Chapter Text
Bruce is at work when he gets the call. It goes through his secretary first; all calls do unless they have his personal cell. He wonders, later, why Dick didn’t put down his personal cell, and concludes it was to keep it from being leaked to the press.
Dick was always thoughtful like that.
“Sir, there’s a call from RABE Memorial Hospital,” a voice says over the intercom.
Bruce’s first thought is annoyance. If Dick got shot on duty, it throws off the patrol schedule for a month, at least, and a public injury to one of them makes it easier to trace their secret identity when Nightwing and Dick Grayson are out of action at the same time. He’s told Dick so many times that being a police officer is just a liability.
“Put it through,” Bruce tells her. He can’t remember her name, but thinks it might be Shannon. Lucius is always nagging him to remember their names.
“This is Bruce Wayne,” he says into phone, after the click
“Mr. Wayne,” is all the voice says, but Bruce goes cold. “There’s been an accident involving your son, Richard Grayson.”
“He prefers Dick,” Bruce says automatically.
“Dick Grayson,” the voice says. “I’m so sorry, but he didn’t make it.”
Didn’t make it.
Didn’t make it.
The world slows.
“What happened?” Bruce asks, his bodily sensations slowly receding.
“He was hit by a drunk driver,” Bruce is told.
“Killed on impact?” Bruce asks, part of him hoping the answer is yes.
“We did everything we could—”
“Was he alive when he was brought to your hospital?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Bruce wonders what it must be like to regularly make calls like this, every day. Wonders if he’s asking the same questions everyone asks.
“No,” the voice finally says. “I’m afraid he was killed at the scene.”
Bruce nods, even though the nurse can’t see him.
“I’ll be there,” he tells her, and slowly hangs up the phone.
He blinks, setting his hands on his wooden desk. He needs—to get to Bludhaven. He needs to tell Alfred. Needs to tell Damian, needs to—
Pain bursts in Bruce’s chest, fierce and bright, and he doubles over for a moment, shaking.
When he straightens, he presses a button and says, “Hold my calls and cancel my meetings.”
“Is everything all right, sir?” The woman—what is her damned name—sounds concerned.
“I’m going out,” is all Bruce can say in response.
He takes the back elevator. He contemplates his car for a moment before sliding into the seat. The steering wheel is cold to the touch. He knows the way. He’s made this drive before.
There’s not heavy traffic in the middle of the day. Bruce drives slightly over the speed limit, and reaches the hospital in under an hour. Lucius tries to call him five times, and Bruce lets the phone ring out every time.
At the hospital desk, he isn’t recognized and he’s quietly grateful.
“I’m here to see my son,” he says.
“Name?” she asks briskly.
“Richard Grayson.”
“Do you know his room number?” she asks, still not looking up.
“He’s deceased,” Bruce says, voice flat, and then she does look up.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly, and Bruce can read on her face the desire to reach out and the training that makes her not. “One moment,” she says, voice dripping with sympathy. Bruce knows it, recognizes it, but her emotion doesn’t reach him. “He’s downstairs. In the morgue. I can call someone to guide you.”
Bruce merely nods. He’s a cog in their machine, now. They’ve done this before, they’ll do this again. None of this is new, only new to him, and even then not as new as he would like.
The walk is silent, the summoned intern having taken one look at Bruce’s face, identified him, and in the same moment known better than to say anything. Bruce makes a mental note to contact his superiors at the hospital, let them know of his insight, his professionalism.
Before he opens the door to the morgue the intern murmurs, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Elliot Johansen. Interesting combination of names. Elliot is originally Hebrew, whereas Johansen is clearly Nordic. Is one of his parents Jewish, or both? It is difficult to convert to Judaism—
Bruce’s mind is trying to distract him from the lump under the white sheet. Dr. Johansen is gone, and now it’s the coroner, telling Bruce he doesn’t have to look.
“We have a positive ID already,” she’s saying. “And some family members find it—”
“Show me,” is all Bruce trusts himself to say.
