Chapter Text
The engine sputtered before it caught.
Dick’s hand was shaking hard enough that the key rattled against the ignition, metal clicking sharp in the quiet drive.
He swore under his breath and twisted again, jaw tight, breath coming shallow. The car lurched to life with a rough, uneven growl, and he sagged forward, forehead dropping to the steering wheel.
The vibration hummed up through his arms, steady and grounding. He breathed with it. In. Out. In.
It was always the same.
Bruce would swear it was different this time—say he’d learned, say he understood, say he trusted Dick. And then something would happen, some decision would be made without him, and suddenly Dick was fourteen again, standing in the cave with his chest cracked open and his voice shaking while Bruce looked at him like a problem to be solved.
They’d screamed this time.
They hadn't done that for a few months now. It was a sad number in the first place, a sad fact that a few months counted as progress.
Fuck it all.
He squeezed his eyes shut, shoulders hunched, and stayed there longer than he should have. Long enough for the ache behind his ribs to dull into something manageable, long enough to convince himself he was fine. He could do this.
When he finally looked up, there was a shape in the manor window that hadn’t been there a moment ago.
Alfred stood just inside the glass, perfectly straight, hands folded around a cotton-woven bag, no doubt holding ready-made meals. He didn’t frown, nor glare, or even just stare expectantly. He simply waited, eyes soft and unbearably kind.
Dick’s throat closed.
He shoved the door open before he could think better of it, the cool night air biting at his face as he crossed the drive. Alfred was already opening the door by the time Dick reached the steps, as if he’d known he would come back.
“Alfred,” Dick said, voice rough. He tried for a smile and almost succeeded.
“Master Dick,” Alfred replied, warm as ever. “I had a feeling you might leave in a hurry.”
He offered the bag. It was heavier than it looked.
Dick stared at it for half a second too long. His chest ached with something sharp and humiliating, and for one awful moment he thought he might actually cry right there on the front steps like a kid.
“You didn’t have to,” he said instead.
Alfred’s mouth twitched. “Nonsense. I would hate for you to be without proper meals for the week. Heaven knows you’ll forget otherwise.”
Dick huffed a weak laugh. “I don’t forget.”
“You absolutely do,” Alfred said gently, and pressed the bag into his hands before Dick could argue.
The smell hit him then—rosemary, garlic, something rich and familiar. Home, in a way that hurt. His fingers curled around the handles, knuckles whitening.
“Thank you,” Dick said, quieter.
Alfred inclined his head. “Of course.”
They stood there, the night stretching awkwardly between them. Dick was acutely aware of the raised voices still echoing in his skull, of words said that couldn’t be taken back. He wondered how much Alfred had heard. He wondered if Bruce was still standing exactly where Dick had left him.
Alfred didn’t ask.
Instead, he said, “You are always welcome here.”
Dick swallowed. “I know.”
“Even when things are… difficult.”
Dick’s grip tightened on the bag. “Yeah.”
Alfred hesitated, just a fraction, then stepped closer and straightened Dick’s collar with practiced ease. The touch was familiar, devastating.
“Do not be a stranger,” Alfred said softly.
Dick nodded, because if he spoke, his voice would give him away. He managed a crooked smile, the kind that usually worked, and took a step back.
“I won’t,” he lied.
Alfred watched him go, a quiet presence in the doorway, until Dick turned and headed back toward the car. He didn’t look back again. He couldn’t.
The drive away from the manor was smooth, empty road stretching out ahead of him. Dick set the bag carefully in the passenger seat, buckling it in on reflex before he could stop himself. The engine’s hum filled the silence again, steady and forgiving.
Bittersweet settled heavy in his chest.
Dick would cool off. He always did. They’d circle back, dance around the same wounds, pretend this time was different. Dick would show up when he was needed. He always did.
He flexed his fingers on the steering wheel, forcing the tremor to still, and pulled onto the road.
Tomorrow, someone would call. Tomorrow, someone would need him.
Tonight, he drove alone, carrying a week’s worth of meals and the familiar weight of knowing exactly where he stood.
Dick had just gotten home from a long shift at the gym when he ran headfirst into the problem.
It had actually been a productive day, all things considered. (Not a good day. a productive one. He knew better than to test Gotham's luck.) He’d corrected a kid’s landing, hadn’t dropped anyone during assisted flips, and his regulars had all progressed to the next level beautifully. He’d spent an extra hour after closing on the bars, hands chalked, skin burning pleasantly as muscle memory took over. There was something soothing about repetition—swing, release, catch—that didn’t require him to think.
