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If one were to tell Bruce that he has a habit of signing himself up for long commitments on impulsive decisions, he'd provide them the evidence that (most of) everything about his life for the past six years or so has been planned to nigh-excruciating detail. Regardless, he admits: his signature on the adoption papers happened a little faster than the text message to Alfred.
And it'd be true, for all that this short lapse in judgement has happened fast, Bruce does not take his promises lightly. His oath to his parents was never anything less than necessary. The opposite of impulsive, even when whispered at the foot of his bed, lit only by a small candle. The only words he'd spoken for the next six months.
It's not rashness that makes him don the cowl. Not rashness that made him wander and search for instruction. Not rashness that makes him train tirelessly in a dark, damp cave, with carefully planned meals and scheduled meditation (and a scheduled rest time, for all that he never gets to meet it).
And it's not rashness that makes him sign those papers. But, from the outside, the difference doesn't quite matter.
He's not regretting it. He certainly didn't enjoy sitting at the GCPD precinct for eight hours while they desperately tracked down where they'd sent young Richard Grayson, growing increasingly worried with every minute that passed and every phone call that revealed nothing. By the time he left, his pockets were full of candy sourced from ashamed police officers and one (1) wrapped up drug snuck in the mix that's so poorly hidden he's almost offended for himself.
No, Bruce's mind has been made up for the last week. It'd been Alfred's idea to go to the circus--the tickets had been a gift, though he doesn't remember from who, now. If only he'd looked a little closer before--
Bruce's mind has been made up for one week and twelve hours. One week, twelve hours, twenty two minutes, since he watched a couple die and took just a bit too long to realize he wasn't the one screaming.
It comes and goes, sometimes. The memory blurs and mixes with the one that's always looming, the clearest part being something clicking in the back of his head and a small voice saying There's a child.
...To be entirely fair, up until twenty minutes ago he was just trying to ensure Richard Grayson was placed in an actual foster home, instead of a juvenile detention center. At twelve. The social worker assigned had huffed and puffed over his 'flight risk' until Bruce had asked, plainly, if being an orphan was a crime.
He doesn't remember, exactly, what words were said after that. Just that the conversation ended with Bruce's coat on Richard--Dick, as he'd insisted--'s shoulders and wet ink on paper.
There's a dubious sense of legality to the whole affair, much like there always is where Gotham's government intervention is related. A lack of real vetting that makes Bruce grimace internally. And, technically speaking, both of them are now under Alfred's legal care--Dick just has...added papers with Bruce's name on them.
He's not sure the social worker actually knows how real life (and maybe also the law) works, but it means less trouble for the moment, so Bruce won't say anything about that.
He's busy with other things now. Dick Grayson, despite being only three years younger, is a small, slight little thing. Bruce has put on more muscle than any person his age from his...nightly activities, but Dick wears his coat like a cape, brushing the backs of his knees even with it hooked over his head like a hood. His eyes look up at Bruce with a dull intensity, flat from behind the lapels. Underneath, there's just a shirt three sizes too big, tucked into the extra space of overlarge, worn cargo shorts. The look doesn't go well with the shiny fabric of Bruce's coat.
None of Bruce's clothes back home will fit him. He thinks Alfred might have kept one or two things from when he was younger, but by the time Bruce came back he'd already shot up to maybe triple the height he'd been before leaving. It had taken five solid minutes for Alfred to recognize him at the airport. His wardrobe is still a little empty.
Maybe they can go shopping together, he decides. He's bulked up even more since the start of the year. Bruce could use something else to wear.
They're just waiting, now. The bench outside has already started warming from both of them sitting here. Dick doesn't say anything, just staring at the side of Bruce's face, unflinching even when Bruce looks back at him too.
He shifts, getting the urge to twiddle his thumbs, and suppressing a matching desire to sit on his hands so they don't move. It's not like that night, wrapping his arms around the boy so he wouldn't have to--Well, it's different now. There's nothing to hide him from. Bruce can't remember the last time he spoke to someone younger than him for more than twenty seconds at a time.
