Here's the long-awaited and requested 2nd chapter. If you want Bruce/Dick fluff, this is the fluffiest ever . . . Also, I plan to wrap this up with a 3rd short chapter in a couple of days. Still got two more stories that I'm trying to work on at the same time. Between the three stories, I should have something for everyone now. Humor, Fluff, and something deliciously Dark (like a really good dark chocolate - slightly bitter/kind of sweet).
I go back and forth between Bruce and Dick's POV throughout this chapter. There is no time lag here, so every break you find is a POV switch. I do my best to make it easy to follow, but hopefully the head's up will make it all go smoother for you. ENJOY!
P.S. There is a couple of instances of bad language in this, btw.
Bruce parked the Range Rover in front of Dick's apartment building. Never the best of neighborhoods, there was every chance in the world that when he came back out, he would be missing the vehicle, if not its tires. He never understood Dick's penchant for being in the middle of things. Weren't they in the middle of the action every night? And if that weren't enough, Dick tended to be there in the day as well as a police officer.
Oh well, he thought. His vehicles were all equipped with Lo-Jack. He would likely recover it before whoever stole it could strip it for parts, anyway. He stepped out of the SUV, pausing to button his coat, and activate his alarm. His boots crunched as he tromped to the building's entry over snow-laden sidewalks.
Bruce looked at his watch. It was still early; not yet eight in the morning. Alfred could have let him sleep in a little longer, he thought to himself. But then again, remembering the nightmare he had been stuck in, Bruce was suddenly grateful to have been awakened early. His resulting shudder had nothing to do with the cold.
By the time he had arrived at Dick's door, Bruce was desperate to see his son. He couldn't get the image of Dick's lifeless face out of his head. His arms remembered the sudden dead weight as the life finally left his son's body. Despite Alfred's assurances, the dream felt far too real for him to dismiss it entirely. No one answered when he knocked on the door. Panic flared anew at the idea that the dream had not been a dream. Bruce knocked again, harder. The urge to drive to the docks was nearly overwhelming. After another minute, he began pounding urgently on the door; praying silently that Dick would answer.
Maybe he was called into work? Bruce shoved his hand in his pocket for his keys. He would drive out to the warehouse . . . just to be certain. He was turning to leave when he heard the locks being released, and a chain slid back.
Oh, thank God!
The door pulled open wide, and suddenly Bruce could breathe again. Dick stood in the doorway, hair tousled from sleep; clad only in a pair of flannel pajama bottoms. He was rubbing his eyes and blinking rapidly as if trying to force himself to wake up. He apparently didn't bother looking through the peephole because he was startled when he got a glimpse of who it was standing at his door.
"Bruce?! What's happened," Dick asked, worry and no little fear in his face. "Who's hurt? It's not A-Alfred, is it? Tim?"
Bruce had practiced what he wanted to say on the drive over here. He had imagined placing a hand on Dick's shoulder and leading him inside, explaining that the time had come for them to put their differences aside and work out their problems. He had imagined them apologizing to each other followed by a little manly back-slapping. And then both of them would pile into Bruce's Range Rover and drive back to the manor for one of Alfred's superb brunches.
Dick's face paled in response to Bruce's silence; obviously fearing the worst. What else could make Bruce just stand there looking all scared and regretful?
Bruce hesitated; his practiced words flying out the window at the sight his boy, now a man, facing him. Dick's pallor, however, reminded him all too much of how he looked bleeding out in his arms; far too much. Without thinking, Bruce acted instinctively; reaching out and grabbing his son, jerking him into a hug.
Dick stiffened, shocked by the uncharacteristic actions of his emotionally-repressed father figure, but after a moment, he relaxed into the embrace; clutching the billionaire for comfort. After two years of separation, Dick had dreamed that one day Bruce would come to him and do this very thing. Of course, he had known it would always only be a dream of his. The man gave out hugs like he would give out pints of blood; rarely, sparingly, and grudgingly.
