple he can feel her muscles shift under her skin. He's always been awed by and slightly envious of her level of grace, but since transitioning she's seemed lighthearted and free in a way she hasn't been since childhood.
“It hasn't affected your performance yet,” he starts, tracking a drop of sweat down her neck and feeling disgusted with himself.
“Then why does it matter?” she interrupts. “You're hovering more than when I've broken bones.”
He reacts defensively, heart pounding, not quite knowing why. It shouldn’t matter, but he says, “We haven't encountered anything particularly bad in the last six months. You need to be ready—”
“I am ready!” Dixie yells. “I've been ready for almost two decades! I was Batman and I was good at it! What’s your problem, Bruce? Seeing me as a woman means seeing me as incompetent?”
“You're competent, of course you're competent!” Bruce says, frustrated by old insecurities in a new coat of paint. “But your body is changing and your training has to keep up.”
“I’m not twelve anymore!” she snaps. “I know how to handle myself!”
“I know,” he says. He doesn’t want to fight. “I just want to be involved.”
He has been extensively researching the effects of feminizing hormone replacement therapy. And the benefits and drawbacks to various types of vaginoplasty, and comparing facial feminization results—like Bruce, Dixie has a strong jaw—and even surveying the Justice League database for planets with higher standards of gender-affirming care. But she’s already refused his money for surgery, and he’s trying not to be overbearing.
She refused magic even more strongly, said it would be like using magic to learn a new technique. Bruce can understand that.
Dixie takes a deep breath to calm herself down, then studies him with sad eyes. “Can’t you trust that I know my own body and ability? Can't you let me handle my own transition?”
“You're my daughter,” Bruce says helplessly, because he can't say she's his Robin.
“I used to be your partner, too.” She looks so resigned that Bruce has to suppress the urge to flinch.
“Do you regret the adoption?” he asks, forcing his voice to be level.
“No, of course not!” she says. “I'm glad we're… connected, in that way. But you use it as an excuse to tell me what to do, or… claim ownership. We should be equals! You're not the one on estrogen, Bruce.”
It hurts to hear in a way he wasn’t expecting.
“I apologize,” he says eventually. “Tell me how to help you.”
She sighs at the ground, and when she looks up her expression is pitying. “Just be my friend.”
“Always,” Bruce promises, and she finally smiles for real.
News that Nightwing is now a woman spreads through the hero community and fan forums. Bruce monitors the reactions on both fronts—better than expected, though that may be the recency, or how perfectly beautiful Dixie is, or the strength of her friendships. There are transgender vigilantes with half her renown that receive twice the harassment.
It’s worse from the various criminals Nightwing has to deal with on her day-to-day. Batman finds himself fighting the urge to protect her in the field more than he has since she was a child. She wouldn’t appreciate it. He knows she can handle herself.
“There’s actually more than one ‘surgery,’” she helpfully informs a man she’s walloping. “You’ll have to be more specific. Maybe do some research.”
Bruce spends weeks re-drafting Justice League anti-discrimination regulations before a major crisis brings all hands on deck. Nightwing happily chats with Superman in the aftermath.
“No, really, I'm great,” Superman is saying.
“Sure,” says Nightwing. “But you've gotta catch me up sometime.”
“Alright,” Superman smiles, “But what about you?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about updating my suit,” she says. Bruce has been thinking about it as well and would like to compare notes. “Maybe I’ll bring back the panties.”
Superman laughs, more pink-cheeked than he should be. Bruce has to work to keep his heartbeat steady before he greets them.
They’re in the Cave in the early hours of the morning, long after everyone else has left. Bruce has been adding useless details to tonight's report, watching as Dixie runs analysis on a newly collected drug sample.
“How did you know?” Bruce asks eventually. “That you were a woman?”
Dixie turns slowly to face him.
“It's not really that I knew,” she says. “It's that I wanted.”
Bruce can barely imagine it—constructing an identity outside of what the world needs or expects. Wanting has never been enough.
“Why did you decide to transition, then?” he specifies.
Dixie looks at him sadly, walking over to lean against the console. “I had to be Batman. And I could do it, better than anyone else. I could. Gotham needs Batman, and Damian needs Robin, and I needed to mourn you.”
“I’m proud of you,” he tells her, and it's like she cracks open. “In many ways, you were a better Batman than I am.”
“Bruce…” she says, and Bruce politely ignores the tears threatening to spill from her eyes. “When I knew you were alive, it was like the whole world opened up. I thought about my future outside of Batman for the first time in a while.”
Listening intently, Bruce wonders when he last imagined his own future outside of Batman. He'd call such thought experiments frivolous if they didn't obviously help Dixie.
“And I thought about getting old,” she continues. “I thought about watching my father's face age in the mirror every day and it terrified me, like I was this grotesque monument. But I want to look like my mom.”
Bruce's heart hurts. Year after year, he compares his features to the portrait on the wall, tracking how he's outlived them.
“You do look like your mom,” he says softly.
