Chapter Text
Bruce Wayne stands in an alleyway. It’s dark and unfamiliar and no place for a child to be.
He is eight years old.
He is alone.
He’s too young to understand what’s happened. Too young to— no. He knows what’s happened. He just doesn’t want to accept it. And so he sits by his father’s still-warm body, small hands clenched tight in the man’s bloodstained jacket, and he begs, sobbing into the white-turned-red shirt, soaking it further with tears.
“Please. I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t know who he’s apologising to. He doesn’t think it matters.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Nobody hears him.
“I’m sorry.”
“Bruce.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Bruce.”
“I’m so—”
“Bruce!”
Bruce’s eyes open to an unfamiliar brightness, fluorescent lights shining in his eyes. A blurry figure leans over him, with dark hair and a blue hoodie, slowly coming into focus. Dick. When did he change out of uniform? How long had Bruce been passed out? How—
“It’s only been a few hours,” Dick said, as if reading Bruce’s mind, or at the very least his panicked expression, “Four, to be exact. Leslie came over and stitched you up properly. Took a while, but you should recover fully. She said no patrolling for a week—“ Dick paused at that, “—And when you inevitably have an issue with that, take it up with her, not me. Nothing big happened while you were asleep, either. Steph pushed Damian down the stairs, but Alfred separated them before he could retaliate.”
“And Tim?” Bruce’s voice is rough— it hurts much less to speak, but it’s still irritating. A problem. Dick pulls his eyes away from Bruce’s, looking vaguely uncomfortable.
“He’s— Well, he’s still pissed at you, but I think he’s more guilty than anything. You know how he gets. But—” Dick continues before Bruce has a chance to respond, “He shouldn’t feel guilty. You should feel guilty. What the hell, B? You can’t just get injured like that and not tell anyone. Do you know how scared I was? You— Be glad it was me that found you, and not any of the kids.”
I’m sorry. Bruce can’t force the words out, even if he knows he should. I’m sorry.
“You’re my kid, too.” Bruce says instead. Dick tenses, tilting his head slowly as he examines Bruce’s expression.
“Yeah, alright.” Dick says finally, voice halfhearted. He turns his back to Bruce, reaching for a pill bottle laying out on the table at the other end of the room.
“Dick.”
“Leslie said she gave you some medications for the pain. Said you might be a bit out of it at first.”
Dick didn’t believe him. Bruce couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it. Bruce had never been good at expressing affection, and when Dick came into his life— he wasn’t ready to be a parent. Maybe he still wasn’t. Every conversation with his children seemed to end in arguments.
His son tossed the bottle to the food of Bruce’s bed, the pills rattling quietly inside.
“How’d you get so hurt, anyway?” Dick asked, faux casualness, “There were so many of us on patrol last night. Surely we would’ve…”
“Can you tell Tim I want to talk to him?” Bruce tried changing the topic, desperate to avoid that question. Dick’s eyes narrowed, seeing right through it. Thankfully, he let it pass without a comment.
“Tim will talk to you when he’s ready.”
“And you don’t get to decide when that is. Tim can handle himself. He’s not a child.” Bruce’s voice is unintentionally sharp, but he’s just… he’s tired. He’s tired. But Dick’s eyes flash with hurt, and then anger.
“Not a child? When did that ever matter to you?”
Bruce opens his mouth to defend himself, but this is an old wound, and intentionally or not, he tore it back open. Perhaps it was time, anyway.
“Or is that— Is that the argument you told yourself, when you brought us out on patrol? We weren’t children. I was twelve years old, B. I don’t care how much I begged, you should’ve known better not to let me go out and fight.
But you didn’t. You didn’t know better, and so you let me go out there. And then you let Jason go out there. And he died. But that wasn’t enough either. Steph, Tim, Cass, Duke, Damian— none of us should’ve been fighting. Ever.”
“It’s a much more complicated situation than that—”
“Spending our childhoods learning how to survive a stab wound—”
“Contingencies and plans to—”
“Fuck your plans, Bruce!”
They both fall silent. There’s no sound, except for their breathing and the ringing in Bruce’s ears.
“I just can’t understand— why?”
There’s an answer— a thousand answers Bruce can give. He can tell the truth. He can lie. But the truth is ugly and raw and he’s done enough lying to last himself a lifetime. So he stays silent.
Dick huffs out a shaky sigh and runs a hand through his hair, tangling fingers in dark locks. Shame claws at Bruce’s insides, dark and suffocating and well deserved.
“I’m sorry.” he mutters, gaze unmoving from the pill bottle at the foot of his bed, voice barely above a whisper. He doesn’t know if Dick hears him.
There’s the noise of retreating footsteps, and the door hinges squeaking open. Bruce waits for the tell-tale sound of the door closing, but it doesn’t come. He lifts his eyes to find Dick lingering in the doorway, as if he wants to say something. After a moment, his son speaks.
“Don’t— don’t brush Tim off, okay? I mean, I know that it wasn’t exactly the best timing, but if you’re not bleeding out— talk to him. And if you’re hurt… let one of us know. Let me know. You can't just rely on yourself.”
Bruce doesn’t speak, instead nodding silently. It feels like the sort of speech he should be giving his kid, not the other way around.
“You’re not invincible, and none of us think you are, so don’t try to be.”