This story is takes place a hybrid reality, one that is mainly based on the post-Crisis New Earth but contains elements of the New 52 "Endgame" story arch and Dick's infiltration of Spyral.
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Christmas was just around the corner. The entire Gotham City was vibrant with almost restless anticipation and excitement—unfortunately, its criminal elements were by no means excluded. As law-abiding Gothamites were busy with last-minute present shopping and ticket booking, law-defying ones, prompted by the desire to end the year on a high note or survive the harsh Northeastern winter, and taking the advantage of holiday spirits diluting people's usual vigilance, committed an endless string of various crimes. To the costumed heroes protecting the streets of Gotham, the nights were getting longer and longer in not only a literal sense but a figurative one as well.
In the height of this pre-holiday crime boom, Robin received a message from the Teen Titans headquarter requiring his assistance on urgent matters. Before he left his post in Gotham, he informed Nightwing of the situation behind Batman's back. As a result, Dick showed up at Wayne Manor the same day Tim headed out for the West Coast.
Alfred greeted him with delighted surprise, followed by a plate of assorted fresh shortbread and homemade hot chocolate.
"This is positively heavenly! Alfred the Great, awesome as always." Dick praised after a bite, a sip, and a satisfied groan.
"I appreciate your compliment very much, Master Dick. Nevertheless, I do sincerely hope you will refrain from applying that epithet to me in future, considering King Alfred is known for, among other things, burning cakes." Alfred responded courteously with his trademark dry humor.
Bruce acknowledged Dick's appearance with his trademark scowl.
"Hope you don't mind my getting home a little earlier this Christmas." A placating soft smile with just a hint of jest spread out on Dick's reddened face, mildly windburned by the motorbike ride from New York to Gotham.
"Hmm."
The patrol that night followed the preexisting hectic pattern. Before midnight, Batman and Nightwing had already busted two bank robberies plus an illegal drug ring, and intervened with a shoot-out between rival gangs on the waterfront, not to mention catching a jewelry-snatcher, a burglar, and a pack of car thieves on their way from the Diamond District to Port Adams. Things took a turn for the even worse in the new day. At around half past twelve, Oracle notified them of a "super clash" taking place at the Iceberg Lounge. Mr. Freeze, in retaliation for the Penguin's double cross during their last cooperation, set out to turn the latter's club into a real iceberg. Fully aware of Fries' intention of coming after him, Cobblepot in a stroke of questionable genius had foregone regular countermeasures and made arrangements to fire with fire—or, more precisely, fight cold with cold: he hired Captain Cold, who was far from a stranger to combat in extremely low temperature, and whose gun boasted superior technology, to "freeze the Freeze" by reducing the momentum of Mr. Freeze's molecules to nonexistent.
Their battleground turned into a bona fide frozen over hell. By the time the cold-themed villains were turned over to the police—to everyone's chagrin, there existed not enough evidence to convict the bird-themed one who started all of it—and victims, both innocent bystanders and the Penguin's henchmen, were properly taken care of, the bells of the Clock Tower a few blocks over stroke a quarter past four.
Time to call it a night.
When the original Dynamic Duo almost reached the hidden parking space of the Batmobile, big, fluffy snowflakes began to fall at an alarming rate. Nightwing half-jokingly pointed out Captain Cold might have brought his fellow Rouge Weather Wizard with him to Gotham. Batman responded with a quick check on the surveillance system of Iron Heights, which showed Mark Mardon safely confined in his cell. "Ah, so I guess we need to thank Mother Nature for a white Christmas," concluded the younger vigilante, who then stuck his tongue out in an effort to catch a snowflake with its tip. As soon as he finally succeeded, the towering dark figure that had been waiting motionlessly at his side ushered him into the nearby car with a hand on his shoulder.
Upon their arrival at home, the entire Wayne estate had already gotten covered with an enormous blanket of whiteness. Nightwing's teeth exposed when grinning from ear to ear matched the color of the ever-accumulating virgin snow. An old itch to scold his partner for allowing himself to get distracted while at work—they remained on duty until the nightly report had been typed out and carefully filed away—raised its head. Batman mentally stomped on it, understanding no matter how carefree the young man appeared, he was beyond such disregard for professionalism.
The adrenaline in their bloodstream had not worn off by the time they had gone over the events of the night, cleaned up, and changed into civilian clothing. Instead of hitting the bed as their usual routine dictated, Dick suggested they both could use a relaxing drink.
"Hmm."
Waiting for them on the kitchen counter were ingredients of hot cocoa for two, meticulously measured out, with extra marshmallows for the welcomed visitor and chili powder for the head of the household. The two of them knew way better than to waste their already strained brain cells on speculating how on earth Alfred managed to predict their need so accurately beforehand.
Having turned on the stove, Dick hunted down a medium-sized pan from a squad of shiny copper saucepans neatly arranged by size on the wall and proceeded to put cocoa powder, water, sugar and salt into it. Bruce pulled out a chair for the cook from beneath the small coffee table they hardly used, before sitting himself down on the opposite side of the table. When the boiling of the mixture in the saucepan reached the one-minute mark, Dick added in milk and resumed constant stirring. A short while later, he poured half of the cocoa into his elephant-shaped mug before tossing in a handful of marshmallows. Then he quickly whisked chili powder into the other half and emptied the spiced drink into another mug, this time a plain navy blue one.
