Archive of Our Own

Slade “Deathstroke” Wilson, adjusts the scope on his rifle slightly, letting the crosshairs rest on the lower back of Dick “Nightwing”  Grayson.

“You need to strike here exactly,” Wayne had told him, pointing out the median point between the umbilicus and the iliac crest.  “Any higher and you’ll hit the abdominal aorta, any lower and the damage will be too shallow for the virus to penetrate.”

“I know anatomy, Wayne,” he had replied, irritated.  He had taken enough shots in the abdomen to know the blood supply like the back of his hand.  

Wayne levels him with a look, and despite himself, Slade can’t resist the chill that goes down his spine.  “If you’re unsure, don’t take the shot.  This is my son, Wilson.”

“Understood.”

Why Wayne wanted him to shoot Grayson, he didn’t know and frankly, he didn’t care.  

“Aw, c’mon don’t cry kiddo.” Down below, on the alley between 7th and Fleming, Nightwing holds gauze against a knee of a young woman who was bleeding after Dick had saved her from one of her customers.  “The ambulance will be here any minute.”

Unfortunately, they’ll be there for you too.

“It hurts,” the girl sniffs, and she begins sobbing.  Dick rubs her back.

“There there, I know it hurts - 

Slade makes eye contact, and the girl nods imperceptibly.

Contrary to popular belief, the best assassins weren’t just good shots - anyone important enough to be a target knew well-enough to avoid risky areas.  

Which was why good assassins always had the honey trap. 

It’s a vicious, dirty move to make.  Way beneath him.  But for three million, he could brood in his beach-house for his lost dignity.

Dick’s hip is in his crosshairs now.  

Sorry kid.

The silencer Wilson carries is top of the line but it still makes a sound like a banshee scream as it rips through the night.  

As fast as Nightwing is he’s not faster than a speeding bullet - that moniker belongs to a different hero. 

Dick screams, more shock than pain, careening forward into Shelly as they’re both slammed to the ground by the force of the bullet.

Slade wonders if he realizes what’s happened, if he’ll rip this girl apart who’s used his kindness to have him shot.

Nightwing curls himself around the girl.  “Stay down!  Someone’s shooting at us!”  

Shelly, to her acting credit, burrows into Nightwing’s arms, as he bleeds on top of her.

“Target hit, Mr. Wayne.  Ambulance is on its way, ETA is six minutes.”  Slade says into the ear-piece.

“Stay on target until he arrives at the hospital.  You’ll receive the other half of your payment when I get video confirmation of him in the emergency bay.”

“Will do, Mr. Wayne.”   Slade wonders for a minute, but his mind flicker to the beach house, and he forgets about the young man he’s mutilated entirely.

“Sir, is this Mr. Wayne?  Legal father of Dick Grayson?”  

Legal father?  He had been Dick’s only father for the last twenty years.  

“Yes, is there something wrong?”

“Your son’s been shot sir.  He’s at Bludhaven General Hospital.”

Bruce takes a sharp intake of breath, feigning shock.  “Oh God no.  I’ll be over there right away.”  

Of course, he was already in Bludhaven. “How did this happen?”

“Gang violence.  He was shielding a young woman.  He saved her life.”

“That’s my Dick.  Always the hero.”  He lets the choked sound come through the line and he can practically see the furrowed brows of concern of the officer, the corners of a mouth turning down in sympathy.  “What’s his condition?”

“He’s…stable. The medical team will tell you more when you arrive.”

“Thank you officer.  I’ll be there shortly.”

“Of course sir.  Godspeed.”

He alerts Alfred - sends him the audio of the whole call actually.  Alfred had seen him off on a mission on the other side of the world - as much as he loved Alfred, his whole family - he couldn’t burden them with this.  This would be his secret to bear alone.

It had been a regular patrol - Bruce had dropped by Bludhaven to follow up on a case.  Dick had helped him out, and in turn, he had decided to help Dick.  

“Thanks Dad,” Dick had laughed, as they got ready.  “Just like old times.”

If only.   

While Dick still had the same acrobatic, playful moves he’d had while he had been Robin, he certainly didn’t take orders as he once did.

“Nightwing,” he’d growled, as Dick had narrowly avoided being shot, “I told you to take the alleyway - not front and center.”

“Sorry, B-Man,” Dick kicks a mugger in the face, “saw the opportunity and couldn’t resist.”

 If it had ended there, he would’ve written the whole thing off as Nightwing’s overly theatrical flair, annoying but not lethal.   The remaining dregs of Dick’s youthful impudence which he had failed to grow out of.

“Nightwing, abort mission,’ he barks into the comms.  Dick had pursued one of Blockbuster’s thugs towards a condemned apartment building. “The building has caught fire and is unsound.  Abort.”

“Sure thing B-man.” 

Bruce was on the other side of town, investigating the other building for a lead that had been a dud, and he turned on the street cams that Oracle had so kindly linked to him, expecting to see Dick retreat away from the building to the street except - 

Dick barges into the building. 

“What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“Blockbuster’s guys are still inside.  I can’t leave them.”

“The hell you can’t.  Get out of there now.”

Dick doesn’t respond.

God damn him.  

Bruce jumps into the Batmobile, flooring the accelerator.  

He can hear Dick’s heavy breathing through the phone. “Oracle,” he snarls, “Link me to Dick’s visual interface.”

Instantly, the visual from Dick’s lenses in his maps clicked on to his screen, along with a side panel of Dick’s vitals.   

He can see the flames raging along the walls of the building as Dick barrels his way through the first floor - while his suit was flame-resistant, it wasn’t fire-proof, and he could see from Dick’s surging heart rate and plummeting blood oxygen levels that he was declining fast.  

“Nightwing, you’ve confirmed no one’s there - leave now ,” he hissed.

“There’s no one on the first floor,” Dick pants back, and Bruce’s heart clenches as he sees Dick’s blood oxygen dip at 89%.  “I need to check the upper floors.”

“Dick,” he says icily into the comms, “That ceiling is going to collapse any second, you can’t -”

But it’s too late, as Dick bounds upstairs, hurtling himself towards the flames.  

Dick enters the third floor, and there’s a thug on the floor, pinned down by a fallen piece of the ceiling, and Bruce watches, seething, as Dick leans down to pick up the flaming piece of debris, and heaves. 

“Roll!” Dick commands, and Blockbuster’s goon scoots out from underneath the debris, running down the stairs without so much as a thank- you.  

“You got him Dick, now get out of there - “

“There’s still one more floor I have to check, I’ll be okay -”

Bruce slams the breaks in front of the warehouse, bounding towards the building as the thug Nightwing had saved runs in the opposite direction, not sparing a glance as he enters to get his son - 

There’s a sound like creak and hiss and the roof caves in and Bruce is rushing up the steps but he’s too late –

“See, I told you Bruce.  I had it handled.”

“You nearly died.”

“Nearly being the key word there.”  Dick chuckles from his hospital bed.  Bruce wants to strangle him.  

“You didn’t know Kid-Flash was in Bludhaven, did you?”

“I knew he was around.  I had messaged him for help earlier.  C’mon Bruce, I’m not thirteen anymore.”

To anyone else, Dick’s little spiel might’ve been believablet. But Bruce had raised Dick since he was a small child - seen him fake-out criminals and wake screaming in terror from a nightmare.  He knew the difference between true fear and bluffing.  

He doesn’t push the issue though. “I’ll let you rest.  I expect you back at the manor next week.  It’s Alfred’s birthday.”

Dick’s face relaxes, the same way when as a boy he thought he had outwitted him when he snuck out.  “Duh.  Of course I’ll be there.”

Bruce leaves.  Outside in the hall, heading towards the exit, is Wally West.

“Wally,” he says, and West freezes instantly.  On a lighter note, he observes, West had the same reaction as the original Flash.   

“Yes, sir.” Wally replies, “How can I help you.”

“I wanted to thank you.”

“Oh.” Wally blushes, a pink sheen coming onto his face.  “It was nothing sir, don’t worry about it.”

“It was…fortunate, you came in the nick of time like that.  Dick’s lucky that he has friends like you to rely on.”

“Yeah, well.” Wally shrugs his shoulders.  “That’s me I guess, always in the nick of time.”

“How did you manage to find him so fast?”

“I know Dick’s’ voice pretty well - I heard him yell and rushed over.  I know it looks like I was cutting it close, but in speed time I had ages to get him.”

“Then why is he injured?”  Bruce’s scathing reply makes the hair on Wally’s arm stand on end.

“One of Blockbuster’s men ambushed me.  I was just able to get free in time to grab Dick.”

Bruce pauses, and Wally, like Dick, relaxes, thinking his silence as absolution. 

“I understand.  Thank you, Wally.”

As soon as Bruce has left the hospital room and he’s in the elevator, he contacts Barbara.

“Oracle,” he says softly, “I’d like you to find some information for me.”

“Whatever you need, boss.” 

Of course, what Bruce had suspected - and he was rarely incorrect in his suspicions - Wally had not been Dick’s backup, had not even been in Bludhaven when Dick had sent out a distress beacon.  

The texts between Dick and Wally that Oracle had supplied him with had been most helpful  

-Christ man, you lucky son of a gun.  You made it out of that place by the edge of your teeth

- You saved my butt man, I owe you big time.

- Do me a favor, and never do that again.  

