The Fishbowl

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/36052258.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Category: Gen
Fandom: Batman - All Media Types
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick
Grayson & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Barbara Gordon &
Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & Alfred Pennyworth, Stephanie Brown &
Dick Grayson, Cassandra Cain & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Dick
Grayson & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne
Characters: Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, Damian Wayne, Jason Todd, Tim Drake,
Stephanie Brown, Cassandra Cain, Alfred Pennyworth, Barbara Gordon,
Donna Troy, Roy Harper, Wally West, Slade Wilson, Clark Kent
Additional Tags: Past Rape/Non-con, Past Child Abuse, Abuse, Emotional/Psychological
Abuse, Physical Abuse, Gaslighting, Victim Blaming, Past
Relationship(s), Unreliable Narrator, Self-Harm, Dissociation, Attempted
Sexual Assault, Racist Language, Fish, Fish Puns, POV Dick Grayson,
Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, Dick Grayson is Damian Wayne's Parent,
Emotional Manipulation, Good Older Sibling Dick Grayson, Swearing,
past non-con is because Catalina Flores, Angst, Family Drama,
Hurt/Comfort, Sibling Bonding, Recovery, discussions/references to
prostitution, Romani Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson is Not Okay, but he's
"fine", thanks for asking
Language: English
Series: Part 1 of The Fishbowl
Stats: Published: 2021-12-30 Completed: 2022-05-14 Words: 141,925
Chapters: 10/10
 The Fishbowl
by LordLuxury

Summary

Dick’s goal for Thanksgiving (code named Operation F.I.S.H.): A family outing to the
aquarium.

It feels achievable - everyone has been getting along better lately, Jason is spiraling closer,
Cass is coming home. But there is a lot of unspoken hurt in every direction, and Dick’s own
position in the family is shakier than ever since Bruce returned.

If Dick wants to realize his dream of family bonding, there will have to be many painful
conversations between all parties. Dick’s own secrets will need to surface, the ones he has
long kept submerged, the ones he will fight to sink forever.

(Or: Where Bruce is just a bit darker, even less emotionally available, and treats everyone a
little worse, and how they all fix their family anyway.)

Notes

Hello World! :)

This is a story about domestic violence, slow paradigm shifts, and recovery. There is going to
be significant introspection and reflection. A lot of the "action" of the plot is really dialogue.
However, there will be depictions of abuse, darker than canon. It is entirely from Dick's POV,
and he is an unreliable narrator. This may make other characters seem distorted or worse, but
remember that there is always more to the world than what is being shown. Bruce in
particular comes across fairly flatly as a jerk here.

If you are looking for healthy family relationships, this is not the story for you. While we are
gunning for a happy ending, nothing comes for free and the characters are going to sweat for
it.

Mind the tags. Dick has a lot of comorbid trauma (ie. prior rapes, unintentional self-harm)
that will come up, so be careful about what triggers you.

Setting: Some things are canon, some are not - the changes should be reasonably explicit.
This takes place around half a year after Bruce's return from the time stream. Dick teaches
gymnastics in Bludhaven, which has not been destroyed (yet). Jason is around, collaborating
sporadically with the rest of the Bats. As a disclaimer, we know VERY LITTLE about the
Teen Titans and will handle their appearances with care and ignorance.
 And to a specific someone (you know who you are): HI MOM

See the end of the work for more notes

 Nightmares and Daydreams

“The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure he never knows he's in
prison.” ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Nightmares and Daydreams

“Get back here.”

Dick’s steps falter, but he doesn’t slow his pace as he makes his way to the shower. The
Nightwing suit is sticking to his back, and he can feel dirt falling out of his hair. The rest of
his data set input can wait until he’s not actively leaking mud. Besides, Red Robin and
Spoiler are also in the room, maybe Batman isn’t even talking to him.

Although, if Bruce is using that tone with someone else, maybe Dick shouldn’t just walk
away...

He is almost to the door when something hard clamps down on his arm and whirls him
around.

“Ow, what the f-”

“Dick.” Batman’s cowl is now inches from his face. Dick is too tired to flinch, and holds
himself still.

“B, let go,” says Dick, swallowing his anger and pride at being manhandled like a child.
Bruce’s hand is still wrapped around Dick’s arm and Dick tries to pull free but the grip only
tightens, restraining him. He feels a wild urge to defend himself, for simply trying to shower.
“We’ve been working for hours. I’m just going to shower, grab something to eat, then I’ll be
right back.”
“Grab me a hot chocolate!” Steph calls from across the cave.

“No. That data is time sensitive. Tim needs the results to complete his search. That has
priority right now,” Bruce growls, and from up close the sweat is strong and Dick really
wishes Bruce would get changed too.

Dick wants to be peaceful, really. Only, it has been almost three hours since they returned
from a tense showdown at one of the hotels linked to the latest human trafficking cartel case.
Bruce has involved the entire family in this one. The case has been going on for months now
and should have been wrapped up today, but this night revealed a more insidious fifth root of
the operation that will drag the case out for weeks by Dick’s estimate. No one is happy
tonight, least of all Bruce.

So, Dick gets it, he really does. Bruce wants him to finish entering the data to run the
algorithm on location prediction, which will help Tim track from there. It’s important to be as
fast as possible - with human trafficking, time is always too short.

But: it’s 5:03 am. Dick has already completed three sets and only has one more to enter. The
program takes hours to run and won’t be ready for the last set anyway until 8:00 am. And it’s
Monday morning; Dick wants to be back in Bludhaven to teach a class at noon.

And Dick is dirty, hungry and tired, and now he really needs to pee.

Another part of Dick that he would never voice aloud whines that the Red Hood went home
right after the mission with zero hassle from Batman. But Dick knows that if Bruce had tried
to force Jason to stay they wouldn’t have seen the Red Hood again for weeks. Besides, Jason
can smell angry Bruce from miles away and knows exactly how to make himself scarce. Dick
doesn’t begrudge him this talent, recalling his violent reception after his resurrection. And
Damian isn’t here, is probably going to be upset to miss all of this case work, even boring
computer input. Dick knows that Damian has a test tomorrow and loudly complained before
heading to bed at a reasonable time. It’s likely for the best that they aren’t here. Alfred has
entered the cave every hour on the hour since they returned; each visit he stares
disapprovingly and then pointedly talks about the time, but Bruce has firmly refused to allow
anyone to leave yet.
Sometimes, Dick wishes he was out of the country with Cass. This is definitely one of those
times.

“It’s five am, Bruce, I-,” Dick turns and glances across the cave, where Stephanie is helping
Tim comb through the case files related to the four different organizations they had already
apprehended, searching for hints related to the fifth. Tim’s eyes are glued to the screen,
though whether he is actually processing information is a mystery. Tim, Dick is fairly certain,
has not slept in days. Bruce has been pressuring him on both the Wayne Enterprises and Red
Robin fronts.

Stephanie is watching Dick and Bruce with interest, and she gives a small wave when their
eyes meet and mimes drinking hot chocolate. Dick almost snorts.

Bruce grabs Dick’s jaw and forces him back to meet his eyes. His irritation is clear. Dick
starts speaking before he can get rebuked.

“Come on, there’s no point in me punching numbers in now, the last set won’t be finished for
hours,” Dick can’t remember how to talk to Bruce when Bruce is angry and he’s not, but he
knows he needs to make Bruce not angry. He tries bargaining, softening his voice. “I'll be
fifteen minutes tops. Then I can help you monitor alerts, divide and conquer. I’ll take the
annoying media ones even to protect your sensibilities,” He offers a tired, commiserating
smile.

Bruce remains unchanged. He pulls Dick closer to him. “You need to take this seriously.”
Dick’s heart pangs because seriously? Seriously? Dick has spent more time in Gotham than
Bludhaven lately for this case, dropping everything. Dick starts to protest but Bruce
continues. He sounds frustrated; it must be at Dick. “You have a responsibility to this case,
after that sloppy entry tonight. If you had called for back-up sooner we wouldn’t need to start
from scratch with running the search. But now we’re behind, and playing catch up.”

How unfair. There were a thousand reasons they had failed to close the case tonight. Bad intel
from Red Robin, Jason’s poor interrogation methods, Bruce’s own rush to finish the case.
Dick could have recognized the threat sooner but blaming it solely on him was just rich. He
feels the old anger stirring, familiar from every time Bruce has questioned his competency.
“But we had bad intel. And you -”
“It doesn’t matter anymore, Dick. All that matters is getting that information as fast as
possible. Because of our actions tonight, hundreds of victims continue to be at risk. I’m not
asking you to be perfect Dick, I’m just asking you to be better.” And Dick… can’t argue with
the stakes, as his shoulders sag. His heart is heavy for the trafficked souls that slipped out of
their grasp. And Bruce isn’t wrong, he made a bad call in the field.

He opens his mouth to say the words that taste so familiar now it’s like he has swallowed
them before. The words he has gotten used to, an easy diffusion to most painful situations.
“I’m sorry, B.”

He allows Bruce to drag him back to the computer. His whole arm is numb by now; he
doesn’t even feel it when Bruce finally lets go and steps away from him, settling back at his
own computer. In fact, maybe his whole body is numb now, except for his gut, which is
churning. He automatically starts to enter data again, just with his right hand, his left arm not
responding well.

There is a squeak of a chair from across the room and Stephanie says, “Well, I’m not crucial
right now, I think Tim could do this research in his sleep. He might even be asleep right
now.” A muffled squawking sound, strikingly similar to a sharply-poked maybe-asleep Tim.
“I’m going to grab that hot chocolate! Anybody else want one? Tim? Dick?”

Dick can hear Tim mumble an assent. Dick turns to meet Steph’s eye. She is standing at the
bottom of the stairs now, waiting for his reply. She is too far away to read into her expression
but there is something searching in her gaze, like she is testing him. Dick is pretty sure he
smiles. The thought of eating anything now makes him nauseous. “Actually I’m not that
hungry after all, thanks Steph.”

Steph frowns like he failed her mystery test but her wave is breezy enough as she bounds up
the stairs with more energy than reasonable at 5:00 am. College students.

Dick turns back to the computer. The cave is silent save for three separate keyboards clicking.
His arm throbs in time to the strokes. Just another hour. He’s almost done.

--------------
Dick wakes up to sunlight streaming in through his window. He is in his old bedroom in the
manor. He had finally crawled to bed at 8:00 am and set his alarm for 10:00 am. He feels
better rested than two hours of sleep warrant, though.

Suspicious, Dick reaches for his phone on the side table and curses when he sees the time.

It’s 3:05 pm.

He bolts upright and frantically starts to get dressed, feeling suddenly terrible. He wants to be
dependable, hears Bruce’s voice saying you need to be better. He bites back the irrational
panic, scrolling through contacts on his phone until he finds his gymnastic manager’s name.
He hits the call button.

The phone rings once, then Carol’s voice. “Hello? Dick?”

“Hey,” he says, slightly breathless as he struggles to pull on sweatpants. “I’m so sorry I

missed the noon lesson. I can head out now and I’ll be there for the 4:30 class. I must have
slept through my alarm and -”

Carol’s laugh cuts him off. “Woah slow down! Dick, hey, it’s okay. Your dad called this
morning and said you wouldn’t be able to make it today, maybe not for a few days.” Bruce
what? “Listen, I’ve got to go, but I hope you feel better soon, okay? Let me know when
you’re up to classes again. Can’t have our best gymnast sick for long!” Her voice is soft and
teasing before she ends the call, but Dick can tell she is telling the truth. Bruce really called
her.

Bewildered, Dick stares at his phone, then checks his alarms. All disabled. He was sure he
had set them this morning. And he was sure he had told Bruce he was heading back to
Bludhaven this morning.

Dick is pretty sure he knows exactly what is happening. The human trafficking case is far
from over, and Bruce wants him to stick around to lighten the load. He feels some anger
mixed with dread rising up now that the panic is gone. If Bruce thinks he can casually excuse
Dick from his own job, his life in Bludhaven, well; he would need to be set straight. Dick is
already packed to leave the manor. Dick and Bruce just need to have a chat before he heads
home.

Dick slips on a worn t-shirt as he stumbles through the bathroom. It’s fluorescent orange,
advertises a local food stand, and is designed to piss off his family members with darker
clothing tastes.

Which is all of them really, but he’s targeting Bruce right now. He’s no Jason Todd, but he
can irritate Bruce when he wants to.

He checks his phone. 3:15 pm. Alfred will be out collecting Damian from school. Tim should
be asleep, but realistically is either at Wayne Enterprises or Titans Tower. Bruce is either in
his study or the cave.

He is about to leave when he glances in the bathroom mirror and freezes, noticing dark finger
rings around his arm, darker than he remembered this morning. They stand out grotesquely
against his tanned skin. Dick stares for a moment and slowly lifts one hand to trace the bruise
with his finger. He doesn’t feel anything, just a bit of emptiness to hollow out his simmering
anger. He notes distantly that Bruce must have been really angry last night; this doesn't
usually happen anymore. It probably won’t help the conversation to flaunt Bruce’s… issues
in his face, and Dick doesn’t like the reminder himself. He bemoans this development as he’ll
have to hide his t-shirt choice, but the lime green sweater he pulls on over top is almost as
good. He leaves his room.

The manor is quiet except for his footfalls as he searches for other life forms. The kitchen is
empty. Dick hasn’t eaten today, but he needs to confront Bruce now, before he loses his
nerve, so he moves on. Empty library, empty office. Dicks sighs internally, knowing that the
Batman will be where Dick expects him to be when Alfred isn’t around to chase him out, and
heads to the cave.

Bruce doesn’t look up from the computer even though Dick pointedly makes his tread heavy.
At least it really is Bruce, who has forgone the cowl and armor for suit slacks. Perhaps he
was doing Wayne Enterprises business earlier. Dick wonders if he has slept at all. There is a
half empty coffee mug next to a stack of files.

“Hey B,” Dick greets, going for casual, but even he can hear the steel undercurrent.
Bruce must pick up on it as well because he actually looks up. His eyes tighten when met
with the neon green brilliance of Dick’s sweater, and Dick takes time to be petty-proud.
“Dick. I trust you slept well.”

Dick narrows his eyes, jaw clenching. “Oh, yeah. About that.” He slams his fist down on the
desk next to Bruce, scattering the files. “What the fuck , Bruce!” It comes out louder than
he’d meant it to, and he fights to control his volume as he continues, “Why the hell did you
turn off my alarm? Why did you tell Carol I was sick? I told you I was going back to
Bludhaven!”

Bruce frowns at the files falling to the floor. He sighs as he bends to pick them up, like he
doesn’t have time for this. Like talking to Dick is a nuisance, like he doesn’t think they
should even be having this conversation. Dick stands there uselessly for a moment, watching
Bruce pick up his mess. “Calm down, Dick. You’re overreacting. Right now, you are needed
here more than in Bludhaven. The gymnastics school doesn’t need you to go on. And you
need to sleep if you’re going to be of any use to me, to the mission.”

Dick had been hoping Bruce would feel a little guilty about his actions, but apparently not.
He is also a little hurt at the insinuation that he is wasting his time at the gymnastics centre.
He ignores his tiny sense of self-preservation that sounds a lot like Barbara saying he needs
to diffuse. Maybe he is out of practice since Bruce died and then didn’t die, because he wants
to have this fight.

He grinds his jaw and forces out, “You. Do not. Make decisions for me. I have my own cases
in Bludhaven I’ve been letting sit for weeks to help you here and you could try being thankful
instead of controlling -,” Dick cuts himself off. “Anyway, I need to get back. I just came to
say goodbye. This mission isn’t going to be over anytime soon, so I’ll see you next
weekend.” He starts to move away but Bruce catches his wrist and Dick feels a déjà vu from
last night that he can’t shake. Two days in a row is abnormal, usually he knows better than to
provoke Bruce so frequently, but today? This fight feels inevitable.

“Dick, stop. Don’t exaggerate, your Bludhaven cases can wait, there’s nothing urgent.” Dick
opens his mouth to argue but Bruce squeezes hard and it takes Dick’s breath away for a
second. Bruce’s eyes dare Dick to interrupt as he growls, “Let me finish. I know what you’re
doing. You’re upset that I interfered with your civilian commitments and you want to hold me
accountable by leaving anyway. I understand. But you need to understand what’s important -
we are on a timer. People’s lives are at stake while you waste time teaching toddlers how to
tumble. You can’t leave now.”

“Fuck you,” Dick hisses, rage still intact, but his thoughts are swirling now. He knows this
case is important, he knows, but surely Bludhaven needs him too? Surely Bruce can see that
Dick needs his independence like he needs to breathe. “I’m going to Bludhaven, and I’ll
come back when I want to.”

It happens fast. One second Dick is matching Bruce’s glare and the next he’s staring at the
computer monitor, his cheek stinging, his neck sore as the rest of his body tries to follow.
Bruce’s vice grip holds him in place, along with the words, “Richard John Grayson, stop
acting like a child.”

Bruce sighs again, and this time Dick feels it break through his own anger to stab his heart. “I
am disappointed that you need it explained to you like this. That you came to me looking for
a fight, when it’s already done. Think of your siblings, they can’t shoulder this alone. You are
needed in Gotham for this mission for the foreseeable future. And that is final.” He shakes
Dick before releasing him and Dick steps back, rubbing his left wrist. It’s the same arm, he
notes distantly.

“A week,” he says, but he’s not sure if it’s really him that says it. “I’ll stay a week.”

Bruce shakes his head. “That might not be long enough. Two weeks at least.”

“A week for now,” Dick doesn’t know why he is insisting on this pretty poor compromise,
but he is struggling to find control. He’s floating. If not these words, he’ll wind up
apologizing and he is trying hard not to give in. “We’ll reassess.”

Bruce is watching him carefully. “Alright. I’ll reassess in a week.”

Dick can’t talk about this anymore. So he nods, stiffly. He wants to bury their fight in normal
conversation. It’s easiest when they both move past these episodes as quickly as possible. Get
it together, Grayson.
He looks at the computer for inspiration, notes that Tim must have finished consolidating
after Dick went to bed. Who knows how long that took. Poor Tim - Dick feels a sudden
certainty that it should have been him doing the extra mission work, thinks bitterly that it’s
not like he had anywhere to be today after all.

He asks neutrally, “Where’s Tim?”

Bruce is silent for a moment, like he is mentally boarding the next train of their conversation.
He does that a lot with Dick. “He’s sleeping. Wayne Enterprises can wait for a day. I need
him mission ready tonight.”

Dick hums, neither approval nor disapproval. “And have you slept?” He prods, glancing at
the coffee mug.

Bruce looks like he wants to roll his eyes but restrains himself. “Don’t parent me, Dick.”

Dick, finally, manages to find a grin. “Alright, alright, I’ll leave that to Alfred, but I don’t
want to deal with your crankiness if he starts using underhanded methods!” Hopefully Alfred
uses some methods soon. A tired Bruce is, obviously, volatile.

“I’ll try to restrain myself,” Bruce says dryly. “Damian should be home soon, why don’t you
go inform him that you’re staying?”

Dick knows a dismissal when he hears it, but he is too much of a coward not to feel anything
but grateful for the escape. He salutes lazily and walks himself out. “Aye, aye captain! See
you at dinner.”

Bruce goes back to typing before Dick has reached the staircase. Dick allows himself until he
reaches the top stair to compose himself. He can’t help feeling frustrated. He and Bruce had
been good for months, even during this stressful case. Why now could he suddenly not keep it
together? It has been harder these last months since Bruce returned, harder than it was before.
But at least Bruce is fighting for him to stay this time. Bruce wants him. Still, perhaps Dick is
losing his touch. Or maybe, a small, traitorous voice whispers in his mind as he steps through
the door, Bruce is losing his.

----------------

Dick takes a long and scaldingly hot shower, spending the entire time psyching himself up for
another week in the manor. This is a good thing, he reasons. Tim is around so he can work on
their relationship, which has improved painstakingly slowly since he initially apologized for
taking Robin but is still more distant than Dick would like (and maybe Bruce is right, if he
has been neglecting Tim, maybe he should spend more time in Gotham). And Damian will be
thrilled. By the time Dick has finished turning himself into a tomato, he can hear voices in
the manor. He checks his face in the mirror. He is entirely red, no distinguishing marks.
Good. Bruce didn’t hit that hard and Dick had turned with the motion; the swelling is
minimal. He might not even bruise. His wrist is a different story, but his lime green sweater is
back in place.

He enters the kitchen to a pleasingly domestic scene. Damian is sipping tea at the counter
while regaling Alfred with the shenanigans of his plebeian classmates. It’s a scene Dick
knows well, from that year where Bruce was gone and almost everything was terrible, but
this was one of the few bright memories in a sea of dark and grey. The only difference is the
priceless heirloom countertop that has served countless Wayne generations in place of the
sleek ultramodern newness of the penthouse.

Dick slips up behind Damian and waits for him to set the tea cup down before scooping him
up and whirling him around. He feels Damian tense, then relax when he realizes who it is.

Ah, the delightful shrieks of a child. Ow, the fists of a tiny assassin.

“Hello Master Richard,” Alfred greets him over the screaming, affection clear in his voice.
“So nice to see you are still with us.” There is a question in his statement.

“Hiiiiiii Alfred,” Dick sings while still spinning his captive. “I couldn’t bring myself to
leave!”
“Put me down, Richard!” Damian hollers, beating at his back halfheartedly. Dick counts to
five, slowly, before setting Damian back at the counter. He takes the stool next to him.

He grins, leaning on one elbow to get closer. All negative feelings from an hour ago recede as
he basks in the presence of his favourite kid in the world. “Damian. How was school?”

“It was not worth my time. Why are you here?” Damian questions hesitantly, avoiding eye
contact. “You said you were leaving today.”

Dick is ready for this, after his shower pep talk. “I’m going to stick around a little longer,
maybe a week,” he says casually, “This is a pretty big case. And I wanted to spend some
more time here when I have you to myself before Thanksgiving!”

“I trust you’ll need my help on the case then,” Damian says self-importantly. “You will be
here all week?” Damian glances up, looking hopeful, but he frowns when he sees Dick’s face.
“Why are you so red? It was not sunny today.”

“Damian, you need to be very careful with the showers here,” Dick says seriously, leaning in
further to bestow wisdom. “The hot is very hot.”

Alfred meets his eyes and nods sagely at this profound statement, eyes twinkling, and Dick
laughs at the camaraderie.

Damian honestly rolls his eyes. “Richard.” Then softer, “You need to take care of yourself.”

Dick decides it is time Damian finished his story to Alfred. “What’s this about a weasel?”

Damian huffs. “It was a rat. And it was very misunderstood, but that imbecile James …..”
And he is off again, recounting the woes of elementary school. Dick listens intently, Alfred
quietly preparing another pot of tea nearby.
Dick feels a pang of loss, remembering a year ago when it was just the three of them and
such a scene was normal. He misses this. He feels bad missing such a difficult time, when
Tim hated him, Jason was off the rails, and Bruce was dead, but there were some very good
moments with these two people in front of him. He sits back, accepting a cup of tea and
trying to soak up the moment with his family as much as he can.

The moment morphs when a human slug slides into the kitchen and oozes onto the stool
furthest from their tea party. Tim blinks groggily from his blanket cocoon, rapidly assessing
where the coffee is located.

“Damian,” Dick stage whispers around his teacup, mollusc comparison in mind, “What
species is that?” There is a little bit of trust in making this joke, trust that it will not be turned
into something it is not, made cutting and cruel. It is something he never would have offered
even several months before. But Damian has been doing so well, exchanging what Dick
knows to be playful banter with Steph on patrol and, on one memorable occasion, delivering
a veiled compliment that had Dick doing a double-take.

“The common pest,” Damian replies, which is... not as bad as it could have been. “It is an
invasive species.” Ouch. Dick shoots Damian a reproachful look, which Damian pretends to
miss while carefully twisting his teacup’s handle.

But Tim doesn’t seem to notice or care about the insult. He does make a noise of indignation,
only it is directed towards the teacup Alfred smoothly places before him. “Alfred,” he
whines, “You’re killing me here.”

Alfred adds a plate with two toast slices next to the tea and raises a brow. “Once you have
consumed this meager sustenance, you may have coffee. I have just begun a brew.”

Tim looks like he is struggling to choose between accepting defeat or retreating to the illicit
instant coffee stash in his closet. Dick glides over and steals one of his toast slices before he
can decide. Dick mumbles around a mouthful, “We’ll share, thanks Alfred.”

Tim seems to accept this and begins eating in silence. Dick continues to make small talk with
Alfred as Damian pulls out some homework at the other end of the counter. Damian normally
studies in his room, but if he wants to be near then Dick is happy not to say anything. It turns
out that Alfred has taken up fruit carving as his newest and very respectable hobby. Dick
oohs and aahs over an apple turned into delicious delicate leaves.

Tim doesn’t speak until he has finished an entire cup of coffee. Then he turns to Dick.
“You’re still here,” he observes.

Dick turns to Tim with a smile already in place and waits. Alfred graciously pauses his
demonstration of fruit carving technique, incidentally sparing an innocent tangerine.

Tim then raises an eyebrow, a still facade but mind obviously calculating. All he ends up
saying is, “Cool.”

Cool. Dick chooses to be optimistic about this response. He stretches out, swinging his leg up
onto the neighbouring bar stool. “I’m sticking around for a week to lend a hand on the case.”

Tim nods, fingering the blanket around his shoulders absently. “I’m not surprised; Bruce has
me pulling back from Teen Titans. This one means a lot to him.” And oh, Dick feels for Tim,
being pulled away from his friends, a team he is responsible for leading. When Dick was
leading the Titans, that would have rankled.

Tim must see some thread of pity Dick feels in his face because he adds, “It’s not a big deal.
Everyone is happy for some quieter downtime over the next weeks before Thanksgiving.”

“It’s okay to be disappointed when you can’t see your friends,” Dick says earnestly, and Tim
acknowledges the sincerity with a nod and a small, commiserating smile. Two brothers, stuck
right where Bruce wants them, as always. But, it wasn’t so long ago that Tim was escaping
whatever room Dick walked into. And - ignoring the part of him that dreads (knows) that
they will never be the same, will never have what they used to - Dick is pretty certain that
they are getting to a good place. This week may be a blessing after all.

“I know that, but thanks.” There is some fumbling within his blanket and then a laptop
manifests on the counter.
Dick dramatically gasps and points at the device, “Concealed carry!”

“It has now been revealed, relax.” Tim then ignores him and starts opening files. Dick doesn’t
recognize them from the case; they look Wayne Enterprise related. Dick transfers his focus
and studies Tim. He is pretty sure the darkness beneath his eyes isn’t natural, just chronic.
The blanket burrito makes him look so young, and Dick desperately wishes he could order
him back to bed, or to his friends, somewhere he can relax. But Dick hasn't been able to tell
Tim what to do for a long time now.

So Dick grins instead. “Well, I’m looking forward to a week of hanging out with my adorable
little brothers!”

Then, while Tim is distracted and immobilized by his blanket, he swoops in for a hug that
lasts only a microsecond, because if Tim were to stiffen or pull away at his touch it would
hurt, and in this Dick is a coward. He warps over to a bar stool next to Damian before Tim
can react. From safely across the island, all Tim can do is shoot him a dirty look, but Dick is
already interrogating Damian about his marine biology project.

Oh, yes. His brothers need more of his attention. An extra week home will be good.

--------------------------

Dinner is a successfully pleasant affair. Alfred has managed to wrangle Bruce out of the cave
to sit down with them. Dick keeps the conversation light. He watches Bruce and Tim interact,
but if Tim holds any resentment for being kept from the Titans it doesn’t affect his treatment
of Bruce. Dick takes this as his cue to forgive and forget as well, if his little brother isn’t
bothered at all.

Like the universe balancing the difficult trials of last night, patrol is blessedly smooth as well.
They pair off to scout hotels implicated in the human trafficking ring and Dick gets paired
with Damian, to their mutual delight. And afterwards, Jason even comes back to the cave
briefly and mentions something about saying hi to Alfred before he disappears to the shower
to get changed.
Tim and Dick and Stephanie make intense eye contact and gesture furiously - Steph mouthing
alternate reality repeatedly - before they all just play it very cool. It is not unheard of for
Jason to pop by but it’s not common, especially not out of costume. The Red Hood may work
with the Bats occasionally, but Jason isn’t showing up for Wayne family movie nights. He
will stop by for Alfred, and he will take Dick’s calls; it is uncertain if he is planning on
coming for Thanksgiving this year in a couple weeks.

It was a good night. Bruce agrees that they can break for refreshments before getting back to
business. Steph gleefully calls out, “Last one to the kitchen forfeits fruity marshmallows!”
before shoving Damian (who squawks) as she races after Jason for the showers.

Dick helps Damian up only to bodily throw him forward, propelling him past the now
sprinting Tim. Then he chases after them, more slowly. He knows Alfred won’t subject him
to marshmallow-less hot chocolate, even if he settles for the non-fruity kind.

“What the hell? What’s with the crowd?” Jason calls from the shower, unnerved at the sudden
ruckus in the change room.

“Race to the kitchen, no fruity marshmallows for the loser,” Tim summarizes while throwing
off his mask.

“No marshmallows for you, Drake,” Damian pronounces with relish, already in his shower.

“No fruity marshmallows?” Jason muses. “Lame stakes. Those taste like trash, everyone
knows regular is superior.”

“Fruity is delicious!” Dick protests from outside. He is waiting his turn and wondering for the
first time why they only have four change rooms. Or a better question: why they still had four
change rooms back when it had just been himself and Bruce.

“Goldie, your opinion is forfeit - you think Lucky Charms is flavourful when its flavour is
literally just sugar.” There is a general hum of agreement with Jason from beyond the doors,
which, really? Younger siblings are traitors, every single one of them.
“Sugar is a real flavour! If you don’t care about fruity marshmallows, let me have your
shower,” he reasons, eager to get out of last place. He doesn’t really expect anything, but
Jason’s door opens almost instantaneously, like he was just waiting for the signal.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Jason drawls, stepping out in the same clothes he was
wearing before but his hair is wet and he is holding his helmet. “And since I was done
anyways.”

“Give up, Dick! You can’t catch up!” Stephanie calls from somewhere to his left.

“Never!” He is already half out of his costume as he heads past Jason, pulling his arms out of
the sleeves when Jason makes an odd noise. Dick glances up and tracks Jason’s gaze to his
left arm.

“What happened?” Jason pitches his voice low, meant for Dick only.

Dick spends a second examining himself, letting his brow furrow as though he can’t recall
what happened, like it didn’t matter. There is dark bruising around his wrist and a ring higher
up as well. He lets out a little laugh, barely a breath. He speaks very deliberately. “Oh, got
that in the chaos of last night. My entry was careless.”

His words are close enough to the truth that Dick tells himself he doesn’t even feel that bad.
More specifics aren’t an option, have never been. He doesn’t need to drive a wedge into
Jason and Bruce’s fragile bridge, which Dick has poured so much into helping build between
them.

Jason doesn’t look convinced, still staring hard. “Really. Why are you still here tonight
anyway? Not heading home? I thought you were running back to Bludhaven this week.”

Dick can’t help but shift to hide the bruise from sight. He nods with a regretful look on his
face and tells more obscured truths. “Really. It was bad luck, and we can't all pull off armored
leather, you know. And I’m sticking around to help out with the case. It’s gone on long
enough, and it’s important to wrap it up.”

“But - what about your classes? You lo- I thought they were important to you, and face it: this
case isn’t wrapping up soon.” And Dick catches his breath at how gentle Jason’s voice is
suddenly, at the overwhelming warmth that roars up within him that Jason Todd cares enough
to remember that Dick teaches gymnastics classes.

“Priorities, Jay. Lives are at risk.” He matches Jason’s gentleness. He tries a grin, cocking his
head to indicate the doorway Jason is blocking. “Speaking of priorities, If I don’t get in that
shower right now I might as well forget about marshmallows, Jay. Don’t do that to me.”

Jason glances one more time towards Dicks arm, but eventually he snorts and shakes his
head. “You’ve got some shit luck, Dickie-bird.” But he moves to let Dick pass.

Despite Dick’s best efforts, by the time he slides into the kitchen in sock feet and crashes into
the counter, all of his siblings are accounted for. Jason is standing next to Alfred, likely for
his own emotional protection from the scary domesticity of the moment. Dick is pleased to
note that he too clutches a mug.

Tim is on the closest bar stool, calmly taking a sip of hot chocolate and barely checking on
his oldest brother flat on his butt below him.

“Oh no, are you okay,” Tim asks, monotone. And Dick knows he makes a lot of terrible jokes
but come on, Tim is obviously the comedian of this family.

“Hey loser,” Steph greets, no sympathy at all as she tosses back her drink in one large gulp.
Probably for the theater rather than thirst, because that hot chocolate must burn. “No
marshmallows for you!” Her hair is still dripping from her hurried shower.

On the stool furthest from Tim, Damian is watching him intently with a frown. “Get up,
Grayson.”
“Just leave me here,” Dick lies down dramatically. “Without fruity marshmallows, there is no
point rising to meet the day.”

“It is clearly night,” Damian protests.

“Why is Dick on the floor?” Everyone looks up to see Bruce walk in, freshly showered. He
walks casually over to where Alfred has lined up the hot chocolate mugs and selects a
beverage.

Dick can’t believe this is happening. Has he done something incredibly good, to deserve his
entire family drinking hot chocolate together? If last night was a nightmare, Dick is now
waking up in a fairy tale.

“It’s where he belongs, where no fruity marshmallows can reach him,” Jason mutters darkly,
but he is speaking out loud in a room that also contains Bruce, and Tim laughs, so Dick
doesn’t care. He scrambles to his feet.

“Hey now, that was a hasty call, the real loser is now among us!” He rushes past Bruce to
grab a mug of hot chocolate and intercepts the fruity marshmallow bowl. “Last one to the
kitchen forfeits fruity marshmallows, B. Sorry for your loss.” He says feelingly, and gives
him a sympathetic half hug. Bruce allows it, watching him bemusedly. Dick internally
congratulates himself on the positive physical contact.

He ignores his siblings' protests that vary from “Grayson, stop” to “that’s disgusting” and
“Are you an animal?!” as he tips the entire bowl of remaining fruity marshmallows directly
down his throat.

He grins once he is certain he won’t choke and makes a show of smacking his lips.
"Delicious.”

Steph applauds. Jason rolls his eyes. Tim’s cough sounds suspiciously like “diabetes”.
“You could have choked,” Damian accuses, “You are a land creature. You need to breathe.”

Dick comes to sit next to him, pulled magnetically by the force of his own affection. “Land
creature huh? How’s that harbour restoration project coming?”

Damian perks up. “It is proceeding according to schedule.” Dick has seen this schedule; it is
three double sided pages of meticulous bullet points, Damian’s indomitable will for the next
three weeks given physical form. “And the sections pertaining to ancient and near-modern
breeds were trivial, as expected. I am already well into analysis of current harbour life.”

Here there is a minute pause, and Dick wonders if it screams insecurity to everyone else the
way it does to him. “In commemoration of recent cleanup attempts, the Gotham Aquarium
has put up a temporary exhibit on local marine life. Nothing I have not found elsewhere, of
course.” It is said with a purposefully insouciant air, the tone perfect for making observations
one is indifferent to, and Dick melts. Because.

Damian wants to go to the aquarium. Going to the aquarium is suddenly Very Important to
Dick. As important as keeping his family together.

“Man, I haven’t seen a live fish in ages,” Steph notes. The eye contact she makes with Dick is
significant. “Unless you count this one squid at a sushi bar that I swear begged me for help.”

And just like that, he knows exactly what needs to happen. God bless Stephanie Brown.

“I haven’t been to an aquarium in a decade, but definitely best civilian field trip by far,” Dick
muses, plowing straight through Damian’s incensed correction of a squid is not a fish, it is a
cephalopod, you ignorant- with a prudence born of long exposure, “I wonder if they’ve
added any new fish lately.” He straightens up and looks around, capturing everyone’s
attention simply by adjusting his body posture. “You know, I’ve been thinking really hard
about Thanksgiving. I think this one’s going to be special for obvious reasons, namely since
we’re all here. But what if we did something together, just as civilians?” He wants to say
family but the connotations may read as pushy to Jason and exclusive to Steph. “I propose:
Thanksgiving with the fish - let’s go to the aquarium. Just for a morning, or an afternoon.” He
glances at Damian who looks ready to object out of obligation. “For science,” he amends.
“I can’t think of anything I’d rather do this Thanksgiving than check out the live action
version of Finding Nemo with you people,” Steph agrees readily. Seriously, God bless
Stephanie Brown.

“I suppose it could be minorly beneficial for my research,” Damian says, carefully neutral.

“Wait, for real?” Tim frowns and looks to Bruce. Bruce is scrolling through his phone,
hopefully idly but probably vigilante research. “Are we sure we’re not going to be - busy?”

“Tim, I know you’re important, but you can spend half a day admiring fish,” Steph gives him
a little poke in his side and he jumps. Still ticklish then.

“Tim’s right, we can’t schedule a block of time, there’s no telling what emergency could
happen, and this case may still be ongoing -,” Bruce begins, but Alfred the Hero cuts him off.

“Actually, Master Bruce, an afternoon at the aquarium sounds like the perfect way to
celebrate Thanksgiving. It shall get you all out from underfoot for enough time for me to
prepare a fitting meal. I will put it in the calendar and make the necessary notifications to
inform the appropriate colleagues of your appointment,” Alfred meets Dick’s eyes and nods,
two soldiers in the never-ending fight to force this family to bond. Bruce, Dick’s most
difficult opponent, has just been defeated before he could enter the battle.

“You should come too, Alfred,” Jason says suddenly, “To the aquarium. We could have the
Thanksgiving meal the Friday night, aquarium on Saturday.” Dick files away this new
information that Jason is confirmed attending Thanksgiving and interested in coming to the
aquarium.

They traditionally celebrate Thanksgiving dinner on the Saturday, but it can be shuffled for
the sake of a miraculous family gathering.

“Excellent point, Jay; Alfie, you are a part of this too,” Dick agrees, and again, the family is
silent but implied. “Besides, Cass flies in the morning before, we can definitely move the
meal to Friday.”
With a few minor protests from Alfred, who is consoled when it is agreed that he shall make
a fantastic brunch spread prior to the Thanksgiving meal on Friday and will pack homemade
food to eat at the aquarium on Saturday, it is decided.

Steph leads the conversation down a pathway discussing how she personally relates to Nemo,
and Damian cuts in with information about how realistic Nemo is.

“You know we definitely need to watch Finding Nemo to prepare,” Dick insists, and thus
they plan a movie night after the Friday Thanksgiving meal.

“Cass is going to love this,” Steph says, texting furiously, and Tim hums in agreement. “I’ll
let her know.”

Dick’s phone chimes with a notification from the Batman-associates group chat, Steph
advertising their aquarium plans. There is a quick response from Barbara, saying she won’t
be able to make it this Thanksgiving (Dick already knew that; she has family plans), but that
she strongly votes YES and they had better follow through with satisfying photographic
evidence. Cass must be sleeping.

Dick is elated. Making family plans to hang out is almost as good as actually hanging out,
and right now he is doing both. He throws an arm around Damian and tugs him closer as the
conversation moves on to Tim’s history with pet goldfish, and whether Spongebob has any
basis in reality. And suddenly they have plans to watch Spongebob together.

Fifteen minutes later, Damian heads to bed, Steph and Jason head out, and Tim and Dick
follow Bruce back to the cave.

-----------------------------

Cass responds in the morning with enthusiastic emojis. Dick is excited for her return,
knowing that Steph will likely stick around the manor the entire weekend if Cass is here. It
will be good to see more of both of them. Dick spends some time during the day ironing out
details for their aquarium plans with Alfred until he is certain this is going to be the most
perfect nautical-themed Thanksgiving ever.

It is late afternoon, just as Dick is finishing warming up in the cave’s gym when his phone
rings on the floor beside him. He leans out of his split to flip it over. It’s Donna Troy. He
presses the speaker phone immediately and pauses the blasting pop music.

“Hey there, you’ve reached your biggest fan,” he answers with a smile. “What could I
possibly do for you?”

Donna laughs, and the room feels brighter. “Oh, what a coincidence! I’m your biggest fan! Is
it ever good to hear your voice. Would love to see your beautiful face, too,” she teases.

“I think I can arrange that,” Dick replies, rolling onto his stomach and resting his elbows on
either side of the phone as he turns on the video. He is careful to keep his wrist out of view.
Donna’s face appears. It has been a while, but talking with Donna is as natural as breathing.
“How are you?”

There is a thoughtful pause, some motion off screen, and when her answer comes her voice is
rich and warm. “Good. Really good.” There is some banging; it sounds like a pan. “Tell me
you’re free next Monday?”

“I’m always free for you,” He says automatically, no matter how untrue they both know it is.
Donna Troy. Dick’s heart aches with how long it has been since they last hung out.

“Right, silly me, I must have imagined you skipping out on Halloween, and on board game
night, and -”

“Okay, okay,” Dick cuts in quickly, not prepared to listen to his many failings as a friend.
“For real, though. What’s Monday?”
“Monday night. We’re doing a Thanksgiving-Wally’s-birthday-old-Titans-get-together, Star
City, Wally’s place,” Dick is used to the run-on event names; in their line of business they
need to combine a lot of special occasions because it’s hard to find time to celebrate the
mundane things. “You, me, Wally, Roy, and Garth, maybe even Victor and Rachel depending.
Kory’s off world.” A decent turnout, considering. Dick has complicated feelings about Kory’s
absence but it’s nothing new.

“That’s not fair, Wally’s birthday was ages ago, I literally already gave him a present,” Dick
protests for the sake of being stingy.

“You’re rich, you’ll be fine,” Donna dismisses.

“Well, I’d love to come, I just need to run it by B first,” he says, already planning. He is at
the manor for the next week, maybe longer, but surely he can take a night off to go to Star
City. He’s still prioritizing the mission.

There is silence on the line. Then, “Why do you need to ask Batman?”

And, oh. That is hard to explain for reasons Dick is not comfortable exploring. He settles for
the cold, hard mission facts: “I’m in Gotham for the week helping with a big case, been going
on for months. B is kind of relying on me here, I can’t just dip out on him.”

“But why do you need his permission to come to a party? You can’t focus on months-long
cases with no breaks,” Donna insists, and Dick abruptly remembers how weird all of his
friends are about his relationship with Batman. He is suddenly restless, picking up the phone
to walk in tight circles.

Dick is careful about his response. It is a little awkward that, when pressed, he finds it hard to
articulate why he needs Bruce’s approval to go to a party he has every right to attend. It was
difficult enough back when he was sixteen and still, legally, in Bruce’s care, but he is an adult
now. He has been making his own decisions for years. Dick knows there is no actual reason
he needs to put his life on pause for this mission, it’s not like it’s a mass Arkham breakout or
super villain chaos. But Bruce has asked him to stay, and he has spent more than a decade
stumbling after that kind of acceptance in Bruce’s life, in his family. So.
“I want to come,” Dick says quietly, spinning himself in a circle. “But I can’t just disappear
for a day. Not if they need me.”

Donna doesn’t say anything for a moment, but she doesn’t have to. Not when they have
played through this scene as often as they have. Dick is almost grateful in that moment that
he can’t see her face; she is still off screen, and Dick can hear the faint bubbling hiss that
comes with pan frying.

He is about to break the silence again himself, with something more apologetic and
promising, when Donna speaks. “You know I love you, Boy Wonder,” she says, and Dick’s
own mirrored reply is immediate and no less true for having been completely instinctual.

And Donna, what did Dick do to deserve her, moves on. They talk for a while about her new
apartment, and Dick gets the virtual tour, including the unveiling of the pancakes that had
been cooking just out of view. He fills her in on Damian’s most recent forays into marine
biology and what he has begun referring to in his head as Operation F.I.S.H. (short for Family
Imperative Sea-world Hangout). When they end the call, Dick doesn’t move for a minute,
letting the echo of Donna’s laughter soothe something in him he didn’t know was hurting.

If there is a little anxiety in the pit of his stomach at the thought of bringing up Monday to
Bruce, no one has to know. He goes back to stretching. He doesn’t turn the music back on.
 Fathers and Sons
Chapter Summary

In which Wayne Manor is not big enough for everyone.

Chapter Notes

Happy New Year, dear readers!!

(Wow, I haven't updated this story since last year - haha. Ha.)

See the end notes for specific chapter warnings, though everything is in the tags.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“When you're born in a burning house, you think the whole world is on fire. But it's not.” ~
Richard Kadrey, Aloha from Hell

Fathers and Sons

Dick feels like he has seen this argument before.

“It is just a scratch. Pennyworth is more than capable of dressing a simple flesh wound. I will
be fully functional for patrol tomorrow,” Robin is insisting. The flesh wound in question
really is minor, a scrape over his shoulder, but the blood on his uniform can’t be helping
Bruce’s agitation.

It is the wee hours of Friday. Three days since Dick spoke with Donna. Another week until
Thanksgiving. Bruce said he would reassess his need in Gotham this weekend, whether Dick
needs to stay longer.
Dick still hasn’t asked about leaving on Monday.

Regular patrol tonight was interrupted by some supervillain action - an associate of Professor
Pyg. The Bats are for the most part physically unscathed; Robin’s shoulder is the worst of it.
All told, it was an easy take down, but they lost time on the Big Case, and Batman is
frustrated with the setback. Irritation is plain in the set of his shoulders, rigid like a wall and
blocking Robin’s escape. The other Bats are scattered around the Cave, mostly headed to the
showers, and Red Hood is just mounting his bike to head out again. Dick had taken off his
mask and been on his way to the showers but is now hovering near the conflict, trying to
gauge what sacrifice is necessary to prevent the impending explosion.

“Robin, your presence will not be required on patrol tomorrow,” Batman growls. “You need
to heal, and review protocol.”

Red Hood must not be leaving so quickly because Dick hears a faint, “You need new
material, old man”, but Dick is focused on Damian right now.

Leave it to Batman to turn his worry into a dismissal for his equally emotionally stunted
progeny to ruminate about for days. Resentment festers in Dick’s chest. How dare he.
Damian has been doing well, and the kid needs to trust that his performance will be
rewarded, not punished. This will set him back, and there will be consequences.

Damian hisses indignantly, exactly like an outraged kitten. He pulls off his mask before
whirling to stalk towards the medical bay where Alfred is waiting. “Do not be ridiculous.
This does not affect my combat abilities. I will perform my duties perfectly on patrol.”

“Robin, get back here!” Batman thunders, moving to pursue like an avenging storm cloud.
The Dark Knight indeed.

Yes, Dick has definitely seen this argument before, and he doesn’t like the next scene. He
moves to intervene before he is even consciously aware of his feet propelling him into
Batman’s path. He comes back to himself the moment Batman slams into him, stumbling to
catch himself. Batman must have seen him coming, could have stopped in time, but there is
always some reason, some lesson with Bruce, too subliminal for Dick to guess at motives for
his actions. So like usual, Dick stumbles and Bruce lets him.
He is facing down Batman now, the cowl’s scowl directed at him like it has been plucked
from a fear gas nightmare that he will never let himself dwell on. He has been in this position
often enough, but it never fails to give him a thrill of danger. He lost his taste for this kind of
fight over the years, with every additional body count added to their family, to his pile of
Things He Can’t Lose. But this is fine, it’s for Damian. “Batman, go easy on him. He’s barely
even wounded, and he took down the gun threat admirably. The bad guy’s in jail. It was a
good night. He’s fit to patrol.”

Batman pushes past him, but Dick grabs his arm and gets dragged along until Batman slaps
his hand away. “Stay out of this, Dick!” His voice is loud, the sound beating down on Dick’s
confidence, but Dick used to yell a lot too. “If he had followed instructions, he wouldn’t have
been anywhere near the gun to begin with. He shouldn’t be in the field until he learns to
listen.”

Dick wants to roll his eyes. Like Robin was seriously going to just head back home when
Oracle had informed them of the supervillain in the area. He raises his voice a tad. “He made
a good call, B! He was closest to the coordinates, he assessed the situation, and he didn’t
engage until he had backup. He did a good job.”

Was Dick very proud of Damian tonight? Yes, yes he was. Damian doesn’t deserve all of
Bruce’s complicated frustrations being piled onto his perceived mistakes. Maybe Dick
doesn’t deserve it either, to constantly be caught in Bruce’s crossfire, but his priority right
now (and always) is Damian.

It is silent in the cave. Dick doesn’t notice until an alarm chimes; it’s the tone that signals a
non-urgent message from a League member.

Batman glances at the computer before he finally turns to confront Dick directly, stepping
into his space. Damian has stopped on his way to medical, watching the exchange in perfect
parade arrest. His foot twitching towards escape betrays his nervousness. “I don’t need your
assessment of the night. Robin is benched, Nightwing. Stand down unless you’d like to join
him.”

Dick swallows. Sometimes when the decision is already made for you, the only choice left is
to say yes instead of no, so it becomes your choice. “Actually, I think that’s a good idea -
taking a night in.” Dick says carefully, tracking the shift in Batman’s stance at the indirect
insubordination. “Robin and I can monitor comms and run some of the old reports through
the simulator, see if we can find some new connections.”

Batman’s cowl glares at him for a moment. “Fine,” Batman rules, and Dick internally relaxes
at the mercy. “But you prep them tonight.” And he is gone, striding off to check the computer
notification.

Running the reports is tedious work, but someone has to do it, and it keeps Damian involved
in the case; besides, having Dick join him will make him happy. Plus this could ease Dick out
of participating in the case altogether, which could mean he will never have to bring up his
Monday plans at all. This is a win, Dick reasons with himself. He just wishes that his wins
with Bruce didn’t always feel so pathetic.

He is interrupted from his musings by Jason’s dry voice, “Volunteering for paperwork on a
night off. Only you, Goldie.” Dick isn’t deluded enough to believe he says it fondly.

The whole conversation couldn’t have lasted longer than a couple minutes, but Dick feels like
he has just been released from death row after Bruce left him standing there. Dick takes a
breath he hadn’t realized he had been delaying and looks around. Damian hasn’t left his spot
by medical, Tim and Steph are standing at the shower room door, and Jason managed to put
his helmet on but has yet to turn on his bike. Everyone is staring at him.

Jason’s helmet is inscrutable. Tim is frowning, and Steph mouths, are you okay?

Dick does the only thing he can think of in the moment. He sweeps one leg backwards and
dramatically bows. It’s safe, since Bruce’s back is turned.

He hears Steph snort loudly, and Jason’s, “Always a fucking show,” before an engine starts
and a bike speeds out of the Cave. By the time Batman glances up to check on his flock, Dick
has his arm around Damian and is guiding him to medical, gushing a mile a minute about
how he’s looking forward to having more hangout time with his favourite youngest brother.
Now that it is Dick who has his back turned, he can’t see Bruce’s expression sour into a
frown as he watches Dick walk away with his son.

-------------------------

The moniker “Operation F.I.S.H.” is polarizing in the group chat. Dick challenges himself to
defend his choice through a string of relevant gifs and emojis, a sort of virtual interpretive
dance. Jason, the leader of the opposition, fights back with brutal stickers and gifs. In the end,
the chat is won over to Dick’s side by Cass’ emoji prowess, and Operation F.I.S.H. is
officially a go (fish. Ha.).

Dick raises a fist in victory from his position lounging on his bedroom floor, feet dangling on
his bed. Despite the lively group chat debate, Dick hasn’t actually spoken with any of his
siblings since last night, when he had been focused on distracting Damian from his father’s
disappointment. It’s not quite dinner yet, which leaves a perfect window of time for him to
test the waters of his and Tim’s relationship.

Dick hasn’t been avoiding Tim this past week, and as far as he knows the same is true of Tim.
And so it’s a little sad, Dick admits to himself, that outside of meals and casework, despite
living under the same roof, their paths during their meager spare time have just… never
crossed. There has been no casual seeking out of Dick’s perspective on a new find, no
dragging him into a TV series binge, and Dick hasn’t reached out either. They are both
swamped with Bruce’s case, plus Tim has his WE responsibilities, but that shouldn’t mean
they are too busy for each other. The brotherly bonding begins today, Dick decides. Now he
just needs to find his elusive brother.

It’s a short trip down the hall to knock on Tim’s bedroom door. “Come in,” Tim calls. Well,
that was easy.

Dick sticks his head through first, then lets his body fall in after. “Hi Timmy,” he greets.
“Whatcha doing?”

Tim’s room is bipolar - his desk is freakishly neat and organized down to the pencil
orientation, but his bed is barely visible beneath the piles of notebooks and clothes scattered
over its surface. It’s impossible to tell at first glance how many layers of chaos have made
their home amongst Tim’s sheets. It is here in the pandemonium that Tim dwells, cocooned in
another blanket ball, laptop inches from his face. Dick suspects he wears pajamas. Tim looks
up when Dick enters.

“Heya,” he says. “Just perusing the budget proposal for Wayne Enterprises’ marketing
campaign.” Which, ew. Tim shifts over slightly, and maybe he’s just shifting because he’s
stiff but Dick takes it as an invitation to burrow next to him, dislodging a few notebooks that
crash to the floor. Tim doesn’t look bothered by their fall, so Dick decides they weren’t
important.

“Budget proposals will age you prematurely,” Dick prophesies sagely. “Where are the
memes?”

Tim smirks and switches tabs. The screen is immediately replaced by an episode of a comedy
show, paused halfway through. “I thought you might be Bruce,” he apologizes.

Dick laughs. “Oh, much better. I haven’t seen this episode! Restart it?” And Tim obliges.

They spend a companionable half an hour getting caught up in the fictional, predictable
drama. The main character’s love interest reminds Dick an awful lot of Jason, and Tim’s look
of horrified fascination when Dick reveals this has him laughing harder than the show. Dick
feels more relaxed now than he has in days. As the theme song plays out the end and the
credits roll, Dick turns to Tim, a joke on his lips, but he stops at Tim’s strange expression.

“Something wrong?” he asks easily, jostling Tim gently with his elbow.

“You know, you don’t need to overcompensate for anything,” Tim says seriously.

Dick blinks. “Uh. Thanks?”

Tim’s mouth twitches up into a tiny smile at Dick’s confusion. He rushes his explanation like
it’s too awkward to hold in his mouth for long. “I mean, it’s just that I can tell you’re trying.
Really hard. To be a good brother? Or whatever you think you need to be to me, and to
everyone else. And I just wanted you to know that you don’t need to do that with me.”

“You… don’t want me….to try to be your brother?” Dick says slowly, the words painful to
speak.

Tim winces. “No, no! I meant, like, you are a good brother, or whatever.” His voice gets
delicate, and Dick doesn’t know if it’s to protect Tim or Dick. “You don’t need to prove it to
me. I already know.”

“ Tim,” Dick says, and he puts all of his feelings in the naming. His gratitude, for the words
he didn’t know he needed to hear, didn’t think would ever be said out loud by anyone, let
alone Tim, whom he suspects might still harbor some resentment from Dick ripping Robin
away from him. Still, maybe Dick is a sucker for pain, but he has to know, so he presses,
“You’re not still mad at me for ….last year? I did a horrible, no good, very bad thing to you.
And I - I’m so, so sorry,” He manages to choke out. Honestly, why is Dick bringing this up,
does he want Tim to remember to hate him? But he can’t help himself. They never really
talked about it, after his hasty apologies in the chaos of Bruce’s return, and the guilt never
truly left him alone. Dick of all people knew what it was like to be kicked out of Robin, to
have your identity given to another without your consent.

And now he has pushed their happy hangout into an uncomfortably serious conversation.

“Not mad at you for - no, I,” Tim says quickly, but then he actually thinks about it before he
says again, measured, “No, I was mad. Ripping away my identity was really shitty.”

The flat way Tim pronounces this makes Dick wince. “I know,” he agrees, trying to make it
sound remorseful.

“And you wouldn’t listen to me,” Tim continues, old frustration bleeding through. “You
wouldn’t talk to me about it, just kept saying it was ‘for the best’,” - air quotes -, “And I
know you meant it was the best for Damian, it’s obvious he’s doing better now and he loves
you, but what about me? You took Robin away from me, Dick. That hurts.”
Ouch. Does Dick ever know how much that can hurt. Bruce giving Robin to Jason behind
Dick’s back had felt like Bruce ripping off Dick’s face and sewing it onto someone else. If
Dick shared his own history with Tim right now, he is pretty sure they could bond. But then
Tim might be mad at Bruce, and that would upset their family’s balance, and it has been so
precarious these days.

(And what if Dick told Tim and Tim thought Bruce was justified? What if Dick is just making
a big deal about an inconvenience to himself? Dick doesn’t think he could bear it.)

Lately, Dick has come to slowly realize he has really dropped the ball with Timothy Drake.
The boy who always seems to find a way to keep going no matter how impossible the odds,
so everyone forgets he is human too. Dick channels the level of focus he reserves for
defusing bombs. “Taking Robin away from you behind your back was horrible. We should
have discussed it.” A pause, then gently, “But giving Robin to Damian was right.”

Tim laughs bitterly. “Always Damian.”

“Tim, listen to me,” Dick says seriously, twisting to face him properly. “You are very
important,” to me, he wants to say, needs Tim to know, but this is about more than that, “You
are strong; you are a leader. You outgrew Robin, like we all do. You were ready for the next
step. I’m sorry I pushed you off the stair instead of helping you up.”

It’s about support really. Dick can only hold up a finite number of people before he breaks
himself. Tim has always seemed so stable alone, but appearances are deceiving in this family.
Dick reaches out a tentative hand towards Tim, vowing to start now.

“I know that’s what you think,” Tim says carefully. “I still don’t completely agree.”

“Well, if we had talked about it, if we’d had time -”

“That’s always the problem,” Tim notes, voice practically monotone for how deliberately
emotionless he keeps it. “You didn’t talk to me first. We don’t talk enough.”
“We’re talking now,” Dick says quietly.

“A bit,” Tim says, but it’s dismissive.

“Oh,” Dick says, a little disappointed. He doesn’t know what to say next, but he knows he
should be cautious where Tim’s feelings are involved, when Tim basically just told Dick he is
still mad. But what did Dick expect, an epiphany where Tim suddenly values Damian the
way Dick does? Where Tim can read Dick’s mind and just know how much Dick loves Tim,
even when Dick accidentally burns him all because he can’t seem to make the best decisions
for everyone at the same time?

(This is why Dick prefers that if anyone is going to get hurt, please, let it be himself.)

Tim sighs deeply into the silence.

“Look, Dick, I know you’re stewing right now so just stop. I might not agree with you, but I
understand you. I’m not mad at you anymore. But ....I was, for a long time. It was hard, you
know? Bruce’s ...disappearance was difficult for all of us, and then it felt like you’d betrayed
me. And then gave up on me, which was even worse. And we never talked about it, even
now.” A pause, and it feels like an accusation. “I didn’t deserve it. But you regret it now.” He
sees Dick’s grimace and continues before he can protest. “I know you don’t regret giving
Damian Robin, but you didn’t mean to rip away my identity and tell me you didn’t need me
anymore.”

“I need you. I definitely need you.” Dick agrees heartily, nodding with vigor.

Tim snorts and shakes his head. “I know, Dick. That’s what I’m saying. So you don’t need to
act so careful with me anymore.”

Dick sits there for a moment, absorbing. Lately all of Dick’s disagreements have ended in
hurt, so he is a little surprised, how Tim can both disagree with him and still be so civil. More
than civil, so kind. Tim has grown so much; the Titans have been good for him, just as Dick
is sure that Tim has been good for them. Poor Tim - it’s too bad he is stuck in Gotham so
much now. “That’s very big of you. Thank you.” He swallows a lump in his throat. “I love
you, Timbo.”

“Love you too.” The only family member who will say it back. His cocoon contorts as he
stretches. “Great, well now that that’s settled -,” Tim starts off in what might be an imitation
of Dick’s own usually jovial tone, but halfway through he seems to panic when he sees how
dangerously wet Dick’s eyes are. He yanks his laptop back into place and slams his finger on
the mouse. “Next episode?”

Tim seems to feel that something has been resolved here. Dick, on the other hand, feels sort
of like he has been ripped open, still in shock that they talked about this at all and left feeling
like there is more that needs to be said. But the moment is gone.

Dick’s laugh is a little strained, still trying to recover from the conversational whiplash.
“Definitely,” he agrees. “I bet you two of Alfred’s cookies that there’s a kiss in the first ten
minutes.”

“You’re on,” says Tim, and he shoves Dick amicably as the show starts. That should be the
end of it, but because Dick has, as Jason would put it, shit luck, Tim pushes directly on a
bruise and Dick is both relaxed and surprised enough to flinch from the pain.

“Oh sorry, are you okay?” Tim asks, pausing the episode and leaning over to examine Dick
with a frown. “What happened there?”

Dick is wearing a t-shirt Barbara gifted him, hot pink with a sprinkle donut on the front. It
reveals his forearms; from this angle his bruises don’t have a distinctive shape, but they are
still noticeable, and Tim clearly notices.

Dick waves off his concern. “Leftover souvenirs from Sunday night. I don’t even notice them
anymore, except for when little brothers bully me.” He shoots Tim a playfully reproachful
pout, then turns meaningfully back to the show. “Come on Timmy, those Alfred cookies are
mine!”
Tim gives Dick the same searching look that Jason had during the shower race. Dick just
pouts childishly and stares longingly at the laptop, willing them to move on. He can out-
stubborn Tim, he is certain of it.

Eventually, Tim hits play.

-------------------------------

Dick is back in his lime sweater by dinner. It’s Friday, so Damian is extra miffed about no
patrol tonight, but he still gets all of his homework done swiftly. Dinner is quiet; Bruce is
brooding as he has been since last night and is best left alone to his lasagna. Damian, it
seems, has decided to express his anger at his father with silence. Dick wants to tell him that
giving the Bat the silent treatment is an exercise in futility, but sometimes these lessons need
to be learned by practice. At least Tim is still in the relaxed mood left over from their
frivolous afternoon, although Dick can see his walls closing as the evening progresses. It’s
too bad he and Damian aren’t ready to be vulnerable with each other yet, but an older brother
can dream.

Alfred informs them generally that he will be making pies tomorrow morning and Dick
enthusiastically volunteers to help out.

“Dick, there is no way Alfred needs your help to make pie,” Tim states.

“Then why would he explicitly tell us a time and place for the event?” Dick challenges.

“So you can make yourself scarce,” Tim explains, fake pity on his face. “He’s being polite.
And practical.”

“No way! Alfred wants me. Alfred, tell Tim you want me,” Dick demands.

“I would be pleased for the assistance if Master Richard is inclined to provide it,” Alfred
agrees formally. “Or if anyone else were to be so inclined, for that matter.” It’s an open
invitation to spend quality time with Alfred. Dick can use this.

“Alright! We have to seize this opportunity guys, or you’ll regret it for the rest of your lives!
Perfect Saturday activity,” Dick looks at both of his little brothers hopefully. Damian is still
silently picking at his vegetarian lasagna, mostly uneaten. Tim looks uncertain. Neither is
convinced. “It will be fun, a morning of deliciousness and bonding,” Dick lures. He leans
forward conspiratorially. “Zero downsides. What could go wrong?”

“I don’t know if I’ll be awake -,” Tim begins, but Dick isn’t done with his ad campaign.

“Don’t make Alfred babysit me by himself,” Dick continues, and Tim smirks a little. So
close, just another push. “Come on, you can come in pajamas, there won’t even be a dress
code!” Dick turns more specifically to Damian. “And Damian, it’s really excellent fine motor
practice, we can -”

“Dick, stop trying to make your brothers do something with you they’re not interested in,
you’re wasting their time,” Bruce speaks for the first time since sitting down at the table.
There is an edge to his voice, though he’s talking at a normal volume. Dick knows better than
to take the quietness as an indication that all is well. Bruce’s attention is on his plate as he
takes a bite, heedless of the mess he just made.

There is an awkward silence.

Dick is a bit taken aback by Bruce’s abrupt words, hurt even. He knows Bruce is likely upset
about something entirely unrelated - he usually doesn’t interfere in their petty bickering - but
still. The rebuke is uncalled for, in Dick’s opinion, and everyone seems to share his stunned
silence. Tim’s eyes are wide with surprise. Even Damian glances towards his Father, brow
furrowed. Alfred is staring at Bruce with clear disapproval, but if he criticizes Bruce right
now Dick is not certain anything good will come of it. The moment is fragile, and Dick is
worried that the slightest pressure could shatter the superficial peace and plunge them into a
nightmare. What is Bruce looking for here? He must tread carefully; thankfully, he has
always had excellent balance.

Tim looks at Dick, who shakes his head. So Tim says nothing.
Dick opens his mouth, then closes it. He closes his eyes, then opens them. Then he says,
“Right, sorry.” To his brothers, “I’m sorry guys, I was pressuring you. Tim’s right; Alfred can
handle those pies with his eyes closed.” There is no reaction from Bruce, who keeps eating.
Dick smiles at Alfred, willing him to move on.

Alfred is still frowning at Bruce. “Master Bruce, I would appreciate the help and company
from any of the young masters, and yourself included.”

Bruce finally looks up. “Thank you, Alfred, but I don’t think I will have time for pies
tomorrow. This case is ramping up.” Bruce knows Alfred disapproves of cave-talk upstairs,
but he ignores it now as he pushes his empty plate away. He meets Dick’s eyes and then
pronounces very deliberately, “I need you for a moment, Dick. If you’re done?” He phrases it
like he is waiting for Dick’s response, but he is up and out of the room before Dick can reply.

There is half a lasagna left on Dick’s plate. Dick leaves it to hurry after Bruce, shrugging at
Tim in a what can you do? sort of fashion. Tim’s response is to stare back, still a little miffed,
but now tinged with a wary concern that does nothing to calm Dick’s nerves.

“I’ll catch you guys later. Thanks for dinner, Alfred,” he calls over his shoulder as he follows
Bruce’s footsteps.

Dick finds Bruce waiting in his study. He must have sat down at his desk only moments
before Dick appeared, but he gives off the permanence and belonging of a statue, staring
Dick down like he is trespassing. The illusion makes Dick freeze in the doorway for a
moment, uncertain suddenly whether Bruce had wanted him to come now; maybe he is not
supposed to be here after all.

“Come in Dick, don’t hover,” Bruce’s voice breaks the spell and Dick feels safe to walk in
now that he is following a direct command. He comes to perch on the corner of Bruce’s desk.
He swings his legs for something to do.

“What’s this about, B?” Dick asks.

Bruce holds his gaze for a moment. Then he sighs. “We need to talk about Damian,” Bruce
says, and Dick blinks.

“Yes,” he agrees instantly.

Bruce’s words are unexpected, even though they are the same words that have been circling
Dick’s mind for the past six months since Bruce returned and Damian transferred caregivers.
This conversation has been a long time coming, and Dick has been working himself up to
broach the topic with Bruce. Really, he should have brought it up ages ago. It is obvious they
are both uncertain about the boundaries of their relationships with Damian and therefore each
other, so they shy away from the edges of their roles. It makes for a narrow path for growth,
and it has become painfully clear that, left unaddressed, it is a path they won’t be walking
down. It’s not fair to the poor kid in the middle when neither of them address their issues.
Dick is self-aware enough (about some things) to know that Bruce isn’t the only one who has
been avoiding this - Dick is unspeakably grateful that he himself doesn’t have to bring it up.
Dick is a wimp about things that pain him emotionally, but he has to be stronger. For Damian.
Picturing Damian in a healthy, balanced family is the only thing that has him saying his next
words.

“I think we need to talk about us too,” Dick continues, and he might sound hesitant but at
least he got the words out of his mouth. They taste a bit stale, like they have sat for too long
unsaid and don’t have the same kick that they should.

They are clearly uncomfortable to hear as well, because Bruce grimaces, but he
acknowledges, “There are some ....misunderstandings, that we need to sort out between us. I
don’t think it’s healthy for Damian to be constantly questioning who he should be listening
to.” Dick nods encouragingly. Bruce takes a deep breath like another sigh and looks pained.
“I believe this may be somewhat my fault,” he confesses. “I had thought it was obvious when
I returned that I would be taking over Robin’s training and Damian’s ...parenting. But I can
see that you have grown used to a certain role in Damian’s life, and it’s making things
difficult at home and in the field.”

There is a slow, sick feeling growing in Dick’s stomach. Bruce is clearly waiting for a
response, and Dick has a lot to say, but he doesn’t like the direction this is going. He tries to
steer back to Damian. “I guess I may have been - concerned about Damian, at first. He’s a
really special kid, and he really just wants to be loved and accepted, but he shows it by
provoking you and you just cannot react to that. I was worried that maybe you wouldn’t see
that, because …,” because you take any argument, any question, like a battle that needs to be
won, and you can’t treat him like the enemy or he’ s going to break. “He really can’t take
rejection, so you need to be careful when you’re upset, or when you’re expressing your
worry, that you make sure he knows he’s wanted. And about last night, I don’t think -”

“Dick, this is the problem, right here,” Bruce interrupts the lecture. He runs a hand over his
face. “You question me when I discipline Robin. You come in here and tell me how to raise
my son. Let me straighten this out: that is not your place any longer. You’re the problem.”

Dick reels back, slipping off the desk slightly. He crosses his arms, sliding his hands up his
sleeves. He digs his fingers into his skin to be able to hold onto something, anything, in this
moment.

You’re the problem. Dick is going to think about that a lot later, but right now he needs to
fight for his kid.

He lets his frustration seep into his voice. “Bruce, I’m not trying to make you do anything, I
just think that Damian is like you in a lot of ways and you both need -”

“And now you think you can tell me what I need?” Bruce sounds incredulous, like he had
thought better of Dick. “Dick, I am asking you, please be professional. Damian is my son,
and this fixation you have should have ended six months ago. I know you care about him,
and he cares for you, so I’ve allowed it until now. But you’re interfering in Robin’s progress.”

Bruce’s own emotional constipation is what is halting Batman and Robin’s synergy. Dick
cannot believe he is getting blamed for this. He wants to throw his hands in the air, or maybe
he wants to throw Bruce out the window. “I know you, and I know Damian. Yes, I think I
have an idea about what you need to get through to each other! For the love of - Bruce,
you’ve raised me since I was nine, and I was Damian’s only parent for months. Excuse me if
I’m a little over involved in your lives. I’m not a house plant.” He spits.

“You think you know what’s best for Damian?” Bruce’s tone is ominous. He stood up at
some point, and now he is looming over Dick’s seat on the desk. Dick cranes his neck to look
up into his eyes, the same eyes that smiled so gently when he first came to the manor, and
wonders how they have gotten here. He glances down at Bruce’s hands, notes they are fists
clenched against the wood.
Dick wants to say, I know him better than you do, because it is the truth. But that is not going
to help anything so he says, “Look, B, I get what you’re saying. Damian’s not my son.” Ow.
“I know that. But he’s my something.” My everything. “He’s my kid brother. I’m not sure
what you’re asking me to do here. I won’t tell him what to do. But I will hang out with him.
And I will call you out when you’re being unfair.” He sits up straighter, to physically prove
he won’t back down here, not on this point.

Bruce shakes his head. “That’s not your call, Dick,” he says slowly, like the only reason Dick
isn’t agreeing is because he doesn’t understand Bruce’s point. “You helped out while I was
gone for a few months, and now your mission is done.”

“Okay, let’s get one thing straight here - your son, Damian? Is not a mission,” Dick says
angrily. He rakes his fingernails down his arms to keep himself from lashing out. “He’s a
little boy who’s worried that he’s been foisted on a father who never wanted him, and he
thinks that he has to be useful if he wants to be kept around. It is your job to make sure that
he feels absolutely wanted at all times.”

“You say you want him to feel accepted for himself, but you don’t model this support,” Bruce
accuses. “You overstep, you undermine my own methods of reward and discipline so he lacks
consistency, and you constantly force him to do things he’s not interested in.”

Okay, what? Dick is thrown by the parallel Bruce is trying to make. “It’s not like that, he’s
not some pet dog we’re training, and exposure to new activities is good for him -”

“Dick, have you considered that he might not want to spend tonight working with you on
reports?” Bruce points out. “It’s tedium, and your chatter distracts him from excelling in his
work. And now you want him to make pies with you.” The disdain in his voice makes Dick
feel small. If Dick didn’t know better, he could mistake it for jealousy. “He is likely just
trying to please you, out of some learned emotional obligation, and you need to stop
bothering him. Face it, you’ve been manipulating him.”

“I have not,” Dick denies vehemently, but even as he speaks he is already questioning
himself. Looking back, they had a very rough start when Bruce disappeared, and Dick has to
admit he himself took a while to warm up to Damian, let alone Damian’s own trust issues
allowing him to return any sort of closeness with Dick. Even now, Damian sometimes needs
a little encouragement to spend time with Dick, but that’s just because he needs to feel
assured that he is wanted. It’s not that he is reluctant because he actually dislikes it.
…Right?

And another part of Dick is stuck on the part where Bruce doesn’t approve of Dick’s
penchant for chitchat. Dick is pretty sure it’s just Bruce projecting; Damian always seems to
relax the more Dick speaks. Dick’s fingers dig into his arms, squeezing his chest so hard it
aches. “Do I talk too much? I didn’t know I was bothering you,” he says quietly, vulnerable
and exposed. Waiting for the knife.

Bruce does not relent, and Dick is not imagining the derision in his voice. “There’s a time
and a place. This mission is a serious one, and it has been straining us all. Think of your other
siblings, too. Tim is shouldering a lot of the casework right now, and Jason will be picking up
your slack in the field tonight.” Guilt picks away at Dick, for burdening his siblings, for his
inability to multitask when it came to their complex relationships and his tendency to tunnel
vision on the one sibling who was once a son. But, Bruce had agreed that running the reports
was a necessary hurdle before their next case step. And Dick knows for a fact that other than
routine patrol tonight they will just be scoping locations. He is hardly endangering anyone.
“Dick, please, I asked you to stay in Gotham so you could help out, not cause trouble. I know
you’ve been on your own in Bludhaven and out of practice, but you’re on a team here. Your
siblings look to you for guidance. You need to listen to me, or you’re not going to be needed
at all.”

This is so unfair. There are so many thoughts in Dick’s head that they flicker in and out of his
focus before he can concentrate on any long enough to address, and he is in no position right
now to respond to Bruce. He thinks about how many teams he has been on, how many
missions he has led. He thinks that out of himself and Bruce, only one of them is listening in
this conversation. He thinks he is pretty sure that Bruce still loves him, still wants him, but
he’s not certain. He thinks he needs Bruce, but he is pretty sure Bruce doesn’t need him. He
thinks that if Bruce kicks him off the mission and sends him home right now, he won’t be
able to handle it. He thinks that he might be losing his mind a little.

He thinks that maybe he should breathe.

Bruce has continued speaking, ignorant of Dick’s freak out in front of him. Dick is only able
to perceive sound again at, “- understand, Dick? Are we clear?”
And Dick forces himself to nod, saying yes when he cannot say no. “Got it, B. I’ll restrain
myself a little. And I’ll support the team however I can.”

Bruce scrutinizes him for a moment longer, but he must look convincingly penitent to pass
whatever test this must be. Bruce nods back. “Thank you, Dick. I’ll give you some additional
direction on the reports before patrol tonight.”

Dismissed again. Dick slips all the way off the desk and escapes the room. He doesn’t make
it far and ducks into the darkened library, slamming the door as he leans back against it and
slides to the ground.

“It’s fine, everything is fine, just breathe,” he whispers to himself. He swings an arm over his
eyes, then jerks back quickly when it comes away wet. He is not crying. He squints in the
darkness, but curiosity drags him up, has him stumbling over to switch on a reading lamp.

Deep scratches run up his wrists, disappearing beneath his now stained sweater. He has
clawed his arms bloody. Bizarrely, a calm settles over him as he takes in the damage. His
arms, a physical injury, he can focus on. This is something he can fix.

He will work on the rest of his baggage later.

---------------------

“Is something the matter?” Damian asks.

It is just the two of them in the cave. Dick is huddled over one monitor peering at near-
indistinguishable lines of text. He has his knees drawn up so he is perched on the edge of his
chair. He is wearing one of the old sweatshirts he dug out of Bruce’s closet, a huge black
hoodie that Bruce would never actually wear, but Dick likes it because it belongs to Bruce,
and because Dick could really use a hug and some acceptance from Bruce right about now.
He is resigned that the sweater is as close as he is going to get today, and that he is maybe
being a bit pathetic.
Bruce has hardly spoken to Dick since their tête-à-tête. When everyone had gathered for
patrol, Bruce had pulled him aside to specify which reports Dick should run, in which order,
and what time frame. His communications were clinical, precise and efficient, like he was
reading a script. Dick had tried a joke as a test while they bent over the reports, unnerved by
the micromanaging robot in front of him, and Bruce had just stretched out an arm that Dick
was careful not to flinch from. Bruce simply rested his hand on the back of Dick’s neck as he
continued his explanation of his expectations for the night. It could have been friendly. His
grip was gentle, but Dick could recognize a warning. He kept his posture loose and relaxed,
and his hyperfocus on their point of contact prevented him from interrupting again. When
Bruce finally took his hand away, Dick felt the loss as keenly as he felt the relief, and he
hated how confused it made him.

The others left for patrol over an hour ago. Damian was relegated to the furthest computer
from Dick and has, up until now, not strayed from his post. Dick still feels spacey, mind
racing in circles as he tries to figure out what Bruce wants from him. Bruce had sort of
implied that he doesn’t even like Dick. Does he regret that Dick had been Batman in his
stead? And Bruce suggested that Damian doesn’t like him, either. Does Bruce regret allowing
Dick to raise Damian? Ugh. The computer screen is blurry. This sweater is a little itchy on his
wrists. His arms are sore.

And he still hasn’t mentioned the party on Monday. Donna and Wally have been needling
him.

“Sorry, what was that Damian?” Dick asks to buy more time since his zoning out instead of
responding and he has got to get it together. Damian must be so confused; Dick had hyped up
tonight and so far all he has done is go catatonic in a chair. He is being terrible company.

It is really sweet that Damian came all the way over here to see him, though. Perhaps his
affections are returned after all.

Damian regards him carefully. “There is obviously something troubling you. What is it?”
And then, when Dick once again can’t bring himself to reply fast enough, he adds, more
subdued, “Was it something father said?”

“What?” Dick is startled. “Why would you think that?”

“It was not difficult to deduce. You spoke together after dinner and since then you have
been... quiet,” Damian summarizes. Well, Dick hadn’t realized he was being so conspicuous.
Damian looks a little guilty, his shoulders shaking like he wants to hunch them, but he keeps
his hands behind his back in perfect posture. “I apologize for my part in complicating your
and father’s relationship. I am not ignorant to the strife I have caused between you two.”

“Oh, Damian no, never apologize for being a part of my life,” Dick rushes to say, fiercely.
Damian is still looking apprehensive. Dick drops to the floor and sinks to his knees so he is
looking up to Damian. He reaches out to rest his hands gently on Damian’s arms, rubbing
soothingly, and Damian lets Dick comfort him. “Listen, this is not your fault. Bruce and I do
this to ourselves. We’ve always been like this, but it’s because we care about each other, and
because we care about you. We worry differently, but it’s because we love you. I love you,
kiddo. So no more feeling bad, okay?”

Damian inches forward, turning their position into an embrace. Dick enthusiastically pulls
him in. Damian mumbles into Dick’s shoulder, “I have a deep regard for you as well,
Richard.”

And, well. That is really, really nice to hear. Finally, Dick’s mind starts to calm.

“Dami! Was that a movie quote?” Dick asks, delighted.

Damian makes a huffy, embarrassed noise, then pulls away to speak. “You enjoy such
references.”

“I do,” Dick agrees.

“And you must know that you are crucial to our operations here; they would not be the same
without you,” Damian says, more seriously, but his care is just as transparent. Dick can hear
the don’t go. Dick’s heart is very full. He never should have doubted this kid, this kid who
needs Dick as much as Dick needs him.

He gives Damian a last squeeze before sitting back down in front of his monitor. “Why don’t
you pull your chair over here and give me a hand?” he suggests. “We can go through these
together, and then we’ll both do yours.”

Damian perks up. “That would be most efficient.”

After that, the rest of the night becomes much more enjoyable, tiresome reports and all.

Dick tries to keep involved with the comms, wanting to know how his family is faring out in
the field. He also has the echo of Bruce’s nagging voice in the back of his head that he needs
to try harder to help out his other siblings, not just Damian. Bruce is right, as usual. Dick
needs to be more of a team player. So Dick makes sure he directly checks in with Jason, and
Tim, and Steph. Barbara is managing intel and responds readily, so Dick directs most of his
comments towards her. He gets into the groove of fish-related puns, preparing for Operation
F.I.S.H.

Dick asks Batman how he is doing just once during their patrol. Batman responds with a
pointed, “How are the reports coming, Nightwing?” And Dick gets the message.

“Swimmingly.” He replies, and that’s it. Sarcastically he thinks, who is he to question The
Batman? Dick wishes it was Thanksgiving already, that Cass was here. Bruce responds well
to her, which makes his life so much easier, although Dick is a little resentful about what she
can get away with. Resentment isn’t very sporting, so Dick tries not to think about it much.

By the end of the night, Dick’s eyes are twitching but the reports are all complete. Stephanie
went straight home to study, but Dick is surprised to see Red Hood ride in, tires squealing to
a stop beside where Red Robin and Batman are exiting the batmobile. It’s always hard with
the masks, but Dick is pretty certain that Tim is also surprised to see Jason, so the latter’s
presence must not be mission related.

“Hey Jay,” Dick welcomes him easily. Dick is spinning his chair in circles, kicking off of
Damian’s armrest for momentum. Damian pushes his legs each time for maximal
acceleration. “Are you here for the hot chocolate?”

“Not this time, Dickie-bird, I’m here on important business,” Jason tells him, grabbing
something off the back of his bike. He throws a sack onto the floor. Dick stops spinning and
leans closer. It’s some sort of fertilizer. Huh.

“Is this for a case?” Dick asks, immediately thinking of Poison Ivy, trying to remember if
there has been any recent activity.

“No, it’s for Alfred,”Jason is saying gruffly, clearly uncomfortable with his own actions. He
probably wishes he wore street clothes so he could have snuck in upstairs and avoided the
cave people. “From a specialty store in town. Roy swears they’re ethically sourced too.”

Jason brought Alfred plant fertilizer for the garden. That is so sweet . Dick fights to keep a
grin off his face.

Tim is drifting over to check out the unusual scene. “Oh hey, that’s a good brand.”

“What do you know of reputable plant nourishment, Drake?” Damian demands, ghosting
over to better dish out insults.

Tim waves a hand. “Growing up, our housekeeper mentioned it when she was on the phone
with her sister, the florist.” Dick marvels at the steel trap that is Tim’s mind. Dick doesn’t
even know what brand of cereal he ate last week.

Jason seems to focus on other details of Tim’s statement, muttering something that sounds
vaguely like, “pretentious”, “housekeeper”, and “rich”. In Dick’s opinion it’s a moot point
since they are surrounded by millions of dollars of tech beneath a literal mansion.

“That was eely, eely thoughtful, Jay,” Dick chirps, before the silence can get awkward.

Jason snorts. “That pun was a pile of carp. Try harder, it’s embarrassing.” He stretches and
turns to go, “Alright, delivery service done. No need to tip. I’m taking off.”

“Let minnow if you want more hot chocolate sometime,” Dick says, a risk.
Jason stops. He is still wearing the helmet, effectively inscrutable. “See you around.” He
leaves quickly. Could have been worse, so Dick congratulates himself.

“Jason,” Batman’s voice freezes the second Robin in place just as he is mounting his bike.
“We’ll need you tomorrow night.”

“Really?” Jason’s voice comes out a little flat through the helmet. “Well gosh gee, I’ll have to
check my schedule.” Apparently the helmet doesn’t filter sarcasm. “Don’t hold your breath,
old man.” And he is off.

As Damian and Tim continue to bicker about the plant fertilizer, Dick watches Batman from
the corner of his eye. Cowl on, fists clenched. He is trying to reach out to Jason, but he is
clumsy with relationships and frustrated with his lack of progress. Bruce and Jason have
gotten better at interacting with each other, but there is a lot of unresolved hurt and tension
between them that they both willfully ignore. Their emotional minefield is too full to leave
room to move forward safely. They need to diffuse, but one of them has to take that first step.
Dick empathizes with their reluctance.

All the same, every Robin, past or present, has yet to truly reach escape velocity from the
gravitational pull of the Batman. Dick is pretty sure they will be seeing Jason tomorrow.

Batman swallows, then walks towards the rest of his sons. Tim and Damian fall silent as he
approaches. “We’ll need everyone in the field tomorrow night. We’ve narrowed possible
locations down to three sites. We have intel that they will make a transfer tonight, and we
need eyes on each location. Robin,” He says, and Damian snaps to attention. “You need to be
careful. It takes a small slip to cause grave consequences. You’ll be with me tomorrow. And
Dick,” Batman barely glances at him, but Dick tries to look attentive, “Spoiler will be
covering regular patrol tomorrow, so you’ll be alone. I trust you to be professional.”

The condescension reeks. Dick grits his jaw and nods. “I’ve been doing this for a while, B,”
he points out. Bruce ignores the jab. Probably for the best. At least what Bruce said to
Damian was a bit of an improvement, so that’s progress.
“Do you really think I should be partnered with Red Hood?” Tim asks skeptically, having
already deduced his role. “We haven’t done any one-on-one missions together yet, and we
need full concentration tomorrow.”

“I trust you to be professional,” Bruce repeats, though the words land differently this time.
Dick watches as Tim straightens, a soldier receiving a commendation, or perhaps just a son
receiving a pitiful scrap of respect from his father. Dick knows Tim will try his hardest to
make this work. To make Bruce proud.

------------------------

Dick walks into the kitchen late Saturday morning just as Alfred has begun to set out the pie
pans. Alfred is wearing his apron, the blue one he wears for desserts. Dick is pretty certain
kid-Jason got it for him before he ....died young and tragically.

“Good morning, Master Richard,” Alfred says, acknowledging his presence with a nod.

“Hey, Alfie,” Dick yawns, stretching. He is in the same sweater from yesterday, and the
fabric pools around his neck when he raises his arms, conspiring to choke him yet still
strangely comforting. Dick waggles his eyebrows. “Still interested in some pie assistance of
borderline competence?”

“I have trained you in the art of pastries for many years now, do not insult my own
competency by impugning yours,” Alfred intones seriously, and Dick gulps because oops, but
Alfred relents. “But degree of expertise aside, I would be most appreciative of the company.”

Dick smiles and claps once. “Alrighty then. What are we starting with?”

“You can start by washing your hands,” Alfred instructs. “Then we shall begin mixing the
dough.”
Dick does as he is told and settles in beside his grandfather-figure as he offers further
directions. It’s a sunny day, and the kitchen is bright. Alfred’s voice is calm. The dough is
pliant and real in his hands, and Dick can feel something in him settle.

“I believe we can lay all notions of ‘borderline’ to rest in regards to your competence, Master
Richard,” Alfred asserts once Dick tilts the bowl for his inspection. It’s accompanied by a
little approving nod that has Dick smiling more easily than he has in a while.

Alfred’s face seems to soften, and then he is moving about swiftly doing very useful looking
tasks and opening a lot of cupboards. It leaves Dick feeling lost until he is handed a new
bowl, a wooden spoon, and introduced to a small army of waiting ingredients. “The pumpkin
first, I should think,” Alfred rules.

Dick is given an index card that holds a neatly transcribed recipe for pumpkin pie filling. And
then he is smiling again, terribly endeared as he realizes that Alfred had, in preparation for
this day, handwritten the prized recipes he knows by heart for his potential assistants to
follow.

While Dick begins to measure ingredients, Alfred steps away to move some supplies at the
other end of the table. He comes back briefly to check on Dick and offer some praise on
whatever task Dick has just finished before returning to his station. He repeats this series of
actions until Dick notices the pattern, though he remains a little baffled by it. It’s not that
Dick is doing anything wrong with the recipe, it’s just that he is… following the recipe. The
compliments, though appreciated, don’t quite feel merited.

On Alfred’s next foray into Dick’s territory, still bemused, he is paying closer attention. To
Alfred’s soft tone, to his carefully worded commendation, and most of all to the way his eyes
never stray far from Dick’s own, gentle and knowing. And for the second time that morning,
Dick finds himself coming to a warm realization about Alfred Pennyworth. It seems that
today, Alfred has purposed in his heart to be exceptionally kind to Dick in the way he knows
best: making Dick feel useful by giving him things to do, then validating his efforts.

And Alfred’s actions are proving successful. The pleasant simpleness of following
instructions and the positive reinforcement are pulling him out of the bleak series of thoughts
he has been spiraling into recently. Namely, Dick has been uselessly trying to figure out what
Bruce wants from him. Lately it seems like he wants to pretend Dick doesn’t exist, or at least
wishes he were gone. After their brief exchange the previous night, Bruce has continued to
ignore and avoid him. It’s starting to make Dick too wish he were somewhere else, but he can
hardly run off now. He agreed to patrol tonight, and he wants to be reliable for his family.

A rattle interrupts his mental train wreck in time. Alfred is setting a pair of rolling pins out
next to him. Dick quirks a brow. “I’m not finished with the filling,” Dick says, but it’s a
question.

“This is for the fresh recruits,” Alfred tells him, right before there is a crashing sound in the
hallway, followed by a muttered “Ow, watch it”.

“What are you doing here?” A very superior tone.

“I live here.” Comes the reply, mostly exasperated, mildly amused. Very tired.

“You are not normally awake before noon has passed.” An accusation.

A pause. Then, a very long inhale. “Please, please, for the love of Gotham, stop talking until I
have coffee.”

Dick turns, already grinning, as his youngest brothers enter the kitchen side by side. “Hey, I
wasn’t sure if you guys would make it! Such a long crawl from bed,” he teases.

Tim is dressed casually, but rumpled, like maybe he fell asleep wearing the same clothes and
didn’t bother to change. His eyes are barely open, squintily narrowed at Damian. He is also
rubbing his forehead and wincing. Damian looks crisp and neat, freshly showered.

“Drake ran into the gum tree in the hallway,” Damian wastes no time tattling.

