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This isn’t Dick’s first rodeo when it comes to truth serum. It’s a favorite of Poison Ivy’s when she’s feeling spunky, and Dick has put the Titans through rigorous training for keeping psychic villains from prying out their deepest, darkest secrets like strings of pearls. Dick knows all the tricks.
That doesn’t make it any less annoying, though.
“I wasn’t expecting you boys back for another hour,” Alfred says when Batman and Nightwing return to the cave. Despite that, he still somehow has a tray of their post-patrol smoothies ready and chilled. “How was patrol?”
“Fucking awful,” Dick replies, peeling off his mask. “A gang of amateurs got the drop on me when I was distracted, and Batman had to come bail me out like some helpless kid. It was a goddamn nightmare. I wanted to crawl into a hole and die.”
“Master Nightwing,” Alfred admonishes, shocked at the language, “don’t you dare speak about yourself like that. What’s gotten into you?”
“He can’t help it,” Bruce sighs. He’s already got his cowl and gloves off. He goes to the computer to pull up his compendium of known toxins and their listed side effects. “Truth serum.”
“Ah.” Alfred nods in perfect understanding. Again: not their first rodeo.
It would be different if Dick were still Robin; it’s understandable for a little kid to make mistakes, but Dick is an adult. He’s supposed to be an independent hero, and yet every time things go south, it’s Batman who gets dragged in to rescue his incompetent son.
Still, better that it’s Dick who gets into danger rather than one of the others. He’s more seasoned than they are. Tougher. He can take it.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t give away any world-shattering secrets,” Dick says. “I talked the guys’ ears off about all of my favorite foods, songs, and colors until B showed. Glad to be back home, though. Have I ever mentioned how much I like it down here? When I was little, I used to sneak downstairs and sleep in the big chair because it felt like the safest place in the world.”
He can’t stop himself, no matter how embarrassing the truth is. He’s like a train without brakes, barreling on and on with no filter. Dick tried holding back the word-vomit on the ride over, but it’s like holding in a cough during allergy season. The longer he resists, the more pressing the urge becomes. He’s never felt so out of control in his life—an agonizing affliction for someone like Dick, who would rather tear his own skin off than not be in control of his own body. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s had that control stripped away from him, and it never ends well.
If Dick were a more honest person, perhaps it would be easier to bear the effects. Maybe he wouldn’t even notice the truth serum was there. But he’s spent his whole life lying about his alter-ego, about his personal life, about his love life. Dick Grayson is a liar. In the circus, they called it performing. It comes as naturally to him as breathing to claim he’s fine when he’s not fine, to make up an excuse instead of telling a civilian friend that he can’t go to their dinner party because he has to go fight freaks dressed in colorful costumes all night.
“Go on,” Bruce says with a hand at Dick’s back. “Shower, then come back so I can take a blood sample.”
By the time the others return from patrol later, Dick has been yapping for twenty minutes about his favorite TV show in extensive detail. Damian heads straight for the locker room while Cass and Jason hang back. “Heard you got a case of the truthies,” Jason says with a devious sparkle in his eye.
“Yes,” Dick answers against his will.
“It’s going to take at least a day to work through his system,” Bruce explains. “Please at least attempt to exercise some restraint and avoid asking him any questions for the time being. It’s not fair when he can’t fully consent to answering.” Thankfully for Dick, Bruce knows his children well enough by now to gauge who will be a problem while they wait for the effects to wear off.
“Screw that,” Jason says. “Hey, ‘Wing, when’s the last time you peed your pants?”
Dick clenches his jaw so hard he can feel his teeth creak, but he can’t stop the answer from slipping out unimpeded. “When I was seventeen and I got electrocuted as Robin by the Electrocutioner.”
“Ha! This is the best day of my life.”
“You’re an asshole,” Dick snaps. He starts to get up from the medical cot, but Cass—bless her heart—punches Jason in the arm for him. Of course fate would pull the strings so that this happened on a weekend when everyone is home. As if it weren’t already humiliating without the audience.
“Cut it out,” Cass orders. “Not fair.”
“I love you, Cassie.” Cass beams at Dick’s honesty and pats his shoulder as she heads off to get ready for bed.
