Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Two Days After:

Jason wants to throw his food at the wall. Cooking has never before felt like such a pointless effort. He’s not hungry and nothing tastes the same anymore. Trying to force himself into normalcy has the opposite effect as the comfort he’d intended. 

That’s what happens with a lot of things—they become different and newly unbearable. Instead, Jason takes up walking. He walks places until his legs feel like they can’t go on, like he’ll fucking die if he has to walk another step, and when he’s reached that point, he just walks some more.

He gives up on the thought of a home cooked meal, because that shit’s fucking stupid and he doesn’t know why he ever bothered with it to begin with. Instead, he walks all the way across shitty, slimy Gotham to the shitty, slimy grocery store, where he picks up some shitty, slimy frozen food and carries it all the way back to his shitty, slimy, lonely, empty apartment. The employee at the grocery store recognizes him and looks surprised as she bags up his shit.

“Where are the veggies?” she asks playfully.

Jason stares at her. Her name is Sara. This is where he and Dick always pick up food, and she always flirts with Jason, which encourages Dick to act as stereotypically gay as humanly possible in retaliation. The whole ordeal is always excruciatingly embarrassing. Jason used to drag Dick out of the grocery store by the hood of his jacket. Now he would give anything for him to be here, batting his eyelashes and flicking his wrist and instructing Jason to slay things.

“I don’t want any this week. Or,” he adds, because it’s suddenly impossible to suppress the urge to be vicious, “ever again.” 

Jason leaves very quickly after that. He does not want to talk to her. He does not want to talk to anyone.

He walks back home. It’s a gray day. The trip is freezing cold and windy. Soon, Jason’s fingers are stiff and numb. He fumbles with the doorknob when he finally makes it home, and the grocery bag nearly slips out of his grasp.

The apartment is a history museum. In the entryway, as Jason locks the door behind him, is a row of hooks where all of Dick’s shit hangs up like it’s just waiting for him to come back. Jackets. Bags. Keys.

In the kitchen: the glass-front cabinets full of all their mugs and plates and bowls. Dick’s favorite mug right next to Jason’s. Dick’s is bright and stupid. It’s decorated with Batman’s looming form and the words: Some people don’t believe in heroes. They haven’t met MY DAD!

Jason fucking hates that mug. He always likes to threaten fits of clumsiness when carrying it to Dick in the mornings— wouldn’t it be horrible if I just… whoops! Dick gasps in horror every time.

Jason’s own mug is boring and practical. It’s black and plain and just the right size to hold the perfect amount of coffee. It’s sitting in the sink, gathering flies.

The TV, when Jason turns it on, is already on Dick’s favorite channel. So he turns it off again. There’s not a lot to do in this apartment alone. Maybe he could pick up a book? The very thought makes him want to jump out a fucking window.

He doesn’t go into the bedroom. He hasn’t been in there for… a while. If Jason pretends hard enough, he can act like it doesn’t even exist. As though when something leaves his peripherals, it disappears forever.

He lets Dick out of his sight for one day… 

And now the apartment is bursting with memories of a life paused in the middle, never to be resumed.

Jason sits down on the couch. But his legs still burn from all the walking, so he curls them up beneath him and lays his head down on the armrest. The apartment is very cold. He does not want to get up to grab a blanket. Something about that feels weak. He can get through this without a blanket. He can weather this horrible storm without an umbrella. There is only one person he ever felt right accepting help from and that’s not an option anymore. 

It’s going to be a very lonely day followed by a very lonely night. And that’s just how things are going to be from now on. This is the beginning of the rest of his life.

His stupid, pointless, lonely life. Nothing’s really changed at all.

For a long time Jason lets himself drift, although he doesn’t fall asleep. Dick wouldn’t want him to waste his life like that. Sleeping during the day. Giving up. Being stupid and lazy and insufferably cruel to himself and others.

Dick would want Jason to remember, and to keep on remembering, every moment of every day. That’s what he does. He presses his face into a pillow, inhales, doesn’t want to let the breath out because it smells like Dick’s stupid, fancy-ass body wash.

They used to spend hours on this couch. Whenever they had free time. Jason would read while Dick watched TV, and when Dick got bored of that, he would turn the volume all the way off and lay his head in Jason’s lap and ask Jason to read to him. So Jason would. And hours would slide by like the traffic outside, like the people on the sidewalk. Going and then gone.

Jason is not a religious man. And he’s never cared what happens to people when they die. He’d died once and ended up just fine. Here he is. Proof. 

But it’s different now, and he can’t stop thinking about it. He has to cover all his bases. That’s what Dick would do for him—what Dick had done, years and years ago when Jason had died. 

So Jason prays. He doesn’t even know whether he’s doing it right. There’s probably some super specific prayer protocol, and he’s probably messing it all up. But it’s not like he can make things worse.

“Please let him come back,” Jason says out loud. It’s disgustingly sad and pathetic in the silence of the apartment. He hates himself.

“Please let me have him back,” he says again. His voice begins to break.

Let him come back. I want him back. Please, please, I would do anything. Can he come home, please? Jason says it all over and over again, out loud and in his head. He’s really good at wanting, and really bad at receiving, and that works out great because Jason never, ever gets what he wants, and the apartment stays empty and lonely and cold until a key turns in the latch, the door swings open, and Tim steps in.

Jason does not have the energy to berate him. Or to tell him to leave. Or to even say hi. 

He does, however, force himself to sit up. All the blood rushes to his head and he feels dizzy. He wants to lay back down again. There’d be no reason to ever get up.

“Hey,” says Tim, painfully awkward and glaringly out of place in the dim apartment. “I… uh… just thought I’d come by to see if you were. You know. Chilling.”

Jason stares at him. He wonders why he’s not angrier. It used to be that he couldn’t even look at Tim without feeling like he was about to lose his shit.

Now, all he feels is absolutely nothing. And that is just fine by him. Because Jason knows that the moment he lets the numbness fade, it’s all going to hit him like a truck. Like a crowbar. Like a fucking bomb. 

Jason doesn’t say anything for a while. Tim presses on, determined. He looks like he’s barely holding it together. But he doesn’t leave, no matter how desperately he clearly longs to. 

How nice of him. Dick, Jason thinks cruelly, was nicer.

“I brought some food,” Tim says, holding up a stack of tupperwares. Jason would bet anything it’s all Alfred’s cooking. He does not want it. He will not eat a single bite.

“Thanks,” Jason says. He stands. Walks over to Tim—one foot in front of the other, walking is just so easy and methodical, it takes barely any effort at all and maybe that’s why Dick used to go on walks when he was upset, why Jason walks until his legs won’t hold him up—and grabs the tupperware out of his hands.

“I’ll put it in the fridge,” Jason says. Narrating his actions makes them feel easier. Like he might forget to breathe if he doesn’t specifically tell himself to. Like his heart might forget to beat if he doesn’t ask it to keep on going. Now there’s a tempting idea.

