Chapter Text
Whatever genius on the Arkham Asylum board of directors thought it was a good idea to schedule a meeting for the day after Thanksgiving deserved to be committed there, Bruce thought.
Bruce woke up early, while it was still dark, to take his time, and so he could slip out before the boys were up. As Batman, he was used to doing hard things, night upon night, year upon year. But somehow, leaving the manor this morning, when Dick and Tim were both here, home, sleeping soundly, felt tougher than just about anything he’d had to do lately.
He was slow to get himself ready, partially because he had the luxury of doing so, but mostly because the ridiculously extravagant Thanksgiving dinner weighed him down in the best possible way. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the thought arose that Alfred must be a metahuman, with his otherworldly ability to do everything— cooking, cleaning, caretaking— to absolute perfection, never once batting an eye from the work. He didn’t thank the man enough, but there was no time better than the present to do so.
Bruce stepped carefully into the hall, regretting for a moment how diligently he had trained his Robins to pay attention to every little sound. He hoped that the post-Thanksgiving coma Alfred had put them into was still effective, that maybe, for once, both the boys truly had their guard down and were able to fully relax and sleep.
Knowing just how slow he needed to open the door to avoid a squeak of the hinges, Bruce pushed his way silently into Dick’s room. Even though his oldest was fully grown now, a man who had made a name for himself time and time again through the worst of adversities, right now, all Bruce could see was the little boy who fell into his life and changed everything for the better.
Dick was completely knocked out, lying on his stomach, a tiny trail of drool falling down the corner of his mouth. One arm was crooked under his pillow, the other falling off the side of the bed. Bruce would have laughed at the sight if he weren’t being so careful not to make a sound.
It healed a wound in his heart Bruce didn’t even realize he had, seeing his boy home, safe, sleeping in peace. Last year was so different, it almost didn’t seem real compared to now. Last year was the first holiday after Jason— after everything went to hell. Dick wasn’t speaking to Bruce, and didn’t come home. Really, Bruce knew, he had made it so there was no home to come back to. Looking back, he wasn’t proud of how he handled things. He had been so lost in himself, so blinded by grief for his son, he left himself no room to see how the same grief tore Dick apart, too. If Tim wasn’t there to pull him out of that hopeless spiral, Bruce didn’t want to imagine how things would be between himself and his eldest today.
Again, he had so much to thank his boys for. Dick, for forgiving him, for granting him the second chance he didn’t deserve. Tim, for saving him, for seeing the light in him when all he could see was the darkness. Bruce truly was a blessed man. It made having to leave, even for only a few hours, bearable.
Dick remained deeply asleep as Bruce drew closer to his bedside, breathing slow and even. All messy, and drooling, with tousled hair, sleeping in a jumble of long limbs, his boy was beautiful. Bruce bent over and softly kissed Dick’s forehead.
He would be back before the boys left again. He wasn’t ready for these precious moments to end. Not yet.
Then Bruce carefully pushed open the door to Tim’s room, and found his youngest (his youngest) in a similarly deep sleep. It lowered his blood pressure those last couple points back down to normal, to watch Tim’s chest rising and falling in that even pattern. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but ever since the terror they’d all been through back in the spring with the Clench outbreak, he found it hard to see the boy leave to go sleep next door. Yes, the Drakes lived only a stone’s throw away, and yes, Tim spent every possible moment with Bruce that he could. But everything could change in a moment. The summer had taught them that viruses could re-emerge, steal everything overnight.
But not tonight. Tonight, Tim slept in the bedroom that had been his haven ever since his parents’ flight had disappeared that horrible afternoon. He was safe, right next door to his brother, where he belonged.
Before the spring, Bruce had still hesitated a bit with his affection, even at a time like this, when Tim was asleep. These days, he felt it keenly that there was never a moment to lose. He brushed the hair away from Tim’s forehead, which had adhered against it from how warm and sweaty he slept, and gently pressed his lips there.
Bruce made his way into the small dining room and found a fresh cup of coffee and hot breakfast waiting for him on the table. Again with the superhuman abilities, Alfred was a magician, a perfect mindreader.
“Quite an early start this morning, Master Bruce,” he said, stepping into the dining room from the kitchen, with a teacup on a saucer.
“I didn’t want to rush,” Bruce replied. “The boys… It’s good to see them both home. We are very fortunate.”
It sounded like an understatement, but he knew Alfred understood. Bruce wasn’t the kind of person to give any credit to fortune or luck.
