Work Text:
#1
Bruce had made flashcards.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. Because, weeks ago, when Bruce had decided to reveal to his eight-year-old ward that he moonlights as a bat-themed vigilante that spends most nights kicking the shit out of unsuspecting criminals, he’d deemed it necessary to prepare himself for any and (assumedly) all possible reactions. Because there really was no telling how Dick Grayson would respond to this somewhat critical piece of information about his legal guardian and Bruce wanted to be prepared.
Part of his preparation included spending long, grueling nights in the trenches of the Manor’s most erudite libraries, picking apart various self-help novels and parenting blogs alike. Bruce spent untold hours puzzling over the intricacies of his ward’s exorbitant personality, analyzing all the caveats of Dick’s psyche like he had done before for various Rouges—all so he could mastermind the most effective, least traumatizing way to let Dick in on the Secret.
But Dick’s varied, haphazard emotion spectrum made the task challenging. (Bruce wondered if he had some sort of personality disorder, because there was no way it was normal for eight-year-olds to fluctuate between thirsting for blood to crying over a stubbed toe to giggling maniacally over something Bruce said during dinner that wasn’t actually that funny—but then again, Bruce knew exactly jack shit about eight-year-olds, so maybe it was normal.) Bruce eventually came to the conclusion that he had exactly zero clue on how to handle this situation, so he called Alfred.
And Alfred, in all his infinite wisdom, told him to make flashcards—because what better way to formulate possible responses to differing scenarios (anger, awe, terror, anything Dick could possibly feel) then a good old set of flashcards?
So, Bruce had made flashcards.
But the flashcards had not prepared him for this.
“Dick,” he said tersely. “Could you please repeat that?”
Dark blue eyes blinked up at him innocently. “Huh?”
“What you just said. Could you say it again?”
“Oh! Yeah!” Dick grinned, wide and easy, and bounced in a series of smooth jumping-jacks (because, Jesus, that kid could not stand still for more than five minutes, really). “I asked if this was your Batcave!”
Bruce stared at him blankly. “Bat… Cave?”
“Yeah, that’s what I just said, B!”
“Bat. Cave.”
His stare must have been particularly incredulous, because Dick paused in his jumping just long enough to shoot Bruce a frowning, impenitent look—as if Bruce was being an idiot for not catching on.
“Yeah, the Batcave,” Dick echoed. “Stop repeating me. It’s weird.”
Dick said “weird” like it was the highest of insults in the land, which Bruce didn’t know how to feel about. He wasn’t weird, he was cool! He was a cool dad. Parent. Guardian. Whatever. He was still figuring it out.
Nonetheless—what Bruce did feel was a headache. A massive one. Because, well, shit. This had definitely not been in any of his flashcards.
He took some comfort in the fact that his ongoing self-crisis and developing migraine didn’t hinder Dick’s enthusiasm. His ward’s blue eyes were blown wide with rapture and his limbs squirmed excitably with pure, unadulterated glee as he took in the extensive collection of gadgets, tools, trinkets, and gear that Bruce had collected in his relatively short tenure as a vigilante. It was a welcome sight—when Bruce had first led him to the Grandfather Clock and the hidden stairwell behind it, Dick had been nearly too terrified to speak. But the moment he caught sight of all the shiny equipment and the Batman suit, he’d been so enthused that he’d launched into a series of progressively aggressive cartwheel combinations. It’d taken Bruce a full ten minutes to get him still enough for them to actually have a conversation about what all of it meant.
It had been sweet, for a while. Bruce had really thought he was nailing the whole “I’m Batman” conversation. Dick had asked insightful questions and thoughtfully thanked him for his help in bringing his parent’s killer to justice. Bruce had been ready to tell Alfred to put on a pot of hot chocolate that would murder his cholesterol, kick back and watch House of the Dragon, and die happy with the knowledge that Dick finally new the Secret.
But then it all went downhill. Naturally.
For Bruce, at least. Dick was still having a blast.
“I—” Bruce massaged his temples and looked to his beaming, wiggling son ward. “I’m sorry, chum. I don’t mean to repeat you. It’s just… Dick, what do you mean by “Batcave,” exactly?”
“B!” Dick sighed incredulously. “You’re being silly.”
“Am I.”
“Yes!”
Dick started giggling wildly. Bruce tried not to have an aneurysm. He loved this child, he loved this child, he loved this child—even though he never had any idea what was going on inside its head.
“Oh, I guess I am being silly, maybe,” Bruce conceded. “But can you be silly with me, and tell me what you mean?”
That somehow got Dick to perk up even more, which Bruce hadn’t been convinced was humanly possible.
“Sure! I love being silly!” Dick informed him happily. His jumping-jacks suddenly evolved into something that looked more like in-place hopscotch, and he started giggling again, like he did when they were playing hide-and-seek and Bruce was pretending not to see him. With a little skip, Dick gestured around the vast subterranean complex and said, “This is the Batcave, B! Duh!”
“… Right.”
Dick nodded piously. “It’s because you’re Batman and because this is your cave. And like how your car is the Batmobile and your computer is the Batcomputer. Because you’re Batman.”
Bruce was, indeed, Batman. He was less certain about everything else Dick had just said.
“Do you wanna know something else?” Dick asked.
Bruce wasn’t sure he did, but he nodded anyway.
Dick grinned and started bouncing in a circle. “During snack time yesterday I was watching Wild Krats with Alfred and there were a lot of baby bats and they all lived in the cave, too! Alfred said it’s because they’re noc-turn-u-al. So if you’re Batman then you have to live in a cave because that’s where bats are supposed to be. Otherwise you’d just be Man and that wouldn’t be as cool.”
“Uh-huh,” Bruce said, totally not following.
“So Batman has to live in the Batcave,” Dick continued. “But you have to live in the Manor with me and Alfred or you won’t be able to tell me bedtime stories and that would make me really sad.”
“That would make me sad, too,” Bruce admitted. “That’s why I try to wait until you’re asleep before I come down here.”
“To the Batcave,” Dick supplied.
“Well, it’s more of a bunker then a cave—”
“But it’s a cave,” Dick interrupted, pouting. “You can’t be Batman and have a secret lair that isn’t a cave. That wouldn’t make any sense! Because Wild Krats said so and—and Wild Krats can’t be wrong, can it, Bruce?”
“Uh.”
Bruce rubbed at his temples. Because, hell if he actually knew—his brand had been more of an aesthetic choice. He couldn’t list five facts about bats other than that they occasionally scared the shit out of him during patrol and that they crapped on his computer from time to time.
But Dick’s eyes suddenly swarmed with tears, like the very idea of the validity of an ABC show being questioned was enough to bring his world crashing down. And shit. Just a little glistening in those stary blue eyes and Bruce could feel his parental instincts kicking in. Because—tears, holy shit, tears, Dick cannot be crying, crying is bad, Bruce is prepared for crying in general but he’s grossly underprepared for tears relating to arguments about was does or doesn’t qualify as a cave, what the hell—
“Oh, sweetheart,” Bruce said quickly, reaching out for his kid. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry, it’s okay.”
