[FIC] In Dreams by kleine-asbar (Part 4 of 4)
Title: In Dreams (Part 4 of 4)
Author: kleine-asbar Rating/Warnings: NC-17. Abuse, angst, creepiness, idiot plot, purple prose, underage sex, violence. Summary: I finally went through with my plans to write that thing where Regular!Bruce & Dick (I’m using a mix of Grant Morrison/New 52, only Damian isn’t dead because that’d suck donkey balls) meet Bruce & Dick from Frank Miller’s notorious (and glorious XD) All-Star Batman and Robin. Sparks fly, yo. Fists, too. Note: Accompanying art by lokiet, which can also be found under the cut below! Mod note: Due to its length, this story has been posted in four parts over the last week. [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]
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VIII.
"… I can't walk."
"Sure you can walk. We've walked all the way here. Don't be a brat."
"But …"
The teen in the dark hoodie and sunglasses clutches the brown package he's holding, and peeks out of the dark alley, at the hobo lurching around right in front of the Gotham Gazette's building. He licks his lips. Doesn't seem too long ago that both his lips and tongue have been on Batman's balls (feels like he can still taste them, despite the popsicle he's received for compensation), but the large man in the trench coat behind him apparently has already moved on from it.
"Almost done," he growls, in what resembles an encouraging tone.
Dick takes a deep breath and asks the same dangling question he's been asking over and over since they've wrapped up shooting.
"What'll become of me once it's done?"
He hears a dismissive snort. "You've been singing me that song for an hour. It's getting stale," Batman huffs, in lieu of an actual answer. But then: "… we'll talk later."
Dick's heart skips. Batman's been dodging the question from the get go, and he's sorta still doing it, but that's … that's a start. He'll take it. Dick'll take what he can get. He cranes his neck to gaze up at him with a cheeky grin.
This seems to fluster the big man. He shifts in his disguise. "You remember what you're supposed to do?"
It's Dick's turn to snort. "Walk over to that homeless guy, hand him fifty bucks, tell him to drop this off at the front desk? Think I can handle it. I'm not dense."
"You're not," Batman agrees to his pleasant surprise. "But you sure like to be asked twice." Except for in the bedroom. "Now move."
Turns out, getting his rocks off makes Batman a little less of a hardass, but not that much. Dick gives up grinning at him, and steps out into the open. He keeps his head down, though he isn't quite sure for whom. The plaza looks freaking deserted, apart from the man in rags shoveling through a trashcan. The early morning hours are traditionally Gotham's deadest hour. The criminal syndicates have already wrapped up their bloody business, and the good citizens aren't up yet. The only people awake are the first responders, the nurses and doctors and cops and firemen, 'cause those poor devils are always up. The Gotham Gazette's front desk is manned, though, and that's the important thing. In a few minutes, the woman hanging over the counter will receive a package that'll wipe that sleepy look off her face.
In a few minutes, Dick knows, he'll also have crossed over into irredeemable villainy. He'll kill this world's Batman and Robin (… right, Nightwing), who have done nothing to him, and he's not gonna look back. He figures, after all he's pulled in the past few months, it's not that big of a step.
His little walk over seems endless, though. And it's not only 'cause he feels as sore as if he'd been riding a horse for the last hour. (Turns out, his Bruce is way more selfish in bed than the other one was; but he's also even fierier, and Dick has to admit he digs that a little.) It's as if his feet are resisting him. His heart feels heavy. A part of his brain is screaming at him to throw the tape to the ground, then jump up and down on it until it's unusable. Batman would be so pissed, but when is he not. Dick doesn't fear his wrath that much anymore. It's his indifference that terrifies him now. But really, so what if Batman ditches him here; he's ditched him before, and Robin has always found his way back. He'll always find his way back to him.
He wants to be strong enough to do that now. He wants to be strong enough to defy his mentor, then turn around and demand he be taken home, anyway. Batman has always respected strength, perhaps he'd respect him, then.
He's so caught up in it that he doesn't even notice that the man he's doing all this for, the man who's waiting for him in the dark alleyway, suddenly gets yanked back with a startled grunt and a wire around his neck.
"Gramps, huh," the older Batman hisses in his ear as he drags him away.
But Dick doesn't see it, he doesn't hear it. He's got his eyes on the man in rags. The hobo interrupts his trash dive with a quizzical hum as the teen approaches. Dick understands why he's alarmed. He sure wouldn't be the first homeless man to get beaten up by a juvenile delinquent in this town. He looks out of it, too, barely able to stay on his plastic-wrapped feet. Dick steps closer, clammy hands clutching the brown package to his chest.
"Hey –"
Aaand he chokes.
He can't do it. It's wrong and he knows it. But he can't bring himself to turn around and face Batman's disappointment, either. He freezes, breaking out into a sweat, until someone else makes his choice for him.
When the homeless man moves, it's at a startling pace. Dick sees a flash of silver appear out from under his rags, and his brain kicks into gear a moment too late to tell him –
Run
And then, a strong hand reaches for his wrist, the cuffs snap shut around it, and a familiar voice mutters, "All right, lad, let's have a sit-down."
-----
"A word," Bruce says calmly, after slamming Batman into the wall a third time for good measure.
He hears something rattle in Batman's throat, and then a fleck of spit flies at his face. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't avoid it, either. He almost wants to thank him. It's deserved. It seems only appropriate that it's coming from himself.
It hits his puffy cheek, and he remains stoic while it slowly dribbles down his chin. Batman abandons his fruitless rage to take a good look at his bruised face for the first time. It makes him snicker. "Nightwing got you good," he assesses, not without satisfaction. But he starts glaring again when it gets no reaction from Bruce.
"Coward," he snarls. "Fight me."
"No."
Bruce looks at his own sneering, arrogant face. Young, proud, somewhat insane, seething with righteous anger. No fear, no shame. He hates him, and he envies him. But that's not important now.
"You don't want to fight me," he declares in a tired voice. "You don't think I'm worth it."