“I am grateful we were able to provide for Master Timothy this holiday, now that Mr. Drake is up to trotting the globe again. And Master Dick…”
Bruce blinked hard. It truly wasn’t often that Alfred struggled for words. That only made the reality of the past year hit him harder. They really were blessed now.
“...it would not have done for him to spend the day alone in that dreadful flat he insists on keeping.”
“No, not at all,” Bruce almost chuckled. He paused before he spoke again. “Thank you, Alfred. What you do for this family, it’s… I could never do any of this on my own. Not only the house, I mean… Bringing Dick back home, even for one night… Watching out for Tim, especially after…”
Bruce tried not to think of what he’d put both the boys through so recently, after Bane had his way. Dick and Tim had stepped up in ways he felt were unimaginable. There probably would not even be a Wayne family anymore, if it weren’t for Alfred’s steady hand keeping everyone together.
“Coffee is best taken while freshly hot, sir.”
Bruce smiled softly and sipped his coffee. Maybe he had gotten a lot more sentimental over the course of the year, and he was still extremely awkward at expressing that. But Alfred understood. And that was what mattered.
—
Half the board were visibly hungover, and Bruce was wondering if something resembling a hangover were possible from simply turkey and cranberries and mashed potatoes. He didn’t have any aches or pains, but he was sleepy. Bruce only hoped the rest of the directors felt the same, and were as eager to get back home as he was.
“So, as to the motion made by Mr. Wayne to expand the Psychiatry Department,” Mr. Exley Farrow droned, “I open the discussion.”
Bruce had nearly zoned out completely, almost forgotten that all the time Farrow had been talking, it had been in response to the seconding of his motion.
“Absolutely impossible,” Slaughter interrupted.
Bruce fought hard not to roll his eyes. The new CEO was not a director. He really had no business even being here. Farrow needed to do his job as board president and shut him up. But of course not. That would be productive. And being productive was very, very far from the objective of this meeting.
“Mr. Slaughter,” Bruce said, attempting to take the reins of the discussion while he had the chance. “Dr. Proffett has raised the issue of understaffing multiple times this year, especially in the wake of the recent epidemic. As it stands— Dr. Proffett, correct me if I’m wrong— patients currently are only able to meet with a psychiatrist once every two months.”
The stoic chief of psychiatry steepled his fingers and nodded. “We are woefully underequipped to serve the complex neuropsychiatric needs of our inpatients…”
“Inmates, Proffett,” Farrow corrected. “Not inpatients.”
Though the chief psychiatrist maintained his cool composure, Bruce sensed him bristle at the demeaning terminology. Truly, he was impressed by how collected Dr. Proffett remained, considering the man was surely unaccustomed to the dull, dry, and often, dehumanizing language that was so commonplace at these board meetings.
“Whatever language we use,” Bruce continued, hoping to diffuse the tension, “the fact remains that there are not enough staff to serve the people here. Now, at the beginning of the year, the Wayne Foundation provided an endowment—”
“Those funds were exhausted, as you already mentioned, in the wake of the epidemic. Thanks to your generation donation, very few lives were lost at Arkham this spring. Unfortunately, our funding has been insufficient to both keep the Ebola Gulf A Virus at bay, and to provide the inmates with the sort of one-on-one time with psychiatry that you propose.”
Farrow looked as bored now as Bruce had felt before the discussion began.
“Surely there are belts somewhere to tighten,” Bruce replied, glancing across to Slaughter.
Since the new CEO insisted on being present where he wasn’t needed, Bruce figured he could at least try to make the man feel important. It could be useful in the long run to establish a decent working relationship.
“Listen, Wayne, there just isn’t room for a big shake up like this so close to the end of the quarter. After the year-end gala, we can re-evaluate the budget and see if there’s room for such a motion as you propose, but as it stands…”
“Respectfully, Mr. Slaughter, the authority to make such decisions lies with the board directors. I understand your previous hospital was structured differently…”
“Mr. Wayne,” interrupted Farrow, “we all appreciate your bleeding heart. Your foundation is a strong reflection of the compassion you have for this community. But we must be realistic.”
Bruce let out a measured sigh, trying to keep his jaw relaxed. What were the other board members doing here, if they weren’t going to engage in this discussion? Farrow wasn’t even allowed a vote here, yet all the stupid, hungover, soulless directors looked to him as though his word were law.
If there truly was nothing good he could accomplish here, he wished he had simply been allowed to stay home with his family this morning.
