Author's Note: One-shot. Set some months before the events of Report and Heat, at the tail end of March of Dick's fifteenth year. Bruce and Dick are battling Mr Freeze and his latest rampage before engaging in typical Father/Son bonding and general trivialities of life in the manor. Bruce's POV.
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Cold Snap
Bruce
It is winter in Gotham. Usually that prompts the criminal element to go into hibernation until the city thaws. Only one man sees this frozen tundra as an opportunity. It does not take a genius to find this latest spate of thefts to be the work of Victor Fries, operating without additional forces this time. To compensate for his lack of foot soldiers, Fries has significantly upgraded the battle capabilities of his cryo-suit. In the two previous instances Robin and I engaged him in combat prior to now, our efforts have been thwarted by his superior and dangerous firepower. We have however learned from our mistakes and are ready to instigate a more efficient strategy.
At present, we are combatting him within Gotham Park as he is transiting to another crime scene. As anticipated, he is more interested in reaching his destination than killing us. In each of the previous two battles, Fries had the opportunity to kill either myself or the boy, but elected not to. Either he has grown something resembling a conscience, or, much more likely, his mission is of greater importance than adding to his list of victims. This plays into our hands during the current exchange.
As Robin performs pin-point acrobatics to avoid Fries' left-arm cannon, I manoeuvre behind him and plant three shape charges horizontally across the back armour plating. The explosive yield is not enough to incapacitate him, but it is sufficient to create a small opening between the armour layers. As soon as they are detonated, Fries wheels around with surprising speed and fluidity and opens up with his right-arm freeze grenade attachment.
I am barely fast enough to avoid the first three as they hit the ground and balloon out into huge crystalline structures with spiked ends more than a metre across. He is going to fire down a fourth in as many seconds, until Robin distracts him with a combination of CS gas and smoke, obscuring his vision just enough to allow me an escape.
We are now in a similar position to the other battles, in that, we have gotten him to expend some of his ammunition, but not actually inflicted any significant damage to either him or his armaments. That is about to change. Before, we just used heat-based weaponry on his suit in an effort to destabilise the systems. We discovered, painfully, that his armour is too thick to pierce with conventional 'Freeze' tactics, as the boy often calls them. Now, we have generated an opening, thanks to the shape charges.
I will play the role of the hare and get Fries to chase me across the barren expanse of ice that stretches in every direction. The boy will play the part of the saboteur and drop two heat charges into the openings in the armour layers. In theory, we are going to melt him out of the suit. If we can increase the interior temperature to above zero – the heat generated from one charge should achieve this, but we are not taking chances – Fries will fall.
I take off across the field with a human tank in pursuit, firing all armaments and projectiles at his disposal. I weave and duck, dive and dodge multiple bombardments, often by inches rather than feet. After twenty seconds, I fear Fries is moving too quickly for the boy to plant his charges. I grit my teeth and increase pace, knowing that I will slow within another minute. We have been pursuing Fries all night, some six hours, and fatigue is beginning to set in as we approach dawn.
A minute passes, and still I am under siege. I decide I have run enough and turn sharply one-hundred-and-eighty degrees to face the oncoming storm. Fries is still coming, but I am not afraid. I never have been. I hold my ground as he closes within two feet of my position. Snow and sleet have been falling for almost three hours and the ground is soft and slippery beneath my feet. In any case, we have reached the outer boundary of the park. Fries cannot be allowed to move beyond this place. So, he will not.
Fries aims his cannon level with my head, clearly electing not to leave me alive this time. It seems we have exhausted what little patience he has. Just as he is about to fire, the inevitable occurs. A jam. His weapon has jammed, likely seized from overuse and the artic conditions. I allow the faintest of smiles to cross my lips as he looks at the useless appendage in bemusement. A moment later, he is clutching at his throat. My smile grows a little wider. The boy has succeeded. Before he knows what is happening, Fries is on his knees and rendered completely helpless. Robin walks out from behind our vanquished foe and joins me in viewing his growing discomfort.
"Are we going to help him?" Robin asks. I shake my head.
