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Bruce sometimes can’t help but wonder what exactly he got himself into. He gazes down at the gardens from the window in his office, watching as his new ward runs back and forth, occasionally throwing himself into a cartwheel here or a somersault there.
What was he thinking?
He’s only in his 20s, running a massive corporation and fighting a war on crime besides. He doesn’t have the first clue as to how to take care of an actual human being, let alone a twelve year old. Admittedly, it’s been a while since he took Dick in, even been a bit since Robin made his first appearance, but there are still times when Bruce can hardly believe that he’s responsible for a whole human being.
There’s a knock on the door before Alfred opens it without waiting for a response. “Dinner will be ready soon, sir,” the butler says.
Bruce turns from the window. “Thanks, Alfred. What’s on the menu for tonight?”
The old man smiles. “The young master respectfully requested burgers, sir.”
Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you take requests?”
Alfred simply raises a matching brow. “Since someone actually bothered to ask for something, Master Bruce.”
Ignoring that rather pointed comment, Bruce turns back to the window, his brow crinkling when he can’t find his ward’s form below. “Alfred, did you see which way Dick-”
A door slamming somewhere in the house below interrupts him. “Mister Wayne?” a young voice shouts.
Bruce winces. It seems like Alfred’s lessons on manners have yet to take hold. He steps out into the hallway and heads to the stairs, peering over the railing in an attempt to spot the wayward lad. “Yes, Dick?” he calls (not shouts - Alfred would have his head).
A pattering of footfalls, and then Dick almost skids out as he rounds a corner down below. “Mister Wayne!”
Bruce really wishes that Dick would just call him Bruce, but so far, the kid has refused to do so. “Yes? What is it?”
Dick stops almost directly below him, looks up, and then looks back down at his feet. “Uhm…” He scuffs his dirty shoes on the hardwood, and Bruce holds back a wince at the marks it leaves.
Sighing, Bruce starts to make his way down the stairs. “Everything alright, Dick?”
The boy looks up, his blue eyes wide. “Oh, yeah, everything’s great, sir!”
Bruce bends down on one knee, bracing himself on the other. “Then what is it, kiddo?”
Dick looks down again. What is it that makes children so unpredictable? Just last night, Dick practically cackled when he made a goon he was fighting run into a dumpster, and yet here he is now, playing shy? Are all children like this, or just his?
No, not his, he corrects himself mentally. Dick will always be his parents’ - Bruce would never take that away from him.
Bruce sets a hand on his shoulder. “Dick?”
The boy nods and seems to center himself. “Um, I was wondering if you wanted to come play catch with me outside?”
Bruce goes to respond, but then stops. This is the first time that Dick has really reached out to him to do something just for fun. What made him ask now? Why would he ask Bruce? Does he just want a playmate? Do twelve year olds even need playmates?
Bruce sets the query aside for later pondering. “Can’t right now, sport. Dinner’s about ready.”
The way that Dick seems to kind of melt in disappointment tugs at something that Bruce didn’t even know was in him. “Oh.” His lower lip juts out a bit, but he doesn’t cry - the lad’s at least too old for temper tantrums, thank God. “Okay.”
His ward’s disappointment is so tangible, so thick in the air, that Bruce finds himself scrambling for a way to make it better. “But maybe after dinner, how’s that sound?”
And just like that, the kid is back to smiling. “I’d like that a lot, Mister Wayne. Thank you!”
Bruce thinks that he rather likes making the kid smile - there’s something so warm in it that it chases away some of the Gotham chill. “Go wash your hands, chum. Alfred made burgers.”
With a happy shout, the lad races away and Bruce climbs to his feet, feeling a crooked smile cross his own face. He’s about to head toward the dining room when a cough behind him has him turning to the stairs. There, Alfred stands, an expression on his face that Bruce can’t quite recognize. “Well done, sir,” he says, before passing Bruce on the way to the kitchen.
Bruce had honestly forgotten that he had been speaking to Alfred, something that is admittedly out of character for him. He watches the man pass with his brows drawn together.
What had he done well?
Things have been going pretty well, all things considered. Sure, they’ve broken a few pieces of china, sure, sometimes Batman still gets a heart attack when a random thug pops up within Robin’s general vicinity, but hey, they’re doing alright.