“We are all Gothamites,” he said, in a last-ditch attempt to rally some support or at least rationality. “We all have felt the shockwaves from the virus this spring. I believe the executives at Arkham would understand, more than anyone, that now is the time to put aside individual interests…”
Bruce detected his blood pressure spiking as the memory of the selfishness at Babylon Towers rose in his nervous system. God, his bluster was just as bad as Farrow’s. Of course the administrators didn’t care about the public good. He wondered if his pathos had slipped over into the pathetic.
“...to put aside individual interests,” he repeated, clearing his throat, “for the good of all of our city. The executive bonuses… There isn’t a soul in the Arkham executive suite who needs the money for a new boat. If we cut the holiday bonuses, only for the highest echelon of the administration, we could surely fund at least a psychiatric nurse practitioner. It might not halve the psychiatrists’ current caseload, as was my aim, but it would certainly make a difference.”
The vote went quickly and exactly as Bruce expected. At least— he needed to find something to be grateful for or he would have an aneurysm— at least the meeting wrapped up one minute early. He could still get home before lunchtime, and convince Dick to eat enough leftovers that he might wind up crashing on the couch for the afternoon.
Needing to scrub the inhumanity of the directors off of him, Bruce stepped into the washroom on his way out. But the instant he turned on the faucet— he knew that was not going to happen.
—
“I know this is your kitchen, Alfred, but c’mon, you’ve been cooking nonstop for days now. Take a load off for once, I’m more than capable of making us some omelets.”
Dick was still in his pajamas, hair untouched by a comb after a rare, uninterrupted night’s sleep. The extra rest burst out of him like a ray of sun, and the amount of energy he had was surprising for even him.
“You’re making omelets?” Tim yawned and stretched as he stepped into the kitchen, then perched at the island. “Make mine cranberry. Love a cranberry omelet.”
Alfred squinted his eyes in visible distaste. “Young Master Tim. I believe I have been quite accommodating of your questionable tastes, but here, I must draw the line.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re not the omelet chef,” Tim grinned.
“I’ll use a completely separate pan for yours, Alfred. Untainted.” Dick was already pulling out more cookware as Alfred continued to protest.
“As I already said, Master Dick, you ought not concern yourself with working while you are home.”
“Nooo, this is all part of a conspiracy to keep me from eggy, cheesy, cranberry splendor. Don’t let him pinch your gig, Dick!”
Tim hopped down from his barstool and opened the fridge to crack open a cola can. Dick was honestly shocked that his little brother had managed to smuggle any of those into the upstairs refrigerator.
“Just trying to show ya that I learned from the best, Alfie. And that I’m not withering away from lack of nutrition in the cold, barren wasteland that is Blüdhaven.”
Dick couldn’t let the smile fall from his face, no matter how much Alfred scowled, or how disturbing Tim’s breakfast of choice was.
“Nuh-uh, Oracle showed me how you live. I watched you pouring Crocky Crunchies from the box straight down your gullet.”
“Crocky Crunchies are fortified with twelve essential vitamins and minerals,” Dick said, still grinning as he scrambled the eggs. “Come back to me when Zesti releases a new formula that starts your day so well off.”
“Where’d Bruce get to?” Tim asked neither of them in particular. He yawned again, still struggling to wake up, before his caffeine kicked in. “No way we woke up before him, right?”
“Master Bruce was called to a board meeting at Arkham. He left before you boys were awake. And he will be very. Disappointed. If he returns to find either of you gone.”
“Yeesh, Alfred death stare,” Tim said, his eyes widening.
The old man’s expression only grew more severe and disapproving as Dick spooned the jellied cranberries onto the fluffy eggs.
“Well, when you put it that way…”
Dick moved on to his and Alfred’s turkey omelets, berry free, turning to face the stove. He was still wearing the same smile, but his eyes narrowed slightly. Really, he was more than happy to linger for a few hours longer than he originally planned. Things were good at the manor. Bruce was in good spirits, they hadn’t fought in ages, everyone was getting along. He just hoped that the same good spirits would continue from the night before, untouched by what was sure to be misery from the board meeting.
“Can’t let the old man have a cruddy first day of Christmas, right?”
“Woah, woah, woah,” Tim cut in. “It is not Christmas yet. It’s still November!”
Dick turned back around, his smirk turning impish. A song was already rising up in him, and who was he to deny it, especially if it would further rile Tim? “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the—”
“Stop! Christmas is Christmas, Thanksgiving is Thanksgiving. You can not mix them like this!”
“Jingle Bells is literally a Thanksgiving song, Timmy. Get your facts straight.” Plating the breakfast, he hummed We Wish You a Merry Christmas, just loud enough so that Tim could clearly hear what the song was.
