Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It starts with a news report running in the background of a greasy little diner. 

Bruce has his back to the TV, tuning it out in favor of listening to his son and concentrating on his burger, but that doesn’t stop him from seeing the way the blood drains from Jason’s face, his expression falling slack in horror. There’s a clunk of metal against porcelain as the fork he was holding drops from his hand.

“Jason, what’s wrong?” He launches immediately into action, mind whirring. Has he been poisoned? Is he having some sort of allergic reaction? Is someone here? Are they under attack?

“Nightwing,” Jason mumbles, voice barely more than a breath. His eyes are locked somewhere behind and above Bruce’s head and Bruce whirls around to try and spot the origin of his son’s distress.

He barely catches the bold words before the screen changes but what he does spot is more than enough to plunge him in solid ice.

Nightwing Found Dead!  

Right there, on a slightly-grainy diner TV screen, is a black and blue body, laying in a puddle of blood and surrounded by crime scene tape and milling CSIs. No one has touched the mask, but it doesn’t matter. That’s Dick, Bruce would recognize him anywhere.

Dick is dead.

Bruce is on his feet before he registers moving, thighs banging painfully against the edge of the table. Jason hasn’t moved, hasn’t taken his eyes off of the screen. A tear rolls down his cheek, and that’s what manages to snap Bruce out of it.

He moves quickly around the table to crouch beside his son, doing his best to block Jason’s view of the TV. He can’t find his voice to try and comfort him, but it turns out he doesn’t need to. Jason leans against him, clinging with white knuckles to his suit jacket.

“It’s fake, right?” Jason mumbles. “It can’t really be him. Right?” His voice is pitching higher and higher, desperation coloring every word.

Bruce doesn’t answer, just wraps an arm around his youngest. “We need to go,” he chokes out. They can’t stay here in this diner. Bruce doesn’t even know where he’s supposed to go, what he’s supposed to do now, but he knows they can’t stay here.

Oh god. Alfred. Someone has to tell Alfred. 

Bruce rummages through his jacket pocket, somehow without extracting himself from Jason’s hold, pulls out his wallet and slaps an indeterminate amount of cash onto the table. It should be more than enough to cover the bill, and Bruce couldn’t care less about the change.

“Come on,” he murmurs against the crown of Jason’s head. 

Jason goes without complaint, tucked against Bruce’s side. He’s silent and pale as Bruce gets him into the car, face almost completely blank as he stares emptily, although his eyes are shining. He buckles his seatbelt robotically, and Bruce understands the feeling. There’s a numbness crawling uncomfortably across his skin, masking but not erasing the cold terror in his chest and throat.

They’re pulling into the driveway when Bruce’s phone rings. The sound startles Jason and stabs like a white-hot dagger at Bruce’s head. 

“Who the fuck is calling right now,” Jason snaps, and Bruce ignores the language in favor of staring at the name on the screen. There’s no one he wants to speak to right now—well that’s not true, there’s one voice on this planet that Bruce wants to hear right now above anything else, but it’s highly unlikely that Dick would be calling him anyway.

“Jim,” Bruce answers, unable to keep his voice from cracking.

“Bruce,” Gordon sounds exhausted. Miserable. Bruce can definitely relate. “I—” He clears his throat. “Before I start, have you seen the news?”

Bruce had an inkling that Gordon has known their identities for a while now—he’s a smart man, a detective himself, and has been close with both Dick and Bruce from the start—so the realization settles bluntly in his gut. Unless Dick’s identity has been exposed to the public? It’s a possibility, one that Bruce can’t find much energy to be horrified about.

“Yes,” he replies. He’s seen it. He’s still seeing it, every time he blinks it’s burned onto the back of his eyelids. 

Gordon sighs. “I am so sorry. I got a call from Bludhaven PD when they discovered the body. I’ve managed to keep the mask on, but someone will need to come down and ID the body.”

Bruce stares out the window, looking up at the Manor. Nine years ago he was pulling into this same driveway, a tiny Dick in the backseat, so small that his feet didn’t touch the floor. He’s ached for those early days for so long—remembering when Dick was his whole world, and he was Dick’s. When they were Batman and Robin, invincible. He has never yearned to get those moments back more.

“Bruce?”

“I’ll be there,” he says, then abruptly ends the call. He allows himself to slump, tipping forward to rest his forehead against the steering wheel. 

This, he thinks, is hell.

It’s not hell. It’s not. Hell is peeling off his first son’s mask to reveal sightless dull eyes. Hell is seeing his child so pale, so still, so empty. 

Hell is knowing now, for sure, that there is no later. There is no second, third, fourth chance to make up with his son, to solve their problems and put an end to the disagreements. There is no opportunity to apologize.

He will never speak with Dick again, will never hear his voice. He will never wrap an arm around his son’s shoulders and tug him in, will never hear his laugh as Bruce ruffles his hair. So many never s that Bruce had been naive to believe would never be.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce whispers, shaking voice falling on deaf ears. “I’m sorry, chum, I’m so sorry.” 

He grips Dick’s hand, bends to press his forehead to his son’s, closing his eyes to block out the sight of his lifeless expression. He’d been stabbed, not necessarily a fatal injury if treated properly, but there had been poison on the blade, and that had ultimately been what killed him, although not after over an hour of slow agony. He’d died early in the evening, towards the start of a fairly early patrol, while Bruce and Jason headed toward the diner, blissfully unaware, in good spirits as they discussed Jason’s audition for the school play. 

“Why didn’t you call for backup?” he asks. “Why didn’t you call, Dickie? I would have come. I would have come running. Why didn’t you call?”

It feels weird to say his name while in the Batsuit, even with the cowl yanked down, but that’s who this is. It’s not some paranoid, abstract fear or blurry image on a screen. It’s not hypothetical anymore. This is real. Dick Grayson is dead. Bruce’s son is dead. There’s a pain in his chest that rivals every broken rib he’s ever had, every knife scar and gunshot wound. It’s even worse than his parents, worse than anything he’s ever felt.

“I’m sorry, son. I’m so sorry.” 

He closes Dick’s eyes for the last time, and something inside of him shatters.

Bruce jolts awake to the feeling of someone jumping on his bed.

“Wake up, you big lug! Up and at ‘em!”

He’s panicked in a way he rarely is, mind whirring. “Dick,” he gasps, yesterday’s events crashing down on him. His son is dead. His son is dead. Dick is dead. 

“Try again!” Jason says, flopping down half on top of Bruce. There’s laughter in his voice, and it sounds so foreign and wrong considering the circumstances. “Getting senile on me, old man?”

Bruce stares at his youngest, at the wide grin on his face. He’s still in his pajamas, bedhead making his curls extra unruly. He can’t make heads or tails of what is happening. He distinctly remembers coming back from Bludhaven last night to find Jason curled up asleep on Dick’s bed, tear tracks on his cheeks. Bruce himself had only managed to drift off with the help of whatever Alfred had put in his tea. Last night there had been nothing but grief, so Bruce doesn’t understand why Jason is here bouncing on his bed as though nothing is wrong.

“You okay, B?” Jason asks. “Hello? Earth to Bruce?” He frowns. “Did you hit your head last night?”

“No, I didn’t get hit. I—” He shakes his head, trying to clear the fog. 

Jason frowns. “Alfie sent me to wake you up. He’s made breakfast, we have an hour before you have to take me to auditions.”

Auditions. Jason’s audition was yesterday. The day Dick died. 

Except, this happened yesterday too. Jason woke him up, Bruce took him to the school for the auditions, and they went out to a celebratory dinner at that greasy, gross diner that Jason insists he loves. 

Bruce scrambles get a good look at the clock on his bedside table. Saturday. The clock says it’s Saturday. Dick died on Saturday. 

It’s supposed to be Sunday.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Jason asks, peering at him oddly. 

It’s supposed to be Sunday, but if it’s not, if it’s Saturday, that means Dick isn’t dead. That means Bruce just had the most vivid nightmare of his life that wasn’t fear gas-induced. 

“Yeah, son. I’m fine.” He ruffles Jason’s hair, a million pounds lifted from his shoulders.

He resolves to put the nightmare behind him—breakfast is waiting.

“Bruce,” Clark says, and he really should not be saying Bruce’s name while in costume. “Bruce, you need to come to the Tower.”  

Clark looks devastated, so far beyond the kicked-puppy look he could get sometimes. 

“I’m busy,” Bruce growls. “This had better be important.” This had better not be what he thinks it is, the worst case scenario that his paranoid brain immediately latched onto. The ground feels like it’s rocking beneath his feet, dread curling in his stomach. He grips the arm of his chair to fight through the nonexistent seasickness. 

“Bruce… It’s Dick.”

No. It’s not Dick. It can’t be Dick. Dick is fine.

After his dreadful nightmare last night, Bruce had taken it upon himself to call Nightwing in on a League mission to get him out of Bludhaven for the day. He knows it was just his paranoia getting the best of him, but it made him feel so much better to make sure that Dick was not poisoned and bleeding out in Bludhaven.

A diplomatic mission with the League, with multiple super powered individuals who respected Nightwing but were also fully prepared to be his backup should he need it. He wasn’t alone. He would be fine.

He was supposed to be fine.

“What,” he grits out, swallowing bile.

“The mission went south… Can you please come to the Tower? I—I need to talk to you in person. I can’t…” Superman’s voice cracks, and the ground under Bruce’s feet goes with it.

“I’ll be there,” he says, unsure of how he even managed to get the words out with how numb his lips are.

He doesn’t need to ID this body. Even if Nightwing’s death hadn’t been witnessed by five different League members, Clark would have no trouble identifying the boy he’s known nearly as long as Bruce has. Uncle Clark, Dick had called him, squealing and laughing and demanding that he take him flying or shouting “Catch me!” as he hurled himself from the rafters. 

The sight before him is strikingly similar to the one from his nightmare, and Bruce dimly remarks to himself how accurate his psyche managed to conjure up the way Dick looks in death. This time it isn’t a stab wound to his side, but a gaping, charred hole in the middle of his chest, nothing that could have been made by any weapon from Earth. It burned straight through his heart in a single shot. 

“We weren’t ready,” Clark says. “One minute he was speaking to the delegation, the next he was down.”

Bruce swallows. Nods. He wants to scream and rage and demand to know why no one saved him, why it had been his vulnerable, human son who was the one to die. But he holds his tongue, knows below all the pain that Clark would have thrown himself in front of Dick in a heartbeat, bulletproof skin or no.

“It was painless,” Clark adds, as if it’s any consolation. “He didn’t suffer.” Clark can’t possibly know that, not really. Bruce knows that pain makes the seconds stretch into minutes, into hours. Dick may have been dead before his body hit the ground, but who knows how long that fall felt to him. 

“Leave us,” Bruce rasps. 

Mercifully, Clark just nods, casting one achingly sad look at Dick’s body before sweeping out of the room.

Bruce studies the body, unable to keep himself from documenting every similarity and difference between this moment and his nightmare last night.

“How is this possible? You were supposed to be safe.” He reaches out to take Dick’s hand, squeezing tight. “I thought I was saving you, chum, I swear. You were supposed to be safe. I—I don’t understand. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Something is going on, something is deeply wrong, but Bruce can’t even begin to distinguish it from his grief. He’d thought he was so good at compartmentalizing and holding the mission at the forefront of his mind even when emotionally compromised. But not this. He can’t just compartmentalize his dead son. It’s all-consuming agony that is eating him alive. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers again. This is the worst, most nauseating sense of deja vu he’s ever experienced. “I’m sorry, chum. I’m so sorry.”

He presses a kiss to his son’s forehead and lets himself fall apart.

Bruce’s first thought when he feels a small body jumping onto his bed is that something is definitely wrong.

“Wake up, you big lug! Up and at ‘em! Alfie sent me to wake you up. He’s made breakfast, we have an hour before you have to take me to auditions.” Jason grins above him, same bed head, same pajamas, same grief-free smile. Exactly the same as yesterday. Or—Bruce glances at the clock—what used to be yesterday. It’s Saturday. Again. 

This is his third Saturday in a row now, and so far they’ve all started with Jason bouncing on his bed to wake him up. So far they’ve all ended with Dick dead.

Twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern, and Bruce fully intends to keep Dick dying from becoming a pattern.

“You good, B-man?” Jason asks, amusement in his voice. Bruce blinks to clear his vision, groggy and confused from both the early hour and the repetition of events. “Wow. I knew you weren’t a morning person, but this is a whole nother level. Did you hit your head last night?”

“I didn’t get hit,” he assures, because saying “I’m okay” would be a lie. “Go on down to breakfast. I’ll join you in just a minute.”

“Alright,” Jason says after giving him one last scrutinizing look. “But I’m not saving you any potatoes, so you better hurry up!”

Bruce takes a few moments to try and collect his thoughts and work through his situation strategically. Maybe he’s dreaming or trapped in some sort of hallucination—perhaps Scarecrow's work? Although usually it is much more difficult to recognize the effects of Scarecrow’s drugs once trapped inside the visions; nightmares aren’t really nightmares if you’re aware that what’s happening around you is a dream.

The other possibility is much more worrying. Bruce has dealt with space-time anomalies in the past, but nothing like this. He doesn’t have a contingency plan for this. The only thing he can think to do is try and make sure that Dick makes it through the night. If he survives, then the day might not reset. And even if it does, Bruce won’t have to close his son’s sightless eyes for a third time, and that’s an experience he most certainly wants to avoid.

After he takes Jason to auditions, he decides, he’ll go over to Dick’s apartment. Hopefully an in-person conversation will convince an ever-independent Dick to take a night off.

“Bruce!” Jason calls from downstairs. Bruce would be surprised that sound could even travel that far across the sprawling Manor, but Dick had lived here from ages nine to eighteen, and Bruce has more than enough experience with squeals and screams and laughs echoing through the halls. Kids are loud, and the Manor walls are surprisingly good at carrying that sound, even after years of neglect. “Hurry your butt up! I’m eating all the potatoes as we speak!”

“Dick?” Bruce calls, rapping at Dick’s door. He’s not at work; the gym where Dick teaches tumbling only offers Saturday classes in the early morning, and it’s now just after 3:00 pm, so he should be back by now. He should be home. Bruce sent him some League case files that needed to be gone over ASAP to keep him from going out. He should be home. “Dick, can I come in?”

There’s no answer, so Bruce decides to stop waiting, pulling a lockpick from his pocket and letting himself in. He’s starting to worry, the image of both of Dick’s dead bodies flickering at the forefront of his mind. 

The door swings open as Bruce tries to convince himself that Dick just isn’t home to open the door, or maybe he just doesn’t want to open the door for Bruce. That’s fine, as much as it hurts—so long as he’s alive to avoid Bruce then he can deal with that. He’s been dealing with it for about two years now. 

But the scene that awaits him when he rounds the corner into Dick’s apartment is one that will haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life. It’s not Dick, still and pale on a hospital gurney, looking as though he just might be asleep were it not for the stitched and cleaned wounds and stillness of his chest. It’s blood, everywhere, splattered and smeared across every surface of Dick’s living room. The coppery scent flood’s Bruce’s nostrils, choking him and making it impossible to breathe as he scrambles towards Dick, dropping at his side. The rug he kneels on is soaked dark red and it quickly soaks through the material of Bruce’s slacks. 

“No, no, no.” Not again. “Dick!” 

He shakes his shoulder, other hand fumbling to find a pulse. There’s nothing, not that any logical person would expect there to be. There appears to be more blood outside of Dick than in.

“Why is this happening?” he mumbles to himself. “Why?”

Gently, he cradles Dick’s head between his hands, cupping his cheeks and wiping at some of the blood with his thumb. Bruce pulls him into his chest, holding him there and rocking him gently as the tears fall silently into dark hair. 

“I’m going to fix this, alright chum? I’m going to fix this. I swear to you, I will fix this.”

He just has to go to sleep, that’s all. He has to sleep, and when he wakes up, Dick will be alive again. The day will restart and this time Bruce will save him. Just sleep.

He presses a desperate kiss to the back of Dick’s head before laying him back down reverently. “I’m fixing this,” he whispers as he brushes Dick’s bangs out of his eyes. His fingers catch in the blood-matted curls. “Don’t worry. Don’t worry. I am going to fix this, okay?”

He just needs to sleep. If he just goes to sleep, he will wake up with two living sons.

Bruce grabs a blanket from where it’s hanging over the back of Dick’s couch and after some careful repositioning of Dick’s body, drapes it over his still form. It does nothing to disguise the fact that his son is lying dead on the floor of his own apartment, a place where he was supposed to be safe.

