sorry but the idea of bruce being dick's father in his mid 20s. he's always a little tired but otherwise he's young and looks it too. he can pick dick up with one hand to put him on his shoulders. he doesn't know jack about taking care of kids. they play a game that they both love where bruce picks him up and just like... throws him off of the spiraling staircase to watch how he catches himself in the air and lands unharmed. they play soccer together in the backyard and bruce is so young and spry and he can do a bicycle kick (dick goes to school and tells everyone that bruce can do a bicycle kick. not to flex but he's really cool guys.) he lets dick make dino nuggets as their dinner three nights in a row when alfred is gone and they make a stupid big everything but the kitchen sink sundae and split it afterwards. kid you're killing me, he says, because he has a sweet tooth that alfred doesn't enable. maybe sometimes they argue and argue bad, especially as dick grows up, but at the end of the day that's his dad.
one day like ten fifteen years later when damian is young dick looks at bruce and all the sudden what happened.... his dad has crow's feet and his hair is graying a little...! that sort of tiredness that people get as they age! he's still strong he's the fucking batman but when damian wants to play a game (being hurled off the balcony into the pool) bruce looks at dick and smiles and he's got lines on his face. he's aging. and that's still bruce but he doesn't laugh with his head thrown back anymore and he doesn't style his hair the way he used to when he was in his 20s and he's stopped wearing the loose button ups with the first button undone he wore when he picked him up from school in the convertible. his dad is getting older and even bruce wayne can't escape the passage of time. he tells damian no being thrown off the roof. damian protests. but grayson says you used to throw him off the staircase when he was my age. bruce throws his hands up and turns away and gives dick a look before he goes that tells him he'll be in his office and if there happens to be a loud splash from the pool... well that's none of his business is it.
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So I've seen a lot of Bruce fics noting how his kids aren't kids anymore and are growing up, but I want to offer you another point of view...
The batkids star noticed how they dad is getting old...
Like, everyone usually makes jokes about how Bruce is practically an old man, and all that, but sometimes they're just doing something and suddenly their dad looks so tired.
Tim always jokes about how everyone will leave Bruce with gray hair at an early age, but that week when he stopped to discuss a case, he noticed for the first time how Bruce's hair had many gray strands.
Bruce puts on some reading glasses because you can't spend all night looking at screens in the dark and expect your eyes to work the same. When Jason sees him, he's about to make a comment until his brain clicks. Suddenly, Bruce looks very old, and Jason feels his breath hitch.
Dick just did a risky stunt and Bruce catches him (because obviously he catches him. His dad always catches him) but Dick notices how when he gets up Bruce has to hide how he needs to stretch because of how his bones crunched when he caught him.
It's all these little things. The kids notice, and suddenly Batman isn't just an endlessly distant symbol. Batman transforms into Bruce, their father, who at some point won't be young enough to keep up with them...
(Anyway, sorry. If this is a mess, I can't speak English properly because I'm tired)
I was tagged by @geevesthevieve - I'm usually awful at engagement with others, but I appreciate all your comments and feedback on my stories and I am trying to be more invested in the DC community!
Rules: Make a 24-hour poll listing the titles of every WIP you want to work on. (It's fine if you only have one, still make a poll for the vote count). Whichever WIP title gets the most votes, write 1 sentence for every note received.
My goal for the year is to write more, so maybe this will help me do that!
What should I work on?
The Players: Their Pieces: The final story in my Rachel Grayson series.
I Will Fall in Love With You (Over & Over Again): Time loop, Dikori Romance
Untitled: Dick and Duke sibling bonding fic
An Abundance of Apathy: Batfam fic where Dick is cursed to lose his emotions
Voting ended onJan 6, 2025
I tag anyone and everyone who is also interested in participating!
Thanks to everyone who voted! 'An Abundance of Apathy' wins and I will get to work on it. Not to worry though, because I plan on writing all of these stories at some point!