“She’s right,” Bruce tells Jason with a disapproving glare. “It’s not fair.”
“Oh, please, like he wouldn’t be doing the same exact thing if it were me.”
“I would,” Dick admits with a shrug. Doesn’t make Jason any less of an asshole, though, and he will die on that hill.
“Go get changed out and leave him alone, Jay.” Jason obeys with an eyeroll. Bruce shakes his head exasperatedly and faces Dick again. “You were saying about the season four finale?”
Dick launches right back into it while Bruce tests him for any side effects of the serum. Apart from a slight headache and the ongoing mortification, Dick is okay. “It’s probably best that you stay here tonight so we can keep an eye on you,” Bruce says, “just in case.” Dick figured as much.
Damian returns before long, now wearing his pajamas. He doesn’t ask about the nonstop talking, so one of the others must have already informed him about Dick’s…predicament. “It could be worse, Richard. Be grateful it wasn’t cuddle pollen.” He wrinkles his nose in distaste.
“Speak for yourself. I’d take cuddle pollen over this stuff in a heartbeat. I’ll never forget the first time I got whammied by Ivy, and I had to sleep in Alfred’s bed for two days because I couldn’t be left alone or else I started crying.” Dick smiles to himself at the memory. “Best two days ever. He was really bony, but so warm.”
It was only a year or so into Dick being Robin, but he already loved Bruce like a second father. He wasn’t stupid, however; he knew Bruce didn’t feel the same way. So, he went with the safer option and clung to Alfred for those two days while they waited for the pollen to wear off. Batman patrolled those two nights alone.
Damian perches on the cot next to Dick and keeps him company through the rest of Bruce’s exam, which is touching. Or, possibly, he’s simply hovering to get first dibs on any dirt Dick manages to spill. It could go either way.
“How about any other injuries?” Bruce asks when he’s finished. “They had you for a few hours.”
“My shoulder hurts from being tied up,” Dick confesses easily. “I have bruises from the fight that shouldn’t be too bad, but they hit me hard when they knocked me out so you should probably check for a concussion. Also, I stubbed my toe on a chair leg this morning.”
Bruce’s eyebrows raise. “That’s…helpful, thank you.”
Damian shakes with silent laughter. “I think this might be the only time in your life you’ve been honest about your injuries.”
Dick snorts. “You’re one to talk, squirt. You lie about getting hurt just as much as the rest of us.” Without meaning to, he follows with, “I’m the one who covered for you when you snuck out on a Titans mission last month with that sprained ankle.” He slaps a hand over his mouth.
Bruce wheels on Damian. “You told me you were at a sleepover at Jon’s house.”
“I don’t know what he’s talking about!”
Bruce exhales harshly through his nose, but he lets it go for now, too much on his plate already tonight. “We will be discussing this later.”
Alfred arrives conveniently with their late dinner—salad wraps tonight. Dick blurts out, “I really don’t like your caesar dressing, it’s always too salty.” He’d slap himself if the action wouldn’t raise instant concern in everyone around him. “Shit—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I love you and I appreciate your cooking, Alf. You’re my favorite person in the world. I’d die for you if I could.”
Alfred’s eyes crinkle in amusement. He cups the side of Dick’s face in a warm palm. “Thank you. I will add less salt from now on.”
Dick’s cheeks are flaming. “I’m sorry. I hate this. I hate—” He winces, balling his fist against his mouth. He thought nothing could top that time when he was a teenager and he accidentally came out as bisexual to Bruce after wisdom teeth surgery.
After he’s sure nothing else damning will come out, Dick removes his hand from his mouth. “I’m going to bed,” he mutters. At least he won’t be able to spill all of his closely guarded secrets while he’s unconscious.
He hears small footsteps start behind him that are immediately halted. “Give him some space,” he hears Bruce say.
Breakfast is a quiet affair on Dick’s side of the table. He does his best to ignore the conversations happening around him to avoid an involuntary response. He doesn’t feel any different yet compared to last night, so clearly the serum is taking its time leaving his bloodstream.
“Dick, can you pass the ketchup?” Tim asks. The fact that his breakfast consists of a bowl of oatmeal and a grapefruit, neither of which goes with ketchup, makes Dick’s stomach turn.
