Summary

It gets worse before it gets better.

Chapter 3: (interlude)

The first few nights in the manor are a blur.

He remembers the first night. You always remember your first— He remembers Bruce’s burning hands on his, the wrench of his shoulders as he fell to his knees, and—

A blanket wrapped around him. A dark, quiet room. A gentle voice talking through his crying fit.

“Sleep well, Dick.”

It feels like a dream the next morning, when Jason nudges him awake and asks quietly what happened—but the blanket is still there. Dick is untouched, like he has been for the last year, and he has no idea why.

That scares him more than anything.

He won’t let Jason out of his sight—but no one seems interested in taking them out of the room, at least not for the first day, and after that it’s only the butler, Alfred, gently inviting them to family meals in the dining room. They don’t dare refuse—and Bruce is there—but he has other people with him. Cass is there, and Alfred, and others—Bruce introduces them to Tim and Duke, who are almost adults, and Damian, who looks too much like Bruce to be anything but his son. None of them quite fit Bruce’s tastes. Dick spends the whole meal tense, trying his best to keep Bruce’s attention off of Jason, bracing himself for a lewd comment or a threat or a summons to Bruce’s study after dinner—

It never comes.

Dick tucks Jason out of sight behind the bed with a book and watches the door. He paces the room. He picks up a fidget spinner. Wally had one like this—his was red and black and white—he said Dick could borrow it whenever he wanted, or they could get him one of his own—Dick puts the fidget spinner down. He paces the room, hears Bruce’s voice telling him sit still or I’ll break that leg, and freezes in the middle of the floor, terrified.

When night comes, he tucks Jason into bed. He hands Jason his book, tells him it’s okay, I had last night off, I can take him tonight, and he goes to Bruce’s room. He arranges himself on the bed, because he doesn’t know what else to do, and he waits, and waits, and waits.

Again, Bruce comes to him at the end of the night, when Dick’s arms are almost numb and he’s lost track of the hours. Again, Bruce stops in the doorway and says in a strained voice: No, Dick.

He keeps saying it, even as Dick goes to him, even as Dick offers himself willingly. No. No. No. I don’t want that. I don’t want that from either of you.

He keeps lying.

Dick wakes up next to Jason the next morning, untouched.

He learns a lot in the first few days. He learns that this Bruce Wayne has his own Dick Grayson. He learns that in this world Dick Grayson is an adult, which sends a dull pang of wonder through him. He didn’t think he would ever get that old. He certainly never thought he would get that tall. He learns that in this world he might have a chance. If he keeps Bruce happy, like the other Dick and Cass and Tim did, he might someday get to leave the manor. He might even get to move to another city, and only come back when Bruce calls him.

He learns what will happen if he doesn’t keep Bruce happy.

There are pictures of children in the hallway. Large formal portraits in ornate frames, with smaller photographs in between. They form a loose timeline as Dick walks from the dining room to the bedrooms. He sees pictures of a small child Bruce with adults that must be his parents—then Bruce and Alfred together, and then his own nine-year-old face grinning back at him. He sees another version of himself, one that smiles and flips through the air in a gymnasium. He sees that version grow up, graduate high school, go to college—and then Jason appears. He doesn’t smile as much, but Dick sees him in the kitchen with Alfred, curled up in an armchair with a book, skiing in the mountains with the older Dick. It’s like a window into another life—the happy, contented life that Bruce always lied and told people Dick had. Looking at the photos, Dick almost believes it. Then he reaches the next family portrait.

Jason is gone, replaced by a young Tim.

Jason never reappears. More children come after him—Cass and Stephanie and Damian, others that Dick doesn’t recognize, and Duke near the end. But Jason is gone. Too young to have graduated high school, he disappears from the record without a trace.

No one talks about it. Dick sits at the dinner table, his feet pressed to the floor, eating food he doesn’t taste and answering when Bruce and Tim and Duke ask him questions. No one talks about Jason—even as they all stare at his Jason, as they ask him questions and invite him to play games or watch movies. No one talks about the child who failed so badly that Bruce got rid of him.

What happened, Dick wants to ask, wants to beg them, please just tell me what happened so I can avoid it. So I can keep him safe. He waits, with terror in his chest, for Bruce to beckon Jason away from the dinner table. If what Bruce really wants is a replacement for his Jason, the choice is obvious. Dick won’t be able to stop him.

He tucks Jason into bed with his book and his stuffed fox. Tells him stay here, I’ll go, I’ve got it—

He wants me, Jason says, more stubborn after a few days of food and sleep. What if you go and he gets mad—

He won’t, Dick tells him, and prays it’s the truth. I’ll be fine.