“Cool,” says Tim. Jesus. This is really fucking painful. “Are you cold? It’s freezing in here.”

Jason doesn’t respond. He’s walking over to the fridge. Breathing in. Opening it. Breathing out. His heart is beating, pumping blood to his extremities, to his brain, to his lungs. It’s impossible not to dwell on the way Dick’s heart is doing none of the above. 

“I’ll get you a jacket,” Tim says. He wanders down the hallway to the bedroom, and Jason hears the door open. 

Then there is a noise of surprised disgust. “What on earth is this?” comes Tim’s voice from inside the bedroom. He must be too startled to remember to be delicate. To remember to treat Jason like a little kid. Well, Jason’s just fine with that. He doesn’t need any of this bullshit. He doesn’t need anything at all anymore.

Jason follows him into the bedroom, and there is Tim. He’s holding Dick’s painting, regarding it with obvious abhorrence, and Jason is overcome by a wave of all-consuming fury. And he’s tearing the canvas out of Tim’s hands, and he’s lashing out with all of the force in his body to shove Tim onto the floor, and he’s yelling, “Don’t you fucking touch it! Don’t you dare! Don’t you fucking dare touch his shit!”

“I’m sorry,” Tim says, “I didn’t know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” and there are tears streaming down his face and Jason has never hated anyone or anything more in his entire life. How dare he come into Dick’s apartment and touch Dick’s things and have the audacity, have the gall to cry over it when Jason is staying strong. Jason isn’t crying. Jason is handling it because that’s what Dick would have wanted him to do, Dick wouldn’t have wanted him to cry.

But he is crying. There are big, fat, horrible tears all down his cheeks and he can’t breathe through them no matter how hard he tries. Because even though Dick would want him to—Dick would want him to breathe, and to stop crying, and to move on and be okay and live his stupid goddamn life in spite of everything—it doesn’t matter what the fuck Dick wanted because Dick is gone and he’s not ever coming back.

There is nothing, nothing more unbearable than knowing that he’s gone.

Seven Years Ago:

There is nothing more unbearable than Dick’s attitude when he thinks he’s on a mission for Jason’s greater good.

“You need to start helping Alfred out with the chores,” Dick says, hands on his hips. He stands on his tippy-toes, and it sets him at equal height with Jason, even though Jason is two years younger. Well. Jason may be younger, but that does not make Dick the boss of him. Dick is only seventeen. Although it’s actually kind of funny that he’s seventeen, almost an adult, and here he is standing on his tip-toes to convey authority. 

“That’s his job,” Jason sneers. “He gets paid to do that shit. Pay up and then maybe we’ll talk.”

Dick’s face grows even grumpier. His eyebrows furrow and his mouth sets into a firm frown. “We help him around the house to show that we appreciate him.”

“Well, I—” 

Don’t, is what Jason had been about to say. But he can’t bring himself to say it. Of everyone in this family, of everyone Jason has ever met, Alfred is the one person he can’t bear to disrespect. 

Dick takes his silence as encouragement. “This household,” he says pretentiously, “will only run smoothly if everyone contributes.”

Jason crosses his arms, feeling annoyed. “This is not a house,” he says for lack of any other argument. “It’s a manor.”

Dick pouts briefly, and then continues undeterred. “This manor-hold…” he begins importantly.

And he sounds so stupid saying the not-word that Jason has to make an effort not to laugh, but a little comes out anyways. Dick’s frown tightens, and he emphasizes, “This manor-hold…”

He has to know what he’s doing, because his eyes are bright and full of fun.

“You dumbass,” Jason snorts. “That’s not a word.”

“The English language is constantly evolving,” Dick retorts, annoyingly intellectual. “It’s a word if I want it to be.”

“Then I can make Dickface a word.”

“Oh yeah. Shakespeare wishes he thought of that one,” Dick says snippily. He’s so prissy sometimes. So fussy and self-important when he thinks he’s not earning adequate respect. He’s an angry person, Jason comes to realize over time. He doesn’t seem angry very often, because he keeps it inside. But Jason’s known a lot of angry people in his life. He knows how to tell.

But this is the difference: most angry people are upset on their own behalf. Dick is upset on the behalf of the world. 

Jason is too. They’re both pretty pissed-off people. They both want to make things better.

“Fine,” Jason grumbles, scowling. “I’ll help around the manor-hold.”

“Good-hold,” says Dick. He is beginning to grin.

“Shut the fuck up-hold,” mutters Jason. He shoves his hands into his pockets.

Dick purses his lips and shakes his head at Jason in a way that says “just what are we going to do with you.” His expression gives stern grandmother or disappointed teacher. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that he’s only seventeen—just a kid still.

Jason decides maybe Dick isn’t so bad after all. He’s funny. He’s sweet, even when he’s not trying to be. Sometimes he’s a little annoying, which, of course, Jason himself is never, but that’s something he can maybe live with. Besides, it’ll be useful to be friends with the Golden Boy. Maybe that’s something Jason should invest in.

“Come on, then,” Jason says, marching past Dick. He’s made a decision. “Let’s make a snack.”

“How is that helping Alfred?” Dick asks, stubbornly concerned. He follows Jason through the hallways like a stern mother duck. Or maybe he’s the duckling. Either way, he doesn’t let Jason out of his sight.

“Because if we make ourselves a snack, then he doesn’t have to.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Dick decides, sounding dubious.

They station themselves in the kitchen. Jason pulls out a collection of sharp knives, and Dick produces a bag full of vegetables. Jason wrinkles his nose at the health food but agrees to slice it up because it’s fun to wield big knives.

He thinks Dick might have fun with it too, if he let himself. He really needs to loosen up a little. Jason selects his biggest, most overkill cleaver, and presents it to Dick.

“Chop some veggies,” he invites.

“With a meat cleaver?” Dick asks doubtfully. “That is not a vegetable knife.”

“Let me check my recipe,” Jason says. He pretends to think for a moment, and then decides, “Oh yeah. It says use the biggest knife you have.”

Dick, looking doubtful, accepts the cleaver. He grabs a head of broccoli and begins to slice.

“You’re doing it wrong,” says Jason. “You gotta show it who’s boss.”

Dick slices harder. “Like this?” he asks. 

“Yeah!” Jason stabs his own broccoli with even more enthusiasm. “Teach these fuckers a lesson!”

“Bring the hammer down!” Dick grabs a carrot and begins to slice with growing passion. 

“Fuck shit up!” Jason slices so hard that half a head of broccoli goes flying across the counter. He only goes harder.

Dick only takes it as encouragement. “Check this out,” he says, and Jason already knows he’s about to do something epically fun and egregiously poor in judgment. He backs up until his back hits the wall, and he’s standing five or six feet away from the kitchen island. In the island’s center sits a cutting board, and on top of the cutting board, there is a lonely bell pepper.