"Here you go, fresh hot cocoa by courtesy of our favorite butler." Dick offered Bruce his share.
"And you, Dick. The cocoa can't make itself. Thank you." In the short moment before Dick could react, Bruce attributed his unexpected outburst of candid gratitude to the loosening effect on the lid of the metaphorical bottle brimmed up with his emotions caused by combined chronic mental and physical exhaustion.
"Who are you and what have you done to the real Bruce?" Though he managed to thwart the build-up of an awkward silence, Dick dreaded his attempt to give a light-hearted witty response might be sabotaged by the blood creeping into his cheeks. He quickly brought his mug to his lips, so as to give the impression it was the rising hot steam that made him blush.
The corners of Bruce's mouth curled up nearly imperceptibly. Dick returned a slightly flustered smile of his own.
The silence followed was of the more comfortable kind. Serenely it went on, until—
"I used to hate snow with all my heart." Dick heard his own voice say.
Bruce raised the tip of his right eyebrow in surprise and curiosity.
"I've witnessed our big top collapse twice under the sheer weight of snow. Both times it had to go through extensive repairing, which left everyone devastated, for every scheduled performance afterward not in a permanent venue had no choice but to be canceled. It messes with transportation too. From time to time, my parents and I had literally not a single minute to spare between jumping off the train and rushing into the backstage after delays due to snow. Besides, like any other unfavorable weather condition, it makes a dent in attendance. I remember hearing Harry and Sammy fret about early snow driving the audience away in our next stop Fawcett City the day...the day we met. Anyway, snow is never good for circus business."
"I see," Bruce nodded once, paused a bit, and then cautiously added, "nonetheless...you seemed to enjoy it just now."
"Yeah. Things changed after you took me in...No idea why I brought this up out of blue. Snow didn't cause Haly's any trouble this past performance season. Probably a sudden surge of nostalgia invoked by the thickening festive atmosphere...Or perhaps it's this mug—it looks like Elinore a lot." Dick mused, watching the last morsel of marshmallow dissolve into his drink.
"I didn't know about your previous aversion to snow." Bruce stated the obvious.
He's wondering about the reason behind your change in attitude—the well-developed regions in Dick's brain in charge of interpreting Brucespeak informed him automatically.
"It all started my first Christmas here." A shroud of sweet melancholy enveloped his eyes. "In the beginning, you were this aloof, unapproachable authoritative figure I barely got to see, let alone speak to or, heaven forbid, spend time with. When Christmas arrived, you stayed at home for several days in a row—well actually you sneaked out nightly to patrol, but let's not dwell on technicality. It snowed heavily that Christmas morning. Stranded inside, we read the signed first edition of The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood you bought me as a gift together, sitting in the big armchair by the fireplace in the library—I said it before and now I say again: who in their right mind would give a kid an antique collectible for casual reading?! The snow gradually halted around midday. Overstuffed with Alfred's sandwiches made using leftover holiday ham, we went outside for a walk. Soon we started to build a snowman near the rose garden. Anthony. Remember? The irregular shape of his head made him look like he was sporting a powdered wig, so we named him that after Mad Anthony, who has a similar wig in his portrait in the family gallery. Mighty as Snowman Anthony was, he stood no chance against the invincible British force that was Alfred summoning us for tea and warm gingersnaps. At the end of that day, I decided snow wasn't all bad. To the ten-year-old boy I was, it brought me a great new friend."
Bruce listened attentively to every single detail, reliving in his mind those deeply ingrained memories via his companion's vivid recollection. Once again, he felt utmost thankfulness for Alfred's unprecedentedly harsh talking-to regarding his responsibilities as a guardian the day before Christmas Eve. Because of the wise butler, Dick was not the only then resident of the manor who experienced the first sparkle of a heart-warming friendship on that Christmas Day.
To think that Christmas Day took place more than a dozen years ago, to think that little boy had grown into a young man beautiful in every aspect conceivable to humankind, to think this beautiful young man, once a lonely juvenile robin he took under his leather wings, had spread out his full-fledged wings and flown away to independence...A pang of multifaceted feelings hit Bruce in the chest, overloading his emotional processing system. The man initiated meticulous dissection of his present emotional status, one procedure he had developed over the years especially for infrequent occurrences like this. Pride, sense of accomplishment, gratitude, relief, gladness, a trace of wistfulness...and then something, something that eluded him, something out of reach. What is it that I fail to decipher?
An interruption occurred before his contemplation could come to fruition.
Following a measured flippant chuckle, Dick drawled while slowly shaking his head, "Holiday nostalgia has really gotten to me this year. Oh boy, I must be getting old."
His deliberate act aiming to lift the heavy sentimentality that had settled over the shared space between himself and Bruce served its purpose. They finished their cocoa in another stretch of cozy silence. Afterward, Dick took both empty mugs to the sink to wash up. As he was drying them with a dishcloth, a sound coming through the nearby window caught his attention.
"Bruce, come here and listen!" he exclaimed under his breath.
Bruce arose from his chair and walked over to stand behind the excited young man who almost plastered his face to the window pane. He strained his ears, but they captured nothing apart from the wind.
"Dick, what is it?"
"Shh." Dick raised a finger to his lips. "He will soon start again."
