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Dick didn’t think of himself as a bad brother, per se. He’s not perfect, much to his chagrin, but he is always trying and honestly that’s more than half the damn family can say. Dick purses his lips as the thought pops into his head. It’s not the first time, it likely won’t be the last. Unkind thoughts. Everyone has them, supposedly. Even if it made Dick feel like some sort of monster in human skin.
He supposes that’s part of the point, of the whole Batman thing. Become the night, become vengeance, but keep your humanity. But when Batman stalks like a predator, pounces like a predator, and rages like a predator. Well, it’s a bit difficult to call him anything else.
Dick had been… trying something different with Nightwing. As driven as Batman, as bright as Robin. And Dick loved it. He helped people, in his own way, away from Batman, away from Gotham, away from his parents’ graves. It was hard to look at those graves, when he is no longer their little boy. Their Robin. He is grown now, no matter how small he feels when the Bat Signal is calling for him.
Of course, there’s a new Robin. Damian. He’s… he’s not really a nice boy, but it isn’t really his fault, either. Dick has a difficult time reading him, sometimes. He thinks it may be in large part to the roles they’re both playing. Dick was pretending to be a dead man while talking to one of the few friends said dead man had. But, Dick thinks to comfort himself, the Commissioner most certainly knew. He had to. Please.
Damian is, of course, also playing a role, at least partially. The boy had scoffed when Dick first proposed crime-fighting. And now he’s Robin. It’s horrible, but Dick had never really loved “Robin” being passed down by Bruce as if it was his to give and take away. It was just a name, but it was one of the few things he had left of his parents. It reminded him, when fighting giant crocodiles in the sewers or trying to talk down someone from a ledge, of peanuts roasting in oil and flying through the air. He still does the flying thing, but it feels different now. Burdened.
Dick Grayson isn’t a free man, far from it. He thought he was, but he should’ve known better. Even in death, Bruce holds some sort of control over him. Especially in death, with how hard it is to argue with a head stone. Dick had tried to in several, desperate moments. Though during those times the only thing he could argue was “Come back.” In this regard, talking to Bruce’s grave is easier. In every regard, it makes Dick feel horrible.
If he had a therapist, which Dick did before giving it all up for the damn mission he swore to as a child, they’d probably tell him everyone grieves in different ways, and that what he’s feeling is normal. Dick doesn’t feel like he’s grieving at all. Not for Bruce, not for the life he himself just had, because Batman is at his worst when he’s grieving. Dick had seen it first hand. And no matter how bitter he may be about the entire situation, Dick has no intentions of failing as Batman.
So even when every time he finally got to lay down to sleep Dick heard Stephanie’s screams, he will not stop to grieve. Even though he dreams of her laughter and golden hair and shining smile, he will not stop for anything. The mission, his mission, continues, no matter how many he couldn’t save. It has to, because Dick can’t bear losing anyone else, so he will continue to protect everyone but himself and never stop to mourn. The funny thing about grief though, is that it never really asks for permission first.
Regardless of whether or not Dick chooses to acknowledge that, he’s not doing it now. There’s been rumors of a huge drug ring centered and distributed at the old docks. He has his suspicions, most notably, Penguin. While the dock may not be the most traditional place for him to set up base, everything about the drug ring itself screamed Penguin.
Dick and Damian are in the Batmobile, dawned in their costumes. Dick watches from the corner of his eye as Damian tugs at the sleeves of his suit. It was tailor made by Alfred, so it most certainly fit, meaning Damian was likely just antsy.
“We’re almost there.” Reassures Dick, but he’s not sure how effective it is with the signature Batman growl. Damian just huffs in response, furthering the silence. The hum of the car, the night lights of Gotham, it’s all very familiar. Instead of feeling any warmth of nostalgia, it’s just melancholy. He used to be so happy crime fighting as a child, Hell, he used to be so happy crime fighting just a month ago.
Something about the Bat suit on your chest sucks it out of you. Maybe it’s the sudden weight of Gotham on your shoulders, and all of her people.
Soon enough, they arrive at the docks, right on time for a shipment. Dick skids the Batmobile, making a half circle before stopping. Once the vehicle is no longer in motion, Dick and Damian get out, readying themselves for a fight with the henchmen who saw them come in. There’s only about a dozen unloading cargo, and between the two of them, it shouldn’t be too hard.
Once most of them are taken care of, Dick tells Damian that he’s going inside the warehouse to make sure their leader can’t make a timely escape. Dick rushes in, halting in front of the large doors before running in. He scans the room, and sees movement on the platforms above. Dick quickly grapples up to it, and finds a glimmer on the criminal. The glimmer of a bright white suit, flawless in cleanliness but it just serves to dirty the villain.
This is Stephanie’s killer. This is the man who tortured her with anything he had on hand. Black Mask had done much evil, but diminishing the light of the brightest person he knew was certainly up there. And Dick isn’t about to let him run off scott free.
He isn’t even sure how Black Mask got out of Arkharm after Stephanie took him down. Dick doesn’t particularly care at this moment, even though he knows he’ll have to look into it later. Right now, all Dick feels is rage. He grabs Black Mask from behind, wrestling him over the rails of the platforms they stand on. Dick throws him over, and as he lands with a thump and crack, Dick jumps down. When he lands, he watches as Black Mask recovers, letting out an uncharacteristic groan.
