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In the three a.m. darkness, Dick’s phone lights up the bedroom. He’s just toweled off his hair, the grime from the night’s patrol swirling down the drain.
BRUCE, it reads.
One ring.
Should he pick up? Mournfully, he glances down at his bed. He’s dressed comfortably in sweats and an old t-shirt that might’ve been Roy’s, and he’s just about ready to grab a few hours of sleep. Except.
Two rings.
Dick picks up. He doesn’t speak.
Batman’s brusque as always. “Your assistance is needed.”
Before Dick can even reply, the call ends.
It wasn’t a Come home, or even a I need your help. Trust the goddamn Batman to use passive voice to take himself out of the equation.
“Fuck.” He presses his fingers to his temples and closes his eyes, trying to stave off the impending headache. “Okay.”
The last time Dick was in the Batcave, about three months ago, the temporary truce held between him and Bruce fissured. They’ve fought enough times that all their arguments are born running and die just as fast—just as bloody. But this one grew in the dark, feeding off the tense silence until it let out its first piercing cry.
He remembers the way time pulsed around them. Dick could’ve been thirteen, sixteen, twenty, twenty-four as he yelled at Bruce to take his cowl off, to look him in the eyes.
Dick’s domino mask was the first thing to go when they fought, but it was a toss up on whether or not Bruce showed him the same courtesy. Batman’s armor has always been a mental one as much as a physical one.
Bruce, not Batman, white-knuckled the metal table. It creaked under his grip, but the medical supplies lay inert. On the cot across from him, Dick was alive. Bruised to hell and back, but against all odds, he was alive.
The near miss of a .308 Winchester bullet to his skull had Bruce balancing on a tightrope, pathological need for control and grief on either side of him. Stupid of Bruce to believe in the illusion of choice. Every time Dick got hurt, Bruce tumbled off the rope.
There has only been one ending to this story at the bottom of the platform. Stupid of Dick to think he could ever catch him. He was zero for three.
I watched you die and I won’t do it again, was what Bruce said, all thunder and no rain.
The cave walls always echo their words back to them and, not for the first time, he wondered if he went deep enough, he’d hear his first refrain. A young Robin-song, high-pitched and angry and hurt at being benched. But he only heard Bruce’s words.
I trained you to live—
I won’t do it again—
I watched you die.
I watched you die.
I watched you die.
Phantom sense-memory made Dick tongue the rough patch on the inside of his cheek. He’d bitten it off when Bruce landed a right cross on him as he tried to say, After this, Bruce, after asking this, between us—it can’t be the same again.
And, the thing is, Dick has always been a good liar. He didn’t think he’d be good at lying to himself like that. He believed truth tasted of blood, and he had felt it pool in his mouth. But he spit it out. Maybe the truth was too bitter to swallow. When he came back after his Spyral mission, he slid within the confines of his family.
Dick remembers not arguing after Bruce spoke.
He left the Batcave, silent as stone. Dick knows Bruce better than he knows himself. Sometimes the only way to punish Bruce is to act like him.
Three months and nothing. Not the longest stretch of silence between them, but usually his siblings soften the blow: demands disguised as invites to patrol, unsolicited visits to his apartment, several too many texts asking where he is and what he’s doing and if he can offer help.
Dying tends to put a damper on normalcy.
Even Damian who was the happiest to see him back hasn’t been contacting him much. Just a few phone calls here and there. There’s been the occasional terse message from Tim, mostly to talk shop, and nothing from Jason, but Dick isn’t too concerned about that. That’s always been Jason’s MO when he’s feeling a little less bloodthirsty. After everything that’s happened, he’s not close enough to Cass to figure out if she’s still Black Bat or Orphan, let alone see if they want to hang out.
Dick sighs and then digs for a clean suit.
Gotham awaits.
The drive is a brisk twenty-seven minutes, especially at this hour. A handful of nondescript sedans and SUVs dot the nearly empty lanes. Several heavy trucks glide down the highway, some idle on the shoulder as their drivers sleep.