The mystery unraveled itself a couple of seconds later: a string of chirping and twittering sounds occurred amidst the murmuring of wind. Those rich caroling phrases had a cheery note, which was typical for—
"A robin."
"We have a winner!" Dick announced in an exaggerated, dramatic tone.
"I have always been under the impression that robins migrate southward before winter comes," Bruce commented when the birdsong came to a halt again.
"I used to as well. In fact, I thought all robins did, including those European ones. Last winter, I was floored by the myriad of Christmas artifacts with robins on them the WHSmith near St. Hadrian's carried. Why has Alfred never mentioned they associate robins with Christmas in England? Looking them up, I learned robins in the Old World are sedentary." Dick started to trace random patterns on the fogged glass absentmindedly. "I also found out a small number of American robins, mostly males—that's why I think it's a "he"—choose to stay on their home territory all year long too. It looks like we have a fine specimen here on the manor ground."
As if to prove the young man's point, the robin resumed his song, its melodious tune clearer and stronger than before.
Engrossed with the robin's singing and the whistling of wind against a backdrop of vast quietness, Bruce felt as if he was cocooned by a quaint sense of joy. It soothed his weariness, and the result in turn appeared to have lessened his penchant for taciturnity, as he found himself openly remarking on this pleasant state.
Nigh on undetectable rigidness ran down Dick's spine. He's agitated. Something's wrong. Bruce examined and then reexamined the interaction between the young man and himself in the last few minutes, futilely searching for the source of his companion's reaction.
"Dick, what happened?" he asked softly at last.
"Nothing to worry about. It's just..."
"...Yes?"
"You told me something similar about birds and wind and joy before...I mean, when you...lost your memory." The young man continued in an increasingly fragile voice.
Bruce knew his spell of total retrograde amnesia had been very rough for the few people close to him. Yet this understanding sprang mainly from logical assumption, rather than empirical evidence. A series of failures in restoring his memories created during that period forced him to turn to others for information. After filling him in with the essentials, Alfred became visibly reluctant to disclose any further. Others had echoed his reticence. Bruce respected their collective will and never again raised the topic. He had also attempted to reconstruct the private life of the amnesiac Bruce Wayne via records left, but they were too scarce to render a satisfactory result—the man did not even keep a daily planner, let alone anything that remotely resembled a journal.
How could he repair the damage his memory loss had brought when he had no idea what had happened? The powerlessness had been tormenting him for months.
Right now, Dick had presented him with a rare opportunity that might shed some light on that discombobulating episode of their lives. After thorough consideration, Bruce decided to take it. With tact.
"What did I say?" He picked the least intrusive question—after all, Dick had already told him the gist of his words—hoping the young man would volunteer some more information answering him.
"You said, 'There are moments now, at night usually, where everything is quiet. Just, the city seems to go away. It's all still. And I listen. I can hear birds and wind—the tapping of something on the window, maybe. When it's quiet like that, and I can...I feel...joy.'"
Even taking Dick's well-honed prowess in memorization into full account, his response was alarmingly remarkable. The recitation was flawless, like a well-established Shakespearian actor's in his one-hundredth performance starring the same role. He must have ruminated over these words many, many times, repeating them to himself along the way.
"You...remember that very well." Gingerly Bruce trod the topic.
"Not really. I can't recall what you said after that. I was too busy bl—"
To untrained eyes, Dick stood still and relaxed. To Bruce, it was as clear as daylight that his body was shaking all over.
The amnesiac Bruce Wayne talked about listening to sound of birds and wind during a quiet night made him joyful. Dick took it all to heart and evidently got exceedingly upset. Why? Throughout Bruce's life, bat and man, he had seldom been as baffled as he was at the moment. Keen to find out the reason, he nonetheless abhorred achieving it at the expense of further unsettling the young man, so he refrained from asking forthright. As he was seeking for a promising way to approach this mystery, a new verse of the lone robin's dawn song wafted from the outside.
Robin.
Robin!
Owing to its notoriously colorful nightlife, Gotham City only ever quieted down in the brief moments before dawn. Among the local avian community, only early rising robins sang during that particular time. Robins had held a special in Bruce's heart ever since young Dick told him about his nickname; they grew even more meaningful after the field aliases "Batman" and "Robin" had become inseparable. Bruce would never dismiss those lovely red-breasted creatures reminding him of the brightest light in his life as merely "birds". The amnesiac Bruce Wayne, however, did exactly that.
Be it he had failed to recognize the "birds", or that he had recognized them but not cared, one thing was for sure: unbeknown to himself, Bruce slammed into Dick's face the fact that he had forgotten all about robins' significance. He mentally flinched trying to imagine how the young man must have felt.
When Bruce endeavored to puzzle Dick's behavior out, Dick wondered about himself as well. Seeing Bruce had already spread himself too thin these days, he should have shared the man's burden and helped to relieve him from overwork and stress. His intention notwithstanding, he had thrice directed their conversation to old memories in the past half an hour or so, each time coming off as more sentimental than before. He had even brought up Bruce's amnesia after his near-death battle against the Joker! So royally he screwed up, draining whatever was left of the man's mental energy by forcing him to deal with raw emotions, which Bruce was neither good at nor comfortable with.
Now that I'm home, how come it has gotten worse?!
