Work Text:
They were halfway to the cemetery before Dick thought to ask the question. He glanced at Bruce in the passenger seat, face turned to the car window. Bruce preferred silent car rides. Back in their Dynamic Duo days, he'd always berated Dick for fiddling too much with the radio.
He'd still bought Dick CDs for his thirteenth birthday, though. He'd still let Dick play them in the Batmobile. One of those things Dick would mull over for years to come.
"Bruce," he said. "What are you going to say?"
Bruce's shoulders shifted, but otherwise there was no response.
The road was a narrow strip of tarmac stretched over rolling hills. The family cemetery wasn't technically on the Wayne estate, but instead on a field near the woods, once owned by the Kanes. There was a cobbled path from the manor to the cemetery that was absolutely beautiful in the spring, but neither Dick nor Bruce had felt like walking.
"You're going to have to say something," Dick said.
Bruce grunted. "I know."
"Have you eaten anything today?"
It was faintly ridiculous to ask him that, considering what had happened earlier this morning.
"There's food there," Bruce said, instead of answering the question properly.
And god, wasn't he always like this. Sometimes Dick wondered if they'd ever had a real conversation.
The road took a turn closer to the forest. Trees loomed up on the driver's side, blocking out the sun and casting them into shade. Dick debated switching on the map light just to freak Bruce out. As used as he was to driving the Batmobile in every kind of situation, Bruce was astoundingly normal about his hatred for driving with the map lights on.
Dick lifted his right hand from the wheel, and Bruce said: "Don't even think about it."
And wasn't he always like that, too. Dick huffed out a laugh, and he heard the smallest chuckle from his right.
They veered away from the forest into the sunshine again. One more hill and they'd arrive at two iron gates kept immaculately clean by Alfred. There used to be a grounds-keeper, but Alfred said Bruce had hated the idea of a stranger roaming these graves.
"You better think of something soon. We're almost there."
"I know, Dick."
"Tim and Cass are meeting us there, aren't they?"
"Yes."
"And Alfred." Dick shot him a look. "You and Alfred..."
"You heard me this morning." Bruce's voice was cold. "There's nothing more to be said."
He'd heard him, certainly. He'd stood in the kitchen doorway as Bruce and Alfred faced each other across the island. Breakfast preparations were still on the counter, beaten eggs in a bowl and ham steak sitting on the chopping board.
"You allowed him to leave the cave, against my express instructions." Bruce had been staring into Alfred's eyes with an unreadable expression.
"Sir. I was sure he could look after himself... I had no idea..."
"Take a vacation, Alfred. We'll talk when this is all over."
He'd swept past Alfred and headed for the door. Then he'd spotted Dick and froze. So Dick had stepped forward, held up his car keys, and asked if Bruce needed a ride.
They were pulling up to the cemetery gate when Dick said, "it wasn't anyone's fault, you know."
Bruce climbed out of the car. Dick sighed and followed him.
****
There was a gaping hole in the ground. Tim and Cass stood next to it, talking quietly to each other. Dick walked over and ruffled Tim's hair, squeezing Cass' shoulder.
"Hey," Tim said. "How's Bruce?"
"Oh, you know. Being Bruce."
Cass patted Dick's hand before pulling away, heading determinedly to Bruce's side. Bruce relaxed when she neared him, letting her throw her arms around his neck. They fit together so naturally. People sometimes thought she'd known him longest, that she knew him best.
"Dick," Tim said. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For, well..." Tim gestured around vaguely.
"You should save your condolences for Bruce. He's the one who needs them."
"Yeah, but you loved him, too."
"Don't worry about me," Dick said, smiling. "You should be more worried about the state of your tie. Still can't do the knot right, can you?"
Dick stooped and unravelled the knot. Bruce was the one who'd taught him to do this for his first gala. Kneeling down, Bruce had taken Dick's eight-year-old hands into his own, leading him gently through the motions. Ever since, Dick had taken pride in his knot-tying skills. He'd made sure to help the other Robins whenever he could.
"Dick!" Tim whacked Dick's wrists. "That's too tight!"
Dick loosened the knot immediately and straightened up. "Oh god, sorry, Tim. I just got used to—I'm sorry."