“No dignity,” Tim mumbles as he sits down next to Dick. It is unclear who he is ascribing the
description to. Dick pats his shoulder consolingly.
Alfred sets coffee in front of Tim and finally a spark of life enters his eyes. “Alfred, you are a
national treasure.”

Damian shakes his head at Tim’s behaviour, but then he turns to survey the kitchen’s setup. “I
would like to offer my considerable services to assist with the pastry arts.”

Alfred gestures to a seat in front of the rolling pins. “It would be an honour to have you craft
the dough, Master Damian.” And Damian nods as he carefully selects a rolling pin, a
determined look in his eye.

Alfred retreats again to his private workstation from where he can monitor all three of them.
Dick continues to mix pie fillings, moving on to the apple recipe card laid ready for him.

Once Tim finishes his coffee he also begins to roll dough. Damian critiques him immediately.
“Your form is all wrong, Drake, your elbows need not mimic a chicken’s posture.” And,
“Don’t beat the dough, it is not your enemy!”

“Damian, have you ever even made pie before?” Tim asks, irritated.

“Of course,” Damian replies. “And my pie shall be of far superior quality to yours.”

“You’re on,” Tim scoffs, then looks to Dick.

Dick raises one shoulder, unspoken apology. “We did it last year,” he says, and leaves it at
that. Tim looks surprised, then just nods.

“Cool.” He says. He plops his dough into a pie pan.

“Drake, you can’t just -”

“Calm down, little one, why don’t you just demonstrate?” Tim suggests. Damian hisses and
grumbles at the nickname but does actually proceed to perfectly mold the dough into a
beautiful crust, complete with detailing on the edges. He even cuts floral designs out of small
pieces of dough to place on top of the pumpkin filling.

“Wow. That actually looks really good,” Tim says, examining the product carefully. Damian
just huffs.

Dick is impressed with how maturely Tim responds to Damian’s pestering. Then he
remembers that Tim is in fact an adult. Of all of them, Tim has grown up too fast, being
whatever he needs to be, whether a vigilante or Wayne Enterprises manager. Now he is an
older brother to a kid who treated him terribly, and he is valiantly being kind to him. Yes,
Dick loves this family.

Alfred has come over as well to lend his admiration. “A most exquisite creation, indeed,
Master Damian,” he agrees, setting it in the oven.

After some more hard labour, Dick eventually contributes one saggy apple pie next to Tim’s
slightly better pumpkin. Alfred adds his own mystery pie to the oven load.

“Oooh, what’s this one?” Dick asks, leaning in to investigate, though he already has a
fluttering suspicion.

“It is key lime,” Alfred replies, meeting his eyes with a soft look, and Dick melts.

“Not very on theme there for Thanksgiving,” he remarks idly, but he is unable to stop
smiling.

“Nevertheless, I believe it belongs all the same,” Alfred says steadily, rearranging the oven
racks so Dick’s favourite type of pie can fit better. “We shall consume it this afternoon. It
goes well with tea.”
There is a lump in Dick’s throat. “I’d like that,” he manages without his voice breaking.
Damian is focused on his craft and Tim is respectfully looking away, but Dick can see he is
smiling.

Now that his private culinary mission is done, Alfred lends a hand in speeding production
and enhancing the quality of the rest of their pies. Tim and Damian have settled into
bickering with no bite to it.

Dick has just convinced Damian to show them how to carve pie dough flowers when Tim’s
phone buzzes. He pulls it out with one hand and glances at it. Then he frowns. He sets down
the fork in his other hand to type viciously for a few minutes. His expression continues to
darken.

“Everything okay?” Dick asks casually.

Tim sets his phone down and sighs. “It’s Bruce. He needs me to handle a discrepancy in the
finance department for WE while he’s busy ....researching.” While Batman is busy
researching, then.

“Oh. Urgent?” Dick knows that Bruce and Tim have different ideas for how the company
should operate, what needs to be managed and what can be delegated, and sometimes Tim
triages differently. But if Bruce has asked Tim to stand in for him, Tim is twice as likely to
stand in as Bruce, and that means he will do as Bruce tells him. He will leave pie making to
go into the office on a Saturday morning.

“Unfortunately. I need to head into Gotham. Bruce is going to meet me there later.” Tim
stands up, running a hand through his messy hair so it sticks up even more. He looks
genuinely sorry to go. “Rain check on the pie art, guys. Thanks for everything, Alfred.”

Damian shrugs like it doesn’t matter either way, though Dick would swear there is
disappointment in his eyes.
“It was a pleasure, Master Timothy. Do take care of yourself.” Alfred offers Tim pie to go,
but Tim waves it off as he walks away, already raising his phone to his ear to start a call.

Dick watches him disappear around the corner, trying to figure out why Bruce calling Tim to
meet with him gives Dick so much anxiety.

He shakes it off and tries to pay attention to Damian’s explanation of dough carving.

---------------------------

That night, Dick heads down to the Cave feeling refreshed. He did his workout outside today,
amongst the beautiful late-autumn trees of the Wayne Manor property. He then spent a
peaceful afternoon tea with Alfred sampling key lime pie, before helping Damian choose
designs for the exhibit portion of his marine biology project. An accumulation of positive
moments from the day has Dick feeling mentally stable and ready to take on Gotham’s dark
underbelly.

After Bruce’s attitude last night Dick is expecting to be somewhat ignored again, but once he
suits up, Batman zeroes in on him. Spoiler and Red Hood have already arrived and are sitting
by the entrance chatting. Cool. Robin is checking his equipment, and Red Robin is already at
the computer.

“Nightwing,” Batman growls. “You’re late.”

Dick raises an unimpressed eyebrow. There is no official start time to their night-time
activities, but it is an unspoken agreement that they usually gather by nine for bigger
missions. “Chill out, B. I am basically,” he makes an exaggerated motion to check the time
on the computer, leaning over Tim, “On time. The night is young.”

Bruce gestures for everyone to gather instead of replying, and begins to go over their
assignments. And while it’s a bit weird for Batman to be so anal about what time they show
up, it’s obvious he is on edge about tonight’s mission. That’s fine, that’s understandable. He
expresses stress through worrying away at those he feels responsible for. Dick can handle a
little needling and micromanaging.
What Dick was not expecting was for Bruce to continue to nag at him for the rest of the night.

It has been four hours.

So far, Batman has demanded an update from Dick every 10 minutes, on top of the 5 minute
check-ins everyone is already doing with Oracle. And yes, Dick is doing his stakeout at the
Seashell Hotel alone, but he is also very capable of some boring monitoring without
supervision. It grates on him, but besides a little snark, he doesn’t complain.

He is not the only one feeling the aggravation tonight. Red Hood and Red Robin’s dialogue
has steadily increased in frequency, but the content has become almost entirely passive
aggressive remarks about each other. Dick knows they can be civil; he has seen it for himself
on occasion. But if he is following the argument correctly, Red Robin commented something
about the clientele of the motel they are watching, and Red Hood fired back that he knows
people who have stayed there. Red Robin said he meant no offense, but Red Hood definitely
took offense, and as is the way of siblings, suddenly everything about each other is offensive.

And it’s not that Dick is bothered by their fighting so much - sure, it’s a bit unprofessional
when they are literally in the field, but they are both experienced and are likely multitasking
like pros between cutting barbs and the stakeout. And sure, he wishes everyone got along, but
he’s not delusional, that’s probably not going to happen in the next millenia. But what annoys
him is that Batman literally interrupts Red Robin mid-insult to tell Dick he should check his
hotel’s side doors again, while totally ignoring the verbal sparring match. Even Spoiler points
out that they are really exploiting the open comms tonight, with a tone of admiration she
clearly isn’t putting much effort into suppressing. Eventually Oracle tells them both to cool it,
but there is no intervention from Batman. He is, apparently, far too busy critiquing Dick. It
makes Dick feel like he is Robin again, during their worst years.

If Dick thought Batman was irritating before, he is ready to tear his own hair out when he
sights activity at his hotel. Batman kicks up the micromanaging ten levels. He doesn’t bother
with check-ins, just straight up instructs Dick step by step on what to do.

Dick tolerates this as he is moving to get a better angle (Switch to the southeast roof,
Nightwing), as he is lining up his entrance (Hold for backup). But he needs to concentrate.
“Oh sorry, B, you’re cutting out,” he says sarcastically, right before he shuts off his comms
and moves in.

In the moment, as he focuses on his entry, he thinks the peace and quiet is worth whatever
reprimand he is sure to get later. It is not, he believes, as irresponsible as it feels. Before
leaving the cave, they hashed out exactly how this particular scenario would be handled.
Even if they hadn’t, Batman has repeated it to Dick and made Dick repeat it to him at least
twice since then. It did not involve holding for backup.

Although, the hotel is fishy in more ways than just its aquatic theme, and Dick spares a pang
of regret that he has no one to comment to with his comms switched off.

By the time Spoiler arrives as his backup, he is nearly finished. A neatly sealed plastic bag
with a bundle of files, two fingerprint samples, and all the photos of a dingy hotel room that
Oracle could ever want to sift through. It is almost, Dick thinks acidly, as though he knows
what he’s doing .

Spoiler high-fives him before accepting a bundle of files to carry. They take off across the
rooftops, heading for their transportation. “Awesome rebellion, real gutsy, way to really stick
it to The Man, or the Bat man in this case. But maybe don’t switch your comms back on.”

“That bad, huh?” Dick asks, dropping down into an alley. Spoiler lands next to him.

“Oh, Batman went angry-silent a minute ago after ordering everyone to regroup at the cave.
But the great dick-measuring contest between the Reds never stopped. I’m really suffering
over here,” she says dramatically, then more sincerely, “Enjoy your peace while it lasts - I’ll
let you know if there’s an emergency.”

Dick appreciates Stephanie Brown very much, and likely he should appreciate her even more;
he doesn’t get to hang out with her enough, and he sorely misjudged her initial debut. Getting
to spend more time with her now is probably worth the slight ego sting of being sent back-up
for some light infiltration. Dick tells her the fish puns he had come up with in the Seashell
Hotel and enjoys her surprisingly analytical reactions as he tries to distract himself from what
will be waiting for him in the cave.
They are the first ones back, thankfully. It gives Dick time to sort the evidence and start
running tests on the fingerprints while Stephanie heads for the shower (claiming she had
sweat a lot “busting my ass to get to you”). He discards his mask, wanting to feel more free,
but doesn’t waste time changing yet. It can’t be longer than ten minutes before two
motorcycles roar in and Red Hood and Red Robin stalk towards him, unbelievably still
arguing.

Jason pulls off his helmet to better communicate disapproval with facial expressions. Tim has
rebranded Bruce’s resting frown. When Jason looks up and sees Dick he says, “You are about
to be in deep shit, Goldie, way to piss off the old man,” before turning to Tim with, “Well
that’s rich, or maybe you’re just rich, so let me tell you how the real world works -”

Tim rolls his eyes so hard it’s visible through his domino mask.

Dick doesn’t know if he should intervene. If he is honest, the jabs are staying pretty tame for
what their history is. And besides, Dick doesn’t have the head space right now to diffuse their
tension, not when he has his own conflict rapidly approaching. Dick decides that he will step
in only if things escalate. He turns back to the computer.

But he has run out of time. The batmobile enters the cave like a harbinger of doomsday and
Dick’s days are numbered. Jason also notes the batmobile’s arrival and announces he has had
enough assholes for today. Dick very carefully projects a calm air, keeping his eyes focused
on his screen and his fingers busy on the keyboard. He relies on sound to track the changes in
the cave. Jason’s bike starting, driving away. Tim’s measured steps heading to the showers.
The batmobile’s motor turns off. A car door slams, then another, more gently. “Father, wait.”
Angry footsteps intentionally landing heavy; they all can be silent if they choose. Lighter
footsteps start to follow, then slow down, halting awkwardly halfway, in the centre of the
room. Batman’s hard steps keep coming, a drumbeat that drowns out Dick’s own heart. They
stop directly behind him, and he can feel the heat of another presence. He waits for it, body
relaxed.

A hand lands like an executioner’s blade on his shoulder, cutting deep. Dick is wrenched so
forcefully from his seat that he feels his skeleton shake. The movement is disorienting, and
he finds himself with his back pressed against the computer desk, held in place by Batman’s
gauntlet. Dick finally looks up, head spinning.

“Welcome back,” Dick says, nonchalant. Unrepentant.

It’s moments like these that he hates the cowl. He empathizes with the criminals who fear
shadows and the lurking, cold judgment of the Bat. Dick feels bare before the dark judge,
wishing he had kept his mask on, wanting some kind of barrier. The air feels charged
between them, like an explosion is already set to blow and Dick has no way of stopping it.

Batman’s fury has him coiled tight, has him spitting his words through gritted teeth. Dick is
not even sure if Bruce means to, but he is shaking Dick as he speaks, rocking him back and
forth into the sharp edge of the desk. “Your shockingly childish actions jeopardized the entire
operation tonight. You undermined my authority and threw it in my face. Report.”

Dick swallows, the calm indifference he was projecting earlier extinguished. As Dick tries to
meet Bruce’s eyes behind the cowl, there is no mercy to be found, and he knows instantly
that this will not be a discussion. There will be no reasoning with Batman when he is set on
the path of his own self-righteous justice. He has already decided Dick’s guilt and is here to
deal his punishment.

Dick, hopelessly, tries to defend himself anyway. He tries to straighten as much as he can in
his restrained position, showing confidence he doesn’t feel. “Switching off comms was a
calculated risk in a dynamic situation,” he argues. “Keeping the lines on at all times is a good
protocol, but there are always exceptions. There was some ....distraction on the line.” He just
knows his listening brothers are shifting uncomfortably at the call out, but he can’t check on
them right now. “I needed to be able to focus, so I decided to go silent for a few minutes.
Spoiler had eyes on me in no time. A calculated risk,” he repeats. “Come on, I’m not green,
B. My entry was flawless, and you know it. We have the evidence to blow this case wide
open within a week tops. Tonight was a success.”

Maybe painting it as a success is too far. Batman’s glare hardens. “This is not about the
gathering of evidence. This is about your obnoxious insubordination that could have
compromised the mission, and your own safety or Spoilers. You could have met an
unforeseen obstacle and been unable to warn Spoiler. Your behaviour was foolish, bordering
on deliberate negligence and malpractice.”

Dick narrows his eyes and sucks in a breath, chest heaving at the accusations. “B, you can’t
just boost your point with “what if”s, not everything is a multifactorial contingency plan -”
“You. Disobeyed. Me.” Batman hisses and oh. Right. The real crux of the matter: anything
that threatens Batman’s control. Well, Dick has had enough of coddling Batman’s tender
control issues. This case may be making Bruce edgy, but Dick is tired too and close to
snapping.

“Well maybe if you weren’t clogging my feed with instructions on how to walk I would have
been more inclined to listen to you plan my building entry , you colossal -,” bottomfeeder, and
oh hey it would have been a fish pun too.

Slam. Dick doesn’t get to finish his insult out loud. Bruce’s fist connects with the side of his
jaw and he drops, crashing into the desk on his way to the floor and bashing the back of his
head on the edge. The double hit to his skull has Dick’s vision spinning, mind exploding with
pain.

He has been trained to take a hit since he was nine, but for some reason when it’s Bruce he
can never follow protocol.

His ears ring, but he can hear Batman saying, “-on’t blame me for your failure. We can’t
work together when you are always looking to sabotage me, Dick. I don’t want to fight you.”

It’s a struggle to recover orientation but he finds he is already automatically scrambling to

pull himself up again, leaning heavily on the table for support. He notes absently that there is
some blood on the keyboard, before further noting that there is blood leaking from his face.
He raises his head defiantly, ignoring the vertigo.

He sees Damian over Batman’s shoulder, looking so lost as he squeezes his mask in one
hand, and is jolted by the reality of their public confrontation. Dick really, really wishes
Damian wasn’t here right now. Tim too is watching from across the room, poised where he
had been about to enter the change room. Everyone seems so frozen, like the world has been
paused beyond the borders of Bruce and Dick’s argument.

It’s okay, Dick isn’t expecting an intervention, is praying that they won’t try stepping out
onto the tightrope with him when he can already feel the rope poised to snap. If he’s falling
too, there will be no one to catch them. If he thinks about it, he is pretty certain his brothers
haven’t seen any of his messier fights with Bruce. Maybe Jason, before he died (and Jason
always knows when to leave, doesn’t he?). But besides, Dick kind of brought this on himself.
He knew he shouldn’t have turned off comms. He has dug his own grave, and he is going to
keep digging if it means he can choose that for himself.

Dick latches onto the last thing Bruce said and gives a broken laugh. He spits blood when he
laughs. Split lip, probably. “You don’t want to fight me?” he repeats, incredulous. “What do
you think this is, B? I’m not fighting.” His face aches with a rictus grin. He must look insane.
Batman is staring at him like he is one of the crazies they lock up in Arkham. Dick shifts
minutely, a warning, “But everything’s always a threat to you.”

And because Dick is a reckless maniac, he punctuates his statement with a lunge forward,
half a stumble with his world tilting alarmingly, pitching his face closer to the cowl. And
Batman, proving Dick’s point beautifully, reacts instinctively to the perceived attack and
punches him in the gut. Dick folds over Bruce’s fist, a soldier impaled on a suicide charge.
Breath knocked out of him, there is no more laughing now.

Batman leans over to speak next to Dick’s ear, the intimate closeness of the gesture mocking
Dick. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “Your recklessness makes you a
liability. You are terminated from this team, Nightwing, effective immediately.” With his last
words, he shoves Dick off of him, and Dick stumbles back to clutch at the desk. The words
more than the actions are what finally drain Dick’s defiant resolve.

“Batman,” he whispers, a plea with no specifics. All he can think is, not again.

No mercy from the Bat. Just the same frigid dismissal from Dick’s teenage years. “I don’t
need you here. Not like this. Pack up your things, Dick, and get out of my house. Now.”

And Bruce finally, finally, pulls off the cowl, revealing angry eyes, but it is too late to appeal
to a different god. He has spoken the words, started the spell, and Dick knows what happens
next.

Get out of my house. Now.

Dick swallows hard.

 He carefully releases the desk he is clutching and takes two wobbling steps towards Bruce.
Stares into his face, this man who has raised him, who owns him and Dick knows it. A few
more steps, getting easier, and he is past him, then past his still-frozen siblings. Tim’s mouth
is moving, but Dick can’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears. The words might not be
meant for him anyway. Now he is walking to the stairs, and now he is up in the manor. He
throws clothes blindly into his bag, hoping he at least grabbed his phone, but not really sure
of anything right now. He thinks he might be shaking. Dick is living these moments in
snapshots: blink and he is at the front door, no Alfred in sight; another blink and he is on his
bike. Driving away into the night, his mind stuck years in the past.

Get out of my house.

This is nothing new. Dick will be back. When he is called.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading! Please let us know what you thought of the chapter. <3

The referenced movie quote is from Mr. Peabody & Sherman, which is super cute.

Warnings: This chapter has the most graphic depiction of physical abuse and probably
the strongest gaslighting for the entire story. There is also unintentional self-harm and
some dissociation.
 Friends and Enemies
Chapter Summary

Dick in exile.

Chapter Notes

Hello again,

May I present: chapter 3!

I just want to take a moment to address the characterizations in this story a bit more,
particularly the relationship between Bruce and Dick. Bluntly, Bruce is behaving
terribly. It’s a symptom of him never having had to learn emotional control or about
boundaries with other people (yet). I recognize that how he is portrayed here does not
necessarily mirror who he is in canon. However, the relationship between Bruce and
Dick, in my opinion, can be very toxic and very tricky. The level of deference and
loyalty Dick carries and is conditioned with is such that, if Bruce were to behave the
way he acts in this fic, I think that canon Dick would justify it to himself much like how
he does here. So in order to exaggerate a point about the dangers of their unhealthy
relationship, the extent of the trauma/abuse is hyperbolic here, almost like a cautionary
tale to canon.

And once again, super ignorant of the Teen Titans! They fill the roles needed to push the
story the way I want it to go, so sorry if those roles are wrong or funny-looking. Oh,
also, I am pretty sure at some point in canon Dick does eventually get adopted, but it’s
about to be pretty obvious that for the sake of this fic, that is not the case (yet).

Please mind the tags for all the warnings.

Okay, enjoy the story! <3

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“And when you are kept from your home, no matter where you are, you are in a cage.” ~
Shane Arbuthnott, Terra Nova

Friends and Enemies

His phone is ringing.

Dick has just returned to his apartment in Bludhaven, having accomplished nothing apart
from unlocking the door, letting his bag drop to the floor, and leaning wearily against the
wall. Or possibly, Dick reevaluates as he raises his phone and notices the time, he has been
home for almost an hour. Just standing in the dark, staring at nothing, mind off.

Dick blinks. The phone is still ringing. It’s Barbara. He should answer, not because he wants
to talk, but because if he doesn’t Barbara has ways of invading his virtual privacy if she gets
Concerned. Dick would like to avoid Concerned Barbara, and he thinks he can tolerate a
conversation. He just hopes it doesn’t last longer than two minutes.

He presses talk, then speaker, no energy to raise the phone to his ear.

“You dick,” Barbara says, often mixing her worry and relief into insults, “I’ve called six
times. Your apartment sensors show you’ve been home for an hour.” Ah, so Concerned
Barbara is already in effect.

“Sorry,” Dick says, “I was busy.”

Barbara snorts. “Right. Seriously, how are you?” Her voice loses some of the bite. “You and
Bruce were ready to throw down on the comms. I haven’t heard you two like that in years.
Then Tim mentioned you fought in the cave.” Of course he did. “And now you’re in
Bludhaven.” Dick would wince if his body didn’t feel like it was made of lead, holding
perfectly still instead. No sugar coating the facts, that’s Babs. “What really happened?”

“You’re right,” Dick says, the weight of the words heavy on his tongue. “Bruce was pretty
pissed I turned off my comm. We fought.” It’s so difficult to speak right now, tired as he is,
but even harder to tell the truth about something he wishes hadn’t happened. It comes out
toneless. “He said I should take a break from the case. From Gotham. So he sent me home.”
And there, that’s it. That’s what happened.
Barbara sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh, Dick, I’m sorry,” Barbara sympathizes. “Bruce is an
asshole.”

“I shouldn’t have turned off my comm,” Dick says, because it’s all he can think right now.

“Well yeah, that was dumb, but everyone was being dumb tonight! Bruce was being a despot.
Jason and Tim were literally throwing mud at each other.” Dick recalls fuzzily that they had
looked curiously dirty in the cave. “But, Dick, are you okay?” she repeats.

Are you okay? No matter how many times Dick has hurt Barbara in the past, dating or not,
she will always care about him. And he will always care for Barbara Gordon.

Dick has not seen himself in a mirror yet, but his face and abdomen throb in harmony.
There’s a curious ringing in his skull. He sags further against the wall. “I’m okay.”

Barbara is quiet, and Dick knows she is trying to decide if he is safe to be alone. The thing is,
Barbara has always sort of half known the details of Dick and Bruce’s fights. She has never
asked about it; Dick made it very clear when they were young that he never wanted to discuss
it, and she respects that. She trusts him to handle himself. Or maybe she just doesn’t want to
know.

This conversation has definitely lasted longer than two minutes.

“I’m tired,” Dick says, before she can insist on probing his mental state, or worse, his
physical. “But I’m okay. I’m just going to go to bed.”

“I don’t think you should -”

“I think I can decide some things for myself,” and Dick instantly regrets his cutting tone, but
he’s so raw about having choices right now. And he’s too tired to deal with an actual heart-to-
heart with Barbara. So he just says, “Sorry. I’ll text you later. Goodnight, Babs.” And then he
hangs up.
He notices he has message notifications, from Tim, from Damian, but he can’t. Not now. He
knows he’s being a bad brother, but he lets his phone fall to the ground, and it clatters on the
floor.

The following silence rings loud in the dark. Dick blindly shuffles to his bedroom. When he
reaches his mattress, he drops down like a stone, ignoring the pain that erupts from his
bruised midsection at the jostling. He’s still wearing part of his Nightwing costume under his
sweater, not able to fully change in his rush to leave the manor. His sheets are musty. He
doesn’t bother dragging them over his body.

He wasn’t lying to Barbara, he’s really tired. But it’s a world weary, existential fatigue that
leaves him kind of apathetic. He also has a pounding headache. He finds he can’t sleep,
though that’s no surprise. Instead he lies awake, blank. He gets like this sometimes, usually
after one of his and Bruce’s fights. Why are they like this ? Years spent together, they should
know how to get along. Then Jason, Tim, Cass, and even Damian. Dick knows it’s different
with him for some reason, but why ? What’s wrong with him, that he makes Bruce regret ever
taking him in? That he never - he shies away from the hole where another question should be,
one he can’t voice even to himself.

(Headlines flash through his mind, unbidden. WE CEO to Adopt Ward Jason Peter Todd.
Billionaire Bruce Wayne Adopts Neighbour After... . Bruce Wayne Recognizes Son
Damian….Cassandra Cain to be Adopted… )

...It’s a question about family. But as always, there are no answers in his lonely apartment,
and he settles like sediment into the ennui of Bludhaven’s grimy night.

He continues to exist in the fog of emotional limbo when he rises with the sunlight a couple
hours later, when his clock says it’s almost 7 am. He’s ready to move now, though not ready
to deal with his feelings on what happened (he knows that’s cowardly). But he has things to
do and he won’t get anything done if he’s just processing. He can deal with his physical
needs, that still counts as progress.

So, Dick lugs himself to the bathroom. He stops before the mirror, squinting in the
fluorescent light. His head is really bothering him. His reflection looks like a mess, the usual
sweaty tired kind, but also the beat up kind, with bruising along his jaw and a puffy lip that’s
starting to scab. He likes to believe Bruce didn’t hit him as hard as he could have, but Dick
still should have iced it; it’s already swelling. Dried blood is on his face and on his sweater.

Dick can’t believe he walked into his apartment like this. Good thing his neighbours aren’t
very observant, though he internally winces to think what Batman would have to say about
his continued carelessness.

Dick carefully strips. He notes the sweater he grabbed is the one he stole from Bruce’s closet;
there is blood on the hood, which puzzles him until he remembers that he hit the back of his
head on the desk. That explains the pulsing headache. He is a little sad that he will have to
wash the sweater now. It won’t smell like the manor anymore. Another look in the mirror.
More bruising over his abdomen, no surprise there, but no broken skin.

The shower feels good. Scaldingly hot, the way he likes it, though it’s a bit painful on his
injuries. By the time he is finished, the entire room is foggy with steam, but Dick’s mind feels
clearer. He gets dressed in the first thing he stumbles across and sets off to his kitchen.

He hasn’t been home in a while. He starts clearing out his fridge, tossing saggy takeout
containers and unrecognizable vegetables. By the time he is finished removing all potentially
bio hazardous material, he’s left with… a bottle of ketchup, half a cup of orange juice, and
two eggs.

Dick considers breakfast, the eggs and the orange juice in theory excellent candidates, but.
Briefly, he pictures it, the actual act of eating; his stomach flips. He can’t right now, but he
tells himself maybe later, so. Grocery shopping gets bumped up on his list of priorities.

His silent apartment is starting to feel a bit like a cage anyway.

He goes out to the store. Halfway down the baking aisle, he realizes he never made a list,
meaning he is in danger of buying nothing he needs and a lot of things he doesn’t. There is a
strong temptation to go with only the foods that appeal to him in the moment (which is
cereal, Tim’s favourite frozen waffles, and a specific type of granola bar that Damian spent
four months subsisting on) - not because he wants to eat anything, but because the thought of
them makes him feel… something. Nostalgic, maybe. Comforted. But his inner Alfred scolds
him severely enough to shoo him towards the produce aisle before too much damage is done.
He escapes the store with only one conspicuous package of eggos nestled amongst the lettuce
heads.

On his way back home, despite the lingering headache, Dick is feeling a little more
productive and a lot more positive. It’s another beautiful fall day. And maybe his sudden
return to Bludhaven is a good thing. His cold cases could use some microwaving. He can
increase his support on some of the League projects he’s helping with but has been slacking
on lately. And he can definitely go to the party tomorrow!

And he can teach the afternoon gymnastics class today. He will have to let Carol know he can
make it. And he will have to check if he has enough make-up, start icing his jaw now to bring
down the swelling. He can’t keep his hoodie pulled up in the gym.

Dick starts to plan out the rest of his day as he walks up the stairs in his building. It’s slow
going, the climbing motion causing a tension in his abdomen that’s agony. He’s pretty sure he
still has pain killers in his medicine cabinet, but he may need to restock soon. That’s fine, he
can likely run to the pharmacy on his way to the gym. Dick is just thinking about whether he
should do laundry before or after he calls Carol (has decided optimistically he can probably
do both at the same time), when he unlocks his door and steps into his apartment and finds he
is not alone.

Jason Todd sits on his couch.

And it is Jason Todd, no traces of red helmet or armour to be seen, just a regular fall jacket.
He looks irritated, arms folded, like he doesn’t want to be there and resents whatever forces
have brought him here. Dick hopes that doesn’t mean he’s angry with him.

Dick’s surprise at seeing him goes beyond any head trauma-induced confusion. He’s pretty
sure Jason has never even been to his apartment before. Dick instinctively guesses that
something must be wrong. Is someone hurt? Still strange that it’s Jason who is here. Unless
everyone else is hurt? But Jason doesn’t look that distraught.

Whatever the reason he’s here, Dick is going to have to reschedule his laundry plans.
Dick lets the door swing shut. They stare at each other for a moment. “Hi,” he says simply,
walking over to the kitchen with his grocery bags.

“‘Hi’,” Jason mimics sarcastically. “So he speaks! You’d better be ready to do a lot of talking
now, dick.” Is everyone going to be saying his name like that now? Dick hears the couch
springs groan as Jason gets up and follows him into the kitchen. The sting of cigarette smoke
wafts in after him, and Dick spares a moment to wonder whether Jason has been smoking in
his apartment. He almost asks, but Dick is actually looking for strategies to avoid arguments
right now. So. He opens the fridge and starts putting away his purchases. Jason sighs but
grabs a box of cereal out of a bag and pulls open some cupboards.

“Is everyone okay?” Dick asks as he tries to sneak the eggos into the freezer without Jason
noticing. Jason clearly notices, eyes narrowing and shaking his head in scorn. Busted.

Jason then makes a frustrated noise and looks up to the heavens like he can’t believe he’s
here, dealing with Dick’s nonsense. “Everyone is fine, they’re worried about you, idiot. You
can’t just fight Bruce, run away, and go radio silent. Rebel loner doesn’t suit you.” The unlike
me is implied.

Dick has a sneaking suspicion and frowns. “Did Babs send you to check up on me? Because
I’m doing fine and she can -”

“I’m not here as Barbara’s scout,” Jason says flatly. “And honestly fuck you for thinking I
can be sent anywhere. Seriously, you couldn’t have bothered responding to anyone’s
messages just once? Your little chicks are so worried they’re bothering me. Damn, it’s too
early for this.” Jason drops onto a wooden chair at Dick’s tiny kitchen table, massaging his
temple. “ See, I was just minding my own business cleaning my guns when I got a panicked
call from the Replacement saying you disappeared and weren’t answering your phone.”

Tim has been telling a lot of people about Dick’s life lately, he thinks bitterly, but it’s tinged
with guilt for leaving his brothers alone after witnessing something kind of traumatic. His
mind flashes back to Damian’s horrified face, glimpsed beyond Batman’s glaring cowl.

“So Tim sent you,” he summarizes, pulling himself up to sit on his kitchen counter.
“No, I told him you’re a big boy who can look out for himself, and then I hung up. But then,
I’m just minding my own business making ragoût when the Demon Brat calls. And guess
what? He demands I check in on you, too. Only this time he gives a few more interesting
details about what happened that make me think maybe this is something I should check out
after all. So spill. What’s going on here?”

Jason’s face is serious; on him, Dick notes with alarm, it looks concerned. Dick wonders
what exactly Damian had said that made Jason drive out to Bludhaven with this expression
on his face. Dick had been so pathetically grateful that Jason hadn’t been in the cave to see
Bruce and him fight. He has always hated it when there are witnesses to his failings. Dick has
been in emotional purgatory since last night and he’s not looking to deal with his damage
right now. Dick looks down, hood falling further over his face to shield him from Jason’s
probing look.

“I don’t know what Damian told you,” Dick says slowly, “And I’m sorry you came out all
this way for nothing. But I’m fine.” A pause. “And don’t call him that.”

“Right,” Jason says disbelievingly, “You’re always fucking fine. But see, what it sounded like
is that you just got beat down by your old man and then exiled. You, the Golden Boy, who’s
so far in the nest you are the nest. So explain to me either what I’ve got wrong here or else
how, exactly, that makes you perfectly fine.”

Dick feels a spark of resentment toward Jason for making him talk about this. For coming
into his apartment uninvited and forcing him to think about stuff that doesn’t matter, stuff he
can’t change. And maybe his hurt and shame over what happened is closer to the surface than
he thinks, because he finds himself turning defensive.

“You don’t know what happened, Jason, you weren’t even there!” he snaps, bringing his head
up to meet Jason’s unimpressed gaze. “You always run off when things don’t go how you
want.” Maybe Jason runs before he can get told to leave. Maybe that hurts less. “But some of
us don’t have the luxury of just walking away. I know you’re rusty on how family works, so
let me remind you - it’s messy! But you have to actually handle the -”

Jason’s eyes flash warningly, “Don’t talk to me about running away, you sanctimonious prick.
You fucked off to Jump City my entire childhood!” So unfair; Dick will never tell him he
wasn’t welcome home then, just like now. “And don’t get me started on dealing with this so-
called family’s messed up relationships. Who,” he breathes out vehemently, a flicker of green
in his eyes, “do you think you are. You act like everything wrong with us can just be wiped
away, like nothing’s had consequences! You can’t just bleed over everyone else like some
self-appointed sacrifice and expect it to all just stop hurting. And no one is asking you to!”

Well, Dick thinks, at least Jason is referring to them as a family, and including himself in it.
But Jason isn’t done. “I fucking died,” - and it might be a new record, that it’s taken Jason
this long to mention it today-, “and you always like to forget all the times your precious little
psycho tried to murder Replacement-”

“ You tried to kill Tim!” Dick says, outraged on Damian’s behalf, though it doesn’t make
anything better.

“I was in a resurrection-induced Pit rage -”

“He was an abused child who was raised by assassins!” Talking to Jason is never good for
Dick’s blood pressure.

“What I am trying to say , Dickhead, if you would let me talk, is some people don’t actually
enjoy talking to people who’ve hurt them,” Jason finishes heatedly.

“You can’t just run from problems either!” Dick insists, even though that is literally what he
is doing. “If you don’t actually deal with conflict, nothing ever gets better!” Dick closes his
eyes, wondering how he got to this moment, shouting at Jason in his apartment. Can all he do
is fight these days?

“Alright, listen up asshole!” Jason rages. A sharp inhale, and Dick braces, gaze locked firmly
on his cupboard door. Abruptly paralyzed, his frozen lungs ache. He is suddenly intensely
grateful that Jason is sitting down and not looming over him; his brother’s height and build
are almost identical to Bruce. But the pause goes on longer than expected, and at the end all
that comes out is a measured, “What the hell happened last night?”

Dick frowns at the whiplash change in tone and looks at Jason. Jason’s gaze is fixed below
his eyes, at jaw level. And Dick realizes the hood he has been wearing since he went to get
groceries has fallen down during their argument.
Dick never did ice that bruise.

“It was my fault.” The words are out of Dick’s mouth before he even realizes that he’s going
to defend Bruce. But of course he is, he’s talking to Jason. Even to himself, his voice sounds
resigned. “I know you want to blame Bruce for everything, but I picked that fight when I
chose to switch off my comms. Unlike some people, I can take responsibility for my own
mistakes,” Dick says pointedly.

“Dick, stop trying to pick a fight right now,” Jason says seriously, and Dick cringes because
he’s right, but Dick can’t think of why he keeps trying to goad Jason, except that maybe it
would get him out of this conversation. Or maybe a fight would just feel familiar.

Dick makes a conscious effort to continue. “Sorry, that was uncalled for,” he allows. “But I
just don’t think our fight is that big of a deal. Like yes, things got physical this time, and we
both said and did things we regret, but we’re two adults.” Dick takes a deep breath, reaching
up to run a hand through his hair, wincing a little when he grazes the still-forming scab. Jason
is watching, waiting. “Look, I’m sorry we scared the kids and they bothered you into
checking up on me. But the reality is it’s not anything new. Bruce and I have been clashing
like this for years, we’re both strong personalities. It’s not anyone’s problem but our own.”
Dick sighs. “We’ll make up, eventually.” Then quieter, barely more than a mumble. “We
always do.” It’s just a matter of Bruce deciding Dick has learned his lesson.

It’s quiet for a moment, two brothers breathing in the same room. Dick releases his death grip
on the counter.

“Bruce is an asshole,” Jason says eventually. Dick hums in agreement. “You can be an
asshole too. But if you think that getting hurt by your parent and then tossed out of your
family on the regular is okay, I’m going to have to call you an idiot again. Idiot.”

“It’s not really like that,” Dick protests tiredly.

But Jason is holding a hand up and shaking his head. “No, you’re delusional. I see that now. I
know I didn’t stick around to watch last night, but I know you and I know Bruce, and I doubt
he looks as messed up as you right now. Someone’s got to put him in his place.”
“We both fought,” Dick insists again. And it’s true, isn’t it? Bruce had certainly thought so.
“And it’s not really your problem, Jay. Please don’t push him right now.” Dick casts around
for more words that will make sure Jason doesn’t bother Bruce about this. That’s the last
thing Dick needs. Then Bruce is never going to let him come back. “I wanted to come back to
Bludhaven anyways. I’d been gone too long. This gives me time to catch up on my life. Just
let me have some peace for a while, okay?” He’s pleading now, but he doesn’t care.

Jason stares at him like he’s never seen him before. He looks a little lost for what to say, or
what to do. Finally, he just shakes his head again and stands up. He stretches. “Whatever,
Goldie. It’s your life. You want some solitude away from the flock for a while, that’s your
choice.” He folds his arms. “But if I ever see Bruce being a violent ass to any of his kids you
better believe it’s my problem.”

Dick’s mouth goes dry, but he forces himself to nod. The idea has never been real to him
before, (unthinkable, an absolute nightmare scenario,) even as his mind offers him visions of
Bruce getting angry with Tim or Damian, raising a hand to strike them. No, that can never
happen. “Of course,” he says levelly. “I’d be right behind you.”

Jason holds his gaze for a moment. “Alriiiiiighty then. Glad that’s sorted. Guess I’m out of
here.”

And with that, Jason turns to leave, but he stops while still in the kitchen. “Oh yeah,” he
rummages in his pocket, then throws a phone onto the table. It’s Dick’s. “Found this on the
floor at your doorway.”

Dick swallows. “Must have dropped it,” he says lamely, staring at the device in trepidation.
He can see the list of notifications from here.

Jason snorts. “Yeah, no shit. Give those little birds a call. I’m not driving back out here.” And
then he’s walking away, and then the door slams, and he is gone, and Dick is alone again.

--------------
Dick decides he was right to be apprehensive - he has texts and missed calls from every one
of his siblings (notes a little touched that even Jason had called him twice), as well as texts
from Babs and a couple of friends from his Titans days - Wally and Donna he expects, but
Roy surprises him. One missed call from Wayne Manor that is probably Alfred. Nothing
from Bruce, which though disappointing, is to be expected. It’s too soon to hope anyway.

Dick starts off easy on himself and calls Carol to let her know he can teach this afternoon.
Then he does the laundry to stall while he debates if he should contact Tim or Damian next
(who would be offended more by being second?), before deciding to avoid the mess entirely
by calling the Manor.

He waits a bit nervously for someone to pick up while he leans against the washing machine.
He almost psychs himself out thinking that maybe it won’t be Alfred who picks up. What
schedule is Bruce following today? He is just about to chicken out and hang up when the line
connects.

“Good morning, Wayne Manor,” Alfred greets crisply and smoothly.

“Alfred,” Dick breathes, overwhelming relief at hearing Alfred’s voice suddenly making it
difficult to speak.

There is an answering intake of breath on the other end of the line. “Master Richard,” Alfred
says much more warmly. “How are you, dear boy?”

“I’m good,” Dick manages. “Sorry for disappearing on you.”

“You should hardly apologize for something that was in no way your fault,” Alfred’s clipped
tone sounds icy, and Dick does not envy Bruce at this moment. Alfred continues more gently.
“And I must apologize on Master Bruce’s behalf for his behaviour. You are most missed in
your absence, and welcome back when you are ready.”

Dick is almost certain that Alfred does not know all of the details of his and Bruce’s fights,
and never has. Alfred’s love for his pseudo-son and his choosing to stick with Bruce after all
he has done - it is difficult to reconcile the two without assuming he is ignorant of the
specifics on some level. Dick has never wanted to put them at odds anyway, justifying to
himself that he shouldn’t wreck a perfectly working relationship just because his crashed and
burned. So, hearing Alfred lay to rest all of his fears of abandonment from his grandfather
figure has him wanting to cry.

But now he wants, needs, something more from Alfred. Needs him to be more than just the
refuge he was for Dick. Right now, Dick needs Alfred to be the last line of defence between
Robin and the Batman, between Bruce and his son. “Alfred, I,” he starts. It’s difficult to
voice. “Damian - and Tim.” Why does he always forget Tim? He hates himself sometimes.
“Can you -? While I’m not around, can you. Watch them?” He cringes; it’s an awkward way
to say it, and he’s not sure Alfred will understand.

He’s thinking of ways to reword when Alfred interrupts. “Master Richard,” he says, then
stops. There’s an uncharacteristic pause where Dick frets anxiously, because if not Alfred,
there is no one else. “Of course,” the answer finally comes, delivered in a tone Dick can’t
quite place for the butler.

And Dick can breathe.

“Thanks, Alfred,” Dick chokes out. He tries to pull himself together before he falls apart
completely. “Is - are Damian and Tim around?”

“Master Timothy is at Wayne Enterprises at the moment.” Dick is chagrined. It’s Sunday
morning. Bruce needs to give this kid a break. “But Master Damian is just in the kitchen.
Shall I get him for you?” Alfred asks kindly.

Dick is filled with longing. “Would you?” He asks gratefully.

“Of course. One moment.” Alfred steps away and Dick hears distant conversation for a
minute.

Someone picks up the phone. “Richard?” Damian’s voice betrays his nervousness, and Dick
feels very protective instantly. It has been less than twelve hours since they last spoke but it
feels much longer. He really did just leave his kid hanging at the worst possible moment,
yikes.

“Damian,” Dick says enthusiastically, smiling just to be speaking with him. But his guilt
persists. “Listen, I am so sorry about abandoning you like that. You totally deserved an
explanation and I left you hanging.”

“Do not be silly,” Damian says, “I was present for your dismissal. You have nothing to be
sorry for.” And if Dick thought it was powerful to hear Alfred absolve his apology, coming
from Damian the words are like a parachute catching his fall. This kid has come so far in his
empathy and understanding it takes Dick’s breath away.

However, from the inflection, it is clear that Damian means that in contrast, Bruce has
everything to be sorry for. Dick once again finds himself dividing father and son, exactly
what he said he wouldn’t do. After his conversation with Jason and envisioning Bruce hitting
one of his siblings, Dick suddenly needs to know that Damian and everyone else’s
relationships with Bruce are better than his. He needs them all to not fight.

Bruce is a better father to Damian than he ever was to Dick, but Dick likes to think that’s
because Dick wasn’t interested in a father when he first arrived at the manor. Maybe Dick
wants Bruce and Damian to work out because his own biological father is such a spot of light
in his past. Regardless, Dick needs to do everything he can to keep Damian and Bruce’s
relationship as healthy as possible.

“Damian, this is mine and Bruce’s fight,” he says, shifting on the washing machine, “Please
don’t make it yours. I’ll be back soon enough,” hopefully, “But while I’m gone. Tell me
you’ll get along with Bruce.” There’s a noise of indignation on the line but Dick insists,
“Please, Dami, I need to hear it.”

“But he was cruel to you,” Damian almost whispers, a boy who knows all about cruelty.

Dick closes his eyes. He knows it’s kind of unfair to ask this of Damian, but Dick has to
know he will be safe. “We were cruel to each other. But if you make him angry with you too,
I don’t think I could handle it.”
“Richard,” Damian says his name like a protest. But then, stiffly, “I shall try to disguise my
contempt.” A beat. “You will return soon?”

And that halfhearted agreement to not be overtly aggressive to Bruce will have to be enough
for Dick. He can fix it later. He releases the breath he has been holding in and smiles at
Damian’s question. “I’ve got a couple things I need to do in Bludhaven anyway, since I was
gone for so long. But I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Where ‘as soon as I can’ depends very
little on when Dick wants.

Damian hmms. “That holiday, Thanksgiving, is approaching soon. Though it is not a very big
deal.” It is obviously a very big deal. “You are still coming to the aquarium?”

Right, the aquarium. Dick would really like to say yes instantly, but Bruce can be
unpredictable about forgiveness. Which really, really sucks because this aquarium thing is
important to Dick too. It’s less than a week away now. “I’ll try my best,” he eventually says
honestly.

Damian accepts this answer. “Very well then. Perhaps if you remain in Bludhaven for long I
shall have to come and assist you,” he comments imperiously, and Dick stifles a laugh
because, cute.

“That would be amazing, Dami,” he says, “You could sweep these streets clean in a night.
Just make sure you get permission. And don’t fight.” Dick’s washing machine dings. “I have
to go, kiddo. But I love you. I’ll text you later.”

“See that you do,” Damian says, adorably pompous, and hangs up.

Dick is still smiling as he goes to open Tim’s texts, but it quickly fades. He feels bad, reading
Tim’s messages which went from Are you okay? to Where’d you go?, then Barbara says
you’re in Bludhaven, then Answer your PHONE dick, to Don’t make me get Jason involved to
Please let me know if you’re okay. Six missed calls total. He really is the worst brother,
ghosting everyone when they are just concerned about him. Tim is at work right now, so Dick
opts to text back.
Sorry Timmy, he types. I’m okay.

He is about to send a long apology and explanation when his phone immediately starts
ringing. He sighs, not ready emotionally for what will surely be an analytical conversation,
but he answers anyway.

“Dick, hi,” Tim says. There is chatter in the background, then a clicking sound and quiet.
Dick is pretty sure Tim just left a meeting to call him, which is oddly flattering. But also
anxiety inducing - Bruce won’t be happy if Tim ignores work to check in on Dick’s
drama.“You’re okay?”

“I am okay,” Dick confirms, “And I am also really, really sorry about ghosting you, and for
leaving the way I did. I left in a rush, and then I just got so busy picking up life in Bludhaven
again. I shouldn’t have ignored you.”

“I won’t argue that you’re a jerk for not letting me know you’re okay,” Tim allows, “But I
can’t see how you leaving in the first place was your fault.”

And here again: someone telling Dick he doesn’t need to be sorry. It’s like everyone
simultaneously decided to forgive him before he even asked. Dick’s not sure what to stand on
when his apologies don’t float.

Tim continues. “I mean, that was crazy. Bruce was so out of line. And he can’t just send you
away.” He is venting, but he sounds bewildered too. Dick recalls that his more physical fights
with Bruce have been private in the past; it must have been a shock to see it last night.

Just like with Damian, Dick needs to know that Tim is not going to sabotage his relationship
with Bruce on Dick’s behalf. Bruce depends on Tim for Wayne Enterprises and casework,
and ropes him into countless projects. Of all of them, Bruce probably commands Tim’s time
the most, but still trusts him enough to give him a lot of autonomy. And like most of them,
Tim is generally grateful to be included at all, even when he has to sacrifice his personal life
or his work with other hero teams. Tim does enough on behalf of other people, so Dick
absolutely cannot let his failings be what pushes Tim to tip the balance he has with Bruce and
start their own fight.
“Look, I know it’s not ideal, but this is how Bruce and I operate. You know we fight a lot; we
just don’t click well naturally,” Dick finds himself repeating his defence to Jason. “We do this
to ourselves. So don’t worry about it, it’s our problem and we’ll patch it up eventually, just
like before. For now I need to catch up on things in Bludhaven anyway.” Dick is trying to be
reassuring, but Tim’s silence sounds judgmental.

“Dick, he literally punched you in the face, then kicked you out of his house,” Tim says
flatly, and Dick winces at the words because they’re technically, painfully true. “You may say
you’re okay, but what he did? That was not okay. I’ve been thinking about Bruce’s behaviour
for a while anyways, and our behaviour as a family. I think we need to talk about it.”

“Tim, please don’t argue about me with Bruce,” Dick tries not to sound as panicked as he
feels. “I know our fight got physical last night and you’re right that’s not okay, but we’re
honestly going to be fine. Please let me handle my own problems.” Dick finds himself
begging a lot, lately.

Tim hums noncommittally. “We’ll see. I don’t think you can claim this solely as your own
problem. It’s not just about you - this affects the whole family. Speaking of which, you’re still
coming to the aquarium right? You basically planned the whole thing.” Before Dick can
reply, there is a click and someone is talking to Tim. “I have to go now. But I’m working on
something.” Ominous. “Keep in touch okay? And take care of yourself. Honestly.” Tim
sounds exasperated, which is a bit rich since his self-care habits are negligible.

“Of course. Don’t work too hard. Bye Timmy, I love you,” Dick says.

“Love you too.” Again, so nice to hear, now that they’re on better terms. (It wasn’t so long
ago that Dick would dread saying it, too affected by the answering silence.) Tim hangs up the
phone.

Dick moves down the texting list. Barbara has sent him one message, a warning that Jason
was coming. He texts back Thanks for the warning :), also I’m STILL FINE.

Jason had texted a warning that if he didn’t answer his phone he would be showing up to
make him answer his phone, which makes Dick laugh a little. He has sent nothing since he
left Dick’s apartment, but Dick still sends a similar message to what he sent Barbara: I’m
fiiiiiiiiiiine.
Jason responds immediately with a photo. Dick opens it and his laugh gets louder. It’s a
picture of pants on fire, the implied liar loud and clear. Well, Dick is done trying to reassure
him then. He moves on.

Steph had texted asking if he is okay, and then asking if he had tried this new brand of fish
flavoured chips, photo attached. Dick replies thanking her for the concern, that he’s fine, and
that he’s very interested in these probably gross chips.

Cass has sent him a string of emojis and a question mark. Dick replies with a row of hearts
and a Can’t wait to see you! And Dick hopes desperately that he has made up with Bruce by
the end of the week.

Dick almost wishes everyone had just used the group chat instead of all of the individual
messages, but the intimacy of private messaging makes him feel more personally cared for so
he decides it’s worth the extra texting effort. He does throw a few fish emojis into the chat to
keep the aquarium hype alive, and reacts with a thumbs up to Steph’s question of a
Spongebob viewing party by video chat this Tuesday.

Next, Dick messages the Titan’s group chat, which he has been silently avoiding all week due
to his inability to commit. The last message in the chat was from Wally reminding everyone
of his address and giving a time to show up. Dick sends, See you there! with a bunch of stars.

Wally immediately likes his message and replies, Duuude YES! Finally found another present
for moi? ;)

Dick laughs and responds. You know it. He sends a kissy face, then closes the group chat.

Wally’s individual message is just a birthday list, which upon closer perusal contains
outrageous items including a golden carved image of himself and a yacht made out of
gingerbread. Dick reacts with a thumbs down and exits the window.
Dick checks the message from Roy, sent earlier this morning. It reads, Jason just left, said he
was going to see you. Bruce being an asshole?

Hmm. Roy, and all of the older Titans really, have been in Dick’s life during his worst
teenage fights with Bruce, back when Dick wasn’t even sure if Bruce cared about him. They
had seen how broken Dick could get over one insult from Bruce. But now? Dick is grateful
for the backup, sort of, but he is so used to dealing with Bruce’s moods that it all feels a little
overkill.

Just a little fight, nbd. Going to stay in Bludhaven for a while. He types. Then, a little hesitant
since Roy is not the best friend he used to be (these days he firmly stands with Jason), he
adds, See you tomorrow?

Roy responds instantly. Sure it was ‘nbd’. But ya, see you tomorrow.

Dick frowns but decides he’ll just deal with Roy when he sees him. Donna has seen his
message in the group chat and reacted with a happy face, but then she sends him a private
message.

Everything okay? She asks simply. She knew why he was struggling to figure out if he could
come and must have realized something happened.

Dick sighs. All of his friends and family seem to be practicing their detective work on his
emotions. Yeah okay, just back in Bludhaven for a while. He is sort of sick of talking about
his issues so he just says, I’ve got to run. See you tomorrow? And Donna sends a thumbs up.

Dick sets his phone down, finally, relieved. Then he looks back at his laundry. Well, no one
ever said being an adult was fun. He gets to work.

He does end up going to teach gymnastics that afternoon, face full of makeup and body full
of painkillers. It rejuvenates him, getting back into his routine life teaching something he
loves. His coworkers welcome him back, and the kids are enthusiastic at his return too.
When he gets home, he has enough time to eat one eggo waffle - his stomach is still
unsettled, one waffle is enough - before he sits down to dust off his case files. A lot of the
trails have gone cold, and Dick can tell it’s going to take a lot of work to revive his search.
That’s okay, he has time now.

Dick decides to go out briefly as Nightwing after more careful makeup application, just for a
light patrol. He needs to show the citizens of Bludhaven that he is back, and if a certain Bat is
watching and notices that he is perfectly capable of fighting crime on his own? Well, that’s
just a bonus. He heads home again before long, no crazy curveballs keeping him out late, to
continue sorting his old casework and catch up on current local crime reports.

It’s after midnight when his phone rings. Dick is lying on his couch, sifting files as he checks
the phone. It’s an unknown number. He answers. “Dick Grayson.”

“Richard, how good to hear from you.” Dick freezes, drops the case file he was looking at.
He pulls the phone away from his ear to stare at the number, then puts it back again.

“Slade,” he fights to keep the alarm from his voice, scrambling to sit up. “What the hell do
you want?” He doesn’t bother asking how he got his contact information. He always finds a
way, no matter how careful Dick is. It has been years since he last reached out though; Dick
was starting to think he was rid of him, that perhaps Slade had finally grown tired of him.

Slade Wilson laughs, low and patronizing. “Calm down, little bird. I saw on the news that a
certain blue bird had returned to its cesspool of a city. It just so happens that I have business
in Bludhaven as well. I’ll be there tomorrow night.”

Dick is nonplussed. Is Slade threatening him right now? Usually he is way more subtle about
his jobs. “Why are you telling me this? What’s the contract?”

“This is just a courtesy call. My contract is in your territory but is, as usual, none of your
business. Even so, perhaps I shall see you there.” Is this a warning? An invitation? Dick has
no idea.

“Slade, I don’t -”
“Goodnight, little bird.” Slade hangs up. Dick stares at his phone for a moment, absolutely
thrown by the exchange. Then he gives in to his instinct and makes Slade’s number a contact.
So he has more warning next time, on the slight chance Slade ever uses the number again.

A contract in Bludhaven tomorrow night. Uncharacteristic of Slade to let Dick know; Dick
can’t decide if he appreciates it or if it’s really, really irritating, like he’s taunting Dick to just
try and stop him. Dick is swamped trying to catch up on what’s happening in Bludhaven
anyway; it would take hours to try and find a thread that leads him to what Deathstroke might
have business in.

But another complication: the party is tomorrow. Should he really be leaving for Star City
now? The commute is over an hour. Maybe he should stick around Bludhaven; he doesn’t
even know what Slade’s contract is for yet. Then again, the party starts at four in the
afternoon, and he doesn’t have to stay late. He can be back in time to stop Slade. Besides, if
he backs out of the party now, Donna will be even more worried than she already is when he
doesn’t show.

Dick decides he can do both, see his friends and address the Slade Problem, and tries not to
think about how, lately, all of his choices have proven to be bad ones.

--------------------------

The next day Dick scrambles to find Wally a present on the way home from his morning
gymnastics class. He ends up settling with a childish water gun, justifying that he already
bought Wally a sound system for his gaming setup, so he can cheap out now. Besides, it will
be funny, and it's exactly the type of nonsense gift Wally adores.

He didn’t make much progress tracking Slade’s actions until almost 4 am, when he stumbled
across a shady casino that might have contracted Deathstroke’s services for a hit on their
competitor. He tried texting Slade’s number, fishing for information, but received no
response. Regardless, Dick is planning to scope out the situation tonight.

Dick skips lunch, opting for painkillers instead. Then he sits down to re-apply his makeup.
It’s tedious, but he has thought about it and decided that he would rather his friends not see
exactly what Bruce did to him. They are pretty anti-Bruce as it is, and have a tendency to
overreact about anything related to Dick’s perceived safety. The last thing Dick wants is to
turn their chill hangout into a lynch mob for Batman.

He checks his phone before he heads out to Star City. He doesn’t know what he’s doing until
Bruce’s contact information is already open. No messages from him of course. Before Dick
can reconsider, he types, Hey Bruce. Can we talk?

He hits send. Then he closes his phone and leaves his apartment.

It’s a cloudy day, but it makes for a nice drive to Star City. He tries to focus on driving
instead of the second thoughts he has about texting Bruce at all. Over the years of fighting
and making up repeatedly, he has learned that it’s best to wait until Bruce is ready to reach
out, but Dick doesn’t have the luxury of time right now. They celebrate Thanksgiving this
Saturday, and Dick has promised his family a trip to the aquarium. He needs a resolution
between him and Bruce this week, the sooner the better.

Dick tries not to think about whether he is ready for a resolution.

By the time Dick reaches Star City and pulls up to Wally’s place, a small unit in suburbia, he
has carefully put his family worries behind him for now.

He takes a moment before he goes in, closing his eyes and just breathing. Locking everything
in his mind away. Then he grabs the gift bag and walks up to the door.

The doorbell has a surprised frog’s face. Dick presses it with prejudice.

In a split second, the door is open and Dick is in the air, his gift bag flying into a nearby
shrubbery.

“Robbie! You actually made it!” Wally calls excitedly, swinging him around at inhuman
speeds. Dick is really glad he didn’t eat lunch.
He waits until he is set down before he meets Wally’s eyes levelly. Wally looks the same as
always, maybe a few new freckles. Dick adopts a serious expression and offers his hand.
“Wallace.”

His best friend solemnly takes the outstretched hand, then leans down quickly to kiss it
before Dick can pull away, startling Dick into a laugh.

He grins and goes in for a hug. “Happy Birthday, you grown ass man. You sent your present
flying into outer space though.”

Wally waves his hand. “Your presence is enough for me,” he claims dramatically.

“Oh?” Dick quirks a brow. “Well in that case…” He starts to scoot by Wally to enter the
house, but Wally makes him go and retrieve his gift from the bushes first. Dick manages to
trick Wally into falling into said bush, and he smiles. They are not so grown up, not really.
Some things never change, and Wally is a breath of familiarity that Dick didn’t realize he was
craving.

They go inside. Dick is the first to arrive, which is no surprise to him since he is half an hour
early. He figured if he comes early it’s not so strange if he leaves early, and with the way the
Titans gatherings go lately, sometimes it’s a good idea to have an exit strategy planned.

It’s comfortable, just the two of them. They talk casually about their jobs while they set out
bowls of chips in rows, probably half of which will be consumed by Wally alone.

“I wasn’t sure if you were going to make it tonight,” Wally says after a while as he pops some
hors d'oeuvres into the oven. Dick is perched on a bar stool scooping avocados into a bowl
for dip. “You were pretty silent in the chat, and Donna said you were really busy in Gotham.”

Dick focuses very hard on scraping the last bits of avocado off of the peel. “I was having
difficulty with the scheduling,” Dick says easily, “Bruce had me helping on a big case that
kept me in Gotham for a while. But I’m back in Bludhaven now, more free time for birthday
parties.”

“Oh, I’m glad the case is over, I remember how those can just drag on,” Wally bemoans
sympathetically on his behalf, coming to sit on the stool next to him. He grabs an avocado as
well and starts scooping. Wally is such a good friend, and Dick feels so bad misleading him,
that he clarifies.

“The case isn’t closed yet, actually. But it’s close, should be shut and done within a week
now,” Dick explains, going to dump an avocado pit into the scrap bowl.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Wally frown slightly. “So are you - what, off the case?
Why? You usually see those through to the end.”

Ugh. Dick should have just let him assume the case was finished. “I’m taking a break,” he
explains. “Bruce has a lot of hands helping out with Tim sticking around, and Jason’s pretty
regular now these days too. I figured I’d catch up on Bludhaven work, maybe show up in
other cities to bother some friends.” He punctuates his last sentence by poking Wally’s
avocado so it slips out of his grasp. It’s only Wally’s speedster reflexes that save it from a
fatal fall.

“Dude, do you have to be a little gremlin all the time?” Wally shakes his head, exasperated,
as Dick grins. But then he looks considering. “So, Jason’s around more, huh? That’s good,
that’s great progress for all of you.” Wally smiles, happy for him, but continues. “I would
have thought you’d want to stay in Gotham if everyone is there, though? Capitalize on family
time - and Thanksgiving is coming up.” More quietly, concerned. “Did something happen
with Bruce?”

Damn their long friendship, and the things Dick has shared in the past when he was weak.
Wally knows him too well, but Dick tries to obscure anyway. He waves a hand dismissively.
“Eh, not really, nothing serious. We fought a bit, and it’s better if I cool off in Bludhaven. I
needed a break from Gotham. And I really have been neglecting my casework there, it was
about time I got back into it.”

Wally regards him with some skepticism, but thankfully comments no further on the matter.
“Did I tell you about the squirrel family in the park I run in? I’m pretty sure they’ve
imprinted on me.”

“Are you sure squirrels imprint on anything?” Dick asks. And their discussion remains light
until the doorbell rings again, a ribbit ribbit that Dick is certain he will find annoying by the
end of the night but is so very Wally.

Wally opens the door to a chorus of “Happy Birthday!” Dick peers around the corner. Donna
and Garth have arrived simultaneously. Wally spins them both around, and they tolerate it,
Garth joking about super strength.

Donna spots Dick over Wally’s shoulder. She squeezes by the impromptu wrestle between
Wally and Garth. “Hey Boy Wonder,” she says, giving him a hug. “You made it.”

He holds onto her for a long time. “Hi Wonder Girl,” he whispers, kissing her cheek.

When he lets go she steps back to assess him, clearly looking for signs of maltreatment. Dick
smiles and spreads his arms, turning in a circle slowly like he’s in a display case. “Satisfied?”
he asks.

Her expression isn’t one of agreement, though all she asks is, “Are you okay?”

“Better now that you’re here,” he replies promptly with an infectious grin. She rolls her eyes
but laughs, and lets Wally drag them all into the kitchen again to chat while he finishes food
prep. Garth regales them with a fascinating tale of a boating accident.

The doorbell rings again.

Dick goes to open the door while Wally is still washing avocado from his hands and Donna
and Garth taste-test the dip.
He pulls the door open. “Hello and welcome to my home,” he says, then jolts internally
because.

It’s Roy.

He has grown more muscle now than since the last time Dick saw him, many months ago, but
he has been keeping his hair short for ages now. The way he meets Dick’s eyes and holds
them is the same. Roy doesn’t back down from a challenge. He is staring back, looking Dick
up and down. His eyes settle on Dick’s jaw.

“I didn’t realize you’d moved in, I wasn’t invited to the wedding,” Roy jokes with a raised
eyebrow, after a slightly awkward pause.

“It was an elopement, right darling?” Dick calls out loudly.

Wally speeds out and kisses Dick’s cheek. “You got it babe.” And Dick laughs, wiping sprite
off of his face.

Wally tries to pick Roy up but the archer is uncooperative. “Nuh uh, It’s your turn speedster,
hold my bag Rob,” he says, shoving his gift at Dick who catches it instinctively just before
Roy dives at Wally’s middle and hoists him over his shoulder.

Roy carries a howling Wally into the house as Garth and Donna cheer from inside. As he
passes Dick, he leans in and says, “Nice makeup.”

Dick grits his teeth and grinds out a smile, winking fake-suggestively. “Thanks.”

Roy just shakes his head and moves on.

Victor shows up not long after, and then Wally demands presents immediately. The water gun
is well received. Then Garfield makes a surprise but welcome appearance, bringing well-
wishes from Raven and her regret that she couldn’t make it. Listening to everyone share their
life updates, Dick feels more awake than he has in awhile, really seeing these people he grew
up with and grew apart from. They all had different dynamics as members cycled through the
team, but they are their own kind of family. He is honestly so, so proud of them.

The more people present, the easier it is to get a game going. Donna vetoes everyone’s
suggestions, even the birthday boy’s, in favour of forcing them all to play Just Dance.

It’s actually….. Really fun.

“Yas queen!” Wally calls as Donna absolutely nails the moves to “Bad Romance”. Wally
himself is moving too fast for the sensors to pick up his moves and loses to her, and then
loses every game after. Donna is unsurprisingly the champion, but she’s determined that
everyone else enjoy the game as well and forces everyone to participate. Dick catches himself
thinking that this could be fun to do with his family; Cass especially would love it, and he
can just picture Jason or Tim trying to nail a spin - then he remembers he’s not thinking about
his family right now.

Dick does a good performance of “Sexy and I Know It”, until he starts improvising new
moves and experiments with a handstand position, controller strapped to his ankle. It goes
well until he accidentally crashes into Garth and Roy, after which everyone makes him swear
no more inventions or he’ll be banished to the couch. Everybody’s a critic, though his
screaming abdomen is grateful. He takes a quick break to grab another painkiller while
everyone else is grabbing snacks before he returns to tamer dances.

They have to end on “What Does The Fox Say?” after Gar transforms into a literal fox and
starts screeching along, and Donna laughs so hard she falls over and knocks three chip bowls
onto their dance floor. By this time, Dick is sweating from the exertion and the heat radiating
from everyone’s bodies. He is still wearing his jacket, has been dreading removing it. He
never covered up the bruises on his arm, and while they have now faded to a yellowish green
that a lot of people wouldn’t glance twice at, Dick’s friends aren’t most people. But everyone
is in t-shirts now and wiping off sweat and Dick finally takes off the jacket after it becomes
weirder to leave it on.

A quick transition has them gathering around on the carpet like kids to play cards - Dick
doesn’t object, just keeps his hands casually behind him as he leans back against the couch
beside Victor. Wally declares they have to play mafia, because they need more practice
bringing people to justice.

“You mean you want more practice whipping up a lynch mob,” Donna interprets,
unimpressed.

Roy grins sharply, plunking himself down on Dick’s other side. “I’m ready.” Dick shuffles a
bit to make room for him, trying not to read too far into Roy’s decision to sit by him. Maybe
there’s nothing to be wary of.

Wally hands out the cards, and Dick tries not to wonder what Jason has told Roy.

Victor and Garfield have to go after the first round, and there is a brief interruption while
everyone makes their farewells that includes, in Wally’s case, fanatically waving them off
from the front door. Dick is sad to see them leave so quickly, but soon the rest of them return
to the carpet and pass out cards again for another round.

And Dick is having fun, really. The night is going well - maybe Cyborg and Garfield left
early, but it was peaceable. No one has stormed off yet, no one has brought up old wounds,
and there have been no long silences filled by ghosts and shared, painful memories.

Obviously, because Dick has shit luck, everything has to crash and burn.

After a couple rounds, Wally has managed to turn all of his friends against Dick, who has an
innocent five of spades.

“He’s lying to you,” Dick insists. “Look at his eye twitching!”

“The criminals always lash out when they’re cornered. Don’t listen to him,” Wally shakes his
head sadly. “This man is clearly a mafia ringleader.”
“Oh, I believe it,” Garth says with a grin. He raises his hand to vote and Dick dramatically
drops his head in defeat.

Despite Dick’s pleas, he is unanimously voted to hang.

“You’ll all be sorry, you traitors,” Dick looks at each of them, shaking his head.

“No talking, dead boy,” Wally says joyfully.

Dick presses his lips together in acquiescence. Then he reaches out viciously to turn his card
over and reveal his innocence posthumously.

Garth pats him sympathetically on the shoulder as Donna wipes away a fake tear and Wally
feigns shock.

“And he seemed so guilty,” Wally bemoans, leaning into Donna for comfort.

Dick makes a you’re dead gesture with his hand over his neck.

“What’s that?” Roy asks suddenly. Dick glances at him. He is still sitting next to Dick even
after they had all retaken their seats, which had been a surprising move on his part, and he is
looking at …. Dick’s wrist, which he is waving around like an idiot. Stupid, Grayson.

Dick sets his hands back behind him. He pointedly presses his lips together, then lays his
head back and closes his eyes, trying to communicate I am dead.

“Dick, cut it out, what’s on your arm?” Roy asks. Everyone else must pick up on his serious
tone because Dick hears Wally sit up straight and Donna stops laughing.
Dick sighs. Of course. He doesn’t want to talk about something, so he has to talk about it.
Roy never lets him get away with anything.

And because he’s Roy, he is already gripping Dick’s wrist to pull it towards him. Dick’s eyes
snap open as he yanks it away reflexively, trying to make the motion less of a flinch than it is.

“It’s nothing, Roy. Leave it alone.” His voice holds a warning. Back off.

Roy slaps his warning away like a mosquito. “Let me see it.”

Dick likes being the centre of attention, but not right now, not when he feels so exposed. All
of his friends are looking at him, waiting for Dick to either tell Roy to fuck off or show them
his arm. If he resists now, it will only be taken as a confirmation of their worst assumptions.
No good choices.

Dick’s headache is coming back.

Dick slowly lifts his arms, setting them in front of him and refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.
He knows what they see. It’s not hard to identify the hand-shaped outline if you’re looking
for it, and everyone here recognizes that it’s not a usual pattern for a field injury.

And layered on top, what he does to himself. The deep marks gouged into his wrists where
he’d clawed them bloody days ago, fighting himself when he couldn’t fight anyone else. He
hates it, hates himself for doing it. He knows how it must look, that it makes him seem
unstable, distressed. Knows that it will damage his position in the impending argument.

There’s a soft, “Dude,” from Wally.

Donna sucks in a breath. “Dick,” she says, so sadly it breaks his heart. “What happened?”
Dick counts slowly to ten before he lets his hands drop. “Sorry,” he says, because he really
hates to cause his friends pain over his own problems, “But really, it’s fine. They’re almost
gone anyway.”

His words are met with immediate objections from everyone present.

Over everyone else, Roy scoffs. “Right, because that’s the only thing wrong with you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dick demands, a spark of indignation lighting in his chest
at Roy’s knowing tone.

“Oh come on, Dick,” Roy says, exasperated, “You’ve been popping painkillers this whole
time. And you’re wearing a shit ton of makeup. You wanna hide injuries? You’ve got the
wrong crowd.”

Dick leans forward abruptly, annoyed, and Garth shifts to give him space. “What the hell do
you know?” he says flatly, glaring at Roy. Though of course, Dick has a hunch. “Jason been
gossiping?” It’s an accusation.

“You know what, yes, actually, I have been talking to Jay,” Roy snaps back. “Because we’re
friends so we tell each other things. And he shares a hell of a lot more than you do about your
problems. A lot more truthfully too.”

And Dick tries not to feel so jealous of Roy at this moment; Roy, who is close to his
roommates Jason and Kory when Dick wishes he was. Roy, who Jason talks to about his
family problems. The envy is for both of them, because Dick used to confide in Roy too.

That hasn’t been true for a long time. And now the implication that Roy, of all people, is
privy to the darker parts of his private life bothers him. Roy, who hasn’t spoken to him
without an edge of disdain in years. “That’s great,” he says, falsely bright. “Tell him he
should stick to sharing about his problems.”
“Oh please, I remember all the shit you used to say about Jason back in the day.” Dick
doesn’t think that’s fair, but he can’t remember clearly enough to protest. He’d had a lot of
pent up frustration back then, with Jason in the crossfire of its true target.

But he can’t focus on that right now. Roy is still talking at him, gesturing angrily. “Dick, look
at yourself. This is pathetic! You get beat to hell, tossed out, crawl home, and then show up
telling everyone you’re fucking fine!”

“Could you stop judging me for two seconds? You barely even know me anymore!” Dick
says fiercely. He’s practically spitting in Roy’s face.

“Guys,” says Wally, hesitant, but the fury of the moment drowns out any intervention.

“You’re right! I barely even recognize you!” Roy says, gesturing rudely at Dick’s face. “The
Dick Grayson I knew used to stand up for himself when Bruce was being a bastard. You
complained about him for years, but now? You have the most dysfunctional family I know,
and instead of changing anything you just roll over and kiss Bruce’s ass. ”

Dick bristles at his words. That Roy has the gall to believe he’s in a position to comment is
infuriating. He and Jason have the exact same strategy for handling family disputes, which is
avoiding family altogether; no wonder they get along. “That’s rich coming from you, Roy.
How is Ollie doing lately?” he challenges, knowing full well Roy and Ollie haven’t had more
than a two minute conversation in years.

Roy’s eyes flash dangerously. “Careful, Grayson. If you think that’s where I count my family
these days, you don’t know me either.”

Dick laughs harshly. He thinks very little of Roy’s position on family. “Then I’d hate to be
them. Family’s so cheap to you - first Ollie, and it sounds like Jade isn’t coming around
anymore eith-”

“You hypocrite!” Roy seethes, voice tight, and Dick was mostly guessing with Jade but here’s
confirmation that he hit a mark. His voice drips with disgust. “You’re telling me about
commitment? You? You’re the biggest slut I know.” The temperature in the room drops, and
Dick’s stomach rolls over in a way that has nothing to do with his injuries. “You think Kory
wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t such a damn mess?”

It’s a topic Dick isn’t prepared for, is somehow never prepared for, though he should have
been; it’s one of Roy’s favourites. “This,” he manages, rigid and warning, trying to disguise
the sudden difficulty he is having with staying in the present, “Is not the same thing.” It’s not.
Dick forces images of events long past away, grasping for the thread of what he really wants
to say.

When he finds it, Dick is livid. “You have no right to tell me what I’m doing wrong. You
might know Jason, but you don’t know shit about our family.” As if Jason was a reliable
narrator in this story. As if Jason knew shit about their family, about Dick.

Dick has so much, has been given so much, by Bruce, with this family, and Dick’s place in it
has changed over the years, with his siblings. With Damian. Dick can’t afford to get as angry
as Bruce does, can’t fight like he used to, can’t afford to get thrown out of paradise, not when
he has too much to lose now. Leaving before hurt, when it was just Bruce and Alfred, but
now?

Dick would rather die.

Roy barks a harsh noise that could be a laugh. “Then just tell us the fucking truth, Dick, for
once in your life.”

It’s just like Roy, to feel entitled to a full explanation of something that has nothing to do with
him.

Dick doesn’t owe him anything. Not anymore.

And it’s just like Roy, to assume everything Dick’s saying is part of an act, that it’s
impossible he could be describing how he actually feels.
Jason’s words echo back to him - always a fucking show. The makeup on his jaw itches.

“I am, you just don’t get it,” Dick snarls, his nails finding his wrists and digging deep,
burning where they tear still healing flesh. “Yes, I fought with Bruce, we fight all the time,
but we’re family, and this one was my own fucking fault, so call off the lynch mob. I
basically asked him to fight me, and obviously, I lost.” He clenches his fingernails tighter
with the admission.

“You’re not even listening to yourself,” Roy retorts, crumpling his card. “For fuck’s sake, you
think it’s your fault when someone hurts you.”

“It is my fault!” Dick insists. And he hates that he knows what everyone is thinking now,
when he’s repeating the words he hears all the time from domestic abuse victims on the more
somber patrols. He’s getting the pitying looks now, the glances his friends have been sending
his way for years when they think he can’t see.

He sighs, letting go of his wrists to rub his eyes tiredly, or trying to, but for the second time
that night Roy catches his arm.

“What the fuck is this?” Roy demands, incredulous. And now Dick can see the blood already
beading where he has reopened the scratches. It looks mutilated, wrong - and it startles him a
little; he hadn’t even noticed what he’d been doing.

“Get off,” he spits in place of a response, pulling away again instinctively. There’s an
uncomfortable pause, laden with tension, as if no one quite knows how to proceed from here.
Dick is not inclined to break it.

Finally Donna cuts in. “Of course it’s not your fault, Dick,” Donna insists, addressing his
earlier words. Her eyes never leave his butchered wrists, something like comprehension
dawning. “Why didn’t you say anything? You know we’re here for you. And we’re
listening.” Donna shoots Roy a glare and he just shrugs, unrepentant.

But they don’t get it, how uniquely his family operates. Violence is a part of the vigilante life,
the core of what’s keeping their family together and what made them family in the first place
(and what separates them, when Dick was kicked out after being fired from Robin so many
years ago). Everyone in their family is used to body language and tone, when they are all
trained to lie so well with their words. So they often express themselves physically, and
sometimes that’s how anger is shared too. So when Dick upsets the balance and winds up
paying for it he does it to himself.

And as always, Dick finds himself defending Bruce to his friends, as he explains his own
mistakes. It’s exhausting.

“Yeah man,” Garth is agreeing with Donna. “We’re a team.”

“We’re on your side, Dick, we always have been,” Wally says seriously.

Dick looks at his friend, exasperated. “It’s not a side, Wally, we’re not at war, we’re just
taking a break!” He cringes internally. Why did he phrase it like they’re a couple going
through marital troubles? He takes a deep breath, trying to calm down. “Look, we’re a little
messed up, but we love each other. Now can we please stop talking about this?”

“Dick, I just don’t get how you go from wanting to protect your family to letting Bruce hurt
you like this,” Donna maintains, voice reasonable. “This isn’t healthy for any of you!”

“And Dick...” Wally ventures, cautious and gentle, “What about your brothers? Does
Bruce…?”

“They’re fine.” His answer is immediate, too quick to sound sincere, so he adds, “Bruce
would never hurt them.” He’ll never let him. That’s why he needs to be around, why it hurts
so badly to be gone. Why he’ll always come crawling back.

“Jay’s right, you’re delusional,” Roy pronounces, finally throwing his card down. Joker. He
was the mafia. “What, you like putting on a show for the rest of the Bats?” He leans into
Dick’s space. “Or are you trying to make the assassin brat feel more at home? Bet the little
Demon loves seeing Daddy and Mommy fighting,” he suggests wickedly.
If everyone could just leave Damian alone - Dick whips his head around again, glare ready,
chance of calm extinguished. “Harper, if you want to leave tonight without a new scar I
suggest you shut the fuck up.”

(And is that how Jason talks about Damian to his friends?)

Roy’s face is twisted meanly as he meets Dick’s rage. “As if you put up a fight these days,”
his tone shifts, becomes something ugly, “You know what, I think you like getting hurt.
Reminds you of home. Does it make you feel good, being Bruce’s little bitch -?”

And that’s it. Dick doesn’t hear Donna’s complaint of “Seriously, guys, again?” or Garth’s
“Come on, man”. Dick doesn’t hear anything over the rush in his ears, doesn’t see anything
but white anger.

And suddenly Roy is on the floor and Dick is overtop of him and they’re wrestling like
they’re trying to kill each other. Roy loops an ankle around Dick’s knee and throws them
both across the floor, scattering the deck at the centre of the room. Cards go flying.

The fight doesn’t last long. There’s a blur of orange hair and Wally has relocated Dick to the
couch. Another blur and Roy disappears from the room, but there is yelling in the kitchen so
Dick has a pretty good idea of where he went.

Dick launches himself from the couch, ready to find and kill Roy, but Donna and Garth block
his way.

“Calm down,” Garth is telling him, “That’s enough. Roy can be a shit, but you both need to
cool it.”

“He’s dead,” Dick hisses, trying to side step, but Donna catches him in what is definitely a
hug. Dick does not want to be touched right now, not when Roy brought up Kory and by
implication Mirage, but he can’t escape Donna’s grasp without hurting her, and he doesn’t
want to do that when he’s already caused her so much pain.
“Dick, please, listen to me,” Donna pleads, “We are your friends. We love you. Ignore Roy
for a moment. Seeing you hurt makes us all very angry.”

Dick has had quite enough of this intervention. Now, he has to get out. Has to get away. He
hasn’t eaten a thing all day, but there’s bile rising in his throat. Everyone is too close to him.
He can feel his body shaking.

It’s Donna who is hugging him, but it feels like someone else.

“Donna,” Dick’s voice is not much louder than a whisper, but if he let himself he would yell.
“Let me go.”

And Donna, bless her, listens. She carefully releases Dick, who steps around her. He marches
to the kitchen, Donna and Garth trailing behind him apprehensively.

He stops in the doorway. Roy is sitting on a bar stool, Wally holding onto one of his arms as
Roy threatens him with the spoon clenched in his other hand. They are arguing loudly but
look up when Dick appears.

“ You.” Dick says forcefully, meeting Roy’s eyes across the room. “Fuck you. I mean it. And
all of you.” He looks around at his other best friends, people he has known and cared about
for years. He has led them before, through wars, and he draws on that old authority now. “I
love you, but if you want to tell me how I should love my family, you can go to hell.”

“Like you know -,” Roy starts, but Dick cuts him off.

“I am done here,” Dick growls, grabbing his jacket and shrugging it on. “And if you try to
talk to me about this I will never talk to you again.” He meets Wally’s eyes specifically for
the next words. “Do not follow me.”

And then he storms out.

Chapter End Notes

Yep, Slade Wilson showed up. I want a foil for Bruce and Dick’s relationship.

Thanks so much for reading! I appreciate any feedback. :)

 Give and Take
Chapter Summary

In which Dick just wants to go home and proceeds not to.

Chapter Notes

Hello dear readers,

This story is now 9 chapters long because this chapter was a multi-headed monster that
needed to be cut down to size. We are branching trauma themes a bit more starting now.
I have included a note for those who like to know what they are getting into topically in
the end notes because I like to over-expound on the very sensitive themes I’ve chosen.

Also, “Surface Pressure” from Disney’s Encanto describes Dick Grayson’s eldest
daughter syndrome so perfectly aaaah!! Although I usually just listen to the same pop
music breakup songs on repeat when writing this, for angst. ;)

See endnotes for some more specific chapter warnings. I may also update tags as the
story progresses.

Okay, here we go again!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“I was always ashamed to take. So I gave. It was not a virtue. It was a disguise.” ~ Anais
Nin, The Diary Of Anais Nin, Vol. 4: 1944-1947

Give and Take

Dick leaves Wally’s house in a blind fury, though it fades a bit with distance. In its wake
comes guilt, that he is the one to ruin the party.

No one runs after him, and Dick is thankful for the small mercy. He doesn’t have any words
to say to any of them right now. He slams on the gas driving back to Bludhaven, craving a
scalding shower, Roy’s words about Kory (about Mirage) in his head and making him feel
dirty, disgusting. Poisonous.

Most days, Dick is successful in not thinking about certain parts of his past, in not wondering
what his friends think of him because of them. Parts he wishes never happened, that fill him
with shame and a hurt that confuses him.

Slut.

Who was better?

Mi amor - and Dick almost swerves off the road.

Today, he’s alone, but he swears he can feel hands all over him.

The only distraction he has from the uncomfortable memories are Wally’s words that he can’t
shake, which are no less distressing. What about your brothers? Does Bruce..?

Because. Dick knows that Bruce treats him very differently from the rest of his siblings. Has
always treated him differently. Apart from Jason's early Red Hood days (back when they
hadn't even known it was Jason), he has never seen Bruce get physical with any of them,
never escalate beyond a yell. The same defiance that would award Dick a slap would leave
Tim with an eye roll. So he has no basis for thinking any of them are unsafe, beyond
overworking.

And yet. Now he is thinking. Remembering. Bruce, displeasure mounting. His siblings,
caught in the rising tide. It all plays behind his eyes in lurid detail. His own ingrained
response, wading into the current to plant himself between them and Bruce. His relief when
the weight of Bruce’s anger hits him instead. A shield.

(Jason’s words again - a sacrifice.)

Yes, he has never seen Bruce hurt them. But he cannot say Bruce has never wanted to.

His fingers tighten on the steering wheel. His wrists sting.

These dark thoughts plague his mind until he notes, with the first positive feeling of the last
hour, that since he left the party early he actually has time to do some quick research before
scoping out the casino. He presses the gas harder.

Time to find out if Slade is really around.

And Dick recognizes the irony in his actions, the echo of his teenage self: leaving his Titan
friends to go out as a lone vigilante and chase Deathstroke around a city. This is parallel, but
different. He is no child anymore.

When Dick pulls up to his apartment he runs up the stairs, unlocks his door, and throws
himself inside, turning to shut the door behind him before he comes to a dead stop.

A prickling at the back of his neck. Someone is standing behind him in the darkness.

Dick doesn’t think. He lunges diagonally, turning himself to face his opponent with a half
aerial twist, putting himself closer to the living room where there is more space and window
light for better visibility.

In the dim light, Dick recognizes movement coming towards him. He evades instinctively,
but now his back is to the wall and a hand is still heading towards him, beyond normal
human speed. Up close, Dick recognizes his assailant and freezes for a second.

And now there’s a knife at his throat.

Whether it’s bad luck or good, Dick instantly knows that Slade Wilson will not be difficult to
locate tonight after all. Dick slowly reaches out to flick the nearby lightswitch, not moving
the rest of his body.

Deathstroke the Terminator stands in his apartment, in full mercenary regalia. His posture is
relaxed for someone who has Dick at knife point. Dick distantly notes that he is also
strangely calm himself, calmer than he has been all night, as he stands perfectly still before
Slade. He always finds that danger gives him something to focus on, and nothing is more
dangerous than Deathstroke.

“You’re late. And your entrance was poor,” Slade remarks dryly, removing his mask fluidly
with one hand. “But I’m not here to fight you this time.”

“Slade,” Dick says, surprisingly level. “What are you doing here? What about your
contract?” He has a sudden thought and swallows carefully. “Am I the contract?”

How did you get in? He wants to ask, but Slade has disabled all of his security in the past and
obviously knows his personal schedule, so the matter seems less pressing given Slade is in
Bludhaven to murder someone.

“Is just now the first time you’ve asked yourself whether you are the target? You’re slipping,”
Slade comments, though he sounds amused. “But as a matter of fact, I’ve turned down bids
for both Nightwing and Richard Grayson in the past.” Dick finds this both relieving and
threatening. Slade doesn’t say he won’t take contracts about him in the future (for the right
price) and Dick doesn’t ask him to. He knows Slade would kill him if it was advantageous.

Slade never fails to make Dick feel disoriented by the many opposites he embodies. It’s hard
to tell where they stand with each other. Slade liked Dick enough to coerce him into
apprenticeship; Slade also technically kidnapped and tortured him. And Dick can’t pin all the
confusion on Slade; Dick’s pursuit of Deathstroke was obsessive during his Teen Titan days.
After all they have been through, their connection is just another complicated shade of grey
in Dick’s life.

“Riiiiight,” Dick says. A beat. “What’s your contract?”

“Like I said. You’re late,” Slade says, a little smugly in Dick’s opinion. “My contract was
completed three hours ago.”

Completed three hours ago? Dick was in Star City playing Just Dance while someone was
being murdered in his city. The heavy sense of responsibility drops on him like a weight.

Dick must look the way he feels - like he has been punched - because Slade finally removes
the knife from Dick’s neck. He sheathes the blade and smoothly tosses a pamphlet at Dick,
who catches it reflexively. It’s a menu from one of the higher end restaurants in Bludhaven’s
entertainment district.

Slade has turned around, heading for a couch. His back is open. Dick could attack him now.
Dick follows him to the couch instead, curious.

Slade sits and Dick sits next to him. “The mark had dinner reservations that were….
Interrupted.” Slade looks satisfied. “The veal was very good.”

“You didn’t tell me it was going to be an early job today,” Dick says faintly, still staring at the
menu, feeling misled. Though really it’s his own fault for assuming Slade’s dirty work would
be taking place after dark. He can hear Bruce’s voice berating him about presumptions.

“You are correct, I didn’t tell you because it was none of your business . But you had enough
information to figure it out.” The ‘but you didn’t’ is implied. Dick hates how the subtle
disappointment in Slade’s tone still has the power to make Dick wince from shame. He is not
Slade’s unwilling apprentice anymore, but he will forever bear the aftereffects, the reflexive
need to please him. It’s just habitual now.

“Yesterday was a polite warning. I allowed you the opportunity to interfere, and you failed so
badly you weren’t even in the right city at the right time.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re disappointed in me, I messed up, I get it. I’ve heard this before. I’ll zone
out soon if that’s all you have for me,” Dick tells him, tossing the menu to the floor and
reclining back against the couch with his arms folded, but there’s no heat, no real annoyance.
It’s strange; his anger from the party is still within him, but it’s muffled behind a wall. His
time with Slade is in a bubble.

Dick knows his reaction to Slade is a deep-rooted response, how the world and his own
emotions fall away, focus collapsing onto his former master. He is suddenly noticing
everything about Slade, carefully reading his body language and words. He feels compelled
to shape his response from Slade’s cues. Slade is not upset, so Dick is not upset. The careful
deference comes so naturally now it’s almost a relief to fall back onto habit, the hyper-
awareness of one specific person. It’s familiar, because.

This is how he interacts with Bruce.

Slade rolls his one eye, the rest of him remaining perfectly composed. “You missed your
chance for a fight today.” Both a light goad and a dismissal of Dick’s attempt to rile him.
“I’m here because there is obviously something wrong with you, if you can’t do your night
job properly.”

Dick is thrown. He frowns, tilting his head. “You’re ... checking up on me?” Is that sweet?
Creepy? As usual, it feels like both.

“I’m assessing whether you are fit for service,” Slade says flatly, and now Dick bristles.

He sits up and points a finger at Slade’s chest. “Your opinion means nothing to me,” he says,
and they both ignore how blatantly false that is. “And let me make sure you get this straight. I
make my own decisions. I don’t need your permission to be Nightwing. Nightwing is mine . I
don’t need anyone’s permission to be myself. In my city.” Bruce can kick him out of Gotham,
but he can’t take his vigilante identity away.

Not again, anyway.

Slade makes a noncommittal hum. “Yet you ran away so quickly to play Batman.” Not fair, it
had been the only real choice. “You call Bludhaven your city, but Nightwing has been
spending a lot of time in Gotham lately. Your control here is slipping.”
“You knew,” Dick says, annoyed. “That I wasn’t going to be able to stop your contract.” You
were toying with me. It’s a familiar feeling.