Dick's consciousness had been habitually drifting to memories of sentimental events for quite some time. He had chalked up the nostalgic tendency as a normal pre-holiday symptom and largely ignored it, for it had not caused harm in any way. Until just now. He had thought spending some time with family at the manor just like in the old days would have helped to mitigate his mind's urge to transplant itself into the bygone times. Never had he expected to see himself go out of control. Dick Grayson, even if you can't tell what's going on with your head, you have to get yourself together! For Bruce's sake if not your own!
"I'm sorry I forgot all about robins...and you, especially you."
Dick's resolve faced a serious challenge. Bruce's apology tugged his heart in a way that made his eyes wet.
He drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. When his throat felt a little less constricting, he said, "Don't beat yourself over it, Bruce. It's not your fault. Not at all. Just a case of...occupational hazard. In fact, Alfred had already explained to me Dionyseum's effect on your brain before leading me to the library entrance. I really shouldn't have gotten caught off guard by you not knowing robins."
He meant to stop there, but an impulse made him go on and on. "I suppose it was because at that moment the reality of your seemingly incurable amnesia had thoroughly sunk in: I could no longer deny the fact I, both as Dick and as your first Robin, meant absolutely nothing to you, who were then more at peace than ever with life. Although we were chatting in a room that had witnessed thousands of hours of us being together, I knew I had lost you, for real...And there was no point trying to fix it, for you were better off without memories of me. I had to fight tooth and nail against my own body to maintain a calm exterior while I was bleeding and screaming from the inside. That was...hard. As time passed, I'd trained myself to keep the nightmarish incident buried, but somehow it resurfaced the instant you identified the robin outside. Later, when you spoke of that particular brand of joy brought by robin and wind, I just...couldn't contain myself anymore."
From first-hand knowledge Bruce knew reopened wounds, both in the body and in the soul, could hurt as much as fresh ones. He placed a hand on one of Dick's tremulous shoulders, offering consolation.
The quiver beneath his palm diminished, yet it persisted. Driven by the single-minded burning need to make it cease, Bruce embraced Dick's shoulders from behind, hoping his arms could support and steady them.
For half a breath, he thought he had made a grave mistake, for the young man's whole body tensed up. To his immense relief, Dick then started to slowly but decidedly relax, the outward signs of his internal turmoil fading away.
But it was not enough. Also from first-hand knowledge, Bruce knew wounds like the one hurting Dick right now ran deep beneath the surface, and would require more than a silent gesture to heal. So he started to talk. "In those early years, from spring to fall, we could often hear robins sing on our way to bed after a long night. They liked to perch on the apple branches close to the windows of the Family Wing and the hydrangeas along the wall. You got so excited every year spotting the first robin. For you, that marked the arrival of spring and another year of your life. Once, I called you a 'nocturnal robin,' saying Robin retired when robins woke up, and went on duty when they stopped their evening songs. To that you retorted, 'Of course! I'm a robin living with a giant bat!'."
The man more felt than heard a quiet, watery laugh coming from within his companion. Pausing for the briefest of moments to savor it, he then continued. "The spring after you left for college, when I first heard a robin, I looked everywhere for you, wanting to tell you the news. Library, kitchen, gym, your favorite sky gazing spot on the rooftop, your favorite sea gazing spot near the old oak...It was not until I reached your empty bedroom that I came to realize you had gone. I sat in your linen-covered chair occupied by fond memories of you, until a worried Alfred found me there an hour past scheduled dinner time. The next spring, the one after you...left, I stayed underground for weeks straight, barring patrol, to hide from returning robins. I would have remained in the cave even longer had not a stray robin stumbled into it. He was a bold one, flying pass of crowds of bats without taking fright, and instantly reminded me of you. Later he landed on top of the main computer screen and whistled 'cheerily, cheer up, cheer up' to me, over and over. I had to return him to the ground, and that was the first time I saw sunlight for the better part of a month. Dick, do you follow me?"
Bruce turned his head to look at the young man. His eyes were closed, thick eyelashes casting faint shadows on his smooth cheeks. Trembling lips opening up, Dick whispered breathily, "Yes...But do tell me more."
Bruce could almost hear the sound of something snap in his brain. He submitted to his instinct and let long pent-up words flow out from the bottom of his heart. "Robins are harbingers of spring. In my eyes, so are you. Your arrival heralds the return of spring after a long, bleak winter in my life—but there is more to it, a lot more: it is you who managed to single-handedly bring spring back to me. You, with your kindness, helpfulness, optimism, enthusiasm, sense of humor, liveliness, charms, empathetic and caring nature, love for and faith in humanity, steadfastness in being a good person, and beyond...thawed the suffocating icy shell hardened by endless vengeance encasing my soul, and brought in a gentle, refreshing breeze of vitality and hope. You saved me. You've never stopped saving me. You make me a better man than I could ever become had life never gifted me with your precious companionship.
"I'm very sorry that, both wittingly and unwittingly, I've been the source of a great deal of your pain and suffering. You don't deserve any of those. I'm even sorrier that my transgression of decency has exacerbated in the recent years as I allow an increasing amount of darkness and grimness to seep into me.