She carefully unfolds the sheet, and Dick’s still face stares up at the ceiling.
It’s wrong. It’s all wrong. His little boy is light and motion, a source of joy, he’s never still, not like this—
“All of him, please,” Bruce says. The coroner looks at him, and whatever she reads on his face, she doesn’t argue.
Dick’s body is—twisted. Bruised. Bloody.
Broken pelvis, for sure. That would have been a bitch for him to heal, he’d never stay still long enough. And that’s if Dick’s spine could have even been healed. He could have ended up in a wheelchair, like Barbara. He would have managed that, though.
The impact injuries—Bruce can trace where Dick would have bounced off the windshield, where his head cracked into the ground on secondary impact.
“Do you have the autopsy report?” Bruce hears himself ask.
The coroner shakes her head as she says, “Not yet.”
“But we can have the body by tonight,” Bruce says, and it’s not a question.
There is another hesitation, but it’s clear the woman knows who he is. “Most likely,” she says. “The decision isn’t fully mine.”
Bruce tears his gaze away from the crushed and bloodied body of his eldest son, the first—
He looks at the coroner, and nods sharply. “The funeral home will come for him tonight. “
“Tomorrow morning at the latest,” she says.
Bruce doesn’t need a guide back out of the hospital, back to his car, and he heads for the Manor. Alfred needs to know. They need to—prepare.
He’s home before Damian is back from school, involved in some afterschool activity Bruce can never remember. Dick—Bruce swallows, hands tightening on the steering wheel. Dick always scolded Bruce about not remembering.
Bruce will have to remember on his own, now.
He can’t bring himself to call Alfred, to do this over the phone. He parks the car, feeling the weight of his years, and walks into the Manor. Alfred knows he’s home, in that inexplicable way he always does.
“He hears the garage door, Bruce,” Dick’s voice says in his mind.
Alfred looks at him, and Bruce meets Alfred’s eyes. Whatever Alfred was going to say dies in his throat, his eyes becoming shadowed.
“Who?” Alfred asks simply, spine stiffening.
Bruce opens his mouth, but nothing comes out initially. He swallows, and tries to summon any kind of technique to push away the knowledge.
“Dick,” Bruce manages to say. “Drunk driver. Killed on impact.” He gasps for air, arms wrapping around his abdomen, the fierce pain returned.
Alfred goes very, very still across from Bruce.
The pain tears at Bruce, never lessening, waves of agony, and he can’t breathe—
Bruce would never initiate it, but when Alfred’s arms wrap around him, Bruce clings to him in return. He can’t tell who’s shaking, who’s crying, and he knows it’s both of them.
He doesn’t know how long they stand there, holding on. The pain never lessens, merely—recedes. Waiting.
“I need to tell the others,” Bruce says, voice hoarse. Together, they step away from each other.
“Of course,” Alfred says, and if his voice wavers, Bruce doesn’t mention it.
Alfred goes—Bruce doesn’t know where Alfred goes. Bruce stands there, pulling up location data. He has nothing for Jason. Damian—still at school. Cass—with Barbara in the Watchtower. Steph—college campus. Tim—at Wayne Enterprises.
Bruce can’t go back there. He wonders for the first time if this was—deliberate. If someone learned Dick’s identify and just—
Surely the driver is in custody. He could call BPD and they would tell him. Or he could go down, to the Cave, where a bright eight year old once named everything in there to start with Bat and—
He’ll need to notify the League. Tell the Titans.
Bruce doesn’t know what to do first. He stands there long enough that Alfred hands him a cup of tea, and Bruce can barely feel the warmth.
“I can’t tell them over the phone,” Bruce says.
“Of course not,” Alfred agrees.
Except—
Bruce rings Barbara. She answers, mid-laugh, Cassandra’s voice low behind her.
“Hey, need something?”
The news hasn’t reached Oracle. Bruce isn’t sure if it is news, yet. He probably needs to call someone in PR, get them on it.
“B?” Barbara’s voice sounds more uncertain, and Bruce realizes he’s been silent too long.