I was tagged by @geevesthevieve - I'm usually awful at engagement with others, but I appreciate all your comments and feedback on my stories and I am trying to be more invested in the DC community!
Rules: Make a 24-hour poll listing the titles of every WIP you want to work on. (It's fine if you only have one, still make a poll for the vote count). Whichever WIP title gets the most votes, write 1 sentence for every note received.
My goal for the year is to write more, so maybe this will help me do that!
What should I work on?
The Players: Their Pieces: The final story in my Rachel Grayson series.
I Will Fall in Love With You (Over & Over Again): Time loop, Dikori Romance
Untitled: Dick and Duke sibling bonding fic
An Abundance of Apathy: Batfam fic where Dick is cursed to lose his emotions
Voting ended onJan 6, 2025
I tag anyone and everyone who is also interested in participating!
The city was heavy. Everything from the people to the architecture felt stifled under an oppressive weight that seemed relentless. The buildings were narrow and short, leaving Tim feeling paranoid as he ran across its rooftops, staying in the shadows to avoid being seen from the ground up.
Not that he had to worry about that, as the streets were dead, deader than Gothams during an Arkham breakout, which was saying something. The few people he saw quickly ducked in and out of doorways to prevent from being out in the open for too long. Even the less-than-savory characters perpetually seemed to be in a rush, looking over their shoulders at the smallest noise.
The same jumpiness was common in Gotham, but usually when criminals were nervous they looked up, scared that one of the Bats was about to bust their operation. Here it seemed that the biggest danger was on the street, following you around every corner, waiting to attack the moment your defenses were down.Â
It was not fair to say that Bludhaven seemed eviler than Gotham. Despite all of Bruceâs theatrics Tim never bought into the personification of the inanimate. A city was a neutral thing, it was its people that colored it. A city was not cursed, it was not doomed for destruction or decay, it was simply a vessel, ready to take on the shape and mood of its inhabitants.Â
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Tim watched Dick speed out of the cave, his form was still wobbly but his hold on his bike was tight and certain. It did little to relieve the worry that had settled in Tim the first moment he set eyes on Dick glued to his spot in front of the computer, where they had left him the night before.
âShould we follow him?â He asked, breaking his gaze to look over at Bruce, who had also been watching Dick leave. Lips pursed in a tight line of displeasure and concern.
I canât remember the last time I saw Bruce smile.
The thought was a random one but not altogether groundbreaking, as ever since his return Bruce had acted like he couldnât be bothered to be alive. None of them were taking it particularly well, especially Tim who had spent a year and a half of his own life tracking the man through time to bring him home.
Tim knew that something was bothering Bruce, had been since his return, but no amount of prying could pull the reason out of his Father.
Frankly, Tim would take a secretive Bruce to a dead one, but the silence still stung.
When Dick was younger and would refer to Donna as his soulmate the adults in his life would give him an infuriating all-knowing look. As though to say, that they and they alone understood that 'soulmate' meant crushes and first kisses and dates and all the things Dick hadnât been interested in. Not with Donna at least.
She was his soulmate in that she was literally his other half, his home and conscience. His comforter and confidant. She was warmth and kindness wrapped up in the scent of sea salt and ozone. She was indignant fury and unceasing patience, she had always treated Dick as a man as opposed to a myth, having understood the weight that comes from the title of âBoy/Girl Wonderâ. She too understood the pain of perfection and the anguish over never being able to live up to the image other people curated of you.
That connection surpassed romance, it simply hadnât been needed with her.
As Donna held him in a hug that was just a hair shy of too tight, tucking his head under hers and hair cascading down to shield his face from the view of others, Dick wondered at how foolish he had been to think of any other touch as love.
âYouâre an idiot.â
âI know.â
âI mean certifiably the stupidest genius person Iâve ever met.â
âI know.â
âAnd Iâm mad at you.â
âI know.â
Donna hesitated for a moment, with her arms tightening around him Dick could feel a small hiccup begin in her chest and despite himself, he felt his eyes begin to tear up as she whispered into his hair.