Yeah, he should follow their example. But every minute that passes brings more questions to Dick’s mind. What’s so important Batman needs him back in Gotham? Are the kids okay? Does he need somebody to go undercover again?
His mind busies itself until he reaches the lip of the Batcave and slows down. It doesn’t take long for Dick to spot Jason’s motorcycle. What’s so bad that Red Hood needs to join in?
Dick leaves his own bike on the opposite side of Jason’s. He removes his helmet, taming his hair back from his face. It’s getting a little long. Maybe he should cut it soon.
“You’re here.” Jason scowls. “Typical.”
Dick doesn’t roll his eyes because he has some self restraint. He lets his helmet hang off the handlebar before walking towards the main room. He peels off his domino in a step and tucks it into his fist in the next.
“We don’t need you here,” Jason continues, still behind him.
Dick stops. Bites the rough patch in his cheek. No blood, not yet. “That’s not what Bruce said.”
Jason lets out a humorless laugh as he sinks into Dick’s field of vision. “He’s the one who called you back here? Of course. Of course he did.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Jason blows him off, crossing his arms. “We’ve been fine without you. Just leave. We can handle this in-house.”
“I don’t know what your problem is with me right now, but I don’t have the time.” Dick’s unyielding. He tries to walk more, but Jason blocks his path.
“You don’t have the time,” Jason repeats, mocking. At least his helmet’s off, but his domino mask is still on. Always with these damn masks. “Do you even know what’s happening?”
Dick purses his lips. “I’ll be briefed if you just let me walk twenty feet.”
“You guys haven’t spoken in, what, a couple of months?” Jason’s mouth is hard slash across his face. There’s always an emotional truth primed on Jason’s tongue. Always ready to spit it out if the situation calls for it, and Dick feels it coming and braces himself. “And he calls you once, and you’re here. You’re just a fucking dog coming to heel at your master’s feet.”
Some part of Dick knows Jason’s right in his own deluded way, but his pride won’t allow for it. The words feel wrong, or at least Jason’s metaphor does. Bruce isn’t his master, and he isn’t a dog, but he does come back every time, without fail. He comes back.
He wants to tell Jason, Did you know there are two ways American robins react to winter? One is to migrate south and seek warm weather and food when it becomes scarce up north. He wants to grab his brother by the arms and shake him until something gives. But there are robins who stay. They change their diets just to live where they grew up. Those who stay flock together for protection. For survival. Larger groups means more eyes. I’m not a dog, Jason. I’m who I’ve always been: a bird, a Robin. If you need more eyes, more protection, I’ll be here.
I stayed, he wants to say just because it would hurt. And you know what? So did you. You’re here, aren’t you? You can claw and ram yourself against the cage, but you locked yourself back in on your own volition. You died in my family’s colors, Jason. You don’t realize you’re just like me. You’ll always be a Robin.
Several years ago, he might’ve said this to Jason’s face. Hell, two months ago when he got on Dick’s nerves enough to fuck back to Blüdhaven without another word to the rest of his siblings, he would’ve wielded the words like a knife. But he really doesn’t have the time. Bruce needs his help, and there are most definitely lives on the line. Not that saying it would help move things along any faster with Jason.
“You’re in my way,” Dick says instead and pushes forward. He makes quick work, slipping past Jason’s defenses and putting distance between them.
His family’s gathered around the Batcomputer—Bruce, seated, at the epicenter. His siblings greet him with varying levels of warmth, and he smiles at them and says a quick hi or gives them a nod. Jason’s at his back, dogging his steps, but Dick pays him no mind.
Amidst the low chatter and chirps of the cave, Dick and Bruce lock eyes.
“Bruce,” Dick says, carefully neutral.
“Dick,” Bruce acknowledges. He tilts his head toward the screen, and Dick takes it as an invitation because it is.
He finds his place behind Bruce as he reads over the file. He weighs the possible outcomes before acting. He puts a hand on Bruce’s shoulder and squeezes. One beat. Two. Catch. Bruce’s hand comes up to hold Dick’s for one beat. Two. Release. Everything slots together.
A bird back in its cage.