“Something happened,” Bruce gets out.
“How can I help?” Barbara asks, her voice pure business. Because there’s always something—they can always do something—
Bruce shakes his head even though Barbara can’t hear it, and tightens his grip on tea. He has to get a hold of himself.
“I have bad news,” Bruce says, trying to soften his voice. “Dick was—hit by a drunk driver. Killed on impact.”
“What?” Barbara asks, too loudly. “No, we talked this morning. We—” Her voice cuts out. “No,” she says, but more softly.
Bruce’s throat is too tight to say anything more. He can hear Cass in the background, saying something, and then Cass’s voice comes over the line. She must have taken Barbara’s headset.
“What happened?” Cass asks, a faint note of panic in her voice that perhaps only Bruce could detect.
It doesn’t get easier when Bruce says it a third time.
His son is dead.
He tells Cass to bring Barbara and come to the Manor. He’ll—notify everyone else. Cass doesn’t argue, and the line goes dead without her having said a word in response.
Bruce texts Tim come to the house
This have anything to do with you skipping the meeting today?
Yes.
Tim doesn’t bother to ask. He knows if Bruce was going to say more, he would have already.
Texting is—easier in a way.
When Bruce takes a sip of his tea, he finds it cold and bitter, bitter in a way Alfred’s tea has never been. He can’t tell if it’s him or the tea.
Damian will be home soon. No point in disturbing him before it’s needed.
Stop by after class, please Bruce sends off to Stephanie.
Please? I didn’t know you knew the word
It’s important
I’ll be there she texts back, and Bruce can almost hear the pop of her gum.
That leaves—Jason. Almost, Bruce wants Alfred to do this. Alfred has an easier relationship with Jason, smoother, they don’t explode into fights—
Bruce makes the call.
“Yeah?” Jason says, clearly annoyed. “Need something?”
Bruce’s throat is too tight for words.
“This about last night? Because you weren’t fucking there and if you were—”
“No,” Bruce gets out.
“Then what?” Jason snaps.
Bruce wants to invite him home, wants to be there when the shock sets in, wants to—
“Dick is dead,” Bruce says, his voice flat. “Killed by a drunk driver.”
Jason is silent, so silent Bruce checks if the connection is still live.
“Come—home,” Bruce offers. “We’re all gathering here.”
Still silent.
“Please,” Bruce says, voice barely audible, and that’s when the line clicks off.
The tea is still in his hand, and he sets it on a nearby table.
His phone rings, and it’s Lucius. This time, Bruce answers.
“Yes,” is all he can say.
“You blew off all the meetings, what the hell?” Lucius’ voice is irate, but more affectionate than angry. “Did you have other…business?”
Yes, but not in the way he means.
“I won’t be in at all this week,” Bruce tells him, although at this moment he has no idea what day of the week it might be.
“No,” Lucius says. “We have—”
“I can’t,” Bruce says.
A silence.
“What happened?” Lucius’s voice is—tentative. Uncertain.
Lucius can handle the press, can handle PR, can handle—
Bruce feels hollowed out. He’s lost track of how many times he’s said it already.
“Dick was killed by a drunk driver this morning,” Bruce tells Lucius.
There’s a moment of silence and then Lucius quietly says, “I’m so sorry.”
Bruce nods sharply, unable to form a response.
“I’m letting the family know. Can you handle the press? I don’t think the news is—out, yet.” Bruce is impressed his voice is so stable.
“Of course,” Lucius says softly. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
“Yes,” is all Bruce can manage to say.
The connection lingers.
“Bruce, I’m so sorry,” Lucius says again, and Bruce cannot—
“I have to go,” he says, and hangs up.
He stares at the phone in his hand blankly and then opens up another text thread.
I need you is all he says.
He doesn’t know how long it takes. At some point, he’s sitting on the sofa in his office. Not his study; he can’t bear to look at the clock and think of—
The office door opens, and Clark is there.
