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Bruce sighs internally as the sound of slow socked footsteps reach his ears. It’s not that Dick shouldn’t be allowed to have free rein of the Manor (besides a certain downstairs area), but it’s very late at night, and Bruce just checked to make sure that Dick was sleeping soundly in his room.
Or, he glances at the microwave clock, maybe not. He didn’t realize it was nearly 4:30 in the morning now. He’d come home from a botched patrol around 3:20, mind too loud and body too tense to try and sleep or work, and after a long shower and a quick detour to check on Dick, he’d made a beeline for the kitchen. Alfred had understood, simply bade him goodnight, something sad and familiar in his eyes. Bruce doesn’t think much of it anymore.
The footsteps slow down even further—clearly Dick had not anticipated the kitchen being occupied at this hour—before a head comes peeking around the doorframe, eyes huge.
Bruce sets down his spatula and turns fully toward Dick, offering him a small smile. “Hey, kiddo. What are you doing up?”
“I—” Dick stares, then he sniffles. “I’m sorry. I—I had a bad dream and I couldn’t go back to sleep. I tried really, really hard, but I just couldn’t.”
Bruce’s chest pangs in sympathy. “I’m sorry, chum.”
Dick fidgets with the hem of his pajama shirt. “My… my mama always used to make me warm milk when I couldn’t sleep and I thought m-maybe if nothing else was working… I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were in here. I’ll just go back to bed.”
“Whoa, hey. It’s alright, chum. You don’t have to. I was never a big fan of warm milk myself, but I’m sure I can figure out how to make you some.”
Dick shakes his head, sleep-rumpled hair falling into his face. “You really don’t have to do that. I’ll be okay.”
“Dickie. Hey. It’s not a problem. Trust me. I know all about not being able to sleep.”
“Oh.” Dick looks around, as if suddenly processing the sight before him. The ingredients for chocolate chip cookies are strewn about the kitchen, covering nearly every countertop surface. While incredibly organized in his casework, Bruce has never had much of a penchant for keeping a neat and tidy kitchen, much to Alfred’s incredible chagrin.
He should be putting Dick back to bed, offering him that glass of warm milk. Any good, normal guardian would. Eight-year-olds need their sleep.
But Bruce was in his shoes once upon a time. He wouldn’t have reacted very well to being sent back to bed on nights like this. That’s the whole reason he could bake in the first place. Sometimes, when Bruce couldn’t sleep as a child or when the nightmares were too bad to even bother trying, he would seek Alfred out in the kitchen, where his stress baking and normal duties kept him up. He and Bruce used to bake cakes and cookies and pies, until Bruce was drowsily listing to the side, leaning against Alfred’s legs with drooping eyelids and Alfred’s comforting hand resting atop his hair. If their pastries were ready, Bruce would sleepily munch on the fruits of their labor before Alfred herded him up to bed to finally get some rest. Bruce remembers a lot of being especially sad and angry back then, but on those nights he could relax somewhat, could forget. He’d be such a hypocrite to deny that same opportunity to Dick, and it’s not as though sending him back to bed is going to result in him getting more sleep.
“Would you like to help me?” Bruce asks him. “I’ve only just started on this batch.”
Dick hesitates, blinking owlishly around the kitchen before slowly he nods. “Okay,” he whispers, creeping forward until he’s next to Bruce, standing on his tiptoes to peer up at the counter. “What are you making?”
“Well, I was thinking of making some cookies for Alfred to pack in your lunches. I assume you like chocolate chip?”
“Uh huh,” Dick says. “Those are my favorite.”
Bruce smiles. “Mine too. And these are Alfred’s special recipe, so you know they have to be good.”
“Alfred makes really good food,” Dick agrees. Both Bruce and Alfred have previously remarked their relief that Dick isn’t a picky eater, and will at least pick at whatever is set in front of him.
“Here,” Bruce says, pushing the carton of eggs towards Dick. “I’m about to add the eggs into the butter and sugar. Do you know how to crack an egg?”
Dick nods. “My mama taught me. But sometimes I get shells in the bowl, so you probably don’t want me to.”
“That’s okay,” Bruce reassures him, taking out one of the eggs and handing it to him. “I used to get shells in the bowl all the time. It just takes practice.”
“Are you sure?” Dick asks.
Bruce nods. “I have total faith in you, kiddo.”