“Yes.” Dick passes it over. “Your breakfast makes me want to throw up.”
Tim frowns at the stiff response. Tim wasn’t with them last night; he’s been laid up with a fever for the past week. Apparently no one thought ahead to warn him of Dick’s condition. “Ouch. Why are you being weird?”
“Truth serum,” Cass and Bruce answer at the same time.
“Truth serum,” Dick repeats a beat too late. He can’t help it. “I have to say every thought that pops into my head until it wears off. It’s getting really old. I have no filter, and it makes me want to claw my eyeballs out. You have something in your teeth.”
Tim looks between Dick and the rest of the table for confirmation. “Okay…” He picks at his teeth with a fork.
Bruce clears his throat. “For obvious reasons, Dick, it’s best that you don’t leave the manor for the time being. Just until we’re positive the effects have worn off.”
“I figured. You can’t risk me spilling all of your secrets to the barista when I pick up my daily pumpkin spice latte. One of you will have to call work for me so they know I won’t be coming in today. If I do it, I’ll just tell them the truth and ruin all of our lives.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Bruce assures him. “I have some unfinished case files downstairs, if you want to take a look now that you have some free time on your hands.”
“Sure. I have nothing better to do today, and I’d like to be helpful.”
“Great. They’re on the—”
“Just don’t do that thing you do where you spend all day hovering because you don’t trust me not to mess up your stuff. It’s so annoying, and honestly—” stop “—really insulting when you think about it because—” stop talking stop talking “—I’ve been here since the beginning, and yet you still act like you’re the only competent person in this whole house.”
One could hear a pin drop at the table. Bruce opens his mouth, closes it, then— “Understood. I didn’t—”
“I don’t want to be here anymore,” Dick announces, surprising even himself with his bluntness. “This is getting super uncomfortable.”
“...You’re excused.”
Dick makes a swift exit, his ears burning. This is torture. He can plan out his responses all he wants, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t control a single word out of his mouth, can’t evade, can’t even sugarcoat it.
He retreats downstairs to the cave to work on the case files alone. Wisely, everyone gives him his desired space. At least he can do something useful while he’s incapacitated.
It’s early afternoon by the time Dick finally allows himself to take a break. He goes upstairs to the kitchen for a drink where Tim, Duke, and Stephanie are gathered in the kitchen over a tray of still-melty cookies that Alfred must have just baked. Clearly he misjudged their self-control because the tray is already halfway gone.
Dick steals a cookie for himself and goes to the fridge for a Powerade. Steph is mid-story about some professor at her college.
“I already knew he was a creep when I signed up for the class,” she says. “But I needed the credits, and it was the only class that worked with my schedule. Everyone talked about how weird he got with female students, but I didn’t, like, see it until now, you know? Apparently he excuses missing assignments and gives out As to the girls who wear low-cut shirts to class.”
“Gross,” Tim says through a mouthful of cookie.
“Right? But then again, I do have that paper due Monday that I don’t have any time to work on unless I pull an all-nighter. Maybe if I wear a miniskirt to class he’ll forgive the zero. That’s what a sophomore in my criminal justice class did last year. She pulled an A-minus for the whole semester that way.”
“You shouldn’t do that,” Dick says without meaning to speak at all. He digs his nails into his palm, but he can’t stop himself from plowing on. “People like that mistake innocent flirting for a yes, and then they won’t listen later when you tell them no. It’s fucked up for you to benefit from other people’s trauma.”
Steph blinks at him, perplexed. “Chill out, ex-boy wonder. Obviously, I was joking. I hacked into his work computer yesterday and sent it to the cops. What’s got you so fired up?”
“Truth serum,” Duke answers.
Duke already said it, but as much as Dick tries to hold back, he can’t. The serum won’t let him. “I’m fired up because everyone treats it like a big joke when pervs get away with shit like this just because the victims act or dress provocatively, until the pervert actually does something to someone, and suddenly everybody acts like they weren’t the same people calling the victim a whore five minutes ago, like somehow that means I asked for—”
Dick stuffs the rest of the cookie into his mouth until he chokes, muffling the rest of the tirade as he coughs out crumbs. He can’t keep the words from coming, but he can keep them from being understandable, at least. Humiliated tears burn behind his eyes. He can’t stop.