The man looks at Bruce, studies him, then shuts the door behind him. He doesn’t say a word, but comes and sits beside Bruce. Clark has been through—a lot, with Bruce. More than Bruce can stand to remember. Clark sits next to him, but doesn’t touch him, doesn’t say a word.
Bruce didn’t feel this brittle before Clark was here, and almost regrets calling him.
“It’s Dick,” Bruce says, words forced through a tight throat. “He’s dead.”
Clark’s hand curls into a fist, but he doesn’t say a word.
“I have to—tell them,” Bruce says. “I have to tell them.” His voice breaks. “My son is dead and I have to keep saying it.”
Clark puts a hand on Bruce’s knee.
“My son is dead,” Bruce repeats, an ugliness to his words.
They sit in silence.
“Tim will be here soon. He doesn’t know.”
“I could…” Clark delicately offers, and Bruce shakes his head. He appreciates it, but no. He had to do it. He has to tell them. “Okay,” Clark says. There’s a pause and then he quietly says, “I’m sorry.”
There are no words that make this better, that make this bearable.
“I need to contact the funeral home,” Bruce says suddenly. “They need to get his body tonight.”
“I can do that,” Clark says. “Give me the name.”
For a moment, Bruce can’t think of it. Can’t think of the people who buried his parents, who buried Jason, who—
Rising, Bruce starts rummaging through his desk. Surely he has a card, somewhere. He opens drawers, lifts piles of paper, yanks open another drawer, sweeps a pile of paper onto the ground—where is it—
“I can ask Alfred.”
“I can find it,” Bruce all but snarls.
“Yes, but Tim just arrived.”
Bruce stills, one hand frozen in a drawer.
“Where.”
“He’s parking now.”
Bruce takes a deep breath. He can do this. He has to do this. He can do this. He nods, and Clark leaves.
Slowly, Bruce draws his hand back out of the drawer, and slowly he shuts all the open drawers. Before he can decide if he’s supposed to go find Tim, the younger man pops into his office.
“Clark said you were in here,” Tim says, and of course there’s a note of confusion. Clark is here, not Superman. Bruce left work, skipped meetings, and he’s not down in the Cave. Tim is curious, puzzled, trying to put all the pieces together into something that makes sense.
Tim doesn’t know what he’s missing, but he knows it will bring all the pieces together.
“Thank you for coming,” Bruce says, barely biting off the word home.
The longer Tim observes Bruce, the more concerned he starts to look. Bruce needs to—to say it.
“Come sit with me.” Bruce walks around the desk, over to the sofa, knowing Tim is hyper aware of every movement. Bruce’s body feels stiff, worn, although he’s done so little today.
Tim perches on the edge of the sofa next to Bruce, ready to leap up at a moment’s notice.
Bruce—Bruce doesn’t know how to do this, and Dick—
Bruce swallows through a tight throat. Dick isn’t here to help him anymore. And if Dick were here, what would he advise?
Carefully, Bruce reaches out and takes Tim’s hand in his. Tim stares at him, a range of emotions crossing his face, but he stays silent.
“I have bad news,” Bruce says. Tim nods, eyes never leaving Bruce’s face. “Dick was killed this morning by a drunk driver.”
Tim blinks once, then twice. His hand is cool in Bruce’s hand. Should Bruce pull him into a hug? Tell him it will be okay when it won’t ever be okay? When nothing will be the same?
“Who?” Tim’s voice is faint, but steady.
“I don’t know,” Bruce admits. “I assume the BPD has the driver in custody.”
“You can’t just assume,” Tim says, voice harsh. “We need to know.”
It won’t change what happened to Dick. Nothing will change that. By some miracle, Bruce knows not to say those things.
“I’m waiting on Steph and Damian to get home to tell them,” Bruce continues.
“You told Jason? Fuck, you told Barbara? Cass?”
Bruce nods. “I didn’t want Barbara to hear—through the news.”
“Did you already make a press release?” Tim asks, lip curling in disgust.