“Okay. If you’re sure.” Dick chews his lip, inching closer to the mixer. “Um.” He pauses, looking up at Bruce with wide, sad eyes.
“What’s wrong, chum?”
“I don’t think I can reach.”
“Oh!” Dick is small for eight, coming to about Bruce’s waist with his bedhead standing on end. They have a stool somewhere, from back when Bruce was also a bit too little to really reach the counter, but Bruce has no clue where it is. “Here,” Bruce says. “I can hold you up, if that’s alright with you?”
He waits for Dick’s “okay” before scooping him up and hoisting him somewhat awkwardly against his hip. Dick plays with the egg a little, turning it over in his hands before he leans forward over the mixer to crack it.
“Like this?” he asks, cracking the egg on the edge of the bowl and positioning his thumbs to break it open.
“Just like that.”
Dick only gets one or two pieces of shell into the mixer, and Bruce is careful to scoop those out when the boy isn’t looking. Honestly it’s much better than some of Bruce’s earliest baking attempts. It took several sleepless nights to overcome Bruce's naturally dismal culinary skills.
“Thank you for helping me,” Bruce says as they eventually place the last tray of cookies into the oven. He never did set Dick back down, the kid still perched against his side, even though it made it quite a bit more difficult to chop the chocolate. His head is now leaning against Bruce’s shoulder as he gets sleepier.
“Do you think they’ll be any good?” Dick asks through a yawn, snuggling closer even if it appears to be somewhat unconscious.
“I think they’ll be my best cookies yet. Alfred is going to be so impressed.”
“Yay,” Dick cheers drowsily. “Thanks, Bruce.” His eyes have drifted closed, eyelashes casting odd shadows against his cheeks. He’s not asleep yet, although Bruce can tell that he will be soon.
“You’re welcome, Dickie.”
They watch the cookies bake in comfortable, warm silence, until Dick’s breathing slows and evens out, and Bruce carries him up to bed.
“I don’t want to go to bed,” Bruce says stubbornly. “I’m not going. You can’t make me.”
Alfred sighs, brushing the hair off of Bruce’s forehead. “It couldn’t hurt to try, young sir.”
Yes, it could. It does. “I’m not going,” he repeats. Alfred can’t make him. His parents are dead. No one can make him go to bed now.
“Alright. Come then. We might as well do something productive if we are going to stay up all night.”
Bruce blinks in surprise. “Huh?”
“I am planning on making some fresh scones for tomorrow, and I think you ought to assist me.”
“In the kitchen?”
“Where else?”
He shrugs. “You’re not making me go to bed?”
Alfred arches a single eyebrow. “I thought you said that I could not make you go to bed.”
“You can’t,” Bruce grumbles in agreement. “Yeah, okay. I’ll help you with the scones.”
“Delightful.”
“Why don’t we get you into bed now, Master Bruce. I can take the scones out of the oven.”
“No,” Bruce mumbles, leaning against Alfred’s side. “I’m not sleepy.”
“Oh my dear boy, I know you don’t want to try to sleep, but sleep is so important at your age. I do not want to see you get sick.”
“Please, Alfred? I really don’t want to.”
“I’m afraid I do have to insist that you at least try. But I will be right down the hall, and you only need to come to me if you are truly having difficulties.”
Bruce sniffs, leaning heavier against Alfred. He really is tired, can barely keep his eyes open, but he knows the moment his head hits the pillow the bad dreams are going to come back, just like they do every night. He wants to stay here in the kitchen forever, baking with Alfred. It’s warm, and light, and he doesn’t feel alone for once. He doesn’t want the loneliness to come back.
“You’re really sure I have to?”
Alfred hesitates, and for a moment Bruce really thinks he might say no. “I’m afraid so. But,” he turns, holding Bruce’s shoulders, “you do not hesitate to seek me out should you need me. I am here for you, Master Bruce. You are not alone in this.”
“Thanks, Alf.” He slumps against him, letting Alfred guide him out of the kitchen and up the stairs. “Can we do this again? Next time I can’t sleep?”
“We can, although you are always welcome to join me in the kitchen in the daylight as well. This needn’t be an exclusively late night activity.”
“Hm.”
Bruce finds Dick curled up in the computer chair, wrapped up in a thick fleece blanket to keep away the cave’s natural chill. His cheek is pink with the imprint of where he’d been leaning against his fist and his pajamas and hair are familiarly rumpled.