While Tim seemed to be in heaven with his admittedly scary omelet, Dick was much more flattered by a passing comment from Alfred, who called the scrambled egg texture “quite good.” Just when Dick thought he couldn’t smile any harder. Who would have guessed that new heights of joy could be achieved at Bruce’s house? It was a holiday miracle. As to which holiday, that was perhaps still up for debate.
Tim volunteered to clear and wash the dishes, to Alfred’s great protest. While his little brother was elbow deep in suds, Dick whisked Alfred off to the cozy drawing room, to force the old man to steal Bruce’s chair, for once. Then he put on the tea, eager to be the one to serve in this house, if only just for today.
At the same time as the kettle whistled, the phone in the kitchen also rang.
“I got it, I got it!” Tim shouted, flinging soap bubbles on his way to the phone.
“No you don’t, dude, you got wet hands.”
Dick stretched out his arm to keep Tim contained at a safe distance while he answered the phone. A bit of soap stung his eye as the kid flailed his arms in a half-joking attempt to steal the handset.
It was antithetical for Batman to call the house phone— or to be active at ten in the morning, for that matter— but there was no denying that was the tone Bruce took. It also seemed Tim quickly picked up on the vibe, as he dropped the play aggression and just pressed in close to the receiver. Dick pushed him away just a little bit, holding up a finger. Tim pouted, but he stayed patient and quiet.
“We’re heading out now,” Dick said, before hanging up the phone.
“Did Christmas come early for Batman?” Tim asked, not really hiding his eagerness.
“I told you, twerp, this isn’t early for Christmas. It’s right on time. And Bruce didn’t sound too festive about it. Let’s go get suited up, ‘kay? Sounds like we got an interesting family outing in store.”
—
“So Batman is, like… sure it’s a human body?” Tim wrinkled his nose, making his domino mask shift. “How can he tell from just turning on the tap water? I mean, maybe just some stupid possum fell in the tank, y’know?”
“You get a whiff of it one time, Robin, there’s no mistaking it for anything else. Ever.”
Dick cringed. Tim really was being thrown into the deep end on this. Every big brother instinct in him told him to just take the kid and drag him somewhere miles away from what they were about to face. But he remembered what he was like at that age, how stubborn he was about facing any horror Gotham threw at him, how much crap he gave Bruce about what he could handle. Looking back, he was honestly surprised he didn’t give the man an early heart attack with how willingly he threw himself into the worst of circumstances. Just one more reason to maybe start to cut the guy some slack.
“Time is of the essence here,” he said. “Tell me, what do we do first?”
“We gotta shut the water off,” Tim replied. “The main valve will be in the utility room. Probably in the basement. Unless the hospital’s layout is as crazy as its residents… I used to have the blueprint memorized, but they remodeled two years ago and now I don’t know where anything is.”
What the hell? Two years ago, Tim Drake wasn’t even Robin. Weird kid.
“No reason to think they switched out the entire plumbing system. Down below, here we go.”
Dick crept up to the base of a window whose bottom edge was concealed under some of the landscaping mulch. He pulled out a thin but sturdy prybar and offered it to Robin.
“You like to do the honors?”
Tim smiled widely as he took the tool from him. He scraped away the dirt and wedged the prybar into the tiny gap. With a groan and a pop, the pane gave way to the pressure. Tim was able to push it up without any trouble. There wasn’t even a screen— let alone bars— to pop out or cut through. Of course not? Why would there be? That would mean spending a dollar on security.
Then Tim turned around to look at Dick. “This is kinda spooky. It’s never been this easy to break in anywhere. Y’think it’s a trap or something?”
“I don’t think someone planted a body in Arkham’s water storage tank as a way to spring an ambush on Robin and Nightwing at 10:30 AM on the morning of Black Friday. No. We’re good.”
First Dick, then Tim shimmied through the open window, and found themselves in a dark and empty stairway. Dick used the prybar to pull the windowpane back down, leaving just enough of a gap to make their exit quick and easy as their entrance. Peeking over the railing to make sure no one was going to see them as they descended, he leapt over. His landing was solid on the floor below, and he continued the pattern, unconcerned with how Tim would decide to make his way down.
By the time he made it to the bottom of the switchback staircase, he looked above to check the kid’s progress. Apparently Tim thought it best to learn through imitation, slowly and awkwardly gauging the proper angles and footings. After making his final landing, he ran to catch up with his brother.
“Much improved, Robin. I’d say that was a solid B minus.”
“High praise from the quadruple somersault king. The utility room’s s’posed to be down this way.”