Bruce thinks he ought to be upset at the assumption, but the pain in Tim’s voice outweighs the sting of his words.
“No, but I don’t trust hospital staff.”
Tim nods, a sharp, jerky motion. He withdraws his hand from Bruce, and pulls out his phone.
“Don’t tell—”
“I’m not,” Tim says, distracted. “I’m looking up who—who killed—I’m looking up the driver.”
Bruce misses Dick fiercely. His eldest knew how to help them grieve.
“Okay, the driver is in custody. Driving on an expired license. Derrick Callahan. I can run his background.”
“Tim,” Bruce says gently. “He was just a drunk driver. Nothing to do with Nightwing.”
“We don’t know that,” Tim says intently, not looking up from his phone. “I should text Babs. I bet she’s already run background on him.”
Bruce doesn’t know what to say.
“Did you see the body?” Tim asks, looking up suddenly.
The body. Dick’s body.
Bruce nods.
“Were the injuries consistent? Do you have the autopsy report?”
Bruce trained Tim. Tim was clever and sharp before Bruce gave him the tools to show off his brilliance. Bruce recognizes his own paranoia in Tim, and doesn’t know why he doesn’t share it in this moment.
“They were. Listen, Tim, there’s—there’s nothing we can do.” Bruce lays a hand on Tim’s shoulder, and Tim shrugs it off.
“You don’t know that,” he says. “We need the car that hit him, make sure everything matches.”
“Okay,” Bruce says, feeling helpless. “Okay, if that’s what you need.”
“You should need to know,” Tim says, angry but distracted. “Steph will be here in half an hour. Damian after that.” Tim’s body stills. “Shit, what are you going to say to Damian?”
“The truth,” Bruce offers, uncertain what else there is.
“And you think he won’t go out and kill the person responsible?”
“He’s sixteen now, and—”
Tim snorts, a harsh sound. “Dick is dead. He’s dead, and I half want to kill Callahan myself.”
Dick’s presence in Bruce’s mind stops him from automatically going into a speech about killing not being an option. Dick would tell him—that Tim is opening up, as much as he can. Let him say what he needs, don’t lecture.
“I know,” Bruce says, mouth twisting. His chest is hurting again. Nothing makes this better. “I’ll talk to Damian, I’ll do what I can.”
Tim nods. He hasn’t looked up from his phone, but the screen has gone black. “Shit,” he says softly. “Maybe Jason will beat him to it.”
Bruce shakes his head in denial, and resists the urge to call Jason again, to talk him out of—whatever he’s thinking.
“I hope not,” Bruce says.
Silence stretches between them, but it’s not tight and tense. It’s—almost comforting, together in their shared grief. Their shared helplessness.
Eventually Bruce says, “Do you want to notify the Titans?”
Tim flinches. He flinches, and Bruce wishes he could take back his words.
“I can do it,” Bruce hurriedly offers. “Or Clark, or someone from the League.” Anything to stop Tim from flinching again.
“I’ll do it,” Tim says, but his voice is dull. “I should do it.”
Bruce wants to argue, but the ghost of Dick is pulling him back, keeping him quiet.
“Okay,” is all Bruce says. “If you change your mind—”
“I won’t,” Tim says flatly. “Can I go now?”
Bruce swallows. “You’re going to tell them now?”
“It’ll take me a bit to get there.”
“You’re welcome to stay,” Bruce says, meaning I want you to stay. He wants everyone he cares about in padded, underground bunkers where nothing and no one can hurt them and no one else is dying.
“I’ll come back,” Tim says, voice flat. “For the funeral.”
Bruce barely suppresses a flinch of his own. While he’s still trying to figure out what to say, what to do, Tim gets up and leaves.
Dick isn’t here to tell him what to do. Should he follow Tim? Shoulder the burden himself, spare him—
Bruce doesn’t know what to do, and suddenly he’s intensely, furiously angry. In that moment, Clark appears in the doorway.
“You couldn’t have saved him?” Bruce snaps at him. “All that power and you couldn’t—twice my sons have died!”
