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Chapter 5

Truth

Dick watched Robin crouched on a gargoyle, struck again by the grace and maturity his little brother had developed lately. It was Nightwing and Robin tonight. Just the two of them. Batman had his own rounds, and Dick had promised a patrol with Tim.

"It's been too long, Little Brother." He stretched, one arm in the air, looking out over the city, ready to start the night.

"You could always come by more often." Robin was watching the streets down below, starting along the ledge. "You could always stay."

"You could always come by yourself!" Nightwing poked him in the ribs, following behind. "My place isn't that much of a mess."

"But then Bruce wouldn't get to see you. Or Jason." Dick wasn't sure Jason really wanted to see him anyway, and it was as good of an excuse as any to change the topic. There'd been a lot of talk about Dick staying lately.

"Speaking of which, don't you think it's about time you let Jay go?" Nightwing was a shadow behind the brighter boy. "Whatever trespass he's committed this time, don't you think he's paid by now?" Robin paused at the corner, glancing back at him.

"Don't you think you're a little too lenient on Damian?" he responded, shifting the issue defensively. "He did try to kill you."

"Caught." Nightwing grinned, raising his hands in the air. "But if B found out how serious it is, Little D might be in for some harsh punishment. He doesn't need more punishment. He needs guidance." Robin only regarded him blankly.

"Don't take him lightly." He started to turn away, but Dick wasn't going to let him avoid answering his question. His hand gripped the boy's shoulder.

"Robin. About Jay…"

"Give it another twenty-four hours." The boy pulled out his grapple gun.

"That bad, huh?"

"We're working on it." Robin grimaced before swinging to the next building over. He was waiting when Nightwing joined him a second behind, facing away again, using the guise of watching for trouble across the city. "Is it wrong if I want Jason to stay? If I'd do anything to keep him with us?" Dick felt a pang. Jason had broken all of their hearts.

"No, Little Brother." He stepped up beside Robin, supportive. "I want him back too. But Jason's chosen his own way, and there's no sign that's going to change any time soon."

"But if it does, if it could…"

"If it does, I'll be the first in line to welcome him back."

The wail of sirens jolted them out of their talk, and with a resigned grin for each other, they swung down into the dirt and grit of Gotham. It turned out to be a fire, and at least half an hour was spent sweating through blistering, smoke-clogged hallways, carrying residents to safety. There was a certain exhilaration that came with every victim released safely into the waiting arms of paramedics: the knowledge of a life saved and a job well done. He could tell Robin felt it too when the boy grinned at him afterward with soot-streaked cheeks, once they'd met up again afterward on a nearby rooftop. He couldn't keep in his own grin, or the chuckle at their identically grimy faces. Shaking his head, Robin threw at him one of the little sanitation wipes he'd been using in a useless attempt to clean off some of the soot.

"Hey!" Dick swiped at it, snatching it out of the air before it could bounce off his chest. He looked up, but Robin was already bounding away. "Hey!" he yelped again, taking off after the boy, not to be outdone. And the night became a race, rushing headlong into the darkness and the gunshots and the punches, covering each other instinctively. Robin didn't miss a beat, and Nightwing reveled in the feel of being part of something again, something bigger and grander, a feel of completion that only came with working with one of his family.

It was one of those rare nights where everything worked out: everything went according to plan, no one got hurt, and it felt like something had been accomplished at the end.

There was only one mishap the entire night. It happened near the end of their patrol.

Nightwing had scaled a series of window ledges and architectural flourishes up to a higher roof for a better view of an alley, leaving Robin to follow. There was a small popping sound and suddenly gas was spewing from one of the compartments on Robin's belt. Dick hopped down from the higher roof, running toward the younger vigilante even as Robin's nimble fingers fought the clasps on his belt, struggling with a safety release.

"Robin!" He reached the boy just as Tim took out a batarang and cut through it, throwing the belt over the edge of the building, just in time for one of the pellet grenades to go off, rattling the windows of the building with the resulting explosion.

Dick swallowed, eyes still glued to that place where the belt had gone over. That had almost been his brother. And suddenly he could feel how hard his heart was beating, how terrified he'd been. He'd almost lost his brother. He grabbed the boy by the shoulders. "What happened?"

"I don't…" Only the hike of Robin's eyebrows indicated how wide his eyes must be. "The pellet must've been defective."

"We check those!" Dick nearly shook him, but settled for hugging the hell out of him instead.

"I know. I…" Robin wet his lips with his tongue. He couldn't stop looking over at the side of the building. If it had been the pellet grenade that had gone off first instead of the gas pellet…

"Robin!" Batman's voice came in over the comm. He'd been close enough somewhere to hear the explosion. "Report!"

