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Bruce didn’t take his eyes off the screens of the Batcomputer when he heard the familiar rumbling engine of Nightwing’s bike enter the cave’s garage. This case had been taking up all his attention lately, hence why he hadn’t gone to sleep after patrol ended that morning and was still working away well into the afternoon, and chances were Nightwing would head straight up to the manor where Damian was anyway while ignoring him. So Bruce acknowledged the other presence in the cave for a moment before turning his full attention back to the programs he was running on the computer.
It took a few minutes of pouring over his notes and dividing blood samples virtually before he heard Nightwing’s deliberate footsteps coming up to the platform where the Batcomputer lay. Bruce could keep aware of Dick and still focus on this case at the same time, but what really tore his attention away was the footsteps—the click of his boots were not the muffled material of the Nightwing suit. Bruce turned to look at him.
Dick was in his civilian attire, to which Bruce raised a brow at. He usually just entered through the manor like this. Dick smiled at him, then looked up at the Batcomputer’s screens, the blue light casting a soft glow against the planes of his face. Bruce gave him a quick once-over, but there was no urgency, no sense of danger, so Bruce just turned back to the computer. Sometimes it was good anyway to have a second set of eyes.
Bruce pulled up another screen of his notes just for Dick then went back to the blood samples. He faintly registered Dick taking a seat next to him, but having Dick in near proximity to him felt so natural that any kind of lingering paranoia that was a part of him just melted away.
Then Dick pulled up the computer’s files on Langstrom, which had Bruce reaching out immediately to cross-reference them with his notes and case, and as he’s sucked into the throes of casework, Dick leaned back in his chair, taking his hands off the computer to watch Bruce work out the rest.
They sat there for maybe another hour, Bruce couldn’t tell. Dick’s presence never distracted him, just existed in the same proximity in a way that was so familiar it had Bruce aching. He didn’t think he would ever stop missing the times when Dick was Robin, when Bruce never lost a son, when his failures did not plague his every waking moment—and for that it almost hurt to be around Dick.
Bruce could almost imagine the days where he was just as much Bruce Wayne as he was Batman, the days with Dick after he started living again and before he retreated back into the cowl— These but the trappings and the suits of woe —to take the brunt of his pain from him. Bruce could almost imagine the days where he sat in his study upstairs, halfway in his armour but with his gloves and cowl off, working on his cases as Dick, still partway in his traffic light colours with his gloves and cape off, did his homework in the same room. Bruce could almost imagine it was just him and his son with no weight of grief shared between them but their very first mirrored ones.
Then he sensed it. There was no tell, except for maybe Dick’s breathing. It was too deep, the same controlled way he did when he was mimicking Bruce’s extreme control over his own. Something was wrong.
Bruce turned his attention to Dick and was almost startled. Somehow, Bruce barely noticed Dick leaning into him, resting his head on Bruce’s shoulder while he plastered himself to Bruce’s side. Sure, Bruce registered it, but he was so deep into his concentration that he barely took note of the familiar weight on him.
Dick’s eyes were closed, but he took note of Bruce’s stillness, of his gaze on him, and he opened his eyes.
“What’s up?” Dick asked, looking up at him.
Here, his son’s exhaustion was clear. He tried to find the words for Are you alright? How can I help? What do you need? But settled on instead, “What’s wrong?”
When Dick did not immediately tell him everything was fine, alarm bells started going off in his head. Dick saw something of it on his face, could read it better than anyone save maybe Alfred or Clark, and said, “Don’t panic.”
Which should theoretically make him panic more, but Dick asked that of him so he took control of his spiralling thoughts and reigned them in.
Dick searched his face, intense blue eyes roving over Bruce’s schooling expression. Then he pulled back, just enough so that they were no longer one, so that they could better look at each other and speak to each other and see each other. His hands were still holding Bruce’s arms, steadying him for what’s to come. Or steadying himself, holding onto Bruce like an anchor.
“Tell me,” Bruce said.
Dick looked at him still, as if drinking in the last of Bruce like this before him.
“Dick.”
“I have leukaemia.”
The world fell away from under him.
“It’s AML,” Dick continued, not taking his eyes off Bruce’s, “There haven’t been any symptoms yet.”
Then how…
“They detected it during my yearly checkup for – Bludhaven survivors.”
Oh. Bruce breathed, he was breathing .
His son had cancer. His 30 year old, healthy son had cancer.
And Dick was 19 again and Bruce was holding him, more scared than he’d ever been in his life as his son was bleeding out in his arms. Bruce had done everything, he had planned to hell and back to make sure Robin was safe, but he was helpless, he could do nothing when Dick was hanging off the building, when the bullet knocked Robin backwards. He had done everything and yet he still heard his son flatline twice that night. He had done everything except make sure his kid wasn’t fighting monsters every day. So Bruce had done the only thing he could and fired Robin.
Bruce couldn’t do anything here.
He knew the survival rates for adults his age. Bruce knew but he asked anyway, “What…”
Dick knew the question. He also knew the answer. This time, he looked away.
Somewhere else, somewhen else, Harvey Dent was flipping a coin to decide Robin’s fate. It flipped through the air senselessly and the scarred face flashed repeatedly as it turned and turned and turned.
Years ago, almost two decades ago, when Barry Allen was still the only Flash, he had wondered out loud why Bruce had not been chosen to be a Green Lantern. After all, he was only a man who had achieved extraordinary things. He’d always remained unflinching in the face of aliens and gods alike, had broken through brainwashing and mind control with incredible will, had performed feats only the most fearless could. Batman merely replied, I don’t need to be one.
The truth was this: Bruce was afraid. He was afraid every second of every day of his life—after all, he found Dick before he found the Justice League. Bruce’s will was not his own, not when he was ruled by his grief since before he even put on the cowl, when it was just him and the pearls and a war— I have that within which passeth show .