Dick turned his glossy gaze to him, sniffling heavily as he asked, “Wild Krats can’t lie. Lying is bad!”
Bruce nodded seriously, because lying was bad, mostly, but really the only thing running through his mind was fuck me, because he really, really should have made more flashcards.
“Well,” he said uneasily, “Wild Krats isn’t lying. Bats do live in caves, technically. But I don’t live in a cave.”
“But Batman does?” Dick asked innocently. “Because he’s a bat?”
“I—” Bruce made a face. “Dick, Batman isn’t a real bat. I’m Batman, and I’m a human.”
“Duh, B, I know you’re a human!” Dick whined through watery eyes. “But you’re also a Batman! And Bats have to live in caves or they’ll die! And you can’t die, that would be really sad.”
Bruce really did not want Dick to be sad. “I, um, well—I guess this is sort of a cave.”
“A Batcave,” Dick corrected.
“Chum, I still don’t think—”
“Batcave!” Dick cheered, cutting Bruce off and clearly done with the conversation about whether or not Bruce’s headquarters qualified as a cave or not.
Dick’s tears vaporized as he wiggled out of Bruce’s grip, like he was more worm then child, and once he was free he squealed happily before angling into another series of complicated cartwheels. When his small feet came dangerously close to the wall where Bruce kept the explosives, he launched into motion, quickly snatching the little acrobat off the ground.
Dick seemed to take this as permission to climb him like a jungle gym. He giggled and hung on him. Bruce would’ve found it more endearing if he wasn’t still trying to cope with the power Wild Krats allegedly held over his child.
“I love the Batcave!” Dick announced, loudly and directly into Bruce’s ear. (He fought a wince—things were never very loud before Dick.) Then Dick leaned forward until he was looking at Bruce almost upside down, bopping their noses together. “We’re gonna be the best superheroes ever, B!”
Dick had a smile bright enough to melt the polar ice caps and the lingering walls of confusion in Bruce’s mind. He started to smile back, but then—
“Wait a minute,” Bruce said. “We?”
“Batman and Robin!” Dick screeched, making no indication that he’d heard Bruce. “That’s my superhero name, B. I decided. Because that’s what my Tati called me and it was super cool.”
Bruce blanched. “Chum, no, you can’t—”
“I’m gonna be a superhero!” Dick cheered in a sing-song voice. He swung off Bruce’s shoulders, dipped into a smooth somersault, and came up into a handstand, laughing maniacally. “Batman and Robin!”
Bruce was frozen in place. This had quickly spiraled out of control—he didn’t even know what to say, because like hell was he letting this precious child out into Gotham in the middle of the night to try and fight criminals with him. Absolutely not.
But he also looked so happy—
Nope. No. Don’t give in. Don’t give in, Bruce, you’re stronger than this, damn it. Do not give into that adorable little smile.
Dick squealed and started to jabber, like Bruce wasn’t in the midst of having a heart attack across from him, and said, “I’m gonna be a great partner, B, just wait! I’m gonna do back-flips and kick bad guys and do super-secret stuff with you and save the world!”
“No you’re not,” Bruce said desperately. “That is a terrible idea. Wouldn’t you rather do gymnastics classes, or join the mathletes? I could enroll you in a—”
“No!” Dick shouted. “I want to be a superhero!”
“You don’t want to, chum, really—”
Dick’s face scrunched up. “Eww. Who doesn’t want to beat up bad guys?”
“Dick,” Bruce said seriously. “No.”
“Dick, yes,” Dick replied, hands on his hips.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No—”
“Yes!” his ward said happily. “Imma be a superhero!”
Bruce rubbed his forehead. This was not how he thought this conversation was going to go. God, he should have made more flashcards.
“Dick,” he tried. “Sweetheart, you can’t be—”
“Superhero!” Dick proclaimed.
His ward jumped to his feet and placed his hands on his hips, chin jutting forward—a pose Bruce had seen the Wonder Woman strike many a time on the few occasions they had worked together. It was fucking adorable. Bruce wanted a picture. (When did he turn into a basic suburban white mom? Why did no one tell him this was a side effect of parenthood? Damn it). Bruce had never been so upset that Diana turned out to be an excellent inspirational figure for young children. Damn.
Bruce was so fucked. Alfred was going to murder him. And then bring him back to life, just to kill him again.
Suddenly, Dick rushed forward, grabbing Bruce by the hand and jumping up and down gleefully. “We’re gonna be the best team in the world, B!” Dick exclaimed. “Even Superman’s gonna be jealous.”
Bruce didn’t know Superman very well (his initial impression had really just been wow, he’s hot) but he could imagine that his reaction to finding out that Bruce had allowed his eight-year-old to battle evil on school nights involved a lot less jealousy and a lot more laser-eyes and lecturing.
Bruce gulped. “Sweetheart—”
“I need a costume,” Dick continued, cutting him off effectively. He turned to him and flashed large, doe-like eyes up at him. Bruce had a sudden urge to pinch his cheeks and carry him around in his pocket. “B?” Dick asked. “Can you make me a costume like yours?”
Shit. Say no. Say no.
“Chum, I—” Bruce winced. “I don’t know if that’s the… the best idea.”
Dick’s face crumbled. Bruce hesitated—but, no! He couldn’t allow this! He’d brought Dick down here as a show of trust, but he hadn’t bet on him wanting to join him. He thought kids were only interesting in smoking weed and sneaking out! But maybe Dick was a little young for that? He should probably look at that parenting book he’d gotten from Lex Luthor… Wait, why did he try to get parenting advice from Lex Luthor, again?
Dick huffed a sob and Bruce quickly turned his attention to his sniffling ward.
“I thought we were gonna play in the Batcave together,” Dick murmured. “Did I do something wrong? Are you gonna send me back to the orphanage?”
Bruce stalled. “Uh.”
Dick was openly crying, tears slipping over his face. He rushed forward and clung onto the rolled-up sleeves of Bruce’s white button-down, pressing his small, olive face into his chest. “I’m sorry, Bruce!” he wailed. “Please don’t send me back!”
And… shit. Bruce had never been accused of having good communication skills, but he must be on another level of fucking-up, because his mind was total mush. Instead of saying anything of substance, like, “No, Dick, I’m not sending you away, but you always can’t fight crime, because that’s dangerous and I’d be a horrible parent if I let you do that,” he instead panicked, and said this:
“You’re not going anywhere, chum.” Bruce patted Dick on the back, then swung him up into the crook of his arms. Dick sniffled and hung onto him, turned large blue eyes up to meet his. “I promise,” Bruce added. “You’re here for good.” He paused. “But this place isn’t called the Batcave.”
Dick’s eyes watered. “Yes it is.”
“Chum… We can’t call it the Batcave.”
Suddenly, Dick’s tears vanished. He smiled up at Bruce, a mischievous gleam in his eye.
“We,” he said, emphasizing the word, “are definitely gonna call it the Batcave.”