"You and I both know, doing what we do, 'forever' is little more than wishful thinking—but I guarantee you, as long as I'm in full possession of my mental faculties, I will always hold you in the highest appreciation, gratitude, respect, and admiration. I do hope you could remember this, especially in situations where my ability to personally convey such attitude is compromised due to whatever reason. Something else I hope you could remember as well is that...I love you."
Those last three words came out easier than Bruce had imagined.
They also culminated Dick's epiphany.
When Bruce reached out to him, first with his hand and then with his heart, the nameless stir that had kept ricocheting within Dick receded, chased away by warm currents of contentment.
Looking back at the memories he revisited, Dick noticed Bruce was on the center stage in each and every one of them. His subconscious had not been simply steering him back to the old days, but rather back to Bruce, flooding his mind with memorable moments between the man and himself.
Now that he was basking in the living proof of Bruce's care and closeness, the echoes of the past lost their sway over him. Now that he had found it, Dick finally learned what he had been subconsciously pining for: connection with Bruce, one that was even deeper and stronger than what they had had so far.
Multiple physical signs—dizziness, heightened awareness, tremor of the lips, flutter of the heart, butterflies in the stomach, increased blood flow in certain parts further down the way...—that occurred when Bruce held him and murmured into his ear treasured memories and sincere compliments suggested the connection he sought was not strictly platonic. The spontaneous eruption of zealous longing upon hearing Bruce say "I love you" confirmed its romantic nature.
He was in love with Bruce.
Everything now made so much sense.
Dick's delight from figuring out "what's going on with me?" was short-lived, soon dowsed by "what am I to do with this knowledge?".
Still overwhelmed by Bruce unbosoming himself, still encircled in the man's arms, Dick found it nearly impossible to think, so he relied on intuition. This romantic love for Bruce he had just become aware of felt right, and beautiful, and natural. It felt like the blossom of a seed sown many years ago, the next stage in the organic evolution of the bond between Bruce and himself. It felt like...it craved reciprocation.
Dick feared he might disconcert Bruce, given the man had watched him grow from a child to an adult; on the other hand, he would have left himself hanging until the end of his days regretting his own cowardice if he had shunned the risk of confessing this love. He had learned to catch somersaults forty feet above the ground before he could even write his own name—calculated risk-taking was his second nature. Right now the odds looked as good as they ever could be, as Bruce and he were already in the middle of a once-in-a-blue-moon heart-to-heart. On top of that, just like Bruce had said, "forever" was pretty much wishful thinking for them. At any time, something could have happened and rendered the topic of his love for Bruce permanently untouched. He should seize the day.
Gently, Dick removed himself from Bruce's arms—he started to miss the man's body heat right away—while mentally bracing himself for the upcoming leap into uncertainty. Turned around, he gazed into the man's dark blue eyes. "In what way?"
"As your equal, your friend, and your ally. You've proved to the world you're mature, independent and capable. It took me too long to accept you'd grown out of the role of my junior partner; I'm not proud of it. I've now embraced the truth: we stand on the same footing under all circumstances, whether they call for masks and capes and cowls or not. I would be honored if you could share my future vision of us facing whatever life has in store for us side by side."
For the second time within the span of a few minutes, Dick was touched. Really, really touched. Bruce's reply almost made him believe he could happily live just like that for the rest of his life, wanting for nothing.
Almost.
"What if I..." he took a nervous pause, "wanted more?"
Familiar micro signs of confusion clouded Bruce's face.
"What do you mean?" He enunciated in a perfectly neutral tone reserved for situations on which he had possessed not yet any clue.
Stop beating around the bush. It never works well for Bruce in matters of the heart. Time to call a spade a spade.
"I'm in love with you."
He observed Bruce's face closely, searching for any muscle movement indicating the man's feelings upon receiving the declaration, but it stayed exactly the same. Dick found himself unable to move—Bruce, he, and everything around them seemed to have fallen under a freezing spell.
"...Are you sure?" An eternity later, Bruce broke the stillness, yet his expression remained unchanged.
"Yes. I am." Dick confirmed as soon as his ability to speak returned.
"...Since when?"
"It's...not easy to tell. Clear signs first came forth around September, in the form of a strange desire to revisit memories related to you. It grew stronger with time, but I'd been in ignorance of its true nature until recently. Very recently—actually, just now. When you embraced me and opened up your heart, I eventually caught on to my latent need to connect with you in a way more intimate than before. When you said you love me, I viscerally yearned for your love to be other than platonic."
"...Why?" Bruce's intensifying astonishment stripped away even his the ability to string monosyllabic words together.
"Why have I fallen for you or why do I find out about it now?"
"Both."
"Bruce, you're not as hard a person to love as you imagine. Beneath the mask of the billionaire playboy and the cowl of the ruthless vigilante is a decent man. A great man. I've had my own share of tragic loss, yet I still can't fathom what it's like for you. My parents died during a flying trapeze act. Granted, I didn't foresee Zucco damaging the cables; nonetheless I was at least to some extent mentally prepared for the accident per se. As mom and dad used to warn me, 'We're aerialists performing without a safety net. Once our feet have left the ground, we need to always be mindful of grave danger.' Your parents...It's pure senselessness. In the face of everything, you rise from the worst tragedy for a child, striving toward and succeeding in being a persevering, indomitable force of good. Both as Batman and Bruce Wayne, you've saved innumerable souls and planted hope into the core of the most dangerous and corrupted major city in the country, all while getting hurt in various ways non-stop. Year after year, you sacrifice yourself for the well-being of others. I admired you so much that I wanted nothing but to become you when I was a kid. After realizing I wasn't carved out to be your carbon copy, a fact largely thanks to your cultivation, my admiration only increased.
