TITLE: One small step
AUTHOR: Demon Faith
PAIRING: Bruce/Dick
RATING: PG-13
WORDS: 1,587
TIMELINE: Iffy, as always – Dick’s Nightwing, Tim’s Robin and Kon’s alive.
SUMMARY: “This is not how they live as men, this is not how they live as heroes.”
NOTES: Once more I trawl through whatever Batfic I can find and once more I discover that there is, in fact, no Bruce/Dick hurt/comfort anywhere to be found. Or, if there is, I sure as Hell can’t find it. So, I write some angst.
Song lyrics from “How To Be Dead” by Snow Patrol – this fic’s narrative is based on this song, because it is the most accurate description of Bruce and Dick’s dynamic I have ever found.
Please don’t go crazy
if I tell you the truth.
Dick’s stood in their bedroom doorway and he looks like he’s been crying. The door had certainly been closed for a long time – he has a timer running on his watch but he dare not look at it right now. It’s been a few hours, he thinks, and all the relaxation exercises in the East haven’t stopped all his aging muscles seizing from the cold. The blanket Dick threw at him just before the door slammed may actually be frozen; Bruce would call Alfred to turn up the heat but he has a feeling that the crafty old man has locked himself in the Cave until all the drama has stopped.
Bruce doesn’t blame him.
“Dick…I…”
“I don’t want to talk to you. I want you to go away.”
For a moment, Bruce wonders what year it is. Has Dick suddenly regressed into a teenager (because he really doesn’t want to go through that again)? Not that Bruce has been at his most mature recently…
“I think we need to talk,” he says, trying to keep his voice even and controlled. Dick’s eyes narrow. He’s failed.
“Oh, you think now, do you? You know what, Bruce, I don’t think you get to decide whether we talk or not.”
Bruce decides that silence really is the best option. Especially until his memories all return – at the moment, they’re filtering in slowly, like sunlight through a grate, and he’s slightly concerned. Waking up on the floor of the Batcave was not how he’d choose to spend his Sunday, especially when Tim’s face was ashen and Dick’s a funny shade of red.
That was when the shouting had started and the slamming of
doors. He thinks he heard a whoosh at
some point, so Tim’s probably in Smallville by now, reminding the
He was half-relieved that Dick had kicked him out of that mindset. Only half though.
“Have you figured out what you want yet?”
That is a good question. Bruce hasn’t given it much thought, unfortunately, so he does not have a coherent argument to hand. His mind’s still a little fuzzy and he knows that Dick can see right through him. This is not acceptable, but he doesn’t think he’s in a position to dictate.
He wants a life. He wants to sit down with this man, this beautiful young man, and cuddle until the fire dies down. And then he wants to take him to bed and show him how much in love they can be if they just give it a chance. This, however, is not the way of the Bat. The Bat is sharp and callous and deep and hurtful. The Bat does not cuddle.
What he wants is love. But he’s forgotten what that means, really, and Dick doesn’t want to accept that. It’s Dick who needs to tell him something new and real, something he can cling to, but Dick’s hurting too much to even look at him.
“What do you want me to say?”
Dick’s not listening.
Please keep your hands
down and stop raising your voice.
“This isn’t about me, Bruce! This is about you and
your…issues! Your great, terrible issues and why we can’t just be
Watching Dick out of control is worse than a train wreck. The grace is gone; this is not a strange and angry dance but a horrible jerking and shaking of his body that belies all his strength and beauty. It’s a grotesque puppet of a man before him, and Bruce realises, dully, that he loves it anyway.
All his extensive training shrieks at the wrongness of it all and Bruce is calm within, watching this unique and dangerous expression with a somewhat cold detachment. This is not how they live as men, this is not how they live as heroes.
“Why did you do that? Betray my trust, lie to me, hurt Tim like that? What about Alfred? What if he’d found you? You’re so selfish sometimes, so self-obsessed, you and that bastard Bat!”
There is nothing to say to this. Perhaps it is safer to just listen, process, analyse. He might even understand in time. But that’s exactly what he doesn’t have, as Dick continues to be angry and shout things. He is a tree in the wind.