Dick was a sap, of course. As much as he loved and respected this man, Dick craved the easy affection given him by his own parents. So, it was odd that Bruce has somehow usurped their place in his heart. Oh, he still loved them, would always love them, but Bruce had been his father in all ways that mattered longer now than his own father had. He knew his parents would be proud of him, and that was a small comfort, but what he really wanted . . . really needed was for Bruce to be proud of him.
Unfortunately, that was a need that he had given up on ever being fulfilled after their last conversation. He nearly snorted at the idea of calling that exchange of words a conversation, however. He had disappointed the man to the extent that he had ordered Dick out of the house, and so Dick had left. He cringed remembering the emotional turmoil that had nearly crushed him that day after the buffer of anger had eventually leeched out of his system.
Bruce didn't want him anymore! The home the man had promised him forever had been stripped away, and Dick had been as suddenly alone in the world as he had been briefly after his parents had died. It had been one of the worst emotional lows he had ever experienced in his life. Had he not been the natural optimist he was; the fighter that he was; Dick might have done something drastic, like suicide. The thoughts had flitted through his head for a time, but he wasn't a quitter . . . No, wait! He was a quitter, at least in Bruce's eyes.
The feeling of worthlessness he hadn't felt in over a year washed over him once again. Combined with the terror of not knowing what tragedy Bruce had come personally to impart, Dick shuddered. This was so not what he wanted for Christmas! He must have done something truly horrendous to deserve this, he thought, despairingly.
Bruce clutched his son to him, refusing to let go. In his dream, the boy had been snatched from him far too quickly, leaving Bruce holding nothing but an empty shell and two long years worth of pain and regret. Holding his son's warm body now, being held in return, feeling the pulse of life . . . It was the second chance he had prayed for.
Dick shuddered in his arms, and Bruce yanked back abruptly, remembering the parting shudder as Dick's life had left him. But his son stared back at him, alive and well, but obviously terrified. His cerulean blue eyes glistened with tears.
Bruce's eyes prickled with unshed tears themselves. His hands left Dick's shoulders, and he clasped the younger man's face as he marveled anew at the marked intelligence and overwhelming capacity to love he saw reflected there. Fate, always the bipolar bitch, had been cruel to the child, but incredibly kind to him on that long-ago day when the boy had lost his parents. Somewhere along the way, Bruce had forgotten to be grateful . . . Until Fate had cursed, or blessed, him with that godforsaken dream.
"Bruce, please," Dick begged him. "Tell me what's happened! W-who is it?"
"Dick," he began. He swallowed hard. He had to get this right the first time.
"Bruce, please! You're killing me here . . ."
Bruce's face hardened. No! Never that! Without shifting his hold on his son, Bruce pushed them into the apartment, and closed the door with his foot. Not that he cared who saw him, but he didn't want any distractions.
Dick's hands gripped Bruce's biceps for support. He had a feeling he was going to need it.
Bruce pulled the younger man to him until their foreheads touched, much as they had done when Dick was a child, after discussing a particularly grueling nightmare the boy was prone to having.
"Dick, I'm sorry," Bruce apologized.
Tears finally fell, dripping from Dick's lashes onto the hardwood floor between them. "W-who?"
"Shh . . . No one is hurt; no one died," Bruce reassured him.
"B-but . . ."
"Hush, now," Bruce eased him. The world and years melted away, and it was as if the two of them were once more sitting on the side of Dick's bed; Bruce quieting the boy's tears with whispered words of comfort.
"I- I came here to tell you that I'm sorry."
Dick blinked, more tears falling. "I-I don't understand, Bruce."
"I'm sorry for everything. What I said; the way I acted that day . . . I didn't mean it, Dick. I was afraid."
Dick frowned. "Afraid? Of what? You aren't afraid of anything!"
Bruce hesitated a moment as he realized that Dick actually believed that falsehood; that Bruce wasn't afraid of anything. He smiled, although it was a sad smile because of all the unnecessary pain they had suffered for too long. All because he was too stubborn, too closed-mouthed; too afraid to be honest.
"No, you're wrong," he told him. "I was terrified . . . of losing you."