“I’m going to fix this,” he says to the lump under the blanket. Blood is already starting to stain the fabric, but that’s okay. Come morning, Bruce will wake up and Dick will be alive again and this time… this time he will save Dick. He has to.

He doesn’t know how long he kneels beside Dick. Long enough that his legs go numb, feet asleep and prickling with pins and needles. He wishes he could just fall asleep now. He wants to stop existing in a world where his eldest son is dead. But he can’t fall asleep now, not with Dick’s blood staining his hands and his pants, drying under his nails and sticking the fabric of his shirt to the skin underneath. 

He is eventually pulled out of his shock by the sound of someone knocking rapidly on Dick’s door. He’s on his feet in an instant. Maybe Dick’s visitor will have some clue as to what is happening. Bruce will force them to tell him everything they do know. He will not let his son die again.

He hurls the door open, prepared for an interrogation, not caring for once that he’s not wearing his cowl. 

“What did you—Jay.” His other son stands out in the hallway, his arms folded over his chest, a violent glare pulling on his features. “Jason. You’re supposed to be at your audition.”

“My audition ended two hours ago,” Jason growls, fury on his face. “What the hell? What are you doing here? Is that blood —” He leans to the side, twisting to look around Bruce and into the apartment.

“Jay…”

“You never came to pick me up so I tracked your phone and—” Jason’s eyes widen and Bruce lurches immediately, wrapping Jason up and trying everything in his power to block his view of the bloody living room. 

“Hey, hey. No,” he says gently, tucking Jason’s head back down from where he tries to peer around Bruce’s shoulder. “You don’t need to see that.”

“Dick,” Jason chokes. “What— Is he—”

“It’s going to be okay,” Bruce says, tucking his head back down.

“How the fuck—”

“Hey.” He grabs Jason’s shoulders, squeezing. “I know this is scary, okay? But I am going to fix everything.”

“Dad,” Jason sounds so young, so scared. His eyes are wide and terrified. That’s his big brother’s apartment that’s covered in blood. That’s his big brother’s body that’s growing cold under a quilt. Bruce understands this terror viscerally. “What’s going on?” His voice trembles. Jason has never been this soft spoken in the entire time Bruce has known him.

Bruce hugs him tighter to his chest, keeping his hand planted firmly on the back of Jason’s head to keep him from looking. He presses his face into Jason’s soft hair, breathing in the scent of his son. His still living, breathing son.

“Something’s happening to me,” he explains, wishing beyond belief that he had more to go off other than a guess and a prayer, “and to Dick, but I will find a way to fix it.”

“But what is it? Dick is dead, Bruce.” Bruce ignores the way his voice cracks on the word dead. He knows this isn’t the end, that he will find some way to save Dick, but the grief is still threatening to crack him apart anyway. This is Jason’s big brother, and as much drama as this family has, he knows Jason and Dick love each other. And to see him murdered so brutally—Bruce’s heart is breaking for his second son as well.

“I’m not entirely sure what’s happening,” he admits. “But I know that when I wake up in the morning, everything will reset. And next time I’ll find a way to save Dick. Trust me, okay?”

“I do,” Jason says. “I trust you.” Bruce knows he only agrees so easily because he’s just as desperate as Bruce is for this to not be real. 

Bruce presses a long kiss to the top of his head. “Then let’s go home, okay? Trust me. We just need to go home.”

“We can’t just leave him,” Jason’s voice cracks.

“There’s no sense in bringing him,” Bruce argues, although he has to agree that it feels wrong to just leave Dick here. “Come tomorrow, none of this will matter. It will be like it never even happened at all.” Except in Bruce’s mind. There, it will surely live on forever.

“You keep saying that,” Jason says. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing you need to worry about, okay? Just… everything will be okay. I will fix this. ”

Jason pulls back, studying him carefully. There are tears on his cheeks and his eyes are puffy and red. Finally he nods, face determined. “Alright. Okay. I believe you. You’ll fix this. You have to.”

He has to.

“Come on then, Jay-lad. We’re going home.”

Jason casts one last look back at Dick’s apartment before he lets Bruce wrap an arm around his shoulders and lead him away.

Everything will be okay, Dick.

Chapter Text

Bruce falls asleep on the couch beside a blank-faced Jason who refuses to go up to his own room to sleep. He wakes up in his own bed again, the weight of Jason jumping on the bed jostling him out of his unconsciousness. His chest clenches tight, then relaxes.

The timeline reset. Dick is alive again.

“Wake up, you big lug! Up and at ‘em!” 

“I’m up,” he tells Jason. Wow, his breath tastes like death. “I’m awake.”

“Then act like it,” Jason grins, sticking his tongue out at him. Bruce can’t work up the energy to banter back. “Alfie sent me to wake you up. He’s made breakfast, we have an hour before you have to take me to auditions.”

“Go on down to breakfast. I’ll join you in just a minute.”

“Alright, but I’m not saving you any potatoes, so you better hurry up!” Jason bounds off, thankfully without a hint that he remembered the events of yesterday. Bruce, on the other hand, still feels the phantom tackiness of cooling blood on hands. He’s just thankful that Jason won’t remember what they both saw. He doesn’t want to see his happy boy shaken and broken up like that ever again.

Bruce fumbles around his nightstand until he finds his phone, swiping through the contacts and pressing it to his ear as lingering panic continues to roar in his ears. Come on, pick up, pick up, pick up.

“Bruce?” 

Any other day, he might have winced at the surprise and confusion in Dick’s voice. It’s been way too long since he’s called his eldest, way too long since they’ve spoken to each other outside of the occasional exchange on overlapping League missions, and that’s always about the job. Dick used to tell Bruce everything. He used to sit on Bruce’s desk or spin around in the Batcomputer chair, bandaids on his knees and the occasional gap in his teeth, grinning and waving his arms as he relayed practically every detail of his school day. Bruce misses that little boy desperately, guilt twisting in his gut at the knowledge that it’s no one’s fault but his own that Dick doesn’t talk to him anymore.

But the other, maybe more smothering part of him is just reveling in the sound of his son’s voice. Dick is alive. Bruce can hear him and he’s okay. For now, at least.

“What do you need, Bruce? I have to go soon.”

It’s at this moment that Bruce realizes that he didn’t plan what he was going to say to Dick. Dick is unbelievably understanding, but even he is going to be skeptical if Bruce starts raving about time loops and Nightwing’s death. Besides, Bruce still isn’t sure that that’s what’s happening to him. He’s not ready to rule out some kind of mind control or hallucination yet.

“Gotham,” he grunts out, then immediately grimaces at how gruff and uncaring he must sound. He clears his throat, then tries again, before Dick hangs up on him without another word. “I need you in Gotham.”

“Tonight?” Dick asks. He sounds tired and irritated, but not as though he’s about to tell Bruce to fuck off and stop bothering him.

Bruce finds himself nodding, even though Dick can’t see him. “Yes. Tonight.” Ideally, it would be even earlier, but he can’t push Dick. He’s too independent. If Bruce tries to insist that he miss his day job or whatever else he’s got scheduled today, he won’t come at all. “Please,” he tacks on.

“Yeah, okay,” Dick says slowly, sounding a bit worried. “What’s the job?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here.” 

Dick huffs, but it almost sounds a little amused. Almost. “Alright, alright. I’ll see you later then? Now, I really have to go.”

“Stay safe,” he blurts out. 

“I can take care of myself, Bruce.” He sounds a little irritated now, but as long as they’re not screaming at each other, Bruce considers the conversation a success. “Are you sure everything’s okay? Is Jason alright?”

“Jason’s fine. Everything’s fine. Just… Be here tonight.” He quickly calculates the time of Dick’s first death. “By 6:00. Don’t be late.”

“Yeah fine, Bruce. I’ll see you later.”  

And with that, Dick hangs up, leaving Bruce to take a few deep breaths to try and calm his nerves. His hands, he realizes, are shaking slightly, tremors reverberating into his chest. He clenches his fists and sighs. It’s fine. Dick will be here tonight, and then he’ll be safe. So long as he’s in Bruce’s line of sight, nothing will happen to him. Batman will make sure of it.

“Bruce!” Jason’s voice comes calling from downstairs, the same as before. “Hurry your butt up! I’m eating all the potatoes as we speak!”

“I’m coming,” Bruce shouts back. He has to get his act together before Jason and Alfred notice something is off. Neither of them need to know about this. It would only hurt them more to know that Dick has now died thrice. 

For all of Bruce’s faults when it comes to maintaining his relationship with Dick, both Jason and Alfred adore him. Despite the physical distance between Jason and Dick, the two are still very much brothers, even if they’ve never even lived in the same house. Dick is a good mentor for Jason, and Bruce knows that they often get together on the weekends to get ice cream and complain about Bruce. It’s good. They’re good for each other, supportive in a way Bruce can’t be. 

And Alfred… Bruce knows he loves Dick as though he’s his own child, somewhere between a son and a grandson. Maybe it’s a little hard to label sometimes, but that doesn’t change the love that exists between them. On the first day of the loop, before Bruce figured out that anything strange was happening, he’d had to inform Alfred of Dick’s death. It had been… rough, to say the least. Bruce had worried for his heart with the way he’d collapsed in on himself, gripping the counter for dear life. 

Never, ever does he want to see Alfred or Jason grieving again. He can’t tell them what’s happening. He won’t do that to them.

He finds Jason has in fact eaten all of the potatoes, little brat that he is. Bruce tells him as much, and Jason responds by sticking his tongue out between bites of French toast. 

“What took you so long?” Jason asks, reaching for his glass of milk. “You’re weird today.”

“Dick is coming over tonight,” Bruce says, figuring that will explain away any weirdness. Or at least, distract Jason enough to move off of it.

Sure enough, Jason’s eyes light up, spine straightening. “For real? Like, here here or like Gotham-but-not-actually-in-the-Manor here?”

“Here here,” Bruce answers. “Or downstairs at least. But I’m sure he’ll want to hear about your audition.”

“Very good,” Alfred chimes in. “It’s been far too long since Master Richard came home.”

“You’d better not run him off, old man,” Jason says with a warning scowl that, yeah, it’s pretty warranted. Jason has been unfortunately subjected to too many of Dick and Bruce’s spats. 

“I will do my best.” Jason has no idea how much is riding on Bruce playing nice tonight. He can’t afford to screw this up. Dick can’t afford for him to screw this up. “Finish your breakfast, Jay. We have to leave soon.”

“Alright, alright.” Jason returns to shoveling food into his mouth, much to Alfred’s chagrin. He’s smiling, though. The whole air in the room is light and happy. Bruce does his best to let himself relax a bit too.

“Where’s Dick?” Jason whines, sprawled sideways in the Batcomputer chair. “I wanna tell him about my audition. And what Mr. Lieberman said. He’s gonna flip.”

Bruce resists the urge to pace, checking the time once again. It’s 6:17. Dick is seventeen minutes late. It’s not enough to worry, he tells himself. It’s just seventeen minutes. There are a lot of explanations for seventeen minutes. Traffic, for one. Or Dick could have been held up at work. Maybe there was a little old lady who needed help crossing the street and putting her groceries away or a kitten stuck in a tree. Any number of things could have held him up.

It doesn’t mean that Dick is dead. It doesn’t. He’s just being paranoid.

“If you’re so impatient,” Bruce says, forcing his voice to stay level, “why don’t you text him?”

“I already did,” Jason complains. “He’s not answering me.”

Bruce’s chest squeezes painfully. “He’s probably driving. Call him.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “You just want me to do your dirty work for you.” He pulls out his cellphone anyway, lifting it to his ear to call Dick.

They both wait for a moment, the air in the Cave feeling stale and heavy at least to Bruce. Jason sits up with a frown, dropping the hand holding his phone down to his lap. 

“He’s not answering.”

“Try again,” Bruce commands. He feels nauseous. 

Jason does, but again, nothing happens. Nothing except a growing expression of worry on Jason’s face and a lurch in the sharp pain in Bruce’s chest. He tries a third time, and then a forth and a fifth and Bruce wishes he could sink through the floor. His stomach has dropped so low that he thinks he just might be able to soon.

“Master Bruce?” Alfred interrupts, appearing in the Cave with the landline in hand. His face is pale, mouth trembling where it’s pressed into a tight line. “There’s someone one the phone for you. It’s… it’s Gotham General.”

Bruce stumbles over to him, taking the phone with both hands and pressing it desperately to his ear. “Hello?”

“Is this Bruce Wayne?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Wayne, I have you down as emergency contact for a Richard Grayson, is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s— He’s my son.”

“I am so sorry, Mr. Wayne,” the voice says. No, no, no. Not again. Please, not again. “There was an accident—your son’s motorcycle was run off the road. We suspect it was a hit and run. Our physicians did everything they could to try to save your son, but we got the call too late, and the damage was severe. I am truly sorry for your loss, Mr. Wayne.”

Everything after that fades to gray. He barely even feels himself sinking to the ground, knees crunching painfully against the floor, the phone still clutched to his unhearing ear. It’s not any easier the fourth time around, even though he knows this isn’t the end.

Because what if it is? What if this time he goes to sleep and when he wakes up it’s finally Sunday? What if this time there’s no Jason barging in to wake him up, just a boy mourning his older brother? What if this is it, and Bruce has lost every chance he ever had to make up with his first son? 

Dick is dead, and even if he wakes up again, that doesn’t change right now. Right now, Bruce’s son is dead. 

The world keeps on turning, but it definitely feels like it shouldn’t.

“Wake up, you big lug! Up and at ‘em!”

Those are beginning to somehow simultaneously become both his favorite and least favorite words in the world. 

He groans, rolling over and narrowly avoiding Jason’s attempt to tackle him awake. “I’m up,” he mumbles. “I’m awake.”

“Then act like it,” Jason says. Again. 

Bruce stares up at the ceiling. Just for a moment, he wants to just lay here and not think, not move. Just for a few minutes, he wants to pretend like he’s not going to have to spend yet another day struggling to keep Dick alive.

There was, at the very least, significantly less blood this last time. The hospital had summoned him to identify Dick’s body, and to say his goodbyes. He hadn’t been able to stop Alfred and Jason from coming with him, both of them pale and terrified.

They cried, tearing yet another hole in Bruce’s chest. He’d done nothing to stop Jason from climbing up onto the bed with Dick’s body, curling over him as he sobbed and shook his brother’s shoulders, begging him to wake up.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Dick was just asleep. Most of his injuries had been internal, aside from his shattered right tibia which was carefully hidden under the thin white blanket. All the blood had been cleared away long before the family arrived, making him appear as though he was merely resting. Except for his colorless skin, blue lips, and still chest. Those had been pretty clear tells. Bruce had sat down hard in the chair beside his son’s body, holding the stiff hand for the fourth time, numb and cold and wishing for morning.

And now morning is here. This time, Bruce won’t waste it. This time, he will save Dick.

He pulls out his phone once again. It takes exactly the same number of rings for Dick to answer this time as he did last time. His irritation at the repetition of the loop swells hot and angry before he tamps it down.

“Bruce?”

“Hello, Dick.” He shouldn’t be this relieved to hear his voice, but he is. Even when he’d been sure, it’s still an unbelievable relief to hear him alive. 

“What do you need, Bruce? I have to go soon.”

“I need you to stay in tonight.”

“What? No way. I have a bust planned for tonight. Big-time weapons dealers, B. I’ve been tracking these guys for months.”

“Dick, listen to me,” he pours some of his Batman voice into his command. Once upon a time Dick would have listened to that voice. “You need to stay in tonight. Do not go out on patrol.” The image of Dick’s third death—bloody staining his apartment—flashed quickly through his mind, making his stomach roll. “Stay in and lock your doors. Better yet, go to a safe house. Stay somewhere else for the night.”

“What the hell is going on?”

Bruce grits his teeth. He’s just trying to protect him. Why can’t Dick ever just understand that and take him at his word? 

“I have… reason to believe that there will be an attack on your life tonight.” Dick snorts and Bruce’s temper instantly flares dangerously. How dare he make light of this? “I am serious, Dick—”

“I know you are,” Dick snaps. “But you don’t control me anymore, Bruce. And if you can’t tell me anything more specific than that, then I’m going in tonight. I worked too hard on this for you just swoop in with some empty bullshit. News flash, B, people make ‘an attack on my life’ every single night. I can handle it. It’s about time for you to understand that this is what I do, and I’m pretty damn good at it.”

