Chapter 3
Ric wanted to cry. He knew he should cry—the history of Richard Grayson in the set of lost memories was full of moments with Alfred Pennyworth. Someone had to take care of him and Bruce while they were off being Batman and Robin, and the butler was that person.
When Clint told him Alfred had died, he didn’t feel anything. It wasn’t a numbness, just… a lack of emotions connected to the person. Dick would be in mourning. Dick would know how much this should hurt. Dick would be up there with Bruce, Barbara, and the two boys who must be his brothers Damian and Timothy.
But he wasn’t Dick, and the fact he remained at Clint’s side blending into the crowd of spectators just proved it.
The only reason he was here is that Clint asked him to come. He understood the reasoning—if you get your memories back, you’ll want to know you were here—and in a way, he hoped it would come true, as it would give him back those connections to his life.
Instead, he just stood awkwardly in a borrowed suit, staring up at the statue of Alfred and a young Bruce, trying to see something that would trigger a single memory beyond the one time Alfred visited him in the bar and Ric chased him away.
Clint was listening to the speeches, his eyes hidden behind a purple S.H.I.E.L.D. issued visor. He was in his uniform: a black unitard with a padded top half—bulletproof—that had dark-purple accents on his hips and shoulders and combat boots. The S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem was on one sleeve, and a white stencil of the American flag on the other. He left the “utility belt” at home, opting to wear his S.H.I.E.L.D. leather jacket and visor instead.
Ric knew Clint was armed. One boot had a gun, the other a hunting knife. He was pretty sure the inner pockets of the jacket had other projectiles as well. He just hoped Clint wouldn’t need to use them.
But they were in Gotham City. Chaos happened on the hour in this town.
It was a fitting memorial, Ric felt. From what he knew of Alfred, the man had taken care of this Batfamily. He remembered some of their stories that he had been told after waking up from the coma, and it made sense for a children’s hospital to be named for him.
Alfred had probably patched them all up multiple times. Clint said that he would have gone insane after his bad fall if Alfred wasn’t there to care for him during his own recovery. Seeing how Clint hurt anytime he brought Alfred up these days, Ric knew how deep of a bond had been created at that moment.
Ric really wished he could feel it.
When the service was over, Clint whispered into Ric’s ear about going to a bar for a more private conversation. He was tempted to just get on his motorcycle and head back to Blüdhaven, but something in his gut told him he needed to go. It was more than a “you’ll regret it when you get your memories back” feeling, but instead a need be a supportive presence for the rest of them.
Maybe it would go better than it did when he first woke up and didn’t recognize them. God, he hoped so.
Clint needed a drink, so he was glad this little family reunion was happening at a bar. There was tension in the air before they even entered the establishment. He had avoided Jason like the plague after that night on the docks, making this the first time they’ve seen one another since. Clint still didn’t know what to say, so he just stayed quiet and at least six feet away from him.
Barbara gave him a sad smile, but seconds after they walked in, she was already focusing on Tim so he didn’t approach. Tim, the only one he had yet to meet in person as an adult, gave off the aura of the peacemaker, but Clint wasn’t sure he’d be successful in this atmosphere.
Damian looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear. Clint didn’t know why. He caught the quick looks the youngest took of Ric, and Clint realized that Ric was the one he wanted to comfort him… which was probably what Dick would be doing.
Fuck, this was going to get worse, and quickly.
Ric jumped over the top of the bar to mix drinks. He didn’t even ask Clint before he started the coffee brewer. Yeah, they didn’t live together at all. Clint sat on the bartop, feeling unsure of where he actually stood in this grouping. He wasn’t as disconnected as Ric was—visually acknowledged by having the entire bar between him and his family.
Clint should be with the others, but none of them knew his secret. Only Bruce. So he couldn’t show too much emotion to make them suspicious.
God, he really needed to tell them. His excuses as to why he didn’t were running out.
“The butler?! Really? Show from fucking RESPECT!” Jason shouted. Clint shook himself out of his thoughts and saw Jason leaning in, almost ready to punch Ric.
Moving quickly, Clint slid off the bar and between the two of them. He pushed Jason back with one arm. “Lay off him, Jason,” Clint warned.
“Fuck you, Clint,” Jason growled. “You trying to police us now? Couldn’t find an actual suit, or did S.H.I.E.L.D. send you to recon on us? Not like either of you are part of this family anymore.”