Slade doesn’t bother denying it. “I was making a point, and you demonstrated it perfectly.”
Derision. “It has become clear that it is not you who makes your decisions.”

And there’s the knowing look. Dick is sick of seeing it tonight, and now on Slade’s face of all
people. Dick is sick of literally everyone thinking they know something about Bruce and his
relationship.

“I’m a team-player, I don’t need to fly solo all the time,” Dick defends himself. “When they
call, I’m there.”

“Yes, your legendary loyalty,” Slade draws out regretfully. “To a man who doesn’t want you,
a family who doesn’t appreciate you, and a cause you’re wasted in.” The underlying
contempt makes Dick nervous and he has to talk himself down from immediate appeasement
so he can say what he means. He’s actually grateful for his hyper-focus on Slade’s emotions,
keeping him from feeling his own response to Slade’s horrible, truthful words.

“Oh come on,” Dick begins, “Like your family -”

There’s suddenly a hand on his neck, freezing him in place. “Be careful what you say next,”
Slade’s voice is mild. Dick is not fooled. His grip is strong. “My tolerance for your backtalk
only goes so far.”

Dick swallows. He hasn’t kept up to date, but he’s certain Slade’s family relationships have
not improved in recent years. Best not to stir the pot. So he switches targets.

“I just meant don’t criticize my loyalties, geez, you’ve turned your back on enough of your
partnerships for a suitable price,” Dick says, and he can’t help his own disdain from slipping
in there. But Slade has always been professional about his mercenary work and shouldn’t
take offense. “And I haven’t abandoned Bludhaven! I was only gone for a few weeks. I’m
back now, and if you think I’m going to let you walk all over this place, think again.”

“You’re stretched thin, you’re tired, and you’re obviously injured.” Dick shifts under Slade’s
hand, irritated that Slade can tell, when Dick is still wearing his jacket and makeup.
Enhanced senses are so annoying. “I’ve always admired your strength and respected your
independence, but you could benefit from someone watching your back.”

“Are you giving me self-care advice?” Dick asks, to be a pest.

Slade gives him an unimpressed look. “I’m telling you to open your eyes to your current
situation.” He takes a moment. Then, “What drew me to you, years ago, was your brash self-
determination.”

“Please, you didn’t like my brashness and you didn’t want me determining things for myself
- you tried to brainwash me,” Dick retorts.

Slade dismisses this, grip tightening slightly. “I was certain with the right guidance, you
would be great. But you ran back to your little team and continued your hero work. And I let
you go. Batman’s teaching has crippled you in more ways than one. I could see that already
then.”

Dick is miffed that Slade is implying he could have stolen Dick away again if he had wanted
to. Like Dick wasn’t a competent vigilante capable of protecting himself from getting
kidnapped twice .

But he also feels the need to defend Bruce’s mentorship. “Bruce taught me a good path, one
that doesn’t just benefit myself. We have a moral code; we save lives and protect people.”

“And yet you still hurt people,” Slade says. “Most of all, yourself. That was always your
biggest flaw, and now it has broken you. I am here to make you see. ”
Slade shakes him for a moment, making him nod bizarrely as Slade forces his neck into
motion. It’s getting a little painful.

“ This is your problem. Look at us.” Slade lowers his voice into a threatening growl, and all
Dick can think is predator. “You shouldn’t trust me. I have hurt you before, I have tortured
your friends. Who is to say I will not do so again?” Releasing his neck, Slade carefully takes
Dick’s hand in his own, studies it idly. Dick is not breathing. “ Look at us .” Slade repeats,
tone commanding, and the apprentice inside of Dick jumps to attention. His gaze is fixed on
Slade’s face, but he feels his fingers being gently spread apart. “I’ve had my hand at your
throat, and you’re not even fighting. Your weakness compromises you.”

No warning - a twist. A snap. His body jolts, vision whiting out for a moment. Dick
….doesn’t move. He knows Slade could kill him this instant without regret. He can’t even
explain it to himself, how sitting still while Slade threatens him feels right. Slade continues
with no regard for his inner turmoil. “But I can’t take credit for your behaviour, despite my
own efforts in the past. There’s something very wrong with you,” Slade remarks, reluctantly
admiring, finally releasing Dick’s hand. The pinkie finger now hangs crookedly. “I could
never hope to mess you up the way the Bat does.”

“Bruce isn’t the bad guy here,” says Dick indignantly, words clumsy from pain. Slade always
was self-righteous about his own actions while condemning the same patterns in others. A
piety of convenience.

“You would believe that, wouldn’t you?” Slade comments mildly. He stands up now. He
really does tower over Dick, especially when Dick himself is still seated. Dick pretends not to
be affected, though there’s no disguising the sudden tension in his body. “And yet you can’t
help but compare us.”

Dick hates that Slade has a point about comparison. Dick really does feel like he has double
vision looking at Slade right now, seeing the shape of Bruce in the presence he commands, in
the way he looms over Dick. They are such different men, but they fill alarmingly similar
categories in Dick’s mind.

His finger throbs.

“You used to fight,” Slade says, almost wistfully, “You used to fight me. I know you used to
fight Wayne. But you’ve stopped. Where is your brash anger, Robin?”

Dick winces as the old name coming from Deathstroke draws up memories.

But here, Dick feels safe with the truth in a way he hasn’t with anyone else. “Anger burns a
lot of bridges.” He says quietly, refusing to look at Slade. “And I have a lot more to lose
now.” He’s trying not to draw attention to the photos taped to his walls, scattered all around
the living room, but his gaze finds them anyway. Candids of his siblings, group photos with
friends, precious memories all.

Slade is quiet so long, Dick finally looks up. Slade is watching him. “They will never thank
you for what you’ve done.”

“I know.” Dick isn’t foolish enough to think his siblings want him to protect them. But he’s
the older brother. That’s his role.

Slade regards him for a long time, gaze inscrutable. “If I told you to come with me now,
would you?”

Unexpected. Slade had stopped trying to recruit Dick since he became an adult. Although
Slade's obsession with him never truly went away - his current presence in Dick’s apartment
is evidence enough.

Dick considers Slade, never entirely certain what he wants from him, outright enemies or not.

“I can’t turn my back on my family,” Dick answers, cradling his damaged left hand in his
right. It comes out apologetic, but he means it.

Slade inclines his head in recognition, then turns to go.

“If you come to your senses,” Slade says, and that’s it. Slade is no hero; he would let Dick
choose to destroy himself, and he would watch. Still Dick knows the invitation is real. It’s
oddly touching.

Slade walks to the door. Dick almost wants to thank him for the offer before remembering
Slade just broke his finger. So instead, he watches him leave.

Bizarre. Dick sits curled up for a moment, rubbing his hand. Thinking. Even when he literally
assaults him - how dare Deathstroke be a better communicator than half his family. He feels a
rebellious spark light in his belly, a hint of indignation that Slade is right - he doesn’t need to
be treated like this. But Dick can’t see how he can both keep his family and be pain free, not
when their roles are so set.

There’s always a price. Dick has never considered what would happen if he was no longer
able to pay it.

Before his thoughts can darken further, feeling guilty for thinking anything against his family
at all, Dick distracts himself by assessing the damage to his hand. It’s not bad; Slade was only
making a point. It’s a clean break, Dick is just annoyed that it will be hard to hide. The
broken pinkie gets taped to his ring finger.

Then he checks his phone.

There’s a message from Slade. Don’t bother going out tonight. Dick is kind of pissed to read
the order, especially since he himself has already decided he may need a night in of research.
He swallows the need to be contrary and settles for an eye roll emoji.

He has missed calls and texts from everyone at the party tonight, even Roy. There is no way
he is answering those tonight. Some messages from his siblings. He scrolls down, searching,
hoping for the unexpected, but - no. His message to Bruce this afternoon was read almost
immediately and is now sitting between them unaddressed. No response.

Well, that’s fine.

He’s fine. He still has two full days before Cass comes home. Three days until the aquarium.
Bruce is a slow processor when it comes to personal equations and rushing him has never
turned out in Dick’s favour in the past.

He goes back to his notifications and starts sifting. He responds with appropriate gush to
Damian’s photos of his final project illustrations. Tim has sent him a link to a research article
on learned behaviour in captive marine life. Very subtle. Dick does not read it.

Steph has sent him an update: she has tested the fishy chips. Dick sends a question mark and
gets an immediate response - an entire three paragraphs describing the culinary experience in
great detail. He reads every word and finds himself smiling. Suddenly, his stomach growls,
surprising him. Then he remembers that his last meal was a midnight snack of eggos before
crashing around 3:00 am. He pockets his phone, getting up to check his fridge.

When he sits down at his kitchen table with a bowl of cereal, his nerves are starting to come
back from before and he’s not certain he’ll be able to finish what he has started. But then his
phone dings and Steph is asking him about what Spongebob episodes they should cover
tomorrow night. And from there it’s a long discussion about Sandy vs Squidward for comedic
material and the next thing Dick knows his spoon is scraping an empty bowl. Well, that
solves one problem. He bids Steph a See ya tomorrow <3 <3 <3 and gets ready for some
case work.

It’s dull, but he researches Bludhaven’s latest police reports and newscasts for hours. He can’t
let his city down anymore… and while it’s a lesser motivation, he knows not only Batman
but Deathstroke is also watching his movements; he needs to show that he’s an adult and he’s
handling it, geez. He keeps his eyes on data until the night becomes morning and he’s reading
words wrong.

He takes another painkiller and goes to bed but lies awake for a long time, in a black mood.
He’s not thinking about the case work he had hoped would occupy his mind. Instead his brain
points out things he doesn’t want to think about - things that Wally said, Roy said, Slade said,
Bruce said. He knows he’s not living in a fairy tale by any means. It’s frustrating, because he
does wish things were different, he’s not a masochist, but he doesn’t know how to change
them - and he doesn’t feel like he deserves a miracle like that anyway, not when so many
people in the world deserve more. Not when there were twenty homicides in Bludhaven in
the last two weeks.
Why should he of all people get his wish?

He can’t argue his mind out of a slideshow of the past, so he ends up taking a late night
shower after all. Returning to bed at least physically clean, he does eventually sleep. His
dreams are vivid, his fears obvious: Dick stands in a glass chamber in the middle of the cave
watching Batman walk towards Damian, hand raised. No matter how loud he shouts or how
hard he beats his fists, he cannot reach them. He feels horror at the inevitable.

He wakes up in a cold sweat to an early morning smoggy dreariness that’s just typical for his
city.

“What a beautiful day,” Dick tells his ceiling before he rolls out of bed.

In the dim morning light, he’s feeling less morose. He decides that his problems are not so
bad; after all, he still has an amazing family, friends who care about him enough to be pushy,
a usable apartment, an enjoyable job and a great life.

Although, it would be for the best if he and Bruce made up soon so the ‘amazing family’ part
could feel a little more real.

While he’s eating his second bowl of cereal, feeling confident, he makes a deal with himself:
if Bruce doesn’t respond to his text by 7:00 pm, Dick will send him another message. This
seems like a good idea when Dick still exists in the safety of 8:07 am. Throwing on a sweater
and a jacket, he heads to work.

It’s Tuesday, his busiest work day. He’s teaching tumbling to toddlers in the morning,
flexibility for older adults in the afternoon, then it’s the intermediate teen group followed by
the advanced class. In between classes he’s cleaning equipment and chatting with his
coworkers and it’s absolutely awesome. Dick can feel himself starting to relax more as the
day carries on, falling into his routine, focusing on the simple problems of frustrated kids
trying to perfect their handsprings. Here with this job, in this city, Dick feels like he’s helping
someone.
For the most part, nobody is asking Dick about his problems aside from some vague allusions
to his mysterious illness the previous week and expressions of gratitude that he’s ‘better
now’. His taped finger gets explained away as his clumsy attempts to do at-home acrobatics
in a tiny apartment. Dick wears long sleeves or sweaters and sweatpants for gymnastics
pretty regularly so there’s no awkward questions, thank goodness. He does this because it’s
practical - he has a lot of vigilante scars to cover - but he also has psychological reasons he
doesn’t explore. Regardless, he’s more comfortable with more skin covered, and no one bats
an eye.

He texts Donna and Wally at lunch while he’s trying to coax himself to eat something; they
are careful to keep their conversations light, their concerns veiled, and he feels a bit bad. Dick
knows his parting words were pretty severe, but he really can’t handle any more probes into
his glass personal life or he’s going to shatter.

He doesn’t bother looking at anything from Roy, especially not when he’s in public and
feeling too frayed to control his reaction.

Dick knows he’s just ignoring his issues, distracting himself with smiling acquaintances at
break (Oh, Joey got a puppy? Tell me everything) so he can pretend to be fine enough to eat
something without feeling sick, just once. He’s not thinking about anything all day but work,
not until he’s heading home at dusk and detects a shadow in the corner of his eye.

He’s on high alert now, looking around discreetly, but he doesn’t catch another glimpse on his
way home. But he could have sworn he saw Red Hood.

Then again, Jason hasn’t texted him since Sunday, and, Dick considers with a sinking feeling
in his stomach, Roy probably already told him about how horrible Dick was last night. Dick
wouldn’t blame Jason if he ignored Dick out of solidarity with Roy. With a pang, Dick tells
himself he’s not as close to his siblings as he would like to be, but it’s okay. He’s okay.

He thinks he sees Jason again when he looks out the window while washing dishes, but it’s
dark and he’s missing his family. He can’t trust his senses, he knows that.

He also knows that it is now 8:27 pm and Bruce has not messaged him. He has been dreading
this moment, but if he’s going to be consistent with people he needs to start with promises he
makes to himself.
He ignores how his hands shake as he pulls his phone out and scrolls to Bruce.

Hey, stop ignoring me, he types. Erases it. We need to talk. Delete. Please call me. No.

I’m sorry. Too soon?

A few more minutes go by. Dick is psyching himself out. He can’t send anything, he’s just
going to make it all worse. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. This was a bad idea.
Tomorrow. He’ll text Bruce again tomorrow.

Dick has a quick patrol, checking in on what he suspects is the new headquarters for a local
gang. Minimal activity, so it’s just observation tonight. It’s enough, he’s not slacking, Dick
tells his inner voice that sounds like Bruce. He heads back home before too long, anticipating
his night plans with fragile hope.

He showers quickly before burrowing into bed with his laptop, hoodie up and face barely
visible. Steph has put a link for a video call in the group chat. Dick takes a moment to breathe
and pray that no one asks him about Bruce. Then he presses join.

His screen is immediately taken over by a close up of Stephanie’s face at an unflattering

angle.

“Woah there, I can see up your nose, Steph,” Dick says, smiling.

“That will be extra,” she jokes with a wink, readjusting the camera, and he laughs.

“So who do you think will actually join?” he asks, curious.

“Well Cass is out on a case, but the others? I’m optimistic,” Steph says with a shrug, but no
details, “Give ‘em some time.” A pause, then very casually, “You coming to the aquarium on
Saturday?”

Oh, the pressure. Of course Dick wants to come. Bruce needs to respond to his text already.

“Who would want to miss it?” Dick says, a non-answer. “I bet you’re ready for a break. How
are the exams?” Steph graciously allows herself to be redirected.

They chat easily about Steph’s classes and Dick’s gymnastics for a few minutes until more
people join. If she finds it weird that only his eyes are visible sitting in the dark, she doesn’t
comment.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this. Spongebob. Seriously, who picked this again?” Barbara
says, but Dick can see she has made herself popcorn so the complaint is perfunctory.

“It’s another training module for the aquarium,” Steph replies, pulling up the episode she and
Dick had decided to start with.

“I know we’re framing it that way for the brat but I think I was too old for Spongebob in
kindergarten,” Tim says ungraciously. He’s in his room at the manor, hunched at his bed, and
clicking on his keyboard, eyes scanning. Clearly working on something else. He looks tired.
“I don’t think I have time tonight anyway.”

“Tim, relax for a minute,” says Dick. “One episode.”

“One episode, but only if it’s about Plankton,” Tim bargains.

“Of course it’s about Plankton, obviously we know what’s good,” Steph confirms, insulted.
“Plankton is the most measly of marine life forms, I don’t see how it deserves first place,”
Damian says, having just joined for the last couple sentences. He is perfectly poised at his
desk.

“Oh boy,” says Tim in response, and leaves it at that.

“Is this everyone?” Dick asks, but then suddenly Jason is there. The blurriest camera shot.

“I’m not here for your stupid-ass show,” are Jason’s first words. Great start. Dick feels self-
centred but can’t help praying: please don’t let this be Jason stopping in just to yell at Dick in
front of everyone for fighting with Roy.

“That is literally the entire purpose of this call,” Steph points out.

“I’m just here to say, Sandy could crush all of you with one chop suckas and Plankton is
lame,” Jason continues. His camera is moving, but it’s difficult to track. Dick is pretty sure
he’s in his kitchen. Is he cooking?

“I’m starting the episode, you can fight when we see some evidence,” Steph says, pressing
play.

Dick knows he’s a sentimental idiot, but he watches his family’s video screens instead of the
episode and listens to their reactions instead of the dialogue. He couldn’t tell you what was
happening in Bikini Bottom, but Steph announces each character as they appear like she’s a
sports commentator. Barbara is halfway through her popcorn bowl and Damian is gradually
leaning closer to the screen, eyes alight with interest. Jason is confirmed to be making some
kind of pasta dish. Tim is still very obviously multitasking. Dick misses them all already.

After only one episode, Tim is firm that he needs to go, and can’t be persuaded otherwise.

“We’ll chill this weekend, guys, let me get back to my job,” he says, rolling his eyes as he
cuts his video to a chorus of farewells.
Damian is also very done. “This was a foolish show, and highly inaccurate to the point of
absurdity. I do not want to see more.”

“Goodnight, Lil D,” Dick wishes him, and he nods and is gone.

“I’m out too, and my correct opinion is unchanged,” says Jason, “See you losers later.” He
cuts his video before anyone can say anything mushy like a simple “goodbye”.

And Dick tries not to, but he worries again about what Roy may have told him. Why he’s
leaving the call early. He reminds himself that Jason is super busy these days, moving
between a new permanent safehouse in Gotham and his old place with Roy and Kory, and
likely just doesn’t have time for more frivolous Spongebob viewing. Dick needs to stop
taking everything so personally.

(And maybe stop avoiding those texts from Roy.)

“And then there were three,” says Steph, waiting a moment but neither Dick nor Barbara tries
to leave so she hits play on the next episode and they soldier on.

At some point in the middle of a much later episode, Barbara ventures a quiet, “Are you
okay, Dick?”

Dick is pretty sure Steph is holding her breath. Dick just says, “Shhh this is the best part!”
And Barbara is savvy to his very obvious dodge, and doesn’t try again.

Later, when Dick goes to sleep, he’s feeling pleasantly full. It’s an emotional full, after
hanging out with the people he loves. It reminds him that at all costs, he needs to make sure
he can be with his family this weekend.

-------------------------
His dreams are memories - he and Bruce shouting, shouting, shouting. In the batmobile, in
the medbay, in the kitchen, in his room. Over and over, I don’t need you , the echo ringing
through his past.

It’s so loud in his dream that he can’t think, so he covers his ears.

-------------------------

Wednesday. He’s getting into the rhythm now - wake up alone, morning workout, try to eat
breakfast, head to the gym, teach classes. He lives in a reel of these scenes, his life in
Bludhaven, what his life always looks like when he and Bruce are on the outs. He’s
communicating with his siblings and friends via text only today, but at least he’s in touch so
he tells himself it’s enough.

He spends time on Justice League associated business; he’s really more of a consultant right
now. He’s looking over profiles for candidates for a new sub-team focused on mobilizing for
disaster relief. He had put it off for weeks to focus on the Gotham case and now he’s playing
catch up, but he enjoys partnering with some JL members and affiliates he wouldn’t be
talking to regularly otherwise.

Wednesday is also the one day of the week a separate committee - this one for handling new
magical anomalies, Dick is still not sure why he is on it, but he has such a hard time saying
no to people - planned to meet in person, so he finds himself rushing to headquarters after
classes end. By the time he arrives, everyone else is already there. He turns up his smile.
“Sorry guys,” he says, sinking into a seat beside Zatanna, “Day job.”

She nods sympathetically. “Back in Bludhaven?”

“Yep,” he says cheerily, popping the ‘p’.

“Damn, why are you so sunny?” John Constantine intones from his other side, seeming
horrified and fascinated in equal measure. They hadn’t interacted closely much before this
committee, but they get along well. Dick winks at him, knowing it looks ridiculous through
the mask.

“Have you met Nightwing? This is only half strength,” Zatanna smirks knowingly.

“He’s actually glowing,” John observes, amused. Dick waggles his eyebrows, for effect.

Zatanna rolls her eyes at both of them. Then, to Dick, “Not home for Thanksgiving though?”

Ouch. The grin gets a little tighter. “Not yet. Bludhaven could still use a little extra love this
holiday season.”

“You know, I could use a little extra-,” John begins, raking his eyes over Dick, before
Zatanna’s rushed ‘pu tuhs’ has him glaring at her in silence. A quick hand motion, and
Zatanna seems to suffer the same fate. Increasingly rude hand gestures are traded as the
meeting begins.

Dick is starting to understand why this seat was empty. Maybe he should have taken the
rumours of their breakup more seriously. But the meeting proceeds in a generally
professional manner, and soon they’re wrapping up with objectives to meet by their next
gathering.

“Nightwing!” John stops him later as he’s heading out, passing through the cafeteria. Dick
smiles back, waiting. “You know, if you happen to find yourself alone this weekend, you’re
more than welcome to pass the time in …more pleasurable company.” The appreciative look
he gives Dick makes his intention clear even if the arm that gets wrapped invitingly around
his back hadn’t.

Dick laughs lightly to disguise his discomfort; he doesn’t pull away. “Not planning on being
alone, but I appreciate the offer.”
“Ah,” John’s eyebrows raise, and his look turns sly. “Do I know them? I’ve never adhered to
that old ‘three is company’ rule, if that’s what’s stopping you-”

Behind John’s shoulder, Dick can see Hal and Oliver exchange glances over their french
fries, eyebrows raised. “Just family this time,” Dick cuts in. The grin is getting painful, and
why did Dick say it like that? It’s only family, all the time.

As if he could handle another person needing his attention. (As if that has ever worked out in
the past.)

“Well, if you change your mind,” John leans in to speak in his ear, pitching his voice to a
whisper that still seems to carry, “I’ve heard what you like, and I can make it well worth your
while.”

Oh. Oh. Hell. Dick’s stomach drops.

He knows that John’s offer is good-natured, that he’s just operating based on what he has,
apparently, been told is true. Dick really just wishes he hadn’t brought this up in the cafeteria,
as if Dick’s reputation wasn’t colourful enough already.

He wants out of this conversation right now . Instead, he’s already adopting the demeanor he
thinks John is looking for. He meets his eyes boldly, curls his lip up further. An invitation
even in dismissal. ( Stop stop stop. ) “Thank you, really - but there’s no place like the Batcave
for Bat-Thanksgiving dinner.” He hopes he actually gets there this year.

John smirks at ‘Bat-Thanksgiving’, looking delightedly entertained. “Bloody hell. You’re too
much. Another time, then.” Pulling his arm away, John steps back. Then, jokingly, but way
too loudly, “I can be rough.” He does a terrible impression of Dick’s waggling eyebrows.

And Dick can’t- but he also can’t make this an outright rejection (as if those have ever
worked out for him in the past). His mouth is already moving, deciding for him, “I’ll have
to-”
“You’re both dogs,” Zatanna drawls from the table John vacated, head propped in her hand.
“But please, John, Nightwing does a little better than you.” It’s a little too smug for Dick’s
liking.

“Oh? And what does that say about you, love?” John’s grin takes on a sharp edge when
turned to his ex-lover.

“I think it says that I,” Dick’s own sort-of-ex-girlfriend explains (alternate universes are so
confusing), “Am better than you.”

“That wasn’t really you -”

People are watching them openly now, expressions ranging from casual interest to
amusement. Dick wrestles with the urge to hide, Zatanna’s words a double entendre that Dick
can’t help reading into. If John Constantine and Zatanna Zatara think they know something
about Dick’s personal life, everyone else is likely on the same page. Just Nightwing being
Nightwing. This community is too small sometimes. And even in a world of superheroes and
aliens, rumours are always more exciting than the truth. Dick tries not to let it affect him,
tries to keep the smile in place even while he’s suffocating.

The only way for this to get more uncomfortable would be for Batman himself to walk in.
For the first time, Dick is grateful for the case in Gotham taking up all of Bruce’s time.

Avoiding everyone’s gaze has him instead watching the cafeteria door swing open to admit
Diana in mid conversation with Clark. And Clark …isn’t looking at him. Appears, actually,
to be determinedly looking anywhere but Dick. Super hearing can be quite the curse. Dick
kind of wants to die.

Why does he always do this? Why does he act this way, just because he thinks it’s wanted, if
he doesn’t mean it? If he’s not interested in following through on what he’s implying? He
must want it too - or is he just toying with people? His stomach clenches. No wonder people
think the worst of him.

Damn Roy for being right.

Dick checks out for the rest of the interaction, thankfully not necessary to the conversation
now that John and Zatanna are bickering. Eventually, Hal interrupts their squabbling and
Dick seizes the opportunity to escape. John waves goodbye with a “Say hi from me!” that is
not as innocuous as it could be, and Zatanna catches onto Dick’s arm to plant a confident kiss
on his cheek, throwing a look John’s way to catch his reaction. Maybe he should have been
paying better attention to the conversation after all.

He waves to everyone in the cafeteria, not faltering at Oliver’s smirking look or Dinah’s
oddly troubled one. He walks out, determinedly leaving everything in the room behind him as
the door slams shut, leaving him empty.

Dick really, really wants to go home right now. He wants to drink tea with Alfred, he wants to
listen to Damian complain, he wants to pester Tim into sleeping, he wants to apologize to
Bruce for everything.

He heads back to Bludhaven instead.

After he returns, the plan is quick errands, hurried dinner, solo night work. He checks his
phone constantly between minor tasks, anxiously awaiting a reply from Bruce, but their
conversation is a ghost town. He checks reflexively on his way home from the corner store,
and debates calling but shies away, telling himself he will call tonight. Maybe Bruce needs
more time. Dick needs a distraction.

With some trepidation, he opens the texts from Roy as he starts cooking. The first looks like
it was sent right after the party on Monday, still colourful and angry. Dick almost doesn’t read
the rest, but he is filled with morbid curiosity, wanting to infer what Roy has told Jason. Dick
is surprised to read,

Hey you’re a crazy idiot but you need HELP and I know you don’t want it from me.

And,
I know you don’t think I care but I do so just talk to someone.

Huh. Interesting. Dick responds with a careful, thoughtful: k.

Maybe Roy cares, maybe he doesn’t, but Dick doesn’t care either way. Really.

He rereads the texts until the timer goes off on the stove and he has to rescue his eggs.

Dinner - check messages again. Nothing. Dick sets his uneaten plate of food back down on
his table and rubs a hand over his face, dread pooling in his stomach. He hates trying to
figure out how to approach Bruce when he can’t even see the man to gauge how Bruce is
feeling. But Dick needs this resolution now.

He debates calling but shies away, sending a follow up message of: We need to talk. There.

When Dick returns from patrol that night and collapses on his couch after a shower, he
checks the conversation again. Bruce has received the message, but no response.

Dick sighs and throws an arm over his face. Without letting himself second-guess, he presses
call. He doesn’t think he breathes as he listens to the ring. Dick can’t decide if he’s more
annoyed or relieved when the call goes to voicemail. All he says is, “Hey, it’s me. Call me
back.”

Dick tosses his phone on the coffee table and doesn’t move for a while. He can’t help feeling
frustrated with himself. Why isn’t he better at this family relationship stuff? He has been
practicing for years.

He goes to bed but tosses and turns, anxiety keeping his mind occupied. He’s extra annoyed
at himself because he can’t seem to focus on the casework he has finally started to revive,
instead he’s overwhelmed with his personal life. Get it together, Grayson. He finally falls
asleep when the optimistic side of him reasons that even if Bruce is mad at him, maybe he
can still go on the family trip? Half delirious from fatigue in the middle of the night, this
 seems like a great solution when Dick is so tired he can’t even remember why Bruce is mad
at him in the first place.

-----------------------------

Thursday. No alarm set since the gym classes today don’t start until early afternoon. Dick
wakes up to sunlight, feeling refreshed. He rolls over to check his phone.

9:18 am. No texts or calls from Bruce. Dick even checks his email. Nothing. His mood sours
a bit but he’s determined to stay positive, some optimism lingering from his frantic thoughts
last night. He tells himself that perhaps his relationship with Bruce doesn’t have to shape how
he interacts with the entire family, despite no precedent for this.

Dick pulls on a pair of sweatpants and an old ripped t-shirt before heading down the hall to
the kitchen, wondering absently if he can stomach an omelette or if it will have to be cereal.

Bruce Wayne is sitting on the couch in his living room.

Chapter End Notes

Chapter warnings: Some violence, a finger is broken. Dick gets propositioned in public
and struggles to reject. Some mild dissociation. Dick vaguely blames himself for anyone
having sex with him ever.

So, we’ve been honing in on the abusive family dynamics, but we’re going to shift a bit.
This chapter delves more into what has been only suggested so far: how the Mirage
Incident, and sexual/romantic trauma in general, has affected Dick, with long-reaching
repercussions. It didn’t just contribute to ending his relationship with Kory. Again, I
think that Dick’s traumas exacerbate each other, so with a worse home situation here he
has an even shakier refuge to retreat to and is more fragile in romantic/sexual
relationships and honestly afraid of them, the pressure to please other people too strong
one on one. As per usual, Dick doesn’t like to think about anything painful that bothers
him, so it is shown via interactions.

A horrible thing about misunderstood rape like Mirage with Dick, when it was so public
and Dick is painted as the bad guy, is that it shapes how people view you; slut shaming
makes people forget you are a real person, over-sexualizes, even years later. It can shape
how people who know you think of you, how your family sees you. It can shape how
you see yourself. I want to capture how toxic that all is to Dick after all this time
through his interactions with some random league members (who are probably OOC yes
I am very aware, I’m using them for my own devices), as I slowly weave it back into
how he is with his family and their impressions of him, who they think he is and what
he’s comfortable with. Where what he is, is extremely misunderstood.

Disclaimer: I don’t want to create OCs if I can help it - I’m terribly lazy you see - and
DC has sooo many characters. But I have nothing against John Constantine! I think he’s
got a wide sexual palate and figured he and Zatanna would forgive me for using them in
this story to make a point about rumours and Dick’s self-hate, people-pleasing and
consent issues.
 Apologies and Penalties
Chapter Summary

The leash pulls him back. (It always does.) There’s no place like home.

Chapter Notes

Hello again!

Here is what was originally the second half of ch.4.

And here is The Plan: the way I see it, Dick is so stubbornly in denial about his own
problems, the only way he is ever going to face anything is if it all collides together and
blows up in his face. So we’re bringing his very personal, private, sexual trauma and
we’re smashing it into his gaslit, manipulated, abusive family dynamics until everything
breaks so they can finally rebuild. Basically. Super sorry in advance, but I have never
pretended this was going to be pleasant. It’s going to get INTENSE.

Honestly, an alternate fanfiction title: Dick's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad
Week. Though this poor guy has a lot of bad weeks, so maybe not that unusual.

Take note of updated tags as we go along! And see specific chapter warnings in the end
notes. This one is going to get coercively dark.

Enjoooooy <3

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“We accept the love we think we deserve.” ~ Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a
Wallflower

Apologies and Penalties

Bruce Wayne is sitting on the couch in his living room.

Dick almost walks right by him before his brain catches up and tells him it’s not a
hallucination when Real Bruce shifts and clears his throat. Dick almost trips as he comes to a
stop, staring in shock.

(And why does everyone keep showing up unannounced, like his apartment is public
property? He has a phone.)

“Hello,” says Bruce, awkward. His eyes go directly to Dick’s jaw, and Dick is privately
vindicated by the tightening skin that reveals Bruce’s displeasure.

He is dressed in his Wayne Enterprises attire - full suit, polished oxfords. His posture is
trying for relaxed, holding his phone at knee height as though he was busy typing before he
heard Dick coming towards him. Dick notes that he does not appear to be angry.

Dick straightens, takes a breath. Wills his heart to stop racing. Forces himself to wake up.
He’s not nervous, just surprised. Really.

“Well, hi. How long have you been here?” Dick asks as casually as he can. It’s not what he
wanted to say but at least he spoke. He slowly approaches Bruce, padding quietly in his bare
feet. He finds he doesn’t know what to do with his hands so he stuffs them in his pockets.

Bruce glances at his phone screen and Dick uses the temporary reprieve from Bruce’s focus
to settle next to him on the couch. He ignores the past parallel now staring him in the face -
the ghost of Slade exactly where Bruce now sits beside him. “Seventy eight minutes. You
slept in.”

Bruce keeps his tone mild, not quite an accusation. Dick still grits his teeth and finds himself
defending his human need to sleep, of all things. “I teach late today, figured I could use the
extra z’s. You must have disabled all of my security.” His own careful not-accusation.

Bruce is looking at Dick’s hand. “What happened to your finger?”

As if Bruce has any right to question Dick’s injuries. “Gymnastics accident,” he says the first
thing that comes to mind. He folds his arms around his thin shirt. Now, finally, what Dick
really needs to know, “Why are you here, Bruce?”

Breathe. Don’t forget to breathe.

Bruce furrows his brow. He shifts again. He must find Dick’s couch very uncomfortable.
“You asked me to. You texted me. You said we need to talk.”

“So you drove all the way to Bludhaven just to talk? We have phones,” Dick says, outwardly
skeptical, but on the inside his heart has started fluttering hopefully. If Bruce really came all
the way out to Dick’s city to repair their relationship, well. That’s a pretty grand gesture.

Usually Dick has to crawl back.

Bruce’s reply is a bit stiff, but he’s trying, “I think it’s important to talk in person after
...everything.”

Dick snorts, finally finding it in himself to relax against the couch. “Everything? Right, okay.
That’s what we’ll call it when you throw me out like yesterday’s trash.” A slight wince from
Bruce. Good. “Very rude of you, by the way. But then, I texted you days ago and got no
response. I left you a voicemail, and nada. So thanks for the suspense.” So apparently he’s a
little angry, but Bruce always makes him feel so cheap. He wishes desperately he had dressed
differently, knowing the contrast in wardrobe has him looking lacking.

He recrosses his arms like the petty teenager he’s feeling right now. He wants to upset Bruce.
He wants Bruce to feel distressed about what he did to him and regret his actions. Dick is
playing a careful game, because he needs them both to leave this conversation on good terms.
But he has walked this tightrope before, and his routine is well-practiced.

Bruce is silent, considering. He chooses not to rise to Dick’s barbs, which is probably for the
best. Then Bruce says, “I was wrong to dismiss you the way I did. I should not have sent you
away at such an important time. And again, I felt it would be best to discuss this in person.”
His tone sounds rehearsed.

Dick frowns. “Just tell me what you want, Bruce.”

Bruce takes a breath and it transforms him into Batman. He instantly appears more
comfortable and assured. Dick instinctively braces himself. “The case we’re working on is
almost closed, but we’re going to need everyone tomorrow. I need you back in Gotham.” He
must take Dick’s breathless (stunned) silence as judgmental because he adds quickly,
enticing, “And, it’s Thanksgiving this weekend. Your siblings will want you home.”

Dick is having a hard time thinking over the replay in his mind. I need you back in Gotham. I
need you. There they are, the words that never fail to sink him, drowning him in his own
conflicting emotions. All of his anger and fears clash with his deepest desire to be loved by
this man he considers his father.

To Dick’s horror, he feels tears pricking at his eyes.

“Dick,” Bruce says earnestly in Dick’s continued silence, heedless of his inner crisis. Can’t
he see Dick is underwater? “Please. I know you’re busy here with your own life, and I respect
your autonomy. I know we’ve had our differences, and you have a right to be upset with me.
But the family needs you now.”

He even said please and acknowledged Dick’s independence and feelings. Dick’s mind is
spinning, the tears growing more imminent. He wants this absolution badly, but he is so
scared he is physically shaking now.

“Bruce. I can’t,” Dick chokes out. “I can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep doing this to me,”
he tries to say it seriously but it comes out pleading, and Bruce nods but Dick is pretty sure
he doesn’t know what Dick really means.

With no further warning, Dick starts to cry.

“Oh, chum,” Bruce says in alarm, reaching to pull him into a hug. Offering comfort, and Dick
lets him.

The thing is, Dick has been holding onto a lot of hurt since the first time Bruce looked him in
the eyes and told him to leave, and each time Bruce throws him out, it gets heavier. He feels
like a leper, Bruce protecting his siblings from whatever Dick has wrong with him by casting
him out. And sure, he may be allowed to return now, but who knows how long it will be until
the next signs of his defectiveness have Bruce banishing him all over again.

Dick hates this cycle. He wants so hard, he’s trying so hard, to make everything work. Dick
feels a responsibility to Bruce and now everyone in their dysfunctional family, that he needs
to smooth over arguments and hurts. Pressure to just let things go, so they can all be at their
best with each other. But why is he the poison in this family? What is he doing wrong?

Whatever it is, he’s - “I’m really, really sorry.” Sobbing, hardly able to speak. He has been
holding these tears back all week.

“It’s okay, chum, everything is okay now.” And here is Bruce, welcoming him back.
Forgiving him.

But Dick can’t stop crying.

Why does he feel so awful? He’s tired and mad at himself for caring about Bruce so much
when Bruce hurts him like this all the time. He’s mad that they fought, and he’s mad that he
knows he’s going to just let it go (he always does, he knew he would). He tries to ignore the
tired part of him that is familiar with this cycle, that even if Bruce hadn’t reached out like this
Dick would trip over himself to tell Bruce whatever he needs to hear.

Jason’s words come to mind. Roy’s needling jabs so close to the mark, Wally and Donna’s
worried questions and Does Bruce ever ..? Slade’s knowing look. Dick knows he and Bruce
have a pattern. But maybe this time, something can change. He steels himself, just a little.
“I need you to stop,” he says brokenly into Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce stills in his arms, and
Dick rushes to explain, between shuddering sobs, “I’m coming home, yes. I want to be with
you guys. But we can’t argue so much, B. I’m going insane. And it’s scaring the others.”
Dick’s fingernails dig into his own palms behind Bruce’s back, trying to ground himself.
“You need to just agree to disagree sometimes, okay?”

Bruce is quiet for a moment. “Agreed. Our arguing has become an obstacle to the mission.
But you need to listen to me,” Bruce counters. “Especially when you’re … this unstable.” A
weak stirring of protest rises inside him, but he is in no position to argue about his own
volatility now, not when he’s feeling so shaky and still struggling to just stop crying.

Honestly, Bruce agreeing with him is more of an apology than Dick had hoped for. It boosts
Dick’s confidence enough to let his mind move on from this moment and consider the wider
family problems they should really address.

“Okay, I’ll listen more,” Dick agrees, but I don’t have to obey. “And you need to be kinder to
Damian, he’s sensitive,” Dick adds. “And give Tim more breaks before he falls over.” And
make more of an effort for Jason, he can tell you don’t know what to do with him, he decides
not to include, because of all of his siblings Bruce considers Dick the least of an authority on
Jason and this is already pushing it.

Bruce’s grip tightens, growing slightly painful. But he doesn’t let Dick go. Bruce sighs. “I
will try.”

Dick squeezes back, reassured, before he gently releases him. His breaths come in hiccups.
He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to calm down. He’s so dramatic, like
everyone always tells him. Bruce is watching him, assessing. His eyes catch on Dick’s
scabbed wrists, the fresh indents in his palms. He frowns but doesn’t comment, and Dick tries
to ignore the shame he feels. He gives Bruce a watery smile.

This is a good morning. He has gotten what he wanted and he didn’t even have to beg. Dick
is happy to be joining his family in time for Thanksgiving. He’s happy to help out on closing
this case. It’s mingled with so much relief that it feels a bit like euphoria. He wants to be this
happy forever.
“We should get going,” Bruce says abruptly, glancing at his watch. He stands and looks at
Dick expectantly. Dick feels oddly slow, attempting to pull himself out of his daze.

“I can’t go now,” Dick protests weakly. “I have to teach this afternoon.”

Bruce frowns, and Dick tries tiredly to prepare himself for an argument he’ll likely lose, but
Bruce just amends, “I expect you to be at the manor this evening, then. I want to go over your
role for Friday. You will need to stay a few days.”

“I’ll be there for Thanksgiving weekend,” Dick agrees easily, not even bristling at the
direction. He’s grateful to be allowed this. “Thanks, B. Have a safe trip back.”

Bruce nods and turns to walk to the door. His mission accomplished.

(And it’s nice that at least everyone has been using his door this week. He hasn’t had to fix
his window in ages.)

Dick waits until Bruce is gone before saying, “I love you.” It is just himself and empty air, so
he can pretend Bruce would say it back if he heard. He can’t help it as a smile slips across his
face. He’s coming home. The knowledge is a balm to his nerves that have been fizzing all
week.

Before he gets off the couch, he takes his phone out and starts to text the group chat to tell
them he’ll be at the manor before his brain catches up. His hands still. He recalls his
conversations with his siblings this week - Jason’s anger, Damian’s concern, Tim’s
suspicions. Drawing attention to why he is gone in the first place and having everyone
wonder what happened now is definitely a bad idea.

He will surprise his siblings. It’s a good surprise.

—----------------------------
Dick practically floats through his afternoon classes, feeling elated. His coworkers laugh at
his inability to keep from grinning. The drive to Gotham is bogged by traffic and takes him
into the evening but he barely notices, buzzing with anticipation to see his family.

When he bounces up the steps, he has barely opened the door before Alfred is there to greet
him.

“Welcome home, Master Richard,” he says with a slight smile. For Alfred, this is an
outrageous display of affection.

“Alfred, it’s so good to see you,” Dick says, pulling him into a hug that Alfred tolerates very
briefly.

“You as well,” he replies, taking a discreet step back to fully regard his charge. Dick is
abruptly on display, and suddenly very glad he decided to re-apply makeup on the fading
bruise. He puts his hands behind his back in a mock parade rest, makeshift finger splint
carefully out of sight.

Alfred allows himself a slight frown, for which Dick feels extremely guilty. “Have you been
eating well?” Alfred asks him seriously.

“Ah,” says Dick, fidgeting. “Well. Some.” He desperately casts about in his mind for what he
ate today, knowing his appetite improved significantly since speaking with Bruce, but he’s
drawing a blank. And he knows his food intake always suffers when they fight, but hasn’t it
only been a few days? So there’s no way it’s physically obvious. How can Alfred just know?

“I see,” says Alfred, disapproval very apparent. “You shall be joining us for dinner. It will
commence shortly.” He leads Dick to the kitchen immediately. Dick smiles, following.

“Where are Damian and Tim?” Dick asks a short while later, sipping tea as Alfred stirs
something on the stove.
“Master Damian is doing homework in his room,” Alfred answers. Dick knows Damian
retreats to his chambers when he is upset. Hmm. “Master Timothy is downstairs with Master
Bruce.”

Alfred’s expression sours as he says the name of his eldest charge with palpable displeasure,
stirring a little more viciously. Dick can smell the dish better now, and he’s getting wary.

“What’s for dinner?” he asks carefully.

“Fettucine alfredo,” Alfred replies primly, meeting Dick’s gaze with daring, hard eyes.

Oh no. Bruce once said that fettuccine alfredo was a waste of space on a menu. Perhaps the
only man alive who actively dislikes the fairly universally enjoyed dish. Dick swallows.
Alfred’s umbrage with Bruce is very obvious. This man knows what he is doing, poking the
bear.

Dick is uncertain what to do about that. On one hand, he is privately appreciative of the
solidarity it shows when Alfred is frosty towards Bruce for kicking him out. But he also
wishes Alfred wouldn’t instigate Bruce’s discomfort lest he be angry this weekend and ruin
the aquarium for everyone. Especially not on Dick’s behalf, he’s just not worth it.

Dick takes another sip, still holding onto one last hope. “Is Bruce joining us for dinner?”

“He is,” Alfred confirms. He turns off the stove. Time is up.

“Ah,” says Dick, hope dashed. Then again, if anyone can get away with needling, it’s Alfred.
And Bruce could stand to suffer more distasteful things for the sake of his family (and Dick’s
petty secret enjoyment).
Dick stands. “I’ll get Dami.” Alfred must know he’s avoiding the people in the cave, but he
just nods and continues setting up.

Knocking on Damian’s bedroom door allows Dick a moment to feel the anticipation he has
been ignoring. He can’t keep a grin off his face, but it fades with Damian’s words, “Go away,
Pennyworth, I will not be having dinner tonight!”

More subdued, Dick knocks again, their special sequence. There is silence on the other side
of the door, then very quiet footsteps approach. The door opens with a soft click, just wide
enough for Damian to peer out.

“Richard?” he asks, fragile. Dick assesses him quickly. No visible injuries, perhaps some
shadows below his eyes (tired), sullen expression. Damian.

Dick says nothing and opens his arms, a silent request that Damian answers by darting out for
a hug. It’s quick but validating for both of them. It feels like coming home, and Dick feels
something inside of him stabilize that he hadn’t realized was drifting.

“How’s school?” he asks when Damian pulls away, slowly guiding Damian back into his
room. Alfred the cat is asleep on the perfectly made bed. On the desk, there are textbooks
neatly arranged around an open notepad that appears to have been abandoned mid sentence.
Dick sits carefully on the empty corner of the desk.

“It is fine,” Damian replies, crossing his arms awkwardly in the middle of his room. “Why
are you here?”

“It’s Thanksgiving. I’m here for the weekend,” Dick says excitedly.

Damian’s eyes light up, but his expression is still reserved. “Have you spoken with Father?”

“Yes, he came to Bludhaven this morning and we talked things over,” Dick says, a bit
vaguely. “Damian, I really am so sorry about ditching you.”
“You did not ‘ditch’ me,” Damian dismisses. He relaxes a bit, “I am glad to hear you two
have spoken. Father has been insufferable and unreasonable without you.” Dick hates that
hearing how Bruce needs him around to pass for functioning makes Dick feel weirdly loved.
Damian continues, vulnerable. “I am sorry for my own part. Had I performed more
adequately, you would not have fought.”

“Damian,” Dick says seriously, beckoning him closer. Damian shuffles over until Dick can
reach out to grab his hand. “I need you to know - none of this is your fault, okay? Really. It’s
never going to be your fault, so you don’t have to apologize. But I need you to do something
for me.” Dick braces himself, looks Damian directly in the eyes. He needs to know. “Has
Bruce ever hurt you? Whether in costume or not, I want you to tell me.”

Damian meets his gaze, solemn. This poor kid, who escaped a terribly abusive childhood
only to be stuck with this dysfunctional family. Dick feels bad he even has to ask. “He has
not caused me physical harm aside from sparring; I only receive field injuries.” Dick wants to
scream that Bruce shouldn’t be hurting him emotionally either; but now that Dick is home,
it’s something he can work on again.

“Okay,” Dick says, releasing a breath. He keeps hold of Damian’s hand, strokes it gently.
“Okay. Thank you for telling me. But if anything ever happens, anything at all, you have to
tell me alright? Promise me. It’s not okay for that to happen, you know that right?” He’s
being pushy, but right now he doesn’t care.

“Richard.” Damian’s tone is exasperated of all things, bordering on frustrated. “How can you
be this way? I don’t understand how you can say and believe such opposites.” Dick is a little
lost. “It is not okay for you to be hurt by Father either.” Oh, right.

“You’re right, Damian,” Dick agrees. “It’s not good that Bruce and I fight so much. We
communicate poorly and lash out when we shouldn’t, and you shouldn’t have to see that. I
know we’re not a good example, but don’t worry, okay?” he squeezes Damian’s hand,
reassuring. “We’re adults.”

Damian doesn’t look convinced. Dick thinks he might argue more, but then his eyes catch on
Dick’s hand. “What happened?”
Dick hates the suspicion in his narrowed eyes. “Gymnastics accident,” Dick says breezily.

A dubious look. “But you are excellent at gymnastics.”

Oh. Dick should have said patrol injury, but it’s too late, he already told Bruce it was
gymnastics and he needs to be consistent.

Now they’re out of time. Dick ruffles Damian’s hair quickly. “Sometimes accidents just
happen. Don’t worry about me.” He slides off the desk. “Alfred says dinner is ready. Let’s
head down before all the good seats are taken!”

Damian scoffs but follows him out. “As if there are insufficient chairs. And you will of
course be sitting by me.”

Dick smiles.

---------------------------

Dinner is quiet but pleasant enough. Bruce takes one look at the meal and another look at
Alfred’s expression, then wisely says nothing as he begins to eat. Dick knows Bruce is
capable of great self-restraint, so this show of temperance is not unexpected, just hurtful
when unwanted noodles get more toleration than Dick himself does.

Tim raises his eyebrows when he sees Dick present. He looks to Bruce and back, before he
greets Dick with a smile, no questions asked. He has carried a tablet to the table and is
absently tapping away on the side. Dick is not fooled - he knows he is getting interrogated
later. Damian sticks to Dick’s side. Dick does most of the talking, though he tries to cut down
on the quantity of words. Bruce doesn’t laugh at any of his jokes, but he does occasionally
smile. Dick can’t wait for this case to be over, for the weight Bruce has been carrying to
lessen so the man can let himself relax.

Tim is watching them both very closely. Dick pretends not to notice.
They all file down to the cave for patrol, just the four of them tonight. It’s nice and easy; they
are mostly gathering intel for the bust tomorrow at a dock warehouse being used as a
distribution centre (and it’s always a warehouse, isn’t it?).

It’s a careful sort of ease, though, that has them working together so well. Dick is hyper-
aware of himself in relation to Batman, following every single order without hesitation. He
remembers a rule from his brief days in juvie before Bruce whisked him off to a life in the
limelight: Keep your head down if you don’t want to get hurt. Tonight, no one says much in
the field, but everyone pays close attention when anyone does speak.

Robin and Red Robin are being civil with each other too, even sharing looks; there is some
sort of unspoken collaboration there that Dick is not privy to (he was pretty sure they would
vote each other first off the island, what’s with the cooperation?). Both of them stare hard
when he asks Batman what he wants Dick to do for check-ins, and there’s another shared
look when he agrees to update him personally every five minutes. Dick doesn’t have time to
figure out their weirdness - the frequent updates Batman orders feel like a test, and Dick is
determined to ace this. However, the attention of his siblings and his own laser focus on
Batman are a little draining, leaving Dick especially tired when they return from patrol.

It is hours later, when Dick is putting away equipment, that Bruce approaches him, cowl off,
face serious, files in hand. Dick forces himself not to tense. He sets aside his escrima sticks
and looks up expectantly from his seat on the bench.

“Dick,” Bruce greets, moving as though to place a hand on Dick’s shoulder. But the motion
gets aborted halfway through, hand dropping instead into the space between them. Dick feels
the absence of the gesture like a slap.

“Need something, B?” he asks gently.

“I need to go over your role in tomorrow’s operation, since you’re behind on the situation,”
Bruce tells him, which stings since it’s not like Dick wanted to be cut from the information
loop. He bites his tongue.

“So catch me up,” Dick says instead, leaning back. “What’s going on?”
Bruce passes him a file. Dick looks it over briefly. There isn’t as much new information as he
had feared. The final plan is largely the same as they had drafted it a week ago: hit hard and
fast. The only problem is they need one of them with the hostages when the fight begins to
protect them from backlash, and they are detained at the centre of the operation. Dick checks
the blueprints again. They will need some serious stealth to reach them.

No names or roles are identified in the plan outline, as usual. Bruce always holds person-
specific information close. Dick looks up to see Bruce studying him. He hands back the file.
“Where do you want me?”

“Here,” Bruce points to the hostages’ cell. Dick isn’t surprised, but he is unconvinced.

“Hmm,” he says, considering. He traces the blueprints. “I can fit through the vent but it
would be tight and take time. Cass is coming tomorrow. Black Bat could get to them easily,
and she’s ample protection.” Phrasing his own recommendations like idle comments is so
tricky sometimes, but it is a method that doesn’t lead to shouting so here he is.

He’s pretty sure none of his friends would recognize him if they saw him right now.

Bruce shakes his head. “Robin explored that option tonight. It’s too much of a risk for
detection. We need another route in.”

“And what is Nightwing going to be doing exactly?” Dick asks, interested in what Bruce has
come up with this time. The man really is a genius for tactical situations.

“Not Nightwing, not tomorrow,” Bruce says. “They are well prepared for confrontation. The
warehouse is fortified. You’ll have to be undercover.”

“What?” Dick says, alarmed. That’s new. Undercover in human trafficking is the worst . Dick
hates posing as the trafficker, because it makes him feel so dirty. And he hates posing as the
trafficked for other reasons; he hasn’t been able to handle that kind of …situation for years
now.
But the other piece that surprises him now is that human trafficking is a long game; there’s no
way he can go undercover convincingly for one night. Dick pushes down his apprehension to
point out, “How is that going to work? It’s too sudden, no one’s going to buy it.”

“It’s not sudden,” Bruce hands him another file.

Dick forces himself to open it. His stomach drops at the first page, a different name next to a
grainy photo that could be himself with brown eyes and lighter hair. “Alin Vasile,” he reads.
“Illegal immigrant from Moldova. Sex worker.” He flips through pages of information with
dates and communications between ‘Alin’ and the traffickers. It looks like they’ve been
leading clueless Alin into a trap posing as a friend of a client and are planning to pick him up
tomorrow night and add him to the shipment. They’ve been spurred on, it appears, by a faked
request on the buyer's end for someone described very much like Dick. This is a lot of effort,
a lot of time. Dick looks at Bruce, a blank feeling setting in. “You’ve been building this
identity for me for weeks.” Why didn’t you tell me until now? He wants to scream.

And now he’s pretty sure that Bruce’s trip to see him this morning was less about
reconciliation and more about needing the actor he cast to play his chosen role. Always,
always, the mission, why did Dick forget that for even a second?

Even now, it is so hard to bring up their personal issues. Dick is pretty certain Bruce knows
he doesn’t like this kind of undercover. But Dick is being selfish; no one likes this kind of
undercover, and they all suck it up and play challenging roles as vigilantes. Still, Dick wants
to tell Bruce he can’t do the mission, but Dick doesn’t want to tell Bruce that if someone tries
to touch him like that he thinks he will probably pass out. Then he would have to explain
why, and what if Bruce doesn’t think it’s a good enough reason?

Bruce is watching him, calculating. And Dick knows his worth is being weighed by his
answer, by his usefulness to Batman.

When Dick first became Robin, he knew that Bruce would sometimes test him. It made
sense, when the pressure of their job demanded so much from them. But he hadn’t thought it
would be like this, constantly guessing what Bruce wants him to say or do, wondering what is
the right answer. After so many years, he knows he is a weapon that belongs to Bruce, that
Bruce will sharpen him for the field before swinging him into danger, but Dick wishes he
wasn’t so blind to the hand that controls him.

Still, he tends to internally downplay Bruce’s merciful side when he’s feeling on the fence
about his place in the family. Dick can often get Bruce to see his perspective; he just needs to
tread carefully. So he tries, “Bruce, undercover is always risky. I wouldn’t be able to mobilize
as quickly if the plan changes. And what if Damian used the vent system? He’s the smallest
and fastest, I think he’d have the best shot at zero detection.”

“Robin is not ready for the responsibility, and besides, he is needed elsewhere,” Bruce
dismisses, which is frustrating but Dick can’t help focusing on his own fate.

“I’m underprepared for this role, it’s too soon,” Dick says, grasping a little desperately, “Who
even is Alin?”

“You are an excellent improviser, you should have no problems,” which is flattering, and the
first part is true. Dick doesn’t know how to tell Bruce he’s wrong about the second part.
Bruce sighs into Dick’s silence. “Dick, this is obviously the better option. I’ve had Tim look
the plan over and he agreed with me. Why are you fighting me?”

Did Tim really agree to throw Dick to the human traffickers? Dick is pretty certain Bruce has
never shared his full plan, or at least not all the back-ups, with any of them.

Wait, he’s not fighting is he? He said he wouldn’t fight.

“Undercover should always be a last resort this far into the mission,” Dick says quietly. “And
this is a high risk role. A sex worker, Bruce, really?” He hugs his arms to his body
protectively. “They’re going to be expecting something.”

“It’s more believable and lowers their guard,” Bruce says promptly. “You know this.” Which
leads Dick to believe he knows exactly what he’s asking of Dick and expects compliance.
“Right, but I don’t …. like it,” Dick says lamely, the closest he’ll come to confessing how
much it bothers him. He feels small, his opinion insignificant.

“I trust you to handle it,” Bruce says firmly. “I know undercover with human trafficking is
unideal and you’re playing a … provocative role, for added distraction,” honeypotting, just
say it, Bruce. “But you’re comfortable with these types of interactions-,” wait, hold on - but
Bruce is continuing like it’s just a known fact- , “and it will be very short. Nothing should
...go too far.”

While Bruce is talking, his gaze narrows in on Dick’s taped finger. He has to know, like
Damian, that it would not have come from a gymnastics accident, not for Dick. He wonders
what conclusions Bruce is drawing instead, with that faint expression of discomfort on his
face, knowing Dick lied, and given their current topic of conversation.

Dick has no words to enlighten him.

“They’re on the clock themselves. The time you get picked up off the street until the time we
break everyone out will be no longer than a few hours.” When Dick remains quiet, Bruce
adds, a little disappointment in his voice, mixed with impatience, “Who else, Dick? One of
your siblings? It would be even riskier. You’re good at this, and you’re the one with the
identity set up. I need you on board.”

You set me up, Dick thinks viciously, but now he’s thinking of his siblings and he would
never want them to play this part - over his dead body. What does Bruce mean that he thinks
Dick is “good at this”? But Dick thinks he knows. He’s the one who is good at this because
people find him attractive and he has a high tolerance for distasteful things without cracking
his facade. And he’s the oldest. It should be him. So now he’s nodding.

“Okay,” he concedes faintly, feeling doomed.

Bruce takes a breath, nods back. He reaches out to squeeze Dick’s shoulder, and finally Dick
has earned this contact. It should be a supportive gesture but somehow isn’t. “Good. Thanks,
chum. Look over the rest of the communications. Let me know if you have any questions.”
Bruce walks away, leaving Dick alone with Alin Vasile. He rests his elbows on his knees, puts
his head in his hand, closes his eyes for a moment. Just breathing. Everything will be fine. He
just needs to set aside his personal misgivings. Bruce will be happy. Then he stretches,
looking around the room.

He stops.

He thought he was alone.

His gaze catches on Tim, sitting in the corner of the cave, watching him. He has a sprawl of
papers spread around him and has clearly been there for a while. Dick quickly looks around
but at least Damian isn’t present, thankfully sent upstairs right after patrol.

Tim’s eyes are narrowed, studying him. Then Tim looks briefly at Bruce’s retreating back,
frown deepening.

This looks like a good time for a big brother intervention.

“Hey Timmy,” Dick calls, pasting a smile on his face. He glances at the equipment he had
been cleaning. It can wait. He takes the file and strolls over to Tim, plopping down in a chair
next to him. The papers look mission related. “It’s late, you should head up soon. What are
you working on? Can I be of assistance?”

Tim immediately tosses the paper he was holding and sets his elbows on the table, hands
clasped. “Nope,” he says.

Dick blinks. “Uh. Okay.”

“I have some things to say,” Tim continues, “And then I have some questions.”
Dick raises an eyebrow and copies Tim’s posture, a little charmed by the quirky behaviour.
“Alrighty. I’m listening.”

Tim opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks at the papers Dick is holding. Then, “Okay
nevermind, question first - what just happened? With you and Bruce? I overheard a little - is
he making you go undercover?” He sounds concerned. Argh.

Dick blows out a rush of air. “Nothing happened. Bruce was just filling me in on the mission
tomorrow since I’ve been out of the loop. Now I have to study my role,” he adds
dramatically, waving the file.

“Can I see that?” Tim motions to the folder, and Dick hands it over. Tim’s gaze snags on his
injured hand. The folder is set aside. “Hold on. Can I see that?”

Dick bares his teeth in a grin, does a little wave with his hand that keeps it out of reach.
Sticks to his story. “Gymnastics, Timmy. They’re dangerous.”

A skeptical look. Yeah, Dick wouldn’t believe himself either.

Tim flips through the folder.

“This took some time,” Tim comments, looking at the dates. “You’re just seeing this now?”
There is so much unsaid, so much implied.

“Yeah, but B said you knew about it though? This is our best plan since the vents are a no
go,” Dick replies.

He is confused by Tim’s surprised look. “What? No. I mean, I told him weeks ago this was an
option if stealth falls through, but I thought we’d settled on the vent.” Dick feels a bit of relief
that he’s not the only one stumbling when the rug is pulled.
“So, you didn’t help create the profile?” Dick asks, a bit hesitant, but he has been struggling
to digest Tim helping with that.

“No,” Tim denies vehemently, still looking at the papers. He gives a disbelieving laugh. “I
didn’t realize he’d gone and made a contingency for this, since we had, like, three different
options for stealth.” He reads some more and grimaces. “And everyone knows human
trafficking undercover sucks.”

“Right?” Dick agrees emphatically.

Tim looks up at him, incredulous. “Then why in the world did you just agree to it? We have
the vents.”

Dick looks at the file again and sighs. “No use, though. They’re too difficult to navigate in
time and it’s worse if someone gets detected in them. This is safer.” Just more uncomfortable.

Tim frowns, then out of nowhere opens his laptop. Where does it even come from? He types
rapidly for a moment, then spins it around to face Dick, who obligingly leans over to examine
the screen. It’s the blueprints for the warehouse, but it looks like a rainbow vomited over the
map.

“See,” Tim points. “I colour coded risk levels for exposure at each point. Cass could do it. It’s
true there’s more risk, but undercover has its own danger. Even if it’s been planned for
weeks.”

And Dick does see. But that’s not the real problem.

“Bruce wants me to go undercover,” Dick says, knowing that no matter how much he agrees
with Tim it doesn’t matter. Neither of them is Batman (at least, not anymore).

Tim chews his cheek, glances at the undercover profile. Dick can tell he’s looking at the
suggestive communication between Alin and the human trafficker’s bait. “But you hate this
kind of job.”

Wow. Are all of his hang-ups and failures apparent to everyone? And if they are, why is
Bruce putting him through this? Or is Dick’s past somehow part of the reason?

“It is uncomfortable,” Dick admits, “But it has the best margins of safety for the captives.
And it’s not long, just for the night.” All the things he has been telling himself. “Someone has
to do it. The profile is pretty solid, anyway.”

What wouldn’t he do, these days? He hates himself a little.

Tim looks at him, assessing. “Should I ask Bruce -”

“No!” Dick cuts him off quickly. “It’s fine. I can handle it.” The thought of Tim asking Bruce
to let Dick out of this on Dick’s behalf when he literally just agreed to Bruce’s face makes
Dick panic at his own patheticness.

Tim blinks at Dick’s obvious desperation but moves on. His next question doesn’t seem
related. “Did Bruce and you make up?”

Dick examines his hands very intently. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Yeah yeah, I saw you on patrol, and I’m glad you’re speaking again. But
did you guys talk things over from Saturday night?” he presses.

Dick sighs. Nothing is private in this family. “Yeah, we’re good now. He actually came out to
see me this morning in Bludhaven. I apologized for my crap, he said he shouldn’t have
kicked me out, and he needed me back. So here I am.”

“Wait, you apologized? What about Bruce? Did he say sorry?” Tim demands, leaning
forward.
It is Dick’s turn to roll his eyes this time. “What is this, juicy high school gossip? Yes, I was
being stupid, so I apologized. And yeah, B expressed some regret about his actions, and that’s
enough, we all know he doesn’t do ‘I’m sorry’s.”

Judging by Tim’s expression, even when Dick is making peace he doesn’t do it right.

“You weren’t being stupid. And I told him to apologize. But you both are acting like there are
eggshells around you so I figured maybe he didn’t do such a good job. I don’t even know
why I’m surprised,” Tim mutters, looking annoyed. His hand reaches out for a coffee mug
that isn’t there.

And if Bruce only came to Bludhaven because Tim had told him to and because he needed
Dick undercover, where does that leave their relationship? Dick can see that Bruce’s
forgiveness was fast, earlier in their cycle than usual, forced by an outside source; he’s
honestly a little bitter that Bruce listens to Tim.

“Why would you do that?” Dick groans, exasperated, while Tim is staring, brow furrowed, at
his hand grasping around thin air. “Would you stop meddling? Look, it’s not a big deal. It’s
Thanksgiving. We’re fine now.”

Dick knows he and Bruce are a little weird right now because B is stressed with this case and
a stressed Bruce always makes Dick edgy, but it will be over soon.

Tim surveys him like he’s seeing something for the first time. He abruptly changes direction
again. “I talked to Jason.”

Dick feels like he has been launched into another dimension, one without gravity. “Ah, good?
I didn’t know you two …. spoke.” Ever. Honestly, it’s happy news, just very unprecipitated.
They were ready to declare war last week as far as Dick knows.

“We talked about you,” Tim continues, which is rude. Dick has never had to deal with
younger siblings ganging up on him before due to the fractures and fault lines that divide
everyone in the family. He doesn’t know what to do about it now. Is this still good
communication? Should he be encouraging?

“Everyone seems overly interested in my life lately,” Dick says a bit pointedly.

Tim dodges the point like a pro. “I wanted to know about your lives when you were
teenagers, with Bruce and with the Titans.”

“You know you could just ask me about my own life, right?” Dick says, annoyed. He runs a
hand through his hair. What would Jason say about some of the worst years of Dick’s life?
Well, Dick had been pretty cold to him and blamed him for stealing Robin. Whatever Jason
said, it probably wasn’t anything nice.

“He said you and Bruce fought all the time,” Tim continues. Seriously, why does Dick even
bother speaking when no one is listening?

“So what, Tim?” Dick asks tiredly. “That’s pretty common knowledge, and obviously things
haven’t changed much.” It's wry but bitter. Dick grips his wrists with his hands to ground
himself. “We’re two very different people.”

“I know,” Tim says, “But I’ve been thinking a lot about this. Hear me out,” he adds when
Dick opens his mouth. Dick obligingly presses his lips together. “I thought you guys were
acting strange since Bruce returned, but maybe it’s just that I’ve been paying more attention.
It’s been a pattern of behaviour for both of you for years, right? The fighting, the separation,
the reunion, repeat. But when you were with the Titans and Jason was around Gotham, you
didn’t come back much. Jason said you seemed happier being with your friends. So what
changed? Why are you here?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dick asks, a little touchy about his own presence in
Gotham.

“Not like that,” Tim corrects, “I mean, I’ve been trying to figure out why you are so ….,” for
a moment, he dances around whatever word he wants to say, and eventually settles for, “Why
you keep coming back to Bruce. I get it in some sense, you’re both so permanent in each
other’s lives. But logically? I’m watching and even I can see he makes you miserable. You
know each other best and are the worst for each other. You’re in this cycle; I think the way
you act around each other is such a routine that you just return by habit.”

Something about the routine and habit strikes Dick deep, taking him back to the memory of a
sunny afternoon in his childhood sitting in the garden with Alfred. He had been watching
Alfred demonstrate weeding techniques. Routine is important to keep oneself healthy and
sane, Alfred had told him when young Dick asked about why he gardened every day. It’s a
powerful technique for the mind. He had encouraged Dick to find stability in his own
repeated actions, and Dick took this to heart as a life principle.

And routine is powerful. It has been keeping him sane all these years.

There is a twisted comfort now, in the lack of surprise when he and Bruce fight, or when he’s
thrown out, knowing he’ll be welcomed back eventually. He’s addicted to the kind of relief
that comes with Bruce’s forgiveness. The pain is only temporary, he just needs to hold out. If
he stays on the current path, it may not be stable, but at least it’s known. But Dick isn’t
fooling himself, he knows this isn’t what he really wants. Dick wants to feel this comfort and
familiarity with steadier relationships, but it has been this way for too long. He has been this
way for too long. Could he change things? It feels unattainable, the dream too painfully out
of reach to bear entertaining.

Besides, what they have now works fine.

Tim has lowered his voice. “Is it me? You only came back after I made you, when Jason -
died. Is it my fault?” He sounds vulnerable now, worried that he is responsible for Dick’s
problems.

It’s difficult to answer that when yes, Dick is here for Tim, and Damian, and all of them
really, but it’s not on them. He wants to be here to protect them, but that’s because he loves
them. Dick is reminded again of his conversations with the Titans. What is Tim’s relationship
like with Bruce, exactly? He suddenly needs to know how Tim is doing.

“What about you and Bruce?” Dick redirects; he ventures, “Are you okay, Tim?”
“No I’m not okay,” Tim says seriously, and the instant negative makes Dick feel sick. “I’ve
slept five hours in the last two days. I’ve been completely ignoring the Titans. When I’m not
working on this case, I’m covering for Bruce at WE. And when I’m not working on either of
those,” a sort of weariness creeps into his tone, “I’m wondering what the hell is going on
with you, because you guys fight and Bruce obviously doesn’t talk about it but then you don’t
talk about it or anything important.” Tim blows out a breath.

Dick doesn’t dare interrupt, not when this is so clearly important to Tim. When Tim starts
again, it’s slower, calmer. “Bruce pushes us all really hard, in like self-care boundaries, and
it’s not healthy but I get it. And he sucks at emotions. He can be an asshole to me, though not
in the same way he clearly is to you. That’s super not okay.” Tim pauses to meet his eyes
directly for the next words. “But it’s not just him - the rest of us can barely talk to each other
either. No one can be okay when there’s a problem in the family.” Dick really appreciates the
backing except it’s a little belated when he is at the manor again now and everything is fine.

“We’ve got our issues, all of us,” Dick agrees. “But my problems with Bruce are not your
fault okay? We can handle them between us.”

“You’re blind if you think they don’t affect everyone,” Tim counters, shaking his head. He
doesn’t say it meanly, but Dick is reminded of another person.

“Geez, you sound like Slade,” Dick mutters with another eye roll. When he stops looking at
the ceiling, Tim is staring at him in surprise.

“You mean Slade Wilson? The mercenary assassin?” Tim asks. His mind always works so
fast . “What the hell? When did you talk to him?”

Dick winces, regretting saying anything. And isn’t that what Bruce has been trying to tell him
- he needs to say less, be more careful with his words. “Uh. Monday.”

“You talked to Slade Wilson, as in Deathstroke, your literal enemy, about your family
issues?” Tim is having trouble processing this news.
“Well it wasn’t exactly a social call,” Dick defends, even though if he thinks about it, it was
pretty much only a social call. “He had a contract in Bludhaven, so he stopped by.”

“At your apartment?” Tim asks, alarmed. “Did you fight him?”

And now, Tim’s gaze is sliding back to Dick’s taped finger. Such an odd injury.

Dick is getting a headache. “Yes. And kind of.”

“‘Kind of’?” Tim repeats, alarm rising. “He tried to kill you, remember? You know he would
do it again.”

“Yes, I am aware, I’m not saying we’re friends; look, can we talk about something else?”
Dick massages his temples.

‘Not friends’ Tim is mouthing, before seeming to collect himself. “Then why? Does this
happen often?” Tim asks. He looks as frustrated as Dick feels, and sighs when Dick responds
with silence. “You know, it’s so strange how quickly you forget things.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dick demands again, tiring of this conversation.

“You have these ‘not-exactly-a-social-call’s with the same person who would be the first
suspect in your murder, like you’ve forgotten your history. But it’s not just your weird thing
with Slade; it’s your weird thing with Bruce.”

“Bruce and I are fine,” Dick insists. He has had enough.

“But you haven’t been before and it seems like you instantly forget,” Tim shoots back. “You
forget when Bruce is a jerk to any of us! Remember Jason’s return, when Bruce beat him to
hell and threw him in Arkham? And you want those two to be chummy. Is he supposed to just
forget that? Am I supposed to just forget Damian trying to murder me?” An old frustration.
Then a softer, “Why are you fine with Damian living here, anyway? It’s like you want us to
play dollhouse, but you’re not even the one in control.”

There is so much to unpack in Tim’s words, so much to unpack in their family. “Slade being a
creepy stalker aside,” Dick begins, hand massaging his temple harder, “I’m not forgetting
about how terrible Bruce or Jason or Damian have been, I’m just not going to hold grudges
until eternity against my family. Bruce didn’t even know it was Jason half the time!” Dick is
pretty sure, anyway. “But it was terrible, I know, especially Arkham, but he wouldn’t do that
now! And Damian wouldn’t do anything like that again either.” He leans in, earnest. He
wants Tim to see things his way, to help unite them all. At the very least, he needs Tim to not
resent anyone. “Look, you know I’ve done things I regret, myself. I’m sorry. We’re not some
perfect dollhouse. But we’re all getting better. We have to work together.”

Dick has to believe people can change. Damian has changed. Bruce must be able to as well.

“Mmmm, sounds like forgive and forget. What, you want no consequences?” A pause. “But I
guess anything for family,” Tim says, maybe sarcastically, clearly unconvinced. But Dick has
had enough of trying to coax Tim off of the precarious theory he’s clinging to and talking
circles around. Dick blows out an annoyed breath.

“Did you need any help with these or not?” Dick asks, gesturing at the papers still
surrounding them.

“Or not,” Tim replies. His eyes are far away, like he’s deep in thought.

“Then goodnight,” says Dick, standing. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you,” Tim echoes, still staring blankly.

Their conversation is abruptly over, a page torn quickly out of the script, but Dick will take
the escape. Finally, he can stumble away and think. Dick just wishes Tim’s words had left
him less disoriented.
 But really. Everything is fine. He’s fine.

(He has to be.)

Chapter End Notes

Warnings: Second heaviest chapter for gaslighting. Discussions of prostitution - Dick

gets pressured and manipulated into playing a sex worker undercover with the human
trafficking operation. Basically, Dick gets coerced into triggering his worst trauma.

Also, I really like fettuccine alfredo. :)

 Winning and Losing
Chapter Summary

The waves before the storm.

Chapter Notes

Once again, an unwieldy chapter has undergone mitosis! So without further ado, enjoy
this actually kind of pleasant interlude before the ….you know. Here, watch as everyone
literally dances around their problems.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“You don’t remember what happened. What you remember becomes what happened.” ~ John
Green, An Abundance of Katherines

Winning and Losing

It’s like you want us to play dollhouse, but you’re not even the one in control.

Tim’s words follow Dick into his dreams. He sees his siblings in plastic perfection, sitting
around a meal of food that shines grotesquely. They are living dolls, smiles frozen, with
thread attached to their limbs. Dick feels a tug on his wrists and looks down. He traces the
string from his arms to where it disappears around the corner of their perfect dining room.

He resists the pull, fiery pain in his wrists, but then he is yanked hard out of his chair. No one
looks up from their plastic meal as he is dragged away by an invisible master. Dick fights and
yells but nothing and no one frees him as he is towed along winding hallways, further and
further away from his family.

He wakes up with scratched wrists and blood under his fingernails.

(He swallows residual panic and holds back literal tears of all things, because really, he’s not
panicked, it’s just - why does he keep doing this? There’s nothing even really wrong, it was
just a dream - but even when asleep he is a mess, and no one wants that -)

Happy Friday.

He checks the clock - it’s mid-morning. Cass will be coming at noon from the airport. Alfred
shot down everyone’s pleas to join him in picking her up, wanting to spend quality time
together alone. Dick can respect that. And he’s grateful for the extra time to calm himself
down before he needs to be a mentally stable adult for his family.

Dick lurches falteringly to his bathroom, stopping before the mirror. It’s his eyes, he thinks,
staring hard, that give away the anxiety. The sweaty brow and wild hair don’t help his image
either. What a wreck. It’s raining today, at least he didn’t dream of -

He needs to pull himself together.

He takes a boiling shower and does light stretching exercises in his room, which help him
relax a bit. He takes the tape off his fingers, unconcerned about proper healing, because he is
sick of people asking questions. He decides to cover the bruise on his jaw for the same
reason.

It’s not just the weird dreams or the tension with Bruce that has him wound tightly. Honestly,
he’s looking forward to today and tomorrow so much it’s actually causing some stress. The
whole family together, doing normal family things. He tells himself it’s okay if it’s not
perfect, but. He really, really wants all of them to bond, or at least not fight. That puts
pressure on himself to make it happen.

He’s back in front of the mirror. Very deliberately, he forces his face into a performer’s smile.
The ghosts of his parents smile back at him in his features and he feels a little lighter. Finally,
he lets himself out of his room. He gives in to the juvenile urge to check Bruce’s closet and
grab another one of his never-worn hoodies. They’re comfy, that’s all.
The manor is quiet like a pregnant pause. Dick knows there are likely three other people here,
but it feels empty. Dick suspects Bruce is down in the Cave, working until the minute Cass
arrives. Hopefully Tim went to bed and isn’t down there with him. He debates going down to
see Bruce, it’s not like they’re fighting so there’s no reason to avoid him, but his anxiety
starts to build again at the thought so he decides to try for breakfast instead.

The kitchen is barren without Alfred. There are signs of him everywhere in the carefully
prepared and set aside dishes for this weekend. But still, Dick ends up grabbing a croissant
to-go and retreating to one of the lounge rooms to hide from the aura of suspense. He
randomly lucks out and chooses one with an old Wii system. He turns the volume up to
attract other organisms and hits play.

Damian manifests at the end of Dick’s third lap around Mario Kart’s Mushroom Gorge,
successfully startling him into flipping his kart off of mushroom safety and into the void.

“No! I was in first place! Victory was mine,” Dick laments, watching his character place last.

Damian accepts the extra controller Dick passes him.

“Your lead was pathetic if all eleven computer programs beat you,” Damian brushes aside
Dick’s wounded pride like a dust bunny while he settles down next to him and selects his
character. “Watch me destroy you. There shall be no question of who is champion.”

“Oh, you’re on,” Dick agrees warmly.

Mario Kart was one of the first video games Dick had coaxed Damian into playing with him,
and it has remained a relaxing favourite, surrounded with good memories. They play a while,
until they are interrupted by Stephanie.

“What up, losers,” she plunks herself down right in between them, forcing them to shift and
reorient carefully to avoid spilling her coffee drink. “Who’s winning?”
“It is me,” Damian says smugly, just as Dick’s turtle shell blows his cart into the air. Dick’s
bike rushes by to cross the finish line.

“Yes! Sorry, Damian,” Dick says with no remorse. “You were saying?”

Steph laughs as Dick gets up to do a dramatic dance. Damian throws his controller at him and
Dick lets it hit him in the stomach with an oof .

“Did you just get here, Steph?” Dick asks as he sits back down, perched on the arm of the
couch next to a huffing Damian. He pats Damian’s shoulder absently, a silent apology for
crushing his video game ego.

“Yep,” Steph pops the ‘p’. “I was just waiting at home, so I figured I’d come and just wait
here. Let the preliminary phases of Operation F.I.S.H. begin.” She salutes briefly, then picks
up the croissant Dick had taken, still uneaten on the coffee table. “Is anyone eating this?”

“Go ahead,” Dick says, nervous energy curbing his appetite. Thinking about Steph sitting
impatiently in her apartment counting down the seconds makes him smile. He can see his
own excitement mirrored in Steph’s eyes (with none of the dread). She and Cass get along
really well, and Dick knows Steph has been anticipating her return since she left.

“Did they send an ETA?” he asks, checking his phone, but nothing. Just Barbara telling them
to have a good time and that she’ll talk to them on patrol tonight.

“No, I found out by tracking the flight - I think they’re trying to surprise us with what time
she gets here,” Steph hypothesizes around mouthfuls of croissant.

“We are expecting their arrival. We will not be surprised,” Damian says, and Dick looks
around just to make sure he didn’t jinx it, but neither Alfred nor Cass appears.

There is, however, a faint crashing sound in the distance. They all turn towards the door.
“Uh,” says Steph. “Was that your cat?”

Damian just shakes his head, a knowing look in his eye. He stands up with a mission,
muttering, “Why is he always like this in the mornings, so useless…,” as he leaves the room.

Steph and Dick share a look, then follow Damian down the hallway. He stops in the front
foyer, at the bottom of the grand staircase. They find Tim sitting on the ground, glaring hard
at a houseplant laying sideways across the floor.

Damian has turned his muttering into a lecture. “- innocent, and has never moved, it is in the
exact same spot every day, and yet you still cannot evade a simple inanimate object. And as
for your situational awareness -”

“Hi Timmy!” Dick interrupts, because there is going to be a lot of family time this weekend
and starting with an argument is a Bad Idea. “Ready for the best day ever?” He pauses, then
amends, “Second best day ever, after the aquarium tomorrow.”

Dick decides to pick up the tree first and deal with the fallen teenager second. He rights the
plant and starts scooping the dirt back into the pot with his hands.

“Nice gum tree,” Steph compliments, addressing no one in particular. She takes a sip from
her cup as she sits down on the stairs.

Tim turns bleary eyes towards his fellow humans. Dick wonders how long he stayed in the
Cave last night and feels guilty for not ushering him to bed more forcefully, for getting
distracted from Tim once again. “Could someone please, please, start some coffee?” he
pleads. “I can’t believe Alfred is gone in my time of need.”

“I’ll do you one better,” says Steph, graciously handing him her drink.

“You are so good to me,” Tim breathes, downing it all in one prolonged gulp.
“What an embarrassment. I cannot believe we have to spend the day in your company,”
Damian complains, crossing his arms.

Tim wipes his mouth and sighs. “You are so mean to me.”

Dick gives in to his urge to ruffle Tim’s hair as he passes by, forgetting the dirt. Tim glares,
getting to his feet. The coffee seems to be instantly energizing; what do they put in there?

“Oops sorry - but oh hey, why the dirty look?” Dick asks, pun intended, waggling his fingers
before he dusts them off.

Only Steph laughs. Damian and Tim groan in unison, then look absolutely offended at the
other.

“Is now a bad time?” asks Cass, who is suddenly there.

“Cass!” Steph cries, throwing herself off the stairs. Cass catches her in a hug.

Tim and Damian both shuffle closer to their sister, waiting for the hug to finish so they can
welcome her home. Dick hangs back a moment to watch. Cass looks good, wearing exercise
clothes that emphasize her powerful physique. Her face is happy with very little jetlag
evident, her self-confidence having blossomed the longer she spends away from Gotham,
from them. Dick thinks bitterly of Batman Incorporated stealing her away before he shoves it
to the back of his mind. Not the time.

Dick spies Alfred, lurking in the doorway behind them. He is watching the reunion with a
fond look in his eyes. He catches Dick’s glance and raises an eyebrow as if to ask Why are
you not participating? Which is pretty hypocritical, but Dick obligingly walks over and
scoops Damian and Tim along as he presses everyone into a group hug.
“Grayson!” Damian squawks, but his resistance is perfunctory. His scooting away from
touching Tim is not.

“Missed you all,” Cass says warmly. They manage to stay in the embrace for three seconds
before the collective tolerance is depleted and they separate.

Dick signs welcome home and love you very rapidly. Cass catches the gestures and smiles.

“It is good to see you as well, Cain,” Damian says a bit stiffly for someone who was just in a
group hug.

“Welcome back, Cass,” Tim says with a grin. “Steph has been insufferable.” He ducks a swat
from said Insufferable, ignoring the complaint of “I gave you coffee , you ungrateful-”.

“I am certain there is much to catch up on. If you would all be so inclined, I have prepared
refreshments for the occasion,” Alfred interjects.

“Oh, I can’t, Bruce wants me to -”

“Tim, come on,” Steph drags him and Cass grabs his other hand. The three of them get on
well, Dick notes, uncertain what this feeling is inside of him. He thinks he’s happy.

They all dutifully file down the hall, retreating to the room with Mario Kart still paused on
the screen.

“How was the big wide world?” asks Dick as they sit down again. Tim and Steph sit on either
side of Cass on one couch. He settles with Damian on the other.

“Not like Gotham,” Cass says, which can mean many things. “Much brighter. But none of
you.” She looks around. “Where is Bruce?”
Alfred enters with a charcuterie board Dick had seen sitting in the fridge. “Master Bruce is on
his way upstairs and should arrive momentarily.”

Alfred makes to exit the room again but Cass raises a hand at the same time Tim says “wait”
and Dick says, “Alfred, stay!”

A brief pause, which Dick suspects is more about Alfred upholding his dignified image than
actual deliberation. “I suppose I could remain briefly,” Alfred acquiesces his charges, and
there is much cheering. Dick scooches over to make room on the couch, but Alfred sits
primly on the separate bergere armchair.

“Wow Alfred, you’ve outdone yourself,” Tim comments, examining the spread of food.

“Did you carve these little cheeses yourself? They’re tiny bats!” Steph exclaims, delighted, as
she passes one to Cass.

“Food carving has become a hobby of mine, one I confess is quite recent,” Alfred admits, but
he accepts the praise.

“I didn’t know you were transferring your fruit carving techniques to other food items,” Dick
marvels, “Where will it end?”

“Alfred has no limits,” Tim says, seriously. Cass nods solemnly in agreement and they all
laugh. If Alfred were anyone else, he would probably roll his eyes.

There are the quietest footsteps before Bruce enters the room. Dick looks up. He’s dressed
casually for once, and looks like he has slept a bit, the dark circles from last night reduced.
Bruce searches the room for a moment before his eyes land on his daughter.

“Cass,” Bruce says, and Dick can tell that it’s real warmth in his voice. “Welcome home.”
Cass rises and gives him a hug, which he accepts readily. Dick is not jealous of their
seemingly easy relationship, he knows they’ve had their own struggles and Cass literally
lives on a different continent most of the time. But Dick wants a fraction of what they have.
He berates himself; this is not the time to be resentful of his sister who is only here for the
weekend.

He is startled from his thoughts when Bruce sits next to him on the couch. He tenses
reflexively.

The placement makes sense; the other couch is full now that Cass has reclaimed her seat.
Dick had moved over when he thought Alfred would sit down and has now left a place open.
So it’s the most logical choice for Bruce to sit here. And Dick should be happy Bruce is
sitting next to him - it’s a good sign. Their relationship is mended, they can companionably
relax on a couch with their family. He knows this. Everything is wonderful.

So why is he panicking again ? He smiles at Bruce and forces himself to ease up, releasing
the tension in his muscles as he leans back into the couch. The anxiety is back in the pit of his
stomach, but he fights his own body. He will make himself be fine.

“Good morning,” says Dick, resting his head on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce shifts and pats him
awkwardly on the back. Dick feels weirdly like he needs to puke. He sits up straight again,
but not too quickly, it needs to seem natural.

Bruce regards him carefully. “Are you feeling more …together?”

Dick is mortified that Bruce is asking him this in front of everyone. But he grits his teeth to
keep the smile on his face and forces out, “You bet.” Bruce just nods.

He catches Tim watching with a frown, but before he can make eye contact Tim looks away.
Meanwhile Damian has shifted closer to Dick, and he is happy to lean in Damian’s direction.
He smiles at Cass, who tilts her head, assessing.
As the dreary weather continues outside, they talk and eat and enjoy each other’s company in
the cozy living room. Dick finds he can eat very little, knowing what he’s going to have to do
tonight, but he pretends with little bites of small foods. (And he’ll look better, won’t he, if he
isn’t bloated for the mission; really he shouldn’t be drinking much either.) He compensates
by talking more, asking each of his siblings question after question about their lives, trying
not to come across as too desperate for details about them. They’re all usually either closed
off or far away, and he needs to interrogate them while their guard is down.

When lunch is over, Alfred excuses himself but leaves the remaining food out for snacking.
Bruce tries to follow, but Dick makes himself reach a hand out to stop him. “Play games with
us, Bruce. Just for a bit.”

“I don’t have time -,” he starts, but Cass interrupts him.

“Please stay,” she says. And Bruce sits down again. Dick is in control this time, no tension
visible as Bruce moves closer to him. He is not intimidated.

“I have the perfect game for you, Cass, you’re going to love it,” Dick says with a grin,
thinking of the Titan’s party as he grabs the remote.

He flips through the Wii to find Just Dance. Cass reads the title and her eyes light up as Steph
whoops. Bruce groans. “Really, Dick.”

“What is this nonsense, Richard?” Damian asks suspiciously, but Dick just squeezes his
shoulder.

Steph and Cass go first, and just as Dick predicted Cass is a natural. When they finish, it is
discovered that Tim has actually fallen asleep at some point, and he is immediately
designated as the next contestant for his punishment.

“We’re playing what?” he asks, groggy, as he is handed the remote.

“Here Dick, show him how it’s done,” Steph tosses the other remote and Dick catches it.

“I think she meant this for you,” he says, passing it to Bruce who takes it automatically
before looking betrayed by his own hands. Dick laughs, pushing Bruce up.

Just as Bruce and Tim get into position and start “Eye of The Tiger”, Jason appears in the
doorway. Dick is surprised but hopeful - he had figured Jason would show up at the last
possible moment before dinner started. This is promising, Jason choosing to come early
enough that he has to know they will still be doing casual family things.

Jason is hidden from most of the residents of the room, but Dick has a good view of him. He
is just finishing a cookie, which means he stopped in to see Alfred on his way. And he’s
wearing what appears to be a cardigan under his leather jacket, which just captures the
aesthetic of “inner nerd” so perfectly Dick wants to grin.

Jason scans the room quickly, eyes settling on Dick for a minute pause before moving on to
size up the rest of the situation, taking in Bruce and Tim playing Just Dance. A smirk takes
over. Dick thinks he is going to interrupt, but instead Jason pulls out his phone and starts a
video.

“Well isn’t this just the sweetest,” Jason drawls, a full minute later. Bruce and Tim both whip
around, looking so caught that Dick almost falls off the couch laughing and Damian has to
hold him up.

“Priceless,” Steph gasps, between laughs. She holds up a hand for a high five.

“What the hell, Jason, don’t film us you traitor,” Tim hisses, panicked. Bruce just has the
same stunned look he always gets when he sees Jason without his cowl to hide behind. Jason
doesn’t even look at Bruce.