"Great, now it's loose again." Tim sighed. "I guess I don't really need it, anyway."
"Yeah. I'm getting some canapés," Dick said abruptly, turning on his heel and marching away.
The canapés were on a table beneath a white tent. Cass had already cleared most of the plate, so Dick settled for a sad looking one at the edges. He hadn't gotten to eat breakfast either, come to think of it.
Bruce and Cass were still talking a few feet away. He should go over and give Bruce one of the remaining canapés, probably. It wasn't like Cass was going to do it.
"Master Dick."
Alfred materialised at his elbow, just like he always did. Dick mustered up the energy to smile.
"Hey, Alfie. Sorry about this morning."
"You have nothing to apologise for, dear boy. I am sorry you had to hear such a thing."
"You've heard enough of our fights over the years, so consider us even."
"Ah, yes." Alfred chuckled. "You and Master Bruce used to love a good tiff. I almost miss it."
"No, you don't."
"Yes," Alfred said, letting out a breath. "I suppose I don't."
Dick picked up another canapé, rolling it around his fingers. "Are you actually going to listen to him? You know he's just... in a bad place right now. He needs you."
"I am well aware, Master Dick. I will do what I can."
"Okay. Good. Then, Alfred..."
"Yes?"
"His pets. Are you and Bruce—you're gonna take care of all of them?"
Alfred blinked. "Why, certainly. Do you think we should give them away?"
"No, that's not—no. I'm glad. He really loved them."
"I know," Alfred said, warmth seeping into his voice. "He admonished me countless times for 'brushing Bat-Cow too hard'."
Dick snorted. "God, he was so... I mean, he was—"
"Dick, Alfred!" Tim waved at them. "C'mon. We're going to start."
They gathered around the hole in the ground, Dick and Tim on one side, Cass and Alfred on the other. Bruce stood between them, at the head of the hole, looking into the dirt. Dick had not looked down yet. He slung an arm around Tim and pulled him close, soaking in his warmth.
There was silence. Dick met Cass' gaze and they both turned to Bruce.
"Batman," Cass said, poking him in the arm.
"Bruce," Dick said. "You have to say something, remember?"
Bruce closed his eyes. A few more seconds passed before he said: "Damian Wayne." The words were so quiet the wind almost snatched them away. "My son."
He put an odd emphasis on that word. It was his right, of course, but it annoyed Dick all the same. Everyone there knew he was Bruce's son. It was incredibly hard to forget.
"He struck our lives like a bolt of lightning. A brief, unforgettable thunderstroke."
That was wrong. He hadn't been like a bolt of lightning, and he certainly hadn't been brief, maybe to Bruce and Tim and Cass but not to Dick. Their time together had been long and slow, heavy even. Months and months spent pressing each other's buttons and arguing in the car and eating ice cream and visiting museums and bandaging each other's noses after a bad fight.
And he hadn't been a thunderstroke either, at least not all the time. Hadn't Bruce ever seen him sketching? Hadn't Bruce ever watched him fall asleep, a little drool (which he'd screech his denial about in the morning) spilling onto the pillow? Hadn't they played video games together? Baked together? Hadn't Bruce ever carried him up the stairs and tucked him into bed, brushing a soft fringe from a soft forehead, his face slack and peaceful and quiet?
"Now my son is gone in the blink of an eye. He was raised to inherit a criminal empire. He chose his own path. He chose to fight and die for what he knew was right. He chose to be Robin until the end."
Dick squeezed Tim's shoulder, trying to steady his breathing.
"His life was sacrificed needlessly. His death... his death will be avenged."
"Amen," Tim murmured.
Dark clouds were gathering overhead. The group broke apart, Cass and Alfred heading for the food tent, Bruce wandering towards the car. Dick let go of Tim.
"That was a nice speech," Tim said.
Dick watched as Bruce slipped into the car, the headlights springing on.
He shrugged. "I could've done better."
****
When he got to the car Bruce was in the driver's seat. Dick frowned, opening the passenger side door.
"Aren't I driving?"
"Do you want to?"
"I drove you here."
"And I'll drive you back," Bruce said.
