Okay, so I didn't write the conversation between Bruce and Dick 'cause someone already did. Someone much better at this then me. It's in Nightwing 118 I think, if anyone's really excited about it.
To summarize, Dick admitted to Bruce that he'd let Blockbuster die and Bruce accuses him of being reckless because of his guilt and admits he could probably forgive Dick, but it won't matter if Dick can't forgive himself.
Also, I promise they'll talk. Eventually.
Bruce strode away from Dick, his mind ringing with the words he'd just said. He was vaguely aware of Dick throwing up behind him but he didn't turn around. Alfred would be there, Alfred would take care of his son. He would take care of some criminals on the streets.
His anger was terrifying, to himself, to Dick and if any good was going to come out of it, it had to be terrifying criminals with it.
When he got home about three in the morning, he didn't see Alfred and Dick had fallen asleep. The boy was curled up on the very edge of the bed. That wasn't a good sign. When Dick was comfortable and happy he managed to take up a whole king sized bed by himself. If he was balled up it was because he was miserable.
Bruce pulled the cowl back from his face and stood next to the boy for a minute or two, looking down at him. The burns on his face were pretty bad still, made worse by the fact that his colour underneath them was deathly white and his eyes flicking back and forth under his lids. Bruce wondered what he was dreaming about, but he guessed that it wasn't good. Bruce sighed very quietly and wondered if what he'd said had made Dick's dreams worse.
He hadn't really meant them of course. He had been angry and maybe frightened too. Frightened that he was loosing his son to that dark force that haunted him every waking moment. Frightened that Dick would have to fight against it ever waking minute the same way he did. He couldn't think of a worse fate for his son.
Of course, he would have to tell Dick that, or it wouldn't mean anything.
But the boy needed to rest and if he was being completely honest with himself Bruce still felt like weak and sick. He would talk to Dick in the morning, after a few hours of sleep.
As he undressed Alfred reappeared, looking absolutely exhausted.
"How's Dick?" he asked as he hung up his cape.
"He'll be all right," Alfred said, with a rather cool tone. Bruce didn't need to imagine what he'd done to earn Alfred's anger, but he left it that unsaid. "Yourself?"
"I'm sure I'll feel better in the morning," he said. "Will you stay with him?"
"Yes either Master Timothy and myself with stay with him in case he wakes up or needs something," Alfred assured him wearily. If Bruce had felt any less ill he probably would have worried about Alfred too, who looked so tired he might lay down on the floor and doze off. But his stomach was still twisted and the headache he'd woken up with had moved from symphony of drums to nuclear war. He didn't have the energy to worry .
"I'll see you when I wake up," he growled.
Sleep came quickly to Bruce and waking up came slowly. When he finally managed to roll himself over and squint at his clock he was surprised to learn that he'd slept for almost twelve hours. He groaned. It was so rare that he ever slept for that long he wasn't sure what to do with himself as he sat up slowly. What was even more surprising was how much better he felt.
He had a shower, got dressed and went in search of food. Suddenly he felt the last few days of barely eating because he was ravenous.
Alfred was not in the kitchen, Bruce assumed he was down in the Cave with Dick, and he obviously hadn't spent a lot of time in the shops over the last few days. There was nothing prepared but Bruce was too hungry to worry about it. He ate whatever he saw, mostly fruit and bread, without even thinking about it. It was one of the strangest meals he'd ever eaten. It wasn't until after he'd ransacked the fridge that he wondered how Dick was doing, and where Tim was and headed downstairs.
At first he thought the Cave was empty. The bed that Dick had been sleeping in was empty. Not only empty, it had been made up.
As far as Bruce was aware, Dick had never made a bed in his entire life. "Dick?" he called. "Alfred?"
"Here sir," Alfred said quietly from behind him. Bruce spun around, almost crouching defensively, the way he would in a fight. Alfred looked pale, but collected as he came around to start fussing with the nonexistent mess. He never tidied a clean space unless he was very upset about something.
"Where's Dick?" Bruce asked.
"I don't know," Alfred said. "He was gone when I woke up."
"Surely he's in no condition to on his feet?" Bruce demanded, already knowing the answer but dreading the confirmation from Alfred.
"No," Alfred agreed. "I imagine he's very much regretting his decision."
"Then he shouldn't be up!" Bruce half shouted. Alfred remained unflappable and raised an eyebrow in irritation.
"Obviously," he answered coolly. "However, I had been awake for almost thirty six hours at that point, and was close to collapse myself. Master Timothy volunteered to watch Master Richard, but when I returned he informed me that Master Richard had left us. He seemed somewhat distressed about it in fact, but was unwilling to talk to me about it."
Bruce felt like someone had just punched him the chest. It left him breathless, and his anger was suddenly gone. Of course none of this was Alfred's fault, and it certainly wasn't Tim's. If anyone was to blame, it was himself but either way, blame wouldn't bring Dick back home safely, and that had to be his first concern.