Clark merely closes the door gently behind him, and his calm infuriates Bruce even more.
“He’s dead!” Bruce shouts, as though Clark doesn’t know. “I saw his body!”
As Clark moves towards Bruce, that pain comes back in his chest, and he can’t stop from clutching himself, bending over.
“He’s—he’s gone,” Bruce gets out, and Clark’s impossibly strong arms are wrapped around him.
“I know,” Clark says.
Bruce bites back any other words, body going tense with his effort to control his pain. He feels like he’s going to throw up.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce gasps out. “It’s not your fault—he’s dead. I’m sorry.” He knows how much Clark works to make peace with not saving everyone at all times, and he went and threw it in his face—
But Clark is here, holding him.
Softly, Clark says, “I forgive you.” As if it’s that simple, as if he deserves—
“I didn’t save him,” Bruce says, retreating back into numbness. “I wasn’t there for him. I didn’t even ask if anyone was there with him when—when—”
Clark is just solidly there.
“Tim thinks Damian is going to try to kill the driver,” Bruce tells Clark.
Clark pauses, and then says, “Seems likely.”
Bruce steps back, and Clark lets him.
“I won’t let him,” Bruce says, and Clark nods.
“I’ll help,” he offers, and Bruce knows it might be needed. Dick—Dick could have reigned Damian in, could have talked him down. Bruce doesn’t have the kind of relationship with Damian, may never be that person for him.
“Steph will be here soon,” Bruce tells Clark, a dull ache making itself known in his chest.
“Tim isn’t going to tell her?”
Bruce shakes his head. He doesn’t know if Tim will or not. He can’t predict anything right now. “I told him not to, but—he’s going to notify the Titans.”
“Alone?” Clark asks, raising a brow. “I can join him. I can notify the League.”
Bruce’s throat is too tight for words, but he nods. When Clark moves closer to Bruce, Bruce steps back and Clark doesn’t push in. He never pushes in, and that’s why Bruce can call him when—when—
“Is this League business at all?” Clark asks softly.
Uncomprehendingly, Bruce looks at him.
“Was it really random?” Clark clarifies.
“Tim—and Babs ran background on the driver. I haven’t yet. I don’t think it’s related.”
If Clark is surprised Bruce doesn’t have a pile of facts about the incident, he doesn’t show it.
The incident.
His son was murdered. Maybe not in the eyes of the law, but—the word fits. Tim is right to worry about Jason and Damian, but Bruce—he still has to tell people.
“I called the funeral home,” Clark says, and Bruce does flinch then. Dick, his boy, that twisted body—
“We should cremate him,” Bruce says. “Because—Ra’s and—” And Jason goes unspoken.
“Others may wish to say goodbye first,” Clark says, and Bruce knows at a minimum Clark wants to see the body to say goodbye.
Dully, Bruce nods. “There can be a viewing, before the cremation.”
Clark looks at Bruce, but doesn’t come closer. “I’ll catch up to Tim,” he says. “And Steph just made it in. I’ll send her your way.”
There’s a faint hint of a question in the way he says it, but Bruce needs to tell her himself, needs to get more comfortable saying it, if that’s even possible. When he pulls out his phone, Cass and Barbara aren’t far away either, and Damian is still at school.
When Bruce looks up from his phone, he’s alone. He’s not sure when Clark left, but Steph will be here any minute. Should he sit behind the desk? On the sofa? What would Dick advise him to do?
Steph is tough, he hears Dick’s voice. Just tell her.
Bruce hears her damned gum before he hears anything else, her footsteps vigilantly silent. All of them work at making noise in their day to day life, to stand out, but not here. The gum is part of it, Bruce knows, part of the persona Steph shows the world, but it’s also who she is, something she enjoys—
She steps into the room.
“What is it?” she asks flatly, and Bruce takes imaginary Dick’s advice.
“Dick was hit by a drunk driver this morning. He didn’t make it.”