"This is my car."
"Dick," Bruce said. "I'll drive you back."
Dick felt the itch under his skin, a warning sign of what Barbara not-so-affectionately called his Bruce Blowouts. Speaking of Barbara—she should've been here, but Bruce had arranged this funeral just for the Wayne family. That wasn't so bad for Babs, who hadn't been close to the whole thing anyway, but it had been a cruel thing to do to Stephanie.
Dick climbed into the passenger's seat and buckled his seatbelt. As the car slid down the tarmac, Dick turned to Bruce.
"Why didn't you invite Stephanie?"
"You know Damian's death isn't public."
"Stephanie's not some random civilian, Bruce. She was his Batgirl." Small drops began to fall from the sky, and Bruce turned the wipers on. "You let Cassandra come, and she barely knew him."
"Cassandra is family," Bruce said sharply. "I don't know what it is about her that bothers you, but you have to get over it."
"Don't make this about me. You're the one with some childish grudge against a girl who's never done anything to you."
"This isn't the time, Dick."
"It's never the time." The itch was growing worse. "You don't think it counts, do you? The time she spent with him. You act like your whole trip in the timestream never happened."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Never mind, then."
"If you have something to say—"
"I don't."
Bruce grunted one of his annoyed grunts. Dick slouched down in his seat, pulling his knees up and pressing his feet against the dashboard in the exact way Bruce hated.
He kept thinking about the hole. That giant, gaping hole in the ground, that vaguely rectangular hole with something in it. The first rule Mom and Dad had taught him on the trapeze was not to look down. When you were flying through the air, you couldn't afford a second of hesitation. Looking down could spell your death.
Bruce was sitting upright as he drove, stiff as a corpse. Dick tried to think of something to say that wouldn't result in a fight or a car crash, but all he could come up with was the truth. I carried him, he wanted to say. I carried him out of the building like I was his coffin. You think you lost him but I'm the one who can't get his weight out of my body.
They drove on in silence.
Until: "Dick." Bruce was starting the conversation this time, which could only mean terrible things. "I—"
"No."
Bruce's grip tightened on the wheel. "Excuse me?"
"You're the one who said this isn't the time, right? So this isn't the time."
"Stop it," Bruce growled. "I'm trying to talk to you."
"And I don't feel like talking."
"You can't keep acting out—"
"I'm not the one acting out! I'm not the one who blew up at Alfred, who left Stephanie in the dust, who goes crazy every goddamned time something like this happens. Every single time, guess who has to pick up your pieces, Bruce?"
"I never asked you to do that for me."
"You never—" Dick's ears were ringing. "You never asked? You lying fucking sack of shit, you think I took a candlelight oath to wash your fucking dishes?"
Bruce was strangling the wheel. "Stop acting like a child, Dick."
"I'm not the child here. You're the one who's stuck in the past. I moved on. I grew up. You're the one who owns a whole fucking block on memory lane, who keeps handing down my costume, my identity—"
"This is about Robin again? Is that it?"
"You brought it up first!"
"When did I—"
"'He chose to fight and die. He chose to be Robin until the end'," Dick quoted mockingly. He dug his fingers into his legs and glared at the dashboard. "You think being Robin killed him."
"That's not what I meant."
"Then you think I killed him."
The car screeched to a stop. Bruce jerked forward, breathing slowly, heavily. He stared straight through the windshield.
"If it makes you feel any better," Dick said, "I think I killed him, too."
He climbed out of the car and ran.
****
Rain was coming down in thick grey sheets, distant rumbles of thunder reverberating through the ground. By the time Dick arrived at the cemetery he was drenched from head to toe. A problem for Future Dick, who would hopefully be a little smarter than Present Dick.
The hole was still there. The hole with the mound of dirt and the gleaming white spire in front of it. Dick knelt in the grass, mud seeping through his clothes, wet and sticky and cold.
He looked down.
The coffin was small. He'd never gotten to see Jason's, a fact Bruce had once flung at him like a knife. You weren't at the funeral. People asked about you. No shit, Bruce. He hadn't been at the funeral because he hadn't even known.
