Disclaimer: I do not own Young Justice, the comic or the show, or any of the characters associated with it. I make no profit from this work of fiction; it is purely for entertainment purposes.
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There's something about nightmares, something so surreal yet tangible that makes them inconceivably strenuous when they hit close to home. Even for someone accustomed to them -the sweat, the confusion, the terror- they're still agonizingly real.
Inescapable.
It's an instinct, some form of survival tactic almost, to push them away. To more or less forget them in his waking hours in order to meet society's standards of function. So when they manage to resurface, to raise bumps on his skin like warts of chill, to draw sweat from his pores in rivulets, and to warp his mind until every moving thing and every inanimate object is the enemy, it's crippling. He can't afford to let the gaping maws of the creatures in his dreams to reach him during his waking hours, yet here he is surrounded by stiff suits and greedy eyes, all oblivious to the twisted black thing in his hand.
It thrashes, strikes out with fangs of metal, refusing to stop when he grips it tighter. The eyes of the men are on him now, and he knows he's the only one to see the threat.
Unease. Anxiety. It coils dangerously tight in his chest, his heart, the seed of disorder from which the creature is born. The birth of his nightmares, its' physical manifestation in the form of a simple device used for communication.
His son's name is flashing on the cold, flat screen of the thing's face like a beacon and... something is wrong.
Something is wrong.
He knows better than to ignore his instincts, swallows thickly, lowers his hand -the beast-, and plasters on a false smile. It calms him.
"Mr. Wayne, are you alright?"
"Yeah, yeah, it's nothing, just gotta take this call. It's fine, carry on without me, i'll be right back."
He smiles wider, all teeth and laughs and ignorance -a mask, but it works-, at the man's displeased frown. There's a muttering, something insulting -idiot, airhead, failure-, but he ignores it in favor of heading for the door. The beast vibrates again. Hisses.
It'd be a lie to say he'd never dreamt of it happening in this place. One of the many he frequents, it always happens when he least expects it. There's some cruel pleasure his mind takes in ambushing him, in dragging him down into the depths of things he'd rather leave uncovered, the same way he prowls Gotham's streets like some demonic avenger.
It'd also be a lie to say he'd never dreamt of him, his partner, his son, suffering as well. But it's something else entirely when he rips the beast in two with a snap, places the cool, metallic body to his ear.
"Bruce."
It's not a question, it's not a scream, it's not a broken, panicked plea.
It's just his name.
A silence in which he shudders, backs away toward the bathrooms to hide his face promptly follows. He swallows down the burning sensation in his throat.
"Dick? What is it?" Calm voice. Maybe this is a different kind of dream, maybe, for the first time in years there won't be a gunshot, or a cry, or a deep, terrible silence.
There's a pause, another quiet that he forces himself to breathe through, and then another sound, a soft respire.
"I... I'm... It's Wally he's-"
What? Wally?
Bruce blinks, then forces himself to listen because his mind has just flown twelve different directions, and suddenly there's a phone -not a beast, not a... not a dream...?- to his ear and the shadows in the corners of the rooms aren't there anymore and he's breathing just fine. -Reality is merciful compared to his mind.-
It's not about him this time, that feeling. Guilt tickles him at the thought. He promptly shoos it away.
"Just... I don't know, can you come pick me up?"
It's a stupid question if he's ever heard one, and he nods to the empty bathroom, grunting into the receiver. Robin's voice is fine -monotone, controlled, stiff, trained- but his thoughts are broken. He's still babbling into his ear, and he can't make out anything past the drone of Wally and Roy and Police Station.
The first two make sense. He'd known the boy was going to Star City despite the obvious tension within their group, and he'd trusted Dick had known what he was doing. Whether there'd been a fight between them or a disturbance that required their alter egos was a question unanswered.
"Sit, clear your head. I'll be there soon."
There's no rushed answer before he hangs up and he exits quickly, tossing a note to the receptionist to give to the men in the meeting room later.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.
Once had been enough. One panicked rush, one pickup, one deep warm hug to chase the fears away.
Once had been enough. Once upon a time.
Now there's something eating him, tearing at a heart already broken, and it's obvious that the loss, the process of losing, isn't yet done.
The man stands close, yet far, eyes trained on the two bundles of black, one firm and protective, the other slowly beginning to unravel as the need to hide melts away.
They're back in Gotham, and if Alfred had ever felt pain before, then it was a misconception.
Bruce is all quiet, rumbling murmurs, stroking the boy's hair, his back, tucking him into the protective circle of his arms until he's barely even visible. Dried blood crusting and flaking off onto his suit because for once Bruce didn't mind throwing around his status, was happy to, had lifted his son from the clutches of the incompetent police to take the traumatized boy home to heal.
And Richard... Richard is little more than blank. His eyes are closed, lips pressed in a thin line, and he's not yet shaking though the sorrow is there, and it's deep.
To see his son and his grandson in such pain, to know the light the heart of their family has lost, that he too has lost...
"Alfred."
The old man's crisp gloves crinkle under the strain of his fingers clenched tight. Those eyes, those eyes -dear God, the boy doesn't deserve this- are the same as his fathers', if not worse. He steps forward and is drawn into the circle -the shield-, completely engulfing the boy, wanting to ease his hurt but unable. The tiny shoulders shake against his chest.
"I'm so sorry Master Richard."
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Dick honestly can't tell how many bags have developed under his eyes over the last few days, but he doesn't care. There's no missions, there's no travel, there's no life. Most of the time it hurts to think, and while Bruce tries -God he tries so hard to be there- he's equal parts angry and worried. There's an additional hour a day he sees the man -the only hour-, and then he's down in the cave, seated in the darkness the boy refuses to enter.