Batman snorts in agreement. "You look like a dead man," he points out.
Bruce doesn't doubt it. He doesn't feel as if he wants to live. He doesn't want to die either, he never does (too much unfinished business still), but he's not sure how to live, now. He's lost himself, he's lost whatever love Dick might have left for him. He's wearing the cowl, but he's disgusted with himself for doing it. He can't imagine getting up tomorrow, he can't imagine looking at his face in a mirror without wanting to break both. He so badly wants to lie down and play dead. The only thing he wants more than that is to end this, without bloodshed, and without more suffering. He owes it to Dick. He owes it to Robin. And that's why his hand stays locked around Batman's throat like a vice.
Batman had been right. He'd started it, he has to end it. After that, he can still fall down that steep, ragged dark hole that's opened up inside him.
"How," Batman growls at him, his curiosity overriding his desire to treat him like trash for a second, which makes sense. In his place, Bruce would want to know too.
He'd known that putting Damian on portal watch would have never been enough to truly stop them; it had been a diversion more than anything else, a sad attempt at saving face in front of his son. After his talk with Dick (the results of which he's trying to bury deep in the back of his mind for now, lest he'd start clawing the skin off his face), he'd been prepared to scour the entire city for them. But then, Batman had unexpectedly come to his aid.
"You went on a burglary rampage through some old Wayne Tech facilities," he reminds him, "Stealing some very specific things. And once I saw –" He hesitates, shudders, presses on. "I knew what you'd do."
Of course he did. They're not identical, obviously, but they share the same, catastrophic brain chemistry. How could he not know. "And I knew you wouldn't mail it."
Batman flashes him a cold, unimpressed smile, but it's masking something else, something buried deep, and shameful. "I only finished what you started."
Bruce resists the urge to slam him into the wall again. "I'd let you ruin me. But I won't let you ruin him."
"How nurturing." Batman tilts his head as well as he can with his throat in a deadlock. "It's not gonna make him crawl back to you," he says, soberly and without cruelty. "Not that one. Tell me you're not that pathetic."
Bruce doesn't even try to mask the pain pouring across his face. It's fine, he might as well see it. It's not as if he has any dignity left that's worth defending. He nearly says I know, but it's not as if either of them needs it.
Batman's red-rimmed eyes narrow. "What'd you do with the boy?" He now asks, attempting to crane his neck in the direction Robin has disappeared into. The note of real, possessive concern in his voice makes Bruce cringe with familiarity. "Where is he?"
"He's safe. I wouldn't harm him. But the tape is mine. And you'd have to cripple or kill me to get it back."
Batman's hands curl into fists in their heavy gauntlets. "Why does everyone here insist I won't kill? You are one man. You're old. I can take you."
"You'd have to try both of us, though. How 'bout that?"
Hearing his chipper, mellow voice from above sends a shock through Bruce's system. They both react to it, looking up at Nightwing peering down at them from the fire escape, wiggling his finger at Batman.
"I kicked your butt once," he says, "Don't make me do it again."
He's wearing that daredevil grin, but Bruce can tell that he's acting. Beneath it, he looks pale and miserable, and it makes his heart clench with guilt.
"Nightwing." It's hard to speak to him, but he's not ready to give up on it yet. "You should rest."
"You think I'd miss this?" Nightwing quips, but there's no warmth, no affection to it. It's not lost on Bruce, and not on Batman.
"Look at you," he barks up at him. "You're even worse off than the old perv who made you. A girl scout could take you."
"You know? You're right." Dick shoots him a sardonic smile. "I lost a lot of blood thanks to you. Actually, if you tipped me right now, I'd fall over. But I came anyway, to offer my moral support," he says, not once looking at Bruce. He points at the alley's entrance. "To him."
Batman's gaze follows his pointing finger, and then Bruce feels his body slump under his hands. His expression goes from sneering to startled little boy, and Bruce knows that, for once, he's made the right call.
"You didn't –" Batman croaks, and it sounds as petulant as it does defeated.
In the alleyway stands Alfred Pennyworth, with a handcuffed, pouting Robin flung over his shoulder and a stern look on his face. He's still in his homeless man's costume, which somehow doesn't make him seem less dignified in the slightest.
"I'm sorry, boss," Robin squawks. "He – he got the drop on me …"
"Whatever," Batman mumbles, mortified. He's barely able to look at the butler, who must be a perfect doppelganger of the man who'd raised him.
Bruce almost cracks a weak smile. The inspiration for this had come from Dick, like it had so many times over the years. Bruce came up with it after Dick mentioned in his grudging report that the only kind word Batman had spared had been for Alfred. Which wasn't much, on its face, but combined with what Bruce knows about himself, what he had gleaned from Robin's behavior …
Alfred Pennyworth is the one person that all four of them love, care for, and respect. He's the constant. He's the secret weapon.
But in order to get him to do this, of course Bruce had had to do something first. He'd had to disappoint the man whose respect, next to Dick's, had meant the most to him.
It seems as if his face is still ringing from the massive punch Alfred had delivered to him when he'd told him the truth about himself and Robin. (He hadn't slapped him; he'd outright punched him.) It corresponds with the swelling of his busted lip and cheek from where Dick has hit him earlier. It hurts, but nowhere near enough.
"Alfred." Bruce lowers his gaze, mirroring his other self. It's almost as difficult to look at his oldest friend as it is to look at Dick. "Excellent work, as usual."
The butler doesn’t answer him. "Master Dick," he says to the young man dangling from the fire escape. "I told you to stay in bed. You're in no condition to be scaling walls!"
"Apologies, Alfred." Dick sounds genuinely guilty. He slides down the stairs, hitting the ground a little more heavily than usual. "But I had to at least check on mini-me." He limps over and ruffles Robin's hair. The gesture isn't unfriendly, though harsh enough to make the boy wince. "Even if he's a brat."