“Dick—”

“ Goodbye, Bruce.”

He hangs up before Bruce can say another word and doesn’t pick up on any of Bruce’s many subsequent calls. 

“Damn it,” Bruce mutters to himself. Fuck. He can’t lose Dick again. He’ll have to skip the diner with Jason and head to Bludhaven tonight for patrol. Hopefully Batman can do what Bruce Wayne has been unable to accomplish thus far. Until then, he’ll just have to wait and pray that Dick makes it from one hour to the next.

“Nightwing, come in,” Bruce radios from the Batmobile. Jason sits next to him, bouncing his knee. It’s a decently long drive, even in something as quick as the Batmobile, and Jason is already irritated that they’re here instead of at his celebratory dinner. Bruce had suggested that he and Alfred go instead, but Jason had insisted that if Batman was going out, then so was Robin, and Bruce hadn’t known how to tell him to stay home without revealing that Dick might die (again) tonight.

Nightwing doesn’t respond, and Bruce curses under his breath. Either Dick is ignoring him or he’s gone radio silent. It’s times like these that Bruce really wishes Dick had more than an emergency beacon on him for tracking purposes. He has no idea what bust Dick has planned for tonight or where he’ll be. Facial recognition picked him up, so he at least has a lead, but if Dick is staking out, he’ll be a little harder to find.

“Why are we going to bother Dick on patrol again?” Jason asks, leaning against the window.

“No names in the field.”

He practically hears Jason’s eye roll, even though he can’t see it. “We aren’t in the field. We’re in the car.”

“We’re in costume, Robin. No names.”

Jason huffs. “Fine. You’re not going to answer my question, are you.”

Bruce doesn’t speak, which only confirms Jason’s suspicions. He really would have preferred to be doing this without Jason here, but apparently being stubborn as hell comes with the Robin costume. They’ll have to work on that.

They park the car and head out on foot and grapple guns, moving towards Nightwing’s last known location. They arrive across the street from some grimy Bludhaven nightclub and Bruce is prepared to hunt Dick down, but it turns out he doesn’t have to. 

“What the hell are you two doing here?”

Bruce turns, watching Nightwing land silently on the roof behind Jason. He folds his arms over his chest, irritation plain on his face even with the mask.

“Nightwing—”

“No seriously, B. What the hell are you doing here? I thought I told you to leave me alone.”

“I know what you said, Nightwing, but—”

“I already knew you didn’t trust me,” Dick scoffs, “but really? You can’t even trust me to do my job in my own city? This isn’t Gotham, B. You can’t boss me around here. Go home.”

“I do trust—”

“Bull. Shit,” Dick hisses. “If you trusted me, you wouldn’t be here, ambushing me in my own city! I’m not incompetent, Batman. I’ve been doing this for almost ten years. Get the hell out of my way, and take Robin with you.”

Frustration flares high in Bruce’s stomach, quickly morphing into anger as Dick turns away from him, clearly deeming the conversation over.

“Trust has to be earned, Nightwing,” he growls. “I told you to stay home tonight and you ignored me. I wouldn’t have made that order if I didn’t have a good reason for it.”

“Get this through your head,” Dick snaps. “I'm not just going to do whatever you say, no questions asked. You can’t order me around anymore. I’m not a child.”

“Yes, you are!”

He is. He’s only twenty, younger than Bruce was when he'd first started. He’s still just a child—Bruce’s child. Bruce has to protect him, and Dick is making it damn near impossible because he just won’t listen. He never does. He doesn’t listen and he goes off on his own and he moves to a whole new city just to get out of Bruce’s shadow and he doesn’t call for backup when he needs it and he gets himself killed.  

It’s the wrong thing to say, and he knows it, but before he can take a few deep breaths and try to pull his thoughts together, Dick is screaming back.

“You always do this!” He plows on, ignoring Jason’s weak attempt to defuse the argument. “You refuse to see that I’ve outgrown Batman. I don’t need you anymore, and I haven’t needed you for a long, long time.”

Is that why he didn’t call for backup?

“You are not as grown up as you pretend to be, Nightwing. It’s been ten years and you still don’t take this seriously.”

Jason shifts awkwardly, and distantly Bruce really wishes he weren’t here to see this. He hates fighting with Dick in front of Jason. He hates fighting with Dick in general. “Hey, maybe we should—”

“Don’t take this seriously?” Dick waves his arms as he yells. “Don’t take this seriously? Just because I’m still a person with feelings and friends unlike you doesn’t mean I don’t take this seriously. Do you really think that I—”

But Bruce never gets to find out where Dick is going with his rant, because suddenly Dick is dropping to the ground, red already beginning to spread out in a halo around his head. Bruce spins on his heel, catching sight of a figure cloaked in dark fleeing from the opposite rooftop. He turns back to Dick, his whole body feeling detached and floaty even as his stomach sinks like a heavy stone. 

“No!” Jason screams, a red, yellow, and green blur rushing towards his older brother. 

Bruce drops heavily to his knees beside Dick, feeling numb. He lifts his hands on instinct, ready to press down on the wound and try to stop the bleeding, but there’s no use. Dick was dead before he even hit the ground.

“God, Dick,” he whispers, cradling his head and gently brushing his hair off of his forehead. “I—I just wanted to keep you safe. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. This is the last one, I swear. ”

“This is your fault,” Jason says harshly, coming to a stop on Dick’s other side, voice thick with tears and anger. “You knew he was on a stakeout and you just had to pick a stupid fight with him. It wasn’t even about anything!” His voice cracks several times, each one of them stabbing like white-hot knives in Bruce’s gut.

“I’m sorry,” he says, not sure if he’s speaking to Dick or to Jason. Or both.

Jason snarls. “Sorry? You got him killed, Bruce.”

Bruce says nothing, doesn’t even fight when Jason shoves him away, tugging Dick’s limp body onto his own lap. Because Jason’s right. It’s Bruce’s fault. He distracted Dick and gave away their position. Bruce got Dick shot. Bruce got him killed.

This is entirely on him.

I’m sorry, he doesn’t say, just watches Jason rock Dick’s body back and forth slightly. 

“I think I quit,” Jason says, not looking at him. There’s blood staining his uniform now. “I don’t know if I want to be Robin anymore.”

It stings more than it should. Bruce never forced Jason to be Robin, never really wanted him to do something so dangerous in the first place, but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t love having Jason at his side in the field. It hurts to hear his son be so furious at him, no matter how much he deserves it. It hurts even though he knows that come morning, Jason won’t remember any of this. He’ll still love being Robin. He’ll retain that same misplaced trust he has in Bruce. Bruce will be the only one to remember his betrayal, and selfishly, he’s thankful that Jason will forget the absolute shitshow that was tonight. 

He couldn’t handle losing both of his sons at the same time.

“I’m gonna fix this, Jay,” he tries, because he hates to see his kid in so much pain. 

“Yeah?” Jason snaps, glaring at him with what are surely red and puffy eyes behind his mask. “How? You can’t just fix this. Dick is dead. You messed up. And there’s nothing you can do to make it right.”

But he can. He can fix this.

He has to.

“Clark,” Bruce says, the anxiety and leftover guilt coiled in his gut making it difficult not to snap. “I need a favor. I’ll owe you.” If this ends up working, he’s willing to owe Clark a million favors.

“What’s up, B?”

“I need Dick in Gotham tonight. Can you fly him?”

“You and Dick are talking again? That’s great, B! Finally got your head out of your ass, huh.” He can practically hear Clark’s face-splitting grin through the phone. 

“Can you do it or not?”

“Sure. No problem, B. You need any Super help tonight?”

“No. Just pick Dick up at 5:45. I’ll tell him to expect you.”

“Okay, okay. I really am glad that you and Dick are back in each other’s good graces. I know he’s been missing you.”

Well that stings more than Bruce thought possible. He tries really, really hard not to dwell on it.

“Thank you, Clark.”

“Oh, wow. An actual thank you. I mean, you’re welcome, but is everything okay?”

“Yes. Goodbye.” He hangs up before Clark can say any more nonsense.

Clark drops Dick off right on time, shooting Bruce a giant thumbs up once Dick’s back is turned before taking off again.

“Hey, B,” Dick smiles, but he looks wary. Nervous, almost, when really he should be perfectly comfortable standing in the house he grew up in for nine years. Bruce really hates it. “What’s the big deal? I had a bust planned for tonight.”

Bruce grimaces. “Sorry to pull you away from that.”

Dick blinks, now looking truly shocked. It makes Bruce want to scream. “It’s alright. I figure it must be pretty important for you to get Clark involved. So what’s up?”

“Scarecrow escaped from Arkham a few days ago.” It’s a coincidence but… well, it’s actually kind of perfect. As shitty as dealing with Scarecrow is, it’s nothing they can’t handle, nothing Dick hasn’t handled many times before. They can take the antidote beforehand in preparation, and then it’s just like facing off with a weirdo wearing a sack on his head. A much better alternative to, say, the Joker or a big-league weapons dealer with a poisoned knife.

And it gives Bruce a perfect excuse to call Dick in.

Dick makes a face that Bruce can’t fully interpret, but he doesn’t look angry, so he rolls with it. “Okay… What did you need me for?” 

“Jay’s never gone up against Scarecrow before,” Bruce explains. “I’d prefer to have an extra pair of hands, just in case he shows up.” He likely won’t; it’s not like Scarecrow to come out of the woodwork this soon after his escape, but that’s beside the point.

Dick’s face goes soft, the way it always does where Jason is concerned. “Of course I’ll help. And hey,” he grins, looking almost like his usual self. “Maybe it’ll be fun for us to work together again.”

Bruce forces a smile. “I hope so, chum.” It’s worth it to see the way Dick’s shoulders finally relax.

Patrol goes well, no sign of Scarecrow, and after a handful of slip-ups, Batman and Nightwing fall into a groove and actually work pretty seamlessly together. It feels different from when Dick was still Robin, but not in a bad way. Dick has truly developed into a full-fledged hero in his own right, and a really good one at that. It’s easier than Bruce anticipated for them to work together. Their fighting blends seamlessly, each of them complimenting the other’s style the way they always have. 

For the first time in the past five repeated Saturdays, Bruce thinks they just might have a chance of making it through the night with no issues. It’s 11:49. Assuming Dick just has to make it to midnight to break the loop, then they’re almost there. Just seven more minutes and this nightmare can finally be over.

And maybe he can finally manage to fix this thing that’s broken between him and his son. Maybe that was the whole point all along, the lesson he needed to learn.

Nightwing drops to the ground beside Batman, too-long hair windswept and a grin on his face. “Robin’s kicking some major ass tonight,” he says.

Bruce can’t help it when the corner of his mouth twitches up at the swell of pride in his chest. “He is, isn’t he. And... you weren’t bad out there yourself, Nightwing.”

Dick’s grin widens. “Thanks, B. Robin is zip-tying up the loose ends from that mugging on 5th. He’ll catch up with us in a few. Hey, what do you say after patrol the three of us hit up that 24-hour mart and pick up the good ice cream.” He elbows Bruce’s side, although he barely feels it through the armor. 

“I don’t know… I think we have some of that sugar free vanilla stuff back at home.”

Dick makes a face. “Boo. No way. Someone’s got to introduce Robin to the good stuff, since clearly you’ve been slacking.”

“Hm. Get permission from Penny-One first.”

It’s 11:53. If Dick makes it through the rest of the night, Bruce will buy him all the ice cream in the world, no matter what Alfred has to say about it.

“Deal,” Dick says. “I can do it, too. You think I can’t, but the old man loves me. I can get us the good stuff, just you…” 

He trails off, and Bruce is suddenly on high alert, following Dick’s gaze into the shadows dancing throughout the nearby alleyway. Something shifts in the dark, and Bruce reaches for his belt.

That’s when it all goes wrong.

“Batman, move!” Dick shouts, and then Bruce finds himself being shoved to the ground by a blur of blue and black. He hits the ground hard, thankful for the thick gloves that keep him from grinding gravel deep into his palms.

“Nightwing,” he growls, pushing himself up. “What the hell.”

“Heh,” Dick chuckles weakly. It sounds wrong, quickly morphing into a wheezed out, “Sorry.”

Bruce glares, prepared to start lecturing, when he realizes Dick is swaying on his feet, hand clamped around a dart sticking out of his neck. Scarecrow is lying at his feet, unconscious, but it doesn’t matter how quickly Dick managed to take him down—the damage has already been done.

After that, everything happens incredibly quickly. All the color drains from Dick’s face, his chest starts to heave, and the next thing he knows, Dick’s swaying has turned to stumbling, and then his knees buckle beneath him and he’s dropping like a stone.

“No!” Bruce peels himself up off of the concrete, rushing over to where Dick has dropped to the ground, curled up on his side as he gasps and twitches. “Nightwing. Nightwing, breathe. ”

He rolls him carefully over onto his back. Dick sucks in a horrible-sounding gasp that doesn’t seem to do much of anything. He’s shaking already, tears rolling down his cheeks as his lips start to color blue. 

Jason finally reaches them, takes one look at Dick and shakily blurts out, “I’m going to radio Penny-One. Hang on, Wing.” 

Bruce doesn’t watch him leave, just turns back to where Dick is now weakly writhing on the ground. “ Why, Dick? Why would you do that?”

Why would he take that hit for Bruce? Doesn’t he realize how precious he is? Dick is supposed to live dammit.

“Couldn’t… let…” Dick’s words are cut off by a simultaneous sob and cough, the combination making him choke. He’s shaking, his focus seeming to shift in and out of reality. Bruce snaps his fingers in front of his face to try and keep him present and focused. His mouth moves silently, but Bruce easily recognizes the repeated please, please, please. It grips his heart in a tight fist, squeezing and squeezing until he thinks it might burst.

“You need to breathe, Nightwing,” Bruce commands. “Breathe through it. You’ve done this before. We just have to get you home. The antidote’s waiting, alright?”

“B—” Dick croaks, voice half gasp and half whimper. More tears spill out from under the mask, rolling onto the asphalt. “ Hurts .”

“You’re okay,” Bruce reassures. The words are empty. Fear gas is terrifying. It’s ugly and makes one lose hold of their rationality. But it doesn’t hurt, not physically—at least, it’s not supposed to. It never has before. Dick’s hand is scrabbling at his own chest with his face screwed up in agony. Bruce reaches out to take his pulse. It’s racing, faster than normal even for someone who just got shot up with fear toxin.

There’s something wrong with this formula. The antidote isn’t working. It’s too potent. Normal fear gas induces cardiovascular distress, but not like this.

Dick is going to go into cardiac arrest. He’s going to be scared literally to death.

“Chum, please,” Bruce whispers. “You have to hold on. Just a little longer.” It’s 11:57. He can make it. 

Dick’s mouth moves like he wants to speak again, but no sound comes out other than a shuddering breath. His chest rises once, twice—then falls still. 

Everything in Bruce screams at him to do something. Chest compressions, rescue breaths, call for an AED. Don’t just let Dick die here, like this. But Bruce checks the time. 11:59. Dick didn’t make it through the day, and there’s no way Bruce can get his heart restarted in less than a minute. He’ll just have to settle for yet another redo. 

It doesn’t change how badly it aches to see Dick lying beside him, still and dead with tears drying on his face, but at least he gets another chance. 

“I’m sorry, Dick.” He sighs. “I’ll fix this.” Those three words are starting to taste pretty damn stale in his mouth.

Chapter Text

“Wake up, you big lug! Up and at ‘em!” 

Bruce groans, rolling over to press his face into the pillow. Damn it to hell. He has to do this whole thing again, and take care of Scarecrow this time too.

“You okay, B?” Jason asks. “Hello? Earth to Bruce?”

He lifts his head just enough to speak without tasting pillow. “I’m fine, Jason. Go on down for breakfast. I’ll join you in a minute.”

Jason blinks down at him, a concerned frown on his face. “You sure you’re okay, old man? You didn’t hit your head last night, did you?”

Bruce waves him off. “I’m perfectly fine, Jason. Go eat all the potatoes or something.”

“Alright…” Jason climbs carefully off of the bed. “But I’m telling Alfred you’re acting weird today.”

“I’m weird every day,” Bruce smiles, reaching up to ruffle Jason’s hair. For a moment he can almost picture another dark-haired, blue-eyed boy scrunching up his nose and calling Bruce a weirdo. What used to be a devastating middle school insult will forever be a term of endearment from his two brilliant sons. 