The three of them stare at Dick like he’s an alien.
Dick abandons his drink and stalks from the kitchen before his traitorous mouth can betray him further. He can feel slick blood on his palms from the bite of his fingernails; he doesn’t stop pressing.
He should have just driven back to his apartment in Blüd and hid out alone until the serum wore off, screw whatever potential side effects might arise. The only reason Dick’s made it this far in life with his dignity is because he’s good at keeping his mouth shut.
Things would be different if he were still young, but Dick is the oldest. He’s not meant to be the one info-dumping past traumas to his unsuspecting siblings—he’s supposed to be the pillar for them to lean on for their troubles. That’s the only way this works.
When Bruce fucks up and drives one away, Dick’s apartment is the one they run off to hide out in. When tragedy strikes, Dick is the one who sucks it up and shuts it down because there’s no time to wallow when the whole world is looking up to you. When Batman dies, Dick is the one who takes up the cowl and lets it shred away every last vestige of freedom he has.
It doesn’t matter what did or didn’t happen to Dick in the past. He’s grown up since then. He’s moved past it. If it weren’t for the damn truth serum he’d never have brought it up because that’s not what he does. He’s made a whole career out of smiling for the crowd and keeping up the act. It’s what he’s good at. It’s what they’re all good at.
Not even Bruce knows, and why should he? The first time it happened, Dick was at a point in his life where all he wanted was to get away from Bruce. Of course he wasn’t going to go running to his dad for comfort after that something was done to him. The time after that, Dick was an adult. He believed it was his own fault for being so provocative. It took years of therapy and self-help for him to realize he didn’t ask to be assaulted.
Dick manages to enjoy a full hour of solitude in the cave before Damian comes downstairs in workout clothes. At least it isn’t Bruce.
“We can spar, if you want to take a break,” Damian offers. The fact that he avoids phrasing it like a question fills Dick with gratitude, even if he can’t help answering it regardless. But it’s the intention that matters.
“Thanks, Dami, but my arm still hurts from last night.” If Dick were able to lie, he’d have ignored his aching shoulder and accepted the offer. “I could use the company, though.”
Damian shrugs, unbothered. He bypasses the training mats for the desk Dick is set up at, looking over his shoulder at the spread of his current case. After several minutes, he deduces, “It was the gardener, right? With a paving block from the yard.”
“Good work, detective. Wrong murder weapon, though. Bookend from inside the house.” But impressive nonetheless. They were both trained by the best, of course. “I’m sorry for tattling on you earlier. I didn’t mean to. It just slipped out.”
“It’s all right. I lost phone privileges for a week, but I’ll live. Are you…” Damian bites his cheek. “Are you okay?”
Dick smiles grimly. “I can’t remember the last time I was okay, but I feel better now that I’m talking to you. You always make me happy, Dami.”
Damian doesn’t smile, but Dick can see the corner of the kid’s mouth twitching as he fights back the pride that wells at hearing that from the person he loves most. “Would you like to see the drawings I’ve been working on?”
“A thousand percent.”
Damian pulls up a chair next to Dick’s and brings over his sketchbook. He flips through the pages, showing Dick his most recent charcoal pieces. “You’re really talented,” Dick marvels. It’s not the first time he’s said it. Damian doesn’t even show Bruce his sketchbook most of the time. Just Dick. “You’ve always been so talented at everything you do. You’re incredible, you know that? I’m so proud of you.”
Damian’s ears flush tomato red. “Thank you.”
“I used to not like you very much,” Dick admits. Before Damian can be hurt by it, he goes on, “But you’re one of my favorite people in the world now. There isn’t a single day where I’m not grateful to have you in my life. I’m sorry I didn’t adopt you after we lost Bruce. I think about it all the time, how different things would be if I had. I think it would have been better.”
