Based on a dream I had last night.

I feel like there aren't enough stories of Dick as Robin, rather than Nightwing. My take on why the dynamic duo split.

When was the last time he felt emotions?

Nobody is fully capable of mechanically shutting off emotions, but Bruce Wayne embodied an example of the closest a human had ever come. He still felt…he still felt something. Something vague and distant, unidentifiable, like muffled voices carrying on a conversation from a distance; it was clear that people were talking. But there was no way to distinguish the words.

When his parents were murdered? That may have been it, the last time. He hadn't remembered feeling real fear since then. Terror, and infuriation. And worry. An agonizing combination. Horrible things he resolved to never feel again.

When Two-Face and his cronies dragged Dick Grayson on the wooden floor, dragged him like a fucking broken rag doll, and dropped him a few feet away—he sagged to the floor, a dead pile of bones and torn flesh, a mutilated ray of sunshine—all those emotions came flooding back. He had forgotten what it was like. He had forgotten what he had done. His vision and razor-sharp memory had been whited out by the anger.

Anger as white as the hospital walls.

The heart monitor was busy embedding itself into Bruce's skull like an insufferable metronome. Sometimes it slowed down and Bruce would almost panic. Sometimes it would speed up. Sometimes the jags would irregulate. The randomness had a strange ambiance of scheduled recurrence, as if the patient's malfunctioning heartbeat was clockwork.

Bruce's hand constantly hovered over Dick's clammy brow, or over his motionless hand.

Nurses were always walking in, asking him if he needed anything. Sometimes he'd say, a cup of water would be fine. Maybe some coffee. Or, nothing, I'm fine. Thanks. After a while he didn't even register the exchanges.

When Dick woke up weeks later, he looked at Bruce in a way he had never looked at him before. Bruce didn't know that the thirteen-year-old's eyes were capable of vacating all matter of feeling. It was like they weren't actually seeing anything.

"Dick?" Bruce asked, squeezing his ward's hand, leaning closer. He examined the bruised and paled face, looking for a sign of sentience.

Dick didn't say anything. His absent eyes found Bruce's. His mouth hung slightly ajar, like a zombie. Maybe he read something in Bruce's eyes that finally triggered an intelligent reaction, but still he didn't speak. He only gave Bruce's hand a squeeze. A weak squeeze, but it was something. Then he slumped back into sleep and Bruce put his head down on the mattress, taking deep breaths, pressing the small hand to his forehead.

It was a while until Dick started to speak.

And when he would, it didn't always make sense. He'd say things like, "I don't know if I'm ready."

And Bruce would say, endlessly confused, "ready for what?"

"The show."

"What show?"

"What if I…don't make all four flips? What if I fall?"

"Dick—"

"There's no net."

At first, Bruce tried to snap him out of it. Ask questions like, Who am I? And, What do you remember? Where are you? It only worked once, maybe twice, and Dick would look at his guardian and say sorry, sorry, and yet not know what he was apologizing for. He usually forgot his hallucinatory episodes. After a while, Bruce learned not to fight it. Sometimes he even played into it. Just make him feel comfortable, the nurses would say. Give him time to gain some awareness. And so when Dick would talk about his fear of performing, of trying new stunts, of disappointing his parents…Bruce would say, It's alright, son. You'll be okay. Nothing bad will happen to you.

Nothing bad will happen to you.

Bruce would get calls from Alfred, from Jim Gordon, from brokers, tabloids, and business associates. People wanted to know what was up. People wanted to know what happened to Batman and Bruce Wayne. Bruce knew that he had to tear himself away, he had to keep the voices quiet, had to take care of his business. He had to mitigate the sense of connection between Bruce and Batman. Rumors began that the simultaneous disappearances indicated a financial connection.

It was hard to leave. Why was it so hard?

He only ever left for short periods of time, but while he was gone, it was obvious that he was "off." It was so strange, Alfred thought, the sole human on this planet that knew Bruce best. He had known his surrogate son to be so stoic for so long.

