Archive of Our Own

Bruce had worried, when he first brought Dick home, that they would never really get used to each other. Bruce is perfectly aware of his own nature, and the reticence that makes it so difficult for others to understand or relate to him. On the inside, he feels things quite deeply; but outside, he's always struggled to express it.

Just after his parents died was one of the most difficult times in his life. It was rare, in the following years, that anyone could break through the icy layers of grief that had built up around him. He thought it would be similarly difficult for Dick to connect with others.

That was true, but only during the first two weeks after he moved to the manor.

Bruce was afraid that the place would never feel like home to Dick. He was still young himself, and knew nothing about how to fill the role of a parent for a grieving child. The solution was perhaps obvious to no one but him: something he was good at was being Batman.

Alfred disagreed, vocally but politely, with his decision to bring Dick into the fold back then. Anyone could see how talented the boy was, even at eight years old, and his induction into Bruce Wayne's biggest secret was maybe the only thing that could have saved him being overwhelmed by his grief.

Maybe. Bruce has thought it through a million times over, agonized over whether he made the right choice. At the end of the day, he simply can't imagine Batman without Robin, as if Dick Grayson had been there at the inception of the whole idea of his war on crime.

Whether it was the only way for Dick to heal from his trauma is impossible to know, but it was certainly an effective one.

After he shared that part of his life with him, Dick wanted nothing more than to be close to Bruce all the time. He stopped calling him "Mr. Wayne" after that, and stuck to him like glue every moment he wasn't at school. He became more affectionate, smiled more, and could talk seemingly for hours.

In retrospect, Bruce probably should have been more careful to establish boundaries between them. He was just so afraid of doing anything that might push Dick away, or return them to the quiet, empty days of Dick sitting alone in his room, unsure of his place in the manor.

The first time Dick kisses him is at the breakfast table.

Bruce has taken to rising early in the mornings. He used to sleep late whenever he could, after his late night activities in the cape, but he wants to be there to see Dick off to school in the mornings, and has also been getting more directly involved with Wayne Enterprises lately.

Dick is at the age where he eats just about anything Alfred puts in front of him, and he's cleaned the eggs, bacon, toast, and fruit from his plate in record time, chatting all the while, when he finally jumps up to grab his backpack.

Bruce is reading the paper and sipping his coffee, eating much more slowly, when Dick comes to say goodbye.

"Have a good day at school, chum," he rumbles, still not quite awake.

"Bye, Bruce!" Dick says, and instead of his usual lightning-fast hug, he gives him a brief kiss. On the lips.

Bruce blinks, stunned silent, and before he can gather his wits enough to figure out if that really happened, Dick has bounded off to the door, where Alfred meets him with the car keys.

Letting out a slow breath, Bruce sets the newspaper down. A hand drifts up to his mouth, absently; Dick's lips tasted like bacon grease. He shakes his head, as if trying to shake the thought loose.

Bruce remembers seeing some of his classmates in school kiss their parents, but it was only when they were still quite young. He supposes that Dick is young, too; only in elementary school, even if he feels more like Bruce's peer sometimes, when they're out on Gotham's rooftops together. He would have thought that kissing a parental figure on the lips has become an outdated practice, but maybe it's still normal in some places.

Yes, he thinks, it's really not so strange. He'll just have to tell Dick not to do it again.

☆☆☆

He never does tell Dick to stop.

In fact, Dick stops himself; for a span of three days, Bruce believes himself to be in the clear. Shying away from uncomfortable conversations makes him feel a little bit awful, particularly when it comes to figuring out this whole guardian thing. He doesn't want to fail Dick. But he also doesn't want to risk what they have so far.

He's always heard people talk about having children as though it's some great life hurdle that must be endured: parenting through the terrible twos, the moody teenage years. But Bruce likes Dick. He feels more like a friend than a responsibility.

He should have known better, though. You can't escape a difficult conversation, only delay it.

The second time Dick kisses him is in the Batcave.

They're just off of a long patrol, with two robberies, three muggings, and an attempted sexual assault all stopped on Batman and Robin's watch. Dick is dead on his feet, the legendary reserves of energy that carry him through his Robin duties long since depleted, and has been stubbornly refusing to go to bed despite Bruce's insistence.

"Not until you go, too," he says sleepily, half collapsed on the console of the Batcomputer next to where Bruce is finishing up a report. Already showered and changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt, his bare feet push against the black stone floor, only just keeping his languid form upright. His damp hair curls against the back of his neck, and turns the light gray collar of his shirt dark.