That almost made up for the rest of it.
Almost.
Subtract the fact that he hadn’t slept properly since the fight. A week, maybe a little more—time had started slipping sideways on him. Every night ended the same way: staring at the ceiling, replaying Bruce’s voice at full volume, cataloguing everything he could have said differently. Every morning started with the dull, sour ache of exhaustion settling into his bones.
Subtract the two students who’d quit that afternoon, both with awkward apologies and explaining the lack of funds. Dick told himself it wasn’t personal. Bruce would’ve called that sentimental.
Subtract the way his shoulder throbbed dully under his jacket, a reminder of a patrol that had gone wrong three nights ago. A bad landing. A moment of hesitation. He could already hear Bruce’s voice for that one too—sloppy, distracted, you need to focus—even though Bruce hadn’t said a word.
But still.
Still, Dick felt looser than he had all week. Sweat clung to him, muscles pleasantly sore, the sharp edges of his thoughts sanded down by hours of movement. He let himself believe—just for the length of the walk from the elevator to his apartment door—that he might shower, collapse into bed, and finally, finally sleep.
He unlocked the door.
And found Damian Wayne standing in his living room.
Damian was very still, feet planted too carefully on the rug, posture rigid in a way that screamed uncomfortable more than menacing. A backpack hung off one shoulder, strap twisted in his grip like he’d been fidgeting with it for a while. His expression was tight, jaw set, eyes sharp and watchful in the way of someone bracing for impact.
Dick stopped short in the doorway.
For half a second, they just stared at each other.
“Hey,” Dick said finally, because that was what he always said, and because his brain hadn’t caught up to the situation yet. He shut the door behind him, the click of the lock echoing too loudly in the apartment. “Uh. Dami."
Damian’s gaze flicked over him, quick and assessing. Sweat-darkened shirt. Gym bag slung over one shoulder. The faint wince Dick failed to suppress when he shifted his weight.
“Richard,” Damian said. He sounded stiff. Formal. Upset.
Right. Okay.
Dick set his bag down slowly, deliberately, like sudden movements might spook him. He rolled his shoulder without thinking and immediately regretted it. A sharp pulse of pain shot down his arm, and he bit it back with a breath through his nose.
“Didn’t know you were coming by,” he said lightly. “You could’ve texted. You ever hear of knocking?”
Damian scowled. “You gave me a key.”
“Yeah, but—” Dick gestured vaguely. “Dramatic entrance loses its flair if you do it every time.”
Damian said nothing.
That, more than anything else, set Dick’s internal alarms ringing.
He straightened, smoothing his expression into something easy and familiar. Big brother mode clicked into place as naturally as breathing. He’d had years of practice. “What’s up? You wanna talk about it?”
He didn’t really expect an answer. Damian usually needed prompting, space, time to pace the edges of his own emotions before he’d let anyone close.
So when Damian shook his head, short and sharp, Dick felt a flash of guilty relief he hated himself for.
“No,” Damian said. His fingers tightened on the backpack strap. Loosened. Tightened again. “I do not.”
(This was usually when Dick prodded.)
Okay. Good. That was—manageable. Talking required energy he wasn’t sure he had tonight.
Damian shifted his weight, eyes dropping to the floor for just a second before flicking back up. He didn’t move toward the couch. He didn’t move toward the door. He hovered, caught in the in-between, fiddling with the strap like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands.
Ah.
Right.
Dick exhaled slowly through his nose. Traditionally, a Damian-in-a-bad-mood visit followed a script. Takeout from the place with the too-greasy fries Damian secretly loved. Damian picked the movie—usually something violent or aggressively educational. They’d sit side by side, not touching, not talking, the tension slowly bleeding out of Damian’s shoulders until he fell asleep halfway through.
Dick loved those nights.
Tonight, all he wanted was a shower hot enough to scald and the sweet, merciful blankness of unconsciousness. His shoulder ached. His head throbbed. The idea of staying upright for another hour made something inside him sag.
He looked at Damian again.
At the way his mouth was set too tight. At the way he kept his back straight like he was bracing for a hit. At the backpack he hadn’t taken off.
Damian needed him.
The thought cut cleanly through Dick’s fatigue, sharp and absolute. It always did.