“What are you—” Jason begins to ask.

Dick launches the knife at the pepper. It goes straight through and only seems to pick up speed as it flies through the air. The bright red pepper splatters all over the wooden floor, chunks of flesh and clusters of seeds making a gory, gruesome mess. The meat cleaver stands up straight in the middle of the disaster zone, embedded in the expensive wooden floor.

Dick freezes, staring in horror at the mess. “What have I done,” he whispers.

“Fuck yeah!” exclaims Jason. He extracts the cleaver from the floor and hands it back to a horrified Dick. “Cooking with you is so much better than cooking with Alfred.”

“He doesn’t let you throw the knives?” asks Dick faintly.

Jason scoffs loudly. “No! Never.” He grabs his own knife, puts a head of cauliflower in the center of the cutting board, and backs up as far as he can. He throws the knife, misses, and watches with glee as it hits the wall and clatters onto the floor.

Dick looks like he can’t decide whether to laugh or flee the scene of the crime. But Jason doesn’t want him to leave. “Come on,” he says, grabbing Dick by the arm and tugging him back over to the island. “Isn’t this such good stress relief?”

“I do like following recipes,” Dick allows. He begins to grin, and Jason’s heart gives a nervous, fluttery thump. “Does your recipe say we have to throw the knives, though?”

“Let me check,” says Jason. “Yes.”

They’re interrupted five minutes later by the loudest, most British cry of “GREAT HEAVENS!” either of them have ever heard. Jason placates Alfred by quickly deciding that throwing knives is not, after all, an integral part of the recipe, and a safer substitution can be made. As soon as he leaves, shaking his head with a lasting expression of horror, Dick turns to Jason with a secret little grin.

“We need to cook together more,” Dick decides.

“Fuck yeah.” Jason nods, putting his hands on his hips. His stomach feels fluttery and nervous, and the feeling has nothing to do with the risk of decapitation via flying meat cleaver.

*

One Week After:

Jason lowers himself down from the couch and began to search around for his phone. He can’t find it anywhere, and for a moment, he is filled by a surge of annoyance. Dickhead must have borrowed it for some thing or the other.

And then he remembers.

And then the day begins, and it’s bound to be a particularly dreadful one, even more dreadful than all the horrific days before.

Jason is a robot as he gets ready. Walk to the closet, which is in the bedroom, where Jason does his best not to linger any longer than necessary. Grab clothes: pants, shirt, tie, jacket. Put them on. Comb hair, which is knotty and tangled. Socks and then shoes. Tie the laces in two little bunny ears— you don’t want to trip.

While he’s getting ready, it’s easy to tune out his thoughts. Getting dressed is a routine. A process that has remained blessedly the same for as long as Jason can remember. 

When that’s done, his brain slowly comes back online even as Jason pleads with it to stay off. 

Maybe Jason should just ditch. What’s the worst that’s gonna happen? The worst thing in the world already has. Bruce will yell a bit, Tim might come over to cry at him some more, and then it’ll be over. 

But even as Jason tries to convince himself, he knows he has to go. There’s no excuse to miss Dick’s funeral.

Bruce had offered to send a car to pick Jason up, allegedly in case Jason doesn’t want to drive. Realistically it’s probably because Bruce doesn’t think Jason will show up if he doesn’t facilitate it himself. 

It’s the classic Bruce Special: if I throw enough money at my problems, they’ll disappear! Kind of funny that he still thinks that. If Bruce gave away just a fraction of his money, every single person in Gotham could have a free meal and then some. And Bruce wakes up every day and decides not to do that. Jason knows how much Bruce does for the good of his city. But the sheer amount of money he owns is still utterly grotesque. 

Jason lets Bruce spend his money—it’s not like he’ll be running low anytime soon. But he doesn’t take the car. Instead, two hours before the service is set to begin, Jason leaves the apartment, and begins to walk.

It takes a long time. Enough for a lengthy contemplation of all the reasons he hates Gotham, dedicating several minutes each to all of his specific grievances. Gotham is dirty. Gotham is crowded. Gotham takes everything away from you.

Jason is already exhausted by the time he reaches the halfway point. Maybe he should turn back? He could walk back home. Or he could walk to the harbor to see the ships. It’s like people watching—Jason likes to stare at each cargo ship and wonder what’s inside and where it’s going. He and Dick will always make up stories for them. Maybe this one is the leading toilet paper exporter in the entire country, and it’s been sent to Gotham because only an entire boatload of toilet paper could possibly wipe up all of this city’s shit. Or this other one is actually the world’s saddest cruise ship, and boy are the people on board in for a disappointment when they walk off the ship and realize where it’s taken them.

Maybe Jason won’t go there. In fact, he thinks he’ll never go there again. Running his ridiculous theories by Dick was always half the fun. Now Jason is half the person, instead. 

Jason arrives at the manor three minutes late and picks his way through the rows of chairs to find an empty seat. Everything’s set up outside on a hill, and the manor is a smudge in the background, intimidating even from a distance. 

Jason takes a seat right in the middle of the crowd, because the front feels too close and the back would just be disrespectful. He soothes himself by pretending that no one else is there. He can’t feel Bruce’s watchful eyes on his back. He can’t hear Tim’s quiet sniffles. He can’t see Barbara’s blank, empty stare, like all the life has been sucked out of her and she doesn’t know how to cope with the hole it’s left behind. Jason knows that if he looked into a mirror, his own expression would match. They felt the same way about Dick. He would bet anything they aren’t the only ones.

Jason is as silent as a statue. They can force him to come—and he’ll do it, for Dick he’ll do it—but they can’t make him participate.

Barbara goes first and delivers a speech that would have been moving if her voice had any inflection at all. Instead she sounds mechanical. Her speech, if Jason were to summarize it, goes like this: Here is the coffin of the man I once loved. He died in his twenties. I am thinking about the oatmeal I had for breakfast because I can’t bear to think about him and how he’s gone anymore.

Jason sympathizes. He’s been living his life the same way. Empty and automatic and cold.

After her, comes Bruce, who is usually the king of sucking all the emotion out of words that should be powerful. Today he seems different. He won’t look at any of the family members as he speaks. He won’t look at the coffin, which Jason would bet is empty. Instead he looks at the blue sky, his own polished shoes, his twitching fingers. 

“Dick Grayson is…” and he does not correct himself to say was instead, “a radiant light in all of our lives. He was… the first child I ever welcomed into the manor after my own childhood was cut short. Or, after I thought it was. Because when I met Dick, he brought pieces of it back. I remember…”

And Jason tunes it out because unlike Bruce, he doesn’t want to remember. But Jason never gets what he wants; remembrance is inevitable. He remembers spending hours in the manor’s library with Dick, reading whatever Jason wanted because as long as Jason agreed to read it out loud, Dick wasn’t picky. He remembers leaning over Dick’s shoulder years and years ago, trying and failing to understand his stupid, torturous calculus homework and crying out of frustration because he was going to get an F, and Dick grabbing the pencil and walking him through the steps and helping him understand. He remembers Dick breaking his arm one time as Nightwing because he was rescuing a puppy, and reaching out to break his fall would have meant dropping it. He remembers taking that puppy for walks together, up and down the sidewalk to Gotham’s only park, twice a day for a week until they found it a new home.