"You're … not mad?" Robin squeaks, twisting his neck to look up at his counterpart. It'd be easy for him to wrestle out of the butler's grip, but he doesn't, which is another point for Bruce's theory.
"Eh," Dick says noncommittally, still with that biting smile on his face.
"Enough." Alfred uses one hand to balance Robin on his shoulder, and puts the other on his hip. "This has gone on long enough. We will resolve this once and for all, and we will do it in a civil manner, in a civilized environment. If I'm not mistaken, we have a safe house right around the corner. We'll resume this conversation there."
Dick gestures at Robin. "Want me to take him?" He offers.
"I appreciate it, Master Dick," Alfred says, shifting the boy on his shoulder with a soft groan, "But please, not in your current state."
"I could –" Batman grumbles.
"Or me, if you –" Bruce starts.
Dick gives both a consternated look while Alfred pierces them with stern, hard eyes. "Not you two," he snaps, extending a warning finger.
"Hey, I can walk," Robin protests weakly. "Let me down? I'm not gonna run, I swear."
Alfred seems skeptical for a moment, but ultimately relieved. "Very well, young Sir. I'll take you at your word."
He puts him down with a small huff, and Robin doesn't run. "Thank you, Mr Pennyworth," he says meekly, dusting himself off.
"The package is secured," Alfred informs Bruce, without seeming like he actually wants to talk to him, patting the bag he wears around his shoulder. "Now gentlemen, if you please."
He turns, and they all fall in line behind him, of course they do. Robin is in handcuffs, and Batman is flanked by Bruce and Dick, but Bruce isn't fooling himself; they could probably take all three of them in combat, if it came to it, and there's no telling who'd be left standing at the end. But the point is that they aren't going to try, not now, not after Alfred has gotten involved. Bruce knows Batman well enough to be sure. He might get into fights with him, might yell at him, and this version is probably even young and crude enough to shove him or even grab him by his impeccable collar. But even he wouldn't dream of harming him. And they both know it.
"Tattling to Alfred," Batman growls next to him, "What a bitch move."
"Worked well enough, didn't it," Bruce mutters back between clenched teeth, but his attention is on Dick, who quietly keeps in step with them, but seems less than thrilled to be in their presence.
"Stop it, Master Bruce," Alfred says, without turning around. "I'm not above putting you across my knees if you try my patience."
"Which one," they both ask in unison, before exchanging a nasty look.
Alfred makes a merciless noise in his throat. "Both."
And Dick doesn't even laugh at it.
IX.
Eventually, it's 8 in the morning, and up in one of Bruce Wayne's many anonymous penthouse apartments, things have reached a stalemate.
A storm is raging outside, but the luxurious suite with the thick, sound-proofed walls is perfectly quiet. A foul odor hangs in the air from the fragrance that Alfred has put on to get into character. It seems oddly fitting; there's something rotten going on here, after all.
Bruce and Dick are sharing a couch, but they couldn't be sitting further apart on it. Dick is slumping in the cushions, and it pains Bruce to see how exhausted he looks. Sometimes, it seems as if he's about to doze off, but then he snaps out of it again, obviously too tense and uncomfortable to actually pass out. After a while, Bruce stops sneaking solemn looks in his direction. His former protégé and once-upon-a-time best friend seems determined to ignore him, and Bruce doesn't blame him.
Batman is sulking in the armchair across from them. Whenever he's not glaring at Bruce with hate-filled, bloodshot eyes, he's slyly examining the room. Bruce knows that every household implement, every piece of furniture is a potential weapon to him, but he leaves him to it, anyway. He doesn't blame him, either. He's free to dream about putting his older counterpart's head through the flat screen TV, as long as he doesn't make an actual move. And he won't. Alfred still has the tape, and he's already re-iterated that Batman would have to pry it out of his cold dead hands if he wanted it.
Alfred has retreated to the next room. He's excused himself to have a private talk with Robin. Or rather, he'd announced that this talk would happen, and that Dick and the Batmen should stay here and behave.
So they wait, and every minute feels like an hour.
Bruce thinks that he's never experienced Dick being this quiet. The desire to reach out to him is strong, but every last thread of sanity he possesses tells him it's a horrible idea. On the other end of the spectrum, even hearing the way Batman is breathing through his nose makes him want to pummel him
I only finished what you started
but it seems pointless now.
"Hey."
Bruce unwillingly raises his head. "What."
"So," Batman gazes back and forth between him and Dick. "Are you two –"
"No," they blurt out at the same time, looking in different directions.
"I see." Batman smirks with lazy amusement, but his eyes seem pitying when he fixes them on Bruce. "You're a sad man," he concedes.
Bruce doesn't even blink. It doesn't seem as if it needs pointing out.
Nobody raises their voice again after that. They wait, and Bruce nervously hopes that Robin isn't going to try sleeping with Alfred now. The teen has been in a strange frame of mind from the very start, and Bruce has done nothing but escalate him further –
The door opens after what seems like eternity, and the butler and the boy come walking out. It takes Bruce some restraint not to leap to his feet in nervous anticipation at the sight of them. He sees Batman stir in his chair, and knows he's fighting the same impulse. Robin, who's not wearing handcuffs anymore, is gazing stubbornly at his feet. Alfred looks earnest, but at least he doesn't look upset, which is a small comfort.
After a short pause, he squeezes Robin's shoulder, and kindly says, "Go on."
The boy huffs through his nose, but then he marches over to where his older self is sitting, and awkwardly stands in front of him as if he's about to recite something. Dick looks up at him with deep shadows on his worn, handsome face; it's probably somehow to his benefit that he experiences all this through a thick layer of heavy exhaustion.
"I'm sorry for everything," Robin says, and Bruce can tell from the faint blush creeping into his cheeks that he means it, "I wanted to say that the whole time. I feel really bad for the stuff I did. You were really cool to me, and I was …" He trails off, as if he doesn't even want to say out loud what he thinks he is. "And I'm not saying that 'cause Mr Pennyworth said I should, or something," he adds with a petulant shrug, "He just told me I should go ahead and do it, 'cause you're a nice guy and you wouldn't be a jerk about it."
