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It’s not about Bruce. It’s never about Bruce. It’s always about Bruce. Bruce is the only thing that matters. Everything and anything that has ever existed is about Bruce. Absolutely nothing created or fathomed or destroyed, discovered or undiscovered is not about Bruce. It’s not about Bruce. It’s never about Bruce.
He’s never seen Dick so resigned before. Angry - blisteringly, bitterly, angry - but never resigned. It’s a constant, a non-variable, something that can be bet on with no risk, a guarantee. Dick Grayson and resilience, Dick Grayson and optimism, synonyms.
He’d seen Dick and Nightwing run last ditch effort plans Cyborg calculated as nearly doomed to fail with a smile and the confidence of a Queen. Witnessed Nightwing’s hands, steady as a rock, disarm a bomb with seconds to spare. This was disturbing in a barely describable way. Like watching Micheal Sheen in Good Omen’s then seeing Prodigal Son.
They devolved into an argument because of the inevitability of a continuously repeating pattern of circumstance and the comfort associated with a well-practiced dance. But, instead of being met with a willing verbal sparring partner, Jason was confronted with an oxymoron. Dick Grayson and resignation, an impossible duo, an awful combination.
Dick was standing at the centrifuge table, prepping the blood samples they gathered at the scene. “I hate this thing. Can never get it to work right.”
“Golden Boy can’t do something perfectly. Must be gut-wrenching,” Jason mocked. Dick hadn’t said anything wrong, really, but Jason was in the mood to bicker. His brother didn’t bite back with the usual venom, though.
He turned toward Jason, setting the sealed vial in his left hand and Sharpie in his right down on the table. “Look, I don’t -” Dick sighed, running his now empty left hand through his hair, flexing and relaxing his fingers at the crown of his head before shaking it out.
His hair was boarding on shaggy compared to his usual mop, like he missed his last haircut appointment by three or four months. His shoulders, previously a bit tense with the concentration needed to perform a difficult task, were now taut with what Jason could - with questionable accuracy - identify as stress and discomfort. “I can’t figure out why you think that.”
“Why I think what, Goldie?” His tone was a bit derisive, purely out of habit. Jason wanted to be mad but Dick’s demeanor was so jarring. The only other emotion that managed to slip through his bubbling confusion was apprehension.
This was the part where Dick drops the reality bomb and Jason’s perception changes so drastically that he is left reeling in the smoking crater of half-truths and misinterpretations that used to be his perspective. They’d done this song and dance before, when Dick broke down and admitted that he hadn’t been at Jason’s funeral because he was off world. When he confided in Jason that Bruce hadn’t bothered to tell him, that he found out from a newspaper article.
That was enough to make Jason question nearly every conviction he had post-resurrection even knowing that it wasn’t the whole story. Something else happened during that time that Dick wasn’t telling Jason about. He knew from Dick’s deliberate verbiage and cagey avoidance.
And now he was going to do it again.
“That ,” Dick emphasized. “Why do you think I’m perfect? Some sort of golden child? Who told you that?”
“You fucking did.”
“I’ve never claimed to be perfect,” Dick asserted with unwavering confidence. Like a man who knew he was telling the absolute truth.
Jason dropped down onto the left Batcomputer rolly chair. Willing himself not to run. Whatever Dick needed to explain, Jason likely did not want to hear, but he needed to. He needed to stay. “Maybe not with words, but you set the bar so high for the rest of us. Do you know what it’s like trying to fill your shoes? I aspire to you. Tim aspires to you. Damian aspires to you. Half the goddamn hero community aspires to you and the other half are jealous. Everything we do Dick did it first and he did it better.”
“Is that what it’s about?” Dick asked, eyebrows knitted together in concentration or confusion. Jason was far too distracted by the subject matter to differentiate. “You think I set the bar?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Right, no, it makes sense. From your perspective. How would you know if I never explained? I thought it was obvious but that’s because I was assuming you have all the information I have which is an inherently false assumption. I’m sorry. That was unfair of me.”
“Dickie, you're not making any sense.”
Dick looked him in the eye with none of his usual aloofness or piercing conviction.”You think I set the bar but I didn’t.”
That didn’t clear up anything, in fact, it made things muddier. For Jason, at least. Dick seemed like he thought he’d just cracked the code for Jason, showed him the map on the back of the Declaration of Independence. “So, what? You weren’t the first Robin?”
“No, no, no I was.”
