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Part 9 of Dad!Bruce cause there aren't Enough fics , Part 5 of Niki's whumptober 2025
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2025-10-06
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Richard

Summary:

Inspired by thinkingthroughmyfingers' tumblr prompt where Dick snaps in an argument and tells Bruce to call him Richard.

Bruce relents and calls him Richard, dick thinks it would just last for a week at max. So why is his dad still calling him that?

 

———

I swear it's better if you just read it TT

 

Written for whumptober day 5

Quivering

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

The fight had been stupid.

So stupid that Dick couldn’t remember, a week later, what had set it off. Patrol, probably. Something about Gotham versus Blüdhaven, or maybe it was about tactics, or maybe Bruce had just used that voice. the one that always hit him like a hammer to the chest, the one that made his hands clenched and his jaw tight.

 

“Dick—” Bruce had started, and Dick had snapped. Too sharp. Too fast.

 

“My name is Richard!”

 

It hung there, ugly and loud in the cave. He hadn’t meant for it to come out like that, hadn’t meant for the words to slice. He’d expected Bruce to flinch, or argue, or throw it back at him with that maddening calm.

 

But Bruce just… stopped.

Paused like a man cut off mid-step.

 

And then nodded.

 

“Richard.”

 

For the first few days, it felt like victory. A hollow, prickly victory, but still, Bruce was listening to him. Finally. After all these years of being treated like a child no matter how many times he’d grown out of his own skin, he was being respected. Richard. His name.

 

There was a little sting of satisfaction every time Bruce said it. Every Richard, can you hand me that? Every Richard, your report on Blüdhaven? Or Every clipped Good work, Richard.

 

It felt right. At least, he told himself it did.

 

Except… the satisfaction wore thin.

 

The first time he came back from Blüdhaven and heard it again, it caught him off guard. “Di— Richard.” it was said with warmth, it shouldn't have made his stomach coil. Just his name in Bruce’s mouth.

 

And it didn’t stop.

 

Days became weeks, and Bruce never slipped. Not once. Not even when the two of them were bone tired after patrol and Alfred was nudging tea into their hands. Not even when the cave lights buzzed and their shoulders brushed as they checked the same monitor. Not even when Dick was half-asleep in the manor chair, still wearing his boots, and Bruce draped a blanket over him.

 

“good night, Richard.”

 

It was soft, then. Filled with love. Bruce was holding that line like it mattered. Like it meant something.

 

Dick tried to convince himself that it was fine. Bruce was respecting his boundaries, that was all. He’d asked for it. He’d demanded it. He couldn’t very well be mad when Bruce delivered.

 

He didn't mean to let it drag on.

 

Weeks became months. Patrols blur together. They fall into an easy rhythm again, almost like old times, except for that one tiny detail that gnaws at the edges of every conversation.

 

Sometimes, Dick hears Tim or Damian call him Dick in front of Bruce, and Bruce doesn’t react. Doesn’t correct them. Doesn’t even flinch. Just stands there, face calm, as if the name belongs to someone else entirely.

 

And sometimes, late at night, when Dick’s in Blüdhaven, staring at the ceiling, he remembers Bruce’s voice. that sharp, soft “Dick—” from the Cave that started it all, and he misses it. Desperately.

 

But there was that gnawing, sharp little pit in his chest that whispered This is his way of saying you’re not his son anymore.

This is him telling you he heard you, and he’s letting go.

 

Maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe he was reading too much into it. But when had Bruce ever been this consistent about anything? When had he ever bent so far and not tried to snap back?

 

It festered.

 

He thought about it every time he crossed the Blüdhaven rooftops. Every time he unlocked his apartment door. Every time he sat at his own kitchen counter, staring at his phone and promising himself he’d call Bruce tomorrow. He’d say it, just casually, just a throwaway, You don’t have to call me Richard anymore. You can call me Dick.

 

But the words stuck in his throat every time. Too vulnerable. Too revealing. Too close to begging.

 

So he told himself, next time. Next time he’d say it. Next time he wouldn’t chicken out.