"Are you..." Dick doesn't blink when Bruce clears his throat, grip squeezing the sleeves of the coat over his head. Bruce clears his throat again, then swallows when the action makes the back itch like he's being stabbed from the inside. Maybe he's allergic to children. Before the anaphylaxis can set in, he coughs out. "Hungry? Uh, chum."
He's heard that word before, he thinks. Someone used to call him that, a long time ago. He's pretty sure it's outdated by now, but he doesn't want to call Dick kid. Even if it's technically the truth.
When Bruce--When it happened to him, he got called kid enough for a lifetime. Just thinking about it makes the back of his neck bristle. He didn't feel like a kid anymore, then. Never, since. Dick isn't him, but he imagines the condescension would feel the same.
"...Yeah," Dick says, finally, nose screwed up and an eyebrow raised in Bruce's direction. His ears burn, but he ignores it. "What's that word mean?"
"'Friend'," Bruce answers, automatically. Dick's accent is thick, but his diction is as perfect as his grammar. His parents clearly hadn't slacked on his education. Bruce feels a pang of something in his solar plexus, tight and hot. "And also chopped fish and fish intestines."
This time, Dick's face twists in real disgust, head tilting. "Why both? Friends aren't anything like fish guts. They don't smell."
"It's an old word. Old words have lots of meanings." He doesn't pull out his phone to look up the etymology. He's not neurotic. But he makes a note to look it up regardless. The conversation feels like it's quickly derailing, but he can't tell if that's a good thing or not.
"We're not eating fish," Dick snaps, flaring, but his eyes flicker around. He's not looking at Bruce anymore. His hands tighten into a white-knuckled grip on the coatsleeves. "Or friends. I want a bur-ger. They never gave me good stuff."
Bruce opens his mouth, words dying in his throat in a battle to escape worthy of a Norse funeral. As if summoned by the mention of a greasy affront to cuisine (or, slightly more horrifying, children being deprived of nourishment), Alfred turns the car around the curve, rolling to a stop a few feet in front of them. He stands, ready to usher Dick inside, but freezes when the driver's door opens instead.
Alfred gets out of the car, and Bruce only has a few seconds to look contrite before he gets closer. Despite the fact he came back already taller than him, Bruce still feels a little small that expression is directed at him. He feels a pressure at his hand, tight and tiny, and looks down to see a small set of fingers holding onto the side of his palm.
...Sweaty, Bruce thinks, and it's the last thought he has before Alfred starts talking. "Bruce. Thomas. Wayne."
"Can we get burgers," he tries, because if there's one thing that might distract Alfred from yelling at him it's the prospect of yelling at him about unhealthy eating habits instead. The last time Bruce ate one of those, he was huddled in a collapsing building with--
"Master Bruce," Alfred sighs, putting his palms on his own cheeks and squeezing. Dick makes a small noise at that. The sweaty hand tightens. "What in heaven's name are you doing?"
It's the same thing he asked when he found Bruce still bloody and with popped stitches, making the batsuit at his Father's desk, lit only by the lamp in the corner in an attempt to hide. Despite himself, Bruce feels his lips twitch. It had only taken a minute for Alfred to sit down and redo half of the progress he'd already made.
"This is Dick," he answers, squeezing back on that sweaty palm. "He's mine now."
Somehow, this seems to be the wrong thing to say, if the way he gets an earful all the way back to the manor from both ends is any indication. Even so, Bruce doesn't get his coat back.
Three days. That's how long it takes Dick to find out Bruce is Batman.
They encounter each other in the kitchen--but it's only by coincidence that they know the other's there at all. Bruce slips inside after patrol with the cowl pushed to the back of his neck and the greasepaint sliding down his face, opening a cabinet and searching blindly in the dark.
When his fingers close around the jar of peanut butter, the lights flick on. Grunting, he covers his eyes with his other hand, but doesn't let go of the jar. Alfred huffs. "Boys."