â...Are you okay?â
â... I donât know.â
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Organization for Transformative Works
I decided at 11:00pm that I was doing Whumptobr this year.
No. 1: Race Against the Clock
Search Party |Â Panic Attack | âIf only we could hold onâ
Dick Grayson was a flight risk.
It was a universal truth that surprised all except those who knew him. It wasnât fair to say that Dick was flighty, he was never flaky and never thoughtless. He came when called and stayed when needed. But he was restless, always in motion, always on the move. Brain always on to the next thing even as his body stayed until a task was complete.
It was a trait that only got worse when he was exhausted. When his whole being was on autopilot, propelling him forward until he could rest. Dick loved people, no one would argue that, but Dick also healed alone. Whether it be injury or anxiety, he crawled away to his hoval to clean his wounds and screw on his head away from prying eyes.
Most of his fights with Bruce occurred because the other man refused to let him do so. Dickâs natural aversion to being confined was always at odds with Bruceâs desire to hold everything he cared about in an unrelenting grip.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Can you believe I share a birthday with this asshole? (I love him). Alfred Pennyworth and Jason Todd may be perpetually stuck at the same age forever, but I'm not. Here's to being 28!
"Will you ever love me for who I am and not who I was?"
The question was almost violently quiet, unbelievably at odds with the non-stop verbal sparring match the two had been doing since they came back into the cave. Fury in their eyes and spite on their tounges.
The question was desperate but resigned. Like Dick already knew the answer but also needed to be wrong.
It zapped any remaining ire within Bruce in an instant, leaving him feeling shallow with guilt and a little bit of horror.
"Of course, I love you, Dick."
"That's not what I was asking B."
Words, words words.
Dick always needed words and Bruce could seldom give them, even when things had been easier between the two. Before death, and pain, and mantels being passed down that should have died with their owners.
Bruce couldn't seem to find them now, couldn't remember how to even begin forming them.
Dick for his part looked disappointed at the silence but not surprised. With a heavy breath, he stretched out his shoulder, uncrossed his arms, and put on a smile meant to disarm.
"Forget I said anything Bruce, I'm just tired."
It was an out that Bruce would normally take, which is why he wasn't sure why instead his hand darted out to stop Dick as he turned around to the showers.
Dick stopped at the hold, though it wasn't a firm one, and gave Bruce an expectant look, eyebrow raised in waiting.
"I do love you Dick, not just the memory of you."
It was the answer he thought his oldest wanted, it was also the truth. So Bruce wasn't sure why it caused Dick to flinch, slipping his arm out of his hold. Smile dropping.
"You don't know me."
"I know you."
"You did. But we don't talk anymore unless it's about the others or the mission." Bruce opened his mouth to argue but shut it almost immediately when he realized Dick was right.
"But I know you."
"Then tell me one fact about my life, that has nothing to do with Nightwing or anyone else. Tell me one thing that isn't a residual from a decade ago."
Dick waited patiently, giving Bruce the opportunity to fix this like he always did. Bruce rolled through his mind looking for a tidbit about his sons personal life and blanched when he realized he couldn't find one.
Batman knew Nightwings patrol schedule, what cases he had been working on and the last time Wing had been on loan to the League. Bruce even knew when Dick came to the Manor for Family Dinner, the weekends he would host Damian, and the sibling dates he had instigated with Duke once the boy joined their fold.
He didn't know if Dick was seeing anyone, or even when the last time his son had a serious relationship was. He couldn't recall what job Dick had picked up to fill his time after quitting WI upon Bruce's return. He didn't know if Dick still read math textbooks like they were fiction, if his son still listened to Indie Pop, or if he still watched horror movies with a glee that Bruce used to find unnerving.