Only after the third day had he been able to step foot into the place he'd grown so used to calling his second home. His suit felt oddly reassuring, though the eyes of the League staring down at him through his mentor's screen had knocked him flat and crushed the air from his lungs.
He'd barely been able to choke out a recount, and even then his eyes had watered behind his mask. He'd fled the moment Batman had given him the go ahead.
He was far too distressed to flush with embarrassment when the man found him hours later, whimpering, curled up under the covers of his bed still encased in the bold colors of his uniform. It was a blessing that Bruce seemed to understand and, with an uncharacteristically long hug, let him be.
He'd slept with his grapple in his hands.
Now the suit isn't enough. His skin crawls, itches, gooses as if chilled. As if the cold bite of steel is just inches away, eager to caress.
Not even his boots have been removed, and when he slithers down the hall and creeps into Alfred's bed, only to be kicked out again, it brings a frown to his face. Bruce is in his cave and there's nowhere else for him to go. The shadows will tear him apart, he can't be alone, he can't-
"I understand you are stressed, Master Dick, but that is no excuse to behave like a barbarian. Shoes off, if you please."
The warmth, the normalcy, brings tears to the boy's eyes and he laughs, hurriedly kicking off his shoes and scurrying under the blanket held open to him in invitation. He wraps his arms around the man, tight, crushing, and though the fear returns the moment the other nods off to sleep, it's not nearly enough to make him shed himself and shrink into the sheets.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.
Roy doesn't attend the funeral.
It's a thought, at once heavy and fleeting. It wouldn't be right for him to be there, he was the killer, the cause for the ceremony. The Ringmaster that laughed and sang as he whipped his animals to order, whipped them until they danced, whipped them until they cried.
Even if he had showed up, it wouldn't have been him. The body would have been Roy's but the mind... the mind would have been as fake as the impostors Green Arrow had been dragging down into the gutters over the past two weeks. How the young man could enlist so many willing to take a beating at his expense he'd never know, and he never wanted to find out. It was only a phantom chill he'd gotten at the news that he'd gone into hiding.
He looks down at Wally now, at the body, and suddenly he hates Bruce.
Frowns deeply and shrugs his hand off his shoulder because he taught him the signs, how to look, where to look.
He can't stop the motions, the quick flickering movements of his own eyes, and he wants to tear them out of his skull. Why can't he just grieve normally? Why can't he just cry at the sight of his best friend, his lover, dead in a box and soon to be lowered beneath the ground?
Why can't he ignore the memory of the boy's brains splattered over his shoulder and chest, the knowledge that the back of his head has been pieced back together for the sake of an open casket?
Why can't he look away from the wig, half dulled red locks half pathetic synthetic strands, or the barely-there bubble of flesh, the scarred line caked in skin tone makeup just behind the boy's left ear?
Each question brands his mind, only to be stamped over with a seal of iron as hot as the fires of hell. There's blush, a light dusting settled on Wally's pale cheeks. The freckles are barely visible and there's blush dusted on his cold, pale cheeks.
Robin's hands shake, teeth grinding nearly hard enough to crack, because -how dare they, how DARE they- the sight before him is a mockery of life and a cruel attempt at an illusion to those still living.
He's dead.
He will stay dead.
So why, where, would they find the audacity to defile the body of the boy in such a way as to trick those so close to him in life into... into...
Not even the comforting weight of Bruce's arms around his shoulders is enough to stop the cracked sob that rips at his throat. There are no tears, just the retching of a soul broken further upon having it's innermost desires denied so cruelly. -Blush, blood flow, heartbeat, life- He doesn't deserve to look so alive. To be that cold, stiff statue that will never open it's eyes again, that piles on lie after lie before his very eyes.
"Stop it Wally."
Dick's voice is low and shaken, and Bruce knows, can tell by the violent flinch at the sound of his own voice, that they need to go.
Now.
When he grabs him, steers him gently by the shoulders away from the coffin, he complies with the ease of a well trained dog. Then his eyes roll off the creamy white of the silk compressed under the deceased's head and he whines, cranes his neck to look back. He can't see Wally over the swell of Bruce's pitch black shoulder and he panics. He has to scream at him, make him feel like shit for lying to him because Wally's a douche sometimes but he gets guilty when he pulls stupid stunts and he apologizes. He apologizes.
"Wait Bruce-"
"I know... but we need to go now."
"No, no, hold on I just need to-"
"Alfred, take him to the car, it's time to go."
"No! Wait, just, hold on a sec he's being an idiot, just let me-"
"Master Dick, please-"
"Dick... I know what you're feeling right now is painful but it's going to be alright-"
"STOP LYING TO ME!"
Bruce's eyes widen at the sudden shriek, hands pausing on the boy's forearms. Dick's eyes are wild and bloodshot, tears threatening to fall. It's something just short of crazed and the look isn't pinned on the man but past him, on the boy in the box. It's pain, beyond pain, to watch each flogged and flayed emotion clawing their way into the forefront of the child's mind. To be forced to watch as he continues to break under the strain.
When the angry, desperate look fades, and the boy spills into the back of the car, he's not so sure even he knows who he was screaming at.
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A/N: I'm a little too eager to post chapters for this. The pacing didn't feel quite right, but i've scrapped the second half of this twice and rewritten the rewrite at least two times more. If there's something else that needs covering then i'll do it later. Nighty night all~