Bruce blinks. He peeks through his fingers, closing the kitchen cabinet at, apparently, the same time Dick does on the other side of the kitchen. Dick's backpack hangs off of his shoulder, the plastic of zip-loc bags of cookies and sandwiches peeking out of the open zipper.
Dick looks at him. Looks at the cowl. At the peanut butter. At the wide soup spoon on the island table between them.
"Damn," he says, and sticks a hand down the front of his bag to a dollar bill, waddling to put it in the swear jar only a couple of feet away. "Can we have cupcakes?"
Bruce hums. It's two in the morning. "Al?"
"Sit down," Alfred says, mouth pursed but the corners of his eyes upturned. "It'll be a moment."
"Chocolate chip, please."
"Of course. Banana nut, Master Bruce?"
"...Hm. Please."
It's three by the time they come out of the oven, and in the same span of time Dick yells at Bruce six times, gapes and pokes at the batsuit three times, and asks to be taught how to fight twice.
Bruce carefully avoids eye contact with Alfred, who disappears conveniently into the bowels of the kitchen storage. "Why?"
Dick is quiet. There's chocolate on the tip of his nose. Bruce feels the strange urge to put him in a warm bath and then wrap him up in so many blankets he could roll across the hall.
"I have to," Dick's voice breaks, just a little. He puts down the cupcake and takes a long sip of the cup of milk that sits on the table next to him. "You don't get it."
Maybe it's the house. Maybe bringing Dick here was the worst idea Bruce has ever had, because if Wayne Manor is the root of the problem then they should've all gotten out and exorcised the place years ago. Bruce closes his eyes.
"I get it." He says, voice hoarse and low. His vocal register just keeps getting lower these days. "Okay."
Somewhere in the pantry, Bruce hears a deep sigh.
"Tutors," Alfred says, a put upon tone to his voice that makes Bruce wince. The thin ream of paper in his hands is full of red penmarks. "For both of you. Have you seen your laundry, Master Bruce? When exactly am I supposed to correct these?"
Bruce grimaces. His deodorant brand started failing lately. He's switched to a medical strength, but the smell still lingers on some of his exercise gear. There's a sock sitting on top of one of the machines that Alfred is too short to notice. He's pretty sure it'll gain sentience in a couple of days, but telling Alfred he missed it will be the worse of the two outcomes. Bruce can handle a monster sock.
"We could just. Not." Bruce tries. If having Alfred as a butler (as a father, says Little Bruce in the back of his head) means getting scolded more often than not, having Alfred as his homeschool teacher when he's already learned most of the material abroad is pure torture. "Self-imposed education--"
"You are teenaged boys, Master Bruce." His voice begets no arguments. Bruce starts feeling nervousness prickle the backs of his hands. "The only reason I taught you so far, is because you've already run off on me once."
Well. He can't argue with that part, though he feels a flaring craving to do so anyway. Still, he tries again. "I'll talk to Dick. We can do our own laundry. Less work."
"It's tutors," Alfred says, voice thin. Bruce's teeth clack together when his mouth shuts. "Or I will file the paperwork to enroll both of you in Gotham Academy today."
"...Fine," Bruce grunts, goosebumps blooming on the back of his neck. It'll be worth it, he tells himself. Or maybe he should just clone Alfred. "Can you call Dick in here?"
A few minutes later, Dick's head pokes in through the door of the study. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. "Yeah?"
"I told you not to train without me," Bruce says, automatic, frowning when Dick sticks his tongue out at him in response. "We're getting tutors."
The door opens all the way, Dick barreling through to stare at Bruce with wide eyes, leaving it infuriatingly open. Dick's voice is shrill. "What?! But Alfie--"
"Al has turned traitor," Bruce surprises himself with his vehemence, but the vindication in Dick's narrowed, betrayed eyes is sweet. "It's tutors or real school. I picked tutors. You're welcome."
"Ugh," Dick whines, flopping over the chaise in a swoon. Privately, Bruce wishes he could do the same. The papers on the desk mock him. His stomach rumbles, and as if in a call and response, so does Dick's.