Dick’s also calling him Bruce now, which is honestly a major win.
They’ve even started playing games together some evenings between dinner and patrol. Dick had taken to basketball like a fish to water, and now it’s not uncommon to find the two of them laughing on the court as the sun starts to sink down.
Honestly, Bruce would be hard pressed to remember a time when he was happier, which is part of the reason why he finds himself rather worried when Dick comes knocking on his study door one evening just after he’d gotten home from work.
He’d just barely set his case down on the desk, making a note of some things he’d have to do tomorrow, when the kid pokes his nose in. “What’s up, Dick?” he asks absentmindedly, shuffling some papers around on his desk.
“Um.”
That draws Bruce’s attention. Dick’s pretty confident for a twelve year old - heck, he put Bruce’s twelve year old self to shame when it comes to self assurance. That little um tells Bruce that this is likely something he ought to pay attention to.
You know, maybe. He’s still trying to figure out this whole guardian thing.
He turns fully toward Dick and leans against the desk. “What is it, kiddo?”
What should he do with his arms? Some of those parenting books Alfred forced on him mentioned the importance of body language. Should he leave them by his side? Probably shouldn’t cross them, right? That would signal that he was closed off and dissuade vulnerability, right?
Dick shuffles into the room, but at least he’s not looking at his feet. “I, ah, had a question, but now it feels kinda dumb.”
Should Bruce approach him or let the kid come to him? Shit, why is this so hard? He’s a detective, a master of the mind, for goodness’ sake. He should be able to do this. He settles for staying where he is but awkwardly shifts his weight. “No such thing. So-called dumb questions are how we learn the most basic things in life.”
Dick takes a deep breath and seems to ponder that for a bit before nodding to himself. The little act makes Bruce smile a bit. Dick glances down once before meeting Bruce’s gaze again. “I, ah, was wondering what to do with my allowance. Like, I feel like maybe I should save some of it? That’s something that people do, right? Do I use it for clothes? For school lunches? I just…” he takes a breath that seems a bit shaky; it makes Bruce a bit worried, to be honest. “I never handled money a lot in the circus, and so my parents never really taught me a lot about it beyond the basics, so I… I’m kind of stuck. And this seems like something you would know a lot about, you know, being a billionaire and all that…”
Ah, okay. Bruce can handle financial discussions. He can do that. Just, dumb it down for a twelve year old and apply it to a weekly allowance, alright.
Firmly in his comfort zone now, Bruce steps forward and places hand on his ward’s shoulder. “Let’s go sit down somewhere, yeah? And that’s not a dumb question at all, Dick. In fact, it’s a rather smart one.”
Dick tosses him a tight smile as they walk side by side down the hallway to the living area. Bruce gives him one in return before starting, “First off, I need to remind you that as your guardian, I provide and care for you financially. Everything you need, be it school lunches or clothing or whatever, I will get for you. That does not come from your allowance. That’s just a basic part of being a guardian.”
They reach the living room as Dick nods. He sits himself in an armchair and pulls his knees up to his chest. His bright eyes remain glued on Bruce, and the enormity of the trust and focus in them overwhelms the man for a moment.
There’s a whole human being trusting him to give good financial advice that could have a long lasting impact on his life.
Why did Bruce think he could do this?
His mind goes blank and his mouth dries up. What on earth should he say to this precious child?
His mind runs a million miles a second, even as Dick’s gaze never strays from him. Desperate, his mind recalls one of the few talks he can remember having with his own father, and suddenly the way forward lightens up a bit.
“My father always used to say that your financial net worth is based on how much money you keep, and not how much you get.” From there, the flood gate opens, and Bruce starts to outline basic concepts like saving and budgeting. The more he talks, the more Dick unfolds, metaphorically and literally. Soon, his feet are on the floor again and he’s gesturing as he asks questions and nodding as Bruce responds.
Something in Dick’s reaction tugs at that recently discovered thing in Bruce’s chest, and warmth surges in him at the intelligence flashing in those brilliant eyes and shining in his thought questions.
Once they’ve exhausted Dick’s questions for now, the boy makes to get up, but something in Bruce tells him that they aren’t done here yet. “Wait!” he says, grasping Dick’s arm.