This time he'd known. This time he'd been there, glass shards in his cheek, half conscious from being hurled around by the Heretic. He'd heard something slick, a boot squelching in mud, perhaps, and this wet, choked gasp. His brain had struggled to make sense of it. Whose gasp was that? Whose voice? Not his. Not Damian's.
"Damian," Dick mumbled. He pressed his fingers into the mud. "Damian. Damian."
The rain hissed his name, and the wind, and the blades of grass that Dick was ripping out of the earth in handfuls. Damian. His brother. His Robin.
The Heretic had driven a sword straight through Damian's chest, through his heart, and afterwards when Dick had carried him out of the building he hadn't been able to stop staring at the hole. That gaping hole in the fabric and it didn't make sense for there to be so much blood because Damian wasn't that big, and Dick surely hadn't bled this much when he'd been Robin, so it wasn't happening, it couldn't be happening.
Someone—Bruce—had draped the yellow cape over Damian's head. The same cape Dick had drawn around Damian's shoulders one night after a particularly bad nightmare. That night, Dick had fingered the cape and thought maybe he'd tell Damian where the colours really came from, what they really meant. Then he'd died and Bruce had draped the yellow cape over his head.
Dick bent over until he was face-down in the mud. The rain drummed a steady rhythm and he thought of Bludhaven, of rooftops and the slick, slippery sound of boots. He'd never brought Damian to Bludhaven. For the past few months, he'd barely seen Damian at all.
We were the best, Richard. No matter what anyone thinks.
Something squelched in front of him. Dick lifted his head and realised the rain wasn't falling on him anymore.
"Bruce," Dick said, looking up.
Bruce held a large umbrella in one hand. He knelt beside Dick, keeping the umbrella over Dick's head, raindrops pattering against the black nylon.
"Dick." Bruce reached over and wiped the mud from Dick's forehead with his thumb. "You're going to get sick."
"I'll be fine."
Bruce gave Dick the umbrella and shrugged off his jacket, wrapping it around him. Then he pulled Dick into his arms.
"The umbrella," Dick said, as the umbrella slipped out of his hands and rolled into the dirt.
"It will wash out," Bruce said. He rested his chin in Dick's hair as the rain drenched them both. "Do you want to say something?"
Dick pressed his face into Bruce's chest. "I can't."
"You don't have to. It's okay."
"No, it isn't."
"I know." Bruce cupped the back of Dick's head. "I'm sorry, Dick. I'm so sorry."
Dick could feel Bruce's heartbeat thumping steadily in his chest. Just a year ago, he'd have given anything to feel Bruce's heartbeat. He'd have given anything to look up into the eyes of a man who'd known him longer than anyone else in the world, who'd taught him everything he knew, and pour his stupid heart out. Say something like, I can't believe you left me. Something like, I'll never forgive you. Something like, I'm sorry. Come back. I miss you.
Dick wiped the mud and rain off his face and said, "let's go home."
****
It was Bruce's car this time, parked by the gates. Bruce slid into the driver's seat and Dick took his place in the passenger side, and it was almost like he was thirteen again, rambling about some television show on the way home from Amusement Mile.
"You really went all the way back to change cars?" Dick put his feet up on the dashboard, relishing the flicker of irritation in Bruce's eyes. "Admit it, Bruce. You like being petty."
"I'm not being petty. I just have better control over my own car."
"Mine drives better."
"Yours," Bruce said, accelerating gently, "should've been impounded years ago."
Dick pressed his cheek to the window, the glass cold to the touch. "We're getting the seats all wet."
"It'll dry. Take your feet off the dashboard."
"Make me."
Bruce reached over and grabbed his foot. Dick, grinning, pretzeled himself so he could kick Bruce's arm with his other foot.
"You should know better than to try that with an acrobat."
Bruce grumbled, letting go. Dick pulled his feet off the dashboard, giving Bruce a thrilling second of victory, before plopping his shoes onto Bruce's lap.
"Dick," Bruce said, eyes twitching.
"Bruce," Dick said innocently.
Bruce sighed, but didn't make any move to shove him off. Dick was now sitting with his back against the door, legs stretched across the gap between their seats. He found himself memorising Bruce's profile: the three soft lines around his eyes, the wrinkles in his forehead, the curve around his mouth. Bruce would never be old to him, not really, but he was a lot older than the Bruce that still lingered in Dick's mind.
