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"How old are you anyway?"
Bruce smirks a little, “Pretty old.”
“How old am I?” Dick rephrases the question. Realistically, given the lines on Bruce's face and the grey in his hair, he has to be more than a decade or two in the future. But, well, Dick's still reeling from being twelve. He can't begin to imagine a world where there's anything past tomorrow.
Bruce's smirk sinks a little, but not quite to a frown. It's a distant smile, fighting through the shadows of whatever it is Bruce sees when he looks down at him. In a quiet, mournful tone, he says, “Not that old. Not old at all.”
(A young Robin and Nightwing swap places; Batman is always the constant.)