Tim stepped out in front, walking through the basement with the confidence of someone who lived there.
“Kinda gloomy here without any bats,” the kid said. “I was hoping for some sort of infestation, at least. I mean, not rats. I’m cool with no more rats.”
Thankfully, there was actually signage for the utility room. It was a cinch to shut off the main water valve, and they grappled back up out of there. Even easier to rappel up to the roof and avoid being in sight of any windows. It was practically like they owned the place.
“Okay…” Tim breathed, nodding his head slowly as he scanned the massive water tank, top to bottom. “So do we, um. Go ahead and open it?”
Dick hesitated, suppressing a shudder. He didn’t want Tim to be here. Maybe he could think of some clever way to divert the kid’s attention, act like he noticed something important on the way up that they missed. Tim shouldn’t see this. Not ever. Sure, the kid had seen a dead body before. But only freshly dead. Still some sense of the human that once was clinging to its empty shell. Dick couldn’t be the one to expose Tim to what happens after that last semblance of a person starts to slough off.
He remembered what it was like. His first time, seeing a person looking more like rancid meat than anything that had once walked and talked and had a family and hopes and fears. Looking back, he figured Bruce probably tried to steer him away from such scenes plenty of times before he was finally forced to confront the sight. The smell. He remembered being completely out of control of his own body, throwing up before he even knew what was happening. Retching, empty retching, after there was nothing left. That smell. That smell becoming taste, that even the vomit couldn’t overpower.
He remembered hating himself in that moment. He was Robin. He’d been through so much, seen so much, been so much better. He was supposed to be better than this. But his body gave him no choice as it overpowered his mind.
He remembered Bruce, uncharacteristically gentle as his muscles spasmed, holding him hostage. The warm, ungloved hand on his back.
He remembered that when he was finally able to relax an ounce, take something like a normal breath, Batman gave him no chance to wallow.
“Get up, Robin. We have work to do.”
It wasn’t unkind. It was true.
He remembered standing up, breathing through his mouth to try and avoid any more of the sensory horrors. It didn’t help. But he stood up. And he did the work.
Dick shook his head. He wasn’t Robin right now. He was Nightwing, and Robin needed him. What the hell did he need to do? Did he just need to follow in Bruce’s steps? Give the kid time, just enough, then trust in his own strength to pick him up? Do more, do less? Stave off the decision entirely like he really wanted?
“Robin,” he started, slowly. “You know what we’re going to find in there. The only thing I can tell you, honestly, is no matter what you think you’ll see, or how you’ll react, no matter how strong you are, you’re not going to be ready for it. And that’s okay.”
He knelt down, eye to eye with Tim.
“So I want you to call the shots here. Whatever you need. Who opens it, who looks in… hell, you don’t have to do this at all. You have nothing to prove. Not to me, or Batman, or yourself. But I’m also not going to stop you from doing what you have to. Just know… I’m here, and I’m with you, whatever happens, okay?”
Tim’s expression was unreadable for a few seconds, as though he’d been frozen in time. There was definitely a bit less color in his face, though. Then, a full-on shiver, and he bit his lip.
“I want to do this,” he said, at last. “I’m ready to learn.”
Robin drew a deep breath, making his shivers slow down. He blew out a long, careful exhale, but his hands were still shaking from nerves.
“I can open it. Um, one question?”
“Shoot.”
Tim swallowed thickly, then pushed his voice down to a slightly lower register. “Is it gonna be, like— floating on the top yet? I’m okay if it is… I just wanna be ready.”
“What do you think, Robin?” Dick gave him a question in return. He felt shame for continuing to be a teacher in this moment, for not calling off this whole damn detective play and driving his brother right back home.
Robin’s voice was steadier as he talked through the problem. “Batman reports a distinctive odor in the tap water. Decomposition would be… moderate to advanced, for the bacteria and gases to be detectable through smell alone, diluted in a ten thousand gallon tank… Body’s gonna be on the top.”
Dick gave a solemn nod. He almost told Tim that it wasn’t too late to change his mind— hoped he would change his mind. But his brother was already scaling the ladder up to the top of the tank. Dick was right behind him, already bracing himself in anticipation of the smell, and of what Tim’s nervous system was about to do.
Tim went onto one knee in front of the access hatch.
“Whoever did this broke the lock. They didn’t even bother trying to pick it. They didn’t care who could just… come open it up. Like they wanted us to find it… them? The body. Victim. Um…”
Dick knew in his heart that he was as unprepared as Tim. Not ready for his brother to lose this last little piece of his innocence.