#2
“Holy tomato-and-basil, Batman! The Batcave’s a mess!”
Bruce scowled and angled the hose at Dick’s face. His ward screeched like a baby bird and darted away, tracking even more sloppy, red goop across the concrete floor. Bruce felt a piece of his sole wither with each gooey glob that splattered off his ward—this was going to be a pain in the ass to clean up. He’d have to get one of those Zambonis, or something. (Could he buy one of those without looking suspicious? Did billionaires by a lot of Zambonis? He really should ask Bezos about that during their golf round next Friday.)
“Dick,” Bruce chided. “Stop getting that stuff everywhere. And I told you not to call it the Batcave anymore. It’s unprofessional.”
Dick stuck his tongue out, then scurried away to hide behind the giant penny.
Bruce sighed. It’d been over a month since Dick had become his sidekick (oh God, he was definitely going to hell for allowing that), but despite all of Bruce’s best efforts to keep their operation somewhat professional, Dick still insisted on calling their base the Batcave. He’d also taken to dubbing a myriad of Bruce’s paraphernalia and equipment with similar bat-themed names. (Like the batboat, and the bat-a-rangs, and the bat-computer, and the batmobile, and the—the point is made.) It annoyed Bruce to no end, but he’d quickly discovered that no matter how much he grouched, Dick would not listen to him. That within itself should’ve been a somewhat unsurprising epiphany, if he was being honest, because it’d been clear from the first time they met that Bruce was somewhat of a pushover when it came to Dick Grayson.
He'd tried to enlist Alfred’s help in teaching Dick how to maintain a granule of decorum in the midst of their illegal vigilantism, because no one respected protocol more then Alfred Pennyworth. But it’d been a vain effort; all Alfred did was remind him that it was his fault Dick was a vigilante, so therefore he has to deal with him, and that he really, really should have thought about all this before he allowed an eight-year-old to fight criminals at all hours of the night—
Bruce winced. The only person more disappointed in himself than himself for caving into Dick’s demand to become a sidekick was Alfred. It’d been over a year, and he was still getting snide comments and lukewarm coffee. Never let it be said that Alfred was incapable of being petty or salty; at this rate, Bruce was never going to live this decision down. Or get another cup of warm coffee.
“Dick!” Bruce called. “Come out from behind the penny! I need to hose you down!”
“Batman, don’t be such a loser!” Dick called. He darted out from behind the penny, then flung himself into a crisp round-off, sending the red goo flying in all directions. Bruce felt a sudden compulsion to put his head in the sand and cry.
“Lighten up a little!” Dick urged, grinning and still do acrobatics. “Come do cartwheels with meeee!”
“No,” Bruce said. “Please stop doing cartwheels.”
“No!”
“You’re getting slime everywhere, chum.”
“Yeah and it’s cool.”
“Dick—”
“Loser!” Dick proclaimed, and kept on doing cartwheels.
Bruce scowled and pettily turned the hose vaguely in Dick’s direction. The water spray didn’t go far enough to get to him, however, and Bruce was left to watch helplessly as the red slime hurled off his ward’s young body, getting, quite literally, everywhere.
That wasn’t to say Bruce wasn’t covered in it, too. The fact was they’d both gotten soaked through with mushy tomato juice during their most recent fight against a vegetable-themed villain, the Vegetable. The Vegetable had been hellbent on ringing an end to Gotham’s Nighttime Farmer’s Market—and as unfortunate as the situation had been, Bruce couldn’t help but see the irony, because only in Gotham was there such a thing as a nighttime farmer’s market and a villain stupid enough to try and destroy it.
But while Bruce’s suit had only been somewhat damaged by the flying tomatoes gun that had been the Vegetable’s choice of weaponry—the cape had taken the brunt of it, and he’d disposed of it in the harbor hours ago—Dick was a different story entirely. His little partner had been pelted by the tomato gun relentlessly in his effort to draw the fire from Bruce (“Stop worrying, Robin is a distraction, B!”), and not only that, but at one point during the fight his Robin had been tossed into multiple crates of ripe tomatoes, giving Bruce both a premature heart-attack (when Robin had first emerged Bruce had thought it was blood staining the front of his uniform) and then filling him with the deep-seated regret of a man who knew he’d have to try to convince his squirmy eight-year-old to take a bath once the battle was wrapped up.
So Dick was completely drench in ruby tomato goop—and he really needed to get him cleaned off before he accidently damaged any more of Bruce’s equipment.
“Dick!” Bruce shouted. “Get back here and let me rinse you off! You’re going to damage the computer!”
“It’s called the batcomputer!” Dick corrected.
But, nonetheless, he seemed to understand the serious undertone in Bruce’s voice, and dashed back regardless.
Bruce spent the next ten minutes trying to get his ward somewhat clean. Dick was of little help; he twirled around and made whale noises while Bruce hosed him down, in costume and all, and got halfway through the Moana soundtrack before deciding he should really try and see what it felt like to do a handstand.
Bruce let him fidget around as he pleased; at this point, he was just trying to get Dick clean enough not to get any more tomato juice in the cave. The actual Robin suit, he was going to have to burn. (That’d make it the third this month, because Jesus did Dick grow out of those things and destroy them quicker than a Shien mini skirt.) There was just no way he was ever going to get the smell and stain of that much tomato out of the costume. Even Alfred, with all his eldritch and cryptid laundry magic, would struggle to righten the tarnished suit.
He sighed. What a shame. But maybe this time, when he upgraded Dick’s suit, he’d finally convince him to incorporate some pants.
“Your turn!” Dick shrieked when Bruce finally determined that Dick was cleaned sufficiently and turned the hose away. His partner bolted across the slippery floor and yanked the hose out of Bruce’s hands, giggling.
“Be careful,” Bruce said firmly.
“No thanks!” Dick said.
Then he blasted him in the face with the hose.
Bruce sputtered and tried to turn away, but Dick, laughing manically, turned with him. Bruce couldn’t help but grin at the antics, and did as Dick had done earlier—he ran off. Dick chased after him, determined to keep the stream of water directed at his face. They sprinted around for a few minutes, Bruce cursing and Dick giggling, until Bruce and pretty much the entire floor was thoroughly soaked with hose water and tomato juice. Eventually they managed to wrangle out of their tarnished uniforms and into their not-as-sullied undergarments. Dick was left in his undersuit, but Bruce stripped down to just his pants—which Dick seemed to think was the funniest thing ever.
“You look funny!” Dick said, poking at Bruce’s abs. “Your stomach is super weird.”
“That’s not very nice, chum.”
“But it’s true.”
“Hm. Those are my abs.”
Dick squinted and poked Bruce’s belly button. “Do I have abs?”
“Yes. Everyone does—abs are short for abdominal muscles. But some muscles are more defined then others.”
“Huh.” Dick tilted his head, then started to titter again. “But it looks so silly!”
“Hm. Does it?”
“Yes! You—eeee!”