She smiles at him with watery eyes. “Thanks, B.”
“Can I do anything?” he asks. “To help?”
“Not more than this,” she says. He must look pained, because she asks, “Why do you want to be a part of this so badly?”
Her slight annoyance pushes him to ask, “Do you really need to be away from me to know who you are?”
Dixie’s face softens. “Not you, Bruce. I needed to be away from Batman for a while.”
It might as well be the same thing, no matter what she's said in the past, no matter which version of him raised her.
He doesn't startle when she touches his hand, but she squeezes his fingers as if he had.
“It was hard to carry that mantle,” she says, and she is so beautiful. “Even after making it my own. It’s a whole legacy of… masculinity, I guess. It's bigger than either of us.”
The indomitable symbol of The Bat had stretched through time, casting them both in its shade. It's necessary as much as it's strangling them. Bruce has been working to hone it to be carried by a team.
“I know what you mean,” Bruce says hollowly. “While I was lost in time, I didn't have myself. Only my instincts, and Batman, this enormous idea echoing through reality. Bruce Wayne ceased to exist. I…”
He falters. She squeezes his hand again.
“...I’m glad to be back,” he finishes, staring at her strong, slender fingers wrapped around his. She’ll always catch him.
“You know what made it better?” she asks, and he looks back up at her. “Damian, even though he can be a terror.”
“Well,” Bruce says, “Batman needs a Robin.”
For a second, they just smile sadly at each other, and then the computer completes its analysis.
Bruce has been buying Dixie clothes—elegant dresses and more expensive professional attire, stylish with a bit of flare—he’s trying to make up for a childhood of stuffing her into suits for photo-ops, though she always enjoyed posing for the camera more than he did.
“I got you new formalware, in case you need it,” he’d told her after his first round of careful selection. “Feel free to leave them in your room.”
“I knew you hated my fashion sense,” she joked, and left them in her room at the manor.
Bruce has continued slowly adding to her wardrobe. She doesn’t mention the clothes or take them to her own apartment, but from their slight disturbance Bruce can tell she tries them on.
He doesn’t expect her to wear the sleek midnight blue dress to accompany him to the charity gala, but he recovers enough en route to put a hand on her back as they walk through the crowd. He can feel when she tenses at errant glances, though her bright smile remains firmly in place.
“Is that Richard,” someone titters.
“Her name is Rachel,” Bruce corrects, his palm protectively resting on the small of her back.
“It’s fine,” says Dixie, leaning into his hand. “I forget names all the time. What was yours again?”
With her on his arm, wearing the dress he bought, Bruce feels a sick satisfaction growing in his chest. The same sort of possessiveness he tries to avoid, that only spells danger.
Still, in the early hours of the morning after the party, he lets her follow him back to his study and down to the Batcave. Neither of them have changed, and Bruce loosens his tie, feeling somewhat stifled in his suit. Dixie kicks off her heels, though she balances perfectly on them.
“It’s not that they aren’t nice,” she starts. “Obviously they’re useful. But why all the dresses, B?”
“I can’t buy you things?” he asks lightly.
“You haven’t picked out my clothes since I was a kid,” she says.
He sighs. “I keep wondering if I could have helped you sooner. If I could have done something in your childhood…”
Dixie looks at him for a long time, her bare arms slightly prickled with gooseflesh from the chill air.
“Would you have thought it was a waste of time?” she asks, not accusatory.
“What?” Had he done something recently to insult her?
“If, six months ago, six years ago, I said that the future was bearing down on me like a prison, that I felt dead inside—” she meets his eyes, still speaking calmly, though he has to remind himself to breathe, “—That the only thing that helped was existing outside of myself. Being a mentor. Indulging in “girly” things. Would you have let me dedicate time to exploring that?”
“I—” Bruce starts.
“Because you don't let yourself,” she says, too kindly.
For multiple long seconds, Bruce finds that he cannot speak.
“It's okay, you know,” Dixie says. “To be a woman instead.”
He shakes his head. Becoming a woman is as much of a fantasy as leading a normal life, as seeing his parents again.
“Okay, B,” she says, gently, like she’s soothing a frightened child. “But it's alright to let the Bat change. It’s an idea, not a statue.”
“Is it alright?” B asks. “To ruin the credibility of both personas in pursuit of self-interest?”
“Don’t say that,” says Dixie. “You know they’re not mutually exclusive.”
“I’m not you,” B snaps. “You’re beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful,” Dixie says completely seriously, and it’s shameful how much B basks in it, knowing it’s false. “But you don’t have to do anything publicly. This is just us.”
“I…” B starts, but is unable to continue.
“Whatever you want,” Dixie encourages.
“Robin,” she whispers, and Dixie's mouth quirks hopefully upwards. “Come home.”
Dixie frames her face with steady hands, and B lets herself close her eyes.
“Okay, B,” she says, and her lips press softly to the corner of B's mouth. “Let’s go upstairs.”