But offering himself to Bruce didn’t work. Waiting in Bruce’s bed didn’t work. He has to try something else.

He goes to Bruce’s study.

He used to avoid the study. In the old manor the study meant one of two things: Bruce wanted stress relief, or he wanted Robin. Sometimes he wanted both. Even standing outside the ornate door sends a shudder up Dick’s spine. He doesn’t—he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want Bruce to bend him over the desk and—he doesn’t want to be Robin, and he thought he might not have to, since this Bruce has Tim and Duke and—he’s going to do it anyway. He’s going to open the door, and go inside, and do whatever it takes to make Bruce happy. He has to. For Jason. He has to.

Tim finds him standing outside the door.

Oh, hey. Are you looking for Bruce?

Dick says something like yes and Tim opens the door and leads him in—to an empty study. He’s in the Cave, Tim says, and opens the clock door. Like it’s nothing. Like Bruce isn’t waiting at the bottom of the stairs to drag them into some twisted game. Dick wonders distantly how close Tim is to graduating and getting out—if he’ll get territorial, when Bruce finally breaks Dick in, or if he’ll be glad for the time off.

The Cave is just as cold, just as foreboding as Dick remembers. Bruce is there, already in the batsuit, sitting at the computer. His cowl is pulled back, his face uncovered. That should make it easier. Cass is there too, running through a series of stretches on the tumbling mats in the corner. She looks up, sees him, waves. Dick looks back, and for a second he lets himself hesitate.

Tim is here. Maybe he can wait. Maybe he can go to Cass instead and let her—

He feels Bruce’s gaze on him. He feels himself start to drift, and he turns, movements fluid, his stance loose and relaxed. He doesn’t smile. Smiling hasn’t worked so far, and—he can do this another way.

He was looking for you, Tim is saying, somewhere far away, and I thought it would be okay, since he already knows—

Dick presses his toes against the floor to keep himself present. He can’t slip away yet. He needs to focus. He needs to move.

Waiting in Bruce’s bed didn’t work. Waiting will not work—not when Bruce has so many other children to indulge himself with before he ever reaches the bedroom. If Dick wants to keep his attention—if Dick wants to earn his favor—he has to take the initiative. He can do that. He can do anything.

Dick?

Bruce is standing in front of him now. He’s relaxed, his arms at his sides, his hands empty. Dick keeps his eyes on the bat symbol. If he tries to look at Bruce’s face now, Bruce will notice. He can’t risk that. Is something wrong?

Dick sways forward and rests his forehead against Bruce’s armored chest.

I missed you, he murmurs. He forces all the tension out of his shoulders. He forces himself to breathe deep and slow. I… I want you. There’s no one else…

He feels Bruce inhale. Then a gloved hand lowers against the back of his head, and an arm wraps around his shoulders, holding him in place. Dick’s stomach drops, even as a corner of his brain registers that it’s working. This is it. He takes a shallow breath.

The hand slides through his hair. It’s—gentle. Maybe this Bruce doesn’t like to pull hair so much, or maybe he’s still lying. There’s only one way to find out.

Dick lifts his head, pushes up onto his toes, and kisses Bruce on the mouth.

Bruce’s lips are dry. Chapped. He doesn’t reciprocate, but that’s okay, Dick can work with that. He pushes his tongue out, against Bruce’s lips, and makes an eager noise. His hands come up—

“Stop!”

Pain jabs through his arms. Dick is on the ground. Bruce looms over him, massive and dark, a figure straight out of Dick’s nightmares. No, Bruce says. No, Dick, I don’t want that, but they’re in the Cave, and—and Dick did something wrong. He doesn’t know what, but he must have—he did something wrong, and Bruce is angry, and now—

Bruce will punish him. Maybe he’ll fuck him after, maybe he won’t, but either way—Dick did something wrong. Tim and Cass are here. Bruce is going to make an example of him.

Broad hands reach for him and Dick jerks back, but that’s wrong—that’s wrong—he’s not supposed to flinch, he’s not supposed to be scared, he’s supposed to be grateful he’s supposed to be good and Bruce is reaching for him and it’s going to hurt so much—

Begging for mercy won’t help.

Dick begs anyway.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t, I, I’m not scared, please, I’ll do anything—anything you want—I’ll be good—I know—please, dadd—Bruce, I mean Bruce, I’m sorry, please, please—”

Bruce’s voice thunders in his ears. The whole world goes fuzzy and distant. He loses himself on the floor of the Batcave.

There are hands on his

and voices

grabbing at his shoulders

and none of it is real. Nothing can reach him. Not the voices, not the hands, nothing.

⁂

He comes back to a couch.

Warmth. Light. A fire, flickering behind a screen. A blanket tucked around his shoulders.