Jason doesn’t want to remember anymore, but it’s like Dick is still alive, it’s like he’s still there in front of Jason because Dick is all he sees and hears and understands.

I want him back, please let me have him back, Jason prays. Please, please, let him come home. Please. 

He’s got this terrible gut feeling that Bruce is lying and Dick can’t possibly be dead, just gone somewhere else. He’s got the even worse suspicion that he’s paranoid, and his brain is trying to make it better by pretending that things will be okay when really they never will be again. Everything will come crashing down soon, even more than it already has. A volcano can erupt more than once. Everything’s already gone up in ashes, and it will happen again and again and again until Jason is dead. 

There’s a pastor. Jason cannot believe his eyes or his ears when that stranger stands up and begins to shower them all in prayer and biblical quotes and bullshit. Dick was not a religious man. There should be no priest at his funeral—just his family and friends and the people who love him.

There’s the line about how I shall fear no evil and Jason wants to bang his head on the wall because real evil is what took Dick away from him, and if that’s not something to fear, then nothing in the world is. There’s a line about how Dick is with the Lord now, and Jason wants to get up and scream, because the Dick he knew would never choose a god he didn’t believe in over the family and friends he did. 

When the speeches and sermons, which Jason thinks must take several hours each, are over, everyone is allowed to stand up and approach the coffin one by one; before it, there are little raised cushions. Jason doesn’t know what they’re for until he sees Alfred drop down to kneel, and realizes it’s so that people can spend one last moment leaning close to Dick without hurting their knees. Because sure, Jason can handle the loss of Dick Grayson. He can stay standing even when the one pillar which has always held up the foundation of his life is gone; everything in Jason’s world, his house and his family and his heart are caving in on top of him—he can survive that. But if his knees get sore from kneeling on the dirt, he’ll just have to say fuck it, and kill himself? Like hell.

When it’s Jason’s turn, he kicks the kneeling stand away and places his knees squarely in the dirty grass. For Dick, he can handle a little discomfort. For Dick, he will handle anything. 

Up until now, Jason’s had a handle on himself. He sits through the speeches and the sermons and the crying, and does not move a muscle. He stays upright beneath the heavy cloud of unimaginable aching. And he weathers the storm of his own memories like the strongest soldier, unshakably steady. 

But now, on his knees before the big, black box that’s supposed to hold the remains of the one person Jason had loved most in the entire world, he feels himself trembling, and it’s impossible to get himself together faster than he’s falling apart.

“I love you,” he says to the casket. His voice is a hoarse, embarrassing mess. And still he can’t stop speaking. “And I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I would have—”

I would have done anything to save you, Jason thinks, but it won’t come out. Although the words are stuck, tears begin to drip through like a leaky faucet, and nothing Jason does can stop them no matter how desperately he tries. His eyes and throat burn, and his shoulders are shaking, and he hates himself with an intensity he’s never experienced ever before. If the unbearable grief doesn’t kill Jason then acute mortification might. Crying in front of all these people. He knows they’re looking, whispering, staring at him in sickened surprise. Jason never cries in front of people. Not since he died. But now he can’t hold it in, and he can’t tear himself away from the casket either, and so he’s left stranded, so close to Dick and yet so utterly bereft of the comfort he always used to offer. Falling utterly to pieces in front of a crowd.

It only gets worse when a hand falls onto Jason’s shoulder and a voice says, “We know how much you loved him, Master Jason.”

And then it’s all pouring out again. “Love,” he insists, knocking Alfred’s hand away with shaking fingers. His voice would be vicious if he weren’t speaking through his sobs, wracking and uncontrollable. “Not past tense, as if you think I just suddenly just— stopped loving him just because he—”

Then Bruce is there too, helping Alfred to lead Jason away from the casket, and Jason lets them because all of the energy has left his body and he feels emptier than he’s ever felt in his life. Being dead was better than this. At least when Jason was dead he didn’t have to feel.

Jason watches from afar, Alfred on one side and Bruce on the other, as Dick is lowered into the ground. Dirt is spread over it as if to patch the wound in the earth, and then all that’s left to do is wait for the years to go by and the grass to grow back.

Seven Years Ago:

Three weeks after the cooking incident, Jason is reclining in the library with a book and a plate of apple slices. For the last twenty minutes, Dick has been wandering around the library too, but he can’t seem to pick a book or get comfortable. He’ll grab one off the shelf, read a couple lines, and then put it back, looking utterly unsatisfied.

His footsteps are loud and distracting, and soon Jason’s annoyance has mounted to unignorable levels. “Can you just pick a book and be quiet?” he demands.

Dick turns to pout at Jason guiltily. “None of them are good,” he complains. Jason takes a moment to be offended. Dick wouldn’t know literature if it hit him in the face. Heh. Hitting him in the face. Now there’s an idea.

He meanders around aimlessly for a little while longer before finally ending up next to Jason, which Jason suspects may have been the point all along. “What are you reading?” he asks.

Jason scowls. “I was reading,” he says. “And then I was interrupted.”

Dick rolls his eyes. “What were you reading before you got interrupted?” he graciously corrects.

Remaining stubbornly disgruntled, Jason shows Dick the cover. 

“Lord of the Flies,” Dick reads, nodding. “Nice. Cool.”

“Yeah,” Jason says sarcastically. He’d bet anything Dick doesn’t know the first thing about Lord of the Flies, let alone that he’s read it. He probably thinks it’s about Jesus and a bunch of insects or something. Dick’s idea of influential literature is a calculus textbook.

Jason goes back to reading, but Dick sticks around, looking awkward and lost. It’s an unusual look on him.

“Can I help you?” Jason eventually asks.

Dick perks up. “Can I sit with you?” he asks eagerly.

“I guess,” Jason says. He scoots over and Dick takes advantage of the free seat to make himself comfortable. But Dick still doesn’t seem satisfied. He’s squirming around like he can’t quite figure out how to sit, or what to do with his limbs.

Jason heaves a very loud sigh. “What do you want?” he asks.

Dick fixes Jason with a wide, imploring gaze, bites his lip, and finally asks, “Will you read to me?”

“What?” Jason is caught off guard. “Why?”

“Uh,” says Dick, looking like he hadn’t quite thought this through. “Friendly bonding.”

Jason is still bemused. That explains just about nothing. He tells Dick as much.

“I don’t like reading with my eyes,” Dick says finally. “I prefer to read… with my ears.”