Alfred sometimes came to the hospital as well, but Dick never indicated that he recognized him. That broke Alfred's heart, but the butler was good at hiding it.

Time went on and Dick's mind began to clear. He was able to start doing things independently that Bruce had either gotten used to doing for him, or the nurses would do. He was able to feed himself. Get up and use the bathroom. Shower (with a chair). The nurses gave him the okay to take three-minute "walks" around the hospital—and only on the third floor, where his room was—but the "walks" were really just Bruce pushing him around in a wheelchair.

Dick now sat upright during the day. Bruce would sit near the window, reading the newspapers, or making calls. He intermittently said something aloud, then looked at Dick waiting for a response. But Dick hardly ever said a word. He just looked forward vacantly, unreadable, unemotional. His arm was in a sling. He had small plasters all over his head and bruises and gashes with stitches and staples. He looked like a poorly put-together corpse that had broken like glass. He acted like one, too.

At first, Bruce was worried about Dick's newfound muteness. Was it brain damage? Would he be silent forever? Had he gone deaf? He demanded answers from the medical experts with such vigor that they started to fear he would go on a rampage.

The doctors tested him, but no new physical calamities registered. Dick was choosing not to speak.

"He's likely traumatized," a nurse said quietly to Bruce, on the other side of the room. "This isn't the first we've seen something like this."

She gave him some information and pamphlets about trauma, PTSD, and, worst of all, car crashes. The hospital was told it was a car crash. Bruce hated it. It felt dirty.

Bruce wasn't sure, but he might have felt even more fearful when Dick was awake and not talking than when those evil pieces of shit tossed him to the floor, broken and battered. Before, Dick was a victim, dead to the world. Now he was awake, supposedly healing. But now it wasn't Dick. This perfect, enthusiastic little guy with the strongest moral compass Bruce had ever seen in someone his age. A nine year-old ray of sunshine who swam through the despair of his parent's death, using smiling and justice as flotation devices.

Now, he was empty.

One day, Dick paled and lurched, and Bruce held the plastic bucket (it always sat at his bedside) under his chin automatically. It wasn't uncommon for Dick to throw up everything he managed to get down. They were getting used to it. What was strange about this one was that, after the thirteen year-old got done retching, he spat the last of his acidic saliva into the container and said, "Sorry."

He was apologizing? For being sick? Bruce removed the container to the bathroom, where the nurses would take care of it later (Bruce insisted on doing it before, but he was told protocol required the nurses to do it so that they could sanitize it properly) and rubbed circles onto Dick's back.

"Don't be sorry," he said, even though he didn't understand what Dick was apologizing for.

It was the first time Bruce had been tactile since Dick woke up and squeezed his hand. Bruce didn't even realize that. Maybe he had been too afraid to touch him, too afraid to break him like he was a fragile china doll. Dick leaned into the touch, his face softening as Bruce rubbed those soothing circles into his back.

Then the tears started.

Bruce was not prepared for it. It started out as a half-cough, half-sob. Then his face contorted and reddened. His eyes squeezed shut and tears filtered out. Dick was fighting it, but it was fruitless. The crying took over the acrobat's entire frame and the boy submitted to it, weakening under the weight of it.

Oh, god. Bruce froze when it first started. What should he do? What should he do?

"Richard—" He started saying it like a statement, but it was more like a question. But he stopped himself. There was no reason to search for answers.

He found himself shifting onto the mattress and taking Dick into his arms. They dwarfed the young teen. When was the last time they hugged? Bruce was startled because Dick felt shrunken. Young boys were supposed to grow, not shrink.

Dick leaned into Bruce and buried his head into his chest. The tears soaked the black fabric of his button-up shirt. Without thinking, Bruce's hand flew up to Dick's raven hair and his eyes closed, holding his charge close. The young gypsy sagged into the embrace, exhausted. God knew how long he cried. But when he was done, the two stayed like that, entangled together. It became unclear who was comforting who.