He had also instructed Oracle to pull up Dick’s hospital records - both as Nightwing and as Dick Grayson.  

The medical records he had pulled up had been…suspiciously mild to say the least.  Abrasions, bruises, but nothing more severe than a few stitches.  That feeling in his chest tingled and he makes a call to Bludhaven General Hospital. 

 “Dr. Gertman,” he says, “I want you to do a workup on a patient - Dick Grayson.  I want bloodwork, x-rays, a physical exam, the whole nine yards.”

“Mr. Wayne, he’s supposed to be discharged within an hour -”

“Stall him.  I pay you enough to keep this whole hospital running. You’re not in a position to tell me no.”

Dr. Waldorf paused, before sighing. “Of course, Mr. Wayne.”

Dr. Waldorf makes something up - low potassium levels that could interfere with heart function - and is able to keep Dick another day, still hooked up to his IV that now had a sedative.  It was difficult, requiring staff either desperate or unethical to run tests on an unconscious patient who had previously given consent, manhandling him into an X-ray machine, conducting a physical exam on an unconscious patient.  However, Bludhaven General had been in Bruce’s pocket for the last five years, and they knew better than to refuse the devil when he came to collect.  

Bruce had all the documents by morning.  

Fractured femur - Tension pneumothorax - second degree burns - scalp laceration .   

And at the bottom, like the words on a tombstone - Cardiac damage - myocarditis - he scanned down the page immediately, reading.

Cardiac echo performed on patient.  There is a small amount of damage on left ventricle, likely two years ago, dating by scar tissue.  While cardiac ability is down by roughly 15%, the patient's heart function is stable.

Two years ago.  When Blockbuster had first come on the scene, he had first asked Dick if he needed help; Dick refused.  And then later, Dick deciding to skip Christmas at the manor for the first time since he had left home.

“You’re not coming?”

“I want to.  I’m just busy with Bludhaven.  I have obligations to the people here.  Commitments I have to uphold.”

“I understand.”

Dick sighs in relief.  “Thanks Bruce.  I’ll be out to Gotham as soon as I can, just as soon as I get this case under control.  Give my best to Alfred and Tim, won’t you?  I mailed their presents to them a few days ago.”  

“Of course.  Take care, Dick.”

He had clicked off the call, somewhat peeved but not altogether worried.  Dick was following in his footsteps; he could hardly be blamed for wanting to do his due diligence.  Bruce had the same policy when it came to Gotham.  

He drags a hand over his face, pressing the intercom button.  “Serving for five Alfred.”

“Five?”

“Yes.  Dick won’t be coming.  He’s tied up with Bludhaven.”

The mission came first, that was the way it had been since the beginning.  Even if he could go back, he wouldn’t have changed that decision.  But the heartbreak in Alfred’s voice made him regret bringing any of his sons into his war.  

Of course, the reality was that Dick hadn’t been tied up - he had been in the ICU, recovering from the damage to his heart.  He wouldn’t have been able to conceal his injury if he came to the manor.  

Of course, his decision to clip Dick’s wings hadn’t occurred to him then.  It would have been madness to cripple his boy who was already so damaged.  

It started with Jason.  

Jason .  His heart clenched in that vice grip of grief and fear whenever he thought of his second son.  Jason had been revived, miracle upon miracles, but the agony wrecked upon Bruce’s heart was permanent.  He had held his dead son in his arms.  And instead of coming home here he belonged, he had lashed out, spat in Bruce’s face, and chose to remain on the streets with the trash.

“Jason,” a weary Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose.  “We talked about this, I’d like you to stay until -

“I’m not staying.”  Jason was already heading up the stairs, out of the cave.  It was the first time he had seen him in six months, and he was already desperate to get away from him. 

“Scarecrow’s fear toxin is still in the air and -”

Jason snorts, cutting Bruce off.

“Not my problem.”

Bruce had just helped GCPD corral the majority of  fearless Gotham civilians after Scarecrow had unleashed a fear cloud upon the whole city.   And Jason, already reckless, was going back into it without so much as a rebreather.  

Bruce bounds up the stairs after his second son.  He’d drag Jason back kicking and screaming if he had to, and God help him when he got his hands on him -

“Sir, you’re needed in the caves now.”  Alfred’s voice in his ear breaks him out of his dark thoughts.  

“What’s wrong?”

“Tim is injured.  Dr. Leslie cannot get here and I need you now.”

Tim.  Not Master Timothy.  

“On my way.”  

Tim is writhing on a gurney when Bruce returns to the cave, pale and bloodless, while Alfred holds a tourniquet in place, trying his best to get Tim’s writhing limbs to still.

Bruce bounds forward, helping Alfred wrestle Tim’s surprisingly strong limbs into the restraints. 

“What happened?”

“Fear toxin.  Master Timothy got a full dose of it, and he only had some minor injuries but -”  Alfred braces his knee on Tim’s leg to force him to lie down, hooking him up to the monitors, and Bruce sees the monitor read out 90/100 for Tim’s BP.  “The fear toxin made Tim think that there were insects in his wounds, and he started pulling them open.”

Bruce grits his teeth and says no more, focusing on getting Tim’s kicking legs into the restraints.  “He needs a blood transfusion, the O neg -”

“We’re all out,” Alfred finishes, and Bruce’s heart skips a beat.  “Master Damian was injured last night and I haven’t had time to restock.”

“Then Gotham general, we can -”

“Tim will bleed out before we get there.”  Alfred pulls the tourniquet taut on Tim’s left arm, as the blood flow goes from a gushing spurt to a trickle.  “Start the vasopressors and the hypertonic saline.”

“That won’t stop -”

“I know.  But it will buy us time.”

Bruce stops talking and starts carrying out Alfred’s orders, as he loads the epinephrine onto the syringe, trying to hold down Tim’s still weakly flailing body, looking more like a corpse than a teenage boy, and his old dread comes rushing.  Why did I get my sons involved in this war, Tim should be in school for debate, he should be planning his prom -

Tim’s blood pressure dlps lower.  70/90.  

This time Bruce’s own blood pressure takes a dive.  “Alfred, I’m not an exact match but -”

The door to the cave bangs open, thudding footsteps coming down the stairs -

Jason runs down the hall toward them, still in his red hood gear, peeling off his jacket, then shirt, as Alfred abandons Tim to grab the butterfly lancet on the tray next to him.

Jason doesn’t even bother sitting as Alfred plunges the lancet into the cubital fossa of his right arm, a gush of dark red traveling down the tubing to the central line on Tim’s chest. Alfred ties a tourniquet on Jason’s arm to increase the flow, and Jason flexes his hand rapidly, and the blood surges faster.

Bruce watches Tim’s blood pressure.  80/80.  90/80. 

“Jason,” he breathes, “when did you -”

“Alfred buzzed me on the emergency pager.  I came right away.”  

Bruce looks at Alfred, who gives him a small, sheepish smile.  “Master Jason gave me a pager to contact him in times of emergency.  It’s much appreciated.”

With the hand not holding Tim’s tubing, Alfred squeezes Jason’s shoulder.  Jason gives Alfred a soft smile in return.

“Anytime, Alfie.”

Jason ends up giving Tim a double donation of blood.  In the panic of Tim bleeding out Bruce had forgotten that his two middle sons shared the same blood type.  Or more likely that Jason would bother to help.

Jason, despite his bravado, was not invincible, and lies pale and oddly delicate looking on the gurney next to Tim, hand clasped over Tim’s wrist.  He would not be leaving the manor tonight.   

Bruce looks at both of his middle sons laying next to each other on the gurneys, in a rare instance looking strangely delicate and peaceful.  There was a fragile beauty in the moment that he dared not disturb.  

Bruce rests his knuckles against Jason’s temple, brushing the hair out of the way, and Jason’s eyes flicker open, not angry or venomous, but serene in the way soldiers who have received the grace of averted death are.  

“You came back.  You saved Tim.”  

Jason laughs softly, the sound cherished in the quiet of the cave.  “Don’t get sissy on me Bruce. I need my punching bag to stay healthy.”

Bruce smiles, shaking his head.  “Thank you Jason.”    

Jason’s eyes dart next to the water bottle next to him, and without a word, Bruce unscrews the cap, holding it to Jason’s lips. As his son drinks, he feels something covetous uncoil within him.  

“Don't get too happy old man.  I’m leaving in the morning.  Next time I see the replacement I’ll be giving him a knuckle sandwich instead of a blood donation.”

“After breakfast,” Alfred says. “I’m making French toast.”

“Duh.”    

It is not too long after, that Jasons’ eyes slid shut and he breathes in the soft, easy way of infants.  Bruce is content to do nothing more than watch his sons, delicate and peaceful in their sleep, in the embrace of the cave, for the rest of the night. 

And just before dawn breaks over the night, the beginning of a dream takes root in his heart.  

What if it could always be like this?

Tim had been his first thought.  

But Tim was already a loyal soldier - of all his Robins he had been the only one to seek him out, to demand that Batman make him a Robin, that Batman needed a Robin.  How right you are Tim.  He wasn’t worried about Tim leaving the nest.  

Damian was also out for the same reasons.  Fiercely loyal to him, determined to inherit the mantle, and just as devoted to the family as he was.  With time, Bruce knew he could mold him the way he needed him to be.

And so it was his oldest two.  

