Big Fan of Trees

Nightwing: Year Zero

My eighteenth birthday comes and goes, like nothing special is happening.

I'm not too surprised, as my birthday is on the same week my brother Jason had passed. We never really celebrated it; the week to painful for my father to pull himself out of his spiral of guilt. It's not his fault, never was, despite the haunted look whenever he glanced at the calendar. The routine has been similar since I was twelve, the first time I took upon my brother's mantle: my father would spent the whole day at work, I would visit Jason's grave with Uncle Thomas and Rhea, and we'd patrol afterwards; Arthur's hits becoming more violent, the lines in his face deepened as the mercy bled out of his form.

I guess he's more sentimental tonight, as Arthur had took his time to give me a present: an elegant Rolex watch with silver and electric blue accents. It's not my grandfather's watch, that's for sure, as the man leant on pure silver as his signature jewellery. It means that Arthur had put in an order, despite everything.

I had blinked in surprise, absent-mindedly running my fingertips on the gleaming material. "Did—" I swallowed, turning over the watch, only to spot the elegant engraving on the back of the watch-face.

To Damien: Fly high.
A.B.

My throat constricted. "You put in an order for my birthday." It wasn't a question, and the awe creeping up my throat made it hard to swallow.

Arthur's smile was wry. It always is, this time of year, as his grief caused his smile to shutter. "I thought you'd appreciate it," he said. "It's your eighteenth, after all. You're becoming quite the young man." There's a sense of pride in his words, but I can't decipher if it's actual pride towards me, or relief that I hadn't tainted Jason's legacy.

"Thank you," I said instead. I carefully put back the watch in its royal blue suede casing, watching as my reflection on the glass disappear as I close the case.

Arthur nodded tightly. For a moment, he looked like the father that had raised me, back in the day; unsure, though there's warmth in his eyes. "Happy birthday, son," he said, stilted. "I'm proud of you."

If I were someone else, I'd beam. But I am who I am. "Thank you," I swallowed, trying to control the hobble of my voice. That night, the watch and its box sat in my bedside table.


"Robin, status."

I groaned, stabbing pain into my ribs as I struggled to get up. Fuck. It's bruised, all right. "All kidnappers subdued, hostage is with the authorities." I grit my teeth, clutching into my side. My steps hobbled, though the shadows hid me from the red-and-blue of police lights. "I've gotten injured, but nothing too serious."

Batman grunted. "I told you to wait for Black Bat to give you back-up."

He did say that. I was disobeying direct order. "Well," I said, aiming my grapple gun into the roof of a nearby building. The swing was nearly nauseating, but muscle memory abled me to land on my feet smoothly. "They changed their plans. I wasn't going to sit around and wait for them to shoot the hostage's brains out."

Leaning against a ventilation unit, I let myself breathe. With every fluttering breath, my ribs screamed its protest at me. Fuck.

"You're being reckless," continued Batman, disapproval dripping from every syllables. "If it gets much further, I'm afraid I'd have to set you into a perimeter. You need to be able to work more carefully, Robin."

This. Again, and again, and again. It's like I can't do anything without his warning. Why is it so hard to trust me, for once? He's trained me for nearly nine years, now. At what point can I work on my own?

"Great," I deadpanned. "Perimeters on my first week of being eighteen. How wonderful."

Arthur paused from his end of the comms. "I just want you to be safe."

I forced myself to exhale. Fuck, I can't have this conversation here. Not with my body screaming at me to slow down and breathe. Not when I'm vulnerable enough to get caught. "Look, I'm heading back to the cave. Can we just talk there?"

A grunt. Probably something along the lines of, "Okay. Sure." Damn old man.

"Robin out."


"Damien—"

I unwrapped my fingers roughly, ignoring the screaming ache of my bruised hands. "I know."

"I don't mean to undermine you, but you are after all, in my care, adult or not. I do not need you getting hurt in the field because you do not listen," Arthur's still speaking in his infamous growl, though there's no malice in his tone.