Jason stares, perplexed. “Um. Get an audiobook?”

“That costs money.”

“We… are billionaires.”

“Please, Jason?” Dick’s puppy eyes are in full force now, and it’s looking like there’s nothing Jason can do to dissuade him. Even worse, he looks embarrassed. His cheeks are pink and he keeps glancing away and fidgeting with his nails. “I’ll leave if you want me to, but…”

“Fine,” Jason snaps before he can give himself too much time to think about it. “I’ll read to you.”

And Dick looks so genuinely excited that Jason can’t bring himself to regret his decision.

“We have to start at the beginning,” Jason says, flipping all the way back to page one. “Or else you won’t understand shit.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Dick protests. “I don’t want to interrupt you any more than I already have.”

“I’m trying to give you the experience,” Jason says. “And besides. I’ve already read this.”

He begins:

“The boy with the fair hair lowered himself down the last few feet of rock and began…”

*

One Week After:

The guests clear out pretty quickly once the event is formally finished—no one seems to want to stick around. As offended as Jason is on Dick’s behalf, he doesn’t blame them. He’s dying to be at home, where at least he has his sofa and his blankets and his memories and his solitude.

But his legs are aching and unsteady. The thought of walking all the way through Gotham just to get home strikes Jason as utterly unbearable. It’s two hours when Jason’s moving quickly. As exhausted as he is, it’s bound to be longer. It’ll be dark by the time he’s back.

He blends in with the crowd until they’ve dispersed, and then it’s just Jason in a plastic folding chair on the manor grounds, staring at a patch of dirt.

“I’m glad you stayed,” says Bruce, but his voice sounds so sad it’s as if he’s never known gladness in his life. “Come inside.”

Jason feels hollow, his insides all scooped out and replaced with something as heavy and horrible as molten lead. He nods once and stands. Alfred guides the two of them down the walkway to the manor, one hand on each of their backs like he’s holding them together as well as upright.

Jason is served a mug of tea. It burns his tongue and he doesn’t even notice until the cup is empty. He had not tasted a single sip. 

“Stay here for the night, my dear boy,” says Alfred gently once the sun has gone down and Jason hasn’t moved from his safe spot on the sofa. “It is a time to have family near.”

Jason says okay. He treks up the stairs and through the hallways and finds himself in Dick’s childhood bedroom. That’s where he spends the night, curled on top of the dusty comforter, helpless to stop his own shivers.

*

Seven Years Ago:

Jason curls up tighter, wondering if maybe things will go quiet if he just wills them to hard enough. It doesn’t work—not like he’d really been expecting it to, but… still. 

He uncurls just enough to risk a glance at the clock—two fifty-six in the morning. Bruce, Dick, and Jason have been back from patrol an entire hour, and Dick and Bruce haven’t stopped yelling at each other since.

Even as hot anger and tight irritation fill Jason up, making his body as tense as a guitar string, he is helplessly reminded of… before. Back before Bruce took Jason in. Before his dad left. Before his mom died, and the endless nights they’d spent fighting.

In hindsight, Jason understands why his mom had been so angry all the time. She’d been trying to defend their little family against Willis’ rage, and his benders, and his irresponsibility. At the time, all Jason had known was that he wanted them to shut up. Stop screaming and love each other the way you promised you would.

He’d be much obliged if Bruce and Dick could just suck it up and do the same. 

Another torturous five minutes drag by, slower than Jason has ever known time could go. The fighting only escalates until Jason can literally hear the exact words they’re saying, even from all the way upstairs. According to Dick, Bruce should go fuck himself. According to Bruce, that was out of line young man, and this immaturity is exactly why I always—

By this point, Jason is thoroughly fed up. 

It’s an effort to drag himself out of bed and place his two bare feet on the cold floor. He remembers the way Willis used to smack him when he’d interrupt the fights, and how that only made his mom cry harder and scream longer.

Jason trudges down the stairs and into the living room regardless. Bruce would never hit his kids—that’s one thing he feels certain of.

“I’ve been trying to sleep for the last half hour,” Jason complains, putting his hands authoritatively on his hips. “So it would really be helpful if you two could shut the fuck up and kiss it better already. Alright?”

There is a moment of strained silence. Jason tolerates it as forgivingly as he can manage, but anxiety is beginning to replace his earlier irritation, and it swirls sickly in his stomach.

He hazards a glance at Dick, who is performing his best improv statue imitation. Utterly silent, frozen as ice. Smaller than usual in the hunch of his shoulders.

“Language, Jason,” warns Bruce, but he hasn’t looked away from Dick. “Give us a minute. We’re having a discussion. Right, Dick?"

Dick says nothing. His eyes are narrowed, burning with something frozen and soaked in anguish. Jason stares, caught in a burst of morbid curiosity. Is Dick an angry crier? He’s never seen Dick cry before. He’s never seen him this pissed, either.

No tears fall. Dick only glares.

“Jason,” Bruce warns again. Finally, his gaze slides away from Dick and onto Jason, who finds the expression chilling and utterly unreadable. He shivers beneath its intensity. This is the look Bruce gives criminals, directed single-mindedly at his eldest son. “I’m not going to ask you again.”

When Bruce relinquishes Dick from his glare, something tightly coiled inside him seems to snap, and finally, he speaks. “Oh, be quiet,” demands Dick. “He’s just trying to get some sleep. We’ll finish talking later, okay, Dad?”

The word dad is soaked in sarcasm. Bruce recoils from it.

“Come on, Jason,” says Dick loudly, holding out his arm for Jason to link elbows. Concerned, but mostly worried about what Dick might do if Jason refuses, Jason takes his arm. “Let’s go make a snack.”

Dick jauntily marches the two of them into the kitchen, elbow in elbow. “Thank you so much for the out,” he says once Bruce is maybe halfway out of earshot. “He was getting annoying.”

The last part is practically shouted. Jason would bet anything Bruce heard it loud and clear.

They make it to the kitchen. Dick pulls out a chair for Jason with a gentlemanly flourish, and makes his way over to the refrigerator to pillage it for snacks. “Are you in a bagels and cream cheese mood, or a chips and guac mood?” he asks. “Or…” His face begins to light up. “Bagels and guac?”

Finally, the nauseating anxiety in Jason’s stomach begins to melt away, and the constriction of his lungs recedes. “That sounds disgusting,” complains Jason. “We’d better give it a try.”

He tries to make himself forget about the fight, and the way it’s not even the first one that week. Bruce and Dick always fight. It’s what happens when two people with wildly different personalities love each other. Disagreement is inevitable.

Somewhere, deep down, Jason can’t quell the feeling that this is more than that. He pushes the fear away.

*

Eight Days After:

Jason wakes up feeling disoriented. Bathed in darkness, surrounded by unfamiliarity, he reaches out with one fumbling hand. “Dick?”