Bruce sighs. They seem to do this song and dance every night after Dick washes up in the Cave showers, but it's been worse since Bruce grew more lax about Dick's bedtime on weekends. He's lucky that Dick listens to him in the field, at least. Although how long before he loses that, too, he can only guess.

"Dick," he says. "You should go up now. I need to finish this report, then I'll be up, too. Ten minutes."

Dick frowns, bottom lip jutting out. His foot knocks against Bruce's ankle, still wrapped in the leggings of the Batsuit. "Do you promise?" he asks.

"I promise," Bruce says, patting his hip. "Go on, I'll check on you before I go to bed."

Either he trusts Bruce to keep his word, or he's too sleepy now to keep arguing. He's relieved; Dick's eyes kept drifting shut, and it looked like Bruce would have to carry him up soon if he couldn't cajole him into heading upstairs on his own.

He often worries that what they do will affect Dick negatively—that he'll have nightmares, or be traumatized by the dark things they see every night. But strangely, his nightmares have lessened since he became Robin. Bruce wonders if it's because the fear of the unknown that haunts most children is gone. Dick doesn't have to be afraid of what might lurk in the dark—he's seen it all by now.

Smiling, Dick throws his arms around Bruce's neck in a hug, mumbling, "Night, B," in his ear. Just as he pulls away, close enough that Bruce doesn't have time to react, he presses a sleepy kiss to Bruce's mouth.

Bruce freezes. So much for being in the clear. At least there's no bacon grease, this time.

He feels himself still even as he tries not to react outwardly. Dick is extraordinarily perceptive for his age, though. When Bruce's face shuts down, he sees it.

"What's wrong?" he asks, frowning again. He pokes a finger at the rigid line of Bruce's mouth. "Why do you look like that?"

"It's—Dick," Bruce says weakly. He is utterly unprepared for this conversation, despite the days he's had to think about it. "Did you… kiss your mom and dad, like that?"

"Like what?" Dick says, tilting his head slightly. Bruce sighs.

"Like—on the mouth."

"Oh! Yes, sometimes," he replies. "Why, is there something bad about it?"

"No, not exactly," Bruce says carefully. "But you should save kisses like that for—for someone you love, some day."

"But I love you, Bruce." Dick seems annoyed by the implication that he doesn't love Bruce.

"But not like that."

"Like what?"

Bruce sighs."Nothing," he says, feeling a bit like a dog rolling over to show its belly in surrender. "It's fine, Dick. Just… don't do it in front of others, maybe, okay?"

Dick frowns, still examining Bruce's face closely, then finally nods.

"Okay, Bruce. Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Bruce says, more stiffly than he'd like. Somehow now he feels like a pervert for trying to stop his underage ward from kissing him on the mouth. Jesus. "It's fine."

Luckily, Dick doesn't stay bruised about things for long—a moment later, a smile creeps over his face, and he clutches Bruce's hand, tugging at it.

"Will you come up to bed now?"

Tension released, Bruce huffs a laugh and finally acquiesces, standing. He can finish the report in the morning.

As they climb the stairs together, he can't help but think that this boy would probably be able to talk him into just about anything.

☆☆☆

Bruce doesn't remember the third time Dick kisses him.

He should. Three times is not that many. Every one of them from those early days—when he was not yet used to that specific sort of physical familial affection—should stand out in his memory. Instead, there are particular ones that he remembers best.

Dick had taken Bruce's reassurance at face value, and began to accompany all of his farewells, in the morning before they split ways for school and the office, and at night going to their separate beds, with a kiss. He doesn't do it when Alfred is around, as Bruce had asked, though Bruce starts to wonder if that makes it worse. Maybe Alfred wouldn't think it so strange, being older, and European, though inwardly, Bruce is too afraid to find out if that is true or not.

The kisses are something that they alone share. With time and frequency, Bruce grows accustomed to them; he never initiates them, the way Dick says his parents would kiss him goodnight, but neither does he shy away from them anymore.

Beyond those first two awkward times, the ones he remembers best are attached to some particular memory.

During Robin's first time going up against the Joker at Batman's side, he escapes the fight without a single scratch on him; and yet, Bruce's heart rate won't calm down afterwards, not when he receives the ping on his computer that Joker has been re-admitted to Arkham, and not watching Dick run cartwheels across the mats to rid his excess energy, grin bright with post-mission adrenaline and cracking jokes while he recounts the battle.

No, he doesn't return to equilibrium until they're both dressed down for bed, and Dick presses a final, goodnight kiss to Bruce's lips in front of his bedroom door.

The next kiss that cements itself in Bruce's memory is a break in routine.