Dick and Bruce have always had problems. They always will have problems. The only reason Dick hasn’t abandoned Batman and his demons for good is because he loves Bruce too much to stay away. Despite that fault, he can’t ignore that Bruce hasn’t always shown up for his children the way he should have in the past. It’s an endless cycle of failure and apology. He drives one kid away, betrays another, forgets a third, and then apologizes for it after and moves on like it never happened.
He tells them he loves them in the same breath that he tells them Batman never should have taken on partners in the first place. It’s exhausting. It’s depressing.
Dick can’t count how many times Damian has called him or shown up at his apartment in tears because he’s convinced himself that his own father will never be able to love him the way he should, the way they both want him to. Dick worked so hard to show Damian that he was worth something when they were the dynamic duo, and then Bruce showed up and took back his mantle, and he took Robin back right along with it.
In the deepest, most shameful corner of his heart, Dick wishes he had fought for custody instead of letting Bruce take Damian back.
Damian flounders, not knowing how to respond to such a statement. Neither does Dick. “Oh.”
“I’m sorry. It won’t let me stop talking.”
Damian allows himself a small smile and tips his head to touch Dick’s shoulder. “It’s okay. I love you, too.”
That night, everyone except for Dick suits up for patrol while he folds paper cranes out of some napkins left over from lunch. He has no idea how they all got on the subject, but they’re stuck on the topic of who would inherit what in the event of Bruce’s death, from the Batmobile to his rock collection. Bruce, predictably, chooses not to indulge them by participating.
“I don’t know about you guys,” Jason is saying while he straps on his holsters, “but I think I at least deserve a mansion. This one or one of the vacation houses, I don’t care, but I want at least fourteen bedrooms and an underground cave.”
Duke snorts. “For what? You live alone.”
“Maybe I want a dog one day.”
“Well, I’m hedging my bets on my part of the will being something cool, like the giant penny. I don’t care about anything else. You guys can have the company and the Batcave. I just want the penny.”
“For the record,” Bruce intervenes, only distantly invested in the conversation, “the penny isn’t actually worth anything. I have much more important things to put in my will. For example, my billions of real dollars.”
Duke ignores him and turns to Cass. “How about you, Cassie? What do you think Bruce is leaving you?”
Cass thinks for a minute, then muses, “Batplane.”
“Ha!” Jason laughs. “Miss Dive-Bombed-Into-A-Lake-Twice? If anything, Dick’s probably getting the cave and the plane since Bruce’s loved him the longest. Nepotism at its finest.”
“Nah, Bruce doesn’t love me.” Dick is so startled by the words coming out of his own mouth that he drops his crane.
“What?” Bruce whips around like Dick just announced he’s running away to live as a jellyfish. “Of course I do. Why would you say something like that?”
Dick doesn’t want to, but he can’t help it. The words come out almost defiant in their factuality. “Because you don’t. Not the way other dads love their kids. You secretly hate me, but you won’t admit it to yourself because you feel guilty for hijacking all of our lives.”
Bruce goes right up to Dick and plants his hands on both his shoulders, confused. “Dick. I do not hate you. Don’t you ever say something like that again.”
Dick wants to believe it only because, if he did, maybe he could divert the flow of the truth torrent. He could shut his damn mouth for once. “You do, though. You hate all of us because we made you better, and you don’t want to be better. If you didn’t have so many people depending on you, you’d have killed yourself decades ago, and—”
“Dick.” Bruce’s expression is stunned. They all are.
“You hate us for making you better,” Dick continues against his will. He doesn’t want to be saying this, but really, how dare Bruce be so surprised to hear it? He should understand better than any of them how defective his relationship skills are. He has no right to pretend it isn’t true now that they can all hear it aloud. “But you hate yourself more for making us worse, which is—it’s fucked up, but we’re all fucked up, and it’s—it’s only partially your fault. You secretly wish you’d never met any of us, and you’d be right about it because now we hate ourselves, too.”
How can Bruce have the audacity to look heartbroken when he already knew all of this? Why is he pretending? Why does he keep lying? “Dick, stop.”
Dick can’t stop, so he raises his hand to his mouth and bites into the meat of his palm so hard he tastes blood. It hurts like hell, but he can’t keep fucking talking like this. He shuts his eyes and digs his teeth in harder.