"Let him help himself." I say. We watch him struggle and gasp for air for what seems like an eternity, but is probably closer to five minutes. Eventually, Fries yields and voluntarily opens his helmet to allow the biting winds to brush across his face. They gift instant relief. As soon as he has done so, he attempts to mount a vertical base. He wants to continue fighting it seems, a poor choice. Both of us advance forwards and plant C4 on the front of his suit. Without protection on his face, the explosives will kill him. He knows this and verbally admits defeat. I let out a long sigh.
This was supposed to be a quiet night in.
"Can we go home now?"" The boy asks. I peer through the blizzard and spot the faint flashing lights of approaching police vehicles. It appears GCPD have the matter in hand.
I nod my head. "Yes. Let's go."
We return to the cave shortly after eight in the morning. Alfred is already dressed and looks like he has not slept all night. It is understandable, given his employers were once again battling both the elements and another one of Gotham's so-called 'supervillains'. The old man is not too eager to greet us. This probably stems from the fact I told him we would only be an hour, if that. We only learned it was Fries causing havoc upon arriving at Gotham Museum, some forty minutes into our patrol. Until then, I had assumed it to be nothing more than an amateur gang of thieves. That was my mistake.
"Do either of you have any tingling sensation in your limbs or extremities at present?" Alfred inquires once we are close to the medical bay. We both shake our heads.
"Have either of you sustained any injuries that make walking or talking difficult?"
"I've never had any injury that stops me from talking, Alfie." Dick informs the old man with a smirk that we all share in, despite what has just happened in the city.
"Yes, silly question really, wasn't it? Who's first?"
He examines both of us with his usual attention to detail. As anticipated, neither of us have survived the night's activities wholly unscathed. The boy has pulled one or two tendons, strained several of his larger muscle groups and been the recipient of approximately eighteen different bruises. It is hardly catastrophic. I have not fared much better. I have also pulled tendons in both legs, strained my left shoulder and right pectoral, and received a grand total of twenty-three individual contusions, concentrated largely around my ribs and sternum. We are both so tired, I doubt we can feel anything at the moment. It is probably for the best.
We shower in the cave with the temperature set close to maximum. It is just shy of scalding, but we both need to encourage blood flow and circulation. Despite wearing the winter variants of our uniforms, they are only designed to operate to minus twenty degrees. At times, the temperature tonight was closer to thirty degrees below zero, mainly in part because of the wind chill factor. Once suitably warmed up, and dressed for bed, we journey upstairs where the old man insists we have breakfast.
Dick is visibly listless and pokes at his scrambled eggs rather than trying to eat them. I have no such issues. I finish two plates of scrambled egg and a large bowl of porridge oats and whey protein before choosing to sleep for the remainder of the morning. I wake up sometime around two in the afternoon. The boy has chosen not to infiltrate my bed on this occasion, as is often his way. I am confident he will appear very shortly, since I still owe him a quiet night in. Less than fifteen minutes after waking up, Dick rounds the door without an invitation and sits on the vacant side of my bed.
Dick begins counting off items on his fingers. "You owe me movies and popcorn and..."
"Quiet. I know. You can have all those things today, without interruption, I promise."
"Good. Can we start now?" He checks.
"Do you have homework?"
He rolls his eyes and scoffs. "That had better be a really bad joke after last night."
"It never is. You can watch a film and do your homework. It is not a particularly difficult juggling act..."
"I was in the circus. You don't need to tell me about juggling acts." He says holding his hand up to my face.
I smile. "Then fetch your homework."
"What makes you think I want to watch movies and do my homework in your room?"
"Because my room is tidy. And you hate having to do anything at the dining or kitchen table. You keep saying they are both too small for your 'creativity'."
"Huh. Okay, so, you may know me just a little bit."
"Homework. Now. Also, if you're going downstairs to fetch DVDs, kindly ask Alfred to bring me a black coffee?"
"Alfie's in bed. He hasn't slept since yesterday."
"How do you know?"
"Because I actually went to check on him when he wasn't dusting in the library. Are you going to make him get up and fix you a coffee?"
"I suppose not." I say, begrudgingly pulling back the bedsheets and reaching for my dressing gown. "Let's both go downstairs and get our respective resources for a movie and pyjama party."
"Can I get popcorn to do my homework? And...pop-tarts for breakfast?" He asks in shadowing me down the master staircase and into the foyer.