Dick is older by then, a well-known and well respected member of the hero community. He accompanies Bruce on occasional missions with the League, and Clark and Diana have become a sort of uncle and aunt to him. He feels so proud to see Dick stand beside them, but it's a pride that he hasn't yet figured out how to put into words.

Dick has become more skilled, confidence in his abilities growing with the years of experience under his belt, and with it comes questioning. Batman is no longer the word of god to him, the way he once was, and Dick begins to trust his own instincts almost as much as he trusts Bruce's.

The first several times he disobeys Batman in the field, Bruce is able to get away with no more than benching him for a few nights. Issuing punishment to Dick feels awkward for them both, and taking him off patrol is effective enough that he's desperate to get back in the boots by the time Bruce allows it, and therefore comes back on his best behavior.

But then, he fucks up big.

It's the first time that Bruce is truly, incandescently furious with him. All of his pride turns to ash in his mouth when the League arrives on the scene, and it's his partner at the center of the mess, the whole humiliating affair going off not only in front of the newly formed Teen Titans, but Bruce's colleagues too, who have to clean up after them.

Bruce restrains his fury, remaining blank-faced in front of the others, only long enough for the two of them to return to the Batcave.

"I knew this was a bad idea," are the first words out of his mouth, spat with what he knows is more vitriol than Dick and his new friends probably deserve, but he's angry.

Dick pushes back immediately, defending the Titans, but Bruce shouts over him, raising his voice louder than he ever has at Dick. He states the obvious—that Dick had endangered not only his own life, but his friends' lives and the lives of civilians with his risky decisions. He questions Dick's maturity, leadership skills, and whether he's equipped to uphold Batman and Robin's reputation without supervision.

It's when he threatens to take Dick off the team that Dick's anger cools like molten metal dropped in water; his eyes go wide, and he pleads with Bruce, begs him not to take the Titans from him.

"I won't do it again, Bruce, I'm sorry. I'll train harder—I-I'll study more, just please let me stay on the team," he begs. "I can do better, I know it."

That's how Bruce knows that Dick is truly ashamed of his actions—if he felt he was being wrongly accused, he'd continue to argue until he was out of breath. But standing there on the Cave floor in the remains of his uniform, mask gone and cape unhooked, there's something hollowed out about him. Like he's desperate for Bruce to acknowledge him, to grant him some reprieve from blame. But Bruce can hardly stand looking at him right now, let alone respond as he turns his chair to face the computer.

"Bruce," Dick whimpers. "I'm sorry."

Bruce doesn't know what Dick sees in his face, what invites him to crawl gingerly into his lap. Bruce has always needed space after an argument; Dick can't stand to have someone mad at him, and always has to fix things immediately. Maybe he associates a kiss with love, and comfort. Maybe he's trying to deescalate the situation with familiarity.

He kisses the corner of Bruce's mouth, off balance. Bruce sits rigidly. "I'm sorry," Dick whispers, kissing him again, this time directly on the lips. "I'm sorry, B. Don't be mad at me, please."

Bruce allows one more clumsy kiss against his bottom lip, before his body reacts. He isn't consciously aware of his own movement until he's looking down at at the twelve year old boy sprawled at his feet, blinking up at him with wet, shocked eyes.

Clenching his jaw, Bruce turns away from him, and back to the monitor.

"Go to bed, Robin," he says. "We're done discussing this."

☆☆☆

The first time Bruce kisses Dick, he's bleeding from a five centimeter wound in the middle of his gut.

Dick is fifteen. Things have changed, and stayed the same.

Between his Robin duties, high school, and fighting with the Titans Friday through Sunday, Dick has less free time and less spare energy than ever before. He's apparently dating Batgirl, though only sort of. Bruce has been seeing a woman with silver hair lately, though only on weekends.

With so many demands on their attention, the times that the two of them spend alone together—truly alone, the way it used to be—are few and far between. When they do come, they're extremely precious to Bruce. Every time they're suiting up before one of those patrols, he thinks about how he could express that to Dick, but then when he's in the moment, it feels like sand he's trying to hold in his hands, slipping through his fingers, and he only ends up angry at Dick for the fact that one day the sand will all be gone.

Dick Grayson is too good for him, though. He weathers Bruce's moods, the stiff and silent ones, and the callous and vindictive ones. When Dick comes home from weekends at Titans Tower, he greets Bruce still with a kiss, sometimes to his cheek, and sometimes his mouth.

That night when they go out together, Dick is easy. He's so himself, no hint of the stress or pressures he carries, just high laughter, and corny jokes to accompany every kick and punch.

Maybe Bruce gets distracted watching him. He doesn't really remember, afterwards.