Dick looks at him curiously before plopping back down in the chair. “Yeah?”
Bruce swallows, trying to organize his thoughts, remembering the way his father had ended their conversation. “I need you to remember that while money is important and necessary, it will always be just money.”
Dick cocks his head to the side, and Bruce can see that he doesn’t understand. Of course he doesn’t, he’s twelve, he chides himself. “Your worth as a human being is not defined by your financial net worth. They say that money is the root of all evil, but the actual quote is ‘the love of money is the root of all evil’. Money is a tool, much like a batarang or a grappling hook - it’s the application thereof that decides the morality of its use. Never put aside what is important to you for the sake of money, be it spending time with friends, your mental health, or doing good in the community. Do with your money what you will be able to live with in your conscience. If that means getting a new video game because it makes you happy, do it. If that means buying someone in need a meal, then do it. If that means putting it in savings for your future, you do it. Understand?”
Dick nods, and though he doesn’t smile, his eyes are bright. “I do. Thanks, Bruce.”
That gaze again begins to overwhelm Bruce. There’s such a weight to it, a weight unlike any that Bruce has felt before. The faith glimmering there places a burden on Bruce’s very soul, that this young man is depending on him for so much.
The boy leaves after they exchange a few parting phrases, but Bruce finds himself stuck to his seat. Did that go okay? He didn’t screw that up, right?
And anyway, why did Dick ask him? Why didn’t he ask one of his tutors, or Alfred?
And speak of the Devil, there’s Alfred now, bearing a tray loaded with a tea set. He places the tray down on the table, serves himself and Bruce a cup, and then sits down in Dick’s place. Bruce nods his thanks before sipping at his tea.
They sit there in silence for a bit, before Alfred says, “You’re doing a fine job with the young lad, Master Bruce.”
Bruce’s next sip of tea goes down just a bit easier.
Dick’s been with Bruce for about a year by now, and Bruce thinks that they’ve settled into their roles admirably, both as Bruce and Dick and as Batman and Robin. Dick’s been tutored privately for the entirety of it, in an effort to assess his needs and knowledge of various subjects, as his schooling had been a bit inconsistent prior to his arrival at the manor (Bruce tries not to think of it as prior to his parents’ deaths). His tutors have finally determined that he’s ready to join with the other students his age, and so tomorrow he’d be starting at Gotham Academy.
They wrap up patrol early that night. Bruce had been reluctant to take him out at all (he had this vague notion that kids shouldn’t stay up late on school nights), but Dick had been so full of nervous energy that Bruce was honestly afraid that he would break something if he didn’t get the energy out somehow.
They take a pause on a rooftop, watching the city lights twinkle below. Batman’s about to suggest that they return to the Batmobile when Robin scales up his cape and clings to his back.
That’s a quirk of Dick’s that had taken a while to get used to. It had taken a bit, but once Dick got comfortable with Bruce, he started initiating all kinds of physical touch, up to and including climbing him like a jungle gym. Dick claims that it’s because he liked to be up high and just hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet, but Bruce has a sneaking suspicion that Dick honestly just enjoys being carried around. And at thirteen, he’s starting to get too big for it, so Bruce has decided to let it slide for a bit. After all, Dick won’t be able to do it for much longer.
The thing is, though, Dick rarely does it when they’re Batman and Robin. He’s usually too busy flipping and gliding through the air like a goddamn bird to cling to Batman, so Bruce knows that something’s up.
Sighing, Batman does a little hop to resituate Robin on his back, awkwardly tugging at his cape where it was trapped between their bodies. “Robin, check in.”
Robin doesn’t say anything, just sighs and nuzzles into the neck of Batman’s cowl. Batman is fairly certain that the position can’t be too comfortable, given the durable armor of the cowl. “Robin?”
When he feels the boy shake his head, he resigns himself to his status as a personal transportation device and makes his way to the Batmobile, awkwardly scaling down the building with his son ward attached to his back like a limpet. When they reach the car, Robin gets down wordlessly and climbs in the passenger seat, still silent.
The quiet unnerves Batman more than he’d like to admit. He’s apparently gotten used to Robin’s incessant babbling following patrol, even his snores on nights when he falls asleep in the car. This sullen Robin is not something he’s had to deal with in the past.