"You can have one or the other, not both. I don't care how genetically gifted you are, eventually pop-tarts and sugar will rob you of your conditioning."
"You think I'm going to get fat? Is that what you're saying?"
"It happens to all people who think just one more chocolate bar will satisfy them."
"Yeah, those people don't fight armoured snowmen for six hours without getting out of breath. I have to get some slack for that."
"That's a fair point, but I'm still the parent here and you are still the sugar addict. Popcorn or pop-tarts, choose your poison wisely."
"Sometimes I think you're jealous that my stomach looks better than yours, even with my poisonous diet."
I stop in the kitchen and look at him in amusement. "Are you implying I am not in good shape, Dick?"
"I'm saying maybe you looked better three years ago. In the last few months, you've looked a little soft around the middle."
I know for a fact my body fat percentage is still five percent. It has been five percent for almost nine years. It will likely still be that figure in ten years time. Dick's body fat fluctuates. Admittedly, it only fluctuates between four and seven percent, but it still moves up and down in line with his sugar intake. It is not worth mentioning today. He is fifteen and very self-conscious about changes in his body. Saying something detrimental about it, even in jest, is probably not a good idea. So, I merely nod my head in faux agreement.
"You may be right. I'll have to cut back on the amount of sweet potato and porridge I eat."
"I don't think I like the way this conversation is going. I'm going to quit whilst I think I'm ahead. I won't call you fat if you don't do it to me. Cool?"
"Yes. Very much so."
The boy finishes his history assignment in less than an hour. As I review it whilst drinking my second cup of black coffee, Dick entrenches himself under the duvet on his side. The current picture showing is the second Jurassic Park film, entitled the Lost World. His report on the Second World War and America's contribution to the conflict is factually accurate and unbiased. He lists both positives and negatives of America's entry into the war, and I am particularly impressed with his research on the Japanese-American internment camps.
Judging from the changes in penmanship, and the fact the report is spread across six pages, the boy has been working on this for several days, if not longer. His handwriting is neat for the first two pages, before gradually becoming more and more louche in its presentation until it resembles the notes he writes himself for social appointments and dating. The content is solid throughout though. I like it.
"Very accomplished." I say placing it on my bedside table to avoid damaging the boy's hard work. I move my coffee further away.
"Thanks, big guy." Dick responds without much enthusiasm. When I look over, I find him suitably engrossed in the television. However, I believe there is another reason for his apathy. I reach over and place a hand on his forehead. He has a temperature and what I believe to be the initial symptoms of a cold. Evidently thirty below was a little too harsh for his body to withstand. His head was too exposed, I imagine, a fault on my part, not his.
"I'll be back in a few minutes." I say getting out of bed and beginning the journey back to the kitchen. When I arrive, I find the old man dressed and preparing a belated lunch. "Did you sleep well, old friend?" I inquire whilst searching through the medicine drawer for the usual herbal remedies Alfred keeps for cold and flu symptoms.
"I hope my absence was not too pronounced, Master Bruce. I do hate to appear so unprofessional." He says, inviting me to taste what appears to be miso soup. A brief sip proves me correct.
"Delicious. Your only apology should be for not sleeping longer, Alfred."
"Not if you are ill, Sir. Am I to infer you might be suffering some lingering effects of your battle, judging from your choice of drink?"
"I am fine. Dick is...showing warning signs of a cold. Do we have any prepared ice packs in the freezer?"
"One or two. Does he have an appetite?" The old says turning off the stove to give me his full attention.
"He ate three Pop-Tarts, so I imagine not." I say with half-a-smile, a gesture Alfred returns with interest. We both know his habits well.
"Can I assume he has made his customary migration to your bed to convalesce?" He checks before opening the freezer door.
I hover behind him as he begins to rummage for the ice packs. "As you say. I do not mind it, especially since he still finished his homework."
"Ah, his history report! How did you find it?" He says depositing two medium-sized packs into my hands. I incline my head.
"I enjoyed it. His prose is maturing, I think."
"I think so too. And he has tried so hard this semester with regards to his lesser subjects. Have you seen his French recently?" The old man checks tearing open a sachet of Lemsip, a cold and flu product he always brings back with him from the motherland, and pouring it into an empty mug.
