It was like the time Wally ran head-first into Dick at high speed.
Jason was bandaged, and Alfred went off to fix some supper, still cross at the new visitors and Bruce's unquestioning acceptance. The four brothers sat in silence, either staring at how similar yet different Bruce's study was, or lost in thought. Here, now, this was the study of Bruce's father. The man Bruce talked so little about. Occasionally Bruce would tell a story about him; he seemed like a nice man. Bruce never spoke about his mother. Dick figured that was always too much.
Bruce—young Bruce, the one here and now—stumbled through the doorway, an armful of clothes visible. He dropped them on the table, and the future travelers eyed them questioningly. Most seemed to be his father's clothes: button-up shirts and slacks too large for someone Bruce's size. At least one pair seemed the be Bruce's, though.
"I figured you could use a change of clothes," Bruce explained, as if it made total sense. "With your . . . current apparel, it might draw some attention. Besides, they look filthy." This was directed to Jason's blood soaked leather jacket and Damian's mud-caked boots. But all Dick could think about, staring at the pile of clothes, was reeling pain. All he could feel was the blinding white pain of when Wally turned the corner going what felt like Mach five and rammed into Dick. That was years ago, but the stunning feeling was so similar.
It was strange, how a simple pile of clothes could make Dick realize. This could be permanent. This was real. Dick's mind had had his priorities straight: protect his brothers, find this man, get home. But what if the stranger couldn't get them home? What if it took years? What if it never happened? Suddenly, Dick's mind went into overdrive, wondering if their existence here—be it days or months or forever—would change everything.
The eldest Robin was suddenly aware that their host was speaking. He was grateful at least Tim and Damian were listening. Jason was fiddling with his bandages. He caught a few words—something relating to Gordon and tomorrow morning. Dick's eye wandered to one of the study's large windows. It was beginning to grow dark. Had it already been a day since their arrival? An entire day in the past?
Alfred entered with a plate of sandwiches. (Dick found it ironic. The one thing he would always ask Alfred to make were his sandwiches.) Bruce left them, explaining that Alfred and he had already set a room for the boys down the hall. Then they were alone. They could talk freely, but what was there to say? Only questions or half-meant reassurances or worries came to mind. And his brothers were too smart to be fooled by whatever idea or hope Dick could try and make up. He was even fooling himself with one: Maybe Bruce and Barbara and Alfred and all their crew were trying to find a way to fix this. Maybe they would be rescued.
But maybe they wouldn't.
The room only had one bed, but that really didn't matter. Dick had made it a habit, back when Jason and Timmy were Robins, to let them spend the night with him on the nights they were plagued with nightmares. This was part of the reason why they all thought of Dick as their older brother—he fit the part perfectly. Jason was always stubborn and refused to speak about whatever kept him up at night, and Tim was like talking with a brick wall, but the two boys were both silently glad that their adoptive brother was there. It was much less embarrassing than going to Bruce.
But now, dressed in one of Thomas Wayne's button-ups that was too long in the sleeves and too tight in the chest, Jason flopped into a chair set by the bed. He was too old for slumber parties. Damian crawled onto the bed, not giving a second thought that he would have to share with Dick and Tim. The boy was almost uncanny, now wearing one of younger Bruce's clothes; it looked as if Bruce himself could have been laying on the bed. Tim was practically swimming in one of Thomas' sweaters; he was too big for anything Bruce wore currently, but Thomas Wayne's clothes were at least two sizes too large. It would have to do. He fell on the bed next to Damian, his eyes closed before his head hit the pillow. Dick himself fit Bruce's deceased father's clothes the best, as if they were tailored for himself to wear.
As Dick inspected the room, a twinge of pain went through him. The room was his.
The wall, the window, the furniture—it was all wrong. But, roughly twenty years from now, this would be the room Bruce gave to the orphan he found fighting criminals on the street. Now, it was just another guest room. Biting his lip, Dick turned off the light and laid next to Damian, the opposite side than Tim. A light rain tapped at the curtain-drawn window. It's always raining in Gotham, Dick thought sleepily. It always has, and it always will. He remembered one of the first times Bruce took him to Metropolis to help the Justice League fight crime. Dick couldn't stop staring at the clear, blue sky.