“That’s true,” Jason says with a snort. “Well, hurry up with all your weirdness. You still have to take me to my auditions!”

“Give me five minutes,” Bruce says. Well, maybe ten, but that’s okay. He’ll miss the potatoes but it’s for a rather worthy cause.

One anonymous tip to the GCPD later, Scarecrow is on his way back to Arkham, far far away from Nightwing. There. Now patrol should go much smoother. This time, Dick will make it through the night.

He fucked up.

Everything should have been perfect, and for most of the day, it was. Clark picked up Dick on time, flew him in from Bludhaven without any problems whatsoever. Bruce and Dick had even managed to exchange pleasantries, something warm settling in Bruce’s chest at the sight of his son’s easy smile.

Dick and Jason had been quick to play catchup, although Bruce is ninety percent sure that they saw each other at least a week ago. Jason tells him all about his audition, how he thinks it went really well. Dick fake complains about Jason being a shoo-in for the lead role, lamenting that his baby brother is forcing him to sit through some stuffy old Shakespearian production. Both Alfred and Jason had responded to that comment with glares that—if looks could kill—would have reduced him to a Nightwing-colored pile of goo. No amount of desperate, laughed apologies had been able to save Dick from the subsequent tackling he got from Jason, accompanied by shouts of “Take it back, Dickwad!” that got them both in trouble.

They’d suited up for patrol shortly after, Jason telling Dick all about how his drama teacher Mr. Lieberman had recognized Jason as Dick’s brother and had been convinced that he could do a backflip. Jason can actually do a backflip, but really only as Robin. While Dick Grayson had the excuse of being an acrobat, ex-street kid Jason Todd couldn’t really go around using his Robin training in the school hallways.

“He was so insistent,” Jason had said, waving his arms as he laughed.

“Wait, but why does Hamlet even need to backflip?” 

“I have no idea! Mr. Lieberman is all about the flash instead of the craft. Shakespeare does not need fancy flips to make it interesting.”

Dick had hummed thoughtfully at the idea. “Maybe if it did, I would have been much more interested. Hey, maybe you should do a backflip. You can just tell Mr. Lieberman that I taught you how.”

“I’m not doing a backflip in my school play!”

“Ugh. You’re no fun then.”

It had been such a good evening, even with all the lingering anxiety and fear, even with all the memories of Dick dying and dead. Things were good, and they were looking up. It really looked like Dick was going to be just fine.

But then—

“The Joker escaped Arkham.”

Bruce stares at Commissioner Gordon, who mistakes his plummeting stomach for his usual stoic silence. Fuck, no.

“Shit,” Jason says, and Bruce has neither the energy nor the correct headspace to chide him for his language use.

Gordon sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We got an anonymous tip about Crane’s location earlier today, brought him in with no issues. But somehow Joker used the transfer to his advantage and escaped when the lockdown was lifted to bring Crane in.”

So Bruce may have gotten Scarecrow locked back up where he couldn’t hurt Nightwing, but in doing so he’d released a different, even more dangerous threat into the city. And he’d brought Dick to Gotham, pulled him straight into danger. 

Dick won’t go home, no matter what Bruce tells him. If he tries to convince him to leave, even for his own safety, they’ll only wind up fighting again. And Bruce can’t go through that— Dick’s body on the ground, blood soaking his costume, his hands, the scent filling his nostrils. Jason screaming at him, his whole world crumbling, his fault his fault his fault —ever again.

“Batman,” Dick says, voice quiet and somber as he pulls him aside, having instructed Jason to double check his grapple line. “I know this is kinda shitty luck and you didn’t want Robin around Crane, much less the Joker, but I promise I won’t let anything happen to him tonight. I’ll watch his back the entire time.”

Bruce can only nod, worry lining his throat and making words especially difficult. He can’t help but cast a glance at Dick’s shoulder, where Joker’s bullet had ripped through him years and years ago, nearly taking away everything Bruce had cared about. “Take care of yourself too. Do not be reckless tonight, Nightwing.”

Dick bristles at the brusqueness of his words and Bruce internally braces himself for a debate, but instead he simply sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slow. “You too, B,” he says, a half-fake smile on his face.

He wants to grab Dick’s shoulders and shake him, wants to scream with everything in his chest for Dick to just listen, for once in his life. He wants to grab Dick’s shoulders and pull him in, holding his boy against his chest and tucking his hair beneath his chin. He wants to hold on and never let go. He wants—no, he needs —he needs to keep Dick safe, tonight and every single night going forward. Why can’t Dick just see that every time he gets hurt, every time he suffers, Bruce is living out his worst nightmare? Why can’t Dick just understand that Bruce wants him to be safe? He just wants to stop failing his son over and over, inside and outside of this infernal time loop.

Instead, all he offers Dick is a single sharp nod, an acknowledgement of his words. His throat feels tight, hands twitching in and out of fists at his side. 

Protect Dick. Protect Dick and protect Jason. Stop the Joker. Protect the whole goddamn city. It should be an impossible task. It feels like an impossible task. But Bruce has been trying to do the impossible for years now, and he’s not going to stop tonight, not with so much on the line.

“Let’s go,” Bruce grunts, and sweeps off of the rooftop, Nightwing and Robin following close behind.

Bruce had hoped that the Joker might lay low for a few days. It wouldn’t be unusual for him to take some time to prepare for his next scheme, but of course this loop has to dash every last one of Bruce’s hopes. 

They track the clown to an abandoned toy factory. Bruce takes note of the way Nightwing strategically keeps Jason behind him, always blocking him, always shielding him. On any other occasion, Bruce would be incredibly proud and even thankful that his eldest is watching out for the newer Robin. A part of him still is—he’s always proud, where Dick is concerned. It’s incredible, really, that he’d turned out to be the man he is, despite Bruce’s influence on his childhood. But right now, on this night, it just makes Bruce’s stomach swoop with worry. Dick needs to worry about himself right now. He needs to survive the night. So does Jason, but Jason doesn’t appear to be the loop’s target. It’s Dick who seems to be the only one in real danger, and of course that means that it’s Dick who has to be fiercely determined to protect everyone but himself.

Sometimes, Bruce can’t help but wish that his son was just a hair more selfish.

Beside him, Nightwing sucks in a sharp breath. “I have eyes on the Joker. At least one hostage, a little girl. Around twelve or thirteen years old. He’s got a knife to her throat.”

With no time to waste, Batman, Nightwing, and Robin drop into the factory. Nightwing’s assessment is correct. The girl is small, although no smaller than Dick had been at that age. Her clothes are dirty and there’s a bruise coloring her cheek, but otherwise she looks relatively unharmed—as unharmed as one can be with the Joker holding a knife to their throat. The Joker doesn’t appear shocked by their arrival, instead he lights up in a sick, excited grin. The knife jerks slightly against the girl’s throat, causing her to make a small, frightened noise. Thankfully, the blade doesn’t appear to have broken the skin yet, merely scarring the child.

“Batsy!” Joker cheers, waving with his free hand and bouncing on the balls of his toes. “You made it! And you brought your birds! That’s good. Nightwing, what a pleasant surprise. I was expecting the little one, but the more the merrier of course!”

“Let her go, Joker,” Bruce says, working to keep his voice level and face carefully blank.

The Joker moves the knife to the girl’s cheek, blade pressing close to dimple the skin, even if he hasn’t sliced deep enough for her to bleed. She squeezes her eyes shut tight, trembling in the Joker’s hold.

“Gotham is just so dreary these days,” Joker tuts, moving the blade slightly to make it glint in the yellow industrial light. The girl whimpers. “The children really ought to smile more.”

“Let go of her,” Nightwing growls, shifting into position, escrima sticks at the ready. He keeps Jason carefully behind him, just as he’s done most of the night. 

“Sure,” Joker shrugs, the knife cutting a shallow mark across the girl’s cheek, sloping down towards her mouth. “It’s not as though I can make every child in this city smile individually. That would just take so long. It would be so much better for them to have a role model!” He looks up, grin wide, and his gaze moves past Dick, falling on Jason. “I’ll let her go, if Robin comes up here and lets me put a big ole smile on his grumpy little face.”

“No,” Nightwing bites out immediately. He shifts slightly, trying to block Jason from the Joker’s line of sight. Jason’s fists clench tighter, and Bruce can tell he’s nervous. 

Joker laughs. “Aw, come on Nighty. You know I’m right. This new Robin isn’t nearly as fun as the first one. Don’t you think he should smile more?”

Dick just glares. “You won’t be laying a single hand on Robin.”

“Fine then. Guess I’ll have to do this the hard way then.” Joker turns his attention back on the girl, squeezing her face tightly as she begins to cry. He presses the tip of the knife to her other cheek, ready to slice deep into the skin, give her scars to match his own. 

Bruce prepares to leap into action, batarang at the ready, but he’s cut off by Jason.

“Stop!” Jason cries, taking a staggering step forward. “Don’t— You don’t need to— Don’t hurt her, okay? You can have me.”

“No!” Nightwing tries to block his path, but Jason just glares at him, taking nervous, shaky steps towards the Joker. Dick whips around. “You can have me. Leave them both alone, and take me instead.”

“No, no, no,” Joker singsongs, ignoring Jason’s squawk of protest. “You left Gotham, big bird, left all our fun times to go fly around Bludhaven. You’re irrelevant here.” He grins, voice light and delighted as he traces the flat of the blade in swooping patterns across the girl’s cheeks and mouth. “It’s Robin or her—no other tradesies.”

“Fine,” Jason grits out from between clenched teeth, ignoring Dick and pushing past him when Joker starts to get more insistent with the knife. He raises his hands in surrender, the sight of it sickening Bruce to his core. “You have me. Now let her go.”

The Joker shoves the little girl away from him, towards Batman. She crashes into his legs and his hands wrap around to steady her on instinct, holding her as she shakes and sobs.

“You’re alright,” he murmurs to her, even if his eyes never leave Jason. He rubs hopefully-comforting circles across her back. “You’ll be fine.”

Joker circles Jason slowly, and Bruce waits, tense and angry, for his opening. Joker grabs Jason’s face, squeezing tightly. Jason tries to pull away on instinct, but the Joker’s grip is bruisingly tight, keeping him from moving too much as he twirls playfully with the knife. 

Jason closes his eyes as the knife is lifted, blade pressed against his right cheek. Jason’s smile is naturally lopsided, with a dimple on his right cheek but not on his left. His grin is toothy, and his canines are slightly crooked. They’ve talked about braces, but Jason’s still got a couple straggling twelve-year-old molars to lose before they can do that. His smile is so bright, so beautiful, and the Joker is going to ruin it unless Bruce does something right now.

“No!”

Dick has always been faster than Bruce, even as a child. He was so small back then, and his skills were really in agility and evasion. Bruce had trained him to be even quicker, even lighter on his feet, to never stop moving. He’d only gotten faster in the years since, all lithe muscle and practiced acrobatics. 

Dick has always been faster than Bruce, so he reaches Jason first, leaving Bruce to deal with the girl, helpless while his sons take on the Joker. “Stay,” he commands, moving her to make sure she’s out of the way of the ensuing fight. 

“Get out of here!” he hears Dick shout. 

“No!” comes Jason’s immediate answer. “I’m not leaving you!”

“Robin, get the girl and— Move!”

Bruce turns in time to watch Jason go down, hitting the floor hard and nearly smacking his face against the concrete. He only just manages to catch himself, and Bruce is sure that his wrists will hurt come morning. Bruce rushes forward, frantically surveying Jason for any sign of blood. He must have been stabbed, or slashed, the knife caught him somewhere, deep enough or bad enough to take him down. It’s terrifying, and Bruce can’t think about anything other than his need to get to Jason, to save him. 

“Wha—” Jason is pushing himself up, wincing just slightly. Bruce scans him quickly, then scans him again. There’s no blood, except for a small scratch on the underside of his chin, barely even bleeding. The fight has gone oddly still.

It clicks then. It wasn’t the Joker that took Jason down, it was Nightwing. Dick pushed him or maybe swept his legs—anything to get Jason down and… and out of the line of danger.

Dick is still on his feet, swaying just slightly. His hand is pressed to his throat, mouth hanging open slightly. For a moment, Bruce can’t make sense of what he’s looking at. Then, he spots the red beginning to seep through Dick’s fingers. The blood runs quickly after that, rolling down his arm and dripping to the ground. Dick’s gasp is wet and horrifying.

“Whoops,” Joker laughs. “Guess my hand slipped.” He shrugs, the bloody knife in his hand glinting, cool and casual as Nightwing bleeds. “I was aiming for the little one. Oh well.”

Jason screams, something wordless and angry. Before Bruce can begin to process this newest event, his youngest is tackling the Joker to the ground in a flurry of bright colors and swinging fists. Joker keeps laughing as Jason hits him again and again and again. The sound of fists against skin turn wet, Joker’s laughs growing even more crazed.

Dick whines, dropping unceremoniously to his knees, and Bruce jumps into action. “Robin!” he shouts, even as he runs to Dick’s side. He puts one hand on his back, the other at his chest, holding him upright. “Stop it! Robin!”

Dick chokes, the sound impossibly loud in Bruce’s ringing ears. His mouth moves silently, blood-splattered lips forming Jason’s name.

“Just hang on, Nightwing,” Bruce says, tightening his grip when Dick slumps in his arms. Bruce helps him lay down on the ground, squeezing his shoulders to keep him from writhing. “Robin! Stop! He’s out, you need to stop.”

Jason screams again, but this time it sounds more like a sob. Still, he sits back, half-resting on Joker’s chest. The villain is in fact unconscious, his face bloody, although Bruce can tell that he’s still breathing. The sight is regretful, even if Bruce is eternally glad that Jason didn’t go too far. 

“Robin,” Bruce says, softer this time. He turns his gaze back towards Dick, the sight of him lying bleeding on the ground in front of him all too familiar and all too painful. “Come here. Help me with your brother.”

Dick is gasping, struggling to suck in any modicum of air. The sound is disgustingly wet, blood spilling over his lips as he fights for his life. It won’t work; Bruce knows this. There’s no use, nothing he can really do except try and make Dick comfortable in his final minutes. 

Jason is breathing heavy, his face anguished as he stumbles over towards them. He crashes to his knees, pulling Dick’s head into his lap as he pets through his sweaty hair.
“Why’d you do that?” Jason asks, voice barely there. “Why would you do that?”

Dick can’t answer, and he seems confused, trying to look around to find the source of Jason’s voice. He can’t seem to place it, glazed eyes crossing in his efforts. When he gets no answer, Jason sobs, continuing to frantically stroke through Dick’s hair.

“You gotta hold on, Dickie,” he whispers. “Please. You can’t—You’re my big brother, you can’t leave me.”

Bruce takes Dick’s hand between his own, squeezing gently. Dick’s gaze drifts towards him at the motion and he struggles to hold it there. His brave, stubborn boy, holding on as long as he can, even when he’s scared and confused and in pain. Bruce raises his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm.

“I love you,” he rasps. “I love you, son. You’ve been so strong. So brave. You can sleep now. It’s okay. You can—you can sleep now.”

Jason sobs again, shaking his head in denial. He hunches over Dick, pressing his forehead to Dick’s.

Dick stares at Bruce, forcing his gaze back on Bruce every time he drifts slightly away. There are tears on his cheeks, soaked through the mask. 

“You can let go,” Bruce murmurs, stroking a thumb across his knuckles. “It’s okay. You’ve been so brave for so long, but you can sleep now. Let go, chum. It’s okay to let go.”

Dick’s gaze slides away once more, now locked on the ceiling high above them. Bruce wishes he could see the sky, even if Gotham smog would be obscuring the stars. Dick was always meant for open air, a Flying Grayson from head to toe, deep down in his soul.

Mary and John must hate Bruce for what he’s done to their son. He hates himself enough for all three of them.

“Dick, please,” Jason breathes. “Please, please don’t leave. You can’t do this. Why did you do this?”

Dick doesn’t answer, just stares at the sky.

Chapter Text

“Batman!” Jason screams at him. “Wake up and do something! ” 

Bruce watches, feeling oddly numb, as Robin attempts to haul Nightwing over to him. He has his arms hooked under Dick’s armpits, Dick’s heels dragging against the ground as he slumps, waterlogged dead weight in Jason’s hold. His youngest is struggling; Dick is taller than him, even if Jason is quickly catching up to his acrobat genes, and even heavier than usual with the weight of his wet costume. It doesn’t help that he’s completely limp half against Jason’s chest, half dragging on the ground. Bruce doesn’t even need to get any closer to know that his lips are blue and his chest is still.