"I have. It shows great improvement from last year's efforts." I say placing the packs into my dressing gown pockets in anticipation of having to carry the mug.
"I'll see if I can find anything else to ease his symptoms whilst you bring him this to drink." Alfred says, filling the mug with already boiled water, and stirring it counter-clockwise. He passes it to me by the handle. "If this is a classic cold as I believe, the young man will shake it off in two or three days. His immune response rivals yours. Do you wish me to check him over for additional problems?"
"Not now. If he develops any more worrying symptoms, I will inform you, I promise. Will you be able to bring the soup up to me, please?"
"And, what, half-a-chicken, Master Bruce?" He asks, only mildly facetious. Although my appetite is constant, my meal requirements are anything but small. I incline my head again.
"Please, old friend. I need the protein. If you bring extra, I'll make sure Dick eats some as well. His physique rivals mine too."
"Very good, Sir."
Even though he turned fifteen almost four months ago, Dick still reacts to illness like a small child. He does not want to take any medicine, he does not want to have an ice-pack on his head, he does not want to eat soup or drink Lemsip. But, of course, once he starts sweating and feeling thoroughly pathetic, he reverses his position on all these treatments. The whole process takes forty minutes, twice the length I expected it to. His resistance is impressive but foolish. We are now deep into the third Jurassic Park feature.
"Think they'll make another one?" Dick asks me as I slouch back against the headboard and fold my arms.
"I hope not. They seem to be of depreciating quality with every instalment."
"Yeah, I think this has killed off the franchise. Hey, you're not mad at me, are you?"
"About what?"
"Taking so long to plant those heat charges on Freeze. I would've done it sooner, but it's difficult to run fast in weather like that. Every breath felt like trying to swallow down ice." The boy says, echoing my own feelings on the matter.
"I am not angry. In extreme conditions, your time was more than commendable." I tell him without any hesitation.
He huffs. "So, why am I still laid over here by myself? I haven't got the plague or anything."
"No, but you are moist with sweat. I would not want to stain my pyjamas."
"Ouch. That's cold."
"Better to be cold than to have one."
He scowls at me. "Bad joke, really bad joke."
"Not especially. Perhaps we can make a compromise."
The compromise we reach is a simple one. I divest myself of my pyjama top, leaving me just sporting my vest, and drape a towel over the right side of my chest. Dick agrees to not stray beyond the boundaries of this solution. Five minutes later finds him resting his head on my chest and my arm loosely placed around his shoulder. The texture of his pyjamas is clammy, but not as distasteful as I had imagined.
Dick only ever wants little things between us. There is an innocence about his wants and needs that usually dies out as adolescence runs its course. Most children would not still wish for the company of their parents or guardians at the age of fifteen. They are too busy socialising with their peers to notice what effect their negligence has on their family relationships and dynamics. Dick's calendar is never empty. He always has parties and events to attend, people to see. Granted, he is sick at present, and that may be a credible excuse why we find ourselves in such close proximity, but I already know he likes engaging in such behaviour even when fully-fit. He enjoys being close to me. I enjoy it too, even if he is full of cold.
"What would you like to watch now?" I ask, venturing once to comb through swamp-like hair. Hopefully his fever will break soon. He's getting...slimy. The towel will only hold out for so much longer.
"Not another Jurassic Park. Are you game for...Austin Powers?" He asks as if I have a say in the matter. I do not. I tell him as much in answering.
"It is your choice. I still owe you movies and quiet. If you wish to watch Austin Powers, I will grab it from your room."
"I don't want you to move. You make...the best pillow." He informs me matter-of-factly. I would hope I am not soft enough to qualify as a pillow. Maybe I do need a slight adjustment in diet, if only to discourage the boy from using me in such a frivolous fashion.
"I either move, or we stay here in silence." I tell him.
He audibly smirks. "Yeah, not seeing much of a downside to that, Bruce."
"You're clearly delirious from fever."
"Yeah, you wish." He says before reluctantly shifting off my torso and back onto the mattress. "Go get the movie, please."
"Only if you agree to sit up and eat some actual food." I say getting out of bed for the third time in as many hours. He wrinkles his nose at my offer.
"That sounds like a deal breaker."
