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It starts with the painting.
Bruce, Dick had said, torn between humor and mortification. You really don’t have to. I was only joking.
Don’t be ridiculous, Bruce had replied, hand still in the air as the auctioneer stumbled over the bid. You said you wanted it.
On the stage, the painting - a horrible, garish mix of colors thrown on a canvas without fear of hell or good taste - winked under the stage lights.
Though - maybe that’s a lie, and it started earlier than that.
Dick, Bruce had once said, somber and serious, as Dick had once suspected was his customary state of being. If there’s anything you need. Anything at all. Let me know, and I’ll take care of it.
Oh, Dick had said, all of twelve years old and certain to forget this conversation, which was taking place at three in the morning for some reason. Thanks, Mr. Wayne.
But the painting is when Dick, now older and wiser, really starts to notice.
“I was joking,” Dick says, carrying his hideous new treasure back to the car.
“No, you weren’t,” Bruce says, looking far too pleased with himself.
“Alright, so I wasn’t,” Dick says, hefting the painting into the backseat and crawling in after it. “You’re just lucky the money is going towards a good cause.”
“Good god, what is that,” Alfred says, eyes wide in the rearview mirror. His eyebrows have - in a most impressive feat - disappeared into his hairline.
“Dick wanted it,” Bruce says.
“Don’t blame this on me,” Dick says, at the same time that Alfred says, “Ah,” with an amused resignation, and starts the car.
In the backseat, Dick turns his head to eye the painting, and he thinks, hm.
Dick hangs up the painting in his dorm room, as promised, as when he steps back to look at it, he feels guilt beginning to bubble.
There’s shame mixed in there too, of course - and embarrassment, at not seeing it sooner - but when Dick looks at that affront to mankind, all he can see is his guilty conscience put on display for the world.
Years of this - mooching off of Bruce, letting him pay for everything and buy whatever inane desire Dick voiced off-hand like he was still twelve years old. Sure, maybe it was alright when Dick was his ward, and Bruce’s responsibility to care for, and sure, Bruce definitely has the money to spare either way.
But it’s the principle of the thing. Dick is an adult, and he and Bruce are supposed to be partners. That means Dick is supposed to carry his own weight.
“Oh, wow,” Brian says, from the doorway. “You decided to redecorate.”
“Hm,” Dick says, still staring at the painting. “Yeah. You think that’s a good spot for it? I can’t decide.”
“I think it doesn’t matter. It’s gonna look like this room needs an exorcism either way.”
“Ha,” Dick says, reaching for a loose piece of paper on the desk to ball up and toss at Brian’s head. “You’re a real comedian.”
Brian bats it away, and goes to collapse on his bed. “Maybe we should get curtains for it,” he says, thoughtfully. “I’m not sure how I feel about it staring at me while I sleep.”
“No curtains,” Dick says, firmly.
They get curtains.
“B,” Robin says, two days of stewing later, as he watches Batman hand over the cash for their burgers and fries and shakes. A late night indulgence, the sort Alfred pretends he doesn’t know about, and Bruce and Dick pretend to not know that Alfred is pretending not to know - a delicate balancing act. “You know you don’t have to keep doing this, right?”
Batman looks at him askance. “Doing what?”
“Paying for everything,” Robin says. “I have my own money.”
“Ah,” Batman says, and then goes startlingly quiet.
The cashier - her name tag reads ‘Charlotte’ - looks between them, and starts folding the bills into the cash register faster. “Receipt?” she asks.
“Yes,” Robin says, at the same time that Batman says, “No.”
“Um,” Charlotte says. Her hand hovers over the buttons.
“I’ll take the receipt,” Robin says, pleasantly. He turns to Batman, and, in an undertone, says, “I’m paying you back for this.”
Batman is silent.
Charlotte hands over the receipt with their food. “Have a, er, nice night,” she says.
“You too,” Robin says, while Batman takes the food and disappears out the door. Robin smiles awkwardly and ducks out after him. As the door swings shut behind him, he hears Charlotte say, “You guys saw that too, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” someone else - one of the cooks, probably - starts to say, with great emphasis, before the slam of the door cuts him off.
When Dick hands the money over to Bruce the next day, he stares at it blankly.
“For the burgers,” Dick clarifies, though he doubts Bruce has forgotten already.
“Hm,” Bruce says, and then very delicately slides the money back over the desk. “I can’t accept this.”
That stings. “Why not?”
“Dick,” Bruce says, in his I’m-being-very-patient-and-understanding voice that he only pulls out when he’s slowly losing his patience and doesn’t feel very understanding at all. “I don’t need you to pay me back for burgers.”
Dick narrows his eyes, and flicks the money right back across the desk. “I don’t need you to pay for them, either.”
Bruce leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. His eyes, too, narrow. “What, exactly, is the issue here? They’re burgers, Dick. You’ve never minded before.”
“It’s not about the burgers,” Dick says, indignantly.
“Then what?”
Dick stares at Bruce. “Sometimes,” he says, and then hastens to correct himself, “No, most of the time actually — I don’t think you realize that I’m not a child anymore.”
“I don’t think you’re a child.”
Dick throws his hands in the air. “Then why,” he says. “Are you still treating me like one?”