Dick screeched as Bruce yanked him off the ground, spraying water everywhere. He tossed the little acrobat onto the nearby training mat and then attacked him with tickles—because it was just too hard to resist the call of Dick’s infectious cackle.
They rolled around on the floor, until eventually a loud ahem filled the space, and they both looked up to see Alfred standing nearby, arms folded behind his back and an eyebrow quirked up suspiciously.
“Hey, Alfred,” Bruce said.
“Alfie!” Dick squealed. “Save me! B is ticking me to death!”
Alfred tilted his head impassively, but Bruce could swear there was a glimmer of amusement in the crow’s feet of his eyes. “Is that so, Master Richard?”
“Yes!” Dick said. “B’s being too silly!”
He managed to squirm away, then began to jump around Alfred excitedly. He did a happy backflip, and Bruce took it as a win when he didn’t slip on the wet ground and break his nose. Again.
“Well, I’m glad you’ve escaped from the Batman unscathed, Master Richard,” Alfred replied. “And Master Wayne—I see you’ve been enjoying yourself, tarnishing all this pristine equipment.”
“The bat-quipment,” Dick corrected.
“Ah, yes, pardon me, Master Richard,” Alfred said. “It seems you have both left the bat-quipment in quite a state.” He looked around the gooey, water hanger with pursued lips. “It seems the entire headquarters is in disarray.”
“Batcave,” Dick corrected, again.
Alfred seemed to be fighting a smile as he looked down at the nine-year-old fondly. “Of course. The Batcave.” He glanced at Bruce, who was sheepishly trying to avoid his butler’s gaze, and offered, “It’s getting quite late, isn’t’ it, Master Wayne?”
Damn. Bruce could take a hint.
He clamored to his feet, cracked his back, and gestured upstairs. “Alright, chum. Time for bed.”
Dick pouted. “But, B,” he whined. “That’s boring.”
“You want to sit and watch me do casework?” Dick’s face immediately screwed up. Bruce chuckled. “I thought so. Go take a shower, chum. And make sure to grab a post-patrol nutrient bar—I don’t want you sleeping on an empty stomach.”
Dick’s eyes widened.
“Bat-bar,” he whispered.
Then he darted off.
“Well, Master Wayne, it seems you too got into quite the tussle with the Vegetable during patrol,” Alfred hummed once the boy was gone. Slowly, he pulled out a sponge from his apron and held it out. “I do believe the Batcave is going to be in need of a good scrubbing, lest it smell like tomato till the end of time.”
Bruce winced. God, he knew what that tone of voice meant.
“Really, Alfred?” he muttered sullenly.
Alfred gave him a look.
“Oh, yes, Master Wayne,” he said. “Really.”
Alfred gestured once more with the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser, and Bruce took the little white sponge half-heartedly.
“I did this to myself, didn’t I?” he said.
“That you did, sir. That you did.”
#3
The dressing room had become a warzone of cufflinks and colorful button-downs. Bruce had, in his increasingly tenured position as the Batman, fought all manners of criminals and gone to war on half a dozen different planets—and it’d been awful, but honestly, he’d prefer taking swings at Darkseid then this.
“Dick!” he shouted. “Get back here!”
“No!” Dick shrieked.
His ward stuck his tongue out and ran towards the shoe rack. Bruce narrowly dodged a brightly-colored pair of tennis shoes, then a pair of equally brightly-colored crocs, as he chased after his son ward. The room was complete chaos and Dick was clearly not willing to be cooperative, but by God, Bruce was going to make sure they were on time for once in their lives.
He caught a flip flop that had been throw at his head, and across the room, Dick formulated a new strategy by jumping up onto a nearby ottoman, a polished shoe brandished in his hands like it was a bat-a-rang. (Damn it! He said he wasn’t going to call them that!) If it were any other eight-year-old, it would have looked ridiculously and crabby—but this was Dick Grayson. The Robin to the Batman. Bruce had trained him himself; that shoe was a weapon of mass destruction.
“Dick,” he said placatingly, dropping the sandal he’d caught to the ground. “Drop the shoe and come down from there. We have to finish getting you ready so that we can go to the gala.”
Dick glared at him. “No!”
“Richard Grayson—”
“Criminals are threating our city, Batman!” Dick interrupted heatedly. “We don’t need to go to a stupid party! We need to go to the Batcave! Don’t be boring!”
Bruce choose to ignore that last little part and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Dick, how many times do I need to go over this? For the last time, we can’t call it the Batcave.”
“Ugh, now you’re boring and lame!” Dick moaned, tossing his head back dramatically.
Bruce tried not to take that personally. Dick was ten years old now, which meant he’d recently discovered a whole new vocabulary list of insults to call Bruce when he pissed him off. Some were better than others—and a few were quite bad, and had ended him up with a bar of soap in his mouth and Alfred’s disapproving glare. (But Bruce tried to stay out of that.)
“Okay. Sure, I’m boring and I’m lame,” Bruce conceded. “But you’re still coming with me to this gala.”
“Never!” Dick shouted.
Quick as a bird, Dick lunged past him. And he was fast, but Bruce was still faster, and he had the height advantage. With a deft motion, he snagged Dick by the back of his collared button-down and dragged him back from the dressing room door he’d been trying to escape to. It was sort of like carrying a cat by the scruff—a fact which clearly did not translate well with Dick. His ward pouted deeply as Bruce carried him back across the chaotic dressing room, but thankfully stopped resisting as Bruce set him in front of the full-length mirror to adjust his tie.
“Nice try, chum,” Bruce acknowledged. “You’re getting faster. But you can’t get past me.”
“Maybe not now,” Dick muttered. “One day.”
Bruce tweaked Dick’s chin. “One day far from now.”
Well, maybe not that far from now. Dick was an excellent and dedicated student—he complied with all of Bruce’s assigned training regimes and always put his best work in, determined to get better, to be better. Stealth, cardio, plasticity, and the mental flexing of detective work came very easily to him, and with each lesson his Robin got closer and closer to surpassing Bruce with his talent. In what he lacked in physical mass and brute strength—two things of which Bruce sincerely doubted he would ever really obtain, given his current stature, those of his parents, and the fact that Dick was, first and foremost, an acrobat—he made up for with his particular knack for being fluid and nimble in the tightest of scenarios Bruce put him in.
It was really quite something.
Dick was quite something.
Bruce set to work, doing Dick’s tie into a clean Windsor knot. The tie was bright yellow, a shame between the fabric of his cape and the McDonalds Golden Arches. Dick had screeched with joy when he’d seen it in the catalogue of the men’s fashion magazine Bruce had left out on the coffee table, and Bruce hadn’t been able to stop himself from buying it for his son ward when he’d joyously presented Bruce the catalogue. They’d proceeded to spend the next four hours curled up on the couch in the drawing room, scrolling interchangeably through Dillard’s and Armani’s websites, buying increasingly silly ties—they made sure to get one smaller one for Dick, plus a larger size for Bruce, so they could match. Bruce’d had no regrets until this moment, because as much as he had enjoyed online shopping with Dick, the awful yellow tie was going to be grossly out of place at the Thomas Wayne Foundation Charity Gala. It was simply an affront to the eyes. But Dick had been adamant that it was either the yellow tie or the tie with the sparkling, dancing tacos, so Bruce had chosen the lesser of two evils.