“Then what do you mean you ‘didn’t set the bar’? There was no bar before you. You are the basis of measurement. That’s what setting the bar means,” Jason retorted.
“You’re right. I’m not phrasing this well,” Dick explanation started to become more animated, using his hands for emphasis and expression. A sign that he was trying to articulate his thoughts in a way that couldn’t be misconstrued but also had no idea how to go about it. “Well, I did set the metaphorical bar, I guess, but not on purpose and definitely not because I'm 'perfect’.”
Dick sat down in the chair next to him, rolling it a few feet away to give them both space and make it so that they were looking at each other, having a proper conversation. “When Bruce first took me in, he had no idea what he was doing.”
Jason repressed the urge to perk up like a labrador retriever at the mention of Dick’s early years at the Manor. Not that he wasn’t paying attention before, but the mention of Dick’s childhood at the Manor caused all the background processing in Jason’s brain to come to a screeching halt. Dick rarely, if ever, talked about the early years. Almost everything Jason knows about that time is from Bruce, Alfred, and Barbara.
“It wasn’t his fault, really,” he continued. “He just didn’t have the most normal of upbringings and Alfred was trying to give as much room as he conceivably could to learn and grow.”
Dick was lost in thought, eyes open but Jason doubted he was seeing the Cave as it was now. “You think Bruce, Batman, didn’t have a standard to hold me to because I was the first Robin, because I was the first sidekick,” He grimaced like the word sidekick tasted bitter on his tongue.
Jason didn’t dare interrupt, holding on to every word even though he knew the punchline would be devastating, whatever it was.
“But he did. This was pre-Titans, pre-Young Justice, pre-Justice League, he only had one point of comparison to go off of, one bar, his . The bar I set for Robin, for all the future Robins and sidekicks and child heroes, that’s just how far I fell short.”
And Jason could - Jason could understand that. He didn’t want to, really didn’t want to, but he could. A young Batman pushing Robin to be the best, to be perfect, not to be him, but to be better than him because anything less was certain death and anything more meant that Bruce hadn’t made a mistake. Anything more meant that Bruce hadn’t doomed a child to the same life of continuous self-loathing and isolation that he championed. Still…
“You can’t honestly think that,” Jason accused, crystal clear understanding and guilt infected denial warring for control. “You can’t honestly think that Bruce expected an eight-year-old to be him.”
“You weren’t there, Jay.”
No shit. He knew that. “So what? You were just a guinea pig? A test drive child? That what you're tryin’ to tell me? Bruce pushed and pushed you just to see how far you could go?”
Dick shook his head. “You’re taking it too literally. I’m not trying to guilt trip you or anything, this isn’t about me.”
Jason's patience was waning. “Like hell this isn’t about you. The fuck is it about then? The Queen of England?”
Dick grinned, completely out of place in the serious atmosphere they’d created. “You know I’m a Diana girl.”
“Dick.”
“Jason.”
Dick was frowning again, it made acid invade Jason’s stomach. This wasn’t what he wanted, but it seemed like he got it all wrong. Dick wasn’t going to shift his entire perspective - well he was but that’s not the point - Jason was meant to give Dick new perspective. Dick still thinks this is about Jason, Jason is under no such delusions.
His brother just sat across from him, face and demeanor the same as before. Like he hadn’t just revealed something catastrophic.“I’m not trying to make this about me,” Dick defended. He had the wrong idea, had it backward. Dick was under the impression that Jason wanted this to be about Jason, but Jason’s train of thought left the original topic at breakneck speed the second Dick started talking about Bruce’s expectations.
“I just - I don’t want you guys feeling like you're being compared to me. That’s not true. Bruce would never do that.”
“I’m so far past that, Dick. You’re telling me Bruce treated you like an adult your whole childhood? God, that explains so damn much.”
Dick shook his head, again. “Your reading way too far into this. I recognize that it wasn’t fair for - I recognize that he probably shouldn’t have treated me like that. Okay, I know that. And this isn’t about that. You can’t keep feeling like I’m some sort of gold standard to live up to, Jay. We’re judged on different grading scales. It’s not fair to me, but that’s not the point. More importantly, it’s not fair to yourself. You’re comparing apples to oranges. They have some similarities but in the end they’re two different things.
“Actually, no,” he backtracks in the same breath. “That's not a good metaphor. It’s more like you’re grading an apple on how well it can be an orange. It’s just - it’s not a - you can’t use the same system.”