Tim drew a long, shaky inhale. One of the last breaths of tolerable air they were going to get, unless the kid suddenly decided to make a better, wiser decision right now.
“Is there, like… a trick to handle it? I want to be… calm about it.”
“We can wait for Batman. Or we can turn around and head home right now. Nothing wrong with doing that.”
Not only nothing wrong… It would be the admirable thing, wouldn’t it? To accept a natural limit? Tim was fourteen. Even Commissioner Gordon would be bound to struggle with a scene like the one that lay right beneath this sealed hatch.
“I’m doing this, Nightwing,” Tim pushed back, far less confident sounding than Dick was sure he meant to be. “Tell me what I need to know.”
Yeah. Dick knew there was no going back now.
“Face away from the hatch, even before you open it. And after that, just… wait. It’s gonna be a while before you can do anything. Okay?”
Tim nodded. “Is it… really stupid, if I count down from three or something?”
Dick placed his hand on Tim’s shoulder.
“Nothing stupid about it.”
“ ‘Kay… Sorry, just, one more question. Will you count down with me? I don’t wanna like, choke up or anything.”
In that moment, Dick genuinely started sweating, feeling all the embarrassment in his brother’s voice. This was such a huge mistake. What was going to happen to Tim’s mind from here could never be undone. And Dick was no longer just a witness to it. He was complicit.
He placed his hand on the handle, just above Tim’s. “Turn your face away and don’t look back. Deep breath. Three. Two. One.”
The smells of putrescine and cadaverine hit like a physical explosion, knocking the wind out of him, blacking his vision out for half a second. Dick’s body moved on pure instinct. He used all his might to push down his own need to vomit, as he shoved Tim out of the way, away from the evidence he might contaminate. What a fucked-up line of thinking. It felt evil to have to consider forensics above anything else. Dick got him to a safe distance in under a second, though, and could now try his best to help.
Hell. They were in hell. Dick wanted desperately to put together any comforting words, but if he allowed his mouth to open, he knew he’d be crippled just as badly as Tim. Couldn’t risk starting that up. The sickly sweetness of rot, emanating from the hatch, just kept coming. Heavy. Sticky. Overwhelming. Dick could taste it on his tongue, in his throat, in his fucking lungs. He still couldn’t see straight, but he heard Tim vomiting so hard it sounded like he was dying. The poor kid’s back muscles contracted underneath Dick’s hand, his body shaking with adrenaline.
Dick already knew he was no Batman. He’d taken on the mantle not long ago, managed to at least keep Gotham from falling apart at the seams, but that didn’t mean he was Batman. Not that he wanted to be, either, but Robin was here. And Robin needed Batman, right? He was no Batman, not who Tim needed right now.
But he was Nightwing. He had to remember what that stood for. It did no good trying to measure himself against the man who taught him everything he knew. No point in wishing Bruce were here, or Clark, or anybody. He started this, he needed to see it through.
He brushed away the tears that ran, nonconsentually, down his cheeks, and he pushed back the hair that fell in Tim’s face. He spoke through gritted teeth, hoping to limit any of the horrible gases from entering his mouth.
“You’re good, Robin. You’re so good.”
The poor kid was still at the mercy of his own reflexes, would be stuck like that until he came up empty, and then some. Dick kept waiting for the cursed cloud of decay to lighten up, but it remained thick and relentless. They would need to strip naked as soon as possible after this, scrub for hours to even begin to get clean. He dreaded what he knew was to come, the way the noxious molecules were bound to cling to hair, sinuses, underneath the tongue. It was disturbing that the smell of vomit didn’t even register right now. Might as well not have been there at all.
During a too-short moment when Tim was able to inhale, he wasted his breath. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, I’m good, I’m okay, I’m sorry—”
“Easy, Robin. Nothing wrong here. It’s just what happens. I’m with you. I got you.”
But the kid kept trying to apologize anyway, whenever he got a break for a second between heaves. Was it this painful for Bruce when Dick first went through this?
A touch sent him back ten years. That hand on his back. He could never mistake it for anyone else. He looked up at Bruce, who knelt between them, his other hand on Tim. Bruce didn’t turn away from Dick until their eyes met directly. He gave a nod, and moved his attention fully to his Robin.
Dick saw Tim’s posture change as the kid realized who was now here. Tim tried to straighten up, even as his body insisted on trying to expel something from his empty stomach.
“Batman,” he panted, after a long, painful spell of unproductive retching. “We shut off the main water valve. Probably not long ‘til somebody tries to open it back up.”