Neither of them move. After a few seconds, the tell-tale sounds of one of Dick's phone games starts playing in the air, the door still open. The glare Bruce gives him does absolutely nothing, so eventually he continues with the research that he was doing before being interrupted originally.
Sightings of an unidentified object solving natural disasters worldwide. Ridiculous.
Half an hour later, Alfred comes with a tray loaded to the brim with tiny tea sandwiches. Half and half of cucumber and ham and cheese. Dick's nose wrinkles at the sight of green.
"Can't you reconsider, Alf?" He pleads, eyes gaining a sort of misty quality in nanoseconds. Bruce hides a scoff into his elbow. "At least for me? I'm cuter than B, and I like your lessons. I'll clean all the fancy plates!"
"I'm afraid cuteness does not value higher than learning." Alfred says dryly. The plate of cucumber sandwiches goes in front of Bruce, while the other sits in front of the coffee table by Dick, which. Rude. Dick may not like the cucumber, but Bruce does like the ham. He's being usurped in his own home. "And keeping the porcelain neat is significantly easier for me than trying to educate you myself."
Dick whines again. A part of Bruce does pity him; two months is not enough to learn that Alfred might as well be made of stone when it comes to tantrums. If Bruce's protests were not enough, the odds Dick could make a difference are dreadfully nil. He's still paying off forgiveness for his training trip, after all.
An idea blooms in his mind. Bruce clenches his teeth to hold back a smile that would definitely have more of a wicked edge than needed. "Teach him how to sew. For that."
Dick pushes up on his elbows, staring at Bruce with a look of disgusted confusion. "Sewing? But that's so boring! What do I need that for? Do you sew?"
Alfred drums his fingers on the silver tray, raising an eyebrow. "I taught him myself. He has a nasty habit of overusing backstitching, in my opinion. I do concur on the necessity...Master Bruce, he's twelve."
"I knew how to sew at twelve," Bruce shrugs. It'd been useful when someone had slashed his thigh open particularly deep in Malaysia. Walking around with pink thread in his skin that he'd borrowed from the nearest old lady was better than bleeding out.
If Dick wants to train like Bruce, he reasons, then it's better for him to know these things. He's already a little behind, in fact. And maybe Bruce wants some vengeance of his own.
Alfred doesn't seem to agree. He says "You know I don't mean that," at the same time Dick's eyes go huge and he bursts out, "Wait, did you sew your own suit?! Alf, teach me!"
Hook, line, and sinker. Alfred gives him a nasty look, leaving the study with Dick trailing behind him. As the voices get quieter, Bruce lets the side of his mouth slip up, leaning over the desk with some effort to grab the plate of sandwiches off of the coffee table without standing.
Then he looks up at the door, still wide open, and growls. The urge is too strong; he stands to close it after a few seconds.
Of course, as soon as his ass touches the chair, Dick comes in again. The door swings hard into the doorstop, staying open thanks to the weight of the wood. "B! A yellow cape, B!"
Bruce, who has never returned an appliance, item, or anything else he's ever bought in his life, wonders if he can resell him at the bargain bin.
"That smells nice," Dick chirps, deceptively calm if Bruce weren't holding his hand. He takes a pointed sniff; Alfred only ever buys beeswax candles, Bruce knows. This one smells faintly of oak and lavender, the thick wooden wick crackling every once in a while. "I like that."
"Me too," Bruce admits quietly. The light flickers slightly, the pressing darkness of the cave like a blanket, muffling their senses save for the echo. He swallows. "Concentrate. You remember?"
Dick rolls his eyes, the candlelight deepening the shadows of his face. He's paler than normal, but energy buzzes right under his skin, his fingers shaking in Bruce's hold. He doesn't mention it.
Alfred had called this 'silly'. Alfred doesn't know about the promise Bruce made into the shadows that might have been his mother. Dick doesn't either, but something had settled behind his eyes when Bruce had brought up the concept.
