Chapter 22: Beads on a String

Suppose all the lions get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.
—W.H. Auden, "If I Could Tell You" (excerpt)

NIGHTWING

When you're ready, I'll be here. I will always be here.

Dick was dehydrated, and his throat hurt. He was still sitting on the bathroom floor, Bruce's arms slotted around him. It made him feel like a child, needing nothing more than to hold and be held by his father's embrace, and yet something within him resisted the comforting touch—an itch beneath his skin, a wriggling in his bones. But he suppressed it, concentrating on the rise and fall of Bruce's chest, imagining that he could hear Bruce's heartbeat, even through the layers of the Batsuit.

It reminded Dick of those long, long nights shortly after he had arrived at the Manor, when it had still been Bruce Wayne's house instead of home, and he had embarrassingly fallen asleep in Bruce's empty bed after a nightmare. Stirring slightly when Bruce entered the room, he had been surprised when Bruce did nothing more than exhale once, very softly, and clamber into bed beside Dick. Nor did Bruce push Dick away when Dick, under the guise of slumber, slyly rolled over and buried his tousled head in Bruce's chest, finally able to grasp the security that had been ripped from him, and if Dick's tears fell silently onto Bruce's pyjamas, neither of them acknowledged it.

Nevertheless, that night had broken some dam between them. Although Dick woke the next morning alone, and in his own bed, his discerning eyes detected gradual changes in Bruce's behaviour over the days and weeks that followed. A gentle ruffle of Dick's hair. A reassuring hand on his shoulder. The unflinching eye contact of mingled respect and care that Dick had grown to expect from Batman. No longer did their affinity begin and end with the nights that had left them orphans. They were twins on a wire, two beads on the same string, trying their best to become part of a whole again.

Now, nestled in his father's arms, Dick did his best to remain still, noting how Bruce had not so much as twitched for the past ten minutes—a sure sign that he was in deep thought. But then, as if prodded by Dick's mind, Bruce drew a long, shuddering breath, and two hot tears fell into Dick's hair, sending an involuntary prickle down his scalp.

"Bruce," Dick gasped, simultaneously horrified and concerned. He tried to move, but Bruce's hold on him tightened so suddenly, so frantically that Dick obeyed the unspoken command and slumped bonelessly against Bruce's trembling body.

"I'm not going anywhere," he murmured, feeling his own heart beating rapidly within Bruce's embrace. "I promise."

As abruptly as he had intensified it, Bruce released his grip and withdrew. Turning his body away from Dick's, he passed his hands over his own face in an unsuccessful attempt to stem the silent flow of tears. There was a harsh, choking sound, shocking in the stillness of the bathroom, and Dick felt his own eyes prickling in empathy.

"Bruce," he repeated, not knowing what else to say. Bruce was breathing heavily, face buried in his hands, and when Dick placed a tentative hand on his father's shoulder, Bruce jerked as if he had been shot.

An icy chill shot through Dick. No, he thought, dismayed at his belated realisation. Finally coming to terms with what Tarantula had done to him had been such a confronting, visceral experience that he had been unable to consider the effects of such a vivid confession on Bruce's own psyche. For it was clear to Dick that Bruce's reaction betrayed a connection to Dick's trauma that was more personal than fatherly sympathy.

She took advantage of you, Bruce had said.

You put your trust in someone who betrayed it, Bruce had said.

"Bruce," Dick whispered, for the third time. "What happened? What's wrong?"

Before Dick could react, Bruce took Dick's hand and squeezed it for second, then released it and pushed himself to his feet. "Can you stand?" he asked, holding out a hand. There was only a trace of hoarseness in his voice.

"Uh, yeah," Dick said, momentarily stunned by this newfound resolve. He took Bruce's hand and Bruce pulled him up, steadying Dick's shoulders when Dick swayed and blinked from the rapid movement. Then Bruce turned away, briefly pressing his fingertips to his eyes again before heading out the doorway that led out of the bathroom to the rest of the Batcave.

"Come," he called over his shoulder, his voice carrying back to Dick as he strode to the Batcomputer. "There's no time to lose."

Dick stumbled a little—his legs had gained some pins and needles—as he followed. Apprehension filled him; he had no idea what had prompted this rapid burst of energy, so different from the uncharacteristic freeze response he had witnessed on the rooftop. He caught Bruce's arm.

"Tell me you're not going out again tonight," he said.

Bruce's fingers stilled on the keyboard. Now seated, he did not look at Dick as he said quietly, "That depends."