(Alfred had not been impressed. Neither with his parenting skills nor with his new, vast collection of ridiculous ties.)
“I don’t get why we have to go to these things. It’s gonna be so boring,” Dick groaned dramatically.
He bounced in place and Bruce had to lay a hand on his head to steady him, so he could finish the knot. “Why do we even have to go? Criminals are overrunning the streets, Batman! Gotham needs the die-nun-duo!”
“Dynamic,” Bruce corrected.
Dick scowled. “That’s what I just said!”
“Alright, chum.”
“Yeah…” Dick murmured petulantly.
Bruce couldn’t help but smirk at Dick’s pouting face. It was a look that had, somehow, grown on Bruce exponentially in the couple of years that Dick had lived with him. Sometimes the rush of fond, loving emotion he got from looking at Dick’s pinchable checks and bright blue eyes caught him off guard—was it really natural to care so much about a miniature human being? It must be, because there was no way the amount of love in Bruce’s heart was ordinary.
“It’ll be fine,” Bruce said eventually. “Gotham can survive one night without Batman and Robin.”
“C’mon, B,” Dick replied. “We can’t take a night off!”
“Well, if you’re still feeling up for it after the gala, I suppose we can go on a patrol afterwards.”
Dick’s pout deepened. Bruce smirked.
“That’s not what I mean,” Dick muttered, dropping his chin to his chest and kicking at a nearby stray sock. “Let’s ditch the whole gala thing and do a patrol, that’s what I mean.”
“Hm.”
“B!”
“Hm?”
Dick scowled. “I just don’t get why we have to go to a party when there’s people we could be helping.”
Bruce tilted his head knowingly. “Well, it’s not just a party—it’s a charity gala. I’m hosting it to honor my father and help raise money for Gotham Memorial Hospital.”
“I know that,” Dick said. “It’s still boring.”
Bruce shrugged “I guess so.”
He kneeled down in front of Dick so they could be eye-level, and carefully tucked a white pocket square into the front of Dick’s suit. The flamboyant, gold W crest poked out and Bruce tucked it against Dick’s chest until the cloth sat right.
“Just try to think of it as another mission,” Bruce said, once he was done. “Like we’re undercover spies or something. I’ll let you design the mission parameters.”
“Only Batman and Robin get to go on missions,” Dick protested, nose scrunching—which, fair. Maybe that wasn’t Bruce’s greatest idea. “It can’t be a mission if you have to wear a suit and a tie. That’s so lame. And don’t you hate galas too?”
Bruce made a face. Because, well, his kid wasn’t really wrong. Bruce was not a fan of galas. They were loud and filled with obnoxious people who talked exclusively about golf, what Ivy League they’d attended (bonus points if they mentioned how much money they’d recently donated and if they had a building named after them), and their stock portfolios. The sole exception to these three pillars of gala conversation was, oddly enough, Lex Luthor, who always seemed to be in attendance and who was, doubly oddly enough, extremely knowledgeable in parenting books. (How or why Lex Luthor felt the need to know how to raise a child, Bruce had no idea—but he figured that he’d get the reason why eventually. And from there it would be Superman’s problem, because Batman didn’t tango in Metropolis.)
It was also true that despite everything he’d said to Dick, Bruce might actually be in the one person in the universe who despised galas more than his own ward. Because, by God, if Mrs. Hobbs made another pass at him or if the Mayor spilled one more plate of sauteed shrimp on his suit… Bruce was going to lose it. Just go full on psycho. He’d be past redemption.
Bruce shivered at the reminder of all the things he hated about galas, all the bad memories. But—no, he couldn’t give in. He’d planed this party, and Dick had to go. (Dammit, Bruce had to go, too. This was so unfair.)
“Sorry, sweetheart, but you aren’t getting out of this one,” Bruce said.
“You suck.”
“Noted.”
He started to re-do Dick’s cufflinks, because somehow his ward had managed to turn them both inside out and upside down.
“B—” Dick whined.
“You know, chum,” Bruce interrupted, “criminals aren’t the only one’s threating Gotham; underfunded hospitals can cause a lot of harm in local communities. People can get sick, and most of them can’t afford the proper care on their own, so they need support from the hospitals. But the hospitals can’t help if they don’t have money. That’s why we’re having this gala tonight—so we can raise that money for the people who need it.” He brushed his knuckles along Dick’s chin. “Sometimes, kiddo, we can do more good as Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson then as Batman and Robin.” He tilted his head to the side, appraising his child. “And besides, afterwards, I’ll take you to get ice cream at Baskin Robins.”
Dick lit up. Bruce felt sort of bad for using the ice cream cop-out (Alfred was already questioning his parental ability as it was), but if it got Dick to smile, it was worth it.
“B and Robins?” Dick confirmed. “Our place?”
“Our place.”
“I guess that isn’t so bad,” Dick conceded, already starting to tug on the cufflinks Bruce had just painstakingly needled onto him. “Can I get strawberry?”
Bruce smirked. “You can get two flavors.”
Dick glowed. “Really!?”
“Only if you’re good. And if you don’t tell Alfred.”
Dick’s wiggled with excitement and Bruce tried not to coo at the sight—sometimes he really just wanted to cradle his baby Robin in his arms and keep him in the nest forever. (Oh God, Bruce, don’t go there, don’t think about Dick leaving for college—)
Dick bounced on his toes and went up easily when Bruce picked him up. “Can we eat it in the Batcave?” he asked as Bruce carried him away. “Next to the dinosaur?”
Bruce grimaced. Damn, he really did need to get rid of that thing. The Gotham Museum of Natural Science probably wanted that back.
“I don’t know about that, chum. And, hey—” Bruce, falsely cross, reached out and flicked a giggling Dick on the nose as he bounced him up on his hip. “Our base of operations is a grade-a control center with security more advanced than the Pentagon. There’s technology in there that even the US military doesn’t have access to. Calling it a Batcave is a little insulting, chum. We’ve gone over this.”
(Bruce could say the same thing for the Batmobile. And the Batcomputer. And the Bat-a-rangs. And the Batbike. And the Batboat. And the Batbucket. And the Bat-Shark-repellent. And the Batsub—)
“B!” Dick screeched, wiggling in his grip. “That’s just what it’s called! It makes sense that way. Because you’re Batman. And it’s way catchier then ‘military-grade-operations-blah-blah-blah-secret-lair-cave. Or whatever you call it.”
Bruce sighed. He wasn’t going to try and argue with that. The thought process of eight-year-olds was still a little bit beyond his capacity to understand.
But at least he’d gotten Dick sufficiently fancied-up. Bruce paused on the way out of the dressing room to cast a quick glance in the mirror; in their matching suits (no matching ties—Bruce would not be caught dead in a tie that outrageously yellow, please), they almost looked like father and son.