As much as he accused Jason of missing the point, Jason couldn’t help but think it was Dick who kept swinging and missing. “You can’t seriously be sitting here and trying to convince me that my self-esteem issues are more important than you practically admitting that Bruce fucking parentificated you?” Jason said, careful to keep his rising anger from his voice. He’s not mad at Dick. To anyone else that would be obvious, but Dick wouldn’t hesitate to blame himself at any sign of malcontent.
“I don’t even know what that means, Jay. The point is the ‘golden boy’ and ‘favorite child’ you think you see when you look at me. The person you think Bruce and others compare you to, he’s not real. You think we’re both apples being judged on how well we can apple, but we’re two different fruits being graded on two different scales.”
Jason would pay real United States dollars to never hear Dick use that horrendous metaphor ever again. He was just proving Jason’s argument at this point. Not that Dick could see that, he was so disillusioned.
“I’m not saying you made everything up and I’m not saying your resentment is invalid, but - he’s proud of you, your his son. Me, I’m - it’s not the same. It’s -” Dick exhaled, exasperated and uncomfortable with the topic. “I’m more like his brother. Don’t - don’t compare - we aren’t - you and me that is - we’re not - I’m not someone you should aspire to.”
“Bullshit.”
Dick huffed. “Jay, I don’t know how else -”
“Bullshit,” Jason repeated. “Parentificated, the past tense of the verb parentificate, a variation on the noun partentification, meaning the process of a child being encouraged, forced, or required either by coercion or necessity to assume and fulfill the role of an adult. Although occurring more often in households with multiple children, an only child can experience parentification to take care of themselves or their parents in volatile situations or when experiencing extreme neglect.” He paused, giving Dick a chance to process his words.
“He didn’t turn you into his brother - it’s fucked up enough that you even think that - Dickie. He turned you into his fucking mom.”
“That’s not -”
If Jason heard Dick try and defend Bruce at this point, he’d put his fucking fist through one of the Bat Computer monitors. “I know you don’t want to see it, and I’m sorry for not seeing it sooner, but if you’re about to defend that bastard, I will have to leave.”
“I know he’s fucked up, Jay. I know that more than anyone. I know that he never actually changes anything in Gotham because if shit actually got better the city wouldn’t need him anymore, the city wouldn’t need Batman. I know that. And I know that if Bruce isn’t Batman, if he's not working toward some convoluted unachievable mission, he’d have to confront his own grief and shortcomings. That’s why shit never changes. You think I don’t know that? I’m not that naive.
“I know that if invested in better infrastructure shit wouldn’t be nearly as bad. I know he’s a hypocritical rich fucker who was the ability to create thousands a job, providing practically the whole city with stable incomes which could nearly eliminate the need for crime entirely. I know he’s got nearly unlimited funds and therefore any child starving in the streets of Gotham is completely avoidable and merely a product of inaction rather than inability. I know all these things. I know that he’s a good person, but deep down he’s a selfish bastard, okay. I grew up with him. I know that. Something is better than nothing, though. Batman is better than nothing. Robin is better than nothing.”
For the first time in his life, Jason understood the phrase ‘stunned into silence’. This wasn’t news to him, of course, but knowing it and hearing Dick say it, hearing Dick acknowledge it so blatantly, were two totally different experiences. At one time, not too long ago, Jason would have killed - literally - to hear just this.
Now that it actually happened, Jason felt sick to his stomach. He felt no justice, no retribution, just queasy and off balance. Like listening to his favorite song, something he’s heard on repeat that brings him comfort in the consistency of it, only to find the lyrics have changed.
“God, Dick. You’re -” he paused, clenching and unclenching his fist, willing the green away. He’s not mad at Dick but if he lets his anger take over, he won’t be in the right state of mind to tell Dick that. “You’re proving my point.”
Dick looked like he was about to protest but Jason just kept talking, in part because he still had a lot to say and partially because he desperately did not want to hear whatever Dick had to say. “You know all of this and yet you spend your time taking care of him, taking on his responsibilities. Making sure he takes care of himself and making his apologies for him and rebuilding all the fucking bridges he continually burns. Babysitting the rest of us Bats and hell, raising Damian and Tim. Bruce took a traumatized child and turned him into his fucking mother.”
“Jason -”
Jason cut him off. “I’m not done.” It was a bit rude, admittedly, but if he didn’t voice everything he had to say, it was going to eat him alive. “And the rest of us played into it. We’re all complicit, intentionally or unintentionally. Bruce is such a little bitch he dragged the rest of us into this shit. Made us part of your abuse.”