"An excellent mentor and a worthy friend, you prevented me from going down the road of self-destruction by guiding me to sublimate my desire for revenge. You've bestowed on me priceless knowledge and wisdom on how to navigate the world as a man as well as a superhero. Yes, you sometimes come off as crass and callous and even heartless; yes, I've been hurt as a result more times than I can remember; but you are not truly stonelike. When I see you, really see you, I can always see through your carapace and find a loving man who would comfort a child suffering from terrible nightmares by promising he'll sit by his bedside watching over him, and stay true to his word till hours later when the child wakes up in the morning.
"My love for you, the romantic kind, I've only just begun to digest it. And unlike you, I'll probably never master the art of getting in touch with the temperament of one's own heart via scientific, impersonal introspection. I can't say I know definitely why it chooses to make itself known at this moment. Gut feeling tells me I become aware because I've finally shed the last shred of insecurity about my lack of independence.
"During my last days as Robin, I harbored a certain sort of fondness for you that wasn't entirely chaste. However, it paled in comparison to my ever-growing hunger for emancipation. My pursuit of autonomy took precedence over everything else. The fear of being labeled as callow and unready loomed over my heart, stifling its affection for you, for affection, to my over-sensitive psyche haunted by uncertainty of my own competence, was dangerously close to reliance.
"Seasoned by solo and leading jobs, team-ups, and years of holding the reins my own life, at last I've managed to firmly and thoroughly internalize the idea of Dick Grayson as a man on his own two feet both in and out of the superhero community. Unhindered by the twisted logic that equates proximity to you with renouncing my independence, long-suppressed romantic feelings for you reentered my consciousness, albeit thinly-veiled. After reacquainting with them, I realize they've ripened from teenage infatuation to full-fledged love a man carries deep inside for the best man he's ever known.
"Years ago I left to search for my place in the world. I've moved from one location to another, met people from all walks of life, taken up different jobs...I've learned from my experiences, both good and bad. Now I've found what I sought—right at where I started: I want to stay shoulder to shoulder with you, the person I love most, joining you night and day in doing good and making this world a nicer place, sharing life with you."
When the violent heaving of his chest eventually died out and his pulse rate returned to normal, Dick resumed speaking in a spent, quavering voice. "Bruce...It'd be nice if you could say something...Anything. Please. Even if—"
"I can't." Bruce cut him off with an admission frank and blunt. "... I'm at a loss as to what to think, or how I feel."
The working of the emotional side of his brain had shut down completely under the massive excess load. His defunct cognitive system was unable to ascertain anything about his own emotions, which led to his utter failure in fulfilling the young man's simple wish.
"Well, I suppose...you need more time to work out all the answers." Dick gave him a tight, small smile that looked more like a grimace than anything, and began to turn away.
An idea burst into the nothingness that was Bruce's mind: If I could, for once, skip intricate self-examination and draw conclusions directly from—
He stopped Dick's movement with a hand on his upper arm, keeping the young man facing toward him.
"I think there may be a simpler way," Bruce suggested, looking into those questioning, stormy eyes.
He cradled Dick's head in his palms, tilting it upwards a little, and brought their lips together.
To ease the young man's surprise-induced stiffness, Bruce caressed his lips gently, carefully, and slightly hesitatingly.
That last part was not out of his own volition. He was rusty. Bruce had not initiated a kiss for a long time outside of his parade as Brucie the Playboy Extraordinaire, and it had been even longer—beyond his memory's reach—since he had last kissed such way.
Water fighting to stick onto a duck's back enjoyed an easier time than heated kisses involving a pair of impeccably painted and perfumed lips attached to eager supermodels, movie stars, or socialites in his mind. Bruce was virtually a disinterested onlooker during sessions of lip-locking between his body and his arm candy. He hardly ever had felt anything during those, except for impatience occasionally. This kiss with Dick, on the contrary, unquestionably made him feel...something.
A rumble ran through Bruce's chest, shaking up something the existence of which he previously had only the vaguest idea about—something he could not put his finger on yet. A frown of dismay emerged on his face.
The lashes of Dick's closed eyes fluttered, tickling the tight muscles under Bruce's eyes. Rigidity dissipated from the young man's body—jaw loosening up, teeth unclenching, lips no longer pressing into a thin line. Three heartbeats later, a tiny moan escaped from his now soft mouth.
His breath was warm, reminding Bruce of light, southeasterly air in a pleasant spring afternoon.
The delicious warmth faded shortly. Unable to bear the loss, Bruce sought out for more with the tip of his tongue. The young man complied with his wish, further parting his lips and teeth.
The last person Bruce had kissed that in some way mattered was Selina. Before her, Talia. Kissing them resembled engaging in a duel—he had to constantly fight the other participant for dominance and leverage, and stay wary of her every subtle move. His over-competitiveness had reveled in the challenge brought by this zero-sum game. His self-destructive propensity had relished the pernicious consequences.
