A/N: So I wanted to get some more Tim&Dick brotherly fluff in, as well as write the argument between Dick and Bruce for about two reasons. First, because while writing Dick with a giant memory block is interesting, it's also tiring. Second, back story is usually important. Didn't want to refer to some generic, unknown argument for this entire story. Next chapter will return to the actual plot and all that fun stuff.
Notes: I can't think of a plausible reason as to why it would need to be known, but Dick is twenty-three, and Tim is somewhere around sixteen or seventeen. Jason gets to be twenty, since that's nicely in the middle. Bruce… Ehh...
Chapter Three – Need and Want.
"No one fights dirtier or more brutally than blood; only family knows its own weaknesses, the exact placement of the heart."
― Whitney Otto
"I can handle it."
Yes, Dick thinks, because that's the problem.
"I don't need your help. Return to Blüdhaven."
What you need, and what you want, Dick wants to say, are different things.
Instead, Dick tells him that he's in no position to order him around. Bruce doesn't take to that very well. Dick can tell from the ever so subtle tension that builds up in his shoulders. None the less, Bruce doesn't rise to the bait. His patience is wearing dangerously thin, though.
"Nightwing is not needed in Gotham."
"You mean, not wanted."
"I can handle this myself."
"I know you can."
"Then I don't see what the problem is."
Bruce is still not facing him, still turned away and typing away on the keyboard like their conversation didn't matter, like he didn't deserve more than half his attention. Dick tries not to let that bother him.
"When are you going to admit that you're pushing us away?"
No answer.
Dick reaches forward to place his hand on Bruce's shoulder, only for Bruce to jerk it away and then give an almost inaudible grunt of pain, the motion having aggravated his bruised up ribs. Dick distinctly remembers Alfred ordering Bruce to rest, and briefly thinks of reminding the stubborn man of this. Of course, he knows it'd be pretty pointless.
"Bruce…"
"I'm fine."
Dick retracts his out stretched hand.
"You can handle this problem. I really don't doubt that. You can probably handle dozens more like it. But one day, you won't be able to. How are you supposed to ask for help if we're not there?"
"I will call if I need to." Bruce's reply is short and crisp. He wants to end their talk, end it fast and preferably now. To Dick, it's a sign that he's making some sort of headway. Whether it was positive or negative progress, however, had yet to be determined.
"No, you'll call if you have absolutely no choice in the matter. Even if you need to, you have to want help to get it."
"Is there a point as to why we're still talking?" A much less subtle jab this time.
"Talking is a two-way street, Bruce. I'm under the impression I've been talking to a brick wall for the past hour, actually."
Weak attempts at humor and insults never really manage to do anything more than annoy Bruce. This time proves no different.
"You're wasting your breath. There's nothing more to be said."
"I guess so. Should have known it'd be a stretch for you to care, for once."
He was going to pay for that one; the only question would be whether revenge came now or later. Dick gets an answer to that as Bruce whips his chair around to face him.
"Why does it matter to you? I'm not your father."
That stings far worse than if Bruce had hit him. Dick reels back, stepping a few paces backward and he knows his face is reflecting the damage it's done. It's so rare for Bruce to be impulsive with his words, because he's always careful with everything, that Dick would have thought Bruce had planned to cut him down like this if not for the immediate guilt that shows up on Bruce's face.
"Dick, I –"
Dick waits, waits for words that he knows won't ever come. Bruce wants to make things right, but he never apologizes, because he doesn't truly know how, never knows what to say because emotions are irrational and Batman is nothing but logic. Feelings are foreign territory, a maze that Bruce is doomed to never properly navigate his way through alone. And for final time tonight, Dick finds himself right when all Bruce manages is a string of useless sounds, but never the words he needs to hear, or the words he desperately wants to hear.
"You know what?" Dick takes in a shaky breath. "You're right. You're not. You've never needed a son anyway. Or, I guess, wanted one."
Now they're both hurting, and Dick thinks he should feel some satisfaction from that. Bruce lashed out, Dick threw it right back at him. Even. Eye for an eye. But it doesn't help, doesn't sooth the throbbing pain that they both share. Misery always did love company, but no one ever enjoys their stay.
They're both still for a tense, drawn out moment, hurting and unwilling to make the first move. Dick chooses to make the first move. He turns on his heel and storms out of the Cave, only dimly aware that Bruce simply returned to his stupid computer to finish whatever work he wouldn't ever want help with.
"Okay," Tim declares, "As... interesting as it is to see you puke up rainbow sprinkles, I really don't think you should eat anymore sweets until you're better."
Dick pouts, but as he's still in considerable discomfort from said event, he gives no argument to the decision. Tim reflects on the very bad idea of giving Dick a few cookies that Alfred had left out for him to find after patrol. In reviewing his actions, Tim finds that he'd should have known that it might have this effect on Dick's stomach, but Dick, who gave a large, blinding, familiar smile at Tim when he'd popped in to check up on him, employed his most under-handed tactic to get food from a reluctant young brother; puppy dog eyes.
And Tim wants to hit himself for still being able to fall susceptible to it.
Well, Tim muses as he gently pushes aside the used wastebasket, Dick's paying for it now.