“Please,” Jason cries. “He’s dying!” His voice cracks, the sound so sharp it grates in Bruce’s ears. The sound is almost enough to rouse Bruce out of his stupor, but not quite. Instead he sinks back into his own exhausted dread until it fades to a dull roar that’s so much easier for him to handle.

Jason stumbles under the weight of Dick’s body, and he barely manages to catch him before he hits the ground. He drops to one knee, grunting with the effort it takes to lay Dick out on the ground. 

“Nightwing, c’mon,” Jason urges, looking down at his brother. “Wake up.” He lightly slaps his cheeks, but Dick’s head just loles slightly to the side. Bruce was right about the blue lips. Jason looks up, catching Bruce’s gaze. “What the hell are you doing just standing there? Help me! You have to— You have to help him!”

Bruce forces himself to move, one foot in front of the other. His feet feel weighted down—has the armor gotten heavier in the most recent loops? It feels like it. Everything just feels so heavy, even the air around him. It’s almost thick, like wading through peanut butter or jello, like he’s trying to run in a dream but just can’t get his limbs to move faster.

He drops down beside Dick and Jason. His boys. Bruce loves them both so much.

He’s so tired.

He reaches out, brushing his fingers through Dick’s hair. Dick likes that, right? That’s a good way to comfort him, if he remembers correctly. Dick likes physical affection more than Jason does, even if Jason doesn’t shy away from it as much now as he used to. Bruce figures that was at least partially Dick’s doing, unable to stand having a baby brother who would reject even casual physical affection. The Graysons were physical, back before everything. They had to be, given the nature of their jobs. John was a hugger, and Mary a kisser. Bruce had been neither—is still neither—but he’d tried to learn, for Dick. 

Oh how he misses those days, when Dick was small. The semi-rare happy days, when there were no supervillains on the loose and grief wasn’t heavy in the air for either of them. When Dick would run and jump onto his back, cling with skinny little arms, and Bruce could feel the curve of his smiling cheek pressed against his neck. When Dick’s laughter echoed throughout the Manor and the cave. When he was small and happy and should have been Bruce’s whole entire world. 

Sometimes he thinks he should have hung up the cowl when Dick first came into his life. Ultimately, he’d decided that he couldn’t abandon Gotham like that, but god was it tempting sometimes. Things could have been so different—no more Batman, no Robin at all, just Bruce and Dick, a normal father and son. He could have adopted more children, when Dick inevitably started begging for little siblings. Dick would have been happy. They both would have been happy. 

Bruce isn’t meant for happiness, but Dick could have been, if things had gone differently. At the very least, they wouldn’t be here right now. With Dick dead, for the eighth time in eight different Saturdays. 

Bruce’s gloved fingers catch on a few tangles caused by the dirty water of Gotham harbor. He gently works them out, the same way he did that one time when Dick caught the flu and had been too weak to shampoo his own hair in the bath. Bruce had massaged his scalp as he washed it back then. He would do the same now, but there would be no real sense in it, given that Dick is currently dead. Although, he supposes that he can’t really know for sure, but he does have to imagine that Dick is completely lost to the numbness and stillness of death.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jason screams again. Bruce barely hears him. “What’s wrong with you?! Stop it, B! Snap out of it!”

With his face slack in unconsciousness, Dick looks so much younger. His long eyelashes cast the same shadows against his cheeks, making him look almost like the child he still often is in Bruce’s mind and memories. Bruce thinks about those times when Dick used to fall asleep in the Cave or on the couch, and Bruce would have to carry him to bed, taking the stairs slow to ensure he wouldn’t wake the boy. He looks almost the same right now, even if he smells a bit like Gotham pollution.

Better the water than the Joker. Bruce just hopes he wasn’t too scared.

“Fucking get out of my way then,” Jason snarls, shoving halfheartedly at Bruce’s chest. He merely shifts slightly, keeping up his steady detangling of Dick’s hair.

Jason starts CPR when Bruce fails to, pushing down hard on Dick’s chest rhythmically. He counts each compressed under his breath, then shoves Bruce’s hands out of the way when he goes to do rescue breaths. Bruce lets him work, doesn’t have the energy to tug his youngest away. 

It’s only once he hears the crack in Dick’s chest that he decides he needs to put a stop to this. Jason is sobbing now, begging Dick to wake up. Just like he always does. Dick hasn’t woken up for him in any of the past seven times, and Bruce assumes this round will be no different.

“Robin,” Bruce says softly. At least, he thinks he says Robin. He might have said Jason’s real name instead, or maybe even Dick’s. There’s no way to be sure. It’s hard to hear his own voice. “Robin, come on. Stop it. You need to stop now. Robin.”

“Why are you giving up?” Jason howls. “Why didn’t you do anything?! He’s your son!”

Bruce hums in agreement. Dick’s hair is nearly done being untangled. He means to say something about how it’s okay, how Dick will wake up again tomorrow and Bruce will try again to save him. He means to reassure Jason, even if his words sound a bit crazy, but none of that is what comes out. Instead, the only thing he says is, “I’m tired, Jay. I’m so tired.”

“I don’t care how tired you are! He’s your son! Your son is dying!”

Bruce nods, although he doesn’t really feel the motion. “I know. He’s dead, Jay. He’s dead.” He says it like the fact it is. The sky is blue, the sun is hot, and Dick is dead once again.

“So why are you just sitting there?” Jason breathes. “Why didn’t you help me? Why didn’t you help him?”

“I’m tired,” Bruce says, like that explains everything. Tomorrow-today will be a new today. Tomorrow-today he can try again. But for tonight-today, he’s just too tired. There is no sense in doing CPR, in begging for Dick to wake up. The moment that goon kicked Dick into harbor, he’d known that tonight’s fight was over. There was no point, and Bruce is just so tired.

“You heartless bastard,” Jason hisses. “Who even are you?”

Bruce doesn’t hear the rest of his rant, too busy watching Dick’s still face. 

“Sleep well, Dickie. I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

“Wake up, you big lug! Up and at ‘em!” 

“Good morning, Jason,” Bruce murmurs. He smiles at the sound of his son’s happy voice, even when the weight of his exhaustions weighs heavy on his chest. It feels like Jason is sitting on him, a physical weight holding him down, although he knows it’s all in his head. He can still feel Jason bouncing on the other side of the mattress. He seems so much younger like this, as opposed to performing CPR on his big brother and screaming at Bruce to help.

Sometimes it’s so painfully evident that both of Bruce’s kids grew up far too fast.

With a heavy sigh, Bruce pushes himself upright, scrubbing a hand over his face. He needs to get moving—he can’t have a repeat of yesterday. Or, the last loop, not really yesterday. He can’t give up, not when Dick’s life depends on it. 

He just… wishes he weren’t so exhausted, so, so tired of feeling this helpless, of watching the life slowly bleed out of his son again and again. 

He’s exhausted, but he’s also Batman, and if there’s one thing that Batman knows how to do, it’s push on in the face of hopelessness. And there’s nothing that motivates him quite like his children. Like Dick, who saved him from the darkness all those years ago, made him care again, made him love. Like Jason, who makes him smile, who helps him breathe, every single day.

“Go eat breakfast,” he says, sitting up and tugging Jason over to him to press a kiss to the top of his head. Jason squirms away, but he’s grinning. “I’m gonna call Dick and invite him over tonight.”

“Really?” Jason says, head cocked slightly to the side. He looks excited at the prospect of Dick coming to visit, but confused. It’s understandable. He squints at Bruce suddenly. “You feeling okay? You didn’t hit your head or anything, did you?”

“I’m fine,” Bruce says. “I just figure it’s been a while and I could probably use his help in the field tonight.”

“Wow,” Jason says, grinning wide. “Awesome. Oh! I can’t wait to tell him all about my audition.”

“I’m sure he’ll want to hear all about it,” Bruce promises. He knows it for sure, after all.

“Okay, then. Hurry your butt up,” Jason shouts as he races out of the room, “or I’m eating all the—”

“Potatoes,” Bruce mumbles to himself. “Yes, I know.” 

He allows himself a moment to just bury his face in his hands and breathe. It’s hard, so hard, to face another day of the same. Reaching over to pick up his phone and dial Dick’s number feels more exhausting than a seventeen hour stake out.

“Hey, Dick,” he says softly, working hard to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Do you think you could come to Gotham tonight? Uncle Clark will pick you up. I know how much you love to fly.”

He doesn’t like having outsiders in Gotham (But not Dick. He’s not an outsider. This is his home, whenever he wants it to be.), much less alien or metahuman outsiders, but it feels like it’s about time to call in the big guns, and the guns just don’t get much bigger than Superman.

“Watch out for Dick, okay?” he says, voice hushed as he corners Clark in the Cave. Dick and Jason are upstairs, still chatting about Mr. Lieberman and Jason’s audition. 

“I mean, of course,” Clark says, slightly bewildered. “You know I’d never let anything happen to either of your boys.”

“I mean it, Clark. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

“Just Dick? What about Jason?”

“I’ll watch Jason. And that’s not the point. Your job is to watch Dick. Do not get distracted,” he growls.

“Bruce, what the hell is going on?”

He sighs, glancing around to make sure that they’re still alone. “I have reason to believe that there will be an attempt on Dick’s life sometime tonight.”

Clark sobers up immediately. “So bench him. Why on earth would you bring him out tonight if he’s in that much danger?”

“Because he won’t listen to me! Believe me, Clark, I have tried, time and time again to get him to sit back and stay safe and it never works. It’s just not who he is. He’s too stubbornly good, and even if I wish he would be even a hair more selfish, he doesn’t care what I think. It’s just not in his blood.”

“Okay,” Clark says. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’ll watch out for him, Bruce. I swear. I won’t let anything happen to him.”

And in that moment, Clark doesn’t look like Superman anymore. He looks like a concerned uncle, the same person who has always cared for Dick almost as though he was his own. The same person who used to come over to the Manor on weekends and let Dick swing on his arms and climb on his back, who would take him flying and help Dick connect to his roots in a way Bruce never could. The same person who was there for Dick when Bruce failed him, who never stopped showing Dick just how much he cared about him. 

For the first time since this whole time loop started, he feels almost confident that they can make it through the night. Clark loves Dick just as much as Bruce does; he won’t let anything happen to him.

“I know,” Bruce says sincerely. “Thank you, Clark.”

“Of course, Bruce. You know I’d do anything for Dick.”

“Robin!” Bruce shouts, watching Jason disappear over the side of the building. 

The goon who’d kicked him off the roof goes down quick and easy, courtesy of Superman appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Before Bruce can so much as blink, Clark is a blur of red and blue diving after Jason. 

Of course that’s when the shot rings out, and Nightwing goes down in an instant. 

“No,” Bruce breathes. “Not again.” It was supposed to be different this time. He’d called for help, damnit. He’d called in fucking Superman of all people and it still wasn’t enough?

Dick is still alive, gasping on the ground as his lungs fill up with blood, the hole in his chest quickly staining the roof red. Bruce kneels down beside him, grabbing his twitching and flailing hand when it hits his knee.

“You’re okay, Dick,” he murmurs, even though they both must know he doesn’t mean it. He can’t mean it. Dick is dying. Again.

“B—” Dick splutters. Blood paints his lips.

“I know, chum,” Bruce says, squeezing his hand. “I know it hurts. I’m so sorry.”

“Jay—”

“Hey,” he brushes his hand through Dick’s hair. “Don’t worry. Robin’s fine. Superman went after him. Don’t worry about that, okay?”

Dick nods, gritting his teeth and groaning in pain at the movement. Bruce doesn’t bother to press down on the wound; it would only prolong Dick’s suffering to try and keep him alive now. All he wants, at this point, is to spare Dick as much pain as possible.

“Sleep, kiddo,” he whispers, cupping Dick’s cheek. 

Dick stares up at him, confused. His eyelids flutter, gaze sliding in and out of focus. 

“Just go to sleep, son. I’ll see you when you wake up. I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

Clark appears back on the roof, Jason in his arms. The moment he lands, Jason is wriggling like a disgruntled cat, struggling to get back on his own two feet. Clark lets him go, and Jason runs on shaky legs over to Dick.

“No,” Clark breathes, eyes wide and locked on Dick. “I— No. ” He looks so devastated, but suddenly Bruce just doesn't care. This is his son, dead. And Clark was supposed to be watching out for him. That was his one job, and he'd failed.

Bruce grits his teeth and squares his jaw. “You were supposed to be watching out for Dick!” he growls, pushing to his feet and marching over to Clark. He ignores the sharp pang in his chest at the pitiful sound that Dick makes when he lets go of his hand. “You left him! This is your fault.” He jabs a finger into Clark’s impenetrable chest, uncaring for the way his expression crumbled.

“What did you want me to do, Bruce? Let Jason fall? Let him die? I was trying to—”

“I told you to watch Dick’s back,” Bruce says between clenched teeth. Now he has to do this all over again. “I told you to watch his back! That’s all you had to do!”

“I—I was saving Jason,” Clark says, voice softer now. “I thought I was doing what was right.”

Bruce opens his mouth to reply, but he catches sight of Jason, staring up at their fight from where he’s still kneeling beside Dick. Oh god, he suddenly realizes what it must sound like, as though Bruce thinks Dick matters more than Jason. He doesn’t. They are exactly equal in his heart, neither of them above the other, both of them above everyone else in the world. Even now, when Dick is the one who’s really in danger. Bruce had still been terrified to see him go off the roof.

But Jason has always had some insecurities about his place, and as much as Jason loves Dick as a big brother, Bruce knows he sometimes feels like he’s trying to fill pixie boots that are far too big. 

“I know,” Bruce says, anger dissolving. “I know. I— Thank you, Superman. For saving Robin. I know you did what you could.”

“Do you want my help?” Clark asks softly, voice devastated. “Bringing him home, I mean?”

Bruce sighs. They’ll have to take him back to the Cave, once again. Bruce will have to watch Alfred mourn their boy once more. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Of course,” Clark whispers. “It’s—it’s the least I could do. I’m so sorry, Batman.”

Bruce just nods and watches as Clark rushes over to join Jason at Dick’s side. The two of them hold his hands, feel for his nonexistent pulse. Clark stoops to hold Dick’s lifeless hand to his forehead, tears falling down his cheeks. On his other side, Jason stares at nothing, jaw slack and face empty in his stunned grief.

Bruce is just so tired.

He tries again, and this time benches Jason. 

Maybe he should have told them what was happening, why he wanted to keep Dick where he could see him for the entirety of the night, why he needed to focus on Dick and know that Jason was safe at home all the while. Maybe he should have told them, but he just can’t stomach it. He feels crazy enough as it is, without their disbelieving, concerned looks. And he’s seen too much tragedy over the past eight Saturdays; he won’t subject Jason and Alfred to that.

Maybe he should have told them, and maybe he should have remembered that Jason is Robin, and if Bruce knows one thing for sure, Robin isn’t good at being benched. Especially not without a good explanation. 

Jason sneaks out. Dick takes a hit for him.

Dick bleeds out on the ground while Jason apologizes over and over, that same familiar devastation written all over his face. 

Bruce doesn’t know how much longer he can do this.

Bruce wakes up again, and somehow manages to resist the overwhelming urge to burrow back under the covers and stay there all day long. He manages somehow, numb and robotic.

He calls Clark again. Dick comes to Gotham again, they patrol again, they avoid Crane again. Joker stays locked away in Arkham. Dick keeps dry, stays far away from the harbor. He benches Jason again, this time crouching down in front of his pouting and seething son to explain.

“Someone’s trying to kill Nightwing,” he says, watching Jason’s angry eyes go wide as saucers. “I can’t keep an eye on both of you in the field, kiddo, so I need you to stay here. Just for tonight.”

“Why don’t you just bench Dick then?” Bruce just raises an eyebrow and Jason’s expression turns slightly sheepish. “Right,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Forgot who we were talking about. You better watch out for him, okay B? I’ll be listening on comms; if you mess up, I’m coming out, no matter what.”

“I’ll keep him safe,” Bruce promises, pressing a kiss to the top of Jason’s head, and that’s that.

Except, it’s not, and it doesn’t make sense. He should be learning, getting closer each time. He watches Dick like a hawk, keeps them out of the more dangerous parts of town, comes up with excuses when Dick gets too suspicious.