Dick's eyes widened as he began to realize what this visit was all about; why Bruce had shown up on his doorstep. Now, Dick was terrified . . . afraid suddenly to hope.
He shook his head. "Bruce, you've never lost me," he said. "I've been right here this whole time. All you had to do was ask."
The man in front of him shuddered, a sound coming from him Dick had never heard before.
"Bruce? Are you all right?"
When the man in front of him raised his head, Dick was startled to see tears streaking down his face. In the entire twelve years that Dick had known Bruce, he had never, not once, seen the man cry. He hadn't even been sure the man had been capable of the emotions that led to crying. Dick had cried, many times in fact, over the years, and Bruce had always ever been his rock; comforting and strong, able to take on the world and win. Despite his many years as Robin and the last few as Nightwing, an indomitable Bruce and an indestructible, iron-willed Batman had made his world feel safe no matter what else had been going on around him.
"I don't deserve you," Bruce told him. "I thank God for you every day, but I don't deserve you."
He thanked God for him . . .?
"Why . . . Why would you say that?"
Bruce slid a hand to the back of Dick's neck. "Because it's the truth. You deserved more growing up than to be raised by a man who was constantly unavailable to you emotionally."
Fear spike through him. Dick pushed Bruce's arms away and stepped back. Who was this man? He was like a pod person! Had some alien tech eaten Bruce Wayne and spit out this man in his place?
"Who are you, and what have you done with Bruce?!"
"What?" Bruce stared at him for a moment. "Ah, I guess this does seem rather out of character for me, doesn't it?" He sighed, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck.
"Uh . . . Yeah!" Dick gaped. "I'm kind of back to the 'you scaring the hell out of me' part. Bruce, what's going on?" A sudden terrible thought sliced through him "Y-you aren't . . . dying, are you? Is that why you're over here so early on . . . on Christmas morning? It's Christmas today?"
"I'm not dying," Bruce assured him. "And yes, it's Christmas today. Since when do you forget about Christmas, chum?"
Bruce looked around the apartment for the first time. It looked different now that Dick had unpacked some of his boxes, and Bruce was finally seeing it from the inside. But it was missing something . . . The tree! There was no Christmas tree! He scanned the room, and realized that there were no decorations at all.
Dick looked around the room as well. The apartment was definitely well-lived in. Bruce watched color flood his son's cheeks as the younger man moved around the room picking up scattered clothing and boxes of take-out. Dick hesitated a moment, his arms full, evidently unsure as to what to do with them before dumping them all on top the tiny kitchen table. Bruce winced, but didn't say anything about there now being dirty gym socks lying next to a half-eaten bowl of dry cereal.
"I don't know." Dick shrugged. "I had been planning to work today, like I did last year, and let somebody else spend Christmas with their family, but the department has a policy that no one works a holiday two consecutive years in a row. I just thought I'd sleep in, and maybe watch a game on TV, until it was time to catch that shipment tonight." He glanced over at the clothes on his table again. "I suppose I should do a little laundry while I'm at it. That would help kill the time until tonight."
That was sad . . . His son had worked last Christmas because he had nowhere to go for the holiday. He had planned to spend this one catching up on laundry. At least Bruce had Alfred; and Tim would be stopping by later for dinner.
"About tonight," Bruce began. His heart skipped a beat thinking about tonight. "I don't want you going to meet that shipment . . ."
"What? Somebody has to! Cops will die if the criminals on the streets get a hold of that ammo!"
Bruce waved his argument away. "Calm down. I was only going to say I didn't want you meeting that shipment alone! I'm going to come with you."
Dick stopped pacing and stared at him. "You want to come with me? Y-you mean, like work together . . . like we used to?"
"I think it would be for the best." He closed his eyes, but the vision of Nightwing bleeding out in his arms was still there.
"You don't think I can handle it!" There was an edge of anger to that accusation.
You might be able to, Bruce thought to himself. You might, but I can't take the chance that you might not. I can't lose you again!
"This isn't a question about whether or not you can handle it," Bruce snapped. "These are armor-piercing rounds. It would be foolish to think that the people moving that kind of cargo wouldn't be using the product themselves. Our suits won't provide us any protection against bullets of this caliber. Neither of us should risk handling this case alone."
