Author's Note: Chapter four of Heat, set from Bruce's POV. Set a week after the previous instalment, Bruce returns exhausted from a patrol and goes to bed. What awaits him when he wakes the following morning is both predictable...and not.

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Naked

Bruce

I am tired from patrol. The boy is still nursing his injuries and did not accompany me this evening. It is fine. He needs to ensure they do not re-open unnecessarily. Alfred is positive he can return to limited patrol duties within the week. It is an effort to climb the stairs from the cave floor. I decide it is too great an effort in my current state to shower or don pyjamas. Fortunately, today is Saturday. I will administrate myself in the morning. With no injuries to speak of, I allow myself to collapse onto the mattress and then to fall into a deep and peaceful sleep. I awake to daylight streaming through open curtains. From my current position, flat on my back, I move onto my elbows only to find I have acquired a human limpet during the night.

Dick is hugging my side, his forehead resting just under my right armpit. I immediately lift the covers to ensure he has not torn anything and saturated my bedsheets in blood. He has not. However, my action has unearthed a far greater concern: the boy is as naked as I am. I know that I have not encouraged this behaviour, and I know Dick would not place himself in such a compromising position without the heavy influence of medication. The problem is, no medication he has been prescribed for his injuries would account for what has occurred. Still, one thing I have learned in recent months is that the boy is anything but homosexual. I can only surmise Alfred has made a mistake, given him the wrong pill or the wrong dose. It is the only logical explanation.

Perhaps it may be possible to slip out of bed and dress both myself and him without disturbing his sleep. That would certainly help offset the awkwardness of the current scenario. If his medication has provoked this, perhaps it also means deeper sleep. Waking him as we are would more than likely humiliate both of us beyond measure. I carefully inch my body away from his, attempting to be both subtle and gentle simultaneously. I am close to succeeding as one of my feet negotiates its way to the floor. As I rotate my torso away from him, his arms suddenly spring into life and lash themselves around my midsection. It is an instinctive motion rather than a deliberate reaction, one that does little to deter me in escaping this difficult trap. I deftly prise his hands from my torso and replace the void I have created with my pillow. He takes to this, burying his face halfway along its body in my stead. I am about to plant my other foot on the floor when he suddenly rolls onto his stomach and catches a leg around my own.

His bare crotch is now dangerously close to mine. We have reached the crisis point of this situation. I feel suspiciously like someone trying to slip away from a one-night stand instead of a parent trying to spare his child's blushes and salvage our shared dignity. I do not believe my soft approach is working. I throw back the covers to better analyse our respective positions. His right shin has crossed over and under my right knee. His right elbow has flared out from the pillow and is intermittently bumping my floating ribs. Those points of contact aside, we are separate. If I cannot move his leg, perhaps I will have greater success moving my own. I check the space to my left and decide the best course of action is to lock out my knee and slip it out by manoeuvring sideways. I must simply pray he does not wake up during my efforts.

I lock my leg and successfully free it from his. I am almost off the bed completely when he rolls the other way and traps my foot in his own knee at the ankle joint. I now cannot move at all without dragging him along with me. Given that both his legs are still littered with healing cuts and yellowing bruises, dragging him is not the best solution. I also know that turning my foot in an effort to create room will result in either my toes or my heel making contact with his groin. Realising the futility of this struggle, I reluctantly return to the mattress and replace the covers. I lean over and bring my mouth close to his ear.

"Dick?"

"Mmm?"

"You're currently lying naked in my bed with my right foot trapped in your legs." This prompts sudden stillness in his entire body.

"I'm what?" The dread is palpable. Instead of repeating myself, I opt for practicality.

"Can you feel something lodged behind your left knee?"

"Yeah?"

"Kindly lift your leg so we may stop being a symbiotic lifeform." He lifts his left leg up, allowing me to extract my foot and return us to wholly separate states.

"Do I even want to turn around right now?" Dick inquires, despite already knowing my answer.

"I would rather you didn't. Neither us is fit for company at present. Do you have any explanation for your actions?"

"I'm not gay, alright? I remember going to bed, my own bed, in my boxers, and that's all." The boy retorts with more than a little anger in his voice. He pauses in drawing breath to add more. He is considering something. "Why was your foot trapped in my legs? What were you doing?"

