Chapter Text
The first time Dick encountered someone being named after him (or, well, his Secret Identity) was when Jeremy Bradford in his class got a new little brother.
“They named him Christopher Robin Bradford,” He told the class, ten-years-old and beaming while holding up a printed out photo of a red-faced blob wrapped up in blue blankets. “Robin ‘cause he saved me when I was kidnapped!”
Dick remembered that. The kidnappers wanted four million for Jeremy’s safe return. Jeremy wasn’t even bothered by the whole thing, either, and thanked Batman very politely when he got a bubblegum flavored lollipop from his utility belt.
Still, the idea that there was a baby, a literal child with Robin as a middle name because of him was… nice. It was almost humbling. He was definitely blushing, which would have been odd if anyone noticed.
He wasn’t sure how he should feel that he was also being named after his mom’s nickname for him. But thinking about his mom still hurt, even after almost a year, so he chose to focus on the fact that a baby was named after him(!) instead.
Dick got into the car when Alfred came to pick him up after school. He does the same song and dance every time, telling the butler how his day went, what he learned. He almost forgot about Christopher Robin Bradford.
“The Bradfords named their son after me,” He said.
Alfred raised a brow, though he didn’t look away from the road to give Dick a look. Alfred was good at speaking with just facial expressions. “They named their son after you? I wasn’t aware you and Mister Bradford were quite close.”
“Oh,” Dick giggled. “No, after Robin. Christopher Robin.”
Alfred hummed, “Mister Bradford was your classmate Master Wayne and you rescued from those pesky kidnappers, isn’t he?”
“Yeah!” Dick grinned, “He said his parents were so thankful they named Christopher after me! Isn’t that so cool?”
“It is very cool, Master Dick.”
Dick told Bruce during dinner.
Bruce swallowed his forkful of meatloaf. Dick wasn’t sure how he felt about meatloaf yet, it wasn’t his favorite, but it was better than cucumber sandwiches. He missed his mom’s stuffed peppers.
“That’s great, chum,” Bruce said, giving him a smile. Dick made sure to specify that he meant the baby was named after Robin this time, to make sure Bruce didn’t get confused like Alfred did. Dick grinned back. “Though, remember, we don’t do what we do for the glory of it.”
Dick resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he shoved meatloaf into his mouth and chewed slowly. He still made sure Bruce knew he thought he was being a stuffy butthead through his expression.
Bruce laughed. Dick liked his laugh. It was deep and masculine, like his dad’s. He liked his actual laugh, not that stupid air-head one he used as Brucie Wayne during interviews and galas. Dick couldn’t believe he was the only person (other than Alfred) who realized how fake it obviously was. It made his skin itchy.
“Christopher Robin is a very good name,” Bruce said, to make up for being a stuffy butthead. Then, his brows pulled together and he got that detective glint in his eyes. “It’s familiar though, isn’t it?”
When Dick thought about it, he realized Bruce was right. Dick could’ve swore he’d heard that name before. Was there another baby named Christopher Robin?
It wasn’t until Alfred entered the room again, holding a pitcher to refill Dick’s lemonade, when they got their answer. “I do believe Christopher Robin is the name of the child in Winnie the Pooh, no?”
Dick dropped his spoon. Bruce had a look on his face, like he was trying not to make fun. Dick didn’t have that restraint and leaned forward, squeezing his eyes shut as he started to laugh.
“Now eat your food, Master Dick.”