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When Jay first hands him the shirt, Dick laughs. Jason gives him that sideways grin in response, the sly, goading one, the same one he used to give Dick when he was a scabby-kneed kid. It's the look he’d wear after getting away with the kind of domestic crime Bruce would have skinned Dick over, back in the old days. His little brother’s gotten too tall now. He’s looking down at Dick, instead up at him.
Dick tells himself he’s used to it, by now, being looked down upon. It doesn’t have to hurt. It can just be funny. He’s really doing his best to find it funny.
He studies the shirt again, just to double check if he’s missed something. It still just says, “SLUT”, written large across the chest in blocky, black print.
“I want to make it clear,” Jason says, holding his hands up, “I support your sluttiness. I’m not Bruce, this isn’t some kinda covert criticism.” Jason sets his hands on his hips, proudly displaying his own shirt, which proclaims, “BIG DICK”.
Dick somehow manages to frown while still smiling. The expression feels strange on his face. Jason’s already got his helmet and domino off. He tilts his head, squinting. “Okay there, Dickiebird?”
“I’m just confused, I guess.”
“It’s a meme,” Tim pipes up, halfway into his own new shirt, “you just haven't seen it, because you're old.”
Dick sighs. He’s feeling just a wee bit frustrated. Probably because patrol was so dead. He's too full of pent up energy. “I understand that it's a meme, Tim. I'm just—Jason. We’ve slept with most of the same people. You're equally as slutty as I am—”
“Disgusting,” Damian spits.
“—so why am I the one wearing the slut shirt?”
Jason looks up at the ceiling, scratching the back of his head, considering. “Who besides Kori and Roy?” he asks.
Dick raises an eyebrow. He crosses his arms, holding the damned shirt in his fist, trying to communicate how unimpressed he is. Jason used to care about impressing him. Now he doesn't care about impressing anyone, least of all Dick. “We don't need to go through the entire list. Why can't I have your shirt? It's literally got my name on it.”
Jason’s grin splits wider. “Because it's got nothing to do with names, dipshit. They’re descriptors, and we all know who’s got the biggest dick of the four of us.” He winks and indicates himself with his thumbs.
Tim, who stands a few feet away in front of the Batcomputer console, holds up a peace sign and takes a selfie, smiling toothily. His shirt reads, “GAY”. “I’m sending this to the team. They're gonna lose it,” he announces, bringing his phone to his face to study the picture, still smiling. “You did a pretty good job with the lettering, Jason.”
“Damn straight I did. Damian and I are the only members of this stupid family with any appreciation for the arts.”
“Tt. You’re forgetting someone, Todd.” Dick’s heart swells. Damian is such a good kid. He’s rough around the edges, but he’s thoughtful, considerate even, when given the space to be.
“Okay, I obviously meant we’re the only two of the younger generation. Everyone knows Alfie’s a connoisseur.”
Dick expects Damian to continue the correction. After all, haven’t they attended countless exhibitions together? Hasn’t he oohed and aahed over every one of Damian’s drawings, framed and matted his favorites, and hung them in his apartment? He’s trying to spark Damian’s interest in live music and theater too, but it’s been an uphill battle. The kid likes his art to stay still, where he has time to study and contemplate it.
Damian doesn’t mention any of that, though. Instead, he says something that twists Dick’s guts into knots. “I don’t understand the meaning of my shirt,” he complains, holding it out from his chest and frowning at it. “It’s nonsense. At least Drake’s and Grayson’s are based in fact.”
The Nightwing suit feels too tight, all the sudden. Tim got back first and turned on all the big fluorescent overhead lights that Dick hates. He can hear them buzzing. It's giving him a headache.
“So’s mine,” Jason crows.
“Says you,” Tim mutters.
“The size of Todd’s penis is not relevant to my concern. I was clearly not aborted as a fetus.”
“Good thing too,” Jason sets his meaty paws on Damian’s little shoulders. Damian scowls at him. “We’re all grateful to Talia for keeping you a secret. If she’d told Bruce about the pregnancy… well.”
“Father would never have wanted Mother to abort me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Dames. He’s really good at getting his kids killed.”
Tim busts out laughing. Dick’s decided he doesn’t find any of this funny after all. He balls up his own shirt, and the word “SLUT” disappears from view. He throws it across the cave. “This is stupid,” he decides, "I'm not participating.”