Bruce smiled. Maybe they were. Maybe they could be.
#4
“Hey, B. B, Bruce. C’mon. Bruce.”
Bruce groaned and pushed his head further into the warmth and comfort of his down-feathered pillow. He tried to block out the incessant noise, but there was a small, bony finger poking him in the ear and, well, he couldn’t ignore that for very long, now could he?
“B, wake up, I need to go the Batcave,” whined the same voice as before. And—Bruce knew that voice very well.
“Dick,” he grumbled into the pillow, his tone raspy and smokey from sleep and the lingering grouse of the Batman’s rumbling tenure in his throat. “It’s five in the morning, chum.”
He’d gotten back from patrol less than an hour ago. Usually, Bruce would still be up, either working a case or going over some things for Wayne Enterprises, but a series of unfortunate events had sent him to bed earlier; the Joker had been out on the town tonight (which was the reason he’d forced Dick to stay and monitor the computer in the Batcave tonight because like hell was his eight-almost-nine-year-old going to fight the Joker), he’d gotten into a particular nasty fist-fight with one of Black Mask’s newest goons (exported from the deepest Russian wilderness, apparently, what joy), he’d already been running on fifty-one hours without sleep, and on top of that, he’d been feeling under the weather for the past couple of days ever since Dick brought him a virus from school. When Bruce had finally trudged home after a long night of crime fighting, he’d practically fallen asleep in the shower, and it was only thanks to Alfred and a quick shot of expresso that he was able to muster the energy to drag himself out of the cave and into his bed.
But regardless of his own sleep schedule—Dick should still be asleep, not wandering around the Manor at godawful hours of the morning. He’d instructed Alfred to put his partner to bed at one o’clock sharp (early for him, all things considered, but his Robin was still fighting that school virus, whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not), and on top of that, Dick was an extremely heavy sleeper; he always passed right out when someone forced his head onto a pillow. (It wasn’t the best routine for a vigilante—they should always be alert and aware even in deep in the subconscious of sleep—but Bruce wasn’t man enough to try and break that habit yet.) The only time Bruce had ever seen Dick awake at such an hour of the night was because he wanted a glass of milk (he needed Bruce to reach the shelf in the refrigerator), or he'd had a nightmare, or he’d gone to the bathroom and sworn he’d seen the Riddler or Firefly hiding in his closet.
“I know,” Dick whispered. “I just—sorry. I’m sorry.”
Bruce frowned and turned his head to the side, catching a faint tremor in his son’s ward’s limbs as he attempted to scramble off of Bruce’s bed.
“I should’ve have woken you up, sorry,” Dick babbled as he tried to climb down. “It’s nothing, I can—”
As he slipped from the bed, Bruce caught sight of a wet trail of tears flowing over the slope of Dick’s cheeks. A panicky feeling rose in his chest at the sight—fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. No tears. Tears are bad. Dick’s too sweet and joyful to have any tears—
Something wasn’t right. Bruce’s could feel his parental adrenaline kicking in, because he somehow felt very much awake despite how crappy and exhausted he felt. He quickly pushed himself up into a sitting position and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
“Hey, chum, it’s okay. Don’t run off,” Bruce said gently. Dick paused in his retreat and turned to face Bruce; the second he reached up to wipe the fresh stream of tears from the corners of his eyes, Bruce felt his mind go blank, and started to run on autopilot, love-and-comfort mode exclusively.
“B,” Dick cried softly.
“Oh, don’t cry, Dick,” he cooed. “Come here, sweetheart.”
He gestured for the bed and Dick launched himself at him; Bruce picked him up easily, and the eight (almost nine) year old latched his thin arms around Bruce’s neck. Bruce had stripped from his shirt and so he could feel Dick’s body heat through the thin layer of his Paw Patrol shirt—but his ward was still oddly cold. Meaning he’d been up for a while, at least, and hadn’t been laying in the safety and warmth of his bed.
He heard a little sniffle, and soon felt a tear land on his shoulder. Bruce rubbed Dick’s back gently, scratched the back of his head—nothing like good head scritches to calm down a crying child.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asked. “Can you talk to me about it? Why do you want to go to the Bat—ahem, why do you want to go downstairs?”
Dick shook his head and pressed his body closer to Bruce’s. He was fully sobbing now. Bruce, at a loss for what to do, leaned back against the headboard, drew up the covers, and rocked his son ward back and forth, hushing in his ear gently.
“It’s alright,” he said gently. “You’re alright, darling.”
(Darling. His mother had called him that.)
Eventually, Dick’s sobs subsided and for another long moment, they sat there together in silence. Bruce ran his hand through Dick’s hair and along his back consistently—of all of Lex Luthor’s weirdly good parenting advice, this grounding technique was one of the one’s Bruce implemented the most. Dick craved affection and always calmed when Bruce was willing to give it to him—when he reminded him that he was there and that he wasn’t leaving and that he loved him.
“Are you mad at me?” Dick asked, his voice barely a whisper. He hiccupped and quickly buried his head back into Bruce’s chest.
Bruce shook his head. “I’m not mad, chum. I’m not.”
“But I woke you up,” Dick protested.
“That’s alright. I’m not mad. You can wake me up whenever you need to, okay? I won’t be mad.”
Dick stumbled over another small sob. Bruce reached out and swiped stands of tangled hair off his brow, before giving him a reassuring kiss on the top on the crown of his head. Dick whimpered and hung on tighter.
“Please tell me what’s wrong,” Bruce probed gently. He paused, felt his body tense, and then asked, “Was it another nightmare? One about your parents?”
This was a slippery slope not just for Dick, but for Bruce, too. He remembered those nightmares, the ones about his parents. They were awful, paralyzing. Alfred had done all that he could, all that propriety would allow him to anyway—he’d made tea and cookies at random hours of the night and try to entertain Bruce with lore of his days in service to the Queen. But sometimes Bruce had just wanted to be held—held in a way his parents used to but couldn’t anymore.
And Alfred… couldn’t do that for him.
There were too many boundaries. Too many raised walls and social stigmas and structures in the way. Alfred lived in a world of protocol and etiquette—he’d sworn oaths to it, apparently—and he couldn’t sacrifice those things for Bruce’s sake.
But Bruce could. He could break a couple oaths for Dick.
“It wasn’t a nightmare,” Dick whispered into the hollow of Bruce’s throat. “It’s…”
He trailed off and looked away. Bruce continued the steady motion of running his hand along Dick’s back and petting his hair reassuringly, giving Dick time and space to formulate what he wanted to say. When Dick started to involuntarily rock back and forth, Bruce adjusted his hold on his ward and started swaying with him, humming lowly in his ear. It took another few minutes before Dick finally spoke up again.
“I can’t find Zitka,” Dick admitted. “I had to go to the bathroom but when I came back to bed I couldn’t find her. I searched everywhere and she’s gone.”
