The original plan was a vacation. Dick asked for an hour, Bruce would give him a week. A father/son trip at a cabin in Colorado, plenty of time for hiking, white-water rafting, roasting things over a campfire, whatever struck their fancy. Something special, something memorable, and there would be no chance of work or Gotham pulling Bruce away. Nothing short of Superboy-Prime attacking the planet would distract them once they arrived at the cabin.
That was the plan, but the universe decided to counter Bruce's intentions by preventing them from ever getting there in the first place. His schedule filled up, problems reared their ugly heads, and before Bruce knew it, that future week turned into a weekend, which turned into a day, and soon, even finding one uninterrupted hour for Dick seemed questionable. It was time to search for a Plan B.
Except that left him back at square one, and worse, with Dick having expectations Bruce was sure to let down. "Alfred, what do I do?" Bruce begged into a cell phone as he moved between terminals at the airport. The birthday was precariously close, and Bruce was constantly rushing from state to state, country to country, in both his costume and power tie. It had already taken an extreme feat of rescheduling just so Bruce could get from Tinasha to Gotham for even part of March 20, and that was only possible if he moved the Wayne Enterprises quarterly review to the same day, something he absolutely couldn't delegate his presence away from. After that came work for an ongoing case with the JLA, which it pained him to say, did take priority, and then he needed to be back in Africa for Batman Inc. business by 9:00 AM the next day. He'd already inconvenienced his board members, airline companies and begged favors from superpowered friends just so he could be in Gotham to wish his son a happy birthday in person, but the walls were still closing in. His exasperated secretary had all but torn out her hair when Bruce asked if things could be rearranged yet again. "I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne, but I can't work miracles!"
Apparently, Bruce had used up his fair share of those. "All he asked for was an hour, and I can barely find a fifteen-minute break in the next two months!"
"I'm sure Master Dick appreciates the lengths you're going to, sir. It's the thought that counts, and you really have done all but move heaven and earth to be there."
And if Bruce had Clark's powers, he'd have moved those, too. "Thought isn't good enough! My whole life has been good thoughts and best intentions that always fall short, and he asked for an hour, Alfred! Asked like he expected to get even less than that! You know what kind of year he's had, what he went through before that, and I wasn't there! I'm never there, I always say the wrong thing and give the wrong presents, and–"
"If I may interrupt your tirade, sir," Alfred said with no small amount amount of concern, "Are you well? Or is there another issue I haven't been made privy to?"
"I'm fine!" Bruce snapped, hating that he let his mask slip, even in front of Alfred. "I'm fine, I just need advice." He needed to calm down, that was what he needed. Except the world was spinning so fast and the centrifugal force was yanking him away from the person who caught Bruce when he fell.
"Well then," Alfred didn't sound convinced. "There are two things you must remember. One: Master Dick is a grown man, not a child who cannot yet perceive the world beyond his own needs. He understands that his father has responsibilities that take him away sometimes, and won't resent your slight absence if there is a concentrated effort to connect to him at other times." But that was the problem, all the years Bruce hadn't made such a concentrated effort, to the point that a measly little hour of time was a treasure to be coveted. "And two: his request isn't a sign of your failure, but the opposite. Ask your colleagues how many of their adult sons want to spend time with their fathers."
It made Bruce feel a little better, but it didn't help him figure out what to do, and he had no further ideas when Dick's birthday arrived. "Happy birthday," he wished over the phone, first thing in the morning. In an airport again, just a few minutes from boarding, but it was a window of time to talk. "Sorry, if I woke you up."
There was no 'if' about it, Dick had obviously been asleep. But his slurred voice was happy when he expressed his thanks, and he started to wake up as they chatted. "What time does your flight get in?"
"12:15. If traffic's good, I should get to work just in time for the quarterly review."
"Wow, boss, when do you sleep?" Another thing rapidly being shoved out of Bruce's schedule. "Try to catch a nap in there sometime, okay?"
"I'll do my best." Napping on the plane would have to suffice. He rolled into Gotham a disheveled mess, but hid his weariness and made himself presentable. If only his insides could be as controlled and collected as the outside appearance.
Both Tim and Dick were present for the meeting, despite Dick's constant complaints to Lucius that he 'wasn't a numbers guy'. While technically true, Dick was bright and conscientious, and held his own in the meeting. Tim clearly had better aptitude for business and could interpret the endless powerpoint presentations with a glance, but there was a reason Dick had lead so many diverse teams of superheroes. He understood the cogs that made machines work, saw patterns, managed people, and knew when the numbers didn't add up, even if he needed an assistant to show him how to transfer that information into a spreadsheet. Between Dick and the almost genius level of business savvy Tim brought to the table, Bruce's company had been in good hands.
He was almost sorry to take the reins back. "I'm very proud of both of you," he told the boys after the meeting, and watched their faces light up. It was so easy to praise them, why didn't he do it more often? "I have about fifteen minutes before I need to be at the Watchtower. Join me for a late lunch in my office Tim? Dick doesn't have a choice, I have some papers for him to sign."