"I can confirm that," Alfred says with a faint smile.
"Anyway, I think you're great." Robin mumbles, too shy to even look at Dick properly. "And I wish that …" He hangs his head, shuffling his feet. "I wish we coulda been friends."
"Kid. I …" The corners of Dick's mouth tremble and turn downward, and for a moment he looks like he did as a little boy on the rare occasions where he'd burst into tears, and it makes Bruce want to fall on a sword. But Dick's eyes stay dry; maybe he doesn't want to cry in front of his teenage self and two Bruce Waynes, or maybe he's too tired for it.
He licks is cracked lips. "Thanks," he says hoarsely. "It's okay - well, not really, no, it's not okay, but I just … Robin. Dick. Can you promise me something?"
"Uh. Sure?"
Dick casts a quick, not exactly friendly glance at the two Bruces, then gently tugs on Robin's arm to pull him close, and whispers something in his ear. Bruce resists the pathological urge to lean forward to hear what's being said. Robin listens intently. His features don't give away what he's thinking.
At the end, he softly says, "All right." He doesn't smile, but he looks a little more hopeful when he stands up straight again. "So … we cool?"
Dick lets out a small sigh. But he looks genuine when he squeezes Robin's hand and says, "Yeah. We're cool."
Their handshake lasts for a good while, until Robin lets go, and faces Bruce. Their eyes meet, and Bruce's heart turns sore when he remembers how, for a strange, bizarre, magical moment, they had been lovers.
"You don't nee –" he starts desperately, but Robin raises his hand with unexpected confidence.
"No. Let me," he insists. And then: "I'm really sorry … that I lied."
It's all he says. Bruce stares up at him and sees a quick, mischievous smile ghost across the boy's familiar features, one that's solely meant for him to see, and he instantly understands what it means.
I'm not sorry about what we did.
At this moment, it seems like much more than he deserves. Bruce blinks at him and feels a lump in his throat.
"I app –" He catches the look in Robin's eyes and needs to clear his throat. "Appreciate it."
Robin extends his hand to him, and for a confusing moment, it looks as he's supposed to kiss it, and he's tempted to. But then he collects himself, takes it, and gives it a firm, lasting squeeze. He feels Robin's fingers squeeze him back, and then the moment is interrupted when he hears Batman make a noise that sounds like he's throwing up in his mouth.
It causes Alfred to turn to him. "Right," he says sternly, "You."
Batman delivers him a steely glare, but it's obvious how it wounds him that Alfred, any Alfred, would turn on him. "Sure. I'm the villain. After all he's pulled, I'm the asshole."
"Not quite, no." Alfred shows no sign of wariness as he walks over to him, arms crossed. "At least you're not the only one. After learning about the situation – and, I must add, learning much more than I ever wanted to know –"
Batman briefly examines his boots. Bruce shields his eyes with his hand.
Alfred shoots glares at both of them. "I came to the conclusion that neither of you should be trusted with this boy."
He pauses to let the words sink in. Dick has risen from his tired slump to look at him curiously. Robin is staring down at his boots, but Bruce can see the faint, gleeful smile on his face. Batman silently glowers at him, then at Alfred, waiting. Bruce, who is the only one who knew it was coming, gives Alfred a firm nod, which the butler ignores.
When nobody really speaks up to vehemently disagree, Alfred continues. "Anyway, Bruce has asked me to make the boy an offer, and it seemed reasonably enough to me that I did."
"Did he propose," Batman grumbles. Bruce bites the inside of his mouth and silently counts to ten.
Alfred's lips grow thin. "We're offering him to remain in our world to resume his education, and even his crime-fighting activities, with the financial support he has grown accustomed to," he says. "However, he would not be living at Wayne Manor, and Master Bruce has assured me that he will not be in contact with him. I happen to have a good friend back home who is headmaster of a prestigious boarding school who I'm sure would be glad to take him, and I am certain that Knight and Squire wouldn't mind looking out for our young friend here. Or -"
The butler sighs. "If he doesn't wish to part with Gotham – why, I couldn't even begin to fathom – we're sure Dr Leslie Tompkins would be able to find a good place for him. And there's a certain, ambitious vigilante who we know would love to have a partner. He's been scouting for one for years, yet has never been able to make it stick, somehow. I'm sure he'd be thrilled to take on a talented youth who has experience as a Boy Wonder. And I have a feeling they'd get along splendidly. His name is Red Hood."
Batman looks completely lost.
"Jason Todd," Robin says excitedly, bouncing on his heels. "The second Robin."
It's silent until Dick makes, "…huh."
Bruce observes him. The idea seems to have stirred him out of his apathy for a moment. He looks intrigued. "That's … kinda brilliant, actually," he admits. "Jason has been desperate for a partner. And uh, not to pat myself on the back, but he'd probably go nuts if you told him he'd get his own Dick Grayson to work with." He turns to Robin. "And, you know, after seeing you in action … you two could actually be a good match."
"Is he good to work with?" Robin asks, with a meaningful sideways glance at Batman that the older man scowls at.
It's obvious Dick isn't sure how to answer that. "He … uh, can be," he eventually settles on.
Bruce has given this a lot of thought. Jason could be a troublesome foe, but he could also be a loyal ally if he got the chance. And ... with the experiences he's had, he's extremely unlikely to try sleeping with a teenage boy. Dick doesn't say it out loud, but Bruce knows both he and Alfred are thinking it, and they'd be right. Actually, Jason is more likely to come after his former mentor guns blazing if he learned what had happened, and he would have good reason to. He surely wouldn't be the worst company for Robin; besides, he couldn't possibly be worsethan either of the Bruce Waynes in this room.
"It's entirely your choice," he says to Robin, once the boy sets his curious eyes on him. His voice is flat and exhausted, but he can't keep the softness from creeping in. "I won't interfere. But I want to take care –"
"All right, I've had it!" A dark voice cuts him off.