"I'm okay." Tim sounded shaky—shakier over the comm. "There was… an accident."

"I'm coming." Once Tim had cut off the communication, Dick impatiently pulled him back in for another hug, breathing into black hair.

"Jeez. Don't scare me like that."

It was only a matter of minutes until Batman showed up. Nightwing had reluctantly left Robin to look for remaining pieces of the belt, if there were any. They couldn't risk any gear—even broken, damaged gear—getting into the wrong hands.

"Robin, what happened?" Batman's gauntlets swallowed either side of Tim's face, worried frown pulling at his lips. Tim took a moment to push into the rough brush of thumbs against his cheeks, close his eyes and breathe. Then he met the lenses of that dark cowl and smiled, still leaning into the worried graze of hands, steadying him.

"Mishap with the pellets." He could tell by the deep and resounding silence that followed that the man didn't believe him. Or didn't believe that was all of it. There wasn't a single muscle twitch, not a deepening of the frown or lowering of eyebrows behind the cowl, but Tim knew the man was studying him, eyes boring into his, trying to ferret out what Tim was hiding. Tim stared resolutely back: earnest, innocent Robin.

Batman had always protected him. This time, it was his turn to protect Batman.

"You checked your belt?" He wasn't going to get at the answers that way, but maybe he just felt the need to drill Robin a bit on procedure to take some responsibility over the accident. Or maybe he was establishing a baseline for his internal polygraph.

"Restocked it before I turned in last night."

Batman started to ask another question, but at that point Nightwing swung back up onto the roof.

"Police!" he warned. Of course the disturbance had come to the attention of the authorities, which meant the questioning was called off for now. Batman's lips thinned but there was nothing he could do about it. Still, the look he pinned Robin with was steely.

"Return to the cave. I'll meet you there."

Robin was lying to him. Bruce sat in the cave bathed in the glow of the flat screen monitor, having dismissed the boys earlier, because no amount of pressing was getting to the truth. Robin stubbornly repeated that it had been an accident.

Robin was lying to him.

Bruce leaned back in the chair, considering this unexpected turn and trying to reconcile events with the boy who always obeyed him flawlessly. It wasn't the first time, of course. Robin had lied before, but usually when Bruce was inadvertently inhibiting the boy's personal identity and Robin didn't want to be rude. Those instances had been few to begin with. They'd been nearly nonexistent the past few years and especially since Robin found the file.

This instance didn't feel the same as those anyway. It was more blatant, not so coyly deceptive, as though he'd been tight on time for coming up with a more convincing thread.

Did the boy really expect him to believe that his fastidious little Robin had neglected to check his equipment? No. The boy didn't make those kinds of mistakes anymore. Moreover, he knew they checked everything in the belts on a routine basis. That left only one possibility. There was only one other reason Bruce could think of why Robin would lie to him: Robin thought the truth would hurt him. The boy was taking the blame for someone in order to spare Bruce somehow.

Grimly, he tapped out a few keys on the computer before him, bringing up the monitors in the manor. Scanning the live images playing out before him, he quickly found the one he wanted, full-screened the feed, and leaned forward, fingers laced before him, to observe, blue eyes intent. There had been instances of fighting between his boys before. He'd thought—wrongly if he was reading the situation right—that those tiffs had stopped, the responsible parties having come to a tentative understanding.

On screen, the youngest of his boys paused, turning to someone still out of camera shot, and Bruce's blue eyes narrowed keenly, watching the scene play out.

The answer, of course, was relatively simple. It didn't take Dick long to work the possibilities. He knew Tim kept his belts stocked and checked as a matter of course. There were only so many people who had access to that equipment. Of those people, there was only one who had been actively hostile towards Tim.

He caught Damian in passing in the foyer.

"We need to talk." He grabbed the boy by the arm, swinging him around so they were face to face, because these practical jokes were getting out of hand. "You could've killed Tim tonight!"

"What do you think I was trying to do?"

"This is serious."

"I am being serious."

"I know you don't actually want to kill your brother. Otherwise you wouldn't have tampered with the gas pellet as well. It was a prank, right? It got out of hand?"

Damian bristled, jerking free of Dick's hold.

"I'm Father's rightful heir! Drake is the usurper!"

"Tim's been through a lot." Dick could understand the jealousy, especially from Damian, who'd been raised to believe he'd succeed all others, but it had to end. The boy had to understand and come to accept that there were other people who needed his father's attention as well. "Bruce was there for him when he lost everyone he cared about. Of course they're close. It doesn't mean he loves you any less…"

"Only because Father made it so to keep Drake," Damian cut in. "He has me now. He doesn't need the rest of you anymore!"

