I own neither Batman, Nightwing, Robin, and DC character, or Transiberian Orchestra. If I owned them… well…. There would be a LOT more people still alive in the DCU.
A lot.
Three drabblets.
Batman has always been good at reading between the lines. It's what he does.
It's what everyone in his little 'bat-family' does. They know what needs to be said, and don't say it.
He is very much wishing that they kept their mouths shut when things didn't need saying, too. But if it was hurtful, angry, or even at times just plain spiteful, that was said.
He'd never said he was proud, he'd never said he loved his sons.
And now… and now.
Too late.
He'd never wanted to give his life away. He had never thought it would matter, anyway. He had thought he would always be alone in the dark, always be the Bat, and that the man would be lost.
Goodness knew he'd tried to lose Bruce, but Dick kept clinging to him. Robin had grown up, didn't need Batman, but...
Bruce needed him.
Dick had been with him when the darkness started to fall. When his dreams had faded, when his friends betrayed him, at that moment, Dick had been there. When there had been no reason left to carry on, Dick had asked him to do it for him. When it seemed that the very stars had fallen, there was still a little light in the deep black dark, his boy was smiling, and saying he was around.
He'd always be around.
Nightwing sat alone at the table in the JSA headquarters. He was only there to drop off some papers Dibny had requested, and had stopped for a coffee.
He could hear them, the heroes at the other table.
"Batman's a bloody ice prince."
Bruce bent to help him up, smiling, his eyes warm. "We fall to learn, Dick. Try it again." And he had gotten back onto the pommel horse, and tried again.
"Heartless bastard."
"Robin, come on!" Batman begged. Robin got up, throwing himself into the fight, because that's where Batman's heart was, with his, pounding to the rhythm of the city, the strong, steady current that kept Gotham from the abyss.
"He calls himself a hero?"
"I'm no hero." Bruce whispered, looking down at the teary little boy. "I'm just trying to save a few. Just a few."
"Yeah, well, he's creepy."
Batman said nothing to the child, setting her carefully on the pavement, pressing the bedraggled teddy into her hand. "Go to you mother." He said gruffly, and the child hugged his leg before running to her sobbing parent.
Their tenemant building smoldered to the ground behind them.
Wayne industries rebuilt it better than it had ever been.
"Have you see how he just blows Superman off?"
"Superman's DEAD!" the newscaster shouted, "Oh, God, that thing just killed him!"
Dick looked at Bruce, and was shocked to see his mentor/father staring at the screen, his pale hands clenched. "Come on, Clark." He whispered. "Get up." He pleaded. "Get up, damn you. Please get up."
Lois screamed, holding her dead husband in her arms, and Bruce Wayne wept for a friend he had loved.
"And doesn't he ever get tired? Always cracking the whip!" they snickered at the Catwoman reference.
Bruce rubbed at his eyes, slumping in exhaustion over the computer. He looked… tired. Old. It made Dick's stomach feel tight when he saw Bruce like this. Bruce wasn't suppose to be breakable… "You going to bed?" Dick asked.
The shoulders straightened, and Batman shook his head.
"I'll be fine."
The tight feeling melted. All was right with the world.
They were about to continue, when Nightwing stood up.
"Shut up." He hissed.
The heroes stared. Nightwing was easygoing and well liked; it was rare to see him so angry. Even in the field, he was noted for his compassion to those he arrested.
"You don't know what you're talking about. How dare you abuse him like that? You don't know him like I do! You don't know him at all." He said softly. "If you did, you'd know. And if you have anything else to say about Batman, at least wait for me to be out of earshot, or answer to me, you got that? I've kept his secrets and held his ground my whole life, and know what? He's never let me down…" he grimaced. "And I won't ever let him down, either."
"What is this child?" Bruce mused, gazing at the form of Jason Peter Todd, street urchin and thief, as he slept soundly in a real bed for the first time in who knows how long. "Who dares to steal my tires?" he continued, trying to be stern, trying to ignore the gentle tugging at his heart.
"He has nowhere to go."
He sighed. "To be involved with this would surely not be wise. He means nothing to me. He means nothing. He's only one child. The streets are full of countless more just like him." Bruce's thoughts dropped into the depths of silence.
"But he…" He closed his eyes. Silence.
He shut the door. "There is no way that I can save them all. I already look with regret at every grave. I'm not responsible for this child being born. I'm not responsible in any kind of way. Can't you see there's no way I should care?" he whispered to the empty room, almost exasperated from his mental tug-of-war.
"But… I close my eyes and I still see him.
"No. I don't need a Robin. Would his life really matter anyway, even as Robin? He's nothing but a little punk, one of thousan—"
The door opened, seemingly of its own volition. He looked at the innocent face, and felt the tugging at his heart again as outside the window a star shot across the August sky.
"There has to be another way for me. A way that leads from this destruction, a way that I can let him go… he could go either way. He could be great, or he could be worse than nothing. Is it worth the risk?"
He shut the door. "I should let him go." He told himself for what seemed like the hundredth time.
"But in my heart, I just… can't."
"What shall we do with the young master?" Alfred asked.
"We'll keep him." Bruce said decisively. "This child means everything to me."
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