"I was attempting to remedy the situation by extracting myself from the bed. You refused to let me leave quietly. It was like trying to outsmart an octopus." I tell him running a hand down my face. He sniffs his shoulder and sighs.

"You didn't have a shower last night, did you?"

"Patrol was...very tiring last night. I intended to shower this morning. How do you know?"

"Because I smell like stale sweat and cordite. Pretty sure I didn't get into a shoot-out last night before bed. Hey, did we...touch?" The boy is referring to our genitals. Whilst I cannot speak for what happened during the course of the night, I am more than happy to inform him nothing happened whilst I was awake.

"No. You know you're not at fault here, don't you?" I tell him, eyeing the nearby dresser and deciding this is the ideal moment to don some underwear at the very least.

"How's this not my fault exactly? It's not like you got into my bed naked last night." He responds sullenly as I leave the bed and retrieve a pair of boxers from the top drawer. I try to sound non-judgemental on the issue.

"Alfred must have given you the wrong medication. I take it you ingested another round prior to bed last night?" I ask pulling on my boxers and snapping the elastic waistband as an audible cue for Dick to know I am decent enough. He still does not turn to face me.

"Yeah, but only the usual paracetamol and ibuprofen cocktail I take most nights."

"Did you get them yourself?" I say sitting atop of the covers and leaving reasonable space between us. Dick nods.

"Yeah. Alfie doesn't have to get me a couple of pills. I can manage."

"You probably took one of the morphine sulphate pills instead. Given Alfred's unusual storage system for medication, it would be an easy mistake to make, especially if grabbed in haste." I suggest rubbing down the length of my face again, and appraising the sandpaper-like quality of my stubble.

"I'm not...going to die now, am I?" The boy checks with only hints of trepidation in his voice. He knows better. I dare to reach across the divide and gently ruffle the back of his head, hoping it is not a mistake at present.

"No. The very fact that you are alert and conscious means it must not have been more than ten milligrams. If you are not used to taking it, however, the side effects tend to be...diverse. Can we both agree that it is the most likely explanation and leave it at that?" He reaches up and places his hand over mine, squeezing it in mute appreciation.

"I'd be more than happy with that. Thanks, Bruce."

"I'm going to have a shower now. Do you want me to fetch you some underwear before I go or would you prefer to handle it yourself?" I ask him.

"I'd appreciate an assist, big guy. Can you get me the ones with the cats on them?" The boy likes novelty underwear. Alfred often likens his laundry basket to an explosion in a crayon factory. Though he is maturing rapidly, he is still not quite as boring as the rest of us just yet. I smile and pat his head.

"I shall see what I can find."

When I return to the room, Dick is sat up and able to look me in the eye without getting red-cheeked about it all. His body language is markedly less tense too. It seems he does not blame himself for placing us in such a compromising state. He inclines his head as I pass him the cat boxers. He regards them in silence. "So... how many times have you seen me in my birthday suit since the start of August?"

"Three times. It is still not enough to qualify as a trend. This was...this was the first time ever that injury, nightmares or the weather did not play a factor. This instance exclusively belongs to narcotics. With any luck, it will also be the only time drugs cause it. Do we really need to discuss the matter further?"

"Really want to take that shower, huh?"

"Yes. I suggest you do the same. I had a very heavy workload."

"No wonder your sheets reek so badly." He says shooting me a smile that says he is not as embarrassed by what has transpired as I had feared. I smile back.

"I need you back out there as soon as possible. Business is beginning to pick up again. When did Alfred say you could return to duties?" Dick takes the opportunity to slip on his own underwear beneath the privacy of my bedsheets before flinging them back and standing up alongside me. They would look ridiculous on anyone else but him. Admittedly, this is due more to the quality of his physique than the boxers themselves, which are hideous.

"Alfie says Wednesday or Thursday is a safe bet. He wants me to lay off until Friday though, just to make sure." Dick says whilst flashing his elbows, which have healed up remarkably well, given the amount of suture they required to close. I run a hand over them in turn, testing their condition by feel instead of mere sight. Despite what happened earlier, the boy does not object. I nod in agreement.

"Yes, Alfred is right to be cautious. The skin needs a few more days to toughen it sufficiently for our kind of work. How are your knees?"