Dick stared at the ceiling for God knows how long. It felt like his head was going to implode, like his chest was being crushed, like he couldn't breath. Maybe it was side effects of time travel. It probably wasn't. For some reason, he had to whisper into the darkness, "We going to go home." It sounded like he was trying to convince himself, rather than his brothers.
Jason stirred in his chair, shifting to face his brother. Tim sighed. Damian was the only one who replied. "I know."
Dick woke early, like he always did. Years of crime fighting at night and patrols had him able to function on minimal hours of sleep. That was a trick Bruce taught him. Each of his brothers were sleeping soundly. Dick carefully unwound Damian's arms from his own—the boy was always curled up like a cat when he slept—and moved to the door. He wasn't worried about leaving his brothers; this was their home and they knew better than most anyone how to navigate it. Carefully opening the door (his door, the door that he knew how to open just right without it creaking) he stepped into the hall.
A light filter of voices echoes through the hallway. Dick mused over the fact that, from here, he could tell exactly what room they were in. Padding across the carpet in bare feet and rumpled clothes, he made his way to the foyer. From the banister overlooking the entrance to Wayne Manor, Dick could see three distinct figures. Bruce and Alfred, of course, were two. The third was a man in GCPD uniform, neatly parted hair, and a calm stature. They were discussing something. Dick stayed put, watching and listening from the second floor.
Suddenly Bruce turned to Alfred, seemingly angry about something that had been brought up. "You think you know everything about me, don't you?"
"I diapered you bottom!" Alfred cried. "I bloody well ought to!" The two glared, Bruce with arms crossed and Alfred's chest out with confidence. The officer awkwardly watched on, letting his eyes drift as the conversation began to exclude him. He let his eyes drift to the second landing, where he saw Dick. The man cleared his throat, eyes locked on the new figure. The butler and his charge abandoned their quarreling, realizing their guest had been discovered. Dick began to descend the stairs, realizing he could no longer observe. Now he had to participate.
Once reaching the bottom of the stairs, he stopped just short of the policeman. It was definitely James Gordon. No mustache, no wrinkles, no hard edge. But it was definitely James Gordon. The first time Dick had heard the name was during his brief stay at the boys' home, between his role as a Flying Grayson and a Robin. Some of the more troublesome boys were complaining, saying how you didn't want to get caught by Commissioner Gordon. They said he was tough, and didn't let people off easy. That he was scary, even. So, imagine Dick's surprise the first time the Commissioner stopped by Wayne Manor to ask a favor of the billionaire, and gave Dick a warm smile and a welcoming handshake. Lots of kids were scared by the guy. Dick thought nice was an understatement when describing him.
And here he was, waiting to be introduced all over again.
"This is a family friend," Bruce spoke quickly, lying about the boy's relations. Dick smiled at Gordon, who curiously smiled back. An awkward silence fell at the moment Bruce was suppose to supply a name. Dick realized with staggering sorrow that Bruce had forgotten.
"Richard." Dick tried to keep his smile up, but it seemed impossible. He simply held a hand out to Gordon, who shook it, as warmly as he did when Dick was a boy.
"The name's James Gordon. You can call me Jim, if you want." Dick only nodded, still stung by Bruce's mistake. "Bruce was just telling me you needed to find someone?" Another nod. Jim frowned slightly. "He also said you don't have a lot to go on."
"No." That was wrong. They didn't have anything to go on. They didn't know a name. They didn't know if he was working on this project. They didn't even know if he was in Gotham. They didn't know anything. Dick excused himself suddenly, rushing up the stairs, away from the three people in his life he had always depended on. The three people in his life who didn't even remember his name.
AHH! I just love writing the ends to chapters—and I especially loved this chapter!
A/N #1: Just an FYI for those wondering, I wasn't putting this in any specific time in Gotham. Just generally season 1. Characters like Fish Mooney, Cobblepot, Nygma, Falcone and Marroni, and Selena will appear later, don't worry!
A/N #2: Thanks SO MUCH for all the support! I always say this, but I really mean it! Reading your reviews are the best part of my day!
Stay awesome, my dudes!
~palmtreedragons