Dick hesitated. "Then you do mean you want to work together again . . . Just for this case, or . . . ?"
Bruce didn't miss the tiny flare of hope in his son's eyes. "It might be nice to work together again, don't you think? At least . . . occasionally?"
Dick's mouth turned up at the edges, and he bounced up once on his toes. Bruce grinned, knowing the younger man was struggling to keep his enthusiasm contained. As soon as Dick saw Bruce's grin, however, his restraint fled, and he whooped; a broad smile blossoming across his face.
"Thanks, Bruce! This is the best Christmas present I could hope for," Dick grinned.
A guilty pang shot through him. He asked for so little. Bruce has always been generous with his money, but Dick honestly didn't care about that. He was the least materialistic person Bruce knew. What's worse is that Bruce knew what the younger man wanted more than anything, and had never been able to give it to him before, even when he was a child.
It wasn't as if Bruce didn't feel it . . . He did. He had tried to deny it for a while, but he had found an instant connection with the eight year old acrobat, and the bond that had developed had been astoundingly fast. Hell! Even now Bruce was denying the truth . . . Which was that the billionaire had taken one look into the grief-stricken eyes of the child Dick had been and had loved him immediately. That love had only deepened over the years, and to this day had felt none to rival it; not even . . . not even his parents!
And if the death of his parents had so dramatically shaped his life because of Bruce's love for them, what hell would be in store for him should he ever lose his boy? Bruce was fairly certain, had been fairly certain for a very long time, that this one death would utterly destroy him.
Looking back, he could see with clear eyes that it was this certainty that had been behind those harsh words two years ago; his terror that losing Dick would crush him completely. But pushing away the boy had only brought about the loss that much sooner.
Oh, Dick was alive and well, but for all intents and purposes, he had been as one dead for all that Bruce had seen or heard from him. All of Batman's violence and harshness over the last couple of years had stemmed from the fact that Batman had been grieving . . . over the loss of Robin. How much worse would it be for him should Dick die in reality?
It was too much! But the only way Bruce had to prevent it was to bring him home; work with him out in the field more; mend the fences so that he could protect him more efficiently.
"There's no sense in it being the only gift," Bruce said. "It is Christmas, after all. I was thinking . . . okay, more like hoping that you would come back to the manor with me. Maybe spend the day with Alfred and me. Tim's supposed to come by at dinner later. We could head out together to meet the shipment; watch each other's back . . ." His voice trailed off, and he looked over at the younger man in order to gauge his reaction.
Dick was stunned. As peace offerings went, this one was gold. It was everything he had ever wanted, ever since they had had that argument that had driven Dick from the manor and eventually to Bludhaven. This was like some kind of dream . . .
Afraid that this wasn't real, he asked cautiously. "Are you sure? I mean, I wouldn't want to intrude."
For a moment, Bruce looked stricken! His lips tightened, and determination crossed his face. Dick was suddenly fearful that the man had taken his question as an insult or a rejection; that Bruce would storm out and leave Dick alone again.
"B-Bruce? Wait! I-I'm sorry . . ." Dick tried to apologize. After the emotional roller coaster he had been on this morning, he didn't think he could stand to go back to the estranged relationship of before. "Please, don't leave . . ." me!
But instead of the man stalking out the door, Bruce stalked over to where Dick stood on wobbly legs. He grabbed Dick by the shoulders and looked directly into his eyes.
"I want you to listen to me, Dick. You will always have a home with me. We may fight again; say awful things to one another, although I hope nothing like we said before, but I promise you that you will always be able to come home. I shouldn't have to tell you this for you to understand that basic, core truth. That I have to only goes to show the level to which I have failed you. I-I have kept things from you that you deserve to hear from me . . ." Bruce's voice faltered.
For the second time that morning tears sprung to Dick's eyes. Home?
"Dick, I . . . I," Bruce dipped his head and swore under his breath. "Damn it! It shouldn't be this hard," he snarled.