 Jason seemed the obvious choice.  Literally ripped from Bruce’s arms, alienated in nearly every way possible, if anyone needed to be nailed down back home it was him.

But in the same way Jason resisted twice as fiercely whenever anyone tried to force him, Bruce knew it wouldn’t work.  Jason would resent him, would sooner slit his own throat than come to terms with living his life as a cripple.   Then who?

Dick.  

He’s surprised at how much the thought of Dick’s wings being clipped excites him so much.  His heart flutters and the sweet anticipation he has at the idea surprises him.  

Dick, he was….different from his brothers.  He had a sweetness they lacked.  Dick and Damian had both come to him at the same age, but even then, there had been something sweet, something clean in Dick that set him apart.  Something that when he left - abandoned Bruce - had made Bruce uniquely bitter.

Something that made Bruce greedy over Dick in a way he wasn’t with the others.  

But it was more than that.  Because while he knew all of his sons would come to his aid, there was one that the other three would always feel guilty over, feel the sting of duty more, be willing to give up their lives as they knew it.  

So it was then,  Bruce had decided that Dick was the one who needed his wings clipped. 

It was a simple matter to devise the plan - Bruce had always had a failsafe for the Justice League, but in all frankness, he had never made a failsafe for his sons, most especially for Dick.  

They were supposed to keep him in check.  

Then again, he thinks, while surveying the notes Leslie had sent him of the damage to his eldest son’s heart, who’s to say Dick would survive long enough to do so?

It is shockingly, even frighteningly easy, for Bruce to construct the plan that would keep Dick grounded for life.  How many times, he wondered, had Dick escaped death or injury simply by the grace of God?  As he watches Dick from the camera perched on the street corner that faced directly into his window - without a security system, or bars, or even a damn lock, he knew the answer was too long.  

Strangely enough, it was the aftermath that was the most difficult part of the process.  Damian dropped his weapons upon hearing the news.  “Where is he?”  

“Robin, you’re needed in Gotham, stay -”

“Where is he?”

A chill goes down his spine at Damian’s voice.  

“Bludhaven General.  He’s in the ICU.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen.”

Bruce leans back in his chair, still in shock. it wasn’t the venom, the hellish wrath in Damian’s voice that had shocked him so.   It was - it was his voice.   

Tim and Jason had reacted similarly to Damian, although both tied up loose strings before departing for Bludhaven.  He had worried that when he reported to Alfred, the man that had raised him, that he would detect something in Bruce’s voice, some deception that would give him away - but at the hitch in Alfred’s voice, the tenor of panic in his voice, he knew Alfred didn’t know.  All the better.  

Only one can keep a secret.

They had all been ushered into Dick’s room at Bludhaven General - Damian already there, at the right of Dick’s bed, standing like a sentry, and once again, Bruce feels a chill.  Like looking at my own doppleganger.   

“Robin, report,” he commands, and for a moment - a moment - he wonders if Damian will obey him.

The moment passes, and Damian says, “He’s stable.  No major damage to any organ systems.  The doctor wanted to wait until you arrived to share the news.  That's all he would share with me for now.”

Bruce relaxes.  He doesn’t know.  Of course not.  He had taken too many precautions, with too many proxies and redundancies, for Damian to suspect him.  

He comes over to Damian, who tenses, as Bruce brushes his knuckles across Dick’s temple.  

Dick creaks a blearly eye open, “Hey little D.  What’s up?”  

“Richard,” Damian chides, trying to mask the fear in his voice with scolding, maturity, but Bruce hears the strain in his voice, and when Dick opens his arms Damian doesn’t hesitate to dive into them. 

It’s later, as Alfred brings out the soup, Jason and Tim arriving alongside him, visibly relieved to see Dick awake and talking, thinking whatever it could be, it certainly couldn’t be that bad.  Not realizing why Dick hadn’t been discharged yet.  Even Damian doesn't suspect, too relieved to question the blessing.

 He knows Alfred must have been worried, too caught up in relief at the sight of Dick alive to wonder why he isn’t up and walking yet, even though it’s standard protocol after surgery.  It’s only Tim who’s eyes contain the edge of fear.  

A knock at the door interrupts their festivities, and Tim’s eyes go hard, bracing himself.  

There’s my little detective.  

“Come in,” Dick calls out,

Dr. Waldorf enters, carrying a clipboard, mien politely reserved.

“Mr. Grayson, good afternoon, pleased to see your family here -”  he gives a brief nod, eyes lingering on Bruce before returning to Dick, “Should I come back at a different time?”

“What’s up?”

“We have the complete results for your discharge.”

Dick smiles broadly. “Whatever you need to say, you can say with my family present, Doc.”

“Well,” Dr. Waldorf coughs, and drags a chair next to Dick’s bed.  “As you know, you were shot just below the umbilical aorta, and you lost a considerable amount of blood.  We were able to complete the surgery and remove the bullet; it was a complete success.”  

Dick beams; he doesn’t see the darkness in Dr. Waldorf’s eyes like a shroud, and it’s all Bruce can do to hold back his schadenfreude.  

“However,” Dr. Waldorf continues; Dick’s smile falls slightly.  “There is something else we found.  After the surgery.”

Dick catches the guardedness in Dr. Waldorf’s voice.  “What did you find?”

Dr. Waldorf swallows, the tension in the room as taut as a tightwire.  “While performing the surgery, I noticed your sciatic nerve was inflamed so I ordered some tests….”

“And?”

Dr. Waldorf looks around the room. “Are you sure you don’t want to discuss this in private?”

Dick shakes his head.  “No.  This is my family.  Anything you can say to me, you can say in front of them.”

Dr. Waldorf’s shoulders tremble before going slack.   “You have Multiple Sclerosis.  I’m sorry.”  

The silence is so profound no one dares move.  Dick is the first one to break it.  

“What?  How? I teach gymnastics for God’s sake!  I don’t - “

“The virus was likely already in your system for years, decades probably, and the trauma and inflammation from your gunshot wound provided the perfect opportunity for it to activate.”

“What does this mean?”

It’s Tim who puts forth the question.  Cold, ruthless Tim who gets to the grittiness of it.  

Dr. Waldorf pushes back his glasses, attempting to recapture his clinicalness in the wake of the maelstrom he had so unwillingly unleashed.  “The good news is that we’ve caught it in the early stages of the disease.  You have early onset damage to your retinal nerve that will continue to deteriorate, but we can slow the progression, and you can maintain your current level of vision for at least a year.  While the damage to your CNS is permanent, if we start treatment immediately your life expectancy will be minimally affected.  You could walk again with a cane.”  

Dick’s mouth gaps like fish; opening and closing without words, face bloodless.

Damian is equally speechless; his invincible older brother, his Batman condemned to lifetime disability.  The rage on Jason’s face could make the devil shudder, his fists clenching and unclenching, jaw grinding.  Alfred has an expression of heartbreak so profound, so stricken , it almost makes Bruce want to abort.

Dick turns, trembling, and presses the edge of his face into neck.  He can feel Dick’s shaky breaths against his bare skin, the wetness of his eyes as he presses himself into Bruce. 

He curls his arms around Dick, the subtle trembling that racks Dick’s body against hi, needy and desperate in a way he hadn’t been since had been a child.  It makes his heart soar.

“Don’t leave me.  Please don’t leave me.”

“I’ll never leave you son.”

The process of moving Dick back home had been easier than even Bruce had thought possible.  

Of course, Dick had tried to resist him at first.  After his initial bad news and dark cloud, Dick had, true to his sunny nature, bounced back.  

It was two days after Dick had received his initial diagnosis.  He was still in the hospital recovering, but was cleared to be released in the evening.  During that time, Bruce had been pleased to note, the boys had all stayed close by.  Jason and Tim had left occasionally to check on Gotham, but had returned as soon as possible.  Damian hadn’t left Dick’s side once.  Bruce was seeing more of his sons together in a few days than he had in months.

Dick sat up in bed, Damian helping to support him.  “Here, Dami,” he said, bracing himself, “Help me get up.”  

“You’re supposed to be resting, Richard.”

“Yes, but surgery patients are supposed to move.  I have a higher chance of developing clots if I don’t at least walk a little.”

With that in mind, Damian makes no further complaints. Dick, despite losing close to twenty percent of his blood volume, and recovering after a major surgery, had been able to walk around the floor twice , before letting Damian take him back to bed.  

Alfred fusses with his bedcovers, getting Dick settled back into bed.  “Master Richard,” he says, “You’ve just been diagnosed with a major illness, you don't need to be cavorting around the hospital.”  

“Relax, Alfie,”

Alfred harumps before tucking the covers more securely around Dick.  “Well, I suppose we should stop by your apartment to collect your things.”

Dick frowns.  “Why?”

“To take them back to the manor.  Why else?”

Dick stretches his arms back behind his eyes, his face taking on a familiar defiant expression, and Bruce feels the beginning of a migraine.  

“See, the thing is Alfie, I don’t know how necessary that is.  I don’t want to rush anything.  I want to get a second opinion.” 

Bruce glances up from his tablet,  and raises a brow, matching his youngest son’s displeased expression.  “A second opinion?” he says.  

Dick pulls the laptop that was next to him closer, and Bruce could see the browsers he had open.  “I’ve been doing research on MS.  Apparently, up to ten percent of all diagnoses are false positives - even people who have MS can live normal lives - with disabilities not even appearing until later in life.”  

