Archive of Our Own ^beta

The words had lodged themselves in Dick’s chest long before he understood why.

I won’t let you fall.

It was supposed to be reassuring, wasn’t it? A coach’s promise, an older sibling’s vow, a parent’s comfort. He’d said it himself, to trainees, to friends, to the kids who looked up at him with wide, trusting eyes. He said it on instinct, the same way he smiled when he didn’t mean it, the same way he joked when he was bleeding.

But every time he heard it, something in him stuttered. Something buckled beneath the weight of the phrase. He could feel the way the air got caught in his throat, the way his pulse skipped. It was subtle enough that no one noticed. no one except him. And when it hit too hard, when the words dug too deep, he’d shake his head, pull in a breath, force the sound bodies hitting the dirt and the silence that followed back down where it belonged.

Tonight, though, the trigger wasn’t some gym class or training session. It was the silence between him and Bruce.

The manor loomed larger than he remembered when he came back after Jason’s death. He hadn’t been able to walk through those doors when Alfred called, hadn’t been able to stand in the same space where Bruce had told him flatly, almost coldly, that his brother was gone. Dick had been out in space, busy saving other people’s lives while Jason had been buried six feet under.

And Bruce hadn’t called him until it was too late.

The first night back was brittle, every word clipped sharp. Alfred tried, God bless him, but Bruce and Dick weren’t the kind of men who knew how to talk their emotions out. Every glance turned into a fight, every silence into a cavern neither of them wanted to cross.

So when Bruce asked hesitantly if Dick would patrol with him tonight, Dick almost said no. He wanted to. He didn’t want to. He hated that Bruce could still look at him like a father desperate not to lose another son.

And yet he’d said yes.

The rooftops felt familiar under his boots, the city stretching endless and alive around them. But the silence between them was heavy, broken only by the occasional report over comms. Bruce didn’t talk unless he needed to. Neither did Dick.

It was when they paused, watching an alley below where two would-be muggers slunk into the shadows, that it happened.

“Stay close,” Bruce murmured. His voice was low, steady, the same voice that used to tell him when to tuck, when to throw his line, when to trust the net. “I won’t let you fall.”

The words froze him.

For just a heartbeat, Dick was eight years old again, the line breaking, the sickening snap of bodies hitting the ground, the helpless rush of air as gravity tore his world apart. 

He sucked in a sharp breath, fingers curling into his palms until his gloves creaked.

“Don’t—” he choked out before he could stop himself.

Bruce turned, confusion flashing in his eyes beneath the cowl. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t say that,” Dick snapped, harsher than he meant to. His voice ricocheted off the bricks, louder than the city deserved. “Don’t say—” He swallowed, breath catching. “That.”

Bruce’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He didn’t argue, didn’t push. For a man who thrived on control, on explanation, he stayed silent. But his eyes lingered on Dick, searching, waiting.

Dick turned away first, staring out over the rooftops. His throat was tight, his chest buzzing with guilt. It wasn’t Bruce’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. But the words hit like a punch every time, dragging memories he couldn’t outrun.

And the worst part?

The guilt wasn’t just for the fall of his parents. It was for Jason. For being gone. For not being there to catch him, to stop him, to save him. He promised to himself he wouldn't let anyone he loves die if he could help. But Jason had fallen anyway, and Dick hadn’t even known until it was too late.

“You don’t get it,” Dick muttered, softer now, as if the wind might carry his words away before Bruce could hear them.

“I want to,” Bruce said quietly.

Dick clenched his jaw. They fought because that was what they did now. Every conversation was a battlefield, every word a bullet. But beneath all the tension, Bruce’s voice was steady, cautious, like he was trying not to scare off a wild animal.

And maybe that’s what Dick was. He was a son who still loved his father but didn’t know how to be in the same room with him without anger bubbling up, without grief choking him.

He hated him. He missed him. He wanted him close. He wanted to run.

Bruce shifted beside him, not touching nor crowding, but the weight of his presence was impossible to ignore. “You hate me,” he said, not as an accusation but as a statement of fact.

Dick bit the inside of his cheek. “Most days,” he admitted, the words sharp, unkind. He regretted them instantly.

Bruce nodded once, like he’d expected nothing less. But his voice, when he finally spoke, was rough, unsteady in a way Dick wasn’t used to hearing. “...I’m glad you’re here.”

Dick looked at him then, really looked, and for the first time since he’d come back, he saw past the cowl. Bruce didn’t look heartless. He didn’t look overbearing. He looked like a man who’d lost a son and was terrified of losing another.

And that was worse.

Because how was Dick supposed to hold on to his anger when all he wanted to do was forgive him?

🩶

The parking lot echoed with the chaos of combat. boots slamming concrete, metal clanging as a half-dismantled car was hurled across the floor. Nightwing ducked, baton snapping up to deflect the next blow, but the villain was fast. wild. 

“Keep your guard up,” Batman barked, his voice cutting through the noise.