“What?” Tim half-laughs the word, but his expression is awful. He looks so confused. Tim’s never confused. Dick always ends up turning people inside out, bringing out the worst in them.
“Oh, come on, dude, chill out. Damian is fine. Look at him! He looks happy!” Jason stands behind the teen to squeeze his face and hold it up for Dick to see. Damian looks just as annoyed as he usually does when Jason and Tim are in the room. The only difference is the t-shirt he wears over his Robin suit, black text on white—”ABORTION”.
Dick feels a hundred years old. He feels like a stupid baby, actually. He rips off his domino, not bothering with the solvent. Tim hisses, “Dick, that’s really bad for your skin—”
“I’m not doing this.” He turns away, fleeing for the showers as fast as possible without breaking into an actual run.
“It’s just a stupid meme, Dickhead!” Jason calls after him.
Dick normally gets made fun of for how quickly he showers after patrol. It’s a holdover habit from his years in the circus—there was only so much hot water available onsite, and lots of sweaty, post-show performers wanting to use it. Tonight, he stays under the stream until his fingers and toes turn pruney. He listens to the others come and go in the surrounding stalls. None of them try to talk to him.
He thinks about going upstairs. Alfred surely put together a nice spread. He’s normally ravenous after patrol, but he doesn’t feel hungry at all tonight. Everyone will be there. Bruce is likely already back from his Wayne Foundation event. Tim’s probably told him every detail of their conversation by now, the little shit.
Dick doesn’t want to face them. He can take a bit of teasing, more than a bit, but he just doesn’t feel like it tonight. He wants to be alone. He wants a bit of solitude, that's all. Some peace and goddamned quiet.
He’s washed his body three or four times already, but he starts on another round. He doesn’t feel clean yet. It happens sometimes. Dick never thinks about it much, he just does what he has to do. He scrubs. His skin is turning pink. It stings in places, but he barely notices. He thinks the water might be getting colder. It’s an impressive feat, running out the Cave’s state of the art water heater. It’s starting to feel cool and chilling. Like rain.
Ugh. Rain.
It’s raining again. It seems like it's always raining these days. Dick hates the rain. He hates everything, really. He hates the choices he’s made. He hates his life, hates his body, hates himself. He’s gotten himself stuck again, cold water rolling down his face, into his eyes. It turns the world blurry, and that’s fine. He doesn’t want to see. He doesn't want to feel. He doesn’t want to remember. Voices, bodies, names. Hands. Secrets.
Someone knocks.
“Chum? Everything okay in there?”
Dick gasps. He’s dizzy. He catches himself against the wall of the shower stall. The water’s freezing. He flinches away from the stream. He’s shaking. When did it get so cold?
“Dick? Answer me.” Bruce is upset. Dick knew he would be. He should be, considering everything Dick’s done wrong, everything he’s screwed up. He’s put them all in danger. He’s a stain on Batman’s legacy. He deserves to be benched forever, kicked out of the family, removed from the will. He’s worthless. Worse than worthless—he’s a liability.
“Dick, if you don’t answer me right now I’m coming in.”
Dick moves his mouth. He’s trying to say, “Don’t come in,” or, “I’m fine,” or, “Leave me alone.” He can’t manage it. Nothing comes out of him but an embarrassing, choked-up groan, a sound that gets stuck in his throat before forcing its way into his mouth. It echoes through the bathroom. He turns to face the tile corner, huddling against it. Hiding like a child. Like a coward.
Bruce breaks the stall door off its hinges.
Then there are hands on Dick. On his naked shoulders, turning him around, on his face, beneath his chin, taking his pulse. The rain stops. He can’t feel it anymore. Can he feel it? He doesn't think so.
“Look at me, Dick.”
It’s an order from Batman, but despite years of intense training and a fierce, deeply-held devotion, Dick can’t make it happen. He’s totally useless. He’ll be in even worse trouble now. There’s nothing Bruce hates more than insubordination from his Robins.
Only, Bruce doesn’t yell. He doesn’t repeat the command in a harsher tone, or grip Dick’s shoulders until they bruise. He’s been milder since he came back from the dead. His voice turns softer. “Okay,” he sighs, “Alright, chum. I’ve got you. Hold on.”