Batman has emerged from his chair. Even in his current de-fanged state, he cuts an imposing figure as he strides across the room to tower over the butler and, by extension, Bruce.
"Who do you two think you fucking are?" He bares his white, sharp teeth. "It's not for you to decide!"
Bruce gets to his feet in case he has to interfere. Even Dick straightens, though he looks like he wouldn't even be able to stand up.
Robin follows the scene with wide, interested eyes.
Alfred seems completely unfazed by the large man looming over him. "You're correct, Sir. We are not the ones to decide." He gestures at Batman's former teenage partner. His voice is cutting. "He is. It's about time the lad gets to make a choice for himself. Wouldn't you agree?"
The Bat and the butler stare each other down, until Alfred lets out an exasperated sigh.
"Preserve your energy, Sir," he says curtly, before he retreats. He gives Robin a sad, gentle nod. "Tell him."
All attentions turn to Robin, and Bruce realizes that the teen has been grinning through the entire exchange. Now he walks over and puts himself between Batman and Alfred, looking up at his former partner. Bruce watches them. They look unsavory, Batman in a sloppy trench coat, Robin in a worn-out hoodie, and yet somehow, as they exchange a look, something about them fits.
"I told him thanks, but no," Robin explains with another shrug. "I told him I wanna be with you." He turns around when he feels Bruce's eyes on him. There's a hint of regret on his sharp, pretty face, but there's even more resolve. Bruce sees that fever simmering in his eyes, that beautiful madness, and knows he'll never forget it. "It's where I'm meant to be."
Bruce swallows, then nods at his decision.
Batman's massive body is stirring. Bruce watches his face closely, and it almost seems as if an emotion is about to take place on it, but then it doesn't. Instead, the vigilante blusters, and pokes his finger at his former partner, who's grinning up at him again.
"Okay, let me get one thing straight, you're not with me," he barks. "I may take you with me, if I'm generous, though hell knows you don't deserve i – "
"SHUT UP."
Everyone's heads turn in Dick's direction, startled by the unexpected harshness in his voice. He hasn't gotten up, but the look he's giving Batman could cut through steel. There's even faint color in his cheeks. He doesn't sound tired anymore, and the words leave him in a staccato, as if he'd been sitting on them for hours, no, for years. "Shut up, just shut up, for once, just shut your mouth."
Bruce internally readies himself to deck Batman if he tries something. Truth be told, he'd like nothing more than to beat himself up for Dick's benefit, even though, judging by Dick's tone, it's unlikely to score him any points now. But as he gazes at his counterpart, he finds him looking more impressed than angry. Eventually, Batman snorts out a laugh.
"Know what, Nightwing," he mutters. "Fair enough."
Dick growls at him.
Batman scoffs, looks at Dick, Bruce, and Alfred in turn, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm so ready to get out of here."
Bruce crosses his arms. "Now that we have the tape, and Robin made his choice, you're free to." He turns to the teen again. "Do you think you can perform the ritual from here?"
"I can do it anywhere." Robin looks smug. "I once performed in the restroom of a donut shop when he kicked me out and I became homeless."
"Save it," Batman snarls, when three pairs of eyes glare at him. "I know."
With that, a truce is reached, all necessary words have been spoken, and they decide to leave the pair to it. Bruce is surprised when Batman comes over to him as Dick and Robin exchange farewells.
"I give you this. Your city looks clean. As good as I've ever seen it." He gives his older self a morose look. "Maybe you don't suck."
Bruce isn't sure whether to laugh or cry. Neither seems a good option. "Thanks for noticing," he deadpans, because he does take pride in his work, even though he doesn't feel a shred of it now.
"I like the Batmobile," Young Batman confesses grumpily. He sounds impressed, and beefed about it. "It's pretty sweet."
"You totaled it."
The hardness on Batman's face dissipates for a moment. "I regret that," he says, and his wistful tone makes it clear that his regret is with the car, not with Bruce.
Bruce's face is twitching. "I know you do." He also knows that Batman will immediately build one for himself once he gets home. Which is fine; he would have come up with the design on his own one day, anyway.
Bruce casts a look at Dick and Robin by the couch, then treats his other self to his best threatening stare. "If you ever hurt him, I know where you live."
"Same." Batman holds Bruce's stare until Robin returns to his side. "What's that," he asks him.
"Oh, this?" Robin twirls the escrima stick in his hand, then nods at Dick. "He gave it to me. As a souvenir. A reminder that I can do whatever I want with my life. And," he smirks. "He says to zap you with it if you're mean to me."
Batman looks as if he has a biting retort to that, but then he catches another death glare from Nightwing, and decides to bite his tongue. He turns to Alfred, instead. "Really sorry about the mess in the Batcave, Alfred. You know it wasn't personal." He looks genuinely guilty. Even Robin stops playing with his stick for a moment to bite his lip. "Yeah, sorry Mr Pennyworth," he pipes.
"Not to worry," the butler shoots Bruce a frosty look. "I'll have plenty of assistance cleaning it all up."
They get ready to finally part, but as soon as Dick gets up from the couch, he goes as white as a sheet, and starts shaking on his legs. The sight shocks Bruce back to reality. They've invested so much time debating Robin's fate, when Dick should've been on a stretcher yesterday. He rushes over to aid him, but stops dead in his tracks when he sees the wary look on Dick's pale face and realizes with a pang of immeasurable sadness that he'd rather stagger on by himself than take his hand.
"Right here, Master Dick." Alfred swoops in instead, wrapping Dick's arm around his neck and helping him up. "Hold on to me. There."
Bruce lets Dick limp out with Alfred's help, then leaves the suite behind them. He sees Robin sheepishly wave at them before the door falls shut.