And—he looked like Damian. Of course Dick had always known Damian looked like Bruce, but this was the first time he realised Bruce looked like Damian, too.
"Did he..." Dick cleared his throat. "Did Damian ever show you his drawings?"
The wrinkles in Bruce's forehead smoothed over. "Yes, he did. He was incredibly talented."
"Wasn't he? He could draw really realistic flowers, I remember. He loved drawing those roses in the kitchen."
"And his anime characters, too."
"Anime characters?" Dick blinked. "I—didn't know he drew those."
"It was a recent thing." A smile crossed Bruce's face. "He was always annoyed when I didn't recognise them, but you know how I am with pop culture."
"Yeah, you're a dinosaur."
"He liked this one anime. I don't remember what it was called, but he said I wouldn't get it. He... thought you would like it, though."
Dick swallowed. "Yeah. I probably would."
He shivered. Bruce switched on the heater.
"Dick," Bruce began, in a tone of voice that raised Dick's hackles. "I haven't—forgotten."
"What?"
"My time away from Gotham. I know it was an unpleasant time for you."
Dick let out a hoarse laugh. "That's one way to put it."
"I hadn't planned on things turning out the way they did, but—"
"Oh, I know. You didn't want me to be Batman."
"That's not—" Bruce winced. "I didn't, but—"
"I get it, Bruce. I really do."
Bruce shook his head. "No, I... it wasn't because I didn't trust you. It's just that you're meant for more than Batman. I thought, if I left a message, that you wouldn't feel obligated to put on the cowl."
"And what? Leave Gotham without a Batman?"
"There were others who could've done it."
"Who? Tim's still so young, and you sure as hell don't mean Jason. So who—" Dick stiffened. "Cassandra?"
"She was one possibility. She—"
Dick snatched his legs back, curling up in his seat. "I know, Bruce. I know I did a terrible job, but I tried, okay? I thought you were dead. I thought—"
"What?" Bruce looked horrified. "No, that's not what I'm trying to say. I don't think you did a terrible job."
"You wouldn't know, though. You never saw me."
"I did." Bruce took a deep breath, keeping his eyes on the road. "I came back before I announced myself. I saw you and Damian in action, and... I was impressed. With your skills, but also how you worked with him. He was happy. Comfortable. I couldn't have done that."
"But I made so many mistakes with him. Terrible mistakes."
"You still got through to him. You—you amaze me, Dick. All the time. I took you in because we were the same, but you still turned yourself into something better."
"No," Dick said. "We weren't the same. I had you."
Bruce blinked, hard. He jerked forward and pressed a button on the dashboard. Dick jolted as a familiar song began to play through the speakers.
"No way. "Rock Rush"? Is this the Giantess' second album?"
"The deluxe edition."
"God, I used to play this all the time, remember? I thought I lost this years ago. Where'd you find it?"
"Damian found it in the attic."
"Damian?" Dick's eyebrows shot up. "He's into rock?"
"Just this album. He started listening to it after I told him it was your favourite." Bruce turned the volume up, glancing at Dick. "He missed you."
Dick's vision went dangerously blurry. "He was such a good kid, wasn't he?"
"The best," Bruce said.
The throaty voice of the Giantess' lead singer rasped over an electric guitar. Dick had bought the regular album on his own, but the deluxe version had been a gift from Bruce.
"I didn't mean what I said earlier," Dick said. "About you going crazy. That wasn't fair."
"That was completely fair. I'm not exactly the picture of mental health, as we both know."
"Yeah, but—"
"No buts. I never... After Jason—" Bruce's voice hitched the tiniest bit. "—After Tim entered our lives, I swore I wouldn't do what I did then. It would be unfair to everyone, especially to you. Maybe I do leave you to pick up the pieces. I'm trying... I'm trying not to do that this time."
"You don't have to. I mean, don't go off the rails or anything, but I—we're partners, Bruce. I'm always here to help."
"You shouldn't have to do that."