They didn't talk about those things anymore. Bruce hadn't thought it was important. Hadn't since their first fallout years ago, when their whole dynamic shifted and never resettled.
Dick could see the realization on Bruce's face and gave him another smile.
"Jason said once that every time you looked at him it was like you were seeing a ghost. And Bruce... I've felt like a ghost ever since you kicked me out... I'm tired of not feeling real"
"You are real."
"I'm a Brand," Dick said with a bitter laugh. "I'm a marketing ploy whose only depth is surface level. I am always who you need me to be Bruce. You don't have to pretend I'm anything different."
Bruce didn't like how self-deprecating Dick sounded, and in his own bout of desperation, he pulled his son into a hug. One of a nature that the two hadn't shared for years.
"You're my son. I'm sorry I don't know you anymore, at least as well as I should. But I'm going to work on it. I promise."
Bruce could feel Dick fighting the instinct to trust like he didn't want to be let down again. He could also feel the moment Dick decided to give him another chance. His body relaxing into Bruce's hug like a puppet whose strings have been cut.
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It was a testament to her mental state that Rachel neither balked at being called âkidâ nor denied the command, as she threw herself into the wooden doorway without a word. Barely taking note as the door swung shut behind her, leaving the grimy stained streets of Bludhaven thousands of miles behind.Â
Midnighter for his part, also did not hesitate as he gripped her arm and pulled her over to a plush and inviting cotton-covered couch, pushing her to sit with a gentle but firm hand.Â
The windows were open, causing a cool breeze to blow against the linen curtains as they lazily moved where they hung. Unlike the last time Rachel was here, the sky was a deep dark navy, indicating it was late into the night in France. But the lack of pollution and clouds allowed the stairs and moon to shine brightly down on the fields. Illuminating nearly everything in sight.
Almost immediately Rachel felt her breathing calm, some primitive cog in her brain telling her she was safe now that she was inside and away from even the barest hint of danger. But still her body felt jittery and cold, and her fingers shook as she pushed her hair out of her face and rested her head in her hands. Fingers digging into her temple harshly, as though willing herself to get a grip.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
There was a poem Rachel had been taught years ago, though whether she learned it begrudgingly from her English lit teacher or less begrudgingly from Jason, she couldnât recall. The bulk of it, though short, remained elusive to her, deteriorated from the erosive nature of time. The last line, however, had stayed with her.
Nothing gold can stay .
She had often heard the saying outside of the confines of its original iteration. Just as one knew the first lines of the âTo Be or Not to Beâ soliloquy without an understanding of what came before or after it. It had never really held much meaning for her, she was not a poetic person and she often left flowery language to the interpretation of her better-read siblings. But for some reason, it came to mind now.
Nothing gold can stay.
It was a promise, that good things were never permanent. An idea that could be sad if not for the fact that supposedly bad things were never permanent either. Right now it felt more like a threat, a reminder that good times were quick to leave and spoil.
It felt like gold hadnât come at all. Instead, Rachel had been forced to build the foundation of her life with steel beams already eaten away with rust. Already beginning to crumble with the first strong wind that came blowing her way.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
On that, the whole of Bludhaven could agree. Though whether due to the passing of his Mother a few weeks prior or the ongoing deterioration of his trafficking operations at the hands of Nightwing, no one was sure. Many speculated it was both. Â
Rachel could not be bothered by the rare exhibition of gossip heard in alleyways and across sticky bar hightops throughout Bludhaven. She had thrown herself into her work with a vigor that was as impressive as it was alarming.
If anyone asked she would tell them it was because she wanted to trip up Blockbuster while he was spirling, wanted to use his blind rage and grief-addled mind against him to finally take him off the street.
If anyone asked she would not say it was her own guilt and grief propelling her forward. She would not talk about how she visited the old woman's grave at least twice a week with unspoken apologies on her lips. She would not say that Blockbuster's anger at the hospital rattled her and that she had been spending more nights perched on Reneeâs roof watching over her, than in her own bed.