It’s a good patrol, actually. He and Dick work well together, falling back into old patterns the way Bruce knew they would. It had surprised him a bit last time, how well they could still work together, but now he knows better. They can work together, even if it isn’t always easy, and sometimes Bruce wants nothing more than to scream and fight and wrap Dick up in layer after layer of bubble wrap.

It’s a good patrol, like it so often is, until it isn’t.

He doesn't even know who’s responsible really, just that there are more than thirty guys, and at least two bombs. They learn about the bombs the hard way, when the first one detonated and Bruce was tackling Dick to the ground.

As the dust settles and the ringing in his ears begins to clear, Bruce becomes aware of a sharp finger jabbing at the meat of his shoulder.

“B,” Dick coughs, “g’off. You’re crushing me.”

Bruce grunts, rolling sideways so he’s no longer pinning Dick to the floor. He sits up carefully. There’s pain, sure, but it could be worse, given the fact that they were just in an explosion. The armor took the brunt of the explosion, leaving him with bruised ribs and a throbbing skull, but otherwise relatively unharmed.

“Are you alright?” he asks Dick, helping him sit up.

“Yeah,” Dick wheezes. “Just got the wind knocked out of me. And whose fault is that?”

Bruce can hear the cheeky grin in his voice, but it’s surprisingly hard to see. The once brightly-lit warehouse, glowing with aggressive yellow fluorescents is now dark. He blinks, waiting for his eyes to adjust to his new surroundings. 

“Shit,” Dick says, climbing shakily to his feet. “Warehouse went down. Shit.”

“What’s wrong?” Bruce asks, rising to follow him. It’s getting a bit easier to see. There’s a bit of light coming from somewhere to his left, something Dick has clearly latched onto as well. 

It’s red and slightly flickering. Dick stares down at it, the red distorting the shadows on his face. “Shit,” Dick says again.

It clicks as soon as he reaches Dick’s side. “Shit,” Bruce murmurs in agreement, staring down at the second bomb. It’s counting down, the red numbers burning his eyes. Four minutes left.

“Nightwing to Cave,” Dick says, finger held up his comm. “Nightwing to Cave, can you read me? Hello?” He frowns, face pinched. “Shit. Comms are down.”

Of course they are. The inevitability of what’s going to happen soon settles heavy over Bruce like a weighted blanket.

“Can you disarm it?” he asks Dick.

Dick shakes his head. “Not in less than four minutes. Can you?”

Bruce studies it carefully, even though he knows deep down what the answer was always going to be. “No. Not fast enough, at least.”

“Do you see a way out?” Dick asks, looking around. There’s nothing but darkness around them. Honestly, it’s impressive that the first bomb caught them in this little pocket of air and didn’t bring the roof down on their heads.

“I don’t think we’re getting out of this one, chum.”

“Shit,” Dick whispers, and then he’s dropping to the floor, unceremonious but somehow with more grace than Bruce could ever hope to achieve. He buries his face in hands. “Shit, shit, shit. ”

Bruce settles down beside him. “I suppose I’ll excuse the language just this once.”

“I’m an adult now, B,” Dick says, voice halfway to hysterical. “I can say shit.”

“Hm,” Bruce frowns, leaning sideways to bump his shoulder against Dick’s. “I think part of me will always see you as eight years old.” Dick tips his head, resting it on Bruce’s shoulder. “But the other part of me is astounded at the man you’ve grown up to be.”

“You mean that?” Dick whispers.

“Of course.” He turns his head, pressing his forehead to Dick’s. “I’m so sorry for making you feel like I’m not infinitely proud of you. I know I’ve said things—”

“So did I,” Dick argues. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Bruce says. “I’m the adult. I’m supposed to be the parent, no matter how much you screamed at me. I never stopped loving you, not ever. I should have done a better job of showing you that.”

Dick laughs, the sound watery and tearful. “We made a real mess, huh.”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce whispers. He cups the back of Dick’s head tighter, presses their foreheads even closer together. He doesn’t even know what he’s apologizing for anymore: for their fights, for making Dick feel unwanted, for not being able to disarm the bomb, for not figuring out how to stop the loop. Maybe it’s everything, all rolled up into one vastly inadequate little word.

“It’s not your fault, B.” Dick tries for a smile, but there’s something broken there. Dick doesn’t want to die. Bruce doesn’t want him too either, even if he will wake up again.

Maybe. Who knows what will happen with the loop if Bruce dies too. This could be the end, one Bruce hadn’t anticipated. A heavy pang of regret hits him at the thought of leaving Jason and Alfred behind, but at least he’s here this time. At least this time Dick won’t have to die alone. 

“I love you,” he says. “I know I haven’t been the best guardian, especially these past couple years, and I will forever regret that, but I have always loved you. And I’ve always been so, so proud of you.”

The noise Dick makes could be a laugh, or it could be a sob. Bruce doesn’t open his eyes to check. “You weren’t all bad, okay? I had a good childhood, all things considered. A weird one, but… but it was good, okay? I didn’t think I’d get to have that ever again after my parents—I didn’t think I’d ever get to be happy again. You gave me that happiness back.”

“Dick…”

“You did,” Dick insists. “You saved me. You— I love you too, Bruce. I never stopped, even on our worst days. I don't think it's possible. You’re my dad.”

Throat painfully tight, Bruce glances at the timer on the bomb. Less than two minutes left. 

“Don’t look, chum,” he chokes out, tucking Dick’s face against his shoulder. “Don’t watch. I’ve got you. I've got you, son.”

Dick’s head rests heavy against his chest, nose pressed against the armor. Bruce cups the back of his head gently, pressing his own forehead to the top of Dick’s head. He doesn’t know this time if he’ll get to see Dick again, if he’ll get another day to try and save him. He’s been selfish thus far, taking the additional chances for granted. 

At least this time he doesn’t have to watch his son die. At least this time he gets to be with him in his final moments. He’s about to die and somehow he doesn’t feel nearly as useless as he has for the past ten loops. He’s doing what he’s supposed to do: holding his child when he’s afraid.

“I love you,” Dick whispers again. 

“I love you too…” Bruce trails off, a sudden movement at the corner of his vision catching his attention. He tilts his head, squinting in the dim light. 

A man watches them, expression cold and blank. He looks painfully normal, a civilian in every way except for the intricate glowing amulet hanging around his neck. Bruce hates magic, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t recognize it when he sees it.

Bruce opens his mouth to speak, but before he can demand an explanation from him, the man disappears in a ripple of the air, as though he’d never been there at all. But Bruce is pretty good at knowing when to trust his eyes and when to question them, and he’s almost certain that the man was real.

A spark of something—maybe it’s hope—lights up in his chest. It’s a lead. Not much, but it’s something. Bruce has certainly worked from less. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel quite so helplessly exhausted anymore.

Ironic, given the countdown he’s watching above Dick’s head. He finally feels alive again, and he’ll only get to enjoy it for sixteen more seconds.

“I love you,” he says again. “I’ve got you. I love you so much. I—”

He holds Dick close as the world explodes around them and everything else is ripped away.

Chapter Text

“What the hell is going on, Bruce?” Dick asks, voice low, dangerous and angry. “You can’t just keep me locked up here.”

Bruce ignores him, continuing to triple check that the Cave has been properly locked down. No one is getting in or out—not Dick, not Jason or Alfred, not even Superman, who’d just dropped Dick off for the night.

“I’d like to know as well,” Jason tacks on. He’s sitting next to Bruce in the computer chair, arms folded across his chest as he spins slightly back and forth. His little scowl is very reminiscent of Dick’s, the picture of a boy trying to emulate his big brother. Bruce sighs. He’d hoped that the boys wouldn’t team up against him, but really he should have known better. He’s forgotten, a bit, what his kids act like when one of them isn’t fighting for their life. 

Bruce works his jaw back and forth, trying to think. 

“Master Bruce,” Alfred cuts into his thoughts, his voice stern. “Whatever is going on, surely we have a right to know. Clearly, it is affecting us as well as you if you have deemed it necessary to lock us up in this cave.”

Bruce sighs, pressing the palms of his clenched fists to his eyes. It’s hard to breathe, to think. He’s having a hard time remembering how many times he’s seen Dick die. Nine? Ten? Twenty? It really could be twenty, could be even more. They were all starting to blur together. They all ended in bloodless lips and too-pale skin.

“I’ve encountered some sort of… temporal anomaly,” he says slowly, dropping his hands. His family watches him carefully, interests piqued. Jason leans forward in his chair; he almost looks excited. The thought makes Bruce’s stomach twist.

“What does that mean exactly?” Dick asks, thankfully beginning to look less angry and more concerned, if a bit skeptical.

“This is the… I think the eleventh Saturday in a row that I’ve been forced to live through.”

“You’re stuck in a time loop?” Jason asks. “Cool.”

“It is not cool,” Bruce can’t help but snarl, even angrier at himself when he sees the way Jason jerks back in response. He takes a deep breath to calm himself down. It’s been getting harder and harder lately to not lose his head. “It’s not cool, because every time, the day ends the same way. Every time,” he looks up, finally seeking out his oldest son, “Dick dies.”

Everyone in the room goes still, the blood draining from Jason and Alfred’s faces. Dick is unreadable. Bruce wishes he would say something, do something, but he just watches, arms folded and face carefully blank.

“I can’t stop it,” he whispers, voice cracking. His hands feel like they’re shaking. “No matter what I do. I can’t save you and it’s killing me.” 

Dick stares back, stoic and blank. Bruce wishes he weren’t wearing his mask, wishes even more that he still knew how to read his son the way he used to be able to, back when Dick was shorter than Jason and sliding down the bannister. 

“Well,” he says finally. “You can’t save everyone, B. You know that.”

It shouldn’t make him angry—it’s Dick who’s getting hurt, Dick who keeps dying—but he can’t stand how cavalier Dick sounds about something as important as his own life. How dare anyone act as though his son’s life isn’t one of the most important things in the whole world?

“This isn’t ‘everyone,’ Dick. It’s not just anyone. It’s you. And I can’t keep losing you. I just can’t.”

“I’m an adult now, Bruce. My own person. I make my own choices. I’m not another one of your mistakes that you can spend all your time agonizing over, so you can stop now. You don’t have to worry about me anymore. I can take care of myself.”

“I always worry about you, chum. Every moment of every day.”

That gets a reaction, although it's not the one Bruce had hoped for. “You threw me out, Bruce,” Dick snarls. “You told me to get out and never come back and then you replaced me. How long did it take you to adopt Jason, huh? One month? Two? You don’t get to pretend like you still care about me, Bruce. Not after everything.”

Bruce stares, chest aching. “Of course I— Did you want me to adopt you?” 

He didn’t know. He hadn’t known. He’d never— Dick is his son, but not… not legally. He’d thought it hadn’t mattered to Dick, that he knew he was Bruce’s even after he turned eighteen. If he had known, there would have been no hesitation on his part. Even at the peak of their fighting, Bruce would have signed the papers in an instant.

“Of course I did!” Dick shouts. “You were my dad. You meant everything to me! All I ever wanted was to make you proud, but I was never good enough for you—”

“Of course you were good enough!” How can Dick even say that? “You’ve always been good enough!” Better than good enough.

He scoffs. “Oh please, Bruce. You never had a problem finding something to criticize.”

Not this again. “I just wanted to keep you safe,” Bruce growls. “This line of work is dangerous—”

“I know it is! I’ve been doing it for nine years, Bruce. You should have told me before, that this was happening. Maybe if you’d just trusted me for once and told me this was happening, I could have stopped it! I can save myself, Bruce.” He smiles suddenly, the expression painfully wry and twisted. “I’ve had to get pretty good at it.”

“Dick…”

“Enough, Bruce. I know you don’t trust me. Whatever. Thanks for finally saying something, I guess. I’ll do my best not to die.”

Please. That’s all Bruce wants. He doesn’t even care how pissed off Dick wants to be at him. He can be angry for the rest of his life so long as he’s alive and well. 

“Fine,” Bruce says with a sharp nod. “But no one’s leaving this cave.”

“Fine,” Dick agrees, voice rough. 

An uncomfortable silence settles over the Cave. Jason has gone pale, clenching his fists and avoiding everyone’s gaze. Alfred looks back and forth between them all, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know where to start. He and Dick have some sort of silent conversation before Alfred hurries over to Jason, trying to comfort the younger boy.

Dick stands awkwardly for a moment, waging a silent war with himself. Eventually something must give, because he’s walking over to Bruce, bouncing on his toes the way he does when he’s anxious or nervous.

“I’m sorry,” Dick says, sighing heavily. “This is just a lot to process, you know? I shouldn’t have snapped. It was just so much easier to fight with you then to... admit to myself that this is something that's actually happening.”

“It’s okay,” Bruce replies immediately. It doesn’t really matter. It’s not like he hasn’t done his fair share of unnecessary snapping at Dick. He’s the adult; he’s not supposed to drive his son away. He’s not supposed to start arguments that get him killed. He twists his hands in his lap, trying to stop hearing the sound of Dick’s body hitting the ground.

"It's not. I really am sorry, Bruce. This really has you messed up, huh?” Dick plops down beside him. Their knees bump, and the casual, comfortable contact is almost too much for him to handle. It's too reminiscent of simpler times, when they both thought they were invincible. 

Sometimes it curdles his blood, thinking about how young Dick was when he started as Robin, how young he was when Bruce let him go out as Robin. But sometimes he just misses those times desperately. 

Maybe he just misses his little boy.

Bruce shakes his head. The sound that escapes him is an embarrassingly broken chuckle. He reaches out and takes Dick’s hands in his, ignoring the startled look on Dicks face and pausing to marvel and the warmth and life that still thrums through them now. 

“I thought you were dead,” he says, thinking of that night in the diner. It seems so distant now. “I—I had to ID your body. Never in my life, Dick, have I felt so… hopeless. It was devastating, and reminded me how much time I missed with you by being a shit father.” He squeezes Dick’s hands, looking away from the naked concern and confusion on Dick’s face. 

“B—“

“And then I woke up. I woke up and you were alive and I thought it was just a bad dream. But then I got a call that you were dead, again. And it just kept happening. It’s my fault and I—I can’t seem to save you.” He looks up, looks his son in the eye. “But damn if I’m not going to keep trying. I’m never giving up on you, chum.”

Dick blinks, startled. “It’s been a while,” he says, grin lopsided and eyes sad, “since you’ve called me that.”

“It’s been a while since I called you at all,” Bruce admits. “And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, son. I never should have let it come to this.”

“I’m sorry too,” Dick says. “Because you’re probably going to have to repeat this conversation. I don’t think I’m going to be remembering it.”

“Wha—”

Dick nods at something over his shoulder and Bruce whips around, both of them rising to their feet. Standing across the Cave, his hand wrapped around a familiar amulet, is the man from the warehouse, the same person Bruce saw just before the explosion killed both him and Dick. 

“Batman,” he says, voice cold . “You think he’s safe here, locked up in your fancy cave? I will make sure that you always lose.”

“How did you even get in here?” Dick asks. He’s pulling out his escrima sticks, falling easily into a fighting stance.

The man barely spares him a glance, lifting a hand to clutch at the amulet around his neck. In an instant, the air beside him ripples and opens up, several black-clad assassins are suddenly stepping into the cave, each of them wielding multiple blades.

“They’ve killed him before you know,” the man with the amulet says. “When you called and had him stay in his apartment all night. Remember that one, Batman? You really thought you’d made it that time, but of course you were too slow.”

Blood splattering the walls, soaking the carpet, staining Bruce’s pants as he kneels beside his son. Dick deadweight and pale, more blood decorating his living room than resting in his veins.  

It had been gruesome, horrific. Just the thought of it makes Bruce sick, remembering the suffocating scent of blood, how it had dried on his skin and he swore it had lingered there, even after the timeline reset. 

How long has this psychopath been watching them?

Bruce steps in front of Dick, doing his best to block him from danger, but there are nearly a dozen assassins circling them, and Bruce has the feeling that if need be, their mystery man can summon quite a few more. Anything he needs to do so Dick winds up dead before the night is over.

“Leave,” he growls, heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"I wish it hadn't come to this," the man says. "It's so much better when I don't have to intervene. But if this is what I have to do, then so be it." He nods sharply, once, and Bruce knows instinctively that things are about to go downhill very, very quickly.

He has never felt more helpless.

One of the assassins whips a knife out of nowhere, and before Bruce can even blink, it’s slicing through the air with deadly precision. He moves as quickly as he can, hoping to block Dick from harm, although it feels a bit like he’s moving through jello. But the blade sails past them both, hitting something behind and to the right of both Bruce and Dick.