“You’re just embarrassed because you were doing so poorly,” Jason retorts as he puts his
phone away and strolls in. He debates for a second, then high fives Steph.
“Do you think you can perform better?” Damian challenges him from the safety of the couch
he has not yet left.

Jason smiles wickedly, always at his best when it’s a competition. “I know I can. Watch and
learn. Come on, brat.” He beckons to Tim for his controller.

Dick watches Jason subtly track Bruce as he passes Damian the remote and retreats to sit
back down next to Dick. Jason’s eyes tighten slightly, looking between them, but then he is
accepting the controller from Tim and starting the next song.

Jason and Damian face off in the most aggressive Just Dance match that Dick has ever
witnessed. And yet, it’s fun to egg them on when it’s not a real battle and he doesn’t have to
mediate to prevent disastrous fallout. Damian has never played Just Dance, but he has always
been a fast learner, Dick thinks proudly. And he is becoming a better sport, as evidenced by
his lack of physical aggression when Jason beats his score. Cass smugly collects money from
Steph and Tim, who have all wasted no time in turning the competition into an opportunity
for monetary gain.

The harmony is interrupted by Bruce, who has looked on edge ever since Jason showed up.
He stands abruptly. “I should get going.”

His retreat is expected; Dick has been counting and barring the marshmallow night, this is the
longest Bruce and Jason have remained in the same room as civilians since Bruce returned.
But Dick is a little disappointed - Jason has been ignoring Bruce since he walked into the
room, and if Bruce had remained silent maybe they could have reached an even longer
record. He knows Bruce is happy Jason is present, they’re just so. Awkward. With each other.

Jason is pretending to be very invested in the score stats, but Dick can tell he is watching
Bruce out of the corner of his eye, jaw clenched. He is going to take this personally. There’s
nothing Dick can do to make Bruce stay that won’t aggravate both of them.

“See you at dinner!” Dick calls instead, waving Bruce out. He turns back and Jason is staring
at him, hard. What? Dick wants to ask, feeling defensive. Jason’s problems with Bruce are
not his. But he will take this opportunity to keep Jason playing. He stands and approaches.
“My turn, Jay,” he says with a grin. “Think you can best me?”
“With ease,” Jason scoffs, and the sibling bonding continues. In some ways, it’s easier with
Bruce gone. Jason seems to relax now that the main object of his ire is no longer in direct line
of sight, casting fewer suspicious glances around the room, even at Dick, who privately
considers himself the second biggest thorn in Jason’s side. A bit guiltily, Dick finds himself
loosen up and laugh more often as well, carefree. Everyone else must feel something similar
because the conversation flows easier.

They grow tired of Just Dance soon and move on to board games. Steph suggests Clue since
the irony of the detective element is apparently “too good to pass up”. Dick feels déjà vu for
Wally’s reasoning behind playing Mafia. Hopefully Clue with his family ends a little more
positively.

“Listen up everyone! We are in a murder mystery in an old creepy manor, while sitting in an
old manor. May the best detective win,” Steph advertises through a megaphone. Dick does a
double take. Where did she get that?

“Where the hell did the bullhorn come from? Don’t tell me you brought that just to announce
board games?” Jason asks, mystified but admiring.

“She has one with her for emergencies,” Tim explains. Steph looks proud.

“That’s more extra than Goldie,” Jason shakes his head.

“Why me? I’ve literally just sat here quietly,” Dick defends himself indignantly as he sets up
the game with Cass.

Jason just gives him a peeved look like he can’t believe Dick has the audacity to believe he
deserves an armistice, but then he helps position pieces.

“Here Dickie, you can be Miss Scarlett.” Jason passes him the sultry character.
“Gee, thanks,” Dick says sarcastically, ignoring the clenching in his stomach at what Jason
may be implying. “Method acting for tonight.”

Tim frowns at him, but Dick avoids eye contact by focusing on his little crimson figurine.
Jason is likely taken aback by Dick’s words and he must catch Tim’s look too because he
asks, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Whenever Jason is uncertain, his voice defaults a little colder, a little more like how he
sounded when he was fresh from the pit. It may be unintentional, but it makes everyone still
at the subconscious reminder of a threat.

“I’m undercover tonight,” Dick admits, extremely vague. He does not want to get into this
right now. “Fun stuff.”

He looks up to see everyone’s eyes on him. Steph has lowered the megaphone in surprise.

“Why?” Cass asks.

“For human trafficking? That’s such shit,” Jason says, looking closely at Dick’s figurine like
it has some explanation. Like Jason didn’t literally hand it to Dick himself.

“Yeah, I know, but can we just talk about it tonight?” Dick says, really wanting to move on.
“Anyway, you’re right, this will be great practice. This game is so vigilante.”

“Is this ‘Clue’ like training?” Damian thankfully interjects, brows drawn together. Well, that’s
one way to get him to play. The other way is -

“Yes,” Steph whispers seriously, graciously switching topics. The words come out crackly
through the megaphone. “And there will be prizes for winning. It’s a competition.” There we
go. Damian’s eyes light up.
“What are you offering me when I win?” Jason asks, the other aggressively competitive
person in this family. “Free manicure?” he examines his nails, ignoring Damian’s sneering “
If you win”.

“Winner picks the next game,” Steph decides. Tim makes a noise of disagreement.

“That’s lame!” Jason protests immediately. “And what about all the losers? Losers should
suffer.”

Oh dear. Dick hopes not. He wants one weekend with no hurt feelings, please. “I don’t think
punishment is necessary here, Jay.”

“Well, if Jason wins he can have the manicure too,” Steph amends. “And the losers have to
play whatever game the winner picks, so that can be its own kind of suffering.”

“So tame,” Jason grumbles, but he’s already choosing his Clue character.

This is all so surreal, playing Just Dance and now Clue with his family. Dick feels like he
woke up in another world. This has literally never happened before.

But, there’s a strange undercurrent through everything, and he notices it now as they begin
the boardgame. There is gentle bickering, nothing major. Maybe that’s it - they are all so
good at finding each other’s bruises and pressing, but right now? Everyone is being so
careful, and all their arguments are superficial. Everything that’s not being said is its own
silent buzz. It’s creating a tension that seems to be growing, but Dick doesn’t know how to
diffuse what he can’t see.

“A confusing move by Miss Scarlet, who is retracing her steps. Care to comment on what’s
going through your head right now?” Steph announces a while later through the megaphone
as Dick plops his character into the dining room. The game has dragged on for over an hour,
and the end is in sight.
“No comments for the press,” Dick says, flashing a media smile with a wink.

“Hey, get out of here, the dining room is mine now,” says Jason, waving a hand to shoe Dick
away as he leads his Colonel Mustard into the dining room as well.

“Your fight is with me, Todd,” Damian says, gesturing to his Mrs. Peacock. “Victory is
within my reach.”

“That’s what you think,” Jason says, a gleam in his eye that he gets when he thinks he’s
ahead. “Hurry up Replacement, I need to show the brat who’s the cluemaster.”

“What about me? Doesn’t anyone think I have a chance?” Tim demands. His Professor Plum
is in the conservatory looking lost.

“You are okay,” Cass says, patting him on the shoulder as she moves Mrs. White to join him.

Steph moves Mr. Green into the hall and Dick takes his turn but it doesn’t matter because
Jason is next, moving fast, and he shoots his hand out to flip over his solution card.

“Ha! Take that,” Jason says triumphantly. “And I’ll take a raincheck on the manicure. You all
are slacking in your detective skills. It was Miss Scarlett with the candlestick in the
conservatory. ”

Tim winces. “Ooh, nasty.”

“We have a winner,” Steph announces redundantly through the megaphone. She flicks a
button and it turns on a siren, which lasts for ten seconds before Tim breaks and tackles her to
silence it. Cass grabs the megaphone in the confusion.

“I was so close,” Dick laments, looking forlornly at his unchecked box in his solution card.
“Yeah you almost got away with murder, wouldn’t that be a shame in this family,” Jason says
a bit sarcastically. It is momentarily uncomfortable before everyone chooses to take it as a
light joke. Dick privately does not think about any other times where he has sort of almost
gotten away with murder.

(No wonder Bruce thinks he’s the unstable one.)

“Miss Scarlett should have contracted help from a friend, clearly she’s an amateur,” Damian
says consideringly, eyeing his own playing piece like he’s disappointed in it for not aiding
Dick’s character with the murder.

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” Dick agrees. He starts cleaning up the game.

“Yeah, next time Deathstroke’s in Bludhaven,” Tim mutters, then freezes like he immediately
regrets the words. Dick looks at him in horror, dropping the figurine he’d picked up, but it’s
too late.

(Or maybe it’s his own reaction that stops the comment from being overlooked. Stupid,
Grayson.)

“What the fuck?” Jason asks. Everyone else also looks confused.

“Isn’t that the mercenary assassin guy? Why would he be in Bludhaven?” Steph asks,
curious, and Cass nods.

“Why?” Cass repeats through the megaphone for emphasis.

Tim looks at Dick, who tries to communicate ‘ drop it’ with his expression.

“Ah, nothing, no reason,” Tim says quickly, convincing nobody. Dick wants to groan. Tim
may be a genius, but he has always struggled to deflect social tension under pressure.
“Really? Deathstroke’s on the radar?” Jason says, sounding almost angry. He looks at Dick,
who remains silent. “Uh huh, right. Okay, so this is how it’s going to be.” He beckons at Cass
for the megaphone. She looks at him, a bit mistrustful, but hands it over.

“As the winner, I declare our next game Truth or Dare,” Jason says loudly. Dick winces.
“Let’s play now. Truth or dare, Goldie?”

“Come on, Jason,” Dick says. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Truth. Or. Dare,” Jason repeats, tone icy again even through the megaphone. His knuckles
are white where they grip the plastic. He’s a little terrifying, but no one addresses it or tells
him off because Dick knows them, knows that right now they all want to hear this just as
badly as Jason does. If it takes children’s games and Jason’s complete disregard of his
feelings to find out Dick’s secrets, they will stoop. It’s the younger sibling in them. Or maybe
just the shadow of the Bat.

And besides, this is Jason. He’s allowed to be volatile, and everyone else is expected to dance
around his sharp edges. It’s your own fault if you get cut.

Dick closes his eyes. Why is this happening? “Dare.”

“Fine. I dare you to tell us what’s going on with Deathstroke,” Jason sits back, waiting.
Everyone is waiting, watching.

“That’s not even a dare!” Dick protests feebly.

“Answer the fucking question,” Jason says with an intensity Dick doesn’t understand.

“What’s going on, Richard?” Damian asks. He looks worried on Dick’s behalf, which always
makes Dick feel like a bad pare- brother. A bad brother.
Dick squeezes his hands in frustration, resisting the urge to grab his wrists. “This is
ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. Guys, nothing is going on. Slade had a contract in Bludhaven
this week and we ran into each other. That’s it. Tim was just making a joke.”

“Really.” Jason turns to interrogate Tim. “Replacement, is that the truth?”

“Hey slow down, it’s my turn to ask the questions now,” says Dick. He sticks a hand out.
“Pass the megaphone.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” says Jason, leaning back. “I’m the Clue-master here. And I’m sick
of your bullshit. We need someone to confirm your truth.”

“It was a dare,” Dick grumbles, exasperated.

Tim grimaces. He looks torn between letting Dick tell his own secrets and the notion Tim has
gotten lately that Dick needs Help. “Well,” he begins slowly, sounding apologetic, “you said
he showed up at your apartment to ...” Hesitance. “Stop by? And…” Tim trails off, uncertain.

Dick hopes Tim can read the ‘traitor’ in his expression loud and clear.

“He what?” Damian is outraged.

“Holy shit,” Steph says, mouth open, a bat-shaped cheese paused halfway to her mouth. Cass
is watching everyone silently. Dick does not have time to read her.

“Okay, we’re getting somewhere, even if that somewhere is Crazytown. Now, elaborate,”
says Jason. He twirls the megaphone and sighs to himself, “I always need to clean up the
messes myself, fuck.”
Dick bristles at that, as if Jason is the one doing everything he can to hold this family
together. “This is not your problem. I am not discussing this with you.”

“You don’t handle father figures very well, you should be grateful for my help - now you
don’t have to pay for a therapist,” Jason shoots back.

“Harsh,” Steph comments, but she still looks morbidly interested.

Dick glares at his brother. Jason always knows how to rile him up; it’s a lot like talking to
Roy. “What does it matter to you anyway? Nothing happened. We spoke, he basically called
me an idiot,” - Jason snorts -, “and then he left. The end.” Dick’s finger throbs. “Now, it’s my
turn. Truth or dare, Jason?”

“Dare,” he replies, glaring back. Well, Dick is so done with tiptoeing around Jason’s flames.

“I dare you to tell Bruce you love him,” Dick challenges, vicious. You. Sanctimonious. Prick.

It’s a successful subject change.

Everyone else in the room stops breathing.

Dick has taken a knife and torn the veil separating them from the tension they’ve been
carefully sidestepping all afternoon, and now it’s threatening to crush them. Dick knows he’s
being mean, striking Jason where it hurts the most and all in a childish game, but he needs to
keep his own vulnerabilities protected. He learned long ago from Bruce that sometimes your
best protection is to lash out quickly and brutally.

Jason looks thrown. “What the hell? That’s one manipulative dare, Dickhead. You sure you
haven’t been flirting with villains lately?”
“What’s stopping you? It’s just words,” Dick counters, cruel. He feels a sick pleasure at
pushing Jason’s boundaries, the way he used to push Bruce’s.

Something hard settles in Jason’s expression. “Unbelievable. And everyone thinks you’re the
nice one. You think you’re the nice one, don’t you? Think again, asshole. Fuck you, and fuck
this family. I’m out,” Jason says through the megaphone, before he twists and throws it
violently at the window. As the glass shatters, he heaves himself up and stalks towards the
door.

The sight of Jason’s retreating back shakes Dick back to himself and guilt sets in
immediately. What has he done, what has he done? Jason showed up, played games, and
made an effort to bond, then Dick punished him for it.

If Jason leaves now, it’s Dick’s fault. Bruce will be so. Mad.

“Shit,” Dick says under his breath before he launches himself up and runs after him. “Jason,
wait!”

“Well that went well,” Dick can hear Steph say behind him.

“Richard? Wait - unhand me Drake!”

“Damian, stop,” That’s Tim. Dick should probably check that they haven’t started a fistfight,
but he’s focused on following the faint cigarette smell down the hall and out the door.

He catches up to Jason on the doorstep, rain pouring and masking his steps. He reaches out to
grab Jason’s sleeve and counts it a small miracle when he’s not shaken off immediately. “Jay,
please, wait. I’m sorry.”

Jason wipes rainwater out of his eyes, squinting. Dick shifts uncomfortably under the
scrutiny but doesn’t let go. Can’t let go, or Jason might keep walking away. Jason’s posture is
still rigid with anger. “Ten seconds, Goldie.”
“You’re right, I’m an asshole,” Dick begins, letting the words spill out in a desperate flood.
He needs to fix this, he needs Jason to not leave. “I shouldn’t have said that, it was uncalled
for and I’m sorry.” It may have been a little called for, the way Dick was getting picked on,
but Dick needs to take a side and he chooses Jason’s over his own. “I keep trying to meddle
with your life and I should stop.”

“And?” Jason prompts, his gaze still assessing.

“And you’re right, I’m an idiot about Bruce.” The words feel right.

Jason tilts his head to the side. “I never said anything about Bruce.”

Oh. Dick is thinking of someone else. “I mean about Slade. But really, everything is fine.”

Jason raises an eyebrow, silent for a moment. Dick holds his breath.

Then Jason sighs. “We are not done talking about this, and I’m not promising to stay,” he
warns. “But let’s get back inside, I can’t think over this damn rain. And get the hell off me.”

Dick’s heart leaps and he releases his death grip on Jason’s sleeve, relief flooding him as
Jason steps back into the manor and closes the door behind them.

They go to the library. Dick isn’t surprised - it was always Jason’s favourite. He would want
to feel in control for this conversation, and a familiar setting builds security. They sit
awkwardly in plush armchairs, dripping water onto the floor. Dick feels a bit bad for ditching
their other siblings, but he needs to fix this first. The rain beats against the library windows,
and Dick tries to ignore it.

“So,” Jason says. “I talked to Roy.”

Dick’s entire body tenses immediately.

“Oh relax, I’m not going to kick your ass,” Jason says, noticing his stiffness. “Even if you
deserve it. Listen. I don’t know what you’ve done in the past, whatever happened to you and
Kory,” -and it’s always Dick’s fault isn’t it?- “Or everything that’s going on between you and
Roy now, but he’s pissed. So yes, I’m mad at you. But I’ve come to the realization that
you’ve got some problems, and I’m feeling fucking altruistic.”

Dick could feel almost fond, if the situation was a little different. Jason always had been
better at dealing with other people’s trauma than his own. It makes sense that in response to
Dick needling him about his vulnerabilities he reacts by aggressively addressing Dick’s own.
It’s just so Jason . That doesn’t stop it from feeling extremely invasive.

“What does Roy say?” Dick asks tiredly, a question he has wondered for literal years, but the
agonizing suspense has dragged on too long to hold its proper weight.

“Roy says you’re an idiot about Bruce,” Jason’s voice is flat. “That you’re brainwashed and
can’t tell who your friends are or who’s trying to help you. And after everything I’ve seen,
I’m inclined to agree with him.” The look Jason gives him is clearly intended to be
significant. Dick wants to roll his eyes. “Nice shiner you gave him by the way, matched yours
from Bruce so nicely.”

“Roy was not helping,” Dick growls. Roy was too busy verbally eviscerating him and his
entire family.

“Oh cut him some slack, Goldie, we can’t all devote our lives to sucking up to people,” Jason
says dismissively. “And pot, kettle. I mean, taking out your anger on your friends? Attacking
them? I always knew your self-righteous act was bullshit.” Jason is shaking his head, and
Dick feels a sort of helpless frustration mix in with his guilt.

Because Jason is supposed to be better these days, and therefore Dick is supposed to have
moved on , but seriously: taking out his anger, attacking people, does Jason hear himself right
now?
Apparently not, as he continues on in the same tone, “And, look, Roy’s been through a lot.
It’s hard for him to talk about this kind of thing. Hits close to home.”

Dick doesn’t need Jason to tell him this. Dick was actually there. Roy was someone he’d
watched grow up, who had watched him grow up, through every tough family struggle and
confusing teenage phase. They had been teammates and friends, good friends, until suddenly
they weren’t anymore. No, the moment everything changed, when it was Dick who needed
him, he-

(Stop. Stop. Not helping, Grayson.)

He switches focus. “Everyone has their own idea about what’s going on,” and they hardly
seem to need or want Dick’s opinion, “But they’re all years behind. So Bruce and I fought a
lot publicly when I was a teenager - so what? Why does everyone keep bringing it up? It’s
not how it is anymore, we’re much better now.”

“‘You fought a lot’? You mean he dragged you home kicking and screaming,” Jason throws
back, derisive. “It’s like you didn’t even want to be his Robin. No wonder I -”

“Robin wasn’t his! ” Dick tries not to yell. It was mine, he wants to say. Instead, he calms his
breathing. “And when you keep getting sent away, it’s harder to want to return, so excuse me
for being a bit resistant.”

“Ah, so he did kick you out,” Jason seizes on this, contemplative, and had he really not
known? Dick always assumed it was obvious, that whatever reasons Bruce didn’t want him
anymore had been clear to everyone else too. That it was just Dick left in the dark. “I didn’t
think so growing up, but you know, this all explains so, so much about how awful you always
were to me.”

Well that hurts, because Dick remembers making a huge effort to reach out to Jason when
they were younger and receiving an endless supply of defensive sarcasm and vitriol in return.
At least, once Dick got over the complicated betrayal, hurt, and anger at being replaced.
Leave it to Jason to frame Dick’s personal problems in reference to how they made Jason
feel.

“You were awful to me too,” Dick points out. “But anyway, that was so long ago, we’re past
this now.” He leaves ‘this’ open-ended - it could refer to Jason and Dick, and it could refer to
Dick and Bruce.

“Yeah, I’m going to give that a hard no,” Jason shoots down Dick’s opinions like he’s a
toddler who doesn’t understand his own circumstances. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but
this so-called family you’re clinging so hard to? It’s got a shit-ton of holes in it. And you and
Bruce keep punching those holes, because neither of you will ever change.” His tone is
exasperated, and seriously? Seriously? People punching holes in their family? “And it was
okay for a bit because your weird drama was contained, but now there’s the Demon Brat.”

“Don’t call him that,” Dick says automatically. “And none of this is Damian’s fault.”

Jason snorts. “For fuck’s sake, you’re so predictable. I’m not saying it’s demon-baby’s fault.
But if we can’t fix you and Bruce, everything’s going to fall apart real fast. It already is.”
Jason looks thoughtful. Dick has never heard him sound so condescending. “I guess it’s not
wholly your fault either, not when you’ve been conditioned for this since you were, what,
nine?”

“Fuck you,” Dick says, no longer trying to calm Jason down, not when Jason is implying that
Robin, Nightwing, his entire life, has all been a part of some brainwashing scheme. “I haven’t
been conditioned for anything! I know you’ve probably heard from the Titans that Bruce was
terrible before -”

“You bet I’ve heard, but I also had eyes, Dickhead-”

“- and he was definitely more physical,” Dick plows through Jason’s interjection, “but it
wasn’t abusive! We’re vigilantes, violence is part of the job description, part of our lives. And
now I’m an adult, so however we interact is my own choice.”
“Do not try to tell me what’s abuse,” Jason’s eyes flash dangerously, his difficult childhood
clear in the set of his jaw, in the heated glare. Dick’s stomach plummets and he’s looking for
green green green . But then Jason sighs. “It’s so hard to talk to you like this, you don't even
know what you’re defending. I think I need to have a little chat with Bruce.”

And Jason turns slightly, as though to get up, as though he will go to Bruce right now, and
Dick’s stomach turns because as if that would solve anything, as if Jason talking to Bruce
about Dick’s callow grievances won’t make everything so much worse.

“ No!” Dick yells, startling himself as much as Jason, who flinches. He automatically reaches
out to comfort him, then lets his hand drop when he remembers the gesture won’t be
appreciated. “Don’t. Please don’t talk to Bruce about this.” Dick sighs, puts his head in his
hands even though he knows it makes him look weak. Sometimes Jason is surprisingly
conscientious of perceived fragility. Dick is still angry, but he’s so tired. “Look, I know you
don’t like me. I know it’s hard for you to be here, I get it. But just, please. One weekend.
Please, just one weekend where we can at least pretend to be a fucking family.”

“I don’t-,” Jason starts, surprised, then stops. He takes a deep breath, then blows it out.
“There. See? Predictable.” He mutters almost to himself, “Why didn’t I see it before?”

Dick looks up, taken aback. “What?”

“Why’d you run after me?” Jason probes.

Dick blinks. “Uh. To apologize?” Then he winces because obviously he is failing that hard.

“Why would you even apologize? I called you an idiot and implied you were maybe more
than buddies with Deathstroke,” Jason reminds him. Dick fights against another wince
because ew.

“Just because you were being a jerk doesn’t mean I had to be,” Dick says, the words he
knows he is supposed to say. They taste a bit bland, but he means them. “And I didn’t want
you to leave because of me.”
“There it is,” Jason says, folding his arms. “See, I knew you would come after me. You had
to.”

“Excuse me?” Dick says, confused. “You literally just told me I’m not a nice guy -”

Jason waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah, I said a lot of things, most of them are true. And I meant
them. I was mad. But you were mad too. And yet as soon as I threatened to leave, you
dropped everything to beg me to stay. What, couldn’t face Bruce if I dipped?”

Jason’s tone is casual, but his eyes are so focused that Dick takes a second to think about his
answer, knowing it will be picked apart.

Even picturing how Bruce would react if Jason left gives Dick a bit of anxiety. He pushes it
away. “Yeah, it would hurt Bruce if you left,” he begins, choosing his words carefully. “He
doesn’t show it, but he’s really glad you’re here. Having everyone there tonight is important
to him. I didn’t want to mess that up.”

But then it occurs to him, another part of why Jason might not want to stick around, and he
feels cold. Tim’s words from yesterday are in his mind, and Jason is so distant with Bruce
since his resurrection but before that, well. Dick wasn’t home very often. He has to know,
though, needs to know, even if it feels harder, somehow, than with Damian or Tim. What
exactly is he asking Jason to do by staying? “Jason,” he begins, stops. Starts again, and tries
to keep the intensity out of his voice, hoping it is steadier than it feels, “Did Bruce ever...”

And Jason, with a directness Dick is endlessly grateful for, rescues him. “No,” he says, and
Dick can breathe. “Never. Not like...” he trails off, and he is looking at Dick intently, but
maybe he isn’t really seeing him. His eyes are narrowed, though it looks more calculative
than upset.

Dick has probably brought up memories of Jason’s shitty childhood. Idiot.

Jason breaks through his mental beration with a low whistle. “Replacement really wasn’t
exaggerating,” he mutters, eyes on the ceiling, and hold on, what? But then he is focused on
Dick again. “And you weren’t scared of the Bat’s wrath if I jumped ship and it was your
fault?” he presses, tone a little dubious for Dick’s liking.

Dick feels extremely psychoanalyzed. “You and Tim have this idea, and it’s wrong. Bruce
would be mad at me if I picked a fight with you, but I’m not in danger or anything.” Not
anymore, not if Jason stays. Not if Dick plays by the rules.

(First Tim, now Jason, can everyone stop trying to save him? He’s fine. )

Jason regards him silently for a moment with disbelieving eyes. Then he shakes his head.
“Damn, Dickie, what wouldn’t you do for Bruce?”

The truth is, Dick doesn’t know. But he’s pretty sure he’d do anything.

He rolls his eyes. “Sorry for being a people pleaser,” he says sarcastically. And he needs to
make sure, “But ...you will stay, right? Please, Jay. This weekend is important.”

Jason regards him with exasperation. “Yes, alright? I’m fucking staying. But I reserve the
right to change my decision at any time with prejudice.”

Dick feels a rush of relief and gratitude. “Thank you,” he breathes out.

Jason must be able to sense how much this means to Dick because he looks almost
embarrassed. “Whatever. Let’s get back, your rain-soaked ass is making a mess of Alfred’s
favourite chair.”

Jason gets up and stretches, and Dick follows. He is carefully not going to address how
Alfred has a favourite chair and Jason knows which one it is.
“I’m making a mess? Who’s the one that threw a megaphone out the window?” Dick
challenges, and then stops suddenly in the middle of the room because he forgot they just left
their siblings alone after literally shattering a window.

Bruce might be mad.

Dick is Not going to think about that.

Jason doesn’t seem bothered, not slowing his pace. “That window was old and needed
replacing anyway. Bruce is rich, he should thank me for the opportunity to shed some
money.” He glances back at Dick from the door. “Come on, slowpoke, I bet the brat’s going
out of his mind thinking I murdered you.”

Dick keeps himself from commenting on certain murderous people out of their minds. They
return to the living room without any further fighting, mostly by remaining silent.

Steph, Cass, Tim, and Damian are gathered around a board game. Their faces and postures
are all a little strained for recreation, and Dick mentally prepares himself to have to intervene,
praying casualties will be few. But they all look up when Jason and Dick enter, and it’s like a
switch is thrown, tension melting away. Cass waves, but her expression is appraising. Tim
and Jason have a strange staring contest. Dick can never figure out where those two stand
with each other.

“Hey emos,” Steph greets, breaking the silence. “Done emoting?”

Jason flips her off as he saunters over to the couch. “Temporary ceasefire, in the spirit of
Thanksgiving.”

Damian keeps his eyes on Dick, who tries to smile reassuringly as he comes to sit next to
him.
Dick glances at the broken window. The glass and debris are already cleared and a drape has
been taped across the opening. The guilt is a little heavier. “Thanks for dealing with the
window, guys.”

“We hardly dealt with it,” Tim waves away the praise. “And Mr. Anger over there can explain
it to Alfred.”

“Easy, I’m his favourite,” Jason says self-righteously.

“No,” Cass says, and Jason shoots her a wounded look. She tosses her hair dramatically, and
Dick smiles at her joking behaviour.

It’s a frequent playful competition they have amongst themselves, claiming Alfred’s
favouritism while the stoic butler denies partiality of any sort. But Dick has his suspicions.
He has known Alfred for a long time, and he is pretty certain Alfred’s favourite is Bruce. It’s
expected really, the unconditional love that comes from being a pseudo-parent; Dick would
know. There’s proof of it, in the careful guidance of his charge that Alfred has devoted his
life to. The Fettuccine Alfredo Incident of last night is fresh in his mind, one of the tamer
moves Alfred has made in his crusade for Bruce’s personal growth. But even so, Dick never
likes putting Alfred in a position at odds with Bruce - so afraid to test Bruce’s limits these
days - so he’s glad most of their arguments are private.

The lighthearted disagreement has continued. Tim is saying, “If anyone is Alfred’s favourite,
it’s me, because that new coffee maker is definitely directed at someone, not saying who.”

This is met with many objections.

“I’m the favourite because I’m low maintenance,” argues Steph. “He’s sick of dealing with
all of you drama queens.”

“Cass is low maintenance,” Dick points out. “And what about Damian? He’s the smallest, so
he’s the cutest, that’s a natural edge.”
“Oh look, Dick’s simping for Damian again,” Tim drawls, and the others laugh over Dick’s
protests and Damian’s embarrassed grumbling.

“Oh, fuck no, have you no taste? Why are you playing this?” Jason says, looking at the board
game.

Upon closer inspection, it appears they are playing the Game of Life. Little families are piled
into plastic cars on a colourful road of milestones.

“Why are there more cars than players?” Dick asks, interested.

“Tim had too many babies so he needed an extra vehicle to hold them all,” Steph explains
with relish.

“Tim is fertile,” Cass agrees solemnly.

Jason makes a surprised choking sound that turns out to be a laugh, and Dick can’t help but
grin.

“Why would you say it like that,” Tim groans. “At least I’m not living in the RV.”

“Your quaint housing is inferior to my mansion,” Damian goads. Dick looks down at his
career. Doctor, huh. He privately thinks Damian would make a great vet.

“Did you name your family?” Dick asks excitedly.

“Of course not, they are pieces of plastic,” Damian says, stiff.

“What?” Steph cries. “Unacceptable. Here, I’ll name them for you. That one is Stephanie -”
“Stop, Brown, they are mine!” Damian says possessively. “Name your own.”

“Oh, I have,” Steph says, smug. “Look, it’s Steph’s Crazy Bus, featuring all of you guys!
Jason and Tim are twins.”

“We’re fraternal,” Tim interjects, glancing sideways at Jason as if sizing him up.

“Please, remove my piece of plastic from the bus,” Jason requests, deadpan.

The squabbling is gentle and the game progresses. Dick finds that the rest of the afternoon is
surprisingly pleasant, everyone trying very hard not to fight. Delicious scents eventually waft
into the room from the direction of the kitchen. Alfred appears in the doorway and everyone
goes quiet as he regards the broken window.

“I see we’ll be needing repairs,” he says disapprovingly. He looks at each one of them in turn,
and everyone looks away guiltily.

“Sorry, Alfred,” Jason says, and Dick looks at him, surprised by his serious tone. But if there
is one person Jason doesn’t like to disappoint, it is this man.

(Jason is maybe a little bit Alfred’s favourite, too.)

Alfred nods to him. “I shall take care of it, Master Jason.” He gestures to the doorway. “Shall
we congregate in the dining room for dinner? Master Bruce need not be informed of this
room’s recent draftiness.”

Alfred is the best. They clean up the game and exit the room. Alfred closes the door behind
them.
 Walking to the dining room, Dick feels a tug on his arm as Cass pulls him to hang back. He
slows to a stop and leans against the corridor wall, turning to regard his sister with a raised
eyebrow. “Hey Cass, what’s up?”

Her eyes are solemn, her head cocked attentively. “Are you sick?” she questions.

Dick blinks. “I - no, I’m fine,” he says, smiling. “Why?”

She frowns. “You look,” she observes, then pauses, brow furrowing. “Sick.” Frustration, like
that’s not what she meant but can’t find the right words. Dick is apprehensive of the concern
in her voice. Her gaze travels over him, assessing, lingering at his jaw, catching on his left
hand. Seriously? He took the tape off for a reason.

She reaches out to touch his hand and Dick shies away. “Nope, just tired,” he insists. She
looks unimpressed, so he smiles a little harder. “Glad you’re back. When this case is over, I
think we’ll all feel a bit better.” There, a better truth. Cass likes those. Dick slides away.
“Come on, let's not keep them waiting.”

And he darts ahead without looking back. He catches up with everyone at the doorway to the
dining room, relieved by the distance he has put between himself and Cass’ disappointed
eyes.

Chapter End Notes

Dick’s wellbeing is whose responsibility, exactly?

Or how about a question I can answer: Do I know how to play Clue? Nope.
 Safety and Danger
Chapter Summary

Batman plays his sacrificial pawn.

Chapter Notes

Hey citizens,

I had originally intended to gloss over the mission, but it’s not like Dick gets to skip it so
neither will we, comrades. For some reason action feels slow when the plot of this story
is more emotional, so this chapter is a bit of a side quest sorry.

If you’re concerned about how dark this mission is going to go, please read the tags
and/or the warnings in the end notes. Unless of course you’re a certain someone who
CLOSES HIS EYES through the notes and doesn’t even know he’s getting CALLED
OUT right now. <3

Anyway, have fuuuun! (but Dick won’t ;) )

See the end of the chapter for more notes

"I have never understood where the line is drawn, between sacrifice and self-slaughter." ~
Hilary Mantel, Wolf Hall

Safety and Danger

As usual, Alfred has gone ahead and prepared an absolute feast for Thanksgiving. Dick
pauses to admire the spread on the dining table.

“You've outdone yourself again,” Dick says, reaching out to squeeze Alfred’s arm. Alfred
smiles at him tolerantly and pats his hand before ushering him into a chair. Damian slips in
next to him and Dick tries not to beam too brightly.
“Nice going, Alfredo,” Steph compliments, plopping herself down before a heaping bowl of
delicately whipped potatoes. Tim gapes at her, clearly mouthing ‘Alfredo?’

Alfred just inclines his head graciously. “Thank you, Miss Stephanie. Now, if you will excuse
me, I shall go and fetch Master Bruce.”

“You can’t call him Alfredo, it’s disrespectful,” says Jason, appalled, the minute Alfred is
gone. He is only concerned about manners when Alfred is involved.

“I think he secretly likes it,” Steph insists. She looks at Cass. “Right, Cass?”

Cass shrugs. “He likes you,” she explains, and Steph makes an ‘ah’ noise.

When Bruce arrives, there’s a slight awkwardness in the air wafting from whatever invisible
stench is hanging between Jason and Bruce. Everyone ignores it beautifully, well-practiced in
talking around uncomfortable things.

As is customary on special occasions, Alfred allows himself to be manipulated into sitting

down to eat with everyone. He sits next to Jason, who had purposefully left a spot empty
between himself and Damian. It is far away from Bruce, who sits between Tim and Cass, but
it’s still amazing that they are all at the same table. The meal begins.

Dick can’t help noticing that Bruce is in a good mood. They all are, really, but it’s especially
important to Dick after the week he has had that Bruce is happy. Bruce doesn’t even seem to
mind when Steph picks on him for his tie.

“It’s a special occasion, it’s normal to dress up,” Bruce tries to defend himself.

“Maybe, but that tie has seen better days,” Steph points out. It’s true, Dick knows that the tie
is frayed and old; he gave it to Bruce as a present on his one year anniversary of staying at
the manor. Is Bruce trying to say something by wearing it now? Dick finds he is annoyed at
himself for being endeared. It’s just a tie.
“You shouldn’t be calling people out on their outfits, Blondie, that vest is a traffic violation,”
Jason observes around his green beans.

“Says the guy in a cardigan,” Steph waves her fork. “Which don’t get me wrong, is very
cute.”

“Excuse you, my clothes are fucking delightful, this cardigan is brand spanking new,” Jason
boasts.

Tim chokes on his water. “Why would you emphasize spanking?” he questions between
coughs, scandalized.

Steph gasps like Tim said a bad word. “Tim, you just emphasized spanking!”

“Oh dear,” Dick throws a hand over his heart, the other fanning his face, “my delicate
sensibilities!”

Cass covers her mouth, faux politely, as Tim splutters objections.

“Dickiebird, you of all people wouldn’t have your sensibilities offended,” Jason snorts, which
is rude, but. Dick sees Bruce smirk out of the corner of his eye at their shenanigans, and it
feels like the biggest win of the day. Worth any minor discomfort; Dick is not going to be the
reason this turns into an argument. Not about himself.

Which includes not letting Damian start a fight with Jason for some perceived slight on
Dick’s behalf, as his murderous expression suggests will be his imminent course of action.
Dick lands a distracting hair ruffle to redirect him.

The food is amazing, Dick can tell that from sight and smell alone. But he just sips his water,
feeling queasy. He only has a couple more hours left, and he can’t ignore the nerves anymore.
He smiles and laughs and jokes with his family, wishing dinner could last forever, but it has
to end eventually.

When they finish eating, Bruce stands up. “Meet downstairs in an hour.” It’s a dismissal, and
they all automatically stand to leave as well.

Bruce looks at Dick, and he veers towards Bruce expectantly. “I left contacts and colour in
your room,” says Bruce. “I trust you’ll take care of the rest.”

It’s not a question. Dick nods, suddenly extra glad he hasn’t eaten today, as his stomach
tightens further. “I’ve got it, B.”

Bruce nods back and that’s it. Dick has his assignment. He heads over to Steph.

Cass and Steph are leaning against the table, discussing exhibit preferences for the aquarium.
Dick wishes it was already tomorrow. Steph looks up when Dick approaches. He puts a hand
in his pocket, casual. “Hey, did you bring the stuff?”

Steph is nodding as she pushes off from the table.

“I left it in the guest room, hold on,” she says. The ‘guest room’ is the bedroom Steph always
uses when she’s here. Dick is pretty sure she feels strange admitting to any possession of it
even though it is definitely hers.

“Stuff?” Cass questions, getting up as well to follow them out.

“He texted me last night asking for some funky clothes and accessories,” Steph says as they
walk. She glances at Dick. “It’s for the surprise undercover mission thing, right? The one
Tim’s not happy about?”

Does Tim broadcast everything about Dick?

“Yeah, I didn’t have the right wardrobe for it, so thanks so much,” Dick says. He parts ways
with them in the hall. “Can you drop it by my room before tonight?”

“Sure,” says Steph cheerily, but her eyes don’t match her tone; Cass remains silent beside her.
Dick doesn’t have time to follow up on that.

He heads to his room, taking purposeful breaths on his way, calming himself. He has a job to
do. He lets the tranquility that comes with having a purpose settle over him. He grabs his
only pair of ripped black skinny jeans; they’ll have to do.

He finds the brown contacts and palette of hair chalk on his desk, like Bruce said. He takes
them into the bathroom, pulls out the makeup from his drawer. He slips the contacts in
quickly and moves on to makeup, mindful of the clock. An hour is not that much time;
sometimes with a disguise less is more, but this does not feel like one of those times. He
outlines his eyes darkly, giving himself little wings, with a bit of gold eye shadow. He hates
the feeling of lipstick, but he puts a tiny amount of gloss on so that his lips, at least, will look
dewy even though the rest of his mouth has gone dry.

Then, he eyes himself professionally, assessing. Debating.

Well, he has always been partial to redheads. He pulls out the chalk and gets to work.

Some time later there’s a knock on his door.

“Come in,” he calls, focusing on the back of his head as best he can. It’s okay if it’s not even
colouring, since there’s no way Alin Vasile would be able to afford a proper dye job anyway.
He hears the bathroom door open.

“Woah,” says Steph. She drops a bag onto the floor.

Dick looks up. Steph is staring. Dick feels a bit self-conscious despite himself. He had taken
off his shirt, since the chalk can be messy, but now he feels exposed, leaning half naked over
the bathroom counter.

“Hey,” he says, holding out the chalk stick. “Can you help? I can’t see the back.”

“Uh.” Steph blinks and recovers quickly, taking the chalk. “Yeah, sure.”

They’re quiet as Steph starts colouring his hair. Then, “What made you choose pink?”

Dick groans. “I thought it was more red.”

There’s a laugh behind him, more comfortable sounding. “It could go either way, it’s a
reddish pink,” Steph allows generously. A pause. Then carefully casual, “So, what’s got you
looking like a stripper?”

“You kind of already know,” Dick says, no spare energy to really detail what he has to do,
much less cushion it to land softly. He’s looking down at his wrists. The scratches are
obvious; should he cover those too? Or do they make ‘Alin’ look more desperate, more
believable? Maybe Dick’s own instability can be useful for the mission. “I’m going
undercover so we can have someone with the hostages when the place gets blown open. Bit
of a time limit, so I’m playing the ideal fish to catch, and voila. This outfit.” He begins to
pose, but it feels so fake he drops it immediately.

“Right,” says Steph. She is still holding the chalk, twirling it around and around. With the
constant motion, it’s hard to tell if her hands are shaking. “So just to clarify, sneaky stealth
mode is a no go? And this is the only way?”

“Stealth is a no go,” Dick says with a sigh. “Bruce had this prepped as a backup for a while
now.”
“Right,” Steph says again. She puts down the chalk. “Done. Did you want to seal it so it will
stay better?”

“Nah,” Dick says, staring hard at himself in the mirror. “We don’t have the time. And if it
runs it just makes me look cheaper. If I’m lucky this will all wash out in just a few hours
anyway.” It will all be over soon, he tells himself, even though it hasn’t even started yet.

Dick walks over to the bag Steph brought. He rummages around for a moment before pulling
out a purple tank top and a shiny black jacket. He slips both on; the tank top is very tight, but
that’s probably for the best.

Steph is watching him. It doesn’t feel as weird as it could. She waits until he’s back to staring
at himself in the mirror before saying, “I’m sorry, but I have to ask this: Dick, are you okay?”

Steph’s tone is uncharacteristically serious. (Or maybe it’s not unusual for her to be serious
about things like this. Perhaps Dick just doesn’t know Steph that well. And whose fault is
that?)

And Dick wonders to himself, is it the way he’s dressed? Is it how mechanically he prepared
himself, like he has done this a thousand times? Or is it the scratches on his wrists, clearly
self-inflicted, that overlay the yellowing skin? Maybe it’s how he left a bit of bruising
peeking through on his jaw, to show the human traffickers that he’s vulnerable, that he’s an
easy target.

“I’m fine, Steph,” he breezes, posture straightening, taking control of the situation. Steph is
uncomfortable and the only way to help her is to be comfortable himself. “I’ve done this
before. No need to check in.”

His fingers fiddle, straighten the lines of the coat around him, tugging it closer, craving its
cover. He deliberates for a moment before grabbing a sparkly scarf from Steph’s bag as well.
It’s rainy and cold tonight.

He turns to Steph, who is still watching. “What are you going to do, if it gets to be too
much?”
“Are you coaching me?” Dick asks, bemused. “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. It won’t
be too much. And you guys will just have to come save me along with all the others.” Dick
knows he isn’t the priority here. He gives her a wink.

“Uh huh,” says Steph, looking unconvinced. “But if you do feel overwhelmed, just call us,
okay?” Softer, but clear, “It’s okay to ask for help.”

He smiles at her. That is so sweet . He gives into the urge to ruffle her hair and she ducks
belatedly. “Thanks, Steph. Why don’t we head down?”

Steph searches his face for a long moment. Finally she snorts, turning to go. “I can’t wait to
see everyone’s reactions.”

What are you going to do, if it gets to be too much?

The truth is, it won’t be too much. Not for him, not on Bruce’s mission. Dick has to do his
best here, and how can he do that if he gives himself limits? Everyone always tells him he
overextends, assisting multiple teams on top of solo Bludhaven vigilantism and helping out in
Gotham. But the way he views it, he is his own most expendable resource, and he won’t shy
away from getting dirty if Bruce only implies that it might help out. His weird hang-ups
about physical touch shouldn’t stop him from being useful; he won’t let them.

He doesn’t want to think about why Bruce sets him up for missions like this, why he sees a
human trafficking case and automatically builds Dick a seductive undercover back story
without his permission. Maybe it’s subconscious, or somehow Dick’s fault - a vibe he gives
off. That would explain a lot. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter; Dick is good at this role, it suits
both the performer and the people pleaser in him. Bruce may see him as just an investment
for the cause, but at least he will be a good one. And if this is the only reason Bruce wanted
Dick back this weekend, well. Dick will make it worth his while.

Dick and Steph head down to the cave. They are the last to arrive; from the sounds of
arguing, his siblings are getting changed. Steph slips away to get costumed as well. Bruce is
already in Batman regalia minus the cowl, which is set next to him on the desk as he glares at
the computer. Dick is already in his attire for the night, so he takes a deep breath and ambles
over to Bruce.

Bruce looks up as Dick gets closer, then up and down, clinical and assessing. Dick spreads
his arms and twirls like he’s on a stage.

“What do you think?” he asks, nonchalant, even though Bruce’s opinion is literally the only
one that matters at the end of the day. “Ready to hit the town?”

Bruce’s face is utterly blank, and for a moment there’s no response, then, “Are you sure
you’re feeling … alright now?” Ah. Bruce has always preferred to look empty rather than
uncomfortable.

Dick grits his teeth. Really, again? But Bruce is being concerned in the only way he knows
how; it’s not his fault that Dick is overly sensitive these days. “I’m good, B,” he chirps,
posture straightening, leaning forward slightly to convey his focus. That he’s all there .

Bruce nods, then his eyes catch on the coat, on the corners where it hangs a little looser.
Steph likes baggy clothes. “Are you sure that’s enough?”

Enough what? Dick wants to ask. Enough skin exposed? Enough of a stereotype?

He leans against the desk. “What do you want me to do?”

Bruce stands up and approaches. Dick wills himself to be still, wills his heart to stop
accelerating like he’s facing down a threat. Bruce reaches out and tugs at the jacket, and Dick
lets him slide it off his shoulders. The tank top is as tight as Dick remembers it looking.

“It’s November, Bruce,” Dick says, crossing his arms, but he’s already resigned. He shakes
out the scarf and drapes it around his shoulders like a shawl, a poor replacement.
Bruce looks him over once more, a slight frown now.

Dick shifts, crosses his arms. “What?”

“You have very …revealing clothes,” Bruce observes. He sounds strangely bothered.

Dick feels like he is missing something here. Does Bruce think Dick owns stuff like this? Is
that why he let Dick choose his own wardrobe? “It’s Steph’s,” Dick says defensively, not sure
why this is even being brought up. “But I can put the jacket back on -?” But Bruce is already
shaking his head.

“No, this adds to your perceived vulnerability. Less threatening. It’s just tight,” Bruce points
out, still with that strange undercurrent.

Dick rolls his eyes. Why did Bruce create this role for Dick if he can’t even bring himself to
discuss it objectively? “B, trust me. These people? They’ll love that.” Dick doesn’t know
why he’s the one confidently reassuring Bruce that he can play this part. And he feels a bit
off-balance at the judgment - he thought Bruce picked him because he looks this way, wanted
him to be on display, chosen the smaller and lithe build of an acrobat; what is Bruce looking
for exactly?

Bruce just nods, like what appeals to human traffickers is a good point, but he is still
frowning. “What’s wrong?” Dick asks, uneasy.

A drawn out pause. Bruce’s gaze travels over him again. Finally, he glances over at the
screen. “We’ll discuss it later.”

Something cold and unpleasant settles in Dick’s stomach.

Bruce turns back to the computer and sets Dick’s jacket on the back of the chair before
putting the cowl on. Dick looks at the jacket longingly, but it’s too late, it has already been
confiscated. He can’t reach for it now unless he wants a fight. Instead, Dick grabs one of the
subtle earpieces they use for undercover and runs through settings.

“Holy shit,” Red Hood’s voice modulator manages to sound incredulous. “What the hell are
you wearing? It’s November.”

Dick pastes a practiced smile on his face as he tilts his head at his brother. “I am immune to
the elements.”

His other siblings are filing out now as well, and Dick feels like everyone is looking at him.
He sees Spoiler rush out of the change rooms, just in time to watch the reactions.

“Why is Richard dressed like a harlot?” Robin directs his glare at Batman accusingly, making
it clear who he blames for this.

Red Robin has his arms folded. He is also looking at Batman for an explanation. Black Bat
stares at Dick. As is typical lately, he can’t read her expression.

Dick stays silent, letting Batman deal with this one.

“Nightwing will be infiltrating the organization via an alias as a recently arrived illegal
immigrant working the streets,” Batman delivers the information flatly, stating facts.

“You mean he’s going to get picked up like candy.” Red Hood is unimpressed. To Dick,
“Seriously, where are your clothes?”

“Batman, I reviewed the vent schematic,” Red Robin speaks up, his posture tense. “The route
is viable. If -”

“No,” Batman cuts him off, shutting him down immediately. Everyone straightens at the tone.
“This is safest for the victims, they need someone with them.” And Dick knows this is a
symptom of Bruce’s own guilt at how long this case has taken, that he needs to prioritize the
human trafficked above all else. Above all of them. “The plan is set. Nightwing is
undercover. Red Hood will be monitoring his movements until he reaches the facility, then
join Red Robin on the south to wait for the signal. I will take the entrance on the west.
Spoiler and Robin will take the north.” Far away from Dick, who can’t help but feel it’s
intentional. It chafes but Dick gets it; Bruce doesn’t want Damian around Dick, not when
Dick has yet to prove he’s as intact as he claims. “Black Bat will take the east, and be ready
to enter the vent, only if necessary .” He emphasizes the last word, deliberately. It’s a good
plan, other than leaving Dick exposed like a lamb to slaughter.

No, wait. He’s fine.

Red Hood seems slightly mollified that he will be able to look out for Dick. On the other
hand, Dick is not keen on his brother watching him get picked up by human traffickers. But
their roles are set: Bruce’s word is law. It’s more obvious in moments like these, when any of
them would squabble with each other about details and preferences, but not with Batman. Not
even Tim, who is now chewing his lip and frowning. This is for the best - Dick doesn’t think
he can stand even the slightest bit of fighting right now, he feels so wound up.

And that’s it for protesting. Batman goes over a few more details. The swift acquiescence to
the plan is unsurprising. They have all done outrageous things for the sake of the mission
before. This isn’t even that insane, not compared to the creative ways they sometimes tackle
supervillain chaos. And ultimately, Dick agreed to this. It’s his decision.

Black Bat walks up to Dick. “You look pretty,” she says, reaching out to lightly brush the
shawl.

Dick smiles softly at her. “Thanks, Cass.” Then he pouts. “Aren’t I always pretty?”

She huffs a laugh. “Yes.”

“Always redheads, isn’t it Dickhead?” That’s Red Hood, who has moved on from defending
him to mocking him. Dick gets whiplash when he can’t pick a persona.
“It’s more of a pink, really,” Spoiler chimes in. “Compliments purple well, and as we all
know, purple is the best.”

“Okay, sorry for trying to not look like myself when I’m undercover,” Dick apologizes with
zero sincerity. “Red is an attractive colour!”

“Why would you want to be attractive for these sick fucks?” Red Hood demands.

“Are you kidding? It’s the whole point, it makes the job easier,” Dick says, exasperated.

“The job being seduction or infiltration, remind me.” Flat tone.

It’s clearly a bit of both, but that is not the right answer. Luckily, Batman interrupts. “Time to
go. Alin needs to be at the corner of third and west fourteenth in thirty minutes. Robin and I
will drop you off near the pickup location.”

Everyone transforms subtly between one second and another, mission ready. Dick gets into
the back of the batmobile. Robin glances over his shoulder at him frequently, but says
nothing. Dick just tries to smile at him reassuringly, while internally psyching himself up for
his role.

He gets kicked out in an alley at sixteenth and he ducks under an overhang. It’s raining. Ugh.
His hair dye is going to run. Oh well, it will make him look even cheaper and more pathetic,
so it’s perfect really. And there are less people out in the dreary weather. Dick slinks through
the shadows as best he can in his getup, suppressing a shiver. At least his shoes are functional
boots.

Bruce had arranged via Dick’s alias to meet with the hook of the human traffickers for some
deal, promising ‘Alin’ help with getting work at the docks on some boats and getting him off
the streets and out of the sex trade. ‘Alin’ is desperate enough to believe it. Dick reaches the
meetup point a bit early and leans in an alley doorway for shelter. He grabs some gum he’d
slipped into his pocket earlier and starts chewing. He scans the surrounding buildings for
signs of Red Hood.
There’s a crackle in his ear. “Stop looking for me, have you never been undercover before?”
Then more gently. “I’m across the street. I’ve got eyes on you.”

Ah, there he is. Dick relaxes a bit in spite of himself.

Oracle’s voice comes on over the private comms loop between him and Red Hood less than a
minute later. “Everyone is getting in position. I have ears with the guys heading out to grab
Alin. They’re on their way.”

“How was family dinner?” Dick mumbles into the comms, barely moving his lips.

“It was nice. Now focus. They’re almost to you.”

Barbara can be as clinical and cold as Bruce when necessary. Dick finds courage in her
direction and he lets himself hunker a bit more into the wall, a little world weary like he
hasn’t slept in his bed in weeks. Like he’d do anything for the promise of changing his life.

A van slows to a stop at the end of the alley. No windows in the back. They’re not even
trying to be subtle.

“Wow, what a fucking cliche,” Red Hood comments, reading Dick’s mind. He has to fight not
to laugh, the aborted amusement spoiling in his stomach and churning up acid he swallows
down.

Dick pushes off of the wall and adopts a wary but hopeful expression, making his way closer
to the vehicle. It really is pouring. He can barely feel his fingertips gripping his biceps
through the shawl. A man steps out of the van, approaches him.

“Alin?” asks the man. He has a bit of a limp; it probably helps vulnerable people feel a bit
safer when he has an obvious weak point. Dick is not fooled. The man is looking at him like
a hawk eyeing a mouse, his gaze sweeping and appreciative. Dick fights off a shiver that has
nothing to do with the cold.

“What do you want?” Dick asks, choppy and accented. He puts a taste of suspicion into his
voice. He chews the gum slowly, hinting at sensually, and poses a little, like the question
could have many different answers.

“I’m Kevin. I’m a friend of Ana, she texted you,” ‘Kevin’ explains calmly. It matches the file
Bruce handed Dick last night for the cover story. ‘Ana’ is a real plant the organization has on
the streets, but she has never met Alin.

Dick lets himself pretend to ease up slightly, wiping rain out of his eyes. It’s dyed from his
hair and resembles blood. “Ana? She say she has work for me.”

Kevin is looking at Dick’s jaw. He gives a low whistle. “Where’d you get that shiner?”

Dick turns his posture defensive. “Hard job,” he says with a scowl, and Kevin laughs.
Slightly hopeful tone, “You have the new job?”

“I’m here to talk about that. But man, it’s wet today. You want to get off these streets? We can
talk at the docks,” Kevin offers, invitingly. He gestures at the van. His smile is friendly, and
his words are exactly what a lost soul needs to hear.

Dick pulls the shawl closer around his shoulders. He blows a bubble, lets it pop. Alin has
nothing left to lose. “Why not.”

The man beams at him. “Excellent. Let’s go.” And he offers a hand, and Dick forces himself
to take it. The man’s grip is strong. He won’t be letting go.

There’s Red Hood’s voice crackling in Dick’s ear, sounding pained, “This is so fucked up.”
Dick totally agrees, but he can’t afford distraction right now; he has a role to play.
As they get closer to the van, Dick braces for it, but it’s still a bit sudden when the door is
thrown open and two figures in black jump out and pull him in as Kevin shoves him from
behind. He cries out and thrashes convincingly, but is ultimately overpowered.

“Got him, Kevin,” says one of the figures restraining him in a bizarre bear hug. Ah, so that is
indeed his real name. Kevin slams the door and Dick hears him get into the front. Dick feels
the van lurch beneath him as the driver stomps on the gas and they squeal away. The fastest
route to the warehouse should take them eight minutes and thirty seconds. Dick starts
counting.

His arms are roughly forced together and he’s pushed down to the floor of the van.

He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s Alin.

“What is this?” Dick asks, making his voice fearful and tremulous. It’s not difficult; his heart
is beating fast and his breaths are shallow. But he rationalizes that he’s not truly in danger,
with his training and with Oracle and Red Hood listening in. He just needs to calm down.

His hands are zip tied behind him. His legs are zip tied to a bar on the wall of the van. Dick
tests the restraints, tight but he could break them. They really don’t think he’s much of a
threat. The measly contents of his pockets are turned out - a fake ID, a handful of bills, and a
burner phone. They take the knife out of his boot as well.

“We’re taking you to your new job. Don’t worry, you’re already hired!” one of his captors
grins at him, confiscating his belongings with pleasure. “It won’t be much different from your
last ...profession.”

The man’s grin turns leering, and Dick is suddenly shaking for real. It’s subconscious
somehow, and he can’t stop it, though he tries. He manages a glare at the man, though he’s
having trouble making his face obey him.
The man sees his arms trembling and laughs. “Aw, don’t be shy. I’m sure you’re going to be a
natural.”

The man reaches towards Dick, strokes his cheekbone. “Not really my type, but I can see the
appeal.” He moves to slip a finger over his frozen lips, smearing the gloss. And Dick is ….
not okay, but Dick can handle this. But then the man looks …down. He calls his friend, “Hey,
you searched him right?” The man smirks. “Are you sure you checked everywhere?” And
there’s a laugh, and Dick’s breath catches as he feels the press of a knife on his abdomen, but
then it’s slicing through his shirt like butter and the cut fabric is falling to the floor with the
scarf. Sorry Steph, Dick thinks distantly. He owes her some new clothes.

The man’s partner makes an appreciative noise from across the van, watching Dick sit still as
the hands exploring his face wander further. “Look at that muscle. Being a hooker must be a
good workout.”

“What a price though. Who messed you up so badly, huh?” And Dick has seen it all in the
mirror, his bruised abdomen, his bruised wrists, his bruised face, but the idea that it can all so
easily be written off as sexual violence unsettles him.

“Dick? What does that mean? What’s happening?” It’s Oracle, or maybe it’s Red Hood, but it
sounds so far away. They can probably hear how rapidly he’s breathing. Dick is pretty sure
he’s drifting away from his body. The hands feel like other hands, hands he has tried to
forget. He wants to fight this guy; it wouldn’t even break his cover if he yelled and thrashed.
They might even get some sick enjoyment out of it. But Dick can’t; he is frozen in an old
fear. He can’t feel himself breathing, can’t hear himself thinking. He can barely hear at all.
He tries to force himself into the present, and catches the end of a sentence.

“-sies really are lookers, aren’t they?”

“Racist bastard,” Red Hood swears over the comms, but it’s almost drowned out by the sound
of Dick’s own desperate breaths.

Keep it together, keep it together . Dick is losing time; when is this van ride going to end? It
feels like it has been longer than eight minutes. The second man is talking lowly into a
communication device, too quiet for Dick to eavesdrop.
“So quiet. Terrified, are you?” The man before him sounds nauseatingly amused. “I’ve barely
even done anything.” Base curiosity fills his voice. “What else would you let me do?”

Well, Dick has let people do a lot of things in the past. Murder, for one, and - but now he can
feel himself starting to panic, as the hand goes lower. Is he still in the van? He’s soaking wet,
and this is so familiar -

He hears Oracle’s voice in his ear, tense, “Nightwing, Batman says hold. Just a minute,
almost to the warehouse.” Dick tries desperately to listen. One minute. He can endure for one
minute.

Stop it, he tells his spiraling mind, struggling to get a grip on the present. If he slips into a
memory or please no an actual panic attack, it’s all over. He can freak out about this later, at
night, in the privacy of his room. Right now, he needs this guy to stop touching him.

Oracle’s voice has helped to tether him a bit. Dick gathers himself enough to twist his
features into a hard glare.

Then he spits his gum out at the man’s eye.

The man reels back, his hands finally retreating, moving to cover his face. “Ow!
Motherfucker!”

“What just happened? Nightwing, what just happened?” Oracle sounds almost panicked.

“I bet he did something stupid,” Red Hood hisses, but it sounds worried.

“What? What happened?” The man’s partner is bewildered, glancing up at Dick’s restrained
self as though searching for a weapon.
But the man is glaring at Dick. Dick is too busy breathing to try to defend himself. Dick sees
the punch coming and takes it to his stomach, welcoming the pain as the sharpness brings
back the edges of his awareness. The second punch is lower and he’s keeling over, seeing
stars instead of raindrops.

“Enough,” the other man rescues him reluctantly. “Stop testing him out. We don’t have time,
anyway. We’re back.” Footsteps approach Dick. “Time for you to relax,” a whisper in his ear
and then a pinch in his neck. He starts to struggle, but the sedative sets in quickly, and even if
he wanted to he can’t fight anymore.

Getting drugged was not part of The Plan.

Dick floats a bit. Someone is talking at him over the comms. “I’m fine,” he says aloud, and
the other people in the van look at him like he’s crazy. And oops, he vaguely notices that he
has the wrong accent; he has naturally slipped into the accent he came to Gotham with. Oh
well, these guys shouldn’t realize the difference.

“I’m fine,” he repeats, through chattering teeth, when it’s becoming harder to believe himself.
“I’m-,” poisonous.

“Shut him up,” a voice growls, and then there’s duct tape over his mouth. Why is he choking?
Her hair-

Quiet, mi amor, callido…

He’s slipping faster now that the sedative is acting - masking the pain that grounds him, and
he can barely hear the increasingly distorted words in his ear. Nothing is keeping him from
the panic he was feeling earlier, and memories flash before his eyes, dragging him through
time in snapshots.

One second, he’s in the van. Next second, he’s on top of a building. Then the van stops and he
is hauled out into the rain. Then he’s lying on the rooftop, a weight on his chest. Then he’s
dragged through more rain into a warehouse facility, a faint “put him with the others, hurry
up, we’re late”. The rain blurs the distinction between past and present even further.
“Nightwing, please, snap out of it,” Oracle’s voice. She may have said more, but Dick is
having trouble focusing. She’s waiting for a vocal click, the one that Dick is supposed to use
when he’s on track, a warning signal. Everyone is waiting on him.

Where is- is he in position? Dick bites his tongue to feel the pain, to bring himself a little
closer to the surface. His body feels strange after leaving it for so long. The drugs are wearing
off a bit, but not enough. He’s still hazy. He can’t tell what’s the drugs and what is his own
drifting mind.

He’s tossed into a room, body slamming into the ground. He’s surrounded by scared faces.
He has reached the hostages. Some are tied like he is, but others are free. His stomach sinks
as he counts over eighty people in the tiny space. Their intel had them at fifty. They are
mostly young women, but there’s a variety.

Dick feels a bit of despairing dread creep into his chest. How is he supposed to protect eighty
people stacked on top of each other from being used as collateral? One explosive and the
casualties are devastating. He can’t think. He doesn’t know how much time passes, how
many blinks, before he hears Oracle again.

“I’m patching in the open loop, everyone is about to start,” Oracle warns. Almost
immediately after there’s a crackle in his ear.

“-atman, we still haven’t received confirmation from Nightwing!” Robin. Damian. He’s
upset, and it does more to jolt Dick to the surface than getting punched.

“No time. Their transfer is beginning. Move now,” says Batman into the earpiece, the
moment the door is closed behind Dick. It’s a direction for them all. Dick gives a faint,
belated click.

Then he turns his head and freezes.

Make that Dick plus eighty-one people - with the extra body being an armed guard staring
straight at him. Dick lies still, bound on the floor at his feet, fuzzy mind racing as he tries to
push off the fog in his thoughts. The variables keep changing. This is going to be much
harder than expected, but Dick doesn’t have any time to re-think - the plan has already been
set in motion, any second now his family’s presence is going to become obvious. He’s not
ready, he needs to get out of these restraints, but he’s being watched like a hawk.

Dick is trying to keep track of the time, but everything keeps slipping out of his head. There’s
noise in his ears, it’s the comms, but he can’t parse any meaning.

( “Black Bat is held up. Plus two minutes on her ETA.” )

(“ Nightwing, update on the hostages?”)

As if to remind Dick of the deadline, the guard’s communicator beeps. He brings the device
to his ear, eyes flitting away for a moment. Dick struggles to listen over the static. “Bat
sighting,” the grainy voice intones. “Shoot anyone who looks suspicious.”

And the guard is turning to look back at Dick again, and maybe he’s raising his gun, so Dick
swings the lower half of his body with all his strength into the side of his legs and he goes
down hard. Dick swings his body again to sweep the gun out of his hands but there’s a loud
bang before his foot connects with the metal and the gun goes flying. The guard’s head hits
the ground with a crack and he stops moving. Did Dick just -?

His ears ring from the gunshot and the screaming around him. There’s a voice in his ear, but
it’s just noise. His side burns from scraping his bruised skin against the rough floor and
something wet runs along his arm. Shrapnel wound, superficial.

It all feels like it’s happening to someone else.

(“-was that Nightwing’s feed-?”)

(“Nightwing, report.”)

Dick rolls himself so he’s sitting. There’s hardly any space here, he’s lucky he didn’t land on
top of someone. Quickly, he teases the tiny razor out of the lining of his pants. A deep breath
to brace himself, and then he snaps the wrist zip ties over the razor edge, cutting into his skin
in his hurry. Then he does the same with his legs.

(“This is some weird shit you’re pulling, Goldie-”)

Finally, he rips the duct tape off his mouth. Everyone is watching him, faces shocked. Dick
directs his eyes to the sobbing people on the left, who are clutching bleeding limbs. Horror
fills Dick’s chest. Did someone die? All of the hostages seem to be breathing. He sweeps his
eyes to the fallen guard, lying still. Did he just kill someone? He wants to check for a pulse,
but there’s no time. Dick feels like he has been placed in a doomed train-for-failure scenario.

“Could everyone, please move?” he says, mouth clumsy, trying to keep the panic out of his
voice, just as shouting starts outside of the room. No movement. But they’re out of time and
they need to move so his fake calm drops and he barks, “Away from the door!”

(“Ri- Nightwing! What’s happening?”)

(“Are comms down on his end?”)

The people jump and do their best to listen to him, even as they look him up and down in
disbelief. Dick knows he looks a mess - half-naked, bleeding, soaking wet, shaking - but they
thankfully comply. The space is too cramped for their actions to be successful; the room is
clearly a temporary holding space, but there’s a thick stench that makes its way past Dick’s
muddled senses. It has been a temporary holding space for some time.

“Um,” Dick speaks into his communicator. Tries to formulate his thoughts.
“Did that idiot just say ‘um’? ” Red Hood’s incredulous voice sounds, between the solid
thumps of landing punches. “What the hell, are you-”

“Nightwing,” Red Robin’s voice cuts in, intent. “What’s the situation?”

“We’ve got eighty hostages.” Dick can’t let himself get distracted, can’t afford to lose his grip
when he’s clawing so hard to lucidity right now. “Handful of injuries. Could use some help,
stat,” Dick says, dragging himself to his feet unsteadily. His ears are still ringing. He stops
listening to the comms once he is done actively trying to communicate.

(“Black Bat?”)

Essentially, Dick’s job is to guard the door. If anyone tries to enter, take them down. Simple.
He thinks he has less than two minutes before Black Bat should arrive as backup. He can
hold out until then.

(“Four minutes.”)

There’s the lock turning now. Dick does his best to prepare, shifting into an offensive stance.

Two masked figures walk in with guns and Dick immediately kicks the gun out of the one’s
hand, sweeps the legs out from under his partner, then does the same to the first guy - or tries
to.

Huh. He missed. Instead, the man lands a hit to his abdomen before Dick grabs the man’s
shoulder and pulls . But his body isn’t moving the way he expects it to, and a move that
should have ended with Dick standing over him now has them both on the floor.

Disorienting. At least Dick is the one on top of him. That is, until someone is grabbing him
from behind, dragging him off. Dick’s arms are pinned.
(“-maybe I should double back for him-?”)

(“I’m closest-”)

(“Negative. Black Bat is en route.”)

Dick feels so… slow. So heavy, even when he’s not wearing any armor, his body foreign.

Freed, the first man wastes no time, and Dick feels a crack with the punch to his bare ribcage.
Dick slams his head back, a satisfying crunch as his skull connects with his captor’s face, and
the arms restraining him loosen.

Over a decade of training has Dick acting on auto-pilot. One movement. Dick kicks the man
before him in the face and reaches up to grab the one behind. With a twist aided by the man’s
own momentum, Dick throws him over and into the wall.

For the second time that night, Dick finds himself rising shakily to his feet in the cell. He
takes stock of the guards on the ground; one is still groaning, so Dick kicks him, hard, in the
crotch.

What a mess this is turning out to be. It’s always stressful when they’re missing intel, and
Dick is spending half his energy fighting off this detached feeling. And now everyone in the
room is really looking at him like he’s crazy.

Dick closes the door again.

It is opened seconds later by a trio of armed figures, and Dick has taken down two of them
(neither easily, why won’t his body work right), but it leaves him in the grasp of the last man.
He is really off his game tonight. His head is slammed against the wall, hard, and for a few
seconds nothing is real to him.
“-ightwing, status?” Oracle.

Status. Dick is… Dick is on the ground. The man is on top of him.

When did she get on top of him?

No. “I-,” Dick wheezes, fighting himself. “I need-,” a punch to his face, the world is
spinning, “Backup.”

Then he’s grappling with the man, trying to throw him off, scratching and being scratched in
the process, and what is he trying to - and then the man’s hands are around his throat, and he
couldn’t breathe even if his lungs were working right-

( “Shit, Black Bat-”)

- and oh no oh no, he’s the only thing standing between this man and all of the targets in the
room-

-this weight on his chest is so heavy, so familiar, and he’s freezing again-

(“There.”)

- when suddenly the last man is dropped from behind and Black Bat stands over him.

“My hero,” Dick breathes, hoarse. Reality flickers. Black Bat grins, but only for a moment.
She looks at him assessingly. He must look pretty wrecked. He glances down surreptitiously
to see for himself and - oh. His arms are bleeding, his entire abdomen is bruised and scraped.
(He can admit the fighting was rough, but right now he’s not feeling the damage. Is it the
drugs, or the floating feeling?)

Seeing the bat symbol must give the captives a better idea of what is going on. One person
steps out. “Can we…help?” A couple more people inch closer, nodding, a fierceness entering
their eyes.

It’s not protocol, but Dick gets it. Sometimes you need to fight your own battles, even a little.
Black Bat must get it too because she throws them a rope. She points to the bodies. “Tie them
up.”

They move forward eagerly as she cuts their bonds. The guards look like flounders flopped
on the floor, but the one lies so motionless…

Black Bat startles Dick by grabbing his arm, dragging him over to lean against the wall.
“Stay here,” she says, a bit of worry in her voice. She signs I’ll be right back. Then she exits
the room and Dick can hear the sounds of fighting in the distance, then closer as Black Bat
meets the reinforcements.

But Dick stays put, standing still. He should be helping to free the other captives, or tying the
gangsters up. He should be doing something other than shaking, but he can’t stop the tremors
now that he’s aware of them and he can’t seem to do anything else either. He has used up his
capacity for pushing through the mess of his mind, and now it pulls him down like quicksand.
He can’t feel the lull of the sedative anymore, but his body feels no closer. Distantly he
notices how everyone gives him some space in the cramped room, recognizing he’s not quite
one of them, but he certainly doesn’t look like a vigilante. It feels oddly respectful. Dick
should think about that, instead of. Instead of.

At some point, a few blinks later, Black Bat returns and starts cutting more people’s bonds.
“Free,” she tells them, and some cry or smile or thank her. Dick does nothing at all, just
shakes and leans against the wall.

The crumpled body of the first guard still hasn’t stirred.

Dick feels horror slowly creep up his throat and he finally pushes the words out of his mouth,
rasps, “Is he ….?”

Black Bat looks up, follows his eyes to the guard. She reaches two fingers to check his pulse.
“Alive.”

Alive .

The relief buckles Dick’s legs and he slides to sit on the dirty floor. Black Bat looks at Dick
warily, something calculating in her expression. Dick tries to smile but is alarmed to find he
can’t make his face do anything at all. A tiny self-aware part of him is unsurprised,
recognizes the symptoms of his progressively detached state and traces them to an obvious
conclusion. It’s natural, he’s fine. It will pass. (Bruce’s voice, stop being so dramatic.)

Red Robin is here. He grabs Dick gently, pulling him to his feet, and Dick doesn’t flinch as
he’s led away, out the back of the building so no one will see him disappear into the night
with the vigilantes. Red Robin is speaking, and there are more voices over the comms in
Dick’s ear, but the words aren’t making sense. Dick thinks he’d feel embarrassed about how
he’s acting right now if he could only focus. But he’s still drifting.

“Dick!”

He’s snapped viciously back to reality. He sucks in a breath, and next to him Red Robin does
the same. They are outside, the air crisp after the night rain, burning Dick’s lungs with its
cold. Red Robin is putting on a helmet and they are standing next to a bike; it looks like they
were about to take off. Red Robin lowers the helmet, face horrified.

Batman stalks towards them, fury boiling off him like steam. Dick knows it’s hiding the
fearful worry underneath, but his stomach drops painfully anyway.

If Dick remembers the plan, Batman and Robin are supposed to be giving the handoff to law
enforcement. Or did that already happen? Dick can’t be certain of the time. Now that Batman
is before him, Dick remembers with shame how unprofessional of him that is, to lose track of
the clock when they’re literally on the clock.
Although talk about unprofessional: Batman of all people saying his real name in the field.

...Unless he meant the insult.

“Batman, I -,” Dick starts, wanting to say I’m sorry, but the words choke out when he is
grabbed by both shoulders and shaken.

“What happened in there,” Batman growls, menacing. “You almost jeopardized the entire -”

“What the fuck is going on here?” Red Hood appears, and Dick can’t keep up. Isn’t Red
Hood supposed to be with Spoiler checking the perimeter for strays?

Red Hood physically pulls Bruce off of Dick, who squints at him, dizzy. Curse that
unreadable helmet of his.

Red Robin steps in now, taking command like this is the Teen Titans. “We don’t have time
for this! Batman, Robin needs you at the entrance. Red Hood, finish securing the perimeter.”

“I need to understand why -,” Batman argues, stepping closer again.

“You don’t need anything from him -,” Red Hood interrupts, moving towards Batman
aggressively.

Oracle’s voice cuts in. “Not the time or place, guys. Save it for the cave.”

“You heard Oracle,” says Red Robin, looking agitated as he glances around. Their little
corner of the dock is still empty, thankfully. “We can talk things out later. Let’s go.”
Batman is still looking at Dick. “I expect a full account,” he says ominously, before turning
and disappearing back into the warehouse. Dick’s chest aches with a sudden pressure, the
crushing guilt of all his mistakes tonight. How close he was to failing completely.

“Asshole,” Red Hood comments, watching Batman go. He glances at Dick, and his jaw
tightens. But when he speaks, it’s to Red Robin.

“What the fuck did they give him?” he hisses, dropping his voice like they aren’t the only
ones around (like Dick won’t hear him from one metre away). “This looks like fear toxin
shit.” His eyes flicker back to Dick and away again. If Dick was feeling present enough to be
embarrassed, he might cross his arms over his bare chest.

As usual, people talk about him like he isn’t even here. Dick wishes his mind wasn’t so
muddled. Wishes he could move his lips, say something, but he’s so hazy and barely clinging
on.

(Batman sounded so mad.)

Red Robin gives a tight shake of his head. Dick can’t focus enough to read into their shared
look.

“I’ve got him,” Red Robin says. Red Hood nods and leaves.

Dick lets himself be guided onto the bike. The drive to the cave is a blur, and when they
arrive Tim takes off his mask and looks at him worriedly, hands him a blanket from the med
bay and sits him down on a chair next to him at one of the computers. But Tim doesn’t try to
talk to him as he takes a blood sample, which is a good thing. Dick’s mind is far away again,
this time stuck in the future. He pictures Batman’s furious expression and dreads the storm
that’s coming.

Batman is so angry.
 Batman is so angry.

Why can’t he breathe?

Red Hood, Black Bat and Spoiler arrive quickly after. More collateral; Dick wishes they
would go away, doesn’t want them caught choking on the ashes of the imminent eruption.
But Red Hood marches right up to Tim, glancing at Dick before noting the test on the screen.
“Anything?” he demands.

Tim is already shaking his head. “Just straight fast-acting sedatives,” he sounds puzzled.
“Effect should be gone.” They both turn to look at Dick, but he has narrowed his awareness
to the sharpest memory of the night, to the feeling of impending doom.

Batman is so angry.

(“His weight has shifted a lot, maybe his tolerance is skewed-?”)

By the time the batmobile pulls into the cave, Dick has convinced himself the world is about
to end.

And it’s all his fault.

Chapter End Notes

Warnings: Non-consensual touching. A male human trafficker touches Dick’s bare upper
body while he’s restrained and threatens to do more. Dick dissociates a ton, and there
are allusions to past canon rape. Half of a racist slur shows up in dialogue. There is also
a lot of violence.

Lol so I originally wrote the undercover scenes with a hilariously high Dick kicking
butt, but I unfortunately had to rewrite it to increase the angst. “Shimmer me Timmers”
was sadly cut from the script. Dick also is starting to lose his ability to lie to himself, so
his commentary may be getting franker.
 Blowups and Fallouts
Chapter Summary

The pot boils over, making the breakfast club uncomfortable.

Chapter Notes

Welcome,

to the chapter where:

Everyone blows up…

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“You are shaking fists & trembling teeth.

I know:

you did not mean to be cruel.

That does not mean you were kind.” ~ Venetta Octavia, “The Burning”

Blowups and Fallouts

Dick feels surreally like no time has passed since last Saturday night. Here is the batmobile,
screeching to a stop. Here are the doors slamming, open then shut, angry footfalls stomping
towards him, and a faltering, frustrated, “Father, listen to me”.

Here is Dick’s heart, beating too loudly in the tense silence. The entire cave is holding its
breath. Caves were once common burial sites, and this familiar space has never felt so much
like a tomb.
The difference this time is that all of Dick’s siblings are scattered around the room, reading
the tension and tense themselves. Dick wishes he had heard more of the comms tonight,
known who said what to who and why everyone looks so apprehensive - why everyone looks
how he feels. Dick is the one who messed up tonight - he got drugged, allowed hostages to be
injured, almost killed a guard - and he almost had a panic attack in a human trafficker’s van.
Bruce must be so worried; that isn’t supposed to happen to them, they are supposed to be
better than that, Dick is supposed to be better than that. Unfortunately, a frightened Bruce is
also an angry Bruce. He will need to be calmed down, he will need an explanation from Dick,
he will need logical reasoning.

Dick forces air into his lungs - he needs to be present, he can’t check out right now.

He has about six seconds until Batman reaches him.

He forces sensation back into his body through sheer willpower - he’s soaking wet, water
dripping down his back, and there’s something supporting him; ( Five) it’s a chair, he’s sitting
in a chair, Tim made him sit. Four. Too vulnerable, he needs to be taller. Three. He makes
himself stand up, shaky, hands clutching the blanket around him. Two. Head up.

One.

Batman stands before him, so close that Dick has to fight not to take a step backwards. He is
trembling again in a way that has nothing to do with his goosebumps and can’t make himself
stop. Dick doesn’t want to think about what the uncontrollable shaking means.

(Combined with the red-dyed water dripping over his shoulders, thin blanket not quite
concealing his bare and bruised torso, cuts dripping blood down his skin - he must look pretty
weak, and won’t that just irk Batman more.)

Batman immediately picks up his interrogation where he left off at the warehouse. “Report.”
It’s an order, but he doesn’t pause for input, “What happened? You were completely
unresponsive for twenty minutes,” - was he really? Time is so nebulous when he can’t track
the present - “I thought it was clear that your communication on missions needed to improve
after the incident last week,” Dick almost cringes at the admonishment, and now Batman is
reaching for Dick’s arm. Dick knows it’s his habit, holding Dick in place so he can’t leave.
Bruce probably doesn’t realize how obvious his abandonment issues are. Pointing them out
right now would be a bad move, so he lets Batman grab him.

Dick may be soaking wet but his mouth is so dry. Dread coils around his throat, choking
him, and he can’t speak. He swallows. “Right, I -”

Batman carries on like it doesn’t matter what Dick says, and Dick clicks his jaw shut. His
words probably don’t matter, not when Batman already knows Dick so well. He tallies the
mistakes dispassionately, like he expects Dick to tell him the list is wrong, that Dick didn’t
fail to be perfect. But Dick can’t. “You let it get too personal and didn’t compartmentalize.
You failed to protect the hostages and there were nine injured. One guard has a serious brain
bleed.”

Someone sucks in a breath, Dick is not sure who.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Red Hood’s voice modulator intones, disbelieving. Dick can’t
afford to look at him right now. “That plan was so fucking dumb.”

And then Batman is turning his glare to Red Hood, and Dick feels the simultaneous relief of
the laser passing away from him and the desperate need to throw himself back into the beam.
But now Tim is stepping closer, posture uncertain, words firm. “Calm down, Bruce. There
were unavoidable variables, it wasn’t Dick’s fault, it wasn’t anyone’s fault,” Tim stresses,
trying to diffuse when Dick is too frozen to intervene. “There were more captives than
estimated, a guard in the hostages’ cell, and -,” here he does glance at Dick before addressing
Batman, pointedly, “The toll of undercover with human traffickers is always a risk,
particularly a drug risk, you know that, we all know that.”

Dick is hearing Tim’s words, watching Batman’s cowl. Hearing Red Hood shifting restlessly
and Black Bat’s light footsteps pacing nearby. The night’s events have put everyone on edge,
but they were all debriefed on the mission hours earlier in the same cave. They were aware of
the risks.

And if everyone knew the mission was doomed to be a dumpster fire, why did they all agree
to it?
Batman grits his teeth. “There were complications,” he allows, but he is turning back to Dick,
his grip finally releasing from Dick’s arm only to come down instead on his shoulder,
frustration clearly unresolved. Dick holds himself perfectly still. “But your behaviour
undercover was unacceptable. You were …instigative.” Batman’s tone sounds different for a
moment, some tinge of something Dick doesn’t recognize. It is not dissimilar to discomfort,
or perhaps disgust.

Dick doesn’t know what to do with Bruce’s words. He hadn’t thought he had been too
provocative, but maybe - the way Batman is explaining it, is Dick somehow responsible for
inciting the guards in the van to touch him? He can’t think, Batman is still speaking, “You
can’t keep acting this way. You were erratic - you broke character, switched accents, and
generally made a fool of yourself.” A punctuating shake, but Dick is so rigid it’s hardly
visible. Unstable, you were unstable.

“It’s your fault he was in that position to begin with!” Red Hood is ready to assign blame,
never concerned with conflict resolution, only with his own sense of justice. “That plan was
shit from the start,” he repeats. Dick sees Steph nodding behind him.

“You were all aware of the reasons for this strategy, despite how poorly it was executed. If
you truly had concerns about the method, why did you agree to it?” Annoyed, Bruce echoes
Dick’s internal question, one Dick never would have let himself be the one to bring up.

Silence. No one seems to have an answer to this. Dick feels something in him fall. All this
criticism now - it looks unfounded.

Dick doesn’t have time to sort through his own muddled thoughts about whether he was
sexually baiting the human traffickers, about whether he was supposed to. He screwed up, he
knows. So much could have gone wrong tonight because he was off his game. But he needs
to alleviate Batman’s anger - point out the positives. Everyone always says he’s the silver
lining to Bruce’s storm, and he’s the one who caused this mess in the first place; if he can
calm everything down now maybe it won’t blow up in his face. Right now Dick’s guilt is a
vignette clouding out his peripheral vision, leaving room only for Batman.

Fix this, Grayson.

“I may have had a hard time, but the mission was still completed,” Dick argues, moving to
cross his arms like a defiant child. He is stopped by Batman’s tightening grip on his shoulder,
holding him in check.

“You gave yourself a hard time,” Batman says flatly. “You had one job, and it wasn’t very
difficult. I trusted you to handle it.” A sigh, that same foreign intonation mixed confusingly
with the disappointment. “But you have proven you have certain tendencies in these sorts of
situations before.”

What is that supposed to mean?

“How can you say that to him? The mission was successful,” Tim interjects, clipped, then
turning to Dick, “You sounded like you were hyperventilating,” Dick recognizes the tone as
concerned. “What happened? Was it what that guy said? Or did he do something?” Dick
looks at him, and he’s staring hard.

“I -,” Dick is having a hard time speaking, he’s usually okay with being the centre of
attention but not right now. Tim’s gaze is so piercing. “I got a little uncomfortable, reminded
of a couple things, but then I got over it.”

“Reminded you of what?” Tim presses.

Does Dick really have to say it? He doesn’t want to think about it, let alone talk about it. He
waves it off. “Just similar things. And I’m fine. And you’re right, the mission is finally
complete, so we can move on.” We should be celebrating, he doesn’t say, but he sort of
wishes he were in that alternate universe now.

Bruce is still unimpressed, like he doesn’t get why everyone else isn’t setting their emotions
aside as easily as him for the sake of the mission. Dick feels the fingers around his shoulder
curling closer to his neck. He doesn’t dare blink, pushing away the orange that flickers in his
vision, splitting the cowl in two. “You can’t let yourself get caught off guard like that in the
middle of a mission! You should know better, Dick,” and Bruce is shaking his head now,
frustrated, like Dick is letting him down, “Honestly, with all your recklessness it’s like you
want things to go wrong for you.”
It’s like you want this. Dick feels cold. Haven’t people been saying the same thing to him for
years? If he doesn’t want it, why does it keep happening to him?

Dick grinds his teeth at the obvious derision in Batman’s voice. This is clearly the point
where he decides whether Dick needs the silent treatment or more correction. And Dick
opens his mouth to say something - to defend himself, he thinks - but what comes out is, “I’m
sorry.” It feels right.

And Batman is reaching his other hand out - a slap? A hug? Dick never finds out.

(Perhaps the night could have ended earlier, easier.)

But Dick sees the hand approaching, and the pressure against his neck is tightening, and for
one wild moment, he thinks - thinks

- but it couldn’t be, Bruce would never -

(- but there’s a hand closing around his throat, and then he won’t be able to breathe-)

There’s some noise from beyond them, and suddenly Batman is dodging a projectile,
releasing Dick to step backward. Red Hood’s helmet flies between them, spinning as it clangs
to the ground. In the ringing, there’s another voice.

“- hands off, asshole; I can’t watch this anymore. Are you actually going to victim-blame
right now?” Jason is saying, stalking over to Batman and raising his arms aggressively. Jason
and Bruce haven’t truly interacted within five feet of each other in over a year; it’s like Dick
is observing another reality.

Dick feels like his bubble has popped and now he’s drowning in the real world watching his
little brother shove Batman in the chest. He could reach out and touch both of them, and
maybe he should intervene.
He rubs his neck and forces himself to speak when Batman makes a fist, not willing to bet he
won’t retaliate. “Guys, stop -”

“Jason! Calm down,” Tim interrupts, darting closer only to hover just out of reach, perhaps
out of some latent sense of self-preservation.

Dick glances around a bit desperately, trying to account for everyone. Damian is hanging
back by the batmobile. Steph is leaning against the opposite wall. Cass stands in the center of
the room, arms folded, watching.

“Oh, so it’s okay when Batman does the manhandling,” Jason turns his vitriol on Tim.
“Seriously, whose side are you on?”

“Of course it’s not okay! But I said we needed to talk,” Tim begins.

“I’m talking -”

“Not start another fight!” Tim continues peevishly. “You can’t just hit people!”

Jason scoffs. “Oh, I can’t just hit people? What did we all just do all night? What was Bruce
just about to do to Dick, when I stepped in?” Dick freezes. Batman wasn’t going to - hadn’t
been going to - well.

It doesn’t matter, because he didn’t.

Is that what this is about? Definitely not worth an argument.

Batman twitches, startled, a glance at Dick before focusing on Jason. His fists rest at his
sides. “I wasn’t going to hit him.”
Jason snorts and crosses his arms. “Oh that’s rich, so maybe this time you weren’t going to hit
him.”

Batman scowls and opens his mouth but Tim barrels on, exasperated, “Well we won’t know
because you hit Bruce.” Dick tries not to think deeply on Tim’s words, on what they imply
about Tim’s means of proving his point.

But was he just waiting for Bruce to-?

“Don’t give me that shit, Replacement, you’ve seen the same things I have. I’m done talking
around this. Time for some results.” Dick is having a hard time following Jason and Tim’s
weird team up. It sounds like there’s another layer to the argument, something he’s missing.
What’s wrong?

Dick glances again at Batman’s gauntlets, then at Jason’s fists. At Tim, always so small and
standing way too close to the hulking figures. Well, Dick can deal with Jason and Tim’s
problem later, right now he needs to diffuse this hostility before it blows up into a brawl.

“Jason, stop-,” Dick tries, moving to put himself between them all, but Jason glares at him
hard and his steps falter.

“‘Stop’?” he repeats, caustically, “No way in hell.” Dick grits his teeth, but it’s expected. (No
one ever stops when Dick asks them to.) “And leave it to you to fight against yourself.
Seriously? All you had to say to this asshole was ‘I’m sorry’?” He shakes his head. “Stand
down, Big Bird. You’re no good at these issues.” What? Dick is struggling to follow what
this is about now. Is Jason defending him? He has a funny way of showing it. Maybe Jason is
in trouble, or feels he is. Dick tries to think, but he can’t recall what Jason did tonight.

So Dick tries, cautious, “Jason, just tell us what’s going on, no one blames you -”

Jason cuts him off again, barking a laugh. “Oh, the irony.”
Dick glares at him, then feels a tug on his arm and flinches before he can stop himself. He
glances right; it’s Damian, who has crept over silently to stand next to him supportively. He is
watching Jason and Batman with a faint furrow between his eyes. Dick gently squeezes his
arm back.

Tim makes a stressed noise, finally reaches out to grab at Jason, who dodges easily. “Back off
a bit! You’re not helping, whose side are you on?”

“I’m on the side of justice,” Jason says grandly, and he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a
couple objects and twists them into the megaphone.