"My left still feels a little sore, but my right's doing all kinds of great. I don't crap myself going up a flight of stairs anymore. That has to be a good sign. You don't want to feel them too, right?" He asks impishly. Perhaps I am taking liberties this morning. He will be sixteen in less than two months. Today's incident notwithstanding, he likely does not need me to check his injuries for him. I pat him on the shoulder.

"All I want is that shower. Are you coming down for breakfast?"

"Sure thing. I'll see you in thirty."

My overdue shower proves to be a good reward for what has come before. After shaving and renewing my dry skin with moisturiser, I dress in a tailored white polo and cream-coloured slacks then journey downstairs, where I find myself in time to hear the tail end of what is no doubt a fascinating conversation.

"So, then I wake up and Bruce is saying 'Dick, you're lying naked in my bed with my foot trapped between your legs', you know, like he's discussing the weather or something. I thought I was having the worst dream of my life until he kept talking, you know, in that way that makes you buy into reality that you wouldn't with anyone else." Dick says from inside the kitchen where he is inevitably setting the scene for the old man.

"You took the wrong pills from the cabinet, didn't you?" Alfred replies. I hear the distinct rattle of crockery on the countertop. The old man is preparing to plate up breakfast.

"Bruce thinks it was probably morphine sulphate making me a little loopy."

"So, why was his foot between your legs?"

"He'd been trying to escape from my clutches, apparently. I wouldn't let him go." Dick says with a soft chuckle. I imagine he is miming actions to accompany his narrative. I also imagine Alfred is very much amused by them.

"And you believe him?"

"Look, I wake up butt-naked in any other guy's bed and not remember how I got there, I think I've been drugged. I wake up in Bruce's bed like that, I think...I must've really needed him to make me feel okay. Sure, I would've liked to have picked a better night, when I didn't get under the covers naked at the same time he chose to forgo pants, but I slept better than I have in a week. I know that's all down to him. And, even though anyone else in that situation would've made a big deal out of it, their fifteen-year-old kid getting into bed with them like a one-night stand, Bruce was just...Bruce. And I don't think he has any idea how much I need that understanding right now. I think he just does it because that's who he is."

"If that were true, Master Bruce would be far more forgiving of others. Since he holds grudges against business associates who 'get into bed' with rivals, has little time for the mistakes of his wealthy contemporaries and views almost all criminals, regardless of motives, as scum, I would argue he treats you the way he does because he loves you more than anything else in the world and..." There is a brief pause before the old man sighs. "This is a private conversation, Sir. When a young man is confiding in his butler, kindly do not eavesdrop simply to hear compliments you do not deserve."

I open the door and wander in. "It was not intentional." I tell the pair of them. Alfred is quick to roll his eyes.

"Until it was intentional. If you are going to lie, Master Bruce, please do so convincingly."

"Very well. I take it you believe this whole incident described was a misunderstanding of sorts?" I check eyeing both the boy and the plates of vastly differing breakfasts. While one has scrambled egg whites, a pitted avocado half and a generous helping of spinach and kale, the other consists entirely of pop tarts and peanut butter on toast. The old man spoils him.

"As the lad says, anybody else but you and I would suspect something tantamount to incest."

"Perhaps you might serve breakfast, Alfred, before I lose my appetite from such talk." I tell him without any sense of levity. Alfred recognises the shift immediately. The old man clears his throat.

"Of course, Sir. Would you prefer the dining room or the living room today?"

"Dick may choose venues."

"Living room please, Alfie."

We sit beside one another on the sofa and eat in comfortable silence. Dick is now dressed in blue jeans and one of his less offensive T-shirts. Anything is preferable to nudity at this stage. Instead of the usual local news broadcast, we watch some daytime sitcom, one that has a jarring laugh track. Dick is kind enough to change the channel after less than twenty minutes. He reads my body language better than he thinks; he was enjoying it. We are now watching a historical documentary on H.H. Holmes, believed to be America's first serial killer and a candidate for being Jack the Ripper's mantle too. I will admit it is an odd choice for background noise at breakfast, but we are an odd family. Somehow hearing of Holmes' 'murder hotel' coincides with an empty plate.

"Hey Bruce?"

"Yes?"