They get back to the cave just fine, and Robin remains unusually quiet through their nightly debrief. As he leaves to shower, tugging at his mask, Batman reaches out a hand and puts it on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Robin doesn’t turn to face him and just tags his mask off all the way. “I’m fine, B.”
Ah, he probably shouldn’t be doing this as Batman, right? Right.
With his free hand, he reaches up and tugs the cowl down. “Are you sure, Dick?” Bruce isn’t a detective for nothing, so he hazards a guess. “Are you nervous about school tomorrow?”
Bruce had thought that many things were possible – maybe Dick would clam up, maybe he’d cry a bit (sue him, Bruce knows that his the kid is emotional), maybe he’d running. What he hadn’t expected was for the kid to whirl around, indignation flashing in his eyes. “Am I nervous for school tomorrow? No, I’m not nervous for school, I’m nervous for the kids!”
Bruce has to restrain himself from physically taking a step back. This is a side of his ward that he hasn’t really seen before. Sure, there’d been glimpses of it when he’d insisted on going after Zucco, when he’d forced his way into working with Batman, but there’d been more than a bit of righteousness and determination in it before. Right now, Bruce is facing just frustration and anger, and he’s honestly not sure where it’s coming from.
Right now, well, it doesn’t feel like he’s walking on needles, because he’s done that before, and he’s being even more cautious now. “The kids?” he asks, because he’s honestly not sure of what else to say.
Dick snarls and clenches his mask in one fist. “Do you honestly not know what they say about me? Have you not heard how they gossip at the galas you’ve taken me too?”
Bruce had heard gossip, but he’d honestly thought that it had been limited to the adults. He sometimes forgets that, even in innocence, children can be cruel.
How cruel, though?
He runs a hand through his greasy hair. “What is it that they say?”
Dick pulls away and flips into a handstand, his back to Bruce and his cape falling down to block any hint of his facial expression that Bruce might have been able to catch. “That I’m just a charity case. That I’m a worthless freak. That my parents deserved to die. And those are some of the more palatable ones.” He drops into a back bend, but he’s still looking away from Bruce. “They say some pretty disgusting things about you, you know.”
Bruce does know that, but he honestly hadn’t thought that children would be passing on gossip that unsavory. How is he supposed to respond? Dick never asked for this life – he got thrown into it. Bruce suddenly comes to the epiphany that, in taking this boy in, he’s sentenced him to life in prison in the public’s eye.
What is he doing? He’s twenty-something locked in the public’s view as someone of less-than-stellar integrity, and he thought that he could take care of a teenager? Really?
Shoving aside the doubt he’s been dealing with for over a year now, he sits down on the floor near where his ward has folded himself into some impossible stretch that Bruce has no hopes of ever being able to do. “I’m sorry,” he says honestly. Sorry that you have to deal with this, sorry that I made this your life, sorry that you have to deal with my issues.
Dick huffs and still refuses to meet his gaze. “Not your fault,” he says grudgingly.
It kind of is, though Bruce doesn’t say that. “Will you be okay tomorrow?”
Dick changes position, practically flowing into the next stretch. “I’ll be fine, it’s just…”
When he doesn’t continue, Bruce prompts, “Just?”
Dick sighs before finally sitting with his legs crossed like a normal person. “How am I supposed to make friends when everyone already thinks all those horrible things about me?”
Bruce adjusts his position so that he’s right in front of his ward, crossing his legs out of necessity and ignoring the way that his instincts scream at him for doing so. He pauses to take off his gloves before reaching out and taking Dick’s hands in his. They seem to small; the boy is infinitely capable, and the callouses on his fingers show his strength of character, but he’s still so young. Fiddling with his son’s fingers (not son, ward), he says, “Not everyone thinks that, Dick. It’s just a vocal minority.”
Dick snorts. “A pretty loud minority, then.”
Bruce feels a sort of crooked, sardonic smile crack into being. “Yes, as those who are prejudiced tend to be. But trust me, Dick. You just need to sort out the wheat and the tares. One of the things that you need to keep believing, that I need to keep believing, is that there are good people out there.”