Understanding dawned on him. Bruce hummed and scratched at Dick’s head again, nearly cooing as his Robin melted against him at the feeling.
“Ah,” he murmured. “I get it. Do you think you left her down by the computer when you were on monitor duty?”
Dick nodded. His face was red, but if it was from embarrassment or the exertion of all the tears he’d just shed, Bruce couldn’t be sure.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Think she’s in the Batcave.”
Bruce decided to maintain the sensitivity of the moment and ignored that. (Batcave… he’d get Dick to stop saying that sooner or later.)
“Well, that’s just fine, chum,” Bruce rumbled. “I appreciate you not going and looking for her by yourself.”
Dick wasn’t allowed to be in the operations center unsupervised—one ill-timed cartwheel and boom, there would go all of Bruce’s grappling hooks, just straight obliterated. (Dick was a walking disaster zone and trouble magnet, Bruce couldn’t risk letting him around all that dangerous equipment by himself.)
“Yeah,” Dick whispered into his chest.
“How about we go find Zitka now. Is that okay, sweetheart?” Bruce prompted gently. “Is that okay with you?”
Dick nodded, but said nothing.
“Alright. Here—up you go.”
He pulled himself out of bed and hoisted Dick up into his arms. Dick went easily—Bruce carried him around so much, both at the Manor and in the Gotham, that it was just natural to curl up against him. Immediately, Dick pressed his cheek into the crook of Bruce’s neck and loosely wrapped his arms around Bruce’s neck. (A show of trust, really, because he knew Bruce would never drop him. Bruce had nightmares about dropping Dick and he never wanted to make those a reality.)
Still. It was heartwarming how easily they molded together. Bruce was reminded distinctly of their last patrol together, how natural it had been for Dick to dive beneath his cape and clutch onto his utility belt, giggling and holding on for dear life as Bruce interrogated a local gang enforcer. Batman and Robin—a perfect partnership.
“Let’s go rescue Zitka,” Bruce said as he walked them towards the door.
Dick hummed against his skin. “Hey, B?”
“Yeah, chum?”
“After we save Zitka can I… stay here?”
“Stay here?”
“With you?”
“Oh.”
Oh.
Bruce felt something deep and profound stir in his gut; his chest tightened and somehow the world narrowed down to just his Robin and nothing else. Dick had never tried to sleep in Bruce’s bed before—Bruce knew it was something he had done with his parents (had to do with them, actually, their trailer in the circus had room for only one bed and it could just barley fit all three of them together), but he hadn’t expected Dick to ever… trust him like that. With that. To be vulnerable. To see Bruce as the type of person who could keep him safe from invisible monsters, not just the real ones.
“I can go back to my room,” Dick said quickly, as if sensing Bruce’s hesitation. “After we get Zitka. It’s okay.”
“No, I—” Bruce swallowed heavily and rubbed Dick’s back, though he was fairly certain he was trying to reassure himself more than he was trying to comfort Dick, at this point. “That’s okay, sweetheart. If you want to you can stay.”
He felt more then saw Dick’s answering smile.
“Can we get ice cream on the way back?”
Bruce suddenly realized he was fighting back tears. “Absolutely not.”
+1
Bruce knew pain. He knew the reverberation of a bullet in his gut, knew the searing heat of scolding hot metal against his flesh, knew the aching in his limbs, knew the sound of bones snapping and ribs crunching, knew how it felt to almost lose his mind with how much everything just hurt.
Bruce knew pain.
But he didn’t know this pain.
“Robin!” Bruce demanded, his voice bellowing over the sounds of the battle. “Robin!”
Across the battlefield, he could see Superman ram fist-first into the invading alien general (the Gokneetians or something, the word hadn’t translated well enough into English for Bruce to fully understand how to pronounce it). He caught sight of Wonder Woman’s glaring-yellow rope, Martian Manhunter weaving between Green Lantern’s green shield, Hawkgirl slicing open alien armor with her mallet, and even a brief streak of red—the Flash, pulling fleeing civilians out of the line of fire. Bruce could see them all, each contributing to the battle with their own unique talents and abilities.
But he couldn’t see was Dick.
Desperately, Bruce dug his fingers into his ear, willing the comm and it’s delicate machinery to work. There was a garble of intelligible static, but nothing of substance. No indication that Dick was alive, that he could hear him. That he was safe.
Bruce cursed himself as he narrowly avoided a red laser beam launched from one of the alien’s strange looking guns. He’d told Robin to stay in Gotham, that this invasion, despite it being just across the bay in Metropolis, was strictly Justice League business. But his bird and flown the coop, anyway. He’d appeared by Bruce’s side half an hour into the fight, cheery and excitable. They’d fallen into the rhythm of battle so effortlessly—it was like playing the same melody on an out of tune piano, all their cords fit together but the sound was so different. (Metropolis was so goddam bright).
From there, they’d done good work. When the Justice League narrowed in on the Gokneetians’ general’s location near downtown Metropolis, Bruce had wanted Dick away from the brunt of the fight, and had sent him off into the nearby Daily Planet building with strict orders to help civilians get out of the line of fire and to only engage the Gokneetians for self-defense purposes. Then he’d told him to come back, once the building was cleared.
But he should have been back forty-five minutes ago.
Dick was lost.
Bruce didn’t know where he was.
It was killing him.
“Robin!” He bellowed, something hollow and desperate in the inflection of each precious syllable. Bruce clamored his way through a horde of aliens and pulled himself onto a nearby fire escape. “Robin!”
Nothing.
Bruce felt his heartrate skyrocket. He never let his emotions get the better of him in times like these, it was too dangerous, but he couldn’t help himself. The panic and the fear was too great.
(He’d never felt like this before. Where was Lex Luthor’s weirdly adept parenting advice when he needed it?)
From where he was engaged with the Gokneetian general, Bruce saw Superman’s eyes snap over to his, brief, a look of confusion on his handsome face. (“I’d know your heartrate anywhere, Batman. It’s a perfect 62 bpm. There’s no other heart like it.”) There was a hint of worry in his features, but the then Gokneetian general roared in fury and Superman reengaged. As Bruce continued to fight off the Gokneetian and scan the surrounding area desperately for his son, Superman and Wonder Woman joined forces and subdued the would-be alien overlord. It wasn’t much longer before the Gokneetians were retreating, taking their wounded general with them and hissing what was likely insults to the human race as they slipped back through the wide, purple portal that they’d come from.
There was an odd silence after the Gokneetians were gone. And then all at once everyone came together; a limping Flash was helped along by Martian Manhunter, while Hawkgirl and Green Arrow and Black Canary climbed (or in Hawkgirl’s case, flew) over a large pile of rubble, and Cyborg and Aquaman followed. Last was Wonder Woman, who was looping her lasso, and Superman, who was at her side.
“I’ll contact Oa, let them know about the invasion,” Green Lantern said, floating down from above and landing to Bruce’s right. side. “Bunch of fucking paperwork, though. Jesus…”
“Everyone’s safe,” Black Canary interupted, eyeing the Lantern sternly. “That’s what truly matters here.”