Yes, among women with an MLR5 gene who are diagnosed as teenagers, not fully grown men. 

Damian crosses his arms, skepticism on his face.  “In that case, shouldn’t you return home to Gotham?  What’s keeping you here in Bludhaven of all places?”

Dick taps the screen.  “There’s a doctor here in Bludhaven who specializes in autoimmune diseases, Dr. Khan.  I want to go see her and talk about my options.”

Alfred says nothing, a forlorn look on his face.  “Richard,” he says quietly, “I know this is difficult, but that blood test has a specificity of over ninety percent, are you sure you’re not…” his voice trails off.

Dick, sweet boy, reaches for his hand.  “If there’s a chance, I have to take it, Alfie.  I’m going to pursue every avenue I have, even the slimmest flicker of hope.  I’m not giving up that easily.”  

Inside, Bruce seethes.  

Dr. Khan, who, unfortunately also lived in Bludhaven, was one of the best autoimmune doctors in the country.

Dick had scheduled an appointment with her for Monday, and Friday night found Bruce not on patrol, but pouring over Dr. Khan’s autoimmune research, as well as reviewing his own medical textbooks.  The pros to graduating highschool at the age of fourteen were many, but mainly being able to graduate medical school at the age of twenty-one. 

He pours over her research on Guillain-Barre disease, finding a recording of her sharing her findings at a conference.  

“Dr. Khan, you’ve recently mentioned in your earlier journal that newer DNA sequencing techniques will allow physicians to discover which individuals are born with alleles that predispose them to autoimmune diseases, versus other people who merely may have epigenetic potential for the same diseases, could you elaborate on that?”

“Of course.  It’s been well-established for decades that certain DNA HLA types have higher dispositions to developing autoimmune diseases - 80% of people with the HLR8 allele will develop Rheumatoid arthritis.  However, with this new technique we will now be able to establish the etiology of why other people not genetically predisposed also develop those same diseases.  The prevalence of autoimmune diseases as recent as the 1950s was as low as ten percent, but now, roughly one out of four people will develop an autoimmune disease in their lifetime.  We’ll be able to pin-point which environmental factors are the cause of these diseases.”

“Sounds like an exciting time in your field, Doctor.”

Dr. Khan smiles. “All in the pursuit of saving lives.”

Dick holds his head in his hands, moaning softly, the thick gauze around his head doing little to muffle himself as he bawls.  

Bruce rubs his back.  “There, there chum.  It wasn’t your fault.”

Dick lifts his head briefly to look at Bruce before dropping his head back and bawling again. Bruce relishes in the closeness, the precious intimacy in his eldest son’s grief as he burrows his face into Bruce’s neck. 

“I should’ve listened to you.  I should’ve just gone back home to Gotham.”

Alfred grabs a tissue box, holding it out to Dick.  “Master Dick, no one could have predicted this would happen.  You can’t blame yourself.”

Well, Dick could blame himself a little .  If Dick had simply given in and come back home like he should’ve initially, instead of snooping for someone other than Bruce to save him, Dr. Khan would still be the brilliant Dr. Khan, instead of the coma patient vegetating in the ICU upstairs.   

Dick, feeling better and already on his feet, needing minimal assistance, had taken his car to go to his appointment to see Dr. Khan.  He had been making a left turn when he had had a seizure, his car careening right onto the sidewalk -

            - right into Dr. Khan, who had been taking her daily walk before starting her hours at the office.

There’s a sharp rap at the door.  

“Come in.”

A Bludhaven officer steps into the room.  Detective Mikeowsky, a pen and pad in hand.  “Mr. Grayson, I have some questions - 

Bruce stops him.  “My son won’t be answering any questions until his lawyer is present.”

Detective Mikeowsky frowns, taking stock of him, Alfred, and his two other sons standing next to Dick like sentries.  

“Right.” He leaves the way he enters, not bothering to tangle with prey so well-guarded.  

“He’s right.”  Dick whispers as the door shuts.  “I hit her.  I’m responsible.”

“There’s no jury in the country that will hold you liable, Richard,” Tim says venomously.  “Dr. Waldorf cleared you to leave Bludhaven General with no neurological abnormalities.  If anything, he should be the one the cops talk to.”

“But he listed it as a risk.  On the discharge papers, they said it was possible I could have a seizure.  Seizures are part of MS.”  Dick drops his head into his hands,  tears and snot running down his face.  Bruce wants to coo.  

Tim waves his hand.  “Hospitals list seizure as a risk for everything from heart attacks to broken bones.  It’s just a way of covering their asses and making sure they aren’t held liable if anything goes wrong.  Your EKG was normal, your MRI was normal.  There was no reason for you to be on guard for seizures.”  

Well, no prudent reasons.  Tim was correct, Dick had been neurologically normal.  Bruce didn’t want to harm his precious boy’s brain. Just his body.  But Dick had been so stubborn , seeking out hope like that.  

But it had been seeking out Dr. Khan’s technology that had sealed her fate.  

“Our technology will be able to pin-point the specific environmental factors that are the cause of these diseases.”  At those words a chill of true fear had run down Bruce’s spine - the first since he had started this undertaking.  In a panic he had ordered the most recent edition of her research and spent the rest of Friday and Saturday devouring it.

  Dr. Khan wasn’t some attending in an overworked hospital - she was a scientist.   She would know that the MS antibodies hadn’t been incubating inside of Dick for decades, unlike other sufferers of MS.  She would be able to date when the antibodies, not native to Dick’s DNA, had been introduced into his system. She might even be able to figure out from which lab that Bruce had procured the antibodies from.  

And so, Bruce had decided, she had to be neutralized.  

It was easier than he thought it would be.  After twenty years of devoting himself to restraint, he was surprised at how easy, how effortless it was, to arrange it.  

He had mulled on other options, certainly.  Bribery, intimidation, having her license revoked, forcing her to flee the country.  The longer he thought on it however, the more he realized the most elegant solution was the simplest one.  There was always the risk that Dr. Khan would start again on her research, or that someone in search of a cure - Damian most likely - would track her down.  

 Dick could never be able to access this kind of research.  He needed to be traumatized enough to not ever consider asking anyone for help ever again.

The actual execution hadn’t been difficult.  He had simply dropped by the hospital, to check on Dick ostensibly, while the others were out and Damian was dozing in the chair next to him.  

He had hesitated, holding the syringe before Dick’s IV, watching the gentle rise and fall of his son’s chest.  Do I really want to do this?  It was one thing to damage Dick’s nerves, but upping the dose acutely like this to induce a seizure - What if it becomes permanent?   

Dick breathes, as soft and peaceful as an infant, eyelashes lush and full, looking more at peace, than Bruce had seen him in months.  Probably getting more sleep in this one span than he had in months.  

In the hospital room, there was a certain sacredness there, with both of his sons asleep - similar to the time Tim and Jason had slept in the cave.  Now he was free to look at his eldest as much as he wished.  He studies Dick, as he lays in his bed.  The faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the silver strands of hair that glimmer in the raven dark hair, the gauntness in cheeks.  He could pass for being closer to forty than thirty.

He’s only twenty-eight.  When did he age so much?  

How had Bruce never noticed?  

He glances over at Damian, soundly asleep as well, looking for the first time in months like a normal fifteen year old instead of a trained assassin.  When was the last time Damian had lived like a normal teenager?  When was the last time he had thought of his sons as his children, instead of as soldiers?

The image of Damian’s birthday, four months ago flash in his mind - Damian protesting - Richard, put me down this instant,   as Dick wraps his arms around him in a bear hug, holding back a reluctant smile as Dick lifts him up bodily.  C’mon Dami, older brother’s prerogative.   Jason, decidedly sullen in a corner, unwillingly smiles as he watches Dick spin Damian, and Tim, typically quiet and reserved, smiles with untempered joy being in the midst of  his brothers.  

Bruce plunges the syringe into the IV, the viral load rushing down the tubing, straight into Dick’s veins.

 Whatever happened, he’d deal with it.  As long as Dick was in his hands, everything else was manageable.

This time, Dick doesn’t resist when Bruce suggests moving back home to the manor.  In fact, to Bruce’s delight, Dick is the one who broaches the subject.

“Bruce,”  Dick had said softly, later that evening, after being questioned by Detective Miekowskie with his lawyer present.  “I think…I’d like to go home.”

Bruce pauses, letting the question hang in the air.  “Home?”

Dick swallows, something painful settling on his features.  “Back to the manor I mean.  If you’re okay with it.”

It takes everything in him, every moment of deceit in his lifetime, to hide his delighted triumph, and he schools his expression into something compassionate and gracious. 

“Of course, son.  You’re always welcome home.”  

“Easy, Dickie, I’ve got you.”  Jason braces Dick weight against himself, as he and Damian transfer him into the wheelchair. 

Dick shoots him a weak smile.  “Thanks Jay.” He does his best to hold back a wince, as Jason eases him into the wheelchair.

“Be careful with him,” Damian says sternly, and while Jason rolls his eyes he keeps a firm hold on his brother. 

Jason begins wheeling Dick up the newly installed ramp, Damian at his side, and Alfred following close behind.  Damian, who had been Dick’s sentry before, is now his shadow.  

“Home sweet home, Dickie,” Jason says as he wheels Dick into his old bedroom, kept the same, except for some minor adaptations to be wheelchair-accessible - a task Bruce had found unceasing pleasure in.  