Sharing a kiss with Dick was an experience antipodean to his osculation with the women. Their lips and tongues moved in tandem tenderly, fondly, considerately—instead of competing, the young man and he complemented each other, in the same way as how they always did in the field. There was a sweetness to it—not because Dick had just had a cup of cocoa topped with marshmallows—making the kiss nothing close a duel, but much alike a duet. A duet with the loveliest robin in the entire world.
A duet with the robin with whom he was in love.
That ever-elusive piece fell into place. His heart rejoiced in its consummate wholeness for the first time in decades.
Dick drew away all of a sudden. He lowered his head and turned his face sideways, steadfastly refusing to make eye-contact with Bruce. Forcefully he worried his lower lip with teeth, his muscles tensing up all over again.
Crane's condensed toxin fell short to instill overwhelming dread in Bruce as effectively.
"I can't do this anymore," Dick blurted out, burying his face in his hands. "I really can't."
"...Why...?" Bruce forced the word out of his spasmodic vocal cords. Dick did say he had just awakened to his romantic feelings for him. The young man normally had an outstanding insight into interpersonal issues, yet even he erred every now and then. A taste of intimacy beyond their previous boundary might very well lead to second thoughts. If this is the case, what a cruel joke has life just made!
"If we keep doing this any longer, I'm afraid I'd be unable to bring myself to let you go. Not knowing is one thing, getting to know and then having to live without is another..."
Bruce heard tears in his muffled voice.
"Oh Dick..." Abandoned by right words as usual, he talked with action. Loosely encircling the young man's wrists with his fingers, Bruce coaxed his hands away from his face. Then he raised them to his own lips, squarely planting a kiss on each of Dick's palms covered with an ever-present thin layer of callus.
His fingertips detected a rapid rise in pulsation under the young man's skin. Looking up, Bruce was greeted with wide, wonderstruck cerulean eyes. Two shiny lines trailed the contour of chiseled cheekbones.
One by one, Bruce wiped them away with kisses. Finished with the final trace at the corner of Dick's mouth, he naturally moved on to his lips, the lower one of which still bore fresh evidence of its owner's recent agony. This time, the young man opened up for him with a sensuous sigh drenched in happiness and relief, his arms winding around Bruce's neck.
Amid everything, the ever-alert, auto-piloting corner of Bruce's brain endeavored to pinpoint the moment his affection for Dick had diverged from its original path. Its effort proved to be in vain—there was not a single turning point but a series of small changes that happened over the span of the last several years.
Bliss spread from his chest to every extremity. In spite of the thick layer of snow outside, the most glorious spring was blossoming right inside Bruce. He tightened his arms around Dick's waist, drawing him closer, close enough for their hearts to feel each other's throbbing.
Under the mesmerizing effect of their synchronized heartbeat, Bruce's mind drifted on and on, until coming across a slice of childhood memory.
In the morning of Valentine's Day, he asks his father what being in love with someone is like while they are waiting for his mother to come down and join them at the breakfast table. His father offers an explanation vivid and in-depth, using himself and his mother as an example. Although he gets the hang of the concept intellectually with ease, he still struggles to resonate with the feeling itself. "Don't worry, Bruce. You'll understand when it's your turn," says his father, ruffling his hair. "Darling, trust your dad on this. When love happens, you'll know." From the kitchen entrance comes the sweet voice of his mother, who has been listening to their conversation in the hallway.
Dad, mom, you were right.
With the possible exception of marble statues in the Wayne family graveyard, no one could accuse Bruce of being the lachrymose type. Dick had never seen him shed a tear before, and could count the times he was anywhere close to it—all resulting from tragic incidents—with one hand. Thus when the tip of his nose encountered a spot of wetness on Bruce's cheek, a wave of amazement washed over him.
Bruce—the goddamn Batman—is crying happy tears.
It added to the elation aroused by Bruce's reciprocation of his affection after an initial appearance of utmost impassiveness, making his chest ache in a good, good way.
In the meantime, a gush of protectiveness welled up inside Dick. Bruce might stand toe-to-toe with the greatest enemies and win, yet his armor, no matter how powerful and sturdy, offered protection only to the organ that pumped blood into his arteries. Left to its own devices, the heart of Bruce, unbalanced by traumatic life experiences, would continuously vacillate between isolating itself completely from humanity and impaling itself on the thorns of femmes fatales in desperation to feel anything.
Now that he had been granted full access to it, Dick would henceforth hold Bruce's heart in his own hands for safekeeping and put a final stop to the vicious cycle.
That was a long-term goal requiring a lifetime to achieve. After silently vowing to himself, Dick turned his immediate attention to matters at hand. Once again, he withdrew from the kiss. Keeping in mind of his abrupt jerk in panic that had left Bruce stunned, he went slowly, lingering after each movement, allowing Bruce more than enough time to comprehend his intention.
Giving Bruce's Cupid's bow one final nibble, Dick stood on the very tips of his toes, leveling himself to a bit taller than the man's standing height, and proceeded to kiss away his tears, returning Bruce's favor minutes ago. The tip of his tongue brushed from the inner corner of Bruce's right eye to the outer one, capturing the accumulating liquid threatening to spill, his hands carding through the man's smooth black hair soothingly along the way. He sealed his completed work with a feathery caress of his lips to the man's trembling eyelid, before moving on to console his other eye.