The lights flick on, and the scene is set. Reality hits in the form of a pounding headache and the terrible feeling that something important has been misplaced. And now he’ll never find it, now he’ll never—

“Not quite, Master Jason.”

Alfred stands in the doorway with a tray primly balanced on one arm. It’s stacked high with all of Jason’s favorites—eggs and bacon, bagels and cream cheese, french toast drowning in golden maple syrup and yellow butter. There’s a coffee pot and a teapot and a tiny white pitcher of cream. 

“Morning,” Jason mutters. It takes a moment for his brain to fully process the feast before him. It’s enormous. “How hungry do you think I am?”

Alfred’s expression is tight, but he does his very best to maintain a little smile. “I didn’t know what you’d prefer,” he says. “So I thought I might as well cover all my bases.”

Alfred sets the breakfast tray down on a stand by the bedside and, somewhere along the way, manages to land a loving pat on Jason’s shoulder. “I hope you slept well,” he hazards. Not once does he meet Jason’s eyes as he busies himself once more, pouring a cup each of tea and coffee and folding Jason’s napkin into a perfect little rectangle, all the creases smoothed out.

Jason’s heart twists and he has to look away. He’d slept through the night, but he still feels utterly unrested. All the energy a night of sleep must have given him is being wrung out like an old washcloth, and he feels once again exhausted. The thought of facing the day is a nightmare. Even this conversation with Alfred feels like an hour-long trial. He checks the clock. It hasn’t even been two minutes.

It occurs to Jason that Alfred must feel the same way. They’ve been making their way through this hellish reality at the same time.

“Thanks,” Jason manages, sitting up. “How long were you up to cook this?”

Alfred, bustling busily around the room, pays that question no mind. The clock says seven. He must have been up since five-thirty getting everything ready. 

“Now, you must stay as long as you need,” Alfred says, opening the curtains to let sunlight flood through. “Call me or Master Bruce if you need anything at all. He’s been dying to have you over, you know.”

Jason’s jaw tightens. Alfred’s face falls like an avalanche.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Alfred says. He hurries away.

*

Jason pokes at his breakfast for forty-five minutes until the bacon is cold, the eggs are rubbery, and the french toast is soggier than a sponge. He manages a few bites here and there. The only thing he finishes is the coffee, comforting in its familiar scalding bitterness. 

By that point, it’s inevitable that Jason should have to get up and face the family. He extracts himself from bed, slow and careful. At some point in the night, someone put a blanket over his shivering body. He curls his lip at it, burning hatred welling up in his stomach. He’ll have to start locking the door. The family’s kind attentiveness feels ironic. It didn’t come on time.

Dick’s childhood bedroom looks exactly the way he left it the day he moved out of the manor forever. The desk is scattered with pens and papers, dated seven years ago. The closet is bursting with all the clothes he didn’t take with him: T-shirts, sweatpants, an expensive suit he probably abandoned on purpose. His potted plants, splashes of green on the windowsill, are all miraculously alive. Alfred must have been watering them for all these years.

It’s like no one ever left. 

Please let him come home, pleads Jason’s mind unbidden. The yearning is powerful and agonizing. Let him come home. Please.

No desperate prayers are miraculously answered, so Jason brings the tray down the stairs. He's a much less masterful tray-balancer than Alfred and needs to use both hands. The kitchen, when he arrives after a slow and precarious journey through the manor’s endless halls, is empty. Good. Jason hand-washes every dish and puts it where it belongs. He has to dry them, too. Usually Dick does that.

With nothing else to do, Jason’s feet lead him unbidden to the one place in the manor he hopes he’ll find no one this early in the morning: the cave.

It feels darker than usual in the enormous, shadowy cavern, although that could just be the loneliness. Even when Jason was Robin, he was hardly ever in the cave alone. Bruce was always supervising, eagle eyes sweeping the scene for teenage mischief. If he wasn’t there, then Alfred was, dusting or sweeping or offering helpful, if sarcastic, advice. Other times it was Dick, training Jason on the sparring mats or gym floor. Grinning encouragement and always laughing, always having fun. 

Now, Jason’s only companion is his own solitude. His footsteps echo loudly on the dark stone walls. His shadow is monstrously tall.

He makes his way up to the bat computer and, finding his visual sweep of the premises empty as expected, sits down in the chair.

Jason opens a folder on the desktop full of footage from the manor and cave. He scrolls back through seven years of history, heart ramming like a jackhammer against his ribs. Then, he clicks on one and begins to watch.

*

Seven Years Ago:

Cave Camera 2 - Main Cavern:

“Hurry up,” says Bruce, arms crossed. If the batsuit had a watch, he’d be checking it. “We’re going to be late for patrol.”

“You can’t be late to something that isn’t specifically scheduled,” Dick argues, grinning over his shoulder at Bruce. “Like, great heavens, it’s ten PM! Universal patrol time !”

“Don’t give him ideas,” Jason cautions. “He’s gonna start scheduling it down to the second.”

“The millisecond,” says Dick.

“The microsecond.”

“Boys,” warns Bruce.

They are quiet. Jason hazards a glance over at Dick—his expression has suddenly become moody and grim. But when Jason meets his eyes, he grins.

Nanosecond, Dick mouths, rolling his eyes.

Jason smiles back, but picks up the pace putting on his uniform. The threat of Bruce’s anger makes him a little nervous, but the potential for another fight between him and Dick is much worse. They’ve been happening all the time lately, and Jason has no idea what to do except stay as far out of it as possible and hope that things get figured out. Dick and Bruce always used to know how to work things out. But things seem different lately.

When Jason and Dick are both dressed, they meet Bruce at the Batcomputer. The case files and notes are all up on the screen. Bruce reads them off, cowl down. At some point while Jason and Dick were putting on their uniforms, he made the transition into full Bat mode.

“Our assignments for the night,” says Batman. “Jason and I will be infiltrating the base. Dick will be on comms, using the surveillance system to help us maintain stealth.”

Jason’s heart leaps in excitement. Usually he’s the one stuck on comms while Dick gets to go do all the cool stuff. Never in his life does he feel more jealous than when he’s wasting away from boredom in the cave while Dick’s out in the thick of the action.

A grin spreads wide across his face. “Aye-aye, captain,” he declares, goofily saluting Bruce. “Roger that!”

Dick takes an uneasy glance at Jason and then turns back to Bruce. Even with a mask on, the betrayal on his face is clear to see. 

“Ummm,” says Dick.

Bruce doesn’t look up from the computer. He’s testing their remote access to the security cameras, which Dick hacked into a couple days ago.

“Do you have a problem?” Bruce inquires with a grunt.