Bruce opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He’s looking at Dick like he doesn’t understand a word coming out of his mouth. Dick shakes his head and stands up. “Look,” he says. “I’ve got to get to class. I’ll see you later, alright? Keep the money or don’t. I don’t care anymore.”
When he leaves, he can’t resist the urge to look back. Bruce has turned in his chair to look out the window, face almost - but not quite - angled away from the door. He has a strange expression on his face — something almost painfully lost.
Dick closes the door gently behind himself, and all the way back to the dorm his stomach drags itself along the ground next to his feet.
Dick, Bruce had once said, as endearingly somber and serious and earnest as he ever was and could be. If there is anything you need. Anything at all. Let me know, and I’ll take care of it.
Oh, Dick had said, all of twelve years old and already overwhelmed with this new life and the loss of his old one. Thanks, Mr. Wayne.
The problem, Dick thinks, is that he’s selfish, and it isn’t that he needs, but that he wants. He wants more than he’ll ever be able to have. But this. This was the one thing he had thought: maybe. Maybe if they were equals, maybe if Bruce stopped seeing him as some snotty twelve year old—
No. Probably not.
But it had been something to hold onto.
After that disaster in Bruce’s office, Dick is pretty sure it’s time to let go. Forget not being that twelve year old boy anymore. With that embarrassing display, Dick had all but solidified it.
But.
Dick looks at The Monstrosity handing on his wall - the name fondly suggested by Dick, and significantly less fondly seconded by Brian - and he thinks, I didn’t need you.
He hadn’t voiced it as a need. He had said, Wouldn’t that look nice in my dorm room? And Bruce had looked between him and the painting and said, You want it? And Dick, joking, but not really, had said, Well, obviously.
And Dick—
—he doesn’t know what that means.
He closes his eyes, buries his face in his pillow, and goes to sleep, classes and the middle of the day be damned.
When he wakes, Bruce is sitting at Dick’s desk, looking at The Monstrosity contemplatively.
Dick sits up, furiously trying to blink the sleep from his eyes. “When’d you get here?”
“An hour ago,” Bruce says.
“You didn’t wake me?”
“I thought you might want to sleep.”
“Oh.” Dick scrubs a hand through his hair. Sleepy or not, he can still recognize this for the opportunity it is. “Look, Bruce, we should probably talk.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Bruce says.
“Yeah, I kinda guessed,” Dick says, swinging his legs out of bed so he can face Bruce properly. “You want to start this off, or shall I?”
“I’ll go,” Bruce says.
“By all means.”
Bruce’s lips do that thing where he’s almost smiling, but not quite. “I don’t see you as a child,” he says.
“Yeah,” Dick says, “You said that.”
“Yes,” Bruce says. “But it’s the truth. I know you’re capable of taking care of yourself. You don’t need to prove that to me.”
“Oh,” Dick says. “Then… why won’t you let me?”
Bruce looks down at his hand, and Dick can see the first crack in his composure. “Is it so terrible,” he says. “If I would like to take care of you, too.”
Oh.
“Of course not, Dick says. “We’re partners. We take care of each other. You just—” Dick grimaces. “—won’t let me. You help me with… everything. But what do I do for you?”
Bewilderment flashes across Bruce’s face. “What?”
Dick scowls at him. “What do you mean ‘what’?”
“I mean, what are you talking about,” Bruce says, weirdly flabbergasted. “You are the only one who—well.” Bruce looks away, clears his throat. “I depend on you for too much, already,” he says, quieter. “You’re always at my side. Sometimes, I think you’re the only reason I’m still sane.”
“Oh,” Dick says, stupidly. He has to look away for a moment to blink rapidly, not quite sure why his face feels so hot. “I guess I didn’t see it that way.”
“I assure you,” Bruce says. “Out of the two of us, you’re the only one.”
Dick swallows past the lump in his throat. “Alright,” he says. “That’s enough. Get over here. It’s awkward talking to you from across the room.”
“This room is a shoebox,” Bruce says. “Our dining table is bigger, and we talk just fine from our seats.”
“No, we really don’t,” Dick says. “It’s incredibly awkward.”
“Oh,” Bruce says, and blinks like this had never occurred to him before.
“Just get over here,” Dick says, scooting over and patting the spot next to him invitingly.
Hesitantly, Bruce comes and perches on the edge of the bed next to Dick, which isn’t nearly big enough for both Bruce and Dick’s bulk combined. “If this breaks,” Bruce starts.
Teasingly, “You’ll buy me a new one?”
Bruce’s eyes dart Dick’s way. “If you want,” he says.
“Hm,” Dick says, and thinks about that. “Not if I need?”
Bruce shrugs. “If you need to, you can take care of it yourself.”
Dick feels a smile tugging at his lips. Without looking at Bruce, Dick reaches for his hand. “Well,” he says. “Maybe, after our talk, I want you to do that for me.”
Bruce’s hand is warm and large and calloused, and he inhales sharply, but doesn’t pull away when Dick interlaces their fingers.
Dick swallows. “Is this okay?”
Hesitantly, Bruce’s hand squeezes his. “Yes,” he says, quietly.
“Oh,” Dick says. There’s a giddiness in his chest, vibrating out through his body. “Good.”
They sit there, hand in hand, and look up at The Monstrosity. It doesn’t so much resemble guilt now, Dick thinks, but something else that’s both terrifying and wonderful — and entirely within reach.
It looks like something Dick wants.