All he knows is that one moment he's playing the dark to Robin's light, materializing out of the shadows to send a two hundred pound man onto his back with a knee to the chest, when suddenly the world is exploding in white-hot pain, so abrupt that the dizzy wave of it knocks him over.

He hits the ground hard.

Robin has knocked his attacker's teeth out and disarmed him of the still-smoking gun before Bruce can even lift his head, the sky spinning above him and sparks going off in front of his vision.

"Batman?" Robin gasps from the other side of the alley. "Batman? Are you—"

He appears at Bruce's side in a blink, zeroing in on the torn fabric over his abdomen. Bruce blinks the lights out of his eyes; he must have smacked his head on the street when he fell. Instinctively, his hands lift to his stomach, where he can feel warm blood seeping through his suit, but Dick shoves them away. Smart, Bruce thinks belatedly. His gauntlets likely have all sorts of bacteria on them that could cause infection if exposed to an open wound.

From the distance, the sound of sirens drifts in through the cotton stuffed in his head. Dick glances at the gangbangers behind him, and curses quietly.

"B, can you stand? We need to get up to the roof," he says, gripping Bruce's upper arms.

By some strange, adrenaline-fueled miracle, he manages it. Once he's on his feet, he leans on Dick as they take the slow route up a fire escape. It involves a lot of cursing, which Bruce allows Dick only because of their circumstances—he knows Bruce doesn't like them cursing in the suits, and Dick's increasing lack of regard for that rule is evidence of the influence his friends have had on him after all his weekends away from Gotham.

Once they've made it atop the four story apartment building, Bruce's strength gives out and he collapses. Dick only just manages to stop him from falling face-first onto the cement roof, and rolls him gently onto his back.

The motion pulls harshly at his wound—which he can feel is bleeding profusely now—and he bites his lip to avoid a pained cry leaving his throat.

"Okay, B, don't worry, it's gonna be alright," Dick pants, setting a hand on Bruce's chest while he peels the Kevlar armor and Nomex fabric back to examine the wound. "It looks like it's just a graze… We just need to stop the bleeding."

Bruce can tell there's a touch of panic in his voice. He did his best to train it out of Dick, but it's hard to blame him. The Batmobile is parked several blocks away, with the emergency phone line in it. He could find a nearby payphone to call Alfred in the Cave, but he'd have to do it without being seen. It's not Bruce's first gunshot wound in a dangerous place, but it's the first time Dick has been around to see it.

Fumbling with the med kit from his belt, Dick starts by dosing him with an analgesic while he applies gauze and pressure to the wound. They have an IV with norepinephrine for situations like this, but it is, of course, in the Batmobile. The analgesic at least allows Bruce enough clarity from the pain to remain lucid.

"I'm going to have to stitch it up," Dick says, eyes on the red leaking through the gauze under his hand. Bruce grunts; he had come to the same conclusion.

"Dick," he rasps. "It's going to be okay, just take your time."

"You're telling me it's going to be okay?" Dick says, disbelieving—and that's definitely panic in his voice. Bruce lifts a hand, and sets it on the back of his neck, heavy.

"It's going to be okay," he repeats. "Just go slow."

Dick looks at him, and his eyes are a little too wide, his mouth a little too slack. Bruce has seen him suture wounds for injured civilians before. He's never been anything but cool and level-headed.

He sighs, and uses the hand on Dick's nape to pull him forward, until their foreheads bump together. Dick's brow, covered by his domino mask, presses to Bruce's, hidden below the semi-rigid material of the cowl.

More than stretching forward himself, he pulls Dick's lips into his, so they're pressed together, Dick's mouth warm and wet, nose blowing his heavy exhales into Bruce's cheek. It can't last for more than a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity. When they pull away, he tightens his grip on Dick's nape.

"You can do this, Robin," he says.

And Dick can. He does. He performs a line of stitches so straight and neat, that Alfred doesn't have to redo a single one when they get back to the Cave, a few hours later.

When Bruce falls asleep that night in the medical cot, bandage wrapped tight around his midsection and IV in his arm, Dick is still in the chair by the side of the bed.

When he wakes the next morning, the chair is empty. But the blanket by his legs, just in front of it, still feels warm.

☆☆☆

If Bruce had to pinpoint the one moment where the line was crossed, it would be then. Not only because he had never kissed Dick himself before that time, but because the circumstances did not stand up to the parent/child dynamic he had constructed around the kissing in his head. A parent might greet their child with a chaste kiss, but to kiss them as a form of comfort or reassurance?

That was something that lovers did. Dick was a child, and still had instinctively understood the boundaries of the thing, over all these years. But Bruce had trampled over the borders of their relationship on his first try.