“I just thought… shouldn’t I go with you guys, and Alfred can monitor the comms? Three people will be better than two in case there’s a confrontation, and I have a lot of experience in stealth—”

“No,” Bruce interrupts. His focus remains occupied by the computer. Cam one, secure. Cam two, secure. Cam three—

“Why not?” asks Dick. Rising anger is clear in his voice, and Jason’s gut clenches. They’re going to fight again and ruin the whole night. He just knows it. His heart, so hopeful just a minute ago, begins to sink.

“Because you haven’t been making smart decisions lately, and I need someone reliable for this mission.”

Jason can hardly believe his ears. Bruce may as well have slapped Dick in the face. That, Jason bets, would have hurt Dick less.

The cave has never been so silent. Each click of the keyboard sounds like a thunderclap as Bruce stubbornly continues to type. Jason doesn’t dare look at Dick, but he can hear the way Dick’s breath catches.

“I haven’t made bad decisions,” Dick grits out. Against all odds, he’s still managing to keep his calm. But Jason can see the way his entire body has gone tense. It won’t be long now until they’re screaming at each other. Jason wants to run away and hide from it. Instead, he stays frozen in place. “I’ve just made different ones from yours. I know you don’t think it’s possible for decisions other than yours to work out, I know it sounds totally wild, but actually—”

“When we are in the field, you do exactly as I decide for everyone’s safety,” Bruce says. Finally, the check of the cameras is complete, and he meets Dick’s eyes. “Anything else puts us all at risk.”

“I am completely capable of making smart choices,” Dick snaps back. “I’ve been doing this since I was nine, Bruce. Believe it or not, I’m not fucking stupid—”

“You’re acting like it,” says Bruce.

That’s the moment something snaps. Jason can feel the tension in the air, see the anger and betrayal and devastation in the way Dick goes rigid. 

This is where they start screaming, Jason thinks. 

Dick stands up, utterly silent, and turns around. He begins to walk out of the cave. Each footstep sounds as heavy as an anvil.

“Nightwing,” Bruce snaps. “Come back here. You still need to monitor comms.”

Dick does not say a word. He continues to walk away, stiff as a statue, and Jason feels something tearing in his chest. Should he get up and go after him? It’s a tempting idea. Then they could patrol together instead, or screw patrol and hang out in the manor, or something. 

But if Jason leaves, Bruce might never trust him with such an important assignment ever again. Guilt wrapping claws around his lungs, Jason stays put, feeling like a part of him is being torn away with Dick.

“Nightwing,” repeats Bruce. This time, he stands up. His voice is tight with growing anger. “You can’t just abandon your responsibilities.”

Dick does not acknowledge Bruce in any way. He keeps walking. He’s getting closer and closer to the cave’s exit.

“If you step out that door, you’re benched for a week.”

Dick reaches for the doorknob.

“Dick,” calls Jason feebly.

Finally Dick stops, and turns to look at Jason. But Jason has nothing to say. He feels helpless and small. He doesn’t know how this night could have gone so wrong.

Dick turns the doorknob. He steps through the door and swings it shut behind him. Then, the cave is silent, and Jason is left feeling powerless and utterly lost.

*

Cave Camera 8 - Garage:

A motorcycle speeds into the cave and comes to a rapid stop. Bruce is standing before the garage’s exit, blocking the door with his body. He is still dressed from head to toe in the Batsuit. Even the cowl rests heavy on his head. He’s been back from his patrol for an hour and a half.

Dick takes off his helmet and dismounts the bike. “Oh, hey, B.”

“Where have you been?” thunders Bruce. The fury radiating off his body is palpable. His entire form is taut with it.

“Patrol,” says Dick. He hangs up his helmet and walks up towards Bruce, who still blocks the door bodily. “Pardon me,” he says, looking innocently up at Bruce. 

“Why were you on patrol,” growls Bruce, “when I benched you for a week three days ago?”

“Oh, sorry,” says Dick flippantly. “I think you forgot to tell the criminals about that, because for some reason, they weren’t waiting for me to be unbenched! Crazy, right?”

“I expressly forbid you from patrolling and you did it anyways.”

“Gotham needs heroes, whether you try to bench me or not.”

“Robin and I had it covered,” Bruce returns. “By going out anyways without my knowledge, you put yourself at unnecessary risk. Which you seem to be doing a lot of lately, Dick.”

“The risk was not unnecessary,” Dick snaps back. “I’m doing my job. Protecting people.”

“You are a child,” hisses Bruce. “And I am your father, and I will discipline you however I see fit. That means when I say you’re benched, you’re benched.”

“Yeah, pull out the father card now, why don’t you, Dad?”

Bruce recoils, back going stiff, jaw twitching once. Dick takes the moment to try and shoulder his way through the door, but Bruce shoves back so hard that Dick stumbles and almost hits the ground. Breathing hard, shoulders shaking, Dick takes two steps back.

“Fuck you, Bruce,” he says. He takes his helmet off its hook. He swings his leg back over the bike and turns it on. Then he’s speeding out the same way he came in.

*

Jason watches the cameras very carefully. It’s a week before Dick comes back. He remembers that week vividly: texting and texting Dick over and over again, and getting nothing back.

Then one day he comes back. Jason thinks everything will be okay, but the yawning canyon between Dick and Bruce has only grown deeper. 

*

Cave Camera 2 - Main Cavern:

“So I was thinking,” says Jason, turning to Dick as they both step out of the cave’s locker room. They’ve finished their post-patrol showers, changed into comfortable clothes, and the rest of the night is theirs to do with what they will. “We need to hang out. There’s this new book—”

“Maybe later,” says Dick. There are bags under his eyes and his expression is closed off.

“Oh,” says Jason, feeling a pang of sharp disappointment slice through his chest. “Are you hungry? We could make something.”

“Not right now,” Dick says. “Another time.”

“You always say that lately,” Jason complains. “Stop saying ‘another time’ if what you really mean is ‘fuck no.’” Hurt is beginning to pulse in his heart. He doesn’t know why Dick being mad at Bruce means his relationship with Jason has to fall apart as well. Nothing Jason tries has managed to slow the fallout. He feels like his family is falling apart. It gives him the worst possible feeling of deja vu.

“That’s not what I mean,” Dick argues.

“Then come find me when you actually want to hang out,” Jason snaps. He’s done trying to make Dick happy when it’s clear that all he wants to do is brood. He stalks away from Dick, towards the exit.

“Jay,” sighs Dick, but he doesn’t sound sorry. Just fed up. Just tired.

“Fuck you,” Jason yells back before slamming the door shut. He’s aware in the moment that he may have overreacted just a tad, but honestly, Dick has been an absolute chore to hang out with lately. He’s always either screaming at Bruce, screaming about Bruce, or brooding. Why does everything have to be about Bruce?

Everything’s always about Bruce.

In the cave, Dick is alone. The camera doesn’t capture his face, but when he sits down heavily on the nearest chair, his shoulders begin to shake. 

*

Cave Camera 2 - Main Cavern:

A thunderous smack echoes through the cave, shocking even through the video, even after seven long years. 