Wonder Woman nodded, but Superman—he looked straight at Bruce, concern marring his features.
“Batman?” he asked. “Is everything alright?”
“I’m fine,” Bruce growled.
But he was definitely not fine. Dick could be anywhere—trapped in the rubble or beneath a collapsed building, trampled or abducted by the fleeing aliens. Or worse, he could be dead. Bruce wouldn’t know what to do with himself if Dick was dead.
He couldn’t lose him too.
“Hey,” Flash piped up. “What happened to your sidekick? The bendy one that looked like a traffic light?”
“Robin is—” Bruce cut himself off, clenched his jaw so tight it ached. “Robin is my partner, not my sidekick. And he’s currently not responding to his comm.”
That seemed to somber the mood.
Hesitantly, Wonder Woman settled a hand on his shoulder. “He will be found,” she assured him. “There are many refugees that had to escape from the battle ground—perhaps he is helping them.”
“I’ll keep an ear out,” Superman promised.
“I shall talk to the waters,” Aquaman swore.
“And I can take a lap around the city,” the Flash offered. Already, his healing factor seemed to be kicking in; the previously broken bone in his foot now healed enough for him to stand on it and flex in his boot. “I’m sure he’s around here somewhere, plus, he’ll be hard to miss, dressed like a tropical bird and all. I’ll be back in a—”
“Don’t say it,” Green Lantern warned.
“A flash,” the speeder finished, winking.
And then he was gone like a streak of lighting.
Bruce pulled his fingers into tight fists. He hated this. Hated standing here, helplessly, while others stared at him pityingly (“You poor, mortal, alone among gods”—isn’t that what Darkseid had said to him barely a month ago? Bruce got it, now. He felt alone, now).
Black Canary looked like she was considering trying to talk to him, while everyone else surveyed the nearby wreckage, like if they just looked hard enough, Robin would drop down from the sky.
And then—
Whoosh.
There was a whish of red and a loud groan, and Bruce’s focus snapped to the scene in front of him as the Flash delicately laid Robin down on the asphalt road. Bruce rushed forward, falling down at his son’s side, heart racing wildly in his chest.
“Robin—” He choked on the word. “Robin, report.”
“Got… ‘thuck,” Dick muttered. He was missing his front teeth tooth—at freshly nine years old, it was bound to happen, but Bruce felt his heart pinch with the knowledge that in this case, those teeth had probably been forcibly knocked out. Dick patted his stomach and added, “Th’ried to ‘elp but got… ‘thuck.”
“I found him under an overturned car,” the Flash explained from somewhere over Bruce’s shoulder. “It wasn’t crushing him or anything—but he couldn’t get out. I phased him through it and brought him here.”
“Thanks Mr. Flash,” Dick said.
The Flash winked. “Anytime, kiddo. I’ll tell Kid Flash you said hi.”
Dick grinned happily. Bruce was in much lesser spirits.
“Robin,” Bruce grumbled. “Why didn’t you press your emergency alert?”
Dick smiled wearily. On his bruised and dusty face, it was still a brilliant thing to witness. Bruce quickly pushed aside his matted, sweaty hair as Dick explained, “I was ‘elping some ‘eople get away from an alien and it… got lasered. ‘s cool.”
“Not cool,” Bruce corrected.
“No it was so cool, B. Like from Star Wars.”
“Hm.” Bruce typed a command on his gauntlet, calling the plane from where it was parked on the outskirts of the city to their location. “Robin, you disobeyed my orders. I told you not to come.”
Dick tried to shrug, but quickly discovered that the movement was painful. He winced, then said, “There were people who needed me. I had to come ‘elp.” He smirked. “And besides, ‘atman needs Robin.”
“Batman needs Robin alive,” Bruce revised.
“And I didn’t die, see!”
Dick wiggled on the ground as if to prove that his limbs did, in fact, work.
“And I can still sing,” Dick informed him seriously. He cleared his throat. “Despacito—”
“Please stop,” Bruce said.
“Oh my God, I love that song!” Green Arrow exclaimed. His proclamation was followed by a sound thunk that was definitely Black Canery elbowing him in the gut.
Bruce, from where he was crouched next to Dick, sharply turned on his heal and tilted his head up to the gathered Justice League, who were looking at Bruce’s child with upset looks. (Other than Green Arrow, who was still rubbing his stomach petulantly.)
“Metropolis is still in danger,” he hissed. “Go help people evacuate and start on the cleanup. I will ensure Robin gets home safely.”
There were a couple murmurs, but the Justice League took off in various directions. Once they were gone, Dick pulled on the edge of his cape. Bruce looked down at him and wiped dirt off of his nose.
Dick pouted. “You’re no fun, B.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“But I’m just a ‘lil bruised,” Dick reiterated. “Not dead.”
“You look it,” muttered someone who sounded suspiciously like Cyborg. Bruce sent a scathing look over his shoulder, and the robot quickly blanched and backed up before rocketing into the sky, following the others to go help the people of Metropolis.
Bruce sighed and leaned down, scooping Dick into his arms. A quick scan of his son’s body revealed that he had maybe cracked a rib, but other than some severe bruising and maybe a dislocated foot, he was okay. Dick would be okay. But still—Bruce would feel better if he could get his little bird back in the nest.
Dick snuggled into his chest as the roar of the plane’s jets neared them.
“We gonna go back to Gotham, B?” Dick asked.
Bruce grunted, but nonetheless reached over to push Dick’s sweaty hair out of his face. Dick just sent him a woozy, tired grin.
“I miss Gotham,” Dick said after a moment. “It’s home.”
He smiled softly. “I’m glad you think that, chum.”
Dick must have also had a concussion, because for some reason, he erupted into giggles—then immediately groaned at how painful that was and tried to merge with Bruce’s suit. Bruce carefully readjusted his grip, and when he looked back down to his Robin, he found that he was passed out, mouth open as he snored softly into Bruce’s Kevlar.
Bruce shook his head, said his goodbyes to the disbanding League, and made for the plane, which had landed in an open area a little way’s down. As he neared the bay doors, there was a distinguished whoosh and a soft padding of feet behind him, alerting Bruce of a new presence behind him. He knew exactly who it was.
“Superman,” he said icily, tucking Dick’s head beneath his chin. “I thought you were dismissed.”
“Yeah, well…” the Kryptonian rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. “I was just worried about him—Robin, I mean. Is he going to be all right?”
Bruce pulled the fabric of his cape over his little bird and stepped onto the plane’s loading dock. “I’ll give him a full medical eval back at the Batcave, just to be safe, but he should be fine. Children are more durable then you would think.”
Superman nodded sagely. “That’s good. That’s good.”
There was an awkward moment of silence. Bruce could almost feel Superman holding back words.
“Was there something else, Superman?” he asked blandly.
Superman smiled sheepishly. “Do you, uh…” He grimaced. “Do you actually call your headquarters the Batcave?”
Bruce’s glare was enough to send Superman hurtling back into the stars.