I know. I wasn't being impulsive, what I've did is perfectly calculated, and I know that the end result would've been non-lethal to me, at least. Plans don't have to be singular, goddamnit, and I wish he knew that. "You've told me yourself that plans change in the battlefield," I reminded him, picking up an ice pack from the communal cool-box. "I was just adapting, A. That man would've died if I waited for Black Bat."

Black Bat is my sister's alias—dark as the night, more of a whisper than Batman's imposing shadow. She's still currently out, finishing up the last of her routes. It's unfair; Rhea's a couple of years younger and she's out there patrolling, while I'm ... close to being grounded, whether or not I've managed to fuck this conversation up.

Batman—Arthur sighed, already pulling his cowl off. From here, I can see his exasperated face, lines carving deep from the harsh light of the ceiling. "You're not wrong," he finally said. "But things could go incredibly wrong. It's imperative for you to listen, at least at first."

I clenched my jaw. "What if the man died, then? What then?"

Arthur glowered. "You're playing with what-ifs, son. Let me ask you this; you died, the man died. The mission is a bust, and now I'm left with two dead children! Then what, Damien?!"

I pursed my lips, looking down at the floor at the cave. He's right. I don't want to admit it, but he's right. The feeling of mistake curled unpleasantly at the base of my sternum, as I ditched the last of my armour onto the floor. "I was making a calculated decision," I repeated, willing my voice to stay level. "I was being reckless but I'm not dumb, Arthur." My eyes met his; and for a moment, I can see a resemblance of what I remember of my father, before exasperation and something haunting replaced it.

"I'm sorry for insinuating that," Arthur said, diplomatically. Softness took over his expression, again. "You are more than capable, Damien, but after everything, I just couldn't ..." He looked solemn, brows furrowed as he tried to find his words. He looked at me again, grief-stricken, and I tried my best to not blanch. "I've lost a son, Damien. I don't want to lose another."

I couldn't bear meeting his eyes. Desperately, I shifted my gaze onto the rows of display cases of costumes. Jason's vandalised costume stood at the middle—taunting Arthur. Taunting me. Every torn piece, every blood-stained mix of kevlar and lycra; each stroke of yellow jokes on you, Batman!

I swallowed. "I'm sorry." And I found myself meaning it.

Arthur nodded tightly, collecting what's left of his bearing. He didn't like to talk about Jason; never does, and each memory of my brother had been some kind of minefield. He shrugged off his cowl and cape, before heading to the changing room to fully clean up, leaving me alone.

I let out an exhale, turning back to fully face the display cases. Jason's ... shrine. Or something. Jason Aldwyn-Berkman, age 15. Son and soldier.

I grimaced at the title. Uncle Thomas had been the one preparing the name-plate for the display case. I never liked it—Jason was ... was more than a soldier. He was my brother. He had taken me to visit Gotham Aquarium, earlier in the week when he died. He was smart, insightful, like a true Berkman Enterprises heir should be at his age. Sure, he might be THE first Robin; my predecessor, the one I should aspire to be, but he was, first and foremost, my brother. He didn't ... deserve only to be remembered by his death.

Fifteen. I'm older than he was when he passed. I wonder who would he be if he'd gotten the chance to be twenty-one.

I thought about Arthur, how he looked at me after Jason died. There was a spark of longing that he could never shake off. It starts after Jason's death; and I'm not stupid enough to not guess that it's because we look alike. He was being selfish, something he never allowed himself to, to grief like a father instead having to carry on between the crime world of Gotham. He wants to call me Jason, I know, and all I can do is shrug it on like an ill fitting mantle. Jason's uniform; scorched and torn, a shrine towards Arthur's greatest failure.

I blinked back, looking up at the ruined red-yellow-green. I could ... never, live up to be him. That's all I know. All I can be is try to be a good enough replacement, and isn't that a tough pill to swallow? The mantle will never be mine. Never passed on as it rightfully be.

I looked down at my discarded suit. I've changed it; made it more my own, but I don't think it'll ever be mine, fully. My fingers twitched. Was I beating a dead boy's legacy, just because I believe that my father needed his beacon of light? I could never shine as bright as Jason.

Was this all I can be?

I don't know. I don't think I'll ever know. []

#AU #Fics #IF:Freefall #InFragments