"What do you mean, made it so?" Dick was honestly confused by that one.

"Father killing his parents, of course."

"Oh, Dami." Dick stared at him sadly, because it was one thing to act out for attention, but there were limits. "It's not nice to say things like that."

"I'm not lying! Father was behind it, just like he arranged for your parents' accident, and Todd's."

"I won't allow you to say such things about Bruce." He was becoming cross, his voice picking up his distress, and he was afraid it was because Damian looked absolutely serious about this. The boy actually believed it. And it was hard not to look into those serious blue eyes—Bruce's blue eyes—and not doubt. Damian had been raised with a lot of things, but one of those was a system of honor.

Dick knew lies when he heard them. He knew jealousy when he heard it too. But this… this was the unadulterated truth of a boy who just wanted to be believed.

"You seriously thought Father liked charity cases?"

"Don't." He'd been prepared for a lot of things.

"Didn't you ever wonder why you all had so much in common?"

"Stop." He hadn't been prepared for this.

"The black hair? The blue eyes? The lack of parents?" And Damian had something to prove now.

"Because he knew what it was like!"

"Because he picked you out. He took out the obstacles in his way, subsequently making you more amenable to his offered comfort in your distress."

Dick threw the vase from one of the end tables at the boy. He didn't even realize he'd done it until it was done. Just… anything to make him shut up. Damian only ducked, of course, and the vase smashed into the door. He opened his mouth, but then caught sight of Dick's wide-eyed stricken look, and perhaps realizing he'd won unconditionally, adopted a more level tone.

"I won't accept Drake." And finally, finally, he turned and headed up the stairs, leaving Dick shattered in the foyer.

Dick didn't know what to do first. Part of him wanted to confront Bruce, demand to know if it was true, though he couldn't figure out why Damian would lie. Part of him wanted to gather his siblings and get them as far away as possible. He didn't know how long he wallowed there in indecision, the rest of the world spinning past somewhere outside, but long enough that another family member found him.

"Dick!" The familiar sound of his name grounded him, decided him. He turned to find Tim there, and heavens, he had to tell Tim. Something on his face must have given him away, because Tim frowned. "What's wrong?"

"Tim. Timmy…" He didn't even know where to start. The boy didn't deserve this. He put his hands on Tim's shoulders bracingly and knelt down so they were at eye level. "Why don't you come to Bludhaven with me?" Because he had to get Tim away from Bruce. The manor felt like an oppressive weight, some dark hole they were all slipping into. He could tell Tim the truth once they were away from all that, once he knew for sure. "We can hang out. Eat pizza. Away from Bruce."

"Why would you want to leave? You just got here."

Dick opened his mouth… and nothing came out. What could he say? But Tim's eyes were narrowing thoughtfully. He tilted his head and cut right to the heart of all Dick's hemming and hawing.

"Damian told you."

Dick's mouth clicked shut. Tim knew. Of course Tim knew. He knew and he'd stayed anyway. The sliver of doubt Dick still held—the hope that Damian had been confused, that there was no way Bruce could have done such a thing, not Bruce—died instantly under the level regard of Tim's too-serious blue eyes. Bleak, empty, hopeless eyes.

"It's true then," Dick whispered, reeling. It felt like the walls were falling in on him, the floor crumbling beneath him, everything shattering and falling away at once. He curled his toes in his shoes, digging into the soft soles, reaffirming there was ground underneath him. He had to hold it together. He wasn't the only one in this mess. Suddenly Tim's strange cheerfulness as of late made more sense. A damning kind of sense. What had Damian said? That Bruce had made it so to keep the boy?

Besides taking Tim's parents away… what else had the man done? Broken his little brother somehow, obviously. Or maybe it was just the truth that had done that.

"Timmy, you can fight Bruce's hold on you. You don't have to give into this." His hands on Tim's shoulders tightened, willing him to feel the truth of it. There was nothing they couldn't fight together. "You can come with me. We can make our own home."

Tim looked at him strangely. Slowly, the kid shook his head, back and forth, backing up. His little brother, pulling away from him.

"I am home, Dick."

The words held all the force of a punch. They seemed to knock the wind out of him. Dick had never felt so confused and betrayed as he did just then watching Tim back away from him as though he were some enemy. He desperately wanted to get the kid out of there.

"You are too," Tim continued. Sweet little Timmy brandishing that too-cheerful smile again. The sense of wrongness twisted deeper again at the sight, because he recognized it now. It was Robin's smile.

"That man's not my father." Dick gritted the angry words out.

"Of course he is. He's done nothing but care for and protect you. He loves you. Isn't that what a father does? How can you repay him like this?"