Part of him wonders if he was doomed to lose his family because of this irredeemable darkness inside of him, or if this darkness is because he lost his family.

He doesn't know. He wishes he did. But Bruce has always been one to hedge his bets. So on the chance that it's his fault, his wrongness that has perverted an innocent act of affection, he draws the line.

The next time Dick goes to kiss him, he turns his head so it lands on his cheek.

"Dick," he says, even though it pains him. "You're getting too old for that."

He's looking the other way, so he doesn't see Dick's reaction, but there's no reply.

The next afternoon, Dick finds him in his study. He lets him know that he's heading to Titans Tower for the weekend, his packed bag already slung over his shoulder.

Then he leaves, with no more than a wave to Bruce from across the room.

☆☆☆

The years pass, and the sand seems to fall faster through Bruce's fingers with each one.

Dick is on the cusp of graduating high school. Bruce often wonders if his classes are the only thing left tying him to Gotham, but Alfred makes frequent, pointed comments contradicting this notion, even without Bruce saying anything.

The spring of his senior year is an unseasonably warm one. The annual gala held in April has always been Bruce's favorite for the fact that it benefits Gotham's orphanages and various children's programs across the city, but is really no better to attend than any of the others, considering the guests' typical asinine peacocking and tactless over-displays of wealth.

As always, Dick puts up with it gracefully.

Bruce doubted whether Dick would even join him that year, but when he arrived at the breakfast table that Saturday morning, he was there, tucking into his scrambled eggs and chatting with Alfred. So that was that.

And now they're here—

On opposite sides of the ballroom, but still caught in the gravity of their binary star system. The din of the room silences Dick's laughter, but his eyes still sparkle over the rim of his champagne flute as Bruce watches him from afar, entertaining snobby socialites likes it's good sport.

The presence at his own side doesn't go unnoticed. Her attention follows him as he drifts out of the conversation of the group they stand in, and her eyes follow his gaze.

"That boy is your son, no?" she asks, pink-tinted lips tilted up and accent something melodic and French-sounding. "He has grown up very handsome."

"My ward," Bruce corrects her idly, then pauses, unsure why he did that. It's not even true—that word dissolved into nothing two months ago, when Dick turned eighteen. The woman takes it in stride anyway, laughing warmly, and rests a thin-boned hand on his arm.

"Yes, of course, your ward is almost as handsome as you, Mr. Wayne. He must be an athlete, no?"

"Something like that."

He gives her his full attention for the rest of the evening, because she is beautiful, and perceptive, and not at all important. He doesn't drink, but he lets her think that he has, and leans on the soft and sweet-smelling skin of her shoulder when she leads him out to the balcony for a bit of fresh air and privacy.

When he kisses her mouth, she tastes like peppermint and waxy lipstick. She laughs at his feigned fumbling; the straps of her butter yellow gown make a stunning contrast to her dark skin.

She lets him kiss her slow and heated against the balcony railing, up until he begs a moment for a bathroom break. As soon as he's out of sight, he slips two floors up, where he knows from the building blueprints he memorized that there is a private restroom. A dull throb has started behind his temples, and he's desperate for a moment of quiet.

Naturally, he does not get one.

"That looked like fun."

The voice comes from somewhere to his left. There's only one person at the party who could sneak up on him, but he stops and searches the figure out in the dark hall anyway.

"Dick."

Stepping into the square of light cast by the window on the opposite wall, Dick tilts his head at him.

"Are you running away, or did I crash the rendezvous point?"

Bruce realizes very quickly that Dick is upset with him. For what, he can only guess. But the clenched jaw and twisted smile are evidence enough. His words are not said unkindly, but neither are they friendly.

With effort, Bruce schools his own expression. The ache in his head pounds a little harder.

"Just using the bathroom," he says neutrally, and steps around Dick in the direction of the door at the end of the hallway.

Before he can pass him, Dick's arm shoots out, and stops Bruce with a hand on his elbow. When he turns to him, he smells what he hadn't caught from the top of the staircase, a few feet away: the alcohol on Dick's breath.

"She was really beautiful," Dick says, and there's no slur to his voice, but his eyes have just the slightest lack of focus to them. "Lucky you, Brucie."

Bruce shakes his hand off, and looks away from him.

"What do you want, Dick? Or did you just come up here to let me know that you decided to drink tonight, despite being underage, and in direct violation of our rules for patrol nights?"

"Our rules?" Dick asks. His face does something complicated, moving between expressions too fast for Bruce to catch them all, though there's no mistaking the one he settles on: Dick is furious. "There's no such thing as our rules, Bruce. They were always yours, chosen by you and changed at random for reasons only you could ever understand!"