(Oh, it’s collapsible, that’s neat; Jason must have retrieved it when he disappeared after
dinner, Dick’s brain notes before he can tell it to focus.)

Jason points the device at Batman. “I’m done waiting for some fantasy ‘organic resolution’.”
A glaring glance at Tim, who seethes, before, “Time to answer for your sins, Bruce. Take off
the cowl.”

Jason is escalating everything, as usual. Everyone is wrong, Dick is not the drama queen in
this family. And now Dick is really lost, but Jason is pointing the megaphone like a weapon
and Batman is still tense, so he can’t afford to back down. Everyone is affected by the rising
pressure in the room, pushing all of them into high alert.

“Holy shit, is this a trial?” asks Steph from the other side of the room, sounding both
horrified and thrilled. “Count me in, I call jury duty.”

“Not now, Steph,” Tim snaps, tense.

She shoots him a wounded look. “If not now, then when? I’m not sitting this out, I have a lot
of things to say,” she says, and Dick thinks there might be some anger in her tone that makes
it sound so hard.
Steph pushes off the wall to march over to Tim, who is looking a bit resigned. As she gets
closer, it’s clear in her eyes that she’s upset. Dick always forgets her carefree mask is as solid
as his, until it starts to slip.

“You think I don’t have an opinion on everything? You think I’m not hurt too?” she hisses at
Tim. Her eyes are shining and she’s clenching her fists, but Dick is pretty sure Steph responds
better to a gentle approach than any of his siblings.

“Steph, are you alright?” Dick asks, and both Steph and Tim turn to look at him in
amazement like he just spoke in tongues. Dick groans, feeling a headache start to grow.
“Okay, what the hell is going on.”

“Dick, honey, I’m doing awesome,” Steph says, patting his shoulder. “I’m filled with
righteous fury, don’t worry.”

“Okay, that’s not patronizing at all,” Dick says sarcastically, turning to Tim.

Tim just shakes his head, then shifts to a ready stance when Jason loudly stomps his foot on
the ground.

“Todd, that’s childish,” Damian comments, but it’s so quiet Dick is pretty sure he’s the only
one who hears. Dick’s heart hurts that Damian has to once again watch his family tearing into
itself.

Jason and Batman are still arguing, and it has only gotten more heated.

“Don’t talk to me about sins, Red Hood,” Batman spits, and oh, that is not going to go over
well with Jason, “Unlike you, I’ve only ever tried to help the people of Gotham. I don’t play
judge and executioner.”

Jason barks out a laugh. “Only tried to help people you don’t know, maybe. Your beloved,
vague, Gotham. Who is she, anyway? You’ve fucked all of us up though.”
“Nonsense, you made your own choices,” Batman says gruffly. He’s talking about Jason
murdering people, which is definitely a mistake, they should never talk about that ever, there
are unspoken rules.

Jason makes a disbelieving noise. “Choosing to be Robin, as an impressionable minor? Yeah,

big choice. Choosing to put up with all your bullshit for the magic of the mask?” he shakes
his head. “This is so toxic.” Dick resents that. Robin is everything good.

Jason and Bruce are so tense now that Dick worries the slightest pressure will make them
snap. He musters himself to say, “Jay, wait, whatever this is, you’re taking it too far. Let’s just
calm down and talk.”

The megaphone swings towards him. “Shut up, Goldie,” Jason says, bluntly, “We tried it your
way, the nice quiet approach where we just stay silent and pretend to be a happy family. But
you set yourself on fire to keep everyone warm.” Scorn. “And now you’re having a mental
breakdown. So no, it’s my turn.” He twists back to Batman, voice dropping low and
menacing. “Take off the fucking cowl.”

“Jason, what is this about?” Bruce asks, taking off the cowl. He’s frowning, eyes locked on
Jason.

“That’s the first intelligent question you’ve asked in months,” Jason tells him unhelpfully,
through the megaphone.

“Jason.” Bruce growls. Oh boy. Dick braces himself.

“I’ll say it,” Steph speaks up suddenly. Everyone turns to look at her, and she straightens up
under the attention. She inches a little closer. “You,” she says, pointing at Bruce, “need to
listen for a minute, to your children.” There’s a scoffing noise from Jason, and Bruce tries to
say something but Steph says even louder, “No talking! Just listen. You have some issues
with parenting.” She turns to look at everyone in turn. “And clearly, everyone here has daddy
issues. Looking at all your angry faces.” She swings her pointed finger around to gesture to
all present.
There is immediate grumbling at the insinuation that actually everyone might have problems.

“This is not about me,” Tim denies, looking at his friend with betrayal.

“I do not have daddy issues,” Jason protests through the megaphone. “Dick is the one with
eldest daughter syndrome, trying to parent everybody because Bruce sucked at parenting
him!”

“What the fuck?” Dick says, annoyed at being singled out. “Sorry for being interested in your
lives-”

“Dick he’s not picking on you he’s just saying we’ve all noticed you’re -,” Tim tries, falters
for words.

Dick is so sick of the allusions. Impatient, “I’m what?”

“Well you take care of everyone but you don’t take care of yourself,” says Steph,
summarizing thoughtfully. She snaps her fingers and points at Dick specifically this time.
“Also Bruce makes everything worse. Look at your face.” What’s wrong with his face?

Tim nods.

“Well said, Blondie,” says Jason.

“What’s wrong with my face?” Dick asks, although he’s starting to get an idea. His stomach
twists tighter.

“Are you serious?” Tim asks, incredulous, “Because last Saturday Bruce literally just -,” But
he doesn’t finish before Bruce talks over him.
“I don’t think that you-,” Bruce tries to speak but Jason whips back around.

“ Shut up.” he says, threatens, and Bruce looks momentarily taken aback. “That’s right, you
don’t think. And you don’t talk,” Jason breathes in sharply through this noise and snorts it
out, almost like a laugh, “Nobody does in this fucked up family. So I talk to other people,
friends. You should try friends sometime, might do you some good.”

“Don’t tell me what I need,” Bruce says testily, and he actually folds his arms and everything.

“Look, I’m telling you what you are.” Jason shoots back. He leans forward, eyes gleaming
strangely. “See, I’m friends with Roy. You know Roy.”

“Arsenal,” Bruce says through gritted teeth, his tone communicating exactly what he thinks
of Roy Harper.

“Right.” Jason says, twirling the megaphone before going on. “He says you’re an asshole by
the way, and I’m inclined to agree because he also said you used to treat Dick like absolute
shit, you child abuser.”

A horrible, heavy pause. The words are a judgment, too damning to deflect lightly or to let
sink long unaddressed. No one speaks. Then Dick and Bruce are both rushing to deny it.

“I didn’t-”

“He never-”

“For fuck’s sake,” Jason explodes, “I don’t need to hear your stupid explanations for what
happened years ago. But just look at Dick’s fucking face!”
The cave rings silent for a moment as the echos die away.

Dick frowns, reaches up to touch his jaw, where the old bruise lingers still. He makes the
mistake of looking at Bruce, but he can’t help wanting to know Bruce’s reaction. They never
talk about it, they never address their more physical issues, they always move on mutely.
Dick just wants to know, once, what Bruce thinks of it, so he watches his face.

Bruce looks back at Dick, tracking him up and down, zeroing in on his jaw. He frowns,
looking almost surprised, like he didn’t expect to see anything there at all.

Dick feels like the floor just dropped out from underneath him; does Bruce not remember?
Dick replays every action of his, of Bruce, over and over in his head. Maybe it’s better if
Bruce doesn’t remember why he was so angry he hit Dick. Dick knows he himself pushes it
behind him every time as quickly as possible.

But then Bruce asks him, “Dick, did you put them up to this?” He narrows his eyes. “What
have you been saying?”

Dick is swallowed by his own horror. It’s his worst nightmare, what he’s been struggling to
avoid all week: Bruce blaming him for everything. “What - Nothing!” He tries to control his
panic. Bruce is just exploring explanations for all of these accusations, it’s not personal.
“Come on, B, I’m not the one making a fuss. This is not my problem!”

“I fail to see why they would find issue on your behalf unless you gave them reason,” Bruce
persists cynically. He is full on glaring now.

“Bruce, please, I didn’t make them do anything!” Dick says a bit desperately, unable to
produce a logical defense out of his jumbled thoughts. He wants to point a finger at Jason, or
Tim, for shit-disturbing, but something ingrained deep inside him holds him back from
directing Bruce’s ire at anyone else, holds Dick’s own hands to the flames. His breaths are
coming in short gasps again; please not now, he can’t have a panic attack now.

Bruce is a stone wall of judgment, now that he feels he understands the situation, that he
understands that Dick is unsurprisingly disappointing him again. “You need to stop pushing
people to do things just because you want them to. You’re an adult.”

Breathe. Breathe.

“And you need to stop giving Dick all the credit when we don’t let you get away with shit,”
Jason interjects loudly, drawing Bruce’s attention once again.

“Bruce, Damian and I literally saw you last Saturday, we don’t need anyone to tell us
anything,” Tim says, appalled that the same memory could be reframed as anything but what
he sees as the truth. He is clenching and unclenching his hands, a nervous habit when he’s
stressed. “And just because we’re not all minors doesn’t make violence magically okay now.”

Jason is still yelling through the megaphone, and the sound is grating to Dick’s ears, almost
as harsh as the words themselves, “You should know this already, but clearly you don’t: you
can’t just punch all of your problems, Bruce, not when they’re your fucking family!” The
sound crackles when he shouts the last words.

Tim winces at the noise. “Turn it down!” he snaps, then, “He’s right, Bruce, you’ve got a
pattern of behaviour and we’ve all been tolerating it for too long. It ends now.”

“Fuck you,” Jason tells Tim through the megaphone, and turns it up louder.

“Why?” Cass speaks for the first time, her voice carrying across the cave. She hovers at the
edge of their standoff, watching. Her eyes are locked on Bruce. “Why did you-?” She
motions to Dick. There is something lost in her expression, and something searching. She has
been gone so long; all of the cracks in their family have become fault lines in her absence,
and now the earthquake has come and she is left not knowing where to stand.

“It’s not like that, I would never just hit someone out of nowhere,” Bruce is defending
himself, “There were extenuating circumstances.”
And Dick finds himself nodding in agreement, because the context frames the incident, and
the context shows that he provoked Bruce, that he fought, and ergo maybe it was called for.
But Tim had been present that night too, and his response now is different.

“I can’t believe you right now, are you trying to deny it?” Tim says, disbelieving, voice loud
with the frayed nerves of many sleepless nights. He shakes his hand at Dick. “The evidence is
right there, Bruce. He literally still has bruises. And I saw you do it!” His voice gets quieter,
sobering. “How many times have I not seen you do it?”

Well, Dick is certainly not going to offer up that information. He presses his lips together.

Bruce is shaking his head.

“Tim, I didn’t expect you to be involved in this drama,” Bruce says, slowly, and there’s
disappointment in the annoyance. Tim looks stricken, instinctively affected by the tone.
“Dick and I fought last Saturday, and we have made up since then. Now, I just wanted to go
over a breakdown of tonight’s mission and now you’re all attacking me claiming I’ve
attacked you.”

“I’m not attacking you,” Tim protests. There is a bit of panic in his voice making him sound
strained; he’s not immune to the need for Bruce’s approval. “You’re being illogical,” he says,
frustrated, “I’m just pointing out that we have enough data to prove you have a problem, that
you …..” he hesitates before continuing, “That you have hurt us, one of us at least, and it’s
not okay so we’re going to have to change some things.”

Bruce breathes deep, rubbing his face tiredly. “It was an isolated incident that in light of the
circumstances was -”

“I was there!” Tim cries, visibly rattled. “There were no circumstances.”

Dick glances at Bruce nervously; they need to move on. But Dick is struggling to gather
himself, and his siblings won’t leave things alone.
“So just Dick,” Jason breaks in, the megaphone commanding attention. “That we know of.
Unless we’re counting me before you knew it was me, bit of a gray area I’ll give you that, but
yes I’m still bitter. And unless you want to do some more confessing?” He spins in a circle.
“Unless anybody else, someone with a history of having one terrible parent anyway, would
like to use this opportunity to confess anything about the other?” And he dangles the
megaphone invitingly, pointedly, in Damian’s direction, and Dick’s blood boils.

“Damian is not involved in any of this,” Dick hisses, surging forward to confront Jason with
renewed energy at the implication that Damian is somehow unsafe (when Dick has been
agonizing over that himself). And then he’s turning to Bruce, pointing a finger, “You
wouldn’t dare hurt him. Right?”

“Of course not,” Bruce swears, looking disgruntled at Dick’s sudden intensity, but Dick is not
as convinced as he would like, not anymore. Bruce’s word is not as solid as it used to be. As
it used to seem.

Jason is clearly even less convinced. “Yeah right, let’s let demon baby tell us. Here ya go.”
And he’s extending his arm again. Damian’s eyes are wide; Dick can see his hands trembling
at his sides.

Dick sees red. “Don’t call him that -”

Bruce moves fast, slapping the megaphone out of Jason’s hand.

“-Bruce, what the hell!” Dick shouts, as he ducks out of the way, dropping his blanket. The
megaphone sails over his shoulder and clatters against the wall.

“Stop behaving like a lunatic!” Bruce yells at Jason, defaulting to giving orders when he feels
like he’s losing control. His chest is heaving with his frustration.

“This is a mess,” Steph declares from off to the side, eyes wide. Dick sees her take a careful
step closer to the computer, to the emergency button.
Dick wants to put his head in his hands. This argument is going nowhere; it needs to stop
before it leads to blows. But no one seems interested in calming down. Everyone is high on
adrenaline like they’re in the middle of a mission, but they aren’t surrounded by the enemy;
they’re glaring at each other.

“Who’s the one who just slapped the megaphone out of my hands?” Jason is Mad. There’s
green flickering in his eyes, Dick is sure of it.

“ Enough!”

Everyone turns to Cass, still standing apart. Her voice is clear and cutting, her face agitated.
“This,” she says, waving her hand around at all of them, “is not working. No one is saying
how they feel. You all feel pain.”

And isn’t that just exactly how their family operates. They’re like an impossible puzzle of
people linked together, wanting to be loved, but all they do is hurt each other where their
sharp edges meet.

“Bruce never says what he feels,” Jason says viciously, still too green. Dangerous.

Bruce must see it too. His posture shifts, a hand raised like he’s taming a wild beast. “Jason, I
understand that you feel I’ve wronged you somehow, but you need to calm down,” he warns.

Jason takes it like an insult to his control. “I’m not here to play nice,” he says, reaching out
and shoving a nearby chair so it crashes to the floor, making some bizarre point. It’s juvenile ,
but with the dangerous atmosphere the action makes the hair on Dick’s neck stand on end .
“I’m done playing at all; I’m here to set the record straight. You need to realize what’s wrong
with you and start making up for the shit you’ve put us all through.” Then, grandly, “It’s
called restorative justice and it’s fucking excellent.”

Cass steps in as Bruce moves towards Jason, placing a hand on his chest.
“Stop before you break,” Cass tries again. She is looking at Jason.

“I won’t be the one breaking,” Jason promises her. He is looking at Bruce.

“Jason, everything I’ve done, I’ve done for your own good,” Bruce says, frustrated. To his
daughter, “Cass, let go -”

“You liar,” Jason hisses. “But you probably believe that too, you delusional bastard. I can’t
believe you,” the contempt is mixed with hurt, “You threw me into Arkham for my ‘own
good’, but it’s clearly you who’s crazy! You wouldn’t know what’s good for us if it hit you in
the face with a crowbar.”

And now they’re back to Jason’s trauma. This argument is spiraling.

“Jason, he already apologized for Arkham, and you weren’t in your right mind -,’ Dick says,
trying to do the emotional heavy lifting for Bruce.

“Shut up, Dickhead, unless you want a fight with me too about how to welcome family,”
Jason spits. Dick is a little embarrassed to be unable to tell whether Jason means before or
after his resurrection. Maybe both.

“Jason, seriously, not right now,” Tim says dismissively, trying to reign the conversation back
to the path he is envisioning. “We all know you were being manipulated hardcore by Talia!”

Dick winces. Talia Al Ghul. Contentious; it’s a triple hit. Bruce, Jason, and Damian all turn to
glare at Tim.

“Drake, you don’t know anything about my mother -,” Damian begins.

“My decisions were my own, Replacement,” Jason cuts across him, tone warning.
“Talia can be… misguided,” Bruce intones reluctantly, and Damian turns to him with wide
eyes. Dick’s own opinion of Talia Al Ghul is far from flattering - too familiar with the
damage Damian’s upbringing has caused him - but he can’t help but wince at Bruce’s
thoughtlessness.

Bruce continues, “But don’t confuse her with Ra’s.” The look he gives Tim then is
sympathetic, close to pitying. Dick knows it will be read as patronizing. “Tim, I know you
had a hard time when I was gone-”

Dick cringes again as Tim bristles. “ Really, Bruce? Talia is a snake and you know it.” There
is a sharp intake of breath near his elbow. Dick hates that Damian is being talked over when
the conversation is about his own family.

But there’s real hurt in Tim’s voice. Dick doesn’t know all the details of what Tim had to go
through to get Bruce back; Tim has never told him and has rebuffed Dick’s gentle attempts to
pry. Dick knows how hard he failed Tim that year, that he’s more than earned his privacy
from Dick. But his tightlipped silence tells its own story, and Dick has always been hyper
aware of his siblings’ distress.

“If we’re going to bring up shady characters, how about the Joker,” Jason says nonchalantly,
but there’s death in his tone. “I see he’s still running around. Face it Bruce, you’re a bad
judge of how to deal with vigilante conflict, let alone family conflict. How do you think it
feels for victims, when criminals get released again and again. How do you think I feel?
When someone hurts you, and they don’t pay, and you have to see them again.” Jason pushes
a breath out harshly, shaking his head, “No one else here gets it -”

And he cuts himself off abruptly, looking at Dick. Actually, all of his siblings are looking at
him now.

“Would you all stop that, I’m fine,” Dick says exasperatedly.

“Sorry to call you out on your bullshit, but you’re literally shaking,” Steph points out.
“I’m cold!” Dick snaps.

“Okay look, there’s something weird between you and Damian, and Bruce and Damian
because there’s a dual father thing going on, and that’s screwing everybody up, so Bruce is
jealous of you because you get along better with Damian but it’s clear that Damian needs
validation from Bruce and you also need validation from Bruce so you’re vulnerable when he
hurts you and it makes all of you miserable,” Tim launches so suddenly into a theory he’s
clearly put a lot of thought into, done waiting for Jason to say the words he wants addressed.

He speaks so fast Dick is having trouble following, but it seems he is the only one as
Damian’s glare deepens and Jason shakes his head.

“You’re one to talk about needing validation from Bruce.” Jason is unimpressed.

“You can’t say anything either!” Tim shoots back, irritated.

“How dare you,” Damian hisses at Tim. He has a batarang clutched tightly in one hand.
“Richard is not weak! And I do not require anything from Father.”

“I’m just saying -”

“You know nothing, Drake, you are least deserving of this family-,” Dick’s stomach turns;
Damian is so vicious when he’s hurt.

“Damian that’s harsh,” Steph rebukes.

But Damian is upset; tonight has clearly unsettled him. Now he is a wounded animal backed
into a corner, lashing out at whoever tries to come close. He switches targets. “And Brown
you’re not even a part of this family-”

Steph snorts. “Yeah maybe that’s for the best, considering you’re all a shitshow.”
Damian’s eyes are narrowed. “This is a family matter, you don’t belong here -”

“You can’t make me leave, you little twerp,” her eyes are dangerous. She doesn’t usually
look at Damian that way, but everyone seems so off right now.

“You are a worthless nuisance,” he expounds viciously, and Dick winces. “No one wants you
here -”

“Fuck you, these are my friends!” she says fiercely, posture tensing like a cat poised to strike.

Damian levels a cold glare. “That hasn’t stopped you from leaving in the past.” And oh. Oh
no. They should never bring up anyone’s deaths, faked or otherwise, ever. Steph looks
outraged, but she can’t help a glance at Tim.

Tim’s lips are pinched in a thin line; he doesn’t meet her eyes, and his words are directed at
Damian. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, you little-,” Tim does a double take.
“What the hell? Put the knife away!”

“ Make me.”

“Let’s just all calm down,” Dick tries, but no one is listening. He looks around hopelessly and
locks eyes with Bruce, who is glowering at him.

“Dick, look at this,” Bruce says, frustrated, gutting Dick afresh as he brings the entire
argument full circle. “If you had just put aside your personal issues and operated as you told
me you could, there wouldn’t be this mess.” A considering look, and then the words Dick has
been dreading, “Maybe you should ...go.”

Dick can’t speak. What could he say when he can’t even seem to breathe? Bruce blames him;
he blames himself. And there’s no time because Jason is talking again.
“Not everyone sacrifices their emotions for a lifetime of revenge on crime! You’re the one
who put him in a shitty situation. You know what, forget what I said about helping you out,”
Jason is saying to Bruce. “You can’t even see that you’re the biggest villain in our lives. So I
think I’ll do everyone else a favour and teach you a lesson.”

And Jason is pulling out a gun and Bruce is pushing Cass aside, moving forward, and -

Dick finds himself thinking about the second law of thermodynamics. How there is
increasing entropy in the universe, but more importantly, how complex systems tend towards
chaos. His family is the most complex system he knows, and right now they are spiraling
towards the event horizon of something horrible if Dick can’t think of an intervention soon
enough.

Dick considers, for a moment, that he may need to call Clark. Normally this would be
absolutely taboo because the consequences and repercussions on his relationship with Bruce
would be catastrophic (a super in Gotham, the audacity). But the way Jason and Bruce are
squaring up with Cass in the middle, Steph’s hands tightening into fists and Damian about to
lunge for Tim means that suddenly the consequences of not calling for help are unthinkable.

Bang!

A gunshot breaks Dick from his thoughts before he can decide.

He looks around wildly, thinking for one terrible moment that he has deliberated too long,
Jason has shot Bruce, but he too is looking around bewildered. Everyone tenses at the
unknown threat.

Another gunshot thunders through the cave. Then, salvation:

“That is quite enough.” Alfred Pennyworth is standing in his sleepwear at the entrance to the
cave, holding a smoking shotgun up to the ceiling, looking like an avenging angel. Dick is
overwhelmed with relief; everyone will listen to Alfred. Dick hadn’t even realized how much
tension was coiled inside him until it was released at the sight of Alfred. He slumps a bit and,
oh, he really is shaking quite badly.

Alfred descends the stairs, recocking his gun with medical precision and sweeping his gaze to
lock eyes with everyone. Jason has lowered his own gun; Bruce has straightened. Cass has
stepped back. Dick feels Damian grab his hand and looks down; the batarang has discreetly
disappeared.

“I am extremely disappointed with all of your behaviour,” Alfred says severely.

“Alfred, you don’t have to -,” Bruce begins.

“I said that is quite enough, Master Bruce,” Alfred snaps. Everyone’s eyes go wide. Bruce
closes his mouth. “Clearly none of you can be trusted to speak without hurting one another,
so you all shall remain silent for the rest of the night.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dick notices Jason glancing between Dick and his bike as
though torn, clearly longing for an escape now that he’s facing Alfred’s disappointment. Dick
doesn’t understand why it’s him that’s somehow holding Jason here.

Alfred catches Jason looking as well. “That is not a dismissal, Master Jason,” Alfred clarifies.
“No one is leaving tonight. Now, I expect all of you are very tired and in need of a good
night’s rest. Breakfast will be ready at nine sharp, and then we shall go to the aquarium.”
Dick blinks at the reference to their family trip planned for tomorrow. Does Alfred really
think now is a good time to-?

“Alfred, I don’t think I can make it -,” Jason tries, eyes darting to Bruce and away.

“Nonsense, Master Jason.” Alfred rules. “Everyone has worked very hard to prepare for
tomorrow and this petty arguing will not be the reason it is not realized.” He looks over them
all again. “I suggest everyone hurry to their chambers. Now.” He gestures at Bruce with his
shotgun. “After you, Master Bruce.”
There’s a pause as everyone waits to see if he will listen. Bruce sets his jaw. A momentary
standoff. Then slowly, amazingly, Bruce walks towards the change rooms. Cass swiftly
moves after him, perhaps to have a Talk, and Dick knows this is absolutely not the time to be
jealous of how those two seem to understand each other. If Cass can communicate with
Bruce, that’s a good thing right now.

“Did Alfred just send Bruce to bed?” Steph whispers to no one.

“Not just Master Bruce, Miss Brown,” Alfred says pointedly. “There are fresh sheets for the
rest of you waiting upstairs. Tonight, please.”

Alfred’s displeasure is clear in his clipped words. Everyone’s adrenaline is still high from the
stalemate they were in moments ago, but authority is powerful, and Alfred holds authority
over all of them. One by one, they turn to the change rooms or the stairs. Dick takes a
moment to get the strength to move before heading to a change room. He dresses blindly, his
movements mechanical, before slipping back out.

Jason is hanging back, likely wanting to talk to Alfred by himself. Dick feels the sickness in
his stomach grow as he adds Alfred to his count of people he has disappointed today. He hugs
his arms tightly around his body, willing himself not to throw up right now.

As Dick passes Alfred, he is stopped by a gentle hand on his arm. “Do you require stitches,
Master Richard?” Alfred asks with some amount of concern. Oh right, Dick is bleeding. It’s
just scrapes though. Nothing that happened to him tonight was more than surface deep. He
can deal with it on his own.

Dick struggles to form words through his chattering teeth, even though he can’t feel the cold
for the numb dread. “Just a scratch. All superficial,” he reassures. “I’m fine, Alfred. Thanks.
I’m sorry.” The apology slipped out before he thought it through, and Alfred is raising an
eyebrow.

Jason snorts behind him at the “I’m fine” and Dick shoots him a look, but honestly he is
seconds away from a breakdown and he needs to be alone. He grasps for an exit, his spotty
memory from tonight mercifully gifting him one clear flashback.
“Jason took a hit to the back,” he tattles. A truth. “He was moving funny earlier.” A lie.

Then he hurries up and out before Alfred can say anything more to him, his clinical attention
appropriated to a defensive Jason (“I was not-”).

Dick barely makes it to his room before he’s falling to his knees in front of the toilet, puking.

It doesn’t take long before his empty stomach finishes dumping its meagre contents - pure
bile - and Dick is left spitting to clear his mouth, chest heaving. Dick closes his eyes and
leans forward to rest his forehead against the porcelain.

Images flash through his mind.

So compliant. What else would you let me do?

The human trafficker, tracing his skin. Dick shudders at the phantom feeling of hands all over
his body and curls into himself further.

It’s like you want this to happen to you.

Bruce’s disappointed face, unable to understand why Dick is like this, why he can’t just be
stronger, better. If only he could stop being affected by the worst moments of his life; he
should have moved on ages ago. Weak.

Did you put them up to this? You need to stop pushing your siblings to do things just because
you want them to.

Bruce has to know how hurtful the words are, that Dick would never; Dick would rather bury
himself alive than willingly burden his siblings with his own problems. But maybe Dick
inadvertently showed his distress, a subconscious cry for help - because he’s weak, he thinks
again bitterly. Because he’s not Bruce, he’s not Batman, he’s just Dick, and he has always
needed someone else’s support.

And these days the only talking Dick does behind his back is in Bruce’s defense. Dick
thought Bruce trusted his loyalty. He feels a small bitter spark, that Bruce could think Dick
would be badmouthing him, and about something as personal as this.

Maybe you should ...go.

Dick feels a tear slide down his cheek and belatedly gasps a sob to follow. He staggers to his
feet and throws himself into the shower, turning it hot and blasting, so he can’t tell what’s
shower and what’s tears.

Go.

He always does this. Bruce always does this. Every time something goes slightly wrong,
Dick’s fault or not, Bruce pushes him away. It’s a defense mechanism, how Bruce protects
himself from further hurt, but it hurts Dick instead. And now it feels like his heart is cut open
and bleeding down the drain. The water is even red from a combination of the cuts on his
body and the lingering hair dye.

Now Dick is not sure what he’s supposed to do. Bruce obviously doesn’t want him here
anymore, and half his siblings are annoyed with him, and he’s annoyed with them. Alfred
impossibly thinks that everyone will still be able to peacefully attend the aquarium trip
tomorrow, but personally? Dick thinks Operation F.I.S.H. might have to go down the drain
right next to his cheap dye.

Dick groans, physically pained. He hadn’t expected to be so disappointed by how today went.
He had been trying not to get his hopes up too high about tomorrow, but there is no way it
will go smoothly now, not when everyone is being forced at literal gunpoint to get along.
Dick slowly sinks to the ground and finds it more comfortable when he is curled up small.

Dick loses track of time. He can admit to himself he is wallowing, but the edges are tinged
with panic, still jittery from the mission and the memories it stirred. At some point his fingers
start to feel weird from being too waterlogged and he drags himself out to find a towel. He
dresses his wounds on autopilot. There’s still a pink tinge to his hair when it catches the light,
and one streak towards the back that’s pretty vibrant. Dick can’t bring himself to care.

He puts on pajamas and stands in his room, bed on one side and open suitcase on the other,
trying to decide. He really doesn’t think he can face Bruce tomorrow, doesn’t want to have to
look at his face. He’s shaken from tonight, the mission, the argument, Bruce’s unsettling
allusions to something wrong with Dick that Dick isn’t privy too.

And really, Dick is still shaken from last week. Usually after a fight he doesn’t see Bruce for
weeks at a time, and they both cool down. This time, the nerves never went away, and neither
did the tiniest spark of resentment he has been ignoring but that has only been growing, that
won’t help him keep the peace tomorrow. A part of him is longing to run away from
whatever pain awaits at their next interaction; he’s not strong enough to face it. On the other
hand, Alfred will be cross if Dick jumps out the window and ghosts on the trip he basically
planned himself.

Before Dick can decide, there’s a quiet knock on the door, so subtle Dick almost misses it. A
hesitant pause, then a louder knock. Dick feels his anxiety spike at the thought of interacting
with someone right now. He’s not trembling uncontrollably anymore but he still feels shaky,
off-balance.

Please, please, don’t let it be Bruce.

Dick takes a deep breath to calm himself, putting on a smile. Shoves his problems down deep
inside. Then he opens the door.

The smile instantly feels more real.

“May I come in?” Damian asks shyly. He is dressed for bed and clutching a pillow and
blanket.

“Of course,” Dick says, and he means it. He steps back and Damian squeezes through before
he shuts the door behind him. “What’s up?”
Damian sits primly on the edge of Dick’s bed, nervously flattening the pillow. His lips twitch
like he wants to bite them but keeps stopping himself.

“Are you okay?” Dick asks, coming to sit next to him. Guilt gnaws at his mind, recalling
Damian’s frozen expression. “Tonight was a little intense.”

“I am merely inquiring as to -,” Damian cuts himself off, frowning as his eyes settle on the
open suitcase. “Are you leaving?”

Go .

Dick swallows. “Damian, Bruce is pretty upset. I think it’s best if we ...don’t see each other.”
Because for some reason, he can’t tolerate even looking at Dick when he’s mad.

“But Pennyworth said everyone was to stay,” Damian persists, almost whining. “And I ...I
don’t want you to leave.” He sounds so fragile it breaks Dick’s heart.

“I don’t want to leave you, Dami,” Dick says gently, putting an arm around him that he leans
into instantly. “But I really don’t want to cause anymore trouble.”

“It is not you who causes trouble,” Damian says with conviction. “And … Drake may have
had a point, earlier. About our … confusing relationship.” Dick holds his breath, waits for
Damian to put his words together. “You blur the line between brother and some sort of father
figure, but I understand now. My father was not straightforward in his parenting for you. So
brother, father; you do not know how to be quite one or the other. It bothers them, some of
the others.” ‘Others’ is Damian’s circumspect way of referring to his siblings.

“And does it bother you?” Dick asks carefully.

Damian turns to face him, expression serious. “It is what you are, and what we are.” His
breath shakes nervously, fear of rejection never truly gone. “And we are the best.”

Dick’s heart warms. He squeezes Damian in a hug.

“We are the best,” he agrees, hushed.

Damian hugs back, relaxing. “I want to go to the aquarium with you tomorrow,” he whispers.
“Even if everyone is upset, and it is very uncomfortable. It will be better if you are there. I
shall protect you from anyone who tries to hurt you,” He confidently assures Dick. Aw,
Damian. “So please, Richard. Please stay.”

Well, if Dick can’t deny Bruce anything after all of the pain he’s caused him, Dick is no
match for Damian, who holds his whole heart.

“Of course,” Dick agrees, and Damian relaxes slightly.

They talk briefly about mundane things, Damian’s project and the temporary exhibits at the
aquarium. They carefully avoid any mention of tonight as they both seek distraction.

When Damian is unable to hold back a yawn Dick suggests they get some rest.

Damian’s hesitancy returns. “May I stay with you?” he asks, looking like he expects a no.

“I would love that,” Dick says with a grin. Maybe having Damian around will keep him
calm, even keep the nightmares at bay.

Damian nods and makes as though he will get up, throwing his blanket on the floor.
“Oh come on,” Dick says. “There’s tons of room, sleep up here.”

Damian takes no further convincing and acquiesces to some cuddles without any
performative resistance. He was probably angling for a snuggle from the beginning.

Dick closes his eyes, more peaceful than he expected to be tonight, and blessedly too
exhausted to entertain his anxieties. He suddenly remembers their plans to watch Finding
Nemo this evening, abandoned for obvious reasons. He feels a small bit of grief for the night
they could have had. It’s mixed with some dread for tomorrow and inevitable discomfort, but
there is hope as well. He will be with his family. That is enough.

---------------------------

Dick wakes up as quietly as he can after a nightmare.

(And when did it happen, that all his worst nightmares are memories?)

There’s no going back to sleep afterwards, but he lies still until his alarm at 8:30 am. Damian
grumbles next to him at the noise and rolls over, burrowing deeper into the blankets.

Dick smiles and silences the alarm. “Turning over isn’t going to help,” Dick sings, “You can’t
run from today!”

“Cease your sunny disposition immediately, it is inappropriate at this hour,” Damian

mumbles, blinking at him like a kitten opening its eyes for the first time.

Dick is glad he had some time to think this morning after waking up, because as breakfast
time approaches his anxiety is increasing. The idea of actually eating breakfast is particularly
unappealing. But he tries to be positive for Damian.
“Come on, up you go, wouldn’t want Tim to beat you down to breakfast,” Dick goads.
Damian rises quickly after that, proving that sibling rivalry will always be an important
incentive in his life.

Damian slips away to his own room to get ready and Dick makes the mistake of checking his
phone. He ignores the texts from his friends wishing him a Happy Thanksgiving.

He has two missed calls from Barbara. Six text messages, ranging from worried to gently
berating to finally: Tim told me you’re still going to the aquarium today. Take care of
yourself, Boy Wonder.

Barbara has always had a hands off approach to Dick’s emotional state, giving him lots of
space that Dick chooses to be grateful for. He replies, Happy Thanksgiving. Wish you were
here. Because really, if Barbara was around, she could cut everyone else’s bullshit in half.

Dick hesitates a moment before his mirror, then applies makeup, covering his yellow jaw, the
dark patches beneath his eyes. He swallows some pills. Then he dresses quickly, no thought,
just a vague itching to cover as much skin as possible. Deliberately not thinking about today,
about how his family thinks of him, about how they will act. He’s pretty sure he’s wearing
two different sweaters by the end but his time is up, he’s actually a minute late, so he heads
down. His bruised body protests as he descends the stairs, a thin sheen of sweat forming by
the time he reaches the bottom. The painkillers haven’t kicked in yet.

Despite his tardiness, he finds himself loitering at the stairway. “Stop being a coward,” he
tells himself. It doesn’t help. “You promised Damian.” Dick swipes the sweat from his brow.
Another stabilizing breath, and he forces himself towards the dining room.

He summons a smile easily as he enters. Everyone is already present, except for Bruce. Dick
assesses the room quickly, careful not to let his eyes settle for too long on anyone in
particular lest prolonged eye contact be taken confrontationally.

There’s Damian, carefully arranging blueberries in an artistic pattern on his vegan waffle.
Tim looks like the half empty coffee mug before him hasn’t kicked in yet, blinking at his
food. (Did he even sleep?) Cass sits next to Tim, talking quietly with Steph, who looks more
glum than usual. Jason is a grumpy island, glare in place, though he has placed a stack of
waffles as a defensive tower between himself and the rest of the family.
Everyone has bunched up at one end of the table, their anger with Bruce very clear by their
positioning as new battlelines have been drawn. Dick feels some chagrin at their behaviour,
but it’s not surprising; they are all growing tired of pretending to get along and this is just the
cracks showing. It’s amazing they are all here. No one is looking up, so Dick has an extra
moment to gather himself and make sure his smile stays in place.

Alfred is just setting down a fresh tray of fruit. He spots Dick. “Welcome, Master Richard.”
He graciously doesn’t comment on his lateness. “Please seat yourself.”

At Alfred’s words, his siblings look up, varying emotions.

Jason looks annoyed, but that was true before he saw Dick.

Steph almost smiles, a bit more cheerful, as she announces, “Not so washable hair dye, is it?”

Dick groans theatrically as he drops himself beside Damian. “I’m giving it until tomorrow, or
I’m going to just dye it black.”

“Looks good,” Cass compliments.

“Thanks Cass,” Dick says, grabbing a slice of orange. “You know, there’s more chalk in my
room…”

Cass’ eyes light up. “Yes.”

“Ooh count me in,” Steph says, “I think a nice biohazard green would suit my current threat
level. And give all the fishies a fright.”
“It’s just ‘fish’,” Damian corrects. “Or fishes, if you’re being scientific - which I am
confident you are not.” He levels Steph with a flat look. She glares back.

“But you’re wearing red,” Tim mumbles to Steph, still half awake.

“So?”

“So you can’t,” Tim explains, waving his hand vaguely. “Because, Christmas colours.
Incorrect holiday.”

Steph hmms. “I can change,” she decides. Then she scrutinizes him more closely. “You could
pull off a sick red though, Tim, just think about it.”

“I don’t want to,” Tim says flatly.

“I want purple,” Cass says, and Steph high fives her.

Bruce enters the room. Dick knows everyone saw him enter, but suddenly they are all looking
conspicuously down. Dick finds he can’t look at him directly either. Still a coward then, he
thinks bitterly about himself.

“Good morning,” Bruce says awkwardly, choosing the empty seat next to Dick. Dick does his
best not to choke on his orange. Or flinch too obviously.

Jason breaks the sudden one-sided silent treatment, speaking for the first time. “Good
morning, asshole.”

Stephanie snorts into her cranberry juice. Dick just focuses on breathing.
“Master Jason,” Alfred chides, but he chooses a side when he sits pointedly next to Jason.

Jason folds his arms. “I said good morning.” He is looking between Dick and Bruce, torn,
like he’s not happy with the seating arrangement but can’t bring himself to switch places.

Dick glances at Bruce. He is looking at Cass, but then he sighs and starts to load his plate, a
bit resigned. Dick wonders what they talked about last night.

Well, he can’t expect anyone to take steps towards a ceasefire unless he’s willing to move on
first. He takes all of his complicated hurt and shoves it hard to the back of his mind. Luckily
he has experience washing bad blood away, even when he has to scrub with his tears.

Dick turns more fully towards Bruce. Smile. “Good morning.” Jason groans, but Dick doesn’t
look at him.

Bruce nods back. Dick hates himself a bit when even that slight recognition has his stomach
settling, his anxiety reduced by a scrap of positivity. Pathetic, but he’ll take whatever he can
get right now. He goes back to his breakfast.

And then no one speaks. There’s just chewing and cutlery clatter. The silence lasts for a few
minutes, and the awkwardness is excruciating. Dick can’t bring himself to break it, choosing
instead to try to force himself to eat something. Perhaps part of this aching feeling inside of
him is hunger.

Honestly, last night wasn’t so unusual - they have had their fair share of borderline violent
screaming matches. In their line of work and with their complicated histories, it’s almost
expected. What is unusual is that they are all sitting around the same table the next morning
eating waffles, planning on spending hours together at an aquarium. There is no time to stew,
but nothing has really been resolved in the hours since they left the cave. The thin peace
relies on the fragile, superficial calm that protects them all.

Nobody knows what to do. So everybody does nothing, disguising it as eating breakfast.
Tim sighs deeply, setting his empty mug down. “Okay, we need to talk.”

Dick feels both Bruce and Damian tense up on either side of him. It feels uncomfortably like
being flanked by two wired bombs.

“We?” asks Jason. “I don’t have anything to say to half the people here. I’m just here for
Alfred. But some people better start begging for forgiveness.” He looks pointedly at Bruce.

“Yeah, I’m going to want one in writing,” Steph adds, looking at Damian, who sniffs and
ignores her.

Tim sighs again, massaging his temples. “We all said things we regret.”

“I regret nothing -”

“We all said things that were hurtful,” Tim rushes to clarify. “And this is an intense topic,
considering all of our… emotional involvement.” There is a general air of distaste at the
implication of emotions. “Look, we’re going to need a fresh start on this conversation.”

It shows something of Tim’s tenacity, that he is still trying to get everyone to work this out
after the blow up last night. It’s clear that everyone would rather cut ties than mend them. But
when Tim makes up his mind about something, he is unable to let it go. After all, persistence
is the very reason Tim became Robin in the first place. It makes him a great detective, and a
decisive leader.

“It’s Saturday morning,” Steph says. “Are we really going to start talking about our hurt
feelings and therapy needs between bites of waffle?”

“Well we might as well!” Tim says with a huff, waving his arms around. “We clearly can’t go
on like this. It’s so awkward.” That, they can all agree on.
Bruce makes a noise like a cough. A lot of curious gazes turn to him. “Jason is right. I have
considered my behaviour last night, and I need to apologize.”

Dick is glad he gave up eating when Tim started talking or he would have certainly choked
this time. Most of his siblings appear to have similarly shocked reactions, though Cass is
nodding encouragingly.

“You - what?” Jason asks blankly.

Bruce sits a little straighter, raises his voice and injects firmness into his tone. “I apologize
for my harsh words last night. To all of you. I was …frustrated. But it was not my intention to
....hurt you.”

It’s choppy and slightly ambiguous but Bruce looks at each of them as he speaks. When he is
done, he takes another bite off his plate. Everyone watches him.

A pause.

“I’m pretty sure your entire bite there was just whipped cream,” Steph comments, staring at
Bruce in fascination. But she is speaking to him.

Cass snorts a laugh.

“Any more specifics?” Jason asks once he recovers from the initial shock.

“Well, I,” Bruce begins, glancing first to Dick before he must remember that Dick is the
Problem here and then he quickly switches to looking at Cass for guidance before directing
his words to Jason. “I should not have insulted your mental state.”

“Damn right you psycho,” Jason mutters into his glass.

Bruce grits his jaw, but he says nothing further.

Wow. Bruce is trying so hard, and so soon after a huge fight. Dick is strangely proud of the
man. He thinks it’s because he knows Bruce’s flaws and discomforts so well, knows how
hard it is for Bruce to say these things and be this vulnerable. It’s an incredible display of
...well, change.

(What did Cass say to him?)

Change is only so fast though. Bruce quickly goes back to awkwardly eating his breakfast,
display done. If Dick is disappointed he doesn’t get a direct apology too, well ....it’s fine, he
wasn’t expecting anything, and he’s grateful Bruce is sitting next to him. He’s happy, yes,
that must be it, this churning feeling in his stomach.

He can’t demand atonement, not the way Jason can. Bruce is clearly at his limit, to push him
now would have consequences and Dick is starting to warm up to their family trip again. Best
not to stir the pot.

But then Jason is saying, “Anything else you need to answer for?” And staring so pointedly
at Dick that he’s tensing all over again.

“I already forgave him,” Dick says quickly, glancing at Bruce, who is looking determinedly
anywhere else. Dick grits his teeth at the avoidance.

(But Dick wants that apology - its own kind of absolution.)

“Uh huh,” says Jason, unconvinced.

Bruce says nothing.

“So yeah, apologies are great,” Tim says, rubbing his eyes like he thinks everything might
just be a hallucination. “Also, we need some serious changes. I mean, all of us. We can’t
work as a team like this.” Tim checks that Bruce is not about to speak and say something
stupid like ‘I work alone’. His mouth remains closed, so Tim continues, “So there’s the
personal issues, and I know no one will take my word for it when I say you need therapy but
-”

“- but y’all need therapy,” Steph finishes for him.

“Tim,” Bruce protests with one word.

“I fail to see why I should have to -,” Damian starts.

“Yeah, you don’t get to tell me that,” Jason says loudly.

“I don’t need therapy,” Dick says, because he’s fine.

Jason looks at Dick and switches tones. “Okay, you need therapy. So many reasons.”

“What? You don’t get to tell me that,” Dick shoots Jason’s words back at him. Again: “I’m
fine .”

“You always say that,” Jason says around his waffle, between chews. “But you’re always
lying.”

Juice runs down Dick’s wrist. The orange slice in his hand is crushed.

“Stop! Everybody shut up for a second,” Tim says, and Dick is mildly surprised at the mildly
rude command. “Look, I literally don’t care about whatever excuses you have to not help
yourselves improve or whatever.”
“Tim, you’re telling us about self-care, really?” Dick says, unimpressed only because it’s
directed at himself.

Tim shoots him an annoyed look. “Yes, actually.” He leans forward, intense, hands gripping
the table, “Because our team, this family , is performing inadequately and we will destroy
ourselves without the help of any villains. And because I care about you idiots.” He
practically spits the last words.

“Unreciprocated,” Damian announces immediately in case there was any doubt. Dick looks at
him with disappointment.

“Aww, Tim,” Steph coos. Cass puts a joking hand over her heart.

“I’m not getting you a Christmas present,” Jason says, pointing at Tim with a fork for
emphasis.

Tim sighs once more, but heroically soldiers on. “So it’s your decision to get professional
help or not, but regardless we need to improve our team communication.” He bites his lip,
then continues unhappily, “I think that means we need to improve our family
communication.” Some ruckus, but Tim is louder, “And that means we need to talk more in
general about not mission things. And,” Tim visibly braces himself, “We need to talk about
feelings.”

“Yes,” says Cass, nodding.

Damian scrunches his nose.

“Please, I’m barely a part of this so-called team,” Jason argues.

“Well I’m not a part of this so-called family,” Steph says, glaring at Damian again.
Tim slouches, trying to disappear into his chair, clearly reaching his limit for nagging
feedback. He ignores all of the protests to end with, “Let’s just consider today a trial of our
latest mission: Getting Our Shit Together.” He throws his hands in the air. “Because we need
to treat each other better. ” A tired face scrub. “Seriously, if we can’t even go to the aquarium
like normal people for a few hours, we may need stronger interventions.”

Well, that’s a bit ominous. Tim is well-connected in the superhero community and has almost
as many contacts as Dick; he could back up a threat of “stronger interventions”. Dick thinks
of his Titans friends, who he yelled at for suggesting they could help him, and feels a twinge
of guilt. It’s not that the superhero community is truly ignorant of all of the problems with the
Gothamites, but it’s hard to help someone who actively resists. That’s how Dick wants it
though, how Bruce wants it. No one wants to bring anyone outside of Gotham into this;
always, this will be a Family Matter.

No one speaks. Bruce is clearly unhappy with what Tim is suggesting, the thought of supers
in his city absolutely abhorrent, but he does not voice any objections as he recognizes the
threat for what it is. Steph mouths “ Mission G.O.S.T.? What happened to Operation
F.I.S.H?” Dick privately agrees that this must prove Tim is the family quipster. He has a
point though: if they can’t even pretend to get along today, what does that say about their
ability to support each other on missions, or stick together as a family?

Silence again.

Finally, Alfred sets down his fork and clears his throat. He has everyone’s attention instantly,
even without the shotgun that mysteriously disappeared last night.

“The aquarium opens at ten. I suggest everyone be ready to leave in twenty minutes.”

Alfred has spoken. Everyone jumps into action. Dick races back upstairs to grab a coat, and
Cass walks in behind him.

“Chalk,” she says.

“Uh,” says Dick, glancing at the clock. “I don’t know if there’s time…”

Steph barges in after them. Dick notes that as per Tim’s objections, she is no longer wearing
red.

“It’s fine, let’s do it quick,” she says, heading straight for Dick’s bathroom. Dick hears a
triumphant noise and a “Found it!”

Cass immediately heads for the bathroom and Dick trails after. Steph already has the neon
green selected and is handing Cass the purple.

“Why do you want to do this so bad?” Dick asks, leaning against the door.

“So we match, duh,” says Steph. She cracks her chalk and holds out half. “Can you do the
back for me?”

“You will not be alone,” Cass says, gesturing towards Dick, and he is suddenly very touched
by the camaraderie.

“Sure,” he tells Steph with a smile, accepting the chalk, “Let’s make you guys fabulous.”

They get to work. It’s a bit of a shoddy job by the time they’re done, and they didn’t seal it,
but for the time limit it’s pretty good.

“Don’t brush up against any strangers,” Dick advises, looking at Steph’s vibrant green pony
tail and Cass’ purple cropped cut.

“Hey Dick are you ready to - woah,” Tim walks in and stares. “I didn’t realize you guys were
actually going to do it now.”
“We are fast,” Cass brags, shaking her hair. Purple dust falls over the bathroom tile. Dick
grins.

“Okay well,” Tim says, recovering fast. “This is good, I doubt we’re going to get recognized
when you’re covered in chalk.”

“Perfect,” Cass says emphatically. She hates any attention on the Wayne family from the nosy
public.

“Should be safe anyway, no one expects Bruce Wayne with a preteen and a gaggle of young
adults, one of them dead, and a butler at the aquarium of all places,” Tim continues, walking
out of the room.

“Who’s dead?” Jason asks deadpan, passing by in the hall.

“Everyone will be if we’re late, Alfred already has our funerals planned,” Dick swiftly ushers
them all out before it can get tense.

There is a blundering moment on the doorstep as they look at the Rolls Royce Alfred has
pulled up to the front and everyone realizes they will need to take two vehicles. Steph
immediately volunteers her Honda Civic that she has parked edgily close to the door. And the
tide is moving again, the small knot of humanity spilling out onto the doorstep and flowing
down the steps, where Dick observes its diffusion into two clusters. Steph is leading a lightly
bickering Tim and Jason towards her parked car while Alfred has ushered Bruce, Cass, and
Damian towards the other.

For a moment, Dick stands in the middle, watching the separation with bemusement.

“Yo Dick, you coming with us?” Steph calls from her car.

Then Damian glances back, frowning when he sees Dick still unmoved.
“Grayson, come along,” he demands. Dick detects a hint of urgency in his tone and recalls
the morning live sea jellies’ feeding that Damian had very carefully not-expressed-interest in,
having no need for the ‘useless creatures’ he spent fifteen minutes monologuing about.

And he thinks about Damian and Bruce in a car in Gotham traffic, Damian venturing
carefully that “all they’ll miss is the pointless sea jellies demonstration” and Bruce agreeing.

Oh hell no. A deep, habitual need to shelter Damian’s dreams from Bruce’s carelessness and
nurture their father-son relationship has Dick shifting to follow along after a shrug to Steph.

“Where do you think you’re going, Goldie?” And there’s Jason, scowling over the hood of
Steph’s car. He’s tracking Dick’s position with respect to Bruce in a way that is far from
subtle.

Dick tells himself that he appreciates the concern, really. However grating and misplaced it
may be. “I believe it’s the aquarium, Jay,” he says, voice falsely bright.

A narrowing of eyes. “Then come on.”

Poised to duck into the car behind Damian, Dick has neither the patience nor the energy for
another argument. He flashes a grin that he intends to look as fake as it feels, jerks an
explanatory thumb over his shoulder at the waiting vehicle, and hops in.

If he slams the door shut a little harder than strictly necessary, well. No one comments on it.
“I think that’s everyone accounted for,” Dick says breezily.

Damian is sandwiched between Dick and Cass, with Bruce up front next to Alfred. Dick is
directly behind Bruce, and he is pathetically grateful he doesn’t have to see his face.

“Then we shall depart,” Alfred announces, and they are off.

It’s a quiet car ride for the most part. Dick gently cajoles Damian into regaling everyone with
information about the exhibits, but it’s subdued. Damian keeps glancing at Bruce for a
reaction. Just like Dick, Damian can’t help but hope for validation from Bruce, even when
angry with him.

Dick is nodding to what Damian says about guppies in captivity. “That’s interesting, right
Bruce?”

Dick discreetly kicks Bruce’s chair. Bruce nods, then returns to whatever he’s been brooding
about the whole ride. Dick can see the furrow between his brows in the window’s reflection.
Something is on Bruce’s mind, but Dick can’t agonize about it right now; he doesn’t have
time to go crazy.

“What about babies?” Cass asks Damian, attentive, and Dick smiles as Damian straightens
and turns to her to share more of his research.

Dick tries to relax against the seat. No one is arguing, yet there is always tension. Dick didn’t
sleep well last night. He feels like he has been in a hyper aware state for too long and his
reserves are depleting, but he can’t afford to unwind. A family trip in public? This is a test of
their collective self-control. There can be no fighting, so that means there can be no arguing
or hurting each other’s feelings, and that means that Dick needs to be ready to mediate. For
now though, he just focuses on breathing evenly, hoping to feel well rested if he just calms
enough.

They reach the aquarium before he can magically rejuvenate, and he resigns himself to faking
the energy. The parking lot is mostly full, of course it is, it’s Thanksgiving weekend. Steph
pulls in a second later three spots away from them, and they meet in the middle. Jason and
Tim trail behind, arguing quietly about something Dick hopes isn’t significant. As they draw
closer, he is bewildered to catch dialogue about bidets of all things. Okay then.

“Beat you,” Cass teases.

“That’s because Alfred drives like a madman,” Steph protests, admiring.

“I beg your pardon,” Alfred sniffs, but there’s a twinkle in his eye. “No one likes a sore loser,
Miss Stephanie.”

Dick laughs as he helps Alfred retrieve the bags of refreshments he packed for them. “We
may have to smuggle these in,” Dick muses.

“Nah it’s fine, we can leave it in the locker room and use the cafeteria,” Tim says. “I looked it
up, the reviews say they’re super lax.” He frowns at Bruce. “You need a bit more of a
disguise.” Bruce is about to speak, but Tim continues, “Don’t worry, I brought you a hat.”

And Tim produces a green baseball cap that he hands to Bruce. Classic Tim, planning ahead.

“Hey, that’s my hat!” Steph objects, but she makes no move to retrieve it.

“He needs it more, unless you want to be in a newspaper article,” Tim points out. “We should
be okay though. None of the rest of us are that recognizable.” Not when they aren’t dressed
for a gala, anyway. Tim’s eyes survey the busy parking lot. “And we’re actually less likely to
get picked out since it will be more crowded today.”

“Hmm, good point, fine he can keep the hat. And now we match I guess, so go green,” Steph
cheers, flicking her neon green pony tail over her shoulder.

“Okay slowpokes, let’s get this over with,” Jason says with the enthusiasm of a very angsty
teen on ...well, on a mandatory holiday trip with the family.

Okay. Here they go. Dick squashes the lingering anxiety. He pulls his hood up and prays,
pleads, that today is pleasant, and everyone comes away closer. Please, no fighting.

They head into the aquarium.

Chapter End Notes

That is, everyone blows up … except for Dick. ;)

Stay tuned for fish!! 🐠🐟🐡 (FINALLY)

 Oceans and Fishbowls
Chapter Summary

In case of emergency: break glass.

Chapter Notes

Hey dudes,

Sorry about the delay. This moment has been a long time coming - but hey, we have
arrived, at long last!

And look, this chapter is freaking HUGE. While dividing it would make it less of a
mouthful, splitting the build-up seemed like a mistake, so it has remained One Big
Chapter. Hopefully it’s not too quantity over quality, but it may have been a near thing
this time. :]

Dick: You are all so dramatic. Please, everyone calm down.

Also Dick: * this chapter *

Enjoy, guys! Thanks for sticking with the story :)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“He didn’t like to see animals in captivity. When he looked into their eyes, something in their
eyes looked back at him.” ~ Rick Yancey, The Infinite Sea

Oceans and Fishbowls

Everything starts off rather swimmingly. They have prepaid passes, and the bored college kid
waving them through ahead of the masses doesn’t look twice at the poorly-disguised
billionaire or the large baggage once it passes the metal detector. They get handed a map and
a bland “welcome”, and then they are inside the aquarium.

“The hat is magic,” Steph whispers.

“No magic in Gotham,” Bruce says, straight-faced, and Dick cracks a grin despite himself.

“Wow what a joker,” mutters Tim, quiet enough that Jason doesn’t hear, and Dick can’t help
but laugh. There’s hope now, small but growing tentatively in his heart, the more steps they
take together in the same direction.

Maybe... But Dick doesn’t want to get ahead of himself.

They deposit their bags in a locker, looking at each other like they can’t believe they are
doing this. Then there is a moment where everyone makes towards an exhibit, before
realizing they are heading separate directions. They all pause, eyeing each other.

Damian tsks. “The Gotham exhibit is this way,” he says impatiently.

“No way, I don’t need to see that cesspool, I’m here for the real ocean,” Jason gestures to the
open sea exhibit. Dick can’t tell if he actually took the time to develop itinerary preferences
or if he is just being contrary.

Damian folds his arms. Before he can argue, Steph is jumping in.

“Priorities you guys, there’s a greenhouse section,” Steph points out on the map. “I want to
see the sloth!” Cass leans in and oohs.

“It’s an aquarium,” Tim says, but he does look interested. Then he looks at Steph and Cass’
hair, unset and already leaving faint chalk stains on their shoulders, and regretfully adds,
“Your hair is going to bleed if you go in a greenhouse right now.”

“Worth it,” Cass says solemnly.

Bruce is watching them all, baffled. “But what about the coral reef?” he asks, clearly having
had his own ideas for how the viewing would go.

“That’s so basic,” Steph tells him, disappointed. A lot of people are frowning at Bruce now,
actually. Dick wonders how much of the emotion is directed at his exhibit choices and how
much is something deeper, leftover from last night.

“Allow me to assure everyone that we will be able to see all of the exhibits in due time,”
Alfred breaks in. “We need only choose what is first.”

Dick really appreciates how everyone nods at this, how no one bristles at the statement when
the implication that they’ll stick together is unspoken but strong.

Then suddenly everyone turns to Dick.

“What?” he asks, crossing his arms defensively. He didn’t say anything.

“What do you want to see?” Cass prompts him.

Oh. Dick glances around at all of their expectant faces. He doesn’t want to let anyone down.
“I’m cool with anything,” he says mildly, smiling back.

Jason looks so unimpressed it comes off as angry. “Come on, Dickhead, just pick.”

Dick groans theatrically. He may take the lead on vigilante teams but he hates the pressure of
choosing family activities; he always loses something. “Why do I have to pick first?”

“Because otherwise you’ll never tell us what you actually want,” Jason snaps. That is
definitely some anger.
Dick sighs internally. “Okay, okay,” he looks at the map. There is one exhibit that he has been
really looking forward to, thinking about Finding Nemo, but Bruce is the one who mentioned
the coral reef. If Dick chooses it, Jason is going to judge him hard for giving in to Bruce’s
preference. But too bad for Jason, Dick isn’t going to spite Bruce for the sake of it, not today.
If Bruce is pleased, Dick tells himself that’s just a side effect. Dick wants to see a clownfish.

“Well, the coral reef should be beautiful,” Dick announces. And Jason does look peeved,
while Bruce looks weirdly endeared. But Dick just wants to see some fish with his family,
without the weird choosing sides, so he puts a hand on Damian’s shoulder and starts forward.

Conveniently, the coral reef habitats are the closest exhibit area. It’s busy, because the fish are
most colourful here, capturing the attention of light-starved Gothamites.

Alfred makes everyone agree to meet in the cafeteria for lunch in case they get lost - or
separated, when there is some eye rolling at the term ‘lost’. With some reluctance, everyone
agrees.

At first, they are altogether. It’s crowded and the press of other people determines their
viewing pace. There are a few cracks in their cohesion as Jason sticks to Alfred, Damian
sticks to Dick, and both Jason and Damian polarize with Bruce, but they all naturally
gravitate towards the same exhibits, nothing pulling them together but the same draw of
exotic fish.

They are all light-starved Gothamites, too.

“Wow, it really is just a bunch of Nemo,” Tim observes, watching clownfish tumble around
the sea anemones. He taps the glass lightly. “That is exactly Nemo, right there.”

“Right?” Steph says enthusiastically.

Dick has to agree, leaning in closer to inspect. “That movie was really accurate.” He wishes
they had watched it together. He side-eyes his peaceful family. Maybe tonight ..?
Dick glances to where Damian stands silent, eyes locked on the exhibit, barely blinking as he
memorizes the movements of the sea creatures. There’s a light in his eyes, the kind he gets
when he sees something beautiful for the first time, or when he finishes a difficult sketch.

Dick smiles to himself and turns to join Cass at the next exhibit.

“What are we looking at?” he asks.

Cass points at the strange squishy logs. Dick peers closer. Are those weird things alive?

Dick reads the plaque. “Oh sea cucumbers, cool!” They stare together for a moment.

“I want to touch,” Cass confesses.

Dick laughs and inspects them again. “Yeah me too,” he admits.

Cass smiles slightly and turns to him. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she says, a strange statement
when her flight home was on time. There is something somber in her eyes.

Dick blinks at the declaration but recovers quickly, smiling softly back. “You’re not late. And
I’m glad you’re here.” He means it. He feels a little guilty for all the times he has been
jealous of her this weekend alone. She is so uniquely good for Bruce, and she has been
nothing but kind and caring to Dick. He doesn’t deserve her. Maybe neither of them do.

Cass signs you okay? , and Dick’s quick nod gets him nothing but an eyebrow raise. But he
doesn’t get time to feel defensive, to insist it’s true , to convince her that he does, actually,
know how he feels.

Bruce steps up between them. “Are those sea cucumbers?” Dick can’t reply, he is too busy
Not feeling anything about Bruce’s sudden presence. He finds himself squashing anger of all
things, refuses to wonder why, and eventually settles himself into a pleasant facade. Bruce is
clearly trying to engage right now, more than just an unwilling participant on this trip, and
Dick wants to honour that.

“Yes,” Cass says simply. She and Dick watch Bruce examine the display of sea cucumbers.

They look so gelatinous,” Bruce says after a while. “I wonder…” and then he stops himself
abruptly.

“You wonder what it would be like to squeeze it?” Dick finishes for him with a grin, and he
and Cass laugh at Bruce’s blank face which may as well be an embarrassed yes.

This is nice, really. It’s like yesterday never happened, or at least everyone is agreeing to
ignore it for now. Dick marvels at how careful they can all be with each other when they try.
How surreal. How nice.

Until Bruce decides to dive in headfirst and drag Dick down with him.

They are a few exhibits along and Dick is squinting hard into a crack trying to glimpse the
elusive octopus. Cass is on the other side of the exhibit; it’s a race to find the creature first.

Bruce appears at Dick’s elbow, crowding close.

“I need to speak with you,” Bruce announces.

Dick is in a crouch, face pressed into the glass. He tenses at Bruce’s words. Bruce never
wants to speak to him lately. Which is probably for the best, Dick thinks bitterly. When they
do speak, it never seems to go well these days.

“What, now?” he asks, not looking away from the rock crevices. “I’m kind of in the middle
of a competition here, very cutthroat. Do you see the octopus anywhere?”
He peers closer. Is that a tentacle?

“Dick, stop,” Bruce says. Commands. Dick knows he’s not trying to; this is just Bruce’s
natural tone when he’s annoyed. Or when he wants something.

Purposeful or not, it works. Dick twists himself up to a stand and meets Bruce’s gaze.

“Yeah?” He leans against the glass to brace himself for whatever Bruce is going to say. He
doubts it’s about the exhibit.

“About last night,” Bruce starts, and stops. Dick is having trouble reading him. He is clearly
uncomfortable. Dick is uncomfortable, but hopeful. Then, “I was mistaken.”

Dick waits, but there’s nothing more.

“Mistaken about what?” he prods. Bruce’s apology to Jason this morning was unexpected,
and now Dick can’t help the fragile longing inside of him, but it’s warring with the nerves
that haven’t stopped buzzing since he walked into the manor on Thursday. Or maybe since he
walked out of it last Saturday.

“About you,” Bruce says. Stops again. The elaboration only increases Dick’s anxiety. He lets
his hopes die quietly. He feels like he’s missing something, something bad, but he can’t jump
to conclusions yet.

“What do you mean?” he asks carefully.

“I placed you in a difficult position last night, a difficult role,” Bruce says, words general for
the public setting. Dick’s fingers tighten around his arms, grasping layers of sweaters but
feeling the ghost of a shawl, thin protection from this conversation, or maybe from memory.
Bruce pushes onward, approaching his point, “And it is partially my responsibility for what
happened, when you were… compromised by emotion. I should not have assumed you would
be able to handle the pressure.”

“Uh,” says Dick, a bit thrown by what is shaping into some kind of apology. Dick is
unfamiliar with this coming from Bruce; the man has never had to reach out to Dick like that.
Placation has never been necessary. Bruce has always marched on, knowing Dick would
follow after him. It’s not that Dick wouldn’t love for Bruce to change, but it’s a reality Dick
has lived with for too long to trust vague words to lead them down a fresh path.

“It has been brought to my attention,” Bruce continues, painfully slow, “That I need to
interact with you more …personally.” Dick analyzes rapidly. Tim? Cass? Probably Cass, this
initiative is new. Dick presses his lips together. Of course. Of course it takes someone else to
force Bruce to talk to Dick. “And I think we should discuss some of your problems of a more
…personal nature.” While delivered awkwardly, the explanation comes faster now that Bruce
has started the flow. “But I had thought, considering your past history and… inclinations, that
you would not be so affected last night.”

His history? His inclinations? Dick is suddenly perturbed. He has a theory about what Bruce
might be trying to say, and he really, really hopes he’s wrong.

“My - what?” Dick asks, hugging his arms tightly to his chest for support. He feels the dig of
his nails through his sweater and tries to relax but he is too tense.

“Your history. Your reputation of ….exploits,” Bruce shifts awkwardly but his eyes are
determined and his voice is steady, reasonable, honest. “Even on very recent occasions - and
yes, Tim told me about earlier this week.” What happened earlier this week? “So I expected
you would be more comfortable with that type of attention and situation. But you were not
able to handle it.” A pause, Bruce gauging Dick’s response so far. He seems to gather some
sort of cue from Dick’s silence, continuing gently, “I’ve considered that our work as a family
is not the only issue that needs attention. That perhaps...”

Dick knows that Bruce is trying, that he actually intends this blunt insult as some kind of
clumsy mitigation. Dick knows Bruce.

But does Bruce know Dick? Because Dick is fine, thank you. He doesn’t need some weird
intervention about his supposed relationships. What does Bruce think he knows?
(Dick, you slut.)

“What reputation?” Dick persists, tone icy now, still stuck on Bruce’s first point. He hugs
himself tighter, telling himself he should leave it alone, what does it matter, but does Bruce
really think -?

Bruce frowns. “Dick, your reputation -”

“What about it?”

“Found it,” Cass materializes in front of them, eases between them.

Dick blinks, relaxes as he lets Cass move him away a bit. He hadn’t realized how tightly he
was gripping his arms until he releases them. He uses the ache to ground himself.

“Found - what?” Bruce asks, clearly struggling to follow. He hides his frustration well. He
has never enjoyed being interrupted.

“Octopus,” Cass points. “I win.”

Dick blinks again. He follows her finger and sure enough, there it is, near the crevice Dick
had been staring at earlier. He would have found it first if he hadn’t been interrupted.

“Neat,” he says, distantly. Bruce says something in agreement, but Dick isn’t sure of the
exact words. The present is slippery.

“Come,” Cass is saying with a frown, but it’s not to Dick. She pulls a protesting Bruce away.
Bruce still looks a bit off kilter after their unfinished talk; he’s not the only one. A part of
Dick wants to reach out and catch Bruce, pull him back, instead of letting him leave Dick
here with nothing resolved. But he’s not moving fast enough so he watches them go as he is
submerged by swirling thoughts.

Because: Dick thought he knew why Bruce chose him for undercover. He thought it was a
combination of his talent for improvisation and his objective attractiveness. Also, perhaps
most reasonably, he is the oldest. If anyone has to play a sexual role, it should be him.

(But why does anyone have to anyway? It’s a quiet voice, Dick can usually silence it easily,
but for some reason it’s louder today.)

Bruce isn’t blind to gossip. Neither is Dick. And Dick is aware that his persona in the caped
community has a certain image, and maybe some of it is because of his demeanor, how he
smiles at everyone and how his jokes can come across flirtatious. But after Mirage, Dick
knows people talk about him differently, like it gave them an excuse to speculate. The things
they say to his face sometimes, what they assume, have him wanting to defend himself, but
he’s scared the explanation would sound weak (what? He didn’t want to?).

It’s nothing compared to what people say behind his back, anyway.

He has heard wild stories about himself that are definitely not true. As uncomfortable as it is
to imagine some of the tales reaching Bruce’s ears, he’s certain Bruce has heard enough. But
Dick has never thought much of it because, well.

Bruce has to know they’re not true, right?

He needs to know Bruce didn’t throw him into a human trafficking ring based on his
fabricated reputation - not when he knows Dick. He should know what’s true. Dick can tell
the difference between the real Bruce and his collection of fake personas, what people say
about him. Bruce must be able to discern the same for Dick.

And Bruce is a control freak; he has Dick’s schedule memorized, and there’s no gaps in it for
fraternizing. Dick barely has time for anything at all outside of family, gymnastics, and
vigilante business.
Still, Dick feels sick; Bruce’s opinion means so much to him. He’s used to measuring short in
a lot of areas, but there’s something uniquely unpleasant about imagining Bruce’s
disappointment in his personal life. But how the hell is he supposed to explain that it’s not
what it looks like when the entire league is convinced?

And Dick wonders, dreads, what his siblings, the rest of his family, thinks of him. Do they
think he enjoyed being undercover because he could be himself? Even in his mind, he can’t
imagine his family believing that; it sounds like an impossible lie (or maybe not so
impossible - he just couldn’t handle it if they did). But no, there’s no way they think that.
Bruce can’t really think that.

Damn Bruce, for setting him on edge like this when they’re trying to have a nice family
outing.

Dick needs to talk to him, but he has been lost in thought too long and Bruce is out of sight.
Now Tim and Jason are before him, bickering. He tries to set aside his anxiety and focus on
his brothers, assessing the danger level of the argument. When he tunes in though, he’s
relieved.

“I could be the king crab,” Jason is saying. “Sounds aggressive.”

“No way, look,” Tim taps the information card. “It says they’re not really dangerous,
definitely not dangerous to humans. Can’t be you. But you know what, Bruce is definitely the
king crab,” He continues with conviction, ignoring Jason’s raised eyebrow. “He basically
lives in a castle. And he’s a rich delicacy.” Dick feels the corners of his lips twitch in spite of
his melancholy at the mental image of Bruce’s stoic face on a crab’s body.

Jason snorts but doesn’t disagree. “Then what the hell am I?”

“Octopus,” Tim says a little smug.

Jason glares, menacing. A warning to tread carefully. “And that’s dangerous how?”
Tim gestures at the plaque. “Says they eat crab.”

Jason reads the plaque carefully, then cracks a shark-like grin. “Alright now we’re talking,
Replacement.” He looks around, counting heads. “Where’d that king crab go anyway?”

“Cass dragged him off to the next exhibit,” Dick says, stepping closer to read the plaque.

“Fucking typical,” Jason mutters. Dick kind of agrees, Cass often attaches to Bruce when
there’s a problem, but Dick doesn’t have the same venom about it that Jason does. It’s not
quite what Jason thinks, anyway; Cass is really on Jason’s side, with her obvious beef with
Bruce. But Cass likes to tackle the root of the problem, so she aims for Bruce directly. She’s
clearly trying, but Dick thinks her attempts are backfiring, considering Bruce’s botched
intervention.

He knows she means well, but he really wishes she would stop. That everyone would just
stop, - it’s not helping.

“It’s easier for her, one on one,” is what Dick actually says. At Jason’s cynical look he rolls
his eyes and adds, “For her to chew him out. And he listens to her. Let it go.” Dick pointedly
turns back to the display. “The octopus really is like you, Jay. Look at him hiding in the
corner all angsty.”

“I don’t hide,” Jason says, indignant, while Tim snickers.

“Are we assigning sea creatures to people?” Steph asks, delighted, as she joins them. “I have
so many ideas. Hey shrimp!”

Ten feet away, Damian instinctively looks up.

“Perfect,” Steph says, and this time Tim and Jason laugh. Damian blushes and huffs.
Dick is still feeling weird. Wondering what his siblings think of him, if they think of him at
all, but not wanting to sound needy. Not wanting to find out if they do believe his reputation;
he doesn’t want them to ever think about him like that.

“What about me? Which sea creature am I?” he asks instead.

“Hmm,” Steph eyes him consideringly, then moves to the next exhibit. “Let’s see what our
options are.”

The display boasts a menagerie of sea life.

“Maybe the cuttlefish?” Tim suggests wryly. “Because you always want to cuddle.”

Honestly, younger siblings only like puns when they are weapons against him. But he can use
this one.

“Aw Tim, that’s so sweet,” Dick says with a gleam in his eye as he goes in for a hug. Tim
squawks but bears it, for longer than expected.

“We are in public,” Damian hisses, appalled by the PDA.

“It’s okay if you’re jealous, Dami, I have more hugs,” Dick consoles, moving towards him.
Damian runs.

“Look at him move,” Steph comments, cackling. “Not a shrimp, what’s one of those fast
fish? Sailfish?”

Dick is about to agree, then maybe segue into how Damian didn’t mean to insult Steph last
night and does not take well to her bitter teasing, but a loud voice interrupts.
“Hey Dick! Get over here, forget the cuttlefish,” Jason calls from a smaller side section. Dick
drifts over, peers in. Are those - “You’re a seahorse!” Jason declares proudly. “They’re pretty
showy, look at that seadragon one. And get this, the males carry the baby. And you are such a
mom.”

“Shit that’s perfect,” says Steph, coming over to inspect the seahorses.

“Wait the males what,” Dick says, reading the plaque frantically.

“Here’s a diagram,” Tim points out helpfully. He looks a little too pleased for Dick’s liking.

With some dread, Dick inspects the illustration of a pregnant seahorse. “Guys, I don’t think -”

“It’s perfect,” Steph says again.

“Honestly out of all of us, with the way you act, you’re most likely to get pregnant anyway,”
Jason says. Jokes.

Why would Jason say that ..? Then again, Jason is close to Kory these days. Would Kory say
anything like that? Maybe… maybe if this is how Kory describes Dick, it might be true. The
thought is accompanied by a wave of guilt, ashamed to have part of his notoriety justified.

But it’s a joke, of course it is, even with the weirdly calculative side-eye Jason is giving him.
Tim is laughing. Even Steph is laughing, and she literally was pregnant.

Dick takes a slow, unsteady breath and tries to pull it off as normal. It’s not just his inhale that
trembles. But he can’t seem to force himself to relax. “Agree to disagree,” he says, distant.
Siblings making fun of each other, that’s all, nothing to blow up over. It’s not their fault Dick
is feeling particularly fragile about his sexual reputation. He just … wishes they didn’t hear
about it, had hoped that they wouldn’t believe it if they did hear. But Bruce implied
differently. Dick usually tries not to let hearsay bother him, but. Clearly, his family thinks
he’s somebody else. Or maybe he just doesn’t understand himself.

When he tries to look at himself these days his reflection is always so blurry.

Dick feels a flash of irritation cracking through his stress. A seahorse; of course that’s how
they see him. Everyone expects him to be who they want, to carry the responsibilities for
them, and then they have the audacity to tell him they don’t want his help. They demand that
he understand their points of view, then get mad at him for being overbearing. They tell him
they don’t want him to parent them but they turn to him anyway.

Everyone wants Dick to do something, to change, but they don’t see what Dick is holding
onto. The problems in the family aren’t because Dick has been idle, coasting in their family’s
flow. That he just needs to wake up and then he will fight the current, advocate for change in
their family system alongside them. No one seems to realize that he is carrying the system on
his back; his hands are full clutching all of their strings together and still they are slipping
through his fingers. He can’t change, can’t move from his course, can’t afford to even shift
his fingers. He’s afraid he’ll lose them all if he lets go.

But of course, they never try to understand him. Even with whatever is going on with Bruce,
his siblings have an idea about Bruce and Dick and nothing Dick says will change their
minds. He glances at them, still joking together, hanging out on a family trip, doing a
surprisingly good job of playing the normal family, like nothing is wrong. His siblings hover
around, watching Dick from the corners of their eyes, waiting for some kind of mysterious
signal that Dick doesn’t know how to give.

If they truly believe Bruce is so toxic for Dick, why aren’t they doing more?

But Dick is overthinking, which is dangerous. He can’t afford to feel these things.

It is definitely not the time to bring this stuff up, so Dick shakily laughs along. He watches
the seahorses drift and wishes he could relax with the flow like they do. When he speaks, his
voice is carefully light so it doesn’t crack. “Which sea creature are you then, Steph?”
“Oh I’m not one of these little guys,” she says readily, gesturing around dismissively. She
draws herself up importantly. “I’m a dolphin,” she pronounces, proud.

Tim raises an eyebrow.

“The fuck you are,” says Jason, not ready for someone to have a cooler spirit animal than
him. “You’re one of those useless jellyfish.” Steph takes the insult to her worth lightly,
grinning; perhaps through the refraction of the aquarium the words lose their bite.

The words are not entirely harmless. Dick notices Damian, a little ways away, stiffen up a bit.
Casually, Dick says, “Jellyfish are pretty cool actually.” He checks the time. “There’s a
feeding demonstration in ten minutes, anybody up for it?”

“Nah,” says Tim. He glances at Steph, who nods. “We’re gonna check out the gift shop.”

It is said casually, but there’s something about the way they grin that makes all of Dick’s
older sibling senses tingle. “Why did that sound so suspicious?” Then, “Did you take Bruce’s
credit card?”

“Oh relax, come with us if you want,” Steph says, not an answer, and that is definitely a
mischievous look.

“Maybe later,” Dick says, though now he is extremely curious. Tim and Steph walk away,
and the responsible part of him wants him to follow. They are adults though, barely, and the
clock is ticking. He turns. “Damian? Jellyfish?”

“I suppose I could keep you company,” he says haughtily, like he hasn’t been eyeing the
clock waiting for this moment.
Dick looks at Jason. He has been quieter than usual since arriving at the aquarium, sometimes
a sign of an embarrassed or worried Jason, but he has relaxed more since Cass disappeared
with Bruce. Jason glances at Damian before shaking his head. “Alfred should be back from
the restroom soon, I’ll wait for him.”

Jason gives him a look, daring him to say anything. Dick grins, feeling a bit brash. “That is
the sweetest.”

“Stop it you seahorse,” Jason grinds out.

“Okay, octopus,” he coos, and then he leaves quickly as Jason starts swearing and drawing
attention. They need to head to the open ocean collection.

There’s a small crowd forming around the sea jellies exhibit. Dick inches Damian closer to
the front as one of the staff members starts to speak. The tank has none of the decorative
displays that populated the coral reef habitats. Just empty space with an artificial current.

The sea jellies feeding is actually interesting. Everything is so passive, food and jellies
floating around. When food meets jelly, it gets absorbed. And that’s it, that’s the feeding. No
complexities in the mechanics; the intricacy lies in their aesthetic details. Dick can see why
Damian appreciates them. There is something peaceful about them, something soft and
fragile, though their flexibility is their strength.

After a few minutes, the speaker stops narrating the simple feeding process, and most of the
viewers grow bored and wander away. Dick catches a flash of a sketchbook and discreetly
suggests Damian sit down for a moment on the bench nearby while Dick talks to the girl who
did the demonstration for a bit.

It’s mostly an excuse to give Damian time to relax in the environment, but he finds himself
enjoying the chance to chat with a stranger. Lately, all of his conversations with his family
have had draining undercurrents he needs to be hyper aware of.

In theory, he’s asking about the demonstration. Mostly, he talks about Damian. The girl looks
tired, but there’s a soft smile on her face as she listens to Dick. About how excited Damian
was to come to the aquarium. Proudly, how much Damian knows about sea jellies. And if
Damian wanted to learn more, what could Dick do for him? The girl’s eyes are starting to
light up a bit, and soon they’re chatting animatedly about a summer program the aquarium
puts on. By the end Dick has her laughing, a tiny unassuming victory, and when he makes to
leave she tells him-

“Your son sounds real special.” Grinning, like her words don’t cut him.

Even more piercing, to recognize how Dick himself had been speaking about Damian without
realizing his speech implications. There’s an ache in his chest from a suddenly hollow space,
as some unspeakable emotion crawls its way into his throat.

Everything hovers so close to the surface today.

But he has been performing his whole life, so Dick swallows it down, the familiar foul taste,
and he smiles and thanks her and walks away.

He joins Damian on the bench, and Damian sketches a little more openly. Dicks heart melts
at the tiny show of trust. He watches the jellies idly. They really are lovely to behold, with
their delicate patterns, but more than that, he finds a beautiful liberty to their drifting motions.
No one expects anything from them, they float around with the simple purpose of existence.
It’s too bad they keep running into the walls - Dick imagines them in the freedom of the open
ocean, the current carrying them forever onward.

Since they are trapped in a barren tank, watching the sea jellies becomes sad after a while. In
his current emotional state, Dick relates a bit too well to this empty amphitheater with glass
on every side. His siblings got him wrong, he’s totally a sea jelly. Or maybe he’s just
melancholy today; he has a buzz in his brain that won’t go away.

Eventually, Dick peeks at Damian’s drawing. It’s breathtakingly good, as usual. “Wow, that
looks amazing,” he says earnestly.

Damian blushes. “It is nothing, Richard,” but he’s preening a little. “You always say that.”
Dick decides to push a bit. This is a family outing after all, and apparently everyone thinks
Dick can’t help himself but try to parent. “It’s great, Dami. You should show the others.
They’ll be impressed. Trust me, It’s not just me.”

Damian immediately scowls, shutting down. “Those fools do not understand composition.”

“Come on, give them a chance. Steph thinks art is awesome,” he tries.

Damian closes the sketchbook. “No.” Hesitation, then, “Besides, Brown is upset with me.”

Right. Because Damian told her she didn’t belong with them and should leave. Dick can
relate very hard to that kind of hurt. He sighs. “Damian, you hurt her last night. Why would
you tell her she wasn’t part of the family? I thought you two were getting along.”

Damian crosses his arms, petulant. “I spoke the truth. She is not part of this family.”

“You should apologize,” Dick tells him, hardened. “She’ll forgive you.”

“I should not need to apologize for the truth, Richard,” Damian says stiffly. There’s a bit of a
whine. “She is the one who is behaving childishly and harassing me. She should apologize.”

Damian looks honestly hurt, like he thought Dick would take his side when he complained
about Stephanie. Dick feels a headache coming on.

Dick takes a deep breath. Damian is just a child, one who was raised with misguided morals
and a ridiculous emphasis on pride.

What has pride ever done for Dick?

“Damian,” he says carefully, “She’s part of the team. She stays over for Thanksgiving. She’s
one of us, and we need to make her feel appreciated. What makes her not part of the family?”

He’s pretty sure he knows, but he has to make Damian say it. He’s ready, but it still hurts
when Damian says, “I am Bruce’s blood son. And you are all adopted. Brown bears neither
relation.”

“What about Alfred?” Dick asks. He feels the bite of his nails digging into his palms, but he’s
focused on Damian.

“Pennyworth is not part of the family, he is the butler,” Damian says, sounding bewildered
that Dick would even ask.

Dick grinds his teeth, because Alfred feels the most like family some days. “Alfred is family,
Damian,” he says, maybe too sharply, but he’s disappointed in Damian. He knows Damian is
blinded by personal hurt and shame right now, but he should still know better. Last night he
had practically told Dick that labels on their relationship weren’t important.

But Damian is young, he’s allowed to change his mind.

“Didn’t we just talk about this last night?” Dick asks, exasperation coming through a bit.
“What’s important in relationships isn’t legalities or titles. It’s caring about each other. It’s
love.”

Damian rolls his eyes. “Not everything is about love, Richard. And why did Father bother
adopting if it’s not important? Appearances matter.”

Dick can’t take this anymore. Not when he’s pretty sure Bruce doesn’t love him any more
than he loves a tractable tool. He leans in so no one can overhear. “Listen to me very closely,”
he says, almost a hiss. “Bruce is not a good role model for relationships. Steph puts up with
you when you’re being rude, but she can only take so much. If you want people to care about
you, you need to care about them. And if you count family by the legalities, then I’m nothing
to you.”
“Nothing? But Father -,” Damian begins, confused and vulnerable. “What are you - you
mean-,” then, more quietly, “I don’t understand.”

“Doesn’t matter. Bruce never adopted me, and I never adopted you,” says Dick callously,
ignoring the dawning revelation and subsequent lost look on Damian’s face. “So you need to
make up your mind, right now, about who matters to you. And then you need to act like it.
Got it?”

Damian nods, eyes wide.

“Okay.” Dick closes his eyes and inhales, lets it out slowly. He needs to calm down. But he
can’t talk about this anymore. He needs a distraction.

He stands up abruptly. “I’m going to the gift shop,” he announces. “Are you coming?”

Damian gets up a bit shakily, nodding again. He watches Dick warily as they walk silently to
the gift shop.

—-----------------

Dick should probably apologize for his minor blow up. It’s not Damian’s fault he’s so on
edge about his place in the family, about his lack of legal title. How he feels like maybe he
doesn’t have the honorary role either. But he believes what he told Damian - it doesn’t matter,
not anymore.

The gift shop is packed, but it doesn’t take long to find Steph and Tim. Damian drifts off and
Dick lets him go; it’s probably best to cool off separately.

Tim and Steph have their arms full of various bags of candy and are currently discussing the
benefits of trying a fish flavoured gummy.
“But does it even have sugar in it?” Tim is asking. “I just can’t picture fishy and sweet united
as one flavour. Sounds gross.”

“The package says it’s a bestseller,” Steph points out, reading the back.

“I really don’t think that’s human food,” Dick says, coming up behind her.

“I’m buying it,” Steph announces, tossing it at Tim who barely manages to juggle it with his
other packets. “I mean, you are.”

They head to the checkout and Tim pulls out a credit card. Dick inspects it.

Suspicions confirmed. Dick raises an eyebrow. “Is this being sponsored by Wayne
Enterprises?”

“It’s a business trip,” Tim says with a straight face, gathering the bags.

Dick gives them a look. “Alfred is going to be upset if he finds out you filled up on junk. He
spent days preparing the lunch we lugged here.”

Steph shakes a packet of Skittles in his face. “Good thing he won’t find out,” she lures him.

“Why, you temptress, ” says Dick with a grin, grabbing the bag and ripping them open.
“These are my favourite.”

“Right? Taste the rainbow,” Steph sings, grabbing some for herself.
“And now you are compromised,” Tim tells him, shoving contraband into his pockets.
“Welcome to the candy rebellion.”

“Please, I led the candy revolution back when I was like ten,” Dick says, pouring Skittles into
his mouth before stuffing the bag into his pocket. “Why do you think we’re allowed
marshmallows?”

Tim’s eyes alight with interest at Dick’s words. He looks young, closer to his real age at this
moment than he has in weeks. Tim opens his mouth but before he can ask about
marshmallow origins, a clattering sound echoes down the aisle. Dick, Tim and Steph make
eye contact, then move as one to investigate.

A tiny boy is sitting on the floor crying, surrounded by toys.

“Hey there,” Dick says immediately, dropping down next to the child. “What happened,
buddy?”

His smile is met with watery eyes. A sniff. “I fell.” A tear.

“Are you hurt?” Dick prods gently. The kid shows him his scraped hands. Dick looks them
over quickly. Nothing serious. “You’re very brave. Who did you come here with?” Dick asks.

“My mom-”

“Excuse me,” a new voice has them all whipping around. It’s an employee. His name tag
reads ‘Hi I’m Gerald’. “Is your child okay?”

Steph and Tim snort, but Dick’s stomach flips. His own reaction bothers him - why is he so
sensitive about everything today?
“He’s alright,” Dick answers, helping the kid up. “But we found him like this. He’s looking
for his mom.”

Gerald shuffles, antsy. “There is a lost and found department at the front of the aquarium.”
He glances back to the desk. “This aisle needs to be clear for traffic.” It sounds like an
apology.

Dick glances around. It appears that the child crashed into a fishing barrel filled with….
“What are those?” Steph asks, confused, looking at the toys.

Tim picks one up. “Sea staff,” he reads. It’s a plastic stick with a shark mounted on the end.
The other toys have different sea creatures attached.

“They’re a best seller,” Gerald points out helpfully.

“Timmy!” A panicked voice calls, and Dick catches Tim’s confused look right before a
young woman whips down the aisle and scoops up the little boy. “I was so worried about
you!”

Now it is Dick and Steph’s turn to snort, while Tim turns red. Little Timmy, Big Timmy, Dick
mouths, heedless of Tim’s death glare.

After Dick insists that he and his siblings are perfectly capable of putting the toys away,
Gerald leads little Timmy and his mom away for first aid.

“Oh Timmy,” Steph calls sweetly, holding out a stick with a sea turtle on it, “Put this in the
barrel, would you?”

Tim does so, long-suffering. Dick grabs the last stick as they stand up.

“You were pretty cute with that kid,” Steph offers, trying to be nice.
Dick grits his teeth into a smile and grips the toy tighter. “Thanks.” He is way too sensitive
about kids right now.

He tries not to think too hard, but he’s thinking so much today.

“Where’s the brat?” Steph asks as they turn to meander back towards the main aquarium. She
tries one of the fish flavoured candies and makes a face, then offers it to Tim.

Tim chews thoughtfully. “These aren’t awful.”

Dick looks around for Damian, a bit of shame stinging his chest at his earlier behaviour. He
can’t seem to help himself today, he’s on an emotional slide. It’s not fair that Damian gets
hurt by the avalanche.

Maybe it’s the guilt, but he tries to do Damian a favour. He turns to face Steph. “You know,
he didn’t mean what he said to you last night. He was just upset.”