Dick looks around his old room, drinking in the room he spent his childhood, adolescence, and now, the rest of his adult life, a mix of nostalgia and bitterness on his face.  It was the same expression Bruce had had when he visited Dick’s room after he had left for Bludhaven.

“I’ll get the rest of your stuff.”  Jason moves as he lets Dick roll himself through.    

“Will you be staying for dinner?”  Alfred says, a note of hope in his voice.  

Jason pauses by the door.  “Actually Alfred…”

Alfred’s face falls, disappointment casting a shroud over his features.

“...I was hoping I could spend the night.”  

“Of course,” Alfred’s eyes are soft, and he squeezes Jason’s shoulder.  “This is your home too, son.”

Jason’s face reddens slightly - only Alfred was able to get such a reaction out of his middle child.  “I just want to make sure Dick is settled in alright.  Just in case you guys need me.”

We’ve always needed you.   Bruce wants to say.  I’ve always needed you .  

Alfred beams.  “I’ll get your room ready.  It’s so nice having all my grandsons under one roof again.”

For Alfred’s smile alone, he was glad, he decided, that he had allowed Dick to have a seizure going down the hospital stairs. 

Bruce hums as he drags the soapy bar against Dick’s back..  

“Thank you,” Dick says quietly.  

“What for son?”

Usually, Dick didn’t talk much when he bathed him.  As much as it was one of Bruce’s favorite times, his eldest was usually too embarrassed to do much more than be compliant.  

“Taking care of me.  You haven’t been on patrol in weeks.  You can just hire a nurse you know.”

“I wouldn’t trust anybody else with you.”  

“C’mon Dad.  Going from being Batman to my full-time caregiver isn’t what you had in mind .”

“I’m finding it quite fulfilling, actually.”  

“Don’t you miss it?”  Dick says, exasperated.  “The cold night air flying past you, the thrill of the chase.  Aren’t you tired of being my private nursemaid?”

Bruce cradles Dick’s face in his hand, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“You’re the greatest adventure I’ve ever had.”

Truth be told, Gotham didn’t really need him much anymore.  Ever since Justice Lord Superman’s brief escapade, Gotham had been tamed into a quieter, safer city. 

Early on, Bruce knew it would mean very little to clip Dick’s wings if he had no time to spend with his caged bird.

Which was where Justice Lord Superman came in.  

“There was nothing anyone could do.”  

Diana slammed her fists onto the table.  “What happened to the safeguards?  What went wrong?”

“The safeguards did as they were programmed,” Bruce replies.  “In an excess of caution, we did not supply enough kryptonite in the vents to kill, only to incapacitate.  No one could have known that the parallel Superman had a stronger resistance to kryptonite than Clark.”

Of course, that was completely bogus.  They had the same amount of resistance, Justice Lord Superman a little less, considering that he had been exposed to far less of it over the duration of his iron-fisted regime than Clark had.  

Bruce had simply fed a loop into the security feed one night into the surveillance cameras that covered Justice Lord Superman’s cell.  For his plan to succeed there was only one person who could pull it off.    

“I have a proposition for you.”  

It wasn’t difficult to get Justice Lord Superman to agree to his terms.  

“I knew you’d come around eventually,” he tells Bruce later.  “Even your counterpart was ahead of me.  I was just pushed ahead a little faster.”

Bruce says nothing, although internally he agrees.  If Luthor had killed one of his Robins’ he was sure his counterpart would’ve been the one to cross the line instead of Superman.  As it was, it was fortunate that it was Clark and not him who was first on everyone’s list of most likely to become Big Brother.  

Bruce had used proxies of course.  It would be too convenient if all the security protocols failed just as the League was off-world.  It took time but eventually he found the perfect group: The Lamb’s Avengers.  A group of victim advocates turned vigilantes who had idolized the Justice Lords since they first came to their world

With the latest technology supplied by a shell of Wayne tech, as well as training provided by an off-shoot of the League of Shadows, they were able to break into the League’s prison to ‘liberate’ their would-be hero.  Of course, as soon as they broke in, the failsafes he had installed had immediately kicked in - fire for the parallel Manhunter, chains for the other Wonder-Woman, a small space for Hawkgirl.

And Kryptonite, of course, for the parallel Superman.

Of course, this time, when the Kryptonite was released, anyone who reviewed the tapes from that night would see, as the Lamb’s Avengers stormed the building, the parallel Superman collapse to his knees, hacking and coughing from the effects of the gas, but triumphantly drag himself to the edge, throwing a fist into the tempered glass wall, shattering it.  

They would then see him drag himself across the threshold and into freedom, where the Lamb’s Avengers drag him outside into the light of the yellow sun, and he shakes off the kryptonite dust and soars.  

“Hold still.”

Parallel Superman flinches back from Bruce.  “What are you doing?” 

Bruce holds the device in his palm so he could see.  “Making you Kryptonite-resistant.”

The other Superman squints.  “What’s that?”

In his hand, he holds what looks like two miniature vents, each the size of a thimble.  

“Put them in your nostrils.”

“Why?”

“When the power goes out, part of the system’s safeguards is to incapacitate the prisoners.  Your cell will immediately flood with Kryptonite dust.  Breathe through your nose, and the vents will filter out the Kryptonite from being breathed in.  You will still be affected through your eyes, ears and skin, but the effect will be halved.  You should be able to break free.”

Justice Lord Superman extends his hand to take the device, and stops halfway.  “Why are you doing this?”

Bruce thinks for a moment on his response.  Alone with a Superman able to hear his heartbeat and willing to kill, he needs a Gospel explanation.

He settles for the truth.

“My son is disabled now,” he says.  “By my crusade.  I’ve been fighting this war for twenty years now, thinking that there was an end, a light to the end of the tunnel, but the reality is…The war isn’t meant to be won. The war is meant to continue.  I’ve been doing the same thing for two decades, thinking that we were chipping away at the rot, that it would eventually pay off.  But all I did was exacerbate it.   My son will never walk again.  I’m not going to wait for this war to take one of them from me.”

Parallel Superman smiles, - just like his Clark, sincere and warm-heated to the bone. “I’m glad you’ve seen the light, Bruce.  You always were two steps ahead.”

“Thank you Clark.  I couldn’t do this without you.”

That, Bruce had reflected, had certainly been the truth. 

The Lamb’s Avengers had cheered upon Justice Lord Superman’s escape, and had immediately set their sights on Arkham.  Bruce hadn’t bothered suggesting targets for them - far better that his proxies come up with the plan themselves.  If anyone questioned them, they would know that a few wealthy benefactors - all shell organizations that looked like police and victim advocacy think tanks - had bankrolled them.  Nothing would be tied back to him.  

And after Justice Lord Superman had lobotomized every last major villain in Gotham - everyone from Joker to Two-face to Croc reduced to drooling idiots - Bruce had activated the final function of the filters.

It was the only lie he had told him.  The device did not, in fact, filter kryptonite.

It stored it.  

The device was more similar to a vacuum than a mask.  Bruce had modeled it on direct air capture devices that removed excess CO2 from the atmosphere.  The first function, used during the escape, functioned exactly as a filter would, sucking in the excess kryptonite dust from his nostril into its lead-lined cavity, stopping it from entering his system.  

The second function, upon activation, released the stored kryptonite, launching it at rapid speed in a concentrated bolus up through the nasal passage, through the cribriform fossa, and finally, to the brain.  

Bruce had watched through a street camera, as Justice Lord Superman had stood over the prone form of Penguin, still twitching from the burn marks in his head, watching with something akin to pity.  Clark, no matter what universe, had never had a penchant for cruelty.  

Bruce wished he could say the same of himself.  

“Bruce,” Justice Lord Superman says through the comms.  “It’s me.  All the heavy hitters are neutralized.  We’re ready to move onto phase two.  I’m headed towards you.”

“Yes,” he replies, “I am ready for phase two.”

He flicks back the case for the switch, and without a second’s hesitation, pushes down.  

His Clark wouldn’t have caught the singular subject.   But this Superman, honed by paranoia, does, and his eyes narrow.  “Bruce,” he says tersely, “if you think you can pull some shenanigans - “

He doubles over, words choked off with a gasp, falling to his knees beside Penguin.  The muscles in his neck strain, and his eyes bulge, as he seizes against the floor.  

“Bruce,” he rasps, “Why?”

“Loose ends,” he replies honestly.  “Don’t worry, it’s not enough to kill you.”

 By the time the Justice League returns to earth as local police retrieved the now permanently incapacitated villains back to an Arkham that would actually function as a hospital, they had found a drooling Justice Lord Superman next to an equally drooling Penguin.

There had been much hand-wringing about the event in the League for months - all those poor villains, permanently brain damaged, consigned to spend the rest of their days in Arkham.

It had taken every drop of patience for Bruce not to roll his eyes when Green Lantern wanted to discuss what they could have done to prevent “such a senseless tragedy.”

Of course all of that was tangential now.  The true goal had been making Gotham safe for his family.        

Bruce hangs the length of tinsel on the tree as Jason holds up the other end.  Ever since the more flamboyant of Gotham’s criminal element had been cognitively subdued, the Red Hood, much like Batman, had been needed far less.  

It also helped that Dick needed him now more than ever.  