Dick patted his little brother’s back as he worked on settling his breathing after the whole violent ordeal.
“Good work, Robin,” Bruce said. “Eyes on the victim?”
“Not yet,” Dick replied. He wiped the sweat off of his forehead, overdramatically. “Needed a minute, ya know? Over ten years of this, still knocks me off balance.”
The ploy seemed to be having a good effect. Tim blew out a determined sigh and pushed up his chest. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, then cleared his throat.
“The lock was cut, Batman. Whoever did this, wanted the body to be found.”
Bruce nodded his head. He placed a steady hand on Tim’s shoulder in acknowledgement. Robin still looked pretty shaky— probably, no definitely, psychologically unraveled. But ready to save that breakdown for when there was time for it.
Dick decided to give the two of them a moment. Let Batman do his whole reassuring thing. Let Tim feel some actual encouragement instead of the stupid Nightwing knockoff version of it.
He took a deep breath through his mouth, forcing himself to dissociate as much as he could, lifting his soft palate to take in as much air as possible. He didn’t want to have to breathe again once he was up close with the victim.
Back over to the hatch. He blinked away the tears that the stench drew out and tried to focus. Dick pulled out a flashlight and shone it into the tank, not wanting Bruce to take any of his focus away from Tim. They would make their way over when the kid was ready.
As much as Dick hated it being his first thought, the body really was unremarkable. A white older male— unless the decomposition had really fucked with things. Almost definitely bald, not just rotted away. Almost definitely male, unless the bloating had distorted things that badly. But if the bloating were that advanced, the gases probably would have ruptured the body by now. Probably overweight in life. No tattoos or scars, at least on the backs of his arms and neck that Dick could see. Wearing what looked like a pretty worn flannel shirt and jeans. Working man’s clothes? A gold band cutting into his puffy left ring finger. Absolutely nothing that could distinguish him from any ordinary senior Dick may pass on Gotham’s streets.
He was about to turn back toward the closest thing to clean air there was, when something caught his eye. At the very edge of the flashlight’s beam, on what should have been the uniform black wall of the tank, was a tinge of red. Dick moved the light higher to get a better look. His breath was running out, but he needed to finish gathering what evidence he could. If Tim was going to look, he at least needed to prepare him as much as possible.
Blood?
No, paint. Definitely. The numbers were clear, the brushstrokes surprisingly clean.
71424
Like a perfectly painted house number. The second numeral there even had serifs on top and bottom. Somebody worked very hard to put those so neatly in such a difficult location.
Then, without warning, his body betrayed him, pulling in a sudden inhale. How Dick was able to keep his insides inside in time to turn away from the open hatch was beyond him.
The most stupid thought ran through his head as his muscles clenched, expelling what was left of the breakfast he had so proudly made only an hour ago.
At least it's not cranberries.
Trying to regain some composure in mind and body, he remembered Bruce and Tim. There was no way he wanted to freak Robin out any more than he was already feeling. Dick raised up an arm, trying to signify that he was alright. Now that there was nothing left on his stomach, he could start to focus on regaining control. How had he never seen Bruce lose it like this before? Superman was the Man of Steel, but Batman surely deserved the title of Stomach of Steel.
“The far wall,” Dick rasped. He tried to look up at Bruce as he spoke, but his eyes could barely open.
“What did you see?” Bruce asked.
His arm was around Tim’s shoulders. The kid was visibly shivering, working very diligently to regain control of a slow, steady breathing pattern. Dick had seen his little brother in his Zen mode before, and it seemed he was getting pretty close to achieving it again here, somehow.
Dick was sure he wouldn’t be able to say another word without acid coming back up his throat. He brought his thumb and his ring finger together, signing out each number he saw in order.
“Just those numerals, no other text?”
Dick nodded his head once, then just focused on holding everything back with his chin against his chest.
“Stay here. Watch each other’s backs.”
As much as he had been trying to overcome the instinct over the past year, Dick’s knee-jerk reaction to Bruce’s instruction was frustration. What was he trying to imply? Every action he took, this whole time, was with Tim in mind. If he wasn’t still worried about another wave of sick coming over him, his tongue would have gone off before he got the chance to check himself.
But no, he realized, Batman wasn’t talking down to Nightwing. He wasn’t criticizing his abilities. Honestly, he probably wasn’t even thinking about Dick in that moment. Nope. Bruce was thinking about Tim.
This situation must have felt like history repeating itself for Batman. A Robin’s first run-in with rot. Overcome by what no grown man, let alone teenage boy, should have to experience. It wasn’t that Bruce did a bad job handling it the first time. But he was learning, growing, trying to be better.