Bruce didn't get it. The first rule Mom and Dad had taught him was not to look down, but the first lesson—the very first thing he'd ever learned—was how to jump. How to catch someone, and how to let himself be caught.
Nothing Dick did could ever pay Bruce back. Everything he was, Bruce had given him.
"I want to," Dick said.
The car swerved close to the forest, darkness falling over them from the trees. Dick leaned against the window and closed his eyes.
"Will you tell me more?" He asked. "About what he's been into lately. After I left."
"Well, anime and manga are the main things. He also loves Pictionary, and he's recently gotten into baking cookies with Alfred. Oh, and it feels like he puts 20 hours a week into "Cheese Viking"."
"He's still into Cheese Viking?" Dick laughed. "He beat that game, like, two months after he became Robin."
Bruce chuckled. "What was he like, at that time?"
"Not the easiest person to get along with. He had the unnerving ability to pinpoint your biggest insecurities, and he had no qualms letting you know it. But he was... I mean, he cared so much. It broke him up, the first time he failed to save someone. And he loved the GMA. We went around 4 times a month, I swear. His favourite exhibit was—"
"—The Zoo," Bruce said. "He always dragged me there first."
"Your inner art nerd probably loved that. He was—a lot like you."
Bruce hummed. "Every time I drove him back home, he wanted to sketch what he'd seen in the car. So he always, no matter how many times I told him not to, turned the map lights on."
"I bet that pissed you off," Dick said, grinning.
"A little. Mostly, it just reminded me of you."
The car pulled into the driveway. Bruce shut off the engine, cutting the song short. Dick opened his eyes and felt exhaustion flood through his limbs.
"Dick?"
"You go on ahead," Dick said, slumping against the door.
"I told you you'd get sick."
"I'm not sick."
Bruce sighed. He got out of the car, came around the hood, and opened Dick's door. "Come on."
"In a sec. Let me nap here for a bit."
"You'd have a much nicer nap in a real bed."
"Obviously." Dick peered at him, opening his eyes wide. "Maybe you could carry me?"
Bruce let out a louder, more long-suffering sigh, but he bent down and scooped Dick up anyway. He felt a little bad for Bruce's back, but if he thought about it as strength training he didn't feel too bad. Bruce carried him up the stairs and dumped him onto his bed.
"Go to sleep," Bruce said. "If you have a temperature tomorrow, I reserve the right to say I told you so."
"You're so mean," Dick said, yawning. He crawled under the covers. "Bruce?"
"Hm?"
"Thanks."
Bruce tucked the blankets firmer around him. "Anytime."
****
Dick did, in fact, have a temperature the next day, and Bruce did, in fact, say I told you so. Not that Dick heard much of it—his head was pounding too hard, and everything was too hazy. He came to a semi-lucid state as Alfred was changing the cloth on his forehead.
"This sucks," Dick groaned.
Alfred wrung out the old cloth, looking at him disapprovingly. "Then perhaps you should not have run out into the rain, Master Dick."
"Lecture me after I get better."
"Master Damian never gave me this much of a headache."
"Now you're just lying." Dick rolled around, trying to find a cooler spot on the bed. "Hey, Alfie."
"Yes?"
"Do you think Damian knew I loved him?"
Alfred put the cloth down. "Why would you think he didn't?"
"I never said it." Dick's mouth was dry, and his eyes felt hot. "I mean, to his face. And I left him."
"Master Dick, you did not—"
"I did, Alfred. Might as well say it. Can't take it back now."
"You did not leave him," Alfred said, pressing the new cloth to Dick's forehead. "You returned to your own life, but that does not mean he wasn't part of it. And as for your question—I think, if you were honest with yourself, you would know."
He left, shutting the door. Dick slipped in and out of consciousness, mind wandering over memories and fragments of dreams. Him and Damian in front of the fire, roasting s'mores. Damian silhouetted by sunlight as he sat on the windowsill. Him and Bruce running across the rooftops, yellow cape flaring out behind him. Bruce kneeling down and tying his tie.
He dreamt of the rain and the hole in the ground. He dreamt of Batman and Robin. He dreamt of someone coming into his bedroom, brushing the hair from his forehead, and whispering something he'd remember in the morning.