Bruce grips the boy’s hands. “You are such a good person, Dick, and there will be those who will see it. Be you, and let your actions speak for themselves. Remember, no one can make you feel inferior without your consent. Hold you head up high, and remember, there’s only one Robin in this city, there’s only one Richard Grayson, and that’s you.”
Did any of that make sense? Bruce hopes so. Emotional heart-to-hearts really aren’t his thing. He can’t even remember a word he said, honestly, it was just pouring out of his mouth, but maybe he said something right? Because there’s a light back in Dick’s eyes that he’s ashamed to admit he didn’t notice had gone out earlier.
Dick’s hands grip Bruce’s own tightly enough to startle him. “You really mean that?”
Bruce swallows and tries to muster up a real, genuine smile. He’s not sure that he’s succeeded, but he plows forward anyway. “I really do, chum.”
Dick surges forward, knocking Bruce backward into the cave’s hard floor as he wraps the man up in a tight hug. “Thank you, Bruce.”
Then, quick as lightning, he bolts up and heads to the showers. “Night!”
Bruce pushes himself up onto to his elbows and chuckles a little. “Good night!” he calls back.
That boy is something else, he thinks.
I really hope I do right by him.
When Bruce walks in the door after work, a subtle but repeated thudding from the dining room draws his attention. Wrinkling his brow, he quickly drops his case by the door and hangs up his jacket before making his way quickly towards the sound.
The closer he gets to the room, the louder the thudding gets, the sound of something repeatedly hitting wood reverberates down the wall. None of the alarms are going off in the manor (though despite that fact, Bruce’s heart is racing, his mind sprinting through all of the possible ways that something could have gone wrong, God, what if something has happened to Dick -)
As his anxiety skyrockets, Bruce finds himself subconsciously speeding up into a jog as he rounds the final corner and stops abruptly at the doorway, taking in the, uh, unique sight before him as he wills his heart to slow down.
Papers litter the table in a disorganized mess, pens and pencils placed here and there with a sort of anarchy that approaches artistry. There’s a backpack by the door, and textbooks are taking up at least three of the visible chairs. Perhaps the highlight of the scene, however, is his son, sitting upside down in his chair. Dick’s legs are thrown over the back, his head falling off of the seat as he repeatedly bangs on the underside of the table with a closed fist, his eyes staring blankly upward.
Okay, so not the horror movie that Bruce’s mind had baked up, but still not ideal. “Dick?” he calls hesitantly.
Bruce has trained in the past with literal ninjas, and yet the speed, agility, and flexibility the boy demonstrates as he somehow contorts himself to his feet astonish even the mighty Batman.
“Hey, Bruce,” he says, mustering up a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Bruce frowns; something’s not right.
Bruce approaches Dick with the same trepidation he would use for a wild animal. “Everything alright there, chum?”
The boy huffs a bit but doesn’t drop his fake smile. Bruce pushes back the urge to fold his arms. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s great. Just doing some homework.”
“Oh, is that what you call this?” Immediately, Bruce closes his mouth tight. Probably not the best thing he could have said, but it’s out there now, so…
Why did he ever think he would be a suitable parent for a teenager?
Thankfully, Dick just shakes his head. “No, this is what I call cruel and unusual punishment. Why do I still have to draw number lines, Bruce? I’m thirteen – I can do this math in my head!”
Bruce picks up one of the books and takes its spot on the chair. “Well- “
“And don’t even get me started on the English homework. Why does the English language make no sense? Like, yes, I can speak the language, why on earth does it matter if I know what a participle is or if I can list all of the simple and double prepositions? I bet even you don’t actually know that!”
“Actually –“
Again, the kid ignores him, flipping upside down and beginning to pace the room on his hands. “And we do all of this to fit an arbitrary set of standards said to be the pure minimum knowledge necessary to have a good life! Like, I can do so much good without knowing this, I do do so much good without knowing it, and school sucks-“
“Dick!”
It’s quite possibly the first time Bruce has raised his voice at his ward (outside of training and their, ah, extracurriculars), so he’s not surprised when the boy immediately flips to his feet and stares at him, mouth open.