Cards and flowers from people who knew Dick started piling in; mainly his teachers and classmates, and one from Mister Haly. Visiting hours were incredibly limited, especially when Dick was often passed out and barely coherent, he was pumped with so much pain relieving medicine. He was dazed and looked nothing like himself.

Bruce didn't want anybody visiting anyway. He became like a bear protecting his cub. He even tensed when nurses and doctors walked in. When they'd draw blood and Dick would flinch or hiss in pain, Bruce would brace and say, "isn't there another way to do that?" A painless way? So that Dick wouldn't have to keep on suffering? Stupid question. Of course there wasn't.

Bruce kept a measured distance, always watching. Sometimes Dick's hand would absently flex, his fingers opening and closing. Once Bruce noticed it and experimented by grabbing the hand, squeezing it softly. Amazingly, Dick clutched onto it like a lifeline. So hand-holding became a regular thing. It seemed like Dick needed it. Sometimes Bruce would reach over and swipe the black hair away from Dick's eyes. It stuck and clung from feverish sweat.

Sometimes he would have nightmares and the heart monitor's obnoxious alarm would go off. Bruce was always there to guide Dick away from the images, back into the waking world, back into that white-walled hospital room. Bruce would reach for him and Dick would reach back, and when he found Bruce's hand, or his shirt, he would clutch onto it. Bruce would touch the side of Dick's face, gently guide it toward him so that they could exchange eye contact.

"You'll be all right, chum," he would say, stroking Dick's cheek with his thumb. "Relax. It's okay. I'm here."

Dick's breathing would slowly regulate and, once he put things together, he would try to keep himself awake and then later pass out from exhaustion. It was a very cyclical happenstance.

Bruce had to control his own breathing. He had to reassure himself.

This wasn't permanent. Dick would get better. Wouldn't he? Yes. He had to.

Weeks passed and Dick showed enough independence and progress to get discharged. Both of them were thrilled to leave that hospital, but neither of them particularly showed it. Protocol mandated that Bruce wheeled Dick outside in a chair, even though the young man showed that he was capable of walking, at least short distances.

The ride home was quiet. Bruce said a couple things, but Dick didn't answer.

Next thing Bruce knew, the teenager started taking deep, jagged breaths. He sounded like he was struggling to breathe.

Bruce went wide-eyed and straddled looking at Dick and looking at the road. "Dick? What's going on?"

Dick looked forward, his eyes huge. He said in between gulps of air, "I feel…sick…"

Bruce didn't need to hear anything else. He pulled over and Dick practically tumbled out of the car, vomiting on the side of the highway. Meanwhile, Bruce dialed the doctor.

Car sickness, they suggested. Bruce said he n ever had that before. He was still fragile, they said. Could have been a panic attack. It was, after all, the first time he had been awake in a car since "the crash." If it continues or worsens, they said, bring him back to the hospital.

Bruce let Dick finish emptying what little he had to get rid of and was tense as a board of wood the entire trip back. Sometimes Dick's breathing would pick up like that again and Bruce would panic and say, "Do I need to pull over?"

Dick would continue his bizarre breathing exercises and just shake his head. They made it home without another particularly frightening incident.

In the week following, Dick was slow-going on the road to return to any semblance of his normal self. He would never sleep. Getting him to eat was like pulling teeth. Bruce would walk into his room at three in the morning and find him sitting on his bed with his knees tucked up to his chest, just staring out the window. Staring into the city lights of Gotham beyond the hill.

"You need to go to sleep," Bruce would say. Sometimes his frustration came through.

Dick sometimes didn't respond. Sometimes he'd say, "I can't."

Bruce would sometimes sit with Dick and try to soothe him. He'd rub his back or try to have a droll conversation. He'd ask questions, like Why can't you sleep? What's on your mind? Questions that were forced, that he wasn't used to asking. Those endeavors yielded the least results. When Dick started looking drawn from the exhaustion, and when he fainted on his way to bathroom, Bruce asked Leslie about insomnia and started sneaking crushed pills into Dick's tea.