“It’s not abuse. And I’m not his mother.”
Jason took a second to breathe, clenching and unclenching his hands. “Firstly, the hell it’s not. What would you call it then? Training? Conditioning? Stockholm Syndrome? Secondly, and I cannot emphasize this enough, does he know that ?”
Dick was getting riled up, agitated. Jason got the distinct feeling it was not directed at the real culprit. “It isn’t training or conditioning Stockholm Syndrome, it’s just the way it is, Jason. It’s the way it’s always been. Robin picks up Batman when he’s down. Provides the light to juxtapose the darkness.”
Has Dick really gone the last two decades believing this?
The thought was disturbing. There’s no way Jason can reverse twenty years of disordered thinking with one conversation. He’s fighting a losing battle. Still, he’d fought plenty of those before. What’s one more?
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. I was Robin. Tim was Robin. Damian is Robin. We didn’t do any of that shit. Did you expect that of Damian when he was your Robin?”
“No! Of course -”
“Of course you fucking didn’t. Robin doesn’t pick Batman up when he’s down. Robin doesn’t provide the light to - how did you put it? - juxtapose Batman’s darkness.”
Jason knew his next words were big, important, but God, he didn’t want to say them. He took a deep breath, focusing on the stretch of his chest muscles as his lungs expanded. It was grounding. “Dick Grayson picks Batman - and Bruce Wayne for that matter - up when he’s down. Dick Grayson provides the light that juxtaposes Bruce Wayne and Batman’s darkness. Dick Grayson fixes all of his problems. Dick Grayson unfucks Batman’s shit.”
“Yeah,” Dick fucking confirmed it. “That’s my job.”
He’d talked to plenty of abused children before, but that was mostly kids in similar situations as his own. This emotional manipulation wasn’t something else entirely because there is plenty of emotional manipulation in a physically abusive relationship, but the extent of Dick’s emotional and psychological was uncharted waters for him. He was completely out of his depth, and he could acknowledge, not an objective interpreter.
Jason closed his eyes for a moment, gathering himself. He made damn sure Dick was meeting his gaze before he said, “No it’s not.”
Dick just sat there, staring at him. “I don’t know how we got so off topic,” he finally spoke. “But -”
“I think we're exactly on topic, Dickie. And I’m so sorry. For my part in this, I’m so sorry.”
“None of this is your fault, Jay. It’s no one’s fault. There’s nothing to be at fault for,” Dick asserted.
Jason clenched and unclenched his hands, again. The way this was going, he’s gonna have arthritis by the end of it. “I don’t have the brain power to debate this with you right now. Please, Dickie, just let me say my piece.”
Dick inclined his head ever so slightly, giving Jason the go ahead.
Jason ran with it, unwilling to let the slack he was given be yanked back, even if it meant he hanged himself with it. “I’m sorry for seeing the way Bruce treats you and thinking it was okay. I’m sorry for conforming to the same behaviors and treating you like an adult even when you weren’t, and I’m sorry for reinforcing the narrative that you are infallible. I know that I’m still young and for a lot of the time, I was a child, but I can recognize that something isn’t my fault and still feel guilt and sympathy.”
This was a lot. It was so much. It’s not about Bruce. It’s never about Bruce. It’s always about Bruce. Bruce is the only thing that matters. Everything and anything that has ever existed is about Bruce. Absolutely nothing created or fathomed or destroyed, discovered or undiscovered is not about Bruce. It’s not about Bruce. It’s never about Bruce.
“I’m going to do everything in my power to rectify this. I really am. I know,” he once again ensured that Dick was looking him in the eyes before continuing. “That fixing this isn’t my responsibility or my obligation. I’m taking this on willingly and of my own volition. I know you don’t think there’s nothing to fix and I know you still think this is about me. I don’t expect you to agree with me, I just - I need you to promise me something. Please.”
Dick was obviously still processing their conversation. Likely stuck in the denial Jason had breezed right past. He was still Dick Grayson, though. Which meant his quiet but genuine “Anything, Little Wing,” didn’t come as a surprise at all.
“Promise me we’ll talk about this more later,” Jason requested. Dick already agreed to promise him, but Jason tacked on a “For me,” for good measure. Dick would never take this seriously if he thought it was about himself.
“Sure, Jay. I promise.”