They take a long, silent walk down the endless hallway, looking very much defeated, a wounded soldier, a disappointed guardian, and a fallen hero who doesn't dare to speak a word to either. When they finally reach the elevators, Bruce more feels than hears the faint ringing of an old phone from the other end of the hall.
X.
The storm seems to have receded, but the streets still seem conveniently deserted once they reach the back exit. Alfred leaves to bring the car around, which briefly leaves Dick stranded with Bruce.
The young man refuses to even look at his old mentor, stubbornly clinging to the door's handle, so he won't have to touch him. Bruce feels his throat closing up at the sight. He wants nothing more than for him to accept his hand. He wants to carry him in his arms, like he used to whenever he got hurt on patrol, he wants to put him to bed, and … nothing and, really, he wants to put him to bed and tuck him in and watch over him to make sure he'll be all right. But Bruce is a helpless idiot, as always in these moments. Seeing Dick hurt has always shaken him to his core; being the cause of his hurt is something he doesn't know how to deal with, never has.
"Dick," he finally chokes out. "I –"
"You know," Dick interrupts, his voice flat as he stares straight ahead at the brick wall across from them. "I swore to myself I wasn't gonna say it. Or think it. 'cause it's childish, and it makes me feel stupid. But," he smiles mirthlessly. "I couldn't help but notice. There were two of me, and there were two of you. And you both went crazy for him."
Bruce had thought he couldn't feel more devastated. He was wrong. "No," he whispers. "No. No, don't think -"
"Don't tell me what to think. And don't insult me by denying it." Dick talks right over him again, unimpressed by the growing anxiety in his voice. "I'm not jealous. It's creepy. But I get it. He's like a time capsule to you. A freeze frame. Back from the time when I did whatever you wanted me to. The minute I stopped doing that was the minute you stopped –"
"Dick, don't –"
Dick presses his bloodless lips together. "- stopped loving me. I used to wonder what I did wrong, what drove you away from me, but it's simple, really. You loved the boy, you don't care for the man, you couldn't have made it clearer."
"I never stopped loving you!"
It's startling how easy it is to say now that he's in a panic, now that it all comes crashing down. He takes a step toward him. "I'm proud of everything you've become. I look to you every day, and it makes me happy, and it makes me proud. Dick, please. Please." The words come pouring out of him, and it seems crazy he hasn't said all of this earlier, much earlier. But hope fades when Dick looks at him as if he's never going to believe him again. It's too late. Bruce extends an arm for a touch that never happens. "You're … you're the only thing I ever – "
"Yeah?" Dick doesn't let him finish, doesn't let him come closer. At this moment, Alfred returns, and he pushes away from the door to drag himself over to the car. "Coulda fooled me."
----
One screwy, mind-bending ritual later, and he's home again, home being the Batmobile. He's grinning as his gloved hands stroke the wheel, and it makes his scorched face hurt like hell, but he doesn't even care. Ah. She's not the beauty that the other one was, but she's a beast, she's his beast, hot and loud and smelling of gasoline, and he puts her through the paces as he speeds down the highway toward the Batcave's entrance, while the sky slowly turns blue. He fucking loves it.
The nymph is next to him in the passenger's seat, eyelids on half-mast. Bruce leaves him alone. He usually doesn't tolerate dozing in the Batmobile, but it's not as if the little punk is still on duty anyway, and he really looks like he needs some rest. Hell knows that old bastard didn't let him have any.
Bruce watches him blink at the road, caught somewhere between awake and asleep. "Take a nap," he growls, first thing he's said in a while.
"Nah," says the boy.
Now that he's back in his uniform (why he'd let him put that on again, Bruce isn't exactly clear on), the bruises on his skinny legs are very visible. Imprints of Bruce's large paws on his tender skin. His imprints, not the other one's.
"You all right," he gets it in his head to inquire, eyes fixed on the road.
"Mmm," Dick stirs, wincing as he shifts around in his seat. "Better. It hurt in the beginning," he informs him, as if he hadn't helpfully pointed that out a couple times already. But when Bruce casts a fleeting glance at him, he sees a lazy smile spread across his face. "But it also felt hella good."
Bruce grunts. "I know. You've said. Multiple times." Squealed it, more like, but same difference.
… it's not as if he hadn't liked hearing it
Dick chuckles, reaches over to pat his big thigh. Bruce clenches his jaw, then lets it slide. Ahead of them, the ragged outline of Wayne Manor grows larger.
"You never said …" Dick's head is lulling from side to side. "If I can come back or not."
"Hrm."
True. He hasn't answered. Doesn't mean he hasn't thought a thing or two about it. He stares straight ahead, mulls it over one more time, chooses his words.
"If I cut you loose," he finally says, "Will you go completely insane and do something dumb and dangerous like turning supervillain and returning years later all grown-up and crazy to seek revenge on me?"
Dick turns his head to gaze out the window. When Bruce briefly looks over, he sees his sharp, pale face reflected in the glass, and is reminded of that lost little boy he'd picked up all those years ago, and how impressed he'd been with him. And whatever the kid's become, he's had a hand in it, he's very much his beast, too, there's no two ways around it.
Then Dick starts grinning, all wicked and hard, and Bruce has to admit that he's still impressed with him now, even though he's nuts.
"Probably, yeah," he freely admits.
Bruce tears his gaze away from his pixie face, looks at the road again, and says the final word. "Fine. Then stay."
There's nothing for a while. Then, he hears Robin breathe out what seems like a whole lungful of air. His body settles deeper in his seat, as if it's finally ready to shut down for a while. Bruce feels warmth in his cheeks. "Maybe you'll be more useful this time," he mumbles. "Now that you're a damn wizard."
"Occultist," Robin sweetly corrects him. And then his hand comes up to softly rest on his. Bruce lets it last for ten seconds, then pulls away to switch gears.
"Whatever it is you are," he says, making the Batmobile's engine howl for their entertainment, "I like it."
Epilogue
Nightwing and Batman don't talk for a long time. And word on the street is that Batman's in one of his downward spirals. These two things often correspond.