“Hey, kiddo,” Bruce says softly, pulling off his cowl. “What are you doing down here?”
Dick shrugs, but his eyes are shiny and glassy, and he only seemed to relax slightly when Bruce walked up. “Couldn’t sleep,” he mumbles.
Bruce suspects that it’s more likely nightmares that are plaguing his kid, rather than insomnia, but he doesn’t press. Dick will tell him if he wants to. He’s much better than Bruce ever was about talking about his bad dreams.
“Alright. Do you want to go up and try?”
Dick shakes his head without hesitation. “No. Please. I know I can’t sleep right now.”
“Okay,” Bruce reassures him, placating. “That’s okay. We can watch some TV? Or read a couple chapters from your book?”
“Can we…” Dick fidgets with his blanket, wrapping it tighter around his shoulders so that only his face is still in view. “Can we bake, maybe? I mean we don’t have to if you’re too tired. I just thought—”
“Sure. What do you have in mind?” Bruce’s muscles ache, and there’s a cut on his right arm that really could use some medical attention, but he can’t say no to Dick right now, not when he looks so sad and worried. Besides, maybe some baking will do him some good as well. He could use some relaxation, and his late night baking is a lot more enjoyable when Dick is with him.
“Scones, maybe?” Dick says. “That is, if you have a recipe for them? One of our neighbors at the circus used to bring us orange scones sometimes. They were really good.”
“I’m sure we can find something,” Bruce says with a smile. “Just give me a couple minutes to change, okay?” He doesn’t mention his injuries, doesn’t want to scare Dick.
“Okay.”
Bruce starts to leave, but he’s startled to a halt when Dick launches himself suddenly out of the chair, slamming into his side and wrapping thin arms around his midsection. “I’m really glad you got home safe,” Dick whispers, voice barely audible from where he’s smushed against the armor.
“Oh, kiddo,” Bruce mutters, squeezing him back, suddenly having a sneaking suspicion as to the subject of Dick’s dreams. His chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with the kick he took to the ribs earlier. “Me too.” And then he shocks even himself by leaning down and pressing a kiss to the top of Dick’s head. “I couldn’t leave my best baking partner all alone.”
Dick giggles weakly, finally letting go. He swipes at the tears on his cheeks, offering Bruce a small smile. “Want me to go see if I can find a recipe in Alfred’s books?”
“That sounds perfect, chum. I’ll be up in a couple minutes.”
“Alright.”
Bruce has never had a reason like this to make sure he comes home every night. Now, he can’t picture his life any other way.
“Maybe you should be baking with him instead,” Bruce says, helping Alfred package up the results of his and Dick’s baking marathon from the night before. It’s a lot. Bruce will have to bring some into the office. Hopefully his coworkers like gingerbread. “You’re the one who taught me—”
“And now you are teaching him,” Alfred finishes. “Master Bruce, I adore that boy just as much as you do, but I would never fault you for sharing this particular hobby with him. It is good for the both of you, and I am delighted to see you passing on something you learnt from me onto your own son.”
His chest hurts, throat clogged up. “Alfred…”
Alfred smiles at him, eyes crinkling. “I know, my boy. I am so incredibly proud of the man you are becoming.” His hands come up to rest on Bruce’s shoulders, and for a moment Bruce feels like a child again, before Batman but after his parents, when Alfred was his whole world. He can never thank the man enough for what he’s done for Bruce, who he’s been to him. Every time he tries, the words get caught in his throat. He hopes and prays that Alfred understands anyways.
“Besides,” Alfred says, breaking the moment. “I’ve been teaching the boy to cook, and he’s a far better student than you ever were.”
“Hey!”
“Wait, so you just leave the middle raw? I always thought you had to, like, inject the lava part into the cake.”
“Nope. You just have to find the right baking time, to make sure it’s not too soupy or completely cooked all the way through. Alfred and I went through about seven trials before we settled on the best one. The official recipe says twenty minutes, but really eighteen is the best.”
“Whoa. Can we eat them tonight?”
“You bet, kiddo. A cold lava cake just isn’t as good.”
“Wow. I’ve never had dessert this late at night.”
“Well, consider it a reward for that grade on your math test.” And not anything to do with distracting you from that last nightmare.