Bruce narrows his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Dick laughs, all disbelief and white-hot irritation.

"It means that I hate your rules, Bruce! I'm sick of them!" he screams.

"Well why don't you just leave, then!" Bruce snarls back. He's not sure how they moved to yelling so quickly, but his reaction doesn't feel disproportionate in the moment.

Dick flinches as though he'd hit him. The echo left by Bruce's shout seems to travel the length of the hall, and expand the space into the infinity of a vacuum.

"What is it?" Dick whispers, and when Bruce turns roughly away, he stops him with a hand twisted in the lapel of his suit jacket. "No, what—what's so wrong with me, that you won't talk to me, won't even look at me anymore," he says thickly. Bruce grits his teeth. Glances at him.

"I'm looking at you right now, Dick."

"No! You aren't—not like you used to. We were so close, before. Now it's like you won't even risk touching me if you can avoid it," he says, slightly choked. "Am I… am I so disgusting to you?"

Dick's face is cracked open with confusion and loneliness. It makes Bruce's heart ache.

In that moment, he wants nothing more than to gather Dick into his arms. He thinks of Barbara, and the Tamaranean girl from Dick's team in New York. They could do it without thinking—hold Dick like he deserves. But Bruce can't.

He remembers the woman's words earlier—That boy is your son, no?—and all the boundaries, both real and constructed, that stand between them.

Gently, he sets a hand on Dick's wrist, holding it lightly to pull his grip off Bruce's jacket.

"You're not disgusting, Dick," he says slowly. "And what I think of you doesn't matter."

Dick watches the removal of his hand from Bruce's jacket, then looks up at him, eyes searching. "It's the only thing that matters. Bruce, you… you know I'd die for you."

Bruce swallows thickly.

"It's only a gala, Dick," he says, forcing a sudden lightness into his tone. "It's not worth dying over." He steps away, and says over his shoulder, "It's late, you should drink some water and go home. Call Alfred to come pick you up, I'll find my own way back later."

He hears Dick say his name one last time, but it's soft, so soft that it gets lost in the distance between them, and drifts out into space.

☆☆☆

The next time Dick kisses Bruce, it is an accident.

As far as Bruce was concerned, his return to Gotham had been an inevitable thing, as sure as the pull of gravity. Even as he left he knew he'd be back, with a certainty that had eluded him the first time, after Bane's imposed exile.

And yet, Dick had seemed surprised to see him. It was as if certain truths they'd always held between them had become lost in all the years spent apart. But they'd already exchanged all the heavy, blame-filled words last night; all he could do now was hope that they went some of the way toward fixing what Bruce had broken.

In the light of morning, the manor is eerily quiet.

Alfred's absence sticks out sorely and painfully as Bruce creeps down the dusty wood staircase. He's not sure why he steps lightly; Tim is gone, having driven back to his own home the night before, for a well-deserved rest after his airborne solo battle over Gotham's rooftops. And Dick—well, there is nothing holding him here anymore. Bruce imagines he couldn't wait to get out, once Bruce relieved him of the mantle. Back to New York, or Keystone City, or Anywhere Else, USA.

When he passes the main sitting room, he is surprised by the distinct lack of debris. He recalls broken furniture, splintered portrait frames, and shards of glass and ceramic scattered across the floor. Though half of the chairs and tables are gone, the ones that remain look clean, and the floor has been swept.

Perhaps he is being uncharitable to Dick. Again. He had done well to take care of Bruce's things while he was gone: his home, his Robin, his city. It makes it more obvious than ever what a huge mistake he'd made by bringing in Jean Paul—by being too cowardly to just pick up the phone, and call the man he had once intended to leave his legacy to anyway.

It was just that he'd told himself he would never ask Dick for anything ever again.

When he nears the kitchen, he hears the sound of pots and pans through the half open door. Frowning, he pushes it open.

Dick stands at the stove in a loose t-shirt and pajama pants, tilting a pan back and forth to spread oil across its surface. Beside him, the oven beeps. He puts the pan down and slides a tray of bacon onto the middle rack of Alfred's industrial size oven, humming quietly.

When he turns to the door and says, "Morning," Bruce realizes that he is still standing frozen in the entryway. He stirs.

"You're still here," he says, crossing the kitchen floor. Dick returns to whisking a bowl of eggs, and smiles.

"Sorry to disappoint," he says. He nods to the counter. "Coffee's in the pot, I'm just making some eggs and bacon."