"Then it isn't a deal, it's an order. Sit. Up." I say firmly enough to spark him from his lethargy. I pull open a drawer and throw him a towel. "Dry yourself with that. It's like embracing Solomon Grundy." I consider my remark briefly. "Actually, no, not good enough. Get out of bed, take a shower and change into fresh pyjamas. Then you can sit up in my bed and eat something." I tell him. He shoots me a mischievous grin.
"I love it when you take charge in the bedroom." He says to earn my withering glare in reply. Not now. I jab a finger at him.
"Not funny. Move or I will tell all your friends about this behaviour of yours. I doubt you will be very popular in the aftermath."
He holds up his hands in surrender. "I give." He slips out from beneath the duvet, still with his hands aloft. "And I'm going." He lazily grabs at the towel and throws it haphazardly over one shoulder in exiting the room.
Once he has left, I inspect his side of the bed. There is a human-shaped sweat patch on the mattress that is oddly missing a head. I hastily remake the bed linen before journeying through the ripe atmosphere and unkempt space that is Dick's room in the hunt for Austin Powers. It is not forthcoming and requires almost ten minutes of sweeping through the boy's cupboards and drawers to locate. Thankfully, it is actually in the box, as opposed to missing in action like so many others. When I return, the boy is in fresh pyjamas and eating a bowl of miso soup, looking far less unfortunate as a result.
"Alfie should make Thai food more often." Dick remarks before taking another sip from his bowl as I address the DVD player.
"Miso soup is Japanese, Dick." I tell him whilst exchanging the disks and returning Jurassic Park to its box. My ribs groan in protest as I bend over and then stand back up, but it is negligible. They have been complaining all morning. My knees are also less than happy with work-rate. I pay them no mind in returning to the bed.
"My bad. I guess I should read more." The boy says before taking another sip. "I'm so glad I don't have a stuffy nose yet. This smells and tastes awesome." He looks over at me. "Do we have chicken?"
"Try to eat a lot." I tell him, passing over the cling foil-wrapped plate of diced chicken breast from inside my bedside cabinet. He nods in agreement as I scroll through the menu tree to start the film.
As soon as Dick inevitably falls asleep from a combination of illness and lingering fatigue, I mute the film and read the papers Alfred brought up in peaceful quiet. The afternoon edition sheds little on the morning's efforts where Fries' capture is concerned. His motives for recent actions still go undiscovered. More important at this juncture though is the lack of casualties. Nobody was killed last night, and injuries sustained to GCPD and specialist task forces involved were minor. Jim Gordon has won the public's favour, judging by the praise journalists heap upon him in their editorials. Fries' arrest aside, there is little other real news to comb over.
I complete reading all my broadsheets just before the credits begin to roll onscreen. The boy has not awoken at all. I replace the ice-pack on his forehead, check the dryness of skin and judge him to be too busy fighting his cold to be interrupted. With that in mind, I take out Austin Powers and put on one of my father's favourite films, On The Waterfront with Marlon Brando. I could never watch it with him. He said it was too violent for a child. He was right, but only in some respects. Regardless, I can enjoy it now.
Alfred brings me dinner shortly before six and is even in kind enough spirits to set up a table for me to eat it off. The steamed salmon, asparagus and kale makes a good accompaniment to the film, although I am unsure why. The old man retrieves my empty plates less than half-an-hour later and I settle in to watch the dramatic conclusion of the picture. As Terry Malloy and the other dockworkers enter the garage, and the musical score swells to a crescendo, I find myself glad I was able to watch one decent outing this afternoon.
"Not bad." I hear a voice mutter from close by. I glance over and find Dick watching the end credits with vague appreciation spread across his face. "Godfather's better." He adds in lazily hauling his body into a sitting position and letting the ice-pack drop into his lap beneath the sheets.
"Did you watch the whole thing?" I inquire as he gingerly stretches his arms and back simultaneously.
He shrugs. "I might have missed the first fifteen minutes maybe, but I saw the rest. Is Alfie bringing me food too?"
"It can be arranged, I'm sure. How do you feel now?"
"Better. I guess being tired made me feel ten-times worse." He says before stifling a yawn. "Not that you missed my company or anything. What were you going to watch next?"
"Something with Clint Eastwood. I fancied Pale Rider."