Returning to the manor from patrol had been a step into a very weird world that surely couldn't have been his own. Jason was there, not killing anyone, not blowing anything up, not throwing deadly weapons anywhere. Just arguing with Bruce (or at least, if one could call shouting at someone who is hardly responding arguing) over something on the computer, while alternatively sulking at the other end of the area. Tim had, thinking of all the alarms blaring in his head that worried about Red Hood + In Cave + Bruce Not Doing Anything = Something I Should Be Concerned About?, offered his possible assistance in whatever they were doing. Jason had glared, Bruce typically shrugged off the idea, and Tim retreated upstairs to find Alfred and his last chance at sanity.
Since he sadly did not find Alfred, only his sugary sweets, Tim went up to see how his older brother was faring, which led him back to the situation at hand.
Apparently somewhat over his experience with tasting Alfred's cooking going up and out, Dick relaxes a little, and uncurls from hunching over his stomach. He makes flimsy grabs for Tim's shoulders, and doesn't actually manage a firm enough grip so Tim just shakes his head, smiles, and relocates himself from a chair to the bed, sitting close enough for Dick to sloppily throw arm around his shoulders. Dick's always liked close, physical contact, just as Tim's never been particularly fond of it. But Tim indulges his brother frequently enough that it's become... occasionally comforting. Even more so now, since this is a display of Dick's normal habits.
It's silent for a few long, comfortable moments. Dick's eyes narrow, evidently trying to form coherent thoughts in his head.
"...Timmy?" Dick slurs a bit on his name.
"Yeah?"
"Can... you tell... tell me... about... e-everything?"
"That's a broad topic. Want to narrow it down to something smaller to start with?"
"...Jay... Jason."
"...Jason, as in Jason Todd? ...He didn't happen to come and say 'hi' or something, did he?" Tim starts (almost frantically) looking a bit closer at the room, trying to see if he somehow missed signs of breaking and entering, or more importantly, explosives. He sees a few shards of broken glass, but not from the window that's locked closed. Whatever mess that had been made, Alfred presumably cleaned most of it up, missing only a scant few pieces that Tim can only see if he cranes his neck at the right angle, hiding away under the desk.
"...Think so."
"What happened?"
"...Talked."
"Jason didn't... try to attack you, or anything, did he?"
"No..."
That was a relief. That was also rather weird and out of character for Jason. Tim wonders if he should be more worried than he was when he discovered Red Hood and Batman in the Batcave together and somehow avoiding any notable problems.
"...Okay. Well, Jason was the... second Robin. He, um, later became the Red Hood." Tim figures that giving Dick an abridged version of events, it'd be easy for Dick to remember things on his own and avoid an information overload by accident. It seems to be working, judging from how Dick latches on to key words and works from there.
"...Red... Hood..." Dick's voice is barely above a whisper, confused and aggravated, yearning to put together the pieces of things his mind has locked away. "...Joker..."
"Yeah. The Joker. He was Red Hood too, once."
"...And... he... he killed..."
"...Many people. Far too many."
"...Not... just ci-vil-ians..."
Tim sighs.
"He killed Jason, once. A long time ago."
Dick absorbs this the best he can.
"...Jay's... not dead...tho'?"
"Not anymore. He was put in a..."
"-Lazaa," Dick interrupts, his eyes closed tight in concentration. "Laza...rus... pool... no... pit. Laz-a-rus pit..."
"Right. You're doing good, Dick." Tim encourages softly. "This stuff will wear off soon, hopefully, if we don't get a cure made earlier than that. You'll be remembering everything again in no time."
Dicks nods, slowly, and then suddenly tips over, his head landing heavily on Tim's shoulder. Tim doesn't need to even look to know Dick's exhausted his energy for the day, but he does so anyway, noting how Dick just seems to have 'tired' written all across his face, like it had been ingrained there for years. It probably has. Just the way things were, when you lived a double life of vigilante by night, student/some other occupation by day, and whatever other problems manage to worm their way in. It was like that for them all. Busy day job, busy nighttime hobby, busy everything in between.
That was just the way their 'family' worked, Tim thinks. Complaining never really got them anywhere, not with Batman as their mentor and not with Gotham as their mission, so Tim finds no reason to cry over a severally stunted social life. (Not that he ever had much of a social life even before he became Robin...)
Tim contemplates slipping out from under Dick's arm and settling his brother into a more comfortable position.
He needs to get home before his parents realise he isn't there.
But...
Tim glances back at his brother. Peaceful. Tired. Looking neither ridiculously cheerful or tragically sad. Moving may or may not wake him, though he'd probably just fall right back asleep if he did. Momentary discomfort, Dick could deal with it...
Tim just shakes his head, sighs, and leans back, carefully making sure Dick's head didn't slip off his shoulder and slam into the headboard.
His parents weren't likely to realise he was gone for a while. Tim's glad it's a weekend; no worry of school later and his father would be more likely to sleep in as well. If Tim was discovered out and missing, he could say he had been at a sleepover with a friend that he forgot to clear with them, or was just visiting and fell asleep during a movie, or something to that nature. Simple enough to deal with, though simpler if avoided altogether.
Besides, this was his home too.
His real home.
With Bruce. The man who often switches between acting like a father and a mentor.
With Alfred. The man who simply is a grandfather to anyone who becomes part of their dysfunctional family.
With a mansion full of expensive paintings and pottery that he'd never touch in fear of accidentally breaking them. With a kitchen that held lively meals that they actually talked with each other at. With a damp dark cave he was almost constantly spending time in. With varying levels of love and attention he got from Bruce, silent yet constant, Alfred, polite yet kind, and Dick, not always there but showering him with affection when he was.
With Dick. The man who declared himself Tim's older brother in everything but blood.
'Home' with his parents could wait.