Bruce sighs, closes his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Could you possibly quiet down a bit, please?” Bruce can already feel the headache coming on, and his body is itching for some physical activity to work out the stress of the day. Right now, he honestly wants nothing more than to duck down to the Cave and get a workout in before dinner but…
He’s not Batman, right now. Batman can have his time later. Right now, he’s still stuck as Bruce.
Dick stands still for a second before ducking his head. “Sorry, Bruce. I, ah, didn’t mean to go off on you like that.”
And now, he feels guilty. Is this what parenting is? Just screwing up time and time again until you (theoretically) manage to say something right and not screw up the kid irreversibly?
Considering the fact that he regularly lets a teenager loose on the worst that Gotham has to offer, he’s probably already failed at that particular goal.
Bruce runs a hand down his face. He’s too tired for this shit, and he’s still planning on going out that night. “It’s fine, Dick.”
The boy just shakes his head and sits down beside Bruce, picking up a pencil and tapping it on the table. “I’m just… really frustrated with all this.”
Clearly. Is he meant to respond to that? Honestly, he’s not sure. Dick seems to be looking at him expectantly, so probably. “I… can see that?” Come on, Bruce. You can put on a show for a bunch of socialites and keep the world’s deadliest assassins on their guard, but you can’t talk to a teenager about their schoolwork? Admittedly, this is way outside of his typical realm of experience and knowledge, but is it really that difficult?
Something in Dick seems to wilt, and all of the sudden Bruce is aware that he missed some sort of hidden clue. He forces his mind to go over the last few minutes, trying to come up with what he’s missed as Dick turns sadly back to his algebra homework. He’s just started halfheartedly going at one of the problems when a possible solution occurs to Bruce.
Not all pleas for help are visible, right? A lot of time, he comes across people in rough situations who can’t find the words to ask, or even would be placed in danger if they did so. It’s just like being Batman, only he has to be a guardian now. “Would you, ah, like some help? I’m pretty good at math…”
From the look Dick gives him, you’d think that Bruce had just pulled him from a collapsing building instead of offering him help on his homework. The boy practically glows as he shoves the paper toward Bruce. “Please! Can you help me figure out what on earth I’m supposed to be doing here? The wording in the word problem is awful!”
Bruce blinks as he processes what his son has said before glancing down at the admittedly baffling mix of lattices and number lines. “…I can certainly try.”
Bruce is enjoying a lazy morning on a Saturday for once when Dick comes knocking timidly at the bedroom door. Bruce is still in his pajamas and bath robe when he opens the door to find Dick standing there awkwardly, Alfred at his side.
Goodness. Bruce is not awake enough to deal with anything too complicated right now. Swallowing, he lets a small smile creep on his face – despite the early morning, he’s still happy to see the boy. Something about seeing Dick just kind of puts him a bit at ease. “Good morning, Dick. And to you too, Alfred.”
Dick awkwardly waves. “Hi…”
Alfred offers a small smile of his own. “Good morning, Master Bruce. I do believe the young master has something he’d like to ask you.”
Bruce raises an eyebrow and glances at the fidgeting boy. “And that would be?”
Dick just wrings his hands and bounces on the balls of his feet, making Alfred cluck his tongue. “Go on then, Master Richard.”
Dick tucks his hands behind his back before rising to the balls of his feet and then lowering himself again. “Could you, ah, teachmehowtoshave?”
Bruce blinks his eyes a few times, trying to get the last of the sleepiness from them as he tries (and fails) to process what his son said. “Come again?”
Dick rubs at the back of his neck, his cheeks reddening. “Could you teach me how to shave?”
Bruce blinks one more time before cocking his head. “Oh, yes, I can do that.” Of course he can, right? He’s been shaving his own face for years, and he can do many much more difficult things besides. It should be easy?
Nothing about guardianship is ever easy, he’s found.
Soon enough, Alfred has rustled up a spare razor and Dick and Bruce are standing side by side at the two sinks in the master bathroom. Bruce watches the faucet run, filling up the basin with hot water. Suddenly, he’s finding it difficult to put something in his daily routine into words. He’d honestly kind of forgotten that shaving is something people learn – it’s been a subconscious habit for him for years now.
Turning off the faucet, he glances over at his son to find Dick staring blankly into the water in front of him. “Dick?” he asks hesitantly.