Alfred— Alfred —falls with a strangled sound, something Bruce has never heard come from him and never wants to again. He barely feels the rush of relief when Alfred moves, clutching at the bloody gash in his side.

“Robin, get him to medical!” Bruce bellows, lurching into action. Rage thrums in his veins. These men are here just to hurt his family. They’ve already hurt his family. 

Unacceptable.

Looking pale, Jason scurries over to Alfred, helping him shakily up off of the ground and hooking his arm over his shoulders. They stagger off, each throwing concerned glances back over their shoulders. 

Dick is holding his own against the assassins, practically a black and blue blur twisting through space and taking down assassins left and right. But Bruce doesn’t get the chance to watch him for very long before he’s encountering his own small swarm of attackers. They’re silent as they fight, and Bruce can’t see their faces to know if they’re even human. He manages to knock a few out and they do stay down, but the lack of any sort of other reaction is eerie and concerning. 

“Stop this,” Bruce grunts, spinning away from the blade swinging towards his side. The man with the amulet is just standing there, observing casually as if he were watching the evening news.

“No,” he says. “This is what you need. This is what you deserve.” And what does that even mean?

Bruce doesn’t get the chance to respond before one of the assassins manages to sweep Dick’s legs, knocking him flat on his back, and Bruce knows it’s over. Two more hold him down as Dick thrashes, trying to buck them off or twist out of their grip. One kneels on his chest, driving their sword down and straight through Dick’s shoulder, pinning him to the floor. Dick lets out a strangled scream, head tossed back and jaw tight with pain.

“Nightwing!” Bruce can’t help but shout, trying to tear his way over to his oldest son. He’s intercepted by two more assassins blocking his path but not fully obstructing his view. He can still catch flashes of blades and blood as his son struggles. Dick never stops fighting, but there’s not much he can do when he’s pinned with a sword through his shoulder.

“No!” he hears Jason cry, and suddenly Robin is diving headfirst back into the battle. “Nightwing! Hold on!”

Jason is putting every last bit of his training to good use, including a few moves Bruce knows for a fact had to have come from Dick. He manages to take one down with an intricate acrobatic move that Bruce could never even hope to attempt, and Jason actually looks a little stunned to see that it worked.

“Robin, move!” Bruce commands. There’s no time to be surprised in a fight like this. 

Jason nods at the order and turns back to his mission, but it’s too late. He’s paused too long, and practically out of nowhere, one of the assassins slides up behind him. The image of Jason with his back arched and eyes wide, the gleaming tip of a sword protruding from his gut refuses to compute in Bruce’s mind. It just doesn’t make sense. That can’t be real. It can’t. It doesn’t belong there. Not his Jason. Not his baby.

Somehow, Jason’s soft gasp is still audible, even over the sound of Bruce’s own cry of “No!” It rings so loud in his ears that he almost misses another one of Dick’s strangled whimpers. 

Bruce steals a sword from one of the fallen assassins and plays dirty, stabbing it through his opponent's shoulder and pinning him to the ground the same way they did to Dick. A bitter act of justice. 

He makes it to Jason’s side just in time to catch him as his knees buckle. 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, son.”

Jason whimpers, collapsing forward into Bruce’s arms. He can no longer stand, and Bruce has no choice but to lower him gently to the ground, holding him close and positioning him so he can be as comfortable as possible. Jason winds up sprawled across Bruce’s folded legs, his shaky, labored breathing rattling against Bruce’s neck. In the background, Dick screams again, and Bruce flinches. He shushes Jason gently when the noise and sudden movement make him whine.

“Stop,” Bruce pleads, looking to the man with the amulet. “Please, stop this.”

The man watches him with hard eyes, just standing there as assassins continue to torture Dick and Jason bleeds out slowly in his lap.

“This is some lesson, correct?” he tries to reason, voice strangled. “I’m meant to learn how dangerous it is to push my son away, to understand just how much he means to me? How much they both mean to me? I assure you, I have learned that lesson. He means everything to me and I am going to change. Things are going to be different, I swear. You can— you can stop the loop now.”

He’s learned it. He’s learned it so well. He would do anything, anything, to save Dick. To save Jason. To save his whole damn family. He didn’t know before just how much he needs them, but he does now. He can’t live without them.

“It’s not a lesson,” the man hisses, lips curled into a snarl. He stalks towards Bruce slowly, and he can’t do anything but hold Jason closer. “It’s payback. It’s vengeance. This is what it feels like, Batman, when you’re slow. You claim you can’t save everyone, but now you know firsthand what it feels like when Batman is too far away, too busy to save your family. And you will know it, every single day, forever.”

“Why are you doing this? You must have a reason.” It can’t be senseless. There has to be a reason, something Bruce can fix.

“My son was only nineteen,” the man says, voice suddenly bordering on something soft. “He was even younger than your boy. He was just a child, Batman. Just a kid. He should have… He should have lived.” He looks up suddenly, glaring harshly at Bruce once more. “You could have saved him.”

“I swear to you,” Bruce tries, holding his free hand out, the other never ceasing to brush his thumb through the hair at the back of Jason’s head. “If I had known—”

“I was too slow!” the man yells, face red. “I didn’t make it in time to save him, but you could have. You should have saved my boy. Now you’ll know how it feels.”

“Please,” Bruce rasps. This man is a father. Was a father. He has to try to appeal to that. “ Please. Your grievance is with me, not with my sons. Not with Nightwing. Leave him out of this. Kill me instead, over and over. Just, please, leave my children out of this.”

“No,” he snaps. “Of course not. You basically admitted it yourself—nothing could hurt you worse than failing to save your son. Really, you should thank me. I could have targeted them both, made you watch them both die every day. But I couldn’t stomach doing that to the little one. I still remember when my Nathan was that age. He was a good kid. He wanted to be a vet, scrapped his palms raw one time trying to get a stray cat out of a tree.” He looks down at Jason, the genuine regret on his face nearly enough to make Bruce vomit then and there. “I’m sorry about that. He’ll be alright after the reset though. Try not to let him die again. It was only ever meant to be the older one.”

It’s awful, and Bruce can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the man, although it’s quickly eclipsed by the sight of Dick lying still across the room, by the memory of Alfred possibly fighting for his life on a cot in the medbay, Jason curled up in his lap as blood and tears soak Bruce’s armor. 

His heart aches, badly, for the loss of this man’s son, but that doesn’t change the fact that he is hurting Bruce’s family. Right now, both of his sons are dying. The assassins have abandoned Dick; Bruce doesn’t know where they are now. Does it really matter? He’s not even sure if they’re real people or something conjured up by this man and his magical amulet.

“Stop this,” Bruce says. “I am sorry, truly, for your loss. But you cannot—”

“You know where Batman was while my Nathan was drowning in his own blood, just like your boy here?” He spares Nightwing a fleeting glance. Bruce follows his gaze and regrets it, flinching at the sight of Dick gasping and writhing, the sword still embedded in his shoulder. “At some rich-person party, saving the purses of men and women in their fifties and sixties who only ever bled this city dry.”

“It wasn’t only—” There had been children at that gala. Jason had been there, talking up a storm with his favorite teacher, a young woman who taught middle school English despite being the daughter of two of Gotham’s one-percenters. Bruce had been there when the building had been attacked. He couldn’t very well leave. He shakes his head. That won’t help him now. “I can’t save everyone. I wish I could. That’s the whole reason I put on this suit in the first place.”

The man sneers. “An excuse you give to help yourself sleep at night. Anyway, it won’t help you now. You can’t stop it, Batman. You can’t save him.”

“I will,” Bruce growls, a promise to the universe. “I will save him. And then I’m coming for you.”

The man smiles, wry and sadistic. “You certainly will try. Good luck with that, Batman, really.” And with that he’s gone, disappearing just as he’d done before the warehouse explosion. 

They’re alone. Just Bruce, Jason, and Dick, the sounds of their individual suffering echoing off the walls of the cave. It’s suffocating.

“B—” Dick chokes. Blood runs down his chin, tears down his cheeks. He must be in agony; it takes a lot to make brave, strong, incredible Nightwing cry.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce whispers. God, it really is all his fault, isn’t it. And now both of his boys and Alfred are suffering because of it. “I’m so sorry.” He speaks into Jason’s curls, holding his youngest’s limp body close to his chest as he rocks him gently back and forth. He can’t bring himself to do anything else. He’s stuck, anchored to this spot on the Cave floor, the weight in his arms holding him down.

“B, please,” Dick whimpers. “ Hurts. ” He looks so lost, sounds so confused. Bruce doesn’t think he knows where he is anymore, just that he’s in pain and his dad is there, just out of reach.

“I know,” Bruce says. He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling numb. “I know, chum. I’m so sorry. It’ll be over soon.” There’s no sense in trying to save him. It will only prolong the inevitable. And if, somehow, he managed to save Dick tonight, he’d lose Jason and possibly Alfred when the timeline didn’t reset. He has to keep going until they’re all safe. 

Soon Dick will die again and everything will reset. Alfred will be fine. Jason will be alive.

Dick won’t remember that Bruce ever left him to bleed out on the Cave floor. Dick won’t remember, so why does it still feel like Bruce is dying?

“Please,” Dick croaks. “B—”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce whispers. He can’t watch. Not again. He buries his face down further against the top of Jason’s head. It doesn’t stop him from hearing it though, from listening to the way Dick’s cries and whimpers taper off, and his shuddering, rattling breaths to stutter to a halt. 

Bruce sits with both of his dead sons and waits for the world to reset once more.

Chapter Text

It won’t stop, no matter what he does. Nothing he does works. If he does nothing, Dick dies on patrol. If Dick stays in, he dies. If he goes out, he dies. If Dick comes to Gotham, he dies, that is if he even makes it all the way. Half the time he doesn’t. No matter what he does, no matter who he calls, Dick always dies. If Bruce goes to Bludhaven, he dies. If he calls Dick to try and warn him, he dies. If he leaves Dick completely alone, he still fucking dies.

Every. Single. Time.

Bruce thinks he might just be losing his damn mind.

If there’s one thing that Bruce thought he could always rely on, it was his perseverance even against the worst odds. Dick liked to call it him being “a stubborn, hard-headed ass,” and Jason had referred to it as “Bruce is being a buttmunch again” more than once, but. Potato, potahto. 

But as a rule, he doesn’t quit. Not ever. And definitely not when his family’s life is in jeopardy. But he also likes to pride himself on being rational, logical even when it weighs heavy on his heart. And all rationality screams that if he’s failed to save Dick the first thirty two times, then the thirty-third isn’t going to go any better. 

So Bruce does the only logical thing: he gives up. He stops trying to save Dick, no matter how his instincts scream at him, or the way his heart creaks and cracks in his chest every time he gets that call from Gordon. Trying to save Dick is an impossible battle, one he can never win, at least not using the strategy he has been. 

Instead of rushing to try and rescue Dick, he’s going to have to attack the problem at the source, and that means figuring out who the hell he’s dealing with. It shouldn’t be too hard. Their mystery man made a mistake: he’d mentioned his son, a nineteen year old boy named Nathan. A young man who had died in Gotham not that long ago. 

It takes the computer less than an hour to come up with a name. 

Nathan Tate was a nineteen-year-old student at Gotham University who was tragically murdered in a home invasion gone wrong. His mother had died when he was seven, and his only remaining family was his father, a museum curator named Marcus Tate who took a leave of absence from his job after his son’s death and hasn’t been seen since. His father had come home only minutes after the robbers had fled. He’d been on the phone with his son when it happened, had been frantically trying to get home to his son, heard his last words, his last breaths. The newspaper shows a picture of Marcus and Nathan, both of them grinning from ear to ear. The sight makes Bruce’s heart twist into knots in his chest. It doesn’t matter what Marcus Tate had done, all he can see is a teenager who’s life was cut far too short. 

A teenager who Bruce failed to save.

But what would Clark say? Or Alfred, or Dick if he happened to be talking to Bruce at the time? They can’t save everyone. It was tragic beyond belief what happened to Nathan Tate, but it isn’t Bruce’s fault. If he had known, if he’d been able to, he would have done everything in his power to save the boy. It’s too late now, the only one he can still save is Dick.

The computer pings facial recognition for Marcus Tate entering his apartment earlier that day. Hopefully he’s still there. Hopefully, the loop ends today.

“Marcus Tate,” Bruce growls. 

Tate whirls around, clearly he hadn’t heard Bruce climbing silently through his window. He looks exhausted and terrible, with dark circles under his red-rimmed eyes. That ridiculous amulet hangs around his neck, glowing slightly in the dim light of the Tates’ living room. A picture of Marcus and Nathan stares up at him from an end table. 

He has to be careful about how he approaches this. He can most certainly take Tate in a physical fight, but he already knows he won’t stand a chance if Tate summons his army of interdimensional assassins again.

“Batman,” Tate sneers. “Took you long enough to find me, not that it matters. Is this really where you want to be right now? Your boy should be bleeding out in an alleyway right about now.”

Bruce pushes down the spike of panic that image causes him. It’s easier than it should probably be, but he’s gotten far too used to seeing Dick dead at this point. 

“I know you feel that I’ve wronged you—”

“No, Batman,” Tate says, lips pulled back in a snarl. “You didn’t do something wrong. You didn’t do anything at all. That’s the problem. You act so self-righteous, deciding who lives and who dies. What did my boy do to die, Batman? What did those spoiled rich pigs do to live? I couldn’t save him, but why didn’t you?” He steps forward, face red and blotchy as he jabs an accusatory finger sharply into Bruce’s armor. 

“Look,” Bruce says, smacking Tate’s hand away. He has to be careful; he has no idea what the limits of that magical amulet are. And by god does he want to end this finally. “I get it—”

“You don’t,” Tate snarls. “You can’t even imagine—”

“I can, actually,” Bruce says, as calmly as he can manage. “When this whole revenge plot first started, I was having dinner and suddenly I looked up at the TV to learn that my son had been found dead. I didn’t know that I was in some insane time loop. The only thing that was real in that moment was that I would never get to hold my boy again. I’ve experienced grief before, but it was nothing like those moments. There’s nothing else in this world, no pain imaginable that can possibly compare to losing your child. So believe me, I understand.” He steps forward slowly, watching as Tate’s glare cracks just slightly. “And if I could go back in time and save your son, I would. If I had been there, I would have done everything in my power to save him. I am truly sorry for your loss.”
Tate glares at him, mouth trembling. “He was just a boy.”

“I know,” Bruce says. “When Nightwing was that age, he’d already run off on his own. It was my fault he left, my fault we weren’t speaking, but I still worried about him every single day. He’s so smart and capable, but he’s still so young.” He takes another step closer, and Tate barely even seems to notice. His eyes have gone distant and shiny, gaze somewhere far away. “I read up on Nathan, and I know he was a damn good kid. Going to school to be a teacher, volunteering at the soup kitchen every weekend, walking dogs at the animal shelter. He was a smart, talented young man, with a lot of friends and a lot of ambition, and I know he must have been so easy for you to love.”

(Just like Dick, just like Jason. From the day he met each of them, he had loved them so damn much, even if he was shit at showing it. Just because he loved being a dad didn’t mean he was any damn good at it.)

“He was,” Tate agrees, voice cracking. “Easiest thing in the world.”

“But Nathan doesn’t strike me as the type of person who would want his father to get revenge in his name. He wouldn’t want you to become a murderer for him.”

“You don’t know anything about him!” Tate screams. “How dare you talk as though you knew him? You have no clue what he would want.”

“No, I don’t know anything for sure. But you do. Think, Marcus. Would Nathan really want you to do this? Would he like the person you’ve become? My sons are both so talented and good. They’re better than me, better than what I deserve. And every day I have to ask myself if I’m someone they could be proud of. Would Nathan be proud of who you are now?”

“Stop saying his name!” Tate howls, lunging forward and swinging half-blind at Bruce’s face. He dodges the blow easily, sidestepping and letting Tate stagger past. He’s clumsy in his grief and anger, and it’s unbelievably easy for Bruce to reach out and snatch the amulet from around Tate’s neck, a well-placed kick sending the man to his knees. After all his failure, it's ridiculously, gut-churningly easy.

“He was just a boy,” Tate sobs from the ground, making no move to get up and fight. Without his magic necklace, he likely wouldn’t be much of a challenge anyway. “I miss him so much.”