The room is very, very silent. Stephanie is completely still. The absence of her chewing and popping gum—Bruce isn’t sure she’s breathing. Does he hug her? Take her hand? Tell her the plans for viewing the body?
“Who knows?” she finally asks, her gum somehow vanished. Her voice is hoarse.
“I need to tell Damian,” Bruce says. “But everyone else has been—notified.”
“Are we going to get the son of a bitch who did this?”
“It was just a drunk driver,” Bruce says tiredly.
“One who killed Dick,” Stephanie says, not backing down. “We’re going after him, right? For everything, ever.”
“None of it will bring Dick back.”
“None of it—none of it—” Her mouth opens and closes, her face a mix of pained and outraged. “It might stop him from killing someone else! Unless you think he just should be allowed to drive around, drunk, killing people!” Stephanie’s voice gets louder with every word, until she’s almost screaming at him.
When she falls quiet, the room rings with silence and they look at each other. They’re both in pain, but it’s not forming a bridge to span the gap between them. Stephanie’s chest heaves with emotion, and she opens her mouth before biting back her words. She clearly searches for something to say, and just as clearly doesn’t find anything.
Wordlessly, she leaves.
Bruce closes his eyes for a moment, lets the waves of pain beat at him, feels the agony, then forces it to recede. His eyes open. He’s been carefully not noticing Dick’s unmoving location when he checks on his other children. It needs to be deleted; he doesn’t need to track Dick anymore.
It didn’t do any good, anyway.
Staring at his phone, Bruce lets himself focus on Dick’s circle. Still. Unwavering. Bruce forgot to collect Dick’s things when he was at the hospital, and he’ll have to find out if the funeral company does that or if he needs to go back or send someone or—
Damian should have been back by now. Bruce checks his tracker, and it shows him at school still. Narrowing his eyes, he calls Damian’s number.
And gets Jason’s hushed voice on the other end, “He’s with me.”
“He’s okay?” Bruce asks.
“No,” Jason says and immediately follows up with, “but he’s uninjured.”
“He—he needs to come home,” Bruce says, confused. “I need to tell him—”
“I told him about Dick,” Jason says simply.
Bruce—Bruce is his father, should have been—
“I know you woulda done it,” Jason says, and his voice is almost kind. “But I didn’t think you could talk him outta murdering that drunk asshole.”
“And you can?” Bruce can hear how flat his voice is, and part of him hopes Jason doesn’t take it personally. Jason and Damian have always had a close connection, though neither shows it often nor talk about how their paths crossed in Nanda Parbat.
“I did, at least for now,” Jason says, and Bruce doesn’t feel much, but manages to feel some relief.
“Thank you,” Bruce says, wondering at this unasked-for gift. “Will you bring him to the Manor?”
A pause.
“You too,” Bruce adds. “Cass and Babs are here. Tim is—telling the Titans.”
“I’ll bring him,” Jason says, making no commitment to stay himself.
“You’re welcome here,” Bruce says. Any fight they might have had—any disagreements—Dick is dead. Does anything else matter?
“Someone needs to go out tonight,” Jason tells him. “If no one is seen out….”
“I can go out,” Bruce says automatically.
“I was going to ask Blondie,” Jason says. “You should be at home.”
“I can go out,” Bruce repeats.
“You can,” Jason acknowledges. “But you don’t need to. You should stay with Damian.”
Right. Damian can’t go out, and he can’t be left alone—
“Thank you,” Bruce says. “You don’t—”
“I won’t sit at home,” Jason says. “You’re going to cremate him, right?”
“Yes,” Bruce says.
“Good,” Jason replies, and the line goes dead.
Bruce can see Babs and Cass are in the Manor, and knows he needs to leave his office. Alfred is probably making food, or more tea, and maybe he’s already planning the viewing and funeral. He’s always been efficient.
There are things for Bruce to do, but he is finding it difficult to breathe, air catching in his chest. His eyes burn, and then he realizes he’s weeping. Crossing the room, he locks the door, sits at his desk, buries his face in his hands, and cries.