Dick shakes his head. “It’s nothing. Just always thought that my dad would be the one to teach me to shave.” He closes his eyes for a second, and Bruce is glad for the reprieve. The previous statement had sent a shock into his heart, one of sorrow and empathy (which he understood) and hurt (which he did not understand and would need to evaluate at a later date).
By the time that Dick opens his eyes again, Bruce has schooled his expression. Reaching forward, he puts a hand on his son’s ward’s shoulder. “I understand,” he offers.
Because he does.
The moment is oddly heavy, and Bruce finds that he doesn’t much like the weight of it, so he turns back to his sink. Dick does the same, extending the olive branch by asking, “So, how do we start?”
Bruce clears his throat. “Right, well… first, we wet our faces with the warm water…”
And so they go. Bruce walks him through lathering with the shaving cream, tells him to only shave in the direction of the hair growth (AKA down), helps him figure out how to best get around the nose, reminds him to dip and rinse his blade in the water regularly, winces as he gets his first cut that bleeds through the makeshift toilet paper gauze in a matter of moments…
But by the end of it, Dick is beaming with his freshly shaven face, and even Bruce’s smile sits a bit larger than normal on his face. There’s something warm in his chest, too. Something he can’t quite place.
Turning to the boy, he gently reaches out and wipes off a bit of shaving cream that had somehow wound up on his forehead. “And there you go, chum. Think you’ve got it?”
Dick, if possible, seems to glow brighter at the physical contact. “Yeah! Thanks, B.”
Bruce feels the smile creep into his eyes. “Any time, chum. You’ve just got to ask.”
The boy hums and starts chattering on about the rest of his plans for the day as they clean up the bathroom (Bruce makes certain to tell Dick to wash all the hair down the drain, lest they annoy Alfred), and, oddly enough, Bruce finds himself okay with the chatter. Normally, he despises aimless conversation, but when it’s Dick…
Well, he finds it doesn’t mind it so much.
Soon enough, they’re done tidying up and Bruce guides Dick out of the room, citing the fact that he still needs to get dressed. Dick goes along easily enough, but then, in the doorway, he pauses. “Dick?”
Without warning, his son suddenly turns and wraps his arms around Bruce’s waist, burying his face in Bruce’s robe. “Seriously B, thank you.”
There’s a weight in how he addresses Bruce, something warm and meaningful that Bruce doesn’t quite understand. He gently puts his arms around his son. “You’re very welcome, Dick.”
For a while now, something has been bothering Bruce. There’s something just outside the reach of his understanding, something he can feel is there and yet not name.
It’s driving him absolutely insane.
He sits in front of the Cave’s computer, in costume but cowl down, elbows resting on the table in front of him as he bounces his finger tips off of each other. Dick’s already gone up for the night, thankfully, so he has some quiet to think.
“Something on your mind, Master Bruce?”
Or so he thought.
Bruce swivels the chair around to he can look at where the butler is standing innocently to the side. Alfred only smiles as he stands perfectly upright. “You seem rather preoccupied at the moment, given that you finished up typing that analysis a good twenty minutes ago and have since been staring at the screen.”
Bruce snorts. No use keeping something from Alfred. “I’ve been thinking about Dick.”
Alfred takes a step closer and raises a brow. “Oh? And what has been stuck in your mind oh-so firmly?”
Bruce sighs and swivels the chair around again so he doesn’t need to make eye contact. “I’ve been trying to figure out what exactly our relationship is. Like, what does it even really mean to be a guardian?” Bruce huffs. “I can’t be a good guardian if I don’t even have a goal. Batman has a goal. Brucie Wayne has a goal. What is the goal of guardianship?”
Alfred is silent for so long that Bruce starts to think perhaps he’d been abandoned. Eventually though, the butler speaks up. “Master Bruce, what do you make of all the questions Master Dick has asked you? To play ball with him, how to make friends, how to shave and more?”
Bruce frowns and tugs off his gauntlets one by one. “He just had questions. All kids do.”
Alfred’s shoes click as he steps a bit closer. “Master Bruce, Dick could have asked a number of people most of those questions. Me, his tutors, his teachers at school, even the kind Miss Barbara Gordon – and yet he came to you. Why do you think that is?”