Dick could call this good. He could tie Black Mask to a pole, or handcuff him hanging off the above railing. But that’s not what Black Mask did to Stephanie, is it? In just a brief moment, before Black Mask could even stand, Dick is on him.
He is hitting Black Mask, over and over, blood seeping through the man’s mask, dripping onto his white suit. Even with the technology crammed into every nook of the Batsuit, against the Blask Mask, Dick figures his knuckles are beyond bruised, but he doesn’t feel it. He doesn’t feel much of anything, at this point. Dick doesn’t even feel the anger he just had, doesn’t feel the burning rage that signifies something is wrong. All he knows is he wants Black Mask gone. Not dead, the thought doesn’t cross Dick’s mind; he wants to smash and maim Black Mask until he’s skin on the ground and nothing more.
Dick has his hand on Black Mask’s face. His thumb in the eye of the mask, uncaring of the eye beneath, and his fingers on the grips of the teeth. He could do it, Dick is positive. He could tear it clean off, expose Black Mask fully to the world he has damaged and taken for granted. Even then, he would not feel a portion of Stephanie’s suffering. Of Jason’s suffering. They were innocent, they died innocent, and Black Mask will die something else entirely.
There’s yelling, and though Dick is eager to ignore it, his training trumps all. It’s a boyish yell, a child, so of course he listens. It confuses him at first. They’re calling for Batman, and there’s a surprisingly strong tug on Dick’s arm, pulling him away from Black Mask’s face. He looks back to see the force stopping him, and Dick sees Robin. Bright, wonderful Robin who looks scared, and suspiciously like a younger Dick. Quickly, he turns back to face his victim, and shaking Robin off, Dick successfully rips apart Black Mask.
He finds only himself, bloodied and bruised, like a dead body. He shouldn’t even have a face, but plain as day, there is Dick’s, how ever deformed it may be now.
As chills run down his spine, Dick looks at his bloody, shaky hands, and he finds those of a predator. He screams, loud and anguished, Bruce not quite close enough to give any comfort, but more than close enough to soak into Dick and make his own screams sound so familiar and so distant.
Dick thrashes, head whipping side to side as he listens to frantic yelling for Batman. That’s not him, Dick isn’t Batman. He can’t be. He may have thought he’d be when he was younger, but he thought a lot of stupid things. That he’d never like having a brother. That he and that brother had time. In a stupid, weak moment, Dick had even thought he wouldn’t mind being Batman if Jason was his Robin. Now Jason is dead, and Dick kind of thinks he’s on his way there.
Before that thought could spiral further, before Dick convinced himself that carrying around too many ghosts would turn you into one too, he feels his body grow heavy, and topples to the floor with a prick in his side, suddenly feeling exhausted.
“Some Batman you are.” Damian snarks. Dick doesn’t feel the usual bristle of annoyance on his skin. The venom is absolutely palpable in Damian; he seems as disappointed as the day he came to the cave looking for Bruce. But Dick can’t find himself to be angry at him. His puffed out cheeks, pouty mouth, and messy hair- he looks like a kid. He looks like Robin.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, give me time, okay?” Dick replies as he sits up. He’s not sure why he’s even in a medical bed, as he hadn’t sustained any injuries. But Alfred had taken his favorite pillows and blankets from Dick’s own bed and placed them here, so he can’t really complain.
Silence passes by, Dick unsure what to say and Damian fuming. He paces a few feet back and forth, then stops for a couple seconds, and begins again, arms crossed throughout. Dick watches him go like a father clock ticking, except this one stutters his movement and pouts. It’s probably the IV filling him to the brim with anxiety drugs, but Dick feels oddly calm. Something about this scene felt nostalgic to him, though he’s on the other side this time around. It doesn’t bother him at the moment; it most certainly will later, but right now, he can’t be fussed.
“You did great, by the way. I-” Dick begins.
“Don’t say it.” Damian hisses, a warning that Dick chooses to ignore. Damian wouldn’t stab a guy while he was already down, right?
“-Think Bruce would be proud of you.” Dick finishes with a grin. The curveball clearly throws Damian for a loop, if his flushed face and tense body language is anything to go by. The dark red of Damian’s cheeks continues to spread, and he quickly turns away in an attempt to hide it.
Damian mutters something he doesn’t quite catch, maybe in a language even Dick doesn’t know. But at the end of Damian’s complaining, Dick does hear something about sedation.
“Wait- you sedated me?” Dick shouts in surprise, but he still laughs harder than he has in weeks. Damian makes a sharp noise.
“Don’t be so lousy at this and I won’t have to.” He reflects. For as acidic as his words are, Dick can’t help but notice that Damian has yet to leave his side, which makes Dick go from laughing to smiling warmly.
“You’ll pick up the slack though, won’t you?” Dick teases. He watches as Damian flusters, stuck between “yes” and “no.”
What Damian, for all his intelligence, doesn’t know, is that he already is. Because where Batman is dark, Robin will always, always be the light. And in the light of the cave, Damian’s face almost reminds Dick of Stephanie’s. He’s not sure what it is; they have different brows, both in terms of hair and bone structure. Their hair and eye color is completely different. And yet, Dick couldn’t help but get the same feeling from Damian as Stephanie gave him. Bright, near indomitable. Robin had a way of doing that, Dick supposes.