Between taking care of Dick and his role as the crime lord of the Narrows, Jason had worn himself ragged in the first six months of Dick’s diagnosis.  His second son had been stubborn about not moving back in, only agreeing to spend weekends at the manor and checking in through the week.  Bruce had even delayed his plan of releasing Justice Lord Superman to wear down Jason’s resolve faster.  

In the end, it was only after Dick had had his second grand mal seizure in a week that Jason decided to live at the manor full-time.  

“How is he?”  Bruce asks, placing the gold ornaments higher on the tree.

Jason takes a moment to think.  “Better.   He was talking about how difficult it is to patrol while studying for the SAT.  He’s excited about his junior prom.  He thought he was back in the 8th grade.  Kept asking me how I got so swole.”

Bruce chuckles.  “It’s part of the cognitive symptoms.  It helps having familiar faces around.”

Jason helps put up more tinsel, taking care to be meticulous with the decorations.  He knew Dick loved Christmas.  

“Will he…will he get better?  His cognitive issues, I mean?”  After Dick had progressed from using a cane to a walker to a wheelchair, Jason had long since given up any hope of Dick recovering his physical abilities.  

Bruce adjusts the ornaments on the tree minuscule , not meeting Jason’s eyes.  “MS is a progressive disease.  There are crises and periods of recovery.  You being here helps.  But Dick’s disease will progress.  The best we can do is give him the best life we can.”

Jason is silent as the finish decorating the tree, and with a rare tenderness, sets the angel on the summit of the Christmas tree.  

“Easy, Richard,” Damian murmurs, and he presses another spoonful of ice chips into Dick’s mouth.

Dick moans, eyes rolling, sweat glistening along his skin, a white-knuckled grip on the bed.

He grits his teeth, veins popping out.  “The methadone,” he hisses.

“It’s too early, we can’t’ - 

Dick twists a fist into Damian’s shirt.  “NOW.”

Damian’s face is downcast, and he gently pulls Dick’s fist out of his shirt.  “I’m sorry, Richard.  It’s too early.”

His brother’s face twists into something vicious.  An animal with its meat taken away.  

“Fuck!”  Dick screams; in one fast move, he sweeps the glass pitcher and cup off the nightstand, sending it shattering to the ground. With the hand that had been twisted in Damian’s shirt, he shoves him away - an impressive feat for a man who was bedridden.

Damian begins to gingerly pick up the shards of glass off the floor as Dick arches his back off the bed, a wretched scream ripping from his throat.

“GET OUT!!!” 

“I’m just picking up -”

“Get out of my fucking sight!”

Dick grabs the lamp on the other nightstand and hurls it towards him.

Damian moves at the last second, still crouched on the floor with the shards, and the lamp misses him narrowly, shattering upon impact, sending even more shards scattering the ground. 

Damian’s knuckle bleeds.   

“Okay Richard.”

Damian stands to exit the room.  He’s not worried about the remaining broken glass littering the floor.  Dick hadn’t been able to get himself out of bed for nearly a year.  Still, his nurse instructor had drummed it into him about not leaving patients - even bedridden ones - unattended with sharps, and he itched to go back inside.

Dick’s screams ring higher and higher as Damian walks the hall towards the kitchen before finally reaching a pitch and breaking off.  The sound of soft crying starts a few minutes later.  

Damian goes into the kitchen and grabs the pitcher from the counter.  

“How is he?”  Father asks from the table.

“As best as once can expect.”  Damian starts grabbing the supplies he needs from the utility closet near the pantry - plastic gloves, the dustbin and broom, rubber gloves, along with ibuprofen - not as strong as oxycodone certainly, but enough to take off the edge of the pain.  He unlocks the medicine cabinet as well and grabs the methadone - the minute it was time, he would administer it to Richard.

“I understand if you blame me.”

Damian pauses in his search in the medicine cabinet for the methadone. “I don’t.”

“I didn’t think Dick would ever…” he trails off.

There are many things Damian could say in response - that a third of MS patients become addicted to opiates, which Father with his medical degree should know, that it was illegal for patients to self-administer their own opiates, that it would’ve been of no trouble for father to simply hire a nurse from the beginning - 

But in the end, it all comes back to the same thing.

“I blame myself.”  

He heads towards Richard’s room, Father trailing behind him.  While he can take care of his brother by himself, he does appreciate Father’s help.  As they head toward Richard’s room, he remembers the first time he had found Richard, a few months after he had been prescribed Codeine for his muscle spasms. 

Richard was still able to use a walker at the time, and he had laughed when Damian told him about his desire to go to nursing school.

“Why not med school?”

What Richard had meant to say was,   nursing doesn't sound like Batman .  Batman was someone who excelled - aimed for the best, the leadership role.  Batman didn’t settle for nursing.

“I like caregiving,” Damian had replied truthfully, if incomplete.  Getting his CNA license he had been surprised how much he had enjoyed the course, and his rotations at the nursing home and hospice center.  “We need nurses just as much as doctors.”

Of course, what he didn’t include was that Richard was his Batman, and he wouldn't trust anyone else to look after him.  

Richard’s eyes had gotten that soft, sad look that he’d adopted more and more frequently.

“You know Dami, just because I’m trapped in this house doesn't mean you have to be trapped with me.”  

Damian instantly stiffens, and with more firmness than necessary, pulls Richard's hat over his ears.   

“Don’t think so highly of yourself.” 

Damian zips up Dick’s jacket.  “It was simply your good fortune that you managed to have the top graduate of Gotham’s CNA program as your caregiver.”

Richard laughs, open and warm.  He reaches for Damian’s arm, giving it a squeeze.  “Whatever you say, Dami.”  

Of course, what he had told Richard hadn’t been the complete truth.  Yes, Damian genuinely enjoyed being a caregiver - just as much as being Robin actually - he had always enjoyed caring for his pets, and caring for his family was a natural progression of that.  Medicine was an interesting subject to be sure, just as mathematics and other courses like astronomy, chemistry and theology - but there was a devotion to nursing that set it apart from the rest.  

And only Richard could make him choose between being Robin and being a caregiver.

He remembers those first early months of Richard’s diagnosis, how he had devoured every book he could get his hands on about MS and autoimmune disease, listening to podcasts, watching lectures on Youtube.  He went with Richard to every doctor’s appointment, every lab, every test, certain that they would find a way out of this thing - that they could make Richard Nightwing again.

But after six months with no remittance of the MS symptoms, and Richard progressing from using a cane to a walker, to occasional wheelchair use - every lab had said yes, Richard Grayson, extraordinary and special and singular - was also a typical MS patient who would continue to experience a progressively disabled life.

Damian had still not given up hope, until one day, Richard had called him from the bathroom.

“Damian, I need your help.”

“What’s up?”

“I’m -” Richard takes a deep breath.  “I’m stuck.  I can’t get off the toilet.”

Damian had paused, letting the words sink in - his brother’s embarrassment fills the phone.

“I’ll be right there.”

He heads downstairs towards the bathroom, and knocks.

“Come in.”

Richard is sitting on the toilet, pants around his ankle, his walker in front of him. 

Damian comes towards him, wrapping his arms around his middle to hoist him up .  “Hold on Richard, I’ll -” and as he pulls him up, realizes Richard had not been able to clean himself. 

Richard stiffens, and the embarrassment on his face worsens, if that was possible.  “I’m sorry I tried, I just  - I can’t reach anymore.”

“It’s okay, Richard.”

Damian cleans him up throughly.  Throughout it he notices a faint smell of urine coming from his clothes.  Richard had likely been dealing with this for some time without telling him.   

When he pulls Richard to right in his clothes, it’s when his brother starts crying.  It was the first time he had seen his brother cry.

The next day, when it’s time to report for Patrol, he heads down to the cave, still in his street clothes.  

“I’d like to hand in my resignation as Robin.”

Father doesn’t say anything for a moment, but he doesn’t look surprised either.

“What of Gotham?”

“My brother comes first.”

Father doesn’t say anything at first, but somehow, as much as he knew Father put Gotham ahead of his family, he knows Father is pleased by his response.

He enrolls in a CNA program the next day, and begins taking prerequisities for the registered nurse program.  Healthy or ill,  young or old, Richard was his Batman - and he’d remain by his side as whatever his brother needed him to be.

He graduates from the CNA program at the top of his class.

Mrs. Andrews begs him to stay on at the hospital.  “You’ve been one of the best students in years, Damian.  Are you sure I can’t convince you to stay here at Gotham general?”

Damian gives her a smile in response.  “Thanks Mrs. Andrews.  I’ve loved the program, but as the saying goes, charity starts at home.”

There are days he still misses being Robin of course.  The thrill of racing through the night skies, the triumph of taking down an opponent, the pursuit.  Caregiving didn't have the same thrill as Robin, not by a long shot.  But there was a deeper, stronger, more subtle joy that comes from just taking care of the one person he loved the most.  

He’s even more so impressed by his brother’s perseverance.  During this whole ordeal Richard had not complained once.  Dick had laughed when Damin told him he wanted to be his caregiver but he had seemed genuinely happy to see Damian by his side, even if he did have his black moods from time to time.  There were good days, bad days, but Dick, was well, Dick.  He always bounced back.