A soft voice, with a conspicuous accent, droning in the background.

“…the storm grew higher and louder, and the wind cried and sobbed like a child in the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the fireplace cross-indexing his records of crime, while I at the other was deep in one of Clark Russell’s fine sea-stories…”

Dick blinks. He draws in a sharp breath, and the voice stops.

“Master Richard?”

He turns his head. He sees Alfred, sitting in an armchair, holding a book. “Do you know where you are?”

“Yes,” Dick says. He can feel his limbs again. Nothing hurts—except for his hands. His hands hurt. He must have scraped his palms on the floor when Bruce—

“Bruce,” he gasps.

“Master Bruce is not here,” Alfred says. His voice is calm. “He has gone out for the night. He will not be back until morning.”

Dick takes a deep breath. His eyes dart to the corners, the shadows, looking for Bruce, but the room is small and well lit and there’s no sign of him. That’s—fine. That’s fine. That gives him time to pull himself together so he can fix this.

“What about Jason,” he says. If Bruce isn’t here then Jason should be—but Dick left him alone, and he doesn’t know how long it’s been, and—

“He is asleep in his bed,” Alfred says. “You are welcome to join him, when you feel ready to move.”

Dick should be ready to move. He’s always ready to move on command, whenever Bruce wants him—

But Bruce is gone. And this manor is different. This manor has Alfred, who only looks at him with kind eyes.

“What happened?” Dick says. He doesn’t have to move yet, but he wants to know. Why didn’t Bruce punish me. What is he waiting for. What did I do wrong.

“You entered a dissociative state,” Alfred says. “Master Bruce asked me to stay with you. He could not delay his departure any longer, and he feared you would not be safe if left alone. That was about two hours ago.”

Alfred is good at talking around Batman, avoiding any mention of Bruce’s nightly activities, without ever outright lying. Dick wonders what else he avoids talking about.

“He didn’t punish me.”

“No,” Alfred says. His voice is soft, and still perfectly even. “When you began dissociating, he was quite distraught. I believe he was more concerned with your safety than correcting your behavior.”

That doesn’t sound like Bruce at all. He never gave a shit how Dick felt, as long as he acted right, but—it strikes Dick that he’s been assuming this Bruce functions like the old one did. That he likes the same things and reacts in the same ways. That he’ll just beat the right behavior into Dick and Jason. Maybe that’s wrong. Maybe this Bruce takes better care of his toys. If he wants them to be more confident, like his other children, then—that’s—

Dick can do that. Dick can do anything. If Bruce would just tell him what he wants.

“Do you believe,” Alfred says, “that you did something worthy of punishment?”

Dick doesn’t know what to say to that.

“I… did something wrong.” Of course Bruce will punish him. He messed up, in the Cave, he took too much initiative or he wasn’t eager enough or he moved his hands wrong, so now Bruce will punish him. That’s how it always goes. “He didn’t want me. I—I made him angry.”

He wonders distantly if Cass and Tim intervened. Maybe they convinced Bruce to postpone the punishment until Dick could actually feel it. He’s not sure if that counts as kindness.

“I assure you, his anger was not directed at you,” Alfred says. Dick wonders if he took it out on someone else instead. Cass and Tim were right there. “You will not be a target of it. The only thing Master Bruce wants from you—or from young Master Jason—is for you to be safe, well, and happy.”

More lies. Dick has never been safe, and he never will be safe. No matter how kind Alfred’s eyes are. No matter how gently Alfred takes his arm and guides him up the stairs.

“Sleep well, Master Richard.”

When Dick lies down, Jason rolls over and presses up against him, whispering it’s okay, it’s over, in a sleepy voice. Dick holds him tight. He tucks his head down, his nose in Jason’s soft curly hair, like maybe if he folds the two of them up tight enough they can disappear.

He wishes, suddenly, desperately, that they could disappear.

“Hey,” Jason murmurs, his voice muffled against Dick’s chest. “Wait—” He rolls over again and reaches under the headboard, between the mattress and the wall, to pull something out. “I hid Zitka for you,” he whispers, and pushes the stuffed elephant toward Dick.

A sob rises in his throat, and Dick doesn’t have the energy to hold it back. He curls tighter around Jason. Jason hugs him back, and Dick cries for this small, sweet child, trapped here because Dick was stupid enough to think he could escape. About to be hurt, because Dick keeps failing.

I’m sorry, he says, between sobs, trying to muffle his voice with the blanket. All he’s good for now is crying. Jason hugs him and pets his hair, trying to soothe him, and Dick doesn’t deserve it, but he can’t make himself pull away. I’m sorry, he says. I’m sorry.

It’s okay, Jason whispers. Dick wishes he could believe it.

⁂