Bruce tilts his head back until it rests on the chair. “Maybe I was just the easiest option? He knew I would have the answers?”
Alfred tuts, and Bruce can’t help but feel like he’s disappointed the older man. “My dear boy, if you think that’s all there is to it…” he trails off, and Bruce thinks perhaps he’s going to drop it, but then he asks, “And what do you think of the young master?”
Bruce frowns and shifts in his seat. “What do I think?” He goes to answer immediately, but something in him tells him to pause to really think it over.
“I think… he’s an incredible boy.” Bruce folds his arms over his chest, feeling weirdly embarrassed. “No, more than that, he’s the best kid I’ve ever met. He’s kind and bright, and he honestly wants to help people. He’s the one person I don’t mind listening to talk for hours on end, and he can make me feel like there’s something good in me, something that’s been missing since that night in the alley so long ago…”
He can feel the sentimental, sad smile on his face but he can’t make it go away for some reason. “Something about Dick just grabs people and reels them in, and he makes me so proud to call him my…”
He trails off, his words having led him to an epiphany that wasn’t even on his radar previously.
Alfred, merciless as he is, pushes on. “Proud to call him your what, Master Bruce?”
Bruce can feel his jaw dangling, but he can’t help it. “Call him my son,” he whispers.
A hand on his shoulder makes him jump, and he looks up into Alfred’s gently smiling face. “Well done, sir,” he praises softly. “You’re a great father.”
“I-“ and suddenly Bruce can’t speak past the clog in his throat. This was never his goal; he never wanted to replace Dick’s parents, he honestly had never even put much thought into being a parent or having kids of his own, he’s still in his twenties, honestly, how could he have let this happen-
“Bruce.”
The address startles Bruce enough to snap him out of his spiral, and he blinks up at his butler. The man just smiles and offers a hand to pull him to your feet. “Come on, lad. Something tells me that you need to go see that boy of yours right now.”
Well, Bruce can’t say he’s opposed to that, so he lets himself get pushed toward the shower, gratefully accepting a cup of tea once he exits. Alfred remains a steady, comforting presence beside him as they make their way through the manor proper.
They pause in front of Dick’s closed door, and Bruce stares at it. Alfred stands behind him, but otherwise makes no move. The time ticks by, and Bruce just stares at the door.
The nice thing about Alfred is that the man has never been afraid of the silence. He only speaks when Bruce has raised a hand and set a palm gently on the door. “I’ll leave you to it, sir. Good night, Master Bruce. Try not to overthink it. Sometimes the simplest solution is in fact the correct one.” He vanishes into the silent, dim corridor, and then Bruce is all alone in the night.
And suddenly, he realizes that he really doesn’t want to be alone right now, so he musters up all of his courage (he’s the damn Batman, for goodness’ sake, he should be able to do this) and knock gently on the door twice before easing it open.
He steps into the room as Dick pushes himself up on an elbow in bed, blinking against his sleep. “Hmm, B?” he mumbles.
Bruce exhales and crosses the room. “Hey, chum.” He sits gingerly on the edge of Dick’s bed, where the boy has lain back down. “I was just… checking in.”
Dick closes his eyes again and nestles into his comforter. Bruce can’t stop himself from adjusting it, tucking it in around his boy. Dick seems so utterly relaxed that something in Bruce’s heart calms.
That’s right. Everything is okay. The world won’t end just because Bruce Wayne of all people managed to develop parental feelings.
He smooths the hair back from Dick’s forehead. “Sleep well, chum.”
Dick smiles, already half asleep. “’Kay, Bruce. I will.”
Bruce smiles back, though the boy can’t see it, and stands to leave. He’s half out the door when a slurred voice calls out, “Hey, B?”
He turns around instantly. “Yes?”
Sleepy blue eyes poke out from behind a fluffy comforter, the smile in the evident despite the dim lighting and late hour. “Love you.”
Oh.
That’s what that feeling is.
Suddenly everything makes a lot more sense. Bruce doesn’t just see Dick as his son – he loves him like a son.
Go figure.
He places a hand on the doorknob to tug it shut behind him. It’s been a while since his heart has felt this full. Honestly, he’d be hard-pressed to remember such a time. And for once… he feels content.
“Love you too, kiddo.”