“Not like any of you were in the city when things really went down with Bane!” Barbara shouted over them.
Jason turned his glare onto Barbara. “Don’t give me that crap. I was steering clear to keep Bane from killing Alfred. For once I actually listened to Bruce, unlike someone else.” He motioned at Damian, who had his fists clenched and stared at the floor.
Clint reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Yup, this was going about as well as Clint expected it to go.
“Enough.”
Clint jerked his head up to see Bruce in the doorway. The man radiated grief, but his face stayed impassive, as always. There was anger in his voice, but his shoulders sagged just barely, revealing more disappointment than rage.
This was not the man he saw in Paris. It wasn’t even the one who delivered the news of Alfred’s death. Bruce was defeated at this moment, and Clint leaned back against the bar, head tilted, curious as to why.
Ric handed Clint a cup of coffee before starting to pour a few cups of ginger ale. Clint chuckled, seeing that Ric silently agreed with him that alcohol was not something to introduce into this powder keg.
Damian broke his silence and proceeded to share a memory of his time with Alfred. Clint smiled, remembering his own arguments with Bruce once he became mobile and felt caged in at the manor. He could see a tiny Damian fuming and Alfred just being stoic yet empathetic.
What he would pay, though, to see Alfred in a batsuit.
Then Damian started talking about witnessing Alfred’s murder, and Clint felt the weight that Damian carried with him. He was a kid still. What fucked up world had Gotham become that let a child witness such a thing, and believe it was his own doing?
Actually, Clint knew that feeling. Fuck.
When Damian left and Bruce made no motion to follow after him, Clint growled and pushed off the bar heading for the door. “Clint, don’t—” Bruce started, but Clint ignored him and kept going, pushing his way outside.
The tiny ball of agony was already a block away, so Clint ran after him. “Damian, wait!”
Damian froze but didn’t turn around. “I don’t wish to speak to you, Barton.”
Clint walked around Damian and knelt to his level. “Then don’t, just listen.” He took a deep breath. “I know the kind of pain you’re going through. But what happened is not your fault.”
“—tt—” Damian tutted, still staring at the ground. “Of course it is. If I hadn’t—”
“Damian, it is not your fault.” Clint grabbed both of Damian’s shoulders. “You didn’t make Bane kill Alfred. You didn’t hold Bruce back from getting there sooner. You didn’t let Bane escape from Arkham. You tried to help, and sometimes it doesn’t work, and someone gets hurt. But you didn’t create the situation, and I’m sure as hell certain you didn’t want Alfred to die.”
“Of course not!” Damian scoffed, lifting his head. Clint could see the indignation through his tears. “But Todd’s right. I shouldn’t have gone after him.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But knowing Alfred, he wouldn’t blame you, so neither should you.”
Damian opened his mouth to refute the logic, but he couldn’t. Clint watched Damian’s lips tremble, searching for something to say to hold onto the guilt. “He… he said I was acting like a child.”
Clint inched closer, one of his hands sliding back to gently stroke the boy’s hair. “Damian, for all you’ve gone through and done… you are still a child. And there’s nothing wrong with that. What you did was an act of love for a city, for a man who meant the world to you. I know I’m not Dick, but you know he’d be saying the same thing I’m saying now.”
Damian nodded, reaching up to wipe at his tears. “Yes, he would. He was insufferable like that.”
“Then just listen to his voice in your head, okay? I know it’s going to be hard, but they wouldn’t want you to carry this guilt. You can’t change it, so accept it, grieve, and then come back to the fight to make sure no one else goes through something like that again.”
Damian was silent a moment, then after a second of checking his surroundings, he stepped forward into Clint’s arms, hugging him tightly. Clint smiled, returning the embrace for a handful of seconds before Damian pushed himself away. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Clint reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “This is my private, encrypted cellphone line. If you need someone to talk to, I’ll be there. If I’m on a mission, I might not be able to answer right away, but I will reply when I can. Okay?”
“I doubt I will need it,” Damian stated, but he slid the card into his pocket anyway.
“I’m sure you won’t.” Clint stood back up and gave Damian’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “I think I see the bar door opening. Get going.”
Damian nodded, then turned down the next alley. Clint heard the sound of a grappling gun and chuckled, then put his hands in his pockets and walked back to the bar.