"This isn't the home I thought it was." Dick swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth and watched Tim's shoulders slump with the weight of realization, the smile faltering.

"Don't you care about us?" The blue of his eyes looked so very bleak just then, like he was already watching his home break apart. The boy had already dealt with so much loss, Dick would have done anything to spare him more heartbreak just then.

"Of course I do." He reached out, hands cradling the boy's face, thumbs brushing cheekbones, fingers pushing back ebony strands of hair, unable to keep from comforting him despite everything. "Timmy, of course." Tim tried halfheartedly to push him away, but Dick only crushed him closer, wrapping his arms around the boy's shoulder and one behind his head, pressing him to his chest and wondering how they were going to get through this.

Tim's fingers clutched at his shirt, words stifled but steady.

"Then you'll stay?" There was no hope in the question, only bleakness. Dick felt guilt mix with the wash of sick dread. He'd known how hard it was to lose parents. Maybe he hadn't been there for Tim as much as he should have been. But the boy had had Bruce. Bruce had been there, so much closer than Dick, so much more qualified to be the soothing, silently supportive presence Tim needed to get through those days. Dick could still remember the dark days after his own parents' deaths, Bruce's arms folding around him, holding him tight—a memory that now brought a dazed sort of nausea. But at the time, he'd seen nothing wrong with letting Bruce comfort Tim, letting the man's strong arms fold protectively around his little brother, keep him safe, draw his attention and affection away from the new hole in his life. How could he have known who he was letting hold his precious little brother?

"No." Dick squeezed the boy one last time before letting him go, letting Tim back up and look at him, examining him with those too-clever blue eyes. "I can't be around that man anymore."

"I'm sorry you had to find out like this." Because Tim knew, obviously, how hard that realization was. Why hadn't he run? "Damian's a brat. But it's going to be okay, Dick. Really, it is." Tim was using that reassuringly bright smile again by the end of it, and it hurt to watch.

"No, it's not." He shook his head, swallowing down more of the sickness coating his mouth. "This isn't okay."

"But it can be. Bruce won't leave you. You'll see."

"What do you mean?" Dick stilled. He couldn't decide if that was a warning or attempted reassurance.

"You were a Robin, of course." Like the Robin staring at him now from Tim's resolute blue eyes. "Robin belongs to Batman. He needs us, and he'll always be there for us."

The sick dread was quickly turning into horror. He'd known it was bad. He'd known something was wrong with the boy. But now… What had Bruce done to him?

Dick's mouth thinned grimly.

"Is that why Jason's still tied up? Because he's a Robin too?"

"He doesn't know the truth." Tim shook his head. "But yes, he belongs here just like us. He'll see that eventually." Dick sucked in a steadying breath.

"I'm going to get you out of here, Timmy." He took a deliberate, solid step forward: Nightwing to meet Robin. "Maybe when you're away from that man you'll see sense."

"I'm not leaving, Dick. I'm not leaving." His eyes narrowed. "And neither are you." Tim opened his mouth to shout, but Dick was already diving after him, flattening him to the floor. The impact drove the air from Tim's lungs, but he was already twisting even as they went down, bringing a knee up to wedge between them. Dick would have preferred being gentle, but he could already tell Tim was going to fight this out by the press of that knee into his gut and the way the boy struggled in his grip.

His fingers stretched for, caught the hardbound book on the nearby end table and slammed it into Tim's head, dropping the boy instantly. He fell back limp in Dick's arms.

"I'm sorry, Little Brother," he whispered it against one temple through wisps of black hair, allowing himself this moment to just rock the limp body of his younger brother in his arms and let the betrayal and anger and regret wash through him, let it wash him clean. When he opened his eyes again, he was focused, the turmoil inside him clamped down tight, the course before him clear. He knew what he had to do.

Author Notes: And so Dick finds out the truth. What's he going to do about it though? And will he have help? Because I know a certain imprisoned character who would just love a chance at freedom... I guess we'll find out next time!

Hm, I appear to have offended all my reviewers somehow last chapter. And here I thought if I was going to make everyone mad, it was going to be ch. 6... Really kind of nervous and worried about posting that one. I did mention at the beginning of this whole thing that this fic was never intended to "fix" any of the damage of the previous installment, right? I feel I should be re-emphasizing that.

Can I ask a question? I have a terrible time deciding on that dumb little genre tag. Would this better qualify as horror? Dictionary. com describes it as "an overwhelming and painful feeling caused by something frightfully shocking, terrifying, or revolting." Does that description fit this fic? I feel that it might. (there are so many misplaced fics in the horror category though)