“I know,” Bruce says. He squeezes the medallion tightly in his palm. “I am truly sorry for your loss. I wish I could have done more.”

Tate doesn’t move again, just stays hunched over on his knees. Bruce can see his shoulders trembling with his silent cries. His chest aches for this man, despite what he’s done to Dick and this family. His actions had been unforgivable—nothing could ever justify Dick lying there, cold and still and dead—but, in a way, understandable. Grief and loss made people irrational. Bruce's current outfit was probably a testament to that little fact.

He deposits the amulet into a small lead case. He wants nothing more than to smash the horrid thing to pieces, but there’s no telling what sort of repercussions it would have on the magic. He doesn’t like to mess around with magic, at least not without studying it extensively beforehand. 

“You better hurry,” Tate says, still slumped on the ground. He sounds utterly defeated; Bruce knows the feeling. “I wasn’t lying about Nightwing bleeding out right about now.”

Right. He needs to move. After everything, after all the deaths, all the repeats, this is the one time he can’t afford to fail. If he doesn’t get to Dick now, then this death will be permanent, and that's simply unacceptable. 

“The GCPD is on its way,” he says gruffly. “Stay here and wait for them, and I’ll see what I can do about reducing your sentence.”

Tate stares at him in blank disbelief, but Bruce doesn’t have time for any of that right now. He has a son to finally save. 

“Batman?” Jason’s voice cuts through the Batmobile’s comms as he crosses the border into Bludhaven. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Language,” he chides absently. He’s only a few minutes out from the location of Dick’s first death. Hopefully he’s in the same place this time.

“Yeah, no. You don’t get to be all pissy with me after you skipped picking me up to go out on patrol. And what are you doing in Blud?”

“Nightwing needs help. Prep the medbay, Robin.”

“Wait, wha—”

“Batman out,” he cuts Jason off and slams on the brakes, skidding the car to a stop at the sight of the alleyway where Dick should be. “Nightwing!” he calls, clamoring out of the car and rushing toward the alley. “Nightwing, can you hear me?”

Please be okay. Please be here. Please, please, please. Bruce can’t fail this time. 

Sure enough, he finds Dick slumped half behind a dumpster, only his black boots sticking out and giving away his location. His head hangs low, chin resting on his chest and hair obscuring his face. His arms are loosely curled around his stomach, limp and bloodstained. 

“Nightwing,” he breathes, dropping to his knees beside Dick. Bruce tears off his gauntlet and reaches out to take Dick’s pulse. He finds it almost immediately, weak and thready but there. Dick’s chest moves up and down, slow and shallow with each miraculous breath. 

“B?” Dick slurs, jolting and lifting his head just slightly. “What’re you doin’ here?” He shakes his head slightly, blinking as though trying to clear his vision. His expression only grows more confused when Bruce doesn’t magically disappear, eyebrows pinched and mouth twisted.

“I’m saving you,” Bruce says. He is. He’s finally going to save him. And then, because he can, Bruce takes his son’s cheeks in both hands and presses a kiss to his sweaty forehead. “You’re going to be fine, Nightwing. Everything will be okay.”

He helps Dick shift, leaning him against his chest for just a moment and then transferring him so he’s lying flat on the ground. Dick blinks up at him, still looking so dazed and confused.

“I need you to focus on two things for me, Nightwing, okay? Just two things and nothing else.” He presses down hard on the hole in Dick’s abdomen with one hand, the other rummaging through his belt for bandages. The poison is slow-acting, so blood loss is his main priority for the moment.

“Tha’s kinda a lot, B,” Dick chokes slightly at the rough treatment. His whole face is twisted in pain, brow clammy and every muscle in his body held stiff and rigid as he fights against the pain in his gut and coursing through his veins.

“I know,” Bruce says, “but you can do it. I know you can. I have complete and utter faith in you, you hear me?”

Dick’s face twists into something unreadable. “Kay,” he says finally. “What’re the… the things?”

“Number one, keep your eyes open.” Dick blinks once, then pries his eyes open wide. It’s hard to see them behind his mask, but Bruce still knows his son well enough to be able to read the micromovements obscured by the fabric. “And number two, keep breathing. Up and down, okay? That’s it.”

Dick does what he asks, and Bruce can tell he’s really concentrating on his two tasks. A swell of unbelievable pride swoops through Bruce’s stomach, although now is not really the time to remark at how good his son is. First, he has to save said son. Then he’ll make sure he has all the time in the world to finally fix things.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says anyway, because maybe Dick needs to actually hear it right now, not just infer it for himself. Anything, to make sure that keeps going. Bruce cannot lose him. Not now. Not after everything.

“For breathin’ an… eyes open?” Dick’s face twists into a frown. “Kinda silly thing to be proud of.”

“Maybe. But that won’t stop me. I’m proud of everything you do, from the silly to the earth-changing, and if I want to be proud of you for breathing and keeping your eyes open, then I damn well will be.”

Dick stares and stares and for a moment, Bruce thinks he’s taken his task of eyes open far too literally. Then his face splits into a weak grin. 

“I like when you curse. ‘S funny.”

“Well, I’m glad you find this humorous, chum.”

Dick’s smile lasts for a couple more seconds before sliding away and being replaced by a pained grimace that Bruce loathes. “What’re you doin’ here, B?”

Bruce sighs. “It’s a long story, chum. One I think we can save for later. When you’re feeling better.”

Dick nods slightly. “You’re not really here, are you.” He says it so resignedly, like it’s a fact rather than a question. Dimly, Bruce thinks of past conversations, ones that Dick will never remember. Ones where he realized just how badly he’s failed his son, failed to make Dick realize that Bruce loves him and cares for him, always has and always will.

“I’m here, chum. I’m right here, and I’m not leaving you again.”

He sits Dick up, his son’s sweaty forehead pressed to his shoulder as Bruce wraps his torso in bandages. The moment he finishes, he pulls back just enough to press a kiss to the top of Dick’s head. He made it, he made it. Please, let him have finally made it.

“I’ve got you, kiddo. I’ve got you. Just hold on a little longer.”

“Kay,” Dick says, then his head lolls, and Bruce knows he’ll be out for a while.

Jason is anxiously waiting for them when Bruce speeds into the Cave, Dick slumped in the passenger seat. He looks too pale for Bruce’s liking, but his vitals were fairly stable when Bruce had set him in the Batmobile. He knows Dick can and will hold on until they can get him proper medical attention and an antidote to the poison circulating through his veins. 

“Dick!” Jason cries, running over and helping Bruce support his big brother’s dead weight as they carry him to the cot Jason and Alfred had gotten prepped for him. “What happened to him?”

“Stab wound to the abdomen, poison on the knife.”

Alfred sucks in a sharp breath at that. “I’ll draw blood so we can begin searching for an antidote.”

Bruce nods. “Jason, stay with him. Let me know if anything changes.”

Jason can only nod, looking terrified. He climbs onto the bed beside Dick, holding onto the hand without the heart rate monitor attached. “Go,” he says, jerking his head at Bruce. “You gotta save him, B. I’ll look after him.”

“You gotta save him!"  Jason’s voice echoes in his head, full of that too familiar desperation. This time, this final time, they’re going to win.

“The antidote appears to be working. With a little bit of rest, he’s going to be just fine,” Alfred reassures. His shoulders slump under the weight of everything that’s happened tonight, but a small relieved smile tugs on the corners of his mouth.

“Thank god,” Bruce sighs, dropping his face into his hands. “Thank god.” It doesn’t feel momentous enough, but then again there probably aren’t words momentous enough to express the massive relief he’s feeling. For the past thirty-two nights he’s fallen asleep knowing that his eldest son is dead and that he had once again failed to save him. For the past thirty-two nights, he’s seen Dick bleed out or drown in his own blood, felt his pulse stop beneath searching fingers, watched his chest go still. This is the first time in more than a month in Bruce’s time that Dick will live through the night. Sunrise will come, it’ll finally be Sunday, and Dick will finally be safe. 

He reaches out, squeezing Dick’s limp hand in his own. It’s warm, and even with his eyes squeezed close he can hear the slow, steady beep of the heart rate monitor, proof that his son is still alive. 

“What time is it?” he asks. 

“Just after midnight, Sir,” Alfred answers. 

Just after midnight. They finally made it. They’re going to be okay.

Chapter Text

“Jason says you’ve been acting weird.”

Bruce sighs at the sound of Dick’s voice, not bothering to turn around. He’d heard Dick come in, but he’d assumed his eldest was here to hang out with Jason and mostly ignore Bruce like usual. It’s been almost two weeks since Tate had been arrested and Dick had started living through the night again, one and a half weeks since Dick had been well enough to get out of bed and go home, something he’d done the moment Alfred had given him the all-clear. 

He and Bruce hadn’t spoken, not about anything real at least. Dick had been too sick, and Bruce had been too cowardly. 

“And how often do you and Jason talk about me behind my back?”

“Oh, all the time," Dick says. "It’s a large part of our relationship, to be honest. It takes a lot of venting to be Robin, B.”

Dick comes up beside him, leaning backward on the desk beside where Bruce is typing. Bruce turns away from his report, giving his son his full attention. Something, he realizes suddenly, he hasn’t really done since Dick was Robin. 

Bruce grunts in response, words stuck in his chest. 

“So, are you gonna tell me why you’ve been so weird lately? Or are you back to not talking to me?”

“Why didn’t you call for backup?” Bruce asks instead, changing the subject. He sucks in a sharp breath, then lets it out slowly. It has to be said, he rationalizes. They have to talk about it. 

“Huh?” Dick blinks, looking thoroughly confused. “What are you talking about?”

“When you’d been stabbed. You almost died, Dick.”

Dick shrugs, avoiding his gaze. “I thought I could handle it. And by the time I realized I couldn’t, it was pretty much too late.”

“You thought I was a hallucination.”

And it had hurt, more than he’d expected it to. Nothing to make you feel like a failed father like your son believing that you wouldn’t be there to save him when he needs it.

“Yeah, B,” Dick says dryly. “I’d been poisoned, and you had randomly appeared without me having called for help. It seemed like a logical conclusion at the time. I still have no idea why you were even there.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t come if you had called?”

Again, Dick shrugs, still looking anywhere but Bruce’s face. The floor of the Cave must be incredibly interesting to warrant that level of scrutiny. “No, I—I know you would have come. I just…”

“I would have,” Bruce insists. “Of course I would have.”

“I know—”

“Even if we’d had a massive fight. Even if we hadn’t spoken in years. Even if we’re so unbelievably pissed off at each other. All you have to do is call, and I swear I’ll be there as soon as possible. I’ll drop anything for you, Dick. Whatever I’m doing. Nothing is as important to me as you and Jason.”

“Yeah, well sometimes you do a shitty job of showing it,” Dick snaps.

“I want to adopt you,” Bruce blurts out, instead of any sort of apology. It’s wrong, it’s so wrong, that the only place where Dick is Bruce’s son is in Bruce’s own head. He wants it to be official. He wants the whole world to know, and more importantly, he wants Dick to know.

Dick flinches back, looking utterly shocked. He recovers quickly enough, chuckling awkwardly. “What the hell, Bruce? I— Is this some kind of weird joke, because it’s not very funny. Where is this even coming from?”

Bruce breathes deeply, looking at the floor. “We had a conversation about it.”

“No we most certainly did not!” Dick cries, voice hysteric. “I think I would have remembered that conversation, Bruce.”

“No you wouldn’t,” he says. “Because the timeline reset. I’m the only person who remembers it.”

“What are you talking about? Stop being vague and cryptic for once in your damn life, Bruce.”

“It was a time loop,” he explains, admitting it to someone for the first time. It feels like something is cracking wide, wide open in his chest. When he looks up, Dick is staring at him, face completely unreadable. Bruce misses him so much. “You died,” he says softly, reaching out to cup Dick’s cheek. “You died and you just kept on dying, and nothing I did could stop it.”

Dick inhales sharply, eyes going wide. He grips the edge of the desk with white knuckles. “Is it still happening?”

“No,” Bruce says quickly. “No, I finally managed to stop the guy doing it. But not after I failed you far too many times.”

“Well, I’m okay now. You did it, Bruce. It’s over, so you don’t have to do… whatever this is out of your misplaced guilt.”

“I know that. I just…” Can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop having nightmares where Dick dies and stays dead. “At first, I thought someone was trying to teach me a lesson. He wasn’t, he just wanted revenge, but for a while I thought that if I learned the lesson, I would be freed.”

“What lesson?”

“That I need you. That I miss you. That you’re my son and I need to take responsibility for rectifying whatever happened between us because I’m the parent and you deserve someone willing to put in the effort. That losing you would completely wreck me. Take your pick.”

“Bruce…”

“I’m sorry, ” he whispers, brushing his hand through Dick’s hair. It’s so much longer than the way he used to wear it when he was little. Dick leans slightly into the touch and that’s almost enough to make Bruce’s heart soar. “I haven’t been a very good dad to you, and I’m so, so sorry about that. But please, Dick, hear me out. I need you to hear me.” He grips Dick’s shoulders with both hands, watching as Dick stares back in open, stunned bewilderment. “I am so proud of you. You have grown up to be a better man than I ever could have imagined. You are a brilliant hero, and a wonderful person, in and out of the suit. You changed my whole life. Actually, you saved my life. I love you, chum, and I never said that like I should have. I am so, so sorry, and I love you so much. It—It shouldn’t have taken some stupid time loop to make me realize that.”

“Then why? ” Dick asks, and Bruce’s heart cracks even further when he spies the tears shining in Dick’s eyes to match the cracking of his voice. “Why did you fire me? Why did you basically kick me out? Why did you never call? Why was it always up to me to fix things between us?”

“It shouldn’t have been,” Bruce answers immediately. “None of that should have ever happened. I know I can never take it back, or—or make up for it, but you have to believe me when I say that driving you away is pretty much my biggest regret. You deserve so much better than me, Dick, and I can never say enough just how sorry I am for everything that happened.”

Dick purses his lips, expression tight, but he suddenly tips over sideways so he can rest his head on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce freezes, holding as still as he can. It reminds him of when Dick was still young and Bruce was still so unsure, when he’d unknowingly taken in a boy from a very physically affectionate family who had been starved for hugs and parental affection. He’d gotten more used to it over the years, but it’s been so long now. He feels the same way he’d done in those early months, terrified to make the wrong move and ruin everything.

“This is kind of a lot of information to drop on me at one time, B,” Dick says softly, with a half chuckle. 

“I’m sorry,” comes Bruce’s only response. His mouth feels dry. 

Dick shrugs, still not moving from where he’s leaning against Bruce. “I think we’ll probably have to have several more conversations.”

Bruce nods. “That makes sense to me.” And it means they’ll still be talking. They’ll be talking about something other than the mission or Jason or Alfred’s birthday. Maybe it’s a straw, but Bruce is grasping at it anyway.

“Right now,” Dick continues, “I just wanna know if you’re okay.”

Bruce hesitates, considers lying. He doesn’t like being vulnerable or feeling weak, and he doesn’t want to burden his son with his problems. But if they’re starting over, trying to do better this time around, he doesn’t want to start them off with a lie. Dick would never forgive him. No, if they’re going to do this, he’s going to have to try some real, genuine communication. It feels foreign and uncomfortable in his mouth, but he’ll do it if it means earning back some of Dick’s trust.

“I’ve… been better,” he admits. In his nightmares, he’s too slow. Dick doesn’t make it out alive, his blood all over Bruce’s hands. “But I’ll be okay, chum. It gets easier every day that I realize you’re okay.”

Dick smiles at the old nickname. “I’ll just have to keep reminding you then. I’m alright, B. You saved me. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”

“I know,” Bruce says, then slowly, slowly lifts his arm to wrap it around Dick’s shoulders. Dick lets him, easily slotting in beside him like he did when he was young and things were good. Maybe they can be good again.

Bruce breathes deep, eyes closed. Dick is warm and alive and safe. And here. Right here, with Bruce, and his heart feels more whole than it’s felt in a long while. 

“You staying for dinner?” he asks. “I know Jason would love it if you did.”

Dick cracks an eye open to look sideways at Bruce. “And you?”

“And me,” he agrees. “I would love for you to stay, Dick.”

When Dick grins, Bruce can’t help but follow his lead. It’s infectious, Dick’s happiness is. He’d been so, so stupid to think he could continue living his life with Dick only in the periphery. He’s too special, too important, and Bruce loves him too much. 

“Then I’ll stay,” Dick says. Simple enough.