The warmth that had emanated in Rachel's apartment two weeks ago when her friends filled its walls had vanished. In part because Rachel had been sidestepping requests for visits and had all but isolated herself in an attempt to bring Blockbuster down.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Bruce didn't respond, not that Alfred anticipated he would. The man had been infuriatingly quiet the last few months. Never saying more than a few words at a time to him, and never the one to initiate the dialogue.
Alfred hadn't been surprised, when Martha and Thomas passed Bruce had become mute for months. Alfred had been beside himself with concern, dragging the young boy to child psychologists and specialists. Certain he was already messing up this tremendous responsibility he had been given.
It made sense that Bruce would revert back to the bad habit with Jason's death.
It had almost been a relief when Richard arrived and he could hear the familiar melody of the two of them arguing, floating up the cave stairs. It was some sign that Bruce was still there, buried behind layers of grief and guilt.
He hadn't thought the fight would end in a punch, it never had before. But as soon as Alfred heard the sound of flesh hitting flesh and Richards body crash to the floor he had bolted downstairs. Just in time to hear Bruce destroy any goodwill that remained between him and his only living son.
Despite popular belief, Alfred hadn't been the butler for decades. He was the guardian of Wayne Manor and his protection of it did not stop at Bruce. This was why his first step had been to ensure that Richard was alright as his oldest stomped away, most likely to skulk in the study.
The younger man was so far from fine it only served to further fester the disappointment he felt in Bruce. A disappointment that made way to determination. Alfred had allowed Bruce to destroy everything around him after his parent's death, he had assumed the boy had needed to to move on. He was still paying for that choice every time he saw one of them don a mask and go out into the streets of Gotham.
He would not stand for it now.
Not now that there was more than just Alfred in Bruce's line of attack. Who would feel the reverbs of destruction.
Ms. Troy picked Dick up, and Alfred got the sense that the only reason she herself was not heading up to ream into Bruce, was because she could see a rare fire of rage reflecting back in his eyes. The two left, leaving Alfred with some relief knowing that Dick was out of the crosshairs.
When he finally made his way to the Manor he was right, Bruce was sitting in a high-backed armchair in his study. Face blank, and gaze looking unseeingly out the window as the first rays of dawn poked over the horizon.
Alfred was tired.
"Master Dick has left." Bruce didn't respond, not that Alfred anticipated he would. The man had been infuriatingly quiet the last few months. "Master Dick has left." He repeated, unwilling to let the man get away with silence this time.
For a moment Alfred could read the barest hint of guilt before it was buried under a veneer of indifference.
"What do you want?"
Alfred raised an eyebrow unimpressed, oh absolutely not.
"I would like many things Master Bruce, most notably for you to remove your head from where it's been so thoroughly put up your own ass." That at least got a reaction, since the arrival of the kids Alfred had preferred more subtle ways to admonish Bruce. But that was a kindness reserved for men who did not hit their sons.
"Go away Alfred."
"I will not." Alfred closed the study door behind him with a sense of finality that made Bruce shift slightly in his set. "I would like to understand what the hell it is you think you're doing?" The guilt was back but Bruce again hid it, this time with a snare.
"If you're talking about Dick, I was only telling him the truth. I don't need a partner, I don't need him, and I certainly do not need to be chided by you."
Anger was Bruce's defense mechanism and always had been. Alfred did not have the patience to humor it.
"In all the years I've known you, Master Bruce, you have never been cruel. It is unbefitting and frankly undeserved." Bruce's eyes flared at that.
"I lost my son!" I have lost so many, and yet I have never used it as an excuse to harm the ones I have left.
"I know.... You don't get to decide what happens to you in life. But you do get to choose how you will react to it and you're choosing wrong."