“Really, Dick?” Steph asks him. She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Nobody was ‘just
upset’ last night. And you know he meant it. I’m not a part of the family.”

Steph’s tone is still almost playful, but her eyes are hard and her jaw is set. The words bother
her.

Tim awkwardly looks back and forth between them, caught in the middle.

“He did mean them, but he regrets them,” Dick persists. “And no one thinks they’re true.
You’re one of us. But Damian can tell you’re mad at him and it’s making him miserable.”
Steph holds up a hand. “Dick, stop,” she says. “If he really feels sorry, he has to apologize
himself. I get what you’re trying to do, you want it all to work out, and for us to be friends.
But I have a right to feel hurt and react,” she says pointedly.

Dick starts to argue, but Tim jumps in.

“Back off, Dick,” Tim says a bit tiredly. “You’ve got tunnel vision on Damian. Maybe take a
step back. Other people have feelings too.”

Oh, right. It’s a verbal slap, but it works. Dick feels insensitive; he blames his laser focus on
Damian and his own guilt from how he treated Damian earlier. He wishes he hadn’t spoken.
He bites his lip, then sighs. “I’m sorry, Steph,” he says, “You’re right, you were hurt. You
don’t have to just get over it.”

Steph shakes her head. “It’s okay, I know you’re just trying to help the little guy, but
seriously, you can’t just do all of the emotional work for Damian.” She pauses, scrutinizing
him closely. Dick feels exposed again, despite the layers he’s wearing. “Or Bruce for that
matter.”

Dick freezes. So they’re back to this again. “Do we really need to talk about my relationship
with Bruce right now?”

Steph and Tim look at each other significantly. Dick feels a flash of annoyance. He is right
here. Honestly, his family can be so subtle when they have to, but somehow when it's with
each other they lose all finer social graces.

It’s Tim who replies, words carefully chosen like he has taken time to craft them and believes
they are the right ones. “Dick, you may have tunnel vision on Damian, but that’s normal, you
raised him for a while. But it’s nothing compared to how you obsess about Bruce. It’s not
healthy.”

Tim speaks bluntly, and Dick feels each word land like a blow. Since he’s already off-kilter,
this sends him spinning. He reaches up a hand to rub at his temple; the headache has
returned. “What exactly is wrong with Bruce and I?”
“It’s not your fault,” Tim rushes to assure him, and Dick wants to laugh because everything is
his fault these days, “Bruce is terrible at communication, we all know that. But you keep
acting like everything is okay when he does things that are wrong, just because he’s the one
doing them, like he’s some golden standard. But he’s hurting you and it’s not healthy. It hurts
his other relationships too, it hurts your other relationships too.” Dick’s jaw clicks.

“Tim, he literally is the gold standard for right and good.” Dick leans in to whisper viciously,
“He’s literally Batman.”

“He’s a man, he’s not infallible, you know that,” argues Tim. “And you were Batman too,
without the emotional constipation and lashing out at people.” Dick snorts at Tim bringing up
anything positive about the time when their relationship was poorest.

“Yeah, and you liked me so much then,” Dick snarks, annoyed. “Maybe your problem isn’t
Bruce and me, maybe your problem is Batman and you.”

Tim glares. “This isn’t about me -”

“Then stay out of it!” Dick practically growls.

“- but I care about both of you and you need serious help!” Dick knows Tim’s expression
here, with those pinched lips, tight eyes, body perfectly still. Then, almost a whine, “Dick.
Please. This is messing with your whole life.” Still no movement.

Then - a twitch of his shoulders, and it’s confirmed. His little brother is trying not to cry. Dick
feels gutted. He…

(Dick did this, but he can’t fix it, he can’t touch anyone right now, he can’t-)
“Dick,” Steph’s voice breaks in. Dick is suddenly very aware that they are huddled in a
corner of a public gift shop and tries to calm down. “We care, okay? About you.”

“And Bruce,” Tim adds, still a little stiff.

“Nah, fuck that guy,” Steph says offhandedly. “What?” she asks at Tim’s admonishing glance
and Dick’s raised eyebrows. “He has a lot of self-improvement he needs to do before I start
trusting him with my delicate heart.”

Bizarrely, Steph’s attitude helps Dick to ease. “He is a little clumsy with emotions,” Dick
agrees.

“Maybe you should try some distance too, Dick,” Steph ventures. “Emotional or physical,
you pick.”

Dick thinks about that for zero seconds. “No thanks, I’m not leaving the people I love just
because they’re bad at expressing themselves.”

Tim closes his eyes and inhales deeply.

“I can’t believe you sometimes,” Steph blows air, looking up at the ceiling. “Dad-,” she
catches herself quickly, but not quickly enough, “Bruce is not bad at expressing himself.
That’s like calling a machete a butter knife. It’s a gross underestimation of the damage he can
do when he refuses to admit he’s the problem,” she is choking on her words, but valiantly
forcing them out, “You’re not helping him by enabling him, and all it does is hurt m- you,” a
sharp breath, “So what the hell do you stand to gain by sticking around when he doesn’t care
enough to care for you?” Her exasperation is furious, and Dick isn’t sure who it’s truly
directed at anymore. “When you see a monster you run away.” A final push of air, “If this
was your romantic partner I’d say dump his ass!”

Steph is almost yelling by the end of it, her personal experience bleeding through in her
frustration. Dick knows what Steph is seeing in Bruce by her rigid posture and her stuttered
words - the silhouette of Steph’s father; a man with few redeeming qualities for her to return
to. And now she wants Dick to walk away too. Only, the parallel ends here: he can’t.
She doesn’t get it. No one does. This isn’t about Dick letting Bruce get away without
consequences when his poor communication becomes hurtful. Dick can’t leave Bruce
because that would mean leaving all of them. And besides, it’s not Bruce who is toxic. Dick
is the one who is poison. Dick reminds himself he is grateful for any scrap of family Bruce is
willing to share with him. And maybe he is a little annoyed with Bruce right now for making
assumptions; it would have been nice if Bruce had taken the time to talk to Dick, to ask him
about what is true, but it’s okay. It hurts, but it’s okay, really.

“You think I don’t know he doesn’t give a shit about how I feel half the time?” Dick spits, the
hurt tasting a lot like anger on his tongue. “I understand him, and he understands me.” A lie.
He covers it with an attack, “Maybe you guys should try to understand me a bit more too. I’m
not some damsel in distress. My childhood wasn’t your childhood.” Steph flinches, and Dick
refuses to feel bad. “Did you even consider that maybe Bruce saved my life after I lost e
verything? So asshole or not, I owe it to him to stick with him. And I care,” he stresses, “And
when you care about people, you don’t just leave.” His voice shakes on the last word. He
tries not to think of the ways the very people he’s arguing with now have left him in the past.

“You think you can handle anything,” Steph says, eyes shiny; an acid rain waiting to fall.
“But you’re a mess. ” You’re unstable. “You’re attacking the wrong people.” Steph draws in a
sharp breath. Her nostrils flare. “We’re trying to help your sorry butt. Bruce doesn’t deserve
your defense.” She points a finger, accusing, “You think you’re different? You’re exactly like
me.”

Dick inhales.

Tim steps in between them, breaking their furious eye contact. “Guys, stop, public spaces,
drawing attention.” He sounds tired and old again, and Dick feels guilty as the cause. Tim
looks at the clock. “Time to meet in the cafeteria,” he points out. “We need to get Damian and
go.”

Tim’s interruption shorts out the sparks flying between them. Steph pinches the bridge of her
nose exasperatedly. Dick backs away, needing space suddenly. He tries to calm down.

“I’ll find him,” Dick says, glancing around, “He was here earlier.”
Tim hesitates as he looks between Steph and Dick, clearly conflicted. Dick has noticed that
no one seems to want him to be alone today. But Tim must be able to see that Dick hasn’t
really cooled down yet. And Steph’s arms are still folded. So to Dick, “We’ll see you there?”

“See you there,” Dick echoes, and he heads down the aisle he saw Damian last. He turns the
corner, and pauses to collect himself for a second, slumping against the wall.

Honestly, what is with him picking fights today? But it feels like no one understands him
when he speaks. He reaches up to rub a hand over his face and almost pokes his eye out; he’s
still holding the stick toy, he forgot to put it back. He stares for a moment. A perky plastic
whale stares back. Its tail is chipped and the stick is broken. Well, he needs to find Damian
right now so the whale is stuck with him for a bit, but seriously, shoplifting? Can’t he do
anything right? Dick sighs internally. He shoves the toy into his deep sweater pocket, its
broken end just barely covered; he will have to return it after.

He finds Damian looking at a small selection of pet fish for sale. He appears deep in pensive
thought. Dick feels his guilt return as he watches him.

“What are you thinking about?” Dick asks, standing next to him.

“There is limited space for the fish in these tiny tanks,” Damian comments, not looking away
from the fish. The tanks are kind of small, compared with the giant displays for the exhibits
in the aquarium.

“Maybe they’re a little small,” Dick allows. “But at least they’re safe. There are no predators
in there, they get meals; it’s a good life.”

“Perhaps,” says Damian, unconvinced. “But they do not understand their situation enough to
know they are trapped. All they see is their tiny tank. How could they know what they are
missing when they can never leave?”

Damian still hasn’t looked at him. It’s clear he’s still upset from earlier. Dick can’t help
second guessing himself, wondering if Tim is right, is he overstepping again with Damian?
Who is he to tell Damian what family is? Bruce barely tolerates Dick as is, and if he thinks
Dick is what his reputation shows him to be, it’s obvious Dick shouldn’t be so close to
Damian. He’s not a good influence, he’s a terrible adult: he has been shaking all morning, and
he hasn’t slept or eaten properly in a week. He can’t even take care of himself.

But Damian is hurting, so Dick kneels down so he is lower than him, the motion a repeat
from a few minutes ago with little Timmy. It feels right.

“I’m sure with the proper sized aquarium, the fish are fine,” he says. He reaches out a hand to
rest on Damian’s arm. “Damian, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lost my temper earlier. I don’t
know why I said that to you. Last night was really difficult, you’re allowed to take time to
process.”

“You may have had some points,” Damian admits softly. He leans into Dick. “I apologize as
well.”

Dick closes his eyes for a moment, pretending he can have this.

“I love you, kiddo,” Dick says, standing up and ruffling his hair.

“You are a nuisance,” Damian tells him fondly. His eyes catch on the little whale toy peeking
out of Dick’s pocket, but he doesn’t comment.

Dick smiles, but it feels forced. As they head to the cafeteria, he can’t leave Stephanie’s
words behind.

He doesn’t care enough to care for you.

Dick knows.

You’re exactly like me.

But Dick can’t leave.

And his own words:

You think I don’t know he doesn’t give a shit about how I feel half the time?

Really, Dick knows. It’s not fair that he has to do exactly what Bruce wants, that he has to be
perfect if he wants acceptance. But it has never mattered. Bruce’s love can be hard and
conditional; that has always been the case. So long as Dick sticks around, he can earn it. He’s
tired of this, sure, but he’s used to it. Really. Why would it matter now?

It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t.

Now, if only he could relax. He shoves his hands in his pockets to hide the tremors.

—--------------------

The cafeteria is crowded, and at first Dick doesn’t recognize anyone inside, but then he
notices an outdoor section under an overhang. A plain balcony overlooking drab Gotham
streets. Dick spots Cass, Bruce, Tim and Steph at a table just beyond the door. No one else is
outside. Damian makes a grumbling noise when he sees where they are sitting, and Dick is
sympathetic. Apparently they are braving the elements today. At least it stopped raining.

“A bit cold for an outdoor picnic isn’t it?” Dick asks cheerily as they approach the table.
Everyone looks up. He assesses them instinctively - there’s no obvious argument interrupted,
so. That’s good.

“Tough,” Cass says, puffing out her chest, and Dick grins.
“Where did you run off to?” he manages to sound casual, looking between her and Bruce. He
takes a seat next to Tim, pretending not to notice Steph’s piercing look or Bruce frowning at
him.

(But why is Bruce frowning? Leftover uncertainty from their earlier conversation? A new
problem? What did Cass say to him this time? Dick tries to force his mind to let it go, but it’s
an old habit now, agonizing over Bruce’s microexpressions.)

“Imax,” says Cass, pointing to the brochure.

Dick makes an ‘ah’ sound, leaning in to read the title. He hears the door open behind them.

“Finally, food!” Tim says, as though he hadn’t just gorged himself on candy. Well, Dick
won’t tattle. He discreetly shoves the skittles deeper into his pocket before turning. Jason and
Alfred arrive together, carrying their bags from the locker.

“Now we feast,” says Bruce, getting up to help set out the food. His words are surprisingly
droll - but Dick can’t even enjoy it, because he’s too busy wondering what Bruce is really
thinking.

Maybe it’s the cold, but lunch feels tense. The finger food is strangely hard to swallow. Dick
can’t think of anything to say, feeling edgy and prickly. The whale toy stabs him in his
churning stomach, reminding him that he still has to fix mistakes he brought on himself.
Great, now he’s an accidental shoplifter. But as uncomfortable as Dick feels, he doesn’t want
to leave his family alone right now to go return the stupid whale. He tries to tune into the
conversation.

Then Steph brings up their fish alter egos.

“-So this is really important for us to understand each other. Think of it as a personality test,”
Steph rants intensely.
“You don’t get to make this a test,” Jason says, mouth full. “This is your opinion.”

“It’s a good opinion, okay? Just wait, there’s a point. So Damian is a shrimp or sailfish
depending on the circumstances,” Steph launches in, “Because he’s small but he’s also quick.
Dick is the seahorse because he keeps mothering people and his life revolves around
relationships,” Do not react, Grayson, “Bruce is the king crab obviously because rich people
delicacy, Jason is the octopus -”

“Wait,” says Bruce, “Doesn’t the octopus -”

“Yes,” says Jason, looking satisfied.

“Yeah, so Jason terrorizes you the most. I’m the dolphin -”

“Jellyfish,” Jason corrects.

“- because I’m awesome. Alfred is a sea turtle because he is wise and awesome.”

Steph pauses, but everyone must agree with that last one. Alfred daintily continues to eat.

“Tim is a cone snail.” Jason grins and Tim starts to protest at being a snail but Steph barrels
on, “Because they seem harmless and honestly dormant but can be super deadly, and Tim is
usually asleep but occasionally brilliant. And finally, Cass is a stonefish because she’s a
sneaky, deadly boss.”

Steph pauses for a breath and Cass inclines her head graciously at the praise.

“But here’s the thing,” Steph lectures, tone serious. “The ocean is everyone’s home. The
ocean is a team. All of the sea creatures need a safe environment to interact with each other
and no one gets to be more dominant or there are problems.”
“Uh, what,” says Tim, pausing mid-sandwich bite and looking at Steph like she has grown a
second head.

Dick gets the feeling Steph is trying to use a complicated fish metaphor to tell everyone they
need to make nice and work out their problems. Dick does Not want to do that right now, he’s
not feeling calm enough for that discussion. The weakness with metaphors is that people can
willfully ignore them. In this case, the weak point is where he will strike.

“Thanks for that friendly lesson about sea creatures,” Dick says, teeth bared in a smile.
“Nice to hear so much about the oceans. Someone was reading the plaques.”

Steph shoots him an unimpressed look. “That was clearly about us -”

“So anyway!” Dick says loudly, not wanting to have this conversation at all. The increase in
volume has everyone looking up. Tim foregoes his sandwich altogether. Dick forges on, away
from Steph’s point. “We still really need to see the local exhibit on Gotham harbour.”

Jason snorts. “As if anything can survive that toxic wasteland.”

“Right?” Dick says enthusiastically, relieved at the diversion catching on. “Only the toughest
of sea creatures.”

“Speaking of so-called sea creatures surviving in Gotham -,” Steph says, gaze boring into
Dick. Really, her formidable willpower in the face of clear opposition was crucial to her
debut as Robin and remains a part of her character that Dick really admires.

But he is getting very tired of this. The aches in his body remind him that his painkillers are
wearing off. He throws his uneaten muffin back down, feeling nauseous.
He stands abruptly, blinking back the headrush. Damian has to shift to make room. “That
exhibit is probably emptier over the lunch hour. We should check it out. Right now.” His
vision is clearing slower than expected, and Dick rides out the dizziness with his gaze fixed
on where his lunch lies half eaten on his plate.

Dick can feel everyone looking at him like he’s crazy, but if he has to talk about dominant
species making life hard for other species in the context of his own family members he will
actually lose it. He feels thinly put together as it is.

Dick looks up, locks eyes with Bruce. He is frowning. “Dick, what’s wrong?” Dick has to
fight to keep the disbelief off his face.

Seriously Bruce, what’s wrong? Dick wants to laugh, he wants to cry, he wants to ask Bruce
what he did wrong. He feels hot and cold and sick.

What do you see when you look at me?

He must look particularly brittle because suddenly Jason is standing.

“Why the fuck not. Let’s go, Goldie,” he says. To the table, “Catch up with us in a few.”
Jason walks a few paces before turning back to Dick’s frozen form. “Well? You fucking
coming, Goldie?”

Dick blinks at his unexpected saviour but takes the escape. As he follows Jason out, he feels
the confusion rippling in his wake, but he can’t bring himself to look back.

—--------------------

They walk silently to the exhibit area. It’s dimly lit, probably an artistic effort to capture the
darkness of Gotham. The fish are duller here; it’s a stark contrast to the colourful reef
exhibits.
“I’m all for the theatre, but I haven’t seen you this dramatic since your teenage drama queen
days.” Dick ignores Jason’s attempt at either starting a conversation (poor) or a fight
(moderate).

Something soft is shoved into Dick’s hand, distracting him before he has a chance to sink into
his thoughts. “Here, take this,” Jason says. Dick looks down. It’s a little sandwich from
lunch. He looks up.

Jason is watching him closely, with something like concern. Jason is not naturally gentle, not
with Dick, and Dick immediately decides he doesn’t like it. Quickly, he shoves the entire
sandwich into his mouth, chewing mechanically. It tastes like dust. He swallows despite the
lingering nausea, then turns back to the exhibits.

They observe silently for a while.

“So,” says Jason eventually, nonchalant. “What the fuck was that.”

Dick pretends to be absorbed with the display. Even the water is murky, like it was actually
scooped out of the Gotham harbour, toxic sediment and all. “Oh, nothing. Just really excited
for this exhibit.”

“Bullshit,” Jason calls him out, “You looked like you were about to either blow up or break
down.” Dick presses his lips together but says nothing. Jason shakes his head, then continues
to prod. “What is up with you? Seriously, you’re a hot mess today.”

Dick barely registers the sting of the insult. He has been feeling so on the fritz. Everytime he
talks to someone it ends in disaster. He doesn’t want to talk to Jason, afraid that it will be
another failure, but Jason is hard to avoid when he is feeling determined, and Dick doesn’t
want to cause a scene even if this exhibit is emptier than others.

“What’s up with you and Bruce?” Dick asks instead of answering.

Honestly, he doesn’t know if he should be bemused or annoyed that their family outing is
being hijacked by tense relationships, because of course it is.

Jason laughs, a disbelieving sound. “Really? You don’t want to talk about you, but you want
to go down that road?” Jason shakes his head, whistling air through his teeth. “That’s a long
road into the past, Dickie-bird. You’re not going to fix it with a conversation.”

“He’s changed a lot since you were a kid,” Dick makes himself say. It’s better to talk about
Jason’s problems than his own. Maybe the conversation will be over sooner. “He was
wrecked for a while, when you were gone. But he’s improved. He wants to fix things
between you, he just doesn’t know how.”

“Dick, right now my problem with Bruce is that he literally hasn’t changed.” Jason’s tone is
flat. “Really, what do you mean ‘he’s improved’? He hits you and throws you out of his
house - if that’s an improvement, what was he like before?” Jason’s eyes are narrowed,
evaluating.

Dick stares into the water, eyes burning as he forces himself not to blink. He recalls Bruce’s
anger, the memory of his harsh words still clear in Dick’s mind as if he spoke them yesterday.
Bruce was so raw in the wake of Jason’s death.

Dick can’t help but think quietly, he was terrifying.

But that’s not going to help. He redirects to the present, to Jason. “Well, he has his moments
now. But what Bruce and I are to each other is different. What I mean is he’s changed in how
he approaches you - he really, really wants to make things right. He loves you.” Strong
emotional language always pushes Jason over the edge.

“He loves me?” Jason repeats, incredulous. “No fucking way; I’m the bad guy,” he stresses,
“Even if I’m not just the bad guy, I annoy him more than anyone.” Jason states this all
confidently, like he believes it, but Dick detects a hint of wistfulness. Bingo. No matter how
much they rage against him, everyone in this family has a core desire to be appreciated by
Bruce.
“Of course he loves you, you’re his son,” Dick says, annoyed that he has to explain this when
it’s so obvious.

“Hardly, I’m more like a tolerated stain,” Jason retorts. “Besides, he treats you so poorly and
you’re the golden son. Imagine how he’d treat me, the rebel, if I stuck around more.”

“Are you kidding? You’re everything to him!” Dick tries to keep the irritation down, along
with the volume. It’s not a busy exhibit but if they start yelling they’ll draw attention. He
pulls his hood down lower. They are drifting as they talk; he directs his feet towards a quieter
area. “You weren’t there, you didn’t see how broken he was when you died but I saw and it
was not pretty. You are the first person he adopted because he loved you, and that has not
changed, it’s so obvious it’s hard to watch.” Dick takes a breath. Sets the bitterness aside.
“And cut it out with the golden child thing, I’m clearly no favourite. I have ways of annoying
him that are on a level you can’t even dream of reaching.”

Jason crosses his arms, brows furrowing. “What do you mean I’m the first one he adopted?
You’re right here.”

Okay, so. Dick tries to smooth it over for his younger siblings to avoid awkwardness but it’s
not like he has hidden the fact that he isn’t adopted. And Jason was around Before. How does
he not know? “He didn’t adopt me,” Dick says simply, staring hard at the fish.

There is a pause.

“Why not?” Jason’s voice is quiet. Dick can’t see his expression, the reflection on the glass
too dim.

Dick blows out a breath, rubbing his temple. “I guess it wasn’t common back then. Or maybe
he didn’t want to. I don’t know, it doesn’t matter. Either way it’s his choice.” Everything is
always up to Bruce.

It’s quiet for a moment.

“Hmm, that also makes a lot of sense about how much you hated me,” Jason says,
contemplative.

“I didn’t hate you -”

Jason waves a hand. “But still, Bruce was kind of rude to you to your face and you wouldn’t
willingly go near the manor when he was around. So I don’t get why you stuck around. Why
are you still here, years later?” He tilts his head, calculating. “He’s such a shit to you. Why
haven’t you set yourself free?”

Dick is a bit lost now. “What do you mean? I left Gotham, I don’t even live here half the
time. But you mean Bruce?” Dick recalls, briefly, the warm smiles of his parents, before he
ever had to make any hard decisions about who his family was or think seriously about what
love could look like, what he could accept. It had been easier, back then. But even though his
new family is difficult, he would never leave. He would never choose to be alone. “I figured
out long ago that family isn’t blood or labels, and sometimes it takes a little pain.”

Dick looks up to see Jason watching him, shaking his head. “I used to accept the bullshit in
this world,” Jason muses. “Growing up, I figured I got what I deserved. Sometimes I thought
I’d be better off dead.” Dick winces at the calm tone delivering chilling words, finds himself
wanting to shield a child long gone. “It started with my dad, but then with Bruce, everything
was so much better. Fuck, comparatively it was like heaven. But Bruce could be an asshole. I
just thought, at the time, that what I got was warranted. I know better now.” Dick doesn’t like
what Jason is suggesting. He tries desperately to recall Jason’s time as Robin, but Dick was
selfishly not around to monitor. He doesn’t have time to pursue the trail before Jason’s eyes
go hard. “Lately I’ve been wanting to change myself. And I’ve been thinking about Bruce,
and you. Maybe we all should change.” More pointedly, “I think you should let go of some of
Bruce and the other chicks’ problems; they’re not your responsibility.”

Let go?

Dick finds himself, strangely, thinking about meat. A memory: two slabs of beef sitting
forgotten in the hot sun outside his family’s trailer behind a show, somewhere in Europe,
sometime in his happiest days. One piece salted, the other not enough. The meat without salt
grew rancid by the end of the day. Dick remembers being fascinated that only one was still
good to eat. The fortune-teller explained to him why:

Things rarely improve when left alone.

So Dick can’t let go of his family’s issues, can’t leave them to their natural and inevitable
end. He will preserve their relationships for them. But he needs to be here at all times, to
catch the rot before it sets.

Jason won’t understand how Dick sees himself, would probably mock him for his self-
important Atlas attitude towards their family’s stability. But something about Jason’s tone has
Dick remembering a young boy who had never seen a mountain before. “I should have been
better to you, before,” Dick admits. He has said those words many times but Jason always
seems to forget his apologies. He thinks again of one of his best memories of child-Jason. He
asks wistfully, “Do you remember our ski trip?”

“Our - what?” Jason asks, caught off guard.

Dick immediately wishes he hadn’t mentioned it. Everything is seeping out of his cracks
today. “When we… before you…it was fun.” Dick finishes the disastrous sentence lamely.

Jason looks at him carefully. Dick wonders if he’s as transparently fragile as he feels. Jason
shifts, shakes his head. “It’s fuzzy, you know?” He answers slowly. Dick holds his breath.
“Everything is, from before the pit. I remember a bit, but it doesn’t feel real.” He shifts again,
expression wary. He clearly doesn’t want further questions about this right now.

“Oh.” Dick tries not to be disappointed that he is alone in his reminiscing. He’s honoured that
Jason gave him a real answer instead of biting sarcasm about his black memories of Dick.
But Dick is not sure what to say about his apparent memory loss; he hadn’t known, Jason
hadn’t told him - was he supposed to ask before? Jason obviously doesn’t want him to ask
now. In the early days, Jason wanted Dick to be an older brother to him when Dick was ready
to be anything but, and now most days Dick feels like he has missed his window. And Dick
knows better than to suggest they make new memories going skiing again, but. It would be
nice.
Jason has moved on, free from the nostalgia that sinks Dick in his thoughts. “You always do
this,” he’s saying, frustrated again. Oops, it’s always a fine line Dick walks when he
discusses sensitive topics with Jason; now he’s mad again. “You always turn it into a
smothering interrogation.” Dick grits his teeth. He didn’t drag the information out of Jason.
But Jason goes on, “Again, it’s not me on the edge of a breakdown.” His hands are making
fists now. “What I don’t get is why you’re in denial. You’re so fucking chill sitting next to
Bruce eating waffles when he literally blamed you for everything, told you he doesn’t want
you there and never apologizes. Where is the legendary Grayson temper? Your self-righteous
anger?”

Dick stares at him in disbelief. Is Jason seriously mad that Dick isn’t mad? That’s just rich.
And untrue.

Dick is very mad.

He’s mad, and the anger is bigger and closer to the surface than he has felt in years, a monster
that has been growing in his heart. He can’t ignore it anymore, but he doesn’t know what to
do with it, afraid of what it may destroy. Lately everyone in this family claims to want to help
Dick, to fix him. They want him to feel angry on his own behalf, but his siblings don’t realize
the size of the dam Dick has built to hold back his problems, his emotions, to keep them all
safe. Dick knows it’s a little arrogant, a little self-centred, but they aren’t ready for him to
break.

Dick doesn’t think they could handle the flood.

So, Dick knows why he shouldn’t get angry. But he’s so tired of fighting off his own
emotions and patching his leaking cuts.

“Anger isn’t really useful for calming people down,” Dick says, tone turning frosty, “But now
that you mention it it’s right here.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “I know your shockingly low self esteem has you eternally grateful to
Bruce for no reason, but this is going to screw you up,” Jason tells him, strangely earnest.
“Seriously. You need to fight back or you need to leave.”
Seriously? Jason Todd is going to tell him his options? Dick hates that he can hear the echo
of Bruce, telling him he needs to either obey or leave. Why can’t Dick just exist in this family
and do none of those things?

It’s driving Dick crazy, that everyone thinks he needs to listen to them, like they know him
best and know what he should do. Like they know him better than himself.

“I’m already screwed up,” Dick says heatedly, “In case you haven’t noticed, we all kind of
are! And fuck you very much. You can’t tell me how to deal with Bruce.”

“Then don’t tell me how to deal with Bruce,” Jason stresses. “You arrogant asshole. But
maybe you should think about how your insecurities and choices are affecting the other little
birdies. Look at us!” Jason gestures around wildly, frustrated. “We’re on a fucking family trip
like nothing happened! You’re telling everyone it’s all okay.” A searching look. “You’re
enabling Bruce to keep acting like this; do you seriously want him to treat everyone like he
treats you?”

(Slade’s words mock him - They will never thank you for what you’ve done . )

Dick tries to keep his mind from shattering at the horrifying thought of anyone feeling as
precarious in the family as he does. But he doesn’t understand what Jason is trying to say
about their being at the aquarium. Clearly no one has a problem with it. “You’re on this trip
too, Jay,” he says quietly. He regards him carefully. “What are you telling me?”

And surprisingly, Jason looks taken aback. He grits his jaw. “No, I’m here to -,” and then
Jason stops, troubled.

Dick feels a bit bad about how he went after all of Jason’s weak points; now he is making
Jason second guess whether he has hurt Dick somehow by coming to the aquarium when
Dick is literally fine and honestly very happy that they are all here. If only he could stop
picking fights with everyone, maybe today could stop being such a trainwreck. He just needs
to cool down.
(And isn’t it just like he told Tim and Steph, like he told Catalina before? It's him, he is the
poison.)

It must mean something anyway, that none of them have intervened farther, or sooner. Surely
Dick’s relationship with Bruce isn’t as dark as the picture they’ve painted after all, isn’t some
cancerous wound at the heart of their family.

If it was worse, well. Maybe then they would… but it’s not. Dick should be happy it’s not. He
is happy it’s not.

But if it was worse…

(Maybe then his unhappiness would be justified.)

Dick shakes himself. He is feeling increasingly reckless with each blow up, like the
arguments are a chain reaction and Dick himself is the catalyst along for the ride.

He almost wishes Bruce hadn’t come to his apartment on Thursday, that he had more time to
sort through his feelings and dull his sharper, broken edges, to better protect his siblings from
himself. When Bruce called him back, he hadn’t realized how much he normally cooled
down during those long periods between exile and restoration. That maybe it wasn’t just
Bruce who needed time to work through his feelings. Dick clearly hasn’t buried his deeply
enough, and these earthquakes are warning signs of an impending eruption.

Everything is outside of his control, as usual, but this time his emotions aren’t cooperating
either, and Dick is fighting himself.

Jason clears his throat. There is a change in his eyes, some new realization. Dick braces.
Jason says, “Dick, you -”

But Jason never finishes. Cass manifests beside him.

“What fish is that?” she points, and Jason blinks at the interruption.

Blinks and frowns. “It’s an empty tank.”

Dick looks around. The others are approaching now, lunch finished. He automatically waves.
Dick sees Damian perk up as he takes in the local Gotham fish he has been researching for
weeks. It makes Dick want to smile, but then he sees Bruce coming straight for him, stride
very purposeful. He winces.

Dick can’t imagine that anything good will come of a driven Bruce in this scenario -
determination always makes him so inflexible. But there is no avoiding this, no running off to
urgently check out a different exhibit this time. Distracted while arguing with Jason, they
have backed themselves into a corner with unfinished exhibits. Large enough to hold
mammals, but all they contain are murky water and sand. The sad, empty tanks offer him no
guise of pretending to observe fish, so Dick looks back at Bruce.

Dick tries to steel himself, shove away the leftover adrenaline and frustration from his
conversation with Jason. It only half works by the time Bruce is before him. “Hey B,” he
greets.

Bruce shepherds him aside. He finds himself pressed against a tank. “Dick, we need to talk,”
Bruce says, and it’s déjà vu, for every time Bruce has had a problem with Dick. And of
course, Bruce never got to fully chew him out last night, there must be some residual
grievance that has just been waiting to come out. It always comes out.

Why did Dick think coming to the aquarium with his family would be a good idea?

Bruce goes on immediately, “What I said earlier.” Then he stops.

Dick wants to close his eyes, but that won’t make this moment go away. Instead he says, faux
brightly, “Yes?”
Everyone is near them now, a short distance away, giving them the illusion of a private
discussion, but Dick knows his siblings too well. They are watching them while pretending to
watch the empty exhibits or their phones. Cass looks strangely hopeful. Dick catches Jason’s
raised eyebrow and Tim’s wince at his obnoxious tone, but Dick is feeling brash.

Bruce looks frustrated. It could be with himself, Bruce’s own inability to communicate, but
Dick knows from experience that it can be directed at himself regardless of the origin. “You
seemed angry earlier,” Bruce ends up saying neutrally. He leans closer. “Was it something I
said?”

I had thought, considering your past history, that you would be able to handle it.

Dick, your reputation -

Dick has been jumpy all day wondering what Bruce didn’t say; who does he think Dick is?
Dick’s undoing is in the details.

“I don’t remember,” Dick lies, looking to Bruce’s left so he doesn’t have to meet his eyes. He
folds his arms. “What did you say?”

Bruce frowns at Dick’s offbeat response and behaviour, but Dick doesn’t care. He needs to
hear it again.

“I said I had not anticipated your… struggle, last night,” Bruce says carefully, almost
repentant. “It was not my intention.” If Dick was looking for an apology he could find it here,
he’s sure, but that’s not what he wants right now, not this time. He wants answers.

Bruce isn’t done. “It has raised some… concerns. And in the spirit of resolving issues,”
Bruce pauses, making sure he’s holding Dick’s gaze for his last words, face serious, “perhaps
your own behaviours could use intervention.”
What.

Damian must see how Dick has gone rigid because he approaches, hesitant. “Father, I don’t
think Richard -”

“Not now Damian,” Bruce dismisses him, and Damian’s steps falter, stopping short. “I need
to talk with just Dick.”

Dick is still lost in the ugly picture Bruce’s words are painting about him, but his jaw
twitches at Damian’s hurt face. “Don’t talk to him like that,” he tells Bruce, annoyed. Then to
Damian, “Hey kiddo, everything is fine, we just need to talk,” Dick reassures him. He can’t
smile, but he tries to stop grimacing.

Damian closes his mouth, but his eyes are wide and worried. He doesn’t move.

Bruce is frowning at Dick, annoyed. “We're talking about your issues right now Dick, I think
you have enough of them without adding your complications about Damian."

Dick’s eyes flash. “This is not about Damian.” It better not be. But what is it about? Dick
swallows. “I think you should let this go, Bruce.” He tries not to feel like he is running from a
fight, knows a tactical retreat is sometimes the smartest move.

He can’t seem to force his body to untense.

But Bruce holds him still with a command. “No, it’s time I addressed how you have been
acting. And you’re clearly still upset.”

You’re upset. And Dick realizes he is upset. Bruce’s judgments of Dick have always been
self-fulfilling prophecies, no matter how grim. Dick has always struggled to distinguish what
Bruce tells him is true from reality.
Usually it doesn’t matter.

Dick looks at their surroundings, his family lingering close by, their holiday trip on pause for
this discussion. Bruce’s timing is consistently dreadful.

But there’s something about the dirt that Bruce is digging into that feels like it has been a
long time coming. Like maybe this is a root to their decaying relationship that should finally
be uncovered, a rot that can no longer be ignored. Dick just needs to be brave. It feels
different when he’s being brave for himself, somehow shameful. It feels more like he’s
naked.

“My …behaviours?” says Dick, tilting his head so he meets Bruce’s eyes. His hood falls
down. He very deliberately enunciates, “And what was that about my reputation?”

Bruce doesn’t answer right away, able to tell that his reply is clearly significant to Dick and
he needs to watch his step. He stares into Dick’s eyes for a moment. He looks a bit troubled.
“I have heard talk, in the …community.” The superhero community. Dick closes his eyes, but
Bruce’s words continue, “About your … exploits. Dick, look,” Dick opens his eyes
unwillingly as Bruce shifts tempo, face earnest of all things. He’s staring directly at Dick,
“You need to be more careful with yourself, Dick, and who you choose to …spend time with.
From your Titans days, and lately I’ve heard things about John Constantine.” There’s a
heartfelt sincerity behind the disdain, like Bruce is saying this mortifying mess out of some
misguided endeavour to parent better or something. “You have a concerning pattern with
your encounters, Dick, and Tim said that Deathstroke -”

Dick’s mind is cloudy, and his hearing fades for a second, and Dick is almost grateful for his
slight break from reality that keeps him from hearing Bruce suggest that Dick is involved
with Slade Wilson of all people. His words sound almost like he’s worried Dick isn’t
following safe relationship practices.

And Tim needs to stop sharing personal details about Dick’s life - or at least he could make
sure he shares them accurately - but it’s all so absurd, does Bruce know anything about Dick?
He makes it sound like Dick is some promiscuous flirt. It’s almost like he has been talking to-

Oh. Well, it could have been literally anyone in the league. Everyone seems to think they’re
an authority on Dick’s private life, like it’s up for public discussion.
“My exploits,” Dick repeats flatly, feeling disconnected. He has been tipping for days, his
defensive walls slowly crumbling, and suddenly now he’s floating; where is the ground? Has
he fallen off the edge?

Is someone touching him? Suddenly it feels like there are hands, everywhere. Dick reaches
his own fingers up to rub his arms, trying to play off the awkward motion casually. It’s just
cold in the museum, that’s all.

“Yes,” Bruce replies, soldiering on through his own discomfort. It’s a display of true valiance
by a knight of justice who is trying to save Dick from himself. “Your reputation precedes
you. And I’m concerned that -”

And Dick needs Bruce to be more specific, for his own sanity, so he can frame the anger
that’s building, so he pronounces slowly, “You mean the rumours where I’m a slut?” Bruce
winces at the term, his own discomfort finally, blessedly, silencing him.

Bruce has never been a good communicator and he’s not about to start now. It’s surreal that
Bruce is trying to address this at all. But if he’s making Dick talk about this, that’s too bad for
him.

When Bruce doesn’t say anything, Dick clarifies louder in that same dead tone, because
apparently he’s shameless anyway, “You mean because I’m a slut?” Bruce winces again.
Good.

“Dick, wait -” It’s one of his siblings. It could be Jason, he thinks. But when it’s not Dick
himself intervening in conflict, it’s usually Tim.

“Stop, for once, would you just -” he looks around wildly at his watching family, “All of you,
just stay out of this.” Dick hisses, unable to deal with multiple attackers, unwilling to risk
multiple casualties again. He feels frayed already. It shouldn’t be this easy, he thinks, for
Bruce to unravel him. He has held on for so long, why now? But he has so many loose
threads and he’s only just realizing that somewhere along the way he has been pulled apart.
No wonder he feels so empty.

Tim closes his mouth, surprised. Cass, who had been looking strangely hopeful when Bruce
first started talking, is now frowning, but she keeps her distance. Everyone is still raw, likely
lingering hurt from the arguments last night and today. No one really wants to be in another
shouting match. Jason looks at Alfred like he thinks maybe he will intervene. But Dick
knows he won’t. Alfred has never stepped in when it was just Dick and Bruce before, and
from the weary resignation on his face, won’t start now. But no one leaves; they’re all
vigilantes for a reason: they can smell smoke.

It’s an awkward topic though. It sits differently in the throat than the abuse they were ranting
about yesterday. Dick can feel the embarrassment radiating off of his siblings, so strong they
are frozen in place. Dick is on display.

Everyone is interested. Everyone is listening.

“Perhaps it’s in part my fault,” Bruce says slowly, “I was not a good role model,” which is a
surprising confession. Dick would be touched if his next words weren’t incendiary, “But you
were so afraid of losing any connection to your childhood, how was I supposed to change
you?”

And maybe Dick is overthinking and overanalyzing but if Bruce is suggesting that somehow
Dick’s parents are to blame for why everyone thinks Dick is easy, he is going to lose it. The
implication rings false, barely worth addressing directly when the rest of Bruce’s statement
was so blatantly untrue anyway: of course Bruce has changed Dick.

Some days it feels like he has changed him in all the ways that matter.

A dark part of him whispers that Bruce is responsible for what’s wrong with Dick,
responsible for all of the things he is ashamed of in himself - for how Dick
compartmentalizes his friendships, devalues his personal well-being, puts himself into risky
situations, all for the sake of some glorified mission. Bruce took Dick apart and rebuilt him
into a horrible shell of a creature playing at human. But who does that? Who tells a child they
are not as important as the ladder of justice, that no one is? That the moral code requires
throwing yourself away to save others?
Bruce has created Dick, turned him into this person he hates. Bruce is Frankenstein, and Dick
is his monster, his Adam. But he never asked for this. Who, between the two of them, is the
real monster here? What makes someone evil: What they do to others? Or is it what they are,
how they were created? There is something wrong with Dick, after all, this emptiness inside
of him that demands he be hollow all the way through, an empty machine to better serve the
greater good.

“What’s wrong with me, exactly?” Dick asks Bruce, a question he has always wanted
answered, but his siblings are in his sightlines as well.

It’s always the faces that give people away. The knowing looks. And the answer is clear, as
he stares into his family’s uncomfortable expressions. Into Bruce’s face, chiding him for
being difficult about this, as he mutters a low, warning, “Dick.”

No. The world on Dick’s shoulders shifts. He is left suddenly overbalanced. The uncertain
limbo of the moment is over; the rope has snapped with the weight of this terrible truth,
confirmed in all of their faces, in Bruce’s face:

He. Is. A. Slut.

Dick swallows stomach acid. Bruce’s judgments of him have always been prophecies that
Dick has followed religiously to define his reality, to define himself. But it doesn’t feel right
this time.

Unless… it only makes his skin itch because it’s an uncomfortable truth?

(Shut up, shut up , shut up.)

Dick really doesn’t want it to be true. Not this time. Not when he has tried so hard to not be a
slut.
There’s so much more that Bruce should have noticed, if he was watching at all - Dick is so
careful about how he talks to people, how he smiles at people, always assessing the give and
take. And he has been so focused recently on his family, he hasn’t thought about himself in
ages, let alone a relationship.

But pieces of conversations, ruined friendships, offhand comments, overheard jokes,

wandering looks, touches, every unwanted advance someone’s ever felt entitled to make on
him (that he never knows how to reject), everything he runs circles in his head to avoid, are
all rising to the surface, a damning file of evidence for Batman to flip through.

Dick wants to throw up.

They’re just… they’re just rumours, how does Bruce not know that it’s not real, when he
knows Dick so well? When he knows Dick would never - but something makes him Bruce’s
pick for undercover sex trafficking. Maybe everyone can see how dirty Dick is.

And now his dam has cracked, with more suppressed memories leaking without his
permission.

So tell me, who was better?

He should have known the difference, really.

Quiet, mi amor.

He could have pushed her off.

What else would you let me do?

Dick put himself into that position willingly.

Your reputation precedes you.

..But.

You don’t need to rely on reputation when it comes to someone you know. So what is Dick to
Bruce?

It’s almost funny; Dick has always believed his relationship with Bruce bore at least some
resemblance to family. This uncertainty hurts, but he has been hurt before. Bruce has hurt
him before. When Dick became Robin, Bruce would tell him when to start fighting, to teach
him when to engage. And Bruce would tell him when to stop fighting. But that didn’t mean
Bruce would stop. That didn’t mean Dick was safe. That didn’t mean Dick wasn’t going to
get hit. It just meant he wasn’t going to fight back.

Now, Dick is always ready, always waiting, for Bruce to fight him. And, with an old
weariness that weighs in his bones, Dick is suddenly certain that Bruce doesn’t even realize
what he has done, that it was never to train Dick or make him better, that, perhaps. Perhaps
Bruce didn’t even mean to damage Dick like this. Perhaps it has never been about Dick.

Dick’s lungs are burning, but he’s too trapped in his thoughts to care.

All of Dick’s hurt that has been running under his surface for too long is boiling over,
threatening to engulf him. He can’t drown; he needs to seize the old rage and ride it up.

But which way is up, which path is right? Dick wants to keep the peace; he wants a fight. He
wants to please Bruce; he wants to make him pay. He wants someone to stop this, to stop
him; he wants everyone to let it all go, to let him go.

Dick lets the stale air out of his lungs. He has thought himself into a fight in the span of a
breath. He needs to calm down, he needs space.
Dick turns away from Bruce, comes face-to-face with water and glass. Deadened eyes meet a
hopeless stare, but the tank is empty.

Not good enough; he needs to be farther away. He starts to move, but a strong grip forces him
back, turns him around.

“Don’t walk away,” Bruce says, peeved at the insubordination. “We’re not done talking.”

“I just need a minute,” Dick tells him, but Bruce is already shaking his head.

Dick closes his eyes. He just needs a moment to compose himself, to shut away his jumbled
thoughts. Just one second.

“We can’t let this go on,” Bruce admonishes him. “You’ve been ignoring it for long enough.”

His eyes snap open as his anger rises again. “What is that supposed to mean?” It comes out
biting, bitter, loud. Bruce looks a little nonplussed at the non-sequitur.

Some of his family members shift awkwardly. Dick wishes they weren’t here. The subject
matter keeps them from speaking.

Or maybe it’s something in Dick’s expression.

(Dick never did learn how to save rotting meat - it was always tossed away. But perhaps there
is some way to salvage this, to sever the contamination. They just need something sharp.)

Bruce will never admit he’s wrong, even when he’s telling Dick how Dick feels. “I thought
that since you -”
“‘My reputation precedes me?’” Dick repeats, cutting Bruce off like a knife. His words are
razors; all the better to drain the infection.

Bruce seems surprised at the show of temper. “Dick, you-”

“No stop, just listen to me for one. Second,” Dick interrupts viciously. And it feels good, to
be the one shutting other people down in an argument for once. To feel, finally, in control.

Dick is a performer. When he gets angry, it’s captivating; no one can look away, no one can
interfere. His heart is racing. So many fights with Bruce have been private. They all feel like
rehearsals for this moment, here. Dick has never spoken these lines aloud before, but they
pour out now.

“I thought you chose me for last night because I’m the oldest, I'm charming, I can act, and I
can improvise.” He feels hot with anger but every word leaving his mouth is icy. “But let me
get this straight: That is not, in fact, why you chose me.”

Bruce opens his mouth again. “No-”

“Shut. Up.” Dick hisses.

Bruce frowns. Jason looks pleased. Dick doesn’t care.

He rubs his temple and takes a deep, steadying breath. It doesn't work. “‘My reputation
precedes me,’” Dick spits again, contempt thick. “What the hell, Bruce! You’ve known me
for more than ten years, you know my history. But by hearsay, from people who are not me,”
he stresses. He points at Bruce, “You, the great detective. You think you learn something
about me.” He lets his derision seep out, and Bruce bristles in response. Dick’s fist hits his
own chest. “About what I’ve done, what I can handle. And instead of asking me, you go
behind my back to create a role you think will fit me, because I’ll be used to it or whatever,
based on gossip.” Dick can’t keep the incredulity out of his tone. And he shouldn’t say it but
it comes out anyway in a hiss between his teeth, “What the fuck , B?”
Oops, he’s losing control, his old accent is slipping in, an audible tell. His breaths are short
gasps. Get it together, Grayson. But he can’t seem to stop himself. There’s no traction to slow
him down. He’s slipping, he’s falling.

It’s terrifying.

“Dick, calm down,” Bruce says lowly, tone even despite his clenched fists. He is glancing
around at the groups of people passing by them. Dick isn’t worried. They are surrounded by
empty exhibits, and every Gothamite knows better than to stare at arguments in dark corners.
“I admit it was the wrong call, you weren’t able to handle it.” It never ends with a concession,
not with Bruce, and he goes on, “But you have to admit, with the way you behave-”

Dick laughs harshly, a sobbing sort of noise, cutting Bruce off. “Of course it was the wrong
call, B, you had bad intel about my personal life.” Dick shakes his head, taking a small step
back. “My reputation precedes me,” he repeats again, wonderingly. He looks at Bruce,
accusatory. “I know everything about you, forget your reputation. Do you even know me?
What I’ve done for you?”

He is seething now. He breathes staccato, sharp hiccup motions. He can’t seem to control his
shaking body, can barely even feel it.

His whole family is looking at him with concern over Bruce’s shoulder, like he’s unhinged,
like he’s in danger. They shouldn’t worry, Dick feels more alive right now than he has in
years.

“Of course I know you,” Bruce says, annoyed now. He reaches out a hand to settle on Dick’s
shoulder. “You’re overreacting.” The touch burns.

You’re so dramatic, Dick. But don’t some things deserve his emotion?

“Well it doesn’t feel like it,” Dick shoots back, swatting the hand away. “I was Batman for
you, when you left us all alone,” left me alone, “And you demand we do so much for you, but
then you forget it all so easily, and nothing ever changes.” Just Bruce, in control, always. “I
deal with all of your shit so I don’t have time to deal with my shit. But every fucking day I
have to decide between my friends, my job, and my city on the one hand - and you ,” Dick
stabs a finger at Bruce, a condemnation, “Because you hate my job, hate my city, and
probably wish I didn’t have friends.” Breathe, he’s forgetting to breathe. “And I put up with
it. Even when you hurt - even when you don’t even like m-,” Dick’s voice stumbles and
breaks; he hardens it again, “But the only reason I choose you every fucking time is because
it’s the only way to guarantee that I can see my family.” Dick gestures around at their stunned
audience. Maybe Steph has been getting to him, because he is feeling fishy and metaphorical.
“But we’re not family to you. We’re like …some poor fish trapped in your aquarium, but you
don’t even remember you have fish, you don’t even know what a fish is.”

Bruce looks lost, which is unsurprising; Dick is struggling to make sense. He is so far off the
rails he can’t see himself or his point either, so he restarts. “Okay, you don’t understand fish
metaphor, so how about bats?” He narrows his eyes further. “Let me make this very simple.”
He drops his words like depth charges. “The bat cave? Is the bird cage. But we’re not birds,
we’re your fucking kids.” He shoves his hands into his pockets to hide the trembling. “You
have to get to know them and take care of them, or they go away.” A threat. He drops another
one, heavy, “And if you don’t figure that out real soon, there’s going to be none of us left to
count.”

Bruce is looking at Dick like he is watching him stand on the edge of a precipice. His words
have the desperate tinge of someone trying to control a hurricane. “Dick, it’s not like that.
You need to take a deep breath. Get a hold of yourself.” Always so commanding at the worst
times.

Dick has already snapped, a rubber band pulled too hard, a dynamic system tipped over a
critical point, what comes next unavoidable and irreversible. His hands shake in his pockets,
fury fighting fear. He steps off the precipice, and falls.

“Don’t try to parent me, Bruce,” he hisses. The hairs on his arms stand on end. “I’m not even
your son.”

It is so, so quiet.

Dick finds he is always holding his breath around Bruce; now that he has spoken, there is no
air left. He feels like he’s already underwater, like maybe he always has been.
And Dick watches in slow motion as Bruce frowns and opens his mouth.

And Dick doesn’t know why this is it, why this is the moment, why this is the drop that
overflows.

It’s something about Bruce’s face, the way he’s looking at Dick, the way he always looks at
Dick. It’s something about the disappointment. It’s something about the disbelief, how maybe
there was never any belief in Dick at all. And Bruce says, “Stop attacking-”

And Dick doesn’t wait for Bruce to finish. Dick knows how it ends and he wants out.

Instead, Dick lunges forward, his fist leaving his pocket, swinging towards Bruce - whose
eyes widen as he shifts instantly to defend himself in the only way he knows how, and Dick
feels the punch land on already bruised skin - but he just wants to laugh because: isn’t it just
like Bruce to assume everything is an attack? That Bruce must be the target, that every fight
is about him.

This is about how Dick feels this time. This is about the way Dick’s expression looks in the
reflection of the glass over Bruce’s shoulder, staring back at himself out of a murky cage,
desperate to be freed.

It’s confusing, reality suddenly distorted. Dick wants to swing himself into the emptiness, to
break through to that open space - is he on the outside or the inside - which way is out? He
needs to get out.

And Dick’s fist flies past Bruce on his right, destined for the plaque next to his head that
reads Coming Soon, but:

He has miscalculated his reach.

In his fury, he has forgotten that his hand is still locked around the shoplifted toy. Realization
comes too late. He watches himself shove the stick into the glass exhibit, whale first, hard.
There is a split second where Bruce looks at him like he’s an exotic creature, strange and
potentially dangerous.

(Bruce hits hard, he knows very well, but Dick hits hard too.)

Then the world shatters.

Water bursts from the broken glass wall in a rush, engulfing Bruce and slamming into Dick.
He can’t see what happens to the rest of them - his vision is filled with water. The pressure
pushes him back, and he’s slipping across the floor, crashing undignified into the opposite
wall. He pukes into the water as he crumples, bile mixing with the already sour stench of
Gotham harbour.

Dick blinks away his double vision, wipes his mouth. He rises shakily, hand on the wall.
Years of training has him checking for casualties. Across the room, Bruce has been forced to
his knees by the surge, but he’s recovering quickly. Everyone else is backing away from the
water, soaked. Shocked faces.

(Like the magnitude of Dick’s anger is a surprise - is this not what they wanted from him?
But Dick is always too much for people.

And the tank was huge.)

Dick feels some of his blind fury drain away with the water as he takes in the broken exhibit,
the ruined floor, the scattered shards of the crushed toy.

Dick did this.

And there are other people, onlookers attracted by the noise, who have come to investigate.
They gape at the flood. The crowd grows quickly, grows louder.
And Dick meets Bruce’s eyes. The water dripping from Bruce’s hair gives the impression of
tears, and the surprise on his face could be mistaken for sorrow.

Dick doesn’t want to hear what Bruce has to say now that Dick has made another mess.

Dick’s breaths are still uneven, but his mind is becoming clearer. He knows he should take
responsibility for the problem he has created. Someone is going to need to wipe the security
tapes, explain to the staff. He should stick around, do damage control. But then Dick will
have to interact with Bruce, who will no doubt be the one to pay for Dick’s expensive
mistake, and then Dick will be in his debt, as he always is. There is no point putting it off. He
should just give in now.

Or..

Dick doesn’t break his gaze from Bruce’s as his hand slowly gropes at the wall behind him.
His hand catches on plastic, there. Dick pulls.

The fire alarm wails.

And then, like Dick has wanted to do for years, he turns and runs away.

He hears Bruce start to slosh after him, faintly hears someone calling his name. He doesn’t
turn around. Dick can feel the drum of footsteps behind him. They almost catch him when
suddenly over the din of the alarm, someone yells, “Is that Bruce Wayne?” It sounds like
Jason.

The pursuing footfalls are intercepted. Dick turns a corner and is gone.

The best performers always know when to exit the stage.

—--------------------

Dick hides.

At first he moves through the aquarium in a blur, guided by nothing but a feeling that he
needs to get out, and an even deeper instinct to find high ground. He winds up somehow on
the roof.

He thinks bitterly that he never seems to learn from his past. Whenever his life falls apart,
Dick always seems to end up on a roof. For better or worse.

It’s a nice enough afternoon, if cloudy; it’s cold, but Dick is numb. There’s public access for
viewing the tops of some of the larger exhibits up here, but Dick has squished himself into a
nook off the path next to an Employees Only sign. He pukes again into a trash can, surprising
himself. Then he loiters on a bench, relying on the crowds of people to give him cover. He’s
not surprised that everyone is ignoring the fire alarm - it’s Gotham. An elderly lady starts to
come towards the bench then pivots hard when she spots Dick. No one goes near him. He has
pulled his hood up again so he must look like a hooligan. His hand is bleeding slightly where
he cut it on the glass. The trash can next to him smells like vomit.

And he’s soaking wet, so. People avoid the puddle.

He watches the fish, unseeing, desperately hoping his family won’t find him. He’s not ready
to face them. He sneaks some soggy contraband Skittles from his pocket but they don’t help,
tasting like ash on his tongue.

He’s moping, he can admit that to himself. He’s disappointed with the day; he got what he
wished for, a day out with his family, but it’s not what he wanted. He should have known -
this always happens in stories, the tales that teach contentment. They mock him now. This is
what he gets for pushing people beyond their natural boundaries.

Why did he say those things?

Your reputation precedes you. Dick holds his head in his hands. He wishes Bruce had never
tried to speak to him this morning; Dick could have continued ignoring all of the problems
and they could have had a nice trip. All he can hear is echoes of his own hard voice, breaking
the delicate relationships he has worked so hard to build. Damian, Tim, Steph, Jason, Bruce.
What is wrong with him today? All he wants is to fix his family but he’s so angry; he can’t
be trusted with fragile things right now.

It is better to be alone.

Dick tries to focus on the aquarium before him. It’s one of the lovelier exhibits, artfully
balanced and boasting a large variety of species all living together in harmony. Dick is
reminded of his own stupid fish metaphor and blames Steph. But the fish feel so real to him
right now, when he is so out of control of his own life. He is left wondering if perhaps all of
these years he has been seeing the world through distorted glass, and it’s actually himself
who is in the fishbowl. Trapped.

The thought feels suddenly clear and damning. Dick doesn’t know what to do with it. The
consequence has always been the hardest part of metaphor.

Someone sits next to him. Dick’s hood cuts off his peripheral vision, but he’d bet money his
time has run out and he has been found by a hostile. It’s just his luck lately. Well, Dick is not
going to be the one to initiate this likely unpleasant interaction. He stubbornly continues to
stare at the aquarium. But whoever it is doesn’t speak. Dick waits five minutes before his
curiosity wins and he takes a peek.

Alfred Pennyworth watches the fish.

“Alfred,” Dick says, surprised. The man is slightly disheveled, a startling change from his
usually unflappable self, like it cost him something in his hurry to find Dick. While Dick was
not eager for company, it is touching to be so sought.

“My dear boy,” Alfred greets, turning to look at him. Dick is alarmed to see tears in Alfred’s
eyes.
“Is everything alright?” Dick asks carefully, sliding closer.

“I believe it would not be untrue to say that everything has never been alright,” Alfred
replies, voice almost steady, his gaze deep and knowing. There’s something about Alfred’s
strange phrasing and intensity that has Dick thinking this about more than just the injuries he
has been hiding. It’s odd, but Alfred appears to be bracing himself.

Dick bites his lip, contemplative. It’s not something he likes to acknowledge, buried inside,
but everything he has kept submerged seems to be surfacing today so here it is:

He is angry with Alfred.

Angry that when Bruce hurt Dick, Alfred never asked the right questions. Angry that
whenever Bruce and Dick fought, Alfred always stuck with Bruce. He didn’t always support
Bruce, he might even give Bruce the cold shoulder if he disagreed, but he never stood up for
Dick the way he has always fantasized about him doing. Dick knows that Bruce means a lot
to Alfred. But when Bruce was gone last year, Dick felt like maybe they had a strong bond
together as well. He feels like a fool now; nothing has changed. Bruce returns and decides
he’s not happy with Dick’s relationship with Damian and Dick is on the edge again. Nothing
has changed - he’s sixteen again and getting thrown out like he’s trash and not a person and
Alfred -

Alfred just watches.

Everyone in the family jokes that Alfred sees everything, that he is the omniscient caretaker.
Dick has always pretended to himself that Alfred was blind to Bruce and Dick’s fights, for
Dick’s own sanity. But they have always been like this. There is no way Alfred doesn’t know
how hard it was for Dick, that he didn’t see how unfair it all was. Not just during Dick’s
unusual childhood, but his short, foolish adulthood too.

And today Dick is angry enough to ask.

Dick turns back to the fish, unable to look Alfred in the face. Even with the fish as a buffer he
can barely choke out, “Why?”
“Pardon me,” Dick feels Alfred shift next to him. “But I am not certain what you are asking.”
He already sounds tired. Dick will make it worse.

“Why did you let this happen?” Dick whispers to the fish. “You raised him. Why didn’t you
stop him?”

Alfred sighs, an old and weary sound. “Perhaps that is the problem.” Alfred speaks slowly
like he is still thinking, but something about the regret has Dick suspecting he has dwelt on
these words before, perhaps many times. “I raised him, but I was never his parent. I was the
butler, it wasn’t my place. Maybe that’s why I could never tell him no. And now I - ” a
choked sound, a swallow - “I failed him. And you, my dear boy.” Dick’s heart stutters. He’s
frozen. “I am so sorry for all of your pain. For that, I will forever be guilty.”

Dick turns to look at the man he considers his grandfather and finds tears streaming silently
down Alfred’s face. Miserable. That’s what they are, what they all are. Dick is tired of it. He
goes in for a hug, which Alfred returns fiercely.

“I’m done,” Dick says to him quietly, exhausted. He’s not even sure what he’s referring to, he
just wants the pain in his heart to stop. “I don’t think I can do it anymore. I’m done.”

“Oh, dear child,” Alfred reaches out to Dick’s face and wipes moisture off his cheek. Dick is
surprised; he had not noticed when he started crying as well. “You deserve to be loved
properly.” Alfred’s voice catches. “I suppose I have failed you there as well in the past. But
the past is never an excuse for the present.” Alfred draws himself up, looks into Dick’s eyes
and says firmly, “I love you.”

Dick can’t say it back, he’s sobbing too hard now. But he thinks Alfred knows, anyway.

“It is okay to not be fine when you are hurting,” Alfred continues, patting his back. “You will
survive this; you are not alone.” Dick’s arms clench tighter around Alfred’s frame. “You do
not need to hold everyone up all the time; the world will not end if you take a moment for
yourself. And heaven knows you deserve many such moments.”
Being told he’s not the centre of the universe is… actually really nice to hear. Dick feels the
pressure ease, the weight he has been carrying as he tries to balance all of the family
problems lightening slightly. Alfred has surprised him here. Maybe he can trust other people
to also care about their family.

(Would it be possible to be a family without Dick having to sacrifice his own pride and
comfort? Dick kind of wants to find out.)

They are quiet for a while.

“I’m not ready to see everyone,” Dick says eventually, when he has calmed down a bit. But
the tears are still falling.

“That is quite alright,” Alfred says, merciful. “We came in two vehicles.”

Dick struggles to imagine everyone else squeezing into Steph’s car but the idea makes him
snort, an ugly sound that has him coughing. Alfred’s next words are equally tender-hearted,
though pointed and leaving no room for arguing. “I felt it prudent to restock the first aid kit
under the seats before this adventure.” Dick’s lips twitch in an almost smile. By no means
infallible god or judge, Alfred is still a watching, benevolent being.

They sit together, Dick crying into Alfred’s shoulder, for what feels like a lifetime.
Eventually, there are quiet footsteps that end abruptly before them. Dick doesn’t look up.

Alfred makes a motion, shifts, says, “Yes, but gently.”

And then there is a small body on Dick’s other side, carefully embracing him. Dick would
recognize Damian’s cautious attempts at affection anywhere. He raises his head so he can
look at his kid.

“Hi Dami,” he says. He must look a mess, red-faced and dripping snot and tears.
“Richard,” Damian says. His expression says everything he struggles to say aloud, and Dick
puts an arm around him. He knows. He always knows. It is enough.

They sit quietly a while longer, the three of them. Familiar company when things fall apart.
Strange, how much has changed in a year. How much is still the same. But they cannot linger
in a public aquarium forever, and Dick is freezing. Eventually, he takes a shaky breath and
says, “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go.” He stands up, then hesitates, feeling cowardly. “Can we
just go to Bludhaven?”

Damian perks up, the possibility of a sleepover still exciting at his age. Dick holds his breath.

“Of course,” Alfred agrees, and Dick releases some of his residual tension. Let everyone else
yell at each other without him for a change. He has nothing more to say right now. He needs a
break.

As they head out, Damian gathers himself. “I have an idea for you to feel better,” he declares,
but Dick can read his nervousness. “It may help you take care of yourself. It is a proven
method of therapy.”

Damian holds himself like he expects resistance.

“What do you want me to do?” Dick asks, suspicious, but it just comes out sounding drained.

“Actually I am thinking it is something we all should participate in,” Damian ventures,

tentatively, “As a ….family.”

Dick looks at him in pleasant surprise. “Yeah?”

Damian nods, serious.

 Dick has no idea what to expect, but when Damian leads him through the gift shop to the fish
tanks with price tags, a determined look on his face, well.

Dick can’t help but smile.

Chapter End Notes

So… Dick finally blew up! I really wanted Dick to get angry on his own behalf as the
catalyst. He does not make it easy.
And there were FINALLY fish present!! Only took like 100k words hehe
And Dick got an intervention! …. For his own behaviour. From Bruce. :]

Sorry for all of the heavy introspection, hopefully it didn’t bog the narrative down too
much!

A lot of this chapter felt wandering and lost because Dick himself is increasingly
disconnected and confused. I really wanted to capture how difficult it is for Dick to stay
present as he struggles with articulating his own thoughts to himself - how he has too
many of them, how they conflict with each other, and how they tire him out until he
can’t help but feel overwhelmed. (He doesn’t really know how he feels or thinks about
anything, but at least now he’s acknowledging those thoughts and feelings - he needs
some form of therapy to help him sort, I think.)

Dick had a lot to think about, and he still does. But next, it’s time to finally climb the
long rope of resolution and restoration - though slowly and painfully of course. <3

One more chapter to go. Not planning on another trip so hopefully the wait won’t be
long. And thanks again to everyone who is invested in this story with me - I really, really
appreciate it. :)
 Time and Space
Chapter Summary

Waves continue as the sea settles, but Dick can finally touch the shore.

Chapter Notes

Welcome to THE END everyone!

It’s been a long time coming for a couple of different excuses buuuut let’s not mention
any of them. <3 Honestly I had always planned for the story to lead until Dick’s blow up
last chapter, and that this chapter would be the epilogue that just hints at improvement
without overwrought detail. It’s literally just called “epilogue” in my docs. But it kinda
got away from me while I tried to incorporate too much. I took a big mouthful and I
don’t think I chewed properly, oops. (more tell than show, offscreen character
development for the win-)

Skip this paragraph unless you want to yawn: This chapter doesn’t have the same flow
as the rest of the story. Up until now, we’ve spanned less than 2 weeks, but this chapter
will span a year. Trying to show someone’s healing journey means we have to look
longer because nothing really happens short term, but it also means our lens is going to
get shakier so get ready for a jumpy ride. Also, after much deliberation I ended up
choosing not to really resolve the more systemic issues within superhero society due to
that same year-long timeline limitation. Even Dick takes a long time to come to terms
with his own personal issues here, and it’s hard to fully portray resolution anyway, what
I've written is already a bit of a stretch; I couldn’t figure out how to realistically catalyze
addressing more.

I always have too much to say, but I’ll shove the rest in the end note.

Enjoy, guys <3

See the end of the chapter for more notes

"I think we deserve

a soft epilogue, my love.

We are good people

and we've suffered enough." ~ Seventy Years of Sleep # 4. nikka ursula (n.t)
Time and Space

Dick comes up for air.

He is alone, of course.

It’s Monday now. He’s hiding in Bludhaven, where he has remained since Saturday
afternoon, cowardly asking Alfred to make sure no one disturbs him, to convince everyone
that he needs space. And Alfred has done a good job, although perhaps Dick’s privacy is only
respected because Damian stayed the weekend. He told his friends to leave him alone too, so
they wouldn’t panic when he stopped answering (as if he was a consistent responder anyway
these days). He didn’t specify how long he was to be undisturbed, and his family has been
known to find grey areas quickly, particularly when Concerned, and yet..

Alfred took Damian back to Gotham for school early this morning, and Dick has been left
alone.

Until now.

His phone is ringing again.

From this angle, he can’t see who is calling. In the last five minutes, he has already let it ring
to voicemail three times in a row, watching it vibrate precariously on the edge of the bathtub.
Dick has been soaking in the tub for hours and the water is too cold to be soothing but
moving is too troublesome to bother. He likes baths to relax, when he has time for them; they
never remind him of rainy nights the way showers can betray him. This time, he is bathing
with a purpose, or trying to. He had told himself he’d ‘soak in his thoughts’ and process the
giant mess that is his personal life, but whenever he tries to think about it his mind slips
away, so all he has done so far is space out and lose time.

Oops, the phone goes to voicemail again. Then the ringing resumes. Dick really should get
that, it could be important.
With herculean effort, Dick stretches out his arm to press talk and then speaker on the phone.

“What’s the emergency?” Dick asks, infusing all of the energy he doesn’t feel into generating
a lively tone. It half works.

“Hi,” says Barbara. Always Barbara, composed and put together while he’s unraveled in a
mess of his own making. “How are you?”

“Are you just checking up on me?” Dick asks, making slow circles with his hands and
watching the water swirl. He’s not annoyed; a couple days of refuge have curbed his edge,
like sea glass ready to be handled.

“I’m not just checking up on you,” Barbara denies. “I’m also updating you on the outside
world, since you’ve decided to play hermit.” Is that bitterness? Dick can’t read her tone. He
has been avoiding everything since Saturday. It has been over forty-eight hours since the
aquarium. He has been alone for twelve hours since Damian left early this morning. Perhap it
has been selfish of him to enjoy the retreat. A tiny voice accuses him in the back of his mind,
you can’t always just run away. “Figured it’s about time you heard some things.”

“Mmm. What things?” Dick watches the water. It’s mesmerizing. Damian had a great point
with the pet fish, and it was actually fun visiting the pet store yesterday, even if he’s ninety
percent sure it was purely a distraction technique. He should play with the fish in the bathtub.
Or does that kill them? He can’t remember.

“Bruce is getting therapy,” Barbara says bluntly.

Dick’s hands still before him, the final ripples crashing into the walls of the tub and
unraveling into nothingness. Time passes, and Dick does nothing.

“Dick?” Barbara is asking. “Dick? Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” says Dick. “Bruce is getting therapy.” The words are foreign in his mouth, and it feels
like he has just told a lie. Because how can they be true, Dick thought surely Bruce would
never-

“That’s right,” Barbara’s tone is careful now. “Tim kind of forced him into it this weekend.
With help from Cass. And Jason. Everyone, really.”

“Really.” It’s an echo instead of a question.

Barbara snorts. “Well, ‘help’ is a generous term. Tim blackmailed Bruce with the league after
Jason punched him in the face.”

Dick sucks in a sharp breath, caught off guard. “Jason did what?”

“He punched Bruce in the face,” Barbara repeats, and maybe she sounds a little satisfied.
“There’s footage and everything. Definitely worth a watch.”

“Damn,” says Dick, faintly. He hates himself a little for the anxiety that automatically wells
inside of him. Hopefully Jason is okay. Bruce probably didn’t like being punched in the face.
Bruce is probably angry. Dick tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter, but it’s difficult. So he
switches subjects. “Therapy you said?”

“Yeah, he wasn’t really given a choice,” Barbara allows the redirect. Dick hears her shift, a
keyboard click. Working as she talks, always multitasking. “It’s through the JL, they have a
new program with specialized therapists, trained for vigilante and superhero trauma. I looked
into it a bit, the style is reminiscent of an approach to soldiers.” Soldier. The term feels right.
“I checked the policies and contracts - pretty air-tight regarding the double life aspect.”

“That’s good,” Dick says. Hearing Barbara pointedly outline the positives of therapy makes
him tread carefully, wary of her intent. Dick knows everyone thinks he needs professional
help. He just doesn’t feel ready right now. What would he say to someone who doesn’t
already know everything? These days he doesn’t want to talk to people even when they do
know his story.
But Bruce getting therapy? Dick has a lot of feelings about that. Irrationally, he feels almost
jealous that Bruce has everyone forcing him to get help after everything he’s done while Dick
gets a bathtub of cold water in an empty apartment. The jealousy is so hypocritical Dick can’t
ever share it aloud - not after he literally stormed off and demanded to be left alone. Besides,
he can’t help feeling happy too, that maybe professional therapy will produce the behavioural
change in Bruce that Dick could never force from him.

“Are you okay, Dick? It sounds like your teeth are chattering,” Barbara analyzes, tone
clinical.

“I’m taking a bath,” Dick confesses reluctantly. “The water is a little cold.”

Silence on the line for a moment. Barbara is probably trying to calculate how long he has
been stewing in his own personal soup and the potential toll on his health. He side-eyes his
phone screen. It’s around dinner time now; Dick isn’t going to tell her when he turned on the
tap. “You should get out of the tub, Dick.”

“Mmm,” he says absently, swirling the water around again. “So therapy? That’s good. Good
for Bruce. I don’t see why you called me though.”

“Really?” Barbara sounds unimpressed. “Don’t pretend. I called because I know you want to
avoid all of this but you’re in the middle of it.”

“It’s not about me -,” Dick tries, but Barbara scoffs.

“It’s always you, Boy Blunder. Honestly, you freak out on the mission Friday, Bruce gets
pissed, and I heard there was a huge fight afterwards with everyone. But then you all go to
the aquarium on a happy family trip? Seriously? And then you’re suddenly gone to
Bludhaven and everyone’s mad at Bruce and now he’s in therapy.” Barbara doesn’t like to be
out of the loop. It often manifests as aggression. “Something smells fishy, and it wasn’t the
aquarium. You can’t hide in Bludhaven forever, Dick, not from this family.” Her voice gets
softer. “I saw the news articles about the aquarium flooding. Security tapes were wiped. What
happened?”
Dick sighs. “What did Tim tell you?”

“It was Steph, actually,” Barbara says. Uh oh, Dick was kind of mean to Steph, this might be
painful. Barbara has some latent protectiveness about Steph and can get defensive, especially
to Dick and Bruce for their initial behaviour. “She said you had a meltdown in one of the
exhibits and ran away.” Dick winces. It’s not wrong, but it’s embarrassing to hear about
thirdhand. “And that Bruce said some… personal crap about you.”

“Oh,” says Dick. He’s certain suddenly that he’s colder than the water; ice from the inside
out. He can’t seem to expand his lungs. “What?”

Barbara, Barbara, Barbara. She has been Dick’s confidante for so many things, but when it
comes to Dick’s deepest hurts, he prefers to bleed alone. They both do. Perhaps that is why
they could never patch each other up, why there relationship could never truly recover after-

Dick tries to slam on the breaks for his thought train, since he’s in the middle of a
conversation. Even so, he feels like a few minutes have passed, and yet he is confident he
hasn’t missed anything, the line still silent, a clear sign of Barbara’s discomfort.

“I’m not going to discuss your rumoured sex life,” she says eventually, and Dick closes his
eyes because he can’t believe he made her feel like she even had to say that, it’s so
inconsiderate after everything he has put her through. It’s good she enforces her boundaries.
“I don’t know what’s true, Dick, but I just can’t talk about that with you.” Her voice is a bit
shaky, maybe with old pain, but she draws in another breath and moves on like they always
do. “But she did say that Bruce admitted to …hurting you. Before.”

Barbara stops talking, perhaps uncertain of what to say. It’s unusual for Oracle to be at a loss
for words, but Dick and Barbara have never talked about this before and it’s unfamiliar
territory. The jump in topics is jarring, but he doesn’t land in any safer terrain, caught in a
different whirlpool of intrusive memories and emotions. It’s weird anyway hearing about this
from Barbara, who hasn’t been around recently for one of the worst weeks Dick has ever had.
It’s strange; she knows Dick so well, but the events of this weekend have left Dick so
Changed, while Barbara has stayed the same.
Why is he the one so affected by all of this? Everyone has been part of this family, this group,
for years. Didn’t they see this all before?

Barbara tries again. “So, how are you? With … everything.”

Dick hadn’t really wanted to talk when Barbara called, but maybe he’ll feel better if he can
find some answers to the questions that tangle his thoughts.

“It’s strange, I guess,” Dick says eventually, shifting in the tub. He decides to go for honest.
“Like, why now? We’ve been …fine, we’ve been fine for years. Dealing with each other’s
trauma and crap. No one said anything before, so it must have been working, right? So I
don’t get why it’s such a big deal now, that things had to …change.” Why did this break him?

“Dick, it wasn’t working,” Barbara sounds skeptical, but her pitch is soft and gentle. “You
know it wasn’t fine. Just because you were surviving doesn’t mean it was okay. It was only a
matter of time.”

“I know that,” Dick says, annoyed with himself that he can’t say the words he wants, the way
he wants. “Okay? I know things could get better. I’d love to not get punched by my family
anymore.” Barbara sucks in a breath. Too bitter. Calm down. Calm down. “So Bruce is
getting therapy? Great, good, fine. But why did no one think things needed to get better
sooner? ” Dick’s voice is coming out a little strained, he can feel the tightness in his throat.
And he needs to get his shaking under control before he bites his tongue off. “Why did I have
to go through a decade of bullshit before suddenly everyone decides that’s a wrap? Even this
past week has been such shit but everyone waited until the weekend to protest. Why now?”

Dick’s face is wet. He’s crying. It’s a saltwater bath now. Barbara must hear; likely it makes
her uncomfortable. Dick needs to get it together. Yelling at Barbara is useless, she wasn’t
even there. (She wasn’t even there.) But Dick has always suspected that since it’s mostly just
him who Bruce has treated as expendable, all of this must somehow be his fault. Otherwise
why would it be limited to him? And it made sense, until now suddenly it doesn’t.

“I don’t know,” Barbara chokes out, and his wandering thoughts halt, shocked. Is Barbara
Gordon crying? First Alfred, now Barbara - all of the unflappable pillars of Dick’s life are
crumbling, leaving him unmoored and holding the hammer. But it only takes a moment for
her to pull herself together enough to speak again. “Maybe we didn’t want to believe the
worst when there always seemed to be an excuse. Bruce has never pretended to be good with
emotions, so we never expected him to be gentle. But that was a mistake because we never
blinked when he was cruel to anyone. And you were always so fine, and you smoothed things
over between Bruce and everyone else, made excuses for him, so it felt like he was doing
better than he was because you were always helping him. But it’s so obvious in hindsight. So
no, I don’t know why we all waited, why no one stepped in sooner.”

Dick thinks he knows why, or at least knows the reasons he has told himself for years. No
one knew enough to be certain; he never told anyone, and sometimes he straight up lied. He
pushed everyone away with a smile. He was never a damsel in distress. He didn’t want to be
saved. How dare he blame anyone else for digging the grave when he still clutches fistfuls of
dirt?

Dick sticks his hands back under the bathwater, washing them clean.

“Sorry, I’m- did you know?” he asks. He doesn’t hear Barbara on the other line, though he
knows she’s still there; the silence sounds like she’s holding her breath too. She has long
stopped typing. “When we were younger. About our …fights.”

He doesn’t need to be any more specific. Not with the detectives he surrounds himself with.

Barbara breathes out, long and slow. “I was never sure,” she admits. “Like I said, you’re good
at hiding your emotions; you’ve always shown people only exactly what you wanted to.”
Dick tries not to read into this or speculate on how Barbara feels about their own history.
“But back before Jason, when you and Bruce first started really fighting, and you were so
angry all the time and lost, I suspected that you were hurt… by more than words.” A shaky
breath. “Dick, I’m so sorry.”

The surface of Dick’s thoughts are carefully calm, a still body of water, depths purposefully
unexplored. He holds the ripples at bay by sheer force of will as memories float up from his
youth. Bruce’s smile when Dick perfected a move in the training room. Bruce’s frown, when
Dick got a small cut while saving a civilian, turned into a lecture on field competency.
Bruce’s face, while telling him how well he’s doing as Robin on patrol - then Bruce yelling at
him that he’s not ready to be Robin with the Titans. Bruce telling him to get out, Bruce telling
him to come home; Bruce yelling to get out, Bruce yelling to get back here. There were harsh
grips and reprimanding slaps, but it’s the harsh tone, it’s the hard words, that always cut Dick
deepest.
“Why did you never say anything?” Dick asks quietly. His friends on the Titans had raged
against Bruce, but they had never known the man behind Batman the way Barbara had. It was
easier to demonize an unknown, rather than a real person in one’s life.

“I thought you didn’t want me to.” Barbara’s response is honest, if a little defensive. “And we
were kids, Dick. I was a kid.”

Dick bites his lip. The explanation will have to be enough, even though it doesn’t feel like it.
Dick doesn’t think she can say more anyway. Her usual air of moral superiority leaves her
floundering when she finds she regrets something. And Dick doesn’t feel like looking to
blame people anymore; he’s so tired. Everyone gets wrapped up in their own dramas all the
time, to penalize them for being human is unreasonable, and Barbara’s right. He didn’t want
help, not then.

Now? ...He’s undecided.

The line is silent again for a while. Dick is pretty sure Barbara won’t hang up until he does,
not when she’s so concerned for his mental health right now. And he’s slowly realizing that
she needs this catharsis as much as he does. Dick lets his mind drift back to the present, and
he inevitably circles back to the events of the weekend and his aquarium full of regrets.

“I didn’t apologize,” Dick says after a while, groaning.

“What do you mean?” Barbara asks, patient.

“For this weekend. I was so rude,” Dick says, idle tone disguising his inner turmoil. His
words are joking but he’s not really, not when he recognizes the lingering indignation and
self-hate at his own actions. His emotions war within him at the unspoken turbulence he has
been fixed on all day, his heart a battleground. “To everyone. But I didn’t apologize to Steph
or Tim or Jason or -” Bruce. He says quickly, “I was even kind of mean to Alfred, Babs!”
“Wow,” says Barbara. “It’s almost like you were really hurt and took out your anger on other
people.”

“Babs,” Dick whines, happy to make light of his own emotions by overacting them
childishly. “I know. But everyone finally tried to help and I spit in their faces.”

“Well get this: you’re not the only one capable of dispensing huge amounts of undeserved
forgiveness,” Barbara delivers this pronouncement like it’s a death sentence instead of
liberation, “I’m pretty sure no one holds anything against you right now. Seriously, you could
murder someone and you’d get away with it.”

Dick winces at her words, safe in the bathtub where Barbara can’t see. Barbara never really
sees him anyway, not since Catalina broke them up, not since Blockbuster - certainly not
since Dick murdered Blockbuster. But Barbara doesn’t know. No one does, really. Dick
doesn’t talk about anything, ever. The strategy was working.

“Thanks, Babs,” Dick manages. “Still should probably apologize to them though. Anyway,
what shall I do with my blanket forgiveness? Become an evil dictator?”

“You could start by getting out of the ice bath,” Barbara says pointedly.

“Right,” Dick says, still not feeling ready to continue with life. “But then what?”

“Look, I’m not going to tell you how to deal with something like this. I’m not going to take
your choice away here.” Some of Dick’s anxiety remains. Freedom is kindness, but Dick is
deeply afraid to make the wrong choice. “You can treat yourself a bit, take some time like
you’ve been doing. Relax. But you could call your brothers, your friends. Get back to work.
Buck up, Boy Wonder, the world continues,” Barbara says, all tough love, and Dick half
smiles at the familiarity.

“Yes sir,” he says.

He is about to hang up the phone when Barbara says, “Wait.” Dick stops, patient. “I didn’t
just call you to give you a pep talk.” She sounds apologetic.

Dick sighs. “What is it?”

“Jason’s headed your way,” Barbara tells him. Dick closes his eyes and groans silently. Of
course he is. “He’s not accepting my calls so I don’t know what this is about, but I figured I’d
give you a heads up.” A pause. “And Dick? Maybe talk to him. Or someone.”

Dick sighs again, more dramatically. He refuses to commit to another full conversation with
anyone right now. “Thanks, Babs.” He hangs up the phone.

It rings again immediately. Dick rolls his eyes and presses talk and speaker, leaning back to
rest his head on the tub. “Hi Jason.”

“Dick,” says Jason. “I need to talk to you.” He is speaking loudly over the roar of a motor,
but still Dick picks up on the undercurrent, a strange urgency to Jason’s words. Dick
instinctively assumes something must be wrong, something new, but if it was serious Barbara
would have known. Barbara would have mentioned it.

Everything is fine.

Dick closes his eyes, sinks deeper into the tub. “Now?”

“Yes now -,” Jason stumbles a moment over his words, deliberately choosing a more passive
path. Interesting. “I need to - I think we should talk now, if you’re free.”

Dick swirls the water. “I said I didn’t want to see anyone,” he points out, in case Jason didn’t
know.
Jason definitely knows. “The twerp is back in school today. Are you alone?” There’s a bit of
weight to the question, the same pressure that Dick has felt from all of his siblings lately, like
they’re uncomfortable with the idea of Dick being without supervision. Like he isn’t a
capable adult.

“Yes,” Dick says, swallowing his annoyance. Pointedly, “I like it.”

“I need to see you,” Jason says. It’s almost sweet, but there’s no way Jason is calling for
cuddles.

Dick closes his eyes. He doesn’t feel up to an argument. Maybe he can just say no? Well
probably not, but perhaps his decline for company will be accepted if it’s indirect. “Maybe
later, Jay.”

“Sorry to cut into your me-time, but I think now, Dick,” Jason says Dick’s actual name,
almost apologetic, and Dick blinks. Then Jason coughs. “I’m at your apartment.” Through
the phone, Dick hears the motor cut out.

He grinds his teeth.

“Ah,” says Dick. It seems Barbara’s warning was a little late. This will be difficult; it’s so
much harder to hang up on someone in person. But this talk is going to happen whether he
wants it to or not. “See you soon.” He hangs up.

He briefly looks at his notifications. Calls and texts from everyone but Bruce. Dick checks
himself for disappointment, but finds he is numb.

The bath was good for one thing, then.

Dick allows himself one last moment to sink his head into the water, ears below the surface,
to dwell in the silent limbo of the cold water before he has to confront Jason. Then he puts on
his game face, and he drags himself out of the bath.
He has just enough time to pull on a long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants, hair still dripping,
when there is a sharp knock on his front door - Jason’s kind of knock. He looks through the
peephole anyway, on edge. (Does he want confirmation or time?) It’s Jason, of course. Dick
glances back at his window, wondering if he has time for self-defenestration… but no, he has
run from his problems enough. He takes a deep breath.

Dick opens the door. “Hi.”

Jason opens his mouth. He could be about to say anything, but it’s probably bad. Actually no,
Dick doesn’t want to do this.

Dick closes the door, but Jason catches it with his foot before it shuts. “Hey wait!” Jason
pushes the door open. His brute strength surpasses Dick’s, which is annoying; Dick blames
his lethargy on his frozen body.

He steps back and crosses his arms. Water drips down his back, a cold stream.

“Asshole.” Jason is annoyed now. He looks Dick up and down, assessing. “How are you
doing?” His eyes catch on all of Dick’s injuries, visible and not, before finally settling on his
face. “Why are your lips blue?” he asks.

Dick rolls his eyes. “Nice to see you too, please do come in,” he invites sarcastically,
sweeping his hand in a welcoming gesture.

Dick wanders to his living room. He can hear Jason following behind. Suddenly needing to
be cozy, he grabs a stray blanket on the way, one that Damian had been using while he stayed
over. Dick settles on one end of the couch and Jason takes the other. By the time Dick has
positioned himself comfortably, curled up as tightly as possible, Jason is watching him
expectantly, like he is still waiting for Dick to answer his question. It had been about ..right.
“I took a bath.”
“An ice bath?” Jason asks, skeptical, like he thinks Dick is an idiot. Well, he probably does
think that. And Dick is not exactly upset that his brother decided to ignore his wishes for
solitude, but he’s something close.

“Did you seriously come here to judge how I look?” It’s snappy, but Dick is not in the mood
to defend his selfcare right now. He’s exhausted; all of his strength seeped into the tub,
leaving him with a quiet anger that sits heavy in his bones.

“No, but you need to stop hurting yourself,” Jason's face looks pinched, not quite a glare but
some other strong emotion Dick can’t read. His eyes are tracing again. “How are you doing?”
A surprisingly sensitive question.

Dick glares back, but it’s tired and he’s out of heat. He just needs to get this over with. “Why
are you here, Jason?”

“I-,” Jason takes a breath instead of finishing. Dick has never seen his brother so uncertain in
conversation; the awkwardness hangs on him, making his huge frame look small and unsure.
Some deep instinct within Dick has him wanting to reach out and comfort him. But he is too
tired, so just burrows deeper into his blanket.

And he waits.

“I have a question,” Jason says eventually, like he’s already beginning to ask it, but then he
stops again. He is leaning back on the arm rest so he can face Dick fully. His gaze is
penetrating, holding Dick in this moment against his will.

“Well?” Dick prods.

Jason stares at him, gaze penetrating. “You’re not going to want to answer.” A beat. “And
you don’t have to answer,” he stresses. “I won’t make you, I would never fucking make
you-,” he shifts. “Fuck, you don’t have to tell me. We don’t have to talk about it. But I’m
going to ask anyway, okay?”
Dick tries to parse through Jason’s tumble of confusing assurances. Dick doesn’t have to
answer to his family? That doesn’t sound right. But for the love of - “Then why are you
asking me at all?” Dick says, exasperated.

“Because you can talk to me, if you want to. I’m worried about you,” Jason admits,
grimacing like the real emotion behind the words causes him physical pain. He looks away
like concern for others is too embarrassing for eye contact.

Or maybe it’s just Dick who makes everything uncomfortable for his family all the time.

“You don’t need to be,” Dick says immediately as his ever-present guilt twinges. “I’m sorry
for ducking out and ghosting again,” he apologizes. “And for all the shit I caused.” Dick
shouldn’t have grown so complacent with how they were, should have been the one calling
for change, for Bruce to change. He needs to be stronger if he ever wants to support his
family.

Jason whips his head back around.

“Don’t fucking apologize,” Jason says, appalled. “You didn’t do shit.” A pause. “Well, the
aquarium maintenance department probably disagrees-” Dick winces,” -but I think that blow
up was a long time coming and Bruce fucking deserved it. You didn’t do shit to the rest of us,
anyway. Stop worrying about us, we’re not kids - except for the brat. And we can handle
ourselves.” He leans in. “You’ve done enough, okay? You’ve done ..good.” And the strange
compliment keeps Dick from arguing the point further, now that he is firmly in uncharted
territory.

Jason takes a deep breath. Dick is impressed by the visible display of him trying to calm
himself. Whatever he wants to talk about must be really important. Dick’s stomach sinks; it’s
probably about Dick and Bruce. Dick does not want to talk about it.

“Look, Jason, I appreciate your and everyone’s concern, and you’ve all made your points this
week, but I need to ..process,” Dick says, as gently as he can manage while still being
annoyed. “I don’t know what I’m going to do about Bruce and I really, really don’t want to
talk about it with you.” Not when they always, always fight about it. Dick feels a pang of
regret. But Jason can be gentle. So he adds more quietly, “I don’t want to fight you right now,
Jay.”
Jason shakes his head. “It’s not about Bruce.” Another pause, and Jason can’t seem to let it
go without adding, “But he is an asshole.”