Word is, the Dark Knight is in a reckless, semi-suicidal mood. He's out there fighting, and he's winning, and he's filling Gotham's holding cells, but he doesn't care how many blows he receives, doesn't care how many bullets penetrate his suit, bruising the human body that surely must be under there somewhere. Sometimes, they say, it's like he wants to get hurt, like he gets some sort of sick satisfaction out of getting kicked to shit before he closes the deal. Like he doesn't care at all what happens to him.
Those in the know are noticing that Bruce is in one of those phases where he barely sleeps or eats. He withdraws from the social scene completely (feeding the press a story about falling off his jet ski in the Bahamas), and even his intimate friends have a hard time contacting him unless it's mission-related. When they talk to him, he seems mentally sound, but introverted, melancholic, and even curter than usual. He won't talk about what's bothering him. But then, he never does.
Alfred Pennyworth has gone on an extended vacation, which is barely ever a good sign.
Damian knows that something's up, he's known ever since he had been strictly prohibited from going to that meeting with the other Batman and the other Robin. But neither Bruce nor Dick will talk to him about it. It puzzles and annoys him. He knew he should've followed them that morning. His father doesn't take his mood out on him, he makes an effort to be good to him, but it doesn't help much that he looks as if he wants to walk headfirst into a wall pretty much all the time.
The other heroes are aware that Nightwing and Batman are one the outs, and there's the usual gossip, and there's the usual attempts to persuade Dick to go and make nice with the Bat, like he always does. "Whatever it was," say Babs and Tim and other reasonable people, "I'm sure you two can work it out, you always do, you know how he is -"
Dick says he wants to talk about something else.
He has to move to a new apartment, because his old one has been destroyed. His landlord throws a fit. Bruce sends Dick a very carefully worded letter with a cheque to cover the reparations, as well as a list of luxurious apartments owned by the Wayne family that he could move into at no additional cost. Dick sends it all back to him without comment.
He finds a new place. It's much humbler than what the Wayne money would've bought him, but it's all his. Around the same time, he re-connects with an old flame he runs into. They date, and they sleep together for a few beautiful weeks. It doesn't last, when does it ever, but it's nice to feel love again.
During the time where they don't talk, Bruce and Dick save each other from grievous harm about a dozen times. Because they'd always do that, no matter how things are between them. One night, Nightwing saves Batman from getting hit by a burning truck that's gone out of control. The big man had simply stood in its way, unmoving, as if contemplating to let it run over him. It disturbs Dick so much he simply creeps away afterward, without a single word being spoken.
A few nights later, Nightwing badly miscalculates his leap off a building as a bomb explodes behind him. The detonation propels him much further into the air than he'd anticipated, and he falls, and a chill creeps up his spine as he realizes that it's gonna be one of those really, really bad falls. He'll break his shoulder if he's lucky, shatter both of his legs if he's unlucky –
There's a strange, nostalgic wave of calm and comfort washing over him as a dark, winged shadow appears right above him in the fiery sky. A strong arm wraps itself around his middle, carries him through the night air, and gently puts him down on the nearest safe rooftop.
After it's done, Batman immediately, wordlessly turns around to leave him alone. Dick notices that he walks with a limp; without Alfred at home, he tends to his wounds himself, which is by all accounts a horrible idea.
Dick almost lets him go, once more. But right when the older man climbs the ledge to take off, he decides to say it.
"I'm not gonna do it, you know."
Batman doesn't reply. He doesn't turn around, either. But Dick knows that he's listening.
"I'm not gonna tell you that you're going too far, that you should slow down, that you shouldn't be so hard on yourself, that I worry," he tells him, plugging a piece of melted plastic out of his burnt skin. "I'm not gonna absolve you, this time, I'm not gonna extend my hand to you and tell you to stop punishing yourself and get better. So if that's something you're expecting, you can stop."
"I expect nothing." Bruce's voice is cracking. His big shoulders are drooping so pathetically in his suit that it'd look funny, if any of this was funny. He's looming on the roof's ledge as if he wants to throw himself down there without deploying his grapple hook first. Dick turns away from the masochistic display, getting ready to leave too. But not before he finishes telling him the other half of what he'd been meaning to say.
"But whenever you decide to be a functional human being again," he says quietly, "I'm there."
As he walks away, he hears something behind him, so soft only the wind can hear it.
"What?"
Behind him, Bruce is still hanging his head. "You're incredible," he repeats, louder this time. He sounds wistful, and it strikes a chord in Dick that hurts.
"No. I'm pretty real, actually," he replies, before he grapples himself out of there, "Maybe you'll figure that out one day."
A few more weeks pass by, and Dick makes no effort to speak to him again. But word on the street is, Batman seems to be getting his shit together.
Alfred Pennyworth returns from his travels to Europe, where he'd stayed to unwind, and toss a certain VHS tape into a volcano. He visits Dick at his new home to stack his fridge with ice cream and soup, and when Dick talks to him, it doesn't seem as if he's planning to quit, or turn his back on his master entirely.
Things at Wayne Manor seem to improve, since sometime later, Bruce Wayne's birthday is coming up, and Alfred decides to throw him a party. A small one, at least, for close friends. He maintains that it's important for Master Bruce to come out of his shell and connect with people again. He's neglected those who care for him for far too long.
Dick gets an invitation, of course he does. The text on it is formal, since everyone is getting the same one, but it's hand-written by Bruce.
He doesn't decide whether or not to attend until the last minute. And then, he does.
He even has a present. It's a large, gorgeous framed print of a hand-painted Gray Ghost movie poster from 1940. He'd bought it in an internet auction before he even decided if he'd go. He has a card, too. He puts down Dear Bruce, then can't think of what to write, and leaves it on his desk before he goes to the party.