There's something a little terrifying about the fact that, for all the differences between them, their anger congeals into two incredibly similar shapes. Targeted. Honored. Honed to an edge just shy of sharp.
Is it justice or justification, Bruce wonders. Is there a meaningful distinction? He didn't meet John and Mary Grayson for long enough to know what they'd think of Dick's whispered, firm words. In reality, he doesn't know what his parents would say, either. They didn't get a chance to say much. The last thing Bruce saw coming out of his mother's mouth was blood.
"For justice," Dick swears, his palms shaking but dry. The reflection of the candle doesn't quite center on his pupils, but it's close enough that he can see the way they narrow into pinpricks. "For..."
"Righteousness," Bruce murmurs, holding his other hand in a parallel to Dick's. It would look comical from any other angle--Their height difference has only gotten more significant eight months later. For every growth spurt Dick has, Bruce seems to have two more. He ripped a dress shirt he bought two weeks ago yesterday.
"Righteousness," Dick repeats, a little louder than the rest. He looks up at Bruce, his pupils widening slightly. "I swear it."
Would John and Mary forgive him, for being the whetstone to Dick's rage? For filing it until it's capable of cutting? For putting Dick at a risk of slicing himself upon it, too? Would they recognize what their baby has become?
Bruce thinks he's taller than his Father, now. Definitely broader, at least. He tried to wear one of his old shirts to replace the one he ripped and it wouldn't close around his chest. If he could see them again, Bruce has no idea if his parents would greet him with "Our son" or "Who are you?". He's going to get his driving permit next week.
Dick's hands have finally stopped trembling, after the words were done spilling out. He smiles, tilting his head and filling his lungs with lavender-scented smoke.
Whatever Dick Grayson would have been without him, Bruce can't bring himself to mourn it too much. He nods, just one quick jerk of his head, and Dick launches himself to wrap around Bruce's middle. The candle blows out.
"You're the worst," Dick cries out, echoing against the ceiling. Bruce dodges the second shoe with a duck of his head. "It's not garish."
"Booty shorts cover more, Dick," Bruce growls. This is so stupid. He's spent too long cultivating the enigma and fear he invokes when wearing the cowl to let Dick ruin it all with one outfit. He should've known siccing him on Alfred would backfire. "You're a walking target!"
Dick covers his ears, ankles hooked on each other in between the spokes of the chandelier. Bruce has half a mind to climb up himself and shake some sense into him. "I'm fast! Just 'cause I won't be depressing like you doesn't mean you can talk about it like that!"
"I'm sending a message with my suit," Bruce accuses, eyeing the shoes on the ground for their projectile worthiness. "Fear. Justice. Strength. What are you sending, chum?"
"I'll spit on you," he threatens, already visibly gathering saliva in his mouth. "I'll spit on everything you love."
"You'll spit on Alfred?" If he makes his voice a little too loud, that's neither here nor there. Dick lets out a battle cry, launching himself off of the lighting structure, fingernails stretched to claw at Bruce's face.
It must be Bruce's fault for underestimating Dick's aerodynamics while wearing a cape, but backing up in instinct to try to catch him on his chest just barrels the both of them over with the momentum. The back of Bruce's head smacks against something behind him--a table edge, he reasons before the pain hits--while his body slams hard into the tile.
There's a second of silence, stars bursting behind Bruce's eyelids, before Dick is kneeing him in the solar plexus. "B!"
If the offending knee would get off of his body, Bruce thinks dryly, maybe he could get enough air to answer. Dick seems to favor slapping his shoulders and smacking his face instead of moving, though. He sniffles wetly, snot smearing dangerously close to Bruce's face.
"Alfie! Alfie!" He screams, making Bruce's ears ring. A concussion, he thinks. From a table. "He's bleeding!"
Bruce can feel that himself, warmth slowly pooling behind his head. He's definitely had worse. He's had a few good nights, injury-wise, so he's got a bit of blood to spare. If only he could get up.