Then there’s a towel wrapped around him. Someone’s drying him off, wicking away the water, rubbing vigorous circles into Dick’s skin. Another towel, a dry one, is tucked securely around his waist. Only then does Dick risk opening his eyes, just a tiny sliver. He looks down at Bruce’s dress shoes, so out of place in the Batcave locker room.
Bruce sets another towel around Dick’s shoulders. He must have taken this one straight from the warmer. The heat of it is soothing. Dick lets out a shaky sigh, without meaning to. Then, there’s more heat. A calloused palm, cupping his cheek. It takes a second for Dick to get his eyes to focus. He blinks a few times before his vision clicks into place. Bruce looks back at him, dark brow drawn into a deep furrow.
“B,” Dick has to clear his throat. Too much gunk inside him, as always. “Sorry for using all the hot water.”
He’s still in his tux. He probably wants to take a shower and change. Dick’s not sure why he came all the way down here, instead of just using his own ensuite bathroom, but it doesn't matter. It's Bruce’s house, Batman’s cave. If he wants to shower down here, it's his right, but Dick’s used all the water. He feels mostly numb, but a twinge of guilt pulls at him anyway.
“I'm sorry,” he repeats.
Bruce looks stricken. Slowly, carefully, he pulls Dick closer. He hugs him. His voice is low and soft in Dick’s ear. “It's okay, chum. You don't have to apologize. I'm not upset.”
Dick doesn't hug back, but he doesn't pull away either. Bruce is so warm and he smells good too. Dick has always liked his cologne. It reminds him of when Bruce would hug him goodbye before going out to one of his fancy “adults only” parties, back in the early days. Dick and Alfred would always stay up and watch movies, waiting for him to get home. Sometimes he would get back early enough for Dick to pepper him with questions about the party—who was there? What were they wearing? And his favorite, did Bruce kiss anyone? Dick couldn't wait to be old enough to go out on the town too, to dance and make conversation and flirt.
Sometimes he was too tired to wait up. He'd fall asleep on the couch, and wake up back in bed, or in Bruce’s arms, being carried up the stairs. Bruce would kiss him on the forehead and tell him to have sweet dreams, and Dick would, most of the time.
It feels like forever ago. Like another lifetime. Something that happened to a different person, someone who deserved sweetness, and tenderness. Someone who could handle a loving, platonic touch without losing his mind over it.
Is that what this is? he wonders, staring blankly at the lockers over Bruce’s shoulder. Am I losing my mind?
He’s being ridiculous, acting this way. He wishes he would have just put the damn shirt on and taken the stupid picture. Laughed it off. He wants more than anything to act normal, but his mind can't convince his body to do it, no matter how ruthless and derogatory he becomes in the pursuit.
Bruce kneels in front of him and guides his feet into a pair of soft sweatpants. Stop him, you pathetic piece of shit, Dick tells himself. Be an adult. Put your own fucking pants on. It doesn't work. He barely manages to brace himself on Bruce's shoulders as he pulls the waistband up, beneath the towel.
“Your tux is wet,” Dick says.
Bruce sits him down on the bench, then kneels again to roll a pair of thick socks over Dick’s cold, pruney feet. “It’ll dry.”
The collar is silk. It'll be water stained, ruined, Dick is sure of it. The guilt swims up again, ready to devour him from below. He hangs his head and screws his eyes shut. The towel slips from his shoulders as Bruce stands. “Arms up,” he orders. Dick complies. A long-sleeved shirt slips over his head, followed by a hoodie. Bruce rubs the warm towel over Dick’s head one more time before pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt over his damp hair. He crouches in front of Dick, as close as he can be, without touching. His eyes are too attentive. He’s seeing too much.
“How about a piggyback ride to the couch?” Bruce asks. “Just for nostalgia’s sake?”
Dick bends at the waist and buries his face in his knees. He can’t let Bruce see him cry. He can't really hide it, of course. It's a death-defying act, hiding something from the World’s Greatest Detective. Dick’s become practiced at it, as the eldest, but it's still difficult to achieve, at his very best.
He’s far from his very best, at the moment. He’s—what? Having a nervous breakdown over nothing? Over a stupid t-shirt that Jason made as a joke? Over Bruce offering him a piggyback ride?