 

Except next time never came.

 

———

 

It was Alfred’s voice on the comm that broke him.

Not Oracle, not Tim, not Damian, not Jason. Alfred.

 

“Master Richard,” Alfred had said, brittle with the kind of careful calm that meant the world was already cracking. “You may want to come home. Immediately.”

 

The world didn’t tilt, didn’t collapse. It narrowed. Blüdhaven’s skyline blurred into meaningless lines of steel and glass as Dick dropped everything and rushed to his bike, tearing down the way to Gotham.

 

Bruce was on the med cot. Pale. Fragile in a way Dick had never allowed himself to imagine. There were wires, machines humming, Alfred hovering with that look in his eyes that said he’d already cried when no one was there to witness it. 

 

And Bruce lit up the second he saw him, that tired, lined face broke into something startlingly young. Like it was thirty years ago and Dick was twelve again, running into the manor with scraped knees.

 

“Richard,” he rasped, voice rough but warm in that familiar, gravel-edged way. “So good to see you.”

 

Dick forced a smile. “Hey. Yeah. Hey, Bruce. I— I came as soon as I heard.”

 

He didn’t expect the way it hurt. The way Richard hit like a knife between his ribs. He’d gotten used to it, hadn’t he? He’d told himself he didn’t care. But hearing it now, said with that fading light in Bruce’s eyes, it burned.

 

He sat down beside the cot, forcing a chuckle. “it's me, dick.”

 

Bruce blinked slowly, as if the name didn’t quite land. Then he nodded, still smiling faintly. “Yeah. Hello, Richard.”

 

Something in Dick’s chest cracked.

 

“Bruce, no,” he said, his voice catching. He reached for Bruce’s hand— cold, too cold — and squeezed it tight. “It’s me, okay? Dick. Your son. You— you can call me Dick, you always have.”

 

Bruce looked at him, confusion flickering behind the soft exhaustion in his eyes. “I… I know,” he said, though he didn’t sound sure. “Richard, you came back.”

 

“Bruce, please—!” Dick’s voice broke completely now, tears hot and unchecked. “It’s me. Dick. I’m right here— please, just— just say it. Please..”

 

Bruce frowned faintly, like he was trying to remember something that kept slipping just out of reach. His eyes softened again. “You don’t like when I call you that,” he murmured. “You told me not to.”

 

The words hit like a punch.

 

Dick froze, tears streaking down his face. “What?”

 

“You said… you didn’t want me to call you that,” Bruce went on, his voice quiet, trailing. “Didn’t want me to be… that, anymore.” He looked away, gaze distant. 

 

“Bruce, that’s not—” Dick’s breath caught in a choked sob. He shook his head hard, clutching Bruce’s hand as if he could anchor both of them by force. “That’s not what I meant, please. I didn’t mean it like that. I just— I was angry. I was— you can call me Dick. You can.”

 

Bruce smiled faintly, eyes heavy-lidded. “No,” he whispered, and the word trembled. “You didn’t want that. I should’ve listened sooner.”

 

“Bruce—!”

 

But Bruce just blinked slowly, like the world was fading. His hand twitched once under Dick’s, weak and warm and slipping.

 

“I don’t deserve it,” he murmured. 

 

Dick broke then. He didn’t care about the machines or the alarms or the tears soaking into Bruce’s blanket. He bowed forward, forehead pressing against the back of Bruce’s hand, his voice raw and shaking.

 

“You do,” he whispered. “You do. You always did. Please— please don’t do this, not like this—”

 

Bruce didn’t answer. Just smiled again, soft and tired, eyes fluttering shut with a small "...I'm tired, goodnight, chum"

 

And the only sound left in the room was Dick’s quiet, desperate whispering —

“Please, Bruce… it’s me. It’s Dick. Your son.”

 

———

 

 

After that night, Bruce didn’t get better. 

 

He slipped, slowly, steadily, like the tide going out no matter how hard Dick tried to stop it. Bruce's room became a second home after they moved him there for more comfort. Dick stopped going back to Blüdhaven. He couldn’t leave. He ate when Alfred forced food into his hands, slept only when his body betrayed him, head pillowed against the side of the cot or a chair pulled too close.