“Okay,” Dick said, gentle but decisive. “You hungry?”
Damian hesitated. Nodded once.
“Cool,” Dick said. He forced a smile that pulled a little too hard at the edges. “Let me guess. You want takeout.”
Damian’s eyes flickered; hope, quickly masked. “If you are not… opposed.”
Opposed. God.
Dick turned toward the kitchen, already pulling his phone from his pocket. His shoulder protested, a deep, grinding ache that made his vision blur for a split second. He ignored it. He always did.
“Pizza or Thai?” he asked over his shoulder. “Or we can do burgers if you’re feeling wild.”
Damian considered this with the gravity of a life-or-death decision. “Thai,” he said finally. “And I choose the film.”
“Obviously.”
Dick set his phone on the counter and leaned back against it, letting the cool edge dig into his spine. He rolled his neck once, twice, trying to shake loose the tension crawling up it.
He could rest later.
After Damian ate. After Damian slept. After Damian was okay again.
That was the deal, wasn’t it?
Dick would be damned if he fell short now. He was trying, really trying, to not mess up again, like he had before with Jason and Tim.
They ended up on a bird documentary.
Dick wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened. One minute Damian had been scrolling with intense focus, vetoing everything Dick suggested on principle, and the next there were sweeping shots of cliffs and ocean spray filling the screen, a calm narrator talking about migration patterns in a low, reverent voice.
Damian approved immediately.
“This one,” he’d said, remote clutched in both hands like a weapon. “Birds are… acceptable.”
Dick hadn’t argued.
The lights were off now, the apartment lit only by the soft blue glow of the television and the city leaking in through the windows. Takeout cartons sat half-forgotten on the coffee table, steam long gone. Dick had slumped into the couch, exhaustion finally catching up to him in the form of a heavy, bone-deep ache.
At some point—so gradual Dick couldn’t have marked the exact moment—Damian shifted.
It started with a careful inch closer. Then another. A hesitant lean that stiffened when Damian realized what he was doing. Dick kept his eyes on the screen, deliberately relaxed his posture, made himself a warm, unmoving thing.
Minutes passed.
Damian curled into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Dick felt it like a punch to the chest.
Damian tucked his head just under Dick’s shoulder, knees drawn up, small hands fisting in the fabric of Dick’s hoodie. His breathing evened out, the sharp edges of his posture smoothing away until he looked—God—peaceful. Younger. Smaller than Dick ever let himself think about.
He was still so tiny.
Dick swallowed hard, careful not to shift too much. His arm hovered awkwardly for a second before settling around Damian’s shoulders, light and loose, a promise rather than a cage. Damian didn’t flinch. He sighed, barely audible, and pressed closer.
On the screen, a flock of birds lifted as one, wings beating in perfect synchrony.
Dick’s chest ached.
He’d watched three of his brothers do this now. Curl into him when the world got too loud, too sharp. Jason, stiff and angry, pretending he wasn’t clinging. Tim, exhausted, leaning in without even realizing. Damian, guarded and proud, allowing himself this small, private softness.
Three times, Dick had been the place they landed.
He stared at the screen without really seeing it, heart pounding quietly in his throat.
“You know,” he murmured, voice low so it wouldn’t break the moment, “you remind me of me. When I was your age.”
Damian shifted, the tiniest frown creasing his brow. “That is… statistically unlikely.”
Dick huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah, well. Humor me.”
“You all remind me of me,” Dick added after a moment. “All of you. But you especially.”
The narrator droned on about nesting habits and survival instincts. Dick watched a bird settle carefully among the rocks, wings folding tight to its body.
“I used to pretend I didn’t need anyone,” Dick continued, barely above a whisper. “Thought if I stayed sharp enough, strong enough, I’d be fine on my own.”
Damian was quiet. Listening, even if he pretended not to be.
Damian didn’t pull away.
Instead, his fingers tightened briefly in Dick’s sleeve, like he was anchoring himself there.
Dick let his head tip back against the couch, eyes burning, and focused on the steady rise and fall of Damian’s breathing. He stayed still, stayed present, stayed exactly what Damian needed—holding a boy who was far too young to carry the weight he’d been given.
And if his shoulder screamed, if his exhaustion pressed heavier with every passing minute, Dick ignored it.
This, he told himself, mattered more.
He would hold the line.
He always did.