"On what?"

"Oh who else will be here."

"I'm here," Dick said immediately. "Tell me what you need me to do."

A strange sort of spasm crossed Bruce's face. "You need a break," he said.

Dick did not appreciate hearing his own words used against him. "Sure." He moved closer to the computer, slowly sliding between the desk and Bruce's chair as he added, "So do you."

Bruce looked unamused at the intrusion. "Dick."

"I'm serious. I want to help you. Talk to me—let me understand."

Bruce broke the eye contact, resting his chin in one hand as he frowned. From where he stood against the desk, Dick could see the sprinkle of grey in Bruce's black hair, and he had the jarring thought that Bruce was the only one of his parents who would even have the chance to grow old. The realisation was both heartening and poignant.

"Dick," Bruce said softly. "Do you trust me?"

The compass still lay inside its box on the desk, heedless of its own significance. Dick picked it up, letting its small weight rest in his palm. The needle stirred for a few seconds before finding its mark. Dick looked up, meeting Bruce's eyes as he tried to smile.

"With my life," he said. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to sit by and watch you try and do everything by yourself."

Bruce sighed. After a long pause, he pushed back his chair and stood up as he said, "I need you to ask Robin and Batgirl to come home."

Dick's initial elation was swiftly replaced by confusion. "Why can't you…" The words died on his tongue as he remembered Bruce's earlier hesitations regarding Tim. "All right," he agreed. "Should I say why?"

"There's something that I—we—need to discuss, and it would be best if we were all together."

"I'll hold you to that, you know," Dick said, slipping into Bruce's chair at the Batcomputer.

"Yes, I do." Bruce's face was pale and set. "Dick," he said.

Dick looked up, noting the gravity of the way Bruce said his name. "Yes?"

Bruce seemed to be struggling to find the right words—at least, he wore the conflicted expression that Dick was familiar with from years of watching his father squirm through tense moments like these. At last Bruce said simply, in a tone far gentler than usual, "Thank you."

"Any time," Dick replied, and though he knew he meant it absolutely, something shot through him when he saw a split second of Bruce's immediate, unshuttered emotions. Bruce looked shaken, as if he dared not believe that what Dick had said was true—or felt sure he knew it could not be. Dick's heart clenched, and he resolved to make his affections known even more clearly from then on. Bruce, though his powers of detection were otherwise formidable, could not always see past the mire of their complex past to understand what Dick meant.

"What are you going to do?" Dick asked.

"Talk to Stephanie. You should change."

This seemed strange to Dick, but he accepted the dismissal. He headed back to the bathroom, shed his Nightwing gear and showered as quickly as he could, gingerly checking his wound to ensure that it was still healing well (it was). When he emerged into the Batcave, limping slightly, he found himself face to face with Alfred.

"My dear boy," Alfred said. "Let me inspect that injury of yours."

Recognising the suggestion as mandatory, Dick followed him to the Batcave's medical area. "I really think it's fine," he said.

"I'll be the judge of that," said Alfred. He lowered the bed so that Dick could climb on it more easily, and said, "Lie down, please."

Dick was quiet as Alfred gently pushed up the right leg of his sweatpants and checked the bandages on his thigh. Apparently satisfied, Alfred then helped Dick into a new brace, more comfortable and discreet than the one he'd used as Nightwing.

"This one is best for everyday mobility—not diving off rooftops," he warned. "Do I make myself clear?"

Dick nodded. So Bruce must have told him.

"Good." Alfred's gaze was piercing. "Now, I believe Master Bruce gave you a task to complete?"

Returning to the computer, Dick signed in as Nightwing. Presently he noted how Alfred did not return upstairs, but instead remained nearby, performing small tasks such as tidying the medical area and inspecting the workout equipment. At first Dick was bemused, and then it hit him—Bruce did not want him to be left alone, however briefly.

The realisation was chilling.

All I have ever asked is for you to have a sense of self-preservation. And here you are, trying to kill yourself!

Had Bruce been right? Dick paused, cursor hovering over Robin's contact as he considered. Disregarding his own safety, he had hurled himself in the path of bullets to protect Batman; the subsequent fall from the rooftop had triggered a disorienting flow of flashes and echoes that had rendered him blind and deaf to anything else but the fracturing world inside his own head.