"My goodness," Alfred's voice says somewhere behind him. Miraculously, Dick gets off, and Bruce greedily takes in a breath. "Master Bruce, what in God's name happened here?"
Dick lets out a bit-off whimper. Bruce sits up, head swimming, but manages to meet his eyes from the ground. Dick is ashen, hands wringing, looking between them like he's waiting for Bruce to sign his death warrant.
...Damn it. "Tripped. 'm fine."
He doesn't look at Dick's round eyes and how his mouth makes a little matching circle. He takes Alfred's offer to help him stand, and doesn't even get scolded for swearing under his breath. They hobble over to the bathroom, and the lump of gauze that ends up on the back of Bruce's head feels bigger than the swelling from the injury. He's really fine, in the end, if benched for at least a couple of days. Even better, Alfred sends a letter RSVP for an event he's been dreading with a firm 'no'. Not too bad for a blood price.
Hours later, Bruce opens his door to go downstairs for a sip of water and nearly feels his heart give out as Dick stands there, staring up at him with one hand held up to knock. Both of them yelp, and Bruce's head pounds in response.
"...I'm sorry," Dick says as Bruce's cardiac arrest slows into something manageable. When he takes a good look, Dick is clutching Bruce's favorite mug like a lifeline, eyes suspiciously shiny. "Do you want tea?"
There's no hear coming off of the mug. Still, Bruce says, "Okay."
Dick keeps the suit, but he lets Bruce add thermal tights to the bottoms. Median win, in Bruce's opinion.
Introducing Dick to the rest of the city somehow goes...not awfully.
The stare that Gordon levels him with has his skin prickling under the cowl, though he's not entirely sure why. "Batman. He's a kid."
Bruce doesn't frown, because there's not much point in frowning when no one can see it, and also the fabric on his face bends weird when he moves the muscles there too much. "He's old enough."
While Jim swears under his breath, sighing hard through his nose, Bruce looks at Robin doing handstands on a streetlight. It's the truth, he thinks. Bruce would know. By Dick's age, Bruce had learned to do far worse to people than distract them with a frontflip.
"Ever heard the term 'child endangerment?" Jim says, voice flat and sarcastic. Bruce purses his lips to give the illusion of a frown. "What do you think old enough means, pal?"
"...I don't carry a dictionary," Bruce deflects, a little puzzled. Dick is older than Bruce was when he left home. He's passed his training. He passed his test. What more is there. "I'm familiar. Robin is very skilled."
"Batman!" Dick's voice rings out on the street. Bruce turns again, finding Dick right side up, with a batarang ("If you patent the names, you better pay me!") on a bit of string. Robin grins wickedly, teeth almost splitting his face in two, and Bruce has a terrible feeling. "Catch!"
It only takes half a second to snag the metal out of the air, wrapping the rope around his wrist and pulling hard. Dick shrieks, slipping off of the streetlight and vanishing from view. Gordon swears, dashing to the edge of the building, but Bruce can feel the tautness of the rope.
Dick comes up the side giggling, snagging his hands on the ledge and flipping his way to Bruce's side like he never fell in the first place. His smile is diabolical.
Jim stares, still partway to the edge, feet spread like he's mid-sprint. He blinks.
"You know what, Bats?" He says, finally, eyeing Robin up with a higher level of caution and a deep sort of fatigue. Bruce relates on a level that borders on pathological. "Nevermind. Just...be careful."
"Of course. We won't be out long tonight," Bruce says by way of agreeing, though Gordon doesn't need to know why. The chemistry worksheet he left half-done, shoved into a drawer, should barely count as educational material in his opinion. If Alfred finds it before Bruce heads back, he's not against showing him all of the literature work underneath Dick's mattress. "What have you got?"
Dick moves in close, wrapping a hand around Batman's cape, letting it fall over his head and shoulders. His eyes are bright, candle-lit, pupils blown wide and his body quivering with barely-veiled excitement. When he catches Bruce's eye, under the greasepaint and Robin's lenses, he scrunches his nose in a smile.
Bruce looks away, and tunes back into the conversation.