“You’re fired, Dick,” 

Jason waits for a response. There is nothing but sick, unbearable silence.

“Get out of my cave.”

*

There is a year of footage where Dick shows up not once. Jason watches none of it. He remembers this point in his life. He remembers how sure he was that his family was broken forever. He remembers hating Bruce, and despising Alfred by extension. He remembers calling Dick over and over again and getting shallow courtesy in response.

He remembers feeling so lonely that sometimes, he naively thought he wanted to die.

He remembers getting his wish.

*

Cave Camera 2 - Main Cavern:

In the cave’s dim light, a pane of glass reflects a thin blade of light. Illuminated by it are two faces, both looking many years older than they should.

“You should have been there, Bruce.”

A good soldier.

Years of footage after that capture the display case languishing in its lonely corner. It never changes even as Bruce and Dick and Alfred do. It is trapped in time.

*

Jason skips the footage of those years. He doesn’t want to watch Tim’s transition from the tiny little neighbor boy into a hero. He doesn’t want to watch them find and eventually lose Damian. But the idea of uncovering Dick’s final days is as irresistible as it is excruciating.

Jason scrolls through years of files until he finds one dated recently. Just a couple weeks ago. The video’s thumbnail shows Dick, ragged and bleeding but alive.

Jason’s breath catches. His fingers tremble. The sight of Dick fills him with an impossible aching. He needs to see him one last time.

The last video ever captured of Nightwing in the Batcave. Maybe the last video taken of Nightwing, ever.

Jason clicks.

Cave Camera 2 - Main Cavern:

“I need to see if they broke you,” comes a gravelly rumble. The cave is dark. Two shadows are just barely visible, facing each other. They’re both shirtless and bloody. “I need to see if you still have the heart you once had.”

While the larger form wraps up his hands, steps into a fighting stance, the smaller one hesitates. He grips a mask in two trembling hands, staring at it for a long moment. Finally, he puts it on.

“So, one more time, Dick,” says Bruce. He steps closer to tower over his son, and even though he’s shirtless and bruised, he looks every inch as threatening as Batman ever has. It’s clear in this moment why he’s so universally feared by criminals. Batman can be terrifying when he wants to, and often when he doesn’t. “But now there’s only one rule… you have to win.”

Fast as a bolt of lighting, Bruce is swinging a punch. Dick dodges through the air, graceful despite his clear displeasure, even as Bruce follows up with a powerful kick.

And even as Batman rains merciless blows down on his son, Dick does not fight back. His only advantage is his speed. Over and over again he dodges and evades, through the air or on the ground, but Bruce does not stop. 

“You let the crime syndicate capture you. You let them torture you. You let them give your secrets to the world.”

“You weren’t there,” gasps Dick. A kick soars past him, missing by a fraction of an inch. Sweat beads on his forehead, turning his hair stringy. Already, his chest heaves with exhaustion.

“You let them turn you into a bomb. You let them kill you. Before Luthor rescued you, you let everyone watch you die.”

“I was trying to save people,” Dick pleads. His voice cracks and he stumbles. The next blow brushes past him, connecting but only just. He stumbles desperately away.

“I trained you to live, and I watched you die!”

The first blow makes true contact. Bruce’s elbow swings into Dick’s chin with all the force of a wrecking ball, and Dick’s head snaps back, stumbling to his knees and hitting the floor with a resounding thud. 

Dick does not attempt to get back up. He wipes blood from his chin with one shaky hand, the other braced on the floor to keep himself from falling. 

“After that, I need to know if you can come back. If you’re strong enough for what comes next.”

Dick’s voice comes out as a trembling gasp. “Bruce, what is this?”

And while Dick is still on the floor, wiping the blood from his face, Bruce swings out with a leg and kicks his son in the face. Blood sprays from Dick’s nose as he flies backwards, head hitting the cold stone floor with a sickening crack. As soon as he recovers from the shock, Dick is on his hands and knees, crawling away from his father, but Bruce is faster, and kicks him again. This time he collides with that horrible display case, and shards of broken glass explode into the air like a firework, hitting the ground and shattering into even more pieces.

Dick lies on his side in the mess, gasping for air, bleeding from his face and chest and arms. He tries once, faltering, to get up. He collapses back into the glass shards.

“I have a mission for you, Dick. I need you to do something that will hurt your friends. Your family.”

“Bruce,” Dick chokes out, holding himself up with one trembling arm. “What the hell is going on?”

“Everyone thinks you’re dead. I need you to stay dead.”

Something horrible, something dark and frantic and devastated, fills Dick’s eyes. Finally he finds the strength to get up, and he sends the hardest kick he can manage into Bruce’s chest. “No!”

Bruce grunts and stumbles back, looking grimly pleased. “Good fight,” he says. “Fight like a man who can’t be captured. Who won’t be killed. Fight like you’re alive.”

As they struggle, grappling against each other, Dick looking desperate and Bruce filled with deadly determination, it’s impossible to tell whether the dampness all down Dick’s face is sweat or tears. He’s gasping for breath, struggling against his father, and Bruce will not relent.

The fight goes on for long, horrible minutes that stretch forever into hours.

“How can you ask me to do this, Bruce?” asks Dick. Blood streams from cuts up and down his body, dripping down to stain the floor red. His voice is breaking. His entire body is wracked by trembling. Still, they fight. “How can you do this to me?”

“I’m making that sacrifice,” Bruce growls. He swings a punch at Dick’s face, and Dick blocks it just barely with his arm. “Because I don’t give up. I don’t give in.”

And what feels like centuries later they are both on the floor, breathing hard, soaked in sweat and blood and the tears that drip painfully down Dick’s face.

“That’s enough,” says Bruce, holding the cowl in stained fingers.

“No,” says Dick. His voice is dark with that horrible anger again, and his entire body is trembling. “It’s never enough.” Irony drips from every part of him.

Even more ironic is the way Bruce pulls him close. And after everything, Dick lays his head down on Bruce’s chest. He begins to shake even harder than before, and Bruce reaches up to wipe the tears away with fingers that leave behind smudges of red.

“I don’t want to do this,” Dick whispers. “What about Jason?”

“He’ll be okay,” says Bruce. He strokes up and down Dick’s shoulder with one arm as Dick shudders. “We’ll take care of him.”

“How can I possibly trust you with that?” 

Bruce doesn’t reply. But he keeps on wiping away the tears, and eventually, Dick is silent.

“Please don’t make me,” Dick begs after uncountable, neverending minutes.

“I’m sorry,” says Bruce.

*

In the present, many many miles away from the cave, Dick is alone in a small, plain room. Scattered on his desk are all the components of a little radio he’s taken apart. He speaks into a tiny microphone, his voice sounding small and lost.

“Can I come home now?”

“Please, can I come home?”

But no one replies. And no one comes to take him home.