It hadn’t set off his internal alarm bells like it should, when Richard asked if Damian, instead of knocking on his doors at seven am, could instead come in at half past eight, a few weeks after being prescribed Oxycodone.  A young, newly disabled person with chronic pain was at high risk for addiction but Damian wasn’t worried.  Richard wasn’t an addict.  He was Nightwing.  If his brother wanted some private alone time in the morning, he wasn’t going to take away the last remaining dignity he had.  

If it had been another patient, anybody else, Damian would’ve figured it out immediately.  That’s what he told himself.  Justified himself.  

So when he had knocked on Richard’s door with no response and had entered to find him cool and unresponsive in his bed, the Oxycodone bottle next to him empty, the guilt wouldn’t eat him alive that he, Damian, had let this happen.

He had started CPRR immediately, screaming for Father to call 911, that he needed Naloxone - 

Jason, who had been visiting and had stayed overnight, had immediately sprung into action, grabbing the Naloxone out of his jeans of all things and administering it to Richard.  Never say it didn’t pay to have a drug lord in the family.

The doctor had congratulated Damian on his fast response.  “You did everything perfectly - CPR, Naloxone.  You’ve given him the best chance anyone could ask for.”

It was an opioid overdose.  Respiratory depression.  Richard hadn’t stopped breathing entirely but he had been hypoxic for at least twenty minutes.  He was placed in the ICU for five days before being moved to the psych unit to assess if he was a suicide risk.

But no, his brother wasn’t suicidal.  He, like so many other MS patients, had become addicted to opiates.  Bored, lonely, and in pain, stripped of what had given him meaning and joy in life, he had begun using opiates not only for pain relief, but to treat his depression as well.

The minute Father is granted access to his brother's hospital room, he immediately goes into Batman mode.  “How long has this been going on?”

Richard says nothing.

Father slams his fist down next to his bed.  “I’ve ordered a blood test.  I’ll find out eventually.  You may as well tell me now.”

Richard shifts side to side, expression belligerent, and for a moment Damian thinks Richard will answer back with his classic sassiness.  

Instead, Richard’s mouth trembles, and his shoulders sag.  “A few months.”

Father’s face, stony before, is a gargoyle now.  “Why?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

No Father, Damian thinks, you can’t understand.   Father still walked, still had the full use of his arms and legs - his bladder .  He couldn’t understand what Richard had lost - 

“Father - “

“ Leave .”

Father’s order cuts him to the quick with its coldness.  But the look of Richard’s brokenness bolsters him.

“Father,” he presses on, “you don’t understand, Richard’s situation - “

The force of Father’s backhand sends him sprawling to the floor.  

“Your hospital privileges are rescinded,”  Father says evenly, uncaring of the nurses and techs watching - he’d had Gotham General in his pocket for years, no one would report him - “if in the course of my investigation I find you supplied or were negligent in your duties, you will be banned from seeing him for a year.”

If I find you supplied him?  Father thought he gave Richard the drugs?  

Damian stumbles to his feet, he needs to get back up, needs to be with Richard -

The door to Richard’s room slams in his face.

And for the first time in years, Damian starts crying.

Pennyworth takes him home later - he knows in that paternal sense he had, that something has happened.  

He settles Damian in the sitting room with some tea, sitting across from him.

“Your Father,” he begins, “should not have hit you.”

Damian shrugs.  “He thinks I gave Richard the opiates.”

Pennyworth leans forward.  “He loves you.  And your brother.  Something like this…he’s not thinking straight.  It’s not something anyone could have predicted.  He’s scared about Master Richard, but that’s not an excuse.  You’ve been the best caregiver.  You’ve given up more than you should have.”

“I let him self-administer his painkillers.”

“No one, not even your father, would ever suspect that Master Richard would abuse opiates.”

Damian breaks free of Pennyworth’s grasp on his shoulder.  “No one?  Seriously?”  he snarls.  “He’s twenty-nine years old, can’t walk, can even go to the bathroom by himself!  He was Nightwing !  He was Batman !  And now he can’t even piss by himself.  And it didn’t occur to anyone Richard might get depressed, might start using the prescribed medication to self medicate?”  Tears are streaming down his face.

“My first patient, and I give him unrestricted access to opiates."  Damian holds his head in trembling hands. "He almost dies.  The state will take away my license for sure.”

 “Your father won’t let that happen.”

“He should.  I deserve it.”

“No you don’t.” Alfred responds sternly but kindly, taking him in his arms.  “You’ll see, everything will turn out the way it should.”

In the end, Father has his way, and Richard ends up telling him everything.  He had been self-medicating with opiates since he had gotten his hands on them, and as his tolerance had built to the euphoric and anesthetic effects he had steadily needed more and more.  The other side effects that the human body did not build a tolerance to - the CNS and respiratory depression - had led to his hypoxia.

When Damian finally works up the nerve to approach Father, it is with the dread of a sinner on judgment day. 

“My license hasn't been revoked.”  He says as way of greeting when he enters the cave.

“No.  It hasn't.” 

The tension in the cave rackets up a notch and Damian breaks into a sweat.

“Hard to believe the state is allowing me to keep my license.”

Again, Father says nothing and it's all Damian can do from pulling his hair out and screaming, I'm sorry. Okay? I'm so, so sorry. Please don't fire me. 

“Does this mean,”  his voice wavers, he's eight years old again and begging his mother not to kill the lion club he’d been nursing, “Does this mean, I have a chance?”

 The silence in the cave is gargantuan, terrifying and alien.  A Cyclops leering down to gobble him.   His heart flutters in his chest like a trapped bird - The cub is being speared  and Damian can't help him -

“You have one more chance.”

 Relief washes over him like Moses’s mother.  

“Thank you,” he says and starts crying.  He throws his arms around Father who is as stiff as stone.  “Oh thank you Father, thank you, thank you -”

“No more mistakes.” Father tells him, holding him apart.  “If Dick hadn't demanded you I wouldn’t be doing this.  He said if I didn’t let you continue being his caregiver he would leave the manor and move into a nursing home.”

Damian’s heart breaks at that.  Oh, Richard.   He nods viciously. “I promise, Father.”

Father holds him loosely by the shoulder and thumbs away his tears. It feels like grace after centuries of sin and he burrows further into Father’s embrace.

“I promise, Father,” he whispers.  “I won't let you down.”

True to his word, Damian does not let him down.

He throws himself into his nursing studies with a vigor that reminds Bruce of his first years as Batman.  Meticulous before he was obsessive now, watching and observing Dick’s every move - his eating habits, sleep, medications, bowel movements.  He even insists on installing cameras into Dick's bedroom and bathroom - to avoid any repeat fiascos - maintaining an hourly record of everything that happens.  Damian even sleeps in the same bedroom as Dick.  

 Despite Bruce's earlier misgivings, Damian was the perfect caregiver for Dick.  Out of all his sons he knew none would've been a better fit for this role than his youngest.  It warmed his heart with tenderness he hadn’t known he was capable of.  Dick was always the one who had brought out the best of them. 

Damian took over most of Alfred's duties except for meal prep. He was in charge of the night nurse, occupational therapist, and other staff as Dick needed.  After finishing his R.N. degree he had even had Json enrolled in a physical therapist program.  He had grudgingly admitted, “the brute has a talent for physicality.”

The one weekend a month Jason had spent patrolling the Narrows had now decreased to zero.  Jason had grumbled somewhat - he had eventually handed over the guardianship of the narrows to Roy, officially retiring from his duties as the Red Hood.  But Bruce had noticed, to his unremitting delight, Jason’s quiet joy from attending school again.

This is how it always should’ve been, he thinks, as he watched his sons around the table take turns feeding Dick.

Damian dabs gently at Dick’s mouth as they finish up.   Bruce doesn’t miss the way Tim casts a covetous eye towards them as he helps Alfred with the serving dishes.

“I can get him showered and ready for bed,” Jason tells Damian, “I know you’ve got work to catch up on.”

Damian nods in appreciation.  “Thank you Todd.”

There's a true sense of camaraderie between them now that had never been there before, Bruce notes, as they make their way with Dick, that had never existed when they were Red Hood and Robin.  Their shared concern for their brother had washed away their resentment.  Bruce watches with affectionate eyes as they take Dick upstairs.

It had been well-worth the risk, he reflects, to allow Dick to overdose on the opiates.

Bruce zooms in on the cameras he had clandestinely installed in Dick’s room, watching the gentle sway of Dick’s chest.  Dick had taken six of the Oxycodone tablets instead of two.  Bruce had been frustrated in the first month, as he watched Dick do his best not to abuse his narcotics, but Dick, like many sufferers of MS, driven by pain and loneliness, had eventually broken down by the end of the second month.  

He watches with something akin to a stockbroker watching the price of stock go down as Dick’s respirations go lower and lower - - going from sixteen, to twelve, to eight, then to six - until Bruce reminds Damian to go check on him 

The aftermath couldn’t have been more perfect.  

Dick had been placed in an involuntary hold while he was investigated for suicide risk.  Ashamed and traumatized, Dick hadn’t resisted when Wayne lawyer had put papers in front of him to sign - officially making Bruce his conservator.  

It had cemented Damian to him in a way that nothing else would, this close brush with death.  Bruce would know.  He remembered the first time he had tried - and failed - to save someone.  A little girl.  That was when he had become Batman truly - the taste of guilt, the terror of grief had been his initiation into his crusade.  It was the haunting fear of loss, that made Batman obsessed.  