Half on autopilot, Bruce walks to the coffeepot and pours himself a cup. He watches Dick pour the eggs into the hot pan, and begin folding them with the spatula as they cook. It looks like enough food for ten people.

"You can cook," he observes, slightly dumbfounded. Dick laughs.

"Why does everyone sound so surprised? Do you all think I starved the moment I left Alfred's care?" He stirs the eggs again, then nods to the cutting board on the island countertop behind him. "Cut up some fruit for us, would you?"

Bruce does. He carefully slices into the apple Dick had set out, thinking of the perfect wedges Alfred always presented, but gives up on neatness halfway through. He spends two minutes looking for a bowl to put them in, overly conscious of Dick's presence behind him, then sets the apples on the table and the cutting board in the dishwasher.

He sips his coffee and leans back against the counter.

"You cleaned up the sitting room," he says eventually, a non sequitur.

Dick looks up from the pan, and nods. "Yeah, I was getting sad looking at it every day. I tried to salvage what I could, moved some of it up to the spare room on the second floor. The rest I had to trash."

Bruce is abruptly reminded of the fact that this was Dick's childhood home, as well.

"Thank you," he says quietly, and Dick just hums, turning back to the eggs.

They eat breakfast in companionable silence.

The food is delicious—not quite Alfred's quality, but the eggs are fluffy and the bacon greasy. It's almost… peaceful. Bruce likely wouldn't have eaten this morning if Dick hadn't cooked, just gone straight down to the Cave with a cup of coffee and a headache.

Even now, he's beginning to itch to escape there, thoughts overflowing with visions of blueprints and updates to the suit and reports to read—the sum total of all the time he spent away. But he sits through breakfast, and helps Dick clean up after. Then, when everything is done, they go down to the Cave together.

Bruce had begun to grow used to having Tim as his partner, before everything fell apart. His sharp intellect and commitment to earning the cape made him useful to have around, plus he argued with Bruce less than a quarter as much as Dick and Jason had.

Being in the Cave with Dick again is a jarring contrast, not only for the differences between him and Tim, but also for how terrifying easy it is to fall back into their old rhythms. It feels like any Saturday morning ten years ago, working under the hood of the Batmobile and discussing cases.

Bruce loses the whole day to it—not that he had other plans to miss—and they work into the early hours of the morning together, with a several hour break for an uneventful patrol. Dick slipped upstairs at some point in the afternoon to bring them down a couple of sandwiches, snacks, and more coffee as well. The pantry must have been kept fairly well stocked in Bruce's absence. He wonders if Dick went to the grocery store, alone or maybe with Tim, but doesn't ask.

After patrol, they're back to work in the Cave. It's not until the clock is pushing toward two in the morning that Dick sits back from the table and stretches, arms over his head, back popping. His shirt rides up his stomach, which Bruce only notices because he glances up when Dick moves. The plans they're pouring over are for the reconstruction of the most heavily-damaged sections of the Cave, where its structural integrity still needs to be re-tested.

Dick lets out a long breath as his arms fall back down, and rubs a hand over his face. "Alright, I think it's time for me to turn in. I'm beat."

He does look tired. Bruce feels like he could go a few more hours, but he reminds himself that Dick has spent every night recently out in the city, handling Two Face and all of Gotham's other assorted riff-raff. He nods in acknowledgement, attention still half on the plan he's sketching out.

Dick huffs a breath, amused, and hauls himself up with a hand on either arm of the chair. Standing, he comes up to Bruce's side, and his forearm falls heavy across the back of Bruce's shoulders.

"You should come up soon, too," he says, sleepy but still in that tone where he knows he's fighting a losing battle, but is picking up arms anyway.

"Later," Bruce mutters absently. He underlines the safety code he'd been looking for in the document in front of him.

Dick's weight lists against him, then lifts back off. "Whatever. Night, Bruce."

Bruce lifts his head this time, a polite "goodnight" on his lips, both reward for Dick's easy surrender and his own way of showing gratitude for the help he'd given him today—when suddenly, Dick's mouth is on his.

Dick is kissing him.

Before Bruce can even react, Dick reels backward, hand going to his face. Above it, his eyes are wide, all traces of exhaustion gone—there is only shock, which Bruce can assume is mirrored in his own expression.

He clears his throat.

It was an accident. Dick didn't mean to kiss him. It was just—habit, an old habit. Dick didn't mean to. He didn't—

"Bruce," Dick whispers.

"It's fine," Bruce says quickly.

"I'm sorry, I—"

"It's fine."

Dick's hand falls, and his face is twisted in irritation.

"Can you just—let me apologize for god's sake?"

"It's not necessary."