"Alfred I," he started to say, but he wasn't sure what he was apologizing for exactly. Everything? For being a terrible father when his son needed a better one? For forgetting that Alfred was human too? For shoving the burden to Tim, who was just a teenager? For failing to look down from the moral high ground and realize that his son was dying from it?
His indecision must have shown on his face because Alfred's stern look softened.
"Never mind," Alfred said. "It's done now."
Of course, Alfred didn't need apologies. He just understood. He had always just understood and Bruce could never truly pay him back for that.
"Where's Tim?" he asked.
"Working," Alfred said. "Down at the computer." Bruce nodded and turned away. "Master Bruce," Alfred added hesitantly.
"I know Alfred," Bruce said, sighing.
Tim, his younger son, in some ways the son he understood best, was sitting at the computer, scanning through at least four files on the giant screen in front of him. He was half dressed as Robin, half dressed as himself and it struck Bruce as he looked down at the boy that Tim had grown so much since he'd come into Bruce's care. When he'd turned up to rescue Batman and Nightwing in a stolen Robin costume, he'd been a child. Now looking at him Bruce thought he could see the hero Tim would become, silhouetted in his shadow. He wasn't like Dick, he wouldn't leave because of a drive to be his own man, but eventually it would happen. Eventually he'd be forced to step out of Batman's shadow and face the world as someone else.
Bruce wondered if he would handle it better than he had handled Dick's adulthood. Probably not.
"Tim," he said quietly The boy jumped and looked over at him.
There was something indescribably sad about his eyes as they met Bruce's, something crossed between fear and love and guilt. Bruce smiled at him, as reassuringly and paternal as he could manage. Tim understood the rarity of that effort though, because he smiled back.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Better," Bruce said. "You?"
"Fine," he said quickly, turning back to the computer. "I've been going over some police reports," he said, taking a small but deep breath, like he was about to launch into a long complicated story. "They're not,"
"It's all right," Bruce said, closing the space between them awkwardly and leaning against the computer console so he could look Tim in the face. "Do you know where Dick went?" Tim shook his head miserably. Well, of course he was miserable, his older brother and the only person in the world who'd ever openly shown him affection had just limped off into the day somewhere. "He didn't tell you where he was going?"
"No," Tim said. His voice went just a little flat, the way it would if he was reciting details of a case. Slow, methodical, emotionless. "I'm sorry. I tried to stop him. I really did. He looked so sick but he wouldn't listen to me. I even tried," and then he lost that practiced, professional tone, "to stop him but I think I just hurt him so I had to let him go."
"Tim, it's all right," Bruce said, clumsily reaching his hand across the space between them and setting it on the boy's shoulder. "I'm sure you did the best you could. But we do need to find him. He's still very sick. Did he say anything that would suggest where he was going?"
"I've thought about it a thousand times," Tim said. "And no. I don't think he did."
"Can you tell me what he said?" Tim looked down at his hands and crushed them both into fists before swallowing loudly and meeting Bruce's eyes again.
"He said to say he was sorry to Alfred, and thanks for saving his life. He told me that this wasn't my fault, and he'd be around if I needed him and to take care and he," Tim stopped for a second but Bruce wasn't sure why exactly. "He said he was sorry that he'd failed you so completely and he wouldn't come back until he'd made up for it."
"And you believe him?" Bruce asked Tim, knowing the answer. Of course it was possible that Dick was still running a high fever and feeling sick and confused and had said something he didn't mean, the way Bruce had not so long ago.
But Dick had believed him then and one look at Tim told Bruce that Tim had believed Dick.
"We'll find him," Bruce said, turning to face the computer and calling Oracle.
As usual, it only took her a few seconds to answer. More unusual was how she looked. Pale, maybe like she'd been crying, definitely shaken. She must have seen Dick. If something really terrible had happened, she would have told Bruce immediately, but even knowing that, Bruce's heart hammered harder.
"Hey Batman," she said, in a calm tone, despite her appearance. "Hey Tim." Tim nodded at her.
"Have you seen Dick?" Bruce asked her urgently.
"Not since early this morning," she sighed. "Very, very early." Whatever had happened, she didn't want to talk to Bruce about it, which was the opposite of what Bruce wanted but as the silence dragged out it between them it became obvious who was going to win.
"Was he all right?" Bruce asked at last.
"I don't know," she said. "He looked pretty bad, and he said some things," she trailed off nervously.
"Things?" Bruce prompted desperately.
"Things that suggested he was about to do something stupid," Barbara said. "I mean, maybe not just, I don't know, he didn't sound super hopeful, that's all."
"Did he say what? Or where he was going?" Bruce demanded.
"No," she said. "I've got all my resources looking for him, but you and I both know if he doesn't want to be found, he's probably not going to be." Bruce almost snarled. Sometimes he felt a kind of perverse pride that his son was able to break the rules the way Bruce had taught him, but right now all it did was anger him.
"We'll find him," Bruce said in a deadly soft and grim tone. "We'll find him."