Robin needed Batman to acknowledge him as useful in this situation. Compromised, vulnerable, and embarrassed, any word of negativity, or even neutrality, would surely send Tim down a rabbit hole of all the ways he failed. The kid cared more about what Bruce thought of him than anything in the whole world. And it was now clear to Dick that Bruce knew it.
Batman took a moment to inspect the scene for himself, surely gathering even more detail in a couple of seconds than Dick could have in a couple of minutes. Finally, Bruce closed the hatch, closing the stench back in on itself. The air was still putrid, but quickly began to clear now that the source was sealed off.
“I’m calling the GCPD on this. They’re the ones who can make the quickest ID of the victim. I’ll keep in contact with Gordon, get us started on a profile for who’s responsible for this. Once we confirm who this is, we have a better chance of understanding what the numbers mean. Without it, we’re left with blind speculation.”
“Not blind speculation,” Tim contested. His voice was hoarse and painful. “I can run the sequence through lots of different data banks. It could mean tons of things.”
“See, that’s the problem, bud,” Dick said. “Ten thousand leads is as bad as none.”
“Worse than none,” Batman agreed. “We can’t waste our time on that when there’s other crime in Gotham that needs our attention.”
“There’s always other crime,” Robin said. “But this is what we found today. Someone killed somebody and dumped ‘em in a water tank, and could’ve maybe killed or at least made a bunch of other people sick— It’s important, we can’t just leave ‘em…”
“We aren’t, Robin,” Dick interrupted. “We’re still on this. But every job isn’t meant for us. Sometimes we gotta let some things go, Trust the people we can trust to do what we can’t.”
“Nightwing, Robin, you two back to the Cave. I’m making the call and will meet you there.”
“We can’t leave them, it’s wrong…”
“We found him, partner. It’s a big first step. C’mon.”
He put his arm around Robin— kid was so small. Somehow he looked bigger in the costume than he actually felt when Dick touched him. Tim only put up a tiny amount of resistance, before letting himself be led away.
“Nightwing?”
“Yeah, pal?”
“...don’t ever make me another cranberry omelet. Ever.”
—
Bruce felt a twinge of sadness as he watched his eldest place a duffel bag on his motorcycle. The holiday passed all too fast, even more so with the dual Arkham matters pulling him away from down time with his family. It wasn’t as though he’d never see Dick again. He promised to stop by a few more times before Christmas, after all. Still, there was an emptiness to the manor when Dick wasn’t there.
“Tell Alfred thanks again for everything,” Dick said as he mounted his motorcycle. “I’ve got enough leftovers to keep me going for a week, at least.”
Bruce cringed slightly.
“You know, that turkey’s only good for another day or tw—”
He stopped himself. Dick’s brow furrowed, but his features eased and he took a slow, deep breath.
“It was good of you to come, Dick.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” his boy shrugged casually. He pushed the kickstand back with his foot and was about to start the engine.
“Really,” Bruce continued. “Alfred was glad to have you home. And Tim…”
He paused again. He was trying to be mindful of how he spoke to Dick more these days. It wasn’t easy, working to understand how his words could be perceived against what he truly meant. But he had lived what happened when he didn’t put in the work. Losing two boys at once. Nearly pushing away a third who reached out. They were worth the effort.
“He’s always happier when you’re around. I think things would have been much harder on him today if you hadn’t—”
“I’ll always be there for him, Bruce,” Dick cut him off.
Bruce just nodded. He knew Dick meant it from the bottom of his heart. The engine revved and Dick grabbed his helmet. He almost put it on, but hesitated. He turned his head back to Bruce, talking just loud enough to be heard over the bike’s purr. He gave a little smile. Even when it didn’t reach his eyes, the smallest smirk from him was as bright as the sun’s rays.
“Yell if you need any help on this Arkham thing, okay? Blüdhaven’s within earshot, you know. Tim seems pretty invested, and I don’t want Alfred’s cooking to have been sacrificed in the field for nothing.”
Bruce exhaled a laugh.
“Take care, Dickie,” he said as Dick began to ride off. Bruce watched him until he was entirely out of view. As much as he was already anxious to see his first Robin again, he hoped it would be as Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson, not Batman and Nightwing. He hoped this case would be a simple one. That Tim wouldn’t spiral into obsession like he was so prone to do. That his boys could enjoy time together in the light of day, not under Gotham’s endless night.
Maybe it was too much to ask. But, for once, he was bold enough to hope.