"…What do you want, Clark?" Bruce said moodily as the Zeta tube announced his visitor.
"I want to know why you told your son that Gotham doesn't need Bludhaven's problem children," the Kryptonian answered in an unusually blunt tone, coming to a stop beside the chair the billionaire was reviewing files from.
"…I was afraid he'd take that the wrong way." Damn it.
"I'd say he took it a little more than 'the wrong way,' Bruce."
"What are you talking about?" His eyes still hadn't left the computer screen. He'd been torn all week; should I go to Bludhaven? Should I let him come to me again? I should call. No, it's better to just drop by. Shit, why am I so indecisive about this?!
"He's cutting."
"Cutting what?" he asked, exasperated. The day after Christmas a woman had been found in pieces in an abandoned office building. It looked like a ritual murder, but he was having little luck connecting any clues. It had been driving him up the wall for four days, and he had no patience for what he considered the meddling of the man beside him at the best of times. He just had to run to you, didn't he? Couldn't have been anyone else, no, it had to be perfect, precious Uncle Clark.
"…Himself, Bruce. He's cutting himself." Tossing a folded piece of paper down on the suddenly still hands, he crossed his arms and waited.
The billionaire flattened it slowly, his brain denying the charge Clark was laying at his door. He wouldn't. He wouldn't self-harm, he knows how I feel about that. A moment later, he gave a mental snort of self-derisive laughter. Why should he care how I feel about anything? I made it pretty clear that I didn't care how he felt last week, after all. Finally, he dared to glance down at the page. Oh, Dicky…
A smeary Formica tabletop, denizen of a cheap diner, Bruce supposed. The edge of a sleeve, riding up just enough on the wearer's wrist to reveal three almost perfectly parallel lines. Visible just a few inches away, the twisted end of a nasty scar, the remnant of a wound that Bruce himself had cleaned and stitched when Dick had still called himself Robin. Why, son? You're already so marked up… "Where did you get this?" he breathed.
"We had breakfast this morning. I try to see him at least once a month, out of costume. He won't discuss personal things with me when we're Nightwing and Superman; a little habit of yours that he picked up. We'd been talking for a while, and he'd gotten pretty relaxed. I received a text that I had to respond to. He said it was fine. While I had the phone up, he shifted, and his sleeve moved. I don't think he noticed that he'd uncovered the marks, but I did. I took that with my phone. I didn't say anything to him about it; I figured that's something you ought to do." Silence. "Well?"
"…I didn't think he meant it, Clark. I would never have waited this long if I thought…"
"Meant what?"
"'…Just watch, next I'll be forgetting to throw my grapple out mid-flight.'" The words echoed in his head after he related them to the man beside him. "He said that on Christmas night."
"…And you let him leave?"
"I didn't think he meant it, god damn it!" he stormed, shoving his chair back and standing. "I didn't think he'd start…mutilating himself over a little argument!"
"'Little' arguments don't stretch out over years, Bruce. He told me he came to Gotham to apologize to you, and to try to work things out. And he also told me that you made it quite clear that he wasn't welcome."
"I never said that!"
"Not in so many words, maybe. But that's how it's always been with you two, all subtext that no one else picks up on."
"Then he misread me. I never…I mean, this…" He crumpled the paper in his hand and threw it suddenly, wanting it as far away as possible.
"He doesn't smile much anymore, you know."
That hurt, striking a soft spot deep in his chest that ached in the aftermath. "…I see him smile with the Young Justice team all the time," he countered falteringly. "And you said he was enjoying his work."
"He smiles with his team mostly because they expect him to. And he does enjoy his police work, like I said, but he's not a workaholic like you are. He needs a good case, yes, but it's not all he lives for. He's not really happy, Bruce."
"Everyone adores him. He has no reason to be unhappy."
"He knows he's very well liked. But he'd trade all of that, I think, to know that you still love him. My god, how hard is it to send him a text every once in a while and ask how his day went?"
"You don't understand. You weren't here for our last argument."
"I didn't have to be; he gave me the play by play. In tears. And some of what you said that night still haunts him, by the way. I see it in his face whenever you're in the same room, or someone mentions you. I was asked the other day why he doesn't transition into the JLA; everyone knows he's more than ready, he was ready years ago, before your argument even. I answered that he was still enjoying himself with Young Justice, but you and I both know the real answer."
"He's avoiding me."
"No, he's keeping out of your way. There's a difference." Closing the distance between them, he rested a hand on the other man's shoulder. "…What are you going to do?"
"This has to stop."
"The cutting?" Clark prompted.
"…All of it. The cutting, the avoiding the issues, the…the fighting. The miscommunications. All of it." He hung his head. "How much of this is my fault?"
"He came here to make amends, and you brushed him off," the Kryptonian opined. "I'd say pretty much all of it's on you at this point."
"Fuck."
"You never answered my question."
"…I was planning on going to see him tomorrow night."
"He won't be there. They have an overnight mission in Detroit."
Christ. Tim had told him as much, but he was so involved with the dismemberment case that it hadn't occurred to him that a Young Justice trip meant Dick would be gone, too. "…I'm not ready yet."
"You've been saying that for how long now, Bruce? Quit putting it off. It's New Year's Eve; maybe your resolution should be to make things right with Dick." Moving past him, he retrieved the wrinkled photograph, smoothed it without looking at it, and handed it back. "Just in case you need a reminder as to why you're going while you're on your way over there," he grimaced. He was almost to the tube when he added one last thought. "…Detroit is going to be the most dangerous mission I've sent this particular team on," he advised. "You know how he gets when people he loves are in danger."
"Reckless," he grimaced.
"Protective. And self-sacrificing," Clark corrected. "Let that be a little extra incentive for you to do the right thing. Tonight, Bruce." And then he was gone.
Heaving a heavy sigh, he moved to change. "Sometimes I really hate that Boy Scout," he muttered. The paper in his hand fluttered, and he glanced down to find three accusing lines glaring at him. And then there are moment like now…