“I’ve got it!” Nightwing shot back, spinning with practiced grace, flipping over the hood of a parked sedan. He did have it— until he didn’t.

The villain lunged, faster than expected, a steel pipe gripped in his hand. It caught Nightwing square in the chest, knocking the air from his lungs, the momentum sending him stumbling backwards. His heel skidded against the concrete and then, nothing. Just open air, six stories of it.

His stomach lurched. The edge dropped away beneath him, gravity tearing him downward.

A gauntleted hand clamped around his forearm, yanking him up short with bone-deep force. Batman had him. Except the angle, the weight-it wasn't sustainable.

To drag Nightwing fully back up, Batman had to commit, bracing his own body against the edge. For one sick second, Nightwing realized what that meant.

"Wait- don't!" Nightwing gasped, eyes wide.

Batman's full weight shifted, his cape snapping in the wind as his boots lost traction. He pulled Nightwing clear of the drop, but the force carried him forward, off-balance, momentum shoving him right over the ledge.

"BATMAN!" Nightwing's scream tore from his throat raw and panicked.

Time slowed. He barely registered the villain bolting for the exit, footsteps fading into nothing. All he saw was the cape, the dark shape plummeting down the open shaft of air.

"No- no, no, no!" His grapple gun was in his hand before he could think. He fired. The line whistled, caught, and in the next heartbeat the cord went taut with a violent snap.

Batman's fall jerked to a stop, body swinging hard against the side of the building. Nightwing's shoulder nearly wrenched out of its socket from the force. The grapple whined in protest.

"Hold on!" Nightwing shouted, more to himself than to Batman, arms locked tight on the line. His muscles screamed, biceps and forearms burning like fire as the weight dragged at him. He could feel the cord fraying, fibers straining under the impossible load.

"Come on, come on," he hissed through gritted teeth, every vein in his arms bulging. Sweat stung his eyes, but he refused to blink. He refused to let go.

The grapple groaned. A sharp, metallic snap echoed into the night. The line jerked down another foot, then another, and still Nightwing refused, teeth bared, holding on with everything he had even as his arms felt like they were tearing apart. His gloves slipped against the line, burning heat searing through his palms.

Below, Batman swung hard against the side of the garage, cape dragging in the updraft, his weight pulling the grapple closer to its breaking point.

"Nightwing," Batman's voice was steady, calm even as his body dangled six stories above asphalt. The gravel in his tone carried a quiet command. "Let go."

"No!" The word tore from Nightwing's throat, feral and desperate. His grip tightened, muscles screaming. "Don't you dare ask me that!"

"Listen to me-"

"Shut up!" Nightwing's voice cracked, a raw edge ripping through every syllable. "You think I'm just gonna stand here and watch you fall? You think I'm gonna let that happen?"

The grapple shrieked as the spool bent, fibers unraveling. Batman's voice cut through the sound, lower now, more urgent.

"If you don't release the line, it's going to drag you down with me."

"Then we go together," Nightwing snarled, sweat running down his temple. His whole body shook, not from weakness but from the sheer force of will refusing to surrender. "I'm not letting go. Not now. Not ever."

Batman's eyes flickered up through the shadow of his cowl, and for a moment, just a moment. There was something unguarded there. "Dick," he said quietly, using the name he never risked on patrol. "You have to trust me. Let go."

The words were too close, too cruel,

Nightwing's chest heaved, every breath scraping raw. His mind flashed back- the smell of popcorn under the circus tent, the hollow echo of the crowd's screams, the thud of bodies hitting the dirt. His own voice trembling at eight years old,

‘They fell, Bruce. They fell. Everyone falls.’

And Bruce's voice, firm and absolute, as he knelt in front of him with eyes soft and full of comfort, ‘I won't. I promise to not let a fall kill me.'

"You promised me," Nightwing spat, the words breaking into a sob he refused to let free. "You— you swore after my parents died, you said you'd never die from falling! You can't ask me to just— just let go!"

The line snapped down another inch, sending sparks up the anchor point. Nightwing held tighter, teeth gritted so hard his jaw ached.

“You don’t understand,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “You don’t get to break that promise, not you, not tonight. I don’t care if it kills me too— I am not letting you fall.”

🩶

The line screamed like a wounded animal. Threads of cable peeled apart one by one, each sound cutting sharper than a blade in Nightwing’s ears. His arms trembled with the effort, burning, his whole body locked against inevitability.

“Hold on,” he begged. “Please, just—hold on.”

Batman looked up at him then. Not the Batman the city knew, cold and unshakable. But Bruce. His dad. The man beneath the cowl. His eyes softened, impossibly so, as if he could see his son clearly even through the blur of motion and fear. Eyes that had always carried storms now carried something far more dangerous. Acceptance.

It was wrong. It was terrifying.

“Don’t,” Nightwing choked out, shaking his head violently, sweat flying off his brow. “Don’t you look at me like that.”