The young acrobat was instructed to get rest, to let his body finish its healing process—so many broken bones, torn muscles, concussions, gashes, sensitive stitches that threatened to rip—but he couldn't bear to stay cooked up in his room. He'd get up and walk around the house, trying to find things to do. Alfred and Bruce both caught him on several separate occasions and ushered him back to bed. The practice became so regular that Dick just walked into the kitchen once while Bruce was in there and started to help him with the dishes. This time, Bruce didn't kick him back into bed right away. Maybe things were getting better.

But when Bruce walked into the great room and found Dick passed out on the floor, that was the end of that. Bruce ran over and sat him up, gave him a shake. Probably not what he should have done, but he was panicked. Dick roused in Bruce's grasp and his head lolled, his eyes rolling in the back of his head.

"What happened?!" Bruce asked, too loudly.

Dick's brow furrowed at the noise. He looked left and right, confused. Bruce didn't let him go because the acrobat's muscle never tensed; he never indicated that he had the strength to hold himself up.

"I don't know," Dick said eventually.

Bruce didn't say another word. He hefted Dick up into his arms and carried him back to his room, then dialed Leslie. On the drive to the clinic, Dick's breath started hitching irregularly, just as it had when he was driven back from the hospital.

Leslie told Bruce that Dick was exhausted. The sleeping pills could be losing their effect, he might have to increase the dosage. The concussion wasn't fully gone. But it had been four months, Bruce said. Symptoms could persist for a year or more, Leslie said. He could have post-concussion syndrome. That could be what's leading to the nausea and the breathing episodes. And the insomnia.

It was no wonder. Dick kept waking up with feverish nightmares. Sometimes Bruce would try to snap him out of it and Dick would say things about falling, about being afraid to go on, about worrying about messing up the routine. It was frightfully reminiscent of the hospital. No wonder he was exhausted.

Bruce was exhausted, too. This was too much.

Bruce told Alfred that he didn't know how to deal with a traumatized kid.

Alfred said he found that strange, since Bruce was one.

How did you deal with me? Bruce asked.

Compassion and patience, Alfred said.

Bruce started driving Dick around more so that he would get used to motion of a car and it wouldn't upset his stomach so much that his breathing got all messed up. At first, Dick still struggled and focused so much on his respiration that he'd make himself dizzy. As time went on, he got a little better.

Bruce had Alfred check on Dick every hour while the billionaire was taking care of business. He had a lot to catch up on. A lot of publishers to keep quiet. When Bruce's absences lengthened, Alfred reported that Dick was starting to act strange.

When Bruce asked Dick about this, Dick only said, "I'm fine." Still so quiet. Still hard to get talking.

"I doubt that," Bruce said, and became frustrated when Dick didn't respond, didn't even look at him. Bruce reached out and suddenly grabbed Dick by the shoulders, forcing him to turn toward his guardian. Dick cringed because it hurt, and because he didn't want to look at Bruce.

"Think I was born yesterday?" Bruce said, harsher than he had spoken to Dick since the onset of the incident. "I'm tired of this, Richard. Alfred and I, we're trying to help you. I know it's hard, but we've all had traumas. And if you really do want to get better, you have to talk to us."

Dick tried to squirm out of Bruce's grasp but when it didn't work, he tried to claw at the older man's hands. It was kind of hard because one of his arms was still in a cast. No matter how violently he pried, Bruce held onto a Dick with a vice-like grip, a grip that only tightened with his efforts. Dick's frustration mounted, and he reached out to shove at Bruce's chest.

"Just get rid of me!" Dick said when Bruce still didn't budge, tears sliding down his cheeks.

Bruce was confounded. "What?"

"I said get rid of me!" Perhaps it was the confusion that the demand brought on, but Dick finally succeeded in getting out of Bruce's ensnarement. He got out of bed and paced toward the door, but he didn't leave. Bruce jumped to his feet. "I'm useless. I'm no good to you."