“Thanks, Bruce,” Dick says. He sets down the spatula he’d been licking batter off of and hops down from the counter, leaning forward to wrap his guardian up in a tight hug. “You’re the best.”
“Nah, kiddo. That’s definitely you.”
Dick tips his head back to grin up at Bruce without letting go. Bruce can still see the tear tracks staining his cheeks, but they’re not nearly so prominent now, Dick’s smile overwhelming them. “How about we both be the best, together.”
“Sounds like a pretty good deal to me.”
“I could have done it by myself, Alfred,” Bruce grumbles from his perch on the step stool as he pours the cake batter into the pan. “I’ve learned enough by now. I can handle a cake just fine.”
“I know, Master Bruce, but I very much enjoy baking with you. I find that it’s always more delightful to have another person to share in the culinary arts with.”
“You shouldn’t be making your own birthday cake though!”
“It’s really no trouble at all, Master Bruce. I find it quite calming to bake, you know this.”
“Yeah,” Bruce pouts. “But I really wanted to make something for you. It’s your birthday.”
“That’s correct.” Alfred dusts off his hands before turning to settle a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, the other coming up to brush back the hair from Bruce’s forehead. He smiles down at him, and Bruce can’t help but smile back. “It is my birthday. And what I would like for my birthday is to spend this time with my favorite person, performing an activity that we both enjoy so much. That is absolutely the perfect birthday gift, my dear boy.”
Bruce lunges forward to grab the man in a hug, ignoring Alfred’s scandalized cry of “Master Bruce!” when he gets flour all over him.
“Bruce!” Dick squeals, trying unsuccessfully to wriggle out of his embrace. “Stop it! You’re getting flour all over me!”
“Oh am I? Huh. I hadn’t noticed.”
“ Bruce! ”
Fear gas is no fun, although Bruce is incredibly thankful that Batman was the one who got a face full of it rather than Robin. As it is, Dick is already pretty shaken up from seeing his guardian scared.
Dick is staying right by his side, all but superglued there, not that Bruce minds. He’d never known he could be so scared to lose something until Dick came tumbling into his life.
Dick yawns, scrubbing his eyes with one fist while he stirs the batter with the other. It’s pretty late, even though they were forced to cut patrol short.
“If you’re tired, chum, you can go on up to bed,” Bruce says gently. He doesn’t want to be keeping Dick up if he’s ready to go to sleep.
But Dick shakes his head. “I’m okay, B. I wanna help you finish this.”
“You really should get some rest…”
“We normally wouldn’t even be home yet,” Dick argues. “And tomorrow’s Saturday so I can just sleep in. Besides, I don’t think I would sleep very well right now anyway.”
“Chum… Hey. Look at me.” Dick does, and his eyes are suspiciously shiny. “We’re all okay now. I’m going to be just fine.”
“I know,” he sniffles. “It just…” He leans over suddenly, wrapping his arms around Bruce’s middle. “It was really scary,” he whispers.
“I know, kiddo.” Bruce squeezes him back. “I’m sorry.”
“S’not your fault,” Dick mumbles.
Bruce hugs him tighter in lieu of a response. There’s nothing he can say that will reassure Dick more than just being here. He’s a cuddly kid, and Bruce surprisingly doesn’t mind a bit.
“Alright,” Dick finally says, pulling back and swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “These brownies aren’t going to bake themselves.”
“Oh, chum, you got some chocolate on your face.”
“I do?” Dick crosses his eyes, trying to spot any stray baking materials. “Where?”
“Riiiight here.” Bruce dots a glop of brownie batter on the tip of his nose, delighted by the outraged noise Dick makes in response.
“Bruce!” He beams up at him, a glimmer of evil in his eyes. “You’re gonna regret that.”
“Oh am I?”
“Yes. You better watch your back.”
“Uh huh. I am just terrified.”
Dick sticks his tongue out at him. “You should be.”
Bruce can’t stop his own smile.
“My mom used to make peanut butter cookies,” Dick says. “They were pretty good. I miss them. I miss her. A lot.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Bruce presses a kiss to the top of his head. “I know. I’m sorry. Would you want to try and make them?”
Dick nods, but doesn’t perk up at all. If anything, he looks even more distraught at the suggestion. “I really want to,” he says, voice cracking, “but I don’t know how. I—I never really baked with her. I don’t know how she made them.”