"What do you call an alligator in a vest?" I close my eyes and groan. No. Not now. Please don't start now. I sigh.

"I... don't know."

"An investigator!" Dick announces for perhaps the hundredth time in our tenure. He then laughs at his own punchline for the hundredth time. I stand up with my plate.

"I'm leaving now, Dick. Good day." His hand grabs my wrist before he is forced to stretch himself. He grins sheepishly.

"I'm really sorry, big guy. I thought you'd like it because it's relevant to what we're watching. You know, being crime-related and all." I narrow my eyes at this poor excuse for inflicting such detestable material on me at this hour of the morning.

"Do you tell your friends these jokes?" I ask. His grin widens.

"Yeah, of course."

"Do they laugh?"

"Are you kidding? They hate them more than you do."

"Then why on earth do you persist in telling them?"

"Because it's funny how peeved everyone gets with me. Hey, I never told you where I learnt all my best lines, did I?"

"I do not want to hear the origins of your routine, Dick. I can only imagine you either read the worst joke book on the planet or were given very bad advice in the circus." I say only for the boy to shake his head.

"Nope. My parents told me the jokes when I was around six. My dad was like me, always laughing at his own bad jokes. Anyway, I didn't think they were very funny. But I got around to telling the clowns some of the jokes before long. They weren't impressed. Ever seen an unhappy clown?" He asks tugging lightly on my arm in an effort to get me to sit back down. I do so begrudgingly.

"Only in Pagliacci."

"Yeah, well, that's nothing compared to seeing a pissed-off clown glaring at you. It was so funny, I started laughing. And, I learned the more I found my own jokes funny, the more pissed-off the audience was and the funnier they looked. Seriously, some of the expressions you and Alfie pull when I keep reeling them off has me on the verge of wetting myself for weeks, same with my friends. Eventually, I'd laugh at my own jokes because I knew how peeved everyone was going to be. I love being a bad comedian. I'm really good at it."

"You should not be proud of your 'talents' in that area, Dick. Sometimes I find you so annoying I want to strangle you."

"I know. I literally see murder in your eyes when I strike up the band. That's why you're my favourite guy to perform on. You get so, so angry and you still don't snap at me. All my friends, and even Alfie once or twice, yell at me to shut up after five minutes. You're the only one who hasn't jumped down my throat about it at least once. It only gets funnier when we both know you've shouted at me in the past for much worse and much less than my repertoire." His eyes brighten. He is about to deliver another one. "What do you call a bunch of singing dinosaurs?" I clench my jaw. He shakes my wrist. "Can you guess?" I know the answer. It is ingrained in my memory, alongside all the other useless information Dick has filled my head with over the years. I muster a sporting smile.

"A...Tyrannochorus." I almost spit. He laughs. Loudly.

"Oh my god! Batman told a dinosaur joke! The World's Greatest Detective is a fan of my work!" He crows. I am constantly amazed by how childish he can be when the mood takes him.

"Are you sure you're not six instead of nearly sixteen?" I ask to try and throw him off his stride. This barb is not enough to cow him. His laughter tapers off.

"You've seen me naked: do I look six to you?" He asks throwing his arms wide. He starts laughing again, likely at the absurdity of our relationship compared to those of his friends and their fathers. Since adopting him at twelve, I have seen him naked more than I imagine any father sees their son in an average lifetime. It is an accolade I am not proud of.

"I was referring to your mental age." I tell him with a smirk. He smirks back.

"Not with all the stuff I've seen. You're just jealous because I'm funnier than you. And handsomer. And I've got better abs than you. Plus..." He stops his boasting mid-sentence. His expression, so eager and happy a moment ago, suddenly becomes melancholic. "You wanna know the truth, Bruce?" He asks, looking at his hand that is still around my wrist. I proceed with caution.

"Always."

"I couldn't be all those things without you. I... I don't think I'd still be John and Mary Grayson's son if I hadn't met you. I think I'd be a tearaway in a foster home...and that I'd hate anything to do with the circus." He offers mournfully. My response is equally morose.

"We both know I am not a saviour, Dick. What you have suffered since you came to his house goes beyond the classifications of child abuse and borders on sadism. And I have made terrible decisions with you many times. There is an equal possibility you would be better off having never met me to begin with." The boy smirks at this, but it is far from jovial.