"Love to, Boss-Dad, but that review ran over and now I've got to rush to a meeting with Byron Technical. They already underestimate me for my age, so I can't afford to be late." And Tim dashed off, with a promise to be back at the manor in time for Dick's birthday party, leaving Bruce and his son to themselves.
It wasn't an hour, but it was better than nothing. Only marginally, since there wasn't enough time to order out and that limited their food choices to birthday cake from the break room and a bag of chips stolen from Tim's office. "What was that you needed signed?" Dick asked once they were settled.
Bruce dug the aforementioned documents from his desk and slid them over to the younger man. "We talked a bit about this last week, but I've been updating my will and making provisions in case we need to do... this, again." He gestured around the office and Dick scowled once the meaning hit.
"You really know how to kill the taste of birthday cake. And we are never doing this again."
"Theoretically, it's possible," Bruce pressed on, "And now that we've had a sort of trial run–"
"Are you for real?"
"–I can see some ways to make it easier." Dick's face read nothing but exasperation and disbelief, so Bruce moved to his question. "I know you've been doing it so long already, but I'd like to formally ask you to become Damian's legal guardian, if anything like this were to happen to again."
Now his son relaxed his expression, and took the offered pen. "Of course." And with a few quick scratches, that was settled. Bruce honestly didn't know how the boys managed while keeping up the ruse that their father was alive and vacationing in some unreachable location. They had some access to Bruce's funds, as did Alfred, but they lacked the codes, passwords and authority to truly take over and manage the house and company. Dick had little legal rights to make decisions over Damian's health and welfare while Bruce supposedly lived, and Bruce wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know how Tim convinced the board to let him take over the boss' job. He'd left provisions, but he hadn't wanted Dick to take over as Batman, certainly didn't expect Damian to become Robin, or for Tim to start running the company. Since the world believed Bruce alive, there was nothing for the boys to inherit, and yet they were orphaned and alone again.
It was unlikely he'd live forever, but Bruce had the chance now to ease some of the physical hardships from his eventual demise. The emotional hardships however, he couldn't do anything about, nor was he doing particularly well handling his own... "Thank you. I'll probably have more things for you to sign as I discuss with my lawyers."
"Well, let me know..." Even though Dick's face reflected unease, it's gave Bruce an idea.
"Since we're on the subject of my will, is there anything in particular you'd like left to you?" Dick nearly choked on his cake. "No sense letting you all fight over it later."
"Bruce, if you ever died – and I'd like it if you didn't – no one's going to be worried about who gets which stuff. Except the cowl, maybe, Jason went a little nuts over that."
"Still, if something has sentimental value, it should go to the person who appreciates it. So, think," Bruce probed, "Is there anything you want? Cars, art, antiques?"
Dick stared for a second before clutching his stomach and howling. "No way! You're trying to suss out a birthday gift, aren't you?"
"I'm not–" but Dicks laughter cut off Bruce's words and he gave up. "Fine. Now stop laughing."
"Bruce, I already told you what I want," Dick began, but when he saw the look of shame on his mentor's face, he winced. "Oh. I asked for too much, didn't I?"
"No, you didn't, it's just–"
"It's a busy time, I get it," Dick waved the concern away. "You're the CEO, and then there's your crazy nightlife. But you still managed to eat cake with me on my birthday, so thanks, Bruce. You're the best." The smile was so genuine, the words so sincere, but the eyes weren't quite as committed, and Bruce hated himself.
He had a chance that few had. A chance to look at his life from the grave, even if he hadn't been truly dead, and go back to relive it. But that wasn't the boon it was thought to be, just torture. Someday, Bruce would die, and he couldn't do anything to stop it. He couldn't change the past or rewrite the painful memories. And now it seemed he couldn't even change his present, become the man he should have been before his time-traveling adventure. Time kept hurtling toward that fateful end and all Bruce could do was stand by and watch the same dreadful choices be made again and again... "It's not that I didn't want to. I really tried..."
"I know. And I appreciate that." But it wasn't good enough, not for Bruce. And he knew Dick was only so forgiving because of the 'resurrection' miracle. His sensitive, devoted boy wouldn't risk a full-scale fight so close to having lost Bruce forever, whether or not his father actually deserved that forgiveness. "What's with that look on your face? No one should look like that with cake in front of them."
"I'm sorry I couldn't spend more time with you on your birthday." He wouldn't even be able to make an appearance at dinner, he'd miss the party, and that might not have been such a big deal except all Dick wanted was a simple hour with his father.
"It's fine, you bent over backwards to be here," Dick countered, stuffing his mouth full of the last of his cake. And yet, Bruce saw that same look he'd seen when the boy was sixteen. Disappointment, longing, resignation. Year after year after year... "That means a lot. But I'm in my mid-twenties, not seven. I'm not going run off and think you hate me just because you didn't watch me blow out my candles one time."