"The one where he's a 'preacher'?"
"Yes. However, if you wish to watch something else..."
"Nah, I'm good with that." He says folding his arms and slouching back against the headboard in an uncanny impression of my preferred position when in situations like this. "I think I've tortured you enough today."
"Does that mean you're going to leave?" I ask him with a smirk.
He glances over at me and grins. "Like you'd ever want me to leave you alone here. Plus, I'm still sick. You have to be nice to me." He then regards me expectantly, as though he is waiting for me to respond. When I do nothing but stare at him for a minute, the boy emits a sigh and runs a hand down the length of his face. "You know, I wasn't expecting much...but I did expect more than nothing from you."
"I spoil you enough, Dick. Do not take my kindness towards you for granted. I do not take you for granted, after all."
"That's debatable." He mutters.
I cannot help but raise an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
He pouts and looks away before shrugging his shoulders. "I don't know. I don't know what I mean. Guess I'm still...cranky or something from my nap. I'm sorry I said it."
"Dick, if you feel like I am somehow neglecting you...please say so. Thus far, I was under the impression my behaviour today has been more than satisfactory." I tell him whilst getting out of bed to put on Pale Rider.
"Maybe I'm just worried I'm getting too old to act like this with you. It's pretty childish, getting into bed with you when I'm sick and then snapping when I think you're not hugging me enough, even though I'm like a swamp monster."
Sometimes I get tired of this rhetoric of his. When he first came to this house, became Robin, I was fooled by his act. He played the part of a happy and well-adjusted child so well, I almost forgot how much trauma had been inflicted on his psyche. Then judge Watkins happened, and he ran away, and everything became so much clearer. It is always a miracle that he barely requires anything beyond my companionship on occasion. Children in his position are usually terrified of being alone or abandoned. They are socially awkward and emotionally distant. They lack self-confidence or belief that things will improve for them. In short, they are typically like me.
But not Dick.
I stand up after putting in the new disc and regard the boy in silence before speaking.
"Perhaps, but I know this is what keeps you psychologically balanced. Without being able to act like this, you would not be the popular, out-going and accomplished person that you are." I say rounding the bed and sitting beside him on the edge of the mattress. "I told you when you first came here that we would not solve your problems with pharmaceuticals. That means we must both try harder. Mistakes have been made in the past, but we have a good relationship now." I clap him lightly on the shoulder. "You are never too old to enjoy my company, Dick. Just remember to shower beforehand. When you're greasy or covered in a film of sweat, I am not as keen to indulge you."
He smiles appreciatively. "Same here, I guess. After a shoot-out where you just reek of cordite and ash, I'm not super-keen on hugging you either."
"There you have it." I remark taking my hand away and venture back to my side of the bed to enjoy the feature.
"I just thought...because we're both guys, and I look a lot more like a man than I used to, you might not like to get too close to me." He adds as an addendum to his previous comment as I settle underneath the covers again.
"I am very secure in my masculinity, Dick. If you weren't full of cold, I would have no reservations whatsoever." I tell him.
"You know you won't catch it, right? My body's probably burnt most of it out already."
"I did not say I would not, Dick, I merely said I had reservations." I say before unfolding my arms to signal my willingness to indulge him. He smirks before 'snuggling', as Alfred would call it, into my side. As things stand, his pyjamas are still dry, so I dispense with a towel for the moment.
"You're not fat, by the way, but you are super comfy." He tells me once the opening credits begin to roll.
"You are not going to talk throughout the film, are you?"
"Not if you stroke my hair to shut me up, I won't."
"You will talk whether I stroke your hair or not."
"Yeah, but if you do it, I'll definitely talk less. Better than nothing, right?"
I sigh and begin to comb through his hair with an absent hand. "Please try not to talk too much, Dick; I really like this film." I ask him politely.
"Cross my heart and hope to die if I go over...give me a number, big guy."
"Two hundred words."
"Five hundred." He counters.
I am firm. "Two-fifty."
"Four hundred."
"Three hundred. Final offer."
"Deal. How many have I used so far?" He asks whilst marginally adjusting the position of his head.
I sigh. "A lot. This is me being nice to you, because you're sick, by the way."
"I know. Love you, Bruce."
"I love you too. Now, shut up."