For the first time since Dick attended his birthdays, Bruce actually looks his age. Possibly older. His hair hadn't had that much grey before that portal to another world had opened up all those months ago. He makes an effort to be sociable, Dick can tell. He chats with Gordon, Babs, Clark, and the other guests, he gives out little quips and compliments while he unwraps his gifts. But he looks worn-out and pale, and whenever he smiles, the wrinkles around his eyes grow very deep. And at one point later, when the guests start mingling with each other and the sun starts to set, he steps out onto the terrace to stand there on his own.
That's when Dick decides to join him.
Bruce says nothing, but Dick hears him sigh deeply, heavily, when he comes to lean on the balustrade next to him. They look out on the estate in silence. The air is warm and filled with fragrances.
"Always loved the garden this time of year," Dick eventually says.
Bruce merely hums in response, but Dick can sense how thrilled he is to be standing here with him, hearing him say something, anything. Dick smiles despite himself; he can't remember the last time Bruce got excited to trade small talk with him.
"I'm glad you came." The words come out sounding pressed, as if Bruce has been waiting to say them all evening. "It means a lot. Thank you."
To anybody who doesn't know him, he'd look like a serene gentleman enjoying a sunset. To Dick's eyes, it's obvious that he's barely holding it together, especially now that he's in his presence.
He hesitates for a moment. Then he tentatively puts a hand on him. "Told you," he says. "I'd be there."
He sees Bruce briefly close his eyes at the touch, and then his entire body seems to slowly relax. They look out over the estate together. Despite the setting sun, the view is bright and colorful.
"Do you still think about it?" Dick asks him softly. A light shiver comes over him as he addresses it for the first time since it's happened. He still has a deep scar from where Batman has cut him. It's white and faded now, but whenever he looks at it, he feels it stands out among all the other scars he has. "About them, I mean."
"Often."
"Me too."
The admission is easy, and it's oddly relieving. Dick gazes down at his hand still on Bruce's arm. "How d'you think they're doing…?"
Bruce ponders it for a moment. Then, a weary smile flits across his face. "If I had to wager a guess … I actually believe they might be fine."
Dick breathes out a sigh. "I hope so."
"Yes." Bruce sounds melancholic. "I do too."
They exchange the shadow of a look. How are we doing?
There's another moment of silence, until the older man clears his throat. "Tim told me your new apartment is great," he says, sounding hoarse. "River view?"
"Yeah."
"Maybe … maybe I could come by, have a look. I wouldn't keep you long," Bruce nervously glances at Dick's face. "I'd only be five minutes."
While Bruce waits for his reply, Dick thinks about how weird it is. How their roles have become reversed. Never in his life would he have expected to one day have Bruce, Batman, meekly asking for five minutes of his time. Now that he thinks about it, Bruce had always been seeking his company, in his own tight-lipped way, but never like this. And only a year or so ago, it would have made Dick's heart stupidly leap out of his chest. But seeing him with Robin, witnessing the extent of his deceptiveness and neediness and obsession, had somehow broken the spell he'd always held over him. For a while, Dick had thought it catastrophic. Irreparable. But now that he sees him, humble, and hurting, and somehow smaller, even if he's as tall as ever – he thinks it might've just made him more human. He's not a god, he's not the all-father, and he's not a giant human-shaped Bat. He's a man, a foolish, lonely man. It's a little sobering, and … freeing, too. He can probably grow accustomed to it.
Dick nods. "I'd like that. Next week?" He leans over to whisper at him. "After patrol? Bring Kung Pao Chicken from that place we like."
Bruce's solemn face breaks, and Dick sees him smile, really smile, for the first time in months. "Thank you," he says, and it sounds so heartfelt that it makes Dick a little embarrassed. He feels color creep into his cheeks.
"You gotta go easy on the Thank Yous, Bruce. If you keep it up, you're gonna get stuck that way," he mumbles, then gives him a mild punch to the arm because he, too, is foolish sometimes.
Bruce doesn't laugh. Instead, he turns to him in full, looking awfully serious. "Dick. May – may I –"
It happened so rarely over the years that Dick stares at his inquiring, unsure expression and outstretched arms for a moment, wondering what he wants. Then he gets it, and it does make his heart bounce a little. It's another thing he'd never thought he'd see Bruce asking for.
He gives him a crooked smile. "Yes."
And Bruce pulls him into a hug.
For some reason, he thought it'd be a short one. As it turns out, it's not. And he doesn't really mind. Bruce holds on to him as if he thought he'd never see him again (which he, possibly, had been thinking for a while), but there's a delicacy to it, too, as if he's scared he might break him. It grows firmer when Dick returns the embrace, wrapping his arms around the big man in turn. When he does, Bruce's broad shoulders start twitching, and then Dick hears him try, and fail, to hold in a sob.
"All right," Dick mumbles, face heating up, clumsily patting his back. Smiling, still. "It's- it's all right –"
I never stopped loving you, either.
It takes him a while to notice that the other guests have congregated at the window, staring at the unusual scene unfolding outside. There's Bruce Wayne, in his best tux, hugging his former ward, ex-partner and good friend Dick Grayson as if he'll never let him go, face sunken against his shoulder while his own shoulders are heaving suspiciously. Dick somehow manages to send them an awkward smile from a red, squished face to signal that it's okay, they're having a moment, and it's gonna be fine.
Ultimately, they're gonna be fine.
Damian, who's scratching a happy Alfred the cat's head, is the first to start grinning. Alfred, the butler, follows. And then, one after the other, all of them do.
"We're being watched," Dick whispers to Bruce, because he seems too caught up in him to even notice. He'd never liked these kinds of scenes, after all. He's surprised when Bruce merely holds him closer, sniffling, and replies in a voice that's muffled and thick with tears, "Don't care."
"Mm," Dick allows his head to sink against him, too, taking in the odd sensation of Bruce being very strong and very weak at the same time. "Me neither."
They stay like that for what seems like a long time. Partly because it feels really, really good, and partly because neither is sure what's going to happen once they let go. The path ahead seems unclear and unknowable. But, Dick figures, they always have been at their best together when there's a mystery to unravel.