"Batman doesn't need-"
"I don't give a damn what Batman may or may not need!" Alfred felt his cool dissipate, leaving with it a weariness and a rage years in the making. He hated Batman, and hated it when Bruce hid behind him. "I don't give a damn about that mask of yours. Any and all of my loyalty and love has only been directed at you Master Bruce, not him. But you're quickly destroying it."
Bruce opened his mouth as though to argue, but perhaps seeing the ire held within Alfred decided against it. The fist crack in his stoic mask was showing however, as Alfred could see his eyebrows furrow deeply in some unexpressed emotion. Alfred continued,
"As soon as you brought that boy into this life his needs trumped yours and I refuse to stand here and watch as you treat him like the scum of the earth. As you verbally berate and physically demolish him just because you cannot cope. I stood by for too long but I will not stand for this. You've already lost one son and you're dangerously close to losing another if the damage is not already done. And mark my words Master Bruce, if you decide this is the path you're determined to go down, this path of cruelty and spite and solitude, I will stand with Master Dick and not you." This seemed to surprise Bruce, but Alfred didn't know why, he was many things but a pushover was not one of them. "I will not stand with you. Not this version of you who lacks any empathy and thinks he's the only man in this godforsaken family with any right to grieve." His voice broke on that last word, which seemed to spear through Bruce as he flinched at the noise.
"Alfred-"
"I've grieved with you Bruce. Lord knows I've grieved with you. But I refuse to grieve for you, not while you're still alive and still have the chance to fight." He walked over to Bruce, the man watching him warily from his seat as Alfred took his face in his hands. "My dear boy, you need to fight."
"I am fighting Alfred, everyday, I am fighting. But you don't understand what its like to lose a son." Bruce's words weren't mean, were all but desperate, but Alfred still received them like a slap in the face. He tightened his grip on Bruce's face.
"I loved Jason, I loved you, I understand all to well what your going through. I know your pain my boy, I have it, in the whole of my soul I feel it. But your cruelty is something I can't understand. Why you've decided that the best way to express your own pain is by inflicting it on others I can't understand. How you continuously do everything in your power to make Richard feel like nothing, that I can't understand..."
Finally, Alfred let go, standing up he ran a hand down his shirt, as though he could smooth out the flusteredness he was feeling.
"I don't mean to."
Alfred let out a sigh, once again feeling unbelievably exhausted.
"I know Master Bruce, but somehow that makes it worse." The sun was continuing to wain over the horizon, and Alfred thought maybe, just for today, he would sleep in. He started walking to the door, however before he could cross the threshold, he looked back at Bruce. Whose face looked both ancient and unbelievably young under the golden glow. "I have raised three boys Master Bruce. Three sons. I love you, but Richard is just as much mine as yours and I will not let you hurt him. Not again."
He turned and left the room. Hoping that he would not once again prove the Sisphysis to Bruce's unmovable rock.
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The admission was quiet, but Dick saw Jasonâs head snap up from his phone, gaze indiscernible as he surveyed Dick. Probably trying to figure out what brought the confession on.
âOk.â Jason said it like a statement, but Dick could hear the question in it.
âI miss how warm her body felt when she hugged me. I miss being able to bury my head into her stomach and breathe her inâŚ. I miss breathing her in. I miss having a mom and knowing what itâs like to be loved by someone unconditionally. I miss growing and having her there to notice.â Dick got quiet a moment, a little unsure if he should continue sharing, but he felt the need to anyway. âSometimes I miss being the youngest. My cousin was a few years older than me, all my friends at the circus were. Hell, even the Titans were. I miss being the one cared for. You know?â
Dick saw Jason set down his phone and turn to face Dick head on. After a moment Dick turned as well and matched his brotherâs gaze. The confusion that was there making way to understanding.
âYeah. I know what you mean.â
Dick felt himself relax slightly at the reassurance, closing his eyes he sunk deeper into his living room couch that the two were currently occupying.
