Chapter Text
“Get your feet off the dashboard” Bruce says, his gaze fixed on the road.
Dick sighs, rolls his eyes, and ignores him, obviously. He hasn’t said a word since they got into the car (the "Batmobile" as the boy insists on calling it), shrinking under the yellow cape of his suit, making himself smaller than he already is. It’s not unusual; he does it sometimes when he’s feeling more than he can put into words. Bruce has learned that over time.
Bruce doesn’t say anything either, but he watches him out of the corner of his eye.
He runs through everything that could have made Dick act like this.
He had been normal during breakfast, with too much energy for a morning and complaining as usual about having to go to school. Alfred dropped Dick off, and Bruce went to handle some business at Wayne Enterprises until the day ended, and luckily, there hadn’t been any calls from Dick’s teachers.
Back at the manor, he had been too busy reviewing Batman matters that he hadn’t been able to finish during the day, right up until it was time to patrol. Had he missed something there? Had something happened at school?
Bruce taps his fingers on the steering wheel, his mind full of possibilities. He goes over the date in his mind and then frowns. Could it be because the anniversary of Dick’s parents' death is in a few months?
It has been almost a year since he took him in, since that fateful day at the circus that changed the course of their lives.
Almost a year, Bruce thinks... It feels like an eternity and, at the same time, something fleeting. Bruce never would have imagined becoming a mentor father to a twelve-year-old circus boy; he’s barely in his twenties himself.
He hadn’t even considered being a father, but here he is. Life takes many turns.
And he definitely doesn’t regret any of his decisions.
Maybe he regrets, just a little, letting Dick accompany him on his nightly activities, but he knows the boy would have gotten into trouble with or without his permission; he had already done it, going to hunt Zucco before Bruce could intervene. He likes to think he made the best decision by letting him join him under his cape. That way, he can at least ensure his son stays as safe and protected as possible.
But in moments like this, when his son shuts down, angry and hurt, he would love to know what to say, how to comfort him. Bruce admits he has always been… how would Dick put it? A jerk when it comes to talking. Bruce thinks a lot and says so little, a flaw he is trying to fix, he swears! It’s just a constant battle to get his mind and mouth to agree on what to say.
Bruce shifts his gaze toward Dick once more. The boy had pressed himself so far into the corner of the door that his forehead was touching the cold glass.
“Hh.”
Bruce’s hands grip the steering wheel of the Batmobile tightly before he veers off the usual path to the manor and heads toward the commercial district. He hopes he won’t regret this decision.
“Bruce?” Dick asks, confused, straightening up and finally taking his feet off the dashboard.“Where are we going?”
Bruce doesn’t answer. Instead, he continues driving in silence until he pulls into the drive-thru of a twenty-four-hour burger joint. Dick stares at the glowing sign and then turns to Batman, repeating the movement three times. The confusion on his face is absolute.
“Wait… are you ordering fast food? Who are you? Clayface?”
“It’s all me chum” Bruce says with total seriousness, rolling down the car window. The cold early-morning air floods the cabin, mixed with the smell of fried food. “Two cheeseburgers, large fries, and…” He hesitates for a second, glancing at the boy. “A chocolate milkshake.”
“Strawberry...” Dick corrects immediately, still confused.
“Strawberry” Bruce repeats to the speaker.
The order is confirmed, and a bored voice tells them to pull up to the next window.
The employee, a sleepy teenager with the order ready in his hand, almost has a heart attack when he sees Batman and Robin in their black car stopped in front of his window. He babbles something unintelligible, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. Dick smiles a little, amused.
Bruce pays, and without waiting for the change, he speeds off, losing himself back in the shadows of the city. His reputation as the Dark Knight is still safe; no one is going to believe the teenager.
They sneak through the shadows, parking the car at a lookout point from where you can see the city in all its splendor, a patch of yellow lights beneath the fog. Dick digs into one of the bags, pulls out a handful of fries, and stuffs them into his mouth.