Was he . . .? He was actually trying . . .? Tears fell. Dick felt the raging internal struggles of the man whom he had long thought of as his father.
"Bruce, it's okay," Dick told him. "You don't have to . . ."
"Goddamnit, Dick! Yes, I do!" Bruce growled.
Dick wanted to hear it; had spent the last twelve years of his life desperately waiting to hear the words from this man . . . this one particular man, but it hurt to watch Bruce struggling with this. He had long since understood that Bruce could feel the emotion, but seemed unable to physically speak the words. It was only in the last couple of years that he had come to doubt the emotion as it pertained to him, and part of that had been because he had never heard the words.
Bruce looked up at him, and Dick knew he didn't need to hear the words after all. They were right there in his face; in his eyes.
"Bruce . . ."
"Dick," he cut him off. "You, perhaps more than anyone I know, deserve to hear these words." The image of his son coughing up blood burst upon his brain. The look that had been on his face when Bruce had told him the words in his nightmare . . . He remembered wondering why he had waited for so long.
Bruce blinked, and then tears began to gather in the man's eyes. "Dick, I . . . I l-love you, son. I always have. I always will. Please, come home."
He didn't know which of them pulled the other one in first, but Dick was suddenly in Bruce's arms. He buried his face in the older man's neck as he sobbed with joy. He had missed this . . . It had been so long since he had just been held by the man he loved like a father; far longer than their separation. Maybe when he had been sixteen? He couldn't remember the time, but he did remember the smell of his cologne, the detergent Alfred used to wash their clothes, and whatever it was that made Bruce who he was.
Bruce held his son for a long time, rocking him side to side, as they wept together for the time they had lost, and for the promise of whatever the future held for them. Like in the dream, the dam had melted away as if it had never existed, and Bruce was able to repeat the words that had been locked tight deep inside him since he had said goodbye to his parents at their graveside. Like a mantra, he now whispered them into his boy's ear in a vain attempt to make up for twelve years of silence.
Dick nodded against his shoulder, repeated the sentiment, and . . . and then thanked him? Bruce face crumbled. His son shouldn't have to thank him for telling him that he loved him; for asking him to come home! He pulled away after a while, but held Dick's shoulders in his hands.
"I have obviously been remiss in my duties as a father." He nearly winced at the way his son's eyes lit up at the word 'father'. The dream had apparently not been off in this respect either.
"You have always been like a son to me," Bruce began, swallowing the lump in his throat. He hadn't thought about this for a while, and had never actually broached the subject with Dick before. Afraid of rejection, he supposed, but no more. Dick's reaction gave him the courage to continue with this idea that had flitted about his head on and off for the past dozen years.
"I have thought about this for a long time, but didn't bring it up before because I didn't want you to think I was insulting the memories of your parents . . ." Here it goes, he thought. "I have always thought of you as my son; have l-loved you as much as I could have loved any child that might share my blood. If you wouldn't object, I would like to make it official."
He pulled his courage out of his feet and met Dick's eyes. The younger man was obviously in shock . . . his eyes wide and his mouth gaping. Was he even breathing?
Bruce felt his face heat. "It's alright if you don't want to," he said in a rush. "I'll understand. It won't affect my feelings for you one way or another. And you're still my heir . . ."
"NO!" The word burst out of Dick's mouth in a yell. The younger man winced. "I mean, yes! Yes, I would like that as well!" His eyes welled up again. He wiped at them, laughing. "I would like that above all things, Bruce, if that's what you really want."
Bruce smiled and threw his arm around his son's shoulders. "Above all things, son," he assured him. "Now, how about you throw on something warm and let's head home. Alfred's promised to whip up something extra special for Christmas brunch, and all these confessions and emotions have made me hungry!"
Dick was still laughing and wiping at his streaming eyes. "Sounds like a plan! I'm famished! And Alfred's cooking sounds a lot better than anything I had planned to eat today." He headed back towards his bedroom.
"Bring your uniform with you," Bruce reminded him as Dick disappeared behind the door to dress and gather a few things. "And next year we're going to get you a Christmas tree! This is depressing . . ."