"Dick—"

"I can't believe I let it happen. I hate myself."

"That's enough."

"Don't." Dick turned around and looked at Bruce, his face full of more emotions than Bruce had seen in a long, long time. It was the worst way that the billionaire could have imagined seeing it return. "I'm pathetic and you know it. I got my ass kicked. I screwed up."

"That's not—"

"I said don't!" Dick all but screamed. His face was the color of a tomato. "Just do it! Get rid of me! I don't want to be a bother to you anymore."

"What do you propose I do?" Bruce growled, anger showing through. "Dump you out on the sidewalk? Is that you want?"

"Isn't that what you want?"

Bruce paused, startled. Honestly, truly startled. And somewhere deep in his chest, that comment hurt. He didn't think he was capable of letting anybody hurt him. Hurt his feelings. Hurt his feelings? Was he twelve? Was he even Bruce Wayne anymore?

"How could you say that?" Bruce demanded, walking up to Dick, who was pressing himself against the wall as if he wanted to escape. "These past three months, I've been spending all this time and all these resources taking care of you, and that's what you think? That I want you gone? Are you insane?" There were other things Bruce meant by that, but they didn't come through. Can't you see that I care? Can't you see that I've been trying so hard?

Can't you see how much you scared me?

But those sentiments didn't register for Dick. He violently wiped away his tears and turned to flee, but Bruce caught him by the arm that didn't have a cast. Dick hissed in pain and tried to use his training in combat to get away, but he was too weak, and Batman knew all the old tricks. After all, he taught him.

"Don't even think about running away." That wasn't right. Bruce was supposed to say, I care about you. He was supposed to tell Dick how badly he wanted to take away all the pain. He was supposed to tell him that Dick was like a son to him, that all the care and patience wasn't a matter of obligation. That he never felt anything so strongly since his parents died, and maybe that made it hard to manifest his feelings. Hell, would a thirteen year-old understand all that? Well, if anyone would, it would be Dick.

Regardless, none of those words came out.

Dick cried, "Let go!"

"Are you going to make me restrain you?" Bruce yelled, leaning in close, his face beginning to match Dick's in color. "Is that you want? To be tied down like an animal?"

Bruce's grip around Dick's arm had gotten so tight that the young teen could feel the circulation getting messed up, could feel the added pain on the places where his bruises and healing cuts were. Bruce, either not noticing or not caring, gave Dick a yank and the latter fell to his knees, face twisted in pain. He tried to use his casted arm to claw away.

Alfred appeared in the doorway. "What the devil?!" he cried, seeing Dick submitting under Bruce's wrathful grasp.

The presence of the butler seemed to bring the businessman to his senses and he let go of Dick's arm. A hand-shaped bruise where had been holding it began to form. Dick grabbed onto it and crumpled downward, hunched over, breathing jagged with pain and sobs that he tried vehemently to withhold. Alfred flew to the child in an instant, hauling him up into his arms, examining the spot that Bruce had offended. Dick, perhaps from exhaustion or hysteria, seemed to lose his strength in Alfred's hold and collapsed into him, his eyes rolling in the back of his head.

"Master Bruce—"

"Alrfred, I—"

"Meet me downstairs."

Alfred had taken a good fifteen minutes embracing Dick until the latter fell into some semblance of sleep before he descended the stairs and saw Bruce sitting in the foyer, hands folded, head bowed, brow narrowed, shoulders tense. Looking for all the world like a troubled philosopher.

Alfred walked in front of Bruce with his hands folded behind his back. A disappointed parent, waiting for his guilty son's explanation of why he broke the vase.

"Go ahead." Bruce said, after an excruciatingly long moment.

The butler bounced on his toes, nose upturned. Formal and restrained. "I shall get some tea for us, sir."

Bruce rubbed his hands, anxious. He had a huge headache. Alfred was too calm. He followed the butler with his eyes as he exited and then returned with a tray holding a teapot and a couple of tiny cups.