Dick glares at him, so Bruce turns his chair slightly to face him. Sits up straight.

"It was an accident," Dick says.

"I understand that," Bruce replies.

Dick looks at him a moment longer, then shakes his head in disbelief. "You're impossible, Bruce," he says, and spins on his heel like he's going to march back upstairs. Except a second later, he stops, and twirls back around. And stomps right back up into Bruce's space.

"No, you know what? You don't get to get out of this conversation again. I can't be awkward about this with you for the rest of our lives," he snaps.

"Dick—" Bruce sighs.

"I kissed you," Dick interrupts him. "I kissed you when I was eight because that's what I thought all kids did with an adult they loved, and you let it happen—even though it made you uncomfortable—because you were too afraid to take what you thought was another piece of my parents away from me." He takes a deep breath, then blows it out all at once. "And then I—I got older. And I figured out that none of the other kids I knew did that. But I… I didn't stop. I didn't want to. Not until you made me stop."

Dick bites his lip, looking properly embarrassed even while still exuding righteous anger. Despite himself, Bruce can't take his eyes off him. Dick has grown up, but never managed the last couple of inches between their heights. It's not often that Bruce gets to see him from this angle.

Feeling as though he is in something of a trance, Bruce lifts a hand, and wraps his fingers gently around Dick's wrist. Not for any reason, just to hold him in some way. He tries to gather his thoughts before speaking, but his head is a mess.

"Yes," he says slowly. "Yes, I—I was uncomfortable. I should have stopped you from the beginning. Maybe then I wouldn't have—"

Bruce cuts himself off. He's revealed more than he meant to, which has always been easy to do in Dick Grayson's presence.

Dick's eyes go sharp, and zero in instantly on the slip—on the chink in Bruce's armor.

"Wouldn't have what, Bruce?"

When Bruce doesn't answer, Dick makes a sound of frustration, and reaches for him—his hands grip Bruce by the shoulders, and suddenly he's sliding into Bruce's lap.

Bruce jerks in surprise, hands lifting to Dick's hips on instinct, as if to push him off.

"What are you—" he says, but before he can finish the thought, Dick's lips are crushing into his.

It's the longest kiss they've ever shared, and the least chaste, Dick's mouth moving against him like he's drinking Bruce in, desperate to feel him for as long as he can. When he pulls back, breathing heavily, Bruce can only stare up at him in disbelief, hand on his chest to hold them apart.

"Dick," he says weakly. He has mustered his strength so many times to resist this—he's not sure he can do it another time. "You don't—"

"Shut up," Dick whispers. "Shut up, Bruce, I swear to god. Don't try to tell me what I do or don't feel."

And then he's kissing him again, and Bruce gives in because there's no fighting the want, not when it's a need, not when it's a tidal wave of desire and he's already so tired. Dick licks into his mouth, and Bruce groans, touching him everywhere. His hands run through his long hair, down his strong back, and over the rise and fall of his chest. Dick's moans get lost between them, and he grinds down into his lap.

"Wanted this, wanted you—" he whispers furiously into Bruce's mouth. "So much, Bruce, more than anything—"

After they returned from patrol, Dick had changed back into his pajama pants from the morning, and the loose fabric puts on perfect display the growing hardness between his legs. When Bruce's hand falls to it, reverently, he whines, jerking up into Bruce's fingers.

"Please," he gasps.

Slotting his grip back onto Dick's waist, he holds him by his hipbones tight enough to bruise, and pulls him down hard against his lap, grinding their crotches together. Catching on, Dick grabs hold of the back of the chair behind Bruce's head, steadying himself, and rolls downward, again and again, the pleasure almost but not quite enough. He moves frantically, increasing in desperation, enough to eventually give up on keeping their mouths connected and instead just pants into Bruce's neck.

"Fuck, Dick," Bruce groans. "You have no idea what you do to me."

Dick cries out, and jerks, body going stiff as his mouth falls open. If the teenage grinding wasn't enough, then watching Dick come at the sound of his voice is—he shoves a hand in his jeans, and pulls himself to completion with a few short tugs, eyes not leaving Dick's face for a moment.

After, they sit there together, their heart rates returning to resting, as the frantic energy seeps out of them both. In the quiet that's left, Bruce presses his mouth to Dick's hairline, and breathes the scent of him in.

Suddenly, a thought occurs to him, and his blood runs cold. He leans back. "Dick," he says urgently. "Aren't you married?"

There's a beat of silence, before Dick laughs. Then he really laughs, until he's gasping for breath against Bruce's neck.

When he leans back, there's a big, goofy grin on his face.

"Not yet," he says.

It sounds like a promise.