“Tell me why! I have to know! I have to see why you’d do this and then…just stand there, looking like a stoic and not caring!”
Dick may cry again. That would be a problem, he feels. He says what he thinks.
“Could you…give me some time? Please?”
The eyes are angry now.
“Time? What is there to think about? Why didn’t you think before you started all this mess?”
Bruce believes that is unfair. He may have triggered the latest incident, though the details are still unclear, but start it he did not. Why Robin had to strut around looking like a go-go dancer he did not know; why Dick had to leave three buttons on his shirt undone was a mystery; why the once-boy, now-man had to collar him and kiss him senseless, whilst throwing back the cowl, was beyond him.
Dick may want to talk about his “issues” and feelings and stuff, but Bruce wants to shake him and tell him to just take some responsibility! He went down to the Cave because the night was hard and Dick was distant. He craved him, his body aching with the need for comfort, but Dick was far away, dwelling in the space he had demanded, and yet here he is, angry and upset? Bruce doesn’t understand.
And yet again he wonders if they’ve travelled in time.
“Why can’t we talk about this like adults?”
Cold, white anger.
“You may be older than me, Bruce, but you are not my father. I think we should be clear on that point, since you definitely don’t screw your kids and beg them for more.”
Bruce hates it when he’s crude. Dick knows this. He wants a reaction, a response – he hasn’t grown up at all. And he still isn’t listening.
Please take it easy,
it can all be my fault.
“Dick, please, just listen to me! I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry.”
He sounds younger now, almost a child himself, and he realises that he is sorry and he’s not sure why.
Dick takes a deep breath and may be calmer now. Maybe.
“I’m listening.”
Struggling with memories that still are only half-decoded, Bruce takes a step forward and is relieved when Dick doesn’t flinch.
“I don’t remember everything I’ve done, but…not those things you said. I haven’t lied to you, Dick. I would never lie to you.”
The fleeting forgiveness in those red-rimmed eyes is instantly replaced by anger and Dick is now nose-to-nose with him, breaths coming quickly to his too-pink lips.
“You’re actually quibbling over that? If you can’t remember, I’ll show you! I’ll show you what you’ve done!”
Dick storms down the stairs and Bruce quickly follows. Alfred’s hiding place is about to be busted, but the unflappable Englishman quickly moves aside as Dick hurricanes down the stairs, simply expecting Bruce to follow on this guided tour of wrongs.
He…wasn’t expecting this.
There is glass everywhere, and he isn’t sure where it came from until he sees that the display case has smashed and Jason’s uniform is lying amongst the shards. Some of the bloody glass is in a dustpan – Alfred’s started to clean up. Clean up…this. Blood all over the keys and…a void, where someone was held against the computer screen and…
He looks away.
“Now, do you understand? Can you possibly comprehend what you’ve done?”
Bruce feels sick. But that would make a mess, and there’s already too much of him littering this place. He looks at his criss-crossed hands and starts to realise that they hurt.
“We never…we didn’t…talk about…this,” he manages to stutter, but he isn’t sure what he’s talking about anymore. He can feel Dick hovering in the background and, for the first time, that isn’t comforting.
“What? We needed a rule for this? ‘Hey, Bruce, don’t take Ivy’s drugs – you might end up smashing up the Cave and holding your sidekick hostage”. I guess that was something I had to spell out, huh?”
Drugs. It all comes down to drugs. They were Ivy’s – at most, he wouldn’t sit down for a month, and he was strong enough for control. He’s always in control.
Tim’s greyed-out face stings at his eyes. Dick cried. He made Dick cry. That was one thing they’d drawn out, a rule that was solidified and golden. He’d crumpled it – just like Tim’s face, as he backed away, the way his arm was about to buckle when Dick called out…
“I…I’m…”
Words do not cover this.
“Take all the time you want,” Dick spat, and closed out the light.
He sits amongst the debris, grey and red and blue bright in
his head, as the poison filters out of his veins and the mantle of the Bat falls
around him and lulls him to sleep.