Dick knows his back has got to be jumping with suppressed sobs. Little sounds keep escaping, gasped breaths, barely vocalized, birdlike cries. He’s a grown adult, for fuck’s sake. He shouldn't be acting like this in front of the man who raised him. Bruce must be so ashamed.
“I'm not hurt,” Dick barely manages the words. They come out halting, stalled by emotion. “I’m fine.”
Piggyback rides are for Robins with sprained wings. It's been years since Dick wrapped his arms around Bruce’s neck and locked his legs around his waist, nearing a decade probably. It was a special thing, something they only did after a hard night out in Gotham. On nights Dick couldn't evade or distract his way out of an injury, when they both needed something to hold onto.
“I'm overruling you. Come on—up we go.”
Bruce can still carry him just as easily. Dick forgets, sometimes, how graceful his guardian is. He takes for granted Bruce’s martial skill, his strength, his practiced dexterity. He slots his back beneath Dick’s chest, stands and braces and gathers him up with such a smooth swiftness.
Dick doesn't argue or struggle. He locks his ankles together, slings his arms over broad shoulders. He buries his nose into the back of Bruce’s neck, smelling his cologne. “Not upstairs,” he whines. “Not yet.”
“Wasn't planning on it.” Bruce feels so warm. He sounds it too. Dick presses himself to his back, trying to get closer.
“Oh, this is so unfair. You owe me a piggyback ride, old man.”
Jason. He’s still here. He’s on the couch in the cave lounge, sitting cross-legged and wearing some of the spare sweats he keeps in his locker. He’s the last person Dick wants to see right now. Unfortunately, Bruce is already squatting to deposit Dick in the spot directly beside him.
“No. You’re too big.”
Jason’s arms close around Dick as soon as his ass hits the cushion. He scoffs. “Whatever. Discriminate against me all you want, I'm gonna use my big body to warm up your precious little golden child here. Asshole.”
Dick tries to pull away. Jason doesn't let him.
“I didn't agree to this.”
Bruce and Jason respond at the same time, speaking over each other. “Too bad. Deal with it.” “You’ve been overruled.”
Dick’s got his eyes closed again, but he feels Bruce cover them with a blanket. “I'll be back in a few minutes with sandwiches and tea. Try not to piss each other off while I’m gone.”
He leaves. Dick listens to his footsteps echo up the stairs then the clanging sound of the grandfather clock door swinging shut.
“I don't think you’re a slut, Dick.”
“You never waste time, do you?” Dick’s voice is a little threadbare. He's worn thin.
“Side effect of dying. Look, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to set you off.”
“Don't say it like that. I’m not—I’m fine.”
“Even if you were a slut, it's not like anyone minds! You know some of my favorite people in the world are literal prostitutes, right? And it's not like having a lot of sex is wrong. It's widely considered to be cool actually, at least in the circles I run in. As long as you're using protection of course—”
“Jason, stop.”
He does. He’s got Dick tucked up against his side. He’s rubbing circles into his back beneath the blanket. Dick’s starting to feel a bit warmer. Calmer.
A little embarrassed, maybe.
“I won't joke about it anymore,” Jason murmurs. “Promise.”
In his arms, Dick sighs with relief. “Okay. Thanks.”
Bruce brings them turkey sandwiches and tea. Dick’s a little shaky, going up the stairs, but he makes it without any assistance from either of them. His dreams that night are surprisingly sweet—he’s wearing a tux at a party in the Batcave locker room with all his old friends from Haly’s. It starts to rain, but Batman shows up with a giant umbrella and saves the day.
The next morning, they recreate the meme, out on the grounds as the Wayne boys, rather than down in the cave, suited up. Jason hands over “BIG DICK” and puts on the “SLUT” shirt himself, cackling all the while. “It's better this way. I'm so much bigger than you, it makes the shirt extra slutty.”
Bruce and Alfred watch them with severe consternation.“You will not be posting this photograph publicly, I hope?” Alfred asks, his lip curling in that particular expression of distaste.
“I guess I understand you three,” Bruce says, pointing at Dick, Jason, and Tim in turn, “but why on Earth does Damian’s shirt say ‘abortion’?”
Jason smiles at Dick, a sideways grin, like they’re getting away with something. Dick smiles back at him.
“It’s a meme, B,” he replies, “you wouldn't understand.”