"Now then," Alfred said, sitting across his surrogate son. He took a teacup and sipped it importantly. "I suppose it's difficult, isn't it, Master Bruce?"

The younger paused. He looked up at Alfred through his eyelashes. He was a twenty-six year-old man and he still felt like a little kid under that old man's watchful gaze. "What?"

"The parallels are astounding." Alfred took another sip and set down the cup. "I really should write a book. It'd be a best seller."

Bruce only gave him a confounded stare. "You're not going to tell me I'm a fool, a jackass? That I'm going about this all wrong?"

"You already know all those things." Legs crossed. Hands folded.

Bruce ran his hands down his face, groaning. "I just haven't been myself."

"On the contrary, very much have been," Alfred said. That earned him a startled, puzzled look. "In fact, I haven't seen you so much yourself in many, many years, Master Bruce."

Bruce noticed that no steam had come out of the teapot. "What's in there?"

Alfred's face didn't even change. "Absinthe."

Bruce poured himself a cup.

A decision had never been so hard and so easy at the same time. He looked wearily at the Robin uniform, mulling over each component of it as he folded them over and packed them away. They'd be in storage for a while. He'd display them in the Bat Cave someday, but only when they were relics. Right now it was all too fresh. The wounds were still too raw for any celebratory images. Bruce wasn't ready for the symbolism, and he was sure Dick wouldn't be.

Unbeknownst to him, Dick was watching him pack away the uniform—his uniform—through a crack in one of the doors in the corridor. He watched as Bruce carried the box up the attic stairs.

He didn't cry. He didn't burst out and chase after Bruce, try to convince him to stop what he was doing. He didn't know what to do, or what to feel. What did this mean? That he had lost his partner? That him and Bruce were through forever? His mentor no longer believed in him? Was he orphaned again? Abandoned?

The gypsy sat on his bed, looked out the window, hugging himself. His arm had just come out of the cast. It was thin and brittle with atrophy.

Bruce came in an hour later and found him that way. Their eyes didn't meet. Dick couldn't see the sadness and fatigue in Bruce's eyes.

"We've got to talk, chum."

"It's okay," Dick said, as Bruce approached and sat on the edge of the bed at a cautious distance. His eyes traveled to the fading bruise on Dick's arm where Bruce had clutched him. "I know you're getting rid of me."

Bruce frowned. What was he feeling? He had no goddamn idea. "I'm getting rid of Robin," he said. "I'm not getting rid of Dick Grayson."

I'm getting rid of Robin. Those were the hardest words Richard Grayson ever heard. He felt them in his chest, in his heart. A real, physical pain.

Bruce reached out to touch his son, but Dick automatically shied away from the touch.

"Please," Bruce said, quietly. Dick wouldn't look at him.

Bruce sighed, got up, and left.

That night, Bruce sat in his room, too tired to sleep. Finishing the healing process was going to be hard. A strange sensation came over him; he felt like there was too much air around him, like he could only feel "right" if there were pressure all over his body. He saw Dick behind his eyes, and he felt a sense of urgency. But he couldn't bring himself to get up and go visit him.

"Master Bruce." Alfred edged the door open with caution, letting a line of yellow light from the hallway filter in.

"Not now, please," Bruce said, quiet. So quiet and hoarse. What was this feeling in his throat? It was so unfamiliar.

Alfred didn't listen. Bruce didn't even notice the footsteps of his loafers until the bed creaked under a new presence and the elderly man's hand was on the crime-fighter's shoulder.

The physical contact was all it took. Bruce's face didn't change. He didn't cough or move or sniff or anything. But tears started falling down his cheeks. Hot, salty tears that he hadn't felt since…how long had it been? He forgot that he even could cry. He forgot how unpleasant and how simultaneously relieving it somehow was.

Alfred wordlessly let Bruce's tears flow. A few coughs and sighs were manly replacements for typical sobs.

It was close enough. Alfred never thought he'd see Bruce like this ever again. The last time he rubbed his back while he cried had been the night his parents were murdered.