Dick snorts, not disagreeing. And he’s dying for confirmation but he forces his tone into
neutrality, asks, “Is it true you punched him in the face?” Not that it matters.

(It matters a little.)

“You fucking know it,” Jason says, proudly.

Dick makes an obligatory show of looking disapproving, shaking his head at Jason’s
behaviour, but he struggles to squash a tiny sprout of satisfaction at the confirmation that
Bruce’s face must hurt. A bigger part of him is feeling responsible for ruining Jason’s
relationship with Bruce, for letting them come to blows. Or maybe they were like this
anyway, and Dick has just stopped trying to fix them. Tragedy either way, and blame aplenty,
whether Dick did something wrong or failed to do something right.

“You missed a massive argument by the way, Dickhead,” Jason continues. Dick tries not to
find this anxiety-inducing, not knowing what everyone said, who cut who with a reckless
word, who needs comforting now. He can always ask Barbara for the cave footage, but an
even bigger part of him consumed with the tired blankness really doesn’t want to know.

Jason side-eyes Dick, judging his reaction to his next words. “No one liked my body bag
idea-”

“What the hell, Jason, don’t joke about -”

“- so Replacement is forcing him into therapy. Like I said, we’re handling it fine,” Jason
finishes. He looks like he expects Dick to do something, react somehow. Maybe Dick would,
if Barbara hadn’t already let him know. He is suddenly very grateful to her, if only for
indirectly helping him save face with Jason.
Dick grits his jaw. “I already said, I don’t want to talk about Bruce.”

“Right, we don’t have to talk about it, I was just saying, but I’m here if you ever want to talk
about that too.” Dick rolls his eyes. His family is a bunch of gossips. And as if Dick could
confide in Jason of all people about his feelings on Bruce - Jason is way too close to the
shipwreck to carry Dick into a lifeboat. Jason seems aware of this because he adds, a bit
peevishly, “Look, I know I haven’t been the sweetest sunflower to you lately but despite what
you think I actually don’t hate your sorry ass. Most of the time.” Apparently Jason is still
incapable of a blatant declaration of affection, so this near-thing is ..really nice. But Dick
doesn’t feel like responding; he’s still tense with the uncertainty and bizarreness of the
interaction.

Jason must take Dick’s uncertain silence as an indication to move on. “Okay I know I’m
probably not the best person to talk about this, or your favourite choice, but I don’t think
you’re going to get help otherwise. So I’m here to talk about..” Jason blows a breath out,
looking frustrated with himself. Looking uncomfortable.

Dick opens his mouth to prod him again, uncertain where Jason is trailing off to, but then it
clicks.

Your reputation precedes you.

He’s taken aback for a second. His mouth is still open but he’s unable to speak. And then
Jason is laying words out like heavy weights that hold Dick in place, that demand an answer
Dick can’t give, “Were you ever taken advantage of?” A dark beat, a death knell. “Sexually?”

It probably takes effort to ask, but Dick is shocked that Jason can say the words at all when
Dick can’t even think them.

“No,” he says immediately.

Dick’s breath is solidifying like a heavy mass in his lungs. Damn Bruce. Dick suddenly
realizes that this conversation is not unprecipitated. Of course his siblings are curious. Of
course Jason goes digging, then runs back to Dick with this horribly perceptive question. But
Dick isn’t ready, and he’s so tired. He doesn’t want to talk about this, has never talked about
this before.

Has he ever been taken advantage of? Sexually? No.

“Dick,” Jason tries. Soft. Out of character. This week has changed them all, peeled their
layers, exposed their hidden selves and sore points.

Dick curls impossibly further into himself, wrapping his arms tightly around his knees for
protection. He peers defensively out from his blanket cocoon. “No. I’m not talking about this
with you.” His breath catches, solid, and he chokes. “I can’t.”

Is the room getting darker? Or maybe he just needs to breathe, and the dark spots in the
corners of his vision will go away. He forces his lungs to expand, wills himself to live
through this uneasy moment. He has always adapted quickly to discomfort. He can already
feel the resignation sinking in; he thinks he doesn’t want to talk, but. Perhaps he deserves this
conversation, some kind of punishment for the things he has let people do in the past.

The concern in Jason’s eyes burns. He is still treading carefully, expecting conflict. “Dick,
you’ve painted a really ugly picture and I -,” another stumble; it’s so wrong, Jason is always
confident with his words, speaking without regret. But now he is speaking slowly and
carefully and it’s wrong. “You don’t have to answer. But I want to know the truth. People talk
a lot of shit and I think I should hear it from you.” Another calming breath, no green
flickering anywhere today. “Dick, what happened with Mirage?”

Dick remains perfectly still. He needs to be careful how he looks when Jason asks him these
questions. So much can be given away without a word spoken.

“What do you know?” Dick asks, and it’s not just a barb, it’s a real question: what does Jason
think he knows? It’s obvious he showed up today with these notions already decided. Dick
regrets not keeping tabs on his family; Jason has clearly done some digging in the last forty-
eight hours.
“I talked to some friends,” Jason confesses, a little guiltily, but there’s a defiance in the set of
his jaw that betrays his self-righteousness. He thinks he’s doing the right thing. Dick tastes
bitterness like jealousy, for how much Jason and Roy share with each other.

“I don’t know what Roy told you this time,” Dick says, still tired, instead of annoyed. “But
it’s probably true.” He keeps all emotion out of his voice, seeking detachment. It makes him
sound dead.

“Kory talked to us,” Jason says, and Dick can’t hide the cringe. “She said you slept with
Mirage instead of her.” Dick knows, he was there. Jason doesn’t need to say it. This is so
personal, but everything personal has been so public lately that Dick feels like he may as well
walk around naked, so why not have his little brother narrate his sexual history.

“Look I get it, okay? I’m sorry I cheated, I didn’t mean to and I never meant to hurt Kory like
that. And I’m not so good with relationships, I thought we covered this Saturday,” Dick
snaps. His arms feel numb; he’s gripping them too hard. “Thank you for driving all the way
here to throw that in my face.”

“What - Dick, no,” Jason says, sounding bewildered. “I meant you thought you were sleeping
with Kory, but you slept with Mirage instead.”

“Yes?” Odd. The distinction never seemed to matter before.

Jason takes in Dick’s confusion and groans. “Are you serious? She tricked you. That’s not
consent,” he stresses.

Oh. There’s a dangerous, slippery word that Jason hasn’t said, and Dick’s thoughts slide
around it now. “It wasn’t exactly against my will,” Dick finds himself arguing with Jason.
Bizarre; usually he only has this discussion with himself, after a nightmare, trying to remind
himself he deserves it.

Usually he’s crying. He’s fighting hard not to now.

“Did you want to have sex with Kory?” Jason continues to patiently press needles into his
heart.

“Yes.” Dick feels weird saying this to his brother, who obviously thinks he knows something
Dick doesn’t about Dick.

“Did you want to have sex with Mirage?” Jason asks, intense.

“No, I-,” Dick thinks for a moment, tries to remember without flashing back. It’s hard, but his
fingers digging into his arms help him stay present. It’s such a complicated memory. If it
hadn’t been Mirage… “I regretted it,” he settles on. “But I said yes at the time.” Despite his
efforts, images flicker before his eyes. She really did look like Kory. Still, he should have
known.

Jason is staring at him, aghast. Apparently, even when Dick is telling the truth, he is
somehow answering wrong.

“You said yes to Kory,” Jason differentiates. “Mirage took advantage of you.”

Well, yes. Wait, no. “But I-”

“Dick, it’s not your fault,” Jason cuts him off sharply.

Dick shuts up.

It’s not your fault.

Dick must hold his incredulous, uncomprehending silence for too long. Jason scrubs his face,
swears softly. “Un-fucking-believable. Of course you think it’s your fault, you idiotic martyr.
Just like with all the family problems, I swear. Your guilt complex is pathological.”

“I’m-” sorry.

“It’s not your fault,” Jason repeats, more firmly. Then, a little desperate, “Has no one told you
that before?”

Dick doesn’t know how to answer that; people tell him all sorts of things. Dick is responsible
for a lot, but there are limits. But this specifically? Well.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Jay, it was a long time ago.” The wound is so old, Dick is afraid
that to rip it open now will only cause more damage. And Dick has been using the scar as a
reference for new pains, everytime someone thinks he owes them something because he
smiles at them. If Mirage wasn’t his fault, what is he supposed to think about everything
else? Better to leave it alone, for things to remain as they are. Dick is doing fine, he can take
responsibility for his own mistakes. It’s just like everyone thinks.

Strange, though, that Jason has adopted this viewpoint after talking to Roy and Kory. He
would have thought - but, well. Dick doesn’t know them that well anymore. Maybe..

Dick continues, “I don’t need you to make me feel better; I can defend myself.” That’s the
problem as much as the solution isn’t it? Dick is strong. Dick can defend himself, so he
doesn’t need Jason to make him feel better about himself. Dick can defend himself, so he
could have stopped her, so why didn’t he-

This blanket is so constricting, but he can’t move his arms to free himself.

Dick tries for a bit of humour, to lighten Jason’s dark expression, to distract himself, since his
life is one big joke anyway, “I’m sorry you have to hear this again Jay, but your big brother’s
a ho.” He lets the word lilt out like it doesn’t mean anything to him. Like his stomach isn’t
aching strangely.
Jason flinches as if the words hurt him. “Don’t,” he snaps, looking a little unnerved at Dick’s
blasé attitude, like he’s hurt that Dick is trying to brush this off. “Don’t talk about yourself
like that. Not about this.”

“It’s the truth,” Dick says, angry. When the truth hurts Dick, he doesn’t get to just not hear it.
He’s on edge, arguing about this topic that he tries to avoid. He can’t help reliving Saturday
between blinks, seeing everyone’s uncomfortable expressions as Bruce tried to tell Dick he
needed to be more careful about sleeping around. “And it’s what you all think anyway.”

“It’s not,” Jason breathes heavily, and there it is, the green. “It’s not the truth, it’s victim-
blaming.” It is Dick’s turn to flinch with the insinuation that he might not be the offender.
“And fuck you, I don’t think you’re a slut.”

“You called me a seahorse,” Dick points out petulantly. It’s such a small thing, he feels whiny
for even bringing it up. Jason always brings out the childish sibling in him.

Jason’s face pinches. “Sorry about that,” he says, and Dick was about to speak but now his
mouth is left hanging open. “It was partly a joke, and a little bit of a test that you f- anyway.”
Jason shifts. “Kind of shitty of me.” Yeah it was. The apology has Dick caught off guard and
he’s unable to speak, so Jason continues, “No one thinks you’re a slut, not in this family.”

It’s not your fault. The words are kind of exactly what Dick has longed to hear, but hasn’t
dared to hope for. It’s a bit entrancing to hear this from Jason, who’s a sibling but more of an
equal, who has never been really close to Dick, who is close to Roy, and who has no reason
to give him empty assurances to spare his feelings like Donna or Wally. And he wants Jason
to keep saying these things, but there is a problem.

Jason doesn’t know everything.

If he did, he wouldn’t say it’s not your fault; not if he knew what Dick has done.

There is something about Jason fighting so hard to make Dick not think he’s a slut that makes
Dick feel like he wants to tell him everything. But Jason is just one person, and so many
people think-
“Bruce thinks so,” Dick says quietly, hugging himself tighter.

Jason makes a sound like someone sat on his chest. “Are you kidding me? He’s been hurting
you for years. After dowsing him in a tank of water, you still care about what that asshole
thinks of you?”

Dick winces, because the answer is yes and always.

Jason can clearly tell. His jaw clenches. “Unbelievable. You know, part of your problem is
you always let what other people think affect you too much. If someone says you’re a slut,
that doesn’t mean shit. It means you’re not a slut, they’re wrong.”

Dick blinks, not sure where to start. As if things were that simple, but maybe they are for
Jason. Dick doesn’t know why he cares so much about what other people think. But ..life is so
much easier when people are happy with him, when he does what they want.

“That’s not even the problem with Bruce anyway.” Dick shoots him a look as Jason changes
to the protective sibling role he seems to have been studying this week. Jason notices the
look. “It’s not my fault we’re talking about him, you brought him up!” Touché. Dick can’t
help thinking about Bruce when they’re at odds, when all of the problems between them trace
back to him. “I don’t get you Dickhead - I know everyone wants to give him a chance, fuck
knows why, but that doesn’t mean you need him in your life. Really, you should just cut him
out. You’re better off without Bruce, we all are.” Jason looks like he’s trying to convince
himself.

Once Batman’s Robin, always Batman’s Robin.

“He needs us,” Dick says. No matter what Bruce thinks. No matter how Dick feels about the
toll it takes to be Bruce’s emotional support. As if Dick has ever wanted space in his entire
life. “I think I need him too. You know, Tim’s right with the therapy. Bruce could use the
help.” At Jason’s raised eyebrow he adds, “I know he has room for improvement. It could be
good for him to have professional support.”
Jason pulls a face. “Whatever, I’ve told you what I think you should do, but it’s your stupid
life. Just don’t expect me to go anywhere near him anytime soon.” This is usually what Dick
expects. Jason sighs, a long annoyed whistle. “And since you care so much about his stupid
opinion - okay, Bruce doesn’t - look, I know how it sounded, but you know he has the
emotional intelligence of a literal crab. Bruce sucks. I literally hate you for making me defend
him right now on behalf of your fragile psyche.” Dick bristles. Jason meets his eyes very
deliberately. “But he doesn’t think you’re a slut, okay?”

Dick cycles quickly through his immediate thoughts. How would Jason know? But he used to
get along with Bruce, when he was young, maybe his instinctive understanding has carried
over somewhat through the pit changes, despite no evidence. The problem is Dick wants to
believe Jason right now. And Dick knows Bruce sucks at communication; he has been
reminding himself of this for years, whenever Bruce’s words are particularly hurtful. But
when there are both words and actions, it is hard to dismiss, and this time it is unmistakable.

“But he was talking about the rumours. And that’s why he picked me. For.” Dick can’t say it.

Thankfully Jason seems to understand. “No. No. First, Tim is a gossip girl and you know it.
He thought he’d help you by telling Bruce about Deathstroke, but he told it wrong. And
people in general are gossip girls, and Bruce hears people saying things about Constantine, or
whoever you’ve randomly spoken to lately. He’s an idiot for not talking to you about it,
because it’s obvious there’s something wrong and I’m starting to -,” Jason cuts himself off,
switches, “And that had nothing to do with that damned clusterfuck of a mission. He’s a
bastard for making you think that, but then you ran off -,” Jason halts again before he can
detail Dick’s blame. “Stop looking like that, it’s not your fault.” Dick doesn’t know what he
looks like; he can’t feel his face or the rest of his body. Jason groans. “Fuck, Bruce is useless.
But if he actually thinks you’re a slut I will slaughter him with prejudice, forget therapy.” He
slams a fist on the couch, and Dick would flinch if he wasn’t still frozen. Of course Jason is
irritated when he has to defend Bruce.

Since Jason is fervently worked up about what he’s saying, Dick tries to give his words the
benefit of the doubt and parse through the logic. Okay, maybe Bruce’s true thoughts are
complicated by his inability to express himself, as always. Sure. Dick knows him well; it’s
plausible. And maybe Bruce heard concerning rumours from multiple sources and was
actually trying to verify them with Dick before believing them, and picked a terrible time and
place and method and everything by trying to kill two birds with one stone and
simultaneously semi-apologize for the mission assignment. Bruce could actually have no idea
about Dick’s sexual history, which Dick decides is maybe a good thing. Dick can visualize
this being reality; it’s not so impossible. But it’s not the only potential explanation, not even
the most likely.
(And yet, the vague hope, the mere idea that maybe Bruce doesn’t think that about Dick
relaxes him so much he desperately wants to believe it. But even if he wants to believe it’s
true, he doesn’t know.)

But Dick can also visualize continuing this discussion about Bruce’s misspeaks and true
intentions. And Dick thinks maybe he doesn’t want to see how Jason’s anger will develop if
they keep talking about Bruce. Some points can’t be argued anyway; even Jason seems to
agree other people talk about Dick like he is somehow open for objectification. There has to
be a reason. A reason from people who know Dick better than Jason thinks he knows him.
Jason’s distanced opinion on things is nice, at least when it’s so validating, but there has to be
more from someone who actually knows the story. So.

“What about Roy?” Dick asks, maybe defensive, maybe vulnerable. But other people’s
opinions matter. Unfortunately. They determine Dick’s damn life.

“Dick, I mean it, you’re not a slut,” Jason says instead of answering. He looks exasperated,
but his words are strangely patient. Dick keeps waiting. “Why do you need validation from
all of these people who weren’t even there when it happened? Kory knows you didn’t cheat
on her, you have to know she never blamed you.” Dick knows. But he still feels guilty. “Roy
doesn’t know shit.” When Dick continues to be silent, waiting for more, Jason’s exasperation
breaks into something harder. “Roy doesn’t use his brain sometimes, okay? He
misunderstood some important things. But we had a nice talk about consent.” He clenches his
hands. A sinking feeling in Dick’s stomach comes with the insinuation of a fight, of even
more conflict he’s brought into the lives of the people around him.

Beyond that, it’s weird to imagine Roy and Jason having a conversation about Dick’s love
life, but here is the confirmation. And here is Jason thinking Roy got it wrong, but Jason can
only know so much from his own experience. When he was Robin, he saw Dick head over
heels for Kory. Dick wonders if this is why Jason seems to so easily reject the idea that Dick
could be the poison in his relationships, even when Jason has witnessed some of the lasting
rockiness between Dick and Barbara. But Jason’s social circles aren’t identical to Dick’s, a
different fringe of crime fighting; he hasn’t seen Dick the way other people have, or heard
what they say about him. Maybe Miriam was in the wrong, maybe Kory has been right all
along and it’s not Dick’s fault. But how could that one incident have left such a long scar in
Dick’s reputation? Dick has to believe there’s something more to it or he would have gone
crazy ages ago. And Roy said-
“But he did say I’m a slut,” Dick persists. Roy told him so, in front of everyone. And no one
denied it- but that’s not fair to them, it was such an awkward and tense moment, with so
much going on. Dick was making it tense. Of course no one defended him about a tiny,
throwaway, insignificant truth-

“Not anymore,” Jason says, a steely glint in his eye. Dick is scared to ask what happened
exactly, but now he’s really regretting not keeping tabs on Jason. Where does Jason think he’s
coming from that gives him this intensity, this need to convince Dick? It’s hard to argue when
he doesn’t know what information Jason has. It’s not like he can know what Dick has never
told anyone, but there’s a pattern even Jason must be able to see. “And if anyone else says
that shit about you, I’ll fight them too.”

Dick is bone-tired from years of sleepless nights wondering how to fix his own reputation
and having to accept the nauseating reality that he can’t. Jason isn’t going to fix it with his
fists now. Dick scrubs his face with the blanket. “It’s no one in particular, you know. You
can’t blame people for believing what they hear anymore.”

“Fucking watch me.” Jason examines his surprisingly nice fingernails.

Dick does watch him for a moment, soaking in the surrealty of his little brother wanting to
fight people for his honour. Refusing to believe it’s a lost cause. But of course, Jason thinks it
was just once, and then just gossip.

He doesn’t know.

Dick sighs, stretches wearily. “Whatever, Jason. You don’t even know the rest, what’s
happened.”

“What’s happened,” Jason echoes, eyes narrowing at his hands like he’s noticed a problem
within his grasp.

“If it’s not my fault, then why does it keep happening?” Dick points out as he presents his
case, trying to establish a pattern beyond coincidence, that shows there is truth to every
negative light Dick has been cast in. He is ignoring his own tension rising, his internal alarm
bells that tell him to stop talking now.

It’s too late anyway, Jason has been connecting dots all weekend. He freezes. Then he slowly
looks up, eyeing Dick carefully.

“What keeps happening?” he asks quietly.

Dick retraces his words in his mind. “Oh.” Oops. He presses his lips together.

There is a buzz in his veins. It’s fuzzing out his thoughts.

Dick… wishes he hadn’t spoken, wishes he was strong enough to tell Jason to get out of his
apartment, or better yet that he had not opened the door in the first place, so Jason couldn’t
make him feel all of these things. He’s too tired to fight right now, physically or mentally. He
can’t figure out how to dodge Jason verbally when Jason is in hyper-observant bloodhound
mode and Dick can’t even grasp his own thoughts.

Dick closes his eyes.

He has been so sloppy lately. He’s letting dangerous things slip. The words are sitting heavy
in his throat now, beating against his sealed lips, his last defense; with a swell of panic, Dick
realizes he doesn’t have the strength to swallow them back down. But Dick is so tired of
hurting other people lately that he’s back to hurting himself. It’s only a fair return. He resigns
himself to a painful exposure of his worst secrets. He deserves this.

“What happened?” Jason asks again.

This blanket is so tight.

The thrum grows louder. Dick’s pulse is beating in his ears. There’s something horrible inside
of him. His hands reach for his hair, pulling and tugging painfully, forcing him into a rocking
motion. It’s not enough, he can still feel it. He stands up so suddenly the blanket falls to the
floor. Dick sees Jason’s startled gaze settle into something wary as he watches Dick pace.

And with sudden certainty, Dick knows the horrible thing will come out. He’s going to say it.

Dick wonders what he’s doing. Jason said Dick doesn’t have to talk, but here he is about to
speak words he has never said aloud. Dick is doing this to himself, but he can’t determine if
it’s because he wants to share or because he feels like he deserves to be known for the
monster he is, if deep down he kind of wants to make things worse for himself. A part of him
doesn’t want Jason to know, afraid it will change how he thinks of him, that Dick is at fault,
or is somehow less; but Dick can’t ignore the tiny hope of what if Jason knows, and doesn’t
change his answer?

Dick can only ever hope, and place his faith.

“It was a long time ago,” says Dick, ignoring his doubts, taking a risk. He wishes he was far
away right now, but instead he’s feeling every motion of his lips, tasting every bitter word.
“You weren’t around. I was alone. In Bludhaven. And then she showed up.” Dick can’t look
at Jason directly as he speaks, so he’s looking out of the corner of his eye. “Have you heard
of Blockbuster?”

He’s pacing as he speaks. He can’t be still, he needs the distraction. If he’s not focusing on
the words, just describing the events, just giving a report, - then maybe he can suppress the
anxiety, the panic.

He fills in the background while Jason’s eyes follow him back and forth across the room. A
villain, a behemoth of a man who hated Nightwing, hated Dick. A vigilante called Tarantula,
a woman named Catalina. The slow destruction of Dick’s life in Bludhaven. “-And he was
never going to stop. I didn’t want to-,” Dick’s voice is a whisper, he doesn’t know if Jason
can even hear him. “And then I stepped aside, and she shot him.” A question of justice, that
Catalina perverted into murder, that Dick allowed. “I let her. And then I left.” He ran away.
“And she followed me. She wanted to make me feel better.” Did she? Probably. Dick had
been so upset. “She wanted to have sex and I didn’t want to-,” Oh, this is hard. Dick’s voice
is so broken, or maybe it’s his whole self that he never bothered fixing. He’s shaking while he
paces.
“Dick, breathe,” Jason commands, worried.

Is he breathing? He feels sick. He thinks he’s going to-

“Fuck,” Dick hears Jason say as Dick sprints to the bathroom. He barely makes it to the toilet
before he’s puking. Someone sinks next to him on the floor.

“Dick.” It’s Jason of course, there’s no one else here, but for a second Dick had thought he
felt someone else touching him. Jason is awkwardly patting his back. It’s a reassurance. Dick
thinks Jason is telling him he doesn’t have to finish. But Dick still feels like he has to puke
and he’d rather it come out as words so-

“She wasn’t going to stop,” Dick whispers, spitting out bile. The sex, that Catalina had with
him, that Dick allowed. “And I - I let her.” The nebulous time afterwards that they spent
together. “I stayed.” Jason sucks in a breath, but Dick needs him to know that even though
Dick aided a murder, then slept with the murderer, that even today, he still- “I regret it.”

He pukes one more time.

When he is done, there is an almost pleasant tingling in his throat, the relief after vomiting. It
mingles with the relief of purging an old, heavy secret. Dick feels lighter. Jason disappears
momentarily then suddenly he’s handing Dick a glass of water. Dick obediently rinses his
mouth out before leaning back against the wall next to his brother.

Jason doesn’t move again for a moment, a still-life portrait of a judge assessing a case,
deciding a sentence. Dick waits on his determination, feels fresh guilt over how embarrassing
he’s acting right now, how pathetic; he just dumped his problems on his little brother in the
hopes that he’ll get, what? Some sweet reassurances? A hug? How selfish.

What have you been telling your siblings Dick?

Dick closes his eyes. Bruce would be so disappointed in him. “I’m sorry, Jay,” he breaks the
silence.

“For what?” Dick can hear the frown. He turns to face Jason.

“This isn’t your problem.” And Dick doesn’t know why these sorts of memories are
bothering him so much lately anyway; maybe it was something about the mission that
triggered all of these reminders, maybe it was hanging out with friends. He’d had it handled
before, he thought. Well, somewhat handled. Somewhat ignored.

“You’re right,” Jason says, and Dick’s stomach drops again but Jason goes on, “This isn’t
about me. It’s about you. Dick, I’m so sorry that happened to you.” Jason looks so serious, so
earnest. Then, “Shit, fuck that Catalina bitch.”

And the vehemence is so sudden it startles a broken laugh from Dick like a sob. He has to be
careful that he doesn’t shake tears loose with the motion. Jason has already seen him puke, he
doesn’t need to see him cry. “It was years ago,” Dick says, like time minimizes pain. As if it
has ever worked that way for Dick, for any of them. Bruce being a prime example, having
allowed his childhood pain to completely shape his life, his present.

“It’s obviously still hurting you. Fuck,” Jason curses softly, “And you let Bruce send you
undercover - Fuck. I know I said I wouldn’t bring him up but, fuck. Does Bruce know? That
you were-”

“No,” Dick cuts him off quickly. “It’s not his fault, he doesn’t know. Like you said, he’s
dense about some things.”

Jason takes a deep breath. “Okay, fine. But fuck.” Then Jason is back to being gentle. “Have
you held this in the whole time? Have you never told anyone this?”

Dick gives him a look.

“No one needed to know.” It’s Dick’s problem. It has always been Dick’s problem.

And the thought of his family’s shame and disappointment if they knew has always felt so
dreadfully heavy, he was afraid it would crush him.

“Fuuuuuck you and your shitty self-destructive coping mechanisms,” Jason groans. He
regards Dick speculatively. “You didn’t want to tell me, did you,” he says it, and it’s not a
question. “So why did you tell me?” Dick doesn’t answer, not when Jason clearly already has
his own conclusions. Jason groans. “Why are you like this.” He pauses for a moment, then
sucks in a breath like he realizes something. He growls, “Oh fuck you, Golden Boy, I see
through your people-pleasing shit. Don’t make me an accomplice in helping you hurt
yourself to assuage your own guilt. Just because I want to know something doesn’t mean you
have to share it. You don’t owe anyone anything.”

“What do you think family is, Jay?” Dick asks him tiredly, scrubbing his face. “We’re always
giving.”

“Not necessarily. It’s a two-way street. Family supports each other,” Jason says immediately.
The fact that Jason has a formed opinion on family makes Dick feel warm even while he tries
to sift through the connotations of what Jason could mean about family supports. If he means
sharing information, well.

“I don’t want anyone else to know,” Dick says firmly. He looks at Jason daringly.

Jason rolls his eyes. “Okay, calm down you judgy jerk, of course I’m not going to tell anyone
if you don’t want me to. I wouldn’t do that to you. It’s your story, maybe no one else needs to
know,” Jason tells him. “But, maybe you need to talk about it. You know, process. So it
doesn’t eat you up.”

Eat you up. Well, that’s an interesting way of putting it, when Dick has started to feel
consumed by his own past lately, his failures. He doesn’t feel like agreeing out loud with
Jason right now, but there might be some truth to his words. Dick literally just threw up, has
thrown up a lot this last week from nerves, and his sleeping is more like reliving a series of
horrible memories. Maybe he hasn’t been handling everything as well as he thought.
Still, it has taken more effort than he started with to have this discussion, and he’s so drained
now. He looks away. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Jason holds up his hands. “Fine. You don’t have to talk to me,” he says. “But just tell me that
you’ll consider talking to a professional. It might help. Tell me you’ll think about it?” He’s
pressing; he must be concerned.

Dick thinks about it. He would love to be able to eat again, to sleep again. But even though
this conversation was not as horrible as Dick had feared, he’s just not certain yet that talking
to someone will help with that. But:

“I’ll think about it,” Dick says. Appeasing Jason, but he means it a little too.

Jason nods. Then, oddly serious, “And you know, we’re family right? You and me. Like aside
from the club Bruce is running. We’re brothers.”

Brothers. No matter what Bruce says about anything. Well, that’s nice to hear. “Thanks, Jay,”
Dick manages. He’s about to add something sappy, but Jason must be able to tell because he’s
rushing to speak first.

“Why is there a fish in your kitchen?” Jason asks.

Dick blinks at the change of topic. “It was Damian’s idea,” he says finally, pulling himself up
to lean over the sink. He washes his face. “Part of a five step plan to get me to do self care.”

Jason makes a ‘huh’ sound. “What’s its name?”

“Hope,” Dick replies. Irony always finds him in life. He catches Jason’s eye roll in the
reflection. Well, siblings deserve needling, so, “Maybe you should get one too.” He gets a
middle finger for his helpful suggestion.
“I don’t fucking think so,” Jason says. “I’ve got enough on my plate, I don’t need to be
responsible for a whole-ass fish.”

Dick recalls Damian’s determined face, his declaration that he wants to help everyone in their
family. How hard it is to say no to him. Dick dries his hands and says, “Just wait, you’ll see.”

Jason gives Dick a look like he doesn’t believe him. Well.

He’ll see.

Jason jerks his head to the door. “Enough bathroom lurking, I’ve reached my daily quota.”
Dick snorts, but he follows him out. “Do you have that Just Dance game?” Jason asks in the
hall. Dick carefully does not look surprised at the request, though it doesn’t matter since
Jason’s back is turned.

“Of course I do,” Dick says, adding, “I’m really, really good at it.”

Jason snorts. “Bet.”

—--------------------

When Jason leaves, hours later, Dick feels a little more corporeal. He picks up his phone
again.

Dick has not been drifting mindlessly through the weekend, not the entire time. Really, his
thoughts won’t leave him alone. He feels like he can admit to himself that he has some
resentment towards his family and friends because no one intervened, for years. Even this
week, after his siblings were confident Bruce was in the wrong and needed to change - even
then, everyone was waiting for someone else to tell them how to act. No one wanted to make
the first move when it meant breaking the status quo. Perhaps for some younger sibling-
related reason, they all felt like they couldn’t actually tell Dick what to do. It’s obvious that
they look to each other for what is right and okay, and often they look to Dick, who does his
best to smile while he bleeds. He wasn’t asking for help.

Even his friends will tell him he should leave, and have been pushing him since he was a
teenager to admit that he and Bruce need to change. But still, no one has ever made him do
something about his situation. It’s bizarre to Dick that for the first time last Saturday, he is the
one who sent himself away. But everything is changing and he doesn’t know what he wants
to say to anyone anymore so it’s best to step back, retreat.

With the clarity of space now, Dick is pretty sure he’s also angry at himself, for how he has
been treating people. How he reacts to Bruce, but mostly how he reacts to anyone picking up
on his vulnerabilities, so close to the surface these days. Maybe it would be easier if he could
forget the bad stuff, but his memory has always been too good for his own mental health. To
forget nothing, to forgive everything; a monumental task.

He finds his mind slipping back to other targets that are easier than himself. He’s not sure
what to do with his siblings, with people who want to help, and he hasn’t been kind. But he
can fix it, make amends. He can focus on this problem today; it’s much easier for him to
process, and it hurts less to think about. It’s hardly even deflection.

Dick was never meant to be alone. He was born to love and be surrounded by people. He has
no misconception here; he knows he needs other people, and he can be a people pleasing
leach. But right now he owes some people some apologies. Steph, Tim. Donna. Wally. It is
not their fault he punished them for trying to reach out. It is not their fault Dick is mad at
himself and let it manifest in how he treats others. But he doesn’t have to be this standoffish.
He can make some changes.

He takes a deep breath. He’ll make some calls. He misses his family.

And as for everything else: he’ll think about it.

—----------------------
A knock on Dick’s door has him tensing, throwing off his technique as he flips an egg. It
lands on the burner, and Dick scrapes it off in a hasty save.

It’s Thursday morning. Dick isn’t expecting anyone, but apparently surprise manifestations
are the norm these days.

Dick turns off the stove and takes a breath. He hasn’t seen anyone since Jason on Monday,
but he has talked to his siblings. Everyone is treating him carefully, and it irks, but things will
settle out.

Another knock at the door.

Still, Dick hopes it’s not Bruce. He doesn’t know what he’d say. Dick glances at his phone,
sees there’s a new notification from Jason. Dick stifles a groan. Jason has been pestering him
daily now. It would be just like him to decide he can show up again.

This will be quick. Dick is reaching out to his other siblings so they shouldn’t be bothering
Jason, and he has plans to visit Gotham soon. No, he’s not ready to talk about his feelings and
no, he doesn’t feel like getting professional help yet but no, he doesn’t need another
intervention so Jason can take his bike and his presumptuous ideas and head straight back to
Gotham.

Dick stomps to the door, opening it with a huff. “Jay, give me a break, for the love of -”

Dick will blame what happens next on his own distraction.

He gets a face full of water.

Dick splutters, reeling back at the attack, body instantly on high alert. He’s already reaching
out blindly and slapping the weapon away on instinct.
“What the hell, man?” comes an indignant cry. There’s the sound of something plastic
clattering to the ground.

Wait. “Wally?” Dick wipes the water out of his eyes. He blinks.

Wally is already bending over to retrieve his water gun, checking it for damages. He looks
relieved, then annoyed. “It’s scratched! You owe me a new one.”

Dick stares at the water gun, taking a long time to catch up to the moment. “Sorry I was …
expecting someone else.” A beat. “I do not owe you another one, I got you that one.”

Wally sticks his tongue out. “I’ll sue for damages.”

Dick, despite himself, starts to smile. Wally is unexpected, but a pleasant surprise. “What are
you doing here?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe.

“Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me,” says Wally, whipping the water gun up again. Dick
ducks just in time, avoiding a second spray to the face.

“Hey! What gives?” he asks, more bemused than annoyed at getting soaked.

“‘What gives’, he says,” Wally parrots. He puts his hand over his heart. “Dude, I am
wounded! Highly offended! I heard from Roy about you. Roy. Harper.” Jason, Dick thinks,
annoyed. “And I thought to myself, am I not the best friend? Am I not the trusty confidante? I
was carefully giving you space, but no longer,” he pronounces. He waves the gun
purposefully, shoving it in Dick’s face. “So I don’t care if you don’t want to talk to me about
your problems, because you’re stuck with me and even if you don’t want to see me it’s too
late sucker I’m very attached and I will find you,” Wally finishes fiercely, now grabbing
Dick’s shoulders for a moment in the fastest hug of Dick’s life before stepping away again.
His words are too quick for Dick to process normally.
“Okayyyyy,” says Dick after a moment, still unsure where this is going. The last he knew,
Wally was walking on eggshells around him after Dick blew up over his friends suggesting
he might need help. The guilt is harder to ignore when Wally is standing right in front of
him.

But then Wally’s stomach growls, and they both raise their eyebrows at the same time and
crack up.

The tension of the moment eases a little. Dick really isn’t upset that Wally is here. It’s
actually a little nice to be reached out to even after he had blown him off, nice to know that
their friendship is stronger than Dick’s carelessness. Truthfully, his own embarrassment has
kept him from trying to take back his words. He has missed his best friend.

Dick steps back and makes a dramatic bow. “Did you want to come in? I just made eggs.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Wally says, wiping away a fake tear before zooming past Dick
to his kitchen. “Did you make any for yourself too?” Wally calls back.

Dick rolls his eyes into the empty hallway before closing the door and wandering after his
friend.

Wally has already set out plates and cutlery and served them both semi-equal portions and is
now sitting patiently waiting.

“You dork,” Dick tells him fondly.

“You good?” Wally asks him, eyes squinty. He presses his fingertips together like he’s
thinking hard. “You know, in general. Or in specific,” he adds.

“I’m doing okay actually,” Dick says, approaching slowly. He flicks his wet hair out of his
eyes, carefully focusing on the strands while he says, “I’m sorry I was a jerk to you guys.”
“Don’t mention it,” Wally tells him seriously. “You were hurt. You’re allowed to be upset.”

There’s a lump in Dick’s throat, approximately the shape of all of his guilt, and it’s choking
his words, “But I-”

“No, Rob, stop. You’re already forgiven, stop blaming yourself.” Dick’s heart flutters a bit,
but then Wally is pointing a fork right into the heaviness of the moment and waving it
around. “But if you think that I’m going to leave you alone ever again, you’ve got another
thing coming. I brought my toothbrush,” he adds threateningly. “I can stay for a long time.”

Dick rolls his eyes but feels warm. He grabs some fish flakes and tosses them into the tank on
his way by. Wally tracks the motion. “Wouldn’t dream of peace and quiet.”

“That’s right, and don’t you forget it.” Wally takes a large bite of egg. “Cute fish by the way,”
he comments around his mouthful.

“Thanks.” Dick pulls out a chair, and they fall into an easy and companionable silence.

“So Roy,” Dick asks finally, curious, “Says what, exactly? When did you talk to him?”

Wally gulps down water. “He started messaging me on Monday. Told me I should see you.”
A pause. “Have you been talking to Roy?”

Dick shakes his head. “Jason.”

“Ah.” Wally nods with understanding. “That makes more sense. Unfortunately.” Then he
checks his phone and grimaces. “Okay, it also makes this a little awkward. So, I thought you
had made up with Roy somehow.” Wally shifts. “I sort of invited him to come see you with
me.”
Dick chokes on his water. “You what?” He is not ready to see Roy. But he also thought Roy
wasn’t ready to see him. “And he said yes?” Wally’s eyes dart the way they always do when
he’s feeling guilty, and Dick’s exasperation heightens proportionately. “Wally!”

“I’m sorry! I thought you were friends again!” Wally protests. “He sounded like, really
caring? Okay, listen, he was being weird. He really wanted me to hang out with you, I think
he wanted to see you but doesn’t know how to himself, the idiot. So I figured I’d just cut out
all the awkward avoiding and have us all hang out.” He checks his phone again. “He’s almost
here.” He looks guilty. “Dick, I’m sorry I invited him without telling you. I wanted us to have
a water gun fight.” He reaches into his backpack and pulls out two extra water guns, still in
the packaging. “I thought it would be fun, like old times,” he says quietly. He bites his lip.
“Do you want me to tell him to go? I will, if you’re not comfortable with it.” He would, if
Dick only asks him too.

But Dick’s heart hurts to see Wally let down. He tries to remember what exactly is wrong
between him and Roy. Dick decides he doesn’t really have a problem with Roy, nothing that
can’t be ignored. So maybe Roy is better friends with Jason now, so what? And he called
Dick a slut, oh well, Dick has called himself that. Roy punched Dick, but Dick punched Roy.

But Roy has been messaging Dick lately, not that Dick has been responding, and Jason said
he’s changed, and Wally even thought they had made up for some misguided reason. And if
Roy is willing to drive out to Bludhaven to hang out with Dick, maybe that says something
too. Maybe it won’t be so bad.

Wally is already typing, and Dick can read upside down the sorry bro and my bad and forgot
he’s busy and I’ll make it up to you in the pending cop out.

Dick takes a deep breath. He reaches out and grabs one of the guns, pushing another between
Wally and his unsent message. “Let’s hide in the stairwell. We can sneak up behind him when
he reaches the apartment door.”

Wally looks surprised. “You sure?” He looks searching, and when Dick nods his eyes start to
light up. A slow grin stretches across his face. “Dude, yes.” He backspaces his message and
follows Dick excitedly into the hallway to lay their trap.
Dick pushes his lingering dread down as he patiently waits with a buzzing Wally for Roy’s
arrival. When Roy does step out of the elevator, Dick’s heart stutters a moment as he watches
through the tiny window they are peeking through. No visible weapons, his posture tensed
but looking more nervous than angry. Still, maybe this was a bad idea - Dick is so sick of
conflict. But Wally is grinning at him like a maniac, waiting for his cue.

Roy knocks on Dick’s apartment door like he actually wants to be let in.

Jason said Roy doesn’t hate you, Dick reminds himself. He makes the signal to Wally; Dick
is ready.

They burst out.

“Ambush!” Wally cries loudly, sticking the water gun in Roy’s alarmed face. Roy drops down
to a knee in defense like he’s ready to launch an arrow he doesn’t have before he even seems
to realize his own actions. Dick flips over both of them, grabbing Wally’s gun out of his hand
and handing it to Roy as he lands on the other side. Roy glances at him, just a flicker of his
eyes in the middle of a battle, to check whose side he’s on. The uncertain moment passes in
an instant.

Then they both turn as one and fire at the disarmed Wally.

“Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal!” Wally announces, shaking water out of his ears
as he raises his fists in mock outrage.

“You got me first,” Dick reminds him, zero pity.

“You shouldn’t yell ambush, it’s not sneaky. No one likes spoilers,” Roy admonishes Wally.
He crosses his arms, unimpressed. Dick finds himself laughing.

“Okay wow can we stop ganging up on me? I thought this hang out would be fun,” Wally
complains. And it's said jokingly, but Dick freezes at the bare reminder that the three of them
have gathered to hang out. He can’t help it; he glances at Roy from the corner of his eye.

Roy is watching him back, the strange nervous tension returning to his posture. “Hey Dick,”
he says. He sounds like he always does.

“Hi,” says Dick. He doesn’t know what to say, but he feels like Roy wants to talk. But there’s
too much between them, and nothing is sorted out; it’s hard to hope for a fresh path. And yet
here he is, holding his breath, as if Roy’s opinion matters to him. Maybe he should stop
pretending it doesn’t. Maybe that would help with the suspense.

Roy is still sizing him up, until he suddenly seems to realize everyone is waiting on him to
speak. He blinks. Then he sighs. “About last week,” he starts, and Dick feels Wally tense
simultaneously as he does, “I’m sorry.” What. “I overstepped. We both did.” That makes
more sense, the ‘we’ - Dick can be an asshole too. “But I’ve been talking to Jay and thinking,
and I was wrong.” What. “I know I said that stuff about Kory but you’re not… you know. It
wasn’t - it’s not your fault, I’m just mad stuff happened like that, and you always just lie
down like a martyr-”

“Roy,” Wally cuts him off, looking at Dick with undo concern - oh, he’s not breathing again,
oops.

“Okay,” says Dick, just to trick himself into inhaling.

Roy looks frustrated with himself. Or maybe he’s frustrated with Dick, that’s more familiar,
but it feels weirdly like it’s also somehow on Dick’s behalf. “Sorry,” Roy grinds out, again.
“Look, you’re like, a good person. It’s frustrating that you don’t care about yourself, okay?
But Jay likes you. And I don’t hate you, okay?”

Wally mouths, Wow.

Dick swallows, mouth dry. He decides to not address most of what Roy said. He’ll probably
think about it later, lying awake at night instead. “Okay,” he says again. He can’t help it, his
guilt won’t let him hold it in, so he starts, “Sorry for punching you and saying that stuff about
Ollie and Ja-”
“Right yeah okay forgiven moving on,” Roy interrupts with a touch of panic. Dick closes his
mouth, relieved.

It’s quiet for a moment. Dick can’t tell if they really just made up, there’s still so much
unsaid, but it’s nice to know they’re on the same page about not being actively angry with
each other.

“Wow,” says Wally, out loud this time. “That was really somethin-”

Dick and Roy glance at each other. Then together, they shoot him in the face.

—------------------------

The Text arrives a few weeks later, while Dick is coaching gymnastics.

He doesn’t check his phone until his mid-afternoon session is about to begin, the last class
before Christmas break. He’s in the locker room, laughing at a story Tessa is recapping from
her toddler divas. Ryan asks him the time and Dick glances at his screen. He has a
notification, a text from Bruce. He feels a small flutter in his chest; in the last couple weeks,
Bruce has started sporadically sending him mundane texts, a weird change from the near
constant radio silence before. It’s never anything exciting, but Dick still feels a pleasant thrill
at being texted at all and he refuses to feel bad about his tiny happiness. He expands the
notification, reads the single line.

Dick drops his phone.

“Woah, Grayson!” Ryan lunges to try to catch it but the phone crashes onto the cement floor.

Dick’s fingers feel numb. Actually, his whole body is detached right now.
“Hey, you okay?” Tessa asks, her story interrupted. She peers closely at Dick.

“Sorry,” Dick says, blinking at the ground. He looks up at her and puts on a smile. “Lost my
grip for a second.”

“Aw man, bad luck,” Ryan says sympathetically, handing Dick his phone. The screen is
smashed.

Dick stares through the cracks. The Text is fractured behind the broken screen, difficult to
read. Safe to look at. But the words are burned into his mind and they’re all he can see, even
when he closes his eyes.

Why now? Everything has been awkward since the aquarium, especially between Bruce and
Dick, but it’s not like they’re estranged. Dick has refused to let them drift apart, and has
stubbornly continued as if nothing happened. But this? Dick is blindsided.

It’s almost Christmas. After Dick’s week of relative solitude, he packed his emotions back
into himself like a reusable plastic bag. He has reattached his family connections, well-
practiced, and it is almost like nothing was ever wrong. Jason still watches him carefully.
Jason and Tim are annoyed that Dick even went back to interacting with Bruce at all. What
do they want Dick to do, run away? He doesn’t want to be anywhere else, wants nothing
more than to be close to all of them. He thought that would have been obvious by now.

But Bruce has been questionably better, treating everyone a bit like glass. Dick has never
seen him like this before. It’s obviously difficult for him, he’s constantly starting to say
something, stopping, and then saying something else. It makes in-person meetings really
bizarre. But the strangest change has been the texts. Bruce has been texting Dick the most
inane things, like asking how his day is going or what he had for lunch. Dick has checked
with Tim and Damian; it’s not just him, Bruce is sending weird messages to all of them.

Dick knows Bruce is in therapy, but they don’t talk about that, or any problems. No one talks
about any of it, really. Everything is weirdly back to normal. Mostly normal, anyway, at least
on the surface. Dick is pretty sure Tim is up to something, disappearing every now and then.
But he’s taken up more Titans work lately, avoiding Bruce with an obviousness that must be
itself intentional. Damian is more clingy around Dick and has consistently been over to
Bludhaven each weekend, though whether that’s for himself or if he thinks Dick needs the
monitoring is uncertain - it is probably a bit of both. Everyone has been tentative around each
other, and they’ve had some uncomfortable arguments. But it’s not awful, and Dick is pretty
sure they’re still celebrating Christmas, some of them anyway. Though Damian can be
sullenly silent, Cass is off continent again, Tim is orbiting at a distance and Jason continues
to be openly defiant (and he has been doing more independent cases, disappearing regularly
off their radar. From their sporadic talks, Dick understands he is busy processing.)

But between Dick and Bruce, they’re pretending nothing happened. And Dick is fine with
this; he has pretended the same under much worse circumstances, and now it’s obvious Bruce
is trying to be better. There is no reason to make any major changes when what they have is
working.

So why, Bruce? Why stir the pot now?

“Earth to Dick,” Tessa says, and Dick tries to focus, snapping his eyes open again. “Is
everything alright?”

“I -,” Dick starts, wrenching his focus back to the present. “Yes, of course.”

Ryan narrows his eyes. “You’re shaking. Are you feeling okay?”

Both of his coworkers are looking at him with a touch of concern. Dick is feeling a little sick
now. It could be his stomach, but his breathing is wrong too. It’s his mind, though, that’s the
real problem. There’s no way he can teach a class of catty preteen girls right now.

“Actually,” says Dick slowly, turning his phone over in his hand, “I am feeling off. Ryan, do
you think you can take the girls with your boys? I think I need to …go.”

His coworkers exchange a look. Dick knows everyone at his workplace thinks he’s “going
through something”; he catches them talking about it, but no one has directly asked him.
Whatever. Whether they think he is actually sick or having some emotional crisis
(uncomfortably close to the truth), Dick doesn’t care. He just needs to go, now, before he
hyperventilates in public because why would Bruce –
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

“Sure thing, man,” Ryan is saying, sympathy clear in his voice.

“Yeah no problem, we’ll cover you,” Tessa says carefully. Some hesitation, then, “Feel better,
yeah?”

Dick feels bad for worrying them. He finds himself fighting a strange urge to sit down and
explain everything so they stop looking so concerned, but he has more urgent problems than
what these people think of him.

(And if he told them everything, wouldn’t they just be more concerned? No, it would have to
be a really good lie, and Dick is too tired right now.)

Dick smiles vaguely, grabs his bag. “Thanks guys. I owe you one.” And he claps them both
on their shoulders and heads out, trying not to run when he just heard Carol lecture seven
year old Betty that they don’t do that in the halls.

Once he’s outside, there is no conversation to distract him from his thoughts, and all he can
think about are the deceptively innocent words frozen on his phone screen and petrified in his
mind. He feels his breath catch and he moves faster, pushing his legs into a jog and then a
run. He doesn’t have time to wait for a bus. If Dick’s mind wasn’t such a mess right now he
might feel embarrassed sprinting past civilians, but he just needs to get home, fast.

He jumps up his staircase and stumbles into his apartment, slamming the door behind him
and sinking to the floor. His breaths are gasps now. He stays down for a moment, trying to
focus on breathing. His neatly packed emotions have exploded into a torrential whirlwind,
sweeping him away. He’s feeling a lot right now, too much, and he can’t sort it out. He needs
to – he needs to –

Damian’s concerned face flashes in his memories, telling Dick he will stay with him
whenever he needs. He remembers Barbara’s tone when she checks up on him. Jason’s
insistence that he talk to someone. Then Alfred’s face when Dick said he would remain in
Bludhaven, in his lonely apartment, for a while.

Maybe …he needs to call someone.

But who? No one in his family, he can’t talk to them about this, especially not when he’s so
obviously shaken up by it. Barbara is too closely involved too. Wally, Donna? But they hate
Bruce, and while an echo chamber of Dick’s own hurt could be validating, he’s present
enough to know that what he needs right now is someone to just listen. Someone who -

Ah. That’s who he needs.

Dick automatically pulls out his phone and attempts to open his contacts. He stabs at the
shattered screen, but it doesn’t respond. He struggles to swallow the rising frustration that
tastes a lot like panic. He slides his finger along the cracks, trying to force the visual to
change. He thinks it works for a second, until he realizes he’s just looking at a blood smear
from his sliced fingers.

“Shit, shit,” Dick mutters to himself, dropping the phone. He doesn’t need the phone anyway,
he just needs -

“Clark.”

His voice is barely a whisper, more of an exhale. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but
it feels like a blink and the door behind him is wrenched open and Clark Kent is suddenly
here.

“Dick?” Clark sounds worried. “Is everything alright?” Dick can’t speak. He is still looking
down at his bloody phone, but he can hear Clark move around, making a quick sweep of
Dick’s apartment, likely looking for hazards. After a few moments, Clark maneuvers himself
to drop slowly onto his knees in front of Dick on the floor of his entryway. He’s leaning a bit
so he’s lower than Dick, not a threat. (He must be the kindest, most considerate man Dick has
ever met.) “What’s wrong?”
Dick finally looks up. It has been some time since they last spoke - Dick has been busy in
Gotham, in Bludhaven - but it is Clark Kent, glasses and all. He’s even carrying a clipboard.
He is looking down at Dick’s phone, frowning at the bloodstained cracks. Then he’s looking
back at Dick. His wide, earnest eyes seem a little blurry through Dick’s own watery gaze. “I
-,” Dick tries.

Behind Clark, Dick can see his dim apartment somehow distorted by the tears or maybe
Dick’s panic: the walls pressing in, the shadows suffocating. He can’t be here anymore,
betrayed by familiarity, not for another second.

“I need to get out of here,” he chokes out, grabbing his useless phone again and pulling up his
hood. He stares at Clark like he’s his only hope. “Please.”

And Clark, bless him, doesn’t need to hear anymore than that. He helps Dick to his feet,
hands him his coat, and then they are off into the sky. It’s an unusually clear day for
Bludhaven. Dick distantly sends a prayer for no one to look up.

The airtime passes in a blur. Dick wants to enjoy the flight the way he used to when he was
small and always thrilled to get carried by Uncle Clark. But his mind won’t let him escape its
distress, and the next thing he knows they are landing gently in a small clearing in a forest.
There is no snow; they must have gone south, but Dick recognizes they are in the
Appalachians. Or maybe Ozarks?

Dick takes a few steps away from Clark. It’s silly, he’s not the one who just carried someone
hundreds of miles, but it is Dick whose breathing is loud and irregular while Clark silently
watches him, radiating concern.

“Dick?” Clark asks quietly, after a few minutes of standing there while Dick looks up at the
sky and unsuccessfully tries to calm down. “You’re safe. It’s just you and me here. There’s no
one around for more than a five mile radius, I promise.”

With effort, Dick focuses on Clark. He turns to face his pseudo uncle, rakes a hand through
his hair. Breathe. “Hey Clark, it’s been a while.” He tries for a smile, but it feels so awful he
immediately drops it. “Sorry about that freak out. Thanks for coming, and bringing me …
here.” Wherever they are. The winter sunshine feels good, but it’s not strong enough alone to
change the course of his mood.

“Of course, Dick, anytime,” Clark replies, still careful. “I’d like to help more. What’s wrong?
Are you in trouble?” And the most careful of all, hushed, “Is it Bruce?”

Dick can’t help it - he laughs. Everyone always, always, wants to know if it’s Batman who is
stressing Dick out. Ah Bruce, your reputation precedes you.

But still, “No,” he vehemently denies, wanting to put Clark at ease. “Not in trouble. That’s
not - that’s not it.” Clark waits for Dick to say more, but Dick can’t. And Clark knows
something has been going on in Gotham, but they’ve all made it clear to the super hero
community that they’re handling it on their own and don’t want an intervention. Not yet
anyway. But it means that Clark really doesn’t have the background for Dick’s current
freakout.

Oh, what a mess. Why did he think calling someone was a good idea? He will have to
explain. Yet he can’t say it out loud. He shoves his hands in his pockets and his fingers brush
against his phone. Oh. His pulse quickens, but maybe this is for the best, maybe this will be
easier.

He savagely rips his phone out of his pocket, wipes the blood off the screen with his coat.
The text is hard to read through the cracks, but Dick is confident Clark will get it. Dick stalks
over to Clark and shoves the phone into his hands. “Here,” he says.

Clark examines the screen for a moment. Dick watches his face as the frown of concentration
melts into surprise and then washes off with shock and confusion. Clark closes his eyes, his
expression settling into frustration. “Oh Bruce, what have you done,” he says, so quietly Dick
is certain he is not supposed to hear.

“Yeah,” Dick folds his arms. “Exactly.” He whips around again to pace the clearing.

“How are you feeling?” Clark ventures.

Dick throws his hands up in the air. “I don’t know! What am I supposed to feel? Should I be
happy?”

“You don’t have to feel anything, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you were upset or angry, this
is …a lot,” Clark assures him seriously. Supportively. He can’t help but be a shining hero at
all times.

Dick presses his lips together, blows air out. It doesn’t help, there is still so much inside him
to vent. It comes out staccato. “I’m just so confused. I mean, I’ve been waiting my whole life
for him to - ,” to what? Acknowledge that their relationship is the father-son shape Dick has
always seen it as? “To tell me. What we are. But I’ve gotten used to him just showing me.
How he feels.” Bruce gets angry. Bruce gets disappointed. Dick can handle it. “And that’s
fine. So why would he -,” Dick’s voice cuts out.

He is accustomed to the familiar shape of his relationship with Bruce. He has accepted that he
is not a son, and that he doesn’t need to be. Their relationship has stabilized, improved even
since the aquarium - or maybe since Bruce got therapy. Dick is fine.

But.

He closes his eyes and all he can see are the words:

Would you like me to adopt you? [Received 2:49 pm].

Dick’s entire existential crisis, reduced to a yes/no standardized test he is doomed to fail. And
he is spinning again, out of orbit.

“Have you two spoken about it?” Clark prods.

“Of course not,” Dick scoffs, almost hysterical. Now he’s shaking while he paces. “That
would involve speaking about things that matter. We haven’t really talked since - since.” Dick
stops, not wanting to get into everything with Clark right now. He changes course. “He’s
started texting me stupid things like ‘have a good day’. Our last conversation was about the
actual damn weather when I dropped Damian off on Monday.” He shakes his head. “No, this
is totally left field. I got the text and panicked and called you. Sorry about that,” Dick adds,
then ruefully, arms spread, spins in a circle, “Welcome to my mess.”

Dick laughs again, self-deprecating, but are these tears on his cheeks? He really is losing it.
Maybe shoving his thoughts away and locking up his emotions the last few weeks didn’t
work so well after all. Jason will be so smugly proud that he was right, that maybe Dick does
need help. The pressure is building, like the inner turbulence from motion sickness, things
changing too quickly, and he is struggling to adapt.

“No, don’t be sorry, I want to be here for you, thank you for calling me. And it’s not your
mess, it’s Bruce being an idiot,” Clark says firmly, reaching out to Dick. But Dick’s
headspace isn’t clear, so instead of behaving like a normal person he flinches away and feels
so guilty when Clark freezes. “Sorry,” Clark says, looking at Dick with somehow even more
concern.

Dick shakes his head. “If I don’t get to be sorry, you sure don’t. But you’re right, Bruce is
acting crazy. Why the hell would he send that? Over text? Does he even care about it?” It’s a
genuine question. Dick has no idea.

His heart rate is rising.

It really is bothering him, how casual the message is, thrown in with all the other nonchalant
things Bruce messages now but can’t really care about; like, “It’s supposed to rain in
Bludhaven tonight”, “Alfred is trying out a new mansaf recipe”, “Would you like me to
adopt you?”. Like this is an idea Bruce thought of offhand, treating it even less carefully than
the suggestion of an unprecedented family trip to the aquarium, when this is everything to
Dick.

Everything he isn’t, anyway. And he has spent his lifetime being alright with that. He has
always felt a bit out of place, never adopted, like he is an imposter. Like maybe there is
something wrong with him. He has pushed hard to make their family work anyway and to
have his own place in it.
His palms are sweaty. He clenches them tightly.

Who does Bruce think he is? Does Bruce think adoption is really a cure-all for their myriad
of problems? Does he just feel guilty for how he has treated Dick, now that he has realized it,
and this is his way of making it up to him – and isn’t that a thought that makes Dick feel
suddenly cold. What if Bruce is asking not because he wants to adopt Dick, but because it
seems like a fair trade, after what he has put Dick through?

Everything in their family has been so much harder recently. There are lots of reasons for the
challenges, but Dick tracks the increase back to Bruce’s return from the timestream, with him
reinserting himself into their lives and forcing their new patterns to fit back into the mold he
wants. Bruce is so controlling; he’s always been that way, but everything is worse when he
feels like his authority is slipping. Dick has been carefully tiptoeing around his ego, but it’s to
keep the pace going for their whole family’s dance.

Does Bruce think that Dick’s world revolves around him, like a satellite whose orbit can be
tweaked and repaired as needed? Is Dick just some sick joke to Bruce? To this family?

Not that anyone else is making the patchwork repairs easier. Jason will only speak to Alfred,
Tim will only speak to Steph, Damian will only speak to Dick, Cass has been almost radio
silent since she left. And everyone is appalled that Dick wants to talk to Bruce at all, like he’s
making the wrong decision. But he doesn’t want all of this dead silence in his family.

“Dick. Breathe.” Clark’s voice is close, concerned.

Dick is hyperventilating again. He can’t stop. He has figured out what emotion is rising up
within him, the tide that is threatening to overwhelm him. Familiar, and not as spent as he
thought it was.

It’s rage. He’s seething mad.

How dare Bruce. The presumptuous jerk.

Clark must be part empath, because he takes a step back and repeats, “No one is around us
for five miles. Let it out, Dick.”

A clear command. Years of conditioning to wait for orders have him latching onto this one.
Dick leans back, throws his arms out, opens his mouth and screams.

It’s a wordless, primal sound that carries all of his fury into the sky. It takes effort to scream
hard; Dick’s entire neck is taut with the weight of his hurt being given a savage voice. It’s
painful on his throat, but in a twisted way it feels good. Something is being released with the
noise.

Eventually, he can’t keep it up anymore and his voice gives out. Dick tests out a few noises,
and settles for a whisper as he closes his eyes. “Thank you.”

Clark’s poor, sensitive hearing. Dick hears Clark shift towards him. “Can I give you a hug?”
he asks quietly, hovering close by.

Dick opens his arms in answer, all the signal Clark needs. The embrace is rejuvenating. He
feels a rush of gratitude, and tries not to feel ashamed about how exposed he is right now, all
of his emotions and vulnerabilities on full display.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Dick whispers hoarsely. “Can I just ignore it?”

Clark squeezes him tighter once before letting go. “Sorry Dick, I don’t think you can leave
this one alone.” A pause. “But it sounds like this is about more than just the text, though.
How are you guys doing, really?”

Dick sighs deeply. This is what they get for keeping all of their family drama on the down
low. “You heard Bruce was getting therapy right?”
“I hadn’t been certain if what I heard was true,” Clark muses. “I never thought I would see
the day Batman talked about his problems.”

Dick snorts. “Right?” He flops down to lie in the cool grass, exhausted. He muses, “Do you
think his therapist told him to send the text?”

“I doubt anyone would tell him to send that over text,” Clark says wryly. Then he ventures,
“But Bruce may have been trying to give you an out if your response was …negative. By not
forcing a reaction out of you in real time.”

Dick thinks for a while. Now that he is feeling clearer, tired after his screaming match with
the sky, he tries to recall Bruce’s poor emotional logic. He can imagine pretty clearly Bruce’s
therapist recommending that he explore his relationship with Dick, and then Bruce naturally
considered adoption, because everyone else is adopted. Because if Bruce ever thought about
Dick for five minutes it was probably pretty obviou -

Anyway. Dick doesn’t like to think about Bruce discussing Dick in a therapy session.

“He’s trying.” Dick sighs again. “Although he did just give me a panic attack. Why is he so
emotionally clumsy all the time?”

“It’s definitely a flaw of his. How are you guys otherwise?” Clark prods. Dick looks at him
out of the corner of his eye. Clark knows Bruce better than most people, and as an equal, not
an authority figure. Clark knows Bruce isn’t perfect. He knows Bruce and Dick are almost
too incongruous to be passable as a working relationship sometimes.

But he doesn’t know everything.

Dick bizarrely feels in control for a moment. He gets to choose, he gets to decide if he will
tell Clark or not. He decides whether Clark will know that Bruce can phrase things so Dick
ends up feeling like a terrible person for things he didn’t even do, or how sometimes Bruce
will use a bit of force to remind his soldier, to remind Dick, that their mission is serious.
Dick should be using past tense, even in his thoughts. Nothing but the most superficial of
conversations have been exchanged since the aquarium. He shouldn’t hold Bruce’s past
mistakes against him, not when he is trying so hard in the present, not even when the pain
always feels fresh to Dick.

(But how long will it last? How long until they fall back into old habits? How long until Dick
is sent away?)

But in this moment, Dick has the power to make a choice. It’s freeing.

In the freedom of the moment, Dick finds the courage to take the step he could never even
see as an option before. It takes him a couple moments, and he clears his throat a few times
before he can speak. Then, like the Flying Grayson he is, he leaps:

“Once when I was Robin, Bruce got mad and hit me after patrol,” Dick begins, his voice still
a whisper. Clark goes perfectly motionless beside him. “And then it wasn’t just once.”

It is faltering, and slow, but as the sun lazily traces the sky, Dick lets himself tell Clark what
has been hurting him for years on the inside. He keeps some things to himself, the private
hurt from Mirage or Tarantula - it’s still raw from his talk with Jason and it cuts him trying to
get it out of his throat so he swallows it back down. He doesn’t mention the morass that is
Deathstroke, which has always troubled him less than everything else for some inexplicable
reason. But about Bruce, he’s pretty sure he says it all. It is painful getting the words out, like
they burn his tongue as he speaks, but once he says them he feels lighter.

It takes a while, maybe hours. The sun is starting to set, and Dick is starting to shiver. Clark
has not spoken, just sat quietly listening until Dick’s whisper trails off. Dick is pretty sure
they both cried at some point, but by the time he finishes he is feeling almost normal.

“-and now, everyone is walking on eggshells around everybody else and no one will say
anything. Oh yeah, and Bruce thinks now is a good time to adopt me and, I don’t know, atone
for it all?” Dick swipes a hand over his eyes. “I’ve been trying to ignore it, but it’s starting to
get to me,” Dick confesses finally, feeling sheepish about his screaming episode. So
dramatic, Grayson.
A moment of quiet, but Dick has said all he felt he could. His voice is well and truly shot
now. He waits breathlessly for a response, to be told he has got it wrong, somehow, like he
thought. That he’s wrong, that Bruce was right to do this to him. Clark will know what to say
to enlighten Dick.

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” Clark says, squeezing Dick’s hand. “That must have
been very hard to keep inside for so long. And I,” Clark clears his throat, “I’m so sorry I
didn’t see it. When you tell it, I feel like I should have ....” Clark trails off, but Dick doesn’t
mind because it sounds like Clark believes him. Dick hadn’t even realized that he had been
afraid he wouldn’t until he finally exhales and feels his lungs ache from holding his breath.

“No apologies,” Dick reminds him gently. “Besides, I didn’t want you to know.” A beat.
“Don’t bring this up to Bruce, okay? He’s trying to be better, and I don’t want him to know I
told you.”

Clark is quiet. Dick can almost hear him thinking, turning the words over in his head before
he finally speaks, “Dick, you are very important to me. And I’m here for you, whatever you
want. I’m really proud of the man, and hero, you have become. You’re very strong.” Clark
shifts so he can look Dick in the eyes. “But this is a lot for anyone to deal with. Have you
ever considered getting professional help, for you? Talking to people close to you is great, but
there can be something very liberating in speaking with someone trained and removed from
the situation.”

Dick swallows. “Yeah, I’m thinking about it,” he admits. “Everyone is talking about therapy
these days in Gotham, it’s weird. I guess I mean they’re talking around it. But even Damian
thinks we need help, although he may have ulterior animal-themed motives.” Clark looks
intrigued and Dick snorts, “Get this: he got everyone pet fish and called it therapy.”

“Ah,” Clark makes a noise of comprehension. “I saw a fishbowl in your apartment and
wondered about that. When did you get a fish?”

Dick almost smiles, remembering Damian’s excitement. “After the aquarium, Damian
campaigned for a week to get everyone a therapy fish - because taking care of something is
supposed to make you take better care of yourself. And once Alfred got on board, no one
stood a chance.”
“I thought I saw two fish in your house,” Clark points out, fishing. Ha.

Dick laughs, a wheezing, breathy sound that hurts his throat. “Well Damian only gave me
one, but I thought one would get lonely!”

Damian had gotten Dick the one goldfish to start everyone off, named Hope, much to
Damian’s chagrin. He still finds it amusing, after the lecture on self care from his kid brother.
Dick needs to keep Hope alive, so he needs to keep himself alive. After less than a week,
Dick decided that no one swims alone in his house so he got a second fish too and named her
Darling. He has always been fond of pet names, which he thinks must be pretty obvious from
the nicknames he throws at all of his siblings.

Damian made everyone else get a fish too, since clearly everyone could use the extra
motivation for self care. The naming creativity is a broad spectrum. Bruce’s goldfish is Fish,
though Steph has tried to get everyone to refer to the fish as Charles. Tim’s fish is Fishy
(“The real mini Bruce,” Jason tells everyone. Tim quickly renames his fish Bernadette.)
Jason’s betta fish is red and officially named Julius Caesar, because Jason is a pretentious
ponce, but he refers to him as the Little Asshole, because Jason is also a punk brat. Cass’
betta fish is in safe keeping with Alfred until her return and is named Princess appropriately.
Steph’s goldfish is Nemo. Alfred’s betta fish has no name so Jason named it Hamlet. For
Damian himself, he capitalized on Bruce’s weird new guilt complex and now is the proud
owner of a giant tank hosting a squad of moon sea jellies, unnamed, but Dick calls them the
names of the Pacman ghosts interchangeably.

The pet fish have actually been a source of unity amongst the family, and an opportunity for
bonding, especially around the names people gave their fish. The group chat is full of fish
photos.

“That’s pretty thoughtful of you,” Clark says with a smile, still talking about Dick getting a
second fish so his first fish wouldn’t get lonely. “You are always caring about others.”

“Says Superman,” Dick retorts, rolling his eyes. “Also they’re just fish, don’t give me too
much credit.”

“Dick, you have a lot of people who care about you back,” Clark tells him sincerely. “A lot of
people want to see you get help. I know your siblings would want that. Do you have any
other therapy plans?”

“A couple ideas, I guess,” Dick says, noncommittal. He rubs his frozen hands together and
rolls to a stand. “I thought the special vigilante therapist Bruce has is a good idea, but.” The
thought of going to the same therapist as Bruce is so abhorrent Dick has to physically repress
a shudder. There has to be more than one JL therapist though. “Anyway, I’ll figure it out.”

Clark rises behind Dick, and they both shake out their coats. There is still a faint light in the
sky, and Dick can see a trailhead opening on the edge of the clearing. They are in some state
park, likely.

“Dick,” Clark says, “Promise me. You’ll get help. And if you ever need someone, you'll call
me.”

“I just did call you,” Dick jokes, but he turns serious at Clark’s expression. “Alright, fine,” he
says, exasperated, but Clark did just fly him across the country at Dick’s whim, so he owes
him a little. Dick holds out a hand a bit mockingly. “I promise I’ll ask for help when I need it.
But that won’t necessarily be when you think I need it,” Dick points out, unwilling to yield
fully.

Clark laughs. “I’ll take it.” He shakes Dick’s hand.

“So,” Dick says, looking around. He gestures at the trail, “Now that the emotional breakdown
is out of the way, fancy a hike?”

Clark checks his watch. “I need to be home for dinner at 5:30, but we have a few minutes.”
He looks up, adjusts his glasses. “Oh sure, why not.”

Dick grins, and then they amiably wander into the forest, chatting.

It’s amazing. Dick has just shared his oldest secrets, the darkest parts of his life, and the
world carries on. Clark laughs at his jokes like nothing has changed between them. If
anything, Dick feels maybe a little closer to Clark, like there’s a greater trust now.

Dick feels himself relax.

“Are you free for dinner? Lois is cooking Italian,” Clark offers. “Or maybe ordering takeout,
depending on how the experiment goes.”

“Experiment huh? Ominous, but count me in,” Dick agrees. His steps slow for a moment,
hesitant, “And Clark? Thanks. For everything.”

“Of course,” he replies instantly. “Any time.” His tone is warm. “Now let’s go, it never pays
to keep her waiting.”

Clark holds out a hand, and Dick takes it.

—-------------

Dick has been telling himself he doesn’t want help, afraid of what would happen if he were to
change.

Here is a secret: there’s something sick and twisted in Dick that does not wish for healing,
that actually wants to be sicker. That feels like the worse his condition, the more it will let
him justify his continuing hurt. And there’s some reward from the pain he feels when he
continues to act like nothing's wrong, when he allows all of his previous hurts to be
unaddressed. The wounds are still there, throbbing, and Dick revels in the private reminder,
the pain a link to something he doesn’t want to lose. Bruce took Dick in when he was
younger than any of his siblings who came into Bruce’s care; his attachment and his fear of
abandonment are deeply rooted. Dick has to admit to himself that he doesn’t want to lose
Bruce, not really. And he’s used to lying to himself habitually now, even when he doesn’t
have to, but.
Dick has to admit to himself that maybe his satisfaction from the pain, just because it’s a
reminder of Bruce, isn’t a good thing.

But it falls into the patchwerk armor he has sewed for himself out of his own fragile skin,
trying to make it thick enough to carry him through the highs and lows of his relationship
with Bruce. The problem is that Dick doesn’t need to carry the weight of his homemade
coping mechanisms with him anymore. It’s just hard to set it down, a habitual crutch, when
Dick has always needed it in the past, when Bruce was constantly pushing him and Dick
needed to be able to catch himself. But Bruce isn’t shoving him away anymore, or shoving
him down - instead, he’s sending weird texts and asking about his day. Dick doesn’t know
what’s going on, what Bruce is thinking, and in the past that would keep Dick up at night.
But Bruce is changing in positive ways Dick would never have thought possible, at least not
alone.

But Bruce is not doing this alone.

Perhaps Dick should seek help as well. Just to try it.

—----------------

“...and then I said ‘I’m not even your son, Bruce,’” Dick recounts, staring at the ceiling. “And
then I kicked him in the balls, smashed the fish tank, pulled the fire alarm, and left.”

“Did you really?” asks his therapist, Carlos Garcia, interested. It’s mumbled around munches
of doritos. He is reclined on the opposite couch.

Dick reaches into the bowl of Skittles on his own lap. “Well, I didn’t kick him,” he admits.
“But I thought about it.”

“Understandable. Toss me a Skittle?” Carlos requests, and Dick obliges. He makes a ‘hmm’
noise as he chews. “So why did you leave?”
Dick raises an eyebrow. “Because I was pissed off.”

“About what in particular,” he presses.

Dick is quiet for a moment. “It felt like Bruce didn’t know me.” At the look he receives, he
continues, “Not that he didn’t love me, or that he hated me, just that I was a stranger. And
that scared me.” He chews thoughtfully. “Although now he’s acting totally strange. Nice, but
strange.” It unsettles Dick a bit, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Carlos doesn’t look away. “You mentioned that before, but I want to go back to the aquarium.
You said that’s when he started changing, and you don’t really feel like you can hold things
against him since, but let’s talk about it a bit more. How did you feel about what he accused
you of?”

“Hmm?” Dick says, pretending to be very absorbed in sorting Skittles.

“How did it make you feel that he brought up rumours about you?” his therapist clarifies.

Dick’s hands still. He puts on a smile. “Hey, have you ever tried fish-flavoured candy?”

Carlos rolls his eyes but allows the dodge.

And slowly, Dick gets therapy, and the world doesn’t end. It took him a while; to fight his old
habits and to heal, he has to want to. But he does want to now, most days.

Therapy doesn’t make his life instantly better, either. In fact, at first it really, really sucked.
There are over a hundred therapists registered with the JL. He filled out an application form
to match him with one. And still, he went through three therapists before he found someone
he could drop his guard around enough to be real with, to open up to.
Dick is never going to tell anyone that his current therapist reminds him of Wally. A bit
chaotic, but a real person who is trying very hard, and it’s endearing.

In Carlos’ room, there is a quote on the wall from Pooh Bear:

“But you could be doing something Important,” I said.

“I am,” said Pooh.

“Oh? Doing what?”

“Listening,” he said.

Next to it there is a poster labeled “The Importance of Smaller Steps” and two ladders, one
with giant gaps between the rungs and the other much more accessible.

It’s all so cheesy and cringey Dick can’t help but love it.

In therapy, Dick spends a lot of time talking, though not always. He talks often about
important things, though not every time. Pet fish, Bruce, his decision to ignore Bruce’s
adoption question, pizza toppings, Damian, gymnastics, Catalina. He chooses what to say and
when to stop. It feels good. And slowly, he feels a bit better, about what happened to him and
who he is now. And what he is not.

Dick’s therapy sessions end up structured around discussions of the different people in his
life, because Dick sees himself best in relation to others; and this is how his progress will be
structured, if he can find it in himself to change. He is willing to try. He’s constantly being
reminded that therapy is what works for you, and it’s not necessarily talking, but learning
other techniques to be calm, to be present, to look after yourself.

He enters the new year feeling hopeful.

—-------------------
“-And dinner was okay. A little awkward, since Tim has some beef with Bruce now but he
won’t tell me about it. I think he only came because I begged him. But they’re not fighting
really. Just quiet. And Jason stopped by during patrol on New Year’s, and he did yell a bit,
but that’s normal. So I think we’re all good.”

“That sounds like a lot of people, a lot of relationships to keep track of tomorrow.”

“Yeah, it’s a big family.”

“But Dick, you seem stressed about Tim and Bruce even though you’re telling me everything
is fine. It’s not always you that has to fix everything and manage all of the relationships.”

“Hmm.”

“You disagree.”

“I just don’t feel comfortable leaving them alone for too long with each other.”

“Bruce and your siblings, you mean?”

“Yeah. Look, I know it’s not my place, I’m not anyone’s parent. But I don’t think they’re…
careful enough. They don’t know what to do with each other. Like, how to be safe.”

“And you do?”

“Yes. I guess. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I already told you I’m not interested in
restraining orders or legal action or whatever, we don’t need it. I don’t want to put more
distance between us all.”
“Right, you mentioned you’re visiting Wayne Manor regularly again? Don’t look at me like
that, I’m just summarizing. But Dick, are you safe when you go there?”

“What do you mean? Actually, don’t answer that. Yes, I’m safe around Bruce. He’s changed,
you know?”

“Okay. But are you comfortable around him?”

“I can manage.”

“Dick.”

“Carlos.”

“Even if seeing Bruce, if being there, isn’t physically endangering you anymore, perhaps it
hurts in other ways.”

“…”

“I know you’re not still chewing, but feel free to keep pretending. The way you’re talking, it
sounds like you feel like you have to see Bruce?”

“No, not have to. Well. Maybe a little.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know. I guess like I said before, I don’t think they can handle it without me. Wow, that
sounds so arrogant, doesn’t it?”
“Yep.”

“Oh screw you, you’re supposed to be validating my self-confidence.”

“Not if you’re placing all of your confidence in how little of yourself you need to keep in
order to survive. Dick, I think you need more time for yourself.”

“Myself? Didn’t we just talk about how I suck at being alone?”

“Not alone then, but your family is ..very complicated. It’s possible it might help you to have
some distance - from Bruce, then, if not the rest of them. You have friends outside of the city,
don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to talk to them about all of this stuff. It’s a family matter.”

“You don’t have to bring everything up with everyone. But it could be good to have supports
that aren’t connected to Operation F.I.S.H.. Oh, don’t look so smug, it’s an easy way to
reference your family’s interpersonal issues. Just think about it, for next time?”

“Well. I whaley don’t know. But I’ll sink about it.”

“Good.”

—-------------------

Now that Dick is tentatively in the pro-therapy camp, he does some fishing around his family
and finds out pretty much everyone is getting support about Operation F.I.S.H. (Dick has
taken to avoiding directly naming the topic of Bruce being abusive and everyone being
enabling by using the appropriated euphemism). Which is great, but. Everyone is still
stubbornly not talking to each other, and Dick knows well how lack of communication can
twist perception of others.

Then Dick has an awesome idea, despite Carlos’ misgivings.

So he cajoles his siblings and Alfred and Bruce to get them to try family therapy. He is met
with immediate resistance, largely from his siblings. That anyone agrees at all is a testament
to how the family treats Dick these days, like he is fragile and they need to bend to his whims
or he will fall apart. Their guilty capitulation would normally irk Dick, but he will take the
easy win.

They agree to try one group session.

Dick mentions family therapy to Bruce and he agrees to whatever Dick asks so fast Dick is
left blinking at a planned schedule of potential dates and times. He coordinates it with Black
Canary, who is involved with screening the Justice League level therapists. Dick originally
wanted her to run the therapy session for them, seeing a benefit to a hero moderating them.
Besides, he isn’t so much of an idealist that he can’t recognize they may need someone
capable of physically stopping fights to oversee them.

But then Bruce steps in to supervise the planning.

Dick thinks that maybe this is Bruce trying, making an effort to be involved, perhaps even
because Dick told him to, and perhaps trying to set it up for Dick, so Dick doesn’t have to.
Which makes it hard, then, for Dick to tell him that it feels like he’s doing it wrong . (So he
doesn’t.)

Bruce disagrees with having Dinah, not wanting their secrets exposed to someone they all
sort of know, not wanting a physical threat from an outsider; he wants a certified therapist
with no attachments. So Dinah recommends a few people who aren’t involved with any of
them, and Bruce decides on Dr. Jessica Flores.

It’s a common last name. It means nothing to Dick and doesn’t bother him at all. He’s happy
that Bruce is demonstrating initiative towards positive change in actively participating in
planning the group therapy session; Dick should be encouraging that. He doesn’t want to
cause any problems, not when he was the one to try to push everyone into this in the first
place. It makes sense that Bruce chooses anyway; there is a lot to lose from any
confidentiality breaching and they have always been paranoid.

It’s another argument in itself, but Bruce refuses to have them all gathered together saying
vulnerable things in a third party location. Dick does point out the importance of neutrality
but ends up caving, so they choose to meet in the Batcave for security reasons, and the
therapist will enter with Bruce through the zeta tubes. Most of his siblings are unhappy about
it because it’s a random civilian in their command centre, but it’s also where Bruce is most
familiar and comfortable. Dinah isn’t happy about it when she hears because apparently it’s
important to be in a “safe separate space”, but Dick thinks at least they’re meeting. To
compromise, they meet in the cave’s gym. The workout equipment is pushed to the side, and
a circle of chairs is set up.

Dick arrives early, dressed comfortably in sweatpants and a hoodie. He starts a call with Cass
on a tablet. He’s glad she has committed to joining the session at all; after Thanksgiving, he
hasn’t seen her in person. He knows she stuck around a few days for all of the arguing Dick
wasn’t involved in, but he suspects it was hard on her. Cass is frustrated with Bruce when he
can’t read them and respond correctly, the way Cass thinks he should . Dick knows she had
been thinking about returning to Gotham permanently, but she chose to do another stint in
Hong Kong now after all of the family drama. She recovers best when she can get away from
the gloom. Dick thinks it’s good for her, but that doesn’t stop him from wishing she was at
ease amongst them.

“Hi,” Cass says, adjusting her camera. She is sitting on her bed; it’s dark in her room.

“Heya,” Dick says. “Ready for some family fun?”

“You are wrong. It will not be fun,” Cass warns, gently, “But we need to try.” She adds, a bit
more positively, “Steph says good luck!”

Dick swallows. He has been trying not to feel nervous, but it’s happening anyway. “Thanks
Cass.” He sets the tablet down on one of the chairs and takes a neighbouring seat.

Everyone else shows up slowly.

Alfred and Damian come in together, Alfred carrying a tray of refreshments which he sets up
in the middle. Damian is still in his Gotham Academy uniform, minus the identifying blazer.
He has been happier going to school lately, since his harbour project was highly lauded. He
assesses the seating quickly and beelines toward the chair next to Dick.

“Hey kiddo,” Dick greets with a grin. “Ready?”

“Richard, there is no way this is going to work,” Damian says seriously.

“This is a terrible idea,” Tim announces himself as he walks in, yawning.

Dick grits his teeth to keep the grin on his face. ‘Why is everyone such a downer? Come on
guys, we haven’t even started!”

Tim takes the seat between Alfred and Cass. “It doesn’t take a lot of foresight to see where
this is going,” he mutters darkly. “Why are we letting this civilian into the cave anyway? Like
I get that there’s confidentiality binding, but still.”

“Bruce wanted someone who doesn’t know us already, professionally or personally,” Dick
explains. He has his own opinions, but ultimately he can agree Bruce has good points. It’s not
like he wants to fight; they’ve been almost pleasant with each other lately. There’s no way
Dick is messing that up just for stupid details about their therapy session. And it’s nice to see
everyone in the same place, that hasn’t happened since- well. But they need to talk.

Tim crosses his arms. “We shouldn’t even be having this in the cave.”

“Bruce wants it here,” Dick says. There are other reasons, but this one feels most important.

“Of course he does.” Tim glares at the floor. He has been unusually bitter with Bruce
recently. Dick isn’t sure what’s going on there.
Dick sighs, but lets it go. “‘Did you see Jason come in?”

“I’m here, unfortunately,” Jason says, walking over to sit next to Alfred. He already sounds
annoyed. Great . “Where’s the actual therapist? And the terrible father figure?”

Dick is getting a headache. “They’re coming straight from JL headquarters after Bruce’s
meeting,” he checks his watch. “Should be here any minute.”

They sit silently for an extremely tense minute. Nobody is relaxed enough to speak. Nobody
touches the refreshments.

Dick is almost about to text Bruce a reminder when finally, to Dick’s great relief, the zeta
tube announces Batman and Dr. Flores’ arrival.

Except, then they walk into the gym and it’s still Batman and Dr. Flores . There are two
empty seats, between Jason and Damian.

“Hello everyone,” says Dr. Flores, smiling warmly. Dick read her file, he knows she’s forty-
six years old and married and expecting grandchildren and she’s not familiar for any reason at
all. “I’m Dr. Jessica Flores. Please call me Jessica, or Dr. Flores, whatever you prefer. I am a
founding member of the JL psychological and therapeutic support teams along with Black
Canary and have been employed there for five years now doing private and team sessions.”
Dick doubts she has ever seen anything like his family, though. “Everything from this
meeting will of course be strictly confidential. I am aware of your identities to some extent,
but how would you each like to be called?”

Dick sees Jason whip around to laser vision on him, mouthing, Flores? Dick sets his jaw and
ignores him, ignores it all. Dr. Flores looks nothing like-

“Hi, I’m Dick,” he introduces himself, smiling. Everyone takes the cue and introduces
themselves as Dr. Flores takes a seat.
Then Batman bravely, stupidly, sits next to Jason.

“Yeah I’m giving that a hell no,” Jason glares. “I’m not doing this therapy thing with Batman.
Take it off.”

Bruce pulls off the cowl. “Happy?” His face is Not happy. Dick wonders how the JL meeting
went; he seems tense.

“Actually maybe you should get changed,” Dr. Flores observes, analyzing the room and
noting the combative expressions.

“There’s not enough time,” Bruce argues, checking the clock.

“Then make time for this,” Tim snaps. Dick tries not to visibly react at the sharpness. Tim has
been unusually short with Bruce lately, throwing sparks like he’s trying to start a fire. “I think
everyone would be more comfortable if we were all dressed as civilians for equal
vulnerability.”

Bruce looks like he’s about to say something but thinks his therapist would tell him not to.

“I agree,” Dr. Flores says with a frown. “It’s important that everyone is equally comfortable-”

“It’s fine, we can all see each other’s faces,” Dick interrupts, noting the way Jason and Bruce
are clenching their jaws. Maybe they should just move on from this topic. He gives Dr. Flores
a smile. “Let’s just start.”

“Dick, you can’t just say everything’s okay to avoid confrontation, you wanted this group
talk,” Tim hisses, pitched so only he and Dick can hear, Cass’ tablet between them. Dick
doesn’t react aside from a twitch in his jaw, still smiling. This session will work, they can do
this.
Dr. Flores looks between them like she’s already getting a headache. “Is everyone alright to
continue like this?”

“Fucking whatever,” Jason mutters moodily. Dick nods along, willing them to move on.
Everyone else looks at Dick but remains silent.

Dr. Flores nods. “Alright. It’s okay to say if at any time you are uncomfortable and we can
make changes.” She straightens her blouse before folding her hands professionally. “Now,
let’s start with how you’re feeling today. Does anyone want to begin?”

“Good,” Cass says from the tablet. “Tired.”

“That’s good,” Dr. Flores says encouragingly, bravely not thrown off by the virtual
connection.

Then she turns to look at Dick, like they’re going in a circle, so he should be next.

“I’m fine,” he says.

All of his brothers groan.

“What?” Dick says, instantly annoyed. So much for keeping his cool.

“That’s fine, thank you for telling us,” Dr. Flores moves on swiftly, keeping things going.

After everyone has gone, finally, she asks, “Does anyone have anything they want to bring
up? Anything they want to see addressed in this session?”
Silence. There are so many reasons this family needs therapy.

“Well,” says Dick eventually, “We could all benefit from some better communication and
understanding of each other’s feelings.”

“Agreed,” says Cass.

“We are working on it, but we could improve,” Bruce allows.

“You could really improve,” Jason agrees. Tim snorts.

“Guys, we’re all here because we all want to improve,” says Dick, exasperated. He glances at
Dr. Flores, embarrassed on behalf of his family. He finds he’s back to saving face, not
expressing his own emotions once again. Carlos is going to be so disappointed at the
regression.

Dr. Flores is looking between Jason and Bruce and Tim. Dick thought she had been briefed
on their situation, but now he wonders if they should have sent a longer summary.

“What have you been doing to improve?” Dr. Flores settles on asking Bruce.

“I have been seeing a therapist for about seven weeks now,” Bruce says, and Dick notes that
he doesn’t sound ashamed and he doesn’t look uncomfortable admitting it. That’s good. “I
have been trying to be more intentional about checking in with everyone even when we don’t
see each other.” Perhaps this is the reason for the sporadic texting. Dick is thoroughly
straining Bruce’s replies for any scraps of insight into whatever he’s been thinking the last
two months that they’ve been playing passable family.

“Did something happen seven weeks ago to spark the change?” Dr. Flores asks, perceptive.

Bruce looks at Dick. Everyone looks at Dick.

“Have you seen any news articles on Gotham Aquarium?” Dick tries. Dr. Flores doesn’t
appear to be comprehending, but she does look interested. “We tried to have a family trip to
the aquarium, but we ended up fighting and… uh, one of the tanks broke and there was a bit
of a flood.”

“Dick shattered an exhibit,” Bruce details helpfully. Dick tries not to shrink in on himself too
much. He knows he cost Bruce a lot of money in repairs and bribes for that; he read it in the
papers.

“Oh? What happened?” Dr. Flores asks. Dick looks around. He doesn’t want to be the one
who explains all of the hurtful words Bruce said, or the hurtful words he said back.

“Look lady, that doesn’t matter,” Jason cuts in. “That’s not even the problem here, that’s the
aquarium’s problem. Our problem is that this guy,” Jason waves his hand at Bruce sitting next
to him, almost smacking him in the face, “has been punching that guy,” a vague gesture to
Dick, who wishes the floor would swallow him up, “for years. And he’s been training up this
whole room full of child soldiers and then he gets mad when we grow up, get independent,
and don’t follow his stupid orders.” Dick’s headache is never going to go away at this rate.