"It's not just one time," Bruce mumbled, and his gut twisted itself into a knot. "And isn't that exactly what happened to us?" Dick expressed confusion, and Bruce forced himself on, "It wasn't that long after your sixteenth birthday, when I didn't get the right car, that we started really fighting. Soon you were out of the house for good, and you said... you thought I didn't..."
Dick set his paper plate down with an incredulous look, but it carried a hard tension that cowed Bruce, since it usually heralded an argument. "Okay, what is your obsession with that car? I loved my car, it was amazing, and it had nothing to do with any of our fights. And if I thought you stopped caring about me back then, it's usually because that's what you told me."
Bruce snapped his head up. "I never told you-"
"Give me a break! 'You're fired, get out of my cave'? 'I wish I never had a partner, go leave your key with Alfred'? What was I supposed to think?" There it was. The anger, Bruce should have known the good relationship he currently enjoyed with Dick wouldn't last forever. "It's not always me being brash and sensitive or some ego thing where I can't stand your shadow. Sometimes it's you, too! And I've been trying to cut you slack, but-"
"I know..." He couldn't deny that, and didn't dare try, anymore. Not after everything that happened. On a man's deathbed, the saying went, no one ever wished they'd spent more time at the office. It was family they regretted passing up, and while Bruce hadn't truly died, he had a dead man's perspective, and a huge pile of regrets. "You shouldn't be something I have to squeeze into my schedule, and you shouldn't have to waste a birthday gift to spend a little time with your..." He stopped himself before saying 'father'. Even though that's exactly how Bruce saw himself, it was hard to make that claim in front of Dick. Not when he had competition for that role, and was losing to a set of parents that weren't even alive anymore.
Dick furrowed his brows and gave Bruce a strange look. "Don't take this the wrong way, but... is everything okay with you?" Bruce refused to flinch. "You haven't been yourself since you got back from... you know, and you keep obsessing over this present issue..." When he didn't get a response, Dick sighed and dropped his shoulders. "What did Darkseid do to you, Bruce? You've barely talked about it."
Bells, bats, loneliness. Failure and emptiness, a lack of control, lack of meaning. Everything he loved, gone, twisted or forgotten entirely, and he was alone. Only after being rescued from that Hell did he realize the friends he had, yet right on that epiphany's heels came the harsh truth: his little tin soldiers were battered and neglected by the man they fought for so loyally. Flocks of bats in caves, but blind and still alone, wrapped in darkness and feared by all. Bells for lost time, funeral bells, new days wasted, ends of days squandered, bells to summon servants and bells for celebrations Bruce should have been part of.
He lost himself, and everything that gave Bruce Wayne's life meaning. And even though he had it back, he still felt lost.
But Bruce couldn't exactly launch himself at his son and scream "I missed you, don't leave me ever again!" so he stayed silent, and Dick eventually took pity on him. "I don't know what's going on with you. But a couple years ago, we couldn't have handled being in the same room for even this long. I call this progress." If that was supposed to make Bruce feel better, it didn't. "You don't need to stress out over a birthday gift, it's not going to break us. And even if you just got me a pencil, I'd love it, because I'd know you spent hours comparing all the different pencil brands and thinking about which one I'd like best and what properties would be most useful to me, colors, feel and you'd probably even compare the smell of the wood. If it's someone you care about, you put so much thought into your gifts no matter what they are, and it's always amazing to realize that you think so much about me."
Dick shouldn't have been amazed. That should have been normal, expected. "But it wasn't what you wanted." A pencil, that fateful car, or this short, hurried conversation tucked into a preoccupied day.
"There's no such thing as a perfect gift, Bruce. If you managed it, then what would be the point of anyone else even trying? Theoretically, I'd be disappointed with all but one." There may have been a point to that, but still. "It's not about what I want, it's about what you want me to have."
Bruce wasn't sure he understood, but at that moment, an alarm went off on his cell phone. He gave a quick glance and frowned. "I have to go."
If Dick was upset by this, he didn't show it. "The Watchtower awaits. Try not to brood too much over this. Not your fault everyone wants a piece of you." No, but wasn't he the one who decided which of those pieces got top priority?
The two were about to part ways, when Dick suddenly turned and stopped his adoptive father. "If you had to choose, what would you want to leave me in your will?"
"What?"
"Just humor me," Dick said, making an impatient gesture with his hand to remind Bruce of the time constraints. "Say you had to go right now. What is the one thing you'd want me to have, besides your first-born son?"
Put on the spot, Bruce wasn't sure how to answer, or if he even wanted to. But when Dick insisted, an idea began to form. "Probably," he said with his mouth dry, "The house you grew up in. That's where all our memories are. It would mean the most to you." There were a few other things he could think of, but Wayne Manor stood out the most.
The answer pleased Dick. "See? You've still got those awesome-present instincts. Don't over-think this, Bruce." And with that, they finally split.
But it was difficult to take that advice to heart, and the conversation haunted Bruce all the way to the Watchtower...