Dick remained tip-toed after Bruce's lashes had dried up. The unusual angle of view owing to height advantage had grown on him. He peppered Bruce's hairline, forehead, and eyebrows with small, open-mouthed kisses, and the man encouraged him with low, velvety purring sounds. They indulged in this mutual display of affection, until the muscles in Dick's left foot gave out without a warning, leading his chin to bump right into the straight bridge of Bruce's nose.
"Ow. I'm so sorry! I didn't break anything, did I?" Dick apologized while searching closely for any sign of injury around the area of collision. For a talented acrobat that he was, instances of losing balance were few and far between, and only took place when—
"You're tired, Dick. I'm alright but you need to rest." Bruce observed with concern in his dark blue eyes.
"You need rest too. More than I do." Dick countered. "Tim said you haven't slept properly for over a week. You can't go on like this." Guiltiness from keeping Bruce up this late—or early—gnawed at him. Its bite would have been a lot more ferocious had Bruce and he not been...so notably productive after patrol.
"Let's go upstairs." They said simultaneously, and then smiled at the synchrony—for Bruce it was more of a faint crinkling of eyes, but that definitely counted.
They ascended the flights of stairs between the kitchen and the Family Wing together, not unlike how they always had done, the only difference being their fingers were tightly interlaced.
Stepping into the hallway that led to their rooms, they caught the sight of something small moving outside the windows. A closer look confirmed Dick's initial thought: it was a robin bobbing on the snow-laden windowsill.
"Hi there," Dick greeted. "Hope you like wintering here. Take my word, this is a nice place."
Little black snappy eyes looked at him curiously while their owner produced a series of lilting chirps.
Distracted by the arresting contrast between the robin's red and black plumage and the white snow, Dick took little notice of Bruce bringing their entwined hands upwards. The first caress of the man's lips to the back of his right wrist startled him.
The adoration bordering on reverence Bruce poured into his kisses down the length of his hand astonished him further.
"Dick, I...I..." Bruce started following the final kiss to Dick's fingertips.
The twitching of the muscles around Bruce's left eye betrayed the man's exasperation over his ineptitude in vocal communication.
Dick enveloped Bruce in a hug, nuzzling his neck and nape while offering reassurance. "Take it easy, Bruce. You've already been legitimately loquacious in the past hour or so. Whatever you're trying to say can wait—I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right here, all ears, whenever you are rea—"
The rest of his words got lost between Bruce's lips.
When they reached Dick's room, the young man landed his hand on the doorknob.
"Sleep well," Bruce told him, because "good night" was not applicable by any stretch now that civilian twilight was about to pass. "I'll see you at lunch."
Dick's kiss-swollen mouth curved into a lopsided smile. "You'll see me a lot sooner. I'm only going inside to retrieve my pajamas."
The smile transformed into a cautious frown before Bruce had a chance to appreciate it fully. "That is, if you are on board with the idea..."
"Do make haste." Bruce mimicked Alfred's favorite expression when pressing them to hurry up in a crisp English accent.
Dick almost doubled himself over laughing.
"Was it that funny?" Bruce asked, genuinely perplexed by the young man's reaction.
"You've no idea. There's a certain je ne sais quoi to it...Or maybe I'm just in a splendid mood...Probably both," Dick managed out between bouts of laughter.
His giggles went on as disappeared behind the mahogany door.
It was still going strong when he reemerged.
"Sorry it took so long. Can't walk properly right now." Dick apologized, staggering forward holding his stomach.
Bruce made the logical decision to sweep the young man up into his arms.
"Hey!" Dick yelled in surprise before leaning against Bruce's wide shoulder.
Pressing a quick kiss to the young man's reddened cheek, Bruce set out for the master bedroom.
The people of Gotham let out a collective deep breath and resumed their normal life as the holiday season ended. Among them was Alfred Pennyworth, naturalized Gothamite for more than three decades. However, he had a new chore added to his household duties.
"Hope these suit your taste," scattering a handful of chopped dried currants and sultanas onto the platform feeder, Alfred talked to the occupier of the nearby heated birdbath. It was a welcomed surprise that the small and rather sparse berries of those newly transplanted dwarf junipers had incentivized a robin to winter on the manor ground. Concerned about his nutrition intake as the berries began to run low around New Year's Day, Alfred had taken up the responsibility of providing him with daily feed.
Having drunk to his heart's content, the robin belted out his daytime carol. His merry tune commingled with the equally merry laughter of Master Dick wafting from afar. Turning his head toward the direction of the young man's voice, Alfred saw him walking with Master Bruce along the white-blanketed tennis lawn on which the snow fortresses built during family-wide snowball fights still stood. The latter had an arm wrapped around his animatedly gesturing companion's waist, and was sporting a grin.
Master Bruce smiling, though still rare, was a sight Alfred had the pleasure to see more and more often, all thanks to the other Robin who had decided to remain at the manor.
Taking one last look at two lovely robins in the snow, and one happy bat as well, Alfred headed back toward the kitchen. His Dundee cake would be ready soon.
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First of all, thank you for reading. English is not my mother tongue and this is my first fic written in the language ever. I apologize in advance for mistakes in grammar, syntax, and other areas. Any form of feedback will be *greatly* appreciated.
Hope you have a nice day! :)