Chapter Text
Dick was on a team mission in Hong Kong when Jason died.
He didn’t hear about it until a week later. Nightwing was going undercover-- there was supposed to be radio silence unless of a real emergency, and apparently the death of your sibling isn’t one. Barbara had to be the one to tell him (Bruce was off sulking-- not talking to anybody and Alfred was too busy with the funeral arrangements), and even she sucked at it. Sensitivity is just not in the bats’ vocabularies, he guessed.
“Dick, I-- I have to tell you something.”
“What’s up?” He had asked, taking a giant crunch through one of those fuji apples-- the first food he’d had in days.
“Jason’s dead.”
Dick hadn’t known what to say. He hadn’t known what to say when he watched his parents’ bodies break against the ground when he was eight years old, and he didn’t know what to say as he felt his heart run cold at the news of his kid brother’s death nine years later.
By the time he could come home again (he still had to sit through a plane ride and the mission debriefing), Jason’s funeral was over. Dick knew it was unrealistic to think they would wait for him but jesus christ, why didn’t they wait for him?
There was to be no complaining-- because of course ‘nothing’s more important than the mission, Dick.’ Nobody had actually said that but it was heavily implied. He had sat there motionless, wordless, ready to feel his own bones break. He didn’t want to be here, he wanted to be home-- and not at Wayne Manor; he wanted to be back at the circus, and still a kid again, and not here in the cold metal chairs listening to people drone on when his brother was being buried 6 feet under the ground in the mud and worms and soil.
To make it all worse-- Bruce was mad at him. Bruce-- the one who’d been there, who could’ve stopped it, who made Jason Robin in the first place-- blamed Dick for some unknown bullshit list of reasons that only he could fully understand.
Suddenly they were fighting just like old times-- just like before Jason. When it was like this-- when Dick was around Bruce, it was like he couldn’t think straight. He couldn’t cool down enough to come up with a solution: it was just them against each other. Father and son. Dysfunction at it’s finest.
“Come on, Bruce-- talk,” Dick had tried to say, “don’t turn your back on me. I’m here…” he paused, thinking of the last week-- of how he didn’t get to say goodbye, “now.”
Bruce was slow about unbuckling the utility belt, still unable to look Dick in the eye, “you were lucky.”
Danger, danger. Instantly, Dick knew this was going to be a fight. And jeez-- he was tired and he didn’t want to and he just wanted to sink into the chair like he was small again and listen to the near-silent movements of Bruce as he trained.
“When you didn’t listen to me, your injuries weren’t fatal. Of course, by the time I properly trained you--”
“Bruce, c’mon... Layoff. I’m not here to fight,” Dick tried to say, easing his voice so it sounded smooth and gentle and not like it was hoarse from crying.
Bruce spun around, cowl-less, “then don’t!”
Fine! If Bruce wanted a fight-- Dick would give it to him.
“Are you blaming me? I left, so Jason replaced me, and because I left he died? No way, pal.” Bruce still wasn’t looking at him-- an angry, dangerous scowl buried in his hard blue eyes. “Jason wasn’t me. I was a trained acrobat. I could think quickly in perilous situations! But why did you let him become Robin before he was ready?!?”
“DON’T YOU DARE BLAME ME FOR JASON’S DEATH! DON’T YOU DARE!”
When Bruce swung at him, Dick probably should’ve seen it coming. This was so typical. Just lashing out instead of dealing with his guilt-- lashing out at Dick.
Still, he was hit hard. He fell onto the floor, holding his arm to his lip and looking up at his mentor-- his father who had went from dangerous to full out raging.
“Why did I think I needed a partner? They slow you down. They make you worry about them rather than doing your job! He wouldn’t listen! He wanted to do everything his way. He was JUST LIKE YOU!”
Ouch. In that moment, Dick understood. Bruce blamed himself.
Eventually, Bruce stormed out, telling Dick to leave his keys with Alfred. Was his father kicking him out? Again?
Fuck. There was no way he was doing that. He wanted to go home alright-- and this was the closest thing to it. The closest thing he had to Jason.
He bit his knuckles, oh god. Jason...