Bruce takes advantage of the privacy of the place and removes his cowl. It is Bruce who needs to have a conversation; Batman finished his work for today.
“Alfred is going to be so mad” He says, almost unintelligible with his mouth full of fries.
Bruce raises an eyebrow, resting his arms on the steering wheel. “Since when do you care about that?”
“Since when do you do this?” Dick holds up the bag of food.
Of course, Dick will never let anything go unnoticed.
Bruce stays silent for a while, trying to find the right words without wanting to push Dick too hard to open up. “You’ve been distracted all night…” He turns off the engine, looking ahead, letting only the hum of the city fill the space. “Did something happen?”
Dick drops the paper bag into his lap, his fingers fidgeting nervously with the plastic edge of his milkshake straw. The silence in the car became thick, heavy, laden with the sound of distant traffic rising from the streets of Gotham.
Bruce could see the thread of his ward’s thoughts in the way he frowned and hunched his shoulders, trying to take up as little space as possible.
“Nothing happened” Dick finally replies, his voice a bit raspier than usual. “I’m just tired. School is boring, I have a history test… the usual.”
Bruce doesn’t push; he just hopes he hasn’t ruined it. He kept his eyes on the city lights, giving the boy the space he needed, even though every instinct in his body screamed that he should offer some sort of comfort.
“It’s just… never mind, it’s stupid.”
“If it distracts you enough, then it’s not stupid.” Bruce shifts in his seat, turning a little more toward him. “What’s wrong?” he insists, his voice soft. Not the one he uses with victims. Dick would notice that and hate it.
Dick stared at his milkshake, squeezing the plastic cup so hard that the material crunched slightly. A rebellious tear rolled down his cheek, but he wiped it away quickly with the back of his sleeve.
For a second, Bruce fears he pushed too hard. But then, Dick lets out a shaky sigh.
“I have… had a brother” Dick confesses, and his voice finally breaks, losing that defensive rasp. “He would have turned three today.”
He knew from the circus records that the Graysons had had a second child who passed away from health complications months before the Zucco tragedy, but Dick had never mentioned it, and Bruce, fearful of ruining the progress they had made, didn't bring it up either.
“He got sick. My parents told me he got really bad and they took him to a hospital far away, outside the circus. A few days later... they told me he didn’t make it.”
Dick let out a choked sob, a small and broken sound. In that moment, the bright Robin suit seemed to fit him absurdly large. The colors he used to defy the darkness of Gotham now only highlighted how small, fragile, and painfully young the child inside them was.
He let out a bitter laugh, a heartbreaking sound for someone his age. “A year later, my parents fall from the trapeze. And I’m left alone. Sometimes... sometimes I think there’s a curse on me. That all the Graysons die and I’m just left here.”
Dick doesn’t say anything else. He just leans against Bruce’s side.
Bruce doesn’t know what to do at first. His hands hesitate for a moment; he’s not sure if he should, but seeing Dick’s shoulders shaking with crying, Bruce remembered the nights he himself spent in the empty vastness of Wayne Manor at age eight, desperately wishing someone would break the silence.
Bruce stretches his arms and wraps them around Dick in a hug, pulling him into his lap. As he does so, he is surprised by how light the boy feels. He waits for Dick to pull away, but he doesn’t.
“You’re not alone, Dick,” Bruce murmurs, simply resting his chin on his son’s tousled hair, keeping his grip firm. “I know I’m not your father... But you’re not alone anymore. You don’t have to be strong all the time. Not here.”
“I miss him. I miss them,” Dick grinds his teeth, frustrated by his own confession.
Bruce was left speechless, no words of comfort or any answer, anything to make his boy stop crying, stop suffering, but he himself still missed his parents even several years later. There was no right answer; he simply hugged the boy tighter.
Little by little, Dick’s sobs began to subside, turning into shaky breaths and, finally, into a deep silence. Bruce felt the exact moment the boy’s body relaxed completely, becoming strangely heavy in his lap. He looks down carefully. With his cheeks still stained with tears, Dick has fallen fast asleep.