His will was iron but not unbreakable, even if there were few things that could break it. Killing was one—Bruce would die from guilt if he took a life with his own hands.
Losing his son was another.
“Bruce,” Dick said sharply, snapping Bruce from his thoughts, “Say something.”
Bruce did not know how long he had been silent for, but now he was really looking at Dick, at his boy, his son, his Robin. He had grown into a great man, greater than Bruce could ever hope to be. Despite being raised by Bruce, he had thrived, he was happy, he was living.
Now, because of Bruce…
Because Bruce chose to stay when Chemo dropped, because he chose to save the Joker from Jason instead of running immediately to find Dick. Because he was too late, letting Dick run through the toxic wasteland of Bludhaven while his skin bubbled off into blisters, where Bruce had to fish his unconscious body from the ruins of the city. Because Bruce had seen his son was suicidal and did nothing about it. Because Bruce had trained him to put his lives above others. Because Bruce had engrained his ideologies so firmly into Dick’s head that the thought of Bruce’s disappointment over Blockbuster’s murder nearly killed Dick, made him lose sight of the worth of his own life. Because Bruce had sent him to Bludhaven in the first place. Because Bruce had helped him become a hero in the first place. Because of Bruce his son was going to die before him. Again.
Or Dick might have had leukaemia even without the radiation from Chemo. But Bruce could not dare to think that because then it wouldn’t be his fault, then there would have been nothing he could’ve done, nothing he could’ve agonised over to change. Then, Dick would have already been dead since the beginning.
Bruce refused to believe he couldn’t have changed anything, so it had to be his fault. Better guilt than grief.
“Bruce,” Dick said again, putting his hand on Bruce’s shoulder to anchor him back to earth. And because Dick—his beautiful baby boy, his precious son, his firstborn—because Dick knew Bruce better than Bruce knew himself, he said, “It’s not your fault.”
Bruce opened his mouth, but Dick quickly cut him off again.
“Not everything in the world is your fault.” And the tone was admonishing, making Bruce’s mouth clamp shut.
Here Dick was, with a cancer diagnosis, and he was still standing. His eyes were still burning, tired but not resigned, and he stood strong against the riptide of Bruce’s guilt. Here he was, having just found out about a terminal illness, and he was reassuring Bruce instead. This was his son, his compassionate, wonderful, powerful son. For a moment Bruce felt a swell of pride and love break through the overwhelming sea of guilt and grief he had sunk into, a burning hot feeling of this was his son .
This – pride was enough. It was enough to believe that something like this would not be able to beat his strongest son.
He could have asked a hundred other things, inquired about follow ups and treatment plans and doctors and specialists. He could have asked about the contingencies in place for Nightwing, for the Titans, for the contacts and informants Nightwing was responsible for. He could have asked about a plan. It would be the things they have control over that would keep them from the edge.
Instead, Bruce put his hand on Dick’s shoulder so they were both mirroring each other, and he watched Dick lean into the hold. His son – his small Robin who used to fit under his cape had grown into this hero of a man, a titan in his own right.
“Have I ever told you,” Bruce said, “that I’m so proud of you?”
Dick’s steel expression cracked and Bruce did not remember the last time he had told his son how much he meant to Bruce. That he was only able to tell his son how much he meant to him now of all times pained him, but he had to get the words out.
Dick’s hands slid down to grab hold of Bruce’s arms, his expressions trembling with the effort to hold it all together. He said, small and quiet, “Yeah?”
Dick wouldn’t be afraid of death. He’s been pulling off death-defying stunts long before he even met Bruce, and to him death was just another part of life. No, Dick would be afraid of the dying—of having to give up flying when he would grow too weak, of having to live in pain in hopes of surviving only for that pain to be his last days, of wasting away, of letting people see him waste away. Bruce could see the fear now, no matter how valiantly he was trying to hide it.
Bruce cupped Dick’s face with the palm of his hand. “You’ve been so strong. It’s okay now.”
Dick slowly, very slowly, put his forehead down against Bruce’s shoulder, and Bruce could feel the immediate dampness that had him pulling Dick closer until Bruce was enveloping his son in his arms, in his lap, one hand cradling his head and the other clinging on to his back. He held on tight as Dick’s trembling wracked through him and Bruce was glad he couldn’t see the look on Dick’s face because it was sure to send him crying as well—and Dick didn’t need that. Not right now, not when he’d finally allowed himself to break, not when he would need Bruce to be the rock to steady him so he could face the thought that he was—
That he was—
Dying .
Bruce buried his fingers in Dick’s hair, holding him, intent on never letting him go. Dick won’t die. Bruce was never going to let Dick die before him. He would cover his son entirely with his body, shelter him, open up his own chest so he could place Dick in there and keep him safe within his armour. Death was going to have to tear through Bruce’s chest if She wanted to drag his son out of the cavity where Bruce’s heart beat. Dick was not going to die.
Bruce pressed a long kiss to Dick’s head before he said, “You’ll be okay.”
Dick was not going to die. Cancer was not a death sentence but the world seemed intent on taking everything away from Bruce. Death haunted his every step and Bruce was not going to leave the fate of his son to a coin-flip chance. He was going to everything in his power to make sure that coin landed on the unmarked face. Treatment, and the best doctors, and chemotherapy, and alien remedies, and magic, and whatever dregs of the Lazarus Pits he hadn’t sealed up yet—and no one was going to refuse to help Batman, especially when Nightwing's life was on the line.
“You,” Bruce said into Dick’s hair, making himself believe it, exerting every ounce of willpower into those words in the chances he could speak it into existence, “are going to be okay.”
“I know,” Dick said through his quiet hitching breaths. “I know.” Bruce chose to believe it wasn’t a lie.