"You're almost as good at playing devil's advocate as Alfie. We both know I'm as dark as you inside. That's why we're so good together. I need to vent my anger all the time. If I didn't have criminals to hit, I'd be hitting something else. If I didn't have you to comfort me, and understand how messed-up I am inside, I'd probably hurt myself. I might even jump off the bridge."

"Dick, you know I will get you any help you need. All you have to do is ask for it." We both know neither of us will ever seek professional help for our issues and emotional scarring. As upsetting as it is to see the parts of him that mirror my own psyche too closely, it is somewhat gratifying to know my symptoms are not an exception. Seeing both parents die before your eyes in brutal fashion, to have their warm blood spattered on you like spilt paint, is not something that ever mends. Dick shakes his head and looks up at me.

"Nah, I'm good. Just promise you'll always love me exactly the way you do, and I can face anything. Oh, and plenty of hugs. I love hugs off you." Just like his stock of bad jokes, I know this response by rote as well. He does crack occasionally, this steely youth I love more than anyone else in my life, including my own parents. And, when his darkest thoughts surface, he will always seek me out and tell me what they are, candour that I am eternally grateful for. I have grown better at the following sequence in the last year or two. I incline my head, lean back on the sofa and open my arms. He will then rest his head on my chest, I will envelop him with enough firmness to ensure my masculinity whilst not crushing him, and we will sit like that for five minutes or an hour. That is our sequence. It is an effective sequence. And it proves so again.

"What are your plans this weekend?" I ask after we part from our embrace some fifteen minutes later and resume watching television. There is now a documentary on the Bermuda Triangle showing. Dick, slouched back against the sofa, shrugs haphazardly.

"Alfie says I can go to the movies and the park, but I can't rollerblade or show off. It hardly seems worth it."

"It is just a precaution. Will you go?"

"I guess. I'd only be bored otherwise. What are your plans?" He asks, shifting his position until he is leaning back against the arm of the sofa and his socked feet are in my lap. I do not mind.

"I have a luncheon with some of Wayne Enterprises' clients at the golf club tomorrow. You're welcome to join me if you'd like." I say, folding my arms. He actually looks away from the screen at this invitation.

"Can we play a round?" He checks with hopeful eyes. He need not worry about being denied: I hate attending these luncheons alone. The clients in question are terribly dull individuals, even by corporate standards.

"As long as you do not go full-blooded for every drive, it is a distinct possibility. We could play four-ball unless you want to go for individual glory." I tell him. Dick scoffs derisively.

"Not if I'm against you. You drive off the tee further than Tiger Woods. Say we can be partners and I'll play four-ball."

"Say you'll be your usual charming self and I'll say we can team-up on the golf course." I counter. He emphatically nods his head.

"Deal. Look, um, I'm sorry for this morning...and going dark on you just now. It wasn't what I had in mind." I rest a hand on what I judge to be the less damaged of his shins – his left – and squeeze it as softly as possible.

"Don't apologise for being human, Dick. Underneath the surface, we all are. Especially me." I tell him with a smile he shares.

"In what way are you human?" He challenges.

"Because I love you more than words could ever describe. And here is some proof..." I steady myself, consider the ramifications of what I am about to do and then simply speak. "What kind of shorts do clouds wear?" The boy's smile grows into a full-blown grin of white teeth. This is one of his favourites. He shrugs, wanting me to say the punchline as well as the set-up. I sigh. "Thunderwear." He offers a brief round of applause.

"Okay, I'm sold. You love me very much." He says before turning his attentions back on the television. I do the same. "Have you been to the Bermuda Triangle before?"

"Yes. I have flown over it before in a light aircraft from the Florida Keys."

"And, is it as dangerous as this narrator's making it out to be?"

"There were some difficulties with the onboard instruments and compass, but nothing that could not be overcome. It is too large an area to be circumvented by ships because of superstition, and many of the disappearances attributed to the triangle did not take place within its boundaries."

"That's not the way this guy is harping on about it. He's said 'inescapable' and 'devil's sea' like five times each already. Hasn't it just started?"

"It is clearly a documentary in name only. I enjoy things like this."

"Yeah, me too. Hey, want to watch the one about the Moon Landing Conspiracies afterwards?"

"Absolutely."