As Blockbuster had fallen, so had Nightwing, for the dam had broken at last, releasing context for the fragments that his shattered mind had been unable to lock away. His gloves were covered in Blockbuster's blood—he clutched at his throat, unable to breathe—he dashed up, up, up, away from the body in the stairwell—

With a harsh breath, Dick pulled himself out of the layers of memories. The beginning of their conversation in the Batcave, though barely two hours ago, seemed half a lifetime away, because of how clearly Dick was now able to reflect on his past words and actions and recognise them for what they were. It was little wonder that Bruce had been—and still was—intensely worried about him. Dick's actions had appeared to be nothing short of passively suicidal.

Dick cursed under his breath. He couldn't dwell on the implications now, not when he had already been pulled back from that brink—not when he had an objective to fulfil. Heart clenching, he put on an earpiece and selected Robin's contact on the screen, knowing the call would go through to his brother's personal communicator.

"Robin, come in," he said, forcing his pulse steady as he waited for a response.

There was a long moment, during which Dick wondered if he should try contacting Batgirl instead, despite her dislike of audio calls. Then the connection broke, but before Dick could wonder what had happened, the Batcomputer beeped to signal an incoming video call—from the Batplane.

Relief flooding him, Dick hastened to answer. The video that popped up on the screen showed Robin in the Batplane, in full uniform. To Dick's surprise, Tim was alone.

"Hi, Tim," Dick said, noting the weariness in his brother's face that the green domino mask could not conceal completely. All at once, he was struck by the thought that he hadn't had a good conversation with Tim in a long time—at first, the gang war and Dick's illness had seen to that, and then…

What had been so important as to pull Tim away from Gotham?

Tim's eyes narrowed. "What's up? Has something happened? Are Steph and Dana okay?"

"Nothing's wrong—everyone's fine," Dick confirmed, and Tim's shoulders slumped a little, though slivers of suspicion still remained. "I'm calling because—wait, where's Batgirl?"

"She's talking to—um—our contact," Tim said.

This seemed out of character. Dick did not know Cassandra overly well, but he knew that she did not like the negotiation aspect of their work—she much preferred the language of her fists. Discussing something important without Robin's assistance was unusual.

Dick checked the Batplane's location and did a double take.

"You're in Metropolis?" he asked, stunned. No way. "Is she talking to—"

"Superman?" Tim sighed. "Yeah. We already spoke to him, but Batgirl wanted an extra word with him—I don't know why. Maybe to talk about Batman—she'd know what's up with him better than I do at this point."

Dick was disconcerted by what he recognised as bitterness. Tim… you're not jealous, are you? You know Batgirl could never replace Robin.

"Well," he said, stumbling into his next sentence, "I wanted to see how you guys were doing, and if you need any help."

"Did Batman put you up to this?" Tim asked sharply.

"No," Dick said truthfully, too conscious of the lines of tension in Tim's demeanour to take offence. "It's just that we haven't been able to catch up for a while, and you left while I was still in Blüdhaven."

Tim let out a breath. "Well, we're just about to head back. Once Batgirl's done, we're setting a course for Gotham."

Dick relaxed. "Good. Look, he didn't say it in so many words, but Bruce's worried about you—both of you. There's something he wants to discuss with all of us when you get back."

"Discuss with who?"

"With—with all of us. You two, and me, and Alfred and Steph, and maybe Babs and Selina and Dana as well… you know, the whole family."

"Did he say that?"

"Say what?"

Tim made a frustrated noise. "The whole fa— you know what, never mind. We'll probably be there in an hour or so. Anything else?"

"Yeah… there is, actually," said Dick. He waited until Tim's gaze turned keen before continuing, aware in the back of his mind that Alfred was probably eavesdropping on his side of the conversation. "I know I worried you a lot during the gang war, and that was because—well, I went through a lot of shit back in Blüdhaven that was… difficult to deal with, to say the least. But I've talked it through with Bruce, and I've been able to come to terms with what happened. Which means that I'm in a better head space right now than… than I have been in a long time."

Tim's eyes widened, even behind the mask. "Bruce talked to you? That's…" He smiled, the happiness in his voice making him sound younger. "That's great news! I… I… I know I kind of ditched you during the war, and I've been kicking myself about it ever since, so—"

"Don't worry about it," Dick interjected, and then added, when Tim looked sceptical, "Seriously. It's a big brother's prerogative to worry more, right?"

"I guess," said Tim, sounding unconvinced. "Uh, if you need someone else to talk to…"

Dick felt a warm glow bloom within him. "Thanks," he said, though he had already resolved not to tell Tim any of what he had discussed with Bruce if he could help it. There were some things that little brothers never needed to know. "I'll keep that in mind," he acknowledged, and then added, before he could stop himself, "I've missed you, you know."

