Disclaimer: I don't own Batman.
Universe: DC
Timeline/series: Batman, post Identity Crisis.
Warnings: Slash, implied underage, vague references to character death, spoilers.
Writing progress: Chapter: Complete. Began: 16-02-06 (Feb. Sixteenth Two-Thousand and Six), Completed: 16-02-06. Series: WIP.
Pairing(s): Bruce/Dick, Bruce/Tim (hinted)
Aubrey's crap: First DCU fic that I've tried writing on my own. I just finished reading Brad Meltzer's mini-series Identity Crisis, and it inspired me to write this. On the whole, the series will be implied Bruce and Tim, but I love Dick (Coughs and nudges Nightwing under 'favorite superhero spotlight') so I had to include him…even if his purpose in this story is to further it for other pairings… Hugs Dick apologetically The quote at the top of the story's mine. The one at the bottom isn't.
Lamentation
"To love is to fall into the abyss of grief."
Chapter One
The Batman
I'm staring at Tim's door, the one to his new bedroom. He lives with me now, in the Manor. He has for the past week, since his father was murdered. It seems like only a breath has past, since we burst into the Drake house that awful night, to find Tim's father, Jack, dead and covered in blood, Captain Boomerang in a similar state nearby. Tim is my responsibility now. I suppose that makes him a Wayne…not that I'll ask him to take that name.
So, here I am: staring help at a door, feeling as helpless as any. I shouldn't be doing this. I should be inside that room, comforting a sad boy. I can't bring myself to do it. How can I comfort him, when I can barely comfort myself over my parents' murder? That was years ago!
Pain doesn't have a "used by" date, though. I guess how long ago doesn't really matter. That argument is entirely irrelevant.
"Master Bruce," I hear Alfred call. The doorbell rang about a minute ago, but I didn't bother to go see who it was. Now I'm glad I didn't. I'm distracted here. I can't decide whether Tim needs Bruce or Batman. Or either. He might need to be alone. "Master Bruce!" Alfred is by my side now, speaking calmly into my ear. I must be really out of it, to have not noticed him coming upstairs, or behind me. "Master Dick is here. He wishes to see you, to inquire about Master Tim, I believe."
"Dick…" I breathe, turning away from the door to head downstairs. Dick. My son. My inheritor. My protégé. My friend. My lover. He was the first "Robin", and now he's "Nightwing." I'll leave my spot in the hallway and go downstairs, for Dick.
He's wearing civilian clothes, when I come downstairs and see him. He smiles at me, but it's wane and halfhearted.
"I tried calling." He states, and I nod. He hasn't been trying to call me. He's been trying to call Tim. Even before Jack Drake died, Dick and Tim were like brothers. They really are brothers now…or, they will be, once I sort through all the legal work to officially adopt Tim. "He wouldn't answer."
I nod again.
"Did you expect him to?"
"Kind of." He looks sheepish. It's an endearing factor that still pulls at my heart – as much as I do hate to admit it. "He's not doing well, is he?"
"No." He doesn't really need me to elaborate, but I do anyway. "He's not."
"Do you think he's up for company?"
"Probably not." I shrug apologetically. What else can I do? I honestly believe Tim won't want to see anyone, right now. Not even Dick. "You're free to try, though."
"Nnngh…" Dick makes a noncommittal noise, and shrugs. I can tell he wants to go check on Tim. I can also tell that he won't. "I'll come back." He states, as I knew he would. "Just…tell Tim I came by, okay?"
I nod once more, sparing Dick a smile. He returns it, and his is more heartfelt than mind could hope to be.
"Good luck raising another." He wishes, giving me the barest kiss before pulling away toward the door to leave. 'I love you,' I hear him say. My stomach squirms. Do I still love him? Of course I do. But…
"I'll tell him you came," is all I can tell him.
Tim is asleep, when I finally crack his door open tonight, and peek in. His eyes immediately flash open, when he hears the door open, though. I know what he wants. He wants a mission. A distraction. It's something I can't give him now. That along with comfort and solace… So, I walk wordlessly over to his bed, and sit down next to him. He moves his head from his pillow to my lap, and I run my fingers through his hair a few times, trying to keep him calm. He sits up and hugs me. Against my better judgment, I kiss the top of his head. Dick would be crushed…
Outside, I can feel Nightwing watching us.
I can't bring myself to care.
"Do not judge the gods. They have painful secrets."
Jean-Paul Sartre