“No killing isn’t a stupid order,” Bruce argues.

“Not what I was referring to,” Jason shoots back. Then an almost imperceptible mutter, “Not
this time.”

Tim speaks up, eyes narrowed and accusing. “He’s right, Bruce, you can’t handle it when
anyone has a different opinion and it’s hurting us in the field and off of it.”

Bruce crosses his arms. “I take your feedback into consideration, though you’re right I should
do so more,” he argues. “But someone needs to lead.”

“You? Jason scoffs. “You have terrible judgment, what the fuck were you thinking sending
Dick undercover?”
Dick flinches but tries to step in, “Didn’t you say that he didn’t mean to-”

“We’ve already discussed this multiple times, there were confounding factors. You’ve made
your position very clear on the subject of my mistake,” Bruce rubs his jaw like he has
phantom pain from when Jason punched him in the face.

“Perhaps it is best to discuss non-mask business when no one in the room is wearing one,”
Alfred interjects smoothly.

“There is clearly a lot of tension between everyone around mission work,” Dr. Flores jumps
in now that Alfred has cleared a path in the conversation. Dick realizes that maybe she has
tried to jump in earlier and he didn’t notice over his laser focus on his family arguing. He
tries to pay better attention. “How about out of costume?”

Dick glances at the clock. This therapy session is already exhausting. Dick feels regret seep
in, and a bit of dread that they still have fifty minutes, if they last that long.

There’s a crackle from the tablet. Dick reaches out to adjust the view. “What was that, Cass?”
he asks.

They all wait, watching. Her video looks frozen.

“Well, we all have some serious issues with boundaries,” Tim offers in the meantime. “And
we all feel some level of indebtedness to Bruce, I guess.”

“Why is that?” Dr. Flores asks.

Jason’s cough sounds a lot like “child soldiers”. Dick doesn’t want to explore that today, this
is their first session, so he jumps in with, “Bruce raised us. Along with Alfred, of course.” A
gesture. The butler inclines his head in acknowledgement. “For a lot of us, being taken in was
an alternative to a difficult situation. So there’s a lot of gratitude tied up there from the get-
go.”

Dr. Flores is nodding. “Understandable. That can be common in adopted relationships.” Dick
carefully doesn’t react at all to the term adopted. He can feel Bruce’s eyes on him. (He left
that message on read.) “And has that gratitude ever contributed to feeling like you owe
something? Or a situation where you give more than you feel you can out of obligation?”

Wow. Dick wonders if it’s hot in here or if he just overdressed. He squirms slightly before
forcing himself to still when he realizes how many eyes are tracking the motion. Could
everyone stop looking at him?

“Maybe it’s just how I make myself feel,” Tim allows, hunched a little. “But there’s a
pressure to be useful, to the mission, but also to Bruce. Or Wayne Enterprises.” Bruce shoots
him a betrayed look, or maybe it’s just surprise. Dick has to stop reading into everything.

He taps the tablet again to distract himself, trying to restart the call with Cass. There is a
crackle, then nothing.

In the meantime, Damian has started speaking for the first time since introductions. “I do feel
that perhaps there is an expectation to prioritize Father’s wishes.” He glances shyly at Dick,
then away. “Grayson has a life in Bludhaven but has had to stay in Gotham on multiple
occasions for support.”

“That’s not - I want to be with you guys, Dami,” Dick protests.

“I don’t make Dick come to Gotham,” Bruce says.

“Bruce, you do so,” Tim says viciously, and where did that venom come from? “You literally
called his work and told them he was sick so he wouldn’t have a reason to go back!”
“How did you know that?” Dick tries to ask, but then Jason is bolting out of his seat, looming
over Bruce.

“What the fuck?” Jason says, glaring at Bruce. “Why would you do that? He loves
gymnastics!” So sweet of Jason to care, but fighting Dick’s battles for him is aggravating -
and unnecessary.

“Please stop-,” Dick tries, standing up and inching closer, ready to pitch himself between
them. Wishing that his family wasn’t so physical all of the time.

“It was before Thanksgiving. We needed the extra help on the mission,” Bruce argues,
standing as well, obviously disgruntled with having to look up to Jason. “I haven’t forced
Dick to do anything since I-”

“Stop!” Cass’ crackling connection has recovered in time for her to catch the confrontation. It
freezes them all for a second.

Then Cass cuts out again, and they are all left awkwardly waiting.

“How about Dick speaks,” Dr. Flores cuts in. “Please, everyone take a seat again.” There is
some hesitation, but slowly everyone sits again. “If you wanted to say something, Dick?”

And it’s kind of her to give him the opportunity to speak for himself, but suddenly he doesn’t
know what to say. He doesn’t think he can give voice to what he’s really thinking when he
looks at them all sitting here together because he asked them to; not when his melancholy
mind is telling him that maybe they’re his family but that a lot of days they feel more like
Bruce’s family and he doesn’t truly belong, he’s just a parasite borrowing their connection to
keep himself going emotionally. He’s pretty sure none of his siblings think it’s true, but he
doesn’t think he can bring himself to ask for confirmation in this setting, with so much else
unsettled. And now doesn’t feel like the time to bring up how he feels about Bruce’s
micromanaging either, not when it will just start another fight. But if he brushes the question
off then his siblings will be annoyed.

He is taking too long; that’s suspicious too.

“Your brothers seem to think Bruce makes decisions for you. Do you make your own
decisions?” she prompts gently.

Dick instinctively glances at Bruce. Bruce is nodding; maybe it’s encouragement, or maybe
it’s the answer.

“Yes,” says Dicks, wanting to be agreeable.

“The fuck you do,” Jason narrows his eyes.

“What now?” Dick asks, crossing his arms.

“Bruce literally just told you what to say,” Tim answers for Jason. He turns, “And Bruce, you
have got to stop dictating our actions if this family is going to work at all. Now is not the
time to be directing people - we need to be able to openly express ourselves here.”

“Dick can make his own choices about how he acts,” Bruce defends.

“You can be a real shit-stain,” Jason seethes unhelpfully, transitioning from defending Dick
to attacking people.

“Bruce, you know he tries to please you, so you manipulate him. Try to be a little more self-
aware,” Tim says. He sounds like he thinks everyone already agrees with him.

Dick says, “I do not-”

Bruce says, “He can choose-”

“What?” Jason explodes, finally. He has been quieter today, but that just means all of his
build-ups have been happening internally where Dick can’t monitor and so it feels like he’s
leaping to extremes. Now Jason is standing up again, large and looming. “He chooses to do
what you want of his own volition? Or do you have to hit him every time?”

“Jason Peter Todd,” says Bruce.

“Master Bruce,” says Alfred.

“Everyone, breathe for a moment,” says Dr. Flores. “Perhaps that is enough-”

Tim ignores her. He has grabbed Cass’ tablet and is fiddling with it while he talks. “Bruce,
nothing can change for us until you admit you were wrong before. I know you’re working on
it now, but you’ve got to take more steps before we can say you’re doing well. You need to
get to know us before you can tell us about ourselves. You don’t even know what we’re
dealing with.”

“I know I was wrong, you’re right,” Bruce says. He looks at Dick. “But I do know you,
chum.”

Dick can’t speak.

“No you don’t,” Jason says dangerously. “You don’t know what he’s been through. What he’s
dealing with.”

Dick is pretty sure he knows what’s going on here. He wishes he had predicted this, it’s so
obvious in hindsight. It’s why they have all been avoiding each other. Everyone feels more
comfortable addressing their issues with Bruce through Dick as a conductor, so they don’t
have to touch their own personal problems. Dick understands; it probably hurts less for them.
But it leaves him feeling strange, like he’s watching his own court case. Or like he’s a child
again, and social services are trying to figure out what to do with him. He feels small. He
feels insignificant. It’s familiar.
But this is dangerous territory. An angry Jason is not a careful, considerate Jason. And Jason
now holds information Dick doesn’t want loosed on a group of people that contains Damian.
Dick tries, “Jay, I don’t want anyone to know-”

And that statement alone makes Tim glance sharply at Dick. But Bruce and Jason are focused
on each other.

“Of course I know him,” Bruce says, annoyed. He finally looks at Dick. “I know I don’t say
it right, but I do know you. I care about you. I just need you to tell me things, so I can-”

Bruce always expects Dick to initiate the communication. Well, Dick isn’t going to tell him
about This.

“It’s not on him always, to make sure you know, you have to listen, ” Jason says. And his
eyes are green. Dick has missed something in the chain reaction that set Jason off, and he is
about to pay for it.

Dick is suddenly certain that Jason needs to stop talking. He also realizes he may be too late.

There’s a specific nerve in the human body that when damaged can lead to the peculiar case
of one being simultaneously unable to breathe yet perfectly capable of everything else. Dick
is suddenly certain this phenomenon somehow applies to him, in this breathless moment.

He launches himself out of the chair. He’s moving fast, but Jason is speaking faster.

Jason’s words are venom, but this time they are the poison that Dick gave him, entrusted to
him, as he says, “You victim-blame him and make him think he doesn’t matter-,” Dick isn’t
going to reach him in time, he’s halfway there, “-and tell him he needs to be useful to you, to
your damn mission, and how is someone supposed to reconcile that pressure to owe other
people when they’ve been fucking raped?”

Dick freezes in the middle of the circle.

The sound of the tablet hitting the ground echoes in the silence.

Dick’s eyes seek out Damian frantically, irrationally hoping that maybe he fell asleep and
didn’t hear, but Damian’s eyes are wide and uncertain.

“I do not believe that was your information to tell, Master Jason,” Alfred says disapprovingly
over the shock. He has gotten up and picked Cass’ tablet off the floor, tapping at the screen.
Somehow his words more than anything else cause the green to recede in Jason’s eyes.

“Sorry, I-,” Jason looks stricken, staring at Dick guiltily, but he’s still within striking distance
of Bruce so Dick can’t focus on calming him right now. Dick can’t seem to do anything right
now, his body is distant.

Dr. Flores looks a little overwhelmed with the threats of violence, but she tries once more.
Dick pities her. It’s not her fault their family is an uncontrollable trainwreck. “Please, sit
down everyone. Respect each other’s space, or we’ll have to end the session.”

“Lady, consider this session ended and my subscription canceled,” Jason tells her, flexing his
hands.

“Dick, you did - what?” Bruce asks, confused. Always late when it comes to Dick’s
emotional well-being. Never framing his words right. Dick knows Bruce is just wondering if
it’s true, but it doesn’t stop him from flinching.

“He didn’t do anything, Bruce, are you even listening! ” Tim hisses, leaning forward. “Dick
is not the problem, it’s you.” In this family, it’s always a question of responsibility and blame.
Dick is tired of it.

Everyone inhales.
“Richard? Are you alright?” Damian ventures quietly into the sudden vacuum of air.

Dick is still frozen in the middle of the room, next to the forgotten refreshments.

“Dick?” Jason asks, stepping closer.

“Miss Cassandra’s connection has broken,” Alfred informs the room. That’s very helpful, but
Dick wishes Alfred would step into this other mess and work his amazing cleaning magic on
the shitshow. But maybe it’s above his pay grade.

Apparently Jason doesn’t think this wreckage is worth salvaging anyway, because he’s
suddenly in front of Dick.

“Come on Big Bird, we’re leaving.” Jason grabs Dick’s arm and tugs him away. Dick has
never quite figured out how to resist. “See you losers later when you all chill the fuck out.”

Dick glances back and briefly meets the eyes of Dr. Flores.

And Dick can see it, the moment the therapist realizes that the entirety of their family’s
problems and frayed connections end with him.

Then Jason has pulled him out of the room, and all he can hear is Tim still yelling at Bruce,
and all he can think is how he keeps failing his family, even as he tries to fix them.

—--------------------

So, family therapy is an undeniable disaster.

Dick receives varying degrees of silent treatment for a few days as everyone stews, mad that
they had to go through that while also feeling justified that they knew it would fail, but hey -
at least they tried it and it was a good idea so if Jason could stop saying ‘ I told you so’, that
would be great.

And Dick talks to his therapist.

Carlos picks apart the coping strategies he has nailed into himself. The internalized
triangulation, with Dick throwing himself into every family conflict. How his people pleasing
nature has been cultivated by his environment into a need to be useful and agreeable at all
times to survive, and how this has led to him struggling to say no in any situation. These are
both tricky to untangle, woven into the learned behaviours of not only Dick but also his other
family members. And Dick’s therapist stresses that the only thing Dick can control, can work
on, is himself, so.

So Dick is going to have to think about this a bit more.

It’s hard to want things to change when they’re already so much better than before; Dick is
more focused on and nervous about sliding back into old patterns than trying for further
progress. He isn’t naturally pessimistic, but he worries hard about the things he needs to
protect, his family most of all. It’s so fragile, this new growth; there is so much that could
easily destroy it.

But he can’t control other people. So he tries to let his family be.

And things continue to be generally better. Bruce hasn’t addressed Jason’s slip in the therapy
session and he hasn’t brought up their other issues, but he has continued to show more
interest in Dick as a person, so it’s good. It’s enough, Dick thinks.

Dick still gets moments where he has doubts, where he feels like nothing has changed, where
the sight of Bruce’s clenched fist even around something as innocent as a fork at dinner will
have him seizing up in brief panic. It’s coupled with the age old dread of being alone, being
abandoned. The ingrained fear of punishment for not being perfect. Moments where he is
pretty certain his therapist is wrong and his negative thoughts are right and he is the one
holding his family back from recovery, that he is the poison after all, just like he always
suspected. But those moments get fewer and shorter, and he is more ready to call a friend or a
sibling now when he needs reassurance. Not always, not all the time, but to master a habit, he
has to start with repetition, not perfection.

It’s going to take time, but he tells himself it’s better.

—-------------------

“Richard, thank you.”

Dick rolls over in the dark. The statement of gratitude is unprecipitated, breaking the silence
of their sleepover in Dick’s apartment. It’s not so unusual for Damian to find the courage to
say the things he finds difficult in the cover of darkness, though.

“For what, kiddo?” Dick asks, trying unsuccessfully to blink away his sleepiness.

Damian chooses his response slowly as Dick valiantly holds onto consciousness. “I know I
am not easy to love.”

Dick’s entire body shudders at the emotion in the words for a split second before he’s
pitching his face closer, reaching out blindly to squeeze Damian’s shoulder. “You are the best
thing in my life,” Dick says honestly, now wide awake. “I would do anything for you.”

Damian settles his own hand on top of Dick’s for a moment. An acknowledgement. He is
quiet. Then, “To keep me safe?”

“Of course,” Dick confirms.

“Then please,” Damian whispers. He’s reaching out with his hand to grip Dick’s own
shoulder. “Do anything to keep yourself safe. Please take care of yourself. I will help you.”
Dick feels like he has been slapped. Maybe he should have seen this coming; Damian is a
perceptive kid, it comes with his artistic nature and strict upbringing. He doesn’t need all of
the puzzle pieces to draw an ugly picture.

And Jason yelled pretty loudly in family therapy.

“Okay,” Dick whispers back. And he squeezes Damian’s hand. A promise.

“And,” Damian hesitates. “Father has spoken to me about you. About us. He wished to
acknowledge his poor attitude towards our relationship upon his return, and to encourage our
interactions. He also expressed that our …bond is of great value. Which, of course, I was
already aware of.” The last is tacked on aloofly. Dick’s lips quirk up at this, though part of
him is still stuck on Bruce making an apology - after filtering through Damian’s elevated
speech.

(Wondering if Dick will ever get one of them. But it’s already been so long-)

A pregnant pause, and Dick waits. “I know I have been... difficult for you and Father to agree
over. And he has hurt you, which is wrong.” Damian is not done speaking, so Dick stays
quiet. “But I know he is important to you anyway. I myself have been... difficult in the past,
and I am important to you anyway,” Damian says softly, subdued. Again he is not done
speaking, so Dick stays quiet with minor difficulty. “And Father makes you happy when you
get along, and he is not awful at chess, so I will try to tolerate him moving forward.” Hmm.
Sounds like Bruce has been improving his interpersonal relations, and Dick is happy to hear
it, when he knows how important the approval of Damian’s father was to him when he first
arrived. And Bruce is showing support for Damian hanging out with Dick instead of
behaving like a jealous child with a toy, so that’s awesome.

“No one gets to hurt anyone anymore. And you tell me if they do.” And Dick has to add,
since Bruce has hurt him much deeper and differently than Damian ever has, “You are very
different from Bruce.” And because it’s true and he thinks Damian would appreciate hearing
it, he also adds, “For example, I like you much better.”

There’s no reply. But Damian doesn’t shift for a long time. Then he snuggles closer. Dick
smiles.
—-------------------

This is the way it always goes between Dick and Bruce: nothing, nothing, until everything.

It’s February now.

Dick is working in the cave alone with Bruce. This is a surprise in itself; everyone has tried
to keep them supervised. But Tim was unexpectedly sidelined by an injury and sent to bed, so
it’s just the two of them. They’re working quietly next to each other in relatively easy silence.

Bruce reaches out to hand Dick something - it’s just a paper, Dick knows that, but it’s in his
peripheral vision and he’s tired and Bruce is reaching for him and-

Dick flinches so hard he falls off his chair.

He hits the ground with a hard thump.

Then the cave is silent.

He is instantly hit by a wall of panic and shame at his instinctive reaction (why isn’t he over
this?) and he’s muttering quickly, “Sorry, sorry, I just-,” But he can’t say what is wrong when
it’s just in his mind.

He stays on the floor for a split second to collect himself. To generate an explanation to
Bruce. He just needs a moment, and they can go back to pretending nothing happened. Just
one moment, and he will be perfect again.

But then there is the sound of a chair scraping the ground and suddenly Bruce is kneeling in
front of him and Dick is looking up to see tears in Bruce’s eyes and Bruce is reaching out
more slowly this time to lay a hand on Dick’s shoulder and it is so gentle and Bruce says,
“Dick, I’m so sorry.”

What?

“What?” Dick croaks, confused. “You didn’t do anything. I'm just,” he waves his hand
around, then hugs his knees. “Overreacting.” As usual.

Bruce sits back on his butt on the floor, shaking his head. He runs a shaking hand through his
hair, a motion that alarms Dick with its nervousness. “No. Dick, I’ve done a lot. I’m sorry it’s
been so long and you haven’t gotten an apology from me. I’m sorry it’s been so long since I
realized you needed one and I still haven’t delivered. I’m sorry I’ve been so selfish.”

Dick’s heart lurches. This is happening right now.

They still haven’t talked about everything. It has been months; Dick has figured maybe they
would just continue to move on like it never happened, start over fresh. He was happy with
that, he thought. But he also thought it was all he was going to get, all Bruce was willing to
give. Maybe all Dick deserves, though he isn’t as sure about that anymore. But still, an
apology…

“You mean about hitting me?” Dick asks quietly.

Bruce sucks in a breath sharply, like it pains him. “Yes,” he says, forcing the word out
between his teeth. It’s a harsh sound. Dick tenses. Bruce notices and takes another breath.
“Yes,” he says again, more levelly. “I should never have hit you. I’m sorry I ever did.” Never
, he says. Ever. Such absolutes, but regret has no limits.

Dick shifts. He has imagined this moment many times, but usually he pictures it happening
somewhere sunny, maybe with food, maybe not on the floor.

But here they are.

“It’s okay.” He tests, “I can be pretty shitty sometimes. And you’re doing really well with the
others.”

“Dick,” Bruce says, looking surprised, then remorseful. “I mean about you, specifically. You
don’t deserve that, ever. No matter what.”

That’s… Dick wants, badly, to ask for more. Morbidly, he wants details. The shape of
questions he has wondered for decades coalesce in the back of his mind.

But. He can’t push it. Dick won’t risk this tentative bridge, his family’s healing, for his
curiosity. This will be enough, Dick can make it enough. It’s already more than he’d ever
thought possible, he marvels, studying Bruce’s earnest expression. So instead, he tries on a
smile. “Thanks, Bruce.” He forces gratitude into his tone. “I know. We’re good.”

We’re good. The words feel right, after months of decompressing with Carlos, of tiny
pleasant conversations with Bruce, and yet.

There’s a moment of silence, but it’s all wrong. Something in Bruce’s emptying face, in his
frozen posture, a chill in the air, sets Dick on edge, makes him realize he’s made a mistake
here somewhere. He takes a careful, controlled breath, hating the way his heartbeat spikes,
and waits.

A few seconds later, Bruce speaks. “You don’t…,” he begins slowly, brow furrowing. “Dick.
You don’t really mean that.”

That rankles a bit, and Dick fights to keep the scowl off his face. “Really? Well sorry for
thinking I might know what I mean.” An internal wince at how childish he sounds.

By his unimpressed eyebrow raise, Bruce seems to agree, but he speaks tolerantly. “Don’t,”
he chides. “Don’t do that. And there shouldn’t be any apologies from you.”
Don’t do - what? “What?” Dick asks.

Bruce sounds tired. “You know.” Dick… knows? “There’s no need for you to say anything,
you don’t have to say we’re good.”

Dick wants to point out that he wasn’t even making a real apology right then, but he’s trying
to be a Real Adult. Instead, he says, “What do you want me to do, then?” He crosses his arms
around himself.

A sigh. “This is the issue.” Something in Dick balks. Bruce continues, “You shouldn’t be
asking me at all.”

He feels his defences rising, and Dick can’t keep all of the bite from his tone. “Well I’m
sorry,” - that word again-, “that I’m not reading your mind here, Bruce.”

Another look; this time the annoyance is there. “Come on, Dick. We can’t pretend you’re not
compromised here.”

“Not comprom- what?” He’s bewildered by the direction this conversation is taking. Is this
even still about their relationship? Or by ‘compromised’ is Bruce somehow referring to…

“It’s not your fault,” Bruce is quick to reassure. “Of course, it’s not. But it doesn’t help to
ignore it.”

One of the things Dick has been learning in therapy is to recognize how easily they talk past
each other - how important it is to clarify early to avoid misunderstandings. “Bruce,” Dick
speaks plainly, if apprehensively. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A frown, and finally some sort of understanding lights in Bruce’s eyes. “I see.” A beat. “I had
hoped you would have seen it for yourself…,” he starts slowly. Then, almost to himself, “But
I shouldn’t expect that.” His tone is rueful. Against his will, Dick burns under Bruce’s
disappointment.
Dick breathes out, slowly, but still can’t quite bring himself to release his arms. “What should
I be seeing here, B?” He pitches the question to be willing, cooperative.

Bruce meets his eyes, searching. Dick hates the flicker of resignation there before Bruce
opens his mouth. Not good enough, Robin. “Dick, you are aware that there is a certain…
dynamic, to our relationship,” he says, “That certain elements have remained the same
despite the different roles we’ve both assumed.” A pause, and Bruce seems to be waiting for
something.

The statement seems harmless enough. Dick chances a nod.

Bruce nods in return, as though there has been some meaningful exchange. Know your place,
Nightwing. “One of those elements is, of course, my own… authority, in your life.”

Dick blinks, and, okay. Bruce is clearly still an important part of Dick’s life, the fact that
they’re sitting here together at all is a testament to that. But. Dick has always considered
himself to be fiercely independent. It chafes that Bruce would suggest otherwise, after
everything Dick has fought for.

(Do you make your own decisions, Dick?)

“In Gotham-based team-ups, for sure,” Dick offers after a stilted moment.

The lines around Bruce’s face pinch. Wrong. I have no use for a partner I can’t depend on.
“There is that,” Bruce allows. “But beyond vigilante action. My opinion continues to exert a
strong influence over your behaviour.”

“ Bruce, you can’t just claim that, I make my-”

“You can’t deny,” Bruce cuts him off, “that many of your actions have stemmed from my
own.” He levels Dick with a look.

“Sure, what you do affects me,” Dick says, exasperated, “Because we’re not strangers,
Bruce-”

“Dick, no.” It’s the irritation, the reprimand, that brings Dick’s retort crashing to a halt. He’s
frozen, watching Bruce smooth a hand over his face. “This,” Bruce says finally, motioning to
Dick, “is exactly what I mean.”

You’re the problem.

Dread is twisting itself tightly in Dick’s gut. Bruce seems to read his silence as continued
obstinance. “Look at yourself. After how you’ve been treated here. After all the times you’ve
left,”- left? That’s not how Dick remembers it -, “And especially after what you said at
Thanksgiving.” When Bruce meets Dick’s gaze, his eyes are hard. “What are you doing
here?”

Get out.

Dick’s breath stutters. What is he-? Is Bruce disappointed in him, because he hasn’t stuck to
his word? Because he won’t stay gone? It’s desperately unfair, when so much of it has been
for Bruce’s benefit .

“Bruce,” Dick says hesitantly, every word feeling like a step in the dark. It’s hard to visualize
the calm reasoning he has formed in therapy, the shape of the peace he has carefully
constructed, so blurry in the rushing motion of the moment. “I’m here because I want to be. I
choose to come back, every time. I choose this family.” I choose you, he can’t bring himself
to say.

But Bruce is shaking his head again. It’s infuriating; Dick wants to scream, but it might come
out wrong. He clenches his jaw. Over-emotional. “This is what I was afraid of.”
You’re… compromised. Volatile.

“...What?” Dick asks, and it comes out in a whisper.

But Bruce hasn’t paused. “-can’t address the topic, you need to admit it exists. You can’t
choose to pretend-”

(Always a fucking show.)

The language is so general, so vague. Bruce could mean anything here. Dick knows he and
Bruce have made progress, and yet still, here, it feels like they’re slipping. Dick wants to ask
for clarification, but he’s scared to open his mouth and confirm more of Bruce’s worst
thoughts about him - whatever they are. And so, once again, hugging himself tightly, he waits
for the hammer to fall.

“Tim and the others were right, things need to change. I’ve been working on it. I want to
help. But I can’t do that if you’re not ready for it-”

It’s strange. Bruce has been so careful up until now, making cautious stumbling efforts to
connect, enduring in a manner uncharacteristically slow and ponderous for months. But in
this moment there’s a familiar light in Bruce’s eye, now that they have uncovered the point
they've been dancing around for so long. Perhaps there is something about the proximity after
months of tiptoeing that has Bruce going feverishly after his point with Batman’s intensity
and Batman’s disregard for others. It’s familiar, but not recently, and it’s not a return to
normal that Dick welcomes.

Dick has felt wrongfooted for this entire conversation, and finally, defeated, he gives up
trying to find his balance. “Bruce,” he tries to halt the lecture, starts to rise. “You’ve lost me.
It’s late. Why don’t we talk about this another time?”

Bruce’s hand reaches, and it’s the lightest touch on his elbow. A shadow of what it used to be,
but still powerful enough to halt him, and it forces him back down. Dick’s attention narrows
to the point of contact.
“You can’t keep doing this, Dick,” Bruce says, reproachful. A deep frown creases his brows,
and his eyes slip to where his hand rests on Dick’s elbow, faint surprise dawning to find it
there.

Bruce doesn’t touch Dick these days.

Coming back to himself, Dick jerks his arm away before he can find out whether Bruce will
pull back. “Doing what?” Dick snaps, annoyed. He’s being careless, but he can’t stop now.
Not with this pressure in his chest, like all of the waiting is over - only he’s not sure if the
release will free him or destroy him.

(If this is where it ends, between him and Bruce.)

“You know what, you’re doing it right now. You’re avoiding the subject!” Bruce’s voice is
rising, and Dick feels his pulse racing to match. All of their careful pretenses of the last
months are gone. “Just look at yourself.” Damn, look at you. You’re gorgeous. Can I..? “This
is a perfect example. You’re faced with a situation you can’t handle, and your instinct is to
run away, to pretend everything is fine, that you’re fine, when you’re not.”

Bruce is right on one front - Dick can’t do this anymore, whatever this is. He wants it all to
end, but more than anything, he can’t look at Bruce’s disappointed face - so Dick closes his
eyes. But it doesn’t stop the flood of words, past or present, and all very real.

Who do you think you are?

“-coping strategy for years, as long as I’ve known you.” Bruce sounds tired, and it comes out
as frustration. “Dick. You need to see the situation clearly. Stop lying to yourself.”

“Bruce,” he whispers. Pleads. But Bruce isn’t listening, is caught up in this theory of his
that’s lingering just out of Dick’s reach.
“-your continued willful ignorance-”

There is something very wrong with you.

It’s getting hard to make out what Bruce is saying, between the Bruce of today and the Bruce
of three months ago, of ten years ago. Between the echoes of everyone for whom Dick has
fallen short, and-

I don’t need you.

(He’s so tired.)

“Stop,” he breathes. Doesn’t know why he tries, when that word never seems to mean the
same thing coming from him. Isn’t even sure if the sound makes it past his lips. “Please.
Stop.”

And.

Bruce does.

The echoes fade, the cave is silent. Dick senses Bruce move back slightly, giving him space.
Dick looks up, confused.

Bruce is scrubbing at his face, wiping at his frown. He drops his hand and meets Dick’s eyes,
his own furrowed with something that looks less like frustration now and more like
contrition. “I’m sorry,” Bruce enunciates carefully, speaking slow. “I am failing you again,
with this pathetic apology. I don’t know why I always seem to make it about myself-,” Bruce
slams his teeth together, biting off the end of his sentence with a harsh click. “Dick, I’m sorry.
I’m the problem here. This is all my fault.”
Dick is trying to follow, but his mind is still sawing at his thin tether to the present, with
sharp memories threatening to pull him into the past. He can only get out a whisper. “But I -”

“No, not you, Dick,” Bruce says. “You have done nothing wrong, okay? I’m the one who has
been hurting you for,” a breath,” years, and I’ve been selfish even these last months. I’ve
been forcing you to stay, when all I do - it causes you pain. I’m concerned that you choose to
stay at the cost of your own happiness.”

Just leave. Everyone says Dick should go, the one thing they’ve been able to agree on. But all
Dick has ever wanted is to stay. Why do you care so much what other people think of you?
Well. Other people seem to control his reputation. But with his family? Dick has decided he’s
going to do what he wants instead.

“You don’t get to decide what I can handle,” Dick tells Bruce.

Bruce’s lips quirk strangely, the faintest ghost of a smile, like Dick’s words remind him of
something. “You’re right,” he says. “But I don’t think it’s fair to you for it to be me who has
been reaching out, robbing you of the decision to hear from me at all. Of course you respond,
you’re… you. You’re so good. I’ve been abusing that.” And Bruce’s eyes are soft - is that
fondness? But there is still the regret, deep in the hollows of his eyes. “I never should have
hit you, I never should have hurt you at all, Dick. You don’t deserve that.”

Well. If Bruce really thinks that Dick is not to be blamed at all, then maybe Dick does want to
know. He holds so many questions he can’t answer alone.

“Then why did you…” Dick trails off. Why. Why. Why?

Why why why why why why why?

“I didn’t mean to,” Bruce says, then winces. “I didn’t think about what I was doing to you,”
he corrects. “For a long time, I was so focused on the mission. I think I always have been.
I’m still trying to understand myself, understand how I lost what’s important and stopped
noticing you. There will never be an okay reason why for that.” His eyes are far away for a
moment before refocusing purposefully on Dick. “But it was never on you, I hope you
understand that. It was always on me. It’s not your fault.”

It’s not your fault? Huh.

“You never talk about this,” Dick says after a while. “I thought maybe you forgot.” Or that
you didn’t want to remember.

“I can’t forget,” Bruce says, rushed. “It would be an injustice to you, when I have caused you
so much pain.” Batman would never stand for an injustice he’s aware of.

“So, you remember, everytime?” Dick asks hesitantly.

Bruce is silent for a moment. “I remember enough,” he says finally. “Enough that I know I
don’t deserve your loyalty, chum. You don’t deserve this. I’ve dragged you down. You
shouldn’t be here.”

“I shouldn’t be here… you want me to go?” Dick parses, conflicted. Dick would never leave
for himself, but. But he thinks he could go, if that would help Bruce. Bruce has been doing so
well; Dick wants to support his progress however he can, even if that means he needs to back
off. He doesn’t really want to, but maybe space could be good.

“No!” Bruce almost shouts, then visibly fights to control his volume when Dick flinches
again. “No, that’s not what I meant. You know I’m not good with words.” Bruce sighs,
looking frustrated. “I mean you don’t deserve this situation. You shouldn’t be with me at all,
after what I’ve done to you. But you’re still here. And I can’t help but feel guilty for that as
well, that you feel like you might owe me anything. I’m the reason you keep putting yourself
through pain by being around me.” Dick had hoped no one noticed his lingering habitual
discomfort when they gather as a family; he tries so hard to disguise it. But he still wants to
spend time with his family, with Bruce - it’s worth any minor uneasiness, and he’s working
on it. “Maybe I’m the one who should go, but only if you want.”

“No.” There’s no question; Dick wants his family whole. He wants Bruce to understand how
important it is for Dick to be present, no matter how uncomfortable. “I think it hurt the most
when you would send me away,” Dick admits for the first time. “Like I wasn’t important in
your life.”
Bruce looks like Dick is slowly stabbing him with particularly dull knives. “I’m sorry I made
you feel that way,” Bruce says. “You have been a valuable partner and…I consider you my
son.” Dick can’t believe how fragile Bruce looks, it feels so wrong. Dick is afraid to breathe
and shatter them both. “And I am starting to realize I have not treated you as I should all
these years. I have been blind and taken you for granted, that you would always be around
me.”

“I want to be here, Bruce,” Dick says fiercely into the strange uncertainty of the silence. “I
decided that for myself. And maybe you’re an asshole, but you’re getting better and it’s
worth it.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Bruce says, looking grave.

“Oh fuck you.” Dick’s annoyance is back. “It’s my choice.”

“Dick, I just meant.” He stops. “Of course it’s your choice.” A pause again. “But I have been
selfish these last months, making you choose to have a relationship with me at all.”

What? Dick is exasperated by how bizarre this conversation is; in his mind it was supposed to
be logical and planned and also very, very short.

“Of course we have a relationship,” Dick says, confused.

“But it hasn’t always been… healthy, and sometimes people may consider choosing to cut out
toxic things to heal.” Bruce looks at him meaningfully. “I’ve been relying on you these last
few months; you haven’t had a chance to consider …leaving. If that would help.”

Dick feels irritation flare within him. Haven’t they been over this? Repeated, the suggestion
feels a bit like an attack. He folds his arms. “You’re not getting rid of me, Bruce.” He glares.
“I think I’ve made that clear.”
“I didn’t -,” Bruce looks at the ceiling, scratches the back of his neck. “You know I’m not
good at expressing myself.” Bruce sighs once more. He rummages in his pocket, pulls out a
crumpled piece of paper. He smooths it out carefully before looking back at Dick. “I have
been seeing a therapist for a while now.”

“I know,” says Dick, because he does. He’s curious though, so he waits patiently for Bruce to
go on.

Bruce clears his throat. “Right. I’m not good with words,” he repeats. “I’m not good at
talking, not about important things. It has been suggested - I’ve been trying to write instead,
to help give me clarity. To give me time to get the words right.” A slight pause, before Bruce
seems to gather himself. “And I’d like to read something to you, if that’s okay with you?”

And he waits for Dick to actually give him permission. Dick glances at the paper. It looks old
and worn, with a lot of smudges, crossed out words, and additions. This is something that
Bruce has clearly spent a lot of time on. He has been seeing a therapist for months - how long
has he been carrying this around?

“Okay,” Dick says carefully, filled with a nervous mixture of hope and trepidation. He tries to
relax but can’t help bracing out of habit.

Bruce nods. He has never been very expressive, but there’s a wideness in his eyes like he also
has trouble believing this is real. Then he straightens the paper and begins to read. Dick feels
safer watching him when Bruce’s eyes are directed elsewhere.

“Dear Dick,” Bruce says.

The words echo slightly in the empty cave, coming back to be heard again, reminding Dick
that this is actually happening.

“I have known you since you were a determined young boy who wanted vengeance and I was
a lost young man who thought I could shape your future into something good. I wanted to
give you a light, even while I was standing in the shadows, even when it became quickly
obvious that it was you who was the light. And at first I had vague notions that I could be
your…parent.” Bruce’s voice breaks slightly. Dick feels a pressure build in his throat. “But
you weren’t looking for a replacement in that role, and I didn’t know how to be one anyway.
But I liked having you in my life so much that the idea of you not being a part of it scared
me. I couldn’t lose you,” Bruce says plainly, “And instead of talking to you about it, I became
angry with any little thing that changed about you or between us. In trying to keep us
together, I drove you further away. I didn’t know how to change myself, how to control how
scared I felt, so I tried to control you instead. But you are and have always been your own
person. I have watched you grow into a strong young man, despite what I have put you
through, and I’m sorry that it took me so long to see that I have hurt you more than helped.
Everything you have become, I am proud of you for.”

Dick makes a small choked noise, and Bruce glances up to check if it’s a request to stop
before continuing, “I can take no credit. Every good part of you is in spite of me. I’m so
sorry, chum.” There is a hitch in Bruce’s voice as he carries on. “You are an amazing
acrobatic, competent fighter, capable leader, and excellent big brother. And,” Bruce’s voice
cracks hard, “You have been an outstanding father figure to Damian.” Dick cups a hand over
his mouth to hold suppress a sob. “Better than me.” It doesn’t work; a shuddering gasp
escapes his lips.

Bruce’s voice is so shaky it’s hard to understand now. “I have been acting like a child. If I
could be a little more like you, chum, I would be a much better person. Thank you for
sticking with me when I didn’t deserve it. Thank you for being a light even when I wanted
darkness. I don’t know if you can find it in your heart to forgive me. And you don’t have to.
But you need to know that it’s your choice. I don’t know what’s best for you. I want to do
what you want. If you never want to see me again,” Bruce swallows. “I would understand.
And we could work around it so you can still see everyone else. But I want to get better. It’s
hard to learn to communicate properly. But it’s hard on us when we don’t. I want to choose a
new hard.”

Bruce keeps speaking, but Dick can’t focus. It’s surreal. Dick is watching Bruce’s mouth
move and hearing these words, but even knowing this is real, it’s hard to believe he’s saying
them. Even harder to believe he means them. He’s not reading someone else’s script; Bruce
wrote the words, perhaps slaved over them to get them how he wanted. This is very
deliberate. Bruce wants Dick to know these things.

And if Bruce feels this way, then Dick wants him to know that Dick recognizes how much
effort it has taken for him to realize it. That Dick is proud of him.
Dick has missed the rest of the letter. Bruce has trailed off, looking at Dick hesitantly. More
vulnerable than he has likely been since he first put the cowl on. Dick has never been able to
let someone else be unconsoled in his presence for long.

He opens his arms, and Bruce takes the invitation, and finally, they are hugging. Dick doesn’t
mind that Bruce is holding him so gently it feels almost like he’s not being held at all. Like
Dick’s presence is something that must be preserved. Dick squeezes harder to compensate.

“Of course I forgive you,” Dick whispers, “I already forgave you.”

“I don’t deserve it,” Bruce says sadly, determined to be a downer. “I don’t deserve you. You
are a much better person than I could ever be. You should hold this against me forever.”

“Well I don’t.” It makes sense that Bruce wants to earn forgiveness, so he can pay his debt
and feel deserving. But Bruce will have to accept that Dick has the power to absolve Bruce
without any action on Bruce’s part. The powerlessness probably chafes, but Bruce can deal
with it. Dick shakes his head. “You just keep punishing yourself, you colossal bottomfeeder.”
Bruce always thinks it would be better if he was the only one fighting crime, so the rest of
them could leave, could live peacefully as civilians. As if that has ever been an option.

“You think you protect us when you push us away,” Dick tells him. “But you break us.”

Bruce looks surprised, but there is a hint of understanding dawning in his eye. Maybe he will
finally consider the value of leaning on other people, on functioning like an actual family.
Dick wants to roll his eyes, but it would be a little hypocritical.

Instead, he opens his mouth again and surprises himself with a sob. He hadn’t realized he was
still crying. This seems to signal something to Bruce, who pulls back slightly, enough to look
Dick in the eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says again, like now that he is letting himself apologize it is all he can do.
He is looking at Dick regretfully. Dick is surprised to see tear streaks staining Bruce’s
cheeks.
Dick can feel tears and snot running down his own face, a sticky mess. He’s about to wipe
with his sleeve when Bruce produces a fresh package of tissues from somewhere. Dick snorts
a laugh.

“How long have you been carrying these around?” Dick asks, selecting a tissue.

“Since December,” Bruce admits, taking a tissue of his own.

“So prepared,” Dick teases. Then, “Thank you.” It’s sincere. It’s for more than the tissues.
Bruce ducks his head, seeming to recognize that.

“Can I keep the note?” Dick asks.

“Of course.” Bruce hands it to him, and Dick carefully tucks it into his pocket. He will read it
later, to find out how it ends. He looks up to see Bruce watching him seriously, mixed with a
surprising nervousness. “And Dick, we don’t have to talk about it now, but I want you to
know I very much do think of you as my son, and while I don’t deserve it and you are under
no obligation to consider it, I just want you to know,” Bruce holds his gaze, eyes intent, “That
if you feel like you could see me as a father figure to you, I would love to adopt you. When
you’re ready.”

Dick swallows his initial reaction, which is to puke. “I’ll think about it.”

It’s not the end of the conversation. They sit on the floor for hours, oscillating between
apologies and breakdowns, but the road of forgiveness and recovery is cracked and split and
Dick barely dreamed he would trip down it with Bruce, that Bruce would want to, but he is
happy to start trying now, together.

Tim bursts into the Cave much later, panicked and hobbling on crutches, looking around
wildly. He stops when he sees them laughing on the floor with tear-stained eyes, surrounded
by used tissues.
“Hey Timmy,” Dick says, grinning and wiping his eyes. Then he frowns at the crutches. “You
shouldn’t be up.”

“Go back to bed Tim,” Bruce scolds.

Tim looks between both of them, his face a flood of different emotions. “You okay?” he
eventually asks Dick.

Dick looks at Bruce. Bruce shakes his head slightly, not going to tell Dick how he should
answer this time.

Dick turns back to Tim. He feels the press of the crumpled note in his pocket, proof that
Bruce has dedicated months to the study of trying to communicate with Dick; poor student
though he is, he’s trying.

This time Dick’s smile is soft. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

And he means it.

—-----------------------

“And he gave me this note, it’s so sweet, I think he’s been working on it for months. Here,
look at it.”

“Wow. How did you feel when he read it?”

“...I don’t know.”

“Think about it for a bit.”

“I guess I was surprised. Maybe scared at first. It was really unexpected, and I had just done
something stupid, I’d just fallen off my chair for no reason when I saw his hand coming
towards me.”

“It was a reasonable reaction.”

“It didn’t feel reasonable. But anyway, then we had a misunderstanding and I thought we
were going to fight, but then he started reading. And it was hard to listen. It was so weird,
Bruce never talks like that. But then I was thinking about how long he spent on the words,
like. He must have really meant it right? And… I don’t know, it’s dumb.”

“What is it?”

“I guess I felt… loved? It’s dumb.”

“You’re not dumb.”

“I didn’t say that I was.”

“I know. But I wanted you to hear that you’re not.”

“...”

“Dick?”

“Sorry, I’m overreacting a lot these days.”

“You’re not. It’s a lot to process. Here. Sorry I ran out of tissues - budget cuts. We’re using a
toilet paper roll today.”

“Gee thanks, Carlos.”

“You’re welcome. Only our finest three-ply for you.”

—------------------

Bruce texts him more , but it’s no longer just the mundane. Dick asks him about it, the
texting; apparently Bruce finds it easier to express his emotion when he can write it out.
Every now and then Bruce will send him almost letter-like messages with long descriptions
and obviously serious consideration. Bruce lately has seemed hyper-aware of his own
communication limitations and is dedicating intentional time to improving. It’s strange, but
nice. Dick doesn’t mind the texts. Sometimes he leaves voicemails back.

But sometimes, Dick needs the reassurance of talking face to face, to remind him that Bruce
caring about him is real. Dick asks Bruce to meet him for lunch at the aquarium a couple
weeks later, just them. A bizarre place for lunch, but Dick had seen an interesting fish dish on
the menu at their cafeteria that he hadn’t tried at Thanksgiving for a myriad of reasons. It’s a
bit of a test too, since Bruce Wayne is technically on a temporary ban. Dick is afraid Bruce
might not agree to come, but all Bruce asks for is the time he should show up.

It’s surreal, walking into the aquarium again. It looks the same as before. Only Bruce and
Dick have changed. Bruce is wearing Clark Kent glasses, and they slip inside without issue,
another magical disguise. They grab food and sit outside, alone in the cold weather. It’s the
same table.

Dick crunches a fry. Swallows. “So, I need to tell you something.”

Bruce sets his fish down patiently and looks to Dick expectantly.
Oh boy. This is hard. His jaw feels tight; it’s easier not to speak.

Carlos told him he doesn’t have to do this, that it might not help for a number of reasons, but
Dick wants to. He wants to be able to rely on Bruce, and he’s optimistic and willing to try.
He’s also a bit of a troll, so he waits until Bruce takes a sip of water, then says with no
warning, “I was sexually assaulted.”

Bruce chokes, spraying water all over his suit.

It takes him a minute to recover. Dick hands him his own glass to try to ease his throat. He
waits until Bruce takes another sip. “But you knew that,” says Dick, folding his arms.

Bruce chokes again.

If Dick doesn’t say this while Bruce is effectively incapacitated by a beverage, he doesn’t
think he’ll be able to. “It was a while ago, but sometimes it doesn’t feel like it. When you
sent me on that undercover mission, I felt like it was happening all over again,” he says, as
blankly as possible, detaching himself. “And I told you I didn’t want to do it. And you still
made me go.” It’s just statements of facts. But the weight of them demands an answer. Dick
wants to hear some justification for his pain, like that will make it hurt less.

Between coughs and desperate sips, “I regret sending you undercover,” Bruce admits after a
while. “Not because I think you aren’t strong. But Jason… spoke to me, after.” Yelled at,
Dick interprets. “It helped set perspective. No one should have to go through that, and I
definitely shouldn’t put my s- put you through that.” Bruce looks at Dick. “I was so focused
on the mission, on the hostages, I wasn’t thinking about you. I should have listened to you
when you told me your concerns. I’m sorry.” Bruce is so much more free with apologies now,
it’s still surreal.

“But you said, my reputation…,” Dick prods, trailing off as he is uncertain what he’s
searching for.
Bruce looks pained, but not surprised, like maybe he has thought about this before. He seems
to know instantly what Dick is referring to, that awful excuse for a conversation in the same
building they just snuck through.

“I chose you for the mission because you are strong and improvise well,” Bruce repeats
firmly. “I considered nothing else at the time, which is a fault in itself. I didn’t even consider
your concerns. I’m still uncertain how it got tangled, but I know that seeing you actually
dressed for it, just because I-,” Bruce clears his throat uncomfortably. “Well, it did remind me
that I had not been as considerate of you as I’d like to be, and I was upset with myself. And I
had been meaning to check in with you on the rumours because they were ..unsettling. They
didn’t match my understanding of your priorities. And you acted like they didn’t exist at all,
which was concerning, and I was worried I didn’t know-,” he stops himself again. “You had
no reason to confide in me. The onus is on me. I should have considered that by presenting
both topics simultaneously that day that it would hurt you, in the automatic comparison. The
idea that you were perhaps reckless in your personal time-”

“I don’t have personal time-”

“I know, Dick, you spend all of your spare time with Damian,” Bruce says, something
complicated flickering across his face - a bit of softness, a bit of wistfulness. “I’m not bitter
about it,” Bruce adds, then with a rueful look he amends, “I’m not bitter anymore. But when
Cass said I needed to focus more on you, I thought I could help you by giving you advice I’d
never thought to give when you were growing up, but clearly I was misguided and the
delivery was poor.”

Dick absorbs. “You were trying to give me the talk? Bruce, I’m an adult,” he points out.

“I am very aware,” Bruce agrees wryly, nostalgia tinging his tone. “But I’m sorry I didn’t
treat you like it. I’m sorry I implied that I knew anything about how to make your life
choices. You don’t treat relationships or people lightly, I know you don’t. And I’m sorry I
made you feel like you had to go into a situation that was triggering. I didn’t… Dick, I want
you to know that I wasn’t aware of your history, that you had been assaulted. I like to think I
would have… well. I guess I don’t know.” Bruce is quiet.

Dick swallows. “I didn’t want you to know.”

“Dick.” Bruce closes his eyes for a moment before continuing, “I’m sorry. Jason said you
were assaulted a while ago, and I never followed up. I had thought you didn’t want me to pry
anymore, that you would tell me if - but, well, that doesn’t matter now.” Bruce visibly pushes
aside his excuses, focusing on Dick. “What happened?”

Dick thinks about it for a minute. “It was a while ago.” He repeats. “But.. it was a couple of
times.” Bruce winces. Dick shifts. “I didn’t want you to know before, but. I do now.” A deep
breath. “I want you to really know me. And that doesn’t necessarily mean knowing all my
trauma and hang-ups, but I think I want you to.”

Bruce is quiet for a minute, looking very out of his depth. But he has done a remarkable job
so far of participating supportively in this difficult conversation and Dick believes in him.
“Do you want to tell me about it?”

Dick chews his lip. “I don’t know,” he says truthfully. “A little?”

And then he talks, briefly, vaguely, and Bruce listens. It’s nothing like telling Jason; he finds
when he has chosen this conversation on his own terms, he can swallow the nausea down.
But both Jason and Bruce are surprisingly good listeners, silent but present. Dick is grateful;
as much as he agonized and prepared, he doesn’t think he could handle being interrupted.

“Thank you,” Bruce says after. “For trusting me. I don’t de-”

“Yeah, yeah, you don’t deserve it, blah blah,” says Dick. He reaches out and squeezes
Bruce’s hand. “I meant it. I want you to know me. Sometimes you need people to believe the
best in you. I believe you’re going to get better, Bruce.”

Bruce absorbs that, looking like he has been hit in the face with a bottle of water after a week
in the desert and doesn’t know what to feel about it. “Dick,” he says eventually. His food has
long been forgotten. “I love you.”

Dick blinks. A small smile starts in the corner of his mouth. “I love you too, Bruce.”
Bruce keeps watching him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah actually,” Dick says. He laughs a little. “Actually I am okay. Or getting there.”

“What can I do for you?” Bruce asks, and it’s honest and open and Dick knows Bruce’s
attitude is built on his own regret over his past actions and forever wanting to bring himself
to justice but it’s real and Dick will take it.

“You can take me to see the sloth,” Dick declares, rising from the table. “We need pictures.
Everyone will be very jealous.” And Bruce acquiesces.

—---------------------

So they continue with the texting and the calling and the seeing each other.

And it’s good.

Dick still sometimes freezes when Bruce’s tone is clipped, and when they are together he is
hyper aware of Bruce’s body language always. It’s subconscious. It may be part of him
forever. They are not perfect; Dick accepts with some melancholy that they will never be
perfect, not when parts of them have shattered into pieces too tiny to restore. (Maybe there
was a chance, when Dick was small, when things could have turned out perfectly. Perhaps if
they were completely different people. Perhaps if there was no Batman.) But they have gotten
better - they are something new. And mentally, he knows he is safe.

That is enough, for now.

—--------------

A few weeks later, Dick scrolls up through his chat history from Bruce until he finds the right
message from months ago.
Re: Would you like me to adopt you?

Dick types, So how would this work exactly?

He hits send.

Bruce replies immediately.

—-------------

Dick’s life goes on in flashes of different relationships.

Friends are easier. He doesn’t share a lot of details with most people, and he deflects more
often than he answers real questions. But when he needs someone, he calls them. Donna and
Wally both express agreement that Dick gets to decide what happens to him (although in their
opinion he could get out of Gotham and be better for it). But they are all adults and respect
him for making choices he thinks are best for himself. And he’s actually talking to Roy, so
that’s a nice development as well.

Siblings are harder. Siblings will always expect things of you.

There is a certain paradoxical nearsightedness and farsightedness about a family’s problems:

When you are so close, you see all of each other’s flaws in personal detail, and yet some of
the greatest problems cannot be seen from within, and don’t become apparent without a step
back to view the whole picture. Dick has been trying to take a step back, and a step closer, at
the same time. He’s not sure if it’s working.

In a lot of ways Jason is naturally the hardest sibling relationship for Dick, perhaps because
of their much more minor age difference, or perhaps because Dick wasn’t ready for a sibling
when they first met and their relationship was forever soured. And Jason knows most about
Mirage and Catalina now, a confounding variable. Dick never expected to have that
vulnerability with him, and it sucked that he let it slip a bit to the rest of the family, but
largely he has dealt with the knowledge really respectfully and Dick is touched and
appreciative. Jason is Dick’s biggest therapy supporter, and he regularly asks how it’s going.
As a result, Dick actually answers sometimes, so perhaps Jason knows Dick most these days.
And Dick asks questions about Jason back, and nothing obliges sharing like a mutual
exchange of personal information, so Dick discovers Jason’s part-time job and attachment to
a blind elderly lady he reads to on occasional Thursday afternoons.

The problem is that Jason doesn’t think Dick should forgive Bruce so easily.

Dick thinks Jason is too dismissive of the effort and progress Bruce has made. Bruce has
been changing his conflict management strategies and learning anger-dispelling techniques.
Jason doesn’t think Dick is in a position to see Bruce at all because he’s too “dependent” and
“conditioned”, and Dick hates listening to Jason expound on these critical theories of his own
psych, no matter the inkling of truth. But Dick has made a lot of progress too, in how he
makes his decisions and sets boundaries. And he wants a relationship with Bruce. He wants a
relationship with all of his siblings, and he makes it clear, so Jason tries to adopt more of a
laissez-faire attitude to Dick’s choices with Bruce and reassures Dick that he will still be
attending family events while reserving the right to be an asshole at will.

Dick is inordinately thankful; there is something between them now that is fresh and
growing, something that is warm and that Dick desperately wants to preserve.

Surprisingly, in the following months, Tim heads the most difficult sibling interaction. It takes
on a form Dick did not expect to have to face, but maybe he should have seen it coming.
After all, Tim is like Bruce in many ways.

Dick visits the manor almost weekly now, though he comes and goes as he pleases. He is
relaxing in his room, reading a book on his bed, when Tim comes in, face pale and expression
blank. His presence is unusual in itself. Tim is not often at the manor anymore, an
uncomfortable echo of his absence following Burce’s death, but he still manifests on
occasion.

“Dick, I need to tell you something.” His tone is serious. Dick instinctively wonders if
something has happened to one of his Titan friends; he has been doing a lot of missions with
them lately while avoiding Gotham.
Dick sits up straighter and sets the book aside. He pats the bed next to him. “Sit down.
What’s up?”

Tim shifts, lingering at the entrance. “Well, actually, I was wondering about what Jason said
during the family therapy session. I didn’t want to bother you if it’s uncomfortable, but Jason
said to ask you instead of-”

Dick feels his entire body shut down for a second before his default system reboots and he’s
smiling again automatically. “I’m not discussing that with you,” he says pleasantly. The
‘ever’ is silent. “And there’s nothing to discuss with Jason either,” he adds pointedly.

Tim chews his lip, but nods. “Okay fair. You don’t have to tell me. But I’m here for you if
you - well, actually.” He closes his eyes and sighs. “Actually that wasn’t it, I just thought that
might be easier to talk about.” Dick blinks, instantly filled with dread again. Easier than
what? Tim walks forward like he’s heading to the gallows and sits down gingerly. “Dick, I
just want you to know first that I’m really, really sorry about everything.”

“Okay?” Dick says, uncertain. A family matter, then. Given the gravity of Tim’s entire aura,
this is probably about Operation F.I.S.H.. Which will never truly be gone, Dick knows, but he
likes to think it’s pretty much resolved, or at least out in the open.

He smiles reassuringly, swings an arm around Tim’s shoulders. “You know, you’re just one
lad, Timbo. And everything is definitely not your fault. Besides, things are getting better.
Look at how far we’ve come!” He throws his other arm out as if to indicate his own casual
presence in the manor.

Alarmingly, Tim’s shoulders shake as he breathes deeply. “Dick,” he says, sounding more
fragile than Dick has heard him sound since he took up the Robin mantle, “I’m sorry for what
I did. But I still need to tell you what I did. You don’t know yet.”

Dick bites his cheek, a bit wary given Tim’s behaviour. “What did you do, Tim?” he asks
carefully.
Tim looks away. The words come out in a rush, “When you were acting weird before last
Thanksgiving, I wanted proof that I was right about you and Bruce. So I looked up old
footage from the Bat Cave, and I kind of went overboard, and I saw a lot of your personal …
moments.” Dick can’t breathe. Tim what? “Dick, why didn’t you tell anyone Bruce took
Robin away from you? I mean, you don’t have to talk about it, but,” Tim takes a breath,
visibly suppresses his curiosity, “And I know it was an invasion of your privacy. I felt like it
was justified at the time, like if I could just confirm what happened I would be able to throw
the evidence in your face and we could help you and fix everything. But then I actually saw
your life, there on the screen…and I felt bad right away. And I didn’t want you to know I
saw.”

Tim hasn’t looked at Dick since he started speaking, and now Dick watches him close his
eyes, mouth set in an unhappy slant. “It was stupid anyway, to think things would be so
simple, like regular casework, like if I just made you see that we would all work together like
a team to fix ourselves. Anyway. So. I didn’t want you to know,” Tim repeats, small, though
it must have taken colossal courage to confess this. He opens his eyes. “But I think I should
tell you. And apologize. So …I’m really, really sorry, Dick. Please don’t hate me.”

Dick swallows, then automatically focuses on Tim’s feelings so he doesn’t have to delve into
the unknown depths of what Tim is apologizing for. “Is this why you’ve been so mad at
Bruce lately?”

Tim bites his lip and doesn’t disagree. “He was so awful to you, like, always,” he vents,
frustrated. He takes a deep breath, then carefully sets his hands in his lap, a quirk he has from
a childhood of channeling his nerves in stressful social situations into rigidly perfect posture.
“I know I’m not supposed to know. But I do. And I know it’s your decision, okay? I know,
but.” Dick hears Tim’s jaw click. “I don’t like how you just forgive Bruce. He hasn’t done
enough to- he doesn’t deserve it.” It’s not a question by technicality of intonation, but Tim is
erudite and restless when he doesn’t understand something that he thinks should be logical.
He wants to know Dick’s reasoning.

Dick struggles to parse out his decisions himself. He knows he seeks relationships with
others like a sunflower desperately chasing the sun across the sky. In his life, family has
always been something that was unquestionably to be restored no matter the fallouts. For
better or worse, forgiving Bruce has always felt inevitable. It used to feel, in their darker
moments, like maybe it was for the worse. A lock on the cage he was trapped in. But lately
his hope has grown, with every fragile step forward, that it is for the better.

And Dick is tired of living with rot in his family.

“He doesn’t deserve it,” Dick echoes musingly. “Well, I feel like I don’t deserve a lot of
things either. I’ve caused a lot of people a lot of hurt. I’ve done things that have led to
people’s deaths. And I mean, we beat people up almost nightly.”

“It’s not the same,” Tim begins. The statement ends with silence.

“It’s not the same,” Dick echoes once more. “But where do the lines get drawn?” What is too
far? Too much? How many hits are too many? How long can you stay? When do you have to
leave?

“It’s different in the field,” Tim insists. “With Bruce, with us, with you… it’s personal. It
can’t be justified. How does he pay for it? I don’t understand how you can be happy with him
again.”

Dick winces internally in sympathy for Tim’s struggle. Tim has his own ways of managing
emotional pain, traceable to his lonely childhood. He’s an emotional minimalist by necessity
in his past and now by habit, and he is prepared to amputate to protect his vitals, with a
tendency to cut off things that trouble him and freeze out people who he has conflict with.
There are maybe some parallels to Bruce, but Dick knows that Tim’s coping strategies are his
own, and also that Tim considers them a last resort.

Dick met Tim when he was still a boy with quiet strength but uncertain of himself, and he is
changing and growing in ways that make Dick feel old but humbled by his maturity. Some
things, though, are still painfully the same. Tim’s childhood left him with scars, a fear of
relying on others and being let down, but it also instilled a desperate need and longing for
that same human connection. Tim wants to know why Dick still values connection with
Bruce, and maybe he also wants to understand why he values that connection himself, in
spite of everything. After all, Tim too has been abused by Bruce while carrying a deep
attachment that’s hard to shake, and Dick knows it’s easier for Tim to use Dick as a medium
for his own grievances, to explore why he can’t bring himself to let go the way he’s advising
Dick to do. Dick feels a hint of pride for Tim that he’s reaching out like this at all, seeking
perspective.

“Hmm,” Dick says.

Tim’s words remind Dick of how he used to feel when he was young and thought Bruce was
infallible, that the world could be separated into black and white. Dick was so lost when he
discovered the blurry greys people wade through so they can live, so Dick can live with this
family.

“It is harder to justify,” he settles on. “And it’s harder to punish. But what do you want me to
do, Tim? Do you want me to never come to the manor again?” He leans forward a little,
trying to peer into Tim’s face, but Tim is back to staring fixedly at the mattress.

Dick sighs internally, keeps his tone gentle. “Look, I know it looks like Bruce is getting a free
pass for everything he’s done to us - done to me, just because he’s recognized the wrong and
is trying to be better. The memories - and tapes,” Dick stresses, just to see Tim look guilty,
“Won’t go away. And nothing Bruce does or that we make him do as penance is going to
erase it. But I can forgive him. If there’s any debt, Tim - if that’s how you see it - from my
side, he’s absolved, okay?” Dick softens his voice. “But it’s okay too if you don’t see it like
that, you know?”

Tim shakes his head without blinking; he’s focusing hard. “I know, I know,” he says. “I know.
I think about this a lot. But it still doesn’t feel right. He doesn’t deserve it,” he whispers.

Dick wonders now how much of Tim’s hurt is for himself. Tim has inside of him the same
self-effacing willingness to bend to other people that Dick has, and Bruce has been
controlling his life for years too. And it’s hard to decide what to do with that now, how to go
from here with a Bruce who is trying. Dick understands.

“Listen to me, Tim,” Dick says. Dick has a feeling that Tim is hoping Dick will tell him what
to do, so Tim doesn’t have to decide himself or confront his own problems. But Dick has
learned that he can only control and change himself, and that’s all he wants. “My choices on
how to live, how to forgive, have nothing to do with Bruce deserving something and
everything to do with who I want to be and what I want to do.” It has taken a long time to
realize, but Dick doesn’t want to base any of his decisions on someone else’s actions, not
anymore. “If I want to punish Bruce, where does the hurt end?”

It’s a real question, one that Dick has wondered for years and never found an answer he could
live with. But he can’t leave it there. Not anymore.
“I want us to live, Tim, together,” Dick says plainly, not really sure where the words come
from. But it’s all pouring out now, the nebulous feelings he has barely explored in therapy
condensing into liquid words that flow into an answer for them both. “I want the hurt to end,
right now, with family and love. I want to live, and I don’t want to live with the Bruce from
years ago, I want to live with Bruce now, the one who acknowledges his past wrongs but
wants to have a relationship with us all in the present. Tim,” he waits for a moment until Tim,
finally, meets his eyes. “You don’t have to feel the same way I do, but you’re part of my
family. Can you appreciate that I’m happy like this, and that I’m happy that Bruce gets to be
happy too?”

Tim is watching him attentively, clearly sorting through Dick’s opinions in real time. Then he
lets out a frustrated sigh like a deflating balloon. “I don’t know, Dick. I see where you’re
coming from. And I get that you’re choosing this. Really, I’m happy for you, actually. It’s
cool that you can see it like that, and I know Bruce is trying.” His face flickers in and out of a
frown. “It’s just going to take me more time to process it myself.” Tim always dislikes it
when it takes him longer than other people to find what he feels like is the answer. “I think in
some ways it feels fresher to me, because I’m only now seeing what happened before. And I
know you’re both better around each other now. And I’m not supposed to know some of this
anyway. It should have been your choice to share the information on the tapes, not mine. It’s
just so hard to reconcile, when I know you both, and with what I saw-”

Tim breaks off and looks back at him, eyes wide and apprehensive now that he has reminded
them both of the reason Tim has approached Dick in the first place. Dick wonders if Tim has
decided that Dick should forgive him. Tim has always had his own sense of justice, clear now
in his views on Bruce. But he didn’t approach Dick today to help query the morality of his
own actions; he has already decided he is guilty and is presenting himself to Dick for
sentencing.

Dick can’t reply.

Really, Dick is blindsided. Sure, he knows everything in the Bat Cave is on camera and
stored in encrypted files “just in case” because Batman is intensely paranoid. But he never
really thought about what that meant for his personal life, never really considered that his
privacy would be invaded this way, nevermind that apparently it already has been. If he truly
thinks about it he isn’t surprised that Tim did it. Tim has always been thorough about
research.

But that means Tim knows. Tim has seen - who knows, maybe a lot. Which makes Dick feel
.. horrified. Tim and Damian saw him the Saturday night before Thanksgiving, and that
wasn’t good. But now every single instance where Bruce got mad at him in the cave flashes
before Dick’s eyes and he wonders which ones Tim saw. What Dick never wanted him to
know.

Dick doesn’t know how much time passes him by while he is frozen.

“Dick?” Tim asks tentatively.

“What did you see?” Dick manages to ask, fighting for a level tone and dipping slightly
below even.

Tim shifts. “I - well, I started with key events that may have triggered Bruce to be angrier
than usual.” So logical in his systematic invasion of privacy, Dick would admire him if it
wasn’t so hurtful. “I only watched a few segments,” Tim rushes to reassure. “Like around…
Jason’s death. When you weren’t even here and then Bruce-,” Tim stops, looking frustrated.
“And then I asked you to come back! But Dick I swear, I haven’t seen everything, I stopped
when I realized what I was doing to you. I’m really sorry.”

Only a few segments. Jason’s death. Haven’t seen everything. But there’s so many
possibilities, which ones?

Dick takes a shaky breath.

He looks at Tim. Tim is looking at him with pity. How is Dick supposed to ask him to specify
which of Dick’s own painful memories Tim is now privy too? And what if he told other
people? Does anyone else know?

Dick is filled with a resigned sort of dread, knowing they have no way to turn back now; they
will have to get to the bottom of this mess, they will have to have a serious conversation that
will probably make Dick cry. Only, someone has sucked all of the air out of his bedroom and
it’s getting hard to breathe, which makes it even more impossible to speak. Dick can’t do this
right now.
Sometimes, Carlos tells him , it is best to remove oneself from a volatile situation. It is okay to
give yourself space to think.

So he gets up and leaves the room.

(Days later, they sort it out. Tim tells him generally what he has seen, and that he has in fact
told nobody. Dick vents to Carlos. Then he forgives Tim. Dick finds he can’t be angry with
Tim for long, when Dick has done things he thought were best for Tim without his consent.
When he can’t see how staying angry about something someone did a long time ago will help
their family heal. And it feels fair, somehow, for Tim to know so much of this part of Dick’s
pain, when Jason understands his other kind of hurt he carries around.

But he does set one of his first boundaries: no more spying on Dick’s past. He will forgive
them for what they’ve done before, but they’re trying to be better now. If anyone has
questions, they can ask him themselves.

And Dick doesn’t have to answer.)

—--------------

It’s Damian who introduces him to kintsugi, presenting him with a restored mug he made in
his art club.

Steph had stopped by to hang out while she waits for Tim, who is “going for a walk” with
Bruce. Dick doesn’t know why Steph uses air quotes for it, when they’re literally going for a
walk. But he hasn’t been privy to more, and he’s trying to be okay with not knowing
everything. With letting other people sort their own boundaries.

So, Dick and Steph are lounging in a sitting room for Damian’s impromptu show and applaud
accordingly over the mug. Damian has started opening up to Steph about his art, and it has
helped increase his confidence; Steph gives the more critical feedback Dick can’t find it in
himself to offer.
“Awesome job, you’re getting exposed to some really cool stuff from your friends,” Steph
compliments, and Damian barely even bristles at the term ‘friends’.

“Actually, I was the one who suggested that we study kintsugi, or kintsukuroi,” Damian
confesses hesitantly.

“Oh?” says Dick, in a tone that asks for more. Sure, Damian can be bossy with his family, but
he usually doesn’t initiate anything with schoolmates.

“I have always wanted to try the practice, having seen something similar in the league. And I
am interested in it as a philosophy,” Damian explains, straightening, a light in his eye. “The
damage and repair are considered part of the history of the object, rather than something to
disguise.” He looks directly at Dick. “It accepts imperfection, and change.”

Dick can’t move, not when he is suddenly floored by the deep feeling of being known. He
examines the mug again, the well-defined cracks now sealed but prominently displayed.

Beautiful.

“That’s interesting, Dami,” he says, feeling the seams where some of his own broken pieces
have been fit back together again.

Very interesting.

—------------------

And life goes on. Time passes, different people orbiting in and out of focus in Dick’s life.

A challenge from his therapist months later has him eventually telling Wally about how he’s
really doing, and about what he’s dealt with that has scarred him, longterm struggles with
Bruce and the shorter but memorable damage from his past sexual assaults. It’s still hard to
talk about, but it feels easier this time, huddled on his couch with Wally and pizza. And he
likes how it feels to talk to Wally now, how he nods when Dick is upset and tells him that his
emotions are reasonable. Like Dick is fully understood. It’s soothing.

Dick goes skiing (again) with Jason. It’s nothing like the first time. Of course it’s not; they
are different people, from each other and from who they each used to be. But for one
afternoon, Dick feels that maybe they can be ..close. And it’s fun. Maybe they’ll do it again
(again).

And Jason mentions that he’s going to meet Bruce when they get back, as Jason and Bruce,
and Dick feels odd. He hasn’t really mediated Jason and Bruce’s relationship for months now.
The idea that they might be healing on their own, working together, leaves him feeling a bit
like he’s watching two kids he has supervised for so long willingly spend time together.

When Dick thinks back, not far back - boy, were they all ever dysfunctional, and they’re still
not perfect. And yet. Perhaps he really doesn’t need to constantly intervene for everyone.
Perhaps they want their family to work too. It’s a hopeful thought, and he lets it reassure him.

He visits Cass in Hong Kong. He can tell that the distance is good for her, gives her space to
observe the rest of them without being dragged into the messy swirl. He can feel the peace
himself too, as the stresses of Gotham recede, similar to when he’s in Bludhaven, but it’s
replaced by the deep and complicated ache for the familiarity of home. He doesn’t feel truly
at peace until he’s back in the dark and grim city.

But the night before he goes home, Cass confides that she is going to finish her latest case in
Hong Kong in the next few months, and then she will return to Gotham as well.

“Cass, that’s awesome news,” Dick tells her, because it is. “Are you sure? What made you
decide?”

“Sure. No more running,” she says, all steady confidence in her decisions. Dick would like to
be more like Cass. “I want to be home. With you.” She points to him. “A lot of change, like
you. Like Bruce. It’s hard, but it will be worth it. Together.”
Dick couldn’t agree more.

—----------------

And then…

“Hurry up, Tim, we’re going to miss the panel!”

Dick goes to the Comic-Con with Tim and Steph. Finally hanging out with them outside of
vigilante business or manor chilling, something they planned ahead of time and committed
to.

Steph’s bright pink hair bounces as she strides quickly, on a mission. Dick glances back to
where Tim is trailing behind them, loaded with their purchases.

“Maybe if you carried your own merch,” Tim grouses, almost tripping over a rolled poster.
Dick feels kind of bad and starts to move to offer help, but Steph is unrepentant.

“Oh please, you lift heavier than that. We can’t help because it would ruin the costume-”
Steph begins to explain.

“Is that Sharkboy and Lavagirl?” A squad of superhero costumes surrounds them. Dick is
impressed with the edgy female Red Hood. “I love it! Can we get a picture?”

Steph and Dick look at each other. “The panel can wait, this is our glory,” Steph says
solemnly, and Dick grins, shark-like.

One of the superheroes turns to Tim. “Do you mind taking the photo?”
“He’s really good at photography,” Dick chirps. “He’s been taking pictures of superheroes
like you guys for ages.”

Tim groans but accepts the camera.

(It’s really, really fun.)

They stop briefly at one of Jason’s known safehouses on their way home. Officially it’s to
drop off a file, but it’s also because Dick knows Jason is dying to see their costumes, the
inner geek. If they go to the Comic-Con next year, Dick is definitely going to push more
when he invites him.

Jason opens the door to Sharkboy and Lavagirl kneeled in the hallway, raising files up like
offerings. Tim hangs behind them, embarrassed (but Dick bets he’s filming). Jason blankly
analyzes them in one second and says, “Are you fucking kidding me. I am appalled.
Flabbergasted. Sharkboy and Lavagirl don’t kneel. Your fin is pointed wrong, Big Bird. And
is that a plastic wig, Blondie?”

He may be throwing obligatory insults about their costume quality, but Dick can tell he’s
suitably impressed underneath. And maybe a little jealous. Dick and Steph start posing.

‘What’s the hold up? Is it charity?” A voice calls from beyond the door. A familiar voice.
And Dick didn’t realize Roy and Kory were visiting.

And then Jason turns and yells into his apartment. “Hey guys, some fucker dropped
something funny in the hallway!”

“Are you serious,” Tim breathes. He is most definitely still filming. Dick wishes he would
stop now.

And suddenly Roy and Kory are right there, peeking curiously around Jason. They grin when
they see the costumes.
“You’re right, it is funny,” says Roy, looking them over.

Steph wasn’t expecting the additional attention but she takes it like a pro, striking another
pose. “Hello, citizens,” she says.

“Hello,” says Kory. She looks at Dick.

Dick swallows, mouth suddenly dry. He crosses his arms. “Hi.”

Jason looks like he’s debating something with himself, looking from Dick to Roy to Dick to
Kory. “Did you losers want to… come in?”

Dick stares at him, but now Jason is firmly looking at Tim and Steph, the gremlin. Jason is
such a meddler when he wants to be. He won’t tell them the location of his apartment for
months, won’t accept their invitations to the Comic-Con or even something as innocent as ice
cream, but when he has an opportunity to push Dick into an uncomfortable conversation with
someone he has been dancing around, Jason brings his Bat-trained all.

Steph is already brushing past Dick and Jason. “I thought you’d never ask. I’m so thirsty. Do
you have lemonade?”

“There are lemons,” Kory says. “Is that sufficient?” And she’s following Steph in. Roy
shrugs and trails behind. Tim has put his phone back in his pocket and pushes past Jason with
a mumbled “bathroom”.

“Don’t you dare shit in my toilet, Replacement,” Jason calls after him.

Then it is just Jason and Dick in the doorway, waiting for one of them to decide. Dick stares
at a nail in the wall and pictures his coffin.
“You don’t have to,” Jason gives him an out, but Dick knows he’s cornered. As if he can walk
away without raising questions. But Jason follows it up with, “I could just say I needed to run
to grab a file from a different safehouse and I asked you to help me.” His eyes are honest; he
really doesn’t mean to force Dick into this. But he wants Dick to try. He’s pushing, but
maybe that’s not a bad thing.

Dick weighs the situation carefully. He knows Jason is watching him closely, waiting for his
call. But Dick has had such a good day he thinks maybe he can do this too. “Actually
lemonade sounds good,” he says with a smile.

Jason raises an eyebrow but gestures for him to come inside then.

And Dick can talk to both of them without murdering Roy or killing himself with guilt about
Kory. So he does. And he drinks lemonade. It’s nice.

And he thinks… maybe he wants to hang out with them again.

He will get his chance.

—---------------

“Nightwing, I’ve been dying to meet you! I’ve heard so much about you.” Dick’s smile is
frozen on his face as he politely turns to greet the excited voice. He doesn’t like the sound of
‘heard so much’. But he can’t avoid this without making a scene.

It’s the spring multi-generational Titan’s party and there is a larger turnout than ever before,
with heroes from different teams mingling as well. Formal and costumed mix. New teams,
old teams. Dick had been taking a moment to escape, texting Damian while huddled against
the wall, and now he’s cornered. Dick always feels a bit apprehensive around people who
know him by name (and ergo reputation) only, and this is definitely one of those people,
though her suggestive eyebrow raise makes it clear she thinks she knows him well.
“Hi. I didn’t catch your name?” Dick says politely. He tries to stay updated on new vigilantes,
but it feels like there’s a fresh face sprouting out of every neighbourhood these days. He
respects the bold bright pink and orange combination even as it leaves him squinting. “Nice
colours,” he compliments.

Maybe praising fashion tastes is inherently flirty, maybe when Dick squints he looks sexy, he
doesn’t know, but she’s laughing like he said something funny. “You can catch more than my
name.”

And she is moving closer-

And Dick has been working with Carlos on how to let someone know you’re uncomfortable
in a social situation but he finds suddenly he can’t do it; he’s not there yet. Instead, he
instinctively is forcing a laugh of his own even though he doesn’t know what’s funny about
his lungs constricting or his hands shaking. He wishes he could just say point blank that he’s
not interested, but he can’t make himself disappoint her.

But there is one other strategy he agreed with Carlos on. A strategy that only left him alone
for one minute to raid the food table.

“Hey there, what’s shaking? Excuse me, pardon me, just going to squeeze by. Here Rob,
you’re not busy, hold my olives,” Wally very purposefully inserts himself and his tropical
floral shirt between them carrying four plates full of carefully stacked snacks, offloading one
onto Dick.

Dick inspects the tray. “How many types of olives do you need?”

“A respectable sample size,” Wally sniffs, popping one into his mouth. Finally, he turns to
look at the new hero like he’s seeing her for the first time. Dick thinks Wally is a poor actor,
but this is still a show he’d pay to watch. “Oh hi, can I help you?” He grabs a mushy handful
off of Dick’s plate and offers it to her. “Olive?”

“Uh, no thanks,” she says, looking suddenly uncomfortable. To Dick, “Nice meeting you.”
She disappears into the crowd. Dick watches her go.
Dick turns to see Wally watching him, still chewing on his handful of olives. “You don’t have
to make everyone happy,” Wally says, way too observant when Dick is literally wearing a
mask.

“I know,” Dick says quickly, because he does. He raises his plate. “Olive?”

Wally shrugs, then tosses his entire handful down his throat and grabs another. “Well I’m
here for you man, to make sure you’re happy.” At least, that’s what Dick thinks he says,
mixed in with the chewing.

“Thanks man.” Dick bumps his shoulder, jostling the plates. Wally masterfully restabilizes.
Thank God for Wallace West.

And then Dick looks across the room, sees Kory talking with Donna. He imagines himself
talking with both of them too, imagines it being nice, the way it used to be.

Dick takes a breath. If ever there was a time for Dick to practice doing things for himself, it’s
now. His heart speeds up. There is a familiar tickle of anxiety in his gut, a sense that he is
undeserving. But he has had enough people tell him now that he is starting to believe: It’s not
your fault.

“Wish me luck,” he tells Wally, who tracks his gaze.

“I’ll be nearby,” Wally assures him. Dick doesn’t deserve this guy. (Dick doesn’t think he
deserves much, that’s maybe part of his problem. But he wants to. And that’s a start. So.)

He takes another breath. Then he grabs some punch and joins Donna and Kory.

—------------------------
“-and it was really, really nice.”

“Glad to hear it. Did you talk about Mirage?”

“No. We talked about fruity teas. But I think… I don’t know. Maybe we will? I think we’ll talk
again.”

“Glad to hear it.”

—------------------------

Dick has been doing more introspection and reflection this year than ever before, after
Operation F.I.S.H.. He has always wondered ‘why’, and now he truly searches for it.

His therapist tells him of a word he immediately likes: Agathokakological. To be composed

of both evil and good. Dick feels like it describes how he sees the world, and humanity in
general. Maybe what he feels is true for his family and his relationship with Bruce in
particular. The love, and the hurt. The affection, and the pain.

Dick thinks about Bruce, really analyzes him, maybe more than he ever has. He thinks about
their relationship, all of it, from the beginning. He can reflect on how young Bruce was when
he first took Dick in and how old Dick is now. He can see Bruce’s improvements in his
siblings’ lives and in Bruce’s clumsy attempts to reconcile with Dick himself. And even
when he was young - the good moments: how Batman taught and guided and trained him,
how he still feels like Bruce made Dick into who and what he is today. More than any other
person, for better or worse. And yet, Dick also has an evolving perspective of himself: now,
he wants to be loved right.

It’s so painfully slow, Dick’s personal paradigm shift. He finds the small truths are easier to
accept - Dick can agree Bruce hit him, and he can pick apart the reasoning to agree it didn’t
always make sense. But once he can believe some things weren’t his fault it’s easier to see
how it was wrong, though the big picture is still daunting to him, that perhaps he was abused.
That the little things he always brushed aside were not dust to sweep away but poisonous
vapours from the rot at the middle of their family that needed to be addressed.
Dick knows he has been hurt hard, by Bruce, by this family. But he needs to find his own
way to heal, and that will never be through breaking relationships, when relationships are his
lifeblood. He knows that isn’t right in every situation, that it isn’t right for everyone - not for
Stephanie, not for Jason, not for Roy. Maybe it wouldn’t even be right for him if his family
wasn’t also working so hard to improve as well.

He struggles to articulate how he is doing anymore, when people check in. How does he
know if he is “getting better”? He has always gauged himself by his relationships with
people, and that makes change more subtle. Are his relationships healthier now? He likes to
think so. He feels like if he remembers where he was a year ago, then today seems pretty
bright, most days now. He needs to find happiness where he can.

His triangular relationship with Damian and Bruce is tricky. They all have to shift to find a
new balance, and it feels like they are constantly re-juggling. The changes that eventually
start to feel right take on a certain shape - Bruce becomes a bit more of a father to Dick, and
Dick stops trying to pull back from Damian to make room. His kid deserves all the love they
can both give him.

—---------------------

Dick texts Slade, Thank you. Dick is fairly certain he tried to help, in his own messed-up way.

Then Dick blocks his number.

Then he unblocks it. Just in case.

Slade responds, Go to sleep.

Dick rolls his eyes.

He goes to sleep.

—--------------------

“So, what did you decide about Deathstroke?”

“Don’t even go there, my good therapist.”

“Interesting.”

—--------------------

Snip.

“Like this?”

Alfred leans closer to inspect the rose bush, squinting in the sun. “Very good, Master
Richard. You are improving each day.”

Dick rolls his eyes. “It’s just flowers, Alfred.”

“It is not just flowers, my dear boy,” Alfred says seriously. “It is you, and you are very
important.”

Oh. Dick smiles softly. Then he offers Alfred the rose clipping.
It is summer again and Dick finds himself helping Alfred in the garden, like he used to do
when he was young. Alfred’s words from that time are clear in his mind even now.

Routine is important to keep oneself healthy and sane . It’s a powerful technique for the
mind.

Dick knows the danger now, when you make bad habits. He twisted those words into a
justification for years of abuse. He became so comfortable in the familiar routine, even when
it cut him, because he was addicted to the high of relief when he was forgiven and Bruce
would bring him back into the fold. It was a way to cope. Now Dick wants to feel all of the
same comfort and familiarity with healthy relationships instead, no matter how hard it is to
transform them.

Sometimes he is still waiting for the catch, for himself or for Bruce to fall back into the well-
worn rut of their old path. But the pattern has been broken now, for most of a year. Now his
relationships feel like safety nets instead of trick wires. It feels like breaking a bad habit.

Dick isn’t free of his family, of Bruce, but he doesn’t want to be. He is free of the cycle.

Dick looks around at the restored garden. Sometimes it’s necessary to leave fallow ground
behind and start afresh. But this time, they will till the soil and plant anew, in the old space.

“If you two are quite finished,” Damian’s voice calls from the other side of the bush. He had
insisted on helping with the garden when he learned Dick was going to be present. “I could
use your assistance.”

Damian? Willingly asking for help? Dick meets Alfred’s raised eyebrows with his own.
Alfred holds up a blossom. “It seems there are welcome changes everywhere this season,”
Alfred comments, eyes twinkling.

Dick grins. Then, “Coming, Dami!”

“Tt. Finally.”

—--------------------

(Dick had another life once, before Gotham, before Bruce: different and the same. Dick was a
Robin before he was anything else, before he met Bruce. He has always flown with his
family. Once it was his parents and him. And for a while after they were gone, he thought he
would forever be alone. He never could have dreamed of the mosaic of people he ties himself
to now, how much they have gone through, and yet. He is certain if his parents knew, they
would be more happy than not.)

—--------------------

Thanksgiving is approaching again.

Dick flits between being stuck in Bludhaven with casework or busy with some aid he has
been giving the League off the continent. He has been trying to spread his net wide in the
larger community, getting some much needed fresh social air. He has stayed out of Gotham
physically, just texts and calls to his family. But he has heard murmurings through the family
grapevine.

There is a rumour going around, about a boy named Duke Thomas.

Dick has never heard of him before, but soon he is hearing a lot about him from Tim, from
Alfred, from Damian, and eventually even from Bruce. It sounds like he is staying around the
manor lately. It sounds like he isn't going to be leaving.

It sounds like Dick will be meeting him at Thanksgiving dinner.

Previously, a new member in the family has been a cause for fresh anxieties for Dick. New
people don’t know how Bruce works, what they need to be careful of, what they need to
avoid. But Bruce has been doing so well lately. In fact, they all have. Dick waits for the old
apprehension to manifest when he initially gets the text, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Dick is
left with only excitement at this potential new younger brother.

Hmm. Maybe this will be fun.

—--------------------

Dick pulls up to the manor on a chilly late November day. Damian is already out the front
door to meet him at his car.

“Richard, your presence is behind schedule, as usual,” he reports as Dick pockets his keys.

They saw each other frequently up until a month ago when he went largely off continent to
finish up a team mission. Dick has felt the separation like an ache, and he is just as eager to
see Damian again.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Dick says with a grin, going in for a hug. Damian returns it with only
the barest pretense of resistance, and this is coming home. He squeezes tighter.

“Dick!” Steph calls. She and Cass are waving in the doorway. “Come on, you’ve got to meet
this guy.”

“I’m coming!” Dick hollers, releasing his squirming captive only to keep an arm around his
shoulder as they walk. When they get to the door, he looks around. The entryway is empty
except for the four of them. “Where is he?”

“Kitchen,” Cass replies. Ah, so the new guy is hiding with Alfred. Dick understands. It is
very relatable behaviour.

He turns to Damian, grinning, “Race you.”

And then he is sprinting into the manor, Damian hot at his heels. He feels the air whip by him
as he bolts down the hallways, laughing as Jason tries to trip him coming out of the library
and he flips over the obstacle. Tim is exiting the kitchen and there is almost a collision, but
Dick picks Tim up and bodily throws him at Damian before somersaulting victoriously into
the kitchen.

“I am the champion!” he roars over the clamor behind him. He examines the scene.

There’s a fishbowl in front of him, the water clear and clean, central in the room. He looks
beyond it.

There is Alfred, minding a pot of something at the stove. There is Bruce in the corner, on his
phone but looking up as Dick enters. This must be the new kid right in front of him on the
closest barstool, hand raised and mouth open like he was in the middle of saying something
to Alfred but is now instead gaping at Dick and more likely the chaos behind him.

“So you made it,” Bruce says wryly. Dick can see the purposeful way he sets his phone aside.
His eyes are warm and attentive.

Dick can hear his other siblings filing into the room behind him. Dick doesn’t turn around,
but he does bow.

Jason groans so loudly at the theatrics that Dick suspects the megaphone is back. Still, he
can’t stop grinning.

This, this, is what Dick has been searching for. It’s not a stifling cage disguised as a home,
and it’s not cutting ties with everyone who has ever hurt or been hurt by him. It is this
patchwork group of people who love him and whom he loves, fragile and sharp but beautiful
so beautiful, with all of their flaws and with all of their crisscrossing forgiveness. They have
worked hard for this, and they will continue to work hard. It is a difficult path to walk
together. It is worth it.
 They are worth it.

Here, Dick can finally come up for a breath of air, and he can keep breathing.

Dick finally feels free.

Duke Thomas sticks out a hand, nervous smile on his face. “Hi, I’m Duke.”

Dick grabs the offered hand and pulls a squawking Duke into a hug. “Hi, I’m Dick. Welcome
to the family.”

—-------------------

Fin.*

"You must love in such a way that the person you love feels free." ~ Thich Nhat Hanh

Chapter End Notes

*okay the fish pun was right there okay

(Credit to that quote from Firefly!!)

Also I know this isn’t how or when Duke Thomas joins the family but I wanted him
present now and in this manner (and manor).

So… yeah. This story is over. And it still feels like a whole other book could get written
to cover what happened this chapter and beyond. I’ve brought this up in my ridiculously
long-winded comment replies but I don’t think everything can truly resolve within a
reasonable word limit, not when sometimes characters change their minds so slowly
there’s no dramatic epiphanies to show, just snap shots and rambling thoughts. All I can
leave you with is the bare suggestion that their lives and relationships will carry on,
hopefully for the better. I wanted this story to wrap up satisfyingly but to be honest,
catharsis looks different for different readers.

Speaking of, I find the one thing I want to do after reading a story I like is find others
that address the same things, but sometimes they can be hard to find. So I was trying to
remember some I felt had similar themes brought up here:

BeatriceEagle “How Far Love Goes” is also quite long and has a more canon take on the
resolution of Bruce’s abuses with the bat family. Also “something just broke” shows
systemic changes within the JL around attitudes towards rape victims.
dustorange “gristle” where Dick and Bruce talk about Bruce hitting Dick.
Grayson1996 “Whispered Apologies” for Bruce getting called out on being abusive.
Kach_wow “Playing the Victim” for a therapy session about Catalina Flores.
Kirazalea “Breathe In, Breathe Out” series, with victim blaming and the bat family
being really supportive of Dick.

I’m sure there are many, many more so if anyone has any other suggestions please throw
them in the comments for myself and other people! I’m always down to read good stuff.
:)

Thanks so much to everyone who has read this and particularly those who have
commented; I never thought I’d write this but you guys made the experience a thousand
times better with awesome thought-provoking feedback and eternal patience so thank
you to infinity and beyond.

Until next time, guys! Take care <3

End Notes

Thanks for reading! Let us know what you think. :)

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