The line gave another harsh jerk, metal whining. Batman’s lips parted, as though he wanted to say something more, something final— but the choice was stolen from him.

The grapple snapped.

The sound split the night like a gunshot.

Before he could even register the void opening beneath them, Bruce moved. With a surge of strength that shouldn’t have been possible midair, Batman pulled himself up the last inches of slack, grabbing Nightwing with brutal force.

“Got you,” he whispered. barely audible through the roar of wind.

The next heartbeat, they were both falling.

Nightwing gasped, arms flailing for purchase, but Bruce’s hold crushed him to his chest, unyielding. In one motion, the cape flared out, heavy fabric wrapping around them both like a shroud. The darkness swallowed Nightwing whole, Bruce’s armored body braced around him, every line of intent radiating from the embrace.

“No— no, no, NO!” Nightwing’s fists slammed against Bruce’s chestplate, panic flaring white-hot. “Let go of me! Don’t you dare do this! We can still— dammit, Bruce, we can still make it!”

The wind howled past them, a deafening rush as the ground surged closer.

“Listen to me!” Nightwing screamed, thrashing against the iron cage of his father’s arms. “I don’t need protecting! Not like this—” His voice cracked, tears burning unbidden at the corners of his eyes. “Not if it means losing you”

Bruce said nothing. He only tightened his hold, chin pressing to the top of Nightwing’s head, shielding every inch of his son with his own body.

Nightwing kicked, writhed, fought like hell. His curses tore through the air, every one sharper than the fall itself. “Let me go! Fight for once, dammit! Don’t just— don’t you dare leave me like Jason!”

But Bruce didn’t release him. The embrace only grew stronger, the cape pulling tighter, as though he could somehow convince gravity itself to spare the boy he’d raised.

The seconds stretched thin, stretched forever, until the world narrowed to the beat of Bruce’s heart against his chest and the inevitability of the ground rising fast.

Concrete rushed up to meet them, and the world exploded into noise and pain.

🩶

The first thing Nightwing registered was pain. Every nerve screamed, his body ached from the shock of the landing, but it wasn’t unbearable. Not fatal. His lungs stuttered with shallow breaths, but they still worked.

He realized why.

He wasn’t on the concrete. He was on him.

His eyes flew open, the fog of impact clearing in a rush of horror. Beneath him, Batman’s body lay twisted, crushed by the fall. The armor was dented, cracked, scarred in places it had never been before. And the sound of each breath was wet, ragged, accompanied by a ghastly sloshing deep in his chest.

Nightwing froze, terror clawing up his throat. He knew what that meant. Broken ribs. Pierced lungs. Internal bleeding that no one walked away from.

“No,” he whispered, scrambling to push himself upright, hands trembling as they pressed against the broken armor. “No, no, no. Stay with me. Don’t do this—”

Bruce’s hand twitched against the ground, weak but deliberate. His gauntlet brushed against Dick’s forearm, a touch so faint it barely registered.

“...Chum…” The word rasped out, faint as smoke, the old nickname so rare now that it cut deeper than any blade. His lips curved, just slightly, into a soft, fleeting smile.

And then his eyes dulled.

The light bled out of them as though someone had snuffed a flame, leaving only the gray glaze of stillness. The hand on Dick’s arm slackened, sliding lifelessly to the cracked concrete.

“No. NO!” Nightwing’s voice broke apart, hands gripping Bruce’s cowl, shaking him violently as if sheer force could bring him back. “Don’t leave me! Bruce! BRUCE!”

The silence that followed was deafening, heavier than the fall, heavier than anything Dick had ever carried.

🩶

His hands shook so violently he could hardly keep them pressed to Bruce’s chest, as if by pinning him there, by holding the broken pieces together, he could keep him alive.

But the rise and fall of his chest was gone. The wet rattle in his lungs had stilled.

And the eyes that had softened in the fall, the eyes that had promised him silently that he wouldn’t be left behind, stared back at him with a glassy emptiness that made Dick want to tear the world apart.

He pressed his forehead against Bruce’s cowl, choking on the sound tearing from his own chest. “You can’t do this. You can’t— you promised me. You swore you wouldn’t die like this.” His voice cracked, broken into shards. “You swore you wouldn’t fall.”

His fingers curled into the armor, knuckles white, refusing to let go even as the edges bit into his skin. Somewhere, distantly, the city still lived. sirens, car horns, the hum of Gotham’s restless night. but down here, on the shattered concrete, the world had gone silent.

Nightwing felt like a boy again. Alone. The net broken. Nothing beneath him but the void.

“Please,” he whispered, voice almost childlike, eyes squeezed shut as if wishing hard enough might turn back time. “Please, Bruce. ....I can’t lose you too.”

But the body beneath him remained still, the cape spread like a torn shadow across the ground.

And so Dick stayed there, shaking, cursing, begging, refusing to let go of the man who had caught him all those years ago and sworn he’d never fall.

Even when that promise had broken.

Even when Bruce had.