“Everyone out,” Bruce snaps. Dick doesn’t open his eyes to see the matching expressions of horror that are surely on all of his siblings’ faces. Reluctantly, at Bruce’s insistence, they disperse. Obedient soldiers, every one of them. Bruce tugs at Dick’s wrist. “Dick, let go. You’re hurting yourself.”
“I’m sorry,” Dick squeezes out around the sharp tang of blood in his mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” It takes some effort, but Bruce manages to get Dick to unclamp his jaw enough to release his bleeding hand. It runs down his wrist and plips onto the stone floor at their feet. “I didn’t—I didn’t know I—”
He’d thought about it, sure, but Dick never admitted it to himself before. Not spelled out like that. In the back of his mind, he always carried the knowledge that he had fundamentally changed the course of Bruce’s life and that it might not have been such a welcome thing, but he never entertained the fact that he actually believed it.
Dick always perceived it as one of those blink-and-you’ll-miss-it thoughts—a worst-case scenario. Maybe a meteorite will hit me on my way to work. Maybe my dad doesn’t love me.
“I’m sorry,” Dick says again. He can’t stop saying it because it’s the fucking truth. He’s always sorry, all day, every day. Sorry for all he’s done and all that he can’t do. Sorry for existing.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Bruce says calmly. His eyes have become unreadable, shut off. He fishes for a nearby medical kit and gets to work pressing gauze to Dick’s bleeding hand.
“They shouldn’t have had to hear it. It’s not fair.” Dick’s breath hitches as he tries to swallow it all back, but he’s not the one in control here. “It’s fine for me because I’m—I’m older, and I know better, but they’re—” He hiccups. He can’t stop. “I’m messing them all up. They look up to me, and I can’t—I’m not good enough. I can’t stop ruining it. I’m ruining everything.”
“Stop, Dick. It’s all right.”
“It’s not all right. I’m not all right.”
Bruce’s eyes flicker up to meet Dick’s finally. He looks worn beyond his years. “I know, son. I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner.”
“I don’t want you to notice.” Dick can’t do anything to hold back the lump in his throat or the burning in his eyes. Truth and nothing but the truth.
Bruce finishes cleaning Dick’s stinging palm and begins to wrap a bandage around the wound. “I do love you. I need you to believe me because it’s the truth. I could never hate you, Dick. I love every single one of you.”
A tear runs down the side of Dick’s nose. He hastily wipes it away, trying to maintain some shred of dignity. “But it’s our fault that you’re better. You don’t want to be.”
Bruce is silent for a long moment while he focuses on his task. “No, I don’t,” he confesses eventually. “And yes, sometimes I do resent the people around me for it.”
“Because Batman doesn’t work if he’s happy.”
The corner of Bruce’s mouth quirks. “Because I’m a sick man who’s convinced that the only way to be an effective protector is to be alone. That is not your fault, and it is not your burden to bear. I need you with me, Dick. You’re my son. I’m grateful that I have you in my life.”
Dick swallows thickly. “I don’t believe you.”
Bruce sighs and tapes down the end of the bandage. “Of course not. I wish it didn’t take all of this for you to tell me how you’re feeling. It’s too much for one person to carry.” His gaze flickers up to Dick’s, not accusing, but painful nonetheless. “I wish you had told me a lot of the things that were bothering you.”
Because of course Bruce connected the dots on his own. Either someone snitched, or Bruce was listening in. Either option is equally likely. Or maybe he knew all along and only chose now to address it because this is a night of truths.
The fact that Dick doesn’t deny it is its own truth. “I recovered. My coping skills are better than yours.” Not good by any means, but better.
Bruce chuckles, but it comes out fractured. “That is very true. But I’d still like it if you were honest about how you really feel without truth serum doing all of the work for you.”
Dick sniffs wetly, cracking the tiniest of smiles. “I don’t know if that’s possible. I’m not exactly wired for it.” A performer can’t stop performing before the curtain’s fallen; that isn’t how this works. If Dick lets the facade crack, he’ll shatter into a million pieces.
Except…he just did, and he’s still here. He’s got Bruce to hold him together.
“But I’ll try,” Dick offers, and surprisingly, it’s the truth.