Chapter Text
For one single moment, Bruce thinks he’s being attacked. His heart races, muscles contracting as he readies himself to fight off whatever is holding him immobile. His feet shift, loafers sliding mere centimeters into place. Then he blinks, and the ceiling above remains the usual sight of the antique chandelier hanging over the foyer. The floor beneath his firmly-planted feet is polished marble, and his briefcase is a familiar weight in his hand.
He blinks, and realizes that the attack is not an attack at all. The force that had slammed into him was none other than a little boy with spindly limbs and knobby knees. Dick’s too-thin arms don’t quite manage to wrap all the way around his torso, but he does his best. His face is buried firmly in the fabric of Bruce’s dress shirt, button nose and long lashes hidden there, only a head of dark curls visible.
“Gonna miss you,” Dick mumbles, lifting his head up to look at Bruce. He doesn’t pull away at all, instead letting his chin dig into Bruce’s gut, stabbing at him as he speaks.
“Oh,” Bruce says, like the dummy he is when it comes to Dick. “I’m going to miss you too, chum.” Slowly, he sets down his briefcase and brings his arms up to wrap around Dick in turn, and he knows he’s made the right choice when Dick positively beams up at him.
Since the day he’d first come back to Gotham, Bruce doesn’t think he’s ever taken more than a long weekend off from work. His company needs him, and he’d neglected it while he was traveling the world for his training. He’s never been very good at sitting around and doing nothing anyway, preferring to keep busy in his waking hours. But for the past two weeks, it’s been just him and Dick. No work, no business, less patrol than usual. Dick was scared, angry, and grieving, and needed Bruce far more than Wayne Enterprises had.
Maybe he still did. Maybe this was a mistake. But. He’d promised Lucius he’d be in today. Alfred had packed a newly-framed picture of him and Dick in his briefcase to adorn his desk at the office, so at least he could see that smile as he worked.
Dick had a lovely smile. It had been a miracle, seeing him come out of his shell and begin to heal. They were a long way from true recovery, but already he can tell that he is beginning to adore Dick Grayson.
The boy is bright and highly intelligent, chatting endlessly in so many languages that it’s sometimes hard for even Bruce to keep up. He challenges him, pushes Bruce’s own mind to grow. And somehow, Bruce finds himself hanging on to every word that comes out of the eight year old’s mouth.
And he’s kind, always so polite to Alfred and Leslie and everyone he meets. He shocks Bruce constantly with the kindness that still exists in his heart, when surely it would be reasonable for Gotham’s horrors to have hardened him beyond true repair. He loves to feed the ducks in the park, always insisting that they bring them cut grapes or other fruits, since bread is bad for their stomachs. He’d somehow convinced Alfred to start eating dinner at the table with them, something that hasn’t happened since before Bruce left Gotham. Bruce shouldn’t be too shocked; that charm and brilliant-blue puppy dog eyes are nearly impossible to resist.
And he’s brave. So, so brave. Braver than anyone Bruce has ever met. He spits Anthony Zucco’s name like a curse and speaks with Bruce and Gordon about the atrocities he’d faced at the hands of Gotham’s Social Services. He misses his parents dearly, and despite the nightmares Bruce knows all too well shake him awake nearly every night, he still seeks out high places like a lifeline, climbing onto the roof and the tops of the bookshelves, sliding down the banister and swinging from the chandelier. He's a raging fire of a boy, lighting up halls and hearts that have been dark for years.
The warm arms wrapped around his middle are an unfamiliar feeling, but they’re far from unwelcome. Something buzzes in his stomach, burning at the point of contact but not unpleasantly. He chases after the feeling, leans into it as he holds Dick close. His hand slides through the thick hair at the back of Dick’s head, the other wrapped around his shoulders. Time seems to stand still, held immobile in the pure warmth and light that Bruce never thought he would experience again, not since the alleyway and the pearls and the echoing gunshots.
“Have a good day at work, Bruce,” Dick says, squeezing him just a bit tighter. Bruce catches himself feeling proud of the amount of strength his foster son has in him. He doesn’t want to let go. He wants another two weeks, just the two of them. He wants to know every single thing that makes Dick so brilliant.
“I’ll do my best. Be good for Alfred, alright? I’ll see you when I get home.”
“I will,” Dick nods. “And I won’t even read ahead in my book. I’ll wait for you, promise.”
Bruce chuckles, heart giddy. “I’ll hold you to that. We can read on when I get home, before dinner.” He rests his hand on top of Dick’s head. He’s not sure why, but it feels right. “Have a good day, chum.”
“Bye, Bruce,” Dick says again. He’s starting to sound a little sad, and Bruce can’t have that. Bruce tightens the hug one last quick time before pulling away, already mourning the loss. He really is going to miss him, more than he'd realized.
Maybe Dick is touch starved. His parents had been affectionate people, and it’s clear from Dick’s stories that they had been warm, touchy people who had never shied away from making their love for their son known. Those are some pretty great shoes to fill, and Bruce is unfamiliar and unskilled. Some days it feels like he’s not enough of a parent for Dick. Some days he feels like he will never be enough. Dick—brilliant, kind, courageous Dick—deserves better than him. Deserves brilliance and kindness right back. Gentle touches have never been Bruce’s forte.
And maybe, judging by the way his skin burns as he turns and leaves, headed to his waiting car and boring office, Bruce is touch starved too, just a little bit. Perhaps when he returns, he might be the one to initiate the hug. It’s all unfamiliar still, but…
Dick waves goodbye to him through the window, standing on his toes in his effort to make sure he’s seen. His smile looks sad, pinched at the corners. Bruce knows how he feels. The ache in his heart isn't something he quite knows how to place.
It’s all unfamiliar still, but it’s right. It’s good. And Bruce has always been a fast learner. Hopefully, this is something he can learn too, for Dick’s sake and his own.
He waves goodbye to Dick, the lingering warmth of the hug keeping the winter chill from reaching beneath his coat.