âI miss wearing clothes that werenât replaced as soon as they got holes. And I miss dishes made with cumin and cinnamon. And I miss my dad. God, I miss him so much. He was so calm Jay, he always smiled, he always knew that things were going to be ok, you know? He sang all the time, and no one sings here.â Dick felt his throat close at the realization, not even realizing all this was weighing on his heart until he let himself feel it. âNo one sings here, and sometimes I forget about all them. Itâs like my life is on auto-pilot and I just donât think about it. But then I remember and itâs like my body is ripping itself open from the grief and I canât... I canât- justâ.
Jason shifted in his seat, pulling Dick toward him as he started to get worked up. Breathes coming out quicker than intended. Dick let himself be manhandled into an awkward sideways hug. Unsure of where all this was coming from. For a moment it was quiet as Jason held him until his younger brother let out a heavy breath.
âSometimes I miss my old apartment. Stupid, you know? The place was filled with water damage and mold and my Ma and I shared a shitty lumpy 20 year old mattress that should have been torched years agoâŚ. But it still was mine, and now itâs gone.â Dick felt Jason shrug, arms still wrapped around him. âI think what people forget is, that to be human is to find the good memories in bad. Itâs how we go on. Thatâs why everyone says grief is a gift, it means you loved someone so much that you get to miss them.â
âThatâs stupid.â Dick muttered defiantly, grinning slightly when Jason laughed. âGrief isnât a gift, itâs the cost of getting to love.â
âCareful Dickie, your dangerously close to sounding cynical and thatâs my shtick.â
âI didnât say it was a cost I was unwilling to pay.â Dick pulled himself back, leaning onto the side of the couch to face Jason once more. âI just wish I had more time to save up before I had to cash in.â
 Jason nodded, leaning back himself, though still watching Dick with a careful eye.
âYou donât talk about this often.â Another statement, one Dick knew to be true. He never talked about his parents, not since his current family started to grow.
âBruce never talked about his parents, for awhile I think I thought grief was locking away memories until they faded into existence. When I realized that wasnât the case you guys were here and I didnât want to bring them up in case you felt like⌠I donât know⌠I didnât love the family I had now?â
Jason stared at him dumbly for a moment.
âThatâs the stupidest fucking thing youâve ever said Goldie and thatâs including the time you tried to convince Wally, B was a vampire.â Dick snorted at the memory, which Jason smiled at. âRemembering what you lost doesnât negate what you have, and the adage that time heals all wounds is misconstruing. It doesnât mean the injury stops hurting, hell your fucked up knee acts up every time it so much as showers. Just because something isnât actively gushing blood doesnât mean its fine, doesnât mean you donât still need to take care of it.â
Dick let out a heavy breath, he had forgotten how intuitive Jason could be.
âYeah. Youâre right.â
âCourse Iâm right, Iâm the only one of you fuckers who consistently reads books without pictures in it.â
Dick pushed him roughly but without any heat, dodging the pillow Jason tried to lob at his face in retaliation. For a moment the two tussled, feeling younger than they had in a while. Only stopping when a wayward elbow sent Dickâs lamp thudding to the floor. Slightly out of breath Dick nudged Jason with his foot, the joviality making way for genuineness.
âThank you. For letting me talk about them.â
Jason gave him a small smile, one without the useful veneer of snark.
That was the first thing Dick noticed after receiving a myriad of tight reassuring hugs from his siblings upon his arrival. Dick loved his family but nice was rarely a word he would use to describe them. Their personalities often fell into the East Coast trap of being kind but not nice. Always there to help but with a biting remark waiting on the tip of their tongues. It was the thing Dick was most often told differentiated him from the rest of the Bats and he did not disagree with the assessment.
Now though, everyone appeared to be walking on eggshells, their gazes soft with unrestrained pity and rage. Their hands gentle as they ushered him in, treating him like glass that could shatter at any moment. The juxtaposition from yesterday when Tim bodychecked him in the kitchen doorway for stealing the last cup of fresh coffee was palpable.
Dick hated it.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works