Of course, if Damian ever found out the truth, Bruce knew he’d be in his grave before the day was out.  

“I’d like to hand in my resignation.”

Bruce is walking down the hall near Tim’s bedroom, when he hears him on the phone, and he stops in his tracks.

The door is halfway open; Tim has his back to the hall.    

“No, it’s not anything you’ve done.  I just have other priorities to consider.”

There’s talking from the other end of the phone, and Tim sighs.  “Bart, I understand.  The offer is generous. It’s just…I need to be with my brother.  My family.  I’ll be happy to help out from a consulting role, but…I can’t leave Gotham.  There’s too much I need to do here.”

There’s angry shouting from the other end of the line.  Bruce can’t make out everything that’s  being said, but the words, ‘just take him to a nursing home,’ are clear.  

Tim stiffens as if dunked in ice water.  He can see his fists flex, the knuckles white, and Bruce knows this is one of the few times that Tim is furious, livid with rage.  

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he says coldly.  

Tim hangs up on the call.  

Tim’s back is to the hall still stiff with rage, then sags.

“I know you’re there Bruce.”

Surprise runs through him.   When did Tim get this good?  He steps out from behind the door, and Tim gives him a small, sad smile.

“I’d ask how long you’ve been there but I know the answer is long enough.”

Bruce’s lips quirk up in the ghost of a smile.  “You know me well.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re pleased.”

The answer puts him off, uncomfortably.  He doesn’t like being read so easily.  “What makes you say that, son?

Tim gives him a bitter smile, not dissimilar to a terminal patient’s resigned greeting to the Reaper in the room.  His shoulders are slack in surrender, but his eyes are steely.

“All of us…here.” Tim waves a hand grandly gesturing to the house.  “It’s what you always wanted, isn’t it?”

“Never under these circumstances.” Bruce lies smoothly.  Unless it was the only way to keep you with me.  

Tim’s eyes grow stonier.  “And all of the rogues gallery - brain damaged and safely tucked away.  It’s all so…neat.”

Something cold enters his veins.  Bruce unclicks the small tranquilizer he keeps in his left pocket.

Of all his sons, Tim was the only one to inherit his cool, predatory brain. The mind that never stopped thinking, the constant and quiet suspicion.  Tim’s demureness made him forget about that side of him more often than he wanted to admit.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?”  Tim turns to face him, eyes sharp as barbed wire.  “The way Justice Lord Superman behaved?”

Bruce raises a brow.  “How so?”

“He had a golden opportunity to escape.  He knew the Justice League was off-world - why not free his comrades?  Why not go underground and bide his time to rally against the league?”

It was times like this Bruce knew that of all his sons, Tim was his truest heir.  Certainly, Dick was his sweetest son, but it was Tim who had inherited the most terrifying aspect of Batman - the hunter who never stopped hunting.  

The League had been obsessed with how Justice Lord Superman had escaped - so wrapped up in their all-powerful technology and trying to figure out what went wrong that they gave little thought to the why of Justice Lord Superman’s actions.  

“Who can say.” Bruce manages to reply.

“As it is, he can’t tell anyone.  Martian Manhunter can’t even read his mind.  How did that happen again?”  

This time Bruce doesn’t lower his gaze.  “A strong dose of Kryptonite had lodged in his cerebral blood vessels.  He had inhaled quite a bit - and in the strain of trying to escape his MCA artery thrombosed.  He had an aneurysm.”  

“Yes,” Tim murmurs.  “A plausible scenario.”  

“What are you trying to say, son?”  Bruce doesn’t bother trying to deny or argue - it would only twist him deeper in the quicksand of suspicion.  Easier to dismiss bold accusations than deny inconvenient facts.

Tim steps closer to him, coming within arms reach.  Deliberately making himself vulnerable.  A show of trust.  A ploy. 

“Gotham is safe.  The safest it’s been in decades.  Our family is together.  Whole, in a way I don’t think we’ve ever been.”

Tim reaches out for him, gently clasping Bruce’s wrist, entering the circle of his embrace.  Against his calloused skin, Tim’s fingers are as soft as a doe.  It’s a maddening mix - his Tim, so tender and cunning at once.

“I want you to know Dad….I understand.  I am always going to be on your side.  No matter what, I won’t abandon you.  Our family.”

An emotion overcomes him then so potent - like a tsunami against a sandcastle, a lightning strike in a century of darkness and he cradles Tim - his precious, loyal Tim, close to him.

He’s seized by a desire to tell Tim everything - the rogues, Dick, Justice Lord Superman and his heart throbs in his chest like a trapped bird.  

Surely Tim could be trusted, could help him, share his burden.

 As Bruce holds Tim closer he feels the softness of Tim’s cheek against his throat, smells the sweet baby powder scent in his hair.  Tim, even with his correct suspicion hadn't stopped Bruce, hadn’t conspired with his brothers, even though he could .

“I love Dick too, Dad.  I understand.” 

Bruce cards his fingers through Tim’s hair and holds him apart to look him in the face.

“Son,” he says softly, cradling Tim’s face in his hand, and makes his eyes their softest - a tenderness reserved for his children. “You're tired.  You just had a falling out with your friend.  I can understand your imagination getting the better of you.  But Dick already had  the MS1H2 gene.  His great- uncle had MS, along with several other members of his extended family.  As prepared as I am, I can’t alter someone’s genetic family history.  As far as Justice Lord Superman, I had already handed in my letter of resignation to the league months beforehand.  It was the day after I contacted Oracle and her team to transfer guardianship of Gotham to them.  Feel free to check the records of my correspondence.” 

Tim is looking at him now with a look he can't place, although there seems to be a tint of embarrassment, and with a surge of triumph, he sees the worm of uncertainty in Tim’s face.

The worst enemy of a thinker is over-thinking. 

“I am unbelievably proud of the way all four of you have banded together to be here for your brother.  But there is absolutely nothing that I wouldn’t trade to have Dick healthy again.  But I would rather have you all apart and healthy than to have you together under these circumstances.”

He presses a kiss to Tim’s temple.

In the coming days, Tim does follow-up on his claims -  which makes Bruce’s heart soar with a mix of pride and fury.  

 He gets the notifications as Tim diligently opens the communication logs on the Bat servers, looking through his emails as Bruce Wayne even, going through all of his communications with a fine toothed comb.  Indeed, Bruce had expressed his intent to step down from the League months before the Justice Lord incident, only a few weeks after Dick’s diagnosis coincidentally - and had contacted Oracle’s team to take over protecting Gotham.

He was glad, in retrospect, that he had covered his tracks - he had been on the verge of telling Tim everything, of coming clean.      

He leans back in his desk chair, pinching the bridge of his nose at the stupidity he had almost given in to.

“It’s alright Dickie, I got you.” Jason's voice wafts down the stairs.  Since his diagnosis, Dick had brought out the sweetest part of his children.  Jason’s voice hadn’t been so sweet since he had been eleven and Bruce showed him the library.  Dick’s overdose had engendered an unprecendented humility in Damian that Bruce shamelessly delighted in. 

His heart aches at the thought of soft, tender Tim growing out of his innocent, gossamer heart.  His robin-hearted boy with the crocodile brain.  Even with the way Bruce had covered his tracks, Tim still should’ve suspected.  Batman would.

“I care about Dick too.”  The words had stopped him dead in his tracks.

Like a flash of epiphany in the ignorance, Bruce sees what happens next.  

Tim would understand, be relieved even, if Bruce told him the truth.  He had always been the one to see to the end of the line.  Damian and Jason were two wild, young gods - too mercurial and impetuous to ever understand.  

But Tim was just as committed to the crusade as Bruce was.  Bruce could confide in Tim in his distressed moments - and Tim would reassure him - his cold, calculating Tim -  that of course all of this was necessary.

The only way their family could be restored, could be healed was through Dick - the one who brought out the best of them, made them kind, made them human - made them his children again.

Dick’s suffering was the crucible that made them a family again.  The passion of his agony washed away their grudges, their bitterness, their wayward ambitions.   Even Tim would admit his frozen heart was broken to love by Dick’s kindness.  

But that was the problem.

“I care about Dick too.”

Tim wouldn’t be satisfied with simply being let in on the secret.  Dick didn’t just bring out the sweetness in his other sons.  

He brought out their jealousy.

Bruce had seen the covetousness in Tim’s face when Dick had moved back into the manor, the tender thrill on his face whenever Dick leaned onto him, the poorly concealed envy when Damian or Jason would take over.  Tim, the only one of his sons to pursue him, who insisted and demanded to be made a Robin, whom Bruce had eventually capitulated to, would never be content with simply remaining his knight.  

He would be an aid at first, a balm, but he would eventually demand to have a say with Dick.  It had set furious fire to his heart, seeing the soft, tenderness in Tim’s eyes, “I care about Dick too.

It didn’t matter if Tim could help him, make things easier, because as much as Dick was a brother and a grandson - at the end of the day, Dick belonged to Bruce first.  

Dick was home because of Bruce.  And kept home because of him.   And while it was painstaking work having to covertly increase the viral load that Dick received in the IV treatments monthly, having to manage the right amount of symptoms and suffering, he would sooner be in his grave before sharing Dick. 

But, he muses, as he pulls a pair of blue vials from the miniature fridge hidden behind the painting of his family, if he had found a way to clip a robin’s wings, he could certainly find a way to skin a crocodile.