Bruce’s heart breaks for his child as Dick cries quietly against his chest. It’s a feeling he knows well, those fractured, fragmented, incomplete memories of people who you’ll never see again but who you miss every single day. It feels like an empty pit, threatening to suck everything else in with it. Bruce doesn’t want Dick to get sucked in.
He’s going to fix this.
Several phone calls and two weeks of diligently checking the mailbox later, Bruce hands Dick a package.
“What is this?” Dick frowns down at the box, picking at the tape around the shipping label. “This is from Haly’s.”
“Just open it.”
He does, uncovering a spiral-bound book, the word Recipes embossed on the cover. Dick flips it open immediately, revealing pages filled with what Bruce assumes is Mary Grayson’s slanted and loopy handwriting.
“My mom’s recipe book,” Dick whispers. He brushes his fingers across the pages almost reverently, feeling along the slight indentations made by the pen. He looks up at Bruce. “How’d you get this?”
“I got in contact with Haly. They were more than happy to send it to you. You should probably expect a few more packages coming from them as well, I expect.” Dick wasn’t allowed to bring a lot with him when he left the circus, and Bruce is kicking himself for not reaching out about getting some more of his parents’ and his things before now. “We can put it with Alfred’s cookbook collection, make them whenever you want.”
“Thank you, B.” Bruce doesn’t hesitate to wrap him up in a hug, one that Dick returns full force. “This is amazing.”
“You’re so very welcome, kiddo.”
“Do you think we can make those peanut butter cookies?” he asks.
“Anytime you want.”
“Right now?”
“Right now? You just woke up.”
“I think peanut butter cookies would make the perfect breakfast,” Dick grins. His eyes are shiny again, but this time the tears are far more bittersweet.
“Well, I don’t think Alfred would agree with that, but you can try and convince him.”
“Will you help me?”
Bruce chuckles. “I can try, kiddo, but you should know that I’ve never won an argument with Alfred in my life.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything!”
“I suppose that’s true.”
Dick surprises him with a second ferocious hug, one that nearly knocks the breath out of Bruce’s lungs. “Thank you, Bruce. You’re the best.”
“Love you, chum.”
“Now, what exactly am I looking at here?”
Bruce and Dick both freeze in place, flour and sugar and cocoa powder strewn everywhere, as though a tornado has blown through Alfred’s precious kitchen. Alfred himself stands in the doorway, hands on his hips.
“Um,” Dick says, because he’s a braver man than Bruce. “We’re making a cake? For Cass’s birthday?”
“Well, this is certainly no recipe I’ve ever seen before. Is it truly necessary to cover every inch of space with your ingredients?”
“It is,” Dick says, nodding. The flour in his hair makes him look older. It’s already a shock sometimes to look at his eldest and not see a little eight-year-old boy anymore, but now he truly looks like a man. “It’s a new one. Groundbreaking stuff.”
Alfred stares at him, face cold and completely blank for a long, silent moment. So long that Bruce almost cracks and opens his own big mouth. Then, his face breaks out into a smile, shocking the both of them.
“Master Dick,” he says, crossing the space to stand in front of Dick, brushing a smear of flour from his cheek, “it is so wonderful to have you home more often. I have missed your presence greatly. Even if I could do without all of this.” He glances pointedly at the mess. “I really ought to scold you both, but I am more pleased to see both of you boys smiling for once. It has been far too long since I last encountered the results of your collective culinary endeavors.”
“Join us,” Bruce says.
“Yeah!” Dick agrees instantly, grin blinding. “Come on, Alfie. It’s been so long since the three of us did this. I miss it. Please?”
“Well, alright. How could I say no to a request like that?”
It’s one of the best nights of Bruce’s life. His family has grown a lot over the years, but he can’t help but be thrown back to when it was just the three of them in this big empty house. The house that Dick brought life back to, the kitchen where Bruce got to share the skills that his father taught him with his son. Dick changed his life, and as rocky as their relationship got for a while there, Bruce has never stopped loving him more than life itself.
Without these two people in the kitchen with him right now, Bruce’s family wouldn’t exist. For all his mistakes, all his losses, he can’t deny that much. He’s so thankful for them and what they’ve created.
“You okay, B?” Dick asks, yanking him out of his own head. Both he and Alfred are watching him curiously.
“I’m better than okay,” he says, slinging an arm around Dick’s shoulder and tugging him against his side, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Now come on. I’m pretty sure we have a cake to bake.”