 

 

Dick knows it was terminal, though Alfred never said the word out loud in front of Dick. He didn’t have to. The quiet way he moved through the manor said enough, the way he refilled Bruce’s IVs, the way he lingered in the doorway of the medbay as if standing guard against something inevitable.

 

Sometimes, he seemed almost lucid. He’d ask for updates on dick's siblings, or make a low remark about random things, or squint at a data readout like he still owned the room. Other days he’d stare past them like they were ghosts in a dream.

 

But he always knew Richard.

 

He never forgot that.

 

Dick stopped correcting him after the third day. He tried, at first. Tried to tell him softly 

 

“It’s me, Bruce. It’s Dick.” But Bruce would just smile that same distant, gentle smile, like he was humoring a child.

 

“I know,” he’d say, even when he clearly didn’t. “I don't deserve to call you that.”

 

And Dick couldn’t bring himself to argue anymore.

He just nodded and smiled, even when his chest felt like it was breaking to a million pieces.

 

Because maybe, in the haze of whatever illness was eating Bruce from the inside out, that was all he could cling to. one small memory of respecting the son who’d once screamed that his name wasn’t Dick. Maybe that was what love looked like now.

 

The others came and went.

Tim sat by the monitors, silent, doing everything he could to keep the data stable even though they all knew it wouldn’t change the outcome.

Jason stood in the corner for hours at a time, jaw tight, refusing to leave until Alfred made him eat.

Damian rarely spoke at all. He’d just sit near Bruce’s cot, sketchbook in hand, pretending to draw but never turning the pages.

 

But it was Dick who stayed the longest.

 

He slept in the chair beside Bruce’s bed more often than not, his head resting on folded arms, jerking awake whenever Bruce stirred.

 

“Richard?” Bruce’s voice would rasp, weak and uncertain.

 

“I’m here,” Dick would answer every time, because what else could he say?

 

 

And Bruce would smile, eyes soft. “youre a Good boy.”

 

That was what broke him, in the end, not the decline, not the machines, not the slow unspooling of a man who had once carried the city on his shoulders. It was that gentle, unthinking words slipping out after all the years of silence.

 

A week after the call, Bruce was gone.

 

It was early morning when the monitors flatlined, the sound cutting clean through the manor’s stillness. Alfred was there first, hand on Bruce’s shoulder, whispering something only he could hear. Tim was next, frozen in the doorway. Jason swore under his breath and turned away, knuckles white.

 

The machines stuttered, wailed. Alfred’s hands were steady as he reached for controls, but Dick couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t hear anything but the echo in his head.

 

Richard.

 

Not Dick. Never Dick. Because in Bruce’s mind, even at the very end, he hadn’t deserved it.

 

And Dick would never, ever be able to tell him otherwise.

 

He just sat there, Bruce’s hand still in his, the warmth already fading.

 

His head bowed, tears running quiet and relentless down his face. His chest ached with everything he’d never said. All the next times that never came, all the words he’d been too proud or too scared to give.

 

At the funeral, when everyone else had left and the sky was turning that gray-blue before dawn, Dick stayed behind. The headstone was simple. Bruce Wayne. Father. Guardian. Son.

 

He brushed a hand over the carved letters, and whispered, “You could’ve called me Dick, you know.”

 

His voice cracked on the last word.

 

The wind rustled through the trees, soft, almost like a reply.

 

He closed his eyes. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “You remembered the wrong thing, but… it still meant you loved me.”

 

Then he stood there for a long time, until the first light touched the grave. And when he finally turned away, he almost thought he heard it again— that voice, low and rough and fading. 

 

I'm Proud of you, Richard.

Notes:

Thank you sm for thinkingthroughmyfingers for the prompt :D

I don't think I'll be doing day 6 & 7 yet so maybe I'll skip to day eight: held at gunpoint

Also, sorry if it's a little late, I got bit by a snake yesterday XD