Tim turned a little pink. "Yeah… I miss you too, Dick," he said in a rush, ears red and eyes averted. "I… I gotta go." There was a muffled sound, and the call ended.

A grin spread onto Dick's face, slowly but surely. It felt foreign, as if needing to be invited back after being absent for so long. He spent an absurd moment testing out the smile, letting it lift his mood.

The Batcomputer beeped again, signalling another incoming call. To Dick's astonishment, the contact read SUPERMAN, and when he answered, the caller spoke instantly, words flooding into Dick's earpiece.

"Bruce—care to explain why I was just interrogated by two teenage vigilantes from Gotham?"

"Uh… hey, Clark," Dick said. "It's me. Dick."

"…Oh."

"I don't have an answer," Dick added. "If they told anyone exactly why they left, it wasn't me." And I don't think Tim would have appreciated the third degree.

"Oh, I know why they left," Clark said. "Tell Bruce not to be too harsh on them. They—well, I'm pretty sure it was Tim's idea—they asked me about how I came back from the dead."

Dick caught his breath. Oh, Tim.

"I'm worried about Tim," Clark continued, possibly too preoccupied to notice the way Dick's heart was stuttering, or choosing to disregard it. "I don't know him well, but I'm concerned that he's not coping well with his father's death. He's always struck me as very level-headed—impressively so—but… well, you should have seen him. He was desperate, practically begging…"

That didn't sound like the Tim whom Dick had spoken to just minutes ago, whose mood had been dour, not agitated. Then again, Tim was well-versed in the business of presenting one image to one party and a completely different façade to another—with no indication of which, if either, was the more authentic Tim. Dick swallowed thickly, wishing he'd been able to keep Tim on the line for longer—assess what he had really been thinking, and inquire as to exactly what mission had propelled him to take Batgirl and the Batplane and leave Gotham.

"What did you say to him?" he asked.

"I answered him as best I could—bare bones, you understand—while also trying to discourage his line of questioning. Then Batgirl wanted to speak with me alone, about Bruce. She seems to think that he's keeping some crucial information from all of you. Do you happen to know anything about that?"

Dick jolted at this revelation. "Maybe," he hedged. "I'm working on it, I promise. Besides, Bruce wants them to return to Gotham anyway." He did not say his closing thought, which was that this situation reminded him of the time after Bruce had been framed for Vesper Fairchild's murder, when Bruce had finally, finally stopped to acknowledge his family, thank them for their support, ask forgiveness and accept their help in solving the case and apprehending the true killer.

Was that what Bruce wanted? To talk to them about something else that had the power to tear the family apart?

"Did Tim mention why he was asking?" Dick asked. "Are you sure he was thinking of his father?"

"He was cagey about it," Clark said. "I told Batgirl that I'm trusting them both to go back to Gotham without delay—because I'll know if they make any detours—and she said they were already heading there. You'll keep an eye out for them?"

"Of course," said Dick. "Thanks, Clark." After a few more pleasantries, he ended the call. By now, he had a good idea what had gone wrong between Bruce and Tim. A lot of missed cues, for one. Well, there would be time enough to fix that when Tim and Cassandra returned. Now, however…

It was Alfred who had tirelessly cared for him during his illness. It was Alfred who had visited him in Blüdhaven with a change of clothes and an encouragement to visit home as soon as he was able. It was Alfred who called to remind him of Barbara's birthday and who had always loved Dick as a son, in deed if not in word.

Dick twisted in his chair and located Alfred, who was removing invisible fingerprints from the glass of the Robin memorial case.

"Alfred," he called. "Can you come here?"

Instantly, Alfred pocketed the damp cloth he was using and stepped over to the Batcomputer. "Yes, Master Dick?"

Dick stood, and before the butler could protest, he wrapped Alfred in a warm hug. Alfred was thin and bony, and he stiffened at the sudden touch, but relaxed after a moment, just the way Dick remembered, and then he was hugging Dick back.

"Thank you," Dick murmured in Alfred's ear. "For—for everything."

"Of course," said Alfred, his voice low. "It is, as always, my pleasure."

Sources:

Tim and Cassandra's visit to Metropolis is inspired by Batman #640 (Batman: Under the Hood).

After being framed for Vesper Fairchild's murder, Bruce finally gathered his family and talked to them together in Batman #605 (Bruce Wayne: Fugitive).